Just at this point there was a tap on the door. A police constable entered, subdued triumph in his bearing.
‘The sergeant’s just found this, sir,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to have it at once.’
He laid his prize on the table, unwrapping it with care from the handkerchief in which it was folded.
‘No fingerprints, sir, so as the sergeant can see, but he told me to be careful.’
The object thus displayed was an undoubted blowpipe of native manufacture.
Japp drew his breath in sharply.
‘Good Lord! Then it is true? Upon my soul, I didn’t believe it!’
Mr Ryder leant forward interestedly.
‘So that’s what the South Americans use, is it? Read about such things, but never seen one. Well, I can answer your question now. I didn’t see anyone handling anything of this type.’
‘Where was it found?’ asked Japp sharply.
‘Pushed down out of sight behind one of the seats, sir.’
‘Which seat?’
‘No. 9.’
‘Very entertaining,’ said Poirot.
Japp turned to him.
‘What’s entertaining about it?’
‘Only that No. 9 was my seat.’
‘Well, that looks a bit odd for you, I must say,’ said Mr Ryder.
Japp frowned.
‘Thank you, Mr Ryder, that will do.’
When Ryder had gone he turned to Poirot with a grin.
‘This your work, old bird?’
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.’
‘It is a bit low,’ agreed Japp. ‘But it seems to have worked.’
‘That is what gives one so furiously to think.’
‘Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must. Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let’s have her in and get it over. Jane Grey—sounds like a history book.’
‘She is a pretty girl,’ said Poirot.
‘Is she, you old dog? So you weren’t asleep all the time, eh?’
‘She was pretty—and nervous,’ said Poirot.
‘Nervous, eh?’ said Japp alertly.
‘Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man—not crime.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Here she is.’
Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine’s hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, NW5. She was returning to England from Le Pinet.
‘Le Pinet—h’m!’
Further questions drew the story of the Sweep ticket.
‘Ought to be made illegal, those Irish Sweeps,’ growled Japp.
‘I think they’re marvellous,’ said Jane. ‘Haven’t you ever put half a crown on a horse?’
Japp blushed and looked confused.
The questions were resumed. Shown the blowpipe, Jane denied having seen it at any time. She did not know the deceased, but had noticed her at Le Bourget.
‘What made you notice her particularly?’
‘Because she was so frightfully ugly,’ said Jane truthfully.
Nothing else of any value was elicited from her, and she was allowed to go.
Japp fell back into contemplation of the blowpipe.
‘It beats me,’ he said. ‘The crudest detective story dodge coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A man who’s travelled in the part of the world this thing comes from? And where exactly does it come from? Have to get an expert on to that. It may be Malayan or South American or African.’
‘Originally, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you observe closely, my friend, you will notice a microscopic piece of paper adhering to the pipe. It looks to me very much like the remains of a torn-off price ticket. I fancy that this particular specimen has journeyed from the wilds via some curio dealer’s shop. That will possibly make our search more easy. Just one little question.’
‘Ask away.’
‘You will still have that list made—the list of the passengers’ belongings?’
‘Well, it isn’t quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You’re very set on that?’
‘Mais oui. I am puzzled, very puzzled. If I could find something to help me—’
Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.
‘Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers…always making the police out to be fools…and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.’
CHAPTER 4
The Inquest
The inquest on Marie Morisot was held four days later. The sensational manner of her death had aroused great public interest, and the coroner’s court was crowded.
The first witness called was a tall elderly Frenchman with a grey beard—Maître Alexandre Thibault. He spoke English slowly and precisely with a slight accent, but quite idiomatically.
After the preliminary questions the coroner asked, ‘You have viewed the body of the deceased. Do you recognize it?’
‘I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angélique Morisot.’
‘That is the name on the deceased’s passport. Was she known to the public by another name?’
‘Yes, that of Madame Giselle.’
A stir of excitement went around. Reporters sat with pencils poised. The coroner said, ‘Will you tell us exactly who this Madame Morisot—or Madame Giselle—was?’
‘Madame Giselle—to give her her professional name, the name under which she did business—was one of the best-known moneylenders in Paris.’
‘She carried on her business—where?’
‘At the Rue Joliette, No. 3. That was also her private residence.’
‘I understand that she journeyed to England fairly frequently. Did her business extend to this country?’
‘Yes. Many of her clients were English people. She was very well known amongst a certain section of English society.’
‘How would you describe that section of society?’
‘Her clientèle was mostly among the upper and professional classes, in cases where it was important that the utmost discretion should be observed.’
‘She had the reputation of being discreet?’
‘Extremely discreet.’
‘May I ask if you have an intimate knowledge of—er—her various business transactions?’
