Sparkling Cyanide

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Very natural,’ said the inspector and poured himself out another cup of tea. Anthony took a gingerly sip of coffee.

  ‘Well,’ said Kemp. ‘I think we relieved her mind—she went off home quite happily.’

  ‘After the funeral,’ said Anthony, ‘I hope she’ll get away to the country for a bit. Twenty-four hours’ peace and quiet away from Auntie Lucilla’s non-stop tongue will do her good, I think.’

  ‘Aunt Lucilla’s tongue has its uses,’ said Race.

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ said Kemp. ‘Lucky I didn’t think it necessary to have a shorthand report made when I took her statement. If I had, the poor fellow would have been in hospital with writer’s cramp.’

  ‘Well,’ said Anthony. ‘I daresay you’re right, chief inspector, in saying that the case will never come to trial—but that’s a very unsatisfactory finish—and there’s one thing we still don’t know—who wrote those letters to George Barton telling him his wife was murdered? We haven’t the least idea who that person is.’

  Race said: ‘Your suspicions still the same, Browne?’

  ‘Ruth Lessing? Yes, I stick to her as my candidate. You told me that she admitted to you she was in love with George. Rosemary by all accounts was pretty poisonous to her. Say she saw suddenly a good chance of getting rid of Rosemary, and was fairly convinced that with Rosemary out of the way, she could marry George out of hand.’

  ‘I grant you all that,’ said Race. ‘I’ll admit that Ruth Lessing has the calm practical efficiency that can contemplate and carry out murder, and that she perhaps lacks that quality of pity which is essentially a product of imagination. Yes, I give you the first murder. But I simply can’t see her committing the second one. I simply cannot see her panicking and poisoning the man she loved and wanted to marry! Another point that rules her out—why did she hold her tongue when she saw Iris throw the cyanide packet under the table?’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t see her do it,’ suggested Anthony, rather doubtfully.

  ‘I’m fairly sure she did,’ said Race. ‘When I was questioning her, I had the impression that she was keeping something back. And Iris Marle herself thought Ruth Lessing saw her.’

  ‘Come now, colonel,’ said Kemp. ‘Let’s have your “spot”. You’ve got one, I suppose?’

  Race nodded.

  ‘Out with it. Fair’s fair. You’ve listened to ours—and raised objections.’

  Race’s eyes went thoughtfully from Kemp’s face to Anthony and rested there.

  Anthony’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Don’t say you still think I am the villain of the piece?’

  Slowly Race shook his head.

  ‘I can imagine no possible reason why you should kill George Barton. I think I know who did kill him—and Rosemary Barton too.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Race said musingly:

  ‘Curious how we have all selected women as suspects. I suspect a woman, too.’ He paused and said quietly: ‘I think the guilty person is Iris Marle.’

  With a crash Anthony pushed his chair back. For a moment his face went dark crimson—then with an effort, he regained command of himself. His voice, when he spoke, had a slight tremor but was deliberately as light and mocking as ever.

  ‘By all means let us discuss the possibility,’ he said. ‘Why Iris Marle? And if so, why should she, of her own accord, tell me about dropping the cyanide paper under the table?’

  ‘Because,’ said Race, ‘she knew that Ruth Lessing had seen her do it.’

  Anthony considered the reply, his head on one side. Finally he nodded.

  ‘Passed,’ he said. ‘Go on. Why did you suspect her in the first place?’

  ‘Motive,’ said Race. ‘An enormous fortune had been left to Rosemary in which Iris was not to participate. For all we know she may have struggled for years with a sense of unfairness. She was aware that if Rosemary died childless, all that money came to her. And Rosemary was depressed, unhappy, run down after ’flu, just the mood when a verdict of suicide would be accepted without question.’

  ‘That’s right, make the girl out a monster!’ said Anthony.

  ‘Not a monster,’ said Race. ‘There is another reason why I suspected her—a far-fetched one, it may seem to you—Victor Drake.’

  ‘Victor Drake?’ Anthony stared.

