Berkley books by Agatha Christie
APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH
THE BIG FOUR
THE BOOMERANG CLUE
CARDS ON THE TABLE
DEAD MAN'S MIRROR
DEATH IN THE AIR
DOUBLE SIN AND OTHER STORIES
ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER
THE GOLDEN BALL AND OTHER STORIES
THE HOLLOW
. THE LABORS OF HERCULES fe^"
THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT J|^%?
THE MOVING FINGER S^Sf^/i MISS MARPLE: THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES ^ t ^^l,
MR. BARKER PYNE, DETECTIVE ^"Sife S
THE MURDER AT HAZELMOOR I THE MURDER AT THE VICARAGE
MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA
MURDER IN RETROSPECT
MURDER IN THREE ACTS
THE MURDER ON THE LINKS
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. QUIN
NORM?
PARTNERS IN CRIME
THE PATRIOTIC MURDERS
POIROT LOSES A CLIENT
THE REGATTA MYSTERY AND OTHER STORIES
SAD CYPRESS
THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS
THERE IS A TIDE...
THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD
THIRTEEN AT DINNER
THREE BUND MICE AND OTHER STORIES
THE TUESDAY CLUB MURDERS
THE UNDER DOG AND OTHER STORIES
THE WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION AND OTHER STORIES
AGATHA
CHR^IE
DEATH IN THE AIR
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Rough Plan of Rear Car "Prometheus"
Gangway Between Seats

2. Madame Giselle
4. Mr. Ryder
5. M. Armand Dupont
6. M. Jean Dupont 8. Mr. Clancy
9. M. Hercule Poirot
10. Dr. Bryant
12. Mr. Norman Gale
13. The Countess of Horbury
16. Miss Jane Grey


17. The Hon. Venetia Ken- All the seats face the front of the plane with the exception of Seats 16, 15, 18. and 17. They face the tail
of the plane.
^^w-	^^^
The September sun beat down hotly on Le Bourget aerodrome
as the passengers crossed the ground and climbed
into the air liner "Prometheus," due to depart for Croydon
in a few minutes' time.
Jane Grey was among the last to enter and take her seat,
No. 16. Some of the passengers had already passed on
through the center door past the tiny pantry kitchen and the
two wash rooms to the front car. Most people were already
seated. On the opposite side of the gangway there was a
good deal of chatter--a rather shrill, high-pitched woman's
voice dominating it. Jane's lips twisted slightly. She knew
that particular type of voice so well.
"My dear, it's extraordinary--no idea.... Where do you
say?... Juan les Pins?... Oh, yes.... No, Le Pinet.
... Yes, just the same old crowd.... But of course let's sit
together.... Oh, can't we?... Who?... Oh, I see."
And then a man's voice, foreign, polite:
"With the greatest of pleasure, madame."
Jane stole a glance out of the corner of her eye.
A little elderly man with large mustaches and an eggshaped
head was politely moving himself and his belongings
from the seat corresponding to Jane's on the opposite side
of the gangway.
1
2 Agatha Christie
Jane turned her head slightly and got a view of the two
women whose unexpected meeting had occasioned this polite
action on the stranger's part. The mention of Le Pinet
had stimulated her curiosity, for Jane, also, had been at Le
Pinet.
She remembered one of the women perfectly--remembered
how she had seen her last, at the baccarat table, her
little hands clenching and unclenching themselves; her delicately
made-up, Dresden-china face flushing and paling
alternately. With a little effort, Jane thought, she could have
remembered her name. A friend had mentioned it; had said,
"She's a peeress, she is. But not one of the proper ones;
she was only some chorus girl or other."
Deep scorn in the friend's voice. That had been Maisie,
who had a first-class job as a masseuse, taking off flesh.
The other woman, Jane thought in passing, was the real
thing. "The horsey county type," thought Jane, and forthwith
forgot the two women and interested herself in the
view obtainable through the window of Le Bourget aerodrome.
Various other machines were standing about. One
of them looked like a big metallic centipede.
The one place she was obstinately determined not to look
was straight in front of her, where, on the seat opposite,
sat a young man.
He was wearing a rather bright periwinkle-blue pullover.
Above the pullover, Jane was determined not to look. If
she did, she might catch his eye. And that would never do!
Mechanics shouted in French; the engine roared, relaxed,
roared again; obstructions were pulled away; the plane started.
Jane caught her breath. It was only her second flight.
She was still capable of being thrilled. It looked--it looked
as though they must run into that fence thing--no, they
were off the ground, rising, rising, sweeping round; there
was Le Bourget beneath them.
The midday service to Croydon had started. It contained
twenty-one passengers--ten in the forward carriage, eleven
DEATH IN THE AIR 3
in the rear one. It had two pilots and two stewards. The
noise of the engines was very skillfully deadened. There
was no need to put cotton wool in the ears. Nevertheless,
there was enough noise to discourage conversation and encourage
thought.
As the plane roared above France on its way to the Channel,
the passengers in the rear compartment thought their
various thoughts.
Jane Grey thought: "I won't look at him--I won't. It's
much better not. I'll go on looking out of the window and
thinking. I'll choose a definite thing to think about; that's
always the best way. That will keep my mind steady. I'll
begin at the beginning and go all over it."
Resolutely she switched her mind back to what she called
the beginning--that purchase of a ticket in the Irish Sweep.
It had been an extravagance, but an exciting extravagance.
A lot of laughter and teasing chatter in the hairdressing
establishment in which Jane and five other young ladies
were employed:
"What'll you do if you win it, dear?"
"I know what I'd do."
Plans, castles in the air, a lot of chaff.
Well, she hadn't won it--it being the big prize. But she had won a hundred pounds.
A hundred pounds!
"You spend half of it, dear, and keep the other half for
a rainy day. You never know."
"I'd buy a fur coat, if I was you--a real tip-top one."
"What about a cruise?"
Jane had wavered at the thought of a cruise, but in the
end she had remained faithful to her first idea. A week at
Le Pinet. So many of her ladies had been going to Le Pinet
or just come back from Le Pinet. Jane--her clever fingers
patting and manipulating the waves, her tongue uttering
mechanically the usual cliches, "Let me see. How long is
it since you had your perm, madam?... Your hair's such
4 Agatha Christie
an uncommon color, madam.... What a wonderful summer
it has been, hasn't it, madam?"--had thought to herself,
"Why the devil can't I go to Le Pinet?" Well, now she
could!
Clothes presented small difficulty. Jane, like most London
girls employed in smart places, could produce a miraculous
effect of fashion for a ridiculously small outlay.
Nails, make-up and hair were beyond reproach.
Jane went to Le Pinet.
Was it possible that now, in her thoughts, ten days at Le
Pinet had dwindled down to one incident?
An incident at the roulette table. Jane allowed herself a
certain amount each evening for the pleasures of gambling.
That sum she was determined not to exceed. Contrary to
the prevalent superstition, Jane's beginner's luck had been
bad. This was her fourth evening and the last stake of that
evening. So far she had staked prudently on color or on one
of the dozens; she had won a little, but lost more. Now she
waited, her stake in her hand.
There were two numbers on which nobody had staked.
Five and six. Should she put this, her last stake, on one of
those numbers? If so, which of them? Five or six? Which
did she fed?
Five--five was going to turn up. The ball was spun.
Jane stretched out her hand. Six--she'd put it on six.
Just in time. She and another player opposite staked
simultaneously. She on six, he on five.
"Rien ne va plus," said the croupier.
The ball clicked, settled.
"Le numero cinq, rouge, impair, manque."
Jane could have cried with vexation. The croupier swept
away the stakes, paid out. The man opposite said: "Aren't
you going to take up your winnings?"
"Mine?"
"Yes."
"But I put on six."
DEATH IN IHb AIR ,
"Indeed you didn't. I put on six and you pi ,- "
He smiled--a very attractive smile. Whit u
very brown face. Blue eyes. Crisp short hair.
Half unbelievingly, Jane picked up her g<^ ^^ ^
true? She felt a little muddled herself. Perhaps .,'. i ,
i. c- of i i -i j i- i she had put
her counters on five. She looked doubtingly at ^
and he smiled easily back.
"That's right," he said. "Leave a thing lyir ^^ ^
somebody else will grab it who has got no right ° ., ^. .,
. to it. i nac s
an old trick.
Then, with a friendly little nod of the head, h^, . „ away. That, too, had been nice of him. She i,* i, suspected otherwise that he had not let her take 1. .
in order to scrape acquaintance with her. But he^ , ^ . _ * i i '' "'^isri i ulcu
kind of man. He was nice. And here he was, sitt. .,no<.,tp
to her.
And now it was all over, the money spent, , .
days--rather disappointing days--in Paris, anc, home on her return air ticket. "And what next?"
"Stop," said Jane in her mind. "Don't thini ,, ^ ..
going to happen next. It'll only make you nerv, „
The two women had stopped talking.
She looked across the gangway. The Dr< , .woman
exclaimed petulantly, examining a bn , r- nail. She rang the bell, and when the white-coal , <.»pu,a,d appeared she said:
"Send my maid to me. She's in the other con- „.>,»,„»„» "
"Yes, my lady."
The steward, very deferential, very quick an, ff,..-,,* disappeared again. A dark-haired French girl ^ ., _ black appeared. She carried a small jewel case.
Lady Horbury spoke to her in French:
"Madeleine, I want my red morocco case."
The maid passed along the gangway. At the e, . ^ of the car were some piled-up rugs and cases.
The girl returned with a small dressing case.
6 Agatha Christie
Cicely Horbury took it and dismissed the maid.
"That's all right, Madeleine. I'll keep it here."
The maid went out again. Lady Horbury opened the case
and from the beautifully fitted interior she extracted a nail
file. Then she looked long and earnestly at her face in a
small mirror and touched it up here and there--a little
powder, more lip salve.
Jane's lips curled scornfully; her glance traveled farther
down the car.
Behind the two women was the little foreigner who had
yielded his seat to the county woman. Heavily muffled up
in unnecessary mufflers, he appeared to be fast asleep. Perhaps
made uneasy by Jane's scrutiny, his eyes opened,
looked at her for a moment, then closed again.
Beside him sat a tall, gray-haired man with an authoritative
face. He had a flute case open in front of him and
was polishing the flute with loving care. Funny, Jane thought,
he didn't look like a musician--more like a lawyer or a
doctor.
Behind these two were a couple of Frenchmen, one with
a beard and one much younger--perhaps his son. They
were talking and gesticulating in an excited manner.
On her own side of the car, Jane's view was blocked by
the man in the blue pullover--the man at whom, for some
absurd reason, she was determined not to look.
"Absurd to feel so--so excited. I might be seventeen,"
thought Jane disgustedly.
Opposite her, Norman Gale was thinking:
"She's pretty--really pretty. She remembers me all right.
She looked so disappointed when her stakes were swept
away. It was worth a lot more than that to see her pleasure
when she won. I did that rather well. She's very attractive
when she smiles--no pyorrhoea there--healthy gums and
sound teeth... .Damn it, I feel quite excited. Steady, my
boy."
DEATH IN THE AIR 7
K He said to the steward, who hovered at his side with the "menu, "I'll have cold tongue."
The Countess of Horbury thought: "What shall I do? It's
the hell of a mess. The hell of a mess. There's only one
way out that I can see. If only I had the nerve-- Can I do
it? Can I bluff it out? My nerves are all to pieces! That's
the coke. Why did I ever take to coke? My face looks
awful--simply awful. That cat, Venetia Kerr, being here
makes it worse. She always looks at me as though I were
dirt. Wanted Stephen herself. Well, she didn't get him! That
long face of hers gets on my nerves. It's exactly like a
horse. I hate these county women. What shall I do? I've
got to make up my mind. The old hag meant what she said."
She fumbled in her vanity bag for her cigarette case and
fitted a cigarette into a" long holder. Her hands shook slightly.
The Honorable Venetia Kerr thought: "Little tart! That's
what she is. Poor old Stephen! If he only could get rid of
her!"
She, in turn, felt for her cigarette case. She accepted
Cicely Horbury's match.
The steward said: "Excuse me, ladies; no smoking."
Cicely Horbury said, "Hell!"
M. Hercule Poirot thought: "She is pretty, that little one
over there. There is determination in that chin. Why is she
so worried over something? Why is she so determined not
to look at the handsome young man opposite her? She is
very much aware of him and he of her." The plane dropped
slightly. "Mon estomac!" thought Hercule Poirot, and closed
his eyes determinedly.
Beside him, Doctor Bryant, caressing his flute with nervous
hands, thought: "I can't decide. I simply cannot decide.
This is the turning point of my career."
Nervously he drew out his flute from its case, caressingly,
lovingly. Music--in music there was an escape from
all your cares. Half smiling, he raised the flute to his lips;
8 Agatha Christie
then put it down again. The little man with the mustaches
beside him was fast asleep. There had been a moment, when
the plane had bumped a little, when he had looked distinctly
green. Doctor Bryant was glad he himself became neither
train-sick nor sea-sick nor airsick.
M. Dupontpere turned excitedly in his seat and shouted
at M. Dupontfils, sitting beside him:
"There is no doubt about it! They are all wrong--the
Germans, the Americans, the English! They date the prehistoric
pottery all wrong! Take the Samarra ware--"
Jean Dupont, tall, fair, with a false air of indolence, said:
"You must take the evidences from all sources. There is
Tall Halaf, and Sakje Geuze--"
They prolonged the discussion.
Armand Dupont wrenched open a battered attache case.
"Take these Kurdish pipes, such as they make today.
The decoration on them is almost exactly similar to that on
the pottery of 5000 b.c."
An eloquent gesture almost swept away the plate that a
steward was placing in front of him.
Mr. Clancy, writer of detective stories, rose from his
seat behind Norman Gale and padded to the end of the car,
extracted a Continental Bradshaw from his raincoat pocket
and returned with it to work out a complicated alibi for
professional purposes.
Mr. Ryder, in the seat behind him, thought: "I'll have
to keep my end up, but it's not going to be easy. I don't
see how I'm going to raise the dibs for the next dividend.
If we pass the dividend the fat's in the fire.... Oh, hell!"
Norman Gale rose and went to the wash room. As soon
as he had gone, Jane drew out a mirror and surveyed her
face anxiously. She also applied powder and lipstick.
A steward placed coffee in front of her.
Jane looked out of the window. The Channel showed
blue and shining below.
A wasp buzzed round Mr. Clancy's head just as he was
DEATH IN THE AIR 9
dealing with 19:55 at Tsaribrod, and he struck at it absently.
The wasp flew off to investigate the Duponts' coffee cups.
Jean Dupont slew it neatly.
Peace settled down on the car. Conversation ceased, but
thoughts pursued their way.
Right at the end of the car, in Seat No. 2, Madame
Giselle's head lolled forward a little. One might have taken
her to be asleep. But she was not asleep. She neither spoke
nor thought.
Madame Giselle was dead.
;^<«	ww<,
^
2
Henry Mitchell, the senior of the two stewards, passed swiftly
from table to table, depositing bills. In half an hour's time
they would be at Croydon. He gathered up notes and silver,
bowed, said, "Thank you, sir... .Thank you, madam." At
the table where the two Frenchmen sat, he had to wait a
minute or two; they were so busy discussing and gesticulating.
And there wouldn't be much of a tip, anyway, from
them, he thought gloomily. Two of the passengers were
asleep--the little man with the mustaches and the old woman
down at the end. She was a good tipper, though; he remembered
her crossing several times. He refrained, therefore,
from awaking her.
The little man with the mustaches woke up and paid for
the bottle of mineral water and the thin captain's biscuits,
which was all he had had.
Mitchell left the other passenger as long as possible.
About five minutes before they reached Croydon, he stood
by her side and leaned over her.
"Pardon, madam; your bill."
He laid a deferential hand on her shoulder. She did not
wake. He increased the pressure, shaking her gently, but
the only result was an unexpected slumping of the body
10
DEATH IN THE AIR 1 1
down in the seat. Mitchell bent over her; then straightened
up with a white face.
Albert Davis, second steward, said:
"Coo! You don't mean it."
"I tell you it's true."
Mitchell was white and shaking.
"You sure. Henry?"
"Dead sure. At least—well, I suppose it might be a fit."
"We'll be at Croydon in a few minutes."
"If she's just taken bad—"
They remained a minute or two undecided; then arranged
their course of action. Mitchell returned to the rear car. He
went from table to table, bending his head and murmuring
confidentially:
"Excuse me, sir; you don't happen to be a doctor?"
Norman Gale said, "I'm a dentist. But if there's anything
I can do—" He half rose from his seat.
"I'm a doctor," said Doctor Bryant. "What's the matter?"
"There's a lady at the end there—I don't like the look
of her."
Bryant rose to his feet and accompanied the steward.
Unnoticed, the little man with the mustaches followed them.
Doctor Bryant bent over the huddled figure in Seat No.
2—the figure of a stoutish middle-aged woman dressed in
heavy black.
The doctor's examination was brief.
He said: "She's dead."
Mitchell said: "What do you think it was? Kind of fit?"
"That I can't possibly say without a detailed examination.
When did you last see her—alive, I mean?"
Mitchell reflected.
"She was all right when I brought her coffee along."
"When was that?"
"Well, it might have been three-quarters of an hour ago—
12 Agatha Christie
about that. Then, when I brought the bill along, I thought
she was asleep."
Bryant said: "She's been dead at least half an hour."
Their consultation was beginning to cause interest; heads
were craned round, looking at them. Necks were stretched
to listen.
"I suppose it might have been a kind of fit like?" suggested
Mitchell hopefully.
He clung to the theory of a fit. His wife's sister had fits.
He felt that fits were homely things that any man might
understand.
Doctor Bryant had no intention of committing himself.
He merely shook his head with a puzzled expression.
A voice spoke at his elbow--the voice of the muffledup
man with the mustaches.
"There is," he said, "a mark on her neck."
He spoke apologetically, with a due sense of speaking
to superior knowledge.
True," said Doctor Bryant.
The woman's head lolled over sideways. There was a
minute puncture mark on the side of her throat, with a circle
of red round it.
"Pardon," the two Duponts joined in. They had been
listening for the last few minutes. "The lady is dead, you
say, and there is a mark on the neck?"
It was Jean, the younger Dupont, who spoke:
"May I make a suggestion? There was a wasp flying
about. I killed it." He exhibited the corpse in his coffee
saucer. "Is it not possible that the poor lady has died of a
wasp sting? I have heard such things happen."
"It is possible," agreed Bryant. "I have known of such
cases. Yes, that is certainly quite a possible explanation.
Especially if there were any cardiac weakness."
"Anything I'd better do, sir?" asked the steward. "We'll
be at Croydon in a minute."
DEATH IN THE AIR 13
"Quite, quite," said Doctor Bryant as he moved away a
little. "There's nothing to be done. The--er--body must
not be moved, steward."
"Yes, sir, I quite understand."
Doctor Bryant prepared to resume his seat and looked in
some surprise at the small, muffled-up foreigner who was
standing his ground.
"My dear sir," he said, "the best thing to do is to go
back to your seat. We shall be at Croydon almost immediately."

"That's right, sir," said the steward. He raised his voice:
"Please resume your seats, everybody."
"Pardon," said the little man. "There is something--"
"Something?"
"Mais oui, something that has been overlooked."
With the tip of a pointed patent-leather shoe, he made
his meaning clear. The steward and Doctor Bryant followed
the action with their eyes. They caught the glint of orange
and black on the floor, half concealed by the edge of the
black skirt.
"Another wasp?" said the doctor, surprised.
Hercule Poirot went down on his knees. He took a small
pair of tweezers from his pocket and used them delicately.
He stood up with his prize.
"Yes," he said, "it is very like a wasp, but it is not a
wasp."
He turned the object about this way and that, so that both
the doctor and the steward could see it clearly--a little knot
of teased fluffy silk, orange and black, attached to a long
peculiar-looking thorn with a discolored tip.
"Good gracious! Good gracious me!" The exclamation
came from little Mr. Clancy, who had left his seat and was
poking his head desperately over the steward's shoulder.
"Remarkable--really very remarkable--absolutely the most
remarkable thing I have ever come across in my life. Well,
14 Agatha Christie
upon my soul, I should never have believed it."
"Could you make yourself just a little clearer, sir?" asked
the steward. "Do you recognize this?"
"Recognize it? Certainly I recognize it." Mr. Clancy
swelled with passionate pride and gratification. "This object,
gentlemen, is the native thorn shot from a blowpipe
by certain tribes--er--I cannot be exactly certain now if
it is South African tribes or whether it is the inhabitants of
Borneo which I have in mind. But that is undoubtedly a
native dart that has been aimed by a blowpipe, and I strongly
suspect that on the tip--"
"--is the famous arrow poison of the South American
Indians," finished Hercule Poirot. And he added, "Mais
en/in! Est-ce que c'est possible?"
"It is certainly very extraordinary," said Mr. Clancy, still
full of blissful excitement. "As I say, most extraordinary.
I am myself a writer of detective fiction, but actually to
meet, in real life--"
Words failed him.
The aeroplane heeled slowly over, and those people who
were standing up staggered a little. The plane was circling
round in its descent to Croydon aerodrome.
JJ^^	w-w<k
3
The steward and the doctor were no longer in charge of the
situation. Their place was usurped by the rather absurdlooking
little man in the muffler. He spoke with an authority
and a certainty of being obeyed that no one thought of
questioning.
He whispered to Mitchell and the latter nodded, and--
pushing his way through the passengers--he took up his
stand in the doorway leading past the wash rooms to the
front car.
The plane was running along the ground now. When it
finally came to a stop, Mitchell raised his voice:
"I must ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to keep your seats
and remain here until somebody in authority takes charge.
I hope you will not be detained long."
The reasonableness of this order was appreciated by most
of the occupants of the car, but one person protested shrilly.
"Nonsense!" cried Lady Horbury angrily. "Don't you
know who I am? I insist on being allowed to leave at once!"
"Very sorry, my lady. Can't make exceptions."
"But it's absurd--absolutely absurd." Cicely tapped her
foot angrily. "I shall report you to the company. It's outrageous
that we should be shut up here with a dead body."
"Really, my dear," Venetia Kerr spoke with her well15
16 Agatha Christie
bred drawl, "too devastating, but I fancy we'll have to put
up with it." She herself sat down and drew out a cigarette
case. "Can I smoke now, steward?"
The harassed Mitchell said: "I don't suppose it matters
now, miss."
He glanced over his shoulder. Davis had disembarked
the passengers from the front car by the emergency door
and had now gone in search of orders.
The wait was not a long one, but it seemed to the passengers
as though half an hour, at least, had passed before
an erect, soldierly figure in plain clothes, accompanied by
a uniformed policeman, came hurriedly across the aerodrome
and climbed into the plane by the door that Mitchell
held open.
"Now, then, what's all this?" demanded the newcomer
in brisk official tones.
He listened to Mitchell and then to Doctor Bryant, and
he flung a quick glance over the crumpled figure of the
dead woman.
He gave an order to the constable and then addressed the
passengers:
"Will you please follow me, ladies and gentlemen?"
He escorted them out of the plane and across the aerodrome,
but he did not enter the usual customs department.
Instead, he brought them to a small private room.
"I hope not to keep you waiting any longer than is unavoidable,
ladies and gentlemen."
"Look here, inspector," said Mr. James Ryder. "I have
an important business engagement in London."
"Sorry, sir."
"I am Lady Horbury. I consider it absolutely outrageous
that I should be detained in this manner!"
"I'm sincerely sorry. Lady Horbury. But, you see, this
is a very serious matter. It looks like a case of murder."
"The arrow poison of the South American Indians," murmured
Mr. Clancy deliriously, a happy smile on his face.
DEATH IN THE AIR 17
The inspector looked at him suspiciously.
The French archaeologist spoke excitedly in French, and
the inspector replied to him slowly and carefully in the same
language.
Venetia Kerr said: "All this is a most crashing bore, but
I suppose you have your duty to do, inspector," to which
that worthy replied, "Thank you, madam," in accents of
some gratitude.
He went on:
"If you ladies and gentlemen will remain here, I want a
few words with Doctor—er—Doctor—"
"Bryant, my name is."
"Thank you. Just come this way with me, doctor."
"May I assist at your interview?"
It was the little man with the mustaches who spoke. |
The inspector turned on him, a sharp retort on his lips. '
Then his face changed suddenly.
"Sorry, M. Poirot," he said. "You're so muffled up I
didn't recognize you. Come along by all means."
He held the door open and Bryant and Poirot passed
through, followed by the suspicious glances of the rest of
the company.
"And why should he be allowed out and we made to stay
here?" cried Cicely Horbury.
Venetia Kerr sat down resignedly on a bench.
"Possibly one of the French police," she said. "Or a
customs spy."
She lit a cigarette.
Norman Gale said rather diffidently to Jane:
"I think I saw you at—er—Le Pinet."
"I was at Le Pinet."
Norman Gale said: "It's an awfully attractive place. I
like the pine trees."
Jane said: "Yes, they smell so nice."
And then they both paused for a minute or two, uncertain
what to say next.
Agatha Christie
16
p. ra.'^sald:
inally recognized you at once in the plane."
, ""^^..essed great surprise. ane exp1-;;"
id yo ^ ..qq y ^j^ ^^ woman was really murGale
sai°-
> ' ; so," said Jane. "It's rather thrilling, in a way,
suppos ^ ^^ ^,,--^ ^ shuddered a little, and
».t s «.-, . moved just a little nearer in a protective manNorman
Ga16 '
_ rturi1118 were ^^'"S French to each other. Mr
_ e ' caking calculations in a little notebook and r \vas„ watch from time to time. Cicely Horbury sat
"g at tapping impatiently on the floor. She lit a
with her fo01 u i i. i cr ^ a shaking hand.
6 e te w (jgm. Qp (^g inside leaned a very large, blueAeainstt"®
i . r
clad giv^-^^^g Policeman.
' inpa iear by. Inspector Japp was talking to Doctor
^aroornnuiepoirot.
Bryant and hp ..,..,
.,y -- ^t a knack of turning up in the most unexpected
.„ ' M, y^lon aerodrome a little out of your beat, my isn't Cf°y poJJ-ot
"Ah as afl^01^ratner a ^S bug in the smuggling line. A
.. ' - y being on the spot. This is the most amazing
, . uck' -,ome across for years. Now, then, let's get
ess 1 ^y.g( yf ^^ doctor, perhaps you'll give me nt0 1(' p. an(i address."
yOUr full iiaH^ n T r j- r
"R lain^ ^B"1- I am a specialist on diseases of
the dthr^- My addrcss is 329 Harley street-"
Aar a coi^51^^ sittlnS at a table took down these
.cus' sii1^0" will, of course, examine the body,"
d l"*^ °\Vitwe sna'1 want you at the in(^uest' doctor." ssl\a1?p' qi^ite so."
^^uite s ' ^ j^gg ^ ^g ^^g ^ death?" Can you g1'
DEATH IN THE AIR 19
"The woman must have been dead at least half an hour
when I examined her--that was a few minutes before we
arrived at Croydon. I can't go nearer than that, but I understand
from the steward that he had spoken to her about
an hour before."
"Well, that narrows it down for all practical purposes. I
suppose it's no good asking you if you observed anything
of a suspicious nature?"
The doctor shook his head.
"And me, I was asleep," said Poirot with deep chargrin.
"I suffer almost as badly in the air as on the sea. Always I wrap myself up well and try to sleep."
"Any idea as to the cause of death, doctor?"
"I should not like to say anything definite at this stage.
This is a case for post-mortem examination and analysis."
Japp nodded comprehendingly.
"Well, doctor," he said, "I don't think we need detain
you now. I'm afraid you'll--er--have to go through certain
formalities--all the passengers will. We can't make exceptions."

