Agatha Christie: Death in the Clouds

"She has left?" demanded Fournier.

"Yes, monsieur."

"When did she leave?"

The clerk glanced up at the clock.

"A little over half an hour ago."

"Was her departure unexpected? Where has she gone?"

The clerk stiffened at the questions and was disposed to refuse to answer. But when Fournier's credentials were produced, the clerk changed his tone and was eager to give any assistance in his power.

No, the lady had not left an address. He thought her departure was the result of a sudden change of plans. She had formerly said she was making a stay of about a week. More questions. The concierge was summoned, the luggage porters, the lift boys.

According to the concierge, a gentleman had called to see the lady. He had come while she was out, but had awaited her return and they had lunched together. What kind of gentleman? An American gentleman. Very American. She had seemed surprised to see him. After lunch, the lady gave orders for her luggage to be brought down and put on a taxi.

Where had she driven to? She had driven to the Gare du Nord – at least that was the order she had given to the taximan. Did the American gentleman go with her? No, she had gone alone.

"The Gare du Nord," said Fournier. "That means England on the face of it. The two-o'clock service. But it may be a blind. We must telephone to Boulogne and also try and get hold of that taxi."

It was as though Poirot's fears had communicated themselves to Fournier.

The Frenchman's face was anxious.

Rapidly and efficiently he set the machinery of the law in motion.

It was five o'clock when Jane, sitting in the lounge of the hotel with a book, looked up to see Poirot coming toward her.

She opened her mouth reproachfully, but the words regained unspoken. Something in his face stopped her.

"What is it?" she said. "Has anything happened?"

Poirot took both her hands in his.

"Life is very terrible, mademoiselle," he said.

Something in his tone made Jane feel frightened.

"What is it?" she said again.

Poirot said slowly:

"When the boat train reached Boulogne, they found a woman in a first-class carriage, dead."

The color ebbed from Jane's face.

"Anne Morisot?"

"Anne Morisot. In her hand was a little blue glass bottle which had contained prussic acid."

"Oh!" said Jane. "Suicide?"

Poirot did not answer for a moment or two. Then he said, with the air of one who chooses his words carefully:

"Yes, the police think it was suicide."

"And you?"

Poirot slowly spread out his hands in an expressive gesture.

"What else is there to think?"

"She killed herself? Why? Because of remorse or because she was afraid of being found out?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Life can be very terrible," he said. "One needs much courage."

"To kill oneself? Yes, I suppose one does."

"Also to live," said Poirot, "one needs courage."

The next day Poirot left Paris. Jane stayed behind with a list of duties to perform. Most of these seemed singularly meaningless to her, but she carried them out to the best of her powers. She saw Jean Dupont twice. He mentioned the expedition which she was to join, and Jane did not dare to undeceive him without orders from Poirot, so she hedged as best she could and turned the conversation to other matters.

Five days later she was recalled to England by a telegram.

Norman met her at Victoria and they discussed recent events.

Very little publicity had been given to the suicide. There had been a paragraph in the papers stating that a Canadian lady, a Mrs Richards, had committed suicide in the Paris-Boulogne express, but that was all. There had been no mention of any connection with the aeroplane murder.

Both Norman and Jane were inclined to be jubilant. Their troubles, they hoped, were at an end. Norman was not so sanguine as Jane.

"They may suspect her of doing her mother in, but now that she's taken this way out, they probably won't bother to go on with the case. And unless it is proved publicly, I don't see what good it is going to be to all of us poor devils. From the point of view of the public, we shall remain under suspicion just as much as ever."

He said as much to Poirot, whom he met a few days later in Piccadilly.

Poirot smiled.

"You are like all the rest. You think I am an old man who accomplishes nothing! Listen, you shall come tonight to dine with me. Japp is coming, and also our friend, Mr Clancy. I have some things to say that may be interesting."

The dinner passed off pleasantly. Japp was patronizing and good-humored, Norman was interested, and little Mr Clancy was nearly as thrilled as when he had recognized the fatal thorn.

It seemed clear that Poirot was not above trying to impress the little author.

After dinner, when coffee had been drunk, Poirot cleared his throat in a slightly embarassed manner not free from self-importance.

"My friends," he said, "Mr Clancy here has expressed interest in what he would call 'my methods, Watson,' C'est ça, n'est-ce pas? I propose, if it will not bore you all -"

He paused significantly, and Norman and Japp said quickly, "No, no," and "Most interesting."

"- to give you a little résumé of my methods in dealing with this case."

He paused and consulted some notes. Japp whispered to Norman:

"Fancies himself, doesn't he? Conceit's that little man's middle name."

Poirot looked at him reproachfully and said. "Ahem!"

Three politely interested faces were turned to him and he began:

"I will start at the beginning, my friends. I will go back to the air liner 'Prometheus' on its ill-fated journey from Paris to Croydon. I am going to tell you my precise ideas and impressions at the time; passing on to how I came to confirm or modify them in the light of future events.

"When, just before we reached Croydon, Doctor Bryant was approached by the steward and went with him to examine the body, I accompanied him. I had a feeling that it might – who knows? – be something in my line. I have, perhaps, too professional a point of view where deaths are concerned. They are divided, in my mind, into two classes – deaths which are my affair and deaths which are not my affair – and though the latter class is infinitely more numerous, nevertheless, whenever I come in contact with death, I am like the dog who lifts his head and sniffs the scent.

"Doctor Bryant confirmed the steward's fear that the woman was dead. As to the cause of death, naturally, he could not pronounce on that without a detailed examination. It was at this point that a suggestion was made – by Mr Jean Dupont – that death was due to shock following on a wasp sting. In furtherance of this hypothesis, he drew attention to a wasp that he himself had slaughtered shortly before.

"Now, that was a perfectly plausible theory, and one quite likely to be accepted. There was the mark on the dead woman's neck, closely resembling the mark of a sting, and there was the fact that a wasp had been in the plane.

"But at that moment I was fortunate enough to look down and espy what might at first have been taken for the body of yet another wasp. In actuality it was a native thorn with a little teased yellow-and-black silk on it.

"At this point Mr Clancy came forward and made the statement that it was a thorn shot from a blowpipe after the manner of some native tribe. Later, as you all know, the blowpipe itself was discovered.

"By the time we reached Croydon, several ideas were working in my mind. Once I was definitely on the firm ground, my brain began to work once more with its normal brilliance."

"Go it, M. Poirot," said Japp, with a grin. "Don't have any false modesty."

Poirot threw him a look and went on: