Death in the Clouds

  ‘Did you know her name?’

  ‘Well, it must have been on my list, sir, but I didn’t notice it special, so to speak.’

  ‘Have you ever heard the name of Madame Giselle?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Please describe the occurrences of Tuesday last in your own way.’

  ‘I’d served the luncheons, sir, and was coming round with the bills. The deceased was, as I thought, asleep. I decided not to wake her until about five minutes before we got in. When I tried to do so I discovered that she was dead or seriously ill. I discovered that there was a doctor on board. He said—’

  ‘We shall have Dr Bryant’s evidence presently. Will you take a look at this?’

  The blowpipe was handed to Mitchell, who took it gingerly.

  ‘Have you ever seen that before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You are certain that you did not see it in the hands of any of the passengers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Albert Davis.’

  The younger steward took the stand.

  ‘You are Albert Davis of 23 Barcome Street, Croydon. You are employed by Universal Airlines, Ltd?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You were on duty on the Prometheus as second steward on Tuesday last?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What was the first that you knew of the tragedy?’

  ‘Mr Mitchell, sir, told me that he was afraid something had happened to one of the passengers.’

  ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  The blowpipe was handed to Davis.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You did not observe it in the hands of any of the passengers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did anything at all happen on the journey that you think might throw light on this affair?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very good. You may stand down.’

  ‘Dr Roger Bryant.’

  Dr Bryant gave his name and address and described himself as a specialist in ear and throat diseases.

  ‘Will you tell us in your own words, Dr Bryant, exactly what happened on Tuesday last, the eighteenth?’

  ‘Just before getting into Croydon I was approached by the chief steward. He asked me if I was a doctor. On my replying in the affirmative, he told me that one of the passengers had been taken ill. I rose and went with him. The woman in question was lying slumped down in her seat. She had been dead some time.’

  ‘What length of time in your opinion, Dr Bryant?’

  ‘I should say at least half an hour. Between half an hour and an hour would be my estimate.’

  ‘Did you form any theory as to the cause of death?’

  ‘No. It would have been impossible to say without a detailed examination.’

  ‘But you noticed a small puncture on the side of the neck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you…Dr James Whistler.’

  Dr Whistler was a thin, scraggy little man.

  ‘You are the police surgeon for this district?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Will you give your evidence in your own words?’

  ‘Shortly after three o’clock on Tuesday last, the eighteenth, I received a summons to Croydon aerodrome. There I was shown the body of a middle-aged woman in one of the seats of the air liner Prometheus. She was dead, and death had occurred, I should say, about an hour previously. I noticed a circular puncture on the side of the neck—directly on the jugular vein. This mark was quite consistent with having been caused by the sting of a wasp or by the insertion of a thorn which was shown to me. The body was removed to the mortuary, where I was able to make a detailed examination.’

  ‘What conclusions did you come to?’

  ‘I came to the conclusion that death was caused by the introduction of a powerful toxin into the blood stream. Death was due to acute paralysis of the heart, and must have been practically instantaneous.’

  ‘Can you tell us what that toxin was?’

  ‘It was a toxin I had never come across before.’

  The reporters, listening attentively, wrote down ‘Unknown poison.’

  ‘Thank you…Mr Henry Winterspoon.’

  Mr Winterspoon was a large, dreamy-looking man with a benignant expression. He looked kindly but stupid. It came as something of a shock to learn that he was chief Government analyst and an authority on rare poisons.

  The coroner held up the fatal thorn and asked Mr Winterspoon if he recognized it.

  ‘I do. It was sent to me for analysis.’

  ‘Will you tell us the result of that analysis?’

  ‘Certainly. I should say that originally the dart had been dipped in a preparation of native curare—an arrow poison used by certain tribes.’

  The reporters wrote with gusto.

  ‘You consider, then, that death may have been due to curare.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Winterspoon. ‘There was only the faintest trace of the original preparation. According to my analysis, the dart had recently been dipped in the venom of Dispholidus typus, better known as the boomslang or tree snake.’

  ‘A boomslang? What is a boomslang?’

  ‘It is a South African snake—one of the most deadly and poisonous in existence. Its effect on a human being is not known, but some idea of the intense virulence of the venom can be realized when I tell you that on injecting the venom into a hyena, the hyena died before the needle could be withdrawn. A jackal died as though shot by a gun. The poison causes acute haemorrhage under the skin and also acts on the heart, paralysing its action.’

