"Wait," Poirot commanded. "No, there is nothing here. The lights went up, you see, too quickly, the murderer had not time. Therefore, the poison is still on him."
"Or her," said Carter.
He was looking at Lola Valdez.
She spat out:
"What do you mean - what do you say? That I killed her - eet is not true - not true - why should I do such a thing?"
"You had rather a fancy for Barton Russell yourself in New York. That's the gossip I heard. Argentine beauties are notoriously jealous."
"That ees a pack of lies. And I do not come from the Argentine. I come from Peru. Ah - I spit upon you. I -" She relapsed into Spanish.
"I demand silence," cried Poirot. "It is for me to speak."
Barton Russell said heavily:
"Everyone must be searched."
Poirot said calmly,
"Non, non, it is not necessary."
"What d'you mean, not necessary?"
"I, Hercule Poirot, know. I see with the eyes of the mind. And I will speak! M. Carter, will you show us the packet in your breast pocket?"
"There's nothing in my pocket. What the hell -"
"Tony, my good friend, if you will be so obliging."
Carter cried out:
"Damn you -"
Tony flipped the packet neatly out before Carter could defend himself.
"There you are, M. Poirot, just as you said!"
"It's a damned lie," cried Carter.
Poirot picked up the packet, read the label.
"Cyanide of potassium. The case is complete."
Barton Russell's voice came thickly.
"Carter! I always thought so. Iris was in love with you. She wanted to go away with you. You didn't want a scandal for the sake of your precious career so you poisoned her. You'll hang for this, you dirty dog."
"Silence!" Poirot's voice rang out, firm and authoritative. "This is not finished yet. I, Hercule Poirot, have something to say. My friend here, Tony Chapell, he says to me when I arrive, that I have come in search of crime. That, it is partly true. There was crime in my mind - but it was to prevent a crime that I came. And I have prevented it. The murderer, he planned well - but Hercule Poirot he was one move ahead. He had to think fast, and to whisper quickly in Mademoiselle's ear when the lights went down. She is very quick and clever, Mademoiselle Pauline, she played her part well. Mademoiselle, will you be so kind as to show us that you are not dead after all?"
Pauline sat up. She gave an unsteady laugh.
"Resurrection of Pauline," she said.
"Pauline - darling."
"Tony!"
"My sweet."
"Angel."
Barton Russell gasped.
"I - I don't understand..."
"I will help you to understand, Mr Barton Russell. Your plan has miscarried."
"My plan?"
"Yes, your plan. Who was the only man who had an alibi during the darkness? The man who left the table - you, Mr Barton Russell. But you returned to it under cover of the darkness, circling round it, with a champagne bottle, filling up glasses, putting cyanide in Pauline's glass and dropping the half empty packet in Carter's pocket as you bent over him to remove a glass. Oh, yes, it is easy to play the part of a waiter in darkness when the attention of everyone is elsewhere. That was the real reason for your party tonight. The safest place to commit a murder is in the middle of a crowd."
"What the - why the hell should I want to kill Pauline?"
"It might be, perhaps, a question of money. Your wife left you guardian to her sister. You mentioned that fact tonight. Pauline is twenty. At twenty-one or on her marriage you would have to render an account of your stewardship. I suggest that you could not do that. You have speculated with it. I do not know, Mr Barton Russell, whether you killed your wife in the same way, or whether her suicide suggested the idea of this crime to you, but I do know that tonight you have been guilty of attempted murder. It rests with Miss Pauline whether you are prosecuted for that."
"No," said Pauline. "He can get out of my sight and out of this country. I don't want a scandal."
"You had better go quickly, Mr Barton Russell, and I advise you to be careful in future."
Barton Russell got up, his face working.
"To hell with you, you interfering little Belgian jackanapes."
He strode out angrily.
Pauline sighed.
"M. Poirot, you've been wonderful... "
"You, Mademoiselle, you have been the marvelous one. To pour away the champagne, to act the dead body so prettily."
"Ugh," she shivered, "you give me the creeps."
