Death in the Clouds. Agatha Christie

blowpipe in court.’

      The coroner dealt severely with Mr Clancy. He was told that he was here to assist justice, not to rebut totally imaginary charges against himself. Then he was questioned about the occurrences on the Prometheus, but with very little result. Mr Clancy, as he explained at totally unnecessary length, had been too bemused with the eccentricities of foreign train services and the difficulties of the twenty-four hour times to have noticed anything at all going on round about him. The whole car might have been shooting snake-venomed darts out of blowpipes for all Mr Clancy would have noticed of the matter.

      Miss Jane Grey, hairdresser’s assistant, created no flutter among journalistic pens.

      The two Frenchmen followed.

      M. Armand Dupont deposed that he was on his way to London, where he was to deliver a lecture before the Royal Asiatic Society. He and his son had been very interested in a technical discussion and had noticed very little of what went on round them. He had not noticed the deceased until his attention was attracted by the stir of excitement caused by the discovery of her death.

      ‘Did you know this Madame Morisot or Madame Giselle by sight?’

      ‘No, Monsieur, I had never seen her before.’

      ‘But she is a well-known figure in Paris, is she not?’

      Old M. Dupont shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Not to me. In any case, I am not very much in Paris these days.’

      ‘You have lately returned from the East, I understand?’

      ‘That is so, Monsieur—from Persia.’

      ‘You and your son have travelled a good deal in out-of-the-way parts of the world?’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘You have journeyed in wild places?’

      ‘That, yes.’

      ‘Have you ever come across a race of people that used snake venom as an arrow poison?’

      This had to be translated, and when M. Dupont understood the question he shook his head vigorously.

      ‘Never—never have I come across anything like that.’

      His son followed him. His evidence was a repetition of his father’s. He had noticed nothing. He had thought it possible that the deceased had been stung by a wasp, because he had himself been annoyed by one and had finally killed it.

      The Duponts were the last witnesses.

      The coroner cleared his throat and addressed the jury.

      This, he said, was without doubt the most astonishing and incredible case with which he had ever dealt in this court. A woman had been murdered—they could rule out any question of suicide or accident—in mid-air, in a small enclosed space. There was no question of any outside person having committed the crime. The murderer or murderers must be of necessity one of the witnesses they had heard this morning. There was no getting away from that fact, and a very terrible and awful one it was. One of the persons present had been lying in a desperate and abandoned manner.

      The manner of the crime was one of unparalleled audacity. In the full view of ten—or twelve, counting the stewards—witnesses, the murderer had placed a blowpipe to his lips and sent the fatal dart on its murderous course through the air and no one had observed the act. It seemed frankly incredible, but there was the evidence of the blowpipe, of the dart found on the floor, of the mark on the deceased’s neck and of the medical evidence to show that, incredible or not, it had happened.

      In the absence of further evidence incriminating some particular person, he could only direct the jury to return a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown. Everyone present had denied any knowledge of the deceased woman. It would be the work of the police to find out how and where a connection lay. In the absence of any motive for the crime he could only advise the verdict he had just mentioned. The jury would now consider the verdict.

      A square-faced member of the jury with suspicious eyes leaned forward breathing heavily.

      ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘You say as how the blowpipe was found down a seat? Whose seat was it?’

      The coroner consulted his notes. Sergeant Wilson stepped to his side and murmured:

      ‘Ah, yes. The seat in question was No. 9, a seat occupied by M. Hercule Poirot. M. Poirot, I may say, is a very well-known and respected private detective who has—er—collaborated several times with Scotland Yard.’

      The square-faced man transferred his gaze to the face of M. Hercule Poirot. It rested with a far from satisfied expression on the little Belgian’s long moustaches.

      ‘Foreigners,’ said the eyes of the square-faced man, ‘you can’t trust foreigners, not even if they are hand-and-glove with the police.’

      Out loud he said:

      ‘It was this Mr Poirot who picked up the dart, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The jury retired. They returned after five minutes, and the foreman handed a piece of paper to the coroner.

      ‘What’s all this?’ The coroner frowned. ‘Nonsense, I can’t accept this verdict.’

      A few minutes later the amended verdict was returned: ‘We find that the deceased came to her death by poison, there being insufficient evidence to show by whom the poison was administered.’