Death in the Clouds. Агата Кристи
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.’
‘Where was it found?’ asked Japp sharply.
‘Pushed down out of sight behind one of the seats, sir.’
‘Which seat?’
‘No. 9.’
‘Very entertaining,’ said Poirot.
Japp turned to him.
‘What’s entertaining about it?’
‘Only that No. 9 was my seat.’
‘Well, that looks a bit odd for you, I must say,’ said Mr Ryder.
Japp frowned.
‘Thank you, Mr Ryder, that will do.’
When Ryder had gone he turned to Poirot with a grin.
‘This your work, old bird?’
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.’
‘It is a bit low,’ agreed Japp. ‘But it seems to have worked.’
‘That is what gives one so furiously to think.’
‘Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must. Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let’s have her in and get it over. Jane Grey—sounds like a history book.’
‘She is a pretty girl,’ said Poirot.
‘Is she, you old dog? So you weren’t asleep all the time, eh?’
‘She was pretty—and nervous,’ said Poirot.
‘Nervous, eh?’ said Japp alertly.
‘Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man—not crime.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Here she is.’
Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine’s hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, NW5. She was returning to England from Le Pinet.
‘Le Pinet—h’m!’
Further questions drew the story of the Sweep ticket.
‘Ought to be made illegal, those Irish Sweeps,’ growled Japp.
‘I think they’re marvellous,’ said Jane. ‘Haven’t you ever put half a crown on a horse?’
Japp blushed and looked confused.
The questions were resumed. Shown the blowpipe, Jane denied having seen it at any time. She did not know the deceased, but had noticed her at Le Bourget.
‘What made you notice her particularly?’
‘Because she was so frightfully ugly,’ said Jane truthfully.
Nothing else of any value was elicited from her, and she was allowed to go.
Japp fell back into contemplation of the blowpipe.
‘It beats me,’ he said. ‘The crudest detective story dodge coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A man who’s travelled in the part of the world this thing comes from? And where exactly does it come from? Have to get an expert on to that. It may be Malayan or South American or African.’
‘Originally, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you observe closely, my friend, you will notice a microscopic piece of paper adhering to the pipe. It looks to me very much like the remains of a torn-off price ticket. I fancy that this particular specimen has journeyed from the wilds via some curio dealer’s shop. That will possibly make our search more easy. Just one little question.’
‘Ask away.’
‘You will still have that list made—the list of the passengers’ belongings?’
‘Well, it isn’t quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You’re very set on that?’
‘Mais oui. I am puzzled, very puzzled. If I could find something to help me—’
Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.
‘Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers…always making the police out to be fools…and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.’