The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (Hercule Poirot 21)

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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