  The reporters wrote: ‘Extraordinary Story. Snake Poison in Air Drama. Deadlier than the Cobra.’

  ‘Have you ever known the venom to be used in a case of deliberate poisoning?’

  ‘Never. It is most interesting.’

  Thank you, Mr Winterspoon.’

  Detective-Sergeant Wilson deposed to the finding of the blowpipe behind the cushion of one of the seats. There were no fingerprints on it. Experiments had been made with the dart and the blowpipe. What you might call the range of it was fairly accurate up to about ten yards.

  ‘M. Hercule Poirot.’

  There was a little stir of interest, but M. Poirot’s evidence was very restrained. He had noticed nothing out of the way. Yes, it was he who had found the tiny dart on the floor of the car. It was in such a position as it would naturally have occupied if it had fallen from the neck of the dead woman.

  ‘The Countess of Horbury.’

  The reporters wrote: ‘Peer’s wife gives evidence in Air Death Mystery.’ Some of them put ‘…in Snake Poison Mystery.’

  Those who wrote for women’s papers put, ‘Lady Horbury wore one of the new collegian hats and fox furs,’ or ‘Lady Horbury, who is one of the smartest women in town, wore black with one of the new collegian hats,’ or ‘Lady Horbury, who before her marriage was Miss Cicely Bland, was smartly dressed in black with one of the new hats…’

  Everyone enjoyed looking at the smart and lovely young woman, though her evidence was of the briefest. She had noticed nothing; she had never seen the deceased before.

  Venetia Kerr succeeded her, but was definitely less of a thrill.

  The indefatigable purveyors of news for women wrote, ‘Lord Cottesmore’s daughter wore a well-cut coat and skirt with one of the new stocks,’ and noted down the phrase, ‘Society Women at Inquest.’

  ‘James Ryder.’

  ‘You are James Bell Ryder, and your address is 17 Blainberry Avenue, NW?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your business or profession?’

  ‘I am managing director of the Ellis Vale Cement Co.’

  ‘Will you kindly examine this blowpipe.’ (A pause.) ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You did not see any such thing in anybody’s hand on board the Prometheus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were sitting in seat No. 4, immediately in front of the decease
d?’

  ‘What if I was?’

  ‘Please do not take that tone with me. You were sitting in seat No. 4. From that seat you had a view of practically everyone in the compartment.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t. I couldn’t see any of the people on my side of the thing. The seats have got high backs.’

  ‘But if one of those people had stepped out into the gangway—into such a position as to be able to aim the blowpipe at the deceased—you would have seen them then?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And you saw no such thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did any of the people in front of you move from their seats?’

  ‘Well, the man two seats ahead of me got up and went to the toilet compartment.’

  ‘That was in a direction away from you and from the deceased?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he come down the car towards you at all?’

  ‘No, he went straight back to his seat.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything in his hand?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Did anyone else move from his seat?’

  ‘The chap in front of me. He came the other way, past me to the back of the car.’

  ‘I protest,’ squeaked Mr Clancy, springing up from his seat in court. ‘That was earlier—much earlier—about one o’clock.’

  ‘Kindly sit down,’ said the coroner. ‘You will be heard presently. Proceed, Mr Ryder. Did you notice if this gentleman had anything in his hands?’

  ‘I think he had a fountain-pen. When he came back he had an orange book in his hand.’

  ‘Is he the only person who came down the car in your direction? Did you yourself leave your seat?’

  ‘Yes, I went to the toilet compartment—and I didn’t have any blowpipe in my hand either.’

  ‘You are adopting a highly improper tone. Stand down.’

  Mr Norman Gale, dentist, gave evidence of a negative character. Then the indignant Mr Clancy took the stand.

  Mr Clancy was news of a minor kind, several degrees inferior to a Peeress.

  ‘Mystery Story Writer gives Evidence. Well-known author admits purchase of deadly weapon. Sensation in court.’

  But the sensation was perhaps a little premature.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Clancy shrilly. ‘I did purchase a blowpipe, and what is more, I have brought it with me today. I protest strongly against the inference that the blowpipe with which the crime was committed was my blowpipe. Here is my blowpipe.’