  ‘Bad blood. You see, I didn’t listen to Lucilla Drake for nothing. I know all about the Marle family. Victor Drake—not so much weak as positively evil. His mother, feeble in intellect and incapable of concentration. Hector Marle, weak, vicious and a drunkard. Rosemary, emotionally unstable. A family history of weakness, vice and instability. Predisposing causes.’

  Anthony lit a cigarette. His hands trembled.

  ‘Don’t you believe that there may be a sound blossom on a weak or even a bad stock?’

  ‘Of course there may. But I am not sure that Iris Marle is a sound blossom.’

  ‘And my word doesn’t count,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘because I’m in love with her. George showed her those letters, and she got in a funk and killed him? That’s how it goes on, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Panic would obtain in her case.’

  ‘And how did she get the stuff into George’s champagne glass?’

  ‘That, I confess, I do not know.’

  ‘I’m thankful there’s something you don’t know.’ Anthony tilted his chair back and then forward. His eyes were angry and dangerous. ‘You’ve got a nerve saying all this to me.’

  Race replied quietly:

  ‘I know. But I consider it had to be said.’

  Kemp watched them both with interest, but he did not speak. He stirred his tea round and round absent-mindedly.

  ‘Very well.’ Anthony sat upright. ‘Things have changed. It’s no longer a question of sitting round a table, drinking disgusting fluids, and airing academic theories. This case has got to be solved. We’ve got to resolve all the difficulties and get at the truth. That’s got to be my job—and I’ll do it somehow. I’ve got to hammer at the things we don’t know—because when we do know them, the whole thing will be clear.

  ‘I’ll re-state the problem. Who knew that Rosemary had been murdered? Who wrote to George telling him so? Why did they write to him?

  ‘And now the murders themselves. Wash out the first one. It’s too long ago, and we don’t know exactly what happened. But the second murder took place in front of my eyes. I saw it happen. Therefore I ought to know how it happened. The ideal time to put the cyanide in George’s glass was during the cabaret—but it couldn’t have been put in then because he drank from his glass immediately afterwards. I saw him drink. After he drank, nobody put anything in his glass. Nobody touched his glass, nevertheless next time he drank, it was full of cyanide. He couldn’t have been poisoned—but he was! There was cyanide in his glass—but nobody could have put it there! Are we getting on?’

  ‘No,’ said Chief Inspector Kemp.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘The thing has now entered into the realm of a conjuring trick. Or a spirit manifestation. I will now outline my psychic theory. Whilst we were dancing, the ghost of Rosemary hovers near George’s glass and drops in some cleverly materialized cyanide—any spirit can make cyanide out of ectoplasm. George comes back and drinks her health and—oh, Lord!’

  The other two stared curiously at him. His hands were holding his head. He rocked to and fro in apparent mental agony. He said:

  ‘That’s it…that’s it…the bag…the waiter…’

  ‘The waiter?’ Kemp was alert.

  Anthony shook his head.

  ‘No, no. I don’t mean what you mean. I did think once that what we needed was a waiter who was not a waiter but a conjurer—a waiter who had been engaged the day before. Instead we had a waiter who had always been a waiter—and a little waiter who was of the royal line of waiters—a cherubic waiter—a waiter above suspicion. And he’s still above suspicion—but he played his part! Oh, Lord, yes, he played a star part.’

  He stared at them
.

  ‘Don’t you see it? A waiter could have poisoned the champagne but the waiter didn’t. Nobody touched George’s glass but George was poisoned. A, indefinite article. The, definite article. George’s glass! George! Two separate things. And the money—lots and lots of money! And who knows—perhaps love as well? Don’t look at me as though I’m mad. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Thrusting his chair back he sprang to his feet and caught Kemp by the arm.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Kemp cast a regretful glance at his half-full cup.

  ‘Got to pay,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, no, we’ll be back in a moment. Come on. I must show you outside. Come on, Race.’

  Pushing the table aside, he swept them away with him to the vestibule.

  ‘You see that telephone box there?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Anthony felt in his pockets.

