Death in the Clouds

by Agatha Christie

  ‘And now you are thinking of chucking dentistry again and going off to Canada. You have a Dominion complex!’

  ‘This time I shall be forced to do it.’

  ‘Ah, but it is incredible how often things force one to do the thing one would like to do.’

  ‘Nothing’s forcing me to travel,’ said Jane wistfully. ‘I wish it would.’

  ‘Eh bien, I make you an offer here and now. I go to Paris next week. If you like you can take the job of my secretary—I will give you a good salary.’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘I mustn’t give up Antoine’s. It’s a good job.’

  ‘So is mine a good job.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s only temporary.’

  ‘I will obtain you another post of the same kind.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll risk it.’

  Poirot looked at her and smiled enigmatically.

  Three days later he was rung up.

  ‘M. Poirot,’ said Jane, ‘is that job still open?’

  ‘But yes. I go to Paris on Monday.’

  ‘You really mean it? I can come?’

  ‘Yes, but what has happened to make you change your mind?’

  ‘I’ve had a row with Antoine. As a matter of fact I lost my temper with a customer. She was an—an absolute—well, I can’t say just what she was through the telephone. I was feeling nervy and instead of doing my soothing syrup stuff I just let rip and told her exactly what I thought of her.’

  ‘Ah, the thought of the great wide open spaces.’

  ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘I say that your mind was dwelling on a certain subject.’

  ‘It wasn’t my mind, it was my tongue that slipped. I enjoyed it—her eyes looked just like her beastly Pekingese’s—as though they were going to drop out—but here I am—thrown out on my ear, as you might say. I must get another job sometime, I suppose—but I’d like to come to Paris first.’

  ‘Good, it is arranged. On the way over I will give you your instructions.’

  Poirot and his new secretary did not travel by air, for which Jane was secretly thankful. The unpleasant experience of her last trip had shaken her nerve. She did not want to be reminded of that lolling figure in rusty black…

  On their way from Calais to Paris they had the compartment to themselves, and Poirot gave Jane some idea of his plans.

  ‘There are several people in Paris that I have to see. There is the lawyer—Maître Thibault. There is also M. Fournier of the Sûreté—a melancholy man, but intelligent. And there are M. Dupont père and M. Dupont fils. Now, Mademoiselle Jane, whilst I am taking on the father I shall leave the son to you. You are very charming, very attractive—I fancy that M. Dupont will remember you from the inquest.’

  ‘I’ve seen him since then,’ said Jane, her colour rising slightly.

  ‘Indeed? And how was that?’

  Jane, her colour rising a little more, described their meeting in the Corner House.

  ‘Excellent—better and better. Ah, it was a famous idea of mine to bring you to Paris with me. Now listen carefully, Mademoiselle Jane. As far as possible do not discuss the Giselle affair, but do not avoid the subject if Jean Dupont introduces it. It might be well if, without actually saying so, you could convey the impression that Lady Horbury is suspected of the crime. My reason for coming to Paris, you can say, is to confer with M. Fournier and to inquire particularly into any dealings Lady Horbury may have had with the dead woman.’

  ‘Poor Lady Horbury—you do make her a stalking horse!’

  ‘She is not the type I admire—eh bien, let her be useful for once.’

  Jane hesitated for a minute, then said:

  ‘You don’t suspect young M. Dupont of the crime, do you?’

  ‘No, no, no—I desire information merely.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘He attracts you—eh—this young man? Il a le sex appeal?’

  Jane laughed at the phrase.

  ‘No, that’s not how I would describe him. He’s very simple, but rather a dear.’

  ‘So that is how you describe him—very simple?’

  ‘He is simple. I think it’s because he’s led a nice unworldly life.’

  ‘True,’ said Poirot. ‘He has not, for instance, dealt with teeth. He has not been disillusioned by the sight of a public hero shivering with fright in the dentist’s chair.’

  Jane laughed.

  ‘I don’t think Norman’s roped in any public heroes yet as patients.’

  ‘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—’

  M. Dupont resumed a happy monologue on his own particular theories of Susa I and Susa II.

  Poirot reached his hotel, to find Jane saying good night to Jean Dupont in the hall.

