"Oh, come now. Miss Grey. We'd pay well for it."
"How much?" asked Jane.
"Fifty pounds, or – well, perhaps we'd make it a bit more. Say sixty."
"No," said Jane. "I don't think I could. I shouldn't know what to say."
"That's all right," said the young man easily. "You needn't actually write the article, you know. One of our fellows will just ask you for a few suggestions and work the whole thing up for you. It won't be the least trouble to you."
"All the same," said Jane, "I'd rather not."
"What about a hundred quid? Look here; I really will make it a hundred. And give us a photograph."
"No," said Jane. "I don't like the idea."
"So you may as well clear out," said Norman Gale. "Miss Grey doesn't want to be worried."
The young man turned to him hopefully.
"Mr Gale, isn't it?" he said. "Now look here, Mr Gale. If Miss Grey feels a bit squeamish about it, what about your having a shot? Five hundred words. And we'll pay you the same as I offered Miss Grey – and that's a good bargain, because a woman's account of another woman's murder is better news value. I'm offering you a good chance."
"I don't want it. I shan't write a word for you."
"It'll be good publicity apart from the pay. Rising professional man – brilliant career ahead of you – all your patients will read it."
"That," said Norman Gale, "is mostly what I'm afraid of!"
"Well, you can't get anywhere without publicity in these days."
"Possibly, but it depends on the kind of publicity. I'm hoping that just one or two of my patients may not read the papers and may continue in ignorance of the fact that I've been mixed up in a murder case. Now you've had your answer from both of us. Are you going quietly, or have I got to kick you out of here?"
"Nothing to get annoyed about," said the young man, quite undisturbed by this threat of violence. "Good evening, and ring me up at the office if you change your mind. Here's my card."
He made his way cheerfully out of the tea shop, thinking to himself as he did so: "Not too bad. Made quite a decent interview."
And, in truth, the next issue of the Weekly Howl had an important column on the views of two of the witnesses in the air-murder mystery. Miss Jane Grey had declared herself too distressed to talk about the matter. It had been a terrible shock to her and she hated to think about it. Mr Norman Gale had expressed himself at length on the effect upon a professional man's career of being mixed up in a criminal case, however innocently. Mr Gale had humorously expressed the hope that some of his patients only read the fashion columns and so might not suspect the worst when they came for the ordeal of the "chair."
When the young man had departed, Jane said:
"I wonder why he didn't go for the more important people."
"Leaves that to his betters, probably," said Gale grimly. "He's probably tried there and failed."
He sat frowning for a minute or two. Then he said:
"Jane – I'm going to call you Jane; you don't mind, do you? – Jane, who do you think really murdered this Giselle woman?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Have you thought about it? Really thought about it?"
"Well, no, I don't suppose I have. I've been thinking about my own part in it, and worrying a little. I haven't really wondered seriously which – which of the others did it. I don't think I'd realized until today that one of them must have done it."
"Yes, the coroner put it very plainly. I know I didn't do it and I know you didn't do it because – well, because I was watching you most of the time."
"Yes," said Jane. "I know you didn't do it – for the same reason. And of course I know I didn't do it myself! So it must have been one of the others – but I don't know which. I haven't the slightest idea. Have you?"
"No."
Norman Gale looked very thoughtful. He seemed to be puzzling out some train of thought. Jane went on:
"I don't see how we can have the least idea, either. I mean we didn't see anything – at least I didn't. Did you?"
Gale shook his head.
"Not a thing."
"That's what seems so frightfully odd. I dare say you wouldn't have seen anything. You weren't facing that way. But I was. I was looking right along the middle. I mean, I could have been -"
Jane stopped and flushed. She was remembering that her eyes had been mostly fixed on a periwinkle-blue pullover, and that her mind, far from being receptive to what was going on around her, had been mainly concerned with the personality of the human being inside the periwinkle-blue pullover.
