Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘It would have been a waste, since he is going to Canada.’

‘He’s talking of New Zealand now. He thinks I’d like the climate better.’

‘At all events he is patriotic. He sticks to the British Dominions.’

‘I’m hoping,’ said Jane, ‘that it won’t be necessary.’

She fixed Poirot with an inquiring eye.

‘Meaning that you put your trust in Papa Poirot? Ah, well—I will do the best I can—that I promise you. But I have the feeling very strongly, Mademoiselle, that there is a figure who has not yet come into the limelight—a part as yet unplayed—’

He shook his head, frowning.

‘There is, Mademoiselle, an unknown factor in this case. Everything points to that…’

II

Two days after their arrival in Paris, M. Hercule Poirot and his secretary dined in a small restaurant, and the two Duponts, father and son, were Poirot’s guests.

Old M. Dupont, Jane found as charming as his son, but she got little chance of talking to him. Poirot monopolized him severely from the start. Jane found Jean no less easy to get on with than she had done in London. His attractive, boyish personality pleased her now as it had then. He was such a simple friendly soul.

All the same, even while she laughed and talked with him, her ear was alert to catch snatches of the two older men’s conversation. She wondered precisely what information it was that Poirot wanted. So far as she could hear, the conversation had never touched once on the murder. Poirot was skilfully drawing out his companion on the subject of the past. His interest in archaeological research in Persia seemed both deep and sincere. M. Dupont was enjoying his evening enormously. Seldom did he get such an intelligent and sympathetic listener.

Whose suggestion it was that the two young people should go to a cinema was not quite clear, but when they had gone Poirot drew his chair a little closer to the table and seemed prepared to take a still more practical interest in archaeological research.

‘I comprehend,’ he said. ‘Naturally it is a great anxiety in these difficult financial days to raise sufficient funds. You accept private donations?’

M. Dupont laughed.

‘My dear friend, we sue for them practically on bended knees! But our particular type of dig does not attract the great mass of humanity. They demand spectacular results! Above all, they like gold—large quantities of gold! It is amazing how little the average person cares for pottery. Pottery—the whole romance of humanity can be expressed in terms of pottery. Design—texture—’

M. Dupont was well away. He besought Poirot not to be led astray by the specious publications of B—, the really criminal misdating of L—, and the hopelessly unscientific stratification of G—. Poirot promised solemnly not to be led astray by any of the publications of these learned personages.

Then he said:

‘Would a donation, for instance, of five hundred pounds—?’

M. Dupont nearly fell across the table in his excitement.

‘You—you are offering that? To me? To aid our researches. But it is magnificent, stupendous! The biggest private donation we have had.’

Poirot coughed.

‘I will admit—there is a favour—’

‘Ah, yes, a souvenir—some specimens of pottery—’

‘No, no, you misunderstand me,’ said Poirot quickly before M. Dupont could get well away again. ‘It is my secretary—that charming young girl you saw tonight—if she could accompany you on your expedition?’

M. Dupont seemed slightly taken aback for a moment.

‘Well,’ he said, pulling his moustache, ‘it might possibly be arranged. I should have to consult my son. My nephew and his wife are to accompany us. It was to have been a family party. However, I will speak to Jean—’

‘Mademoiselle Grey is passionately interested in pottery. The Past has for her an immense fascination. It is the dream of her life to dig. Also she mends socks and sews on buttons in a manner truly admirable.’

‘A useful accomplishment.’

‘Is it not? And now you were telling me—about the pottery of Susa—’