Foreword Foreword by Captain Arthur Hastings, O. B. E In this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of relating only those incidents and scenes at which I myself was present. Certain chapters, therefore, are written in the third person. I wish to assure my readers that I can vouch for the occurrences related in these chapters. If I have taken a certain poetic license in describing the thoughts and feelings of various persons, it is because I believe I have set them down with a reasonable amount of accuracy. I may add that they have been vetted' by my friend Hercule Poirot himself. In conclusion, I will say that if I have described at too great length some of the secondary personal relationships which arose as a consequence of this strange series of crimes, it is because the human and personal element can never be ignored. Hercule Poirot once taught me in a very dramatic manner that romance can be a by—product of crime. As to the solving of the A. B. C. mystery, I can only say that in my opinion Poirot showed real genius in the way he tackled a problem entirely unlike any which had previously come his way. 前言 前言 英国军官阿瑟•黑斯廷斯上尉 在本书的叙述中，我违背了自己惯常的做法，——仅仅讲述自己亲身经历过的事件和情况。因而，本书部分章节以第三人称撰写而成。 我期待着向读者们保证，我能够确定在这些章节里相互关联的事件。如果我采用某种满怀诗意的禀赋来描述许多人物的思想和感受，是因为我相信我以相当合理的准确性把他们记录下来。我看还要补充，这些思想感受均经我朋友赫尔克里•波洛亲自“验证”过。 总而言之，我认为，如果用太长的篇幅来描述一部分次要的私人关系，而这种关系是由一系列奇案所引起的，皆因为人性和个人因素从来不可忽视。赫尔克里•波洛就曾经以激烈的方式告诫我，浪漫倾情可能成为犯罪的副产品。 对于侦破 ABC迷案，我只能说，在处理该案的过程中，我认为，以完全前所未有的方式表现出了他真正的天赋。 Chapter 1 The Letter Chapter 1 The Letter It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South Americafor a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for usoutthere. Like every one else, we had suffered from world depression. Ihad various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only besuccessfulif a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to managethe ranch. I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching Englandwas to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot. I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats inLondon. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen thisparticular building entirely on account of its strictly geometricalpearance and proportions. "But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you notfind it so?"I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alludingto an old j oke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managedto induce hens to lay square eggs? Poirot laughed heartily. "Ah, you remember that? Alas! no--science has not yet induced thehens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizesand colours! "I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was lookingwonderfully well--hardly a day older than when I had last seen him. "You' re looking in fine fettle, Poirot, " I said. "You' ve hardly agedat all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewergreyhairs than when I saw you last. " Poirot beamed on me. "And why is that not possible? It is quite true. ""Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead offrom black to grey?""Precisely. " "But surely that' s a scientific impossibility! ""Not at all. ""But that' s very extraordinary. It seems against nature. ""As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention thesolution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doingSO! "I stared at him puzzled. Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bot-tlein his hand which he handed to me. I took it, for the moment uncomprehending. It bore the words: REVlVlT. --To bring back the natural tone of the hair. REVlVIT is• NOT a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, 7tian, Brown, Black. "Poirot, " I cried. "You have dyed your hair! ""Ah, the comprehension comes to you! ""So thatwhy your hair looks so much blacker than it did last timeI was back. ""Exactly. " "Dear me, " I said, recovering from the shock. "I suppose next time Icome home I shall find you wearing false moustaches---or are youdoing so now?"Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw. "No, no, indeed, mort ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still faroff. The false moustaches! Quelle horreur?' He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine charac-ter. "Well, they are very luxuriant still, " I said. "N' est-ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair ofmoustaches to equal mine. "THE A. B. C. MURDERS A good j ob too, I thought privately. But I would not for the worldhave hurt Poirot' s feelings by saying so. Instead I asked if he still practiced his profession on occasions. "I know, " I said, "that you actually retired years agog""C' est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows! And immediately amurder occurs--and I send the vegetable marrows to promenadethemselves to the devil. And since then--I know very well what youwill say--I am like the Prima Donna who makes positively the farewellperformance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinitenumber of times! "I laughed. "In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: This is theend. But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, theretirementI care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised,theygrow the rust. " "I see, " I said. "You exercise them in moderation. ""Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only thecream of crime. ""Has there been much cream about?" "Pas mai. Not long ago I had a narrow escape. ""Of failure?""No, no. " Poirot looked shocked. "But I--l, Hercule Poirot, wasnearly exterminated. "I whistled. "An enterprising murderer! " "Not so much enterprising as careless, " said Poirot. "Preciselythat---careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in manyways I regard you as my mascot. ""Indeed?" I said. "In what ways?" Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on: "As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: Somethingwill arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But ifso it must be no common affair. It must be something"--he waved hishands excitedly--"something recherchd--delicate--fine. . . " He gavethe last untranslatable word its full fiavour. "Upon my word, Poirot, " I said. "Any one would think you were orderinga dinner at the Ritz. ""Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true. " Hesighed. "But I believe in luck--in destiny, if you will. It is yourdestinyto stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivableerror. "4AGATHA CHRISTIE "What do you call the unforgivable error? "Overlooking the obvious. " I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point. "Well, " I said presently, smiling, "has this super crime turned upyet?""Pas encore. At least--that He paused. A frown of perplexity creased his forehead. His handsautomatically straightened an obj ect or two that I had inadvertentlypushed awry. "I am not sure, " he said slowly. There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him insurprise. The frown still iingered. Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the roomto a desk near the window. Its contents' , I need hardly say, were allneatly docketed and pigeon-holed so that he was able at once to layhishand upon the paper he wanted. He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read itthrough himself, then passed it to me. "Tell me, rnon ami, " he said. "What do you make of thisT' I took it from him with some interest. It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters: MR. HERCULE POIROT--You fancy yourself, don' t you, at solvingmysteries that are too dicult for our poor thick-headed British po-lice? Let us see, Mr. Clever Poirot, j ust how clever you can be. Per-hapsyou ' ll find this nut too hard to craclc Look out for Andover onthe 21st of the month. Yours, etc. , A. B. C. I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed. "Postmarked W. C. 1, " said Poirot as I turned my attention to thepostmark. "Well, what is your opinion. ' ?"I shrugged my shoulders as I handed it back to him. "Some madman or other, I suppose. " "That is all you have to say. ' ?" "Well--doesn' t it sound like a madman to youT' "Yes, my friend, it does. " His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously. "You take this very seriously, Poirot. " "A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a verydangerous thing. ""Yes, of course, that is true . . . . I hadn' t considered that point . . . . But what I meant was, it sounds more like a rather idiotic kind of hoax. Perhaps some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight. " "Comment? Nine7 Nine what? "Nothing--j ust an expression. I meant a fellow who was tight. No,damn it, a fellow who had had a spot too much to drink. ""Merci, Hastings--the expression ' tight' I am acquainted with it. Asyou say, there may be nothing more to it than that . . . . ""But you think there isT" I asked, struck by the dissatisfaction ofhistone. Poirot shook his head doubtfully, but he did not speak. "What have you done about it. ' ?" I inquired. "What can one do. ' ? I showed it to Japp. He was of the same opinionas you--a stupid hoax--that was the expression he used. They getthese things every day at Scotland Yard. I, too, have had my share' "But you take this one seriously? Poirot replied slowly. "There is something about that letter, Hastings, that I do not like. . . . "In spite of myself, his tone impressed me. "You think--what?" He shook his head, and picking up the letter, put it away again in thedesk. "If you really take it seriously, can' t you do something?" I asked. "Asalways, the man of action! But what is there to do? The county policehave seen the letter but they, too, do not take it seriously. Thereareno fingerprints on it. There are no local clues as to the possiblewriter. ""In fact there is only your own instinct. ' ?" "Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge--myexperience--that tells me that something about that letteris wrong--"He gesticulated as words failed him, then shook his head again. "I may be making the mountain out of the anthill. In any case there isnothing to be done but wait. ""Well,the 21 st is Friday. If a whacking great robbery takes place near Andover then--""Ah,what a comfort that would be I " "A comfort. ' ?" I stared. The word seemed to be a very extra ordinary one to use. "A robbery may be a thrill but it can hardly be a comfort! " I pro-tested. Poirot shook his head energetically. "You are in error, my friend. You do not understand my meaning. Arobbery would be a relief since it would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else. ""Of what?" "Murder, " said Hercule Poirot. 第一章 信件 第一章 信件 一九三五年夏天，在南美的牧场停留了六个月之后，我返回到家中。那段时间我们过得挺艰苦的。同世人一样，我们亦蒙受世界性大萧条的影响。在英国我有许多事物要处理。我感觉到，这些事只有亲自过问，才能做得成功。我太太则留下来管理牧场。 毋庸置疑，我抵达英格兰后的首要行动之一便是去拜访老朋友--赫尔克里•波洛。 我发现他已搬入到伦敦一套最新式的服务型公寓里。我指责他（他也完全承认这一事实）之所以选择这个建筑物，完全是出于贪图它那严格的几何形外观宏伟壮观。 “是的，朋友，它拥有最令人愉悦的对称性，难道你没有发觉吗？” 我回答说，我认为这建筑物内方形物体过多。我援引了一则古老的笑话，戏问是否在这一超现代化的旅馆内，人们会竭力引诱母鸡去下方形的蛋。 波洛会心地笑。 “啊，你还记着那个笑话？哎呀！不--科学还不至于引诱母鸡去产下型号和颜色各异的蛋。” 我以关切的眼神审视着这位老友。他看上去相当不错--自从我前次遇见他后一点都没显老。 “你看来状态极佳，波洛，”我说，“你一点也没变老。事实上，如果可能的话，我应该说，比起上回咱俩见面时，你的白头发少多了。” 波洛朝着我微笑。 “那有什么不可能的？它千真万确。” “你的意思是你的头发正由白变黑，而不是由黑变白？” “确实如此。” “可是由科学上讲，这显然是行不通的。” “也不完全如此。” “可是那太离谱了，它违背自然常规。” “黑斯廷斯，你仍然一如往昔地拥有着美妙而不猜测的心态。岁月没有改变你的本性，在一口气内，你察觉到一个事实，又指出它的解决办法，而你偏偏却没有注意到自己在如此做事。” 我盯着他看，满脸疑惑。 他一言不发地步入卧室，取回来一只瓶子，递交给我。 我接过瓶子，心中大惑不解。 瓶子上写着： 再生剂--令头发重获自然光泽。再生剂绝非染色液。包括五种色差：灰色、栗色、金黄、棕褐、黑色。 “波洛！”我惊呼，“你染发了。” “啊，你现在明白了！” “难怪你的头发比上次我回来时黑了许多。” “正是。” “哎呀，”我从震惊当中回过神来，说道，“我猜想，下次我回家的时候，将会发觉你戴上假胡子，--你现在戴着没有？” 波洛畏然退缩，胡子一直是他的敏感之处，他毫无节制地以之为荣，我的话触及其痛处。 “不，不， mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。--译注），我仁慈的上帝，离那天还早着呢。假胡子！Quelhorreur（法文，意为：多可怕啊。--译注）！” 他用力地曳拉胡子，向我证明它们的真实性。 “哦，你的胡子依然繁茂。”我说道。 “N'est ce pas（法文，意为：不是吗。--译注）？在整个伦敦城里，我还没有见过有谁的胡子能跟我的相媲美！” 我暗自庆幸他没太在意，但我完全不该如此说话而刺伤他的感情。 我于是改口问道，是否他还在操持老本行。 “我知道，”我说，“实际上，你多年以前就已经退休了--” “C'est vrai（法文，意为：这是真的。--译注）。我是为了要种南瓜，然而，随后只要一有谋杀案发生，我就会马上让这些南瓜见鬼去。自那以后--我很清楚你会怎样来评价我，我就像那个积极参加告别演出的主演！那种告别演出，总会无数次地重复出现！” 我笑了。 “事实上也的确如此，我每次都会说，这是最后一次。可情况绝不是这样，总会有一些突发事件！我的朋友，我必须承认，我一点也不在乎退休。如果那些细小的灰色脑细胞不进行锻炼的话，它们会生锈的。” “明白了，”我说，“你在恰如其分地锻炼它们。” “正是这样，我对案子精挑细选，因为对如今的赫尔克里•波洛而言，只会接受那些经典的罪案。” “那么经典的案件多吗？” “Pas mal（法文，此处意为：挺多的。--译注），不久前我死里逃生。” “是免于失败吗？” “不，不是，”波洛挺震惊的，“可是我--我赫尔克里•波洛几乎被消灭掉。” 我嘘叹。 “这是个有胆识的凶手！” “与其说是有胆识，还不如说是漫不经心。”波洛说，“确切地说，那时漫不经心。我们别再谈它吧。你知道，黑斯廷斯，在很多方面我把你看作福星。” “是吗？”我说，“在哪些方面呢？” 波洛并没有直接回答我的问话。他继续说道，“当我一得知你要过来，我对自己说，一定有什么事情会发生。跟以前一样，我们俩要一起破案，只有我们两个，那就必须是桩不同寻常的案子，必须是--”他激动地摇摆手，“是件 recherche（法文，意为：考究。--译注）--鲜美、精妙的事......”他赋予最后这个无法翻译的词全部的品味。 “依我所言，波洛，”我说，“任何人都会以为你是在里茨饭店点菜。” “可人是没有办法来控制罪案的发生呀！这太正确了。”他叹息道，“但是我相信运势，相信命运。这就是命运让你站到我身边来，并防止我去犯不可饶恕的错误。” “你认为什么才是不可饶恕的错误？” “太高估显而易见的事实。” 我在脑子里转了个圈，但还是不明白其要点。 “好，”我随即说，面带着笑容，“这个超级罪案是否已经出现了呢？” “Pas encore（法文，意为：还没有。--译注）。至少，那是--” 他突然停下，窘困的皱着眉头，前额的皱纹乍起。他双手不自觉地将我漫不经心地推开的一两件物品摆整齐。 “我还不能确定。”他慢吞吞地说。 他的语调中有些东西是如此的奇特，我于是吃惊地望着他。 他的眉头依然紧锁着。 突然间，他果断地一抬头，穿过房间，走到窗前的一张写字台前。不用说，书桌上的材料均是经过非常清晰地标示和分类的，他一伸手便能取到想要的文件。 他漫步向我走来，手里拿着一封拆开的信。他把信通读一遍之后，递交给我。 “告诉我， mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。--译注），”他说，“你对此有什么看法？” 我稍带兴趣地接过信。 信是用打字机打印在白色的厚便笺纸上的： 赫尔克里•波洛先生： 你乐意于解决那些令我们的可怜而愚蠢的英国警察们难以应付的迷案，不是吗？让我们瞧瞧，聪明的波洛先生，看看您到底有多聪明。也许您会发现这个坚果硬得难以敲碎。留意本月二十一日的安多弗（Andover）。 忠于您的 ABC 我瞥一眼信封，信封上的字同样是用打字机打成。 “邮戳是WC1区的。”我转而注意邮戳时，波洛说道。“好，那你到底持何见解？” 我耸耸肩，把信交还给他。 “八成是个疯子或什么人，我猜想。” “那就是你所要说的？” “哦，--对你而言，难道这不像是个疯子所为？” “是的，我的朋友，的确像。” 他语调阴沉。我好奇地看着他。 “波洛，你把它看得很严重。” “mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。--译注），是疯子，就要谨慎以待。疯狂的人是极度危险的。” “当然，确实如此……我倒还没有想到这一点……但我的意思是指，它听起来更像是个愚蠢的恶作剧，也许是个喝得七醉八颠的白痴干的。” “ Comment（法文，意为：什么。--译注）？九？九个什么？” “没什么，--这只是一种说法而已。我的意思是指一个令人棘手的人。不，该死的，那肯定是个喝过了头的人。” “ Merci（法文，意为：谢谢。--译注），黑斯廷斯，--‘棘手’这种说法我很熟悉。正像你所说的那样，已没有更多的说法可以用来表述它了......” “可你还是认为有？”我问道，他语气中的不满之情令我噎止。 他疑心地摇摇头，一言不发。 “那你对此作了什么没有？”我询问。 “能做些什么呢？我把信交给贾普看，他与你的看法一样，认为这是个愚蠢的恶作剧--他就是这么说的。他们在苏格兰场每天都能收到一大堆这样的信，而我，同样，也得到了我的一份……” “可是，你对这件事极为认真？” 波洛慢吞吞的回答。 “这封信中有些东西，黑斯廷斯，我不太喜欢……” 不由自主地，他的声调使我印象深刻。 “你认为……如何……？” 他摇头，抓起信，把它重新又摆回书桌里。 “如果你真的认为这件事很严重，难道你就不能做些什么吗？” “我始终是个实干家。可这一次又能够做些什么呢？郡警察局也见过这封信，信上没有指纹，也没有当地的线索表明谁有可能是写信的人。” “实际上，这仅仅是你的直觉吗？” “并不是直觉，黑斯廷斯。直觉是个不恰当的字眼，是我的学识--我的经验--在告诉我，这封信有点问题。” 他语塞，就用手势来表示，然后又摇摇头。 “我可能是在小题大做，无论如何，现在只有等待。” “二十一日是星期五，如果有一件轰天的劫案发生在安多弗附近，那么--” “啊，那实在是太令人安慰了--” “安慰？”我不解。这个词用得太出乎意料。 “抢劫案令人毛骨悚然，可无论如何，它也无法使人感到慰藉。”我断言。 波洛有力地点头。 “你错了，我的朋友。你并不理解我的意思。我害怕会发生些别的什么事，如果抢劫案能驱走我恐惧的念头，那倒是中宽慰。” “你认为会发生些什么呢？” “谋杀案。”赫尔克里•波洛说道。 Chapter 2 Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative Chapter 2 Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust rose from his seat and peered near—sightedly round the shabby bedroom. His back was stiff from sitting in a cramped position and as he stretched himself to his full height an on—looker would have realized that he was, in reality, quite a tall man. His stoop and his near—sighted peering gave a delusive impression. Going to a well—worn overcoat hanging on the back of the door, he took from the pocket a packet of cheap cigarettes and some matches. He lit a cigarette and then returned to the table at which he had been sitting. He picked up a railway guide and consulted it, then he returned to the consideration of a typewritten list of names. With a pen, he made a tick against one of the first names on the list. It was Thursday, June 20th. 第二章 并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述 第二章 并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述 亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特先生（曹健注：此人名为Alexaneder•Bonaparte•Cust，字首即为ABC。另外他的名字中，“亚历山大”是横跨欧亚的马其顿帝国的国王的名字，“波拿帕特”就是拿破仑，可以说这是一个很威风也很可笑的名字。）从椅子中站立起来，近距离地环视着这间破旧失修的卧室。他坐在一个狭窄的位子上，脊背僵直，而当他伸直全身的时候，旁人会意识到，实际上他身材修长。他弯腰曲背和近视的端详，会给人留下一种错误的印象。 他走向挂在门后的一件穿得极旧的衣服，从口袋中掏出一包廉价香烟和火柴。他点上烟，返回到他原先就坐的桌边，捡起一本铁路指南书仔细地审阅，然后他又回过神来考虑一份用打印机打印出的名单。他用一支钢笔在名单的其中一个名字上画了个勾。 那天是星期四，六月二十日。 Chapter 3 ANDOVER Chapter 3 ANDOVER I had been impressed at the time by Poi rot' s forebodings about the anonymous letter he had received, but I must admit that the matter had passed from my mind when the 21st actually arrived and the first reminder of it came with a visit paid to my friend by Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. The C. I. D. inspector had been known to us for many years and he gave me a hearty welcome. "Well, I never,he exclaimed.'If it isn' t Captain Hastings back from the wilds of the what do you call it! Quite like old days seeing you here with Monsieur Poirot. You' re looking well, too. Just a little bit thin on top, eh? Well, that' s what we' re all coming to. I'm the same. I winced slightly. I was under the impression that owing to the careful way I brushed my hair across the top of my head that thinness referred to by Japp was quite unnoticeable. However, Japp had never been remarkable for tact where I was concerned so I put a good face upon it and agreed that we were none of us getting any younger. 'Except Monsieur Poirot here, said Japp. 'Quite a good advertisement for a hair tonic, he' d be. Face fungus sprouting finer than ever. Coming out into the limelight, too, in his old age. Mixed up in all the celebrated cases of the day. Train mysteries, air mysteries, high society deaths oh, he' s here, there and everywhere. Never been so celebrated as since he retired. 'I have already told Hastings that I am like the Prima Donna who makes always one more appearance, said Poirot, smi ling. 'Down in a heap behind the counter, that' s where she was. Doctor says as how she never knew what hit her. Must have been reaching up to one of the shelves. 'There was nothing in her hand?' "No, sir, but there was a packet of Players down beside her. Poi rot nodded. His eyes swept round the small space observing — noting. "And the railway guide was — where?" Here, sir. The constable pointed out the spot on the counter. It was open at the right page for Andover and lying face down. Seems though he must have been looking up the trains to London. If so ' twasn' t an Andover man at all. But then, of course, the railway guide might have belonged to some one else what had nothing to do with the murder at all, but just forgot it here. 'Fingerprints?'I suggested. The man shook his head. 'The whole place was examined straight away, sir. There weren t none. "Not on the counter itself?" asked Poirot. "A long sight too many, sir! All confused and jumbledup. "Any of Ascher' s among them?' Too soon to say, sir. Poi rot nodded, then asked if the dead woman lived over the shop. 'Yes, sir, you go through that door at the back, sir. You' 11 excuse me from coming with you, but I' ve got to stayPoirot passed through the door in question and I followed him. Behind the shop was a microscopic sort of par lour and kitchen combined it was neat and clean but very dreary— looking and scantily furni shed. On the mantelpiece were a few photographs. I went up and looked at them and Poi rot joined me. The photographs were three in all. One was a cheap portrait of the girl we had been with that afternoon, Mary Drower. She was obviously wearing her best clothes and had the self—conscious, wooden smile on her face that so often disfigures the expression in posed photography, and makes a snapshot preferable. The second was a more expensive type of picture artistically blurred reproduction of an elderly woman with white hair. A high fur collar stood up round the neck. I guessed that this was probably the Miss Rose who had left Mrs. Ascher the small legacy which had enabled her to start in business. The third photograph was a very old one, now faded and yel low. It represented a young man and woman in somewhat old— fashioned clothes standing arm in arm. The man had a flower in his buttonhole and there was an air of bygone festivity about the whole pose. "Probably a wedding picture, said Poi rot. ' Regard, Hastings, did I not tell you that she had been a beautiful woman? ' Miss Merrion, in her turn, gave him an " Oh, these forei gners look. "She was a nice, clean—looking girl, she said distantly. "What time did she go off duty last night?'asked Crome. "Eight o' clock. We close at eight. We do not servedinners. There is no demand for them. Scrambled eggs and tea (Poirot shuddered) people come in for up to seven o' clock and sometimes after, but our rush is over by 6:30. 'Did she mention to you how she proposed to spend her evening?"'Certainly not, said Miss Merrion emphatically. were not on those terms. "No one came in and called for her? Anything like that?' "No. 'Did she seem quite her ordinary self? Not excited or depressed? ' 'Really I could not say,said Miss Merrion aloofly. How many waitresses do you employ?' 'Two normally, and an extra two after the 20th of July until the end of August. 'But Elizabeth Barnard was not one of the extras?"'Miss Barnard was one of the regulars. We had a word with each of the other two girls but with no further results. Betty Barnard had not said anything as to her plans and no one had noticed her in Bexhill during the course of the evening. 第三章 安多弗 第三章 安多弗 那一刻，波洛对他收到的那封匿名信所产生的预感给我留下了深刻印象。可我必须承认，这件事情曾被我所忽略，直到二十一日那天真正来临。当苏格兰场的贾普总警督前来拜访我的朋友时，我才回想起这件事。总警督和我们早已结识多年，他向我表示热烈的欢迎。 “哦，真没想到，”他惊呼道，“要是黑斯廷斯上尉并非来自于那片未开垦的荒野，不管你们如何称呼它，那该有多好啊！能在此地与您和波洛先生会面，真又像是以前那些日子。您看上去也不赖，头发稍微有点稀薄。哦，其实我们大都有此趋势，我也一样。” 我微微退缩。我原本认为，由于我梳理头发时很仔细，贾普所提及的稀疏是很难被察觉到的。然而，贾普对此却从来不太懂得要照顾情绪，我只好面呈悦色，声称我们当中谁也不再会更年轻了。 “波洛先生可是个例外，”贾普说，“他可以去作润发剂的极佳广告。他脸上的赘肉日渐减少，这使他在夕阳之年也同样引人注目。在时下所有的著名案件中都会有他的身影。铁道迷案、空中迷案、高层人士命案，——哦，他总是无处不在。自从引退之后，他还从未像今天这样声名显赫。” “我早已告诉黑斯廷斯，我确实像那个不止一次地进行表演的主角。”波洛说道，脸上笑意盎然。 “如果你以侦破自身的死因而结束此生，我丝毫不会感到任何疑惑，”贾普尽情地笑道，“这个想法，真该被写进书里。” “那该由黑斯廷斯来干。”波洛说，一面冲我挤挤眼睛。 “哈，那可是个玩笑啊。”贾普笑了。 我难以理解这个想法有什么可如此令人逗乐的。我认为，无论如何，这个玩笑的水准极差。波洛，这个可怜的老家伙，年事已渐高。那些有关他接近衰亡的笑话，他是绝难以认同的。 也许是我的神态举止显示出感受，贾普转变了话题。 “你是否听说过波洛先生的匿名信？” “那天我已给黑斯廷斯看过那封信。”我的朋友说。 “当然，”我答道，“我都快有点忘了。让我想想，信中提到的是哪一天？” “二十一日，”贾普说，“这就是我来顺访的原因。昨天就是二十一日。由于好奇，我昨晚去了安多弗。这封信确实就是个恶作剧。那里什么事情也没发生。有间商店橱窗被砸——是小孩子扔石头所致，还有就是几个醉鬼和肇事之徒。我们的比利时朋友这一次又浪费了精力。” “我必须坦白表示，深感宽慰。”波洛承认道。 “你确实在为此担惊受怕，不是吗？”贾普关切地说。“上帝保佑你。我们每天都会收到几十封诸如此类的信件。那些无所事事的家伙，神经不太正常的人才坐下来写信。他们并不会危害什么，这只是种刺激而已。” “我把此事看得过于严重，确实是有点犯傻。”波洛说，“我是在探求并不存在的东西。” “你把假象与实际相混淆了。”贾普说。 “你说什么？” “我只是在引用一句谚语。我必须走了。在下一条街有点事还要去处理——是接手一桩珠宝失窃案。我想我该顺路来此一转，以使你安下心来。真遗憾，又让那些灰色脑细胞白费劲了。” 在话语声和衷心的笑意中，贾普离开了。 “他没太多变化，这个好心的贾普，是吧？”波洛问道。 “他看上去苍老了许多，”我说，“变得像獾一样灰黑。”我怀恨地答道。 波洛咳嗽，说： “你知道，黑斯廷斯，有一种小装置——我的发型师真是个天才，他可以把这种装置贴在头皮上，然后梳理自己头发，这绝非假发。你该理解——那是——” “波洛，”我吼道，“你那位该诅咒的发型师那令人厌恶的发明，永远与我毫不相干。我的头顶有什么不对吗？” “没有，完全没有。” “好像我还没有开始秃顶。” “当然没有，当然没有。” “那里夏季炎热，自然会有一些头发脱落。我的确该带回去一些疗效显著的润发剂。” “Precisement（法文，意为：确实如此。——译注）。” “可是，这同贾普有和瓜葛呢？他总是个滋事的恶魔，一点幽默感都没有。当有人想坐下时椅子恰好被拿走了，他恰好是那种还笑得出来的家伙。” “很多人看到那种场景都会笑的。” “无稽之谈。” “对于那个要坐下的人来说，被人笑话当然是毫无意义的。” “噢，”我从愤怒中缓过劲来，说道，（我承认，说我头发稀薄令我恼火。）“我很抱歉，匿名信最终还是虚惊一场。” “在这件事上，我确实犯了个错误。关于那封信，我以为自己闻到那家伙的气味了，而实际上确真是愚蠢。哎，我老了，已变得像瞎眼的看门狗一样容易起疑心，即使是风平浪静，也会嗥叫一番。” “我若要与你合作，我们必须另外寻找些‘奶油味’重的经典案例。”我笑着说道。 “你是否还记得那天所说的话？如果你能像点菜一样挑选案件，你会选择些什么？” 我赞同他的幽默。 “让我们瞧瞧，我们回顾一下菜单。抢劫案？赝品案？不，我可不这么认为，好像太素了一点。它必须是件谋杀案——带有血腥味的谋杀案，当然，还要外带些花色配菜。” “那自然了。hors d'oeures（法文，意为：经典之作。——译注）。” “谁将会是被害人呢——男人还是女人？我想是个男的，该是某个大人物。美国籍百万富翁，首相，新闻产业主。犯罪现场——噢，完好的老图书馆有何不妥？没有其他地方会比它更具备气氛。至于凶器嘛——必定是把精致的匕首，或是某个钝器械——一块石雕神像——” 波洛叹了口气。 “或者，当然，”我说，“还有毒药——那总是技术性挺强的。或者是深夜中左轮手枪声的回响，然后总会有一两个靓丽的少女。” “长着金棕色的头发。”我的朋友轻声道。 “这可真是你那个情节雷同的老笑话。当然，其中一位少女必定受到不公正的嫌疑，在她与年轻男子之间总有些误解。然后，当然，还会有其他嫌疑人——一位年长的妇人——是阴暗、险恶的那类人，有死者的某位朋友或对手，有位温和文静的秘书——是个出人意料的人物，有一位举止率直的好心人，一对被解雇的侍从或猎场看守人，或其他什么人，还有一位像贾普那样笨手笨脚的侦探——哦，那就是全部的故事情节。” “那是你主意中的绝妙之处。” “我猜你不会苟同。” 波洛伤心地望着我。 “你已经炮制一个极其优美的故事梗概，它包含了所有可以用笔来作记录的侦探故事。” 我说，“那么如果是你，你会点些什么菜呢？” 波洛合上双眼，斜着背靠入椅子里，声音从他的唇间愉快地冒出来。 “会是个非常单纯的犯罪，丝毫不带错综复杂的罪行。是一宗平静的家居生活的罪案——非常不带有感情色彩，极其 intime（法文，意为：隐秘。——译注）。” “可一桩案子如何才算是 intime 呢？” “试想，”波洛小声道，“有四个人坐下来打桥牌，其中一位是个怪里怪气的家伙，坐在壁炉火边的座位上。夜末时分，这个炉火边的人死了。四个人中有一个人，乘那人玩明家的时候，谋杀了他，并且目不转睛注视着手中牌的玩法，而其他三位居然没有察觉到。啊，这个案子就等着你去解决！四个人中到底哪一位是凶手呢！” “哦，”我说，“我看不出这其中有什么可如此心神激动的。” 波洛谴责地瞥了我一眼。 “不，因为这其中没有那把精致的匕首，没有勒索，没有那块宛如上帝失窃的眼睛般的祖母绿，也没有无从追寻的东方剧毒。黑斯廷斯，你有着感情沸腾宣扬的心灵。你愿意去探究的，不仅仅是一件谋杀案，而是连环谋杀。” “我承认，”我说，“书中记载的第二件凶杀案总会令人振奋不已。如果在第一章凶案就已经发生，而你却必须追踪每个人都不在现场的线索，一直翻看到书中的倒数第二页，这样的故事简直有点冗长乏味。” 此时电话铃响，波洛起身回答。 “你好，”他说，“你好，我就是赫尔克里•波洛。” 听了一两分钟电话后，我发觉他脸色大变。 他的话语简短且不连贯。 “Mais qui（法文，意为：是的。——译注）......” “是的，当然是......” “是的，我们就来......” “自然是......” “可能正如你所说......” “哦，我会带上它的。A tout a l'heure（法文，意为：等会儿见。——译注）。” 他挂上听筒，穿过房间走向我。 “黑斯廷斯，是贾普打来的电话。” “有什么事吗？” “他刚刚回到苏格兰场，说是有消息从安多弗传来。” “安多弗！”我激动地尖声呼叫。 波洛慢吞吞地说： “有个名叫阿谢尔（Ascher）的老太太，开着家买香烟报纸的小店，被人谋杀了。” 我意识到自己是在略微感到沮丧。我的好奇心已被安多弗预告挑动起来，现在却受到了小小的考验。我曾经以为会是件什么样的怪诞事——完全不是那么回事！一个开小烟铺的老太太被人杀害，这件事看来不免有些暗淡和不那么有意思。 波洛继续着他那同样缓慢、阴沉的声音。 “安多弗的警方认为他们可以抓到那凶手——” 我再次感到自己失望的颤动。 “看来那女人像是和她丈夫关系不佳。他酗酒，是个非常龌龊的家伙。他曾经不止一次地扬言要杀她。” “而且，”波洛继续道，“鉴于此事已发生，那边的警察期望能再审阅一下我所收到的匿名信。我已告诉他，你和我立即动身去安多弗。” 我的精神为之一振。尽管这一案件看似沉闷暗淡，但毕竟是件犯罪案，我已经有很长时间与罪案和罪犯毫无联系了。 我几乎没有去听波洛紧接下来所说的话，但这些话日后却对我意义非凡。 “这仅仅是个开始。”赫尔克里•波洛说道。 CHAPTER 4 Mrs. Rscher CHAPTER 4 Mrs. Rscher We were received at Andover by Inspector Glen, a tall, fair-haired mwith a pleasant smile. For the sake of conciseness I think I had better give a brief r6sum6the bare facts of the case. The crime was discovered by Police Constable Dover at I A. M. ' the morning of the 22nd. When on his round he tried the door of tshop and found it unfastened. He entered and at first thought the plawas empty. Directing his torch over the counter, however, he causight of the huddled-up body of the old woman. When the police sgeon arrived on the spot it was elicited that the woman had been strudown by a heavy blow on the back of the head, probably while she nreaching down a packet of cigarettes from the shelf behind the countDeath must have occurred about nine to seven hours previously. "But we' ve been able to get it down a bit nearer than that, " eplained the inspector. "We' ve found a man who went in and bougsome tobacco at 5: 30. And a second man went in and found the shempty, as he thought, at five minutes past six. That puts the time atbtween 5: 30 and 6: 05. So far I haven' t been able to find any one wisaw this man Ascher in the neighbourhood, but, of course, it' s earlyyet. He was in the Three Crowns at nine o' clock pretty far gonedrink. When we get hold of him he' ll be detained on suspicion. ""Not a very desirable character, inspector?" asked Poirot. "Unpleasant bit of goods. " "He didn' t live with his wife?" "No, they separated some years ago. Ascher' s a German. He waswaiter at one time, but he took to drink and gradually becameunenployable. His wife went into service for a bit. Her last place was ascook-housekeeper to an old lady, Miss Rose. She allowed her husbandso much out of her wages to keep himself, but he was always gettingdrunk and coming round and making scenes at the places where shewas employed. That' s why she took the post with Miss Rose at TheGrange. It' s three miles out of Andover, dead in the country. Hecouldn' t get at her there so well. When Miss Rose died, she left Mrs. Ascher a small legacy, and the woman started this tobacco and newsagentbusiness--quite a tiny place--j ust cheap cigarettes and a fewnewspapers--that sort of thing. She j ust about managed to keep going. Ascher used to come round and abuse her now and again and she usedto give him a bit to get rid of him. She allowed him fifteen shillings a week regular. " "Had they any children?" asked Poirot. "No. There' s a niece. She' s in service near Overton. Very superiorsteady young woman. " , "And you say this man Ascher used to threaten his wife?""That' s fight. He was a terror when he was in drink---cursing andswearing that he' d bash her head in. She had a hard time, did Mrs.Ascher. " "What age of woman was she?" "Close on sixty--respectable and hardworking. "Poirot said gravely: "It is your opinion, inspector, that this man Ascher committed thecrime?" The inspector coughed cautiously. "It' s a bit early to say that, Mr. Poirot, but I' d like to hear FranzAscher' s own account of how he spent yesterday evening. If he cangive a satisfactory account of himself, well and good--if not--"His pause was a pregnant one. "Nothing was missing from the shop?" "Nothing. Money in the till quite undisturbed. No signs of robbery. ""You think that this man Ascher came into the shop drunk, startedabusing his wife and finally struck her down?""It seems the most likely solution. But I must confess, sir, I' d like to have another look at that very odd letter you received. I was wonderingif it was j ust possible that it came from this man Ascher. "Poirot handed over the letter and the inspector read it with a frown. "It doesn' t read like Ascher, " he said at last. "I doubt if Aschervouid use the term ' our' British police--not unless he was trying tobe xtra cunning--and I doubt if he' s got the wits for that. Then the man' swreck--all to pieces. His hand' s too shaky to print letters clearlylike this. It' s good quality notepaper and ink, too. It' s odd that the lettershould mention the 21st of the month. Of course it might be acoinci-dence. ' ' "That is possibleyes. " "But I don' t like this kind of coincidence, Mr. Poirot. It' s a bit toopat. " He was silent for a minute or two---a frown creasing his forehead. "A. B. C. Who the devil could A. B. C. be? We' ll see if Mary Drower(that' s the niece) can give us any help. It' s an odd business. But forthis letter I' d have put my money on Franz Ascher for a certainty. ""Do you know anything of Mrs. Ascher' s past?""She' s a Hampshire woman. Went into service as a girl up inLondon--that' s where she met Ascher and married him. Things musthave been difficult for them during the war. She actually left him forgood in 1922. They were in London then. She came back here to getaway from him, but he got wind of where she was and followed herdown here, pestering her for money--" A constable came in. "Yes,Briggs, what is it?" "It' s the man Ascher, sir. We' ve brought him in. ""Right. Bring him in here. Where was he?" "Hiding in a truck on the railway siding. " "He was, was he? Bring him along. " Franz Ascher was indeed a miserable and unprepossessing speci-men. He was blubbering and cringing and blustering alternately. Hisbleary eyes moved shiftily from one face to another. "What do you want with me? I have not done nothing. It is a shameand a scandal to bring me here! You are swine, how dare you? Hismanner changed suddenly. "No, no, I do not mean that--you wouldnot hurt a poor old man--not be hard on him. Every one is hard onpoor old Franz. Poor old Franz. " Mr. Ascher started to weep. "That' ll do, Ascher, " said the inspector. "Pull yourself together. I' maot charging you with anything--yet. And you' re not bound to make attatement unless you like. On the other hand, if you' re not concernedin the murder of your wife--" Ascher interrupted him--his voice rising to a scream. "I did not kill her! I did not kill her! It is all lies! You are goddamnedEnglish pigs--all against me. I never kill her--never. ""You threatened to often enough, Ascher. ' "No, no. You do not understand. That was j ust a j oke---a good j okebetween me and Alice. She understood. " "Funny kind of j oke! Do you care to say where you were yesterdayevening, AscherT' "Yes, yes--1 tell you everything. I did not go near Alice. I am withfriends--good friends. We are at the Seven Stars--and then we are atthe Red Dog--" He hurried on, his words tumbling over each other. "Dick Willows--he was with me--and old Curdie--and George--andPlatt and lots of the boys. I tell you I do not never go near Alice. Ach Gott, it is the truth I am telling you. "His voice rose to a scream. The inspector nodded to his underling. "Take him away. Detained on suspicion. " "I don' t know what to think, " he said as the unpleasant shaking oldman with the malevolent, mouthing j aw was removed. "If it wasn' t forthe letter, I' d say he did it. " "What about the men he mentionsT' "A bad crowd--not one of them would stick at perj ury. I' ve nodoubt he was with them the greater part of the evening. A lot dependson whether any one saw him near the shop between half-past five andsix. " Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. "You are sure nothing was taken from the shop?"The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "That depends. A packet ortwo of cigarettes might have been taken--but you' d hardly commitmurder for that. " "And there was nothing--how shall I put it--introduced into theshop. Nothing that was odd there--incongruousT' "There was a railway guide, " said the inspector. "A railway guide?" "Yes. It was open and turned face downward on the counter. Lookedas though some one had been looking up the trains from Andover. Eitherthe old woman or a customer. " "Did she sell that type of thing. 9' ' The inspector shook his head. "She sold penny time-tables. This was a big one--kind of thing o, nlySmith' s or a big stationer would keep. " A light came into Poirot' s eyes. He leant forward. "A railway guide, you say. A Bradshaw---or an A. B. C. ?"A light came into the inspector' s eyes also. "By the Lord, " he said. "h was an A. B. C. " 第四章 阿谢尔太太 第四章 阿谢尔太太 在安多弗，接待我们的是格伦警官。他个头高高，头发匀称，脸上荡漾出欢欣的微笑。 为了简要起见，我认为最好还是就该案件的扼要实情作一个概述。 案件是由警士多弗在二十二日凌晨一点时发现的。他当时正值巡视，试图推拉商店的门，发现门并未上锁。他进门后，先是发觉店内空无一人，把手电筒照向柜台后，他随即发现老太太那蜷缩成一团的尸体。法医来现场后，认定老妇人可能回身从柜台后面的货架上取一包香烟时，被人重击脑后部致死。死亡肯定发生在九到七个小时以前。 “但我们已将案发时间查得更确切一些。”警督解释道，“我们发现五点三十分时有一男子进店买了些烟，而第二个人进去时，则发现店内空无一人，据他自己认为，那时是六点零五分。那么案发时间是在五点半与六点零五分之间。到目前为止，我还没发现有谁在附近见过那个阿谢尔，可当然现在下定论还为时过早。他九点钟还在三星酒吧喝得酩酊大醉。我们一抓住他，就会以涉嫌谋杀拘留他。” “他并不是个讨人喜欢的家伙，警督？”波洛问道。 “是个令人讨厌之徒。” “他不与妻子住一起吗？” “不，他们多年前就已分居。阿谢尔是个德国人，他曾当过服务员，可是他嗜酒，随后渐渐地丢了饭碗。他太太出去做点事，她最后的工作是在老夫人罗斯小姐家里做厨师和管家。她从自己的工资中支出很大一部分，用以供养她丈夫，可他总是喝得醉醺醺的，四处游逛，并到她干活的地方丢人现眼。那就是为何她跑到格兰奇去为罗斯小姐工作的原因。那地方离安多弗三英里开外，地处静僻的乡郊野外，他再也无法去那儿找到她。罗斯小姐过世后，留给阿谢尔太太一小笔遗赠，这位夫人就可以作些香烟和卖报生意，开间小铺子，只卖些廉价的香烟和几种报纸等类似的物品。她也仅是能维持下去而已。阿谢尔则常常闯来店里，不时虐待她一番，而她则给些钱以打发走他。她每周固定给他十五先令。” “他们有孩子吗？”波洛问。 “没有。有个外甥女，在奥弗顿附近做事，是个傲慢且稳重的年轻姑娘。” “你说过这个阿谢尔常威胁他妻子？” “对啊。他喝醉酒时模样极其恐怖，恶意诅咒、扬言要砸破她的头颅。阿谢尔太太，她过得挺艰苦的。” “那么她有多大年纪了？” “也快六十的人了——她令人尊重，干活也很卖力。” 波洛严肃地说。 “警督，你的意思认为是阿谢尔干的？” 警督疑虑地咳嗽。 “现在下结论还为时太早，波洛先生，可我倒是想听听弗朗兹•阿谢尔自己的陈述，如何解释他昨晚是在哪儿度过的。如果他的描述能令人信服，那就好，但如不能——” 他语气停顿，其中意味深长。 “店里面什么东西也没丢吗？” “什么都没丢。抽屉里的钱没有动过，毫无迹象表明是抢劫。” “那你认为会不会是那个阿谢尔喝醉酒到店里来，虐待他妻子，最终又击倒了她？” “看起来这还是个说得过去的解释。可是我必须要表明，先生，我想要再看一眼你所收到的那封信。我也正在纳闷，这是否真的是阿谢尔干的？” 波洛递过信去，警督则眉头紧锁着读信。 “看来不像是阿谢尔干的。”他随即说道，“我怀疑阿谢尔能否用得出‘我们’的英国警察这种词语，除非他是绝顶聪明，我怀疑他能否有这种智慧来干这事。这家伙身体孱弱——弱不禁风。他双手颤抖得厉害，无法如此清晰地用打字机打字。另外，用的是优质的便笺纸，还有墨水。令人奇怪的是，这封信居然提到了本月二十一日。当然，也可能只是个巧合。” “那倒可能——是的。” “可我不喜欢这样的巧合，波洛先生，这也太偶然了。” 他沉默了一两分钟，皱眉头，引得前额泛起折痕。 “ABC，这个 ABC 究竟是个什么样的恶魔？我们看看玛丽•德劳尔（即外甥女），是否能给我们一些帮助。这真是件怪事。可就凭此信，我敢为弗朗兹•阿谢尔打赌，这事不该是他干的。” “你对阿谢尔太太的过去了解吗？” “她来自汉普郡，少女时代就来到伦敦做工，在那里遇到阿谢尔并结了婚。战争期间他们过得很艰难，而实际上，她在一九二二年就离开了他。他们当时还在伦敦。为躲避阿谢尔，她回到这里，可他也闻风而来，追随至此，纠缠着她要钱——”这时有一个警察进屋来，“布里格斯，什么事？” “是阿谢尔，我们把他带来了。” “好，带他进来。在哪儿找到他的？” “他躲在铁道侧轨的一辆货车里。” “是吗？把他带来吧。” 弗朗兹•阿谢尔实际上是个惨淡而不讨人喜欢的怪人，他交替不断地哭诉着，时而谗言献媚，时而怒声谩骂，那双模糊呆滞的眼睛偷偷地扫掠过一张张脸。 “你们想对我做些什么？我可是什么也没干。把我押到这里来真是羞辱可耻。你们这些猪猡，竟敢如此行事？”他突然间又转换了一副腔调。“不，不，我不是那意思——你们不该伤害一个可怜的老头子，别对他太冷酷无情。每个人对可怜的老弗朗兹都那么冷酷。可怜的老弗朗兹。” 阿谢尔先生开始抽泣起来。 “得了吧，阿谢尔。”警督说，“你镇静点，我可并没有指控你什么。你也用不着做什么声明，除非你自己乐意。再者，只要你未涉入你太太的谋杀案——” 阿谢尔打断他的话语，他的声音几乎尖叫。 “我可没杀她！我可没杀她！这全是胡扯！你们这群可恶的英国猪——都来反对我。我可从来没有杀害过她——从来没有。” “你可是经常进行恐吓的，阿谢尔。” “不，不，你并不理解。那只是个玩笑——是我和艾丽丝之间的玩笑，她很明白的。” “真是个可笑的玩笑。那你倒是说说看，昨天晚上你是在哪儿度过的？” “好，我就全告诉你吧。我从没有来找艾丽丝，我和朋友们——我的好朋友在一起，我们在七星酒吧——而后，我们又去了红狗酒吧——” 他匆匆忙忙地说着，话语结结巴巴。 “迪克•威勒斯——他和我在一起，还有老柯迪，乔治•普拉特和一大堆小伙子。我可以告诉你，我可从没碰过艾丽丝。 AchGott（德文，意为：我的老天。——译注），我说的全是实话。” 他的声音高得近乎尖叫。警督则朝他的手下点点头。 “带走吧，按嫌疑犯拘留。” “我不知道该有什么感想，”他说道。那个摇摇欲坠、长着恶劣又苦相的下颌的老头被带走了。“要不是因为那封信的缘故，我会认定是他干的。” “他所提到的那些人怎么样？” “是群恶棍——他们中倒是没一个人会作伪证。我丝毫不怀疑他昨晚大部分时间与这些人在一起，还要看有没有人在五点半到六点之间见过他在商店附近出现。” 波洛若有所思地摇摇头。 “你确认商店里没有丢任何东西？” 警督耸耸肩膀。 “那就要看情形了。可能是有一两包烟被拿走，可你是不会为香烟而谋杀的。” “那么说，就没什么物品——我该怎么说呢——被带入到商店里吗？有什么奇特的——或是不协调的情形吗？” “有一本铁路指南书。” “铁路指南？” “是的。书是打开着的，朝下放在柜台上。看起来像是有人在查询离开安多弗的火车班次，肯定是这个老妇人或顾客。” “她出售那种东西吗？” 警督摇头。 “她卖小的时刻表。这是本大的铁路指南，只有在史密斯书店或大的文具店才会经营。” 波洛的眼睛一亮，身体向前倾斜。 警督的眼睛也闪了一下光。 “一本铁路指南，你是说，是布罗德肖版铁路时刻表或是本ABC 铁路指南（曹健注：这种大本的时刻表是按字母顺序排列的，俗称‘ABC 时刻表’）。”“上帝啊，”他说道，“一本 ABC 铁路指南。” CHAPTER 5 Mary Drower CHAPTER 5 Mary Drower I think that I can date my interest in the case from the first mentionof the A. B. C. railway guide. Up till then I had not been able to raisemuch enthusiasm. This sordid murder of an old woman in a back street shopwas so like the usual type of crime reported in the newspapers thatit failed to strike a significant note. In my own mind I had put down theanonymous letter with its mention of the 21st as a mere coincidence. Mrs. Ascber, I felt reasonably sure, had been the victim of her drunkenbrute of a husband. But now the mention of the railway guide (so familiarly known by its abbreviation of A. B. C. , listing as it did allrail-way stations in their alphabetical order) sent a quiver of excitementthrough me. Surely--surely this could not be a second coincidence? The sordid crime took on a new aspect. Who was the mysterious individual who had killed Mrs. Ascher andleft an A. B. C. railway guide behind him? When we left the police station our first visit was to the mortuaryto see the body of the dead woman. A strange feeling came over me as Igazed down on that wrinkled old face with the scanty grey hair drawnback tightly from the temples. It looked so peaceful, so incrediblyre-mote from violence. "Never knew who or what struck her, " observed the sergeant. "That' s what Dr. Kerr says. I' m glad it was that way, poor old soul. Adecent woman she was. " "She must have been beautiful once, " said Poirot. "Really?" I murmured incredulously. "But yes, look at the line of the j aw, the bones, the moulding of thehead. " He sighed as he replaced the sheet and we left the mortuary. Our next move was a brief interview with the police surgeon. Dr. Kerr was a competent-looking middle-aged man. He spokebriskly and with decision. "The weapon wasn' t found, " he said. "Impossible to say what itmay have been. A weighted stick, a club, a form of sandbag--any ofthose would fit the case. " "Would much force be needed to strike such a blow?"The doctor shot a keen glance at Poirot. "Meaning, I suppose, could a shaky old man of seventy do it? Oh,yes, it' s perfectly possible--given sufficient weight in the head ofthe weapon, quite a feeble person could achieve the desired result. "' ' Then the murderer could j ust as well be a woman as a man?"The suggestion took the doctor somewhat aback. "A woman, eh? Well, I confess it never occurred to me to connect awoman with this type of crime. But of course it' s possible--perfectlypossible. Only, psychologically speaking, I shouldn' t say this was awoman' s crime. " Poirot nodded his head in eager agreement. "Perfectly, perfectly. On the face of it, highly improbable. But onemust take all possibilities into account. The body was lying--how?"The doctor gave us a careful description of the position of the vic-tim. It was his opinion that she had been standing with her back to thecounter (and therefore to her assailant) when the blow had been struck. She had slipped down in a heap behind the counter quite out of sightof any one entering the shop casually. When we had thanked Dr. Kerr and taken our leave, Poirot said: "You perceive, Hastings, that we have already one further point infavour of Ascher' s innocence. If he had been abusing his wife andthreatening her, she would have been facing him over the counter. In-•stead, she had her back to her assailant--obviously she is reachingdown tobacco or cigarettes for a customer. " I gave a little shiver. "Pretty gruesome. " Poirot shook his head gravely. "Pauvrefemme, " he murmured. Then he glanced at his watch. "Overton is not, I think, many miles from here. Shall we run overthere and have an interview with the niece of the dead womanT' "Surely you will go first to the shop where the crime took placeT' "I prefer to do that later. I have a reason. "He did not explain further, and a few minutes later we were drivingon the London road in the direction of Overton. The address which the inspector had given us was that of a good-sizedhouse about a mile on the London side of the village. Our ring at the bell was answered by a pretty dark-haired girl whoseeyes were red with recent weeping. Poirot said gently: "Ah! I think it is you who are Miss Mary Drower, the parlourmaidhere?" "Yes, sir, that' s fight. I' m Mary, sir. " "Then perhaps I can talk to you for a few minutes if your mistresswill not obj ect. It is about your aunt, Mrs. Ascher. ""The mistress is out, sir. She wouldn' t mind, I' m sure, if you camein here. " She opened the door of a small morning-room. We entered andPoirot, seating himself on a chair by the window, looked up keenly intothe girl' s face. "You have heard of your aunt' s death, of course?"The girl nodded, tears coming once more into her eyes. "This morning, sir. The police came over. Oh! it' s terrible! Poorauntie! Such a hard life as she' d had, too. And now this--it' s tooaw-ful. ' ' "The police did not suggest your returning to Andover?""They said I must come to the inquest--that' s on Monday, sir. ButI' ve nowhere to go there--I couldn' t fancy being over the shop--now--andwhat with the housemaid being away. I didn' t want to putthe mistress out more than may be. " "You were fond of your aunt, Mary? said Poirot gently. "Indeed I was, sir. Very good she' s been to me always, auntie has. Iwent to her in London when I was eleven years old, after mother died. I started in service when I was sixteen, but I usually went along toauntie' s on my day out. A lot of trouble she went through with thatGerman fellow. ' My old devil, ' she used to call him. He' d never lether be in peace anywhere. Sponging, cadging old beast. "The girl spoke with vehemence. "Your aunt never thought of freeing herself by legal means from thispersecutionT' , ' Well, you see, he was her husband, sir, you couldn' t get away ftcthat. " The girl spoke simply but with finality. "Tell me, Mary, he threatened her, did he not?""Oh, yes, sir, it was awful the things he used to say. That he' d cuththroat, and such like. Cursing and swearing too--both in German ain English. And yet auntie says he was a fine handsome figure of a mwhen she married him. It' s dreadful to think, sir, what people comet? "Yes, indeed. And so, I suppose, Mary, having actually heard thethreats, you were not so very surprised when you learnt what had halpened?" "Oh, but I was, sir. You see, sir, I never thought for one moment thhe meant it. I thought it was j ust nasty talk and nothing more to it. AJ it isn' t as though auntie was afraid of him. Why, I' ve seen him sliaway like a dog with its tail between its legs when she turned on hiHe was afraid of her if you like. " "And yet she gave him money?" "Well, he was her husband, you see, sir. " "Yes, so you said before. " He paused for a minute or two. Then Isaid. Suppos that, after alt, he did not kill her. ""Didn' t kill her?" She stared. "That is what I said. Supposing some one else killed her. . . . Ha' you any idea who that some one else could be?"She stared at him with even more amazement. "I' ve no idea, sir. It doesn' t seem likely, though, does itT' "There was no one your aunt was afraid of?. "Mary shook her head. "Auntie wasn' t afraid of people. She' d a sharp tongue and shestand up to anybody. " "You never heard her mention any one who had a grudge againher?" No, indeed, sin "Did she ever get anonymous letters?" "What kind of letters did you say, sir?" "Letters that weren' t signed-or only signed by something InA. B. C. " He watched her narrowly, but plainly she was at a loss. SIshook her head wonderingly. "Has your aunt any relations except you?" "Not now, sir. One of ten she was, but only three lived to grow uMy Uncle Torn was killed in the war, and my Uncle Harry wentSouth America and no one' s heard of him since, and mother' s dead, ofcourse, so there' s only me. " "Had your aunt any savings? Any money put byT' "She' d a little in the Savings Bank, sir--enough to bury her proper,that' s what she always said. Otherwise she didn' t more than j ust makeends meet--what with her old devil and all. "Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said---perhaps more to himself thanto her: "At present one is in the dark--there is no direction--if things getclearer "He got up. "If I want you at any time, Mary, I will write toyou here. " "As a matter of fact, sir, I' m giving in my notice. I don' t like thecountry. I stayed here because I fancied it was a comfort to auntieto have me near by. But now"--again the tears rose in her eyes--"there' sno reason I should stay, and so I' ll go back to London. It' s gayer foragirl there. " "I wish that, when you do go, you would give me your address. Hereis my card. " He handed it to her. She looked at it with a puzzled frown. "Then you' re not--anything to do with the police, sir? "I am a private detective. " She stood there looking at him for some moments in silence. She said at last: "Is there anything--queer going on, sir?" "Yes, my child. There is--something queer going on. Later you mayhe able to help me. " "I--I' ll do anything, sir. It--it wasn' t right, sir, auntie beingkilled. " A strange way of putting it--but deeply moving. A few seconds later we were driving back to Andover. 第五章 玛丽·德劳尔 第五章 玛丽•德劳尔 我想，那本ABC 铁路指南书一被提及，我就对这件案子兴趣倍增。在此之前，我还没能唤起太多的热情。这桩对一个后街老妇人卑鄙的谋杀案，由于它太像是那种司空见惯地见诸于报端的犯罪，已无法吸引来人们特别的关注。在我的脑海之中，我认为匿名信中所提到的二十一日是种偶然的巧合。我有理由确信，阿谢尔太太是她那酗酒后的丈夫蛮劲发作的牺牲品。可现在所提及的铁路指南（每个人都熟悉那书的简称就是 ABC，因为书中是按字母书顺序对所有的火车站名进行排列的）则带给我一种激动，很明显——这肯定不会是第二个巧合吧？ 那桩卑劣的罪行开启了新的一页。 谁会是那个杀害阿谢尔太太之后，又留下一本ABC 铁路指南的人呢？ 离开警察局后，我们的首站访问便是去殡仪馆检查老妇人的尸体。当我低头注视那张布满皱纹的苍老面孔时，看见她头上稀疏的白发从太阳穴两侧紧紧地贴挂下来。她看上去是如此的平静安详，绝不象是经暴力致死。 “总弄不明白是谁用了什么物体击倒她的，”警士解释道，“克尔医生就是这么说的。我倒是很高兴她看上去能很安静。可怜的灵魂，她是位体面的夫人。” “她年轻时一定美丽动人。”波洛说。 “是吗？”我怀疑地小声嘟囔。 “肯定是的。你看她下颌的纹线，骨骼，头颅的模样。” 他盖上布单，叹了口气，我们随即离开殡仪馆。 我们的下一步行动是与法医作简短谋面。 克尔医生是位中年人，长相精明干练，讲起话来轻松活跃，坚决果断。 “没找到凶器，”他说，“就不可能断定是件什么东西。有份量的棍子，棒棰，沙袋——这些东西中任何一件都可以作案。” “这种猛击是否需要用很大力气？” 医生敏锐地瞥了波洛一眼。 “你是指，我想，一个摇摇欲坠的七十岁老人是否干的了？噢，可以。这完全有可能——在凶器的顶部施加适当的份量，即便是个很虚弱的人也能够达到目的。” “那么凶手有没有可能会是个女的？” 这种假设令医生吃了一惊。 “女的？我的看法是，我从未把这样的谋杀案与女人联系在一起。可当然这也有可能，完全可能。只是，从心理角度来讲，我认为这案子不是女人干的。” 波洛赞同的迅速点点头。 “确实如此。从表面上看，这的确极不可能，可我们必须考虑所有的可能性。当时那尸体是怎样躺着的？” 医生详细地向我们描述一番被害人的姿态。他认为，老太太在受到袭击时，正好背对柜台站着（也就是背部朝向攻击者）。他躬身跌倒在柜台内部，每个进店来的人都很难看见她。 当我们向克尔医生道谢并离开，波洛说道： “你设想一下，黑斯廷斯，我们又进一步掌握了一点线索，可以说阿谢尔是无辜的。如果他虐待并威胁他妻子，她也该是隔着柜台面对他。而事实上，她却是背对着袭击者，——很显然，她是在为顾客拿取香烟。” 我感到一阵战栗。 “真可恨。” 波洛黯然摇头。 “Pauvre femme（法文，译为：可怜的女人。——译注）。”他低语道。 随即他看了一眼手表。 “奥弗顿离这儿不太远，我想。我们赶去那儿，见见老太太的外甥女，如何？” “你肯定我们不该先去案发地的那家商店？” “我希望随后再去，我自有道理。” 他没有继续解释下去，数分钟后我们行驶在伦敦的马路上，朝奥弗顿的方向前行。警督给我们的地址，是村子里一幢外形完好的房子，那房子位于朝向伦敦这边——英里的地方。 按响门铃之后，前来接应我们的是个漂亮的黑发姑娘，她双眼红肿，显然是刚刚哭过。 波洛温和地说道： “我想你就是玛丽•德劳尔，这里的客厅女佣？” “是的，先生，没错。我就是玛丽，先生。” “那么，如果你的女主人不反对的话，我该可以和你谈几分钟，是关于你姨妈阿谢尔太太的事。” “女主人不在家，先生。我想你们进屋来谈，她不会介意的。” 她打开一间小起居室的门，我们进了屋。波洛坐在窗边的一把椅子上，抬头关注地凝视着姑娘的脸。 “你想必已听说了你姨妈被害的事情。” 姑娘点点头，眼睛里泪水越涌越多。 “今天早晨听说的，先生。警察来过这里，噢，实在是太可怕了。可怜的姨妈，她过的可真苦啊。现在又——这实在太恐怖了。” “警察难道没提议让你回一趟安多弗吗？” “他们告诉我，我必须去接受调查，让我星期一去，先生。可我一点也不想去那儿，我无法想象走进那家店铺，现在——如果我这个佣人离开，我可不想让女主人太为难了。” “你很喜欢你的姨妈吧，玛丽？”波洛温和地问道。 “说实话，我确实喜欢她，她对我一直关怀倍至，我十一岁时母亲去世后，就跑去伦敦找她。我十六岁时开始做事，可休息时我通常去姨妈那儿。她与那个德国家伙一起一直麻烦不断，她过去常常称他为‘我的老魔鬼’，他在哪儿都不让她安宁。这个靠依赖，乞讨过活的老鬼。” 姑娘言辞激烈。 “你姨妈难道从未想到过以合法的方式从这种压迫中解脱出来吗？” “你瞧，她是他的太太，先生。你是无法从中解脱的。” 姑娘简单地回答，口气中带有结论的语调。 “告诉我玛丽，他曾经威胁过她，不是吗？” “噢，是的，先生。他以前常说的这些事的确很可怕。他威胁说要割断她的喉咙，以及诸如此类的话。他还总用德语和英语诅咒、谩骂。可姨妈说，她结婚时他是个英俊的男人。先生，一想到人会变成那种样子，真是太可怕了。” “哦，确实如此。我猜想，玛丽，你确实听见过这些威胁，而当你得知发生的一切之后，你难道不感到惊讶吗？” “我非常吃惊。您瞧，先生，我从来都不认为他真会那样做的。我认为，他的那些威胁仅是些肮脏的话语，没什么更多的意思。姨妈看来也不像是惧怕他。因为我曾经见过姨妈发怒的时候，他像只狗一样地夹着尾巴溜走了。您可以认为，他也挺怕姨妈的。” “她给他钱吗？” “可他是她的丈夫呀，先生。” “是的，你刚刚说过。”他停顿了一分钟，随即说道：“总之，可以设想，他并没有杀她。” “没杀害她？” 她眼睛发直。 “那是我的看法。假设是别的男人干的......你有没有什么想法，会是谁呢？” 她盯着他看，眼睛中带有更多的惊愕。 “我倒是没什么想法，先生，看来都不像是。” “难道就没有什么人能使你姨妈感到害怕吗？” 玛丽摇摇头。 “姨妈并不惧怕任何人，她唇齿锋利，足以与任何人抗衡。” “你从未听说过有谁对她怀有恶意吗？” “没有，先生。” “她有没有收到过匿名信？” “你说的是什么样的信，先生？” “没人签名的信——或只是签了个ABC之类的东西。”他仔细地观察着她，很清楚她此刻正沉浸在痛楚之中。她诧异地摇了摇头。 “除了你之外，你姨妈还有其他亲戚吗？” “现在已经没有了，先生。她是十兄妹中的一个，可十个人中只有三位长大成人。汤姆舅舅在战争中身亡，哈里舅舅则去了南美，从此杳无音讯。妈妈去世后，当然，只剩下我。” “你姨妈有没有积蓄？或是积攒了些钱？” “先生，她在萨文斯银行有点积蓄——她总是说足够她置办后事用。不然的话，她仅可以勉强度日——与那个老混蛋在一起能怎样，她是剩不了什么钱的。” 波洛若有所思地点点头。他更多地像是自言自语： “现在一切都惘然无知，毫无线索，一旦案情更清晰明了一点，”他起身说，“玛丽，如果任何时候需要你帮助的话，我会给你写信。” “实际上，先生。我正打算离开这里。我并不喜欢乡村生活。之所以留在此地，是因为离姨妈不远，对她来说是个安慰。可现在——”泪水再次湿润了她的眼睛——“我就毫无理由再待下来，我将回伦敦去，那儿对一个女孩子来说，要欢愉得多。” “那我希望，当你动身起程的时候，你会留给我你的住址。这是我的名片。” 他把名片递交给她。她看着名片，满脸疑惑地皱眉头。 “那您——与警察局毫不相关吗，先生？” “我是一名私家侦探。” 她伫立在那里，眼望着他，沉默了好长一会儿。 终于，她说道： “是不是还会有什么事会发生，先生？” “是的，我的孩子，会有稀奇古怪的事接着发生。你随后也许会帮上我的忙。” “我会尽力做任何事情的，先生。姨妈被人谋杀，真是天理不容。” 她的表述显得奇特，但却感人肺腑。即刻之后，我们行驶在回安多弗的路上。 