I never think of you

I couldn’t say

For sure today

Whether your eyes were blue or grey

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 undertone 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.

‘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–like 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 paralysed, held in a trance.

Slowly, Poirot nodded his head.

‘Yes, she is dead–la pauvre petite. And I sitting by her! Ah! but this time the murderer shall not escape.’

Barton Russell, his face grey, muttered:

‘Just like Iris…She saw something–Pauline saw something that night–Only she wasn’t sure–she told me she wasn’t sure…We must get the police…Oh, God, little Pauline.’

Poirot said:

‘Where is her glass?’ He raised it to his nose. ‘Yes, I can smell the cyanide. A smell of bitter almonds…the same method, the same poison…’

He picked up her handbag.

‘Let us look in her handbag.’

Barton Russell cried out:

‘You don’t believe this is suicide, too? Not on your life.’

‘Wait,’ Poirot commanded. ‘No, there is nothing here. The lights went up, you see, too quickly, the murderer had not time. Therefore, the poison is still on him.’

‘Or her,’ said Carter.

He was looking at Lola Valdez.

She spat out:

‘What do you mean–what do you say? That I killed her–eet is not true–not true–why should I do such a thing!’

‘You had rather a fancy for Barton Russell yourself in New York. That’s the gossip I heard. Argentine beauties are notoriously jealous.’

‘That ees a pack of lies. And I do not come from the Argentine. I come from Peru. Ah–I spit upon you. I–’ She lapsed into Spanish.