Chapter 1

Paris to Croydon

The September sun beat down hotly on Le Bourget aerodrome as the passengers crossed theground and climbed into the air liner Prometheus, due to depart for Croydon in a few minutes’

time.

Jane Grey was among the last to enter and take her seat, No. 16. Some of the passengers hadalready passed on through the centre door past the tiny pantry-kitchen and the two toilets to thefront car. Most people were already seated. On the opposite side of the gangway there was a gooddeal of chatter¹—a rather shrill², high-pitched woman’s voice dominating it. Jane’s lips twistedslightly. She knew that particular type of voice so well.

‘My dear—it’s extraordinary—no idea—Where, do you say? Juan les Pins? Oh, yes. No—LePinet—Yes, just the same old crowd—But of course let’s sit together. Oh, can’t we? Who—? Oh,I see…’

And then a man’s voice—foreign, polite:

‘—With the greatest of pleasure, Madame.’

Jane stole a glance out of the corner of her eye.

A little elderly man with large moustaches and an egg-shaped head was politely moving himselfand his belongings³ from the seat corresponding to Jane’s on the opposite side of the gangway.

Jane turned her head slightly and got a view of the two women whose unexpected meeting hadoccasioned this polite action on the stranger’s part. The mention of Le Pinet had stimulated⁴ hercuriosity, for Jane also had been at Le Pinet.

She remembered one of the women perfectly—remembered how she had seen her last—at thebaccarat table, her little hands clenching⁵ and unclenching themselves—her delicately made-upDresden china face flushing and paling alternately. With a little effort, Jane thought, she couldhave remembered her name. A friend had mentioned it—had said: ‘She’s a peeress, she is, but notone of the proper ones—she was only some chorus girl or other.’

Deep scorn in the friend’s voice. That had been Maisie, who had a first-class job as a masseuse‘taking off ’ flesh.

The other woman, Jane thought in passing, was the ‘real thing’. The ‘horsey, county type’,thought Jane, and forthwith forgot the two women and interested herself in the view obtainablethrough the window of Le Bourget aerodrome. Various other machines were standing⁶ about. Oneof them looked like a big metallic⁷ centipede.

The one place she was obstinately⁸ determined⁹ not to look was straight in front of her, where, onthe seat opposite, sat a young man.

He was wearing a rather bright periwinkle- blue pullover. Above the pullover Jane wasdetermined not to look. If she did, she might catch his eye, and that would never do!

Mechanics shouted in French—the engine roared—relaxed—roared again—obstructions werepulled away—the plane started.

Jane caught her breath. It was only her second flight. She was still capable of being thrilled. Itlooked—it looked as though they must run into that fence thing—no, they were off the ground—rising—rising—sweeping round—there was Le Bourget beneath them.

The midday service to Croydon had started. It contained twenty-one passengers—ten in theforward carriage, eleven in the rear one. It had two pilots and two stewards¹². The noise of theengines was very skilfully¹³ deadened. There was no need to put cotton wool in the ears.

Nevertheless there was enough noise to discourage conversation and encourage thought.

As the plane roared above France on its way to the Channel the passengers in the rearcompartment thought their various thoughts.

Jane Grey thought: ‘I won’t look at him…I won’t…It’s much better not. I’ll go on looking outof the window and thinking. I’ll choose a definite thing to think about—that’s always the best way.

That will keep my mind steady. I’ll begin at the beginning and go all over it.’

Resolutely¹⁵ she switched her mind back to what she called the beginning, that purchase of aticket in the Irish Sweep. It had been an extravagance, but an exciting extravagance.

A lot of laughter and teasing chatter in the hairdressing establishment in which Jane and fiveother young ladies were employed.

‘What’ll you do if you win it, dear?’

‘I know what I’d do.’

Plans—castles in the air—a lot of chaff¹⁶.

Well, she hadn’t won ‘it’—‘it’ being the big prize; but she had won a hundred pounds.

A hundred pounds.

‘You spend half of it, dear, and keep the other half for a rainy day. You never know.’

‘I’d buy a fur coat, if I was you—a real tip-top one.’

‘What about a cruise?’

Jane had wavered at the thought of a ‘cruise’, but in the end she had remained faithful to herfirst idea. A week at Le Pinet. So many of her ladies had been going to Le Pinet or just come backfrom Le Pinet. Jane, her clever fingers patting and manipulating the waves, her tongue utteringmechanically the usual clichés, ‘Let me see, how long is it since you had your perm, Madam?’

