Sparkling Cyanide

by Agatha Christie

  ‘It was a man’s voice?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so—at least—it was rather husky as though he had a cold.’

  ‘And that’s all he said?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Kemp questioned her a little longer, but got no further.

  When she had gone, he said to the sergeant:

  ‘So that was George Barton’s famous “plan”. I see now why they all said he stared at the empty chair after the cabaret and looked queer and absent-minded. His precious plan had gone wrong.’

  ‘You don’t think it was he who put her off?’

  ‘Not on your life. And I’m not so sure it was a man’s voice, either. Huskiness is a good disguise through the telephone. Oh, well, we’re getting on. Send in Mr Farraday if he’s here.’

  Chapter 9

  I

  Outwardly cool and unperturbed, Stephen Farraday had turned into Great Scotland Yard full of inner shrinking. An intolerable weight burdened his spirits. It had seemed that morning as though things were going so well. Why had Inspector Kemp asked for his presence here with such significance? What did he know or suspect? It could be only vague suspicion. The thing to do was to keep one’s head and admit nothing.

  He felt strangely bereft and lonely without Sandra. It was as though when the two faced a peril together it lost half its terrors. Together they had strength, courage, power. Alone, he was nothing, less than nothing. And Sandra, did she feel the same? Was she sitting now in Kidderminster House, silent, reserved, proud and inwardly feeling horribly vulnerable?

  Inspector Kemp received him pleasantly but gravely. There was a uniformed man sitting at a table with a pencil and a pad of paper. Having asked Stephen to sit down, Kemp spoke in a strongly formal manner.

  ‘I propose, Mr Farraday, to take a statement from you. That statement will be written down and you will be asked to read it over and sign it before you leave. At the same time it is my duty to tell you that you are at liberty to refuse to make such a statement and that you are entitled to have your solicitor present if you so desire.’

  Stephen was taken aback but did not show it. He forced a wintry smile. ‘That sounds very formidable, chief inspector.’

  ‘We like everything to be clearly understood, Mr Farraday.’

  ‘Anything I say may be used against me, is that it?’

  ‘We don’t use the word against. Anything you say will be liable to be used in evidence.’

  Stephen said quietly:

  ‘I understand, but I cannot imagine, inspector, why you should need any further statement from me? You heard all I had to say this morning.’

  ‘That was a rather informal session—useful as a preliminary starting-off point. And also, Mr Farraday, there are certain facts which I imagined you would prefer to discuss with me here. Anything irrelevant to the case we try to be as discreet about as is compatible with the attainment of justice. I daresay you understand what I am driving at.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Chief Inspector Kemp sighed.

  ‘Just this. You were on very intimate terms with the late Mrs Rosemary Barton—’

  Stephen interrupted him.

  ‘Who says so?’

  Kemp leaned forward and took a typewritten document from his desk.

  ‘This is a copy of a letter found amongst the late Mrs Barton’s belongings. The original is filed here and was handed to us by Miss Iris Marle, who recognizes the writing as that of her sister.’

  Stephen read:

  ‘Leopard darling—’

  A wave of sickness passed over him. Rosemary’s voice…speaking—pleading…Would the past never die—never consent to be buried?

  He pulled himself together and looked at Kemp.

  ‘You may be correct in thinking Mrs Barton wrote this letter—but there is nothing to indicate that it was written to me.’

  ‘Do you deny that you paid the rent of 21 Malland Mansions, Earl’s Court?’

  So they knew! He wondered if they had known all the time.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You seem very well informed. May I ask why my private affairs should be dragged into the limelight?’

  ‘They will not unless they prove to be relevant to the death of George Barton.’

  ‘I see. You are suggesting that I first made love to his wife, and then murdered him.’

  ‘Come, Mr Farraday, I’ll be frank with you. You and Mrs Barton were very close friends—you parted by your wish, not the lady’s. She was proposing, as this letter shows, to make trouble. Very conveniently, she died.’

