Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie

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 Élise.
    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 Élise, “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, Élise,” 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 Élise 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, Élise. It is a question, I see, of loyalty to your dead mistress?”
    “That is quite right,