Death in the clouds – Agatha Christie
DEATH IN THE CLOUDS
The September sun beat down hotly on Le Bourget aerodrome as the passengers crossed the ground 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 had already passed on through the center door past the tiny pantry kitchen and the two wash rooms to the front car. Most people were already seated. On the opposite side of the gangway there was a good deal of chatter – a rather shrill, high-pitched woman’s voice dominating it. Jane’s lips twisted slightly. 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, Le Pinet… 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 mustaches and an egg-shaped head was politely moving himself and his belongings from the seat
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