comprehend. It is my belief that madame had never seen that daughter since she was a tiny baby.'
'How was that?' demanded Fournier sharply.
Elise's hands flew out in an expressive gesture.
'I do not know. It was in the days when madame was young. I have heard that she was pretty then. Pretty and poor. She may have been married. She may not. Myself, I think not. Doubtless some arrangement was made about the child. As for madame, she had the smallpox, she was very ill, she nearly died. When she got well, her beauty was gone. There were no more follies, no more romance. Madame became a woman of business.'
'But she left her money to this daughter?'
'That is only right,' said Elise. 'Who should one leave one's money to except one's own flesh and blood? Blood is thicker than water. And madame had no friends. She was always alone. Money was her passion. To make more and more money. She spent very little. She had no love for luxury.'
'She left you a legacy. You know that?'
'But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always generous. She gave me a good sum every year as well as my wages. I am very grateful to madame.'
'Well,' said Fournier, 'we will take our leave. On the way out I will have another word with old Georges.'
'Permit me to follow you in a little minute my friend,' said Poirot.
'As you wish.'
Fournier departed.
Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down and fixed his eyes on Elise.
Under his scrutiny the Frenchwoman got slightly restive.
'Is there anything more monsieur requires to know?'
'Mademoiselle Grandier,' said Poirot, 'do you know who murdered your mistress?'
'No, monsieur. Before the good God, I swear it.'
She spoke very earnestly, Poirot looked at her searchingly, then bent his head.
'Bien,' he said. 'I accept that. But knowledge is one thing, suspicion is another. Have you any idea – an idea only – who might have done such a thing?'
'I have no idea, monsieur. I have already said so to the agent of police.'
'You might say one thing to him and another thing to me.'
'Why do you say that, monsieur? Why should I do such a thing?'
'Because it is one thing to give information to the police and another thing to give it to a private individual.'
'Yes,' admitted Elise, 'that is true.'
A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to be thinking. Watching her very closely, Poirot leaned forward and spoke:
'Shall I tell you something. Mademoiselle Grandier? It is part of my business to believe nothing I am told – nothing, that is, that is not proved. I do not suspect first this person and then that person; I suspect everybody. Anybody connected with a crime is regarded by me as a criminal until that person is proved innocent.'
Elsie Grandier scowled at him angrily.
'Are you saying that you suspect me – me – of having murdered madame? It is too strong, that! Such a thought is of a wickedness unbelievable!'
Her large bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
'No, Elise,' said Poirot, 'I do not suspect you of having murdered madame. Whoever murdered madame was a passenger in the aeroplane. Therefore, it was not your hand that did the deed. But you might have been an accomplice before the act. You might have passed on to someone the details of madame's journey.'
'I did not. I swear I did not.'
Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded his head.
'I believe you,' he said. 'But, nevertheless, there is something that you conceal… Oh, yes, there is! Listen, I will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature one comes across the same phenomena when questioning witnesses. Everyone keeps something back. Sometimes – often, indeed – it is something quite harmless, something, perhaps, quite unconnected with the crime, but – I say it again – there is always something. That is so with you. Oh, do not deny! I am Hercule Poirot and I know. When my friend M. Fournier asked you if you were sure there was nothing you had omitted to mention, you were troubled. You answered, unconsciously, with an evasion. Again just now when I suggested that you might tell me something which you would not care to tell the police, you very obviously turned the suggestion over in your mind. There is, then, something. I want to know what that something is.'
'It is nothing of importance.'
'Possibly not. But all the same, will you not tell me what it is? Remember,' he went on as she hesitated, 'I am not of the police.'
'That is true,' said Elise Grandier. She hesitated, and went on: 'Monsieur, I am in a difficulty. I do not know what madame herself would have wanted me to do.'
'There is a saying that two heads are better than one. Will you not consult me? Let us examine the question together.'
The woman still looked at him doubtfully. He said with a smile:
'You are a good watch dog, Elise. It is a question, I see, of loyalty to your dead mistress?'
'That is quite right, monsieur. Madame trusted me. Ever since I entered her service I have carried out her instructions faithfully.'
'You were grateful, were you not, for some great service she had rendered you?'
'Monsieur is very quick. Yes, that is true. I do not mind admitting it. I had been deceived, monsieur, my savings stolen, and there was a child. Madame was good to me. She arranged for the baby to be brought up by some good people on a farm – a good farm, monsieur, and honest people. It was then, at that time, that she mentioned to me that she, too, was a mother.'
'Did she tell you the age of her child, where it was, any details?'
'No, monsieur; she spoke as of a part of her life that was over and done with. It was best so, she said. The little girl was well provided for and would be brought up to a trade or profession. It would also inherit her money when she died.'
'She told you nothing further about this child or about its father?'
'No, monsieur, but I have an idea -'
'Speak, Mademoiselle Elise.'
'It is an idea only, you understand.'
'Perfectly, perfectly.'
'I have an idea that the father of the child was an Englishman.'
'What, exactly, do you think gave you that impression?'
'Nothing definite. It is just that there was a bitterness in madame's voice when she spoke of the English. I think, too, that in her business transactions she enjoyed having anyone English in her power. It is an impression only.'
'Yes, but it may be a very valuable one. It opens up possibilities… Your own child. Mademoiselle Elise? Was it a girl or a boy?'
'A girl, monsieur. But she is dead – dead these five years now.'
'Ah, all my sympathy.'
There was a pause.
'And now, Mademoiselle Elise,' said Poirot, 'what is this something that you have hitherto refrained from mentioning?'
Elise rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a small shabby black notebook in her hand.
'This little book was madame's. It went with her everywhere. When she was about to depart for England, she could not find it. It was mislaid. After she had gone, I found it. It had dropped down behind the head of the bed. I put it in my room to keep until madame should return. I burned the papers as soon as I heard of madame's death, but I did not burn the book. There were no instructions as to that.'
'When did you hear of madame's death?'
