Agatha Christie: Death in the Clouds

"Nobody notices a steward particularly. The only person who might have recognized you was Mademoiselle Jane, but you know women! As soon as a woman is left alone – particularly when she is traveling with an attractive young man – she seizes the opportunity to have a good look in her hand mirror, powder her nose and adjust her make-up."

"Really," sneered Gale, "a most interesting theory, but it didn't happen. Anything else?"

"Quite a lot," said Poirot. "As I have just said, in the course of conversation a man gives himself away. You were imprudent enough to mention that for a while you were on a farm in South Africa. What you did not say, but what I have since found out, is that it was a snake farm."

For the first time, Norman Gale showed fear. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

Poirot continued:

"You were there under your own name of Richards: a photograph of you transmitted by telephone has been recognized. That same photograph has been identified in Rotterdam as the man Richards who married Anne Morisot."

Again Norman Gale tried to speak and failed. His whole personality seemed to change. The handsome vigorous young man turned into a rat-like creature with furtive eyes looking for a way of escape and finding none.

"It was haste ruined your plan," said Poirot. "The superior of the Institut de Marie hurried things on by wiring to Anne Morisot. It would have looked suspicious to ignore that wire. You had impressed it upon your wife that unless she suppressed certain facts either she or you might be suspected of murder, since you had both, unfortunately, been in the plane when Giselle was killed. When you met her afterwards and you learned that I had been present at the interview, you hurried things on. You were afraid I might get the truth out of Anne. Perhaps she herself was beginning to suspect you. You hustled her away out of the hotel and into the boat train. You administered prussic acid to her by force and you left the empty bottle in her hand."

"A lot of damned lies!"

"Oh, no. There was a bruise on her neck."

"Damned lies. I tell you!"

"You even left your fingerprints on the bottle."

"You lie! I wore -"

"Ah. You wore gloves? I think, monsieur, that little admission cooks your gander."

"You damned interfering little mountebank!" Livid with passion, his face unrecognizable, Gale made a spring at Poirot. Japp, however, was too quick for him. Holding him in a capable unemotional grip. Japp said:

"James Richards alias Norman Gale. I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of willful murder. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence."

A terrible shudder shook the man. He seemed on the point of collapse.

A couple of plainclothes men were waiting outside. Norman Gale was taken away.

Left alone with Poirot, little Mr Clancy drew a deep breath of ecstasy.

"M. Poirot," he said, "that has been absolutely the most thrilling experience of my life. You have been wonderful!"

Poirot smiled modestly.

"No, no. Japp deserves as much credit as I do. He has done wonders in identifying Gale as Richards. The Canadian police want Richards. A girl he was mixed up with there is supposed to have committed suicide, but facts have come to light which seem to point to murder."

"Terrible," Mr Clancy chirped.

"A killer," said Poirot. "And like many killers, attractive to women."

Mr Clancy coughed.

"That poor girl, Jane Grey."

Poirot shook his head sadly.

"Yes, as I said to her, life can be very terrible. But she has courage. She will come through."

With an absent-minded hand, he arranged a pile of picture papers that Norman Gale had disarranged in his wild spring.

Something arrested his attention – a snapshot of Venetia Kerr at a race meeting "talking to Lord Horbury and a friend."

He handed it to Mr Clancy.

"You see that? In a year's time there will be an announcement: 'A marriage is arranged and will shortly take place between Lord Horbury and the Hon. Venetia Kerr.' And do you know who will have arranged that marriage? Hercule Poirot! There is another marriage that I have arranged too."

"Lady Horbury and Mr Barraclough?"

"Ah, no, in that matter I take no interest." He leaned forward. "No, I refer to a marriage between M. Jean Dupont and Miss Jane Grey. You will see."

It was a month later that Jane came to Poirot.

"I ought to hate you, M. Poirot."

She looked pale and fine drawn, with dark circles round her eyes.

Poirot said gently:

"Hate me a little if you will. But I think you are one of those who would rather look truth in the face than live in a fool's paradise. And you might not have lived in it so very long. Getting rid of women is a vice that grows."

"He was so terribly attractive," said Jane.

She added:

"I shall never fall in love again."

"Naturally," agreed Poirot. "That side of life is finished for you."

Jane nodded.

"But what I must do is to have work – something interesting that I could lose myself in."

Poirot tilted back his chair and looked at the ceiling.

"I should advise you to go to Persia with the Duponts. That is interesting work, if you like."

"But – but I thought that was only camouflage on your part?"

Poirot shook his head.

"On the contrary, I have become so interested in archaeology and prehistoric pottery that I sent the check for the donation I had promised. I heard this morning that they were expecting you to join the expedition. Can you draw at all?"

"Yes, I was rather good at drawing at school."

"Excellent. I think you will enjoy your season."

"Do they really want me to come?"

"They are counting on it."

"It would be wonderful," said Jane, "to get right away."

A little color rose in her face.

"M. Poirot -" she looked at him suspiciously – "you're not – you're not being kind?"

"Kind?" said Poirot, with a lively horror at the idea. "I can assure you, mademoiselle, that where money is concerned I am strictly a man of business."

He seemed so offended that Jane quickly begged his pardon.

"I think," she said, "that I'd better go to some museums and look at some prehistoric pottery."

"A very good idea."

At the doorway, Jane paused and then came back.

"You mayn't have been kind in that particular way, but you have been kind to me."

She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and went out again.

"Ça, c'est trés gentil!" said Hercule Poirot.