'What a risk!'
'Why a risk? Everyone was upstairs dressing for dinner. It was a very good moment. The bullet was the only contretemps, and even that, as he thought, passed off well.'
Poirot picked it up. 'He threw it under the mirror when I was examining the window with Mr Dalehouse.'
'Oh!' Diana wheeled on Marshall. 'Marry me, John, and take me away.'
Barling coughed. 'My dear Diana, under the terms of my friend's will -'
'I don't care,' the girl cried. 'We can draw pictures on pavements.'
'There's no need to do that,' said Harry. 'We'll go halves, Di. I'm not going to bag things because Uncle had a bee in his bonnet.'
Suddenly there was a cry. Mrs Lytcham-Roche had sprung to her feet.
'M. Poirot - the mirror - he must have deliberately smashed it.'
'Yes, madame.'
'Oh!' She stared at him. 'But it is unlucky to break a mirror.'
'It has proved very unlucky for Mr Geoffrey Keene,' said Poirot cheerfully.
YELLOW IRIS
Hercule Poirot stretched his feet towards the electric heater by the wall. The precise design made by the parallel glowing bars was pleasing to his orderly mind.
"The coal heaters were clumsy and disorderly. They never had this delicious symmetry..."
The phone rang. Poirot got up and consulted his watch. It was almost half past eleven. Who would phone him at this hour? But it could be a wrong number.
"Or maybe," he murmured to himself with a dreamy smile, "they have found a millionaire, owner of a newspaper chain, murdered in his library with a rare orchid crushed in his left hand and the page of a cooking book attached by a dagger to his chest..."
Smiling at the pleasing conceit, he lifted the receiver.
Immediately a voice spoke - a soft husky woman's voice with a kind of desperate urgency about it.
"Is that M. Hercule Poirot? Is that M. Hercule Poirot?"
"Hercule Poirot speaks."
"M. Poirot - can you come at once - at once - I'm in danger - in great danger - I know it -"
Poirot said sharply, "Who are you? Where are you speaking from?"
The voice came more faintly but with an even greater urgency.
"At once... it's life or death... The Jardin des Cygnes... at once... table with yellow irises..."
There was a pause - a queer kind of gasp - the line went dead.
Hercule Poirot hung up. His face was puzzled. He murmured between his teeth:
"There is something here very curious…"
In the doorway of the Jardin des Cygnes, fat Luigi hurried forward.
"Buona sera, M. Poirot. You desire a table - yes?"
"No, no, my good Luigi. I seek here for some friends. I will look round - perhaps they are not here yet. Ah, let me see, that table there in the corner with the yellow irises - a little question by the way, if it is not indiscreet. On all the other tables there are tulips - pink tulips - why on that one table do you have yellow irises?"
Luigi shrugged his expressive shoulders.
"A command, Monsieur! A special order! Without doubt, the favorite flowers of one of the ladies. That table, it is the table of Mr Barton Russell - an American - immensely rich."
"Aha, one must study the whims of the ladies, must one not, Luigi?"
"Monsieur has said it," said Luigi.
"I see at that table an acquaintance of mine. I must go and speak to him."
Poirot skirted his way delicately round the dancing floor on which couples were revolving. The table in question was set for six, but it had at the moment only one occupant, a young man who was thoughtfully, and it seemed pessimistically, drinking champagne.
He was not at all the person that Poirot had expected to see. It seemed impossible to associate the idea of danger or melodrama with any party of which Tony Chapell was a member.
Poirot paused delicately by the table.
"Ah, it is, is it not, my friend Anthony Chapell?"
"By all that's wonderful - Poirot the police hound!" cried the young man. "Not Anthony, my dear fellow - Tony to friends!"
He drew out a chair.
"Come, sit with me. Let us discourse of crime! Let us go further and drink to crime." He poured champagne into an empty glass. "But what are you doing in this haunt of song and dance and merriment, my dear Poirot? We have no bodies here, positively not a single body to offer you."
