ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 1
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE
I
Mr. Morley was not in the best of tempers at breakfast. He complained of the bacon, wondered
why the coffee had to have the appearance of liquid mud, and remarked that breakfast cereals were
each one worse than the last.
Mr. Morley was a small man with a decided jaw and a pugnacious chin. His sister, who kept
house for him, was a large woman rather like a female grenadier. She eyed her brother
thoughtfully and asked whether the bath water had been cold again.
Rather grudgingly, Mr. Morley said it had not.
He glanced at the paper and remarked that the Government seemed to be passing from a state of
incompetence to one of positive imbecility!
Miss Morley said in a deep bass voice that it was Disgraceful!
As a mere woman she had always found whatever Government happened to be in power
distinctly useful. She urged her brother on to explain why the Government’s present policy was
inconclusive, idiotic, imbecile and frankly suicidal!
When Mr. Morley had expressed himself fully on these points, he had a second cup of the
despised coffee and unburdened himself of his true grievance.
“These girls,” he said, “are all the same! Unreliable, self-centred—not to be depended on in any
way.”
Miss Morley said interrogatively:
“Gladys?”
“I’ve just had the message. Her aunt’s had a stroke and she’s had to go down to Somerset.”
Miss Morley said:
“Very trying, dear, but after all hardly the girl’s fault.”
Mr. Morley shook his head gloomily.
“How do I know the aunt has had a stroke? How do I know the whole thing hasn’t been
arranged between the girl and that very unsuitable young fellow she goes about with? That young
man is a wrong ’un if I ever saw one! They’ve probably planned some outing together for today.”
“Oh, no, dear, I don’t think Gladys would do a thing like that. You know, you’ve always found
her very conscientious.”
“Yes, yes.”
“An intelligent girl and really keen on her work, you said.”
“Yes, yes, Georgina, but that was before this undesirable young man came along. She’s been
quite different lately—quite different—absentminded—upset—nervy.”
The Grenadier produced a deep sigh. She said:
“After all, Henry, girls do fall in love. It can’t be helped.”
Mr. Morley snapped:
“She oughtn’t to let it affect her efficiency as my secretary. And today, in particular, I’m
extremely busy! Several very important patients. It is most trying!”
“I’m sure it must be extremely vexing, Henry. How is the new boy shaping, by the way?”
Henry Morley said gloomily:
“He’s the worst I’ve had yet! Can’t get a single name right and has the most uncouth manners.
If he doesn’t improve I shall sack him and try again. I don’t know what’s the good of our
education nowadays. It seems to turn out a collection of nitwits who can’t understand a single
thing you say to them, let alone remember it.”
He glanced at his watch.
“I must be getting along. A full morning, and that Sainsbury Seale woman to fit in somewhere
as she is in pain. I suggested that she should see Reilly, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Of course not,” said Georgina loyally.
“Reilly’s very able—very able indeed. First-class diplomas. Thoroughly up-to-date in his
work.”
“His hand shakes,” said Miss Morley. “In my opinion he drinks.”
Her brother laughed, his good temper restored. He said:
“I’ll be up for a sandwich at half past one as usual.”
一，二，扣住鞋 1
一，二，扣住鞋
1
莫利先生吃早餐时心情不是很好。他抱怨熏肉的味道不佳，不明白咖啡为什么非得煮
成像泥浆似的，又接着评论说早餐麦片一片比一片难吃。
莫利先生是个小个子，长着一副给人决断感的下颚和好斗感的下巴。他姐姐身材高
大，活像一个女掷弹兵，平日里为莫利先生料理家务。她若有所思地看了看弟弟，问是不
是早晨的洗澡水又太凉了。
莫利先生勉强说不是的。
他看了一眼报纸，说政府似乎正在从无能堕落为毋庸置疑的愚蠢！
莫利小姐用她低沉的嗓音说，这样说话可不好。
作为一个妇道人家，她一向认为不管政府怎样执政都能有效果。她让弟弟解释为什么
说政府目前的政策是如此愚蠢、摇摆不定、自取灭亡!
莫利先生对这几点一一阐述了自己的观点，接着又喝了一杯那可恶的咖啡，然后才把
内心真正的郁闷发泄出来。
“这些女孩子，”他说，“都是一个样！不守承诺，以自我为中心——一点儿都靠不
住。”
莫利小姐试探地问：“你是说格拉迪丝吗？”
“我刚收到消息。她姑姑中风了，她得回萨默塞特去。”
莫利小姐说：“真麻烦，亲爱的，但这也不是那孩子的错啊。”
莫利先生沮丧地摇了摇头。
“我怎么知道她姑姑是不是真的中风了？我怎么知道这一切是不是她和她喜欢的那个远
配不上她的小子一起编出来的？那小子，可能是我见过的最差的人选！他们今天也许一块
儿出去玩儿了呢。”
“噢，不，亲爱的，我觉得格拉迪丝不会做出这种事情。你知道，你平时一直夸她很上
心的。”
“是的，是的。”
“你说她是个聪明的姑娘，还说她非常喜欢自己的工作。”
“是的，是的，乔治娜，但那是在这个不讨人喜欢的年轻人出现之前的事儿了。她最近
可是变了……变了……变得心不在焉、心烦意乱、神神叨叨的。”
女掷弹兵深深地叹了口气。她说：
“不管怎么说，亨利，女孩子都要恋爱的。这是没有办法的事情。”
莫利先生厉声道：
“谈恋爱不该影响到她的工作。今天，尤其是今天，我非常忙！有几个很重要的病人。
真是烦死人了！”
“我知道你很烦，亨利。对了，新来的那个小伙子怎么样了?”
莫利先生不高兴地说：
“他是我用过的最差劲儿的一个！连病人名字都写不对，而且待人粗俗。如果他再没有
长进我就炒了他重新找。我真不明白我们现在的教育是怎么了。似乎净培养出一群笨蛋，
连句话都听不懂，更别说记住了。”
他看了看手表。
“我得走了。今天早晨排得很满，还要把那个叫塞恩斯伯里•西尔的女人加进来，她牙
疼。我建议她找赖利，可是她不肯。”
“当然不肯了。”乔治娜贴心地说。
“其实赖利挺能干的——非常能干。他有一流的文凭，有最新的专业知识。”
“可他手抖啊。”乔治娜小姐说，“我觉得他酗酒。”
她弟弟笑了，情绪也好了起来。
他说：“我会像往常一样，一点半上来吃个三明治。”
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 2
II
At the Savoy Hotel Mr. Amberiotis was picking his teeth with a toothpick and grinning to himself.
Everything was going very nicely.
He had had his usual luck. Fancy those few kind words of his to that idiotic hen of a woman
being so richly repaid. Oh! well — cast your bread upon the waters. He had always been a
kindhearted man. And generous! In the future he would be able to be even more generous.
Benevolent visions floated before his eyes. Little Dimitri … And the good Constantopopolus
struggling with his little restaurant … What pleasant surprises for them….
The toothpick probed unguardedly and Mr. Amberiotis winced. Rosy visions of the future faded
and gave way to apprehensions of the immediate future. He explored tenderly with his tongue. He
took out his notebook. Twelve o’clock. 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
He tried to recapture his former exultant mood. But in vain. The horizon had shrunk to six bare
words:
“58, Queen Charlotte Street. Twelve o’clock.”
一，二，扣住鞋 2
2
萨伏依酒店，安伯里奥兹先生一边用牙签剔着牙，一边暗自得意地微笑着。一切都进
展得很顺利。
他像往常一样走运。想着他对那个唠叨的八婆说了几句好话就马上得到了这么多的回
报。噢！是啊——好人总会有好报的。他一直是个善良的人，而且慷慨大方！他眼前浮现
出一幅幅仁慈的画面。小狄米特里——还有那个苦心经营小饭店的好人康斯坦托普洛斯
——对他们来说这是多么大的惊喜……
牙签肆意地乱捅，失了准头，安伯里奥兹先生痛得抽了一下。玫瑰色的幻觉消失了，
他又回到了现实。他小心地伸出舌头在嘴里舔了舔，掏出记事本。十二点，夏洛特皇后
街，五十八号。
他试着想找回刚才愉悦的状态，但是没有成功。视线所及，只剩下几个大字：
“夏洛特皇后街，五十八号，十二点。
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 3
III
At the Glengowrie Court Hotel, South Kensington, breakfast was over. In the lounge, Miss
Sainsbury Seale was sitting talking to Mrs. Bolitho. They occupied adjacent tables in the dining
room and had made friends the day after Miss Sainsbury Seale’s arrival a week ago.
Miss Sainsbury Seale said:
“You know, dear, it really has stopped aching! Not a twinge! I think perhaps I’ll ring up—”
Mrs. Bolitho interrupted her.
“Now don’t be foolish, my dear. You go to the dentist and get it over.”
Mrs. Bolitho was a tall, commanding female with a deep voice. Miss Sainsbury Seale was a
woman of forty odd with indecisively bleached hair rolled up in untidy curls. Her clothes were
shapeless and rather artistic, and her pince-nez were always dropping off. She was a great talker.
She said now wistfully:
“But really, you know, it doesn’t ache at all.”
“Nonsense, you told me you hardly slept a wink last night.”
“No, I didn’t—no, indeed—but perhaps, now, the nerve has actually died.”
“All the more reason to go to the dentist,” said Mrs. Bolitho firmly. “We all like to put it off, but
that’s just cowardice. Better make up one’s mind and get it over!”
Something hovered on Miss Sainsbury Seale’s lips. Was it the rebellious murmur of: “Yes, but
it’s not your tooth!”
All she actually said, however, was:
“I expect you’re right. And Mr. Morley is such a careful man and really never hurts one at all.”
一，二，扣住鞋 3
3
南肯辛顿，格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店，早餐已经结束了。大堂里，塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐正
坐着和博莱索太太交谈。她们坐在相邻的餐桌，所以一周前塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐来的第二
天，两人就成了朋友。
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐说:
“你知道吗，亲爱的，它真的已经不疼了！一点儿都不疼了！我想也许我应该打电话去
——”
博莱索太太打断了她。
“别傻了，亲爱的。你还是去牙医诊所把它给治好吧。”
博莱索太太个子很高、声音低沉，是个喜欢发号施令的女人。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐有
四十多岁，头发染成很浅的颜色，凌乱地打着卷盘在头上。她身上的衣服说不清款式，倒
也很有点儿艺术感，鼻梁上架着的眼镜不停地往下滑。她是个健谈的女人。
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐惆怅地说：
“但是真的，你知道，它一点儿都不疼了。”
“别说傻话了，你刚才还告诉我昨晚根本就睡不着。”
“是的，我没睡着——是的，确实睡不着——但是也许现在那根牙神经已经坏死了。”
“那就更应该去看牙医了。”博莱索太太坚定地说，“我们都喜欢拖，但那是懦弱的表
现，最好是下定决心把它给治好了。”
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐似乎是在抗议似的小声嘟囔了一句：“是的，可疼的不是你的
牙！”
但是，实际上她说：
“我想你是对的。莫利先生是个很小心的人，从来不会让人感到疼痛。”
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 4
IV
The meeting of the Board of Directors was over. It had passed off smoothly. The report was good.
There should have been no discordant note. Yet to the sensitive Mr. Samuel Rotherstein there had
been something, some nuance in the chairman’s manner.
There had been, once or twice, a shortness, an acerbity, in his tone—quite uncalled for by the
proceedings.
Some secret worry, perhaps? But somehow Rotherstein could not connect a secret worry with
Alistair Blunt. He was such an unemotional man. He was so very normal. So essentially British.
There was, of course, always liver … Mr. Rotherstein’s liver gave him a bit of trouble from
time to time. But he’d never known Alistair to complain of his liver. Alistair’s health was as sound
as his brain and his grasp of finance. It was not annoying heartiness—just quiet well-being.
And yet—there was something—once or twice the chairman’s hand had wandered to his face.
He had sat supporting his chin. Not his normal attitude. And once or twice he had seemed actually
—yes, distrait.
They came out of the boardroom and passed down the stairs.
Rotherstein said:
“Can’t give you a lift, I suppose?”
Alistair Blunt smiled and shook his head.
“My car’s waiting.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m not going back to the city.” He paused. “As a
matter of fact I’ve got an appointment with the dentist.”
The mystery was solved.
一，二，扣住鞋 4
4
董事会会议结束了。会议开得很顺利，会上的报告也不错，没有什么不同意见。不过
敏感的塞缪尔•罗瑟斯坦先生却注意到有点儿不对劲儿，主席的神情里有些细微的变化。他
的语调有一两次也有点儿短促、酸涩——跟会议内容完全不相干。
或许是有什么潜在的焦虑？但是从某种意义上讲，罗瑟斯坦很难把潜在的焦虑同阿利
斯泰尔•布伦特联系起来。他是个特别不露声色的人，从来都是一副一切正常的样子，是个
地地道道的英国人。
那么，应该是肝脏了……罗瑟斯坦先生的肝脏时不时地会有点儿问题。可他从来没有
听到阿利斯泰尔抱怨过他的肝。阿利斯泰尔的健康就像他的大脑和他对金融的掌控一样好
得很，但又不是那种令人讨厌的浑身是劲儿的感觉，只是健康而已。
可是，还是有点儿不对劲儿。有一两次，主席的手在脸上游移。他坐在那儿，还用手
撑着下巴，这也不是他通常的样子。有一两次他看上去又有点儿——嗯，心神不定。
他们一起走出会议室，下了楼梯。
罗瑟斯坦说：
“需要我用车送您一程吗？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特笑了一下，摇摇头。
“我的车已经在等我了。”他看了看手表，说，“我不回城里。”停顿了一下，又说：“其
实我要去看牙医。”
谜底揭开了。
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 5
V
Hercule Poirot descended from his taxi, paid the man and rang the bell of 58, Queen Charlotte
Street.
After a little delay it was opened by a boy in page boy’s uniform with a freckled face, red hair,
and an earnest manner.
Hercule Poirot said:
“Mr. Morley?”
There was in his heart a ridiculous hope that Mr. Morley might have been called away, might be
indisposed, might not be seeing patients today … All in vain. The page boy drew back, Hercule
Poirot stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with the quiet remorselessness of
unalterable doom.
The boy said: “Name, please?”
Poirot gave it to him, a door on the right of the hall was thrown open and he stepped into the
waiting room.
It was a room furnished in quiet good taste and, to Hercule Poirot, indescribably gloomy. On the
polished (reproduction) Sheraton table were carefully arranged papers and periodicals. The
(reproduction) Hepplewhite sideboard held two Sheffield plated candlesticks and an épergne. The
mantelpiece held a bronze clock and two bronze vases. The windows were shrouded by curtains of
blue velvet. The chairs were upholstered in a Jacobean design of red birds and flowers.
In one of them sat a military- looking gentleman with a fierce moustache and a yellow
complexion. He looked at Poirot with an air of one considering some noxious insect. It was not so
much his gun he looked as though he wished he had with him, as his Flit spray. Poirot, eyeing him
with distaste, said to himself, “In verity, there are some Englishmen who are altogether so
unpleasing and ridiculous that they should have been put out of their misery at birth.”
The military gentleman, after a prolonged glare, snatched up The Times, turned his chair so as to
avoid seeing Poirot, and settled down to read it.
Poirot picked up Punch.
He went through it meticulously, but failed to find any of the jokes funny.
The page boy came in and said, “Colonel Arrow-Bumby?”—and the military gentleman was led
away.
Poirot was speculating on the probabilities of there really being such a name, when the door
opened to admit a young man of about thirty.
As the young man stood by the table, restlessly flicking over the covers of magazines, Poirot
looked at him sideways. An unpleasant and dangerous looking young man, he thought, and not
impossibly a murderer. At any rate he looked far more like a murderer than any of the murderers
Hercule Poirot had arrested in the course of his career.
The page boy opened the door and said to midair:
“Mr. Peerer.”
Rightly construing this as a summons to himself, Poirot rose. The boy led him to the back of the
hall and round the corner to a small lift in which he took him up to the second floor. Here he led
him along a passage, opened a door which led into a little anteroom, tapped at a second door; and
without waiting for a reply opened it and stood back for Poirot to enter.
Poirot entered to a sound of running water and came round the back of the door to discover Mr.
Morley washing his hands with professional gusto at a basin on the wall.
一，二，扣住鞋 5
5
赫尔克里•波洛从出租车里出来，付了钱，然后按响了夏洛特皇后街五十八号的门铃。
过了一会儿，门开了。开门的是一个身着门童制服的小伙子。他满脸雀斑，一头红
发，非常认真的样子。
赫尔克里•波洛问道：“莫利先生在吗？”
他嘴上这么问，心里却笑着想没准儿莫利先生被谁叫走了，没准儿他身体不舒服没有
来，没准儿他今天不上班——但是他的希望全都落空了。门童往后退了一步，赫尔克里•波
洛走了进去。门在他背后无情地、不可挽回地关上了。
门童问：“请问您叫什么名字？”
波洛回答了他。门厅右边的一扇门被打开，波洛走进了候诊室。
屋子里面的摆设看似简单却很有品位，但对赫尔克里•波洛来说有种说不出的阴森。那
张谢拉顿式的桌子（仿制品）擦得锃亮，上面整齐地摆放着一些报纸和杂志。赫普尔怀特
式的茶几（仿制品）上面摆着两个谢菲尔德镀铬烛台和一个装饰品。壁炉台上放着一个铜
钟和两个铜花瓶。窗户上挂着蓝色的天鹅绒窗帘。椅子都是仿古的，椅垫上绣着古典的花
鸟图案。
其中一张椅子上坐着一个军人模样的男人。他皮肤微黄，留着一副凶狠的小胡子。他
望着波洛的眼神仿佛是在盯着一只害虫，好像希望自己身上带着的不是手枪，而是一瓶杀
虫喷雾剂。波洛不屑地看了他一眼，心想：“有些英国人实在是令人讨厌，而且莫名其妙。
他们当初就不该被生下来，省得他们活得这么痛苦。”
那军人使劲儿瞪着波洛看了一会儿，然后伸手抓起一本《时代》周刊。他把椅子转了
过去，避免看到波洛，然后开始看杂志。
波洛也拿了一本杂志看了起来。
他仔细地看了一遍，觉得里面的笑话一点儿都不好笑。
门童小伙子进来叫了声：“阿罗•邦比上校？”——那个军人被领了出去。
波洛还在暗想是否真有这么奇怪的名字，这时门开了，进来一位三十来岁的年轻人。
他站在桌子旁边，不耐烦地来回翻着那些杂志。波洛从侧面观察他，心想这是个又讨厌又
危险的年轻人，说不定是个杀人犯。不管怎么看，他都比波洛职业生涯中抓到的那些杀人
犯更像杀人犯。
门童又推开了门，朝空中叫道：“皮洛先生？”
波洛意识到这是在叫他，就站了起来。门童领着他上了门厅后面转角处的一部小电
梯，把他带到了二楼。然后，他又领着波洛穿过走廊，打开一个套间的门，接着在这个套
间的第二道门上敲了敲。他没等听到回答，就推开第二道门，退后一步，让波洛进去。
波洛一进屋就听到门后传来流水声，莫利先生正在水池边非常专业地洗着手。
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE 6
VI
There are certain humiliating moments in the lives of the greatest of men. It has been said that no
man is a hero to his valet. To that may be added that few men are heroes to themselves at the
moment of visiting their dentist.
Hercule Poirot was morbidly conscious of this fact.
He was a man who was accustomed to have a good opinion of himself. He was Hercule Poirot,
superior in most ways to other men. But in this moment he was unable to feel superior in any way
whatever. His morale was down to zero. He was just that ordinary, craven figure, a man afraid of
the dentist’s chair.
Mr. Morley had finished his professional ablutions. He was speaking now in his encouraging
professional manner.
“Hardly as warm as it should be, is it, for the time of year?”
Gently he led the way to the appointed spot—to The Chair! Deftly he played with its head rest,
running it up and down.
Hercule Poirot took a deep breath, stepped up, sat down and relaxed his head to Mr. Morley’s
professional fiddlings.
“There,” said Mr. Morley with hideous cheerfulness. “That quite comfortable? Sure?”
In sepulchral tones Poirot said that it was quite comfortable.
Mr. Morley swung his little table nearer, picked up his little mirror, seized an instrument and
prepared to get on with the job.
Hercule Poirot grasped the arms of the chair, shut his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Any special trouble?” Mr. Morley inquired.
Slightly indistinctly, owing to the difficulty of forming consonants while keeping the mouth
open, Hercule Poirot was understood to say that there was no special trouble. This was, indeed, the
twice yearly overhaul that his sense of order and neatness demanded. It was, of course, possible
that there might be nothing to do … Mr. Morley might, perhaps, overlook that second tooth from
the back from which those twinges had come … He might—but it was unlikely—for Mr. Morley
was a very good dentist.
Mr. Morley passed slowly from tooth to tooth, tapping and probing, murmuring little comments
as he did so.
“That filling is wearing down a little — nothing serious, though. Gums are in pretty good
condition, I’m glad to see.” A pause at a suspect, a twist of the probe—no, on again, false alarm.
He passed to the lower side. One, two—on to three?—No—“The dog,” Hercule Poirot thought in
confused idiom, “has seen the rabbit!”
“A little trouble here. Not been giving you any pain? Hm, I’m surprised.” The probe went on.
Finally Mr. Morley drew back, satisfied.
“Nothing very serious. Just a couple of fillings—and a trace of decay on that upper molar. We
can get it all done, I think, this morning.”
He turned on a switch and there was a hum. Mr. Morley un-hooked the drill and fitted a needle
to it with loving care.
“Guide me,” he said briefly, and started the dread work.
It was not necessary for Poirot to avail himself of this permission, to raise a hand, to wince, or
even to yell. At exactly the right moment, Mr. Morley stopped the drill, gave the brief command
“Rinse,” applied a little dressing, selected a new needle and continued. The ordeal of the drill was
terror rather than pain.
Presently, while Mr. Morley was preparing the filling, conversation was resumed.
“Have to do this myself this morning,” he explained. “Miss Nevill has been called away. You
remember Miss Nevill?”
Poirot untruthfully assented.
“Called away to the country by the illness of a relative. Sort of thing that does happen on a busy
day. I’m behindhand already this morning. The patient before you was late. Very vexing when that
happens. It throws the whole morning out. Then I have to fit in an extra patient because she is in
pain. I always allow a quarter of an hour in the morning in case that happens. Still, it adds to the
rush.”
Mr. Morley peered into his little mortar as he ground. Then he resumed his discourse.
“I’ll tell you something that I’ve always noticed, M. Poirot. The big people—the important
people—they’re always on time—never keep you waiting. Royalty, for instance. Most punctilious.
And these big City men are the same. Now this morning I’ve got a most important man coming—
Alistair Blunt!”
Mr. Morley spoke the name in a voice of triumph.
Poirot, prohibited from speech by several rolls of cotton wool and a glass tube that gurgled
under his tongue, made an indeterminate noise.
Alistair Blunt! Those were the names that thrilled nowadays. Not Dukes, not Earls, not Prime
Ministers. No, plain Mr. Alistair Blunt. A man whose face was almost unknown to the general
public—a man who only figured in an occasional quiet paragraph. Not a spectacular person.
Just a quiet nondescript Englishman who was the head of the greatest banking firm in England.
A man of vast wealth. A man who said Yes and No to Governments. A man who lived a quiet,
unobtrusive life and never appeared on a public platform or made speeches. Yet a man in whose
hands lay supreme power.
Mr. Morley’s voice still held a reverent tone as he stood over Poirot ramming the filling home.
“Always comes to his appointments absolutely on time. Often sends his car away and walks
back to his office. Nice, quiet, unassuming fellow. Fond of golf and keen on his garden. You’d
never dream he could buy up half Europe! Just like you and me.”
A momentary resentment rose in Poirot at this offhand coupling of names. Mr. Morley was a
good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule
Poirot.
“Rinse, please,” said Mr. Morley.
“It’s the answer, you know, to their Hitlers and Mussolinis and all the rest of them,” went on
Mr. Morley, as he proceeded to tooth number two. “We don’t make a fuss over here. Look how
democratic our King and Queen are. Of course, a Frenchman like you, accustomed to the
Republican idea—”
“I ah nah a Frahah—I ah—ah a Benyon.”
“Tchut—tchut—” said Mr. Morley sadly. “We must have the cavity completely dry.” He puffed
hot air relentlessly on it.
Then he went on:
“I didn’t realize you were a Belgian. Very interesting. Very fine man, King Leopold, so I’ve
always heard. I’m a great believer in the tradition of Royalty myself. The training is good, you
know. Look at the remarkable way they remember names and faces. All the result of training—
though of course some people have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. I, myself, for instance.
I don’t remember names, but it’s remarkable the way I never forget a face. One of my patients the
other day, for instance—I’ve seen that patient before. The name meant nothing to me—but I said
to myself at once, ‘Now where have I met you before?’ I’ve not remembered yet—but it will come
back to me—I’m sure of it. Just another rinse, please.”
The rinse accomplished, Mr. Morley peered critically into his patient’s mouth.
“Well, I think that seems all right. Just close—very gently … Quite comfortable? You don’t feel
the filling at all? Open again, please. No, that seems quite all right.”
Hercule Poirot descended, a free man.
“Well, good-bye, M. Poirot. Not detected any criminals in my house, I hope?”
Poirot said with a smile:
“Before I came up, every one looked to me like a criminal! Now, perhaps, it will be different!”
“Ah, yes, a great deal of difference between before and after! All the same, we dentists aren’t
such devils now as we used to be! Shall I ring for the lift for you?”
“No, no, I will walk down.”
“As you like—the lift is just by the stairs.”
Poirot went out. He heard the taps start to run as he closed the door behind him.
He walked down the two flights of stairs. As he came to the last bend, he saw the Anglo-Indian
Colonel being shown out. Not at all a bad-looking man, Poirot reflected mellowly. Probably a fine
shot who had killed many a tiger. A useful man—a regular outpost of Empire.
He went into the waiting room to fetch his hat and stick which he had left there. The restless
young man was still there, somewhat to Poirot’s surprise. Another patient, a man, was reading the
Field.
Poirot studied the young man in his newborn spirit of kindliness. He still looked very fierce—
and as though he wanted to do a murder—but not really a murderer, thought Poirot kindly.
Doubtless, presently, this young man would come tripping down the stairs, his ordeal over, happy
and smiling and wishing no ill to anyone.
The page boy entered and said firmly and distinctly:
“Mr. Blunt.”
The man at the table laid down the Field and got up. A man of middle height, of middle age,
neither fat nor thin. Well-dressed, quiet.
He went out after the boy.
One of the richest and most powerful men in England—but he still had to go to the dentist just
like anybody else, and no doubt felt just the same as anybody else about it!
These reflections passing through his mind, Hercule Poirot picked up his hat and stick and went
to the door. He glanced back as he did so, and the startled thought went through his mind that that
young man must have very bad toothache indeed.
In the hall Poirot paused before the mirror there to adjust his moustaches, slightly disarranged as
the result of Mr. Morley’s ministrations.
He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift came down again and
the page boy emerged from the back of the hall whistling discordantly. He broke off abruptly at
the sight of Poirot and came to open the front door for him.
A taxi had just drawn up before the house and a foot was protruding from it. Poirot surveyed the
foot with gallant interest.
A neat ankle, quite a good quality stocking. Not a bad foot. But he didn’t like the shoe. A brand
new patent leather shoe with a large gleaming buckle. He shook his head.
Not chic—very provincial!
The lady got out of the taxi, but in doing so she caught her other foot in the door and the buckle
was wrenched off. It fell tinkling on to the pavement. Gallantly, Poirot sprang forward and picked
it up, restoring it with a bow.
Alas! Nearer fifty than forty. Pince-nez. Untidy yellow-grey hair—unbecoming clothes—those
depressing art greens! She thanked him, dropping her pince-nez, then her handbag.
Poirot, polite if no longer gallant, picked them up for her.
She went up the steps of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, and Poirot interrupted the taxi driver’s
disgusted contemplation of a meagre tip.
“You are free, hein?”
The taxi driver said gloomily: “Oh, I’m free.”
“So am I,” said Hercule Poirot. “Free of care!”
He saw the taxi man’s air of deep suspicion.
“No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for
six months. It is a beautiful thought.”
一，二，扣住鞋 6
6
再伟大的人也有胆怯的时候，俗话说没有人是仆人眼中的英雄，还应该再加上一句
——没有人能在牙医面前保持内心的强大。赫尔克里•波洛对此深有体会。他一向自视甚
高。他是赫尔克里•波洛，是与众不同的佼佼者。可是此时此刻，他觉得自己和芸芸众生没
什么两样。他的自信心跌到了零点。他就是一个普通人，一个害怕看牙医的胆小鬼。
莫利先生这时已经完成了他专业的洗手程序，开始用医生特有的鼓励语气同病人交
谈。
“真不应该这么冷，是吗？都这个时候了。”
他慢慢地把病人带到他该去的位置——牙医椅！他熟练地将椅子上头靠的部分上下调
整着。
赫尔克里•波洛深吸了一口气，走上前，坐了下来，任由莫利先生摆弄着他的头。
“这样躺。”莫利先生说，语气中带着令人不舒服的欢快，“这样可以吧？没问题吧？”
赫尔克里•波洛郁郁地说还挺舒服。
莫利先生把台面转得离自己更近了点儿，拿起小镜子，又拿起一个工具，准备开始操
作。
赫尔克里•波洛紧紧地抓住椅子的扶手，闭上双眼，张开了嘴巴。
“有没有什么特别不舒服的地方啊？”莫利先生问道。赫尔克里•波洛张着嘴巴，轻轻
地、含混不清地示意没有什么地方不舒服。这只是他出于理智而做的每年两次例行检查而
已。很有可能，没什么需要做的。莫利先生也许发现不了他后面第二颗牙，那颗疼痛的
牙，也许他会……可是他大概不会，因为莫利先生是个很出色的牙医。
莫利先生一边慢慢地逐个检查着波洛的牙齿，一边小声地自言自语，还不时地这里敲
敲，那里探探。
“补的部分有点脱落了——不过不是很严重。牙龈还不错，我很高兴看到这一点。”他
在一颗可疑的牙上停了下来，检查了一下。不是的，误警，然后继续。他开始检查下排的
牙齿。一颗、两颗——继续到第三颗？——他没有这么做——“猎狗找到了兔子！”赫尔克
里•波洛悻悻地想。
“这儿有点儿问题。你没感觉到疼吗？嗯，我觉得有点儿奇怪。”他继续检查着，最后
终于收回探头，满意地点点头。
“没什么大事儿。只是需要补两个地方，还有那颗臼齿需要处理一下。我想我们今天上
午就能把这些都做完。”
他打开一个开关，传来一阵嗡嗡声。莫利先生从钩子上取下牙钻，小心翼翼地装上一
根牙针。
他简单地说了句“不舒服就告诉我”，然后开动了那恐怖的钻头。
其实波洛并不需要用举手、咧嘴，或者喊叫来示意，莫利先生总能在恰当的时候停下
钻头，让他“漱下口”，给他填点儿敷料，或者换个钻头，然后再继续。真正折磨波洛的不
是疼痛，而是他对牙钻的恐惧。
不一会儿，莫利先生开始准备填充物，又继续同波洛交谈起来。
“今天我得自己来做这些，”他解释道，“内维尔小姐不在。你记得内维尔小姐吗？”
波洛假装说记得。
“她有个亲戚病了，把她叫到乡下去了。这种事情偏偏发生在最忙的一天。今天上午我
已经忙得焦头烂额。您前面的那个病人来晚了，也是件让人苦恼的事儿，我的整个上午都
被搞乱了。另外，我还要临时加进来一个病人，因为她牙疼得厉害。其实我每天上午总是
安排一刻钟的富裕时间，以应付这种需求。但是今天还是格外紧张。”
莫利先生在一个小研钵里磨着填充物，眼睛盯着那个研钵。
他又接着说:
“我告诉您，波洛先生，我常注意到那些大人物——就是那些重要的人物——他们总是
很守时，从来都不会让人等。比如，王室最注重细节。这些大人物也一样。今天上午我就
要接待一位非常重要的大人物——阿利斯泰尔•布伦特！”
莫利先生说出这个名字时声音里充满了骄傲。
这时的波洛，虽然嘴里塞着几块棉花，舌头下面的玻璃吸管还在咕噜咕噜地吸着，但
他还是发出了些声响来回应。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特！这是当今社会令人振奋的名字。他既不是公爵、伯爵，也不是首
相。他什么都不是，就是普普通通的阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生。一个公众几乎不认识的人
——只是偶尔出现在一些人们不太注意的消息中。他毫不引人注目，是一个默默无闻的普
通英国人，却又是英国最大的金融集团的领袖。他有丰厚的资产，可以对政府发号施令，
同时他又过着平静的、深居简出的生活，从不在大庭广众面前演讲。然而，他的手中握有
至高无上的权力。
莫利先生站在波洛身边，把填充物放进去。他的声音里依然带着那种崇敬的语调。
“他总是严格地准时到这里赴约，经常是到了之后让司机先走，然后自己走回办公室。
真是个安静、没有架子的好人。他爱打高尔夫球，而且喜欢园艺。你怎么都想不到虽然他
的资产足以买下半个欧洲，但却是一个像你我这样的普通人。”
听到莫利先生无缘无故地把自己和他归为一类，波洛感到一阵不快。莫利先生是个很
好的牙医，这点没错儿，但是伦敦还有其他医术精湛的牙医。而赫尔克里•波洛却只有一
个。
“请漱一下口。”莫利先生说。
“您知道，这应该是希特勒和墨索里尼他们操心的事儿，”莫利先生接着说，一边开始
补第二颗牙，“我不想在这里多管闲事。可你看我们的国王和王后是多么民主。当然，像您
这样的法国人，接受的是共和思想……”
“我……不……细（是）……华（法）国人，我……细（是）……比利时人。”
“嘘——嘘——”莫利先生赶紧说，“别说话，牙洞还没干呢。”他把热风管对着牙洞使
劲儿吹。然后，他接着说：“我还不知道您是比利时人，真有趣。听说利奥波德国王人很
好。我个人非常崇尚王室传统，他们都受过很好的训练，您知道，他们都能熟练地记住每
个人的面孔和名字。这都是训练有素的结果——当然，有的人天生就有这种能耐。拿我本
人来说吧，我就记不住别人的名字，但是对于见过的面孔可以过目不忘。比如那天，我碰
到一个病人——很久以前的病人。我完全记不得她叫什么名字了，但我在心里问自己：“我
在哪里见过她？”目前我还没有想起来，不过我会想起来的，我肯定能。请再漱一下口。”
漱完后，莫利先生仔细地盯着病人的嘴里看了一会儿。
“好了，我觉得可以了。轻轻地合上嘴……没有什么不舒服吧？您根本感觉不到那个填
充物，对吧？请再张开嘴。是的，看上去完全没问题。”
波洛从椅子上下来，重获自由。
“好吧，再见啦，波洛先生。我希望您在我这里没有侦察到什么坏人吧?”
波洛笑着说：“我上楼之前，看每个人都像坏人！现在，可能会感觉不一样了吧！”
“啊，是的，之前和之后感觉完全不同！其实，大家都是这样的。我们牙医现在再不像
以前那么可怕了！需要我帮您按电梯吗？”
“不用了，我自己走下去。”
“请随意，电梯就在楼梯边上。”
波洛走出房间。门被关上的那一刹那，他听到水龙头的流水声。
他要走下两段楼梯。拐最后一个弯儿时，他正好看到那位英籍印度上校被送出门。他
长得一点儿都不难看，波洛轻松地想。也许他是一个勇猛善战的军人，一个有用之才——
守卫帝国的前哨。波洛走到候诊室去取他先前放在那里的帽子和手杖。那个坐立不安的年
轻人还在，这让波洛感到有点儿吃惊。另外还有一个病人也是男的，在读一本《原野》
（注：Field，介绍射击、钓鱼、打猎等户外活动的期刊。）。
波洛用他刚刚恢复的好心情仔细地观察那个年轻人。他看起来依然很凶，好像要杀
人，但其实并不是个杀人犯，波洛善意地想。毫无疑问，过不了多久，当他受完折磨从楼
上下来时，就会心情愉快，面带微笑，不会对任何人有任何敌意了。
门童走进来，清晰果断地叫道：“布伦特先生。”
坐在桌子边上的那个男人放下手中的《原野》，站了起来。他中等个头，中等年纪，
不胖也不瘦，而且衣着讲究，举止淡定。他跟着门童走了出去。
一个英国最富有、最有权势的人，也要像其他人一样去看牙医。不用说，他的感觉也
会和其他人一模一样！波洛一边这么想着，一边拿起自己的帽子和手杖，向门口走去。他
转身环视了一下身后，一个念头出现在他脑海里——那个年轻人一定牙疼得厉害。
波洛在门厅的镜子前停下来，整理了一下他的小胡子——刚才被莫利先生弄得稍稍有
点儿乱。他刚刚整理好，电梯就下来了。门童也从门厅的后面走过来，嘴里还吹着不成调
的小曲儿。他看到波洛，立刻不吹了，走过去替波洛开了门。
这时，一辆出租车刚好停在诊所门前，一只脚从车门里伸了出来。波洛饶有兴致地研
究起这只脚来。秀气的脚腕上套着质地很好的袜子，应该说是一只很漂亮的脚。但是，他
觉得鞋子不太好。那是一只崭新的漆皮皮鞋，上面有一个巨大的闪闪发光的鞋扣。波洛摇
了摇头。不够典雅！太土气了！
一位女士从车里下来，她的另一只脚被车门夹了一下，鞋扣当啷一声掉在马路上。波
洛非常绅士地走上前去，捡起鞋扣，向女士鞠了一躬，将鞋扣还给她。
天哪！原来是个四五十岁的老女人，戴着一副眼镜，头发灰黄且凌乱，衣服邋遢——
还是那种压抑的艺术绿！她对他说了声谢谢，眼镜跌落下来，紧接着手提包也掉在地上。
波洛又一次弯腰帮她捡起手提包，虽然还是很礼貌，但已经没有了刚才的殷勤。
她径直朝着夏洛特皇后街五十八号的台阶走去。出租司机对刚刚拿到的吝啬的小费很
不满意，一脸掩饰不住的鄙视。波洛上前问：
“嘿，走吗？”
出租司机无精打采地说：“哦，走。”
“我也走。”赫尔克里•波洛嘀咕道，“无忧无虑了！”他看到出租司机面露狐疑，又
说：“别担心，朋友，我没有喝醉，我只是刚刚看完了牙医，而且六个月内不用再来。想想
我都高兴。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 1
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR
I
It was a quarter to three when the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot was sitting in an easy chair happily digesting an excellent lunch.
He did not move when the bell rang but waited for the faithful George to come and take the call.
“Eh bien?” he said, as George, with a “Just a minute, sir,” lowered the receiver.
“It’s Chief Inspector Japp, sir.”
“Aha?”
Poirot lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Eh bien, mon vieux,” he said. “How goes it?”
“That you, Poirot?”
“Naturally.”
“I hear you went to the dentist this morning? Is that so?”
Poirot murmured:
“Scotland Yard knows everything!”
“Man of the name of Morley. 58, Queen Charlotte Street?”
“Yes.” Poirot’s voice had changed. “Why?”
“It was a genuine visit, was it? I mean you didn’t go to put the wind up him or anything of that
sort?”
“Certainly not. I had three teeth filled if you want to know.”
“What did he seem like to you—manner much as usual?”
“I should say so, yes. Why?”
Japp’s voice was rigidly unemotional.
“Because not very much later he shot himself.”
“What?”
Japp said sharply:
“That surprises you?”
“Frankly, it does.”
Japp said:
“I’m not too happy about it myself … I’d like to have a talk with you. I suppose you wouldn’t
like to come round?”
“Where are you?”
“Queen Charlotte Street.”
Poirot said:
“I will join you immediately.”
三，四，关紧门 1
三，四，关紧门
1
两点三刻，电话响了。
赫尔克里•波洛享用完精美的午餐后，正美美地坐在一张椅子上消食。听到铃声，他并
没有起身，而是等着忠实的乔治去接听来电。
“喂？”乔治接听了电话，“请等一下，先生。”他放下了电话。
“是贾普探长，先生。”
“啊哈？”波洛拿起电话放在耳边。
“你好啊，朋友。”
“你好吗，波洛？”
“还不错。”
“听说你上午去看牙医了，有这事儿吗？”
波洛自言自语道：“苏格兰场无所不知啊！”
“医生名叫莫利，在夏洛特皇后街五十八号，对吗？”
“是的，”波洛的声音都变了，“怎么了？”
“你确实是去看病的，对吗？不是去让他提防点儿什么之类的吧？”“当然不是。我可以
告诉你，我补了三颗牙。”
“你觉得他当时看上去怎么样——没什么异样吧？”
“我觉得是这样。怎么了？”
贾普若无其事地说：“你走后不久他开枪自杀了。”
“什么？”
贾普紧接着问：“你觉得奇怪吗？”
“坦率地说，是的。”
贾普说：“我自己也觉得不可思议……我想和你聊聊。你能过来一趟吗？”
“你在哪里？”
“夏洛特皇后街。”
波洛说：“我马上过来。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 2
II
It was a police constable who opened the door of 58. He said respectfully:
“M. Poirot?”
“It’s I, myself.”
“The Chief Inspector is upstairs. Second floor—you know it?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I was there this morning.”
There were three men in the room. Japp looked up as Poirot entered.
He said:
“Glad to see you, Poirot. We’re just going to move him. Like to see him first?”
A man with a camera who had been kneeling near the body got up.
Poirot came forward. The body was lying near the fireplace.
In death Mr. Morley looked very much as he had looked in life. There was a little blackened
hole just below his right temple. A small pistol lay on the floor near his outflung right hand.
Poirot shook his head gently.
Japp said:
“All right, you can move him now.”
They took Mr. Morley away. Japp and Poirot were left alone.
Japp said:
“We’re through all the routine. Fingerprints, etc.”
Poirot sat down. He said:
“Tell me.”
Japp pursed his lips. He said:
“He could have shot himself. He probably did shoot himself. There are only his fingerprints on
the gun—but I’m not quite satisfied.”
“What are your objections?”
“Well, to begin with, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should shoot himself … He
was in good health, he was making money, he hadn’t any worries that anyone knew of. He wasn’t
mixed up with a woman—at least,” Japp corrected himself cautiously, “as far as we know he
wasn’t. He hasn’t been moody or depressed or unlike himself. That’s partly why I was anxious to
hear what you said. You saw him this morning, and I wondered if you’d noticed anything.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Nothing at all. He was—what shall I say—normality itself.”
“Then that makes it odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t think a man would shoot himself in
the middle of business hours, so to speak. Why not wait till this evening? That would be the
natural thing to do.”
Poirot agreed.
“When did the tragedy occur?”
“Can’t say exactly. Nobody seems to have heard the shot. But I don’t think they would. There
are two doors between here and the passage and they have baize fitted round the edges—to deaden
the noise from the victims of the dental chair, I imagine.”
“Very probably. Patients under gas sometimes make a lot of noise.”
“Quite. And outside, in the street, there’s plenty of traffic, so you wouldn’t be likely to hear it
out there.”
“When was it discovered?”
“Round about one thirty—by the page boy, Alfred Biggs. Not a very bright specimen, by all
accounts. It seems that Morley’s twelve thirty patient kicked up a bit of a row at being kept
waiting. About one ten the boy came up and knocked. There was no answer and apparently he
didn’t dare come in. He’d got in a few rows already from Morley and he was nervous of doing the
wrong thing. He went down again and the patient walked out in a huff at one fifteen. I don’t blame
her. She’d been kept waiting three-quarters of an hour and she wanted her lunch.”
“Who was she?”
Japp grinned.
“According to the boy she was Miss Shirty—but from the appointment book her name was
Kirby.”
“What system was there for showing up patients?”
“When Morley was ready for his next patient he pressed that buzzer over there and the boy then
showed the patient up.”
“And Morley pressed the buzzer last?”
“At five minutes past twelve, and the boy showed up the patient who was waiting. Mr.
Amberiotis, Savoy Hotel, according to the appointment book.”
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He murmured:
“I wonder what our page boy made of that name!”
“A pretty hash, I should say. We’ll ask him presently if we feel like a laugh.”
Poirot said:
“And at what time did this Mr. Amberiotis leave?”
“The boy didn’t show him out, so he doesn’t know … A good many patients just go down the
stairs without ringing for the lift and let themselves out.”
Poirot nodded.
Japp went on:
“But I rang up the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Amberiotis was quite precise. He said he looked at his
watch as he closed the front door and it was then twenty-five minutes past twelve.”
“He could tell you nothing of importance?”
“No, all he could say was that the dentist had seemed perfectly normal and calm in his manner.”
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “Then that seems quite clear. Between five and twenty past twelve and
half past one something happened—and presumably nearer the former time.”
“Quite. Because otherwise—”
“Otherwise he would have pressed the buzzer for the next patient.”
“Exactly. The medical evidence agrees with that for what it’s worth. The divisional surgeon
examined the body—at twenty past two. He wouldn’t commit himself—they never do nowadays
—too many individual idiosyncrasies, they say. But Morley couldn’t have been shot later than one
o’clock, he says—probably considerably earlier—but he wouldn’t be definite.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Then at twenty-five minutes past twelve our dentist is a normal dentist, cheerful, urbane,
competent. And after that? Despair—misery—what you will—and he shoots himself?”
“It’s funny,” said Japp. “You’ve got to admit, it’s funny.”
“Funny,” said Poirot, “is not the word.”
“I know it isn’t really—but it’s the sort of thing one says. It’s odd, then, if you like that better.”
“Was it his own pistol?”
“No, it wasn’t. He hadn’t got a pistol. Never had had one. According to his sister there wasn’t
such a thing in the house. There isn’t in most houses. Of course he might have bought it if he’d
made up his mind to do away with himself. If so, we’ll soon know about it.”
Poirot asked:
“Is there anything else that worries you?”
Japp rubbed his nose.
“Well, there was the way he was lying. I wouldn’t say a man couldn’t fall like that—but it
wasn’t quite right somehow! And there was just a trace or two on the carpet — as though
something had been dragged along it.”
“That, then, is decidedly suggestive.”
“Yes, unless it was that dratted boy. I’ve a feeling that he may have tried to move Morley when
he found him. He denies it, of course, but then he was scared. He’s that kind of young ass. The
kind that’s always putting their foot in it and getting cursed, and so they come to lie about things
almost automatically.”
Poirot looked thoughtfully round the room.
At the washbasin on the wall behind the door, at the tall filing cabinet on the other side of the
door. At the dental chair and surrounding apparatus near the window, then along to the fireplace
and back to where the body lay; there was a second door in the wall near the fireplace.
Japp had followed his glance. “Just a small office through there.” He flung open the door.
It was as he had said, a small room, with a desk, a table with a spirit lamp and tea apparatus and
some chairs. There was no other door.
“This is where his secretary worked,” explained Japp. “Miss Nevill. It seems she’s away today.”
His eyes met Poirot’s. The latter said:
“He told me, I remember. That again—might be a point against suicide?”
“You mean she was got out of the way?”
Japp paused. He said:
“If it wasn’t suicide, he was murdered. But why? That solution seems almost as unlikely as the
other. He seems to have been a quiet, inoffensive sort of chap. Who would want to murder him?”
Poirot said:
“Who could have murdered him?”
Japp said:
“The answer to that is—almost anybody! His sister could have come down from their flat above
and shot him, one of the servants could have come in and shot him. His partner, Reilly, could have
shot him. The boy Alfred could have shot him. One of the patients could have shot him.” He
paused and said, “And Amberiotis could have shot him—easiest of the lot.”
Poirot nodded.
“But in that case—we have to find out why.”
“Exactly. You’ve come round again to the original problem. Why? Amberiotis is staying at the
Savoy. Why does a rich Greek want to come and shoot an inoffensive dentist?”
“That’s really going to be our stumbling block. Motive!”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“It would seem that death selected, most inartistically, the wrong man. The Mysterious Greek,
the Rich Banker, the Famous Detective — how natural that one of them should be shot! For
mysterious foreigners may be mixed up in espionage and rich bankers have connections who will
benefit by their deaths and famous detectives may be dangerous to criminals.”
“Whereas poor old Morley wasn’t dangerous to anybody,” observed Japp gloomily.
“I wonder.”
Japp whirled round on him.
“What’s up your sleeve now?”
“Nothing. A chance remark.”
He repeated to Japp those few casual words of Mr. Morley’s about recognizing faces, and his
mention of a patient.
Japp looked doubtful.
“It’s possible, I suppose. But it’s a bit far-fetched. It might have been someone who wanted
their identity kept dark. You didn’t notice any of the other patients this morning?”
Poirot murmured:
“I noticed in the waiting room a young man who looked exactly like a murderer!”
Japp said, startled: “What’s that?”
Poirot smiled:
“Mon cher, it was upon my arrival here! I was nervous, fanciful—enfin, in a mood. Everything
seemed sinister to me, the waiting room, the patients, the very carpet on the stairs! Actually, I
think the young man had very bad toothache. That was all!”
“I know what it can be,” said Japp. “However, we’ll check up on your murderer all the same.
We’ll check up on everybody, whether it’s suicide or not. I think the first thing is to have another
talk with Miss Morley. I’ve only had a word or two. It was a shock to her, of course, but she’s the
kind that doesn’t break down. We’ll go and see her now.”
三，四，关紧门 2
2
一名警员打开了五十八号的大门。他恭敬地问：
“波洛先生吗？”
“正是本人。”
“探长在楼上呢。二楼——您知道怎么走吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“我上午来过。”
波洛进去时，房间里有三个人。贾普抬起头对他说：
“很高兴见到你，波洛。我们正要把他移走。想先看下尸体吗？”
一个手持相机的人在离尸体很近的地方跪着。他站起身来。
波洛走上前去。尸体就躺在壁炉边。
莫利先生看上去和他生前没什么两样。他右边的太阳穴下面有一个小黑洞，右手是伸
直的，边上有一把小手枪躺在地板上。
波洛缓缓地摇了摇头。
贾普说：“好吧，你们现在可以把他移出去了。”
莫利先生被抬走了，房间里只剩下贾普和波洛。
贾普说：“我们看了他的门诊预约登记簿，检查了指纹等。”
波洛坐了下来，问：“怎么样？”
贾普噘了噘嘴，说：
“他有可能是开枪自杀的，说不定他真的是自杀。枪上只有他一个人的指纹——但我又
觉得哪里有问题。”
“你为什么觉得有问题？”
“你看，首先，他看上去没有任何理由要自杀……他很健康，也能赚钱，没有明显的麻
烦。也没有外遇——至少，”贾普谨慎地改口说，“据我们了解他没有。他最近也没有过情
绪波动，或者抑郁，或者自暴自弃什么的。所以，我特别想听听你是怎么想的。你上午刚
刚见过他，不知道是否觉察到点儿什么。”
波洛摇摇头。
“一点儿都没有。他看上去……怎么说呢……很正常。”
“那就奇怪了，是吧？你怎么也想不到一个人会在他上班时间开枪自杀。为什么不能等
到今天晚上呢？那样才比较正常嘛。”
波洛表示同意。
“悲剧是什么时候发生的？”
“说不准，好像没有人听到枪声。不过我想他们也不可能听到。从这里到走廊有两道
门，而且，他们还把门边都包上了——避免病人的呻吟声传出去，我猜。”
“很有可能。有时病人会叫得很厉害。”
“没错儿。外面的大街上有不少来往车辆，应该是听不到这里的枪声。”
“尸体是什么时候发现的？”
“一点半左右，门童艾尔弗雷德•比格斯发现的。他是那种怎么看都不算是很聪明的
人。好像预约在十二点三十分的那个病人因为等急了，大吵大闹。一点十分时，那小子上
来敲了门，但是没有回音。他因为之前已经被莫利先生骂过几次，害怕再闯祸，不敢进
去，所以他又下去了。一点十五分，那个病人气鼓鼓地走了。我可以理解，她已经等了三
刻钟，也该去吃午饭了。”
“是哪个病人？”
贾普咧嘴笑了。
“那小伙子说她是希尔蒂小姐——可那预约登记簿上写的是科尔比小姐。”
“这里是怎么安排病人上楼就诊的呢？”
“当莫利准备好接待下一个病人时，按上面的蜂鸣器，门童就会把病人领上去。”
“那么莫利最后一次按响蜂鸣器是什么时候？”
“十二点零五分，然后那小伙子就把正在候诊的另一个病人送上楼——萨伏依酒店的安
伯里奥兹先生，预约登记簿上是这么写的。”
波洛嘴角上露出一丝微笑，他自言自语道：
“真不知道我们的小门童怎么造出这个名字来的！”
“是够乱的。如果我们想找乐子，一会儿可以问问他。”
波洛问：“安伯里奥兹先生是什么时候离开的？”
“门童没有送他出去，所以他不清楚……有不少病人都不用电梯，自己从楼梯上走下
来，然后离开。”
波洛点了点头。
贾普接着说：
“不过我给萨伏依酒店打了个电话，安伯里奥兹先生记得非常清楚，说他关门离开诊所
时看了下手表，当时是十二点二十五分。”
“他没有提供什么重要线索吗？”
“没有，他只记得牙医看上去十分正常、冷静。”
“好吧，”波洛说，“那么现在看起来已经很清楚了。十二点二十五分到一点半之间发生
了点儿事情，而且，估计应该是更靠近前一个时间。”
“对，因为要不然——”
“要不然他就会按响蜂鸣器，让下一个病人上去。”
“没错。医学证据也证明了这一点。法医已经验了尸——两点二十分的时候。他不肯做
太多太主观的判断——现在他们都不愿意这么做。但是他说莫利应该是在一点钟以前被枪
击的，也许更早，但是不敢肯定。”
波洛若有所思地说：
“那么，十二点二十五分时，我们的牙医还好好的，精神饱满，还在有条不紊地给病人
看病。之后呢，绝望、抑郁——随你怎么想吧——然后开枪打死了自己？”
“有意思，”贾普说，“你不觉得吗？真是有意思。”
“有意思？”波洛说，“不应该这么说。”
“我知道不应该，但人们一般都会这么说。或者说是奇怪，这么说你觉得好点儿吧。”
“手枪是他自己的吗？”
“不是，他没有手枪，从来都没有。他姐姐说家里从来都没有那玩意儿。大部分人家里
都不会有。当然，他也可以去买把手枪，如果想好要了结自己的性命的话。果真如此，我
们很快就会得到消息。”
波洛接着问：“你觉得还有什么问题吗？”
贾普蹭了下鼻子，说：
“嗯，他躺倒的姿势有点问题。我不是说不可能这样倒下——但是，还是有哪里不太对
头。而且，地毯上也有一两处痕迹，像是什么东西从上面被拖过去一样。”
“这点肯定有原因。”
“是的，除非是那个讨厌的门童干的。我有种感觉，他发现莫利先生时，可能动过他。
当然了，他自己否认这一点。不过呢，他当时可能被吓坏了。他就是那种总会惹事上身的
笨瓜，被人训斥了又会本能地撒谎。”
波洛环视整个房间。他站在门后靠墙的洗手池边，看到另一边是高大的文件柜。他又
从牙医椅的位置，看了看它周围临窗的那些仪器。接着，他的目光移到了旁边的壁炉上，
最后落回到躺在地上的尸体。他发现壁炉边上的那面墙上还有一扇门。
贾普一直追随着他的视线。“那扇门通往另一间办公室。”他说着就打开了那扇门。
正如他所说，这是一间不大的房间。里面有张写字台，一张桌子上放着一盏酒精灯和
一些茶具，还有几把椅子。房间里没有其他的门。
“这是他的秘书内维尔小姐的办公室。”贾普解释道，“她今天好像不在。”
他的目光和波洛对视了一下。波洛说：
“他告诉我了，我还记得。这点可以成为证明他不是自杀的线索吗？”
“你是说她是被故意支走的？”贾普停了一下，又接着说，“如果不是自杀，那他就是被
谋杀的。但是，为什么呢？这个结论和先前那个一样不靠谱。这位老兄似乎很低调，从不
惹是生非。谁会想谋杀他呢？”
波洛说：“谁会有机会杀了他？”
贾普说：
“这个问题的答案是——几乎所有人！他姐姐可能从楼上的住处下来，开枪打死他。某
个用人可以进来打死他。他的合伙人赖利，有机会打死他。那小伙子，艾尔弗雷德可以打
死他。病人中的某个人可以打死他。”他稍作停顿，又说，“安伯里奥兹有机会开枪打死他
——这些人里他最有机会。”
波洛点点头。
“但是，如果真是这样的话，我们必须要找到原因。”
“对啊，我们又回到了原点。为什么？安伯里奥兹目前还住在萨伏依酒店。为什么一个
富有的希腊人要来杀害一个与世无争的牙医呢？”
“这就是我们目前最大的难题。动机！”
波洛耸了耸肩，说：
“看来死神选错了人。一个是神秘的希腊人，一个是有钱的银行家，一个是著名的侦探
——如果是他们当中有一个被枪杀了，那是非常自然的事。神秘的外国人可能跟间谍有
关，有钱的银行家可能会被人觊觎他的财富，著名的侦探对于罪犯来说可能构成威胁。”
“而可怜的老莫利不会对任何人有威胁。”贾普忧伤地说。
他转向波洛问：“你有什么想法？”
“没什么，只是他曾经很随意地说过一句话。”
波洛向贾普讲了莫利先生对他说过他对见过的人过目不忘的那件事。他还提到了一个
病人，以及他见到这个病人后的感觉。
贾普看上去有些不敢确定的样子。
“我觉得有可能，但是又有点儿不着边际，也许是有人不愿暴露自己的身份。你今天上
午没有注意到其他的病人吧？”
波洛一边回忆一边说：
“我在候诊室里见到了一个年轻人，看上去就像个杀人犯！”
贾普吃惊地问：“什么情况？”
波洛微笑了一下，说：
“亲爱的朋友，是我上午刚到这里时见到的！我当时很紧张，有点儿胡思乱想，总之，
是情绪不稳定。所有的东西看上去都充满凶险。候诊室、病人，还有楼梯上铺的地毯！实
际上，我想那个年轻人当时只是牙疼得厉害而已。”
“我明白你的意思。”贾普说，“不过，我们还是要问问你说的那个凶手。我们要跟每一
个人都谈谈，不管他是不是自杀。我想我们首先应该找莫利小姐聊一聊。我先前只是问了
她一两句话。这对她来说当然是个打击，不过，她是那种不会崩溃的女人。我们现在就去
找她吧。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 3
III
Tall and grim, Georgina Morley listened to what the two men had said and answered their
questions. She said with emphasis:
“It’s incredible to me—quite incredible—that my brother should have committed suicide!”
Poirot said:
“You realize the alternative, Mademoiselle?”
“You mean—murder.” She paused. Then she said slowly: “It is true—that alternative seems
nearly as impossible as the other.”
“But not quite as impossible?”
“No—because—oh, in the first case, you see, I am speaking of something I know—that is: my
brother’s state of mind. I know he had nothing on his mind—I know that there was no reason—no
reason at all why he should take his own life!”
“You saw him this morning—before he started work?”
“At breakfast—yes.”
“And he was quite as usual—not upset in any way?”
“He was upset—but not in the way you mean. He was just annoyed!”
“Why was that?”
“He had a busy morning in front of him, and his secretary and assistant had been called away.”
“That is Miss Nevill?”
“Yes.”
“What used she to do for him?”
“She did all his correspondence, of course, and kept the appointment book, and filed all the
charts. She also saw to the sterilizing of the instruments and ground up his fillings and handed
them to him when he was working.”
“Had she been with him long?”
“Three years. She is a very reliable girl and we are—were both very fond of her.”
Poirot said:
“She was called away owing to the illness of a relative, so your brother told me.”
“Yes, she got a telegram to say her aunt had had a stroke. She went off to Somerset by an early
train.”
“And that was what annoyed your brother so much?”
“Ye-es.” There was a faint hesitation in Miss Morley’s answer. She went on rather hurriedly.
“You—you mustn’t think my brother unfeeling. It was only that he thought—just for a moment
—”
“Yes, Miss Morley?”
“Well, that she might have played truant on purpose. Oh! Please don’t misunderstand me—I’m
quite certain that Gladys would never do such a thing. I told Henry so. But the fact of the matter is,
that she has got herself engaged to rather an unsuitable young man—Henry was very vexed about
it—and it occurred to him that this young man might have persuaded her to take a day off.”
“Was that likely?”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. Gladys is a very conscientious girl.”
“But it is the sort of thing the young man might have suggested?”
Miss Morley sniffed.
“Quite likely, I should say.”
“What does he do, this young fellow—what is his name, by the way?”
“Carter, Frank Carter. He is—or was—an insurance clerk, I believe. He lost his job some weeks
ago and doesn’t seem able to get another. Henry said—and I daresay he was right—that he is a
complete rotter. Gladys had actually lent him some of her savings and Henry was very annoyed
about it.”
Japp said sharply:
“Did your brother try to persuade her to break her engagement?”
“Yes, he did, I know.”
“Then this Frank Carter would, quite possibly, have a grudge against your brother.”
The Grenadier said robustly:
“Nonsense—that is if you are suggesting that Frank Carter shot Henry. Henry advised the girl
against young Carter, certainly; but she didn’t take his advice—she is foolishly devoted to Frank.”
“Is there anyone else you can think of who had a grudge against your brother?”
Miss Morley shook her head.
“Did he get on well with his partner, Mr. Reilly?”
Miss Morley replied acidly:
“As well as you can ever hope to get on with an Irishman!”
“What do you mean by that, Miss Morley?”
“Well, Irishmen have hot tempers and they thoroughly enjoy a row of any kind. Mr. Reilly liked
arguing about politics.”
“That was all?”
“That was all. Mr. Reilly is unsatisfactory in many ways, but he was very skilled in his
profession—or so my brother said.”
Japp persisted:
“How is he unsatisfactory?”
Miss Morley hesitated, then said acidly:
“He drinks too much—but please don’t let that go any further.”
“Was there any trouble between him and your brother on that subject?”
“Henry gave him one or two hints. In dentistry,” continued Miss Morley didactically, “a steady
hand is needed, and an alcoholic breath does not inspire confidence.”
Japp bowed his head in agreement. Then he said:
“Can you tell us anything of your brother’s financial position?”
“Henry was making a good income and he had a certain amount put by. We each had a small
private income of our own left to us by our father.”
Japp murmured with a slight cough:
“You don’t know, I suppose, if your brother left a will?”
“He did—and I can tell you its contents. He left a hundred pounds to Gladys Nevill, otherwise
everything comes to me.”
“I see. Now—”
There was a fierce thump on the door. Alfred’s face then appeared round it. His goggling eyes
took in each detail of the two visitors as he ejaculated:
“It’s Miss Nevill. She’s back—and in a rare taking. Shall she come in, she wants to know?”
Japp nodded and Miss Morley said:
“Tell her to come here, Alfred.”
“O.K.,” said Alfred, and disappeared. Miss Morley said with a sigh and in obvious capital
letters:
“That Boy is a Sad Trial.”
三，四，关紧门 3
3
乔治娜•莫利个子高大，表情严肃。她听了两位先生的陈述，并回答了他们的问题。她
强调说：
“对我来说，这简直是不可思议，太不可思议了，我弟弟会自杀！”
波洛说：“您觉得有另外的可能吗，女士？”
“您是说——谋杀？”她停了一下，然后慢慢地说，“确实，另一种看上去也几乎一样的
不可思议。”
“但是并非完全没有可能？”
“不是没有可能，因为……哦，首先，你要明白，我想说的是我非常了解我弟弟的思想
状态。我知道他没有什么过不去的坎儿，我知道他没有理由，完全没有理由终止自己的生
命！”
“您今天上午见到他了吗，他上班前？”
“早饭时见到了。”
“他当时和平常一样，没有什么不开心？”
“他有点儿不高兴，但不是你说的那种。他只是有点儿烦躁!”
“为什么？”
“他上午安排得特别满，而且他的秘书兼助理又被叫走了。”
“你说的是内维尔小姐？”
“对。”
“她通常都帮他做什么？”
“首先，她帮他做所有的联络，并且负责预约登记。她还要做所有的文档，帮他给那些
仪器消毒。他在给病人补牙时，她帮他磨好填充物，然后递给他。”
“她跟着他很久了吗？”
“三年了。她是个非常可靠的女孩子，我们两人都非常喜欢她。”
波洛说：“她有个亲戚病了，把她叫去了乡下，你弟弟是这么告诉我的。”
“是的，她收到了一封电报，说她姑姑中风了，于是搭了早班火车去了萨默塞特郡。”
“这就是你弟弟烦躁的原因？”
“是……的。”莫利小姐的回答中有一丝犹豫，她马上又接着说，“您……您千万不要觉
得我弟弟不近人情，他只是想……只是一念之间……”
“什么，莫利小姐？”
“就是，她也许是故意想逃班。哎！请别误解我的意思，我特别肯定格拉迪丝绝对不会
做出这种事情，我也是这么跟亨利说的。但实际情况是，她和一个和她很不相配的小伙子
订婚了——亨利对此耿耿于怀，所以他认为或许是这个小伙子怂恿她请的假。”
“有可能吗？”
“没有，我觉得一定不是。格拉迪丝是个非常认真负责的姑娘。”
“但是那个小伙子有可能会要她做这种事？”
莫利小姐吸了一下鼻子：“我觉得很有可能。”
“那个年轻人，他是做什么的？他叫什么来着，顺便问一下？”
“卡特，弗兰克•卡特。我记得他，或者说曾经，在保险公司工作。几周前他失业了，
而且好像也找不到新的工作。亨利说他是个非常讨厌的家伙。我也觉得他说得没错。格拉
迪丝还把自己的积蓄借给他用，亨利对此特别不能容忍。”
贾普突然插话问道：
“你弟弟有没有试着说服她解除这个婚约呢？”
“有，我知道他说过。”
“那么这个弗兰克•卡特可能，完全有可能，对你弟弟怀恨在心。”
女掷弹兵斩钉截铁地说：“不会的，如果你是想说弗兰克•卡特杀了亨利的话。亨利是
跟那姑娘说过不要跟卡特好，但是她并没有听他的建议啊，她还是那么傻乎乎地死心塌地
跟他在一起呢。”
“你还能想到其他有什么人对你弟弟心怀积怨吗？”
莫利小姐摇摇头。
“他和他的搭档赖利先生合得来吗？”
莫利小姐酸酸地说：
“你能期待和一个爱尔兰人有多合得来！”
“你想说什么，莫利小姐？”
“爱尔兰人都是火爆脾气，不管什么事，他们总喜欢和人争吵。赖利先生喜欢跟别人争
论政治问题。”
“只是政治问题吗？”
“只是政治问题。赖利先生在许多方面都不是特别令人满意，但是他医术很好——至少
我弟弟是这么说的。”
贾普追问道：“他怎么不令人满意了？”
莫利小姐犹豫了一下，幽幽地说：“他酗酒——不过请别再问了。”
“关于这一点你弟弟和他有没有矛盾？”
“亨利旁敲侧击地给了他一些建议。”莫利小姐用说教的口气说，“做牙医手不能抖，嘴
里的酒气会让病人失去对你的信赖。”
贾普点头表示同意。他接着问：
“你能跟我们说说你弟弟的经济状况吗？”
“亨利收入可观，他存了一些钱。我父亲给我们每个人也留下了一点儿。”
贾普轻咳了一下，小声问：
“我想，您并不知道你弟弟有没有留下遗嘱吧？”
“他有，我还可以告诉您里面的内容。他留下一百英镑给格拉迪丝•内维尔，其他的都
归我。”
“明白了，那么……”
门被重重地撞开了，艾尔弗雷德的脸从门缝里伸了进来。他急切地说：
“内维尔小姐，她回来了——情绪反常。她能进来吗？她让我问一下。”
他边说，边不停地转动双眼，仔细打量着屋里的两个到访者，试图抓住每个细节。
贾普点点头。
莫利小姐说：“让她进来吧，艾尔弗雷德。”
艾尔弗雷德说了声“好的”，就消失了。
莫利小姐叹了口气，语重心长地说：“这孩子挺可怜的。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 4
IV
Gladys Nevill was a tall, fair, somewhat anemic girl of about twenty-eight. Though obviously very
upset, she at once showed that she was capable and intelligent.
