Death in the Clouds

‘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.’