Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [81]
‘That, I confess, I do not know.’
‘I’m thankful there’s something you don’t know.’ Anthony tilted his chair back and then forward. His eyes were angry and dangerous. ‘You’ve got a nerve saying all this to me.’
Race replied quietly:
‘I know. But I consider it had to be said.’
Kemp watched them both with interest, but he did not speak. He stirred his tea round and round absent-mindedly.
‘Very well.’ Anthony sat upright. ‘Things have changed. It’s no longer a question of sitting round a table, drinking disgusting fluids, and airing academic theories. This case has got to be solved. We’ve got to resolve all the difficulties and get at the truth. That’s got to be my job—and I’ll do it somehow. I’ve got to hammer at the things we don’t know—because when we do know them, the whole thing will be clear.
‘I’ll re-state the problem. Who knew that Rosemary had been murdered? Who wrote to George telling him so? Why did they write to him?
‘And now the murders themselves. Wash out the first one. It’s too long ago, and we don’t know exactly what happened. But the second murder took place in front of my eyes. I saw it happen. Therefore I ought to know how it happened. The ideal time to put the cyanide in George’s glass was during the cabaret—but it couldn’t have been put in then because he drank from his glass immediately afterwards. I saw him drink. After he drank, nobody put anything in his glass. Nobody touched his glass, nevertheless next time he drank, it was full of cyanide. He couldn’t have been poisoned—but he was! There was cyanide in his glass—but nobody could have put it there! Are we getting on?’
‘No,’ said Chief Inspector Kemp.
‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘The thing has now entered into the realm of a conjuring trick. Or a spirit manifestation. I will now outline my psychic theory. Whilst we were dancing, the ghost of Rosemary hovers near George’s glass and drops in some cleverly materialized cyanide—any spirit can make cyanide out of ectoplasm. George comes back and drinks her health and—oh, Lord!’
The other two stared curiously at him. His hands were holding his head. He rocked to and fro in apparent mental agony. He said:
‘That’s it…that’s it…the bag…the waiter…’
‘The waiter?’ Kemp was alert.
Anthony shook his head.
‘No, no. I don’t mean what you mean. I did think once that what we needed was a waiter who was not a waiter but a conjurer—a waiter who had been engaged the day before. Instead we had a waiter who had always been a waiter—and a little waiter who was of the royal line of waiters—a cherubic waiter—a waiter above suspicion. And he’s still above suspicion—but he played his part! Oh, Lord, yes, he played a star part.’
He stared at them.
‘Don’t you see it? A waiter could have poisoned the champagne but the waiter didn’t. Nobody touched George’s glass but George was poisoned. A, indefinite article. The, definite article. George’s glass! George! Two separate things. And the money—lots and lots of money! And who knows—perhaps love as well? Don’t look at me as though I’m mad. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Thrusting his chair back he sprang to his feet and caught Kemp by the arm.
‘Come with me.’
Kemp cast a regretful glance at his half-full cup.
‘Got to pay,’ he muttered.
‘No, no, we’ll be back in a moment. Come on. I must show you outside. Come on, Race.’
Pushing the table aside, he swept them away with him to the vestibule.
‘You see that telephone box there?’
‘Yes?’
Anthony felt in his pockets.
‘Damn, I haven’t got twopence. Never mind. On second thoughts I’d rather not do it that way. Come back.’
They went back into the café, Kemp first, Race following with Anthony’s hand on his arm.
Kemp had a frown on his face as he sat down and picked up his pipe. He blew down it carefully and began to operate on it with a hairpin which he brought out of his waistcoat pocket.
Race was frowning at Anthony with a puzzled face. He leaned back and picked up his cup, draining the remaining fluid in it.
‘Damn,’ he said violently. ‘It’s got sugar in it!’
He looked