Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [51]
‘Ah,’ said Mr Clancy. ‘But, you see, I have my methods, Watson. If you’ll excuse my calling you Watson. No offence intended. Interesting, by the way, how the technique of the idiot friend has hung on. Personally I myself think the Sherlock Holmes stories grossly 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 wildfire—if only I can get it out in time.’
‘Won’t you be had up for libel, or something?’ asked Jane.
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 ampoule 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 girl’s a snake charmer. She extracts the stuff from her favourite python.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ said Hercule Poirot.
He said, ‘You don’t think, perhaps, it is just a little sensational?’
‘You can’t write anything too sensational,’ said Mr Clancy firmly. ‘Especially when you’re dealing with the arrow poison of the South American Indians. I know it was snake juice, really; but the principle is the same. After all, you don’t want a detective story to be like real life? Look at the things in the papers—dull as ditchwater.’
‘Come, now, Monsieur, would you say this little affair of ours is dull as ditchwater?’
‘No,’ admitted Mr Clancy. ‘Sometimes, you know, I can’t believe it really happened.’
Poirot drew the creaking chair a little nearer to his host. His voice lowered itself confidentially.
‘M. Clancy, you are a man of brains and imagination. The police, as you say, have regarded you with suspicion. They have not sought your advice. But I, Hercule Poirot, desire to consult you.’
Mr Clancy flushed with pleasure.
‘I’m sure that’s very nice of you.’
He looked flustered and pleased.
‘You have studied the criminology. Your ideas will be of value. It would be of great interest to me to know who, in your opinion, committed the crime.’
‘Well—’ Mr Clancy hesitated, reached automatically for a banana and began to