Death in the Clouds Read Free

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. Mitchell returned to the rear car. He went from table to table, bending his head and murmuring confidentially:
    ‘Excuse me, sir, you don’t happen to be a doctor—?’
    Norman Gale said, ‘I’m a dentist. But if there’sanything I can do—?’ He half rose from his seat.
    ‘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 the moustaches followed them.
    Dr Bryant bent over the huddled figure in seat No. 2, the figure of a stoutish middle-aged woman 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 detailed examination. When did you last see her—alive, I mean?’
    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 the bill along, I thought she was asleep…’
    Bryant said, ‘She’s been dead at least half an hour.’
    Their consultation 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 homely things that any man might understand.
    Dr Bryant had no intention of committing himself. He merely shook his head with a puzzled expression.
    A voice spoke 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 puncture mark on the side of her throat.
    ‘Pardon—’ the two Duponts joined in. They had been listening for the last few minutes. ‘The lady 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 wasp flying about. I killed it.’ He exhibited the corpse in his coffee saucer. ‘Is it not possible that the poor lady has died of a wasp sting? I have heard such things happen.’
    ‘It is possible,’ agreed Bryant. ‘I have known of such cases. Yes, that is certainly quite a possible 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 alittle. ‘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-up foreigner who was standing his ground.
    ‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘the best thing to do is to go back to your seat. We shall be at Croydon almost 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 pointed patent-leather shoe he made his meaning clear. The steward and Dr Bryant followed the action with their eyes. They caught the glint of yellow and black on the floor half concealed 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 tweezers from his pocket and used them delicately. He stood up with his