is something here very curious."
In
the doorway of the Jardin des Cygnes, fat Luigi
hurried forward.
"Buona
sera, M. Poirot. You desire a table--yes?"
"No,
no,
my good Luigi. I seek here for some friends. I
will look round--perhaps they are not here yet.
Ah, let me see, that table there in the cor-ner with the
yellow irises--a little question by the way, if it
is not indiscreet. On all the other tables there are
tulips--pink tulips--why on that one
YELLOW IRIS
107
table do you have yellow iris?"
Luigi shrugged his expressive shoulders.
"A command, Monsieur! A. special order!
Without doubt, the favorite flowers of one of the
ladies. That table, it is the table of Mr. Barton
Russell--an American--immensely rich."
"Aha, one must study the whims of the ladies,
must one not, Luigi?"
"Monsieur has said it," said LLfigi.
"I see at that table an acquaintance of mine. I
must go and speak to him."
Poirot skirted his way delicately round the
dancing floor on which couples were revolving.
The table in question was set for six, but it had at
the moment only one occupant, a young man who
was thoughtfully, and it seemed pessimistically,
drinking champagne.
He was not at all the person that Poirot had ex-pected
to see. It seemed impossible to associate the
idea of danger or melodrama with any party of
which Tony Chapell was a member.
Poirot paused delicately by the table.
"Ah, it is, is it not, my friend Anthony Chap-ell?"
"By all that's wonderful--Poirot the police
hound!" cried the young man. "Not Anthony, my
dear fellow--Tony to friends!"
He drew out a chair.
"Come, sit with me. Let us discourse of crime!
Let us go further and drink to crime." He poured
champagne into an empty glass. "But what are
you doing in this haunt of song and dance and
merriment, my dear Poirot? We have no bodies
here, positively not a single body to offer you."
108
Agatha Christie
Poirot sipped the champagne.
"You seem very gay, man cher?"
"Gay? I am steeped in miserymwallowing in
gloom. Tell me, you hear this tune they are playing.
You recognize it?"
Poirot lazarded cautiously:
"Something perhaps to do with your baby having
left you?"
"Not a bad guess," said the young man, "but
wrong for once. 'There's nothing like love for
making you miserable!' That's what it's called."
"Aha?"
"My favorite tune,." said Tony Chapell mournfully.
"And my favorite restaurant and my favorite
band--and my favorite girl's here and she's
dancing it with somebody else."
"Hence the melancholy?" said Poirot.
"Exactly. Pauline and I, you see, have had what
the vulgar call words. That is to say, she's had
ninety-five words to five of mine out of every hundred.
My five are: 'But darling--I can explain.' --Then she starts in on her ninety-five again and
we get no further. I think," added Tony sadly,
"that I shall poison myself."
"Pauline?" murmured Poirot.
"Pauline Weatherby. Barton Russell's young
sister-in-law. Young, lovely, disgustingly rich. Tonight
Barton Russell gives a party. You know
him? Big Business, clean-shaven American--full
of pep and personality. His wife was Pauline's
sister."
"And who else is there at this party?"
"You'll meet 'em in a minute when the music
stops. There's Lola Valdez--you know, the South
YELLOW IRIS
109
American dancer in the new show at the Metro-pole,
and there's Stephen Carter. D'you know
Carter--he's in the diplomatic service. Very hush-hush.
Known as silent Stephen. Sort of man who
says, 'I am not at liberty to state, etc., etc.' Hullo,
here they come."
Poirot rose. He was introduced to Barton
Russell, to Stephen Carter, to Sefiora Lola Valdez,
a dark and luscious creature, and to Pauline
Weatherby, very young, very fair, with eyes like
cornflowers.
Barton Russell said:
"What, is this the great M. Hercule Poirot? I
am indeed pleased to meet you, sir. Won't you sit
down and join us? That is, unless--"
Tony Chapell broke in.
"He's got an appointment with a body, I be-lieve,
or is it an absconding financier, or the Rajah
of Borrioboolagah's great ruby?"
"Ah, my friend, do you think I am never off
duty? Can I not, for once, seek only to amuse
myself?"
"Perhaps you've got an appointment with
Carter here. The latest from Geneva. Interna-tional
situation now acute. The stolen plans must
be found or war will be declared tomorrow!"