Under the pretext of looking through Mr. Morley’s papers, Japp got her away from Miss Morley
down to the little office next door to the surgery.
She repeated more than once:
“I simply cannot believe it! It seems quite incredible that Mr. Morley should do such a thing!”
She was emphatic that he had not seemed troubled or worried in any way.
Then Japp began:
“You were called away today, Miss Nevill—”
She interrupted him.
“Yes, and the whole thing was a wicked practical joke! I do think it’s awful of people to do
things like that. I really do.”
“What do you mean, Miss Nevill?”
“Why, there wasn’t anything the matter with Aunt at all. She’d never been better. She couldn’t
understand it when I suddenly turned up. Of course I was ever so glad—but it did make me mad.
Sending a telegram like that and upsetting me and everything.”
“Have you got that telegram, Miss Nevill?”
“I threw it away, I think, at the station. It just said, Your aunt had a stroke last night. Please
come at once.”
“You are quite sure—well—” Japp coughed delicately—“that it wasn’t your friend, Mr. Carter,
who sent that telegram?”
“Frank? Whatever for? Oh! I see, you mean—a put-up job between us? No, indeed, Inspector—
neither of us would do such a thing.”
Her indignation seemed genuine enough and Japp had a little trouble in soothing her down. But
a question as to the patients on this particular morning restored her to her competent self.
“They are all here in the book. I daresay you have seen it already. I know about most of them.
Ten o’clock, Mrs. Soames—that was about her new plate. Ten thirty, Lady Grant—she’s an
elderly lady—lives in Lowndes Square. Eleven o’clock, M. Hercule Poirot, he comes regularly—
oh, of course this is him—sorry, M. Poirot, but I really am so upset! Eleven thirty, Mr. Alistair
Blunt—that’s the banker, you know—a short appointment, because Mr. Morley had prepared the
filling last time. Then Miss Sainsbury Seale—she rang up specially—had toothache and so Mr.
Morley fitted her in. A terrible talker, she is, never stops—the fussy kind, too. Then twelve
o’clock, Mr. Amberiotis—he was a new patient—made an appointment from the Savoy Hotel. Mr.
Morley gets quite a lot of foreigners and Americans. Then twelve thirty, Miss Kirby. She comes
up from Worthing.”
Poirot asked:
“There was here when I arrived a tall military gentleman. Who would he be?”
“One of Mr. Reilly’s patients, I expect. I’ll just get his list for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, Miss Nevill.”
She was absent only a few minutes. She returned with a similar book to that of Mr. Morley.
She read out:
“Ten o’clock, Betty Heath (that’s a little girl of nine). Eleven o’clock, Colonel Abercrombie.”
“Abercrombie!” murmured Poirot. “C’etait ça!”
“Eleven thirty, Mr. Howard Raikes. Twelve o’clock, Mr. Barnes. That was all the patients this
morning. Mr. Reilly isn’t so booked up as Mr. Morley, of course.”
“Can you tell us anything about any of these patients of Mr. Reilly’s?”
“Colonel Abercrombie has been a patient for a long time, and all Mrs. Heath’s children come to
Mr. Reilly. I can’t tell you anything about Mr. Raikes or Mr. Barnes, though I fancy I have heard
their names. I take all the telephone calls, you see—”
Japp said:
“We can ask Mr. Reilly ourselves. I should like to see him as soon as possible.”
Miss Nevill went out. Japp said to Poirot:
“All old patients of Mr. Morley’s except Amberiotis. I’m going to have an interesting talk with
Mr. Amberiotis presently. He’s the last person, as it stands, to see Morley alive, and we’ve got to
make quite sure that when he last saw him, Morley was alive.”
Poirot said slowly, shaking his head:
“You have still to prove motive.”
“I know. That’s what is going to be the teaser. But we may have something about Amberiotis at
the Yard.” He added sharply: “You’re very thoughtful, Poirot!”
“I was wondering about something.”
“What was it?”
Poirot said with a faint smile:
“Why Chief Inspector Japp?”
“Eh?”
“I said, ‘Why Chief Inspector Japp?’ An officer of your eminence—is he usually called in to a
case of suicide?”
“As a matter of fact, I happened to be nearby at the time. At Lavenham’s—in Wigmore Street.
Rather an ingenious system of frauds they’ve had there. They telephoned me there to come on
here.”
“But why did they telephone you?”
“Oh, that—that’s simple enough. Alistair Blunt. As soon as the Divisional Inspector heard he’d
been here this morning, he got on to the Yard. Mr. Blunt is the kind of person we take care of in
this country.”
“You mean that there are people who would like him—out of the way?”
“You bet there are. The Reds, to begin with—and our Black-shirted friends, too. It’s Blunt and
his group who are standing solid behind the present Government. Good sound Conservative
finance. That’s why, if there were the least chance that there was any funny stuff intended against
him this morning, they wanted a thorough investigation.”
Poirot nodded.
“That is what I more or less guessed. And that is the feeling I have”—he waved his hands
expressively—“that there was, perhaps—a hitch of some kind. The proper victim was—should
have been—Alistair Blunt. Or is this only a beginning—the beginning of a campaign of some
kind? I smell—I smell—” he sniffed the air, “—big money in this business!”
Japp said:
“You’re assuming a lot, you know.”
“I am suggesting that ce pauvre Morley was only a pawn in the game. Perhaps he knew
something—perhaps he told Blunt something—or they feared he would tell Blunt something—”
He stopped as Gladys Nevill entered the room.
“Mr. Reilly is busy on an extraction case,” she said. “He will be free in about ten minutes if that
will be all right?”
Japp said that it would. In the meantime, he said, he would have another talk to the boy Alfred.
三，四，关紧门 4
4
格拉迪丝•内维尔个子高高的，皮肤白皙，看起来十分柔弱，年龄在二十八岁左右。虽
然她有些心烦意乱，但是一眼就能看出她是个聪明能干的姑娘。贾普借故要看莫利先生的
文件，把她从莫利小姐身边带走，进了诊室旁边的那个小办公室。
她一直不停地重复说：
“我简直不能相信！莫利先生会这么做，这太不可思议了！”
她特别肯定他之前没有任何的不安和焦虑的迹象。
贾普开始发问：“你今天被人叫走了，内维尔小姐——”
她打断说：
“是的，整个事情简直就是个恶作剧！我觉得做这件事儿的人实在是太可恶了，我真这
么想。”
“你是什么意思，内维尔小姐？”
“哎，我姑姑根本就没事儿，她好得很。她都不知道我为什么会突然出现。对此我当然
很高兴，但是这事儿让我特别生气，就这样给我发封电报，让我急得跟什么似的。”
“你还留着那封电报对吗，内维尔小姐？”
“我把它给扔了，我想是在车站。上面只是说，你姑姑昨晚中风了，请速来。”
“你觉得这封电报会不会是……嗯……”贾普故意咳了一下，“你的朋友卡特先生发
的？”
“弗兰克？他为什么这么做？哦！我明白了，您是说我们俩串通好的？不是，确实不
是，探长先生，我们谁都不会干出这种事情来。”
她真的有点儿被激怒了，贾普又没办法使她马上平静下来。但是一旦他开始问起当天
上午病人的情况时，她就恢复了正常。
“都记在这个本子里，我猜您已经看过了。这些病人我基本都认识。十点钟，是索姆斯
太太，她是来装新牙的；十点三十分，是格兰特女士，她年龄比较大，住在朗兹广场；十
一点，是赫尔克里•波洛先生，他定期来做检查。噢，当然，就是这位先生，对不起，波洛
先生，我实在是太难过了！十一点三十分，是阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生，他是一位银行家，
您知道，他待的时间很短，因为莫利先生上次就把要补的地方确定好了。然后是塞恩斯伯
里•西尔小姐，她是临时打电话来的，牙疼，所以莫利先生把她加了进来。她太能说了，一
刻不停地唠叨个没完，有点儿装腔作势的那种。然后是十二点，安伯里奥兹先生，他是个
新病人，从萨伏依酒店打电话过来预约的。莫利先生有不少病人是外国人和美国人。然后
是十二点三十分，科尔比小姐。她从沃辛来。”
波洛问：“我到的时候，这儿有一个身材高大的军人，他是谁？”
“我想应该是赖利先生的一个病人。我去拿一下他的病人名单，好吗？”
“谢谢你，内维尔小姐。”
她出去了几分钟就回来了，手里拿着一个本子，同莫利先生的很像。
她读道：“十点钟，贝蒂•休斯，是个九岁的小女孩；十一点，阿伯克隆比上校。”
“阿伯克隆比！”波洛小声重复了一句，“就是他！”
“十一点三十分，霍华德•赖克斯先生；十二点，巴恩斯先生。上午就这么些病人。当
然，赖利先生不像莫利先生排得那么满。”
“你能告诉我们一些关于赖利先生病人的情况吗？”
“阿伯克隆比上校，在这里看牙已经很久了。希思夫人的孩子们也都是找赖利先生看
牙。我不太认识赖克斯先生和巴恩斯先生，虽然我觉得听到过他们的名字，因为所有的来
电都是由我接听，对吧——”
贾普说：“我们可以自己问赖利先生，我想尽快见到他。”
内维尔小姐出去了。贾普对波洛说:
“除了安伯里奥兹，都是莫利先生的老病人。我要马上和这位安伯里奥兹先生好好谈一
次。记录表明他是最后一个见到莫利先生的人，我们一定要确认他见到莫利先生时，对方
还活着。”
波洛摇摇头，慢慢地说：“你还是要找到作案动机。”
“我知道，这正是我们要找的难点。不过苏格兰场那边可能会有一些关于安伯里奥兹的
资料。”他突然又说，“波洛，你心事重重啊！”
“我在考虑一件事。”
“什么事？”
波洛脸上带着几乎看不到的微笑说：
“为什么是贾普探长呢？”
“啊？”
“我问为什么是贾普探长，阁下您呢？您通常会来处理这种自杀案件吗？”
“其实是因为案发时我刚好在附近，在拉文罕—威格莫尔大街。那儿有一个诈骗系统
案。他们打电话到那里，让我过来。”
“但是他们为什么会给您打电话呢？”
“呃，这个……这个很简单，阿利斯泰尔•布伦特。区探长一听说他今天早晨来过这
儿，就把案子转给了苏格兰场。在英国，布伦特先生属于需要我们保护的人物。”
“你是说有人想要除掉他？”
“当然有啦。首先是那些赤色分子，其次还有我们的那些黑衫朋友（注：这里指的是黑
衫军BUF（British union of Fascists），一九三二年在英国出现的一个极右法西斯组织，因
为其成员身着黑色衬衫而得名。第二次世界大战爆发后，该组织被英国政府禁止。）。正
是布伦特和他的集团稳固地支撑着当今的政府，以及他们所说的保守财政。所以说，如果
他们觉得今天早晨发生的事儿有任何可能性是针对他的，都会要我们彻底调查。”
波洛点点头。
“这正是我隐约猜到的，也就是我的感觉。”他意味深长地摆了摆手，“这里面似乎出了
点什么差错。原本的目标是，或者说应该是，阿利斯泰尔•布伦特。也许这只是一个开始
——一场大规模行动的开始？”他用鼻子在空中吸了两下，“我能闻到这单交易背后金钱的
味道！”
贾普说：“你想得太多了吧。”
“我是想说可怜的莫利只是这场游戏里面的一个小卒。也许他知道点儿什么，也许他告
诉过布伦特点儿什么事，或者他们害怕他会告诉布伦特什么事情——”
格拉迪丝•内维尔走进屋来，他暂停了交谈。
“赖利先生正忙着给一个病人拔牙。”她说，“他大概十分钟之后会有时间，可以
吗？”贾普说没问题，正好可以再跟那个艾尔弗雷德谈谈。
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 5
V
Alfred was divided between nervousness, enjoyment, and a morbid fear of being blamed for
everything that had occurred! He had only been a fortnight in Mr. Morley’s employment, and
during that fortnight he had consistently and unvaryingly done everything wrong. Persistent blame
had sapped his self-confidence.
“He was a bit rattier than usual, perhaps,” said Alfred in answer to a question, “nothing else as I
can remember. I’d never have thought he was going to do himself in.”
Poirot interposed.
“You must tell us,” he said, “everything that you can remember about this morning. You are a
very important witness, and your recollections may be of immense service to us.”
Alfred’s face was suffused by vivid crimson and his chest swelled. He had already given Japp a
brief account of the morning’s happenings. He proposed now to spread himself. A comforting
sense of importance oozed into him.
“I can tell you orl right,” he said. “Just you ask me.”
“To begin with, did anything out of the way happen this morning?”
Alfred reflected a minute and then said rather sadly: “Can’t say as it did. It was orl just as
usual.”
“Did any strangers come to the house?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even among the patients?”
“I didn’t know as you meant the patients. Nobody come what hadn’t got an appointment, if
that’s what you mean. They were all down in the book.”
Japp nodded. Poirot asked:
“Could anybody have walked in from outside?”
“No, they couldn’t. They’d have to have a key, see?”
“But it was quite easy to leave the house?”
“Oh, yes, just turn the handle and go out and pull the door to after you. As I was saying most of
’em do. They often come down the stairs while I’m taking up the next party in the lift, see?”
“I see. Now just tell us who came first this morning and so on. Describe them if you can’t
remember their names.”
Alfred reflected a minute. Then he said: “Lady with a little girl, that was for Mr. Reilly and a
Mrs. Soap or some such name for Mr. Morley.”
Poirot said:
“Quite right. Go on.”
“Then another elderly lady—bit of a toff she was—come in a Daimler. As she went out a tall
military gent come in, and just after him, you came,” he nodded to Poirot.
“Right.”
“Then the American gent came—”
Japp said sharply:
“American?”
“Yes, sir. Young fellow. He was American all right—you could tell by his voice. Come early,
he did. His appointment wasn’t till eleven thirty—and what’s more he didn’t keep it—neither.”
Japp said sharply:
“What’s that?”
“Not him. Come in for him when Mr. Reilly’s buzzer went at eleven thirty—a bit later it was, as
a matter of fact, might have been twenty to twelve—and he wasn’t there. Must have funked it and
gone away.” He added with a knowledgeable air, “They do sometimes.”
Poirot said:
“Then he must have gone out soon after me?”
“That’s right, sir. You went out after I’d taken up a toff what come in a Rolls. Coo—it was a
loverly car, Mr. Blunt—eleven thirty. Then I come down and let you out, and a lady in. Miss
Some Berry Seal, or something like that—and then I—well, as a matter of fact I just nipped down
to the kitchen to get my elevenses, and when I was down there the buzzer went—Mr. Reilly’s
buzzer—so I come up and, as I say, the American gentleman had hooked it. I went and told Mr.
Reilly and he swore a bit, as is his way.”
Poirot said:
“Continue.”
“Lemme see, what happened next? Oh, yes, Mr. Morley’s buzzer went for that Miss Seal, and
the toff came down and went out as I took Miss Whatsername up in the lift. Then I come down
again and two gentlemen came—one a little man with a funny squeaky voice—I can’t remember
his name. For Mr. Reilly, he was. And a fat foreign gentleman for Mr. Morley.
“Miss Seal wasn’t very long—not above a quarter of an hour. I let her out and then I took up the
foreign gentleman. I’d already taken the other gent into Mr. Reilly right away as soon as he came.”
Japp said:
“And you didn’t see Mr. Amberiotis, the foreign gentleman, leave?”
“No, sir, I can’t say as I did. He must have let himself out. I didn’t see either of those two
gentlemen go.”
“Where were you from twelve o’clock onwards?”
“I always sit in the lift, sir, waiting until the front doorbell or one of the buzzers goes.”
Poirot said:
“And you were perhaps reading?”
Alfred blushed again.
“There ain’t no harm in that, sir. It’s not as though I could be doing anything else.”
“Quite so. What were you reading?”
“Death at Eleven-Forty-Five, sir. It’s an American detective story. It’s a corker, sir, it really is!
All about gunmen.”
Poirot smiled faintly. He said:
“Would you hear the front door close from where you were?”
“You mean anyone going out? I don’t think I should, sir. What I mean is, I shouldn’t notice it!
You see, the lift is right at the back of the hall and a little round the corner. The bell rings just
behind it, and the buzzers too. You can’t miss them.”
Poirot nodded and Japp asked:
“What happened next?”
Alfred frowned in a supreme effort of memory.
“Only the last lady, Miss Shirty. I waited for Mr. Morley’s buzzer to go, but nothing happened
and at one o’clock the lady who was waiting, she got rather ratty.”
“It did not occur to you to go up before and see if Mr. Morley was ready?”
Alfred shook his head very positively.
“Not me, sir. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. For all I knew the last gentleman was still up there.
I’d got to wait for the buzzer. Of course if I’d knowed as Mr. Morley had done himself in—”
Alfred shook his head with morbid relish.
Poirot asked:
“Did the buzzer usually go before the patient came down, or the other way about?”
“Depends. Usually the patient would come down the stairs and then the buzzer would go. If
they rang for the lift, that buzzer would go perhaps as I was bringing them down. But it wasn’t
fixed in any way. Sometimes Mr. Morley would be a few minutes before he rang for the next
patient. If he was in a hurry, he’d ring as soon as they were out of the room.”
“I see—” Poirot paused and then went on:
“Were you surprised at Mr. Morley’s suicide, Alfred?”
“Knocked all of a heap, I was. He hadn’t no call to go doing himself in as far as I can see—oh!”
Alfred’s eyes grew large and round. “Oo—er—he wasn’t murdered, was he?”
Poirot cut in before Japp could speak.
“Supposing he were, would it surprise you less?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir, I’m sure. I can’t see who’d want to murder Mr. Morley. He was—well,
he was a very ordinary gentleman, sir. Was he really murdered, sir?”
Poirot said gravely:
“We have to take every possibility into account. That is why I told you you would be a very
important witness and that you must try and recollect everything that happened this morning.”
He stressed the words and Alfred frowned with a prodigious effort of memory.
“I can’t think of anything else, sir. I can’t indeed.”
Alfred’s tone was rueful.
“Very good, Alfred. And you are quite sure no one except patients came to the house this
morning?”
“No stranger did, sir. That Miss Nevill’s young man came round—and in a rare taking not to
find her here.”
Japp said sharply:
“When was that?”
“Some time after twelve it was. When I told him Miss Nevill was away for the day, he seemed
very put out and he said he’d wait and see Mr. Morley. I told him Mr. Morley was busy right up to
lunch time, but he said: Never mind, he’d wait.”
Poirot asked:
“And did he wait?”
A startled look came into Alfred’s eyes. He said:
“Cor—I never thought of that! He went into the waiting room, but he wasn’t there later. He
must have got tired of waiting, and thought he’d come back another time.”
三，四，关紧门 5
5
艾尔弗雷德感觉既紧张，又兴奋，同时还有点儿病态的恐惧，他担心眼前发生的这一
切都会归罪于他！他到莫利先生这里工作刚满两周。在这两周里，他不断地、重复地犯着
各种错儿，也一直不断地被批评，使他的自信心丧失殆尽。
“他似乎有点儿不像平时那么精神，”艾尔弗雷德回答着提问，“其他我不太记得什么
了。我从来都不会想到他……他会自杀。”
波洛打断了他。
“你一定要告诉我们，”他说，“你所记得的今天上午发生的任何事情。你是一个非常重
要的证人，你记起的东西可能会对我们有极大的帮助。”
艾尔弗雷德的脸瞬间变得通红，并挺起了胸膛。他已经简单地告诉了贾普上午发生的
事儿。这会儿，他准备再好好谈谈自己的想法。他欣慰地感受到自己的重要性。
“我可以告诉你们熟（所）有的事情。”他说，“你们尽管问吧。”
“首先，今天上午发生过什么异常的事情吗？”
艾尔弗雷德想了一会儿，然后略带忧伤地说：
“并不能说有什么异样，和平时弯（完）全一样。”
“有没有陌生人来过这里啊？”
“没有，先生。”
“病人中也没有？”
“呃，我不知道您指的是病人。没有人是没有预约来的，如果您是这个意思的话。他们
的名字都在登记簿上。”
贾普点点头。波洛问：
“有人能从外面随意进来吗？”
“不能，他们必须要有钥匙，明白吗？”
“但是离开就比较容易？”
“呃，是的，只要转一下把手就可以，出门后再把门拉上。就像我说的，大部分人都是
这么做的。他们经常是自己从楼梯上走下来，同时我带下一个病人乘电梯上去，明白吧？”
“明白。那么你就告诉我们上午谁是第一个来的，以此类推。如果有人的名字你记不得
了，就描述一下他们的模样。”
艾尔弗雷德想了一会儿，说：“有个女士带着一个小女孩儿，来找赖利先生，还有个叫
搜普太太什么的，来找莫利先生。”
波洛说：“非常正确，继续。”
“然后是另一个年龄比较大的女士——上流社会那种——她是乘戴姆勒轿车来的。她走
的时候，一个高个子的军人来了，他之后呢，您来了。”他朝波洛点点头。
“对。”
“然后那位美国先生来了——”
贾普紧接着问：“美国人？”
“是的，先生。很年轻，他肯定是个美国人——我可以从他的口音里听出来。他来早
了，我是说。他约的是十一点半，而且，他也没看上病。”
贾普问：“什么意思？”
“不怪他，赖利先生十一点三十分按了铃儿——稍微晚了一点儿，其实，可能是十一点
四十分。我来叫他，他已经不在了，可能是怕疼走掉了。”他似乎很懂的样子，接着
说，“病人有时候就会这么做。”
波洛说：“那他肯定是在我之后不久就离开的吧？”
“正是，先生。你是在我接了一位大人物之后走的，布伦特先生，他坐劳斯莱斯前来。
哇，很酷的车，他约的是十一点三十分。接着，我就下楼送您出去，一位女士又来了。她
是塞默•柏丽•西尔小姐，或者类似的名字。然后，我就……呃，事实上，我是去厨房吃了点
儿点心，这时铃声响起，赖利先生的铃，所以我就出来了。我刚才说过，那位美国先生已
经离去。我上去告诉赖利先生，他说了脏话，他总是这样。”
波洛说：“继续。”
“让我想想，之后怎么了？哦，对了，莫利先生的铃响了，该轮到西尔小姐了。那位大
人物下了楼，我带着什么小姐来着坐电梯上去。然后我又下来，这时来了两位先生——其
中一个矮矮的，声音又尖又怪——我记不得他的名字了。他找赖利先生，我是说。还有一
个很胖的外国男人来找莫利先生。西尔小姐治疗时间不长——不超过一刻钟。我把她送
走，然后带那个外国人上去。之前我已经把另外那位先生带给了赖利先生，他一来我就带
他去了。”
贾普问：“你没有看到安伯里奥兹先生，那位外国人离开，
是吗？”
“没有，先生。我想我没有。他一定是自己离开的。那两位先生走时我都没看见。”
“十二点钟以后你在哪里？”
“我一直坐在电梯里，先生，等着大门的门铃或者楼上的蜂鸣器响。”
“也许你在看书？”
艾尔弗雷德的脸有点红。
“那也没什么不好，先生。我没什么事情好做。”
“没错儿，你在读什么书？”
“《死亡发生于十一点四十五分》，先生。是一本美国侦探小说，特别好看，先生，真
的！都是关于职业杀手的。”
波洛微微地笑了一下。他说：
“你在那里能听到前门关上的声音吗？”
“您是说有人出去的话？我想我听不到，先生。我的意思是，我可能不会留意！你知
道，电梯在门厅里面的拐角处，门铃就在它后面，两个蜂鸣器也是，这就保证我能听到。”
波洛点点头。贾普问：
“接下来发生了什么？”
艾尔弗雷德紧锁眉头，吃力地回想着：“最后就来了位女士，舍迪小姐。我在等莫利先
生的铃响，但是一直都没响，到了一点钟，那位等候的女士特别生气。”
“你没早点儿想到上去看看莫利先生是不是准备好了吗？”
艾尔弗雷德非常确定地摇摇头。
“我不会，先生。我想都不会想，因为我知道前一位还在上面。我应该等蜂鸣器的铃
声。当然了，如果我知道莫利先生已经自杀了——”
艾尔弗雷德带着不合时宜的回味摇摇头。
波洛问：“蜂鸣器通常是在病人下来之前就会响，还是之后？”
“要看情况，通常病人会走楼梯下来，然后铃响。如果他们叫电梯的话，就会是我带他
们下来时铃响。但都不一定。有时莫利先生会等几分钟再叫下一个病人。如果他很着急，
就会在前一个病人一出门就按铃。”
“我明白了——”波洛停顿了一下，然后接着说，“你对莫利先生的自杀感到吃惊吗，艾
尔弗雷德？”
“我都吓傻了！我一点儿都看不出他有任何迹象会去寻短见。噢！”艾尔弗雷德把眼睛
瞪得又大又圆，“啊……呃……他不是被谋杀的，对吧？”
波洛不等贾普开口就抢先问：“假如是，你会觉得没那么吃惊吗？”
“这个，我不知道，先生，我不知道。我想不出有谁会要谋杀莫利先生。他是一个——
呃，一个非常普通的人嘛，先生。他确实是被谋……谋杀的吗，先生？”
波洛沉重地说：
“我们必须要考虑所有的可能，这就是我为什么说你是一个非常重要的见证者。你一定
要尽量回想起今天上午发生过的所有事情。”
他加重了语气，艾尔弗雷德皱起眉头，拼命地回想。
“我想不起其他什么了，先生，确实想不起来了。”艾尔弗雷德可怜兮兮地说。
“很好，艾尔弗雷德。你特别肯定今天上午除了病人以外没有任何人来过这里，对
吗？”
“没有陌生人来过，先生。内维尔小姐的那个年轻男友来过一下，看到她不在，他非常
不高兴。”
贾普紧接着问：“什么时候？”
“十二点过一点儿的样子。我告诉他内维尔小姐今天不在，他看上去特别不高兴。他说
他要等着见莫利先生。我又告诉他莫利先生一直到午饭前都会很忙，但是他说没关系，他
还是要等。”
波洛问：“那他等了吗？”
艾尔弗雷德眼中充满了吃惊的神色，说道：“呃，我从没想过这个！他进了候诊室，但
是后来又不在那儿了。他一定是等得不耐烦，想改日再来。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 6
VI
When Alfred had gone out of the room, Japp said sharply:
“D’you think it wise to suggest murder to that lad?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I think so—yes. Anything suggestive that he may have seen or heard will come back to him
under the stimulus, and he will be keenly alert to everything that goes on here.”
“All the same, we don’t want it to get about too soon.”
“Mon cher, it will not. Alfred reads detective stories—Alfred is enamoured of crime. Whatever
Alfred lets slip will be put down to Alfred’s morbid criminal imagination.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, Poirot. Now we’ve got to hear what Reilly has to say.”
Mr. Reilly’s surgery and office were on the first floor. They were as spacious as the ones above
but had less light in them, and were not quite so richly appointed.
Mr. Morley’s partner was a tall, dark young man, with a plume of hair that fell untidily over his
forehead. He had an attractive voice and a very shrewd eye.
“We’re hoping, Mr. Reilly,” said Japp, after introducing himself, “that you can throw some light
on this matter.”
“You’re wrong then, because I can’t,” replied the other. “I’d say this—that Henry Morley was
the last person to go taking his own life. I might have done it—but he wouldn’t.”
“Why might you have done it?” asked Poirot.
“Because I’ve oceans of worries,” replied the other. “Money troubles, for one! I’ve never yet
been able to suit my expenditure to my income. But Morley was a careful man. You’ll find no
debts, nor money troubles, I’m sure of that.”
“Love affairs?” suggested Japp.
“Is it Morley you mean? He had no joy of living at all! Right under his sister’s thumb he was,
poor man.”
Japp went on to ask Reilly details about the patients he had seen that morning.
“Oh, I fancy they’re all square and aboveboard. Little Betty Heath, she’s a nice child—I’ve had
the whole family one after another. Colonel Abercrombie’s an old patient, too.”
“What about Mr. Howard Raikes?” asked Japp.
Reilly grinned broadly.
“The one who walked out on me? He’s never been to me before. I know nothing about him. He
rang up and particularly asked for an appointment this morning.”
“Where did he ring up from?”
“Holborn Palace Hotel. He’s an American, I fancy.”
“So Alfred said.”
“Alfred should know,” said Mr. Reilly. “He’s a film fan, our Alfred.”
“And your other patient?”
“Barnes? A funny precise little man. Retired Civil Servant. Lives out Ealing way.”
Japp paused a minute and then said:
“What can you tell us about Miss Nevill?”
Mr. Reilly raised his eyebrows.
“The bee-yewtiful blonde secretary? Nothing doing, old boy! Her relations with old Morley
were perfectly pewer—I’m sure of it.”
“I never suggested they weren’t,” said Japp, reddening slightly.
“My fault,” said Reilly. “Excuse my filthy mind, won’t you? I thought it might be an attempt on
your part to cherchez la femme.
“Excuse me for speaking your language,” he added parenthetically to Poirot. “Beautiful accent,
haven’t I? It comes of being educated by nuns.”
Japp disapproved of this flippancy. He asked:
“Do you know anything about the young man she is engaged to? His name is Carter, I
understand. Frank Carter.”
“Morley didn’t think much of him,” said Reilly. “He tried to get la Nevill to turn him down.”
“That might have annoyed Carter?”
“Probably annoyed him frightfully,” agreed Mr. Reilly cheerfully.
He paused and then added:
“Excuse me, this is a suicide you are investigating, not a murder?”
Japp said sharply:
“If it were a murder, would you have anything to suggest?”
“Not I! I’d like it to be Georgina! One of those grim females with temperance on the brain. But
I’m afraid Georgina is full of moral rectitude. Of course I could easily have nipped upstairs and
shot the old boy myself, but I didn’t. In fact, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Morley. But
then I can’t conceive of his killing himself.”
He added—in a different voice:
“As a matter of fact, I’m very sorry about it … You mustn’t judge by my manner. That’s just
nervousness, you know. I was fond of old Morley and I shall miss him.”
三，四，关紧门 6
6
艾尔弗雷德走出了房间。贾普急切地问：“你觉得跟这家伙提谋杀的事儿明智吗？”
波洛耸了耸肩膀：“我觉得有必要。这样提示他一下，他才能想起所有看到或听到的东
西。他也会对这里发生的任何事情更加警觉。”
“尽管如此，我们还是不想让这件事太早传出去。”
“亲爱的，不会的。艾尔弗雷德读侦探小说，他对犯罪有痴迷的兴趣，不管从他嘴里说
出什么来都会被人认为是艾尔弗雷德对于犯罪病态的狂想。”
“好吧，也许你是对的，波洛。现在我们要听听赖利先生怎么说了。”
赖利先生的诊室和办公室都在一楼，和楼上的房间一样大，但是光线暗一些。他的病
人也少一些。
莫利先生的合伙人是个身材高大、面色黝黑的年轻人，一绺头发凌乱地散在额头上。
他的声音颇有魅力，眼睛也炯炯有神。
“我们希望，赖利先生，”贾普自我介绍之后说，“您在这件事情上能给我们一些启
示。”
“那您就错了，因为我帮不了你们什么。”赖利说，“我想说的是，亨利•莫利是最不可能
寻短见的人。我也许会这么做，但是他不会。”
“您为什么会这么做？”波洛问。
“因为我有一大堆的麻烦，”赖利说，“钱的问题就是其中一个！我永远都做不到收支平
衡。但莫利是个小心谨慎的人，他没有债务，没有钱方面的麻烦。这一点我可以肯定。”
“外遇呢？”贾普问。
“您是说莫利吗？他的生活没有任何乐趣！完全被他姐姐给控制了，可怜的人。”
贾普接着问起赖利当天上午看的那些病人的具体情况。
“噢，我想他们都很准时，而且没什么问题。小贝蒂•休斯，她是个好孩子——他们一
家都先后成为我的病人。阿伯克隆比上校也是个老病人。”
“霍华德•赖克斯先生呢？”
“那个爽约的病人吗？他从没找我看过病，我对他一无所知。他打电话来特别要求预约
在今天上午。”
“他是从哪里打电话过来的？”
“霍尔本宫酒店。他是个美国人，我猜。”
“艾尔弗雷德也这么说。”
“艾尔弗雷德应该知道，”赖利先生说，“他是个电影迷呢，我们的艾尔弗雷德。”
“您的另一个病人呢？”
“巴恩斯吗？有趣又严谨的小个子。他是个退了休的公务员，在依陵路那边住。”
贾普停了一会儿，然后接着问：“您对内维尔小姐怎么看？”
赖利先生挑了一下眉毛。
“美丽的金发女秘书吗？没什么事儿，老兄！她和老莫利的关系绝对清白，我敢肯
定。”
“我可从没想说他们不是呀。”贾普说得脸有点儿红。
“那是我理解错了。”赖利说，“请原谅我污秽的想法，好吗？我以为您这么问，是因为
在怀疑那位女士!”
他岔开话题，对波洛说：
“原谅我用了您的语言。我的法语说得不错吧？都是跟修女们学的。”
贾普对他轻浮的表现感到不满，他问：
“您对和她订婚的那个年轻人有什么了解吗？据我所知他叫卡特，弗兰克•卡特。”
“莫利不太看得上他。”赖利说，“他曾经劝内维尔跟他分手。”
“这会令卡特不爽吧？”
“可能让他非常不爽。”赖利幸灾乐祸地附和着。他停顿了一会儿，又说：“不好意思，
你们现在是在查自杀，并不是谋杀，对吧？”
贾普立即说：“假如是桩谋杀，您会有什么线索可以提供吗？”
“我没有！我宁愿它是乔治娜干的！她是那种十分节制、令人生畏的女人。不过我想乔
治娜是个非常正直的人。当然，我也可以偷偷溜到楼上去，把那老兄给杀了，但是我没
有。其实，我很难想象有谁会想杀了莫利，但我又无法想象他是自杀。”
他的语气有了些变化，补充道：
“事实上，我对此感到很难过……你们千万别拿我的话当真，好吗？我很喜欢老莫利，
我会想念他的。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 7
VII
Japp put down the telephone receiver. His face, as he turned to Poirot, was rather grim.
He said:
“Mr. Amberiotis isn’t feeling very well—would rather not see any one this afternoon.
“He’s going to see me—and he’s not going to give me the slip either! I’ve got a man at the
Savoy ready to trail him if he tries to make a getaway.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“You think Amberiotis shot Morley?”
“I don’t know. But he was the last person to see Morley alive. And he was a new patient.
According to his story, he left Morley alive and well at twenty-five minutes past twelve. That may
be true or it may not. If Morley was all right then we’ve got to reconstruct what happened next.
There was still five minutes to go before his next appointment. Did someone come in and see him
during that five minutes? Carter, say? Or Reilly? What happened? Depend upon it, by half past
twelve, or five-and-twenty to one at the latest, Morley was dead—otherwise he’d either have
sounded his buzzer or else sent down word to Miss Kirby that he couldn’t see her. No, either he
was killed, or else somebody told him something which upset the whole tenor of his mind, and he
took his own life.”
He paused.
“I’m going to have a word with every patient he saw this morning. There’s just the possibility
that he may have said something to one of them that will put us on the right track.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Mr. Alistair Blunt said he could give me a few minutes at four fifteen. We’ll go to him first.
His house is on Chelsea Embankment. Then we might take the Sainsbury Seale woman on our
way to Amberiotis. I’d prefer to know all we can before tackling our Greek friend. After that, I’d
like a word or two with the American who, according to you ‘looked like murder.’”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“Not murder—toothache.”
“All the same, we’ll see this Mr. Raikes. His conduct was queer to say the least of it. And we’ll
check up on Miss Nevill’s telegram and on her aunt and on her young man. In fact, we’ll check up
on everything and everybody!”
三，四，关紧门 7
7
贾普放下电话，面色凝重，他转身对波洛说：
“安伯里奥兹先生感觉不太舒服，今天下午不想见任何人。但他得见我，别想跟我耍花
招！我已经安排人去了萨伏依酒店。如果他要逃跑，就可以跟踪他。”
波洛若有所思地问：
“你觉得是安伯里奥兹开枪打死了莫利？”
“我不知道，但他是莫利生前最后见到的人。而且，他是个新病人。根据他自己所说，
他在十二点二十五分离开，那时莫利还好好的。他说的也许是真话，也许不是。如果莫利
那时还没事儿，那么我们就要弄清楚接下来发生了什么。这时离他下一个预约还有五分
钟，在这五分钟里有没有人进来看到过他？比如：卡特？或者赖利？发生了什么事？依照
这个说法，从十二点半，或者二十五分到最多一点钟之间，莫利死了。不然的话他要么就
会按响蜂鸣器，要么就会传话下来给舍迪小姐，让她别等了。可是他没有，所以他要么就
是被杀了，要么就是有人跟他说了些什么，让他沮丧到无法解脱，然后结束了自己的生
命。”
他停了一会儿。
“我要找每一个他今天上午看过的病人聊聊，或许他会跟他们中间的谁说过什么对我们
有帮助的事。”
他看了看手表。
“阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生说他四点十五分时可以和我聊几分钟。我们先去找他。他家
住在切尔西堤。然后，我们在去找安伯里奥兹的路上，可以先和那个叫塞恩斯伯里•西尔的
女人聊一下。我想在见到我们的希腊朋友之前，尽量多了解点儿信息。之后呢，我想再跟
你说的那个‘杀人犯’美国人聊一两句。”
赫尔克里•波洛摇头说：“不是杀人犯，是牙疼。”
“无所谓啦，反正我们要见见这个赖克斯先生。他至少也是举止怪异。我们还要查查内
维尔小姐的那封电报，还有她姑姑和那个年轻人。事实上，我们要把所有的人和所有的事
儿都查一遍！”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 8
VIII
Alistair Blunt had never loomed large in the public eye. Possibly because he was himself a very
quiet and retiring man. Possibly because for many years he had functioned as a Prince Consort
rather than as a King.
Rebecca Sanseverato, née Arnholt, came to London a disillusioned woman of forty-five. On
either side she came of the Royalty of wealth. Her mother was an heiress of the European family
of Rothersteins. Her father was the head of the great American banking house of Arnholt. Rebecca
Arnholt, owing to the calamitous deaths of two brothers and a cousin in an air accident, was sole
heiress to immense wealth. She married a European aristocrat with a famous name, Prince Felipe
di Sanseverato. Three years later she obtained a divorce and custody of the child of the marriage,
having spent two years of wretchedness with a well-bred scoundrel whose conduct was notorious.
A few years later her child died.
Embittered by her sufferings, Rebecca Arnholt turned her undoubted brains to the business of
finance—the aptitude for it ran in her blood. She associated herself with her father in banking.
After his death she continued to be a powerful figure in the financial world with her immense
holdings. She came to London—and a junior partner of the London house was sent to Claridge’s
to see her with various documents. Six months later the world was electrified to hear that Rebecca
Sanseverato was marrying Alistair Blunt, a man nearly twenty years younger than herself.
There were the usual jeers—and smiles. Rebecca, her friends said, was really an incurable fool
where men were concerned! First Sanseverato—now this young man. Of course he was only
marrying her for her money. She was in for a second disaster! But to everyone’s surprise the
marriage was a success. The people who prophesied that Alistair Blunt would spend her money on
other women were wrong. He remained quietly devoted to his wife. Even after her death, ten years
later, when as inheritor of her vast wealth he might have been supposed to cut loose, he did not
marry again. He lived the same quiet and simple life. His genius for finance had been no less than
his wife’s. His judgements and dealings were sound—his integrity above question. He dominated
the vast Arnholt and Rotherstein interests by his sheer ability.
He went very little into society, had a house in Kent and one in Norfolk where he spent
weekends—not with gay parties, but with a few quiet stodgy friends. He was fond of golf and
played moderately well. He was interested in his garden.
This was the man towards whom Chief Inspector Japp and Hercule Poirot were bouncing along
in a somewhat elderly taxi.
The Gothic House was a well-known feature on Chelsea Embankment. Inside it was luxurious
with an expensive simplicity. It was not very modern but it was eminently comfortable.
Alistair Blunt did not keep them waiting. He came to them almost at once.
“Chief Inspector Japp?”
Japp came forward and introduced Hercule Poirot. Blunt looked at him with interest.
“I know your name, of course, M. Poirot. And surely—somewhere—quite recently—” he
paused, frowning.
Poirot said:
“This morning, Monsieur, in the waiting room of ce pauvre M. Morley.”
Alistair Blunt’s brow cleared. He said:
“Of course. I knew I had seen you somewhere.” He turned to Japp. “What can I do for you? I
am extremely sorry to hear about poor Morley.”
“You were surprised, Mr. Blunt?”
“Very surprised. Of course I knew very little about him, but I should have thought him a most
unlikely person to commit suicide.”
“He seemed in good health and spirits then, this morning?”
“I think so—yes.” Alistair Blunt paused, then said with an almost boyish smile: “To tell you the
truth, I’m a most awful coward about going to the dentist. And I simply hate that beastly drill thing
they run into you. That’s why I really didn’t notice anything much. Not till it was over, you know,
and I got up to go. But I must say Morley seemed perfectly natural then. Cheerful and busy.”
“You have been to him often?”
“I think this was my third or fourth visit. I’ve never had much trouble with my teeth until the
last year. Breaking up, I suppose.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“Who recommended Mr. Morley to you originally?”
Blunt drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.
“Let me see now—I had a twinge—somebody told me Morley of Queen Charlotte Street was
the man to go to—no, I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. Sorry.”
Poirot said:
“If it should come back to you, perhaps you will let one of us know?”
Alistair Blunt looked at him curiously.
He said:
“I will—certainly. Why? Does it matter?”
“I have an idea,” said Poirot, “that it might matter very much.”
They were going down the steps of the house when a car drew up in front of it. It was a car of
sporting build—one of those cars from which it is necessary to wriggle from under the wheel in
sections.
The young woman who did so appeared to consist chiefly of arms and legs. She had finally
dislodged herself as the men turned to walk down the street.
The girl stood on the pavement looking after them. Then, suddenly and vigorously, she
ejaculated, “Hi!”
Not realizing that the call was addressed to them, neither man turned, and the girl repeated: “Hi!
Hi! You there!”
They stopped and looked round inquiringly. The girl walked towards them. The impression of
arms and legs remained. She was tall, thin, and her face had an intelligence and aliveness that
redeemed its lack of actual beauty. She was dark with a deeply tanned skin.
She was addressing Poirot:
“I know who you are—you’re the detective man, Hercule Poirot!” Her voice was warm and
deep, with a trace of American accent.
Poirot said:
“At your service, Mademoiselle.”
Her eyes went on to his companion.
Poirot said:
“Chief Inspector Japp.”
Her eyes widened—almost it seemed with alarm. She said, and there was a slight breathlessness
in her voice:
“What have you been doing here? Nothing—nothing has happened to Uncle Alistair, has it?”
Poirot said quickly:
“Why should you think so, Mademoiselle?”
“It hasn’t? Good.”
Japp took up Poirot’s question.
“Why should you think anything had happened to Mr. Blunt, Miss—”
He paused inquiringly.
The girl said mechanically:
“Olivera. Jane Olivera.” Then she gave a slight and rather unconvincing laugh. “Sleuths on the
doorstep rather suggest bombs in the attic, don’t they?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Blunt, I’m thankful to say, Miss Olivera.”
She looked directly at Poirot.
“Did he call you in about something?”
Japp said:
“We called on him, Miss Olivera, to see if he could throw any light on a case of suicide that
occurred this morning.”
She said sharply:
“Suicide? Whose? Where?”
“A Mr. Morley, a dentist, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Oh!” said Jane Olivera blankly. “Oh!—” She started ahead of her, frowning. Then she said
unexpectedly:
“Oh, but that’s absurd!” And turning on her heel she left them abruptly and without ceremony,
running up the steps of the Gothic House and letting herself in with a key.
“Well!” said Japp, staring after her, “that’s an extraordinary thing to say.”
“Interesting,” observed Poirot mildly.
Japp pulled himself together, glanced at his watch and hailed an approaching taxi.
“We’ll have time to take the Sainsbury Seale on our way to the Savoy.”
三，四，关紧门 8
8
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特从来都不是公众眼里的大人物，可能因为他生性淡泊，喜欢冷清，
也可能因为长期以来他所扮演的角色一直是亲王，而非国王。
丽贝卡•桑塞文拉托，娘家姓阿诺德，四十五岁时来到伦敦。她当时所有的希望都已破
灭。她出身富贵人家，父母都具有王室血统。她母亲是欧洲罗瑟斯坦斯家族的继承人，父
亲是美国阿诺德家族一家大银行的老板。丽贝卡的两个兄弟相继过世，给这个家庭带来巨
大灾难。一个堂兄也死于飞机失事。她一跃成为家族巨大财产的唯一继承人。她嫁给了欧
洲一个名门贵族菲利普•迪•桑塞文托拉，并与这个贵族出身但声名狼藉的恶棍一起度过了悲
惨的两年。最终，在结婚三年后，她离婚了，而且得到了孩子的监护权。又过了几年，孩
子也死了。
接踵而来的遭遇让她非常痛苦。丽贝卡•阿诺德全身心地投入到金融生意上，她血液中
具有这方面的天分，同父亲一起经营银行的生意。
父亲死后，她所拥有的巨额财产使她在金融界依然享有盛名。她来到伦敦时，伦敦银
行的一个小合伙人带着各种文件到克拉里奇见她。六个月后，丽贝卡•阿诺德嫁给了比她小
近二十岁的阿利斯泰尔•布伦特。消息传出后，所有人都吃了一惊。
有人嘲讽，有人微笑。丽贝卡的朋友们说，她在和男人交往方面绝对是个傻瓜！第一
次是嫁给桑塞文托拉；现在，又嫁给这个年轻人。他当然是看上了她的钱才和她结婚的。
这对她来说，必定是第二次灾难！但是，出乎所有人的意料，他们的婚姻相当成功。那些
曾经预言阿利斯泰尔•布伦特会用她的钱找其他女人的人都错了。他对妻子忠贞不渝。即便
在她死后，他继承了她的巨额财产，完全可以随心所欲时，他依然没有再娶，还是像以前
一样过着简单而平静的生活。他在金融方面的天赋毫不逊于他的妻子，他的判断力和操作
能力有口皆碑，他的才能毋庸置疑。他凭着自己的能力坐拥庞大的阿诺德家族和罗瑟斯坦
斯财团的大部分股权。
他很少与外界接触，在肯特郡有一栋房子，在诺福克也有一幢别墅。他通常周末会去
那里——并没有什么热闹的聚会，只是和几个安静的、老派的朋友一起聚聚。他热衷高尔
夫，而且打得也不错。他对园艺也有着浓厚的兴趣。
这就是贾普探长和赫尔克里•波洛坐着老爷出租车一路颠簸来见的人。面前的哥特式大
房子是切尔西堤著名的标志性建筑。房子里面的装饰简约中透着奢华和富贵，看上去并不
现代，但非常舒适。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特没有让他们久等，马上就出来见他们了。
“贾普探长吗？”
贾普走上前，并引见了赫尔克里•波洛。布伦特饶有兴趣地打量着波洛。
“我听说过您的大名，波洛先生。我一定……最近……在什么地方——”他皱着眉头停
了下来。
波洛说：“是今天上午，先生，在可怜的莫利先生的候诊室里。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特紧锁的眉头舒展开了。他说：“正是，我就觉得在哪里见过您。”他
转身对贾普说，“我能帮到您什么？我听说了莫利先生的事儿，真让人惋惜。”
“您很吃惊吗，布伦特先生？”
“非常吃惊。当然了，我和他并不是很熟，但我还是觉得他完全不像一个会自杀的
人。”
“今天上午他看上去情绪、健康方面都没什么问题吧？”
“我想是的——是的。”阿利斯泰尔•布伦特停了一下，然后带着一丝孩子气地微笑
说，“说真的，我最怕去看牙医了。我就是特别不喜欢那个可怕的钻头在嘴里钻来钻去。所
以我并没有留意别的东西。一钻完，我就起身离开了。但是，我感觉莫利看上去完全正
常，快乐地忙碌着。”
“你经常去他那儿看牙吗？”
“我想这是我第三次或第四次去那里了。我之前牙齿一直都很好，直到去年，可能是老
了吧。”
赫尔克里•波洛问：“最初是谁介绍您去莫利先生的诊所的？”
布伦特皱起双眉，努力回想着。
“我想想看啊——我有颗牙疼，有人让我去夏洛特皇后街找莫利先生……真想不起来是
谁告诉我的了。对不起。”
波洛问：“如果您之后想起来，请告诉我们，我俩谁都行，可以吗？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特好奇地看了看波洛，说：
“好的，当然。不过为什么呢？这点很重要吗？”
“我有种感觉，”波洛说，“这点也许很重要。”
他们从房子里出来，正要下台阶，一辆车开过来，在门前停下。这是辆跑车，必须从
方向盘下面将身体一段一段挤出来的那种。
一个年轻的女人正这样从车里出来，能看到的只是她的双手和双腿。当两个男人转身
朝大街上走时，她才完全从车里钻出来，站在人行道上从后面望着他们。
突然，她大声喊：“喂！”
两个男人并没有意识到是在叫他们，都没有回头。于是，女孩子又喊道：“喂！喂！那
边那两位！”
他们停下来，好奇地四处张望。女孩子向他们走过去。她身材高挑、苗条，修长的手
脚就像刚才从车里往外挤时一样引人注目。她的五官长得不算漂亮，但是脸上露出的灵气
和活力弥补了它的不足。她的皮肤被太阳晒得微黑。
她对波洛说：“我认识您，您是那个侦探，赫尔克里•波洛！”她的声音听上去热情而浑
厚，略带一丝美国口音。
波洛说：“愿为您效劳，小姐。”
她转眼打量着他的同伴。
波洛说：“这位是贾普探长。”
她瞪大了双眼，似乎很惊讶，有点儿不安地问：
“你们来这里干什么？阿利斯泰尔姨公没……没什么事儿吧？”
波洛马上问：“您为什么会这么想呢，小姐？”
“没事儿对吗？那就好。”
贾普又把波洛的问题重复了一遍：“你为什么觉得布伦特先生会有事儿？你是——”他
停下来等待她的回答。
女孩子机械地答道：“奥利维娅，简•奥利维娅。”然后，她勉强地微笑了一下，说：“警
犬门口出现，屋顶必有炸弹，不是吗？”
“我很高兴地告诉您，布伦特先生一点儿事儿都没有，奥利维娅小姐。”
她盯着波洛的眼睛说：“是他叫你们来的吗？”
贾普说：“是我们来找他的，奥利维娅小姐。看他能不能为今天早上的一起自杀案提供
什么线索。”
她急切地问：“自杀？谁啊？在哪儿啊？”
“莫利先生，是个牙医，在夏洛特皇后街五十八号。”
“噢！”简•奥莉维娅茫然地说，“噢！——”她木然地两眼凝视前方，皱起眉头。
然后她突然说：
“哦，但是这太荒谬了啊！”说完她转过身，招呼也不打就扔下他们，向着那座哥特式
房子的台阶跑去，拿出钥匙开门进去了。
“哇！”贾普盯着她的背影说，“这句话说得好奇怪啊。”
“有点儿意思。”波洛漫不经心地说。
贾普缓过神儿来，看了下手表，挥手叫了一辆刚好经过的出租车。
“去萨伏依酒店前还有时间。顺路去找一下塞恩斯伯里•西尔。”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR 9
IX
Miss Sainsbury Seale was in the dimly lit lounge of the Glengowrie Court Hotel having tea.
She was flustered by the appearance of a police officer in plain clothes—but her excitement was
of a pleasurable nature, he observed. Poirot noticed, with sorrow, that she had not yet sewn the
buckle on her shoe.
“Really, officer,” fluted Miss Sainsbury Seale, glancing round, “I really don’t know where we
could go to be private. So difficult—just teatime—but perhaps you would care for some tea—and
—and your friend—”
“Not for me, Madam,” said Japp. “This is M. Hercule Poirot.”
“Really?” said Miss Sainsbury Seale. “Then perhaps—you’re sure—you won’t either of you
have tea? No. Well, perhaps we might try the drawing room, though that’s very often full—Oh, I
see, there is a corner over there—in the recess. The people are just leaving. Shall we go there—”
She led the way to the comparative seclusion of a sofa and two chairs in an alcove. Poirot and
Japp followed her, the former picking up a scarf and a handkerchief that Miss Sainsbury Seale had
shed en route.
He restored them to her.
“Oh, thank you—so careless of me. Now please, Inspector—No, Chief Inspector, isn’t it?—do
ask me anything you like. So distressing, the whole business. Poor man — I suppose he had
something on his mind? Such worrying times we live in!”
“Did he seem to you worried, Miss Sainsbury Seale?”
“Well—” Miss Sainsbury Seale reflected, and finally said unwillingly:
“I can’t really say, you know, that he did! But then perhaps I shouldn’t notice—not under the
circumstances. I’m afraid I’m rather a coward, you know.” Miss Sainsbury Seale tittered a little
and patted her bird’s-nest-like curls.
“Can you tell us who else was in the waiting room while you were there?”
“Now let me see—there was just one young man there when I went in. I think he was in pain
because he was muttering to himself and looking quite wild and turning over the leaves of a
magazine just anyhow. And then suddenly he jumped up and went out. Really acute toothache he
must have had.”
“You don’t know whether he left the house when he went out of the room?”
“I don’t know at all. I imagined he just felt he couldn’t wait any longer and must see the dentist.
But it couldn’t have been Mr. Morley he was going to, because the boy came in and took me up to
Mr. Morley only a few minutes later.”
“Did you go into the waiting room again on your way out?”
“No. Because, you see, I’d already put on my hat and straightened my hair up in Mr. Morley’s
room. Some people,” went on Miss Sainsbury Seale, warming to her subject, “take off their hats
downstairs in the waiting room, but I never do. A most distressing thing happened to a friend of
mine who did that. It was a new hat and she put it very carefully on a chair, and when she came
down, would you believe it, a child had sat on it and squashed it flat. Ruined! Absolutely ruined!”
“A catastrophe,” said Poirot politely.
“I blame the mother entirely,” said Miss Sainsbury Seale judicially. “Mothers should keep an
eye on their children. The little dears do not mean any harm, but they have to be watched.”
Japp said:
“Then this young man with toothache was the only other patient you noticed at 58, Queen
Charlotte Street.”
“A gentleman came down the stairs and went out just as I went up to Mr. Morley—Oh! and I
remember—a very peculiar looking foreigner came out of the house just as I arrived.”
Japp coughed. Poirot said with dignity:
“That was I, Madame.”
“Oh dear!” Miss Sainsbury Seale peered at him. “So it was! Do forgive—so shortsighted—and
very dark here, isn’t it?” She tailed off into incoherencies. “And really, you know, I flatter myself
that I have a very good memory for faces. But the light here is dim, isn’t it? Do forgive my most
unfortunate mistake!”
They soothed the lady down, and Japp asked:
“You are quite sure Mr. Morley didn’t say anything such as — for instance — that he was
expecting a painful interview this morning? Anything of that kind?”
“No, indeed, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“He didn’t mention a patient by the name of Amberiotis?”
“No, no. He really said nothing—except, I mean, the things that dentists have to say.”
Through Poirot’s mind there ran quickly: “Rinse. Open a little wider, please. Now close gently.”
Japp had proceeded to his next step. It would possibly be necessary for Miss Sainsbury Seale to
give evidence at the inquest.
After a first scream of dismay, Miss Sainsbury Seale seemed to take kindly to the idea. A
tentative inquiry from Japp produced Miss Sainsbury Seale’s whole life history.
She had, it seemed, come from India to England six months ago. She had lived in various hotels
and boardinghouses and had finally come to the Glengowrie Court which she liked very much
because of its homely atmosphere; in India she had lived mostly in Calcutta where she had done
Mission work and had also taught elocution.
“Pure, well-enunciated English—most important, Chief Inspector. You see,” Miss Sainsbury
Seale simpered and bridled, “as a girl I was on the stage. Oh! only in small parts, you know. The
provinces! But I had great ambitions. Repertory. Then I went on a world tour—Shakespeare,
Bernard Shaw.” She sighed. “The trouble with us poor women is heart—at the mercy of our
hearts. A rash impulsive marriage. Alas! we parted almost immediately. I—I had been sadly
deceived. I resumed my maiden name. A friend kindly provided me with a little capital and I
started my elocution school. I helped to found a very good amateur dramatic society. I must show
you some of our notices.”
Chief Inspector Japp knew the dangers of that! He escaped, Miss Sainsbury Seale’s last words
being: “and if, by any chance, my name should be in the papers—as a witness at the inquest, I
mean — you will be sure that it is spelt right. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale — Mabelle spelt
M.A.B.E.L.L.E, and Seale S.E.A.L.E. And, of course, if they did care to mention that I appeared
in As You Like It at the Oxford Repertory Theatre—”
“Of course, of course.” Chief Inspector Japp fairly fled.
In the taxi, he sighed and wiped his forehead.
“If it’s ever necessary, we ought to be able to check up on her all right,” he observed, “unless it
was all lies—but that I don’t believe!”
Poirot shook his head. “Liars,” he said, “are neither so circumstantial nor so inconsequential.”
Japp went on:
“I was afraid she’d jib at the inquest—most middle-aged spinsters do—but her having been an
actress accounts for her being eager. Bit of limelight for her!”
Poirot said:
“Do you really want her at the inquest?”
“Probably not. It depends.” He paused and then said: “I’m more than ever convinced, Poirot.
This wasn’t suicide.”
“And the motive?”
“Has us beat for the moment. Suppose Morley once seduced Amberiotis’ daughter?”
Poirot was silent. He tried to visualize Mr. Morley in the role of seducer to a luscious-eyed
Greek maiden, but failed lamentably.
He reminded Japp that Mr. Reilly had said his partner had had no joy of living.
Japp said vaguely: “Oh well, you never know what may happen on a cruise!” and he added with
satisfaction, “We shall know better where we stand when we’ve talked to this fellow.”
They paid off the taxi and entered the Savoy.
Japp asked for Mr. Amberiotis.
The clerk looked at them rather oddly. He said:
“Mr. Amberiotis? I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid you can’t see him.”
“Oh, yes, I can, my lad,” Japp said grimly. He drew the other a little aside and showed him his
credentials.
The clerk said:
“You don’t understand, sir. Mr. Amberiotis died half an hour ago.”
To Hercule Poirot it was as though a door had gently but firmly shut.
三，四，关紧门 9
9
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐正在格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店灯光昏暗的大堂里喝茶。
便衣警察的突然来访让她有些不知所措。但是，据贾普观察，她的激动情绪是一种愉
快的自然流露。波洛遗憾地注意到她的鞋扣还是没有缝上。
“真的，警官，”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐用悦耳的嗓音说，一边不停地四下张望，“我真不
知道哪里能让我们隐秘些，太不容易了。下午茶时间——不过您也许想喝点儿茶……啊，
还有您的朋友——”
“不用了，女士，”贾普说，“这位是赫尔克里•波洛先生。”
“是吗？”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐说，“那么也许——您确定，你们两个都不想喝茶？不
喝？呃，也许我们可以去客厅看看，不过那里通常也都是坐满了人。噢，有了，那边有个
角落比较隐蔽，那几个人正要离开。我们要不过去吧——”
她朝一个由沙发和两把椅子围起来的相对独立的空间走过去，波洛和贾普跟着她。波
洛随手捡起了塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐掉在地上的围巾和手帕，还给了对方。
“噢，谢谢您，我真是太不小心了。现在，侦探先生，您可以……哦不，是探长，对
吧？您可以问我任何问题。太让人难过了，整件事儿。可怜的人……我猜他一定是有什么
想不开吧？当下这个时代真是让人担忧！”
“您见他时觉得他有烦恼吗，塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐？”
“这个……”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐回想着。最后，她不情愿地说：“我其实不确定他有什
么烦恼，明白吗，但是也许我感觉不到……在那种情况下。我很胆小。”塞恩斯伯里•西尔
小姐傻笑了一下，用手拍了拍她那鸟巢似的卷发。
“您能告诉我们您在候诊室时，还有什么其他的人在等吗？”
“哦，让我想想。我进去的时候，只有一个小伙子在那儿。我想他正牙疼，因为他看上
去很狂躁，还嘟嘟囔囔地自言自语，胡乱地翻着一本杂志。然后，他突然站起来就走了，
一定是牙疼得受不了。”
“您知道他出了那个房间之后有没有离开诊所吗？”
“这我可不知道。我猜他疼得受不了，一定要去找个牙医看看。但是他不一定非要看莫
利先生呀，因为他走后几分钟，我就被叫号了。”
“您离开时有没有再去候诊室？”
“没有，您知道，我在莫利先生的房间里就整理好头发，戴好帽子了。有的人呢，”塞
恩斯伯里•西尔小姐饶有兴致地接着说，“在候诊室里就把帽子摘掉，但我从来都不。我有
个朋友这样做过，结果发生了特别令人难过的事儿。那是一顶新帽子，她小心地把它放在
椅子上。您怎么都不会相信，等她从楼上下来时，一个孩子正坐在她的帽子上，把它完全
压瘪了。毁了！彻底毁了!”
“太惨了。”波洛礼貌地应和着。
“我觉得完全怪那个孩子的妈妈，”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐口气坚定地说，“妈妈应该管好
自己的孩子。小孩们不是故意使坏，但是妈妈应该看好他们。”
贾普说：“那么，那位牙疼的年轻人是你在夏洛特皇后街八十五号见到的唯一病人，对
吗？”
“就在我上楼去找莫利先生时，有位先生从楼梯上下来。哦！我还记得，我刚到的时
候，还有一个长相很特别的外国人从诊所里出来。”
贾普咳了两声。波洛自豪地说：
“那就是我，女士。”
“噢，天哪！”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐仔细地端详了他，“就是您！请原谅，我特别近视，
而且这里很暗，对吧？”她说着说着就自相矛盾了，“真的，您知道，我向来对见过的人过
目不忘，但是这儿的光线太昏暗了，对吧？请千万要原谅我！”
他们俩安慰了这位女士一会儿，贾普问：
“您是不是可以肯定莫利先生没有说任何关于——比如，今天上午他要见一个令他不愉
快的人之类的话?”
“没有，没有，他什么都没说。我的意思是除了看病时需要说的那些话。”
波洛的脑海里闪过“漱口。请张大一点儿。现在慢慢合上嘴”。
贾普进入谈话的下一步，他说有可能会需要塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐在法庭上提供证词。
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐先是惊呼了一声，然后似乎欣然接受了这个提议。
接着，贾普的一个试探性的小问题就引来了塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐对自己整个生平的回
顾。
她应该是六个月前从印度来到英国，住过几家不同的酒店和提供食宿的住处，最后住
进了格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店。她很喜欢这家酒店，因为这里有家的氛围。在印度时，她大多
数时间都住在加尔各答。她在那里传教，也教一些演讲技巧。
“最重要的是，探长，我能说纯正、规范的英语。”塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐不自然地笑了
笑，又接着喋喋不休地说，“年轻时我当过演员。哦！只是些小角色，跑跑龙套之类的。但
是我有远大的抱负——演保留剧目。然后我参加了一次环球巡演，演莎士比亚、萧伯纳的
剧目。”她叹了口气，“我们女人的可怜之处就是心太软，完全受情感支配。我经历了一次
冲动的婚姻。天哪！我们几乎马上就分手了。我……我不幸被欺骗了。我改回了娘家姓。
一个朋友好心给了我一些钱，我开了一所演讲技巧培训学校。我还帮着建立起了一个业余
剧团。我一定要给你们看几张我们的招贴海报。”
贾普探长知道这有多危险！他成功地躲过了。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐最后只好说：“如
果有任何可能我的名字会出现在报纸上——作为法庭审讯证人，我想说，您一定要确认拼
写是否正确。梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔——梅布尔是M-A-B-E-L-L-E，西尔是S-E-A-L-E。
当然了，如果真的想提到我曾经在牛津话剧团出演过《皆大欢喜》的话——”
“当然了，当然了。”贾普探长礼貌地应付着逃了出去。
在出租车里，他叹了口气，擦了擦额头。
“如果有必要，我们应该可以把她的一切都查清楚，”他说，“除非她说的全都是谎话，
但是我不觉得她在撒谎！”
波洛摇摇头。“说谎的人，”他说，“不会讲得这么详细，也不会这么事无巨细全盘托
出。”
贾普接着说：“我之前还担心她会不敢出庭——多数年龄大的单身女人都会这样。但是
她当过演员，所以热情接受。对她来说这也是个受人瞩目的机会！”
波洛说：“你真的想让她出庭做证吗？”
“可能不会，要看情况。”他停了一下，然后说，“我敢肯定，波洛，这不是一起自
杀。”
“那么动机呢？”
“这个我们目前还回答不了。也许莫利曾经勾引过安伯里奥兹的女儿？”
波洛没吱声。他正试着想象莫利先生扮演一个勾引者，去勾引一个眉目传情的希腊女
郎的样子，但是怎么都想不出。
他提醒贾普，赖利先生说过他的合伙人没有什么生活情趣。
贾普含糊地说：“噢，那可不一定，就像你永远都料不到邮轮上会发生些什么！”接着
他又自我安慰说：“我们跟这个家伙谈过之后就会更清楚些了。”
他们付了车费，走进了萨伏依酒店。贾普问酒店工作人员安伯里奥兹先生在哪里，那
个职员用异样的眼光看着他们，说：“安伯里奥兹先生？对不起，先生，您可能没法见
他。”
“我当然可以，小伙子。”贾普不高兴地说。他把职员往边上拉了拉，亮出了自己的身
份。
酒店职员说：“您没有理解我的话，先生，安伯里奥兹先生半个
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 1
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS
I
Twenty-four hours later Japp rang Poirot up. His tone was bitter.
“Washout! The whole thing!”
“What do you mean, my friend?”
“Morley committed suicide all right. We’ve got the motive.”
“What was it?”
“I’ve just had the doctor’s report on Amberiotis’ death. I won’t give you the official jargon but
in plain English he died as a result of an overdose of adrenaline and novocaine. It acted on his
heart, I understand, and he collapsed. When the wretched devil said he was feeling bad yesterday
afternoon, he was just speaking the truth. Well, there you are! Adrenaline and procaine is the stuff
dentists inject into your gum—local anesthetic. Morley made an error, injected an overdose, and
then after Amberiotis left, he realized what he had done, couldn’t face the music and shot
himself.”
“With a pistol he was not known to possess?” queried Poirot.
“He may have possessed it all the same. Relations don’t know everything. You’d be surprised
sometimes, the things they don’t know!”
“That is true, yes.”
Japp said:
“Well, there you are. It’s a perfectly logical explanation of the whole thing.”
Poirot said:
“You know, my friend, it does not quite satisfy me. It is true that patients have been known to
react unfavourably to these local anesthetics. Adrenaline idiosyncrasy is well- known. In
combination with procaine toxic effects have followed quite small doses. But the doctor or dentist
who employed the drug does not usually carry his concern as far as killing himself!”
“Yes, but you’re talking of cases where the employment of the anesthetic was normal. In that
case no particular blame attaches to the surgeon concerned. It is the idiosyncrasy of the patient that
has caused death. But in this case it’s pretty clear that there was a definite overdose. They haven’t
got the exact amount yet—these quantitive analyses seem to take a month of Sundays—but it was
definitely more than the normal dose. That means that Morley must have made a mistake.”
“Even then,” said Poirot, “it was a mistake. It would not be a criminal matter.”
“No, but it wouldn’t do him any good in his profession. In fact, it would pretty well ruin him.
Nobody’s going to go to a dentist who’s likely to shoot lethal doses of poison into you just
because he happens to be a bit absentminded.”
“It was a curious thing to do, I admit.”
“These things happen — they happen to doctors — they happen to chemists … Careful and
reliable for years, and then—one moment’s inattention—and the mischief’s done and the poor
devils are for it. Morley was a sensitive man. In the case of a doctor, there’s usually a chemist or a
dispenser to share the blame — or to shoulder it altogether. In this case Morley was solely
responsible.”
