Introduction
Introduction
CARLA LEMARCHANT
Hercule Poirot looked with interest and appreciation at the young woman who was being usheredinto the room.
There had been nothing distinctive in the letter she had written. It had been a mere request foran appointment, with no hint of what lay behind that request. It had been brief and businesslike.
Only the firmness of the handwriting had indicated that Carla Lemarchant was a young woman.
And now here she was in the flesh—a tall, slender young woman in the early twenties. The kindof young woman that one definitely looked at twice. Her clothes were good, an expensive well-cutcoat and skirt and luxurious furs. Her head was well poised on her shoulders, she had a squarebrow, a sensitively cut nose and a determined chin. She looked very much alive. It was heraliveness, more than her beauty, which struck the predominant note.
Before her entrance, Hercule Poirot had been feeling old—now he felt rejuvenated—alive—keen!
As he came forward to greet her, he was aware of her dark grey eyes studying him attentively.
She was very earnest in that scrutiny.
She sat down and accepted the cigarette that he offered her. After it was lit she sat for a minuteor two smoking, still looking at him with that earnest, thoughtful gaze.
Poirot said gently:
“Yes, it has to be decided, does it not?”
She started. “I beg your pardon?”
Her voice was attractive, with a faint, agreeable huskiness in it.
“You are making up your mind, are you not, whether I am a mere mountebank, or the man youneed?”
She smiled. She said:
“Well, yes—something of that kind. You see, Mr. Poirot, you—you don’t look exactly the wayI pictured you.”
“And I am old, am I not? Older than you imagined?”
“Yes, that too.” She hesitated. “I’m being frank, you see. I want—I’ve got to have—the best.”
“Rest assured,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am the best!”
Carla said: “You’re not modest…All the same, I’m inclined to take you at your word.”
Poirot said placidly:
“One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure thefootprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for meto sit back in my chair and think. It is this”— he tapped his egg- shaped head —“this thatfunctions!”
“I know,” said Carla Lemarchant. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I want you, you see, to dosomething fantastic!”
“That,” said Hercule Poirot, “promises well!”
He looked at her in encouragement.
Carla Lemarchant drew a deep breath.
“My name,” she said, “isn’t Carla. It’s Caroline. The same as my mother’s. I was called afterher.” She paused. “And though I’ve always gone by the name of Lemarchant—my real name isCrale.”
Hercule Poirot’s forehead creased a moment perplexedly. He murmured: “Crale—I seem toremember….”
She said:
“My father was a painter—rather a well-known painter. Some people say he was a great painter.
I think he was.”
Hercule Poirot said: “Amyas Crale?”
“Yes.” She paused, then she went on: “And my mother, Caroline Crale, was tried for murderinghim!”
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot. “I remember now—but only vaguely. I was abroad at the time. Itwas a long time ago.”
“Sixteen years,” said the girl.
Her face was very white now and her eyes two burning lights.
She said:
“Do you understand? She was tried and convicted…She wasn’t hanged because they felt thatthere were extenuating circumstances—so the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life.
But she died only a year after the trial. You see? It’s all over—done—finished with….”
Poirot said quietly: “And so?”
The girl called Carla Lemarchant pressed her hands together. She spoke slowly and haltinglybut with an odd, pointed emphasis.
She said:
“You’ve got to understand—exactly—where I come in. I was five years old at the time it—happened. Too young to know anything about it. I remember my mother and my father, of course,and I remember leaving home suddenly—being taken to the country. I remember the pigs and anice fat farmer’s wife—and everybody being very kind—and I remember, quite clearly, the funnyway they used to look at me—everybody—a sort of furtive look. I knew, of course, children do,that there was something wrong—but I didn’t know what.
“And then I went on a ship—it was exciting—it went on for days, and then I was in Canada andUncle Simon met me, and I lived in Montreal with him and with Aunt Louise, and when I askedabout Mummy and Daddy they said they’d be coming soon. And then—and then I think I forgot—only I sort of knew that they were dead without remembering anyone actually telling me so.
Because by that time, you see, I didn’t think about them any more. I was very happy, you know.
Uncle Simon and Aunt Louise were sweet to me, and I went to school and had a lot of friends, andI’d quite forgotten that I’d ever had another name, not Lemarchant. Aunt Louise, you see, told methat that was my name in Canada and that seemed quite sensible to me at the time—it was just myCanadian name—but as I say I forgot in the end that I’d ever had any other.”
She flung up her defiant chin. She said:
“Look at me. You’d say—wouldn’t you? if you met me: ‘There goes a girl who’s got nothing toworry about!’ I’m well off, I’ve got splendid health, I’m sufficiently good to look at, I can enjoylife. At twenty, there wasn’t a girl anywhere I’d have changed places with.
“But already, you know, I’d begun to ask questions. About my own mother and father. Whothey were and what they did? I’d have been bound to find out in the end—“As it was, they told me the truth. When I was twenty-one. They had to then, because for onething I came into my own money. And then, you see, there was the letter. The letter my motherleft for me when she died.”
Her expression changed, dimmed. Her eyes were no longer two burning points, they were darkdim pools. She said:
“That’s when I learnt the truth. That my mother had been convicted of murder. It was—ratherhorrible.”
She paused.
“There’s something else I must tell you. I was engaged to be married. They said we must wait—that we couldn’t be married until I was twenty-one. When I knew, I understood why.”
Poirot stirred and spoke for the first time. He said:
“And what was your fiancé’s reaction?”
“John? John didn’t care. He said it made no difference—not to him. He and I were John andCarla—and the past didn’t matter.”
She leaned forward.
“We’re still engaged. But all the same, you know, it does matter. It matters to me. And itmatters to John too…It isn’t the past that matters to us—it’s the future.” She clenched her hands.
“We want children, you see. We both want children. And we don’t want to watch our childrengrowing up and be afraid.”
Poirot said:
“Do you not realize that amongst every one’s ancestors there has been violence and evil?”
“You don’t understand. That’s so, of course. But then, one doesn’t usually know about it. Wedo. It’s very near to us. And sometimes—I’ve seen John just look at me. Such a quick glance—just a flash. Supposing we were married and we’d quarrelled—and I saw him look at me and—andwonder?”
Hercule Poirot said: “How was your father killed?”
Carla’s voice came clear and firm.
“He was poisoned.”
Hercule Poirot said: “I see.”
There was a silence.
Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:
“Thank goodness you’re sensible. You see that it does matter—and what it involves. You don’ttry and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.”
“I understand very well,” said Poirot. “What I do not understand is what you want of me?”
Carla Lemarchant said simply:
“I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and twoboys. And you’re going to make that possible!”
“You mean—you want me to talk to your fiancé? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It issomething quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.”
“Listen, Mr. Poirot. Get this—and get it clearly. I’m hiring you to investigate a case of murder.”
“Do you mean—?”
“Yes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteenyears ago.”
“But my dear young lady—”
“Wait, Mr. Poirot. You haven’t got it all yet. There’s a very important point.”
“Yes?”
“My mother was innocent,” said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:
“Well, naturally—I comprehend that—”
“It isn’t sentiment. There’s her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to mewhen I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason—that I should be quite sure. That’s all thatwas in it. That she hadn’t done it—that she was innocent—that I could be sure of that always.”
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He saidslowly:
“Tout de même—”
Carla smiled.
“No, mother wasn’t like that! You’re thinking that it might be a lie—a sentimental lie?” Sheleaned forward earnestly. “Listen, Mr. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well.
I can remember my mother—a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well the sortof person she was. She didn’t tell lies—kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told youso. Dentists, or thorns in your finger—all that sort of thing. Truth was a—a natural impulse to her.
I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her—but I trusted her. I still trust her! If she says shedidn’t kill my father then she didn’t kill him! She wasn’t the sort of person who would solemnlywrite down a lie when she knew she was dying.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
Carla went on.
“That’s why it’s all right for me marrying John. I know it’s all right. But he doesn’t. He feelsthat naturally I would think my mother was innocent. It’s got to be cleared up, Mr. Poirot. Andyou’re going to do it!”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Granted that what you say is true, mademoiselle, sixteen years have gone by!”
Carla Lemarchant said: “Oh! of course it’s going to be difficult! Nobody but you could do it!”
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled slightly. He said:
“You give me the best butter—hein?”
Carla said:
“I’ve heard about you. The things you’ve done. The way you have done them. It’s psychologythat interests you, isn’t it? Well, that doesn’t change with time. The tangible things are gone—thecigarette end and the footprints and the bent blades of grass. You can’t look for those any more.
But you can go over all the facts of the case, and perhaps talk to the people who were there at thetime—they’re all alive still—and then—and then, as you said just now, you can lie back in yourchair and think. And you’ll know what really happened….”
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. One hand caressed his moustache. He said:
“Mademoiselle, I am honoured! I will justify your faith in me. I will investigate your case ofmurder. I will search back into the events of sixteen years ago and I will find out the truth.”
Carla got up. Her eyes were shining. But she only said:
“Good.”
Hercule Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger.
“One little moment. I have said I will find out the truth. I do not, you understand, have the bias.
I do not accept your assurance of your mother’s innocence. If she was guilty—eh bien, whatthen?”
Carla’s proud head went back. She said:
“I’m her daughter. I want the truth!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“En avant, then. Though it is not that, that I should say. On the contrary. En arrière….”
引子
引子
卡拉•勒马钱特
赫尔克里•波洛带着欣赏的眼光，饶有兴趣地打量着这个正被领进屋来的年轻女子。
她写来的那封信没有什么特别之处，只是要求预约一次会面，而对于目的只字未提。
信写得简洁明了，语气也是公事公办。只有那坚实有力的笔迹才会让人想到卡拉•勒马钱特是一个年轻的女人。
而现在她本人就站在这里，身材高挑，二十出头，绝对是那种你会忍不住想看第二眼的年轻女性。她身着价格不菲、剪裁考究的外套和裙子，脖子上还围着奢侈的毛皮围脖。
她的头有对称的美感，长着两道平直的眉毛，一个线条精巧的鼻子和一个坚毅果敢的下巴。她看上去浑身充满了活力，而这种活力比她的美貌给人留下的印象还要深刻。
在她进来之前，赫尔克里•波洛本来已经觉得自己垂垂老矣，而现在他又感觉自己重新焕发了青春，变得朝气蓬勃，热情高涨起来。
在走上前招呼她的时候，他意识到她那双深灰色的眼睛正在聚精会神地端详着自己，那是一种郑重其事的审视。
她落了座，接过他递上来的烟，点燃以后就那么坐着吸了一小会儿，同时依然用那种认真而若有所思的眼神盯着他。
波洛温和地说道：“好吧，你需要先拿定主意，对吗？”
她突然一惊。“对不起，你说什么？”
她的声音很迷人，稍微有些沙哑，但令人愉悦。
“你心里正在掂量，我到底是个骗子呢，还是你要找的人，不是吗？”
她淡淡一笑，说道：“啊，没错，差不多是这么回事儿。你看，波洛先生，你——你确实和我想象中的不大一样。”
“而且我也太老了，对吗？比你预想得要老？”
“是啊，这也是其中一个原因。”她犹豫了一下，“你看，我怎么想就怎么说吧。我想要——我必须找最好的人选。”
“尽管放心吧，”波洛说，“我就是最好的！”
卡拉说：“你一点儿都不谦虚……不过尽管如此，我还是愿意相信你的话。”
波洛泰然自若地说：“要知道，你并非仅仅雇人替你卖力气。我也并不需要弯下腰去量脚印、捡烟头或者检查被压弯了的草。对我来说，坐在椅子里思考就已经足够了。是这里——”他说着，轻轻拍拍蛋形的脑袋，“这里在起作用！”
“我知道，”卡拉•勒马钱特说，“那就是我来找你的原因。你看，我想请你做一件有点儿异想天开的事情。”
“这个，”波洛说，“听起来很不错啊！”
他用充满鼓励的眼神看着她。
卡拉•勒马钱特深吸了一口气。
“我的名字，”她说，“不叫卡拉。我叫卡罗琳，和我母亲的名字一样，我的名字就是随她起的。”她顿了一下，“而我虽然一直都姓勒马钱特，但实际上我本姓克雷尔。”
赫尔克里•波洛困惑地皱了皱眉头，小声念叨着：“克雷尔——我似乎记得……”
她说：“我父亲是画家，一个相当有名的画家。有些人说他是个杰出的画家。我认为他确实算得上。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“埃米亚斯•克雷尔？”
“正是。”她停了一下，然后继续说道，“而我的母亲，卡罗琳•克雷尔，却因为被控谋杀了他而受审。”
“啊哈，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我现在想起来了，只是印象有点儿模糊。那时候我在国外，应该是很久以前的事儿了。”
“十六年了。”姑娘说道。
此刻的她面色苍白，双目如炬。
她说：“你能明白吗？她受了审，被判有罪……她没被绞死是因为他们觉得案子有可以从轻的情节，所以最后判的是终身监禁和劳役。但她在审判后仅仅一年就死了。你懂了吗？事情就这样过去了——结束了——完了……”
波洛平静地说道：“那你的意思是？”
这个叫卡拉•勒马钱特的姑娘两手交握，说话的语速不快，不时还会停顿下来，但带有一些奇怪的强调语气。
她说：“你必须了解——确切地了解这一切是从何而起的。事情发生的时候我五岁，太小了，什么都不懂。当然了，我记得我的母亲和父亲，也记得我突然就离开家——被带到乡下去了。我记得那些猪群和一个胖胖的亲切的农场主太太——那里所有的人都很友善——我还很清晰地记得他们看我时那种奇怪的样子——每一个人都是那种偷偷摸摸的眼神。我当然知道有什么事情不对劲，孩子都有这种本事，但我并不知道是什么事。”
“接着我就乘船出行了——特别令人兴奋。我们航行了很多天，然后我就到了加拿大。
西蒙姑父来接我，我跟他和路易丝姑姑住在蒙特利尔。当我向他们问起爸爸妈妈的时候，他们告诉我他们很快就会来的。后来——后来的事我想我也忘记了——我只是知道他们都死了，但实际上却不记得有什么人确切告诉过我。你看，到那个时候，我其实已经不太常常想起他们了。你要知道，我生活得很幸福。西蒙姑父和路易丝姑姑都对我特别好，我也上了学，交了很多朋友，而且已经几乎忘记除了勒马钱特之外我还曾经有过其他的姓氏。
路易丝姑姑告诉我那是我在加拿大使用的姓氏，对当时的我来说这似乎是很顺理成章的事情——但就像我刚才说的，最终我忘记了我还曾经有过其他的姓氏。”
她挑衅似的扬了扬下巴，说道：“看着我。如果你在外面遇到我，你肯定会这么说——这一看就是个万事无忧的女孩儿！——对不对？因为我家境殷实，身体健康，天生丽质，可以很好地享受人生。在我二十岁的时候，我不会愿意拿我的位置去和任何一个女孩儿作交换的。”
“但你要知道，我已经开始心生疑问了。我的亲生父母，他们到底是谁？他们又干了什么？我最终必须搞清楚——
“事实上，他们告诉了我真相，就在我二十一岁那年。他们也是不得已，因为我继承了一笔属于我的钱。然后，我看到了那封信。那是我母亲临死前留给我的。”
她的表情黯淡了下来，双眼也不再那么闪闪发亮，而看上去更像是两汪幽潭。她说：“也就是在那个时候，我得知了真相。我母亲被判了谋杀罪，这简直太可怕了。”
她停了一下。
“还有一件事我必须告诉你。我订婚了。他们说我必须等到二十一岁才能够结婚。当我知道真相以后，我明白了其中的原因。”
波洛动了动身子，第一次插嘴。他问道：“那你的未婚夫对此作何反应呢？”
“约翰？约翰才不在乎呢。他说这对他来说都一样。他和我就是约翰和卡拉，过去的事情并不重要。”
她倾身向前。
“我们的婚约依然有效。但是你知道，尽管这么说，这件事还是会有影响的。对我有影响，对约翰也同样有……我们担心的不是过去，而是未来。”说到这里她握紧了双手，“我们想要孩子，你明白吗？我们两个人都想要。但我们不想看着孩子在我们的担惊受怕下长大。”
波洛说：“你难道没有意识到，其实每个人的祖辈都曾经做过暴力和邪恶的事情吗？”
“你还是不明白。当然你说得没错，只是一般人往往并不知道这些事情，而我们知道。
因为它离我们太近了。有时候，我会看见约翰就那么看着我，就那么迅速一瞥，在转瞬之间。假如我们结婚了，吵架了，我看见他那样看着我，我该怎么办？”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“你父亲是怎么死的？”
卡拉的声音清晰而坚定。
“他是被毒死的。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“我明白了。”
一段沉默。
接着这个姑娘用平静的口气说道：“谢天谢地，你能明白我的意思。你能看出来这件事确实有影响，还有它牵涉的问题。你可不能只是说几句言不由衷的安慰话就把我打发了。”
“我听得很明白了，”波洛说，“我不明白的是你需要我做什么。”
卡拉•勒马钱特简洁地说道：“我想嫁给约翰！我是真的打算和约翰结婚！我还想至少要生两个女孩儿和两个男孩儿。而你要想办法让这成为可能！”
“你的意思是，想让我去和你的未婚夫谈谈吗？啊不，我这话说得太傻了！你想说的肯定是完全不同的事情。告诉我你心里是怎么想的。”
“听我说，波洛先生。你要听好，听清楚了：我是想雇你调查一桩谋杀案。”
“你是打算——”
“没错，我就是这么想的。不管是发生在昨天还是十六年前，谋杀案就是谋杀案。”
“但是我亲爱的小姐——”
“等等，波洛先生。你还没有听完。有一点非常重要。”
“哦？”
“我母亲是无辜的。”卡拉•勒马钱特说。
赫尔克里•波洛揉揉鼻子，小声咕哝道：“啊，这个很自然——我能理解——”
“这可不是感情用事。这里有她的信，是她死前留下给我的。计划就是要在我二十一岁的时候交给我。她留下这封信只为那个原因，这个我无比确信。因为信里说的全都是这件事。她说她没有杀人，说她是无辜的，还说我应该永远相信她。”
赫尔克里•波洛若有所思地看着眼前这张同样在看着他的脸，年轻，朝气蓬勃，那么诚挚，那么热切。
他缓缓地说道：“话虽这么说——”
卡拉笑了。
“不，我母亲不是那样的人！你是不是在想这可能是个谎言——是她出于感情上的考虑对我说的谎言？”她很认真地倾身向前，“听我说，波洛先生，有些事情小孩子就能看得一清二楚。我能够记起我母亲，当然，都是些零零星星的回忆，但我记得很清楚她是个什么样的人。她从不说谎，哪怕是善意的谎言。就算一件事可能会让你痛苦，对你造成伤害，她也会如实相告的。就好比看牙医啊，手指头上扎了刺儿啊之类的。对她来说，实话实说是自然而然的事情。我现在觉得其实那时我并不是很喜欢她，但我相信她。而且至今依然相信！如果她说了她没杀我父亲，那她一定没杀！她不是那种知道自己行将就木还要郑重其事写下谎言的人。”
赫尔克里•波洛慢慢地，几乎是有些勉强地低下了头。
卡拉继续说下去。
“那也是为什么在我看来和约翰结婚是没有问题的。我自己知道是没有任何问题的，但约翰不这么看。他认为我自然会觉得我母亲是无辜的。所以波洛先生，这件事必须澄清，而这就是我要交给你的任务！”
赫尔克里•波洛慢条斯理地说道：“小姐，就算你说得都是事实，这件事也已经过去十六年了啊！”
卡拉•勒马钱特说：“噢，我当然知道这会很难！但是除了你之外没有人能够办到！”
赫尔克里•波洛的眼睛微微一亮。他说道：“你这是在抬举我，嗯？”
卡拉说：“我听说过你的大名，还有你经手的那些案子，以及你破案的方法。你感兴趣的是心理，对吗？嗯，心理不会随着时间的流逝而改变。那些看得见摸得着的有形的东西，烟头、脚印，以及压弯了的草之类的东西都会不复存在，你再也无法找到它们。但是你可以重温和这件案子有关的所有资料，也许还能和当时在场的人谈谈，他们都还健在。
然后……然后就像你刚才所说的，你可以靠在椅子里认真思考，接着你就会知道到底发生了什么……”
赫尔克里•波洛站起身来，用一只手摸着他的胡子。他说道：“小姐，我深感荣幸！我不会辜负你的信任。我会调查你委托我的这桩谋杀案。我要回溯十六年前发生的事情，然后揭开真相。”
卡拉也站了起来，两眼熠熠放光。但她只说了一个字：“好。”
赫尔克里•波洛意味深长地摇了摇食指。
“稍等一下。我说过我会揭开真相。但你知道，我不会抱有任何偏见。我并不接受你关于你母亲无辜的保证。如果她是有罪的，那么，怎么办？”
卡拉骄傲地昂起头来。她说：“我是她的女儿，我要知道真相！”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“那么，就往前走着看吧。尽管我得说，其实并非如此，恰恰相反，是要往回看……”
1.COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE
BOOK ONE
One
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE
“Do I remember the Crale case?” asked Sir Montague Depleach. “Certainly I do. Remember itvery well. Most attractive woman. But unbalanced, of course. No self-control.”
He glanced sideways at Poirot.
“What makes you ask me about it?”
“I am interested.”
“Not really tactful of you, my dear man,” said Depleach, showing his teeth in his suddenfamous “wolf’s smile,” which had been reputed to have such a terrifying effect upon witnesses.
“Not one of my successes, you know. I didn’t get her off.”
“I know that.”
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“Of course I hadn’t quite as much experience then as I have now. All the same I think I did allthat could humanly be done. One can’t do much without cooperation. We did get it commuted topenal servitude. Provocation, you know. Lots of respectable wives and mothers got up a petition.
There was a lot of sympathy for her.”
He leaned back stretching out his long legs. His face took on a judicial, appraising look.
“If she’d shot him, you know, or even knifed him—I’d have gone all out for manslaughter. Butpoison—no, you can’t play tricks with that. It’s tricky—very tricky.”
“What was the defence?” asked Hercule Poirot.
He knew because he had already read the newspaper files, but he saw no harm in playing thecomplete ignorant to Sir Montague.
“Oh, suicide. Only thing you could go for. But it didn’t go down well. Crale simply wasn’t thatkind of man! You never met him, I suppose? No? Well, he was a great blustering, vivid sort ofchap. Great womanizer, beer drinker—all the rest of it. Went in for the lusts of the flesh andenjoyed them. You can’t persuade a jury that a man like that is going to sit down and quietly doaway with himself. It just doesn’t fit. No, I was afraid I was up against a losing proposition fromthe first. And she wouldn’t play up! I knew we’d lost as soon as she went into the box. No fight inher at all. But there it is—if you don’t put your client into the box, the jury draw their ownconclusions.”
