Sparkling Cyanide

by Agatha Christie

  ‘I’m not going to give it up. I’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘Don’t be so damned obstinate. I know a bit more about these shows than you do. I don’t like the idea. It won’t work. It may even be dangerous. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘It will be dangerous for somebody all right.’

  Race sighed.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. Oh, well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. For the last time I beg you to give up this crack-brained idea of yours.’

  George Barton only shook his head.

  Chapter 5

  The morning of November 2nd dawned wet and gloomy. It was so dark in the dining-room of the house in Elvaston Square that they had to have the lights on for breakfast.

  Iris, contrary to her habit, had come down instead of having her coffee and toast sent up to her and sat there white and ghostlike pushing uneaten food about her plate. George rustled his Times with a nervy hand and at the other end of the table Lucilla Drake wept copiously into a handkerchief.

  ‘I know the dear boy will do something dreadful. He’s so sensitive—and he wouldn’t say it was a matter of life and death if it wasn’t.’

  Rustling his paper, George said sharply:

  ‘Please don’t worry, Lucilla. I’ve said I’ll see to it.’

  ‘I know, dear George, you are always so kind. But I do feel any delay might be fatal. All these inquiries you speak of making—they will all take time.’

  ‘No, no, we’ll hurry them through.’

  ‘He says: “without fail by the 3rd” and tomorrow is the 3rd. I should never forgive myself if anything happened to the darling boy.’

  ‘It won’t.’ George took a long drink of coffee.

  ‘And there is still that Conversion Loan of mine—’

  ‘Look here, Lucilla, you leave it all to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Lucilla,’ put in Iris. ‘George will be able to arrange it all. After all, this has happened before.’

  ‘Not for a long time’ (‘Three months,’ said George), ‘not since the poor boy was deceived by those dreadful swindling friends of his on that horrid ranch.’

  George wiped his moustache on his napkin, got up, patted Mrs Drake kindly on the back as he made his way out of the room.

  ‘Now do cheer up, my dear. I’ll get Ruth to cable right away.’

  As he went out in the hall, Iris followed him.

  ‘George, don’t you think we ought to put off the party tonight? Aunt Lucilla is so upset. Hadn’t we better stay at home with her?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ George’s pink face went purple. ‘Why should that damned swindling young crook upset our whole lives? It’s blackmail—sheer blackmail, that’s what it is. If I had my way, he shouldn’t get a penny.’

  ‘Aunt Lucilla would never agree to that.’

  ‘Lucilla’s a fool—always has been. These women who have children when they’re over forty never seem to learn any sense. Spoil the brats from the cradle by giving them every damned thing they want. If young Victor had once been told to get out of this mess by himself it might have been the making of him. Now don’t argue, Iris. I’ll get something fixed up before tonight so that Lucilla can go to bed happy. If necessary we’ll take her along with us.’

  ‘Oh, no, she hates restaurants—and gets so sleepy, poor darling. And she dislikes the heat and the smoky air gives her asthma.’

  ‘I know. I wasn’t serious. Go and cheer her up, Iris. Tell her everything will be all right.’

  He turned away and out of the front door. Iris turned slowly back towards the dining-room. The telephone rang and she went to answer it.

  ‘Hallo—who?’ Her face changed, its white hopelessness dissolved into pleasure. ‘Anthony!’

  ‘Anthony himself. I rang you up yesterday but couldn’t get you. Have you been putting in a spot of work with George?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, George was so pressing over his invitation to your party tonight. Quite unlike his usual style of “hands off my lovely ward”! Absolutely insistent that I should come. I thought perhaps it was the result of some tactful work on your part.’

  ‘No—no—it’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘A change of heart all on his own?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s—’

  ‘Hallo—have you gone away?’

  ‘No, I’m here.’

  ‘You were saying something. What’s the matter, darling? I can hear you sighing through the telephone. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No—nothing. I shall be all right tomorrow. Everything will be all right tomorrow.’

