‘My attaché case?’ said Norman Gale. He looked amused and puzzled. ‘Why, I don’t even remember now what was in it.’
Poirot smiled at him amiably.
‘Wait a little minute. I will come to that. I am telling you my first ideas.
‘To proceed—I had four persons who could have done the crime—from the point of view of possibility: the two stewards, Clancy and Gale.
‘I now looked at the case from the opposite angle—that of motive—if a motive were to coincide with a possibility—well, I had my murderer! But alas, I could find nothing of the kind. My friend Japp has accused me of liking to make things difficult. On the contrary, I approached this question of motive with all the simplicity in the world. To whose benefit would it be if Madame Giselle were removed? Clearly to her unknown daughter’s benefit—since that unknown daughter would inherit a fortune. There were also certain persons who were in Madame Giselle’s power, or shall we say—who might be in Giselle’s power, for aught we knew. That, then, was a task of elimination. Of the passengers in the plane I could only be certain of one who was undoubtedly mixed up with Giselle. That one was Lady Horbury.
‘In Lady Horbury’s case the motive was very clear. She had visited Giselle at her house in Paris the night before. She was desperate and she had a friend, a young actor, who might easily have impersonated the American who bought the blowpipe—and might also have bribed the clerk in Universal Airlines to ensure that Giselle travelled by the 12 o’clock service.
‘I had, as it were, a problem in two halves. I did not see how it was possible for Lady Horbury to commit the crime; and I could not see for what motive the stewards, Mr Clancy, or Mr Gale should want to commit it.
‘Always, in the back of my mind, I considered the problem of Giselle’s unknown daughter and heiress. Were any of my four suspects married—and if so, could one of the wives be this Anne Morisot? If her father was English, the girl might have been brought up in England. Mitchell’s wife I soon dismissed—she was of good old Dorset stock. Davis was courting a girl whose father and mother were alive. Mr Clancy was not married. Mr Gale was obviously head over ears in love with Miss Jane Grey.
‘I may say that I investigated the antecedents of Miss Grey very carefully, having learned from her in casual conversation that she had been brought up in an orphanage near Dublin. But I soon satisfied myself that Miss Grey was not Madame Giselle’s daughter.
‘I made out a table of results—the stewards had neither gained nor lost by Madame Giselle’s death—except that Mitchell was obviously suffering from shock. Mr Clancy was planning a book on the subject by which he hoped to make money. Mr Gale was fast losing his practice. Nothing very helpful there.
‘And yet, at that time, I was convinced that Mr Gale was the murderer—there was the empty match-box—the contents of his attaché case. Apparently he lost, not gained, by the death of Giselle. But those appearances might be false appearances.
‘I determined to cultivate his acquaintance. It is my experience that no one, in the course of conversation, can fail to give themselves away sooner or later…Everyone has an irresistible urge to talk about themselves.
‘I tried to gain Mr Gale’s confidence. I pretended to confide in him, and I even enlisted his help. I persuaded him to aid me in the fake blackmailing of Lady Horbury. And it was then that he made his first mistake.
‘I had suggested a slight disguise. He arrived to play his part with a ridiculous and impossible outfit! The whole thing was a farce. No one, I felt sure, could play a part as badly as he was proposing to play one. What then was the reason for this? Because his knowledge of his own guilt made him chary of showing himself to be a good actor. When, however, I had adjusted his ridiculous makeup, his artistic skill showed itself. He played his part perfectly and Lady Horbury did not recognize him. I was convinced then that he could have disguised himself as an American in Paris and could also have played the necessary part in the Prometheus.
‘By this time I was getting seriously worried about Mademoiselle Jane. Either she was in this business with him, or else she was entirely innocent—and in the latter case she was a victim. She might wake up one day to find herself married to a murderer.
With the object of preventing a precipitate marriage, I took Mademoiselle Jane to Paris as my secretary.
‘It was whilst we were there that the missing heiress appeared to claim her fortune. I was haunted by a resemblance that I could not place. I did place it in the end—but too late…
‘At first the discovery that she had actually been in the plane and had lied about it seemed to overthrow all my theories. Here, overwhelmingly, was the guilty person.
‘But if she were guilty she had an accomplice—the man who bought the blowpipe and bribed Jules Perrot.
‘Who was that man? Was it conceivably her husband?
‘And—then—suddenly I saw the true solution. True, that is, if one point could be verified.
‘For my solution to be correct Anne Morisot ought not to have been on the plane.
‘I rang up Lady Horbury and got my answer. The maid, Madeleine, travelled in the plane by a last-minute whim of her mistress.’
He stopped.
Mr Clancy said:
‘Ahem—but—I’m afraid I’m not quite clear.’
‘When did you stop pitching on me as the murderer?’ asked Norman.
Poirot wheeled round on him.
