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The doctor shook his head.
‘And me, I was asleep,’ said Poirot with deep chagrin. ‘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.’
Dr 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 here 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 discoloured thorn which was lying in a small box on the table in front of him.
Dr Bryant shook his head.
‘Difficult to say without an analysis. Curare is the usual poison employed by the 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.’
‘Then we’ll have to search you extra carefully,’ said Japp, who was always fond of his joke. ‘Rogers!’
The doctor and the constable left the room together.
Japp tilted back his chair and looked at Poirot.
‘Rum business, this,’ he said. ‘Bit too sensational to be true. I mean, blowpipes and poisoned darts in an aeroplane—well, it insults one’s intelligence.’
‘That, my friend, is a very profound remark,’ said Poirot.
‘A couple of my men are searching the plane,’ said Japp. ‘We’ve got a fingerprint man and a photographer coming along. I think we’d better see the stewards next.’
He strode to the door and gave an order. The two stewards were ushered in. The younger steward had recovered his balance. He looked more excited than anything else. The other steward still looked white and frightened.
‘That’s all right, my lads,’ said Japp. ‘Sit down. Got the passports there? Good.’
He sorted through them quickly.
‘Ah, here we are. Marie Morisot—French passport. Know anything about her?’
‘I’ve seen her before. She crossed to and fro from England fairly often,’ said Mitchell.
‘Ah! in business of some kind. You don’t know what her business was?’
Mitchell shook his head. The younger steward said, ‘I remember her too. I saw her on the early service—the eight o’clock from Paris.’
‘Which of you was the last to see her alive?’
‘Him.’ The younger steward indicated his companion.
‘That’s right,’ said Mitchell. ‘That’s when I took her her coffee.’
‘How was she looking then?’
‘Can’t say I noticed. I just handed her the sugar and offered her milk, which she refused.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say exactly. We were over the Channel 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 asleep—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 wasp-like 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.’
‘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 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 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 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 I 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 315 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 toilets, 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 Honourable 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 seen some of the passengers farther down the car striking at a wasp. One of them, she thought, had killed it. That 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 seedy-looking 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 wherever 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 Sûreté 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 cut-throats, 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.’
‘Go on!’
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 our distinguished archaeologists.’
M. Dupont père 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.
