‘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 paralyse 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 at 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 cal
l 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 clientèle 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.