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 Élise.”
“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 Élise? 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 Élise,” said Poirot, “what is this something that you have hitherto refrained from mentioning?”
Élise 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?”
Élise hesitated a minute.
“You heard it from the police, did you not?” said Poirot. “They came here and examined madame's papers. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burned the papers, but actually you did not burn the papers until afterwards.”
“It is true, monsieur,” admitted Élise. “Whilst they were looking in the safe, I removed the papers from the trunk. I said they were burned, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burned them at the first opportunity. I had to carry out madame's orders. You see my difficulty, monsieur? You will not inform the police? It might be a very serious matter for me.”
“I believe, Mademoiselle Élise, that you acted with the best intentions. All the same, you understand, it is a pity - a great pity. But it does no good to regret what is done and I see no necessity for communicating the exact hour of the destruction to the excellent M. Fournier. Now let me see if there is anything in this little book to aid us.”
“I do not think there will be, monsieur,” said Élise, shaking her head. “It is madame's private memorandums, yes, but there are numbers only. Without the documents and files, these entries are meaningless.”
Unwillingly, she held out the book to Poirot. He took it and turned the pages. There were penciled entries in a sloping foreign writing. They seemed to be all of the same kind.
A number followed by a few descriptive details such as:
CX 265. Colonel's wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental funds.
GF 342. French Deputy, Stavisky
“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 Élise.”
“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 Élise? 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 Élise,” said Poirot, “what is this something that you have hitherto refrained from mentioning?”
Élise 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?”
Élise hesitated a minute.
“You heard it from the police, did you not?” said Poirot. “They came here and examined madame's papers. They found the safe empty and you told them that you had burned the papers, but actually you did not burn the papers until afterwards.”
“It is true, monsieur,” admitted Élise. “Whilst they were looking in the safe, I removed the papers from the trunk. I said they were burned, yes. After all, it was very nearly the truth. I burned them at the first opportunity. I had to carry out madame's orders. You see my difficulty, monsieur? You will not inform the police? It might be a very serious matter for me.”
“I believe, Mademoiselle Élise, that you acted with the best intentions. All the same, you understand, it is a pity - a great pity. But it does no good to regret what is done and I see no necessity for communicating the exact hour of the destruction to the excellent M. Fournier. Now let me see if there is anything in this little book to aid us.”
“I do not think there will be, monsieur,” said Élise, shaking her head. “It is madame's private memorandums, yes, but there are numbers only. Without the documents and files, these entries are meaningless.”
Unwillingly, she held out the book to Poirot. He took it and turned the pages. There were penciled entries in a sloping foreign writing. They seemed to be all of the same kind.
A number followed by a few descriptive details such as:
CX 265. Colonel's wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental funds.
GF 342. French Deputy, Stavisky
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