Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

On her own side of the car Jane’s view was blocked by the man in the blue pullover, the man at whom, for some absurd reason, she was determined not to look.

‘Absurd to feel—so—so excited. I might be seventeen,’ thought Jane digustedly.

Opposite her, Norman Gale was thinking:

‘She’s pretty—really pretty—She remembers me all right. She looked so disappointed when her stakes were swept away. It was worth a lot more than that to see her pleasure when she won. I did that rather well…She’s very attractive when she smiles—no pyorrhoea there—healthy gums and sound teeth…Damn it, I feel quite excited. Steady, my boy…’

He said to the steward who hovered at his side with the menu, ‘I’ll have cold tongue.’

The Countess of Horbury thought, ‘My God, what shall I do? It’s the hell of a mess—the hell of a mess. There’s only one way out that I can see. If only I had the nerve. Can I do it? Can I bluff it out? My nerves are all to pieces. That’s the coke. Why did I ever take to coke? My face looks awful, simply awful. That cat Venetia Kerr being here makes it worse. She always looks at me as though I were dirt. Wanted Stephen herself. Well, she didn’t get him! That long face of hers gets on my nerves. It’s exactly like a horse. I hate these county women. My God, what shall I do? I’ve got to make up my mind. The old bitch meant what she said…’

She fumbled in her vanity bag for her cigarette-case and fitted a cigarette into a long holder. Her hands shook slightly.

The Honourable Venetia Kerr thought: ‘Bloody little tart. That’s what she is. She may be technically virtuous, but she’s a tart through and through. Poor old Stephen…if he could only get rid of her…’

She in turn felt for her cigarette-case. She accepted Cicely Horbury’s match.

The steward said, ‘Excuse me, ladies, no smoking.’

Cicely Horbury said, ‘Hell!’

M. Hercule Poirot thought, ‘She is pretty, that little one over there. There is determination in that chin. Why is she so worried over something? Why is she so determined not to look at the handsome young man opposite her? She is very much aware of him and he of her…’ The plane dropped slightly. ‘Mon estomac,’ thought Hercule Poirot, and closed his eyes determinedly.

Beside him Dr Bryant, caressing his flute with nervous hands, thought, ‘I can’t decide. I simply cannot decide. This is the turning point of my career…’

Nervously he drew out his flute from its case, caressingly, lovingly…Music…In music there was an escape from all your cares. Half smiling he raised the flute to his lips, then put it down again. The little man with the moustaches beside him was fast asleep. There had been a moment, when the plane had bumped a little, when he had looked distinctly green. Dr Bryant was glad that he himself was neither train-sick nor sea-sick nor air-sick…

M. Dupont père turned excitedly in his seat and shouted at M. Dupont fils sitting beside him.

‘There is no doubt about it. They are all wrong—the Germans, the Americans, the English! They date the prehistoric pottery all wrong. Take the Samarra ware—’

Jean Dupont, tall, fair, with a false air of indolence, said:

‘You must take the evidences from all sources. There is Tall Halaf, and Sakje Geuze—’

They prolonged the discussion.

Armand Dupont wrenched open a battered attaché case.

‘Take these Kurdish pipes, such as they make today. The decoration on them is almost exactly similar to that on the pottery of 5000 BC.’

An eloquent gesture almost swept away the plate that a steward was placing in front of him.

Mr Clancy, writer of detective stories, rose from his seat behind Norman Gale and padded to the end of the car, extracted a continental Bradshaw from his raincoat pocket and returned with it to work out a complicated alibi for professional purposes.

Mr Ryder, in the seat behind him, thought, ‘I’ll have to keep my end up, but it’s not going to be easy. I don’t see how I’m going to raise the dibs for the next dividend…If we pass the dividend the fat’s in the fire…Oh, hell!’

Norman Gale rose and went to the toilet. As soon as he had gone Jane drew out a mirror and surveyed her face anxiously. She also applied powder and lipstick.

A steward placed coffee in front of her.

Jane looked out of the window. The Channel showed blue and shining below.

A wasp buzze

d round Mr Clancy’s head just as he was dealing with 19.55 at Tzaribrod, and he struck at it absently. The wasp flew off to investigate the Duponts’ coffee cups.

Jean Dupont slew it neatly.