"Oh, dear--oh, dear--"
"What is it, Mademoiselle?" murmured Poirot.
She answered almost in a whisper.
"It's horrible! It's just like it was that night--"
"Sh! Sh!" said several people.
Poirot lowered his voice.
"A little word in your ear." He whispered, then
patted her shoulder. "All will be well," he as
sured
her.
"My God, listen," cried Lola.
"What is it, Sefiora?"
"It's the same tune--the same song that they
played that night in New York. Barton Russell
must have fixed it. I don't like this."
"Courage--courage--"
There was a fresh hush.
A girl walked out into the middle of the floor, a
coal black girl with rolling eyeballs and white
glistening teeth. She began to sing in a deep hoarse
voice--a voice that was curiously moving.
I've forgotten you
I never think of you
The way you walked
The way you talked
The things you used to say
I've forgotten you
118
Agatha Christie
I never think of you