Chapter 2

Discovery

Henry Mitchell, the senior of the two stewards², passed swiftly from table to table depositing bills.

In half an hour’s time they would be at Croydon. He gathered up notes and silver, bowed, said,‘Thank you, sir. Thank you, Madam.’ At the table where the two Frenchmen sat he had to wait aminute or two, they were so busy discussing and gesticulating. And there wouldn’t be much of atip anyway from them, he thought gloomily. Two of the passengers were asleep—the little manwith the moustaches, and the old woman down at the end. She was a good tipper, though—heremembered her crossing several times. He refrained therefore from awaking her.

The little man with the moustaches woke up and paid for the bottle of soda³ water and the thincaptain biscuits, which was all he had had.

Mitchell left the other passenger as long as possible. About five minutes before they reachedCroydon he stood by her side and leant over her.

‘Pardon, Madam, your bill.’

He laid a deferential⁴ hand on her shoulder. She did not wake. He increased the pressure, shakingher gently, but the only result was an unexpected slumping⁵ of the body down in the seat. Mitchellbent over her, then straightened up with a white face.

II

Albert Davis, second steward¹, said:

‘Coo! You don’t mean it!’

‘I tell you it’s true.’

Mitchell was white and shaking.

‘You sure, Henry?’

‘Dead sure. At least—well, I suppose it might be a fit.’

‘We’ll be at Croydon in a few minutes.’

‘If she’s just taken bad—’

They remained a minute or two undecided—then arranged their course of action. Mitchellreturned to the rear car. He went from table to table, bending his head and murmuringconfidentially:

‘Excuse me, sir, you don’t happen to be a doctor—?’

Norman Gale⁷ said, ‘I’m a dentist. But if there’s anything I can do—?’ He half rose from hisseat.

‘I’m a doctor,’ said Dr Bryant. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘There’s a lady at the end there—I don’t like the look of her.’

Bryant rose to his feet and accompanied the steward. Unnoticed, the little man with themoustaches followed them.

Dr Bryant bent⁶ over the huddled⁸ figure in seat No. 2, the figure of a stoutish⁹ middle-agedwoman dressed in heavy black.

The doctor’s examination was brief.

He said: ‘She’s dead.’

Mitchell said, ‘What do you think it was—kind of fit?’

‘That I can’t possibly say without a detailed¹⁰ examination. When did you last see her—alive, Imean?’

Mitchell reflected.

‘She was all right when I brought her coffee along.’

‘When was that?’

‘Well, it might have been three-quarters of an hour ago—about that. Then, when I brought thebill along, I thought she was asleep…’

Bryant said, ‘She’s been dead at least half an hour.’

Their consultation¹¹ was beginning to cause interest—heads were craned round looking at them.

Necks were stretched to listen.

‘I suppose it might have been a kind of fit, like?’ suggested Mitchell hopefully.

He clung to the theory of a fit.

His wife’s sister had fits. He felt that fits were homely¹² things that any man might understand.

Dr Bryant had no intention of committing himself. He merely shook his head with a puzzledexpression.

A voice spoke¹³ at his elbow, the voice of the muffled-up man with the moustaches.

‘There is,’ he said, ‘a mark on her neck.’

He spoke apologetically, with a due sense of speaking to superior knowledge.

‘True,’ said Dr Bryant.

The woman’s head lolled over sideways. There was a minute puncture¹⁴ mark on the side of herthroat.

‘Pardon—’ the two Duponts joined in. They had been listening for the last few minutes. ‘Thelady is dead, you say, and there is a mark on the neck?’

It was Jean, the younger Dupont, who spoke.

‘May I make a suggestion? There was a wasp¹⁵ flying about. I killed it.’ He exhibited the corpsein his coffee saucer. ‘Is it not possible that the poor lady has died of a wasp sting? I have heardsuch things happen.’

‘It is possible,’ agreed Bryant. ‘I have known of such cases. Yes, that is certainly quite apossible explanation, especially if there were any cardiac weakness—’

‘Anything I’d better do, sir?’ asked the steward. ‘We’ll be at Croydon in a minute.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Dr Bryant as he moved away a little. ‘There’s nothing to be done. The—er—body must not be moved, steward.’

‘Yes, sir, I quite understand.’

Dr Bryant prepared to resume his seat and looked in some surprise at the small muffled-upforeigner who was standing¹⁶ his ground.

‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘the best thing to do is to go back to your seat. We shall be at Croydonalmost immediately.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said the steward. He raised his voice. ‘Please resume your seats, everybody.’

‘Pardon,’ said the little man. ‘There is something—’

‘Something?’

‘Mais oui, something that has been overlooked.’

With the tip of a pointed¹⁷ patent-leather shoe he made his meaning clear. The steward and DrBryant followed the action with their eyes. They caught the glint of yellow and black on the floorhalf concealed¹⁸ by the edge of the black skirt.

‘Another wasp?’ said the doctor, surprised.

Hercule Poirot went down on his knees. He took a small pair of tweezers¹⁹ from his pocket andused them delicately. He stood up with his prize.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is very like a wasp; but it is not a wasp!’

He turned the object about this way and that so that both the doctor and the steward could see itclearly, a little knot of teased fluffy²⁰ silk, orange and black, attached to a long, peculiar-lookingthorn with a discoloured tip.

‘Good gracious! Good gracious me!’ The exclamation²¹ came from little Mr Clancy, who had lefthis seat and was poking²² his head desperately²³ over the steward’s shoulder. ‘Remarkable²⁴, really veryremarkable, absolutely the most remarkable thing I have ever come across in my life. Well, uponmy soul, I should never have believed it.’

‘Could you make yourself just a little clearer, sir?’ asked the steward. ‘Do you recognize this?’

‘Recognize it? Certainly I recognize it.’ Mr Clancy swelled²⁵ with passionate²⁶ pride andgratification. ‘This object, gentlemen, is the native thorn shot from a blowpipe by certain tribes—er—I cannot be exactly certain now if it is South American tribes or whether it is the inhabitants ofBorneo which I have in mind; but that is undoubtedly²⁷ a native dart²⁸ that has been aimed by ablowpipe, and I strongly suspect that on the tip—’

‘Is the famous arrow poison of the South American Indians,’ finished Hercule Poirot. And headded, ‘Mais enfin! Est-ce que c’est possible?’

‘It is certainly very extraordinary,’ said Mr Clancy, still full of blissful excitement. ‘As I say,most extraordinary. I am myself a writer of detective fiction; but actually to meet, in real life—’

Words failed him.

The aeroplane heeled slowly over, and those people who were standing up staggered a little.

The plane was circling round in its descent to Croydon aerodrome.

 

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