Poirot said:
“Is that what you meant when you said just now that one cannot do much without cooperation?”
“Absolutely, my dear fellow. We’re not magicians, you know. Half the battle is the impressionthe accused makes on the jury. I’ve known juries time and again bring in verdicts dead against thejudge’s summing up. ‘’E did it, all right’—that’s the point of view. Or ‘He never did a thing likethat—don’t tell me!’ Caroline Crale didn’t even try to put up a fight.”
“Why was that?”
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t ask me. Of course, she was fond of the fellow. Broke her all up when she came to andrealized what she’d done. Don’t believe she ever rallied from the shock.”
“So in your opinion she was guilty?”
Depleach looked rather startled. He said:
“Er—well, I thought we were taking that for granted.”
“Did she ever admit to you that she was guilty?”
Depleach looked shocked.
“Of course not—of course not. We have our code, you know. Innocence is always—er—assumed. If you’re so interested it’s a pity you can’t get hold of old Mayhew. Mayhews were thesolicitors who briefed me. Old Mayhew could have told you more than I can. But there—he’sjoined the great majority. There’s young George Mayhew, of course, but he was only a boy at thetime. It’s a long time ago, you know.”
“Yes, I know. It is fortunate for me that you remember so much. You have a remarkablememory.”
Depleach looked pleased. He murmured:
“Oh well, one remembers the main headings, you know. Especially when it’s a capital charge.
And, of course, the Crale case got a lot of publicity from the press. Lot of sex interest and all that.
The girl in the case was pretty striking. Hard-boiled piece of goods, I thought.”
“You will forgive me if I seem too insistent,” said Poirot, “but I repeat once more, you had nodoubt of Caroline Crale’s guilt?”
Depleach shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“Frankly—as man to man—I don’t think there’s much doubt about it. Oh yes, she did it allright.”
“What was the evidence against her?”
“Very damning indeed. First of all there was motive. She and Crale had led a kind of cat anddog life for years—interminable rows. He was always getting mixed up with some woman orother. Couldn’t help it. He was that kind of man. She stood it pretty well on the whole. Madeallowances for him on the score of temperament—and the man really was a first-class painter, youknow. His stuff’s gone up enormously in price—enormously. Don’t care for that style of paintingmyself—ugly forceful stuff, but it’s good—no doubt of that.
“Well, as I say, there had been trouble about women from time to time. Mrs. Crale wasn’t themeek kind who suffers in silence. There were rows all right. But he always came back to her in theend. These affairs of his blew over. But this final affair was rather different. It was a girl, you see—and quite a young girl. She was only twenty.
“Elsa Greer, that was her name. She was the only daughter of some Yorkshire manufacturer.
She’d got money and determination, and she knew what she wanted. What she wanted was AmyasCrale. She got him to paint her—he didn’t paint regular Society portraits, ‘Mrs. Blinkety Blank insatin and pearls,’ but he painted figures. I don’t know that most women would have cared to bepainted by him—he didn’t spare them! But he painted the Greer girl, and he ended by falling forher good and proper. He was getting on for forty, you know, and he’d been married a good manyyears. He was just ripe for making a fool of himself over some chit of a girl. Elsa Greer was thegirl. He was crazy about her, and his idea was to get a divorce from his wife and marry Elsa.
“Caroline Crale wasn’t standing for that. She threatened him. She was overheard by two peopleto say that if he didn’t give the girl up she’d kill him. And she meant it all right! The day before ithappened, they’d been having tea with a neighbour. He was by way of dabbling in herbs andhome-brewed medicines. Amongst his patent brews was one of coniine—spotted hemlock. Therewas some talk about it and its deadly properties.
“The next day he noticed that half the contents of the bottle had gone. Got the wind up about it.
They found an almost empty bottle of it in Mrs. Crale’s room, hidden away at the bottom of adrawer.”
Hercule Poirot moved uncomfortably. He said:
“Somebody else might have put it there.”
“Oh! She admitted to the police she’d taken it. Very unwise, of course, but she didn’t have asolicitor to advise her at that stage. When they asked her about it, she admitted quite frankly thatshe had taken it.”
“For what reason?”
“She made out that she’d taken it with the idea of doing herself in. She couldn’t explain how thebottle came to be empty—nor how it was that there were only her fingerprints on it. That part of itwas pretty damaging. She contended, you see, that Amyas Crale had committed suicide. But ifhe’d taken the coniine from the bottle she’d hidden in her room, his fingerprints would have beenon the bottle as well as hers.”
“It was given him in beer, was it not?”
“Yes. She got out the bottle from the refrigerator and took it down herself to where he waspainting in the garden. She poured it out and gave it to him and watched him drink it. Every onewent up to lunch and left him — he often didn’t come in to meals. Afterwards she and thegoverness found him there dead. Her story was that the beer she gave him was all right. Our theorywas that he suddenly felt so worried and remorseful that he slipped the poison in himself. Allpoppycock—he wasn’t that kind of man! And the fingerprint evidence was the most damning ofall.”
“They found her fingerprints on the bottle?”
“No, they didn’t—they found only his—and they were phoney ones. She was alone with thebody, you see, while the governess went to call up a doctor. And what she must have done was towipe the bottle and glass and then press his fingers on them. She wanted to pretend, you see, thatshe’d never even handled the stuff. Well, that didn’t work. Old Rudolph, who was prosecuting,had a lot of fun with that—proved quite definitely by demonstration in court that a man couldn’thold a bottle with his fingers in that position! Of course we did our best to prove that he could—that his hands would take up a contorted attitude when he was dying—but frankly our stuff wasn’tvery convincing.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“The coniine in the bottle must have been put there before she took it down to the garden.”
“There was no coniine in the bottle at all. Only in the glass.”
He paused—his large handsome face suddenly altered—he turned his head sharply. “Hallo,” hesaid. “Now then, Poirot, what are you driving at?”
Poirot said:
“If Caroline Crale was innocent, how did that coniine get into the beer? The defence said at thetime that Amyas Crale himself put it there. But you say to me that that was in the highest degreeunlikely—and for my part I agree with you. He was not that kind of man. Then, if Caroline Craledid not do it, someone else did.”
Depleach said with almost a splutter:
“Oh, damn it all, man, you can’t flog a dead horse. It’s all over and done with years ago. Ofcourse she did it. You’d know that well enough if you’d seen her at the time. It was written allover her! I even fancy that the verdict was a relief to her. She wasn’t frightened. No nerves at all.
Just wanted to get through the trial and have it over. A very brave woman, really….”
“And yet,” said Hercule Poirot, “when she died she left a letter to be given to her daughter inwhich she swore solemnly that she was innocent.”
“I dare say she did,” said Sir Montague Depleach. “You or I would have done the same in herplace.”
“Her daughter says she was not that kind of woman.”
“The daughter says—pah! What does she know about it? My dear Poirot, the daughter was amere infant at the time of the trial. What was she—four—five? They changed her name and senther out of England somewhere to some relatives. What can she know or remember?”
“Children know people very well sometimes.”
“Maybe they do. But that doesn’t follow in this case. Naturally the girl wants to believe hermother didn’t do it. Let her believe it. It doesn’t do any harm.”
“But unfortunately she demands proof.”
“Proof that Caroline Crale didn’t kill her husband?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Depleach. “She won’t get it.”
“You think not?”
The famous K.C. looked thoughtfully at his companion.
“I’ve always thought you were an honest man, Poirot. What are you doing? Trying to makemoney by playing on a girl’s natural affections?”
“You do not know the girl. She is an unusual girl. A girl of great force of character.”
“Yes, I should imagine the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale might be that. What does shewant?”
“She wants the truth.”
“Hm—I’m afraid she’ll find the truth unpalatable. Honestly, Poirot, I don’t think there’s anydoubt about it. She killed him.”
“You will forgive me, my friend, but I must satisfy myself on that point.”
“Well, I don’t know what more you can do. You can read up the newspaper accounts of thetrial. Humphrey Rudolph appeared for the Crown. He’s dead—let me see, who was his junior?
Young Fogg, I think. Yes, Fogg. You can have a chat with him. And then there are the people whowere there at the time. Don’t suppose they’ll enjoy your butting in and raking the whole thing up,but I dare say you’ll get what you want out of them. You’re a plausible devil.”
“Ah yes, the people concerned. That is very important. You remember, perhaps, who theywere?”
Depleach considered.
“Let me see—it’s a long time ago. There were only five people who were really in it, so tospeak—I’m not counting the servants—a couple of faithful old things, scared-looking creatures—they didn’t know anything about anything. No one could suspect them.”
“There are five people, you say. Tell me about them.”
“Well, there was Philip Blake. He was Crale’s greatest friend—had known him all his life. Hewas staying in the house at the time. He’s alive. I see him now and again on the links. Lives at St.
George’s Hill. Stockbroker. Plays the markets and gets away with it. Successful man, running tofat a bit.”
“Yes. And who next?”
“Then there was Blake’s elder brother. Country squire—stay at home sort of chap.”
A jingle ran through Poirot’s head. He repressed it. He must not always be thinking of nurseryrhymes. It seemed an obsession with him lately. And yet the jingle persisted.
“This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home….”
He murmured:
“He stayed at home—yes?”
“He’s the fellow I was telling you about—messed about with drugs—and herbs—bit of achemist. His hobby. What was his name now? Literary sort of name—I’ve got it. Meredith.
Meredith Blake. Don’t know whether he’s alive or not.”
“And who next?”
“Next? Well, there’s the cause of all the trouble. The girl in the case. Elsa Greer.”
“This little pig ate roast beef,” murmured Poirot.
Depleach stared at him.
“They’ve fed her meat all right,” he said. “She’s been a go-getter. She’s had three husbandssince then. In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please. And every time she makes achange, it’s for the better. Lady Dittisham—that’s who she is now. Open any Tatler and you’resure to find her.”
“And the other two?”
“There was the governess woman. I don’t remember her name. Nice capable woman.
Thompson—Jones—something like that. And there was the child. Caroline Crale’s half sister. Shemust have been about fifteen. She’s made rather a name for herself. Digs up things and goestrekking to the back of beyond. Warren—that’s her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarmingyoung woman nowadays. I met her the other day.”
“She is not, then, the little pig who cried Wee Wee Wee…?”
Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly. He said drily:
“She’s had something to cry Wee-Wee about in her life! She’s disfigured, you know. Got a badscar down one side of her face. She—Oh well, you’ll hear all about it, I dare say.”
Poirot stood up. He said:
“I thank you. You have been very kind. If Mrs. Crale did not kill her husband—”
Depleach interrupted him:
“But she did, old boy, she did. Take my word for it.”
Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption.
“Then it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so.”
“One of them could have done it, I suppose,” said Depleach, doubtfully. “But I don’t see whyany of them should. No reason at all! In fact, I’m quite sure none of them did do it. Do get this beeout of your bonnet, old boy!”
But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.
1.被告律师
第一卷
被告律师
“我记不记得克雷尔的案子？”蒙塔古•德普利奇爵士问道，“我当然记得，而且记得很清楚呢。那是个非常有魅力的女人。但是当然啦，情绪有点儿不稳定，没有自制力。”
他斜着眼睛瞟了波洛一下。
“你怎么想起问我这个？”
“我感兴趣。”
“我亲爱的老弟，你这么问可实在有点儿不够意思啊。”德普利奇说着，龇着牙露出他那闻名遐迩的“狼之微笑”，这笑容曾令很多证人不寒而栗，也因此广为人知，“你要知道，这可不是我成功的案例。我没能为她洗脱罪名。”
“这个我清楚。”
蒙塔古爵士耸了耸肩膀。他说：“当然了，那个时候的我不像现在这么有经验。尽管如此，我认为我当时还是竭尽了全力。不过如果对方不配合你也没辙。我们确实设法使她减刑为终身监禁和劳役了。结果你猜怎么着，惹了众怒。好些个体面正派的太太和母亲搞了个联名请愿。有太多的人同情她。”
他往后靠去，舒展一下两条长腿，脸上显现出一种在法庭上审视时的表情。
“你知道吗，假如她是开枪杀了他，或者即使是拿刀捅了他，我都会全力以赴替她往过失杀人上去辩护。但是下毒就不一样了，你没法儿用这一招。很难办，太棘手了。”
“那你是怎么为她辩护的呢？”赫尔克里•波洛问道。
他其实心知肚明，因为他已经读过那些报纸卷宗了，不过他发现在蒙塔古爵士面前装作一无所知也没有什么坏处。
“噢，自杀。这也是唯一的选择。不过终究没能成功。克雷尔就不是那种类型的人！我猜你没见过他吧？真的没有？啊，他可是个大嗓门儿，生龙活虎的家伙，风流坯子，爱喝啤酒——诸如此类的吧。喜欢和女人乱搞，还乐此不疲。你没法说服陪审团的人相信这样一个男人会安安静静地坐在那里自寻短见。这不像他能做出来的事儿。不，从一开始我就担心我这是在做赔本买卖，而且她自己也一点儿都不上心！她一站到法庭上我就知道我们已经输了。她完全没有斗志。但事情就是这样，如果你不让你的当事人上庭，陪审团也会得出他们自己的结论。”
波洛说：“这是不是就是你刚才所说的，‘如果她不配合，你也没办法’的含义？”
“我亲爱的伙计，千真万确啊。你知道，我们又不是魔术师。被告给陪审团留下好印象就是成功的一半。我已经三番五次地看到陪审团的裁定和法官的结论完全相反。‘好吧，是他干的’——那就是我们的观点。或者‘别跟我说这些，他从未做过那样的事’！可是卡罗琳•克雷尔甚至都不愿意去试着争辩一下。”
“为什么会那样呢？”
蒙塔古爵士耸耸肩膀。
“这个别问我。当然啦，她很爱那家伙。当她后来清醒过来，意识到自己都干了些什么的时候，她就完全崩溃了。千万别相信她还能从这种打击当中恢复过来。”
“那么你认为她是有罪的了？”
德普利奇一脸的惊讶。他说：“呃，是这样，我想我们都认为那是理所应当的事情。”
“她曾经向你承认过她有罪吗？”
德普利奇看上去有些震惊。
“当然没有，当然没有。如你所知，我们有我们的准则。无罪通常情况下——呃——是假定的。你要是那么感兴趣的话，没能见着老梅休就有点儿遗憾了。当初就是梅休父子向我简要地介绍情况并委托我的。老梅休能告诉你的比我多。不过，他已经入土为安了。当然，现在有年轻的乔治•梅休，不过他当时还只是个孩子。你也清楚，事情已经过去很长时间了。”
“是的，我知道。你能记得那么多也是我的幸运，你的记性真是太好了。”
德普利奇看起来很高兴。他嘟囔道：“唔，你知道，人总是会记住那些重大的事情，况且这是一起重案。而且，克雷尔的案子不出所料地受到了媒体的密切关注，还有好多花边新闻之类的。案子里的那个女孩儿特别引人注目，我想，她是那种意志非常坚定的人。”
“如果我显得过于坚持了，你得原谅我，”波洛说，“但我还想再问一遍，你完全相信卡罗琳•克雷尔是有罪的吗？”
德普利奇又耸耸肩。他说：“坦白地讲，我觉得这里面没有什么可怀疑的。没错儿，就是她干的。”
“对她不利的证据是什么呢？”
“简直是铁证如山啊。首当其冲就是动机。她和克雷尔这么多年以来一直没完没了地吵吵闹闹，搞得鸡犬不宁。他总是和一些其他的女人搅在一起，根本忍不住。他就是那类人。总体来说，她已经忍耐得够可以的了。你知道，那家伙真是个一流的画家，而她也就因为他的这种气质才一直容忍着。他的作品升值很快，售价奇高。我自己瞧不上那种风格的画作，难看但是让人印象深刻，不过毫无疑问，都是好东西。
“啊，正如我所说的，他总是时不时地跟女人纠缠不清。克雷尔太太可不是那种逆来顺受还一言不发的人。他们不断地吵架。不过到最后他总是会回到她身边来，那些风流韵事也随之烟消云散。但是最后这次可就有点儿不一样了，你知道吧，这次是个姑娘，一个相当年轻的姑娘，只有二十岁。
“埃尔莎•格里尔，这是那姑娘的名字。她是约克郡一个制造商的独生女。她有钱，也有决心，知道自己想要的是什么。她想要的就是埃米亚斯•克雷尔。她要克雷尔给她画像，他平时是不画那种正规的社会肖像画的，诸如‘穿戴绸缎和珍珠的布林克蒂•布兰克夫人’之类的，但他画人物画。我还真不知道有那么多女人都愿意让他画——他反正是一个都没放过！但他给这个格里尔家的姑娘画像的结果却是彻彻底底地爱上她了。你得知道，他已经是奔四十的人了，而且结婚也这么多年了。他似乎就是准备好了要为了某个小丫头做出傻事儿来——而这个小丫头就是埃尔莎•格里尔。他对她痴迷极了，一门心思就想着要和他太太离婚，然后娶埃尔莎。
“这回卡罗琳•克雷尔可没法忍受了。她威胁他。有两个人无意中听到她说，如果他不甩了那个女孩儿她就会杀了他。而且她可不是开玩笑的！事情发生的前一天，他们和一个邻居一起喝茶。那个邻居正好对药草小有研究，还在家自制了一些草药。其中有一种是从斑毒芹中提取的毒芹碱。那天他们也谈到了这种药以及它的致命性。
“第二天他发现瓶子里的药少了一半，跟着就开始害怕起来。他们在克雷尔太太的房间里找到了一个几乎空了的毒芹碱瓶子，藏在抽屉底下。”
赫尔克里•波洛不自在地动了动身子，说道：“也有可能是其他人把它放在那儿的。”
“哦！她向警察承认是她拿的。当然，这很不明智，不过那个时候她身边也没有律师能给她出个主意。他们问起她这个的时候，她很坦率地承认是她拿的。”
“她为什么要拿？”
“她说她拿这个是想要自杀用的。她无法解释瓶子怎么就空了，也没法解释为什么那上面只有她的指纹。有这一点就很惨了。你看，她声称埃米亚斯•克雷尔是自杀的，可如果他从她藏在房间里的瓶子里拿了毒芹碱的话，瓶子上也同样应该有他的指纹啊。”
“毒药是下在啤酒里面的，对吗？”
“是的。她从冰箱里取出啤酒瓶，亲自拿到了花园里他作画的地方。她倒了酒递给他，看着他喝下去。所有人都去吃饭了，只剩下他，他经常不进屋吃饭的。后来她和家庭女教师发现他已经死在那儿了。据她自己说，她递给他的啤酒是没有问题的。而我们的理论是他突然之间觉得很担忧很懊悔，于是就服毒自杀了。都是胡扯——他根本就不是那样的人！而所有证据中指纹是最确凿无疑的。”
“他们在酒瓶上找到了她的指纹？”
“不，他们没找到，他们只找到了死者的指纹，而且还是伪造的。你看，当家庭女教师去打电话叫医生的时候，她是单独和尸体待在一起的。而她肯定把酒瓶和杯子擦干净，然后把他的手指头摁在上面了。你知道，她想装作压根儿就没碰过那些东西的样子。但是这没用。检察官老鲁道夫抓住这一点在法庭上大做文章，他通过演示相当确定地证明，人根本不可能用手指头在那个位置上抓住酒瓶！当然我们也竭尽全力去证明他能抓住，比如说濒死时他的手处在一种很扭曲的状态下，不过老实说，我们准备的材料并没有很强的说服力。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“酒瓶里的毒芹碱一定是在她把它拿下去到花园里之前就放进去的。”
“酒瓶里根本就没有毒芹碱，只有酒杯里有。”
他停了下来，那张又大又英俊的脸突然变色了，接着猛然扭过头。“喂，”他说，“波洛，你说这些到底有什么意图啊？”
波洛说：“假如卡罗琳•克雷尔是无辜的，那毒芹碱又是怎么跑到啤酒里面去的呢？辩护的时候说那是埃米亚斯•克雷尔自己放进去的。但你又告诉我那几乎是不可能的，就我个人而言完全赞同你的意见。他不是那类人。那么，假如卡罗琳•克雷尔没有下毒，就说明是其他人干的。”
德普利奇几乎是气急败坏地说道：“噢，真该死，老弟，你别白费心机了。事情已经过去那么多年了。当然是她干的。你当时要是见过她，就会知道得清清楚楚。她浑身上下恨不得都写着呢！我甚至猜想判决对她来说是一种解脱。她并不害怕，也丝毫不紧张，只想着能够熬过审判，让这一切结束。真是个特别勇敢的女人……”
“然而，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“她死的时候留了一封要转交给她女儿的信，在信里她郑重地发誓说她是无辜的。”
“我敢担保她肯定会的，”蒙塔古•德普利奇说，“你我要是在她的位置上，也会那么做的。”
“她女儿说她不是那种类型的人。”
“她女儿说的——呸！她女儿又知道些什么？我亲爱的波洛，审判的时候她女儿还只是个小孩儿，那时候她多大？四岁还是五岁？他们给她改了名字，把她从英国送到别处的亲戚那里。她能知道什么或者记得什么啊？”
“孩子有时候看人看得更清楚。”
“也许吧，不过在这个案子里可不是这么回事儿。那姑娘很自然地想要相信她母亲没杀人，那就让她相信去吧，反正也没什么害处。”
“但是很不幸，她还想要证明。”
“证明卡罗琳•克雷尔没杀她丈夫？”
“没错。”
“唔，”德普利奇说道，“那她可办不到。”
“你觉得她没法证明？”
这个著名的皇家律师若有所思地看着他的朋友。
“波洛，我一直觉得你是个诚实的人。你到底在干什么？你不会是要利用这女孩儿自然淳朴的感情来赚钱吧？”
“你不了解这个女孩儿，她可是个不同寻常的姑娘，有很强的人格力量。”
“那倒是，我能想象到，埃米亚斯和卡罗琳•克雷尔的女儿应该就是这个样子吧。那她究竟想要什么？”
“她想要知道真相。”
“嗯，我恐怕她会发现真相是难以接受的。老实说，波洛，我不觉得这个案子里还有什么疑点。就是她杀了他。”
“请你原谅，我的朋友，但在这一点上我也必须得让自己得到一个满意的结论。”
“好吧，我不知道你还能做些什么。你可以去翻翻旧报纸，看看关于那场审判的记载。
当时是汉弗莱•鲁道夫作为公诉人代表检方出庭。他现在已经死了。让我想想看，谁是接替他的人来着？我觉得是年轻的福格。没错，就是福格。你可以去跟他聊聊。然后就是那几个案发时在场的人。别指望他们会乐意看见你突然冒出来，翻起这些陈年旧事，不过我敢保证你肯定能从他们嘴里问出你想知道的事情。你可是个能说会道的家伙。”
“对啊，当事人，这很重要。也许你还记得都有谁吧？”
德普利奇考虑了一下。
“让我想想，时间过去太久了，可以说牵涉其中的只剩下五个人了，当然，我没算上仆人，那只是一对儿忠心耿耿的老家伙，一看就吓坏了。他们什么都不知道，没人会怀疑他们。”
“你说一共有五个人，跟我分别说说。”
“好啊，有菲利普•布莱克。他是克雷尔最好的朋友，两人从小就认识了。命案发生的时候他正好在那栋房子里，现在也还健在。我时不时地还能在高尔夫球场看见他。他住在圣乔治山，是个证券经纪人，做些投机倒把的生意，而且还总能全身而退。算是个成功的男人，就是现在有点儿发福了。”
“好，那下一个呢？”
“然后是布莱克的哥哥，一个乡绅，是那种老待在家里的人。”
一首儿歌在波洛的头脑中闪过。他克制了一下自己，不能总是想起这些儿歌和童谣，他最近对这个似乎有点儿着魔了，可这首歌还是萦绕在他脑海里。
“这只小猪跑去市场，这只小猪待在家里……”
他咕哝道：“他待在家里，是吗？”
“他就是我刚才跟你说的那个人，在家自己做药，鼓捣那些药草，差不多能算个药剂师了。那就是他的爱好。他叫什么名字来着？好像还挺文艺的——我想起来了，梅瑞迪斯。
梅瑞迪斯•布莱克。也不知道他现在是不是还活着。”
“下一个呢？”
“下一个？啊，那就该是这件事的罪魁祸首了，也就是案子里的那个姑娘——埃尔莎•格里尔。”
“这只小猪吃烤牛肉。”波洛小声说道。
德普利奇盯着他看。
“他们确实给她肉吃，”他说，“她可是个野心勃勃的人。自那之后她有过三任丈夫。出入离婚法庭对她来说简直就是家常便饭。而她每次离婚都是为了要找个更好的。目前她的身份是狄提斯汉姆夫人。保证你随便翻开一期《闲谈者》 [1] 都能看到她。”
“还有两个人呢？”
“有一个是家庭女教师，我不记得她的名字了。是个好心又能干的女人，可能是叫汤普森或者琼斯之类的吧。另一个是个孩子，是卡罗琳•克雷尔同母异父的妹妹，那会儿应该差不多十五岁。现在她出名了，到处挖掘东西，还去人迹罕至的地方徒步旅行。她姓沃伦，安吉拉•沃伦。如今她可是个了不起的年轻女人。我那天还碰见她来着。”
“那她就不是那只呜呜哭的小猪喽？”
蒙塔古•德普利奇爵士用很奇怪的目光看着他。他干巴巴地说道：“她这辈子还真有让她呜呜哭的事儿。你知道吧，她破相了。在她一边脸上有一道很显眼的伤疤。她——哦，我保证会有人告诉你这件事的来龙去脉的。”
波洛站起身，说道：“我得谢谢你，你实在是太好了。如果克雷尔太太没有杀死她丈夫——”
德普利奇打断了他的话：“但她杀了，老弟，就是她干的。相信我说的吧。”
波洛丝毫没在意自己被打断，而是继续说下去。
“那么合乎逻辑的推测就是，这五个人当中一定有一个人是凶手。”
“我认为，他们当中可能有一个是凶手，”德普利奇表示怀疑地说，“但我确实不明白这几个人为什么要这么做。完全没有理由啊！所以实际上，我敢肯定不会是他们中的任何一个人干的。老弟，可别这么一根筋了！”
但赫尔克里•波洛只是微笑着摇了摇头。
[1]《闲谈者》（Tatler），英国老牌贵族杂志，创刊至今已三百余年。
2.COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION
Two
COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION
“Guilty as Hell,” said Mr. Fogg succinctly.
