refuse to accept facts.'
'But you are disappointed? You expected more from this Anne Morisot?'
They were just entering Poirot's hotel. An object lying on me reception desk recalled Fournier's mind to something Poirot had said earlier in the morning.
'I have not thanked you,' he said, 'for drawing my attention to the error I had committed. I noted the two cigarette holders of Lady Horbury and the Kurdish pipes of the Duponts. I was unpardonable on my part to have forgotten the flute of Doctor Bryant. Though I do not seriously suspect him.'
'You do not?'
'No. He does not strike me as the kind of man to -'
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.
'Doctor Bryant,' said Poirot, bowing.
'M. Poirot.'
They shook hands. A woman who had been standing near Bryant moved away toward 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?'
Doctor 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 toward a little table, he said:
'A glass of sherry, M. Poirot? Or some other aperitif?'
'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 his 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 far-away voice: 'There comes to everyone a turning point in their lives, M. Poirot. They stand at the crossroads 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.'
Doctor 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.
Chapter 24
'What now?' cried Fournier. 'You are still preoccupied with this girl who inherits? Decidedly, it is the idee fixe you have there.'
'Not at all – not at all,' said Poirot. 'But there must be in all things order and method. One must finish with one thing before proceeding to the next.'
He looked round.
'Here is Mademoiselle Jane. Suppose that you commence dejeuner. I will join you as soon as I can.'
Fournier acquiesced and he and Jane went into the dining room.
'Well?' said Jane with curiosity. 'What is she like?'
'She is a little over medium height, dark with a matte complexion, a pointed chin -'
'You're talking exactly like a passport,' said Jane. 'My passport description is simply insulting, I think. It's composed of mediums and ordinary. Nose, medium; mouth, ordinary. How do they expect you to describe a mouth? Forehead, ordinary, chin, ordinary.'
'But not ordinary eyes,' said Fournier.
'Even they are gray, which is not a very exciting color.'
'And who has told you, mademoiselle, that it is not an exciting color?' said the Frenchman, leaning across the table.
Jane laughed. 'Your command of the English language,' she said, 'is highly efficient. Tell me more about Anne Morisot. Is she pretty?'
'Assez bien,' said Fournier cautiously. 'And she is not Anne Morisot. She is Anne Richards. She is married.'
'Was the husband there too?'
'No.'
'Why not, I wonder?'
'Because he is in Canada or America.'
He explained some of the circumstances of Anne's life. Just as he was drawing his narrative to a close, Poirot joined them.
He looked a little dejected.
'Well, mon cher?' inquired Fournier.
'I spoke to the principal – to Mere Angelique herself. It is romantic, you know, the transatlantic telephone. To speak so easily to someone nearly halfway across the globe.'
'The telegraphed photograph – that, too, is romantic. Science is the greatest romance there is. But you were saying?'
'I talked with Mere Angelique. She confirmed exactly what Mrs Richards told us of the circumstances of her having been brought up at the Institut de Marie. She spoke quite frankly about the mother who left Quebec with a Frenchman interested in the wine trade. She was relieved at the time that the child would not come under her mother's influence. From her point of view, Giselle was on the downward path. Money was sent regularly, but Giselle never suggested a meeting.'
'In fact, your conversation was a repetition of what we heard this morning.'
'Practically, except that it was more detailed. Anne Morisot left the Institut de Marie six years ago to become a manicurist, afterwards she had a job as a lady's maid, and finally left Quebec for Europe in that capacity. Her letters were not frequent, but Mere Angelique usually heard from her about twice a year. When she saw an account of the inquest in the paper, she realized that this Marie Morisot was in all probability the Marie Morisot who had lived in Quebec.'
'What about the husband?' asked Fournier. 'Now that we know definitely that Giselle was married, the husband might become a factor?'
'I thought of that. It was one of the reasons for my telephone call. George Leman, Giselle's blackguard of a