Norman Gale thought:
"I wonder what makes her blush like that… She's wonderful… I'm going to marry her. Yes, I am… But it's no good looking too far ahead. I've got to have some good excuse for seeing her often. This murder business will do as well as anything else… Besides, I really think it would be as well to do something – that whippersnapper of a reporter and his publicity -"
Aloud he said:
"Let's think about it now. Who killed her? Let's go over all the people. The stewards?"
"No," said Jane.
"I agree. The women across the aisle from us?"
"I don't suppose anyone like Lady Horbury would go killing people. And the other one – Miss Kerr – well, she's far too county. She wouldn't kill an old Frenchwoman, I'm sure."
"Only an unpopular M.F.H. I expect you're not far wrong, Jane. Then there's mustachios, but he seems, according to the coroner's jury, to be the most likely person; so that washes him out. The doctor? That doesn't seem very likely either."
"If he'd wanted to kill her, he could have used something quite untraceable and nobody would ever have known."
"Ye-es," said Norman doubtfully. "These untraceable, tasteless, odorless poisons are very convenient, but I'm a bit doubtful if they really exist. What about the little man who owned up to having a blowpipe?"
"That's rather suspicious. But he seemed a very nice little man, and he needn't have said he had a blowpipe; so that looks as though he were all right."
"Then there's Jameson – no, what's his name? – Ryder."
"Yes, it might be him."
"And the two Frenchmen?"
"That's the most likely of all. They've been to queer places. And of course they may have had some reason we know nothing about. I thought the younger one looked very unhappy and worried."
"You probably would be worried if you'd commited a murder," said Norman Gale grimly.
"He looked nice, though," said Jane. "And the old father was rather a dear. I hope it isn't them."
"We don't seem to be getting on very fast," said Norman Gale.
"I don't see how we can get on without knowing a lot of things about the old woman who was murdered. Enemies, and who inherits her money and all that."
Norman Gale said thoughtfully:
"You think this is mere idle speculation?"
Jane said coolly, "Isn't it?"
"Not quite." Gale hesitated, then went on slowly, "I have a feeling it may be useful."
Jane looked at him inquiringly.
"Murder," said Norman Gale, "doesn't concern the victim and the guilty only. It affects the innocent too. You and I are innocent, but the shadow of murder has touched us. We don't know how that shadow is going to affect our lives."
Jane was a person of cool common sense, but she shivered suddenly.
"Don't," she said. "You make me feel afraid."
"I'm a little afraid myself," said Gale.
Chapter 6
Hercule Poirot rejoined his friend, Inspector Japp. The latter had a grin on his face.
"Hullo, old boy," he said. "You've had a pretty near squeak of being locked up in a police cell."
"I fear," said Poirot gravely, "that such an occurrence might have damaged me professionally."
"Well," said Japp with a grin, "detectives do turn out to be criminals sometimes – in storybooks."
A tall thin man with an intelligent melancholy face j
oined them, and Japp introduced him.
"This is Monsieur Fournier, of the Sûreté. He has come over to collaborate with us about this business."
"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you once some years ago, M. Poirot," said Fournier, bowing and shaking hands. "I have also heard of you from M. Giraud."
A very faint smile seemed to hover on his lips. And Poirot, who could well imagine the terms in which Giraud – whom he himself had been in the habit of referring to disparagingly as the "human foxhound" – had spoken of him, permitted himself a small discreet smile in reply.
"I suggest," said Poirot, "that both you gentlemen should dine with me at my rooms. I have already invited Maître Thibault. That is, if you and my friend Japp do not object to my collaboration."
"That's all right, old cock," said Japp, slapping him heartily on the back. "You're in on this on the ground floor."
"We shall be indeed honored," murmured the Frenchman ceremoniously.
"You see," said Poirot, "as I said to a very charming young lady just now, I am anxious to clear my character."
"That jury certainly didn't like the look of you," agreed Japp, with a renewal of his grin. "Best joke I've heard for a long time."
By common consent, no mention of the case was made during the very excellent meal which the little Belgian provided for his friends.
"After all, it is possible to eat well in England," murmured Fournier appreciatively, as he made delicate use of a thoughtfully provided toothpick.