Doctor Bryant smiled.
"I should prefer you to make sure that I have no--er--
blowpipes or other lethal weapons concealed upon my person,"
he said gravely.
"Rogers will see to that," Japp nodded to his subordinate.
"By the way, doctor, have you any idea what would be
likely to be on this--"
He indicated the discolored thorn, which was lying in a
small box on the table in front of him.
Doctor Bryant shook his head.
"Difficult to say without an analysis. Curare is the usual
poison employed by the South American natives, I believe."
"Would that do the trick?"
"It is a very swift and rapid poison."
"But not very easy to obtain, eh?"
"Not at all easy for a layman."
20 Agal
"Then we'll have to s'
Japp, who was always for
The doctor and the con
Japp tilted back his cha
"Rum business this," he
true. I mean, blowpipes i
plane—well, it insults one
"That, my friend, is a ver
"A couple of my men are
"We've got a fingerprint rr
along. I think we'd better s
He strode to the door and.
were ushered in. The youn
balance. He looked more e:
other steward still looked w
"That's all right, my lad
the passports there?... Gooc
He sorted through them q
"Ah, here we are. Marie M
anything about her?"
"I've seen her before. Sh<
gland fairly often," said Mite
"Ah, in business of some
her business was?"
Mitchell shook his head.
remember her too. I saw her o
o'clock from Paris."
"Which of you was the las
"Him." The younger stewa
"That's right," said Mitche
her coffee."
"How was she looking ther
"Can't say I noticed. I jus
offered her milk, which she re
"What time was that?"
"Well, I couldn't say exactly
DEATH IN THE AIR 21
at the time. Might have been somewhere about two o'clock."
"Thereabouts," said Albert Davis, the other steward.
"When did you see her next?"
"When I took the bills round."
"What time was that?"
"About a quarter of an hour later. I thought she was
^leep.... Crikey! She must have been dead then!" The
steward's voice sounded awed.
"You didn't see any signs of this—" Japp indicated the
little wasplike dart.
"No, sir, I didn't."
"What about you, Davis?"
"The last time I saw her was when I was handing the
biscuits to go with the cheese. She was all right then."
"What is your system of serving meals?" asked Poirot.
"Do each of you serve separate cars?"
"No, sir, we work it together. The soup, then the meat
and vegetables and salad, then the sweet, and so on. We
usually serve the rear car first, and then go out with a fresh
lot of dishes to the front car."
Poirot nodded.
"Did this Morisot woman speak to anyone on the plane,
or show any signs of recognition?" asked Japp.
"Not that I saw, sir."
"You, Davis?"
"No, sir."
"Did she leave her seat at all during the journey?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"There's nothing you can think of that throws any light
on this business—either of you?"
Both the men thought, then shook their heads.
"Well, that will be all for now, then. I'll see you again
later."
Henry Mitchell said soberly:
"It's a nasty thing to happen, sir. I don't like it—me
having been in charge, so to speak."
22 Agatha Christie
"Well, I can't see that you're to blame in any way," said
Japp. "Still, I agree, it's a nasty thing to happen."
He made a gesture of dismissal. Poirot leaned forward.
"Permit me one little question."
"Go ahead, M. Poirot."
"Did either of you two notice a wasp flying about the
plane?"
Both men shook their heads.
"There was no wasp that I know of," said Mitchell.
"There was a wasp," said Poirot. "We have its dead body
on the plate of one of the passengers."
"Well, I didn't see it, sir," said Mitchell.
"No more than did I," said Davis.
"No matter."
The two stewards left the room. Japp was running his
eye rapidly over the passports.
"Got a countess on board," he said. "She's the one who's
throwing her weight about, I suppose. Better see her first
before she goes right off the handle and gets a question
asked in the House about the brutal methods of the police."
"You will, I suppose, search very carefully all the baggage—the
hand baggage—of the passengers in the rear car
of the plane?"
Japp winked cheerfully.
"Why, what do you think, M. Poirot? We've got to find
that blowpipe—if there is a blowpipe and we're not all
dreaming! Seems like a kind of nightmare to me. I suppose
that little writer chap hasn't suddenly gone off his onion
and decided to do one of his crimes in the flesh instead of
on paper? This poisoned-dart business sounds like him."
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
"Yes," continued Japp, "everybody's got to be searched,
whether they kick up rough or not, and every bit of truck
they had with them has got to be searched, too—and that's
flat."
"A very exact list might be made, perhaps," suggested
DEATH IN THE AIR 23
Poirot. "A list of everything in these people's possession."
Japp looked at him curiously.
"That can be done if you say so, M. Poirot. I don't quite
see what you're driving at, though. We know what we're
looking for."
"You may, perhaps, mon ami. But / am not so sure. I
look for something, but I know not what it is."
"At it again, M. Poirot! You do like making things difficult,
don't you? Now for her ladyship, before she's quite
ready to scratch my eyes out."
Lady Horbury, however, was noticeably calmer in her
manner. She accepted a chair and answered Japp's questions
without the least hesitation. She described herself as the
wife of the Earl of Horbury, gave her address as Horbury
Chase, Sussex, and Grosvenor Square, London. She was
returning to London from Le Pinet and Paris. The deceased
woman was quite unknown to her. She had noticed nothing
suspicious during the flight over. In any case, she was facing
the other way--towards the front of the plane--so had had
no opportunity of seeing anything that was going on behind
her. She had not left her seat during the journey. As far as
she remembered, no one had entered the rear car from the
front one, with the exception of the stewards. She could not
remember exactly, but she thought that two of the men
passengers had left the rear car to go to the wash rooms,
but she was not sure of this. She had not observed anyone
handling anything that could be likened to a blowpipe. No--
in answer to Poirot--she had not noticed a wasp in the car.
Lady Horbury was dismissed. She was succeeded by the
Honorable Venetia Kerr.
Miss Kerr's evidence was much the same as that of her
friend. She gave her name as Venetia Anne Kerr, and her
address as Little Paddocks, Horbury, Sussex. She herself
was returning from the south of France. As far as she was
aware, she had never seen the deceased before. She had ^ noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. Yes, she had
24 Agatha Christie
seen some of the passengers farther down the car striking
at a wasp. One of them, she thought, had killed it. Thai
was after luncheon had been served.
Exit Miss Kerr.
"You seem very much interested in that wasp, M. Poirot."
"The wasp is not so much interesting as suggestive, eh?"
"If you ask me," said Japp, changing the subject, "those
two Frenchmen are the ones in this! They were just across
the gangway from the Morisot woman, they're a seedylooking
couple, and that battered old suitcase of theirs is
fairly plastered with outlandish foreign labels. Shouldn't be
surprised if they'd been to Borneo or South America or
whatever it is. Of course we can't get a line on the motive,
but I dare say we can get that from Paris. We'll have to get
the Surete to collaborate over this. It's their job more than
ours. But if you ask me, those two toughs are our meat."
Poirot's eyes twinkled a little.
"What you say is possible, certainly; but as regards some
of your points, you are in error, my friend. Those two men
are not toughs or cutthroats, as you suggest. They are, on
the contrary, two very distinguished and learned
archaeologists."
"Go on! You're pulling my leg!"
"Not at all. I know them by sight perfectly. They are M.
Armand Dupont and his son, M. Jean Dupont. They have
returned not long ago from conducting some very interesting
excavations in Persia at a site not far from Susa."
"Goon!"
Japp made a grab at a passport.
"You're right, M. Poirot," he said, "but you must admit
they don't look up to much, do they?"
"The world's famous men seldom do! I myself--moi,
qui vous parle--I have before now been taken for a hairdresser!"

"You don't say so," said Japp with a grin. "Well, let's
have a look at your distinguished archaeologists."
DEATH IN THE AIR 25
M. Dupont pere declared that the deceased was quite
unknown to him. He had noticed nothing of what had happened
on the journey over, as he had been discussing a very
interesting point with his son. He had not left his seat at
all. Yes, he had noticed a wasp towards the end of lunch.
His son had killed it.
M. Jean Dupont confirmed this evidence. He had noticed
nothing of what went on round about him. The wasp had
annoyed him and he had killed it. What had been the subject
of the discussion? The prehistoric pottery of the Near East.
Mr. Clancy, who came next, came in for rather a bad
time. Mr. Clancy, so felt Inspector Japp, knew altogether
too much about blowpipes and poisoned darts.
"Have you ever owned a blowpipe yourself?"
"Well, I--er--well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have."
"Indeed!" Inspector Japp pounced on the statement.
Little Mr. Clancy fairly squeaked with agitation:
"You mustn't--er--misunderstand. My motives are
quite innocent. I can explain--"
"Yes, sir, perhaps you will explain."
"Well, you see, I was writing a book in which the murder
was committed that way."
"Indeed."
Again that threatening intonation. Mr. Clancy hurried
on:
"It was all a question of fingerprints--if you understand
me. It was necessary to have an illustration illustrating the
point I meant--I mean, the fingerprints--the position of
them--the position of them on the blowpipe, if you understand
me, and having noticed such a thing--in the Charing
Cross Road it was--at least two years ago now--and
so I bought the blowpipe, and an artist friend of mine very
kindly drew it for me, with the fingerprints, to illustrate my
Point. I can refer you to the book--'The Clue of the Scarlet
Petal'--and my friend too."
"Did you keep the blowpipe?"
26 Agatha Christie
"Why, yes—why, yes, I think so—I mean, yes, I did."
"And where is it now?"
"Well, I suppose—well, it must be somewhere about."
"What exactly, do you mean by somewhere about, Mr.
Clancy?"
"I mean—well, somewhere—I can't say where. I—I am
not a very tidy man."
"It isn't with you now, for instance?"
"Certainly not. Why, I haven't seen the thing for nearly
six months."
Inspector Japp bent a glance of cold suspicion on him
and continued his questions:
"Did you leave your seat at all in the plane?"
"No, certainly not—at least—well, yes, I did."
"Oh, you did. Where did you go?"
"I went to get a Continental Bradshaw out of my raincoat
pocket. The raincoat was piled with some rugs and suitcases
by the entrance at the end."
"So you passed close by the deceased's seat?"
"No—at least—well, yes, I must have done so. But this
was long before anything could have happened. I'd only
just drunk my soup."
Further questions drew negative answers. Mr. Clancy
had noticed nothing suspicious. He had been absorbed in
the perfecting of his cross-Europe alibi.
"Alibi, eh?" said the inspector darkly.
Poirot intervened with a question about wasps.
Yes, Mr. Clancy had noticed a wasp. It had attacked
him. He was afraid of wasps.... When was this?... Just
after the steward had brought him his coffee. He struck at
it and it went away.
Mr. Clancy's name and address were taken and he was
allowed to depart, which he did with relief on his face.
"Looks a bit fishy to me," said Japp. "He actually had
a blowpipe, and look at his manner. All to pieces."
DEATH IN THE AIR 27
"That is the severity of your official demeanor, my good
Japp."
"There's nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they're
only telling the truth," said the Scotland Yard man austerely.
Poirot looked at him pityingly.
"In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe
that."
"Of course I do. It's true. Now, then let's have Norman
Gale."
Norman Gale gave his address as Shepherd's Avenue,
Muswell Hill. By profession he was a dentist. He was returning
from a holiday spent at Le Pinet on the French coast.
He had spent a day in Paris, looking at various new types
of dental instruments.
He had never seen the deceased and had noticed nothing
suspicious during the journey. In any case, he had been
facing the other way--towards the front car. He had left
his seat once during the journey--to go to the wash room.
He had returned straight to his seat and had never been near
the rear end of the car. He had not noticed any wasp.
After him came James Ryder, somewhat on edge and
brusque in manner. He was returning from a business visit
to Paris. He did not know the deceased. Yes, he had occupied
the seat immediately in front of hers. But he could
not have seen her without rising and looking over the back
of his seat. He had heard nothing--no cry or exclamation.
No one had come down the car except the stewards. Yes,
the two Frenchmen had occupied the seats across the gangway
from his. They had talked practically the whole journey.
The younger of the two had killed a wasp at the conclusion
of the meal. No, he hadn't noticed the wasp previously. He
didn't know what a blowpipe was like, as he'd never seen
one, so he couldn't say if he'd seen one on the journey or
not.
Just as this point there was a tap on the door. A police
28 Agatha Christie
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 far 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 leaned 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 B
American Indians."
"It is a bit low," agreed Japp. "But it seems to have
worked."
DEATH IN THE AIR 29
"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, N.W. 5. 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 marvelous," 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
30 Agatha Christie
coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A
man who's traveled 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--me 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 fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he
could get away with."
^i»«fr««-	"^^^
4
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 gray beard--Maitre 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 i it?"
"I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angelique Morisot."
"That is the name on the deceased's passport. Was she ; known to the public by another name?" , "Yes, that of Madame Giselle."
I A stir of excitement went round. Reporters sat with pen; cils 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 money lenders in Paris."
"She carried on her business--where?"
"At the Rue Joliette. That was also her private residence."
"I understand that she journeyed to England fairly fre31
32 Agatha Christie
quently. 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 clientele 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."
Maitre 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 Air Lines,
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
DEATH IN THE AIR 33
the 'Prometheus' on the twelve-o'clock service from Paris
to Croydon. The deceased traveled by that service. Had you
ever seen the deceased before?"
"Yes, sir. I was on the 8:45 a.m. service six months ago,
and I noticed her traveling 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 Doctor 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 Air Lines, Ltd.?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were on duty on the 'Prometheus' as second stew;
ard on Tuesday last?"
' "Yes, sir."
34 Agatha Christie
"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."
Doctor 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. Doctor 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, Doctor 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."
Doctor Whistler was a thin, scraggy little man.
DEATH IN THE AIR 35
"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."
36 Agatha Christie
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 hemorrhage under the skin and also acts
on the heart, paralyzing 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 IN THE AIR 37
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 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, N.W.?"
"Yes."
"What is your business or profession?"
"I am managing director of the Ellis Vale Cement Co."
"Will you kindly examine the 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
38 ' Agatha Christie
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 wash-room 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 quite 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-colored 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 wash-room compartment—and I
didn't have any blowpipe in my hand either."
DEATH IN THE A(R 39
"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-fourhour
times to have noticed anything at all going on round
about him. The whole car might have been shooting snakevenomed
darts out of the 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
40 Agatha Christie
his attention had been 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 not 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 traveled a good deal in out-ofthe-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
inclosed space. There was no question of any outside person
having committed the crime. The murderer or murderess
must be of necessity one of the witnesses they had heard
DEATH IN THE AIR 41
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 often--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?"
"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 mustaches.
42 Agatha Christie
"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. Porrott who picked up the clan, 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.
|N»^.^^
yii^'^1-^.,.,. ,_„„,.,„....
[^%^y\&:'..%^^^^^^si,:^.^ , ^"^i
i.^^,..^^^,;;,;^^^i^^^^^^;. ! '' -"' ''"''
^^	^^
5
As Jane left the court after the verdict, she found Norman
Gale beside her.
He said:
"I wonder what was on that paper that the coroner wouldn't
have at any price."
"I can tell you, I think," said a voice behind him.
The couple turned, to look into the twinkling eyes of M.
Hercule Poirot.
"It was a verdict," said the little man, "of willful murder
against me."
"Oh, surely--" cried Jane.
Poirot nodded happily.
"Mais oui. As I came out I heard one man say to the
other: 'That little foreigner--mark my words--he done it!'
The jury thought the same."
Jane was uncertain whether to condole or to laugh. She
decided on the latter. Poirot laughed in sympathy.
"But, see you," he said, "definitely I must set to work
and clear my character."
With a smile and a bow, he moved away.
Jane and Norman stared after his retreating figure.
"What an extraordinarily rum little beggar," said Gale.
"Calls himself a detective. I don't see how he could do
43
44 Agatha Christie
much detecting. Any criminal could spot him a mile off. I
don't see how he could disguise himself."
"Haven't you got a very old-fashioned idea of detectives?"
asked Jane. "All the false-beard stuff is very out of
date. Nowadays detectives just sit and think out a case
psychologically."
"Rather less strenuous."
"Physically, perhaps. But of course you need a cool clear
brain."
"I see. A hot muddled one won't do."
They both laughed.
"Look here," said Gale. A slight flush rose in his cheeks
and he spoke rather fast: "Would you mind--I mean, it
would be frightfully nice of you--it's a bit late--but how
about having some tea with me? I feel--comrades in misfortune
and--"
He stopped. To himself he said:
"What is the matter with you, you fool? Can't you ask
a girl to have a cup of tea without stammering and blushing
and making an utter ass of yourself? What will the girl think
of you?"
Gale's confusion served to accentuate Jane's coolness
and self-possession.
"Thank you very much," she said. "I would like some
tea."
They found a tea shop, and a disdainful waitress with a
gloomy manner took their order with an air of doubt as of
one who might say: "Don't blame me if you're disappointed.
They say we serve teas here, but I never heard of it."
The tea shop was nearly empty. Its emptiness served to
emphasize the intimacy of tea drinking together. Jane peeled
off her gloves and looked across the table at her companion.
He was attractive--those blue eyes and that smile. And he
was nice too.
"It's a queer show, this murder business," said Gale,
DEATH IN THE AIR 45
/
plunging hastily into talk. He was still not quite free from
an absurd feeling of embarrassment.
"I know," said Jane. "I'm rather worried about it—from
the point of view of my job, I mean. I don't know how
they'll take it."
"Ye-es. I hadn't thought of that."
"Antoine's mayn't like to employ a girl who's been mixed
up in a murder case and had to give evidence and all that."
"People are queer," said Norman Gale thoughtfully.
"Life's so—so unfair. A thing like this isn't your fault at
all." He frowned angrily. "It's damnable!"
"Well, it hasn't happened yet," Jane reminded him. "No
good getting hot and bothered about something that hasn't
happened. After all, I suppose there is some point in it; I
might be the person who murdered her! And when you've
murdered one person, they say you usually murder a lot
more; and it wouldn't be very comfortable having your hair
done by a person of that kind."
"Anyone's only got to look at you to know you couldn't
murder anybody," said Norman, gazing at her earnestly.
"I'm not sure about that," said Jane. "I'd like to murder
some of my ladies sometimes—if I could be sure I'd get
away with it! There's one in particular—she's got a voice
like a corn crake and she grumbles at everything. I really
think sometimes that murdering her would be a good deed
and not a crime at all. So you see I'm quite criminally
minded."
"Well, you didn't do this particular murder, anyway,"
said Gale. "I can swear to that."
"And I can swear you didn't do it," said Jane. "But that
won't help you if your patients think you have."
"My patients, yes." Gale looked rather thoughtful. "I
suppose you're right; I hadn't really thought of that. A
dentist who might be a homicidal maniac—no, it's not a
very alluring prospect."
46 Agatha Christie
He added suddenly and impulsively:
"I say, you don't mind my being a dentist, do you?"
Jane raised her eyebrows.
"I? Mind?"
"What I mean is, there's always something rather--well,
comic about a dentist. Somehow, it's not a romantic profession.
Now, a doctor everyone takes seriously."
"Cheer up," said Jane. "A dentist is decidedly a cut above
a hairdresser's assistant."
They laughed and Gale said: "I feel we're going to be
friends. Do you?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"Perhaps you'll dine with me one night and we might
do a show?"
"Thank you."
There was a pause, and then Gale said:
"How did you like Le Pinet?"
"It was great fun."
"Had you ever been there before?"
"No, you see--"
Jane, suddenly confidential, came out with the story of
the winning sweep ticket. They agreed together on the general
romance and desirability of sweeps and deplored the
attitude of an unsympathetic English government.
Their conversation was interrupted by a young man in a
brown suit who had been hovering uncertainly near by for
some minutes before they noticed him.
Now, however, he lifted his hat and addressed Jane with
a certain glib assurance.
"Miss Jane Grey?" he said.
"Yes."
"I represent the Weekly Howl, Miss Grey. I wondered if
you would care to do us a short article on this air-death
murder. Point of view of one of the passengers."
"I think I'd rather not, thanks."
"Oh, come now. Miss Grey. We'd pay well for it."
DEATH IN THE AIR ( 47
"How much?" asked Jane.
"Fifty pounds, or--well, perhaps we'd make it a bit
more. Say sixty."
"No," said Jane. "I don't think I could. I shouldn't know
what to say."
"That's all right," said the young man easily. "You needn't
actually write the article, you know. One of our fellows
will just ask you for a few suggestions and work the whole
thing up for you. It won't be the least trouble to you."
"All the same," said Jane, "I'd rather not."
"What about a hundred quid? Look here; I really will
make it a hundred. And give us a photograph."
"No," said Jane. "I don't like the idea."
"So you may as well clear out," said Norman Gale. "Miss
Grey doesn't want to be worried."
The young man turned to him hopefully.
"Mr. Gale, isn't it?" he said. "Now look here, Mr. Gale.
If Miss Grey feels a bit squeamish about it, what about your
having a shot? Five hundred words. And we'll pay you the
same as I offered Miss Grey--and that's a good bargain,
because a woman's account of another woman's murder is
better news value. I'm offering you a good chance."
"I don't want it. I shan't write a word for you."
"It'll be good publicity apart from the pay. Rising professional
man--brilliant career ahead of you--all your patients
will read it."
"That," said Norman Gale, "is mostly what I'm afraid
of!"
"Well, you can't get anywhere without publicity in these
days."
"Possibly, but it depends on the kind of publicity. I'm
hoping that just one or two of my patients may not read the
papers and may continue in ignorance of the fact that I've
been mixed up in a murder case. Now you've had your
answer from both of us. Are you going quietly, or have I got to kick you out of here?"
48 Agatha Christie
"Nothing to get annoyed about," said the young man,
quite undisturbed by this threat of violence. "Good evening,
and ring me up at the office if you change your mind. Here's
my card."
He made his way cheerfully out of the tea shop, thinking
to himself as he did so: "Not too bad. Made quite a decent
interview."
And, in truth, the next issue of the Weekly Howl had an
important column on the views of two of the witnesses in
the air-murder mystery. Miss Jane Grey had declared herself
too distressed to talk about the matter. It had been a terrible
shock to her and she hated to think about it. Mr. Norman
Gale had expressed himself at length on the effect upon a
professional man's career of being mixed up in a criminal
case, however innocently. Mr. Gale had humorously expressed
the hope that some of his patients only read the
fashion columns and so might not suspect the worst when
they came for the ordeal of the "chair."
When the young man had departed, Jane said:
"I wonder why he didn't go for the more important people."