  ‘Damn, I haven’t got twopence. Never mind. On second thoughts I’d rather not do it that way. Come back.’

  They went back into the café, Kemp first, Race following with Anthony’s hand on his arm.

  Kemp had a frown on his face as he sat down and picked up his pipe. He blew down it carefully and began to operate on it with a hairpin which he brought out of his waistcoat pocket.

  Race was frowning at Anthony with a puzzled face. He leaned back and picked up his cup, draining the remaining fluid in it.

  ‘Damn,’ he said violently. ‘It’s got sugar in it!’

  He looked across the table to meet Anthony’s slowly widening smile.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Kemp, as he took a sip from his cup. ‘What the hell’s this?’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Anthony. ‘And I don’t think you’ll like it. I didn’t.’

  Chapter 13

  Anthony had the pleasure of seeing instant comprehension flash into the eyes of both his companions.

  His satisfaction was short-lived, for another thought struck him with the force of a physical blow.

  He ejaculated out loud:

  ‘My God—that car!’

  He sprang up.

  ‘Fool that I was—idiot! She told me that a car had nearly run her down—and I hardly listened. Come on, quick!’

  Kemp said:

  ‘She said she was going straight home when she left the Yard.’

  ‘Yes. Why didn’t I go with her?’

  ‘Who’s at the house?’ asked Race.

  ‘Ruth Lessing was there, waiting for Mrs Drake. It’s possible that they’re both discussing the funeral still!’

  ‘Discussing everything else as well if I know Mrs Drake,’ said Race. He added abruptly, ‘Has Iris Marle any other relations?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘I think I see the direction in which your thoughts, ideas, are leading you. But—is it physically possible?’

  ‘I think so. Consider for yourself how much has been taken for granted on one person’s word.’

  Kemp was paying the check. The three men hurried out as Kemp said:

  ‘You think the danger is acute? To Miss Marle?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Anthony swore under his breath and hailed a taxi. The three men got in and the driver was told to go to Elvaston Square as quickly as possible.

  Kemp said slowly:

  ‘I’ve only got the general idea as yet. It washes the Farradays right out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. But surely there wouldn’t be another attempt—so soon?’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Race. ‘Before there’s any chance of our minds running on the right track. Third time lucky—that will be the idea.’ He added: ‘Iris Marle told me, in front of Mrs Drake, that she would marry you as soon as you wanted her to.’

  They spoke in spasmodic jerks, for the taxi-driver was taking their directions literally and was hurtling round corners and cutting through traffic with immense enthusiasm.

  Turning with a final spurt into Elvaston Square, he drew up with a terrific jerk in front of the house.

  Elvaston Square had never looked more peaceful.

  Anthony, with an effort regained his usual cool manner, murmured:

  ‘Quite like the movies. Makes one feel rather a fool, somehow.’

  But he was on the top step ringing the bell while Race paid off the taxi and Kemp followed up the steps.

  The parlourmaid opened the door.

  Anthony said sharply:

  ‘Has Miss Iris got back?’

  Evans looked a little surprised.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. She came in half an hour ago.’

  Anthony breathed a sigh of relief. Everything in the house was so calm and normal that he felt ashamed of his recent melodramatic fears.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I expect she’s in the drawing-room with Mrs Drake.’

  Anthony nodded and took the stairs in easy strides, Race and Kemp close behind him.

  In the drawing-room, placid under its shaded electric lights, Lucilla Drake was hunting through the pigeon holes of the desk with the hopeful absorption of a terrier and murmuring audibly:

  ‘Dear, dear, now where did I put Mrs Marsham’s letter? Now, let me see…’

  ‘Where’s Iris?’ demanded Anthony abruptly.

  Lucilla turned and stared.

  ‘Iris? She—I beg your pardon!’ She drew herself up. ‘May I ask who you are?’

  Race came forward from behind him and Lucilla’s face cleared. She did not yet see Chief Inspector Kemp who was the third to enter the room.

