Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

"I can imagine no possible reason why you should kill George Barton. I think I know who did kill him – and Rosemary Barton too."

"Who is it?"

Race said musingly: "Curious how we have all selected women as suspects. I suspect a woman, too." He paused and said quietly: "I think the guilty person is Iris Marle."

With a crash Anthony pushed his chair back. For a moment his face went dark crimson – then with an effort, he regained command of himself. His voice, when he spoke, had a very slight tremor but was deliberately as light and mocking as ever.

"By all means let us discuss the possibility," he said. "Why Iris Marle? And if so, why should she, of her own accord, tell me about dropping the cyanide paper under the table?"

"Because," said Race, "she knew that Ruth Lessing had seen her do it."

Anthony considered the reply, his head on one side. Finally he nodded.

"Passed," he said. "Go on. Why did you suspect her in the first place?"

"Motive," said Race. "An enormous fortune had been left to Rosemary in which Iris was not to participate. For all we know she may have struggled for years with a sense of unfairness. She was aware that if Rosemary died childless, all that money came to her. And Rosemary was depressed, unhappy, run down after 'flu, just the mood when a verdict of suicide would be accepted without question."

"That's right, make the girl out a monster!" said Anthony.

"Not a monster," said Race. "There is another reason why I suspected her – a farfetched one, it may seem to you – Victor Drake."

"Victor Drake?" Anthony stared.

"Bad blood. You see, I didn't listen to Lucilla Drake for nothing. I know all about the Marle family. Victor Drake – not so much weak as positively evil. His mother, feeble in intellect and incapable of concentration. Hector Marle, weak, vicious and a drunkard. Rosemary, emotionally unstable. A family history of weakness, vice and instability. Predisposing causes."

Anthony lit a cigarette. His hands trembled.

"Don't you believe that there may be a sound blossom on a weak or even a bad stock?"

"Of course there may. But I am not sure that Iris Marle is a sound blossom."

"And my word doesn't count," Anthony said slowly, "because I'm in love with her. George showed her those letters, and she got in a funk and killed him? That's how it goes on, is it?"

"Yes. Panic would obtain in her case."

"And how did she get the stuff into George's champagne glass?"

"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 considered it had to be said."

Kemp watched them both with interest, but he did not speak. He stirred his tea round and round absentmindedly.

"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 materialised 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 two-pence. 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 across the table to meet Anthony's slowly widening smile.

"Hallo," said Kemp, as he took a sip from his cup. "What the hell's this?"

"Coffee," said Anthony. "And I don't think you'll like it. I didn't."

Anthony had the pleasure of seeing instant comprehension flash into the eyes of both his companions.

His satisfaction was short-lived, for another thought struck him with the force of a physical blow.

He ejaculated out loud: "My God – that car."

He sprang up.

"Fool that I was – idiot! She told me that a car had nearly run her down – and I hardly listened. Come on, quick!"

Kemp said: "She said she was going straight home when she left the Yard."

"Yes. Why didn't I go with her?"

"Who's at the house?" asked Race.

"Ruth Lessing was there, waiting for Mrs Drake. It's possible that they're both discussing the funeral still!"

"Discussing everything else as well if I know Mrs Drake," said Race. He added abruptly, "Has Iris Marle any other relations?"

"Not that I know of."

"I think I see the direction in which your thoughts, ideas, are leading you. But – is it physically possible?"