"Leaves that to his betters, probably," said Gale grimly.
"He's probably tried there and failed."
He sat frowning for a minute or two. Then he said:
"Jane--I'm going to call you Jane; you don't mind, do
you?--Jane, who do you think really murdered this Giselle
woman?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Have you thought about it? Really thought about it?"
"Well, no, I don't suppose I have. I've been thinking
about my own part in it, and worrying a little. I haven't
really wondered seriously which--which of the others did
it. I don't think I'd realized until to-day that one of them
must have done it."
"Yes, the coroner put it very plainly. I know I didn't do
DEATH IN THE AIR 49
it and I know you didn't do it because--well, because I
was watching you most of the time."
"Yes," said Jane. "I know you didn't do it--for the same
reason. And of course I know I didn't do it myself! So it
must have been one of the others--but I don't know which.
I haven't the slightest idea. Have you?"
"No."
Norman Gale looked very thoughtful. He seemed to be
puzzling out some train of thought. Jane went on:
"I don't see how we can have the least idea, either. I
mean we didn't see anything--at least I didn't. Did you?"
Gale shook his head.
"Not a thing."
"That's what seems so frightfully odd. I dare say you
wouldn't have seen anything. You weren't facing that way.
But I was. I was looking right along the middle. I mean, I
could have been--"
Jane stopped and flushed. She was remembering that her
eyes had been mostly fixed on a periwinkle-blue pullover,
and that her mind, far from being receptive to what was
going on around her, had been mainly concerned with the
personality of the human being inside the periwinkle-blue
pullover.
Norman Gale thought:
"I wonder what makes her blush like that.... She's wonderful.
... I'm going to marry her. Yes, I am.... But it's
no good looking too far ahead. I've got to have some good
excuse for seeing her often. This murder business will do
as well as anything else.... Besides, I really think it would
be as well to do something--that whippersnapper of a reporter
and his publicity--"
Aloud he said:
"Let's think about it now. Who killed her? Let's go over
all the people. The stewards?"
"No," said Jane.
"I agree. The won
"I don't suppose
killing people. And tt
far too county. She w
sure."
"Only an unpopulai
Jane. Then there's m
the coroner's jury, t
washes him out. The
either."
"If he'd wanted to
quite untraceable and
"Ye-es," said N01
tasteless, odorless pc
bit doubtful if they n
who owned up to ha^
"That's rather sus
little man, and he net
that looks as though ;
"Then there's Jar
der."
"Yes, it might be
"And the two Frer
"That's the most
places. And of coursi
know nothing about.:
unhappy and worried
"You probably we
murder," said Norma
"He looked nice, tl
was rather a dear. 11
"We don't seem to
Gale.
"I don't see how
of things about the old
and who inherits her
DEATH IN THE AIR 51
Norman Gale said thoughtfully:
"You think this is mere idle speculation?"
Jane said coolly, "Isn't it?"
"Not quite." Gale hesitated, then went on slowly, "I have
a feeling it may be useful."
Jane looked at him inquiringly.
"Murder," said Norman Gale, "doesn't concern the victim
and the guilty only. It affects the innocent too. You and
I are innocent, but the shadow of murder has touched us.
We don't know how that shadow is going to affect our
lives."
Jane was a person of cool common sense, but she shivered
suddenly.
"Don't," she said. "You make me feel afraid."
"I'm a little afraid myself," said Gale.
Hercule Poirot rejoined his friend. Inspector Japp. The latter
had a grin on his face.
"Hullo, old boy," he said. "You've had a pretty near
squeak of being locked up in a police cell."
"I fear," said Poirot gravely, "that such an occurrence
might have damaged me professionally."
"Well," said Japp with a grin, "detectives do turn out to
be criminals sometimes--in storybooks."
A tall thin man with an intelligent melancholy face joined
them, and Japp introduced him.
"This is Monsieur Foumier, of the Surete. He has come
over to collaborate with us about this business."
"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you once
some years ago, M. Poirot," said Foumier, bowing and
shaking hands. "I have also heard of you from M. Giraud."
A very faint smile seemed to hover on his lips. And
Poirot, who could well imagine the terms in which Giraud--
whom he himself had been in the habit of referring to disparagingly
as the "human foxhound"--had spoken of him,
permitted himself a small discreet smile in reply.
"I suggest," said Poirot, "that both you gentlemen should
dine with me at my rooms. I have already invited Maitre
52
DEATH IN THE AIR 53
Thibault. That is, if you and my friend Japp do not object
to my collaboration."
"That's all right, old cock," said Japp, slapping him
heartily on the back. "You're in on this on the ground floor."
"We shall be indeed honored," murmured the Frenchman
ceremoniously.
"You see," said Poirot, "as I said to a very charming
young lady just now, I am anxious to clear my character."
"That jury certainly didn't like the look of you," agreed
Japp, with a renewal of his grin. "Best joke I've heard for
a long time."
By common consent, no mention of the case was made
during the very excellent meal which the little Belgian provided
for his friends.
"After all, it is possible to eat well in England," murmured
Fournier appreciatively, as he made delicate use of
a thoughtfully provided toothpick.
"A delicious meal, M. Poirot," said Thibault.
"Bit Frenchified, but damn good," pronounced Japp.
"A meal should always lie lightly on the estomac," said
Poirot. "It should not be so heavy as to paralyze thought."
"I can't say my stomach ever gives me much trouble,"
said Japp. "But I won't argue the point. Well, we'd better
get down to business. I know that M. Thibault has got an
appointment this evening, so I suggest that we should start
by consulting him on any point that seems likely to be
Useful."
"I am your service, gentlemen. Naturally, I can speak
more freely here than in a coroner's court. I had a hurried
conversation with Inspector Japp before the inquest and he
indicated a policy of reticence--the bare necessary facts."
"Quite right," said Japp. "Don't ever spill the beans too
soon. But now let's hear all you can tell us of this Giselle
woman."
"To speak the truth, I know very little. I know her as
the world knew her--as a public character. Of her private
54 Agatha Christie
life as an individual I know very little. Probably M. Foumier
here can tell you more than I can. But I will say to you
this: Madame Giselle was what you call in this country 'a
character.' She was unique. Of her antecedents nothing is
known. I have an idea that as a young woman she was goodlooking.
I believe that as a result of smallpox she lost her
looks. She was--I am giving you my impressions--a woman
who enjoyed power--she had power. She was a keen woman
of business. She was the type of hard-headed Frenchwoman
who would never allow sentiment to affect her business
interests, but she had the reputation of carrying on her
profession with scrupulous honesty."
He looked for assent to Foumier. That gentleman nodded
his dark melancholic head.
"Yes," he said, "she was honest, according to her lights.
Yet the law could have called her to account if only evidence
had been forthcoming; but that--" He shrugged his shoulders
despondently. "It is too much to ask--with human
nature what it is."
"You mean?"
"Chantage."
"Blackmail?" echoed Japp.
"Yes, blackmail of a peculiar and specialized kind. It
was Madame Giselle's custom to lend money on what I
think you call in this country 'note of hand alone.' She used
her discretion as to the sums she lent and the methods of
repayment, but I may tell you that she had her own methods
of getting paid."
Poirot leaned forward interestedly.
"As Maitre Thibault said to-day, Madame Giselle's clientele
lay amongst the upper and professional classes. Those
classes are particularly vulnerable to the force of public
opinion. Madame Giselle had her own intelligence service.
It was her custom, before lending money--that is, in the
case of a large sum--to collect as many facts as possible
about the client in question, and her intelligence system, I
DEATH IN THE AIR 55
may say, was an extraordinarily good one. I will echo what
our friend has said--according to her lights, Madame Giselle
was scrupulously honest. She kept faith with those
who kept faith with her. I honestly believe that she has
never made use of her secret knowledge to obtain money
from anyone, unless that money was already owed to her."
"You mean," said Poirot, "that this secret knowledge
was her form of security?"
"Exactly. And in using it she was perfectly ruthless and
deaf to any finer shades of feeling. And I will tell you this,
gentlemen: Her system paid! Very, very rarely did she have
to write off a bad debt. A man or woman in a prominent
position would go to desperate lengths to obtain the money
which would obviate a public scandal. As I say, we knew
of her activities, but as for prosecution--" he shrugged his
shoulders--"that is a more difficult matter. Human nature
is human nature."
"And supposing," said Poirot, "that she did, as you say
happened occasionally, have to write off a bad debt? What
then?"
"In that case," said Fournier slowly, "the information
she held was published, or was given to the person concerned
in the matter."
There was a moment's silence. Then Poirot said:
"Financially, that did not benefit her?"
"No," said Foumier. "Not directly, that is."
"But indirectly?"
"Indirectly," said Japp, "it made the others pay up, eh?"
"Exactly," said Foumier. "It was valuable for what you
call the moral effect."
"Immoral effect, I should call it," said Japp. "Weir- he rubbed his nose thoughtfully--"it opens up a very pretty
line in motives for murder--a very pretty line. Then there's the question of who is going to come into her money." He
appealed to Thibault. "Can you help us there at all?"
"There was a daughter," said the lawyer. "She did not
56 Agatha Christie
live with her mother; indeed, I fancy that her mother has
never seen her since she was a tiny child. But she made a
will many years ago now, leaving everything, with the exception
of a small legacy to her maid, to her daughter, Anne
Morisot. As far as I know, she has never made another."
"And her fortune is large?" asked Poirot.
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
"At a guess, eight or nine million francs."
Poirot pursed his lips to a whistle. Japp said, "Lord, she
didn't look it! Let me see. What's the exchange?--that's--
why, that must be well over a hundred thousand pounds!
Whew!"
"Mademoiselle Anne Morisot will be a very wealthy
young woman," said Poirot.
"Just as well she wasn't on that plane," said Japp dryly.
"She might have been suspected of bumping off her mother
to get the dibs. How old would she be?"
"I really cannot say. I should imagine about twenty-four
or five."
"Well, there doesn't seem anything to connect her with
the crime. We'll have to get down to this blackmailing
business. Everyone on that plane denies knowing Madame
Giselle. One of them is lying. We've got to find out which.
An examination of her private papers might help, eh, Fournier?"
"My
friend," said the Frenchman, "immediately the news
came through, after I had conversed with Scotland Yard on
the telephone, I went straight to her house. There was a
safe there containing papers. All those papers had been
burned."
"Burned? Who by? Why?"
"Madame Giselle had a confidential maid, Elise. Elise
had instructions, in the event of anything happening to her
mistress, to open the safe, the combination of which she
knew, and bum the contents."
"What? But that's amazing!" Japp stared.
DEATH IN THE AIR 57
"You see," said Foumier, "Madame Giselle had her own
code. She kept faith with those who kept faith with her.
She gave her promise to her clients that she would deal
honestly with them. She was ruthless, but she was also a
woman of her word."
Japp shook his head dumbly. The four men were silent,
ruminating on the strange character of the dead woman.
Maitre Thibault rose.
"I must leave you, messieurs. I have to keep an appointment.
If there is any further information I can give you at
any time, you know my address."
He shook hands with them ceremoniously and left the
apartment.
>»^(
1^
^he departure of Maitre Thibault, the three men d^y./ ,/» hairs a little closer to the table.
/*^ ^)w then," said Japp, "let's get down to it." He n^
^/ e^^^d the cap of his fountain pen. "There were ele^r-i
^ ye^^"in that Plane--in ^ rear car, I mean--the ot^
^'e^t come into it--eleven passengers and two ste^ ^a^^y that's thirteen people we've got. One of those tfc ^
Y^A'ny^the old woman in- some of the passengers w^ yf'ft 'P' some weTe French. The latter I shall hand over^
^^rfU^rnier. The English ones I'll take on. Then there ^ tf^ f'fis to be made in Paris--that's your job, too, Fo^
¥^
\.^ ^ ^d not only in Paris," said Foumier. "In the sumih ^ f^ .'ft.^ did a lot of business at the French watering places^-
.g^^lle, Le Pinet, Wimereux. She went down south, t^ 0 ^u jbes and Nice and all those places." (^ ^ good point--one or two of the people in the 'P>.
^ ''A^S' mentione(i Le P^et, I remember. Well, that's Q°g
e^^hen we've got to get down to the actual murq" r
'^' y^^ wh0 could Po^ibly be in a position to i, g
lls^lf»lpwpipe He unrolled a \^ ^tch plan of the ^ n^ e ^roplane and placed it in the center of the table
f ^ j the"' we'rc ready for the preliminary work. And 10
0 .rff
^ 58
DEATH IN THE AIR 59
begin with, let's go through the people one by one, and
decide on the probabilities and—even more important—
the possibilities."
"To begin with, we can eliminate M. Poirot here. That
brings the number down to eleven."
Poirot shook his head sadly.
"You are of too trustful a nature, my friend. You should
trust nobody—nobody at all."
"Well, we'll leave you in, if you like," said Japp goodtemperedly.
"Then there are the stewards. Seems to me very
unlikely it should be either of them from the probability
point of view. They're not likely to have borrowed money
on a grand scale, and they've both got a good record—
decent sober men, both of them. It would surprise me very
much if either of them had anything to do with this. On the
other hand, from the possibility point of view we've got to
include them. They were up and down the car. They could
actually have taken up a position from which they could
have used the blowpipe—from the right angle, I mean—
though I don't believe that a steward could shoot a poisoned
dart out of a blowpipe in a car full of people without someone
noticing him do it. I know by experience that most people
are blind as bats, but there are limits. Of course, in a way,
the same thing applies to every blessed person. It was madness—absolute
madness—to commit a crime that way.
Only about a chance in a hundred that it would come off
without being spotted. The fellow that did it must have had
the luck of the devil. Of all the damn fool ways to commit
a murder—"
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
60 Agatha Christie
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 Foumier thoughtfully. 'St
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:
DEATH IN THE AIR 61
"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 Founder 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. I."
"And the other?"
"The scientific line. Research. This boomslang stuff is
the kind of thing they experiment with in high-class labo-
62 Agatha Christie
ratories. I had a talk with Winterspoon. ^Pirently, snake
venom--cobra venom, to be exact--is ^"^times used in
medicine. It's used in the treatment of ^P^lsy with a fair
amount of success. There's a lot being ^"^in the way of
scientific investigation into snake bite."
"Interesting and suggestive," said Fo*11"11^.
"Yes. But let's go on. Neither of tb0^ cateogries fits
the Grey girl. As far as she's concent' motive seems
unlikely; chances of getting the poison, P00^. Actual possibility
of doing the blowpipe act very ^"^tful indeed--
almost impossible. See here."
The three men bent over the plan.
"Here's No. 16," said Japp. "And b^'8 No. 2 where
Giselle was sitting, with a lot of people ^ ^eats intervening.
If the girl didn't move from her ses^--^nd everybody
says she didn't--she couldn't possibly h^® ^medthe thorn
to catch Giselle on the side of the neck. ^ ^'^ we can take
it she's pretty well out of it.
"Now then, No. 12, opposite. That's tP® ^ntist, Norman
Gale. Very much the same applies to I11"1' Small fry. I
suppose he'd have a slightly better chat*06 °f getting hold
of snake venom."
"It is not an injection favored by de1111^," murmured
Poirot gently. "It would be a case of kill ^^er than cure."
"A dentist has enough fun with his pat^"*^ as it is," said
Japp, grinning. "Still, I suppose he migt11 "We in circles
where you could get access to some funny ^tness in drugs.
He might have a scientific friend. But as fiS^ds possibility,
he's pretty well out of it. He did leave h^ se^, but only to
go to the wash room--that's in the opp^^ direction. On
his way back to his seat he couldn't b6 father than the
gangway here, and to shoot off a thorn ff01" a blowpipe so
as to catch the old lady in the neck, he '* ^ve to have a
kind of pet thorn that would do tricks ?nc* make a rightangle
turn. So he's pretty well out of it.'
"I agree," said Foumier. "Let us proC^-"
DEATH IN THE AIR 63
"We'll cross thegangway r~iow. No. 17."
"That was ray seat originary," said Poirot. "I yielded it
to one of the ladies, since she desired to be near her friend."
"That's the Honorable Ver»etia. Well, what about her?
She's a big bug. She might h»ave borrowed from Giselle.
Doesn't look as though she txad any guilty secrets in her
life, but perhaps she pulled a horse in a point to point, or
whatever they call it. We'll h£»ve 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 puffP--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 vvoman 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--rnen--who've been big-game
hunters in odd pans 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 Foumier. "Mademoiselle
Kerr--I saw her at the inquest to-day." 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 Foumier, "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 roiled 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
top—with eleven peop
on."
"Numbers 9 and 10
on the plan.
"M. Hercule Poirot a
has M. Poirot to say fc
Poirot shook his hes
"Mon estomac," h<
brain should be the ser
"I, too," said Foum
not feel well."
He closed his eyes <
"Now then. Doctor
Big bug in Harley Stree
woman money lender,
funny business crops u
Here's where my sciei
Bryant, at the top of t
research people. He co»
as easy as winking wh
laboratory."
"They check these t
"It would not be just likf
"Even if they do ch
stitute something harm
cause a man like Bryar
"There is much in v
"The only thing is:
thing? Why not say thi
natural death?"
Poirot coughed. The
"I fancy," he said,
well, shall we say, impi
natural death—possible
was a wasp, remember
DEATH IN THE AIR 65
"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."
Foumier 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
Foumier. "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 Foumier, "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
over crime
DEATH IN THE AIR 67
"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 oe 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, Foumier?"
"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 Foumier.
"But you don't believe it's likely?"
Foumier 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 rami68 Agatha Christie
fications 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 lAjg had been
making notes and cleared his throat.
"This is where we stand: Jane Grey. Probability, poor.
Possibility, practically nil. Gale. Probability, f^oor. 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 jok<; and Poirot
smiled indulgently and Foumier a trifle diffidently. Then
the detective resumed:
"Bryant. Probability and possibility, both go>fiod. Clancy.
Motive doubtful, probability and possibility ve'yy good indeed.
Ryder. Probability uncertain, possibility, quite fair.
The two Duponts. Probability poor as regards m^otive, good
as to means of obtaining poison. Possibility, gAood.
"That's a pretty fair summary, I think, as fa^ir as we can
go. We'll have to do a lot of routine inquiry. 11 shall take
on Clancy and Bryant first; find out what they Vve been up
to; if they've been hard up at any time in the pas' ;t; 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 P^yder. Then
it won't do to neglect the others entirely. I'll ge^t Wilson to
nose round there. M. Foumier, here, will undertake the
Duponts."
The man from the Surete nodded.
"Be well assured, that will be attended to. I \ shall return
to Paris to-night. There may be something to b-Ae got out of
Elise, Giselle's maid, now that we know a little \ more about
the case. Also, I will check up Giselle's move^nients very
carefully. It will be well to know where she has tibeen during
the summer. She was, I know, at Le Pinet onc^e or twice.
DEATH IN THE AIR 69
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. Foumier to
Paris."
"Enchante," 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."
"Evidemment. But you may have noticed, my friend,
when you examined the plane, that although the windows
cannot be opened, there is in each of them a ventilator--a
circle of small, round holes in the glass which can be opened
or closed by turning a fan of glass. These holes are of a
sufficient circumference to admit the passage of our blowpipe.
What could be simpler than to get rid of the blowpipe
that way? It falls to the earth beneath and it is extremely
unlikely that it will ever be found."
"I can think of an objection to that--the murderer was
afraid of being seen. If he pushed the blowpipe through the
ventilator, someone might have noticed."
"I see," said Poirot. "He was not afraid of being seen
70 Agatha Christie
placing the blowpipe to his lips and dispatching the fatal
dart, but he was afraid of being seen trying to push the
blowpipe through the window!"
"Sounds absurd, I admit," said Japp, "but there it is. He
did hide the blowpipe behind the cushion of a seat. We
can't get away from that."
Poirot did not answer, and Foumier asked curiously:
"It gives you an idea, that?"
Poirot bowed his head assentingly.
"It gives rise to, say, a speculation in my mind."
With absent-minded fingers he straightened the unused
inkstand that Japp's impatient hand had set a little askew.
Then lifting his head sharply, he asked:
"A propos, have you that detailed list of the belongings
of the passengers that I asked you to get me?"
jj^^	W^»^
8
"I'm a man of my word, I am," said Japp.
He grinned and dived his hand into his pocket, bringing
out a mass of closely typewritten paper.
"Here you are. It's all here, down to the minutest detail!
And I'll admit that there is one rather curious thing in it.
I'll ylk to you about it when you've finished reading the
stuff."
P()irot spread out the sheets on the table and began to
read. Foumier moved up and read them over his shoulder.
JAMES RYDER
Pockets. Linen handkerchief marked J. Pigskin note egse--seven £1 notes, three business cards. Letter
from partner, George Elbermann, hoping "loan has
been successfully negotiated... otherwise we're in
Queer Street." Letter signed Maudie making appointment
Trocadero following evening. Cheap paper, illiterate
handwriting. Silver cigarette case. Match
folder. Fountain pen. Bunch of keys. Yale door key.
Loose change in French and English money.
Attache Case. Mass of papers concerning dealings
71
72 Agatha Christie
in cement. Copy of "Bootless Cup" (banned in this
country). A box of Immediate Cold Cures.
DOCTOR BRYANT
Pockets. Two linen handkerchiefs. Note case containing
£20 and 500 francs. Loose change in French
and English money. Engagement book. Cigarette case.
Lighter. Fountain pen. Yale door key. Bunch of keys.
Flute in case. Carrying "Memoirs of Benvenuto
Cellini" and "Les Maux de 1'Oreille."
NORMAN GALE
Pockets. Silk handkerchief. Wallet containing £1
in English money and 600 francs. Loose change. Business
cards of two French firms, makers of dental instruments.
Bryant & May match box, empty. Silver
lighter. Briar pipe. Rubber tobacco pouch. Yale door
key.
Attache Case. White-linen coat. Two small dental
mirrors. Dental rolls of cotton wool. La Vie Parisienne.
The Strand Magazine. The Autocar.
ARMAND DUPONT
Pockets. Wallet containing 1000 francs and £10 in
English. Spectacles in case. Loose change in French
money. Cotton handkerchief. Packet of cigarettes,
match folder. Cards in case. Toothpick.
Attache Case. Manuscript of proposed address to
Royal Asiatic Society. Two German archaeological
publications. Two sheets of rough sketches of pottery.
Ornamented hollow tubes--said to be Kurdish pipe
stems. Small basketwork tray. Nine unmounted photographs--all
of pottery.
DEATH IN THE AIR 73
JEAN DUPONT
Pockets. Note case containing £5 in English and
300 francs. Cigarette case. Cigarette holder--ivory- Lighter. Fountain pen. Two pencils. Small notebook
full of scribbled notes. Letter in English from L. Marriner,
giving invitation to lunch at restaurant near Tottenham
Court Road. Loose change in French.
DANIEL CLANCY
Pockets. Handkerchief--ink-stained. Fountain
pen--leaking. Note case containing £4 and 100 francs.
Three newspaper cuttings dealing with recent crimes.
One poisoning by arsenic, and two embezzlement- Two letters from house agents with details of country
properties. Engagement book. Four pencils. Penknife- Three receipted and four unpaid bills. Letter from
"Gordon" headed "S. S. Minotaur." Half-done crossword
puzzle cut from Times. Notebook containing
suggestions for plots. Loose change in Italian, French,
Swiss and English money. Receipted hotel bill, Naples.
Large bunch of keys.
In overcoat pocket. Manuscript notes of "Murder
on Vesuvius." Continental Bradshaw. Golf ball. Pair
of socks. Toothbrush. Receipted hotel bill, Paris.
MISS KERR
Vanity bag. Compact. Two cigarette holders--one
ivory, one jade. Cigarette case. Match folder. Handkerchief.
£2 English money. Loose change. One half
letter of credit. Keys.
Dressing Case. Shagreen fitted. Bottles, brushes,
combs, and so on. Manicure outfit. Washing bag containing
toothbrush, sponge, tooth powder, soap. Two
74 Agatha Christie
pair of scissors. Five letters from family ^nd friends
in Ei^and. Two Tauchnitz novels. Photogffap11 of tw0 spaiiiels.
carried Vogue and Good Housekeeping-
MISS GREY
jand bag. Lipstick, rouge, compact. vft\e key and
one11111^ key. Pencil. Cigarette case. Hol^' Match fol<|?r. Two handkerchiefs. Receipted h^61 bi11 Le pinft. Small book French Phrases. Note c^ 100 francs and 10 shillings. Loose French and English change.
One casino counter, value 5 francs.
;(i pocket of traveling coat. Six post car^s of paris'
two handkerchiefs and silk scarf, letter signed
"Q]»dys." Tube of aspirin.
LADY HORBURY
{anity bag. Two lipsticks, rouge, compact- Hand-
keifhief. Three mille notes. £6 English rno"^' Loose charge--French. A diamond ring. Five I^icti stamps.
Tv,f cigarette holders. Lighter with case
pressing Case. Complete make-up 0,1^' Elab0'
rat( manicure set--gold. Small bottle laK'®1^ in ink "Buracic Powder."
As^oirot came to the end of the list, Jai, laid hls f^S^r on th^ast item.
"Rither smart of our man. He thought th^1 ^nt seer^
quite i" keeping with the rest. Boracic pov^^1"' my eyet! 'piie ^[lite powder in that bottle was cocai ."
po?ot's eyes opened a little. He nodded h'? 1'°^ ^^y
"N)thing much to do with our case, perh i^s,' sa1^ ^appi
"But P11 donvt need me to te11 y0" that a v^/nii'1 who's g^ the ccFaine habit hasn't got much moral i-e^1111' I've a^
75
DEATH IN THE AIR
idea, anyway, that her ladyship wouldn't stick at much to
get what she wanted, in spite of all that helpless feniii111^
business. All the same, I doubt if she'd have the nerve to
carry a thing like this through. And frankly, I can't see that
it was possible for her to do it. The whole thing is a bit of
a teaser."
Poirot gathered up the loose typewritten sheets and read
them through once again. Then he laid them down with a
sigh.
"On the face of it," he said, "it seems to point vc'V
plainly to one person as having committed the crime. And
yet, I cannot see why, or even how."
Japp stared at him.
"Are you pretending that by reading all this stuff you've
got an idea who did it?"
"I think so."
Japp seized the papers from him and read them through,
handing each sheet over to Foumier when he had finished
with it. Then he slapped them down on the table and stared
at Poirot.
"Are you pulling my leg, Moosior Poirot?"
"No, no. Quelle idee!"
The Frenchman in his turn laid down the sheets.
"What about you, Foumier?"
The Frenchman shook his head.
"I may be stupid," he said, "but I cannot see that this
list advances us much."
"Not by itself," said Poirot, "but taken in conjunction
with certain features of the case.... No? Well, it may be
that I am wrong—quite wrong."
"Well, come out with your theory," said Japp. "I'll be
interested to hear it, at all events."
Poirot shook his head.
"No, as you say, it is a theory—a theory only. I hoped
to find a certain object on that list. Eh bien, I have found
it. It is there. But it seems to point in the wrong direction.
76 Agatha Christie
The right clue on the wrong person. That means there is
much work to be done, and truly, there is much that is still
obscure to me. I cannot see my way. Only, certain facts
seem to stand out, to arrange themselves in a significant
pattern. You do not find it so? No, I see you do not. Let
us, then, each work to his own idea. I have no certainty, I
tell you; only a certain suspicion."
"I believe you're just talking through your hat," said
Japp. He rose. "Well, let's call it a day. I work the London
end, you return to Paris, Foumier--and what about our M.
Poirot?"
"I still wish to accompany M. Fournier to Paris--more
than ever now."
"More than ever? I'd like to know just what kind of
maggot you've got in your brain."
"Maggot? Ce n'est pas joli, <;a!"
Foumier shook hands ceremoniously.
"I wish you good evening, with many thanks for your
delightful hospitality. We will meet, then, at Croydon tomorrow
morning?"
"Exactly. A demain."
"Let us hope," said Foumier, "that nobody will murder
us en route."
The two detectives departed.
Poirot remained for a time as in a dream. Then he rose,
cleared away any traces of disorder, emptied the ash trays
and straightened the chairs.
He went to a side table and picked up a copy of the Sketch. He turned the pages until he came to the one he
sought.
"Two Sun Worshippers," it was headed. "The Countess
of Horbury and Mr. Raymond Barraclough at Le Pinet."
He looked at the two laughing figures in bathing suits, their
arms entwined.
"I wonder," said Hercule Poirot. "One might do something
along those lines. Yes, one might."
^w^	^^x^
9
The weather on the following day was of so perfect a nature
that even Hercule Poirot had to admit that his estomac was
perfectly peaceful.
On this occasion they were traveling by the 8:45 air
service to Paris.
There were seven or eight travelers besides Poirot and
Foumier in the compartment and the Frenchman utilized the
journey to make some experiments. He took from his pocket
a small piece of bamboo, and three times during the journey
he raised this to his lips, pointing it in a certain direction.
Once he did it bending himself round the corner of his seat.
Once with his head slightly turned sideways. Once when
he was returning from the wash room. And on each occasion
he caught the eye of some passenger or other eying him
with mild astonishment. On the last occasion, indeed, every
eye in the car seemed to be fixed upon him.
Foumier sank in his seat discouraged, and was but little
cheered by observing Poirot's open amusement.
"You are amused, my friend? But you agree, one must
try the experiments?"
"Evidemment! In truth, I admire your thoroughness. There
is nothing like ocular demonstration. You play the part of
the murderer with blowpipe. The result is perfectly clear.
Everybody sees you!"
77
-jo Agatha Christie
"Not everybody."
"In a sense, no. On each occasion there is somebody
who does n01 see Y011- But for a successful murder that is
not enough You must be reasonably sure that nobody will
see you."
"And that is impossible, given ordinary conditions," said
Foumier. "I hold men to my fheory that there must have
been extraordinary conditions. The psychological moment!
There must have been a psychological moment when everyone's
attention was mathematically centered elsewhere."
"Our friend Inspector Japp is going to make minute inquiries
on that point."
"Do you not agree with me, M. Poirot?"
Poirot hesitated a minute, then he said slowly:
"I agree that there was--that there must have been a psychological reason why nobody saw the murderer. But
ideas are running in a slightly different channel from
yours I f^ tnat m mls case nlere ^"la1" fao^ "^y be
deceotive. Close your eyes, my friend, instead of opening
them wide. Vse the eyes of the brain, not of the body. Let
the little grsY ce^ o^he mwd function. Let it be their task
to show you what actually happened."
Fournier stared at him curiously.
"I do not follow you, M. Poirot."
"Because you are deducing from things that you have
seen Nothing can be so misleading as observation."
Fournier shook his head again and spread out his hands.
"I give it up. I cannot catch your meanings."
"Our friend Giraud would urge you to pay no attention
to my vagaries. 'Be up and doing,' he would say. 'To sit
still in an armchair and think--that is the method of an old
man past his prime.' But I say that a young hound is often
so eager upon the scent that he overruns it. For him is the
trail of the red herring. There, it is a very good hint I have
given you there."
DEATH IN THE AIR 79
And leaning back, Poirot closed his eyes, it may have
been to think, but it is quite certain that five minutes later
he was fast asleep.
On arrival in Paris they went straight to No. 3, Rue
Joliette.
The Rue Joliette is on the south side of the Seine. There
was nothing to distinguish No. 3 from the other houses. An
aged concierge admitted them and greeted Foumier in a
surly fashion.
"So, we have the police here again! Nothing but trouble.
This will give the house a bad name."
He retreated grumbling into his apartment.
"We will go to Giselle's office," said Foumier. "It is on
the first floor."
He drew a key from his pocket as he spoke and explained
that the French police had taken the precaution of locking
and sealing the door whilst awaiting the result of the English
inquest.
"Not, I fear," said Foumier, "that there is anything here
to help us."
He detached the seals, unlocked the door, and they entered.
Madame Giselle's office was a small stuffy apartment.
It had a somewhat old-fashioned type of safe in a corner , a writing desk of businesslike appearance and several
shabbily upholstered chairs. The one window was dirty,
and it seemed highly probable that it had never been opened.
Foumier shrugged his shoulders as he looked round.
"You see?" he said. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Poirot passed round behind the desk. He sat down in the
chair and looked across the desk at Foumier. He passed his hand gently across the surface of the wood, then down
underneath it.
"There is a bell here," he said.
80 Agatha Christie
"Yes, it rings down to the concierge."
"Ah, a wise precaution. Madame's clients might sometimes
become obstreperous."
He opened one or two of the drawers. They contained
stationery, a calendar, pens and pencils, but no papers and
nothing of a personal nature.
Poirot merely glanced into them in a cursory manner.
"I will not insult you, my friend, by a close search. If
there were anything to find, you would have found it, I am
sure." He looked across at the safe. "Not a very efficacious
pattern, that."
"Somewhat out of date," agreed Foumier.
"It was empty?"
"Yes. That cursed maid had destroyed everything."
"Ah, yes, the maid. The confidential maid. We must see
her. This room, as you say, has nothing to tell us. It is
significant, that; do you not think so?"
"What do you mean by significant, M. Poirot?"
"I mean that there is in this room no personal touch. I
find that interesting."
"She was hardly a woman of sentiment," said Foumier
dryly.
Poirot rose.
"Come," he said. "Let us see this maid--this highly
confidential maid."
Elise Grandier was a short, stout woman of middle age
with a florid face and small shrewd eyes that darted quickly
from Foumier's face to that of his companion and then back
again.
"Sit down, Mademoiselle Grandier," said Foumier.
"Thank you, monsieur."
She sat down composedly.
"M. Poirot and I have returned to-day from London. The
inquest--the inquiry, that is, into the death of madame--
took place yesterday. There is no doubt whatsoever. Madame
was poisoned."
DEATH IN THE AIR 81
The Frenchwoman shook her head gravely.
"It is terrible, what you say there, monsieur. Madame
poisoned. Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing?"
"That is, perhaps, where you can help us, mademoiselle."

"Certainly, monsieur, I will, naturally, do all I can to
aid the police. But I know nothing--nothing at all."
"You know that madame had enemies?" said Foumier
sharply.
"That is not true. Why should madame have enemies?"
"Come, come. Mademoiselle Grandier," said Foumier
dryly. "The profession of a money lender--it entails certain
unpleasantnesses."
"It is true that sometimes the clients of madame were
not very reasonable," agreed Elise.
"They made scenes, eh? They threatened her?"
The maid shook her head.
"No, no, you are wrong there. It was not they who
threatened. They whined, they complained, they protested
they could not pay--all that, yes." Her voice held a very
lively contempt.
"Sometimes, perhaps, mademoiselle," said Poirot, "they
could not pay."
Elise Grandier shrugged her shoulders.
"Possibly. That is their affair! They usually paid in the
end."
Her tone held a certain amount of satisfaction.
"Madame Giselle was a hard woman," said Foumier.
"Madame was justified."
"You have no pity for the victims?"
"Victims--victims." Elise spoke with impatience. "You
do not understand. Is it necessary to run into debt? To live
beyond your means? To run and borrow, and then expect
to keep the money as a gift? It is not reasonable, that!
Madame was always fair and just. She lent, and she expected
repayment. That is only fair. She herself had no debts.
fe*«.. HIBL^,.,-*.
82 Agatha Christie
Always she paid honorably what she owed. Never, never
were there any bills outstanding. And when you say that
madame was a hard woman, it is not the truth! Madame
was kind. She gave to the Little Sisters of the Poor when
they came. She gave money to charitable institutions. When
the wife of Georges, the concierge, was ill, madame paid
for her to go to a hospital in the country."
She stopped, her face flushed and angry.
She repeated, "You do not understand. No, you do not
understand madame at all."
Foumier waited a moment for her indignation to subside,
and then said:
"You made the observation that madame's clients usually
managed to pay in the end. Were you aware of the means
madame used to compel them?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I know nothing, monsieur--nothing at all."
"You knew enough to bum madame's papers."
"I was following her instructions. If ever, she said, she
were to meet with an accident, or if she were taken ill and
died somewhere away from home, I was to destroy her
business papers."
"The papers in the safe downstairs?" asked Poirot.
"That is right. Her business papers."
"And they were in the safe downstairs?"
His persistence brought the red up in Elise's cheeks.
"I obeyed madame's instructions," she said.
"I know that," said Poirot, smiling. "But the papers were
not in the safe. That is so, is it not? That safe, it is far too
old-fashioned; quite an amateur might have opened it. The
papers were kept elsewhere. In madame's bedroom, perhaps?"

Elise paused a moment, and then answered:
"Yes, that is so. Madame always pretended to clients
that papers were kept in the safe, but in reality the safe was
DEATH IN THE AIR 83
a blind. Everything was in madame's bedroom."
"Will you show us where?"
Elise rose and the two men followed her. The bedroom
was a fair-sized room, but was so full of ornate heavy
furniture that it was hard to move about freely in it. In one
corner was a large old-fashioned trunk. Elise lifted the lid
and took out an old-fashioned alpaca dress with a silk underskirt.
On the inside of the dress was a deep pocket.
"The papers were in this, monsieur," she said. "They
were kept in a large sealed envelope."
"You told me nothing of this," said Foumier sharply,
"when I questioned you three days ago?"
"I ask pardon, monsieur. You asked me where were the
papers that should be in the safe? I told you I had burned
them. That was true. Exactly where the papers were kept
seemed unimportant."
"True," said Foumier. "You understand. Mademoiselle
Grandier, that those papers should not have been burned."
"I obeyed madame's orders," said Elise sullenly.
"You acted, I know, for the best," said Foumier soothingly.
"Now I want you to listen to me very closely, mademoiselle.
Madame was murdered. It is possible that she
was murdered by a person or persons about whom she held
certain damaging knowledge. That knowledge was in those
papers you burned. I am going to ask you a question, mademoiselle,
and do not reply too quickly without reflection.
It is possible--indeed, in my view, it is probable and quite
understandable--that you glanced through those papers before
committing them to the flames. If that is the case, no
blame will be attached to you for so doing. On the contrary,
any information you have acquired may be of the greatest
service to the police, and may be of material service in
bringing the murderer to justice. Therefore, mademoiselle,
have no fear in answering truthfully. Did you, before buming
the papers, glance over them?"
84 . Agatha Christie
Elise breathed hard. She leaned forward and spoke emphatically.

"No, monsieur," she said, "I looked at nothing. I read
nothing. I burned the envelope without undoing the seal."
^w!ur	-9»^^
10
Foumier stared hard at her for a moment or two. Then,
satisfied that she was speaking the truth, he turned away
with a gesture of discouragement.
"It is a pity," he said. "You acted honorably, mademoiselle,
but it is a pity."
"I cannot help it, monsieur. I am sorry."
Foumier sat down and drew a notebook from his pocket.
"When I questioned you before, you told me, mademoiselle,
that you did not know the names of madame's
clients. Yet, just now, you speak of them whining and
asking for mercy. You did, therefore, know something about
these clients of Madame Giselle's?"
"Let me explain, monsieur. Madame never mentioned a
name. She never discussed her business. But all the same,
one is human, is one not? There are ejaculations, comments.
Madame spoke to me sometimes as she would to herself."
Poirot leaned forward.
"If you would give us an instance, mademoiselle--" he
said.
"Let me see--ah, yes--say a letter comes. Madame
opens it. She laughs--a short dry laugh. She says, 'You
whine and you snivel, my fine lady. All the same, you must
85
86 Agatha Christie
pay.' Or she would say to me, 'What fools! What fools!
To think I would lend large sums without proper security.
Knowledge is security, Elise. Knowledge is power.' Something
like that she would say."
"Madame's clients who came to the house--did you ever
see any of them?"
"No, monsieur--at least hardly ever. They came to the
first floor only, you understand. And very often they came
after dark."
"Had Madame Giselle been in Paris before her journey
to England?"
"She returned to Paris only the afternoon before."
"Where had she been?"
"She had been away for a fortnight--to Deauville, Le
Pinet, Paris--Plage and Wimereaux--her usual September
round."
"Now think, mademoiselle. Did she say anything--anything
at all--that might be of use?"
Elise considered for some moments. Then she shook her
head.
"No, monsieur," she said, "I cannot remember anything.
Madame was in good spirits. Business was going well, she
said. Her tour had been profitable. Then she directed me to
ring up Universal Air Lines and book a passage to England
for the following day. The early-morning service was booked,
but she obtained a seat on the twelve-o'clock service."
"Did she say what took her to England? Was there any
urgency about it?"
"Oh, no, monsieur. Madame journeyed to England fairly
frequently. She usually told me the day before."
"Did any clients come to see madame that evening?"
"I believe there was one client, monsieur, but I am not
sure. Georges, perhaps, would know. Madame said nothing
to me."
Foumier took from his pockets various photographs--
DEATH IN THE AIR 87
mostly snapshots, taken by reporters, of various witnesses
leaving the coroner's court.
"Can you recognize any of these, mademoiselle?"
Elise took them and gazed at each in turn. Then she
shook her head.
"No, monsieur."
"We must try Georges then."
"Yes, monsieur. Unfortunately, Georges has not very
good eyesight. It is a pity."
Foumier rose.
"Well, mademoiselle, we will take our leave. That is, if
you are quite sure that there is nothing--nothing at all--
that you have omitted to mention?"
"I? What--what could there be?"
Elise looked distressed.
"It is understood then.... Come, M. Poirot....! beg
your pardon. You are looking for something?"
Poirot was indeed wandering round the room in a vague
searching way.
"It is true," said Poirot. "I am looking for something I
do not see."
"What is that?"
"Photographs. Photographs of Madame Giselle's relations--of
her family."
Elise shook her head.
"She had no family, madame. She was alone in the world."
"She had a daughter," said Poirot sharply.
"Yes, that is so. Yes, she had a daughter."
Elise sighed.
"But there is no picture of that daughter?" Poirot persisted.

