Poirot, who had been sitting with his eyes down, smoking quietly, interposed a question:
"You think it was a foolish way of committing a murder, yes?"
"Of course it was. It was absolute madness."
"And yet it succeeded. We sit here, we three, we talk about it, but we have no knowledge of who committed the crime! That is success!"
"That's pure luck," argued Japp. "The murderer ought to have been spotted five or six times over."
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
Fournier looked at him curiously.
"What is it that is in your mind, M. Poirot?"
"Mon ami," said Poirot, "my point is this: An affair must be judged by its results. This affair has succeeded. That is my point."
"And yet," said the Frenchman thoughtfully, "it seems almost a miracle."
"Miracle or no miracle, there it is," said Japp. "We've got the medical evidence, we've got the weapon – and if anyone had told me a week ago that I should be investigating a crime where a woman was killed with a poisoned dart with snake venom on it – well, I'd have laughed in his face! It's an insult – that's what this murder is – an insult."
He breathed deeply. Poirot smiled.
"It is, perhaps, a murder committed by a person with a perverted sense of humor," said Fournier thoughtfully. "It is most important in a crime to get an idea of the psychology of the murderer."
Japp snorted slightly at the word "psychology," which he disliked and mistrusted.
"That's the sort of stuff M. Poirot likes to hear," he said.
"I am very interested, yes, in what you both say."
"You don't doubt that she was killed that way, I suppose?" Japp asked him suspiciously. "I know your tortuous mind."
"No, no, my friend. My mind is quite at ease on that point. The poisoned thorn that I picked up was the cause of death – that is quite certain. But, nevertheless, there are points about this case -"
He paused, shaking his head perplexedly.
Japp went on:
"Well, we get back to our Irish stew, we can't wash out the stewards absolutely, but I think myself it's very unlikely that either of them had anything to do with it. Do you agree, M. Poirot?"
"Oh, you remember what I said. Me, I would not wash out – what a term, mon Dieu! – anybody at this stage."
"Have it your own way. Now, the passengers. Let's start up at the end by the stewards' pantry and the wash rooms. Seat No. 16." He jabbed a pencil on the plan. "That's the hairdressing girl, Jane Grey. Got a ticket in the Irish Sweep – blewed it at Le Pinet. That means the girl's a gambler. She might have been hard up and borrowed from the old dame; doesn't seem likely either that she borrowed a large sum, or that Giselle could have a hold over her. Seems rather too small a fish for what we're looking for. And I don't think a hairdresser's assistant has the remotest chance of laying her hands on snake venom. They don't use it as a hair dye or for face massage.
"In a way, it was rather a mistake to use snake venom; it narrows things down a lot. Only about two people in a hundred would be likely to have any knowledge of it and be able to lay hands on the stuff."
"Which makes one thing, at least, perfectly clear," said Poirot.
It was Fournier who shot a quick glance of inquiry at him.
Japp was busy with his own ideas.
"I look at it like this," he said. "The murderer has got to fall into one of two categories. Either he's a man who's knocked about the world in queer places – a man who knows something of snakes, and of the more deadly varieties, and of the habits of the native tribes who use the venom to dispose of their enemies. That's Category No. 1."
"And the other?"
"The scientific line. Research. This boomslang stuff is the kind of thing they experiment with in high-class laboratories. I had a talk with Winterspoon. Apparently, snake venom – cobra venom, to be exact – is sometimes used in medicine. It's used in the treatment of epilepsy with a fair amount of success. There's a lot being done in the way of scientific investigation into snake bite."
"Interesting and suggestive," said Fournier.
"Yes. But let's go on. Neither of those categories fits the Grey girl. As far as she's concerned, motive seems unlikely; chances of getting the poison, poor. Actual possibility of doing the blowpipe act very doubtful indeed – almost impossible. See here."
The three men bent over the plan.
"Here's No. 16," said Japp. "And here's No. 2 where Giselle was sitting, with a lot of people and seats intervening. If the girl didn't move from her seat – and everybody says she didn't – she couldn't possibly have aimed the thorn to catch Giselle on the side of the neck. I think we can take it she's pretty well out of it.
"Now then, No. 12, opposite. That's the dentist, Norman Gale. Very much the same applies to him. Small fry. I suppose he'd have a slightly better chance of getting hold of snake venom."
"It is not an injection favored by dentists," murmured Poirot gently. "It would be a case of kill rather than cure."
"A dentist has enough fun with his patients as it is," said Japp, grinning. "Still, I suppose he might move in circles where you could get access to some funny business in drugs. He might have a scientific friend. But as regards possibility, he's pretty well out of it. He did leave his seat, but only to go to the wash room – that's in the opposite direction. On his way back to his seat he couldn't be farther than the gangway here, and to shoot off a thorn from a blowpipe so as to catch the old lady in the neck, he'd have to have a kind of pet thorn that would do tricks and make a right-angle turn. So he's pretty well out of it."
"I agree," said Fournier. "Let us proceed."
"We'll cross the gangway now. No. 17."
