Death in the Clouds

M. Jean Dupont confirmed this evidence. He had noticed nothing of what went on round about him. The wasp had annoyed him and he had killed it. What had been the subject of the discussion? The prehistoric pottery of the Near East.

Mr Clancy, who came next, came in for rather a bad time. Mr Clancy, so felt Inspector Japp, knew altogether too much about blowpipes and poisoned darts.

‘Have you ever owned a blowpipe yourself?’

‘Well—I—er—well, yes, as a matter of fact I have.’

‘Indeed!’ Inspector Japp pounced on the statement.

Little Mr Clancy fairly squeaked with agitation.

‘You must not—er—misunderstand; my motives are quite innocent. I can explain…’

‘Yes, sir, perhaps you will explain.’

‘Well, you see, I was writing a book in which the murder was committed that way—’

‘Indeed—’

Again that threatening intonation. Mr Clancy hurried on:

‘It was all a question of fingerprints—if you understand me. It was necessary to have an illustration illustrating the point I meant—I mean—the fingerprints—the position of them—the position of them on the blowpipe, if you understand me, and having noticed such a thing—in the Charing Cross Road it was—at least two years ago now—and so I bought the blowpipe—and an artist friend of mine very kindly drew it for me—with the fingerprints—to illustrate my point. I can refer you to the book—The Clue of the Scarlet Petal—and my friend too.’

‘Did you keep the blowpipe?’

‘Why, yes—why, yes, I think so—I mean, yes, I did.’

‘And where is it now?’

‘Well, I suppose—well, it must be somewhere about.’

‘What exactly do you mean by somewhere about, Mr Clancy?’

‘I mean—well—somewhere—I can’t say where. I—I am not a very tidy man.’

‘It isn’t with you now, for instance?’

‘Certainly not. Why, I haven’t see the thing for nearly six months.’

Inspector Japp bent a glance of cold suspicion on him and continued his questions.

‘Did you leave your seat at all in the plane?’

‘No, certainly not—at least—well, yes, I did.’

‘Oh, you did. Where did you go?’

‘I went to get a continental Bradshaw out of my raincoat pocket. The raincoat was piled with some rugs and suitcases by the entrance at the end.’

‘So you passed close by the deceased’s seat?’

‘No—at least—well, yes, I must have done. But this was long before anything could have happened. I’d only just drunk my soup.’

Further questions drew negative answers. Mr Clancy had noticed nothing suspicious. He had been absorbed in the perfectioning of his cross-Europe alibi.

‘Alibi, eh?’ said the inspector darkly.

Poirot intervened with a question about wasps.

Yes, Mr Clancy had noticed a wasp. It had attacked him. He was afraid of wasps. When was this? Just after the steward had brought him his coffee. He struck at it and it went away.

Mr Clancy’s name and address were taken and he was allowed to depart, which he did with relief on his face.

‘Looks a bit fishy to me,’ said Japp. ‘He actually had a blowpipe; and look at his manner. All to pieces.’

‘That is the severity of your official demeanour, my good Japp.’

‘There’s nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they’re only telling the truth,’ said the Scotland Yard man austerely.

Poirot looked at him pityingly.

‘In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.’

‘Of course I do. It’s true. Now, then, let’s have Norman Gale.’

Norman Gale gave his address as 14 Shepherd’s Avenue, Muswell Hill. By profession he was a dentist. He was returning from a holiday spent at Le Pinet on the French coast. He had spent a day in Paris looking at various new types of dental instruments.

He had never seen the deceased, and had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. In any case, he had been facing the other way—towards the front car. He had left his seat once during the journey to go to the toilet. He had returned straight to his seat and had never been near the rear end of the car. He had not noticed any wasp.

After him came James Ryder, somewhat on edge and brusque in manner. He was returning from a business visit to Paris. He did not know the deceased. Yes, he had occupied the seat immediately in front of hers, but he could not have seen her without rising and looking over the back of his seat. He had heard nothing—no cry or exclamation. No one had come down the car except the stewards. Yes, the two Frenchmen had occupied the seats across the gangway from his. They had talked practically the whole journey. The younger of the two had killed a wasp at the conclusion of the meal. No, he hadn’t noticed the wasp previously. He didn’t know what a blowpipe was like, as he’d never seen one, so he couldn’t say if he’d seen one on the journey or not—

Just at this point there was a tap on the door. A police constable entered, subdued triumph in his bearing.

‘The sergeant’s just found this, sir,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to have it at once.’

He laid his prize on the table, unwrapping it with care from the handkerchief in which it was folded.

‘No fingerprints, sir, so as the sergeant can see, but he told me to be careful.’

The object thus displayed was an undoubted blowpipe of native manufacture.

Japp drew his breath in sharply.

‘Good Lord! Then it is true? Upon my soul, I didn’t believe it!’

Mr Ryder leant forward interestedly.

‘So that’s what the South Americans use, is it? Read about such things, but never seen one. Well, I can answer your question now. I didn’t see anyone handling anything of this type.’