“Parbleu! to see how long it was,” replied my friend imperturbably2.
I was vexed3. Poirot’s incurable4 habit of making a mystery out of nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially5 at the time, certain words Mrs. Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred6 to me, fraught7 with a new significance. “So you did not sail?” she had said, and then had added: “After all, it does not matter—now.”
What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical—significant. Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted8 his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived plan?
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs. Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive9 for the assassination10. But some very powerful considerations must keep her silent.
“You think profoundly, my friend,” remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my reflections. “What is it that intrigues11 you so?”
I told him, sure of my ground, though feeling expectant that he would ridicule12 my suspicions. But to my surprise he nodded thoughtfully.
“You are quite right, Hastings. From the beginning I have been sure that she was keeping something back. At first I suspected her, if not of inspiring, at least of conniving13 at the crime.”
“You suspected her?” I cried.
“But certainly! She benefits enormously—in fact, by this new will, she is the only person to benefit. So, from the start, she was singled out for attention. You may have noticed that I took an early opportunity of examining her wrists. I wished to see whether there was any possibility that she had gagged and bound herself. Eh bien, I saw at once that there was no fake, the cords had actually been drawn14 so tight as to cut into the flesh. That ruled out the possibility of her having committed the crime single-handed. But it was still possible for her to have connived15 at it, or to have been the instigator16 with an accomplice17. Moreover, the story, as she told it, was singularly familiar to me—the masked men that she could not recognize, the mention of ‘the secret’—I had heard, or read, all these things before. Another little detail confirmed my belief that she was not speaking the truth. The wrist watch, Hastings, the wrist watch!”
“You see, mon ami? You comprehend?”
“No,” I replied with some ill humour. “I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries, and it’s useless asking you to explain. You always like keeping everything up your sleeve to the last minute.”
“Do not enrage19 yourself, my friend,” said Poirot with a smile. “I will explain if you wish. But not a word to Giraud, c’est entendu? He treats me as an old one of no importance! We shall see! In common fairness I gave him a hint. If he does not choose to act upon it, that is his own look out.”
I assured Poirot that he could rely upon my discretion20.
“C’est bien! Let us then employ our little grey cells. Tell me, my friend, at what time, according to you, did the tragedy take place?”
“Why, at two o’clock or thereabouts,” I said, astonished. “You remember, Mrs. Renauld told us that she heard the clock strike while the men were in the room.”
“Exactly, and on the strength of that, you, the examining magistrate21, Bex, and every one else, accept the time without further question. But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least two hours earlier.”
“But the doctors—”
“They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously22. Mon ami, for some reason, it was imperative23 that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording24 the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Mrs. Renauld’s testimony25 alone, some one moved on the hands of that wrist watch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism26 of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous27 manoeuvre28 on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying: secondly29, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement30 of the time.”
“But what reason could there be?”
“Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connection.”
“And that is?”
“The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve.”
I followed it out slowly.
“So that, the crime apparently31 taking place some two hours later, any one leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable32 alibi33!”
“Perfect, Hastings! You have it!”
I sprang up.
“But we must inquire at the station. Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!”
“You think so, Hastings?”
“Of course. Let us go there now.”
Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm.
“Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners.”
I stared, and he said rather impatiently:
“Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!”
“You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—” he broke off.
“But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago?”
“Undoubtedly there was a secret in M. Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent37. It is possible that it was used in the same way on M. Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions into a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured, Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France.”
He spoke38 so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one final objection:
“And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them.”
“Planted! Deliberately40 planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. ‘See what I have found,’ he says. And then again to me: ‘What do you see here?’ Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth, ‘Nothing.’ And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself, ‘Oh, that he is imbecile, this old one!’ But we shall see. …”
“Then all this story of the masked men—?”
“Is false.”
“What really happened?”
“One person could tell us—Madame Renauld. But she will not speak. Threats and entreaties43 would not move her. A remarkable44 woman that, Hastings. I recognized as soon as I saw her that I had to deal with a woman of unusual character. At first, as I told you, I was inclined to suspect her of being concerned in the crime. Afterwards I altered my opinion.”
“What made you do that?”
“Her spontaneous and genuine grief at the sight of her husband’s body. I could swear that the agony in that cry of hers was genuine.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, “one cannot mistake these things.”