"That was my seat originally," said Poirot. "I yielded it to one of the ladies, since she desired to be near her friend."
"That's the Honorable Venetia. Well, what about her? She's a big bug. She might have borrowed from Giselle. Doesn't look as though she had any guilty secrets in her life, but perhaps she pulled a horse in a point to point, or whatever they call it. We'll have to pay a little attention to her. The position's possible. If Giselle had got her head turned a little, looking out of the window, the Honorable Venetia could take a sporting shot – or do you call it a sporting puff? – diagonally across down the car, it would be a bit of a fluke, though. I rather think she'd have to stand up to do it. She's the sort of woman who goes out with the guns in the autumn. I don't know whether shooting with a gun is any help to you with a native blowpipe. I suppose it's a question of eye just the same. Eye and practice. And she's probably got friends – men – who've been big-game hunters in odd parts of the globe. She might have got hold of some queer native stuff that way. What balderdash it all sounds, though! It doesn't make sense."
"It does indeed seem unlikely," said Fournier. "Mademoiselle Kerr – I saw her at the inquest today." He shook his head. "One does not readily connect her with murder."
"Seat 13," said Japp. "Lady Horbury. She's a bit of a dark horse. I know something about her I'll tell you presently. I shouldn't be surprised if she had a guilty secret or two."
"I happen to know," said Fournier, "that the lady in question has been losing very heavily at the baccarat table at Le Pinet."
"That's smart of you. Yes, she's the type of pigeon to be mixed up with Giselle."
"I agree absolutely."
"Very well, then; so far, so good. But how did she do it? She didn't leave her seat either, you remember. She'd have had to have knelt up in her seat and leaned over the top – with eleven people looking at her. Oh, hell, let's get on."
"Numbers 9 and 10," said Fournier, moving his finger on the plan.
"M. Hercule Poirot and Doctor Bryant," said Japp, "What has M. Poirot to say for himself?"
Poirot shook his head sadly.
"Mon estomac," he said pathetically. "Alas, that the brain should be the servant of the stomach.
"I, too," said Fournier with sympathy. "In the air, I d
o not feel well."
He closed his eyes and shook his head expressively.
"Now then, Doctor Bryant. What about Doctor Bryant? Big bug in Harley Street. Not very likely to go to a Frechwoman money lender, but you never know. And if any funny business crops up with a doctor, he's done for life! Here's where my scientific theory comes in. A man like Bryant, at the top of the tree, is in with all the medical-research people. He could pinch a test tube of snake venom as easy as winking when he happens to be in some swell laboratory."
"They check these things, my friend," objected Poirot. "It would not be just like plucking a buttercup in a meadow."
"Even if they do check 'em. A clever man could substitute something harmless – it could be done. Simply because a man like Bryant would be above suspicion."
"There is much in what you say," agreed Fournier.
"The only thing is: Why did he draw attention to the thing? Why not say the woman died from heart failure – natural death?"
Poirot coughed. The other two looked at him inquiringly.
"I fancy," he said, "that that was the doctor's first – well, shall we say, impression? After all, it looked very like natural death – possibly as the result of a wasp sting. There was a wasp, remember."
"Not likely to forget that wasp," put in Japp. "You're always harping on it."
"However," continued Poirot, "I happened to notice the fatal thorn on the ground and picked it up. Once we had found that, everything pointed to murder."
"The thorn would be bound to be found anyway."
Poirot shook his head.
"There is just a chance that the murderer might have been able to pick it up unobserved."
"Bryant?"
"Bryant or another."
"H'm, rather risky."
Fournier disagreed.
"You think so now," he said, "because you know that it is murder. But when a lady dies suddenly of heart failure, if a man is to drop his handkerchief and stoop to pick it up, who will notice the action or think twice about it?"
"That's true," agreed Japp. "Well, I fancy Bryant is definitely on the list of suspects. He could lean his head round the corner of his seat and do the blowpipe act – again diagonally across the car. But why nobody saw him – However, I won't go into that again. Whoever did it wasn't seen!"
"And for that, I fancy, there must be a reason," said Fournier. "A reason that, by all I have heard -" he smiled – "will appeal to M. Poirot. I mean a psychological reason."
"Continue, my friend," said Poirot. "It is interesting, what you say there."
"Supposing," said Fournier, "that when traveling in a train you were to pass a house in flames. Everyone's eyes would at once be drawn to the window. Everyone would have his attention fixed on a certain point. A man in such a moment might whip out a dagger and stab a man, and nobody would see him do it."
"That is true," said Poirot. "I remember a case in which I was concerned – a case of poison where that very point arose. There was, as you call it, a psychological moment. If we discover that there was such a moment during the journey of the 'Prometheus' -"
"We ought to find that out by questioning the stewards and the passengers," said Japp.
"True. But if there was such a psychological moment, it must follow logically that the cause of that moment must have originated with the murderer. He must have been able to produce the particular effect that caused that moment."
"Perfectly, perfectly," said the Frenchman.
"Well, we'll note down that as a point for questions," said Japp. "I'm coming now to Seat No. 8 – Daniel Michael Clancy."