  And he produced the blowpipe with a triumphant flourish.

  The reporters wrote, ‘Second blowpipe in court.’

  The coroner dealt severely with Mr Clancy. He was told that he was here to assist justice, not to rebut totally imaginary charges against himself. Then he was questioned about the occurrences on the Prometheus, but with very little result. Mr Clancy, as he explained at totally unnecessary length, had been too bemused with the eccentricities of foreign train services and the difficulties of the twenty-four hour times to have noticed anything at all going on round about him. The whole car might have been shooting snake-venomed darts out of blowpipes for all Mr Clancy would have noticed of the matter.

  Miss Jane Grey, hairdresser’s assistant, created no flutter among journalistic pens.

  The two Frenchmen followed.

  M. Armand Dupont deposed that he was on his way to London, where he was to deliver a lecture before the Royal Asiatic Society. He and his son had been very interested in a technical discussion and had noticed very little of what went on round them. He had not noticed the deceased until his attention was attracted by the stir of excitement caused by the discovery of her death.

  ‘Did you know this Madame Morisot or Madame Giselle by sight?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, I had never seen her before.’

  ‘But she is a well-known figure in Paris, is she not?’

  Old M. Dupont shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not to me. In any case, I am not very much in Paris these days.’

  ‘You have lately returned from the East, I understand?’

  ‘That is so, Monsieur—from Persia.’

  ‘You and your son have travelled a good deal in out-of-the-way parts of the world?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You have journeyed in wild places?’

  ‘That, yes.’

  ‘Have you ever come across a race of people that used snake venom as an arrow poison?’

  This had to be translated, and when M. Dupont understood the question he shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Never—never have I come across anything like that.’

  His son followed him. His evidence was a repetition of his father’s. He had noticed nothing. He had thought it possible that the deceased had been stung by a wasp, because he had himself been annoyed by one and had finally killed it.

  The Duponts were the last witnesses.

  The coroner cleared his throat and addressed the jury.

  This, he said, was without doubt the most astonishing and incredible case with which he had ever dealt in this court. A woman had been murdered—they could rule out any question of suicide or accident—in mid-air, in a small enclosed space. There was no question of any outside person having committed the crime. The murderer or murderers must be of necessity one of the witnesses they had heard this morning. There was no getting away from that fact, and a very terrible and awful one it was. One of the persons present had been lying in a desperate and abandoned manner.

  The manner of the crime was one of unparalleled audacity. In the full view of ten—or twelve, counting the stewards—witnesses, the murderer had placed a blowpipe to his lips and sent the fatal dart on its murderous course through the air and no one had observed the act. It seemed frankly incredible, but there was the evidence of the blowpipe, of the dart found on the floor, of the mark on the deceased’s neck and of the medical evidence to show that, incredible or not, it had happened.

  In the absence of further evidence incriminating some particular person, he could only direct the jury to return a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown. Everyone present had denied any knowledge of the deceased woman. It would be the work of the police to find out how and where a connexion lay. In the absence of any motive for the crime he could only advise the verdict he had just mentioned. The jury would now consider the verdict.

  A square-faced member of the jury with suspicious eyes leaned forward breathing heavily.

  ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘You say as how the blowpipe was found down a seat? Whose seat was it?’

  The coroner consulted his notes. Sergeant Wilson stepped to his side and murmured:

  ‘Ah, yes. The seat in question was No. 9, a seat occupied by M. Hercule Poirot. M. Poirot, I may say, is a very well-known and respected private detective who has—er—collaborated several times with Scotland Yard.’

  The square-faced man transferred his gaze to the face of M. Hercule Poirot. It rested with a far from satisfied expression on the little Belgian’s long moustaches.

  ‘Foreigners,’ said the eyes of the square-faced man, ‘you can’t trust foreigners, not even if they are hand-and-glove with the police.’

  Out loud he said:

  ‘It was this Mr Poirot who picked up the dart, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The jury retired. They returned after five minutes, and the foreman handed a piece of paper to the coroner.

  ‘What’s all this?’ The coroner frowned. ‘Nonsense, I can’t accept this verdict.’

  A few minutes later the amended verdict was returned: ‘We find that the deceased came to her death by poison, there being insufficient evidence to show by whom the poison was administered.’

  Chapter 5

  After the Inquest

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