"Oh, monsieur does not understand. It is true that madame
had a daughter, but that was long ago, you comprehend.
It is my belief that madame had never seen that daughter since she was a tiny baby."
88 Agatha Christie
"How was that?" demanded Foumier sharply.
Elise's hands flew out in an expressive gesture.
"I do not know. It was in the days when madame was
young. I have heard that she was pretty then. Pretty and
poor. She may have been married. She may not. Myself, I
think not. Doubtless some arrangement was made about the
child. As for madame, she had the smallpox, she was very
ill, she nearly died. When she got well, her beauty was
gone. There were no more follies, no more romance. Madame
became a woman of business."
"But she left her money to this daughter?"
"That is only right," said Elise. "Who should one leave
one's money to except one's own flesh and blood? Blood
is thicker than water. And madame had no friends. She was
always alone. Money was her passion. To make more and
more money. She spent very little. She had no love for
luxury."
"She left you a legacy. You know that?"
"But yes, I have been informed. Madame was always
generous. She gave me a good sum every year as well as
my wages. I am very grateful to madame."
"Well," said Foumier, "we will take our leave. On the
way out I will have another word with old Georges."
"Permit me to follow you in a little minute my friend,"
said Poirot.
"As you wish."
Poumier departed.
Poirot roamed once more round the room, then sat down
and fixed his eyes on Elise.
Under his scrutiny the Frenchwoman got slightly restive.
"Is there anything more monsieur requires to know?"
"Mademoiselle Grandier," said Poirot, "do you know
who murdered your mistress?"
"No, monsieur. Before the good God, I swear it."
She spoke very earnestly, Poirot looked at her searehingly,
then bent his head.
DEATH IN THE AIR 89
"Bien," he said. "I accept that. But knowledge is one
thing, suspicion is another. Have you any idea--an idea
only--who might have done such a thing?"
"I have no idea, monsieur. I have already said so to the
agent of police."
"You might say one thing to him and another thing to
me."
"Why do you say that, monsieur? Why should I do such
a thing?"
"Because it is one thing to give information to the police
and another thing to give it to a private individual."
"Yes," admitted Elise, "that is true."
A look of indecision came over her face. She seemed to
be thinking. Watching her very closely, Poirot leaned forward
and spoke:
"Shall I tell you something. Mademoiselle Grandier? It
is part of my business to believe nothing I am told--nothing,
that is, that is not proved. I do not suspect first this person
and then that person; I suspect everybody. Anybody connected
with a crime is regarded by me as a criminal until
that person is proved innocent."
Elsie Grandier scowled at him angrily.
"Are you saying that you suspect me--me--of having
murdered madame? It is too strong, that! Such a thought is
of a wickedness unbelievable!"
Her large bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
"No, Elise," said Poirot, "I do not suspect you of having
murdered madame. Whoever murdered madame was a passenger
in the aeroplane. Therefore, it was not your hand
that did the deed. But you might have been an accomplice
before the act. You might have passed on to someone the
details of madame's journey."
"I did not. I swear I did not."
Poirot looked at her again for some minutes in silence.
Then he nodded his head.
"I believe you," he said. "But, nevertheless, there is
90 Agatha Christie
something that you conceal.... Oh, yes, there is! Listen, I
will tell you something. In every case of a criminal nature
one comes across the same phenomena when questioning
witnesses. Everyone keeps something back. Sometimes--
often, indeed--it is something quite harmless, something,
perhaps, quite unconnected with the crime, but--I say it
again--there is always something. That is so with you. Oh,
do not deny! I am Hercule Poirot and I know. When my
friend M. Foumier asked you if you were sure there was
nothing you had omitted to mention, you were troubled.
You answered, unconsciously, with an evasion. Again just
now when I suggested that you might tell me something
which you would not care to tell the police, you very obviously
turned the suggestion over in your mind. There is,
then, something. I want to know what that something is."
"It is nothing of importance."
"Possibly not. But all the same, will you not tell me what
it is? Remember," he went on as she hesitated, "I am not
of the police."
"That is true," said Elise Grandier. She hesitated, and
went on: "Monsieur, I am in a difficulty. I do not know
what madame herself would have wanted me to do."
"There is a saying that two heads are better than one.
Will you not consult me? Let us examine the question together."

The woman still looked at him doubtfully. He said with
a smile:
"You are a good watch dog, Elise. It is a question, I see,
of loyalty to your dead mistress?"
"That is quite right, monsieur. Madame trusted me. Ever
since I entered her service I have carried out her instructions
faithfully."
"You were grateful, were you not, for some great service
she had rendered you?"
"Monsieur is very quick. Yes, that is true. I do not mind
admitting it. I had been deceived, monsieur, my savings
DEATH IN THE AIR 91
stolen, and there was a child. Madame was good to me.
She arranged for the baby to be brought up by some good
people on a farm--a good farm, monsieur, and honest
people. It was then, at that time, that she mentioned to me
that she, too, was a mother."
"Did she tell you the age of her child, where it was, any
details?"
"No, monsieur; she spoke as of a part of her life that
was over and done with. It was best so, she said. The little
girl was well provided for and would be brought up to a
trade or profession. It would also inherit her money when
she died."
"She told you nothing further about this child or about
its father?"
"No, monsieur, but I have an idea--"
"Speak, Mademoiselle Elise."
"It is an idea only, you understand."
"Perfectly, perfectly."
"I have an idea that the father of the child was an Englishman."
"What,
exactly, do you think gave you that impression?"
"Nothing definite. It is just that there was a bitterness in
madame's voice when she spoke of the English. I think,
too, that in her business transactions she enjoyed having
anyone English in her power. It is an impression only."
"Yes, but it may be a very valuable one. It opens up
possibilities.... Your own child. Mademoiselle Elise? Was
it a girl or a boy?"
"A girl, monsieur. But she is dead--dead these five years
now."
"Ah, all my sympathy."
There was a pause.
"And now. Mademoiselle Elise," said Poirot, "what is
this something that you have hitherto refrained from mentioning?"

Elise rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes
92 Agatha Christie
later with a small shabby black notebook in her hand.
"This little book was madame's. It went with her everywhere.
When she was about to depart for England, she could
not find it. It was mislaid. After she had gone, I found it.
It had dropped down behind the head of the bed. I put it in
my room to keep until madame should return. I burned the
papers as soon as I heard of madame's death, but I did not
bum the book. There were no instructions as to that."
"When did you hear of madame's death?"
Elise hesitated a minute.
"You heard it from the police, did you not?" said Poirot.
"They came here and examined madame's papers. They
found the safe empty and you told them that you had burned
the papers, but actually you did not bum the papers until
afterwards."
"It is true, monsieur," admitted Elise. "Whilst they were
looking in the safe, I removed the papers from the trunk. I
said they were burned, yes. After all, it was very nearly the
truth. I burned them at the first opportunity. I had to carry
out madame's orders. You see my difficulty, monsieur? You
will not inform the police? It might be a very serious matter
for me."
"I believe. Mademoiselle Elise, that you acted with the
best intentions. All the same, you understand, it is a pity--
a great pity. But it does no good to regret what is done and
I see no necessity for communicating the exact hour of the
destruction to the excellent M. Foumier. Now let me see if
there is anything in this little book to aid us."
"I do not think there will be, monsieur," said Elise,
shaking her head. "It is madame's private memorandums,
yes, but there are numbers only. Without the documents
and files, these entries are meaningless."
Unwillingly, she held out the book to Poirot. He took it
and turned the pages. There were penciled entries in a sloping
foreign writing. They seemed to be all of the same kind.
DEATH IN THE AIR 93
A number followed by a few descriptive details such as:
CX 265. Colonel's wife. Stationed Syria. Regimental
funds.
GF 342. French Deputy, Stavisky connection.
There were perhaps twenty entries in all. At the end of
the book were penciled memoranda of dates or places such
as:
Le Pinet, Monday. Casino, 10:30. Savoy Hotel, 5 o'clock.
A. B. C. Fleet Street 11 o'clock.
None of these were complete in themselves, and seemed
to have been put down less as actual appointments than as
aids to Giselle's memory.
Elise was watching Poirot anxiously.
"It means nothing, monsieur, or so it seems to me. It
was comprehensible to madame, but not to a mere reader."
Poirot closed the book and put it in his pocket.
"This may be very valuable, mademoiselle. You did
wisely to give it to me. And your conscience may be quite
at rest. Madame never asked you to bum this book."
"That is true," said Elise, her face brightening a little.
"Therefore, having no instructions, it is your duty to hand
this over to the police. I will arrange matters with M. Fournier
so that you shall not be blamed for not having done so
sooner."
"Monsieur is very kind."
Poirot rose. ^
"I will go now and join my colleague. Just one last
question: When you reserved a seat in the aeroplane for
Madame Giselle, did you ring up the aerodrome at Le Hourget
or the office of the company?"
"I rang up the office of Universal Air Lines, monsieur."
94 Agatha Christie
"And that, I think, is in the Boulevard des Capucines?"
"That is right, monsieur; Boulevard des Capucines."
Poirot made a note in his little book; then, with a friendly
nod, he left the room.
II
Foumier was deep in conversation with old Georges. The
detective was looking hot and annoyed.
"Just like the police," the old man was grumbling in his
deep, hoarse voice. "Ask one the same question over and
over again! What do they hope for? That sooner or later
one will give over speaking the truth and take to lies instead?
Agreeable lies, naturally; lies that suit the book of ces messieurs."

"It is not lies I want but the truth."
"Very well, it is the truth that I have been telling you.
Yes, a woman did come to see madame the night before
she left for England. You show me those photographs, you
ask me if I recognize the woman among them. I tell you
what I have told you all along--my eyesight is not good,
it was growing dark, I did not look closely. I did not recognize
the lady. If I saw her face to face I should probably
not recognize her. There! You have it plainly for the fourth
or fifth time."
"And you cannot even remember if she was tall or short,
dark or fair, young or old? It is hardly to be believed, that."
Foumier spoke with irritable sarcasm.
"Then do not believe it. What do I care? A nice thing--
to be mixed up with the police! I am ashamed. If madame
had not been killed high up in the air, you would probably
95
96 Agatha Christie
pretend that I, Georges, had poisoned her. The police are
like that."
Poirot forestalled an angry retort on Foumier's part by
slipping a tactful arm through that of his friend.
"Come. mon vieux," he said. "The stomach calls. A
simple but satisfying meal, that is what I prescribe. Let us
say omelette aux champignons. Sole a la Normande, a cheese
of Port Salut. And with it red wine. What wine exactly?"
Founder glanced at his watch.
True," he said. "It is one o'clock. Talking to this animal
here--" He glared at Georges.
Poirot smiled encouragingly at the old man.
"It is understood," he said. "The nameless lady was neither
tall nor short, fair nor dark, thin nor fat; but this at
least you can tell us: Was she chic?"
"Chic?" said Georges, rather taken aback.
"I am answered," said Poirot. "She was chic. And I have
a little idea, my friend, that she would look well in a bathing
dress."
George stared at him.
"A bathing dress? What is this about a bathing dress?"
"A little idea of mine. A charming woman looks still
more charming in a bathing dress. Do you not agree? See
here?"
He passed to the old man a page torn from the Sketch.
There was a moment's pause. The old man gave a very
slight start.
"You agree, do you not?" asked Poirot.
"They look well enough, those two," said the old man,
handing the sheet back. 'To wear nothing at all would be
very nearly the same thing."
"Ah," said Poirot. That is because nowadays we have discovered the beneficial action of sun on the skin. It is very convenient, that."
Georges condescended to give a hoarse chuckle and moved away as Poirot and Foumier stepped out into the sunlit street.
DEATH IN THE AIR 97
Over the meal as outlined by Poirot, the little Belgian
produced the little black memorandum book.
Foumier was much excited, though distinctly irate with
Elise. Poirot argued the point:
"It is natural--very natural. The police--it is always a
word frightening to that class. It embroils them in they know
not what. It is the same everywhere, in every country."
"That is where you score," said Foumier. "The private
investigator gets more out of witnesses than you ever get
through official channels. However, there is the other side
of the picture. We have official records, the whole system
of a big organization at our command."
"So let us work together amicably," said Poirot, smiling.
... "This omelet is delicious."
In the interval between the omelet and the sole, Foumier
turned the pages of the black book. Then he made a penciled
entry in his notebook.
He looked across at Poirot.
"You have read through this? Yes?"
"No, I have only glanced at it. You permit?"
He took the book from Fournier.
When the cheese was placed before them, Poirot laid
down the book on the table and the eyes of the two men
met.
"There are certain entries," began Poumier.
"Five," said Poirot.
"I agree. Five."
He read out from the notebook:
"CL 52. English Peeress. Husband.
"RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street.
"MR 24. Forged Antiquities.
"XVB 724. English. Embezzlement.
"GF 45. Attempted Murder. English."
"Excellent, my friend," said Poirot. "Our minds march
together to a marvel. Of all the entries in that little book,
those five seem to me to be the only ones that can in any
way bear a relation
Let us take them o
" 'English Peeres
conceivably apply
a confirmed gambi
that she should borr
are usually of that t
of two meanings.
pay up his wife's i
Horbury, a secret w
husband."
"Precisely," sai<
might apply. I fav
I would be prepar
Giselle the night b
Horbury."
"Ah, you think
"Yes, and I fant
of chivalry, I thin
persistence in reme
seems rather signific
woman. Moreover,
one—when I hand
costume from the i
went to Giselle's tt
"She followed hi
slowly. "It looks a;
"Yes, yes, I fan
Foumier looked
"But it does not
"My friend, as .
is the right clue pc
much in the dark. 1
"You wouldn't
DEATH IN THE AIR 99
"No, because I may, you see, be wrong. Totally and
utterly wrong. And in that case I might lead you, too, astray.
No, let us each work according to our own ideas. To continue
with our selected items from the little book."
'"RT 362. Doctor. Harley Street,'" read out Foumier.
"A possible clue to Doctor Bryant. There is nothing much
to go on, but we must not neglect that line of investigation."
"That, of course, will be the task of Inspector Japp."
"And mine," said Poirot. "I, too, have my finger in this
pie."
"'MR 24. Forged Antiquities,'" read Foumier. "Farfetched,
perhaps, but it is just possible that that might apply
to the Duponts. I can hardly credit it. M. Dupont is an
archaeologist of world-wide reputation. He bears the highest
character."
"Which would facilitate matters very much for him,"
said Poirot. "Consider, my dear Foumier, how high has
been the character, how lofty the sentiments, and how worthy
of admiration the life of most swindlers of note--before
they are found out!"
"True--only too true," agreed the Frenchman with a
sigh.
"A high reputation," said Poirot, "is the first necessity
of a swindler's stock in trade. An interesting thought. But
let us return to our list."
"'XVB 724' is very ambiguous. 'English. Embezzlement.'"

"Not very helpful," agreed Poirot. "Who embezzles? A
solicitor? A bank clerk? Anyone in a position of trust in a
commercial firm. Hardly an author, a dentist or a doctor.
Mr. James Ryder is the only representative of commerce.
He may have embezzled money, he may have borrowed
from Giselle to enable his theft to remain undetected. As
to the last entry. 'GF 45. Attempted Murder. English.' That
gives us a very wide field. Author, dentist, doctor, business
100 Agatha Christie
man, steward, tiairdresser's assistant, lady of birth and
breeding_any ^ne of t^se might be GF 45. In fact, only
the Duponts are exempt by reason of their nationality."
With a gestu^ ne ^mrnoned the waiter and asked for
the bill.
"And where ^\t' friend?" he inquired.
I "To the Surete- Th^ may have some news for me."
"Good. I will accompany you. Afterwards, I have a little
investigation of ""Y own to make in which, perhaps, you
will assist me."
At the SGrete' Poirot renewed acquaintance with the chief
of the detective force, whom he had met some years previously
in the ^ou^c of one of his cases. M. Gilles was
very affable and P01^-
"Enchanted to ^eam that you are interesting yourself in
this case, M. poirot."
"My faith, W dear M. Gilles, it happened under my
nose. It is an insult, that, you agree? Hercule Poirot, to
sleep while murd" is committed!"
M. Gilles sb0^ his "ead tactfully.
"These macti"1^' 0" a day of bad weather, they are far
from steady_far from steady. I myself have felt seriously
incommoded ofi^ m twice."
"They say that an army marches on its stomach," said
Poirot. "But ho^ muc^ are the delicate convolutions of the
| brain influenced by the digestive apparatus? When the mal
de mer seizes tW'I) Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no
gray cells, no order, no method--a mere member of the
human race so^^at below average intelligence! It is de]i
plorable, but tti^ rtis! And talking of these matters, how
is my excellent friend Giraud?"
Prudently i^"01""^ the significance of the words "these
matters," M. Gil1^ replied that Giraud continued to advance
I in his career.
"He is most zealous. His energy is untiring."
"It always was," said Poirot. "He ran to and fro. He
DEATH IN THE AIR 101
crawled on all fours. He was here, there and everywhere.
Not for one moment did he ever pause and reflect."
"Ah, M. Poirot, that is your little foible. A man like
Foumier will be more to your mind. He is of the newest
school--all for the psychology. That should please you."
"It does. It does."
"He has a very good knowledge of English. That is why
we sent him to Croydon to assist in this case. A very interesting
case, M. Poirot. Madame Giselle was one of the
best-known characters in Paris. And the manner of her death,
extraordinary! A poisoned dart from a blowpipe in an aeroplane.
I ask you! Is it possible that such a thing could
happen?"
"Exactly!" cried Poirot. "Exactly! You hit the nail upon
the head. You place a finger unerringly--Ah, here is our
good Foumier. You have news, I see."
The melancholy-faced Foumier was looking quite eager
and excited.
"Yes, indeed. A Greek antique dealer, Zeropoulos, has
reported the sale of a blowpipe and darts three days before
the murder. I propose now, monsieur"--he bowed respectfully
to his chief--"to interview this man."
"By all means," said Gilles. "Does M. Poirot accompany
you?"
"If you please," said Poirot. "This is interesting. Very
interesting."
The shop ofM. Zeropoulos was in the Rue St. Honore.
It was by way of being a high-class antique dealer's shop.
There was a good deal of Rhages ware and other Persian
pottery. There were one or two bronzes from Luristan, a
good deal of inferior Indian jewelry, shelves of silks and
embroideries from many countries, and a large proportion
of perfectly worthless beads and cheap Egyptian goods. It
was the kind of establishment in which you could spend a
million francs on an object worth half a million, or ten
francs on an object worth fifty centimes. It was patronized
102 Agatha Christie
chiefly by tourists and knowledgeable connoisseurs.
M. Zeropoulos himself was a short stout little man with
beady black eyes. He talked volubly and at great length.
The gentlemen were from the police? He was delighted
to see them. Perhaps they would step into his private office.
Yes, he had sold a blowpipe and darts--a South American
curio. "You comprehend, gentlemen, me, I sell a little of
everything! I have my specialties. Persia is my specialty.
M. Dupont--the esteemed M. Dupont--he will answer for
me. He himself comes always to see my collection, to see
what new purchases I have made, to give his judgment on
the genuineness of certain doubtful pieces. What a man!
So learned! Such an eye! Such a feel! But I wander from
the point. I have my collection--my valuable collection
that all connoisseurs know--and also I have--Well, frankly,
messieurs, let us call it junk! Foreign junk, that is understood;
a little bit of everything--from the South Seas, from
India, from Japan, from Borneo. No matter! Usually I have
no fixed price for these things. If anyone takes an interest,
I make my estimate and I ask a price, and naturally I am
beaten down and in the end I take only half. And even
then--I will admit it--the profit is good! These articles, I
buy them from sailors, usually at a very low price."
M. Zeropoulos took a breath and went on happily, delighted
with himself, his importance and the easy flow of
his narration.
"This blowpipe and darts, I have had it for a long time--
two years perhaps. It was in that tray there, with a cowrie
necklace and a red Indian headdress and one or two crude
wooden idols and some inferior jade beads. Nobody remarks
it, nobody notices it, till there comes this American and
asks me what it is."
"An American?" said Foumier sharply.
"Yes, yes, an American--unmistakably an American--
not the best type of American either. The kind that knows
nothing about anything and just wants a curio to take home.
DEATH IN THE AIR 103
He is of the type that makes the fortune of bead sellers in
Egypt--that buys the most preposterous scarabs ever made
in Czechoslovakia. Well, very quickly I size him up. I tell
him about the habits of certain tribes, the deadly poisons
they use. I explain how very rare and unusual it is that
anything of this kind comes into the market. He asks the
price and I tell him. It is my American price, not quite so
high as formerly.... Alas? They have had the depression
over there!... I wait for him to bargain, but straightaway
he pays my price. I am stupefied. It is a pity. I might have
asked more! I give him the blowpipe and the darts wrapped
up in a parcel and he takes them away. It is finished. But
afterwards, when I read in the paper of this astounding
murder, I wonder--yes, I wonder very much. And I communicate
with the police."
"We are much obliged to you, M. Zeropoulos," said
Foumier politely. "This blowpipe and dart--you think you
would be able to identify them? At the moment they are in
London, you understand, but an opportunity will be given
you of identifying them."
"The blowpipe was about so long"--M. Zeropoulos
measured a space on his desk. "And so thick--you see,
like this pen of mine. It was of a light color. There were
four darts. They were long pointed thorns, slightly discolored
at the tips, with a little fluff of red silk on them."
"Red silk?" asked Poirot keenly.
"Yes, monsieur. A cerise red, somewhat faded."
"That is curious," said Foumier. "You are sure that there
was not one of them with a black-and-yellow fluff of silk?"
"Black and yellow? No, monsieur."
The dealer shook his head.
Foumier glanced at Poirot. There was a curious satisfied
smile on the little man's face.
Foumier wondered why. Was it because Zeropoulos was
lying? Or was it for some other reason?
Foumier said doubtfully: "It is very possible that this
104 Agatha Christie
blowpipe and dart have nothing whatever to do with the
case. It is just one chance in fifty, perhaps. Nevertheless,
I should like as full a description as possible of this American."

Zeropoulos spread out a pair of Oriental hands.
"He was just an American. His voice was in his nose.
He could not speak French. He was chewing the gum. He
had tortoise-shell glasses. He was tall and, I think, not very
old."
"Fair or dark?"
"I could hardly say. He had his hat on."
"Would you know him again if you saw him?"
Zeropoulos seemed doubtful.
"I could not say. So many Americans come and go. He
was not remarkable in any way."
Foumier showed him the collection of snapshots, but
without avail. None of them, Zeropoulos thought, was the
man.
"Probably a wild-goose chase," said Foumier as they left
the shop.
"It is possible, yes," agreed Poirot. "But I do not think
so. The price tickets were of the same shape and there are
one or two points of interest about the story and about M.
Zeropoulos' remarks. And now, my friend, having been
upon one wild-goose chase, indulge me and come upon
another."
"Where to?"
"To the Boulevard des Capucines."
"Let me see. That is--"
"The office of Universal Air Lines."
"Of course. But we have already made perfunctory inquiries
there. They could tell us nothing of interest."
Poirot tapped him kindly on the shoulder.
"Ah, but, you see, an answer depends on the questions.
You did not know what questions to ask."
"And you do?"
CF1- "3^ia&--,,,.-'' 1
DEATH IN THE AIR 105
"Well, I have a certain little idea."
He would say no more and in due course they arrived at
the Boulevard des Capucines.
The office of Universal Air Lines was quite small. A
smart-looking dark man was behind a highly polished wooden
counter and a boy of about fifteen was sitting at a typewriter.
Foumier produced his credentials and the man, whose
name was Jules Perrot, declared himself to be entirely at
their service.
At Poirot's suggestion, the typewriting boy was dispatched
to the farthest corner.
"It is very confidential, what we have to say," he explained.

Jules Perrot looked pleasantly excited.
"Yes, messieurs?"
"It is this matter of the murder of Madame Giselle."
"Ah, yes, I recollect. I think I have already answered
some questions on the subject."
"Precisely. Precisely. But it is necessary to have the facts
very exactly. Now, Madame Giselle reserved her place--
when?"
"I think that point has already been settled. She booked
her seat by telephone on the seventeenth."
"That was for the twelve-o'clock service on the following
day?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8:45
a.m. service that madame reserved a seat?"
"No, no; at least this is what happened. Madame's maid
asked for the 8:45 service, but that service was already
booked up, so we gave her a seat on the twelve o'clock
instead."
"Ah, I see. I see."
"Yes, monsieur."
"I see. I see. But all the same, it is curious. Decidedly,
it is curious."
106 Agatha Christie
The clerk looked at him inquiringly.
"It is only that a friend of mine, deciding to go to England
at a moment's notice, went to England on the 8:45 service
that morning, and the plane was half empty."
M. Perrot turned over some papers. He blew his nose.
"Possibly, your friend has mistaken the day. The day
before or the day after--"
"Not at all. It was the day of the murder, because my
friend said that if he had missed that plane, as he nearly
did, he would have actually been one of the passengers in
the 'Prometheus.'"
"Ah, indeed. Yes, very curious. Of course, sometimes
people do not arrive at the last minute, and then, naturally,
there are vacant places. And then sometimes there are mistakes.
I have to get in touch with Le Bourget; they are not
always accurate."
The mild inquiring gaze of Hercule Poirot seemed to be
upsetting to Jules Perrot. He came to a stop. His eyes shifted.
A little bead of perspiration came out on his forehead.
"Two quite possible explanations," said Poirot. "But
somehow, I fancy, not the true explanation. Don't you think
it might perhaps be better to make a clean breast of the
matter?"
"A clean breast of what? I don't understand you."
"Come, come. You understand me very well. This is a
case of murder--murder, M. Perrot. Remember that, if you
please. If you withhold information, it may be very serious
for you--very serious indeed. The police will take a very
grave view. You are obstructing the ends of justice."
Jules Perrot stared at him. His mouth fell open. His hands
shook.
"Come," said Poirot. His voice was authoritative, autocratic.
"We want precise information, if you please. How
much were you paid, and who paid you?"
"I meant no harm--I had no idea--I never guessed--"
DEATH IN THE air ^
"How much? And who by?"
"F-five thousand francs. I never saw the man *5e^ore ^--
this will ruin me."
"What will ruin you is not to speak our come now' we know the worst. Tell us exactly ho\v it h^PP®"®'1-"
The perspiration rolling down his fored^' Jules perrot spoke rapidly, in little jerks:
"I meant no harm. Upon my honor, I n^"1 n0 harm- A man came in. He said he was going to ^"^"d on the
following day. He wanted to negotiate al^" from--from Madame Giselle. But he wanted their me^11"® to be unpK' meditated. He said it would give him a V6^ chance- He said that he knew she was going to England on the ^"^"S day. All I had to do was to tell her the ^arly service was full up and to give her Seat No. 2 in thf? Trometheus-' l swear, messieurs, that I saw nothing vef^ ^^S in mat- What difference could it make?--that is what l """S111Americans
are like that--they do busin^ in unconventional
ways."
"Americans?" said Foumier sharply.
"Yes, this monsieur was an American-
"Describe him."
"He was tall, stooped, had gray hair, ho^'"™"^ glasses and a little goatee beard."
"Did he book a seat himself?"
"Yes, monsieur. Seat No. 1. Next to^10 the one l was to keep for Madame Giselle."
"In what name?"
"Silas--Silas Harper."
Poirot shook his head gently.
"There was no one of that name traW11118' and "° one occupied Seat No. I."
"I saw by the paper that there was no ^ne of that name- That is why I thought there was no nee?4 to mention the matter. Since this man did not go by the p^b"®--'
108 Agatha Christie
Foumier shot him a cold glance.
"You have withheld valuable information from the police,"
he said. "This is a very serious matter."
Together, he and Poirot left the office, leaving Jules
Perrot staring after them with a frightened face.
On the pavement outside, Foumier removed his hat and
bowed.
"I salute you, M. Poirot. What gave you this idea?"
"Two separate sentences. One this morning when I heard
a man in our plane say that he had crossed on the morning
of the murder in a nearly empty plane. The second sentence
was that uttered by Elise when she said that she had rung
up the office of Universal Air Lines and that there was no
room on the early-moming service. Now, those two statements
did not agree. I remembered the steward on the 'Prometheus'
saying that he had seen Madame Giselle before
on the early service; so it was clearly her custom to go by
the 8:45 a.m. plane.
"But somebody wanted her to go on the twelve o'clock--
somebody who was already traveling by the 'Prometheus.'
Why did the clerk say that the early service was booked up? A mistake? Or a deliberate lie? I fancied the latter. I
was right."
"Every minute this case gets more puzzling!" cried Fournier.
"First we seem to be on the track of a woman. Now
it is a man. This American--"
He stopped and looked at Poirot.
The latter nodded gently.
"Yes, my friend," he said. "It is so easy to be an American
here in Paris! A nasal voice, the chewing gum, the
little goatee, the horned-rimmed spectacles--all the appurtenances
of the stage American."
He took from his pocket the page he had torn from the Sketch.
"What are you looking at?"
"At a countess in her bathing suit."
DEATH IN THE AIR 109
"You think—But no, she is petite, charming, fragile; she
could not impersonate a tall stooping American. She has
been an actress, yes, but to act such a part is out of the
question. No, my friend, that idea will not do."
"I never said it would," said Hercule Poirot.
And still he looked earnestly at the printed page.
JJ^W	»»»»<K>
12
Lord Horbury stood by the sideboard and helped himself
absent-mindedly to kidneys.
Stephen Horbury was twenty-seven years of age. He had
a narrow head and a long chin. He looked very much what
he was--a sporting, out-of-door kind of man without anything
very spectacular in the way of brains. He was kindhearted,
slightly priggish, intensely loyal and invincibly
obstinate.
He took his heaped plate back to the table and began to
eat. Presently he opened a newspaper, but immediately, with
a frown, he cast it aside. He thrust aside his unfinished
plate, drank some coffee and rose to his feet. He paused
uncertainly for a minute, then, with a slight nod of the head,
he left the dining room, crossed the wide hall and went
upstairs. He tapped at a door and waited for a minute. From
inside the room a clear high voice cried out, "Come in!"
Lord Horbury went in.
It was a wide beautiful bedroom facing south. Cicely
Horbury was in bed--a great carved-oak Elizabethan bed.
Very lovely she looked, too, in her rose-chiffon draperies,
with the curling gold of her hair. A breakfast tray with the
remains of orange juice and coffee on it was on a table
110
DEATH IN THE AIR 111
beside her. She was opening her letters. Her maid was
moving about the room.
Any man might be excused if his breath came a little
faster when confronted by so much loveliness, but the
charming picture his wife presented affected Lord Horbury
not at all.
There had been a time, three years ago, when the breathtaking
loveliness of his Cicely had set the young man's
senses reeling. He had been madly, wildly, passionately in
love. All that was over. He had been mad. He was now
sane.
Lady Horbury said in some surprise:
- "Why, Stephen?"
He said abruptly, "I'd like to talk to you alone."
"Madeleine," Lady Horbury spoke to her maid. "Leave
all that. Get out."
The French girl murmured: "Tres bien, m'lady," shot a
quick interested look out of the corner of her eye at Lord
Horbury and left the room.
Lord Horbury waited till she had shut the door, then he
said:
"I'd like to know, Cicely, just exactly what is behind
this idea of coming down here?"
Lady Horbury shrugged her slender beautiful shoulders.
"After all, why not?"
"Why not? It seems to me there are a good many reasons."