‘I never stopped. You are the murderer…Wait—I will tell you everything. For the last week Japp and I have been busy—It is true that you became a dentist to please your uncle—John Gale. You took his name when you came into partnership with him—but you were his sister’s son—not his brother’s. Your real name is Richards. It was as Richards that you met the girl Anne Morisot at Nice last winter, when she was there with her mistress. The story she told us was true as to the facts of her childhood, but the latter part was edited carefully by you. She did know her mother’s maiden name. Giselle was at Monte Carlo—she was pointed out and her real name was mentioned. You realized that there might be a large fortune to be got. It appealed to your gambler’s nature. It was from Anne Morisot that you learnt of Lady Horbury’s connexion with Giselle. The plan of the crime formed itself in your head. Giselle was to be murdered in such a way that suspicion would fall on Lady Horbury. Your plans matured and finally fructified. You bribed the clerk in Universal Airlines so that Giselle should travel on the same plane as Lady Horbury. Anne Morisot had told you that she herself was going to England by train—you never expected her to be on the plane—and it seriously jeopardized your plans. If it was once known that Giselle’s daughter and heiress had been on the plane suspicion would naturally have fallen upon her. Your original idea was that she should claim the inheritance with a perfect alibi, since she would have been on a train or boat at the time of the crime; and then you would have married her.
‘The girl was by this time infatuated with you. But it was money you were after—not the girl herself.
‘There was another complication to your plans. At Le Pinet you saw Mademoiselle Jane Grey and fell madly in love with her. Your passion for her drove you on to play a much more dangerous game.
‘You intended to have both the money and the girl you loved. You were committing a murder for the sake of money, and you were in no mind to relinquish the fruits of the crime. You frightened Anne Morisot by telling her that if she came forward at once to proclaim her identity she would certainly be suspected of the murder. Instead you induced her to ask for a few days’ leave, and you went together to Rotterdam, where you were married.
‘In due course you primed her how to claim the money. She was to say nothing of her employment as lady’s maid, and it was very clearly to be made plain that she and her husband had been abroad at the time of the murder.
‘Unfortunately, the date planned for Anne Morisot to go to Paris and claim her inheritance coincided with my arrival in Paris, where Miss Grey had accompanied me. That did not suit
your book at all. Either Mademoiselle Jane or myself might recognize in Anne Morisot the Madeleine who had been Lady Horbury’s maid.
‘You tried to get in touch with her in time, but failed. You finally arrived in Paris yourself and found she had already gone to the lawyer. When she returned she told you of her meeting with me. Things were becoming dangerous, and you made up your mind to act quickly.
‘It had been your intention that your new-made wife should not survive her accession to wealth very long. Immediately after the marriage ceremony you had both made wills leaving all you had one to the other! A very touching business.
‘You intended, I fancy, to follow a fairly leisurely course. You would have gone to Canada—ostensibly because of the failure of your practice. There you would have resumed the name of Richards and your wife would have rejoined you. All the same I do not fancy it would have been very long before Mrs Richards regrettably died, leaving a fortune to a seemingly inconsolable widower. You would then have returned to England as Norman Gale, having had the good fortune to make a lucky speculation in Canada! But now you decided that no time must be lost.’
Poirot paused and Norman Gale threw back his head and laughed.
‘You are very clever at knowing what people intend to do! You ought to adopt Mr Clancy’s profession!’ His tone deepened to one of anger. ‘I never heard such a farrago of nonsense. What you imagined, M. Poirot, is hardly evidence!’
Poirot did not seem put out. He said:
‘Perhaps not. But, then, I have some evidence.’
‘Really?’ sneered Norman. ‘Perhaps you have evidence as to how I killed old Giselle when everyone in the aeroplane knows perfectly well I never went near her?’
‘I will tell you exactly how you committed the crime,’ said Poirot. ‘What about the contents of your dispatch-case? You were on a holiday. Why take a dentist’s linen coat? That is what I asked myself. And the answer is this—because it resembled so closely a steward’s coat…
‘That is what you did. When coffee was served and the stewards had gone to the other compartment you went to the toilet, put on your linen coat, padded your cheeks with cottonwool rolls, came out, seized a coffee spoon from the box in the pantry opposite, hurried down the gangway with the steward’s quick run, spoon in hand, to Giselle’s table. You thrust the thorn into her neck, opened the match-box and let the wasp escape, hurried back into the toilet, changed your coat and emerged leisurely to return to your table. The whole thing took only a couple of minutes.
‘Nobody notices a steward particularly. The only person who might have recognized you was Mademoiselle Jane. But you know women! As soon as a woman is left alone (particularly when she is travelling with an attractive young man) she seizes the opportunity to have a good look in her hand mirror, powder her nose and adjust her makeup.’
‘Really,’ sneered Gale. ‘A most interesting theory; but it didn’t happen. Anything else?’
‘Quite a lot,’ said Poirot. ‘As I have just said, in the course of conversation a man gives himself away…You were imprudent enough to mention that for a while you were on a farm in South Africa. What you did not say, but what I have since found out, is that it was a snake farm…’
For the first time Norman Gale showed fear. He tried to speak, but the words would not come.
Poirot continued:
‘You were there under your own name of Richards; a photograph of you transmitted by telephone has been recognized. That same photograph has been identified in Rotterdam as the man Richards who married Anne Morisot.’
