Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [43]
‘Hallo—have you gone away?’
‘No, I’m here.’
‘You were saying something. What’s the matter, darling? I can hear you sighing through the telephone. Is anything the matter?’
‘No—nothing. I shall be all right tomorrow. Everything will be all right tomorrow.’
‘What touching faith. Don’t they say “tomorrow never comes”?’
‘Don’t.’
‘Iris—something is the matter?’
‘No, nothing. I can’t tell you. I promised, you see.’
‘Tell me, my sweet.’
‘No—I can’t really. Anthony, will you tell me something?’
‘If I can.’
‘Were you—ever in love with Rosemary?’
A momentary pause and then a laugh.
‘So that’s it. Yes, Iris, I was a bit in love with Rosemary. She was very lovely, you know. And then one day I was talking to her and I saw you coming down the staircase—and in a minute it was all over, blown away. There was nobody but you in the world. That’s the cold sober truth. Don’t brood over a thing like that. Even Romeo, you know, had his Rosaline before he was bowled over for good and all by Juliet.’
‘Thank you, Anthony. I’m glad.’
‘See you tonight. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’
‘Actually not for a week—it’s my birthday party though.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I suppose George knows what he’s doing, but it seems to me a crazy idea to have it at the same place where—’
‘Oh, I’ve been to the Luxembourg several times since—since Rosemary—I mean, one can’t avoid it.’
‘No, and it’s just as well. I’ve got a birthday present for you, Iris. I hope you’ll like it. Au revoir.’
He rang off.
Iris went back to Lucilla Drake, to argue, persuade and reassure.
George, on his arrival at his office, sent at once for Ruth Lessing.
His worried frown relaxed a little as she entered, calm and smiling, in her neat black coat and skirt.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Ruth. Trouble again. Look at this.’
She took the cable he held out.
‘Victor Drake again!’
‘Yes, curse him.’
She was silent a minute, holding the cable. A lean, brown face wrinkling up round the nose when he laughed. A mocking voice saying, ‘the sort of girl who ought to marry the Boss…’ How vividly it all came back.
She thought:
‘It might have been yesterday…’
George’s voice recalled her.
‘Wasn’t it about a year ago that we shipped him out there?’
She reflected.
‘I think so, yes. Actually I believe it was October 27th.’
‘What an amazing girl you are. What a memory!’
She thought to herself that she had a better reason for remembering than he knew. It was fresh from Victor Drake’s influence that she had listened to Rosemary’s careless voice over the phone and decided that she hated her employer’s wife.
‘I suppose we’re lucky,’ said George, ‘that he’s lasted as long as he has out there. Even if it did cost us fifty pounds three months ago.’
‘Three hundred pounds now seems a lot.’
‘Oh, yes. He won’t get as much as that. We’ll have to make the usual investigations.’
‘I’d better communicate with Mr Ogilvie.’
Alexander Ogilvie was their agent in Buenos Aires—a sober, hard-headed Scotsman.
‘Yes. Cable at once. His mother is in a state, as usual. Practically hysterical. Makes it very difficult with the party tonight.’
‘Would you like me to stay with her?’
‘No.’ He negatived the idea emphatically. ‘No, indeed. You’re the one person who’s got to be there. I need you, Ruth.’ He took her hand. ‘You’re too unselfish.’
‘I’m not unselfish at all.’
She smiled and suggested:
‘Would it be worth trying telephonic communication with Mr Ogilvie? We might get the whole thing cleared up by tonight.’
‘A good idea. Well worth the expense.’
‘I’ll get busy at once.’
Very gently she disengaged her hand from his and went out.
George dealt with various matters awaiting his attention.
At half-past twelve he went out and took a taxi to the Luxembourg.
Charles, the notorious and popular head waiter, came towards him, bending his stately head and smiling in welcome.
‘Good morning, Mr Barton.’
‘Good morning, Charles. Everything all right for tonight?’
‘I think you will be satisfied, sir.’
‘The same table?’
‘The middle one in the alcove, that is right,