  ‘She committed suicide. I daresay I may have been partly to blame. I may reproach myself, but it is no concern of the law’s.’

  ‘It may have been suicide—it may not. George Barton thought not. He started to investigate—and he died. The sequence is rather suggestive.’

  ‘I do not see why you should—well, pitch on me.’

  ‘You admit that Mrs Barton’s death came at a very convenient moment for you? A scandal, Mr Farraday, would have been highly prejudicial to your career.’

  ‘There would have been no scandal. Mrs Barton would have seen reason.’

  ‘I wonder! Did your wife know about this affair, Mr Farraday?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘You are quite sure of that statement?’

  ‘Yes, I am. My wife has no idea that there was anything but friendship between myself and Mrs Barton. I hope she will never learn otherwise.’

  ‘Is your wife a jealous woman, Mr Farraday?’

  ‘Not at all. She has never displayed the least jealousy where I am concerned. She is far too sensible.’

  The inspector did not comment on that. Instead he said:

  ‘Have you at any time in the past year had cyanide in your possession, Mr Farraday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you keep a supply of cyanide at your country property?’

  ‘The gardener may. I know nothing about it.’

  ‘You have never purchased any yourself at a chemist’s or for photography?’

  ‘I know nothing of photography, and I repeat that I have never purchased cyanide.’

  Kemp pressed him a little further before he finally let him go.

  To his subordinate he said thoughtfully, ‘He was very quick denying that his wife knew about his affair with the Barton woman. Why was that, I wonder?’

  ‘Daresay he’s in a funk in case she should get to hear of it, sir.’

  ‘That may be, but I should have thought he’d got the brains to see that if his wife was in ignorance, and would cut up rough, that gives him an additional motive for wanting to silence Rosemary Barton. To save his skin his line ought to have been that his wife more or less knew about the affair but was content to ignore it.’

  ‘I daresay he hadn’t thought of that, sir.’

  Kemp shook his head. Stephen Farraday was not a fool. He had a clear and astute brain. And he had been passionately keen to impress on the inspector that Sandra knew nothing.

  ‘Well,’ said Kemp, ‘Colonel Race seems pleased with the line he’s dug up and if he’s right, the Farradays are out—both of them. I shall be glad if they are. I like this chap. And personally I don’t think he’s a murderer.’

  II

  Opening the door of their sitting-room, Stephen said, ‘Sandra?’

  She came to him out of the darkness, suddenly holding him, her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Stephen?’

  ‘Why are you all in the dark?’

  ‘I couldn’t bear the light. Tell me.’

  He said:

  ‘They know.’

  ‘About Rosemary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what do they think?’

  ‘They see, of course, that I had a motive…. Oh, my darling, see what I’ve dragged you into. It’s all my fault. If only I’d cut loose after Rosemary’s death—gone away—left you free—so that at any rate you shouldn’t be mixed up in all this
horrible business.’

  ‘No, not that…Never leave me…never leave me.’

  She clung to him—she was crying, the tears coursing down her cheeks. He felt her shudder.

  ‘You’re my life, Stephen, all my life—never leave me…’

  ‘Do you care so much, Sandra? I never knew…’

  ‘I didn’t want you to know. But now—’

  ‘Yes, now…We’re in this together, Sandra…we’ll face it together…whatever comes, together!’

  Strength came to them as they stood there, clasped together in the darkness.

  Sandra said with determination:

  ‘This shall not wreck our lives! It shall not. It shall not!’

  Chapter 10

  Anthony Browne looked at the card the little page was holding out to him.

  He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. He said to the boy:

  ‘All right, show him up.’

  When Colonel Race came in, Anthony was standing by the window with the bright sun striking obliquely over his shoulder.

  He saw a tall soldierly man with a lined bronze face and iron-grey hair—a man whom he had seen before, but not for some years, and a man whom he knew a great deal about.

