“A Sherry Party?”
“Precisement, and to it I will ask Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.”
“And me?”
“Naturally, and you. The present company is included.”
“Hurrah,” said Egg. “You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot.
Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?”
“We shall see,” said Poirot. “But do not expect too much, mademoiselle.
Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.”
As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically: “It’s lovely - just like detective stories.
All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening.
The invitation had been accepted by all.
The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round. “Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in.
I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous resume of the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say,
‘Thou art the woman,’ and everyone will say, ‘She done it,’ and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words.
Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.”
“Quelle histoire,” cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses.
He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. “This is a friendly little party.
Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. La, la! These things, they spoil the palate.”
He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a forbidding expression on her face.
“Voila,” said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. “Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit.
Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Ah, malheur, I have again mentioned death.
Madame, he bowed to Mrs. Dacres, may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.”
“Here’s to you, Egg,” said Sir Charles.
“Cheerio,” said Freddie Dacres.
Everybody murmured something.
There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings.
Everyone was determined to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily ...
“The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail - and a thousand thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quel horreur, the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate.
The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never - never - ah qu’est-ce qu’il ya - ?”
A strange sound had interrupted him - a kind of choking cry.
Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed.
The glass dropped from his hand on to the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward.
“Charles,” cried Egg. “Charles.”
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr. Satterthwaite gently held her back.
“Oh, dear God,” cried Lady Mary.
“Not another!” Angela Sutcliffe cried out: “He’s been poisoned, too ... This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful ... ”
And suddenly collapsing on to a sofa, she began to sob and laugh - a horrible sound.
Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination.
He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly.
There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe.
“My friends,” began Poirot. He got no further, for Egg spat out at him: “You fool. You absurd play-acting little fool!
Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose ...
If you’d let the whole thing alone this wouldn’t have happened ...
It’s you who have murdered Charles - you - you - you ... ” She stopped, unable to get out the words.
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.
“It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles.