Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘And she descends into the Channel?’

‘It needn’t be the Channel—I shall make it the French coast.’

‘And, anyway, nobody could hide under a seat; there wouldn’t be room.’

‘There will be room in my aeroplane,’ said Mr Clancy firmly.

‘Epatant,’ said Poirot. ‘And the motive of the lady?’

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ said Mr Clancy meditatively. ‘Probably Giselle ruined the girl’s lover, who killed himself.’

‘And how did she get hold of the poison?’

> ‘That’s the really clever part,’ said Mr Clancy. ‘The girl’s a snake charmer. She extracts the stuff from her favourite python.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ said Hercule Poirot.

He said, ‘You don’t think, perhaps, it is just a little sensational?’

‘You can’t write anything too sensational,’ said Mr Clancy firmly. ‘Especially when you’re dealing with the arrow poison of the South American Indians. I know it was snake juice, really; but the principle is the same. After all, you don’t want a detective story to be like real life? Look at the things in the papers—dull as ditchwater.’

‘Come, now, Monsieur, would you say this little affair of ours is dull as ditchwater?’

‘No,’ admitted Mr Clancy. ‘Sometimes, you know, I can’t believe it really happened.’

Poirot drew the creaking chair a little nearer to his host. His voice lowered itself confidentially.

‘M. Clancy, you are a man of brains and imagination. The police, as you say, have regarded you with suspicion. They have not sought your advice. But I, Hercule Poirot, desire to consult you.’

Mr Clancy flushed with pleasure.

‘I’m sure that’s very nice of you.’

He looked flustered and pleased.

‘You have studied the criminology. Your ideas will be of value. It would be of great interest to me to know who, in your opinion, committed the crime.’

‘Well—’ Mr Clancy hesitated, reached automatically for a banana and began to eat it. Then, the animation dying out of his face, he shook his head. ‘You see, M. Poirot, it’s an entirely different thing. When you’re writing you can make it anyone you like; but, of course, in real life there is a real person. You haven’t any command over the facts. I’m afraid, you know, that I’d be absolutely no good as a real detective.’

He shook his head sadly and threw the banana skin into the grate.

‘It might be amusing, however, to consider the case together?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Oh, that, yes.’

‘To begin with, supposing you had to make a sporting guess, who would you choose?’

‘Oh, well, I suppose one of the two Frenchmen.’

‘Now, why?’

‘Well, she was French. It seems more likely, somehow. And they were sitting on the opposite side not too far away from her. But really I don’t know.’

‘It depends,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘so much on motive.’

‘Of course—of course. I suppose you tabulate all the motives very scientifically?’

‘I am old-fashioned in my methods. I follow the old adage: seek whom the crime benefits.’