Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [2]
And now it was all over—the money spent—a last two days (rather disappointing days) in Paris, and now home on her return air ticket.
‘And what next?’
‘Stop,’ said Jane to her mind. ‘Don’t think of what’s going to happen next. It’ll only make you nervous.’
The two women had stopped talking.
She looked across the gangway. The Dresden china woman exclaimed petulantly, examining a broken finger-nail. She rang the bell and when the white-coated steward appeared she said:
‘Send my maid to me. She’s in the other compartment.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
The steward, very deferential, very quick and efficient, disappeared again. A dark-haired French girl dressed in 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 extreme end of the car were some piled-up rugs and cases.
The girl returned with a small red dressing-case.
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 travelled 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, grey-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 those 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 digustedly.
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…’
He said to the steward who hovered at his side with the menu, ‘I’ll have cold tongue.’
The Countess of Horbury thought, ‘My God, 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. My God, what shall I do? I’ve got to make up my mind. The old bitch 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 Honourable Venetia Kerr thought: ‘Bloody little tart. That’s what she is. She may be technically virtuous, but she’s a tart through and through. Poor old Stephen…if he could only 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