"It amazes me. The whole thing seems almost unreal, if I might put it that way.
An astounding way of committing a crime.
It seems a chance in a hundred that the murderer was not seen.
He must be a person with a reckless disregard of risks."
"Very true, sir."
"The choice of poison is equally amazing.
How could a would-be murderer possibly get hold of such a thing?"
"I know. It seems incredible.
Why, I don't suppose one man in a thousand has ever heard of such a thing as a boomslang, much less actually handled the venom.
You yourself, sir - now, you're a doctor, but I don't suppose you've ever handled the stuff."
"There are certainly not many opportunities of doing so.
I have a friend who works at tropical research.
In his laboratory there are various specimens of dried snake venoms - that of the cobra, for instance - but I cannot remember any specimen of the boomslang."
"Perhaps you can help me." Japp took out a piece of paper and handed it to the doctor. "Winterspoon wrote down these three names; said I might get information there.
Do you know any of these men?"
"I know Professor Kennedy slightly, Heidler I knew well; mention my name and I'm sure he'll do all he can for you.
Carmichael's an Edinburgh man; I don't know him personally, but I believe they've done some good work up there."
"Thank you, sir; I'm much obliged.
Well, I won't keep you any longer."
When Japp emerged into Harley Street, he was smiling to himself in a pleased fashion.
"Nothing like tact," he said to himself. "Tact does it. I'll be bound he never saw what I was after. Well, that's that."
Chapter 21
When Japp got back to Scotland Yard, he was told that M. Hercule Poirot was waiting to see him.
Japp greeted his friend heartily.
"Well, M. Poirot, and what brings you along?
Any news?"
"I came to ask you for news, my good Japp."
"If that isn't just like you. Well, there isn't much and that's the truth.
The dealer fellow in Paris has identified the blowpipe all right.
Fournier's been worrying the life out of me from Paris about his moment psychologique.
I've questioned those stewards till I'm blue in the face and they stick to it that there wasn't a moment psychologique.
Nothing startling or out of the way happened on the voyage."
"It might have occurred when they were both in the front car."
"I've questioned the passengers too.
Everyone can't be lying."
"In one case I investigated everyone was!"
"You and your cases!
To tell the truth. M. Poirot, I'm not very happy.
The more I look into things the less I get.
The chief's inclined to look on me rather coldly. But what can I do?
Luckily, it's one of those semi-foreign cases. We can put it on the Frenchmen over here, and in Paris they say it was done by an Englishman and that it's our business."
"Do you really believe the Frenchman did it?"
"Well, frankly, I don't.
As I look at it, an archaeologist is a poor kind of fish.
Always burrowing in the ground and talking through his hat about what happened thousands of years ago, and how do they know, I should like to know? Who's to contradict them?
They say some rotten string of beads is five thousand three hundred and twenty-two years old, and who's to say it isn't?
Well, there they are, liars perhaps - though they seem to believe it themselves - but harmless.
I had an old chap in here the other day who'd had a scarab pinched.
Terrible state he was in - nice old boy, but helpless as a baby in arms. No, between you and me, I don't think for a minute that pair of French archaeologists did it."
"Who do you think did it?"