‘Your hair’s such an uncommon¹⁷ colour, Madam.’ ‘What a wonderful summer it has been, hasn’tit, Madam?’ had thought to herself, ‘Why the devil can’t I go to Le Pinet?’ Well, now she could.

Clothes presented small difficulty. Jane, like most London girls employed in smart places, couldproduce a miraculous¹⁸ effect of fashion for a ridiculously small outlay¹⁹. Nails, make-up and hairwere beyond reproach.

Jane went to Le Pinet.

Was it possible that now, in her thoughts, ten days at Le Pinet had dwindled²⁰ down to oneincident?

An incident at the roulette table. Jane allowed herself a certain amount each evening for thepleasures of gambling²¹. That sum she was determined not to exceed. Contrary to the prevalentsuperstition, Jane’s beginner’s luck had been bad. This was her fourth evening and the last stake ofthat evening. So far she had staked prudently²² on colour or on one of the dozens. She had won alittle, but lost more. Now she waited, her stake in her hand.

There were two numbers on which nobody had staked, five and six. Should she put this, her laststake, on one of those numbers? If so, which of them? Five, or six? Which did she feel?

Five—five was going to turn up. The ball was spun²³. Jane stretched out her hand. Six, she’d putit on six.

Just in time. She and another player opposite staked simultaneously²⁴, she on six, he on five.

‘Rien ne va plus,’ said the croupier.

The ball clicked, settled.

‘Le numéro cinq, rouge²⁵, impair²⁶, manque.’

Jane could have cried with vexation. The croupier swept away the stakes, paid out. The manopposite said: ‘Aren’t you going to take up your winnings?’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I put on six.’

‘Indeed you didn’t. I put on six and you put on five.’

He smiled—a very attractive smile. White teeth in a very brown face, blue eyes, crisp short hair.

Half unbelievingly Jane picked up her gains. Was it true? She felt a little muddled²⁷ herself.

Perhaps she had put her counters on five. She looked doubtingly at the stranger and he smiledeasily back.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Leave a thing lying there and somebody else will grab it who has got noright to it. That’s an old trick.’

Then with a friendly little nod of the head he had moved away. That, too, had been nice of him.

She might have suspected otherwise that he had let her take his winnings in order to scrapeacquaintance with her. But he wasn’t that kind of man. He was nice…(And here he was sittingopposite to her.)

And now it was all over—the money spent—a last two days (rather disappointing days) in Paris,and now home on her return air ticket.

‘And what next?’

‘Stop,’ said Jane to her mind. ‘Don’t think of what’s going to happen next. It’ll only make younervous.’

The two women had stopped talking.

She looked across the gangway. The Dresden china woman exclaimed petulantly²⁸, examining abroken finger-nail. She rang the bell and when the white-coated steward¹¹ appeared she said:

‘Send my maid to me. She’s in the other compartment¹⁴.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

The steward, very deferential²⁹, very quick and efficient, disappeared again. A dark-haired Frenchgirl dressed in black appeared. She carried a small jewel case.

Lady Horbury spoke³⁰ to her in French:

‘Madeleine, I want my red morocco case.’

The maid passed along the gangway. At the extreme end of the car were some piled-up rugs andcases.

The girl returned with a small red dressing-case.

Cicely Horbury took it and dismissed the maid.

‘That’s all right, Madeleine. I’ll keep it here.’

The maid went out again. Lady Horbury opened the case and from the beautifully fitted interiorshe extracted a nail file. Then she looked long and earnestly at her face in a small mirror andtouched it up here and there—a little powder, more lip salve.

Jane’s lips curled scornfully; her glance travelled farther down the car.

Behind the two women was the little foreigner who had yielded his seat to the ‘county’ woman.

Heavily muffled³¹ up in unnecessary mufflers, he appeared to be fast asleep. Perhaps made uneasyby Jane’s scrutiny³², his eyes opened, looked at her for a moment, then closed again.

Beside him sat a tall, grey-haired man with an authoritative³³ face. He had a flute³⁴ case open infront of him and was polishing the flute with loving care. Funny, Jane thought, he didn’t look likea musician—more like a lawyer or a doctor.

Behind those two were a couple of Frenchmen, one with a beard and one much younger—perhaps his son. They were talking and gesticulating in an excited manner.

On her own side of the car Jane’s view was blocked by the man in the blue pullover, the man atwhom, for some absurd reason, she was determined not to look.

‘Absurd to feel—so—so excited. I might be seventeen,’ thought Jane digustedly.