Poirot demurred.
“Would he not have left some message behind him? Saying what he had done? And that he
could not face the consequences? Something of that kind? Just a word for his sister?”
“No, as I see it, he suddenly realized what had happened—and just lost his nerve and took the
quickest way out.”
Poirot did not answer.
Japp said:
“I know you, old boy. Once you’ve got your teeth into a case of murder, you like it to be a case
of murder! I admit I’m responsible for setting you on the track this time. Well, I made a mistake. I
admit it freely.”
Poirot said:
“I still think, you know, that there might be another explanation.”
“Plenty of other explanations, I daresay. I’ve thought of them—but they’re all too fantastic.
Let’s say that Amberiotis shot Morley, went home, was filled with remorse and committed suicide,
using some stuff he’d pinched from Morley’s surgery. If you think that’s likely, I think it’s
damned unlikely. We’ve got a record of Amberiotis at the Yard. Quite interesting. Started as a
little hotelkeeper in Greece, then he mixed himself up in politics. He’s done espionage work in
Germany and in France—and made very pretty little sums of money. But he wasn’t getting rich
quick enough that way, and he’s believed to have done a spot or two of blackmail. Not a nice man,
our Mr. Amberiotis. He was out in India last year and is believed to have bled one of the native
princes rather freely. The difficult thing has been ever to prove anything against him. Slippery as
an eel! There is another possibility. He might have been blackmailing Morley over something or
other. Morley, having a golden opportunity, plugs an overdose of adrenaline and novocaine into
him, hoping that the verdict will be an unfortunate accident—adrenaline idiosyncrasy—something
of that sort. Then, after the man’s gone away Morley gets a fit of remorse and does himself in.
That’s possible, of course, but I can’t somehow see Morley as a deliberate murderer. No, I’m
pretty sure it was what I first said — a genuine mistake, made on a morning when he was
overworked. We’ll have to leave it at that, Poirot. I’ve talked to the A.C. and he’s quite clear on
it.”
“I see,” said Poirot, with a sigh. “I see….”
Japp said kindly:
“I know what you feel, old boy. But you can’t have a nice juicy murder every time! So long. All
I can say by way of apology is the old phrase: ‘Sorry you have been troubled!’”
He rang off.
五，六，衔树枝 1
五，六，衔树枝
1
二十四小时后，贾普给波洛打了个电话。
他恨恨地说：“水落石出了！整件事情！”
“你什么意思，我的朋友？”
“莫利不是自杀了吗，我们找到动机了。”
“是什么？”
“我刚刚拿到安伯里奥兹的法医报告，我就不给你读官方的行话了，但是上面清清楚楚
地写着他是因肾上腺素和普鲁卡因过量致死。我的理解是，药物进入了他的心脏，然后他
就虚脱了。可怜的家伙昨天说他不舒服，居然是实话。所以，你看，肾上腺素和普鲁卡因
是牙医注射到他的牙龈里的局部麻醉药。莫利出了差错，注射过量了。然后，等安伯里奥
兹走了之后，他意识到这一点，不能面对这个事实，所以就开枪自杀了。”
“用一把没人知道他有过的手枪？”波洛问。
“他可能一直都有那把枪。亲戚们不可能什么都知道。有时你会吃惊于他们有多少事情
都不知道！”
“这倒是真的。”
贾普说：“现在你看到了吧，这就是这个案子完美合理的解释。”
波洛说：
“我的朋友，我并不觉得十分满意。病人们确实会被告知他们可能会对局部麻醉有不适
之感。肾上腺素的特异反应也是众所周知的，与普鲁卡因合用会有毒性，所以一直以来都
是小剂量使用。但是医生或者牙医怎么都不会因为用了这种药而自杀啊！”
“是的，但是你所说的是他们正常使用肾上腺素的情况。在这种情况下，不会有人责怪
相关医生，因为是病人的特异反应引发了死亡。但是在我们的这个案子中，有非常明显的
用药过量。他们还没有查出具体精确的用量，这种定量分析看来需要很长时间，但肯定多
于正常用量。这就意味着莫利肯定是出了差错。”
“即便，”波洛说，“他确实弄错了，那也不是犯罪呀。”
“是，但对于他行医可没什么好处。事实上，这可以完全毁了他。没有人会去找一个因
为一时的心不在焉就给你注射致命剂量毒药的医生。”
“的确不会有人这么做，这个我承认。”
“这种事情确实会发生，也许是医生，也许是药剂师……他们多年来都非常小心，非常
可靠。可是，一次不小心，酿成惨剧，这倒霉的医生就得为它负责。莫利是个敏感的人。
通常来说，医生发生这种情况时，都会有个药剂师或者配药的人和他一起分担罪责，或者
说承担责任。但在我们这个案子里，莫利是要负全责的。”
波洛不同意。
“他不会留下什么字条吗？解释一下发生了什么事，导致他无法面对其后果，诸如此类
的东西？或者只是给他姐姐留个话？”
“不会，我的看法是，他突然意识到发生的事儿，失去了理智，找了个最快的解脱办
法。”波洛没有回答。
贾普说：
“我明白，老伙计，你一旦全身心地投入一桩凶杀案，总会觉得是起谋杀！我承认，这
次是我把你引往那个方向的。可是，我错了，我坦率地承认。”
波洛说：“我还是觉得，也许还有另一种解释。”
“也许有很多种解释呢。我都想过，但都太离谱了。比如说，安伯里奥兹开枪打死了莫
利，回到家，心中懊悔，然后用他从莫利那里偷来的一点药自杀了。也许你觉得这有可
能，可我觉得完全没有可能。苏格兰场有安伯里奥兹的一份记录，非常有意思。他在希腊
从一间小酒店起家，然后涉足政治，在德国和法国做谍报工作，但赚钱很少。后来他很快
赚到了一笔钱，却并不是靠这个。我们相信他做了一两单敲诈的活计。不是个正派人哪，
我们的安伯里奥兹先生。据说去年他在印度时，轻而易举地让一个天真的王子出了血。不
过很难找到这件事的证据，所以他像泥鳅一样溜掉了！还有一种可能，他也许拿某件事来
敲诈莫利。莫利呢，见到机会来了，就给他注射了过量的肾上腺素和普鲁卡因，希望他的
死最后被断定是一起不幸的医疗事故——肾上腺素的排异反应，或者诸如此类的原因。然
后，等他走后，莫利心中懊悔，自杀了。这个当然也有可能，可是我似乎看不出莫利是一
个蓄意杀人犯。不对，我确信是我先前说的第一种可能——那天上午，他由于超负荷工
作，出了差错。应该就是这样，波洛。我已经和头儿说了，他也同意。”
“好吧。”波洛叹了口气，又说，“好吧。”
贾普好心地说：“我明白你的感受，老伙计。但是你不可能每次都能遇上令人感到刺激
的谋杀案哪！就这样吧。我只能套用句老话抱歉地对你说‘对不起，打扰了！’”
他挂断了电话。
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 2
II
Hercule Poirot sat at his handsome modern desk. He liked modern furniture. Its squareness and
solidity were more agreeable to him than the soft contours of antique models.
In front of him was a square sheet of paper with neat headings and comments. Against some of
them were query marks.
First came:
Amberiotis. Espionage. In England for that purpose? Was in India last year.
During period of riots and unrest. Could be a Communist agent.
There was a space, and then the next heading:
Frank Carter? Morley thought him unsatisfactory. Was discharged from his
employment recently. Why?
After that came a name with merely a question mark:
Howard Raikes?
Next came a sentence in inverted commas.
“But that’s absurd!” ???
Hercule Poirot’s head was poised interrogatively. Outside the window a bird was carrying a
twig to build its nest. Hercule Poirot looked rather like a bird as he sat there with his egg-shaped
head cocked to one side.
He made another entry a little farther down:
Mr. Barnes?
He paused and then wrote:
Morley’s office? Mark on carpet. Possibilities.
He considered that last entry for some time.
Then he got up, called for his hat and stick and went out.
五，六，衔树枝 2
2
赫尔克里•波洛坐在他漂亮时髦的办公桌前。与古典家具相比，他更喜欢时髦的家具，
喜欢它们方方正正的外形和敦实的感觉。他面前放着一张正方形的纸，上面工整地写着一
些标题和注释。有些地方还标着问号。
首先是：
安伯里奥兹，间谍活动，来英国也是为此吗？去年在印度，当时有暴动和骚乱。有可
能是共产党的谍报人员。
空行，然后是下一个标题：
弗兰克•卡特？莫利对他不满意，最近失去工作。为什么？
接下来是一个名字，后面只有个问号:
霍华德•赖克斯？
下面是引号里的一句话：
“但是这太荒谬了啊！”
赫尔克里•波洛在脑子里自问自答着。窗外，一只小鸟正衔着一根树枝来筑巢。赫尔克
里•波洛坐在那里，蛋形脑袋歪向一边，看上去就好像一只鸟。他在纸的下方又写了一行
字：
巴恩斯先生？
他停了一下，接着又写：
莫利的办公室？地毯上的痕迹。可能性。
他对着最后一段话考虑了很久。然后，站起身，叫仆人拿来他的帽子和手杖，出门
了。
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 3
III
Three-quarters of an hour later Hercule Poirot came out of the underground station at Ealing
Broadway and five minutes after that he had reached his destination—No. 88, Castlegardens Road.
It was a small semidetached house, and the neatness of the front garden drew an admiring nod
from Hercule Poirot.
“Admirably symmetrical,” he murmured to himself.
Mr. Barnes was at home and Poirot was shown into a small, precise dining room and here
presently Mr. Barnes came to him.
Mr. Barnes was a small man with twinkling eyes and a nearly bald head. He peeped over the top
of his glasses at his visitor while in his left hand he twirled the card that Poirot had given the maid.
He said in a small, prim, almost falsetto voice:
“Well, well, M. Poirot? I am honoured, I am sure.”
“You must excuse my calling upon you in this informal manner,” said Poirot punctiliously.
“Much the best way,” said Mr. Barnes. “And the time is admirable, too. A quarter to seven—
very sound time at this period of the year for catching anyone at home.” He waved his hand. “Sit
down, M. Poirot. I’ve no doubt we’ve got a good deal to talk about. 58, Queen Charlotte Street, I
suppose?”
Poirot said:
“You suppose rightly—but why should you suppose anything of the kind?”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Barnes, “I’ve been retired from the Home Office for some time now—
but I’ve not gone quite rusty yet. If there’s any hush-hush business, it’s far better not to use the
police. Draws attention to it all!”
Poirot said:
“I will ask yet another question. Why should you suppose this is a hush-hush business?”
“Isn’t it?” asked the other. “Well, if it isn’t, in my opinion it ought to be.” He leant forward and
tapped with his pince-nez on the arm of the chair. “In Secret Service work it’s never the little fry
you want—it’s the big bugs at the top—but to get them you’ve got to be careful not to alarm the
little fry.”
“It seems to me, Mr. Barnes, that you know more than I do,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Don’t know anything at all,” replied the other, “just put two and two together.”
“One of those two being?”
“Amberiotis,” said Mr. Barnes promptly. “You forget I sat opposite him in the waiting room for
a minute or two. He didn’t know me. I was always an insignificant chap. Not a bad thing
sometimes. But I knew him all right—and I could guess what he was up to over here.”
“Which was?”
Mr. Barnes twinkled more than ever.
“We’re very tiresome people in this country. We’re conservative, you know, conservative to the
backbone. We grumble a lot, but we don’t really want to smash our democratic government and
try newfangled experiments. That’s what’s so heartbreaking to the wretched foreign agitator who’s
working full time and over! The whole trouble is—from their point of view—that we really are, as
a country, comparatively solvent. Hardly any other country in Europe is at the moment! To upset
England—really upset it—you’ve got to play hell with its finance—that’s what it comes to! And
you can’t play hell with its finance when you’ve got men like Alistair Blunt at the helm.”
Mr. Barnes paused and then went on:
“Blunt is the kind of man who in private life would always pay his bills and live within his
income—whether he’d got two-pence a year or several million makes no difference. He is that
type of fellow. And he just simply thinks that there’s no reason why a country shouldn’t be the
same! No costly experiments. No frenzied expenditure on possible Utopias. That’s why”—he
paused—“that’s why certain people have made up their minds that Blunt must go.”
“Ah,” said Poirot.
Mr. Barnes nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I know what I’m talking about. Quite nice people some of ’em. Long-haired,
earnest-eyed, and full of ideals of a better world. Others not so nice, rather nasty in fact. Furtive
little rats with beards and foreign accents. And another lot again of the Big Bully type. But they’ve
all got the same idea: Blunt Must Go!”
He tilted his chair gently back and forward again.
“Sweep away the old order! The Tories, the Conservatives, the Diehards, the hardheaded
suspicious Business Men, that’s the idea. Perhaps these people are right—I don’t know—but I
know one thing—you’ve got to have something to put in place of the old order—something that
will work—not just something that sounds all right. Well, we needn’t go into that. We are dealing
with concrete facts, not abstract theories. Take away the props and the building will come down.
Blunt is one of the props of Things as They Are.”
He leaned forward.
“They’re out after Blunt all right. That I know. And it’s my opinion that yesterday morning they
nearly got him. I may be wrong—but it’s been tried before. The method, I mean.”
He paused and then quietly, circumspectly, he mentioned three names. An unusually able
Chancellor of the Exchequer, a progressive and farsighted manufacturer, and a hopeful young
politician who had captured the public fancy. The first had died on the operating table, the second
had succumbed to an obscure disease which had been recognized too late, the third had been run
down by a car and killed.
“It’s very easy,” said Mr. Barnes. “The anesthetist muffed the giving of the anesthetic—well,
that does happen. In the second case the symptoms were puzzling. The doctor was just a well-
meaning G.P., couldn’t be expected to recognize them. In the third case, anxious mother was
driving car in a hurry to get to her sick child. Sob stuff—the jury acquitted her of blame!”
He paused:
“All quite natural. And soon forgotten. But I’ll just tell you where those three people are now.
The anesthetist is set up on his own with a first-class research laboratory—no expense spared. That
G.P. has retired from practice. He’s got a yacht, and a nice little place on the Broads. The mother
is giving all her children a first-class education, ponies to ride in the holidays, nice house in the
country with a big garden and paddocks.”
He nodded his head slowly.
“In every profession and walk of life there is someone who is vulnerable to temptation. The
trouble in our case is that Morley wasn’t!”
“You think it was like that?” said Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Barnes said:
“I do. It’s not easy to get at one of these big men, you know. They’re fairly well protected. The
car stunt is risky and doesn’t always succeed. But a man is defenceless enough in a dentist’s
chair.”
He took off his pince-nez, polished them and put them on again. He said:
“That’s my theory! Morley wouldn’t do the job. He knew too much, though, so they had to put
him out.”
“They?” asked Poirot.
“When I say they—I mean the organization that’s behind all this. Only one person actually did
the job, of course.”
“Which person?”
“Well, I could make a guess,” said Mr. Barnes, “but it’s only a guess and I might be wrong.”
Poirot said quietly: “Reilly?”
“Of course! He’s the obvious person. I think that probably they never asked Morley to do the
job himself. What he was to do, was to turn Blunt over to his partner at the last minute. Sudden
illness, something of that sort. Reilly would have done the actual business—and there would have
been another regrettable accident—death of a famous banker—unhappy young dentist in court in
such a state of dither and misery that he would have been let down light. He’d have given up
dentistry afterwards—and settled down somewhere on a nice income of several thousands a year.”
Mr. Barnes looked across at Poirot.
“Don’t think I’m romancing,” he said. “These things happen.”
“Yes, yes, I know they happen.”
Mr. Barnes went on, tapping a book with a lurid jacket that lay on a table close at hand: “I read
a lot of these spy yarns. Fantastic, some of them. But curiously enough they’re not any more
fantastic than the real thing. There are beautiful adventuresses, and dark sinister men with foreign
accents, and gangs and international associations and super crooks! I’d blush to see some of the
things I know set down in print—nobody would believe them for a minute!”
Poirot said:
“In your theory, where does Amberiotis come in?”
“I’m not quite sure. I think he was meant to take the rap. He’s played a double game more than
once and I daresay he was framed. That’s only an idea, mind.”
Hercule Poirot said quietly:
“Granting that your ideas are correct—what will happen next?”
Mr. Barnes rubbed his nose.
“They’ll try to get him again,” he said. “Oh, yes. They’ll have another try. Time’s short. Blunt
has got people looking after him, I daresay. They’ll have to be extra careful. It won’t be a man
hiding in a bush with a pistol. Nothing so crude as that. You tell ’em to look out for the respectable
people—the relations, the old servants, the chemist’s assistant who makes up a medicine, the wine
merchant who sells him his port. Getting Alistair Blunt out of the way is worth a great many
millions, and it’s wonderful what people will do for—say a nice little income of four thousand a
year!”
“As much as that?”
“Possibly more …”
Poirot was silent a moment, then he said:
“I have had Reilly in mind from the first.”
“Irish? I.R.A.?”
“Not that so much, but there was a mark, you see, on the carpet, as though the body had been
dragged along it. But if Morley had been shot by a patient he would be shot in the surgery and
there would be no need to move the body. That is why, from the first, I suspected that he had been
shot, not in the surgery, but in his office—next door. That would mean that it was not a patient
who shot him, but some member of his own household.”
“Neat,” said Mr. Barnes appreciatively.
Hercule Poirot got up and held out a hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “You have helped me a great deal.”
五，六，衔树枝 3
3
一小时四十五分钟之后，赫尔克里•波洛从伊灵大道地铁站走出来。五分钟后，他到达
了目的地——城堡园路八十八号。这是一幢小小的、一面与邻居相连的连排屋。看到屋子
前院的花园整齐有致，赫尔克里•波洛赞赏地点点头。
“漂亮的对称格局。”他自言自语地说。
巴恩斯先生在家。波洛被领到一个很精致的小客厅。不一会儿，主人就出来见他了。
巴恩斯先生个子矮小，两眼很有神，头发却几乎掉光了。他透过眼镜上下打量着来访者，
左手拨弄着波洛刚刚交给女佣的名片。他谨慎地几乎是用假声轻轻地说：
“哦，哦，波洛先生吗？我很荣幸。”
“请原谅我这么贸然来访。”波洛礼貌地说。
“这样最好，”巴恩斯先生说，“这个时间很合适，七点差一刻。这个季节里这个时间不
管去谁家找人都是最保险的。”他挥了挥手，“坐吧，波洛先生。我想我们俩一定有不少要
谈的。夏洛特皇后街五十八号，我猜？”
波洛说：“您猜对了，但您是怎么想到的呢？”
“亲爱的先生，”巴恩斯先生说，“我从内政部退休已经有些时候了，不过我还没有完全
迟钝。如果有什么秘密的事儿，最好不要惊动警方，太惹人注意！”
波洛说：“我想再问一个问题，您为什么会认为这是个秘密的事儿呢？”
“不是吗？”对方问，“那么，如果不是——我认为它应该是。”他身子向前倾，用眼镜
轻轻地敲打着椅子的扶手，“在特工情报工作中，您想要的从来都不是那些小苍蝇，而是最
大的蛀虫。但是如果想找到他们，您必须格外小心，不能惊动那些小苍蝇。”
“我觉得，巴恩斯先生，您知道的比我多。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“我什么都不知道，”对方说，“只不过做了些简单的推理而已。”
“您的推论之一是？”
“安伯里奥兹，”巴恩斯先生马上说，“您忘了我在候诊室里和他面对面坐了一两分钟。
他不认识我。我永远都是个不起眼的人，有时这并不是件坏事。可是我认识他，我还可以
猜到他去那里干什么。”
“干什么？”
巴恩斯先生两眼放光：“我们国家的人都很讨厌，很保守，明白吗，保守到骨子里去
了。我们也有很多抱怨，但是并不想砸烂这个民主政府去做新的尝试。这就使那些可悲的
全力要颠覆我们的外国煽动者痛心疾首！在他们看来，问题的关键在于，作为一个国家，
我们有着相当的金融实力。目前这在欧洲国家中已是绝无仅有了！要打击英国，真正地打
击它，你必须搞垮它的金融，这是唯一的办法！那么有阿利斯泰尔•布伦特这样的人在掌
权，你就不可能搞垮英国金融。”
巴恩斯先生停了停，又接着说：“布伦特是那种私人生活中永远都不欠账的人，只在自
己的财力范围内生活——不管他每年进账两分钱还是几百万都一样。他就是这类人。在他
看来，一个国家也应该是这样的！没有昂贵的实验，没有狂热的开支用于乌托邦式的梦
想。这就是为什么，”他又停了一下，“这就是为什么一些人下决心要赶走他。”
“啊。”波洛说。
巴恩斯先生点点头。“是的，”他说，“我知道自己在说什么。他们当中有些是很好的
人，长长的头发，期待的眼神，一心想着更美好的未来。另一些人呢就不太好，事实上是
非常坏。他们留着小胡子，操着外国口音，整天鬼鬼祟祟。还有另一大帮恶棍之类的。这
些人都认为：布伦特必须滚蛋！”
他把椅子微微向后靠了靠，然后又向前倾：“他们都想打破旧秩序！那些托利党分子，
保守党分子，顽固派，还有那些精明多疑的商人，都是这么想的。也许这些人是对的，我
不知道。但我知道一件事——你必须要清楚用什么来代替旧秩序——必须是切实可行的东
西，而不只是听上去好听。呃，我们在这里也不必深究，反正我们需要的是确凿的证据，
而不是虚无缥缈的理论。把支柱铲除，房子自然就倒了。布伦特就是一根这样的支柱。”
他又向前靠了靠：“他们是冲着布伦特去的，这个我知道。依我看，昨天上午他们差点
儿得手。也许我错了，但是过去就有人用过，我是说这种手段。”
他停了下来，接着他谨慎地、轻声地说出了三个名字。一个是才干卓越的财政大臣，
一个是有远见、有进步思想的企业家，还有一个是颇得民心、有希望的年轻政治家。第一
个死在手术台上，第二个因为得了一种不知名的怪病，没有被及时诊断出来而死，第三个
死于车祸。
“非常简单，”巴恩斯先生说，“麻醉师弄错了麻药。你看，这确实可能发生。第二个例
子中，症状比较不明显。看病的医生只是个好心的全科医生，不能指望他诊断出病因。第
三个例子是一个心急如焚的妈妈开车去接她生病的孩子。催人泪下的故事，陪审团宣判她
无罪！”
他又停了一下：“事情都发生得非常自然，而且不久就被人遗忘。但是让我来告诉你这
三个涉事人现在的情况。第一个麻醉师以个人名义创建了一所一流的实验室——不惜工
本。第二个普通科的医生退休了，现住在布劳兹一座不错的房子里，还有一艘游艇。那个
妈妈呢，现在住在郊外一座漂亮的花园洋房里，还有一个围场。她的孩子们不仅可以接受
一流的教育，还可以在假日里骑马。”
他边说边慢慢地点着头。
“在任何职业任何行当中，都会有经不住诱惑的人。我们这个案件的问题在于莫利不是
这种人。”
“您觉得事情是这样的？”赫尔克里•波洛说。
巴恩斯先生说：
“是的。要想接近一个大人物很不容易，你知道。他们都被保护得很好。汽车事故有风
险，而且并不是每次都能得手。但是在牙医的手术椅上，人毫无防御能力。”
他摘下眼镜，擦了擦，然后又戴上。他说：
“这就是我的推断！莫利不肯下手，然而他知道的又太多，所以他们必须把他除掉。”
“他们？”波洛问。
“我说的他们，是指这件事背后的那个组织。当然，具体下手的只是一个人而已。”
“哪个人？”
“这个，我可以猜得到，”巴恩斯先生说，“但我只是猜测，也可能不对。”
波洛轻轻地问：“赖利？”
“当然啦！他是最明显的一个。我想也许他们根本就没有要莫利亲自下手。他要做的就
是在最后一分钟把布伦特推给他的搭档——突然不舒服之类的借口。由赖利来具体操作，
于是就会出现另一桩让人遗憾的医疗事故——著名的银行家死了，抑郁的年轻牙医在法庭
上瑟瑟发抖，楚楚可怜。然后很可能就会被轻易地放过。之后，他会放弃行医，以每年几
千英镑的可观收入在某个地方安居下来。”
巴恩斯先生望着波洛。“别以为我是在编故事，”他说，“这种事情确实时常发生。”
“是的，是的，的确时常发生。”
巴恩斯先生用手敲打着放在他身边桌子上的一本封面艳丽的书，说：“我读了不少这样
的间谍故事。有些非常离奇。但奇怪的是它们怎么都不如实际发生的精彩。里面有美丽的
女冒险家，有操着外国口音的邪恶的坏人，有帮派、国际组织，还有超级大骗子！看到我
自己知道的一些东西出现在故事里我都觉得难为情，根本不会有人相信它们是真的！”
波洛说：“依你的推断，安伯里奥兹充当了什么角色？”
“我不太确定，我想他是个替罪羊。他不止一次地玩过双面间谍的把戏。我敢说他是被
算计了。不过，这只是个想法。”
赫尔克里•波洛轻轻地说：
“如果您的想法是正确的，那么接下来会发生什么？”
巴恩斯先生擦了擦鼻子。
“他们还会再找机会对付他，”他说，“哦，没错，他们还会再找机会。时间不会太长。
布伦特有人保护，我敢说，他们需要格外小心。下手的人不会拿把手枪藏在树丛里，一定
不会这么简单明显。您要告诉他们要注意那些和他有来往的体面人——他的亲戚朋友、老
用人、帮他配药的药剂师助理、卖酒给他的酒商。干掉阿利斯泰尔•布伦特可以挣好几百万
呢。人们为了，比如说一年四千英镑的收入，什么都愿意做！”
“有这么多吗？”
“也许会更多……”
波洛没吱声。过了一会儿他说：“我开始时也想到过赖利。”
“爱尔兰人？爱尔兰共和军？”
“没想这么多。但是，您知道，地毯上有一处好像尸体从上边被拖过的痕迹。可是，如
果莫利是被一个病人开枪打死的，那他就应该是在他的诊室里被枪杀，没有必要去移动尸
体啊。这就是为什么我从一开始就怀疑他不是在诊室里被害的，而是在他的办公室里——
就在诊室隔壁。这就意味着他并不是被病人杀害的，而是那栋房子里的某个成员。”
“不错。”巴恩斯先生欣赏地说。
赫尔克里•波洛起身，伸手告别。
“谢谢您，”他说，“您给了我很大帮助。”
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 4
IV
On his way home, Poirot called in at the Glengowrie Court Hotel.
As a result of that visit he rang Japp up very early the following morning.
“Bonjour, mon ami. The inquest is today, is it not?”
“It is. Are you going to attend?”
“I do not think so.”
“It won’t really be worth your while, I expect.”
“Are you calling Miss Sainsbury Seale as a witness?”
“The lovely Mabelle—why can’t she just spell it plain Mabel. These women get my goat! No,
I’m not calling her. There’s no need.”
“You have heard nothing from her?”
“No, why should I?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I wondered, that was all. Perhaps it may interest you to learn that Miss Sainsbury Seale walked
out of the Glengowrie Court Hotel just before dinner the night before last—and did not come
back.”
“What? She’s hooked it?”
“That is a possible explanation.”
“But why should she? She’s quite all right, you know. Perfectly genuine and aboveboard. I
cabled Calcutta about her—that was before I knew the reason for Amberiotis’ death, otherwise I
shouldn’t have bothered—and I got the reply last night. Everything O.K. She’s been known there
for years, and her whole account of herself is true—except that she’s slurred over her marriage a
bit. Married a Hindu student and then found he’d got a few attachments already. So she resumed
her maiden name and took to good works. She’s hand and glove with the missionaries—teaches
elocution, and helps in amateur dramatic shows. In fact, what I call a terrible woman — but
definitely above suspicion of being mixed up in a murder. And now you say she’s walked out on
us! I can’t understand it.” He paused a minute and then went on doubtfully: “Perhaps she just got
fed up with that hotel? I could have easily.”
Poirot said:
“Her luggage is still there. She took nothing with her.”
Japp swore.
“When did she go?”
“About a quarter to seven.”
“What about the hotel people?”
“They’re very upset. Manageress looked quite distraught.”
“Why didn’t they report to the police?”
“Because, mon cher, supposing that a lady does happen to stay out for a night (however
unlikely it may seem from her appearance) she will be justifiably annoyed by finding on her return
that the police have been called in. Mrs. Harrison, the manageress in question, called up various
hospitals in case there had been an accident. She was considering notifying the police when I
called. My appearance seemed to her like an answer to a prayer. I charged myself with everything,
and explained that I would enlist the help of a very discreet police officer.”
“The discreet police officer being yours truly, I suppose?”
“You suppose rightly.”
Japp groaned:
“All right. I’ll meet you at the Glengowrie Court Hotel after the inquest.”
五，六，衔树枝 4
4
回家的路上，波洛又去了格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店。
有了这次到访，他第二天一早就打电话给贾普。
“早晨好，我的朋友。今天开庭，对吗？”
“是的，你会去吗？”
“我想我不会。”
“我想确实也不值得你费神去听。”
“你叫塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐出庭做证吗？”
“可爱的梅布尔（Mabelle）——她为什么不能把名字弄得简单点儿,Mabel不行吗？这种
女人真让我受不了！没有，我没叫她来，没必要。”
“你没听到她的什么消息吗？”
“没有，出什么事儿了吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“我随便问问。你也许有兴趣知道塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐前天晚饭后离开了格伦戈威尔
宫廷酒店，而且一直都没再回去。”
“什么？她逃走了？”
“这可能是一种解释。”
“但她为什么要逃呢？她没什么问题，说的都是实话，履历也很清楚。我给加尔各答发
了电报了解她的情况——那是在我知道安伯里奥兹的死因前，否则我都不会发。而且昨晚
我拿到了回复，都没有问题。她在那边住了好多年，她对自己的陈述都如实，只是关于婚
姻那一段有些含糊。她嫁给了一个印度学生，后来发现他有另外几个相好。所以她恢复了
自由身，开始了慈善工作。她和传教士们合作，教授演讲技巧，帮助建立业余剧团。事实
上，我觉得她挺惨的，但是绝对不可能与凶杀案有牵连。现在，你又说她跑了！我实在不
理解。”他停了一分钟，然后不确定地说，“也许她只是厌倦了那家酒店？我就挺容易产生
这种念头。”
波洛说：“她的行李还在酒店，她走的时候什么都没带。”
贾普说了句脏话。
“她什么时间离开的？”
“大概七点差一刻。”
“酒店那边的人怎么说？”
“他们都很难过，女经理看上去完全乱了方寸。”
“他们为什么没有报警呢？”
“因为，我的朋友，设想一下一位女士偶尔去外面住一晚（不管她的情况看上去多么不
像），回来时如果发现酒店把警察给叫来了，她得有多生气。哈里森夫人，酒店的那个女
经理，给几个医院都打了电话，以防她是出了车祸。我去时她正考虑通知警署。我的出现
在她看来简直是上帝的安排。我把事情揽了过来，说我会找一位办事谨慎的警官来帮忙。”
“这位办事谨慎的警官一定是您的好朋友了，我猜？”
“你猜得很对。”
贾普嘟哝说：“好吧，庭审后我跟你一起去格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店。”
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 5
V
Japp grumbled as they were waiting for the manageress.
“What does the woman want to disappear for?”
“It is curious, you admit?”
They had no time for more.
Mrs. Harrison, proprietor of the Glengowrie Court, was with them.
Mrs. Harrison was voluble and almost tearful. She was so worried about Miss Sainsbury Seale.
What could have happened to her? Rapidly she went over every possibility of disaster. Loss of
memory, sudden illness, haemorrhage, run down by an omnibus, robbery and assault—
She paused at last for breath, murmuring:
“Such a nice type of woman—and she seemed so happy and comfortable here.”
She took them, at Japp’s request, up to the chaste bedroom occupied by the missing lady.
Everything was neat and orderly. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, nightclothes were folded ready on
the bed, in a corner were Miss Sainsbury Seale’s two modest suitcases. A row of shoes stood
under the dressing table—some serviceable Oxfords, two pairs of rather meretricious glacé fancy
shoes with court heels and ornament with bows of leather, some plain black satin evening shoes,
practically new, and a pair of moccasins. Poirot noted that the evening shoes were a size smaller
than the day ones—a fact that might be put down to corns or to vanity. He wondered whether Miss
Sainsbury Seale had found time to sew the second buckle on her shoe before she went out. He
hoped so. Slovenliness in dress always annoyed him.
Japp was busy looking through some letters in a drawer of the dressing table. Hercule Poirot
gingerly pulled open a drawer of the chest of drawers. It was full of underclothing. He shut it again
modestly, murmuring that Miss Sainsbury Seale seemed to believe in wearing wool next to the
skin, and opened another drawer which contained stockings.
Japp said:
“Got anything, Poirot?”
Poirot said sadly, as he dangled a pair: “Ten inch, cheap shiny silk, price probably two-and-
eleven.”
Japp said:
“You’re not valuing for probate, old boy. Two letters here from India, one or two receipts from
charitable organizations, no bills. Most estimable character, our Miss Sainsbury Seale.”
“But very little taste in dress,” said Poirot sadly.
“Probably thought dress wordly.” Japp was noting down an address from an old letter dated two
months back.
“These people may know something about her,” he said. “Address up Hampstead way. Sound
as though they were fairly intimate.”
There was nothing more to be gleaned at the Glengowrie Court Hotel except the negative fact
that Miss Sainsbury Seale had not seemed excited or worried in any way when she went out, and it
would appear that she had definitely intended to return since on passing her friend Mrs. Bolitho in
the hall, she had called out:
“After dinner I will show you that Patience I was telling you about.”
Moreover, it was the custom at the Glengowrie Court to give notice in the dining room if you
intended to be out for a meal. Miss Sainsbury Seale had not done so. Therefore it seemed clear that
she had intended returning for dinner which was served from seven thirty to eight thirty.
But she had not returned. She had walked out into the Cromwell Road and disappeared.
Japp and Poirot called at the address in West Hampstead which had headed the letter found.
It was a pleasant house and the Adams were pleasant people with a large family. They had lived
in India for many years and spoke warmly of Miss Sainsbury Seale. But they could not help.
They had not seen her lately, not for a month, not in fact since they came back from their Easter
holidays. She had been staying then at a hotel near Russell Square. Mrs. Adams gave Poirot the
address of it and also the address of some other Anglo-Indian friends of Miss Sainsbury Seale’s
who lived in Streatham.
But the two men drew a blank in both places. Miss Sainsbury Seale had stayed at the hotel in
question, but they remembered very little about her and nothing that could be of any help. She was
a nice quiet lady and had lived abroad. The people in Streatham were no help either. They had not
seen Miss Sainsbury Seale since February.
There remained the possibility of an accident, but that possibility was dispelled too. No hospital
had admitted any casualty answering to the description given.
Miss Sainsbury Seale had disappeared into space.
五，六，衔树枝 5
5
他们在等女经理时，贾普还在嘟嘟囔囔地说：
“这个女人为什么会失踪呢？”
“你也觉得很奇怪，对吧？”
他们没时间再继续聊天了。
哈里森夫人，格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店的主人出现在他们面前。她一直讲个不停，一副快
要哭了的样子。她特别为塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐担心。她会发生什么事儿啊？她很快就想到
了所有可能发生的危险，失忆，突然病倒，哪里出血了，被车撞了，遭抢劫或者袭击——
终于，她停下来喘了口气儿，又自言自语道：
“多好的一个女人，而且她看上去在这里住得很愉快，很舒服啊。”
应贾普的要求，她带他们来到楼上失踪女士的客房。房间里干净整齐。衣服都在衣柜
里挂着，睡衣叠得好好的放在床上。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的两只不大的旅行箱摆在一个角
落，一排鞋子摆在梳妆台下面——有实用的牛津布鞋、两双浮夸的带有皮蝴蝶结装饰的高
跟鞋、一双黑色缎面的晚装鞋，看上去还很新，还有一双鹿皮鞋。波洛注意到那双晚装鞋
比其他的鞋要小一号，这种情况一般是因为买减价商品或者是为了虚荣，不想自己的脚看
上去太大。他想知道塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐离开前有没有时间把她那个掉了的鞋扣给缝上。
他希望她有，衣冠不整总是让他感到烦躁。
贾普忙着翻看梳妆台抽屉里的一些信件。赫尔克里•波洛小心翼翼地拉开抽屉柜的一个
抽屉，里面全都是内衣。他轻轻地把它关上，自言自语地说塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐喜欢羊毛
内衣。他又拉开了另一个抽屉，里面是袜子。
贾普问：“发现什么了吗，波洛？”
波洛手里拎着一双丝袜，伤心地说：
“十英寸长，廉价丝，价格估计是两块一毛一。”
贾普说：“你又不是在给遗物估价，老伙计。这儿有两封印度的来信，慈善机构寄来的
一两张收据，没有账单。我们的塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐人品可贵啊。”
“不过对于服装没什么品位。”波洛难过地说。
“可能她觉得服装只是无用的皮囊吧。”
贾普正在把一封两个月前的来信上面的地址记录下来。
“这些人也许会知道些关于她的事情。”他说，“住址是汉普斯特德那边的，听上去他们
似乎很熟。”
他们在格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店再也找不到其他什么线索了，只是发现塞恩斯伯里•西尔小
姐离开时既没有太兴奋，也没有太担忧。而且看上去她还准备再回来，因为她在走廊里和
她的朋友波莱索太太擦身而过时，还大声说：
“晚饭后我来教你玩我说的那种纸牌。”
此外，在格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店还有个规矩，如果你打算在外面用餐的话，要给餐厅打
声招呼。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐并没有这么做。所以，很明显她是想要回来吃晚餐的。晚餐
时间是七点半到八点半。
但是她没有回来。她出门走上克伦威尔路之后就消失了。
贾普和波洛来到西汉普斯特德，那封信上的地址。
这是一座很漂亮的房子。亚当斯一大家子人都很友善。他们也在印度住过很多年，所
以热情地谈起了塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐。但是他们帮不上什么忙。
他们有段时间没见过她了，有一个多月了。实际上，从复活节度假回来后，他们就没
再见过她。她那时还住在拉塞尔广场边上的一家酒店。亚当斯太太把这家酒店的地址给了
波洛，还给了他另外一些塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐朋友的地址。他们都曾经旅居印度，目前住
在斯特雷特姆。
然而，两个男人在以上两个地方都一无所获。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐确实在那个酒店住
过，但是他们都不太记得她了，也没能提供什么有用的信息。只是说她人不错，非常安
静，曾经住在国外。住在斯特雷特姆的那几个人也没什么帮助。他们自二月份以来就一直
没见过塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐。
还有一种可能是，她遇到了意外。但是这种可能性也被排除了，因为没有医院收到过
符合描述的伤亡人士。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐就此人间蒸发。
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 6
VI
On the following morning, Poirot went to the Holborn Palace Hotel and asked for Mr. Howard
Raikes.
By this time it would hardly have surprised him to hear that Mr. Howard Raikes, too, had
stepped out one evening and had never returned.
Mr. Howard Raikes, however, was still at the Holborn Palace and was said to be breakfasting.
The apparition of Hercule Poirot at the breakfast table seemed to give Mr. Howard Raikes
doubtful pleasure.
Though not looking so murderous as in Poirot’s disordered recollection of him, his scowl was
still formidable—he stared at his uninvited guest and said ungraciously:
“What the hell?”
“You permit?”
Hercule Poirot drew a chair from another table.
Mr. Raikes said:
“Don’t mind me! Sit down and make yourself at home!”
Poirot smiling availed himself of the permission.
Mr. Raikes said ungraciously:
“Well, what do you want?”
“Do you remember me at all, Mr. Raikes?”
“Never set eyes on you in my life.”
“There you are wrong. You sat in the same room with me for at least five minutes not more than
three days ago.”
“I can’t remember every one I meet at some Goddamned party or other.”
“It was not a party,” said Poirot. “It was a dentist’s waiting room.”
Some swift emotion flashed into the young man’s eyes and died again at once. His manner
changed. It was no longer impatient and casual. It became suddenly wary. He looked across at
Poirot and said:
“Well!”
Poirot studied him carefully before replying. He felt, quite positively, that this was indeed a
dangerous young man. A lean hungry face, an aggressive jaw, the eyes of a fanatic. It was a face,
though, that women might find attractive. He was untidily, even shabbily dressed, and he ate with
a careless voraciousness that was, so the man watching him thought, significant.
Poirot summed him up to himself.
“It is a wolf with ideas….”
Raikes said harshly:
“What the hell do you mean—coming here like this?”
“My visit is disagreeable to you?”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“I apologize.”
Dexterously Poirot whipped out his card case. He extracted a card and passed it across the table.
Again that emotion that he could not quite define showed upon Mr. Raikes’ lean face. It was not
fear—it was more aggressive than fear. After it, quite unquestionably, came anger.
He tossed the card back.
“So that’s who you are, is it? I’ve heard of you.”
“Most people have,” said Hercule Poirot modestly.
“You’re a private dick, aren’t you? The expensive kind. The kind people hire when money is no
object—when it’s worth paying anything in order to save their miserable skins!”
“If you do not drink your coffee,” said Hercule Poirot, “it will get cold.”
He spoke kindly and with authority.
Raikes stared at him.
“Say, just what kind of an insect are you?”
“The coffee in this country is very bad anyway—” said Poirot.
“I’ll say it is,” agreed Mr. Raikes with fervour.
“But if you allow it to get cold it is practically undrinkable.”
The young man leant forward.
“What are you getting at? What’s the big idea in coming round here?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I wanted to—see you.”
“Oh yes?” said Mr. Raikes sceptically.
His eyes narrowed.
“If it’s the money you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong man! The people I’m in with can’t
afford to buy what they want. Better go back to the man who pays your salary.”
Poirot said, sighing:
“Nobody has paid me anything—yet.”
“You’re telling me,” said Mr. Raikes.
“It is the truth,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am wasting a good deal of valuable time for no
recompense whatsoever. Simply, shall we say, to assuage my curiosity.”
“And I suppose,” said Mr. Raikes, “you were just assuaging your curiosity at that darned
dentist’s the other day.”
Poirot shook his head. He said:
“You seem to overlook the most ordinary reason for being in a dentist’s waiting room—which
is that one is waiting to have one’s teeth attended to.”
“So that’s what you were doing?” Mr. Raikes’ tone expressed contemptuous unbelief. “Waiting
to have your teeth seen to?”
“Certainly.”
“You’ll excuse me if I say I don’t believe it.”
“May I ask then, Mr. Raikes, what you were doing there?”
Mr. Raikes grinned suddenly. He said:
“Got you there! I was waiting to have my teeth seen to also.”
“You had perhaps the toothache?”
“That’s right, big boy.”
“But all the same, you went away without having your teeth attended to?”
“What if I did? That’s my business.”
He paused—then he said, with a quick savagery of tone: “Oh, what the hell’s the use of all this
slick talking? You were there to look after your big shot. Well, he’s all right, isn’t he? Nothing
happened to your precious Mr. Alistair Blunt. You’ve nothing on me.”
Poirot said:
“Where did you go when you went so abruptly out of the waiting room?”
“Left the house, of course.”
“Ah!” Poirot looked up at the ceiling.
“But nobody saw you leave, Mr. Raikes.”
“Does that matter?”
“It might. Somebody died in that house not long afterwards, remember.”
Raikes said carelessly:
“Oh, you mean the dentist fellow.”
Poirot’s tone was hard as he said:
“Yes, I mean the dentist fellow.”
Raikes stared. He said:
“You trying to pin that on me? Is that the game? Well, you can’t do it. I’ve just read the account
of the inquest yesterday. The poor devil shot himself because he’d made a mistake with a local
anesthetic and one of his patients died.”
Poirot went on unmoved: “Can you prove that you left the house when you say you did? Is there
anyone who can say definitely where you were between twelve and one?”
The other’s eyes narrowed.
“So you are trying to pin it on me? I suppose Blunt put you up to this?”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“You will pardon me, but it seems an obsession with you—this persistent harping on Mr.
Alistair Blunt. I am not employed by him, I never have been employed by him. I am concerned,
not with his safety, but with the death of a man who did good work in his chosen profession.”
Raikes shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t believe you. You’re Blunt’s private dick all right.” His face darkened
as he leaned across the table. “But you can’t save him, you know. He’s got to go—he and
everything he stands for! There’s got to be a new deal—the old corrupt system of finance has got
to go—this cursed net of bankers all over the world like a spider’s web. They’ve got to be swept
away. I’ve nothing against Blunt personally—but he’s the type of man I hate. He’s mediocre—
he’s smug. He’s the sort you can’t move unless you use dynamite. He’s the sort of man who says,
‘You can’t disrupt the foundations of civilization.’ Can’t you, though? Let him wait and see! He’s
an obstruction in the way of Progress and he’s got to be removed. There’s no room in the world
today for men like Blunt—men who hark back to the past—men who want to live as their fathers
lived or even as their grandfathers lived! You’ve got a lot of them here in England—crusted old
diehards—useless, worn-out symbols of a decayed era. And, my God, they’ve got to go! There’s
got to be a new world. Do you get me—a new world, see?”
Poirot sighed and rose. He said:
“I see, Mr. Raikes, that you are an idealist.”
“What if I am?”
“Too much of an idealist to care about the death of a dentist.”
Mr. Raikes said scornfully:
“What does the death of one miserable dentist matter?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“It does not matter to you. It matters to me. That is the difference between us.”
五，六，衔树枝 6
6
第二天上午，波洛来到霍尔本宫酒店找霍华德•赖克斯先生。
到目前为止，即便是得知霍华德•赖克斯先生也在某天晚上出门后没再回来，他也不会
再觉得吃惊。
然而，霍华德•赖克斯先生依然还在霍尔本宫酒店，正在吃早餐。
赫尔克里•波洛突然出现在餐桌边上让霍华德•赖克斯先生很不愉快。虽然不像波洛记忆
中的杀人犯的样子，他还是掩饰不住满面怒容，盯着不请自到的客人，很没礼貌地问：
“见鬼！什么事？”
“能坐下吗？”赫尔克里•波洛从另一张餐桌边上拉过一把椅子。
赖克斯先生说：“别管我！坐吧，自便！”
波洛微笑着接受了邀请。
赖克斯先生再次粗鲁地问：
“说吧，你想要干什么？”
“您记得我吗，赖克斯先生？”
“从来没见过你。”
“那您就错了。三天前，您和我同坐在一个房间里不止五分钟呢。”
“我记不得在该死的聚会或什么地方遇到的每个人。”
“不是聚会，”波洛说，“是在牙医的候诊室。”
年轻人的眼中迅速闪过一丝情感的波动，随后马上又消失了。他的态度也变了，不再
是那种随便和不耐烦，而是突然变得有所提防。他隔着餐桌看着波洛说：“好吧！”
波洛没说话，仔细地观察着他。他觉得，这个年轻人完全有可能是个危险人物。一张
瘦削的、流露出饥渴的脸，一副挑衅的下颚，还有一双狂热分子的眼睛。这张脸对女人来
说或许很有诱惑力。他衣冠不整，衣着寒酸。狼吞虎咽的吃相让人觉得他充满了贪欲。波
洛在心里把他总结为“一匹满脑子鬼主意的狼……”
赖克斯突然说：“你到底什么意思，就这么跑来找我？”
“您不欢迎我的到访吗？”
“我根本就不知道你是谁。”
“抱歉。”波洛迅速掏出他的名片盒，抽出一张名片，隔着餐桌递了过去。
那种他形容不出的表情又一次出现在赖克斯先生瘦削的脸上。不是害怕——比害怕更
有挑衅性。随后，这种表情又变成了毫无疑问的愤怒。
他把名片扔了回去。
“这就是你，对吧？我听说过你。”
“大部分人都听说过我。”赫尔克里•波洛谦虚地说。
“你是个做私家生意的家伙，而且还是很贵的那种，不在乎钱的人才会找的人——当他
们为了自身安全不惜代价时！”
“您如果再不喝您的咖啡，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“它就要凉了。”
他的口气很和善，却带着威严。
赖克斯瞪着他。
“呵，你到底算什么鸟？”
“这个国家的咖啡不管怎么着都很难喝。”波洛说。
“这倒是。”赖克斯先生表示同意。
“但是，如果您等它凉了，那就真的是难以入口了。”
年轻人把身体向前靠了靠。
“你想要说什么？你到这儿来到底想干什么？”
波洛耸耸肩说：“我想——见见你。”
“噢，是吗？”赖克斯先生狐疑地说，两眼眯成一条缝。
“如果你是想赚钱，那就找错人了！我身边的人根本买不起他们想要的东西。你最好还
是回去找能付给你工钱的人吧。”
波洛叹气道：“没有人给我什么报酬——至少目前没有。”
“随你怎么说。”赖克斯先生说。
“是真的。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我花费了很多宝贵的时间，但并没得到任何补偿。简单
地说，就是满足一下我的好奇心。”
“我想，”赖克斯先生说，“你那天到那该死的牙医那儿去也是为了满足你的好奇心
吧。”
波洛摇了摇头，说：“您好像忽视了人们出现在牙医候诊室里的最常见的原因，那就是
等着看牙。”
“那么你那天也是吗？”赖克斯先生的语气中带着鄙视和不信任，“也在等着看牙？”
“当然啦。”
“请原谅，我是不会相信你的。”
“那么我可以问下您吗，赖克斯先生？您在那儿做什么呢？”
赖克斯先生突然笑了。他说：“明白你什么意思了！我也在等着看牙啊。”
“你是牙疼吗？”
“正是，伙计。”
“即便这样，您还是没看牙就走了啊？”
“那又怎么样？这是我自己的事儿。”
他停了一会儿，然后用野蛮的语气说：“呃，你在这儿绕来绕去的有什么鬼用？你那天
是去关照你的大客户的吧。不过，他不是没事儿吗？你那宝贝的阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生不
是完好无损吗？你根本就不应该来找我。”
波洛说：“你那么急匆匆地出了候诊室后去了哪里？”
“当然是离开了诊所。”
“啊！”波洛看着天花板说，“但是没人看到你离开，赖克斯先生。”
“这有关系吗？”
“也许有，因为不久之后，有人死在了那所房子里，还记得吗？”
赖克斯不经意地说：“呃，你是说那个牙医。”
波洛语气严肃地说：“是的，我说的正是那个牙医？”
赖克斯瞪着两眼，说：
“你想把这事赖到我头上？这是你的把戏吧？没门儿。我刚刚看过昨天庭审的报道，那
可怜的人是开枪自杀的，因为他在做局部麻醉时出了差错，把一个病人给治死了。”
波洛没有理睬他的话，继续问：
“您能证明那天您确实是像您所说的那样离开了诊所吗？有人能证明您在十二点和一点
之间在哪里吗？”
对方又眯起了双眼。
“所以，你就是想把这事儿赖在我头上？我猜是布伦特让你这么干的吧？”
波洛叹了口气说：
“请原谅，但您似乎是着了魔——一直在念叨阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生。他没有雇佣
我，他从来都没有雇佣过我。我关心的不是他的安全，而是一个工作出色的男人的死因。”
赖克斯摇着头。
“对不起，”他说，“我不相信你，你肯定是布伦特雇的私家侦探。”他身子往餐桌前靠
了靠，黑着脸说：“但是你救不了他，知道吗？他肯定得完蛋——他和他代表的一切！必须
要有一个新政策，必须废除旧的腐朽的金融制度。该死的银行界的关系网就像张大蜘蛛网
一样，笼罩着全世界。必须要把他们彻底清除。我和布伦特个人没有什么过节，但他就是
我最恨的那类人。他既中庸又自大，是那种必须用武力才能赶走的人。他会对你说‘文明的
基石，你动摇不了的’，真是这样吗？让他等着瞧吧！他是社会进步的绊脚石，必须铲除。
当今社会已经没有布伦特这种人的立足之地了——他这种沉迷于过去，这种还想像他们的
老子，甚至是老子的老子那么生活的人！英国有很多这类人——老顽固死硬派，一点儿用
处都没有，只能是衰退的旧时代的象征。天哪，他们通通都要滚蛋！新世界就要来了，你
明白吗？一个崭新的世界，明白吗？”
波洛叹了口气，站起身来，说：“我明白，赖克斯先生，您是个理想主义者。”
“那又怎么样？”
“您太理想主义了，以至于不关心一个牙医的死活。”
赖克斯先生轻蔑地说：“一个可悲的牙医的死又有什么关系呢？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“对您来说没什么关系，对我来说却不然。这就是我们俩的区别。”
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 7
VII
Poirot arrived home to be informed by George that a lady was waiting to see him.
“She is—ahem—a little nervous, sir,” said George.
Since the lady had given no name Poirot was at liberty to guess. He guessed wrong, for the
young woman who rose agitatedly from the sofa as he entered was the late Mr. Morley’s secretary,
Miss Gladys Nevill.
“Oh, dear, M. Poirot. I am so sorry to worry you like this—and really I don’t know how I had
the courage to come—I’m afraid you’ll think it very bold of me—and I’m sure I don’t want to
take up your time—I know what time means to a busy professional man—but really I have been
so unhappy—only I daresay you will think it all a waste of time—”
Profiting by a long experience of the English people, Poirot suggested a cup of tea. Miss
Nevill’s reaction was all that could be hoped for.
“Well, really, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. Not that it’s so very long since breakfast, but
one can always do with a cup of tea, can’t one?”
Poirot, who could always do without one, assented mendaciously. George was instructed to this
effect, and in a miraculously short time Poirot and his visitor faced each other across a tea tray.
“I must apologize to you,” said Miss Nevill, regaining her aplomb under the influence of the
beverage, “but as a matter of fact the inquest yesterday upset me a good deal.”
“I’m sure it must have done,” said Poirot kindly.
“There was no question of my giving evidence, or anything like that. But I felt somebody ought
to go with Miss Morley. Mr. Reilly was there, of course—but I meant a woman. Besides, Miss
Morley doesn’t like Mr. Reilly. So I thought it was my duty to go.”
“That was very kind of you,” said Poirot encouragingly.
“Oh, no, I just felt I had to. You see, I have worked for Mr. Morley for quite a number of years
now—and the whole thing was a great shock to me—and of course the inquest made it worse—”
“I’m afraid it must have done.”
Miss Nevill leaned forward earnestly.
“But it’s all wrong, M. Poirot. It really is all wrong.”
“What is wrong, Mademoiselle?”
“Well, it just couldn’t have happened — not the way they make out — giving a patient an
overdose in injecting the gum, I mean.”
“You think not.”
“I’m sure about it. Occasionally patients do suffer ill effects, but that is because they are
physiologically unfit subjects—their heart action isn’t normal. But I’m sure that an overdose is a
very rare thing. You see practitioners get so into the habit of giving the regulation amount that it is
absolutely mechanical—they’d give the right dose automatically.”
Poirot nodded approvingly. He said:
“That is what I thought myself, yes.”
“It’s so standardized, you see. It’s not like a chemist who is making up different amounts the
whole time, or multiplying dosage where an error might creep in through inattention. Or a doctor
who writes a great many different prescriptions. But a dentist isn’t like that at all.”
Poirot asked:
“You did not ask to be allowed to make these observations in the Coroner’s Court?”
Gladys Nevill shook her head. She twisted her fingers uncertainly.
“You see,” she broke out at last, “I was afraid of—of making things worse. Of course I know
that Mr. Morley wouldn’t do such a thing—but it might make people think that he had done it
deliberately.”
Poirot nodded.
Gladys Nevill said:
“That’s why I came to you, M. Poirot. Because with you it—it wouldn’t be official in any way.
But I do think somebody ought to know how—how unconvincing the whole thing is!”
“Nobody wants to know,” said Poirot.
She stared at him, puzzled.
Poirot said:
“I should like to know a little more about that telegram you received, summoning you away that
day.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think about that, M. Poirot. It does seem so queer. You see, it
must have been sent by someone who knew all about me—and Aunt—where she lived and
everything.”
“Yes, it would seem as though it must have been sent by one of your intimate friends, or by
someone who lived in the house and knew all about you.”
“None of my friends would do such a thing, M. Poirot.”
“You have no ideas yourself on the subject?”
The girl hesitated. She said slowly:
“Just at first, when I realized that Mr. Morley had shot himself, I wondered if he could possibly
have sent it.”
“You mean, out of consideration for you, to get you out of the way?”
The girl nodded.
“But that really seemed a fantastic idea, even if he had got the idea of suicide in his mind that
morning. It’s really very odd. Frank—my friend, you know—was quite absurd at first about it. He
accused me of wanting to go off for the day with somebody else—as though I would do such a
thing.”
“Is there somebody else?”
“No, of course there isn’t. But Frank has been so different lately—so moody and suspicious.
Really, you know, it was losing his job and not being able to get another. Just hanging about is so
bad for a man. I’ve been very worried about Frank.”
“He was upset, was he not, to find you had gone away that day?”
“Yes, you see, he came round to tell me he had got a new job—a marvellous job—ten pounds a
week. And he couldn’t wait. He wanted me to know right away. And I think he wanted Mr.
Morley to know, too, because he’d been very hurt at the way Mr. Morley didn’t appreciate him,
and he suspected Mr. Morley of trying to influence me against him.”
“Which was true, was it not?”
“Well, yes, it was, in a way! Of course, Frank has lost a good many jobs and he hasn’t been,
perhaps, what most people would call very steady. But it will be different now. I think one can do
so much by influence, don’t you, M. Poirot? If a man feels a woman expects a lot of him, he tries
to live up to her ideal of him.”
Poirot sighed. But he did not argue. He had heard many hundreds of women produce that same
argument, with the same blithe belief in the redeeming power of a woman’s love. Once in a
thousand times, he supposed, cynically, it might be true.
He merely said:
“I should like to meet this friend of yours.”
“I’d love to have you meet him, M. Poirot. But just at present Sunday is his only free day. He’s
away in the country all the week, you see.”
“Ah, on the new job. What is the job, by the way?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know, M. Poirot. Something in the secretarial line, I imagine. Or some
government department. I know I have to send letters to Frank’s London address and they get
forwarded.”
“That is a little odd, is it not?”
“Well, I thought so—but Frank says it is often done nowadays.”
Poirot looked at her for a moment or two without speaking.
Then he said deliberately:
“Tomorrow is Sunday, is it not? Perhaps you would both give me the pleasure of lunching with
me—at Logan’s Corner House? I should like to discuss this sad business with you both.”
“Well—thank you, M. Poirot. I—yes, I’m sure we’d like to lunch with you very much.”
五，六，衔树枝 7
7
波洛回到家。乔治告诉他有位女士来访，正在等他。
“她……嗯……有点儿紧张，先生。”乔治说。由于这位女士没有通报姓名，波洛就在
心里猜测。他猜错了。他一进门，这位年轻的女士就站起身，是已故的莫利先生的秘书，
格拉迪丝•内维尔小姐。
“噢，亲爱的波洛先生，我很抱歉冒昧来打扰您。而且我真的不知道我是怎么鼓足勇气
才来的。我想您一定觉得我特别冒昧，我也不想占用您的时间，我知道时间对一位像您这
样的大忙人意味着什么。但是我实在是太难过了，如果您觉得这样浪费您的时间的话——”
长期与英国人打交道，波洛对他们有了相当的了解。他提议一起喝杯茶。内维尔小姐
的反应是意料之中的。
“哦，波洛先生，您真是太好了。虽然早饭才刚吃完不久，但是一杯茶总是好的，您说
对吧？”
虽然波洛平时早饭后并不喝茶，但还是假装表示深有同感。于是，他叫乔治去付诸行
动。没一会儿，波洛和他的来访者就在茶盘前面对面地坐了下来。
“我必须向您道歉，”内维尔小姐在茶的作用下，恢复了冷静，“但是，昨天的庭审让我
特别难过。”
“我想肯定是的。”波洛礼貌地说。
“他们并没有让我出庭做证什么的，但是我觉得应该有人陪莫利小姐去。当然了，赖利
先生在——但是我的意思是应该有个女的。而且，莫利小姐不喜欢赖利先生。所以，我想
我有责任去。”
“你人真好。”波洛鼓励她说。
“哦，不是的，我只是觉得我该去。您知道，我跟着莫利先生工作已经有好多年了，而
且发生的这事儿对我打击特别大。当然这次庭审就更是——”
“我想一定是的。”
内维尔小姐向前倾着身子急切地说：
“但是事情有点儿不对头，波洛先生，真的不太对头。”
“怎么不对了，小姐？”
“嗯，就是不可能是那样的——不可能是他们说的那样——我是说，给病人做牙龈注射
时用药过量。”
“您觉得不会？”
“肯定不会。偶尔也会有病人出现副作用，但都是因为他们自身体质的问题——心脏不
好。但是，我肯定用药过量真的不太可能。您知道医生对于每次注射的用量太熟悉了，简
直就是一个机械性的动作，他们下意识地就会用正确的药量。”
波洛点头表示同意，他说：“我也是这么想的，是的。”
“这很常规，您知道，并不是说牙医每次都要选用不同的药量，或者一不留神就会用
多。也不是医生根据需要开不同处方的那种，牙医完全不是这样。”
波洛问：“您没有要求向法庭陈述这些看法吗？”
格拉迪丝•内维尔摇摇头，不安地掰着自己的手指头。
“您知道，”她终于又开口说，“我是害怕——把事情搞得更糟。我当然知道莫利先生不
会做出那样的事情来，但是我可能会让人觉得他是故意那么做的。”
波洛点点头。
格拉迪丝•内维尔说：
“这就是为什么我来找您，波洛先生，因为跟您说不会成为官方的记录。但是我就是觉
得应该有人知道，这整个结论是多么的没有说服力！”
“没有人在乎这些。”波洛说。
她不解地看着他。
波洛说：“我想问一下那天您收到的那封把您叫走的电报。”
“说实话，我都不知道是怎么回事，波洛先生。那件事确实非常奇怪，您明白吗？发电
报的人一定认识我和我姑姑，还有她住在哪里等等。”
“是的，看起来应该是您的一个来往密切的朋友，或者是住在诊所那座房子里的某个非
常了解您的人。”
“我没有朋友会做出这种事儿来，波洛先生。”
“您没想过这事儿吗？”
姑娘犹豫了一下，缓慢地说：
“最开始，我刚听说莫利先生自杀的时候想过。我想会不会是他发的电报。”
“您是说，为您着想，把您支开？”
姑娘点点头。
“但是这个想法似乎太离谱了。哪怕说他是想好了那天早上要自杀，这也太奇怪了。弗
兰克——我朋友，您知道——开始时也特别荒唐，他说我那天离开是跟别人跑了，好像我
会做这种事似的。”
“有‘别人’吗？”
“没有，当然没有啦。但是弗兰克最近一直都有点反常，特别烦躁，疑神疑鬼的。真
的，您知道，就因为他丢了工作，又找不到新的。一天到晚东晃西晃对一个男人来说没有
好处。我特别为他担心。”
“他那天发现你不在诊所特别生气，对吧？”
“是的，您知道，他是来告诉我他找到了一份新工作——特别好的工作，每周十镑。他
迫不及待地想要告诉我。我猜他也想让莫利先生知道，因为莫利先生不喜欢他，他很受伤
害。他还怀疑莫利先生想劝我离开他。”
“这也是事实，对吗？”
“哦，是的，有一点儿吧！当然了，弗兰克丢掉了一份很好的工作，许多人都认为他的
状况不太稳定。但是现在不同了。我觉得一个人可以在很大程度上受另一个人的影响，您
说是吗，波洛先生？如果一个男人感觉到一个女人对他有很高的期望，他就会努力成为她
理想中的人。”
波洛叹口气，但是他没有争辩。他曾上百次听到女人们说过同样的理论。她们一厢情
愿地相信她们的爱具有万能的力量。他带点讽刺地想，也许一千个人中有一个能如愿。但
他嘴上却只是说：
“我想见见您这位朋友。”
“我很愿意让您见见他，波洛先生，但是他只有周日才休息。他整个星期都在郊区。”
“啊，在做那份新工作。是干什么的，顺便问一下？”
“呃，我也不是特别清楚，波洛先生。我猜是文秘之类的，或者是在某个政府部门。我
只知道我必须把信寄到弗兰克在伦敦的住址，然后由他们转交。”
“这有点儿奇怪啊？”
“嗯，我也觉得，但是弗兰克说现在经常有人这么做。”
波洛看了她一会儿，没说话。过了一会儿，他不紧不慢地说：
“明天就是周日了，对吧？也许我能有幸请你们俩一起共进午餐，在洛根饭店好吗？我
想和你们两个聊一下这件令人悲痛的事儿。”
“噢，谢谢您，波洛先生。我——好的，我们非常高兴和您一起用午餐。”
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 8
VIII
Frank Carter was a fair young man of medium height. His appearance was cheaply smart. He
talked readily and fluently. His eyes were set rather close together and they had a way of shifting
uneasily from side to side when he was embarrassed.
He was inclined to be suspicious and slightly hostile.
“I’d no idea we were to have the pleasure of lunching with you, M. Poirot. Gladys didn’t tell me
anything about it.”
He shot her a rather annoyed glance as he spoke.
“It was only arranged yesterday,” said Poirot, smiling. “Miss Nevill is very upset by the
circumstances of Mr. Morley’s death and I wondered if we put our heads together—”
Frank Carter interrupted him rudely.
“Morley’s death? I’m sick of Morley’s death! Why can’t you forget him, Gladys? There wasn’t
anything so wonderful about him that I can see.”
“Oh, Frank, I don’t think you ought to say that. Why, he left me a hundred pounds. I got the
letter about it last night.”
“That’s all right,” admitted Frank grudgingly. “But after all, why shouldn’t he? He worked you
like a nigger—and who pocketed all the fat fees? Why, he did!”
“Well, of course he did—he paid me a very good salary.”
“Not according to my ideas! You’re too humble altogether, Gladys, my girl, you let yourself be
put upon, you know. I sized Morley up all right. You know as well as I do that he tried his best to
get you to give me the chuck.”
“He didn’t understand.”
“He understood all right. The man’s dead now—otherwise I can tell you I’d have given him a
piece of my mind.”
“You actually came round to do so on the morning of his death, did you not?” Hercule Poirot
inquired gently.
Frank Carter said angrily:
“Who’s been saying so?”
“You did come round, did you not?”
“What if I did? I wanted to see Miss Nevill here.”
“But they told you she was away.”
“Yes, and that made me pretty suspicious, I can tell you. I told that red-headed oaf I’d wait and
see Morley myself. This business of putting Gladys against me had gone on long enough. I meant
to tell Morley that, instead of being a poor unemployed rotter, I’d landed a good job and that it
was about time Gladys handed in her notice and thought about her trousseau.”
“But you did not actually tell him so?”
“No, I got tired of waiting in that dingy mausoleum. I went away.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What time did you arrive then?”
“I don’t know. Soon after twelve, I should imagine.”
“And you stayed half an hour—or longer—or less than half an hour?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I’m not the sort of chap who’s always looking at a clock.”
“Was there anyone in the waiting room while you were there?”
“There was an oily fat bloke when I went in, but he wasn’t there long. After that I was alone.”
“Then you must have left before half past twelve—for at that time a lady arrived.”
“Daresay I did. The place got on my nerves as I tell you.”
Poirot eyed him thoughtfully.
The bluster was uneasy—it did not ring quite true. And yet that might be explained by mere
nervousness.
Poirot’s manner was simple and friendly as he said:
“Miss Nevill tells me that you have been very fortunate and have found a very good job
indeed.”
“The pay’s good.”
“Ten pounds a week, she tells me.”
“That’s right. Not too dusty, is it? Shows I can pull it off when I set my mind to it.”
He swaggered a little.
“Yes, indeed. And the work is not too arduous?”
Frank Carter said shortly:
“Not too bad.”
“And interesting?”
“Oh, yes, quite interesting. Talking of jobs, I’ve always been interested to know how you
private detectives go about things? I suppose there’s not much of the Sherlock Holmes touch
really, mostly divorce nowadays?”
“I do not concern myself with divorce.”
“Really? Then I don’t see how you live.”
“I manage, my friend, I manage.”
“But you’re right at the top of the tree, aren’t you, M. Poirot?” put in Gladys Nevill. “Mr.