Japp spoke the name with a certain amount of relish.
"In my opinion, he's the most likely suspect we've got. What's easier than for a mystery author to fake up an interest in snake venom and get some unsuspecting scientific chemist to let him handle the stuff? Don't forget he went down past Giselle's seat – the only one of the passengers who did."
"I assure you, my friend," said Poirot, "that I have not forgotten that point."
He spoke with emphasis.
Japp went on:
"He could have used that blowpipe from fairly close quarters without any need of a psychological moment, as you call it. And he stood quite a respectable chance of getting away with it. Remember, he knows all about blowpipes; he said so."
"Which makes one pause, perhaps."
"Sheer artfulness," said Japp. "And as to this blowpipe he produced today – who is to say that it's the one he bought two years ago? The whole thing looks very fishy to me. I don't think it's healthy for a man to be always brooding over crime and detective stories. Reading up all sorts of cases. It puts ideas into his head."
"It is certainly necessary for a writer to have ideas in his head," agreed Poirot.
Japp returned to his plan of the plane.
"No. 4 was Ryder – the seat slap in front of the dead woman. Don't think he did it. But we can't leave him out. He went to the wash room, he could have taken a pot shot on the way back from fairly close quarters. The only thing is, he'd be right up against the archaeologist fellows when he did so. They'd notice it – couldn't help it."
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
"You are not, perhaps, acquainted with many archaeologists? If these two were having a really absorbing discussion on some point at issue – eh bien, my friend, their concentration would be such that they could be quite blind and deaf to the outside world. They would be existing, you see, in 5000 or so b.c. Nineteen hundred and thirty-four a.d. would have been nonexistent for them."
Japp looked a little skeptical.
"Well, we'll pass on to them. What can you tell us about the Duponts, Fournier?"
"M. Armand Dupont is one of the most distinguished archaeologists in France."
"Then that doesn't get us anywhere much. Their position in the car is pretty good from my point of view – across the gangway, but slightly farther forward than Giselle. And I suppose that they've knocked about the world and dug things up in a lot of queer places; they might easily have got hold of some native snake poison."
"It is possible, yes," said Fournier.
"But you don't believe it's likely?"
Fournier shook his head doubtfully.
"M. Dupont lives for his profession. He is an enthusiast. He was formerly an antique dealer. He gave up a flourishing business to devote himself to excavation. Both he and his son are devoted heart and soul to their profession. It seems to me unlikely – I will not say impossible; since the ramifications of the Stavisky business, I will believe anything! – unlikely that they are mixed up in this business."
"All right," said Japp.
He picked up the sheet of paper on which he had been making notes and cleared his throat.
"This is where we stand: Jane Grey. Probability, poor. Possibility, practically nil. Gale. Probability, poor. Possibility, again practically nil. Miss Kerr. Very improbable. Possibility, doubtful. Lady Horbury. Probability, good. Possibility, practically nil. M. Poirot, almost certainly the criminal; the only man on board who could create a psychological moment."
Japp enjoyed a good laugh over his little joke and Poirot smiled indulgently and Fournier a trifle diffidently. Then the detective resumed:
"Bryant. Probability and possibility, both good. Clancy. Motive doubtful, probability and possibility very good indeed. Ryder. Probability uncertain, possibility, quite fair. The two Duponts. Probability poor as regards motive, good as to means of obtaining poison. Possibility, good.
"That's a pretty fair summary, I think, as fair as we can go. We'll have to do a lot of routine inquiry. I shall take on Clancy and Bryant first; find out what they've been up to; if they've been hard up at any time in the past; if they've seemed worried or upset lately; their movement in the last year – all that sort of stuff. I'll do the same for Ryder. Then it won't do to neglect the others entirely. I'll get Wilson to nose round there. M. Fournier, here, will undertake the Duponts."
The man from t
he Sûreté nodded.
"Be well assured, that will be attended to. I shall return to Paris tonight. There may be something to be got out of Élise, Giselle's maid, now that we know a little more about the case. Also, I will check up Giselle's movements very carefully. It will be well to know where she has been during the summer. She was, I know, at Le Pinet once or twice. We may get information as to her contacts with some of the English people involved. Ah, yes, there is much to do."
They both looked at Poirot, who was absorbed in thought.
"You going to take a hand at all, M. Poirot?" asked Japp.
Poirot roused himself.
"Yes, I think I should like to accompany M. Fournier to Paris."
"Enchanté," said the Frenchman.
"What are you up to, I wonder?" asked Japp. He looked at Poirot curiously. "You've been very quiet over all this. Got some of your little ideas, eh?"
"One or two – one or two – but it is very difficult."
"Let's hear about it."
"One thing that worries me," said Poirot slowly, "is the place where the blowpipe was found."
"Naturally! It nearly got you locked up."
Poirot shook his head.
"I do not mean that. It is not because it was found pushed down beside my seat that it worries me – it was its being pushed down behind any seat."
"I don't see anything in that," said Japp. "Whoever did it had got to hide the thing somewhere. He couldn't risk its being found on him."
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