Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘If you ask me,’ said Mrs Mitchell, ‘there’s Bolshies at the back of it.’

Poirot had said that he must have a word with the other steward, Davis, sometime. As a matter of fact he had it not many hours later, in the bar of the Crown and Feathers.

He asked Davis the same question he had asked Mitchell.

‘Nothing disarranged—no, sir. You mean upset? That kind of thing?’

‘I mean—well, shall we say something missing from the table—or something that would not usually be there—’

Davis said slowly:

‘There was something—I noticed it when I was clearing up, after the police had done with the place—but I don’t suppose that it’s the sort of thing you mean. It’s only that the dead lady had two coffee spoons in her saucer. It does sometimes happen when w

e’re serving in a hurry. I noticed it because there’s a superstition about that; they say two spoons in a saucer means a wedding.’

‘Was there a spoon missing from anyone else’s saucer?’

‘No, sir, not that I noticed. Mitchell or I must have taken the cup and saucer along that way—as I say one does sometimes what with the hurry and all. I laid two sets of fish knives and forks only a week ago. On the whole it’s better than laying the table short, for then you have to interrupt yourself and go and fetch the extra knife, or whatever it is you’ve forgotten.’

Poirot asked one more question—a somewhat jocular one:

‘What do you think of French girls, Davis?’

‘English are good enough for me, sir.’

And he grinned at a plump, fair-haired girl behind the bar.

Chapter 18

In Queen Victoria Street

Mr James Ryder was rather surprised when a card bearing the name of M. Hercule Poirot was brought to him.

He knew that the name was familiar, but for the moment he could not remember why. Then he said to himself:

‘Oh, that fellow!’ and told the clerk to show the visitor in.

M. Hercule Poirot was looking very jaunty. In one hand he carried a cane, he had a flower in his buttonhole.

‘You will forgive my troubling you, I trust,’ said Poirot. ‘It is this affair of the death of Madame Giselle.’

‘Yes?’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Well, what about it? Sit down, won’t you? Have a cigar?’

‘I thank you, no. I smoke my own cigarettes. Perhaps you will accept one?’

Ryder regarded Poirot’s tiny cigarettes with a somewhat dubious eye.

‘Think I’ll have one of my own, if it’s all the same to you. Might swallow one of those by mistake.’ He laughed heartily.

‘The inspector was round here a few days ago,’ said Mr Ryder when he had induced his lighter to work. ‘Nosey, that’s what those fellows are. Can’t mind their own business.’

‘They have, I suppose, to get information,’ said Poirot mildly.

‘They needn’t be so damned offensive about it,’ said Mr Ryder bitterly. ‘A man’s got his feelings—and his business reputation to think about.’

‘You are, perhaps, a little over-sensitive.’

‘I’m in a delicate position, I am,’ said Mr Ryder. ‘Sitting where I did, just in front of her—well, it looks fishy, I suppose. I can’t help where I sat. If I’d known that woman was going to be murdered I wouldn’t have come by that plane at all. I don’t know, though, perhaps I would.’