Death in the Clouds hp-12 Read online

  Chapter 25

  This sudden revelation had an almost stunning effect on the three people sitting round the luncheon table. It opened up an entirely new aspect of the case.

  Instead of being a person wholly remote from the tragedy, Anne Morisot was now shown to have been actually present on the scene of the crime. It took a minute or two for everyone to readjust his ideas.

  Poirot made a frantic gesture with his hand; his eyes were closed; his face contorted in agony.

  "A little minute – a little minute," he implored them. "I have got to think, to see, to realize how this affects my ideas of the case. I must go back in mind. I must remember. A thousand maledictions on my unfortunate stomach. I was preoccupied only with my internal sensations!"

  "She was actually on the plane, then," said Fournier. "I see. I begin to see."

  "I remember," said Jane. "A tall dark girl." Her eyes half closed in an effort of memory. "Madeleine, Lady Horbury called her."

  "That is it – Madeleine," said Poirot.

  "Lady Horbury sent her along to the end of the plane to fetch a case – a scarlet dressing case."

  "You mean," said Fournier, "that this girl went right past the seat where her mother was sitting?"

  "That is right."

  "The motive," said Fournier. He gave a great sigh. "And the opportunity. Yes, it is all there."

  Then, with a sudden vehemence most unlike his usual melancholy manner, he brought down his hand with a bang on the table.

  "But parbleu!" he cried. "Why did no one mention this before? Why was she not included amongst the suspected persons?"

  "I have told you, my friend – I have told you," said Poirot wearily. "My unfortunate stomach."

  "Yes, yes, that is understandable. But there were other stomachs unaffected. The stewards, the other passengers."

  "I think," said Jane, "that perhaps it was because it was so very early this happened. The plane had only just left Le Bourget. And Giselle was alive and well an hour or so after that. It seemed as though she must have been killed much later."

  "That is curious," said Fournier thoughtfully. "Can there have been a delayed action of the poison? Such things happen."

  Poirot groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

  "I must think. I must think. Can it be possible that all along my ideas have been entirely wrong?"

  "Mon vieux," said Fournier, "such things happen. They happen to me; it is possible that they have happened to you. One has occasionally to pocket one's pride and readjust one's ideas."

  "That is true," agreed Poirot. "It is possible that all along I have attached too much importance to one particular thing. I expected to find a certain clue. I found it, and I built up my case from it. But if I have been wrong from the beginning – if that particular article was where it was merely as the result of an accident – why, then – yes, I will admit that I have been wrong – completely wrong."

  "You cannot shut your eyes to the importance of this turn of events," said Fournier. "Motive and opportunity – what more can you want?"

  "Nothing. It must be as you say. The delayed action of the poison is indeed extraordinary – practically speaking, one would say impossible. But where poisons are concerned, the impossible does happen. One has to reckon with idiosyncrasy."

  His voice tailed off.

  "We must discuss a plan of campaign," said Fournier. "For the moment- it would, I think, be unwise to arouse Anne Morisot's suspicions. She is completely unaware that you have recognized her. Her bona fides has been accepted. We know the hotel at which she is staying and we can keep in touch with her through Thibault. Legal formalities can always be delayed. We have two points established – opportunity and motive. We have still to prove that Anne Morisot had snake venom in her possession. There is also the question of the American who bought the blowpipe and bribed Jules Perrot. It might certainly be the husband, Richards. We have only her word for it that he is in Canada."

  "As you say, the husband – yes, the husband. Ah! wait – wait."

  Poirot pressed his hands upon his temples.

  "It is all wrong," he murmured. "I do not employ the little gray cells of the brain in an orderly and methodical way. No, I leap to conclusions. I think, perhaps, what I am meant to think. No, that is wrong again. If my original idea were right, I could not be meant to think -"

  He broke off.

  "I beg your pardon," said Jane.

  Poirot did not answer for a moment or two. Then he took his hands from his temples, sat very upright and straightened two forks and a saltcellar which offended his sense of symmetry.

