Sparkling Cyanide

by Agatha Christie

  ‘You know what happened next—George died. I had nothing to do with his death or with Rosemary’s. I don’t know now who did kill them.’

  ‘Not even an idea?’

  ‘It must have been either the waiter or one of the five people round the table. I don’t think it was the waiter. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t Iris. It could have been Sandra Farraday or it could have been Stephen Farraday, or it could have been both of them together. But the best bet, in my opinion, is Ruth Lessing.’

  ‘Have you anything to support that belief?’

  ‘No. She seems to me the most likely person—but I don’t see in the least how she did it! In both tragedies she was so placed at the table that it would be practically impossible for her to tamper with the champagne glass—and the more I think over what happened the other night, the more it seems to me impossible that George could have been poisoned at all—and yet he was!’ Anthony paused. ‘And there’s another thing that gets me—have you found out who wrote those anonymous letters that started him on the track?’

  Race shook his head.

  ‘No. I thought I had—but I was wrong.’

  ‘Because the interesting thing is that it means that there is someone, somewhere, who knows that Rosemary was murdered, so that, unless you’re careful—that person will be murdered next!’

  Chapter 11

  From information received over the telephone Anthony knew that Lucilla Drake was going out at five o’clock to drink a cup of tea with a dear old friend. Allowing for possible contingencies (returing for a purse, determination after all to take an umbrella just in case, and last-minute chats on the doorstep) Anthony timed his own arrival at Elvaston Square at precisely twenty-five minutes past five. It was Iris he wanted to see, not her aunt. And by all accounts once shown into Lucilla’s presence, he would have had very little chance of uninterrupted conversation with his lady.

  He was told by the parlourmaid (a girl lacking the impudent polish of Betty Archdale) that Miss Iris had just come in and was in the study.

  Anthony said with a smile, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll find my way,’ and went past her and along to the study door.

  Iris spun round at his entrance with a nervous start.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  He came over to her swiftly.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She paused, then said quickly, ‘Nothing. Only I was nearly run over. Oh, my own fault, I expect I was thinking so hard and mooning across the road without looking, and the car came tearing round a corner and just missed me.’

  He gave her a gentle little shake.

  ‘You mustn’t do that sort of thing, Iris. I’m worried about you—oh! not about your miraculous escape from under the wheels of a car, but about the reason that lets you moon about in the midst of traffic. What is it, darling? There’s something special, isn’t there?’

  She nodded. Her eyes, raised mournfully to his, were large and dark with fear. He recognized their message even before she said very low and quick:

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  Anthony recovered his calm smiling poise. He sat down beside Iris on a wide settee.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s have it.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to tell you, Anthony.’

  ‘Now then, funny, don’t be like the heroines of third-rate thrillers who start in the very first chapter by having something they can’t possibly tell for no real reason except to gum up the hero and make the book spin itself out for another fifty thousand words.’

  She gave a faint pale smile.

  ‘I want to tell you, Anthony, but I don’t know what you’d think—I don’t know if you’d believe—’

  Anthony raised a hand and began to check off the fingers.

  ‘One, an illegitimate baby. Two, a blackmailing lover. Three—’

  She interrupted him indignantly:

  ‘Of course not. Nothing of that kind.’

  ‘You relieve my mind,’ said Anthony. ‘Come on, little idiot.’

  Iris’s face clouded over again.

  ‘It’s nothing to laugh at. It’s—it’s about the other night.’

  ‘Yes?’ His voice sharpened.

  Iris said:

  ‘You were at the inquest this morning—you heard—’

  She paused.

  ‘Very little,’ said Anthony. ‘The police surgeon being technical about cyanides generally and the effect of potassium cyanide on George, and the police evidence as given by that first inspector, not Kemp, the one with the smart moustache who arrived first at the Luxembourg and took charge. Identification of the body by George’s chief clerk. The inquest was then adjourned for a week by a properly docile coroner.’

