Just for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole matter. I admit that I am impulsive4, and Poirot deplores5 my custom of jumping to conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The remarkable6 way in which this discovery justified7 Poirot’s point of view struck me at once.
“Poirot,” I said, “I congratulate you. I see everything now.”
“If that is indeed the truth, I congratulate you, mon ami. For as a rule you are not famous for seeing—eh, is it not so?”
I felt a little annoyed.
“Come now, don’t rub it in. You’ve been so confoundedly mysterious all along with your hints and your insignificant8 details that any one might fail to see what you were driving at.”
Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he looked up.
“And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you see?”
“Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil—Beroldy, who murdered Mr. Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.”
“Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted9? That in actual fact she was guilty of connivance10 in her husband’s murder?”
I opened my eyes wide.
“But of course! Don’t you?”
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a chair, and then said thoughtfully.
“Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no ‘of course’ about it, my friend. Technically11 speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.”
“Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.”
Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked than ever.
“So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil murdered M. Renauld?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.
Poirot nodded his head at me.
“You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness sake) murder M. Renauld? We can find no shadow of a motive13. She does not benefit by his death; considered as either mistress or blackmailer14 she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder without a motive. The first crime was different, there we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband’s shoes.”
“Money is not the only motive for murder,” I objected.
“True,” agreed Poirot placidly15. “There are two others, the crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea which implies some form of mental derangement16 on the part of the murderer. Homicidal mania18, and religious fanaticism19 belong to that class. We can rule it out here.”
“But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, if she found that his affection was cooling, or if her jealousy20 was aroused in any way, might she not have struck him down in a moment of anger?”
Poirot shook his head.
“If—I say if, you note—Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she had been cold-blooded and calculating in her motives21 and actions. It was not to link her life with that of her young lover that she connived22 at her husband’s murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective. If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That was a man’s work.”
“I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?”
I stared at him in astonishment25.
“Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the ‘secret,’ the papers!”
Poirot smiled a little.
“Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I repudiate26 nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together inevitably27. But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale—if it were all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?”
“I can’t believe that,” I said slowly. “If it is so, she must be the most consummate28 actress the world has ever known.”
“Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “Again you have the sentiment, and not the logic29! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Madame Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already enumerated30 to you. The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw very near to the truth which is, as always, very curious and interesting.”
“Poirot,” I cried, “what more do you know?”
“Mon ami, you must make your own deductions31. You have ‘access to the facts!’ Concentrate your grey cells. Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot.”
“But are you sure?”
“My friend, in many ways I have been an imbecile. But at last I see clearly.”
“You know everything?”
“I have discovered what M. Renauld sent for me to discover.”
“And you know the murderer?”
“I know one murderer.”
“What do you mean?”
“We talk a little at cross-purposes. There are here not one crime, but two. The first I have solved, the second—eh bien, I will confess, I am not sure!”
“But, Poirot, I thought you said the man in the shed had died a natural death?”
“Ta-ta-ta.” Poirot made his favourite ejaculation of impatience32. “Still you do not understand. One may have a crime without a murderer, but for two crimes it is essential to have two bodies.”
His remark struck me as so peculiarly lacking in lucidity33 that I looked at him in some anxiety. But he appeared perfectly34 normal. Suddenly he rose and strolled to the window.
“Here he is,” he observed.
“Who?”
That changed the course of my ideas, and I asked Poirot if he knew that Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime. I had hoped to catch my astute37 little friend napping, but as usual, he was omniscient38. He, too, had inquired at the station.
“And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made his inquiries39.”
“You don’t think—” I said, and then stopped. “Ah, no, it would be too horrible!”
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven women directly or indirectly40 connected with the case Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor, and the three servants—there was, with the exception of old Auguste who could hardly count, only one man—Jack Renauld. And a man must have dug a grave. …
I had no time to develop further the appalling41 idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered42 into the room.
Poirot greeted him in a business-like manner.
“Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely43 to derange17 you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the Villa is not too congenial to me. M. Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.”
“Exactly, M. Poirot,” said the lad. “That fellow Giraud is an ill-conditioned brute44, and I’d be delighted to see some one score at his expense.”
“Then I may ask a little favour of you?”
“Certainly.”
“I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask there at the cloak-room whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?”
“Of course I will,” said the boy, mystified, though ready for the task.
“I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,” explained Poirot. “There is a train in a quarter of an hour, and I will ask you not to return to the Villa, as I have no wish for Giraud to get an inkling of your errand.”
“Very well, I will go straight to the station.”
He rose to his feet. Poirot’s voice stopped him.
“One moment, M. Renauld, there is one little matter that puzzles me. Why did you not mention to M. Hautet this morning that you were in Merlinville on the night of the crime?”
“You have made a mistake. I was in Cherbourg, as I told the examining magistrate46 this morning.”
Poirot looked at him, his eyes narrowed, cat-like, until they only showed a gleam of green.
“Then it is a singular mistake that I have made there—for it is shared by the station staff. They say you arrived by the 11:40 train.”
For a moment Jack Renauld hesitated, then he made up his mind.
“And if I did? I suppose you do not mean to accuse me of participating in my father’s murder?” He asked the question haughtily47, his head thrown back.
“I should like an explanation of the reason that brought you here.”
“That is simple enough. I came to see my fiancée, Mademoiselle Daubreuil. I was on the eve of a long voyage, uncertain as to when I should return. I wished to see her before I went, to assure her of my unchanging devotion.”
“And you did see her?” Poirot’s eyes never left the other’s face.
There was an appreciable48 pause before Renauld replied. Then he said:
“Yes.”
“And afterwards?”
“I found I had missed the last train. I walked to St. Beauvais where I knocked up a garage and got a car to take me back to Cherbourg.”
“St. Beauvais? That is fifteen kilometres. A long walk, M. Renauld.”
“I—I felt like walking.”
Poirot bowed his head as a sign that he accepted the explanation. Jack Renauld took up his hat and cane49 and departed. In a trice Poirot jumped to his feet.
“Quick, Hastings. We will go after him.”
Keeping a discreet50 distance behind our quarry51, we followed him through the streets of Merlinville. But when Poirot saw that he took the turning to the station, he checked himself.
“All is well. He has taken the bait. He will go to Abbalac, and will inquire for the mythical52 valise left by the mythical foreigners. Yes, mon ami, all that was a little invention of my own.”
“You wanted him out of the way!” I exclaimed.
“Your penetration53 is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go up to the Villa Geneviève.”
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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deplores
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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derange
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| v.使精神错乱 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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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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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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