Death in the Clouds. Agatha Christie
the steward. ‘Do you recognize this?’
‘Recognize it? Certainly I recognize it.’ Mr Clancy swelled with passionate pride and gratification. ‘This object, gentlemen, is the native thorn shot from a blowpipe by certain tribes—er—I cannot be exactly certain now if it is South American tribes or whether it is the inhabitants of Borneo which I have in mind; but that is undoubtedly a native dart that has been aimed by a blowpipe, and I strongly suspect that on the tip—’
‘Is the famous arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ finished Hercule Poirot. And he added, ‘Mais enfin! Est-ce que c’est possible?’
‘It is certainly very extraordinary,’ said Mr Clancy, still full of blissful excitement. ‘As I say, most extraordinary. I am myself a writer of detective fiction; but actually to meet, in real life—’
Words failed him.
The aeroplane heeled slowly over, and those people who were standing up staggered a little. The plane was circling round in its descent to Croydon aerodrome.
The steward and the doctor were no longer in charge of the situation. Their place was usurped by the rather absurd-looking little man in the mufflers. He spoke with an authority and a certainty of being obeyed that no one thought of questioning.
He whispered to Mitchell, and the latter nodded, and, pushing his way through the passengers, he took up his stand in the doorway leading past the toilets to the front car.
The plane was running along the ground now. When it finally came to a stop Mitchell raised his voice:
‘I must ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to keep your seats and remain here until somebody in authority takes charge. I hope you will not be detained long.’
The reasonableness of this order was appreciated by most of the occupants of the car, but one person protested shrilly.
‘Nonsense,’ cried Lady Horbury angrily. ‘Don’t you know who I am? I insist on being allowed to leave at once.’
‘Very sorry, my lady. Can’t make exceptions.’
‘But it’s absurd, absolutely absurd,’ Cicely tapped her foot angrily. ‘I shall report you to the company. It’s outrageous that we should be shut up here with a dead body.’
‘Really, my dear,’ Venetia Kerr spoke with her well-bred drawl, ‘too devastating, but I fancy we’ll have to put up with it.’ She herself sat down and drew out a cigarette-case. ‘Can I smoke now, steward?’
The harassed Mitchell said, ‘I don’t suppose it matters now, Miss.’
He glanced over his shoulder. Davis had disembarked the passengers from the front car by the emergency door and had now gone in search of orders.
The wait was not a long one, but it seemed to the passengers as though half an hour at least had passed before an erect soldierly figure in plain clothes, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, came hurriedly across the aerodrome and climbed into the plane by the door that Mitchell held open.
‘Now, then, what’s all this?’ demanded the newcomer in brisk official tones.
He listened to Mitchell and then to Dr Bryant, and he flung a quick glance over the crumpled figure of the dead woman.
He gave an order to the constable and then addressed the passengers.
‘Will you please follow me, ladies and gentlemen?’
He escorted them out of the plane and across the aerodrome, but he did not enter the usual customs department; instead, he brought them to a small private room.
‘I hope not to keep you waiting any longer than is unavoidable, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Look here, Inspector,’ said Mr James Ryder. ‘I have an important business engagement in London.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I am Lady Horbury. I consider it absolutely outrageous that I should be detained in this matter!’
‘I’m sincerely sorry, Lady Horbury; but, you see, this is a very serious matter. It looks like a case of murder.’
‘The arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ murmured Mr Clancy deliriously, a happy smile on his face.
The inspector looked at him suspiciously.
The French archaeologist spoke excitedly in French, and the inspector replied to him slowly and carefully in the same language.
Venetia Kerr said, ‘All this is a most crashing bore, but I suppose you have your duty to do, Inspector,’ to which that worthy replied, ‘Thank you, Madam,’ in accents of some gratitude.
He went on:
‘If you ladies and gentlemen will remain here, I want a few words with Doctor—er—Doctor—?’
‘Bryant, my name is.’
‘Thank you. Just come this way with me, Doctor.’
‘May I assist at your interview?’
It was the little man with the moustaches who spoke.
The inspector turned on him, a sharp retort on his lips. Then his face changed suddenly.
‘Sorry, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You’re so muffled up, I didn’t recognize you. Come along, by all means.’
He held the door open and Bryant and Poirot passed through, followed by the suspicious glance of the rest of the company.
‘And why should he be allowed out and we made to stay here?’ cried Cicely Horbury.
Venetia Kerr sat down resignedly on a bench.
‘Probably one of the French police,’ she said, ‘or a customs spy.’
She lit a cigarette.
Norman Gale said rather diffidently to Jane:
‘I think I saw you at—er—Le Pinet.’
‘I was at Le Pinet.’
Norman Gale said, ‘It’s an awfully attractive place. I like the pine trees.’
Jane said, ‘Yes, they smell so nice.’
And then they both paused for a minute or two, uncertain what to say next.
Finally Gale said, ‘I—er—recognized you at once in the plane.’
Jane expressed great surprise. ‘Did you?’
Gale said, ‘Do you think that woman was really murdered?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Jane. ‘It’s rather thrilling in a way, but it’s rather nasty too,’ and she shuddered a little, and Norman Gale moved just a little nearer in a protective manner.
The Duponts were talking French to each other. Mr Ryder was making calculations in a little notebook and looking at his watch from time to time. Cicely Horbury sat with her foot tapping impatiently on the floor. She lit a cigarette with a shaking hand.
Against the door on the inside leaned a very large blue-clad impassive-looking policeman.
In a room nearby Inspector Japp was talking to Dr Bryant and Hercule Poirot.
‘You’ve got a knack of turning up in the most unexpected places, M. Poirot.’
‘Isn’t Croydon aerodrome a little out of your beat, my friend?’ asked Poirot.
‘Ah, I’m after rather a big bug in the smuggling line.