Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [47]
The kind of woman whose public life was in all the papers, and whose private life was practically nonexistent except as a bland domestic background.
Nevertheless, he thought, such women have a private life. They know despair, and love, and the agonies of jealousy. They can lose control and risk life itself on a passionate gamble.
He said curiously:
‘Suppose she “done it,” Kemp?’
‘Lady Alexandra? Do you think she did, sir?’
‘I’ve no idea. But suppose she did. Or her husband—who comes under the Kidderminster mantle.’
The steady sea-green eyes of Chief Inspector Kemp looked in an untroubled way into Race’s dark ones.
‘If either of them did murder, we’ll do our level best to hang him or her. You know that. There’s no fear and no favour for murderers in this country. But we’ll have to be absolutely sure of our evidence—the public prosecutor will insist on that.’
Race nodded.
Then he said, ‘Let’s have the doings.’
‘George Barton died of cyanide poisoning—same thing as his wife a year ago. You said you were actually in the restaurant?’
‘Yes. Barton had asked me to join his party. I refused. I didn’t like what he was doing. I protested against it and urged him, if he had doubts about his wife’s death, to go to the proper people—to you.’
Kemp nodded.
‘That’s what he ought to have done.’
‘Instead he persisted in an idea of his own—setting a trap for the murderer. He wouldn’t tell me what that trap was. I was uneasy about the whole business—so much so that I went to the Luxembourg last night so as to keep an eye on things. My table, necessarily, was some distance away—I didn’t want to be spotted too obviously. Unfortunately I can tell you nothing. I saw nothing in the least suspicious. The waiters and his own party were the only people who approached the table.’
‘Yes,’ said Kemp, ‘it narrows it down, doesn’t it? It was one of them, or it was the waiter, Giuseppe Bolsano. I’ve got him on the mat again this morning—thought you might like to see him—but I can’t believe he had anything to do with it. Been at the Luxembourg for twelve years—good reputation, married, three children, good record behind him. Gets on well with all the clients.’
‘Which leaves us with the guests.’
‘Yes. The same party as was present when Mrs Barton—died.’
‘What about that business, Kemp?’
‘I’ve been going into it since it seems pretty obvious that the two hang together. Adams handled it. It wasn’t what we call a clear case of suicide, but suicide was the most probable solution and in the absence of any direct evidence suggesting murder, one had to let it go as suicide. Couldn’t do anything else. We’ve a good many cases like that in our records, as you know. Suicide with a query mark. The public doesn’t know about the query mark—but we keep it in mind. Sometimes we go on quite a bit hunting about quietly.
‘Sometimes something crops up—sometimes it doesn’t. In this case it didn’t.’
‘Until now.’
‘Until now. Somebody tipped Mr Barton off to the fact that his wife had been murdered. He got busy on his own—he as good as announced that he was on the right track—whether he was or not I don’t know—but the murderer must have thought so—so the murderer gets rattled and bumps off Mr Barton. That seems the way of it as far as I can see—I hope you agree?’
‘Oh, yes—that part of it seems straightforward enough. God knows what the “trap” was—I noticed that there was an empty chair at the table. Perhaps it was waiting for some unexpected witness. Anyhow it accomplished rather more than it was meant to do. It alarmed the guilty person so much that he or she didn’t wait for the trap to be sprung.’
‘Well,’ said Kemp, ‘we’ve got five suspects. And we’ve got the first case to go on—Mrs Barton.’
‘You’re definitely of the opinion now that it was not suicide?’
‘This murder seems to prove that it wasn’t. Though I don’t think you can blame us at the time for accepting the suicide theory as the most probable. There was some evidence for it.’
‘Depression after influenza?’
Kemp’s wooden face showed a ripple