"I doubt it, my friend. The most interesting thing about this case is the personality of the dead woman. A woman without friends, without relations - without, as one might say, any personal life. A woman who was once young, who once loved and suffered, and then with a firm hand pulled down the shutter - all that was over! Not a photograph, not a souvenir, not a knickknack. Marie Morisot became Madame Giselle, money lender."

"Do you think there is a clue in her past?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, we could do with it! There aren't any clues in this case."

"Oh, yes, my friend, there are."

"The blowpipe, of course."

"No, no, not the blowpipe."

"Well, let's hear your ideas of the clues in the case."

Poirot smiled.

"I will give them titles, like the names of Mr Clancy's stories! The Clue of the Wasp. The Clue in the Passenger's Baggage. The Clue of the Extra Coffee Spoon."

"You're potty," said Japp kindly. And added:

"What's this about a coffee spoon?"

"Madame Giselle had two spoons in her saucer."

"That's supposed to mean a wedding."

"In this case," said Poirot, "it meant a funeral."

Chapter 22

When Norman Gale, Jane and Poirot met for dinner on the night after the blackmailing incident, Norman was relieved to hear that his services as Mr Robinson were no longer required.

"He is dead, the good Mr Robinson," said Poirot. He raised his glass.

"Let us drink to his memory."

"R.I.P.," said Norman with a laugh.

"What happened?" asked Jane of Poirot.

He smiled at her.

"I found out what I wanted to know."

"Was she mixed up with Giselle?"

"Yes."

"That was pretty clear from my interview with her," said Norman.

"Quite so," said Poirot. "But I wanted a full and detailed story."

"And you got it?"

"I got it."

They both looked at him inquiringly, but Poirot, in a provoking manner, began to discuss the relationship between a career and a life.

"There are not so many round pegs in square holes one might think. Most people, in spite of what they tell you choose the occupation that they secretly desire. You will hear a man say who works in an office, 'I should like to explore, to rough it in far countries.' But you will find that he likes reading the fiction that deals with that subject, but that he himself prefers the safety and moderate comfort of an office stool."

"According to you," said Jane, "my desire for foreign travel isn't genuine. Messing about with women's heads is my true vocation. Well, that isn't true."

Poirot smiled at her.

"You are young still. Naturally, one tries this, that and the other, but what one eventually settles down into is the life one prefers."

"And suppose I prefer being rich?"

"Ah, that, it is more difficult!"