Death in the Clouds

by Agatha Christie

  ‘No more did I,’ said Davis.

  ‘No matter.’

  The two stewards left the room. Japp was running his eye rapidly over the passports.

  ‘Got a countess on board,’ he said. ‘She’s the one who’s throwing her weight about, I suppose. Better see her first before she goes right off the handle and gets a question asked in the House about the brutal methods of the police.’

  ‘You will, I suppose, search very carefully all the baggage—the hand baggage—of the passengers in the rear car of the plane?’

  Japp winked cheerfully.

  ‘Why, what do you think, M. Poirot? We’ve got to find that blowpipe—if there is a blowpipe and we’re not all dreaming! Seems like a kind of nightmare to me. I suppose that little writer chap hasn’t gone off his onion and decided to do one of his crimes in the flesh instead of on paper? This poisoned dart business sounds like him.’

  Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Japp, ‘everybody’s got to be searched, whether they kick up rough or not; and every bit of truck they had with them has got to be searched too—and that’s flat.’

  ‘A very exact list might be made, perhaps,’ suggested Poirot, ‘a list of everything in these people’s possession.’

  Japp looked at him curiously.

  ‘That can be done if you say so, M. Poirot. I don’t quite see what you’re driving at, though. We know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘You may, perhaps, mon ami, but I am not so sure. I look for something, but I know not what it is.’

  ‘At it again, M. Poirot! You do like making things difficult, don’t you? Now for her ladyship before she’s quite ready to scratch my eyes out.’

  Lady Horbury, however, was noticeably calmer in her manner. She accepted a chair and answered Japp’s questions without the least hesitation. She described herself as the wife of the Earl of Horbury, gave her address as Horbury Chase, Sussex, and 315 Grosvenor Square, London. She was returning to London from Le Pinet and Paris. The deceased woman was quite unknown to her. She had noticed nothing suspicious during the flight over. In any case, she was facing the other way—towards the front of the plane—so had had no opportunity of seeing anything that was going on behind her. She had not left her seat during the journey. As far as she remembered no one had entered the rear car from the front one with the exception of the stewards. She could not remember exactly, but she thought that two of the men passengers had left the rear car to go to the toilets, but she was not sure of this. She had not observed anyone handling anything that could be likened to a blowpipe. No—in answer to Poirot—she had not noticed a wasp in the car.

  Lady Horbury was dismissed. She was succeeded by the Honourable Venetia Kerr.

  Miss Kerr’s evidence was much the same as that of her friend. She gave her name as Venetia Anne Kerr, and her address as Little Paddocks, Horbury, Sussex. She herself was returning from the South of France. As far as she was aware she had never seen the deceased before. She had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. Yes, she had seen some of the passengers farther down the car striking at a wasp. One of them, she thought, had killed it. That was after luncheon had been served.

  Exit Miss Kerr.

  ‘You seem very much interested in that wasp, M. Poirot.’

  ‘The wasp is not so much interesting as suggestive, eh?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Japp, changing the subject, ‘those two Frenchmen are the ones in this! They were just across the gangway from the Morisot woman. They’re a seedy-looking couple, and that battered old suitcase of theirs is fairly plastered with outlandish foreign labels. Shouldn’t be surprised if they’d been to Borneo or South America, or wherever it is. Of course, we can’t get a line on the motive, but I dare say we can get that from Paris. We’ll have to get the Sûreté to collaborate over this. It’s their job more than ours. But, if you ask me, those two toughs are our meat.’

  Poirot’s eyes twinkled a little.

  ‘What you say is possible, certainly, but as regards some of your points you are in error, my friend. Those two men are not toughs—or cut-throats, as you suggest. They are on the contrary two very distinguished and learned archaeologists.’

  ‘Go on—you’re pulling my leg!’

  ‘Not at all. I know them by sight perfectly. They are M. Armand Dupont and his son, M. Jean Dupont. They have returned not long ago from conducting some very interesting excavations in Persia at a site not far from Susa.’

  ‘Go on!’

  Japp made a grab at a passport.

  ‘You’re right, M. Poirot,’ he said, ‘but you must admit they don’t look up to much, do they?’

  ‘The world’s famous men seldom do! I myself—moi, qui vous parle—I have before now been taken for a hairdresser!’

  ‘You don’t say so,’ said Japp with a grin. ‘Well, let’s have a look at our distinguished archaeologists.’

  M. Dupont père declared that the deceased was quite unknown to him. He had noticed nothing of what had happened on the journey over as he had been discussing a very interesting point with his son. He had not left his seat at all. Yes, he had noticed a wasp towards the end of lunch. His son had killed it.

  M. Jean Dupont confirmed this evidence. He had noticed nothing of what went on round about him. The wasp had annoyed him and he had killed it. What had been the subject of the discussion? The prehistoric pottery of the Near East.

  Mr Clancy, who came next, came in for rather a bad time. Mr Clancy, so felt Inspector Japp, knew altogether too much about blowpipes and poisoned darts.

