Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

The melancholy-faced Fournier was looking quite eager and excited.

‘Yes, indeed. A Greek antique dealer, Zeropoulos, has reported the sale of a blowpipe and darts three days before the murder. I propose now, Monsieur’—he bowed respectfully to his chief—‘to interview this man.’

‘By all means,’ said Gilles. ‘Does M. Poirot accompany you?’

‘If you please,’ said Poirot. ‘This is interesting—very interesting.’

The shop of M. Zeropoulos was in the Rue St Honoré. It was by way of being a high-class antique dealer’s. There was a good deal of Rhages ware and other Persian pottery. There were one or two bronzes from Louristan, a good deal of inferior Indian jewellery, shelves of silks and embroideries from many countries, and a large proportion of perfectly worthless beads and cheap Egyptian goods. It was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a million francs on an object worth half a million, or ten francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronized chiefly by American tourists and knowledgeable connoisseurs.

M. Zeropoulos himself was a short, stout little man with beady black eyes. He talked volubly and at great length.

The gentlemen were from the police? He was delighted to see them. Perhaps they would step into his private office. Yes, he had sold a blowpipe and darts—a South American curio—‘you comprehend, gentlemen, me, I sell a little of everything! I have my specialities. Persia is my speciality. M. Dupont, the esteemed M. Dupont he will answer for me. He himself comes always to see my collection—to see what new purchases I have made—to give his judgement on the genuineness of certain doubtful pieces. What a man! So learned! Such an eye! Such a feel. But I wander from the point. I have my collection—my valuable collection that all connoisseurs know—and also I have—well, frankly, Messieurs, let us call it junk! Foreign junk, that is understood, a little bit of everything—from the South Seas, from India, from Japan, from Borneo. No matter! Usually I have no fixed price for these things. If anyone takes an interest I make my estimate and I ask a price, and naturally I am beaten down, and in the end I take only half. And even then, I will admit it, the profit is good! These articles, I buy them from sailors usually at a very low price.’

M. Zeropoulos took a breath and went on happily, delighted with himself, his importance and the easy flow of his narration.

‘This blowpipe and darts I have had it for a long time—two years, perhaps. It was in that tray there, with a cowrie necklace and a Red Indian headdress, and one or two crude wooden idols and some inferior jade beads. Nobody remarks it, nobody notices it till there comes this American and asks me what it is.’

‘An American?’ said Fournier sharply.

‘Yes, yes, an American—unmistakably an American. Not the best type of American, either—the kind that knows nothing about anything and just wants a curio to take home. He is of the type that makes the fortune of bead sellers in Egypt—that buys the most preposterous scarabs ever made in Czecho-Slovakia. Well, very quickly I size him up, I tell him about the habits of certain tribes, the deadly poisons they use. I explain how very rare and unusual it is that anything of this kind comes into the market. He asks the price and I tell him. It is my American price, not quite as high as formerly (alas! they have had the depression over there). I wait for him to bargain, but straightaway he pays my price. I am stupefied. It is a pity; I might have asked more! I give him the blowpipe and the darts wrapped up in a parcel and he takes them away. It is finished. But afterwards when I read in the paper of this astounding murder I wonder—yes, I wonder very much. And I communicate with the police.’

‘We are much obliged to you, M. Zeropoulos,’ said Fournier politely. ‘This blowpipe and dart—you think you would be able to identify them? At the moment they are in London, you understand, but an opportunity will be given you of identifying them.’

‘The blowpipe was about so long,’ M. Zeropoulos measured a space on his desk, ‘and so thick—you see, like this pen of mine. It was of a light colour. There were four darts. They were long pointed thorns, slightly discoloured at the tips, with a little fluff of red silk on them.’

‘Red silk?’ asked Poirot keenly.

‘Yes, Monsieur. A cerise red—somewhat faded.’

‘That is curious,’ said Fournier. ‘You are sure that there was not one of them with a black and yellow fluff of silk?’

‘Black and yellow? No, Monsieur.’

The dealer shook his head.

Fournier glanced at Poirot. There was a curious satisfied smile on the little man’s face.

Fournier wondered why. Was it because Zeropoulos was lying, or was it for some other reason?

Fournier said doubtfully, ‘It is very possible that this blowpipe and dart has nothing whatever to do with the case. It is just one chance in fifty, perhaps. Nevertheless, I should like as full a description as possible of this American.’

Zeropoulos spread out a pair of Oriental hands.

‘He was just an American. His voice was in his nose. He could not speak French. He was chewing the gum. He had tortoise-shell glasses. He was tall and, I think, not very old.’

‘Fair or dark?’

‘I could hardly say. He had his hat on.’

‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’

Zeropoulos seemed doubtful.

‘I could not say. So many Americans come and go. He was not remarkable in any way.’

Fournier showed him the collection of snapshots, but without avail. None of them, Zeropoulos thought, was the man.

‘Probably a wild-goose chase,’ said Fournier as they left the shop.