His wife murmured: "Oh, reasons."
"Yes, reasons. You'll remember that we agreed that as
things were between us, it would be as well to give up this
farce of living together. You were to have the town house
and a generous--an extremely generous--allowance.
Within certain limits, you were to go your own way. Why
this sudden return?"
Again Cicely shrugged her shoulders.
"I thought it better."
112 Agatha Christie
"You mean, I suppose, that it's money?"
Lady Horbury said: "How I hate you! You're the meanest
man alive."
"Mean! Mean, you say, when it's because of you and
your senseless extravagance that there's a mortgage on Horbury."
"Horbury--Horbury--that's
all you care for! Horses and
hunting and shooting and crops and tiresome old farmers.
What a life for a woman!"
"Some women enjoy it."
"Yes, women like Venetia Kerr, who's half a horse herself.
You ought to have married a woman like that."
Lord Horbury walked over to the window.
"It's a little late to say that. I married you."
"And you can't get out of it," said Cicely. Her laugh
was malicious, triumphant. "You'd like to get rid of me,
but you can't."
He said, "Need we go into all this?"
"Very much God and the old school, aren't you? Most
of my friends fairly laugh their heads off when I tell them
the kind of things you say."
"They are quite welcome to do so. Shall we get back to
our original subject of discussion? Your reason for coming
here."
But his wife would not follow his lead. She said:
"You advertised in the papers that you wouldn't be responsible
for my debts. Do you call that a gentlemanly thing
to do?"
"I regret having had to take that step. I warned you, you
will remember. Twice I paid up. But there are limits. Your
insensate passion for gambling--well, why discuss it? But
I do want to know what prompted you to come down to
Horbury? You've always hated the place, been bored to
death here."
Cicely Horbury, her small face sullen, said, "I thought
it better just now."
DEATH IN THE AIR 113
"Better just now?" He repeated the words thoughtfully.
Then he asked a question sharply: "Cicely, had you been
borrowing from that old French money lender?"
"Which one? I don't know what you mean."
"You know perfectly what I mean. I mean the woman
who was murdered on the plane from Paris--the plane on
which you traveled home. Had you borrowed money from
her?"
"No, of course not. What an idea!"
"Now don't be a little fool over this, Cicely. If that
woman did lend you money you'd better tell me about it.
Remember, the business isn't over and finished with. The
verdict at the inquest was willful murder by a person or
persons unknown. The police of both countries are at work.
It's only a matter of time before they come on the truth.
The woman's sure to have left records of her dealings. If
anything crops up to connect you with her, we should be
prepared beforehand. We must have Ffoulkes' advice on
the matter." Ffoulkes, Ffoulkes, Wilbraham & Ffoulkes
were the family solicitors, who, for generations, had dealt
with the Horbury estate.
"Didn't I give evidence in that damned court and say I
had never heard of the woman?"
"I don't think that proves very much," said her husband
dryly. "If you did have dealings with this Giselle, you can
be sure the police will find it out."
Cicely sat up angrily in bed.
"Perhaps you think I killed her. Stood up there in that
plane and puffed darts at her from a blowpipe. Of all the
crazy businesses!"
"The whole thing sounds mad," Stephen agreed thoughtfully.
"But I do want you to realize your position,"
"What position? There isn't any position. You don't believe
a word I say. It's damnable. And why be so anxious
about me all of a sudden? A lot you care about what happens
to me. You dislike me. You hate me. You'd be glad if I
died to-morrow. Wh
"Aren't you exagj
ioned though you th:
family name. An outably
despise. But th<
Turning abruptly
A pulse was beat
each other rapidly th
"Dislike? Hate? ' glad if she died tom
let out of prison....
When I first saw her
an adorable child she
fool! I was mad aboi
that was adorable anc she is now--vulgar,
can't even see her lo
He whistled and a
up at him with adori
He said, "Good of
ears.
Cramming an old
house accompanied 1
This aimless saun
ually to soothe his ]i his favorite hunter,
went to the home fa
wife. He was walkil
heels, when he met'
Venetia looked h
looked up at her wi
sense of home-comit
He said, "Hullo,
"Hullo, Stephen."
"Where've you tx
"Yes, she's cornii
DEATH IN THE AIR 115
"First rate. Have you seen that two-year-old of mine I
bought at Chattisley's sale?"
They talked horses for some minutes. Then he said:
"By the way, Cicely's here."
"Here, at Horbury?"
It was against Venetia's code to show surprise, but she
could not quite keep the undertone of it out of her voice.
"Yes. Turned up last night."
There was a silence between them. Then Stephen said:
"You were at that inquest, Venetia. How--how--er--
did it go?"
She considered a moment.
"Well, nobody was saying very much, if you know what
I mean."
"Police weren't giving anything away?"
"No."
Stephen said, "Must have been rather an unpleasant business
for you."
"Well, I didn't exactly enjoy it. But it wasn't too devastating.
The coroner was quite decent."
Stephen slashed absent-mindedly at the hedge.
"I say, Venetia, any idea--have you, I mean---as to
who did it?"
Venetia Kerr shook her head slowly.
"No." She paused a minute, seeking how best and most
tactfully to put into words what she wanted to say. She
achieved it at last with a little laugh: "Anyway, it wasn't
Cicely or me. That I do know. She'd have spotted me and
I'd have spotted her."
Stephen laughed too.
"That's all right then," he said cheerfully.
He passed it off as a joke, but she heard the relief in his
voice. So he had been thinking--
She switched her thoughts away.
"Venetia," said Stephen, "I've known you a long time,
haven't I?"
116 Agatha Christie
"H'm, yes. Do you remember those awml dancing classes
we used to go to as children?"
"Do I not? I feel I can say things to you--"
"Of course you can."
She hesitated, then went on in a calm matter-of-fact tone:
"It's Cicely, I suppose?"
"Yes. Look here, Venetia. Was Cicely mixed up with
this woman Giselle in any way?"
Venetia answered slowly, "I don't know. I've been in
the south of France, remember. I haven't heard the Le Pinet
gossip yet."
"What do you think?"
"Well, candidly, I shouldn't be surprised."
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. Venetia said gently:
"Need it worry you? I mean, you live pretty semi-detached
lives, don't you? This business is her affair, not
yours."
"As long as she's my wife it's bound to be my business
too."
"Can you--er--agree to a divorce?"
"A trumped-up business, you mean? I doubt if she'd
accept it."
"Would you divorce her if you had the chance?"
"If I had cause I certainly would." He spoke grimly.
"I suppose," said Venetia thoughtfully, "she knows that."
"Yes."
They were both silent. Venetia thought: "She has the
morals of a cat! I know that well enough. But she's careful.
She's shrewd as they make 'em." Aloud she said: "So there's
nothing doing?"
He shook his head. Then he said:
"If I were free, Venetia, would you marry me?"
Looking very straight between her horse's ears, Venetia
said in a voice carefully devoid of emotion:
"I suppose I would."
DEATH IN THE AIR 117
Stephen! She'd always loved Stephen--always since the
old days of dancing classes and cubbimg and bird's nesting.
And Stephen had been fond of her, but not fond enough to
prevent him from falling desperately, wildly, madly in love
with a clever calculating cat of a choirus girl.
Stephen said, "We could have a marvelous life together."
Pictures floated before his eyes--hunting, tea and muffins,
the smell of wet earth and leaves, children. All the
things that Cicely could never share with him, that Cicely
would never give him. A kind of mistt came over his eyes.
Then he heard Venetia speaking, still in that flat, emotionless
voice:
"Stephen, if you care, what about it? If we went off
together. Cicely would have to divorce you."
He interrupted her fiercely:
"Do you think I'd let you do a thing like that?"
"I shouldn't care."
"I should."
He spoke with finality.
Venetia thought. "That's that. It's a pity, really. He's
hopelessly prejudiced, but rather a dear. I wouldn't like him
to be different."
Aloud she said: "Well, Stephen, I'll be getting along."
She touched her horse gently with her heel. As she turned
to wave a good-by to Stephen, their eyes met, and in that
glance was all the feeling that their careful words had avoided.
As she rounded the corner of the lane, Venetia dropped
her whip. A man walking picked it up and returned it to her with an exaggerated bow.
"A foreigner," she thought as she thanked him. "I seem
to remember his face." Half of her mind searched through
the summer days at Juan les Pins while the other half thought
of Stephen.
Only just as she reached home did memory suddenly pull
her half-dreaming brain up with a jerk:
118 Agatha Christie
"The little man who gave me his seat in the aeroplane.
They said at the inquest he was a detective."
And hard on that came another thought:
"What is he doing down here?"
ft
^
,><«•«<•
1^^ .fit f
'" w<^

^
Jane presented herself at Antoine's on the morning after the
inquest with some trepidation of spirit.
The person who was usually regarded as M. Antoine
himself, and whose real name was Andrew Leech, greeted
her with an ominous frown.
It was by now second nature to him to speak in broken
English once within the portals of Bruton Street.
He upbraided Jane as a complete imbecile. Why did she
wish to travel by air, anyway? What an idea! Her escapade
would do his establishment infinite harm. Having vented
his spleen to the full, Jane was permitted to escape, receiving
as she did so a large-sized wink from her friend, Gladys.
Gladys was an ethereal blonde with a haughty demeanor
and a faint, far-away professional voice. In private, her
voice was hoarse and jocular.
"Don't you worry, dear," she said to Jane. "The old
brute's sitting on the fence watching which way the cat will
jump. And it's my belief it isn't going to jump the way he
thinks it is. Ta-ta, dearie, here's my old devil coming in,
damn her eyes. I suppose she'll be in seventeen tantrums,
as usual. I hope she hasn't brought that lap dog with her."
A moment later Gladys' voice could be heard with its
faint far-away notes:
119
:.»&»...
120 Agatha Christie
"Good morning, madam. Not brought your sweet little
Pekingese with you? Shall we get on with the shampoo,
and then we'll be all ready for M. Henri."
Jane had just entered the adjoining cubicle, where a hennahaired
woman was sitting waiting, examining her face in
the glass and saying to a friend:
"Darling, my face is really too frightful this morning; it
really is."
The friend, who, in a bored manner, was turning over
the pages of a three weeks' old Sketch, replied uninterestediy:

"Do you think so, my sweet? It seems to me much the
same as usual."
On the entrance of Jane, the bored friend stopped her
languid survey of the Sketch and subjected Jane to a piercing
stare instead.
Then she said, "It is, darling. I'm sure of it."
"Good morning, madam," said Jane, with that airy
brightness expected of her and which she could now produce
quite mechanically and without any effort whatsoever. "It's
quite a long time since we've seen you here. I expect you've
been abroad."
"Antibes," said the henna-haired woman, who in her turn
was staring at Jane with the frankest interest.
"How lovely," said Jane with false enthusiasm. "Let me
see. Is it a shampoo and set, or are you having a tint today?"

Momentarily diverted from her scrutiny, the henna-haired
woman leaned toward and examined her hair attentively.
"I think I could go another week. Heavens, what a fright
I look!"
The friend said, "Well, darling, what can you expect at
this time of the morning?"
Jane said: "Ah, wait until M. Georges has finished with
you."
"Tell me"--the woman resumed her stare--"are you the
DEATH IN THE AIR 121
girl who gave evidence at the inquest yesterday? The girl
who was in the aeroplane?"
"Yes, madam."
"How too terribly thrilling! Tell me about it."
Jane did her best to please:
"Well, madam, it was all rather dreadful, really." She
plunged into narration, answering questions as they came.
What had the old woman looked like? Was it true that there
were two French detectives aboard and that the whole thing
was mixed up with the French government scandals? Was
Lady Horbury on board? Was she really as good-looking
as everyone said? Who did she, Jane, think had actually
done the murder? They said the whole thing was being
hushed up for government reasons, and so on and so on.
This first ordeal was only a forerunner of many others,
all on the same lines. Everyone wanted to be done by "the
girl who was on the plane." Everyone was able to say to
her friends, "My dear, positively too marvelous. The girl
at my hairdresser's is the girl.... Yes, I should go there if
I were you; they do your hair very well... .Jeanne, her
name is--rather a little thing--big eyes. She'll tell you all
about it if you ask her nicely."
By the end of the week Jane felt her nerves giving way
under the strain. Sometimes she felt that if she had to go
through the recital once again she would scream or attack
her questioner with the dryer.
However, in the end she hit upon a better way of relieving
her feelings. She approached M. Antoine and boldly demanded
a raise of salary.
"You ask that? You have the impudence? When it is only
out of kindness of heart that I keep you here, after you have
been mixed up in a murder case. Many men less kindhearted
than I would have dismissed you immediately."
"That's nonsense," said Jane coolly. "I'm a draw in this
place, and you know it. If you want me to go, I'll go. I'll
easily get what I want from Henri's or the Maison Richet."
122 Agatha Christie
"And vvho is to know you have gone there? Of what
importance are you anyway?"
"I met one or two reporters at that inquest," said Jane.
"One of them would give my change of establishment any
publicity needed."
Because he feared that this was indeed so, grumblingly
M. Antoine agreed to Jane's demands. Gladys applauded
her friend heartily.
"Good for you, dear," she said. "Iky Andrew was no
match for you that time. If a girl couldn't fend for herself
a bit, I don't know where we'd all be. Grit, dear, that's
what you've got, and I admire you for it."
"I can fight for my own hand all right," said Jane, her
small chin lifting itself pugnaciously. "I've had to all my
life."
"Hard lines, dear," said Gladys. "But keep your end up
with Iky Andrew. He likes you all the better for it, really.
Meekness doesn't pay in this life, but I don't think we're
either of us troubled by too much of that."
Thereafter Jane's narrative, repeated daily with little variation,
sank into the equivalent of a part played on the stage.
The promised dinner and theater with Norman Gale had
duly come off. It was one of those enchanting evenings
when every word and confidence exchanged seemed to reveal
a bond of sympathy and shared tastes.
They liked dogs and disliked cats. They both hated oysters
and loved smoked salmon. They liked Greta Garbo and
disliked Katharine Hepbum. They didn't like fat women
and admired really jet-black hair. They disliked very red
nails. They disliked loud voices, and noisy restaurants. They
preferred busses to tubes.
It seemed almost miraculous that two people should have
so many points of agreement.
One day at Antoine's, opening her bag, Jane let a letter
from Norman fall out. As she picked it up with a slightly
heightened color, Gladys pounced upon her:
DEATH IN THE AIR 123
"Who's your boy friend, dear?"
"I don't know what you mean," retorted Jane, her color
rising.
"Don't tell me! I know that letter isn't from your mother's
great-uncle. I wasn't born yesterday. Who is he, Jane?"
"It's someone--a man--that I met at Le Pinet. He's a
dentist."
"A dentist," said Gladys with lively distaste. "I suppose
he's got very white teeth and a smile."
Jane was forced to admit that this was indeed the case.
"He's got a very brown face and very blue eyes."
"Anyone can have a brown face," said Gladys. "It may
be the seaside or it may be out of a bottle--two and eleven
pence at the chemist's. Handsome Men are Slightly Bronzed.
The eyes sound all right. But a dentist! Why, if he was going to kiss you, you'd feel he was going to say, 'Open
a little wider, please.'"
"Don't be an idiot, Gladys."
"You needn't be so touchy, my dear. I see you've got
it badly.... Yes, Mr. Henry, I'm just coming.... Drat Henry.
Thinks he's God Almighty, the way he orders us girls about!"
The letter had been to suggest dinner on Saturday evening.
At lunchtime on Saturday, when Jane received her
augmented pay, she felt full of high spirits.
"And to think," said Jane to herself, "that I was worrying
so that day coming over in the aeroplane. Everything's
turned out beautifully. Life is really too marvelous."
So full of exuberance did she feel that she decided to be
extravagant and lunch at the Corner House and enjoy the
accompaniment of music to her food.
She seated herself at a table for four where there were already a middle-aged woman and a young man sitting. The
middle-aged woman was just finishing her lunch. Presently
she called for her bill, picked up a large collection of parcels
and departed.
Jane, as was her custom, read a book as she ate. Looking
1^4 Agatha Christie
up as she turned a P^' she noticed the y<
her staring at her very intently, and at i
realized that 111s face was ^8"^ ^ilii
Just as she made these discoveries, the
her eye and bowed.
"Excuse roe' mademoiselle. You do ni
Jane looked at him more attentively. h(
looking face, attractive more by reason c
bility than because of any actual claim t<
"We have not }aeen introduced, it is t
young man. "Unless you call murder ar
the fact that ^e both 8^ evidence in the
"Of course," said ]ane- "How stupid i
knew your face. You are--"
"Jean Dupont," sald the man> and sb
engaging litti® bow.
A remembrance flashed into Jane's m
Gladys', expre8^ Perhaps without undi
"If there's one fellow after you, there's
Seems to be a law of Nature. Sometimes
Now Jane had always led an austere h<
rather like the description, after the disa{
who were missing--"She was a bright i no men friends," and so on. Jane had beer
girl, with no men friends." Now it seeme
were rolling up a^ found. There was no d
Dupont's face as he leaned across the tal
mere interested politeness. He was pie
opposite Jane- He was more than Pleased,
Jane thougnt to herself, with a touch
"He's French, though. You've got to
French; they always say so."
"You're still in England, then," said
cursed herself for the extreme inanity of
"Yes. My father has been to Edinburg
DEATH IN THE AIR 125
there, and we hi^ stayed with friends ALSO' But now--tomorrow^ve/rntoF^ance"

"I see."
"The nnl (ev ^ave not i"^6 an arrest yet?" said Jean
Dupont.
"No Th < pot even ^een ^y^^g about it in the
papers lately^BP8 ^'^ ^ven it "P"
Jean Dupo^001' his head-
"No no f w1^ not ^ave g^®" lt "P- 1'"^ ^^ silentiv^'_h -^e an exPresslve gesture--"in the dark."
"Don't " ^aa& "i10^1^- "You give me the creeps."
"Yes 't' s11^ vel'y nlce ^^"S--t0 nave ^3een s0 close
when amu^8 COInmitted-" He ^ "And I was closer than yo,^re- I was very close indeed- sometimes
I do not like to^^111^-"
"Who ri think did it?" asked Jane. "I've wondered
and wondered ' ... , ,.
Jean Dupo,;^"18^ hls shoulders-
"It was not ^he was far t00 ugly!"
"Well " V"®' "^ SUPPOSe y0" would rather kill an
ugly woman8^ a good-lookingone?"
"Not at 111 li a woman is good-looking, you are fond
of her- h y011 ^adiy; ^e makes you jealous, mad
with jealous?^-' you say' >1 wi" ki11 her- It WM be
'^^'.tisfaction?"
"Th a,()iselle, I do not know. Because I have not
yet tried'" Hi i1811®'1' then shook his head' 'But a" ugly old woman ^'selle-who would want to bother to kill
her?"
"Wpll th ^ne way 0^ looking at it," said Jane. She
frr>wr»o<i '"t ^s rather terrible, somehow, to think that iruwneu. it o^l
perhaps she ^70un8 and Prctty once-
"I k , f'w." He became suddenly grave. "It is the
great tr^Idy ^-^ women ^ old"
126 Agatha Christie
"You seem to think a lot about women and their looks,"
said Jane.
"Naturally. It is the most interesting subject possible.
That seems strange to you because you are English. An
Englishman thinks first of his work--his job, he calls it--
and then of his sport, and last--a good way last--of his
wife. Yes, yes, it is really so. Why, imagine, in a little
hotel in Syria was an Englishman whose wife had been
taken ill. He himself had to be somewhere in Iraq by a
certain date. Eh bien, would you believe it, he left his wife
and went on so as to be on duty in time? And both he and
his wife thought that quite natural; they thought him noble,
unselfish. But the doctor, who was not English, thought
him a barbarian. A wife, a human being--that should come
first. To do one's job--that is something much less important."

"I don't know," said Jane. "One's work has to come
first, I suppose."
"But why? You see, you, too, have the same point of
view. By doing one's work one obtains money; by indulging
and looking after a woman one spends it; so the last is much
more noble and ideal than the first."
Jane laughed.
"Oh, well," she said, "I think I'd rather be regarded as
a mere luxury and self-indulgence than be regarded sternly
as a first duty. I'd rather a man felt that he was enjoying
himself looking after me than that he should feel I was a
duty to be attended to."
"No one, mademoiselle, would be likely to feel that with
you."
Jane blushed slightly at the eamestness of the young
man's tone. He went on talking quickly:
"I have only been in England once before. It was very
interesting to me the other day at the--inquest, you call
it?--to study three young and charming women, all so different
from one another."
DEATH IN THE AIR 127
"What did you think of us all?" asked Jane, amused.
"That Lady Horbury--bah, I know her type well. It is
very exotic, very, very expensive--you see it sitting round
the baccarat table--the soft face, the hard expression--and
you know--you know so well what it will be like in, say,
fifteen years. She lives for sensation, that one. For high
play, perhaps for drugs. Aufond, she is uninteresting!"
"And Miss Kerr?"
"Ah, she is very, very English. She is the kind that any
shopkeeper on the Riviera will give credit to--they are very
discerning, our shopkeepers. Her clothes are very well cut,
but rather like a man's. She walks about as though she owns
the earth; she is not conceited about it; she is just an Englishwoman.
She knows which department of England different
people come from. It is true; I have heard ones like
her in Egypt. 'What? The Etceteras are here? The Yorkshire
Etceteras? Oh, the Shropshire Etceteras.'"
His mimicry was good. Jane laughed at the drawling,
well-bred tones.
"And then, me," she said.
"And then you. And I say to myself, 'How nice, how
very nice it would be if I were to see her again one day.'
And here I am sitting opposite you. The gods arrange things
very well sometimes."
Jane said: "You're an archaeologist, aren't you? You dig
up things."
And she listened with keen attention while Jean Dupont
talked of his work.
Jane gave a little sigh at last.
"You've been in so many countries. You've seen so
much. It all sounds so fascinating. And I shall never go
anywhere or see anything."
"You would like that? To go abroad? To see wild parts
of the earth? You would not be able to get your hair waved,
remember."
"It waves by itself," said Jane, laughing.
128 Agatha Christie
She looked up at the clock and hastily summoned the
waitress for her bill.
Jean Dupont said with a little embarras^ ..
"Mademoiselle, I wonder if you would P^m_as I have
told you, I return to France to-morrow--i? ^^ ^ '.
with me to-night." ' "I'm so sorry. I can't. I'm dining with someone." ;
"Ah! I am sorry--very sorry. You wi^ ^^ ^^ ^ }
Paris, soon?"
"I don't expect so."
"And me, I do not know when I sh<^ ^ ^ ^don
again! It is sad!"
He stood a moment, holding Jane's ha^yi .- „„ "I shall hope to see you again, very mu^,, ^ ^ ^
sounded as though he meant it.
^fr««	»>»X,r
^
At about the time that Jane was leaving Antoine's, Norman
Gale was saying in a hearty professional tone:
"Just a little tender, I'm afraid. Tell me if I hurt you."
His expert hand guided the electric drill.
"There. That's all over.... Miss Ross."
Miss Ross was immediately at his elbow, stirring a minute
white concoction on a slab.
Norman Gale completed his filling and said:
"Let me see, it's next Tuesday you're coming for those
others?"
His patient, rinsing her mouth ardently, burst into a fluent
explanation: She was going away--so sorry--would have
to cancel the next appointment. Yes, she would let him
know when she got back.
And she escaped hurriedly from the room.
"Well," said Gale, "that's all for today."
Miss Ross said: "Lady Higginson rang up to say she must
give up her appointment next week. She wouldn't make
another. Oh, and Colonel Blunt can't come on Thursday."
Norman Gale nodded. His face hardened.
Every day was the same. People ringing up. Canceled
appointments. All varieties of excuses--going away, going
abroad, got a cold, may not be here.
190
130 Agatha Christie
It didn't matter what reason they gave. The real reason
Norman had just seen quite unmistakably in his last patient's
eye as he reached for the drill. A look of sudden panic.
He could have written down the woman's thoughts on
paper:
"Oh, dear. Of course, he was in that aeroplane when that
woman was murdered.... I wonder.... You do hear of people
going off their heads and doing the most senseless crimes.
It really isn't safe. The man might be a homicidal lunatic.
They look the same as other people, I've always heard. I
believe I always felt there was rather a peculiar look in his
eye."
"Well," said Gale, "it looks like being a quiet week next
week. Miss Ross."
"Yes, a lot of people have dropped out. Oh, well, you
can do with a rest. You worked so hard earlier in the summer."

"It doesn't look as though I were going to have a chance
of working very hard in the autumn, does it?"
Miss Ross did not reply. She was saved from having to
do so by the telephone ringing. She went out of the room
to answer it.
Norman dropped some instruments into the sterilizer,
thinking hard.
"Let's see how we stand. No beating about the bush.
This business has about done for me professionally. Funny.
It's done well for Jane. People come on purpose to gape at
her. Come to think of it, that's what's wrong here. They
have to gape at me, and they don't like it! Nasty, helpless
feeling you have in a dentist's chair. If the dentist were to
run amuck--
"What a strange business murder is! You'd think it was
a perfectly straight-forward issue, and it isn't. It affects all
sorts of queer things you'd never think of.... Come back
to facts. As a dentist, I seem to be about done for.... What
would happen, I wonder, if they arrested the Horbury woman?
DEATH IN THE AIR 131
Would my patients come trooping back? Hard to say. Once
the rot's set in.... Oh, well, what does it matter? I don't
care. Yes, I do, because of Jane.... Jane's adorable. I want
her. And I can't have her yet.... A damnable nuisance."
He smiled.
"I feel it's going to be all right. She cares. She'll
wait.... Damn it, I shall go to Canada--yes, that's it--
and make money there."
He laughed to himself.
Miss Ross came back into the room.
"That was Mrs. Lome. She's sorry--"
"--but she may be going to Timbuctoo," finished Norman.
"Vive les rats! You'd better look out for another post,
Miss Ross. This seems to be a sinking ship."
"Oh, Mr. Gale, I shouldn't think of deserting you."
"Good girl. You're not a rat, anyway. But seriously, I
mean it. If something doesn't happen to clear up this mess,
I'm done for."
"Something ought to be done about it!" said Miss Ross
with energy. "I think the police are disgraceful. They're not
trying."
Norman laughed.
"I expect they're trying all right."
"Somebody ought to do something."
"Quite right. I've rather thought of trying to do something
myself; though I don't quite know what."
"Oh, Mr. Gale, I should. You're so clever."
"I'm a hero to that girl all right," thought Norman Gale.
"She'd like to help me in my sleuth stuff, but I've got another
partner in view."
It was that same evening that he dined with Jane.
Half unconsciously he pretended to be in very high spirits,
but Jane was too astute to be deceived. She noted his
sudden moments of absent-mindedness, the little frown that
showed between his brows, the sudden strained line of his
mouth.
1 '0
k^atha Christie
She said at last:
"Norman, are thit;, g^g badly?"
He shot a quick glu'^e at her, then looked away.
"Well, not too frifctfuiiy well. It's a bad time of year."
"Don't be idiotic;^^ ^ ^arply.
"Jane!"
"I mean it. Don't ^ ^ink I can see that you're worried
to death?" <)
"I'm not worried liy death. I'm just annoyed."
"You mean people fighting shy-"
"Of having their te^ attended to by a possible murderer.
J CS.
"How cruelly unfair i"
"It is, rather. Bec^^ frankly, Jane, I'm a jolly good
dentist. And I'm not,,.murderer."
"It's wicked. Sont^y ought (o do something."
"That's what my fe p-etary, Miss Ross, said this morning."
'S'
"What's she like?"
"Miss Ross?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I don't kno^t g,g ^s of bones, nose rather like
a rocking horse, fright^ny competent."
"She sounds quite ^e," said Jane graciously.
Norman nghtly too^ ^5 as a tribute to his diplomacy.
Miss Ross' bones ^ not really quite as formidable as
stated and she had an^ xtremely attractive head of red hair,
but he felt, and nghtly ^at it was just as well not to dwell
on the latter point to ]^-g
"I'd like to do southing," he said. "If I was a young
man in a book, I'd V^ 3 ^ ^ p^ shadow somebody."
Jane tugged sudde^y ^ his sleeve.
"Look, there's Mt^iancy--you know, the author. Siting
over there by thrall by himself. We might shadow
"But we were goi^ (q the flicks!"
DEATH IN THE AIR 133
"Never mind the flicks. I feel somehow this might be
meant. You said you wanted to shadow somebody and here's
somebody to shadow. You never know. We might find out
something."
Jane's enthusiasm was infectious. Norman fell in with
the plan readily enough.
"As you say, one never knows," he said. "Whereabouts
has he got to in his dinner? I can't see properly without
turning my head, and I don't want to stare."
"He's about level with us," said Jane. "We'd better hurry
a bit and get ahead, and then we can pay the bill and be
ready to leave when he does."
They adopted this plan. When at last little Mr. Clancy
rose and passed out into Dean Street, Norman and Jane were
fairly close on his heels.
"In case he takes a taxi," Jane explained.
But Mr. Clancy did not take a taxi. Carrying an overcoat
over one arm, and occasionally allowing it to trail on the
ground, he ambled gently through the London streets. His
progress was somewhat erratic. Sometimes he moved forward
at a brisk trot; sometimes he slowed down till he almost
came to a stop. Once, on the very brink of crossing a road,
he did come to a standstill, standing there with one foot
hanging out over the curb and looking exactly like a slowmotion
picture.
His direction, too, was erratic. Once he actually took so
many right-angle turns that he traversed the same streets
twice over.
Jane felt her spirits rise.
"You see?" she said excitedly. "He's afraid of being
followed. He's trying to put us off the scent."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course. Nobody would go round in circles, otherwise."

"Oh!"
They had turned a corner rather quickly and had almost
134 Agatha Christie
cannoned into their quarry. He was standing staring up at
a butcher's shop. The shop itself was naturally closed, but
it seemed to be something about the level of the first floor
that was riveting Mr. Clancy's attention.
He said aloud:
"Perfect. The very thing. What a piece of luck!"
He took out a little book and wrote something down very
carefully. Then he started off again at a brisk pace, humming
a little tune.
He was now heading definitely for Bloomsbury. Sometimes,
when he turned his head, the two behind could see
his lips moving.
"There is something up," said Jane. "He's in great distress
of mind. He's talking to himself and he doesn't know
it."
As he waited to cross by some traffic lights, Norman
and Jane drew abreast.
It was quite true: Mr. Clancy was talking to himself. His
face looked white and strained. Norman and Jane caught a
few muttered words:
"Why doesn't she speak? Why? There must be a reason."
The lights went green. As they reached the opposite
pavement, Mr. Clancy said:
"I see now. Of course. That's why she's got to be silenced!"

