Death in the Clouds. Агата Кристи
gone off his onion and decided to do one of his crimes in the flesh instead of on paper? This poisoned dart business sounds like him.’
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ continued Japp, ‘everybody’s got to be searched, whether they kick up rough or not; and every bit of truck they had with them has got to be searched too—and that’s flat.’
‘A very exact list might be made, perhaps,’ suggested Poirot, ‘a list of everything in these people’s possession.’
Japp looked at him curiously.
‘That can be done if you say so, M. Poirot. I don’t quite see what you’re driving at, though. We know what we’re looking for.’
‘You may, perhaps, mon ami, but I am not so sure. I look for something, but I know not what it is.’
‘At it again, M. Poirot! You do like making things difficult, don’t you? Now for her ladyship before she’s quite ready to scratch my eyes out.’
Lady Horbury, however, was noticeably calmer in her manner. She accepted a chair and answered Japp’s questions without the least hesitation. She described herself as the wife of the Earl of Horbury, gave her address as Horbury Chase, Sussex, and 315 Grosvenor Square, London. She was returning to London from Le Pinet and Paris. The deceased woman was quite unknown to her. She had noticed nothing suspicious during the flight over. In any case, she was facing the other way—towards the front of the plane—so had had no opportunity of seeing anything that was going on behind her. She had not left her seat during the journey. As far as she remembered no one had entered the rear car from the front one with the exception of the stewards. She could not remember exactly, but she thought that two of the men passengers had left the rear car to go to the toilets, but she was not sure of this. She had not observed anyone handling anything that could be likened to a blowpipe. No—in answer to Poirot—she had not noticed a wasp in the car.
Lady Horbury was dismissed. She was succeeded by the Honourable Venetia Kerr.
Miss Kerr’s evidence was much the same as that of her friend. She gave her name as Venetia Anne Kerr, and her address as Little Paddocks, Horbury, Sussex. She herself was returning from the South of France. As far as she was aware she had never seen the deceased before. She had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. Yes, she had seen some of the passengers farther down the car striking at a wasp. One of them, she thought, had killed it. That was after luncheon had been served.
Exit Miss Kerr.
‘You seem very much interested in that wasp, M. Poirot.’
‘The wasp is not so much interesting as suggestive, eh?’
‘If you ask me,’ said Japp, changing the subject, ‘those two Frenchmen are the ones in this! They were just across the gangway from the Morisot woman. They’re a seedy-looking couple, and that battered old suitcase of theirs is fairly plastered with outlandish foreign labels. Shouldn’t be surprised if they’d been to Borneo or South America, or wherever it is. Of course, we can’t get a line on the motive, but I dare say we can get that from Paris. We’ll have to get the Sûreté to collaborate over this. It’s their job more than ours. But, if you ask me, those two toughs are our meat.’
Poirot’s eyes twinkled a little.
‘What you say is possible, certainly, but as regards some of your points you are in error, my friend. Those two men are not toughs—or cut-throats, as you suggest. They are on the contrary two very distinguished and learned archaeologists.’
‘Go on—you’re pulling my leg!’
‘Not at all. I know them by sight perfectly. They are M. Armand Dupont and his son, M. Jean Dupont. They have returned not long ago from conducting some very interesting excavations in Persia at a site not far from Susa.’
‘Go on!’
Japp made a grab at a passport.
‘You’re right, M. Poirot,’ he said, ‘but you must admit they don’t look up to much, do they?’
‘The world’s famous men seldom do! I myself—moi, qui vous parle—I have before now been taken for a hairdresser!’
‘You don’t say so,’ said Japp with a grin. ‘Well, let’s have a look at our distinguished archaeologists.’
M. Dupont père declared that the deceased was quite unknown to him. He had noticed nothing of what had happened on the journey over as he had been discussing a very interesting point with his son. He had not left his seat at all. Yes, he had noticed a wasp towards the end of lunch. His son had killed it.
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,