Morley used to say so. I mean you’re the sort of person Royalty calls in, or the Home Office or
Duchesses.”
Poirot smiled upon her.
“You flatter me,” he said.
五，六，衔树枝 8
8
弗兰克•卡特是个中等身材、皮肤白净的小伙子。他穿着廉价的衣服，但是打扮却很时
尚。他反应很快，口齿伶俐。他的两只眼睛似乎靠得近了点儿，每逢感到尴尬的时候，就
会不停地转来转去。他有点多疑，而且还表现出轻微的敌意。
“我没想到我们能荣幸地跟您一起吃午餐，波洛先生。格拉迪丝事先什么都没告诉
我。”他不高兴地瞥了她一眼。
“这也是昨天才定下来的。”波洛微笑着说，“内维尔小姐因为莫利先生的死很伤心，我
想也许我们可以一起来理理头绪——”
弗兰克粗暴地打断了他。
“莫利的死？我实在不愿意再提起他！格拉迪丝，你怎么就不能把他给忘了呢？我就看
不出他有什么好的。”
“噢，弗兰克，我觉得你不能这么说。你想，他还给我留下了一百英镑呢。我昨天晚上
才拿到那封信。”
“好吧，”弗兰克不情愿地承认道，“但是，话又说回来，他不该给你吗？他把你使唤得
像黑奴一样。而且，谁拿了那些丰厚的门诊费呢？是他，他全拿去了！”
“当然应该是他拿啦，他已经付给了我一份很好的薪水。”
“我可不这么认为！你太容易满足了，格拉迪斯，我的姑娘。你被人利用了，知道吗？
我可是把莫利给看透了。你和我一样清楚，他是多么想让你抛弃我。”
“他只是不明白。”
“他明白得很。现在他人已经死了——否则，我告诉你，我会让他知道我是怎么想
的。”
“他死的那天上午，你就是想去这么做，对吧？”赫尔克里•波洛轻声问。
弗兰克•卡特气愤地说：“谁说的？”
“你确实去了，不是吗？”
“我去了又怎么样？我是去找内维尔小姐的。”
“但是他们告诉你她不在。”
“是的，那让我起了疑心，我告诉你。我对那个红发怪胎说我可以等，我要见莫利先
生。他怂恿格拉迪丝甩掉我已经很久了。我想要告诉莫利，我现在已经不再是个无业的可
怜虫了，我拿到了一份好工作。格拉迪丝也该辞职准备婚事了。”
“可是你实际上并没有告诉他这些？”
“没有，我在那个阴暗该死的地方等得不耐烦，就走了。”
“你是什么时间离开的？”
“我不记得了。”
“那你是什么时间到的呢？”
“我不知道，十二点过一点儿吧，我想。”
“你在那儿待了半个小时，或者多点儿，或者不到半个小时？”
“我不知道。我不是那种时时看表的人。”
“你在候诊室的时候，那儿还有别人吗？”
“我进去的时候，有一个油头滑脑的肥佬，但是他没多久就走了。之后就我一个人。”
“那么，你一定是在十二点半以前就离开了，因为那时有位女士到了。”
“我想是吧。那个地方让人不舒服，你知道。”
波洛若有所思地看了他一眼。
他刚才这一通咆哮有点儿不太自然——说的话也不完全属实。不过，也有可能只是因
为紧张而已。
波洛的表情自如且友善地说：
“内维尔小姐告诉我你很幸运，找到了一份特别好的工作。”
“报酬不错。”
“一周十英镑，她告诉我。”
“没错。这说明我要是真的想干什么还是可以干成的。”他有些飘飘然。
“是的，确实是。那份工作也不算太辛苦吧？”
弗兰克•卡特简单地回答：“还可以。”
“有趣吗？”
“呃，是的，很有趣。说起工作，我一直都想知道你们私人侦探是怎样办案的。我想并
不真的是像歇洛克•福尔摩斯那样吧？现在应该多数都是些离婚案吧？”
“我本人不受理离婚案。”
“是吗？那我就看不出你靠什么吃饭了。”
“我应付得了，我的朋友，我应付得了。”
“但您是这一行中最棒的，对吧，波洛先生？”格拉迪丝插进来说，“莫利先生曾经说
过。我是说，就连皇室、内务部，或者公爵夫人什么的都会找您。”
波洛对她微笑着说：“您过奖了。”
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 9
IX
Poirot walked home through the deserted streets in a thoughtful frame of mind.
When he got in, he rang up Japp.
“Forgive my troubling you, my friend, but did you ever do anything in the matter of tracing that
telegram that was sent to Gladys Nevill?”
“Still harping on the subject? Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. There was a telegram and—rather
clever—the aunt lives at Richbourne in Somerset. The telegram was handed in at Richbarn—you
know, the London suburb.”
Hercule Poirot said appreciatively:
“That was clever — yes, that was clever. If the recipient happened to glance at where the
telegram was handed in, the word would look sufficiently like Richbourne to carry conviction.”
He paused.
“Do you know what I think, Japp?”
“Well?”
“There are signs of brains in this business.”
“Hercule Poirot wants it to be murder, so it’s got to be murder.”
“How do you explain that telegram?”
“Coincidence. Someone was hoaxing the girl.”
“Why should they?”
“Oh, my goodness, Poirot, why do people do things? Practical jokes, hoaxes. Misplaced sense
of humour, that’s all.”
“And somebody felt like being funny just on the day that Morley was going to make a mistake
over an injection.”
“There may have been a certain amount of cause and effect. Because Miss Nevill was away,
Morley was more rushed than usual and consequently was more likely to make a mistake.”
“I am still not satisfied.”
“I daresay—but don’t you see where your view is leading you? If anybody got la Nevill out of
the way, it was probably Morley himself. Making his killing of Amberiotis deliberate and not an
accident.”
Poirot was silent. Japp said:
“You see?”
Poirot said:
“Amberiotis might have been killed in some other way.”
“Not he. Nobody came to see him at the Savoy. He lunched up in his room. And the doctors say
the stuff was definitely injected, not taken by mouth—it wasn’t in the stomach. So there you are.
It’s a clear case.”
“That is what we are meant to think.”
“The A.C. is satisfied anyway.”
“And he is satisfied with the disappearing lady?”
“The Case of the Vanishing Seal? No, I can tell you, we’re still working on that. That woman’s
got to be somewhere. You just can’t walk out into the street and disappear.”
“She seems to have done so.”
“For the moment. But she must be somewhere, alive or dead, and I don’t think she is dead.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d have found her body by now.”
“Oh, my Japp, do bodies always come to light so soon?”
“I suppose you’re hinting that she’s been murdered now and that we’ll find her in a quarry, cut
up in little pieces like Mrs. Ruxton?”
“After all, mon ami, you do have missing persons who are not found.”
“Very seldom, old boy. Lots of women disappear, yes, but we usually find ’em, all right. Nine
times out of ten it’s a case of good old sex. They’re somewhere with a man. But I don’t think it
could be that with our Mabelle, do you?”
“One never knows,” said Poirot cautiously. “But I do not think it likely. So you are sure of
finding her?”
“We’ll find her all right. We’re publishing a description of her to the Press and we’re roping in
the B.B.C.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I fancy that may bring developments.”
“Don’t worry, old boy. We’ll find your missing beauty for you—woollen underwear and all.”
He rang off.
George entered the room with his usual noiseless tread. He set down on a little table a steaming
pot of chocolate and some sugar biscuits.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“I am in great perplexity of mind, Georges.”
“Indeed, sir? I am sorry to hear it.”
Hercule Poirot poured himself out some chocolate and stirred his cup thoughtfully.
George stood deferentially waiting, recognizing the signs. There were moments when Hercule
Poirot discussed his cases with his valet. He always said that he found George’s comments
singularly helpful.
“You are aware, no doubt, Georges, of the death of my dentist?”
“Mr. Morley, sir? Yes, sir. Very distressing, sir. He shot himself, I understand.”
“That is the general understanding. If he did not shoot himself, he was murdered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The question is, if he was murdered, who murdered him?”
“Quite so, sir.”
“There are only a certain number of people, Georges, who could have murdered him. That is to
say the people who were actually in, or could have been in, the house at the time.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“Those people are: a cook and housemaid, amiable domestics and highly unlikely to do
anything of the kind. A devoted sister, also highly unlikely, but who does inherit her brother’s
money such as it was—and one can never entirely neglect the financial aspect. An able and
efficient partner—no motive known. A somewhat boneheaded page boy addicted to cheap crime
stories. And lastly, a Greek gentleman of somewhat doubtful antecedents.”
George coughed.
“These foreigners, sir—”
“Exactly. I agree perfectly. The Greek gentleman is decidedly indicated. But you see, Georges,
the Greek gentleman also died and apparently it was Mr. Morley who killed him—whether by
intention or as the result of an unfortunate error we cannot be sure.”
“It might be, sir, that they killed each other. I mean, sir, each gentleman had formed the idea of
doing the other gentleman in, though of course each gentleman was unaware of the other
gentleman’s intention.”
Hercule Poirot purred approvingly.
“Very ingenious, Georges. The dentist murders the unfortunate gentleman who sits in the chair,
not realizing that the said victim is at that moment meditating exactly at what moment to whip out
his pistol. It could, of course, be so but it seems to me, Georges, extremely unlikely. And we have
not come to the end of our list yet. There are still two other people who might possibly have been
in the house at the given moment. Every patient, before Mr. Amberiotis, was actually seen to leave
the house with the exception of one—a young American gentleman. He left the waiting room at
about twenty minutes to twelve, but no one actually saw him leave the house. We must therefore
count him as a possibility. The other possibility is a certain Mr. Frank Carter (not a patient) who
came to the house at a little after twelve with the intention of seeing Mr. Morley. Nobody saw him
leave, either. Those, my good Georges, are the facts; what do you think of them?”
“At what time was the murder committed, sir?”
“If the murder was committed by Mr. Amberiotis, it was committed at any time between twelve
and five-and-twenty past. If by somebody else, it was committed after twenty-five minutes past
twelve, as otherwise Mr. Amberiotis would have noticed the corpse.”
He looked encouragingly at George.
“Now, my good Georges, what have you to say about the matter?”
George pondered. He said:
“It strikes me, sir—”
“Yes, Georges?”
“You will have to find another dentist to attend to your teeth in future, sir.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You surpass yourself, Georges. That aspect of the matter had not as yet occurred to me!”
Looking gratified, George left the room.
Hercule Poirot remained sipping his chocolate and going over the facts he had just outlined. He
felt satisfied that they were as he had stated them. Within that circle of persons was the hand that
had actually done the deed—no matter whose the inspiration had been.
Then his eyebrows shot up as he realized that the list was incomplete. He had left out one name.
And no one must be left out—not even the most unlikely person.
There had been one other person in the house at the time of the murder.
He wrote down:
“Mr. Barnes.”
五，六，衔树枝 9
9
波洛走在回家的路上。街上空无一人，而他则是思绪万千。
到家后，他就打电话给贾普。
“抱歉打扰你，我的朋友。你们有没有查过那封给格拉迪丝•内维尔的电报？”
“还在为这事儿纠结呢？是的，我们确实查过了。是有一封电报，而且发报人很聪明，
她姑姑住在萨摩塞特郡的雷奇波恩，而电报是从雷奇巴恩发出的，你知道吗，就是伦敦郊
区。”
波洛赞赏地说：
“是挺聪明的，确实是。收件人收到电报后，乍一看就会以为是雷奇波恩。”
他停顿了一下，说：
“你知道我怎么想吗，贾普？”
“怎么想？”
“这里面有阴谋。”
“如果赫尔克里•波洛想让它是一桩谋杀案，它就一定会是一桩谋杀案。”
“你怎么解释那封电报？”
“巧合，有人在捉弄那姑娘。”
“为什么？”
“噢，天哪，波洛，人们为什么要这么做？开个玩笑罢了。捉弄她一下，恶作剧。无非
就是这么着呗。”
“有人刚好在莫利要打针出错的那天开个玩笑。”
“这里面可能有一定的因果关系。因为内维尔小姐不在，莫利就比平时更忙，所以更容
易出错。”
“我还是觉得不满意。”
“我看得出，但是你知道你自己是在往哪个方向想吗？如果真的有人想要把内维尔小姐
支开，那很可能是莫利。这样他杀害安伯里奥兹就是故意杀人，而不是事故了。”
波洛没有回应。
贾普又说：“明白了吗？”
波洛说：“安伯里奥兹可能另有死因。”
“不会的，没人去萨伏依酒店找过他。他又是在自己房间里用的午餐。法医说那些致命
的东西绝对是注射进去，而不是从嘴里吃进去的——因为不在胃里。所以你看，案情非常
明朗。”
“这是我们按照常理的想法。”
“不管怎么说，头儿挺满意。”
“他对那失踪的女士也很满意吗？”
“是西尔失踪的事儿吗？不，我可以告诉你，我们还在继续调查。这个女人一定还在什
么地方。人不可能一出门就失踪啊。”
“看上去她就是这样。”
“暂时是，但她一定是在什么地方，不管是死是活。不过，我觉得她没有死。”
“为什么？”
“如果死了，我们现在应该已经找到她的尸体了。”
“哦，贾普，尸体总会这么快就出现吗?”
“我猜你是在暗示她已经被杀了。我们会在某个采石场发现她已经被分尸，像鲁克斯顿
太太（注：Mrs.Ruxton分尸案发生于一九三五年的苏格兰南部。尸体被分成多块，部分被
抛入河中，后查明凶手是死者丈夫。）那样？”
“不管怎么说，我的朋友，你还有失踪人口没有找到。”
“很少见，老伙计。好多女人失踪之后，通常我们都会找到她们。十有八九都是跟老相
好有关，她们都会在某个地方和一个男人在一起。但是我不觉得我们的梅布尔是这种情
况。你觉得呢？”
“很难说，”波洛谨慎地说，“不过我觉得不太像。那么你肯定能找到她了？”
“我们一定会找到她。我们在报纸上登了她的特征描述，还在英国广播公司播了寻人启
事。”
“啊，”波洛说，“我猜应该能有些进展吧。”
“别担心，老伙计，我们会为你找到失踪的美人儿——羊毛内衣及其他。”
他挂了电话。
乔治走进屋里，像往常一样悄无声息。他把热巧克力和甜饼干放在一个小桌子上。
“您还需要别的什么吗，先生？”
“我现在很困惑，乔治。”
“是吗，先生？我很抱歉听您这么说。”赫尔克里•波洛给自己倒了些热巧克力，一边在
杯子里搅拌着，一边陷入沉思。
乔治意识到主人的需要，他恭敬地站着，等在那儿。有时候，赫尔克里•波洛会跟男仆
讨论案子。他总是说乔治的看法对他很有帮助。
“乔治，你一定听说我的牙医死了吧？”
“是莫利先生吧？是的，先生，太令人难过了，先生。他开枪自杀了，这我知道。”
“大家是这么认为的。如果他不是自杀，那么就是被谋杀的。”
“是的，先生。”
“问题是，如果他是被谋杀的，谁杀了他呢？”
“是的，先生。”
“只有为数不多的几个人，乔治，有可能谋杀他。他们在案件发生时要么是在那栋房子
里，要么就是有可能进去。”
“是的，先生。”
“这些人有：一个厨子和一个女佣，他们都是可信的用人，不可能做这种事。一个是照
顾他的姐姐，也没有可能。但是，她事实上继承了她弟弟的遗产，我们不能完全忽视经济
利益。一个是利索能干的合伙人，没有发现他有什么动机。一个是傻乎乎的读廉价犯罪小
说上瘾的小门童。最后还有一位背景不太清楚的希腊先生。”
乔治咳了一声：“这些外国人，先生——”
“没错儿，我完全同意。这位希腊先生应该特别引起注意。但是你知道，乔治，这位希
腊先生也死了，而且非常明显，是莫利先生杀了他。也许是故意行凶，也许是不幸出错的
结果。这个我们还不能确定。”
“也许是，先生，他们互相杀了彼此。我是说，先生，这两位先生都想好了要干掉对
方。当然，尽管他们都不知道对方的意图。”
赫尔克里•波洛表示赞同。
“太精辟了，乔治。牙医杀了那位坐在手术椅上的不幸的先生，同时并不知道这个受害
者此时正在琢磨什么时候拔出手枪。当然，这是一种假设。但是，在我看来，乔治，这实
在是不太可能。再者，我们的名单还没有说完，在事发期间还有另外两个人有可能在那所
房子里。在安伯里奥兹前面就诊的病人都有人看到他们离开，除了一位美国先生。他十一
点四十分走出候诊室，但是没有人真正看到他从那所房子里出来。我们必须把他也视为一
种可能性。另一个是弗兰克•卡特先生（不是病人），他是十二点过一点儿到的，想要见莫
利先生。也没有人看到他离开。这些，我的好乔治，就是所有的事实，你怎么想？”
“谋杀是在什么时间发生的，先生？”
“如果是安伯里奥兹先生干的，就是在十二点零五分到二十分之间的任何时间；如果是
其他人干的，就是在十二点二十五分以后。否则，安伯里奥兹先生会看到尸体。”
他用鼓励的眼神看着乔治。
“现在，我的好乔治，你对这件事有什么看法？”
乔治思考了一会儿，说：“我突然想到，先生——”
“什么，乔治？”
“您将来需要再找一个牙医看牙，先生。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“你大有长进啊，乔治。我还从没有想到这一点呢！”
乔治很满足地走了出去。
赫尔克里•波洛继续喝着他的热巧克力，把刚才列出的事实又过了一遍。他对自己的思
路感到满意，黑手就在他所列的这几个人中——先不管他的这些想法到底是受到了谁的启
发。
接着，他挑动了下眉毛。他发现这个名单并不全，他漏掉了一个人。不能漏掉任何人
——即便是最没有可能的人。案发时房子里还有另外一个人。
他在纸上写下：
巴恩斯先生。
FIVE, SIX, PICKING UP STICKS 10
X
George announced:
“A lady to speak to you on the telephone, sir.”
A week ago, Poirot had guessed wrongly the identity of a visitor. This time his guess was right.
He recognized her voice at once.
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Jane Olivera—Mr. Alistair Blunt’s niece.”
“Yes, Miss Olivera.”
“Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know.”
“Certainly. What time would be convenient?”
“At six thirty, please.”
“I will be there.”
For a moment the autocratic note wavered:
“I—I hope I am not interrupting your work?”
“Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.”
He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away from it smiling. He wondered what excuse
Jane Olivera had found for summoning him.
On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river.
Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing table playing absentmindedly with a paper knife. He had
the slightly harassed look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him.
Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was speaking
fretfully as Poirot entered—“and I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter,
Alistair.”
“Yes, Julia, of course, of course.”
Alistair Blunt spoke soothingly as he rose to greet Poirot.
“And if you’re going to talk horrors I shall leave the room,” added the good lady.
“I should, mother,” said Jane Olivera.
Mrs. Olivera swept from the room without condescending to take any notice of Poirot.
Alistair Blunt said:
“It’s very good of you to come, M. Poirot. You’ve met Miss Olivera, I think? It was she who
sent for you—”
Jane said abruptly:
“It’s about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Miss Something Seale.”
“Sainsbury Seale? Yes?”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
“It’s such a pompous name, that’s why I remember. Shall I tell him, or will you, Uncle
Alistair?”
“My dear, it’s your story.”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
“It mayn’t be important in the least—but I thought you ought to know.”
“Yes?”
“It was the last time Uncle Alistair went to the dentist’s—I don’t mean the other day—I mean
about three months ago. I went with him to Queen Charlotte Street in the Rolls and it was to take
me on to some friends in Regent’s Park and come back for him. We stopped at 58, and Uncle got
out, and just as he did, a woman came out of 58—a middle-aged woman with fussy hair and rather
arty clothes. She made a beeline for Uncle and said (Jane Olivera’s voice rose to an affected
squeak): ‘Oh, Mr. Blunt, you don’t remember me, I’m sure!’ Well, of course, I could see by
Uncle’s face that he didn’t remember her in the slightest—”
Alistair Blunt sighed.
“I never do. People are always saying it—”
“He put on his special face,” went on Jane. “I know it well. Kind of polite and make-believe. It
wouldn’t deceive a baby. He said in a most unconvincing voice: ‘Oh—er—of course.’ The terrible
woman went on: ‘I was a great friend of your wife’s, you know!’”
“They usually say that, too,” said Alistair Blunt in a voice of even deeper gloom.
He smiled rather ruefully.
“It always ends the same way! A subscription to something or other. I got off this time with five
pounds to a Zenana Mission or something. Cheap!”
“Had she really known your wife?”
“Well, her being interested in Zenana Missions made me think that, if so, it would have been in
India. We were there about ten years ago. But, of course, she couldn’t have been a great friend or
I’d have known about it. Probably met her once at a reception.”
Jane Olivera said:
“I don’t believe she’d ever met Aunt Rebecca at all. I think it was just an excuse to speak to
you.”
Alistair Blunt said tolerantly:
“Well, that’s quite possible.”
Jane said:
“I mean, I think it’s queer the way she tried to scrape an acquaintance with you, Uncle.”
Alistair Blunt said with the same tolerance:
“She just wanted a subscription.”
Poirot said:
“She did not try to follow it up in any way?”
Blunt shook his head.
“I never thought of her again. I’d even forgotten her name till Jane spotted it in the paper.”
Jane said a little unconvincingly:
“Well, I thought M. Poirot ought to be told!”
Poirot said politely:
“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”
He added:
“I must not keep you, Mr. Blunt. You are a busy man.”
Jane said quickly:
“I’ll come down with you.”
Under his moustaches, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.
On the ground floor, Jane paused abruptly. She said:
“Come in here.”
They went into a small room off the hall.
She turned to face him.
“What did you mean on the telephone when you said that you had been expecting me to call
you?”
Poirot smiled. He spread out his hands.
“Just that, Mademoiselle. I was expecting a call from you—and the call came.”
“You mean that you knew I’d ring up about this Sainsbury Seale woman.”
Poirot shook his head.
“That was only the pretext. You could have found something else if necessary.”
Jane said:
“Why the hell should I call you up?”
“Why should you deliver this titbit of information about Miss Sainsbury Seale to me instead of
giving it to Scotland Yard? That would have been the natural thing to do.”
“All right, Mr. Know All, how much exactly do you know?”
“I know that you are interested in me since you heard that I paid a visit to the Holborn Palace
Hotel the other day.”
She went so white that it startled him. He had not believed that that deep tan could change to
such a greenish hue.
He went on, quietly and steadily:
“You got me to come here today because you wanted to pump me—that is the expression, is it
not?—yes, to pump me on the subject of Mr. Howard Raikes.”
Jane Olivera said:
“Who’s he, anyway?”
It was not a very successful parry.
Poirot said:
“You do not need to pump me, Mademoiselle. I will tell you what I know—or rather what I
guessed. That first day that we came here, Inspector Japp and I, you were startled to see us—
alarmed. You thought something had happened to your uncle. Why?”
“Well, he’s the kind of man things might happen to. He had a bomb by post one day—after the
Herjoslovakian Loan. And he gets lots of threatening letters.”
Poirot went on:
“Chief Inspector Japp told you that a certain dentist, Mr. Morley, had been shot. You may
recollect your answer. You said: ‘But that’s absurd.’”
Jane bit her lip. She said:
“Did I? That was rather absurd of me, wasn’t it?”
“It was a curious remark, Mademoiselle. It revealed that you knew of the existence of Mr.
Morley, that you had rather expected something to happen—not to happen to him—but possibly to
happen in his house.”
“You do like telling yourself stories, don’t you?”
Poirot paid no attention.
“You had expected—or rather you had feared—that something might happen at Mr. Morley’s
house. You had feared that that something would have happened to your uncle. But if so, you must
know something that we did not know. I reflected on the people who had been in Mr. Morley’s
house that day, and I seized at once on the one person who might possibly have a connection with
you—which was that young American, Mr. Howard Raikes.”
“It’s just like a serial, isn’t it? What’s the next thrilling instalment?”
“I went to see Mr. Howard Raikes. He is a dangerous and attractive young man—”
Poirot paused expressively.
Jane said meditatively:
“He is, isn’t he?” She smiled. “All right! You win! I was scared stiff.”
She leaned forward.
“I’m going to tell you things, M. Poirot. You’re not the kind one can just string along. I’d rather
tell you than have you snooping around finding out. I love that man, Howard Raikes. I’m just
crazy about him. My mother brought me over here just to get me away from him. Partly that and
partly because she hopes Uncle Alistair might get fond enough of me to leave me his money when
he dies.”
She went on:
“Mother is his niece by marriage. Her mother was Rebecca Arnholt’s sister. He’s my great-
uncle-in-law. Only he hasn’t got any near relatives of his own, so mother doesn’t see why we
shouldn’t be his residuary legatees. She cadges off him pretty freely too.
“You see, I’m being frank with you, M. Poirot. That’s the kind of people we are. Actually
we’ve got plenty of money ourselves—an indecent amount according to Howard’s ideas—but
we’re not in Uncle Alistair’s class.”
She paused. She struck with one hand fiercely on the arm of her chair.
“How can I make you understand? Everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, Howard
abominates and wants to do away with. And sometimes, you know, I feel like he does. I’m fond of
Uncle Alistair, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s so stodgy—so British—so cautious and
conservative. I feel sometimes that he and his kind ought to be swept away, that they are blocking
progress—that without them we’d get things done!”
“You are a convert to Mr. Raikes’ ideas?”
“I am—and I’m not. Howard is—is wilder than most of his crowd. There are people, you know,
who—who agree with Howard up to a point. They would be willing to—to try things—if Uncle
Alistair and his crowd would agree. But they never will! They just sit back and shake their heads
and say: ‘We could never risk that.’ And ‘It wouldn’t be sound economically.’ And ‘We’ve got to
consider our responsibility.’ And ‘Look at history.’ But I think that one mustn’t look at history.
That’s looking back. One must look forward all the time.”
Poirot said gently:
“It is an attractive vision.”
Jane looked at him scornfully.
“You say that too!”
“Perhaps because I am old. Their old men have dreams—only dreams, you see.”
He paused and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice:
“Why did Mr. Howard Raikes make that appointment in Queen Charlotte Street?”
“Because I wanted him to meet Uncle Alistair and I couldn’t see otherwise how to manage it.
He’d been so bitter about Uncle Alistair—so full of—well, hate really, that I felt if he could only
see him—see what a nice kindly unassuming person he was—that—that he would feel differently
… I couldn’t arrange a meeting here because of mother—she would have spoilt everything.”
Poirot said:
“But after having made that arrangement, you were—afraid.”
Her eyes grew wide and dark. She said:
“Yes. Because—because—sometimes Howard gets carried away. He—he—”
Hercule Poirot said:
“He wants to take a short cut. To exterminate—”
Jane Olivera cried: “Don’t!”
五，六，衔树枝 10
10
乔治通报说：“有位女士打电话找您，先生。”
一周前，波洛猜错了一位来访者，但这次他猜对了。
他立刻就听出了她的声音。“赫尔克里•波洛先生吗？”
“请讲。”
“我是简•奥利维娅——阿利斯泰尔•布伦特的外甥孙女。”
“是的，奥利维娅小姐。”
“请问您能到哥特楼来一趟吗？我有点儿事想告诉您。”
“当然可以，什么时间合适？”
“请您六点三十分来吧。”
“我会到的。”
有那么一瞬间，来电者独断专横的语气变得有些犹豫不决：“我……我希望没有打扰到
您的工作吧？”
“一点儿都没有。我正在等着您来电话呢。”
他迅速放下电话听筒，从电话机旁走开，脸上带着微笑。他心想，不知简•奥利维娅会
用什么借口召他过去。
刚到哥特楼，他就被径直领进了朝河的大书房。阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生坐在一张书桌
前，心不在焉地摆弄着一把裁纸刀，脸上带着一丝因为家里女人太多而特有的烦躁。
简•奥利维娅站在壁炉边上。波洛进门时，一个身材臃肿的中年女人正在唠叨着：“我
真的认为在这件事上应该考虑一下我的感受，阿利斯泰尔。”
“是的，朱莉娅。当然了，当然了。”
阿利斯泰尔安慰她说，一边站起身来迎接波洛。
“如果你们要谈什么可怕的事情，我就不待在这儿了。”那个女人又说。
“我正要谈，妈妈。”简•奥利维娅说。
奥利维娅夫人快步离开房间，看都没看波洛一眼。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：
“您能来真是太好了，波洛先生。您已经见过奥利维娅小姐了，是吗？是她把您给叫来
的——”
简紧接着说：
“是想问一下报纸上到处都在登的那个失踪女人的情况，叫什么西尔小姐。”
“塞恩斯伯里•西尔，对吧？”
简转向波洛。
“这名字好拗口，所以我一下就记住了。我来告诉他，还是您来，阿利斯泰尔姨公？”
“亲爱的，还是你来讲吧。”
简又一次转向波洛。
“有件事也许不重要，但是我想您应该知道。”
“什么事？”
“就是上次阿利斯泰尔姨公去看牙医时——我说的不是那天——是大约三个月以前的事
儿。我和他一起坐劳斯莱斯出门，车先把他送到夏洛特皇后街，然后再送我到雷津公园去
见几个朋友，之后再回来接他。我们在五十八号停下，姨公下了车。就在这时，一个女的
从五十八号出来——是个中年女人，头发弄得很夸张，衣着也很艺术。她径直朝姨公走
去，说（简•奥利维娅吊起嗓子尖声说）：‘噢，布伦特先生，您肯定不认识我了吧！’哦，
当然，我从姨公脸上的表情就能看出来他根本就不记得她——”
阿利斯泰尔叹了口气。
“我确实想不起。总有人对我说——”
“他又摆出了那副面孔。”简接着说，“那种表情，貌似彬彬有礼，却明显是装的，就连
小孩子都能看出来。他特别不确定地说‘哦……啊……当然。’那可怜的女人继续说‘我是您
太太的一个好朋友！’”
“他们通常都会这么说。”阿利斯泰尔•布伦特的声音变得更加沮丧。
他苦笑着说：
“每次到最后都是同样的结局！给这里或那里捐点儿钱。那一次是给印度妇女基督教慈
善组织（注：Zenana Missions，十九世纪中期出现在印度。传教者走入印度家庭，目的是
说服印度妇女改信基督教。后来它的宗旨从原来单一的宗教传播扩充到为印度妇女提供医
疗和教育服务，由此建立的一些医院和学校至今仍然存在。）捐了五英镑，也不算太多！”
“她确实认识您太太吗？”
“呃，她是那个基督教慈善组织的，所以也许会认识她。如果她们真的认识的话，我觉
得可能是在印度的时候。我们大约十年前在印度住过。但是，当然，她肯定不是我太太的
好朋友，不然我一定会知道。她们有可能在某个活动上碰到过一次。”
简•奥利维娅说：
“我不信她与丽贝卡姨婆见过面，我觉得她根本就是找借口和您搭讪。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特大度地说：
“她也只不过是想要我捐点儿钱而已。”
“那完全有可能，”简说，“不过，我觉得她那样冒充您的熟人确实有点儿奇怪，姨
公。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特还是同样大度地说：
“她就是想要我捐款。”
波洛问：“她事后也没有再找过您？”
布伦特摇摇头。
“我再也没想起过她，我甚至已经忘了她的名字，直到简在报纸上看到。”
简有点儿犹豫地说：“呃，我就是觉得波洛先生应该知道这事儿！”
波洛礼貌地说：“谢谢您，小姐。”他又说：“我不再打扰您了，布伦特先生。您可是个
大忙人。”
简马上接着说：“我送您下去。”
赫尔克里•波洛的小胡子下面浮现出一丝窃笑。到了楼下，简突然停下来，对波洛
说：“到这边来。”
他们走进一个大厅边上的小房间。她转身面对着他，问：“您之前在电话里说您正等着
我的电话是什么意思？”
波洛微笑着，伸出两只手说：
“就是这个意思啊，小姐。我正在等您的电话，然后您就打过来了。”
“您是说您知道我会给您打电话，说这个塞恩斯伯里•西尔的事儿？”
波洛摇摇头，说：“那只是个借口。如果需要，您可能还会找到其他什么话题。”
她说：“我也是见鬼了，为什么要给您打电话？”
“为什么您要把关于塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐这些珍贵的信息告诉我，而不是苏格兰场？
因为人们通常会很自然地那么做。”
“好吧，无所不知先生，您到底知道多少？”
“我知道那天当你听到我去过霍尔本宫酒店之后，您就对我感兴趣了。”
她面色一下变得惨白，把波洛吓了一跳。他想不到她那被太阳晒出的古铜色能一下子
就变绿。
他不动声色地继续说：
“您今天把我叫过来是想诱使我——是这么说的，对吧？——对，诱使我谈谈霍华德•
赖克斯先生。”
简•奥利维娅说：
“他是谁？我一点儿都不知道。”
她装得太不像了。
波洛说：
“您不需要诱使我，小姐，我会告诉您我知道的，或者我猜到的东西。我们第一次来这
儿的那天，贾普探长和我，你见到我们时特别吃惊，这引起了我的注意。您以为您的姨公
出事儿了，为什么？”
“呃，他是那种容易出事儿的人啊。有一天，他收到了一个包裹，里面是炸弹——就在
赫约斯洛伐克贷款之后。他还收到过好多恐吓信。”
波洛说：
“贾普探长告诉您有个牙医，莫利先生，被枪杀了。您还记得您当时的回答吗？您
说‘可是，这太荒唐了啊!’”
简咬着嘴唇，说：
“我是这么说的吗？那我真是太奇怪了，对吧？”
“那是个充满好奇的感叹，小姐。它说明您知道莫利先生的存在，您似乎期待着发生点
儿什么——并不是发生在他身上，但有可能发生在他的那所房子里。”
“您还真喜欢编故事，是吧？”
波洛没有理会她。
“您期待着，或者说您害怕莫利先生的房子里会发生什么事情。您担心这件事会发生在
您的姨公身上。如果是这样，您一定知道些我们并不知道的东西。我把那天去过莫利先生
那儿的人捋了一遍，立即想到了其中一个可能和您有关联的人——他就是那位年轻的美国
人，霍华德•赖克斯先生。”
“就像连载故事那样？下一个惊险篇该是什么了？”
“我去见了霍华德•赖克斯先生。他是个既危险又有魅力的年轻人——”
波洛故意停住了口。
简陷入沉思般地说：“他的确是，对吧？”接着又微笑着说：“好吧！您赢了！我快被吓
死了。”
她向前探了探身子。
“我要告诉您一些事情，波洛先生。您是那种别人骗不了的人，与其让您这样四处窥探
猜测，还不如告诉您算了。我爱那个男人，霍华德•赖克斯，我都为他着迷了。我妈妈把我
带到这里来就是要把我从他身边拉走。一半是为这个，一半是想让阿利斯泰尔姨公能喜欢
我，等他死后把他的钱留给我。”
她接着说：
“我妈妈是他太太的外甥女。妈妈的妈妈是丽贝卡•阿诺德的姐姐。他是我的姨公。因
为他自己没有什么近亲，所以妈妈觉得我们有理由成为他的遗产继承人。她自己也总是随
意向他讨东西。
“瞧，我对您很坦白，波洛先生。我们就是这样的人。其实我们自己也有很多钱——在
霍华德看来已经到了可鄙的数量——但是我们还不属于阿利斯泰尔姨公的阶层。”
她停顿了一下，一只手突然猛拍了一下椅子扶手。
“我怎么才能让您明白？我从小到大所相信的一切，都是霍华德所憎恨的，想要废除
的。有时，您知道，我觉得他确实想这么干。我很爱阿利斯泰尔姨公，但是他有时也很让
我心烦。他的做派特别老套——典型英国人的那种——特别小心翼翼，而且保守。我有时
也觉得他和他代表的那个势力应该被赶走，因为他们正在阻碍发展，如果没有他们，我们
能做得更好！”
“您已经接受赖克斯先生的想法了？”
“是又不是。霍华德，比他的那些同伴们更狂野。有些人，您知道，他们也同意霍华德
的观点。他们愿意做出尝试，如果阿利斯泰尔姨公和他的同僚们同意这么做的话。可他们
永远都不会同意！他们只是消极地坐在那里，摇着头说‘我们千万不能冒这个险。’还有‘这
样做对经济很不利。’还有‘我们必须考虑到我们的责任。’还有‘看看过去的历史。’但是我
认为人不能老是看历史，这是往后看，人必须得朝前看啊。”
波洛轻轻地说：“这是个很诱人的观点。”
简鄙视地看着他：“您也这么说！”
“也许是因为我也老了吧。老人们有的是旧梦——你看，只有旧梦啦。”
他停顿了一下，然后语气严肃地问：
“为什么霍华德•赖克斯先生会在夏洛特皇后街预约看牙呢？”
“因为我想让他见见阿利斯泰尔姨公，而且我想不到其他的方法。他一直在说阿利斯泰
尔姨公的坏话——充满……充满仇恨的那种。所以我觉得如果他能见到姨公，看到他是个
多么和善的人，或许会有所改变……我不能安排他来这里见面，因为我妈妈……她肯定会
把事情搞砸的。”
波洛说：“但是做了预约后，您又有点儿害怕了。”
她的眼睛睁得又大又圆，说：
“是啊，因为……因为有时霍华德会做些出格的事儿。他……他——”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“他想走捷径，铲除—
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 1
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT
I
Time went on. It was over a month since Mr. Morley’s death, and there was still no news of Miss
Sainsbury Seale.
Japp became increasingly wrathful on the subject.
“Dash it all, Poirot, the woman’s got to be somewhere.”
“Indubitably, mon cher.”
“Either she’d dead or alive. If she’s dead, where’s her body? Say, for instance, she committed
suicide—”
“Another suicide?”
“Don’t let’s get back to that. You still say Morley was murdered—I say it was suicide.”
“You haven’t traced the pistol?”
“No, it’s a foreign make.”
“That is suggestive, is it not?”
“Not in the way you mean. Morley had been abroad. He went on cruises, he and his sister.
Everybody in the British Isles goes on cruises. He may have picked it up abroad. They like to feel
life’s dangerous.”
He paused and said:
“Don’t sidetrack me. I was saying that if—only if, mind you—that blasted woman committed
suicide, if she’d drowned herself for instance, the body would have come ashore by now. If she
was murdered, the same thing.”
“Not if a weight was attached to her body and it was put into the Thames.”
“From a cellar in Limehouse, I suppose! You’re talking like a thriller by a lady novelist.”
“I know—I know. I blush when I say these things!”
“And she was done to death by an international gang of crooks, I suppose?”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“I have been told lately that there really are such things.”
“Who told you so?”
“Mr. Reginald Barnes of Castlegarden Road, Ealing.”
“Well, he might know,” said Japp dubiously. “He dealt with aliens when he was at the Home
Office.”
“And you do not agree?”
“It isn’t my branch—oh yes, there are such things—but they’re rather futile as a rule.”
There was a momentary silence as Poirot twirled his moustache.
Japp said:
“We’ve got one or two additional bits of information. She came home from India on the same
boat as Amberiotis. But she was second class and he was first, so I don’t suppose there’s anything
in that, although one of the waiters at the Savoy thinks she lunched there with him about a week or
so before he died.”
“So there may have been a connection between them?”
“There may be—but I can’t feel it’s likely. I can’t see a Missionary lady being mixed up in any
funny business.”
“Was Amberiotis mixed up in any ‘funny business,’ as you term it?”
“Yes, he was. He was in close touch with some of our Central European friends. Espionage
racket.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes. Oh, he wasn’t doing any of the dirty work himself. We wouldn’t have been able to touch
him. Organizing and receiving reports—that was his lay.”
Japp paused and then went on:
“But that doesn’t help us with the Sainsbury Seale. She wouldn’t have been in on that racket.”
“She had lived in India, remember. There was a lot of unrest there last year.”
“Amberiotis and the excellent Miss Sainsbury Seale—I can’t feel that they were teammates.”
“Did you know that Miss Sainsbury Seale was a close friend of the late Mrs. Alistair Blunt?”
“Who says so? I don’t believe it. Not in the same class.”
“She said so.”
“Who’d she say that to?”
“Mr. Alistair Blunt.”
“Oh! That sort of thing. He must be used to that lay. Do you mean that Amberiotis was using
her that way? It wouldn’t work. Blunt would get rid of her with a subscription. He wouldn’t ask
her down for a weekend or anything of that kind. He’s not so unsophisticated as that.”
This was so palpably true that Poirot could only agree. After a minute or two, Japp went on with
his summing up of the Sainsbury Seale situation.
“I suppose her body might have been lowered into a tank of acid by a mad scientist—that’s
another solution they’re very fond of in books! But take my word for it, these things are all my eye
and Betty Martin. If the woman is dead, her body has just been quietly buried somewhere.”
“But where?”
“Exactly. She disappeared in London. Nobody’s got a garden there—not a proper one. A lonely
chicken farm, that’s what we want!”
A garden! Poirot’s mind flashed suddenly to that neat prim garden in Ealing with its formal
beds. How fantastic if a dead woman should be buried there! He told himself not to be absurd.
“And if she isn’t dead,” went on Japp, “where is she? Over a month now, description published
in the Press, circulated all over England—”
“And nobody has seen her?”
“Oh yes, practically everybody has seen her! You’ve no idea how many middle-aged faded-
looking women wearing olive green cardigan suits there are. She’s been seen on Yorkshire moors,
and in Liverpool hotels, in guest houses in Devon and on the beach at Ramsgate! My men have
spent their time patiently investigating all these reports—and one and all they’ve led nowhere,
except to getting us in wrong with a number of perfectly respectable middle-aged ladies.”
Poirot clicked his tongue sympathetically.
“And yet,” went on Japp, “she’s a real person all right. I mean, sometimes you come across a
dummy, so to speak—someone who just comes to a place and poses as a Miss Spinks—when all
the time there isn’t a Miss Spinks. But this woman’s genuine—she’s got a past, a background! We
know all about her from her childhood upwards! She’s led a perfectly normal, reasonable life—
and suddenly, hey presto—vanish!”
“There must be a reason,” said Poirot.
“She didn’t shoot Morley, if that’s what you mean. Amberiotis saw him alive after she left—
and we’ve checked up on her movements after she left Queen Charlotte Street that morning.”
Poirot said impatiently:
“I am not suggesting for a moment that she shot Morley. Of course she did not. But all the same
—”
Japp said:
“If you are right about Morley, then it’s far more likely that he told her something which,
although she doesn’t suspect it, gives a clue to his murderer. In that case, she might have been
deliberately got out of the way.”
Poirot said:
“All this involves an organization, some big concern quite out of proportion to the death of a
quiet dentist in Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Don’t you believe everything Reginald Barnes tells you! He’s a funny old bird—got spies and
communists on the brain.”
Japp got up and Poirot said:
“Let me know if you have news.”
When Japp had gone out, Poirot sat frowning down at the table in front of him.
He had definitely the feeling of waiting for something. What was it?
He remembered how he had sat before, jotting down various unrelated facts and a series of
names. A bird had flown past the window with a twig in its mouth.
He, too, had been collecting twigs. Five, six, picking up sticks …
He had the sticks—quite a number of them now. They were all there, neatly pigeonholed in his
orderly mind—but he had not as yet attempted to set them in order. That was the next step—lay
them straight.
What was holding him up? He knew the answer. He was waiting for something.
Something inevitable, foreordained, the next link in the chain. When it came—then—then he
could go on….
七，八，理顺它 1
七，八，理顺它
1
时光流逝。莫利先生已经死了一个多月，还是没有任何塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的消息。
贾普对于这件事变得越来越烦躁：“真见鬼，波洛，这个女人一定在什么地方。”
“毫无疑问，亲爱的贾普。”
“她要么死了，要么还活着。如果是死了，那么她的尸体在哪儿？假如说，她自杀了
——”
“又一个自杀?”
“我们先不说这个。你还是认为莫利是被杀的，我说他是自杀。”
“你们查到那把手枪的来历了吗？”
“没有，那把枪是外国造的。”
“这就很能说明问题，对吧？”
“不是你说的那种。莫利去过国外，他坐过邮轮，和他姐姐一起。不列颠岛的人都喜欢
坐邮轮。他有可能从国外带回一把枪。他们都喜欢把生活想象得很危险。”
他停了一下，又接着说：
“别打岔，我刚才说的是假如——我只是说假如啊——那个可恶的女人自杀了，比如她
投河自尽了，那么尸体现在应该已经漂上岸了。假如她是被杀的，也是同样的情况。”
“除非有人在她的尸体上绑了重物，然后扔进泰晤士河。”
“我猜你还想说从伦敦东区的某个地窖里弄出来吧！你听上去像个惊险小说女作家。”
“我知道，我知道，一说起这个我就会脸红!”
“而且她是被一帮国际坏分子给干掉的，对吗？”
波洛叹了口气，说：
“最近还真有人告诉我存在这种事儿。”
“谁告诉你的？”
“伊灵城堡园路的雷金纳德•巴恩斯先生。”
“哦，他有可能知道。”贾普将信将疑地说，“他在内政部的时候跟那些外侨打交道。”
“那么你不同意这种看法吗？”
“这种事不归我管——不过是的，确实有这种事情发生，但是并没有普遍性。”
他们沉默了一阵，波洛用手抚弄着他的小胡子。
贾普说：
“我们拿到了一两个新的线索。她从印度回来时，和安伯里奥兹乘的是同一艘船，但她
坐的二等舱，而他是一等。所以，我不觉得这里面会有什么问题。不过萨伏依酒店的一个
侍者说她在他死的前一周和他一起在那里吃过一次午餐。”
“那么，他们两个之间可能会有联系？”
“也许是，但我觉得不太可能。我想一个热心宗教慈善的女士不会掺和到什么反常生意
中。”
“安伯里奥兹掺和进了什么你所说的‘反常生意’吗？”
“是的，他与一些中欧人联系密切，搞间谍活动。”
“你确定吗？”
“是的，哦，他不做那些脏活儿，我们逮不到他。他只是做些组织、接收报告之类的
事。”
贾普稍稍停顿，又接着说：
“但是这跟塞恩斯伯里•西尔的事没有任何关系啊，她又不会做这种非法勾当。”
“她曾住在印度，记得吧，去年那里可是十分动荡。”
“安伯里奥兹和优秀的塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐，我怎么都觉得他们不像是同伙。”
“你知道塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐是已故阿利斯泰尔•布伦特夫人的密友吗？”
“谁说的？我不信。她们俩不是一个阶层的人。”
“她自己说的。”
“她跟谁说的？”
“阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生。”
“噢！是这样啊。他对这种人一定司空见惯了吧。你觉得会不会是安伯里奥兹在利用
她？这么做没用，布伦特只会给她一点儿捐款把她给打发了，不会请她去过个周末什么
的。他没有那么天真。”
波洛表示同意。过了一两分钟，贾普又继续他对塞恩斯伯里•西尔的总结：“我猜她的
尸体可能被某个变态的科学家泡入了硫酸池中——这是故事书里人们所酷爱的另一种结
论。但是，我告诉你，这些都是胡编滥造。如果那个女人死了，她的尸体一定已经被悄悄
地埋在了什么地方。”
“但是，在哪里呢？”
“说的就是啊，她在伦敦消失了，这里没人有花园——适合的花园，比如一个偏僻的养
鸡场什么的。我们倒是要找这样的地方!”
花园！波洛的思绪迅速闪回到伊灵的那个修剪得整齐漂亮的花园。如果那里埋着一具
女尸该是多么荒诞啊！他默默提醒自己别胡思乱想。
“如果她没有死，”贾普继续说，“那么现在在哪里呢？已经一个多月了，她的特征描述
已经通过报纸发布到了全英格兰——”
“没有人看到过她吗？”
“哦，不，确切地讲大家都看到她了！你想象不到有多少像她那样容颜已褪，身着橄榄
绿毛衣套装的中年妇女。有人在约克郡的荒野上看到过她；有人在利物浦的酒店里看到过
她；还有人在德文郡的酒店和拉姆斯盖特的海边看到过她！我的人花了很长时间耐心地调
查这些报告——这些信息带给我们的是一堆和她长相类似的中年女士。除此之外一无所
获。”
波洛同情地咋了咋舌头。
“然而，”贾普接着说，“她确实是个活生生的人啊。我是说，有时候你会遇到一个，我
们所说的虚幻人——一个人来到一个地方，佯称自己是斯宾克斯小姐，而其实根本就没有
这么一位斯宾克斯小姐。但是这个女人是真实的，她有历史，有背景！我们了解她童年之
后的所有经历！她一直过着极其正常和理智的生活，突然，一眨眼，她就消失了！”
“一定有什么原因。”波洛说。
“她又没有开枪打死莫利，如果你是在想这个。她走后，安伯里奥兹还见到过她。我们
还查过她那天上午离开夏洛特皇后街的行踪。”
波洛不耐烦地说：
“我从来没想过是她杀了莫利。她当然没有。但不管怎么说——”
贾普说：“如果你对莫利的推测是对的，那么很有可能他告诉了她些什么。虽然她没有
怀疑，却让杀害他的凶手起了歹意。如果是这样，她有可能是被人蓄意除掉的。”
波洛说：
“这些都需要一个组织才能做到，这就比夏洛特皇后街死了一个无名牙医要严重多
了。”
“你不要完全相信雷金纳德•巴恩斯对你说的！他是个奇怪的老家伙，满脑子都是间谍
和共党分子。”
贾普站起身来。
波洛说：“有消息及时通知我。”
贾普走后，波洛坐在桌子边上眉头紧锁。他非常清楚地感觉到自己在等待着什么事情
发生。什么呢？他记起来他曾经是怎么坐在这儿，随笔写下了各种毫无关联的事和一串名
字。
窗外，一只鸟嘴里衔着一根树枝从他眼前飞过。
他自己，也在搜集一根根的树枝。五，六，衔树枝……
他有树枝了——目前已经有了不少。它们都在那儿，整整齐齐地摆在他有条理的脑袋
里，但他还不打算把它们进行排序。这是下一步的工作——把它们排列好。是什么让他踌
躇不前呢？他知道答案，不过他还在等着某件事，一件不可避免的、注定要发生的事。它
又是这链条上的一个节点。等它出现了，他就可以继续下去……
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 2
II
It was late evening a week later when the summons came. Japp’s voice was brusque over the
telephone.
“That you, Poirot? We’ve found her. You’d better come round. King Leopold Mansions.
Battersea Park. Number 45.”
A quarter of an hour later a taxi deposited Poirot outside King Leopold Mansions.
It was a big block of mansion flats looking out over Battersea Park. Number 45 was on the
second floor. Japp himself opened the door.
His face was set in grim lines.
“Come in,” he said. “It’s not particularly pleasant, but I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”
Poirot said—but it was hardly a question:
“Dead?”
“What you might describe as very dead!”
Poirot cocked his head at a familiar sound coming from a door on his right.
“That’s the porter,” said Japp. “Being sick in the scullery sink! I had to get him up here to see if
he could identify her.”
He led the way down the passage and Poirot followed him. His nose wrinkled.
“Not nice,” said Japp. “But what can you expect? She’s been dead well over a month.”
The room they went into was a small lumber and box room. In the middle of it was a big metal
chest of the kind used for storing furs. The lid was open.
Poirot stepped forward and looked inside.
He saw the foot first, with the shabby shoe on it and the ornate buckle. His first sight of Miss
Sainsbury Seale had been, he remembered, a shoe buckle.
His gaze travelled up, over the green wool coat and skirt till it reached the head.
He made an inarticulate noise.
“I know,” said Japp. “It’s pretty horrible.”
The face had been battered out of all recognizable shape. Add to that the natural process of
decomposition, and it was no wonder that both men looked a shade pea green as they turned away.
“Oh well,” said Japp. “It’s all in a day’s work—our day’s work. No doubt about it, ours is a
lousy job sometimes. There’s a spot of brandy in the other room. You’d better have some.”
The living room was smartly furnished in an up-to-date style—a good deal of chromium and
some large square-looking easy chairs upholstered in a pale fawn geometric fabric.
Poirot found the decanter and helped himself to some brandy. As he finished drinking, he said:
“It was not pretty, that! Now tell me, my friend, all about it.”
Japp said:
“This flat belongs to a Mrs. Albert Chapman. Mrs. Chapman is, I gather, a well-upholstered
smart blonde of forty- odd. Pays her bills, fond of an occasional game of bridge with her
neighbours but keeps herself to herself more or less. No children. Mr. Chapman is a commercial
traveller.
“Sainsbury Seale came here on the evening of our interview with her. About seven fifteen. So
she probably came straight here from the Glengowrie Court. She’d been here once before, so the
porter says. You see, all perfectly clear and aboveboard—nice friendly call. The porter took Miss
Sainsbury Seale up in the lift to this flat. The last he saw of her was standing on the mat pressing
the bell.”
Poirot commented:
“He has taken his time to remember this!”
“He’s had gastric trouble, it seems, been away in hospital while another man took on
temporarily for him. It wasn’t until about a week ago that he happened to notice in an old paper
the description of a ‘wanted woman’ and he said to his wife, ‘Sounds quite like that old cup of tea
who came to see Mrs. Chapman on the second floor. She had on a green wool dress and buckles on
her shoes.’ And after about another hour he registered again—‘Believe she had a name, too,
something like that. Blimey, it was—Miss Something or other Seale!’
“After that,” continued Japp, “it took him about four days to overcome his natural distrust of
getting mixed up with the police and come along with his information.
“We didn’t really think it would lead to anything. You’ve no idea how many of these false
alarms we’ve had. However, I sent Sergeant Beddoes along—he’s a bright young fellow. A bit too
much of this high-class education but he can’t help that. It’s fashionable now.
“Well, Beddoes got a hunch at once that we were on to something at last. For one thing this
Mrs. Chapman hadn’t been seen about for over a month. She’d gone away without leaving any
address. That was a bit odd. In fact everything he could learn about Mr. and Mrs. Chapman
seemed odd.
“He found out the porter hadn’t seen Miss Sainsbury Seale leave again. That in itself wasn’t
unusual. She might easily have come down the stairs and gone out without his seeing her. But then
the porter told him that Mrs. Chapman had gone away rather suddenly. There was just a big
printed notice outside the door the next morning:
NO MILK. TELL NELLIE I AM CALLED AWAY.
“Nellie was the daily maid who did for her. Mrs. Chapman had gone away suddenly once or
twice before, so the girl didn’t think it odd, but what was odd was the fact that she hadn’t rung for
the porter to take her luggage down or get her a taxi.
“Anyway, Beddoes decided to get into the flat. We got a search warrant and a pass key from the
manager. Found nothing of interest except in the bathroom. There had been some hasty clearing
up done there. There was a trace of blood on the linoleum—in the corners where it had been
missed when the floor was washed over. After that, it was just a question of finding the body. Mrs.
Chapman couldn’t have left with any luggage with her or the porter would have known. Therefore
the body must still be in the flat. We soon spotted that fur chest—airtight, you know—just the
place. Keys were in the dressing table drawer.
“We opened it up—and there was the missing lady! Mistletoe Bough up-to-date.”
Poirot asked:
“What about Mrs. Chapman?”
“What indeed? Who is Sylvia (her name’s Sylvia, by the way), what is she? One thing is
certain. Sylvia, or Sylvia’s friends, murdered the lady and put her in the box.”
Poirot nodded.
He asked:
“But why was her face battered in? It is not nice, that.”
“I’ll say it isn’t nice! As to why—well, one can only guess. Sheer vindictiveness, perhaps. Or it
may have been with the idea of concealing the woman’s identity.”
“But it did not conceal her identity.”
“No, because not only had we got a pretty good description of what Mabelle Sainsbury Seale
was wearing when she disappeared, but her handbag had been stuffed into the fur box too and
inside the handbag there was actually an old letter addressed to her at her hotel in Russell Square.”
Poirot sat up. He said:
“But that—that does not make the common sense!”
“It certainly doesn’t. I suppose it was a slip.”
“Yes—perhaps—a slip. But—”
He got up.
“You have been over the flat?”
“Pretty well. There’s nothing illuminating.”
“I should like to see Mrs. Chapman’s bedroom.”
“Come along then.”
The bedroom showed no signs of a hasty departure. It was neat and tidy. The bed had not been
slept in, but was turned down ready for the night. There was a thick coating of dust everywhere.
Japp said:
“No finger-prints, so far as we can see. There are some on the kitchen things, but I expect
they’ll turn out to be the maid’s.”
“That means that the whole place was dusted very carefully after the murder?”
“Yes.”
Poirot’s eyes swept slowly round the room. Like the sitting room it was furnished in the modern
style—and furnished, so he thought, by someone with a moderate income. The articles in it were
expensive but not ultra expensive. They were showy but not first-class. The colour scheme was
rose pink. He looked into the built-in wardrobe and handled the clothes—smart clothes but again
not of first-class quality. His eyes fell to the shoes—they were largely of the sandal variety popular
at the moment, some had exaggerated cork soles. He balanced one in his hand, registered the fact
that Mrs. Chapman had taken a 5 in shoes and put it down again. In another cupboard he found a
pile of furs, shoved in a heap.
Japp said:
“Came out of the fur chest.”
Poirot nodded.
He was handling a grey squirrel coat. He remarked appreciatively: “First-class skins.”
He went into the bathroom.
There was a lavish display of cosmetics. Poirot looked at them with interest. Powder, rouge,
vanishing cream, skin food, two bottles of hair application.
Japp said:
“Not one of our natural platinum blondes, I gather.”
Poirot murmured:
“At forty, mon ami, the hair of most women has begun to go grey but Mrs. Chapman was not
one to yield to nature.”
“She’s probably gone henna red by now for a change.”
“I wonder.”
Japp said:
“There’s something worrying you, Poirot. What is it?”
Poirot said:
“But yes, I am worried. I am very seriously worried. There is here, you see, for me an insoluble
problem.”
Resolutely, he went once more into the box room….
He took hold of the shoe on the dead woman’s foot. It resisted and came off with difficulty.
He examined the buckle. It had been clumsily sewn on by hand.
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
“It is that I am dreaming!”
Japp said curiously:
“What are you trying to do—make the thing more difficult?”
“Exactly that.”
Japp said:
“One patent leather shoe, complete with buckle. What’s wrong with that?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Nothing—absolutely nothing. But all the same—I do not understand.”
七，八，理顺它 2
2
一周后的一个夜晚，他的召唤来了。贾普在电话里很莽撞地说：
“嘿，波洛？我们找到她了。你最好过来一趟。贝特西公园，里奥博特国王公寓四十五
号。”
一刻钟后，一辆出租车把波洛带到了里奥博特国王公寓门外。
这是一幢很大的公寓楼，俯瞰贝特西公园。四十五号在二楼。
贾普面色严峻，亲自为他开了门。
“进来吧，”他说，“让人不太舒服啊，但是我觉得你应该想亲眼看看。”
波洛问——但其实并不是在问：
“死了？”
“可以说是死得不能再透了！”
波洛听到从右边门里传来一个熟悉的声音，他歪过头去看。
“是那个门童，”贾普说，“正在洗碗池那儿吐呢！我必须把他找来辨认。”
他朝走廊里头走去，波洛跟在后面。他的鼻子皱了皱。
“不好闻啊。”贾普说，“但是你还能指望什么？她已经死了一个多月了。”
他们走进了一间小小的堆放杂物和箱子的储物间。屋子中间是一个大铁皮箱，通常用
来装皮草的那种。箱子的盖子敞开着。
波洛向前走了几步，朝箱子里面望去。
他先看到那只脚，穿着那只带有装饰扣的邋遢鞋子。他记起这就是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小
姐给他留下的第一印象——一个鞋扣。
他的眼神慢慢往上移动，经过那件绿色的羊毛外衣和裙子，停在了头部。
他发出了一声含混不清的惊叫。
“我明白，”贾普说，“非常可怕。”
那张脸被打得稀巴烂，完全看不出原来的形状。两个男人转过身时，脸色无疑都变成
了豆绿色。
“噢，好吧，”贾普说，“这就是日常工作——我们的日常工作。当然了，我们的工作有
时真糟糕。我看到那边房间里有瓶白兰地，你最好去喝点儿。”
客厅装饰得很有品位，很时尚，不少地方配有金属饰品。几把宽大舒适的椅子看上去
方方正正，用软垫子包着。垫子的面料上是浅褐色的几何图案。
波洛看到了那瓶酒，给自己倒了些。喝完后，他说：
“确实让人不舒服！现在，我的朋友，跟我说说情况吧。”
贾普说：
“这套公寓属于一个叫阿尔伯特•查普曼的夫人。查普曼夫人，据我了解，是一位穿着
时尚的金发女郎，四十多岁，按时付账单，喜欢时不时和她的邻居们打打桥牌，但是多少
有点儿孤僻。没有孩子。查普曼先生是一个旅行商人。塞恩斯伯里•西尔在我们和她谈完话
的那天晚上来到这儿，大概是七点十五分的时候。所以她有可能是从格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店
直接到这儿来的。她之前曾经来过这里一次，门童这么说。你看，一切都很清楚——来拜
访一个朋友。门童带塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐乘电梯来到这个单元门口，他最后看到她时，她
正站在门口的垫子上按门铃。”
波洛说：“他记起这些事可花了不少时间！”
“他之前好像犯了胃病，住院了。另一个人来暂时顶替他。直到大概一周前，他偶然在
一张旧报纸的‘寻人启事’中看到了她的特征描述。他对妻子说‘看上去非常像来找二楼查普
曼夫人的那个老女人。她就是穿着一件绿色羊毛外套，鞋子上带着鞋扣。’差不多一个小时
以后，他又记起来，‘好像她的名字也有点儿像，哎呀，就是——什么什么西尔小姐！’”
“然后，”贾普继续说道，“出于正常的顾虑，他花了四天时间考虑要不要联系警局，最
后才提供了他知道的信息。我们开始还以为不会有什么结果。你不知道我们已经收到过多
少虚假情报。于是，我让贝多斯警官先过来看看——他是个聪明的年轻人，不过受的高等
教育似乎太多了点儿，但他也是不得已。现在时兴这个。然后，贝多斯马上就发现我们终
于找到了线索。首先，这个查普曼夫人事发前有一个多月都没住在这儿。她没留地址就离
开了。这就有点奇怪了。事实上，他了解到的关于查普曼先生和太太的所有情况也都很奇
怪。他还了解到门童没看到塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐离开。这件事本身不奇怪，她也可能是从
楼梯下来，所以他没看到她出去。但是门童又告诉他查普曼夫人也是突然离开的。他们俩
只是第二天在她门上发现了一张很大的用印刷体写的字条儿：‘告诉娜丽别买牛奶了，我有
事出门了。’
“娜丽是每天来她家做事的女佣。查普曼夫人过去也有过一两次突然离开的情况，所以
那个女孩儿没觉得有多奇怪。但奇怪的是，她都没有叫门童上来帮她把行李拿下去，或者
帮她叫出租车。
“总之，贝多斯决定进屋看看。他申请了搜查证，从经理那儿拿来了通用钥匙。他没发
现有什么异样，只是浴室里好像被匆忙地清洁过，地毡上有血迹——是在地毡的角落处，
冲洗地面的时候漏掉的。这之后，就是寻找尸体的问题了。查普曼夫人离开时不可能带任
何行李，否则门童就会看到。所以尸体一定还在这套公寓里面。我们不久就看到了那个皮
草箱——箱子很严实，你知道，就放在那个位置，钥匙在梳妆台的抽屉里。我们打开箱
子，发现失踪的女士就在里面！简直是现代版的恐怖故事。”
波洛问：“查普曼夫人那边呢？”
“你想问她哪方面？西尔维亚是谁？（顺便说下，她的名字叫西尔维亚。）她是干什么
的？有一件事非常肯定。那就是西尔维亚，或者西尔维亚的朋友，谋杀了那位女士并且把
她放进了箱子里。”
波洛点点头。他问：“但是为什么把她的脸给毁了？这可有点残忍啊。”
“我也觉得残忍！至于为什么——那，只能靠猜了。也许纯粹是为了报复，或者有可能
是为了掩盖那个女人的真实身份。”
“但是并没能掩盖她的身份哪。”
“没能，因为我们不仅很清楚梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔走失那天穿了什么衣服，就连她
的手提包也被塞进了箱子里。包里其实还有一封以前的信，是发往她住过的拉塞尔广场那
边的一家酒店的。”
波洛坐直了身子，说：“但是这个不合常理啊！”
“确实不合常理，我想是个骗局。”
“是啊……也许……是个骗局。但是——”
他站起身。
“这里你看完了吧？”
“看完了，没什么有用的东西。”
“我想看看查普曼夫人的卧室。”
“尽管去吧。”
卧室里看不到任何匆忙离开的痕迹，所有东西都摆放得井然有序。床是铺好了还没睡
过的样子。房间里到处都是厚厚的一层尘土。
贾普说：
“没有指纹，到目前为止还没有发现。有一些厨具，但我猜上面只会有女佣的指纹。”
“这说明谋杀发生后，这个地方被精心打扫过了。”
“是的。”
波洛的目光把整个屋子扫了一遍。这个卧室像客厅一样，布置得很现代；而且，他在
想，布置这房子的人还很有钱。这里摆的物件都比较昂贵，但又不是超级贵，看上去很不
错但又不是顶级货。房子的主题色是玫瑰粉。他打开那个嵌入式衣柜看了看，还扒拉了几
下里面的衣服——挺体面的衣服，但同样不是最好的质地。他的目光落在了那些鞋子上
——它们大多是当下流行的各种款式的凉鞋。有的是那种夸张的软木底。他拿起一只在手
上比了比，发现查普曼夫人穿五号鞋，然后把鞋子放了回去。在另一个衣柜里，他看到有
一摞皮草，堆成一堆。
贾普说：“是从皮草箱子里拿出来的。”
波洛点点头。他在摆弄着一件灰色松鼠皮衣，赞赏地说：“上等皮草。”
波洛走进卫生间，那里摆放着很多化妆品。他饶有兴趣地看着它们：定妆粉、腮红、
遮盖霜、护肤品、两瓶染发剂。
贾普说：“依我看，她不是那种天然的金发。”
波洛低声说：
“大部分女人一到四十岁，我的朋友，就开始有白发了。但是查普曼夫人是个不愿顺从
自然的人。”
“她现在也许已经改染成了棕红色。”
“有可能。”
贾普说：“你好像发现了什么，波洛，哪里不对劲儿？”
波洛说：“呃，是的，我觉得不太对劲儿。非常不对劲儿。你来看，这儿，解释不通
啊。”
他果断地走回到储物间，抓住女人尸体上穿着的一只鞋子，费了不少劲才把它脱下
来。他仔细观察上面的鞋扣——是用手工蹩脚地缝上去的。
赫尔克里•波洛叹了口气，说：
“这就是我要找的东西！”
贾普不解地问：
“你在干什么？把事情复杂化吗？”
“正是。”
贾普说：“一只皮鞋，带着鞋扣，有什么不对啊？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“没什么不对，完全没有，但我还是弄不明白啊。”
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 3
III
Mrs. Merton of No. 82, King Leopold Mansions had been designated by the porter as Mrs.
Chapman’s closest friend in the Mansions.
It was, therefore, to No. 82 that Japp and Poirot betook themselves next.
Mrs. Merton was a loquacious lady, with snapping black eyes, and an elaborate coiffure.
It needed no pressure to make her talk. She was only too ready to rise to a dramatic situation.
“Sylvia Chapman—well, of course, I don’t know her really well—not intimately, so to speak.
We had a few bridge evenings occasionally and we went to the pictures together, and of course
shopping sometimes. But oh, do tell me—she isn’t dead, is she?”
Japp reassured her.
“Well, I’m sure I’m thankful to hear it! But the postman just now was all agog about a body
having been found in one of the flats—but then one really can’t believe half one hears, can one? I
never do.”
Japp asked a further question.
“No, I haven’t heard anything of Mrs. Chapman—not since we had spoken about going to see
the new Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire the following week, and she said nothing about going
away then.”
Mrs. Merton had never heard a Miss Sainsbury Seale mentioned. Mrs. Chapman had never
spoken of anyone of that name.
“And yet, you know, the name is familiar to me, distinctly familiar. I seem to have seen it
somewhere quite lately.”