  As they went up in the lift Poirot said:

  ‘I have obtained for you a job of great interest. You are to accompany the Duponts to Persia in the spring.’

  Jane stared at him.

  ‘Are you quite mad?’

  ‘When the offer is made to you, you will accept with every manifestation of delight.’

  ‘I am certainly not going to Persia. I shall be in Muswell Hill or New Zealand with Norman.’

  Poirot twinkled at her gently.

  ‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘it is some months to next March. To express delight is not to buy a ticket. In the same way, I have talked about a donation—but I have not actually signed a cheque! By the way, I must obtain for you in the morning a handbook on Prehistoric Pottery of the Near East. I have said that you are passionately interested in the subject.’

  Jane sighed.

  ‘Being secretary to you is no sinecure, is it? Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I have said that you sew on buttons and darn socks to perfection.’

  ‘Do I have to give a demonstration of that tomorrow, too?’

  ‘It would be as well, perhaps,’ said Poirot, ‘if they took my word for it!’

  Chapter 23

  Anne Morisot

  At half past ten on the following morning the melancholy M. Fournier walked into Poirot’s sitting-room and shook the little Belgian warmly by the hand.

  His own manner was far more animated than usual.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘there is something I want to tell you. I have, I think, at last seen the point of what you said in London about the finding of the blowpipe.’

  ‘Ah!’ Poirot’s face lighted up.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fournier taking a chair. ‘I pondered much over what you had said. Again and again I say to myself: Impossible that the crime should have been committed as we believe. And at last—at last—I see a connexion between that repetition of mine and what you said about the finding of the blowpipe.’

  Poirot listened attentively, but said nothing.

  ‘That day in London you said, Why was the blowpipe found, when it might so easily have been passed out through the ventilator? And I think now that I have the answer. The blowpipe was found because the murderer wanted it to be found.’

  ‘Bravo!’ said Poirot.

  ‘That was your meaning, then? Good, I thought so. And I went on a step further. I ask myself: Why did the murderer want the blowpipe to be found? And to that I got the answer: Because the blowpipe was not used.’

  ‘Bravo! Bravo! My reasoning exactly.’

  ‘I say to myself: The poisoned dart, yes, but not the blowpipe. Then something else was used to send that dart through the air—something that a man or woman might put to their lips in a normal manner and which would cause no remark. And I remembered your insistence on a complete list of all that was found in the passengers’ luggage and upon their persons. There were two things that especially attracted my attention—Lady Horbury had two cigarette holders, and on the table in front of the Duponts were a number of Kurdish pipes.’

  M. Fournier paused. He looked at Poirot. Poirot did not speak.

  ‘Both those things could have been put to the lips naturally without anyone remarking on it…I am right, am I not?’

  Poirot hesitated, then he said:

  ‘You are on the right track, yes, but go a little further; and do not forget the wasp.’

  ‘The wasp?’ Fournier stared. ‘No, there I do not follow you. I cannot see where the wasp comes in.’

  ‘You cannot see? But it is there that I—’

  He broke off as the telephone rang.

  He took up the receiver.

  ‘’Allo, ’allo. Ah, good morning. Yes, it is I myself, Hercule Poirot.’ In an aside to Fournier he said, ‘It is Thibault…’

  ‘Yes—yes, indeed. Very well. And you? M. Fournier? Quite right. Yes, he has arrived. He is here at this moment.’

  Lowering the receiver, he said to Fournier:

  ‘He tried to get you at the Sûreté. They told him that you had come to see me here. You had better speak to him. He sounds excited.’

  Fournier took the telephone.

  ‘’Allo—’allo. Yes, it is Fournier speaking…What…What…In verity, is that so…? Yes, indeed…Yes…Yes, I am sure he will. We will come round at once.’

  He replaced the telephone on its hook and looked across at Poirot.

  ‘It is the daughter. The daughter of Madame Giselle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, she has arrived to claim her heritage.’

  ‘Where has she come from?’