Hercule Poirot looked meditatively at the thin clear-cut face of the barrister.
Quentin Fogg, K.C. was a very different type from Montague Depleach. Depleach had force,magnetism, an overbearing and slightly bullying personality. He got his effects by a rapid anddramatic change of manner. Handsome, urbane, charming one minute—then an almost magicaltransformation, lips back, snarling smile—out for your blood.
Quentin Fogg was thin, pale, singularly lacking in what is called personality. His questions werequiet and unemotional—but steadily persistent. If Depleach was like a rapier, Fogg was like anauger. He bored steadily. He had never reached spectacular fame, but he was known as a first-classman on law. He usually won his cases.
Hercule Poirot eyed him meditatively.
“So that,” he said, “was how it struck you?”
Fogg nodded. He said:
“You should have seen her in the box. Old Humpie Rudolph (he was leading, you know) simplymade mincement of her. Mincemeat!”
He paused and then said unexpectedly:
“On the whole, you know, it was rather too much of a good thing.”
“I am not sure,” said Hercule Poirot, “that I quite understand you?”
Fogg drew his delicately marked brows together. His sensitive hand stroked his bare upper lip.
He said:
“How shall I put it? It’s a very English point of view. ‘Shooting the sitting bird’ describes itbest. Is that intelligible to you?”
“It is, as you say, a very English point of view, but I think I understand you. In the CentralCriminal Court, as on the playing fields of Eton, and in the hunting country, the Englishman likesthe victim to have a sporting chance.”
“That’s it, exactly. Well, in this case, the accused didn’t have a chance. Humpie Rudolph did ashe liked with her. It started with her examination by Depleach. She stood up there, you know—asdocile as a little girl at a party, answering Depleach’s questions with the answers she’d learnt offby heart. Quite docile, word perfect—and absolutely unconvincing! She’d been told what to sayand she said it. It wasn’t Depleach’s fault. That old mountebank played his part perfectly—but inany scene that needs two actors, one alone can’t carry it. She didn’t play up to him. It made theworst possible effect on the jury. And then old Humpie got up. I expect you’ve seen him? He’s agreat loss. Hitching his gown up, swaying back on his feet—and then—straight off the mark!
“As I tell you, he made mincemeat of her! Led up to this and that—and she fell into the pitfallevery time. He got her to admit the absurdities of her own statements, he got her to contradictherself, she floundered in deeper and deeper. And then he wound up with his usual stuff. Verycompelling—very convinced: ‘I suggest to you, Mrs. Crale, that this story of yours about stealingconiine in order to commit suicide is a tissue of falsehood. I suggest that you took it in order toadminister it to your husband who was about to leave you for another woman, and that you diddeliberately administer it to him.’ And she looked at him—such a pretty creature—graceful,delicate—and she said: ‘Oh, no—no, I didn’t.’ It was the flattest thing you ever heard—the mostunconvincing. I saw old Depleach squirm in his seat. He knew it was all up then.”
Fogg paused a minute—then he went on:
“And yet—I don’t know. In some ways it was the cleverest thing she could have done! Itappealed to chivalry—to that queer chivalry closely allied to blood sports which makes mostforeigners think us such almighty humbugs! The jury felt—the whole court felt—that she hadn’tgot a chance. She couldn’t even fight for herself. She certainly couldn’t put up any kind of a showagainst a great big clever brute like old Humpie. That weak, unconvincing: ‘Oh no—no, I didn’t,’
it was pathetic—simply pathetic. She was done for!
“Yes, in a way, it was the best thing she could have done. The jury were only out just over halfan hour. They brought her in: Guilty with a recommendation to mercy.
“Actually, you know, she made a good contrast to the other woman in the case. The girl. Thejury were unsympathetic to her from the start. She never turned a hair. Very good looking, hard-boiled, modern. To the women in the court she stood for a type—type of the homebreaker. Homesweren’t safe when girls like that were wandering abroad. Girls damn full of sex and contemptuousof the rights of wives and mothers. She didn’t spare herself, I will say. She was honest. Admirablyhonest. She’d fallen in love with Amyas Crale and he with her, and she’d no scruples at all abouttaking him away from his wife and child.
“I admired her in a way. She had guts. Depleach put in some nasty stuff in cross-examinationand she stood up well to it. But the court was unsympathetic. And the judge didn’t like her. OldAvis, it was. Been a bit of a rip himself when young—but he’s very hot on morality when he’spresiding in his robes. His summing up against Caroline Crale was mildness itself. He couldn’tdeny the facts but he threw out pretty strong hints as to provocation and all that.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“He did not support the suicide theory of the defence?”
Fogg shook his head.
“That never really had a leg to stand upon. Mind you, I don’t say Depleach didn’t do his bestwith it. He was magnificent. He painted a most moving picture of a great-hearted, pleasure-loving,temperamental man, suddenly overtaken by a passion for a lovely young girl, conscience stricken,yet unable to resist. Then his recoil, his disgust with himself, his remorse for the way he wastreating his wife and child and his sudden decision to end it all! The honourable way out. I can tellyou, it was a most moving performance; Depleach’s voice brought tears to your eyes. You saw thepoor wretch torn by his passions and his essential decency. The effect was terrific. Only—when itwas all over—and the spell was broken, you couldn’t quite square that mythical figure with AmyasCrale. Everybody knew too much about Crale. He wasn’t at all that kind of man. And Depleachhadn’t been able to get hold of any evidence to show that he was. I should say Crale came as nearas possible to being a man without even a rudimentary conscience. He was a ruthless, selfish,good-tempered happy egoist. Any ethics he had would have applied to painting. He wouldn’t, I’mconvinced, have painted a sloppy, bad picture—no matter what the inducement. But for the rest,he was a full-blooded man and he loved life—he had a zest for it. Suicide? Not he!”
“Not, perhaps, a very good defence to have chosen?”
Fogg shrugged his thin shoulders. He said:
“What else was there? Couldn’t sit back and plead that there was no case for the jury—that theprosecution had got to prove their case against the accused. There was a great deal too muchproof. She’d handled the poison — admitted pinching it, in fact. There was means, motive,opportunity—everything.”
“One might have attempted to show that these things were artificially arranged?”
Fog said bluntly:
“She admitted most of them. And, in any case, it’s too farfetched. You’re implying, I presume,that somebody else murdered him and fixed it up to look as though she had done it.”
“You think that quite untenable?”
Fogg said slowly:
“I’m afraid I do. You’re suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?”
Poirot said:
“Obviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, who could have beenconcerned?”
“Five? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. Adangerous hobby—but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Don’t see him as X. There wasthe girl—she might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was thestockbroker—Crale’s best friend. That’s popular in detective stories, but I don’t believe in it inreal life. There’s no one else—oh yes, the kid sister, but one doesn’t seriously consider her. That’sfour.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You forget the governess.”
“Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall herdimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had aguilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! It’s no good—I just don’tbelieve it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasn’t the neurotic type.”
“It is a long time ago.”
“Fifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You can’t expect my memories of the caseto be very acute.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“But on the contrary, you remember it amazingly well. That astounds me. You can see it, canyou not? When you talk the picture is there before your eyes.”
Fogg said slowly:
“Yes, you’re right—I do see it—quite plainly.”
Poirot said:
“It would interest me, my friend, very much, if you would tell me why?”
“Why?” Fogg considered the question. His thin intellectual face was alert—interested. “Yes,now why?”
Poirot asked:
“What do you see so plainly? The witnesses? The counsel? The judge? The accused standing inthe dock?”
Fogg said quietly:
“That’s the reason, of course! You’ve put your finger on it. I shall always see her…Funny thing,romance. She had the quality of it. I don’t know if she was really beautiful…She wasn’t veryyoung—tired looking—circles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interest—thedrama. And yet, half the time, she wasn’t there. She’d gone away somewhere, quite far away—just left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all halftones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the other—thatgirl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength. I admired ElsaGreer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors andnever quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated intoher world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.”
He paused:
“I’m only sure of one thing. She loved the man she killed. Loved him so much that half of herdied with him….”
Mr. Fogg, K.C., paused and polished his glasses.
“Dear me,” he said. “I seem to be saying some very strange things! I was quite a young man atthe time, you know. Just an ambitious youngster. These things make an impression. But all thesame I’m sure that Caroline Crale was a very remarkable woman. I shall never forget her. No—Ishall never forget her….”
2.检方律师
检方律师
“绝对有罪。”福格先生简练地说道。
赫尔克里•波洛沉思不语地看着面前这个律师瘦削的脸。
皇家律师昆廷•福格和蒙塔古•德普利奇完全是两类人。德普利奇有魄力，也有魅力，性格有些专横跋扈、恃强凌弱。他阴晴不定、变幻莫测的态度给人印象深刻。前一秒钟还英俊潇洒、温文尔雅，转眼间就跟变魔术一样，变得粗鲁无礼、面目狰狞，恨不得想要你命似的。
昆廷•福格则身形瘦弱，面色苍白，看上去极其缺乏我们通常称之为个性的东西。他问的问题往往朴实无华，不带感情色彩，却锲而不舍。如果说德普利奇像把长剑，那福格就像个螺丝钻，持续不断地钻着孔。他从未达到过声名显赫的地步，但大家都知道，在事关法律的问题上他是一流的。他接手的案子总能赢。
赫尔克里•波洛若有所思地看着他。
“那么这个，”他说，“就是这案子给你留下的印象？”
福格点点头。他说：“你应该看看她在被告席上的样子。老汉皮 [1] •鲁道夫（你知道，他主办此案）轻而易举就把她驳斥得体无完肤，根本不费吹灰之力！”
他顿了一下，接着又出乎意料地说：“你要知道，总的来看，有点儿过于简单了。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“我不确定我能完全明白你的意思。”
福格两道精致而显眼的眉毛皱在一起，一只手轻轻地摸着光溜溜的上唇。他说：“我该怎么解释呢？这是一种非常英国式的观点。用‘枪打孵蛋的鸟儿’来形容最合适。这么说你能懂吗？”
“如你所说，这是一种很英国式的观点，但我想我能理解。在中央刑事法庭，就跟在伊顿公学的运动场，以及在狩猎场上一样，英国人喜欢看到牺牲品也能够有逃命的机会。”
“完全正确，就是这样。可是在这件案子里，被告人连一点儿机会都没有。汉皮•鲁道夫对待她可以说是随心所欲了。开始时是德普利奇对她进行询问。你知道吗，她就站在那儿，像个晚会上的小女孩儿一样温顺，用背诵得烂熟于心的答案来回答德普利奇的提问。
相当驯服，一字不差，对答如流，就是没有一点儿说服力。别人告诉她应该说什么，她就照着说。这不是德普利奇的错儿。那个老骗子自己表现得好极了，但在任何一出需要两个人搭台演的戏里，只靠一个人都是不行的。她不跟他配合。这一来给陪审团留下的印象要多差有多差。接着老汉皮起身了。我想你应该见过他吧？他的死可是个重大损失。当时只见他拉起法袍，蓄势待发，马上就直奔要害而去了！
“就像我跟你说的，他把她的话驳斥得体无完肤！他东拉西扯，每次都能让她上当。他设法让她承认了自己的供述很荒唐，使她自相矛盾，在挣扎中越陷越深。最后他以他惯用的伎俩作为收尾，既强硬又令人信服地总结说：‘克雷尔太太，我想说的是，你讲的这个关于你为了自杀而偷拿毒芹碱的故事是一派胡言。依我看，你拿它就是为了用在你丈夫身上，因为他将要离开你而投入另一个女人的怀抱中，给他服毒是你蓄意为之的。’而她则看着他，仪态万方，楚楚动人。她说道：‘哦，不，不，我没有。’这是你所能听到的最平淡无奇的说法，同时也是最苍白无力的。我看见老德普利奇在座位里扭动了一下，因为他知道一切都完蛋了。”
福格停了一小会儿，然后继续说道：“然而——我不知道。从某些方面来讲这可能是她能够做出的最聪明的选择！这实际上唤醒了一些人心中的骑士精神，也就是那种和血腥的狩猎活动紧密关联，让多数外国人都觉得我们无比虚伪的骑士精神！不仅陪审团，连整个法庭都觉得她没有得到一丁点儿机会。她甚至不能为自己进行申辩。她显然不是像老汉皮那样老奸巨猾的家伙的对手。那句软弱无力的‘哦，不，不，我没有’令人心生怜悯，纯粹的怜悯。她已经身陷绝境了！
“没错，在某种程度上，这是她能做的最明智的事情。陪审团只退席商议了半个多小时就做出了裁决：有罪，但建议从轻量刑。
“你知道吗，事实上她和这个案子中的另一个女人形成了鲜明的对照——也就是那个女孩儿。陪审团从一开始就对她毫不同情。她一直都那么面不改色，人长得很漂亮，冷冰冰的，非常时髦。对于法庭中的所有女人来说，她代表着一类人，那种破坏别人家庭的人。
有这种女孩儿在周围转悠，谁家也安生不了。这些女孩儿性感十足，一点儿也不把妻子和母亲的权利放在眼里。我得说，她也一点儿没袒护自己；她很诚实，诚实得让人钦佩。她爱上了埃米亚斯•克雷尔，而他也爱上了她，她对于要把他从妻女身边抢走这件事毫无顾忌。
“在某些方面我真的挺佩服她。她有勇气，有个性。德普利奇在交叉询问的过程中用了些下三烂的手段，但她成功地扛住了。但是法庭对她并不同情，法官也不喜欢她。那天的法官是老艾维斯，他自己年轻的时候本来也是个放荡之徒，不过一旦穿上法衣，他就俨然成了道德的卫士。他关于卡罗琳•克雷尔有罪的总结本身就很温和。虽然不能否认事实，但他却强烈地暗示这件罪行是事出有因的。”
赫尔克里•波洛问道：“他不支持辩方律师关于自杀的理论吗？”
福格摇了摇头。
“那种说法压根儿就站不住脚。听着，我并不是说德普利奇没有尽心尽力办这个案子。
他干得已经很漂亮了。他描绘了一幅极其感人的画卷，在这里面，一个性格豪爽、贪图享乐、喜怒无常的男人忽然之间不可救药地爱上了一个年轻可爱的姑娘，尽管受到了良心的谴责却依然不能自拔。接着他开始畏缩，厌恶自己，对自己如此对待妻女懊悔不迭，然后突然决定用自杀的方法来结束这一切！这是一条高尚而体面的出路。说真的，当时的表演感人极了，德普利奇的声音足够催人泪下。你仿佛能看到那个可怜虫在他的满腔激情和基本的道德感之间痛苦挣扎。那效果棒极了。只是当他说完以后，就像咒语解除了一样，人们还是无法将这个虚构的人物和埃米亚斯•克雷尔画上等号。大家都太了解克雷尔了，他根本不是那样的人，而且德普利奇也没法抓住任何证据证明他是。要我说，克雷尔就是个连最起码的良知都没有的人。他是个冷酷无情、自私自利、好脾气、快快活活的自我主义者，即使他信奉什么道德准则，也都是用在他的绘画上的。我深信无论有多么优厚的条件，他都不会去画一幅粗枝大叶、马马虎虎的作品。而至于其他方面，他精力旺盛，热爱生命，对生活充满热情。自杀？他绝对不会！”
“也许，他选了一个不是很好的辩护理由？”
福格耸耸他瘦削的肩膀，说道：“那还能选什么啊？总不能坐在那儿什么都不干，只是恳求陪审团判她无罪啊！毕竟检方是必须证明被告有罪的。证据实在是太多太多了，她接触过那毒药，事实上，她承认自己拿过一些。有方法，有动机，有机会，真的是万事俱备。”
“没有人试图去证明这些都可能是人为安排的假象吗？”
福格直率地说：“她基本上都承认了。而且不管怎么说，这都显得太牵强了。我觉得你是想暗示别的什么人杀了他，然后又伪装得像是她干的一样吧？”
“你认为这个也站不住脚？”
福格缓缓说道：“恐怕是的。你的意思是有个神秘的X，但我们到哪儿去找他呢？”
波洛说：“显然就在一个很小的圈子里。可能涉及此案的有五个人，对吗？”
“五个人？我想想看。有那个整天摆弄草药的老笨蛋。人倒是挺和蔼可亲的，就是这个爱好太危险。也说不好他算是哪类人，可别把他当成那个X。还有那个女孩儿，她倒是很可能想要除掉卡罗琳，但肯定不会想杀了埃米亚斯。然后是那个证券经纪人——克雷尔最好的朋友。在侦探小说里这种情况倒是挺受欢迎的，不过真实生活中我不相信这一套。没别人了，啊，对了，还有那个小妹妹，但谁也不会真的认为是她干的。这是四个人了。”
赫尔克里•波洛说：“你忘了算上家庭女教师了。”
“啊，真的。家庭女教师，可怜的人，总是被人遗忘。但我还是依稀记起她来了，中等年纪，相貌平平，很能干。我猜心理学家可能会说她对克雷尔有那种犯罪的激情，于是就杀了他。压抑的老处女！这可不好，我不相信这种说法。在我模糊的记忆里，她不是那种神经质的人。”
“时间过了很久了。”
“我想，有十五年或者十六年了吧。没错儿，就是这样。你不能指望我对这件案子的记忆还那么清晰。”
赫尔克里•波洛说道：“恰恰相反，你的记性出奇的好，让我大吃一惊。你就像能看见当时的情景似的，不是吗？当你说起的时候，那幅画面就呈现在你眼前。”
福格不紧不慢地说道：“是啊，你说对了，我确实能看到，清晰可见。”
波洛说：“朋友，我对这个非常感兴趣，假如你愿意告诉我为什么的话。”
“为什么？”福格掂量着这个问题。他瘦削而机智的脸上显出又兴奋又感兴趣的神色。“是啊，那么为什么呢？”
波洛问道：“你清楚地看见什么了？证人？律师？法官？还是站在被告席上的被告人？”
福格平心静气地说：“当然，原因就在那儿。你准确地发现了这一点。我经常会看见她……浪漫色彩是件有意思的事情。她身上就透着浪漫气息。我不知道她是否真的很漂亮……她已经不年轻了，看上去很疲惫，还有黑眼圈。所有的事情都以她为中心，她是兴趣的焦点，也是这出戏的焦点。然而，有一半的时间她的心都不在那里。她的思绪飘到别的地方去了，很遥远的地方，只剩了一副躯壳在那儿，沉寂不语，若有所思，嘴上挂着一抹礼节性的淡淡的笑。知道吗，她给人的整体感觉就像是介于明暗之间。即便如此，她也比另一个人——那个有着完美身材、漂亮脸蛋，以及未加修饰的青春气息的姑娘显得更加生动。我钦佩埃尔莎•格里尔是因为她有胆量，因为她会抗争，因为她敢于迎接挑战，直面给她带来痛苦的人，从不畏缩！而我欣赏卡罗琳•克雷尔则是因为她不去抗争，因为她退回到她自己那个半光半影的世界中去了。她永远都不会被打败，因为她根本就不去打。”
他顿了一下。
“只有一件事我能确定。她爱那个她杀死的男人。她爱得如此之深，以至于她自己的一半也随他而去了……”
皇家律师福格先生停了下来，擦了擦他的眼镜。
“天哪，”他说，“我似乎刚刚说了一些很奇怪的事情！要知道，那时候的我还相当年轻，就是个有野心有抱负的年轻人。这些事情留下的印象很深。但尽管如此，我还是确信卡罗琳•克雷尔是个非比寻常的女人。我永远都忘不了她，对，永远都忘不了……”
[1]汉弗莱的昵称。
3.THE YOUNG SOLICITOR
Three
THE YOUNG SOLICITOR
George Mayhew was cautious and non-committal.