Japp said drily:
“It’s been in all the papers for some weeks—”
“Of course—some missing person, wasn’t it? And you thought Mrs. Chapman might have
known her? No, I’m sure I’ve never heard Sylvia mention that name.”
“Can you tell me anything about Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Merton?”
A rather curious expression came over Mrs. Merton’s face. She said:
“He was a commercial traveller, I believe, so Mrs. Chapman told me. He travelled abroad for
his firm—armaments, I believe. He went all over Europe.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No, never. He was at home so seldom, and when he was at home he and Mrs. Chapman didn’t
want to bother with outsiders. Very naturally.”
“Do you know if Mrs. Chapman had any near relations or friends?”
“I don’t know about friends. I don’t think she had any near relations. She never spoke of any.”
“Was she ever in India?”
“Not that I know of.”
Mrs. Merton paused, and then broke out:
“But please tell me—why are you asking all these questions? I quite understand that you come
from Scotland Yard and all that, but there must be some special reason?”
“Well, Mrs. Merton, you are bound to know some time. As a matter of fact, a dead body has
been found in Mrs. Chapman’s flat.”
“Oh—?” Mrs. Merton looked for a moment like the dog whose eyes were as big as saucers.
“A dead body! It wasn’t Mr. Chapman, was it? Or perhaps some foreigner?”
Japp said:
“It wasn’t a man at all—it was a woman.”
“A woman.” Mrs. Merton seemed even more surprised.
Poirot said gently:
“Why should you think it was a man?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It seemed more likely somehow.”
“But why? Was it because Mrs. Chapman was in the habit of receiving gentleman visitors?”
“Oh no—oh no indeed.” Mrs. Merton was indignant. “I never meant anything of that kind.
Sylvia Chapman wasn’t in the least that kind of woman—not at all! It was just that, with Mr.
Chapman—I mean—”
She came to a stop.
Poirot said:
“I think, Madame, that you know a little more than you have told us.”
Mrs. Merton said uncertainly:
“I don’t know, I’m sure — what I ought to do! I mean, I don’t exactly want to betray a
confidence and of course I never have repeated what Sylvia told me—except just to one or two
intimates whom I knew were really safe—”
Mrs. Merton leaned forward and lowered her voice:
“It just—slipped out, as it were, one day. When we were seeing a film—about the Secret
Service and Mrs. Chapman said you could see that whoever had written it didn’t know much about
their subject, and then it came out—only she swore me to secrecy. Mr. Chapman was in the Secret
Service, I mean. That was the real reason he had to go abroad so much. The armament firm was
only a blind. And it was terribly worrying for Mrs. Chapman because she couldn’t write to him or
get letters from him while he was away. And, of course, it was terribly dangerous!”
七，八，理顺它 3
3
门童说，住在利奥波德国王公寓八十二号的默顿太太是查普曼夫人在这个公寓里最要
好的朋友。
所以，接下来，贾普和波洛就来到八十二号。
默顿太太一讲起话来就喋喋不休。她的眼睛是黑色的，闪着光，头发精心梳理过。让
她打开话匣子非常容易，她是那种一遇事就激动的人。
“西尔维娅•查普曼——哦，当然了，我不是特别了解她。应该说，不是特别亲近的朋
友。我们偶尔会在晚上一起打打桥牌。有时去看看电影，当然也一起出去购物。但是，
呃，请告诉我，她没有死吧？”
贾普告诉她没有。
“噢，那我真是太高兴了！但是刚才邮递员特别激动，说是楼里发现了一具尸体。不过
人不能听风就是雨，对吧？我从来都不那样。”
贾普又问了她一个问题。
“没有，我一直没有听到任何关于查普曼夫人的消息。那天我们还说好要在接下来的一
个礼拜去看琴吉•罗吉斯和弗雷德•阿斯泰的新电影。她那天只字没提她要离开的事儿。”
默顿太太从来都没听说过塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐，查普曼夫人从来都没有提过这个名
字。
“不过，您知道，我觉得这个名字有点熟悉，隐约感觉有点熟悉，我好像最近在哪里看
到过。”
贾普干巴巴地说：“最近几周各个报纸都在登——”
“对了，有个什么人失踪了，是吧？那么您认为查普曼夫人可能会认识她？不会的，我
肯定我从来都没有听西尔维娅提过这个名字。”
“您能告诉我一些关于查普曼先生的情况吗，默顿太太？”
她脸上浮现出一种很奇怪的表情，说：
“我想他是个旅行商人。查普曼夫人是这么告诉我的。他经常到国外出差，好像是替一
家做军火生意的公司做事，整个欧洲都跑遍了。”
“您见过他吗？”
“没有，从没见过。他很少在家，而且一旦在家，他和查普曼夫人就不愿意和外人来
往。这也很正常。”
“您知道查普曼夫人是否有什么比较近的亲戚或者朋友吗？”
“朋友我不太知道，但我觉得她没有什么很近的亲戚。她从来都没说过。”
“她去过印度吗？”
“据我所知没有。”默顿太太停顿了一下，又接着说，“请告诉我，您为什么问这些问
题？我很清楚您是苏格兰场的人，所以一定有什么原因？”
“哦，默顿太太，您会知道，事实上，我们在查普曼夫人的寓所里发现了一具尸体。”
“啊！？”一时间，默顿太太的两眼瞪得溜圆，看上去就像只小狗。
“一具死尸！不是查普曼先生，对吧？也许是外国人吧？”
贾普说：“不是男人，是具女人的尸体。”
“女人。”默顿太太看上去更加吃惊了。
波洛轻轻地问：“您为什么觉得会是个男人呢？”
“呃，我不知道，好像应该是个男人吧。”
“可是为什么呢？是因为查普曼夫人经常接待男士来访者吗？”
“噢，不……不是的，”默顿太太很生气地说，“我根本就不是这个意思。西尔维娅•查普
曼绝对不是那种女人——绝对不是！只不过，查普曼先生……我是说……”
她停住不说了。
波洛说：“我认为，女士，您没有把知道的事情都告诉我们。”
默顿太太不确定地说：
“我也不知道，但是我知道应该怎么做！我是说，我并不想辜负别人的信任，而且我从
来都没有把西尔维亚说的话告诉过任何人，除了一两个特别可靠的好朋友——”
默顿太太向前倾了倾身子，压低了声音说：
“那是有一天她偶然提到的。我们当时正在看一部关于间谍的电影，查普曼夫人说能看
出这个写剧本的人对于此题材知之甚少。然后，她就说了那个秘密，不过她先让我发誓保
密——查普曼先生是个间谍。我是说，这就是他长期在国外的真正原因。那个军火公司只
是个幌子。查普曼夫人特别担心，因为他不在家时她都不能给他写信，也收不到他的信。
当然了，这多危险哪！”
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 4
IV
As they went down the stairs again to No. 42, Japp ejaculated with feeling: “Shades of Phillips
Oppenheim, Valentine Williams and William le Queux, I think I’m going mad!”
That smart young man, Sergeant Beddoes, was waiting for them.
He said respectfully:
“Haven’t been able to get anything helpful from the maid, sir. Mrs. Chapman changed maids
pretty often, it seems. This one only worked for her for a month or two. She says Mrs. Chapman
was a nice lady, fond of the radio and pleasant spoken. Girl was of the opinion the husband was a
gay deceiver but that Mrs. Chapman didn’t suspect it. She got letters from abroad sometimes,
some from Germany, two from America, one from Italy and one from Russia. The girl’s young
man collects stamps, and Mrs. Chapman used to give them to her off the letters.”
“Anything among Mrs. Chapman’s papers?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir. She didn’t keep much. A few bills and receipted accounts—all local.
Some old theatre programmes, one or two cookery recipes cut out of the papers, and a pamphlet
about Zenana Missions.”
“And we can guess who brought that here. She doesn’t sound like a murderess, does she? And
yet that’s what it seems to be. She’s bound to be an accomplice anyway. No strange men seen
about that evening?”
“The porter doesn’t remember any—but then I don’t suppose he would by now, and anyway it’s
a big block of flats—people always going in and out. He can only fix the date of Miss Sainsbury
Seale’s visit because he was taken off to the hospital the next day and was actually feeling rather
bad that evening.”
“Anybody in the other flats hear anything out of the way?”
The younger man shook his head.
“I’ve inquired at the flat above this and the one below. Nobody can remember hearing anything
unusual. Both of them had their radios on, I gather.”
The divisional surgeon came out of the bathroom where he had been washing his hands.
“Most unsavoury corpse,” he said cheerfully. “Send her along when you’re ready and I’ll get
down to brass tacks.”
“No idea of the cause of death, doctor?”
“Impossible to say until I’ve done the autopsy. Those face injuries were definitely inflicted after
death, I should say. But I shall know better when I’ve got her at the mortuary. Middle-aged
woman, quite healthy—grey hair at the roots but tinted blonde. There may be distinguishing marks
on the body—if there isn’t, it may be a job to identify her—oh, you know who she is, splendid?
What? Missing woman there’s been all the fuss about? Well, you know, I never read the papers.
Just do the crosswords.”
Japp said bitterly:
“And that’s publicity for you!” as the doctor went out.
Poirot was hovering over the desk. He picked up a small brown address book.
The indefatigable Beddoes said:
“Nothing of special interest there—most hairdressers, dressmakers, etc. I’ve noted down any
private names and addresses.”
Poirot opened the book at the letter D.
He read:
Dr. Davis, 17, Prince Albert Road,
Drake and Pomponetti, Fishmongers.
And below it:
Dentist. Mr. Morley, 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
There was a green light in Poirot’s eyes. He said:
“There will be no difficulty, I imagine, in positively identifying the body.”
Japp looked at him curiously. He said:
“Surely—you don’t imagine—?”
Poirot said with vehemence:
“I want to be sure.”
七，八，理顺它 4
4
当他们从楼梯上下来回到四十二号时，贾普突然爆发了：“又是菲利普•奥本海默
（注：爱德华•菲利普•奥本海默（E.P.Oppenheim，1866—1946），英国间谍小说作家。）
的影子，又是瓦伦丁•威廉姆斯（注：瓦伦丁•威廉姆斯（V.Williams，1883—1946），英国
记者、间谍小说作家。）的影子，又是威廉•勒古（注：威廉•勒古（William Le Queux，
1864—1927），法裔英国记者、间谍小说作家。）的影子，我觉得我都快要发疯了！”
贝多斯警官，那位精明的年轻人，正在等着他们。
他恭敬地说：
“从女佣那里没有得到任何有用的东西，先生。查普曼夫人好像很频繁地更换女佣，目
前这个才为她工作一两个月。她说查普曼夫人是个好人，喜欢听广播，说话也很和善。这
个姑娘觉得查普曼夫人的老公是个没公开的同性恋，可是查普曼夫人没有觉察到。她有时
会收到从国外来的信，有几封寄自德国，两封寄自非洲，一封寄自意大利，一封寄自苏
联。这个姑娘的男朋友集邮，查普曼夫人总是把邮票从信封上撕下来送给她。”
“查普曼夫人的文件里有什么有用的吗？”
“什么都没有，先生。她留下的文件不多，几张账单和几张收据，都是本地的；一些旧
的剧院节目单；一两张从报纸上剪下来的烹饪食谱；还有一本印度妇女基督教会的小册
子。”
“我们可以猜到是谁把它拿来的。她听上去不像是个女杀手，对吧？但应该就是她。起
码她是个帮凶。那天晚上没有陌生男子出现吧？”
“门童不记得有。但是，我觉得过了这么久他也记不清了。毕竟这是个很大的住宅群，
总是有人进进出出。他之所以记得塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的来访日期，是因为他那天晚上身
体特别不舒服，第二天就被送进了医院。”
“其他套房里有没有人听到点儿什么动静？”
年轻人摇摇头。
“楼上和楼下的两个套房我都问过了，没有人记得听到过任何不寻常的声音。我估计他
们当时都开着收音机。”
法医洗完手，从卫生间走出来。
“尸体的味道实在太大了，”他兴致勃勃地说，“等你们完事儿后把她送过去，我再检查
些细节。”
“看不出死因吧，医生？”
“在做解剖前不可能知道。我认为面部的那些伤痕肯定是死后才有的。不过等你们把她
送到解剖室以后我会了解得更多。中年妇女，非常健康。头发被染成金色，但发根灰白。
身体上也可能会有可供辨认的特征标记——如果没有，就不太容易辨认她的身份——呃，
你们知道她是谁，太好了？什么？就是最近一直在找的那个失踪女人吗？哦，你知道，我
从来都不看报纸，只做填字游戏。”
贾普挖苦道：“您就是这么读报的！”
这时，医生走出了房间。
波洛俯身检查书桌。他随手拿起一本棕色的小地址簿。
细心的贝多斯说：
“那里面没有什么特别的东西，大部分都是理发师、裁缝的信息，我把那些属于她私人
朋友的人的名字和地址都记下来了。”
波洛打开小本子，翻到字母D那一页，他读着上面的记录：
戴维斯医生，阿尔伯特王子街十七号；
德雷克和蓬波乃迪，鱼贩子；
再往下是：
牙医，莫利先生，夏洛特皇后街五十八号。
波洛的眼中闪过一道绿光，他说：
“我想，要查明死者的身份并不那么困难。”
贾普不解地看着他说：
“确定啊——你不要猜测——”
波洛坚定地说：
“我就是想要确定。”
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 5
V
Miss Morley had moved to the country. She was living in a small country cottage near Hertford.
The Grenadier greeted Poirot amicably. Since her brother’s death her face had perhaps grown
slightly grimmer, her carriage more upright, her general attitude towards life more unyielding. She
resented bitterly the slur cast upon her brother’s professional name by the findings of the inquest.
Poirot, she had reason to believe, shared the view that the verdict of the Coroner’s inquest was
untrue. Hence the Grenadier unbent a little.
She answered his questions readily enough and with competence. All Mr. Morley’s professional
papers had been carefully filed by Miss Nevill and had been handed over by her to Mr. Morley’s
successor. Some of the patients had transferred themselves to Mr. Reilly, others had accepted the
new partner, others again had gone to other dentists elsewhere.
Miss Morley, after she had given what information she could, said:
“So you have found that woman who was Henry’s patient—Miss Sainsbury Seale—and she was
murdered too.”
The “too” was a little defiant. She stressed the word.
Poirot said:
“Your brother never mentioned Miss Sainsbury Seale particularly to you?”
“No, I don’t remember his doing so. He would tell me if he had had a particularly trying patient,
or if one of his patients had said something amusing he would pass it on to me, but we didn’t
usually talk about his work much. He was glad to forget it when the day was over. He was very
tired sometimes.”
“Do you remember hearing of a Mrs. Chapman amongst your brother’s patients?”
“Chapman? No, I don’t think so. Miss Nevill is really the person to help you over all this.”
“I am anxious to get in touch with her. Where is she now?”
“She has taken a post with a dentist in Ramsgate, I believe.”
“She has not married that young man Frank Carter yet?”
“No. I rather hope that will never come off. I don’t like that young man, M. Poirot. I really
don’t. There is something wrong about him. I still feel that he hasn’t really any proper moral
sense.”
Poirot said:
“Do you think it is possible that he could have shot your brother?”
Miss Morley said slowly:
“I do feel perhaps that he would be capable of it—he has a very uncontrollable temper. But I
don’t really see that he had any motive—nor opportunity for that matter. You see, it wasn’t as
though Henry had succeeded in persuading Gladys to give him up. She was sticking to him in the
most faithful way.”
“Could he have been bribed, do you think?”
“Bribed? To kill my brother? What an extraordinary idea!”
A nice-looking dark-haired girl brought in the tea at this moment. As she closed the door behind
her again, Poirot said:
“That girl was with you in London, was she not?”
“Agnes? Yes, she was house-parlourmaid. I let the cook go—she didn’t want to come to the
country anyway—and Agnes does everything for me. She is turning into quite a nice little cook.”
Poirot nodded.
He knew very accurately the domestic arrangements of 58, Queen Charlotte Street. They had
been thoroughly gone into at the time of the tragedy. Mr. Morley and his sister had occupied the
two top floors of the house as a maisonette. The basement had been shut up altogether except for a
narrow passage leading from the area to the back yard where a wire cage ran up to the top floor
with the tradesmen’s deliveries and where a speaking tube was installed. Therefore the only
entrance to the house was by the front door which it was Alfred’s business to answer. This had
enabled the police to be sure that no outsider could have entered the house on that particular
morning.
Both cook and house-parlourmaid had been with the Morleys for some years and bore good
characters. So, although it was theoretically possible that one or the other of them might have crept
down to the second floor and shot her master, the possibility had never been taken seriously into
account. Neither of the two had appeared unduly flustered or upset at being questioned, and there
certainly seemed no possible reason for connecting either of them with his death.
Nevertheless, as Agnes handed Poirot his hat and stick on leaving, she asked him with an
unusually nervous abruptness:
“Does—does anyone know anything more about the master’s death, sir?”
Poirot turned to look at her. He said:
“Nothing fresh has come to light.”
“They’re still quite sure as he did shoot himself because he’d made a mistake with that drug?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Agnes pleated her apron. Her face was averted. She said rather indistinctly:
“The—the mistress doesn’t think so.”
“And you agree with her, perhaps?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know nothing, sir. I only—I only wanted to be sure.”
Hercule Poirot said in his most gentle voice:
“It would be a relief to you to feel beyond any possible doubt that it was suicide?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Agnes agreed quickly, “it would indeed.”
“For a special reason, perhaps?”
Her startled eyes met his. She shrank back a little.
“I—I don’t know anything about it, sir. I only just asked.”
“But why did she ask?” Hercule Poirot demanded of himself, as he walked down the path to the
gate.
He felt sure that there was an answer to that question. But as yet he could not guess what it was.
All the same, he felt a step nearer.
七，八，理顺它 5
5
莫利小姐搬到乡下去了，她在离赫特福德不远的地方有间小小的农舍。
这位掷弹兵友好地接待了波洛。自从弟弟死后，她脸上的表情变得更加严肃，身板儿
挺得更直，对待生活的态度也更加不屈不挠了。她十分痛恨庭审的结果给弟弟的职业名声
所带来的诽谤。
她有理由相信波洛也会和她一样，并不认同陪审团的判决，所以她见到波洛时变得稍
微和善了一些。
她迅速自如地回答了他的问题。莫利先生所有的行业证书及文件都由内维尔小姐整理
好，并且交给了莫利先生的继任者。有些病人自动转到了赖利先生手里，另一些接受了新
来的医生，还有一些去找别的牙医了。
莫利小姐介绍完这些后说：
“这么说，你们已经找到了亨利的那个女病人——塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐，她也被谋杀
了。”
她说“也”时，故意加重口气，并带着蔑视。
波洛说：“您弟弟从来没有特别跟您提起过塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐吗？”
“没有，我不记得他提起过。如果他遇到一个特别难缠的病人就会告诉我，如果有病人
说了什么有趣的事儿，他也会讲给我听。不过，我们通常不大谈论他工作的事儿。他也很
希望在一天过去之后，不再去想白天的工作。他有时会觉得特别累。”
“您听说过您弟弟的病人中有查普曼夫人这个人吗？”
“查普曼？没有，我好像没听说过。内维尔小姐可以回答您这些问题。”
“我正想和她联系，她目前在哪里？”
“她在拉姆斯特的一个牙医那里找到了工作。”
“她还没有和那个年轻人弗兰克•卡特结婚吧？”
“没有，我倒宁愿这件事情永远都别发生。我不喜欢那个年轻人，波洛先生，真是不喜
欢。他有点不对头，我还是觉得他连起码的道德观念都没有。”
波洛说：“您觉得他会是杀害您弟弟的凶手吗？”
莫利小姐缓缓地说：
“我觉得他也许能干出这种事来——他脾气特别暴躁。不过我想不出他能有什么动机，
他也没什么机会去干这件事。您知道，亨利并没有成功说服格拉迪斯放弃他，她还是一心
一意地跟他好着。”
“您觉得他可能会被人收买吗？”
“收买？去杀害我弟弟吗？这个想法太奇怪了！”
这时，一个面容姣好的黑发女子端了茶进来。等她关门离开后，波洛说：
“这个女孩子在伦敦时就跟着您，对吗？”
“阿格尼丝？对，她原来就在那里做女佣。我让厨子走了，反正她也不想搬到乡下来。
阿格尼丝现在为我料理所有的事情，她已经慢慢变成一个很好的小厨子了。”
波洛点点头。
他对夏洛特皇后街五十八号的内务安排已经了如指掌。悲剧发生后，他已经把这些细
节全都认真地思考了一遍。莫利先生和他姐姐把房子的二楼作为居住区，地下室是完全封
闭的，不过有一个很窄的通道通往后院。后院有一个绑着绳索的篮子，一直可以拉上顶
楼，用来运送从小商贩那里买来的东西。院子里还安有一个通话器。所以，进入屋子的唯
一入口就是前门，艾尔弗雷德负责开门。基于以上情况，警方得出结论，那天上午不可能
有外人进入那栋房子。
厨子和女佣已经跟着莫利家好多年了，品行一直都很好。所以，尽管从理论上来说，
她们其中一个有机会溜到楼上开枪打死主人，但是这个可能性从未被认真考虑过。她们两
个在接受询问时也都没有露出任何异常的慌张或烦躁。她们俩也就理所当然地被排除了行
凶的可能。
然而，当波洛准备离开时，阿格尼丝把他的帽子和手杖递给他。她一反常态地紧张急
切，问道：
“关于……关于主人的死，有人知道更多的情况吗，先生？”
波洛回过身去看着她说：
“还没有更多的消息。”
“他们还是很肯定他是自杀，因为弄错了药量吗？”
“是的，你为什么要问这个？”
阿格尼丝用手揉搓着围裙，把脸瞥向一边，含混不清地说：
“女……女主人不这么想。”
“你或许和她有同感？”
“我？噢，我啥都不知道，先生。我只是……只是想问一下。”
赫尔克里•波洛用无比温柔的语气问：
“你想完全相信他是自杀，这样你会感到轻松些，对吗？”
“噢，是的，先生，”阿格尼丝马上说，“是这样的。”
“也许有什么特别的原因吧？”
她惊慌的眼神与他的相撞，吓得立刻缩了回去。
“我……我什么都不知道，先生。我只是随便问问。”
朝大门走去时，赫尔克里•波洛问自己：“可她为什么要问呢？”
他预感到这里面一定有文章，但是目前他还猜不到是什么。尽管如此，他还是觉得离
真相又近了一步。
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 6
VI
When Poirot returned to his flat he was surprised to find an unexpected visitor waiting for him.
A bald head was visible above the back of a chair, and the small neat figure of Mr. Barnes rose
to his feet.
With eyes that twinkled as usual, he made a dry little apology.
He had come, he explained, to return M. Hercule Poirot’s visit.
Poirot professed himself delighted to see Mr. Barnes.
George was instructed to bring some coffee unless his visitor preferred tea or whisky and soda?
“Coffee will be admirable,” said Mr. Barnes. “I imagine that your manservant prepares it well.
Most English servants do not.”
Presently, after a few interchanges of polite remarks, Mr. Barnes gave a little cough and said:
“I will be frank with you, M. Poirot. It was sheer curiosity that brought me here. You, I
imagined, would be well posted in all the details of this rather curious case. I see by the papers that
the missing Miss Sainsbury Seale has been found. That an inquest was held and adjourned for
further evidence. Cause of death was stated to have been an overdose of medinal.”
“That is quite correct,” said Poirot.
There was a pause and then Poirot asked:
“Have you ever heard of Albert Chapman, Mr. Barnes?”
“Ah, the husband of the lady in whose flat Miss Sainsbury Seale came to die? Rather an elusive
person, it would seem.”
“But hardly nonexistent?”
“Oh no,” said Mr. Barnes. “He exists. Oh yes, he exists—or did exist. I had heard he was dead.
But you can’t trust these rumours.”
“Who was he, Mr. Barnes?”
“I don’t suppose they’ll say at the inquest. Not if they can help it. They’ll trot out the armaments
firm traveller story.”
“He was in the Secret Service then?”
“Of course he was. But he had no business to tell his wife so—no business at all. In fact he
ought not to have continued in the Service after his marriage. It isn’t usually done—not, that is,
when you’re one of the really hush-hush people.”
“And Albert Chapman was?”
“Yes. Q.X.912. That’s what he was known as. Using a name is most irregular. Oh, I don’t mean
that Q.X.912 was specially important—or anything of that kind. But he was useful because he was
an insignificant kind of chap—the kind whose face isn’t easily remembered. He was used a lot as a
messenger up and down Europe. You know the sort of thing. One dignified letter sent via our
Ambassador in Ruritania—one unofficial ditto containing the dirt per Q.X.912—that is to say: Mr.
Albert Chapman.”
“Then he knew a lot of useful information?”
“Probably didn’t know a thing,” said Mr. Barnes cheerfully. “His job was just hopping in and
out of trains and boats and aero-planes and having the right story to explain why he was going
where he was going!”
“And you heard he was dead?”
“That’s what I heard,” said Mr. Barnes. “But you can’t believe all you hear. I never do.”
Looking at Mr. Barnes intently, Poirot asked:
“What do you think has happened to his wife?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Mr. Barnes. He looked, wide-eyed at Poirot. “Can you?”
Poirot said:
“I had an idea—” He stopped.
He said slowly:
“It is very confusing.”
Mr. Barnes murmured sympathetically: “Anything worrying you in particular?”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Yes. The evidence of my own eyes….”
七，八，理顺它 6
6
当波洛回到自己的公寓时，他吃惊地发现有一个不速之客正在等着他。
他从椅子背后首先看到了来者光秃的脑袋，紧接着巴恩斯先生瘦小的身躯从椅子里站
了起来。
他客套地抱歉来访打扰，一双眼睛还是那么炯炯有神。
他之所以来这里，据他解释说，是对赫尔克里•波洛的一个回访。
波洛表示很高兴见到巴恩斯先生，并吩咐乔治送上咖啡，除非来客喜欢喝茶、威士忌
或者饮料？
“咖啡就挺好，”巴恩斯先生说，“我想您的男仆煮的咖啡一定不错，大部分英国仆人都
会这个。”
之后，他们又寒暄了几句客套话。巴恩斯先生轻轻地咳嗽了一声，然后说：
“我想对您明说，波洛先生，我来这里纯粹是出于好奇心，因为我觉得您会了解这个奇
怪案子的所有细节。我看到报纸上说他们找到了失踪的塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐，而且已经组
织了一次审讯，为了找到新的证据又休庭了，据说死因是药物过量。”
“您说得没错儿。”波洛回答说。
停了一会儿，波洛问：
“您听说过阿尔伯特•查普曼吗，巴恩斯先生？”
“啊，就是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐去的，并死在那儿的那个公寓女主人的丈夫？看起来
他是个难以捉摸的人物。”
“但不会完全不存在这个人吧？”
“呃，不，”巴恩斯先生说，“存在，他当然存在——或者说曾经存在过。我听说他已经
死了，但是我们不能相信这些谣传。”
“他是什么人呢，巴恩斯先生？”
“我想他们在法庭上不会说这个，除非万不得已。他们仍会拿出军火公司旅行商人那一
套。”
“这么说他是间谍了？”
“他当然是啦。但是他不能告诉他太太有关工作的事儿，什么都不能说。事实上，他结
婚之后就不应该继续做间谍了。这种情况很少见——我是说如果你是真正干秘密工作的人
的话。”
“而阿尔伯特•查普曼就是间谍？”
“是的，Q.X.912,这是他的代号，间谍很少用名字。呃，我并不是说Q.X.912是多么重要
的代号，或者类似的什么。但是他很有用，因为他是那种很平常的家伙，那种你见过之后
很难记得他面孔的人。一封光明正大的信会由我国驻鲁里塔尼亚大使送出，而一封非官方
的、含有机密内容的情报就得由Q.X.912，也就是阿尔伯特•查普曼先生来送了。”
“那么他知道很多有用的情报了？”
“有可能他什么都不知道。”巴恩斯先生饶有兴致地说，“他的工作就是上下火车、轮船
或者飞机，并且编出一套可信的故事来解释为什么需要去那些地方！”
“您听说他已经死了？”
“我是这么听说的。”巴恩斯先生说，“但您不能听到什么就信什么，我从来都不这
样。”
波洛目不转睛地看着巴恩斯先生问：
“您觉得他太太是怎么回事儿？”
“我说不好。”巴恩斯先生说。他瞪大眼睛看着波洛问：“您觉得呢？”
波洛说：“我有个想法——”他打住话头，然后慢慢地说，“这点特别让人费解。”
巴恩斯先生同情地小声问：“有什么事让您觉得苦恼吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛慢慢地说：“是的，我亲眼看到的证据……”
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT 7
VII
Japp came into Poirot’s sitting room and slammed down his bowler hat with such force that the
table rocked.
He said:
“What the devil made you think of it?”
“My good Japp, I do not know what you are talking about.”
Japp said slowly and forcefully:
“What gave you the idea that the body wasn’t Miss Sainsbury Seale’s body?”
Poirot looked worried. He said:
“It was the face that worried me. Why smash up a dead woman’s face?”
Japp said:
“My word, I hope old Morley’s somewhere where he can know about it. It’s just possible, you
know, that he was put out of the way on purpose—so that he couldn’t give evidence.”
“It would certainly be better if he could have given evidence himself.”
“Leatheran will be all right. Morley’s successor. He’s a thoroughly capable man with a good
manner and the evidence is unmistakable.”
The evening papers came out with a sensation the next day. The dead body found in the
Battersea flat, believed to be that of Miss Sainsbury Seale, was positively identified as that of Mrs.
Albert Chapman.
Mr. Leatheran, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be Mrs. Chapman
on the evidence of the teeth and jaw, full particulars of which were recorded in the late Mr.
Morley’s professional chart.
Miss Sainsbury Seale’s clothes had been found on the body and Miss Sainsbury Seale’s
handbag with the body—but where was Miss Sainsbury Seale herself?
七，八，理顺它 7
7
贾普来到波洛的客厅，把他的圆礼帽重重地摔在桌子上，桌子颤抖了一下。
他说：“见鬼，你为什么会这么想？”
“我的好贾普，我不明白你在说什么。”
贾普缓慢而怒气冲冲地说：
“你为什么觉得那具尸体不是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的？”
波洛看上去很困惑。他说：
“那张脸让我想不通。为什么要毁掉一个已经死了的女人的面孔呢？”
贾普说：
“要我说，我倒希望老莫利还活在某个地方，他会知道是怎么回事儿，他真的有可能知
道。你看，他是被人故意除掉的，这样他就不能做证了。”
“如果他能亲自提供证据那当然再好不过。”
“利瑟兰先生也可以，就是接莫利班的那个人。他有能力，而且也很有教养，提供证据
不会有错的。”
第二天的晚报纷纷陆续登出了惊人的消息：在贝特西公寓里发现的那具先前认为是塞
恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的尸体，现已被确认是阿尔伯特•查普曼夫人。夏洛特皇后街五十八号的
利瑟兰先生根据牙齿和颌骨毫无疑问地断定死者是查普曼夫人。有关她牙齿和颌骨的具体
特征在已故的莫利先生的诊疗记录里都有记载。
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的衣服被穿在死者身上，塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的手袋被放在了尸
体旁边，但是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐这个人又在哪里呢？
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 1
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN
I
As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot:
“A smart piece of work, that. Gave ’em a sensation!”
Poirot nodded.
“You tumbled to it first,” said Japp, “but, you know, I wasn’t happy about that body myself.
After all, you don’t go smashing a dead person’s face and head about for nothing. It’s messy,
unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there’s only one
reason there could be—to confuse the identity.” He added generously: “But I shouldn’t have
tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman.”
Poirot said with a smile:
“And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards
fundamentals. Mrs. Chapman was a smart, good-looking woman, well made up and fashionably
turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy and innocent of lipstick or rouge. But the essentials
were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and
build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden.”
“Yes, of course, when you put it like that. One thing we’ve got to admit—the fair Mabelle put it
over on both of us, good and proper. I’d have sworn she was the genuine article.”
“But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life.”
“We didn’t know she was capable of murder—and that’s what it looks like now. Sylvia didn’t
murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult to reconcile
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale with murder. Yet in his ears he heard the small, ironic voice of Mr.
Barnes:
“Look among the respectable people….”
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had been eminently respectable.
Japp said with emphasis:
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot. That woman isn’t going to put it over on
me.”
九，十，肥母鸡 1
九，十，肥母鸡
1
他们从法庭出来，贾普兴高采烈地对波洛说：
“这活儿干得太漂亮了，把他们都给镇住了！”
波洛点点头。
“是你先发现问题的。”贾普说，“但是，你知道，我对那具尸体也有看法。不管怎么
说，你都不会无缘无故地去毁掉一个死人的脸。真是一塌糊涂，让人极不舒服。所以很明
显，这里面一定有原因。那么原因只有一个——掩盖死者身份。”他又大度地说，“不过我
没能这么快就意识到它是另外一个女人的尸体。”
波洛微笑着说：
“但是，我的朋友，从根本上看，这两个女人的外表还是有很多相似之处的。查普曼夫
人是个机智、漂亮的女人，懂得化妆，穿着也时尚；而塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐呢，穿着邋
遢，而且不懂得用口红和腮红。但是她们的基本特征却很一致，都是四十多岁的女人，差
不多同样的身高和体形，都有了白发并且染成金色。”
“是的，当然了，你这么一讲就很清楚了。有一点我们得承认——诚实的梅布尔把我们
两个都给骗了，彻底给骗了。我还发誓说她是个正人君子呢。”
“但是，我的朋友，她确实是。她的过去我们都了解啊。”
“可我们不知道她还能搞谋杀——现在看起来是这样。西尔维娅没有杀死梅布尔，是梅
布尔杀了西尔维娅。”
赫尔克里•波洛若有所思地摇摇头。他还是不能相信梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔是个杀人
犯。然而他耳边却仿佛听到巴恩斯先生轻轻的、带着讽刺的话语：
“要留神那些体面的人……”
梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔在此之前一直是个体面人。
贾普加重语气说：
“我一定要把这个案子查个水落石出，波洛，这个女人别想骗过我。”
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 2
II
The following day, Japp rang up. His voice held a curious note.
He said:
“Poirot, do you want to hear a piece of news? It’s napoo, my lad. Napoo!”
“Pardon?—the line is perhaps not very clear. I did not quite catch—”
“It’s off, my boy. O.F.F. Call it a day! Sit down and twiddle our thumbs!”
There was no mistaking the bitterness now. Poirot was startled.
“What is off?”
“The whole ruddy blinking thing! The hue and cry! The publicity! The whole bag of tricks!”
“But I still do not understand.”
“Well, listen. Listen carefully, because I can’t mention names very well. You know our inquiry?
You know we’re combing the country for a performing fish?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly. I comprehend now.”
“Well, that’s been called off. Hushed up—kept mum. Now do you understand?”
“Yes, yes. But why?”
“Orders from the ruddy Foreign Office.”
“Is not that very extraordinary?”
“Well, it does happen now and again.”
“Why should they be so forbearing to Miss—to the performing fish?”
“They’re not. They don’t care tuppence about her. It’s the publicity—if she’s brought to trial
too much might come out about Mrs. A. C. The corpse. That’s the hush-hush side! I can only
suppose that the ruddy husband—Mr. A. C.—Get me?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That he’s somewhere abroad in a ticklish spot and they don’t want to queer his pitch.”
“Tchah!”
“What did you say?”
“I made, mon ami, an exclamation of annoyance!”
“Oh! that was it. I thought you’d caught cold. Annoyance is right! I could use a stronger word.
Letting that dame get away with it makes me see red.”
Poirot said very softly:
“She will not get away with it.”
“Our hands are tied, I tell you!”
“Yours may be—mine are not!”
“Good old Poirot! Then you are going on with it?”
“Mais oui—to the death.”
“Well, don’t let it be your death, old boy! If this business goes on as it has begun someone will
probably send you a poisoned tarantula by post!”
As he replaced the receiver, Poirot said to himself:
“Now, why did I use that melodramatic phrase—‘to the death?’ Vraiment, it is absurd!”
九，十，肥母鸡 2
2
第二天，贾普打来电话。他的声音听上去有点儿奇怪。
他说：“波洛，你想听新闻吗？结束啦，伙计，彻底结束了！”
“什么？——线路可能不是很好，我没听明白——”
“完事儿了，伙计，彻底完事儿了。可以放假了！坐下来掰手指头玩吧！”
现在贾普语音中的苦涩再清楚不过了。这让波洛感到很吃惊。
“什么结束了？”
“都是那该死的舆论！报道！乱七八糟的东西！”
“可我还是不明白。”
“好吧，听着啊，仔细听我说，因为我不能提具体的名字。你知道我们的调查吧？你知
道我们在全国范围内搜捕那条玩把戏的鱼吧？”
“是的，是的，完全明白，我现在明白了。”
“呃，这个被叫停了。要我们闭嘴，不许声张。现在你明白了吧？”
“是的，是的，可是为什么？”
“可恶的外交部的命令。”
“这是不是太反常了？”
“这个嘛，有时也会有。”
“他们为什么要袒护塞恩——那条玩把戏的鱼？”
“不是，他们根本不在乎她。是因为媒体曝光——如果她被带到庭上审讯，A.C.夫人，
就是死者的情况就会全部暴露于众。那才是秘密的一面！我只能猜想是因为那位讨厌的丈
夫——A.C.先生，明白吗？”
“明白，明白。”
“他可能在海外某个敏感地带，他们不想坏了他的事儿。”
“嗛！”
“你说什么？”
“我只是发出了一声烦躁的感叹，我的朋友。”
“噢！是这样啊，我还以为你感冒了呢。是挺让人烦的！我会说出更重的词。让这件该
死的事儿就这样溜过去，想起来我就光火。”
波洛淡定地说：“她溜不掉。”
“我们是束手无策了，我告诉你！”
“你们可能是——但我可不是！”
“波洛好样的！那么你要继续调查了？”
“是的，一直到死。”
“哦，老伙计，你可别就这么死了！如果这件事一直这么下去的话，可能会有人给你寄
一只毒蜘蛛！”
放下电话时，波洛对自己说：
“哈，我刚才为什么会用这么夸张的词——‘一直到死’？是啊，太奇怪了！”
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 3
III
The letter came by evening post. It was typewritten except for the signature.
Dear M. Poirot (it ran),
I should be greatly obliged if you would call upon me some time tomorrow. I
may have a commission for you. I suggest twelve thirty, at my house in Chelsea. If
this is inconvenient to you, perhaps you would telephone my secretary? I
apologize for giving you such short notice.
Yours sincerely,
Alistair Blunt.
Poirot smoothed out the letter and read it a second time. At that moment the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot occasionally indulged in the fancy that he knew by the ring of his telephone bell
what kind of message was impending.
On this occasion he was at once quite sure that the call was significant. It was not a wrong
number—not one of his friends.
He got up and took down the receiver. He said in his polite, foreign voice:
“’Allo?”
An impersonal voice said: “What number are you, please?”
“This is Whitehall 7272.”
There was a pause, a click, and then a voice spoke. It was a woman’s voice.
“M. Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Poirot, you have either already received—or will shortly receive, a letter.”
“Who is speaking?”
“It is not necessary that you should know.”
“Very well. I have received, Madame, eight letters and three bills by the evening post.”
“Then you know which letter I mean. You will be wise, M. Poirot, to refuse the commission
you have been offered.”
“That, Madame, is a matter I shall decide myself.”
The voice said coldly:
“I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will no longer be tolerated. Keep out of this
business.”
“And if I do not keep out of it?”
“Then we shall take steps to see that your interference is no longer to be feared….”
“That is a threat, Madame!”
“We are only asking you to be sensible … It is for your own good.”
“You are very magnanimous!”
“You cannot alter the course of events and what has been arranged. So keep out of what doesn’t
concern you! Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand. But I consider that Mr. Morley’s death is my concern.”
The woman’s voice said sharply:
“Morley’s death was only an incident. He interfered with our plans.”
“He was a human being, Madame, and he died before his time.”
“He was of no importance.”
Poirot’s voice was dangerous as he said very quietly:
“There you are wrong….”
“It was his own fault. He refused to be sensible.”
“I, too, refuse to be sensible.”
“Then you are a fool.”
There was a click the other end as the receiver was replaced.
Poirot said, “Allo?” then put down his receiver in turn. He did not trouble to ask the Exchange
to trace the number. He was fairly sure that the call had been put through from a public telephone
box.
What intrigued and puzzled him was the fact that he thought he had heard the voice somewhere
before. He racked his brains, trying to bring the elusive memory back. Could it be the voice of
Miss Sainsbury Seale?
As he remembered it, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s voice had been high-pitched and somewhat
affected, with rather overemphasized diction. This voice was not at all like that, and yet—perhaps
it might be Miss Sainsbury Seale with her voice disguised. After all, she had been an actress in her
time. She could alter her voice, probably, easily enough. In actual timbre, the voice was not unlike
what he remembered.
But he was not satisfied with that explanation. No, it was some other person that the voice
brought back to him. It was not a voice he knew well—but he was still quite sure that he had heard
it once, if not twice, before.
Why, he wondered, bother to ring up and threaten him? Could these people actually believe that
threats would deter him? Apparently they did. It was poor psychology!
九，十，肥母鸡 3
3
信是随着晚上的邮件一起到的，用打字机打出，除了签名。
亲爱的波洛先生：
您明天如果能抽时间来见我，我将非常感激。我可能有事要劳烦您。我建议十二点三
十分，在我切尔西的房子那儿见面。如果您觉得合适，或许可以电话告知我的秘书？很抱
歉这么晚才约您。
您忠实的，
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特
波洛把信摊平，又读了一遍。这时，电话响了。
波洛有时喜欢试着从他的电话铃声中猜测来电人的身份。
这次他马上就确信这个来电非同寻常。虽然不是他的哪个朋友打来的，但也不是拨错
了号码。
他起身去接电话，礼貌地、略带外国口音说：
“啊咯？”
一个不带任何感情色彩的声音问：
“请问您的号码是多少？”
“这里是白厅七二七二。”
一阵短暂的停顿，咔嚓一声，随后另一个声音出现了。是个女人的声音。
“波洛先生吗？”
“是的。”
“赫尔克里•波洛先生？”
“是的。”
“波洛先生，你已经，或者将要收到一封信。”
“您是哪位？”
“你没有必要知道这个。”
“好吧，我收到了，女士。今晚我收到了八封信和三张账单。”
“那么你应该知道我指的是哪封信了。如果聪明的话，波洛先生，你就不会接受那份委
托。”
“这个，女士，应该是由我自己来定夺的事。”
那个声音冷冷地说：
“我是在警告你，波洛先生。我们不会再容忍你的介入，别插手了。”
“如果我偏要插手呢？”
“那么我们会采取行动，让你不可能再介入……”
“您这是在恐吓啊，女士！”
“我们只是让你识相点……为你自己好。”
“您还真是宽宏大量！”
“你改变不了事情的发展趋势和已经安排好的计划，所以，别插手这些与你不相干的
事！明白吗？”
“呃，是的，我明白。但是我认为莫利先生的死和我有所相干。”
女人的声音变得有些刺耳：“莫利的死只不过是连带发生的一件小事，他妨碍了我们的
计划。他并不重要。”
波洛语带威胁但冷静地说：“这您可就错了……”
“要怪他自己，他不识相。”
“我也是，不肯识相。”
“那你就是个傻瓜。”
咔嚓一声，对方挂了电话。
波洛又喊了声“啊咯？”，然后也放下了听筒。他没有麻烦转接台去查来电的号码，他
非常肯定电话是从某个公用电话亭打过来的。
让他感到困惑不解的是这个声音他觉得好像在哪里听到过。他绞尽脑汁，想唤回那微
弱的记忆。是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的声音吗？
在他的记忆里，梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔的声音是高音频的，有些做作，还会过分强调
一些词。这个声音并不是这样，那么……或许是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐故意伪装了她的声
音。不管怎么说，她曾经是演员，应该能够很容易地改变自己的声音。从音色上来说，那
个声音听上去与他记忆中的塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的声音也并非没有相同之处。
但是他对这个解释并不满意。不对，应该是另一个他见过的人的声音。这个声音他不
是非常熟悉——不过他确信曾经听到过一次，或者两次。
波洛想她为什么要这么费心打电话过来，并且威胁他呢？难道这些人真的以为他会害
怕威胁吗？显然他们是这么想的。真是太不了解我的心思了!
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 4
IV
There was some sensational news in the morning papers. The Prime Minister had been shot at
when leaving 10, Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gone
wide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody.
After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp’s room.
The latter greeted him heartily.
“Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who ‘the friend’
was with the P.M.?”
“No, who was it?”
“Alistair Blunt.”
“Really?”
“And,” went on Japp, “we’ve every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt and
not for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!”
“Who did it?”
“Some crazy Hindu student. Half-baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn’t all his own
idea.”
Japp added:
“Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There’s usually a small group of people, you know,
watching No. 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with a
beard. He held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he’d got the man. Meanwhile
the Indian was quietly hooking it—but one of our people nabbed him all right.”
“Who was the American?” asked Poirot curiously.
“Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why—” He stopped short, staring at Poirot. “What’s the
matter?”
Poirot said:
“Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel?”
“That’s right. Who—why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He’s the patient who
ran away that morning when Morley shot himself….”
He paused. He said slowly:
“Rum—how that old business keeps cropping up. You’ve still got your ideas about it, haven’t
you, Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot replied gravely:
“Yes. I still have my ideas….”
九，十，肥母鸡 4
4
晨报上刊登了一则惊人的消息。昨天晚上首相和一位朋友一起走出唐宁街十号时，被
人枪击，幸运的是子弹没有打中他。凶手是一个印度人，已经被拘捕。
读完这则消息，波洛打了辆出租车来到苏格兰场。他被领到贾普的办公室。贾普高兴
地招呼他。
“啊，是那条新闻把你吹来的吧。有没有报纸提到首相是跟哪位‘朋友’在一起？”
“没有，是谁啊？”
“阿利斯泰尔•布伦特。”
“真的吗？”
“还有，”贾普继续说，“我们有充分的理由相信那颗子弹是冲着布伦特去的，而不是首
相。除非那人的准头比现在还烂！”
“谁干的？”
“某个疯狂的印度学生。像往常一样，没有什么成熟的准备，不过是被别人利用的。整
件事并不是他的主意。”
贾普接着说道：
“擒获他这事儿干得很漂亮。你知道，十号那边通常都会有一些监视周围动静的人。枪
响后，一个美国年轻人抓住了那个矮小的、留着胡子的印度男人。他拼命地紧紧抓住他，
并向警察喊他抓到了凶手。与此同时，那个印度人并未多加反抗便束手就擒，我们的人立
刻把他给抓了起来。”
“那个美国人是谁？”波洛好奇地问。
“一个叫赖克斯的小伙子。为什么——”他停住口，瞪着波洛问，“这有什么关系？”
波洛说：“霍华德•赖克斯，住在霍尔本宫廷酒店，对吗？”
“对啊，谁——噢，当然了！我的确觉得这名字有点熟，他就是莫利自杀那天上午跑掉
的那个病人……”
他停了一会儿，又慢慢说：
“啊呀，又联系到那件事了。你还坚持你的看法，对吧，波洛？”
赫尔克里•波洛严肃地回答说：
“是的，我仍然坚持……”
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 5
V
At the Gothic House, Poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an
accomplished social manner.
He was pleasantly apologetic.
“I am so sorry, M. Poirot—and so is Mr. Blunt. He has been called to Downing Street. The
result of this—er—incident last night. I rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.”
The young man went on rapidly:
“Mr. Blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the weekend
with him at his house in Kent. Exsham, you know. If so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow
evening.”
Poirot hesitated.
The young man said persuasively:
“Mr. Blunt is really most anxious to see you.”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
He said: “Thank you. I accept.”
“Oh, that’s splendid. Mr. Blunt will be delighted. If he calls for you about a quarter to six, will
that—Oh, good morning, Mrs. Olivera—”
Jane Olivera’s mother had just entered. She was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an
eyebrow in the midst of a very soignée coiffure.
“Oh! Mr. Selby, did Mr. Blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? I meant to
talk to him about them last night, because I knew we’d be going down this weekend and—”
Mrs. Olivera took in Poirot and paused.
“Do you know Mrs. Olivera, M. Poirot?”
“I have already had the pleasure of meeting Madame.”
Poirot bowed.
Mrs. Olivera said vaguely:
“Oh? How do you do. Of course, Mr. Selby, I know that Alistair is a very busy man and that
these small domestic matters mayn’t seem to him important—”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Olivera,” said the efficient Mr. Selby. “He told me about it and I rang
up Messrs Deevers about them.”
“Well, now, that’s a real load off my mind. Now, Mr. Selby, can you tell me …”
Mrs. Olivera clacked on. She was, thought Poirot, rather like a hen. A big, fat hen! Mrs.
Olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.
“ … And if you’re quite sure that there will only be ourselves this weekend—”
Mr. Selby coughed.
“Er—M. Poirot is also coming down for the weekend.”
Mrs. Olivera stopped. She turned round and surveyed Poirot with visible distaste.
“Is that really so?”
“Mr. Blunt has been kind enough to invite me,” said Poirot.
“Well, I wonder—why, if that isn’t queer of Alistair. You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot, but Mr.
Blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet, family weekend!”
Selby said firmly:
“Mr. Blunt is particularly anxious that M. Poirot should come.”
“Oh really? He didn’t mention it to me.”
The door opened. Jane stood there. She said impatiently:
“Mother, aren’t you coming? Our lunch appointment is at one fifteen!”
“I’m coming, Jane. Don’t be impatient.”
“Well, get a move on, for goodness sake—Hallo, M. Poirot.”
She was suddenly very still—her petulance frozen. Her eyes more wary.
Mrs. Olivera said in a cold voice:
“M. Poirot is coming down to Exsham for the weekend.”
“Oh—I see.”
Jane Olivera stood back to let her mother pass her. On the point of following her, she whirled
back again.
“M. Poirot!”
Her voice was imperious.
Poirot crossed the room to her.
She said in a low voice: “You’re coming down to Exsham? Why?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“It is a kind thought of your uncle’s.”
Jane said:
“But he can’t know … He can’t … When did he ask you? Oh, there’s no need—”
“Jane!”
Her mother was calling from the hall.
Jane said in a low, urgent tone:
“Stay away. Please don’t come.”
She went out. Poirot heard the sounds of altercation. Heard Mrs. Olivera’s high, complaining,
clucking voice. “I really will not tolerate your rudeness, Jane … I shall take steps to see that you
do not interfere—”
The secretary said:
“Then at a little before six tomorrow, M. Poirot?”
Poirot nodded assent mechanically. He was standing like a man who has seen a ghost. But it
was his ears, not his eyes, that had given him the shock.
Two of the sentences that had drifted in through the open door were almost identical with those
he had heard last night through the telephone, and he knew why the voice had been faintly
familiar.
As he walked out into the sunshine he shook his head blankly.
Mrs. Olivera?
But it was impossible! It could not have been Mrs. Olivera who had spoken over the ’phone!
That empty-headed society woman—selfish, brainless, grasping, self-centred? What had he
called her to himself just now?
“That good fat hen? C’est ridicule!” said Hercule Poirot.
His ears, he decided, must have deceived him. And yet—
九，十，肥母鸡 5
5
在哥特楼前，一个秘书接待了波洛。他是一位高个子小伙子，看上去文质彬彬，举手
投足间显示出娴熟的社交礼仪。
他很有礼貌地道歉说：
“对不起，波洛先生。布伦特先生也很抱歉，他被叫到唐宁街去了，是因为昨天晚上的
那件……嗯……事件。我给您府上打了电话，但是不巧您已经出门了。”
年轻人马上又接着说：
“布伦特先生委托我问您是否可以和他在肯特别墅那边一起度个周末，就是爱夏庄，您
知道。如果您愿意的话，他明天晚上会在车上给您打电话。”
波洛犹豫着。
年轻人劝他说：
“布伦特先生非常想见您。”
赫尔克里•波洛点头致谢，说：
“谢谢你，我接受邀请。”
“噢，太好了。布伦特先生一定会很高兴。如果他五点三刻来叫您，您觉得——啊，早
上好，奥利维娅夫人——”
简•奥利维娅的母亲刚刚进门来。她衣着非常时尚，头戴一顶帽子，低低地压在一边的
眉毛上，围着一条时髦的丝巾。
“噢！塞尔比先生，布伦特先生有没有吩咐你那些花园椅子该怎么处理啊？我本来想着
昨天晚上要跟他谈的，因为我们这个周末会过去那边——”
奥利维娅夫人看到波洛立马住了口。
“您认识奥利维娅夫人吗，波洛先生？”
“我有幸见过夫人。”波洛俯身鞠躬。
奥利维娅夫人不置可否地说:
“呃？你好。当然了，塞尔比先生，我知道阿利斯泰尔很忙，不会在意这些鸡毛蒜皮的
家务事儿——”
“没问题，奥利维娅夫人，”干练的塞尔比先生回答说，“他告诉我了，我也打了电话给
迪文先生。”
“那好吧，我就不用再操心了。哎，塞尔比先生，你能告诉我……”
奥利维娅夫人继续唠叨着。波洛想，她真像只咯咯直叫的母鸡，一只又大又肥的母
鸡！奥利维娅夫人一边唠叨着，一边高高地挺着胸脯优雅地向门口走去。
“如果你确认这个周末只是我们自己的话——”
塞尔比先生咳了一下。
“呃——波洛先生这个周末也会去。”
奥利维娅夫人停下脚步，转过身扫了波洛一眼，脸上露出显而易见的不悦。
“真的吗？”
“布伦特先生好心邀请了我。”波洛说。
“哦，奇怪——为什么，这可不像阿利斯泰尔啊。请原谅我，波洛先生，只是布伦特先
生特意跟我讲他想周末清静点儿，就自己家人在一起！”
塞尔比肯定地说：
“布伦特先生特别期待波洛先生能去。”
“是吗？他没有跟我提过。”
门开了，简站在那里。她不耐烦地催促道：
“妈妈，您好了吗？我们约的午餐是一点十五分哪！”
“来了，简，别这么不耐烦。”
“那您就快点儿啊，天哪——哈喽，波洛先生。”
她刹那间呆住了，停止了催促，眼神也变得警觉起来。
奥利维娅夫人冷冰冰地说：
“波洛先生周末会一起去爱夏庄。”
“呃——明白。”
简•奥利维娅向后退一步让她妈妈过去。她正要跟着走出去，却又转过身来。
“波洛先生！”
她的语气非常急切，波洛穿过房间走到她面前，只听她压低声音小声说：
“您要去爱夏庄？为什么？”
波洛耸耸肩膀，说：
“是您姨公的一番好意。”
简说：
“但是他不可能知道……不可能……他是什么时候邀请您的？哦，没有必要——”
“简！”
她妈妈在门厅喊道。简急迫地小声说：
“别掺和进来，请别来。”
她出去了。波洛听到她们在门外的争吵声。奥利维娅夫人尖声抱怨着：
“我真是忍受不了你的粗鲁，简……我要想办法改掉你这种打断别人讲话——”
这时，秘书说：
“那么明天六点之前一点去接您，波洛先生？”
波洛机械地点头表示同意。他站在那里，仿佛见到鬼了似的。但是，令他大惊失色的
不是眼睛看到的，而是耳朵听到的。
从门外传来的两句话听上去与他前一天晚上在电话里听到的声音几乎一模一样，于是
他意识到为什么他一直觉得那个声音有点耳熟。
他从屋里出来走在阳光下，茫然地摇着头。
奥利维娅夫人？
但这简直不可能啊！那天电话里那个人不可能是奥利维娅夫人！那个头脑空空、忙于
社交的女人——自私、愚蠢、有超强的控制欲、自命不凡？他刚才在心里是怎么叫她来
着？
“那只肥硕的母鸡？这真是太荒唐了!”波洛自言自语地说。
他想，一定是他的耳朵欺骗了他。然而——
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 6
VI
The Rolls called punctually for Poirot at a little before six.
Alistair Blunt and his secretary were the only occupants. Mrs. Olivera and Jane had gone down
in another car earlier, it seemed.
The drive was uneventful. Blunt talked a little, mostly of his garden and of a recent horticultural
show.
Poirot congratulated him on his escape from death, at which Blunt demurred. He said:
“Oh, that! Don’t think the fellow was shooting at me particularly. Anyway, the poor chap
hadn’t the first idea of how to aim! Just one of these half-crazed students. There’s no harm in them
really. They just get worked up and fancy a pot shot at the P.M. will alter the course of history. It’s
pathetic, really.”
“There have been other attempts on your life, have there not?”
“Sounds quite melodramatic,” said Blunt, with a slight twinkle. “Someone sent me a bomb by
post not long ago. It wasn’t a very efficient bomb. You know, these fellows who want to take on
the management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make of
it, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?”
He shook his head.
“It’s always the same thing — long- haired woolly idealists — without one practical bit of
knowledge in their heads. I’m not a clever chap—never have been—but I can just read and write
and do arithmetic. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“I think so, but explain to me further.”
“Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means—I
am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike English—most
people can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean—I’ve discovered
that quite a lot of people can’t do that either! And, as I say, I can do plain arithmetic. If Jones has
eight bananas and Brown takes ten away from him, how many will Jones have left? That’s the
kind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first that Brown can’t
do it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!”
“They prefer the answer to be a conjuring trick?”
“Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I’ve always held out for plain common sense. You
can’t beat it, you know, in the end.”
He added with a slightly self-conscious laugh:
“But I mustn’t talk shop. Bad habit. Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I get
away from London. I’ve been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. I
read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know. Do you think any of them are true to life?”
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of Hercule
Poirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details.
This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham, where behind her massive bust
Mrs. Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval. She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressing
herself exclusively to her host and to Mr. Selby.
The latter showed Poirot to his room.
The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that
Poirot had noticed in London. Everything was costly but simple. The vast wealth that owned it
was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. The
service was admirable—the cooking English, not Continental—the wines at dinner stirred Poirot
to a passion of appreciation. They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb with tiny
young garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanour of Mrs.
Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for some
reason, was regarding him with definite hostility. Hazily, towards the end of the dinner, Poirot
wondered why!
Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked:
“Helen not dining with us tonight?”
Julia Olivera’s lips drew themselves in with a taut line. She said:
“Dear Helen has been overtiring herself, I think, in the garden. I suggested it would be far better
for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. She quite saw my
point.”
“Oh, I see.” Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. “I thought it made a bit of a change for her
at weekends.”
“Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early,” said Mrs. Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing room, Blunt having remained behind for a few
minutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother:
“Uncle Alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved Helen Montressor, Mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Olivera robustly. “Alistair is too good-natured. Poor relations are all very
well—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to
the house every weekend for dinner is absurd! She’s only a second cousin or something. I don’t
think Alistair ought to be imposed upon!”
“I think she’s proud in her way,” said Jane. “She does an awful lot in the garden.”
“That shows a proper spirit,” said Mrs. Olivera comfortably. “The Scotch are very independent
and one respects them for it.”
She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added:
“Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There’s something about Lois Van Schuyler in it
and that Moroccan guide of hers.”
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway. He said:
“Now M. Poirot, come into my room.”
Alistair Blunt’s own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows
opening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough
pleasant untidiness to make it livable.
(Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!)
After offering his guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, Alistair Blunt came to the point
quite simply and directly.
He said:
“There’s a good deal that I’m not satisfied about. I’m referring, of course, to this Sainsbury
Seale woman. For reasons of their own—reasons no doubt which are perfectly justified—the
authorities have called off the hunt. I don’t know exactly who Albert Chapman is or what he’s
doing—but whatever it is, it’s something pretty vital and it’s the sort of business that might land
him in a tight spot. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but the P.M. did just mention that they can’t
afford any publicity whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public’s
memory the better.
“That’s quite O.K. That’s the official view, and they know what’s necessary. So the police have
got their hands tied.”
He leaned forward in his chair.
“But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot. And you’re the man to find it out for me. You aren’t
hampered by officialdom.”
“What do you want me to do, M. Blunt?”
“I want you to find this woman—Sainsbury Seale.”
“Alive or dead?”
Alistair Blunt’s eyebrows rose.
“You think it’s possible that she is dead?”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, speaking slowly and with weight:
“If you want my opinion—but it is only an opinion, remember—then, yes, I think she is
dead….”
“Why do you think so?”
Hercule Poirot smiled slightly.
He said:
“It would not make sense to you if I said it was because of a pair of unworn stockings in a
drawer.”
Alistair Blunt stared at him curiously.
“You’re an odd man, M. Poirot.”
“I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical—and I do not like distorting
facts to support a theory—that, I find—is unusual!”
Alistair Blunt said:
“I’ve been turning the whole thing over in my mind—it takes me a little time always to think a
thing out. And the whole business is deuced odd! I mean—that dentist chap shooting himself, and
then this Chapman woman packed away in her own fur chest with her face smashed in. It’s nasty!
It’s damned nasty! I can’t help feeling that there’s something behind it all.”
Poirot nodded.
Blunt said:
“And you know—the more I think of it—I’m quite sure that woman never knew my wife. It
was just a pretext to speak to me. But why? What good did it do her? I mean—bar a small
subscription—and even that was made out to the society, not to her personally. And yet I do feel—
that—that it was engineered—just meeting me on the steps of the house. It was all so pat. So
suspiciously well-timed! But why? That’s what I keep asking myself—why?”
“It is indeed the word—why? I too ask myself—and I cannot see it—no, I cannot see it.”
“You’ve no ideas at all on the subject?”
Poirot waved an exasperated hand.
“My ideas are childish in the extreme. I tell myself, it was perhaps a ruse to indicate you to
someone—to point you out. But that again is absurd—you are quite a well-known man—and
anyway how much more simple to say ‘See, that is he—the man who entered now by that door.’”
“And anyway,” said Blunt, “why should anyone want to point me out?”
“Mr. Blunt, think back once more on your time that morning in the dentist’s chair. Did nothing
that Morley said strike an unusual note? Is there nothing at all that you can remember which might
help as a clue?”
Alistair Blunt frowned in an effort of memory. Then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything.”
“You’re quite sure he didn’t mention this woman—this Miss Sainsbury Seale?”
“No.”
“Or the other woman—Mrs. Chapman?”
“No — no — we didn’t speak of people at all. We mentioned roses, gardens needing rain,
holidays—nothing else.”
“And no one came into the room while you were there?”
“Let me see—no, I don’t think so. On other occasions I seem to remember a young woman
being there—fair-haired girl. But she wasn’t there this time. Oh, another dentist fellow came in, I
remember—the fellow with an Irish accent.”
“What did he say or do?”
“Just asked Morley some question and went out again. Morley was a bit short with him, I fancy.
He was only there a minute or so.”
“And there is nothing else you can remember? Nothing at all?”
“No. He was absolutely normal.”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I, too, found him absolutely normal.”
There was a long pause. Then Poirot said:
“Do you happen to remember, Monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting room downstairs
with you that morning?”
Alistair Blunt frowned.
“Let me see—yes, there was a young man—rather restless he was. I don’t remember him
particularly, though. Why?”
“Would you know him again if you saw him?”
Blunt shook his head.
“I hardly glanced at him.”
“He didn’t try to enter into conversation with you at all?”
“No.”
Blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.
“What’s the point? Who is this young man?”
“His name is Howard Raikes.”
Poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.
“Ought I to know his name? Have I met him elsewhere?”
“I do not think you have met him. He is a friend of your niece, Miss Olivera’s.”
“Oh, one of Jane’s friends.”
“Her mother, I gather, does not approve of the friendship.”
Alistair Blunt said absently:
“I don’t suppose that will cut any ice with Jane.”
“So seriously does her mother regard the friendship that I gather she brought her daughter over
from the States on purpose to get her away from this young man.”
“Oh!” Blunt’s face registered comprehension. “It’s that fellow, is it?”
“Aha, you become more interested now.”
“He’s a most undesirable young fellow in every way, I believe. Mixed up in a lot of subversive
activities.”
“I understand from Miss Olivera that he made an appointment that morning in Queen Charlotte
Street, solely in order to get a look at you.”
“To try and get me to approve of him?”
“Well—no—I understand the idea was that he should be induced to approve of you.”
“Well, of all the damned cheek!”
Poirot concealed a smile.
“It appears you are everything that he most disapproves of.”
“He’s certainly the kind of young man I disapprove of! Spends his time tub-thumping and
talking hot air, instead of doing a decent job of work!”
Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:
“Will you forgive me if I ask you an impertinent and very personal question?”
“Fire ahead.”
“In the event of your death, what are your testamentary dispositions?”
Blunt stared. He said sharply:
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Because, it is just possible,” he shrugged his shoulders—“that it might be relevant to this
case.”
“Nonsense!”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not.”
Alistair Blunt said coldly:
“I think you are being unduly melodramatic, M. Poirot. Nobody has been trying to murder me—
or anything like that!”
“A bomb on your breakfast table—a shot in the street—”
“Oh those! Any man who deals in the world’s finance in a big way is liable to that kind of
attention from some crazy fanatic!”
“It might possibly be a case of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy.”
Blunt stared.
“What are you driving at?”
“In plain language, I want to know who benefits by your death.”
Blunt grinned.
“Chiefly the St. Edward’s Hospital, the Cancer Hospital, and the Royal Institute for the Blind.”
“Ah!”
“In addition, I have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, Mrs. Julia Olivera; an
equivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, Jane Olivera, and also a substantial provision for my
only surviving relative, a second cousin, Helen Montressor, who was left very badly off and who
occupies a small cottage on the estate here.”
He paused and then said:
“This, M. Poirot, is strictly in confidence.”
“Naturally, Monsieur, naturally.”
Alistair Blunt added sarcastically:
“I suppose you do not suggest, M. Poirot, that either Julia or Jane Olivera or my cousin Helen
Montressor, are planning to murder me for my money?”
“I suggest nothing—nothing at all.”
Blunt’s slight irritation subsided. He said:
“And you’ll take on that other commission for me?”
“The finding of Miss Sainsbury Seale? Yes, I will.”
Alistair Blunt said heartily:
“Good man.”