  ‘America, I understand. Thibault has asked her to return at half past eleven. He suggests we should go round and see him.’

  ‘Most certainly. We will go immediately…I will leave a note for Mademoiselle Grey.’

  He wrote:

  Some developments have occurred which force me to go out. If M. Jean Dupont should ring up or call, be amiable to him. Talk of buttons and socks, but not as yet of prehistoric pottery. He admires you; but he is intelligent!

  Au revoir,

  Hercule Poirot.

  ‘And now let us come, my friend,’ he said, rising. ‘This is what I have been waiting for—the entry on the scene of the shadowy figure of whose presence I have been conscious all along. Now—soon—I ought to understand everything.’

  II

  Maître Thibault received Poirot and Fournier with great affability.

  After an interchange of compliments and polite questions and answers, the lawyer settled down to the discussion of Madame Giselle’s heiress.

  ‘I received a letter yesterday,’ he said, ‘and this morning the young lady herself called upon me.’

  ‘What age is Mademoiselle Morisot?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Morisot—or rather Mrs Richards—for she is married, is exactly twenty-four years of age.’

  ‘She brought documents to prove her identity?’ asked Fournier.

  ‘Certainly. Certainly.’

  He opened a file at his elbow.

  ‘To begin with, there is this.’

  It was a copy of a marriage certificate between George Leman, bachelor, and Marie Morisot—both of Quebec. Its date was 1910. There was also the birth certificate of Anne Morisot Leman. There were various other documents and papers.

  ‘This throws a certain light on the early life of Madame Giselle,’ said Fournier.

  Thibault nodded.

  ‘As far as I can piece it out,’ he said, ‘Marie Morisot was nursery governess or sewing-maid when she met this man Leman.

  ‘He was, I gather, a bad lot who deserted her soon after the marriage, and she resumed her maiden name.

  ‘The child was received in the Institut de Marie at Quebec and was brought up there. Marie Morisot or Leman left Quebec shortly afterwards—I imagine with a man—and came to France. She remitted sums of money from time to time, and finally dispatched a lump sum of ready money to be given to the child on attaining the age of twenty-one. At that time Marie Morisot or Leman was, no doubt, living an irregular life, and considered it better to sunder any personal relations.’

  ‘How did the girl realize that she was the
heiress to a fortune?’

  ‘We have inserted discreet advertisements in various journals. It seems one of these came to the notice of the Principal of the Institut de Marie, and she wrote or telegraphed to Mrs Richards, who was then in Europe, but on the point of returning to the States.’

  ‘Who is Richards?’

  ‘I gather he is an American or Canadian from Detroit—by profession a maker of surgical instruments.’

  ‘He did not accompany his wife?’

  ‘No, he is still in America.’

  ‘Is Mrs Richards able to throw any light upon a possible reason for her mother’s murder?’

  The lawyer shook his head.

  ‘She knows nothing about her. In fact, although she had once heard the Principal mention it, she did not even remember what her mother’s maiden name was.’

  ‘It looks,’ said Fournier, ‘as though her appearance on the scene is not going to be of any help in solving the murder problem. Not, I must admit, that I ever thought it would. I am on quite another tack at present. My inquiries have narrowed down to a choice of three persons.’

  ‘Four,’ said Poirot.

  ‘You think four?’

  ‘It is not I who say four, but on the theory that you advanced to me you cannot confine yourself to three persons.’ He made a sudden rapid motion with his hands. ‘The two cigarette holders—the Kurdish pipes and a flute. Remember the flute, my friend.’

  Fournier gave an exclamation, but at that moment the door opened and an aged clerk mumbled:

  ‘The lady has returned.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Thibault. ‘Now you will be able to see the heiress for yourself. Come in, Madame. Let me present to you M. Fournier of the Sûreté, who is in charge in this country of the inquiries into your mother’s death. This is M. Hercule Poirot, whose name may be familiar to you and who is kindly giving us his assistance. Madame Richards.’

  Giselle’s daughter was a dark, chic-looking young woman. She was very smartly though plainly dressed.

  She held out her hand to each of the men in turn, murmuring a few appreciative words.