  Race saw a dark graceful figure and the outline of a well-shaped head. A pleasant indolent voice said:

  ‘Colonel Race? You were a friend of George Barton’s, I know. He talked about you on that last evening. Have a cigarette.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  Anthony said as he held a match:

  ‘You were the unexpected guest that night who did not turn up—just as well for you.’

  ‘You are wrong there. That empty place was not for me.’

  Anthony’s eyebrows went up.

  ‘Really? Barton said—’

  Race cut in.

  ‘George Barton may have said so. His plans were quite different. That chair, Mr Browne, was intended to be occupied when the lights went down by an actress called Chloe West.’

  Anthony stared.

  ‘Chloe West? Never heard of her. Who is she?’

  ‘A young actress not very well known but who possesses a certain superficial resemblance to Rosemary Barton.’

  Anthony whistled.

  ‘I begin to see.’

  ‘She had been given a photograph of Rosemary so that she could copy the style of hairdressing and she also had the dress which Rosemary wore the night she died.’

  ‘So that was George’s plan? Up go the lights—Hey Presto, gasps of supernatural dread! Rosemary has come back. The guilty party gasps out: “It’s true—it’s true—I dunnit.”’ He paused and added: ‘Rotten—even for an ass like poor old George.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you.’

  Anthony grinned.

  ‘Oh, come now, sir—a hardened criminal isn’t going to behave like a hysterical schoolgirl. If somebody poisoned Rosemary Barton in cold blood, and was preparing to administer the same fatal dose of cyanide to George Barton, that person had a certain amount of nerve. It would take more than an actress dressed up as Rosemary to make him or her spill the beans.’

  ‘Macbeth, remember, a decidedly hardened criminal, went to pieces when he saw the ghost of Banquo at the feast.’

  ‘Ah, but what Macbeth saw really was a ghost! It wasn’t a ham actor wearing Banquo’s duds! I’m prepared to admit that a real ghost might bring its own atmosphere from another world. In fact I am willing to admit that I believe in ghosts—have believed in them for the last six months—one ghost in particular.’

  ‘Really—and whose ghost is that?’

  ‘Rosemary Barton’s. You can laugh if you like. I’ve not seen her—but I’ve felt her presence. For some reason or other Rosemary, poor soul, can’t stay dead.’

  ‘I could suggest a reason.’

  ‘Because she was murdered?’

  ‘To put it in another idiom, because she was bumped off. How about that, Mr Tony Morelli?’

  There was a silence. Anthony sat down, chucked his cigarette into the grate and lighted another one.

  Then he said:

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘You admit that you are Tony Morelli?’

  ‘I shouldn’t dream of wasting time by denying it. You’ve obviously cabled to America and got all the dope.’

  ‘And you admit that when Rosemary Barton discovered your identity you threatened to bump her off unless she held her tongue.’

  ‘I did everything I could think of to scare her into holding her tongue,’ agreed Tony pleasantly.

  A strange feeling stole over Colonel Race. This interview was not going as it should. He stared at the figure in front of him lounging back in its chair—and an odd sense of familiarity came to him.

  ‘Shall I recapitulate what I know about you, Morelli?’

  ‘It might be amusing.’

  ‘You were convicted in the States of attempted sabotage in the Ericsen aeroplane works and were sentenced to a term of imprisonment. After serving your sentence, you came out and the authorities lost sight of you. You were next heard of in London staying at Claridge’s and calling yourself Anthony Browne. There you scraped acquaintance with Lord Dewsbury and through him you met certain other prominent armaments manufacturers. You stayed in Lord Dewsbury’s house and by means of your position as his guest you were shown things which you ought never to have seen! It is curious coincidence, Morelli, that a trail of unaccountable accidents and some very near escapes from disaster on a large scale followed very closely after your visits to various important works and factories.’

  ‘Coincidences,’ said Anthony, ‘are certainly extraordinary things.’

  ‘Finally, after another lapse of time, you reappeared in London and renewed your acquaintance with Iris Marle, making excuses not to visit her home, so that her family should not realize how intimate you were becoming. Finally you tried to induce her to marry you secretly.’

  ‘You know,’ said Anthony, ‘it’s really extraordinary the way you have found out all these things—I don’t mean the armaments business—I mean my threats to Rosemary, and the tender nothings I whispered to Iris. Surely those don’t come within the province of M.I.5?’

  Race looked sharply at him.

  ‘You’ve got a good deal to explain, Morelli.’

  ‘Not at all. Granted your facts are all correct, what of them? I’ve served my prison sentence. I’ve made some interesting friends. I’ve fallen in love with a very charming girl and am naturally impatient to marry her.’

  ‘So impatient that you would prefer the wedding to take place before her family have the chance of finding out anything about your antecedents. Iris Marle is a very rich young woman.’

  Anthony nodded his head agreeably.

  ‘I know. When there’s money, families are inclined to be abominably nosy. And Iris, you see, doesn’t know anything about my murky past. Frankly, I’d rather she didn’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid she is going to know all about it.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Anthony.

  ‘Possibly you don’t realize—’

  Anthony cut in with a laugh.

  ‘Oh! I can dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Rosemary Barton knew my criminal past, so I killed her. George Barton was growing suspicious of me, so I killed him! Now I’m after Iris’s money! It’s all very agreeable and it hangs together nicely, but you haven’t got a mite of proof.’

  Race looked at him attentively for some minutes. Then he got up.

  ‘Everything I have said is true,’ he said. ‘And it’s all wrong.’

  Anthony watched him narrowly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Race walked slowly up and down the room. ‘It hung together all right until I saw you—but now I’ve seen you, it won’t do. You’re not a crook. And if you’re not a crook, you’re one of our kind. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Anthony looked at him in silence while a smile slowly broadened on his face. Then he hummed softly und
er his breath.

  ‘“For the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under the skin.” Yes, funny how one knows one’s own kind. That’s why I’ve tried to avoid meeting you. I was afraid you’d spot me for what I am. It was important then that nobody should know—important up to yesterday. Now, thank goodness, the balloon’s gone up! We’ve swept our gang of international saboteurs into the net. I’ve been working on this assignment for three years. Frequenting certain meetings, agitating among workmen, getting myself the right reputation. Finally it was fixed that I pulled an important job and got sentenced. The business had to be genuine if I was to establish my bona fides.

  ‘When I came out, things began to move. Little by little I got further into the centre of things—a great international net run from Central Europe. It was as their agent I came to London and went to Claridge’s. I had orders to get on friendly terms with Lord Dewsbury—that was my lay, the social butterfly! I got to know Rosemary Barton in my character of attractive young man about town. Suddenly, to my horror, I found that she knew I had been in prison in America as Tony Morelli. I was terrified for her! The people I was working with would have had her killed without a moment’s hesitation if they had thought she knew that. I did my best to scare her into keeping her mouth shut, but I wasn’t very hopeful. Rosemary was born to be indiscreet. I thought the best thing I could do was to sheer off—and then I saw Iris coming down a staircase, and I swore that after my job was done I would come back and marry her.

  ‘When the active part of my work was over, I turned up again and got into touch with Iris, but I kept aloof from the house and her people for I knew they’d want to make inquiries about me and I had to keep under cover for a bit longer. But I got worried about her. She looked ill and afraid—and George Barton seemed to be behaving in a very odd fashion. I urged her to come away and marry me. Well, she refused. Perhaps she was right. And then I was roped in for this party. It was as we sat down to dinner that George mentioned you were to be there. I said rather quickly that I’d met a man I knew and might have to leave early. Actually I had seen a fellow I knew in America—Monkey Coleman—though he didn’t remember me—but I really wanted to avoid meeting you. I was still on my job.