Poirot sipped the champagne.
"You seem very gay, mon cher?"
"Gay? I am steeped in misery - wallowing in gloom. Tell me, you hear this tune they are playing. You recognize it?"
Poirot hazarded cautiously:
"Something perhaps to do with your baby having left you?"
"Not a bad guess," said the young man, "but wrong for once. 'There's nothing like love for making you miserable!' That's what it's called."
"Aha?"
"My favorite tune," said Tony Chapell mournfully. "And my favorite restaurant and my favorite band - and my favorite girl's here and she's dancing it with somebody else."
"Hence the melancholy?" said Poirot.
"Exactly. Pauline and I, you see, have had what the vulgar call words. That is to say, she's had ninety-five words to five of mine out of every hundred. My five are: 'But darling - I can explain.' - Then she starts in on her ninety-five again and we get no further. I think," added Tony sadly, "that I shall poison myself."
"Pauline?" murmured Poirot.
"Pauline Weatherby. Barton Russell's young sister-in-law. Young, lovely, disgustingly rich. Tonight Barton Russell gives a party. You know him? Big Business, clean-shaven American - full of pep and personality. His wife was Pauline's sister."
"And who else is there at this party?"
"You'll meet 'em in a minute when the music stops. There's Lola Valdez - you know, the South American dancer in the new show at the Metropole, and there's Stephen Carter. D'you know Carter - he's in the diplomatic service. Very hush-hush. Known as silent Stephen. Sort of man who says, 'I am not at liberty to state, etc., etc.' Hullo, here they come."
Poirot rose. He was introduced to Barton Russell, to Stephen Carter, to Señora Lola Valdez, a dark and luscious creature, and to Pauline Weatherby, very young, very fair, with eyes like cornflowers.
Barton Russell said:
"What, is this the great M. Hercule Poirot? I am indeed pleased to meet you, sir. Won't you sit down and join us? That is, unless -"
Tony Chapell broke in.
"He's got an appointment with a body, I believe, or is it an absconding financier, or the Rajah of Borrioboolagah's great ruby?"
"Ah, my friend, do you think I am never off duty? Can I not, for once, seek only to amuse myself?"
"Perhaps you've got an appointment with Carter here. The latest from Geneva. International situation now acute. The stolen plans must be found or war will be declared tomorrow!"
Pauline Weatherby said cuttingly:
"Must you be so completely idiotic, Tony?"
"Sorry, Pauline."
Tony Chapell relapsed into crestfallen silence.
"How severe you are, Mademoiselle."
"I hate people who play the fool all the time."
"I must be careful, I see. I must converse only of serious matters."
"Excuse me, must just speak to a fellow I know over there. Fellow I was with at Eton."
Stephen Carter got up and walked to a table a few places away.
Tony said gloomily:
"Somebody ought to drown old Etonians at birth."
Hercule Poirot was still being gallant to the dark beauty beside him.
He murmured:
"I wonder, may I ask, what are the favorite flowers of Mademoiselle?"
"Ah, now, why ees eet you want to know?"
Lola was arch.
"Mademoiselle, if I send flowers to a lady, I am particular that they should be flowers she likes."
"That ees very charming of you, M. Poirot. I weel tell you - I adore the big dark red carnations
- or the dark red roses."
"Superb - yes, superb! You do not, then, like yellow flowers - yellow irises?"
"Yellow flowers - no - they do not accord with my temperament."
"How wise... Tell me, Mademoiselle, did you ring up a friend tonight, since you arrived here?"
"I? Ring up a friend? No, what a curious question!"
"Ah, but I, I am a very curious man."
"I'm sure yoo are." She rolled her dark eyes at him. "A vairy dangerous man."
"No, no, not dangerous; say, a man who may be useful - in danger! You understand?"
Lola giggled. She showed white even teeth.
"No, no," she laughed. "You are dangerous."
Hercule Poirot sighed.
"I see that you do not understand. All this is very strange."