  ‘It’s the inspector I mean,’ said Iris. ‘He described finding a small paper packet under the table containing traces of potassium cyanide.’

  Anthony looked interested.

  ‘Yes. Obviously whoever slipped that stuff into George’s glass just dropped the paper that had contained it under the table. Simplest thing to do. Couldn’t risk having it found on him—or her.’

  To his surprise Iris began to tremble violently.

  ‘Oh, no, Anthony. Oh, no, it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What do you mean, darling? What do you know about it?’

  Iris said, ‘I dropped that packet under the table.’

  He turned astonished eyes upon her.

  ‘Listen, Anthony. You remember how George drank off that champagne and then it happened?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It was awful—like a bad dream. Coming just when everything had seemed to be all right. I mean that, after the cabaret, when the lights went up—I felt so relieved. Because it was then, you know, that we found Rosemary dead—and somehow, I don’t know why, I felt I’d see it all happen again…I felt she was there, dead, at the table…’

  ‘Darling…’

  ‘Oh, I know. It was just nerves. But anyway, there we were, and there was nothing awful and suddenly it seemed the whole thing was really done with at last and one could—I don’t know how to explain it—begin again. And so I danced with George and really felt I was enjoying myself at last, and we came back to the table. And then George suddenly talked about Rosemary and asked us to drink to her memory and then he died and all the nightmare had come back.

  ‘I just felt paralysed I think. I stood there, shaking. You came round to look at him, and I moved back a little, and the waiters came and someone asked for a doctor. And all the time I was standing there frozen. Then suddenly a big lump came in my throat and tears began to run down my cheeks and I jerked open my bag to get my handkerchief. I just fumbled in it, not seeing properly, and got out my handkerchief, but there was something caught up inside the handkerchief—a folded stiff bit of white paper, like the kind you get powders in from the chemist. Only, you see, Anthony, it hadn’t been in my bag when I started from home. I hadn’t had anything like that! I’d put the things in myself when the bag was quite empty—a powder compact, a lip-stick, my handkerchief, my evening comb in its case and a shilling and a couple of sixpences. Somebody had put that packet in my bag—they must have done. And I remembered how they’d found a packet like that in Rosemary’s bag after she died and how it had had cyanide in it. I was frightened, Anthony, I was horribly frightened. My fingers went limp and the packet fluttered down from my handkerchief under the table. I let it go. And I didn’t say anything. I was too frightened. Somebody meant it to look as though I had killed George, and I didn’t.’

  Anthony gave vent to a long and prolonged whistle.

  ‘And nobody saw you?’ he said.

  Iris hesitated.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘I believe Ruth noticed. But she was looking so dazed that I don’t know whether she really noticed—or if she was just staring at me blankly.’

  Anthony gave another whistle.

  ‘This,’ he remarked, ‘is a pretty kettle of fish.’

  Iris sa
id:

  ‘It’s got worse and worse. I’ve been so afraid they’d find out.’

  ‘Why weren’t your fingerprints on it, I wonder? The first thing they’d do would be to fingerprint it.’

  ‘I suppose it was because I was holding it through the handkerchief.’

  Anthony nodded.

  ‘Yes, you had luck there.’

  ‘But who could have put it in my bag? I had my bag with me all the evening.’

  ‘That’s not so impossible as you think. When you went to dance after the cabaret, you left your bag on the table. Somebody may have tampered with it then. And there are the women. Could you get up and give me an imitation of just how a woman behaves in the ladies’ cloakroom? It’s the sort of thing I wouldn’t know. Do you congregate and chat or do you drift off to different mirrors?’

  Iris considered.

  ‘We all went to the same table—a great long glass-topped one. And we put our bags down and looked at our faces, you know.’

  ‘Actually I don’t. Go on.’

  ‘Ruth powdered her nose and Sandra patted her hair and pushed a hairpin in and I took off my fox cape and gave it to the woman and then I saw I’d got some dirt on my hand—a smear of mud and I went over to the washbasins.’

  ‘Leaving your bag on the glass table?’

