Death in the Clouds

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 disembarked 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 the 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.

‘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.’