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 away.
Mr Clancy’s name and address were taken and he was allowed to depart, which he did with relief on his face.
‘Looks a bit fishy to me,’ said Japp. ‘He actually had a blowpipe; and look at his manner. All to pieces.’
‘That is the severity of your official demeanour, my good Japp.’
‘There’s nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they’re only telling the truth,’ said the Scotland Yard man austerely.
Poirot looked at him pityingly.
‘In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.’
‘Of course I do. It’s true. Now, then, let’s have Norman Gale.’
Norman Gale gave his address as 14 Shepherd’s Avenue, Muswell Hill. By profession he was a dentist. He was returning from a holiday spent at Le Pinet on the French coast. He had spent a day in Paris looking at various new types of dental instruments.
He had never seen the deceased, and had noticed nothing suspicious during the journey. In any case, he had been facing the other way—towards the front car. He had left his seat once during the journey to go to the toilet. He had returned straight to his seat and had never been near the rear end of the car. He had not noticed any wasp.
After him came James Ryder, somewhat on edge and brusque in manner. He was returning from a business visit to Paris. He did not know the deceased. Yes, he had occupied the seat immediately in front of hers, but he could not have seen her without rising and looking over the back of his seat. He had heard nothing—no cry or exclamation. No one had come down the car except the stewards. Yes, the two Frenchmen had occupied the seats across the gangway from his. They had talked practically the whole journey. The younger of the two had killed a wasp at the conclusion of the meal. No, he hadn’t noticed the wasp previously. He didn’t know what a blowpipe was like, as he’d never seen one, so he couldn’t say if he’d seen one on the journey or not—
Just at this point there was a tap on the door. A police constable entered, subdued triumph in his bearing.
‘The sergeant’s just found this, sir,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to have it at once.’
He laid his prize on the table, unwrapping it with care from the handkerchief in which it was folded.
‘No fingerprints, sir, so as the sergeant can see, but he told me to be careful.’
The object thus displayed was an undoubted blowpipe of native manufacture.
Japp drew his breath in sharply.
‘Good Lord! Then it is true? Upon my soul, I didn’t believe it!’
Mr Ryder leant forward interestedly.
‘So that’s what the South Americans use, is it? Read about such things, but never seen one. Well, I can answer your question now. I didn’t see anyone handling anything of this type.’
‘Where was it found?’ asked Japp sharply.
‘Pushed down out of sight behind one of the seats, sir.’
‘Which seat?’
‘No. 9.’
‘Very entertaining,’ said Poirot.
Japp turned to him.
‘What’s entertaining about it?’
‘Only that No. 9 was my seat.’
‘Well, that looks a bit odd for you, I must say,’ said Mr Ryder.
Japp frowned.
‘Thank you, Mr Ryder, that will do.’
When Ryder had gone he turned to Poirot with a grin.
‘This your work, old bird?’
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.’
‘It is a bit low,’ agreed Japp. ‘But it seems to have worked.’
‘That is what gives one so furiously to think.’
‘Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must. Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let’s have her in and get it over. Jane Grey—sounds like a history book.’
‘She is a pretty girl,’ said Poirot.
‘Is she, you old dog? So you weren’t asleep all the time, eh?’
‘She was pretty—and nervous,’ said Poirot.
‘Nervous, eh?’ said Japp alertly.
‘Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man—not crime.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Here she is.’
Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine’s hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, NW5. She was returning to England from Le Pinet.
‘Le Pinet—h’m!’
Further questions drew the story of the Sweep ticket.
‘Ought to be made illegal, those Irish Sweeps,’ growled Japp.
‘I think they’re marvellous,’ said Jane. ‘Haven’t you ever put half a crown on a horse?’
Japp blushed and looked confused.
The questions were resumed. Shown the blowpipe, Jane denied having seen it at any time. She did not know the deceased, but had noticed
