Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [18]
‘Monsieur has said it,’ said Luigi.
‘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 expected 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 Chapell?’
‘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.’
Poirot sipped the champagne.
‘You seem very gay, mon cher?’
‘Gay? I am steeped in misery–wallowing in gloom. Tell me, you hear this tune they are playing. You recognize it?’
Poirot hazarded 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 favourite tune,’ said Tony Chapell mournfully. ‘And my favourite restaurant and my favourite band–and my favourite 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 American dancer in the new show at the Metropole, 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 Señora 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 believe, 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 the UN International 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.’
‘Oh, no, M. Poirot. I didn’t mean you.’
She turned a smiling face to him and asked:
‘Are you really a kind of Sherlock Holmes and do wonderful deductions?’
‘Ah, the deductions–they are not so easy in real life. But shall I try? Now then, I deduce–that yellow irises are your