‘If she’s just taken bad—’
They remained a minute or two undecided—then arranged their course of action. Mitchell returned to the rear car. He went from table to table, bending his head and murmuring confidentially:
‘Excuse me, sir, you don’t happen to be a doctor—?’
Norman Gale said, ‘I’m a dentist. But if there’s anything I can do—?’ He half rose from his seat.
‘I’m a doctor,’ said Dr Bryant. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘There’s a lady at the end there—I don’t like the look of her.’
Bryant rose to his feet and accompanied the steward. Unnoticed, the little man with the moustaches followed them.
Dr Bryant bent over the huddled figure in seat No. 2, the figure of a stoutish middle-aged woman dressed in heavy black.
The doctor’s examination was brief.
He said: ‘She’s dead.’
Mitchell said, ‘What do you think it was—kind of fit?’
‘That I can’t possibly say without a detailed examination. When did you last see her—alive, I mean?’
Mitchell reflected.
‘She was all right when I brought her coffee along.’
‘When was that?’
‘Well, it might have been three-quarters of an hour ago—about that. Then, when I brought the bill along, I thought she was asleep…’
Bryant said, ‘She’s been dead at least half an hour.’
Their consultation was beginning to cause interest—heads were craned round looking at them. Necks were stretched to listen.
‘I suppose it might have been a kind of fit, like?’ suggested Mitchell hopefully.
He clung to the theory of a fit.
His wife’s sister had fits. He felt that fits were homely things that any man might understand.
Dr Bryant had no intention of committing himself. He merely shook his head with a puzzled expression.
A voice spoke at his elbow, the voice of the muffled-up man with the moustaches.
‘There is,’ he said, ‘a mark on her neck.’
He spoke apologetically, with a due sense of speaking to superior knowledge.
‘True,’ said Dr Bryant.
The woman’s head lolled over sideways. There was a minute puncture mark on the side of her throat.
‘Pardon—’ the two Duponts joined in. They had been listening for the last few minutes. ‘The lady is dead, you say, and there is a mark on the neck?’
It was Jean, the younger Dupont, who spoke.
‘May I make a suggestion? There was a wasp flying about. I killed it.’ He exhibited the corpse in his coffee saucer. ‘Is it not possible that the poor lady has died of a wasp sting? I have heard such things happen.’
‘It is possible,’ agreed Bryant. ‘I have known of such cases. Yes, that is certainly quite a possible explanation, especially if there were any cardiac weakness—’
‘Anything I’d better do, sir?’ asked the steward. ‘We’ll be at Croydon in a minute.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said Dr Bryant as he moved away a little. ‘There’s nothing to be done. The—er—body must not be moved, steward.’
‘Yes, sir, I quite understand.’
Dr Bryant prepared to resume his seat and looked in some surprise at the small muffled-up foreigner who was standing his ground.
‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘the best thing to do is to go back to your seat. We shall be at Croydon almost immediately.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said the steward. He raised his voice. ‘Please resume your seats, everybody.’
‘Pardon,’ said the little man. ‘There is something—’
‘Something?’
‘Mais oui, something that has been overlooked.’
With the tip of a pointed patent-leather shoe he made his meaning clear. The steward and Dr Bryant followed the action with their eyes. They caught the glint of yellow and black on the floor half concealed by the edge of the black skirt.
‘Another wasp?’ said the doctor, surprised.
Hercule Poirot went down on his knees. He took a small pair of tweezers from his pocket and used them delicately. He stood up with his prize.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is very like a wasp; but it is not a wasp!’
He turned the object about this way and that so that both the doctor and the steward could see it clearly, a little knot of teased fluffy silk, orange and black, attached to a long, peculiar-looking thorn with a discoloured tip.
‘Good gracious! Good gracious me!’ The exclamation came from little Mr Clancy, who had left his seat and was poking his head desperately over the steward’s shoulder. ‘Remarkable, really very remarkable, absolutely the most remarkable thing I have ever come across in my life. Well, upon my soul, I should never have believed it.’
‘Could you make yourself just a little clearer, sir?’ asked the steward. ‘Do you recognize this?’
‘Recognize it? Certainly I recognize it.’ Mr Clancy swelled with passionate pride and gratification. ‘This object, gentlemen, is the native thorn shot from a blowpipe by certain tribes—er—I cannot be exactly certain now if it is South American tribes or whether it is the inhabitants of Borneo which I have in mind; but that is undoubtedly a native dart that has been aimed by a blowpipe, and I strongly suspect that on the tip—’
‘Is the famous arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ finished Hercule Poirot. And he added, ‘Mais enfin! Est-ce que c’est possible?’
‘It is certainly very extraordinary,’ said Mr Clancy, still full of blissful excitement. ‘As I say, most extraordinary. I am myself a writer of detective fiction; but actually to meet, in real life—’
Words failed him.
The aeroplane heeled slowly over, and those people who were standing up staggered a little. The plane was circling round in its descent to Croydon aerodrome.
Chapter 3
Croydon
The steward and the doctor were no longer in charge of the situation. Their place was usurped by the rather absurd-looking little man in the mufflers. He spoke with an authority and a certainty of being obeyed that no one thought of questioning.
