"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.
"What is it?" she said. "Has anything happened?"
Poirot took both her hands in his.
"Life is very terrible, mademoiselle," he said.
Something in his tone made Jane feel frightened.
"What is it?" she said again.
Poirot said slowly: "When the boat train reached Boulogne, they found a woman in a first-class carriage, dead."
The color ebbed from Jane's face.
"Anne Morisot?"
"Anne Morisot.
In her hand was a little blue glass bottle which had contained prussic acid."
"Oh!" said Jane. "Suicide?"
Poirot did not answer for a moment or two. Then he said, with the air of one who chooses his words carefully: