Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

Still he'd fallen for her rather badly. Used up a lot of energy trying to find someone who would introduce him. Quite unforgivable really when he ought to have been attending strictly to business. After all, he wasn't idling his days away at Claridge's for pleasure.

But Rosemary Barton was lovely enough in all conscience to excuse any momentary lapse from duty. All very well to kick himself now and wonder why he'd been such a fool.

Fortunately there was nothing to regret.

Almost as soon as he spoke to her the charm had faded a little. Things resumed their normal proportions. This wasn't love – not yet infatuation. A good time was to be had by all, no more, no less.

Well, he'd enjoyed it. And Rosemary had enjoyed it too. She danced like an angel and wherever he took her men turned round to stare at her. It gave a fellow a pleasant feeling. So long as you didn't expect her to talk. He thanked his stars he wasn't married to her. Once you got used to all that perfection of face and form where would you be? She couldn't even listen intelligently. The sort of girl who would expect you to tell her every morning at the breakfast table that you loved her passionately!

Oh, all very well to think those things now. He'd fallen for her all right, hadn't he?

Danced attendance on her. Rung her up, taken her out, danced with her, kissed her in the taxi. Been in a fair way to making rather a fool of himself over her until that startling, that incredible day.

He could remember just how she had looked, the piece of chestnut hair that had fallen loose over one ear, the lowered lashes and the gleam of her dark blue eyes through them. The pout of the soft red lips.

"Anthony Browne. It's a nice name!"

He said lightly: "Eminently well established and respectable. There was a chamberlain to Henry the Eighth called Anthony Browne."

"An ancestor, I suppose?"

"I wouldn't swear to that."

"You'd better not!"

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm the Colonial branch."

"Not the Italian one?"

"Oh," he laughed. "My olive complexion? I had a Spanish mother."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"A great deal, Mr Anthony Browne."

"You're very fond of my name."

"I said so. It's a nice name."

And then quickly like a bolt from the blue: "Nicer than Tony Morelli."

For a moment he could hardly believe his ears! It was incredible! Impossible! He caught her by the arm. In the harshness of his grip she winced away.

"Oh, you're hurting me!"

"Where did you get hold of that name?" His voice was harsh, menacing.

She laughed, delighted with the effect she had produced. The incredible little fool!

"Who told you?"

"Someone who recognised you."

"Who was it? This is serious, Rosemary. I've got to know."

She shot a sideways glance at him.

"A disreputable cousin of mine, Victor Drake."

"I've never met anyone of that name."

"I imagine he wasn't using that name at the time you knew him. Saving the family feelings."

Anthony said slowly, "I see. It was – in prison?"

"Yes. I was reading Victor the riot act – telling him he was a disgrace to us all. He didn't care, of course. Then he grinned and said, 'You aren't always so particular yourself, sweetheart. I saw you the other night dancing with an ex-gaol-bird – one of your best boy friends, in fact. Calls himself Anthony Browne, I hear, but in stir he was Tony Morelli'."

Anthony said in a light voice: "I must renew my acquaintance with this friend of my youth. We old prison ties must stick together."

Rosemary shook her head. "Too late. He's been shipped off to South America . He sailed yesterday."

"I see." Anthony drew a deep breath. "So you're the only person who knows my guilty secret?"

She nodded. "I won't tell on you."

"You'd better not." His voice grew stern. "Look here, Rosemary, this is dangerous. You don't want your lovely face carved up, do you? There are people who don't stick at a little thing like ruining a girl's beauty. And there's such a thing as being bumped off. It doesn't only happen in books and films. It happens in real life, too."

"Are you threatening me, Tony?"

"Warning you."

Would she take the warning? Did she realise that he was in deadly earnest? Silly little fool. No sense in that lovely empty head. You couldn't rely on her to keep her mouth shut. All the same he'd have to try and ram his meaning home.

"Forget you've ever heard the name of Tony Morelli? Do you understand?"

"But I don't mind a bit, Tony. I'm broadminded. It's quite a thrill for me to meet a criminal. You needn't feel ashamed of it."

The absurd little idiot. He looked at her coldly. He wondered in that moment how he could ever have fancied he cared. He'd never been able to suffer fools gladly – not even fools with pretty faces.

"Forget about Tony Morelli," he said grimly. "I mean it. Never mention that name again."

He'd have to get out. That was the only thing to do. There was no relying on this girl's silence. She'd talk whenever she felt inclined.

She was smiling at him – an enchanting smile, but it left him unmoved.

"Don't be so fierce. Take me to the Jarrows' dance next week."

"I shan't be here. I'm going away."

"Not before my birthday party. You can't let me down. I'm counting on you. Now don't say no. I've been miserably ill with that horrid 'flu and I'm still feeling terribly weak. I mustn't be crossed. You've got to come."

He might have stood firm. He might have chucked it all – gone right away.

Instead, through an open door, he saw Iris coming down the stairs. Iris, very straight and slim, with her pale face and black hair and grey eyes. Iris with much less than Rosemary's beauty and with all the character that Rosemary would never have.

In that moment he hated himself for having fallen a victim, in however small a degree, to Rosemary's facile charm. He felt as Romeo felt remembering Rosaline when he had first seen Juliet.

Anthony Browne changed his mind.

In the flash of a second he committed himself to a totally different course of action.

Stephen Farraday was thinking of Rosemary – thinking of her with that incredulous amazement that her image always aroused in him. Usually he banished all thoughts of her from his mind as promptly as they arose – but there were times when, persistent in death as she had been in life, she refused to be thus arbitrarily dismissed.

His first reaction was always the same, a quick irresponsible shudder as he remembered the scene in the restaurant. At least he need not think again of that. His thoughts turned further back, to Rosemary alive, Rosemary smiling, breathing, gazing into his eyes…

What a fool – what an incredible fool he had been!

And amazement contained him, sheer bewildered amazement. How had it all come about? He simply could not understand it. It was as though his life were divided into two parts, one, the larger part, a sane well-balanced orderly progression, the other a brief uncharacteristic madness. The two parts simply did not fit.

For with all his ability and his clever, shrewd intellect, Stephen had not the inner perception to see that actually they fitted only too well.

Sometimes he looked back over his life, appraising it coldly and without undue emotion, but with a certain priggish self-congratulation.

From a very early age he had been determined to succeed in life, and in spite of difficulties and certain initial disadvantages he had succeeded.

He had always had a certain simplicity of belief and outlook. He believed in the will.

What a man willed, that he could do!

Little Stephen Farraday had steadfastly cultivated his will. He could look for little help in life save that which he got by his own efforts. A small pale boy of seven, with a good forehead and a determined chin, he meant to rise – and rise high. His parents, he already knew, would be of no use to him. His mother had married beneath her station in life – and regretted it. His father, a small builder, shrewd, cunning and cheeseparing, was despised by his wife and also by his son…