He remembered the case, of course, but not at all clearly. His father had been in charge—he
himself had been only nineteen at the time.
Yes, the case had made a great stir. Because of Crale being such a well-known man. His
pictures were very fine—very fine indeed. Two of them were in the Tate. Not that that meant
anything.
Mr. Poirot would excuse him, but he didn’t see quite what Mr. Poirot’s interest was in the
matter. Oh, the daughter! Really? Indeed? Canada? He had always heard it was New Zealand.
George Mayhew became less rigid. He unbent.
A shocking thing in a girl’s life. He had the deepest sympathy for her. Really it would have
been better if she had never learned the truth. Still, it was no use saying that now.
She wanted to know? Yes, but what was there to know? There were the reports of the trial, of
course. He himself didn’t really know anything.
No, he was afraid there wasn’t much doubt as to Mrs. Crale’s being guilty. There was a certain
amount of excuse for her. These artists—difficult people to live with. With Crale, he understood, it
had always been some woman or other.
And she herself had probably been the possessive type of woman. Unable to accept facts.
Nowadays she’d simply have divorced him and got over it. He added cautiously:
“Let me see—er—Lady Dittisham, I believe, was the girl in the case.”
Poirot said that he believed that that was so.
“The newspapers bring it up from time to time,” said Mayhew. “She’s been in the divorce court
a good deal. She’s a very rich woman, as I expect you know. She was married to that explorer
fellow before Dittisham. She’s always more or less in the public eye. The kind of woman who
likes notoriety, I should imagine.”
“Or possibly a hero worshipper,” suggested Poirot.
The idea was upsetting to George Mayhew. He accepted it dubiously.
“Well, possibly—yes, I suppose that might be so.”
He seemed to be turning the idea over in his mind.
Poirot said:
“Had your firm acted for Mrs. Crale for a long period of years?”
George Mayhew shook his head.
“On the contrary. Jonathan and Jonathan were the Crale solicitors. Under the circumstances,
however, Mr. Jonathan felt that he could not very well act for Mrs. Crale, and he arranged with us
—with my father—to take over her case. You would do well, I think, Mr. Poirot, to arrange a
meeting with old Mr. Jonathan. He has retired from active work—he is over seventy—but he
knew the Crale family intimately, and he could tell you far more than I can. Indeed, I myself can
tell you nothing at all. I was a boy at the time. I don’t think I was even in court.”
Poirot rose and George Mayhew, rising too, added:
“You might like to have a word with Edmunds, our managing clerk. He was with the firm then
and took a great interest in the case.”
Edmunds was a man of slow speech. His eyes gleamed with legal caution. He took his time in
sizing up Poirot before he let himself be betrayed into speech. He said:
“Ay, I mind the Crale case.”
He added severely: “It was a disgraceful business.”
His shrewd eyes rested appraisingly on Hercule Poirot.
He said:
“It’s a long time since to be raking things up again.”
“A court verdict is not always an ending.”
Edmunds’s square head nodded slowly.
“I’d not say that you weren’t in the right of it there.”
Hercule Poirot went on: “Mrs. Crale left a daughter.”
“Ay, I mind there was a child. Sent abroad to relatives, was she not?”
Poirot went on:
“That daughter believes firmly in her mother’s innocence.”
The huge bushy eyebrows of Mr. Edmunds rose.
“That’s the way of it, is it?”
Poirot asked:
“Is there anything you can tell me to support that belief?”
Edmunds reflected. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
“I could not conscientiously say there was. I admired Mrs. Crale. Whatever else she was, she
was a lady! Not like the other. A hussy—no more, no less. Bold as brass! Jumped-up trash—that’s
what she was—and showed it! Mrs. Crale was quality.”
“But none the less a murderess?”
Edmunds frowned. He said, with more spontaneity than he had yet shown:
“That’s what I used to ask myself, day after day. Sitting there in the dock so calm and gentle.
‘I’ll not believe it,’ I used to say to myself. But, if you take my meaning, Mr. Poirot, there wasn’t
anything else to believe. That hemlock didn’t get into Mr. Crale’s beer by accident. It was put
there. And if Mrs. Crale didn’t put it there, who did?”
“That is the question,” said Poirot. “Who did?”
Again those shrewd old eyes searched his face.
“So that’s your idea?” said Mr. Edmunds.
“What do you think yourself?”
There was a pause before the officer answered. Then he said:
“There was nothing that pointed that way—nothing at all.”
Poirot said:
“You were in court during the hearing of the case?”
“Every day.”
“You heard the witnesses give evidence?”
“I did.”
“Did anything strike you about them—any abnormality, any insincerity?”
Edmunds said bluntly:
“Was one of them lying, do you mean? Had one of them a reason to wish Mr. Crale dead? If
you’ll excuse me, Mr. Poirot, that’s a very melodramatic idea.”
“At least consider it,” Poirot urged.
He watched the shrewd face, the screwed-up, thoughtful eyes. Slowly, regretfully, Edmunds
shook his head.
“That Miss Greer,” he said, “she was bitter enough, and vindictive! I’d say she overstepped the
mark in a good deal she said, but it was Mr. Crale alive she wanted. He was no use to her dead.
She wanted Mrs. Crale hanged all right—but that was because death had snatched her man away
from her. Like a baulked tigress she was! But, as I say, it was Mr. Crale alive she’d wanted. Mr.
Philip Blake, he was against Mrs. Crale too. Prejudiced. Got his knife into her whenever he could.
But I’d say he was honest according to his lights. He’d been Mr. Crale’s great friend. His brother,
Mr. Meredith Blake — a bad witness he was — vague, hesitating — never seemed sure of his
answers. I’ve seen many witnesses like that. Look as though they’re lying when all the time
they’re telling the truth. Didn’t want to say anything more than he could help, Mr. Meredith Blake
didn’t. Counsel got all the more out of him on that account. One of these quiet gentlemen who get
easily flustered. The governess now, she stood up well to them. Didn’t waste words and answered
pat and to the point. You couldn’t have told, listening to her, which side she was on. Got all her
wits about her, she had. The brisk kind.” He paused. “Knew a lot more than she ever let on about
the whole thing, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I, too, should not wonder,” said Hercule Poirot.
He looked sharply at the wrinkled, shrewd face of Mr. Alfred Edmunds. It was quite bland and
impassive. But Hercule Poirot wondered if he had been vouchsafed a hint.
3.年轻律师
年轻律师
乔治•梅休是个谨小慎微的人，说话时总是不置可否。
当然，他记得那个案子，只是记得不那么清楚了。案子是他父亲经手办理的，他自己当时只有十九岁。
是的，这件案子引起了很大的震动。因为克雷尔太出名了。他的画作都很杰出，确实非常杰出，其中两幅还收藏在泰特美术馆 [1] 。当然这也并不是说就意味着什么。
他希望波洛先生海涵，但他实在不明白波洛先生怎么会对这件事情感兴趣。哦，是因为那个女儿！是吗？真的吗？她在加拿大？他还一直听说她在新西兰呢。
乔治•梅休不再那么刻板，而是变得随意起来。
对于一个女孩儿的人生来说，这件事情的打击很大。他对她深表同情。说真的，她要是永远都不知道真相可能会更好，不过，现在说这些已经没有用了。
她想要知道？是啊，不过还有什么可知道的呢？当然，可以看看审判的报告，不过他本人确实是一无所知。
不，恐怕他并不认为克雷尔太太有罪的结论还有什么疑问。当然她那么做也有一些理由，和这些艺术家共同生活往往是很难的。就他所知，克雷尔总是和这样那样的女人纠缠不清。
而她本人可能也是那种占有欲比较强的女人，无法接受事实。若是在今天，她只要跟他离婚，翻过这一页就可以了。
他又小心翼翼地补充道：“让我想想看，呃，我相信，现在的狄提斯汉姆夫人就是当年案子里的那个女孩儿。”
波洛说他也相信就是她。
“报纸上会不时提起这个，”梅休说，“她是离婚法庭的常客。我想你应该知道吧，她很富有。在狄提斯汉姆之前，她嫁给过一个探险家。她总会多多少少地引起公众的关注，要我看，她就是那种喜欢坏名声的女人。”
“也可能她就是个偶像崇拜者呢。”波洛提议道。
这个想法令乔治•梅休很不舒服。他只是将信将疑地接受了。
“啊，也许吧，是，我想也可能是这种情况。”
看起来他正在心里反复地揣摩这个想法。
波洛说道：“这么多年来，一直是你们事务所代理克雷尔太太的事情吗？”
乔治•梅休摇摇头。
“恰恰相反。乔纳森-乔纳森才是克雷尔家的律师。但在当时那种情况下，乔纳森先生认为他无法很好地代表克雷尔太太办理这桩案子，于是就和我们，准确地说是和我父亲商洽，让他接手。波洛先生，我想你安排一下，见见老乔纳森先生是会有帮助的。他已经七十多岁，退休并脱离这些实际的工作了，不过他跟克雷尔家很熟，对他们的情况了如指掌。他能告诉你的比我多得多。事实上，我自己什么也没法告诉你，因为那时候我还是个孩子呢。我觉得我当时甚至都没出庭。”
波洛站起身，乔治•梅休也跟着站起来，又补充道：“你可能会愿意和我们的业务管理员埃德蒙兹聊几句。他当时就在那家事务所，而且对那件案子非常感兴趣。”
＊＊＊
埃德蒙兹是个说话慢条斯理的人。他的双眼流露出一种律师式的慎重。在允许自己开口说话之前，他先花了点儿时间打量了波洛一番。然后他说：“对，我挺关注克雷尔的案子。”
接着他又正色补充道：“这可不是件光彩的事儿。”
他那敏锐的眼光还在品评似的停留在赫尔克里•波洛身上。
他说：“已经过了那么长时间，为什么又要旧事重提呢？”
“法庭的裁定并不总是等于最终的结果。”
埃德蒙兹四四方方的脑袋缓缓地点了点。
“在这个问题上我也不能说你说得没有道理。”
赫尔克里•波洛继续说道：“克雷尔太太留下了一个女儿。”
“是，我记得是有个孩子。被送到国外的亲戚那儿去了，对吗？”
波洛又说道：“那个女儿坚信她母亲是无辜的。”
埃德蒙兹先生浓密的眉毛挑了挑。
“那也是很自然的事情，不对吗？”
波洛问道：“你能告诉我什么可以支持这种信念的事情吗？”
埃德蒙兹想了想，然后慢慢地摇了摇头。
“我不能昧着良心说我能告诉你。我很钦佩克雷尔太太，不管怎么说，她都是个淑女！
不像另一个女人，十足的贱货，厚颜无耻！要我说，她就是个荡妇，还以此为荣呢！克雷尔太太就很有涵养。”
“但她依然是杀人凶手？”
埃德蒙兹皱着眉头，用比刚才更自然的口吻说道：“这也是我日复一日总在问自己的问题。她当时坐在被告席上，那么平静，那么温顺。‘我无法相信。’我总是对自己这么说。
但是波洛先生，如果你懂我的意思，你就会明白除此之外真的别无可信了。毒芹碱可不会偶然间自己跑到克雷尔先生的啤酒里去。它是被有意放进去的。如果不是克雷尔太太放的，还能是谁呢？”
“这就是问题所在，”波洛说，“谁下的毒？”
那双老辣敏锐的眼睛再一次盯着他的脸看，仿佛在搜寻着什么。
“这就是你的意图吗？”埃德蒙兹说。
“你自己是怎么想的呢？”
管理员在回答之前迟疑了一下，然后说道：“没有任何证据可以表明有那种可能性，什么证据都没有。”
波洛说：“案件的庭审过程中你在场吗？”
“每天都在。”
“你听到证人们作证了吗？”
“听到了。”
“有什么事情给你留下印象了吗，任何反常的或者不诚实的情况？”
埃德蒙兹坦率地说：“你是想问他们之中有谁撒谎了吗？要不就是他们之中谁有理由希望克雷尔先生死？波洛先生，请你原谅，我觉得这个想法太夸张了。”
“至少也要考虑一下啊。”波洛力劝道。
他看着那张精明的脸，以及一双既困惑又若有所思的眼睛。埃德蒙兹缓缓地、不无遗憾地摇了摇头。
“那个格里尔小姐，”他说，“她可是充满恶意又怀恨在心的。我得说她说了很多过分的话，但她想要的是一个活生生的克雷尔先生，他要是死了对她来说就没用了。她想要克雷尔太太被绞死，但那也是因为这桩命案把她心爱的男人从她身边夺走了。她就像是一只受挫的母老虎！但是如我所言，她想要的是克雷尔先生活着。菲利普•布莱克先生嘛，他也不站在克雷尔太太这一边。他对她抱有偏见，只要有可能，他会一刀捅了她。但我得说，依他自己的标准来看他是诚实的。他一直是克雷尔先生最好的朋友。他的哥哥，梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生，算是个差劲的证人，模棱两可、犹豫不决，看起来永远都不能确定自己的回答。我见过很多像这样的证人。尽管他们一直都在说实话，但看上去就像在撒谎一样，而且多一句话都不肯说。梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生也是这样。这种一言不发的绅士很容易被搞得慌乱不安，也正因为如此，律师才更要让他多说。接下来是那个家庭女教师，她应对得很好，没有一句废话，回答问题恰到好处、切中要害。如果只是听她说，你很难弄清楚她到底是站在哪一边的。她很有头脑，是那种干脆利落的人。”他停顿了一下，“如果她对整件事情知道的比实际说出来的多，我也不会感到惊讶。”
“我也不会感到惊讶的。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
他用锐利的目光看着阿尔佛雷德•埃德蒙兹先生那张布满皱纹的精明的脸，那上面平淡无奇，毫无表情。但赫尔克里•波洛在想，他是否在暗示着什么？
[1]英国国立博物馆，收藏现代艺术。
4.THE OLD SOLICITOR
Four
THE OLD SOLICITOR
Mr. Caleb Jonathan lived in Essex. After a courteous exchange of letters, Poirot received aninvitation, almost royal in its character, to dine and sleep. The old gentleman was decidedly acharacter. After the insipidity of young George Mayhew, Mr. Jonathan was like a glass of his ownvintage port.
He had his own methods of approach to a subject, and it was not until well on towardsmidnight, when sipping a glass of fragrant old brandy, that Mr. Jonathan really unbent. In orientalfashion he had appreciated Hercule Poirot’s courteous refusal to rush him in any way. Now, in hisown good time, he was willing to elaborate the theme of the Crale family.
“Our firm, of course, has known many generations of the Crales. I knew Amyas Crale and hisfather, Richard Crale, and I can remember Enoch Crale—the grandfather. Country squires, all ofthem, thought more of horses than human beings. They rode straight, liked women, and had notruck with ideas. They distrusted ideas. But Richard Crale’s wife was cram full of ideas—moreideas than sense. She was poetical and musical—she played the harp, you know. She enjoyed poorhealth and looked very picturesque on her sofa. She was an admirer of Kingsley. That’s why shecalled her son Amyas. His father scoffed at the name—but he gave in.
“Amyas Crale profited by his mixed inheritance. He got his artistic trend from his weaklymother, and his driving power and ruthless egoism from his father. All the Crales were egoists.
They never by any chance saw any point of view but their own.”
Tapping with a delicate finger on the arm of his chair, the old man shot a shrewd glance atPoirot.
“Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Poirot, but I think you are interested in—character, shall wesay?”
Poirot replied.
“That, to me, is the principal interest of all my cases.”
“I can conceive of it. To get under the skin, as it were, of your criminal. How interesting. Howabsorbing. Our firm, of course, have never had a criminal practice. We should not have beencompetent to act for Mrs. Crale, even if taste had allowed. Mayhews, however, were a veryadequate firm. They briefed Depleach—they didn’t perhaps show much imagination there—still,he was very expensive and, of course, exceedingly dramatic! What they hadn’t the wits to see wasthat Caroline would never play up in the way he wanted her to. She wasn’t a dramatic woman.”
“What was she?” asked Poirot. “It is that that I am chiefly anxious to know.”
“Yes, yes—of course. How did she come to do what she did? That is the really vital question. Iknew her, you know, before she married. Caroline Spalding, she was. A turbulent unhappycreature. Very alive. Her mother was left a widow early in life and Caroline was devoted to hermother. Then the mother married again—there was another child. Yes—yes, very sad, verypainful. These young, ardent, adolescent jealousies.”
“She was jealous?”
“Passionately so. There was a regrettable incident. Poor child, she blamed herself bitterlyafterwards. But you know, Mr. Poirot, these things happen. There is an inability to put on thebrakes. It comes—it comes with maturity.”
Poirot said:
“What happened?”
“She struck the child—the baby—flung a paperweight at her. The child lost the sight of one eyeand was permanently disfigured.”
Mr. Jonathan sighed. He said:
“You can imagine the effect a simple question on that point had at the trial.”
He shook his head:
“It gave the impression that Caroline Crale was a woman of ungovernable temper. That was nottrue. No, that was not true.”
He paused and then resumed:
“Caroline Spalding came often to stay at Alderbury. She rode well, and was keen. Richard Cralewas fond of her. She waited on Mrs. Crale and was deft and gentle—Mrs. Crale also liked her. Thegirl was not happy at home. She was happy at Alderbury. Diana Crale, Amyas’s sister, and shewere by way of being friends. Philip and Meredith Blake, boys from the adjoining estate, werefrequently at Alderbury. Philip was always a nasty, money-grubbing little brute. I must confess Ihave always had a distaste for him. But I am told that he tells a very good story and that he has thereputation of being a staunch friend. Meredith was what my contemporaries used to call NambyPamby. Liked botany and butterflies and observing birds and beasts. Nature study they call itnowadays. Ah, dear—all the young people were a disappointment to their parents. None of themran true to type—huntin’, shootin’, fishin’. Meredith preferred watching birds and animals toshooting or hunting them, Philip definitely preferred town to country and went into the business ofmoneymaking. Diana married a fellow who wasn’t a gentleman—one of the temporary officers inthe war. And Amyas, strong, handsome, virile Amyas, blossomed into being a painter, of all thingsin the world. It’s my opinion that Richard Crale died of the shock.
“And in due course Amyas married Caroline Spalding. They’d always fought and sparred, but itwas a love match all right. They were both crazy about each other. And they continued to care.
But Amyas was like all the Crales, a ruthless egoist. He loved Caroline but he never onceconsidered her in any way. He did as he pleased. It’s my opinion that he was as fond of her as hecould be of anybody—but she came a long way behind his art. That came first. And I should say atno time did his art give place to a woman. He had affairs with women—they stimulated him—buthe left them high and dry when he’d finished with them. He wasn’t a sentimental man, nor aromantic one. And he wasn’t entirely a sensualist either. The only woman he cared a button forwas his own wife. And because she knew that she put up with a lot. He was a very fine painter,you know. She realized that, and respected it. He chased off in his amorous pursuits and cameback again—usually with a picture to show for it.
“It might have gone on like that if it hadn’t come to Elsa Greer. Elsa Greer—”
Mr. Jonathan shook his head.
Poirot said: “What of Elsa Greer?”
Mr. Jonathan said unexpectedly:
“Poor child. Poor child.”
Poirot said: “So you feel like that about her?”
Jonathan said:
“Maybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, Mr. Poirot, that there is something about thedefencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless—so sure.
So generous and so demanding.”
Getting up, he crossed to the bookcase. Taking out a volume he opened it, turned the pages, andthen read out:
“‘If that thy bent of love be honourable,
The purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.’”
“There speaks love allied to youth, in Juliet’s words. No reticence, no holding back, no so-called maiden modesty. It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth. Shakespeareknew youth. Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, theyoung, no fear, no pride.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“So to you Elsa Greer spoke in the words of Juliet?”
“Yes. She was a spoiled child of fortune—young, lovely, rich. She found her mate and claimedhim—no young Romeo, a married, middle-aged painter. Elsa Greer had no code to restrain her,she had the code of modernity. ‘Take what you want—we shall only live once!’”
He sighed, leaned back, and again tapped gently on the arm of his chair.
“A predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the oneaudacious throw. And seemingly she won…and then—at the last moment—death steps in—andthe living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman,hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.”
His voice changed:
“Dear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young woman—with a crudeoutlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character. Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Takethat away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.”
Poirot said:
“If Amyas Crale had not been a famous painter—”
Mr. Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:
“Quite — quite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are heroworshippers. A man must have done something, must be somebody…Caroline Crale, now, couldhave recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale theman, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crude—Elsa Greer was.”
He added:
“But she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.”
Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.
To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.
To old Mr. Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.
And Caroline Crale?
Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatist—aquitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a “lady.” Mr.
Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.
How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?
On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.
So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, CarolineCrale was also a murderess.
