Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

"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 ."

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 round 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 in black with no ornament save one jewelled clip. Her raven black hair smooth and lying close to her head, her neck and arms very white – whiter than those of the other women. Ruth was a working girl, she had no long leisured ease in which to acquire sun tan. His eyes met hers and, as though she saw the anxiety in his, she smiled reassurance. His heart lifted. Loyal Ruth.

Beside him Iris was unusually silent. She alone showed consciousness of this being an unusual party. She was pale but in some way it suited her, gave her a grave steadfast beauty. She wore a straight simple frock of leaf-green. Anthony Browne came last, and to George's mind, he came with the quick stealthy step of a wild creature – a panther, perhaps, or a leopard. The fellow was not really quite civilised.

They were all there – all safe in George's trap. Now, the play could begin…

Cocktails were drained. They got up and passed through the open arch into the restaurant proper.

Dancing couples, soft negro music, deft hurrying waiters.

Charles came forward and smilingly piloted them to their table. It was at the far end of the room, a shallow arched alcove which held three tables – a big one in the middle and two small ones for two people either side of it. A middle-aged sallow foreigner and a blonde lovely were at one, a slip of a boy and a girl at the other. The middle table was reserved for the Barton party.

George genially assigned them to their places.

"Sandra, will you sit here, on my right. Browne next to her. Iris, my dear, it's your party. I must have you here next to me, and you beyond her, Farraday. Then you, Ruth –"

He paused – between Ruth and Anthony was a vacant chair – the table had been laid for seven.

"My friend Race may be a bit late. He said we weren't to wait for him. He'll be along sometime. I'd like you all to know him – he's a splendid fellow, knocked about all over the world and can tell you some good yarns."

Iris was conscious of a feeling of anger as she seated herself. George had done it on purpose – separated her from Anthony. Ruth ought to have been sitting where she was, next to her host. So George still disliked and mistrusted Anthony.

She stole a glance across the table. Anthony was frowning. He did not look across at her.

Once he directed a sharp sideways glance at the empty chair beside him. He said: "Glad you've got another man, Barton. There's just a chance I may have to go off early. Quite unavoidable. But I ran into a man here I know."

George said smilingly: "Running business into pleasure hours? You're too young for that, Browne. Not that I've ever known exactly what your business is?"

By chance there was a lull in the conversation. Anthony's reply came deliberately and coolly.

"Organised crime, Barton, that's what I always say when I'm asked. Robberies arranged. Larcenies a feature. Families waited upon at their private addresses."

Sandra Farraday laughed as she said: "You're something to do with armaments, aren't you, Mr Browne? An armament king is always the villain of the piece nowadays."

Iris saw Anthony's eyes momentarily widen in a stare of quick surprise. He said lightly: "You mustn't give me away, Lady Alexandra, it's all very hush hush. The spies of a foreign power are everywhere. Careless talk."

He shook his head with mock solemnity.

The waiter took away the oyster plates.

Stephen asked Iris if she would like to dance. Very soon they were all dancing. The atmosphere lightened.

Presently Iris's turn came to dance with Anthony.

She said: "Mean of George not to let us sit together."

"Kind of him. This way I can look at you all the time across the table."

"You won't really have to go early?"

"I might."

Presently he said: "Did you know that Colonel Race was coming?"

"No, I hadn't the least idea."

"Rather odd, that."

"Do you know him? Oh, yes, you said so, the other day."

She added: "What sort of a man is he?"

"Nobody quite knows."

They went back to the table. The evening wore on. Slowly the tension, which had relaxed, seemed to close again. There was an atmosphere of taut nerves about the table. Only the host seemed genial and unconcerned. Iris saw him glance at his watch.

Suddenly there was a roll of drums – the lights went down. A stage rose in the room. Chairs were pushed a little back, turned sideways. Three men and three girls took the floor, dancing. They were followed by a man who could make noises. Trains, steam rollers, aeroplanes, sewing machines, cows coughing. He was a success. Lenny and Flo followed in an exhibition dance which was more of a trapeze act than a dance. More applause.