Pauline Weatherby said cuttingly:
"Must you be so completely idiotic, Tony?"
"Sorry, Pauline."
Tony Chapell relapsed into crestfallen silence.
"How severe you are, Mademoiselle."
"I hate people who play the fool all the time?
"I must be careful, I see. I must converse only
of serious matters."
112
Agatha Christie
"Excuse me, must just speak to a fellow I know
over there. Fellow I was with at Eton."
Stephen Ca-ter got up and walked to a table a
few places away.
Tony said gloomily:
"Somebody ought to drown old Etonians at
birth."
Hercule Poirot was still being gallant to the
dark beauty beside him.
He murmured:
"I wonder, may I ask, what are the favorite
flowers of Mademoiselle?"
"Ah, now, why ees eet you want to know?"
Lola was arch.
"Mademoiselle, if I send flowers to a lady, I am
particular that they should be flowers she likes."
"That ees very charming of you, M. P0irot. I
weel tell you--I adore the big dark red carnations
--or the dark red roses."
"Superb--yes, SUperb! You do not, then, like
yellow fiowersyellow irises?"
"Yellow flowers--no--they do not accord with
my temperament."
"How wise .... Tell me, Mademoiselle, did you
ring up a friend tonight, since you arrived here?"
"I? Ring up a friend? No, what a curious question!''
"Ah, but I, I am a very curious man."
"I'm sure yoo are." She rolled her dark eyes at
him. "A vairy dangerous man."
"No, no, not dangerous; say, a man who may
be useful--in danger! You understand?"
Lola giggled. She showed white even teeth.
"No, no," she laughed. "You are dangerous."
Hercule Poirot sighed.
YELLOW IRIS
1 13
"I see that you do not understand. All this is
very strange."
Tony came out of a fit of
abstraction and said
suddenly:
"Lola, what about a spot of swoop and dip?
Come along."
"I weel come--yes. Since M. Poirot ecs not
brave enough I"
Tony put an arm round her and remarked over
his shoulder to Poirot as they glided off:
"You can meditate on crime yet to come, old
boy!"
Poirot said: "It is profound what you say there.
Yes, it is profound .... "
He sat meditatively for a minute or two, then he
raised a finger. Luigi came promptly, his wide
Italian face wreathed in smiles.
"Mon vieux," said Poirot. "I need some information."
"Always at your service, Monsieur."
"I desire to know how many of these people at
this table here have used the telephone tonight?"
"I can tell you, Monsieur. The young lady, the
one in white, she telephoned at once when she got
here. Then she went to leave her cloak and while
she was doing that the other lady came out of the
cloakroom and went into the telephone box."
"So the Sefiora did telephone! Was that before
she came into the restaurant?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Anyone else?"
"No, Monsieur."
"All this, Luigi, gives me furiously to think!"
"Indeed, Monsieur."
"Yes. I think, Luigi, that tonight of all nights, I
114
Agatha Christie
must have my wits about me! Something is going
to happen, Luigi, and I am not at all sure what it
is."
"Anything I can do, Monsieur--"
Poirot made a sign. Luigi.slipped discreetly
away. Stephen Carter was returning to the table.
"We are still deserted, Mr. Carter," said Poirot.
"Oh--er--quite," said the other.
"You know Mr. Barton Russell well?"
"Yes, known him a good while."
"His sister-in-law, little Miss Weatherby, is very
charming."
"Yes, pretty girl."
"You know her well, too?"
"Quite."
"Oh, quite, quite," said Poirot.
Carter stared at him.
The music stopped and the others returned.
Barton Russell said to a waiter:
"Another bottle of champagne--quickly."
Then he raised his glass.
"See here, folks. I'm going to ask you to drink
a toast. To tell you the truth, there's an idea back
of this little party tonight. As you know, I'd
ordered a table for six. There were only five of us.
That gave us an empty place. Then, by a very
strange coincidence, M. Hercule Poirot happened
to pass by and I asked him to join ourarty.
"You don't know yet what an apt coincidence
that was. You see that empty seat tonight represents
a lady--the lady in whose memory this party
is being given. This party, ladies and gentlemen, is
being held in memory of my dear wife--Iris--who
died exactly four years ago on this very date!"
YELLOW IRIS
1 15
There was a startled movement round the table.
Barton Russell, his face quietly impassive, raised
his glass.
I'll ask you to drink to her memory. Iris!"