CHAPTER 6 The Scene of the Crime CHAPTER 6 The Scene of the Crime The street in which the tragedy had occurred was a turning offthe mainstreet. Mrs. Ascher' s shop was situated about half-way down it on theright-hand side. As we turned into the street Poirot glanced at his watch and I real-izedwhy he had delayed his visit to the scene of the crime until now. Itwas j ust on half-past five, He had wished to reproduce yesterday' sat-mosphere as closely as possible. But if that had been his purpose it was defeated. Certainly at thismoment the road bore very little likeness to its appearance on thepre-vious evening. There were a certain number of small shops inter-spersedbetween private houses of the poorer class. I j udged thatordinarily there would be a fair number of people passing up anddown--mostly people of the poorer classes, with a good sprinkling ofchildren playing on the pavements and in the road. At this moment there was a solid mass of people standing stating atone particular house or shop and it took little perspicuity to guesswhich that was. What we saw was a mass of average human beingslooking with intense interest at the spot where another human beinghad been done to death. As we drew nearer this proved to be indeed the case. In front of asmall dingy-looking shop with its shutters now closed stood aharassed-looking young policeman who was stolidly adj uring thecrowd to "pass along there. " By the help of a colleague, displacements23 il? took place--a certain number of people grudgingly sighed and betookthemselves to their ordinary vocations, and almost immediately otherpersons came along and took up their stand to gaze their full on thespot where murder had been committed. Poirot stopped a little distance from the main body of the crowd. From where we stood the legend painted over the door could be readplainly enough. Poirot repeated it under his breath. "A. Ascher. Oui, c ' est peut-tre /a--" He broke off. "Come, let us go inside, Hastings. " I was only too ready. We made our way through the crowd and accosted the young policeman. Poirot produced the credentials which the inspector had givenhim. The constable nodded, and unlocked the door to let us passwithin. We did so and entered to the intense interest of the lookers-on. Inside it was very dark owing to the shutters being closed. Theconstable found and switched on the electric light. The bulb was a low-powered one so that the interior was still dimly lit. I looked about me. A dingy little place. A few cheap magazines strewn about, and yesterday' snewspapers--all with a day' s dust on them. Behind thecounter a row of shelves reaching to the ceiling and packed with tobaccoand packets of cigarettes. There were also a couple of j ars o' peppermint humbugs and barley sugar. A commonplace little shop,one of many thousand such others. The constable in his slow Hampshire voice was explaining the mist' en scbne. "Down in a heap behind the counter, that' s where she was. Doctorsays as how she never knew what hit her. Must have been reaching upto one of the shelves. " "There was nothing in her hand?" "No, sir, but there was a packet of Players down beside her. "Poirot nodded. His eyes swept round the small space observing-noting. "And the railway guide was--where?" "Here, sir. " The constable pointed out the spot on the counter. "Itwas open at the right page for Andover and lying face down. Seemsthough he must have been looking up the trains to London. If so' twasn' t an Andover man at all. But then, of course, the railway gui&might have belonged to some one else what had nothing to do with themurder at all, but j ust forgot it here. " "Fingerprints. ' ?" I suggested. The man shook his head. "The whole place was examined straight away, sir. There weren' tnone. " "Not on the counter itself?. " asked Poirot. "A long sight too many, sir! All confused and j umbled up. ""Any of Ascber' s among themT" "Too soon to say, sir. " Poirot nodded, then asked if the dead woman lived over the shop. "Yes, sir, you go through that door at the back, sir. You' ll excuseme from coming with you, but I' ve got to stay--"Poirot passed through the door in question and I followed him. Behindthe shop was a microscopic sort of parlour and kitchencombined it was neat and clean but very dreary-looking and scantilyfurnished. On the mantelpiece were a few photographs. I went up andlooked at them and Poirot j oined me. The photographs were three in all. One was a cheap portrait of thegirl we had been with that afternoon, Mary Drower. She was obviouslywearing her best clothes and had the self-conscious, wooden smile onher face that so often disfigures the expression in posed photography,and makes a snapshot preferable. The second was a more expensive type of picture--an artisticallyblurred reproduction of an elderly woman with white hair. A high furcollar stood up round the neck. I guessed that this was probably the Miss Rose who had left Mrs. Ascher the small legacy which had enabled her to start in business. The third photograph was a very old one, now faded and yellow. Itrepresented a young man and woman in somewhat old-fashionedclothes standing arm in arm. The man had a flower in his buttonholeand there was an air of bygone festivity about the whole pose. "Probably a wedding picture, " said Poirot. "Regard, Hastings, did Inot tell you that she had been a beautiful womanT' He was right. Disfigured by old-fashioned hair-dressing and weirdclothes, there was no disguising the handsomeness of the girl in thepicture with her clear-cut features and spirited bearing. I lookedclosely at the second figure. It was almost impossible to recognizethe seedy Ascher in this smart young man with the military beating. I recalled the leering drunken old man, and the worn, toil-worn faceof the dead woman--and I shivered a little at the remorselessness oftinle . . . . From the parlour a stair led to two upstairs rooms. One was empty and unfurnished, the other had evidently been the dead woman' s bedroom. After being searched by the police it had been left as it was. Acouple of old worn blankets on the bed--a little stock of well-darnedunderwear in a drawer--cookery recipes in another--a paperbackednovel entitled The Green Oasis--a pair of new stockings--pathetic intheir cheap shininess--a couple of china ornaments--a Dresden shepherdmuch broken, and a blue and yellow spotted dog--a black rain. coat and a woolly j umper hanging on pegs--such were the worldlypossessions of the late Alice Ascher. If there had been any personal papers, the police had taken them. "Pauvrefemme, " murmured Poirot. "Come, Hastings, there is nothingfor us here. " When we were once more in the street, he hesitated for a minute ortwo, then crossed the road. Almost exactly opposite Mrs. Ascher' s wasa greengrocer' s shop--of the type that has most of its stock outsiderather than inside. In a low voice Poirot gave me certain instructions. Then he himselfentered the shop. After waiting a minute or two I followed him in. Hewas at the moment negotiating for a lettuce. I myself bought a poundof strawberries. Poirot was talking animatedly to the stout lady who was servinghim. "It was j ust opposite you, was it not, that this murder occurred? What an affair! What a sensation it must have caused you! "The stout lady was obviously tired of talking about the murder. Shemust have had a long day of it. She observed: "It would be as well if some of that gaping crowd cleared off. Whatis there to look at, I' d like to know. ' ?" "It must have been very different last night, " said Poirot. "Possiblyyou even observed the murderer enter the shopa tall, fair man with abeard, was he not? A Russian, so I have heard. ""What' s that? The woman looked up sharply. "A Russian did it. you sayT' "I understand that the police have arrested him. ""Did you ever nowT' The woman was excited, voluble. "A foreigner. ""Mais oui. I thought perhaps you might have noticed him lastnight? "Well, I don' t get much chance of noticing, and that' s a fact. Theevening' s our busy time and there' s always a fair few passing and getting home after their work. A tall, fair man with a beard--no,Ican' t say I saw any one of that description anywhere about. "I broke in on my cue. "Excuse me, sir, " I said to Poirot. "I think you have been misin-formed. A short dark man I was told. " An interested discussion intervened in which the stout lady, her lankhusband and a hoarse-voiced shopboy all participated. No less thanfour short dark men had been observed, and the hoarse boy had seen atall fair one, "but he hadn' t got no beard, " he added regretfully. Finally, our purchases made, we left the establishment, leaving ourfalsehoods uncorrected. "And what was the point of all that, Poirot?" I demanded somewhatreproachfully. "Parbleu, I wanted to estimate the chances of a stranger being no-ticedentering the shop opposite. " "Couldn' t you simply have asked--without all that tissue of lies?""No, mon ami. If I had ' simply asked, ' as you put it, I should havegot no answer at all to my questions. You yourself are English and yetyou do not seem to appreciate the quality of the English reaction toadirect question. It is invariably one of suspicion and the natural resultis reticence. If I had asked those people for information they wouldhave shut up like oysters. But by making a statement (and a somewhatout-of-the-way and preposterous one) and by your contradiction of it,tongues are immediately loosened. We know also that that particulartime was a ' busy time' --that is, that every one would be intent on theirown concerns and that there would be a fair number of people passingalong the pavements. Our murderer chose his time well, Hastings. "He paused and then added on a deep note of reproach: "Is it that you have not in any degree the common sense, Hastings? Isay to you: ' Make the purchase quel conque' --and you deliberatelychoose the strawberries! Already they commence to creep throughtheir bag and endanger your good suit. " With some dismay, I perceived that this was indeed the case. I hastily presented the strawberries to a small boy who seemedhighly astonished and faintly suspicious. Poirot added the lettuce, thus setting the seal on the child' sbewilder-ment. He continued to drive the moral home. "At a cheap greengrocer' s--not strawberries. A strawberry, unlessfresh picked, is bound to exude j uice. A banana--some apples---evenacabbage--but strawberries--" "It was the first thing I thought of, " I explained by way of excuse. "That is unworthy of your imagination, " returned Poirot sternly. He paused on the sidewalk. The house and shop on the right of Mrs. Ascher' s was empty. A "ToLet" sign appeared in the windows. On the other side was a house withsomewhat grimy muslin curtains. To this house Poirot betook himself and, there being no bell, executeda series of sharp flourishes with the knocker. The door was opened after some delay by a very dirty child with anose that needed attending to. "Good-evening, " said Poirot. "Is your mother within?""Ay?" said the child. It stared at us with disfavour and deep suspicion. "Your mother, " said Poirot. This took some twelve seconds to sink in, then the child turnedand, bawling up the stairs, "Mum, you' re wanted, " retreated to somefastness in the dim interior. A sharp-faced woman looked over the balusters and began to descend. "No good you wasting your time--" she began, but Poirot interruptedher. He took off his hat and bowed magnificently. "Good-evening, madame. I am on the staff of the Evening Flicker. I wantto persuade you to accept a fee of five pounds and let us have anarticle on your late neighbour, Mrs. Ascher. "The irate words arrested on her lips, the woman came down thestairs smoothing her hair and hitching at her skirt. "Come inside, please--on the left there. Won' t you sit down, sir. "The tiny room was heavily over-crowded with a massive pseudo-Jacobeansuite, but we managed to squeeze ourselves in and on to ahard-seated sofa. "You must excuse me, " the woman was saying. "I am sure I' m sorryI spoke so sharp j ust now, but you' d hardly believe the worry one hasto put up with--fellows coming along selling this, that and theother--vacuum cleaners, stockings, lavender bags and such like foolery--and all soplausible and civil spoken. Got your name, too, pat they have. It' s Mrs. Fowler this, that and the other. "Seizing adroitly on the name, Poirot said: "Well, Mrs. Fowler, I hope you' re going to do what I ask. ""I don' t know, I' m sure. " The five pounds hung alluringly beforeTHE A. B. C. MURDERS Mrs. Fowler' s eyes. "I knew Mrs. Ascher, of course, but as to writinganything. " Hastily Poirot reassured her. No labour on her part was required. Hewould elicit the facts from her and the interview would be written up. Thus encouraged, Mrs. Fowler plunged willingly into reminiscence,conj ecture and hearsay. Kept to herself, Mrs. Ascher had. Not what you' d call really friendly,but there, she' d had a lot of trouble, poor soul, every oneknew that. And by right Franz Ascher ought to have been locked upyears ago. Not that Mrs. Ascher had been afraid of him--a real tartarshe could be when roused! Give as good as she got any day. But thereit was--the pitcher could go to the well once too often. Again and again,she, Mrs. Fowler, had said to her: "One of these days that man willdo for you. Mark my words. " And he had done, hadn' t he? And there hadshe, Mrs. Fowler, been right next door and never heard a sound. In a pause Poirot managed to insert a question. Had Mrs. Ascher ever received any peculiar letters---letters withouta proper signature--j ust something like A. B. C. ? Regretfully, Mrs. Fowler returned a negative answer. "I know the kind of thing you mean--anonymous letters they callthem--mostly full of words you' d blush to say out loud. Well, I don' tknow, I' m sure, if Franz Ascher ever took to writing those. Mrs. Ascher never let on to me if he did. What' s that? A railway guide, anA. B. C. ? No, I never saw such a thing about--and I' m sure if Mrs. Ascher had been sent one I' d have heard about it. I declare you couldhave knocked me down with a feather when I heard about this wholebusiness. It was my girl Edie what came to me. ' Mum, ' she says,' there' s ever so many policemen next door. ' Gave me quite a turn, itdid. ' Well, ' I said, when I heard about it, ' it does show that she oughtnever to have been alone in the house--that niece of hers ought to havebeen with her. A man in drink can be like a ravening wolf, ' I said,' and in my opinion a wild beast is neither more nor less than what that olddevil of a husband of hers is. I' ve warned her, ' I said, ' many timesand now my words have come true. He' ll do for you, ' I said. And he hasdone for her! You can' t rightly estimate what a man will do when he' sin drink and this murder' s a proof of it. " She wound up with a deep gasp. "Nobody saw this man Ascher go into the shop, I believe. 9' ' saidPoirot. Mrs. Fowler sniffed scornfully. "Naturally he wasn' t going to show himself, " she . aid. How Mr. Ascher had got there without showing himself she did notdeign to explain. She agreed that there was no back way into the house and thatAscher was quite well known by sight in the district. "But he didn' t want to swing for it and he kept himself well hid. "Poirot kept the conversational ball rolling some little time longerbut when it seemed certain that Mrs. Fowler had told all that she knew notonce but many times over, he terminated the interview, first payingout the promised sum. "Rather a dear five pounds' worth, Poirot, " I ventured to remarkwhen we were once more in the street. "So far, yes. " "You think she knows more than she has told?""My friend, we are in the peculiar position of not knowing whatquestions to ask. We are like little children playing Cache Cache inthe dark. We stretch out our hands and grope about. Mrs. Fowler has toldus all that she thinks she knows--and has thrown in several conj ec-turesfor good measure! In the future, however, her evidence may beuseful. It is for the future that I have invested that sum of fivepounds. " I did not quite understand the point, but at this moment we ran intoInspector Glen. 第六章 犯罪现场 第六章 犯罪现场 悲剧发生处的小街道是主街的一条叉路。阿谢尔太太的小店就坐落在这条街靠右侧的中段。 当我转过街角进入小街时，波洛瞅了一眼手表，我这下子才意识到，他为何要拖延时间，直到现在才到犯罪现场来。此时刚好五点半，他希望能尽可能地重现昨天的气氛。 可他的目的是无法达到的。很显然，此时此刻，那街上的情景与昨天相比大相径庭。街道中，有数家小店铺散布在较贫穷阶层的私人住宅中。我断想，在平日，那里该有许多人来往走动，他们中大多数属于贫穷阶层，间或有几个孩子在人行道和马路上玩耍。 这时候，有一大堆人正围站着，盯着其中一座房子或商店看。毋庸置疑，这里发生过什么事。我们所看到的是，一大群人正以极大的兴趣注视着那另一个人被谋杀的地方。 我们越来越靠近，情形确实如此。那间暗淡的小店窗板紧关着，店前站着位一脸烦躁的年轻警察，呆头呆脑地引导人群“绕行”。他在一名同事的协助下转移人群——一些人不情愿地叹叹气，然后服从命令，移动了地方。其他人则立刻会走上前来，占据位置，满满地瞪眼瞅着那谋杀案发生之地。 波洛在离人群有一定距离的地方停下来。从我们站立的地方，可以很清晰地看到门上方的油漆招牌，波洛低声悄悄地重复招牌上的字： “A•阿谢尔。Qui，c'est peut——etre（法文，意为：是的，可能是这个地方。——译注）——” 他突然停止讲话。 “来，我们进去看看，黑斯廷斯。” 我早已急不可待了。 我们穿越过人群，与那位年轻警察打招呼。波洛出示了警督事先给他的通行证。警士点了点头，打开门，让我们进到店内。我们照此办理，走进那家令旁观者兴趣沸然的小店中。 由于窗板紧闭，屋内相当黑暗。警士找到开关，打开电灯，由于功率很低，房间在灯光下依然昏暗。 我察看四周的情形。 这是一个昏暗乏味的小房子。几本廉价杂志散乱地摊着，还有昨天的报纸——上面均落有一整天的尘土。柜台之后安放着一排货架，高达天花板，架上摆放着烟草和盒装香烟，还有几瓶薄荷糖和麦芽糖。这是一家及其普通的小店铺，只是几千家中的一家。 警士用他那低沉的汉普郡口音解释 mise en scene（法文，意为：现场状况。——译注）。 她是在柜台后面，挤成一堆。法医说她自己都不知道是什么东西袭击了她。她当时一定是在货架上取货物。 “她手中什么也没有吗？” “没有，先生。”警士在柜台上指出来，“书打开着，正好是安多弗的那页，朝下倒放着。看来那人必定是在查询去伦敦的火车班次。如果是这样的话，那凶手就不会是安多弗人。不过，这本铁路指南当然也可能是属于另一个与谋杀案毫不相干的人，他可能只是忘在这里而已。” “有指纹吗？”我探问。 那人摇头。 “整个地方都进行了检查，没有任何指纹。” “柜台上也没有吗？”波洛问道。 “那儿则实在是太多了，先生。所有的指纹均混杂在一起，无从分便。” “其中有阿谢尔的指纹吗？” “现在断言还为时过早，先生。” 波洛点着头，然后问他那妇人是否住在店内。 “是的，先生，您穿过扇门，她就住在后面。请原谅我无法跟您进去，我还是待在这里......” 波洛穿过那扇门，我追随着他。店后是一处包括了起居室和厨房的小型住所，房间整齐洁净，但看上去阴郁沉闷，摆放少量的家俱。壁炉台上摆着几张相片，波洛也与我一起看。共有三张照片，有一张是玛丽•德劳尔的廉价相片，也就是下午我们见到的那个姑娘。她显然穿着最好的衣服，脸上带着半清醒的、呆板的微笑，这种微笑往往会破坏精心摄制的照片中的面部表情，而更适合于快照。 第二张照片是贵一些的那种，一张经艺术加工而变得朦胧的白发老妇人的照片。高耸的毛皮衣领直立着裹住脖子。 我猜想，那位夫人一定就是罗斯小姐，是她留给阿谢尔太太一小笔遗赠，才使她得以开始生意。 第三章照片非常陈旧，已经褪色泛黄，照片中是一对年轻男人和女人，身着老式的服装，手挽手站在一起。男人的衣服上有个钮扣眼，整个相片的姿式显出以往的欢乐。 “很可能是张结婚照。”波洛说，“记住，黑斯廷斯，我是否告诉过你，她从前是个漂亮的女人？” 他说对了。尽管受老式发型和奇异服饰的掩盖，照片中的女孩子身上依然毫不伪装地透出灵秀之气，她五官清丽，仪态活泼大方。我靠近观看第二个人，那是个英俊聪明、军人仪态的年轻男子，我几乎认不出那就是肮脏没落的阿谢尔。 我回想起那个斜着眼睛酩酊大醉的老人，和死去的老妇人那张劳累沧桑的脸庞，——时光流逝的无情令我颤然一惊...... 起居室的楼梯通向楼上的两个房间，其中一间空空如也，毫无摆设，另一间则显然是老妇人的卧室。警方搜查以后，房间又依原样摆放着。床上有几条破旧的毯子——抽屉里有一堆精心织补过的内衣，另一个抽屉内则是烹饪用的佐料，一本平装的名叫《绿洲》的小说，一双新袜子——因廉价的光泽而显得郁闷可怜，几件瓷装饰品——其中德累斯顿牧羊人破损了大部分，还有一只黄色斑点的小狗，木钉上挂着黑色雨衣和一件无袖羊毛罩衫——这些就是晚年的艾丽丝•阿谢尔的全部家当。 即便有什么私人信件，警察也一定先拿走了。 “Pauvre femme（法文，意为：可怜的女人。——译注），”波洛小声说，“走吧，黑斯廷斯，在这里我们什么也找不到。” 当我们再次上街时，他迟疑了一会儿，然后穿过马路。几乎正对着阿谢尔太太的小店是一家蔬菜水果店——是那种把大部分货品摆在门外而不是店内的小店铺。 波洛以极低的声音给了我一些指示。然后他进入店内，我过了一两分钟后才进去。他正在为一颗莴苣讨价还价，我则买了一磅草莓。 波洛则主动与那位接待他的胖墩墩的妇人搭讪谈话。 “在你的正对面，就是那件谋杀案发生的地方？这是件什么事！它一定令你震惊不已。” 这个敦实的妇人显然已厌倦了谈论谋杀案，她一定整天都被人追问个不休。她解答到： “那些围着看热闹的人群散去才好。我真想知道有什么好看的？” “昨夜的情形一定极为异常，”波洛说，“很可能你也见到过进入小店的那个凶手——是不是个长着胡子、身材高高、蛮帅的男人？我听说是个俄国人。” “什么？”那妇人吃惊地抬眼看，“你说是个俄国人干的？” “你怎么知道？”妇人很激动，不停地说，“是个外国人干的。” “Mais Oui（法文，意为：是的。——译注）。我想可能你昨晚看到了那个人。” “噢，我并没有太多机会来注意，事实上我确实没看见。晚上我们很忙，总会有一些人下班回家时路过这里。一个长着胡子、个头高且蛮帅的男人，——不，我从来都没见过那种长相的人。” 我暗示着插话。 “对不起，先生，”我对波洛说，“我想你可能听错了，有人告诉我是个身材矮小的黑人。” 随即那胖墩墩的妇人，她那瘦长的丈夫和一个声音沙哑的店员小男孩均加入到这场有趣的讨论中来。被人看到的矮小黑人不下四位，那个话音沙哑的小男孩则看到过一个高大、英俊的男人，“可他并没留胡子。”他遗憾地补充到。 最终，我们收拾好各自的东西，离开了那家店铺，而我们的胡编乱造则没被纠正。 “为什么要那样做呢，波洛？”我带着些责备的口吻质问。 “ Parbleu（法文，意为：当然。——译注），我想估计一下，一个陌生人进入对面商店时被人注意到的可能性有多大。” “你难道不能简单地问，何必要编造那一大堆假话？” “不，Mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注）。如果像你所说的，简单地问，我根本就不会得到任何答复。你本人是英国人，可你看来并不了解英国人对一个直接的问题的反应。如果我试图从那些人那里得到些什么消息，他们会像牡蛎一样缄口不语。只有提出自己的观点，（而且是个有些反常出格的观点），再加上你自相矛盾的论调，人们才会松口。我们也知道那段时间‘店内很忙’——那就是说，每个人都关注自己手中的活，而人行道上确实会有相当多的人来往穿行。我们的凶手选择的时间极佳，黑斯廷斯。” 他停顿一下，颇含责备之意地补充道： “你是否连一点常识都没有，黑斯廷斯？我告诉你买些quelconque（法文，意为：随便、普通。——译注）的东西，可你却故意选择草莓！这些草莓已开始渗透过纸袋，危及你漂亮的外套。” 惊愕之余，我发现情形的确如此。 我仓促地把草莓递给一个小男孩，他看上去极为惊讶，微微地带着疑心。 波洛把莴苣也交给他，这样才使男孩的疑惑得以消除。 “在一家廉价瓜果店——那里的草莓可买不得。草莓——除非是刚摘的，否则一定会淌汁的。香蕉、苹果、甚至是一棵白菜都可以，可草莓......” “它是我想到的第一样物品。”我带着歉意解释道。 “那并不值得你去想。”波洛严厉地回看我。 他在路边停下来。 阿谢尔太太的商店右邻的房屋和小店空着。窗上出现了“转让”的标识。另一边则是做房子，挂着满是污垢的窗帘。 波洛走向那座房子。那儿没有门铃，他用敲门环着实地敲打了许多下，发出尖利的响声。 过了一会门打开了，开门的是个浑身极脏的小孩，鼻子需要清洗。 “晚上好，”波洛说，“你妈妈在家吗？” “啊，”小孩叫道。 眼睛盯着我们看，一副不悦之色和疑惑的神态。 “你妈妈在吗？”波洛说。 这一次小孩的怀疑过了好一会儿才消失，他转过身大声叫着爬上楼去：“妈妈，有人找。”随后迅速地退回到房内的暗处中去。 一位脸部轮廓分明的妇人越过栏杆望过来，并开始走下楼来。 “你们还是不要浪费时间的好。”她开始说，但波洛打断了她。 他摘下帽子，动人地鞠了一躬。 “晚上好，太太。我是《晚间闪耀》报的工作人员，我想劝说您能接纳五英镑的费用，让我们就您的已故邻居阿谢尔太太写篇文章。” 她唇间怒语遂止，从楼上走下来，梳理一下头发，曳拉一下衬衣。 “进来吧，请——到这边来。您不愿坐下吗，先生？” 由于摆着一套巨大的詹姆士一世时期的仿制家具，小巧的房间显得过分拥挤，我们还是想方设法把自己塞进一把硬邦邦的沙发之中。 “请原谅，”妇人开口说话，“我想我刚才语言太激烈了点，可您恐怕没法相信我必须应付的麻烦——总有人来推销这个，推销那个，还有许多其他的物品——真空吸尘器，长统袜，熏衣草编织的包和诸如此类的骗人玩艺。每个人都花言巧语，道貌岸然。他们还挺有办法，能探听到你的名字。然后口口声声地称呼你福勒太太这个那个的。” 波洛机敏地记住姓名，说： “福勒太太，我希望您能按照我的提问去做。” “我想我并不了解。”五磅钱诱惑地摆在福勒太太的眼前。 “当然，我认识阿谢尔太太，可并不足以用来写些什么。” 波洛再次仓促地向她保证，她并不需要做什么。他会从她这里得到真实情况，这次采访会被描写得有声有色。 福勒太太受此鼓励后，即心甘情愿地沉浸于回忆、推测和传闻之中。 阿谢尔太太从不与人来往，并不像你们认为的那样友善，可她也确实有一大堆麻烦，可怜的人，每个人都知道这些事。按理说，弗朗兹•阿谢尔数年前就应该被拘留起来。阿谢尔太太其实并不惧怕他——她易被激怒，可不是个好惹的。她会把每日所得尽数付出，可那个无赖来找她的次数太多了。而福勒太太曾多次告诫过她：“总有一天这家伙会对你动手的。记住我的话。”他已经做了，不是吗？而她，福勒太太，身处邻室，却丝毫没有听见任何动静。 波洛趁停顿时插了一句问话。 “阿谢尔太太是否曾经收到过怪异的信件——没有任何签名的信——或是仅签了个ABC之类的东西？” 很遗憾，福勒太太报以否定的答案。 “我懂您指的那种东西——他们称之为匿名信。既然您有话要问，就应该大方说出来。哦，我想，我不知道，弗朗兹•阿谢尔是否写过那种信。就算他写了，阿谢尔太太也不会让我看的。还有什么？铁路指南，那本 ABC？我从没见过这样的东西，而且我也确信，如果有人送了一本这样的书给阿谢尔太太，我会听说的，我可以坦率地说，当我听到这一切时，极度恐惧。是我女儿伊迪告诉我的，‘妈妈，’她说，‘隔壁来了很多警察。’这确使我感到非常吃惊。我听说此事时说过，这表明她从不该单独呆在房间里——她那个外甥女应该与她在一起。一个喝醉的人肯定象只贪婪的狼，我说过，‘我认为，她的那个恶魔般的丈夫不折不扣就是只野兽。’我也曾警告过她，我说，‘许多次和现在的情形都表明我的话没错，他肯定会下手的。’我说过。他确实动手杀了她。你无法正确估量一个喝醉的人的行为，而这件谋杀案就是明证。” 她极为激愤，深深地叹了口气。 “我想，没有人看见阿谢尔进过商店？”波洛说。 福勒太太含带讥讽地嗤之以鼻。 “他自然不会让人看见自己。”她说。 可她又没有解释，阿谢尔先生是如何进到店里又不让人看见的。 她也承认那所房子没有后门可以进入，而阿谢尔在这个街区是大家都熟知的人物。 “可他并不想招摇过市，他肯定隐藏得很好。” 波洛让谈话继续进行一会儿，但看到福勒太太已将她所了解且多次对人谈过的实情和盘托出时，波洛中断了谈话，随即支付了曾许诺的钱额。 “我想确实值五磅钱，波洛。”当我们再次走上街道时，我斗胆评论道。 “你认为她还有什么隐而不谈？” “我的朋友，我们现在处境奇特，不知该提什么问题，我们就象是在黑暗中玩捉迷藏的小孩子。我们张开双臂，四处摸索。福勒太太已经告诉我们她了解的一切情况——而且分寸极佳地进行推测。然而，再过一段时间，她提供的线索必定会有用。我则是出于将来的考虑而预先投资了五磅钱。”我其实并没弄懂其中的道理，可此刻我们要去找格伦警督。 CHAPTER 7 Mr. Partridge and Mr. Riddell CHAPTER 7 Mr. Partridge and Mr. Riddell Inspector Glen was looking rather gloomy. He had, I gathered, spentthe afternoon trying to get a complete list of persons who had beennoticed entering the tobacco shop. "And nobody has seen any one?" Poirot inquired. "Oh, yes, they have. Three tall men with furtive expressions fourshort men with black moustaches--two beards---three fat men--allstrangers--and all, if I' m to believe witnesses, with sinisterexpressions! I wonder somebody didn' t see a gang of masked men with revolverswhile they were about it! " Poirot smiled sympathetically. "Does anybody claim to have seen the man AscherT' "No, they don' t. And that' s another point in his favour. I' ve j ust toldthe Chief Constable that I think this is a j ob for Scotland Yard. Idon' t believe it' s a local crime. " Poirot said gravely: "I agree with you. " The inspector said: "You know, Monsieur Poirot, it' s a nasty business--a nastybusiness. . . I don' t like it . . . . " We had two more interviews before returning to London. The first was with Mr. James Partridge. Mr. Partridge was the lastperson known to have seen Mrs. Ascher alive. He had made a purclasefrom her at 5: 30. Mr. Partridge was a small, spare man, a bank clerk by profession. Hewore pince-nez, was very dry and spare-looking and extremely precisein all his utterances. He lived in a small house as neat and trim ashimself. "Mr. --er--Poirot, " he said, glancing at the card my friend hadhanded to him. "From Inspector Glen? What can I do for you, Mr. Poirot?" "I understand, Mr. Partridge, that you were the last person to seeMrs. Ascher alive. " Mr. Partridge placed his finger-tips together and looked at Poirot asthough he were a doubtful cheque. "That is a very debatable point, Mr. Poiro, " he said. "Many peoplemay have made purchases from Mrs. Ascher after I did so. ""If so, they have not come forward to say so. "Mr. Partridge coughed. "Some people, Mr. Poirot, have no sense of public duty. "He looked at us owlishly through his spectacles. "Exceedingly true, " murmured Poirot. "You, I understand, went tothe police of your own accord?" "Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence Iperceived that my statement might be helpful and came forwardaccordingly. ' ' "A very proper spirit, " said Poirot solemnly. "Perhaps you will beso kind as to repeat your story to me. " "By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5: 30precisely--"Pardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?"Mr, Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted. "The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was aminute slow. That was j ust before I entered Mrs. Ascher' s shop. ""Were you in the habit of making purchases there?""Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice aweek I was in the habit of purchasing two ounces of John Ce! tnmild. " "Did you know Mrs. Ascber at all? Anything of her circumsta: cesor her history?" "Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional reIas to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her. ""Did you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit ofthreatening her life?" "No, I knew nothing whatever about her. " "You knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appear ance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurriedor put out in any way?" Mr. Partridge considered. "As far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual, " he said. Poirot rose. "Thank you, Mr. Partridge, for answering these questions. Haveyou, by any chance, an A. B. C. in the house? I want to look up my re-turntrain to London. " "On the shelf j ust behind you, " said Mr. Partridge. On the shelf in question were an A. B. C. , a Bradshaw, the StockExchange Year Book, Kelly' s Directory, a Who' s Who and a localdi-rectory. Poirot took down the A. B. C. , pretended to look up a train, thenthanked Mr. Partridge and took his leave. Our next interview was with Mr. Albert Riddell and was of a highlydifferent character. Mr. Albert Riddell was a plate-layer and ourcon-versation took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of platesand dishes by Mr. Riddell' s obviously nervous wife, the growling ofMr. Riddell' s dog and the undisguised hostility of Mr. Riddell himself. He was a big clumsy giant of a man with a broad face and small sus-piciouseyes. He was in the act of eating meatpie, washed down by ex-ceedinglyblack tea. He peered at us angrily over the rim of his cup. "Told all I' ve got to tell once, haven' t I?" he growled. "What' s itto do with me, anyway? Told it to the blarsted police, I ' ave, and nowI' ve got to spit it all out again to a couple of blarsted foreigners. "Poirot gave a quick amused glance in my direction and then said: "In truth I sympathize with you, but what will you? It is a questionof murder, is it not? One has to be very, very careful. ""Best tell the gentleman what he wants, Bert, " said the woman nerv-ously. "You shut your blarsted mouth, " roared the giant. "You did not, I think, go to the police of your own accord. " Poirotslipped the remark in neatly. "Why the hell should I? It were no business of mine. ""A matter of opinion, " said Poirot indifferently. "There has been amurder--the police want to know who has been in the shopI myselfthink it would have--what shall I say?--looked more natural if youhad come forward. " "I' ve got my work to do. Don' t say I shouldn' t have come forwardin my own time--" "But as it was, the police were given your name as that of a person^ATHA , seen to go into Mrs. Ascher' s and they had to come to you. Were theysatisfied with your account?" "Why shouldn' t they be?" demanded Bert truculently. Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders. "What are you getting at, mister? Nobody' s got anything againstme! Every one knows who did the old girl in, that b---- of a husbandof hers. " "But he was not in the street that evening and you were. ""Trying to fasten it on me are you? Well, you won' t succeed. Whatreason had I got to do a thing like that? Think I wanted to pinch atin of her bloody tobacco? TMnk I' m a bloody homicidal maniac as they callit? Think I--?" He rose threateningly from his seat. His wife bleated out: "Bert, Bert--don' t say such things. Bert--they' ll think--""Calm yourself, Monsieur, " said Poirot. "I demand only your ac-countof your visit. That you refuse it seems to me--what shall wesay--a little odd?" "Who said I refused anything?" Mr. Riddell sank back again into hisseat. "I don' t mind. " "It was six o' clock when you entered the shop?""That' s right--a minute or two after, as a matter of fact. Wanted apacket of Gold Hake. I pushed open the door--""It was closed, then?" ' ' That' s fight. I thought shop was shut, maybe. But it wasn' t. I wentin, there wasn' t any one about. I hammered on the counter and waitedabit. Nobody came, so I went out again. That' s all, and you can put itin your pipe and smoke it. " "You didn' t see the body fallen down behind the counter?""No, no more would you have done--unless you was looking for it,maybe. " "Was there a railway guide lying about?" "Yes, there was--face downwards. It crossed my mind like that theold woman might have had to go off sudden by train and forgot to lockshop up. " "Perhaps you picked up the railway guide or moved it along thecounter?" "Didn' t touch the b------ thing. I did j ust what I said. ""And you did not see any one leaving the shop before you yourselfgot there?" "Didn' t see any such thing. What I say is, why pitch onPoirot rose. "Nobody is pitching upon you--yet. Bon soir, Monsieur. "He left the man with his mouth open and I followed him. In the street he consulted his watch. "With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the ' Let us dispatch ourselves quickly. " 第七章 帕特里奇先生和里德尔先生 第七章 帕特里奇先生和里德尔先生 格伦警督面色及其阴沉。我猜想，他整个下午一定是在找出一份名单，那些被人看见曾进过那家烟草店的人的名单。 “有人见过谁进过烟草店吗？”波洛问。 “哦，有。有三个是神情诡秘的高个子，四个胡子黝黑的矮男人——其中两个长着络腮胡子，三个胖男人，这些人全都很陌生。如果我相信证人的话，他们这些人全都面目狰狞！我感到困惑的是，怎么会没人见过一群手持左轮手枪的蒙面人在周围出现！” 波洛赞同地微笑。 “有人声称见过那个阿谢尔吗？” “不，没人见过。那倒是对他挺有利的。我已经告诉警察局长，我认为这是苏格兰场的任务，这不是件本地的案子。” 波洛严肃地说。 “我同意你的观点。” 警督说道： “你知道，波洛先生，这确实是件令人作呕的案件，令人作呕。我可不喜欢它。” 我们回到伦敦之前，又进行了两次会见。 第一次是与詹姆斯•帕特里奇先生。帕特里奇是最后一个见过阿谢尔太太还活着的人，他五点三十分去她店里卖过东西。 帕特里奇个头矮小，在一间银行做职员。他带着夹鼻眼镜，外观干瘪瘦小，言辞极端精确。他住所的房子如同他本人一样干净整洁。 “波洛——先生，”他说道，一边盯着我朋友递给他的名片看，“由格伦警督介绍来的？波洛先生，我能为您做些什么？” “帕特里奇先生，我了解到，你是最后一位见过阿谢尔太太还活着的人。” 帕特里奇先生把指尖并拢到一块儿，望着波洛，仿佛他是张可疑的支票。 “那个问题有待商议，波洛先生。”他说，“许多人有可能在我之后去她那儿买过东西。” “如果是那样的话，他们应该出来证实。” 帕特里奇先生咳嗽。 “有些人，波洛先生，根本就没有公共责任感。” 他透过眼镜面目严肃地望着我们。 “您所言极是，”波洛小声说道，“我知道，您是主动到警察局的。” “我确实是的。一听说那令人发指的事件，我就想可能我的证词会对案件有帮助，所以就主动去说明情况。” “这种精神真是可嘉。”波洛庄重地说，“也许可以重复一下您的见闻。” “当然可以。五点半的时候，我正好回家来......” “对不起，你怎么能如此精确地记得当时的时间？” 帕特里奇先生由于被打断而显得稍有点不耐烦。 “教堂的钟刚刚敲过。我看看手表，发觉慢了一分钟，而那时我恰好要进阿谢尔太太的商店。” “你是否习惯于在那儿买东西？” “非常频繁。那家店在我回家的路上。我大约每周去一两次，习惯于去那儿买两盎司约翰•考顿淡味酒。” “你是否了解阿谢尔太太？了解她的任何情况或历史？” “一无所知。我除了购物并偶尔会就天气状况稍言两句外，从未同她谈过话。” “你是否了解她有一个酗酒的丈夫，他已习惯于威胁她的生活。” “不，我对她一无所知。” “不管怎么说，你见过她。在你看来，她昨晚的神情是否有异常之处？她是否显得慌张不安？” 帕特里奇沉思。 “我想我注意到的是，她同往常没什么两样。”他说。 波洛起身。 “谢谢你回答这些问题，帕特里奇先生。你家里是否有一本ABC铁路指南？我想查询一下回伦敦的火车。” “在您身后的架子上。”帕特里奇先生说。 那个书架上有一本ABC 铁路指南，一本布莱德肖铁路时刻表，《证券交易年鉴》，《凯利名录》，《名人名录》，还有一本当地的通讯名录。 波洛从架子上取下那本ABC，假装是在查阅一班火车，然后向帕特里奇先生道谢，随即离开。 我们的下一次会见是与艾伯特•里德尔先生，他性格截然不同。艾伯特•里德尔是位铁道养路工。我们在交谈的时候，不断传来里德尔先生的狗的吠叫声。里德尔先生本人对我们则毫不掩饰他的敌意。 他是个笨拙迟钝的高个子，脸盘很宽，张着疑神疑鬼的小眼睛。他正好在吃肉饼，大口地喝红茶以助吞咽。他透过茶杯边缘以愤怒的目光看着我们。 “我还要在谈一遍，不是吗？”他咆哮道，“那跟我到底有什么关系呢？我已经告诉过那些该死的警察了。现在我还要在吐露一次，讲给两个该死的外国人听。” 波洛迅速诙谐地朝我的方向瞥了一眼，然后说道： “我实在挺同情你的，可你会怎么想呢？这是一件谋杀案，不是吗？我们必须加倍谨慎。” “最好把这位先生想知道的都告诉他吧，伯特。”那妇人不安地说。 “闭上你那该死的嘴。”高个子吼道。 “我想你不是主动找去警局的。” “我干吗要主动？它可不管我的事。” “这仅仅是种不同的看法而已，”波洛冷淡地说，“因为这是件谋杀案——警方想知道有什么人去过那商店，我该怎么说呢？我个人认为，你如果能讲述一下，事情就会显得自然很多。” “我有自己的事情要做。你不该说，我没在自己的时间里去主动说明情况。” “可情况如此，警局得知有人看见你曾光顾过阿谢尔太太的商店，他们必须前来找你。不知他们对你所描绘的情况是否满意？” “他们该不该感到不满意呢？”伯特粗暴地反问。 波洛只好耸耸肩膀。 “你讲话是什么意思，先生？有谁能够针对我？每个人都清楚是谁杀了那个老女人，是他那个混蛋丈夫。” “可他那晚并没有在街上出现，而你则去过那家商店。” “你想陷害我吗？哼，你不会得逞的。我有何理由要去做那样的事？你以为我想谋取她那血淋淋的一包烟。你以为我是他们所说的杀人狂？以为我是......” 他从椅子上威胁地站起身来。他妻子颤抖着叫道：“伯特，伯特——快别说这样的话。伯特，他们会以为......” “请安静一点，先生。”波洛说，“我只要你讲述一下你的经历。可你却拒不透露，我们该怎么说呢——这似乎有点奇怪？” “谁说我拒不做答？”里德尔先生再次坐进椅子里，“我毫不介意。” “你进店的时候是六点钟吗？” “是的，实际上是六点刚过一两分钟。我想买一包‘金富莱’牌香烟。我推开门——” “那时候店门是掩着的吗？” “对。我起先以为店已关门了，但其实并没关。我进屋后，发现那儿没有人。我敲敲柜台，稍等了一会儿。可没人应答，于是我就走了出来。那就是全部情况，你自己慢慢考虑吧。” “你难道没有看见柜台后面跌落的尸体吗？” “没有，我才不会去留心更多的事——除非，你可能正好在寻找它。” “那儿是否摆着一本铁路指南？” “是的，朝下放着。在我看来，好像那老太太刚好突然赶去坐火车，而忘了把店门锁上。” “也许是你捡起铁路指南或把它移放到柜台上的？” “我才没碰那该死的东西。我做过的事都已说了。” “你在到商店前是否看见有谁离开那儿？” “没见过这样的人。我是说，为什么偏偏要挑上我——” 波洛站起身来。 “没人认为是你干的。晚安，先生。” 那人张嘴吃惊，他则离开，我追随着他。 在街上，他查看手表。 “我的朋友，我们要非常迅速，才可能赶上下一趟火车。我们赶紧走吧。” CHAPTER 8 The Second Letter CHAPTER 8 The Second Letter "Well?" I demanded eagerly. We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express, had j ust drawn out of Andover. "The crime, " said Poirot, "was committed by a man of mediumheight with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly onthe right foot and has a mole j ust below the shoulder-blade. ""Poirot?" I cried. For a moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in myfriend' s eye undeceived me. "Poirot! " I said again, this time in reproach. "Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of doglike dew-tionand demand of me a pronouncement h ia Sherlock Holmes! Nowfor the truth---/do not know what the murderer looks like, nor whet' t' he lives, nor how to set hands upon him. " "If only he had left some clue, " I murmured. "Yes, the clue--it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that hedid not smoke the cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it withashoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No---he is not so obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A. B. C. , that isaclue for you! " "Do you think he left it by mistake then?" "Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that. ""But there weren' t any on it. " "That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm Junenight. Does a man stroll about on such an evening in gloves? Such aman would certainly have attracted attention. Therefore since thereare no fingerprints on the A. B. C. , it must have been carefully wiped. Ainnocent man would have left prints--a guilty man would not. Somurderer left it there for a purpose--but for all that it is none theless a clue. That A. B. C. was bought by some one--it was carried by someone--there is a possibility there. " "You think we may learn something that way?" "Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this un. known X, obviously prides himself on his abilities. He is not likelyto blaze a trail that can be followed straight away. ""So that really the A. B. C. isn' t helpful at all. ""Not in the sense you mean. " "In any sense?" Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly: "The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknow,personage. He is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But inthe very nature of things he cannot help throwing light upon himself. onesense we know nothing about him--in another sense we know alreadya good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape--a man whoprints clearly and well--who buys good quality paper--who is at greatneeds to express his personality. I see him as a child possibly ignoredand passed over--I see him growing up with an inward sense ofinferiority--warring with a sense of inj ustice . . . . I see that innerurge--to assert himself--to focus attention on himself ever becomingstronger, and events, circumstances--crushing it down--heaping,perhaps, more humiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to thepowder train . . . . " "That' s all pure conj ecture, " I obj ected. "It doesn' t give you anypractical help. " "You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! Yo0always have. But at least we can ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A. B. C. ? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why Andover?""The woman' s past life seems simple enough, " I mused. "The interviewswith those two men were disappointing. They couldn' t tell usanything more than we knew already. " ' ' To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we couldnot neglect two possible candidates for the murder. ""Surely you don' t think--" ' q' here is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near dover. That is a possible answer to our question: ' Why Andover?' Well ,here were two men known to have been in the shop at the requisitetime of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there isnothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer. ""That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps, " I admitted. "Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous,blustering, obviously uneasy---" "But surely that j ust shows---" "A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A. B. C. letter. Conceit and self-confidence are the characteristics that wemust look for. " "Some one who throws his weight about?' "Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing man-her, conceal a great deal of vanity and self-satisfaction. ""You don' t think that little Mr. Partridge--?""He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as thewriter of the letter would act--goes at once to the police--pusheshimself to the fore-enj oys his position. " "Do you really think--?" "No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came fromoutside Andover, but we must neglect no avenue of research. And althoughI say ' he' all the time, we must not exclude the possibility of awoman being concerned. " "Surely not! " "The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous lettersare written by women rather than by men. We must bear that inmind. " I was silent for a few minutes, then I said: "What do we do next. ' ?" "My energetic Hastings, " Poirot said and smiled at me. "No, but what do we doT' "Nothing. " "NothingT' My disappointment rang out clearly. "Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?"Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give answer. Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be doneand that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet. I said: "There is the A. B. C. ---and the notepaper and envelope---""Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposal for that gind of inquiry. If anything isto be discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it. "With that I was forced to rest cootent. In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discussthe case. When I tried to reopert the subj ect he waved it aside withan impatient hand. In my own mind I was afraid th0t I fathomed his motive. Over themurder of Mrs. Ascher, Poirot had sustained a defeat. A. B. C. hadchallenged him--and A. B. C. had won. My friend, accustomed to an unbrokenline of successes, was sensitive to his failure--so much so thathe could not even endure discussion of the subj ect. It was, perhaps,asign of pettiness in so great a man, Iut even the most sober of us isliable to have his head turned by success. In Poirot' s case the head-turningprocess had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effectsbecame noticeable at long last. Understanding, I respected my friend' s weakness and I made no furtherreference to the case. I read in tlae paper the account of the inquest. It was very brief, no mention was made of the A. B. C. letter, and a verdictwas returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. Thecrime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popularor spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street wassoon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics. Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think,because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associatedwith a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived. I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away inYorkshire for the week-end. I arrived back on Monday afternoon andthe letter came by the six o' clock post. I remember the sudden, sharpintake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particularenvelope. "It has come, " he said. I stared at him--not understandirg. "What has come?" "The second chapter of the A. B. C. business. "For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had reallypassed from my memory. "Read, " said Poirot and passed ne over the letter. As before, it was printed on good-quality paper. DEAR MR. PoIRoT--Weli, what about it? First game to me, I think. The Andover business went with t swing, didn it? But the fun only j ust beginning. Let me draw your attention toBexhill-on-Sea, the 25th inst. What a merry time we are having, t Yours, etc. ,A. B. C. "Good God, Poirot, " I cried. "Does this mean that this fiend is goingto attempt another crime? "Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think thatthe Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember mysaying: ' This is the beginning' . 9" "But this is horrible! " "Yes, it is horrible. " "We' re up against a homicidal maniac. " "Yes. " His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could havebeen. I handed back the letter with a shudder. The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The ChiefConstable of Sussex, the Assistant Commissioner of the C. LD. , InspectorGlen from Andover, Superintendent Carter of the Sussex police,Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson,the famous alienist, were all assembled together. The postmark on thisletter was Hampstead, but in Poirot' s opinion little importance couldbe attached to this fact. The matter was discussed fully. Dr. Thompson was a pleasantmiddle-aged man who, in spite of his learning, contented himself withhomely language, avoiding the technicalities of his profession. "There' s no doubt, " said the Assistant Commissioner, "that the twoletters are in the same hand. Both were written by the same person. ""And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for theAndover murder. " "Quite. We' ve now got definite warning of a second crime scheduledto take place on the 25th-to-morrow--at Bexhill. What stepscan be taken?" The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent. "Well, Carter, what about it?" The superintendent shook his head gravely. "It' s difficult, sir. There' s not the least clue towards whom the xlc- tim may he. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we takeT' "A suggestion, " murmured Poirot. Their faces turned to him. "I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will be-ginwith the letter B. " "That would be something, " said the superintendent doubtfully. "An alphabetical complex, " said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully. "I suggest it as a possibility--no more. It came into my mind when Isaw the name Ascher clearly written over the shop door of theunfortu-nate woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter nam-ingBexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well asthe place might be selected by an alphabetical system. ""It' s possible, " said the doctor. "On the other hand, it may be thatthe name Ascher was a coincidence-that the victim this time, no mat-terwhat her name is, will again be an old woman who keeps a shop. We' re dealing, remember, with a madman. So far he hasn' t given usany clue as to motive. " "Has a madman any motive, sir. ' ?" asked the superintendentskepti-cally. "Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the specialcharacteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinelyap-pointed to kill clergymen--or doctors---or old women in tobaccoshops--and there' s always some perfectly coherent reason behind it. We mustn' t let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhillsuc-ceeding to Andover may be a mere coincidence. " "We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a specialnote of the B' s, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on allsmall tobacconists and newsagents looked after by a single person. Idon' t think there' s anything more we can do than that. Naturally keeptabs on all strangers as far as possible. " The superintendent uttered a groan. "With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? Peopleare fairly flooding into the place this week. ""We must do what we can, " the Chief Constable said sharply. Inspector Glen spoke in his turn. "I' ll have a watch kept on any one connected with the Ascher busi-ness. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course onAscher himself. If they show any signs of leaving Andover they' ll befollowed. " The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a littledesultory conversation. Porot, I said as we walked along by the river, "surely this crimecan be prevented?" He turned a haggard face to me. "The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one? I fear,Hastings--I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successesof ] ack the Ripper. " "It' s horrible, " I said. "Madness, FIastings, is a terrible thing I am afraid. . • I am very much afraid. . . . " 第八章 第二封信 第八章 第二封信 “哦？”我渴切地问道。 我们坐在头等车厢内，那是趟刚刚驶离安多弗的快车。 “这件案子，”波洛说，“是个中等身材的人干的，他长着红色头发，左眼是假的铸模。他右脚微跛，肩胛骨下长着一颗痣。” “波洛？”我叫道。 那一刻我完全受其蒙骗，而我朋友的眨眼又使我醒悟。 “波洛！”我再次说，这次满怀怨恨。 “ mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注），你会怎么认为呢？你那样忠诚专注地凝视着我，要求我像歇洛克•福尔摩斯那样发表见解！说真的，我并不清楚凶手长得什么模样，不了解他住在哪里，也不知道怎样去逮获他。” “要是他留下些线索就好了。”我低声说。 “是的，线索——线索总是诱人之处。可惜他不抽烟，没留下烟灰，然后穿着底纹奇特的鞋踏门进来。不——他才不会如此彬彬有礼。可至少，我的朋友，你还有铁路指南这一线索。那本ABC是本案的线索。” “你认为他是错把书留下的吗？” “当然不是，他故意留下它。指纹告诉我们，他是故意这样做的。” “可书上一点指纹也没留下啊。” “那正好是我的意思。昨晚是什么天气？炎热的六月之夜。一个人是否会在这样的夜晚带着手套四处闲逛？这样的人当然会引起注意。因而既然 ABC书上没有留下指纹，一定是有人小心翼翼地抹去了。一个清白无私的人必定会留下指纹，而心怀鬼胎的人则不会。所以我们的凶手故意留下书，可不管如何，这是仅存的一丝线索。那本ABC 是有人购买，有人携带来的，这总是可能的。” “你认为从那种方式当中，我们可以学到些什么？” “坦白地说，黑斯廷斯，我并不特别报希望。这个人，这个未知数，很显然地在炫耀他自己的能力，他是不会留下能被人直接追踪的尾巴的。” “因而，实际上ABC对破案也没什么帮助。” “才不是呢。” “一点帮助都没有吗？” 波洛并未立即回答，他接着慢吞吞地说： “我的回答是有。我们在此遭遇这个未知的人士。他藏身在暗处，想继续潜伏在黑暗中。可理所当然的是，他总禁不住会有些显山露水。在一种意义上，我们对他一无所知；而在另一种意义上，我们则已经了解了许多情况。我渐渐看到他的模样在形成——是个能清晰地用打字机打字的人，他购买优质纸张，极端地渴望显示个性。我瞧见他就像是个可能被忽视和省略的小孩子，我瞧见他怀带着内心的自卑感而长大——与一种不公平的感觉作着斗争......我瞧见那种内心的冲动，要表现他自己，要把注意力聚焦在他身上，这种冲动变得越来越强烈，许多事件和周遭的情形则在碾碎着这种冲动，可能在他身上堆积起更多的羞辱。在他的心灵深处，火柴还在点燃着火药车......” “那纯属猜测。”我反对道，“这不会给你任何实际的帮助。” “你更喜欢火柴头、香烟灰、敲了钉子的靴子！你总是如此，可至少我们可以自问一些问题，为什么会有 ABC？为什么会是阿谢尔太太？为什么要发生在安多弗？” “那妇人过去的生活看起来平淡无奇，”我思索道，“同那两个男人的会见也令人失望。我们无法说出比我们所知更多的情况。” “老实说，在那方面我并没有期望得到更多的情况，可我们不该忽视两个可能是凶手的嫌疑人。” “你当然不会以为......” “凶手至少可能生活在安多弗附近。我们要问‘为什么会选在安多弗’，那便是个可能的答案。噢，这里有两个人在那天的特定时刻进过商店，他们当中任何一个都有可能是凶手，并且毫无迹象表明他们中有哪个是凶手。” “那个笨重的蛮徒，里德尔，很可能就是。”我断言。 “哦，我倒是倾向于立即确定里德尔是无辜的。他神情紧张，满口谩骂，显然焦虑不安......” “那正好在表示——” “写那封ABC信的人性格与此恰好完全相反。傲慢和自信是我们必须寻找的特征。” “那个人是在四处炫耀自己的影响力？” “很可能就是。但也有些人，在一种紧张不安和自我埋没的状况之下，会隐藏极多的名利和自满。” “你不会认为那个小巧的帕特里奇先生——” “他更是le type（法文，意为：那种人。——译注）。对他已用不着多说。他所作所为正好像那个写信的人，他又立刻去警察局，把自己直接推向前沿——并对他的位置沾沾自喜。” “你真的认为——？” “不，黑斯廷斯。我个人认为凶手来自安多弗以外的地方，可我们不能忽视任何一点蛛丝马迹。尽管我从头至尾说的都是‘他’，我们仍不能排除女人作案的可能性。” “当然不会是。” “我同意，那种袭击方式是男人所为，可匿名信则可能是个女人写的。我们必须牢记着一点。” 我静默了几分钟，然后说： “我们接下去干什么？” “黑斯廷斯，你真是精力充沛。”波洛说着，冲我微笑。 “不，我们要做些什么呢？” “什么也不做。” “什么也不做？”我的话音中失望之情清晰可见。 “我是个魔术师还是巫师？你想要我做些什么？” 我转动脑子，思考这个问题，发现很难做出回答。不管怎样，我觉得该做些什么，应该抓紧时间采取行动。 我说： “那本ABC——还有便笺纸和信封——” “自然，在那方面所有的事情都在进行之中，警方更是在竭尽全力处理这样的疑问。如果在那些方面会有什么发现的话，我们用不着担心，他们会发现的。” 听完他这一番话，我只好被迫善罢干休。 在随后的几天中，我发觉波洛奇怪地回避谈论那案子。当我试图重谈该话题时，他总是不耐烦地用手势将其摆在一边。 在我的脑子里，我害怕去揣摩波洛的动机。在阿谢尔太太这件谋杀案上，波洛遭受了挫败。ABC 向他发起挑战——而 ABC已经获胜。我这位朋友早已习惯于攻无不破的成功，对他的失败则异常的敏感，以至于他无法忍受对这件事进行谈论，这也许就是一个伟大人物身上的狭隘之处。可是我们最清醒的想法就是要用成功来使他扬眉吐气。对波洛而言，这种转变的过程已开展多年。这种转变的效果最终令人瞩目，并且将成为一个小小的奇迹。 当我理解了这一切后，我便开始尊重我朋友的软弱之处，于是不再提及此案。我读报纸，以了解对案情调查的描述。报纸上的报道篇幅很小，没提到那封 ABC匿名信，有不知名人士对谋杀案做出了一些判断。这桩案子并未引起新闻界多少注意。它丝毫没有诱人或是特别的地方。小街老妇人的谋杀案不久便被更多抢眼的标题所掩盖，说真的，这件事在我脑海中同样在局部地淡化。我想，这是因为我并不喜欢去联想——想到这个案子对波洛来说是种失败。在七月二十五日，它重新又燃起了火焰。 我去约克郡度周末，好几天都没与波洛谋面。星期一下午我返回，六点钟时邮件中送来了这封信。我记得波洛在拆开那个特制信封时曾突然、急促地倒吸了口气。 “它来了。”他说。 我盯着他看，有点困惑不解。 “是什么？” “ABC案件的第二章。” 我难以理解地看了他一会儿，在我的脑海里，这件事确实已经淡忘。 “你读信吧。”波洛说着，把信递给我。 与以前一样，信仍是打印在优质纸张上的。 亲爱的波洛先生： 哦，感觉如何？我想，这是我的首场游戏。安多弗的事件顺利进行，不是吗？ 可游戏才刚刚开头。让我把您的注意力吸引到海滨贝克斯希尔（Bexhill-on-Sea）去吧。 日期，本月二十五日。 我们正在经历着一段多么快乐的日子啊！ 忠实于您的 ABC “天哪，波洛，”我叫喊道，“这是否意味着那位朋友还要再干一件罪行？” “当然，黑斯廷斯。你还期待别的什么？你是否以为安多弗的事件是桩孤立的案子？你难道忘了我曾经说过：‘这仅仅是开始’？” “可是，这太可怕了。” “是的，很可怕。” “我们要面对的是个杀人狂。” “正是这样。” 他的镇定自若比任何的英勇行为都更加令人印象深刻。我感到一阵震颤，把信递交给他。 第二天早晨，我们出现在一次会议上，参加会议的是群有权力的人物。萨塞克斯的警察局长、皇家警察的厅长助理、来自安多弗的格伦警督、萨塞克斯的警方的警监卡特、贾普和一个名叫克罗姆的年轻警督，还有著名的精神病学家汤普森医生，他们齐聚一堂。信上的邮戳是汉普斯特德，可波洛认为这无关紧要。 人们就这一事件展开了全面讨论。汤普森医生是位愉快的中年人，尽管学问高深，他说话时语言质朴，避免使用他那行业的专业术语。 “毫无疑问，”厅长助理开口说，“两封信出自同一只手，是由同一个人所写。” “而且，我们可以公开地推断，那个人对安多弗谋杀案负有责任。” “的确如此。我们现在已精确地得到第二桩罪案的警告。那将是在二十五日，就是后天，发生在贝克斯希尔。我们该采取什么措施？” 萨塞克斯的警察局长望着他的警监。 “哦，卡特，你有什么想法？” 警监阴郁地摇摇头。 “挺困难的，先生。谁将会是受害人，我们连一点线索都没有。坦白、直率地讲，我们能采取什么步骤呢？” “我倒是有一个建议。”波洛小声说。 大家都把脸转向他。 “我认为，预计中的受害人的姓名可能会是以字母 B开头的。” “这倒有些道理。”警监疑虑地说。 “这是一种按字母顺序排列的情结。”唐普森医生说。 “我认为有这种可能性——并没有更多的意思。当上个月那不幸的妇女被谋杀时，她的商店门上清楚地写着阿谢尔的名字时，我脑中突然产生了这个念头。当我收到的第二封信中提到贝克斯希尔时，我就想到受害人和案发地点都是以字母顺序来挑选的。” “这倒是有可能，”医生说，“另一方面，阿谢尔这个名字也许会是个巧合。” “这次的受害人，不管她叫什么名字，也该会是个开小店铺的老太太。切记，我们是在同一个疯子打交道。到现在为止，他还没有向我们透露别有用心的线索。” “一个疯子还会有动机吗，医生？”警监怀疑地问。 “他当然会有动机，先生。致命的逻辑是敏感性狂燥症的特征之一。一个人可能会认定自己有神圣的使命来杀死教士、医生或是开烟草店的老太太，而在此背后总会有某种非常合乎逻辑的理由。我们一定不能让这桩字母案件失去控制。贝克斯希尔紧随在安多弗之后，这可能仅仅是一种巧合而已。” “我们至少应该谨慎以待，卡特。要特别注意那些B 姓的人们，尤其是开小商店的，要派一个人来监视所有的小烟贩和卖报人。我以为这是我们所能够做到的。只要可能，自然还要留意所有陌生人。” 警监发出一声呻吟。 “就在这学校停课、假期刚刚开始的时候？本星期人们正在大量涌入该地区。” “我们必须尽力而为！”警察局长严厉地说道。 格伦警监发表他的见解。 “我会监视任何与阿谢尔案件相关的人。那两个目击证人，帕特里奇和里德尔，当然，还有阿谢尔本人。只要他们有迹象离开安多弗，他们就会被跟踪。” 大家又提了些意议，进行了一段散漫的对话之后，会议结束。 “波洛，”我们沿着河步行时，我说，“这次犯罪可以被阻止吧？” 他一脸憔悴地转向我。 “让满城人的正常心智来对付一个人的错乱疯狂？我感到害怕，黑斯廷斯，我非常惧怕。你该记得那个肢解恶魔杰克的屡屡得手吧？” “这太可怕了。”我说。“黑斯廷斯，疯狂是件可怕的事物......我很惧怕......我很惧怕......” CHAPTER 9 The Bexhill-on-Sea Murder CHAPTER 9 The Bexhill-on-Sea Murder I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. Itmust have been about seven-thirty. Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoul-der. One glance at his face brought me from semiconsciousness intofull possession of my faculties. "What is it?" I demanded, sitting up rapidly. His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behindthe three words he uttered. "It has happened. " "What?" I cried. "You mean--but to-day is the 25th. ""It took place last night--or rather in the early hours of thismorn-ing. ' ' As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted brieflywhat he had j ust learnt over the telephone. "The body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhi! l. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of thecafts, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11: 30 and 1 A. M. ""They' re quite sure that this is the crime?" I asked, as I hastilylath-eredmy face. "An A. B. C. open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually underthe body. "I shivered. "This is horrible! " "Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy i tvrooms! " Iwiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully. "What is our plan of campaignT' I asked. "The car will call for us in a few moments' time. I will bring youcup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting. "Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing theThames on our way out of London. With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conferencethe other day, and who was officially in charge of the case. Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much youngerman, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read,he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He hadlately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patientlytracked down the criminal who was now in Broadmoor. He was obviously a suitable person to undertake the present cay; e,but I thought that he was j ust a little too aware of the fact himself. manner to Poirot was a shade patronizing. He deferred to him asyounger man to an older one--in a rather self-conscious,"public-school"way. "I' ve had a good long talk with Dr. Thompson, " he said. "He' s veryinterested in the ' chain' or ' series' type of murder. It' s the productofparticular distorted type of mentality. As a layman one can' t, of course,appreciate the finer points as they present themselves to a medicalpoint of view. " He coughed. "As a matter of fact--my last case--Idon' t know whether you read about it--the Mabel Homer case, theMuswell Hill schoolgirl, you know--that man Capper was extraordinary. Amazingly difficult to pin the crime on to him--it was his third,too! Looked as sane as you or I. But there are various tests--verbaltraps, you know--quite modern, of course, there was nothing of thatkind in your day. Once you can induce a man to give himself away,you' ve got him! He knows that you know and his nerve goes. He startsgiving himself away right and left. ""Even in my day that happened sometimes, " said Poirot. Inspector Crome looked at him and murmured conversationally: "Oh, yes?"There was silence between us for some time. As we passed NewCross Station, Crome said: "If there' s anything you want to ask me about the case, pray do so. ""You have not, I presume, a description of the dead girl?""She , , vas twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at theoinger Cat cafe--", ' pas -a. I wondered--if she were pretty?" "As to that I' ve no information, " said Inspector Crome with a hint ofwithdrawal. His manner said: "Really--these foreigners! All thesane! ' A final look of amusement came into Poirot' s eyes. "It does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour unefemme, it isof the first importance. Often it decides her destiny! "Inspector Crome fell back on his conversational full stop. "Oh, yes?" he inquired politely. Another silence fell. It was not until we were nearing Sevenoaks that Poirot opened theconversation again. "Were you informed, by any chance, how and with what the girl wasstrangled?"Inspector Crome replied briefly. "Strangled with her own belt--a thick, knitted affair, I gather. "Poirot' s eyes opened very wide. "Aha, " he said. "At last we have a piece of information that is verydefinite. That tells one something, does it not?""I haven' t seen it yet, " said Inspector Crome coldly. I felt impatient with the man' s caution and lack of imagination. "It gives us the hall-mark of the murderer, " I said. "The girl' s ownbelt. It shows the particular beastliness of his mind! "Poirot shot me a glance I could not fathom. On the face of it it conveyedhumorous impatience. I thought that perhaps it was a warningnot to be too outspoken in front of the inspector. I relapsed into silence. At Bexhill we were greeted by Superintendent Carter. He had withhim a pleasant-faced, intelligent-looking young inspector calledKelsey. The latter was detailed to work in with Crome over the case. "You' ll want to make your own inquiries, Crome, " said thesuperintendent. "So I' ll j ust give you the main heads of the matter and thenyou can get busy right away. ""Thank you sir, " said Crome. "We' ve broken the news to her father and mother, " said thesuperintendent. "Terrible shock to them, of course. 1 left them to recover a bitbefore questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there. ""There are other members of the familyyes?" asked Poirot. ' ' There' s a sister--a typist in London. She' s been communicated with. And there' s a young man--in fact, she was supposed to be outwith him last night, I gather. ""Any help from the A. B. C. guide?" asked Crome. "It' s there, " the superintendent nodded towards the table. "Nofingerprints. Open at the page for Bexhill. A new copy, I should say--doesn' tseem to have been opened much. Not bought anywhere roundhere. I' we tried all the likely stationers! ""Who discovered the body, sir?""One of these fresh-air, early-morning old colonels. ColonelJerome. He was out with his dog about 6 A. M. Went along the front inthe direction of Cooden, and down on to the beach. Dog went off andsniffed at something. Colonel called it. Dog didn' t come. Colonel hada look and thought something queer was up. Went over and lookedBehaved very properly. Didn' t touch her at all and rang us up immedi. ately. " "And the time of death was round about midnight last night?""Between midnight and 1 A. M. --that' s pretty certain. Our homicidalj oker is a man of his word. If he says the 25th, it is the 25th--thoughitmay have been only by a few minutes. " Crome nodded. "Yes, that' s his mentality all right. There' s nothing else? Nobodysaw anything helpful?""Not as far as we know. But it' s early yet. Every one who saw a girlin white walking with a man last night will be along to tell us aboutsoon, and as I imagine there were about four or five hundred girls iwhite walking with young men last night, it ought to be a nice business. ' ' "Well, sir, I' d better get down to it, " said Crome. "There' s the cafand there' s the girl' s home. I' d better go to both of them. Kelsey cancome with me. ""And Mr. Poirot?" asked the superintendent. "I will accompany you, " said Poirot to Crome with a little bow. Crome, I thought, looked slightly annoyed. Kelsey, who had notseen Poirot before, grinned broadly. It was an unfortunate circumstance that the first time people saw myfriend they were always disposed to consider him as a j oke of the firstwater. "What about this belt she was strangled with?" asked Crome. Poirot is inclined to think it' s a valuable clue. I expect he' d liketo see it. ""Du tout, " said Poirot quickly. "You misunderstood me. ""You' ll get nothing from that, " said Carter. "It wasn' t a leatherbelt--might have got fingerprints if it had been. Just a thick so ofknitted silk--ideal for the purpose. "I gave a shiver. "Well, " said Crome, "we' d better be getting along. "We set out forthwith. Our first visit was to the Ginger Cat. Situated on the sea front, thiswas the usual type of small tea-room. It had little tables covered withorange-checked cloths and basket-work chairs of exceeding discom-fortwith orange cushions on them. It was the kind of place that spe-cializedin morning coffee, five different kinds of teas (Devonshire,farmhouse, fruit, Carlton and plain) , and a few sparing lunch dishesforfemales such as scrambled eggs and shrimps and macaroni au gratin. The morning coffees were j ust getting under way. The manageressushered us hastily into a very untidy back sanctum. "Miss---er--Men' ion?" inquired Crome. Miss Merrion bleated out in a high, distressed gentlewoman voice: "That is my name. This is a most distressing business. Most dis-tressing. How it will affect our business I really cannot think! "Miss Men' ion was a very thin woman of forty with wispy orangehair (indeed she was astonishingly like a ginger cat herself) . Sheplayed nervously with various fichus and frills that were part of herof-ficialcostume. "You' ll have a boom, " said Inspector Kelsey encouragingly. "You' llsee! You won' t be able to serve teas fast enough! ""Disgusting, " said Miss Men' ion. "Truly disgusting. It makes onedespair of human nature. "But her eye brightened nevertheless. "What can you tell me about the dead girl, Miss Merrion?""Nothing, " said Miss Men' ion positively. "Absolutely nothing! ""How long had she been working here?""This was the second summer. " "You were satisfied with her?" "She was a good waitress--quick and obliging. ""She was pretty, yes?" inquired Poirot. Miss Men-ion, in her turn, gave him an "Oh, these foreigners" look. "She was a nice, clean-looking girl, " she said distantly. "What time did she go off duty last night?" asked Crome. "Eight o' clock. We close at eight. We do not serve dinners. There isno demand for them. Scrambled eggs and tea [Poirot shuddered] peopie come in for up to seven o' clock and sometimes after, but our rushisover by 6: 30. " "Did she mention to you how she proposed to spend her evening?""Certainly not, " said Miss Merrion emphatically. "We were not onthose terms. ""No one came in and called for her? Anything like that?""No. ""Did she seem quite her ordinary self?. Not excited or depressed?""Really I could not say, " said Miss Men' ion aloofly. "How many waitresses do you employ. 