Tony came out of a fit of abstraction and said suddenly:
"Lola, what about a spot of swoop and dip? Come along."
"I weel come - yes. Since M. Poirot ees not brave enough!"
Tony put an arm round her and remarked over his shoulder to Poirot as they glided off:
"You can meditate on crime yet to come, old boy!"
Poirot said: "It is profound what you say there. Yes, it is profound..."
He sat meditatively for a minute or two, then he raised a finger. Luigi came promptly, his wide Italian face wreathed in smiles.
"Mon vieux," said Poirot. "I need some information."
"Always at your service, Monsieur."
"I desire to know how many of these people at this table here have used the telephone tonight?"
"I can tell you, Monsieur. The young lady, the one in white, she telephoned at once when she got here. Then she went to leave her cloak and while she was doing that the other lady came out of the cloakroom and went into the telephone box."
"So the Señora did telephone! Was that before she came into the restaurant?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Anyone else?"
"No, Monsieur."
"All this, Luigi, gives me furiously to think!"
"Indeed, Monsieur."
"Yes. I think, Luigi, that tonight of all nights, I must have my wits about me! Something is going to happen, Luigi, and I am not at all sure what it is."
"Anything I can do, Monsieur -"
Poirot made a sign. Luigi slipped discreetly away. Stephen Carter was returning to the table.
"We are still deserted, Mr Carter," said Poirot.
"Oh - er - quite," said the other.
"You know Mr Barton Russell well?"
"Yes, known him a good while."
"His sister-in-law, little Miss Weatherby, is very charming."
"Yes, pretty girl."
"You know her well, too?"
"Quite."
"Oh, quite, quite," said Poirot.
Carter stared at him.
The music stopped and the others returned.
Barton Russell said to a waiter:
"Another bottle of champagne - quickly."
Then he raised his glass.
"See here, folks. I'm going to ask you to drink a toast. To tell you the truth, there's an idea back of this little party tonight. As you know, I'd ordered a table for six. There were only five of us. That gave us an empty place. Then, by a very strange coincidence, M. Hercule Poirot happened to pass by and I asked him to join our party.
"You don't know yet what an apt coincidence that was. You see that empty seat tonight represents a lady - the lady in whose memory this party is being given. This party, ladies and gentlemen, is being held in memory of my dear wife - Iris - who died exactly four years ago on this very date!"
There was a startled movement round the table. Barton Russell, his face quietly impassive, raised his glass.
"I'll ask you to drink to her memory. Iris!"
"Iris?" said Poirot sharply.
He looked at the flowers. Barton Russell caught his glance and gently nodded his head.
There were little murmurs round the table.
"Iris - Iris -"
Everyone looked startled and uncomfortable. Barton Russell went on, speaking with his slow monotonous American intonation, each word coming out weightily.
"It may seem odd to you all that I should celebrate the anniversary of a death in this way - by a supper party in a fashionable restaurant. But I have a reason - yes, I have a reason. For M. Poirot's benefit, I'll explain."
He turned his head towards Poirot.
"Four years ago tonight, M. Poirot, there was a supper party held in New York. At it were my wife and myself, Mr Stephen Carter who was attached to the Embassy in Washington, Mr Anthony Chapell who had been a guest in our house for some weeks, and Señora Valdez who was at that time enchanting New York City with her dancing. Little Pauline here -" he patted her shoulder - "was only sixteen but she came to the supper party as a special treat. You remember, Pauline?"
"I remember - yes."
Her voice shook a little. "M. Poirot, on that night a tragedy happened. There was a roll of drums and the cabaret started. The lights went down - all but a spotlight in the middle of the floor. When the lights went up again, M. Poirot, my wife was seen to have fallen forward on the table. She was dead - stone dead. There was potassium cyanide found in the dregs of her wine-glass, and the remains of the packet was discovered in her handbag."
"She had committed suicide?" said Poirot.
"That was the accepted verdict... It broke me up, M. Poirot. There was, perhaps, a possible reason for such an action - the police thought so. I accepted their decision."
He pounded suddenly on the table.
"But I was not satisfied... No, for four years I've been thinking and brooding - and I'm not satisfied: I don't believe Iris killed herself. I believe, M. Poirot, that she was murdered - by one of those people at the table."
"Look here, sir -"
Tony Chapell half sprung to his feet.
"Be quiet, Tony," said Russell. "I haven't finished. One of them did it - I'm sure of that now. Someone who, under cover of the darkness, slipped the half emptied packet of cyanide into her handbag. I think I know which of them it was. I mean to know the truth -"
Lola's voice rose sharply.
"You are mad - crazee - who would have harmed her? No, you are mad. Me, I will not stay -"
She broke off. There was a roll of drums.
Barton Russell said:
"The cabaret. Afterwards we will go on with this. Stay where you are, all of you. I've got to go and speak to the dance band. Little arrangement I've made with them."
He got up and left the table.
"Extraordinary business," commented Carter. "Man's mad."
"He ees crazee, yes," said Lola.
The lights were lowered.
"For two pins I'd clear out," said Tony.
"No!" Pauline spoke sharply. Then she murmured, "Oh, dear - oh, dear -"
"What is it, Mademoiselle?" murmured Poirot.
She answered almost in a whisper.
"It's horrible! It's just like it was that night -"
"Sh! Sh!" said several people.
Poirot lowered his voice.
"A little word in your ear." He whispered, then patted her shoulder. "All will be well," he assured her.
"My God, listen," cried Lola.
"What is it, Señora?"
"It's the same tune - the same song that they played that night in New York. Barton Russell must have fixed it. I don't like this."
"Courage - courage -"
There was a fresh hush.
A girl walked out into the middle of the floor, a coal black girl with rolling eyeballs and white glistening teeth. She began to sing in a deep hoarse voice - a voice that was curiously moving.
I've forgotten you
I never think of you
The way you walked
The way you talked
The things you used to say
I've forgotten you
I never think of you
I couldn't say
br /> For sure today
Whether your eyes were blue or gray
I've forgotten you
I never think of you.
I'm through
Thinking of you
I tell you I'm through
Thinking of you...
You... you... you...
The sobbing tune, the deep golden negro voice had a powerful effect. It hypnotized - cast a spell. Even the waiters felt it. The whole room stared at her, hypnotized by the thick cloying emotion she distilled.
A waiter passed softly round the table filling up glasses, murmuring "champagne" in an undertone but all attention was on the one glowing spot of light - the black woman whose ancestors came from Africa, singing in her deep voice:
I've forgotten you
I never think of you
Oh, what a lie
I shall think of you, think of you, think of you...
Till I die...
The applause broke out frenziedly. The lights went up. Barton Russell came back and slipped into his seat.
"She's great, that girl -" cried Tony.
But his words were cut short by a low cry from Lola.
"Look - look..."
And then they all saw. Pauline Weatherby dropped forward onto the table.
Lola cried:
"She's dead - just like Iris - like Iris in New York."
Poirot sprang from his seat, signing to the others to keep back. He bent over the huddled form, very gently lifted a limp hand and felt for a pulse.
His face was white and stern. The others watched him. They were paralyzed, held in a trance.
Slowly, Poirot nodded his head.
"Yes, she is dead - la pauvre petite. And I sitting by her! Ah! but this time the murderer shall not escape."
Barton Russell, his face gray, muttered:
"Just like Iris... She saw something - Pauline saw something that night - Only she wasn't sure - she told me she wasn't sure... We must get the police... Oh, God, little Pauline."
Poirot said:
"Where is her glass?" He raised it to his nose. "Yes, I can smell the cyanide. A smell of bitter almonds... the same method, the same poison... "
He picked up her handbag.
"Let us look in her handbag."
Barton Russell cried out:
"You don't believe this is suicide, too? Not on your life."