On a flight from Le Bourget to Croydon, on which Hercule Poirot is an apprehensive passenger, a woman is found dead. A doctor on board is inclined to put it down to a wasp-sting, but Poirot suspects that a poisoned dart is the real cause.
As Miss Marple sat basking in the Caribbean sunshine she felt mildly discontented with life. True, the warmth eased her rheumatism, but here in paradise nothing ever happened. Eventually, her interest was aroused by an old soldier's yarn about strange coincidence.