and gesticulating. And there wouldn't be much of a tip, anyway, from them, he thought gloomily. Two of the passengers were asleep – the little man with the mustaches and the old woman down at the end. She was a good tipper, though; he remembered her crossing several times. He refrained, therefore, from awaking her.
The little man with the mustaches woke up and paid for the bottle of mineral water and the thin captain's biscuits, which was all he had had.
Mitchell left the other passenger as long as possible. About five minutes before they reached Croydon, he stood by her side and leaned over her.
'Pardon, madam; your bill.'
He laid a deferential hand on her shoulder. She did not wake. He increased the pressure, shaking her gently, but the only result was an unexpected slumping of the body down in the seat. Mitchell bent over her; then straightened up with a white face.
Albert Davis, second steward, 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. 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's anything I can do -' He half rose from his seat.
'I'm a doctor,' said Doctor 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 mustaches followed them.
Doctor 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.
Doctor 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 mustaches.
'There is,' he said, 'a mark on her neck.'
He spoke apologetically, with a due sense of speaking to superior knowledge.
'True,' said Doctor Bryant.
The woman's head lolled over sideways. There was a minute puncture mark on the side of her throat, with a circle of red round it.
'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 Doctor 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.'
Doctor 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 Doctor Bryant followed the action with their eyes. They caught the glint of orange 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 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 it clearly – a little knot of teased fluffy silk, orange and black, attached to a long peculiar-looking thorn with a discolored tip.
'Good gracious! Good gracious me!' The exclamation came from little Mr Clancy, who had left his seat and was poking his head desperately over the steward's shoulder. 'Remarkable – really very remarkable – absolutely the most remarkable thing I have ever come across in my life. Well, upon my 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 swelled with passionate pride and gratification. '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 African tribes or whether it is the inhabitants of Borneo which I have in mind. But that is undoubtedly a native dart that has been aimed by a blowpipe, and I strongly suspect that on the tip -'
'- is the famous arrow poison of the South American Indians,' finished Hercule Poirot. And he added, '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.
Chapter 3
