The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

"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 Sefiora 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

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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 broodingwand 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--crazeemwho 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."

YELLOW IRIS 117

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 mur-mured, "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, Sefiora?"

"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

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Agatha Christie

I never think of you

I couldn't say

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 under-tone

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.

YELLOW IRIS 1 19

"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--tike 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.