Death in the Clouds

‘You have not been afraid all this time?’

  ‘Of course I’ve been afraid!’

  ‘But of what? Of exposure, or of being arrested for murder?’

  The colour ebbed away from her cheeks.

  ‘Murder—but I didn’t—Oh, you don’t believe that! I didn’t kill her. I didn’t!’

  ‘You wanted her dead…’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t kill her…Oh, you must believe me—you must. I never moved from my seat. I—’

  She broke off. Her beautiful blue eyes were fixed on him imploringly.

  Hercule Poirot nodded soothingly.

  ‘I believe you, Madame, for two reasons—first, because of your sex, and secondly because of—a wasp.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘A wasp?’

  ‘Exactly. That does not make sense to you, I see. Now, then, let us attend to the matter in hand. I will deal with this Mr Robinson. I pledge you my word that you shall never see or hear of him again. I will settle his—his—I have forgotten the word—his bacon? No, his goat. Now in return for my services I will ask you two little questions. Was Mr Barraclough in Paris the day before the murder?’

  ‘Yes, we dined together. But he thought it better I should go and see the woman alone.’

  ‘Ah, he did, did he? Now, Madame, one further question: Your stage name before you were married was Cicely Bland. Was that your real name?’

  ‘No, my real name is Martha Jebb. But the other—’

  ‘Made a better professional name. And you were born—where?’

  ‘Doncaster. But why—’

  ‘Mere curiosity. Forgive me. And now, Lady Horbury, will you permit me to give you some advice? Why not arrange with your husband a discreet divorce?’

  ‘And let him marry that woman?’

  ‘And let him marry that woman. You have a generous heart, Madame; and besides, you will be safe—oh, so safe—and your husband he will pay you an income.’

  ‘Not a very large one.’

  ‘Eh bien, once you are free you will marry a millionaire.’

  ‘There aren’t any nowadays.’

  ‘Ah, do not believe that, Madame. The man who had three millions perhaps now he has two millions—eh bien, it is still enough.’

  Cicely laughed.

  ‘You’re very persuasive, M. Poirot. And are you really sure that dreadful man will never bother me again?’

  ‘On the word of Hercule Poirot,’ said that gentleman solemnly.

  Chapter 20

  In Harley Street

  Detective-Inspector Japp walked briskly up Harley Street and stopped at a certain door.

  He asked for Dr Bryant.

  ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No, I’ll just write a few words.’

  On an official card he wrote:

  ‘Should be much obliged if you could spare me a few moments. I won’t keep you long.’

  He sealed up the card in an envelope and gave it to the butler.

  He was shown into a waiting-room. There were two women there and a man. Japp settled down with an elderly copy of Punch.

  The butler reappeared and, crossing the floor, said in a discreet voice:

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting a short time, sir, the doctor will see you, but he’s very busy this morning.’

  Japp nodded. He did not in the least mind waiting—in fact he rather welcomed it. The two women had begun to talk. They had obviously a very high opinion of Dr Bryant’s abilities. More patients came in. Evidently Dr Bryant was doing well in his profession.

  ‘Fairly coining money,’ thought Japp to himself. ‘That doesn’t look like needing to borrow; but of course the loan may have taken place a long time ago. Anyway, he’s got a fine practice; a breath of scandal would burst it to bits. That’s the worst of being a doctor.’

  Quarter of an hour later the butler reappeared and said:

  ‘The doctor will see you now, sir.’

  Japp was shown into Dr Bryant’s consulting-room—a room at the back of the house with a big window. The doctor was sitting at his desk. He rose and shook hands with the detective.

  His fine-lined face showed fatigue, but he seemed in no way disturbed by the inspector’s visit.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he said as he resumed his seat and motioned Japp to a chair opposite.

  ‘I must apologize first for calling in your consulting hours, but I shan’t keep you long, sir.’

  ‘That is all right, I suppose it is about the aeroplane death?’

  ‘Quite right, sir. We’re still working on it.’

  ‘With any result?’

  ‘We’re not as far on as we’d like to be. I really came to ask you some questions about the method employed. It’s this snake venom business that I can’t get the hang of.’

  ‘I’m not a toxicologist, you know,’ said Dr Bryant, smiling. ‘Such things aren’t in my line. Winterspoon’s your man.’

  ‘Ah, but you see, it’s like this, Doctor. Winterspoon’s an expert—and you know what experts are. They talk so that the ordinary man can’t understand them. But as far as I can make out there’s a medical side of this business. Is it true that snake venom is sometimes injected for epilepsy?’

  ‘I’m not a specialist in epilepsy, either,’ said Dr Bryant. ‘But I believe that injections of cobra venom have been used in the treatment of epilepsy with excellent results. But, as I say, that’s not really my line of country.’

  ‘I know—I know. What it really amounts to is this: I felt that you’d take an interest, having been on the aeroplane yourself. I thought it possible that you’d have some ideas on the subject yourself that might be useful to me. It’s not much good my going to an expert if I don’t know what to ask him.’

  Dr Bryant smiled.

  ‘There is something in what you say, Inspector. There is probably no man living who can remain entirely unaffected by having come in close contact with murder…I am interested, I admit. I have speculated a good deal about the case in my quiet way.’

  ‘And what do you think, sir?’

  Bryant shook his head slowly.

  ‘It amazes me—the whole thing seems almost—unreal—if I might put it that way. An astounding way of committing a crime. It seems a chance in a hundred that the murderer was not seen. He must be a person with a reckless disregard of risks.’

  ‘Very true, sir.’

  ‘The choice of poison is equally amazing. How could a would-be murderer possibly get hold of such a thing?’

  ‘I know. It seems incredible. Why, I don’t suppose one man in a thousand has ever heard of such a thing as a boomslang, much less actually handled the venom. You yourself, sir, now, you’re a doctor—but I don’t suppose you’ve ever handled the stuff.’

  ‘There are certainly not many opportunities of doing so. I have a friend who works at tropical research. In his laboratory there are various specimens of dried snake venoms—that of the cobra, for instance—but I cannot remember any specimen of the boomslang.’

  ‘Perhaps you can help me—’ Japp took out a piece of paper and handed it to the doctor. ‘Winterspoon wrote down these three names—said I might get information there. Do you know any of these men?’

  ‘I know Professor Kennedy slightly. Heidler I know well; mention my name and I’m sure he’ll do all he can for you. Carmichael’s an Edinburgh man—I don’t know him personally—but I believe they’ve done some good work up there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I’m much obliged. Well, I won’t keep you any longer.’

  When Japp emerged into Harley Street he was smiling to himself in a pleased fashion.

  ‘Nothing like tact,’ he said to himself. ‘Tact does it. I’ll be bound he never saw what I was after. Well, that’s that.’

  Chapter 21

  The Three Clues

  When Japp got back to Scotland Yard he was told that M. Hercule Poirot was waiting to see him.

  Japp greeted his friend heartily.

  ‘Well, M. Poi
rot, and what brings you along. Any news?’

  ‘I came to ask you for news, my good Japp.’

  ‘If that isn’t just like you. Well, there isn’t much and that’s the truth. The dealer fellow in Paris has identified the blowpipe all right. Fournier’s been worrying the life out of me from Paris about his moment psychologique. I’ve questioned those stewards till I’m blue in the face, and they stick to it that there wasn’t a moment psychologique. Nothing startling or out of the way happened on the voyage.’

  ‘It might have occurred when they were both in the front car.’

  ‘I’ve questioned the passengers, too. Everyone can’t be lying.’

  ‘In one case I investigated everyone was!’

  ‘You and your cases! To tell the truth, M. Poirot, I’m not very happy. The more I look into things the less I get. The Chief ’s inclined to look on me rather coldly. But what can I do? Luckily it’s one of those semi-foreign cases. We can put it on the Frenchmen over here—and in Paris they say it was done by an Englishman and that it’s our business.’

  ‘Do you really believe the Frenchmen did it?’

