Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [19]
‘Quite wrong, M. Poirot. Lilies of the valley or roses.’
Poirot sighed.
‘A failure. I will try once more. This evening, not very long ago, you telephoned to someone.’
Pauline laughed and clapped her hands.
‘Quite right.’
‘It was not long after you arrived here?’
‘Right again. I telephoned the minute I got inside the doors.’
‘Ah–that is not so good. You telephoned before you came to this table?’
‘Yes.’
‘Decidedly very bad.’
‘Oh, no, I think it was very clever of you. How did you know I had telephoned?’
‘That, Mademoiselle, is the great detective’s secret. And the person to whom you telephoned–does the name begin with a P–or perhaps with an H?’
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 the telephone tonight?’
‘I can tell you,