"A delicious meal, M. Poirot," said Thibault.
"Bit Frenchified, but damn good," pronounced Japp.
"A meal should always lie lightly on the estomac," said Poirot. "It should not be so heavy as to paralyze thought."
"I can't say my stomach ever gives me much trouble," said Japp. "But I won't argue the point. Well, we'd better get down to business. I know that M. Thibault has got an appointment this evening, so I suggest that we should start by consulting him on any point that seems likely to be useful."
"I am your service, gentlemen. Naturally, I can speak more freely here than in a coroner's court. I had a hurried conversation with Inspector Japp before the inquest and he indicated a policy of reticence – the bare necessary facts."
"Quite right," said Japp. "Don't ever spill the beans too soon. But now let's hear all you can tell us of this Giselle woman."
"To speak the truth, I know very little. I know her as the world knew her – as a public character. Of her private life as an individual I know very little. Probably M. Fournier here can tell you more than I can. But I will say to you this: Madame Giselle was what you call in this country 'a character.' She was unique. Of her antecedents nothing is known. I have an idea that as a young woman she was good-looking. I believe that as a result of smallpox she lost her looks. She was – I am giving you my impressions – a woman who enjoyed power – she had power. She was a keen woman of business. She was the type of hard-headed Frenchwoman who would never allow sentiment to affect her business interests, but she had the reputation of carrying on her profession with scrupulous honesty."
He looked for assent to Fournier. That gentleman nodded his dark melancholic head.
"Yes," he said, "she was honest, according to her lights. Yet the law could have called her to account if only evidence had been forthcoming; but that -" He shrugged his shoulders despondently. "It is too much to ask – with human nature what it is."
"You mean?"
"Chantage."
"Blackmail?" echoed Japp.
"Yes, blackmail of a peculiar and specialized kind. It was Madame Giselle's custom to lend money on what I think you call in this country 'note of hand alone.' She used her discretion as to the sums she lent and the methods of repayment, but I may tell you that she had her own methods of getting paid."
Poirot leaned forward interestedly.
"As Maître Thibault said today, Madame Giselle's clientele lay amongst the upper and professional classes. Those classes are particularly vulnerable to the force of public opinion. Madame Giselle had her own intelligence service. It was her custom, before lending money – that is, in the case of a large sum – to collect as many facts as possible about the client in question, and her intelligence system, I may say, was an extraordinarily good one. I will echo what our friend has said – according to her lights, Madame Giselle was scrupulously honest. She kept faith with those who kept faith with her. I honestly believe that she has never made use of her secret knowledge to obtain money from anyone, unless that money was already owed to her."
"You mean," said Poirot, "that this secret knowledge was her form of security?"
"Exactly. And in using it she was perfectly ruthless and deaf to any finer shades of feeling. And I will tell you this, gentlemen: Her system paid! Very, very rarely did she have to write off a bad debt. A man or woman in a prominent position would go to desperate lengths to obtain the money which would obviate a public scandal. As I say, we knew of her activities, but as for prosecution -" he shrugged his shoulders – "that is a more difficult matter. Human nature is human nature."
"And supposing," said Poirot, "that she did, as you say happened occasionally, have to write off a bad debt? What then?"
"In that case," said Fournier slowly, "the information she held was published, or was given to the person concerned in the matter."
There was a moment's silence. Then Poirot said:
"Financially, that did not benefit her?"
"No," said Fournier. "Not directly, that is."
"But indirectly?"
"Indirectly," said Japp, "it made the others pay up, eh?"
"Exactly," said Fournier. "It was valuable for what you call the moral effect."
"Immoral effect, I should call it," said Japp. "Well -" he rubbed his nose thoughtfully – "it opens up a very pretty line in motives for murder – a very pretty line. Then there's the question of who is going to come into her money." He appealed to Thibault. "Can you help us there at all?"
"There was a daughter," said the lawyer. "She did not live with her mother; indeed, I fancy that her mother has never seen her since she was a tiny child. But she made a will many years ago now, leaving everything, with the exception of a small legacy to her maid, to her daughter, Anne Morisot. As far as I know, she has never made another."
