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."
"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 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 American Indians."
"It is a bit low," agreed Japp. "But it seems to have worked."
"That is what gives one so furiously to think."
"Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must! Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let's have her in and get it over. Jane Grey - sounds like a history book."
"She is a pretty girl," said Poirot.
"Is she, you old dog? So you weren't asleep all the time, eh?"
"She was pretty - and nervous," said Poirot.
"Nervous, eh?" said Japp alertly.
"Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man, not crime."
"Oh, well, I suppose you're right... Here she is."
Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine's hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, 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 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 - the list of the passengers' belongings?"
"Well, it isn't quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You're very set on that?"
"Mais oui, I am puzzled - very puzzled. If I could find something to help me -"
Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.
"Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers, always making the police out to be fools, and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents, I should be thrown out of the force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with."
Chapter 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 - Maоtre Alexandre Thibault. He spoke English slowly and precisely, with a slight accent but quite idiomatically.
After the preliminary questions the coroner asked, "You have viewed the body of the deceased. Do you recognize it?"
"I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angélique Morisot."
"That is the name on the deceased's passport. Was she known to the public by another name?"
"Yes, that of Madame Giselle."
A stir of excitement went round. Reporters sat with pencils poised. The coroner said: "Will you tell us exactly who this Madame Morisot, or Madame Giselle, was?"
"Madame Giselle - to give her her professional name; the name under which she did business - was one of the best-known 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 frequently. Did her business extend to this country?"
"Yes. Many of her clients were English people. She was very well known amongst a certain section of English society."
"How would you describe that section of society?"
"Her 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."
Maоtre 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 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 steward on Tuesday last?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was the first that you knew of the tragedy?"
"Mr Mitchell, sir, told me that he was afraid something had happened to one of the passengers."
"Have you ever seen this before?"
The blowpipe was handed to Davis.
"No, sir."
"You did not observe it in the hands of any of the passengers?"
"No, sir."
"Did anything at all happen on the journey that you think might throw light on this affair?"
"No, sir."
"Very good. You may stand down."
"Dr Roger Bryant."
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.
"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?"
