Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [9]
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.
M. Jean Dupont confirmed this evidence. He had noticed nothing of what went on round about him. The wasp had annoyed him and he had killed it. What had been the subject of the discussion? The prehistoric pottery of the Near East.
Mr Clancy, who came next, came in for rather a bad time. Mr Clancy, so felt Inspector Japp, knew altogether too much about blowpipes and poisoned darts.
‘Have you ever owned a blowpipe yourself?’
‘Well—I—er—well, yes, as a matter of fact I have.’
‘Indeed!’ Inspector Japp pounced on the statement.
Little Mr Clancy fairly squeaked with agitation.
‘You must not—er—misunderstand; my motives are quite innocent. I can explain…’
‘Yes, sir, perhaps you will explain.’
‘Well, you see, I was writing a book in which the murder was committed that way—’
‘Indeed—’
Again that threatening intonation. Mr Clancy hurried on:
‘It was all a question of fingerprints—if you understand me. It was necessary to have an illustration illustrating the point I meant—I mean—the fingerprints—the position of them—the position of them on the blowpipe, if you understand me, and having noticed such a thing—in the Charing Cross Road it was—at least two years ago now—and so I bought the blowpipe—and an artist friend of mine very kindly drew it for me—with the fingerprints—to illustrate my point. I can refer you to the book—The Clue of the Scarlet Petal—and my friend too.’
‘Did you keep the blowpipe?’
‘Why, yes—why, yes, I think so—I mean, yes, I did.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘Well, I suppose—well, it must be somewhere about.’
‘What exactly do you mean by somewhere about, Mr Clancy?’
‘I mean—well—somewhere—I can’t say where. I—I am not a very tidy man.’
‘It isn’t with you now, for instance?’
‘Certainly not. Why, I haven’t see the thing for nearly six months.’
Inspector Japp bent a glance of cold suspicion on him and continued his questions.
‘Did you leave your seat at all in the plane?’
‘No, certainly not—at least—well, yes, I did.’
‘Oh, you did. Where did you go?’
‘I went to get a continental Bradshaw out of my raincoat pocket. The raincoat was piled with some rugs and suitcases by the entrance at the end.’
‘So you passed close by the deceased’s seat?’
‘No—at least—well, yes, I must have done. But this was long before anything could have happened. I’d only just drunk my soup.’
Further questions drew negative answers. Mr Clancy had noticed nothing suspicious. He had been absorbed in the perfectioning of his cross-Europe alibi.
‘Alibi, eh?’ said the inspector darkly.
Poirot intervened with a question about wasps.
Yes, Mr Clancy had noticed a wasp. It had attacked him. He was afraid of wasps. When was this? Just after the steward had brought him his coffee. He struck at it and it went