He said gently:
"It was you who telephoned me, was it not?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I was worried and - frightened without knowing quite why I was frightened. Barton told me he was having this party to commemorate Iris' death. I realized he had some scheme on - but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He looked so - so queer and so excited that I felt something terrible might happen - only of course I never dreamed that he meant to - to get rid of me."
"And so, Mademoiselle?"
"I'd heard people talking about you. I thought if I could only get you here perhaps it would stop anything happening. I thought that being foreigner - if I rang up and pretended to be in danger and - and made it sound mysterious -"
"You thought the melodrama, it would attract me? That is what puzzled me. The message itself - definitely it was what you call 'bogus' - it did not ring true. But the fear in the voice - that was real. Then I came - and you denied very categorically having sent me a message."
"I had to. Besides, I didn't want you to know it was me."
"Ah, but I was fairly sure of that! Not at first. But I soon realized that the only two people who could know about the yellow irises on the table were you or Mr Barton Russell."
Pauline nodded.
"I heard him ordering them to be put on the table," she explained. "That, and his ordering a table for six when I knew only five were coming, made me suspect -"
She stopped, biting her lip.
"What did you suspect, Mademoiselle?"
She said slowly:
"I was afraid - of something happening - to Mr Carter."
Stephen Carter cleared his throat. Unhurriedly but quite decisively he rose from the table.
"Er - h'm - I have to - er - thank you, Mr Poirot. I owe you a great deal. You'll excuse I'm sure, if I leave you. Tonight's happenings have been - rather upsetting."
Looking after his retreating figure, Pauline said violently:
"I hate him. I've always thought it was because of him that Iris killed herself. Or perhaps - Barton killed her. Oh, it's all so hateful -"
Poirot said gently:
"Forget, Mademoiselle... forget. Let the past go. Think only of the present -"
Pauline murmured, "Yes - you're right."
Poirot turned to Lola Valdez.
"Señora, as the evening advances I become more brave. If you would dance with me..."
"Oh, yes, indeed. You are - you are ze cat's whiskers, M. Poirot. I inseest on dancing with you."
"You are too kind, Señora."
Tony and Pauline were alone. They leant towards each other across the table.
"Darling Pauline."
"Tony, I've been a nasty spiteful little cat to you all evening. Can you ever forgive me?"
"My angel! They're playing our song again. Let's dance."
They danced off, smiling at each other and humming softly:
There's nothing like Love for making you miserable
There's nothing like Love for making you blue
Depressed
Possessed
Sentimental
Temperamental
There's nothing like Love,
To sweep you off your feet
There's nothing like Love for driving you crazy
There's nothing like Love for making you mad
; Abusive
Allusive
Suicidal
Homicidal
There's nothing like Love...
There's nothing like Love...
THE HARLEQUIN TEA SET
Mr. Satterthwaite clucked twice in vexation. Whether right in his assumption or not, he was more and more convinced that cars nowadays broke down far more frequently than they used to do. The only cars he trusted were old friends who had survived the test of time. They had their little idiosyncrasies, but you knew about those, provided for them, fulfilled their wants before the demand became too acute. But new cars! Full of new gadgets, different kinds of windows, an instrument panel newly and differently arranged, handsome in its glistening wood, but being unfamiliar, your groping hand hovered uneasily over fog lights, windshield wipers, the choke, etcetera. All these things with knobs in a place where you didn't expect them. And when your gleaming new purchase failed in performance, your local garage uttered the intensely irritating words: "Teething troubles. Splendid car, sir, these roadsters Super Superbos. All the latest accessories. But bound to have their teething troubles, you know. Ha, ha." Just as though a car was a baby.
But Mr. Satterthwaite, being now of an advanced age, was strongly of the opinion that a new car ought to be fully adult. Tested, inspected, and its teething troubles already dealt with before it came into its purchaser's possession.