九，十，肥母鸡 6
6
那辆劳斯莱斯轿车在快到六点时准时来接上了波洛。
车里只有阿利斯泰尔•布伦特和他的秘书。看来奥利维娅夫人和简乘另外一部车已经先
走了。
一路上没发生任何事。布伦特说话不多，而且大部分都是关于他的花园和最近的一个
园艺展。当波洛恭喜他大难不死时，布伦特马上否认说：
“哦，那件事！我不觉得那家伙是朝我开枪。不管怎么说，那可怜的家伙根本就不知道
怎么瞄准！就是个疯狂的学生，没什么好怕的。他们是被利用了，臆想着朝首相开一枪就
能改变历史进程。真是可悲。”
“以前也有人企图谋害过您，对吗？”
“听上去好像很夸张，”布伦特说，眼睛微微地闪着光，“前不久有人通过邮局给我送来
了一颗炸弹。那颗炸弹不是很管用，您知道。这些人居然还想掌控世界！连个炸弹都弄不
好，怎么还认为可以掌管全世界？”
他摇摇头。
“事情总是这样：一群留着长发的理想主义者，脑子里没有一点儿实际的知识。我不是
个聪明的人，从来都不是，但是我能阅读，能写作，会做算数。您明白我的意思吧？”
“我想是的，不过还是请您再解释一下。”
“好吧。如果我读一篇用英文写的东西，我能够理解它是在说什么。我不是指什么深奥
的东西，公式，或者哲学之类的，我是说简单的商务英语，但大部分人都读不懂！如果我
想写篇东西，我能够把我要说的意思写出来——我发现很多人也做不到这个！还有，就像
我刚才说的，我会做简单的算术。如果琼斯有八根香蕉，布朗从他那里拿走十根，琼斯还
剩下几根？这就是人们假装可以找到简单答案的那种计算。他们不会承认，首先布朗做不
到这件事；其次，更不可能有额外的香蕉！”
“他们喜欢像变戏法一样的答案？”
“没错儿，那些政客也同样没用。但是我一向坚持尊重常识。到头来，您知道，谁都不
能违背它。”
他不自然地笑了笑，接着说：“不过，我真是三句话不离本行啊，真是个坏习惯。还
有，离开伦敦时我就不愿意再想工作的事儿了。我很期待，波洛先生，听听您的一些历险
故事。我读过很多惊险类和侦探类的小说，您觉得它们真实吗？”
他们在车里接下来的谈话就一直围绕着赫尔克里•波洛办过的那些比较惊人的案子。阿
利斯泰尔•布伦特表现得像小学生一样，对故事的细节充满兴趣。
当他们到达爱夏庄时，这种愉快的气氛就降温了。奥利维娅夫人挺着她丰满的胸脯，
一副冷冰冰又非常不开心的样子。她尽可能地冷落波洛，只跟男主人和塞尔比先生打了招
呼。
塞尔比先生把波洛领到他的房间。
这是栋特别可爱的房子，并不是特别大。家具摆设既不张扬又有品位，就像波洛在伦
敦看到的一样。所有的东西都很高档，但是又很简洁。它们背后巨大的财富通过这简洁中
所营造出的协调和流畅显示出来。晚餐的招待令人赞叹——所有美食全是英式的，而非常
见的欧洲大陆式，餐桌上配的酒更是让波洛由衷地欣喜。他们食用了一碗清汤、香煎鳎
鱼、羊羔里脊配小嫩豆、草莓和奶油。
波洛全身心地享用这些精美的食物，完全没有注意到奥利维娅夫人持续的冷淡以及她
女儿的唐突和无礼。简，不知道为什么，对他显示出明显的敌意。直到晚餐快要结束的时
候，波洛才模模糊糊地注意到这点。他不明白为什么！
布伦特两眼盯着桌子，漫不经心地问：
“海伦今晚不和我们一起吃饭吗？”
朱莉娅•奥利维娅撇了撇嘴说：
“我想亲爱的海伦在花园里干活累了，就建议她去睡了。她可以好好休息一下，省得还
要梳妆打扮来和我们一起吃饭。她觉得我的话很对。”
“哦，明白了。”布伦特神情茫然，有点儿不解，“我还以为周末她能稍稍改变作息。”
“海伦做事一板一眼，她喜欢早早就去休息。”奥利维娅夫人肯定地说。
饭后，布伦特要跟他的秘书说几句话，波洛就先去女士们待的小客厅。进门时，他听
到简•奥利维娅对她妈妈说：
“阿利斯泰尔姨公不喜欢您那样把海伦•蒙特雷索冷落到一边，妈妈。”
“胡说。”奥利维娅夫人语气强硬地说，“阿利斯泰尔脾气太好了，对穷亲戚太好了。给
她免费的屋子住已经算仁至义尽，再让她每个周末一起在家里共进晚餐，那就荒谬了！她
只不过是个什么远房表妹，我不觉得阿利斯泰尔应该被硬加上这么个负担!”
“我倒觉得她也有股子傲气呢，”简说，“她每天在花园里干特别多的活儿。”
“这种态度就很好。”奥利维娅夫人欣慰地说，“苏格兰人都非常独立，也因此受到人们
的尊重。”
她在一张沙发上舒服地坐下来，还是故意不理会波洛。
她说：“把那本《内幕评论》递给我，亲爱的。上面有关于路易•范•斯凯勒和她的摩洛
哥导游的文章。”
阿利斯泰尔来到门口，说：
“波洛先生，请到我的房间里来。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特自己的居所是一个低矮、长形的房间，在房子的背面，窗户朝着花
园。房间很舒适，有大大的扶手椅和长沙发椅。一些东西随意地摆放着，让人有家的感
觉。
（不必说，赫尔克里•波洛会更喜欢把它们摆得有规则一些!）
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特请他的客人抽雪茄，自己也点上了烟斗，然后就直奔主题。
他说：
“我真的非常不满意，当然了，我是指那个叫塞恩斯伯里•西尔的女人。出于某些原因
——肯定是完全正当的原因——官方要求停止搜寻。我不知道阿尔伯特•查普曼到底是谁，
到底是做什么的。但是，不管他做什么，肯定是一份特别重要的工作，而且是那种有可能
会让他陷入困境的工作。我不知道停止搜寻有哪些利弊，但是首相确实提到，对于这个案
子，他们经不起任何曝光，所以它越早被公众遗忘越好。这么做可以。这是官方的意见，
他们知道应该怎么做。所以，现在警察动弹不得。”
他身子往椅子前面靠了靠，说：
“但是我想知道事情的真相，波洛先生。我想让您帮我查出来。毕竟，您不受官方的约
束。”
“您想让我做什么，布伦特先生？”
“我想让您找到这个女人——塞恩斯伯里•西尔。”
“死的还是活的？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特的眉毛挑了一下。
“您觉得她可能已经死了？”
赫尔克里•波洛沉默了一两分钟，然后，缓慢而沉重地说：
“如果您想知道我的想法——但请记住，仅仅是想法而已——那么，是的，我想她已经
死了……”
“您为什么这么认为？”
赫尔克里•波洛微微一笑说：
“如果我说是因为我在抽屉里看到的一双没穿过的丝袜，您一定觉得不可思议。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特惊奇地盯着他：“您是个奇怪的人，波洛先生。”
“我是很奇怪，您说得没错。我办事有条不紊，而且符合逻辑。我不喜欢为了迎合一个
说法去歪曲事实，因为我觉得这不合常理！”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：
“我把整件事在脑子里过了一遍，我总是需要花点儿时间才能把一件事想清楚。这整件
事实在是太离奇了！我是说，那个牙医开枪自杀了，然后这个叫查普曼的女人被打包装在
自己的皮草箱里，还被毁了容。太凶残了！实在是太凶残了！我忍不住怀疑这背后一定有
问题。”
波洛点点头。
布伦特又说：
“而且您知道，我越想越觉得我肯定那个女人并不认识我，那天她只是找个借口跟我搭
上话。可是为什么呢？这么做对她有什么好处呢？我的意思是，就为了得到一笔捐款？而
且那还是要捐给社会的，又不是为她自己。可是，我就是觉得那次……那次见面是她设计
好的，就是为了在那所房子门前的台阶上见到我，那么巧，时间刚刚好，让人怀疑！但是
为什么？这就是我一直问自己的——为什么？”
“就是啊，为什么呢？我也问我自己。我想不到是为什么，是的，想不到。”
“您对此一点想法都没有吗？”
“我的想法极其幼稚。我对自己说，那可能是个计谋，为的是把您指给什么人看，让他
认识您。但是这个想法又有点荒唐——您是位知名人士，还不如直接说‘看，那就是他——
就是进门的那个人。’这样更简单点儿。”
“不管怎么说，”布伦特说，“为什么有人想把我指给别人看呢？”
“布伦特先生，您再回想一遍那天早上您坐在牙医椅子上时的情形，您没觉得莫利先生
说过什么反常的话吗？您不记得有任何可以成为线索的东西吗？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特皱着眉头使劲想了想，然后他摇摇头。
“对不起，我实在想不出什么。”
“您确定他没有提到这个女人，这个塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐？”
“没有。”
“那么另一个女人——查普曼夫人呢？”
“没有，没有，我们根本就没有谈论任何人。我们谈到玫瑰，花园需要雨水的浇灌，假
期啦——其他就没了。”
“那段时间里也没有人进入那个房间？”
“让我想想——没有，我觉得没有。以前我去的时候我记得那里还有一个女孩子——金
发姑娘，但她这次不在。哦，有另一个牙医进来过，我记得他有爱尔兰口音。”
“他说了什么或者做了什么？”
“只是问了莫利一个什么问题，然后就出去了。莫利的回答很简短，我记得。他在那儿
待了可能只有一分钟的样子吧。”
“其他您就记不起什么了？一点儿都没了？”
“没有了。他那天完全正常。”
波洛若有所思地说：
“我也觉得他那天完全正常。”
两人沉默了很久。波洛说：
“您是否记得，先生，那天在楼下的候诊室里见到过一个年轻人？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特皱起眉头。
“让我想想——是的，是有一个小伙子，好像坐立不安的样子。不过，我没有特别注意
过他。怎么了？”
“如果您再见到他能认出来吗？”
布伦特摇摇头。
“我几乎没看他一眼。”
“他没有试图跟您讲话吗？”
“没有。”
布伦特大惑不解地望着对方。
“怎么了？那个小伙子是谁啊？”
“他叫霍华德•赖克斯。”
波洛密切地注视着对方的反应，但是什么都没看出来。
“我应该知道他的名字吗？我在别处见过他吗？”
“我不觉得您见过他。他是您的外甥孙女儿奥利维娅小姐的一个朋友。”
“噢，简的一个朋友。”
“她妈妈，我估计，不赞同他们的交往。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特心不在焉地说：
“我认为这对于简不会有任何影响。”
“我想她妈妈把他们的关系看得太严重了，以至于把女儿从美国带到这里来，就为了让
她离开这个年轻人。”
“噢！”布伦特脸上露出恍然大悟的神情，“就是这个人，是吗？”
“啊哈！您现在感兴趣了吧？”
“我觉得无论从哪方面讲，他都不是个很理想的年轻人，还与不少颠覆活动有染。”
“我听奥利维娅小姐说他那天早上也在夏洛特皇后街做了个预约，就是为了去看您一
眼。”
“想让我认可他，是吗？”
“呃，不是的，我的理解是为了诱导他认可您。”
“小毛孩儿一个……”
波洛偷偷地笑了。
“看来您的一切都是他所不能认同的。”
“他当然也是我不认同的那种年轻人！一天到晚义愤填膺，夸夸其谈，一点儿正经事儿
都不干！”
波洛停顿了一分钟，说：
“请原谅，我能冒昧地问您一个纯属私人问题吗？”
“尽管问。”
“关于您百年后，遗嘱中财产分配是怎样的？”
布伦特瞪着眼，厉声问：
“你为什么要知道这个？”
“因为，这个有可能——”他耸耸肩膀，“和案子有关。”
“胡说！”
“或许有，或许没有。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特冷冷地说：
“我觉得您太夸张了，波洛先生。没有人想杀我，或者之类的事情！”
“您早餐桌上的炸弹……大街上的枪击……”
“那些啊！任何经营世界金融并对其有影响的人都会遇到这种发疯的狂热分子！”
“也有可能这个案子是某个既不狂热也不疯癫之人所为。”
布伦特眼睛瞪得大大的。
“您想说什么？”
“简单地说，我想知道您过世后谁会受益。”
布伦特笑了。
“主要是圣•爱德华医院、肿瘤医院，还有皇家盲人学院。”
“啊！”
“此外，我还留了些钱给我太太的外甥女朱莉娅•奥利维娅夫人；同样数量的钱，但是
以信托的方式，留给她的女儿，简•奥利维娅，还有一笔钱留给我唯一在世的亲戚，一个远
房表妹海伦•蒙特雷索。她被遗弃了，很惨。现在住在这里的一个农舍里。”
他停顿了一下，接着说：
“这些，波洛先生，都是完全机密的。”
“那当然，先生，那当然。”
阿利斯泰尔带着讽刺口吻说：
“我猜你不是想说，波洛先生，朱莉娅、简，或者我表妹海伦三人之中有谁为了拿到钱
想要害我吧？”
“我可没这么想——没这么想。”
布伦特先前轻微的不快平息了。他说：
“那么您准备接受我的委托吗？”
“找到塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐吗？是的，我接受。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特高兴地说：
“好样的。”
NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN 7
VII
In leaving the room Poirot almost cannoned into a tall figure outside the door.
He said: “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.”
Jane Olivera drew apart a little.
She said. “Do you know what I think of you, M. Poirot?”
“Eh bien—Mademoiselle—”
She did not give time to finish. The question, indeed, had but a rhetorical value. All that it meant
was that Jane Olivera was about to answer it herself.
“You’re a spy, that’s what you are! A miserable, low, snooping spy, nosing round and making
trouble!”
“I assure you, Mademoiselle—”
“I know just what you’re after! And I know now just what lies you tell! Why don’t you admit it
straight out? Well, I’ll tell you this—you won’t find out anything—anything at all! There’s
nothing to find out! No one’s going to harm a hair on my precious uncle’s head. He’s safe enough.
He’ll always be safe. Safe and smug and prosperous—and full of platitudes! He’s just a stodgy
John Bull, that’s what he is—without an ounce of imagination or vision.”
She paused, then, her agreeable, husky voice deepening, she said venomously: “I loathe the
sight of you—you bloody little bourgeois detective!”
She swept away from him in a whirl of expensive model drapery.
Hercule Poirot remained, his eyes very wide open, his eyebrows raised and his hand
thoughtfully caressing his moustaches.
The epithet bourgeois was, he admitted, well-applied to him. His outlook on life was essentially
bourgeois, and always had been, but the employment of it as an epithet of contempt by the
exquisitely turned out Jane Olivera gave him, as he expressed it to himself, furiously to think.
He went, still thinking, into the drawing room.
Mrs. Olivera was playing patience.
She looked up as Poirot entered, surveyed him with the cold look she might have bestowed
upon a black beetle and murmured distantly:
“Red knave on black queen.”
Chilled, Poirot retreated. He reflected mournfully:
“Alas, it would seem that nobody loves me!”
He strolled out of the window into the garden. It was an enchanting evening with a smell of
night-scented stocks in the air. Poirot sniffed happily and strolled along a path that ran between
two herbaceous borders.
He turned a corner and two dimly-seen figures sprang apart.
It would seem that he had interrupted a pair of lovers.
Poirot hastily turned and retraced his steps.
Even out here, it would seem, his presence was de trop.
He passed Alistair Blunt’s window and Alistair Blunt was dictating to Mr. Selby.
There seemed definitely only one place for Hercule Poirot.
He went up to his bedroom.
He pondered for some time on various fantastic aspects of the situation.
Had he or had he not made a mistake in believing the voice on the telephone to be that of Mrs.
Olivera? Surely the idea was absurd!
He recalled the melodramatic revelations of quiet little Mr. Barnes. He speculated on the
mysterious whereabouts of Mr. Q.X.912, alias Albert Chapman. He remembered, with a spasm of
annoyance, the anxious look in the eyes of the maidservant, Agnes—
It was always the same way—people would keep things back! Usually quite unimportant things,
but until they were cleared out of the way, impossible to pursue a straight path.
At the moment the path was anything but straight!
And the most unaccountable obstacle in the way of clear thinking and orderly progress was
what he described to himself as the contradictory and impossible problem of Miss Sainsbury
Seale. For, if the facts that Hercule Poirot had observed were true facts—then nothing whatever
made sense!
Hercule Poirot said to himself, with astonishment in the thought:
“Is it possible that I am growing old?”
九，十，肥母鸡 7
7
离开房间时，波洛在门外差点儿撞到一个高高的身影。他说：“对不起，小姐。”
简•奥利维娅向边上躲闪了一下，然后说：
“您知道我是怎么看您的吗，波洛先生？”
“呃，好吧……小姐——”
她根本就没等波洛说完。她虽然提了问，却根本没有要波洛回答的意思。简•奥利维娅
显然是要自己来回答这个问题。
“您是个间谍，您就是个间谍！一个可悲的、四处打听的间谍，多管闲事，制造麻
烦！”
“我向您保证，小姐——”
“我知道您要干什么！而且我现在也知道您是怎么撒谎的！您为什么不干脆承认呢？
哦，我还要告诉您，您什么也查不到……查不到！没有什么可查的！没有人能伤害我亲爱
的姨公的一根毫毛。他非常安全，永远都会安全。安全、体面、富有，还带着满脑子的陈
旧观念！他就是个顽固守旧的英国佬。”
她停住了。然后，那悦耳、略带沙哑的声音变得低沉起来，她恶狠狠地说：
“我讨厌见到你，你这个该死的资产阶级的小侦探！”
随后她一转身走了。那昂贵的、模特穿的那种带有花边装饰的长裙也随着荡起了一个
波浪。
赫尔克里•波洛呆立在那里，睁大双眼，眉毛挑得高高的。他用手捋着胡子，陷入了沉
思。他承认，资产阶级的绰号对他很合适。他对于生活的看法基本上都是资产阶级式的，
而且一向如此。但是，被衣着华丽的简•奥利维娅把它当作一个贬义的绰号送给他——他在
心里对自己说——确实让人感觉不是很好。他往小客厅走去，依然沉浸在自己的思绪里。
奥利维娅夫人独自在客厅里玩着纸牌。波洛进门，她抬起头，鄙视地望着他，好像是
在看一只虫子。她远远地自言自语说：
“红桃J爬到黑桃Q头上了。”
波洛哆嗦了一下，退了出来。他忧伤地对自己说：
“哎呀，看来没人喜欢我！”
他从落地窗出来，慢慢溜达到花园里。夜色迷人，空气中弥漫着树木的芳香。波洛愉
快地嗅着，不知不觉中走上了一条两边都是绿草的小路。
他刚转过一个弯，黑暗中隐约有两个人影闪开了。看来他又惊扰了一对恋人。
波洛赶紧转身，掉头往回走。
即便在这里，他的出现似乎也不受欢迎。
他经过阿利斯泰尔•布伦特的窗口，看到阿利斯泰尔•布伦特正在口授什么，塞尔比先生
在记。
看来赫尔克里•波洛只有一个地方好去了。
他上楼回到了自己的房间。
他仔细思考了所发生的各种令人费解的事情。他是不是弄错了？那天电话里的声音是
奥利维娅夫人的吗？这个想法实在是太荒唐了！他又想到安静的小个子巴恩斯先生那夸张
的启示。他想象着神秘的Q.X.912先生，阿尔伯特•查普曼。想起女佣阿格尼斯眼中焦虑的
神情。他感觉到一阵烦躁——人们总是这样，不肯把事情说出来！通常都会是无足轻重的
小事，但若是不把这些小细节搞清楚就不可能找到正确的路径。
就现阶段而言，这条路径还完全是躲在云雾里！而理清思路从而可以循序渐进地往下
走的最大障碍——也被他视为最矛盾、最不可能解决的问题——就是塞恩斯伯里•西尔。因
为，如果赫尔克里•波洛看到的是实情的话，那么所有的事情都讲不通啊！
波洛吃惊地对自己说：“我是不是老了？”
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE 1
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE
I
After passing a troubled night, Hercule Poirot was up and about early on the next day. The
weather was perfect and he retraced his steps of last night.
The herbaceous borders were in full beauty and though Poirot himself leaned to a more orderly
type of flower arrangement—a neat arrangement of beds of scarlet geraniums such as are seen at
Ostend—he nevertheless realized that here was the perfection of the English garden spirit.
He pursued his way through a rose garden, where the neat layout of the beds delighted him—
and through the winding ways of an alpine rock garden, coming at last to the walled kitchen
gardens.
Here he observed a sturdy woman clad in a tweed coat and skirt, black browed, with short
cropped black hair who was talking in a slow, emphatic Scots voice to what was evidently the
head gardener. The head gardener, Poirot observed, did not appear to be enjoying the
conversation.
A sarcastic inflection made itself heard in Miss Helen Montressor’s voice, and Poirot escaped
nimbly down a side path.
A gardener who had been, Poirot shrewdly suspected, resting on his spade, began digging with
fervour. Poirot approached nearer. The man, a young fellow, dug with ardour, his back to Poirot
who paused to observe him.
“Good morning,” said Poirot amiably.
A muttered “Morning, sir,” was the response, but the man did not stop working.
Poirot was a little surprised. In his experience a gardener, though anxious to appear zealously at
work as you approached, was usually only too willing to pause and pass the time of day when
directly addressed.
It seemed, he thought, a little unnatural. He stood there for some minutes, watching the toiling
figure. Was there, or was there not, something a little familiar about the turn of those shoulders?
Or could it be, thought Hercule Poirot, that he was getting into a habit of thinking that both voices
and shoulders were familiar when they were really nothing of the kind? Was he, as he had feared
last night, growing old?
He passed thoughtfully onward out of the walled garden and paused to regard a rising slope of
shrubbery outside.
Presently, like some fantastic moon, a round object rose gently over the top of the kitchen
garden wall. It was the egg- shaped head of Hercule Poirot, and the eyes of Hercule Poirot
regarded with a good deal of interest the face of the young gardener who had now stopped digging
and was passing a sleeve across his wet face.
“Very curious and very interesting,” murmured Hercule Poirot as he discreetly lowered his head
once more.
He emerged from the shrubbery and brushed off some twigs and leaves that were spoiling the
neatness of his apparel.
Yes, indeed, very curious and interesting that Frank Carter, who had a secretarial job in the
country, should be working as a gardener in the employment of Alistair Blunt.
Reflecting on these points, Hercule Poirot heard a gong in the distance and retraced his steps
towards the house.
On the way there he encountered his host talking to Miss Montressor who had just emerged
from the kitchen garden by the farther door.
Her voice rose clear and distinct:
“It’s verra kind of you, Alistairr, but I would preferr not to accept any invitations this week
while your Amerrican relations are with you!”
Blunt said:
“Julia’s rather a tactless woman, but she doesn’t mean—”
Miss Montressor said calmly:
“In my opinion her manner to me is verra insolent, and I will not put up with insolence—from
American women or any others!”
Miss Montressor moved away, Poirot came up to find Alistair Blunt looking as sheepish as most
men look who are having trouble with their female relations. He said ruefully:
“Women really are the devil! Good morning, M. Poirot. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
They turned towards the house and Blunt said with a sigh: “I do miss my wife!”
In the dining room, he remarked to the redoubtable Julia:
“I’m afraid, Julia, you’ve rather hurt Helen’s feelings.”
Mrs. Olivera said grimly:
“The Scotch are always touchy.”
Alistair Blunt looked unhappy.
Hercule Poirot said:
“You have a young gardener, I noticed, whom I think you must have taken on recently.”
“I daresay,” said Blunt. “Yes, Burton, my third gardener, left about three weeks ago, and we
took this fellow on instead.”
“Do you remember where he came from?”
“I really don’t. MacAlister engaged him. Somebody or other asked me to give him a trial, I
think. Recommended him warmly. I’m rather surprised, because MacAlister says he isn’t much
good. He wants to sack him again.”
“What is his name?”
“Dunning—Sunbury—something like that.”
“Would it be a great impertinence to ask what you pay him?”
“Not at all. Two pounds fifteen, I think it is.”
“Not more?”
“Certainly not more—might be a bit less.”
“Now that,” said Poirot, “is very curious.”
Alistair Blunt looked at him inquiringly.
But Jane Olivera, rustling the paper, distracted the conversation.
“A lot of people seem to be out for your blood, Uncle Alistair!”
“Oh, you’re reading the debate in the House. That’s all right. Only Archerton—he’s always
tilting at windmills. And he’s got the most crazy ideas of finance. If we let him have his way,
England would be bankrupt in a week.”
Jane said:
“Don’t you ever want to try anything new?”
“Not unless it’s an improvement to the old, my dear.”
“But you’d never think it would be. You’d always say, ‘This would never work’—without even
trying.”
“Experimentalists can do a lot of harm.”
“Yes, but how can you be satisfied with things as they are? All the waste and the inequality and
the unfairness. Something must be done about it!”
“We get along pretty well in this country, Jane, all things considered.”
Jane said passionately:
“What’s needed is a new heaven and a new earth! And you sit there eating kidneys!”
She got up and went out by the french window into the garden.
Alistair looked mildly surprised and a little uncomfortable.
He said: “Jane has changed a lot lately. Where does she get all these ideas?”
“Take no notice of what Jane says,” said Mrs. Olivera. “Jane’s a very silly girl. You know what
girls are—they go to these queer parties in studios where the young men have funny ties and they
come home and talk a lot of nonsense.”
“Yes, but Jane was always rather a hard-boiled young woman.”
“It’s just a fashion, Alistair, these things are in the air!”
Alistair Blunt said:
“Yes, they’re in the air all right.”
He looked a little worried.
Mrs. Olivera rose and Poirot opened the door for her. She swept out frowning to herself.
Alistair Blunt said suddenly:
“I don’t like it, you know! Everybody’s talking this sort of stuff! And it doesn’t mean anything!
It’s all hot air! I find myself up against it the whole time—a new heaven and a new earth. What
does it mean? They can’t tell you themselves! They’re just drunk on words.”
He smiled suddenly, rather ruefully.
“I’m one of the last of the Old Guard, you know.”
Poirot said curiously:
“If you were—removed, what would happen?”
“Removed! What a way of putting it!” His face grew suddenly grave. “I’ll tell you. A lot of
damned fools would try a lot of very costly experiments. And that would be the end of stability—
of common sense, of solvency. In fact, of this England of ours as we know it …”
Poirot nodded his head. He was essentially in sympathy with the banker. He, too, approved of
solvency. And he began to realize with a new meaning just exactly what Alistair Blunt stood for.
Mr. Barnes had told him, but he had hardly taken it in then. Quite suddenly, he was afraid….
十一，十二，深探究 1
十一，十二，深探究
1
经过一夜的困扰，赫尔克里•波洛早早地起了床，准备开始新的一天。天气非常好，他
又走上了昨晚走过的那条路。
花园里的绿草带十分精致漂亮，尽管波洛本人更喜欢规整的布局，就像在奥斯特恩见
到的那种由红色的天竺葵花组成的花圃，然而，他意识到这里也把英式园艺的精髓发挥到
了极致。他沿路穿过一个玫瑰园，修剪整齐的花圃让他感到赏心悦目；又穿过岩石园中蜿
蜒的小路，路两旁种着高山植物。最后，他来到了一个由四面围墙围起来的菜园子。
这时，他看到一个身材结实的女人。她身穿一件粗花呢外套和裙子，黑色的眉毛，一
头黑发剪得很短。她正在用低沉生硬的苏格兰嗓音和一个看上去是花园总管的人讲话。波
洛观察到那个总管看上去不太高兴。
波洛无意间听到海伦•蒙特雷索语带讽刺的声音。他连忙拐上旁边的小路，走开了。
一个园丁正靠在他的锄头上休息。看到他过来，赶紧开始用力刨地。这些被波洛看在
眼里，他走近那个园丁。这是个年轻的小伙子，他使劲儿地刨着地，背对着正在观察他的
波洛。
“早上好。”波洛热情地说。
“早安，先生。”那人小声嘟囔，头也不回地继续工作。
波洛有点儿吃惊。依照他的经验，当你走近一个园丁时，他会做出努力工作的样子，
但是如果你和他打招呼，他一般都会很愿意停下来和你交谈以打发时间。
他想这个园丁看起来有点儿奇怪，就在那里站了几分钟，看着那个埋头苦干的人。似
乎——这肩膀的扭动看起来有点儿熟悉啊？或许是他养成了习惯，随便听到谁的声音，或
见到谁的肩膀都会觉得似曾相识？是不是就像昨晚担心的那样，他真的老了？他心事重重
地往菜园子外面走去。在园外，他停下脚步，盯着长满灌木丛的斜坡。
不一会儿，一个圆圆的东西从菜园的墙头上冒出来，好似一轮迷人的圆月。那正是赫
尔克里•波洛鹅蛋形的脑袋。他两眼充满好奇地打量着那个年轻园丁的脸。那个年轻人这时
停下了锄头，正在用袖子擦脸上的汗。
“太奇怪，太有趣了。”他又小心地把头缩了回去。
他从灌木丛里走出来，抖了抖粘在衣服上的树枝和树叶。是的，太奇怪，太有趣了。
弗兰克•卡特，说是在郊区找到了一份文书工作，结果是在这里为阿利斯泰尔•布伦特做花
匠。赫尔克里•波洛正在琢磨着这些事儿，忽听到远处传来“哐”的一声响，他掉头向别墅走
去。路上他听到他的男主人正在和蒙特雷索小姐讲话，她刚刚从菜园的另一扇门出来。
她的声音清晰地传过来：
“谢谢你的好意，阿利斯泰尔，但是这周你的美国亲戚在这里时，我不会接受任何邀
请！”
布伦特说：
“朱莉娅是个心直口快的女人，但她并不是要——”
蒙特雷索小姐坚定地说：
“依我看她对我的态度灰常（口音）蛮横无理，我不能容忍任何的无礼——不管是美国
人还是其他什么人的！”
蒙特雷索小姐走开了。波洛走过去，发现阿利斯泰尔•布伦特看上去局促不安，就像许
多男人和他们的女人发生矛盾时的样子。他可怜巴巴地说：
“女人好难弄啊！早上好，波洛。天气很好，对吧？”
他们往大房子走去。布伦特叹气说：
“我真怀念我的妻子！”
餐厅里，他对盛气凌人的朱莉娅说：“朱莉娅，恐怕你是伤了海伦的自尊心了。”
奥利维娅夫人冷酷地说：“苏格兰人总是很爱发火。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特看上去很不高兴。
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“我看到您有一个年轻的园丁，我想应该是您最近才雇的吧。”
“应该是，”布伦特说，“是的，我的第三个园丁，伯顿，三个礼拜前离开了。于是我们
就找了现在这个来替代他。”
“您还记得他是从哪里来的吗？”
“我还真是不记得了。是麦卡利斯特具体雇的他。好像是谁热情推荐我试用他一下。我
也觉得吃惊，因为麦卡利斯特说他做得并不好，想辞掉他。”
“他叫什么名字？”
“邓宁……森伯理……好像是。”
“我如果问您付他多少工钱是不是太冒昧了？”
“不会。两英镑十五便士，我想应该是。”
“就这些？”
“当然就这些——可能有点儿少。”
“那就，”波洛说，“太奇怪了。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特疑惑地看着他。
简•奥利维娅抖动报纸的声音打断了他们的谈话。
“看来很多人都想要您的命呢，阿利斯泰尔姨公！”
“哦，你是在看议会辩论吧。没关系，就是阿切尔顿，他总是要找个假想敌来对抗。他
在财政问题上抱持最疯狂的观点。如果我们按照他的意思做，不出一个礼拜英国就破产
了。”
简说：“您想过要尝试新东西吗？”
“除非它比老的好，否则我不会，亲爱的。”
“但您永远都不会认为新的东西比老的好，您总是说‘这个不行’，连试都不会试。”
“实验主义者可以带来很多害处。”
“是的，但您又怎能满足于现状呢？所有这些浪费、不平等、不公平的现象，一定要有
所改变！”
“我们这个国家搞得还是不错的，简，所有的方面都照顾到了。”
简激动地说：
“人们需要的是一片新天空，一片新天地！而您却还是坐在那里吃早餐！”
她站起身来，从落地窗向花园走去。
阿利斯泰尔看上去有些吃惊，也有点儿不舒服。
他说：“简最近变了很多。她是从哪里学来的这些想法？”
“别去理会简说的话。”奥利维娅夫人说，“简是个傻姑娘。你了解女孩子，她们去参加
那些奇怪的聚会，那里的孩子会跟一些不三不四的人有牵连，然后她们回到家之后就会胡
言乱语。”
“是的，但是简一直都是很有个性的女孩子啊。”
“现在时兴这个，阿利斯泰尔，这些东西正在流行！”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“是的，这些东西现在是很流行。”他看上去有些忧虑。
奥利维娅夫人起身，波洛帮她开了门，她皱着眉头走了出去。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特突然说：
“我真不喜欢这样！您知道，每个人都在谈论这些事情！什么意义都没有！都是一些空
洞的叫嚣罢了！我一直都很反对这种言论——一片新天空，一片新天地。到底是什么意思
呢？他们自己都说不出来！他们只是沉醉于这些词藻。”
他突然又笑了，不好意思地说：“我是属于最后的卫道士，您知道。”
波洛好奇地问：“如果您被……铲除了，会怎么样？”
“铲除！这叫什么话！”他的面色瞬间变得严肃起来，“我告诉你，有很多可恶的蠢货想
要做很多昂贵的实验，这会破坏稳定——作为实验的代价，这是常识。事实上，也就是我
们所认识的这个英格兰的末日……”
波洛点点头。他着实有些同情这位银行家。他自己也同意实验需要付出代价的说法。
他开始对阿利斯泰尔•布伦特所代表的东西有了更新的理解。巴恩斯先生曾经对他说过，但
他当时听不进去。突然，他感到有些害怕……
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE 2
II
“I’ve finished my letters,” said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. “Now, M. Poirot, I’m going
to show you my garden.”
The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby.
The rock garden, with its rare alpine plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time there
while Blunt pointed out certain minute and rare species.
Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting his
weight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing slightly as the heat of the sun caused the
illusion that his feet were gigantic puddings!
His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming and
from near at hand came the monotonous clicking of a pair of shears trimming a laurel hedge.
It was all very drowsy and peaceful.
Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by,
though the clipper was concealed from view.
“Look at the vista down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. I
don’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.”
Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air.
Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle of
the laurels.
There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. A
high-pitched American voice sang out resolutely:
“I’ve got you, you damned scoundrel! drop that gun!”
Two men struggled out into the open. The young gardener who had dug so industriously that
morning was writhing in the powerful grip of a man nearly a head taller.
Poirot recognized the latter at once. He had already guessed from the voice.
Frank Carter snarled:
“Let go of me! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never did.”
Howard Raikes said:
“Oh, no? Just shooting at the birds, I suppose!”
He stopped—looking at the newcomers.
“Mr. Alistair Blunt? This guy here has just taken a potshot at you. I caught him right in the act.”
Frank Carter cried out:
“It’s a lie! I was clipping the hedge. I heard a shot and the gun fell right here at my feet. I picked
it up—that’s only natural, that is, and then this bloke jumped on me.”
Howard Raikes said grimly:
“The gun was in your hand and it had just been fired!”
With a final gesture, he tossed the pistol to Poirot.
“Let’s see what the dick’s got to say about it! Lucky I got hold of you in time. I guess there are
several more shots in that automatic of yours.”
Poirot murmured:
“Precisely.”
Blunt was frowning angrily. He said sharply:
“Now then Dunnon—Dunbury—what’s your name?”
Hercule Poirot interrupted. He said:
“This man’s name is Frank Carter.”
Carter turned on him furiously.
“You’ve had it in for me all along! You came spying on me that Sunday. I tell you, it’s not true.
I never shot at him.”
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“Then, in that case, who did?”
He added:
“There is no one else here but ourselves, you see.”
十一，十二，深探究 2
2
当天上午晚些时候，布伦特从房间里走出来说：“我写完信了。现在，波洛先生，我带
您去看看我的花园吧。”
他们两个一起出了门，布伦特兴致勃勃地聊起了他的爱好。
岩石园，种着各种稀有的高山植物，是他的最爱。他们在那里停留了一阵，布伦特把
一些很少见的植物幼苗指给波洛看。
赫尔克里•波洛的双脚被他最好的漆皮鞋箍得紧紧的。他耐心地听着，不时地把身体的
重量从一只脚换到另一只脚。他微微地咧着嘴巴，感觉太阳发出的热量正在把他的双脚烤
成两个巨大的布丁蛋糕！
主人继续往前走，指着宽宽的花坛中的各种植物给他看。蜜蜂嗡嗡地叫着。在离他们
很近的地方，有人正在用大剪刀修剪着月桂树。
一切都那么祥和，令人昏昏欲睡。
布伦特在花圃尽头停下来，向后望去。剪刀声这时已经离得很近，不过看不到修剪
者。
“你从这里往下看，波洛。这些美国石竹今年长得特别好，我不记得它们往年有这么好
过。那边是拉塞尔羽扇豆，多么漂亮的色彩。”
啪！一声枪响打破了早晨的宁静，空气中弥漫着愤怒的气息。阿利斯泰尔•布伦特迷茫
地转身，看到一缕淡淡的硝烟从月桂树丛中升起。
突然，传来一声怒吼，只见两个男人扭打成一团，把月桂树弄得左右摇摆。一个美国
男人的声音高声地叫着：
“我抓住你了，你这个该死的混蛋！把枪放下！”
两个男人扭拽着从树丛里走出来。早晨努力掘地的那个年轻的园丁被一个几乎高他一
头的男人紧紧地扭着。波洛立刻认出了那个高个子的男人，他刚才听到声音时就猜到了。
弗兰克•卡特愤怒地叫着：“放开我！不是我干的，我告诉你！我根本就没干。”
霍华德•赖克斯说：“呃，你没干？那么你是在打鸟吧！”他停住脚步，看着两个出现在
他们面前的人。
“阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生吗？这家伙刚刚朝你开了一枪，被我当场抓获。”
弗兰克•卡特大叫道：
“撒谎！我刚才在剪树枝，听见一声枪响，然后看到枪落在我脚边，我就捡了起来——
是下意识的反应，真的，然后这家伙就跳到我身上了。”
霍华德•赖克斯厉声道：
“枪在你手里，而且刚刚开过火！”
最后，他把手枪扔给波洛：“我们来看看这家伙还能怎么说！幸亏我及时抓住你，我估
计你那自动手枪里还有几颗子弹呢。”
波洛说：“确实如此。”
布伦特愤怒地皱着眉头，他厉声问道：
“现在，登侬……邓伯里……你叫什么来着？”
波洛插话道：“这个人叫弗兰克•卡特。”
卡特转身怒不可遏地瞪着波洛。
“是你陷害我！那个星期天你就是来监视我的。我告诉你，这不是真的。我没有朝他开
枪。”
赫尔克里•波洛温和地问：“那么，你说是谁干的呢？”
接着他又说：“你看，这里除了我们几个没有别的人了啊。”
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE 3
III
Jane Olivera came running along the path. Her hair streamlined back behind her. Her eyes were
wide with fear. She gasped: “Howard?”
Howard Raikes said lightly:
“Hallo, Jane. I’ve just been saving your uncle’s life.”
“Oh!” She stopped. “You have?”
“Your arrival certainly seems to have been very opportune, Mr.—er—” Blunt hesitated.
“This is Howard Raikes, Uncle Alistair. He’s a friend of mine.”
Blunt looked at Raikes—he smiled.
“Oh!” he said. “So you are Jane’s young man! I must thank you.”
With a puffing noise as of a steam engine at high pressure Julia Olivera appeared on the scene.
She panted out:
“I heard a shot. Is Alistair—Why—” She stared blankly at Howard Raikes. “You? Why, why,
how dare you?”
Jane said in an icy voice:
“Howard has just saved Uncle Alistair’s life, mother.”
“What? I—I—”
“This man tried to shoot Uncle Alistair and Howard grabbed him and took the pistol away from
him.”
Frank Carter said violently:
“You’re bloody liars, all of you.”
Mrs. Olivera, her jaw dropping, said blankly:
“Oh!” It took her a minute or two to readjust her poise. She turned first to Blunt.
“My dear Alistair! How awful! Thank God you’re safe. But it must have been a frightful shock.
I—I feel quite faint myself. I wonder—do you think I could have just a little brandy?”
Blunt said quickly:
“Of course. Come back to the house.”
She took his arm, leaning on it heavily.
Blunt looked over his shoulder at Poirot and Howard Raikes.
“Can you bring that fellow along?” he asked. “We’ll ring up the police and hand him over.”
Frank Carter opened his mouth, but no words came. He was dead white, and his knees were
wilting. Howard Raikes hauled him along with an unsympathetic hand.
“Come on, you,” he said.
Frank Carter murmured hoarsely and unconvincingly:
“It’s all a lie….”
Howard Raikes looked at Poirot.
“You’ve got precious little to say for yourself for a high-toned sleuth! Why don’t you throw
your weight about a bit?”
“I am reflecting, Mr. Raikes.”
“I guess you’ll need to reflect! I should say you’ll lose your job over this! It isn’t thanks to you
that Alistair Blunt is still alive at this minute.”
“This is your second good deed of the kind, is it not, Mr. Raikes?”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“It was only yesterday, was it not, that you caught and held the man whom you believed to have
shot at Mr. Blunt and the Prime Minister?”
Howard Raikes said:
“Er—yes. I seem to be making a kind of habit of it.”
“But there is a difference,” Hercule Poirot pointed out. “Yesterday, the man you caught and held
was not the man who fired the shot in question. You made a mistake.”
Frank Carter said sullenly:
“He’s made a mistake now.”
“Quiet, you,” said Raikes.
Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:
“I wonder….”
十一，十二，深探究 3
3
简•奥利维娅从小路上跑过来。她的头发垂直披在身后，瞪大的眼睛里露出恐惧，她上
气不接下气地问：“霍华德呢？”
霍华德•赖克斯轻声说：“你好，简。我刚刚救了你姨公一命。”
“噢！”她停下来，“真的吗？”
“看来您来得确实是非常及时，呃……呃……”布伦特叫不出他的名字。
“这是霍华德•赖克斯，姨公。他是我的朋友。”
布伦特看着赖克斯，笑了。
“噢！”他说，“那么你就是简的那位年轻人了！我一定要谢谢你。”
朱莉娅•奥利维娅像一台高压蒸汽机一样喘着粗气来了。她一边喘一边说：
“我听到了一声枪响。阿利斯泰尔你……你……”她毫不掩饰地怒视着霍华德•弗兰
克，“你？你竟敢来这里？”
简冷冰冰地说：“霍华德刚刚救了姨公的命，妈妈。”
“什么？我……我……”
“这人朝我姨公开枪，霍华德抓住他，把他的手枪夺了过来。”
弗兰克•卡特凶狠地说：“你们这些该死的骗子，你们都是。”
奥利维娅夫人拉长了脸，只说了声：“噢！”过了一两分钟，她才恢复平静。她转身首
先对着布伦特。
“我亲爱的阿利斯泰尔！多可怕啊！感谢上帝你安然无恙。不过你肯定吓了一跳，我都
快吓晕过去了。我想——你觉得我应该喝点儿白兰地吧？”
“当然，我们回屋里去吧。”
她挽住他的胳膊，重重地靠在上面。
布伦特转头看着波洛和霍华德•赖克斯。
“你们能把那家伙带过来吗？”他问，“我们给警察打电话，把他交出去。”
弗兰克•卡特嘴巴张得大大的，但是什么话也说不出来。他面色苍白，两腿发软。赖克
斯无情地拖着他往前走。
“快走。”
弗兰克•卡特用他沙哑的声音不服气地说：“这是个骗局……”
霍华德•赖克斯看着波洛。
“您这位高级大侦探可是惜字如金啊！为什么不显示一下您的威力？”
“我在思考，赖克斯先生。”
“我想您是需要好好思考一下！我想您会因为这件事丢掉您的饭碗！阿利斯泰尔•布伦
特现在还能活着可不是您的功劳。”
“这是你第二次做出这种好事了，对吗，赖克斯先生？”
“您这是什么意思？”
“就在昨天，您还捉住了那个您认为向布伦特先生和首相开枪的人，不是吗？”
霍华德•赖克斯说：“呃……是的，我最近好像有这个嗜好。”
“但是有一点不同，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“昨天，您捉住的并不是真正开枪的人，您弄错
了。”
弗兰克•卡特愤愤然说：“现在他又弄错了。”
“你给我闭嘴。”赖克斯说。
赫尔克里•波洛自言自语道：“我怀疑……”
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE 4
IV
Dressing for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at his
reflection in the mirror.
He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as he
owned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.
It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking for, Frank Carter. Carter, he
thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasant
young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst,
however plain the evidence.
And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached by
agents of the “Secret Service”—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and report
on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easily
enough—there was no foundation for it.
A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter would
invent.
And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, except
that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up.
No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence
that Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had
just missed Alistair Blunt.
But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in Downing
Street. And his presence down here was fully accounted for—he had come down to be near his
girl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.
It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just saved
you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendliness
and extend hospitality. Mrs. Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was
nothing to be done about it.
Jane’s undesirable young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there!
Poirot watched him speculatively during the evening.
He was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness. He did not air any subversive views, he
kept off politics. He told amusing stories of his hitchhikes and tramps in wild places.
“He is no longer the wolf,” thought Poirot. “No, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. But
underneath? I wonder….”
As Poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. Poirot called, “Come
in,” and Howard Raikes entered.
He laughed at Poirot’s expression.
“Surprised to see me? I’ve had my eye on you all evening. I didn’t like the way you were
looking. Kind of thoughtful.”
“Why should that worry you, my friend?”
“I don’t know why, but it did. I thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bit
hard to swallow.”
“Eh bien? And if so?”
“Well, I decided that I’d best come clean. About yesterday, I mean. That was a fake show all
right! You see, I was watching his lordship come out of 10, Downing Street and I saw Ram Lal
fire at him. I know Ram Lal. He’s a nice kid. A bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of India very
keenly. Well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—the
bullet had missed ’em both by miles—so I decided to put up a show and hope the Indian kid
would get clear. I grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that I’d got the
villain and hoped Ram Lal was beating it all right. But the dicks were too smart. They were on to
him in a flash. That’s just how it was. See?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“And today?”
“That’s different. There weren’t any Ram Lals about today. Carter was the only man on the
spot. He fired that pistol all right! It was still in his hand when I jumped on him. He was going to
try a second shot, I expect.”
Poirot said:
“You were very anxious to preserve the safety of M. Blunt?”
Raikes grinned—an engaging grin.
“A bit odd, you think, after all I’ve said? Oh, I admit it. I think Blunt is a guy who ought to be
shot—for the sake of Progress and Humanity—I don’t mean personally—he’s a nice enough old
boy in his British way. I think that, and yet when I saw someone taking a potshot at him I leap in
and interfere. That shows you how illogical the human animal is. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“The gap between theory and practice is a wide one.”
“I’ll say it is!” Mr. Raikes got up from the bed where he had been sitting.
His smile was easy and confiding.
“I just thought,” he said, “that I’d come along and explain the thing to you.”
He went out shutting the door carefully behind him.
十一，十二，深探究 4
4
赫尔克里•波洛正在着装准备出去吃晚餐，他把领结调整到两边完全对称。他对着镜子
里的自己皱起了眉头。
他觉得不满意，但是又说不出为什么。这个案子，照他看来，已经非常清楚了。弗兰
克•卡特确实是被当场抓到的。
这并不是因为他对弗兰克•卡特有什么特别的信任或者喜欢。他冷静地想，卡特绝对就
是英国人说的“混蛋”，那种对女人有吸引力的小痞子。所以，不管他做得多么明显，她们
都不愿意相信他是坏人。
卡特说的那一套故事漏洞百出。什么“特工人员”找上他，给他报酬丰厚的工作之类的
童话，什么以园丁的身份做掩护，监视其他园丁的谈话和行动。这种故事不堪一击，没有
任何可信的基础。非常拙劣的编造，波洛想，只有卡特这样的人才会编出这种故事。
卡特方面，他没什么可说的。除了辩称一定另外有人用那把左轮手枪开了一枪以外，
他拿不出任何可信的解释。他不停地重复说那是个骗局。
只是霍华德•赖克斯，连续两天都刚好在枪击现场，似乎太巧合了。而且两次子弹都没
射中阿利斯泰尔•布伦特。
不过，也有可能这里面没有什么问题。赖克斯确实没有在唐宁街开枪，他出现在这里
也是完全有理由的——他来找心爱的姑娘。是啊，他的说辞中没有任何不可能的东西。
当然，事情的结果是霍华德•赖克斯非常幸运。当一个人把你从子弹下救起时，你不可
能把他拒之门外。最起码，你也应该表现出友好，热情款待他。显然，奥利维娅夫人感到
很不快，但是她也知道没有别的办法。
简不讨人喜欢的男朋友已经踏入了这个家门，而且还想留下来！
波洛整个晚上都在仔细地观察他。他非常机智地扮演着自己的角色，没有任何颠覆性
言论，完全避谈政治。他一直在讲他的那些有趣的经历，背包客式的远足，到一些荒野的
地方旅行等等。
“他不再是一匹野狼了。”波洛想，“不，是他披上了羊皮外衣。但是，外衣下面？那就
不好说……”
晚上，当波洛正在铺床准备睡下时，有人敲他的门。波洛喊了声：“进来。”接着，霍
华德•赖克斯进了他的房间。他看到波洛脸上的表情就笑了。
“看到我很吃惊吗？我整个晚上都在留意您。我不喜欢您的神情，老是好像心事重重的
样子。”
“那又有什么可让您担心的呢，我的朋友？”
“我也不知道，但这确实让我不安。我想或许您发现有些事情让您难以理解。”
“是吗？那又怎么样呢？”
“呃，我想最好我还是来解释清楚。我是说关于昨天的事儿，确实是我演了一出戏！是
这样的，我在唐宁街十号看着首相出来，看到拉姆•拉尔朝他开枪。我认识拉姆•拉尔。他是
个好孩子，就是有点儿激动，他对印度人所受到的不平等待遇深恶痛绝。不过，没有造成
任何伤害，那两位尊贵的大人物都毫发未损——子弹打偏了——所以我当时就决定做假，
为了让那个印度孩子不被抓。我抓住了身边一个样子邋遢的家伙，叫喊说我抓住了罪犯，
希望拉姆•拉尔安全逃掉。但是那些警察太聪明了，他们马上就发现其实是他干的。这就是
事情的真相，明白了吧？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“那么今天呢？”
“今天不同。今天没有什么拉姆•拉尔，卡特是当时唯一在场的人。确实是他开的枪！
我抓到他时，枪还在他手里。我想，他当时正准备打第二枪。”
波洛说：“您特别热衷于保护布伦特先生不受伤害，对吗？”
赖克斯咧嘴笑了，笑容很迷人。
“您觉得有点儿奇怪，因为先前我说的那些话，对吧？嗯，我承认。我认为布伦特就应
该被枪杀——为了社会和人类的进步，但我并不是针对他个人——他是一个非常慈祥的英
式老头儿。我就是这么想的。所以当我看到有人朝他开枪时，我还是冲上去阻挠了。这也
显示出人是多么矛盾的动物，不可思议，对吗？”
“理论和实践有很大的区别。”
“谁说不是呢！”赖克斯先生从他坐着的床上站起来，脸上带着轻松、真诚的微笑。
“我只是想，”他说，“过来向您解释清楚。”
他走出房间，小心地将身后的门关上了。
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE 5
V
“Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: and preserve me from the wicked man,” sang Mrs.
Olivera in a firm voice, slightly off the note.
There was a relentlessness about her enunciation of the sentiment which made Hercule Poirot
deduce that Mr. Howard Raikes was the wicked man immediately in her mind.
Hercule Poirot had accompanied his host and the family to the morning service in the village
church.
Howard Raikes had said with a faint sneer: “So you always go to church, Mr. Blunt?”
And Alistair had murmured vaguely something about it being expected of you in the country—
can’t let the parson down, you know—which typically English sentiment had merely bewildered
the young man, and had made Hercule Poirot smile comprehendingly.
Mrs. Olivera had tactfully accompanied her host and commanded Jane to do likewise.
“They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent,” sang the choir boys in shrill treble,
“adder’s poison is under their lips.”
The tenors and basses demanded with gusto:
“Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the ungodly. Preserve me from the wicked men who are
purposed to overthrow my goings.”
Hercule Poirot essayed in a hesitant baritone.
“The proud have laid a snare for me,” he sang, “and spread a net with cords: yea, and set
traps in my way….”
His mouth remained open.
He saw it—saw clearly the trap into which he had so nearly fallen!
Like a man in a trance Hercule Poirot remained, mouth open, staring into space. He remained
there as the congregation seated themselves with a rustle; until Jane Olivera tugged at his arm and
murmured a sharp, “Sit down.”
Hercule Poirot sat down. An aged clergyman with a beard intoned: “Here beginneth the
fifteenth chapter of the First Book of Samuel,” and began to read.
But Poirot heard nothing of the smiting of the Amalekites.
A snare cunningly laid—a net with cords—a pit open at his feet—dug carefully so that he
should fall into it.
He was in a daze—a glorious daze where isolated facts spun wildly round before settling neatly
into their appointed places.
It was like a kaleidoscope—shoe buckles, 10-inch stockings, a damaged face, the low tastes in
literature of Alfred the page boy, the activities of Mr. Amberiotis, and the part played by the late
Mr. Morley, all rose up and whirled and settled themselves down into a coherent pattern.
For the first time, Hercule Poirot was looking at the case the right way up.
“For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft and stubborness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because
thou hast rejected the word of the Lord he hath also rejected thee from being king. Here endeth
the first lesson,” quavered the aged clergyman all in one breath.
As one in a dream, Hercule Poirot rose to praise the Lord in the Te Deum.
十一，十二，深探究 5
5
噢，主啊，求你让我远离邪恶的人，保佑我远离罪恶的人。
奥利维娅夫人大声地唱着，有点儿跑调儿。
她声音中所带的明显的憎恨让赫尔克里•波洛马上联想到霍华德•赖克斯先生就是她心中
那个有罪的人。
赫尔克里•波洛和主人一家来到村里的教堂参加早礼拜。
霍华德•赖克斯略带轻蔑地问：
“您总是去教堂吗，布伦特先生?”
阿利斯泰尔小声含糊地说了些类似在乡村人们都期望你这么做，不能让牧师失望之类
的话，典型的英式情结让这个年轻人颇感意外。赫尔克里•波洛会心地笑了笑。
奥利维娅夫人得体地陪伴在男主人身边，她也命令简这样做。
唱诗班的孩子们高声地唱着：
他们的舌头像蛇一样尖利，嘴里含着毒气。
高音部和低音部充满热情地唱：
主啊，请保佑我远离邪恶，保佑我远离罪恶的人，他们想要把我拖入深渊。
赫尔克里•波洛犹豫着用他的男中音随唱：
骄傲的人为我设下陷阱，布下罗网，哎呀，在我前进的路上设下陷阱……
突然，他嘴巴大张，呆愣在那里。
他明白了，完全明白了，他差点跌入陷阱！
赫尔克里•波洛像着了魔似的一直张着嘴，两眼望天。当教堂里的人都哗啦啦坐下时，
他还站在那里，直到简•奥利维娅拽了一下他的胳膊，轻声地提醒说：“坐下。”
赫尔克里•波洛坐了下来。一个留有胡须的年长牧师宣讲道：“现在开始讲《圣经》旧
约上半部的第十五章。”然后他开始朗读。
牧师在宣读攻打亚玛里人的故事，但是波洛什么也没听进去。
一个精心设计的陷阱……一张密布的罗网……一个准备好的陷阱就在他的脚下，小心
翼翼地布好了，正在等他往里面跳。
他沉浸在一片幻觉中——光芒四射的幻觉，那些孤立的事实狂乱地旋转着，直至找到
它们的位置，整齐地排列起来，就像一只万花筒——鞋扣、十英寸的长丝袜、被毁的脸
庞、文学品味不高的门童艾尔弗雷德、安伯里奥兹先生的行为、已故莫利先生扮演的角
色，所有这些都出现在他的幻觉中，并旋转起来，最后在一个相互关联的图案中找到了自
己的位置。
赫尔克里•波洛第一次从正确的角度看清了案情的发展。
叛逆如同妖术是罪恶，顽固不化如同盲目崇拜是邪恶。既然你摒弃了主的教诲，主也
就放弃了做你的主。第一课就讲到这里。
老牧师用颤抖的声音一口气讲完了这些。
赫尔克里•波洛像在梦中似的站起身来，唱赞歌感谢主的恩德。
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING 1
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING
I
“M. Reilly, is it not?”
The young Irishman started as the voice spoke at his elbow.
He turned.
Standing next to him at the counter of the Shipping Co. was a small man with large moustaches
and an egg-shaped head.
“You do not remember me, perhaps?”
“You do yourself an injustice, M. Poirot. You’re not a man that’s easily forgotten.”
He turned back to speak to the clerk behind the counter who was waiting.
The voice at his elbow murmured:
“You are going abroad for a holiday?”
“It’s not a holiday I’m taking. And you yourself, M. Poirot? You’re not turning your back on
this country, I hope?”
“Sometimes,” said Hercule Poirot, “I return for a short while to my own country—Belgium.”
“I’m going farther than that,” said Reilly. “It’s America for me.” He added: “And I don’t think
I’ll be coming back, either.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Reilly. You are, then, abandoning your practice in Queen Charlotte
Street.”
“If you’d say it was abandoning me, you’d be nearer the mark.”
“Indeed? That is very sad.”
“It doesn’t worry me. When I think of the debts I shall leave behind me unpaid, I’m a happy
man.”
He grinned engagingly.
“It’s not I who’ll be shooting myself because of money troubles. Leave them behind you, I say,
and start afresh. I’ve got my qualifications and they’re good ones if I say so myself.”
Poirot murmured:
“I saw Miss Morley the other day.”
“Was that a pleasure to you? I’d say it was not. A more sour-faced woman never lived. I’ve
often wondered what she’d be like drunk—but that’s what no one will ever know.”
Poirot said:
“Did you agree with the verdict of the Coroner’s Court on your partner’s death?”
“I did not,” said Reilly emphatically.
“You don’t think he made a mistake in the injection?”
Reilly said:
“If Morley injected that Greek with the amount that they say he did, he was either drunk or else
he meant to kill the man. And I’ve never seen Morley drink.”
“So you think it was deliberate?”
“I’d not like to be saying that. It’s a grave accusation to be making. Truly now, I don’t believe
it.”
“There must be some explanation.”
“There must indeed—but I’ve not thought of it yet.”
Poirot said:
“When did you last actually see Mr. Morley alive?”
“Let me see now. It’s a long time after to be asking me a thing like that. It would be the night
before—about a quarter to seven.”
“You didn’t see him on the actual day of the murder?”
Reilly shook his head.
“You are sure?” Poirot persisted.
“Oh, I’d not say that. But I don’t remember—”
“You did not, for instance, go up to his room about eleven thirty five when he had a patient
there?”
“You’re right now. I did. There was a technical question I had to ask him about some
instruments I was ordering. They’d rung me up about it. But I was only there for a minute, so it
slipped my memory. He had a patient there at the time.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“There is another question I always meant to ask you. Your patient, Mr. Raikes, cancelled his
appointment by walking out. What did you do during that half hour’s leisure?”
“What I always do when I have any leisure. Mixed myself a drink. And as I’ve been telling you,
I put through a telephone call and ran up to see Morley for a minute.”
Poirot said:
“And I also understand that you had no patient from half past twelve to one after Mr. Barnes
left. When did he leave, by the way?”
“Oh! Just after half past twelve.”
“And what did you do then?”
“The same as before. Mixed myself another drink!”
“And went up to see Morley again?”
Mr. Reilly smiled.
“Are you meaning did I go up and shoot him? I’ve told you already, long ago, that I did not. But
you’ve only my word for it.”
Poirot said:
“What did you think of the house-parlourmaid, Agnes?”
Reilly stared:
“Now that’s a funny question to be asking.”
“But I should like to know.”
“I’ll answer you. I didn’t think about her. Georgina kept a strict eye on the maids—and quite
right too. The girl never looked my way once—which was bad taste on her part.”
“I have a feeling,” said Hercule Poirot, “that that girl knows something.”
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Reilly. The latter smiled and shook his head.
“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I know nothing about it. I can’t help you at all.”
He gathered up the tickets which were lying in front of him and went off with a nod and a smile.
Poirot explained to a disillusioned clerk that he would not make up his mind about that cruise to
the Northern Capitals after all.
十三，十四，女求偶 1
十三，十四，女求偶
1
“赖利先生，对吧？”
年轻的爱尔兰人听到胳膊肘旁边有人说话，吓了一跳。
他转过身。
紧挨着他站在船运公司柜台前的是一个小个子男人，圆脑袋、留着小胡子。
“您不认识我了吧，或许？”
“哪儿的话呢，波洛先生。您可不是会被轻易忘记的人。”
他回过身去跟柜台后边正在等着他的工作人员说话。他胳膊肘边的那个声音又轻声
问：
“您要去国外度假吗？”
“不是度假。您呢，波洛先生？我希望您不是要离开这个国家吧？”
“有时，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我也回我的祖国——比利时小住一阵。”
“我走的可要远多了，”赖利先生说，“我去美国。”他又说：“而且，我想我不会再回来
了。”
“听您这么说我感到很抱歉，赖利先生。那么，您是放弃在夏洛特皇后街的诊所了？”
“如果您说是诊所遗弃了我会更确切些。”
“真的吗？那真是太糟糕了。”
“我可不在乎。想到从此就可以把那些债务都抛诸脑后，我就很知足啊。”
他迷人地笑了笑。
“我不是那种因为欠债就会自杀的人。我要撇清债务，重新开始。我有医生执照，这就
足够了。”
波洛轻声说：“我前些天去见过莫利小姐了。”
“您很乐意见到她吗？我可不是。没有哪个女人比她的面相更刻薄。我常想，如果她喝
醉了会是什么样子，但是永远也不可能有人知道。”
波洛说：“您同意法庭对您合伙人之死的判决吗？”
“我不同意。”赖利果断地说。
“您不认为他在注射时出了差错？”
赖利说：
“如果莫利真的给那个希腊人注射了那么大的剂量，那他要么是喝醉了酒，要么就是成
心要杀了那个人。不过我从来没见过莫利喝酒。”
“所以您认为是蓄意谋杀？”
“我可没有这么说，这可是个严重的指控。说实在的，我不相信他们的话。”
“那一定得有个解释啊。”
“没错，一定有——但我还想不出是什么。”
波洛说：“您最后看到莫利先生是什么时候？”
“让我想想，这事有点儿太久了。应该是前一天晚上，大约七点差一刻的样子。”
“他被杀的那天您没见过他吗？”
赖利摇摇头。
“您确定吗？”波洛又追问道。
“呃，也不敢完全确定，但是我不记得——”
“您不记得，比如说，大概在十一点三十五分，他正在看一个病人的时候，您上楼去过
他的诊室吗？”
“您说得对，我是去了。我正在订购一些设备，去问了他一个技术上的问题。因为对方
打了电话过来。但是我只待了一分钟，所以几乎不记得了。他当时是有个病人在那儿。”
波洛点头说：
“还有个问题，我一直想问您。赖利先生，您当时有个病人走了，取消了他的预约。在
那空闲的半个小时里您做了些什么？”
“做了我一有空就会做的事儿，给自己调了杯酒。还有就是我刚才告诉您的，我打了个
电话，上楼去找了莫利先生一分钟。”
波洛说：
“我还知道在十二点半到一点之间，也就是巴恩斯先生之后，您没有病人。顺便问一
下，他是什么时间离开的？”
“哦，刚过十二点半吧。”
“那以后您又干什么了？”
“跟先前一样，给我自己调了杯酒！”
“然后又上楼去找莫利先生了？”
赖利先生笑了。
“您是想说我上楼开枪打死了他？我早就告诉过您，不是我。请相信我。”
波洛说：“您对女佣阿格尼丝怎么看？”
赖利瞪着他说：“您这个问题问得好奇怪啊。”
“但我想知道。”
“告诉你吧，我对她没感觉。乔治娜把女佣们看得很紧——这样做也是对的。那个姑娘
从来没看过我一眼——没品位啊。”
“我有种感觉，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“那姑娘知道些什么。”
他略带疑问地看着赖利先生，后者微笑着摇摇头。
“别问我，”他说，“我什么都不知道，什么都帮不上您。”
他拿起面前的船票，冲着波洛微笑着点了点头就走了。
波洛走上前，对卖票的职员说他决定不参加北欧几国首都游的游轮项目了。售票员很
失望。
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING 2
II
Poirot paid another visit to Hampstead. Mrs. Adams was a little surprised, perhaps, to see him.
Though he had been vouched for, so to speak, by a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, she
nevertheless regarded him as a “quaint little foreigner” and had not taken his pretentions very
seriously. She was, however, very willing to talk.
After the first sensational announcement about the identity of the victim, the finding of the
inquest had received very little publicity. It had been a case of mistaken identity—the body of
Mrs. Chapman had been mistaken for that of Miss Sainsbury Seale. That was all that the public
knew. The fact that Miss Sainsbury Seale had been probably the last person to see the unfortunate
Mrs. Chapman alive was not stressed. There had been no hint in the Press that Miss Sainsbury
Seale might possibly be wanted by the police on a criminal charge.
Mrs. Adams had been very relieved when she knew that it was not her friend’s body which had
been discovered so dramatically. She appeared to have no idea that any suspicion might attach to
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale.
“But it is so extraordinary that she has disappeared like this. I feel sure, M. Poirot, that it must
be loss of memory.”
Poirot said that it was very probable. He had known cases of the kind.
“Yes—I remember a friend of one of my cousins. She’d had a lot of nursing and worry, and it
brought it on. Amnesia, I think they called it.”
Poirot said that he believed that that was the technical term.
He paused and then asked if Mrs. Adams had ever heard Miss Sainsbury Seale speak of a Mrs.
Albert Chapman?
No, Mrs. Adams never remembered her friend mentioning anyone of that name. But then, of
course, it wasn’t likely that Miss Sainsbury Seale should happen to mention everyone with whom
she was acquainted. Who was this Mrs. Chapman? Had the police any idea who could have
murdered her?
“It is still a mystery, Madame.” Poirot shook his head and then asked if it was Mrs. Adams who
had recommended Mr. Morley as a dentist to Miss Sainsbury Seale.
Mrs. Adams replied in the negative. She herself went to a Mr. French in Harley Street, and if
Mabelle had asked her about a dentist she would have sent her to him.
Possibly, Poirot thought, it might have been this Mrs. Chapman who recommended Miss
Sainsbury Seale to go to Mr. Morley.
Mrs. Adams agreed that it might have been. Didn’t they know at the dentist’s?
But Poirot had already asked Miss Nevill that question and Miss Nevill had not known or had
not remembered. She recollected Mrs. Chapman, but did not think the latter had ever mentioned a
Miss Sainsbury Seale—the name being an odd one, she would have remembered it had she heard
it then.
Poirot persevered with his questions.
Mrs. Adams had known Miss Sainsbury Seale first in India, had she not? Mrs. Adams agreed.
Did Mrs. Adams know if Miss Sainsbury Seale had met Mr. or Mrs. Alistair Blunt at any time
out there?
“Oh, I don’t think so, M. Poirot. You mean the big banker? They were out some years ago
staying with the Viceroy, but I’m sure if Mabelle had met them at all, she would have talked about
it or mentioned them.”
“I’m afraid,” added Mrs. Adams, with a faint smile, “one does usually mention the important
people. We’re all such snobs at heart.”
“She never did mention the Blunts—Mrs. Blunt in particular?”
“Never.”
“If she had been a close friend of Mrs. Blunt’s probably you would have known?”
“Oh yes. I don’t believe she knew anyone like that. Mabelle’s friends were all very ordinary
people—like us.”
“That, Madame, I cannot allow,” said Poirot gallantly.
Mrs. Adams went on talking of Mabelle Sainsbury Seale as one talks of a friend who has
recently died. She recalled all Mabelle’s good works, her kindnesses, her indefatigable work for
the mission, her zeal, her earnestness.
Hercule Poirot listened. As Japp had said, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was a real person. She had
lived in Calcutta and taught elocution and worked amongst the native population. She had been
respectable, well-meaning, a little fussy and stupid perhaps, but also what is termed a woman with
a heart of gold.
And Mrs. Adams’ voice ran on: “She was so much in earnest over everything, M. Poirot. And
she found people so apathetic—so hard to rouse. It was very difficult to get subscriptions out of
people—worse every year, with the income tax rising and the cost of living and everything. She
said to me once: ‘When one knows what money can do—the wonderful good you can accomplish
with it—well, really sometimes, Alice, I feel I would commit a crime to get it.’ That shows,
doesn’t it, M. Poirot, how strongly she felt?”
“She said that, did she?” said Poirot thoughtfully.
He asked, casually, when Miss Sainsbury Seale had enunciated this particular statement, and
learned that it had been about three months ago.
He left the house and walked away lost in thought.
He was considering the character of Mabelle Sainsbury Seale.
A nice woman—an earnest and kindly woman—a respectable, decent type of woman. It was
amongst that type of person that Mr. Barnes had suggested a potential criminal could be found.
She had travelled back on the same boat from India as Mr. Amberiotis. There seemed reason to
believe that she had lunched with him at the Savoy.
She had accosted and claimed acquaintance with Alistair Blunt and laid claim to an intimacy
with his wife.
She had twice visited King Leopold Mansions where, later, a dead body had been found dressed
in her clothes and with her handbag conveniently identifying it.
A little too convenient, that!
She had left the Glengowrie Court Hotel suddenly after an interview with the police.
Could the theory that Hercule Poirot believed to be true account for and explain all those facts?
He thought it could.
