'Of course,' he said. 'It is a possibility! And it ought to be very simple to find out.'
He rose.
'What now, my friend?' asked Fournier.
'Again the telephone,' said Poirot.
'The transatlantic to Quebec?'
'This time it is merely to call to London.'
'To Scotland Yard?'
'No, to Lord Horbury's house in Grosvenor Square. If only I have the good fortune to find Lady Horbury at home.'
'Be careful, my friend, if any suspicion gets round to Anne Morisot that we have been making inquiries about her, it would not suit our affair. Above all, we must not put her upon her guard.'
'Have no fears. I will be discreet. I ask only one little question. A question of a most harmless nature.' He smiled. 'You shall come with me if you like.'
'No, no.'
'But, yes. I insist.'
The two men went off, leaving Jane in the lounge.
It took some little time to put the call through. But Poirot's luck was in. Lady Horbury was lunching at home.
'Good. Will you tell Lady Horbury that it is Mr Hercule Poirot speaking from Paris.' There was a pause. 'That is you, Lady Horbury?… No, no, all is well. I assure you all is well. It is not that matter at all. I want you to answer me a question… Yes… When you go from Paris to England by air, does your maid usually go with you, or does she go by train?… By train. And so on that particular occasion?… I see… You are sure?… Ah, she has left you… I see. She left you very suddenly, at a moment's notice… Mais oui, base ingratitude. It is too true. A most ungrateful class!… Yes, yes, exactly… No, no, you need not worry. Au revoir. Thank you.'
He replaced the receiver and turned to Fournier, his eyes green and shining.
'Listen, my friend; Lady Horbury's maid usually traveled by train and boat. On the occasion of Giselle's murder, Lady Horbury decided at the last moment that Madeleine had better go by air too.'
He took the Frenchman by the arm.
'Quick, my friend,' he said. 'We must go to her hotel. If my little idea is correct – and I think it is – there is no time to be lost.'
Fournier stared at him. But before he could frame a question, Poirot had turned away and was heading for the revolving doors leading out of the hotel.
Fournier hastened after him.
'But I do not understand? What is all this?'
The commissionaire was holding open the door of a taxi. Poirot jumped in and gave the address of Anne Morisot's hotel.
'And drive quickly, but quickly!'
Fournier jumped in after him.
'What fly is this that has bitten you? Why this mad rush, this haste?'
'Because, my friend, if, as I say, my little idea is correct, Anne Morisot is in imminent danger.'
'You think so?'
Fournier could not help a skeptical tone creeping into his voice.
'I am afraid,' said Poirot. 'Afraid. Bon Dieu, how this taxi crawls!'
The taxi at the moment was doing a good forty miles an hour and cutting in and out of traffic with a miraculous immunity due to the excellent eye of the driver.
'It crawls to such an extent that we shall have an accident in a minute,' said Fournier dryly. 'And Mademoiselle Grey, we have left her planted there awaiting our return from the telephone, and instead we leave the hotel without a word. It is not very polite, that!'
'Politeness or impoliteness, what does it matter in an affair of life and death?'
'Life or death?' Fournier shrugged his shoulders.
He thought to himself:
'It is all very well, but this obstinate madman may endanger the whole business. Once the girl knows that we are on her track -'
He said in a persuasive voice:
'See now, M. Poirot; be reasonable. We must go carefully.'
'You do not understand,' said Poirot. 'I am afraid – afraid.'
The taxi drew up with a jerk at the quiet hotel where Anne Morisot was staying.
Poirot sprang out and nearly collided with a young man just leaving the hotel.
Poirot stopped dead for a moment, looking after him.
'Another face that I know. But where?… Ah! I remember. It is the actor, Raymond Barraclough.'
As he stepped forward to enter the hotel, Fournier placed a restraining hand on his arm.
'M. Poirot, I have the utmost respect, the utmost admiration for your methods, but I feel very strongly that no precipitate action must be taken. I am responsible here in France for the conduct of this case.'
Poirot interrupted him:
'I comprehend your anxiety. But do not fear any precipitate action on my part. Let us make inquiries at the desk. If Madame Richards is here and all is well, then no harm is done and we can discuss together our future action. You do not object to that?'
'No, no, of course not.'
'Good.'
Poirot passed through the revolving door and went up to the reception desk. Fournier followed him.
'You have a Mrs Richards staying here, I believe,' said Poirot.
'No, monsieur. She was staying here, but she left today.'
'She has left?' demanded Fournier.
'Yes, monsieur.'
'When did she leave?'
The clerk glanced up at the clock.
'A little over half an hour ago.'
'Was her departure unexpected? Where has she gone?'
The clerk stiffened at the questions and was disposed to refuse to answer. But when Fournier's credentials were produced, the clerk changed his tone and was eager to give any assistance in his power.
No, the lady had not left an address. He thought her departure was the result of a sudden change of plans. She had formerly said she was making a stay of about a week. More questions. The concierge was summoned, the luggage porters, the lift boys.
According to the concierge, a gentleman had called to see the lady. He had come while she was out, but had awaited her return and they had lunched together. What kind of gentleman? An American gentleman. Very American. She had seemed surprised to see him. After lunch, the lady gave orders for her luggage to be brought down and put on a taxi.
Where had she driven to? She had driven to the Gare du Nord – at least that was the order she had given to the taximan. Did the American gentleman go with her? No, she had gone alone.
'The Gare du Nord,' said Fournier. 'That means England on the face of it. The two-o'clock service. But it may be a blind. We must telephone to Boulogne and also try and get hold of that taxi.'
It was as though Poirot's fears had communicated themselves to Fournier.
The Frenchman's face was anxious.
Rapidly and efficiently he set the machinery of the law in motion.
It was five o'clock when Jane, sitting in the lounge of the hotel with a book, looked up to see Poirot coming toward her.
She opened her mouth reproachfully, but the words regained unspoken. Something in his face stopped her.