Again Norman Gale tried to speak and failed. His whole personality seemed to change. The handsome, vigorous young man turned into a rat-like creature with furtive eyes looking for a way of escape and finding none…
‘It was haste ruined your plan,’ said Poirot. ‘The Superior of the Institut de Marie hurried things on by wiring to Anne Morisot. It would have looked suspicious to ignore that wire. You had impressed it upon your wife that unless she suppressed certain facts either she or you might be suspected of murder, since you had both unfortunately been in the plane when Giselle was killed. When you met her afterwards and you learnt that I had been present at the interview you hurried things on. You were afraid I might get the truth out of Anne—perhaps she herself was beginning to suspect you. You hustled her away out of the hotel and into the boat train. You administered prussic acid to her by force and you left the empty bottle in her hand.’
‘A lot of damned lies…’
‘Oh, no. There was a bruise on her neck.’
‘Damned lies, I tell you.’
‘You even left your fingerprints on the bottle.’
‘You lie. I wore—’
‘Ah, you wore gloves…? I think, Monsieur, that little admission cooks your gander.’
‘You damned interfering little mountebank!’ Livid with passion, his face unrecognizable, Gale made a spring at Poirot. Japp, however, was too quick for him. Holding him in a capable unemotional grip, Japp said:
‘James Richards, alias Norman Gale, I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of wilful murder. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence.’
A terrible shudder shook the man. He seemed on the point of collapse.
A couple of plain-clothes men were waiting outside. Norman Gale was taken away.
Left alone with Poirot, little Mr Clancy drew a deep breath of ecstasy.
‘M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘That has been absolutely the most thrilling experience of my life. You have been wonderful!’
Poirot smiled modestly.
‘No, no. Japp deserves as much credit as I do. He has done wonders in identifying Gale as Richards. The Canadian police want Richards. A girl he was mixed up with there is supposed to have committed suicide, but facts have come to light which seem to point to murder.’
‘Terrible,’ Mr Clancy chirped.
‘A killer,’ said Poirot. ‘And like many killers, attractive to women.’
Mr Clancy coughed.
‘That poor girl, Jane Grey.’
Poirot shook his head sadly.
‘Yes, as I said to her, life can be very terrible. But she has courage. She will come through.’
With an absent-minded hand he arranged a pile of picture papers that Norman Gale had disarranged in his wild spring.
Something arrested his attention—a snapshot of Venetia Kerr at a race meeting, ‘talking to Lord Horbury and a friend.’
He handed it to Mr Clancy.
‘You see that? In a year’s time there will be an announcement: “A marriage is arranged and will shortly take place between Lord Horbury and the Hon. Venetia Kerr.” And do you know who will have arranged that marriage? Hercule Poirot! There is another marriage that I have arranged, too.’
‘Lady Horbury and Mr Barraclough?’
‘Ah, no, in that matter I take no interest.’ He leaned forward. ‘No—I refer to a marriage between M. Jean Dupont and Miss Jane Grey. You will see.’
II
It was a month later that Jane came to Poirot.
‘I ought to hate you, M. Poirot.’
She looked pale and fine drawn with dark circles round her eyes.
Poirot said gently:
‘Hate me a little if you will. But I think you are one of those who would rather look truth in the face than live in a fool’s paradise; and you might not have lived in it so very long. Getting rid of women is a vice that grows.’
‘He was so terribly attractive,’ said Jane.
She added:
‘I shall never fall in love again.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Poirot. ‘That side of life is finished for you.’
Jane nodded.
‘But what I must do is to have work—something interesting that I could lose myself in.’
Poirot tilted back his chair and looked at the ceiling.
‘I should advise you to go to Persia with the Duponts. That is interesting work, if you like.’
&n
bsp; ‘But—but—I thought that was only camouflage on your part.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘On the contrary—I have become so interested in archaeology and prehistoric pottery that I sent the cheque for the donation I had promised. I heard this morning that they were expecting you to join the expedition. Can you draw at all?’
‘Yes, I was rather good at drawing at school.’
‘Excellent. I think you will enjoy your season.’
‘Do they really want me to come?’
‘They are counting on it.’
‘It would be wonderful,’ said Jane, ‘to get right away—’
A little colour rose in her face.
‘M. Poirot—’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re not—you’re not—being kind?’
‘Kind?’ said Poirot with a lively horror at the idea. ‘I can assure you, Mademoiselle—that where money is concerned I am strictly a man of business—’
He seemed so offended that Jane quickly begged his pardon.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I’d better go to some museums and look at some prehistoric pottery.’
‘A very good idea.’
At the doorway Jane paused and then came back.
‘You mayn’t have been kind in that particular way, but you have been kind—to me.’
She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and went out again.
‘Ça, c’est très gentil! ’ said Hercule Poirot.
About Agatha Christie
Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English and another billion in 100 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Mrs Christie is the author of eighty crime novels and short story collections, nineteen plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.
Agatha Christie’s first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, was written towards the end of World War I (during which she served in the Voluntary Aid Detachments). In it she created Hercule Poirot, the little Belgian investigator who was destined to become the most popular detective in crime fiction since Sherlock Holmes. After having been rejected by a number of houses, The Mysterious Affair at Styles was eventually published by The Bodley Head in 1920.