Death in the Clouds: A Hercule Poirot Mystery by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Classics, Adult
ISBN: 0062073745
Amazon: 0062073745
Publisher: Harper Paperbacks
Published: 2011-06-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

At Antoine’s

Jane presented herself at Antoine’s on the morning after the inquest with some trepidation of spirit.

The person who was usually regarded as M. Antoine himself, and whose real name was Andrew Leech and whose claims to foreign nationality consisted of having had a Jewish mother, greeted her with an ominous frown.

It was by now second nature to him to speak in broken English once within the portals of Bruton Street.

He upbraided Jane as a complete imbécile. Why did she wish to travel by air, anyway? What an idea! Her escapade would do his establishment infinite harm. Having vented his spleen to the full, Jane was permitted to escape, receiving as she did so a large-sized wink from her friend Gladys.

Gladys was an ethereal blonde with a haughty demeanour and a faint, faraway professional voice. In private her voice was hoarse and jocular.

‘Don’t you worry, dear,’ she said to Jane. ‘The old brute’s sitting on the fence watching which way the cat will jump. And it’s my belief it isn’t going to jump the way he thinks it is. Ta ta, dearie, here’s my old devil coming in, damn her eyes. I suppose she’ll be in seventeen tantrums as usual. I hope she hasn’t brought that damned lap-dog with her.’

A moment later Gladys’s voice could be heard with its faint, faraway notes…

‘Good morning, Madam, not brought your sweet little Pekingese with you? Shall we get on with the shampoo, and then we’ll be all ready for M. Henri.’

Jane had just entered the adjoining cubicle where a henna-haired woman was sitting waiting, examining her face in the glass and saying to a friend:

‘Darling, my face is really too frightful this morning, it really is…’

The friend, who in a bored manner was turning over the pages of a three-weeks-old Sketch, replied uninterestedly:

‘Do you think so, my sweet? It seems to me much the same as usual.’

On the entrance of Jane the bored friend stopped her languid survey of the Sketch and subjected Jane to a piercing stare instead.

Then she said, ‘It is, darling. I’m sure of it.’

‘Good morning, Madam,’ said Jane with that airy brightness expected of her and which she could now produce quite mechanically and without any effort whatsoever. ‘It’s quite a long time since we’ve seen you here. I expect you’ve been abroad.’

‘Antibes,’ said the henna-haired woman, who in her turn was staring at Jane with the frankest interest.

‘How lovely,’ said Jane with false enthusiasm. ‘Let me see, is it a shampoo and set, or are you having a tint today?’

Momentarily diverted from her scrutiny, the henna-haired woman leaned forward and examined her hair attentively.

‘I think I could go another week. Heavens, what a fright I look!’

The friend said, ‘Well, darling, what can you expect at this time of the morning?’

Jane said, ‘Ah! wait until M. Georges has finished with you.’

‘Tell me,’ the woman resumed her stare, ‘are you the girl who gave evidence at the inquest yesterday—the girl who was in the aeroplane?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘How too terribly thrilling! Tell me about it.

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