  ‘Yes. And I washed my hands. Ruth was still fixing her face I think and Sandra went and gave up her cloak and then she went back to the glass and Ruth came and washed her hands and I went back to the table and just fixed my hair a little.’

  ‘So either of those two could have put something in your bag without your seeing?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t believe either Ruth or Sandra would do such a thing.’

  ‘You think too highly of people. Sandra is the kind of Gothic creature who would have burned her enemies at the stake in the Middle Ages—and Ruth would make the most devastatingly practical poisoner that ever stepped this earth.’

  ‘If it was Ruth why didn’t she say she saw me drop it?’

  ‘You have me there. If Ruth deliberately planted cyanide on you, she’d take jolly good care you didn’t get rid of it. So it looks as though it wasn’t Ruth. In fact the waiter is far and away the best bet. The waiter, the waiter! If only we had a strange waiter, a peculiar waiter, a waiter hired for that evening only. But instead we have Giuseppe and Pierre and they just don’t fit…’

  Iris sighed.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve told you. No one will ever know now, will they? Only you and I?’

  Anthony looked at her with a rather embarrassed expression.

  ‘It’s not going to be just like that, Iris. In fact you’re coming with me now in a taxi to old man Kemp. We can’t keep this under our hats.’

  ‘Oh, no, Anthony. They’ll think I killed George.’

  They’ll certainly think so if they find out later that you sat tight and said nothing about all this! Your explanation will then sound extremely thin. If you volunteer it now there’s a likelihood of its being believed.’

  ‘Please, Anthony.’

  ‘Look here, Iris, you’re in a tight place. But apart from anything else, there’s such a thing as truth. You can’t play safe and take care of your own skin when it’s a question of justice.’

  ‘Oh, Anthony, must you be so grand?’

  ‘That,’ said Anthony, ‘was a very shrewd blow! But all the same we’re going to Kemp! Now!’

  Unwillingly she came with him out into the hall. Her coat was lying tossed on a chair and he took it and held it out for her to put on.

  There was both mutiny and fear in her eyes, but Anthony showed no sign of relenting. He said:

  ‘We’ll pick up a taxi at the end of the Square.’

  As they went towards the hall door the bell was pressed and they heard it ringing in the basement below.

  Iris gave an exclamation.

  ‘I forgot. It’s Ruth. She was coming here when she left the office to settle about the funeral arrangements. It’s to be the day after tomorrow. I thought we could settle things better while Aunt Lucilla was out. She does confuse things so.’

  Anthony stepped forward and opened the door, forestalling the parlourmaid who came running up the stairs from below.

  ‘It’s all right, Evans,’ said Iris, and the girl went down again.

  Ruth was looking tired and rather dishevelled. She was carrying a large-sized attaché case.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but the tube was so terribly crowded tonight and then I had to wait for three buses and not a taxi in sight.’

  It was, thought Anthony, unlike the efficient Ruth to apologize. Another sign that George’s death had succeeded in shattering that almost inhuman efficiency.

  Iris said:

  ‘I can’t come with you now, Anthony. Ruth and I must settle things.’

  Anthony said firmly:

  ‘I’m afraid this is more important…I’m awfully sorry, Miss Lessing, to drag Iris off like this, but it really is important.’

  Ruth said quickly:

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Browne. I can arrange everything with Mrs Drake when she comes in.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I can really manage her quite well, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you could manage anyone, Miss Lessing,’ said Anthony admiringly.

  ‘Perhaps, Iris, if you can tell me any special points?’

  ‘There aren’t any. I suggested our arranging this together simply because Aunt Lucilla changes her mind about everything every two minutes, and I thought it would be rather hard on you. You’ve had so much to do. But I really don’t care what sort of funeral it is! Aunt Lucilla likes funerals, but I hate them. You’ve got to bury people, but I hate making a fuss about it. It can’t matter to the people themselves. They’ve got away from it all. The dead don’t come back.’