9' ' "Two normally, and an extra two after the 20th of July until the endof August. ""But Elizabeth Barnard was not one of the extras?""Miss Barnard was one of the regulars. ""What about the other one?" "Miss Higley? She is a very nice young lady. ""Were she and Miss Barnard friends?""Really I could not say. " "Perhaps we' d better have a word with her. ""Now?""If you please. " "I will send her to you, " said Miss Merrion, rising. "Please keep heras short a time as possible. This is the morning coffee rush hour. "The feline and gingery Miss Merrion left the room. "Very refined, " remarked Inspector Kelsey. He mimicked the lady' smincing tone. "Really I could not say. "A plump girl, slightly out of breath, with dark hair, rosy cheeks anddark eyes goggling with excitement, bounced in. "Miss Men-ion sent me, " she announced breathlessly. "Miss Higley?" "Yes, that' s me. " "You knew Elizabeth Barnard?" "Oh, yes, I knew Betty. Isn' t it awful? It' s j ust too awful! I can' tbelieveit' s true. I' ve been saying to the girls all the morning I j ust can : tbelieve it! ' You know, girls, ' I said, ' it j ust doesn' t seem real. ' Betty! I mean, Betty Barnard, who' s been here all along, murdered! ' I j ust can' tbelieve it, ' I said. Five or six times I' ve pinched myself j ust to seeif lwouldn' t wake up. Betty murdered . . . It' s--well, you know what lmean--it doesn' t seem real. ""You knew the dead girl well?" asked Crome. "Well, she' s worked here longer than I have. I only came this March. She was here last year. She was rather quiet, if you know what I mean. She wasn' t one to j oke or laugh a lot. I don' t mean that she was exactlyquiet--she' d plenty of fun in her and all that--but she didn' t--well,she was quiet and she wasn' t quiet, if you know what I mean. "I will say for Inspector Crome that he was exceedingly patient. As awitness the buxom Miss Higley was persistently maddening. Everystatement she made was repeated and qualified half a dozen times. Thenet result was meagre in the extreme. She had not been on terms of intimacy with the dead gift. ElizabethBarnard, it could be guessed, had considered herself a cut above MissHigley. She had been friendly in working hours, but the gifts had notseen much of her out of them. Elizabeth Bamard had had a "friend"-workedin the estate agents near the station. Court & Brunskill. No, hewasn' t Mr. Court nor Mr. Brunskill. He was a clerk there. She didn' tknow his name. But she knew him by sight well. Good-looking---oh,very good-looking, and always so nicely dressed. Clearly, there wasatinge of j ealousy in Miss Higley' s bean. In the end it boiled down to this. Elizabeth Barnard had not confidedin any one in the caf as to her plans for the evening, but in MissHigley' s opinion she had been going to meet her "friend. " She had hadon a new white dress, "ever so sweet with one of the new necks. "We had a word with each of the other two girls but with no furtherresults. Betty Barnard had not said anything as to her plans and noonehad noticed her in Bexhill during the course of the evening. 第九章 海滨贝克斯希尔谋杀案 第九章 海滨贝克斯希尔谋杀案 我依然牢记七月二十五日早晨睡醒过来的情形，那时该是七点三十分左右。 波洛正站在我的床边，轻柔地摇动我的肩膀。我看了他一眼，这将我从半意识带回到本能的清醒状态之中。 “什么事？”我问，迅速地坐起来。 他的回答简单至极，可他吐露出的三个字背后却蕴藏着丰富的感情。 “它发生了。” “什么事？”我叫道，“你是说——可今天才是二十五日啊。” “案件是昨晚发生的。或者说，是在今天凌晨的早些时候。” 我从床上一跃而起，迅速地上完洗手间。他简单地复述了刚从电话中获知的内容。 “一位年轻姑娘的尸体在贝克斯希尔的海滩上被人发现。有人认出是伊丽莎白•巴纳德，在一间餐厅做女招待，她与父母住在一处新建成的平房内。医学鉴定表明死亡时间是在十一点半到一点之间。” “他们就能如此确信，认定这就是那桩罪案？”我问道，一边匆忙用肥皂涂脸。 “尸体底下有一本 ABC，打开的那页正好是去贝克斯希尔的火车时刻表。” 我直打冷颤。 “这太可怕了。” “ Faites attention（法文，意为：当心。——译注。），黑斯廷斯。我也不想再碰到第二个悲剧。” 我沮丧地洗去下巴上的血。 “我们该有什么样的作战计划？”我问。 “车要过一会儿才来接我们。我会端给你一杯咖啡，这样就不会耽误出发。” 二十分钟后，我们坐入一辆警车，疾驶着穿越过泰晤士河，驶出伦敦。 克罗姆警督与我们同行，他曾出席过那次会议，现在正式负责此案。 与贾普相比，克罗姆截然不同。他要年轻许多，是那种安静、优越的人。他受过良好的教育，善解人意。就我的口味而言，他沉浸于过分自满的阴影之中。最近，他因为破获一系列儿童谋杀案而获得许多褒奖，他极具耐心地追捕到那个罪犯，那家伙现在已经被关押在布罗得摩尔监狱。 显然，他来承担本案，是个合适的人选，可我认为他有点自视过高。他对波洛的态度带着些傲慢，把波洛当作是个年轻人而不是长辈——以一种相当自负的、“公立学校”的方式。 “我已与汤普森医生好好地长谈了一次，”他说，“他对‘连锁’或‘系列’谋杀案极感兴趣。这是一种精神异常所至的行为。当然，要是外行，就无法从中欣赏其经典的内容。这要从医学的角度来体会。”他咳着嗽道。“事实上，我上次的案子，不知你们听说过没有，那件梅布尔•霍默案，马瑟尔山的女学生。你知道，那个卡珀是个异常的人物，要给他定罪极其之难——同样，只是他的第三件案子。不过倒是可以用许多种测试——如口供诱导，你知道，这是种很先进的方法，当然在你的年代还没有这样的事物。一旦你能使一个人泄漏自己，你就能逮到他。他一明白你已掌握一切，他的神经就会动摇，就会破绽百出。” “即使在我那时候，这种方法也采纳过许多次。”波洛说。 克罗姆警督看着他，小声说道： “哦，是吗？” 我们大家一阵沉默。在我们通过新十字车站时，克罗姆开口说： “如果你们想了解一些此案的情况，那就请问吧。” “你还没有形容一下那个遇害的姑娘吧？” “她二十三岁，在黄猫餐厅当女招待——” “Pas ca（法文，意为：不是这样。——译注），我感到疑惑的是——她长的漂亮吗？” “那我倒是不太了解。”克罗姆警督有点畏缩地说。他的表情显示出：“真的——这些外国佬，全都一个模样！” 波洛的眼中闪现一丝淡淡的欢愉。 “那对你而言无关紧要吗？然而，pour une femme（法文，意为：对一个女人而言。——译注），外貌是最最重要的，这往往会决定她的命运。” 又是一阵沉默。 直到我们临近赛文诺克时，波洛再次打破僵局。 “你是否刚好知道，那姑娘是怎样被人用什么东西勒喉致死的？” 克罗姆警督简要作答。 “是用她自己的腰带勒死的——我想，是厚厚的那种针织腰带。” 波洛眼睛睁得极大。 “啊哈，”他说，“我们终于掌握一点确切的消息，那真是有点意思，不是吗？” “我还没有认识到。”克罗姆警督冷冷地说。 我对此人的疑虑重重和想象力的贫乏感到厌恶。 “这提供给我们凶手的特征。”我说，“那姑娘自己的腰带，它表明凶手特别凶残。” 波洛朝我瞥了一眼，我无法揣摩其含义。表面上，这转达给我一种带有幽默的不耐烦。 我重新又陷入到静默之中。 卡特警监在贝克斯希尔迎接我们，与他同来的还有一个叫凯尔西的年轻警督，他面色友善，模样机敏，被指派与克罗姆一起侦破此案。 “你可以自行开展调查，克罗姆。”警监说道，“因而我只透露给你本案的主要情节，然后你们就着手去查。” “谢谢您，先生。”克罗姆说。 “我们已将消息传给了她的父母亲。”警监说，“对他们而言，这绝对是个可怕的打击。在向他们询问之前，我让他们有时间恢复了一下，因此你们可以从头开始提问。” “她家里还有其他人吗？”波洛问。 “有个姐姐——在伦敦做打字员工作，也已经通知过她了。还有个小伙子——事实上，我设想，那姑娘昨晚该是与他一起外出的。” “那本ABC铁路指南有何帮助吗？”克罗姆问。 “就放在那边，”警监冲着桌子点头，“上面没有指纹。书打开着，翻到贝克斯希尔的那页。那是本新书，我该说——这本书看来没翻阅过几次。书也不是在这附近买的，我已去调查过本地所有的文具店。” “尸体是谁发现的，先生？” “是一位早起晨练的上校，杰罗姆上校。他大约清晨六点带狗出门，朝着库登的方向前进，走在沙滩上。他的狗跑开去，像是嗅着了什么东西。上校叫唤那狗，可狗并没回来，他上前一看，便觉得发生了蹊跷的事情。他做事很有分寸，没有去碰她的尸体，便立刻给我们打了电话。” “死亡时间大约是在昨天午夜前后吧？” “是在午夜与凌晨一点之间，这很有把握。我们的杀人玩家是位言出必行的人，如果他说过要在二十五日行动，那就一定会是二十五日，即便刚刚过去几分钟。” 克罗姆点点头。 “是的，那确实是他的心智所在。没有其他情况吗？没人见过些有帮助的情况吗？” “还没有。不过现在还为时过早。任何人，只要在昨晚见过一位与男士一同散步的白衣女郎，都会马上来向我们提供情况。而据我猜想，昨晚大概会有四五百名白衣女郎曾与年轻男士一起散步，该会令我们应接不暇。” “好，先生，我最好着手开始进行调查。”克罗姆说，“那餐厅同那姑娘的家，我最好两个地方都去一下。凯尔西同我一起去。” “波洛先生也去吗？”警监问。 “我与你同去。”波洛微微躬了一下身体，对克罗姆说。 我想，克罗姆感到有点懊恼。凯尔西以前没见过波洛，裂开嘴笑。 遗憾的是，每当人们第一次见到我的朋友时，总会有意把他视为一个大玩笑。 “勒她致死的那条腰带怎么样？”克罗姆问道，“波洛先生认为它是条极有宝贵价值的线索。我想他非常乐意检查一下。” “Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注），”波洛迅即说，“你误会了。” “你将会一无所获。”卡特说，“它不是条皮质腰带——如果是皮带，那上面将会留下指纹。这仅是条厚厚的针织丝质腰带，是致命的理想工具而已。” 我感到一阵战栗。 “好，”克罗姆说，“我们最好出发吧。” 我们即刻出发。 我们首先去黄猫餐厅。这是间常见的小茶馆，坐落在海边。餐厅内摆设的餐桌上铺盖着橙色格子花的台布，编织的椅子上亦摆放着橙色的靠垫，显得极度的不舒服。这件餐厅专门供应晨间咖啡，供应五种不同的茶（德文郡茶、农舍茶、果味茶、卡尔顿茶和原味茶），还供应几样为女士准备的小份午餐，如炒鸡蛋、虾和面包屑、通心粉。 餐厅此刻正供应晨间咖啡。餐厅的女经理把我们匆忙迎入后边的一间极不干净的小房间。 “你就是梅里恩小姐？”克罗姆询问道。 梅里恩小姐脱口发出一种声调高高的、极不悦耳的淑女嗓音： “我就是。这事实在太令人难过，是件最悲痛的事。我难以想象，这将给我们的生意带来多大的影响！” 梅里恩小姐身材瘦削，年纪四十岁左右，橙黄色的头发扎成许多小束（实际上，她自己就惊人地象一只黄猫）。她极其紧张地摆弄着身上衣服的薄围巾和褶边。 “你会生意兴隆的。”凯尔西警督鼓励地说，“你将看到，你会连菜都供应不过来的。” “真可恶。”她说道，“太可恶了，这件事令人对人性感到绝望。” 可不管如何，她的眼睛还是在闪着亮光。 “关于那死去的姑娘，你能告诉我些什么，梅里恩小姐？” “无可奉告。”梅里恩小姐明确地说，“绝对无可奉告。” “她在这儿干多久了？” “今年是第二个夏季。” “你对她是否满意？” “她是个很好的女招待，干活快捷，遵守规定。” “她长得漂亮吗？”波洛问道。 梅里恩小姐回了他一眼，眼神中显示出“瞧，这些外国人”的神情。 “她是位很好的姑娘，长相清秀。”她干巴巴地说。 “昨天晚上她是几点钟下班的？”克罗姆问。 “八点钟。我们八点钟关门。店里不供应晚餐，就不需要她们做事。来吃炒鸡蛋和饮茶的人们到七点钟后就挺少的了。我们的高峰时间六点半就已结束。” “她跟你提过她晚上要干些什么吗？” “当然没有，”梅里恩小姐强调着说，“我们之间的关系还没那么近乎。” “有没有人来找过她？或有些什么别的事？” “没有。” “她自己看上去跟平常是否一样？既不激动也不低沉？” “我实在是无言相告。”梅里恩小姐冷淡地说。 “你店里顾几位女招待员？” “平时两位，在七月二十日后直到八月底会加招两位临时的。” “伊丽莎白•巴纳德并不是加招的其中一位吧？” “巴纳德小姐是固定的一位。” “那另外一位是谁？” “希格利小姐。她是位可爱的小姐。” “她和巴纳德小姐是朋友吗？” “我实在是无言相告。” “也许我们还是最好同她谈几句话。” “是现在吗？” “如果你答应的话。” “我会叫她来，”梅里恩小姐说着，站起身来，“请尽量简短一些，现在是晨间咖啡的高峰时间。” 这位狡猾、姜黄色的梅里恩小姐离开房间。 “真是精练得很，”凯尔西警督评价道，他模仿那女人矫揉造作的声调，“我实在是无言相告。” 一位体态丰满的姑娘猛然闯进屋来。她微微有点喘不上气，长着黝黑的头发，脸颊呈粉红色，黑色的双眼因激动而圆瞪。 “梅里恩小姐让我进来。”她气喘吁吁地说。 “你就是希格利小姐？” “是的，我是。” “你认识伊丽莎白•巴纳德？” “哦，是的，我认识贝蒂。这难道不可怕吗？它实在太可怕了。我简直都不敢相信这是真的。我整个上午都在与姑娘们谈论这件事，我真是不敢相信！‘你们都知道，姑娘们，’我说，‘这看来不象是真的。贝蒂！我指的是成天在这里的贝蒂•巴纳德，被人谋杀了。我简直不敢相信。’我说。我捏了自己五六次，看看我是否醒不过来了。贝蒂被人谋杀......哦，你知道我的意思，它实在不像是真的。” “你很了解那死去的姑娘吗？” “她在这做招待的时间要比我长。我是今年三月份才来的，她去年就在这儿了。如果您理解我的意思的话，她是个安静的人。她不是那种爱开玩笑和爱笑的人，我是指她实际上又不是个真正安静的人，她有许多自己的乐趣，可她从不与别人共享。所以，她是个安静的人，又是个不安静的人，如果你们能理解的话。” 我想说，克罗姆警督实在太有耐心了。作为一位证人，这位丰腴的希格利小姐总是令人烦恼。她每说一句话都要重复地论证好几遍，最终却让人不得要领。 她与那位死去的姑娘并不亲密。我们可以猜想到，伊丽莎白•巴纳德认为自己胜出希格利小姐一筹。在工作时间，她非常友善，可姑娘们同她交往不深。伊丽莎白•巴纳德曾有过一位“朋友”，在车站附近的房地产事务所工作。那家事务所叫做考特和布伦斯基尔，可他既不是考特先生，也并非布伦斯基尔先生，他只是位办事员。她并不知道他叫什么名字，只要见到他就很熟悉。他外表非常英俊，哦，非常英俊，而且总是衣冠楚楚。很显然，希格利小姐内心深处有股嫉妒的味道。 谈话终于到此为止。伊丽莎白•巴纳德并没有向餐厅中的任何人透露昨晚的计划，而希格利小姐则认为，她是去与她的“朋友”会面。她身穿白色外套。“由于衣着新颖，她显得非常甜美动人。”我们与另外两位姑娘都小谈了一会儿，可是并没有获得更多的情况。贝蒂•巴纳德未曾讲过她要做些什么，当晚也没人在贝克斯希尔见过她。 CHAPTER 10 The Barnards CHAPTER 10 The Barnards Elizabeth Barnard' s parents lived in a minute bungalow, one of fiftyor so recently run up by a speculative builder on the confines of the town. The name of it was Llandudno. Mr. Barnard, a stout, bewildered-looking man of fifty-five or so, hadnoticed our approach and was standing waiting in the doorway. "Come in, gentlemen, " he said. Inspector Kelsey took the initiative. "This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir, " he said. "He' scome down to help us over this business. " "Scotland Yard?" said Mr. Barnard hopefully. "That' s good. Thismurdering villain' s got to be laid by the heels. My poor little girl--"His face was distorted by a spasm of grief. "And this is Mr. Hereule Poirot, also from London, and er--""Captain Hastings, " said Poirot. "Pleased to meet you, gentlemen, " said Mr. Barnard mechanically. "Come into the snuggery. I don' t know that my poor wife' s up to see-ingyou. All broken up, she is. " However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living-room ofthe bungalow, Mrs. Barnard had made her appearance. She had evi-dentlybeen crying bitterly, her eyes were reddened and she walkedwith the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock. "Why, Mother, that' s fine, " said Mr. Barnard. "You' re sure you' reall fight-eh?" He patted her shoulder and draw her down into a chain"The superintendent was very kind, " said Mr. Bamard. "After he' dbroken the news to us, he said he' d leave any questions till later whenwe' d got over the first shock. " "It is too creel. Oh, it is too cruel, " cried Mrs. Barnard tearfully. "The cruelest thing that ever was, it is. " Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation that I thought for a momentwas foreign till I remembered the name on the gate and realizedthat the "effer wass" of her speech was in reality proof of her Welshorigin. "It' s very painful, madam, I know, " said Inspector Crome. "Andwe' ve every sympathy for you, but we want to know all the facts wecan so as to get to work as quick as possible. "' ' That' s sense, that is, " said Mr. Barnard, nodding approval. "Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here withyou and worked at the Ginger Cat cafe, is that right?""That' s it. " "This is a new place, isn' t it? Where did you live before?""I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired twoyears ago. Always meant to live near the sea. ""You have two daughters?" "Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London in the City. ""Weren' t you alarmed when your daughter didn' t come home lastnight?" "We didn' t know she hadn' t, " said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. "Dad andI always go to bed early. Nine o' clock' s our time. We never knew Bettyhadn' t come home till the police officer came and said--and said--"She broke down. "Was your daughter in the habit of--er--returning home lateT' "You know what girls are nowadays, inspector, " said Barnard. "Independent, that' s what they are. These summer evenings they' re notgoing to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven. ""How did she get in? Was the door open. *" "Left the key under the mat--that' s what we always did. ""There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged tobe married?" "They don' t put it as formally as that nowadays, " said Mr. Bamard. "Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much, "! l said Mrs. Bamard. "Poor fellow, it' ll be terrible for him--this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?" "He works in Court & Brunskill' s, I understand." "Yes, they' re the estate agents. " "Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings afterher work?" "Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer. ""Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday. ' ?""She didn' t say. Betty never said much about what she was doing orwhere she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can' tbelieve--" Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again. "Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, Mother, " urged herhusband. "We' we got to get to the bottom of this . . . . ' "I' m sure Donald would never--would never--" sobbed Mrs. Barnard. "Now j ust you pull yourself together, " repeated Mr. Barnard. He turned to the two inspectors. "I wish to God I could give you some help--but the plain fact is Iknow nothing--nothing at all that can help you to the dastardly scoundrelwho did this. Betty was j ust a merry, happy girl--with a decentyoung fellow that she was--well, we' d have called it walking out within my young days. Why any one should want to murder her simplybeats me--it doesn' t make sense. " "You' re very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard, " said Crome. "I tellyou what I' d like to do--have a look over Miss Barnard' s room. Theremay be something--letters---or a diary. " "Look over it and welcome, " said Mr. Barnard, rising. He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and Ibrought up the rear. I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelace, and as I did so, a taxidrew up outside and a girl j umped out of it. She paid the driver andhurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As sheentered the door she saw me and stopped dead. There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me. "Who are you?" she said. I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with thepolice? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision. "Oh, well, " she said, "I can guess. " She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing andthrew it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a littleso that the light fell on her. My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used toTHE A. B. C. MURDERS 53 play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straightbob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheekbones were high and herwhole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow,unattractive. She was not good-looking--plain rather--but there wasan intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quiteim-possible to overlook. "You are Miss BarnardT' I asked. "I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose. ""Well, " I said, "not exactly--" She interrupted me. "I don' t think I' ve got anything to say to you. My sister was a nicebright girl with no men friends. Good-morning. "She gave a short laugh as she spoke and regarded me challengingly. "That' s the correct phrase, I believe?" she said. "I' m not a reporter, if that' s what you' re getting at. ""Well, what are you?" She looked round. "Where' s mum and dad?""Your father is showing the police your sister' s bedroom. Yourmother' s in there. She' s very upset. " The girl seemed to make a decision. "Come in here, " she said. She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her andfound myself in a small, neat kitchen. I was about to shut the door behind me--but found an unexpectedresistance. The next moment Poirot had slipped quietly into the roomand shut the door behind him. "Mademoiselle Barnard?" he said with a quick bow. "This is M. Hercule Poirot, " I said. Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising glance. "I' ve heard of you, " she said. "You' re the fashionable privatesleuth, aren' t you?" "Not a pretty description--but it suffices, " said Poirot. The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in herbag for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips, lighted it, and thensaid in between two puffs of smoke: "Somehow, I don' t see what M. Hrcule Poirot is doing in our hum-blelittle crime. " "Mademoiselle, " said Poirot, "what you do not see and what I donot see would probably fill a volume. But all that is of no practicalim-portance. What is of practical importance is something that will not beeasy to find. " "What' s that?" ' Dcatlq, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prej udice. Aprej u-dice in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said j ust now to myfriend Hastings. ' A nice bright girl with no men friends. ' You saidthat in mockery of the newspapers, And it is very true--when a young girlis dead, chat is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. Shewas happy. Slqe was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. Shehad no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always tothe dead. Do you know what I should like this minute71 should like tofind some one who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not knowshe is derd. t Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me--theMegan Bamard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilstshe smoked. Then, at last, she spoke. Her words made me j ump. "Betty, " she said, "was an unmitigated little ass! " 第十章 巴纳德一家 第十章 巴纳德一家 伊丽莎白•巴纳德的父母居住的是一处狭小的平房，那儿有五十家左右这样的住家。这些平房是由一位投机建筑商在小镇内匆匆修建的。小镇名叫兰达尔诺。巴纳德先生是一位身材矮小、满脸迷惑的人，年纪约莫五十五岁光景，他注意到我们的临近，就站在门口等着我们。 “请进来吧，先生们。”他说。 凯尔西警督率先发话。 “这位是苏格兰场的克罗姆警督，先生。”他说， “他是专门就此案来帮助我们的。” “苏格兰场？”巴纳德先生满怀希望地说，“真是太好了。那个行凶的恶棍真该被车轮轧死。我可怜的姑娘。”他的脸因悲伤一阵痉挛而变形。 “这位是赫尔克里•波洛，也从伦敦来，还有——” “黑斯廷斯上尉。”波洛说。 “很高兴见到你们，先生们，”巴纳德先生机械地说，“请到里屋来。我不知道我可怜的太太是否可以见你们。她已经完全崩溃了。” 当我们在平房的起居室里坐定时，巴纳德太太总算露了面。很显然，她哭的悲痛欲绝，两眼红肿，步履蹒跚，一副遭受过沉重打击的模样。 “怎么，你没事吧。”巴纳德先生说，“你确信没事了吧？” 他扶着她的肩膀，把她让进一把椅子当中。 “警监很好心，”巴纳德先生说，“他把消息通知我们后，说是要等到我们经受初次震惊之后，再来调查些问题。” “这太残忍了，这太残忍了，”巴纳德太太泪流满面地哭泣，“这必定是最残忍的事。” 她声音中带有轻微的歌唱声调，我原以为是外国口音。直到我想起门上的姓名，才意识到她讲话中的某些发音实际上已表明她是威尔士人。 “我知道，这的确令人深感悲痛，女士。”克罗姆说，“我们非常同情你，可是我们想要了解所有的真相，以便能尽快开展工作。” “那有道理。”巴纳德先生说，一边点头表示赞同。 “我了解到，你女儿二十三岁了。她与你们住在一起，在姜汁猫餐厅工作，对吧？” “不错。” “这地方是新建的，是吧？你以前住在哪儿？” “我在肯宁顿做些五金生意。两年前我退了休。我们总想住在海边。” “你有两个女儿？” “是的。大女儿在伦敦一间办公室工作。” “昨晚你女儿没回家，你们难道不感到震惊吗？” “我们并不知道她没回来。”巴纳德太太流着泪说，“她爸爸和我习惯于早睡，我们九点钟就上床休息。我们并不知道贝蒂没回家，直到警察来告诉我，说......” 她情不自禁痛哭起来。 “你女儿是否经常很晚才回家？” “警督，你该知道现在的女孩是什么样。”巴纳德说，“他们挺独立。在夏天的晚上，她们才不会急匆匆地赶回家。同样，贝蒂通常十一点钟才回家。” “她怎么进来？门开着吗？” “钥匙放在垫子下面——我们一直那样做。” “我想，有谣传说你女儿已订婚了。” “现在他们并不正式进行订婚。”巴纳德先生说。 “他叫唐纳德•弗雷泽，我喜欢他。我非常喜欢他，”巴纳德太太说，“可怜的人，这消息对他来说真是太为难了。我在想，他是否已经知道？” “我了解到，他是在考特和布伦斯基尔事务所工作？” “是。他们经营房地产。” “他下班之后，是不是多半会同你女儿约会？” “他们并不是每天晚上都见面，大概每周一两次吧。” “你是否知道昨天晚上他们有没有约会？” “她没说。贝蒂对她要做什么事、要去哪儿，从来都不会多说。可她是个好姑娘。哦，我简直不能相信。” 巴纳德太太开始抽泣起来。 “镇静点，老伴。振作一点。”她丈夫劝解道，“我们快回答完了。” “我想唐纳德永远也——永远也——”巴纳德太太哭泣着说。 “现在你该振作点。”巴纳德先生重复道。 “我但愿能给你些帮助，可事实上我一无所知，我一无所知，也无法帮助你们找到那个该死的恶棍。贝蒂是个可爱的、快乐的姑娘——她与那个正派的年轻人来往，这使我们回忆起我们自己年轻时代。令我感到伤心的是，有谁会去谋害她呢，这实在是令人费解。” “你已经如实相告，巴纳德先生。”克罗姆说，“我想告诉你我想干什么——想去看看巴纳德小姐的房间。那儿也许会有信件什么的——或是日记本。” “请过去看吧。”巴纳德先生说，站起身来。 他带路，克罗姆跟随他，然后是波洛，随后是凯尔西，我殿后。 我停了一会儿来系上鞋带，就在这时候，一辆出租车在门口停了下来，车内下来一个姑娘，她付钱给司机后，匆忙向房子这边走来，手中提着一只箱子。她进门时见到我，便愣在那儿。 “你是谁？”她说。 我下了几个台阶，我感到烦恼，不知如何来回答。我要报以大名吗？或是说我是同警方一起来的。这个姑娘却没有时间供我作决定。 “哦，”她说，“我也猜得出来。” 她摘下带着的白色小羊皮帽，扔在地上。她转了转身，光照在她身上，我现在可以更清晰的看到她。 她给我的第一印象是小时候我的姐妹们玩耍的荷兰娃娃。她头发乌黑，前额留剪成直直的短刘海。她的颧骨很高，整个身体形态是一种怪异的现代式的僵硬，然而挺吸引人的。她长的不怎么漂亮，相当平庸，可她身上有一种强烈的东西，有股说服力，使人没有办法忽略她。 “你是巴纳德小姐？”我问。 “我是梅根•巴纳德。我想，你是警察局的？” “哦，”我说，“也不完全是——” 她打断我的话。 “我认为我没什么可告诉你的。我妹妹是个美丽聪明的女孩子，她没有男朋友，早上好！” 她说话时简短地冲我一笑，挑战性地注视着我。 “我相信，这个说法很准确。”她说。 “我可不是记者，如果你那样认为的话。” “那么你是谁？”她环顾四周，“妈和爸在哪儿？” “你父亲正在带警察看你妹妹的房间。你母亲进屋去了，她很难过。” 姑娘看来象是作了个决定。 “到这边来吧。”她说。 她拉开一扇门，走了进去。我跟着她，发现自己很快置身于一间小巧、洁净的厨房之中。 我试图关上身后的门，却意想不到地遇到阻力。波洛平静地闪进屋来，并掩上身后的门。 “巴纳德小姐？”他迅速鞠躬说。 “这位是赫尔克里•波洛。”我说。 梅根•巴纳德快速地打量了他一眼，心里在嘀咕着。 “我听说过你，”她说，“你是位很风光的私人侦探，不是吗？” “这个描绘可不太漂亮，但也足够了。”波洛说。 姑娘在厨房桌边坐下，她从包中摸出一支烟放在唇间点燃，然后在两口烟之间开口说： “我真不明白，赫尔克里•波洛先生在我们这样一件卑劣的小案子中能做些什么？” “小姐，”波洛说，“你我都不明白的事情可能比比皆是。可所有这一切都并不重要，重要的是那些不容易被发现的情况。” “那会是些什么？” “小姐，死亡能非常不幸地产生偏见。对死去的人往往会存在有利的偏见。刚才我听你对我的朋友黑斯廷斯说‘她是个美丽聪明的女孩子，而且没有男朋友。’你是在嘲笑那些报纸。但事实确实如此，当一个姑娘死了的时候，那些就是要说的话。她很聪明，她很快活，她脾气温和，她在世上毫无烦恼，她没有讨厌的熟人。对死者而言，人们总会宽容大度。你知道我此刻想做什么吗？我想找到一个了解伊丽莎白•巴纳德但并不知道她已经死去的人！然后我才有可能会听到一些有用之词——真相。” 梅根•巴纳德抽着烟，静望了他几分钟，然后，最终她发言了。她的话语使我大吃一惊。 “贝蒂，”她说道，“是个十足的小傻瓜。” CHAPTER 11 Megan Barnard CHAPTER 11 Megan Barnard As I said, Megan Barnard' s words, and still more the crisp businessliketone in which they were uttered, made me j ump. Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely. "A la bonne heure, ' he said. "You are intelligent, mademoiselle. "Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone: "I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn' t blind mefrom seeing exactly the kind of silly little fool she was--and eventellingher so upon occasion! Sisters are like that. ""And did she pay any attention to your advice?" "Probably not, " saidMegan cynically. "Will you, mademoiselle, be precise. " The girl hesitated for a minute or two. Poirot said with a slight smile: "I will help you. I heard what you said to Hastings. That your sisterwas a bright, happy girl with no men friends. It was--un peu--theoppositethat was true, was it notT' Megan said slowly: "There wasn' t any harm in Betty. I want you to understand that. She' d always go straight. She' s not the week-ending kind. Nothing ofthat sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and--oh, cheapflattery and compliments and all that sort of thing. ""And she was pretty--yes?"This uesfion, the third time I had heard it, met this time with apracticalresonse' , Mega slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it openaha extracted something which she handed to Poirot. . In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smilinggirl. H. er hair had evidently recently been permed; it stood out fromherhead in mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile was arch and artificial. It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it hadanobvious and cheap prettiness. Poirt handed it back, saying: "You and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle. ""Oh, I' m the plain one of the family. I' ve always known that. " Sheseemed to brush aside the fact as unimportant. foo", I. n, hat way exactly do you consider your sister was behavingllsni3' a Do you mean nerhans, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?"' That s it, exactly. Don' s a very quiet sort of person--but he--well,naturally he' d resent certain things--and then--""And then what, mademoiselle?"His eyes were on her very steadily. It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated asecond before answering. "I afraid that he might---chuck her altogether. And that wouldhave n a pity. He' s a very steady and hard-working man and wouldhave mqle her a good husband. "Poiro continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glancebut retu%ed it with one of her own equally steady and with somethingelse in i{something that reminded me of her first defiant, disdainfulmanner. "So it is like that, " he said at last. "We do not speak the truth anylonger. ", S, . he al' lrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door. Well, , , she said, "I' ve done what I could to help you. "P°ircl?s voice arrested her. "Wai, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back. "Rathe, unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed. S°mxhat to my surorise Poirot oluned into the whole story of the. ' . ' ' Itters, the murder at Andover, and the railway guide found bythe Ixlis' He htl no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Herlip, s, . pa. d, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words. s this all tree, M. Poirot?' "Yes, it is true. " "You really mean my sister was killed by some horrible homicidalmaniac? "Precisely. " She drew a deep breath. "Oh! Betty--Betty--How---how ghastly! " "You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask youcan give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt any one. ""Yes, I see that now. ""Then let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea thatthis Donald Fraser has, perhaps, a violent and j ealous temper, is thatright?"Megan Barnard said quietly: "I' m trusting you now, M. Poirot. I' m going to give you the absolutetruth. Don is, as I say, a very quiet persona bottled-up person if youknow what I mean. He can' t always express what he feels in words. But underneath it all he minds things terribly. And he' s got a j ealousnature. He was always j ealous of Betty. He was devoted to her--and ofcourse she was very fond of him, but it wasli' t in Betty to be fondofone person and not notice anybody else. She wasn' t made that way. She' d got a--well, an eye for any nice-looking man who' d pass thetime of day with her. And of course, working in the Ginger Cat, shewas always running up against men--especially in the summer holidays. She was always very pat with her tongte and if they chaffed hershe' d chaff back again. And then perhaps she' d meet them and go tothe pictures or something like that. Nothing serious--never anythingof that kind--but she j ust liked her fun. She used to say that as she' dgot to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her funnow while she could. "Megan paused and Poirot said: "I understand. Continue. " "It was j ust that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn' t understand. If she was really keen on him he couldn' t see why she wanted togo out with other people. And once or twice they had flaming big rowsabout it. ""M. Don, he was no longer quiet?" "It' s like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers theylose them with a vengeance. Don was so violent that Betty wasfrightened. ' ' "Wlen was this? "There was one row nearly a year ago and another--a worse one--just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend--and I got them topatch it up again, and it was then that I tried to knock a little senseintoBetty--told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that therehadn' t been any harm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all thesameshe was riding for a fall. You see, after the row a year ago, she' dgotinto the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that whatthemind doesn' t know the heart doesn' t grieve over. This last flare-upcame because she' d told Don she was going to Hastings to see a girlpal and he found out that she' d really been over to Eastbourne withsome man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he' d been a bitsecretive about the business anyway--and so that made it worse. Theyhad an awful scene--Betty saying that she wasn' t married to him yetand she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Don allwhite and shaking and saying that one day---one day--""Yes?""He' d commit murder--" said Megan in a lowered voice. She stopped and stared at Poirot. He nodded his head gravely several times. "And so, naturally, you were afraid. . . " "I didn' t think he' d actually done it--not for a minute! But I wasafraid it might be brought up--the quarrel and all that he' dsaid--severalpeople knew about it. " Again Poirot nodded his head gravely. "Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egotisticalvanity of a killer, that is j ust what would have happened. If DonaldFraserescapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A. B. C. ' s maniacal boasting. "He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: "Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man,lately?"Megan shook her head. "I don' t know. I' ve been away, you see. " "But what do you think?" "She mayn' t have met that particular man again. He' d probablysheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn' tsurpriseme if Betty had--well, been telling Don a few lies again. Yousee, she did so enj oy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Doncouldn' t afford to take her all the time. ""If so, is she likely to have confided in any one? The girl at the cafe,for instance?""I don' t think that' s likely. Betty couldn' t bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn' t theconfiding sort anyway. "An electric bell trilled sharply above, the girl' s head. She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her headsharply. "It' s Don. . " "Bring him in here, " said Poirot quickly. "I would like a word withhim before our good inspector takes him in hand. "Like a flash Megan Bamard was out of the kitchen, and a couple ofseconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand. 第十一章 梅根·巴纳德 第十一章 梅根•巴纳德 正如我所言，梅根•巴纳德的话，仍然带着干脆得体的事务性的口吻，着实令我大吃一惊。 然而，波洛仅仅是庄重地鞠一下头。 “A la bonne heure（法文，意为：在那个时刻。——译注），”他说道，“你真是很精明，小姐。” 梅根•巴纳德仍然以一成不变的超然语气说： “我非常喜欢贝蒂，但这并不能使我盲目到看不出她是那种小傻瓜——我有时甚至这样对她说‘姐妹之间就是这样子的。’” “她是否理睬你的建议呢？” “可能没有吧。”梅根带着讥讽味说。 “小姐，你可以准确点说。” 姑娘犹豫了一两分钟。 波洛带着一丝笑意说： “我会帮助你的。我听到你刚才对黑斯廷斯说的话，说你妹妹是个聪明、快活的姑娘，没有男朋友。这是——有点，要反过来说才对吧，不是吗？” 梅根慢吞吞说： “贝蒂并没有什么危害，我希望你能了解这一点。她为人正直，才不是乐于过周末的那种人，她从不做那种事。可她喜欢受人邀请外出和跳舞，喜欢廉价的奉承和赞美之词，诸如此类。” “她很漂亮，是吗？” 这句问话，我已经是第三次听见，这次得到了明确的答复。 梅根离开桌子，走向她的箱子，啪地一声打开箱子，取出一件物品并交给波洛。 在皮质的相框中是位头发漂亮、微笑着的姑娘。头发很明显刚刚烫过，以一堆鬈曲的形状从她头上生长出来。她脸上的微笑挺调皮和矫揉造作。那显然不是一张你可称之为美丽的脸，但它却带着明显和廉价的亮丽。 波洛把相架递回去，同时说： “你和她长得并不像，小姐。” “哦！我在这家里是长相平常的。我很清楚。”她看来像是把这个事实摆到一边，显得并不重要。 “究竟在哪些方面你认为你妹妹行事愚蠢？也许，你是指她与唐纳德•弗雷泽先生交往？” “确实是。唐是那种极度安静的人，可他——哦，自然他也会对某些事情不满，然后——” “然后怎么样，小姐？” 他的眼睛稳稳地盯着她。 这可能只是我的臆想——她看来有些犹豫，过了一会才回答说： “我恐怕她会放弃他，而那样就会是个遗憾。他是位非常稳重、勤劳的人，肯定会成为一个好丈夫。” 波洛继续凝视着她。在他的目光注视之下，她并没有满脸通红，而是回报以同样的沉着和冷静——这使我想起她起先那挑战性的倨傲神态。 “所以事情就是如此，”他终于说，“我们不想再谈真相。” 她耸耸肩膀，转身向着门那边。 “哦，”她说，“我已经尽我所能来帮助你。” 波洛的主意抑制了她。 “等一下，小姐，有些事我要告诉你，请回来。” 我看出来，她是极不情愿地停住了脚。 令我惊讶的是，波洛投入地讲出 ABC 信件的整个故事，安多弗谋杀案，以及在尸体旁边发现的铁路指南书。 他毫无理由抱怨她对此是缺乏兴趣。她双唇分离，两眼发亮，有些着急地问他。 “这些全都是真的吗，波洛先生？” “是的，全是真的。” “你是说我妹妹真的是被某个杀人狂谋害的？” “正是这样。” 她深深地吸了一口气。 “哦，贝蒂，贝蒂，这太恐怖了。” “你看，小姐，你不用顾虑是否会伤害别人，就该毫不费劲地提供我想了解的情况。” “是的，我现在明白了。” “让我们继续谈话。我已形成了这样的观点，那位唐纳德•弗雷泽可能会是个脾气狂暴和嫉妒的人，对吗？” 梅根•巴纳德安静地说： “我现在相信你，波洛先生。我会告诉你千真万确的事实。如我所言，唐是个极其安静的人——是个挺封闭的人，如果你理解我的话。他通常无法用语言来表达思想感受，可在这一切之后，他对待事物的态度又极其糟糕。他生性好嫉妒，他总是嫉妒贝蒂。他全身心地爱着她——当然她也非常喜欢他，可贝蒂不仅仅只喜欢一个人而不留意其他人，她本来就不是这样的。嗯，他留意于那些长相优雅、能陪伴她的男人。当然，在黄猫餐厅，她总可以遭遇到一些男人——尤其是在夏日的假期。她总是辞令锋利，如果那些人对她浑言趣语，她也一定会诮语相对。然后她可能会同他们约会，去看看电影或做些别的。没什么大不了的事——从没有那种事——可她只是喜欢以此为乐。她总说有一天她会与唐安定地生活，但只要在能够的时候，她会同样像现在一样享乐。” 梅根停住口，波洛说： “我理解。请继续讲吧。” “唐无法理解的是她的行为方式。如果她对他真是专一投入，那么他就无法明白她为何还要与其他人外出。有一两次他们为这件事还大吵特吵。” “那位唐先生，他再也不会平心静气了？” “就像所有那些安静的人那样，当他们要发脾气时，他们会大发雷霆。唐显得那么暴躁，连贝蒂都吓坏了。” “那是什么时候的事？” “大约一年前吵过一次，另一次则吵得更凶——仅是在一个月以前。我当时回家过周末。我使他们尽量平息下来，那时我试图让贝蒂有点脑子——跟她说她真的有点傻。她会说那没什么可怕的。哦，那倒也挺对的，可她还是会招致危害。你看，在一年前的那次吵架之后，她已形成了一种习惯，不时根据信手拈来、无伤大雅的原则撒几个有用的小谎。由于她告诉唐她要去哈斯丁看一位女朋友，可他却发现她实际上是与某些男人——一同去了伊斯特本。这场喧闹终于来临。由于已订婚，他是个已婚男人，他对这件事总有点守口如瓶，这恰恰使事情变得更加糟糕。他们吵架的情形挺可怕的——贝蒂声称她还没有与他结婚，有权同她乐意的人外出。唐则满脸苍白，气得颤抖，扬言有朝一日，有朝一日......” “什么？” “他会杀了她——”梅根低声说道。 她停下话，盯着波洛。 他阴沉地点了几下头。 “因而，自然，你担心......” “我倒是认为他不会真动手的，一点也不这么认为。可我倒是恐怕这些——吵架和他所说的话，会被翻出来，许多人都知道那事。” 波洛再次阴沉地点头。 “就这样吧。小姐，我想说，要不是凶手那自私自利的虚荣心，那倒可能是发生的一切。如果唐纳德•弗雷泽得以脱离嫌疑，那倒要归功于ABC 狂躁的吹嘘。”他沉默了一会儿，随即说： “你是否知道你妹妹最近跟某个已婚男人或其他什么人见过面？” 梅根摇头否认。 “我不清楚。你知道，我不在这里住。” “那你有什么想法吗？” “她可能没再见过那个人。他可能觉得会有争吵，就避开了，但如果贝蒂又向唐撒了一些谎的话，我丝毫不会感到奇怪。你知道，她确实喜欢跳舞和看电影，而唐则当然无法从头至尾地说她出入那些地方。” “如果是这样的话，她是否会向别人吐露心思？比方说，那个在餐厅做事的姑娘？” “我认为那不大像。贝蒂无法接纳那个希格利姑娘。她认为她平庸，而其他的姑娘又是新来的。贝蒂可不是那种倾吐衷肠的人。” 姑娘头上端的电铃尖利地叫响。 她走到窗前，侧身向外张望。她又敏捷地撤回来。 “是唐......” “叫他进来吧。”波洛迅速地说道，“我想在警督碰到他之前同他谈谈话 。” 梅根•巴纳德疾闪出厨房，数秒钟后她手曳着唐纳德•弗雷泽回屋来。 CHAPTER 12 Donald Fraser Chapter 12 Donald Fraser I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had. He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair. ‘What’s this, Megan?’ he said. ‘Why in here? For God’s sake, tell me—I’ve only just heard—Betty…’ His voice trailed away. Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it. My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said: ‘Drink some of this, Mr Fraser. It will do you good.’ The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a littlecolour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled. ‘It’s true, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Betty is—dead—killed?’ ‘It’s true, Don.’ He said as though mechanically: ‘Have you just come down from London?’ ‘Yes. Dad phoned me.’ ‘By the 9.30, I suppose?’ said Donald Fraser. His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details. ‘Yes.’ There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said: ‘The police? Are they doing anything?’ ‘They’re upstairs now. Looking through Betty’s things, I suppose.’ ‘They’ve no idea who—? They don’t know—?’ He stopped. He had all a sensitive, shy person’s dislike of putting violent facts into words. Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke in a businesslike, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail. ‘Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?’ Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically: ‘She told me she was going with a girl friend to St Leonards.’ ‘Did you believe her?’ ‘I—’ Suddenly the automaton came to life. ‘What the devil do you mean?’ His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me understand that a girl might well be afraid of rousing his anger. Poirot said crisply: ‘Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking the exact truth can you help us to get on his track.’ His glance for a minute turned to Megan. ‘That’s right, Don,’ she said. ‘It isn’t a time for considering one’s own feelings or anyone else’s. You’ve got to come clean.’ Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot. ‘Who are you? You don’t belong to the police?’ ‘I am better than the police,’ said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact. ‘Tell him,’ said Megan. Donald Fraser capitulated. ‘I—wasn’t sure,’ he said. ‘I believed her when she said it. Never thought of doing anything else. Afterwards—perhaps it was something in her manner. I—I, well, I began to wonder.’ ‘Yes?’ said Poirot. He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man’s, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell. ‘I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But—but I wassuspicious…I thought of going to the front and watching her when she left the café. I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn’t do that. Betty would see me and she’d be angry. She’d realize at once that I was watching her.’ ‘What did you do?’ ‘I went over to St Leonards. Got over there by eight o’clock. Then I watched the buses—to see if she were in them…But there was no sign of her…’ ‘And then?’ ‘I—I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there—looked in hotels and restaurants, hung round cinemas—went on the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken her to instead of Hastings.’ He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind, bewilderingmisery and anger that had possessed him at the time he described. ‘In the end I gave it up—came back.’ ‘At what time?’ ‘I don’t know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home.’ ‘Then—’ The kitchen door opened. ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Inspector Kelsey. Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers. ‘Miss Megan Barnard and Mr Donald Fraser,’ said Poirot, introducing them. ‘This is Inspector Crome from London,’ he explained. Turning to the inspector, he said: ‘While you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing with Miss Barnardand Mr Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the matter.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers. Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed: ‘Get anything?’ But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply. I joined Poirot in the hall. ‘Did anything strike you, Poirot?’ I inquired. ‘Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings.’ I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he meant. 第十二章　唐纳德·弗雷泽 第十二章　唐纳德•弗雷泽 　　我立刻对这个年轻人感到难过起来。他的脸苍白憔悴，双眼迷惑不解，显现出他刚遭受过多么沉重的打击。 　　这个年轻人体格健壮，外貌帅气，身高近六尺，虽然并不是十分英俊，可长着一张友善、带有雀斑点的脸，他颧骨高突，留着火红色的头发。 　　“这是怎么回事，梅甘？”他说，“干吗要到这里来？看在上帝的份上，告诉我吧，我刚听说——贝蒂……” 　　他的语音渐渐减弱下去。 　　波洛把一把椅子推向前，年轻人坐了上去。 　　我的朋友从口袋中取出一个小酒瓶，把一些就倒进了挂在食品柜上的一只酒杯，说道： 　　“喝一点吧，弗雷泽先生。它对你会有好处。” 　　年轻人照此办理。白兰地使他的脸重新又有了些颜色。他坐直身子，再一次转向那姑娘，神态相当平静和自控。 　　“我想，这是真的？”他说，“贝蒂，死了，——被人谋杀？” 　　“这是真的，唐。” 　　他还是机械地说道： 　　“你刚从伦敦赶来吗？” 　　“是的，是我爸爸打电话通知我的。” 　　“他是在九点半的时候打的吧，我想？”唐纳德•弗雷泽说。 　　他的思绪远离实情，平静地关注这些无关紧要的细节。 　　“是的。” 　　沉默了片刻之后，弗雷泽说道： 　　“是警察吗？他们在做些什么？” 　　“他们正在楼上。我想是在检查贝蒂的物品。” 　　“他们不知道是谁……？他们不知道……？” 　　他停滞下来。 　　他敏感、害羞，有着这一类人的全部憎恶，厌倦把残暴的事实溢于言表。 　　波洛把身体向前稍作挪动，提了个问题。他是在用一种事务性的、务实的语气说话，尽管他询问的话题是个毫不重要的细节。 　　“巴纳德小姐是否告诉过你，昨天晚上她去了哪里？” 　　弗雷泽回答问话，他看起来像是在机械地说话： 　　“她告诉我她将同一位女朋友去圣莱奥娜兹。” 　　“你是否相信她的话？” 　　“我，——”突然间，这个动作机械的人醒悟过来，“你究竟是什么意思？” 　　他面露威胁，因猛然的愤慨而痉挛，这是我相信姑娘会挺怕激惹他发怒的。 　　波洛干脆地说： 　　“贝蒂•巴纳德是被一个杀人犯所谋害。你只有告诉我们实情，才能有助于我们逮捕他。” 　　他的眼光转向梅甘，停了一会。 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽怀疑地望着波洛。 　　“你是谁？你不是警方的人吗？” 　　“我比警察要更好一点。”波洛说道，他说话的时候不夹带着有意识的狂妄。对他而言，这仅是简单的事实陈述。 　　“告诉他吧。”梅甘说。 　　唐纳德.弗雷泽收敛起敌意。 　　“我，——可不太确信。”他说道，“我相信她说的话，从未想到过要再做些别的什么。随后，也许她的行为有些什么意思，我，我开始有点困惑。” 　　“是吗？”波洛说。 　　他面对唐纳德•弗雷泽坐着，他的双眼紧盯着另外这个人的眼睛，像是在经历着片刻的催眠。 　　“我对自己的疑心重重感到羞愧，可是——我确实感到怀疑……我想到过要直来直往，在她离开餐厅的时侯去看看她。我确实去了那儿，然后我觉得自己不能那样做。贝蒂会看见我，她会生气的，她马上就会意识到我在盯梢。” 　　“那你做了什么呢？” 　　“我去了圣莱奥娜兹，大约八点光景到那地方。然后我去察看公共汽车，想发现她是否在车中……可她毫无踪影……” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“我便慌乱不知所措。我相信她一定是与什么男人在一起。我想拿人开车带她去了哈斯丁。我就赶去那里，在旅馆、饭店进行查询，在电影院游逛，我还去了码头。那全是些愚蠢的做法。即使她就在那儿，我看来也无法找到她。然而，他可以带她去一大堆别的地方，而不是哈斯丁。” 　　他收住口。正如他的话音一样清晰，我分辨出他话语之中所隐含的那种盲然、迷惑的痛苦与愤怒。在他开口畅言时，这些情绪拥裹着他。 　　“最终我放弃了，便回家来。” 　　“是在什么时间？” 　　“我不知道，我是步行的，到家时应该是午夜或更晚一点。” 　　“随后——” 　　厨房门被人推开。 　　“噢，你们在这里。”凯尔西警督说。 　　克罗姆警督推身走过他，看了一眼波洛，也瞥了一眼陌生人。 　　“这是梅甘•巴纳德小姐和唐纳德•弗雷泽先生。”波洛介绍他们。 　　“这位是从伦敦来的克罗姆警督。”他解释道。 　　他转向警督说道： 　　“当你在楼上进行例行检查时，我同巴纳德小姐和弗雷泽先生交谈，尽力想弄清楚是否我能为此案找到一些亮光。” 　　“哦，是吗？”克罗姆警督说，他此时的思维并没有集中在波洛身上，而在那位新来者身上。 　　波洛退回到客厅里，他通过时，凯尔西警督好言说道： 　　“发生什么没有？” 　　可他的注意力被他的同事所烦扰，他并没有等候答复。 　　我也随波洛来到客厅。 　　“有什么东西激发了你吗，波洛？”我询问道。 　　“只有凶手那好笑的宽宏大量，黑色廷斯。” 　　我毫无勇气来表示，我其实一点也没弄懂他是什么意思。 Chapter 13 A Conference Chapter 13 A Conference Conferences! Much of my memories of the A B C case seem to be of conferences. Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot’s rooms. Official conferences. Unofficial conferences. This particular conference was to decide whether or not the facts relative to the anonymous letters should or should not be made public in the press. The Bexhill murder had attracted much more attention than the Andover one. It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. To begin with the victim was a young and good-looking girl. Also, it had taken place at a popular seaside resort All the details of the crime were reported fully and rehashed daily in thin disguises. The A B C railway guide came in for its share of attention. The favouritetheory was that it had been bought locally by the murderer and that it was a valuable clue to his identity. It also seemed to show that he had come to the place by train and was intending to leave for London. The railway guide had not figured at all in the meagre accounts of the Andover murder, so there seemed at present little likelihood of the two crimes being connected in the public eye. ‘We’ve got to decide upon a policy,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘The thing is—which way will give us the best results? Shall we give the public the facts—enlist their co-operation—after all, it’ll be the co-operation of several million people, looking out for a madman—’ ‘He won’t look like a madman,’ interjected Dr Thompson. ‘—looking out for sales of A B C’s—and so on. Against that I suppose there’s the advantage of working in the dark—not letting our man know what we’re up to, but then there’s the fact that he knows very well that we know. He’s drawn attention to himself deliberately by his letters. Eh, Crome, what’s your opinion?’ ‘I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you’re playing A B C’s game. That’s what he wants—publicity—notoriety. That’s what he’s out after. I’m right, aren’t I, doctor? He wants to make a splash.’ Thompson nodded. The Assistant Commissioner said thoughtfully: ‘So you’re for balking him. Refusing him the publicity he’s hankering after. What about you, M. Poirot?’ Poirot did not speak for a minute. When he did it was with an air of choosing his words carefully. ‘It is difficult for me, Sir Lionel,’ he said. ‘I am, as you might say, an interested party. The challenge was sent to me. If I say “Suppress that fact—do not make it public,” may it not be thought that it is my vanity that speaks? That I am afraid for my reputation? It is difficult! To speak out—to tell all—that has its advantages. It is, at least, a warning…On the other hand, I am as convinced as Inspector Crome that it is what the murderer wants us to do.’ ‘H’m!’ said the Assistant Commissioner, rubbing his chin. He looked across at Dr Thompson. ‘Suppose we refuse our lunatic the satisfaction of the publicity he craves. What’s he likely to do?’ ‘Commit another crime,’ said the doctor promptly. ‘Force your hand.’ ‘And if we splash the thing about in headlines. Then what’s his reaction?’ ‘Same answer. One way you feedhis megalomania, the other you balkit. The result’s the same. Another crime.’ ‘What do you say, M. Poirot?’ ‘I agree with Dr Thompson.’ ‘A cleft stick—eh? How many crimes do you think this—lunatic has in mind?’ Dr Thompson looked across at Poirot. ‘Looks like A to Z,’ he said cheerfully ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘he won’t get there. Not nearly. You’ll have him by the heels long before that. Interesting to know how he’d have dealt with the letter X.’ He recalled himself guiltily from this purely enjoyable speculation. ‘But you’ll have him long before that. G or H, let’s say.’ The Assistant Commissioner struck the table with his fist. ‘My God, are you telling me we’re going to have five more murders?’ ‘It won’t be as much as that, sir,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘Trust me.’ He spoke with confidence. ‘Which letter of the alphabet do you place it at, inspector?’ asked Poirot. There was a slight ironic note in his voice. Crome, I thought, looked at him with a tinge of dislike adulterating the usual calm superiority. ‘Might get him next time, M. Poirot. At any rate, I’d guarantee to get him by the time he gets to F.’ He turned to the Assistant Commissioner. ‘I think I’ve got the psychology of the case fairly clear. Dr Thompson will correct me if I’m wrong. Itake it that every time A B C brings a crime off, his self-confidence increases about a hundred per cent. Every time he feels “I’m clever—they can’t catch me!” he becomes so over-weeningly confident that he also becomes careless. He exaggerates his own cleverness and everyone else’s stupidity. Very soon he’d be hardly bothering to take any precautions at all. That’s right, isn’t it, doctor?’ Thompson nodded. ‘That’s usually the case. In non-medical terms it couldn’t have been put better. You know something about such things, M. Poirot. Don’t you agree?’ I don’t think that Crome liked Thompson’s appeal to Poirot. He considered that he and he only was the expert on this subject. ‘It is as Inspector Crome says,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Paranoia,’ murmured the doctor. Poirot turned to Crome. ‘Are there any material facts of interest in the Bexhill case?’ ‘Nothing very definite. A waiter at the Splendide at Eastbourne recognizes the dead girl’s photograph as that of a young woman who dined there on the evening of the 24th in company with a middle-aged man in spectacles. It’s also been recognized at a roadhouse place called the Scarlet Runner halfway between Bexhill and London. They say she was there about 9 pm on the24th with a man who looked like a naval officer. They can’t both be right, but either of them’s probable. Of course, there’s a host of other identifications, but most of them not good for much. We haven’t been able to trace the A B C.’ ‘Well, you seem to be doing all that can be done, Crome,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘What do you say, M. Poirot? Does any line of inquiry suggest itself to you?’ Poirot said slowly: ‘It seems to me that there is one very important clue—the discovery of the motive.’ ‘Isn’t that pretty obvious? An alphabetical complex. Isn’t that what you called it, doctor?’ ‘C?a, oui,’ said Poirot. ‘There is an alphabetical complex. But why an alphabetical complex? A madman in particular has always a very strong reason for the crimes he commits.’ ‘Come, come, M. Poirot,’ said Crome. ‘Look at Stoneman in 1929. He ended by trying to do away with anyone who annoyed him in the slightest degree.’ Poirot turned to him. ‘Quite so. But if you are a sufficiently great and important person, it is necessary that you should be spared small annoyances. If a fly settles on your forehead again and again, maddening you by its tickling—what do you do? You endeavour to kill that fly. Youhave no qualms about it. Youare important—the fly is not. You kill the fly and the annoyance ceases. Your action appears to you sane and justifiable. Another reason for killing a fly is if you have a strong passion for hygiene. The fly is a potential source of danger to the community—the fly must go. So works the mind of the mentally deranged criminal. But consider now this case—if the victims are alphabetically selected, then they are not being removed because they are a source of annoyance to the murderer personally. It would be too much of a coincidence to combine the two.’ ‘That’s a point,’ said Dr Thompson. ‘I remember a case where a woman’s husband was condemned to death. She started killing the members of the jury one by one. Quite a time before the crimes were connected up. They seemed entirely haphazard. But as M. Poirot says, there isn’t such a thing as a murderer who commits crimes at random. Either he removes people who stand (however insignificantly) in his path, or else he kills by conviction. He removes clergymen, or policemen, or prostitutes because he firmly believes that they shouldbe removed. That doesn’t apply here either as far as I can see. Mrs Ascher and Betty Barnard cannot be linked as members of the same class. Of course, it’s possible that there is a sex complex. Both victims have been women. We can tell better, of course, after the next crime—’ ‘For God’s sake, Thompson, don’t speak so glibly of the next crime,’ said Sir Lionel irritably. ‘We’re going to do all we can to prevent another crime.’ Dr Thompson held his peace and blew his nose with some violence. ‘Have it your own way,’ the noise seemed to say. ‘If you won’t face facts—’ The Assistant Commissioner turned to Poirot. ‘I see what you’re driving at, but I’m not quite clear yet.’ ‘I ask myself,’ said Poirot, ‘what passes exactly in the mind of the murderer? He kills, it would seem from his letters,pour le sport—to amuse himself. Can that really be true? And even if it is true, on what principle does he select his victims apart from the merely alphabetical one?If he kills merely to amuse himself he would not advertise the fact, since, otherwise, he could kill with impunity. But no, he seeks, as we all agree, to make the splash in the public eye—to assert his personality. In what way has his personality been suppressed that one can connect with the two victims he has so far selected? A final suggestion: Is his motive direct personal hatred of me, of Hercule Poirot? Does he challenge me in public because I have (unknown to myself) vanquished him somewhere in the course of my career? Or is his animosity impersonal—directed against a foreigner?And if so, what againhas led to that? What injury has he suffered at a foreigner’s hand?’ ‘All very suggestive questions,’ said Dr Thompson. Inspector Crome cleared his throat. ‘Oh, yes? A little unanswerable at present, perhaps.’ ‘Nevertheless, my friend,’ said Poirot, looking straight at him, ‘it is there, in those questions, that the solution lies. If we knew the exact reason—fantastic, perhaps, to us—but logical to him—of whyour madman commits these crimes, we should know, perhaps, who the next victim is likely to be.’ Crome shook his head. ‘He selects them haphazard—that’s my opinion.’ ‘The magnanimous murderer,’ said Poirot ‘What’s that you say?’ ‘I said—the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife—Donald Fraser might have been arrested for the murder of Betty Barnard—if it had not been for the warning letters of A B C. Is he, then, so soft-hearted that he cannot bear others to suffer for something they did not do?’ ‘I’ve known stranger things happen,’ said Dr Thompson. ‘I’ve known men who’ve killed half a dozen victims all broken up because one of their victims didn’t die instantaneously and suffered pain. All the same, I don’t think that that is our fellow’s reason.He wants the credit of these crimes for his own honour and glory. That’s the explanation that fits best.’ ‘We’ve come to no decision about the publicity business,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘If I may make a suggestion, sir,’ said Crome. ‘Why not wait till the receipt of the next letter? Make it public then—special editions, etc. It will make a bit of a panic in the particular town named, but it will put everyone whose name begins with C on their guard, and it’ll put A B C on his mettle. He’ll be determined to succeed. And that’s when we’ll get him.’ How little we knew what the future held. 第十三章 会议 第十三章　会议 开会了！ 我对ABC案件的许多回忆是会议。 总有那么多会议在苏格兰场召开，在波洛的房间里召开。有正式的会议，非正式的会议。 这次会议是讨论决定与那些匿名信相关的事实是否可以通过新闻媒介公布于众。 贝克斯希尔谋杀案引来的关注要比安多弗大得多。 当然，这场谋杀案有许多可供传闻的因素。首先，它的遇害人是个年轻漂亮的姑娘，而且，案件还发生在一个普遍受人喜爱的海滨胜地。 凶杀案的所有细节被全盘报道，成天被人们偷偷添油加醋地传闻着。那本ABC铁路指南书也受到了相当的关注。最为人称道的论述说，凶手是在本地买的这本书，而书又成为识破他的一个重要线索。那凶手看来则像是乘火车来到此地，并打算回伦敦去。 那本铁路指南并没有在安多弗谋杀案的报道中被提及，现在公众的眼中，这两件案子很少会被联系在一起。 “我们应该制定政策。”厅长助理说，“关键在于，哪种方法能使我们获得最好的结果？我们是否要把真相透露给公众，以获取他们的合作。总之，这将需要有几百万人的合作，一起寻找凶手——” “他看来不像疯子。”汤普森医生插话，“查询一下ABC的销售和其他情况，与此相反，我认为悄无声息地开展行动是有优势的，不让那个人知道我们要做些什么，然后有事实会表明他清楚地知道我们所了解的情况。他用信件故意引起别人对他的注意。哦，克罗姆，你意下如何？” “我是这样看的，先生。如果你把案子公布于众，你就是在玩这个ABC游戏。那正是他想要的，把案件公开，使之臭名昭著。那就是他一心所想要达到的效果。我说得很对，不是吗，医生？他期望能引来轩然大波。” 汤普森医生点点头。 厅长助理沉思地说道： “所以你赞成使他受挫折，要拒绝他所渴求的公众性。您以为如何，波洛先生？” 波洛一时没有开口，他说话时，总要摆出一种姿态，表明他在谨慎地选择语言。 “这使我为难，莱昂内尔爵士，”他说，“你可能会说，我是挺有意思的一方。这种挑战曾冲我而来。如果我表示‘该封锁事情——切勿公之于众’，人们难道会不认为这是我的虚荣心在发言？人们会以为我要维护自己的声誉？这倒是令我挺为难的！把它宣扬出来——让所有人都知道，也有其有利之处。它至少是种警告在另一方面，我也同克罗姆有同样的确信，这正是凶手想要我们做的。” “噢，”厅长助理擦擦下巴，远远地望着汤普森医生，说道，“试想我们拒绝这个疯子渴求公开的愿望，不使他感到满足，他会做些什么呢？” “进行另一次谋杀，”医生迅速地说，“迫使你动手。” “如果我们在报刊头条对此事大肆宣扬，那么他会有何反应？” “回答是相同的。在一种方法下，你会助长他的狂妄之想；而在另一种方法下，你又使他受挫折，结局都是一样的，会有另一场谋杀案。” “你要说些什么，波洛先生？” “我同意汤普森医生的意见。” “这真是进退两难——啊？你认为这个疯子脑子里还打算干几件谋杀案？” 汤普森医生的眼光穿透过去，盯着波洛看。 “看来像是从字母A到Z。”他快活地说道。 “当然，”他继续道，“他是不会走到那一步的，那远非如此。在那之前，你就会逮住他。我只是很有兴趣想知道他想怎样来处理字母X。”他从这种纯粹逗乐的推测中回过神来。“可早在那之前，你就会抓住他的。在G或H的时候。就会的。” 厅长助理用他的拳头砸着桌子。 “我的上帝，你是在告诉我，我们还要面对五桩谋杀案吗？” “也可能没那么多，先生。”克罗姆警督说，“请相信我。” 他语气之中夹带着自信。 “在哪个字母时你认为会破案，警督？”波洛问。 他的声音中有点轻微的嘲讽之意。我看出，克罗姆不快地望着他，其不悦之情掺杂着平时那冷静的傲慢。 “下次我们就可能逮住他，波洛先生。无论如何，当他一做到F的时候，我保证会抓他归案。” 他转向厅长助理。 “我认为我已极其清楚地掌握了本案的心理学。如果我犯错误的话，汤普森医生将会纠正我。我认为，每一次ABC干完一件谋杀案时，他的自信程度会上升百分之一百。每次他都会感到‘我很聪明——他们抓不到我！’，他会变得极度的过分自信，以至于会粗心大意。他夸耀自己的机敏，认为别人都很愚蠢。他很快就不愿意费尽心机地加强警惕。我说得对吗，医生？” 汤普森点点头。 “事情往往是这样的。用非医学的语言，无法在作更好的解释，你应该了解一些此类的情况，波洛先生。你不同意这种观点吗？” 我认为克罗姆并不喜欢汤普森对波洛的赞同。他认为他，也只有他自己，才是本案的专家。 “克罗姆警督所言极是。”波洛表示同意。 “偏执狂。”医生小声说。 波洛转向克罗姆。 “在贝克斯希尔一案中，有没有什么实质性的重要之处？” “没什么确定的东西。在伊斯特布恩的斯普兰德餐厅，有一位招待认出了死去姑娘的照片，她二十四日晚曾在此餐厅用餐，有一位戴眼镜的男子陪伴着她。在贝克斯希尔与伦敦之间的半途中，有间名叫‘绯红色跑步者’的小旅馆，那儿的人们也认出了她，他们说她曾与一个男人与二十四日晚九点钟在那里，那男的看上去像个海军长官。他们不可能全是对的，可每个地方的人们所说的情况都有可能。当然，还有许多其他地方的识别，它们中大多毫无用途。我们还未能追踪ABC。” “哦，你看来已做了许多可以做到的事情，克罗姆。”厅长助理说，“你有什么可说的吗，波洛先生？你是否在考虑那些疑问？” 波洛慢吞吞地说道： “在我看来，似乎有一条极重要的线索——对犯罪动机的发现。” “那不是挺明显的吗？这是一种按字母顺序进行的犯罪情结。你难道不是那样称呼它的吗，医生？” “Caoui（法文，意为：这，对的。——译注），”波洛说，“这确实是个以字母顺序排列来进行的犯罪情结。可为什么会是按字母顺序的情结呢？某个特定的疯子对他要犯的罪行，总是会有一个强烈的原因的。” “来，来，波洛先生，”克罗姆说，“请看一九二九年的石匠案，他最终是在试图除掉那些程度最轻微地冒犯他的人。” 波洛转身朝向他。 “确实如此。如果你是个相当伟大和重要的人物，你很可能会因微小的烦恼而分心。如果一只苍蝇一而再地停上你的前额，它使你因痒痒而恼火——你会做些什么呢？你竭力想杀死那只苍蝇，你对此一点也不感到疑惑。你很重要——而苍蝇却无足轻重。你杀掉苍蝇，烦恼也就此平息。你的行动对你自己而言极其正常，无可非议。杀死苍蝇的另一个原因是你有一种强烈的卫生感。苍蝇对于公众而言是种潜在的危险源，必须要消灭掉。精神错乱的罪犯思维也是如此。可现在我们考虑一下这个案子——如果受害人是以字母顺序来挑选的，那么他们之所以在被消灭掉，是因为他们对于凶手本人是种烦扰之源。把这两者联系在一起，始终极大的巧合。” “正是如此。”汤普森医生说道，“我记得有一个案子，一个女人的丈夫被判死刑，她便开始一个接一个地杀死那些陪审团 成员。过了好长一段时间之后，这些案子才被联系起来，在此之前，它们看来完全像是偶然的事件。正如波洛先生所言，没有一个罪犯会随意地去犯罪。他总会除掉拦路的人（无论他们是多么的微不足道），或者他会因确信而动杀机。他会杀死牧师，要不就是警察或妓女，因为他深信，必须要除掉这些人。就我的理解，那一点倒是没办法应用。阿谢尔太太和贝蒂•巴纳德无法作为同一阶层的人士而被联系在一起。当然，还有一点性别因素，两个被害人都是女性。在下次谋杀案后，我们自然会更好地有所了解” “看在上帝的份上，汤普森，别如此善辩地谈到下一场罪行，”莱昂内尔爵士气呼呼地说，“我们要尽力阻止另一场谋杀。” 汤普森医生随即沉默不语，用力地哼他的鼻子。 “那就悉听尊便，”那声音似乎在说，“如果你不愿面对现实——” 厅长助理转向波洛。 “我明白您的意思，可我还不是太清楚。” “我问自己，”波洛说，“凶手的脑中到底在流过些什么想法？从他的信中似乎可以看出，他之所以谋杀，pourlesport（法文，意为：为了刺激。——译注）——是为了取悦自己。可那能是真的吗？即使确实如此，除了按字母顺序之外，他还会以什么原则来挑选谋杀对象？如果他仅仅是为了取悦自己而进行谋杀，他就用不着宣扬实情，既然他还可以毫不知耻地谋杀。可情形并不是这样，正如我们一致认为的那样，他追求在公众的眼里引起轩然大波——以求维持其个性。在我们把他已挑中的两个受害人联系起来时，他的个性又受到了怎样的抑制呢？最后一个设想是，他的动机是出于对我——赫尔克里•波洛的憎恨吗？他公然向我发起挑战，是否因为我曾经（其实我自己并不知晓）在我的生涯之中击溃过他？或者，是他对一个外国人有着非个人因素的憎恨？如果是这样的话，是什么东西导致了这种情绪呢？他又在一个外国人手中受到过什么样的伤害呢？” “这全是些令人产生浮想联翩的问题。”汤普森医生说。 克罗姆警督清了清嗓子。 “哦，是的，可能现在还有点难于回答。” “总之，我的朋友，”波洛说，眼睛直视着他，“在那些问题当中正好有解决的办法。如果我们知道为何这个疯子会犯这些案子的确切理由，可能这些理由对我们来说有点异想天开，可对他而言则顺理成章，这样我们就该知道下一个受害人会是谁。” 克罗姆摇摇头。 “他只是处于偶然才选择了他们——这是我的看法。” “这个宽宏大度的凶手。”波洛说。 “你说什么？” “我说——这是个宽宏大度的凶手吗？如果没有那些ABC警告信的话，弗朗兹•阿谢尔会因谋杀妻子而被捕，唐纳德•弗雷泽则可能因谋杀贝蒂•巴纳德尔被捕。他不能容忍别人因没有干过这些事情而痛苦，他是否有一副好心肠？” “我知道会有奇怪的事情发生。”汤普森医生说，“我也知道有的人在谋杀数人之后会精神崩溃，只是因为其中一个受害人没有立刻死亡而承受痛苦。同样，我认为这也并非是这位凶手的理由。他为了自己的名誉和荣耀，极想谋求这些罪行的声望。这是最贴切的解释。” “我们还没有就公开化一事达成结论。”厅长助理说。 “如果我提议，先生，”克罗姆说，“为何不等到收到下一封信？以专刊的形式把它公之于众。这将在那个被指明的小镇引起警觉，也会使以C作为姓名开首的每一个人警惕起来，此举将激发这个ABC。他会决心要致力于成功，而那时我们就能够逮到他。” 我们所了解的能把握未来的情况实在太少了。 Chapter 14 The Third Letter Chapter 14 The Third Letter I well remember the arrival of A B C’s third letter. I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A B C resumed his campaign there should be no unnecessary delays. A young sergeant from Scotland Yard was attached to the house and if Poirot and I were out it was his duty to open anything that came so as to be able to communicate with headquarters without loss of time. As the days succeeded each other we had all grown more and more on edge. Inspector Crome’s aloof and superior manner grew more and more aloof and superior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered out. The vague descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnard proved useless. Various cars noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden were either accounted for or could not be traced. The investigation of purchases of A B C railway guidescaused inconvenience and trouble to heaps of innocent people. As for ourselves, each time the postman’s familiar rat-tat sounded on the door, our hearts beat faster with apprehension. At least that was true for me, and I cannot but believe that Poirot experienced the same sensation. He was, I knew, deeply unhappy over the case. He refused to leave London, preferring to be on the spot in case of emergency. In those hot dog days even his moustaches drooped—neglected for once by their owner. It was on a Friday that A B C’s third letter came. The evening post arrived about ten o’clock. When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat, I rose and went along to the box. There were four or five letters, I remember. The last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters. ‘Poirot,’ I cried…My voice died away. ‘It has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be needed. We must make our plans.’ I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me with untidiness) and extracted the printed sheet. ‘Read it,’ said Poirot. I read aloud: Poor Mr Poirot,—Not so good at these little criminal matters as you thought yourself, are you? Rather past your prime, perhaps? Let us see if you can do any better this time. This time it’s an easy one. Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it! It’s a bit dull having it all my own way, you know! Good hunting. Ever yours, A B C. ‘Churston,’ I said, jumping to our own copy of an A B C. ‘Let’s see where it is.’ ‘Hastings,’ Poirot’s voice came sharply and interrupted me. ‘When was that letter written? Is there a date on it?’ I glanced at the letter in my hand. ‘Written on the 27th,’ I announced. ‘Did I hear you aright, Hastings? Did he give the date of the murder as the 30th?’ ‘That’s right. Let me see, that’s—’ ‘Bon Dieu, Hastings—do you not realise? Today is the 30th.’ His eloquent hand pointed to the calendar on the wall. I caught up the daily paper to confirm it. ‘But why—how—’ I stammered. Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor. Something unusual about the address had registered itself vaguely in my brain, but I had been too anxiousto get at the contents of the letter to pay more than fleeting attention to it. Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions. The address ran: M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions, across the corner was scrawled: ‘Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, EC1, nor at Whitehorse Court—try Whitehaven Mansions.’ ‘Mon Dieu!’ murmured Poirot. ‘Does even chance aid this madman? Vite—vite—we must get on to Scotland Yard.’ A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire. For once the self-controlled inspector did not reply ‘Oh, yes?’ Instead a quickly stifled curse came to his lips. He heard what we had to say, then rang off in order to get a trunk connection to Churston as rapidly as possible. ‘C’est trop tard,’ murmured Poirot. ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ I argued, though without any great hope. He glanced at the clock. ‘Twenty minutes past ten? An hour and forty minutes to go. Is it likely that A B C will have held his hand so long?’ I opened the railway guide I had previously taken from its shelf. ‘Churston, Devon,’ I read, ‘from Paddington 204 3/4 miles. Population 656. It sounds a fairly small place.Surely our man will be bound to be noticed there.’ ‘Even so, another life will have been taken,’ murmured Poirot. ‘What are the trains? I imagine train will be quicker than car.’ ‘There’s a midnight train—sleeping car to Newton Abbot—gets there 6.8 am, and then Churston at 7.15.’ ‘That is from Paddington?’ ‘Paddington, yes.’ ‘We will take that, Hastings.’ ‘You’ll hardly have time to get news before we start.’ ‘If we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning does it matter which?’ ‘There’s something in that.’ I put a few things together in a suitcase while Poirot once more rang up Scotland Yard. A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded: ‘Mais qu’est ce que vous faites là?’ ‘I was packing for you. I thought it would save time.’ ‘Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, Hastings. It affects your hands and your wits. Is that a way to fold a coat? And regard what you have done to my pyjamas. If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?’ ‘Good heavens, Poirot,’ I cried, ‘this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter what happens to our clothes?’ ‘You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one’s clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder.’ Taking his suitcase from me firmly, he took the packing into his own hands. He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to Paddington with us. Someone from Scotland Yard would meet us there. When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was Inspector Crome. He answered Poirot’s look of inquiry. ‘No news as yet. All men available are on the lookout. All persons whose name begins with C are being warned by phone when possible. There’s just a chance. Where’s the letter?’ Poirot gave it to him. He examined it, swearing softly under his breath. ‘Of all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fellow.’ ‘You don’t think,’ I suggested, ‘that it was done on purpose?’ Crome shook his head. ‘No. He’s got his rules—crazy rules—and abides by them. Fair warning. He makes a point of that. That’s where his boastfulness comes in. I wonder now—I’d almost bet the chap drinks White Horse whisky.’ ‘Ah, c’est ingénieux, c?a!’ said Poirot, driven to admiration in spite of himself. ‘He prints the letter and the bottle is in front of him.’ ‘That’s the way of it,’ said Crome. ‘We’ve all of us done much the same thing one time or another, unconsciously copied something that’s just under the eye. He started off White and went on horse instead of haven…’ The inspector, we found, was also travelling by the train. ‘Even if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened, Churston is the place to be. Our murderer is there, or has been there today. One of my men is on the phone here up to the last minute in case anything comes through.’ Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running down the platform. He reached the inspector’s window and called up something. As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the corridor and tapped on the door of the inspector’s sleeper. ‘You have news—yes?’ demanded Poirot. Crome said quietly: ‘It’s about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in.’ Sir Carmichael Clarke, although his name was not very well known to the general public, was a man ofsome eminence. He had been in his time a very well-known throat specialist. Retiring from his profession very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had been one of the chief passions of his life—a collection of Chinese pottery and porcelain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle, he had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he was now the possessor of one of the best-known collections of Chinese art. He was married but had no children and lived in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming to London on rare occasions such as when some important sale was on. It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following that of the young and pretty Betty Barnard, would provide the best newspaper sensation for years. The fact that it was August and that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters worse. ‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘It is possible that publicity may do what private efforts have failed to do. The whole country now will be looking for A B C.’ ‘Unfortunately,’ I said, ‘that’s what he wants.’ ‘True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing. Gratified by success, he may become careless…That is what I hope—that he may be drunk with his own cleverness.’ ‘How odd all this is, Poirot,’ I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. ‘Do you know, this is the first crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders have been—well, private murders, so to speak.’ ‘You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen to our lot to work from the inside. It has been the history of the victimthat was important. The important points have been: “Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit the crime?” It has always been the “crime intime”. Here, for the first time in our association, it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside.’ I shivered. ‘It’s rather horrible…’ ‘Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong—misshapen…’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘One must not give way to the nerves…This is no worse than any ordinary crime…’ ‘It is…It is…’ ‘Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of someone near and dear to you—someone who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?’ ‘It’s worse because it’s mad…’ ‘No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult.’ ‘No, no, I do not agree with you. It’s infinitely more frightening.’ Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: ‘It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by someone shrewd and sane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea…This alphabetical business, it has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea—then everything would be clear and simple…’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth…Go, Hastings. Get some sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow.’ 第十四章　第三封信 第十四章　第三封信 　　我非常清楚地记得第三封信到来时的情形。 　　我可以说，我们已采取了所有的预防措施，当ABC再次采取行动时，就不会有不必要的耽误。苏格兰场的一位年轻警官被派到我们的住所，一旦波洛和我有事外出，他将负责拆开所有寄来的邮件，以便不失时机地与总部保持联络。 　　日子就这样一天天地过去，我们变得愈发地焦虑不安。克罗姆警督那冷淡而傲慢的神态变得愈发地冷淡和傲慢。因为他寄予希望的线索一个接一个地破灭。那些见到贝蒂•巴纳德的人所提供的含糊描述已经毫无作用。在贝克斯希尔和库登附近被人看见过的许多汽车，不是各圆其说，就是难以追踪。对ABC铁路指南的购买情况也进行了调查，这引来许多不便之处，也给众多无辜人士带来麻烦。 　　对我们而言，每一次门口响起邮递员那熟悉的砰砰敲门声，我们的心就会因忧虑而跳动得更快。至少对我来说，情况的确如此，而我只能相信波洛的感受肯定也一样。 　　我知道，他对这个案子肯定极感不快。他不愿意离开伦敦，更愿意留在事件可能突发的现场。在那些焦虑不安的日子里，甚至连他的胡子都萎靡不振——被他的主人忽略了好长一阵时间。 　　当我们听到那熟悉的脚步声和清脆的敲门声时，我起身走向邮箱。我记得有四五封信。我看到最后一封信是用打字机打印的地址。 　　“波洛。”我叫道……声音渐渐消失。 　　“信来了吗？拆开信吧，黑斯廷斯，快点。我们分秒必争，必须做好计划。” 　　我撕开信（波洛这一次倒没有因我鲁莽行事而责备我），抽出用打字机打印的纸条。 　　“把它读一下。”波洛说。 　　我大声诵读道：可怜的波洛先生： 　　您认为您自己并不擅长于这些小案子，是吧？可能您早已过了黄金时期？让我们看看，您这一次是否能做的更好一些。这次的案子很容易。三十日在彻斯顿（Churston）。您确实应该尝试做些什么！您知道，总是由我在尽情地表现，这实在太沉闷了一点。 　　祝您收获良多！永远的， ABC 　　“彻斯顿，”我说，奔向我们自己的那本ABC铁路指南。“让我们查查它在哪里。” 　　“黑斯廷斯，”波洛的话音尖利，打断了我。“那信是什么时候写的？上面有日期吗？” 　　我看了一眼手中的信。 　　“是二十七日写的。”我宣称。 　　“我听得没错吧，黑斯廷斯？他是否说到谋杀案的日期是三十日？” 　　“对啊，我们看，那是……” 　　“Bon Dieu①，黑斯廷斯，你难道还没意识到吗？今天就是三十日。” 　　①法文，意为：上帝啊。——译注。 　　他动情地用手指着墙上的日历。我则抓起报纸以作证实。 　　“可为什么——怎么会——”我结结巴巴地说。 　　波洛从地上捡起已撕开的信封，我脑中粗略有些印象，信封上的地址有点反常，可我由于太急于读信的内容而忽略了它。 　　波洛现住白港公寓内。信封上的地址是：白马公寓，赫尔克里•波洛先生收。信封角上潦草地住着：“ECI区白马公寓查无此人，白马苑查无此人——试投白港公寓。” 　　“Mon Dieu②！”波洛小声道。“这个疯子又获得良机？Vite——vite③，我们必须赶去苏格兰场。”②法文，意为：我的天啊。——译注。③法文，意为：快点。——译注。 　　一两分钟后，我们通过电话与克罗姆交谈。这位极有自制力的警督这次倒是没有回答“哦，是吗？”而是迅即用嘴唇沉闷地哼了一声。他听我讲完一切之后，挂上电话，以最快的速度准备好一辆车赶赴彻斯顿。 　　“C'est trop tard④。”波洛小声说。④法文，意为：这太晚了。——译注。 　　“你可不能那样确定。”我争辩道，尽管感觉也没什么希望。 　　他瞅了一眼钟。 　　“十点二十分？要一个小时四十分钟才能到那里。这么长的时间内，ABC会不下手吗？” 　　我打开已从架上取下的那本铁路指南。 　　“彻斯顿，达夫郡，”我读到，“离帕丁顿204-3/4英里，人口为656人。这看来是个很小的地方，显然我们这位杀手会被人注意到的。” 　　“即便如此，还会有另一条生命被谋杀。”波洛小声道。“有哪几趟火车？我料想坐火车会比汽车快。” 　　“有午夜的火车，——可以做卧车先到纽顿•阿布特，早晨六点八分到那儿，然后可于七点十五分到达彻斯顿。” 　　“那是从帕丁顿出发？” 　　“帕丁顿，是的。” 　　“我们就坐那趟车，黑斯廷斯。” 　　“在我们出发之前，你几乎不会获得任何消息。” 　　“就算我们今晚或明天早晨得到些坏消息，也将于事无补。” 　　“总还可以做些什么。” 　　我把一些物品收拾进箱子，波洛再次拨通苏格兰场的电话。 　　几分钟后，他走进卧室，问道： 　　“Mais qu'est ce que vous faites la⑤？”⑤法文，意为：可你在干些什么呀。——译注。 　　“我在为你收拾。我想这样可以节省些时间。” 　　“Vous eprouvez trop d'emotion⑥，黑斯廷斯。他使你的双手和脑子受影响。怎么能那样来叠衣服？看看你对我的睡衣都干了些什么。如果洗衣液被摔碎的话，睡衣将会变成什么样子？”⑥法文，意为：你真是太受刺激了。——译注。 　　“老天啊，波洛。”我叫道，“这可是生死攸关的事情。我们的衣服发生些什么，又有什么关系？” 　　“你真是缺乏分寸感，黑斯廷斯。在火车开动之前，我们是无法先行一步的，而毁坏一个人的衣服根本就无法阻止谋杀案的发生。” 　　他坚决地从我手中取过箱子，用手拿住衣物。 　　他解释道，我们要把信和信封带到帕丁顿去，苏格兰场会派人在那里与我们会面。 　　当我们抵达站台时，第一个见到的人就是克罗姆警督。 　　他向波洛那满是疑惑的神情投以回答。 　　“现在还没有消息。所有可派遣的人都已在巡查。只要可能的话，以C为姓名开头的人都将通过电话受到警告。我们只有一点机会。信在哪里？” 　　波洛把信交给他。 　　他检查了信件，喘口气，口中咒骂着。 　　“这家伙真他妈的好运气！运气在助长这家伙。” 　　“你难道不认为，”我建议道，“他是故意这样做的吗？” 　　克罗姆摇摇头。 　　“不，他有自己的规矩——那些疯狂的规矩，他会牢牢地遵守这些规矩。他会给予充分的警告。他必定会那样做的，那也即是他自吹自擂之所在。我现在倒是感到困惑——我敢打赌这家伙必定是在喝白马牌威士忌。” 　　“Ah，c'est ingenieux，ca⑦！”波洛说，不由自主地对此加以赞叹。“他在写信的时候一定把酒瓶摆在跟前。”⑦法文，意为：啊，这太巧了。——译注。 　　“肯定是那样子的。”克罗姆说，“我们都干过那样的事，无意识地抄写下眼皮底下的话语。他一定先写了‘白’字，然后写了‘马’而不是‘港’字……” 　　我们发现，警督也是坐火车进行旅行的。 　　“尽管有这种难以预料的运气在内，居然什么都没发生。可彻斯顿必定会发生什么事。我们的凶手正在那里，或是今天他去过那里。在这里，我们有位同事守着电话直到现在，万一有什么事发生，就会传过来。” 　　正当火车驶离站台时，我们看见有个人沿着站台跑来。他跑到警督的窗前，口里叫喊着什么事。 　　火车驶出车站后，波洛和我迅速穿过走廊，敲打着警督的卧厢的门。 　　“有什么消息吗？”波洛问道。 　　克罗姆平静地回答： 　　“事情真的很糟糕。卡迈克尔•克拉克（Clarke）爵士被人击打头部致死。” 　　卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士是个颇有声望的人，尽管他的姓名对普通大众来说并不太熟悉。他曾是个非常有名的喉科专家。他退休后生活富足，开始沉醉于他生命中主要的爱好之一——收藏中国陶器和瓷器。数年之后，他从一位上了年纪的伯父那里继承了相当数额的一笔财产，现在他已经是中国艺术最好的收藏家之一了。他结过婚，但并未生育孩子，住在德文海边一幢自己建造的房子里，只有在有重要的销售会时，他才偶尔来伦敦。 　　用不着太多的反应，我们就已能够认识到，在那位年轻美貌的贝蒂•巴纳德之后，他的死会成为几年来报界的最佳热点。此时正值八月，报纸大都缺少主题事件，这一实情会使事态变得更为糟糕。 　　“Eh bien⑧。”波洛说，“很可能，这种公开宣传能够达到一些私下的努力所无法做到的事情。现在整个国家都在追查ABC。”⑧法文，意为：好吧。——译注。 　　“不行的是，”我说，“那正是他所图谋的。” 　　“正确。但这可能也同样会是他毁灭的根源。由于不断得手，他会变得粗心大意……那倒是我所希望的样子——他可能会沉醉于自己的聪明之中。” 　　“这一切是多么奇怪，波洛。”我惊呼道，突然间我灵机一动。“你知道吗，这件案子是你我共同侦破的第一件这种类型的案子？我们所有的凶犯都曾是些潜伏暗处的罪犯。” 　　“你说得对，我的朋友。直到现在，所有的案子都是由我们从内部开始侦破，被害人的历史总是关键所在。那些关键的地方则是‘谁能够从死亡中得利？他会有些什么机会来作案？’那一直是‘Crime intime⑨’。而在这里，是我们联手的第一次，我们面临的是一个冷血的、不具个人感情的凶手，是个由外部而来的凶手。”⑨法文，意为：隐秘的犯罪。——译注。 　　我感到一阵颤栗。 　　“那真是非常可怕……” 　　“是的。自从我看到第一封信起，我就开始感觉到，肯定会有什么错误的事情……奇怪的事情……” 　　他不耐烦地打了一下手势。 　　“人不能屈服于这种神经紧张的态度……这也并不比一件普通的案子来的糟糕……” 　　“它是……它是……” 　　“也许，比起谋害与你亲近的人的生命——那些相信和信任你的人的生命来，谋害陌生人的生命要糟糕得多。” 　　“那样子更糟糕是因为那很疯狂……” 　　“不，黑斯廷斯。那并不更糟糕，而是更加困难。” 　　“不，不，我不同意你的观点，这会令人无限制地担惊受怕。” 　　赫尔克里•波洛若有所思地说道： 　　“正因为他很疯狂，它就更容易被侦破。一个机灵、明智的人所犯的罪行要复杂得许多。在这里，如果一个人只盯准一种观点的话……，这件以字母顺序而进行的谋杀案，会有其破绽之处。如果我能再度思考这种观点，那么任何事情都会清楚、简单……” 　　他叹口气，摇摇头。 　　“这些罪行不应该继续下去。不久以后，我必须要使真相大白……去吧，黑斯廷斯，睡会儿觉吧，明天我们还有许多事情要做。” Chapter 15 Sir Carmichael Clarke Chapter 15 Sir Carmichael Clarke Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and Paignton and Torquay on the other, occupies a position about halfway round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years ago it was merely a golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation. But of late years there had been big building developments between Churston and Paignton and the coastline is now dotted with small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc. Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding an uninterrupted view of the sea. The house he had built was of modern design—a white rectangle that was not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was not a large house. Our arrival there took place about 8 am. A localpolice officer had met us at the station and had put us au courantof the situation. Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up—at some time after eleven—it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search-party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A B C had been placed face downwards on the dead body We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o’clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him. ‘Good morning, Deveril,’ said the police officer. ‘Good morning, Mr Wells.’ ‘These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril.’ ‘This way, gentlemen.’ He ushered us into a long dining-room where breakfast was laid. ‘I’ll get Mr Franklin.’ A Minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room. This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man’s only brother. He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Inspector Wells made the introductions. ‘This is Inspector Crome of the CID, Mr Hercule Poirot and—er—Captain Hayter.’ ‘Hastings,’ I corrected coldly. Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was accompanied by a piercing look. ‘Let me offer you some breakfast,’ he said. ‘We can discuss the position as we eat.’ There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and bacon and coffee. ‘Now for it,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position last night—though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A B C railway guide has been deposited beside the body?’ ‘That is substantially the position, Mr Clarke.’ ‘But why?What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime—even in the most diseased imagination?’ Poirot nodded his head in approval. ‘You go straight to the point, Mr Franklin,’ he said. ‘It’s not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr Clarke,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘That’s a matter for an alienist—though I may say that I’ve had a certainexperience of criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to assert one’s personality, to make a splash in the public eye—in fact, to be a somebody instead of a nonentity.’ ‘Is that true, M. Poirot?’ Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by Inspector Crome, who frowned. ‘Absolutely true,’ replied my friend. ‘At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long,’ said Clarke thoughtfully. ‘Vous croyez?Ah, but they are cunning—ces gens là!And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance—he belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!’ ‘Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr Clarke,’ said Crome, breaking in on the conversation. ‘Certainly.’ ‘Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?’ ‘No. I should say he was quite his usual self.’ ‘Not upset and worried in any way.’ ‘Excuse me, inspector. I didn’t say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother’s normal condition.’ ‘Why was that?’ ‘You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly, between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother’s mind. I myself returned from the East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him.’ Poirot interpolated a question. ‘Supposing, Mr Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff—or shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?’ ‘Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide,’ said Clarke. ‘Encore!’ said Poirot. ‘What is that?’ ‘A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter.’ ‘Anyway, it wasn’tsuicide,’ said Crome with a touch of curtness. ‘Now I believe, Mr Clarke, that it was your brother’s habit to go for a stroll every evening?’ ‘Quite right. He always did.’ ‘Every night?’ ‘Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally.’ ‘And everyone in the house knew of this habit?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘And outside?’ ‘I don’t quite know what you mean by outside.The gardener may have been aware of it or not, I don’t know.’ ‘And in the village?’ ‘Strictly speaking, we haven’t got a village. There’s a post office and cottages at Churston Ferrers—but there’s no village or shops.’ ‘I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?’ ‘On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers. They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is Elbury Cove—it’s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they didn’t! You’ve no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and the beginning of July.’ ‘So you don’t think a stranger would be noticed?’ ‘Not unless he looked—well, off his head.’ ‘This man doesn’t look off his head,’ said Crome with certainty. ‘You see what I’m getting at, Mr Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land before hand and discovered your brother’s habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?’ ‘Not that I know of—but we’ll ask Deveril.’ He rang the bell and put the question to the butler. ‘No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn’t notice anyone hanging about the house either. No more did the maids, because I’ve asked them.’ The butler waited a moment, then inquired: ‘Is that all, sir?’ ‘Yes, Deveril, you can go.’ The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass. Franklin Clarke rose as she came in. ‘This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother’s secretary.’ My attention was caught at once by the girl’s extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had the almost colourless ash hair—light-grey eyes—and transparent glowing pallor that one finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as efficient as she was decorative. ‘Can I help you in any way?’ she asked as she sat down. Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food. ‘Did you deal with Sir Carmichael’s correspondence?’ asked Crome. ‘Yes, all of it.’ ‘I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed ABC?’ ‘A B C?’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’ ‘He didn’t mention having seen anyone hanging about during his evening walks lately?’ ‘No. He never mentioned anything of the kind.’ ‘And you yourself have noticed no strangers?’ ‘Not exactly hanging about. Of course, there are a lot of people what you might call wanderingabout at this time of year. One often meets people strolling with an aimless look across the golf links or down the lanes to the sea. In the same way, practically everyone one sees this time of year is a stranger.’ Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Inspector Crome asked to be taken over the ground of Sir Carmichael’s nightly walk. Franklin Clarke led the way through the french window, and Miss Grey accompanied us. She and I were a little behind the others ‘All this must have been a terrible shock to you all,’ I said. ‘It seems quite unbelievable. I had gone to bed last night when the police rang up. I heard voices downstairs and at last I came out and asked what was the matter. Deveril and Mr Clarke were just setting out with lanterns.’ ‘What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his walk?’ ‘About a quarter to ten. He used to let himself in by the side door and then sometimes he went straight to bed, sometimes to the gallery where his collections were. That is why, unless the police had rung up, he would probably not have been missed till they went to call him this morning.’ ‘It must have been a terrible shock to his wife?’ ‘Lady Clarke is kept under morphia a good deal. I think she is in too dazed a condition to appreciate what goes on round her.’ We had come out through a garden gate on to the golf links. Crossing a corner of them, we passed over a stile into a steep, winding lane. ‘This leads down to Elbury Cove,’ explained Franklin Clarke. ‘But two years ago they made a new road leading from the main road to Broadsands and on to Elbury, so that now this lane is practically deserted.’ We went on down the lane. At the foot of it a path led between brambles and bracken down to the sea. Suddenly we came out on a grassy ridge overlooking the sea and a beach of glistening white stones. All round dark green trees ran down to the sea. It was an enchanting spot—white, deep green—and sapphire blue. ‘How beautiful!’ I exclaimed. Clarke turned to me eagerly. ‘Isn’t it? Why people want to go abroad to the Rivierawhen they’ve got this! I’ve wandered all over the world in my time and, honest to God, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful.’ Then, as though ashamed of his eagerness, he said in a more matter-of-fact tone: ‘This was my brother’s evening walk. He came as far as here, then back up the path, and turning to the right instead of the left, went past the farm and across the fields back to the house.’ We proceeded on our way till we came to a spot near the hedge, halfway across the field where the body had been found. Crome nodded. ‘Easy enough. The man stood here in the shadow. Your brother would have noticed nothing till the blow fell.’ The girl at my side gave a quick shiver. Franklin Clarke said: ‘Hold up, Thora. It’s pretty beastly, but it’s no use shirking facts.’ Thora Grey—the name suited her. We went back to the house where the body had been taken after being photographed. As we mounted the wide staircase the doctor came out of a room, black bag in hand. ‘Anything to tell us, doctor?’ inquired Clarke. The doctor shook his head. ‘Perfectly simple case. I’ll keep the technicalities for the inquest. Anyway, he didn’t suffer. Death must have been instantaneous.’ He moved away. ‘I’ll just go in and see Lady Clarke.’ A hospital nurse came out of a room farther along the corridor and the doctor joined her. We went into the room out of which the doctor had come. I came out again rather quickly. Thora Grey was still standing at the head of the stairs. There was a queer scared expression on her face. ‘Miss Grey—’ I stopped. ‘Is anything the matter?’ She looked at me. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘about D.’ ‘About D?’ I stared at her stupidly. ‘Yes. The next murder. Something must be done. It’s got to be stopped.’ Clarke came out of the room behind me. He said: ‘What’s got to be stopped, Thora?’ ‘These awful murders.’ ‘Yes.’ His jaw thrust itself out aggressively. ‘I want to talk to M. Poirot some time…Is Crome any good?’ He shot the words out unexpectedly. I replied that he was supposed to be a very clever officer. My voice was perhaps not as enthusiastic as it might have been. ‘He’s got a damned offensive manner,’ said Clarke. ‘Looks as though he knows everything—and what doeshe know? Nothing at all as far as I can make out.’ He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: ‘M. Poirot’s the man for my money. I’ve got a plan. But we’ll talk of that later.’ He went along the passage and tapped at the same door as the doctor had entered. I hesitated a moment. The girl was staring in front of her. ‘What are you thinking of, Miss Grey?’ She turned her eyes towards me. ‘I’m wondering where he is now…the murderer, I mean. It’s not twelve hours yet since it happened…Oh! aren’t there any realclairvoyants who could see where he is now and what he is doing…’ ‘The police are searching—’ I began. My commonplace words broke the spell. Thora Grey pulled herself together. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ In her turn she descended the staircase. I stood there a moment longer conning her words over in my mind. A B C… Where was he now…? 第十五章　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士 第十五章　卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士 　　彻斯顿，位于布里克瑟姆和另一边的派恩顿与托基的中间，地处托基海湾曲线的半中间地带。直到大约十年以前，它还是一个高尔夫球场，球场的下面是一片芳草萋萋乡郊地带，一直绵延到海边，其间偶尔有一两处有人居住的农家房舍。近些年来，在彻斯顿与派恩顿之间有了些大的建设发展，现在的海岸边不时会有些小农舍和平房、新修筑的公路等。 　　卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士在此地购置了大约两英亩的土地，这里的海景一览无余。他购买的房子设计挺现代化的——那白色的长方形则有点儿煞风景。除了两间放置他的收藏品的大房间被用作展室之外，这所房子并不太大。 　　我们大概是早晨八点到达那里的，当地的一位警官来车站接我们，并给我们讲述了大致的情形。 　　卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士看来是已养成了晚餐之后出门散步的习惯，当警察打电话来的时候——那大约是在十一点之后，他还没有返回家中。由于他外出散步总是挺守时的，一支搜查队伍不久便发现了他的尸体。他的死是因被人用重物猛击后脑部所致。有一本打开的ABC铁路指南书，朝下放在尸体边上。 　　我们约莫八点钟光景就抵达康比赛德（这是那所房子的名字）。开门的是位年长的老管家，他的双手颤抖不停，一脸哀色，让人明显感到这个悲剧对他的打击很大。 　　“早上好，德夫里尔。”警官说。 　　“早上好，韦尔斯先生。” 　　“这几位是从伦敦来的先生们，德夫里尔。” 　　“这边请，先生们。”他招呼我们进入一间长长的摆放着早餐的餐室。“我去叫富兰克林先生。” 　　一两分钟后，一位高大的金发男子走进屋内，他的脸晒得黝黑。 　　他表现出坚毅、能干的风格，是个善于应付突发事件的人。 　　“早上好，先生们。” 　　韦尔斯警督作介绍。 　　“这位是皇家警察的克罗姆警督，赫尔克里•波洛先生和——呃——黑特尔先生。” 　　“黑斯廷斯。”我冷冷地予以纠正。 　　富兰克林•克拉克同我们每个人轮流握手。每次握手的时候，他总会用满怀洞察力的眼神看着我们。 　　“我请你们用早餐吧。”他说，“我们可以边吃边谈。” 　　没人表示异议，我们立刻大口地品尝起来那些烹制精美的鸡蛋、薰肉和咖啡来。 　　“现在，”富兰克林•克拉克说，“韦尔斯警督已告诉我昨晚发生的大概情况——尽管如此，我要说，这是我所听说过的最野蛮的故事之一。克罗姆警督，难道我真要相信，我那可怜的哥哥是一个杀人狂的牺牲品。这是已经出现的第三桩凶杀案，而在每次案发时都会有一本ABC铁路指南书放在尸体边上？” 　　“情况确实如此，克拉克先生。” 　　“可是为什么？在这种最病态的臆想当中，这样的罪行究竟会带来些什么好处呢？” 　　波洛点头表示赞许。 　　“你真是直指要害，富兰克林先生。”他说道。 　　“现在还无法调查清楚犯罪的动机，克拉克先生，”克罗姆警督说，“那是精神病学家的事情——尽管我可以说，我对犯罪的精神错乱有过一点经验，其动机大体上都不充分。罪犯总是会有欲望来展现自己的个性，在公众的眼中引起轰动——实际上，是想成为大人物而并非无足轻重之徒。” 　　“波洛先生，对吗？” 　　克拉克面露怀疑之色。他向这个年长者的垂询，看来并没获得克罗姆警督的好感，他皱了一下眉头。 　　“千真万确。”我的朋友答复道。 　　“无论如何，这样的人是不会长期逍遥法外的。”克拉克沉思着说道。 　　“Vous croyez①？啊，可他们挺狡猾的——ces gens la②！而你必须牢记，这种人通常会有微不足道的外部特征——他属于那种通常会被人省略、受人忽视甚至嘲笑的那类人！” 　　①法文，意为：你相信吗。——译注。 　　②法文，意为：这些人吗。——译注。 　　“你是否可以告诉我一些事情，克拉克先生。”克罗姆突然间插话。 　　“当然可以。” 　　“我想知道，昨天你哥哥的身体和精神状况是否正常？他没收到过意外的信件吧？没什么事使他心烦意乱吗？” 　　“没有。我必须说他与平常挺一样的。” 　　“没有心情烦躁或是焦虑吧。” 　　“对不起，警督。我可没那样说，我可怜的哥哥平常就挺烦躁焦虑的。” 　　“为什么会那样？” 　　“你可能并不了解我的嫂子，克拉克夫人。她身体非常糟糕，坦率地说，也就在我们之间说，她已得了不治的癌症，生活不了太长时间了。她的病情使我哥哥忧心忡忡。我自己从东方回来不久，当我看到他身上的变化之后，我震惊不已。” 　　波洛插话，问了一个问题。 　　“试想，克拉克先生，如果你哥哥被人在悬崖底下枪杀——或者尸体旁边留下一把左轮手枪，你的第一反应会是什么？” 　　“坦白地说，我会得出这是自杀的结论。”克拉克说。 　　“Encore③！”波洛说。③法文，意为：不仅如此。——译注。 　　“什么意思？” 　　“重复一种事实，这没什么大不了的。” 　　“不管怎样，这次可不是自杀。”克罗姆带着一丝草率，说道，“现在我相信，克拉克先生，你哥哥已养成每晚出去散步的习惯。” 　　“是的，他总是这样做的。” 　　“每晚都去吗？” 　　“嗯，当然在下大雨时，他就不去。” 　　“这所房子里每个人都知道这个习惯吗？” 　　“当然。” 　　“外边的人知道吗？” 　　“我不太明白你所指的外边的人是谁，我不知道花匠是否了解这个习惯。” 　　“村子里的人们呢？” 　　“严格地说，我们并没有一个村子。彻斯顿•费蕾斯那儿有个邮局和一些村舍——但并没有村庄或商店。” 　　“我猜想，一个陌生人如果在此地走动，他会极易被别人注意到？” 　　“恰恰相反。八月份，这个地方充满了闹哄哄的陌生人群。他们每天坐着大车、小车或是步行从布里克瑟姆、托基和派恩顿赶来。在那底下有个布罗德桑兹（他用手一指那个方向），是个受人欢迎的沙滩，埃尔布里湾也是如此——是个著名的风景点，人们去那儿晚餐。我真希望他们别这么干！你一定无法想象，在六月份和七月初的时节，这块地方有多么的美丽和安宁！” 　　“所以你认为，一个陌生人是不会被注意到的？” 　　“除非他看上去是怪里怪气的样子。” 　　“这个人外表看来并不会异常。”克罗姆自信地说，“你该懂得我的意思。这个人肯定事先来检查过此地，发现了你哥哥每晚要散步的习惯。顺便说一句，我猜想，昨天并没有什么陌生人到这所房子来，要见卡迈克尔爵士。” 　　“我倒是不清楚，我们可以问问德夫里尔。” 　　他按响铃，像老管家提问。 　　“不，先生，没有人来找过卡迈克尔爵士。我并没有看到有人在房子附近转悠，女仆们也不知道，因为我已问过他们。” 　　管家等了一会儿，然后询问道：“就这些吗，先生？” 　　“是的，德夫里尔，你可以走了。” 　　管家退出，在门口身体往后一退，以便让一位年轻女士进屋。 　　她进入房间时，富兰克林•克拉克站起身来。 　　“这位是格雷小姐，先生们，她是我哥哥的秘书。” 　　这位姑娘有着与众不同的斯堪的纳维亚气质，我的注意力马上被她所捕捉。她有着几乎是无色的灰质头发和浅灰色眼睛，长着一身能在挪威人和瑞典人中间找到的那种明朗亮丽的白皙皮肤。她看上去像二十七岁，跟她的打扮一样明快。 　　“我能为您做些什么？”她说着坐下。 　　克拉克端了一杯咖啡给她，可她拒绝任何食品。 　　“你是否处理卡迈克尔爵士的邮件？”克罗姆问道。 　　“是的，所有邮件。” 　　“我猜想他从未收到过落款为ABC的信件。” 　　“ABC？”她摇摇头，“不，我确定他没有收到过这样的信件。” 　　“他最近没提到晚上散步时看到过什么人在闲逛？” 　　“没有。他从未提到过那种情形。” 　　“确实没见过有人在闲逛。当然，这个季节外面有许多人在闲逛，你可能会这样说的。一个人常常能碰到那些带着漫无目的的表情在散步的人，他们穿过高尔夫球场，走下通道，直奔海边。同样，实际上每年此时所见到的每个人都是陌生人。” 　　波洛思考着点点头。 　　克罗姆警督要求能被带去察看一下卡迈克尔爵士晚间散步的地方。富兰克林•克拉克带领我们穿过落地长窗，格雷小姐则陪着我们。 　　他与我悄悄落在别人后面。 　　“所有这一切对你一定是个可怕的打击。”我说。 　　“它看来令人难以置信。昨天警局来电话的时候，我已经上床休息。我听见楼下的声音，最后跑出来问是怎么回事。德夫里尔和克拉克先生正在灯下探讨着……” 　　“卡迈克尔爵士通常什么时间散步归来？” 　　“大约十点差一刻。他常从便门进来，然后有时他直接去卧室睡觉，有时去那间摆放收藏品的陈列室。那就是为何可能直到早晨他们去叫他的时候，他也不被人发现的原因，除非警局打电话来。” 　　“对他太太而言，这必定是个可怕的打击？” 　　“克拉克夫人靠使用大量的吗啡来得以维持。我想，她太虚弱了，无法承受周遭发生的事。” 　　我们已走出花园的门，继续走向高尔夫球场。转过球场的一个弯后，我们穿过一扇旋转栅门，走入一条险峻蜿蜒的小径。 　　“这条道通向厄尔布利湾，”富兰克林•克拉克解释道，“可是在两年前，他们修筑了一条新路，从主要的公路通向布罗德珊，然后再通向厄尔布利湾，因而现在这条小道实际上已废弃不用。” 　　我们沿着小路往下走。小路底下有一条小道，小道两边长满荆棘和蕨草，直达海边。转眼间，我们已置身于一片青草葱郁的山脊，俯视着大海和一片熠熠闪光的白色卵石沙滩。四周全是墨绿色的树木，树林一直延伸到海岸边上。这个地方的景色沁人心脾——洁白、深绿和宝石蓝交相辉映。 　　“这真是太迷人了。”我惊呼道。 　　克拉克热切地转向我。 　　“可不是吗？人们为什么要去维埃拉④，他们可以到这儿来吗！我这辈子游历了世界各地。我可以向上帝起誓，从来没见过有如此美丽的地方。”④法国东南部和意大利北部沿地中海的假日游憩胜地。——译注。 　　然后，尽管他因过分的热切而显得有点惭愧，他用一种平实的口吻说： 　　“这里就是我哥哥每晚散步的地方。他走到这么远，然后回到那条小路，穿过农场和田野，再回到家里。” 　　我们继续前行，来到树篱旁的农田中央的一个地方，尸体就是在这里被发现的。 　　克罗姆点点头。 　　“这太容易了。那个人站在这儿的阴影当中，你哥哥是无法注意到任何的举动，直到袭击降临。” 　　我身边的姑娘突然一阵战栗。 　　富兰克林•克拉克说： 　　“坚强点，托拉。这事确实挺残酷的，可没必要对事实闭口不谈。” 　　托拉•格雷——这个名字倒是蛮适合她的。 　　我们步行回到那房子，尸体已在拍完照后运回到屋里。 　　当我们迈步登上宽大的楼梯时，医生从屋里走出来，手中握着黑包。 　　“有什么情况可告诉我们的吗，医生？”克拉克询问道。 　　医生摇了摇头。 　　“这案子极其简单。我会保存好验尸的技术细节。不管如何，他倒是没有感到任何痛苦，可能是在瞬间就死亡的。” 　　他离开了。 　　“我要去看看克拉克夫人。” 　　一位护士从房间中走出来，沿走廊走远，医生与她并排而行。 　　我们走进那个医生刚刚出来的房间。 　　我极快速地走出来，托拉•格雷仍然站在楼梯尽头。 　　她脸上带着一丝奇怪的害怕的表情。 　　“格雷小姐——”我停住口，“有什么事吗？” 　　她望着我。 　　“我在想，”她说，“关于D的事情。” 　　“关于D的情况？”我笨拙地望着她。 　　“是的。下一场谋杀。我们一定要做些什么事，必须使它停止。” 　　克拉克在我身后也走出房间来。 　　“什么必须停止，托拉？” 　　“这些可怕的谋杀案。” 　　“对。”他的下颌部过分地伸展出来，“我想找时间与波洛先生聊一聊……克罗姆先生，他能行吗？”他语气诚恳，出人意料。 　　我回答说克罗姆是个非常聪明的警官。 　　我的话音可能显得不是那样热情。 　　“他的态度真他妈的令人讨厌，”克拉克说，“好像他什么都懂，他又知道些什么呢？据我了解，他一无所知。” 　　他沉默不语了一会儿，然后说： 　　“波洛先生才是值得我花钱的人。我自有计划，我们随后再谈此事。” 　　他沿通道走去，敲敲医生进去的那扇门。 　　我迟疑了一会儿。姑娘盯着前面看。 　　“你在想什么，格雷小姐？” 　　她把眼睛转向我。 　　“我在想他现在哪里……我是指，那个凶手。案发到现在还不到十二个小时……哦，有没有真正的远见卓识之人可以看到他现在在哪里，他又在做些什么……” 　　“警察们正在搜查——”我开始说。 　　我平时的话语打破了沉寂。托拉•格雷打起精神来。 　　“是的，”她说，“当然。” 　　她接着从楼梯上走下来，我又在那里站了一会儿，脑中默记着她的话语。 　　ABC…… 　　他现在哪里？ Chapter 16 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 16 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Mr Alexander Bonaparte Cust came out with the rest of the audience from the Torquay Palladium, where he had been seeing and hearing that highly emotional film, Not a Sparrow… He blinked a little as he came out into the afternoon sunshine and peered round him in that lost-dog fashion that was characteristic of him. He murmured to himself: ‘It’s an idea…’ Newsboys passed along crying out: ‘Latest…Homicidal Maniac at Churston…’ They carried placards on which was written: CHURSTONMURDER. LATEST Mr Cust fumbled in his pocket, found a coin, and bought a paper. He did not open it at once. Entering the Princess Gardens, he slowly made hisway to a shelter facing Torquay harbour. He sat down and opened the paper. There were big headlines: SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE MURDERED. TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT CHURSTON. WORK OF A HOMICIDAL MANIAC. And below them: Only a month ago England was shocked and startled by the murder of a young girl, Elizabeth Barnard, at Bexhill. It may be remembered that an A B C railway guide figured in the case. An A B C was also found by the dead body of Sir Carmichael Clarke, and the police incline to the belief that both crimes were committed by the same person. Can it be possible that a homicidal murderer is going the round of our seaside resorts?… A young man in flannel trousers and a bright blue Aertex shirt who was sitting beside Mr Cust remarked: ‘Nasty business—eh?’ Mr Cust jumped. ‘Oh, very—very—’ His hands, the young man noticed, were trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper. ‘You never know with lunatics,’ said the young man chattily. ‘They don’t always look barmy, you know.Often they seem just the same as you or me…’ ‘I suppose they do,’ said Mr Cust. ‘It’s a fact. Sometimes it’s the war what unhinged them—never been right since.’ ‘I—I expect you’re right.’ ‘I don’t hold with wars,’ said the young man. His companion turned on him. ‘I don’t hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer…but they happen all the same!’ ‘War’s preventable,’ said the young man with assurance. Mr Cust laughed. He laughed for some time The young man was slightly alarmed. ‘He’s a bit batty himself,’ he thought Aloud he said: ‘Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war.’ ‘I was,’ said Mr Cust. ‘It—it—unsettled me. My head’s never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly.’ ‘Oh! I’m sorry about that,’ said the young man awkwardly. ‘Sometimes I hardly know what I’m doing…’ ‘Really? Well, I must be getting along,’ said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health. Mr Cust remained with his paper. He read and reread… People passed to and fro in front of him. Most of them were talking of the murder… ‘Awful…do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn’t the waitress in a Chinese café…’ ‘Actually on the golf links…’ ‘I heard it was on the beach…’ ‘—but, darling, we took our tea to Elbury only yesterday…’ ‘—police are sure to get him…’ ‘—say he may be arrested any minute now…’ ‘—quite likely he’s in Torquay…that other woman was who murdered the what do you call ’ems…’ Mr Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town. Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed. Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr Cust… He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire cream… 第十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　阿历山大•波那帕特•卡斯特先生与余下的观众一同步出托基的雅典娜剧院，在那里他刚刚看完那场极其情感化的电影《不识燕雀》…… 　　他走入午后的阳光之中，稍稍眨眼，四处张望，一副若有所失的样子，这倒恰好是其性格所在。 　　他对自己小声说：“这倒是个主意……” 　　报童经过，口中叫喊着： 　　“最新消息……彻斯顿的杀人狂……” 　　彻斯顿谋杀案。最新消息。 　　卡斯特先生在他的口袋中摸索，找到一个硬币，买了一份报纸。他并没有马上翻开它。 　　他进入了王妃花园，慢慢走向面对托基港的一个荫凉处。他坐下来翻开报纸。 　　大大的标题印着： 　　卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士被谋杀。 　　彻斯顿发生的恐怖惨案。 　　杀人狂之作。 　　接着是下面的报道： 　　　　仅仅是在一个月前，贝克斯希尔的一位年轻姑 　　娘伊丽莎白•巴纳德的谋杀案使得整个英格兰都大 　　为振动和惊恐。人们可能还记得，那案子中涉及一 　　本ABC铁路指南书。在卡迈克尔•克拉克尸体边上同 　　样发现一本ABC，警方倾向于认定两桩罪案系出自 　　一人之手。那么，这位杀人凶手在我们海滨胜地再 　　进行一轮谋杀，是否有可能呢…… 　　一位年轻人，他身穿着法兰绒长裤和鲜艳的蓝色“阿泰克斯”牌衬衫，坐在卡斯特先生身边，评说道： 　　“这真是件恶劣的勾当。” 　　卡斯特先生跳了起来。“非常……非常地……” 　　年轻人注意到，他的手颤抖不已，几乎拿不住报纸。 　　“你永远也无法了解那些疯子，”年轻人闲聊着说，“他们可不总是显得傻头傻脑，你知道，他们——经常看上去就像你我一样。” 　　“我想他们是这样的。”卡斯特先生说。 　　“事实如此。有时候战争使他们错乱——从此再也无法正常。” 　　“我——我希望你是对的。” 　　“我并不赞成战争。”年轻人说。 　　他的同伴则向他反击。 　　“我并不赞成瘟疫、昏睡症、饥荒和癌症，可它们照样会出现。” 　　“战争是可以防止的。”年轻人确信地说。 　　卡斯特先生笑了，他笑了一会儿。 　　年轻人则稍有惊恐。 　　“他有点反常。”他寻思道。 　　他大声说： 　　“对不起，先生，我料想您还沉浸在战争之中。” 　　“是的，”卡斯特先生说，“它——它困扰着我。我的头从未正常过，头老是痛，你知道，痛得厉害。” 　　“哦！我很抱歉。”年轻人尴尬地说道。 　　“有时候我几乎不明白自己在做些什么……” 　　“是吗？噢，我必须走了。”年轻人说着匆忙离去。他清楚人们一开始谈身体状况时会是什么样子。 　　卡斯特先生则拿着报纸留坐在那里。 　　他读了一遍又一遍…… 　　“太可怕了……你是否认为这跟中国人有关吗？难道不是一家中餐馆的女招待……？” 　　“实际上在高尔夫球场上……” 　　“我听说在海滩上……” 　　“——可是，亲爱的，我们昨天才带茶来厄尔布利……” 　　“——警察肯定会逮到他的……” 　　“——说是他现在每时每刻都有可能被抓获……” 　　“——看来他象是在托基，……而另一位妇女则是被你所称之为‘他们’的人谋杀的……” 　　卡斯特先生仔细地叠好报纸，放在座位上。然后他站起身，镇静地走向小城。 　　姑娘们从他身边经过，她们穿着白色、粉红色和蓝色的衣服，身着夏日的上衣、宽松裤和短装。她们欢笑，放声大笑。她们的眼睛评判着经过身边的男人们。 　　她们的眼睛一刻也没停留在卡斯特先生身上。 　　他在一个小餐桌边坐下，点了茶和达夫郡产的奶油。 Chapter 17 Marking Time Chapter 17 Marking Time With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A B C mystery leaped into the fullest prominence. The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of ‘clues’ were reported to have been discovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent. There were photographs of every person or place remotely connected with the murder. There were interviews with anyone who would give interviews. There were questions asked in ParlI ament. The Andover murder was now bracketed with the other two. It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths. The Daily Flickerhad the grand inspiration of using the caption: HE MAY BE IN YOURTOWN! Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him were published and facsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having prevented the crimes and defended on the ground that he was on the point of naming the murderer. Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews. What M. Poirot Says Today. Which was usually followed by a half-column of imbecilities. M. Poirot Takes Grave View of Situation. M. Poirot on the Eve of Success. Captain Hastings, the great friend of M. Poirot, told our Special Representative… ‘Poirot,’ I would cry. ‘Pray believe me. I never said anything of the kind.’ My friend would reply kindly: ‘I know, Hastings—I know. The spoken word and the written—there is an astonishing gulf between them. There is a way of turning sentences that completely reverses the original meaning.’ ‘I wouldn’t like you to think I’d said—’ ‘But do not worry yourself. All this is of no importance. These imbecilities, even, may help.’ ‘How?’ ‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot grimly. ‘If our madman reads what I am supposed to have said to the Daily Blaguetoday, he will lose all respect for me as an opponent!’ I am, perhaps, giving the impression that nothing practical was being done in the way of investigations. On the contrary, Scotland Yard and the local police of the various counties were indefatigable in following up the smallest clues. Hotels, people who kept lodgings, boarding-houses—all those within a wide radius of the crimes were questioned minutely. Hundreds of stories from imaginative people who had ‘seen a man looking very queer and rolling his eyes’, or ‘noticed a man with a sinister face slinking along’, were sifted to the last detail. No information, even of the vaguest character, was neglected. Trains, buses, trams, railway porters, conductors, bookstalls, stationers—there was an indefatigable round of questions and verifications. At least a score of people were detained and questioned until they could satisfy the police as to their movements on the night in question. The net result was not entirely a blank. Certain statements were borne in mind and noted down as of possible value, but without further evidence they led nowhere. If Crome and his colleagues were indefatigable,Poirot seemed to me strangely supine. We argued now and again. ‘But what is it that you would have me do, my friend? The routine inquiries, the police make them better than I do. Always—always you want me to run about like the dog.’ ‘Instead of which you sit at home like—like—’ ‘A sensible man! My force, Hastings, is in my brain, not in my feet!All the time, whilst I seem to you idle, I am reflecting.’ ‘Reflecting?’ I cried. ‘Is this a time for reflection?’ ‘Yes, a thousand times yes.’ ‘But what can you possibly gain by reflection? You know the facts of the three cases by heart.’ ‘It is not the facts I reflect upon—but the mind of the murderer.’ ‘The mind of a madman!’ ‘Precisely. And therefore not to be arrived at in a minute. When I know what the murderer is like, I shall be able to find out who he is. And all the time I learn more. After the Andover crime, what did we know about the murderer? Next to nothing at all. After the Bexhill crime? A little more. After the Churston murder? More still. I begin to see—not what youwould like to see—the outlines of a face and formbut the outlines of a mind. A mind that moves and works in certain definite directions. After the next crime—’ ‘Poirot!’ My friend looked at me dispassionately. ‘But, yes, Hastings, I think it is almost certain there will be another. A lot depends on la chance. So far our inconnuhas been lucky. This time the luck may turn against him. But in any case, after another crime, we shall know infinitely more. Crime is terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will, your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealed by your actions. There are confusing indications—sometimes it is as though there were two intelligences at work—but soon the outline will clear itself, I shall know.’ ‘Who it is?’ ‘No, Hastings, I shall not know his name and address! I shall know what kind of a man he is…’ ‘And then?…’ ‘Et alors, je vais àlapêche.’ As I looked rather bewildered, he went on: ‘You comprehend, Hastings, an expert fisherman knows exactly what flies to offer to what fish. I shall offer the right kind of fly.’ ‘And then?’ ‘And then? And then? You are as bad as the superior Crome with his eternal “Oh, yes?” Eh bien, and then he will take the bait and the hook and we will reel in the line…’ ‘In the meantime people are dying right and left.’ ‘Three people. And there are, what is it—about 120—road deaths every week?’ ‘That is entirely different.’ ‘It is probably exactly the same to those who die. For the others, the relations, the friends—yes, there is a difference, but one thing at least rejoices me in this case.’ ‘By all means let us hear anything in the nature of rejoicing.’ ‘Inutileto be so sarcastic. It rejoices me that there is here no shadow of guilt to distress the innocent.’ ‘Isn’t this worse?’ ‘No, no, a thousand times no! There is nothing so terrible as to live in an atmosphere of suspicion—to see eyes watching you and the love in them changing to fear—nothing so terrible as to suspect those near and dear to you—It is poisonous—a miasma. No, the poisoning of life for the innocent, that, at least, we cannot lay at A B C’s door.’ ‘You’ll soon be making excuses for the man!’ I said bitterly. ‘Why not? He may believe himself fully justified. We may, perhaps, end by having sympathy with his point of view.’ ‘Really, Poirot!’ ‘Alas! I have shocked you. First my inertia—and then my views.’ I shook my head without replying. ‘All the same,’ said Poirot after a minute or two. ‘I have one project that will please you—since it is active and not passive. Also, it will entail a lot of conversation and practically no thought.’ I did not quite like his tone. ‘What is it?’ I asked cautiously. ‘The extraction from the friends, relations and servants of the victims of all they know.’ ‘Do you suspect them of keeping things back, then?’ ‘Not intentionally. But telling everything you know always implies selection. If I were to say to you, recount me your day yesterday, you would perhaps reply: “I rose at nine, I breakfasted at half-past, I had eggs and bacon and coffee, I went to my club, etc.” You would not include: “I tore my nail and had to cut it. I rang for shaving water. I spilt a little coffee on the tablecloth. I brushed my hat and put it on.” One cannot tell everything. Therefore one selects. At the time of a murder people select what theythink is important. But quite frequently they think wrong!’ ‘And how is one to get at the right things?’ ‘Simply, as I said just now, by conversation. By talking! By discussing a certain happening, or a certain person, or a certain day, over and over again, extra details are bound to arise.’ ‘What kind of details?’ ‘Naturally that I do not know or I should not want to find out. But enough time has passed now for ordinary things to reassume their value. It is against all mathematical laws that in three cases of murder there is no single fact nor sentence with a bearing on the case. Some trivial happening, some trivial remark there mustbe which would be a pointer! It is looking for the needle in the haystack, I grant—but in the haystack there is a needle—of that I am convinced!’ It seemed to me extremely vague and hazy. ‘You do not see it? Your wits are not so sharp as those of a mere servant girl.’ He tossed me over a letter. It was neatly written in a sloping board-school hand. ‘Dear Sir,—I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing to you. I have been thinking a lot since these awful two murders like poor auntie’s. It seems as though we’re all in the sameboat, as it were. I saw the young lady’s picture in the paper, the young lady, I mean, that is the sister of the young lady that was killed at Bexhill. I made so bold as to write to her and tell her I was coming to London to get a place and asked if I could come to her or her mother as I said two heads might be better than one and I would not want much wages, but only to find out who this awful fiend is and perhaps we might get at it better if we could say what we knew something might come of it. ‘The young lady wrote very nicely and said as how she worked in an office and lived in a hostel, but she suggested I might write to you and she said she’d been thinking something of the same kind as I had. And she said we were in the same trouble and we ought to stand together. So I am writing, sir, to say I am coming to London and this is my address. ‘Hoping I am not troubling you, Yours respectfully, ‘Mary Drower.’ ‘Mary Drower,’ said Poirot, ‘is a very intelligent girl.’ He picked up another letter. ‘Read this.’ It was a line from Franklin Clarke, saying that he was coming to London and would call upon Poirot the following day if not inconvenient. ‘Do not despair, mon ami,’ said Poirot. ‘Action is about to begin.’ 第十七章　标记时间 第十七章　标记时间 　　由卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士的谋杀案引起，ABC迷案迅速获得全方位的关注。 　　报纸上全是关于本案的新闻，而没有其他的事件。各种各样的“线索”均被报道，说是凶手已被发现，逮捕行动即将展开。报上还登有与谋杀案遥遥相关的个人和地点的照片。每个愿意接受采访的人都受到了采访，有人还在国会对案子提了问题。 　　安多弗谋杀案现在与其他两件案子扯上了关系。 　　苏格兰场则相信，最大程度的公众化是抓获凶手的最佳机会。英国的大众都正在改造成为一支业余侦探大军。 　　《每日闪耀》报用以下标题强烈地刺激人们的灵感： 　　他可能就在你的城镇中！ 　　波洛先生，当然，身处事件的最激烈之处，那些寄给他的信件被发表和摹写出来。他因未能阻止犯罪而遭到大规模的攻击，同时又有人为他辩护，说他正处于揭露凶手的前夕。 　　记者们继续不断地纠缠着他要求采访。 　　波洛先生今日所言。 　　其后总会有半个栏目的蠢笨的文章。 　　波洛先生就时势阐述重要见解。 　　波洛先生在成功前夕。 　　黑斯廷斯上尉，波洛先生的挚友，向我刊特别代表透露…… 　　“波洛，”我叫喊道，“请相信我，我可从未说过那样的话。” 　　我的朋友会心平气和地回答： 　　“我知道，黑斯廷斯——我知道。口说之言和笔录之词——它们之间往往会有一道惊人的鸿沟，总有办法把原意颠倒成完全相反的词句。” 　　“我只是不想让你以为我说过……” 　　“别担心吧。这一切无关紧要。这些愚蠢的话甚至可能会有所帮助。” 　　“怎么会？” 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：那么。——译注），”波洛严厉地说，“如果我们这位疯子读到我据说是在今天的《每日趣事》中说的话，他会丧失把我作为一个对手的全部敬意。” 　　我可能有这样一种印象，觉得在案情调查方面还没有什么实质的进展。相反，苏格兰场与许多郡县的地方警局都在努力不懈地追踪最细小的线索。 　　酒店、管理出租房屋和寄宿房子的人，所有位于犯罪地点的广泛区域内的地方，均受到细致的盘查。 　　许多想象力丰富的人们声称“见到过一个外表极其怪诞、眼睛不断打转的人”，或是“注意到一个人，他长着阴险的脸，在鬼鬼祟祟地踱步”，他们提供的数百个故事，都经过了极其严格的筛选。所有的消息，甚至是最含糊不清的那一类，都没有被忽视，火车、公交车、有轨电车、铁路服务员、售票员、书摊、文具店——所有这些地方都进行了不折不扣的检查和验证。 　　相当多的人士受到了扣留和盘问，直到他们能够提供他们在出事当晚的行踪，使警察满意为止。 　　检查的结果倒也并非完全空白。某些证词留下印象，并因有可能的价值而被记录下来，但由于没有进一步的迹象而起不到任何作用。 　　如果说克罗姆与他的同事们尽心尽力，在我看来，波洛则异常地懒散。我们不时地吵嘴。 　　“可你要我做些什么呢，我的朋友？例行公事的查问，警局要比我做得好得多。你总是——总是要我像狗一样玩命地奔跑。” 　　“而你静坐在家中，就像是……就像是——” 　　“一个神经兮兮的人！黑斯廷斯，我的力量在于我的大脑，而不是双脚！我在你看来轻闲无事，其实我从头到尾都在反思之中。” 　　“反思？”我叫道，“这是反思的时候吗？” 　　“是的，绝对是的。” 　　“可你通过反思，会有些什么收获呢？你内心里十分清楚这三件案子的实情。” 　　“我可不是在反思案情——而是凶手的心理。” 　　“疯子的心理。” 　　“正确。因而，在短时间内不能下定论。当我获知凶手是什么样子时，我就能发现他是谁，我始终在收获更多的东西。在安多弗的凶案之后，我们对凶手了解些什么情况呢？我们几乎是一无所知。在贝克斯希尔凶案之后呢？则多了一点了解。彻斯顿凶案之后呢？又多了一点。我开始见到——那可不是你所乐意于见到的——一张脸和外形的轮廓，而且看到一种心理的轮廓。那是一种向某些固定方向远行和工作的心思。在下一场凶案之后——” 　　“波洛。” 　　我的朋友心平气和地看着我。 　　“但，是的，黑斯廷斯，我想几乎毋庸置疑，还会有另一场谋杀。有许多东西是依靠la chance（法文，意为：机会。——译注）。到目前为止我们的inconnu （法文，意为：陌生人。——译注）一直很幸运。这次时运很可能会与他背道而驰。可是无论如何，在下一场凶案之后，我们会有无数的了解。罪行正在可怕地暴露出来。试想，改变一下你的方法，你的品位，你的习惯，你的思维态式，那样你的心灵就是你行动的表现。总会有混淆的迹象——有时就好像是有两股智力在运作着——而不久，我知道，大体的轮廓就会凸现出来的。” 　　“是谁呢？” 　　“不，黑斯廷斯，我不知道他的姓名和地址？我知道他是哪一类人……” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“Et alors，je vais a.la peche.（法文，意为：那么，我去钓鱼。——译注）” 　　正当我一脸疑惑，他继续说道： 　　“你想，黑斯廷斯，一个经验老道的钓鱼者知道该用什么样的鱼饵喂给什么样的鱼。我是在对症下药地喂饵。” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“然后呢？然后呢？你与那位傲慢的克罗姆那无休止的‘哦，是吗？’一样糟糕。Em bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），然后他将会吞饵上钩，我们就收紧线轮……” 　　“与此同时，四处都有人们在死亡。” 　　“三个人。而每周，怎么讲——大约会有120个人死于道路交通。” 　　“那可是完全不同的两码事。” 　　“对死者来说，这也许恰好一样。对其他人而言，对亲戚、对朋友，——是的，的确有所不同，可这件案子中至少有一件事情令我欣喜。” 　　“不管怎样，让我听听有什么事情可如此欣喜？” 　　“这样挖苦毫无意义。令我感到欣慰的是，这件案子中并没有什么错误的阴影笼罩在无辜者身上。” 　　“这难道不是更坏吗？” 　　“不，不，绝对不是。没有什么事情要比生活在怀疑的氛围中更可怕——看看那些注视着你的眼睛，眼中的爱变成了恐惧——没有什么事情要比去怀疑那些与你亲近的人来得可怕。这种怀疑相当恶毒——是种有害的瘴气。不，对无辜人士的生命毒害，至少这一点，我们不能归咎于ABC。” 　　“你不久将会为这个人寻找借口。”我挖苦地说。 　　“为什么不呢？他可能认定自己是正当的。我们则可能，会因同情他的观点而告终。” 　　“真的吗，波洛！” 　　“哎呀！我令你感到震惊。首先是我的惰性——然后是我的观点。” 　　我摇头，没有作答。 　　“同样，”波洛停了一两分钟之后说，“我有一种设想，它肯定会使你感到高兴——因为它很积极，不消极。而且，这种设想需要大量的谈话，并且确实不带有思想。” 　　我不太喜欢他的口气。 　　“那是什么呢？”我疑心地问。 　　“受害人的朋友、亲戚和仆人们对他们所知道的全部情况都会进行筛选。” 　　“那么，你是否在怀疑他们将有些事情隐而不宣？” 　　“他们并不是有意要这样做。可是，告知你所了解的每一件事往往意味着选择。如果我要你向我复述一遍你昨天干的事情，你可能会答复：‘我九点钟起床，九点半吃早餐，我吃了鸡蛋、薰肉和咖啡，我又去了俱乐部，等等。’你却并没有包括：‘我弄破了指甲而必须剪掉它。我打电话定购洗面液。我洒了一点咖啡在台布上。我刷了帽子并带上它。’一个人不可能把每件事都讲出来，人们会选择他们认为重要的情况。可他们的想法通常是错误的！” 　　“可怎么才能获得正确的情况呢？” 　　“正如我刚才所说，只要通过对话就行。通过聊天！通过谈论某一件发生的事，或某个人，或某一天，通过反复谈论，多余的细节就必定会呈现出来。” 　　“什么样的细节？” 　　“自然，我并无所知也不想去发现。可等过了足够长的时间之后，普通的事物会重新拥有价值。在三场谋杀暗中，并没有某个事实，也没有任何意见与案件相关，这与所有确定的规则相违背。有些细微的事件，有些琐碎的评论必定可能会是个点子！我想，这好比大海捞针——可是在海水之中确实有针存在，我对此很确信！” 　　这在我听来极其含糊不清。 　　“你难道不理解吗？你的智慧还不如一个当女仆的姑娘那样敏锐。” 　　他仍给我一封信，信是用一种倾斜的寄宿学校的手法很清晰地写的。 　　　亲爱的先生： 　　　　　我希望您会原谅我冒昧写信给您。自那两件 　　　与可怜的姨妈如出一辙的谋杀案发生后，我一直 　　　在思考。看来我们大家都有相同的处境。我在报 　　　上见到了那个年轻姑娘，我是指那个在贝克斯希 　　　尔被谋杀的年轻姑娘的姐姐。我大着胆子写信给 　　　她，告诉她我正到伦敦来谋职，并问她我是否可 　　　以去为她或她母亲做事，因为我认为两个头脑会 　　　胜过一个头脑，而且我不会要太多工资，只是为 　　　了发现那个恶魔是谁，如果我们能从所知道的事 　　　情中悟出些什么，我们可能会更好地查明案情。 　　　　　那位年轻女士回信写得极友好，并说她在一 　　　件办公室工作，住在一家旅店，可她建议我写信 　　　给您。她还说，她也在考虑着一些与我相同的问 　　　题。她说我们处于同样的麻烦之中，我们应该站 　　　在同一个立场上。所以我写信给您，告诉您我来 　　　到伦敦，这儿有我的地址。 　　　　　希望我没有麻烦您。尊敬您的 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　玛丽•德劳尔 　　“玛丽•德劳尔，”波洛说，“是个非常精明的姑娘。” 　　他捡起另外一封信。 　　“读这封吧。” 　　这是富兰克林•克拉克的来信，信中说他也来到伦敦，如果没什么不方便的话，会在第二天拜访波洛。 　　“别绝望，mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注），”波洛说，“行动就要开始。” Chapter 18 Poirot Makes a Speech Chapter 18 Poirot Makes a Speech Franklin Clarke arrived at three o’clock on the following afternoon and came straight to the point without beating about the bush. ‘M. Poirot,’ he said, ‘I’m not satisfied.’ ‘No, Mr Clarke?’ ‘I’ve no doubt that Crome is a very efficient officer, but, frankly, he puts my back up. That air of his of knowing best! I hinted something of what I had in mind to your friend here when he was down at Churston, but I’ve had all my brother’s affairs to settle up and I haven’t been free until now. My idea is, M. Poirot, that we oughtn’t to let the grass grow under our feet—’ ‘Just what Hastings is always saying!’ ‘—but go right ahead. We’ve got to get ready for the next crime.’ ‘So you think there will be a next crime?’ ‘Don’t you?’ ‘Certainly.’ ‘Very well, then. I want to get organized.’ ‘Tell me your idea exactly?’ ‘I propose, M. Poirot, a kind of special legion—to work under your orders—composed of the friends and relatives of the murdered people.’ ‘Une bonne idée.’ ‘I’m glad you approve. By putting our heads together I feel we might get at something. Also, when the next warning comes, by being on the spot, one of us might—I don’t say it’s probable—but we might recognize some person as having been near the scene of a previous crime.’ ‘I see your idea, and I approve, but you must remember, Mr Clarke, the relations and friends of the other victims are hardly in your sphere of life. They are employed persons and though they might be given a short vacation—’ Franklin Clarke interrupted. ‘That’s just it. I’m the only person in a position to foot the bill. Not that I’m particularly well off myself, but my brother died a rich man and it will eventually come to me. I propose, as I say, to enrol a special legion, the members to be paid for their services at the same rate as they get habitually, with, of course, the additional expenses.’ ‘Who do you propose should form this legion?’ ‘I’ve been into that. As a matter of fact, I wrote to Miss Megan Barnard—indeed, this is partly her idea. I suggest myself, Miss Barnard, Mr Donald Fraser, who was engaged to the dead girl. Then there is a niece of the Andover woman—Miss Barnard knows her address. I don’t think the husband would be of any use to us—I hear he’s usually drunk. I also think the Barnards—the father and mother—are a bit old for active campaigning.’ ‘Nobody else?’ ‘Well—er—Miss Grey.’ He flushed slightly as he spoke the name. ‘Oh! Miss Grey?’ Nobody in the world could put a gentle nuance of irony into a couple of words better than Poirot. About thirty-five years fell away from Franklin Clarke. He looked suddenly like a shy schoolboy. ‘Yes. You see, Miss Grey was with my brother for over two years. She knows the countryside and the people round, and everything. I’ve been away for a year and a half.’ Poirot took pity on him and turned the conversation. ‘You have been in the East? In China?’ ‘Yes. I had a kind of roving commission to purchase things for my brother.’ ‘Very interesting it must have been. Eh bien, Mr Clarke,I approve very highly of your idea. I was saying to Hastings only yesterday that arapprochementof the people concerned was needed. It is necessary to pool reminiscences, to compare notes—enfinto talk the thing over—to talk—to talk—and again to talk. Out of some innocent phrase may come enlightenment.’ A few days later the ‘Special Legion’ met at Poirot’s rooms. As they sat round looking obediently towards Poirot, who had his place, like the chairman at a board meeting, at the head of the table, I myself passed them, as it were, in review, confirming or revising my first impressions of them. The three girls were all of them striking-looking—the extraordinary fair beauty of Thora Grey, the dark intensity of Megan Barnard, with her strange Red Indian immobility of face—Mary Drower, neatly dressed in a black coat and skirt, with her pretty, intelligent face. Of the two men, Franklin Clarke, big, bronzed and talkative, Donald Fraser, self-contained and quiet, made an interesting contrast to each other. Poirot, unable, of course, to resist the occasion, made a little speech. ‘Mesdames and Messieurs, you know what we are here for. The police are doing their utmost to track down the criminal. I, too, in my different way. But it seems to me a reunion of those who have a personalinterest in the matter—and also, I may say, a personal knowledge of the victims—might have results that an outside investigation cannot pretend to attain. ‘Here we have three murders—an old woman, a young girl, an elderly man. Only one thing links these three people together—the fact that the same person killed them. That means that the same person was present in three different localitiesand was seen necessarily by a large number of people. That he is a madman in an advanced stage of mania goes without saying. That his appearance and behaviour give no suggestion of such a fact is equally certain. This person—and though I say he, remember it may be a man or a woman—has all the devilish cunning of insanity. He has succeeded so far in covering his traces completely. The police have certain vague indications but nothing upon which they can act. ‘Nevertheless, there must exist indications which are not vague but certain. To take one particular point—this assassin, he did not arrive at Bexhill at midnight and find conveniently on the beach a young lady whose name began with B—’ ‘Must we go into that?’ It was Donald Fraser who spoke—the words wrung from him, it seemed, by some inner anguish. ‘It is necessary to go into everything, monsieur,’ said Poirot, turning to him. ‘You are here, not to save yourfeelings by refusing to think of details, but if necessary to harrow them by going into the matter au fond. As I say, it was not chancethat provided A B C with a victim in Betty Barnard. There must have been deliberate selection on his part—and therefore premeditation. That is to say, he must have reconnoitred the ground beforehand. There were facts of which he had informed himself—the best hour for the committing of the crime at Andover—the mise en scèneat Bexhill—the habits of Sir Carmichael Clarke at Churston. Me, for one, I refuse to believe that there is noindication—no slightest hint—that might help to establish his identity. ‘I make the assumption that one—or possibly allof you—knows something that they do not know they know ‘Sooner or later, by reason of your association with one another, something will come to light, will take on a significance as yet undreamed of. It is like the jig-saw puzzle—each of you may have a piece apparently without meaning, but which when reunited may show a definite portion of the picture as a whole.’ ‘Words!’ said Megan Barnard. ‘Eh?’ Poirot looked at her inquiringly. ‘What you’ve been saying. It’s just words. It doesn’t mean anything.’ She spoke with that kind of desperate intensity that I had come to associate with her personality. ‘Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas.’ ‘Well, I think it’s sense,’ said Mary Drower. ‘I do really, miss. It’s often when you’re talking over things that you seem to see your way clear. Your mind gets made up for you sometimes without your knowing how it’s happened. Talking leads to a lot of things one way and another.’ ‘If “least said is soonest mended”, it’s the converse we want here,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘What do you say, Mr Fraser?’ ‘I rather doubt the practical applicability of what you say, M. Poirot.’ ‘What do you think, Thora?’ asked Clarke. ‘I think the principle of talking things over is always sound.’ ‘Suppose,’ suggested Poirot, ‘that you all go over your own remembrances of the time preceding the murder. Perhaps you’ll start, Mr Clarke.’ ‘Let me see, on the morning of the day Car was killed I went off sailing. Caught eight mackerel. Lovely out there on the bay. Lunch at home. Irish stew, I remember. Slept in the hammock. Tea. Wrote some letters, missed the post, and drove into Paignton to post them. Then dinner and—I’m not ashamed to say it—reread a book of E. Nesbit’s that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephone rang—’ ‘No further. Now reflect, Mr Clarke, did you meet anyone on your way down to the sea in the morning?’ ‘Lots of people.’ ‘Can you remember anything about them?’ ‘Not a damned thing now.’ ‘Sure?’ ‘Well—let’s see—I remember a remarkably fat woman—she wore a striped silk dress and I wondered why—had a couple of kids with her—two young men with a fox terrier on the beach throwing stones for it—Oh, yes, a girl with yellow hair squeaking as she bathed—funny how things come back—like a photograph developing.’ ‘You are a good subject. Now later in the day—the garden—going to the post—’ ‘The gardener watering…Going to the post? Nearly ran down a bicyclist—silly woman wobbling and shouting to a friend. That’s all, I’m afraid.’ Poirot turned to Thora Grey. ‘Miss Grey?’ Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice: ‘I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning—saw the housekeeper. I wrote letters and did needlework in the afternoon, I fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinary day. I went to bed early.’ Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said: ‘Miss Barnard—can you bring back your remembrances of the last time you saw your sister?’ ‘It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday and Sunday. It was fine weather. We went to Hastings to the swimming pool.’ ‘What did you talk about most of the time?’ ‘I gave her a piece of my mind,’ said Megan. ‘And what else? She conversed of what?’ The girl frowned in an effort of memory. ‘She talked about being hard up—of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she’d just bought. And a little of Don…She also said she disliked Milly Higley—that’s the girl at the café—and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café…I don’t remember anything else…’ ‘She didn’t mention any man—forgive me, Mr Fraser—she might be meeting?’ ‘She wouldn’t to me,’ said Megan dryly Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw. ‘Mr Fraser—I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you said, to the caféon the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember anyone at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?’ ‘There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can’t remember any of them.’ ‘Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically—unintelligently but accurately…’ The young man repeated doggedly: ‘I don’t remember anybody.’ Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower. ‘I suppose you got letters from your aunt?’ ‘Oh, yes, sir.’ ‘When was the last?’ Mary thought a minute. ‘Two days before the murder, sir.’ ‘What did it say?’ ‘She said the old devil had been round and that she’d sent him off with a flea in the ear—excuse the expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that’s my day out, sir—and she said we’d go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir.’ Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps—suddenly brought the tears to Mary’s eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it. ‘You must forgive me, sir. I don’t want to be silly. Crying’s no good. It was just the thought of her—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir.’ ‘I know just what you feel like,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘It’s always the little things that get one—and especially anything like a treat or a present—something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She’d just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—they looked so pathetic.’ Megan said with a sudden eager warmth: ‘That’s true—that’s awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty—died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: “I bought them for Betty—I bought them for Betty—and she never even saw them.”’ Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy—a fraternity in trouble. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember.’ Donald Fraser stirred uneasily. Thora Grey diverted the conversation. ‘Aren’t we going to make any plans—for the future?’ she asked. ‘Of course.’ Franklin Clarke resumed his ordinary manner. ‘I think that when the moment comes—thatis, when the fourth letter arrives—we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps we might each try our luck on our own. I don’t know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?’ ‘I could make some suggestions,’ said Poirot. ‘Good. I’ll take them down.’ He produced a notebook. ‘Go ahead, M. Poirot. A—?’ ‘I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might know something useful.’ ‘A—Milly Higley,’ wrote down Franklin Clarke. ‘I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try what I call the offensive approach.’ ‘I suppose you think that suits my style?’ said Megan dryly. ‘Pick a quarrel with the girl—say you knew she never liked your sister—and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge.’ ‘And the second method?’ ‘May I suggest, Mr Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in the girl?’ ‘Is that necessary.’ ‘No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration.’ ‘Shall I try my hand?’ asked Franklin. ‘I’ve—er—apretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady.’ ‘You’ve got your own part of the world to attend to,’ said Thora Grey rather sharply. Franklin’s face fell just a little. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have.’ ‘Tout de même, I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present,’ said Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted—’ Thora Grey interrupted him. ‘But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good.’ ‘Ah? I did not understand.’ ‘Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things,’ said Franklin. ‘But naturally she prefers a post in London.’ Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other. ‘How is Lady Clarke?’ he demanded. I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey’s cheeks and almost missed Clarke’s reply. ‘Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can’t see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that—at my expense, of course.’ ‘Certainly, Mr Clarke. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?’ ‘Good. I’ll let nurse know and she’ll arrange the dope accordingly.’ ‘For you, my child,’ said Poirot, turning to Mary, ‘I think you might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children.’ ‘The children?’ ‘Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your aunt’s shop.’ ‘What about Miss Grey and myself?’ asked Clarke. ‘That is, if I’m not to go to Bexhill.’ ‘M. Poirot,’ said Thora Grey, ‘what was the postmark on the third letter?’ ‘Putney, mademoiselle.’ She said thoughtfully: ‘SW15, Putney, that is right, is it not?’ ‘For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly.’ ‘That seems to point to A B C being a Londoner.’ ‘On the face of it, yes.’ ‘One ought to be able to draw him,’ said Clarke. ‘M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted an advertisement—something after these lines: A B C. Urgent, H.P. close on your track. A hundred for my silence. X.Y.Z. Nothing quite so crude as that—but you see the idea. It might draw him.’ ‘It is a possibility—yes.’ ‘Might induce him to try and have a shot at me.’ ‘I think it’s very dangerous and silly,’ said Thora Grey sharply. ‘What about it, M. Poirot?’ ‘It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A B C will be too cunning to reply.’ Poirot smiled a little. ‘I see, Mr Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy at heart.’ Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed. ‘Well,’ he said, consulting his notebook. ‘We’re making a start. A—Miss Barnard and Milly Higley. B—Mr Fraser and Miss Higley. C—Children in Andover. D—Advertisement. ‘I don’t feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting.’ He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed. 第十八章　波洛发表演讲 第十八章　波洛发表演讲 　　富兰克林•克拉克第二天下午三点到达，他丝毫没有旁敲侧击，谈话直入主体。 　　“波洛先生，”他说，“我并不满意。” 　　“是吗，克拉克先生？” 　　“我毫无疑问，克罗姆是个工作很有效率的官员，可是，坦白地说，他令我厌倦不已。他那种自以为是的神态。当你朋友还在彻斯顿时，我就向他暗示了一些我的想法，可我要把哥哥的事务都处理掉，直到现在才有空闲。波洛先生，我想我们应该抓紧时间行动……” 　　“黑斯廷斯一直就是这么说的！” 　　“那就抓紧干吧。我们该着手准备应付下一场罪案了。” 　　“那你认为会有下一次谋杀？” 　　“难道你不这么认为吗？” 　　“当然是的。” 　　“那么，很好，我想要严阵以待。” 　　“能否告诉我你的真实想法？” 　　“波洛先生，我提议建一个特殊的团体，是由那些遇害人的朋友和亲戚组成，听从你的命令行事。” 　　“Une bonne idee。（法文，意为：这是个好主意。——译注）” 　　“我很高兴你表示同意。通过群策群力，我感觉我们才可能掌握些什么。而且，当下次警告来临的时候，我们其中一人要赶赴案发地点，我没说这样一定合适，但我们可以认出上一次案发现场附近出现的某人。” 　　“我理解你的主意，而且我表示赞同，可你必须记住，克拉克先生，其他遇害人的亲戚朋友并没有生活在您的圈子里，他们都有工作，尽管他们可能会有一个较短的假期——” 　　富兰克林•克拉克打断他的话。 　　“那正好如此。我是唯一的出资人。这倒并不是因为我格外富有，而是我哥哥去世时财产颇丰，这些最终全属于我。如我所言，我提议招收一个特别团体。这些成员可以获得平日工资的同等报酬，当然，还有额外的费用。” 　　“你认为该由谁组成这个团组呢？” 　　“我已开始办理此事。事实上，我写信给梅根•巴纳德，——实际上，这有一部分是她的主意。我建议包括我自己，巴纳德小姐。与那位死去的姑娘订婚的唐纳德•弗雷泽先生，还有一位是安多弗妇人的侄女——巴纳德小姐知道她的地址。我不认为那个丈夫对我们会有什么用途——听说他经常喝醉。我还认为巴纳德夫妇——父亲和母亲——他们参加这样的行动可能年事稍高了一点。” 　　“就没有别人了吗？” 　　“嗯，格雷小姐。” 　　当他吐露出这一名字时，脸上微微泛红。 　　“哦！格雷小姐吗？” 　　这世上没人能比波洛更好地把这一微弱的讽刺融入到这个字眼当中。他仿佛比富兰克林•克拉克年轻了三十五年，突然间，他看上去像是个害羞的小男生。 　　“是的。你知道，格雷小姐跟我哥哥做事已有两年多了。她熟悉乡野村庄和周围居住的人们，她知道一切。我自己则是离开了一年半。” 　　波洛怜悯起他来，于是扭转话题。 　　“你去了东方？是在中国吗？” 　　“是的。我身负这种频繁奔走的职务，为哥哥采购物品。” 　　“那肯定有意思极了。Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），克拉克先生，我非常赞同你的主意。我昨天还对黑斯廷斯说，我们需要相关人士的和睦联络，很有必要集中起来进行回忆，对评论进行比较，然后，在就事论事——进行谈话，谈话——再谈话。从某些坦白的措辞之中，也许会有令人启发的事务出现。” 　　数天之后，这个特别团体在波洛的屋子里聚会。 　　他们围坐着，顺从地望着波洛，波洛则像是董事会主席，坐在桌子的一头。我自己则回顾他们每个人，确定和修正着我对他们的第一印象。 　　三位姑娘全都容貌惊艳——托拉•格雷那不同寻常的美貌；梅根•巴纳德黝黑浓烈，脸上带着一种奇特的红色印第安人的沉稳；玛丽•德劳尔整洁的身着黑色的上装和裙子，她长着漂亮、机敏的脸。在三个男人当中，富兰克林•克拉克，身材高大，铜黑色的皮肤，挺健谈的，唐纳德•弗雷泽则沉默寡言，相当安静。两个人之间形成有趣的对比。 　　波洛当然无法抵制这一场合，他讲了一小段话： 　　“女士们，先生们，你们都知道我们在此碰面的原因，警方正在尽全力追查案犯，我呢，在以不同的方式进行追查。在我看来，那些对此案怀有个人兴趣的人，还有，我想说，那些对死者有个人了解的人们，再进行碰面，可能会获得外在的调查无法获取的结果。” 　　“在此我们有三桩谋杀案——一位老太太，一位年轻姑娘，一位老人，只有一件事把他们三个人联系在一起，那就是杀害他们的是同一个人。那也即表示，同一个人曾在不同的三个地点出现，并有可能被一大堆人看到过。无须多说，他必定是个有狂燥症，且病入膏肓的疯子。同时也很显然，他的外表和行为举止，并不可能就把他表现出来。这个人——尽管我说的是他，可能是个男人或是女人——他有着恶魔般的疯狂狡猾。到目前为止，他成功地掩盖自己的蛛丝马迹。警方只是掌握了一些模糊的迹象，可他们还是无法据此采取行动。” 　　“而且，一定还存在一些清楚而明确的迹象。比方说有一点特别之处，那个凶手，他可不是在半夜抵达贝克斯希尔，便能够轻而易举地在海滩上发现一个以B为姓氏开头的年轻姑娘——” 　　“我们必须要探究那一点吗？” 　　是唐纳德•弗雷泽在讲话，那些话从他口中挤出来，透着些内心的苦楚。 　　“我有必要对每件事都深究一番，先生。”波洛说，转身向着他。“你来此地，并不是要用拒绝对细节进行思考而挽留你的感情，而是有必要探究此事，来对这些细节重新审理。如我所说，ABC并不是因机遇而得知像贝蒂•巴纳德这样的受害人。他肯定经过刻意的挑选，因而会进行预谋。也就是说，他事先肯定对这个地方进行过侦察。他已获得了一些事实，如在安多弗作案的最佳时间，贝克斯希尔的miseen scene（法文，意为：场景。——译注），彻斯顿的卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士的习惯。就我来说，我是不会相信会没有迹象——没有最细微的线索——有助于我们识别他的。” 　　“我假设有某个人——或者，也可能是你们当中的所有人，知道他们并不认为自己了解的什么事情。” 　　“由于你们将事物互相联系，迟早会有些情况显露出来，展现出料想不到的特殊意义。这就好比拼图游戏，你们中每个人可能会有显然是毫无意义的一个小块，可这些小拼块重组起来，会将整个画面的特点部分显现出来。” 　　“话语！”梅根•巴纳德说。 　　“嗯？”波洛疑问地望着她。 　　“你刚才说的话，只是些言语之辞，它并不意味着什么。” 　　她讲话的方式十分强烈，我认为这与她的个性有关。 　　“语言，小姐，只是思想的外衣。” 　　“哦，我倒认为这有道理。”玛丽•德劳尔说，“小姐，我真的是这样认为的。当你在谈论事物的时候，你看来像是把自己的路子弄清楚了，这是常有的情形。有时，你做出判断，可并不了解发生了些什么事。谈话总是能以某种方式引导出许多情况。” 　　“人说‘多言反坏事’，我们这里想要的恰恰相反。”富兰克林•克拉克说。 　　“你如何认为，弗雷泽先生？” 　　“我倒挺怀疑你所言之词的实用性，波洛先生。” 　　“你怎么想，托拉？”克拉克问。 　　“我认为反复谈话的原则总会是对的。” 　　“试想，”波洛建议道，“你们都重述一下案发前自己的回忆。克拉克先生，你先开始吧。” 　　“让我想想，卡迈克尔遇害那天早晨我去航海。捕了八条鲇鱼，海湾风景非常怡人，我在家吃午餐，吃的是爱尔兰炖品。在吊床上睡觉，然后喝茶，写了几封信，错过了邮递时间，便开车去佩恩顿寄掉信件。然后是吃晚餐，我也没什么不好意思说的，我又重新读了一本E•耐斯比特的书，在孩提时代我就喜欢。然后电话响了——” 　　“还有其它情况吗，克拉克先生，现在回想一下，你那天早晨去海边的路上碰到什么人没有？” 　　“有许多人。” 　　“你能记得他们中的一些什么吗？” 　　“什么也不记得了。” 　　“你确信吗？” 　　“嗯，我想想，有个相当胖的女人——她穿着条纹的丝绸外衣，我还纳闷，为何她还带着两个小孩，两个年轻人带着只狐狗在海滩上扔石头。哦，是的，那个长着黄头发的姑娘在沐浴时尖叫。真好笑，这些事情是如何冒出来的？像是在冲印胶卷。” 　　“你开了个好头。那天晚些时候——在花园的情形，去邮局的情况？” 　　“园艺工在浇水……去邮局吗？我几乎撞上一个骑车人，那个笨女人迟疑不决，对着一个朋友大叫。我想那就是全部了。” 　　波洛转向托拉•格雷。 　　“格雷小姐？” 　　托拉•格雷用她那清晰、生动的声音回答。 　　“我早上为卡迈克尔爵士处理邮件——见到过管家。下午我想是在……写信和做针线活。回忆起来挺困难的。那是很普通的一天，我很早就上床歇息了。” 　　令我感到惊奇的是，波洛没有再问。他说： 　　“巴纳德小姐，你可以回想起最后一次见你妹妹的情形吗？” 　　“那大概是在她死前两周。我回去过周六、周日。天气很好。我们去哈斯丁游泳。” 　　“你大部分时间内都在谈些什么？” 　　“我与她畅谈了一番。”梅根说。 　　“还有什么别的吗？她说了些什么吗？” 　　“她说带的帽子和几件夏装绷得挺紧的。谈了会儿关于唐的事……她还说并不喜欢米莉•希格利，就是那个餐厅里的姑娘。我们又嘲笑了一番那位开餐厅的梅里恩……我记不起还有些什么别的……” 　　“她没有提到她可能要与什么人会面吗？——请原谅，弗雷泽先生。” 　　“她不肯对我说的。” 　　波洛转向那个一头红发、下颌方正的年轻人。 　　“弗雷泽先生——我希望你能将思绪返回。你说过，发生命案那天晚上曾去过餐厅。你的首要意向是在那儿等待，看着贝蒂•巴纳德出来。你等在那里的时候，是否能想起你曾经注意到谁了呢？” 　　“前面有许多人在走动，我什么人都记不得了。” 　　“对不起，可你在尝试吗？无论脑子里的想法如何被预先占据过，眼睛总是在机械性地进行注视的——不用智力，却相当准确……” 　　年轻人固执地重复： 　　“我什么人也不记得了。” 　　波洛叹口气，转向玛丽•德劳尔。 　　“我猜想你接到过姨妈的信？” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“最后一封信是在什么时候？” 　　玛丽思索了一会儿。 　　“凶案前两天，先生。” 　　“信中怎么说？” 　　“她说那个老魔鬼不断骚扰她，她用俏皮话气走了他。她还说希望我星期三过去，那是我的假期。她说我们去拍照，因为我刚好要过生日了，先生。” 　　一想到这一件小事，突然间玛丽的眼中涌出泪花。她哽咽着抽泣，然后又表示歉意。 　　“对不起，先生。我也不想如此蠢笨，哭是没有用的，我只是想起了她，而我曾期盼过那次聚餐。它令我伤心，先生。” 　　“我理解你的心情，”富兰克林•克拉克说，“那些小事情，比如聚会或是一件礼物总会让人快乐和坦然。我有一次曾见过一个妇女被车碾过，她刚买了些新鞋。我看到她丢在那儿擦破的包裹内露出那些难以置信的高跟便鞋，这是我一惊，它们看上去那样哀婉动人。” 　　梅根带着种渴切的暖意说： 　　“的确如此，那确是如此。贝蒂死后也一样。妈妈买了些长统袜想作为礼物，——就是出事那天买的。可怜的妈妈，她真实身心崩溃了。我看到她在那堆袜子前哭泣。她一直说：‘我是为贝蒂买的，我是为贝蒂买的，可她从未穿过……’” 　　她声音微微颤抖。她身子向前倾斜，直勾勾地看着富兰克林•克拉克。他们之间有一种突然的同情——痛苦之中的关爱。 　　“我知道，”他说，“我确实知道。那些正是牢记在心中的悲惨经历。” 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽不安地挪动身体。 　　托拉•格雷则转变话题。 　　“我们难道不为将来作些计划吗？” 　　“当然。”富兰克林•克拉克恢复了常态，“我想，那时刻来临的时候，那第四封信到来时，我们必须团结起来。到那时，我们可能要尝试每一份运气，我不知道波洛先生是否认为还有什么需要重新调查的。” 　　“我倒是可以提些建议。”波洛说。 　　“好，我纪录。”他拿出笔记本，“请讲，波洛先生。” 　　“我认为那个女招待，米莉•希格利可能会知道些有用的情况。” 　　“啊——米莉•希格利。”富兰克林•克拉克记录下来。 　　“我建议采取两种处理方法。你，巴纳德小姐，可以尝试这种我认为的攻势措施。” 　　“我想你认为那符合我的风格？”梅根乏味地说。 　　“与那个姑娘吵架——说你知道她从来不喜欢你妹妹，而你妹妹还把她的一切告诉你了。如果我没弄错的话，那将引起一阵反击。她会告诉你她对你妹妹的全部看法！有些有用的事实便会出现。” 　　“第二个方法呢？” 　　“我是否可以提议，弗雷泽先生，你向那个姑娘表示些兴趣吗？” 　　“那有必要吗？” 　　“不，没什么必要。这只是可能的一种探究办法。” 　　“我可以尝试一下吗？”富兰克林问道：“我——有过挺多经验，波洛先生。让我想想与这个年轻姑娘能干些什么。” 　　“你可有自己的事要干。”托拉•格雷尖刻地说。 　　富兰克林的脸沉下来一点。 　　“是的，”他说，“我有。” 　　“Tout de meme（法文，意为：不管怎样。译注），我认为在目前你还没有什么事可做，”波洛说，“格雷小姐呢，她更适合于……” 　　托拉•格雷打断了他的话。 　　“可您知道，波洛先生，我已经彻底离开了达夫郡。” 　　“噢？我不理解。” 　　“格雷小姐及其友善，她留下来帮我清理物品。”富兰克林说，“可是自然她更喜欢在伦敦有份工作。” 　　波洛的眼光尖锐的从一人扫向另一人。 　　“克拉克夫人怎么样了？”他询问道。 　　我正在欣赏着托拉•格雷泛着红晕的脸颊，几乎没听到克拉克的回答。 　　“她状态极差。顺便说一句，波洛先生，我在疑虑，您是否能安排去德文一趟，去看看她？我离开之前，她表达了一种想见您的愿望。当然，她有时可能几天都见不到人，不过，您如果愿意那样做，我可以支付费用。” 　　“当然可以，克拉克先生。我们可以后天去吗？” 　　“好，我会通知护士，她会相应地准备好镇静剂。” 　　“至于你，我的孩子，”波洛说，转向玛莉，“我想你可能在安多弗会干得挺好的。尝试一下孩子们。” 　　“孩子们？” 　　“是的。孩子们不会乐意与外来者交谈，可你在姨妈居住的街道为人所知。那里有许多孩子们在玩耍，他们可能曾注意到谁出入过你姨妈的商店。” 　　“格雷小姐和我干什么呢？”克拉克问，“如果我不去贝克斯希尔的话。” 　　“波洛先生，”托拉•格雷说，“第三封信上的邮戳是什么地方盖的？” 　　“普特耐，小姐。” 　　她回忆着说：“SW15区，普特耐，就是那儿，不是吗？” 　　“说来奇怪，报纸上居然印对了。” 　　“那好像表明ABC是伦敦人。” 　　“表面上看来，是的。” 　　“我们应该引他开口，”克拉克说，“波洛先生，如果我插登一则广告事情会是怎么样？——如下面几行：ABC 紧急。你的行踪已被高度追踪，用一百磅使我保持沉默。XYZ。这样做的确十分莽撞——可你会明白，这个主意很可能会引她开口。” 　　“这倒是有可能——是的。” 　　“可能会诱使他试着袭击我。” 　　“我认为这很危险，也很愚蠢。”托拉•格雷尖刻地说。 　　“您认为如何，波洛先生？” 　　“尝试一下也无妨，我自己认为ABC非常狡猾，不会回答。”波洛微笑。“我想，克拉克先生，如果我这样说并不太冒犯的话，你本质上还是个孩子。” 　　富兰克林•克拉克看上去有点窘迫。 　　“噢，”他说，一边查阅他的笔记本，“我们正在开始。 　　“A——巴纳德小姐与米莉•希格利 　　“B——弗雷泽先生与希格利小姐 　　“C——安多弗的孩子们 　　“D——广告 　　“我倒并不觉得这有多么好，但这是等待的过程之中该做的事情。” 　　他站起身来，几分钟后会议散去。 Chapter 19 By Way of Sweden Chapter 19 By Way of Sweden Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself. ‘Unfortunate that she is so intelligent,’ he murmured. ‘Who?’ ‘Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. “Words,” she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in.’ ‘I thought it sounded very plausible.’ ‘Plausible, yes. It was just that she perceived.’ ‘Didn’t you mean what you said, then?’ ‘What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad libwithout anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.’ ‘But why?’ ‘Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work to be done! To start—shall we say—the conversations!’ ‘Don’t you think any of these lines will lead to anything?’ ‘Oh, it is always possible.’ He chuckled. ‘In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?’ ‘What doyou mean?’ ‘The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences—tout à fait à part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another—by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings…Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker.’ ‘Really, Poirot,’ I cried scandalized. ‘I’m sure none of those people was thinking of anything but—’ ‘Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?’ ‘I?’ ‘Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?’ ‘One may do that without being callous.’ ‘Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts.’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme c?a,’ Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice: ‘Some of the time I love a brunette, Some of the time I love a blonde (Who comes from Eden by way of Sweden). ‘What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l’emporte sur la brunette!’ ‘Really, Poirot,’ I cried, blushing slightly. ‘C’est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr Donald Fraser, he—’ ‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘Your mind is incurably sentimental.’ ‘That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings.’ I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered. ‘Forgive me for coming back,’ she said composedly.‘But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot.’ ‘Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?’ She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words. ‘It is just this, M. Poirot. Mr Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house.’ I could not but admire the girl’s courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy. ‘I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this,’ I said. ‘It’s always better to have the truth,’ she said with a little smile. ‘I don’t want to shelter behind Mr Clarke’s chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man.’ There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously. ‘You have been very honest, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot. ‘It is rather a blow to me,’ said Thora ruefully. ‘I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me.’ She made a wry face. ‘One lives and learns.’ She rose. ‘That is all I came to say. Goodbye.’ I accompanied her downstairs. ‘I call that very sporting of her,’ I said as I returned to the room. ‘She has courage, that girl.’ ‘And calculation.’ ‘What do you mean—calculation?’ ‘I mean that she has the power of looking ahead.’ I looked at him doubtfully. ‘She really is a lovely girl,’ I said. ‘And wears very lovely clothes. That crêpemarocain and the silver fox collar—dernier cri.’ ‘You’re a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.’ ‘You should join a nudist colony.’ As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject: ‘Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in our conversations thisafternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd—I cannot pin down exactly what it was…Just an impression that passed through my mind…That reminds me of something I have already heard or seen or noted…’ ‘Something at Churston?’ ‘No—not at Churston…Before that…No matter, presently it will come to me…’ He looked at me (perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once more to hum. ‘She is an angel, is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden…’ ‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘Go to the devil!’ 第十九章　途径瑞典 第十九章　途径瑞典 　　波洛回到座位上坐下，嘴里哼着小调。 　　“很遗憾，她太聪明了。” 　　“谁？” 　　“梅根•巴纳德，梅根小姐。她那样急促地说出话语，她即刻便知道我所言之词一文不值，而其他人则轻信了。” 　　“我认为这听起来挺有道理的。” 　　“有道理，是的。那仅仅是她将觉察到的。” 　　“那么你所言之词毫无意义吗？” 　　“我所说的话本可用一句话完成，而我却随意重复，只有梅根小姐才认识到了这个事实。” 　　“可为什么要这样做呢？” 　　“En bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——是为了让大家行动起来！要让每个人都满怀这样一种印象，还有事情要做！我们该说的是，要开始对话了！” 　　“你不认为这些话会导致什么吗？” 　　“哦，这倒有可能。” 　　他暗自窃喜。 　　“在悲剧当中，我们展开喜剧。正是这样，不是吗？” 　　“你是什么意思？” 　　“是人的戏剧，黑斯廷斯！你试想，这儿有三组人物，是被一个共同的悲剧召集到一起的。第二个戏剧又突然开场——tout a fait a part（法文，意为：完全是不相干的。——译注）。你是否还记得我在英格兰的第一件案子？哦，那已经是在多年以前的事了。我把两个相互爱着的人凑在一起——采用的以谋杀罪逮捕其中一人的简单方法。没什么更简要的方法能达到这个目的。在死亡的过程当中我们生活于人世，黑斯廷斯……我经常注意到，谋杀案是个十足的媒人。” 　　“真的，波洛，”我震惊地叫道，“我相信那些人当中没有一个人会想到——” 　　“哦！我亲爱的朋友，你想到什么？” 　　“哦？” 　　“Mais oui（法文，意为：是的。——译注），他们离开后，你从门那边回来的时候，难道没哼着小调？” 　　“人无须冷淡便可这样做。” 　　“当然可以，可是那曲调向我透露了你的想法。” 　　“是吗？” 　　“是的，哼曲调是极度危险的。这表明了一种潜意识的心态。我想，你哼的曲调可以追溯到战争之时。Comme Ca（法文，意为：是这样子的。——译注），”波洛用一种令人生厌的假声唱道： 　　“曾几何时我深爱褐发丽人， 　　曾几何时我深爱金发丽人（她途径瑞典来到乐园）。” 　　“还有什么能更具表现力呢？Mais jecrois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette（法文，意为：可我却认为金发要比褐发更胜一筹。——译注）！” 　　“真的，波洛。”我叫道，脸色微红。 　　“C'est tout naturel（法文，意为：这很自然。——译注）。你有没有发现富兰克林•克拉克突然与梅根小姐持相同的观点并同情起她来？他怎样斜靠向前盯着她看？你是否还注意到托拉•格雷小姐对此深感厌恶？唐纳德•弗雷泽先生，他——” 　　“波洛，”我说，“你的头脑敏感得无可救药！” 　　“那是我心目中唯一剩下的东西。你才是那个敏感的人，黑斯廷斯。” 　　我正想就他的这一论点激烈辩论一番，此时门打开了。 　　进来的人是托拉•格雷，这令我感到惊讶。 　　“请原谅我又回来。”她镇静自若地说，“可有些事我想该告诉您，波洛先生。” 　　“当然，小姐。请坐下，不好吗？” 　　她坐下来，犹豫了一会儿，像是在选择措词。 　　“是这样的，波洛先生。克拉克先生刚才极其大方地使您相信我是自愿离开康比赛德的。他是个友善和忠实的人。可事实上，也并非全是那样子。我准备要留下来——还有一些与收藏品相关的事情要做，是克拉克夫人希望我离开！我说这话是有余地的。她病得很重，脑子由于他们给她的药物而迷糊。这使得她疑心重重，凭空幻想。她对我有股盲目冲动的厌恶，坚持我该离开那房子。” 　　我不得不钦佩那姑娘的勇气。她并未试图掩饰真相，而是以一种令人钦佩的直率直入主题。我内心深处挺佩服和同情她。 　　“我认为你来告诉我们，这样做极好。”我说。 　　“道明实情总会更好一点。”她笑着说，“我并不想躲在克拉克先生的殷勤之下，他是个挺会献殷勤的人。” 　　她话语之中洋溢着暖意，显然她极其崇拜富兰克林•克拉克。 　　“你非常的诚实，小姐。”波洛说。 　　“这对我来说是个打击。”托拉懊丧地说，“克拉克夫人如此讨厌我，我一点也没想到。事实上，我一直认为她挺喜欢我的。”她做了个鬼脸，“人真是活到老，学到老。” 　　她站起身。 　　“那就是我所有想说的。再见。” 　　我陪她走下楼梯。 　　“我觉得她挺光明正大的。”我回到房间时说，“她有勇气，那姑娘。” 　　“还有算计。” 　　“你是什么意思——算计？” 　　“我的意思是她有预见能力。” 　　我怀疑地望着他。 　　“她着实是个可爱的姑娘。”我说。 　　“她衣着极其秀美，那绉纱的马罗坎平纹绉和银狐衣领——dernier cri（法文，意为：最后的叫喊。——译注）。” 　　“你可真是个女装设计师，波洛。我可从来不注意人们穿什么衣服。” 　　“你真该加入裸体主义者聚居地。” 　　我义愤填膺，正想反唇相讥，他突然改变话题，说： 　　“黑斯廷斯，你知道吗？我无法摆脱头脑里早已存在的印象，今天下午的谈话当中，曾提到过一些值得注意的事。那倒是挺奇怪的——我无法确知那是什么……我脑中闪烁而过的只是一种印象……那提醒了我，使我想起曾经听到、看到、注意到的一些事情……” 　　“是在彻斯顿的什么事？” 　　“不，不是在彻斯顿……是在那之前……无论如何，现在它会出现……” 　　他看着我（可能我并不十分投入），笑着，再次开始哼着小调。 　　“她是个天使，不是吗？来自伊甸园，途径瑞典……” 　　“波洛，”我说，“见鬼去吧！” Chapter 20 Lady Clarke Chapter 20 Lady Clarke There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside when we saw it again for the second time. This may, perhaps, have been partly due to the weather—it was a moist September day with a hint of autumn in the air, and partly, no doubt, it was the semi-shut-up state of the house. The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the small room into which we were shown smelt damp and airless. A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down her starched cuffs. ‘M. Poirot?’ she said briskly. ‘I am Nurse Capstick. I got Mr Clarke’s letter saying you were coming.’ Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke’s health. ‘Not at all bad really, all things considered.’ ‘All things considered,’ I presumed, meant considering she was under sentence of death. ‘One can’t hope for much improvement, of course,but some new treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr Logan is quite pleased with her condition.’ ‘But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?’ ‘Oh, we never actually saythat,’ said Nurse Capstick, a little shocked by this plain speaking. ‘I suppose her husband’s death was a terrible shock to her?’ ‘Well, M. Poirot, if you understand what I mean, it wasn’t as much of a shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of her health and faculties. Things are dimmedfor Lady Clarke in her condition.’ ‘Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?’ ‘Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It’s always worse for a doctor, you know. They can’t buoy themselves up with false hopes. I’m afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with.’ ‘To begin with? Not so much afterwards?’ ‘One gets used to everything, doesn’t one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system.’ ‘Oh, yes—Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?’ ‘Yes—I’m very sorry about it—but ladies do takethese fancies sometimes when they’re not well. And there’s no arguing with them. It’s better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it.’ ‘Had Lady Clarke always disliked her?’ ‘No—that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn’t keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us.’ She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting-room. Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly faraway, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pin-points. ‘This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see,’ said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice. ‘Oh, yes, M. Poirot,’ said Lady Clarke vaguely. She extended her hand. ‘My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke.’ ‘How do you do? So good of you both to come.’ We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream. Presently with a slight effort she roused herself. ‘It was about Car, wasn’t it? About Car’s death. Oh, yes.’ She sighed, but still in a faraway manner, shaking her head. ‘We never thought it would be that way round…I was so sure I should be the first to go…’ She mused a minute or two. ‘Car was very strong—wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty—but he seemed more like fifty…Yes, very strong…’ She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing. Lady Clarke said suddenly: ‘Yes—it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn’t forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn’t going to be foolish…he’s so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that…They remain boys…Franklin, in particular.’ ‘He has an impulsive nature,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes—yes…And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car—’ Her voice tailed off. She shook her head with a febrile impatience. ‘Everything’s so dim…One’s body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else—whether the pain will hold off or not—nothing else seems to matter.’ ‘I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life.’ ‘It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.’ ‘Was it something about your husband’s death?’ ‘Car’s death? Yes, perhaps…Mad, poor creature—the murderer, I mean. It’s all the noise and the speed nowadays—people can’t stand it. I’ve always been sorry for mad people—their heads must feel so queer. And then, being shut up—it must be so terrible. But what else can one do? If they kill people…’ She shook her head—gently pained. ‘You haven’t caught him yet?’ she asked. ‘No, not yet.’ ‘He must have been hanging round here that day.’ ‘There were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season.’ ‘Yes—I forgot…But they keep down by the beaches, they don’t come up near the house.’ ‘No stranger came to the house that day.’ ‘Who says so?’ demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour. Poirot looked slightly taken aback. ‘The servants,’ he said. ‘Miss Grey.’ Lady Clarke said very distinctly: ‘That girl is a liar!’ I started on my chair. Poirot threw me a glance. Lady Clarke was going on, speaking now rather feverishly. ‘I didn’t like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her. Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world. What’s wrong with being an orphan? Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise. You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank—then you would have something to complain about. Said she was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well! I don’t know where all this bravery came in!’ ‘Now don’t excite yourself, dear,’ said Nurse Capstick, intervening. ‘We mustn’t have you getting tired.’ ‘I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I saw the last of her the better—that’s what I said! Franklin’s a fool! I didn’t want him getting mixed up with her. He’s a boy! No sense! “I’ll give her three months’ salary, if you like,” I said. “But out she goes. I don’t want her in the house a day longer.” There’s one thing about being ill—men can’t argue with you. He did what I said and she went. Went like a martyr, I expect—with more sweetness and bravery!’ ‘Now, dear, don’t get so excited. It’s bad for you.’ Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away. ‘You were as much of a fool about her as anyone else.’ ‘Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn’t say that. I did thinkMiss Grey a very nice girl—so romantic-looking, like someone out of a novel.’ ‘I’ve no patience with the lot of you,’ said Lady Clarke feebly. ‘Well, she’s gone now, my dear. Gone right away.’ Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not answer. Poirot said: ‘Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?’ ‘Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn’t she?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Very well, then. I saw her—with my own eyes—out of this window—talking to a perfectly strange man on the front doorstep.’ ‘When was this?’ ‘In the morning of the day Car died—about eleven o’clock.’ ‘What did this man look like?’ ‘An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special.’ ‘A gentleman—or a tradesman?’ ‘Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can’t remember.’ A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face. ‘Please—you must go now—I’m a little tired—Nurse.’ We obeyed the cue and took our departure. ‘That’s an extraordinary story,’ I said to Poirot aswe journeyed back to London. ‘About Miss Grey and a strange man.’ ‘You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to be found out’ ‘Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?’ ‘I can think of seven separate reasons—one of them an extremely simple one.’ ‘Is that a snub?’ I asked. ‘It is, perhaps, an invitation to use your ingenuity. But there is no need for us to perturb ourselves. The easiest way to answer the question is to ask her.’ ‘And suppose she tells us another lie.’ ‘That would indeed be interesting—and highly suggestive.’ ‘It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league with a madman.’ ‘Precisely—so I do not suppose it.’ I thought for some minutes longer. ‘A good-looking girl has a hard time of it,’ I said at last with a sigh. ‘Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea.’ ‘It’s true,’ I insisted, ‘everyone’s hand is against her simply because she is good-looking.’ ‘You speak the bêtises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at Combeside? Sir Carmichael’s? Franklin’s? Nurse Capstick’s?’ ‘Lady Clarke was down on her, all right.’ ‘Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke was the clear-sighted one—and that her husband, Mr Franklin Clarke and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats—and Captain Hastings.’ ‘You’ve got a grudge against that girl, Poirot.’ To my surprise his eyes twinkled suddenly ‘Perhaps it is that I like to mount you on your romantic high horse, Hastings. You are always the true knight—ready to come to the rescue of damsels in distress—good-looking damsels, bien entendu.’ ‘How ridiculous you are, Poirot,’ I said, unable to keep from laughing. ‘Ah, well, one cannot be tragic all the time. More and more I interest myself in the human developments that arise out of this tragedy. It is three dramas of family life that we have there. First there is Andover—the whole tragic life of Mrs Ascher, her struggles, her support of her German husband, the devotion of her niece. That alone would make a novel. Then you have Bexhill—the happy, easy-going father and mother, the two daughters so widely differing from each other—the pretty fluffy fool, and the intense, strong-willed Megan with her clear intelligence and her ruthless passion for truth. And the other figure—the self-controlled young Scotsman with his passionate jealousy and his worship of the dead girl. Finally you have the Churston household—the dying wife, and the husband absorbed in his collections, but with a growing tenderness and sympathy for the beautiful girl who helps him so sympathetically, and then the younger brother, vigorous, attractive, interesting, with a romantic glamour about him from his long travels. ‘Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings—I never cease to be fascinated by them.’ ‘This is Paddington,’ was the only answer I made. It was time, I felt, that someone pricked the bubble. On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a gentleman was waiting to see Poirot. I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser. He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever. Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine. Until these made their appearance he monopolizedthe conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman. Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn. ‘You have come from Bexhill, Mr Fraser?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Any success with Milly Higley?’ ‘Milly Higley? Milly Higley?’ Fraser repeated the name wonderingly. ‘Oh, that girl! No, I haven’t done anything there yet. It’s—’ He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously. ‘I don’t know why I’ve come to you,’ he burst out. ‘I know,’ said Poirot. ‘You can’t. How can you?’ ‘You have come to me because there is something that you must tell to someone. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!’ Poirot’s air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience. ‘You think so?’ ‘Parbleu, I am sure of it.’ ‘M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?’ It was the last thing I had expected him to say. Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised. ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘You have been dreaming—?’ ‘Yes. I suppose you’ll say it’s only natural that I should—should dream about—It. But it isn’t an ordinary dream.’ ‘No?’ ‘No?’ ‘I’ve dreamed it now three nights running, sir…I think I’m going mad…’ ‘Tell me—’ The man’s face was livid. His eyes were staring out of his head. As a matter of fact, he lookedmad. ‘It’s always the same. I’m on the beach. Looking for Betty. She’s lost—only lost, you understand. I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to give her her belt. I’m carrying it in my hand. And then—’ ‘Yes?’ ‘The dream changes…I’m not looking any more. She’s there in front of me—sitting on the beach. She doesn’t see me coming—It’s—oh, I can’t—’ ‘Go on.’ Poirot’s voice was authoritative—firm. ‘I come up behind her…she doesn’t hear me…I slip the belt round her neck and pull—oh—pull…’ The agony in his voice was frightful…I gripped the arms of my chair…The thing was too real. ‘She’s choking…she’s dead…I’ve strangled her—and then her head falls back and I see her face…and it’s Megan—not Betty!’ He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him. ‘What’s the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night…?’ ‘Drink up your wine,’ ordered Poirot. The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice: ‘What does it mean? I—I didn’t kill her, did I?’ What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman’s knock and automatically I left the room. What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in Donald Fraser’s extraordinary revelations. I raced back into the sitting-room. ‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘It’s come. The fourth letter.’ He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper-knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table. The three of us read it together. Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn’t this fun? And where shall we go next for honey? Poor Mr Poirot. I’m quite sorry for you. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. We’ve a long way to go still. Tipperary? No—that comes farther on. Letter T. The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th. So long. A B C. 第二十章　克拉克女勋爵 第二十章　克拉克女勋爵 　　当我们再次回到库姆比赛德时，库姆比赛德的空中弥漫着浓浓的忧郁。这一部分也许是由于天气的缘故——那是个九月里潮湿的一天，空气显示出已是秋天，一部分则毫无疑问是由于房子的半开半闭状态。楼下的房间的房门和百叶窗是关着的，我们被带往的小房间又潮湿又闷。 　　一个外表能干的医院护士向我们走来，边走边放下她的那显得古板的袖口。 　　“波洛先生？我是护士卡普斯蒂克，我接到克拉克先生的来信，说您要来。”她轻快地说道。 　　波洛问起了克拉克女勋爵的病情。 　　“其实一点也不严重，所有的一切都已考虑到了。” 　　“所有的一切都已考虑到了。”也许意味着克拉克女勋爵已被判了死刑，我猜想。 　　“当然不能期望有太大的改善，但一种新的治疗方法能使她的情况有小小的好转。劳根医生对她的情况很满意。” 　　“但是，事实上她永远不会康复了，对不对？” 　　“噢，我们从来没有真正那样说过。”卡普斯蒂克答道，她对这一直率的说法感到有点儿震惊。 　　“我想她丈夫的死对她该是个可怕的打击吧？” 　　“嗯，波洛先生，如果您理解我所说的话，其实这同给任何一个完全健康的女人所带来的打击相比，算不了什么。对于克拉克女勋爵这样的情况，事情已经不太严重了。” 　　“请原谅我的问话，但是他们是不是深深的相互爱着对方？” 　　“噢，是的。他们是很幸福的一对。他为她很是操心和感到难受，可怜的男人。你知道，对于一位医生来说，这就更难了。他们无法通过并不存在的希望来支撑自己。我担心从一开始就对他的心理造成了严重的损伤。” 　　“从一开始？之后就不太严重了？” 　　“人总会习惯，是不是？那时卡迈克尔爵士开始了珍藏。爱好对于一个男人来说，是种极大的安慰。他常常光顾拍卖会，之后他便和格雷小姐忙于在一个新的系统下对收藏品进行重新编号和安置。” 　　“噢，是的，格雷小姐。她离开了，是不是？” 　　“是的——我为此感到难过，但是当女士们不舒心时，她们便会有这样的假想，而且无法与她们争辩。那最好是让步，格雷小姐对这些是很理智的。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵总是不喜欢她？” 　　“不，并不是不喜欢。事实上，刚开始的时候，我想克拉克女勋爵很喜欢她。但是，我不可以和您在这闲聊了。我的病人会怀疑我们之间发生了什么。” 　　她带着我们来到二楼的一个房间。这个房间曾作为卧室，现在已改成一间舒适的客厅。 　　克拉克女勋爵坐在一张靠窗的大扶手椅上。她非常瘦削，脸色灰暗和憔悴，显示出她正在承受着巨大的痛苦。我注意到她有点精神恍惚，眼睛瞳孔极小。 　　“这位是您要见的波洛先生。”卡普斯蒂克高声欢快地说道。 　　“噢，是的，波洛先生。”克拉克女勋爵面无表情地说道。 　　她伸出了手。 　　“这位是我的朋友黑斯廷斯上尉，克拉克女勋爵。” 　　“你好，你们来了真好。” 　　在她似是而非的指引下，我们坐了下来。没人说话，一切相当平静。克拉克女勋爵似乎正沉浸在梦中。 　　过了一会儿，她费力地振作起精神。 　　“是关于卡，是吗？关于他的死，噢，是的。” 　　她摇着头叹息，但依然显得精神恍惚。 　　“我们从来没有想到事情会这样……我是非常确信我应先他而去……”她深思了一两分钟，“卡非常结实，在他的年龄他的身体是非常好的，他从来不生病。他将近六十了，可看起来更像五十……是的，非常结实……” 　　她又一次沉入梦中。波洛很清楚某些药物的作用，以及它们如何使得服药者会产生时间无限的感觉，他一言不发。 　　克拉克女勋爵突然说道： 　　“是的——你们来得好。我告诉过富兰克林，他说他不会忘记告诉你们，我希望富兰克林不会变得愚蠢……，他如此容易上当，尽管他曾经到世界很多地方漫游。男人像他那样……他们总是孩子……富兰克林尤其这样。” 　　“他天生感情用事。”波洛说。 　　“是的，是的……而且非常侠情仗义。男人在那方面总是挺愚蠢的。甚至卡——”她的声音变细。 　　她发热似的不耐烦地摇着头。 　　“每件事都模糊不清……人的身体是个麻烦事，尤其是当它占了上风的时候。一个人不会意识到其他东西——疼痛是否会延缓——其他事情都显得不重要。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵，我知道，这是人一生中的一个悲剧。” 　　“它使我如此之笨。我甚至都记不请我曾想对你说的话。” 　　“是不是关于您丈夫的死？” 　　“卡的死？是的，也许……疯狂的可怜家伙，我指的是凶手。如今全是噪音和速度——人们已经无法忍受这些。我一直为这些疯狂的人感到难过，他们的头脑感觉一定是奇怪的。而之后，又封闭起来？这实在太可怜了，但除此之外人又能做些什么呢？如果他们杀人……”她摇着头显然有点轻微疼痛。“你们还没有抓住他吗？”她问道。 　　“还没有。” 　　“那天他一定在这附近转悠。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵，那时有许多陌生人。那是假期。” 　　“是的，我忘了……但是他们都在海滩上，他们并不到房子附近来。” 　　“那一天没有陌生人到房子来。” 　　“谁说的？”克拉克女勋爵突然有力地询问道。 　　波洛看起来有点失言。 　　“那些仆人，”他说道，“格雷小姐。” 　　克拉克女勋爵一字一板地说道：“那个姑娘是个骗子。” 　　我在椅子上吓了一跳。波洛看了我一眼。 　　克拉克女勋爵接着说，这一次显得非常激动。 　　“我不喜欢她。我从没有喜欢过她。卡的脑子里装的全是她，过去常说她是个孤儿，在世上孤苦伶仃。孤儿怎么了？有时这是祸中得福。你可能有一个饭桶父亲和一个酗酒的母亲，于是你便有可以抱怨的东西了。说她这样勇敢，是个好帮手。我敢说她的工作一定做得很好！我不知道这种勇敢究竟体现在哪里。” 　　“亲爱的，别太激动。”卡普斯蒂克护士插话道，“我们可不能让您累着。” 　　“不久我就把她赶走了！富兰克林却顽固地坚持认为她对我可能是个安慰。对我可真是个安慰！越早看到她离开越好——这是我说的！富兰克林真是个傻瓜！我可不希望他和她搅和在一起。他只是个孩子，还不懂事！‘如果你愿意的话，我给她三个月薪水。’我说，‘但她必须离开，我一天都不能再见到她了。’生病的一点好处就是——男人不会和你争吵。他按照我的话行事，她走了，像个殉道者，我希望——她能把更多的快乐和胆量一同带走。” 　　“亲爱的，别这样激动，这对你不好。” 　　克拉克女勋爵示意卡普斯蒂克护士离开。 　　“你和其他人一样像傻瓜一样对她。” 　　“噢，克拉克女勋爵您不能这么说。我认为格雷小姐是个不错的姑娘，看上去挺浪漫的，就象小说中的某个人。” 　　“我没有耐性跟你说这个。”克拉克女勋爵无力地说。 　　“噢，亲爱的，她已经走了。” 　　克拉克女勋爵摇着头，显出有些不耐烦，什么也没说。 　　波洛说： 　　“为什么你说格雷小姐是个骗子？” 　　“因为她是的。她对你说没有陌生人来到这屋子，是吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　“很好，那么我亲眼看见——通过这扇窗子——她站在前面的台阶上同一个完全陌生的人讲话。” 　　“那是什么时候？” 　　“克拉克死的那天早上，大约十一点。” 　　“那个男的长得什么样？” 　　“一个很平平常常的人，没有什么特别的地方。” 　　“是个绅士或是商人？” 　　“不是商人。一个穿着破旧的人，我记不清了。” 　　突然她的脸上显出一阵痛颤。 　　“请——你得走了——我有点累——护士。” 　　我们只好离开。 　　在回伦敦的路上我对波洛说：“这可是个不寻常的故事，关于格雷小姐和一个陌生的男人。” 　　“你看，黑斯廷斯，正如我跟你说的，总会发现一些情况。” 　　“为什么那个姑娘要说谎，说她没看见任何人？” 　　“我可以想出七个不同的理由——其中一个相当简单。” 　　“那是一个疏忽？”我问道。 　　“是的，也许这就要让你发挥聪明才智了。可是我们不必自找麻烦，回答这个问题的最容易的方法就是去问她自己。” 　　“可是设想一下，她也许会告诉我们另一个谎言。” 　　“那真的会有趣——很有启发性。” 　　“去设想一个像她这样的姑娘和一个疯子串通一气，这实在是荒谬。” 　　“非常正确，所以我不去这样设想。” 　　我想了几分钟。 　　“一个长相不错的姑娘日子可不太好过。”我最后叹息道。 　　“Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注）。去掉你那个想法。” 　　“这是事实，”我坚持道，“每个人都陪着她，仅仅因为她长相不错。” 　　“你在说betises（法文，意为：蠢话。——译注），我的朋友。在库姆比赛德谁在对付她？卡迈克尔爵士？富兰克林？或是卡普斯蒂克护士？” 　　“好吧，克拉克女勋爵在欺负她。” 　　“Mou ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注），你对年轻的漂亮姑娘真是充满了仁爱。而我，我感觉对重病在身的老妇人充满仁爱。也许克拉克女勋爵的眼光很清晰的——而她的丈夫、富兰克林•克拉克先生、卡普斯蒂克护士都是瞎子——还有黑斯廷斯上尉。” 　　“波洛，你对那个姑娘依然怀恨在心。” 　　出乎我的意料，他的眼睛突然眨了眨。 　　“也许是我使得你浪漫自大，黑斯廷斯。你总是个真正的骑士，总是乐于营救难中的姑娘——漂亮姑娘，bien entendu（法文，意为：当然。——译注）。” 　　我忍不住笑了，“波洛，你可真能挖苦人。” 　　“嗳，人总不能一直悲惨下去。我越来越对产生自这个悲剧的人类发展发生兴趣。我们共有三出家庭生活戏。首先，是安多弗——阿谢尔夫人的整个悲剧生活，她的斗争，对她的德国丈夫的支持和对侄女的爱。这可以单独写成一部小说。接着是贝克斯希尔——那幸福悠闲的父亲和母亲以及两个截然不同的女儿——糊涂的傻子同有着强烈意志力的梅根，她富有才智，并执著追求真理。还有另一个人物——那个有自制力的年轻苏格兰男人，他多情，有嫉妒心并深深爱着死去的姑娘。最后是彻斯顿全家——垂死的妻子，以及沉溺于收藏的丈夫，他却又对因同情而帮助过自己的漂亮的姑娘满怀温柔和同情，还有那个弟弟，他充满活力，魅力四射，诙谐有趣，从他的长途跋涉中能发现他那迷人的神韵。” 　　“请记住，黑斯廷斯，在正常的情形之下，这三出独立的戏不会彼此关联，它们不会相互影响。生活中的排列组合——我永远不会为它们所迷倒。” 　　“这是帕丁顿。”这是我所能说。 　　我感觉是揭穿真相的时候到了。 　　当我们回到白港大厦的时候，有人告诉我们：有位先生正在等波洛。 　　我猜是富兰克林，或者可能是贾普，但居然是唐纳德•弗雷泽，这令我吃惊。 　　他显得非常局促不安，他的发音不清，比以往更显得明显。 　　波洛并没有急着让他说出他的来访的目的，倒是坚持建议来点三明治和一杯酒。 　　三明治和酒拿上来后，他便一个人在不停地说话，解释我们去过哪里，以及诚恳地说起对那个病妇的感觉。 　　直到我们吃下三明治，又喝完酒后，他才开启谈话。 　　“弗雷泽先生，你是从贝克斯希尔来吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　“和米莉•希格利在一起有什么进展吗？” 　　“米莉•希格利？米莉•希格利？”弗雷泽不解地重复着那个名字，“噢，那个姑娘！不，在那里，我什么都没有做。那是——” 　　他停了下来。紧张地叉着双手。 　　“我不知道为什么到您这里来。”他突然冒出一句。 　　“我知道。”波洛说。 　　“您不会。您怎么会知道？” 　　“你来我这里，是因为你有一件事必须对某个人讲。你非常正确，我就是那个合适的人，说吧。” 　　波洛的断言还真起了作用。弗雷泽看着他，显出一种奇怪的乐意遵从的神情。 　　“您这么认为？” 　　“parblue（法文，意为：哎呀。——译注），当然，我很确信。” 　　“波洛先生，您对梦有研究吗？” 　　这是我最没能想到的。 　　波洛却显得丝毫没感到惊讶。 　　“是的。”他答道，“你一直在做梦——？” 　　“是的，我想您会说我做梦是很自然的，可这并不是一个普通的梦。” 　　“是吗？” 　　“是吗？” 　　“我已经三个晚上连续做这个梦了，——先生……我想我快要疯了……” 　　“告诉我——” 　　那个男人的脸苍白，他的眼睛瞪着，事实上，他看起来疯了。 　　“梦总是相同。我在海滩上，寻找着贝蒂，她不见了——只是消失不见了，你知道。我得找到她。我得把她的腰带给她，我手中拿着那根腰带，然后——” 　　“嗯？” 　　“梦变了……我不再找了。她就在我的面前——坐在沙滩上。她没有看见我的到来——噢，我不能——” 　　“接着说吧。” 　　波洛的声音含着命令式的坚决。 　　“我走到她的身后……她听不到我……我偷偷地把皮带绕到她的脖子上，往上一拉——噢——拉……” 　　他的声音中的那份痛苦挣扎相当可怕……我紧握住椅子的把手……这件事太真实了。 　　“她窒息了……她死了……我勒死了她——随后她的头向后面倒来，我看清了她的脸……那是梅根——不是贝蒂！” 　　他倚靠在椅子上，脸色苍白，浑身发抖。波洛又倒了一杯酒递给他。 　　“这个梦是什么意思，波洛先生？为什么我会做这个梦？而且每天晚上……” 　　“喝掉你的酒吧。”波洛命令道。 　　那个年轻人喝完酒，然后用较平静的声音问道： 　　“这是什么意思？我——我并没有杀她，是不是？” 　　我不知道波洛是怎么回答的，因为这时候我听到邮差敲门，顺便离开房间。 　　从邮箱中取出的东西使我对弗雷泽那不同寻常的故事完全没了兴趣。 　　我跑回客厅。 　　“波洛，”我叫道，“来了，第四封信。” 　　他跳将起来，从我的手中抓过信，拿出他的裁纸刀打开信。他把那封信摊开在桌上。 　　我们三个人一起看信。 　　　　还是没有成功？呸！呸！你和警察在做什么？ 　　是的，这难道不可笑吗？亲爱的，我们下一站是 　　哪里？可怜的波洛，我真是为您难过。 　　　　如果起先没有成功，那么就再尝试、尝试、 　　尝试。 　　　　我们依然还有很长的路要走。 　　　　蒂帕雷里（Tipperary）？不——那还早着 　　呢。那是字母 T。 　　　　下一次小事故将于9月11日发生在唐克斯特 　　（Doncaster）。再见。 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 ABC Chapter 21 Description of a Murderer Chapter 21 Description of a Murderer It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests. We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of doing anything until the fourth letter should come revealing the projected scene of the D murder. That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension. But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more. Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in. The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill. ‘I wanted to ask Mr Clarke something.’ She seemed rather anxious to excuse and explain her procedure. I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it. The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else. Crome was not, I think, any too pleased to see the various participants in the drama. He became extremely official and non-committal. ‘I’ll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to take a copy of it—’ ‘No, no, it is not necessary.’ ‘What are your plans, inspector?’ asked Clarke. ‘Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr Clarke.’ ‘This time we’ve got to get him,’ said Clarke. ‘I may tell you, inspector, that we’ve formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties.’ Inspector Crome said in his best manner: ‘Oh, yes?’ ‘I gather you don’t think much of amateurs, inspector?’ ‘You’ve hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr Clarke?’ ‘We’ve got a personal axe to grind—and that’s something.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ ‘I fancy your own task isn’t going to be too easy,inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A B C has done you again.’ Crome, I noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed. ‘I don’t fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time,’ he said. ‘The fool has given us ample warning. The 11th isn’t till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that’s so much to the good. Also, we’ll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That’s already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!’ Clarke said quietly: ‘It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.’ Crome stared at him. ‘What do you mean, Mr Clarke?’ ‘Man alive, don’t you realize that on next Wednesday the St Leger is being run at Doncaster?’ The inspector’s jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar ‘Oh, yes?’ Instead he said: ‘That’s true. Yes, that complicates matters…’ ‘A B C is no fool, even if he isa madman.’ We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race-course—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications. Poirot murmured: ‘C’est ingénieux. Tout de même c’est bien imaginé, c?a.’ ‘It’s my belief,’ said Clarke, ‘that the murder will take place on the race-course—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.’ For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought… Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him. ‘The St Leger is a complication,’ he allowed. ‘It’s unfortunate.’ He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered. She said anxiously: ‘The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?’ It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head. It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer. ‘Doncaster—and on the day of the St Leger.’ We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand. A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do? As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest. ‘Mes enfants,’ he said. ‘We must not disperse the strength. We must approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves—each one of us—what do Iknow about the murderer? And so we must build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek.’ ‘We know nothing about him,’ sighed Thora Grey helplessly. ‘No, no, mademoiselle. That is not true. Each one of us knows something about him—if we only knew what it is we know. I am convinced that the knowledge is thereif we could only get at it.’ Clarke shook his head. ‘We don’t know anything—whether he’s old oryoung, fair or dark! None of us has ever seen him or spoken to him! We’ve gone over everything we all know again and again.’ ‘Not everything! For instance, Miss Grey here told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered.’ Thora Grey nodded. ‘That’s quite right.’ ‘Is it? Lady Clarke told us, mademoiselle, that from her window she saw you standing on the front doorstep talking to a man.’ ‘She saw metalking to a strange man?’ The girl seemed genuinely astonished. Surely that pure, limpid look could not be anything but genuine. She shook her head. ‘Lady Clarke must have made a mistake. I never—Oh!’ The exclamation came suddenly—jerked out of her. A crimson wave flooded her cheeks. ‘I remember now! How stupid! I’d forgotten all about it. But it wasn’t important. Just one of those men who come round selling stockings—you know, ex-army people. They’re very persistent. I had to get rid of him. I was just crossing the hall when he came to the door. He spoke to me instead of ringing but he was quite a harmless sort of person. I suppose that’s why I forgot about him.’ Poirot was swaying to and fro, his hands clasped to his head. He was muttering to himself with such vehemence that nobody else said anything, but stared at him instead. ‘Stockings,’ he was murmuring. ‘Stockings…stockings…stockings…c?a vient…stockings…stockings…it is the motif—yes…three months ago…and the other day…and now. Bon Dieu, I have it!’ He sat upright and fixed me with an imperious eye. ‘You remember, Hastings? Andover. The shop. We go upstairs. The bedroom. On a chair. A pair of new silk stockings. And now I know what it was that roused my attention two days ago. It was you, mademoiselle—’ He turned on Megan. ‘You spoke of your mother who wept because she had bought your sister some new stockings on the very day of the murder…’ He looked round on us all. ‘You see? It is the same motifthree times repeated. That cannot be coincidence. When mademoiselle spoke I had the feeling that what she said linked up with something. I know now with what. The words spoken by Mrs Ascher’s next-door neighbour, Mrs Fowler. About people who were always trying to sellyou things—and she mentioned stockings. Tell me, mademoiselle, it is true, is it not, that your mother bought thosestockings, not at a shop, but from someone who came to the door?’ ‘Yes—yes—she did…I remember now. She said something about being sorry for these wretched men who go round and try to get orders.’ ‘But what’s the connection?’ cried Franklin. ‘That a man came selling stockings proves nothing!’ ‘I tell you, my friends, it cannotbe coincidence. Three crimes—and every time a man selling stockings and spying out the land.’ He wheeled round on Thora. ‘A vous la parole!Describe this man.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘I can’t…I don’t know how…He had glasses, I think—and a shabby overcoat…’ ‘Mieux que c?a, mademoiselle.’ ‘He stooped…I don’t know. I hardly looked at him. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice…’ Poirot said gravely: ‘You are quite right, mademoiselle. The whole secret of the murders lies there in your description of the murderer—for without a doubt he wasthe murderer! “He wasn’t the sort of man you’d notice.” Yes—there is no doubt about it…You have described the murderer!’ 第二十一章　对凶手的描述 第二十一章　对凶手的描述 　　就在此时此刻，我想，波洛所谓的人性因素开始再度淡漠起来。这仿佛是由于人的心绪无法经受住十足的恐怖，我们因而获得了一段拥有正常的人类情趣的时间。 　　我们每个人都感觉到，要有所动作，这几乎是毫无可能的事。直到第四封信来临，揭示了D 谋杀案的预谋地点，那种等待的气氛才使紧张状态得以缓释下来。 　　可现在，那些用打字机打印在纸张上的字迹在白色的硬纸中嘲笑，追捕行动再一次开展起来。 　　克罗姆警督已从苏格兰场返回。他还留在此地时，富兰克林•克拉克和梅根•巴纳德走了进来。 　　那姑娘解释道，她也是刚从贝克斯希尔来。 　　“我希望能向克拉克先生询问一些问题。” 　　她看来在极其迫切地为她的行事步骤寻找借口和辩解。我刚刚注意到这一事实，却不以为然。 　　我脑中自然而然地灌满了那封信，脑子里什么别的想法都没有。 　　我想，对于见到这个戏剧当中的众多不同参与者，克罗姆丝毫没感到高兴。他变得极端的冠冕堂皇和漠不关心。 　　“我想把这封信带走，波洛先生。如果你乐意于留一份复印件……” 　　“不，不，这没必要。” 　　“你有什么计划，警督？”克拉克问。 　　“有相当全面的计划，克拉克先生。” 　　“这次我们要抓住他，”克拉克说，“我可以告诉你，警督。我们已组成了自己的团体来对付此事，这是个有关各方参加的团体。” 　　克罗姆警督以他最为礼貌的方式说： 　　“哦，是吗？” 　　“我猜想，你可能会不太赞成，警督？” 　　“你并没有可以指挥的资源，是吗，克拉克先生？” 　　“我们自有打算——那应该会有些效果的。” 　　“我想你的任务不会太轻松的，警督。实际上，我还是认为那个老练的ABC 会再次算计你。” 　　我注意到，在其它的方法统统都失效的时候，克罗姆常常会受唆使而开口发言。 　　“我想，这一次公众对我们的安排不会有太多的批评之辞，”他说。“那傻瓜已经给了我们充分的警告。直到下周三才是十一日，那就使得我们有足够的时间在新闻界开展公众活动。唐克斯特会进行全面的警戒，每个以D为姓氏开头的都要加强防备——那样子就太好了。另外，我们将大规模地派遣警士进驻镇内，全国的警察局长们均以同意对此进行安排。唐克斯特的全体人员，警察和平民百姓，都将出动去抓捕一个人。只要有相当的运气，我们就应该能抓住他。” 　　克拉克平静地说： 　　“显而易见，看来你不是个爱好运动的人，警督。” 　　克罗姆盯着他。 　　“你是什么意思，克拉克先生？” 　　“我的天啊，你怎么能没意识到下周三圣莱杰赛马会将在唐克斯特举行？” 　　警督下颌沉落。他无论如何都难以吐露出“哦，是吗”，取而代之的是，他说道： 　　“对。是的，那使事情变得复杂……” 　　“ABC可不是个笨蛋，尽管他是个疯子。” 　　我们都静默了一两分钟，来体会这种形势。赛马场上的那些人群，那些热情洋溢的、爱好体育的英国大众，会使事情无穷无尽地变得复杂起来。 　　波洛小声道： 　　“C'est ingenieux.Tout de meme c'est bien imagine，ca。（法文，意为：太巧妙了，可这还是想象出来的。——译注）” 　　“我深信，”克拉克说，“谋杀案将会在赛马场发生——可能恰好是在马匹赛跑的时候。” 　　此时，他那爱好体育的本性在思考之中有片刻的欢愉…… 　　克罗姆警督站起身来，拿着信件。 　　“圣莱杰赛马使事情变得纷烦杂乱，”他承认道，“这可真是时运不济。” 　　他出门离去。我们听到过道上有喧闹的声音。过了一会儿，托拉•格雷走进屋来。 　　她渴切地说： 　　“警督告诉我有另外一封信。这次凶案地点将在哪里？” 　　外面天气正下着雨。托拉•格雷身穿黑色上衣和裙子，还带有毛皮服饰，金色秀发的头上还戴着一顶小黑帽。 　　他冲着富兰克林•克拉克说话，径直向他走来，一只手搭在他的臂上，等待着他的回答。 　　“唐克斯特——是在圣莱杰赛马那一天。” 　　我们坐下来进行讨论。我们都有意赶赴犯罪现场，这自不待言，可是赛马的聚会无疑使我们事先尝试性地作出的计划变得复杂起来。 　　一阵沮丧的感觉扫掠过我的心头。无论这小组中六个人对这件事情多么地感兴趣，他们最终又能够做些什么呢？那里将会有无数的警察，他们将目不转睛，保持警戒，观望所有可能的地点。再多六双眼睛又能够干些什么呢？ 　　波洛提高音量，仿佛在回答我的思虑。他讲话的情形活像是个小学校长或是牧师。 　　“Mes enfants（法文，意为：我的孩子们。——译注），”他说，“我们不能分散力量。我们在处理这件事时，头脑中要有章法。我们必须发掘出真相。我们必须对自己说——对我们当中的每个人说——我们知道些关于凶手的什么情况呢？因而我们必须建立起即将寻找的这个人的合成影像。” 　　“我可是对他一无所知，”托拉•格雷无助地叹息。 　　“不，不，小姐，并非如此。我们中的每个人都知道他的一些情况——只要我们能了解自己所知道的情况。我相信，只要我们能了解这些情况，真相就会显露。” 　　克拉克摇摇头。 　　“我们一无所知——他是年长还是年轻，白皙还是黝黑呢！我们当中没有一个人曾见过他或同他讲过话！我们已经把知道的所有情况回忆一遍又一遍。” 　　“并不是所有情况！比方说，格雷小姐告诉过我们，在卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士被谋害那天，她并没有看见或是同陌生人讲过话。” 　　托拉•格雷点点头。 　　“的确如此。” 　　“是吗？克拉克女勋爵告诉我们，小姐，她曾从窗户望出去，看见你站在台阶上同一个男人讲话。” 　　“她看见我在与一个男人讲话？”那姑娘看来真是感到震惊。很显然，她脸上那种纯真、清晰的脸色只能够是真实无邪的。 　　她摇摇头。 　　“克拉克女勋爵一定是搞错了。” 　　她突然间吐露出那声惊呼，一阵绯红掠过她的脸颊。 　　“我现在想起来了！多愚蠢啊！我全都忘记了，可这并不重要啊。那只是个推销袜子的人——你知道，你是个退伍军人。他非常固执，我必须要把他打发走。