Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [20]
‘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 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