十三，十四，女求偶 2
2
波洛又去了汉普斯特德。亚当斯太太看到他好像有点儿吃惊。尽管他之前由苏格兰场
的探长引见过，但她还是把他看作一个“古怪的小外国人”，并没太把他当回事儿。不过，
她很乐意和他交谈。
当死者身份第一次被公布的时候，引起了不小的轰动。后来的审理结果已经很少有人
关注了。这个案子弄错了死者身份——把查普曼夫人的尸体错当成是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小
姐，公众也就知道这些。至于塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐可能是在不幸的查普曼夫人临死前最后
一个见到她的人，这件事儿并没有被强调过。报纸上也没有任何暗示说塞恩斯伯里•西尔有
可能因犯罪指控而被警方通缉。
当她得知那具被戏剧性地发现的尸体不是她朋友时，亚当斯太太还感到很欣慰。所以
她一点儿都没想到梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔会被怀疑。
“不过她就这么消失了实在离奇得很。我觉得，波洛先生，她肯定是失忆了。”
波洛说很有可能，他也知道有这样的事情发生过。
“是的，我记得我表妹有个朋友，她病了很久，一直很忧郁，后来就得了这种病。失忆
症，我记得他们是这么叫的。”
波洛说他相信医学上就是这种称谓。他停顿了一下，然后问亚当斯太太是否曾经听塞
恩斯伯里•西尔小姐提到过阿尔伯特•查普曼夫人。
没有，亚当斯太太不记得她的朋友提到过任何类似的名字。不过，当然了，塞恩斯伯
里•西尔小姐也不可能提到她认识的所有人。这个查普曼夫人是谁啊？警察知不知道是谁杀
了她？
“现在还是个谜，夫人。”波洛摇摇头，然后又问亚当斯太太是不是她建议塞恩斯伯里•
西尔小姐去找莫利先生看牙的。
亚当斯太太说不是。她自己是去哈利街的弗伦齐先生那里看牙，如果梅布尔要她推荐
牙医的话，她一定会首推这位。
有可能，波洛想，是这个查普曼夫人推荐塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐去找莫利先生的。
亚当斯太太说有可能。诊所里的人知道吗？
但是波洛已经问过内维尔小姐这个问题，内维尔小姐表示不知道或者不记得了。她记
得查普曼夫人，但是不记得听她提到过一个叫塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的人。这个名字很特
别，如果听到过，她一定会记得。
波洛继续他的提问。
亚当斯太太最早在印度认识了塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐，是吗？亚当斯太太说是。
亚当斯太太是否知道塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐在那边时有没有见过阿里斯泰尔•布伦特先生
和太太。
“哦，我觉得没有，波洛先生。您说的是那个大银行家吧？他们几年前是在那边和总督
住在一起，但是我相信梅布尔没有见过他们，不然的话，她会谈起或提到他们。”
“我想，”亚当斯太太又说，“人们喜欢谈论大人物。我们内心都是很势利的。”
“她从来都没有提到过布伦特夫妇，尤其是布伦特夫人吗？”
“从来没有。”
“如果她是布伦特夫人的一个亲近的朋友，您可能会知道，对吗？”
“噢，当然。我不觉得她认识任何类似的人。梅布尔的朋友都是些普通人，像我一
样。”
“这个，女士，恕我不能苟同。”波洛恭维地说。
亚当斯太太继续谈着梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔，就像在谈论一个刚刚过世的朋友。她回
顾了梅布尔做过的所有善举，她的好心肠，她为教会所做的坚持不懈的工作，她的热心和
真诚。
赫尔克里•波洛听着。正如贾普所说，梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔是个实实在在存在过的
人。她曾经住在加尔各答，教人演讲，同当地人一起工作。她曾经是个受人尊敬的人，充
满善意，可能有一点儿装腔作势，有点儿蠢，但是心地善良的女人不都是这样吗?
亚当斯太太还在继续述说：“她做事特别认真，波洛先生，而且她觉得人们都没有什么
同情心——特别难打动，向他们募捐特别困难，一年比一年难。收入税又涨了，人们的生
活费用也涨了等等。她有一次对我说‘当你知道钱可以用来做很多事情——那些可以做到的
美好之事——哎呀，有时候，爱丽丝，我真的觉得我都愿意不惜用犯罪来得到它。’你可以
看得出，波洛先生，她对慈善有多么强烈的感情，对吧？”
“她说过那种话吗？”波洛若有所思地说。
他很随意地问塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐是什么时候说过上面的话，得到的答案是在大约三
个月前。
他从那所房子里走出来，陷入深深的沉思。他在心里把梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐这
个人重新思考了一遍。
一个好女人，真诚、善良的女人；一个受人尊敬的、正派的女人。这正是巴恩斯先生
提醒过的那种可以成为潜在罪犯的人。她和安伯里奥兹先生同船从印度回来，有可能她还
和他一起在萨伏依酒店吃过午餐。
她故意同布伦特先生搭讪，自称认识他，并且还说是他太太的好朋友。
她曾经两次拜访利奥波德国王公寓，后来，那里发现了一具尸体，穿着她的衣服，边
上放着那只便于识别她身份的提包。
也有点儿太容易辨认了吧！
她在和警察会面之后突然离开格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店。难道赫尔克里•波洛心里的那个想
法真的就是这一切的解释吗？他想，也许就是。
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING 3
III
These meditations had occupied Hercule Poirot on his homeward way until reaching Regent’s
Park. He decided to traverse a part of the Park before taking a taxi on. By experience, he knew to a
nicety the moment when his smart patent leather shoes began to press painfully on his feet.
It was a lovely summer’s day and Poirot looked indulgently on courting nursemaids and their
swains, laughing and giggling while their chubby charges profited by nurse’s inattention.
Dogs barked and romped.
Little boys sailed boats.
And under nearly every tree was a couple sitting close together….
“Ah! Jeunesse, Jeunesse,” murmured Hercule Poirot, pleasurably affected by the sight.
They were chic, these little London girls. They wore their tawdry clothes with an air.
Their figures, however, he considered lamentably deficient. Where were the rich curves, the
voluptuous lines that had formerly delighted the eye of an admirer?
He, Hercule Poirot, remembered women … One woman, in particular—what a sumptuous
creature—Bird of Paradise—a Venus …
What woman was there amongst these pretty chits nowadays, who could hold a candle to
Countess Vera Rossakoff? A genuine Russian aristocrat, an aristocrat to her fingertips! And also,
he remembered, a most accomplished thief … One of those natural geniuses …
With a sigh, Poirot wrenched his thoughts away from the flamboyant creature of his dreams.
It was not only, he noted, the little nursemaids and their like who were being wooed under the
trees of Regent’s Park.
That was a Schiaparelli creation there, under that lime tree, with the young man who bent his
head so close to hers, who was pleading so earnestly.
One must not yield too soon! He hoped the girl understood that. The pleasure of the chase must
be extended as long as possible….
His beneficent eye still on them, he became suddenly aware of a familiarity in those two figures.
So Jane Olivera had come to Regent’s Park to meet her young American revolutionary?
His face grew suddenly sad and rather stern.
After only a brief hesitation he crossed the grass to them. Sweeping off his hat with a flourish,
he said:
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
Jane Olivera, he thought, was not entirely displeased to see him.
Howard Raikes, on the other hand, was a good deal annoyed at the interruption.
He growled: “Oh, so it’s you again!”
“Good afternoon, M. Poirot,” said Jane. “How unexpectedly you always pop up, don’t you?”
“Kind of a Jack in the Box,” said Raikes, still eyeing Poirot with a considerable coldness.
“I do not intrude?” Poirot asked anxiously.
Jane Olivera said kindly:
“Not at all.”
Howard Raikes said nothing.
“It is a pleasant spot you have found here,” said Poirot.
“It was,” said Mr. Raikes.
Jane said:
“Be quiet, Howard. You need to learn manners!”
Howard Raikes snorted and asked:
“What’s the good of manners?”
“You’ll find they kind of help you along,” said Jane. “I haven’t got any myself, but that doesn’t
matter so much. To begin with I’m rich, and I’m moderately good-looking, and I’ve got a lot of
influential friends—and none of those unfortunate disabilities they talk about so freely in the
advertisements nowadays. I can get along all right without manners.”
Raikes said:
“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Jane. I guess I’ll take myself off.”
He got up, nodded curtly to Poirot and strode away.
Jane Olivera stared after him, her chin cupped in her palm.
Poirot said with a sigh:
“Alas, the proverb is true. When you are courting, two is company, is it not, three is none?”
Jane said:
“Courting? What a word!”
“But yes, it is the right word, is it not? For a young man who pays attention to a young lady
before asking her hand in marriage? They say, do they not, a courting couple?”
“Your friends seem to say some very funny things.”
Hercule Poirot chanted softly:
“Thirteen, fourteen, maids are courting. See, all around us they are doing it.”
Jane said sharply:
“Yes—I’m just one of the crowd, I suppose….”
She turned suddenly to Poirot.
“I want to apologize to you. I made a mistake the other day. I thought you had wormed your
way in and come down to Exsham just to spy on Howard. But afterwards Uncle Alistair told me
that he had definitely asked you because he wanted you to clear up this business of that missing
woman—Sainsbury Seale. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
“So I’m sorry for what I said to you that evening. But it did look like it, you know. I mean—as
though you were just following Howard and spying on us both.”
“Even if it were true, Mademoiselle—I was an excellent witness to the fact that Mr. Raikes
bravely saved your uncle’s life by springing on his assailant and preventing him from firing
another shot.”
“You’ve got a funny way of saying things, M. Poirot. I never know whether you’re serious or
not.”
Poirot said gravely:
“At the moment I am very serious, Miss Olivera.”
Jane said with a slight break in her voice:
“Why do you look at me like that? As though—as though you were sorry for me?”
“Perhaps because I am sorry, Mademoiselle, for the things that I shall have to do so soon….”
“Well, then—don’t do them!”
“Alas, Mademoiselle, but I must….”
She stared at him for a minute or two, then she said:
“Have you—found that woman?”
Poirot said:
“Let us say—that I know where she is.”
“Is she dead?”
“I have not said so.”
“She’s alive, then?”
“I have not said that either.”
Jane looked at him with irritation. She exclaimed:
“Well, she’s got to be one or the other, hasn’t she?”
“Actually, it’s not quite so simple.”
“I believe you just like making things difficult!”
“It has been said of me,” admitted Hercule Poirot.
Jane shivered. She said:
“Isn’t it funny? It’s a lovely warm day—and yet I suddenly feel cold….”
“Perhaps you had better walk on, Mademoiselle.”
Jane rose to her feet. She stood a minute irresolute. She said abruptly:
“Howard wants me to marry him. At once. Without letting anyone know. He says—he says it’s
the only way I’ll ever do it—that I’m weak—” She broke off, then with one hand she gripped
Poirot’s arm with surprising strength. “What shall I do about it, M. Poirot?”
“Why ask me to advise you? There are those who are nearer!”
“Mother? She’d scream the house down at the bare idea! Uncle Alistair? He’d be cautious and
prosy. Plenty of time, my dear. Got to make quite sure, you know. Bit of an odd fish—this young
man of yours. No sense in rushing things—”
“Your friends?” suggested Poirot.
“I haven’t got any friends. Only a silly crowd I drink and dance and talk inane catchwords with!
Howard’s the only real person I’ve ever come up against.”
“Still—why ask me, Miss Olivera?”
Jane said:
“Because you’ve got a queer look on your face—as though you were sorry about something—
as though you knew something that—that—was—coming. …”
She stopped.
“Well?” she demanded. “What do you say?”
Hercule Poirot slowly shook his head.
十三，十四，女求偶 3
3
回家的路上，波洛还在全身心地苦思冥想，不知不觉中来到雷津公园。他决定先在公
园里散个步，然后再打车回家。他凭借以往的经验可以精确地算出到那个时候他的皮鞋又
该开始挤痛他的脚了。
这是个可爱的夏日。波洛宽容地看着那些保姆一边带着孩子，一边和她们的恋人们调
情。那些胖乎乎的小东西也乐得自在。狗在叫，在奔跑，小孩子们在划船。几乎每一棵树
下，都有一对情侣依偎在一起……
“啊！青春啊，青春。”波洛自言自语地感叹道，被眼前愉快的景象所打动。这些时尚
的伦敦女孩子，穿着花哨的衣服作扬扬得意之态。然而，看着她们的身影，他觉得有些美
中不足。往日那些取悦观赏者眼球的性感撩人的曲线到哪里去了？
他，赫尔克里•波洛，想起了女人……尤其是一个女人——多么高贵的女人，天堂鸟一
般的快乐，女神般的美丽……
眼前这些衣着时髦的女人有哪一个能跟薇拉•罗萨科娃女伯爵相比呢？真正的俄罗斯贵
族，骨子里都充满着贵族气质！还有，他记得她是一名非常出色的大盗……一位天才般的
人物……
波洛叹了口气，将脑海中这个艳丽的女人用力挤了出去。他又发觉在雷津公园树下，
并不只有被人追求的小保姆。那边，就在那棵青柠树下就有一个真正意义上的时髦女郎。
一个年轻人正弯着腰，头凑在她的脸边恳求着。一定不能太快就遂了他的意！他希望那个
女郎明白这个道理，要尽可能地享受这被追求的快乐……
他正用欣赏的目光看着他们，突然，他感到这两个身影有些眼熟。是简•奥利维娅来雷
津公园和她年轻的美国革命者见面吗？他的面色突然变得忧伤，甚至严峻起来。他只是稍
微犹豫了一下，就穿过草坪向他们走去。他夸张地挥手摘掉帽子，说:
“您好，小姐。”
他觉得简•奥利维娅看到他并没有特别不高兴。霍华德•赖克斯呢，则因为被打扰而十分
恼火。他大叫道：“噢，又是你！”
“下午好，波洛先生。”简说，“您总是趁人不备地突然出现，不是吗？”
“总是给你惊喜。”赖克斯说。他看波洛的眼神依然不屑一顾。
“没有打扰到你们吧？”波洛关切地问。
简•奥利维娅好意地说：“没有。”霍华德•赖克斯什么都没说。
“你们真是找到个好地方。”波洛说。
“刚才是。”赖克斯先生说。
简说：“闭嘴，霍华德。你要学会有礼貌！”
霍华德•赖克斯反驳道：“有礼貌顶什么用啊？”
“你会发现这对你有好处。”简说，“虽然我没有什么礼貌，但这并不打紧。首先，我有
钱，长得又漂亮，还有很多有势力的朋友；而且，我没有任何现在广告里常说的那些不幸
的残疾。我没有礼貌也能应付得很好。”
赖克斯说：“我现在没心情跟你谈这些。简，我想我还是先走吧。”
他站起身，礼貌地对波洛点了点头，大步离开了。
简•奥利维娅用手托着下巴，注视着他远去的背影。
“啊，应验了那句说辞。恋爱之时，两人成双，对吧？三个人就不成了。”
简说：“恋爱？您说什么呀!”
“我说错了吗？一个男人在求婚之前追求一位年轻女士，人们不是把他们叫作一对恋人
吗？您的朋友们可能会说得更好玩。”波洛轻轻地哼着，“十三，十四，女求偶。你看我们
周围，她们都是在干这事。”
简酸溜溜地说：“好吧，我只是众人中的一员，我想……”她突然转向波洛。
“我想向您道歉。那天是我弄错了，我以为您想方设法跑到爱夏庄，为的是监视霍华
德。但是，后来阿利斯泰尔姨公告诉我是他请您过去的，因为他想让您帮忙查清那个女人
——塞恩斯伯里•西尔失踪的事情？”
“确实如此。”
“所以我为那天晚上对您说的话道歉。但是您看上去真的很像，您知道。我是说，很像
是在跟踪霍华德，在监视我们俩。”
“尽管如此，小姐，我还是亲眼看见了霍华德先生英勇地扑向凶手的一幕，他救了您的
姨公，也阻止了凶手再开第二枪。”
“您讲话的方式真是有趣，波洛先生。我永远都看不出您是认真的，还是在开玩笑。”
波洛严肃地说：
“此时此刻，我是认真的，奥利维娅小姐。”
简带着点儿哭腔说：
“那为什么您看我的眼神是这样的？好像……好像为我感到多么遗憾似的？”
“也许我确实感到有点儿遗憾，小姐，为我不久就要做的事儿……”
“好吧，那么——您就别做了！”
“哎呀，小姐，但是我必须……”
她盯着他看了一两分钟，然后问：
“您找到那个女人了吗？”
“这么说吧，我知道她在哪里。”
“她死了吗？”
“我可没有这么说。”
“她还活着，嗯？”
“我也没这么说。”
简恼火地看着他，大声嚷嚷道：
“她总居其一吧，对吗？”
“事实上，事情没有这么简单。”
“我想是您把事情复杂化了！”
“有人是这么说我的。”波洛承认道。
简哆嗦了一下，说：
“好搞笑啊！这么可爱的好天气，而我却突然感到很冷……”
“您最好走动一下，小姐。”
简站起身来。她犹豫不决地在那里站了一分钟，突然说：“霍华德想让我和他秘密结
婚，马上，不让任何人知道。他说……他说这是我能和他结婚的唯一办法，因为我太软
弱。”她哭了出来，用一只手使劲儿抓着波洛的胳膊问：“我该怎么办哪，波洛先生？”
“为什么要问我呢？您有更亲近的人啊！”
“我妈？她听到后会把整个房子都喊塌的！阿利斯泰尔姨公？他既谨慎又啰唆：还有时
间，亲爱的，你一定要拿得特别准了再说，‘你知道，他有点古怪——你的这位年轻人。没
必要这么着急……’”
“您的朋友们呢？”波洛建议说。
“我没有朋友，只有一帮什么都不懂的人。我和他们也就是一起喝酒跳舞，说些没有意
义的空话罢了！霍华德是我碰到的唯一真实的人。”
“还是那句话——您为什么会问我呢，奥利维娅小姐？”
简说：“因为您脸上莫名其妙的表情——好像您对什么事情感到遗憾，好像您知道有些
什么事情会……会发生……”
她停住口。
“怎么样？”她问，“您想说出来吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛慢慢地摇摇头。
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING 4
IV
When Poirot reached home, George said:
“Chief Inspector Japp is here, sir.”
Japp grinned in a rueful way as Poirot came into the room.
“Here I am, old boy. Come round to say: ‘Aren’t you a marvel? How do you do it? What makes
you think of these things?’”
“All this meaning—? But pardon, you will have some refreshment? A sirop? Or perhaps the
whisky?”
“The whisky is good enough for me.”
A few minutes later he raised his glass, observing:
“Here’s to Hercule Poirot who is always right!”
“No, no, mon ami.”
“Here we had a lovely case of suicide. H.P. says it’s murder—wants it to be murder—and dash
it all, it is murder!”
“Ah? So you agree at last?”
“Well, nobody can say I’m pigheaded. I don’t fly in the face of evidence. The trouble was there
wasn’t any evidence before.”
“But there is now?”
“Yes, and I’ve come round to make the amend honourable, as you call it, and present the titbit
to you on toast, as it were.”
“I am all agog, my good Japp.”
“All right. Here goes. The pistol that Frank Carter tried to shoot Blunt with on Saturday is a
twin pistol to the one that killed Morley!”
Poirot stared: “But this is extraordinary!”
“Yes, it makes it look rather black for Master Frank.”
“It is not conclusive.”
“No, but it’s enough to make us reconsider the suicide verdict. They’re a foreign make of pistol
and rather an uncommon one at that!”
Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows looked like crescent moons. He said at last:
“Frank Carter? No—surely not!”
Japp breathed a sigh of exasperation.
“What’s the matter with you, Poirot? First you will have it that Morley was murdered and that it
wasn’t suicide. Then when I come and tell you we’re inclined to come round to your views you
hem and ha and don’t seem to like it.”
“You really believe that Morley was murdered by Frank Carter?”
“It fits. Carter had got a grudge against Morley—that we knew all along. He came to Queen
Charlotte Street that morning—and he pretended afterwards that he had come along to tell his
young woman he’d got a job—but we’ve now discovered that he hadn’t got the job then. He
didn’t get it till later in the day. He admits that now. So there’s lie No. 1. He can’t account for
where he was at twenty-five past twelve onwards. Says he was walking in the Marylebone Road,
but the first thing he can prove is having a drink in a pub at five past one. And the barman says he
was in a regular state—his hand shaking and his face as white as a sheet!”
Hercule Poirot sighed and shook his head. He murmured:
“It does not accord with my ideas.”
“What are these ideas of yours?”
“It is very disturbing what you tell me. Very disturbing indeed. Because, you see, if you are
right …”
The door opened softly and George murmured deferentially:
“Excuse me, sir, but …”
He got no further. Miss Gladys Nevill thrust him aside and came agitatedly into the room. She
was crying.
“Oh, M. Poirot—”
“Here, I’ll be off,” said Japp hurriedly.
He left the room precipitately.
Gladys Nevill paid his back the tribute of a venomous look.
“That’s the man—that horrid Inspector from Scotland Yard—it’s he who has trumped up a
whole case against poor Frank.”
“Now, now, you must not agitate yourself.”
“But he has. First they pretend that he tried to murder this Mr. Blunt and not content with that
they’ve accused him of murdering poor Mr. Morley.”
Hercule Poirot coughed. He said:
“I was down there, you know, at Exsham, when the shot was fired at Mr. Blunt.”
Gladys Nevill said with a somewhat confusing use of pronouns:
“But even if Frank did—did do a foolish thing like that—and he’s one of those Imperial Shirts,
you know—they march with banners and have a ridiculous salute, and of course I suppose Mr.
Blunt’s wife was a very notorious Jewess, and they just work up these poor young men—quite
harmless ones like Frank—until they think they are doing something wonderful and patriotic.”
“Is that Mr. Carter’s defence?” asked Hercule Poirot.
“Oh no. Frank just swears he didn’t do anything and had never seen the pistol before. I haven’t
spoken to him, of course—they wouldn’t let me—but he’s got a solicitor acting for him and he
told me what Frank had said. Frank just says it’s all a frame-up.”
Poirot murmured:
“And the solicitor is of opinion that his client had better think of a more plausible story?”
“Lawyers are so difficult. They won’t say anything straight out. But it’s the murder charge I’m
worrying about. Oh! M. Poirot, I’m sure Frank couldn’t have killed Mr. Morley. I mean really—
he hadn’t any reason to.”
“Is it true,” said Poirot, “that when he came round that morning he had not yet got a job of any
kind?”
“Well, really, M. Poirot, I don’t see what difference that makes. Whether he got the job in the
morning or the afternoon can’t matter.”
Poirot said:
“But his story was that he came to tell you about his good luck. Now, it seems, he had as yet
had no luck. Why, then, did he come?”
“Well, M. Poirot, the poor boy was dispirited and upset, and to tell the truth I believe he’d been
drinking a little. Poor Frank has rather a weak head—and the drink upset him and so he felt like—
like making a row, and he came round to Queen Charlotte Street to have it out with Mr. Morley,
because, you see, Frank is awfully sensitive and it had upset him a lot to feel that Mr. Morley
disapproved of him, and was what he called poisoning my mind.”
“So he conceived the idea of making a scene in business hours?”
“Well—yes—I suppose that was his idea. Of course it was very wrong of Frank to think of such
a thing.”
Poirot looked thoughtfully at the tearful blonde young woman in front of him. He said:
“Did you know that Frank Carter had a pistol—or a pair of pistols?”
“Oh no, M. Poirot. I swear I didn’t. And I don’t believe it’s true, either.”
Poirot shook his head slowly in a perplexed manner.
“Oh! M. Poirot, do help us. If I could only feel that you were on our side—”
Poirot said:
“I do not take sides. I am on the side only of the truth.”
十三，十四，女求偶 4
4
波洛到家时，乔治对他说：
“贾普探长来了，先生。”
波洛走进房间，贾普苦笑着说：
“我来了，老伙计。我想说，你是个神人吗？你是怎么做到的？你为什么会想到这些事
情？”
“你指的是——不过，对不起，你要喝点儿什么吗？甜酒？还是威士忌？”
“威士忌就挺好。”
几分钟后，他举起酒杯，感慨地说：
“为永远正确的赫尔克里•波洛！”
“不，不，我的朋友。”
“我们有一桩自杀案，赫尔克里•波洛说是谋杀——想让它是一桩谋杀案——见鬼，它
就是谋杀！”
“啊？那么你终于同意了？”
“嗯，我又不是冥顽不化，不会对证据视而不见的。问题是之前一直没有证据。”
“但是现在有了？”
“是的，所以我来公开道歉——就像你说的那样，也可以说是带点儿好消息来为你助
兴。”
“我真是太高兴了，我的好贾普。”
“好吧，事情是这样的。星期六弗兰克•卡特用来射杀布伦特的那把手枪同打死莫利的
枪是一样的！”
波洛的眼睛都瞪大了：“但是这太不可思议了！”
“是啊，看来对弗兰克大师不是很有利啊。”
“这不能说明一切。”
“是的，不能，但是它让我们开始重新考虑自杀的定论。两把枪都是国外制造，这可真
是不常见！”
赫尔克里•波洛瞪着两眼，眉毛像是两条弯月。他过了好久才说：
“弗兰克•卡特？不，肯定不是！”
贾普恼火地叹气说：
“你这是怎么了，波洛？开始你坚持说莫利是被谋杀的，不是自杀。现在我来告诉你我
们同意了你的观点，你又哼哼唧唧好像不高兴似的。”
“你真的认为莫利是弗兰克•卡特杀的？”
“这解释得通啊。卡特对莫利有积怨，这个我们都知道。他那天早晨去了夏洛特皇后
街，事后假装是去告诉那姑娘说他找到了一份新的工作。但是我们现在发现他当时还没有
得到新工作，那是那天晚些时候的事儿。他现在也承认了。所以，这是谎言之一。他说不
出十二点二十五分之后他在哪里，于是就说他正走在马利勒波恩路上。但是证明他行踪的
最近的一个时间点是一点零五分——他在一个酒吧里喝酒。酒吧的人说他当时的状态很不
正常——手在发抖，脸色像纸一样白！”
赫尔克里•波洛叹了口气，摇摇头，自言自语地说：
“这与我的想法不一致。”
“你的想法到底是什么？”
“你告诉我的信息令我十分不安，确实令我非常不安。因为，你想，如果你说的是真
的……”
门轻轻地开了，乔治恭恭敬敬地小声说：
“对不起，先生，但是……”
他还没说下去，格拉迪斯小姐就把他推到一边，火急火燎地进了房间，一边还在哭。
“噢，波洛先生——”
“那个，我先撤了。”贾普马上说。他仓皇地离开了。
格拉迪斯•内维尔用愤怒的目光看着他的背影。
“他就是那个……那个苏格兰场来的糟糕侦探，就是他把整个案子都推到了可怜的弗兰
克身上。”
赫尔克里•波洛咳了一声。他说：
“您知道，当子弹打向布伦特先生时，我就在场，我就在爱夏庄。”
格拉迪斯•内维尔有些语无伦次地说：
“就算是弗兰克干了……干了件这样的傻事，他也只是个反犹分子。您知道，他们举着
旗子游行，还敬一种可笑的礼。当然了，我知道布伦特先生的夫人是个很有名的犹太人，
所以他们就煽动这些可怜的年轻人——像弗兰克一样毫无危害的年轻人——让他们觉得自
己是在做有利于国家的好事。”
“卡特先生是这么为自己辩护的吗？”赫尔克里•波洛问。
“噢，不是。弗兰克只是发誓说他什么都没干，而且也从来没见过那把手枪。我还没和
他说上话，当然了，他们不让，但是他有一个辩护律师，是他告诉我弗兰克说了什么。弗
兰克只是说这是个骗局。”
波洛嘟囔道：“他的律师是不是认为他的客户最好能想出一个更让人信服的说辞？”
“律师们都是很难相处的，他们什么都不直说。不过我担心的是那个谋杀罪名。噢！波
洛先生，我肯定弗兰克不会杀害莫利先生。我是说，他没理由这么做。”
“那天早上他去诊所的时候还没有找到任何工作，对吗？”波洛问。
“这个，说实在的，波洛先生，我不明白有什么区别。他是早上拿到工作还是下午拿到
工作都无关紧要。”
波洛说：
“但是他说他去那里是为了告诉你他遇上了好运。好吧，看来，他当时还没有遇上好
运。那么，他为什么会去呢？”
“这个，波洛先生，那可怜的孩子当时心情不好，特别沮丧。而且说实话，我觉得他还
喝了点儿酒。可怜的弗兰克其实很脆弱，喝了酒之后他会更加难过，所以他想……想闹点
事儿出来。于是，他就到夏洛特皇后街，想找莫利先生发作一通。因为，您知道，弗兰克
特别敏感，莫利先生对他很失望这件事一直困扰着他。莫利说他是在毒害我的头脑。”
“所以他想要在上班时间去大闹一场？”
“嗯……是的……我猜他是这么想的。当然弗兰克这么想非常不对。”
波洛若有所思地看着面前这个年轻的金发女郎。他说：
“你是否知道弗兰克有把手枪，或者两把同样的手枪？”
“噢，不，波洛先生。我发誓我不知道。我也不相信这是真的。”
波洛慢慢地、迷茫地摇摇头。
“噢！波洛先生，请帮帮我们吧。我觉得您是站在我们这一边的——”
波洛说：“我从来不站在哪一边，我只尊重事实。”
THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING 5
V
After he had got rid of the girl, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard. Japp had not yet returned but
Detective Sergeant Beddoes was obliging and informative.
The police had not as yet found any evidence to prove Frank Carter’s possession of the pistol
before the assault at Exsham.
Poirot hung up the receiver thoughtfully. It was a point in Carter’s favour. But so far it was the
only one.
He had also learned from Beddoes a few more details as to the statement Frank Carter had made
about his employment as gardener at Exsham. He stuck to his story of a Secret Service job. He had
been given money in advance and some testimonials as to his gardening abilities and been told to
apply to Mr. MacAlister, the head gardener, for the post.
His instructions were to listen to the other gardeners’ conversations and sound them as to their
“red” tendencies, and to pretend to be a bit of a “red” himself. He had been interviewed and
instructed in his task by a woman who had told him that she was known as Q.H.56, and that he
had been recommended to her as a strong anti-communist. She had interviewed him in a dim light
and he did not think he would know her again. She was a red-haired lady with a lot of makeup on.
Poirot groaned. The Phillips Oppenheim touch seemed to be reappearing.
He was tempted to consult Mr. Barnes on the subject.
According to Mr. Barnes these things happened.
The last post brought him something which disturbed him more still.
A cheap envelope in an unformed handwriting, postmarked Hertfordshire.
Poirot opened it and read:
Dear Sir,—
Hoping as you will forgive me for troubling you, but I am very worried and do
not know what to do. I do not want to be mixed up with the police in any way. I
know that perhaps I ought to have told something I know before, but as they said
the master had shot himself it was all right I thought and I wouldn’t have liked to
get Miss Nevill’s young man into trouble and never thought really for one
moment as he had done it but now I see he has been took up for shooting at a
gentleman in the country and so perhaps he isn’t quite all there and I ought to say
but I thought I would write to you, you being a friend of the mistress and asking
me so particular the other day if there was anything and of course I wish now I
had told you then. But I do hope it won’t mean getting mixed up with the police
because I shouldn’t like that and my mother wouldn’t like it either. She has
always been most particular.
Yours respectfully
Agnes Fletcher.
Poirot murmured:
“I always knew it was something to do with some man. I guessed the wrong man, that is all.”
十三，十四，女求偶 5
5
把这位姑娘送走后，波洛打电话到苏格兰场。贾普还没有回去，贝多斯警官热情地向
波洛介绍了最新的进展。
警方还没有证据能证明在爱夏庄枪击事件之前，手枪为弗兰克•卡特所有。波洛放下电
话，陷入沉思。这一点对卡特有利，但是到目前为止这是唯一的一点。
贝多斯还告诉他关于弗兰克•卡特供述的他在爱夏庄做园丁的细节。他还是坚持说他做
的是秘密工作，事先得到了一笔佣金，也通过了一些园艺技术的测试，然后被告知去向园
丁总管麦卡利斯特先生申请这份职位。
他得到的指令是去监听其他几个园丁的谈话，好像他们有“赤色”倾向，而且他自己也
要假装有些“赤色”。面试他并给他指令的是个女人，她告诉他她的代号是Q.H.56,还说有人
向她推荐他时说他是个反共产主义者。他说那个女人是在一个光线很暗的地方面试他的，
即使再见到，他应该也认不出她来。她是个红头发的女士，化着浓妆。
波洛呻吟了一声。菲利普斯•奥本海默的味道又出现了。他想这个应该要咨询巴恩斯先
生。
依照巴恩斯先生的观点，这种事情确实会发生。
当天最晚的一班邮差给他送来了一封信，令他更加不安。
这是一个廉价信封，上面的字迹显得很幼稚，邮戳盖的是赫特福德谢尔。
波洛打开信读道：
亲爱的先生，
希望您能原谅我的打扰，但是我非常担心，而且不知道该怎么办。我实在不想和警察
掺和在一起。我知道也许我应该早先就告诉您我知道的事情，但是他们说主人是自杀的，
我想那就没关系了。我不想给内维尔小姐的男朋友找麻烦，也从来都没想过真的是他干
的，但是现在我看到他已经被逮起来了，因为在郊区向一位男士开枪。也许他是有些问
题，我本应该说出来，但是我觉得我更愿意写信给您。您是女主人的朋友，那天您还特别
问我是不是知道些什么，当然我现在想我那时告诉您就好了。但是我希望这不会让我和警
察打交道，因为我不喜欢那样，我妈妈也不喜欢那样。她一向对我管教很严。
尊敬您的
阿格尼丝•弗莱切
波洛小声对自己说：
“我就知道这事儿和某人有关系。我只是猜错了人。”
FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN 1
FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN
I
The interview with Agnes Fletcher took place in Hertford, in a somewhat derelict teashop, for
Agnes had been anxious not to tell her story under Miss Morley’s critical eye.
The first quarter of an hour was taken up listening to exactly how particular Agnes’ mother had
always been. Also how Agnes’ father, though a proprietor of licensed premises, had never once
had any friction with the police, closing time being strictly observed to the second, and indeed
Agnes’ father and mother were universally respected and looked up to in Little Darlingham,
Gloucestershire, and none of Mrs. Fletcher’s family of six (two having died in infancy) had ever
occasioned their parents the least anxiety. And if Agnes, now, were to get mixed up with the
police in any way, Mum and Dad would probably die of it, because as she’d been saying, they’d
always held their heads high, and never had no trouble of any kind with the police.
After this had been repeated, da capo, and with various embellishments, several times, Agnes
drew a little nearer to the subject of the interview.
“I wouldn’t like to say anything to Miss Morley, sir, because it might be, you see, that she’d say
as how I ought to have said something before, but me and cook, we talked it over and we didn’t
see as it was any business of ours, because we’d read quite clear and plain in the paper as how the
master had made a mistake in the drug he was giving and that he’d shot himself and the pistol was
in his hands and everything, so it did seem quite clear, didn’t it, sir?”
“When did you begin to feel differently?” Poirot hoped to get a little nearer the promised
revelation by an encouraging but not too direct question.
Agnes replied promptly.
“Seeing it in the paper about that Frank Carter—Miss Nevill’s young man as was. When I read
as he’d shot at that gentleman where he was gardener, well, I thought, it looks as if he might be
queer in the head, because I do know there’s people it takes like that, think they’re being
persecuted, or something, and that they’re ringed round by enemies, and in the end it’s dangerous
to keep them at home and they have to be took away to the asylum. And I thought that maybe that
Frank Carter was like that, because I did remember that he used to go on about Mr. Morley and
say as Mr. Morley was against him and trying to separate him from Miss Nevill, but of course she
wouldn’t hear a word against him, and quite right too we thought—Emma and me, because you
couldn’t deny as Mr. Carter was very nice-looking and quite the gentleman. But, of course, neither
of us thought he’d really done anything to Mr. Morley. We just thought it was a bit queer if you
know what I mean.”
Poirot said patiently:
“What was queer?”
“It was that morning, sir, the morning Mr. Morley shot himself. I’d been wondering if I dared
run down and get the post. The postman had come but that Alfred hadn’t brought up the letters,
which he wouldn’t do, not unless there was some for Miss Morley or Mr. Morley, but if it was just
for Emma and me he wouldn’t bother to bring them up till lunch time.
“So I went out on the landing and I looked down over the stairs. Miss Morley didn’t like us
going down to the hall, not during the master’s business hours, but I thought maybe as I’d see
Alfred taking in a patient to the master and I’d call down to him as he came back.”
Agnes gasped, took a deep breath and went on: “And it was then I saw him—that Frank Carter,
I mean. Halfway up the stairs he was—our stairs, I mean, above the master’s floor. And he was
standing there waiting and looking down—and I’ve come to feel more and more as though there
was something queer about it. He seemed to be listening very intent, if you know what I mean?”
“What time was this?”
“It must have been getting on for half past twelve, sir. And just as I was thinking: There now,
it’s Frank Carter, and Miss Nevill’s away for the day and won’t he be disappointed, and I was
wondering if I ought to run down and tell him because it looked as though that lump of an Alfred
had forgot, otherwise I thought he wouldn’t have been waiting for her. And just as I was
hesitating, Mr. Carter, he seemed to make up his mind, and he slipped down the stairs very quick
and went along the passage towards the master’s surgery, and I thought to myself, the master
won’t like that, and I wondered if there was going to be a row, but just then Emma called me, said
whatever was I up to? and I went up again and then, afterwards, I heard the master had shot
himself and, of course, it was so awful it just drove everything out of my head. But later, when
that Police Inspector had gone I said to Emma, I said, I didn’t say anything about Mr. Carter
having been up with the master this morning, and she said was he? and I told her, and she said
well, perhaps I ought to tell, but anyway I said I’d better wait a bit, and she agreed, because
neither of us didn’t want to get Frank Carter into trouble if we could help. And then, when it came
to the inquest and it come out that the master had made that mistake in a drug and really had got
the wind up and shot himself, quite natural-like—well, then, of course, there was no call to say
anything. But reading that piece in the paper two days ago—Oh! it did give me a turn! And I said
to myself, ‘If he’s one of those loonies that thinks they’re persecuted and goes round shooting
people, well, then maybe he did shoot the master after all!’”
Her eyes, anxious and scared, looked hopefully at Hercule Poirot. He put as much reassurance
into his voice as he could.
“You may be sure that you have done absolutely the right thing in telling me, Agnes,” he said.
“Well, I must say, sir, it does take a load off my mind. You see, I’ve kept saying to myself as
perhaps I ought to tell. And then, you see, I thought of getting mixed up with the police and what
mother would say. She’s always been so particular about us all….”
“Yes, yes,” said Hercule Poirot hastily.
He had had, he felt, as much of Agnes’ mother as he could stand for one afternoon.
十五，十六，厨娘们 1
十五，十六，厨娘们
1
与阿格尼丝•弗莱切的会面是在赫特福德谢尔的一个几乎无人光顾的茶馆里进行的，因
为阿格尼丝不愿意在莫利小姐严厉的目光注视下讲这些事情。
会面的前一刻钟，阿格尼丝一直在讲她的妈妈是多么好。还有阿格尼丝的爸爸，一个
拥有商铺的小个体户，从来没有和警察打过任何交道，营业时间都准确到按秒计算。阿格
尼丝的爸爸妈妈在格洛斯特郡的小达林镇上都是受人敬仰的人。弗莱切一家六个孩子（两
个孩子已夭折）从来都没有让父母烦恼过。如果现在阿格尼丝和警察有任何瓜葛，爸爸妈
妈会急死的。因为，正如她说的，他们一向都是堂堂正正做人，从来没让警察找过麻烦。
当这些被重复了一遍又一遍，经过各种渲染和强调之后，阿格尼丝才接近了会面的主
题。
“我不愿意对莫利小姐说，先生，因为，您知道，她会说我早就应该说出来。但是我和
厨娘——我们聊过，都觉得这和我们没什么关系，因为我们都看到报纸上清楚地写着主人
用药用错了，于是开枪自杀，手里还握着手枪等等这一切，所以看上去都很清楚，对吧，
先生?”
“你什么时候开始觉得不对劲？”波洛希望通过启发性的、但又不太直接的提问，来接
近她要说的有用信息。
阿格尼丝马上回答说：
“我看到报纸上说的关于弗兰克•卡特的事儿——就是内维尔小姐的男朋友——他在做
园丁的地方对一个男士开枪，看上去好像是他脑子出了问题。因为我知道有些人就是这
样，以为自己被迫害，被敌人控制了什么的，反正把他们留在家里特别危险，于是就会被
送进疯人院。我想可能弗兰克•卡特就是这样，因为我记得他曾经说过莫利先生不喜欢他，
想拆散他和内维尔小姐。但是，她当然不会听从，艾玛和我也觉得不该听，因为您不能否
认卡特先生长得很帅，而且是位绅士。但是，当然了，我们都觉得他并没有对莫利先生做
过什么。我们只是觉得有点儿不对劲儿，您明白我的意思吗？”
波洛耐心地问：
“有什么不对劲儿？”
“是那天早上，先生，莫利先生开枪自杀的那天早上。我正在想是不是可以下楼把邮件
取上来，邮差已经来过了，但是这个艾尔弗雷德还没把信拿上来——他是不会给我们送上
来的，除非有莫利先生或者莫利小姐的信，如果只是我和艾玛的，他就会一直等到午饭时
才拿上来。
“所以我走到楼梯的平台上，顺着楼梯向下望。莫利小姐不喜欢我们在主人上班的时间
到楼下客厅去，不过我看到艾尔弗雷德正领着一个病人去主人那里，我想或许我可以在那
里等着，在他回来的路上叫住他。”
阿格尼丝喘着气，又深呼吸了一下，接着说：
“就在这时，我看到了他——就是那个弗兰克•卡特。他正在楼梯的半中腰——我是说
我们的楼梯，就是主人诊室上面的那层。他正站在那里往下看，等着什么。我越想越觉得
有些不对劲儿。他看上去好像在使劲儿地听什么动静，您明白我的意思吧？”
“当时是几点？”
“肯定差不多快到十二点半了，先生。我正在想：瞧，弗兰克•卡特来了，内维尔小姐
一天都不在，他会不会不高兴，我还在犹豫是不是应该跑下去告诉他，因为看起来是那个
榆木脑袋阿尔弗莱忘了，不然我想他也不会在这儿等她。然后我正犹豫着呢，卡特先生看
上去好像下定了决心似的，很快地从楼梯上悄悄跑下去，穿过楼下过道，进了主人的诊
室，然后我心里想，主人肯定会不高兴，接着我想是不是会吵起来，但是这时艾玛叫我，
问我在干什么。于是我就上楼了，然后……后来……我听说主人开枪自杀了，然后……当
然……这件事太可怕了，我的脑子里一片空白。但是后来，当那个警探走了之后，我对艾
玛说，我没讲那天早上卡特先生来楼上找过主人那件事儿，她问他真的来过吗？我就告诉
了她，她说或许我应该说出来，但是不管怎样我说我还是再等等，然后她也同意了，因为
我们俩都尽量不想给弗兰克先生找麻烦。后来，庭审开始了，原来是主人弄错了一种药，
非常害怕，于是就开枪自杀了，非常自然的事儿。然后……当然，也没有必要再说什么。
但是前两天我在报纸上读到那则消息……噢！又让我想起来了！然后我对自己说，‘如果他
是那种以为大家都在迫害他而到处杀人的疯子，那么，也许他真的开枪打死了主人！’”
她用焦虑和恐惧的眼神满怀希望地望着赫尔克里•波洛。他尽可能地用安慰的语气说：
“你把这件事情告诉我肯定是非常正确的，阿格尼丝。”
“呃，我必须要说，先生，这样我也真的卸下了包袱。您知道，我一直在对自己说也许
我应该讲出来。然后，您知道，我又怕万一真和警察打起交道，妈妈会怎么说。她一直都
特别强调要我们……”
“是的，是的。”赫尔克里•波洛赶紧说。
他感觉这一个下午已经听到够多关于阿格尼丝妈妈的故事了。
FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN 2
II
Poirot called at Scotland Yard and asked for Japp. When he was taken up to the Chief Inspector’s
room: “I want to see Carter,” said Hercule Poirot.
Japp shot him a quick, sideways glance.
He said:
“What’s the big idea?”
“You are unwilling?”
Japp shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“Oh, I shan’t make objections. No good if I did. Who’s the Home Secretary’s little pet? You
are. Who’s got half the Cabinet in his pocket? You have. Hushing up their scandals for them.”
Poirot’s mind flew for a moment to that case that he had named the Case of the Augean Stables.
He murmured, not without complacence:
“It was ingenious, yes? You must admit it. Well imagined, let us say.”
“Nobody but you would ever have thought of such a thing! Sometimes, Poirot, I think you
haven’t any scruples at all!”
Poirot’s face became suddenly grave. He said:
“That is not true.”
“Oh, all right, Poirot, I didn’t mean it. But you’re so pleased sometimes with your damned
ingenuity. What do you want to see Carter for? To ask him whether he really murdered Morley?”
To Japp’s surprise, Poirot nodded his head emphatically.
“Yes, my friend, that is exactly the reason.”
“And I suppose you think he’ll tell you if he did?”
Japp laughed as he spoke. But Hercule Poirot remained grave. He said:
“He might tell me—yes.”
Japp looked at him curiously. He said:
“You know, I’ve known you a long time—twenty years? Something like that. But I still don’t
always catch on to what you’re driving at. I know you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about young
Frank Carter. For some reason or other, you don’t want him to be guilty—”
Hercule Poirot shook his head energetically.
“No, no, there you are wrong. It is the other way about—”
“I thought perhaps it was on account of that girl of his—the blonde piece. You’re a sentimental
old buzzard in some ways—”
Poirot was immediately indignant.
“It is not I who am sentimental! That is an English failing! It is in England that they weep over
young sweethearts and dying mothers and devoted children. Me, I am logical. If Frank Carter is a
killer, then I am certainly not sentimental enough to wish to unite him in marriage to a nice but
commonplace girl who, if he is hanged, will forget him in a year or two and find someone else!”
“Then why don’t you want to believe he is guilty?”
“I do want to believe he is guilty.”
“I suppose you mean that you’ve got hold of something which more or less conclusively proves
him to be innocent? Why hold it up, then? You ought to play fair with us, Poirot.”
“I am playing fair with you. Presently, very shortly, I will give you the name and address of a
witness who will be invaluable to you for the prosecution. Her evidence ought to clinch the case
against him.”
“But then—Oh! You’ve got me all tangled up. Why are you so anxious to see him.”
“To satisfy myself,” said Hercule Poirot.
And he would say no more.
十五，十六，厨娘们 2
2
波洛来到苏格兰场，说要找贾普。他被领到探长办公室。“我想见见卡特。”赫尔克里•
波洛说。
贾普迅速瞟了他一眼，问：
“又有何高见啊？”
“你不愿意帮忙？”
贾普耸耸肩，说：
“呃，我可不会反对，那样做没什么好处。谁是内政大臣的宠儿啊？是你。谁能玩弄半
个内阁于股掌之间？是你。你可以帮他们遮盖丑闻。”
波洛的脑海里闪过那桩“奥吉思马厩案”。他不无自得地说：
“你必须承认那简直是太巧妙了，对吧？应该说是充满想象力的杰作。”
“也只有你才会想得出这种事儿！有时，波洛，我都觉得你简直是毫无顾忌！”
波洛的脸色一下子变得严肃起来。
“不是这样的。”
“呃，好吧，波洛，我不是这个意思。但是你有时太沉醉于你那些可恶的鬼点子了。你
为什么要见卡特？想问他是不是真的杀了莫利？”
让贾普吃惊的是波洛居然很严肃地点了点头。
“是的，我的朋友，正是因为这个。”
“我猜如果真是他干的，他会告诉你，对吧？”贾普边笑边说。
但是赫尔克里•波洛依然很严肃，说：“他有可能会告诉我——是的。”
贾普不解地看着他，说：
“你知道，我认识你很久了——有二十年了吧？差不多吧？但是我还是猜不透你的意
图。我知道你为年轻的弗兰克•卡特伤透了脑筋，不管出于什么原因，你不想他有罪——”
赫尔克里•波洛使劲儿地摇头。
“不，不，你错了，是另有原因——”
“我想大概是因为他那个女朋友吧，那个金发小妞。你也是个容易动感情的老家伙
——”
波洛一下子生气了。
“不是我感情用事！那是英国人的通病！是英国人为年轻的恋人、垂危的母亲和深爱的
孩子唏嘘不已。而我，是理性的。如果弗兰克•卡特是个杀人犯，我绝对不会感情用事，希
望成全他与那个善良又平凡的姑娘的姻缘。如果他被吊死，她一两年后就会忘了他，重新
开始！”
“那么你为什么不肯相信他有罪？”
“我确实是想相信他有罪。”
“你是说你有线索可以最终证明他是清白的？那么，干吗要保密呢？你对我们要公平
啊，波洛。”
“我对你们很公平。很快，要不了多久，我就会给你们一个目击证人的名字和地址，对
你们的起诉会很有帮助。她可以做证这个案子就是他干的。”
“那么——噢！你简直把我搞糊涂了。你为什么还这么火急火燎要见他？”
“为了让我自己满意。”赫尔克里•波洛说。他再没有多说什么。
FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN 3
III
Frank Carter, haggard, white- faced, still feebly inclined to bluster, looked on his unexpected
visitor with unconcealed disfavour. He said rudely:
“So it’s you, you ruddy little foreigner? What do you want?”
“I want to see you and talk to you.”
“Well, you see me all right. But I won’t talk. Not without my lawyer. That’s right, isn’t it? You
can’t go against that. I’ve got the right to have my solicitor present before I say a word.”
“Certainly you have. You can send for him if you like—but I should prefer that you did not.”
“I daresay. Think you’re going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?”
“We are quite alone, remember.”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Got your police pals listening in, no doubt.”
“You are wrong. This is a private interview between you and me.”
Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said:
“Come off it! You don’t take me in with that old gag.”
“Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her. She was
house-parlourmaid at 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Well, what of it?”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“On the morning of the day that Mr. Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the
banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs—waiting and listening. Presently she saw
you go along to Mr. Morley’s room. The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past
twelve.”
Frank Carter trembled violently. Sweat came out on his brow. His eyes, more furtive than ever,
went wildly from side to side. He shouted angrily:
“It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie! You’ve paid her—the police have paid her—to say she saw me.”
“At that time,” said Hercule Poirot, “by your own account, you had left the house and were
walking in the Marylebone Road.”
“So I was. That girl’s lying. She couldn’t have seen me. It’s a dirty plot. If it’s true, why didn’t
she say so before?”
Hercule Poirot said quietly:
“She did mention it at the time to her friend and colleague the cook. They were worried and
puzzled and didn’t know what to do. When a verdict of suicide was brought in they were much
relieved and decided that it wasn’t necessary for them to say anything.”
“I don’t believe a word of it! They’re in it together, that’s all. A couple of dirty, lying little …”
He tailed off into furious profanity.
Hercule Poirot waited.
When Carter’s voice at last ceased, Poirot spoke again, still in the same calm, measured voice.
“Anger and foolish abuse will not help you. These girls are going to tell their story and it is
going to be believed. Because, you see, they are telling the truth. The girl, Agnes Fletcher, did see
you. You were there, on the stairs, at that time. You had not left the house. And you did go into
Mr. Morley’s room.”
He paused and then asked quietly:
“What happened then?”
“It’s a lie, I tell you!”
Hercule Poirot felt very tired—very old. He did not like Frank Carter. He disliked him very
much. In his opinion Frank Carter was a bully, a liar, a swindler—altogether the type of young
man the world could well do without. He, Hercule Poirot, had only to stand back and let this
young man persist in his lies and the world would be rid of one of its more unpleasant
inhabitants….
Hercule Poirot said:
“I suggest you tell me the truth….”
He realized the issue very clearly. Frank Carter was stupid—but he wasn’t so stupid as not to
see that to persist in his denial was his best and safest course. Let him once admit that he had gone
into that room at twenty-six minutes past twelve and he was taking a step into grave danger. For
after that, any story he told would have a good chance of being considered a lie.
Let him persist in his denial, then. If so, Hercule Poirot’s duty would be over. Frank Carter
would in all probability be hanged for the murder of Henry Morley—and it might be, justly
hanged.
Hercule Poirot had only to get up and go.
Frank Carter said again:
“It’s a lie!”
There was a pause. Hercule Poirot did not get up and go. He would have liked to do so—very
much. Nevertheless, he remained.
He leaned forward. He said—and his voice held all the compelling power of his powerful
personality—
“I am not lying to you. I ask you to believe me. If you did not kill Morley your only hope is to
tell me the exact truth of what happened that morning.”
The mean, treacherous face looking at him wavered, became uncertain. Frank Carter pulled at
his lip. His eyes went from side to side, terrified, frankly animal eyes.
It was touch and go now….
Then suddenly, overborne by the strength of the personality confronting him, Frank Carter
surrendered.
He said hoarsely:
“All right then—I’ll tell you. God curse you if you let me down now! I did go in … I went up
the stairs and waited till I could be sure of getting him alone. Waited there, up above Morley’s
landing. Then a gent came out and went down—fat gent. I was just making up my mind to go—
when another gent came out of Morley’s room and went down too. I knew I’d got to be quick. I
went along and nipped into his room without knocking. I was all set to have it out with him.
Mucking about, putting my girl against me—damn him—”
He stopped.
“Yes?” said Hercule Poirot: and his voice was still urgent—compelling—
Carter’s voice croaked uncertainly.
“And he was lying there—dead. It’s true! I swear it’s true! Lying just as they said at the inquest.
I couldn’t believe it at first. I stooped over him. But he was dead all right. His hand was stone cold
and I saw the bullet hole in his head with a hard black crust of blood round it….”
At the memory of it, sweat broke out on his forehead again.
“I saw then I was in a jam. They’d go and say I’d done it. I hadn’t touched anything except his
hand and the door handle. I wiped that with my handkerchief, both sides, as I went out, and I stole
downstairs as quickly as I could. There was nobody in the hall and I let myself out and legged it
away as fast as I could. No wonder I felt queer.”
He paused. His scared eyes went to Poirot.
“That’s the truth. I swear that’s the truth … He was dead already. You’ve got to believe me!”
Poirot got up. He said—and his voice was tired and sad—“I believe you.”
He moved towards the door.
Frank Carter cried out:
“They’ll hang me—they’ll hang me for a cert if they know I was in there.”
Poirot said:
“By telling the truth you have saved yourself from being hanged.”
“I don’t see it. They’ll say—”
Poirot interrupted him.
“Your story has confirmed what I knew to be the truth. You can leave it now to me.”
He went out.
He was not at all happy.
十五，十六，厨娘们 3
3
弗兰克•卡特面色惨白憔悴，但仍勉强露出虚张声势的样子，用毫不掩饰的厌烦神情看
着面前的不速之客。
他粗鲁地说：“是你啊，你这该死的小外国佬！你想要干什么?”
“我想见你，跟你谈谈。”
“你只管看好了，但是我不会和你谈什么，除非有律师在。这是我的权利，没错吧？对
此你没办法。我有权要求我的律师在场，否则我啥都不会说。”
“你当然有这个权利。如果你愿意，可以要求叫他过来，但是我希望你不要这么做。”
“你当然会这么说，这样你就可以设下圈套让我承认那足以毁掉我的罪状，嗯？”
“现在这里没有别人，请记住。”
“这可少见啊？让你的警察哥们儿在门外监听，毫无疑问。”
“你错了。这是一个完全私人的会面，只有你和我。”
弗兰克•卡特笑了，笑容里带着狡诈和不快。
他说：“省省吧你！别想拿这些老把戏来骗我。”
“你记得有个叫阿格尼丝•弗莱切的姑娘吗？”
“从来没听说过。”
“我想你会记得她，虽然你可能从来都没有注意过她。她是夏洛特皇后街五十八号的女
佣。”
“那又怎么样？”
赫尔克里•波洛一字一顿地说：
“莫利先生被杀的那天上午，这个姑娘偶然从顶楼的楼梯扶手往下看，她看到你在楼梯
上，等在那儿，一边还在听着什么。后来她看到你进了莫利先生的房间。时间是十二点零
六分或者十二点刚过一会儿。”
弗兰克•卡特明显开始发抖，额头上也渗出了汗珠，神色比平时更加鬼祟，两个眼珠狂
乱地咕噜咕噜打转。他怒吼道：
“撒谎！他妈撒谎！是你买通了她！警察买通了她，让她说看见了我。”
“那时候，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“按照你的供词，你已经离开了那所房子，在马利勒波恩
路上散步。”
“就是这样啊。那女人在撒谎，她不可能看见我。这是无耻的陷害。如果是真的，她干
吗不早说？”
赫尔克里•波洛平静地说：
“她当时确实告诉了她的朋友和同事——那个厨娘。她们感到困惑和害怕，不知该怎么
办才好。当自杀的判决出来时，她们又如释重负，想着没有必要再说什么了。”
“我根本就不相信！她们只不过是商量好的。一对卑鄙撒谎的小……”接着他气急败坏
地说着脏话。
赫尔克里•波洛等待着。
当卡特最终停下来时，波洛还是像刚才一样冷静慎重地说：
“愤怒和愚蠢的谩骂都帮不了你。这两个姑娘准备把她们看到的都说出来，人们会相信
的。因为，你明白，她们讲的是事实。那个姑娘，阿格尼丝•弗莱切确实看到了你。你当时
确实在那儿，在楼梯上。你没有离开那所房子，而且你确实进了莫利先生的房间。”他停顿
了一下，然后冷静地问，“接下来发生了什么事情？”
“撒谎，我告诉你！”
赫尔克里•波洛感到非常疲惫——自己真的老了。他不喜欢弗兰克•卡特，非常不喜欢
他。他认为弗兰克•卡特是个恃强凌弱的骗子，一个谎言家，总之是最好不存在于这个世界
上的那类年轻人。他，赫尔克里•波洛只要放手不管，让这个年轻人去坚持他的谎言，世界
就可以铲除一个令人不愉快的居住者……
赫尔克里•波洛说：“我建议你告诉我真相……”
他很清楚目前的局面。弗兰克•卡特虽然愚蠢，但还是知道坚持他的否认是最好、最安
全的做法。一旦承认他在十二点零六分进了那个房间，那么危险就大了。因为从这之后，
他说什么都会被认为是在撒谎。
那就让他坚持否认好了。如果这样，赫尔克里•波洛的任务也就完成了。弗兰克•卡特很
有可能会因为杀害亨利•莫利被绞死，而且他也算罪有应得。
赫尔克里•波洛只需起身走人就可以。
弗兰克•卡特还在说：“撒谎！”
良久的停顿。赫尔克里•波洛没有起身离开，他真想这么做——非常想，然而，他还是
没有走。
他把身子往前倾了倾，声音中充满了他坚强的个性所显示出来的威慑力：
“我没有骗你，希望你相信我。如果你没有杀害莫利，你唯一的出路就是告诉我那天上
午事情的真相。”
望着波洛的那张刻薄、奸诈的面孔颤抖了一下，露出了犹豫的神色。弗兰克•卡特紧紧
地抿着嘴，两眼左右转动，充满恐惧，就像一只受了惊吓的动物。
现在到了最后的关键时刻……
忽然，弗兰克完全被对方的人格力量所打败，投降了。
他声音沙哑地说：
“那好吧，我这就告诉你。如果你现在是在骗我，上帝会诅咒你的！我确实进了那个房
间……我上了楼梯，想等到只有他一个人在房里时再进去。我就等在那儿，在莫利房间的
上面。后来有个先生出来了，下了楼——那人很胖。我正要下决心过去，这时另一个先生
又从莫利的房间出来，也下了楼。我知道我必须要快点儿，于是下楼没敲门就溜进他的房
间。我正准备好好教训他一顿，竟然想让我的女人针对我，坏我的事儿，他这个该死的
——”
他突然住口。
“怎么了？”赫尔克里•波洛问，他的声音依然是那么急迫、充满威慑力。卡特的声音变
得嘶哑而颤抖。
“他躺在那儿——死了。是真的！我发誓这是真的！就像庭审判决说的那样躺在那儿。
我开始无法相信，还弯腰看了看他，但是他真的是死了。他的手像石头般冰冷，我看到他
头上有一个子弹打穿的洞，周围有一层血凝成的黑黑的结痂……”
回想到这个情景，他的额头上再次渗出了冷汗。
“这时我明白自己麻烦大了，他们会说是我干的。我什么都没有碰，除了他的手和那个
门把手。我用手帕把门把手两面都擦了擦。然后我从房间里出来，尽可能快地悄悄下了
楼。客厅里没有人，我就赶紧离开了那里。毫无疑问，我觉得非常吃惊。”
他停顿了一下，惊恐地望着波洛。
“这些都是真的。我发誓是真的……他当时已经死了。你一定得相信我！”
波洛站起身，声音听上去既疲惫又悲伤。他说：“我相信你。”
他向门口走去。弗兰克•卡特大声嚷嚷道：
“他们会绞死我的——如果他们知道我当时在场，他们一定会绞死我的。”
波洛说：“你说出了真相，救了自己。”
“我不明白，他们会说——”
波洛打断他说：
“你刚才说的确证了我之前就知道的情况。以后的事就交给我吧。”
他走了出去。
他一点儿都不感到高兴。
FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN 4
IV
He reached Mr. Barnes’ House at Ealing at 6:45. He remembered that Mr. Barnes had called that a
good time of day.
Mr. Barnes was at work in his garden.
He said by way of greeting:
“We need rain, M. Poirot—need it badly.”
He looked thoughtfully at his guest. He said:
“You don’t look very well, M. Poirot?”
“Sometimes,” said Hercule Poirot, “I do not like the things I have to do.”
Mr. Barnes nodded his head sympathetically.
He said:
“I know.”
Hercule Poirot looked vaguely round at the neat arrangement of the small beds. He murmured:
“It is well-planned, this garden. Everything is to scale. It is small but exact.”
Mr. Barnes said:
“When you have only a small place you’ve got to make the most of it. You can’t afford to make
mistakes in the planning.”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
Barnes went on:
“I see you’ve got your man?”
“Frank Carter?”
“Yes. I’m rather surprised, really.”
“You did not think that it was, so to speak, a private murder?”
“No. Frankly I didn’t. What with Amberiotis and Alistair Blunt—I made sure that it was one of
these Espionage or Counter-Espionage mix-ups.”
“That is the view you expounded to me at our first meeting.”
“I know. I was quite sure of it at the time.”
Poirot said slowly:
“But you were wrong.”
“Yes. Don’t rub it in. The trouble is, one goes by one’s own experience. I’ve been mixed-up in
that sort of thing so much I suppose I’m inclined to see it everywhere.”
Poirot said:
“You have observed in your time a conjurer offer a card, have you not? What is called—forcing
a card?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That is what was done here. Every time that one thinks of a private reason for Morley’s death,
hey presto—the card is forced on one. Amberiotis, Alistair Blunt, the unsettled state of politics—
of the country—” He shrugged his shoulders. “As for you, Mr. Barnes, you did more to mislead
me than anybody.”
“Oh, I say, Poirot, I’m sorry. I suppose that’s true.”
“You were in a position to know, you see. So your words carried weight.”
“Well—I believed what I said. That’s the only apology I can make.”
He paused and sighed.
“And all the time, it was a purely private motive?”
“Exactly. It has taken me a long time to see the reason for the murder—although I had one very
definite piece of luck.”
“What was that?”
“A fragment of conversation. Really a very illuminating fragment if only I had had the sense to
realize its significance at the time.”
Mr. Barnes scratched his nose thoughtfully with the trowel. A small piece of earth adhered to
the side of his nose.
“Being rather cryptic, aren’t you?” he asked genially.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“I am, perhaps, aggrieved that you were not more frank with me.”
“I?”
“Yes.”
“My dear fellow—I never had the least idea of Carter’s guilt. As far as I knew, he’d left the
house long before Morley was killed. I suppose now they’ve found he didn’t leave when he said
he did?”
Poirot said:
“Carter was in the house at twenty-six minutes past twelve. He actually saw the murderer.”
“Then Carter didn’t—”
“Carter saw the murderer, I tell you!”
Mr. Barnes said:
“Did he recognize him?”
Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head.
十五，十六，厨娘们 4
4
六点四十五分，他来到了伊灵巴恩斯先生家。他记得巴恩斯先生曾经说过这是个拜访
别人的好时间。
巴恩斯先生正在他的花园里干活儿。他招呼波洛说：
“我们需要雨啊，波洛先生，太需要了。”他仔细地观察着来客。
“您看上去气色不太好啊，波洛先生？”
“有时，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我必须做一些自己并不喜欢做的事情。”
巴恩斯先生同情地点点头：“我知道。”
赫尔克里•波洛随意地环顾了这个修剪整齐的小花圃，轻声说：
“这个花园规划得很好，一切都恰到好处，虽然小但很精致。”
巴恩斯先生说：“当你只有一个很小的空间时，就必须充分利用它。绝不能在规划上出
错。”
赫尔克里•波洛点点头。
巴恩斯继续说：“你们抓到要抓的人了？”
“弗兰克•卡特？”
“是的，我吃了一惊，着实吃了一惊。”
“您没想到这是桩——比如说——因私谋杀？”
“没有，坦率地说我确实没有。一旦牵扯到安伯里奥兹和阿利斯泰尔•布伦特，我就觉
得它应该是那种间谍或反间谍的案子。”
“这就是我们第一次见面时您向我阐述的观点。”
“我知道，我那时感觉特别肯定。”
波洛慢慢地说：“但是您错了。”
“是的，别再提它了。问题是，每个人的想法都受他的经历所影响。我长期以来跟这种
事儿打交道太多了，所以我就觉得它无处不在。”
波洛说：“您看过魔术师在一副扑克牌里找出某一张牌的游戏吗？叫什么——逼出某张
牌？”
“是的，当然。”
“这就是我们这儿发生的情况。每次人们想到莫利被杀的原因时，嘿，马上——一张牌
就被逼出来了。安伯里奥兹，阿利斯泰尔•布伦特，政治的动荡，有关国家利益……”他耸
了耸肩，“而您呢，巴恩斯先生，您对我的误导比任何人都大。”
“噢，听我说，波洛，我很抱歉。我以为真是那样的。”
“您瞧，您过去的工作会接触到很多内情，所以您的话有分量。”
“不过，我之前说的都是我确实相信的，我只能这么为自己辩解。”
他停了一下，叹了口气。
“那么始终只是纯粹的私人动机吗？”
“没错儿，我花了很长时间才想明白谋杀的原因，尽管我本来有过一次很好的机会。”
“什么意思？”
“一个谈话的片段，一个特别有启发性的片段，只是我当时还没有意识到它的意义。”
巴恩斯先生若有所思，小铲子碰到了鼻子，一粒泥巴粘在了他的鼻子边上。
“您搞得还挺神秘的啊？”他和蔼地说。
赫尔克里•波洛耸了耸肩。他说：“是的，或许吧，因为您对我不够坦诚。”
“我？”
“是的。”
“我亲爱的朋友，我从来都没想到过是卡特。据我所知，他在莫利先生被杀前就离开了
那所房子。我想是不是他们现在发现他其实并没离开——虽然他自己说已经走了？”
波洛说：“卡特十二点二十六分时还在那所房子里，他还看到了凶手。”
“那么卡特没有——”
“我告诉你，卡特看到了凶手！”
巴恩斯先生说：“他认出他了吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛慢慢地摇摇头。
SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAIDS IN WAITING 1
SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAIDS IN WAITING
I
On the following day Hercule Poirot spent some hours with a theatrical agent of his acquaintance.
In the afternoon he went to Oxford. On the day after that he drove down to the country—it was
late when he returned.
He had telephoned before he left to make an appointment with Mr. Alistair Blunt for that same
evening.
It was half past nine when he reached the Gothic House.
Alistair Blunt was alone in his library when Poirot was shown in.
He looked an eager question at his visitor as he shook hands.
He said:
“Well?”
Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head.
Blunt looked at him in almost incredulous appreciation.
“Have you found her?”
“Yes. Yes, I have found her.”
He sat down. And he sighed.
Alistair Blunt said:
“You are tired?”
“Yes. I am tired. And it is not pretty—what I have to tell you.”
Blunt said:
“Is she dead?”
“That depends,” said Hercule Poirot slowly, “on how you like to look at it.”
