“I’d better explain,” she said, biting her entrancing lower lip. “I can’t blame them for wondering. He... the d-d-dead man — is... was — Peter Osch. He seems to have been poisoned — in the champagne, the glass smells of it — and we had just switched glasses. Besides, his glass was between him and me. No one else could have given him poison. They think I doctored my glass and then asked him to change, but actually it was he who suggested changing glasses. I don’t see how it was done, but I certainly didn’t do it.”
“Of course not,” Guy said with such heat that she stared at him, and a flush crept along her cheeks. “He must have taken it himself.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” she frowned. “He’s not the suicidal type, I’m sure. Anyhow, I used to know him rather well (Guy winced) and we talked sometimes about suicide — in the idle way one does, what methods one would or wouldn’t use. He always said poison was not for him — he knew too many instances of people who’d been pulled through.”
For some time Guy had been disturbed by the vague sensation of people hovering about them, a sensation enhanced, now that he came to think of it, by the odor of an evil-smelling pipe. This was now followed by a low but penetrating rumble that would have done credit to the foghorn of a transatlantic liner.
“Lordloveaduck,” this voice thundered, “who in blue blazes are you?”
Guy’s glance reluctantly left the girl and traveled upward. It alighted first on the companion of the speaker, a mild, stolid-looking man carrying a neat bowler. Next, his gaze went to the speaker himself, lingering in fascinated and delighted disbelief. He took in the bald head, the prominent abdomen, the disreputable suit, the whole improbably-put-together and fiercely scowling individual whom (next to Melissa, of course) he most wanted to meet in all England — and certainly at this moment most urgently needed.
“You’re Sir Marvin Rhyerlee!” he exclaimed. “My father raised me on tales of you — and I always thought he was exaggerating. (In spite of the tension, he couldn’t help smiling.) You’re the man who solves impossible problems. Well, there’s an impossible murder right here.”
“Well. Now.” The gentleman in question allowed himself to be mollified. “I’m the Old Man, all right. I’m the one they come to when they’re stuck, and laugh at the rest of the time. Even you, son, I saw it! But burn me,” he roared, his wrath returning, “what’s going on here, and why can’t I have a peaceable lunch like any peaceable citizen, without something always going wrong?”
“Peaceable” was somehow the last word Guy would have used in connection with Sir Marvin Rhyerlee, but he let it pass. Before he knew it, they were all being ushered into a private room — M. Druerre, Herr Girden, and Mlle. Glussot, as well as Melissa and himself. Sir Marvin’s luncheon companion turned out to be Inspector Starmes of the C.I.D., who promptly took charge of the investigation.
When they were comfortably settled, Guy explained to Sir Marvin and Starmes how he had become involved. A reminiscent chuckle rumbled out of Sir Marvin when Guy gave his name. “Sure, son, I remember your dad. Those were great times we had in America.”
“So he said,” Guy commented drily. “But even though I’ve barged into something that wasn’t my business, it looked to me as if this crowd was ready to pin a murder on this young lady, just like that. I ask you, sir, does she look like a murderess?”
“We-e-ell,” said Rhyerlee, “lotsa murderers don’t. Ask Starmes here. Just the same, it’s a pretty fast conclusion to jump to. I think,” he looked hard at Druerre, “we ought to hear more.”
“Of course, m’sieu, of course.” The little man with the goatee was all cooperation. “Peter Osch was my ward, as is Melissa St. Dinserd. They are not related to me, nor, for that matter, to each other — otherwise, they could not have been affianced, as they were.”
Melissa made a protesting sound, but M. Druerre continued, unheeding. “Young Osch has been in Africa for a few years, and has only been back in England a few days. Today was the great day of his life — when he came of age — and we were celebrating his birthday. But he was out of touch — we were his only acquaintances in England, and he hardly knew Mlle. Glussot and he only met Herr Girden this morning. It would not make sense for them to take his life. But the young lady here — I do not like to say it, but she is of a hot temper, and she sat next to the wine glass. I can only suppose that they had a — what do you call it? — a lover’s quarrel.”
“Steady, sir,” Starmes cut in affably. “The young lady switched drinks with the gentlemen, didn’t she? Just so. Didn’t it occur to you that perhaps someone might have been trying to poison her, and because of a romantic notion of the young man’s, the murderer got the wrong victim?”
A strangled sound came from Melissa. “Murder me!” Her voice had a queer pitch, but she spoke steadily enough. “Oh, no! But for the record,” she flashed in a different tone, “I was not engaged to him. (Guy felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest.) We once had some sort of childhood notion, but it was never definite, and we hadn’t seen each other for a long time. As you heard, he’s only been back in this country a few days. I am quite heartwhole and fancy free,” she added firmly, and Guy almost stood up and danced a jig-
“But, mademoiselle,” purred Mlle. Glussot, “he did want to marry you, did he not? Le pauvre enfant told me all about you when we met this noon, and he had such high hopes.” Her eyes were twinkling. “Do you know what he told me? That my friend had actually given him a drug that would make you fall in love with him.”
“Miss Glussot!” Starmes couldn’t contain himself. “Do you expect us to believe that?”
“Cherie, you must have misunderstood,” M. Druerre added suavely.
The famous movie star shrugged her beautiful shoulders. “That is what he said. An imaginative type — that young man.”
“It’s just possible,” said Melissa thoughtfully. “He believed in all kinds of crazy nonsense — black magic, voodoo, things like that. Give anyone a little time to win his confidence, and they could probably make him believe anything.”
“But why?” Starmes asked. “Herr Girden, you have a bizarre sense of humor.”
“Ach, nein!” came the angry protest. “I did no such thing. Ramora, where did you get such a crazy idea?”
Guy’s wits had sharpened remarkably when Melissa had said she was fancy free, and suddenly he had a brainstorm. “Look here,” he said, unaware that he was shouting, “the guilty person must be this German chap. If Miss St. Dinserd was the intended victim, Girden might have handed Osch a poison to give to her under pretense of this claptrap. He was sitting next to her — on her other side — so he might even have done it himself. Maybe,” he added wildly, “it’s a plot between the beautiful Frenchwoman and the sinister German. One of them’s lying about this love potion business — that we know.”
“Looky here, son.” Rhyerlee took Guy aside. “Girden didn’t put poison in the gal’s glass. Fact is,” he muttered, “Starmes and I had our eyes on Girden for other reasons. That’s why we were here — Starmes wanted me to get a look at him. We never took our eyes off him, and I personally can vouch for the fact that he put nothing in any drink. Besides, Starmes has had him tailed all week, and it’s true that he never met the boy until this morning.”
“Wait,” said Guy, “I’ve got it. We only have M. Druerre’s word that the poison was in the drink. Maybe it was in the food — and he poisoned the drink later to confuse the trail. Or maybe Osch took vitamins and they were doctored.”