Opposite her, Norman Gale³⁵ was thinking:

‘She’s pretty—really pretty—She remembers me all right. She looked so disappointed when herstakes were swept away. It was worth a lot more than that to see her pleasure when she won. I didthat rather well…She’s very attractive when she smiles—no pyorrhoea there—healthy gums andsound teeth…Damn it, I feel quite excited. Steady, my boy…’

He said to the steward who hovered³⁶ at his side with the menu, ‘I’ll have cold tongue.’

The Countess of Horbury thought, ‘My God, what shall I do? It’s the hell of a mess—the hell ofa mess. There’s only one way out that I can see. If only I had the nerve. Can I do it? Can I bluff³⁷ itout? My nerves are all to pieces. That’s the coke. Why did I ever take to coke? My face looksawful, simply awful. That cat Venetia Kerr being here makes it worse. She always looks at me asthough I were dirt. Wanted Stephen herself. Well, she didn’t get him! That long face of hers getson my nerves. It’s exactly like a horse. I hate these county women. My God, what shall I do? I’vegot to make up my mind. The old bitch meant what she said…’

She fumbled³⁸ in her vanity bag for her cigarette-case and fitted a cigarette into a long holder³⁹. Herhands shook slightly.

The Honourable⁴⁰ Venetia Kerr thought: ‘Bloody little tart¹⁰. That’s what she is. She may betechnically virtuous⁴¹, but she’s a tart through and through. Poor old Stephen…if he could only getrid of her…’

She in turn felt for her cigarette-case. She accepted Cicely Horbury’s match.

The steward said, ‘Excuse me, ladies, no smoking.’

Cicely Horbury said, ‘Hell!’

M. Hercule Poirot thought, ‘She is pretty, that little one over there. There is determination inthat chin. Why is she so worried over something? Why is she so determined not to look at thehandsome young man opposite her? She is very much aware of him and he of her…’ The planedropped slightly. ‘Mon estomac,’ thought Hercule Poirot, and closed his eyes determinedly⁴².

Beside him Dr Bryant, caressing⁴³ his flute with nervous hands, thought, ‘I can’t decide. I simplycannot decide. This is the turning point of my career…’

Nervously⁴⁴ he drew out his flute from its case, caressingly⁴⁵, lovingly…Music…In music therewas an escape from all your cares. Half smiling he raised the flute to his lips, then put it downagain. The little man with the moustaches beside him was fast asleep. There had been a moment,when the plane had bumped a little, when he had looked distinctly green. Dr Bryant was glad thathe himself was neither train-sick nor sea-sick nor air-sick…M. Dupont père turned excitedly in his seat and shouted at M. Dupont fils sitting beside him.

‘There is no doubt about it. They are all wrong—the Germans, the Americans, the English!

They date the prehistoric⁴⁶ pottery⁴⁷ all wrong. Take the Samarra ware—’

Jean Dupont, tall, fair, with a false air of indolence, said:

‘You must take the evidences from all sources. There is Tall Halaf, and Sakje Geuze—’

They prolonged the discussion.

Armand Dupont wrenched⁴⁸ open a battered⁴⁹ attaché case.

‘Take these Kurdish pipes, such as they make today. The decoration on them is almost exactlysimilar to that on the pottery of 5000 BC.’

An eloquent⁵⁰ gesture almost swept away the plate that a steward was placing in front of him.

Mr Clancy, writer of detective stories, rose from his seat behind Norman Gale and padded to theend of the car, extracted a continental⁵¹ Bradshaw from his raincoat pocket and returned with it towork out a complicated alibi⁵² for professional purposes.

Mr Ryder, in the seat behind him, thought, ‘I’ll have to keep my end up, but it’s not going to beeasy. I don’t see how I’m going to raise the dibs for the next dividend…If we pass the dividendthe fat’s in the fire…Oh, hell!’

Norman Gale rose and went to the toilet. As soon as he had gone Jane drew out a mirror andsurveyed her face anxiously. She also applied⁵³ powder and lipstick⁵⁴.

A steward placed coffee in front of her.

Jane looked out of the window. The Channel showed blue and shining below.

A wasp⁵⁵ buzzed round Mr Clancy’s head just as he was dealing⁵⁶ with 19.55 at Tzaribrod, and hestruck at it absently. The wasp flew off to investigate the Duponts’ coffee cups.

Jean Dupont slew⁵⁷ it neatly⁵⁸.

Peace settled down on the car. Conversation ceased, but thoughts pursued their way.

Right at the end of the car, in seat No. 2, Madame Giselle’s head lolled forward a little. Onemight have taken her to be asleep. But she was not asleep. She neither spoke nor thought.

Madame Giselle was dead…

 

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