abandoned manner.
The manner of the crime was one of unparalleled audacity. In the full view of ten—or twelve, counting the stewards—witnesses, the murderer had placed a blowpipe to his lips and sent the fatal dart on its murderous course through the air and no one had observed the act. It seemed frankly incredible, but there was the evidence of the blowpipe, of the dart found on the floor, of the mark on the deceased’s neck and of the medical evidence to show that, incredible or not, it had happened.
In the absence of further evidence incriminating some particular person, he could only direct the jury to return a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown. Everyone present had denied any knowledge of the deceased woman. It would be the work of the police to find out how and where a connection lay. In the absence of any motive for the crime he could only advise the verdict he had just mentioned. The jury would now consider the verdict.
A square-faced member of the jury with suspicious eyes leaned forward breathing heavily.
‘Can I ask a question, sir?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You say as how the blowpipe was found down a seat? Whose seat was it?’
The coroner consulted his notes. Sergeant Wilson stepped to his side and murmured:
‘Ah, yes. The seat in question was No. 9, a seat occupied by M. Hercule Poirot. M. Poirot, I may say, is a very well-known and respected private detective who has—er—collaborated several times with Scotland Yard.’
The square-faced man transferred his gaze to the face of M. Hercule Poirot. It rested with a far from satisfied expression on the little Belgian’s long moustaches.
‘Foreigners,’ said the eyes of the square-faced man, ‘you can’t trust foreigners, not even if they are hand-and-glove with the police.’
Out loud he said:
‘It was this Mr Poirot who picked up the dart, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
The jury retired. They returned after five minutes, and the foreman handed a piece of paper to the coroner.
‘What’s all this?’ The coroner frowned. ‘Nonsense, I can’t accept this verdict.’
A few minutes later the amended verdict was returned: ‘We find that the deceased came to her death by poison, there being insufficient evidence to show by whom the poison was administered.’
As Jane left the court after the verdict she found Norman Gale beside her.
He said, ‘I wonder what was on that paper that the coroner wouldn’t have at any price?’
‘I can tell you, I think,’ said a voice behind him.
The couple turned, to look into the twinkling eyes of M. Hercule Poirot.
‘It was a verdict,’ said the little man, ‘of wilful murder against me.’
‘Oh, surely—’ cried Jane.
Poirot nodded happily.
‘Mais oui. As I came out I heard one man say to the other, “That little foreigner—mark my words, he done it!” The jury thought the same.’
Jane was uncertain whether to condole or to laugh. She decided on the latter. Poirot laughed in sympathy.
‘But, see you,’ he said, ‘definitely I must set to work and clear my character.’
With a smile and a bow he moved away.
Jane and Norman stared after his retreating figure.
‘What an extraordinarily rum little beggar,’ said Gale. ‘Calls himself a detective. I don’t see how he could do much detecting. Any criminal could spot him a mile off. I don’t see how he could disguise himself.’
‘Haven’t you got a very old-fashioned idea of detectives?’ asked Jane. ‘All the false beard stuff is very out of date. Nowadays detectives just sit and think out a case psychologically.’
‘Rather less strenuous.’
‘Physically, perhaps; but of course you need a cool, clear brain.’
‘I see. A hot muddled one won’t do.’
They both laughed.
‘Look here,’ said Gale. A slight flush rose in his cheeks and he spoke rather fast. ‘Would you mind—I mean, it would be frightfully nice of you—it’s a bit late—but how about having some tea with me? I feel—comrades in misfortune—and—’
He stopped. To himself he said:
‘What is the matter with you, you fool? Can’t you ask a girl to have a cup of tea without stammering and blushing and making an utter ass of yourself? What will the girl think of you?’
Gale’s confusion served to accentuate Jane’s coolness and self-possession.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘I would like some tea.’
They found a tea-shop and a disdainful waitress with a gloomy manner took their order with an air of doubt as of one who might say: ‘Don’t blame me if you’re disappointed. They say we serve teas here, but I never heard of it.’
The tea-shop was nearly empty. Its emptiness served to emphasize the intimacy of tea drinking together. Jane peeled off her gloves and looked across the table at her companion. He was attractive—those blue eyes and that smile. And he was nice too.
‘It’s a queer show, this murder business,’ said Gale, plunging hastily into talk. He was still not quite free from an absurd feeling of embarrassment.
‘I know,’ said Jane. ‘I’m rather worried about it—from the point of view of my job, I mean. I don’t know how they’ll take it.’
‘Ye-es. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Antoine’s mayn’t like to employ a girl who’s been mixed up in a murder case and had to give evidence, and all that.’
‘People are queer,’ said Norman Gale thoughtfully. ‘Life’s so—so unfair. A thing like this that isn’t your fault at all—’ He frowned angrily. ‘It’s damnable!’
‘Well, it hasn’t happened yet,’ Jane reminded him. ‘No good getting hot and bothered about something that hasn’t happened. After all, I suppose there is some point in it—I might be the person who murdered her! And when you’ve murdered one person they say you usually murder a lot more; and it wouldn’t be