  ‘Well, frankly, I don’t. As I look at it an archaeologist is a poor kind of fish. Always burrowing in the ground and talking through his hat about what happened thousands of years ago—and how do they know, I should like to know? Who’s to contradict them? They say some rotten string of beads is five thousand three hundred and twenty-two years old, and who’s to say it isn’t? Well, there they are—liars, perhaps—though they seem to believe it themselves—but harmless. I had an old chap in here the other day who’d had a scarab pinched—terrible state he was in—nice old boy, but helpless as a baby in arms. No, between you and me, I don’t think for a minute that pair of French archaeologists did it.’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’

  ‘Well—there’s Clancy, of course. He’s in a queer way. Goes about muttering to himself. He’s got something on his mind.’

  ‘The plot of a new book, perhaps.’

  ‘It may be that—and it may be something else; but, try as I may, I can’t get a line on motive. I still think CL 52 in the black book is Lady Horbury; but I can’t get anything out of her. She’s pretty hard-boiled, I can tell you.’

  Poirot smiled to himself. Japp went on:

  ‘The stewards—well, I can’t find a thing to connect them with Giselle.’

  ‘Dr Bryant?’

  ‘I think I’m on to something there. Rumours about him and a patient. Pretty woman—nasty husband—takes drugs or something. If he’s not careful he’ll be struck off the medical council. That fits in with RT 362 well enough, and I don’t mind telling you that I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea where he could have got the snake venom from. I went to see him and he gave himself away rather badly over that. Still, so far it is all surmise—no facts. Facts aren’t any too easy to get at in this case. Ryder seems all square and above board—says he went to raise a loan in Paris and couldn’t get it—gave names and addresses—all checked up. I’ve found out that the firm was nearly in Queer Street about a week or two ago, but they seem to be just pulling through. There you are again—unsatisfactory. The whole thing is a muddle.’

  ‘There is no such thing as muddle—obscurity, yes—but muddle can exist only in a disorderly brain.’

  ‘Use any word you choose. The result’s the same. Fournier’s stumped, too. I suppose you’ve got it all taped out, but you’d rather not tell!’

  ‘You mock yourself at me. I have not got it all taped out. I proceed a step at a time, with order and method, but there is still far to go.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling glad to hear that. Let’s hear about these orderly steps.’

  Poirot smiled.

  ‘I make a little table—so.’ He took a paper from his pocket. ‘My idea is this: A murder is an action performed to bring about a certain result.’

  ‘Say that again slowly.’

  ‘It is not difficult.’

  ‘Probably not—but you make it sound so.’

  ‘No, no, it is very simple. Say you want money—you get it when an aunt dies. Bien—you perform an action—this is to kill the aunt—and get the result—inherit the money.’

  ‘I wish I had some aunts like that,’ sighed Japp. ‘Go ahead, I see your idea. You mean there’s got to be a motive.’

  ‘I prefer my own way of putting it. An action is performed—the action being murder—what now are the results of that action? By studying the different results we should get the answer to our conundrum. The results of a single action may be very varied—that particular action affects a lot of different people. Eh bien, I study today—three weeks after the crime—the result in eleven different cases.’

  He spread out the paper.

  Japp leaned forward with some interest and read over Poirot’s shoulder:

  Miss Grey. Result—temporary improvement. Increased salary.

  Mr Gale. Result—bad. Loss of practice.

  Lady Horbury. Result good, if she’s CL 52.

  Miss Kerr. Result—bad, since Giselle’s death makes it more unlikely Lord Horbury will get the evidence to divorce his wife.

  ‘H’m.’ Japp interrupted his scrutiny. ‘So you think she’s keen on his lordship? You are a one for nosing out love affairs.’

  Poirot smiled. Japp bent over the chart once more.

  Mr Clancy. Result—good—expects to make money by book dealing with the murder.

  Dr Bryant. Result—good if RT 362.

  Mr Ryder. Result—good, owing to small amount of cash obtained through articles on murder which tided firm over delicate time. Also good if Ryder is XVB724.