  ‘What touching faith. Don’t they say “tomorrow never comes”?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Iris—something is the matter?’

  ‘No, nothing. I can’t tell you. I promised, you see.’

  ‘Tell me, my sweet.’

  ‘No—I can’t really. Anthony, will you tell me something?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Were you—ever in love with Rosemary?’

  A momentary pause and then a laugh.

  ‘So that’s it. Yes, Iris, I was a bit in love with Rosemary. She was very lovely, you know. And then one day I was talking to her and I saw you coming down the staircase—and in a minute it was all over, blown away. There was nobody but you in the world. That’s the cold sober truth. Don’t brood over a thing like that. Even Romeo, you know, had his Rosaline before he was bowled over for good and all by Juliet.’

  ‘Thank you, Anthony. I’m glad.’

  ‘See you tonight. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually not for a week—it’s my birthday party though.’

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I suppose George knows what he’s doing, but it seems to me a crazy idea to have it at the same place where—’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been to the Luxembourg several times since—since Rosemary—I mean, one can’t avoid it.’

  ‘No, and it’s just as well. I’ve got a birthday present for you, Iris. I hope you’ll like it. Au revoir.’

  He rang off.

  Iris went back to Lucilla Drake, to argue, persuade and reassure.

  George, on his arrival at his office, sent at once for Ruth Lessing.

  His worried frown relaxed a little as she entered, calm and smiling, in her neat black coat and skirt.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Ruth. Trouble again. Look at this.’

  She took the cable he held out.

  ‘Victor Drake again!’

  ‘Yes, curse him.’

  She was silent a minute, holding the cable. A lean, brown face wrinkling up round the nose when he laughed. A mocking voice saying, ‘the sort of girl who ought to marry the Boss…’ How vividly it all came back.

  She thought:

  ‘It might have been yesterday…’

  George’s voice recalled her.

  ‘Wasn’t it about a year ago that we shipped him out there?’

  She reflected.

  ‘I think so, yes. Actually I believe it was October 27th.’

  ‘What an amazing girl you are. What a memory!’

  She thought to herself that she had a better reason for remembering than he knew. It was fresh from Victor Drake’s influence that she had listened to Rosemary’s careless voice over the phone and decided that she hated her employer’s wife.

  ‘I suppose we’re lucky,’ said George, ‘that he’s lasted as long as he has out there. Even if it did cost us fifty pounds three months ago.’

  ‘Three hundred pounds now seems a lot.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He won’t get as much as that. We’ll have to make the usual investigations.’

  ‘I’d better communicate with Mr Ogilvie.’

  Alexander Ogilvie was their agent in Buenos Aires—a sober, hard-headed Scotsman.

  ‘Yes. Cable at once. His mother is in a state, as usual.
Practically hysterical. Makes it very difficult with the party tonight.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay with her?’

  ‘No.’ He negatived the idea emphatically. ‘No, indeed. You’re the one person who’s got to be there. I need you, Ruth.’ He took her hand. ‘You’re too unselfish.’

  ‘I’m not unselfish at all.’

  She smiled and suggested:

  ‘Would it be worth trying telephonic communication with Mr Ogilvie? We might get the whole thing cleared up by tonight.’

  ‘A good idea. Well worth the expense.’

  ‘I’ll get busy at once.’

  Very gently she disengaged her hand from his and went out.

  George dealt with various matters awaiting his attention.

  At half-past twelve he went out and took a taxi to the Luxembourg.

  Charles, the notorious and popular head waiter, came towards him, bending his stately head and smiling in welcome.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Barton.’

  ‘Good morning, Charles. Everything all right for tonight?’

  ‘I think you will be satisfied, sir.’

  ‘The same table?’

  ‘The middle one in the alcove, that is right, is it not?’

  ‘Yes—and you understand about the extra place?’

  ‘It is all arranged.’

  ‘And you’ve got the—the rosemary?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barton. I’m afraid it won’t be very decorative. You wouldn’t like some red berries incorporated—or say a few chrysanthemums?’

  ‘No, no, only the rosemary.’

  ‘Very good, sir. You would like to see the menu. Guiseppe.’

  With a flick of the thumb Charles produced a smiling little middle-aged Italian.

  ‘The menu for Mr Barton.’

  It was produced.

  Oysters, Clear Soup, Sole Luxembourg, Grouse, Poires Hélène, Chicken Livers in Bacon.

  George cast an indifferent eye over it.

  ‘Yes, yes, quite all right.’

  He handed it back. Charles accompanied him to the door.

  Sinking his voice a little, he murmured:

  ‘May I just mention how appreciative we are, Mr Barton, that you are—er—coming back to us?’

  A smile, rather a ghastly smile, showed on George’s face. He said:

  ‘We’ve got to forget the past—can’t dwell on the past. All that is over and done with.’

  ‘Very true, Mr Barton. You know how shocked and grieved we were at the time. I’m sure I hope that Mademoiselle will have a very happy birthday party and that everything will be as you like it.’

  Gracefully bowing, Charles withdrew and darted like an angry dragon-fly on some very inferior grade of waiter who was doing the wrong thing at a table near the window.

  George went out with a wry smile on his lips. He was not an imaginative enough man to feel a pang of sympathy for the Luxembourg. It was not, after all, the fault of the Luxembourg that Rosemary had decided to commit suicide there or that someone had decided to murder her there. It had been decidedly hard on the Luxembourg. But like most people with an idea, George thought only of that idea.

  He lunched at his club and went afterwards to a directors’ meeting.

  On his way back to the office, he put through a phone call to a Maida Vale number from a public call box. He came out with a sigh of relief. Everything was set according to schedule.

  He went back to the office.

  Ruth came to him at once.

  ‘About Victor Drake.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather a bad business. A possibility of criminal prosecution. He’s been helping himself to the firm’s money over a considerable period.’

  ‘Did Ogilvie say so?’

  ‘Yes. I got through to him this morning and he got a call through to us this afternoon ten minutes ago. He says Victor was quite brazen about the whole thing.’

  ‘He would be!’

  ‘But he insists that they won’t prosecute if the money is refunded. Mr Ogilvie saw the senior partner and that seems to be correct. The actual sum in question is one hundred and sixty-five pounds.’

  ‘So that Master Victor was hoping to pocket a clear hundred and thirty-five on the transaction?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, we’ve scotched that, at any rate,’ said George with grim satisfaction.

  ‘I told Mr Ogilvie to go ahead and settle the business. Was that right?’

  ‘Personally I should be delighted to see that young crook go to prison—but one has to think of his mother. A fool—but a dear soul. So Master Victor scores as usual.’

  ‘How good you are,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I think you’re the best man in the world.’

  He was touched. He felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time. On an impulse he picked up her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Dearest Ruth. My dearest and best of friends. What would I have done without you?’

  They stood very close together.

  She thought: ‘I could have been happy with him. I could have made him happy. If only—’

  He thought: ‘Shall I take Race’s advice? Shall I give it all up? Wouldn’t that really be the best thing?’

  Indecision hovered over him and passed. He said:

  ‘9.30 at the Luxembourg.’

  Chapter 6

  They had all come.

  George breathed a sigh of relief. Up to the last moment he had feared some last minute defection—but they were all here. Stephen Farraday, tall and stiff, a little pompous in manner. Sandra Farraday in a severe black velvet gown wearing emeralds around her neck. The woman had breeding, not a doubt of it. Her manner was completely natural, possibly a little more gracious than usual. Ruth also in black with no ornament save one jewelled clip. Her raven black hair smooth and lying close to her head, her neck and arms very white—whiter than those of the other women. Ruth was a working girl, she had no long leisured ease in which to acquire sun tan. His eyes met hers and, as though she saw the anxiety in his, she smiled reassurance. His heart lifted. Loyal Ruth. Beside him Iris was unusually silent. She alone showed consciousness of this being an unusual party. She was pale but in some way it suited her, gave her a grave steadfast beauty. She wore a straight simple frock of leaf-green. Anthony Browne came last, and to George’s mind, he came with the quick stealthy step of a wild creature—a panther, perhaps, or a leopard. The fellow wasn’t really quite civilized.