‘No. I dealt with her legal business, but Madame Giselle was a first-class woman of business, thoroughly capable of attending to her own affairs in the most competent manner. She kept the control of her business entirely in her own hands. She was, if I may say so, a woman of very original character, and a well-known public figure.’
‘To the best of your knowledge, was she a rich woman at the time of her death?’
‘She was an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘Had she, to your knowledge, any enemies?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Maître Thibault then stepped down and Henry Mitchell was called.
The coroner said, ‘Your name is Henry Charles Mitchell and you reside at 11 Shoeblack Lane, Wandsworth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are in the employment of Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are the senior steward on the air liner Prometheus?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On Tuesday last, the eighteenth, you were on duty on the Prometheus on the twelve o’clock service from Paris to Croydon. The deceased travelled by that service. Had you ever seen the deceased before?’
‘Yes, sir. I was on the 8.45 am service six months ago and I noticed her travelling by that once or twice.’
‘Did you know her name?’
‘Well, it must have been on my list, sir, but I didn’t notice it special, so to speak.’
‘Have you ever heard the name of Madame Giselle?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Please describe the occurrences of Tuesday last in your own way.’
‘I’d served the luncheons, sir, and was coming round with the bills. The deceased was, as I thought, asleep. I decided not to wake her until about five minutes before we got in. When I tried to do so I discovered that she was dead or seriously ill. I discovered that there was a doctor on board. He said—’
‘We shall have Dr Bryant’s evidence presently. Will you take a look at this?’
The blowpipe was handed to Mitchell, who took it gingerly.
‘Have you ever seen that before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are certain that you did not see it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Albert Davis.’
The younger steward took the stand.
‘You are Albert Davis of 23 Barcome Street, Croydon. You are employed by Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You were on duty on the Prometheus as second steward on Tuesday last?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was the first that you knew of the tragedy?’
‘Mr Mitchell, sir, told me that he was afraid something had happened to one of the passengers.’
‘Have you ever seen this before?’
The blowpipe was handed to Davis.
‘No, sir.’
‘You did not observe it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did anything at all happen on the journey that you think might throw light on this affair?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very good. You may stand down.’
‘Dr Roger Bryant.’
Dr Bryant gave his name and address and described himself as a specialist in ear and throat diseases.
‘Will you tell us in your own words, Dr Bryant, exactly what happened on Tuesday last, the eighteenth?’
‘Just before getting into Croydon I was approached by the chief steward. He asked me if I was a doctor. On my replying in the affirmative, he told me that one of the passengers had been taken ill. I rose and went with him. The woman in question was lying slumped down in her seat. She had been dead some time.’
‘What length of time in your opinion, Dr Bryant?’
‘I should say at least half an hour. Between half an hour and an hour would be my estimate.’
‘Did you form any theory as to the cause of death?’
‘No. It would have been impossible to say without a detailed examination.’
‘But you noticed a small puncture on the side of the neck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you… Dr James Whistler.’
Dr Whistler was a thin, scraggy little man.
‘You are the police surgeon for this district?’
‘I am.’
‘Will you give your evidence in your own words?’
‘Shortly after three o’clock on Tuesday last, the eighteenth, I received a summons to Croydon aerodrome. There I was shown the body of a middle-aged woman in one of the seats of the air liner Prometheus. She was dead, and death had occurred, I should say, about an hour previously. I noticed a circular puncture on the side of the neck—directly on the jugular vein. This mark was quite consistent with having been caused by the sting of a wasp or by the insertion of a thorn which was shown to me. The body was removed to the mortuary, where I was able to make a detailed examination.’
‘What conclusions did you come to?’
‘I came to the conclusion that death was caused by the introduction of a powerful toxin into the blood stream. Death was due to acute paralysis of the heart, and must have been practically instantaneous.’
‘Can you tell us what that toxin was?’
‘It was a toxin I had never come across before.’
The reporters, listening attentively, wrote down ‘Unknown poison.’
‘Thank you… Mr Henry Winterspoon.’
Mr Winterspoon was a large, dreamy-looking man with a benignant expression. He looked kindly but stupid. It came as something of a shock to learn that he was chief Government analyst and an authority on rare poisons.
The coroner held up the fatal thorn and asked Mr Winterspoon if he recognized it.
‘I do. It was sent to me for analysis.’
‘Will you tell us the result of that analysis?’
‘Certainly. I should say that originally the dart had been dipped in a preparation of native curare—an arrow poison used by certain tribes.’
The reporters wrote with gusto.
‘You consider, then, that death may have been due to curare.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Winterspoon. ‘There was only the faintest trace of the original preparation. According to my analysis, the dart had recently been dipped in the venom of Dispholidus typus, better known as the boomslang or tree snake.’