Mr. Satterthwaite was on his way to pay a weekend visit to friends in the country. His new car had already, on the way from London, given certain symptoms of discomfort, and was now drawn up in a garage waiting for the diagnosis, and how long it would take before he could resume progress towards his destination. His chauffeur was in consultation with a mechanic. Mr. Satterthwaite sat, striving for patience. He had assured his hosts, on the telephone the night before, that he would be arriving in good time for tea. He would reach Doverton Kingsbourne, he assured them, well before four o'clock.
He clucked again in irritation and tried to turn his thoughts to something pleasant. It was no good sitting here in a state of acute irritation, frequently consulting his wristwatch, clucking once more and giving, he had to realize, a very good imitation of a hen pleased with its prowess in laying an egg.
Yes. Something pleasant. Yes, now hadn't there been something - something he had noticed as they were driving along. Not very long ago. Something that he had seen through the window which had pleased and excited him. But before he had had time to think about it, the car's misbehaviour had become more pronounced and a rapid visit to the nearest service station had been inevitable.
What was it that he had seen? On the left - no, on the right. Yes, on the right as they drove slowly through the village street. Next door to a post office. Yes, he was quite sure of that. Next door to a post office because the sight of the post office had given him the idea of telephoning to the Addisons to break the news that he might be slightly late in his arrival. The post office. A village post office. And next to it - yes, definitely, next to it, next door or if not next door the door after. Something that had stirred old memories, and he had wanted - just what was it that he had wanted? Oh dear, it would come to him presently. It was mixed up with a colour. Several colours. Yes, a colour or colours. Or a word. Some definite word that had stirred memories, thoughts, pleasures gone by, excitement, recalling something that had been vivid and alive. Something in which he himself had not only seen but observed. No, he had done more. He had taken part. Taken part in what, and why, and where? All sorts of places. The answer came quickly at the last thought. All sorts of places.
On an island? In Corsica? At Monte Carlo watching the croupier spinning his roulette wheel? A house in the country? All sorts of places. And he had been there, and someone else. Yes, someone else. It all tied up with that. He was getting there at last. If he could just... He was interrupted at that moment by the chauffeur coming to the window with the garage mechanic in tow behind him.
"Won't be long now, sir," the chauffeur assured Mr. Satterthwaite cheerfully. "Matter of ten minutes or so. Not more."
"Nothing seriously wrong," said the mechanic, in a low, hoarse, country voice. "Teething troubles, as you might say."
Mr. Satterthwaite did not cluck this time. He gnashed his own teeth. A phrase he had often read in books and which in old age he seemed to have got into the habit of doing himself, due, perhaps, to the slight looseness of his upper plate. Really, teething trouble! Toothache. Teeth gnashing. False teeth. One's whole life centred, he thought, about teeth.
"Doverton Kingsbourne's only a few miles away," said the chauffeur, "and they've a taxi here. You could go on in that, sir, and I'd bring the car along later as soon as it's fixed up."
"No!" said Mr. Satterthwaite.
He said the word explosively, and both the chauffeur and the mechanic looked startled. Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes were sparkling. His voice was clear and decisive. Memory had come to him.
"I propose," he said, "to walk the road we have just come by. When the car is ready, you will pick me up there. The Harlequin Cafe, I think it is called."
"It's not very much of a place, sir," the mechanic advised.
"That is where I shall be," said Mr. Satterthwaite, speaking with a kind of regal autocracy.
He walked off briskly. The two men stared after him.
"Don't know what's got into him," said the chauffeur. "Never seen him like that before."
The village of Kingsbourne Ducis did not live up to the old world grandeur of its name. It was a smallish village consisting of one street. A few houses. Shops that were dotted rather unevenly, sometimes betraying the fact that they were houses which had been turned into shops or that they were shops which now existed as houses without any industrial intentions.
It was not particularly old world or beautiful. It was just simple and rather unobtrusive. Perhaps that was why, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, that a dash of brilliant colour had caught his eye. Ah, here he was at the post office. The post office was a simply functioning post office with a pillar box outside, a display of some newspapers and some postcards, and surely, next to it, yes, there was the sign up above. The Harlequin Cafe. A sudden qualm struck Mr. Satterthwaite. Really, he was getting too old. He had fancies. Why should that one word stir his heart? The Harlequin Cafe.