"Iris?" said Poirot sharply.
He looked at the flowers. Barton Russell caught
his glance and gently nodded his head.
There were little murmurs round the table.
"Iris--Iris "
Everyone
looked startled and uncomfortable. Barton
Russell went on, speaking with his slow monotonous
American intonation, each word coming
out weightily.
"It
may seem odd to you all that I should celebrate
the anniversary of a death in this way--by a supper
party in a fashionable restaurant. But I have
a reason--yes, I have a reason. For M. Poirot's
benefit, I'll explain."
He
turned his head towards Poirot.
"Four
years ago tonight, M. Poirot, there was a supper
party held in New York. At it were my wife and
myself, Mr. Stephen Carter who was attached to
the Embassy in Washington, Mr. Anthony Chapell
who had been a guest in our house for some
weeks, and Sefiora Valdez who was at that time
enchanting New York City with her dancing. Little
Pauline here"--he patted her shoulder--"was only
sixteen but she came to the supper party as a
special treat. You remember, Pauline?"
"I remember--yes."
Her voice shook a little. "M. Poirot,
on that night a tragedy happened. There was
a roll of drums and the cabaret started.
· The
lights
went down--all but a spotlight in the middle of
the floor. When the lights went up
116
Agatha Christie
again, M. Poirot, my wife was seen to have fallen
forward on the table. She was dead--stone dead.
There was potassium cyanide found in the dregs of
her wine-glass, and the remains of the packet was
discovered in her handbag."
"She had committed suicide?" said Poirot.
"That was the accepted verdict .... It broke me
up, M. Poirot. There was, perhaps, a possible
reason for such an action--the police thought so. I
accepted their decision."
He pounded suddenly on the table.
"But I was not satisfied .... No, for four years
I've been thinking and broodingwand I'm not
satisfied: I don't believe Iris killed herself. I believe,
M. Poirot, that she was murdered--by one
of those people at the table."
"Look here, sir--"
Tony Chapell half sprung to his feet.
"Be quiet, Tony," said Russell. "I haven't
finished. One of them did it--I'm sure of that
now. Someone who, under cover of the darkness,
slipped the half emptied packet of cyanide into her
handbag. I think I know which of them it was. I
mean to know the truth--"
Lola's voice rose sharply.
"You are mad--crazeemwho would have
harmed her? No, you are mad. Me, I will not
stay--"
She broke off. There was a roll of drums.
Barton Russell said:
"The cabaret. Afterwards we will go on with
this. Stay where you are, all of you. I've got to go
and speak to the dance band. Little arrangement
I've made with them."
YELLOW IRIS
117
He got up and left the table.
"Extraordinary business," commented Carter.
"Man's mad."
"He ees crazee, yes," said Lola.
The lights were lowered.
"For two pins I'd clear out," said Tony.
"No!" Pauline spoke sharply. Then she mur-mured,
"Oh, dear--oh, dear--"
"What is it, Mademoiselle?" murmured Poirot.
She answered almost in a whisper.
"It's horrible! It's just like it was that night--"
"Sh! Sh!" said several people.
Poirot lowered his voice.
"A little word in your ear." He whispered, then
patted her shoulder. "All will be well," he as
sured
her.
"My God, listen," cried Lola.
"What is it, Sefiora?"
"It's the same tune--the same song that they
played that night in New York. Barton Russell
must have fixed it. I don't like this."
"Courage--courage--"
There was a fresh hush.
A girl walked out into the middle of the floor, a
coal black girl with rolling eyeballs and white
glistening teeth. She began to sing in a deep hoarse
voice--a voice that was curiously moving.
I've forgotten you
I never think of you
The way you walked
The way you talked
The things you used to say
I've forgotten you
118
Agatha Christie
I never think of you
I couldn't say
For sure today
Whether your eyes were blue or gray
I've forgotten you
I never think of you.
I'm through
Thinking of you
I tell you I'm through
Thinking of you...
You... you.., you ....
The sobbing tune, the deep golden negro voice
had a powerful effect. It hypnotized--cast a spell.
Even the waiters felt it. The whole room stared at
her, hypnotized by the thick cloying emotion she
distilled.
A waiter passed softly round the table filling up
glasses, murmuring "champagne" in an under-tone
but all attention was on the one glowing spot
The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories Page 11