Death in the Clouds

CHAPTER 5 After the Inquest

As Jane left the court after the verdict she found Norman Gale beside her.

He said, ‘I wonder what was on that paper that the coroner wouldn’t have at any price?’

‘I can tell you, I think,’ said a voice behind him.

The couple turned, to look into the twinkling eyes of M. Hercule Poirot.

‘It was a verdict,’ said the little man, ‘of wilful murder against me.’

‘Oh, surely—’ cried Jane.

Poirot nodded happily.

‘Mais oui. As I came out I heard one man say to the other, “That little foreigner—mark my words, he done it!” The jury thought the same.’

Jane was uncertain whether to condole or to laugh. She decided on the latter. Poirot laughed in sympathy.

‘But, see you,’ he said, ‘definitely I must set to work and clear my character.’

With a smile and a bow he moved away.

Jane and Norman stared after his retreating figure.

‘What an extraordinarily rum little beggar,’ said Gale. ‘Calls himself a detective. I don’t see how he could do much detecting. Any criminal could spot him a mile off. I don’t see how he could disguise himself.’

‘Haven’t you got a very old-fashioned idea of detectives?’ asked Jane. ‘All the false beard stuff is very out of date. Nowadays detectives just sit and think out a case psychologically.’

‘Rather less strenuous.’

‘Physically, perhaps; but of course you need a cool, clear brain.’

‘I see. A hot muddled one won’t do.’

They both laughed.

‘Look here,’ said Gale. A slight flush rose in his cheeks and he spoke rather fast. ‘Would you mind—I mean, it would be frightfully nice of you—it’s a bit late—but how about having some tea with me? I feel—comrades in misfortune—and—’

He stopped. To himself he said:

‘What is the matter with you, you fool? Can’t you ask a girl to have a cup of tea without stammering and blushing and making an utter ass of yourself? What will the girl think of you?’

Gale’s confusion served to accentuate Jane’s coolness and self-possession.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘I would like some tea.’

They found a tea-shop and a disdainful waitress with a gloomy manner took their order with an air of doubt as of one who might say: ‘Don’t blame me if you’re disappointed. They say we serve teas here, but I never heard of it.’

The tea-shop was nearly empty. Its emptiness served to emphasize the intimacy of tea drinking together. Jane peeled off her gloves and looked across the table at her companion. He was attractive—those blue eyes and that smile. And he was nice too.

‘It’s a queer show, this murder business,’ said Gale, plunging hastily into talk. He was still not quite free from an absurd feeling of embarrassment.

‘I know,’ said Jane. ‘I’m rather worried about it—from the point of view of my job, I mean. I don’t know how they’ll take it.’

‘Ye-es. I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Antoine’s mayn’t like to employ a girl who’s been mixed up in a murder case and had to give evidence, and all that.’

‘People are queer,’ said Norman Gale thoughtfully. ‘Life’s so—so unfair. A thing like this that isn’t your fault at all—’ He frowned angrily. ‘It’s damnable!’

‘Well, it hasn’t happened yet,’ Jane reminded him. ‘No good getting hot and bothered about something that hasn’t happened. After all, I suppose there is some point in it—I might be the person who murdered her! And when you’ve murdered one person they say you usually murder a lot more; and it wouldn’t be very comfortable having your hair done by a person of that kind.’

‘Anyone’s only got to look at you to know you couldn’t murder anybody,’ said Norman, gazing at her earnestly.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Jane. ‘I’d like to murder some of my ladies sometimes—if I could be sure I’d get away with it! There’s one in particular—she’s got a voice like a corncrake and she grumbles at everything. I really think sometimes that murdering her would be a good deed and not a crime at all. So you see I’m quite criminally minded.’

‘Well, you didn’t do this particular murder, anyway,’ said Gale. ‘I can swear to that.’

‘And I can swear you didn’t do it,’ said Jane. ‘But that won’t help you if your patients think you have.’

‘My patients, yes—’ Gale looked rather thoughtful. ‘I suppose you’re right—I hadn’t really thought of that. A dentist who might be a homicidal maniac—no, it’s not a very alluring prospect.’

He added suddenly and impulsively:

‘I say, you don’t mind my being a dentist, do you?’

Jane raised her eyebrows.

‘I? Mind?’

‘What I mean is, there’s always something rather—well, comic about a dentist. Somehow it’s not a romantic profession. Now a doctor everyone takes seriously.’

‘Cheer up,’ said Jane. ‘A dentist is decidedly a cut above a hairdresser’s assistant.’

They laughed, and Gale said, ‘I feel we’re going to be friends. Do you?’

‘Yes, I think I do.’

‘Perhaps you’ll dine with me one night and we might do a show?’

‘Thank you.’

There was a pause, and then Gale said:

‘How did you like Le Pinet?’

‘It was great fun.’

‘Had you ever been there before?’

‘No, you see—’

Jane, suddenly confidential, came out with the story of the winning Sweep ticket. They agreed together on the general romance and desirability of Sweeps and deplored the attitude of an unsympathetic English Government.

Their conversation was interrupted by a young man in a brown suit who had been hovering uncertainly nearby for some minutes before they noticed him.

Now, however, he lifted his hat and addressed Jane with a certain glib assurance.

‘Miss Jane Grey?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I represent the Weekly Howl, Miss Grey. I wondered if you would care to do us a short article on this Air Death Murder? Point of view of one of the passengers.’

‘I think I’d rather not, thanks.’

‘Oh, come now, Miss Grey. We’d pay well for it.’

