Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [49]
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 tracks.
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. ‘47 Cardington Square. That’s the address he gave at the inquest.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Jane, ‘perhaps he’ll come out again by 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 moustaches showed in the lamplight.
‘Eh bien,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘A fine evening for the chase, is it not?’
Chapter 15
In Bloomsbury
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—cold-bloodedly and dispassionately?’
‘I don’t think 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. ‘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