Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

Poirot did not seem put out. He said:

‘Perhaps not. But, then, I have some evidence.’

‘Really?’ sneered Norman. ‘Perhaps you have evidence as to how I killed old Giselle when everyone in the aeroplane knows perfectly well I never went near her?’

‘I will tell you exactly how you committed the crime,’ said Poirot. ‘What about the contents of your dispatch-case? You were on a holiday. Why take a dentist’s linen coat? That is what I asked myself. And the answer is this—because it resembled so closely a steward’s coat…

‘That is what you did. When coffee was served and the stewards had gone to the other compartment you went to the toilet, put on your linen coat, padded your cheeks with cottonwool rolls, came out, seized a coffee spoon from the box in the pantry opposite, hurried down the gangway with the steward’s quick run, spoon in hand, to Giselle’s table. You thrust the thorn into her neck, opened the match-box and let the wasp escape, hurried back into the toilet, changed your coat and emerged leisurely to return to your table. The whole thing took only a couple of minutes.

‘Nobody notices a steward particularly. The only person who might have recognized you was Mademoiselle Jane. But you know women! As soon as a woman is left alone (particularly when she is travelling with an attractive young man) she seizes the opportunity to have a good look in her hand mirror, powder her nose and adjust her makeup.’

‘Really,’ sneered Gale. ‘A most interesting theory; but it didn’t happen. Anything else?’

‘Quite a lot,’ said Poirot. ‘As I have just said, in the course of conversation a man gives himself away…You were imprudent enough to mention that for a while you were on a farm in South Africa. What you did not say, but what I have since found out, is that it was a snake farm…’

For the first time Norman Gale showed fear. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.

Poirot continued:

‘You were there under your own name of Richards; a photograph of you transmitted by telephone has been recognized. That same photograph has been identified in Rotterdam as the man Richards who married Anne Morisot.’

Again Norman Gale tried to speak and failed. His whole personality seemed to change. The handsome, vigorous young man turned into a rat-like creature with furtive eyes looking for a way of escape and finding none…

‘It was haste ruined your plan,’ said Poirot. ‘The Superior of the Institut de Marie hurried things on by wiring to Anne Morisot. It would have looked suspicious to ignore that wire. You had impressed it upon your wife that unless she suppressed certain facts either she or you might be suspected of murder, since you had both unfortunately been in the plane when Giselle was killed. When you met her afterwards and you learnt that I had been present at the interview you hurried things on. You were afraid I might get the truth out of Anne—perhaps she herself was beginning to suspect you. You hustled her away out of the hotel and into the boat train. You administered prussic acid to her by force and you left the empty bottle in her hand.’

‘A lot of damned lies…’

‘Oh, no. There was a bruise on her neck.’

‘Damned lies, I tell you.’

‘You even left your fingerprints on the bottle.’

‘You lie. I wore—’

‘Ah, you wore gloves…? I think, Monsieur, that little admission cooks your gander.’

‘You damned interfering little mountebank!’ Livid with passion, his face unrecognizable, Gale made a spring at Poirot. Japp, however, was too quick for him. Holding him in a capable unemotional grip, Japp said:

‘James Richards, alias Norman Gale, I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of wilful murder. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence.’

A terrible shudder shook the man. He seemed on the point of collapse.

A couple of plain-clothes men were waiting outside. Norman Gale was taken away.

Left alone with Poirot, little Mr Clancy drew a deep breath of ecstasy.

‘M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘That has been absolutely the most thrilling experience of my life. You have been wonderful!’

Poirot smiled modestly.

‘No, no. Japp deserves as much credit as I do. He has done wonders in identifying Gale as Richards. The Canadian police want Richards. A girl he was mixed up with there is supposed to have committed suicide, but facts have come to light which seem to point to murder.’

‘Terrible,’ Mr Clancy chirped.

‘A killer,’ said Poirot. ‘And like many killers, attractive to women.’

Mr Clancy coughed.