Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

Three days later he was rung up.

‘M. Poirot,’ said Jane, ‘is that job still open?’

‘But yes. I go to Paris on Monday.’

‘You really mean it? I can come?’

‘Yes, but what has happened to make you change your mind?’

‘I’ve had a row with Antoine. As a matter of fact I lost my temper with a customer. She was an—an absolute—well, I can’t say just what she was through the telephone. I was feeling nervy and instead of doing my soothing syrup stuff I just let rip and told her exactly what I thought of her.’

‘Ah, the thought of the great wide open spaces.’

‘What’s that you say?’

‘I say that your mind was dwelling on a certain subject.’

‘It wasn’t my mind, it was my tongue that slipped. I enjoyed it—her eyes looked just like her beastly Pekingese’s—as though they were going to drop out—but here I am—thrown out on my ear, as you might say. I must get another job sometime, I suppose—but I’d like to come to Paris first.’

‘Good, it is arranged. On the way over I will give you your instructions.’

Poirot and his new secretary did not travel by air, for which Jane was secretly thankful. The unpleasant experience of her last trip had shaken her nerve. She did not want to be reminded of that lolling figure in rusty black…

On their way from Calais to Paris they had the compartment to themselves, and Poirot gave Jane some idea of his plans.

‘There are several people in Paris that I have to see. There is the lawyer—Maître Thibault. There is also M. Fournier of the Sûreté—a melancholy man, but intelligent. And there are M. Dupont père and M. Dupont fils. Now, Mademoiselle Jane, whilst I am taking on the father I shall leave the son to you. You are very charming, very attractive—I fancy that M. Dupont will remember you from the inquest.’

‘I’ve seen him since then,’ said Jane, her colour rising slightly.

‘Indeed? And how was that?’

Jane, her colour rising a little more, described their meeting in the Corner House.

‘Excellent—better and better. Ah, it was a famous idea of mine to bring you to Paris with me. Now listen carefully, Mademoiselle Jane. As far as possible do not discuss the Giselle affair, but do not avoid the subject if Jean Dupont introduces it. It might be well if, without actually saying so, you could convey the impression that Lady Horbury is suspected of the crime. My reason for coming to Paris, you can say, is to confer with M. Fournier and to inquire particularly into any dealings Lady Horbury may have had with the dead woman.’

‘Poor Lady Horbury—you do make her a stalking horse!’

‘She is not the type I admire—eh bien, let her be useful for once.’

Jane hesitated for a minute, then said:

‘You don’t suspect young M. Dupont of the crime, do you?’

‘No, no, no—I desire information merely.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘He attracts you—eh—this young man? Il a le sex appeal?’

Jane laughed at the phrase.

‘No, that’s not how I would describe him. He’s very simple, but rather a dear.’

‘So that is how you describe him—very simple?’

‘He is simple. I think it’s because he’s led a nice unworldly life.’

‘True,’ said Poirot. ‘He has not, for instance, dealt with teeth. He has not been disillusioned by the sight of a public hero shivering with fright in the dentist’s chair.’

Jane laughed.

‘I don’t think Norman’s roped in any public heroes yet as patients.’