Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [23]
‘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