Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You seem very well informed. May I ask why my private affairs should be dragged into the limelight?"

"They will not unless they prove to be relevant to the death of George Barton."

"I see. You are suggesting that I first made love to his wife, and then murdered him."

"Come, Mr Farraday, I'll be frank with you. You and Mrs Barton were very close friends – you parted by your wish, not the lady's. She was proposing, as this letter shows, to make trouble. Very conveniently, she died."

"She committed suicide. I daresay I may have been partly to blame. I may reproach myself, but it is no concern of the law's."

"It may have been suicide – it may not. George Barton thought not. He started to investigate – and he died. The sequence is rather suggestive."

"I do not see why you should – well, pitch on me."

"You admit that Mrs Barton's death came at a very convenient moment for you? A scandal, Mr Farraday, would have been highly prejudicial to your career."

"There would have been no scandal. Mrs Barton would have seen reason."

"I wonder! Did your wife know about this affair, Mr Farraday?"

"Certainly not."

"You are quite sure of that statement?"

"Yes, I am. My wife has no idea that there was anything but friendship between myself and Mrs Barton. I hope she will never learn otherwise."

"Is your wife a jealous woman, Mr Farraday?"

"Not at all. She has never displayed the least jealousy where I am concerned. She is far too sensible."

The inspector did not comment on that.

Instead he said: "Have you at any time in the past year had cyanide in your possession, Mr Farraday?"

"No."

"But you keep a supply of cyanide at your country property?"

"The gardener may. I know nothing about it."

"You have never purchased any yourself at a chemist's or for photography?"

"I know nothing of photography, and I repeat that I have never purchased cyanide."

Kemp pressed him a little further before he finally let him go.

To his subordinate he said thoughtfully,

"He was very quick denying that his wife knew about his affair with the Barton woman. Why was that, I wonder?"

"Daresay he's in a funk in case she should get to hear of it, sir."

"That may be, but I should have thought he'd got the brains to see that if his wife was in ignorance, and would cut up rough, that gives him an additional motive for wanting to silence Rosemary Barton. To save his skin his line ought to have been that his wife more or less knew about the affair but was content to ignore it."

"I daresay he hadn't thought of that, sir."

Kemp shook his head. Stephen Farraday was not a fool. He had a clear and astute brain. And he had been passionately keen to impress on the inspector that Sandra knew nothing.

"Well," said Kemp, "Colonel Race seems pleased with the line he's dug up and if he's right, the Farradays are out – both of them. I shall be glad if they are. I like this chap. And personally I don't think he's a murderer."

Opening the door of their sitting-room, Stephen said, "Sandra?"

She came to him out of the darkness, suddenly holding him, her hands on his shoulders.

"Stephen?"

"Why are you all in the dark?"

"I couldn't bear the light. Tell me."

He said: "They know."

"About Rosemary?"

"Yes."

"And what do they think?"

"They see, of course, that I had a motive… Oh, my darling, see what I've dragged you into. It's all my fault. If only I'd cut loose after Rosemary's death – gone away – left you free – so that at any rate you shouldn't be mixed up in all this horrible business."

"No, not that… Never leave me… never leave me."

She clung to him – she was crying, the tears coursing down her cheeks. He felt her shudder.

"You're my life, Stephen, all my life – never leave me…"

"Do you care so much, Sandra? I never knew…"

"I didn't want you to know. But now –"

"Yes, now… We're in this together, Sandra… we'll face it together… whatever comes, together!"

Strength came to them as they stood there, clasped together in the darkness.

Sandra said with determination: "This shall not wreck our lives! It shall not. It shall not!"

Anthony Browne looked at the card the little page was holding out to him.

He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders.

He said to the boy: "All right, show him up."

When Colonel Race came in, Anthony was standing by the window with the bright sun striking obliquely over his shoulder. He saw a tall soldierly man with a lined bronze face and iron-grey hair – a man whom he had seen before, but not for some years, and a man whom he knew a good deal about. Race saw a dark graceful figure and the outline of a well-shaped head. A pleasant indolent voice said:

"Colonel Race? You were a friend of George Barton's, I know. He talked about you on that last evening. Have a cigarette."

"Thank you, I will."

Anthony said as he held a match:

"You were the unexpected guest that night who did not turn up – just as well for you."

"You are wrong there. That empty place was not for me."

Anthony's eyebrows went up.

"Really? Barton said –"

Race cut in.

"George Barton may have said so. His plans were quite different. That chair, Mr Browne, was intended to be occupied when the lights went down by an actress called Chloe West."

Anthony stared.

"Chloe West? Never heard of her. Who is she?"

"A young actress not very well known but who possesses a certain superficial resemblance to Rosemary Barton."

Anthony whistled.

"I begin to see."

"She had been given a photograph of Rosemary so that she could copy the style of hairdressing and she also had the dress which Rosemary wore the night she died."

"So that was George's plan? Up go the lights – Hey Presto, gasps of supernatural dread! Rosemary has come back. The guilty party gasps out: 'It's true – it's true – I dunnit.'"

He paused and added: "Rotten even for an ass like poor old George."

"I'm not sure I understand you."

Anthony grinned.

"Oh, come now, sir – a hardened criminal isn't going to behave like a hysterical schoolgirl. If somebody poisoned Rosemary Barton in cold blood, and was preparing to administer the same fatal dose of cyanide to George Barton, that person had a certain amount of nerve. It would take more than an actress dressed up as Rosemary to make him or her spill the beans."

"Macbeth, remember, a decidedly hardened criminal, went to pieces when he saw the ghost of Banquo at the feast."

"Ah, but what Macbeth saw really was a ghost! It wasn't a ham actor wearing Banquo's duds! I'm prepared to admit that a real ghost might bring its own atmosphere from another world. In fact I am willing to admit that I believe in ghosts – have believed in them for the last six months – one ghost in particular."

"Really – and whose ghost is that?"

"Rosemary Barton's. You can laugh if you like. I've not seen her – but I've felt her presence. For some reason or other Rosemary, poor soul, can't stay dead."

"I could suggest a reason."

"Because she was murdered?"

"To put it in another idiom, because she was bumped off. How about that, Mr Tony Morelli?"

There was a silence. Anthony sat down, chucked his cigarette into the grate and lighted another one.

Then he said: "How did you find out?"

"You admit that you are Tony Morelli?"

"I shouldn't dream of wasting time by denying it. You've obviously cabled to America and got all the dope."

"And you admit that when Rosemary Barton discovered your identity you threatened to bump her off unless she held her tongue."

"I did everything I could think of to scare her into holding her tongue," agreed Tony pleasantly.