Sparkling Cyanide. Агата Кристи
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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 realize 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 ever heard the name of Tony Morelli, do you understand?’
‘But I don’t mind a bit, Tony. I’m quite broad-minded. 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 musn’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 held 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 cheese-paring, was despised by his wife and also by his son … For his mother, vague, aimless, and given to extraordinary variations of mood, Stephen felt only a puzzled incomprehension until the day he found her slumped down on the corner of a table with an empty eau-de-Cologne bottle fallen from her hand. He had never thought of drink as an explanation of his mother’s moods. She never drank spirits or beer, and he had never realized that her passion for eau-de-Cologne had had any other origin than her vague explanation of headaches.
He realized in that moment that he had little affection for his parents. He suspected shrewdly that they had not much for him. He was small for his age, quiet, with a tendency to stammer. Namby-pamby his father called him. A well-behaved child, little trouble in the house. His father would have preferred a more rumbustious type. ‘Always getting into mischief I was, at his age.’ Sometimes, looking at Stephen, he felt uneasily his own social inferiority to his wife. Stephen took after her folk.
Quietly, with growing determination, Stephen mapped out his own life. He was going to succeed. As a first test of will, he determined to master his stammer. He practised speaking slowly, with a slight hesitation between every word. And in time his efforts were crowned with success. He no longer stammered. In school he applied himself to his lessons. He intended to have education. Education got you somewhere. Soon his teachers became interested, encouraged him. He won a scholarship. His parents were approached by the educational authorities—the boy had promise. Mr Farraday, doing well out of a row of jerry-built houses, was persuaded to invest money in his son’s education.
At twenty-two Stephen came down from Oxford with a good degree, a reputation as a good and witty speaker, and a knack of writing articles. He had also made some useful friends. Politics were what attracted him. He had learnt to overcome his natural shyness and to cultivate an admirable social manner—modest, friendly, and with that touch of brilliance that led people to say, ‘That young man will go far.’ Though by predilection a Liberal, Stephen realized that for the moment, at least, the Liberal Party was dead. He joined the ranks of the Labour Party. His name soon became known as that of a ‘coming’ young man. But the Labour Party did not satisfy Stephen. He found it less open to new ideas, more hidebound by tradition than its great and powerful rival. The Conservatives, on the other hand, were on the look-out for promising young talent.
They approved of Stephen Farraday—he was just the type they wanted. He contested a fairly solid Labour constituency and won it by a very narrow majority. It was with a feeling of triumph that Stephen took his seat in the House of