“I beg your pardon, my friend—one can always be mistaken. Regard a great actress, does not her acting45 of grief carry you away and impress you with its reality? No, however strong my own impression and belief, I needed other evidence before I allowed myself to be satisfied. The great criminal can be a great actor. I base my certainty in this case, not upon my own impression, but upon the undeniable fact that Mrs. Renauld actually fainted. I turned up her eyelids46 and felt her pulse. There was no deception—the swoon was genuine. Therefore I was satisfied that her anguish47 was real and not assumed. Besides, a small additional point not without interest, it was unnecessary for Mrs. Renauld to exhibit unrestrained grief. She had had one paroxysm on learning of her husband’s death, and there would be no need for her to simulate another such a violent one on beholding48 his body. No, Mrs. Renauld was not her husband’s murderess. But why has she lied? She lied about the wrist watch, she lied about the masked men—she lied about a third thing. Tell me, Hastings, what is your explanation of the open door?”
Poirot shook his head, and sighed.
“That is the explanation of Giraud. It does not satisfy me. There is a meaning behind that open door which for a moment I cannot fathom50.”
“I have an idea,” I cried suddenly.
“A la bonne heure! Let us hear it.”
“Listen. We are agreed that Mrs. Renauld’s story is a fabrication. Is it not possible, then, that Mr. Renauld left the house to keep an appointment—possibly with the murderer—leaving the front door open for his return. But he did not return, and the next morning he is found, stabbed in the back.”
“An admirable theory, Hastings, but for two facts which you have characteristically overlooked. In the first place, who gagged and bound Madame Renauld? And why on earth should they return to the house to do so? In the second place, no man on earth would go out to keep an appointment wearing his underclothes and an overcoat. There are circumstances in which a man might wear pajamas51 and an overcoat—but the other, never!”
“True,” I said, rather crest-fallen.
“No,” continued Poirot, “we must look elsewhere for a solution of the open door mystery. One thing I am fairly sure of—they did not leave through the door. They left by the window.”
“What?”
“Precisely.”
“But there were no footmarks in the flower bed underneath52.”
“No—and there ought to have been. Listen, Hastings. The gardener, Auguste, as you heard him say, planted both those beds the preceding afternoon. In the one there are plentiful53 impressions of his big hobnailed boots—in the other, none! You see? Some one had passed that way, some one who, to obliterate54 their footprints, smoothed over the surface of the bed with a rake.”
“Where did they get a rake?”
“Where they got the spade and the gardening gloves,” said Poirot impatiently. “There is no difficulty about that.”
“What makes you think that they left that way, though? Surely it is more probable that they entered by the window, and left by the door.”
“That is possible of course. Yet I have a strong idea that they left by the window.”
“I think you are wrong.”
“Perhaps, mon ami.”
I mused55, thinking over the new field of conjecture56 that Poirot’s deductions57 had opened up to me. I recalled my wonder at his cryptic58 allusions59 to the flower bed and the wrist watch. His remarks had seemed so meaningless at the moment and now, for the first time, I realized how remarkably60, from a few slight incidents, he had unravelled61 much of the mystery that surrounded the case. I paid a belated homage62 to my friend. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded sagely63.
“Method, you comprehend! Method! Arrange your facts. Arrange your ideas. And if some little fact will not fit in—do not reject it but consider it closely. Though its significance escapes you, be sure that it is significant.”
“In the meantime,” I said, considering, “although we know a great deal more than we did, we are no nearer to solving the mystery of who killed Mr. Renauld.”
“No,” said Poirot cheerfully. “In fact we are a great deal further off.”
The fact seemed to afford him such peculiar64 satisfaction that I gazed at him in wonder. He met my eye and smiled.
“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us. That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth65 order. But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and above-board, eh bien, méfiez vous! It is, how do you say it?—cooked! The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals are great. In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, mon ami, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.”
But I had not followed his words. A light had burst upon me.
“Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.”
From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the idea had already occurred to him.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding some one—or screening some one. One of the two.”
I saw very little difference between the two words, but I developed my theme with a good deal of earnestness. Poirot maintained a strictly66 non-committal attitude, repeating:
“It may be—yes, it may be. But as yet I do not know! There is something very deep underneath all this. You will see. Something very deep.”
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1
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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12
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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13
conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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15
connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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16
instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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24
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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25
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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27
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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35
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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39
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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40
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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42
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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44
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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45
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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46
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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47
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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48
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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49
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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50
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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51
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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52
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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53
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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54
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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55
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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56
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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57
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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58
cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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59
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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60
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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61
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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62
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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63
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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64
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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67
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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