‘A boomslang? What is a boomslang?’
‘It is a South African snake—one of the most deadly and poisonous in existence. Its effect on a human being is not known, but some idea of the intense virulence of the venom can be realized when I tell you that on injecting the venom into a hyena, the hyena died before the needle could be withdrawn. A jackal died as though shot by a gun. The poison causes acute haemorrhage under the skin and also acts on the heart, paralysing its action.’
The reporters wrote: ‘Extraordinary Story. Snake Poison in Air Drama. Deadlier than the Cobra.’
‘Have you ever known the venom to be used in a case of deliberate poisoning?’
‘Never. It is most interesting.’
Thank you, Mr Winterspoon.’
Detective-Sergeant Wilson deposed to the finding of the blowpipe behind the cushion of one of the seats. There were no fingerprints on it. Experiments had been made with the dart and the blowpipe. What you might call the range of it was fairly accurate up to about ten yards.
‘M. Hercule Poirot.’
There was a little stir of interest, but M. Poirot’s evidence was very restrained. He had noticed nothing out of the way. Yes, it was he who had found the tiny dart on the floor of the car. It was in such a position as it would naturally have occupied if it had fallen from the neck of the dead woman.
‘The Countess of Horbury.’
The reporters wrote: ‘Peer’s wife gives evidence in Air Death Mystery.’ Some of them put ‘…in Snake Poison Mystery.’
Those who wrote for women’s papers put, ‘Lady Horbury wore one of the new collegian hats and fox furs,’ or ‘Lady Horbury, who is one of the smartest women in town, wore black with one of the new collegian hats,’ or ‘Lady Horbury, who before her marriage was Miss Cicely Bland, was smartly dressed in black with one of the new hats…’
Everyone enjoyed looking at the smart and lovely young woman, though her evidence was of the briefest. She had noticed nothing; she had never seen the deceased before.
Venetia Kerr succeeded her, but was definitely less of a thrill.
The indefatigable purveyors of news for women wrote, ‘Lord Cottesmore’s daughter wore a well-cut coat and skirt with one of the new stocks,’ and noted down the phrase, ‘Society Women at Inquest.’
‘James Ryder.’
‘You are James Bell Ryder, and your address is 17 Blainberry Avenue, NW?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your business or profession?’
‘I am managing director of the Ellis Vale Cement Co.’
‘Will you kindly examine this blowpipe.’ (A pause.) ‘Have you ever seen this before?’
‘No.’
‘You did not see any such thing in anybody’s hand on board the Prometheus?’
‘No.’
‘You were sitting in seat No. 4, immediately in front of the deceased?’
‘What if I was?’
‘Please do not take that tone with me. You were sitting in seat No. 4. From that seat you had a view of practically everyone in the compartment.’
‘No, I hadn’t. I couldn’t see any of the people on my side of the thing. The seats have got high backs.’
‘But if one of those people had stepped out into the gangway—into such a position as to be able to aim the blowpipe at the deceased—you would have seen them then?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And you saw no such thing?’
‘No.’
‘Did any of the people in front of you move from their seats?’
‘Well, the man two seats ahead of me got up and went to the toilet compartment.’
‘That was in a direction away from you and from the deceased?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he come down the car towards you at all?’
‘No, he went straight back to his seat.’
‘Was he carrying anything in his hand?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Quite.’
‘Did anyone else move from his seat?’
‘The chap in front of me. He came the other way, past me to the back of the car.’
‘I protest,’ squeaked Mr Clancy, springing up from his seat in court. ‘That was earlier—much earlier—about one o’clock.’
‘Kindly sit down,’ said the coroner. ‘You will be heard presently. Proceed, Mr Ryder. Did you notice if this gentleman had anything in his hands?’
‘I think he had a fountain-pen. When he came back he had an orange book in his hand.’
‘Is he the only person who came down the car in your direction? Did you yourself leave your seat?’
‘Yes, I went to the toilet compartment—and I didn’t have any blowpipe in my hand either.’
‘You are adopting a highly improper tone. Stand down.’
Mr Norman Gale, dentist, gave evidence of a negative character. Then the indignant Mr Clancy took the stand.
Mr Clancy was news of a minor kind, several degrees inferior to a Peeress.
‘Mystery Story Writer gives Evidence. Well-known author admits purchase of deadly weapon. Sensation in court.’
But the sensation was perhaps a little premature.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Clancy shrilly. ‘I did purchase a blowpipe, and what is more, I have brought it with me today. I protest strongly against the inference that the blowpipe with which the crime was committed was my blowpipe. Here is my blowpipe.’
And he produced the blowpipe with a triumphant flourish.
The reporters wrote, ‘Second 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.’
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