4.老律师
老律师
凯莱布•乔纳森先生住在埃塞克斯。在彬彬有礼地互通了书信之后，波洛接到了一封请柬，盛情邀请他前往赴宴并过夜。这位老绅士毫无疑问是个人物。波洛刚刚打过交道的年轻的乔治•梅休可谓枯燥无味，相比之下，乔纳森先生简直就像是一杯自酿的上等波特酒一样。
他自有一套切入话题的方法，只有到了将近午夜时分，呷着一杯醇香扑鼻的陈年白兰地，乔纳森先生才真正变得随和起来。对于赫尔克里•波洛很客气地没有显露出一丁点要催促他的意思，他以东方文化中的方式表示了感谢。而现在，也正是他不急不忙、最为方便的时候，他很乐意详细谈谈关于克雷尔家族的话题。
“当然了，我们事务所认识克雷尔家族的人已经有好几代了。我认识埃米亚斯•克雷尔和他的父亲理查德•克雷尔，而且我还能记起他的祖父伊诺克•克雷尔。他们都是乡绅，更多时间是在想马的事情而不是人。他们喜欢骑着马跨越障碍，喜欢女人，却和思想这玩意儿不沾边。他们根本不相信什么思想。而理查德•克雷尔的妻子却有着满脑子的思想，比见识还多。她富有诗意又精通音律，你知道吗，她还会弹竖琴呢。她身体不好，弱不禁风，坐在沙发上的样子看上去楚楚可怜。她是金斯利 [1] 的崇拜者，这也是她给儿子取名叫埃米亚斯的原因。孩子的父亲对这个名字嗤之以鼻，但最终还是让步了。
“埃米亚斯•克雷尔身上糅合了父母双方的特点，这让他因此而受益。他从体弱多病的母亲那里继承了艺术天分，而他父亲那种活力和冷酷无情的自我主义也传给了他。所有克雷尔家族的人都是自私自利的。他们从来只为自己着想，不会替别人考虑。”
老人的手指轻轻敲着椅子扶手，用敏锐的目光瞥了波洛一眼。
“如果我说错了你可以纠正我，波洛先生，但我认为你感兴趣的是人的性格特点，可以这么说吗？”
波洛回答道：“对我来说，所有案件中最让我感兴趣的就是这个。”
“我能够想象到。在某种程度上可以说你是要深入到罪犯内心的。多么有意思，多么吸引人啊。当然啦，我们事务所从来没有承担过刑事案件的辩护，所以就算我们有兴趣，恐怕也难以胜任克雷尔太太这件案子，而梅休家族事务所却是再合适不过了。他们把案子交给德普利奇，简单介绍了情况，并没有添油加醋。他的要价很高，当然喽，他也极具表演才能！但他们万万没想到的是卡罗琳根本就不配合他，不按照他的要求去做。她可不是个会演戏的人。”
“那她到底是个什么样的人？”波洛问道，“这是我现在最急于知道的。”
“对啊，对啊，当然了。她怎么就会做出那种事来呢？这是真正至关重要的问题。你知道吗，我在她结婚前就认识她。她本名叫卡罗琳•斯波尔丁，是个性情乖戾、怏怏不乐，却又充满活力的姑娘。她母亲早年寡居，卡罗琳很爱她的母亲。后来她母亲再嫁，又生了一个孩子。是啊，是啊，她自然是非常伤心，非常痛苦的。都是年轻女孩儿那种强烈的嫉妒心在作祟啊。”
“她很嫉妒？”
“非常强烈。还曾经发生过一件令人遗憾的事情呢。可怜了那个孩子，她在事后也极度自责。但波洛先生你也知道，事情已经无可挽回了。那一刻她就是控制不住自己。这个只有在成熟以后才能够慢慢学会。”
波洛说：“出了什么事？”
“她打了那孩子，朝那个婴儿扔了个镇纸。那孩子有一只眼睛没了视力，而且永久地破了相。”
乔纳森先生叹了口气。他说道：“你应该能想象得到，在审讯过程中，针对这件事的一个简单问题就能产生什么样的效果。”
他说着摇摇头。“这给人留下一种印象，卡罗琳•克雷尔是个脾气暴烈、难以控制的女人。其实不是这样的，真的，不是这样的。”
他停顿了一下，又继续说道：“卡罗琳•斯波尔丁经常来奥尔德伯里庄园小住。她马骑得很好，而且很热心。理查德•克雷尔很喜欢她。她服侍克雷尔太太，动作又熟练又轻柔，结果克雷尔太太也喜欢她。这姑娘在家的时候并不开心，但在奥尔德伯里的时候却很快乐。埃米亚斯的妹妹黛安娜•克雷尔跟她成了朋友。紧邻的那个庄园里的菲利普和梅瑞迪斯•布莱克兄弟俩也经常到奥尔德伯里来。菲利普从来就是个招人讨厌的一心向钱看的小畜生。我不得不承认我一直都很讨厌他。但据传他能说会道、巧舌如簧，而且还因为对朋友很讲义气而享有很好的口碑。梅瑞迪斯则是那种我们这一代通常认为性格软弱、多愁善感、总爱无病呻吟的人。喜欢植物啊、蝴蝶啊，观察鸟兽之类的。如今他们管这个叫作研究自然。唉，所有这些年轻人都让他们的父母大失所望。父辈就希望他们每天打打猎钓钓鱼什么的，可没有一个人走上这条路。梅瑞迪斯更喜欢观察小鸟小动物而不是去捕猎；菲利普不愿意待在乡下，他喜欢城里的生活，最终去做了赚钱的生意；黛安娜嫁人了，但对方压根儿不是个绅士，只是个战时的临时官员。而埃米亚斯，强壮、英俊、充满阳刚之气的埃米亚斯，干点儿什么不好，偏偏当了个画家。依我看，理查德•克雷尔就是受不了这个打击才死的。
“后来没过多久，埃米亚斯就娶了卡罗琳•斯波尔丁。他们俩总是打打闹闹的，但还算得上是一对恩爱夫妻。他们彼此很痴迷，也一直都很在意对方。但埃米亚斯就像所有克雷尔家族的人一样，是个冷酷的自我主义者。他爱卡罗琳，但从来不会为她着想，想怎么做就怎么做。依我看他爱任何人也不过就是如此了，跟他的艺术比起来，她还差得远呢，艺术对他来说才是第一位的，而且我敢说这个地位任何女人都取代不了。他和很多女人都有过风流韵事，她们能够激发他的热情，可是当他玩够了，他就会毫不留情地把她们甩掉。
他既不多情也不浪漫，而且也不能算是一个完全的肉欲主义者。他唯一在乎的女人就是他自己的太太。她也正是因为知道这个，所以才能够一忍再忍。要知道，他是个非常出色的画家，她了解这一点，在这方面也很敬重他。他到处留情，却总是会再回到她身边，通常还会带着一幅新作借以展示。
“要不是后来出现了个埃尔莎•格里尔，日子可能就会一直这样下去了。埃尔莎•格里尔——”
乔纳森先生摇摇头。
波洛说：“埃尔莎•格里尔怎么了？”
乔纳森先生出乎意料地说道：“可怜的孩子，可怜的孩子啊。”
波洛说：“这就是你对她的感觉吗？”
乔纳森说：“也可能是因为我上了年纪，但是我发现，波洛先生，年轻人身上的这种毫无戒备常常会把我感动得落泪。年轻人是多么脆弱易伤啊。那么坚决果敢，那么自信满满，那么慷慨大方，又那么务求完美。”
他站起身走到书柜前，拿出一本来翻开，然后大声地朗诵起来：“‘要是你的爱情的确是光明正大的，你的目的是在于婚姻，那么明天我会叫一个人到你的地方来，请你叫他带一个信给我，告诉我愿意在什么地方、什么时候举行婚礼；我就会把我的整个命运交托给你，把你当作我的主人，跟随你到天涯海角。’ [2]
“这是借朱丽叶之口说的，爱情总是和青春密切相伴。没有沉默不语，没有犹豫不决，也没有所谓的少女的矜持。这就是青春所拥有的勇气、执着和果决的力量。莎士比亚洞悉了青春。朱丽叶选择罗密欧，苔丝狄蒙娜赢得了奥赛罗。这些年轻人都能够放下自尊、毫不疑虑、无所畏惧。”
波洛若有所思地说道：“所以在你看来，埃尔莎•格里尔就像是朱丽叶的化身？”
“没错。她是个被幸运宠坏了的孩子——年轻、漂亮、富有。她找到了她的理想伴侣，并且得到了他——不是年轻的罗密欧，而是一个已婚的中年画家。对埃尔莎•格里尔来说，没有什么条条框框能够管得住她，她所抱持的是现代的行为准则：‘想要什么就去拿——每个人都只活一次！’”
他叹了口气，向后靠回椅背，又开始轻轻敲打椅子的扶手。
“一个掠夺成性的朱丽叶。年轻、冷酷，却又无比脆弱！孤注一掷。表面上看起来她赢了……而然后呢，在最后关头，死神光顾了，原本那个活泼、热情、快乐的埃尔莎也随之一去不返，只剩下一个冷若冰霜、铁石心肠、满怀怨恨的女人，她发自心底痛恨那个亲手杀了她心上人的女人。”
他的声音变了：“天哪，天哪！请原谅这个小小的过错，就当它是一出闹剧吧。一个涉世未深的年轻女子，对生活抱着不成熟的看法。我觉得这不是什么有意思的角色。白玫瑰的青春，情意绵绵，花容失色之类的。把这些去掉还剩下什么呢？也就是个平凡的年轻女子，在寻找一个现实生活中的偶像去摆上神坛吧。”
波洛说：“如果埃米亚斯•克雷尔不是个著名画家的话——”
乔纳森先生马上表示了赞同。他说：“太对了。你一下就说到点子上了。世界上就有像埃尔莎这样崇拜偶像的人。男人必须事业有成，声名显赫……而卡罗琳•克雷尔就能够看出一个人身上的品质，哪怕他只是个银行职员或者保险代理人！卡罗琳爱的是埃米亚斯•克雷尔这个人，而不是埃米亚斯•克雷尔这个画家。卡罗琳•克雷尔可没有那么不谙世事，而埃尔莎•格里尔就是。”
他补充道：“不过她年轻、漂亮，在我看来十分可怜。”
赫尔克里•波洛上床的时候还在思考。他被人格问题所深深吸引了。
对于那个管理员埃德蒙兹来说，埃尔莎•格里尔就是个十足的贱货。
而对老乔纳森先生来说她却是不朽的朱丽叶。
卡罗琳•克雷尔又怎么样呢？
每个人眼中的她都不一样。蒙塔古•德普利奇鄙视她，觉得她是个失败主义者——一个轻言放弃的人。在年轻的福格眼中她代表着浪漫。埃德蒙兹简单地把她看成一个“淑女”。
而乔纳森先生则说她是个性情乖戾、冲动的女人。
那他自己，赫尔克里•波洛，会怎么看她呢？
他感觉这次能否成功地探明真相，就取决于这个问题的答案了。
目前为止，他见过的所有人中，无论他们认为卡罗琳•克雷尔是什么样的人，都没有一个人怀疑过她就是凶手的结论。
[1]指查尔斯•金斯利（Charles Kingsley，1819—1875），英国文学家、学者与神学家。他的历史小说《向西》（Westward Ho!）中的主人公名为埃米亚斯•雷。
[2]引自朱生豪译《罗密欧与朱丽叶》，《莎士比亚全集》之八。
5.THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
Five
THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
Ex-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
He said:
“This is a funny fancy of yours, Mr. Poirot.”
“It is, perhaps, a little unusual,” Poirot agreed cautiously.
“You see,” said Hale, “it’s all such a long time ago.”
Hercule Poirot foresaw that he was going to get a little tired of that particular phrase. He saidmildly:
“That adds to the difficulty, of course.”
“Raking up the past,” mused the other. “If there were an object in it, now….”
“There is an object.”
“What is it?”
“One can enjoy the pursuit of truth for its own sake. I do. And you must not forget the younglady.”
Hale nodded.
“Yes, I see her side of it. But—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Poirot—you’re an ingenious man. Youcould cook her up a tale.”
Poirot replied:
“You do not know the young lady.”
“Oh, come now—a man of your experience!”
Poirot drew himself up.
“I may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liar—you seem to think so. But it is not my ideaof ethical conduct. I have my standards.”
“Sorry, Mr. Poirot. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But it would be all in a good cause, so tospeak.”
“Oh I wonder, would it really?”
Hale said slowly:
“It’s tough luck on a happy innocent girl who’s just going to get married to find that her motherwas a murderess. If I were you I’d go to her and say that, after all, suicide was what it was. Say thecase was mishandled by Depleach. Say that there’s no doubt in your mind that Crale poisonedhimself!”
“But there is every doubt in my mind! I do not believe for one minute that Crale poisonedhimself. Do you consider it even reasonably possible yourself?”
Slowly Hale shook his head.
“You see? No, it is the truth I must have—not a plausible—or not very plausible—lie.”
Hale turned and looked at Poirot. His square rather red face grew a little redder and evenappeared to get a little squarer. He said:
“You talk about the truth. I’d like to make it plain to you that we think we got the truth in theCrale case.”
Poirot said quickly:
“That pronouncement from you means a great deal. I know you for what you are, an honest andcapable man. Now tell me this, was there no doubt at any time in your mind as to the guilt of Mrs.
Crale?”
The Superintendent’s answer came promptly.
“No doubt at all, Mr. Poirot. The circumstances pointed to her straight away, and every singlefact that we uncovered supported that view.”
“You can give me an outline of the evidence against her?”
“I can. When I received your letter I looked up the case.” He picked up a small notebook. “I’vejotted down all the salient facts here.”
“Thank you, my friend. I am all eagerness to hear.”
Hale cleared his throat. A slight official intonation made itself heard in his voice.
He said:
“At two forty-five on the afternoon of September 18th, Inspector Conway was rung up by Dr.
Andrew Faussett. Dr. Faussett stated that Mr. Amyas Crale of Alderbury had died suddenly andthat in consequence of the circumstances of that death and also of a statement made to him by aMr. Blake, a guest staying in the house, he considered that it was a case for the police.
“Inspector Conway, in company with a sergeant and the police surgeon, came over to Alderburystraight away. Dr. Faussett was there and took him to where the body of Mr. Crale had not beendisturbed.
“Mr. Crale had been painting in a small enclosed garden, known as the Battery garden, from thefact that it overlooked the sea, and had some miniature cannon placed in embattlements. It wassituated at about four minutes’ walk from the house. Mr. Crale had not come up to the house forlunch as he wanted to get certain effects of light on the stone—and the sun would have been wrongfor this later. He had, therefore, remained alone in the Battery garden, painting. This was statednot to be an unusual occurrence. Mr. Crale took very little notice of meal times. Sometimes asandwich would be sent down to him, but more often he preferred to remain undisturbed. The lastpeople to see him alive were Miss Elsa Greer (staying in the house) and Mr. Meredith Blake (anear neighbour). These two went up together to the house and went with the rest of the householdin to lunch. After lunch, coffee was served on the terrace. Mrs. Crale finished drinking her coffeeand then observed that she would ‘go down and see how Amyas was getting on.’ Miss CeciliaWilliams, governess, got up and accompanied her. She was looking for a pullover belonging to herpupil, Miss Angela Warren, sister of Mrs. Crale, which the latter had mislaid and she thought itpossible it might have been left down on the beach.
“These two started off together. The path led downwards, through some woods, until it emergedat the door leading into the Battery garden. You could either go into the Battery garden or youcould continue on the same path, which led down to the seashore.
“Miss Williams continued on down and Mrs. Crale went into the Battery garden. Almost atonce, however, Mrs. Crale screamed and Miss Williams hurried back. Mr. Crale was reclining ona seat and he was dead.
“At Mrs. Crale’s urgent request Miss Williams left the Battery garden and hurried up to thehouse to telephone for a doctor. On her way, however, she met Mr. Meredith Blake and entrustedher errand to him, herself returning to Mrs. Crale whom she felt might be in need of someone. Dr.
Faussett arrived on the scene a quarter of an hour later. He saw at once that Mr. Crale had beendead for some time—he placed the probable time of death at between one and two o’clock. Therewas nothing to show what had caused death. There was no sign of any wound and Mr. Crale’sattitude was a perfectly natural one. Nevertheless Dr. Faussett, who was well acquainted with Mr.
Crale’s state of health, and who knew positively that there was no disease or weakness of anykind, was inclined to take a grave view of the situation. It was at this point that Mr. Philip Blakemade a certain statement to Dr. Faussett.”
Superintendent Hale paused, drew a deep breath and passed, as it were, to Chapter Two.
“Subsequently Mr. Blake repeated this statement to Inspector Conway. It was to this effect. Hehad that morning received a telephone message from his brother, Mr. Meredith Blake (who livedat Handcross Manor, a mile and a half away). Mr. Meredith Blake was an amateur chemist—orperhaps herbalist would describe it best. On entering his laboratory that morning, Mr. MeredithBlake had been startled to note that a bottle containing a preparation of hemlock, which had beenquite full the day before, was now nearly empty. Worried and alarmed by this fact he had rung uphis brother to ask his advice as to what he should do about it. Mr. Philip Blake had urged hisbrother to come over to Alderbury at once and they would talk the matter over. He himself walkedpart way to meet his brother and they had come up to the house together. They had come to nodecision as to what course to adopt and had left the matter in order to consult again after lunch.
“As a result of further inquiries, Inspector Conway ascertained the following facts: On thepreceding afternoon five people had walked over from Alderbury to tea at Handcross Manor.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Crale, Miss Angela Warren, Miss Elsa Greer and Mr. Philip Blake.
During the time spent there, Mr. Meredith Blake had given quite a dissertation on his hobby andhad taken the party into his little laboratory and ‘shown them round.’ In the course of this tour, hehad mentioned certain specific drugs— one of which was coniine, the active principle of thespotted hemlock. He had explained its properties, had lamented the fact that it had nowdisappeared from the Pharmacop?ia and boasted that he had known small doses of it to be veryefficacious in whooping cough and asthma. Later he had mentioned its lethal properties and hadactually read to his guests some passage from a Greek author describing its effects.”
Superintendent Hale paused, refilled his pipe and passed on to Chapter Three.
“Colonel Frere, the Chief Constable, put the case into my hands. The result of the autopsy putthe matter beyond any doubt. Coniine, I understand, leaves no definite postmortem appearances,but the doctors knew what to look for, and an ample amount of the drug was recovered. Thedoctor was of the opinion that it had been administered two or three hours before death. In front ofMr. Crale, on the table, there had been an empty glass and an empty beer bottle. The dregs of bothwere analysed. There was no coniine in the bottle, but there was in the glass. I made inquiries andlearned that although a case of beer and glasses were kept in a small summerhouse in the Batterygarden in case Mr. Crale should feel thirsty when painting, on this particular morning Mrs. Cralehad brought down from the house a bottle of freshly iced beer. Mr. Crale was busy painting whenshe arrived and Miss Greer was posing for him, sitting on one of the battlements.
“Mrs. Crale opened the beer, poured it out and put the glass into her husband’s hand as he wasstanding before the easel. He tossed it off in one draught—a habit of his, I learned. Then he made agrimace, set down the glass on the table, and said: ‘Everything tastes foul to me today!’ MissGreer upon that laughed and said, ‘Liver!’ Mr. Crale said: ‘Well, at any rate it was cold.’”
Hale paused. Poirot said:
“At what time did this take place?”
“At about a quarter past eleven. Mr. Crale continued to paint. According to Miss Greer, he latercomplained of stiffness in the limbs and grumbled that he must have got a touch of rheumatism.
But he was the type of man who hates to admit to illness of any kind, and he undoubtedly tried notto admit that he was feeling ill. His irritable demand that he should be left alone and the others goup to lunch was quite characteristic of the man, I should say.”
Poirot nodded.
Hale continued.
“So Crale was left alone in the Battery garden. No doubt he dropped down on the seat andrelaxed as soon as he was alone. Muscular paralysis would then set in. No help was at hand, anddeath supervened.”
Again Poirot nodded.
Hale said:
“Well, I proceeded according to routine. There wasn’t much difficulty in getting down to thefacts. On the preceding day there had been a set-to between Mrs. Crale and Miss Greer. The latterhad pretty insolently described some change in the arrangement of the furniture ‘when I am livinghere.’ Mrs. Crale took her up, and said, ‘What do you mean? When you are living here.’ MissGreer replied: ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, Caroline. You’re just like an ostrichthat buries its head in the sand. You know perfectly well that Amyas and I care for each other andare going to be married.’ Mrs. Crale said: ‘I know nothing of the kind.’ Miss Greer then said:
‘Well, you know it now.’ Whereupon, it seems, Mrs. Crale turned to her husband who had justcome into the room and said: ‘Is it true, Amyas, that you are going to marry Elsa?’”
Poirot said with interest:
“And what did Mr. Crale say to that?”
“Apparently he turned on Miss Greer and shouted at her: ‘What the devil do you mean byblurting that out? Haven’t you got the sense to hold your tongue?’
“Miss Greer said: ‘I think Caroline ought to recognize the truth.’
“Mrs. Crale said to her husband: ‘Is it true, Amyas?’
“He wouldn’t look at her, it seems, turned his face away and mumbled something.
“She said: ‘Speak out. I’ve got to know.’ Whereupon he said:
“‘Oh, it’s true enough—but I don’t want to discuss it now.’
“Then he flounced out of the room again and Miss Greer said:
“‘You see!’ and went on—with something about its being no good for Mrs. Crale to adopt adog-in-the-manger attitude about it. They must all behave like rational people. She herself hopedthat Caroline and Amyas would always remain good friends.”
“And what did Mrs. Crale say to that?” asked Poirot curiously.
“According to the witnesses she laughed. She said: ‘Over my dead body, Elsa.’ She went to thedoor and Miss Greer called after her: ‘What do you mean?’ Mrs. Crale looked back and said: ‘I’llkill Amyas before I give him up to you.’”
Hale paused.
“Pretty damning—eh?”
“Yes.” Poirot seemed thoughtful. “Who overheard this scene?”
“Miss Williams was in the room and Philip Blake. Very awkward for them.”
“Their accounts of the scene agree?”
“Near enough—you never got two witnesses to remember a thing exactly alike. You know thatjust as well as I do, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot nodded. He said thoughtfully:
“Yes, it will be interesting to see—” He stopped with the sentence unfinished.
Hale went on: “I instituted a search of the house. In Mrs. Crale’s bedroom I found in a bottomdrawer, tucked away underneath some winter stockings, a small bottle labelled jasmine scent. Itwas empty. I fingerprinted it. The only prints on it were those of Mrs. Crale. On analysis it wasfound to contain faint traces of oil of jasmine, and a strong solution of coniine hydrobromide.
“I cautioned Mrs. Crale and showed her the bottle. She replied readily. She had, she said, beenin a very unhappy state of mind. After listening to Mr. Meredith Blake’s description of the drugshe had slipped back to the laboratory, had emptied out a bottle of jasmine scent which was in herbag and had filled the bottle up with coniine solution. I asked her why she had done this and shesaid: ‘I don’t want to speak of certain things more than I can help, but I had received a bad shock.
My husband was proposing to leave me for another woman. If that was so, I didn’t want to live.
That is why I took it.’”
Hale paused.
Poirot said: “After all—it is likely enough.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Poirot. But it doesn’t square with what she was overheard to say. And then therewas a further scene on the following morning. Mr. Philip Blake overheard a portion of it. MissGreer overheard a different portion of it. It took place in the library between Mr. and Mrs. Crale.
