Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘That is the severity of your official demeanour, my good Japp.’

‘There’s nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they’re only telling the truth,’ said the Scotland Yard man austerely.

Poirot looked at him pityingly.

‘In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.’

‘Of course I do. It’s true. Now, then, let’s have Norman Gale.’

Norman Gale gave his address as 14 Shepherd’s Avenue, Muswell Hill. By profession he was a dentist. He was returning from a holiday spent at Le Pinet on the French coast. He had spent a day in Paris looking at various new types of dental instruments.

He had never seen the deceased, and had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. In any case, he had been facing the other way—towards the front car. He had left his seat once during the journey to go to the toilet. He had returned straight to his seat and had never been near the rear end of the car. He had not noticed any wasp.

After him came James Ryder, somewhat on edge and brusque in manner. He was returning from a business visit to Paris. He did not know the deceased. Yes, he had occupied the seat immediately in front of hers, but he could not have seen her without rising and looking over the back of his seat. He had heard nothing—no cry or exclamation. No one had come down the car except the stewards. Yes, the two Frenchmen had occupied the seats across the gangway from his. They had talked practically the whole journey. The younger of the two had killed a wasp at the conclusion of the meal. No, he hadn’t noticed the wasp previously. He didn’t know what a blowpipe was like, as he’d never seen one, so he couldn’t say if he’d seen one on the journey or not—

Just at this point there was a tap on the door. A police constable entered, subdued triumph in his bearing.

‘The sergeant’s just found this, sir,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to have it at once.’

He laid his prize on the table, unwrapping it with care from the handkerchief in which it was folded.

‘No fingerprints, sir, so as the sergeant can see, but he told me to be careful.’

The object thus displayed was an undoubted blowpipe of native manufacture.

Japp drew his breath in sharply.

‘Good Lord! Then it is true? Upon my soul, I didn’t believe it!’

Mr Ryder leant forward interestedly.

‘So that’s what the South Americans use, is it? Read about such things, but never seen one. Well, I can answer your question now. I didn’t see anyone handling anything of this type.’

‘Where was it found?’ asked Japp sharply.

‘Pushed down out of sight behind one of the seats, sir.’

‘Which seat?’

‘No. 9.’

‘Very entertaining,’ said Poirot.

Japp turned to him.

‘What’s entertaining about it?’

‘Only that No. 9 was my seat.’

‘Well, that looks a bit odd for you, I must say,’ said Mr Ryder.

Japp frowned.

‘Thank you, Mr Ryder, that will do.’

When Ryder had gone he turned to Poirot with a grin.

‘This your work, old bird?’