  "Let us reason," he said. "Anne Morisot is either guilty or innocent of the crime. If she is innocent, why has she lied? Why has she concealed the fact that she was lady's maid to Lady Horbury?"

  "Why, indeed?" said Fournier.

  "So we say Anne Morisot is guilty because she has lied. But wait. Suppose my first supposition was correct. Will that supposition fit in with Anne Morisot's guilt or with Anne Morisot's lie? Yes, yes, it might – given one premise. But in that case, and if that premise is correct, then Anne Morisot should have not been on the plane at all."

  The others looked at him politely, if with, perhaps, a rather perfunctory interest.

  Fournier thought:

  "I see now what the Englishman, Japp, meant. He makes difficulties, this old one. He tries to make an affair which is now simple sound complicated. He cannot accept a straightforward solution without pretending that it squares with his preconceived ideas."

  Jane thought:

  "I don't see in the least what he means. Why couldn't the girl be in the plane? She had to go wherever Lady Horbury wanted her to go. I think he's rather a mountebank, really."

  Suddenly Poirot drew in his breath with a hiss.

  "Of course," he said. "It is a possibility! And it ought to be very simple to find out."

  He rose.

  "What now, my friend?" asked Fournier.

  "Again the telephone," said Poirot.

  "The transatlantic to Quebec?"

  "This time it is merely to call to London."

  "To Scotland Yard?"

  "No, to Lord Horbury's house in Grosvenor Square. If only I have the good fortune to find Lady Horbury at home."

  "Be careful, my friend, if any suspicion gets round to Anne Morisot that we have been making inquiries about her, it would not suit our affair. Above all, we must not put her upon her guard."

  "Have no fears. I will be discreet. I ask only one little question. A question of a most harmless nature." He smiled. "You shall come with me if you like."

  "No, no."

  "But, yes. I insist."

  The two men went off, leaving Jane in the lounge.

  It took some little time to put the call through. But Poirot's luck was in. Lady Horbury was lunching at home.

  "Good. Will you tell Lady Horbury that it is Mr Hercule Poirot speaking from Paris." There was a pause. "That is you, Lady Horbury?… No, no, all is well. I assure you all is well. It is not that matter at all. I want you to answer me a question… Yes… When you go from Paris to England by air, does your maid usually go with you, or does she go by train?… By train. And so on that particular occasion?… I see… You are sure?… Ah, she has left you… I see. She left you very suddenly, at a moment's notice… Mais oui, base ingratitude. It is too true. A most ungrateful class!… Yes, yes, exactly… No, no, you need not worry. Au revoir. Thank you."

  He replaced the receiver and turned to Fournier, his eyes green and shining.

  "Listen, my friend; Lady Horbury's maid usually traveled by train and boat. On the occasion of Giselle's murder, Lady Horbury decided at the last moment that Madeleine had better go by air too."

  He took the Frenchman by the arm.

  "Quick, my friend," he said. "We must go to her hotel. If my little idea is correct – and I think it is – there is no time to be lost."

  Fournier stared at him. But before he could frame a question, Poi
rot had turned away and was heading for the revolving doors leading out of the hotel.

  Fournier hastened after him.

  "But I do not understand? What is all this?"

  The commissionaire was holding open the door of a taxi. Poirot jumped in and gave the address of Anne Morisot's hotel.

  "And drive quickly, but quickly!"

  Fournier jumped in after him.

  "What fly is this that has bitten you? Why this mad rush, this haste?"

  "Because, my friend, if, as I say, my little idea is correct, Anne Morisot is in imminent danger."

  "You think so?"

  Fournier could not help a skeptical tone creeping into his voice.

  "I am afraid," said Poirot. "Afraid. Bon Dieu, how this taxi crawls!"

  The taxi at the moment was doing a good forty miles an hour and cutting in and out of traffic with a miraculous immunity due to the excellent eye of the driver.