Mr. Blake was in the hall and caught a fragment or two. Miss Greer was sitting outside near theopen library window and heard a good deal more.”
“And what did they hear?”
“Mr. Blake heard Mrs. Crale say: ‘You and your women. I’d like to kill you. Some day I willkill you.’”
“No mention of suicide?”
“Exactly. None at all. No words like ‘If you do this thing, I’ll kill myself.’ Miss Greer’sevidence was much the same. According to her, Mr. Crale said: ‘Do try and be reasonable aboutthis, Caroline. I’m fond of you and will always wish you well—you and the child. But I’m goingto marry Elsa. We’ve always agreed to leave each other free.’ Mrs. Crale answered to that: ‘Verywell, don’t say I haven’t warned you.’ He said: ‘What do you mean?’ And she said: ‘I mean that Ilove you and I’m not going to lose you. I’d rather kill you than let you go to that girl.’”
Poirot made a slight gesture.
“It occurs to me,” he murmured, “that Miss Greer was singularly unwise to raise this issue. Mrs.
Crale could easily have refused her husband a divorce.”
“We had some evidence bearing on that point,” said Hale. “Mrs. Crale, it seems, confided partlyin Mr. Meredith Blake. He was an old and trusted friend. He was very distressed and managed toget a word with Mr. Crale about it. This, I may say, was on the preceding afternoon. Mr. Blakeremonstrated delicately with his friend, said how distressed he would be if the marriage betweenMr. and Mrs. Crale was to break up so disastrously. He also stressed the point that Miss Greer wasa very young girl and that it was a very serious thing to drag a young girl through the divorcecourt. To this Mr. Crale replied, with a chuckle (callous sort of brute he must have been): ‘Thatisn’t Elsa’s idea at all. She isn’t going to appear. We shall fix it up in the usual way.’”
Poirot said: “Therefore even more imprudent of Miss Greer to have broken out the way shedid.”
Superintendent Hale said:
“Oh, you know what women are! Have to get at each other’s throats. It must have been adifficult situation anyhow. I can’t understand Mr. Crale allowing it to happen. According to Mr.
Meredith Blake he wanted to finish his picture. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes, my friend, I think it does.”
“It doesn’t to me. The man was asking for trouble!”
“He was probaby seriously annoyed with his young woman for breaking out the way she did.”
“Oh, he was. Meredith Blake said so. If he had to finish the picture I don’t see why he couldn’thave taken some photographs and worked from them. I know a chap—does watercolours of places—he does that.”
Poirot shook his head.
“No—I can understand Crale the artist. You must realize, my friend, that at that moment,probably, his picture was all that mattered to Crale. However much he wanted to marry the girl,the picture came first. That’s why he hoped to get through her visit without its coming to an openissue. The girl, of course, didn’t see it that way. With women, love always comes first.”
“Don’t I know it?” said Superintendent Hale with feeling.
“Men,” continued Poirot, “and especially artists—are different.”
“Art!” said the Superintendent with scorn. “All this talk about Art! I never have understood itand I never shall! You should have seen that picture Crale was painting. All lopsided. He’d madethe girl look as though she’d got toothache, and the battlements were all cock-eyed. Unpleasantlooking, the whole thing. I couldn’t get it out of my mind for a long time afterwards. I even dreamtabout it. And what’s more it affected my eyesight—I began to see battlements and walls andthings all out of drawing. Yes, and women too!”
Poirot smiled. He said:
“Although you do not know it, you are paying a tribute to the greatness of Amyas Crale’s art.”
“Nonsense. Why can’t a painter paint something nice and cheerful to look at? Why go out ofyour way to look for ugliness?”
“Some of us, mon cher, see beauty in curious places.”
“The girl was a good looker, all right,” said Hale. “Lots of makeup and next to no clothes on. Itisn’t decent the way these girls go about. And that was sixteen years ago, mind you. Nowadaysone wouldn’t think anything of it. But then—well, it shocked me. Trousers and one of thosecanvas shirts, open at the neck—and not another thing, I should say!”
“You seem to remember these points very well,” murmured Poirot slyly.
Superintendent Hale blushed. “I’m just passing on the impression I got,” he said austerely.
“Quite—quite,” said Poirot soothingly. He went on:
“So it would seem that the principal witnesses against Mrs. Crale were Philip Blake and ElsaGreer?”
“Yes. Vehement, they were, both of them. But the governess was called by the prosecution too,and what she said carried more weight than the other two. She was on Mrs. Crale’s side entirely,you see. Up in arms for her. But she was an honest woman and gave her evidence truthfullywithout trying to minimize it in any way.”
“And Meredith Blake?”
“He was very distressed by the whole thing, poor gentleman. As well he might be! Blamedhimself for his drug brewing—and the coroner blamed him for it too. Coniine and AE Salts comesunder Schedule I of the Poisons Acts. He came in for some pretty sharp censure. He was a friendof both parties, and it hit him very hard—besides being the kind of county gentleman who shrinksfrom notoriety and being in the public eye.”
“Did not Mrs. Crale’s young sister give evidence?”
“No. It wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t there when Mrs. Crale threatened her husband, and therewas nothing she could tell us that we couldn’t get from someone else equally well. She saw Mrs.
Crale go to the refrigerator and get the iced beer out and, of course, the Defence could havesubp?naed her to say that Mrs. Crale took it straight down without tampering with it in any way.
But that point wasn’t relevant because we never claimed that the coniine was in the beer bottle.”
“How did she manage to put it in the glass with those two looking on?”
“Well, first of all, they weren’t looking on. That is to say, Mr. Crale was painting—looking athis canvas and at the sitter. And Miss Greer was posed, sitting with her back almost to where Mrs.
Crale was standing, and her eyes looking over Mr. Crale’s shoulder.”
Poirot nodded.
“As I say neither of the two was looking at Mrs. Crale. She had the stuff in one of those pipettethings—one used to fill fountain pens with them. We found it crushed to splinters on the path up tothe house.”
Poirot murmured:
“You have an answer to everything.”
“Well, come now, Mr. Poirot! Without prejudice. She threatens to kill him. She takes the stufffrom the laboratory. The empty bottle is found in her room and nobody has handled it but her. Shedeliberately takes down iced beer to him—a funny thing, anyway, when you realize that theyweren’t on speaking terms—”
“A very curious thing. I had already remarked on it.”
“Yes. Bit of a give away. Why was she so amiable all of a sudden? He complains of the taste ofthe stuff—and coniine has a nasty taste. She arranges to find the body and she sends the otherwoman off to telephone. Why? So that she can wipe that bottle and glass and then press his fingerson it. After that she can pipe up and say that it was remorse and that he committed suicide. Alikely story.”
“It was certainly not very well imagined.”
“No. If you ask me she didn’t take the trouble to think. She was so eaten up with hate andjealousy. All she thought of was doing him in. And then, when it’s over, when she sees him theredead—well, then, I should say, she suddenly comes to herself and realizes that what she’s done ismurder—and that you get hanged for murder. And desperately she goes baldheaded for the onlything she can think of—which is suicide.”
Poirot said:
“It is very sound what you say there—yes. Her mind might work that way.”
“In a way it was a premeditated crime and in a way it wasn’t,” said Hale. “I don’t believe shereally thought it out, you know. Just went on with it blindly.”
Poirot murmured:
“I wonder….”
Hale looked at him curiously. He said:
“Have I convinced you, Mr. Poirot, that it was a straightforward case?”
“Almost. Not quite. There are one or two peculiar points…!”
“Can you suggest an alternative solution—that will hold water?”
Poirot said:
“What were the movements of the other people on that morning?”
“We went into them, I can assure you. We checked up on everybody. Nobody had what youcould call an alibi—you can’t have with poisoning. Why, there’s nothing to prevent a would-bemurderer from handing his victim some poison in a capsule the day before, telling him it’s aspecific cure for indigestion and he must take it before lunch—and then going away to the otherend of England.”
“But you don’t think that happened in this case?”
“Mr. Crale didn’t suffer from indigestion. And in any case I can’t see that kind of thinghappening. It’s true that Mr. Meredith Blake was given to recommending quack nostrums of hisown concocting, but I don’t see Mr. Crale trying any of them. And if he did he’d probably talk andjoke about it. Besides, why should Mr. Meredith Blake want to kill Mr. Crale? Everything goes toshow that he was on very good terms with him. They all were. Mr. Philip Blake was his bestfriend. Miss Greer was in love with him. Miss Williams disapproved of him, I imagine, verystrongly—but moral disapprobation doesn’t lead to poisoning. Little Miss Warren scrapped withhim a lot, she was at a tiresome age—just off to school, I believe, but he was quite fond of her andshe of him. She was treated, you know, with particular tenderness and consideration in that house.
You may have heard why. She was badly injured when she was a child—injured by Mrs. Crale ina kind of maniacal fit of rage. That rather shows, doesn’t it, that she was a pretty uncontrolled sortof person? To go for a child—and maim her for life!”
“It might show,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “that Angela Warren had good reason to bear agrudge against Caroline Crale.”
“Perhaps—but not against Amyas Crale. And anyway Mrs. Crale was devoted to her youngsister—gave her a home when her parents died, and, as I say, treated her with special affection—spoiled her badly, so they say. The girl was obviously fond of Mrs. Crale. She was kept away fromthe trial and sheltered from it all as far as possible—Mrs. Crale was very insistent about that, Ibelieve. But the girl was terribly upset and longed to be taken to see her sister in prison. CarolineCrale wouldn’t agree. She said that sort of thing might injure a girl’s mentality for life. Shearranged for her to go to school abroad.”
He added:
“Miss Warren’s turned out a very distinguished woman. Traveller to weird places. Lectures atthe Royal Geographical—all that sort of thing.”
“And no one remembers the trial?”
“Well, it’s a different name for one thing. They hadn’t even the same maiden name. They hadthe same mother but different fathers. Mrs. Crale’s name was Spalding.”
“This Miss Williams, was she the child’s governess, or Angela Warren’s?”
“Angela’s. There was a nurse for the child—but she used to do a few little lessons with MissWilliams every day, I believe.”
“Where was the child at the time?”
“She’d gone with the nurse to pay a visit to her grandmother. A Lady Tressillian. A widow ladywho’d lost her own two little girls and who was devoted to this kid.”
Poirot nodded. “I see.”
Hale continued:
“As to the movements of the other people on the day of the murder, I can give them to you.
“Miss Greer sat on the terrace near the library window after breakfast. There, as I say, sheoverheard the quarrel between Crale and his wife. After that she accompanied Crale down to theBattery and sat for him until lunch time with a couple of breaks to ease her muscles.
“Philip Blake was in the house after breakfast, and overheard part of the quarrel. After Craleand Miss Greer went off, he read the paper until his brother telephoned him. Thereupon he wentdown to the shore to meet his brother. They walked together up the path again past the Batterygarden. Miss Greer had just gone up to the house to fetch a pullover as she felt chilly and Mrs.
Crale was with her husband discussing arrangements for Angela’s departure to school.”
“Ah, an amicable interview.”
“Well, no, not amicable. Crale was fairly shouting at her, I understand. Annoyed at beingbothered with domestic details. I suppose she wanted to get things straightened up if there wasgoing to be a break.”
Poirot nodded.
Hale went on:
“The two brothers exchanged a few words with Amyas Crale. Then Miss Greer reappeared andtook up her position, and Crale picked up his brush again, obviously wanting to get rid of them.
They took the hint and went up to the house. It was when they were at the Battery, by the way,that Amyas Crale complained all the beer down there was hot and his wife promised to send himdown some iced beer.”
“Aha!”
“Exactly—Aha! Sweet as sugar she was about it. They went up to the house and sat on theterrace outside. Mrs. Crale and Angela Warren brought them out beer there.
“Later, Angela Warren went down to bathe and Philip Blake went with her.
“Meredith Blake went down to a clearing with a seat just above the Battery garden. He couldjust see Miss Greer as she posed on the battlements and could hear her voice and Crale’s as theytalked. He sat there and thought over the coniine business. He was still very worried about it anddidn’t know quite what to do. Elsa Greer saw him and waved her hand to him. When the bell wentfor lunch he came down to the Battery and Elsa Greer and he went back to the house together. Henoticed then that Crale was looking, as he put it, very queer, but he didn’t really think anything ofit at the time. Crale was the kind of man who is never ill—and so one didn’t imagine he would be.
On the other hand, he did have moods of fury and despondency according as to whether hispainting was not going as he liked it. On those occasions one left him alone and said as little aspossible to him. That’s what these two did on this occasion.
“As to the others, the servants were busy with housework and cooking lunch. Miss Williamswas in the schoolroom part of the morning correcting some exercise books. Afterwards she tooksome household mending to the terrace. Angela Warren spent most of the morning wanderingabout the garden, climbing trees and eating things—you know what a girl of fifteen is! Plums, sourapples, hard pears, etc. After she came back to the house and, as I say, went down with PhilipBlake to the beach and had a bathe before lunch.”