他来到门口时，我正好经过大厅，他同我说话而不是按响门铃，但他是那种毫无恶意的人。我想那就是我会把他忘记的原因。” 　　波洛前后摇晃着，双手抱紧头。他如此激烈地喃喃自语，以至于其他人都一言不发，眼睛望着他看。 　　“长统袜，”他低语，“长统袜……长统袜……长统袜……Ca vient（法文，意为：对的。——译注）……长统袜……长统袜……这才是主题——是的……三个月前……那一天……现在，Bon Dieu（法文，意为：我的天哪。——译注），我知道了。” 　　他笔直坐着，用一种专横的眼光注视着我。 　　“你还记得吗，黑斯廷斯？在安多弗那间小店，我们上楼去。在那间卧室里，椅子上有一双小的丝质长统袜。而现在我已知道两天前是什么引发了我的注意力。是你，小姐——”他转向梅根，“你谈到你母亲曾哭泣，因为她正好在凶杀案发生那天为你妹妹买了些新的长统袜子……” 　　他环顾地望着我们所有人。 　　“你明白吗？这是在三次谋杀案中都重复的主题，那不可能是巧合。在小姐开口说话的时候，我就有过一种感觉。她所说的话会同某件事情相联系。我现在知道是同什么事情有关联了。福勒太太，那位阿谢尔太太的隔墙邻居，曾说过一些话，提到有人总是试图向你推销产品——她也曾提到过长统袜。请告诉我，小姐，你母亲并不是从商店里购买了那些袜子，而是从上门推销的某个人那里买的。这是不是真的？” 　　“是的，是的，她是这样做的……我现在想起来了。她曾说过一些话，说她为这些到处奔波、试图获得订单的倒霉男人们感到难过。” 　　“可这有什么联系呢？”富兰克林叫道，“一个上门推销长统袜的男人证明不了什么！” 　　“我告诉你们，我的朋友们，这不可能是巧合。三件罪案——每一次都有个男人在那儿推销长统袜，并窥视那个地方。” 　　他围绕着托拉旋步走着。 　　“A vous la parole（法文，意为：请你说吧。——译注）！请描述一下这个人吧。” 　　她茫然地朝着他看。 　　“我不……我记不得是怎样……他带着眼镜，我想——他穿着件寒酸的外套……” 　　“Mais que ca，mademoiselle（法文，意为：仅此而已，小姐。——译注）。” 　　“他弯腰曲背……我不知道。我几乎没有看他，他才不是那种会令你关注的人……” 　　波洛语调低沉地说： 　　“你说得挺对，小姐。毫无疑问，凶杀案的整个秘密都要依靠你对凶手的描述。他就是那个凶手！他不是那种会引起你注意的人！是的——这毫无疑问……你已描述了凶手地样子！” Chapter 22 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 22 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Mr Alexander Bonaparte Cust sat very still. His breakfast lay cold and untasted on his plate. A newspaper was propped up against the teapot and it was this newspaper that Mr Cust was reading with avid interest. Suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank back into a chair by the window. He buried his head in his hands with a stifled groan. He did not hear the sound of the opening door. His landlady, Mrs Marbury, stood in the doorway. ‘I was wondering, Mr Cust, if you’d fancy a nice—why, whatever is it? Aren’t you feeling well?’ Mr Cust raised his head from his hands. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing at all, Mrs Marbury. I’m not—feeling very well this morning.’ Mrs Marbury inspected the breakfast tray. ‘So I see. You haven’t touched your breakfast. Is it your head troubling you again?’ ‘No. At least, yes…I—I just feel a bit out of sorts.’ ‘Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure. You’ll not be going away today, then?’ Mr Cust sprang up abruptly. ‘No, no. I have to go. It’s business. Important. Very important.’ His hands were shaking. Seeing him so agitated, Mrs Marbury tried to soothe him. ‘Well, if you must—you must. Going far this time?’ ‘No. I’m going to’—he hesitated for a minute or two—‘Cheltenham.’ There was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the word that Mrs Marbury looked at him in surprise. ‘Cheltenham’s a nice place,’ she said conversationally. ‘I went there from Bristol one year. The shops are ever so nice.’ ‘I suppose so—yes.’ Mrs Marbury stooped rather stiffly—for stooping did not suit her figure—to pick up the paper that was lying crumpled on the floor. ‘Nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays,’ she said as she glanced at the headlines before putting it back on the table. ‘Gives me thecreeps, it does. I don’t read it. It’s like Jack the Ripper all over again.’ Mr Cust’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. ‘Doncaster—that’s the place he’s going to do his next murder,’ said Mrs Marbury. ‘And tomorrow! Fairly makes your flesh creep, doesn’t it? If I lived in Doncaster and my name began with a D, I’d take the first train away, that I would. I’d run no risks. What did you say, Mr Cust?’ ‘Nothing, Mrs Marbury—nothing.’ ‘It’s the races and all. No doubt he thinks he’ll get his opportunity there. Hundreds of police, they say, they’re drafting in and—Why, Mr Cust, you dolook bad. Hadn’t you better have a little drop of something? Really, now, you oughtn’t to go travelling today.’ Mr Cust drew himself up. ‘It is necessary, Mrs Marbury. I have always been punctual in my—engagements. People must have—must have confidence in you! When I have undertaken to do a thing, I carry it through. It is the only way to get on in—in—business.’ ‘But if you’re ill?’ ‘I am not ill, Mrs Marbury. Just a little worried over—various personal matters. I slept badly. I am really quite all right.’ His manner was so firm that Mrs Marbury gatheredup the breakfast things and reluctantly left the room. Mr Cust dragged out a suitcase from under the bed and began to pack. Pyjamas, sponge-bag, spare collar, leather slippers. Then unlocking a cupboard, he transferred a dozen or so flattish cardboard boxes about ten inches by seven from a shelf to the suitcase. He just glanced at the railway guide on the table and then left the room, suitcase in hand. Setting it down in the hall, he put on his hat and overcoat. As he did so he sighed deeply, so deeply that the girl who came out from a room at the side looked at him in concern. ‘Anything the matter, Mr Cust?’ ‘Nothing, Miss Lily.’ ‘You were sighing so!’ Mr Cust said abruptly: ‘Are you at all subject to premonitions, Miss Lily? To presentiments?’ ‘Well, I don’t know that I am, really…Of course, there are days when you just feel everything’s going wrong, and days when you feel everything’s going right.’ ‘Quite,’ said Mr Cust. He sighed again. ‘Well, goodbye, Miss Lily. Goodbye. I’m sure you’ve been very kind to me always here.’ ‘Well, don’t say goodbye as though you were going away for ever,’ laughed Lily. ‘No, no, of course not.’ ‘See you Friday,’ laughed the girl. ‘Where are you going this time? Seaside again.’ ‘No, no—er—Cheltenham.’ ‘Well, that’s nice, too. But not quite as nice as Torquay. That must have been lovely. I want to go there for my holiday next year. By the way, you must have been quite near where the murder was—the A B C murder. It happened while you were down there, didn’t it?’ ‘Er—yes. But Churston’s six or seven miles away.’ ‘All the same, it must have been exciting! Why, you may have passed the murderer in the street! You may have been quite near to him!’ ‘Yes, I may, of course,’ said Mr Cust with such a ghastly and contorted smile that Lily Marbury noticed it. ‘Oh, Mr Cust, you don’tlook well.’ ‘I’m quite all right, quite all right. Goodbye, Miss Marbury.’ He fumbled to raise his hat, caught up his suitcase and fairly hastened out of the front door. ‘Funny old thing,’ said Lily Marbury indulgently. ‘Looks half batty to my mind.’ II Inspector Crome said to his subordinate: ‘Get me out a list of all stocking manufacturing firms and circularize them. I want a list of all their agents—you know, fellows who sell on commission and tout for orders.’ ‘This the A B C case, sir?’ ‘Yes. One of Mr Hercule Poirot’s ideas.’ The inspector’s tone was disdainful. ‘Probably nothing in it, but it doesn’t do to neglect any chance, however faint.’ ‘Right, sir. Mr Poirot’s done some good stuff in his time, but I think he’s a bit gaga now, sir.’ ‘He’s a mountebank,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘Always posing. Takes in some people. It doesn’t take in me. Now then, about the arrangement for Doncaster…’ III Tom Hartigan said to Lily Marbury: ‘Saw your old dugout this morning.’ ‘Who? Mr Cust?’ ‘Cust it was. At Euston. Looking like a lost hen, as usual. I think the fellow’s half loony. He needs someone to look after him. First he dropped his paper and thenhe dropped his ticket. I picked that up—he hadn’t the faintest idea he’d lost it. Thanked me in an agitated sort of manner, but I don’t think he recognized me.’ ‘Oh, well,’ said Lily. ‘He’s only seen you passing in the hall, and not very often at that.’ They danced once round the floor. ‘You dance something beautiful,’ said Tom. ‘Go on,’ said Lily and wriggled yet a little closer. They danced round again. ‘Did you say Euston or Paddington?’ asked Lily abruptly. ‘Where you saw old Cust, I mean?’ ‘Euston.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Of course I’m sure. What do you think?’ ‘Funny. I thought you went to Cheltenham from Paddington.’ ‘So you do. But old Cust wasn’t going to Cheltenham. He was going to Doncaster.’ ‘Cheltenham.’ ‘Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn’t I?’ ‘Well, he told mehe was going to Cheltenham. I’m sure he did.’ ‘Oh, you’ve got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right. Some people have all the luck. I’ve got a bit on Firefly for the Leger and I’d love to see it run.’ ‘I shouldn’t think Mr Cust went to race-meetings,he doesn’t look the kind. Oh, Tom, I hope he won’t get murdered. It’s Doncaster the A B C murder’s going to be.’ ‘Cust’ll be all right. His name doesn’t begin with a D.’ ‘He might have been murdered last time. He was down near Churston at Torquay when the last murder happened.’ ‘Was he? That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘He wasn’t at Bexhill the time before, was he?’ Lily crinkled her brows. ‘He was away…Yes, I remember he was away…because he forgot his bathing-dress. Mother was mending it for him. And she said: “There—Mr Cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after all,” and I said: “Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress—there’s been the most awful murder,” I said, “a girl strangled at Bexhill.”’ ‘Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. I say, Lily’—his face crinkled up with amusement. ‘What price your old dugout being the murderer himself?’ ‘Poor Mr Cust? He wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ laughed Lily. They danced on happily—in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together. In their unconscious minds something stirred… 第二十二章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第二十二章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特先生静静地坐着，他的早餐已搁久变凉了，在他的盘中没有被碰过。有一张报纸托靠着茶壶，卡斯特先生正以浓厚的兴趣阅读着报纸。 　　突然间他站起身，前后踱了一会儿步，然后又坐入临窗的一把椅子中。他把头埋在双手之中，发出一声沉闷的呻吟。 　　他没有听见门被打开的声音。他的房东太太，马伯里太太，站在门口。 　　“我在想，卡斯特先生，你是否会想吃点好的，怎么啦，是什么事？你觉得不舒服吗？” 　　卡斯特先生从手中抬起头来。 　　“没事，什么事也没有，马伯里太太。我今天早上有点不太舒服。” 　　马伯里太太检查了早餐托盘。 　　“我明白了。你还没碰过早餐，是你的头痛又在困扰你吗？” 　　“不是。不过，也是……我——我只是有点不舒服而已。” 　　“哦，我想我很抱歉。那么，你今天不出门吧？” 　　卡斯特先生突然发话。 　　“不，不，我必须去。那是些公务，很重要的事。非常重要。” 　　他的手在不停地颤抖着。看到他如此焦虑不安，马伯里太太试图安慰他。 　　“噢，如果你必须去——必须去的话，这一次是否要远行？” 　　“不，我要去——”他犹豫了一两分钟，“切尔滕纳姆。” 　　他吐露出这个词语时，那犹豫不定的样子是如此奇特，马伯里太太惊讶地看着他。 　　“切尔滕纳姆是个好地方，”她健谈地说，“有一年我从布里斯托尔出发去过那里，那儿的商店真是太好了。” 　　“我也这么认为——是的。” 　　马伯里太太极为僵硬地弯下身去，这是由于弯腰并不适合她的身材，她捡起地上皱巴巴的报纸。 　　“这些天尽是关于那件谋杀案的报道，”她说着话，瞥眼看看标题，随后把报纸放回桌上，“这案子真象是肢解者杰克的再版。” 　　卡斯特先生的嘴唇挪动，可是并没有出声。 　　“唐克斯特——他要在那儿进行下一场谋杀，”马伯里太太说。“就在明天！这太使你毛骨悚然，不是吗？如果我住在唐克斯特，我的姓名又是以D字母为开头的，我一定会搭乘头班车离开，我可不想冒险。卡斯特先生，你以为如何？” 　　“没什么，马伯里太太，我什么也不去想。” 　　“那儿会有赛马活动。他肯定想他在那里会得到机会下手的。他们说，将会有几百个警察被派往那里——怎么啦，卡斯特先生，你看上去挺不对劲的。你最好还是吃点什么东西，不好吗？真的，现在，你今天可不该外出旅行。” 　　卡斯特先生停止住颤抖。 　　“这很必要，马伯里太太。我对约会——一直非常守时，人们有必要——必须要对你有信心。当我着手去干一件事情时，我一定会全力以赴。这是开展业务的唯一途径。” 　　“可你在生病呀？” 　　“我可没病，马伯里太太。我只是对许多个人事务有点担忧罢了。我睡眠很差，我真的没什么事。” 　　他的态度非常坚决，马伯里太太收拾起早餐用具，勉强离开房间。 　　卡斯特先生从床下拉出一只箱子，开始装箱。睡衣、海绵袋、备用衬衫、皮拖鞋。他随后打开一个柜子，从架上取下一打左右的扁平纸盒。这些纸盒约莫有十英寸长七英寸宽，放入箱子内。 　　他瞥了一眼桌子上的铁路指南，然后离开房间，手中提着箱子。 　　他在客厅中放下箱子，戴上帽子，穿好外套。他深深地叹了口气，叹气声是如此之深，以至于那姑娘从一个房间中跑出来，在一旁关切地看着他。 　　“有什么事吗，卡斯特先生？” 　　“没事，莉莉小姐。” 　　“可你在叹气。” 　　卡斯特先生粗鲁地说： 　　“你是不是有什么预兆，莉莉小姐？还是预感？” 　　“哦，我不知道我是，真的……当然，有时候你会觉得一切都乱了头绪，有时候则觉得一切井井有条。” 　　“确是这样。”卡斯特先生说。 　　他又一次叹气。 　　“好吧，再见，莉莉小姐。再见。我相信在这里你对我一直很友好。” 　　“哦，快别说再见，好像您一走就不回来了似的。”莉莉笑道。 　　“不，不，当然不会。” 　　“那就星期五见，”姑娘笑道，“您这次要去哪里？又去海边吗？” 　　“不，不，——是切尔滕纳姆。” 　　“哦，那倒是挺好的，可没有托基那么好。那儿一定挺令人愉快的，我想明年去那儿度假。还有，你一定与那个谋杀案——ABC 谋杀案离得挺近的。那凶案发生时，你正好在那里，是吗？” 　　“是的，可彻斯顿在六七英里之外。” 　　“不管怎样，那必定令人激动！怎么样，您可能在街中与那个凶手擦肩而过！您可能已非常接近他。” 　　“是的，当然可能。”卡斯特先生说着，露出恐怖和扭曲的笑意，这被莉莉•马伯里所注意到。 　　“噢，卡斯特先生，您脸色不好。” 　　“我挺好，挺好的。再见，马伯里小姐。” 　　他笨手笨脚地戴上帽子，拿起箱子，相当匆忙地走出了前门。 　　“真是个有意思的老头。”莉莉•马伯里宽容地说，“只是有点反常。” 　　克罗姆警督对他的下属说： 　　“给我一份长统袜生产厂家的名单，并通知他们。我要一份他们所有代理人的名单——你们知道，还要包括所有收取佣金和拉订单的推销人。” 　　“这是ABC案件吗，先生？” 　　“是的，是赫尔克里•波洛先生的意见。”警督的语气轻蔑倨傲，“可能一点关系也没有，但我们不能忽视任何机会，不管它多细微。” 　　“对的，先生。波洛先生在他那时候确是干过不少漂亮活，可我认为现在已经老朽了，先生。” 　　“他是个江湖骗子，”克罗姆警督说，“他总是装腔作势，骗得了别人，可瞒不过我。现在，关于唐克斯特的安排……” 　　汤姆•哈廷格对莉莉•马伯里说： 　　“我今天早上见过你那个老家伙。” 　　“谁？卡斯特先生？” 　　“是卡斯特。在尤斯顿碰到的。他像往常一样，看上去像只迷途的羔羊。我想这家伙是半疯半痴，他需要有人照顾。他先是跌落了报纸，随后又丢了车票。我捡起车票——他还是一点都不知道自己已丢了票。他用一种焦虑不安的神态向我致谢。可我觉得他没认出我来。” 　　“哦，是的，”莉莉说，“他只是在客厅中见你走过去，也不太常能碰面。” 　　他们在地板上跳了一圈舞。 　　“你跳舞的姿势很美。”汤姆说。 　　“那就继续吧。”莉莉说，扭动着更贴近了一点。 　　他们再次跳舞转圈。 　　“你说的是尤斯顿还是帕丁顿？”莉莉突然问道，“我的意思是，你在哪里碰到老卡斯特？” 　　“在尤斯顿。” 　　“你确定吗？” 　　“我当然确定。你有何想法？” 　　“真有趣。我还以为你是从帕丁顿到切尔滕纳姆去的呢。” 　　“你这么认为，可老卡斯特并不是去切尔滕纳姆，他是去唐克斯特。” 　　“是去切尔滕纳姆。” 　　“是。我知道，姑娘！而且，我还捡起过他的车票，不是吗？” 　　“哦，他告诉我要去切尔滕纳姆的。我相信他会去的。” 　　“不，你弄错了。他正在赶往唐克斯特，这一点儿也没错。有些人总是运气很好。我也为马赛买了一点，赌那匹‘火蝇’。我真想去看赛马。” 　　“我可不认为卡斯特先生会去赛马大会，他看来可不像。哦，汤姆，我希望他不会被谋杀。ABC 谋杀案的下一个地点是唐克斯特……” 　　“卡斯特肯定没事，他的姓名又不是以D开首的。” 　　“他上一次就可能被谋杀。上一场谋杀案发生时，他正好在彻斯顿附近的托基。” 　　“是吗？那可真有点巧合，不是吗？” 　　他笑。 　　“他前一次没在贝克斯希尔，是吧？” 　　莉莉皱皱眉头。 　　“他当时外出。是的，我记得他外出了……因为他忘了带浴衣。妈妈好像在为他缝补那件浴衣，她说：‘卡斯特先生昨天出门，没带浴衣。’我说‘哦，别管那件破浴衣吧——有件最可怕的凶杀案。’我还说，‘贝克斯希尔有位姑娘被人勒喉致死。’” 　　“哦，如果他没带浴衣，他一定是去了海边。我说，莉莉——”他的脸因嘻笑而皱起，“如果你那位老家伙就是凶手，你敢赌多少钱？” 　　“可怜的卡斯特先生？他连只苍蝇都不会伤害。”莉莉说。 　　他们快活地继续跳舞——他们的心目中只有两情相悦的快乐。 　　他们没有意识到有些事正在引起轰动…… Chapter 23 September 11th. Doncaster Chapter 23 September 11th. Doncaster Doncaster! I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life. Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St Leger my mind flies automatically not to horse-racing but to murder. When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense of insufficiency. We were here—on the spot—Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drower, and in the last resort what could any of us do? We were building on a forlorn hope—on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three months back. The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such a recognition wasThora Grey. Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her calm, efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together, almost weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot. ‘I never really looked at him…Why didn’t I? What a fool I was. You’re depending on me, all of you…and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn’t recognize him. I’ve got a bad memory for faces.’ Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirot was no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was He patted her shoulder kindly. ‘Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you would recognize him.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Oh, a great many reasons—for one, because the red succeeds the black.’ ‘What do you mean, Poirot?’ I cried. ‘I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black—but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance.’ ‘You mean that luck turns?’ ‘Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler(and the murderer, who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation. Because he haswon he thinks he will continueto win! He does not leave the tables in good time with his pocket full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being successful!He takes to himselfall the credit for a successful performance—but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned, no crime can be successful without luck!’ ‘Isn’t that going rather far?’ demurred Franklin Clarke. Poirot waved his hands excitedly. ‘No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it mustbe in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that someone enters Mrs Ascher’s shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman—and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith.’ ‘Yes, of course, that’s possible,’ admitted Clarke. ‘What it comes to is that a murderer’s got to take a chance.’ ‘Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know whento stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say “I have been clever and lucky!” No, he says only “I have been clever!” And his opinion of his cleverness grows and then, mes amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over—it drops into a new number and the croupier calls out “Rouge.”’ ‘You think that will happen in this case?’ asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown. ‘It musthappen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal—sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it hasturned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going rightfor him, everything will go wrongfor him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes…’ ‘I will say you’re heartening,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘We all need a bit of comfort. I’ve had a paralysing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up.’ ‘It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value,’ said Donald Fraser. Megan rapped out: ‘Don’t be a defeatist, Don.’ Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said: ‘What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend’s in this place, and so are we—and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes.’ I fumed: ‘If only we could do something more.’ ‘You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the race-course. There will be plain-clothes men everywhere. There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned.’ Donald Fraser shook his head. ‘He’ll never attempt it, I’m thinking,’ he said more hopefully. ‘The man would just be mad!’ ‘Unfortunately,’ said Clarke dryly, ‘he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?’ ‘In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he mustattempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would be to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr Thompson’s opinion. Our hope is that he may be caught in the attempt.’ Donald shook his head again. ‘He’ll be very cunning.’ Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It hadbeen agreed that we were to make an all-day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the race-course. I say ‘we’. Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A B C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies. Poirot had agreed—I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye. The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought. Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot. ‘Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say—or hint—I mean—did she suggest at all—?’ He stopped, embarrassed. Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions. ‘Comment?Did your sister-in-law say, hint, or suggest—what?’ Franklin Clarke got rather red. ‘Perhaps you think this isn’t a time for butting in with personal things—’ ‘Du tout!’ ‘But I feel I’d like to get things quite straight.’ ‘An admirable course.’ This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot’s bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily. ‘My sister-in-law’s an awfully nice woman—I’ve been very fond of her always—but of course she’s been ill some time—and in that kind of illness—being given drugs and all that—one tends to—well, tofancythings about people!’ ‘Ah?’ By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot’s eye. But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it. ‘It’s about Thora—Miss Grey,’ he said ‘Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?’ Poirot’s tone held innocent surprise. ‘Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora—Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl—’ ‘Perhaps—yes,’ conceded Poirot. ‘And women, even the best of them, are a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluableto my brother—he always said she was the best secretary he ever had—and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and above-board. I mean, Thora isn’t the sort of girl—’ ‘No?’ said Poirot helpfully. ‘But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be—well—jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car’s death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on—well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it’s partly the illness and the morphia and all that—Nurse Capstick says so—she says we mustn’t blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head—’ He paused. ‘Yes?’ ‘What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn’t anything in it at all. It’s just a sick woman’s imaginings. Look here’—he fumbled in his pocket—‘here’s a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I’d like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on.’ Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud. ‘—things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl anda greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and true affection. ‘You see,’ said Franklin, ‘that’show my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot.’ ‘Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember.’ ‘I know. That’s what I keep saying to myself. One mustn’t judge her. All the same, I thought I’d show you this. I don’t want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said.’ Poirot returned the letter. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, smiling, ‘that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments.’ ‘Well,’ said Clarke, stowing away the letter. ‘I’m glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We’d better be off.’ As we left the room, Poirot called me back. ‘You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?’ ‘Oh, yes. I shouldn’t be happy staying here inactive.’ ‘There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings.’ ‘Well, you’re better at it than I am,’ I said. ‘You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?’ ‘That was the idea.’ ‘And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?’ ‘Well—I—er—hadn’t considered yet.’ ‘What about Miss Barnard?’ ‘She’s rather the independent type,’ I demurred. ‘Miss Grey?’ ‘Yes. She’s better.’ ‘I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently dishonest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!’ ‘Oh, really, Poirot!’ ‘I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere.’ ‘Oh, all right. I think you’ve got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl.’ ‘The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her.’ ‘But, Poirot, why?’ ‘Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances.’ I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched, but then I realized that if A B C had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot’s movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very pat fourth stroke. I promised to be faithful to my trust. I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window. In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me: ‘Rouge—that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!’ 第二十三章　九月十一日，唐克斯特 第二十三章　九月十一日，唐克斯特 　　唐克斯特！ 　　我想，我这辈子都会记得九月十一日那天。 　　实际上，当我一遇到圣莱杰赛马被人提到时，我的心思便会自然而然地飞向谋杀案，而不是赛马。 　　当我回忆起自我的感觉，最突出的是要数那令人作呕、无所作为的感觉。我们就在此地——就在现场，波洛、我自己、克拉克、弗雷泽、梅根•巴纳德、托拉•格雷和玛丽•德劳尔。而作为最后的一种办法，我们当中的任何人又能够做什么呢？ 　　我们怀着孤注一掷的期望——希望有机会能从数以千计的人群中认出一张脸或是某个人来，这个人仅仅是在一两个月以前被模糊地看到过。 　　现实中的可能性则要大得多。在我们所有人当中，唯一有可能做出确认的人是托拉•格雷。 　　在这种状况之下，她的一部分的安详宁静便崩溃了，她平日那种平静、麻利的模样消失得无影无踪。她坐在那里，双手搓绞在一起，几乎是在呜咽着哭泣，语无伦次地向波洛求助。 　　“我从没有正眼看过他……我为什么不看呢？我真是傻。你们都在依靠我，你们所有人……而我会使你们失望的。因为即便我再次见到他。我也可能已认不出他来。我对人的长相总是记不清。” 　　不管波洛会对我讲些什么，也无论他看上去像是要对那姑娘苛求责备，他现在所表现出来的只有和蔼。他的态度极端的友善温和。当身处烦恼之中的时候，波洛对漂亮姑娘的态度并不比我冷漠，这使我印象深刻。 　　他友好地拍拍她的肩膀。 　　“现在，Petite（法文，意为：小家伙。——译注），别太歇斯底里，我们可不能那样子。如果你见到这个人，你一定会认出他来的。” 　　“你怎么知道？” 　　“哦，有许多原因——其中之一，是因为红能胜过黑。” 　　“你是什么意思，波洛？”我叫道。 　　“我是在讲赌桌上的行话。在轮盘赌中黑色可能会一直运势不错，可最终红色定能倒转过来。这是数学概率。” 　　“你是说，时运会转变？” 　　“千真万确，黑斯廷斯，这就是赌徒（或凶手，由于他赌的不是金钱而是性命，他最终只是个超级赌徒）经常会缺乏预料的地方。因为他一旦得逞，便会相信他能够继续赢下去。他手气很好、口袋鼓鼓时是不会离开赌桌的。在犯罪案件当中，得逞的凶手是不会去设想那种失败的可能性的！他居功自傲。可我告诉你，我的朋友，无论经过多么周到的策划，若没有运气，是不会有罪行能够得逞的。” 　　“那是否离题太远了点？”富兰克林•克拉克反对地说。 　　波洛激动地摆摆手。 　　“不，不。如果你喜欢的话，它是一次均等的机会，可它必须对你有利。请注意！当凶手准备离开阿谢尔太太的小店时，有人也许正好进去，这是可能的事。那人可能会想起看看柜台后面，这就可能会看到那个死去的妇人——这样，他既可能马上会对凶手动手，也可能向警察准确无误地描述那人的模样，以至于他可能会立刻被逮捕。” 　　“是的，当然那很可能。”克拉克承认道，“可现在的情形是，那凶手已获得了机会。” 　　“确实如此。凶手往往就是个赌徒，而且，就像许多赌徒一样，凶手常常不知道什么时候能停下来。每经历过一次罪案，他对自己能力的判断就会得到加强，从而使之偏颇。他不会说‘我挺聪明和运气的’，不，他只会说‘我挺聪明！’他对自己聪明的认识渐渐增长。然后，mes amis（法文，意为：我的朋友们。——译注），小球便旋转，颜色会运转过去，球停在一个新的数字上，赌场的庄家便会叫出‘Rouge （法文，意为：红色。——译注）’。” 　　“你认为这种情况将在本案中出现吗？”梅根问道，她皱起眉头。 　　“它迟早肯定会发生！到目前为止，那罪犯一直运气不错——但迟早运气会转朝我们这边。我相信运气已经倒转！长统袜线索就是开端。现在，每件事都会与他做对，不会让他得心应手！而他，则开始犯错误……” 　　“我觉得你给人鼓舞，”富兰克林说，“我们大家都需要一点安慰。自醒来后，我已有了一种无助而气馁的感觉。” 　　“我看我们很难做成任何具有实际价值的事情。”唐纳德•弗雷泽说。 　　梅根粗声地说： 　　“别当一个失败主义者，唐。” 　　玛丽•德劳尔脸有点涨红，说道： 　　“我所说的话，你们永远也不会懂。那个邪恶的魔鬼就在此地，我们也同样在这里。而有的时候，你毕竟会以最离奇的方式遭遇到别人。” 　　我激动地说道： 　　“要是我们能再多做些事该多好。” 　　“你必须牢记，黑斯廷斯。警方正在极尽可能地做好每一件事，也已招募到一些拥有特殊技能的警监。那位好心的克罗姆警督可能容易发怒，可他仍是个能干的警官，而警察局长安德森上校则是个实干家。他们已经采取了最多的措施，在小镇和赛马场进行值勤和巡逻，到处都会有便衣。还有新闻宣传攻势，公众也得到了全面的警告。” 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽摇头。 　　“我在想，他是不会下手的，”他一相情愿地说，“那家伙一定会疯的。” 　　“不幸的事，”克拉克干巴巴地说，“他是个疯子！你怎么看，波洛先生？他会放弃不干，还是会铤而走险？” 　　“以我所见，他那种执迷不悟的力量会使他必须要竭力信守诺言！如果他不动手，就是在承认失败，而他那种疯狂的自我主义是永远不会放弃的。我可以说，这也是汤普森医生的观点。我们则寄希望于在他尝试时能逮住他。” 　　唐纳德再次摇摇头。 　　“他会十分狡诈的。” 　　波洛瞥了一眼手表。我们注意到了这个暗示。我们要全天都谨慎以待，上午在尽可能多的街道中巡逻。然后驻守在赛马场的众多可能的地点。 　　我说的是“我们”。当然，就我自己而言，这样的巡逻没什么大作用，因为我从未能够把眼睛盯住ABC。然而，既然这个主意是要尽可能的覆盖广阔的地盘，我便提议我还是做一位女士的护卫。 　　波洛表示同意——而我则担心他的眨眼之中藏着什么意思。 　　姑娘们带上帽子散开去。唐纳德•弗雷泽站在窗边，向外张望，显然是思绪茫然不知所措。 　　富兰克林•克拉克瞥眼看着他，明显地感觉到身边的这个男人心不在焉，听不进话。他于是降低话音，同波洛攀谈起来。 　　“瞧，波洛先生。我知道，你去了彻斯顿，见过我嫂子。她有没有说过——或是暗示——我的意思是，她有没有提起过什么事？” 　　他停住口，挺懊丧。 　　波洛显出一副单纯无知的神情，开口回答起来，这使我大生怀疑。 　　“Comment（法文，意为：什么。——译注）？你嫂子说过、暗示过或是提议过什么？” 　　富兰克林•克拉克脸色渐红。“可能你认为这并不是涉及个人事务的时机——” 　　“Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注）！” 　　“可我倒是想直接面对问题。” 　　“真是令人钦佩的理由。” 　　这一次，我想，克拉克对波洛那张温和的脸孔产生了怀疑，因为它掩饰着某种内在的欢娱。他重重地咳嗽起来。 　　“我嫂子是个很好的女人——我一直挺喜欢她的，可她时常生病。久病之人经常使用麻醉品之类的东西，往往难免会对别人胡思乱想！” 　　“噢？” 　　现在，波洛的眼神当中已没有异议。 　　但富兰克林•克拉克完全被自己的对话任务所吸引，并没有注意到这一点。 　　“那是关于托拉•格雷小姐。”他说。 　　“哦，你是说格雷小姐？”波洛的口气中带着纯真的惊讶。 　　“是的，克拉克女勋爵脑中有别的想法。你瞧，托拉——格雷小姐是个挺漂亮的姑娘——” 　　“可能——是吧。”波洛承认道。 　　“而女人，即便是最优秀的女人，对其他女人总是有点恶意的。当然，托拉对我哥哥来说极其宝贵——他总说她是他见过的最好的秘书——他非常喜欢她。可这一切都是光明正大的。我的意思是，托拉不是那种姑娘——” 　　“不是吗？”波洛附和地说。 　　“可我嫂子择满脑子都是——嫉妒，我想。她到并没有显露过什么。可自从卡死后，只要格雷小姐有什么问题——夏洛特总会发脾气。当然，这也有部分原因是由于病情和吗啡的缘故——卡普斯蒂克护士是这样讲的。她说我们不该责怪夏洛特满脑子里都塞满了这些念头。” 　　他停顿下来。 　　“是吗？” 　　“我想让你理解的是，波洛先生，那当中压根没什么事。那仅仅是一个病妇的胡思乱想。请看这里——”他在口袋中摸索，“这是我在马来群岛的时候，我哥哥给我写来的信。我希望你能读一下，以便能明白他们之间是什么关系。” 　　波洛接过信，富兰克林来到他身边，用手指指着信件，大声地朗读出信中的部分内容： 　　“——这里的情形一如既往。夏洛特的疼痛状况已有所减缓，我希望可以说是减轻了很多。你也许记得托拉•格雷？她是个可爱的姑娘，对我来说是极大的安慰。这远非我的言语可以表达。她的同情心和情趣不容怀疑的。她对美好的事物有着一种高雅的品位和鉴赏力，能与我分享对中国艺术的强烈爱好，能找到她确实是我的至幸。再没有别的姑娘能像她这样，成为我更亲近和更钟情合意的伙伴。她的生活挺辛苦的。也并不一直快乐，可我很高兴能感觉到她有一种对家庭的真正钟爱之情。” 　　“你瞧，”富兰克林说，“那就是我哥哥对她的切身感受。他把她看作女儿。而我哥哥一去世，他妻子实际上即把她逐出那所房子，这令我感觉极不公平！女人真是些恶魔，波洛先生。” 　　“请记住，你嫂子正沉浸在疾病和痛苦之中。” 　　“我知道。我也是那样告诉自己的，我们不该对她进行评论。同样，我想给你看这封信，是并不想因为克拉克女勋爵所说的任何话语，而使你对托拉产生错误的印象。” 　　波洛把信交还给他。 　　“我可以向你保证，”他笑着说，“我从不允许自己从别人告诉我的任何事物之中产生错误的印象。我有自己的判断。” 　　“好，”克拉克说，一边藏好那封信，“我很高兴还是给你看了信。姑娘们来了，我们最好离开吧。” 　　正当我们离开房间时，波洛把我叫了回来。 　　“你真的决定要一同去巡查，黑斯廷斯？” 　　“哦，是的。在这里呆着无所事事，我是不会高兴的。” 　　“思维同样可以向身体一样行动，黑斯廷斯。” 　　“哦，你在那方面做的比我要好。”我说。 　　“无可争辩，你很正确，黑斯廷斯。我提议你有意地向一位女士献殷勤，我说得对吗？” 　　“那倒是个好主意。” 　　“那你希望去陪伴那位女士呢？” 　　“哦，哦——呃——还没有考虑过。” 　　“巴纳德小姐怎么样？” 　　“她是独立的那种人。”我反对道。 　　“格雷小姐？” 　　“是的。她要好一些。” 　　“我发现你，黑斯廷斯，真是标新立异，尽管显而易见，你极不诚实！你早已打定主意要与你的金发天使在一起。” 　　“哦，是的，波洛。” 　　“我很抱歉搅乱你的计划，可我必须要求你另寻他人给予保护。” 　　“噢，没关系。我想你已发现那荷兰姑娘的弱点。” 　　“你要保护的姑娘是玛丽•德劳尔——而且我要你寸步不离她左右。” 　　“可是，波洛，这是为什么？” 　　“因为，我亲爱的朋友，她的姓名是以D开头的。我们不能措施任何机会。” 　　我领悟了他话语中间的含义。起初，这看来遥不可及，可随即我认识到，如果ABC 嫉妒憎恨波洛，他很可能会对波洛的行动了如指掌。在这种情况下，除掉玛丽•德劳尔会是对他最恰当不过的第四次打击。 　　我承诺要忠实于自己的责任。 　　我离屋出门，波洛则留下来，坐在窗边的椅子里。 　　在他面前是一个小型的轮盘赌的转轮。在我出门时，他拉动转轮，在我身后喊道： 　　“Rouge（法文，意为：红色。——译注）——这可是个好兆头，黑斯廷斯。运势在转变。” Chapter 24 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 24 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Below his breath Mr Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it. All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week. The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr Leadbetter’s opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation: ‘Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan’t starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls—’ Mr Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn’t wait tillthe endof a film…And to leave at this soul-stirring moment. Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York. And now she was boarding the train—the child in her arms…What curious trains they had in America—not at all like English trains. Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains… The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end. Mr Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up. He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little. He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon—naturally. They were all at the races. Mr Leadbetter did not approve of racing nor of playing cards nor of drinking nor of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures. Everyone was hurrying towards the exit. Mr Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep—slumped down in his chair. Mr Leadbetterfelt indignant to think that anyone could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrowgoing on. An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way: ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Mr Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back. There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire…a little knot of people…Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep… He hesitated and then passed out—and in so doing missed the sensation of the day—a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St Leger at 85 to 1. The commissionaire was saying: ‘Believe you’re right, sir…He’s ill…Why—what’s the matter, sir?’ The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear. ‘Blood…’ The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation. He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat. ‘Gor blimey!’ he said. ‘It’s a b—A B C.’ 第二十四章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第二十四章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　利德贝特先生从喉咙里发出不耐烦的咕哝声。此刻，他的邻座正站起身来，笨拙而又步履蹒跚地经过他面前，倾斜着身子去取回他掉在前排的座位上的帽子。 　　这时，《不识燕雀》正是高潮时刻，这部悲伧美丽的影片中明星荟萃、震撼人心，利德贝特先生整个星期都在期望一睹为快。 　　那个满头金发的女英雄是由凯瑟琳•罗亚尔扮演（在利德贝特先生的心目当中，她是全世界最好的女演员），她此时正好在倾吐出一声愤怒的呐喊： 　　“决不。我将要挨饿，可是我不能挨饿。请记住这句话：燕雀不会跌落——” 　　利德贝特先生左顾右盼地摇头，极其烦恼。这些家伙！人们为什么不等到影片结尾……而要在这个扣人心弦的时刻离去。 　　噢，现在要好一些。那个恼人的男子已过去，利德贝特先生能看到画面的全景，能看到凯瑟琳•罗亚尔站在纽约范•西埃奈大厦的窗边。 　　而此时此刻，她正要登上火车——手中抱着孩子……在美国，他们那里的火车真奇怪——一点也不像英格兰的火车。 　　啊，又是史蒂夫在山中的小棚屋内…… 　　电影正临近那个充满感情和半宗教色彩的结局。 　　灯光亮起，利德贝特先生满意地舒了一口气。 　　他慢慢地站起身，微微地挤挤眼睛。 　　他从不会迅即离开影院，总要花上一些时间，才能回到平乏的现实生活中来。 　　他环顾四周。今天下午自然是人头寥落，人们都在赛马场上。利德贝特先生并不赞赏赛马，也不喜欢玩牌，不嗜烟酒。这使得他有更多的经历欣赏电影。 　　每个人都在匆忙地涌向出口，利德贝特先生也准备尾随着人流。他座位前面的那个人睡着了——身体陷在座位当中。在像《不识燕雀》这样的电影上演时，居然还会有人睡着，利德贝特先生感到愤愤不平。 　　一位激怒的男子向这个睡着的人发话，他伸出的腿挡住了路： 　　“请让一下，先生。” 　　利德贝特先生已来到出口处，他回头张望。 　　那儿似乎有点骚乱。一个剧场保安……一小群人……可能他前面那个人是喝得醉死，而不是睡着了…… 　　他犹豫着出门，正是这样，他错过了这一天的激情时刻——这比那匹诺特•哈夫小马在八十五匹马当中取胜还要令人激动。 　　那保安正说着： 　　“你该没事吧，先生……他病了……怎么，有什么事吗，先生？” 　　另外一个人则惊呼着抬开那人的手，检查一些红色、粘稠的污物。 　　“是血……” 　　保安员发出一声沉闷的惊叫。 　　他看到座位底下黄色物体的一角。 　　“哎呀！”他说。“那可是本ABC。” Chapter 25 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 25 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Mr Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky. A beautiful evening…A really beautiful evening… A quotation from Browning came into his head. ‘God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.’ He had always been fond of that quotation Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn’t true… He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage. As he entered the room his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively—wet and red—blood… His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something—a long slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red… Mr Cust sat there a long time. Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal. His tongue passed feverishly over his lips… ‘It isn’t my fault,’ said Mr Cust. He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody—a schoolboy pleading to his headmaster. He passed his tongue over his lips again… Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve. His eyes crossed the room to the wash-basin. A Minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out… Ugh! The water was red now… A tap on the door. He stood there frozen into immobility—staring. The door opened. A plump young woman—jug in hand. ‘Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir.’ He managed to speak then. ‘Thank you…I’ve washed in cold…’ Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin. He said frenziedly: ‘I—I’ve cut my hand…’ There was a pause—yes, surely a very long pause—before she said: ‘Yes, sir.’ She went out, shutting the door. Mr Cust stood as though turned to stone. He listened. It had come—at last… Were there voices—exclamations—feet mounting the stairs? He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart… Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity. He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noises as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs… Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now? He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers. Mr Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street. Round the first corner to the right—then to the left—right again… Dare he risk the station? Yes—there would be crowds there—special trains—if luck were on his side he would do it all right… If only luck were with him… 第二十五章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第二十五章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　卡斯特先生从王室影院中走出来，抬头望着天空。 　　这是个美丽的夜晚……一个真正美丽的夜晚…… 　　他的头脑中闪过布朗宁的一句话。 　　“上帝在天国之中，世界秩序井然。” 　　他一直挺喜欢那句话的。 　　只是在有时候，他常常会感到现实并非如此…… 　　他沿着街道小跑，一面冲着自己微笑，径直来到他下榻的黑天鹅旅店。 　　他登上楼梯来到房间，这是二楼的一间闷热的房间。有一间铺设地板的内院和车库已被弃之不用。 　　在他进入房间的时候，脸上的笑容突然间褪去。他衣服袖子的腕口有一处污迹。他尝试地摸了一下污迹——是湿湿的红色血迹…… 　　他的手伸进口袋当中，拿出一样物品，是把细长的刀。那刀刃上同样也是粘粘的红色…… 　　卡斯特先生长时间地坐着。 　　他双眼一度环视房间，像一头被擒获的野兽。 　　他的舌头不断地伸出嘴唇…… 　　他再一次尝试着抚摸衣服上的袖口。 　　一分钟后，他把水从老式水壶中倒进盆里。他脱下衣服，漂洗袖口，小心地挤出水来…… 　　啊！水现在变成了红色…… 　　这时有人敲门。 　　他站在那里，僵直不动——眼睛盯着看。 　　门打开了。是位丰满的年轻女士，她手中拿着水壶。 　　“哦，对不起，先生。您的热水，先生。” 　　他试图开口说话。 　　“谢谢……我已用冷水洗……” 　　他怎么会那样说话？她的眼睛立刻盯向水盆。 　　他激动地说：“我——割伤了手……” 　　那里有一阵停顿——是的，的确是很漫长的一阵停顿。随后她说：“是的，先生。” 　　她走出房间，把门关上。 　　卡斯特先生站在那里，仿佛变成了一块石头。 　　他倾听着。 　　它终于来临…… 　　有没有声音——惊叫——登上楼梯的脚步声？ 　　除了自己的心跳之外，他什么也听不见…… 　　然后，突然间，他从僵化的静止中变得活跃起来。 　　他迅速地穿上衣服，踮着脚走到门边，打开房门。那儿除了从酒吧传来的熟悉的叽喳声之外，别的什么声音也没有。他探步走下楼梯…… 　　依然不见人影，那可真是运气。他在楼梯脚下停住，现在要去哪里呢？ 　　他下定决心，迅速地沿着通道走去，穿过通向院子的门，走了出去。有几名司机在那里修整汽车，谈论着赛马地胜负。 　　卡斯特先生匆匆忙忙地穿过院子，来到大街上。 　　他在第一个街角向右拐——然后向左——再向右拐…… 　　他敢于冒险去车站吗？ 　　是的——那儿将会有人群——有特别的火车——如果运气在他这边的话，他会毫不出错地做到…… 　　要是运气站在他这边的话就好了…… Chapter 26 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 26 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr Leadbetter. ‘I assure you, inspector, my heart misses a beat when I think of it. He must actually have been sitting beside me all through the programme!’ Inspector Crome, completely indifferent to the behaviour of Mr Leadbetter’s heart, said: ‘Just let me have it quite clear? This man went out towards the close of the big picture—’ ‘Not a Sparrow—Katherine Royal,’ murmured Mr Leadbetter automatically. ‘He passed you and in doing so stumbled—’ ‘He pretendedto stumble, I see it now. Then he leaned over the seat in front to pick up his hat. He must have stabbed the poor fellow then.’ ‘You didn’t hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?’ Mr Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a groan. Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him proceed. ‘And then he went out—’ ‘Can you describe him?’ ‘He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant.’ ‘Fair or dark?’ ‘I—well—I’m not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow.’ ‘He didn’t limp, did he?’ asked Inspector Crome. ‘Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste.’ ‘Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?’ ‘No. He came in after the big picture began.’ Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him. ‘That’s about as bad a witness as you’ll find,’ he remarked pessimistically. ‘He’d say anything with a little leading. It’s perfectly clear that he hasn’t the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let’s have the commissionaire back.’ The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson. ‘Now, then, Jameson, let’s hear your story.’ Jameson saluted. ‘Yes sir. Close of the performance, sir. I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman’s coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A B C railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred.’ ‘Very good. Jameson, you acted very properly.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ ‘Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five minutes earlier?’ ‘There were several, sir.’ ‘Could you describe them?’ ‘Afraid not, sir. One was Mr Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn’t notice anybody else particular.’ ‘A pity. That’ll do, Jameson.’ ‘Yes sir.’ The commissionaire saluted and departed. ‘The medical details we’ve got,’ said Colonel Anderson. ‘We’d better have the fellow that found him next.’ A police constable came in and saluted. ‘Mr Hercule Poirot’s here, sir, and another gentleman.’ Inspector Crome frowned. ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Better have ’em in, I suppose.’ 第二十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第二十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　克罗姆警督正在倾听利德贝特先生激动地讲述情况。 　　“警督，当我一想到这件事，我的心跳就会停止一下。在整个节目过程中，他肯定一直就坐在我身旁。” 　　克罗姆警督对利德贝特先生的心跳状态完全无动于衷，他说道： 　　“请让我了解得清楚一点。在影片快结束的时候，那个人离开座位出门——” 　　“那影片是《不识燕雀》，是由凯瑟琳•罗亚尔主演。”利德贝特先生自动地小声嘟囔。 　　“他经过你面前，步态蹒跚——” 　　“他是在假装步履跌跌绊绊的，我现在明白了。然后他把身体倾斜向前面的座位，去捡起帽子。他肯定是在那时候用刀刺向那个可怜的家伙的。” 　　“你听到什么没有？叫喊声？或是呻吟？” 　　除了凯瑟琳•罗亚尔那高声、嘶哑的口音之外，利德贝特先生什么也没听见。可他还是生动形象地依据想象杜撰了一声呻吟。 　　克罗姆警督浅显地注意了一下这呻吟声，要他继续讲下去。 　　“然后他便出去——” 　　“你能描述他的样子吗？” 　　“他是个大个子。至少有六英尺，是个高个。” 　　“肤色白晰还是黝黑？” 　　“我——嘿——我不太能确定。我想他秃头，是个面目狰狞的家伙。” 　　“他走路不瘸吧，是吗？”克罗姆警督问。 　　“是的，是的，你说对了，我想他是瘸腿。他长得很黑，可能是混血儿。” 　　“剧场内灯光还亮着的时候，他是否已在座位上了？” 　　“不。影片开始后，他才进来。” 　　克罗姆警督点点头，递给利德贝特先生一张声明让他签字，然后打发他走。 　　“那可是个你所能碰到的糟糕透顶的证人。”他悲观地评论道，“他讲的内容仅仅能有一点启发。我们的凶手长得什么样，他连最起码的印象都没有，这已经清楚无疑。我们把剧场保安叫来吧。” 　　那个保安是个身材挺拔、极具军人风范的人，走进门来，立正站着，他的眼睛盯着安德森上校。 　　“现在，詹姆森，让我们听听你的描述吧。” 　　“是的，先生。在电影结束时，先生，有人告诉我有位先生病倒了，那个人坐在低价票座位区，瘫倒在座位中。其他的人在周围站着。那个人看上去挺糟糕的，先生。周围的其中一个人把手放在那人的衣服上，这引起了我的注意。那是血，先生。很明显，这个人死了——是被人刺杀的，先生。我希望准确行事，便没有去碰他，只是立即向警方报告悲剧已经发生。” 　　“很好，詹姆森，你做的非常对。” 　　“谢谢，先生。” 　　“在那之前，大约五分钟，你有没有注意到有一名男子离开低价票座位区？” 　　“有好几位，先生。” 　　“你能描述一下吗？” 　　“恐怕不能，先生。有一位杰弗里•帕内尔先生。有一位年轻人，萨姆•贝克，同他的年轻女士一起，我并没有注意到其他什么特别的人。” 　　“真遗憾。这些会有帮助的，詹姆森。” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　剧场警卫敬了个礼，然后离开。 　　“我们有验尸的细节。”安德森上校说，“我们最好能同那个发现他的人谈一谈。” 　　一个警察进来，敬礼。 　　“赫尔克里•波洛来了，先生，还有另外一位先生。” 　　克罗姆警督皱眉头。 　　“哦，好吧，”他说，“我想，最好还是让他们进来吧。” Chapter 27 The Doncaster Murder Chapter 27 The Doncaster Murder Coming in hard on Poirot’s heels, I just caught the fag end of Inspector Crome’s remark. Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and depressed. Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head. ‘Glad you’ve come, M. Poirot,’ he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome’s remark might have reached our ears. ‘We’ve got it in the neck again, you see.’ ‘Another A B C murder?’ ‘Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and stabbed the fellow in the back.’ ‘Stabbed this time?’ ‘Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn’t he? Biff on the head, strangled, now a knife. Versatile devil—what? Here are the medical details if you care to see ’em.’ He shoved a paper towards Poirot. ‘A B C down on the floor between the dead man’s feet,’ he added. ‘Has the dead man been identified?’ asked Poirot. ‘Yes. A B C’s slipped up for once—if that’s any satisfaction to us. Deceased’s a man called Earlsfield—George Earlsfield. Barber by profession.’ ‘Curious,’ commented Poirot. ‘May have skipped a letter,’ suggested the colonel. My friend shook his head doubtfully. ‘Shall we have in the next witness?’ asked Crome. ‘He’s anxious to get home.’ ‘Yes, yes—let’s get on.’ A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice in Wonderlandwas led in. He was highly excited and his voice was shrill with emotion. ‘Most shocking experience I have ever known,’ he squeaked. ‘I have a weak heart, sir—a very weak heart, it might have been the death of me.’ ‘Your name, please,’ said the inspector ‘Downes. Roger Emmanuel Downes.’ ‘Profession?’ ‘I am a master at Highfield School for boys.’ ‘Now, Mr Downes, will you tell us in your own words what happened.’ ‘I can tell you that very shortly, gentlemen. At the close of the performance I rose from my seat. The seat on my left was empty but in the one beyond a man wassitting, apparently asleep. I was unable to pass him to get out as his legs were stuck out in front of him. I asked him to allow me to pass. As he did not move I repeated my request in—a—er—slightly louder tone. He still made no response. I then took him by the shoulder to waken him. His body slumped down further and I became aware that he was either unconscious or seriously ill. I called out: “This gentleman is taken ill. Fetch the commissionaire.” The commissionaire came. As I took my hand from the man’s shoulder I found it was wet and red…I can assure you, gentlemen, the shock was terrific! Anything might have happened! For years I have suffered from cardiac weakness—’ Colonel Anderson was looking at Mr Downes with a very curious expression. ‘You can consider that you’re a lucky man, Mr Downes.’ ‘I do, sir. Not even a palpitation!’ ‘You don’t quite take my meaning, Mr Downes. You were sitting two seats away, you say?’ ‘Actually I was sitting at first in the next seat to the murdered man—then I moved along so as to be behind an empty seat.’ ‘You’re about the same height and build as the dead man, aren’t you, and you were wearing a woollen scarf round your neck just as he was?’ ‘I fail to see—’ began Mr Downes stiffly. ‘I’m telling you, man,’ said Colonel Anderson, ‘just where your luck came in. Somehow or other, when the murderer followed you in, he got confused. He picked on the wrong back. I’ll eat my hat, Mr Downes, if that knife wasn’t meant for you!’ However well Mr Downes’ heart had stood former tests, it was unable to stand up to this one. He sank on a chair, gasped, and turned purple in the face. ‘Water,’ he gasped. ‘Water…’ A glass was brought him. He sipped it whilst his complexion gradually returned to the normal. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘Why me?’ ‘It looks like it,’ said Crome. ‘In fact, it’s the only explanation.’ ‘You mean that this man—this—this fiend incarnate—this bloodthirsty madman has been following meabout waiting for an opportunity?’ ‘I should say that was the way of it.’ ‘But in heaven’s name, why me?’ demanded the outraged schoolmaster. Inspector Crome struggled with the temptation to reply: ‘Why not?’ and said instead: ‘I’m afraid it’s no good expecting a lunatic to have reasons for what he does.’ ‘God bless my soul,’ said Mr Downes, sobered into whispering. He got up. He looked suddenly old and shaken. ‘If you don’t want me any more, gentlemen, I think I’ll go home. I—I don’t feel very well.’ ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Downes. I’ll send a constable with you—just to see you’re all right.’ ‘Oh, no—no, thank you. That’s not necessary.’ ‘Might as well,’ said Colonel Anderson gruffly. His eyes slid sideways, asking an imperceptible question of the inspector. The latter gave an equally imperceptible nod. Mr Downes went out shakily. ‘Just as well he didn’t tumble to it,’ said Colonel Anderson. ‘There’ll be a couple of them—eh?’ ‘Yes, sir. Your Inspector Rice has made arrangements. The house will be watched.’ ‘You think,’ said Poirot, ‘that when A B C finds out his mistake he might try again?’ Anderson nodded. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he said. ‘Seems a methodical sort of chap, A B C. It will upset him if things don’t go according to programme.’ Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wish we could get a description of the fellow,’ said Colonel Anderson irritably. ‘We’re as much in the dark as ever.’ ‘It may come,’ said Poirot. ‘Think so? Well, it’s possible. Damn it all, hasn’t anyone got eyes in their head?’ ‘Have patience,’ said Poirot. ‘You seem very confident, M. Poirot. Got any reason for this optimism?’ ‘Yes, Colonel Anderson. Up to now, the murderer has not made a mistake. He is bound to make one soon.’ ‘If that’s all you’ve got to go on,’ began the Chief Constable with a snort, but he was interrupted. ‘Mr Ball of the Black Swan is here with a young woman, sir. He reckons he’s got summat to say might help you.’ ‘Bring them along. Bring them along. We can do with anything helpful.’ Mr Ball of the Black Swan was a large, slow-thinking, heavily moving man. He exhaled a strong odour of beer. With him was a plump young woman with round eyes clearly in a state of high excitement. ‘Hope I’m not intruding or wasting valuable time,’ said Mr Ball in a slow, thick voice. ‘But this wench, Mary here, reckons she’s got something to tell as you ought to know.’ Mary giggled in a half-hearted way. ‘Well, my girl, what is it?’ said Anderson. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Mary, sir, Mary Stroud.’ ‘Well, Mary, out with it.’ Mary turned her round eyes on her master. ‘It’s her business to take up hot water to the gents’ bedrooms,’ said Mr Ball, coming to the rescue. ‘About half a dozen gentlemen we’d got staying. Some for the races and some just commercials.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Anderson impatiently. ‘Get on, lass,’ said Mr Ball. ‘Tell your tale. Nowt to be afraid of.’ Mary gasped, groaned and plunged in a breathless voice into her narrative. ‘I knocked on door and there wasn’t no answer, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone in least ways not unless the gentleman had said “Come in,” and as he didn’t say nothing I went in and he was there washing his hands.’ She paused and breathed deeply. ‘Go on, my girl,’ said Anderson. Mary looked sideways at her master and as though receiving inspiration from his slow nod, plunged on again. ‘“It’s your hot water, sir,” I said, “and I did knock,” but “Oh,” he says, “I’ve washed in cold,” he said, and so, naturally, I looks in basin, and oh! God help me, sir, it were all red!’ ‘Red?’ said Anderson sharply. Ball struck in. ‘The lass told me that he had his coat off and that he was holding the sleeve of it, and it was all wet—that’s right, eh, lass?’ ‘Yes, sir, that’s right, sir.’ She plunged on: ‘And his face, sir, it looked queer, mortal queer it looked. Gave me quite a turn.’ ‘When was this?’ asked Anderson sharply ‘About a quarter after five, so near as I can reckon.’ ‘Over three hours ago,’ snapped Anderson. ‘Why didn’t you come at once?’ ‘Didn’t hear about it at once,’ said Ball. ‘Not till news came along as there’d been another murder done. And then the lass she screams out as it might have been blood in the basin, and I asks her what she means, and she tells me. Well, it doesn’t sound right to me and I went upstairs myself. Nobody in the room. I asks a few questions and one of the lads in courtyard says he saw a fellow sneaking out that way and by his description it was the right one. So I says to the missus as Mary here had best go to police. She doesn’t like the idea, Mary doesn’t, and I says I’ll come along with her.’ Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him. ‘Describe this man,’ he said. ‘As quick as you can. There’s no time to be lost.’ ‘Medium-sized he were,’ said Mary. ‘And stooped and wore glasses.’ ‘His clothes?’ ‘A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking.’ She could add little to this description. Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were over-optimistic. Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the yard, had had no bag or suitcase. ‘There’s a chance there,’ he said. Two men were despatched to the Black Swan Mr Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat tearful, accompanied them. The sergeant returned about ten minutes later. ‘I’ve brought the register, sir,’ he said. ‘Here’s the signature.’ We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped—not easy to read. ‘A. B. Case—or is it Cash?’ said the Chief Constable. ‘A B C,’ said Crome significantly. ‘What about luggage?’ asked Anderson. ‘One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes.’ ‘Boxes? What was in ’em?’ ‘Stockings, sir. Silk stockings.’ Crome turned to Poirot. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Your hunch was right.’ 第二十七章　唐克斯特谋杀案 第二十七章　唐克斯特谋杀案 　　我由于是跟随着波洛进来，只听到克罗姆警督的只字片语。 　　他和警察局长看起来有点着急，两人闷闷不乐。 　　安德森上校向我们点头致意。 　　“很高兴你们来了，波洛先生。”他很有礼貌地说——我想，他猜想我们听到了克罗姆的话，“你瞧，我们又遭殃了。” 　　“又一起ABC谋杀案？” 　　“是的，该死的，胆子很大。那家伙是倾斜着身子从死者的背后刺进去的。” 　　“这一次是刺死的？” 　　“是的。与他的方式稍有不同，不是吗？打击头部，勒喉咙，现在是用刀。多才多艺的恶魔——什么？如果你想看的话，这里有法医的细节报告。” 　　他把一张纸递给波洛。“那个死者的两腿中间的地面上有那本ABC。”他补充道。 　　“死者的身份查明了吗？”波洛问。 　　“是的。ABC 这回可出了个差错，如果那对我们来说有任何满足感的话。死者名叫厄斯菲尔德（Earsfield）——乔治•厄斯菲尔德，职业是理发师。” 　　“真奇怪。”波洛评说道。 　　“可能是跳过了一个字母。”上校提醒道。 　　我的朋友怀疑地摇摇头。 　　“我们可以叫下一位证人进来吗？”克罗姆问道，“他可是急着回家。” 　　“可以，可以，让我们继续吧。” 　　一位中年男子被带了进来，他长得出奇地像是《爱丽斯漫游仙境》中的青蛙步兵。他极度兴奋，声音显得激动而刺耳。 　　“这是我所知道的最令人震惊的经历，”他尖声叫道，“先生，我的心脏很虚弱——相当虚弱，这件事可能要了我的命。” 　　“请问你的姓名？”警督说。 　　“唐斯（Downes）。罗杰•伊曼纽尔•唐斯。” 　　“你的职业？” 　　“我是海菲尔德男校的校长。” 　　“现在，唐斯先生，请你用自己的话语告诉我们所发生的一切。” 　　“先生们，我可以简单地告诉你们。影片结束时，我从座位上站起来。我左边的位置是空的，可那位置边上的座位上坐着一个男子，显然是睡着了。因为他的双腿伸向面前，我无法通过。我请他让我过去，他一点反应都没有。我于是就碰了碰他的肩膀，想把他弄醒。他的身子又往下滑落了一点，我开始意识到他要么神志不清，要么得了重病。我便大声叫道：‘这位先生病了。请叫保安来。’保安来了。当我把手从那人肩上拿回来时，我发现手上又湿又红……我可以向你们保证，先生们，这种惊吓太可怕了！任何事情都有可能发生！这些年来，我一直饱受心脏衰弱的痛苦。” 　　安德森上校用一种相当奇怪的表情看着唐斯先生。 　　“你可以认为自己是个幸运的人，唐斯先生。” 　　“是的，先生。我毫不犹豫地这样认为。” 　　“你不太明白我的意思，唐斯先生。你是说，你们中间隔着两个座位？” 　　“事实上，起先我是坐在那个被谋杀的人旁边的座位上——然后我挪了个位子，以便坐在一个空座位后面。” 　　“你与死者的身高和体形差不多，不是吗？而且你同他一样，脖子上围着羊毛围巾？” 　　“我没有注意到——”唐斯先生开始拘谨生硬起来。 　　“让我告诉你，”安德森上校说，“你幸运在什么地方？当凶手跟着你进去时，他弄错了。他认错了后背。如果那把刀子不是冲你来的，唐斯先生，我敢吃了这顶帽子！” 　　虽然唐斯先生的心脏经历了先前的考验，可这次他是无法承受了。他跌落在椅子上，透不过气来，脸色发紫。 　　“水，”他说道，“水……” 　　一杯水递给了他，他喝完之后，脸色恢复了常态。 　　“我？”他说，“为什么是我？” 　　“看来是这样。”克罗姆说，“事实上，这是唯一的解释。” 　　“你的意思是说，这个男人——这个——这个魔鬼的化身，这个嗜血的疯子一直在跟踪我，并伺机下手？” 　　“我想是这样的。” 　　“可是以上帝的名义，为什么会是我呢？”学校校长义愤填膺地说。 　　克罗姆则故意反驳道：“为什么不是呢？”接着又说，“我看盼望一个疯子的所作所为是有理由的，并没什么好处。” 　　“上帝保佑我，”唐斯先生说道，因抽泣而低不成声。 　　他站起身来，看上去突然间变得苍老和虚弱。 　　“先生们，如果没什么更多的问题的话，我想我该回家了。我感觉有点不太舒服。” 　　“好的，唐斯先生。我派一名警察陪你——只为确保你一切平安。” 　　“哦，不，不，谢谢。不用了。” 　　“可能这样也好。”安德森上校态度暴躁地说。 　　他的眼睛朝一旁斜视，向警督询问一个微妙的问题。后者则同样微妙地点了下头。 　　唐斯先生摇摇晃晃地走了出去。 　　“他同样没有察觉到，”安德森上校说，“他们有好几个人吧？” 　　“是的，先生。赖斯警督已进行了安排，那所房子将受到监视。” 　　“你认为，”波洛说，“如果ABC发现他搞错了，他可能会再次下手？” 　　安德森点点头。 　　“这只是种可能，”他说，“ABC 看来是个有计划的家伙。如果实情并未按照他的程序发展的话，他会感到不舒服的。” 　　波洛若有所思地点点头。 　　“真希望我们能知道那家伙长得什么模样。”安德森上校急躁地说，“我们还是茫然无知。” 　　“也许会有的。”波洛说。 　　“你是这样认为吗？是的，是有可能。该死的，难道每个人头上都没长眼睛吗？” 　　“得有点耐心。”波洛说。 　　“你看上去非常有信心，波洛先生。有什么原因使你如此乐观？” 　　“是的，安德森上校。到目前为止，那个凶手还没有犯错误。他肯定马上就会犯错误。” 　　“如果是这样的话，你们就要继续努力。”警察局长哼着鼻子，可他的话被打断了。 　　“先生，黑天鹅旅店的鲍尔先生与一位年轻女士来了。他认为他有些线索可以帮助我们。” 　　“带他进来吧。带他们进来吧。我们挺需要有帮助的东西的。” 　　黑天鹅旅店的鲍尔先生是个庞大的人，思维缓慢，行动很重。他散发出一股浓浓的啤酒味。同他一起的是一位丰满的年轻女士，眼睛圆圆的，很显然正处在高度兴奋之中。 　　“希望我没有打搅你们或是浪费你们的宝贵时间。”鲍尔先生嘶哑有迟缓地说，“可这位女工，玛丽断定有些事情要告诉你们，你们应该知道。” 　　玛丽心不在焉地咯笑。 　　“嘿，我的姑娘，是什么事？”安德森说，“你叫什么名字？” 　　“玛丽，玛丽•斯特劳德，先生。” 　　“好吧，玛丽，请说出来吧。” 　　玛丽的一双圆圆的眼睛朝向她的雇主。 　　“他的任务就是给男士的房间供应热水。”鲍尔先生替她解围道，“我们那里大概住着六个男士，有些人是为赛马而来，有些则是做生意的。” 　　“噢，噢，”安德森有点不耐烦了。 　　“接着说吧，小姑娘。”鲍尔说，“告诉我们你的故事。别害怕。” 　　玛丽屏住呼吸，在紧张而又困难的呻吟中开始了她的叙述。 　　“我敲了门，可没有人答应，否则的话，只有当屋内的先生说‘进来’，我才会进去。由于他说了点什么，我便进屋去，他正好在洗手。” 　　她停顿下来，深深地呼吸。 　　“请继续吧，我的姑娘。”安德森说。 　　玛丽的眼睛斜向她的雇主，看到他缓慢的点头后，仿佛受到了鼓励，又接着说了起来。 　　“‘先生，您的热水。’我说，‘我敲了门。’可他说‘哦，我已用冷水洗了。’他这样说，我自然会看一下水盆。哦，天哪，水全都红了！” 　　“红了？”安德森尖声叫道。 　　鲍尔插话道： 　　“她告诉我说，那个男的脱掉上衣，拎着袖口，袖子全湿了。嘿。对吧，小姑娘？” 　　“是的，先生，确实如此。” 　　她接着说：“他的脸看起来很奇怪，非常奇怪，这令我大吃一惊。” 　　“这是什么时候的事？”安德森尖声问。 　　“大概是五点一刻，我想同我能想起的时间挺接近。” 　　“那是在三个多小时以前。”安德森厉声说，“你为何不立即来？” 　　“我们并没有马上听到那消息。”鲍尔说，“直到有消息传来，说是又发生了一起谋杀案。玛丽便尖叫起来，因为面盆里可能是血。当我问她是怎么回事时，她便告诉了我。我不太相信，就上楼去看。房间里已空无一人，我便向人询问，院子里的一个司机说他见过有个男人鬼鬼祟祟地溜走。根据他的描述，就是那个人。所以我便对太太说，最好让玛丽去警察局，她不赞同这个意见，玛丽也不愿意，于是我说我陪她一起来。” 　　克罗姆警督递给他一张纸。 　　“请描述一下那个男人长得什么模样，”他说，“尽可能地快点，不能再浪费时间了。” 　　“他中等身材，”玛丽说，“有点驼背，戴眼镜。” 　　“他穿什么衣服？” 　　“一件黑色上装，头戴翘边帽，看上去很破旧。” 　　她只能讲这么多了。 　　克罗姆警督并没有过分坚持。过了一会儿，电话线路忙了起来，可是警督和警察局长谁也没有过分乐观。 　　克罗姆推断，那个被人看到从院子里跑出去的男子并没有带包或是箱子。 　　“还有机会。”他说。 　　两个人被派去黑天鹅旅店。 　　鲍尔先生满怀着自豪和骄傲，玛丽则有点泪流满面，陪同他们回去。 　　大约十分钟后，警官回来。 　　“先生，我把登记本带来，”他说，“这里有他的签名。” 　　我们挤过去看，字迹很小，很难辨认。 　　“签名是AB Case——或是Cash？”局长说道。 　　“行李怎么样？”安德森问。 　　“有一只大箱子，里面装满了小纸盒。” 　　“纸盒？里面是什么东西？” 　　“长统袜，先生。丝质长统袜。” 　　克罗姆转向波洛。 　　“祝贺你，”他说道，“你的预感很正确。” Chapter 28 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 28 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard. The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up. ‘Jacobs speaking, sir. There’s a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear.’ Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A B C case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve—retaining the grosser matter and passing on the residue to his superior. ‘Very well, Jacobs,’ said Crome. ‘Send him along.’ A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector’s door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall,moderately good-looking young man. ‘This is Mr Tom Hartigan, sir. He’s got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A B C case.’ The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands. ‘Good morning, Mr Hartigan. Sit down, won’t you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?’ Tom Hartigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind ‘One of the big-wigs.’ The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person! ‘Now then,’ said Crome. ‘You’ve got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead.’ Tom began nervously. ‘Of course it may be nothing at all. It’s just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time.’ Again Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people! ‘We’re the best judge of that. Let’s have the facts, Mr Hartigan.’ ‘Well, it’s like this, sir. I’ve got a young lady, you see, and her mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second-floor back has been let for over a year to a man called Cust.’ ‘Cust—eh?’ ‘That’s right, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what’srather vague and soft—and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly you’d say—and I’d never of dreamed of anything being wrong if it hadn’t been for something rather odd.’ In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once or twice, Tom described his encounter with Mr Cust at Euston Station and the incident of the dropped ticket ‘You see, sir, look at it how you will, it’s funny like. Lily—that’s my young lady, sir—she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said, and her mother says the same—says she remembers distinct talking about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Lily—my young lady—said as how she hoped he wouldn’t cop it from this A B C fellow going to Doncaster—and then she says it’s rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don’t know where he was, but he was away at the seaside—that she does know. And then I said to her it would be odd if he was the A B C himself and she said poor Mr Cust wouldn’t hurt a fly—and that was all at the time. We didn’t think no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinkingthat, after all, harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty.’ Tom took a breath and then went on. Inspector Crome was listening intently now. ‘And then after the Doncaster murder, sir, it was in all the papers that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a certain A B Case or Cash, and it gave a description that fitted well enough. First evening off I had, I went round to Lily’s and asked her what her Mr Cust’s initials were. She couldn’t remember at first, but her mother did. Said they were A B right enough. Then we got down to it and tried to figure out if Cust had been away at the time of the first murder at Andover. Well, as you know, sir, it isn’t too easy to remember things three months back. We had a job of it, but we got it fixed down in the end, because Mrs Marbury had a brother come from Canada to see her on June 21st. He arrived unexpected like and she wanted to give him a bed, and Lily suggested that as Mr Cust was away Bert Smith might have his bed. But Mrs Marbury wouldn’t agree, because she said it wasn’t acting right by her lodger, and she always liked to act fair and square. But we fixed the date all right because of Bert Smith’s ship docking at Southampton that day.’ Inspector Crome had listened very attentively, jotting down an occasional note. ‘That’s all?’ he asked. ‘That’s all, sir. I hope you don’t think I’m making a lot of nothing.’ Tom flushed slightly. ‘Not at all. You were quite right to come here. Of course, it’s very slight evidence—these dates may be mere coincidence and the likeness of the name, too. But it certainly warrants my having an interview with your Mr Cust. Is he at home now?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘When did he return?’ ‘The evening of the Doncaster murder, sir.’ ‘What’s he been doing since?’ ‘He’s stayed in mostly, sir. And he’s been looking very queer, Mrs Marbury says. He buys a lot of newspapers—goes out early and gets the morning ones, and then after dark he goes out and gets the evening ones. Mrs Marbury says he talks a lot to himself, too. She thinks he’s getting queerer.’ ‘What is this Mrs Marbury’s address?’ Tom gave it to him. ‘Thank you. I shall probably be calling round in the course of the day. I need hardly tell you to be careful of your manner if you come across this Cust.’ He rose and shook hands. ‘You may be quite satisfied you did the right thing in coming to us. Good morning, Mr Hartigan.’ ‘Well, sir?’ asked Jacobs, re-entering the room a fewminutes later. ‘Think it’s the goods?’ ‘It’s promising,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘That is, if the facts are as the boy stated them. We’ve had no luck with the stocking manufacturers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that file of the Churston case.’ He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted. ‘Ah, here it is. It’s amongst the statements made to the Torquay police. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving the Torquay Palladium after the film Not a Sparrowand noticed a man behaving queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say “That’s an idea.” Not a Sparrow—that’s the film that was on at the Regal in Doncaster?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time—but it’s possible that the idea of the modus operandifor his next crime occurred to our man then. We’ve got Hill’s name and address, I see. His description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the descriptions of Mary Stroud and this Tom Hartigan…’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’re getting warm,’ said Inspector Crome—rather inaccurately, for he himself was always slightly chilly. ‘Any instructions, sir?’ ‘Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Townaddress, but I don’t want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the AC. Then I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if he’d like to make a statement. It sounds as though he’s quite ready to get rattled.’ Outside Tom Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting for him on the Embankment. ‘All right, Tom?’ Tom nodded. ‘I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who’s in charge of the case.’ ‘What’s he like?’ ‘A bit quiet and lah-di-dah—not my idea of a detective.’ ‘That’s Lord Trenchard’s new kind,’ said Lily with respect. ‘Some of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?’ Tom gave her a brief résuméof the interview. ‘So they think as it really was him?’ ‘They think it might be. Anyway, they’ll come along and ask him a question or two.’ ‘Poor Mr Cust.’ ‘It’s no good saying poor Mr Cust, my girl. If he’s A B C, he’s committed four terrible murders.’ Lily sighed and shook her head. ‘It does seem awful,’ she observed. ‘Well, now you’re going to come and have a bite oflunch, my girl. Just you think that if we’re right I expect my name will be in the papers!’ ‘Oh, Tom, will it?’ ‘Rather. And yours, too. Andyour mother’s. And I dare say you’ll have your picture in it, too.’ ‘Oh, Tom.’ Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy. ‘And in the meantime what do you say to a bite at the Corner House?’ Lily squeezed tighter. ‘Come on then!’ ‘All right—half a minute. I must just telephone from the station.’ ‘Who to?’ ‘A girl I was going to meet.’ She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed. ‘Now then, Tom.’ She slipped her arm in his. ‘Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn’t see the other one there?’ ‘What other one?’ ‘The Belgian gentleman. The one that A B C writes to always.’ ‘No. He wasn’t there.’ ‘Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?’ II Mr Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook. He turned to where Mrs Marbury was standing in the doorway of the room, clearly devoured with curiosity. ‘Not often you have a telephone call, Mr Cust?’ ‘No—er—no, Mrs Marbury. It isn’t.’ ‘Not bad news, I trust?’ ‘No—no.’ How persistent the woman was. His eyes caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying. Births—Marriages—Deaths… ‘My sister’s just had a little boy,’ he blurted out. He—who had never had a sister! ‘Oh, dear! Now—well, that isnice, I am sure. (“And never once mentioned a sister all these years,” was her inward thought. “If that isn’t just like a man!”) I was surprised, I’ll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily’s voice—something like hers, it was—but haughtier if you know what I mean—sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr Cust, my congratulations, I’m sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?’ ‘It’s the only one,’ said Mr Cust. ‘The only one I’ve ever had or likely to have, and—er—I think I must gooff at once. They—they want me to come. I—I think I can just catch a train if I hurry.’ ‘Will you be away long, Mr Cust?’ called Mrs Marbury as he ran up the stairs. ‘Oh, no—two or three days—that’s all.’ He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of ‘the dear little mite’. Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge. Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr Cust was that dreadful monster, A B C. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences. ‘I don’t suppose they meant it seriously,’ she thought comfortably. ‘And now I hope they’ll be ashamed of themselves.’ In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr Cust’s statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs Marbury might have had of her lodger’s bona fides ‘I hope she didn’t have too hard a time of it, poor dear,’ thought Mrs Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily’s silk slip. Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track. Mr Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone. That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain. ‘Is that you, Mr Cust? I thought you might like to know there’s an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you…’ What had he said? He couldn’t remember. ‘Thank you—thank you, my dear…very kind of you…’ Something like that. Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector’s visit? But how did she know the inspector was coming? And her voice—she’d disguised her voice from her mother… It looked—it looked—as though she knew… But surely if she knew, she wouldn’t… She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He’d seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mouse-trap. A kind girl… A kind, pretty girl… He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats. Should he…? A slight noise from the kitchen decided him… No, there wasn’t time… Mrs Marbury might come out… He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind him… Where…? 第二十八章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第二十八章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　克罗姆警督此刻正在他的办公室里。 　　他办公桌上的电话发出长长的嗡嗡声，他拿起话筒。 　　“先生，我是雅各布斯。有个年轻人带来个故事，我想你应该听听。” 　　克罗姆警督叹了口气。每天平均有二十个人来，带着所谓与ABC 案相关的重要线索。其中有些人是些并无恶意的疯子，有些则是好心人，他们相信自己的信息是有价值的。雅各布斯警官的任务就是做一个过滤器——挡住那些没用的东西，将剩下的移交给他的上司。 　　“很好，雅各布斯，把他带来吧。”克罗姆说。 　　几分钟后，有人敲门，雅各布斯警官出现在门口，他带来一个高大的、样子倒蛮好看的年轻男子。 　　“先生，这位是汤姆•哈廷格先生。他要告诉我们一些情况，或许会与ABC案有关。” 　　警督很高兴地站起身来，同他握手。 　　“早上好，哈廷格先生，请坐。你吸烟吗？抽支烟吧？” 　　汤姆•哈廷格很笨拙地坐了下来，敬畏地看着他心目中的“名人之一”。眼前的警督形象似乎使他有点失望。他看上去只像是个很普通的人。 　　“那么，”克罗姆说，“你有情况要告诉我们，你认为这些情况与本案有关。那就说吧。” 　　汤姆紧张地开始讲述起来。 　　“当然那也可能一点用都没有。那只是我自己的想法，我可能会浪费您的时间。” 　　克罗姆警督轻轻地叹了口气，他又得浪费时间来劝说人了！ 　　“噢，事情是这样的。我有个年轻的女人，她母亲出租房屋。那房子位于卡姆登镇的路上。他们房子的三楼租给了一个名叫卡斯特的男人，已有一年多时间了。” 　　“卡斯特——喔？” 　　“是的，先生。他是那种呆头呆脑的人，倒是挺温和的。他挺有点落魄，我想我应该说。他是那种连一只苍蝇都不会去伤害的人——如果不是因为有些事情实在是太奇怪，我是不会觉得这中间有什么不对劲的。” 　　汤姆以一种令人费解的方式并重复了一两边，讲述了在尤斯顿与卡斯特先生的遭遇，以及掉出来的车票的事。 　　“您看，先生，这看起来很可笑。莉莉——那是我的女人，先生。她倒是挺确信他说的是去切尔滕纳姆，她母亲也这么说——说她还记得那天上午他离开时的谈话。当然，我那时候也没太注意这些事。莉莉，我那个年轻姑娘，说过她希望他不会被那个去往唐克斯特的家伙杀害。然后她说因为上次谋杀案发生时，他正好去了彻斯顿，这可真是个巧合。我笑着问她，再上一次他是否在贝克斯希尔，她说她不知道他去了哪里，可她知道他去了海边。然后我告诉她说，如果他就是ABC，这实在是挺奇怪的。她说他连一只苍蝇都不会伤害，而那时候我们只谈了这些。我们也不是没再多想什么。至少，我还是觉得有点可疑，先生。我开始怀疑这个卡斯特，我认为，尽管他看上去毫无伤害，他是挺有点反常的。” 　　汤姆叹了口气后又接着说。克罗姆现在是全神贯注地听着。 　　“唐克斯特谋杀案发生后，先生，所有的报纸都在报道说，希望提供关于AB Case 或Cash 的行踪，所说的情况与他非常吻合。第一天晚上，我去莉莉家，问她卡斯特先生的名字缩写是什么。她起先已记不起来，可她母亲记起来了。她说肯定是ABC 没错。随后我们想继续弄清楚第一次谋杀案在安多弗发生时，他有没有外出。哦，先生，您该知道，要回忆起三个月前发生的事情可不是件容易的事。可最终我们还是有了答案，六月二十一日马伯里太太有位兄弟从加拿大来看望她。他好像是突然来的，她想给他找个床铺，于是莉莉便建议，由于卡斯特先生外出，伯特•史密斯可以睡他的床。可马伯里太太不同意，因为她认为用他租房人的房间不太好，她总是希望自己能做得公平。而我们则算出那个日子没错，因为伯特•史密斯的船就是那天在南汉普敦靠岸的。” 　　克罗姆警督非常仔细地听着，不时地记下点什么。 　　“讲完了？”他问。 　　“讲完了，先生。我希望您不会认为我是在无事生非。” 　　汤姆有点脸红。 　　“不会的。你来这里是相当正确的做法。当然，这个证据并不充分——时间可能是个巧合，而姓名则只是相仿而已。可这当然表明我该同你的卡斯特先生见个面。他现在在家吗？” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“他什么时候回来的？” 　　“唐克斯特谋杀案的当天晚上，先生。” 　　“回来后他一直在做什么？” 　　“大部分时间他都呆在房间里，先生。他看上去非常奇怪，马伯里太太是那样说的。他买了许多报纸——很早就出门去买早报，天黑之后去买晚报。马伯里还说他不时自言自语。她觉得他越来越奇怪了。” 　　“马伯里太太的地址是什么？” 　　汤姆把地址给他。 　　“谢谢。我可能今天会到那里去转转，我得提醒你，如果碰到这位卡斯特先生的话，要注意你的态度。” 　　他站起来，握了握手。 　　“你到这里来，做得很对，应该感到很满意了。再见，哈廷格先生。” 　　“那么，先生，”过了一会儿，雅格布斯重新回到房间，他问道，“您是否认为那就是你要找的人？” 　　“极有可能。”克罗姆警督说，“如果那小伙子所说的情况属实的话，就是那个人。我们还没有找到长统袜的生产厂家。现在我们掌握了一些情况。请你顺便把彻斯顿案子的卷宗给我。” 　　他花了些时间来寻找他所要的情况。 　　“啊，早在这里。托基警方的供词纪录中有。有一位叫希尔的年轻人，他证明说，在看完电影《不识燕雀》之后离开托基雅典娜剧院时，他看到一个男人行动很古怪，在对自己说着什么。希尔听到他说‘这倒是个主意’。《不识燕雀》——，就是那部在唐克斯特王室影院里放映的影片。” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“这当中可能有些情况。当时并不算什么，可那种操作方法被我们这个家伙运用在下一场谋杀中，这是极有可能的事。我们有希尔的姓名与地址。他对那个男人的描述挺不清楚的，但他和玛丽•斯特劳德以及汤姆•哈廷格的叙述相吻合。” 　　他若有所思地点点头。 　　“我们就快要找到他了。”克罗姆说道——这个说法相当不准确，因为他自己总是有点冷淡。 　　“有什么指示吗，先生？” 　　“要找两个人去监视卡姆登镇的这个地方，可我并不想惊动我们的小鸟。我必须同助理督察谈一谈。然后我想该把卡斯特带到这里来，问他是否愿意陈述一下情况。” 　　汤姆出来后，莉莉•马伯里迎了上去。她一直在泰晤士河堤上等着他。 　　“挺好吧，汤姆？” 　　“我见到了克罗姆警督，他负责这桩案子。” 　　“他长的什么样？” 　　“有点安静，呃，——不是我想象中的那样机敏。” 　　“他是特伦查德爵士式的新类型。”莉莉满怀敬意地说道，“他们当中的一些人真是伟大。那么，他说了些什么？” 　　汤姆简单地把谈话内容讲述了一遍。 　　“那么他们是否真的认为是他？” 　　“他们认为有可能是。不管怎样，他们会过去向他问一两个问题。” 　　“可怜的卡斯特先生。” 　　“最好别说是可怜的卡斯特先生。如果他真是ABC 的话，他已经制造了四起可怕的谋杀案。” 　　莉莉叹了口气，摇摇头。 　　“听起来真可怕。”莉莉说道。 　　“好的，现在随便吃点午餐吧。你可以想一想，如果我们弄对了的话，我希望我的名字会在报纸上出现。” 　　“哦，会吗，汤姆？” 　　“当然，还有你的名字，还会有马伯里太太的名字，而且我敢说你的照片也会出现在报上。” 　　“哦，汤姆。”莉莉心旷神怡地紧紧抓住汤姆的手臂。 　　“还有，你认为去角落屋餐厅吃午饭怎么样？” 　　莉莉抓得更紧了。 　　“那就快点吧。” 　　“好吧，马上就好。我必须从车站打个电话。” 　　“给谁打？” 　　“是我要见的一个女孩子。” 　　她穿过马路，三分钟后又回到他的身边，看起来很是得意。 　　“那么现在，汤姆。” 　　她的手臂挽住他。 　　“再给我讲讲苏格兰场的事。你去那里有没有见过另外一个人？” 　　“哪一个？” 　　“那个比利时绅士。那个ABC总写信去的人。” 　　“没有，他没在那里。” 　　“那么，把全部情况都讲给我听吧。” 　　卡斯特先生轻轻地将话筒放回到勾子上。 　　他回到房门口，马伯里太太站在那里，很显然是在好奇地听着。 　　“你不常有电话来，是吗，卡斯特先生。” 　　“哦——是的，马伯里太太，不常有。” 　　“不是什么坏消息吧，我相信。” 　　“不，不。”这个妇人真顽固。他的眼睛盯着自己的手中的报纸。 　　“我妹妹刚生了个男孩。”他漏出一句话。 　　他——可从没有过妹妹。 　　“哦，天哪！现在——噢，太好了，我想。（“这么些年来从未听他说过有一个妹妹，”她心里这么想。“那可不像是男人的行为。”）我感到很奇怪，我可以告诉你，当那个女士说要找卡斯特先生讲话的时候。起先我还以为是我的莉莉的声音——那有点像她的声音，它有点——只是更要傲慢些，如果你明白我的意思的话——那种声音比较尖。卡斯特先生，祝贺你。是第一个孩子，或者你还有其他的小外甥或外甥女？” 　　“就这一个，”卡斯特先生说道，“我只有这么一个，我想我该马上走。他们——他们希望我过去，我——我想如果快点的话，我还可以赶上一趟火车。” 　　“你会离开很长时间吗，卡斯特先生？”当他匆忙上楼时，马伯里太太问道。 　　“哦，不会，两到三天，就这么长。” 　　他走进卧室。马伯里太太回到厨房，动情地想着“那个可爱的小男孩”。 　　她的良心使她突然间感到内疚。 　　就在昨天晚上，汤姆和莉莉还在往回核对那些日子！试图弄清楚卡斯特就是那个可怕的怪物ABC。那只是因为他的名字缩写和一些巧合。 　　“我想他们不太当真。”她宽慰地说，“现在，我希望他们会为自己感到惭愧。” 　　在某种连她自己也解释不清的方式之下，卡斯特先生关于他妹妹有个孩子的说法已经很有效地使得马伯里太太消除她对这位房客真实身份的怀疑。 　　“我希望她没有太难受，可怜的人。”马伯里太太一边想着，一边在熨烫莉莉的丝绸套裙之前，先在她的脸颊上试了试熨斗的底部。 　　她的思绪则舒畅地想着那件并不轻松的生孩子的事情。 　　卡斯特先生轻轻地下了楼，手里拎着包。他双眼朝着电话机盯了一会儿。 　　刚才那简短的谈话又在他脑中回响。 　　“是你吗，卡斯特先生？我想你可能愿意知道，有位苏格兰场的警督想见见你……” 　　他说了些什么？他记不清了。 　　“谢谢——谢谢，我亲爱的……你真好……” 　　似乎就是这些话。 　　她为什么给他打电话？她是不是可能已经猜到？还是她只想证实一下他能留下来等候那个警督的来访？ 　　可是她怎么会知道那警督会来呢？还有她的声音——她伪装的声音使她的母亲都听不出来。 　　看起来——看起来——好像她知道…… 　　可是如果她真的知道，就不会…… 　　不管如何，她可能已经知道。女人都是非常奇怪的，没法预知的狠心和没法预知的善良。她曾看到莉莉把一只老鼠从鼠夹中放跑。 　　一个善良的姑娘…… 　　一个善良、美丽的姑娘…… 　　他在挂有雨伞和上衣的架子旁停下。 　　他该怎么做？ 　　从厨房传来的声响使他作出决定…… 　　不，已没有时间…… 　　马伯里太太可能会出来…… 　　他打开前门，穿出去，又关上门。 　　要去哪里呢？ Chapter 29 At Scotland Yard Chapter 29 At Scotland Yard Conference again. The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself. The AC was saying: ‘A good tip that of yours, M. Poirot, about checking a large sale of stockings.’ Poirot spread out his hands. ‘It was indicated. This man could not be a regular agent. He sold outright instead of touting for orders.’ ‘Got everything clear so far, inspector?’ ‘I think so, sir.’ Crome consulted a file. ‘Shall I run over the position to date?’ ‘Yes, please.’ ‘I’ve checked up with Churston, Paignton and Torquay. Got a list of people where he went and offered stockings. I must say he did the thing thoroughly. Stayed at the Pitt, small hotel near Torre Station. Returned tothe hotel at 10.30 on the night of the murder. Could have taken a train from Churston at 9.57, getting to Torre at 10.20. No one answering to his description noticed on train or at station, but that Friday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear were pretty full. ‘Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Globe under his own name. Offered stockings to about a dozen addresses, including Mrs Barnard and including the Ginger Cat. Left hotel early in the evening. Arrived back in London about 11.30 the following morning. As to Andover, same procedure. Stayed at the Feathers. Offered stockings to Mrs Fowler, next door to Mrs Ascher, and to half a dozen other people in the street. The pair Mrs Ascher had I got from the niece (name of Drower)—they’re identical with Cust’s supply.’ ‘So far, good,’ said the AC. ‘Acting on information received,’ said the inspector, ‘I went to the address given me by Hartigan, but found that Cust had left the house about half an hour previously. He received a telephone message, I’m told. First time such a thing had happened to him, so his landlady told me.’ ‘An accomplice?’ suggested the Assistant Commissioner. ‘Hardly,’ said Poirot. ‘It is odd that—unless—’ We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused. He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded. ‘I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery and—at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored—a parcel much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain—not hosiery—but eight new A B C railway guides!’ ‘Proof positive,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘I’ve found something else, too,’ said the inspector—his voice becoming suddenly almost human with triumph. ‘Only found it this morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife in his room—’ ‘It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him,’ remarked Poirot. ‘After all, he’s not a reasonable human being,’ remarked the inspector. ‘Anway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it (as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about elsewhere. What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it straight awayThe hall stand—no one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall—and there it was!’ ‘The knife?’ ‘The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood’s still on it.’ ‘Good work, Crome,’ said the AC approvingly. ‘We only need one thing more now.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘The man himself.’ ‘We’ll get him, sir. Never fear.’ The inspector’s tone was confident. ‘What do you say, M. Poirot?’ Poirot started out of a reverie. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we got our man. Do you agree?’ ‘Oh, that—yes. Without a doubt.’ His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously. ‘Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?’ ‘There is something that worries me very much. It is the why?The motive.’ ‘But, my dear fellow, the man’s crazy,’ said the Assistant Commissioner impatiently. ‘I understand what M. Poirot means,’ said Crome, coming graciously to the rescue. ‘He’s quite right. There’s got to be some definite obsession. I think we’ll find the root of the matter in an intensified inferiority complex. There may be a persecution mania, too, andif so he may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down.’ ‘H’m,’ said the AC. ‘That’s the jargon that’s talked nowadays. In my day if a man was mad he was mad and we didn’t look about for scientific terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor would suggest putting a man like A B C in a nursing home, telling him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting him out as a responsible member of society.’ Poirot smiled but did not answer. The conference broke up. ‘Well,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘As you say, Crome, pulling him in is only a matter of time.’ ‘We’d have had him before now,’ said the inspector, ‘if he wasn’t so ordinary-looking. We’ve worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens as it is.’ ‘I wonder where he is at this minute,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. 第二十九章　在苏格兰场 第二十九章　在苏格兰场 　　又是会议。 　　会议的参加人员包括厅长助理、克罗姆警督、波洛和我自己。 　　厅长助理正说着： 　　“波洛先生，你们在调查一大笔长统袜销售情况，干得很好。” 　　波洛摊开双手。 　　“这说明，那个男子并不是个固定的经销商，他向外推销却不招徕订单。” 　　“现在一切都清楚了吗，警督？” 　　“是的，先生。”克罗姆警督察看着一份卷宗，“我可以概括一下到目前为止的进展情况吗？” 　　“是的，请吧。” 　　“我已经检查过彻斯顿、佩恩顿和托基，获得了一张他前去推销长统袜的人的名单。我必须指出，他做得相当周密。他住在皮特，那是一间托雷车站旁边的小旅店，可能是从彻斯顿搭乘九点五十七分的火车，于十点二十分抵达托雷的。在火车上和车站里没人注意到过像他那种模样的人。可那个星期五正好是达特茅斯赛艇会，从金斯维尔返回的列车坐得相当满。” 　　“贝克斯希尔的情况也大致相同。他用自己的名字住在环球旅店，向巴纳德太太和黄猫餐厅在内的十几个地方推销袜子。他夜里早早地离开旅店，第二天早上约十一点三十分返回伦敦。至于在安多弗，也是相同的程序。他住在菲瑟斯酒店，向阿谢尔太太的邻居福勒太太和那条街上的好几个人出售袜子。我从阿谢尔太太的外甥女（名叫德劳尔）那里获得的那双袜子与卡斯特出售的一样。” 　　“好。”厅长助理说道。 　　“根据我们得到的消息，”警督说，“我去了哈廷格先生给我的地址，可发现卡斯特先生已在大约半个小时之前离开。我被告知，他接到了一个电话，这样的事情是第一次发生，是他的房东告诉我的。” 　　“是同谋吗？”厅长助理提醒道。 　　“不太像。”波洛说，“这很奇怪——除非——” 　　当他停下来时，我们都好奇地望着他。 　　他摇摇头，而警督接着说。 　　“我仔细地检查了他住的房间，检查使得事情清楚起来。我发现了一批便笺纸，这些纸同写信用的纸相同。有大量的袜子——藏在柜子背后——还有相同形状和大小的一包东西，里面装的可不是袜子——而是八本新的ABC铁路指南书。” 　　“这足以证明。”厅长助理说。 　　“我还发现其他一些物品，”警督说，他的声音突然变得颇有人情味，并得意洋洋，“只是在今天早上才发现，先生，还没来得及汇报。他的屋里倒是没有刀的迹象——” 　　“如果把刀带回家里，那是个低能儿的行为。”波洛说道。 　　“毕竟他并不是个可以理喻的人。”警督评论道，“不管怎样，我想到他有可能把刀子带回家，然后会意识到把刀藏在房间里的危险性（正如波洛先生所指出的那样），就寻找其他地方。他会选择什么地方来藏刀呢？我一下子就找到了。衣帽架——没有人动过衣帽架。我费了好大劲才将衣帽架从墙边移开——它就在那里。” 　　“是刀子吗？” 　　“是刀子。毫无疑问，上面还有干了的血迹。” 　　“干得好，克罗姆。”厅长助理赞赏道，“现在我们只是再需要一件事。” 　　“是什么？” 　　“那个人自己。” 　　“我们会抓住他的，先生。别担心。” 　　警督的语调满怀信心。 　　“波洛先生，你认为如何？” 　　波洛从沉思中惊醒。 　　“请再说一遍。” 　　“我们正说到要抓住那个人只是时间问题了。你同意吗？” 　　“噢，那个——是的，毫无疑问。” 　　他的语调是那么心不在焉，以至于别人都惊奇地看着他。 　　“你有什么可担心的吗，波洛先生？” 　　“有一件事情使我非常担心，就是为什么？就是动机。” 　　“可是，亲爱的朋友，那个人疯了。”厅长助理不耐烦地说。 　　“我明白波洛指的是什么意思。”克罗姆很有礼貌地解围，“他挺正确的，这里面肯定有令他困惑的地方。我想我们会从一种强烈的自卑感中找到问题的根源，也可能是个迫害狂，如果是这样的话，他就可能把它同波洛先生联系在一起了。他可能会误认为，波洛先生是专门雇来捉他的侦探。” 　　“嗯，”厅长助理说，“那就是这些天来谈论的行话。在我那个时候，如果一个人疯了，他就是疯了，而我们并不寻求科学的概念来使其变得柔和。我想，一个彻头彻尾现代化了的医生会建议把像ABC这样的人放在有护理的家中，用四十五天时间告诉他是个怎样的好人，然后把他放出去，当作是一个对社会负责的人。” 　　波洛笑了，但是他没有说话。 　　会议就此散了。 　　“那么，”厅长助理说。“正如你所说，克罗姆，将他抓获只是个时间问题。” 　　“如果他不是那样相貌平平的话，我们早就逮住他了。我们已经使得够多的无辜百姓担惊受怕了。” 　　“我倒疑惑他此刻在哪里。”厅长助理说。 Chapter 30 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Chapter 30 Not from Captain Hastings’ Personal Narrative Mr Cust stood by a greengrocer’s shop. He stared across the road. Yes, that was it. Mrs Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist… In the empty window was a sign. To Let. Empty… Lifeless… ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The greengrocer’s wife, trying to get at some lemons. He apologized, moved to one side. Slowly he shuffled away—back towards the main street of the town… It was difficult—very difficult—now that he hadn’t any money left… Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed… He looked at a poster outside a newsagent’s shop. The A B C Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interviews with M. Hercule Poirot. Mr Cust said to himself: ‘Hercule Poirot. I wonder if heknows…’ He walked on again. It wouldn’t do to stand staring at that poster… He thought: ‘I can’t go on much longer…’ Foot in front of foot…what an odd thing walking was… Foot in front of foot—ridiculous. Highly ridiculous… But man was a ridiculous animal anyway… And he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, was particularly ridiculous. He had always been… People had always laughed at him… He couldn’t blame them… Where was he going? He didn’t know. He’d come to the end. He no longer looked anywhere but at his feet. Foot in front of foot. He looked up. Lights in front of him. And letters… Police Station. ‘That’s funny,’ said Mr Cust. He gave a little giggle. Then he stepped inside. Suddenly, as he did so, he swayed and fell forward. 第三十章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 第三十章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　卡斯特先生站在一家蔬菜水果店旁边。 　　他盯着马路对面。 　　是的，就是那个地方。 　　阿谢尔太太。报刊和烟草店…… 　　在那个空空的窗上有个招牌。 　　转让。 　　空空如也…… 　　毫无生气…… 　　“对不起，先生。” 　　蔬菜水果店的妻子要去取些柠檬。 　　他说了句歉意的话，站到一边。 　　他慢慢地挪开——回到镇里的大街上…… 　　这很难……非常之难……现在他已身无分文…… 　　一整天都没有吃任何东西，使得一个人感觉非常奇怪和轻飘飘…… 　　他看了看一家报刊店门外的海报。 　　ABC案件，凶犯依然在逃。采访赫尔克里•波洛先生。 　　卡斯特自言自语地说道： 　　“赫尔克里•波洛，我怀疑他是否已获知……” 　　他继续往前走。 　　站在那里盯着海报看毫无用处。 　　他想： 　　“我走不了太远……” 　　脚步摇摇晃晃……这样子走路多么奇怪…… 　　脚步摇摇晃晃——真是荒谬。 　　太荒谬了…… 　　可人就是一种荒谬的动物…… 　　而他，亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特尤其荒谬。 　　他总是这样…… 　　人们总是嘲笑他…… 　　他不能埋怨他们…… 　　他要到哪里去？他不知道。他走到了尽头。他哪儿也不看，只看着他的脚。 　　脚步摇摇晃晃。 　　他抬头向上看。前面是灯，还有信件…… 　　警察局。 　　“真有意思。”卡斯特先生说，他发出痴笑。 　　然后他走了进去。突然间，当他走进去的时候，他身子一晃，向前倒去。 Chapter 31 Hercule Poirot Asks Questions Chapter 31 Hercule Poirot Asks Questions It was a clear November day. Dr Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company. ‘Committed for trial,’ said Japp. ‘So that’s that.’ ‘Isn’t it unusual?’ I asked, ‘for a defence to be offered at this stage? I thought prisoners always reserved their defence.’ ‘It’s the usual course,’ said Japp. ‘I suppose young Lucas thought he might rush it through. He’s a trier, I will say. Insanity’s the only defence possible.’ Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘With insanity there can be no acquittal. Imprisonment during His Majesty’s pleasure is hardly preferableto death.’ ‘I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance,’ said Japp. ‘With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don’t think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway, Lucas goes in for originality. He’s a young man, and he wants to hit the public eye.’ Poirot turned to Thompson. ‘What’s your opinion, doctor?’ ‘Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don’t know what to say. He’s playing the sane man remarkably well. He’s an epileptic, of course.’ ‘What an amazing dénouement that was,’ I said. ‘His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes—it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A B C has always timed his effects well.’ ‘Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?’ I asked. ‘His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them.’ Dr Thompson smiled a little. ‘You mustn’t be taken in by that theatrical “I swear by God” pose. It’s my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders.’ ‘When they’re as fervent as that they usually do,’ said Crome. ‘As to your question,’ went on Thompson, ‘it’s perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirelyunaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must “not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state”.’ He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand maland petit maland, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject. ‘However, I’m against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he’d done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren’t for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime.’ ‘And of the letters we have still no explanation,’ said Poirot. ‘That interests you?’ ‘Naturally—since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved.’ ‘Yes—I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?’ ‘None whatever.’ ‘I might make a suggestion. Your name!’ ‘My name?’ ‘Yes. Cust is saddled—apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn’twonder!)—with two extremely bombastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander—the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte—the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary—an adversary, one might say, in his class. Well—there you are—Hercules the strong.’ ‘Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas…’ ‘Oh, it’s only a suggestion. Well, I must be off.’ Dr Thompson went out. Japp remained. ‘Does this alibi worry you?’ Poirot asked. ‘It does a little,’ admitted the inspector. ‘Mind you, I don’t believe in it, because I know it isn’t true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character.’ ‘Describe him to me.’ ‘He’s a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It’s my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand.’ ‘He’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever seen,’ I said. ‘The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘He sticks to his story and he’s not one to be heckled.He swears by all that’s blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was lonely and wanted someone to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn’t interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They’ll play for hours. That’s what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn’t hear of it—swore they’d keep it up until midnight at least. And that’s what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th he couldn’t very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o’clock.’ ‘The problem certainly seems insuperable,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘Decidedly, it gives one to think.’ ‘It’s given Crome something to think about,’ said Japp. ‘This man Strange is very positive?’ ‘Yes. He’s an obstinate devil. And it’s difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn’t Cust—why on earth should he sayhis name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can’t say he’s an accomplice—homicidallunatics don’t have accomplices! Did the girl die later? The doctor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen and get over to Bexhill—about fourteen miles away—’ ‘It is a problem—yes,’ said Poirot. ‘Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn’t to matter. We’ve got Cust on the Doncaster murder—the blood-stained coat, the knife—not a loophole there. You couldn’t bounce any jury into acquitting him. But it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he musthave done the Bexhill murder. But I don’t see how!’ He shook his head and got up. ‘Now’s your chance, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘Crome’s in a fog. Exert those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about. Show us the way he did it.’ Japp departed. ‘What about it, Poirot?’ I said. ‘Are the little grey cells equal to the task?’ Poirot answered my question by another. ‘Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?’ ‘Well—yes, practically speaking. We’ve got the man. And we’ve got most of the evidence. It’s only the trimmings that are needed.’ Poirot shook his head. ‘The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory because we have put him in the dock!’ ‘We know a fair amount about him.’ ‘We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that he was discharged from the army owing to epilepsy. We know that he lodged with Mrs Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was quiet and retiring—the sort of man that nobody notices. We know that he invented and carried out an intensely clever scheme of systemized murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders. We know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, too, that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested—how easy to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings, that the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless and magnanimous—and that there must be some dominating factor that reconciles his two natures.’ ‘Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study,’ I began. ‘What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have been groping my way—trying to getto know the murderer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all!I am at sea.’ ‘The lust for power—’ I began. ‘Yes—that might explain a good deal…But it does not satisfy me. There are things I want to know. Whydid he commit these murders? Whydid he choose those particular people—?’ ‘Alphabetically—’ I began. ‘Was Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name began with a B? Betty Barnard—I had an idea there…It ought to be true—it must be true. But if so—’ He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him. As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep. I woke to find Poirot’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Mon cher Hastings,’ he said affectionately. ‘My good genius.’ I was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem. ‘It is true,’ Poirot insisted. ‘Always—always—you help me—you bring me luck. You inspire me.’ ‘How have I inspired you this time?’ I asked. ‘While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours—a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious. It is the obvious that I have neglected.’ ‘What is this brilliant remark of mine?’ I asked. ‘It makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to all my questions. The reason for Mrs Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago), the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule Poirot.’ ‘Could you kindly explain?’ I asked. ‘Not at the moment. I require first a little more information. That I can get from our Special Legion. And then—then, when I have got the answer to a certain question, I will go and see ABC. We will be face to face at last—A B C and Hercule Poirot—the adversaries.’ ‘And then?’ I asked. ‘And then,’ said Poirot. ‘We will talk! Je vous assure, Hastings—there is nothing so dangerous for anyone who has something to hideas conversation! Speech, so a wise old Frenchman said to me once, is an invention of man’s to prevent him from thinking. It is also an infallible means of discovering that which he wishes to hide. A human being, Hastings, cannot resist the opportunity to reveal himself and express his personality which conversation gives him. Every time he will give himself away.’ ‘What do you expect Cust to tell you?’ Hercule Poirot smiled. ‘A lie,’ he said. ‘And by it, I shall know the truth!’ 第三十一章　赫尔克里·波洛提问 第三十一章　赫尔克里•波洛提问 　　这是十一月的一天，天气晴朗。汤普森医生和总警督贾普前来通告波洛关于亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特一案的法院诉讼程序的结果。 　　波洛自己则由于支气管轻微受凉，使他无法参加。幸运的是，他没有让我一起去。 　　“决定提审，”贾普说，“就是那样。” 　　“这不是挺不寻常的吗？”我问道，“在这个阶段进行辩护？我原以为狱中犯人总是保留辩护权的。” 　　“这可是正常的程序，”贾普说，“我设想，年轻的卢卡斯认为他可以突击办理。我要说，他是个裁定员。精神时常是唯一可能的辩护理由。” 　　波洛耸了耸肩。 　　“如果是精神失常，就会被宣判无罪。在国王在位期间，囚禁很少能好过死刑。” 　　“我猜想，卢卡斯认为可能会有机会，”贾普说，“因为只要有那人在贝克斯希尔谋杀案中不在现场的确凿证据，整个案件就可能变得证据不充分。我认为他还没有意识到我们的案子是多么的证据充分。他是个年轻人，他想在公众面前露露脸。” 　　波洛转向汤普森。 　　“你有什么看法，医生？” 　　“对卡斯特吗？说心里话，我也不知道该说什么好。他扮演那个神志清醒的人非常出色。当然，他是个癫痫病人。” 　　“这是个多么令人惊奇的结局。”我说道。 　　“他正好在发病的时候，跌进了安多弗的警察局？是的，这是这场戏剧的合适而富有戏剧性的结尾。ABC 总是恰到好处。” 　　“有没有可能犯了罪却不清楚自己的罪行？”我问道。“他是否犯罪看起来倒有点真实的意思。” 　　汤普森医生笑了笑。 　　“你不该被那种‘我可以向上帝起誓’的戏剧式的装腔作势而蒙骗。我认为，卡斯特很清楚他自己干了那些谋杀案。” 　　“那些否认的言辞通常是激烈的。”贾普说。 　　“至于你的问题，”汤普森继续说道，“当一个癫痫病人处于梦游状态时做了一件事却浑然不觉，这是完全有可能的事。可普遍的观点是这样的行为必须‘不违背这个人在清醒状态下的意愿。’” 　　他继续讨论这个问题，说起grand mal（法文，意为：大错误。——译注）和petit mal（法文，意为：小错误。——译注），使我处于外行的困惑之中。当一个精通某门学问的人深入探讨他的专业方面的问题时，这是常有的情况。 　　“无论如何，我反对这种理论，认为卡斯特在进行谋杀时不知道自己的行为。如果没有那些信，你可能还能提出那样的观点。那些信件粉碎了这个观点。它们表明犯罪是经过预谋和仔细策划的。” 　　“可对于这些信件，我们还无法进行解释。”波洛说。 　　“那是否令你感兴趣？” 　　“自然是的——既然这些信是写给我的。一谈到信件这个问题，卡斯特坚决闭口不言。直到我找到这些写给我的信件的原因时，我才会认为本案得到了解决。” 　　“是的——我能够理解你的观点。无论在哪种情况之下，看来都没有任何理由能使人相信那个人要针对你？” 　　“无论什么都没有。” 　　“我可以提个建议吗？是你的名字！” 　　“我的名字？” 　　“是的，卡斯特很明显是背负了两个极端夸张的基督教姓名：亚历山大和波拿帕特，这主要是处于他母亲的一时奇想（我毫不怀疑，这其中有俄狄浦斯恋母情结）。你看出其中的含义了吗？亚历山大——普遍被假想成渴望征服更多的世界而不可战胜的人；波拿帕特——则是伟大的法兰西国王。他需要一名对手——一个对手，人们可以说，是同他在一个阶层中的人。所以就有了你——赫尔克里斯大力神。” 　　“你的话语相当有建议性，医生。这些话使我产生了一些想法……” 　　“噢，这只是个设想。好吧，我得走了。” 　　汤普森医生出门而去。贾普留了下来。 　　“是不是他不在现场的情况令你有点担心？”波洛问道。 　　“稍微有一点。”警督承认道，“你听着，我可不相信这一点，我认为这不是真的。可要打破它就有可能遭殃。斯特兰奇是个顽固的人。” 　　“给我讲讲他的情况。” 　　“他四十岁光景，是个固执、自信、极有主见的采矿工程师。我认为，就是他要求现在录证词。他想要离开去智利，希望手上的事情能办完。” 　　“他是我所见过的最独断的人之一。”我说。 　　“他是那种不愿意承认自己的错误的人。”波洛若有所思地说。 　　“他坚持自己的说法，而且不容只问。他极其忠实地发誓说，七月二十四日晚上在伊斯特本的白十字酒店曾碰到卡斯特。他当时很孤独，希望找人聊聊天。依我看，卡斯特是个理想的谈话对象。他并没有打断谈话！晚餐之后，他和卡斯特玩多米诺骨牌。看起来，斯特兰奇是个多米诺骨牌的高手，而出乎意料的是，卡斯特也极具水准。真是奇怪的游戏，多米诺骨牌。人们都玩疯了。他们会连续玩上好几个小时。很显然，斯特兰奇和卡斯特显然也是那样玩的。卡斯特想去睡觉了，可斯特兰奇并不听从——他发誓他们可以坚持玩到午夜之后，他们就是那样做的。他们午夜过后十分钟才分手。而如果卡斯特于二十五日凌晨零点十分仍在伊斯特本的白十字酒店，他是不可能在午夜和凌晨一点之间在贝克斯希尔的海滩上勒死贝蒂•巴纳德的。” 　　“这个问题显然难以回答。”波洛想了想说，“他确实令人深思。” 　　“这也使克罗姆可以有所思考。”贾普说。 　　“斯特兰奇这个家伙非常独断吗？” 　　“是的，他是个固执狂，而且很难看出哪里有漏洞。我们设想，斯特兰奇搞错了，那个人并不是卡斯特——他究竟为什么要说那个人就叫卡斯特呢？在酒店登记处的签字确实是他的。你可不能说同犯——杀人狂是不会有同犯的！那个姑娘死亡的时间是不是退后一点呢？法医的证据是很肯定的，而无论如何，卡斯特从酒店出来，又不被人看见，然后赶到大约在十四英里之外的贝克斯希尔去，是要花些时间的——” 　　“这确实是个问题——是的。”波洛说。 　　“当然，严格地说，它没有关系。我们在唐克斯特谋杀案中已抓到了卡斯特——那件沾有血迹的衣服，那把刀——这没什么可狡辩的。你无法强迫任何陪审团判他无罪，可这破坏了一件漂亮的案子。他制造了唐克斯特谋杀案，他制造了彻斯顿谋杀案，他制造了安多弗谋杀案。然后，见鬼，他肯定也制造了贝克斯希尔谋杀案。可我却不知道他是怎么干的！” 　　他摇摇头，站了起来。 　　“现在是你的机会，波洛先生。”他说，“克罗姆是模糊不清。发挥你的智力，我过去曾经多次听说过。让我们看看他是怎样作案的。” 　　贾普离开了。 　　“是怎么回事，波洛？”我说，“那些灰色脑细胞能解决这个任务吗？” 　　波洛则答非所问。 　　“告诉我，黑斯廷斯，你认为这案子已收场了吗？” 　　“哦，老实说，是的。我们抓到了那个人，我们也有了大部分证据，现在只需要些修饰。” 　　波洛摇摇头。 　　“案子已结束！那个案子！那案子就是那个家伙，黑斯廷斯。直到我们完全了解那个人，奥妙还会一样深不可测。这可不是因为我们把他推上被告席而获得的胜利！” 　　“我们对他已经有许多了解。” 　　“我们对他还一无所知！我们知道他在哪里出生。我们知道他参加了战争，头部受了点轻伤，还有他由于癫痫退伍。我们知道他租住马伯里太太的房子有近两年时间。我们知道他很安静和孤僻——是那种没人会留意的人。我们知道他炮制和实施了一个极其聪明的系列谋杀案计划。我们知道他犯了一些难以置信的愚蠢的错误。我们知道他毫无同情心和相当残暴地杀人。我们也知道他挺善良的，他不让别人因为他所犯的罪行受到责难。如果他想不受干扰地杀人——让别人为他的罪行受累是多么地容易。黑斯廷斯，你难道没有看见，这个人是个矛盾的混合体？愚蠢和精明，残暴和高尚，——而且这中间一定有什么决定因素来调和他的两重性。” 　　“当然，如果你把他当作一个心理学研究对象的话。”我开始发言。 　　“从一开始，这案子就一直有点其它什么东西呢？我一直摸索解决问题的办法——试图了解凶手。现在我意识到，黑斯廷斯，我其实一点也不了解他！我茫然无知。” 　　“是对权力的欲望。”我说。 　　“是的——这可能能解答许多东西……可它还是不能令我满意。有些事情我还想知道，他为什么要进行谋杀？他为什么会挑选这些特定的人——？” 　　“是字母顺序——”我开始说道。 　　“难道贝蒂•巴纳德是在贝克斯希尔唯一的以B 字母冠名的人吗？贝蒂•巴纳德——我倒是有个主意……它应该是真实的——肯定是对的。可如果是这样——” 　　他沉默了一会儿。我不愿去打断他。 　　事实上，我相信我睡着了。 　　我醒的时候，发现波洛的手搭在我的肩上。 　　“Mon cher Hastings（法文，意为：我亲爱的黑斯廷斯。——译注），”他热情洋溢地说，“我的天才。” 　　我被这突然的赞美之词弄得迷惑不解。 　　“是真的，”波洛坚持道，“长期以来——长期以来，你给我帮助——给我带来好运。你使我受到启发。” 　　“我这一次是怎样使你受到启发的呢？”我问。 　　“当我向自己问一些问题时，我想起你说过的一句评语——一句绝对清晰而闪亮的话。我不是曾经对你说过，你是一个说真话的天才。我对这么明显的东西倒是疏忽了。” 　　“我的这句英明的评论是什么？”我问。 　　“它使每一件物品都像水晶一样晶莹透明。我找到了所有问题的答案。关于阿谢尔太太的原因（对的，我很久前曾模糊地感到过），卡迈克尔•克拉克的原因，唐克斯特谋杀案的原因，而最终和最重要的是，赫尔克里•波洛的原因。” 　　“你是否可以解释一下？”我问。 　　“现在还不行。我还需要更多一点情况。我可以从我们的特别团体那里获得。然后——然后，当我获得某个问题的答案之后，我会去同ABC会面。我们最终能够面对面——ABC 与赫尔克里•波洛——两个对手。” 　　“然后呢？”我问道。 　　“然后，”波洛说，“我们会谈话。Je vous assure （法文，意为：我向你保证。——译注），黑斯廷斯，对任何想藏匿的人来说，没有任何东西比谈话更危险！一个明智的法国老人曾经告诉过我，谈话是阻止他思考的一个发明。这也是想要发现他所藏匿的东西的确实可靠的方法。黑斯廷斯，一个人无法阻止谈话给他带来的暴露自己和显示个性的机会。每一次他都会露出马脚。” 　　“你期望卡斯特会告诉你些什么？” 　　赫尔克里•波洛泛起笑意。 　　“是个谎言，”他说，“而通过谎言，我将会了解真相！” Chapter 32 And Catch a Fox Chapter 32 And Catch a Fox During the next few days Poirot was very busy. He made mysterious absences, talked very little, frowned to himself, and consistently refused to satisfy my natural curiosity as to the brilliance I had, according to him, displayed in the past. I was not invited to accompany him on his mysterious comings and goings—a fact which I somewhat resented. Towards the end of the week, however, he announced his intention of paying a visit to Bexhill and neighbourhood and suggested that I should come with him. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity. The invitation, I discovered, was not extended to me alone. The members of our Special Legion were also invited. They were as intrigued by Poirot as I was. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, I had at any rate anidea as to the direction in which Poirot’s thoughts were tending. He first visited Mr and Mrs Barnard and got an exact account from her as to the hour at which Mr Cust had called on her and exactly what he had said. He then went to the hotel at which Cust had put up and extracted a minute description of that gentleman’s departure. As far as I could judge, no new facts were elicited by his questions but he himself seemed quite satisfied. Next he went to the beach—to the place where Betty Barnard’s body had been discovered. Here he walked round in circles for some minutes studying the shingle attentively. I could see little point in this, since the tide covered the spot twice a day. However I have learnt by this time that Poirot’s actions are usually dictated by an idea—however meaningless they may seem. He then walked from the beach to the nearest point at which a car could have been parked. From there again he went to the place where the Eastbourne buses waited before leaving Bexhill. Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat café, where we had a somewhat stale tea served by the plump waitress, Milly Higley Her he complimented in a flowing Gallic style on the shape of her ankles. ‘The legs of the English—always they are too thin!But you, mademoiselle, have the perfect leg. It has shape—it has an ankle!’ Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She knew what French gentlemen were like. Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality. He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost shocked. ‘Voilà,’ said Poirot, ‘I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to Eastbourne. One little inquiry there—that is all. Unnecessary for you all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and let us have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!’ As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously: ‘I suppose we can guess what you are after? You’re out to break that alibi. But I can’t see what you’re so pleased about. You haven’t got a new fact of any kind.’ ‘No—that is true.’ ‘Well, then?’ ‘Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time.’ ‘You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway.’ ‘Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea—that is why.’ His face grew serious. ‘My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young man, played a game called The Truth. It was a game where everyone in turn was asked three questions—twoof which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with everyone had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, and nothing but the truth.’ He paused. ‘Well?’ said Megan. ‘Eh bien—me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you.’ ‘Of course,’ said Clarke impatiently. ‘We’ll answer anything.’ ‘Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?’ He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded. ‘Bon,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘Let us begin—’ ‘I’m ready,’ said Thora Grey. ‘Ah, but ladies first—this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere.’ He turned to Franklin Clarke. ‘What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?’ Franklin Clarke stared at him. ‘Is this a joke?’ ‘Certainly not.’ ‘Is that seriously your question?’ ‘It is.’ Clarke began to grin. ‘Well, M. Poirot, I didn’t actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women’s hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily.’ ‘Fantastic?’ ‘Quite fantastic.’ Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser ‘When did you take your holiday this year, monsieur?’ It was Fraser’s turn to stare. ‘My holiday? The first two weeks in August.’ His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him. Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear. ‘Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke’s death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?’ The girl sprang up. ‘How dare you ask me such a question. It’s—it’s insulting!’ ‘Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien—Yes or no?’ ‘Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that’s how I felt to him—just affectionate and grateful.’ ‘Pardon me, but that is not answering Yes or No, mademoiselle.’ She hesitated. ‘The answer, of course, is no!’ He made no comment. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’ He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl’s face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal. Poirot’s voice came out like the crack of a whiplash. ‘Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigations? Do you want me to find out the truth—or not?’ Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth. Her answer came clearly—and it stupefied me. ‘No!’ We all jumped. Poirot leant forward studying her face. ‘Mademoiselle Megan,’ he said, ‘you may not want the truth but—ma foi—you can speak it!’ He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower. ‘Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?’ Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed. ‘Oh, Mr Poirot. I—I—well, I’m not sure.’ He smiled. ‘Alors c’est bien, mon enfant.’ He looked round for me. ‘Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne.’ The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne. ‘Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?’ ‘Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am doing.’ I relapsed into silence. Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look over the castle. As we were returning towards the car, we paused amoment to watch a ring of children—Brownies, I guessed, by their get-up—who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices… ‘What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words.’ I listened—till I caught one refrain. ‘—And catch a fox And put him in a box And never let him go.’ ‘And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!’ repeated Poirot. His face had gone suddenly grave and stern. ‘It is very terrible that, Hastings.’ He was silent a minute. ‘You hunt the fox here?’ ‘I don’t. I’ve never been able to afford to hunt. And I don’t think there’s much hunting in this part of the world.’ ‘I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side—then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?—and the run begins—across the country—over the hedges and ditches—and the fox he runs—and sometimes he doubles back—but the dogs—’ ‘Hounds!’ ‘—hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies—quickly and horribly.’ ‘I suppose it does sound cruel, but really—’ ‘The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bêtises, my friend. Tout de même—it is better that—the quick, cruel death—than what those children were singing… ‘To be shut away—in a box—for ever…No, it is not good, that.’ He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone: ‘Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust,’ and he added to the chauffeur: ‘Back to London.’ ‘Aren’t you going to Eastbourne?’ I cried. ‘What need? I know—quite enough for my purpose.’ 第三十二章　抓住狐狸 第三十二章　抓住狐狸 　　在接下来的数日当中，波洛忙碌不堪。他神秘兮兮地缺席，少言寡语，眉头紧锁，而且不断地拒绝我那自然的好奇心，以及，按照他自己的说法，拒绝我在过去所表现出来的精明。 　　在那些神秘兮兮的来往行程中，我并没有受邀请与他同行——这个事实多少令我有些不满。 　　直到周末，他终于宣称将要去贝克斯希尔和附近地区一趟，并建议我与他同行。不用说，我欣然接受。 　　我发现，我并不是唯一受到邀请的人。我们的特别团体的成员都受到了邀请。 　　他们也像我一样，被波洛激发起了兴趣。不过，那天快结束时，我总算有了一个主意，了解波洛思想中的倾向性。 　　他首先访问巴纳德先生和太太，从后者那里获得准确的描述，知道卡斯特先生是什么时间来找她的，以及他确实讲过那些话。他然后去到卡斯特曾住过的那家饭店，得知了他离店的详细情况。就此，我可以判断，他的提问并没有获得新的实际情况，可他自己倒是挺满意的。 　　接着，他又去了海滩——去那个发现贝蒂•巴纳德的尸体的地点。在这里他转着圈走了几分钟，神情投入地研究那个鹅卵石的海滩。我从中看不出有什么道理，因为潮汐每天会把这个地方冲刷两遍。 　　然而，这一次我已明白，波洛的行动通常会受到一个主意的指使——不管这些行动看起来多么地毫无意义。 　　随后，他从海滩步行走到最近处的一个停车地点。从那里，他再次走向一个地方，那些公共汽车是开往伊斯特本的，在离开贝克斯希尔以前停在那里。 　　最后，他带着我们全体人员来到黄猫餐厅。在那里，我们品尝了有些陈旧的茶水，是由那位直爽的米莉•希格利为我们服务的。 　　他用一种流畅的高卢式风格对她的脚踝部加以赞美。 　　“英国人的腿——它们总是瘦兮兮的！可是你，小姐，却有着完美无瑕的腿。它具备良好的形态——它有脚踝部。” 　　米莉•希格利咯咯地笑了好一阵子，告诉他别再说下去了。她深知法国男人的言行举止。 　　波洛并没有费劲地反驳她对他的国际的错误认识，他只是以一种令我感到惊讶甚至是震惊的方式向她抛媚眼。 　　“Voila（法文，意为：对的。——译注），”波洛说，“我在贝克斯希尔已经完成了想要做的事，现在要去伊斯特本。在那里还有个小问题——这就是全部。你们大家全陪着我也没什么必要，现在我们大家回酒店吧，让我们品尝一杯鸡尾酒，这种卡尔顿茶，真是令人厌恶。” 　　正当我们品尝鸡尾酒时，富兰克林•克拉克惊奇地说道： 　　“我想，我们能猜到你随后的目的是什么？你要外出，排除他不在犯罪现场的证据。可是我不明白，你为何会如此高兴，你还没有获得任何一种新的事情。” 　　“不，那倒是挺正确的。” 　　“那么，然后呢？” 　　“耐心。只要时间允许的话，一切都会自行准备好的。” 　　“到目前为止，还没有什么能驳倒我的小小观点——那就是原因所在。” 　　他的脸变得严肃认真。 　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯有一次告诉我，他在年轻的时候曾玩过一个叫做‘真相’的游戏。在这个游戏当中，每个人都会轮流被问三个问题——其中的两个问题必须要真实地来回答。第三个问题可以弃而不答。那些问题自然是最不明智的那种。可是一开头，每个人必须发誓，他们会讲真话，除了真话之外别无它物。” 　　他暂停下来。 　　“哦？”梅根说。 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——对我来说，我倒是想玩玩这个游戏，而只是没必要回答三个问题。一个问题就足够了。你们每个人都会有一个问题。” 　　“当然”，克拉克不耐烦地说，“我们会回答的。” 　　“噢，可我想要使它更严肃一些。你们全都能发誓讲真话吗？” 　　他是如此一本正经，其他人则感到困惑不解，也开始变得严肃正经起来。他们全照他的要求发誓。 　　“Bon（法文，意为：好。——译注），”波洛兴致勃勃地说，“我们开始吧——” 　　“我准备好了。”托拉•格雷说。 　　“啊，女士优先——这时候就不是什么礼貌的事了。我们还是先从别人开始吧。” 　　他转向富兰克林•克拉克。 　　“mon cher M.Clarke（法文，意为：我亲爱的克拉克先生。——译注），你认为今年在赛马场的女士们带的是什么式样的帽子？” 　　富兰克林•克拉克眼睛盯着他看。 　　“这是开玩笑吧？” 　　“当然不是。” 　　“这就是你的问题？” 　　“是的。” 　　克拉克开始咧开嘴笑。 　　“好，波洛先生，我其实并没有去赛马场，可是从她们在车里开车时我能够看到的情形来看，赛马场的女士们带的帽子比起她们平日常戴的来，是个更大的笑话。” 　　“是帽子稀奇古怪吗？” 　　“挺稀奇古怪的。” 　　波洛笑着转向唐纳德•弗雷泽。 　　“今年你是什么时候休的假，先生？” 　　这回轮到弗雷泽瞪大了眼睛。 　　“我的假期？是在八月份的头两个星期。” 　　他的脸突然颤动，我想这个问题勾起了他对深爱的姑娘的回忆。 　　然而，波洛似乎没太注意他的回答。他转向托拉•格雷，我听出了他话音之中微妙的异常之处。那声音变得紧张了一些，他的提问也变得尖锐和清晰明了。 　　“小姐，假使克拉克女勋爵去世的话，如果卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士向你求爱的话，你会同他结婚吗？” 　　那姑娘跳将起来。 　　“你竟敢问我这样的问题，这——真是个侮辱。” 　　“也许吧。可是你发过誓要讲真话的。Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——是或者不是？” 　　“卡迈克尔爵士对我友好至极，他待我就像是女儿。而我对他则——也只是深情和感激。” 　　“对不起，可这并不是在回答会还是不会，小姐。” 　　她犹豫不决。 　　“回答，当然是，不会！” 　　他没有作任何评价。 　　“谢谢你，小姐。” 　　他转向梅根•巴纳德，那姑娘面色极其苍白。她深深地呼吸，仿佛是在打起精神来迎接一场严峻的考验。 　　波洛的声音冒出来，像是鞭子断裂的声音。 　　“小姐，你希望我的调查结果会是什么？你想让我发现真相吗——还是不想？” 　　她骄傲地把头往回伸，我非常确定她会怎样回答。我知道，梅根对真相有一种狂热的爱好。 　　她的回答清晰明了——这使我惊得发呆。 　　“不。” 　　我们全都跳了起来，波洛把身体向前倾斜。观察着她的脸。 　　“梅根小姐，”他说，“你可能不想得到真相，但是——ma foi（法文，意为：我的真相。——译注），你可以把它说出来。” 　　他转身向门口走去，然后，又重新鼓起勇气，走向玛丽•德劳尔。 　　“告诉我，mon enfant（法文，意为：我的孩子。——译注），你有男朋友吗？” 　　玛丽看上去一直是忧心忡忡的，听到问话她似乎挺吃惊，脸一下子就红了。 　　“哦，波洛先生，我——我，呃，我不太确定。” 　　他笑了。 　　“Alors c'est bien，mon enfant（法文，意为：那么，好吧，我的孩子。——译注）。” 　　他的眼睛环视，寻找我。 　　“请过来，黑斯廷斯，我们必须出发去伊斯特本。” 　　车已经在等候，不久我们开车行驶在海边的马路上，那条道路经过佩文塞通向伊斯特本。 　　“我可以问你一些事吗，波洛？” 　　“现在还是别问吧。对我还在做的事情，你该得出自己的结论。” 　　我陷入沉默之中。 　　波洛看来对自己挺满意，口里哼着小调。正当我们通过佩文塞时，他提议我们停下来，参观一下城堡。 　　当我们走回车子时，我们停了一会儿，观看一群围成一圈的孩子——我猜想，根据她们的服饰来看，是些女童子军，——她们正用尖利刺耳、毫不成调的声音哼唱着小调…… 　　“她们在说着什么，黑斯廷斯？我听不出那些词。” 　　我仔细听着，一直到我听懂几句歌词。 　　“——要抓住狐狸， 　　要把它关进笼子， 　　再也不把它放跑。” 　　“要抓住狐狸，要把它关进笼子，再也不把它放跑。”波洛重复道。 　　他的脸突然间变得阴郁和严厉起来。 　　“真是非常可怕，黑斯廷斯，”他静默了一分钟，“你在这里猎狐狸吗？” 　　“我可不是。我从来供不起打猎，而且我也不认为在这一地域中会有许多捕猎的机会。” 　　“我是说在英格兰的总体情况。这是一项奇怪的运动，在隐蔽的地方伺机埋伏，然后他会发出‘嗬’声，不是吗？然后一场追逐便开展起来，穿过乡野，翻越篱笆和沟渠，那狐狸快速奔跑——而有时候它则会往回跑——可那些狗——” 　　“是些猎狗。” 　　“猎狗会追踪它，最后它们会抓住它，狐狸则会迅速和恐怖地死去。” 　　“狐狸喜欢这种方式吗？别说是les betises（法文，意为：蠢事。——译注），我的朋友。Tout de meme（法文，意为：不管怎样。——译注），迅速、残暴地死要比那些孩子们歌中唱的情形更好。” 　　“被永远地……关押起来……关在一只箱子里……不，那种方式可不好。” 　　他摇摇头，随后改变了话音，说： 　　“明天，我要去见那个叫卡斯特的家伙。”他又对司机说： 　　“回伦敦吧。” 　　“你难道不去伊斯特本了吗？”我叫道。 　　“有什么必要呢？我知道——我已经可以到达目的了。” Chapter 33 Alexander Bonaparte Cust Chapter 33 Alexander Bonaparte Cust I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and that strange man—Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his association with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order—but that order did not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot’s point of view, that that interview should be absolutely private—the two men face to face. He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I had actually been present. Mr Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His fingers plucked vaguely at his coat. For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak. He sat and looked at the man opposite him The atmosphere became restful—soothing—full of infinite leisure… It must have been a dramatic moment—this meeting of the two adversaries in the long drama. In Poirot’s place I should have felt the dramatic thrill. Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him. At last he said gently: ‘Do you know who I am?’ The other shook his head. ‘No—no—I can’t say I do. Unless you are Mr Lucas’s—what do they call it?—junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr Maynard?’ (Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.) His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in some inner abstraction. ‘I am Hercule Poirot…’ Poirot said the words very gently…and watched for the effect. Mr Cust raised his head a little. ‘Oh, yes?’ He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it—but without the superciliousness. Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark. ‘Oh, yes?’ he said, and this time his tone was different—it held an awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot. Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or twice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am the man to whom you wrote the letters.’ At once the contact was broken. Mr Cust dropped his eyes and spoke irritably and fretfully. ‘I never wrote to you. Those letters weren’t written by me. I’ve said so again and again.’ ‘I know,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you did not write them, who did?’ ‘An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The police—everyone—all against me. It’s a gigantic conspiracy.’ Poirot did not reply. Mr Cust said: ‘Everyone’s hand has been against me—always.’ ‘Even when you were a child?’ Mr Cust seemed to consider. ‘No—no—not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious—terribly ambitious. That’s why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I’d cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself—talking about will-power…saying anyone could be master of his fate…she said I could do anything!’ He was silent for a minute. ‘She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn’t the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things—making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid—afraid of people. I had a bad time at school—the boys found out my Christian names—they used to tease me about them…I did very badly at school—in games and work and everything.’ He shook his head. ‘Just as well poor mother died. She’d have been disappointed…Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid—it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. And yet I didn’t feelstupid—if you know what I mean.’ He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man. ‘I know what you mean,’ said Poirot. ‘Go on.’ ‘It was just the feeling that everybody else thoughtme stupid. Very paralysing. It was the same thing later in the office.’ ‘And later still in the war?’ prompted Poirot. Mr Cust’s face lightened up suddenly. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as anyone else.’ His smile faded. ‘And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight.But they found out I had fits…I’d always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn’t been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I’d fallen down. But I don’t really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don’t think it was right.’ ‘And afterwards?’ asked Poirot. ‘I got a place as a clerk. Of course there was good money to be got just then. And I didn’t do so badly after the war. Of course, a smaller salary…And—I didn’t seem to get on. I was always being passed over for promotion. I wasn’t go-ahead enough. It grew very difficult—really very difficult…. Especially when the slump came. To tell you the truth, I’d got hardly enough to keep body and soul together (and you’ve got to look presentable as a clerk) when I got the offer of this stocking job. A salary and commission!’ Poirot said gently: ‘But you are aware, are you not, that the firm whom you say employed you deny the fact?’ Mr Cust got excited again. ‘That’s because they’re in the conspiracy—they must be in the conspiracy.’ He went on: ‘I’ve got written evidence—written evidence. I’ve got their letters to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go to and a list of people to call on.’ ‘Not writtenevidence exactly—typewrittenevidence.’ ‘It’s the same thing. Naturally a big firm of wholesale manufacturers typewrite their letters.’ ‘Don’t you know, Mr Cust, that a typewriter can be identified? All those letters were typed by one particular machine.’ ‘What of it?’ ‘And that machine was your own—the one found in your room.’ ‘It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job.’ ‘Yes, but these letters were received afterwards. So it looks, does it not, as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?’ ‘No, no! It’s all part of the plot against me!’ He added suddenly: ‘Besides, their letters wouldbe written on the same kind of machine.’ ‘The same kind, but not the same actual machine.’ Mr Cust repeated obstinately: ‘It’s a plot!’ ‘And the A B C’s that were found in the cupboard?’ ‘I know nothing about them. I thought they were all stockings.’ ‘Why did you tick off the name of Mrs Ascher in that first list of people in Andover?’ ‘Because I decided to start with her. One must begin somewhere.’ ‘Yes, that is true. One must begin somewhere.’ ‘I don’t mean that!’ said Mr Cust. ‘I don’t mean what you mean!’ ‘But you know what I meant?’ Mr Cust said nothing. He was trembling. ‘I didn’t do it!’ he said. ‘I’m perfectly innocent! It’s all a mistake. Why, look at that second crime—that Bexhill one. I was playing dominoes at Eastbourne. You’ve got to admit that!’ His voice was triumphant. ‘Yes,’ said Poirot. His voice was meditative—silky. ‘But it’s so easy, isn’t it, to make a mistake of one day? And if you’re an obstinate, positive man, like Mr Strange, you’ll never consider the possibility of having been mistaken. What you’ve said you’ll stick to…He’s that kind of man. And the hotel register—it’s very easy to put down the wrong date when you’re signing it—probably no one will notice it at the time.’ ‘I was playing dominoes that evening!’ ‘You play dominoes very well, I believe.’ Mr Cust was a little flurried by this. ‘I—I—well, I believe I do.’ ‘It is a very absorbing game, is it not, with a lot of skill in it?’ ‘Oh, there’s a lot of play in it—a lot of play! We usedto play a lot in the city, in the lunch hour. You’d be surprised the way total strangers come together over a game of dominoes.’ He chuckled. ‘I remember one man—I’ve never forgotten him because of something he told me—we just got talking over a cup of coffee, and we started dominoes. Well, I felt after twenty minutes that I’d known that man all my life.’ ‘What was it that he told you?’ asked Poirot. Mr Cust’s face clouded over. ‘It gave me a turn—a nasty turn. Talking of your fate being written in your hand, he was. And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed he’d have two near escapes of being drowned—and he had had two near escapes. And then he looked at mine and he told me some amazing things. Said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died. Said the whole country would be talking about me. But he said—he said…’ Mr Cust broke down—faltered… ‘Yes?’ Poirot’s gaze held a quiet magnetism. Mr Cust looked at him, looked away, then back again like a fascinated rabbit. ‘He said—he said—that it looked as though I might die a violent death—and he laughed and said: “Almostlooks as though you might die on the scaffold,” and then he laughed and said that was only his joke…’ He was silent suddenly. His eyes left Poirot’s face—they ran from side to side… ‘My head—I suffer very badly with my head…the headaches are something cruel sometimes. And then there are times when I don’t know—when I don’t know…’ He broke down. Poirot leant forward. He spoke very quietly but with great assurance. ‘But you do know, don’t you,’ he said, ‘that you committed the murders?’ Mr Cust looked up. His glance was quite simple and direct. All resistance had left him. He looked strangely at peace. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know.’ ‘But—I am right, am I not?—you don’t know why you did them?’ Mr Cust shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’ 第三十三章　亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特 第三十三章　亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特 　　波洛同那个怪人——亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特进行会面的时候，我并没有在场。由于波洛与警方的关系和本案的特殊情况，他毫不费力便从内政部获得了许可令——可是那个许可令当中并没有把我包括在内。在波洛看来，这次会见必须是绝对私人的，即只有两个人面对面地进行，这在任何情况下都是必要的。 　　然而，他还是向我详细地讲述了他们之间发生的事，我满怀信心地把它记录下来，好像我自己也曾经在场一样。 　　卡斯特先生看上去已经退缩。他那躬腰曲背的模样更加明显，手指漫无目的地拉扯着衣服。 　　我猜想，波洛在一段时间内必定沉默不语。 　　他坐在那里，看着对面的那个人。 　　屋子里的气氛变得很宁静悠闲——镇定安逸——充满了无穷无尽的闲适。 　　这肯定是个戏剧性的时刻——一幕长剧中两个对手的会面。如果当时身处波洛的位置，我一定会感受到那富有戏剧性的一阵惊悸。 　　然而，要不是为人熟知，波洛该是个无足轻重的人。他正专注于向面前这个人产生某种影响力。 　　他最终温和地说道： 　　“你知道我是谁吗？” 　　另外这个人摇摇头。 　　“不，不，我该说我并不知道，除非你是卢卡斯先生的——他们是怎样称呼你的？——随从。或者你是为梅纳德先生做事？” 　　（梅纳德和科尔是辩护律师。） 　　他的语气彬彬有礼，可兴致却不怎么盎然。他看来有些心不在焉。 　　“我是赫尔克里•波洛……” 　　波洛温和地说出这些词……并观察他的反应。 　　卡斯特先生悄悄抬起头来。 　　“哦，是吗？” 　　他说话的样子如同克罗姆警督一样自然——只是没有目空一切的傲慢。 　　片刻之后，他又重复了他的话。 　　“哦，是吗？”他说，这一次他的语调有所不同——谈话中带着醒悟过来的兴致。他抬起头，看着波洛。 　　赫尔克里•波洛迎着他那注视的目光，文雅地点了点头。 　　“是的，”他说，“我就是那个你写信去的人。” 　　这种目光的接触即刻间便告破裂。卡斯特先生低下眼睛，恼怒和烦躁地说： 　　“我可从来没有给你写过信。那些信不是我写的，我已经说过许多遍了。” 　　“我知道，”波洛说，“可是，如果你没有写过那些信的话，谁会写呢？” 　　“是个敌人，我肯定有个敌人。他们全都在针对我，警察——每个人——都在反对我。这是个巨大的阴谋。” 　　波洛并没有回答。 　　卡斯特先生说： 　　“每个人都在反对我——情况总是这样。” 　　“当你还是小孩子的时候也这样吗？” 　　卡斯特先生看来是在沉思。 　　“不，不，那时候可不是这样。我母亲很喜欢我，可她太雄心勃勃——那种可怕的雄心勃勃。那就是她给我取那些荒谬的名字的原因。她有些可笑的念头，认为我将会成为什么大人物。她总是要求我坚持追求，她总是谈论意志力……并说每个人都可以成为命运的主人……她说我可以做成任何事！” 　　他沉默了一分钟。 　　“当然，她大错特错了。我不久便认识到了自己。在生活中，我不是那种不断前进的人。我不断地做错事——使我自己看上去荒诞可笑，而且我胆小羞怯——害怕与人打交道。我在学校里并不好过——那些男孩子发现了我的教名，他们常常以此取笑我……我在学校里表现极差——游戏、功课，每件事都挺差的。” 　　他摇摇头。 　　“可怜的母亲就这样去世了。她满怀失望……即使是当我在念商科学校的时候，我也挺笨的——我学习打字和速记要比别人花更长的时间，然而我并没有感到愚蠢——如果你明白我的意思的话。” 　　他突然间恳切地看了另外那个人一眼。 　　“我明白你的意思。”波洛说，“继续说吧。” 　　“正好是那种感觉，其他每个人都认为我愚蠢，这非常令人泄气。后来在办公室工作的时候，情形也一样。” 　　“后来在战争中也一样吗？”波洛催问道。 　　卡斯特先生的脸突然间亮堂起来。 　　“你知道，”他说，“我喜欢战争。在战争当中，我第一次感觉到与别人一样，我们都处在相同的困境当中，我同别人一样棒。” 　　他的笑容消失了。 　　“随后我的头部受了伤，非常轻。可他们发现我有抽痉现象……当然，我一直都知道，有时候我无法确定自己在做什么。你知道，会有一时间的疏忽。当然，有一两次我会跌倒。我真的以为他们不该因此而控告我。不，我认为那样不对。” 　　“然后呢？”波洛问。 　　“我有一个做职员的机会，当然，那时也可以去做许多赚钱的工作。战后，我过得可不那么差。我总是错过提拔的机会，我并没有往前走太多。事情开始变得非常困难起来——确实非常困难……尤其是当消沉来临的时候。老实告诉你，我几乎要挺不过去了（而作为一个文员，你该是挺体面的），直到我得到这份推销长统袜的工作，有了一份薪水和佣金！” 　　波洛温和地说： 　　“可你是否清楚，你所说的那家雇佣你的企业否认这个事实？” 　　卡斯特先生再次激动起来。 　　“那是因为他们参与了合谋——他们肯定参与了合谋。” 　　他继续说： 　　“我收到了书面的依据——书面依据。我收到他们写给我的信，指示我要去什么地方，去见什么人。” 　　“实际上也不是什么书写的依据——那是用打字机打的。” 　　“那全都一样。一个批发生产商的大企业自然使用打字机写信。” 　　“卡斯特先生，你难道不知道打字机是可以被识别的？所有那些信都是用某台打字机打的。” 　　“你是什么意思？” 　　“是用你那台打字机——你房间里找到的那台打的。” 　　“那是我开始工作时，那家企业送来的。” 　　“是的，可这些信都是随后收到的。所以这就好像，是你自己打了那些信寄给你自己的，不是吗？” 　　“不，不。这是陷害我的一部分伎俩。” 　　他突然补充道： 　　“除此之外，这些也可能是用同一种打字机打的。” 　　“同一种，并不是用同一台打字机。” 　　卡斯特先生坚决地重复说： 　　“这是一个阴谋。” 　　“那么，还有那些在壁橱里发现的ABC 呢？” 　　“我一点也不知道它们，我还以为会是些长统袜呢。” 　　“在第一张安多弗的人名单中，你为什么会勾掉阿谢尔太太的名字呢？” 　　“因为我决定从她开始推销，人总会有开始的嘛。” 　　“是的，正确，人总会有所开始。” 　　“我可不是那个意思！”卡斯特先生说，“我可不是你说的那个意思。” 　　“可你知道我是什么意思吗？” 　　卡斯特先生无言以对，他在颤抖。 　　“我可没干过！”他说，“我完全是无辜的！这全都搞错了。为什么，你看那第二场谋杀——贝克斯希尔的那次。我当时正在伊斯特本玩多米诺骨牌。你得承认这一点！” 　　他的话音洋洋得意。 　　“是的，”波洛说，他的话音中带着沉思——挺讨好的，“可是要弄错一个日子是挺容易的事，不是吗？而且如果你是个顽强不屈、积极向上的人，像斯特兰奇一样，你是永远也不会考虑出差错的可能性的。你曾说过你会坚持……他就是那种类型的人。那个酒店接待——在你签字的时候，极其容易会写下错误的日期——那时候可能没有人会注意到。” 　　“那天晚上我在玩多米诺骨牌。” 　　“你的多米诺骨牌必定玩得很好，我相信。” 　　卡斯特先生有点慌张。 　　“我，我——哦，我相信我是。” 　　“那可是种引人入胜的游戏，不是吗？它有许多技巧？” 　　“噢，它挺好玩的——很好玩！我们以前在城市里玩得挺多的，在午餐时间里玩。完全不相识的陌生人聚在一起玩多米诺骨牌，你都会为那种方式感到奇怪。” 　　他噎住了。 　　“记得有一个人，因为他对我讲过的一些话，我永远都不会忘记他——我们只是在一起喝了杯咖啡，聊了聊天，并开始玩多米诺骨牌。哦，在随后的二十分钟内，我感到我一辈子都会了解那个人。” 　　“他对你讲了些什么？”波洛问道。 　　卡斯特脸色阴沉下来。 　　“它使得我有了一个转变——肮脏的转变。他说你的命运写在你自己的手中。他给我看了他的手，那些纹络表明他曾有两次差点溺水死亡——可他两次都死里逃生。随后，他看了我的手相，告诉我一些可笑的事情。他说我死前会成为英格兰最著名的人之一，说整个国家都会谈论我，可他说——他说……” 　　卡斯特先生垮掉了——说话支支吾吾…… 　　“是吗？” 　　波洛的瞪眼包含了一种平静的磁力。卡斯特先生看看他，看看别处，随后又回来看他，就像是一个神魂颠倒的兔子。 　　“他说——他说，那看起来好像我会死得很壮烈，他笑着说：‘看起来好像你会死在绞刑台上。’随后他大笑起来，说这只是他的玩笑……” 　　他突然沉默，他的眼睛离开波洛的脸——它们飘来飘去…… 　　“我的头——我的头令我痛苦异常……有时候头痛真是残酷的事。而有的时候我并不知道——我并不知道……” 　　他跨了下来。 　　“可你知道，难道你不知道吗？”他说，“你干了那些谋杀案？” 　　卡斯特先生抬头看，他的一瞥相当简单和直接。所有的抗拒都离他而去，他看上去异常平和。 　　“是的，”他说，“我知道。” 　　“可——我是对的，不是吗？——你并不知道你为什么要去干那些事？” 　　卡斯特先生摇摇头。 　　“不，”他说，“我不知道。” Chapter 34 Poirot Explains Chapter 34 Poirot Explains We were sitting in a state of tense attention to listen to Poirot’s final explanation of the case. ‘All along,’ he said, ‘I have been worried over the whyof this case. Hastings said to me the other day that the case was ended. I replied to him that the case was the man!The mystery was not the mystery of the murders, but the mystery of A B C. Why did he find it necessary to commit these murders? Why did he select meas his adversary? ‘It is no answer to say that the man was mentally unhinged. To say a man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his actions as a sane man—given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the man himself isfirmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical. ‘What was necessary in this case was to imagine a mind so constituted that it was logical and reasonable to commit four or more murdersand to announce them beforehand by letters written to Hercule Poirot. ‘My friend Hastings will tell you that from the moment I received the first letter I was upset and disturbed. It seemed to me at once that there was something very wrong about the letter.’ ‘You were quite right,’ said Franklin Clarke dryly. ‘Yes. But there, at the very start, I made a grave error. I permitted my feeling—my very strong feeling about the letter—to remain a mere impression. I treated it as though it had been an intuition. In a well-balanced, reasoning mind there is no such thing as an intuition—an inspired guess! You canguess, of course—and a guess is either right or wrong. If it is right you call it an intuition. If it is wrong you usually do not speak of it again. But what is often called an intuition is really an impression based on logical deduction or experience. When an expert feels that there is something wrong about a picture or a piece of furniture or the signature on a cheque he is really basing that feeling on a host of small signs and details. He has no need to go into them minutely—his experience obviates that—the net result is the definite impression that something is wrong. But itis not a guess, it is an impression based on experience ‘Eh bien, I admit that I did not regard that first letter in the way I should. It just made me extremely uneasy. The police regarded it as a hoax. I myself took it seriously. I was convinced that a murder would take place in Andover as stated. As you know, a murder didtake place. ‘There was no means at that point, as I well realized, of knowing who the personwas who had done the deed. The only course open to me was to try and understand just what kind of a person had done it. ‘I had certain indications. The letter—the manner of the crime—the person murdered. What I had to discover was: the motive of the crime, the motive of the letter.’ ‘Publicity,’ suggested Clarke. ‘Surely an inferiority complex covers that,’ added Thora Grey. ‘That was, of course, the obvious line to take. But why me? Why Hercule Poirot?Greater publicity could be ensured by sending the letters to Scotland Yard. More again by sending them to a newspaper. A newspaper might not print the first letter, but by the time the second crime took place, A B C could have been assured of all the publicity the press could give. Why, then, Hercule Poirot? Was it for some personalreason? There was, discernible in the letter, a slight anti-foreignbias—but not enough to explain the matter to my satisfaction. ‘Then the second letter arrived—and was followed by the murder of Betty Barnard at Bexhill. It became clear now (what I had already suspected) that the murders were to proceed on an alphabetical plan, but the fact, which seemed final to most people, left the main question unaltered to my mind. Why did A B C needto commit these murders?’ Megan Barnard stirred in her chair. ‘Isn’t there such a thing as—as a blood lust?’ she said. Poirot turned to her. ‘You are quite right, mademoiselle. There issuch a thing. The lust to kill. But that did not quite fit the facts of the case. A homicidal maniac who desires to kill usually desires to kill as many victims as possible. It is a recurring craving. The great idea of such a killer is to hide his tracks—not to advertisethem. When we consider the four victims selected—or at any rate three of them (for I know very little of Mr Downes or Mr Earlsfield), we realize that if he had chosen, the murderer could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion. Franz Ascher, Donald Fraser or Megan Barnard, possibly Mr Clarke—those are the people the police would have suspected even if they had been unable to get direct proof. An unknownhomicidal murderer would not have been thought of! Why, then, did the murderer feel it necessary to call attention to himself? Was it the necessity of leaving on each body a copy of an A B C railway guide? Was thatthe compulsion? Was there some complex connected with the railway guide? ‘I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of the murderer. Surely it could not be magnanimity? A horror of responsibility for the crime being fastened on an innocent person? ‘Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did feel I was learning about the murderer.’ ‘Such as?’ asked Fraser. ‘To begin with—that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression—that was obviously important to him. On the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims—Mrs Ascher, Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from each other. There was no sex complex—no particular age complex, and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately it is usually because he removes anyone who stands in his way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular type of victim—nearly always of the opposite sex. There was somethinghaphazard about the procedure of A B C that seemed to me to be at war with the alphabetical selection. ‘One slight inference I permitted myself to make. The choice of the A B C suggested to me what I may call a railway-minded man. This is more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped mind. The “boy” motif still predominated. ‘The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive. (Forgive me, Mr Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt—therefore she must almost certainly have been killed by someone with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. When I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind. ‘Betty Barnard was a flirt. She liked attention from a personable male. Therefore A B C, to persuade her to come out with him, must have had a certain amount of attraction—of le sex appeal!He must be able, as you English say, to “get off”. He must be capable of the click! I visualize the scene on the beach thus: the man admires her belt. She takes it off, he passes it playfully round her neck—says, perhaps, “I shall strangle you.” It is all very playful. She giggles—and he pulls—’ Donald Fraser sprang up. He was livid. ‘M. Poirot—for God’s sake.’ Poirot made a gesture. ‘It is finished. I say no more. It is over. We pass to the next murder, that of Sir Carmichael Clarke. Here the murderer goes back to his first method—the blow on the head. The same alphabetical complex—but one fact worries me a little. To be consistent the murderer should have chosen his towns in some definite sequence. ‘If Andover is the 155th name under A, then the B crime should be the 155th also—or it should be the 156th and the C the 157th. Here again the towns seemed to be chosen in rather too haphazarda fashion.’ ‘Isn’t that because you’re rather biased on that subject, Poirot?’ I suggested. ‘You yourself are normally methodical and orderly. It’s almost a disease with you.’ ‘No, it is nota disease! Quelle idée!But I admit that I may be over-stressing that point. Passons! ‘The Churston crime gave me very little extra help. We were unlucky over it, since the letter announcing it went astray, hence no preparations could be made. ‘But by the time the D crime was announced, a very formidable system of defence had been evolved. It must have been obvious that A B C could not much longer hope to get away with his crimes. ‘Moreover, it was at this point that the clue of thestockings came into my hand. It was perfectly clear that the presence of an individual selling stockings on and near the scene of each crime could not be a coincidence. Hence the stocking-seller must be the murderer. I may say that his description, as given me by Miss Grey, did not quite correspond with my own picture of the man who strangled Betty Barnard. ‘I will pass over the next stages quickly. A fourth murder was committed—the murder of a man named George Earlsfield—it was supposed in mistake for a man named Downes, who was something of the same build and who was sitting near him in the cinema. ‘And now at last comes the turn of the tide. Events play against A B C instead of into his hands. He is marked down—hunted—and at last arrested. ‘The case, as Hastings says, is ended! ‘True enough as far as the public is concerned. The man is in prison and will eventually, no doubt, go to Broadmoor. There will be no more murders. Exit! Finis! R.I.P. ‘But not for me!I know nothing—nothing at all! Neither the whynor the wherefore ‘And there is one small vexing fact. The man Cust has an alibi for the night of the Bexhill crime.’ ‘That’s been worrying me all along,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘Yes. It worried me. For the alibi, it has the airof being genuine. But it cannot be genuine unless—and now we come to two very interesting speculations. ‘Supposing, my friends, that while Cust committed threeof the crimes—the A, C, and D crimes—he did not commit the B crime.’ ‘M. Poirot. It isn’t—’ Poirot silenced Megan Barnard with a look ‘Be quiet, mademoiselle. I am for the truth, I am! I have done with lies. Supposing, I say, that A B C did not commit the second crime. It took place, remember, in the early hours of the 25th—the day he had arrived for the crime. Supposing someone had forestalled him? What in those circumstances would he do? Commit a secondmurder, or lie low and accept the first as a kind of macabre present?’ ‘M. Poirot!’ said Megan. ‘That’s a fantastic thought! All the crimes musthave been committed by the same person!’ He took no notice of her and went steadily on: ‘Such a hypothesis had the merit of explaining one fact—the discrepancy between the personality of Alexander Bonaparte Cust(who could never have made the click with any girl)and the personality of Betty Barnard’s murderer. And it has been known, before now, that would-be murderers havetaken advantage of the crimes committed by other people. Not all the crimes of Jackthe Ripper were committed by Jack the Ripper, for instance. So far, so good. ‘But then I came up against a definite difficulty. ‘Up to the time of the Barnard murder, no facts about the A B C murders had been made public. The Andover murder had created little interest. The incident of the open railway guide had not even been mentioned in the press. It therefore followed that whoever killed Betty Barnard must have had access to facts known only to certain persons—myself, the police, and certain relations and neighbours of Mrs Ascher. ‘That line of research seemed to lead me up against a blank wall.’ The faces that looked at him were blank too. Blank and puzzled. Donald Fraser said thoughtfully: ‘The police, after all, are human beings. And they’re good-looking men—’ He stopped, looking at Poirot inquiringly Poirot shook his head gently. ‘No—it is simpler than that. I told you that there was a second speculation. ‘Supposing that Cust was notresponsible for the killing of Betty Barnard? Supposing that someone elsekilled her. Could that someone else have been responsible for the other murders too?’ ‘But that doesn’t make sense!’ cried Clarke. ‘Doesn’t it? I did then what I ought to have done at first. I examined the letters I had received from a totally different point of view. I had felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with them—just as a picture expert knows a picture is wrong… ‘I had assumed, without pausing to consider, that what was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a madman ‘Now I examined them again—and this time I came to a totally different conclusion. What was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a sane man!’ ‘What?’ I cried. ‘But yes—just that precisely! They were wrong as a picture is wrong—because they were a fake!They pretended to be the letters of a madman—of a homicidal lunatic, but in reality they were nothing of the kind.’ ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Franklin Clarke repeated. ‘Mais si!One must reason—reflect. What would be the object of writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention to the murders! En vérité, it did not seem to make sense at first sight. And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders—on a groupof murders…Is it not your great Shakespeare who has said “You cannot see the trees for the wood.”’ I did not correct Poirot’s literary reminiscences. Iwas trying to see his point. A glimmer came to me. He went on: ‘When do you notice a pin least? When it is in a pin-cushion! When do you notice an individual murder least? When it is one of a series of related murders ‘I had to deal with an intensely clever, resourceful murderer—reckless, daring and a thorough gambler. NotMr Cust! He could never have committed these murders! No, I had to deal with a very different stamp of man—a man with a boyish temperament (witness the schoolboy-like letters and the railway guide), an attractive man to women, and a man with a ruthless disregard for human life, a man who was necessarily a prominent person in oneof the crimes! ‘Consider when a man or woman is killed, what are the questions that the police ask? Opportunity. Where everybody was at the time of the crime? Motive. Who benefited by the deceased’s death? If the motive and the opportunity are fairly obvious, what is a would-be murderer to do? Fake an alibi—that is, manipulate timein some way? But that is always a hazardous proceeding. Our murderer thought of a more fantastic defence. Create a homicidalmurderer! ‘I had now only to review the various crimes and find the possible guilty person. The Andover crime? The most likely suspect for that was Franz Ascher, but I could not imagine Ascher inventing and carrying outsuch an elaborate scheme, nor could I see him planning a premeditated murder. The Bexhill crime? Donald Fraser was a possibility. He had brains and ability, and a methodical turn of mind. But his motive for killing his sweetheart could only be jealousy—and jealousy does not tend to premeditation. Also I learned that he had his holidays earlyin August, which rendered it unlikely he had anything to do with the Churston crime. We come to the Churston crime next—and at once we are on infinitely more promising ground. ‘Sir Carmichael Clarke was an immensely wealthy man. Who inherits his money? His wife, who is dying, has a life interest in it, and it then goes to his brother Franklin.’ Poirot turned slowly round till his eyes met those of Franklin Clarke. ‘I was quite sure then. The man I had known a long time in my secret mind was the same as the man whom I had known as a person. A B C and Franklin Clarke were one and the same!The daring adventurous character, the roving life, the partiality for England that had showed itself, very faintly, in the jeer at foreigners. The attractive free and easy manner—nothing easier for him than to pick up a girl in a café. The methodical tabular mind—he made a list here one day, ticked off over the headings A B C—and finally, the boyish mind—mentioned by Lady Clarke and even shown by his tastein fiction—I have ascertained that there is a book in the library called The Railway Childrenby E. Nesbit. I had no further doubt in my own mind—A B C, the man who wrote the letters and committed the crimes, was Franklin Clarke.’ Clarke suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Very ingenious! And what about our friend Cust, caught red-handed? What about the blood on his coat? And the knife he hid in his lodgings? He may deny he committed the crimes—’ Poirot interrupted. ‘You are quite wrong. He admits the fact.’ ‘What?’ Clarke looked really startled. ‘Oh, yes,’ said Poirot gently. ‘I had no sooner spoken to him than I was aware that Cust believed himself to be guilty.’ ‘And even that didn’t satisfy M. Poirot?’ said Clarke. ‘No. Because as soon as I saw him I also knew that he could not be guilty!He has neither the nerve nor the daring—nor, I may add, the brainsto plan! All along I have been aware of the dual personality of the murderer. Now I see wherein it consisted. Two people were involved—the real murderer, cunning, resourceful and daring—and the pseudomurderer, stupid, vacillating and suggestible. ‘Suggestible—it is in that word that the mystery of Mr Cust consists! It was not enough for you, Mr Clarke,to devise this plan of a seriesto distract attention from a singlecrime. You had also to have a stalking horse. ‘I think the idea first originated in your mind as the result of a chance encounter in a city coffee den with this odd personality with his bombastic Christian names. You were at that time turning over in your mind various plans for the murder of your brother.’ ‘Really? And why?’ ‘Because you were seriously alarmed for the future. I do not know whether you realize it, Mr Clarke, but you played into my hands when you showed me a certain letter written to you by your brother. In it he displayed very clearly his affection and absorption in Miss Thora Grey. His regard may have been a paternal one—or he may have preferred to think it so. Nevertheless, there was a very real danger that on the death of your sister-in-law he might, in his loneliness, turn to this beautiful girl for sympathy and comfort and it might end—as so often happens with elderly men—in his marrying her. Your fear was increased by your knowledge of Miss Grey. You are, I fancy, an excellent, if somewhat cynical judge of character. You judged, whether correctly or not, that Miss Grey was a type of young woman “on the make”. You had no doubt that she would jump at the chance of becoming Lady Clarke. Your brother was an extremely healthy and vigorous man. There might be children andyour chance of inheriting your brother’s wealth would vanish. ‘You have been, I fancy, in essence a disappointed man all your life. You have been the rolling stone—and you have gathered very little moss. You were bitterly jealous of your brother’s wealth. ‘I repeat then that, turning over various schemes in your mind, your meeting with Mr Cust gave you an idea. His bombastic Christian names, his account of his epileptic seizures and of his headaches, his whole shrinking and insignificant personality, struck you as fitting him for the tool you wanted. The whole alphabetical plan sprang into your mind—Cust’s initials—the fact that your brother’s name began with a C and that he lived at Churston were the nucleus of the scheme. You even went so far as to hint to Cust at his possible end—though you could hardly hope that that suggestion would bear the rich fruit that it did! ‘Your arrangements were excellent. In Cust’s name you wrote for a large consignment of hosiery to be sent to him. You yourself sent a number of A B C’s looking like a similar parcel. You wrote to him—a typed letter purporting to be from the same firm offering him a good salary and commission. Your plans were so well laid beforehand that you typed all the letters that were sent subsequently, and then presented him with the machine on which they had been typed ‘You had now to look about for two victims whose names began with A and B respectively and who lived at places also beginning with those same letters. ‘You hit on Andover as quite a likely spot and your preliminary reconnaissance there led you to select Mrs Ascher’s shop as the scene of the first crime. Her name was written clearly over the door, and you found by experiment that she was usually alone in the shop. Her murder needed nerve, daring and reasonable luck. ‘For the letter B you had to vary your tactics. Lonely women in shops might conceivably have been warned. I should imagine that you frequented a few cafés and tea-shops, laughing and joking with the girls there and finding out whose name began with the right letter and who would be suitable for your purpose. ‘In Betty Barnard you found just the type of girl you were looking for. You took her out once or twice, explaining to her that you were a married man, and that outings must therefore take place in a somewhat hole-and-corner manner. ‘Then, your preliminary plans completed, you set to work! You sent the Andover list to Cust, directing him to go there on a certain date, and you sent off the first A B C letter to me. ‘On the appointed day you went to Andover—and killed Mrs Ascher—without anything occurring to damage your plans. ‘Murder No. 1 was successfully accomplished. ‘For the second murder, you took the precaution of committing it, in reality, the day before. I am fairly certain that Betty Barnard was killed well before midnight on the 24th July. ‘We now come to murder No. 3—the important—in fact, the realmurder from your point of view. ‘And here a full meed of praise is due to Hastings, who made a simple and obvious remark to which no attention was paid. ‘He suggested that the third letter went astray intentionally! ‘And he was right!… ‘In that one simple fact lies the answer to the question that has puzzled me so all along. Why were the letters addressed in the first place to Hercule Poirot, a private detective, and not to the police? ‘Erroneously I imagined some personal reason. ‘Not at all! The letters were sent to me because the essence of your plan was that one of them should be wrongly addressed and go astray—but you cannot arrange for a letter addressed to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard to go astray! It is necessary to have a privateaddress. You chose me as a fairly well-known person, and a person who was sure to take the letters to the police—and also, in your rather insular mind, you enjoyed scoring off a foreigner. ‘You addressed your envelope very cleverly—Whitehaven—Whitehorse—quite a natural slip. Only Hastings was sufficiently perspicacious to disregard subtleties and go straight for the obvious! ‘Of course the letter was meantto go astray! The police were to be set on the trail only when the murder was safely over. Your brother’s nightly walk provided you with the opportunity. And so successfully had the A B C terror taken hold on the public mind that the possibility of your guilt never occurred to anyone. ‘After the death of your brother, of course, your object was accomplished. You had no wish to commit any more murders. On the other hand, if the murders stopped without reason, a suspicion of the truth might come to someone. ‘Your stalking horse, Mr Cust, had so successfully lived up to his role of the invisible—because insignificant—man, that so far no one had noticed that the same person had been seen in the vicinity of the three murders! To your annoyance, even his visit to Combeside had not been mentioned. The matter had passed completely out of Miss Grey’s head. ‘Always daring, you decided that one more murder must take place but this time the trail must be well blazed. ‘You selected Doncaster for the scene of operations. ‘Your plan was very simple. You yourself wouldbe on the scene in the nature of things. Mr Cust would be ordered to Doncaster by his firm. Your plan was to follow him round and trust to opportunity. Everything fell out well. Mr Cust went to a cinema. That was simplicity itself. You sat a few seats away from him. When he got up to go, you did the same. You pretended to stumble, leaned over and stabbed a dozing man in the row in front, slid the A B C on to his knees and managed to collide heavily with Mr Cust in the darkened doorway, wiping the knife on his sleeve and slipping it into his pocket. ‘You were not in the least at pains to choose a victim whose name began with D. Anyone would do! You assumed—and quite rightly—that it would be considered to be a mistake. There was sure to be someone whose name began with D not far off in the audience. It would be assumed that he had been intended to be the victim. ‘And now, my friends, let us consider the matter from the point of view of the false A B C—from the point of view of Mr Cust. ‘The Andover crime means nothing to him. He is shocked and surprised by the Bexhill crime—why, he himself was there about the time! Then comes the Churston crime and the headlines in the newspapers. An A B C crime at Andover when he was there, an A B C crime at Bexhill, and now another close by…Threecrimes and he has been at the scene of each of them.Persons suffering from epilepsy often have blanks when they cannot remember what they have done…Remember that Cust was a nervous, highly neurotic subject and extremely suggestible. ‘Then he receives the order to go to Doncaster. ‘Doncaster! And the next A B C crime is to be in Doncaster. He must have felt as though it was fate. He loses his nerve, fancies his landlady is looking at him suspiciously, and tells her he is going to Cheltenham. ‘He goes to Doncaster because it is his duty. In the afternoon he goes to a cinema. Possibly he dozes off for a minute or two. ‘Imagine his feelings when on his return to his inn he discovers that there is blood on his coat sleeve and a blood-stained knife in his pocket. All his vague forebodings leap into certainty. ‘He—he himself—is the killer!He remembers his headaches—his lapses of memory. He is quite sure of the truth—he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, is a homicidal lunatic ‘His conduct after that is the conduct of a hunted animal. He gets back to his lodgings in London. He is safe there—known. They think he has been in Cheltenham. He has the knife with him still—a thoroughly stupid thing to do, of course. He hides it behind the hall stand. ‘Then, one day, he is warned that the police are coming. It is the end! They know! ‘The hunted animal does his last run… ‘I don’t know why he went to Andover—a morbid desire, I think, to go and look at the place where the crime was committed—the crime hecommitted though he can remember nothing about it… ‘He has no money left—he is worn out…his feet lead him of his own accord to the police station. ‘But even a cornered beast will fight. Mr Cust fully believes that he did the murders but he sticks strongly to his plea of innocence. And he holds with desperation to that alibi for the second murder. At least that cannot be laid to his door. ‘As I say, when I saw him, I knew at once that he was notthe murderer and that my name meantnothing to him. I knew, too, that he thoughthimself the murderer! ‘After he had confessed his guilt to me, I knew more strongly than ever that my own theory was right.’ ‘Your theory,’ said Franklin Clarke, ‘is absurd!’ Poirot shook his head. ‘No, Mr Clarke. You were safe enough so long as no one suspected you. Once you weresuspected proofs were easy to obtain.’ ‘Proofs?’ ‘Yes. I found the stick that you used in the Andoverand Churston murders in a cupboard at Combeside. An ordinary stick with a thick knob handle. A section of wood had been removed and melted lead poured in. Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by two people who saw you leaving the cinema when you were supposed to be on the race-course at Doncaster. You were identified at Bexhill the other day by Milly Higley and a girl from the Scarlet Runner Roadhouse, where you took Betty Barnard to dine on the fatal evening. And finally—most damning of all—you overlooked a most elementary precaution. You left a fingerprint on Cust’s typewriter—the typewriter that, if you are innocent, you could never have handled.’ Clarke sat quite still for a minute, then he said: ‘Rouge, impair, manque!—you win, M. Poirot! But it was worth trying!’ With an incredibly rapid motion he whipped out a small automatic from his pocket and held it to his head. I gave a cry and involuntarily flinched as I waited for the report. But no report came—the hammer clicked harmlessly. Clarke stared at it in astonishment and uttered an oath. ‘No, Mr Clarke,’ said Poirot. ‘You may have noticed I had a new manservant today—a friend of mine—anexpert sneak thief. He removed your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it, all without you being aware of the fact.’ ‘You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!’ cried Clarke, purple with rage. ‘Yes, yes, that is how you feel. No, Mr Clarke, no easy death for you. You told Mr Cust that you had had near escapes from drowning. You know what that means—that you were born for another fate.’ ‘You—’ Words failed him. His face was livid. His fists clenched menacingly. Two detectives from Scotland Yard emerged from the next room. One of them was Crome. He advanced and uttered his time-honoured formula: ‘I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence.’ ‘He has said quite enough,’ said Poirot, and he added to Clarke: ‘You are very full of an insular superiority, but for myself I consider your crime not an English crime at all—not above-board—not sporting—’ 第三十四章　波洛的案情分析 第三十四章　波洛的案情分析 　　我们都在全神贯注地坐着，倾听着波洛对本案的最终分析。 　　“案发以来，”他说道，“我一直在为本案的起因感到困惑。黑斯廷斯有一天对我说，本案已经结束。我回答说，本案元凶就是那个家伙！这个迷案并不是谋杀案之迷，而是ABC之迷？为什么会发现有必要干这些谋杀案，他为何又要挑选我作为对手呢？ 　　“我们不用多说，那个家伙精神失常。如果说一个人做疯狂的事情是因为他是个疯子，这是毫不明智和愚蠢的认识。一个疯子在他的行为之中，如同正常人一样，是符合逻辑和富有理智的——这主要是依据他那偏执的观点。比如说，有一个人浑身上下除了一块遮羞布外什么也不穿，还要坚持外出，他的行为看起来是怪异绝顶。可是你一旦明白，这个人非常强烈地认定自己就是圣雄甘地，那么他的行为就完全是理智和合乎逻辑的。 　　“在本案中，有必要考虑一种智能。这种智能正是这样组成的，干四起或更多的谋杀案并且事先写信向赫尔克里•波洛声明，这种智能认为这样做是符合逻辑和理智的。 　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯将告诉你们，在收到第一封信的时候，我确实是挺沮丧的，可在片刻之间，我看到这封信当中必定有什么事大错特错了。” 　　“你所言极是。”富兰克林•克拉克冷冰冰地说。 　　“是的，可在一开始，我就犯了一大错。我允许自己的感觉——我对那封信的强烈感觉——只是一种纯粹的印象而已。我把那封信当成了一种直觉。在一个全面、理性的头脑当中，是不会有直觉这样的事物存在的，它仅仅是一种受到启发的猜想！当然，你可以进行猜想——而猜想就会有对有错。如果它是对的话，你就可以称之为直觉。如果它是错的话，你通常不会再谈到它。可是经常被称作是直觉的事物，其实是一种以逻辑推理结论或经验为基础的印象。当内行人感到一幅画、一件家具或是支票上的签名有什么不对劲的时候，他其实是把这种感觉建立在许多细小的迹象和细节之上的。他毫无理由探究细枝末节——他的经验会排除掉这种做法——最终的结局是留下确切印象，这种印象表明会有错误之处。可这并不是一种猜想，是一种以经验为基础的印象。 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），我承认，对于第一封信，我并没有以应有的方式来考虑它。它使我极端的焦虑不安，警方则认为这是个恶作剧。我自己是谨慎以待，确信如信中所言，将会有一场谋杀案在安多弗发生。正如你们所知道的那样，确实有一场谋杀案发生了。 　　“就像我充分认识到的，还没有办法来识别干那件事的人是谁。我唯一能做的事情是尝试着去理解是什么样的人干的。 　　“我也了解某些迹象。那封信——那种犯罪的方式——被谋害的人。我必须发现的是：犯罪动机，写信的动机。” 　　“是为了公众影响。”克拉克建议道。 　　“肯定有一种自卑情结。”托拉•格雷补充道。 　　“当然，那是显而易见的。可为什么会是我呢？为什么是赫尔克里•波洛？如果把信寄给苏格兰场，保证可以获得更大的公众影响。寄给报社也会有更大的影响，报社可能不会把第一封信刊登出来，但是第二场谋杀案发生的时候，ABC 便可以确保所有的新闻界能提供的公众影响。然后，为什么会针对赫尔克里•波洛呢？这当中是否是因为有什么个人原因呢？在信中倒是分辨得出，有一点对外国人的轻微的仇视——可用来解释这个事件，但这还不足已令我感到满意。 　　“随后，第二封信到达——接着便是贝克斯希尔的贝蒂•巴纳德谋杀案。现在已变得很清楚了（这也是我早就怀疑的），这些谋杀案是用一个字母顺序的计划来进行的，可是，对每个人来说，这个事实看来已成定形，却使留在我心目中主要的问题一成不变。ABC 有什么必要来干这些谋杀案呢？” 　　梅根•巴纳德在座位中激动起来。 　　“这样的事难道不像是——是一种血腥的贪婪？”她说道。 　　波洛转身朝向她。 　　“你说得不错，小姐。确实有这件事，那种杀人的欲望，这不太符合本案的实质。一个充满杀人欲望的杀人狂通常会想要杀死尽可能多的受害人，这是种周而复始的渴望。这样的凶手的强烈愿望便是藏匿起他的踪迹——而不是加以宣扬。当我们对四个被选中的受害人进行考虑——或者说，至少他们当中的三个人（因为我对唐斯先生和厄斯菲尔德先生了解甚少），如果他挑选了这些人，凶手可以杀死他们后而不引起任何怀疑。弗朗兹•阿谢尔，唐纳德•弗雷泽或梅根•巴纳德，还可能是富兰克林•克拉克先生——那些证据。人们怎么也不会想到有个不知名的杀人凶手！那么，为什么凶手会感到有必要把注意力引向自身呢？有必要在每具尸体上留下一本ABC 铁路指南书吗？那是种强迫的做法吗？是不是有什么与铁路指南相关的情结？ 　　“我发现，要探究凶手的心理是挺不可思议的。那肯定不能算是宽宏大量！是不是把一种对犯罪责任的恐惧强加在一个无辜的人身上？ 　　“尽管我无法解答那个主要的问题，我倒确实感觉到从凶手那里了解到某些情况。” 　　“比如说是什么情况？”弗雷泽问。 　　“首先呢——是他有一种平面状的心理。他的罪案以字母顺序的递进来进行排列——那么对他而言，这显然很重要。在另一方面，他对受害人并没有什么特别的品味——阿谢尔太太，贝蒂•巴纳德，卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士，他们彼此之间相差甚大。没有性别情结——也没有特定的年龄情结。对我而言，那是个相当奇怪的现象。如果一个人不加区别地杀人，这通常是因为他要根除掉那些挡住他去路或惹他恼火的人。可是字母顺序的递进表明，在这里情况可不是这样。另一种类型的凶手通常会挑选某一类特定的受害人——几乎总会是异性。ABC 的程序当中有些偶然性，这在我看来与字母顺序的选择格格不入。 　　“我允许自己做一个小小的推理。ABC 的选择使我想起我称之为‘铁路迷’的人，这在男人当中比女人更为普遍，男孩子要比女孩子更喜欢铁路。同样，在某些方面，这也可能是思维未完全定形的一种迹象。‘男孩’的动机仍然是占主导地位的。” 　　“贝蒂•巴纳德的死亡和它的方式令我获得了其他方面的启发。它死亡的方式尤其令人浮想联翩（对不起，弗雷泽先生。）。首先，她是被人用自己的腰带勒死的——那么杀害她的人肯定同她有着友好或亲密的关系。当我了解她性格当中的某些方面时，我的心中就生成一幅图像。 　　“贝蒂•巴纳德是个爱调情卖俏的人，她喜欢让风度翩翩的男士来注意她。因此，ABC 为了要说服她跟他外出，必须具备一定程度的吸引力——即性别的吸引力。他必须有办法，如同你们英国人所说的那样，去‘结识异性’。他要能够与女人一拍即合！我设想海滩上的场景是这样的：那男人恭维她的腰带，她便解下来，他玩耍一般地把腰带缠绕在她的脖子上——也许会说‘我要勒死你’。一切都是在打打闹闹之中，她咯咯地笑——而他则拉紧——” 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽跳将起来，他脸色发青。 　　“波洛先生，看在上帝的份上。” 　　波洛做了个手势。 　　“我已讲完，已结束了。我们再接着谈下一场卡迈克尔•克拉克爵士的谋杀案。在这里凶手又回复到他的第一种手法——猛击头部。这是相同的字母情结——可有一个事实令我担心，凶手应该以某种特定的顺序来挑选这些城镇，以保持一致。 　　“如果安多弗是A 目录下的第155个名字，那么B 谋杀案也应该是B 目录的第155个——或156个，然后C 谋杀案则是第157个。在这里，这些城镇是随机进行挑选的。” 　　“在这个问题上，难道不是因为你有失偏颇，波洛？”我提议道。“你自己通常是挺有条理的，这对你来说几乎是种弊病。” 　　“不，这可不是弊病！Quelle idee （法文，意为：什么观点。——译注）！可我承认，在这一点上，我可能是有点过分紧张了。Passons （法文，此处意为：先不谈这个。——译注）！ 　　“彻斯顿谋杀案给我的帮助极少，我们一点运气也没有。由于那封信误入歧途，因而我们无法做什么准备。 　　“可凶手在宣称D谋杀案的时候，我们已形成了一种相当艰巨的防御体系。ABC 已不能再寄希望于侥幸地干谋杀案，这是显而易见的事。 　　“还好，那时候我刚好才考虑到长统袜的线索。很显然，有一个推销长统袜的人曾在每一个犯罪现场或附近地区出现，这绝对不是一种巧合。因为，那个推销袜子的人就必定是凶手。我要说，对那个人的描述，就像格雷小姐对我所说的话，并不符合我自己对那个勒死贝蒂•巴纳德的人的印象。 　　“我会迅速地越过以下几个步骤。第四场谋杀案最终发生了——那个名叫厄斯菲尔德的人被谋杀——这看起来，像是与那个叫唐斯的弄错了，他倒也差不多是同等身材，在电影院里两人也相邻而坐。 　　“而现在，高潮终于来临。ABC 事与愿违，他被识别——遭到逮捕——最终束手就擒。 　　“这件案子，正好是黑斯廷斯所说的那样，就此结束。 　　“对公众而言，这是顺理成章的事。那家伙已在狱中，他最终的下场无疑会像布罗德莫尔。从此不会再有更多的谋杀案，他将消亡！一切都终止！安息吧。 　　“可是，对我来说，情况绝对不会是这样的！我什么情况都不了解！一点也不知道原因何在。 　　“另外，还有一个令人挺伤脑筋的事实，在贝克斯希尔谋杀案案发当晚，那个卡斯特有不在现场的证据。” 　　“这也一直令我烦恼不已。”富兰克林•克拉克说道。 　　“是的，它让人烦恼。那个不在现场的证据，确实有点像是真的。但它也可能不是真的，除非——现在，让我们来看看这两个非常有意思的推测。 　　“请设想，朋友们，卡斯特确实干过三件谋杀——A 案、C 案和D 案——他并没有干B 案。” 　　“波洛先生，该不是——” 　　波洛看了一眼梅根•巴纳德，使她平静下来。 　　“请保持安静，小姐。我是主张真相的。我是！我要排除谎言。请设想，我说过，ABC 并没有干第二件凶杀案。要记住，它是在二十五日凌晨的时间里发生的——那天他早已来到犯罪地点。我们要设想，有没有人会抢先一步呢？在那样的情况之下，他会做些什么呢？进行第二场谋杀，或是潜伏起来，并且把第一场谋杀案当作一种血腥的礼物接纳下来？” 　　“波洛先生，”梅根说道，“这真是异想天开的念头！所有的谋杀案肯定是同一个人干的！” 　　他并没有理睬她，继续沉着地说下去： 　　“这样的假设足以解释一个事实——亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特的个性（他同任何一个姑娘都无法一见如故）与杀害贝蒂•巴纳德的凶手所有的个性之间的差异。在此以前，那个可能的凶手已经利用了其他所发生的凶案，这是众所周知的事情。比如，肢解恶魔杰克的所有罪案也并不全部都是由他干的。到目前为止，情况一切顺利。 　　“可是，我随后便碰到了一个确定的难题。 　　“直到巴纳德谋杀案发生的时候，还没有关于ABC 的任何消息被公开过。安多弗谋杀案只是引起了极少量的关注。关于那本打开的铁路指南书事件，新闻界甚至都没有提到。于是，紧接下来的情况是，杀害贝蒂•巴纳德的那个人必定了解某些事实，这些情况只有少数人才知道——我自己、警方和阿谢尔太太的某些亲戚和邻居们。 　　“从那方面的调查来看，使我处于非常茫然的境地。” 　　那些望着他的脸也同样地茫然不知所措，充满困惑。 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽若有所思地说道： 　　“总而言之，警察也是些人嘛。他们是些外表顺眼的人——” 　　他停住口，询问地看着波洛。 　　波洛轻微地摇头。 　　“不，可没那么简单。我告诉你还有第二种假设。 　　“假设卡斯特不对杀害贝蒂•巴纳德一事负责，假设有其他人杀害了她，其他人是否也可能对其他的谋杀案负责呢？” 　　“可那样子是说不通的。”克拉克说道。 　　“说不通吗？我一开始就做了我应该做的事。我以一种完全不同的观点，来对收到的那些信件进行检查。我从一开头就感到，它们中有些事情搞错了——就像一个研究画的专家能懂得某幅画有问题一样…… 　　“我并没有停止下来就设想到，这些信件的问题在于，写信的人是个疯子这一事实。 　　“现在，我对它们再次进行了检查——这一次我得出了完全不同的结论。它们的问题是这样一个事实，写信的人是一个正常人。” 　　“你在说些什么呀？”我叫道。 　　“是的，这千真万确！这些信件搞错了，就像一幅画会有问题一样——因为它们全都是伪造的。它们假装是个疯子所写——是个杀人狂所写，可事实上，它们才不是那个样子。” 　　“这毫无意义。”富兰克林•克拉克重复道。 　　“Mais si（法文，意为：不是这么回事。——译注）！人必须要进行推论——要反省。写这样的信会有些什么目的呢？是为了要把注意力集中到写信人身上，是为了要把注意力引向谋杀案！Ev verite（法文，意为：事实上。——译注），这表面上看起来没有多大意义。然后我看到新线索，它是为了把注意力集中到几个谋杀案上——集中到一群谋杀案上……难道你们那位伟大的莎士比亚没说过‘见树不见林’吗？” 　　我并没有纠正波洛对文学的记忆。我只是在试图了解他的观点，似乎若有所得。他继续说道： 　　“你什么时候能注意到针这样细微物体？当它在针插中的时候！你什么时候能注意到一件单独的谋杀案的细节情况？当它是一系列谋杀案的其中一件的时候。 　　“我必须去对付一个绝顶聪明、足智多谋的凶手——他不顾一切，胆大妄为，是个彻头彻尾的赌徒。它不是卡斯特先生！他可能从来都干不成这些谋杀案！不，我必须要去应付一类完全不同的人——一个带着小孩子脾气的人（有学校男生般的信件和铁路指南为证），一个对女人富有吸引力的男人，和一个残酷漠视生命的人，一个在其中一场谋杀案当中是个显要的人物的人！ 　　“请考虑，当一个男人或女人被杀害时，警方都会问些什么问题呢？是机会。最案发生的时候每个人都在哪里？是动机。从这些死者的死亡当中，谁将能获得利益？如果动机和机会都相当明显，一个可能的凶手会做些什么呢？是会伪造不在现场的证据——也就是，以某种方式篡改一下时间吗？可那总是种危险的做法。我们的凶手想到了一种更难以置信的防卫办法。他创造一个杀人凶手。 　　“我现在已对这么多起谋杀案进行了回顾，以发现可能有罪的人。安多弗谋杀案？那起谋杀案中，最受嫌疑的人是弗朗兹•阿谢尔，可是我无法想象的是，阿谢尔能够发明和实施这样一个设计精美的计划，我也无法理解他能策划一件有预谋的凶杀案。贝克斯希尔谋杀案？唐纳德•弗雷泽挺有可能，他有头脑和能力，并且他的思维运转井井有条。可他杀死心上人的动机只可能是出于嫉妒——而嫉妒并不会倾向于预谋。我还了解到，他在八月初就休了假，这表明他不太可能与彻斯顿谋杀案有瓜葛。我们再来谈谈下一场彻斯顿案——我们立即会处于理由极其充足的地位。 　　“卡迈克尔•克拉克就爵士是个巨富。谁将会继承他的钱财？他的妻子正病入膏肓，她要活着才能享有财产，随后，这些遗产会属于他的兄弟富兰克林•卡拉克。” 　　波洛慢慢地环视，直到他与富兰克林•卡拉克的眼神碰在一起。 　　“我随即相当确信。那个在我心灵深处已经了解了很长时间的人，恰好正是我曾经当作一个正常人来了解的那个人。ABC 和富兰克林•卡拉克正是同一个人！那种胆大妄为的冒险性格，四处漫游的生活，那种对英格兰的偏爱，已经非常微弱地表现出对外国人的藐视。富有吸引力的轻快大方的风度——在没有什么更能使他轻而易举地在餐厅门口约上那个姑娘。那种富有条理的平面状思维——他有一天在这里列出一个单子，勾掉以ABC 打头的标题——最后，是那种男孩子的思维——曾被克拉克女勋爵所提到过，甚至表露出他读小说的品味——我已弄清楚图书馆里有一本名叫《铁路男孩》的书，是由E.耐斯比特写的。我自己便不再有任何怀疑，那个ABC，那个写信并进行那些谋杀案的人，就是富兰克林•卡拉克。” 　　克拉克突然迸发出一阵大笑。 　　“真是富有创意！那我们那位卡斯特朋友，双手鲜红地被抓住，又该作什么解释呢？他衣服上的血迹是怎么回事？还有他藏在住处的那把刀？他可能会否认他干了那些谋杀案——” 　　波洛打断了他的话。 　　“你错了，他对这些供认不讳。” 　　“什么？”克拉克看上去相当震惊。 　　“哦，是的，”波洛温和地说，“我一开口跟他说话，就已明白卡斯特认定自己有罪。” 　　“那甚至连这些都没能使波洛先生满意？”克拉克说。 　　“不。因为我一看见他，我就知道他不可能是有罪！他既没有胆量，也不够勇敢——我还要说，他没有策划的头脑！我一直都很清楚凶手的双重性格。现在我知道这种性格存在于那个方面。案件涉及两个人——真正的凶手，狡诈、足智多谋、胆大妄为——而那个假的凶手，愚蠢、犹豫不决、容易受到影响。 　　“容易受影响——在这个词汇当中，正好有卡斯特先生之迷！克拉克先生，策划这个系列谋杀案以把人们的注意力从一个单独的谋杀案中分散出来，这对你来说还不够。你必须要有一个作掩护的人。 　　“我想，在一个偶然的机会，你在一件咖啡店碰到这个古怪的人，他有着招人眼目的基督教姓名，于是你的脑中就第一次产生了这个念头。当时，你的头脑当中正在翻来覆去地考虑着谋害你哥哥的许多计划。” 　　“真的吗？那为什么呢？” 　　“因为你很是为将来感到惊慌。我不知道你是否已意识到，克拉克先生，可是当你给我看你哥哥写给你的那封信时，你使我对这件事有了更好的了解。在信中，他非常清晰地表示出了他对托拉•格雷的爱慕和专注。他的态度也可能是父亲般的关爱——或者他也愿意这样考虑。不管怎样，真正的危险是，在你嫂子死后，他可能会因为孤独无聊而转向这个美丽的姑娘，以获取同情和安慰，而最后，就像很多老年人都发生过的那样，他可能会同她结婚。由于你对格雷小姐的了解，你的恐惧与日俱增。我试想，你挺擅长于评判性格，尽管有点随意。你判断到，不管正确与否，格雷小姐是那种‘正在改变中’的年轻女子。她某一天可能会成为克拉克女勋爵，对此你丝毫不感到怀疑。你的哥哥是个极其健康的人，他精力充沛。他们可能会有小孩，而你继承遗产的机会就会减少到微乎其微。 　　“我认为，实质上，你的一生都是一个满怀失望的人。你像滚石一样四处游逛，根本聚集不了什么财产。你也相当嫉妒你哥哥的财产。 　　“我在重复我的话，你脑中正反复考虑那些计划时，你与卡斯特先生的碰面使你有了一个主意。他那夸张的基督教姓名，他对癫痫病发作和头疼的描述，他那种浑身上下唯唯诺诺、低小卑微的模样，恰好是你所想要的工具，这打动了你。整个字母计划开始在你的头脑中涌现——卡斯特的姓名简称——你哥哥的姓以C开头和他住在彻斯顿的事实，使这个计划的核心内容。你甚至都提出了卡斯特可能的结局——尽管你很难期望这个建议能够如愿以偿。 　　“你所作的安排相当出色。你以卡斯特的名义写信，还把一大批袜子寄送给他，你自己则寄去一些ABC书，看上去像是相同的包裹。你写信给他——是一封打字机打印的信，声称同一家企业会向他提供一份优厚的薪水和佣金。你的计划事先经过了如此的精心策划，你把所有的信件都打印完，随后在寄发出去，然后你把打完信件的那架打字机再交给他。 　　“你现在必须要找到两个受害人，他们的姓名必须要分别以A 和B 开头，他们也要住在地名以相同字母开头的地方。 　　“你偶然选择安多弗作为一个可能的地点，你去那里进行预先侦察，这使你得以挑选阿谢尔太太的小店作为第一场谋杀案的地点。她的姓名很清楚地写在门上，而你也恰好发现她往往是一个人呆在店里。她的谋杀案需要勇气、胆量和理所当然的运气。 　　“这与字母B，你就必须改变一下策略。可以想见，商店的单身女子可能已经获得警告。我可以想象到，你经常性地去光顾一些餐厅和茶室，与那里的姑娘们逗乐打趣，并发现有谁的姓名正好是以那个字母开头的，发现谁正好符合你的目的。 　　“贝蒂•巴纳德正是你在寻找的那种姑娘。你带她出去了一两次，向她解释你是一个已婚男人，外出游览要进行得秘密一点。 　　“然后，你的预先计划已经完成，你开始实施！你把那张安多弗的名单寄给卡斯特，指令他于某一天到那里去，而你把第一封信寄给了我。 　　“在指定的那一天，你去安多弗——杀死了阿谢尔太太——你的计划没有遭到任何破坏。 　　“第一场谋杀案就成功地完成了。 　　“第二场谋杀案，你再谋杀是很有戒心，实际上，是在前一天干的。我相当确信，贝蒂•巴纳德是在七月二十四日午夜之前被杀害的。 　　“我们现在看第三场谋杀案——这才是重要的，实际上，从你的观点来看，这才是真正的谋杀案。 　　“在这里，黑斯廷斯应该得到极大的表扬，他对没人注意到的现象作出了很简单却明晰的评判。 　　“他建议道，那第三封信是故意绕了弯路的！ 　　“他的判断正确无误！…… 　　“在那个简单的事实当中，有那个困扰我很久的问题的答案。为什么这些信要首先寄给赫尔克里•波洛，寄给一个私人侦探，而不是警方呢？ 　　“我曾经错误地以为有什么个人原因。 　　“其实并不是这样！这些信之所以寄给我，是因为在你的计划当中有一条是其中的一封信必须写错地址并绕弯子——可你无法使寄给苏格兰场的犯罪调查科的信去绕弯子！它必须是个私人地址。你于是选择了我，因为我是个为人熟知的人物，并且一定会把这些信件交给警方——还有，在你那个相当偏见的头脑之中，你喜欢去嘲弄一个外国人。 　　“你非常清晰地在信封上写好地址——白港——白马，这是很自然的笔误。只有黑斯廷斯非常地敏锐，他对一些细微的假象不加理睬而去直接关注显而易见的事实。 　　“当然，这封信是故意绕了个圈子的！只有当谋杀案已经安然完成以后，警察们才会去巡查。你哥哥的晚间散步使你有机可乘，而ABC案的恐惧已成功地占据了大众的心理，你可能有罪的事实却从未让任何人发觉。 　　“你哥哥死后，当然，你的目的已经实现。你再没有愿望进行更多的谋杀。另一方面，如果谋杀案毫无缘由地终止，有可能会有人开始对真相产生怀疑。 　　“卡斯特先生，你的那个遮掩物，由于他外表难以引人注目，很成功地做到了掩人耳目，以至于到那时为止，没有人注意到有同一个人出现在三场谋杀案的现场附近地区！令你恼火的是，甚至连他到过库姆比赛德的情况都没有人提到。格雷小姐的头脑当中已经完全没有这件事。 　　“你仍像往常一样大胆，你决定再进行一场谋杀，可这一次案件的总既要得到很好的宣扬。 　　“你于是挑选唐克斯特作为行动的地点。 　　“你的计划非常简单。你自己很自然会到犯罪现场去。卡斯特先生会得到他的企业的指令去唐克斯特。你的计划是要跟踪他以获取机会。事情都在顺利地进行着。卡斯特先生去了一家电影院，那倒是简单不过。你坐在离他几个座位之外。当他起身离开时，你也一样。你假装步履蹒跚，把身体倾斜并用刀刺死了前排那个正打瞌睡的人，把那本ABC 滑到他的脚边，在黑暗的通道中故意撞上卡斯特先生，在他的袖子上擦了擦刀，把刀又放进了他的口袋中。 　　“你根本用不着费心去寻找一个以D 作为姓名开头的人。任何人都可以！你认为——这也相当准确——这会被认为是一种失误。在座位不远的观众当中肯定有以D 为姓名开头的人、肯定会有人认为他才是那个注定要成为受害人的人。 　　“而现在，我的朋友，我们从那个假ABC的角度来考虑这个案子——从卡斯特先生的角度来考虑。 　　“安多弗谋杀案对他来说一点关系都没有。贝克斯希尔谋杀案则使他感到震惊和奇怪——为什么，那个时间他自己刚好在那里！随后是彻斯顿的罪案和报纸的大肆宣扬。他在安多弗的时候那里有一件ABC 谋杀案，在贝克斯希尔的时候有一件ABC 谋杀案，而现在又有另一件就在附近……三件案子发生的时候，他正好都在现场。饱受癫痫困扰的人通常会有记忆的空白，会记不起他们做过些什么事情……要记住卡斯特是个紧张兮兮、高度神经过敏的人物，而且极其容易受到影响。 　　“然后他收到了去唐克斯特的指令。 　　“唐克斯特！下一场ABC 案将会发生在唐克斯特。他肯定也感到这仿佛就是命运的安排。他丧失了勇气，以为他的房东太太在怀疑他，于是就告诉她说是要去切尔滕纳姆。 　　“他到唐克斯特去，因为这是他的任务。下午他去了一家电影院。他很可能在那里打了一两分钟瞌睡。 　　“当他返回到旅馆的时候，他发现了他衣服袖口上有血迹，口袋中有一把带着血渍的刀。我们可以想象他的感觉，他所有模糊的预兆都变得确定无疑。 　　“他——他自己——就是那个凶手！他想起他的头痛——他记忆的顿失。他很确信这个真相——他，亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特是一个杀人狂。 　　“他随后的行为是一个被围剿的野兽的行为。他回到伦敦的住所。在那里他很安全——这大家都知道。他们会以为他去了切尔滕纳姆。他还带着那把刀——这么做当然极其愚蠢。他把刀藏在衣帽架里。 　　“然后，有一天，他得到警告，说是警察要来了。一切都完了！他们都知道了！ 　　“那头被围剿的野兽开始最后的逃亡…… 　　“我不知道他为什么要去安多弗——我想，去看一看那个罪案发生的地方，这真是种病态的欲望——那个他曾经干过的罪案，尽管他什么也不记得了…… 　　“他身上分文皆无——精疲力尽……他的脚自愿地把他领向了警察局。 　　“可即便是一头被抓获的野兽，他也会挣扎不休。卡斯特先生完全相信他制造了这些谋杀案，可他仍然坚决地认定自己无罪。他绝望地坚持第二场谋杀案使他有不在现场的证据。至少那不该算在他的头上。 　　“正如我所讲过的，当我看到他的时候，立刻就知道他并不是那个凶手，而我的名字对他而言一文不值。我也知道，他自认为就是那个凶手。 　　“在他向我供认他的罪行之后，我更强烈的确知，我自己的推论是对的。” 　　“你的推论，”富兰克林•克拉克说，“真是荒谬。” 　　波洛摇了摇头。 　　“不，克拉克先生。由于没人怀疑你，你已经安然无事。一旦你遭到怀疑，要获得证据就相当容易。” 　　“什么证据？” 　　“是的，我在库姆比赛德的一个壁橱里发现了你在安多弗和彻斯顿谋杀案中使用过的棍子。那是个普通的棍子，带着一个厚实的把柄头，其中的一段木头被替换了，灌进了铅。你的相片也从好几张相片中被两个人识别，他们看见你离开电影院，而那时你应该是在赛马场。有一天你在贝克斯希尔也被米莉•希格利和‘绯红色跑步者’旅店的一个姑娘认出，你在案发当晚曾经带贝蒂•巴纳德去那里吃过饭。最后——那可是最最混蛋的事情——是你忽略了一个最基本的应该警惕的地方，你在卡斯特先生的打字机上留下了一个指纹——那架打字机，如果你真是清白无辜，你从来就不该碰过。” 　　克拉克静静地坐了一会儿，然后他说道： 　　“Rouge，impair，manque（法文，意为：红色，奇数，输了。——译注）！——你赢了，波洛先生！可这事值得尝试！” 　　他以一种难以置信的快速从口袋中掏出一支自动手枪，对准了自己的头。 　　我发出一声喊叫，不自觉地畏然退缩，等待着枪声响起。 　　可什么也没有发生——扳机毫无危害地响了一下。 　　克拉克惊奇地瞪着眼睛看，发出一声诅咒。 　　“不，克拉克先生，”波洛说，“你可能已经注意到我今天换了个新的男仆——他是我的一个朋友——是个顺手牵羊的偷窃专家。他从你的口袋中偷出手枪卸下子弹，然后又放回去，而你根本就没有注意到。” 　　“你这个十足的外国狂徒！”克拉克叫道，因狂怒而脸色发紫。 　　“是的，是的，那就是你所感觉的。不，克拉克先生，你不会死得太容易。你告诉卡斯特先生，你曾经差一点就溺水而死。你知道那是什么意思吗——你注定会有另外一种命运的。” 　　“你——” 　　他说不出话来。他的脸变得铁青，威胁般地紧握拳头。 　　两个苏格兰场的侦探从隔壁房间出来，其中的一位是克罗姆，他走向前，说出了由来已久的套话：“我警告你，你所说的每一句话都将作为呈堂证供。” 　　“他已经说的够多的了，”波洛说道。他又向克拉克补充说：“你塞满了偏执的优越感，可我自己则认为你的罪行一点也不像是个英国式的案件——不够光明正大——不够公平——” Chapter 35 Finale Chapter 35 Finale I am sorry to relate that as the door closed behind Franklin Clarke I laughed hysterically. Poirot looked at me in mild surprise. ‘It’s because you told him his crime was not sporting,’ I gasped. ‘It was quite true. It was abominable—not so much the murder of his brother—but the cruelty that condemned an unfortunate man to a living death. To catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!That is not le sport!’ Megan Barnard gave a deep sigh. ‘I can’t believe it—I can’t. Is it true?’ ‘Yes, mademoiselle. The nightmare is over.’ She looked at him and her colour deepened Poirot turned to Fraser. ‘Mademoiselle Megan, all along, was haunted by a fear that it was you who had committed the second crime.’ Donald Fraser said quietly: ‘I fancied so myself at one time.’ ‘Because of your dream?’ He drew a little nearer to the young man and dropped his voice confidentially. ‘Your dream has a very natural explanation. It is that you find that already the image of one sister fades in your memory and that its place is taken by the other sister. Mademoiselle Megan replaces her sister in your heart, but since you cannot bear to think of yourself being unfaithful so soon to the dead, you strive to stifle the thought, to kill it! That is the explanation of the dream.’ Fraser’s eyes went towards Megan. ‘Do not be afraid to forget,’ said Poirot gently. ‘She was not so well worth remembering. In Mademoiselle Megan you have one in a hundred—un coeur magnifique!’ Donald Fraser’s eyes lit up. ‘I believe you are right.’ We all crowded round Poirot asking questions, elucidating this point and that. ‘Those questions, Poirot? That you asked of everybody. Was there any point in them?’ ‘Some of them were simplement une blague. But I learnt one thing that I wanted to know—that Franklin Clarke was in London when the first letter was posted—and also I wanted to see his face when I asked my questionof Mademoiselle Thora. He was off his guard. I saw all the malice and anger in his eyes.’ ‘You hardly spared my feelings,’ said Thora Grey. ‘I do not fancy you returned me a truthful answer, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘And now your second expectation is disappointed. Franklin Clarke will not inherit his brother’s money.’ She flung up her head. ‘Is there any need for me to stay here and be insulted?’ ‘None whatever,’ said Poirot and held the door open politely for her. ‘That fingerprint clinched things, Poirot,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘He went all to pieces when you mentioned that.’ ‘Yes, they are useful—fingerprints.’ He added thoughtfully: ‘I put that in to please you, my friend.’ ‘But, Poirot,’ I cried, ‘wasn’t it true?’ ‘Not in the least, mon ami,’ said Hercule Poirot. II I must mention a visit we had from Mr Alexander Bonaparte Cust a few days later. After wringing Poirot’s hand and endeavouring very incoherently and unsuccessfully to thank him, Mr Cust drew himself up and said: ‘Do you know, a newspaper has actually offered me a hundred pounds—a hundred pounds—for a brief account of my life and history—I—I really don’t know what to do about it.’ ‘I should not accept a hundred,’ said Poirot. ‘Be firm. Say five hundred is your price. And do not confine yourself to one newspaper.’ ‘Do you really think—that I might—’ ‘You must realize,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘that you are a very famous man. Practically the most famous man in England today.’ Mr Cust drew himself up still further. A beam of delight irradiated his face. ‘Do you know, I believe you’re right! Famous! In all the papers. I shall take your advice, M. Poirot. The money will be most agreeable—most agreeable. I shall have a little holiday…And then I want to give a nice wedding present to Lily Marbury—a dear girl—really a dear girl, M. Poirot.’ Poirot patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. ‘You are quite right. Enjoy yourself. And—just a little word—what about a visit to an oculist? Those headaches, it is probably that you want new glasses.’ ‘You think that it may have been that all the time?’ ‘I do.’ Mr Cust shook him warmly by the hand. ‘You’re a very great man, M. Poirot.’ Poirot, as usual, did not disdain the compliment. He did not even succeed in looking modest. When Mr Cust had strutted importantly out, my old friend smiled across at me. ‘So, Hastings—we went hunting once more, did we not? Vive le sport.’ 第三十五章　结局 第三十五章　结局 　　当门在富兰克林•克拉克身后关上时，我歇斯底里地笑了出来——我很抱歉作这样的叙述。 　　波洛看着我，带着些许的惊诧。 　　“这是因为你跟他说他的罪行并不公平。”我喘着气说道。 　　“这挺正确的。这使人感到厌恶——倒不是出于谋害自己的兄弟，而是宣判一个令人遗憾的家伙要过地狱般生活的残酷性。要抓住狐狸，把它关进笼子里，再也不让他跑掉！那可不是种公平的游戏！” 　　梅根•巴纳德深深地叹气。 　　“我无法相信这件事——我无法。这是真的吗？” 　　“是的，小姐。恶梦已经过去。” 　　她看着他，脸色渐深。 　　波洛转向弗雷泽。 　　“梅根小姐一直都有一种担心，害怕第二场谋杀案是你干的。” 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽平静地说： 　　“我曾经也这么想过。” 　　“是因为你做的梦？”他离这个年轻人更近了一点，暗暗地降低声音。“你的梦有一种很自然的解释。那时因为你发现妹妹的印象在你脑中淡漠下去时，它的位置由另一个姐姐来代替。在你的心目中，梅根小姐取代了她的妹妹，但是由于你无法容忍自己这么快就对死者不忠实，你挣扎着要消灭这个念头，要根除它！这就是那个梦的解释。” 　　弗雷泽的眼睛瞄向梅根。 　　“不要害怕忘记，”波洛温和地说，“她不是那么值得去牢记。在梅根•巴纳德身上，你完全可以找到——un coeur magnifique（法文，意为：一颗美妙的心灵。——译注）！” 　　唐纳德•弗雷泽的眼睛发亮。 　　“我相信你的话是对的。” 　　我们都围绕在波洛身边提问，要他回答这样那样的问题。 　　“那些问题，波洛？你向每个人的提问，那里面有没有什么含义？” 　　“有些问题是simplememt une blague（法文，意为：仅仅是开玩笑。——译注）。可是了解到了我想要知道的一件事——当第一封信寄出的时候，富兰克林•克拉克正好在伦敦，而且，当我向托拉•格雷提问时，我也想看看他的脸色。他丝毫没加提防，我瞥见他眼中的恶意和愤怒。” 　　“你一点也不顾及我的感情。”托拉•格雷说。 　　“我并不指望你会给我一个真实的回答，小姐。”波洛冷冰冰地说，“而现在，你的第二个希望又落空了，富兰克林•克拉克不会再继承他哥哥的钱财了。” 　　她猛然一抬头。 　　“我还有什么必要再留在这里遭受侮辱吗？” 　　“没什么必要。”波洛说道，礼貌地为她打开门。 　　“那个指纹极有说服力，波洛，”我寻思着说，“你一提到它，他就崩溃了。” 　　“是的，那些指纹挺管用的。” 　　他若有所思地补充道： 　　“我编了那些话以使你高兴，我的朋友。” 　　“可是，波洛，”我叫道，“这难道不是真的吗？” 　　“一点也不，mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注）。”赫尔克里•波洛说。 　　我必须要提到，几天之后，亚历山大•波拿帕特•卡斯特前来拜访我们。他紧握波洛的手，极不连贯地竭力向波洛道谢，卡斯特收住口，说道： 　　“你们知道吗，有家报社已经出价一百英镑，一百英镑——要我简单地讲述我的一生和历史。我——我真是不知道该怎么做。” 　　“我才不会去接受一百英镑呢，”波洛说，“要坚定。告诉他们说五百英镑才是你的价码，而且别把你自己只限于一家报社。” 　　“你真的认为——我可以——” 　　“你必须要认识到，”波洛说着，面带笑意，“你已是一个著名的人物，实际上是现在英格兰最著名的人物。” 　　卡斯特先生再次收住口，脸上扫过一阵喜悦。 　　“您知道吗，我相信您是对的！著名！要登在所有的报纸上。我会采纳您的建议，波洛先生。那酬金必须是最合适的——最合适的。我要去度几天假……然后我要送给莉莉•马伯里一件精美的结婚礼物——她是个可爱的姑娘——真正可爱的姑娘，波洛先生。” 　　波洛鼓励地拍拍他的肩膀。 　　“你是对的，好好地过。另外还有一句话，去看看眼科医生怎么样？那些头痛，可能是因为你需要一副新眼镜。” 　　“您认为一直就是那样吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　卡斯特先生热情地同他握手。 　　“您真是个伟大的人，波洛先生。” 　　像往常一样，波洛并没有忽略这句恭维，他甚至都没有显得谦虚一点。 　　当卡斯特大摇大摆地走出门后，我那位老朋友冲着我笑。 　　“那么，黑斯廷斯，我们又侦破了一起案件，不是吗？Vive le sport（法文，意为：游戏万岁。——译注）。”