Jane pinched Norman ferociously.
Mr. Clancy set off at a great pace now. The overcoat
dragged hopelessly. With great strides the little author covered
the ground, apparently oblivious of the two people on
his track.
Finally, with disconcerting abruptness, he stopped at a
house, opened the door with a key and went in.
Norman and Jane looked at each other.
"It's his own house," said Norman. "Forty-seven Cardington
Square. That's the address he gave at the inquest."
"Oh, well," said Jane. "Perhaps he'll come out again by
DEATH IN THE AIR 135
and by. And anyway, we have heard something. Somebody--a
woman--is going to be silenced. And some other
woman won't speak. Oh, dear, it sounds dreadfully like a
detective story."
A voice came out of the darkness.
"Good evening," it said.
The owner of the voice stepped forward. A pair of magnificent
mustaches showed in the lamplight.
"Eh bien," said Hercule Poirot. "A fine evening for the
chase, is it not?"
JSlW^	W^XK.
^
Of the two startled young people, it was Norman Gale who
recovered himself first.
"Of course," he said. "It's Monsieur--Monsieur Poirot.
Are you still trying to clear your character, M. Poirot?"
"Ah, you remember our little conversation? And it is the
poor Mr. Clancy you suspect?"
"So do you," said Jane acutely, "or you wouldn't be
here."
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
"Have you ever thought about murder, mademoiselle?
Thought about it, I mean, in the abstract--coldbloodedly
and dispassionately?"
"I don't (hink I've ever thought about it at all until just
lately," said Jane.
Hercule Poirot nodded.
"Yes, you think about it now because a murder has touched
you personally. But me, I have dealt with crime for many
years now. I have my own way of regarding things. What
should you say the most important thing was to bear in mind
when you are trying to solve a murder?"
"Finding the murderer," said Jane.
Norman Gale said: "Justice."
Poirot shook his head.
136
DEATH IN THE AIR 137
"There are more important things than finding the murderer.
And justice is a fine word, but it is sometimes difficult
to say exactly what one means by it. In my opinion, the
important thing is to clear the innocent."
"Oh, naturally," said Jane. "That goes without saying.
If anyone is falsely accused--"
"Not even that. There may be no accusation. But until
one person is proved guilty beyond any possible doubt,
everyone else who is associated with the crime is liable to
suffer in varying degrees."
Norman Gale said with emphasis:
"How true that is."
Jane said:
"Don't we know it!"
Poirot looked from one to the other.
"I see. Already you have been finding that out for yourselves."

He became suddenly brisk:
"Come now, I have affairs to see to. Since our aims are
the same, we three, let us combine together? I am about to
call upon our ingenious friend, Mr. Clancy. I would suggest
that mademoiselle accompanies me in the guise of my secretary.
Here, mademoiselle, is a notebook and a pencil for
the shorthand."
"I can't write shorthand," gasped Jane.
"But naturally not. But you have the quick wits, the
intelligence. You can make plausible signs in pencil in the
book, can you not? Good. As for Mr. Gale, I suggest that
he meets us in, say, an hour's time. Shall we say upstairs
at Monseigneur's? Bon! We will compare notes then."
And forthwith he advanced to the bell and pressed it.
Slightly dazed, Jane followed him, clutching the notebook.

Gale opened his mouth as though to protest, then seemed
to think better of it.
"Right," he said. "In an hour. At Monseigneur's."
The door was c
derly woman attin
Poirot said, "M
She drew back
"What name, s
"Mr. Hercule 1 The severe wo\ the first floor.
"Mr. Air Kule
Poirot realized
nouncement at Crc man. The room, e length and shelves
in a state of chaos
board files, banans long , a trombone,
bewildering assort
In the middle o
gling with a came
"Dear me," saii
were announced. 1 films promptly fe
came forward wit
you, I'm sure."
"You remembe
secretary, Miss Gi
"How d'you do
and then turned ba
you--at least--n<
Skull and Crossbo
"We were fello'
on a certain fatal < "Why, of cour;
too! Only I hadn't
I had some idea thi of that kind."
DEATH IN THE AIR 139
looked anxiously at Poirot.
Jatter was quite equal to the situation.
:ectly correct," he said. "As an efficient secretary, 'ey has at times to undertake certain work of a temporary lature; you understand?"
|? , :ourse," said Mr. Clancy. "I was forgetting. You're
&. a e ;ive--the real thing. Not Scotland Yard. Private
'''J'- in vesti 2<
S . , ttion... .Do sit down. Miss Grey... .No, not there;
f; „., [here's orange juice on that chair.... If I shift this
. ."'Oh, dear, now everything's tumbled out. Never
p . ',,'. You sit here, M. Poirot.... That's right, isn't it?
,. , ''. .The back's not really broken. It only creaks a
, you lean against it. Well, perhaps it's best not to lean too , , . .. . „,..
, , hard.... Yes, a private investigator like my Wil-
. , Rice. The public have taken very strongly to Wil.
, , .Rice. He bites his nails and eats a lot of bananas. , ..<now why I made him bite his nails, to start with;
... ,.ly rather disgusting, but there it is. He started by (, s nails and now he has to do it in every single book.
„ „ atonous. The bananas aren't so bad; you get a bit . >ut of them--criminals slipping on the skin. I eat
, , .. myself--that's what put it into my head. But I
.„ . re my nails.... Have some beer?"
i inc i »,
Mr. (lnk y°"' n0-
, ^lancy sighed, sat down himself, and gazed ear- iicsuy ui -- .
„/ Poirot.
I ca;
p. „ n guess what you've come about. The murder of
.I've thought and thought about that case. You can
: you like; it's amazing--poisoned darts and a blow,
in aeroplane. An idea I have used myself, as I told
' h in book and short-story form. Of course it was a ^ icking occurrence, but I must confess, M. Poirot, ^is thrilled--positively thrilled."
, } quite see," said Poirot, "that the crime must have
p -1 to you professionally, Mr. Clancy."
Mr. (.11
-lancy beamed.
140 Agatha Christie
"Exactly. You would think that anyone, even the official
police, could have understood that! But not at all. Suspicion--that
is all I got. Both from the inspector and at the
inquest. I go out of my way to assist the course of justice
and all I get for my pains is palpable thick-headed suspicion!"

"All the same," said Poirot, smiling, "it does not seem
to affect you very much."
"Ah," said Mr. Clancy. "But, you see, I have my methods,
Watson. If you'll excuse my calling you Watson. No
offense intended. Interesting, by the way, how the technic
of the idiot friend has hung on. Personally, I myself think
the Sherlock Holmes stories greatly overrated. The fallacies--the
really amazing fallacies--that there are in those
stories--But what was I saying?"
"You said that you had your methods."
"Ah, yes." Mr. Clancy leaned forward. "I'm putting that
inspector--what is his name? Japp? Yes, I'm putting him
in my next book. You should see the way Wilbraham Rice
deals with him."
"In between bananas, as one might say."
"In between bananas--that's very good, that." Mr.
Clancy chuckled.
"You have a great advantage as a writer, monsieur," said
Poirot. "You can relieve your feelings by the expedient of
the printed word. You have the power of the pen over your
enemies."
Mr. Clancy rocked gently back in his chair.
"You know," he said, "I begin to think this murder is
going to be a really fortunate thing for me. I'm writing the
whole thing exactly as it happened--only as fiction, of
course, and I shall call it 'The Air Mail Mystery.' Perfect
pen portraits of all the passengers. It ought to sell like wild
fire, if only I can get it out in time."
"Won't you be had up for libel, or something?" aske(
Jane.
DEATH IN THE AIR 141
Mr. Clancy turned a beaming face upon her.
"No, no, my dear lady. Of course, if I were to make one
of the passengers the murderer--well, then, I might be
liable for damages. But that is the strong part of it all--an
entirely unexpected solution is revealed in the last chapter."
Poirot leaned forward eagerly.
"And that solution is?"
Again Mr. Clancy chuckled.
"Ingenious," he said. "Ingenious and sensational. Disguised
as the pilot, a girl gets into the plane at Le Bourget
and successfully stows herself away under Madame Giselle's
seat. She has with her an ampul of the newest gas.
She releases this, everybody becomes unconscious for three
minutes, she squirms out, fires the poisoned dart, and makes
a parachute descent from the rear door of the car."
Both Jane and Poirot blinked.
Jane said: "Why doesn't she become unconscious from
the gas too?"
"Respirator," said Mr. Clancy.
"And she descends into the Channel?"
"It needn't be the Channel. I shall make it the French
coast."
"And anyway, nobody could hide under a seat; there
wouldn't be room."
"There will be room in my aeroplane," said Mr. Clancy
firmly.
"Epatant," said Poirot. "And the motive of the lady?"
"I haven't quite decided," said Mr. Clancy meditatively.
"Probably Giselle ruined the girl's lover, who killed himself."

"And how did she get hold of the poison?"
"That's the really clever part," said Mr. Clancy. "The
gu'l's a snake charmer. She extracts the stuff from her favorite
python."
"Mi,ii Dieu!" said Hercule Poirot.
He said:
"' 142 Agatha C
"You don't think, perhaps,
I "You can't write anything
Clancy firmly. "Especially w
| arrow poison of the South Ami
I snake juice really, but the prir
you don't want a detective sto
at the things in the papers--d
"Come now, monsieur, we
of ours is dull as ditch water?'
"No," admitted Mr. Clanc>
can't believe it really happens
l Poirot drew the creaking ch
His voice lowered itself confic
"Mr. Clancy, you are a ma
I The police, as you say, have
; | they have not sought your ad' ; j desire to consult you."
| i| Mr. Clancy flushed with pi
, ,, "I'm sure that's very nice o
| i He looked flustered and pie
I I "You have studied the crirr
II | of value. It would be of great
in your opinion, committed th
I "Well--" Mr. Clancy hesil 1 i for a banana and began to eat i
. i l out of his face, he shook his
, | it's an entirely different thing.1
make it anyone you like, but < I 11 a real person. You haven't ar
P I'm afraid, you know, that I'd I real detective."
He shook his head sadly am
| the grate.
P "It might be amusing, ho\
, ; together," suggested Poirot. \ I, "Oh, that, yes."
DEATH IN THE AIR 143
"To begin with, supposing you had to make a sporting
guess, who would you choose?"
"Oh, well, I suppose one of the two Frenchmen."
"Now, why?"
"Well, she was French. It seems more likely somehow.
And they were sitting on the opposite side not too far away
from her. But really I don't know."
"It depends," said Poirot thoughtfully, "so much on motive."

"Of course, of course. I suppose you tabulate all the
motives very scientifically?"
"I am old-fashioned in my methods. I follow the old
adage, 'Seek whom the crime benefits.'"
"That's all very well," said Mr. Clancy. "But I take it
that's a little difficult in a case like this. There's a daughter
who comes into money, so I've heard. But a lot of the
people on board might benefit, for all we know--that is,
if they owed her money and haven't got to pay it back."
"True," said Poirot. "And I can think of other solutions.
Let us suppose that Madame Giselle knew of something--
attempted murder, shall we say--on the part of one of those
people."
"Attempted murder?" said Mr. Clancy. "Now why attempted
murder? What a very curious suggestion."
"In cases such as these," said Poirot, "one must think of
everything."
"Ah!" said Mr. Clancy. "But it's no good thinking. You've
got to know."
"You have reason--you have reason. A very just observation."

Then he said:
"I ask your pardon, but this blowpipe that you
bought--"
"Damn that blowpipe," said Mr. Clancy. "I wish I'd
never mentioned it."
"You bought it, you say, at a shop in the Charing Cross
144 Agatha Christie
Road? Do you, by any chance, remember the name of that
shop?"
"Well," said Mr. Clancy, "it might have been Absolom's--or
there's Mitchell & Smith. I don't know. But I've
already told all this to that pestilential inspector. He must
have checked up on it by this time."
"Ah!" said Poirot. "But I ask for quite another reason.
I desire to purchase such a thing and make a little experiment."

"Oh, I see. But I don't know that you'll find one all the
same. They don't keep sets of them, you know."
"All the same, I can try.... Perhaps, Miss Grey, you
would be so obliging as to take down those two names?"
Jane opened her notebook and rapidly performed a series
of--she hoped--professional-looking squiggles. Then she
surreptitiously wrote the names in longhand on the reverse
side of the sheet, in case these instructions ofPoirot's should
be genuine.
"And now," said Poirot, "I have trespassed on your time
too long. I will take my departure with a thousand thanks
for your amiability."
"Not at all. Not at all," said Mr. Clancy. "I wish you
would have had a banana."
"You are most amiable."
"Not at all. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling rather happy
to-night. I'd been held up in a short story I was writing--
the thing wouldn't pan out properly, and I couldn't get a
good name for the criminal. I wanted something with a
flavor. Well, just a bit of luck I saw just the name I wanted
over a butcher's shop. Pargiter. Just the name I was looking
for. There's a sort of genuine sound to it--and about five
minutes later I got the other thing. There's always the same
snag in stories. Why won't the girl speak? The young man
tries to make her and she says her lips are sealed. There's
never any real reason, of course, why she shouldn't blurt
out the whole thing at once, but you have to try and think
DEATH IN THE AIR 145
of something that's not too definitely idiotic. Unfortunately,
it has to be a different thing every time!"
He smiled gently at Jane.
"The trials of an author!"
He darted past her to a bookcase.
"One thing you must allow me to give you."
He came back with a book in his hand.
'"The Clue of the Scarlet Petal.' I think I mentioned at
Croydon that that book of mine dealt with arrow poison and
native darts."
"A thousand thanks. You are too amiable." "Not at all. I see," said Mr. Clancy suddenly to Jane,
"that you don't use the Pitman system of shorthand."
Jane flushed scarlet. Poirot came to her rescue:
"Miss Grey is very up-to-date. She uses the most recent
system invented by a Czechoslovakian."
"You don't say so? What an amazing place Czechoslovakia
must be. Everything seems to come from there--
shoes, glass, gloves, and now a shorthand system. Quite
amazing."
He shook hands with them both.
"I wish I could have been more helpful."
They left him in the littered room smiling wistfully after
them.
^w
W-»Xi^


16
From Mr. Clancy's house they took a taxi to the Monseigneur,
where they found Norman Gale awaiting them.
Poirot ordered some consomme and a chaud-froid of
chicken.
"Well," said Norman, "how did you get on?"
"Miss Grey," said Poirot, "has proved herself the supersecretary."
"I
don't think I did so very well," said Jane. "He spotted
my stuff when he passed behind me. You know, he must
be very observant."
"Ah, you noticed that? This good Mr. Clancy is not quite
so absent-minded as one might imagine."
"Did you really want those addresses?" asked Jane.
"I think they might be useful, yes."
"But if the police--"
"Ah, the police! I should not ask the same questions as
the police have asked. Though, as a matter of fact, I doubt
whether the police have asked any questions at all. You
see, they know that the blow-pipe found in the plane was
purchased in Paris by an American."
"In Paris? An American? But there wasn't any American
in the aeroplane."
146
DEATH IN THE AIR 147
Poirot smiled kindly on her.
"Precisely. We have here an American just to make it
more difficult. Voild tout."
"But it was bought by a man?" said Norman.
Poirot looked at him with rather an odd expression.
"Yes," he said, "it was bought by a man."
Norman looked puzzled.
"Anyway," said Jane, "it wasn't Mr. Clancy. He'd got
one blowpipe already, so he wouldn't want to go about
buying another."
Poirot nodded his head.
"That is how one must proceed. Suspect everyone in turn
and then wipe him or her off the list."
"How many have you wiped off so far?" asked Jane.
"Not so many as you might think, mademoiselle," said
Poirot with a twinkle. "It depends, you see, on the motive."
"Has there been--" Norman Gale stopped, and then added
apologetically: "I don't want to butt in on official secrets,
but is there no record of this woman's dealings?"
Poirot shook his head.
"All the records are burned."
"That's unfortunate."
"Evidemment! But it seems that Madame Giselle combined
a little blackmailing with her profession of money
lending, and that opens up a wider field. Supposing, for
instance, that Madame Giselle had knowledge of a certain
criminal offense--say, attempted murder on the part of
someone."
"Is there any reason to suppose such a thing?"
"Why, yes," said Poirot slowly, "there is. One of the
few pieces of documentary evidence that we have in this
case."
He looked from one to the other of their interested faces
and gave a little sigh.
"Ah, well," he said. "That is that. Let us talk of other matters--for instance, of how this tragedy has affected the
148 Agatha Christie
lives of you two young people."
"It sounds horrible to say so, but I've done well out of
it," said Jane.
She related her rise of salary.
"As you say, mademoiselle, you have done well, but
probably only for the time being. Even a nine days' wonder
does not last longer than nine days, remember."
Jane laughed.
"That's very true."
"I'm afraid it's going to last more than nine days in my
case," said Norman.
He explained the position. Poirot listened sympathetically.

"As you say," he observed thoughtfully, "it will take
more than nine days, or nine weeks, or nine months. Sensationalism
dies quickly, fear is long-lived."
"Do you think I ought to stick it out?"
"Have you any other plan?"
"Yes. Chuck up the whole thing. Go out to Canada or
somewhere and start again."
"I'm sure that would be a pity," said Jane firmly.
Norman looked at her.
Poirot tactfully became engrossed with his chicken.
"I don't want to go," said Norman.
"If I discover who killed Madame Giselle, you will not
have to go," said Poirot cheerfully.
"Do you really think you will?" asked Jane.
Poirot looked at her reproachfully.
"If one approaches a problem with order and method,
there should be no difficulty in solving it; none whatever,"
said Poirot severely.
"Oh, I see," said Jane, who didn't.
"But I should solve this problem quicker if I had help,"
said Poirot.
"What kind of help?"
Poirot did not speak for a moment or two. Then he said:
S DEATH IN THE AIR 149
|I
"Help from Mr. Gale. And perhaps, later, help from you 1 also."
"What can I do?" asked Norman.
Poirot shot a sideways glance at him.
"You will not like it," he said wamingly.
"What is it?" repeated the young man impatiently.
Very delicately, so as not to offend English susceptibilities,
Poirot used a toothpick. Then he said:
"Frankly, what I need is a blackmailer."
"A blackmailer?" exclaimed Norman. He stared at Poirot
as a man does who cannot believe his ears.
Poirot nodded.
"Precisely," he said. "A blackmailer."
"But what for?"
"Parbleu! To blackmail."
"Yes, but I mean, who? Why?"
"Why," said Poirot, "is my business. As to who--" He
paused for a moment, then went on in a calm businesslike
tone:
"Here is the plan I will outline for you. You will write
a note--that is to say, I will write a note and you will copy
it--to the Countess of Horbury. You will mark it Personal.
In the note you will ask for an interview. You will recall
yourself to her memory as having traveled to England by
air on a certain occasion. You will also refer to certain
business dealings of Madame Giselle's having passed into
your hands."
"And then?"
"And then you will be accorded an interview. You will
go and you will say certain things--in which I will instruct
you. You will ask for--let me see--ten thousand pounds."
"You're mad!"
"Not at all," said Poirot. "I am eccentric, possibly, but
road, no."
"And suppose Lady Horbury sends for the police. I shall
go to prison."
150 Agatha Christie
"She will not send for the police."
"You can't know that."
"Mon cher, practically speaking, I know everything!"
"And anyway I don't like it."
"You will not get the ten thousand pounds — if that makes
your conscience any clearer," said Poirot with a twinkle.
"Yes, but look here, M. Poirot; this is the sort of wildcat
scheme that might ruin me for life."
"Ta-ta-ta. The lady will not go to the police—that I
assure you."
"She may tell her husband."
"She will not tell her husband."
"I don't like it."
"Do you like losing your patients and ruining your
career?"
"No, but—"
Poirot smiled at him kindly.
"You have the natural repugnance, yes? That is very
natural. You have, too, the chivalrous spirit. But I can assure
you that Lady Horbury is not worth all this fine feeling; to
use your idiom, she is a very nasty piece of goods."
"All the same, she can't be a murderess."
"Why?"
"Why? Because we should have seen her. Jane and I
were sitting just opposite."
"You have too many preconceived ideas. Me, I desire
to straighten things out, and to do that, I must know."
"I don't like the idea of blackmailing a woman."
"Ah, mon Dieu, what there is in a word! There will be
no blackmail. You have only to produce a certain effect.
After that, when the ground is prepared, I will step in."
Norman said:
"If you land me in prison—"
"No, no, no. I am very well known at Scotland Yard.
If anything should occur, I will take the blame. But nothing
will occur other than what I have prophesied."
DEATH IN THE AIR 151
Norman surrendered with a sigh.
"All right. I'll do it. But I don't half like it."
"Good. This is what you will write. Take a pencil."
He dictated slowly.
"Voila," he said. "Later I will instruct you as to what
you are to say.... Tell me, mademoiselle, do you ever go
to the theater?"
"Yes, fairly often," said Jane.
"Good. Have you seen, for instance, a play called 'Down
Under'?"
"Yes. I saw it about a month ago. It's rather good."
"An American play, is it not?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the part of Harry, played by Mr.
Raymond Barraclough?"
"Yes. He was very good."
"You thought him attractive? Yes?"
"Frightfully attractive."
"Ah, il est sex appeal?"
"Decidedly," said Jane, laughing.
"Just that, or is he a good actor as well?"
"Oh, I think he acts well too."
"I must go and see him," said Poirot.
Jane stared at him, puzzled.
What an odd little man he was, hopping from subject to
subject like a bird from one branch to another.
Perhaps he read her thoughts. He smiled.
"You do not approve of me, mademoiselle? Of my methods?"

"You jump about a good deal."
"Not really. I pursue my course logically, with order and
method. One must not jump wildly to a conclusion. One
must eliminate."
"Eliminate?" said Jane. "Is that what you're doing?" She
thought a moment. "I see. You've eliminated Mr. Clancy."
"Perhaps," said Poirot.
152 Agatha Christie
"And you've eliminated us, and now you're going, perhaps
to eliminate Liady Ho^bury.... Oh!"
She stopped as a s^ ^^ ^^ ^ "What is it, madein^^,,
"That talk of att(?n^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^,,
"You are very qUiq^ niademoiselle. Yes, that was part
of the course I pursue j ^^^ attempted murder and I
watch Mr. Clancy, 1 ^atch you, I watch Mr. Gale--and
in neither of you thr^ ^ ^ere ^y ^ ^ go ^^ ^
the Hicker of an eyel^. And let me tell you that I could
not be deceived on tl^ p^t. a murderer can be ready to
meet any attack that ^ foresees. But that entry in a little
notebook could not h^e been known to any of you. So,
you see, I am satisfied "
"What a horrible fn^y ^ ^ p^^ y^ ^ ^ p^,, said Jane. "I shall nev^ ^^ ^y ^ ^ ^y^g things."
"That is quite simp^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^g^,,
"I suppose you've g^ y ^^^^. ^ ^ finding out
things?"
"There is only one ^ ^ „
"What is that?"
"To let people tell ygy >.
Jane laughed. "Sup^se they don't want to?"
"Everyone likes tal)^g ^^ themselves."
"I suppose they do,-, admitted Jane.
"That is how miU^ ^ ^^ ^^g^ ^ fortune. He encourages
patients to cq^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^^ things--how
they fell out of the P^ambulator when they were two, and
how their mother &W 1 p^ ^ the juice fell on her orange dress, and how, wh<?n ^y ^e one and a half, they pulled
their father's beard; ^ ^en he tells them that now they
will not suffer from thg insomnia any longer, and he takes
two guineas, and they ^o away, having enjoyed themselves,
oh, so much--and pe^ ^y ^ ^ „
"How ridiculous, $aid Jane.
"No, it is not so "qiculous as you think. It is based on
DEATH IN THE AIR 153
a fundamental need of human nature--the need to talk, to
reveal oneself. You yourself, mademoiselle, do you not like
to dwell on your childhood memories? On your mother and
your father?"
"That doesn't apply in my case. I was brought up in an
orphanage."
"Ah, that is different. It is not gay, that."
"I don't mean that we were the kind of charity orphans
who go out in scarlet bonnets and cloaks. It was quite fun,
really."
"It was in England?"
"No, in Ireland, near Dublin."
"So you are Irish. That is why you have the dark hair
and the blue-gray eyes with the look--"
"--as though they had been put in with a smutty finger,"
Norman finished with amusement.
"Comment? What is that you say?"
"That is a saying about Irish eyes--that they have been
put in with a smutty finger."
"Really? It is not elegant, that. And yet, it expresses it
well." He bowed to Jane. "The effect is very good, mademoiselle."

Jane laughed as she got up.
"You'll turn my head, M. Poirot. Good night and thank
you for supper. You'll have to stand me another if Norman
is sent to prison for blackmail."
A frown came over Norman's face at the reminder.
Poirot bade the two young people good night.
When he got home he unlocked a drawer and took out
a list of eleven names.
Against four of these names he put a light tick. Then he
nodded his head thoughtfully.
"I think I know," he murmured to himself, "but I have
got to be sure. llfaut continuer."
^^	ffiw<^
I?
Mr. Henry Mitchell was just sitting down to a supper of
sausage and mash when a visitor called to see him.
Somewhat to the steward's astonishment, the visitor in
question was the full-mustachioed gentleman who had been
one of the passengers on the fatal plane.
M. Poirot was very affable, very agreeable in his manner.
He insisted on Mr. Mitchell's getting on with his supper,
paid a graceful compliment to Mrs. Mitchell, who was
standing staring at him openmouthed.
He accepted a chair, remarked that it was very warm for
the time of year and then gently came round to the purpose
of his call.
"Scotland Yard, I fear, is not making much progress with
the case," he said.
Mitchell shook his head.
"It was an amazing business, sir--amazing. I don't see
what they've got to go on. Why, if none of the people on
the plane saw anything, it's going to be difficult for anyone
afterwards."
"Truly, as you say."
"Terribly worried. Henry's been, over it," put in his wife.
"Not able to sleep of nights."
The steward explained:
154
DEATH IN THE AIR 155
"It's lain on my mind, sir, something terrible. The company
had been very fair about it. I must say I was afraid at
first I might lose my job."
"Henry, they couldn't. It would have been cruelly unfair."

His wife sounded highly indignant. She was a buxom
highly complexioned woman with snapping dark eyes.
"Things don't always happen fairly, Ruth. Still, it turned
out better than I thought. They absolved me from blame.
But I felt it, if you understand me. I was in charge, as it
were."
"I understand your feelings," said Poirot sympathetically.
"But I assure you that you are overconscientious. Nothing
that happened was your fault."
"That's what I say, sir," put in Mrs. Mitchell.
Mitchell shook his head.
"I ought to have noticed that the lady was dead sooner. If
I'd tried to wake her up when I first took round the bills--"
"It would have made little difference. Death, they think,
was very nearly instantaneous."
"He worries so," said Mrs. Mitchell. "I tell him not to
bother his head so. Who's to know what reason foreigners
have for murdering each other, and if you ask me, I think
it's a dirty trick to have done it in a British aeroplane."
She finished her sentence with an indignant and patriotic
snort.
Mitchell shook his head in a puzzled way.
"It weighs on me, so to speak. Every time I go on duty
I'm in a state. And then the gentleman from Scotland Yard
asking me again and again if nothing unusual or sudden
occurred on the way over. Makes me feel as though I must
have forgotten something, and yet I know I haven't. It was
a most uneventful voyage in every way until--until it happened."

"Blowpipes and darts--heathen, I call it," said Mrs.
Mitchell.
156 Agatha Christie
"You are right," said Poirot, addressing her with a flattering
air of being struck by her remarks. "Not so is an
English murder committed."
"You're right, sir."
"You know, Mrs. Mitchell, I can almost guess what part
of England you come from?"
"Dorset, sir. Not far from Bridport. That's my home."
"Exactly," said Poirot. "A lovely part of the world."
"It is that. London isn't a patch on Dorset. My folk have
been settled at Dorset for over two hundred years, and I've
got Dorset in the blood, as you might say."
"Yes, indeed." He turned to the steward again. "There's
one thing I'd like to ask you, Mitchell."
The man's brow contracted.
"I've told all that I know; indeed I have, sir?"
"Yes, yes, this is a very trifling matter. I only wondered
if anything on the table--Madame Giselle's table, I mean--
was disarranged?"
"You mean when--when I found her?"
"Yes. The spoons and forks, the saltcellar--anything
like that?"
The man shook his head.
"There wasn't anything of that kind on the tables. Everything
was cleared away, bar the coffee cups. I didn't notice
anything myself. I shouldn't, though. I was much too flustered.
But the police would know that, sir; they searched
the plane through and through."
"Ah, well," said Poirot, "it is no matter. Sometime I
must have a word with your colleague Davis."
"He's on the early 8:45 a.m. service now, sir."
"Has this business upset him much?"
"Oh, well, sir, you see, he's only a young fellow. If you
ask me, he's almost enjoyed it all. The excitement! And
everyone standing him drinks and wanting to hear about it."
"Has he, perhaps, a young lady?" asked Poirot. "DoubtDEATH IN THE AIR 157
less his connection with the crime would be very thrilling
to her."
"He's courting old Johnson's daughter at the Crown and
Feathers," said Mrs. Mitchell. "But she's a sensible girl;
got her head screwed on the right way. She doesn't approve
of being mixed up with a murder."
"A very sound point of view," said Poirot, rising. "Well,
thank you, Mr. Mitchell—and you, Mrs. Mitchell—and I
beg of you, my friend, do not let this weigh upon your
mind."
When he had departed, Mitchell said: "The thick heads
in the jury at the inquest thought he'd done it. But if you
ask me, he's secret service."
"If you ask me," said Mrs. Mitchell, "there's Bolshies
at the back of it."
Poirot had said that he must have a word with the other
steward, Davis, sometime. As a matter of fact, he had it
not many hours later, in the bar of the Crown and Feathers.
He asked Davis the same question he had asked Mitchell.
"Nothing disarranged, no, sir. You mean upset? That
kind of thing?"
"I mean—well, shall we say something missing from
the table, or something that would not usually be there?"
Davis said slowly:
"There was something. I noticed it when I was clearing
up after the police had done with the place. But I don't
suppose that it's the sort of thing you mean. It's only that
the dead lady had two coffee spoons in her saucer. It does
sometimes happen when we're serving in a hurry. I noticed
it because there's a superstition about that; they say two
spoons in a saucer means a wedding."
"Was there a spoon missing from anyone else's saucer?"
"No, sir, not that I noticed. Mitchell or I must have taken
the cup and saucer along that way—as I say, one does
sometimes, what with the hurry and all. I laid two sets of
158 Agatha Christie
fish knives and forks only a week ago. On the whole, it's
better than laying the table short, for then you have to
interrupt yourself and go and fetch the extra knife or whatever
it is you've forgotten."
Poirot asked one more question--a somewhat jocular
one:
"What do you think of French girls, Davis?"
"English is good enough for me, sir."
And he grinned at a plump fair-haired girl behind the
bar.
JJftW^r	99>W^
18
Mr. James Ryder was rather surprised when a card bearing
the name of M. Hercule Poirot was brought to him.
He knew that the name was familiar but for the moment
he could not remember why. Then he said to himself:
"Oh, that fellow!" And told the clerk to show the visitor
in.
M. Hercule Poirot was looking very jaunty. In one hand
he carried a cane. He had a flower in his buttonhole.
"You will forgive my troubling you, I trust," said Poirot.
"It is this affair of the death of Madame Giselle."
"Yes?" said Mr. Ryder. "Well, what about it? Sit down,
won't you? Have a cigar?"
"I thank you, no. I smoke always my own cigarettes.
Perhaps you will accept one?"
Ryder regarded Poirot's tiny cigarettes with a somewhat
dubious eye.
"Think I'll have one of my own, if it's all the same to
you. Might swallow one of those by mistake." He laughed
heartily.
"The inspector was round here a few days ago," said Mr.
Ryder, when he had induced his lighter to work. "Nosey,
that's what those fellows are. Can't mind their own business."