  "It crawls to such an extent that we shall have an accident in a minute," said Fournier dryly. "And Mademoiselle Grey, we have left her planted there awaiting our return from the telephone, and instead we leave the hotel without a word. It is not very polite, that!"

  "Politeness or impoliteness, what does it matter in an affair of life and death?"

  "Life or death?" Fournier shrugged his shoulders.

  He thought to himself:

  "It is all very well, but this obstinate madman may endanger the whole business. Once the girl knows that we are on her track -"

  He said in a persuasive voice:

  "See now, M. Poirot; be reasonable. We must go carefully."

  "You do not understand," said Poirot. "I am afraid – afraid."

  The taxi drew up with a jerk at the quiet hotel where Anne Morisot was staying.

  Poirot sprang out and nearly collided with a young man just leaving the hotel.

  Poirot stopped dead for a moment, looking after him.

  "Another face that I know. But where?… Ah! I remember. It is the actor, Raymond Barraclough."

  As he stepped forward to enter the hotel, Fournier placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  "M. Poirot, I have the utmost respect, the utmost admiration for your methods, but I feel very strongly that no precipitate action must be taken. I am responsible here in France for the conduct of this case."

  Poirot interrupted him:

  "I comprehend your anxiety. But do not fear any precipitate action on my part. Let us make inquiries at the desk. If Madame Richards is here and all is well, then no harm is done and we can discuss together our future action. You do not object to that?"

  "No, no, of course not."

  "Good."

  Poirot passed through the revolving door and went up to the reception desk. Fournier followed him.

  "You have a Mrs Richards staying here, I believe," said Poirot.

  "No, monsieur. She was staying here, but she left today."

  "She has left?" demanded Fournier.

  "Yes, monsieur."

  "When did she leave?"

  The clerk glanced up at the clock.

  "A little over half an hour ago."

  "Was her departure unexpected? Where has she gone?"

  The clerk stiffened at the questions and was disposed to refuse to answer. But when Fournier's credentials were produced, the clerk changed his tone and was eager to give any assistance in his power.

  No, the lady had not left an address. He thought her departure was the result of a sudden change of plans. She had formerly said she was making a stay of about a week. More questions. The concierge was summoned, the luggage porters, the lift boys.

  According to the concierge, a gentleman had called to see the lady. He had come while she was out, but had awaited her return and they had lunched together. What kind of gentleman? An American gentleman. Very American. She had seemed surprised to see him. After lunch, the lady gave orders for her luggage to be brought down and put on a taxi.

  Where had she driven to? She had driven to the Gare du Nord – at least that was the order she had given to the taximan. Did the American gentleman go with her? No, she had gone alone.

  "The Gare du Nord," said Fournier. "That means England on the face of it. The two-o'clock service. But it may be a blind. We must telephone to Boulogne and also try and get hold of that taxi."

  It was as though Poirot's fears had communicated themselves to Fournier.

  The Frenchman's face was anxious.

  Rapidly and efficiently he set the machinery of the law in motion.

  It was five o'clock when Jane, sitting in the lounge of the hotel with a book, looked up to see Poirot coming toward her.

  She opened her mouth reproachfully, but the words regained unspoken. Something in his face stopped her.

  "What is it?" she said. "Has anything happened?"

  Poirot took both her hands in his.

  "Life is very terrible, mademoiselle," he said.

  Something in his tone made Jane feel frightened.

  "What is it?" she said again.

  Poirot said slowly:

  "When the boat train reached Boulogne, they found a woman in a first-class carriage, dead."

  The color ebbed from Jane's face.

  "Anne Morisot?"

  "Anne Morisot. In her hand was a little blue glass bottle which had contained prussic acid."

  "Oh!" said Jane. "Suicide?"

  Poirot did not answer for a moment or two. Then he said, with the air of one who chooses his words carefully:

  "Yes, the police think it was suicide."

  "And you?"

  Poirot slowly spread out his hands in an expressive gesture.

  "What else is there to think?"

