Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [44]
‘Yes—and you understand about the extra place?’
‘It is all arranged.’
‘And you’ve got the—the rosemary?’
‘Yes, Mr Barton. I’m afraid it won’t be very decorative. You wouldn’t like some red berries incorporated—or say a few chrysanthemums?’
‘No, no, only the rosemary.’
‘Very good, sir. You would like to see the menu. Guiseppe.’
With a flick of the thumb Charles produced a smiling little middle-aged Italian.
‘The menu for Mr Barton.’
It was produced.
Oysters, Clear Soup, Sole Luxembourg, Grouse, Poires Hélène, Chicken Livers in Bacon.
George cast an indifferent eye over it.
‘Yes, yes, quite all right.’
He handed it back. Charles accompanied him to the door.
Sinking his voice a little, he murmured:
‘May I just mention how appreciative we are, Mr Barton, that you are—er—coming back to us?’
A smile, rather a ghastly smile, showed on George’s face. He said:
‘We’ve got to forget the past—can’t dwell on the past. All that is over and done with.’
‘Very true, Mr Barton. You know how shocked and grieved we were at the time. I’m sure I hope that Mademoiselle will have a very happy birthday party and that everything will be as you like it.’
Gracefully bowing, Charles withdrew and darted like an angry dragon-fly on some very inferior grade of waiter who was doing the wrong thing at a table near the window.
George went out with a wry smile on his lips. He was not an imaginative enough man to feel a pang of sympathy for the Luxembourg. It was not, after all, the fault of the Luxembourg that Rosemary had decided to commit suicide there or that someone had decided to murder her there. It had been decidedly hard on the Luxembourg. But like most people with an idea, George thought only of that idea.
He lunched at his club and went afterwards to a directors’ meeting.
On his way back to the office, he put through a phone call to a Maida Vale number from a public call box. He came out with a sigh of relief. Everything was set according to schedule.
He went back to the office.
Ruth came to him at once.
‘About Victor Drake.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid it’s rather a bad business. A possibility of criminal prosecution. He’s been helping himself to the firm’s money over a considerable period.’
‘Did Ogilvie say so?’
‘Yes. I got through to him this morning and he got a call through to us this afternoon ten minutes ago. He says Victor was quite brazen about the whole thing.’
‘He would be!’
‘But he insists that they won’t prosecute if the money is refunded. Mr Ogilvie saw the senior partner and that seems to be correct. The actual sum in question is one hundred and sixty-five pounds.’
‘So that Master Victor was hoping to pocket a clear hundred and thirty-five on the transaction?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, we’ve scotched that, at any rate,’ said George with grim satisfaction.
‘I told Mr Ogilvie to go ahead and settle the business. Was that right?’
‘Personally I should be delighted to see that young crook go to prison—but one has to think of his mother. A fool—but a dear soul. So Master Victor scores as usual.’
‘How good you are,’ said Ruth.
‘Me?’
‘I think you’re the best man in the world.’
He was touched. He felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time. On an impulse he picked up her hand and kissed it.
‘Dearest Ruth. My dearest and best of friends. What would I have done without you?’
They stood very close together.
She thought: ‘I could have been happy with him. I could have made him happy. If only—’
He thought: ‘Shall I take Race’s advice? Shall I give it all up? Wouldn’t that really be the best thing?’
Indecision hovered over him and passed. He said:
‘9.30 at the Luxembourg.’
Chapter 6
They had all come.
George breathed a sigh of relief. Up to the last moment he had feared some last minute defection—but they were all here. Stephen Farraday, tall and stiff, a little pompous in manner. Sandra Farraday in a severe black velvet gown wearing emeralds around her neck. The woman had breeding, not a doubt of it. Her manner was completely natural, possibly a little more gracious than usual. Ruth also