‘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 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 brooding–and 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–crazee–who 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.’

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 murmured, ‘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, Señora?’

‘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