He whispered to Mitchell, and the latter nodded, and, pushing his way through the passengers, he took up his stand in the doorway leading past the toilets to the front car.
The plane was running along the ground now. When it finally came to a stop Mitchell raised his voice:
‘I must ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to keep your seats and remain here until somebody in authority takes charge. I hope you will not be detained long.’
The reasonableness of this order was appreciated by most of the occupants of the car, but one person protested shrilly.
‘Nonsense,’ cried Lady Horbury angrily. ‘Don’t you know who I am? I insist on being allowed to leave at once.’
‘Very sorry, my lady. Can’t make exceptions.’
‘But it’s absurd, absolutely absurd,’ Cicely tapped her foot angrily. ‘I shall report you to the company. It’s outrageous that we should be shut up here with a dead body.’
‘Really, my dear,’ Venetia Kerr spoke with her well-bred drawl, ‘too devastating, but I fancy we’ll have to put up with it.’ She herself sat down and drew out a cigarette-case. ‘Can I smoke now, steward?’
The harassed Mitchell said, ‘I don’t suppose it matters now, Miss.’
He glanced over his shoulder. Davis had disem-barked the passengers from the front car by the emergency door and had now gone in search of orders.
The wait was not a long one, but it seemed to the passengers as though half an hour at least had passed before an erect soldierly figure in plain clothes, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, came hurriedly across the aerodrome and climbed into the plane by the door that Mitchell held open.
‘Now, then, what’s all this?’ demanded the newcomer in brisk official tones.
He listened to Mitchell and then to Dr Bryant, and he flung a quick glance over the crumpled figure of t
he dead woman.
He gave an order to the constable and then addressed the passengers.
‘Will you please follow me, ladies and gentlemen?’
He escorted them out of the plane and across the aerodrome, but he did not enter the usual customs department; instead, he brought them to a small private room.
‘I hope not to keep you waiting any longer than is unavoidable, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Look here, Inspector,’ said Mr James Ryder. ‘I have an important business engagement in London.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I am Lady Horbury. I consider it absolutely outrageous that I should be detained in this matter!’
‘I’m sincerely sorry, Lady Horbury; but, you see, this is a very serious matter. It looks like a case of murder.’
‘The arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ murmured Mr Clancy deliriously, a happy smile on his face.
The inspector looked at him suspiciously.
The French archaeologist spoke excitedly in French, and the inspector replied to him slowly and carefully in the same language.
Venetia Kerr said, ‘All this is a most crashing bore, but I suppose you have your duty to do, Inspector,’ to which that worthy replied, ‘Thank you, Madam,’ in accents of some gratitude.
He went on:
‘If you ladies and gentlemen will remain here, I want a few words with Doctor—er—Doctor—?’
‘Bryant, my name is.’
‘Thank you. Just come this way with me, Doctor.’
‘May I assist at your interview?’
It was the little man with the moustaches who spoke.
The inspector turned on him, a sharp retort on his lips. Then his face changed suddenly.
‘Sorry, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You’re so muffled up, I didn’t recognize you. Come along, by all means.’
He held the door open and Bryant and Poirot passed through, followed by the suspicious glance of the rest of the company.
‘And why should he be allowed out and we made to stay here?’ cried Cicely Horbury.
Venetia Kerr sat down resignedly on a bench.
‘Probably one of the French police,’ she said, ‘or a customs spy.’
She lit a cigarette.
Norman Gale said rather diffidently to Jane:
‘I think I saw you at—er—Le Pinet.’
‘I was at Le Pinet.’
Norman Gale said, ‘It’s an awfully attractive place. I like the pine trees.’
Jane said, ‘Yes, they smell so nice.’
And then they both paused for a minute or two, uncertain what to say next.
Finally Gale said, ‘I—er—recognized you at once in the plane.’
Jane expressed great surprise. ‘Did you?’
Gale said, ‘Do you think that woman was really murdered?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Jane. ‘It’s rather thrilling in a way, but it’s rather nasty too,’ and she shuddered a little, and Norman Gale moved just a little nearer in a protective manner.
The Duponts were talking French to each other. Mr Ryder was making calculations in a little notebook and looking at his watch from time to time. Cicely Horbury sat with her foot tapping impatiently on the floor. She lit a cigarette with a shaking hand.
Against the door on the inside leaned a very large blue-clad impassive-looking policeman.
In a room nearby Inspector Japp was talking to Dr Bryant and Hercule Poirot.
‘You’ve got a knack of turning up in the most unexpected places, M. Poirot.’
‘Isn’t Croydon aerodrome a little out of your beat, my friend?’ asked Poirot.
‘Ah, I’m after rather a big bug in the smuggling line. A bit of luck my being on the spot. This is the most amazing business I’ve come across for years. Now, then, let’s get down to it. First of all, Doctor, perhaps you’ll give me your full name and address.’
‘Roger James Bryant. I am a specialist on diseases of the ear and throat. My address is 329 Harley Street.’
A stolid constable sitting at a table took down these particulars.