  ‘Have you ever owned a blowpipe yourself?’

  ‘Well—I—er—well, yes, as a matter of fact I have.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Inspector Japp pounced on the statement.

  Little Mr Clancy fairly squeaked with agitation.

  ‘You must not—er—misunderstand; my motives are quite innocent. I can explain…’

  ‘Yes, sir, perhaps you will explain.’

  ‘Well, you see, I was writing a book in which the murder was committed that way—’

  ‘Indeed—’

  Again that threatening intonation. Mr Clancy hurried on:

  ‘It was all a question of fingerprints—if you understand me. It was necessary to have an illustration illustrating the point I meant—I mean—the fingerprints—the position of them—the position of them on the blowpipe, if you understand me, and having noticed such a thing—in the Charing Cross Road it was—at least two years ago now—and so I bought the blowpipe—and an artist friend of mine very kindly drew it for me—with the fingerprints—to illustrate my point. I can refer you to the book—The Clue of the Scarlet Petal—and my friend too.’

  ‘Did you keep the blowpipe?’

  ‘Why, yes—why, yes, I think so—I mean, yes, I did.’

  ‘And where is it now?’

  ‘Well, I suppose—well, it must be somewhere about.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by somewhere about, Mr Clancy?’

  ‘I mean—well—somewhere—I can’t say where. I—I am not a very tidy man.’

  ‘It isn’t with you now, for instance?’

  ‘Certainly not. Why, I haven’t see the thing for nearly six months.’

  Inspector Japp bent a glance of cold suspicion on him and continued his questions.

  ‘Did you leave your seat at all in the plane?’

  ‘No, certainly not—at least—well, yes, I did.’

  ‘Oh, you did. Where did you go?’

  ‘I went to get a continental Bradshaw out of my raincoat pocket. The raincoat was piled with some rugs and suitcases by the entrance at the end.’

  ‘So you passed close by the deceased’s seat?’

  ‘No—at least—well, yes, I must have done. But this was long before anything could have happened. I’d only just drunk my soup.’

  Further questions drew negative answers. Mr Clancy had noticed nothing suspicious. He had been absorbed in the perfectioning of his cross-Europe
alibi.

  ‘Alibi, eh?’ said the inspector darkly.

  Poirot intervened with a question about wasps.

  Yes, Mr Clancy had noticed a wasp. It had attacked him. He was afraid of wasps. When was this? Just after the steward had brought him his coffee. He struck at it and it went away.

  Mr Clancy’s name and address were taken and he was allowed to depart, which he did with relief on his face.

  ‘Looks a bit fishy to me,’ said Japp. ‘He actually had a blowpipe; and look at his manner. All to pieces.’

  ‘That is the severity of your official demeanour, my good Japp.’

  ‘There’s nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they’re only telling the truth,’ said the Scotland Yard man austerely.

  Poirot looked at him pityingly.

  ‘In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.’

  ‘Of course I do. It’s true. Now, then, let’s have Norman Gale.’

  Norman Gale gave his address as 14 Shepherd’s Avenue, Muswell Hill. By profession he was a dentist. He was returning from a holiday spent at Le Pinet on the French coast. He had spent a day in Paris looking at various new types of dental instruments.

  He had never seen the deceased, and had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. In any case, he had been facing the other way—towards the front car. He had left his seat once during the journey to go to the toilet. He had returned straight to his seat and had never been near the rear end of the car. He had not noticed any wasp.

  After him came James Ryder, somewhat on edge and brusque in manner. He was returning from a business visit to Paris. He did not know the deceased. Yes, he had occupied the seat immediately in front of hers, but he could not have seen her without rising and looking over the back of his seat. He had heard nothing—no cry or exclamation. No one had come down the car except the stewards. Yes, the two Frenchmen had occupied the seats across the gangway from his. They had talked practically the whole journey. The younger of the two had killed a wasp at the conclusion of the meal. No, he hadn’t noticed the wasp previously. He didn’t know what a blowpipe was like, as he’d never seen one, so he couldn’t say if he’d seen one on the journey or not—

  Just at this point there was a tap on the door. A police constable entered, subdued triumph in his bearing.

  ‘The sergeant’s just found this, sir,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to have it at once.’

  He laid his prize on the table, unwrapping it with care from the handkerchief in which it was folded.

  ‘No fingerprints, sir, so as the sergeant can see, but he told me to be careful.’

  The object thus displayed was an undoubted blowpipe of native manufacture.

  Japp drew his breath in sharply.

  ‘Good Lord! Then it is true? Upon my soul, I didn’t believe it!’

  Mr Ryder leant forward interestedly.

  ‘So that’s what the South Americans use, is it? Read about such things, but never seen one. Well, I can answer your question now. I didn’t see anyone handling anything of this type.’

  ‘Where was it found?’ asked Japp sharply.

  ‘Pushed down out of sight behind one of the seats, sir.’

