Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

The Countess of Horbury presents her compliments to Mr John Robinson and will see him if he calls at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning…

II

‘Will I do?’ asked Norman.

He flushed a little under Poirot’s startled gaze.

‘Name of a name,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘What kind of a comedy is it that you are playing?’

Norman Gale flushed even more deeply.

He mumbled, ‘You said a slight disguise would be as well.’

Poirot sighed, then he took the young man by the arm and marched him to the looking-glass.

‘Regard yourself,’ he said. ‘That is all I ask of you—regard yourself! What do you think you are—a Santa Claus dressed up to amuse the children? I agree that your beard is not white: no, it is black—the colour for villains. But what a beard—a beard that screams to Heaven! A cheap beard, my friend, and most imperfectly and amateurishly attached! Then there are your eyebrows. But it is that you have the mania for false hair? The spirit gum one smells it several yards away; and if you think that anyone will fail to perceive that you have a piece of sticking plaster attached to a tooth, you are mistaken. My friend, it is not your métier—decidedly not—to play the part.’

‘I acted in amateur theatricals a good deal at one time,’ said Norman Gale stiffly.

‘I can hardly believe it. At any rate, I presume they did not let you indulge in your own ideas of makeup. Even behind the footlights your appearance would be singularly unconvincing. In Grosvenor Square in broad daylight—’

Poirot gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders by way of finishing the sentence.

‘No, mon ami,’ he said. ‘You are a blackmailer, not a comedian. I want her ladyship to fear you—not to die of laughing when she sees you. I observe that I wound you by what I am saying. I regret, but it is a moment when only the truth will serve. Take this and this—’ He pressed various jars upon him. ‘Go into the bathroom and let us

have an end of what you call in this country the fooltommery.’

Crushed, Norman Gale obeyed. When he emerged a quarter of an hour later, his face a vivid shade of brick red, Poirot gave him a nod of approval.

‘Très bien. The farce is over. The serious business begins. I will permit you to have a small moustache. But I will, if you please, attach it to you myself. There—and now we will part the hair differently—so. That is quite enough. Now let me see if you at least know your lines.’

He listened with attention, then nodded.

‘That is good. En avant—and good luck to you.’

‘I devoutly hope so. I shall probably find an enraged husband and a couple of policemen.’

Poirot reassured him.

‘Have no anxiety. All will march to a marvel.’

‘So you say,’ muttered Norman rebelliously.

With his spirits at zero, he departed on his distasteful mission.

At Grosvenor Square he was shown into a small room on the first floor. There, after a minute or two, Lady Horbury came to him.

Norman braced himself. He must not—positively must not—show that he was new to this business.

‘Mr Robinson?’ said Cicely.

‘At your service,’ said Norman, and bowed.

‘Damn it all—just like a shop-walker,’ he thought disgustedly. ‘That’s fright.’

‘I had your letter,’ said Cicely.

Norman pulled himself together. ‘The old fool said I couldn’t act,’ he said to himself with a mental grin.