Superintendent Hale paused:
“Now then,” he said belligerently, “do you find anything phoney about that?”
Poirot said: “Nothing at all.”
“Well, then!”
The two words expressed volumes.
“But all the same,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am going to satisfy myself. I—”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to visit these five people—and from each one I am going to get his or her ownstory.”
Superintendent Hale sighed with a deep melancholy.
He said:
“Man, you’re nuts! None of their stories are going to agree! Don’t you grasp that elementaryfact? No two people remember a thing in the same order anyway. And after all this time! Why,you’ll hear five accounts of five separate murders!”
“That,” said Poirot, “is what I am counting upon. It will be very instructive.”
5.警司
警司
前警司黑尔一边抽着他的烟斗一边思考着。
他说：“波洛先生，这真是个挺奇怪的想法。”
“也许吧，有点儿不同寻常。”波洛小心翼翼地附和道。
“你瞧，”黑尔说，“事情都已经过去那么久了。”
赫尔克里•波洛预见到自己很快就会对这句大家不约而同的回答感到厌倦。他温和地说道：“当然，这又额外增加了难度。”
“如果要翻旧账的话，”对方沉思着说道，“我想应该是有目的的，那么……”
“确实有目的。”
“究竟是什么呢？”
“人有可能仅仅因为喜欢而去探寻事实真相，我就是这样一个人。而且你千万别忘了，还有那位年轻的女士。”
黑尔点点头。
“我能够理解她的初衷。但是波洛先生，请你别见怪，你是个聪明人，你完全可以给她编个故事嘛。”
波洛回答道：“你不了解这位年轻的女士。”
“哦，拜托，你可是个身经百战的人啊！”
波洛挺直了身子。
“天哪，也许就像你认为的那样，我是个很擅长编谎话的人。但那有悖于我的道德操守，我有我的行事原则。”
“抱歉，波洛先生，我并非故意伤害你的感情。这么说吧，我只是觉得你即使这么做了也是有很好的理由的。”
“我不知道，真是这样吗？”
黑尔缓缓地说道：“对于一个即将出嫁的快乐而单纯的女孩儿来说，得知自己的母亲是个杀人凶手确实是件很不幸的事。如果我是你，我就会找到她并告诉她，归根结底，事实上是自杀。告诉她是德普利奇把这个案子搞砸了，然后告诉她，你心里一点儿都不怀疑克雷尔是自己服毒身亡的。”
“但是我心里充满了疑问！我一点儿都不相信克雷尔会服毒自杀。你自己想没想过，这合乎情理吗？”
黑尔慢慢地摇了摇头。
“你明白了吗？没错，我必须找到事实真相，而不是一个貌似合理，或者甚至听起来都不太合理的谎言。”
黑尔转过身看着波洛。他那张本就有些发红的阔脸膛变得更红，甚至也显得更宽了。
他说道：“你说起了事实真相。我想要明明白白地告诉你，我们认为我们已经找到了克雷尔一案的真相。”
波洛迅即说道：“你说的这句话意义重大。我了解你的为人，既诚实又干练。那么你告诉我，你心里就从来不曾对克雷尔太太有罪的结论产生过任何怀疑吗？”
警司的回答同样是脱口而出。
“没有丝毫的怀疑，波洛先生。当时的情形立刻就指向了她，而我们发现的每一个单独的事实也都支持这个结论。”
“你能给我大概说说那些不利于她的证据吗？”
“没问题。接到你的信以后我就去查阅了这件案子的卷宗，”他拿起一个小笔记本，“我把一些重要的事实大致都记在这里了。”
“非常感谢，我的朋友。我准备洗耳恭听了。”
黑尔清了清嗓子。他的声音中透出了些许官腔。
“九月十八日下午两点四十五分，康韦督察接到了安德鲁•福塞特医生的电话。福塞特医生报告说奥尔德伯里的埃米亚斯•克雷尔先生暴亡，根据死亡现场的情形，以及一位在宅子里做客的布莱克先生陈述的情况，他认为这件事应该交由警方处理。
“康韦督察立即带着一名警长和一名法医赶到了奥尔德伯里。福塞特医生在那里等着他们，带他们去了发现克雷尔先生尸体的地方，尸体没有被动过。
“克雷尔先生当时正在一个围墙围起来的小花园里作画，这个花园被称为巴特利花园，它可以俯瞰大海，因围墙的垛口上安放着一些小型加农炮而得名 [1] 。花园距离住宅步行大约需要四分钟。克雷尔先生当天没有回屋吃午饭，因为他想要捕捉光线打在石头上的某种特殊效果，如果晚了的话太阳的位置就不对了。于是他就一个人留在巴特利花园里画画。
据说这种情况经常发生，克雷尔先生很少注意到用餐的时间。有时候他们会给他送个三明治下去，但更多的时候他不愿意被人打扰。最后看见他活着的人是埃尔莎•格里尔小姐（住在房子里）和梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生（一位近邻）。这两个人是一起走回屋去的，并且和屋子里的其他人一起吃了午饭。午饭过后，他们在阳台上喝咖啡。克雷尔太太喝完她的咖啡以后，说她打算‘下去看看埃米亚斯画得怎么样了’。家庭女教师塞西莉亚•威廉姆斯小姐陪她一同起身。她正在找一件套头毛衣，那是她的学生，克雷尔太太的妹妹安吉拉•沃伦小姐的，沃伦小姐不记得把它放在哪里了，她想也有可能是落在了下面的海滩上。
“这两个人一起出发了。那条小路一路向下，穿过一些树林，一直能通到巴特利花园的门口。你可以从这里进入巴特利花园，也可以继续沿着这条路走，最后走到海边。
“威廉姆斯小姐接着往下走了，克雷尔太太则进了巴特利花园。然而，几乎是立刻，就听到克雷尔太太开始尖叫，威廉姆斯小姐马上折了回来。她们看见克雷尔先生斜躺在座位上，已经死了。
“在克雷尔太太的急切要求之下，威廉姆斯小姐离开巴特利花园，匆忙回屋打电话叫医生。然而在半路上，她碰见了梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生，于是又把这件差事托付给了他，自己则返回去找克雷尔太太，她觉得她身边可能需要有个人陪。福塞特医生一刻钟以后赶到了现场。他一眼就看出克雷尔先生已经死了一段时间，他估计大概的死亡时间在一点到两点之间。没有东西能够表明死亡的原因。没有外伤，而且克雷尔先生的姿势也显得极其自然。然而福塞特医生非常了解克雷尔先生的健康状况，很确定地知道他什么病也没有，因此他觉得事态有点儿严重。也恰在此时，菲利普•布莱克先生告诉了福塞特医生一件事。”
黑尔警司停顿了一下，深吸了一口气，那样子就像是准备要开始第二章了。
“后来布莱克先生把他的话对康韦督察又重复了一遍。大概意思是这样的：他那天早上接到了他哥哥梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生（他住在一英里半以外的汉考斯庄园）的电话。梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生是一个业余的药剂师，或者也许说他是个种药草的人更贴切。那天早上梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生一进他的实验室就被吓坏了，他注意到一个装着毒芹制剂的瓶子几乎空了，而就在之前的一天这个瓶子还差不多是满的。他对此惊慌失措，只得给弟弟打电话，想征求一下他的意见，看看该怎么办。菲利普•布莱克先生催他赶快到奥尔德伯里来一起商量对策，他自己则去半道上迎候哥哥，这样他们可以一起走回屋子。关于应该采取什么措施，他们还没有决定好，准备先放一放，等到午饭以后再继续商议。
“在进一步的调查之后，康韦督察弄清了以下事实：在前一天下午，有五个人从奥尔德伯里走路去汉考斯庄园喝茶，包括克雷尔先生和太太、安吉拉•沃伦小姐、埃尔莎•格里尔小姐，以及菲利普•布莱克先生。在那儿的那段时间里，梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生就他的爱好发表了长篇大论，还带着大家进他的实验室‘到处转了转’。在参观的过程中，他提到了一些特殊的药，其中之一就是毒芹碱，也就是从毒芹中提取出来的主要活性成分。他解释了它的特性，对于它已经从药典当中消失了的事实，他哀叹了一番，并且还吹嘘他知道小剂量的毒芹碱可以非常有效地治疗百日咳和哮喘。后来他又谈到了它的致死性，还给他的客人们念了几段一个希腊作家写的描述它毒性的东西。”
黑尔警司又停了下来，重新装满了烟斗，继续他的第三章。
“警察局局长弗里尔上校把这个案子移交给了我。尸检的结果毋庸置疑。我听说服毒芹碱致死的人死后并没有确定的表现，不过医生们自有办法，还是发现了大量的药物残留。
医生认为这是在死亡之前两三个小时左右服下去的。在克雷尔先生前面的桌子上，有一个空玻璃杯和一个空啤酒瓶，里面的残留物都经过了分析。结果在啤酒瓶里没有发现毒芹碱，而玻璃杯里有。我做了调查，得知虽然巴特利花园的一座小凉亭里常备着一箱啤酒和玻璃杯，供克雷尔先生在画画过程中口渴时取用，但就在那天上午，克雷尔太太从屋子里带下来了一瓶刚刚冰镇好的啤酒。她到那儿的时候克雷尔先生正忙于作画，格里尔小姐则坐在其中一个垛口上为他摆姿势当模特儿。
“克雷尔太太开了酒瓶，倒好了酒，将杯子交到了站在画架前的丈夫手中。他一饮而尽——后来我得知这是他的习惯。接着他做了个鬼脸，把杯子放在桌子上说道：‘今天所有东西都这么难喝！’格里尔小姐于是笑着说道：‘真难伺候！’克雷尔先生说：‘好吧，不管怎么说，好歹是凉的。’”
黑尔停了下来。波洛说：“这件事发生在什么时间？”
“大概在十一点十五分左右。克雷尔先生继续画画。据格里尔小姐讲，后来他开始抱怨四肢有点儿发僵，嘟囔着说肯定是得了风湿病什么的。不过他是那类痛恨承认自己生病了的人，必定会极力掩饰自己不舒服的感觉。我得说，他很烦躁地让其他人都上去吃午饭，而自己单独留在那儿，是他很典型的做法。”
波洛点点头。
黑尔继续说道：“于是克雷尔就一个人留在了巴特利花园里。毫无疑问，其他人一走他就倒在椅子上放松了下来，肌肉渐渐开始麻痹。身边没有人救他，死亡也就随之而来了。”
波洛又点点头。
黑尔说：“嗯，我按照惯例继续进行调查。获悉事实并没有费太大力气。在之前一天，克雷尔太太和格里尔小姐之间曾经发生过一次激烈的争吵。后者相当傲慢无礼地说到‘等我住在这儿的时候’家具要如何重新摆放，克雷尔太太不甘示弱，说：‘你这话什么意思？什么叫等你住在这儿的时候？’格里尔小姐回答说：‘卡罗琳，别假装不知道我说的是什么意思。你就像是一只把头埋在沙子里的鸵鸟，其实你心里清楚得很，埃米亚斯和我彼此相爱，很快就要结婚了。’克雷尔太太说：‘我可从来没听说过。’然后格里尔小姐说：‘好啊，那你现在知道了吧。’似乎这个时候这位丈夫正好走进房间，于是克雷尔太太转向他说道：‘埃米亚斯，她说的是真的吗？你准备和埃尔莎结婚？’”
波洛充满兴趣地问道：“那克雷尔先生又是怎么说的呢？”
“据说他冲着格里尔小姐大声咆哮起来：‘你他妈没事儿把这个抖搂出来干什么？你就不会管住你自己的嘴？’
“格里尔小姐说：‘我觉得卡罗琳应该知道真相。’
“克雷尔太太对她丈夫说：‘是真的吗，埃米亚斯？’
“他似乎是不愿意看她，把脸扭到一边咕哝着什么。
“她又说：‘有什么就说出来吧。我必须知道。’
“于是他说：‘对，是真的，但我现在不想讨论这个。’
“说完他愤然离开了房间，而格里尔小姐接着说道：‘你听见了吧！’然后就是说克雷尔太太如果继续像一只卧在马槽里阻碍别人的狗一样，对她也没什么好处。大家都应该表现得理智一些，她自己则希望卡罗琳和埃米亚斯还能够一直做很好的朋友。”
“那克雷尔太太怎么说？”波洛好奇地问。
“根据证人的说法，她当时笑了。她说：‘除非我死了，埃尔莎。’然后她走到门边，格里尔小姐在她身后喊道：‘你什么意思？’克雷尔太太回过头来说：‘就算我把埃米亚斯让给你，也会先把他杀了的。’”
黑尔顿了一下。
“够狠毒的吧，嗯？”
“是啊，”波洛看上去在思索，“有谁听到了这些话？”
“威廉姆斯小姐当时在屋里，还有菲利普•布莱克。这对他们来说都很尴尬。”
“他们关于这些话的叙述一致吗？”
“八九不离十。你永远找不到两个证人能够对一件事的记忆完全一致，这个你心里和我一样清楚，波洛先生。”
波洛点点头，若有所思地说：“是啊，有意思的是，如果能搞清楚……”他的话只说了一半。
黑尔继续说道：“我开始对房子进行搜查。在克雷尔太太卧室一个最底下的抽屉里，我发现了一个小瓶子，藏在一堆冬天穿的厚长袜下面，上面贴着茉莉花香水的标签。瓶子是空的。我取了上面的指纹，只有克雷尔太太的。成分分析的结果表明里面含有极少量的茉莉油，却有浓度很高的氢溴酸毒芹碱溶液。
“我告诫了克雷尔太太，给她看了瓶子。她的回答轻松随意。她说她一直以来心情都很糟糕，在听了梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生讲解那些药物之后，她溜回了实验室，把包里的一小瓶茉莉花香水倒空，然后装满了毒芹碱溶液。我问她为什么要这么做，她说：‘我不想说太多这方面的事，但是我确实受到了很大的打击。我丈夫正准备抛弃我去投入另一个女人的怀抱，如果真的发生了，我也就不想活了。这就是我拿它的原因。’”
黑尔又停下来。
波洛说：“这么说的话，还是挺有可能的。”
“也许吧，波洛先生。但这和别人听到她说的话可一点儿都对不上。而且就在第二天早上还发生了另一幕。菲利普•布莱克先生听到了一部分，格里尔小姐听到了另外一部分。事情发生在书房，当时克雷尔先生和太太在那里。布莱克先生当时在大厅里听见了只言片语。而格里尔小姐就坐在书房开着的窗户附近，她听见的话就多多了。”
“他们都听见什么了？”
“布莱克先生听见克雷尔太太说：‘你和你那些女人！我想杀了你，哪天我一定要杀了你。’”
“没提自杀的事情？”
“没错，只字未提，没有一句诸如‘你要是这么干我就自杀’之类的话。格里尔小姐的证词也大体相同。照她的说法，克雷尔先生说：‘卡罗琳，请你试着理性一点儿，我喜欢你，也希望你一直都好好的——包括你和孩子。但我准备和埃尔莎结婚。我们可是一直都说好了要给彼此自由的啊！’克雷尔太太回答道：‘很好啊，别说我没警告过你。’他说：‘你什么意思？’然后她说：‘我的意思是说我爱你，我不想失去你。我宁可杀了你也不愿意让你跟那个女孩儿走。’”
波洛轻轻地做了个手势。
“我忽然想到，”他小声说道，“格里尔小姐提这件事是不是太不明智了呢？克雷尔太太要想拒绝和丈夫离婚可是易如反掌啊。”
“我们有一些证据跟这个有关。”黑尔说，“克雷尔太太似乎和梅瑞迪斯•布莱克还比较谈得来。他是个值得信赖的老朋友。他对这件事也感到很难过，于是设法和克雷尔先生谈了谈。我想这应该是在头一天的下午。布莱克先生对他的朋友婉言相劝，说如果克雷尔夫妇的婚姻就这样悲惨地破裂的话，他会有多么难过。他还强调说，格里尔小姐还很年轻，如果被牵扯上离婚法庭可就不是什么小事儿了。对此克雷尔先生笑着回答（他一定是个冷酷无情的人）：‘埃尔莎根本就不是这样想的，她不会出现在法庭上，我们会按照通常的方法了结这件事情。’”
波洛说：“所以说，像格里尔小姐那样把这件事抖搂出来就更不明智了啊。”
黑尔警司说：“哦，你当然知道女人都是这样的！恨不得互相掐着对方的脖子才过瘾呢，可是无论如何，那种局面对谁来说都不好收拾啊。我不能理解克雷尔先生怎么就会听之任之。按梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生的说法，他想要完成他的画作。你觉得这说得通吗？”
“是的，我的朋友，我觉得说得通。”
“但我不这么看，他这不是在自找苦吃吗！”
“那姑娘这样把事情说出来，有可能真的把他惹毛了。”
“哦，他的确生气了。梅瑞迪斯•布莱克是这么说的。如果说他必须画完这幅画，我不明白他为什么不能拍一些照片，然后对着照片画呢？我认识一个家伙，画水彩风景画的，就这么干。”
波洛摇摇头。
“不，我能够理解克雷尔作为艺术家的想法。你必须明白，我的朋友，也许在那个时候，那幅画对克雷尔来说是唯一要紧的事。无论他有多么想娶那个女孩儿，那幅画都是最重要的。这也就是为什么他希望能够平稳地度过她到访的这几天，不急于把这件事公之于众。而那个女孩儿当然不这么看。对女人来说，爱情总是最重要的。”
“我还不知道这个吗？”黑尔警司有些激动地说。
“而男人，”波洛继续说道，“尤其是艺术家，就不一样了。”
“艺术！”警司不屑一顾地说道，“别老跟我说什么艺术！我从来就理解不了，也不想去理解。你真应该看看克雷尔当时正在画的画儿，完全是歪的嘛！他把那个女孩画得就像是在闹牙疼一样，而那些墙上的垛口也都是歪歪扭扭的。整幅画难看死了。那之后很长时间这种印象都挥之不去，我甚至还梦到过呢。更要命的是它还影响了我的视觉，我后来再看垛口和城墙之类的东西，都跟那幅画里画的一样。对了，看女人也是！”
波洛微微一笑，说道：“尽管你自己还没意识到，但实际上你正是在称颂埃米亚斯•克雷尔伟大的艺术成就呢。”
“都是胡扯。为什么画家就不能画些让人赏心悦目的东西？非要不厌其烦地找那些丑陋无比的吗？”
“亲爱的，有些人就是能在奇怪的地方发现美。”
“那姑娘确实是个美女，”黑尔说，“妆化得很浓，衣服穿得却少得不能再少。这些女孩儿的做派真是有点儿说不过去。别忘了，那可还是在十六年前呢。现在大家可能都司空见惯了，不过那时候真的惊着我了。一条长裤加上一件帆布的开领衬衫，我敢打包票，别的就什么都没了！”
“看起来你对这些事情记得很清楚啊。”波洛俏皮地小声说道。
黑尔警司的脸一下子红了。“我只是告诉你我当时的印象。”他一脸严肃地说道。
“不错，不错，”波洛安慰着他，然后继续说道：“那么看起来，对克雷尔太太最主要的不利证人就是菲利普•布莱克和埃尔莎•格里尔？”
“是的。两个人的态度还都挺激烈的。不过检方也传唤了家庭女教师，她说的话可比那两个人有分量。你知道，她是完全站在克雷尔太太这一边的，为了她两肋插刀。但她是个诚实的人，如实地提供了证词，并没有故意地轻描淡写。”
“梅瑞迪斯•布莱克呢？”
“那个可怜的绅士，整件事情搞得他很难过，不过也该当如此！他为鼓捣那些药而深感自责，而验尸官也为这事儿怪罪了他。毒芹碱及其盐类化合物可都是归到《毒品法案》I类目录底下的。他因此受到了强烈的谴责。而且他本来就是那种想要远离是非，不愿抛头露面的乡绅，跟双方又都是朋友，这一来对他的打击可太大了。”
“克雷尔太太的妹妹没有出庭作证吗？”
“没有，并不需要她作证。克雷尔太太威胁她丈夫的时候她并不在场，而且她能告诉我们的东西，我们从其他人那儿也能问出来。她看到克雷尔太太从冰箱里拿了冰镇啤酒。当然了，辩方也可以传她出庭，让她说克雷尔太太是直接把酒拿下去的，并没有做什么手脚。不过这也没什么意义，因为我们从来没有说过毒芹碱是在啤酒瓶子里的。”
“那她是如何在两个人的注视之下在玻璃杯里下毒的呢？”
“啊，首先，他们并没有看着她。换句话说，克雷尔先生正在画画，他的眼睛盯着他的画布和模特。而格里尔小姐正摆着姿势，坐的地方几乎背对着克雷尔太太站的地方，她的目光是从克雷尔先生的肩膀上看过去的。”
波洛点点头。
“如我所言，他们两个人都没有看着克雷尔太太。她应该是把毒药装在了一个小吸管里，就是通常用来灌钢笔水的那种。我们在走回屋子的小路上发现了一个破碎的吸管。”
波洛小声嘟囔道：“你总能够自圆其说。”
“噢，承认吧，波洛先生！我们不带任何偏见。是她威胁说要杀了他，是她从实验室拿走了毒药，空瓶子也是在她的房间里发现的，除了她没人动过。她有意把冰镇啤酒给他送下去，不管怎么说，这件事都很奇怪，尤其在你知道他们刚刚闹翻了的情况下——”
“确实很蹊跷，我也注意到了。”
“没错，有点儿像是在示好。可是为什么她突然之间就变得这么和蔼可亲呢？他抱怨说啤酒的味道不好，而毒芹碱就有一股让人讨厌的味道。发现尸体是她安排好的，然后她让另一个女人去打电话。为什么呢？这样她就有时间擦掉酒瓶和玻璃杯上的指纹，再把他的手指头摁上去。如此一来她就可以说他全都是因为悔恨才会服毒自杀的。倒是个有可能的故事。”
“不过显然这个故事编得还不够好。”
“是不够好。如果让我说的话，她就没用点儿心思去好好想想。她满脑子都是仇恨和嫉妒，一心想的就是要置他于死地。然后当木已成舟，当她看到他已经死了的时候，我想，她突然之间醒悟过来，意识到自己这是在谋杀，而谋杀是要被绞死的。绝望之际她的脑子一片空白，唯一能够想到的理由就是——自杀。”
波洛说：“你说的这些很有道理，是的。她当时心里可能就是这么想的。”
“从某种角度来看，这是一起有预谋的犯罪，而从另一个角度来看又不完全是。”黑尔说，“你知道吗，我并不相信她有个全盘的计划，倒像是在走一步看一步。”
波洛咕哝道：“我没想明白……”
黑尔好奇地看着他，说道：“波洛先生，听我说完之后，你能相信这是一桩很明确的案子了吗？”
“差不多，但还不完全。还有一两件奇怪的事……”
“那你还能提出其他的见解吗，能站得住脚的？”
波洛说：“那天早上别的人都在干什么？”
“我可以向你保证，我们都查过了。我们调查了每一个人的行动，没有一个人有所谓的不在场证明——毒杀案本身也不可能有。为什么呢，因为准备行凶的人完全可以在之前一天把装好毒药的胶囊交给受害者，告诉他这个专治他的消化不良，一定要在午饭前服下去，然后他自己却远走高飞了，这一手谁也防不住。”
“不过你也不觉得这个案子里会有这种情况吧？”
“克雷尔先生并没有消化不良的毛病。而且不管怎么说，我都没发现这方面的情况。梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生确实喜欢向人推荐他自制的那些草药偏方，但我并不认为克雷尔先生真的吃过。如果他真吃过，那他很可能就会拿它当笑话跟别人说了。话说回来，梅瑞迪斯•布莱克先生有什么理由想要杀了克雷尔先生呢？所有的事情都表明他们俩关系很好。所有人都是。菲利普•布莱克先生是他最好的朋友，格里尔小姐正在和他谈恋爱。我猜威廉姆斯小姐应该是很不喜欢他——不过在道德层面上的非难也不意味着就要下毒杀了他啊。小沃伦小姐总跟他吵吵闹闹的，她正处在招人烦的年纪——我相信，她那时就要去学校了，不过他很喜欢她，而她也同样喜欢他。你知道吗，在那个家里她一直都受到特别的关爱和照顾。你可能也听说了其中的原因。她还是个孩子的时候受了很严重的伤，就是克雷尔太太在狂怒之下干的。这是不是也能够说明，她是个很缺乏自制力的人？居然去伤害一个孩子，还造成了终身残疾！”
“这也可能表明，”波洛沉思地说，“安吉拉•沃伦有很好的理由对卡罗琳•克雷尔怀恨在心。”
“也许吧，但这并非针对埃米亚斯•克雷尔的。而且不管怎么说，克雷尔太太很爱她这个小妹妹，在她父母死后给了她一个家。如我所说，她对她倾注了特别的感情，按他们的说法，简直都要把她惯坏了。很显然这个女孩儿也喜欢克雷尔太太。审判期间我们一直都让她回避，尽可能把她保护起来。我相信，这是克雷尔太太极力主张的。但这个女孩儿极其难过，总盼着有人能带她去监狱里看她姐姐。卡罗琳•克雷尔就是不同意。她说这种事情对一个女孩子一生的心理都会造成伤害，于是把她安排到国外去读书了。”
他接着补充道：“沃伦小姐后来成了一个非常杰出的女人。她去各种稀奇古怪的地方旅行，在皇家地理学会发表演讲，这类的事情。”
“就没有人记得那次审判吗？”
“啊，因为她们不同姓。她们甚至连娘家姓都不一样。她们是同母异父，克雷尔太太本姓斯波尔丁。”
“这个威廉姆斯小姐，她是那个孩子的家庭教师，还是安吉拉•沃伦的？”
“她是安吉拉的老师。孩子专门有个保姆照顾，不过我相信她以前每天也都会跟威廉姆斯小姐学一些功课。”
“出事的时候孩子在哪儿？”
“她正好和保姆一起去了她教母特雷西利安夫人那里。她教母是个寡妇，曾失去过两个小女儿，因此特别疼爱这个孩子。”
波洛点点头。“我明白了。”
黑尔继续说道：“有关谋杀发生当天其他人的行踪和活动，我也全都可以告诉你。
“格里尔小姐早餐后坐在阳台上，靠近书房窗户的地方。如我所说，她就是在那里听到了克雷尔和他妻子的争吵。之后她和克雷尔一起下去到巴特利花园，坐在那儿给他当模特，直到午饭时间，中间为了放松肌肉休息过几次。
“菲利普•布莱克早餐后在屋子里，他听到了部分争吵。在克雷尔和格里尔小姐离开以后他看了一会儿报纸，直到他哥哥给他打来电话。随即他就走下海岸那里迎候他哥哥。然后他们两个人又一起沿着小路走上来，途中经过巴特利花园。格里尔小姐因为觉得有点儿冷，那时恰好回屋去拿她的套衫，而克雷尔太太正和她丈夫商量着安吉拉离开家去上学的安排。”
“啊，一次友好的会面。”
“嗯，不，一点儿都不友好。照我的理解，克雷尔简直就是在冲她吼，怪她不该用这些鸡毛蒜皮的家务琐事来打扰他。我猜她是想假如两人注定要分开，那就先把这些事情都处理妥当吧。”
波洛点了点头。
黑尔继续说下去：“兄弟俩跟埃米亚斯•克雷尔说了几句话。接着格里尔小姐就回来了，继续回到她的位置上，而克雷尔又重新拿起他的画笔，很明显是想让他们都离开。他们也都很识趣地回了屋子。顺便提一句，就是他们在巴特利花园的时候，埃米亚斯•克雷尔抱怨说下面存放的这些啤酒都太热了，于是他妻子答应给他送一些冰镇的下来。”
“啊哈！”
“一点儿没错——啊哈！她这个时候又甜得跟蜜糖似的了。他们走上去回到宅邸，坐在外面的阳台上。克雷尔太太和安吉拉•沃伦给他们把啤酒拿出来。
“后来，安吉拉•沃伦去下面海边嬉水，菲利普•布莱克陪着她一起去了。
“梅瑞迪斯•布莱克带着椅子去了巴特利花园上面一点的一块空地上。在那里他正好可以看见格里尔小姐在垛口那儿摆着姿势，还能听见她和克雷尔说话的声音。他就坐在那儿反复琢磨毒芹碱的事儿。他仍然十分担心，却不知道该怎么办。埃尔莎•格里尔看见了他，还冲他招了招手。当午饭铃声响起的时候他走下去到巴特利花园，和埃尔莎两个人一起走回了屋子。用他自己的说法，那个时候他就注意到，克雷尔看上去怪怪的，不过他并没有放在心上。克雷尔是那种从来不生病的人，所以大家也就不会想到他可能生病了。另一方面，他有时候也会因为自己的作品没有达到他想要的效果而愤怒或者沮丧。在这种情况下，最好让他一个人待着，尽量别跟他说话。这两个人当时就是这么做的。
“至于其他人，仆人们忙于家务活儿和做午饭。威廉姆斯小姐上午先是在教室里批改了一些作业，后来又拿了些针线活儿到阳台上去做。安吉拉•沃伦上午大部分时间都在花园里游荡，爬爬树，吃点儿东西——你也知道十五岁的小孩儿都是这样！吃些李子啊，酸苹果啊，硬梨啊什么的。回屋以后，就像我刚才说的，她和菲利普•布莱克一起下去到海边，游泳洗澡，一直玩到吃午饭。”
黑尔警司停了一下，有些咄咄逼人地说道：“那么，你发现什么破绽了吗？”
波洛说：“完全没有。”
“好啦，搞定！”
这两个词意味深长。
“不过尽管如此，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我还是得让自己满意才行。我——”
“你还打算干什么？”
“我准备去拜访这五个人。我打算从每个人嘴里听听他们自己的故事。”
黑尔警司悲哀地长叹一声。
他说：“天哪，你脑子有毛病吧！他们每个人的说法都会不一样的。你连这个最基本的事实都不懂吗？无论如何也不会有两个人对一件事的记忆是完全一致的，而且又过了这么久！唉，你会听到这五个人给你讲五件不同的谋杀案！”
“这个，”波洛说，“正是我所期望的。那将会很有启发性。”
[1]原文中巴特利（Battery）有炮台、排炮的意思。
6.THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET…
Six
THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET…
Philip Blake was recognizably like the description given of him by Montague Depleach. Aprosperous, shrewd, jovial-looking man—slightly running to fat.
Hercule Poirot had timed his appointment for half past six on a Saturday afternoon. Philip Blakehad just finished his eighteen holes, and he had been on his game—winning a fiver from hisopponent. He was in the mood to be friendly and expansive.
Hercule Poirot explained himself and his errand. On this occasion at least he showed no unduepassion for unsullied truth. It was a question, Blake gathered, of a series of books dealing withfamous crimes.
Philip Blake frowned. He said:
“Good Lord, why make up these things?”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He was at his most foreign today. He was out to bedespised but patronized.
He murmured:
“It is the public. They eat it up—yes, eat it up.”
“Ghouls,” said Philip Blake.
But he said it good-humouredly—not with the fastidiousness and the distaste that a moresensitive man might have displayed.
Hercule Poirot said with a shrug of the shoulders:
“It is human nature. You and I, Mr. Blake, who know the world, have no illusions about ourfellow human beings. Not bad people, most of them, but certainly not to be idealized.”
Blake said heartily:
“I’ve parted with my illusions long ago.”
“Instead, you tell a very good story, so I have been told.”
“Ah!” Blake’s eyes twinkled. “Heard this one?”
Poirot’s laugh came at the right place. It was not an edifying story, but it was funny.
Philip Blake lay back in his chair, his muscles relaxed, his eyes creased with good humour.
Hercule Poirot thought suddenly that he looked rather like a contented pig.
A pig. This little pig went to market….
What was he like, this man, this Philip Blake? A man, it would seem, without cares. Prosperous,contented. No remorseful thoughts, no uneasy twinges of conscience from the past, no hauntingmemories here. No, a well-fed pig who had gone to market—and fetched the full market price….
But once, perhaps, there had been more to Philip Blake. He must have been, when young, ahandsome man. Eyes always a shade too small, a fraction too near together, perhaps — butotherwise a well made, well set up young man. How old was he now? At a guess between fifty andsixty. Nearing forty, then, at the time of Crale’s death. Less stultified, then, less sunk in thegratifications of the minute. Asking more of life, perhaps, and receiving less….