The mechanic at the service station had been quite right. It did not look like a place in which one would really be tempted to have a meal. A snack, perhaps. A morning coffee. Then why? But he suddenly realized why. Because the cafe, or perhaps one could better put it as the house that sheltered the cafe, was in two portions. One side of it had small tables with chairs round them arranged ready for patrons who came here to eat. But the other side was a shop. A shop that sold china. It was not an antique shop. It had no little shelves of glass vases or mugs. It was a shop that sold modern goods, and the show window that gave on the street was at the present moment housing every shade of the rainbow. A tea set of largish cups and saucers, each one of a different colour. Blue, red, yellow, green, pink, purple. Really, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, a wonderful show of colour. No wonder it had struck his eye as the car had passed slowly beside the pavement, looking ahead for any sign of a garage or a service station. It was labelled with a large card as "A Harlequin Tea Set."
It was the word 'harlequin' of course which had remained fixed in Mr. Satterthwaite's mind, although just far enough back in his mind so that it had been difficult to recall it. The gay colours. The harlequin colours. And he had thought, wondered, had the absurd but exciting idea that in some way here was a call to him. To him specially. Here, perhaps, eating a meal or purchasing cups and saucers might be his own old friend, Mr. Harley Quin. How many years was it since he had last seen Mr. Quin? A large number of years. Was it the day he had seen Mr. Quin walking away from him down a country lane, Lovers' Lane they had called it? He had always expected to see Mr. Quin again, once a year at least. Possibly twice a year. But no. That had not happened.
And so today he had had the wonderfu
l and surprising idea that here, in the village of Kingsbourne Ducis, he might once again find Mr. Harley Quin.
"Absurd of me," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "quite absurd of me. Really, the ideas one has as one gets old!"
He had missed Mr. Quin. Missed something that had been one of the most exciting things in the late years of his life. Someone who might turn up anywhere and who, if he did turn up, was always an announcement that something was going to happen. Something that was going to happen to him. No, that was not quite right. Not to him, but through him. That was the exciting part. Just from the words that Mr. Quin might utter. Words. Things he might show him, ideas would come to Mr. Satterthwaite. He would see things, he would imagine things, he would find out things. He would deal with something that needed to be dealt with. And opposite him would sit Mr. Quin, perhaps smiling approval. Something that Mr. Quin said would start the flow of ideas, the active person would be he himself. He - Mr. Satterthwaite. The man with so many old friends. A man among whose friends had been duchesses, an occasional bishop, people that counted. Especially, he had to admit, people who had counted in the social world. Because, after all, Mr. Satterthwaite had always been a snob. He had liked duchesses, he had liked knowing old families, families who had represented the landed gentry of England for several generations. And he had had, too, an interest in young people not necessarily socially important. Young people who were in trouble, who were in love, who were unhappy, who needed help. Because of Mr. Quin, Mr. Satterthwaite was enabled to give help.
And now, like an idiot, he was looking into an un-prepossessing village cafe and a shop for modern china and tea sets and casseroles, no doubt.
"All the same," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself, "I must go in. Now I've been foolish enough to walk back here, I must go in just - well, just in case. They'll be longer, I expect, doing the car than they say. It will be more than ten minutes. Just in case there is anything interesting inside."
He looked once more at the window full of china. He appreciated suddenly that it was good china. Well made. A good modern product. He looked back into the past, remembering. The Duchess of Leith, he remembered. What a wonderful lady she had been. How kind she had been to her maid on the occasion of a very rough sea voyage to the island of Corsica. She had ministered to her with the kindliness of a ministering angel and only on the next day had she resumed her autocratic, bullying manner, which the domestics of those days had seemed able to stand quite easily without any sign of rebellion.
Problem at Pollensa Bay and Other Stories Page 6