  M. Dupont. Result—unaffected.

  M. Jean Dupont. Result—the same.

  Mitchell. Result—unaffected.

  Davis. Result—unaffected.

  ‘And you think that’s going to help you?’ asked Japp sceptically. ‘I can’t see that writing down “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t tell,” makes it any better.’

  ‘It gives one a clear classification,’ explained Poirot. ‘In four cases—Mr Clancy, Miss Grey, Mr Ryder, and I think I may say Lady Horbury—there is a result on the credit side. In the cases of Mr Gale and Miss Kerr there is a result on the debit side—in four cases there is no result at all—so far as we know—and in one, Dr Bryant, there is either no result or a distinct gain.’

  ‘And so?’ asked Japp.

  ‘And so,’ said Poirot, ‘we must go on seeking.’

  ‘With precious little to go upon,’ said Japp gloomily. ‘The truth of it is that we’re hung up until we can get what we want from Paris. It’s the Giselle side that wants going into. I bet I could have got more out of that maid than Fournier did.’

  ‘I doubt it, my friend. The most interesting thing about this case is the personality of the dead woman. A woman without friends—without relations—without, as one might say—any personal life. A woman who was once young, who once loved and suffered and then—with a firm hand pulled down the shutter—all that was over; not a photograph, not a souvenir, not a knick-knack. Marie Morisot became Madame Giselle—moneylender.’

  ‘Do you think there is a clue in her past?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Well, we could do with it! There aren’t any clues in this case.’

  ‘Oh, yes, my friend, there are.’

  ‘The blowpipe, of course—’

  ‘No, no, not the blowpipe.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear your ideas of the clues in the case.’

  Poirot smiled.

  ‘I will give them titles—like the names of Mr Clancy’s stories: The Clue of the Wasp. The Clue in the Passenger’s Baggage. The Clue of the Extra Coffee Spoon.’

  ‘You’re potty,’ said Japp kindly, and added: ‘What’s this about a coffee spoon?’

  ‘Madame Giselle had two spoons in her saucer.’

  ‘That’s supposed to mean a wedding.’

  ‘In this case,’ said Poirot, ‘it meant a funeral.’ br />
  Chapter 22

  Jane Takes a New Job

  When Norman Gale, Jane and Poirot met for dinner on the night after the ‘blackmailing incident’ Norman was relieved to hear that his services as ‘Mr Robinson’ were no longer required.

  ‘He is dead, the good Mr Robinson,’ said Poirot. He raised his glass. ‘Let us drink to his memory.’

  ‘RIP,’ said Norman with a laugh.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jane of Poirot.

  He smiled at her.

  ‘I found out what I wanted to know.’

  ‘Was she mixed up with Giselle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was pretty clear from my interview with her,’ said Norman.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Poirot. ‘But I wanted a full and detailed story.’

  ‘And you got it?’

  ‘I got it.’

  They both looked at him inquiringly, but Poirot, in a provoking manner, began to discuss the relationship between a career and life.

  ‘There are not so many round pegs in square holes as one might think. Most people, in spite of what they tell you, choose the occupations that they secretly desire. You will hear a man say who works in an office, “I should like to explore—to rough it in far countries.” But you will find that he likes reading the fiction that deals with that subject, but that he himself prefers the safety and moderate comfort of an office stool.’

  ‘According to you,’ said Jane, ‘my desire for foreign travel isn’t genuine—messing about with women’s heads is my true vocation—well, that isn’t true.’

  Poirot smiled at her.

  ‘You are young still. Naturally one tries this, that and the other, but what one eventually settles down into is the life one prefers.’

  ‘And suppose I prefer being rich?’

  ‘Ah, that, it is more difficult!’

  ‘I don’t agree with you,’ said Gale. ‘I’m a dentist by chance—not choice. My uncle was a dentist—he wanted me to come in with him, but I was all for adventure and seeing the world. I chucked dentistry and went off to farm in South Africa. However, that wasn’t much good—I hadn’t got enough experience. I had to accept the old man’s offer and come and set up business with him.’