Death in the Clouds

  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?’

  ‘That’s the most likely of all. They’ve been to queer places. And of course they may have had some reason we know nothing about. I thought the younger one looked very unhappy and worried.’

  ‘You probably would be worried if you’d committed a murder,’ said Norman Gale grimly.

  ‘He looked nice, though,’ said Jane; ‘and the old father was rather a dear. I hope it isn’t them.’

  ‘We don’t seem to be getting on very fast,’ said Norman Gale.

  ‘I don’t see how we can get on without knowing a lot of things about the old woman who was murdered. Enemies, and who inherits her money, and all that.’

  Norman Gale said thoughtfully:

  ‘You think this is mere idle speculation?’

  Jane said coolly, ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Gale hesitated, then went on slowly, ‘I have a feeling it may be useful—’

  Jane looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Murder,’ said Norman Gale, ‘doesn’t concern the victim and the guilty only. It affects the innocent too. You and I are innocent, but the shadow of murder has touched us. We don’t know how that shadow is going to affect our lives.’

  Jane was a person of cool common sense, but she shivered suddenly.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘You make me feel afraid.’

  ‘I’m a little afraid myself,’ said Gale.

  Chapter 6

  Consultation

  Hercule Poirot rejoined his friend Inspector Japp. The latter had a grin on his face.

  ‘Hullo, old boy,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a pretty near squeak of being locked up in a police cell.’

  ‘I fear,’ said Poirot gravely, ‘that such an occurrence might have damaged me professionally.’

  ‘Well,’ said Japp with a grin, ‘detectives do turn out to be criminals sometimes—in story books.’

  A tall thin man with an intelligent, melancholy face joined them, and Japp introduced him.

  ‘This is Monsieur Fournier of the Sûreté. He has come over to collaborate with us about this business.’

  ‘I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you once some years ago, M. Poirot,’ said Fournier, bowing and shaking hands. ‘I have also heard of you from M. Giraud.’

  A very faint smile seemed to hover on his lips. And Poirot, who could well imagine the terms in which Giraud (whom he himself had been in the habit of referring to disparagingly as the ‘human fox-hound’) had spoken of him, permitted himself a small discreet smile in reply.

  ‘I suggest,’ said Poirot, ‘that both you gentlemen should dine with me at my rooms. I have already invited Maître Thibault. That is, if you and my friend Japp do not object to my collaboration.’

  ‘That’s all right, old cock,’ said Japp, slapping him heartily on the back. ‘You’re in on this on the ground floor.’

  ‘We shall be indeed honoured,’ murmured the Frenchman ceremoniously.

  ‘You see,’ said Poirot, ‘as I said to a very charming young lady just now, I am anxious to clear my character.’

  ‘That jury certainly didn’t like the look of you,’ agreed Japp with a renewal of his grin. ‘Best joke I’ve heard for a long time.’

  By common consent no mention of the case was made during the very excellent meal which the little Belgian provided for his friends.

  ‘After all, it is possible to eat well in England,’ murmured Fournier appreciatively as he made delicate use of a thoughtfully provided toothpick.

  ‘A delicious meal, M. Poirot,’ said Thibault.

  ‘Bit Frenchified, but damn good,’ pronounced Japp.

  ‘A meal should always lie lightly on the estomac,’ said Poirot. ‘It should not be so heavy as to paralyse thought.’

  ‘I can’t say my stomach ever gives me much trouble,’ said Japp. ‘But I won’t argue the point. Well, we’d better get down to business. I know that M. Thibault has got an appointment this evening, so I suggest that we should start by consulting him on any point that seems likely to be useful.’

  ‘I am at your service, gentlemen. Naturally I can speak more freely here than in a coroner’s court. I had a hurried conversation with Inspector Japp before the inquest, and he indicated a policy of reticence—the bare necessary facts.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Japp. ‘Don’t ever spill the beans too soon. But now let’s hear all you can tell us of this Giselle woman.’

  ‘To speak the truth, I know very little. I know her as the world knew her—as a public character. Of her private life as an individual I know very little. Probably M. Fournier here can tell you more than I can. But I will say to you this: Madame Giselle was what you call in this country “a character”. She was unique. Of her antecedents nothing is known. I have an idea that as a young woman she was good-looking. I believe that as a result of smallpox she lost her looks. She was—I am giving you my impressions—a woman who enjoyed power; she had power. She was a keen woman of business. She was the type of hard-headed Frenchwoman who would never allow sentiment to affect her business interests; but she had the reputation of carrying on her profession with scrupulous honesty.’

  He looked for assent to Fournier. That gentleman nodded his dark melancholic head.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was honest—according to her lights. Yet the law could have called her to account if only evidence had been forthcoming; but that—’ He shrugged his shoulders despondently. ‘It is too much to ask, with human nature what it is.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘Chantage.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ echoed Japp.

  ‘Yes, blackmail of a peculiar and specialized kind. It was Madame Giselle’s custom to lend money on what I think you cal
l in this country “note of hand alone”. She used her discretion as to the sums she lent and the methods of repayment; but I may tell you that she had her own methods of getting paid.’

  Poirot leaned forward interestedly.

  ‘As Maître Thibault said today, Madame Giselle’s clientèle lay amongst the upper and professional classes. Those classes are particularly vulnerable to the force of public opinion. Madame Giselle had her own intelligence service…It was her custom before lending money (that is, in the case of a large sum) to collect as many facts as possible about the client in question; and her intelligence system, I may say, was an extraordinarily good one. I will echo what our friend has said: according to her lights Madame Giselle was scrupulously honest. She kept faith with those who kept faith with her. I honestly believe that she has never made use of her secret knowledge to obtain money from anyone unless that money was already owed to her.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Poirot, ‘that this secret knowledge was her form of security?’

  ‘Exactly; and in using it she was perfectly ruthless and deaf to any finer shades of feeling; and I will tell you this, gentlemen: her system paid! Very, very rarely did she have to write off a bad debt. A man or woman in a prominent position would go to desperate lengths to obtain the money which would obviate a public scandal. As I say, we knew of her activities; but as for prosecution—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is a more difficult matter. Human nature is human nature.’

  ‘And supposing,’ said Poirot, ‘that she did, as you say happened occasionally, have to write off a bad debt—what then?’

  ‘In that case,’ said Fournier slowly, ‘the information she held was published, or was given to the person concerned in the matter.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Poirot said:

  ‘Financially, that did not benefit her?’

  ‘No,’ said Fournier—‘not directly, that is.’

  ‘But indirectly?’

  ‘Indirectly,’ said Japp, ‘it made the others pay up, eh?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Fournier. ‘It was valuable for what you call the moral effect.’

  ‘Immoral effect, I should call it,’ said Japp. ‘Well’—he rubbed his nose thoughtfully—‘it opens up a very pretty line in motives for murder—a very pretty line. Then there’s the question of who is going to come into her money.’ He appealed to Thibault. ‘Can you help us there at all?’