  ‘Which seat?’

  ‘No. 9.’

  ‘Very entertaining,’ said Poirot.

  Japp turned to him.

  ‘What’s entertaining about it?’

  ‘Only that No. 9 was my seat.’

  ‘Well, that looks a bit odd for you, I must say,’ said Mr Ryder.

  Japp frowned.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ryder, that will do.’

  When Ryder had gone he turned to Poirot with a grin.

  ‘This your work, old bird?’

  ‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.’

  ‘It is a bit low,’ agreed Japp. ‘But it seems to have worked.’

  ‘That is what gives one so furiously to think.’

  ‘Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must. Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let’s have her in and get it over. Jane Grey—sounds like a history book.’

  ‘She is a pretty girl,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Is she, you old dog? So you weren’t asleep all the time, eh?’

  ‘She was pretty—and nervous,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Nervous, eh?’ said Japp alertly.

  ‘Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man—not crime.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Here she is.’

  Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine’s hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, NW5. She was returning to England from Le Pinet.

  ‘Le Pinet—h’m!’

  Further questions drew the story of the Sweep ticket.

  ‘Ought to be made illegal, those Irish Sweeps,’ growled Japp.

  ‘I think they’re marvellous,’ said Jane. ‘Haven’t you ever put half a crown on a horse?’

  Japp blushed and looked confused.

  The questions were resumed. Shown the blowpipe, Jane denied having seen it at any time. She did not know the deceased, but had noticed her at Le Bourget.

  ‘What made you notice her particularly?’

  ‘Because she was so frightfully ugly,’ said Jane truthfully.

  Nothing else of any value was elicited from her, and she was allowed to go.

  Japp fell back into contemplation of the blowpipe.

  ‘It beats me,’ he said. ‘The crudest detective story dodge coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A man who’s travelled in the part of the world this thing comes from? And where exactly does it come from? Have to get an expert on to that. It may be Malayan or South American or African.’

  ‘Originally, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you observe closely, my friend, you will notice a microscopic piece of paper adhering to the pipe. It looks to me very much like the remains of a torn-off price ticket. I fancy that this particular specimen has journeyed from the wilds via some curio dealer’s shop. That will possibly make our search more easy. Just one little question.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘You will still have that list made—the list of the passengers’ belongings?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You’re very set on that?’

  ‘Mais oui. I am puzzled, very puzzled. If I could find something to help me—’

  Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.

  ‘Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers…always making the police out to be fools…and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.’

  Chapter 4

  The Inquest

  The inquest on Marie Morisot was held four days later. The sensational manner of her death had aroused great public interest, and the coroner’s court was crowded.

  The first witness called was a tall elderly Frenchman with a grey beard—Maître Alexandre Thibault. He spoke English slowly and precisely with a slight accent, but quite idiomatically.

  After the preliminary questions the coroner asked, ‘You have viewed the body of the deceased. Do you recognize it?’

  ‘I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angélique Morisot.’

  ‘That is the name on the deceased’s passport. Was she known to the public by another name?’

  ‘Yes, that of Madame Giselle.’

  A stir of excitement went around. Reporters sat with pencils poised. The coroner said, ‘Will you tell us exactly who this Madame Moris
ot—or Madame Giselle—was?’

  ‘Madame Giselle—to give her her professional name, the name under which she did business—was one of the best-known moneylenders in Paris.’

  ‘She carried on her business—where?’

  ‘At the Rue Joliette, No. 3. That was also her private residence.’

  ‘I understand that she journeyed to England fairly frequently. Did her business extend to this country?’

  ‘Yes. Many of her clients were English people. She was very well known amongst a certain section of English society.’

  ‘How would you describe that section of society?’

  ‘Her clientèle was mostly among the upper and professional classes, in cases where it was important that the utmost discretion should be observed.’

  ‘She had the reputation of being discreet?’

  ‘Extremely discreet.’

  ‘May I ask if you have an intimate knowledge of—er—her various business transactions?’

  ‘No. I dealt with her legal business, but Madame Giselle was a first-class woman of business, thoroughly capable of attending to her own affairs in the most competent manner. She kept the control of her business entirely in her own hands. She was, if I may say so, a woman of very original character, and a well-known public figure.’

  ‘To the best of your knowledge, was she a rich woman at the time of her death?’

  ‘She was an extremely wealthy woman.’

  ‘Had she, to your knowledge, any enemies?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Maître Thibault then stepped down and Henry Mitchell was called.

  The coroner said, ‘Your name is Henry Charles Mitchell and you reside at 11 Shoeblack Lane, Wandsworth?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are in the employment of Universal Airlines, Ltd?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are the senior steward on the air liner Prometheus?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘On Tuesday last, the eighteenth, you were on duty on the Prometheus on the twelve o’clock service from Paris to Croydon. The deceased travelled by that service. Had you ever seen the deceased before?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was on the 8.45 am service six months ago and I noticed her travelling by that once or twice.’