  ‘Oh, dear, Colonel Race! How kind of you to come! But I do wish you could have been here a little earlier—I should have liked to consult you about the funeral arrangements—a man’s advice, so valuable—and really I was feeling so upset, as I said to Miss Lessing, that really I couldn’t even think—and I must say that Miss Lessing was really very sympathetic for once and offered to do everything she could to take the burden off my shoulders—only, as she put it very reasonably, naturally I should be the person most likely to know what were George’s favourite hymns—not that I actually did, because I’m afraid George didn’t very often go to church—but naturally, as a clergyman’s wife—I mean widow—I do know what is suitable—’

  Race took advantage of a momentary pause to slip in his question: ‘Where is Miss Marle?’

  ‘Iris? She came in some time ago. She said she had a headache and was going straight up to her room. Young girls, you know, do not seem to me to have very much stamina nowadays—they don’t eat enough spinach—and she seems positively to dislike talking about the funeral arrangements, but after all, someone has to do these things—and one does want to feel that everything has been done for the best, and proper respect shown to the dead—not that I have ever thought motor hearses really reverent—if you know what I mean—not like horses with their long black tails—but, of course, I said at once that it was quite all right, and Ruth—I called her Ruth and not Miss Lessing—and I were managing splendidly, and she could leave everything to us.’

  Kemp asked:

  ‘Miss Lessing has gone?’

  ‘Yes, we settled everything, and Miss Lessing left about ten minutes ago. She took the announcements for the papers with her. No flowers, under the circumstances—and Canon Westbury to take the service—’

  As the flow went on, Anthony edged gently out of the door. He had left the room before Lucilla, suddenly interrupting her narrative, paused to say: ‘Who was that young man who came with you? I didn’t realize at first that you had brought him. I thought possibly he might have been one of those dreadful reporters. We have had such trouble with them.’

  Anthony was running lightly up the stairs. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned his head, and grinned at Chief Inspector Kemp.

  ‘You deserted too? Poor old Race!’

  Kemp muttered.

  ‘He does these things so nicely. I’m not popular in that quarter.’

  They were on the second floor and just prepa
ring to start up the third when Anthony heard a light footstep descending. He pulled Kemp inside an adjacent bathroom door.

  The footsteps went on down the stairs.

  Anthony emerged and ran up the next flight of stairs. Iris’s room, he knew, was the small one at the back. He rapped lightly on the door.

  ‘Hi—Iris.’ There was no reply—and he knocked and called again. Then he tried the handle but found the door locked.

  With real urgency now he beat upon it.

  ‘Iris—Iris—’

  After a second or two, he stopped and glanced down. He was standing on one of those woolly old-fashioned rugs made to fit outside doors to obviate draughts. This one was close up against the door. Anthony kicked it away. The space under the door at the bottom was quite wide—sometime, he deduced, it had been cut to clear a fitted carpet instead of stained boards.

  He stooped to the keyhole but could see nothing, but suddenly he raised his head and sniffed. Then he lay down flat and pressed his nose against the crack under the door.

  Springing up, he shouted: ‘Kemp!’

  There was no sign of the chief inspector. Anthony shouted again.

  It was Colonel Race, however, who came running up the stairs. Anthony gave him no chance to speak. He said:

  ‘Gas—pouring out! We’ll have to break the door down.’

  Race had a powerful physique. He and Anthony made short shrift of the obstacle. With a splintering, cracking noise, the lock gave.

  They fell back for a moment, then Race said:

  ‘She’s there by the fireplace. I’ll dash in and break the window. You get her.’

  Iris Marle was lying by the gas fire—her mouth and nose lying on the wide open gas jet.

  A minute or two later, choking and spluttering, Anthony and Race laid the unconscious girl on the landing floor in the draught of the passage window.

  Race said:

  ‘I’ll work on her. You get a doctor quickly.’

  Anthony swung down the stairs. Race called after him:

  ‘Don’t worry. I think she’ll be all right. We got here in time.’

  In the hall Anthony dialled and spoke into the mouthpiece, hampered by a background of exclamations from Lucilla Drake.