  "She killed herself? Why? Because of remorse or because she was afraid of being found out?"

  Poirot shook his head.

  "Life can be very terrible," he said. "One needs much courage."

  "To kill oneself? Yes, I suppose one does."

  "Also to live," said Poirot, "one needs courage."

  Chapter 26

  The next day Poirot left Paris. Jane stayed behind with a list of duties to perform. Most of these seemed singularly meaningless to her, but she carried them out to the best of her powers. She saw Jean Dupont twice. He mentioned the expedition which she was to join, and Jane did not dare to undeceive him without orders from Poirot, so she hedged as best she could and turned the conversation to other matters.

  Five days later she was recalled to England by a telegram.

  Norman met her at Victoria and they discussed recent events.

  Very little publicity had been given to the suicide. There had been a paragraph in the papers stating that a Canadian lady, a Mrs Richards, had committed suicide in the Paris-Boulogne express, but that was all. There had been no mention of any connection with the aeroplane murder.

  Both Norman and Jane were inclined to be jubilant. Their troubles, they hoped, were at an end. Norman was not so sanguine as Jane.

  "They may suspect her of doing her mother in, but now that she's taken this way out, they probably won't bother to go on with the case. And unless it is proved publicly, I don't see what good it is going to be to all of us poor devils. From the point of view of the public, we shall remain under suspicion just as much as ever."

  He said as much to Poirot, whom he met a few days later in Piccadilly.

  Poirot smiled.

  "You are like all the rest. You think I am an old man who accomplishes nothing! Listen, you shall come tonight to dine with me. Japp is coming, and also our friend, Mr Clancy. I have some things to say that may be interesting."

  The dinner passed off pleasantly. Japp was patronizing and good-humored, Norman was interested, and little Mr Clancy was nearly as thrilled as when he had recognized the fatal thorn.

  It seemed clear that Poirot was not above trying to impress the little author.

  After dinner, when coffee had been drunk, Poirot cleared his throat in a slightly embarassed manner not free from self-importa
nce.

  "My friends," he said, "Mr Clancy here has expressed interest in what he would call 'my methods, Watson,' C'est ça, n'est-ce pas? I propose, if it will not bore you all -"

  He paused significantly, and Norman and Japp said quickly, "No, no," and "Most interesting."

  "- to give you a little résumé of my methods in dealing with this case."

  He paused and consulted some notes. Japp whispered to Norman:

  "Fancies himself, doesn't he? Conceit's that little man's middle name."

  Poirot looked at him reproachfully and said. "Ahem!"

  Three politely interested faces were turned to him and he began:

  "I will start at the beginning, my friends. I will go back to the air liner 'Prometheus' on its ill-fated journey from Paris to Croydon. I am going to tell you my precise ideas and impressions at the time; passing on to how I came to confirm or modify them in the light of future events.

  "When, just before we reached Croydon, Doctor Bryant was approached by the steward and went with him to examine the body, I accompanied him. I had a feeling that it might – who knows? – be something in my line. I have, perhaps, too professional a point of view where deaths are concerned. They are divided, in my mind, into two classes – deaths which are my affair and deaths which are not my affair – and though the latter class is infinitely more numerous, nevertheless, whenever I come in contact with death, I am like the dog who lifts his head and sniffs the scent.

  "Doctor Bryant confirmed the steward's fear that the woman was dead. As to the cause of death, naturally, he could not pronounce on that without a detailed examination. It was at this point that a suggestion was made – by Mr Jean Dupont – that death was due to shock following on a wasp sting. In furtherance of this hypothesis, he drew attention to a wasp that he himself had slaughtered shortly before.

  "Now, that was a perfectly plausible theory, and one quite likely to be accepted. There was the mark on the dead woman's neck, closely resembling the mark of a sting, and there was the fact that a wasp had been in the plane.

  "But at that moment I was fortunate enough to look down and espy what might at first have been taken for the body of yet another wasp. In actuality it was a native thorn with a little teased yellow-and-black silk on it.