‘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 our party.
‘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!’
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 Señora 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 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 brooding—and 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—crazee—who 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.’
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 murmured, ‘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 assured her.
‘My God, listen,’ cried Lola.
‘What is it, Señora?’
‘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
I never think of you
I couldn’t say
For sure today
Whether your eyes were blue or grey
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 undertone but all attention was on the one glowing spot of light—the black woman whose ancestors came from Africa, singing in her deep voice:
I’ve forgotten you
I never think of you
Oh, what a lie
I shall think of you, think of you, think of you
till I die …
The applause broke out frenziedly. The lights went up. Barton Russell came back and slipped into his seat.
‘She’s great, that girl—’ cried Tony.
But his words were cut short by a low cry from Lola.
‘Look—look …’
And then they all saw. Pauline Weatherby dropped forward onto the table.
Lola cried:
‘She’s dead—just like Iris—like Iris in New York.’
Poirot sprang from his seat, signing to the others to keep back. He bent over the huddled form, very gently lifted a limp hand and felt for a pulse.
His face was white and stern. The others watched him. They were paralysed, held in a trance.
Slowly, Poirot nodded his head.
‘Yes, she is dead—la pauvre petite. And I sitting by her! Ah! but this time the murderer shall not escape.’
Barton Russell, his face grey, muttered:
‘Just like Iris … She saw something—Pauline saw something that night—Only she wasn’t sure—she told me she wasn’t sure … We must get the police … Oh, God, little Pauline.’
Poirot said:
‘Where is her glass?’ He raised it to his nose. ‘Yes, I can smell the cyanide. A smell of bitter almonds … the same method, the same poison …’
He picked up her handbag.
‘Let us look in her handbag.’
Barton Russell cried out:
‘You don’t believe this is suicide, too? Not on your life.’
‘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 lapsed 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 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 marvellous 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 a—a 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 me, 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 now—’
‘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 left. They leant towards each other across the table.
‘Darling Pauline.’
‘Oh, Tony, I’ve been such a nasty spiteful spitfiring little cat to you all day. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Angel! This is Our Tune 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
For getting you down.
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, windscreen wipers, the choke, etcetera. All these things with knobs in a place 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.
Problem at Pollensa Bay Page 6