‘Our own surgeon will, of course, examine the body,’ said Japp, ‘but we shall want you at the inquest, Doctor.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’
‘Can you give us any idea of the time of death?’
‘The woman must have been dead at least half an hour when I examined her; that was a few minutes before we arrived at Croydon. I can’t go nearer than that, but I understand from the steward that he had spoken to her about an hour before.’
‘Well, that narrows it down for all practical purposes. I suppose it’s no good asking you if you observed anything of a suspicious nature?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘And me, I was asleep,’ said Poirot with deep chagrin. ‘I suffer almost as badly in the air as on the sea. Always I wrap myself up well and try to sleep.’
‘Any idea as to the cause of death, Doctor?’
‘I should not like to say anything definite at this stage. This is a case for post-mortem examination and analysis.’
Japp nodded comprehendingly.
‘Well, Doctor,’ he said, ‘I don’t think we need detain you now. I’m afraid you’ll—er—have to go through certain formalities; all the passengers will. We can’t make exceptions.’
Dr Bryant smiled.
‘I should prefer you to make sure that I have no—er—blowpipes or other lethal weapons concealed upon my person,’ he said gravely.
‘Rogers here will see to that.’ Japp nodded to his subordinate. ‘By the way, Doctor, have you any idea what would be likely to be on this—?’
He indicated the discoloured thorn which was lying in a small box on the table in front of him.
Dr Bryant shook his head.
‘Difficult to say without an analysis. Curare is the usual poison employed by the natives, I believe.’
‘Would that do the trick?’
‘It is a very swift and rapid poison.’
‘But not very easy to obtain, eh?’
‘Not at all easy for a layman.’
‘Then we’ll have to search you extra carefully,’ said Japp, who was always fond of his joke. ‘Rogers!’
The doctor and the constable left the room together.
Japp tilted back his chair and looked at Poirot.
‘Rum business, this,’ he said. ‘Bit too sensational to be true. I mean, blowpipes and poisoned darts in an aeroplane—well, it insults one’s intelligence.’
‘That, my friend, is a very profound remark,’ said Poirot.
‘A couple of my men are searching the plane,’ said Japp. ‘We’ve got a fingerprint man and a photographer coming along. I think we’d better see the stewards next.’
He strode to the door and gave an order. The two stewards were ushered in. The younger steward had recovered his balance. He looked more excited than anything else. The other steward still looked white and frightened.
‘That’s all right, my lads,’ said Japp. ‘Sit down. Got the passports there? Good.’
He sorted through them quickly.
‘Ah, here we are. Marie Morisot—French passport. Know anything about her?’
‘I’ve seen her before. She crossed to and fro from England fairly often,’ said Mitchell.
‘Ah! in business of some kind. You don’t know what her business was?’
Mitchell shook his head. The younger steward said, ‘I remember her too. I saw her on the early service—the eight o’clock from Paris.’
‘Which of you was the last to see her alive?’
‘Him.’ The younger steward indicated his companion.
‘That’s right,’ said Mitchell. ‘That’s when I took her her coffee.’
‘How was she looking then?’
‘Can’t say I noticed. I just handed her the sugar and offered her milk, which she refused.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say exactly. We were over the Channel at the
time. Might have been somewhere about two o’clock.’
‘Thereabouts,’ said Albert Davis, the other steward.
‘When did you see her next?’
‘When I took the bills round.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About a quarter of an hour later. I thought she was asleep—Crikey, she must have been dead then!’
The steward’s voice sounded awed.
‘You didn’t see any signs of this—’ Japp indicated the little wasp-like dart.
‘No, sir, I didn’t.’
‘What about you, Davis?’
‘The last time I saw her was when I was handing the biscuits to go with the cheese. She was all right then.’
‘What is your system of serving meals?’ asked Poirot. ‘Do each of you serve separate cars?’
‘No, sir, we work it together. The soup, then the meat and vegetables and salad, then the sweet, and so on. We usually serve the rear car first, and then go out with a fresh lot of dishes to the front car.’
Poirot nodded.
‘Did this Morisot woman speak to anyone on the plane, or show any signs of recognition?’ asked Japp.
‘Not that I saw, sir.’
‘You, Davis?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did she leave her seat at all during the journey?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘There’s nothing you can think of that throws any light on this business—either of you?’
Both the men thought, then shook their heads.
‘Well, that will be all for now, then. I’ll see you again later.’
Henry Mitchell said soberly:
‘It’s a nasty thing to happen, sir. I don’t like it, me having been in charge, so to speak.’
‘Well, I can’t see that you’re to blame in any way,’ said Japp. ‘Still, I agree, it’s a nasty thing to happen.’
He made a gesture of dismissal. Poirot leaned forward.
‘Permit me one little question.’
‘Go ahead, M. Poirot.’
‘Did either of you two notice a wasp flying about the plane?’
Both men shook their heads.
‘There was no wasp that I know of,’ said Mitchell.
‘There was a wasp,’ said Poirot. ‘We have its dead body on the plate of one of the passengers.’
‘Well, I didn’t see it, sir,’ said Mitchell.
Death in the Clouds Page 2
