Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie Page A

helpless feminine business. All the same, I doubt if she'd have the nerve to carry a thing like this through. And frankly, I can't see that it was possible for her to do it. The whole thing is a bit of a teaser.”
    Poirot gathered up the loose typewritten sheets and read them through once again. Then he laid them down with a sigh.
    “On the face of it,” he said, “it seems to point very plainly to one person as having committed the crime. And yet, I cannot see why, or even how.”
    Japp stared at him.
    “Are you pretending that by reading all this stuff you've got an idea who did it?”
    “I think so.”
    Japp seized the papers from him and read them through, handing each sheet over to Fournier when he had finished with it. Then he slapped them down on the table and stared at Poirot.
    “Are you pulling my leg, Moosior Poirot?”
    “No, no. Quelle idée!”
    The Frenchman in his turn laid down the sheets.
    “What about you, Fournier?”
    The Frenchman shook his head.
    “I may be stupid,” he said, “but I cannot see that this list advances us much.”
    “Not by itself,” said Poirot, “but taken in conjunction with certain features of the case... No? Well, it may be that I am wrong - quite wrong.”
    “Well, come out with your theory,” said Japp. “I'll be interested to hear it, at all events.”
    Poirot shook his head.
    “No, as you say, it is a theory - a theory only. I hoped to find a certain object on that list. Eh bien, I have found it. It is there. But it seems to point in the wrong direction. The right clue on the wrong person. That means there is much work to be done, and truly, there is much that is still obscure to me. I cannot see my way. Only, certain facts seem to stand out, to arrange themselves in a significant pattern. You do not find it so? No, I see you do not. Let us, then, each work to his own idea. I have no certainty, I tell you; only a certain suspicion.”
    “I believe you're just talking through your hat,” said Japp. He rose. “Well, let's call it a day. I work the London end, you return to Paris, Fournier - and what about our M. Poirot?”
    “I still wish to accompany M. Fournier to Paris - more than ever now.”
    “More than ever? I'd like to know just what kind of maggot you've got in your brain.”
    “Maggot? Ce n'est pas joli, зa!”
    Fournier shook hands ceremoniously.
    “I wish you good evening, with many thanks for your delightful hospitality. We will meet, then, at Croydon tomorrow morning?”
    “Exactly. А demain.”
    “Let us hope,” said Fournier, “that nobody will murder us en route.”
    The two detectives departed.
    Poirot remained for a time as in a dream. Then he rose, cleared away any traces of disorder, emptied the ash trays and straightened the chairs.
    He went to a side table and picked up a copy of the Sketch. He turned the pages until he came to the one he sought.
    “Two Sun Worshippers,” it was headed. “The Countess of Horbury and Mr Raymond Barraclough at Le Pinet.” He looked at the two laughing figures in bathing suits, their arms entwined.
    “I wonder,” said Hercule Poirot. “One might do something along those lines. Yes, one might.”

Death in the Clouds

Chapter 9
    The weather on the following day was of so perfect a nature that even Hercule Poirot had to admit that his estomac was perfectly peaceful.
    On this occasion they were traveling by the 8:45 air service to Paris.
    There were seven or eight travelers besides Poirot and Fournier in the compartment and the Frenchman utilized the journey to make some experiments. He took from his pocket a small piece of bamboo, and three times during the journey he raised this to his lips, pointing it in a certain direction. Once he did it bending himself round the corner of his seat. Once with his head slightly turned sideways. Once when he was returning from the wash room. And on each occasion he caught the eye of some passenger or other eying him with mild astonishment. On the last