‘How much?’ asked Jane.

‘Fifty pounds—or, well—perhaps we’d make it a bit more. Say sixty.’

‘No,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t think I could. I shouldn’t know what to say.’

‘That’s all right,’ said the young man easily. ‘You needn’t actually write the article, you know. One of our fellows will just ask you for a few suggestions and work the whole thing up for you. It won’t be the least trouble to you.’

‘All the same,’ said Jane, ‘I’d rather not.’

‘What about a hundred quid? Look here, I really will make it a hundred; and give us a photograph.’

‘No,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t like the idea.’

‘So you may as well clear out,’ said Norman Gale. ‘Miss Grey doesn’t want to be worried.’

The young man turned to him hopefully.

‘Mr Gale, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Now look here, Mr Gale, if Miss Grey feels a bit squeamish about it, what about your having a shot? Five hundred words. And we’ll pay you the same as I offered Miss Grey—and that’s a good bargain, because a woman’s account of another woman’s murder is better news value. I’m offering you a good chance.’

‘I don’t want it. I shan’t write a word for you.’

‘It’ll be good publicity apart from the pay. Rising professional man—brilliant career ahead of you—all your patients will read it.’

‘That,’ said Norman Gale, ‘is mostly what I’m afraid of.’

‘Well, you can’t get anywhere without publicity in these days.’

‘Possibly, but it depends on the kind of publicity. I’m hoping that just one or two of my patients may not read the papers and may continue in ignorance of the fact that I’ve been mixed up in a murder case. Now you’ve had your answer from both of us. Are you going quietly, or have I got to kick you out of here?’

‘Nothing to get annoyed about,’ said the young man, quite undisturbed by this threat of violence. ‘Good evening, and ring me up at the office if you change your mind. Here’s my card.’

He made his way cheerfully out of the tea-shop, thinking to himself as he did so: ‘Not too bad. Made quite a decent interview.’

And in truth the next issue of the Weekly Howl had an important column on the views of two of the witnesses in the Air Murder Mystery. Miss Jane Grey had declared herself too distressed to talk about the matter. It had been a terrible shock to her and she hated to think about it. Mr Norman Gale had expressed himself at great length on the effect upon a professional man’s career of being mixed up in a criminal case, however innocently. Mr Gale had humorously expressed the hope that some of his patients only read the fashion columns and so might not suspect the worst when they came for the ordeal of ‘the chair’.

When the young man had departed Jane said:

‘I wonder why he didn’t go for the more important people?’

‘Leaves that to his betters, probably,’ said Gale grimly. ‘He’s probably tried there and failed.’

He sat frowning for a minute or two, then he said:

‘Jane (I’m going to call you Jane. You don’t mind, do you?) Jane—who do you think really murdered this Giselle woman?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

‘Have you thought about it? Really thought about it?’

‘Well, no, I don’t suppose I have. I’ve been thinking about my own part in it, and worrying a little. I haven’t really wondered seriously which—which of the others did it. I don’t think I’d realized until today that one of them must have done it.’

‘Yes, the coroner put it very plainly. I know I didn’t do it, and I know you didn’t do it, because—well, because I was watching you most of the time.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘I know you didn’t do it—for the same reason. And of course I know I didn’t do it myself! So it must have been one of the others; but I don’t know which. I haven’t the slightest idea. Have you?’

‘No.’

Norman Gale looked very thoughtful. He seemed to be puzzling out some train of thought. Jane went on:

‘I don’t see how we can have the least idea, either. I mean we didn’t see anything—at least I didn’t. Did you?’

Gale shook his head.

‘Not a thing.’

‘That’s what seems so frightfully odd. I dare say you wouldn’t have seen anything. You weren’t facing that way. But I was. I was looking right along the middle. I mean—I could have been—’

Jane stopped and flushed. She was remembering that her eyes had been mostly fixed on a periwinkle-blue pullover, and that her mind, far from being receptive to what was going on around her, had been mainly concerned with the personality of the human being inside the periwinkle-blue pullover.

Norman Gale thought:

‘I wonder what makes her blush like that… She’s wonderful… I’m going to marry her… Yes, I am… But it’s no good looking too far ahead. I’ve got to have some good excuse for seeing her often. This murder business will do as well as anything else… Besides, I really think it would be as well to do something—that whipper-snapper of a reporter and his publicity…’

Aloud he said:

‘Let’s think about it now. Who killed her? Let’s go over all the people. The stewards?’

‘No,’ said Jane.

‘I agree. The women opposite us?’

‘I don’t suppose anyone like Lady Horbury would go killing people. And the other one, Miss Kerr, well, she’s far too county. She wouldn’t kill an old Frenchwoman, I’m sure.’

‘Only an unpopular MFH? I expect you’re not far wrong, Jane. Then there’s moustachios, but he seems, according to the coroner’s jury, to be the most likely person, so that washes him out. The doctor? That doesn’t seem very likely, either.’

‘If he’d wanted to kill her he could have used something quite untraceable and nobody would ever have known.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Norman doubtfully. ‘These untraceable, tasteless, odourless poisons are very convenient, but I’m a bit doubtful if they really exist. What about the little man who owned up to having a blowpipe?’

‘That’s rather suspicious. But he seemed a very nice little man, and he needn’t have said he had a blowpipe, so that looks as though he were all right.’

‘Then there’s Jameson—no—what’s his name—Ryder?’

‘Yes, it might be him.’

‘And the two Frenchmen?’