159
160 Agatha Christie
"They have, I suppose, to get information," said Poirot
mildly.
"They needn't be so offensive about it," said Mr. Ryder
bitterly. "A man's got his feelings and his business reputation
to think about?"
"You are, perhaps, a little oversensitive."
"I'm in a delicate position, I am," said Mr. Ryder. "Sitting
where I did--just in front of her--well, it looks fishy,
I suppose. I can't help where I sat. If I'd known that woman
was going to be murdered, I wouldn't have come by that
plane at all. I don't know, though, perhaps I would."
He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Has good come out of svW asked Poirot, smiling.
"It's funny, your saying that. It has and it hasn't, in a
manner of speaking. I mean I've had a lot of worry. I've
been badgered. Things have been insinuated. And why me--
that's what I say. Why don't they go and worry that Doctor
Hubbard--Bryant, I mean. Doctors are the people who can
get hold of highfaluting undetectable poisons. How'd I get
hold of snake juice? I ask you!"
"You were saying," said Poirot, "that although you had
been put to a lot of mconveHis11^--"
"Ah, yes, there was a bright side to the picture. I don't
mind telling you I cleaned up a tidy little sum from the
papers. Eyewitness stuff--though there was more of the
reporter's imagination than of my eyesight; but that's neither
here nor there."
"It is interesting," said Poirot, "how a crime affects the
lives of people who are quite outside it. Take yourself, for
example; you make suddenly a quite unexpected sum of money--a sum of money perhaps particularly welcome at
the moment."
"Money's always welcome," said Mr. Ryder.
He eyed Poirot sharply.
"Sometimes the need of it is imperative. For that reason
men embezzle, they make fraudulent entries"--he waved
DEATH IN THE AIR 161
his hands—"all sorts of complications arise."
"Well, don't let's get gloomy about it," said Mr. Ryder.
"True. Why dwell on the dark side of the picture? This
money was grateful to you, since you failed to raise a loan
in Paris."
"How the devil did you know that?" asked Mr. Ryder
angrily.
Hercule Poirot smiled.
"At any rate, it is true."
"It's true enough. But I don't particularly want it to get
about."
"I will be discretion itself, I assure you."
"It's odd," mused Mr. Ryder, "how small a sum will
sometimes put a man in Queer Street. Just a small sum of
ready money to tide him over a crisis. And if he can't get
hold of that infinitesimal sum, to hell with his credit. Yes,
it's odd. Money's odd. Credit's odd. Come to that, life is
odd!"
"Very true."
"By the way, what was it you wanted to see me about?"
"It is a little delicate. It has come to my ears—in the
course of my profession, you understand—that in spite of
your denials, you did have dealings with this woman Giselle."
"Who
says so? It's a lie—a damned lie—I never saw
the woman!"
"Dear me, that is very curious!"
"Curious! It's a damned libel."
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
"Ah," he said. "I must look into the matter."
"What do you mean? What are you getting at?"
Poirot shook his head.
Do not enrage yourself. There must be a mistake."
"I should think there was. Catch me getting myself mixed
"P with these high-toned society money lenders. Society
women with gambling debts—that's their sort."
162 Agatha Christie
Poirot rose.
"I must apologize for having been misinformed." He
paused at the door. "By the way, just as a matter of curiosity,
what made you call Doctor Bryant, Doctor Hubbard just
now?"
"Blessed if I know. Let me see. Oh, yes, I think it must
have been the flute. The nursery rime, you know. Old Mother
Hubbard's dog: 'But when she came back he was playing
the flute.' Odd thing, how you mix up names."
"Ah, yes, the flute. These things interest me, you understand,
psychologically."
Mr. Ryder snorted at the word "psychologically." It savored
to him of what he called that tom-fool business, psychoanalysis.

He looked at Poirot with suspicion.
k fff, * * ,> ^ \ t il I - iff"-' w w W<K,
^
The Countess of Horbury sat in her bedroom at 115 Grosvenor
Square in front of her toilet table. Gold brushes and
boxes, jars of face cream, boxes of powder, dainty luxury
all around her. But in the midst of the luxury. Cicely Horbury
sat with dry lips and a face on which the rouge showed
up in unbecoming patches on her cheeks.
She read the letter for the fourth time.
the countess of horbury,
Dear Madam: Re Madame Giselle, deceased.
I am the holder of certain documents formerly in
the possession of the deceased lady. If you or Mr.
Raymond Barraclough are interested in the matter, I
should be happy to call upon you with a view to
discussing the affair.
Or perhaps you would prefer me to deal with your
husband in the matter?
Yours truly,
John Robinson.
Stupid, to read the same thing over and over again. As
though the words might alter their meaning.
163
164 Agatha Christie
She picked up the envelope—two envelopes—the first
with Personal on it. The second with Private and Very
Confidential.
Private and Very Confidential.
The beast—the beast.
And that lying old Frenchwoman who had sworn that
"All arrangements were made" to protect clients in case of
her own sudden demise.
Damn her.
Life was hell—hell!
"Oh, God, my nerves," thought Cicely. "It isn't fair. It
isn't fair."
Her shaking hand went out to a gold-topped bottle.
"It will steady me. Pull me together."
She snuffed the stuff up her nose.
There. Now she could think!
What to do?
See the man, of course. Though where she could raise
any money—perhaps a lucky flutter at that place in Carios
Street—
But time enough to think of that later. See the man; find
out what he knows.
She went over to the writing table, dashed off in her big
unformed handwriting:
The Countess ofHorbury presents her compliments
to Mr. John Robinson and will see him if he calls at
eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.
"Will I do?" asked Norman.
He flushed a little under Poirot's startled gaze.
"Name of a name," said Hercule Poirot, "what kind of
a comedy is it that you are playing?"
Norman Gale flushed even more deeply.
He mumbled, "You said a slight disguise would be as
well."
DEATH IN THE AIR 165
Poirot sighed. Then he took the young man by the arm
and marched him to the looking-glass.
"Regard yourself," he said. "That is all I ask of you--
regard yourself! What do you think you are? A Santa Claus
dressed up to amuse the children? I agree that your beard
is not white--no, it is black; the color for villains. But
what a beard--a beard that screams to heaven! A cheap
beard, my friend, and most imperfectly and amateurishly
attached! Then there are your eyebrows--but it is that you
have the mania for false hair? The spirit gum, one smells
it several yards away, and if you think that anyone will fail
to perceive that you have a piece of sticking plaster attached
to a tooth, you are mistaken. My friend, it is not your metier--decidedly not--to play the part."
"I acted in amateur theatricals a good deal at one time,"
said Norman Gale stiffly.
"I can hardly believe it. At any rate, I presume they did
not let you indulge in your own ideas of make-up. Even
behind the footlights your appearance would be singularly
unconvincing. In Grosvenor Square in broad daylight--"
Poirot gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders by way
of finishing the sentence.
"No, mon ami," he said. "You are a blackmailer, not a
comedian. I want her ladyship to fear you, not to die of
laughing when she sees you. I observe that I wound you
by what I am saying. I regret, but it is a moment when only
the truth will serve. Take this, and this--" he pressed various
jars upon him. "Go into the bathroom and let us have
an end of what you call in this country the fool-tommery."
Crushed, Norman Gale obeyed. When he emerged a
quarter of an hour later, his face a vivid shade of brick red,
Poirot gave him a nod of approval.
"Tres bien. The farce is over. The serious business begins.
I will permit you to have a small mustache. But I will,
if you please, attach it to you myself.... There.... And
now we will part the hair differently.... So. That is quite
166 Agatha Christie
enough. Not let me see if you at least know your lines."
He listened with attention, then nodded.
"That is good. En avant and good luck to you."
"I devoutly hope so. I shall probably find an enraged
husband and a couple of policemen."
Poirot reassured him:
"Have no anxiety. All will march to a marvel."
"So you say," muttered Norman rebelliously.
With his spirits at zero, he departed on his distasteful
mission.
At Grosvenor Square he was shown into a small room
on the first floor. There, after a minute or two, Lady Horbury
came to him.
Norman braced himself. He must not--positively must
not--show that he was new to this business.
"Mr. Robinson?" said Cicely.
"At your service," said Norman, and bowed.
"Damn it all! Just like a shopwalker," he thought disgustedly.
"That's fright."
"I had your letter," said Cicely.
Norman pulled himself together. "The old fool said I
couldn't act," he said to himself with a mental grin.
Aloud he said rather insolently:
"Quite so. Well, what about it. Lady Horbury?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Come, come. Must we really go into details? Everyone
knows how pleasant a--well, call it a weekend at the seaside--can
be, but husbands seldom agree. I think you know,
Lady Horbury, just exactly what the evidence consists of.
Wonderful woman, old Giselle. Always had the goods.
Hotel evidence, and so on, is quite first class. Now the
question is who wants it most--you or Lord Horbury? That's
the question."
She stood there quivering.
"I'm a seller," said Norman, his voice growing comDEATH IN THE AIR 167
moner as he threw himself more whole-heartedly into the
part of Mr. Robinson. "Are you a buyer? That's the question."

"How did you get hold of this evidence?"
"Now really. Lady Horbury, that's rather beside the point.
I've got it--that's the main thing."
"I don't believe you. Show it to me."
"Oh, no." Norman shook his head with a cunning leer.
"I didn't bring anything with me. I'm not so green as that.
If we agree to do business, that's another matter. I'll show
you the stuff before you hand the money over. All fair and
aboveboard."
"How--how much?"
"Ten thousand of the best--pounds, not dollars."
"Impossible. I could never lay my hands on anything
like that amount."
"It's wonderful what you can do if you try. Jewels aren't
fetching what they did, but pearls are still pearls. Look here,
to oblige a lady, I'll make it eight thousand. That's my last
word. And I'll give you two days to think it over."
"I can't get the money, I tell you."
Norman sighed and shook his head.
"Well, perhaps it's only right Lord Horbury should know
what's been going on. I believe I'm correct in saying that
a divorced woman gets no alimony, and Mr. Barraclough's
a very promising young actor, but he's not touching big
money yet. Now not another word. I'll leave you to think
it over, and mind what I say--I mean it."
He paused, and then added:
"I mean it just as Giselle meant it."
Then quickly, before the wretched woman could reply,
he had left the room.
"Ouch!" said Norman as he reached the street. He wiped
his brow. "Thank goodness that's over."
It was a bare
Horbury.
I "M. Hercule
I She thrust it;
] "Who is he?:
1 "He said, m'l
'i Raymond Barrac
|,| "Oh." She pa
The butler de
^ "M. Hercule
Exquisitely dr
entered, bowed.
The butler ck
: "Mr. Barrack
| "Sit down, n
n tative.
|; Mechanically
| manner was rath
||J "Madame, I
il^,, conie to advise ,
l|' She murmure'
j|'; "Ecoutez, ma
I''! secrets. It is unm
i^ the essence of b<
i|J "A detective.
||| were on the plan
i 1 "Precisely. It
I, ness. As I said j
me. You shall nc
to you. This moi
That visitor—hi;
"Robinson," s
"It is the san
uses them in turn
DEATH IN THE AIR 169
He has in his possession certain proofs of, shall we say,
indiscretion? Those proofs were once in the keeping of
Madame Giselle. Now this man has them. He offers them
to you for, perhaps, seven thousand pounds."
"Eight."
"Eight, then. And you, madame, will not find it easy to
get that sum very quickly?"
"I can't do it—I simply can't do it. I'm in debt already.
I don't know what to do."
"Calm yourself, madame. I come to assist you."
She stared at him.
"How do you know all this?"
"Simply, madame, because I am Hercule Poirot. Eh bien,
have no fears. Place yourself in my hands; I will deal with
this Mr. Robinson."
"Yes," said Cicely sharply. "And how much will you
want?"
Hercule Poirot bowed.
"I shall ask only a photograph, signed, of a very beautiful
lady."
She cried out: "Oh, dear, I don't know what to do! My
nerves! I'm going mad!"
"No, no, all is well. Trust Hercule Poirot. Only, madame,
I must have the truth—the whole truth. Do not keep
anything back or my hands will be tied."
"And you'll get me out of this mess?"
"I swear to you solemnly that you will never hear of Mr.
Robinson again."
She said, "All right. I'll tell you everything."
"Good. Now then, you borrowed money from this woman
Giselle?"
Lady Horbury nodded.
"When was that? When did it begin, I mean?"
"Eighteen months ago. I was in a hole."
"Gambling?"
"Yes, I had an appalling run of luck."
'And she lent you as much as you wanted?"
'Not at first. Only a small sum to begin with."
^'Who sent you to her?" ^Raymond--Mr. Barraclough told me that he had heard
, lent money to society women."
, But later she lent you more?"
the ^es> as mucn as ^ wanted. It seemed like a miracle at
<^ime."
^oir was Madame Giselle's special kind of miracle," said ^acl ^l ^y' "I gather that before then you and Mr. Bar.^ugh
had become--er--friends?"
A."
^ot I"1 ^ou were very anxious tnat y0111" husband should 'now about it?"
Li
..^cely cried angrily:
s(^^ lephen's a prig! He's tired of me! He wants to marry "\^ ,,^>neelse. He'd have jumped at the thought of divorcing
"a
"xv ^id you did not want divorce?"
.yS. II"
0 „ ^u liked your position, and also you enjoyed the use ^v n^ ^P^ income. Quite so. Lesfemmes, naturally, ^6 ou ^oo*c ^ter themselves To proceed, there arose
\.y^stion of repayment?"
£ "c A»«^l I T ,,^,.1,1.,'t »
*e Qi^5- And I--I couldn't pay back the money. And then ln0^ devil turned nasty. She knew about me and Ray- can\. .She'd found out places and dates and everything. J
'^[^ink how." ^^te^ had her "^thods," said Poirot dryly. "And she
^Mun ^' ^ suppose, to send all this evidence to Lord
"\ \>" ">s -, ... ..
.,i\nA' unless I P^ "P"
.\o\ you couldn't pay7"
"vk'
cC0^
\K
celv01' ueath was ^"^c providential?" '» Horbury said earnestly:
4 DEATH IN Ti^,
**^ T'Hfc
I "It seemed too, too wonderfu^,-^ AIR 171
'|| "Ah, precisely--too, too won'11!."
3J little nervous, perhaps?" ^"derful. But it made you a
:a| "Nervous?"
"Well, after all, madame, yoi^
plane had a motive for desiring hf ou alone of anyone on the
She drew in her breath sharply wr death."
"I know. It was awful. I was ; 'Y^S
'
it." in an absolute state about
"Especially since you had be&^-
night before and had had somethi ^e" to see her in Paris the
"The old devil! She wouldn't l>tj '"8 of a scene with her^"
actually enjoyed it. Oh, she was a ht ""dge an inch. I think she
I came away like a rag." ^t through and through.'
"And yet you said at the inquest^
the woman before?" ^st that you had never seen
"Well, naturally, what else cou.^
Poirot looked at her thoughtfulL^i ^d {sayf"
"You, madame, could say nothi^v.
"It's been too ghastly--nothing ^ '"Seise."
dreadful inspector man has been he^^ but ^s, lies lies. That
gering me with questions. But I felQ ^ ^re ^g^ ^ ^^ ^
he was only trying it on. He didn't ^ ^Pretty safe. I could see
"If one does guess, one should ^ l know anything."
"And then," continued Cicely, pi^8uess with assurance "
thought, "I couldn't help feeling trt^rsuingherownlineof
leak out, it would have leaked out '"at if anything were to
that awful letter yesterday." at once. I felt safe till
"You have not been afraid all thi^^
"Of course I've been afraid!" is tilne?"
"But of what? Of exposure? Or ^
murder?" '^ing arrested for the color ebbed away from her c ^
"Murder! But I didn't-- Oh, yoi_^ ^ee^
didn't kill her. I didn't!" u don't believe that! I
"You wanted her dead."
172 Agatha Christie
"Yes, but I didn't kill her!.. - Oh, you must believe
me--you must. I never moved from my seat. I--"
She broke off. Her beautiful blue eyes were fixed on him
imploringly.
Hercule Poirot nodded soothingly.
"I believe you, madame, for two reasons--first, because
of your sex, and, secondly, because of a wasp."
She stared at him.
"A wasp?"
"Exactly. That does not make sense to you, I see. Now
then, let us attend to the matter ir hand. I will deal with
this Mr. Robinson. I pledge you my word that you shall
never see or hear of him again. I will settle his--his--I
have forgotten the word--his bacon? No, his goat. Now,
in return for my services, I will ask you two little questions.
Was Mr. Barraclough in Paris the day before the murder?"
"Yes, we dined together. But he thought it better I should
go and see the woman alone."
"Ah, he did, did he? Now, madame, one further question:
Your stage name before you were mimed was Cicely Bland.
Was that your real name?"
"No, my real name is Martha J(bb. But the other--"
"--made a better professional name. And you were
bom--where?"
"Doncaster; but why--"
"Mere curiosity. Forgive me. Aid now. Lady Horbury,
will you permit me to give you some advice? Why not
arrange with your husband a discreet divorce?"
"And let him many that womar?"
"And let him marry that womai. You have a generous
heart, madame. And besides, you will be safe--oh, so safe
and your husband he will pay you ui income."
"Not a very large one."
"Eh bien, once you are free, y<u will marry a millionaire."

"There aren't any nowadays."
DEATH IN THE AIR p3
"Ah, do not believe that, madame. The m^p ^^ j^ three millions, perhaps now he has two million^__^ ^^ it is still enough."
Cicely laughed.
"You're very persuasive, M. Poirot. And ar^ ypy reallv
sure that dreadful man will never bother me ag^y
"On the word of Hercule Poirot," said that gentleman
solemnly.
Detective Inspector Japp walked briskly up Harley Street,
stopped at a certain door, and asked for Doctor Bryant.
"Have you an appointment, sir?"
"No, I'll just write a few words," and on an official card
he wrote:
Should be much obliged if you could spare me a
few moments. I won't keep you long.
He sealed up the card in an envelope and gave it to the
butler.
He was shown into a waiting room. There were two
women there and a man. Japp settled down with an elderly
copy of Punch.
The butler reappeared, and crossing the floor, said in a
discreet voice:
"If you wouldn't mind waiting a short time, sir, the doctor
will see you, but he's very busy this morning."
Japp nodded. He did not in the least mind waiting—in
fact, he rather welcomed it. The two women had begun to
talk. They had, obviously, a very high opinion of Doctor
Bryant's abilities. More patients came in. Evidently Doctor
Bryant was doing well in his profession.
174
DEATH IN THE AIR 175
"Fairly coining money," thought Japp to himself. "That
doesn't look like needing to borrow, but of course the loan
may have taken place a long time ago. Anyway, he's got
a fine practice; a breath of scandal would bust it to bits.
That's the worst of being a doctor."
A quarter of an hour later, the butler reappeared and said:
"The doctor will see you now, sir."
Japp was shown into Doctor Bryant's consulting room—
a room at the back of the house with a big window. The
doctor was sitting at his desk. He rose and shook hands
with the detective.
His fine-lined face showed fatigue, but he seemed in no
way disturbed by the inspector's visit.
"What can I do for you, inspector?" he said as he resumed
his seat and motioned Japp to a chair opposite.
"I must apologize first for calling in your consulting
hours, but I shan't keep you long, sir."
"That is all right. I suppose it is about the aeroplane
death?"
"Quite right, sir. We're still working on it."
"With any result?"
"We're not so far on as we'd like to be. I really came
to ask you some questions about the method employed. It's
this snake-venom business that I can't get the hang of."
"I'm not a toxicologist, you know," said Doctor Bryant,
smiling. "Such things aren't in my line. Winterspoon's your
man."
"Ah, but you see, it's like this, doctor: Winterspoon's
an expert—and you know what experts are. They talk so
that the ordinary man can't understand them. But as far as
I can make out, there's a medical side to this business. Is
it true that snake venom is sometimes injected for epilepsy?"
"I'm not a specialist in epilepsy either," said Doctor
Bryant. "But I believe that injections of cobra venom have
been used in the treatment of epilepsy with excellent results.
But, as I say, that's not really my line of country."
176 Agatha Christie
"I know--I know. What it really amounts to is this: I
felt that you'd take an interest, having been on the aeroplane
yourself. I thought it possible that you'd have some ideas
on the subject yourself that might be useful to me. It's not
much good my going to an expert if I don't know what to
ask him?"
Doctor Bryant smiled.
"There is something in what you say, inspector. There
is probably no man living who can remain entirely unaffected
by having come in close contact with murder. I am
interested, I admit. I have speculated a good deal about the
case in my quiet way."
"And what do you think, sir?"
Bryant shook his head slowly.
"It amazes me. The whole thing seems almost unreal, if
I might put it that way. An astounding way of committing
a crime. It seems a chance in a hundred that the murderer
was not seen. He must be a person with a reckless disregard
of risks."
"Very true, sir."
"The choice of poison is equally amazing. How could a
would-be murderer possibly get hold of such a thing?"
"I know. It seems incredible. Why, I don't suppose one
man in a thousand has ever heard of such a thing as a
boomslang, much less actually handled the venom. You
yourself, sir--now, you're a doctor, but I don't suppose
you've ever handled the stuff."
"There are certainly not many opportunities of doing so.
I have a friend who works at tropical research. In his laboratory
there are various specimens of dried snake venoms--that
of the cobra, for instance--but I cannot remember
any specimen of the boomslang."
"Perhaps you can help me." Japp took out a piece c'f
paper and handed it to the doctor. "Winterspoon wrote dow
these three names; said I might get information there. D
you know any of these men?"
DEATH IN THE AIR 177
"I know Professor Kennedy slightly, Heidler I knew well;
mention my name and I'm sure he'll do all he can for you. Carmichael's an Edinburgh man; I don't know him personally,
but I believe they've done some good work up there."
"Thank you, sir; I'm much obliged. Well, I won't keep
you any longer."
When Japp emerged into Harley Street, he was smiling
to himself in a pleased fashion.
"Nothing like tact," he said to himself. "Tact does it.
I'll be bound he never saw what I was after. Well, that's
that."
JSfW^r	»»»»<fc
21
When Japp got back to Scotland Yard, he was told that M.
Hercule Poirot was waiting to see him.
Japp greeted his friend heartily.
"Well, M. Poirot, and what brings you along? Any news?"
"I came to ask you for news, my good Japp."
"If that isn't just like you. Well, there isn't much and
that's the truth. The dealer fellow in Paris has identified the
blowpipe all right. Foumier's been worrying the life out of
me from Paris about his moment psychologique. I've questioned
those stewards till I'm blue in the face and they stick
to it that there wasn't a moment psychohgique. Nothing
startling or out of the way happened on the voyage."
"It might have occurred when they were both in the front
car."
"I've questioned the passengers too. Everyone can't be
lying."
"In one case I investigated everyone was!"
"You and your cases! To tell the truth. M. Poirot, I'm
not very happy. The more I look into things the less I get
The chief's inclined to look on me rather coldly. But wt^t
can I do? Luckily, it's one of those semiforeign cases. V-,
178
DEATH IN THE AIR 179
can put it on the Frenchmen over here, and in Paris they
say it was done by an Englishman and that it's our business."
"Do you really believe the Frenchman did it?"
"Well, frankly, I don't. As I look at it, an archaeologist
is a poor kind of fish. Always burrowing in the ground and
talking through his hat about what happened thousands of
years ago, and how do they know, I should like to know?
Who's to contradict them? They say some rotten string of
beads is five thousand three hundred and twenty-two years
old, and who's to say it isn't? Well, there they are, liars
J perhaps--though they seem to believe it themselves--but
harmless. I had an old chap in here the other day who'd
had a scarab pinched. Terrible state he was in--nice old
boy, but helpless as a baby in arms. No, between you and
me, I don't think for a minute that pair of French archaeologists
did it."
"Who do you think did it?"
"Well, there's Clancy, of course. He's in a queer way.
Goes about muttering to himself. He's got something on
his mind."
"The plot of a new book, perhaps."
"It may be that--and it may be something else. But try
as I may, I can't get a line on motive. I still think CL 52
in the black book is Lady Horbury, but I can't get anything
out of her. She's pretty hardboiled, I can tell you."
Poirot smiled to himself. Japp went on:
"The stewards--well, I can't find a thing to connect
them with Giselle."
"Doctor Bryant?"
I think I'm on to something there. Rumors about him "id a patient. Pretty woman--nasty husband--takes drugs
or something. If he's not careful he'll be struck off by the
medical council. That fits in with RT 362 well enough, and
on t mind telling you that I've got a pretty shrewd idea w ere he could have got the snake venom from. I went to
I I see him and
I Still, so far i) i | easy to get at
board; says hi
; I it, gave narru II out that the f
or two ago, b
you are again,
' "There is i
; i muddle can e
;,1|| "Use any \ nier's stumpe
but you'd rail
"You moc
out. I proceec
there is still f
"I can't he
these orderly
II Poirot smi
11 "I make a I pocket. "My
i ' to bring abou
' "Say that;
I | "It is not c
jl "Probably
lij, "No, no, i
get it when a
this is to kil
money."
J "I wish I ,
| ahead. I see y<
r "I prefer r
Ij1 formed--the
| of that action
get the answt
DEATH IN THE AIR 181
action may be very varied; that particular action affects a
lot of different people. Eh bien, I study to-day--three weeks
after the crime--the result in eleven different cases."
He spread out the paper.
Japp leaned forward with some interest and read over
Poirot's shoulder.
Miss grey. Result--temporary improvement. Increased
salary.
mr. gale. Result--bad. Loss of practice.
lady horbury. Result--good, if she's CL 52.
Miss kerr. Result--bad, since Giselle's death
makes it more unlikely Lord Horbury will get the
evidence to divorce his wife.
"H'm." Japp interrupted his scrutiny. "So you think she's
keen on his lordship? You are a one for nosing out love
affairs."
Poirot smiled. Japp bent over the chart once more.
mr. clancy. Result--good. Expects to make
money by book dealing with the murder.
doctor bryant. Result--good if RT 362.
mr. ryder. Result--good, owing to small amount
of cash obtained through articles on murder which
tided firm over delicate time. Also good if Ryder is
XVB 724.
M. dupont. Result--unaffected.
M. jean dupont. Result--the same.
mitchell. Result--unaffected.
davis. Result--unaffected.
"And you think that's going to help you?" asked Japp
skeptically. "I can't see that writing down 'I don't know.
I don't know. I can't tell,' makes it any better."
182 Agatha Christie
"It gives one a clear classification," explained Poirot.
"In four cases—Mr. Clancy Miss Grey, Mr. Ryder and, I
think I may say. Lady Horbury—there is a result on the
credit side. In the cases of Mr. Gale and Miss Kerr there
is a result on the debit side; in four cases there is no result
at all, so far as we know, and in one—Doctor Bryant—
there is either no result or a distinct gain."
"And so?" asked Japp.
"And so," said Poirot, "we must go on seeking."
"With precious little to go upon," said Japp gloomily.
"The truth of it is that we're hung up until we can get what
we want from Paris. It's the Giselle side that wants going
into. I bet I could have got more out of that maid than
Poumier did."
"I doubt it, my friend. The most interesting thing about
this case is the personality of the dead woman. A woman
without friends, without relations—without, as one might
say, any personal life. A woman who was once young, who
once loved and suffered, and then with a firm hand pulled
down the shutter—all that was over! Not a photograph, not
a souvenir, not a knickknack. Marie Morisot became Madame
Giselle, money lender."
"Do you think there is a clue in her past?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, we could do with it! There aren't any clues in
this case."
"Oh, yes, my friend, there are."
"The blowpipe, of course."
"No, no, not the blowpipe."
"Well, let's hear your ideas of the clues in the case."
Poirot smiled.
"I will give them titles, like the names of Mr. Clancy's
stories! The Clue of the Wasp. The Clue in the Passenger's
Baggage. The Clue of the Extra Coffee Spoon."
"You're potty," said Japp kindly. And added:
j^<«	»»»Xi^
22
When Norman Gale, Jane and Poirot met for dinner on the
night after the blackmailing incident, Norman was relieved
to hear that his services as Mr. Robinson were no longer
required.
"He is dead, the good Mr. Robinson," said Poirot. He
raised his glass. "Let us drink to his memory."
"R.I.P.," said Norman with a laugh.
"What happened?" asked Jane of Poirot.
He smiled at her.
"I found out what I wanted to know."
"Was she mixed up with Giselle?"
"Yes."
"That was pretty clear from my interview with her," said
Norman.
"Quite so," said Poirot. "But I wanted a full and detailed
story."
"And you got it?"
"I got it."
They both looked at him inquiringly, but Poirot, in ' provoking manner, began to discuss the relationship n tween a career and a life.
"There are not so many round pegs in square holes
184
DEATH IN THE AIR 185
one might think. Most people, in spite of what they tell you
choose the occupation that they secretly desire. You will
hear a man say who works in an office, 'I should like to
explore, to rough it in far countries.' But you will find that
he likes reading the fiction that deals with that subject, but
that he himself prefers the safety and moderate comfort of
an office stool."
"According to you," said Jane, "my desire for foreign
travel isn't genuine. Messing about with women's heads is
my true vocation. Well, that isn't true."
Poirot smiled at her.
"You are young still. Naturally, one tries this, that and
the other, but what one eventually settles down into is the
life one prefers."
"And suppose I prefer being rich?"
"Ah, that, it is more difficult!"
"I don't agree with you," said Gale. "I'm a dentist by
chance, not choice. My uncle was a dentist; he wanted me
to come in with him, but I was all for adventure and seeing
the world. I chucked dentistry and went off to farm in South
Africa. However, that wasn't much good; I hadn't had enough
experience. I had to accept the old man's offer and come
and set up business with him."
"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
Pans 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-sirup
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.
DEATH IN THE AIR 187
"There are several people in Paris that I have to see.
There is the lawyer--Maitre Thibault. There is also M.
Foumier, of the Surete--a melancholy man, but intelligent.
And there are M. Dupont pere and M. Dupont fits. 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 color rising
slightly.
"Indeed? And how was that?"
Jane, her color 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 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. Foumier 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? // est
sex appeal?"
Jane laughed at the phrase.
"No, that's not how I would describe him. He's very
simple, but rather a dear."
188 Agatha Christie
"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."
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 d6ne 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
DEATH IN THE AIR 189
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 skillfully 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 days to raise sufficient funds. You accept
private donations?"
M. Dupontlaughed.
"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 re190 Agatha Christie
searches! But it is magnificent! Stupendous! The biggest
private donation we have had!"
Poirot coughed.
"I will admit, there is a favor—"
"Ah, yes, a souvenir—some specimen 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 mustache, "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 check! 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 dam 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."
Jp>«fr«fr	»>»?<fc
At half past ten on the following morning the melancholy
M. Foumier walked in to 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 Foumier, 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 connection 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
DEATH IN THE AIR 193
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. Foumier 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?" Foumier 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.
"A116. A116.... Ah, good morning.... Yes, it is I myself,
Hercule Poirot." In an aside to Foumier, 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 Foumier:
"He tried to get you at the Surete. They told him that
you had come to see me here. You had better speak to him.
He sounds excited."
194 Agatha Christie
Foumier took the telephone.
"A116. A116.... Yes, it is Foumier 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."
Maitre Thibault received Poirot and Foumier with great
affability.
After an interchange of compliments and polite questions
DEATH IN THE AIR 195
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?" said
Foumier.
"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 Foumier.
Thibault nodded.
"As far as I can piece it out," he s<iid, "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?"
196 Agatha Christie
"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 tele
graphed 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 Foumier, "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."
Foumier 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. Foumier, of the Surete, who is in charge in this
country of the inquiries into your mother's death. This is
DEATH IN THE AIR 197
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.
"Though I fear, messieurs, that I have hardly the feeling
of a daughter in the matter. I have been to all intents and
purposes an orphan all my life."
In answer to Foumier's questions, she spoke warmly and
gratefully of Mere Angelique, the head of the Institut de
Marie.
"She has always been kindness itself to me."
"You left the Institut--when, madame?"
"When I was eighteen, monsieur. I started to earn my
living. I was, for a time, a manicurist. I have also been in
a dressmaker's establishment. I met my husband in Nice.
He was then just returning to the States. He came over again
on business to Holland and we were married in Rotterdam
a month ago. Unfortunately, he had to return to Canada. I
was detained, but I am now about to rejoin him."
Anne Richard's French was fluent and easy. She was
clearly more French than English.
"You heard of the tragedy--how?"
"Naturally, I read of it in me papers. But I did not know--
that is, I did not realize--that the victim in the case was
my mother. Then I received a telegram here in Paris from
Mere Angelique giving me the address of Maltre Thibault
and reminding me of my mother's maiden name."
Foumier nodded thoughtfully.
They talked a little further, but it seemed clear that Mrs.
Richards could be of little assistance to them in their search
for the murderer. She knew nothing at all of her mother's
life or business relations.
Having elicited the name of the hotel at which she was
staying, Poirot and Foumier took leave of her.
"You are disappointed, mon vieux," said Foumier. "You
have some idea in your brain about this girl? Did you suspect
that she might be an impostor? Or do you, in fact, still
suspect that she is an impostor?"
Poirot shook his head in a discouraged manner.
"No, I do not think she is an impostor. Her proofs of
identity sound genuine enough. It is odd, though; I feel that
I have either seen her before, or that she reminds me of
someone."
"A likeness to the dead woman?" suggested Foumier
doubtfully. "Surely not."
"No, it is not that. I wish I could remember what it was.
I am sure her face reminds me of someone."
Foumier looked at him curiously.
"You have always, I think, been intrigued by the missing
daughter."
"Naturally," said Poirot, his eyebrows rising a little. "Of
all the people who may or may not benefit by Giselle's
death, this young woman does benefit very definitely in
hard cash."
"True, but does that get us anywhere?"
Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. He was following
the train of his own thoughts. He said at last:
"My friend, a very large fortune passes to this girl. Do
you wonder that, from the beginning, I speculated as to her
being implicated? There were three women on that plane.
One of them. Miss Venetia Kerr, was of well-known and
authenticated family. But the other two? Ever since Elise
Grandier advanced the theory that the father of Madame
Giselle's child was an Englishman, I have kept it in my
mind that one of the two other women might conceivably
be this daughter. They were both of approximately the right
age. Lady Horbury was a chorus girl whose antecedents
were somewhat obscure and who acted under a stage name.
DEATH IN THE AIR 199
Miss Jane Grey, as she once told me, had been brought up
in an orphanage."
"Ah-ha!" said the Frenchman. "So that is the way your
mind has been running? Our friend Japp would say that you
were being overingenious."
"It is true that he always accuses me of preferring to
make things difficult."
"You see?"
"But as a matter of fact, it is not true. I proceed always
in the simplest manner imaginable! And I never refuse to
accept facts."
"But you are disappointed? You expected more from this
Anne Morisot?"
They were just entering Poirot's hotel. An object lying
on me reception desk recalled Fournier's mind to something
Poirot had said earlier in the morning.
"I have not thanked you," he said, "for drawing my
attention to the error I had committed. I noted the two
cigarette holders of Lady Horbury and the Kurdish pipes of
the Duponts. I was unpardonable on my part to have forgotten
the flute of Doctor Bryant. Though I do not seriously
suspect him."
"You do not?"
"No. He noes not strike me as the kind of man to--"
He stopped. The man standing at the reception desk talking
to the clerk turned, his hand on the flute case. His glance
fell on Poirot and his face lit up in grave recognition.
Poirot went forward; Foumier discreetly withdrew into
the background. As well that Bryant should not see him.
"Doctor Bryant," said Poirot, bowing.
"M. Poirot."
They shook hands. A woman who had been standing
near Bryant moved away toward the lift. Poirot sent just a
fleeting glance after her.
He said: "Well, M. Ie docteur. are your patients man200 Agatha Christie
aging to do without you for a little?"
Doctor Bryant smiled--that melancholy attractive smile
that the other remembered so well. He looked tired, but
strangely peaceful.
"I have no patients now," he said.
Then moving toward a little table, he said:
"A glass of sherry, M. Poirot? Or some other aperitif?"
"I thank you."
They sat down and the doctor gave the order. Then he
said slowly:
"No, I have no patients now. I have retired."
"A sudden decision?"
"Not so very sudden."
He was silent as the drinks were set before them. Then,
raising his glass, he said:
"It is a necessary decision. I resign of my own free will
before I am struck off the register." He went on speaking
in a gentle far-away voice: "There comes to everyone a
turning point in their lives, M. Poirot. They stand at the
crossroads and have to decide. My profession interests me
enormously; it is a sorrow--a very great sorrow--to abandon
it. But there are other claims. There is, M. Poirot, the
happiness of a human being."
Poirot did not speak. He waited.
"There is a lady--a patient of mine--I love her very
dearly. She has a husband who causes her infinite misery.
He takes drugs. If you were a doctor you would know what
that meant. She has no money of her own, so she cannot
leave him.
"For some time I have been undecided, but now I have
made up my mind. She and I are now on our way to Kenya
to begin a new life. I hope that at last she may know a little
happiness. She has suffered so long."
Again he was silent. Then he said in a brisker tone:
"I tell you this, M. Poirot, because it will soon be pub:^'
DEATH IN the AIR 201
property, and the sooner you know the better."
"I undersand," said Poirot. After a minute, he said, "You
take your flute, I see."
Doctor Bryant smiled.
"My flute, M. Poirot, is my oldest companion. When
everything else fails, music reniains."
His hand ran lovingly over the flute case; then, with a
bow, he rose.
Poirot rose also.
"My best wishes for your future, M. Ie docteur, and for
that of madame," said Poirot.
When Foumier rejoined his fi-iend, Poirot was at the desk
making arrangements for a trunk call to Quebec.
"^
"What now?" cried Fournier. "You are still preoccupied
with this girl who inherits? Decidedly, it is the idee fixe you have there."
"Not at all--not at all," said Poirot. "But there must be
in all things order and method. One must finish with one
thing before proceeding to the next."
He looked round.
"Here is Mademoiselle Jane. Suppose that you commence
dejeuner. I will join you as soon as I can."
Foumier acquiesced and he and Jane went into the dining
room.
"Well?" said Jane with curiosity. "What is she like?"
"She is a little over medium height, dark with a matte
complexion, a pointed chin--"
"You're talking exactly like a passport," said Jane. "My
passport description is simply insulting, I think. It's composed
of mediums and ordinary. Nose, medium; mouth,
ordinary. How do they expect you to describe a mouth?
Forehead, ordinary, chin, ordinary."
"But not ordinary eyes," said Foumier.
"Even they are gray, which is not a very exciting color."
"And who has told you, mademoiselle, that it is not an
202
DEATH IN THE AIR 203
exciting color?" said the Frenchman, leaning across the
table.
Jane laughed. "Your command of the English language,"
she said, "is highly efficient. Tell me more about Anne
Morisot. Is she pretty?"
"Assez bien," said Foumier cautiously. "And she is not Anne Morisot. She is Anne Richards. She is married."
"Was the husband there too?"
"No."
"Why not, I wonder?"
"Because he is in Canada or America."
He explained some of the circumstances of Anne's life.
Just as he was drawing his narrative to a close, Poirot joined
them.
He looked a little dejected.
"Well, mon cher?" inquired Foumier.
"I spoke to the principal--to Mere Angelique herself.
It is romantic, you know, the transatlantic telephone. To
speak so easily to someone nearly halfway across the globe."
"The telegraphed photograph--that, too, is romantic.
Science is the greatest romance there is. But you were saying?"

