Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘You wouldn’t like to tell me what it is?’ suggested Fournier.

‘No, because I may, you see, be wrong—totally and utterly wrong. And in that case I might lead you, too, astray. No, let us each work according to our own ideas. To continue with our selected items from the little book.’

‘RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street,’ read out Fournier.

‘A possible clue to Dr Bryant. There is nothing much to go on, but we must not neglect that line of investigation.’

‘That, of course, will be the task of Inspector Japp.’

‘And mine,’ said Poirot. ‘I, too, have my finger in this pie.’

‘MR 24. Forged Antiquities,’ read Fournier. ‘Far fetched, perhaps, but it is just possible that that might apply to the Duponts. I can hardly credit it. M. Dupont is an archaeologist of world-wide reputation. He bears the highest character.’

‘Which would facilitate matters very much for him,’ said Poirot. ‘Consider, my dear Fournier, how high has been the character, how lofty the sentiments, and how worthy of admiration the life of most swindlers of note—before they are found out!’

‘True, only too true,’ agreed the Frenchman with a sigh.

‘A high reputation,’ said Poirot, ‘is the first necessity of a swindler’s stock in trade. An interesting thought. But let us return to our list.’

‘XVB 724 is very ambiguous. English. Embezzlement.’

‘Not very helpful,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Who embezzles? A solicitor? A bank clerk? Anyone in a position of trust in a commercial firm. Hardly an author, a dentist or a doctor. Mr James Ryder is the only representative of commerce. He may have embezzled money, he may have borrowed from Giselle to enable his theft to remain undetected. As to the last entry—GF 45. Attempted Murder. English—that gives us a very wide field. Author, dentist, doctor, businessman, steward, hairdresser’s assistant, lady of birth and breeding—any one of those might be GF 45. In fact only the Duponts are exempt by reason of their nationality.’

With a gesture he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill.

‘And where next, my friend?’ he inquired.

‘To the Sûreté. They may have some news for me.’

‘Good. I will accompany you. Afterwards I have a little investigation of my own to make in which, perhaps, you will assist me.’

At the Sûreté Poirot renewed acquaintance with the Chief of the Detective Force, whom he had met some years previously in the course of one of his cases. M. Gilles was very affable and polite.

‘Enchanted to learn that you are interesting yourself in this case, M. Poirot.’

‘My faith, my dear M. Gilles, it happened under my nose. It is an insult, that, you agree? Hercule Poirot to sleep while murder is committed!’

M. Gilles shook his head tactfully.

‘These machines! On a day of bad weather they are far from steady, far from steady. I myself have felt seriously incommoded once or twice.’

‘They say that an army marches on its stomach,’ said Poirot. ‘But how much are the delicate convolutions of the brain influenced by the digestive apparatus? When the mal de mer seizes me I, Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no grey cells, no order, no method—a mere member of the human race somewhat below average intelligence! It is deplorable, but there it is! And talking of these matters, how is my excellent friend Giraud?’

Prudently ignoring the significance of the words ‘these

matters’, M. Gilles replied that Giraud continued to advance in his career.

‘He is most zealous. His energy is untiring.’

‘It always was,’ said Poirot. ‘He ran to and fro. He crawled on all fours. He was here, there and everywhere. Not for one moment did he ever pause and reflect.’

‘Ah, M. Poirot, that is your little foible. A man like Fournier will be more to your mind. He is of the newest school—all for the psychology. That should please you.’

‘It does. It does.’

‘He has a very good knowledge of English. That is why we sent him to Croydon to assist in this case. A very interesting case, M. Poirot. Madame Giselle was one of the best-known characters in Paris. And the manner of her death—extraordinary! A poisoned dart from a blowpipe in an aeroplane. I ask you! Is it possible that such a thing could happen?’

‘Exactly,’ cried Poirot. ‘Exactly. You hit the nail upon the head. You place a finger unerringly—Ah, here is our good Fournier. You have news, I see.’