Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)
He stopped. The man standing at the reception desk talking to the clerk turned, his hand on the flute case. His glance fell on Poirot and his face lit up in grave recognition.
Poirot went forward—Fournier discreetly withdrew into the background. As well that Bryant should not see him.
‘Dr Bryant,’ said Poirot, bowing.
‘M. Poirot.’
They shook hands. A woman who had been standing near Bryant moved away towards the lift. Poirot sent just a fleeting glance after her.
He said:
‘Well, M. le docteur, are your patients managing to do without you for a little?’
Dr Bryant smiled—that melancholy attractive smile that the other remembered so well. He looked tired, but strangely peaceful.
‘I have no patients now,’ he said.
Then, moving towards a little table, he said:
‘A glass of sherry, M. Poirot, or some other apéritif?’
‘I thank you.’
They sat down, and the doctor gave the order. Then he said slowly:
‘No, I have no patients now. I have retired.’
‘A sudden decision?’
‘Not so very sudden.’
He was silent as the drinks were set before them. Then, raising the glass, he said:
‘It is a necessary decision. I resign of my own free will before I am struck off the register.’ He went on speaking in a gentle, faraway voice. ‘There comes to everyone a turning-point in their lives, M. Poirot. They stand at the cross-roads and have to decide. My profession interests me enormously—it is a sorrow—a very great sorrow to abandon it. But there are other claims…There is, M. Poirot, the happiness of a human being.’
Poirot did not speak. He waited.
‘There is a lady—a patient of mine—I love her very dearly. She has a husband who causes her infinite misery. He takes drugs. If you were a doctor you would know what that meant. She has no money of her own, so she cannot leave him…
‘For some time I have been undecided—but now I have made up my mind. She and I are now on our way to Kenya to begin a new life. I hope that at last she may know a little happiness. She has suffered so long…’
Again he was silent. Then he said in a brisker tone:
‘I tell you this, M. Poirot, because it will soon be public property, and the sooner you know the better.’
‘I understand,’ said Poirot. After a minute he said, ‘You take your flute, I see?’
Dr Bryant smiled.
‘My flute, M. Poirot, is my oldest companion…When everything else fails—music remains.’
His hand ran lovingly over the flute case, then with a bow he rose.
Poirot rose also.
‘My best wishes for your future, M. le docteur—and for that of Madame,’ said Poirot.
When Fournier rejoined his friend, Poirot was at the desk making arrangements for a trunk call to Quebec.