"And her fortune is large?" asked Poirot.
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
"At a guess, eight or nine million francs."
Poirot pursed his lips to a whistle. Japp said, "Lord, she didn't look it! Let me see. What's the exchange? – that's – why, that must be well over a hundred thousand pounds! Whew!"
"Mademoiselle Anne Morisot will be a very wealthy young woman," said Poirot.
"Just as well she wasn't on that plane," said Japp dryly. "She might have been suspected of bumping off her mother to get the dibs. How old would she be?"
"I really cannot say. I should imagine about twenty-four or five."
"Well, there doesn't seem anything to connect her with the crime. We'll have to get down to this blackmailing business. Everyone on that plane denies knowing Madame Giselle. One of them is lying. We've got to find out which. An examination of her private papers might help, eh, Fournier?"
"My friend," said the Frenchman, "immediately the news came through, after I had conversed with Scotland Yard on the telephone, I went straight to her house. There was a safe there containing papers. All those papers had been burned."
"Burned? Who by? Why?"
"Madame Giselle had a confidential maid, Élise. Élise had instructions, in the event of anything happening to her mistress, to open the safe, the combination of which she knew, and burn the contents."
"What? But that's amazing!" Japp stared.
"You see," said Fournier, "Madame Giselle had her own code. She kept faith with those who kept faith with her. She gave her promise to her clients that she would deal honestly with them. She was ruthless, but she was also a woman of her word."
J
app shook his head dumbly. The four men were silent, ruminating on the strange character of the dead woman. Maître Thibault rose.
"I must leave you, messieurs. I have to keep an appointment. If there is any further information I can give you at any time, you know my address."
He shook hands with them ceremoniously and left the apartment.
Chapter 7
With the departure of Maître Thibault, the three men drew their chairs a little closer to the table.
"Now then," said Japp, "let's get down to it." He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen. "There were eleven passengers in that Plane – in rear car, I mean – the other doesn't come into it – eleven passengers and two stewards – that's thirteen people we've got. One of those thirteen did the old woman in. Some of the passengers were English, some were French. The latter I shall hand over to M. Fournier. The English ones I'll take on. Then there are inquiries to be made in Paris – that's your job, too, Fournier."
"And not only in Paris," said Fournier. "In the summer Giselle did a lot of business at the French watering places – Deasuville, Le Pinet, Wimereux. She went down south, too, to Antibes and Nice and all those places."
"A good point – one or two of the people in the 'Prometheus' mentioned Le Pinet, I remember. Well, that's one line. Then we've got to get down to the actual murder itself – prove who could possibly be in a position to use that blowpipe." He unrolled a sketch plan of the aeroplane and placed it in the center of the table. "Now then, we're ready for the preliminary work. And to begin with, let's go through the people one by one, and decide on the probabilities and – even more important – the possibilities."
"To begin with, we can eliminate M. Poirot here. That brings the number down to eleven."
Poirot shook his head sadly.
"You are of too trustful a nature, my friend. You should trust nobody – nobody at all."
"Well, we'll leave you in, if you like," said Japp good-temperedly. "Then there are the stewards. Seems to me very unlikely it should be either of them from the probability point of view. They're not likely to have borrowed money on a grand scale, and they've both got a good record – decent sober men, both of them. It would surprise me very much if either of them had anything to do with this. On the other hand, from the possibility point of view we've got to include them. They were up and down the car. They could actually have taken up a position from which they could have used the blowpipe – from the right angle, I mean – though I don't believe that a steward could shoot a poisoned dart out of a blowpipe in a car full of people without someone noticing him do it. I know by experience that most people are blind as bats, but there are limits. Of course, in a way, the same thing applies to every blessed person. It was madness – absolute madness – to commit a crime that way. Only about a chance in a hundred that it would come off without being spotted. The fellow that did it must have had the luck of the devil. Of all the damn fool ways to commit a murder -"
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