  They were all there—all safe in George’s trap. Now, the play could begin…

  Cocktails were drained. They got up and passed through the open arch into the restaurant proper.

  Dancing couples, soft negro music, deft hurrying waiters.

  Charles came forward and smilingly piloted them to their table. It was at the far end of the room, a shallow arched alcove which held three tables—a big one in the middle and two small ones for two people either side of it. A middle-aged sallow foreigner and a blonde lovely were at one, a slip of a boy and a girl at the other. The middle table was reserved for the Barton party.

  George genially assigned them to their places.

  ‘Sandra, will you sit here, on my right. Browne next to her. Iris, my dear, it’s your party. I must have you here next to me, and you beyond her, Farraday. Then you, Ruth—’

  He paused—between Ruth and Anthony was a vacant chair—the table had been laid for seven.

  ‘My friend Race may be a bit late. He said we weren’t to wait for him. He’ll be along some time. I’d like you all to know him—he’s a splendid fellow, knocked about all over the world and can tell you some good yarns.’

  Iris was conscious of a feeling of anger as she seated herself. George had done it on purpose—separated her from Anthony. Ruth ought to have been sitting where she was, next to her host. So George still disliked and mistrusted Anthony.

  She stole a glance across the table. Anthony was frowning. He did not look across at her. Onc
e he directed a sharp sideways glance at the empty chair beside him. He said:

  ‘Glad you’ve got another man, Barton. There’s just a chance I may have to go off early. Quite unavoidable. But I ran into a man here I know.’

  George said smilingly:

  ‘Running business into pleasure hours? You’re too young for that, Browne. Not that I’ve ever known exactly what your business is?’

  By chance there was a lull in the conversation. Anthony’s reply came deliberately and coolly.

  ‘Organized crime, Barton, that’s what I always say when I’m asked. Robberies arranged. Larcenies a feature. Families waited upon at their private addresses.’

  Sandra Farraday laughed as she said:

  ‘You’re something to do with armaments, aren’t you, Mr Browne? An armament king is always the villain of the piece nowadays.’

  Iris saw Anthony’s eyes momentarily widen in a stare of quick surprise. He said lightly:

  ‘You mustn’t give me away, Lady Alexandra, it’s all very hush-hush. The spies of a foreign power are everywhere. Careless talk.’

  He shook his head with mock solemnity.

  The waiter took away the oyster plates. Stephen asked Iris if she would like to dance.

  Soon they were all dancing. The atmosphere lightened.

  Presently Iris’s turn came to dance with Anthony.

  She said: ‘Mean of George not to let us sit together.’

  ‘Kind of him. This way I can look at you all the time across the table.’

  ‘You won’t really have to go early?’

  ‘I might.’

  Presently he said:

  ‘Did you know that Colonel Race was coming?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t the least idea.’

  ‘Rather odd, that.’

  ‘Do you know him? Oh, yes, you said so, the other day.’

  She added:

  ‘What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘Nobody quite knows.’

  They went back to the table. The evening wore on. Slowly the tension, which had relaxed, seemed to close again. There was an atmosphere of taut nerves about the table. Only the host seemed genial and unconcerned.

  Iris saw him glance at his watch.

  Suddenly there was a roll of drums—the lights went down. A stage rose in the room. Chairs were pushed a little back, turned sideways. Three men and three girls took the floor, dancing. They were followed by a man who could make noises. Trains, steam rollers, aeroplanes, sewing machines, cows coughing. He was a success. Lenny and Flo followed in an exhibition dance which was more of a trapeze act than a dance. More applause. Then another ensemble by the Luxembourg Six. The lights went up.