truthfully.
Nothing else of any value was elicited from her, and she was allowed to go.
Japp fell back into contemplation of the blowpipe.
‘It beats me,’ he said. ‘The crudest detective story dodge coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A man who’s travelled in the part of the world this thing comes from? And where exactly does it come from? Have to get an expert on to that. It may be Malayan or South American or African.’
‘Originally, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you observe closely, my friend, you will notice a microscopic piece of paper adhering to the pipe. It looks to me very much like the remains of a torn-off price ticket. I fancy that this particular specimen has journeyed from the wilds via some curio dealer’s shop. That will possibly make our search more easy. Just one little question.’
‘Ask away.’
‘You will still have that list made—the list of the passengers’ belongings?’
‘Well, it isn’t quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You’re very set on that?’
‘Mais oui. I am puzzled, very puzzled. If I could find something to help me—’
Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.
‘Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers…always making the police out to be fools…and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.’
The inquest on Marie Morisot was held four days later. The sensational manner of her death had aroused great public interest, and the coroner’s court was crowded.
The first witness called was a tall elderly Frenchman with a grey beard—Maître Alexandre Thibault. He spoke English slowly and precisely with a slight accent, but quite idiomatically.
After the preliminary questions the coroner asked, ‘You have viewed the body of the deceased. Do you recognize it?’
‘I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angélique Morisot.’
‘That is the name on the deceased’s passport. Was she known to the public by another name?’
‘Yes, that of Madame Giselle.’
A stir of excitement went around. Reporters sat with pencils poised. The coroner said, ‘Will you tell us exactly who this Madame Morisot—or Madame Giselle—was?’
‘Madame Giselle—to give her her professional name, the name under which she did business—was one of the best-known moneylenders in Paris.’
‘She carried on her business—where?’
‘At the Rue Joliette, No. 3. That was also her private residence.’
‘I understand that she journeyed to England fairly frequently. Did her business extend to this country?’
‘Yes. Many of her clients were English people. She was very well known amongst a certain section of English society.’
‘How would you describe that section of society?’
‘Her clientèle was mostly among the upper and professional classes, in cases where it was important that the utmost discretion should be observed.’
‘She had the reputation of being discreet?’
‘Extremely discreet.’
‘May I ask if you have an intimate knowledge of—er—her various business transactions?’
‘No. I dealt with her legal business, but Madame Giselle was a first-class woman of business, thoroughly capable of attending to her own affairs in the most competent manner. She kept the control of her business entirely in her own hands. She was, if I may say so, a woman of very original character, and a well-known public figure.’
‘To the best of your knowledge, was she a rich woman at the time of her death?’
‘She was an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘Had she, to your knowledge, any enemies?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Maître Thibault then stepped down and Henry Mitchell was called.
The coroner said, ‘Your name is Henry Charles Mitchell and you reside at 11 Shoeblack Lane, Wandsworth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are in the employment of Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are the senior steward on the air liner Prometheus?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On Tuesday last, the eighteenth, you were on duty on the Prometheus on the twelve o’clock service from Paris to Croydon. The deceased travelled by that service. Had you ever seen the deceased before?’
‘Yes, sir. I was on the 8.45 am service six months ago and I noticed her travelling by that once or twice.’
‘Did you know her name?’
‘Well, it must have been on my list, sir, but I didn’t notice it special, so to speak.’
‘Have you ever heard the name of Madame Giselle?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Please describe the occurrences of Tuesday last in your own way.’
‘I’d served the luncheons, sir, and was coming round with the bills. The deceased was, as I thought, asleep. I decided not to wake her until about five minutes before we got in. When I tried to do so I discovered that she was dead or seriously ill. I discovered that there was a doctor on board. He said—’
‘We shall have Dr Bryant’s evidence presently. Will you take a look at this?’
The blowpipe was handed to Mitchell, who took it gingerly.
‘Have you ever seen that before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are certain that you did not see it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Albert
