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"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.
Slowly, Poirot nodded his head.
"Yes, she is dead--la pauvre petite. And I sit-ting
by her! Ah! but this time the murderer shall'
not escape."
Barton Russell, his face gray, 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 poi-son