  Ruth did not answer, and Iris repeated with a strange defiant insistence: ‘The dead don’t come back!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Anthony, and pulled her out through the open door.

  A cruising taxi was coming slowly along the Square. Anthony hailed it and helped Iris in.

  ‘Tell me, beautiful,’ he said, after he had directed the driver to go to Scotland Yard. ‘Who exactly did you feel was there in the hall when you found it so necessary to affirm that the dead are dead? Was it George or Rosemary?’

  ‘Nobody! Nobody at all! I just hate funerals, I tell you.’

  Anthony sighed.

  ‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘I must be psychic!’

  Chapter 12

  Three men sat at a small round marble-topped table.

  Colonel Race and Chief Inspector Kemp were drinking cups of dark brown tea, rich in tannin. Anthony was drinking an English café’s idea of a nice cup of coffee. It was not Anthony’s idea, but he endured it for the sake of being admitted on equal terms to the other two men’s conference. Chief Inspector Kemp, having painstakingly verified Anthony’s credentials, had consented to recognize him as a colleague.

  ‘If you ask me,’ said the chief inspector, dropping several lumps of sugar into his black brew and stirring it, ‘this case will never be brought to trial. We’ll never get the evidence.’

  ‘You think not?’ asked Race.

  Kemp shook his head and took an approving sip of his tea.

  ‘The only hope was to get evidence concerning the actual purchasing or handling of cyanide by one of those five. I’ve drawn a blank everywhere. It’ll be one of those cases where you know who did it, and can’t ever prove it.’

  ‘So you know who did it?’ Anthony regarded him with interest.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty certain in my own mind. Lady Alexandra Farraday.’

  ‘So that’s your bet,’ said Race. ‘Reasons?’

  ‘You shall have ’em. I’d say she’s the type that’s madly jealous. And autocratic, too. Like that queen in history—Eleanor of Something, that followed the clue to Fair Rosamund’s Bower and offered her the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison.’

  ‘Only in thi
s case,’ said Anthony, ‘she didn’t offer Fair Rosemary any choice.’

  Chief Inspector Kemp went on:

  ‘Someone tips Mr Barton off. He becomes suspicious—and I should say his suspicions were pretty definite. He wouldn’t have gone so far as actually buying a house in the country unless he wanted to keep an eye on the Farradays. He must have made it pretty plain to her—harping on this party and urging them to come to it. She’s not the kind to Wait and See. Autocratic again, she finished him off! That, you say so far, is all theory and based on character. But I’ll say that the only person who could have had any chance whatever of dropping something into Mr Barton’s glass just before he drank would be the lady on his right.’

  ‘And nobody saw her do it?’ said Anthony.

  ‘Quite. They might have—but they didn’t. Say, if you like, she was pretty adroit.’

  ‘A positive conjurer.’

  Race coughed. He took out his pipe and began stuffing the bowl.

  ‘Just one minor point. Granted Lady Alexandra is autocratic, jealous and passionately devoted to her husband, granted that she’d not stick at murder, do you think she is the type to slip incriminating evidence into a girl’s handbag? A perfectly innocent girl, mind, who has never harmed her in any way? Is that in the Kidderminster tradition?’

  Inspector Kemp squirmed uneasily in his seat and peered into his teacup.

  ‘Women don’t play cricket,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Actually, a lot of them do,’ said Race, smiling. ‘But I’m glad to see you look uncomfortable.’

  Kemp escaped from his dilemma by turning to Anthony with an air of gracious patronage.

  ‘By the way, Mr Browne (I’ll still call you that, if you don’t mind), I want to say that I’m very much obliged to you for the prompt way you brought Miss Marle along this evening to tell that story of hers.’

  ‘I had to do it promptly,’ said Anthony. ‘If I’d waited I should probably not have brought her along at all.’

  ‘She didn’t want to come, of course,’ said Colonel Race.

  ‘She’s got the windup badly, poor kid,’ said Anthony. ‘Quite natural, I think.’