Death in the Clouds

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.