Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
Pauline laughed.
“Quite wrong. I telephoned to my maid to post some frightfully important letters that I’d never sent off. Her name’s Louise.”
“I am confused—quite confused.”
The music began again.
“What about it, Pauline?” asked Tony.
“I don’t think I want to dance again so soon, Tony.”
“Isn’t that too bad?” said Tony bitterly to the world at large.
Poirot murmured to the South American girl on his other side:
“Señora, I would not dare to ask you to dance with me. I am too much of the antique.”
Lola Valdez said:
“Ah, it ees nonsense that you talk there! You are steel young. Your hair, eet is still black!”
Poirot winced slightly.
“Pauline, as your brother-in-law and your guardian,” Barton Russell spoke heavily, “I’m just going to force you onto the floor! This one’s a waltz and a waltz is about the only dance I really can do.”
“Why, of course, Barton, we’ll take the floor right away.”
“Good girl, Pauline, that’s swell of you.”
They went off together. Tony tipped back his chair. Then he looked at Stephen Carter.
“Talkative little fellow, aren’t you, Carter?” he remarked. “Help to make a party go with your merry chatter, eh, what?”
“Really, Chapell, I don’t know what you mean?”
“Oh, you don’t—don’t you?” Tony mimicked him.
“My dear fellow.”
“Drink, man, drink, if you won’t talk.”
“No, thanks.”
“Then I will.”
Stephen Carter shrugged his shoulders.
“Excuse me, must just speak to a fellow I know over there. Fellow I was with at Eton.”
Stephen Carter 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 favourite 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. Poirot. 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 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 you 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.
“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 ees not brave enough!”
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 to 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 Señora 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 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 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 he
“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.”