"I talked with Mere Angelique. She confirmed exactly
what Mrs. Richards told us of the circumstances of her
having been brought up at the Institut de Marie. She spoke
quite frankly about the mother who left Quebec with a
Frenchman interested in the wine trade. She was relieved
at the time that the child would not come under her mother's
influence. From her point of view, Giselle was on the downward
path. Money was sent regularly, but Giselle never
suggested a meeting."
"In fact, your conversation was a repetition of what we
heard this morning."
"Practically, except that it was more detailed. Anne Mor- sot left the Institut de Marie six years ago to become a
204 Agatha Christie
manicurist, afterwards she had a job as a lady's maid, and
finally left Quebec for Europe in that capacity. Her letters
were not frequent, but Mere Angelique usually heard from
her about twice a year. When she saw an account of the
inquest in the paper, she realized that this Marie Morisot
was in all probability the Marie Morisot who had lived in
Quebec."
"What about the husband?" asked Foumier. "Now that
we know definitely that Giselle was married, the husband
might become a factor?"
"I thought of that. It was one of the reasons for my
telephone call. George Leman, Giselle's blackguard of a
husband, was killed in the early days of the war."
He paused and then remarked abruptly:
"What was it that I just said—not my last remark, the
one before? I have an idea that, without knowing it, I said
something of significance."
Foumier repeated as well as he could the substance of
Poirot's remarks, but the little man shook his head in a
dissatisfied manner.
"No, no, it was not that. Well, no matter."
He turned to Jane and engaged her in conversation.
At the close of the meal he suggested that they should
have coffee in the lounge.
Jane agreed and stretched out her hand for her bag and
gloves, which were on the table. As she picked them up
she winced slightly.
"What is it, mademoiselle?"
"Oh, it's nothing," laughed Jane. "It's only a jagged nail.
I must file it."
Poirot sat down again very suddenly.
"Nom d'un nom d'un nom," he said quietly.
The other two stared at him in surprise.
"M. Poirot!" cried Jane. "What is it?"
"It is," said Poirot, "that I remember now why the face
DEATH IN THE AIR 205
of Anne Morisot is familiar to me. I have seen her before.
In the aeroplane on the day of the murder. Lady Horbury
sent for her to get a nail file. Anne Morisot was Lady
Horbury's maid."
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 Foumier. "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."
206
"You mean," said Foumier, "that this girl went right past
the seat where her mother was sitting?"
"That is right."
"The motive," said Foumier. 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 Foumier 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 Foumier, "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
208 Agatha Christie
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 Founder.
"For the moment- it would, I think, be unwise to arouse
Anne Monsot'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
DEATH IN THE AIR 209
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 Foumier.
"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.
Poumier 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 Foumier.
"Again the telephone," said Poirot.
"The transatlantic to Quebec?"
•%
DEATH IN THE AIR 211
"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, Poirot had turned away and was heading for the
revolving doors leading out of the hotel.
Foumier 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!"
Foumier 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 immenent danger."
"You think so?"
Foumier could not help a skeptical tone creeping into his
voice.
"I am afraid," said Poirot. "Afraid. Ban 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 Foumier 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?" Foumier shrugged his shoulders.
He thought to himself:
"It is all very well, but this obstinate madman may en212 Agatha Christie danger 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, Foumier 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. Foumier followed him.
"You have a Mrs. Richards staying here, I believe," said
- Poirot.
"No, monsieur. She was staying here, but she left 10"
day."
"She has left?" demanded Foumier.
DEATH IN THE AIR 213
"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 Foumier'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 Foumier. "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 Foumier.
The Frenchman's face was anxious.
Rapidly and efficiently he set the machinery of the law l" motion.
214	Agatha Christie
It was five o'clock when Jane, sitting in the lounge of "ie 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
^voman 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
^hich 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 ges
lure.
"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."
-j><««^fr	»»»Xk.
2.6
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 ParisBoulogne
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 ^at she's taken this way out, they probably won't bother 10 go on with the case. And unless it is proved publicly, I ^n't seu what good it is going to be to all of us poor devils.
'71S
?16 . Agatha Christie
, Ae pc?int of view of the public, we shall remain under
"^ion j^st as much as ever."
i 6 sal(! as n>uch to Poirot, whom he met a few days ""'inPi^adiUy. ^irot sailed.
<ou are like all the rest. You think I am an old man ( .^owlishes nothing! Listen, you shall come tonight ^e with me. japp is coming, and also our friend, Mr.
_y. I b^e Some things to say that may be interesting." Ie dinner passed off pleasantly. Japp was patronizing " Sood.riumot.ed, Norman was interested, and little Mr.
II ffi 1111 n,ancy was "^y as thrilled as when he had recognized :, |-| the ^tal tbom.
seemed clear that Poirot was not above trying to im^
the iNe author.
''fter dinner, when coffee had been drunk, Poirot cleared
hroat in a slightly embarrassed manner not free from
^"^importance.
My fiends," he said, "Mr. Clancy here has expressed " etest in ^^hat he would call 'my methods, Watson,' C'est ^'Vest'ce pas? \ propose, if it will not bore you all--"
qe parsed significantly, and Norman and Japp said V^lt.ly, "No, no," and "Most interesting."
. .,,^^to ^lve You a little resume of my methods in dealing ^ this case."
Ie paused ^nd consulted some notes. Japp whispered to "ortnan:
Fancies himself, doesn't he? Conceit's that little man's ""^le name."
^oirot looked at him reproachfully and said, "Ahem!"
hree politely interested faces were turned to him and he ^egan:
I will start at the beginning, my friends. I will go bad. 0 he air liner 'Prometheus' on its ill-fated journey fron;
s to (^''oydon. I am going to tell you my precise idea' impressions at the time; passing on to how I cam
DEATH IN THE AIR 217
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.
"At this point Mr. Clancy came forward and made the
statement that it was a thorn shot from a blowpipe after the
manner of some native tribe. Later, as you all know, the
blowpipe itself was discovered.
"By the time we reached Croydon, several ideas were
working in my mind. Once I was definitely on the firm
ground, my brain began to work once more with its normal
brilliance."
218 Agat
"Go it, M. Poirot," sai
any false modesty."
Poirot threw him a loo
"One idea presented its
to everyone else--and tl
being committed in such e
that nobody noticed its b<
"There were two other
was the convenient pres< the discovery of the bk
inquest to my friend Jap]
not get rid of it by pass
hole in the window? Th< trace or identify, but a bl tion of its price label wa
"What was the soluti
wanted the blowpipe to '
"But why? Only one a
dart and a blowpipe wei
sumed that the murder h
from a blowpipe. There
been committed that wa
"On the other hand,
the cause of death was
shut my eyes and asked
most reliable way of pla
vein?' And the answer
"And that immediate the finding of the blow
veyed the suggestion o
the person who killed ^ went right up to her ta) "Was there such a p
The two stewards. Eiti" Giselle, lean toward he' unusual^
DEATH IN THE AIR 219
"Was there anyone else?
"Well, there was Mr. Clancy. He was the only person
in the car who had passed immediately by Madame Giselle's
seat--and I remember that it was he who had first drawn
attention to the blowpipe-and-thom theory."
Mr. Clancy sprang to his feet.
"I protest!" he cried. "I protest! This is an outrage!"
"Sit down," said Poirot. "I have not finished yet. I have
to show you all the steps by which I arrived at my conclusion.

"I had now three persons as possible suspects. Mitchell,
Davis and Mr. Clancy. None of them at first sight appeared
like murderers, but there was much investigation to be done.
"I next turned my mind to the possibilities of the wasp.
It was suggestive, that wasp. To begin with, no one had
noticed it until about the time coffee was served. That in
itself was rather curious. I constructed a certain theory of
the crime. The murderer presented to the world two separate
solutions of the tragedy. On the first or simplest, Madame
'H Giselle was stung by a wasp and had succumbed to heart
failure. The success of that solution depended on whether
or not the murderer was in a position to retrieve the thorn.
Japp and I agreed that that could be done easily enough--
so long as no suspicion of foul play had arisen. There was
the particular coloring of the silk which I had no doubt was
deliberately substituted for the original cerise so as to simulate
the appearance of a wasp.
"Our murderer, then, approaches the victim's table, inserts
the thorn and releases the wasp! The poison is so
powerful that death would occurr almost immediately. If
Giselle cried out, it would probably not be heard, owing to
the noise of the plane. If it was just noticed, well, there
was a wasp buzzing about to explain the cry. The poor
woman had been stung.
"That, as I say, was Plan No. 1. But supposing that, as
actually happened, the poisoned thorn was discovered be220 Agatha Christie
fore the murderer could retrieve it. In that case, the fat i
in the fire. The theory of natural death is impossible. Instea<
of getting rid of the blowpipe through the window, it is pu
in a place where it is bound to be discovered when the plai
is searched. And at once it will be assumed that the blowpip
was the instrument of the crime. The proper atmosphere o
distance will be created, and when the blowpipe is trace<
it will focus suspicion in a definite and prearranged direc
tion.
"I had now my theory of the crime, and I had thre<
suspects, with a barely possible fourth—M. Jean Dupont
who had outlined the Death-by-a-wasp-sting theory, an<
who was sitting on the gangway so near Giselle that h<
might just possibly have moved from his seat without beinj
noticed. On the other hand, I did not really think he woul(
have dared to take such a risk.
"I concentrated on the problem of the wasp. If the mur
derer had brought the wasp onto the plane and released i
at the psychological moment, he must have had somethinj
in the nature of a small box in which to keep it.
"Hence my interest in the contents of the passengers
pockets and hand luggage.
"And here I came up against a totally unexpected de
velopment. I found what I was looking for—but, as i
seemed to me, on the wrong person. There was an empt;
small-sized Bryant & May's match box in Mr. Normal
Gale's pocket. But by everybody's evidence, Mr. Gale hac
never passed down the gangway of the car. He had onb
visited the wash-room compartment and returned to his owi
seat.
"Nevertheless, although it seems impossible, there wa;
a method by which Mr. Gale could have committed th<
crime—as the contents of his attache case showed."
"My attache case?" said Norman Gale. He looked amusec
and puzzled. "Why, I don't even remember now what wa;
in it."
DEATH IN THE AIR 221
Poirot smiled at him amiably.
"Wait a little minute. I will come to that. I am telling
you my first ideas.
"To proceed, I had four persons who could have done
the crime--from the point of view of possibility. The two
stewards, Clancy and Gale.
"I now looked at the case from the opposite angle--that
of motive; if a motive were to coincide with a possibility--
well, I had my murderer! But alas, I could find nothing of
the kind. My friend Japp has accused me of liking to make
things difficult. On the contrary, I approached this question
of motive with all the simplicity in the world. To whose
benefit would it be ifMadame Giselle were removed? Clearly,
to her unknown daughter's benefit, since that unknown
daughter would inherit a fortune. There were also certain
persons who were in Madame Giselle's power--or shall
we say, who might be in Giselle's power for aught we knew?
That, then, was a task of elimination. Of the passengers in
the plane I could only be certain of one who was undoubtedly
mixed up with Giselle. That one was Lady Horbury.
"In Lady Horbury's case the motive was clear. She had
visited Giselle at her house in Paris the night before. She
was desperate and she had a friend, a young actor, who
might easily have impersonated the American who bought
the blowpipe, and might also have bribed the clerk in Universal
Air Lines to insure that Giselle traveled by the twelveo'clock
service.
"I had, as it were, a problem in two halves. I did not
see how it was possible for Lady Horbury to commit the
crime. And I could not see for what motive the stewards,
Mr. Clancy or Mr. Gale should want to commit it.
"Always, in the back of my mind, I considered the problem
of Giselle's unknown daughter and heiress. Were any
of my four suspects married, and if so, could one of the
wives be this Anne Morisot? If her father was English, the
girl might have been brought up in England. Mitchell's wife
222 Agatha Christie
I soon dismissed—she was of good old t
stock. Davis was courting a girl whose fath
were alive. Mr. Clancy was not maided. 1
obviously head over ears in love with Miss .
"I may say that I investigated the antece
Grey very carefully, having learned from her
versation that she had been brought up in an c
Dublin. But I soon satisfied myself that Miss
Madame Giselle's daughter.
"I made out a table of results. The stewar
gained nor lost by Madame Giselle's deati
Mitchell was obviously suffering from shod
was planning a book on the subject by whic
make money. Mr. Gale was fast losing his pra
very helpful there.
"And yet, at that time I was convinced
was the murderer—there was the empty m
contents of his attache case. Apparently he lo
by the death of Giselle. But those appearai
false appearances.
"I determined to cultivate his acquaintanc
perience that no one, in the course of conven
to give themselves away sooner or later. E\
irresistible urge to talk about themselves.
"I tried to gain Mr. Gale's confidence.
confide in him, and I even enlisted his hel]
him to aid me in the fake blackmailing of I
And it was then that he made his first mista
"I had suggested a slight disguise. He am'
part with a ridiculous and impossible outfit! T
was a farce. No one, I felt sure, could play i
as he was proposing to play one. What, then,
for this? Because his knowledge of his own ^
chary of showing himself to be a good actor
ever, I had adjusted his ridiculous make-up, 1;
showed itself. He played his part perfectly a
DEATH IN THE AIR 223
bury did not recognize him. I was convinced then that he
could have disguised himself as an American in Paris and
could also have played the necessary part in the 'Prometheus.'

"By this time I was getting seriously worried about Mademoiselle
Jane. Either she was in this business with him,
or else she was entirely innocent; and in the latter case she
was a victim. She might wake up one day to find herself
married to a murderer.
"With the object of preventing a precipitate marriage, I
took Mademoiselle Jane to Paris as my secretary.
"It was whilst we were there that the missing heiress
appeared to claim her fortune. I was haunted by a resemblance
that I could not place. I did place it in the end, but
too late.
"At first, the discovery that she had actually been in the
plane and had lied about it seemed to overthrow all my
theories. Here, overwhelmingly, was the guilty person.
"But if she were guilty, she had an accomplice--the
man who bought the blowpipe and bribed Jules Perrot.
"Who was that man? Was it conceivably her husband?
"And then, suddenly, I saw the true solution. True, that
is, if one point could be verified.
"For my solution to be correct, Anne Morisot ought not
to have been on the plane.
"I rang up Lady Horbury and got my answer. The maid
Madeleine, traveled in the plane by a last-minute whim of
her mistress."
He stopped.
Mr. Clancy said:
"Ahem--but I'm afraid I'm not quite clear."
"When did you stop pitching on me as the murderer?"
asked Norman.
Poirot wheeled round on him.
"I never stopped. You are the murderer.... Wait. I will
tell you everything. For the last week Japp and I have been
224 Agatha Christie
busy. It is true that you became a dentist to please your
uncle, John Gale. You took his name when you came into
partnership with him, but you were his sister's son, not his
brother's. Your real name is Richards. It was as Richards
that you met the girl Anne Morisot at Nice last winter when
she was there with her mistress. The story she told us was
true as the facts of her childhood, but the later part was
edited carefully by you. She did know her mother's maiden
name. Giselle was at Monte Carlo; she was pointed out and
her real name was mentioned. You realized that there might
be a large fortune to be got. It appealed to your gambler's
nature. It was from Anne Morisot that you learned of Lady
Horbury's connection with Giselle. The plan of the crime
formed itself in your head. Giselle was to be murdered in
such a way that suspicion would fall on Lady Horbury.
Your plans matured and finally fructified. You bribed the
clerk in Universal Air Lines so that Giselle should travel
on the same plane as Lady Horbury. Anne Morisot had told
you that she herself was going to England by train; you
never expected her to be on the plane, and it seriously
jeopardized your plans. If it was once known that Giselle's
daughter and heiress had been on the plane, suspicion would
naturally have fallen upon her. Your original idea was that
she should claim the inheritance with a perfect alibi, since
she would have been on a train or a boat at the time of the
crime! And then you would have married her.
"The girl was by this time infatuated with you. But it
was money you were after, not the girl herself.
"There was another complication to your plans. At Le
Pinet you saw Mademoiselle Jane Grey and fell madly in
love with her. Your passion for her drove you on to play a
much more dangerous game.
"You intended to have both the money and the girl you
loved. You were committing a murder for the sake of money
and you were in no mind to relinquish the fruits of the
DEATH IN THE AIR 225
crime. You frightened Anne Morisot by telling her that if
she came forward at once to proclaim her identity, she would
certainly be suspected of the murder. Instead you induced
her to ask for a few days' leave and you went together to
Rotterdam, where you were married.
"In due course you primed her how to claim the money.
She was to say nothing of her employment as lady's maid
and it was very clearly to be made plain that she and her
husband had been abroad at the time of the murder.
"Unfortunately, the date planned for Anne Morisot to go
to Paris and claim her inheritance coincided with my arrival
in Paris where Miss Grey had accompanied me. That did
not suit your book at all. Either Mademoiselle Jane or myself
might recognize in Anne Morisot the Madeleine who had
been Lady Horbury's maid.
"You tried to get in touch with her in time, but failed.
You finally arrived in Paris yourself and found she had
already gone to the lawyer. When she returned, she told
you of her meeting with me. Things were becoming dangerous
and you made up your mind to act quickly.
"It had been your intention that your new-made wife
should not survive her accession to wealth very long. Immediately
after the marriage ceremony, you had both made
wills leaving all you had one to the other! A very touching
business.
"You intended, I fancy, to follow a fairly leisurely course.
You would have gone to Canada--ostensibly because of
the failure of your practice. There you would have resumed the name of Richards and your wife would have rejoined
you. All the same, I do not fancy it would have been very
long before Mrs. Richards regrettably died, leaving a fortune
to a seemingly inconsolable widower. You would then have
returned to England as Norman Gale, having had the good
fortune to make a lucky speculation in Canada! But now
you decided that no time must be lost."
I
DEATH IN THE AIR 227
"Quite a lot," said Poirot. "As I have just said, in the
course of conversation a man gives himself away. You were
imprudent enough to mention that for a while you were on
a farm in South Africa. What you did not say, but what I
have since found out, is that it was a snake farm."
For the first time, Norman Gale showed fear. He tried
to speak, but the words would not come.
Poirot continued:
"You were there under your own name of Richards; a
photograph of you transmitted by telephone has been recognized.
That same photograph has been identified in Rotterdam
as the man Richards who married Anne Morisot."
Again Norman Gale tried to speak and failed. His whole
personality seemed to change. The handsome vigorous young
man turned into a rat-like creature with furtive eyes looking
for a way of escape and finding none.
"It was haste ruined your plan," said Poirot. "The superior
of the Institut de Marie hurried things on by wiring
to Anne Morisot. It would have looked suspicious to ignore
that wire. You had impressed it upon your wife that unless
she suppressed certain facts either she o" you might be
suspected of murder, since you had both, unfortunately,
been in the plane when Giselle was killed When you met
her afterwards and you learned that I had been present at
the interview, you hurried things on. Ycu were afraid I
might get the truth out of Anne. Perhaps she herself was
beginning to suspect you. You hustled her away out of the
hotel and into the boat train. You administered prussic acid
to her by force and you left the empty botle in her hand."
"A lot of damned lies!"
"Oh, no. There was a bruise on her ne;k."
"Damned lies, I tell you!"
"You even left your fingerprints on the bottle."
"You lie! I wore--"
"Ah. you wore gloves? I think, monsieur, that little admission
cooks your gander."
"You damned inte
passion, his face ura
Poirot. Japp, howeve
in a capable unemotii
"James Richards a
your arrest on the ct
you that anything yoi
evidence."
A terrible shudde
point of collapse.
A couple of plainc
L man Gale was taken
Left alone with P
breath of ecstasy.
"M. Poirot," he sa
thrilling experience o
^ Poirot smiled mod
"No, no. Japp des
done wonders in ident
police want Richards
supposed to have cor
I to light which seem t
"Terrible," Mr. Ci
"A killer," said Po
to women."
II Mr. Clancy cough
.if ' "That poor girl. Ja
Poirot shook his h
"Yes, as I said to
has courage. She will
With an absent-mir
papers that Norman G
Something arrestec
Vj. 'V' t, Kerr at a race meeti
•is-— 'I ,.. , „
Hfnend.
...„ i_____He handed it to M
DEATH IN THE AIR 229
"You see that? In a year's time there will be an announcement:
'A marriage is arranged and will shortly take
place between Lord Horbury and the Hon. Venetia Ken-.'
And do you know who will have arranged that marriage?
Hercule Poirot! There is another marriage that I have arranged
too."
"Lady Horbury and Mr. Barraclough?"
"Ah, no, in that matter I take no interest." He leaned
forward. "No, I refer to a marriage between M. Jean Dupont
and Miss Jane Grey. You will see."
It was a month later that Jane came to Poirot.
"I ought to hate you, M. Poirot."
She looked pale and fine drawn, with dark circles round
her eyes.
Poirot said gently:
"Hate me a little if you will. But I think you are one of
those who would rather look truth in the face than live in
a fool's paradise. And you might not have lived in it so
very long. Getting rid of women is a vice that grows."
"He was so terribly attractive," said Jane.
She added:
"I shall never fall in love again."
"Naturally," agreed Poirot. "That side of life is finished
for you."
Jane nodded.
"But what I must do is to have work--something interesting
that I could lose myself in."
Poirot tilted back his chair and looked at the ceiling.
"I should advise you to go to Persia with the Duponts.
That is interesting work, if you like."
"But--but I thought that was only camouflage on your
part?"
Poirot shook his head.
"On the contrary, I have become so interested in archaeology
and prehistoric pottery that I sent the check for
230 Agatha Christie
the donation I had promised. I heard this morning that they
were expecting you to join the expedition. Can you draw
at all?"
"Yes, I was rather good at drawing at school."
"Excellent. I think you will enjoy your season."
"Do they really want me to come?"
"They are counting on it."
"It would be wonderful," said Jane, "to get right away."
A little color rose in her face.
"M. Poirot"--she looked at him suspiciously--"you're
not--you're not being kind?"
"Kind?" said Poirot, with a lively horror at the idea. "I
can assure you, mademoiselle, that where money is concerned
I am strictly a man of business."
He seemed so offended that Jane quickly begged his
pardon.
"I think," she said, "that I'd better go to some museums
and look at some prehistoric pottery."
"A very good idea."
At the doorway, Jane paused and then came back.
"You mayn't have been kind in that particular way, but
you have been kind to me."
She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and went out
again.
"Qa, c'est tres gentil!" said Hercule Poirot.
AfimiA CHR^nE
"One of the most Imaginative and fertile
plot creators of all tlme!"-Ellery Queen

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