Blunt frowned.
He said:
“My dear man, a person must be dead or alive. Miss Sainsbury Seale must be one or the other!”
“Ah, but who is Miss Sainsbury Seale?”
Alistair Blunt said:
“You don’t mean that—that there isn’t any such person?”
“Oh no, no. There was such a person. She lived in Calcutta. She taught elocution. She busied
herself with good works. She came to England in the Maharanah—the same boat in which Mr.
Amberiotis travelled. Although they were not in the same class, he helped her over something—
some fuss about her luggage. He was, it would seem, a kindly man in little ways. And sometimes,
M. Blunt, kindness is repaid in an unexpected fashion. It was so, you know, with M. Amberiotis.
He chanced to meet the lady again in the streets of London. He was feeling expansive, he good-
naturedly invited her to lunch with him at the Savoy. An unexpected treat for her. And an
unexpected windfall for M. Amberiotis! For his kindness was not premeditated—he had no idea
that this faded, middle-aged lady was going to present him with the equivalent of a gold mine. But
nevertheless, that is what she did, though she never suspected the fact herself.
“She was never, you see, of the first order of intelligence. A good, well-meaning soul, but the
brain, I should say, of a hen.”
Blunt said:
“Then it wasn’t she who killed the Chapman woman?”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is difficult to know just how to present the matter. I shall begin, I think, where the matter
began for me. With a shoe!”
Blunt said blankly:
“With a shoe?”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“Yes, a buckled shoe. I came out from my séance at the dentist’s and as I stood on the steps of
58, Queen Charlotte Street, a taxi stopped outside, the door opened and a woman’s foot prepared
to descend. I am a man who notices a woman’s foot and ankle. It was a well-shaped foot, with a
good ankle and an expensive stocking, but I did not like the shoe. It was a new, shining patent
leather shoe with a large ornate buckle. Not chic—not at all chic!
“And whilst I was observing this, the rest of the lady came into sight—and frankly it was a
disappointment—a middle-aged lady without charm and badly dressed.”
“Miss Sainsbury Seale?”
“Precisely. As she descended a contretemps occurred—she caught the buckle of her shoe in the
door and it was wrenched off. I picked it up and returned it to her. That was all. The incident was
closed.
“Later, on that same day, I went with Chief Inspector Japp to interview the lady. (She had not as
yet sewn on the buckle, by the way.)
“On that same evening, Miss Sainsbury Seale walked out of her hotel and vanished. That, shall
we say, is the end of Part One.
“Part Two began when Chief Inspector Japp summoned me to King Leopold Mansions. There
was a fur chest in a flat there, and in that fur chest there had been found a body. I went into the
room, I walked up to the chest—and the first thing I saw was a shabby buckled shoe!”
“Well?”
“You have not appreciated the point. It was a shabby shoe—a well-worn shoe. But you see,
Miss Sainsbury Seale had come to King Leopold Mansions on the evening of that same day—the
day of Mr. Morley’s murder. In the morning the shoes were new shoes—in the evening they were
old shoes. One does not wear out a pair of shoes in a day, you comprehend.”
Alistair Blunt said without much interest:
“She could have two pairs of shoes, I suppose?”
“Ah, but that was not so. For Japp and I had gone up to her room at the Glengowrie Court and
had looked at all her possessions—and there was no pair of buckled shoes there. She might have
had an old pair of shoes, yes. She might have changed into them after a tiring day to go out in the
evening, yes? But if so, the other pair would have been at the hotel. It was curious, you will
admit?”
“I can’t see that it is important.”
“No, not important. Not at all important. But one does not like things that one cannot explain. I
stood by the fur chest and I looked at the shoe—the buckle had recently been sewn on by hand. I
will confess that I then had a moment of doubt—of myself. Yes, I said to myself, Hercule Poirot,
you were a little light-headed perhaps this morning. You saw the world through rosy spectacles.
Even the old shoes looked like new ones to you?”
“Perhaps that was the explanation?”
“But no, it was not. My eyes do not deceive me! To continue, I studied the dead body of this
woman and I did not like what I saw. Why had the face been wantonly, deliberately smashed and
rendered unrecognizable?”
Alistair Blunt moved restlessly. He said:
“Must we go over that again? We know—”
Hercule Poirot said firmly:
“It is necessary. I have to take you over the steps that led me at last to the truth. I said to myself:
‘Something is wrong here. Here is a dead woman in the clothes of Miss Sainsbury Seale (except,
perhaps, the shoes?) and with the handbag of Miss Sainsbury Seale — but why is her face
unrecognizable? Is it, perhaps, because the face is not the face of Miss Sainsbury Seale?’ And
immediately I begin to put together what I have heard of the appearance of the other woman—the
woman to whom the flat belongs, and I ask myself—Might it not perhaps be this other woman
who lies dead here? I go then and look at the other woman’s bedroom. I try to picture to myself
what sort of woman she is. In superficial appearance, very different to the other. Smart, showily
dressed, very much made up. But in essentials, not unlike. Hair, build, age … But there is one
difference. Mrs. Albert Chapman took a five in shoes. Miss Sainsbury Seale, I knew, took a 10-
inch stocking—that is to say she would take at least a 6 in shoes. Mrs. Chapman, then, had smaller
feet than Miss Sainsbury Seale. I went back to the body. If my half-formed idea was right, and the
body was that of Mrs. Chapman wearing Miss Sainsbury Seale’s clothes, then the shoes should be
too big. I took hold of one. But it was not loose. It fitted tightly. That looked as though it were the
body of Miss Sainsbury Seale after all! But in that case, why was the face disfigured? Her identity
was already proved by the handbag, which could easily have been removed, but which had not
been removed.
“It was a puzzle—a tangle. In desperation I seized on Mrs. Chapman’s address book—a dentist
was the only person who could prove definitely who the dead woman was—or was not. By
coincidence, Mrs. Chapman’s dentist was Mr. Morley. Morley was dead, but identification was
still possible. You know the result. The body was identified in the Coroner’s Court by Mr.
Morley’s successor as that of Mrs. Albert Chapman.”
Blunt was fidgeting with some impatience, but Poirot took no notice. He went on:
“I was left now with a psychological problem. What sort of a woman was Mabelle Sainsbury
Seale? There were two answers to that question. The first was the obvious one borne out by her
whole life in India and by the testimony of her personal friends. That depicted her as an earnest,
conscientious, slightly stupid woman. Was there another Miss Sainsbury Seale? Apparently there
was. There was a woman who had lunched with a well-known foreign agent, who had accosted
you in the street and claimed to be a close friend of your wife’s (a statement that was almost
certainly untrue), a woman who had left a man’s house very shortly before a murder had been
committed, a woman who had visited another woman on the evening when in all probability that
other woman had been murdered, and who had since disappeared although she must be aware that
the police force of England was looking for her. Were all these actions compatible with the
character which her friends gave her? It would seem that they were not. Therefore, if Miss
Sainsbury Seale were not the good, amiable creature she seemed, then it would appear that she
was quite possibly a cold-blooded murderess or almost certainly an accomplice after the fact.
“I had one more criterion—my own personal impression. I had talked to Mabelle Sainsbury
Seale myself. How had she struck me? And that, M. Blunt, was the most difficult question to
answer of all. Everything that she said, her way of talking, her manner, her gestures, all were
perfectly in accord with her given character. But they were equally in accord with a clever actress
playing a part. And, after all, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had started life as an actress.
“I had been much impressed by a conversation I had had with Mr. Barnes of Ealing who had
also been a patient at 58, Queen Charlotte Street on that particular day. His theory, expressed very
forcibly, was that the deaths of Morley and of Amberiotis were only incidental, so to speak—that
the intended victim was you.”
Alistair Blunt said:
“Oh, come now—that’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Is it, M. Blunt? Is it not true that at this moment there are various groups of people to whom it
is vital that you should be—removed, shall we say? Shall be no longer capable of exerting your
influence?”
Blunt said:
“Oh yes, that’s true enough. But why mix up this business of Morley’s death with that?”
Poirot said:
“Because there is a certain—how shall I put it?—lavishness about the case—Expense is no
object—human life is no object. Yes, there is a recklessness, a lavishness—that points to a big
crime!”
“You don’t think Morley shot himself because of a mistake?”
“I never thought so—not for a minute. No, Morley was murdered, Amberiotis was murdered, an
unrecognizable woman was murdered — Why? For some big stake. Barnes’ theory was that
somebody had tried to bribe Morley or his partner to put you out of the way.”
Alistair Blunt said sharply:
“Nonsense!”
“Ah, but is it nonsense? Say one wishes to put someone out of the way. Yes, but that someone is
forewarned, forearmed, difficult of access. To kill that person it is necessary to be able to approach
him without awakening his suspicions—and where would a man be less suspicious than in a
dentist’s chair?”
“Well, that’s true, I suppose. I never thought of it like that.”
“It is true. And once I realized it I had my first vague glimmering of the truth.”
“So you accepted Barnes’ theory? Who is Barnes, by the way?”
“Barnes was Reilly’s twelve o’clock patient. He is retired from the Home Office and lives in
Ealing. An insignificant little man. But you are wrong when you say I accepted his theory. I did
not. I only accepted the principle of it.”
“What do you mean?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“All along, all the way through, I have been led astray—sometimes unwittingly, sometimes
deliberately and for a purpose. All along it was presented to me, forced upon me, that this was
what you might call a public crime. That is to say, that you, M. Blunt, were the focus of it all, in
your public character. You, the banker, you the controller of finance, you, the upholder of
conservative tradition!
“But every public character has a private life also. That was my mistake, I forgot the private
life. There existed private reasons for killing Morley—Frank Carter’s for instance.
“There could also exist private reasons for killing you … You had relations who would inherit
money when you died. You had people who loved and hated you—as a man—not as a public
figure.
“And so I came to the supreme instance of what I call ‘the forced card.’ The purported attack
upon you by Frank Carter. If that attack was genuine—then it was a political crime. But was there
any other explanation? There could be. There was a second man in the shrubbery. The man who
rushed up and seized Carter. A man who could easily have fired that shot and then tossed the pistol
to Carter’s feet so that the latter would almost inevitably pick it up and be found with it in his
hand….
“I considered the problem of Howard Raikes. Raikes had been at Queen Charlotte Street that
morning of Morley’s death. Raikes was a bitter enemy of all that you stood for and were. Yes, but
Raikes was something more. Raikes was the man who might marry your niece, and with you dead,
your niece would inherit a very handsome income, even though you had prudently arranged that
she could not touch the principal.
“Was the whole thing, after all, a private crime — a crime for private gain, for private
satisfaction? Why had I thought it a public crime? Because, not once, but many times, that idea
had been suggested to me, had been forced upon me like a forced card. …
“It was then, when that idea occurred to me, that I had my first glimmering of the truth. I was in
church at the time and singing a verse of a psalm. It spoke of a snare laid with cords….
“A snare? Laid for me? Yes, it could be … But in that case who had laid it? There was only one
person who could have laid it … And that did not make sense—or did it? Had I been looking at
the case upside down? Money no object? Exactly! Reckless disregard of human life? Yes again.
For the stakes for which the guilty person was playing were enormous. …
“But if this new, strange idea of mine were right, it must explain everything. It must explain, for
instance, the mystery of the dual nature of Miss Sainsbury Seale. It must solve the riddle of the
buckled shoe. And it must answer the question: Where is Miss Sainsbury Seale now?
“Eh bien—it did all that and more. It showed me that Miss Sainsbury Seale was the beginning
and middle and end of the case. No wonder it had seemed to me that there were two Mabelle
Sainsbury Seales. There were two Mabelle Sainsbury Seales. There was the good, stupid, amiable
woman who was vouched for so confidently by her friends. And there was the other—the woman
who was mixed-up with two murders and who told lies and who vanished mysteriously.
“Remember, the porter at King Leopold Mansions said that Miss Sainsbury Seale had been
there once before….
“In my reconstruction of the case, that first time was the only time. She never left King Leopold
Mansions. The other Miss Sainsbury Seale took her place. That other Mabelle Sainsbury Seale,
dressed in clothes of the same type and wearing a new pair of shoes with buckles because the
others were too large for her, went to the Russell Square Hotel at a busy time of day, packed up
the dead woman’s clothes, paid the bill and left. She went to the Glengowrie Court Hotel. None of
the real Miss Sainsbury Seale’s friends saw her after that time, remember. She played the part of
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale there for over a week. She wore Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s clothes, she
talked in Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s voice, but she had to buy a smaller pair of evening shoes, too.
And then—she vanished, her last appearance being when she was seen reentering King Leopold
Mansions on the evening of the day Morley was killed.”
“Are you trying to say,” demanded Alistair Blunt, “that it was Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s dead
body in that flat, after all.”
“Of course it was! It was a very clever double bluff—the smashed face was meant to raise a
question of the woman’s identity!”
“But the dental evidence?”
“Ah! Now we come to it. It was not the dentist himself who gave evidence. Morley was dead.
He couldn’t give evidence as to his own work. He would have known who the dead woman was. It
was the charts that were put in as evidence—and the charts were faked. Both women were his
patients, remember. All that had to be done was to relabel the charts, exchanging the names.”
Hercule Poirot added:
“And now you see what I meant when you asked me if the woman was dead and I replied, ‘That
depends.’ For when you say ‘Miss Sainsbury Seale’—which woman do you mean? The woman
who disappeared from the Glengowrie Court Hotel or the real Mabelle Sainsbury Seale.”
Alistair Blunt said:
“I know, M. Poirot, that you have a great reputation. Therefore I accept that you must have
some grounds for this extraordinary assumption—for it is an assumption, nothing more. But all I
can see is the fantastic improbability of the whole thing. You are saying, are you not, that Mabelle
Sainsbury Seale was deliberately murdered and that Morley was also murdered to prevent his
identifying her dead body. But why? That’s what I want to know. Here’s this woman—a perfectly
harmless, middle-aged woman—with plenty of friends and apparently no enemies. Why on earth
all this elaborate plot to get rid of her?”
“Why? Yes, that is the question. Why? As you say, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was a perfectly
harmless creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly! Why, then, was she deliberately and brutally
murdered? Well, I will tell you what I think.”
“Yes?”
Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He said:
“It is my belief that Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was murdered because she happened to have too
good a memory for faces.”
“What do you mean?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“We have separated the dual personality. There is the harmless lady from India. But there is one
incident that falls between the two roles. Which Miss Sainsbury Seale was it who spoke to you on
the doorstep of Mr. Morley’s house? She claimed, you will remember, to be ‘a great friend of your
wife’s.’ Now that claim was adjudged by her friends and by the light of ordinary probability to be
untrue. So we can say: ‘That was a lie. The real Miss Sainsbury Seale does not tell lies.’ So it was
a lie uttered by the impostor for a purpose of her own.”
Alistair Blunt nodded.
“Yes, that reasoning is quite clear. Though I still don’t know what the purpose was.”
Poirot said:
“Ah, pardon—but let us first look at it the other way round. It was the real Miss Sainsbury
Seale. She does not tell lies. So the story must be true.”
“I suppose you can look at it that way—but it seems very unlikely—”
“Of course it is unlikely! But taking that second hypothesis as fact—the story is true. Therefore
Miss Sainsbury Seale did know your wife. She knew her well. Therefore—your wife must have
been the type of person Miss Sainsbury Seale would have known well. Someone in her own station
of life. An Anglo-Indian—a missionary—or, to go back farther still—an actress—Therefore—not
Rebecca Arnholt!
“Now, M. Blunt, do you see what I meant when I talked of a private and a public life? You are
the great banker. But you are also a man who married a rich wife. And before you married her you
were only a junior partner in the firm—not very long down from Oxford.
“You comprehend—I began to look at the case the right way up. Expense no object? Naturally
not—to you. Reckless of human life—that, too, since for a long time you have been virtually a
dictator and to a dictator his own life becomes unduly important and those of others unimportant.”
Alistair Blunt said:
“What are you suggesting, M. Poirot?”
Poirot said quietly:
“I am suggesting, M. Blunt, that when you married Rebecca Arnholt, you were married already.
That, dazzled by the vista, not so much of wealth, as of power, you suppressed that fact and
deliberately committed bigamy. That your real wife acquiesced in the situation.”
“And who was this real wife?”
“Mrs. Albert Chapman was the name she went under at King Leopold Mansions—a handy spot,
not five minutes’ walk from your house on the Chelsea Embankment. You borrowed the name of a
real secret agent, realizing that it would give support to her hints of a husband engaged in
intelligence work. Your scheme succeeded perfectly. No suspicion was ever aroused.
Nevertheless, the fact remained, you had never been legally married to Rebecca Arnholt and you
were guilty of bigamy. You never dreamt of danger after so many years. It came out of the blue—
in the form of a tiresome woman who remembered you after nearly twenty years, as her friend’s
husband. Chance brought her back to this country, chance let her meet you in Queen Charlotte
Street—it was chance that your niece was with you and heard what she said to you. Otherwise I
might never have guessed.”
“I told you about that myself, my dear Poirot.”
“No, it was your niece who insisted on telling me and you could not very well protest too
violently in case it might arouse suspicions. And after that meeting, one more evil chance (from
your point of view) occurred. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale met Amberiotis, went to lunch with him
and babbled to him of this meeting with a friend’s husband—‘after all these years!’—‘Looked
older, of course, but had hardly changed!’ That, I admit, is pure guesswork on my part but I
believe it is what happened. I do not think that Mabelle Sainsbury Seale realized for a moment that
the Mr. Blunt her friend had married was the shadowy figure behind the finance of the world. The
name, after all, is not an uncommon one. But Amberiotis, remember, in addition to his espionage
activities, was a blackmailer. Blackmailers have an uncanny nose for a secret. Amberiotis
wondered. Easy to find out just who the Mr. Blunt was. And then, I have no doubt, he wrote to you
or telephoned … Oh, yes—a gold mine for Amberiotis.”
Poirot paused. He went on:
“There is only one effectual method of dealing with a really efficient and experienced
blackmailer. Silence him.
“It was not a case, as I had had erroneously suggested to me, of ‘Blunt must go.’ It was, on the
contrary, ‘Amberiotis must go.’ But the answer was the same! The easiest way to get at a man is
when he is off his guard, and when is a man more off his guard than in the dentist’s chair?”
Poirot paused again. A faint smile came to his lips. He said:
“The truth about the case was mentioned very early. The page boy, Alfred, was reading a crime
story called Death at Eleven Forty-Five. We should have taken that as an omen. For, of course,
that is just about the time when Morley was killed. You shot him just as you were leaving. Then
you pressed his buzzer, turned on the taps of the wash basin and left the room. You timed it so that
you came down the stairs just as Alfred was taking the false Mabelle Sainsbury Seale to the lift.
You actually opened the front door, perhaps you passed out, but as the lift doors shut and the lift
went up you slipped inside again and went up the stairs.
“I know, from my own visits, just what Alfred did when he took up a patient. He knocked on
the door, opened it, and stood back to let the patient pass in. Inside the water was running—
inference, Morley was washing his hands as usual. But Alfred couldn’t actually see him.
“As soon as Alfred had gone down again in the lift, you slipped along into the surgery. Together
you and your accomplice lifted the body and carried it into the adjoining office. Then a quick hunt
through the files, and the charts of Mrs. Chapman and Miss Sainsbury Seale were cleverly
falsified. You put on a white linen coat, perhaps your wife applied a trace of makeup. But nothing
much was needed. It was Amberiotis’ first visit to Morley. He had never met you. And your
photograph seldom appears in the papers. Besides, why should he have suspicions? A blackmailer
does not fear his dentist. Miss Sainsbury Seale goes down and Alfred shows her out. The buzzer
goes and Amberiotis is taken up. He finds the dentist washing his hands behind the door in
approved fashion. He is conducted to the chair. He indicates the painful tooth. You talk the
accustomed patter. You explain it will be best to freeze the gum. The procaine and adrenalin are
there. You inject a big enough dose to kill. And incidentally he will not feel any lack of skill in
your dentistry!
“Completely unsuspicious, Amberiotis leaves. You bring out Morley’s body and arrange it on
the floor, dragging it slightly on the carpet now that you have to manage it single-handed. You
wipe the pistol and put it in his hand—wipe the door handle so that your prints shall not be the
last. The instruments you used have all been passed into the sterilizer. You leave the room, go
down the stairs and slip out of the front door at a suitable moment. That is your only moment of
danger.
“It should all have passed off so well! Two people who threatened your safety—both dead. A
third person also dead—but that, from your point of view, was unavoidable. And all so easily
explained. Morley’s suicide explained by the mistake he had made over Amberiotis. The two
deaths cancel out. One of these regrettable accidents.
“But alas for you, I am on the scene. I have doubts. I make objections. All is not going as easily
as you hoped. So there must be a second line of defences. There must be, if necessary, a
scapegoat. You have already informed yourself minutely, of Morley’s household. There is this
man, Frank Carter, he will do. So your accomplice arranges that he shall be engaged in a
mysterious fashion as gardener. If, later, he tells such a ridiculous story no one will believe it. In
due course, the body in the fur chest will come to light. At first it will be thought to be that of Miss
Sainsbury Seale, then the dental evidence will be taken. Big sensation! It may seem a needless
complication, but it was necessary. You do not want the police force of England to be looking for
a missing Mrs. Albert Chapman. No, let Mrs. Chapman be dead—and let it be Mabelle Sainsbury
Seale for whom the police look. Since they can never find her. Besides, through your influence,
you can arrange to have the case dropped.
“You did do that, but since it was necessary that you should know just what I was doing, you
sent for me and urged me to find the missing woman for you. And you continued, steadily, to
‘force a card’ upon me. Your accomplice rang me up with a melodramatic warning—the same
idea—espionage—the public aspect. She is a clever actress, this wife of yours, but to disguise
one’s voice the natural tendency is to imitate another voice. Your wife imitated the intonation of
Mrs. Olivera. That puzzled me, I may say, a good deal.
“Then I was taken down to Exsham—the final performance was staged. How easy to arrange a
loaded pistol amongst laurels so that a man, clipping them, shall unwittingly cause it to go off. The
pistol falls at his feet. Startled, he picks it up. What more do you want? He is caught red-handed—
with a ridiculous story and with a pistol which is a twin to the one with which Morley was shot.
“And all a snare for the feet of Hercule Poirot.”
Alistair Blunt stirred a little in his chair. His face was grave and a little sad. He said:
“Don’t misunderstand me, M. Poirot. How much do you guess? And how much do you actually
know?”
Poirot said:
“I have a certificate of the marriage—at a registry office near Oxford—of Martin Alistair Blunt
and Gerda Grant. Frank Carter saw two men leave Morley’s surgery just after twenty-five past
twelve. The first was a fat man—Amberiotis. The second was, of course, you. Frank Carter did not
recognize you. He only saw you from above.”
“How fair of you to mention that!”
“He went into the surgery and found Morley’s body. The hands were cold and there was dried
blood round the wound. That meant that Morley had been dead some time. Therefore the dentist
who attended to Amberiotis could not have been Morley and must have been Morley’s murderer.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Helen Montressor was arrested this afternoon.”
Alistair Blunt gave one sharp movement. Then he sat very still. He said:
“That—rather tears it.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Yes. The real Helen Montressor, your distant cousin, died in Canada seven years ago. You
suppressed that fact, and took advantage of it.”
A smile came to Alistair Blunt’s lips. He spoke naturally and with a kind of boyish enjoyment.
“Gerda got a kick out of it all, you know. I’d like to make you understand. You’re such a clever
fellow. I married her without letting my people know. She was acting in repertory at the time. My
people were the straitlaced kind, and I was going into the firm. We agreed to keep it dark. She
went on acting. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was in the company too. She knew about us. Then she
went abroad with a touring company. Gerda heard of her once or twice from India. Then she
stopped writing. Mabelle got mixed up with some Hindu. She was always a stupid, credulous girl.
“I wish I could make you understand about my meeting with Rebecca and my marriage. Gerda
understood. The only way I can put it is that it was like Royalty. I had the chance of marrying a
Queen and playing the part of Prince Consort or even King. I looked on my marriage to Gerda as
morganatic. I loved her. I didn’t want to get rid of her. And the whole thing worked splendidly. I
liked Rebecca immensely. She was a woman with a first-class financial brain and mine was just as
good. We were good at team work. It was supremely exciting. She was an excellent companion
and I think I made her happy. I was genuinely sorry when she died. The queer thing was that
Gerda and I grew to enjoy the secret thrill of our meetings. We had all sorts of ingenious devices.
She was an actress by nature. She had a repertoire of seven or eight characters—Mrs. Albert
Chapman was only one of them. She was an American widow in Paris. I met her there when I
went over on business. And she used to go to Norway with painting things as an artist. I went there
for the fishing. And then, later, I passed her off as my cousin. Helen Montressor. It was great fun
for us both, and it kept romance alive, I suppose. We could have married officially after Rebecca
died—but we didn’t want to. Gerda would have found it hard to live my official life and, of course,
something from the past might have been raked up, but I think the real reason we went on more or
less the same was that we enjoyed the secrecy of it. We should have found open domesticity dull.”
Blunt paused. He said, and his voice changed and hardened:
“And then that damned fool of a woman messed up everything. Recognizing me—after all those
years! And she told Amberiotis. You see—you must see—that something had to be done! It wasn’t
only myself—not only the selfish point of view. If I was ruined and disgraced—the country, my
country was hit as well. For I’ve done something for England, M. Poirot. I’ve held it firm and kept
it solvent. It’s free from Dictators—from Fascism and from Communism. I don’t really care for
money as money. I do like power — I like to rule — but I don’t want to tyrannize. We are
democratic in England—truly democratic. We can grumble and say what we think and laugh at
our politicians. We’re free. I care for all that—it’s been my lifework. But if I went—well, you
know what would probably happen. I’m needed, M. Poirot. And a damned double- crossing,
blackmailing rogue of a Greek was going to destroy my life work. Something had to be done.
Gerda saw it, too. We were sorry about the Sainsbury Seale woman—but it was no good. We’d
got to silence her. She couldn’t be trusted to hold her tongue. Gerda went to see her, asked her to
tea, told her to ask for Mrs. Chapman, said she was staying in Mr. Chapman’s flat. Mabelle
Sainsbury Seale came, quite unsuspecting. She never knew anything—the medinal was in the tea
—it’s quite painless. You just sleep and don’t wake up. The face business was done afterwards—
rather sickening, but we felt it was necessary. Mrs. Chapman was to exit for good. I had given my
‘cousin’ Helen a cottage to live in. We decided that after a while we would get married. But first
we had to get Amberiotis out of the way. It worked beautifully. He hadn’t a suspicion that I wasn’t
a real dentist. I did my stuff with the hand pricks rather well. I didn’t risk the drill. Of course, after
the injection he couldn’t feel what I was doing. Probably just as well!”
Poirot asked:
“The pistols?”
“Actually they belonged to a secretary I once had in America. He bought them abroad
somewhere. When he left he forgot to take them.”
There was a pause. Then Alistair Blunt asked:
“Is there anything else you want to know?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“What about Morley?”
Alistair Blunt said simply:
“I was sorry about Morley.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Yes, I see….”
There was a long pause, then Blunt said:
“Well, M. Poirot, what about it?”
Poirot said:
“Helen Montressor is arrested already.”
“And now it’s my turn?”
“That was my meaning, yes.”
Blunt said gently:
“But you are not happy about it, eh?”
“No, I am not at all happy.”
Alistair Blunt said:
“I’ve killed three people. So presumably I ought to be hanged. But you’ve heard my defence.”
“Which is—exactly?”
“That I believe, with all my heart and soul, that I am necessary to the continued peace and well-
being of this country.”
Hercule Poirot allowed:
“That may be—yes.”
“You agree, don’t you?”
“I agree, yes. You stand for all the things that to my mind are important. For sanity and balance
and stability and honest dealing.”
Alistair Blunt said quietly:
“Thanks.”
He added:
“Well, what about it?”
“You suggest that I—retire from the case?”
“Yes.”
“And your wife?”
“I’ve got a good deal of pull. Mistaken identity, that’s the line to take.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then,” said Alistair Blunt simply, “I’m for it.”
He went on:
“It’s in your hands, Poirot. It’s up to you. But I tell you this—and it’s not just self-preservation
—I’m needed in the world. And do you know why? Because I’m an honest man. And because I’ve
got common sense—and no particular axe of my own to grind.”
Poirot nodded. Strangely enough, he believed all that.
He said:
“Yes, that is one side. You are the right man in the right place. You have sanity, judgement,
balance. But there is the other side. Three human beings who are dead.”
“Yes, but think of them! Mabelle Sainsbury Seale—you said yourself—a woman with the
brains of a hen! Amberiotis—a crook and a blackmailer!”
“And Morley?”
“I’ve told you before. I’m sorry about Morley. But after all—he was a decent fellow and a good
dentist—but there are other dentists.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “there are other dentists. And Frank Carter? You would have let him die,
too, without regret?”
Blunt said:
“I don’t waste any pity on him. He’s no good. An utter rotter.”
Poirot said:
“But a human being….”
“Oh well, we’re all human beings….”
“Yes, we are all human beings. That is what you have not remembered. You have said that
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was a foolish human being and Amberiotis an evil one, and Frank Carter
a wastrel—and Morley—Morley was only a dentist and there are other dentists. That is where you
and I, M. Blunt, do not see alike. For to me the lives of those four people are just as important as
your life.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, I am not wrong. You are a man of great natural honesty and rectitude. You took one step
aside—and outwardly it has not affected you. Publicly you have continued the same, upright,
trustworthy, honest. But within you the love of power grew to over-whelming heights. So you
sacrificed four human lives and thought them of no account.”
“Don’t you realize, Poirot, that the safety and happiness of the whole nation depends on me?”
“I am not concerned with nations, Monsieur. I am concerned with the lives of private
individuals who have the right not to have their lives taken from them.”
He got up.
“So that’s your answer,” said Alistair Blunt.
Hercule Poirot said in a tired voice:
“Yes—that is my answer….”
He went to the door and opened it. Two men came in.
十七，十八，在等待 1
十七，十八，在等待
1
第二天，赫尔克里•波洛和他认识的一个戏剧代理人会面了几个小时。下午，他去了牛
津。接下来的一天，他乘车去了郊外，回来时已经比较晚了。
出发前，他打了个电话给阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生，约好当天晚上会面。
晚上九点半，他到了哥特楼。
波洛被领进书房，那里只有阿利斯泰尔•布伦特一个人。他与他的客人握手，整个人看
上去就像个急切的大问号。他说：“怎么样？”
赫尔克里•波洛慢慢地点点头。布伦特用几乎是用又怀疑又欣赏的目光望着他。
“您找到她了？”
“是的，是的，我找到她了。”他坐下来，然后叹了口气。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“您很累吧？”
“是的，我很累。我要告诉您的，可不是什么好消息啊。”
布伦特问：“她死了吗？”
“这取决于，”赫尔克里•波洛缓慢地说，“您怎么看。”
布伦特皱起眉头。他说：“我亲爱的先生，一个人不是死，就是活。塞恩斯伯里•西尔
小姐只能居其一啊！”
“呃，但是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐又是谁呢？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“您不是想说——根本就没有这个人吧？”
“噢，不是，不是的。有这么个人，她曾经住在加尔各答，教人们演讲技巧，她还热衷
于慈善工作。她搭乘‘马哈拉那’号轮船来到英国——与安伯里奥兹先生同船，虽然他们是
在不同等级的仓位。他还因为什么事儿帮了她——她的行李出了点儿问题。看来他在小事
情上还是个热心人。而有时，布伦特先生，好心可以得到意想不到的回报。您知道，对于
安伯里奥兹先生来说正是这样。他后来在伦敦街头又偶然遇到了这位女士，他当时心情很
好，就好心地邀请她与他一起在萨伏依酒店共进午餐。这对她来说可是不期而遇的好事
儿，对安伯里奥兹先生则更是一个意想不到的收获！因为他的好心是没有预谋的，他压根
儿就没想到这个容颜已逝的中年女子会给他带来一座金矿般的发财机会。但是，她尽管这
么做了，却一点儿都没有觉察。您知道她从来都不怎么聪明，虽然是个充满善意的好人，
但是——我想说——脑子不是很灵光。”
布伦特说：“那么那个叫查普曼的女人不是她杀的了？”
波洛不紧不慢地说：
“我不知道该怎样来讲这件事。我想，还是应该从我开始接触这件事讲起。是关于一只
鞋！”
布伦特茫然地问：“一只鞋？”
“对，一只带鞋扣的鞋。当时我看完牙从牙医那儿出来，站在夏洛特皇后街五十八号的
台阶上。这时一辆出租车停了下来，门开后，一个女人的脚伸了出来。我是个喜欢观察女
人脚和脚腕的人。那是只很好看的脚，脚腕也很漂亮，穿着一双昂贵的丝袜。但是我不喜
欢那只鞋。这是只崭新的、闪闪发亮的漆皮鞋，还带着一个巨大的装饰鞋扣。不雅观，一
点儿都不雅观！当我还在观察这些时，女士整个儿都从车里出来了——坦率地说，实在令
人失望——是一位中年女士，没什么魅力，穿着也没有品位。”
“塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐？”
“非常正确。她下车时发生了事故——她的鞋扣勾到车门，被扯掉了。我把它捡起来并
送还给她。就这样，这段插曲结束了。
“后来，同一天，我和贾普探长一起访问了这位女士。顺便提一下，她那时还没有把那
个鞋扣缝上。
“当天晚上，塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐就从她住的酒店出走并消失了。到这里，我们暂且
说，第一幕结束。
“第二幕开始是贾普探长召我去利奥波德国王公寓。在那边的一个公寓里有一只皮草
箱，皮草箱里发现了一具尸体。我走进那间屋子，走近那只箱子，看到的第一件东西就是
一只很破的带鞋扣的鞋！”
“怎么了？”
“您还没有听懂我说的意思，那是一只很破的鞋子——穿得很旧。但是您看，塞恩斯伯
里•西尔小姐是在同一天晚上去的利奥波德国王公寓，也就是莫利先生被害的那一天。早晨
鞋子还是新的。一个人不可能在一天里把一双新鞋穿旧，您明白了吧。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特兴味索然地说：“我想，她也可能有两双这样的鞋吧？”
“啊，但是情况并非如此。因为贾普和我去过她在格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店的房间，并且检
查了她所有的东西——没有一双带鞋扣的鞋子。是的，她可能会有一双旧鞋，走累了一天
之后，在晚上换上了这双鞋，对吧？但是，如果是这样，另外那双鞋应该在酒店里，您同
意吧？”
“我看不出这有什么要紧。”
“不，不要紧，一点儿都不要紧。但是如果有人遇到自己无法解释的问题，就会去下功
夫深究。我站在那个皮草箱边上，看着那只鞋——那个鞋扣是有人用手工新缝上的。我得
承认我当时曾经怀疑过——我自己。是的，我对自己说，赫尔克里•波洛，你早上是不是飘
飘然昏了头了，戴着有色眼镜看世界，把旧鞋子都能看成新鞋子？”
“也许就是这个原因？”
“但是错了，不是这个原因。我的眼睛没有欺骗我！我们继续。我仔细查看了这个女人
的尸体，感觉很不舒服。为什么这张脸被刻意、胡乱地毁掉？是不想让人认出来吗？”
阿利斯泰尔有些不耐烦地动了动。他说：“我们一定要把这些再讲一遍吗？我们都知道
——”
赫尔克里•波洛坚定地说：
“这很有必要，我必须领着您从我走过的路上再走一遍，最终找到真相。我对自己
说：‘这里面有问题。这儿有具女人的尸体穿着塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的衣服（除了鞋子，或
许？），拿着塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的手提包，但是为什么不让人认出她的脸呢？也许是因
为这张脸不是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的脸？’于是我马上开始回想我听到过的另一个女人的样
子——就是那间公寓的主人。我问自己，这里躺着的这个死人会不会是另外这个女人呢？
于是我去看了这个女人的卧室。我试着想象她是个什么样的女人。从表面上看，她与另外
一个很不同，穿戴得体又讲究，很会化妆。但是从基础方面看，并没有大的区别，头发，
身材，年龄……但是有一个不同点，阿尔伯特•查普曼夫人穿五号鞋，而我知道，塞恩斯伯
里•西尔小姐穿九号丝袜，也就是说她应该至少穿六号的鞋子。这样，查普曼夫人的脚就比
塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的小。我又回到尸体那边。如果我的推断是对的，如果尸体是穿着塞
恩斯伯里•西尔小姐衣服的查普曼夫人，那么鞋子应该过大。我抓起一只脚，但是发现鞋子
并不松，反而还很紧。这么看尸体还是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐！但是，如果是这样，为什么
还要毁了这张脸呢？手提包已经证明了她的身份，它本可以被轻易地处理掉，但却没有。
“这简直是个谜，一个头绪混乱的谜团。绝望之中，我拿起了查普曼夫人的地址簿——
唯一可以确认死者身份的人就是牙医，碰巧查普曼夫人的牙医也是莫利先生。莫利已经死
了，但还是有办法鉴定身份。结果您已经知道了。接替莫利的医生在法庭上做证尸体就是
阿尔伯特•查普曼夫人。”
布伦特有点烦躁不安。但是波洛毫不理会，接着说：
“我遇到了一个心理学问题。梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔到底是个什么样的女人？这个问
题有两个答案。第一个很明显，她有朋友证实她在印度住了很久，他们把她描述为一个诚
恳的、做事认真的、有点儿傻里傻气的女人。还有另外一个塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐吗？显然
是有的。这个女人和一个知名的谍报人员一起吃午餐；这个女人在大街上和您搭讪，并且
自称是您太太的好朋友——这一点基本上可以肯定是不实之词；这个女人在案发前不久刚
从一个男人的诊所里出来；这个女人在那天晚上去拜访了另一个女人，而且很有可能就在
那时另外那个女人被谋杀了；这个女人从那时起就消失了，尽管她一定知道伦敦警方正在
寻找自己。所有这些行为与她朋友对她的描述一致吗？看起来不一致。所以，如果这个塞
恩斯伯里•西尔小姐不是她原本那样和善的好人，那么看起来她就很有可能是个冷血女杀
手，或者是个同谋。
“我还有一个准则——我自己的亲身印象。我跟梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔交谈过。她给
我留下了什么印象呢？这，布伦特先生，是个最难回答的问题。她说的话，她说话的方
式，她的举止，她的手势符合人们对她的描述。但是，它们也同样符合一个聪明的演员对
一个角色的扮演。不管怎么说，梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔最初就是个演员。
“有一段对话给我留下了深刻印象，就是我和住在伊灵的巴恩斯先生的对话。他那天也
去了夏洛特皇后街五十八号看牙。他的理论是——他对此非常武断——莫利和安伯里奥兹
的死都纯属偶然，也就是说，真正的目标其实是您。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“哦，是的，这倒是真的，但是为什么要把莫利也牵扯进来？”
波洛说：“因为这个案子里有——怎么说呢？有些丧心病狂的人，他们不计代价，不惜
夺走人的生命。是的，一种不顾一切的丧心病狂，这就意味着有更大的阴谋！”
“您不认为莫利是因为出了错儿开枪自杀的？”
“我从来都没有这么想过——一分钟都没有。不，莫利是被谋杀的。安伯里奥兹是被谋
杀的，那个不知身份的女人也是被谋杀的。为什么？因为更大的阴谋。巴恩斯的理论是有
人试图贿赂莫利或者他的合伙人，以达到暗杀您的目的。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特厉声说：“一派胡言！”
“啊，可是他说得一点儿道理都没有吗？比如一个人想要铲除某个人，但是对方非常谨
慎小心，很难有机会下手。要想杀了这个人就需要在他毫无戒备的情况下接近他，那么，
一个人什么时候才能比在牙医诊室里更无戒备呢？”
“呃，这是真的，我想。我从来没有这么想过。”
“这确实是真的。一旦意识到这一点，我就对事情的真相有了最初朦胧的感觉。”
“所以您接受巴恩斯的理论？巴恩斯是谁，顺便问一句？”
“巴恩斯是赖利约在十二点的病人。他从内务部退休，现在住在伊灵。一个无足轻重的
小个子。但是，您说我接受了他的理论，那就错了。我没有，我只是接受了其中的精髓。”
“您是什么意思？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“一直以来，我都在被误导——有时是无心的，有时是刻意的。一直以来，我都在被暗
示、被迫使认为这个案子是我们所说的社会性犯罪案件。也就是说，您，布伦特先生，您
的公众人物的身份，才是整个案子的焦点。您这位银行家，您这位国家财政的掌管者，您
这位保守势力的拥护者！
“但是所有公众人物都有自己的私生活。我的错就是我忘记了私生活这一块。有人因为
私人恩怨想要杀死莫利——比如说弗兰克•卡特。
“也可能有人会由于私人恩怨想杀害您——您的亲属会在您过世后得到财产。有人爱
您，也有人恨您——作为一个普通人，而不是公众人物。
“所以我回到了我称作‘逼迫识牌游戏’的更高级的事例上。也就是弗兰克•卡特对您的那
次所谓的袭击。如果这次袭击名副其实，那么它就是一桩政治性犯罪。但是有没有另外一
种解释呢？也许有。树丛里还有第二个人，这个人冲上去抓住了卡特。他可能先开了一
枪，然后把手枪扔到卡特身边，后者几乎必然会捡起来，然后被人发现手里握着那把
枪……
“我也想过霍华德•赖克斯的问题。赖克斯在莫利死的那天上午也去了夏洛特皇后街。
赖克斯对您所代表的一切深恶痛绝。他就是这么一个人，但赖克斯还不止于此，他可能会
同您的外甥孙女儿结婚。如果您死了，您的外甥孙女儿会继承一笔非常可观的财产，尽管
您已经做出了谨慎的安排，使她无法动用本金。
“难道这一切，说到底，不是一桩私人性质的，为了私人利益、满足私人欲望的罪案
吗？为什么我之前一直认为它是桩社会性罪案？因为有人将这个概念，不只一次地向我提
起，把它强加于我，就好像那张被逼出的纸牌……
“这时，当我有了这个想法之后，我才第一次看到了事情真相的曙光。我当时在教堂
里，正在唱着赞美诗——讲的是一个绳索编织的圈套……
“一个圈套？给我设的？是的，有可能是……但如果真是这样，谁设的圈套呢？只有一
个人有可能这么做……不过好像讲不通啊——或者讲得通？难道我一直在颠倒着看这个案
子吗？莫利不是目标？确实如此！对人生命的无情践踏？是的。因为罪犯承担的风险是巨
大的。
“但是如果我的这个新奇的想法是正确的话，它一定要对所有发生的事情都有合理的解
释。比如，它必须要能解释塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐双重性格的秘密，它必须要揭开带着鞋扣
的鞋的谜团，它必须要回答出‘塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐现在身处何方’这个问题。
“好吧，它不仅可以解答以上所有的问题，而且还不止这些。它告诉我塞恩斯伯里•西
尔小姐关系到这个案子的开头、过程和结尾。所以在我看来，有两个梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西
尔。事实上也确实有两个梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔。有一个是她的朋友们所说的那个和善
的、有点傻气的好人；另一个是那个和两起凶杀有关，撒了谎，然后神秘消失的女人。
“请记住，利奥波德国王公寓的门童说塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐之前曾经去过一次……
“以我对这个案情的还原，这是第一次也是唯一的一次。她再也没有离开过利奥波德国
王公寓。另外一个塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐取代了她。这另外一个梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔，
穿着同样款式的衣服，和一双带鞋扣的新鞋，因为其他那些鞋子都太小了。她在某天的一
个繁忙时间里去了拉塞尔广场酒店，带走了这个已死女人的衣服，付了账单，然后离开
了。她去了格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店。还记得吗，从这时开始，塞恩斯伯里•西尔的朋友们都没
再见过她。她在那里扮演了一个星期的梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔。她穿着梅布尔•塞恩斯伯
里•西尔的衣服，用梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔那样的声音讲话，但是她还必须买一双小一点
的晚装鞋。然后——她就消失了，人们最后一次看到她是她在莫利被害的那天晚上再次回
到利奥波德国王酒店。”
“您是想说，”阿利斯泰尔•布伦特问，“箱子里的那具尸体最后还是梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•
西尔的？”
“当然是！把脸毁了只是一颗很聪明的烟幕弹，引导人们怀疑死者的身份！”
“可是牙医的证据呢？”
“啊！说到这个，给出证据的并不是牙医本人。莫利已经死了，他不可能再给出任何证
据。他本来知道这个死去的女人是谁。现在的这个证据只是那些病人卡片，而那些卡片是
伪造的。两个女人都是他的病人，记得吧，只要重新填写那些卡片，把名字换一下就行
了。”
赫尔克里•波洛接着说：
“现在您明白当您问我那个女人是不是死了时，我回答说，‘这取决于您怎么看’了吧？
因为当您说塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐时，您指的是哪个女人？是从格伦戈威尔宫廷酒店消失的
那个，还是真正的梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：
“我知道，波洛先生，您一向很有声望。所以我想您做出这么不同凡响的假设一定是有
根据的。但在我看来，这只是异想天开的臆测。您说，梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔是被蓄意谋
杀的，莫利也是因为怕他能认出她的身份而被谋杀的，对吧？但是为什么？我想知道，这
个女人，一个完全没有危害到谁的中年女人——有很多朋友，显然没有什么敌人——究竟
为什么有人要用这么个大阴谋来杀害她呢？”
“为什么？是的，正是这个问题。为什么？正如您所说，梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔是个
毫无杀伤力的人，连只苍蝇都危害不到！那么为什么她会被蓄意地、惨无人道地杀害呢？
让我来告诉您我的想法。”
“嗯？”
赫尔克里•波洛身体前倾，说：
“我相信梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔被害是因为她碰巧有对于见过的人过目不忘的本领。”
“您是什么意思？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“我们已经把双重人格分离了开来。一个是从印度来的与世无争的女士，还有一个是聪
明的演员，扮演了那个从印度回来的与世无争的女士。但是有一件事落在这两个角色之
间。在莫利先生房前跟您说话的是哪个梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐？您记得，她自称
是‘您太太的一个好朋友’。现在她的这个说法，无论是基于她朋友的判断，还是正常的可
能性推理，都被证明是不属实的。所以，我们可以说：‘这是个谎言，真正的塞恩斯伯里•西
尔小姐是不会说谎的。’所以这是冒名顶替者为了达到某个目的而撒的谎。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特点点头。
“是的，这个推断很清晰，尽管我还是不明白目的是什么。”
波洛说：
“啊，对不起。但是让我们先从另一个角度来看看。那个真正的塞恩斯伯里•西尔小
姐，她不说谎，所以她讲的是真话。”
“我想您是可以这么看，但是这看上去非常不可能——”
“当然不可能！但是暂且把这第二个假设当作事实吧——她说的是真话。那么塞恩斯伯
里•西尔小姐确实认识您太太，而且很熟悉。那么，您太太一定是塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐非常
熟悉的那种人，一个和她有着相同生活状况的人，一个英属印度人，一个传教者——或
者，再往前说——一个演员，那么——就不会是丽贝卡•阿诺德！
“现在，布伦特先生，您明白我为什么要谈论私人生活和公众生活了吧？您是位伟大的
银行家，但是您同时也娶了一位有钱的阔太太。在您和她结婚前，您仅仅是一个公司——
离牛津不远的初级合伙人。
“您知道，我开始从正确的方向来看待这个案子。不惜代价？对您来说这是很自然的事
儿。毫不吝惜他人的生命——这一点也同样，因为您早就是个名副其实的独裁者了。对于
独裁者来说，他自己的生命至关重要，而别人的生命则无足轻重。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“您想说什么，波洛先生？”
波洛不动声色地说：
“我想说，布伦特先生，当您和丽贝卡•阿诺德结婚时，您已经是个有妇之夫。我想
说，出于对美好未来的渴望，又由于您当时既没有什么财富，又没有什么权势，您就隐瞒
了这个事实，刻意地犯了重婚罪。我想说，您真正的太太默认了这个局面。”
“那么这个真正的太太又是谁呢？”
“她冒用了阿尔伯特•查特曼夫人这个名字住在利奥伯特国王公寓——一个很方便的地
点，离您在切尔西堤的房子步行不到五分钟。您借用了一个真正的特工的名字，知道这样
就可以帮她向人们暗示她丈夫是做谍报工作的。您的计划非常完美地实现了，没有引起过
任何怀疑。然而，事实终归是事实，您从未合法地与丽贝卡•阿诺德结婚，而且犯了重婚
罪。这么多年过去了，您从来没有想到过会有什么危险。这时它突然出现了——来自一个
讨厌的近二十年后还记得您的女人。她偶然回到英国，偶然在夏洛特皇后街与您相遇；也
是出于偶然，您的外甥孙女儿当时跟您在一起，听到了她对您说的话。否则我可能永远都
猜不到。”
“那是我自己告诉您的，亲爱的波洛。”
“不对，是您的外甥孙女儿坚持要告诉我的，而您又不能明显地横加阻拦，以免引起怀
疑。那次见面之后，又有一件倒霉事（对您来说）发生了。梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔遇到了
安伯里奥兹，同他一起吃了午餐，对他讲起了跟一个朋友丈夫的那次相遇——‘这么多年过
去了！’‘当然，看上去老了点儿，但几乎没什么变化！’我承认，这完全是我的猜想，但是
我相信事情就是这么发生的。我想梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐一点儿都没有想到她朋友嫁
给的那个布伦特先生是当今世界金融的幕后操纵者。您的名字，不管怎么说，都非同凡
响。还记得安伯里奥兹吧，他除了干那些间谍活动之外，还是个敲诈勒索者。勒索者对于
秘密有着异乎寻常的嗅觉。安伯里奥兹心下一盘算，很容易就发现了这位布伦特先生的秘
密。然后，我相信，他给您写了信，或者打了电话……噢，是的，对于安伯里奥兹来说，
您是一座金矿。”
波洛停歇片刻，接着说：
“对付一个高效又有经验的勒索者只有一种有效的办法——让他闭嘴。这个案子并不像
我之前误认为的那样，是‘布伦特一定得滚蛋’，相反，是‘安伯里奥兹必须滚蛋’。不过答案
都是一样的！要接近一个人，最容易的方法就是趁他毫无防备之时，那么一个人在什么时
候能比躺在牙医椅子上时更无防备呢？”
波洛又停顿了一下，一丝难以觉察的微笑浮现在他的嘴边。他说：
“这个案子的真相很早就有人提及——门童艾尔弗雷德。他当时正在读一本犯罪小说，
题目是《死于十一点四十五分》。我们当时就应该意识到这个预示。因为，这正好是莫利
遇害的时间。您在准备离开诊室时开枪打死了他，接着您按响了蜂鸣器，打开了洗手池的
水龙头，离开了那个房间。您掐算好时间，好让自己下梯时刚好碰上艾尔弗雷德领着那个
冒牌的梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔进电梯。您确实打开了前门，也许还走了出去，但是当电梯
关门向上运行的时候，您又溜进房子，从楼梯上了楼。
“基于我的亲身经历，我知道艾尔弗雷德是怎么领病人上楼的。他会先敲敲门，打开
门，向后退一步让病人进去。里面的水还在流——可以推论，莫利像往常一样还在洗手。
但是艾尔弗雷德其实看不到他。
“等艾尔弗雷德从电梯下去之后，您就立即溜进那个诊室，和您的同谋一起把尸体抬进
了相连的那个办公室。然后迅速在病人档案里找出查特曼夫人和塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐的卡
片，伪造了记录。您穿上白大褂，也许您太太还帮您稍作化妆，但其实不需要做什么，因
为那是安伯里奥兹第一次去莫利那儿看牙。况且他从没有见过您，您的照片也很少在报纸
上出现。另外，他为什么要怀疑呢？勒索者并不害怕他的牙医啊。塞恩斯伯里•西尔小姐下
了楼，艾尔弗雷德把她送出门。蜂鸣器响起，安伯里奥兹被送上楼。他看到牙医在门背后
洗手，一切无恙。他被领进牙医椅，把那颗疼痛的牙指给医生看。您按照医生的惯例与他
交谈。您解释说最好要麻醉他的牙龈。普鲁卡因和肾上腺素就在那里。您给他注射了足以
致死的剂量。顺便说一句，他因此不会对您的医术产生任何怀疑！
“安伯里奥兹走时没有任何疑心。您把莫利的尸体拉出来放在地板上，又往地毯上拖了
一点。这时，您只能自己来做这件事。您把手枪擦干净放在他手里，又擦干净门把手——
这样您的指纹就不会最后留在上面——把您用过的仪器都扔进消毒器里。然后您离开了那
个房间，在合适的时间从楼梯上走下去，并溜出大门。这是您唯一有危险的时刻。
“一切都应该顺利过去了！两个对您有威胁的人都死了。第三个人也死了——但是，在
您看来，这不可避免。而且，所有这些都有很好的解释。莫利自杀是因为他对安伯里奥兹
犯了个错，这样一下就死了两个。一次令人遗憾的事故。
“但是出乎您的意料，我出场了。我产生了怀疑，对已有的解释提出了异议。一切都没
有如您所愿的那样顺利进行。所以一定得有第二个防范措施。如果需要，一定要有个替罪
羊。您对莫利那里的情况早已了如指掌。弗兰克•卡特，就是个合适的人选。于是您的同谋
就以秘密工作者的形式安排他做了一名园丁。如此，将来他讲出这段荒诞经历就没有人会
相信。到一定的时候，皮草箱子里的尸体会被发现。一开始，人们会认为那是塞恩斯伯里•
西尔小姐，然后牙医的证明会推翻这个结论。巨大的轰动！看上去这似乎没有什么必要，
而且会将事情复杂化，但其实不然。您不想让英国警方四处寻找失踪的阿尔伯特•查特曼。
不，那就让查特曼夫人死吧，让警察去找梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔，因为他们永远也不可能
找到她。另外，您可以通过您的影响力叫停对于本案的调查。
“您确实这么做了。不过，您还需要知道我在做什么，于是您把我叫来，敦促我去找那
个失踪的女人。您继续不断地‘强加牌’给我。您的同谋给我打电话，煞有介事地威胁我，
同样的招数——间谍，社会性谋杀。她是个聪明的演员，您的这位太太，为了掩盖自己原
有的声音，故意模仿别人说话。您太太模仿了奥利维娅夫人的说话语调。应该说，这一招
确实迷惑了我。
“后来我又被带到爱夏庄，最后的表演开始了。将一把装好子弹的手枪摆在月桂树丛中
是很容易的。一个正在剪枝的男人，无意中把它弄走火了，枪掉在他脚下，惊慌失措中他
把枪捡起来。还能怎么样呢？他被当场抓获，还附带一个荒唐的故事。而且手枪与杀害莫
利的那把是一对儿。
“所有这些都是一个圈套，等着赫尔克里•波洛来跳呢。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特在椅子里动了动。他面色阴沉，而且有点悲伤。他说：“别误解
我，波洛先生，有多少是您的猜测？又有多少是您确实知道的？”
波洛说：
“我找到了那份结婚证书——在牛津附近的一个婚姻登记处——是马丁•阿利斯泰尔•布
伦特和格尔达•格兰特两个人的。弗兰克•卡特在十二点二十五分刚过时看到两个男人从莫利
的诊室出来。第一个人很胖——安伯里奥兹；第二个，当然就是您。弗兰克•卡特没有认出
您来，他只是从上面往下看到了。”
“您可真诚实！”
“他走进诊室，发现了莫利的尸体。他的手已经冰凉，伤口周围的血也干了。这就说明
莫利已经死了一段时间。所以，给安伯里奥兹看牙的人绝不可能是莫利，而是杀害莫利的
凶手。”
“还有什么？”
“对了，海伦•蒙特雷索今天下午被捕了。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特的身体为之一震，然后他一动不动地坐在那里。他说：“那么——
谜底揭开了。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：
“是的，真正的海伦•蒙特雷索，您的远房表妹，七年前死于加拿大。您隐瞒了事实，
并利用了它。”
一丝笑容出现在阿利斯泰尔•布伦特嘴边，他自然地、带着孩子般满足的神情说：
“这一切都是因为格尔达玩得太过火了。我想让您知道，您是如此聪明，我跟她结婚时
没有告诉别人。她当时在话剧团当演员。我周围都是那种很自律的人，而且我正要成为公
司合伙人。我们商定先不公开。她继续演戏。梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔也在公司里，她认识
我们。后来她跟一个旅行社出国了，格尔达收到过一两封她从印度的来信。之后她就不写
了。梅布尔又跟印度扯上了关系，她永远都是一个愚蠢轻信的女人。我希望我能让您理解
我跟丽贝卡的相识和我的婚姻。格尔达理解我。我只能用‘王室’来描述我们的关系。这桩
婚姻让我和女王结婚，扮演女王的丈夫，甚至是国王。在我看来，我和格尔达的婚姻是贵
贱通婚，我爱她，不想抛弃她。这一切其实一直都发展得很顺利。我非常喜欢丽贝卡。她
是一个极有金融头脑的女人，而我也不输给她。我们是很好的工作伙伴，这真是令人激动
啊。她是个出色的伴侣，我想我也让她感到很幸福。她死的时候我非常难过。奇怪的是，
我和格尔达渐渐地喜欢上了秘密幽会带来的兴奋，我们用了各种有创意的手段。她天生就
是个演员，扮演过七八个角色——阿尔伯特•查特曼只不过是其中之一。她曾经是一个住在
巴黎的美国寡妇，我出差时和她在那里幽会；她曾经是一个画家，带着画具去挪威，我则
去那边钓鱼。后来，我让她假扮我表妹，海伦•蒙特雷索。这对我们来说都特别有趣，我
想，也让我们一直保持着相互的吸引力。丽贝卡死后，我们本可以正式结婚，但是我们并
不想。格尔达觉得正式成为我太太会过得比较辛苦，当然，过去的事情也可能会被挖出
来。不过我想我们继续这样做的真正原因还是我们喜欢其中的神秘色彩。如果公开地生活
在一起，我们可能会感到无聊。”
布伦特停顿了一下，再开口时，他的声音变得强硬起来:
“然后，就是那个傻女人把一切都搞砸了。过了这么多年，她竟然还认得出我！而且告
诉了安伯里奥兹。您知道——您一定明白——必须要做点儿什么！这并不完全是为了我自
己，不只是出于自私。如果我被毁了，名誉扫地——国家，我的国家也会受到牵连，因为
我还是为英格兰做了点儿事的，波洛先生。是我支撑着它一直坚挺，是我让它保持着财
力。它没有遭到独裁者的践踏——无论是法西斯还是共产主义。我对金钱本身并不在乎，
我在乎的是权力，我喜欢统治，但是我不会搞专制。我们英格兰是民主国家——真正的民
主国家。我们可以发牢骚，可以随心所欲地谈论政治家，甚至取笑他们。我们是自由的。
这是我所喜欢的，我一生也都在为此而奋斗。但是，如果我倒台了，那么您知道会发生什
么样的事情。国家需要我，波洛先生。一个可恶的成天敲诈勒索的希腊无赖想要毁了我一
世的英明，我必须采取措施。格尔达也明白这一点。我们对塞恩斯伯里•西尔这个女人感到
抱歉，但是没有办法，我们必须让她闭嘴。我们不相信她能保守秘密。格尔达去找她，说
请她喝茶，告诉对方自己住在查特曼夫人的公寓里。梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔去了，一点儿
都没有怀疑。她什么都不知道——巴比妥钠是放在茶里的，没有任何痛苦，只是睡过去再
也不会醒来。脸是后来才弄的，虽然令人作呕，但是我们觉得有必要这么做。查特曼夫人
要完全消失。我让我的‘表妹海伦’住在这儿的一个农舍里。我们已经想好，再过一段时间
我们就结婚。但是首先，我们要把安伯里奥兹除掉。这次干得很漂亮。他没有怀疑我不是
个牙医，我自己对那些器具也掌握得很好。我没敢用牙钻。当然，给他打完麻药后他什么
也感觉不到。也许用钻头也没问题！”
波洛问：“手枪呢？”
“那两把手枪其实属于我原来在美国的一个秘书。他从国外什么地方买的，离开时忘记
带走了。”
一阵沉默。
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特问：“您还有什么想知道的吗？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“那么莫利呢？”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特轻描淡写地说：“我对莫利感到抱歉。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“好吧，我明白了……”
又是一阵长时间的沉默。
布伦特说：“那么，波洛先生，怎么样？”
波洛说：“海伦•蒙特雷索已经被捕了。”
“所以现在轮到我了？”
“是的，我就是这个意思。”
布伦特温和地说：“但是您对此并不感到高兴，对吧？”
“是的，我一点儿都不高兴。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说：“我杀了三个人，所以估计应该会上绞刑架。但是您也听了我
的辩词。”
“那是——具体地说？”
“就是我相信，我全身心地相信，我对这个国家持久的和平及安宁是有用的。”
赫尔克里•波洛承认说：“是的，也许是这样。”
“您同意，对吗？”
“我同意，是的。您代表着我认为的那些很重要的东西，健全、平衡、稳定以及诚
实。”
阿利斯泰尔•布伦特轻轻地说了声：“谢谢。”他接着问：“那么，怎么样呢？”
“您建议我——退出这个案子？”
“是的。”
“那您的太太呢？”
“我有办法，可以说弄错人了嘛。”
“如果我不答应呢？”
“那么，”阿利斯泰尔•布伦特轻松地说，“我就甘愿受罚。”他继续说：“一切都在您的掌
握中，波洛，由您来决定。但是我告诉您，我这不只是为了自保——这个世界需要我。您
知道为什么吗？因为我是个诚实的人，因为我懂得常识，而且我没什么私心。”
波洛点点头。奇怪的是，他同意这些说法。
他说：“是的，这只是一方面。您是很胜任您现在的工作。您很明智，有判断力和平衡
能力。但是还有另外一面，那三条死去的人命。”
“是的，但是您想想这些人！梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔，您自己都说她是一个傻女人！
安伯里奥兹，一个坏人、敲诈勒索犯！”
“还有莫利呢？”
“我之前已经告诉过您，我为莫利感到抱歉。不管怎么说，他是个正直体面的人，也是
个好牙医，但是还有其他的牙医啊。”
“是的，”波洛说，“是还有其他牙医。弗兰克•卡特呢？您也会把他送上断头台，没有愧
疚？”
布伦特说：“对他我没有任何怜悯之心。他一无是处，是个彻头彻尾的无赖。”
波洛说：“但也是一条人命……”
“哦，我们都是人……”
“是的，我们都是人。这就是您不记得的地方。您刚才说梅布尔•塞恩斯伯里•西尔是个
愚蠢的人，安伯里奥兹是个邪恶的人，弗兰克•卡特是个懒惰无用的人。莫利呢，也只不过
是个牙医，反正还有其他的牙医。布伦特先生，这就是您和我见解不同的地方。在我看
来，这四个人的生命和您的一样重要。”
“您说错了。”
“不，我没说错。您是一个天生诚实、有准确判断力的人，但您走错了一步——表面上
您没有受到任何影响。公开场合里，您还是像以前一样，正直，可靠，诚实。但是内心，
您对权力的热爱已经发展到惊人的地步。所以您牺牲掉四个人的性命，而且觉得无关紧
要。”
“您难道没有意识到，波洛，这整个国家的安全和幸福都需要我来维系吗？”
“我并不为全国人民担忧，先生。我为每一个有权不被夺取性命的个人而担忧。”
他站起身来。
“那么，这就是您的回答了。”阿利斯泰尔•布伦特说。
赫尔克里•波洛用疲惫的声音说：“是的，这就是我的回答……”他向门口走去，打开
门。两个男人走了进来。
SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAIDS IN WAITING 2
II
Hercule Poirot went down to where a girl was waiting.
Jane Olivera, her face white and strained, stood against the mantelpiece. Beside her was
Howard Raikes.
She said:
“Well?”
Poirot said gently:
“It is all over.”
Raikes said harshly:
“What do you mean?”
Poirot said:
“Mr. Alistair Blunt has been arrested for murder.”
Raikes said:
“I thought he’d buy you off….”
Jane said:
“No. I never thought that.”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“The world is yours. The New Heaven and the New Earth. In your new world, my children, let
there be freedom and let there be pity … That is all I ask.”
十七，十八，在等待 2
2
赫尔克里•波洛从楼梯上走下来，一个女子在那里等他。
简•奥利维娅，面色惨白，神情紧张，站在壁炉前。她边上站着霍华德•赖克斯。
她问：“怎么样了？”
波洛温柔地说：“都结束了。”
赖克斯粗暴地问：“您是什么意思？”
波洛说：“阿利斯泰尔•布伦特先生由于谋杀已经被捕。”
赖克斯说：“我以为他会把您给收买了……”
简说：“不，我从来都没有这么想过。”
波洛叹了口气。他说：
“世界是你们的。崭新的天空，崭新的大地。在你们的新世界里，孩子们，一定要让它
有自由，有怜悯……这就是我对你们的要求。”
NINETEEN, TWENTY, MY PLATE’S EMPTY
NINETEEN, TWENTY, MY PLATE’S EMPTY
Hercule Poirot walked home along the deserted streets.
An unobtrusive figure joined him.
“Well?” said Mr. Barnes.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands.
Barnes said:
“What line did he take?”
“He admitted everything and pleaded justification. He said that this country needed him.”
“So it does,” said Mr. Barnes.
He added after a minute or two:
“Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, then—”
“We may be wrong,” said Hercule Poirot.
“I never thought of that,” said Mr. Barnes. “So we may.”
They walked on for a little way, then Barnes asked curiously:
“What are you thinking about?”
Hercule Poirot quoted:
“Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.”
“Hm—I see—” said Mr. Barnes. “Saul—after the Amalekites. Yes, you could think of it that
way.”
They walked on a little farther, then Barnes said:
“I take the tube here. Good night, Poirot.” He paused, then said awkwardly: “You know—
there’s something I’d like to tell you.”
“Yes, mon ami?”
“Feel I owe it to you. Led you astray unintentionally. Fact of the matter is, Albert Chapman,
Q.X.912.”
“Yes?”
“I’m Albert Chapman. That’s partly why I was interested. I knew, you see, that I’d never had a
wife.”
He hurried away, chuckling.
Poirot stood stock still. Then his eyes opened, his eyebrows rose.
He said to himself:
“Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty—”
And went home.
十九，二十，终散席
十九，二十，终散席
赫尔克里•波洛沿着空无一人的马路往家走。
不知不觉中有个人影出现在他身边。
“怎么样？”巴恩斯先生问。
赫尔克里•波洛耸耸肩膀，双手一摊。
巴恩斯说：“他是怎么说的？”
“他什么都承认了，辩解说是为了正当理由。他说这个国家需要他。”
“确实如此。”巴恩斯先生说。
一两分钟后他又说：“您不这么想吗？”
“是的，我也这么想。”
“那么，然后——”
“我们也许错了。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“这我倒没想过，”巴恩斯先生说，“也许吧。”
他们走上了一条小路，
巴恩斯好奇地问：“您在想什么？”
赫尔克里•波洛这时引用道：“你既厌弃耶和华的命令，耶和华也厌弃你做王。”（注：
语出《圣经•撒母耳记上》第十五章。耶和华命令以色列王扫罗除灭亚玛力人，包括吃奶婴
孩和牲畜。但扫罗不顺从神的命令，怜惜亚玛力王亚甲，又爱惜亚玛力人上好的牛羊，不
肯灭绝，故遭上帝厌弃。）
“哦，我知道，”巴恩斯先生说，“扫罗——攻打亚玛力人之后。是的，你可以这么认
为。”
他们又同行了一段路，然后巴恩斯说：“我要在这儿换地铁，晚安，波洛。”他停下
来，又有点儿尴尬地说：“您知道，有件事儿我想告诉您。”
“什么，我的朋友？”
“我觉得对不住您，因为无意中把您误导了。实际上，阿尔伯特•查特曼Q.X.912……”
“怎么？”
“我就是阿尔伯特•查特曼。这也是我为什么感兴趣的部分原因。不过，您知道，我从
来都没有妻子。”
他匆匆地走了，一边暗自发笑。
波洛一动不动地站着，他的眼睛睁得大大的，眉毛挑了起来。
他自言自语道：“十九，二十，终散席……”然后朝家走去。