Poirot murmured as a mere catch-phrase:
“You comprehend my position.”
“No, really, you know, I’m hanged if I do.” The stockbroker sat upright again, his glance wasonce more shrewd. “Why you? You’re not a writer?”
“Not precisely—no. Actually I am a detective.”
The modesty of this remark had probably not been equalled before in Poirot’s conversation.
“Of course you are. We all know that. The famous Hercule Poirot!”
But his tone held a subtly mocking note. Intrinsically, Philip Blake was too much of anEnglishman to take the pretensions of a foreigner seriously.
To his cronies he would have said:
“Quaint little mountebank. Oh well, I expect his stuff goes down with the women all right.”
And although that derisive patronizing attitude was exactly the one which Hercule Poirot hadaimed at inducing, nevertheless he found himself annoyed by it.
This man, this successful man of affairs, was unimpressed by Hercule Poirot! It was a scandal.
“I am gratified,” said Poirot untruly, “that I am so well known to you. My success, let me tellyou, has been founded on the psychology—the eternal why? of human behaviour. That, Mr. Blake,is what interests the world in crime today. It used to be romance. Famous crimes were retold fromone angle only—the love story connected with them. Nowadays it is very different. People readwith interest that Dr. Crippen murdered his wife because she was a big bouncing woman and hewas little and insignificant and therefore she made him feel inferior. They read of some famouswoman criminal that she killed because she’d been snubbed by her father when she was threeyears old. It is, as I say, the why of crime that interests nowadays.”
Philip Blake said, with a slight yawn:
“The why of most crimes is obvious enough, I should say. Usually money.”
Poirot cried:
“Ah, but my dear sir, the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point!”
“And that’s where you come in?”
“And that, as you say, is where I come in! It is proposed to rewrite the stories of certain bygonecrimes—from the psychological angle. Psychology in crime, it is my speciality. I have acceptedthe commission.”
Philip Blake grinned.
“Pretty lucrative, I suppose?”
“I hope so—I certainly hope so.”
“Congratulations. Now, perhaps, you’ll tell me where I come in?”
“Most certainly. The Crale case, Monsieur.”
Phillip Blake did not look startled. But he looked thoughtful. He said:
“Yes, of course, the Crale case….”
Hercule Poirot said anxiously:
“It is not displeasing to you, Mr. Blake?”
“Oh, as to that.” Philip Blake shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no use resenting a thing that you’veno power to stop. The trial of Caroline Crale is public property. Anyone can go ahead and write itup. It’s no use my objecting. In a way—I don’t mind telling you—I do dislike it a good deal.
Amyas Crale was one of my best friends. I’m sorry the whole unsavoury business has to be rakedup again. But these things happen.”
“You are a philosopher, Mr. Blake.”
“No, no. I just know enough not to start kicking against the pricks. I dare say you’ll do it lessoffensively than many others.”
“I hope, at least, to write with delicacy and good taste,” said Poirot.
Philip Blake gave a loud guffaw but without any real amusement. “Makes me chuckle to hearyou say that.”
“I assure you, Mr. Blake, I am really interested. It is not just a matter of money with me. Igenuinely want to recreate the past, to feel and see the events that took place, to see behind theobvious and to visualize the thoughts and feelings of the actors in the drama.”
Philip Blake said:
“I don’t know that there was much subtlety about it. It was a pretty obvious business. Crudefemale jealousy, that was all there was to it.”
“It would interest me enormously, Mr. Blake, if I could have your own reactions to the affair.”
Philip Blake said with sudden heat, his face deepening in colour.
“Reactions! Reactions! Don’t speak so pedantically. I didn’t just stand there and react! Youdon’t seem to understand that my friend—my friend, I tell you, had been killed—poisoned! Andthat if I’d acted quicker I could have saved him.”
“How do you make that out, Mr. Blake?”
“Like this. I take it that you’ve already read up the facts of the case?” Poirot nodded. “Verywell. Now on that morning my brother Meredith called me up. He was in a pretty good stew. Oneof his Hell brews was missing—and it was a fairly deadly Hell brew. What did I do? I told him tocome along and we’d talk it over. Decide what was best to be done. ‘Decide what was best.’ Itbeats me now how I could have been such a hesitating fool! I ought to have realized that there wasno time to lose. I ought to have gone to Amyas straight away and warned him. I ought to havesaid: ‘Caroline’s pinched one of Meredith’s patent poisons, and you and Elsa had better look outfor yourselves.’”
Blake got up. He strode up and down in his excitement.
“Good God, man. Do you suppose I haven’t gone over it in my mind again and again? I knew. Ihad the chance to save him—and I dallied about—waiting for Meredith! Why hadn’t I the sense torealize that Caroline wasn’t going to have any qualms or hesitancies. She’d taken that stuff to use— and, by God, she’d used it at the very first opportunity. She wouldn’t wait till Meredithdiscovered his loss. I knew—of course I knew—that Amyas was in deadly danger—and I didnothing!”
“I think you reproach yourself unduly, Monsieur. You had not much time—”
The other interrupted him:
“Time? I had plenty of time. Any amount of courses open to me. I could have gone to Amyas,as I say—but there was the chance, of course, that he wouldn’t believe me. Amyas wasn’t the sortof man who’d believe easily in his own danger. He’d have scoffed at the notion. And he neverthoroughly understood the sort of devil Caroline was. But I could have gone to her. I could havesaid: ‘I know what you’re up to. I know what you’re planning to do. But if Amyas or Elsa die ofconiine poisoning, you’ll be hanged by your neck!’ That would have stopped her. Or I might haverung up the police. Oh! there were things that could have been done—and instead, I let myself beinfluenced by Meredith’s slow, cautious methods. ‘We must be sure—talk it over—make quitecertain who could have taken it…’ Damned old fool—never made a quick decision in his life! Agood thing for him he was the eldest son and has an estate to live on. If he’d ever tried to makemoney he’d have lost every penny he had.”
Poirot asked:
“You had no doubt yourself who had taken the poison?”
“Of course not. I knew at once it must be Caroline. You see, I knew Caroline very well.”
Poirot said:
“That is very interesting. I want to know, Mr. Blake, what kind of a woman Caroline Cralewas?”
Philip Blake said sharply:
“She wasn’t the injured innocent people thought she was at the time of the trial!”
“What was she, then?”
Blake sat down again. He said seriously:
“Would you really like to know?”
“I would like to know very much indeed.”
“Caroline was a rotter. She was a rotter through and through. Mind you, she had charm. She hadthat kind of sweetness of manner that deceives people utterly. She had a frail, helpless look abouther that appealed to people’s chivalry. Sometimes, when I’ve read a bit of history, I think MaryQueen of Scots must have been a bit like her. Always sweet and unfortunate and magnetic—andactually a cold calculating woman, a scheming woman who planned the murder of Darnley andgot away with it. Caroline was like that—a cold, calculating planner. And she had a wickedtemper.
“I don’t know whether they’ve told you—it isn’t a vital point of the trial, but it shows her up—what she did to her baby sister? She was jealous, you know. Her mother had married again, and allthe notice and affection went to little Angela. Caroline couldn’t stand that. She tried to kill thebaby with a crowbar—smash its head in. Luckily the blow wasn’t fatal. But it was a pretty ghastlything to do.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well, that was the real Caroline. She had to be first. That was the thing she simply could notstand—not being first. And there was a cold, egotistical devil in her that was capable of beingstirred to murderous lengths.
“She appeared impulsive, you know, but she was really calculating. When she stayed atAlderbury as a girl, she gave us all the once over and made her plans. She’d no money of her own.
I was never in the running—a younger son with his way to make. (Funny, that, I could probablybuy up Meredith and Crale, if he’d lived, nowadays!) She considered Meredith for a bit, but shefinally fixed on Amyas. Amyas would have Alderbury, and though he wouldn’t have much moneywith it, she realized that his talent as a painter was something quite out of the way. She gambledon his being not only a genius but a financial success as well.
“And she won. Recognition came to Amyas early. He wasn’t a fashionable painter exactly—buthis genius was recognized and his pictures were bought. Have you seen any of his paintings?
There’s one here. Come and look at it.”
He led the way into the dining room and pointed to the left-hand wall.
“There you are. That’s Amyas.”
Poirot looked in silence. It came to him with fresh amazement that a man could so imbue aconventional subject with his own particular magic. A vase of roses on a polished mahogany table.
That hoary old set piece. How then did Amyas Crale contrive to make his roses flame and burnwith a riotous almost obscene life. The polished wood of the table trembled and took on sentientlife. How explain the excitement the picture roused? For it was exciting. The proportions of thetable would have distressed Superintendent Hale, he would have complained that no known roseswere precisely of that shape or colour. And afterwards he would have gone about wonderingvaguely why the roses he saw were unsatisfactory, and round mahogany tables would haveannoyed him for no known reason.
Poirot gave a little sigh.
He murmured:
“Yes—it is all there.”
Blake led the way back. He mumbled:
“Never have understood anything about art myself. Don’t know why I like looking at that thingso much, but I do. It’s—oh, damn it all, it’s good.”
Poirot nodded emphatically.
Blake offered his guest a cigarette and lit one himself. He said:
“And that’s the man—the man who painted those roses—the man who painted the ‘Womanwith a Cocktail Shaker’—the man who painted that amazing painful ‘Nativity,’ that’s the manwho was cut short in his prime, deprived of his vivid forceful life all because of a vindictive mean-natured woman!”
He paused:
“You’ll say that I’m bitter—that I’m unduly prejudiced against Caroline. She had charm—I’vefelt it. But I knew—I always knew—the real woman behind. And that woman, Mr. Poirot, wasevil. She was cruel and malignant and a grabber!”
“And yet it has been told me that Mrs. Crale put up with many hard things in her married life?”
“Yes, and didn’t she let everybody know about it! Always the martyr! Poor old Amyas. Hismarried life was one long hell—or rather it would have been if it hadn’t been for his exceptionalquality. His art, you see—he always had that. It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’tcare, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They wereendless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another. Sheenjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitterstinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos—go off lookingas sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace—rest—a quiet life. Ofcourse a man like that ought never to marry—he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale shouldhave affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him.”
“He confided in you?”
“Well—he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. Hewasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, ‘Damn all women.’ Or he’d say, ‘Never getmarried, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.’”
“You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?”
“Oh yes—at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different,he said, from anything or anyone he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that.
Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was ‘different.’ Usually a month later he’dstare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greerreally was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, youknow, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand.”
“You did not like Elsa Greer either?”
“No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Cralebody and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. Shemight conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired ofhim and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free offemale entanglements.”
“But that, it would seem, was not to his taste?”
Philip Blake said with a sigh:
“The damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, ina way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made anyimpression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa.”
Poirot said:
“Was he fond of the child?”
“Angela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything.
What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right—butsometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with her—and then Caroline wouldstep in—Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated itwhen Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know.
Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. AndAngela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision thatshe should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didn’tlike the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believe—but it was Amyas’s high-handedway of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge.
Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got somediscipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting toomuch for her.”
He paused. Poirot said:
“When I asked if Amyas was fond of the child—I referred to his own child, his daughter?”
“Oh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he wasin the mood. But his affection for her wouldn’t have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if that’swhat you mean. He hadn’t that kind of feeling for her.”
“Was Caroline Crale very devoted to the child?” A kind of spasm contorted Philip’s face. Hesaid:
“I can’t say that she wasn’t a good mother. No, I can’t say that. It’s the one thing—”
“Yes, Mr. Blake?”
Philip said slowly and painfully:
“It’s the one thing I really—regret—in this affair. The thought of that child. Such a tragicbackground to her young life. They sent her abroad to Amyas’s cousin and her husband. I hope—Isincerely hope—they managed to keep the truth from her.”
Poirot shook his head. He said:
“The truth, Mr. Blake, has a habit of making itself known. Even after many years.”
The stockbroker murmured: “I wonder.”
Poirot went on:
“In the interests of truth, Mr. Blake, I am going to ask you to do something.”
“What is it?”
“I am going to beg that you will write me out an exact account of what happened on those daysat Alderbury. That is to say, I am going to ask you to write me out a full account of the murder andits attendant circumstances.”
“But, my dear fellow, after all this time? I should be hopelessly inaccurate.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Surely.”
“No, for one thing, with the passage of time, the mind retains a hold on essentials and rejectssuperficial matters.”
“Ho! You mean a mere broad outline?”
“Not at all. I mean a detailed conscientious account of each event as it occurred, and everyconversation you can remember.”
“And supposing I remember them wrong?”
“You can give the wording at least to the best of your reflection. There may be gaps, but thatcannot be helped.”
Blake looked at him curiously.
“But what’s the idea? The police files will give you the whole thing far more accurately.”
“No, Mr. Blake. We are speaking now from the psychological point of view. I do not want barefacts. I want your own selections of facts. Time and your memory are responsible for thatselection. There may have been things done, words spoken, that I should seek for in vain in thepolice files. Things and words that you never mentioned because, maybe, you judged themirrelevant, or because you preferred not to repeat them.”
Blake said sharply:
“Is this account of mine for publication?”
“Certainly not. It is for my eye only. To assist me to draw my own deductions.”
“And you won’t quote from it without my consent?”
“Certainly not.”
“Hm,” said Philip Blake. “I’m a very busy man, Mr. Poirot.”
“I appreciate that there will be time and trouble involved. I should be happy to agree to a—reasonable fee.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Philip Blake said suddenly:
“No, if I do it—I’ll do it for nothing.”
“And you will do it?”
Philip said warningly:
“Remember, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my memory.”
“That is perfectly understood.”
“Then I think,” said Philip Blake, “that I should like to do it. I feel I owe it—in a way—toAmyas Crale.”
6.这只小猪跑去市场
这只小猪跑去市场
菲利普•布莱克显然跟蒙塔古•德普利奇所描述的如出一辙，是个成功富足、精于盘算、一副笑模样的男人，就是稍微有点儿发福。
赫尔克里•波洛把会面的时间定在了周六下午六点半。菲利普•布莱克刚刚打完他的十八洞，他为比赛下了赌注，最后赢了对手五英镑，此时正心情大好，因此表现得既友善又健谈。
赫尔克里•波洛做了自我介绍，解释了会面的目的。这一次他至少没有表现出对于探究纯粹事实真相的那种极度热情。而在布莱克看来，对方应该也就是为了编写一套关于著名罪案的丛书。
菲利普•布莱克皱着眉头说道：“好家伙，编这些东西干什么？”
赫尔克里•波洛耸了耸肩。他今天尽最大可能表现得像个外国人，不再那么神气十足，而是力图让对方瞧不起。
他小声说道：“是因为那些读者。他们就喜欢看这个，没错，就好这个。”
“这帮变态。”菲利普•布莱克说。
不过他说这话的时候还挺和气的，并没有带着那种更敏感的人可能表现出来的挑剔和厌恶。
赫尔克里•波洛耸了耸肩膀，说道：“这是人的本性。布莱克先生，你和我，我们都是了解这个世界的人，对我们的人类伙伴并不抱有什么幻想。他们中的大多数不是坏人，但无疑也不必把他们理想化。”
布莱克由衷地说道：“我早就放弃我的幻想了。”
“不过有人跟我说，你挺能说会道，会讲故事。”
“啊哈！”布莱克的双眼放着光，“这个你也听说啦？”
波洛恰到好处地笑了。这不会是一个令人愉快的故事，但是很有意思。
菲利普•布莱克靠在椅背上，全身放松，眼睛高兴地眯起来。
赫尔克里•波洛突然觉得，他看起来就像一只心满意足的猪。
一只猪。这只小猪去市场……
面前的这个男人，这个菲利普•布莱克，到底是个什么样的人呢？看上去他无忧无虑，既富有又满足，没有什么悔恨内疚的想法，没有什么寝食难安的往事，也没有什么挥之不去的记忆。都没有，他就像一只被喂得膘肥体壮的猪，拉去市场就能卖个好价钱……但是也许，曾经的菲利普•布莱克并不是这个样子。他年轻的时候肯定是个帅小伙儿。
眼睛可能是稍微小了点儿，离得也稍微近了些，但除此之外绝对是个相貌英俊、体形匀称的年轻人。他现在有多大岁数？估计也就在五六十岁之间。那么在克雷尔死的时候，他应该将近四十了。那时的他肯定不像现在这样迟钝，也不会有现在这副志得意满的样子。也许那时他对生活的要求更多，但得到的却很少……
波洛小声嘟囔了一句人们常挂在嘴边的话：“你知道我是干什么的吧？”
“不，说老实话，我要是知道才怪呢。”这个证券经纪人再一次挺起了身子，眼神中又透出了那股精明劲儿，“为什么是你来呢？你不是个作家吧？”
“不，根本不是，实际上我是个侦探。”
波洛说这句话时谦逊的口气可是从来没有过的。
“当然啦，我们大家都该知道的，大名鼎鼎的赫尔克里•波洛嘛！”
不过他的语调中带着几分嘲弄。从根本上来说，菲利普•布莱克是那种过于典型的英国男人，从来都不会把外国人太放在眼里的。
要是跟他的狐朋狗友在一起，他也许就会说：“这个怪里怪气的骗子！好吧，我猜他那套把戏也只能哄哄女人们。”
尽管这种居高临下的嘲讽态度正是赫尔克里•波洛有意要引出来的，但他发现自己还是感到很懊恼。
这个人，这个在事业上算得上很成功的男人，居然对赫尔克里•波洛表现得不以为然！
真是让人气愤。
“你对我如此了解，”波洛言不由衷地说，“我真是受宠若惊啊。我想告诉你，我的成功案例都是建立在心理学基础上的，永远都要搞清楚人为什么要做某些事。布莱克先生，这也是当今世界对于犯罪行为最感兴趣的地方。以前大家感兴趣的是那种浪漫。在讲述著名案例的时候也只是从一个角度，把它和爱情故事联系在一起。现在大不相同了。人们现在已经乐于了解到克里平医生之所以杀死他的妻子，是因为她是个又高又壮的女人，而他自己则身材矮小，其貌不扬，觉得在她面前总是低人一等。他们还会了解到某个著名的女杀人犯杀人是因为她在三岁的时候受到过父亲的斥责和冷落。如我所说，如今人们感兴趣的就是罪案发生的原因。”
菲利普•布莱克轻轻打了个哈欠，说道：“要我说的话，绝大多数犯罪的原因都再明显不过了。通常就是因为钱。”
波洛高声说道：“啊，但我尊敬的先生，背后的原因从来都不会那么明显的。这才是关键所在！”
“那么这也就是你的着眼点喽？”
“你说得没错，这就是我的着眼点！有人建议要从心理学的角度重写一些过往的罪案，而犯罪中的心理学正是我的专长。所以我就接受了这个任务。”
菲利普•布莱克咧着嘴笑了。
“我猜，报酬丰厚吧？”
“我希望是，我当然希望这样。”
“祝贺你啊。现在也许你愿意告诉我，我能够做什么呢？”
“当然。是关于克雷尔的案子，先生。”
菲利普•布莱克看上去并没有很吃惊，但似乎在思考什么。他说道：“是啊，当然，克雷尔那件案子……”
赫尔克里•波洛有些不安地说：“布莱克先生，这不会让你觉得为难吧？”
“噢，至于这个嘛，”菲利普•布莱克耸耸肩膀，“对你没法阻止的事情生气，又有什么用呢？卡罗琳•克雷尔的案子已经是家喻户晓了，任何人都可以提笔去写它，我反对也没用。
不妨告诉你，从某种程度上来说，我的确特别讨厌这样。埃米亚斯•克雷尔是我最好的朋友之一。现在又要重提这件不那么光彩的事儿，让我挺难受的。不过，这种事情总是会发生的。”
“布莱克先生，你倒真是个豁达的人。”
“那倒也不是。我只是很明白没必要干自不量力的事儿罢了。我相信你不会像其他很多人那样，写得让人无法接受。”
“至少，我希望能够写得审慎一些，格调高雅一些。”
菲利普•布莱克放声大笑起来，笑声里并没有多少真正的乐趣。“听你这么说，真能把我逗乐了。”
“布莱克先生，我向你保证，我是真的对这个感兴趣。对我来说并不仅仅是钱的问题。
我是真心地想要再现过往，去感知当时发生的事情，看看表面之下的东西，想象一下剧中人物的想法和感受。”
菲利普•布莱克说：“我真不知道这里面还有多少不清楚的地方。这是件一目了然的案子。女人与生俱来的嫉妒心，这就是全部事情的根源。”
“布莱克先生，如果你能跟我说说你对这件事情的反应，我会很感兴趣的。”
菲利普•布莱克的脸突然涨得通红，他情绪激动地说：“反应！有什么反应！别用那些迂腐的词汇！我可不仅仅只是站在那儿表现出我的反应！你看来还没弄明白，我告诉你吧，那是我的朋友，我的朋友被杀了，被毒死了！如果我动作能快点儿，没准儿能救了他的命。”
“你又怎么知道能救他呢，布莱克先生？”
“是这样的。我认为你应该已经读过这个案子的卷宗了吧？”波洛点点头。“那太好了。
那天早上我哥哥梅瑞迪斯给我打电话。电话里的他非常焦虑。他自己做的那些该死的药丢了一瓶，丢的这瓶该死的药还是致命的。我能干什么？我告诉他赶快过来，我们一起商量商量，看看怎么办最好。‘怎么办最好。’现在想想都难过，我怎么会是这么个犹豫不决的蠢货呢？我应该意识到时间的紧迫，我应该直接去找埃米亚斯并且警告他。我就应该说：‘卡罗琳拿了一些梅瑞迪斯摆在外面的毒药，你和埃尔莎最好自己小心着点儿。’”
布莱克站起身，激动得来回踱着步。
“我的老天爷啊。难道你觉得我没有在心里面翻来覆去地想这件事吗？我知道，我本来有机会能救他的，但我就在那儿磨磨蹭蹭，等着梅瑞迪斯！为什么我就没意识到卡罗琳根本不会有丝毫的不安或犹豫！她拿那个东西就是为了要用，而且上帝啊，她一有机会马上就用了。她不会等到梅瑞迪斯发现药丢了的。我知道，我当然知道，埃米亚斯的性命危在旦夕，而我却在那儿袖手旁观！”
“我觉得你有点儿过分自责了，先生。你当时没有那么多时间——”
对方打断了他。
“时间？我有足够的时间。有无数种方法摆在我面前。就像我说的，我可以去找埃米亚斯，当然，也有可能他并不相信我。埃米亚斯不是那种会轻易相信自己有危险的人。他肯定会嘲笑这种想法。他就从来没有彻底认清过卡罗琳的可怕之处。不过我本来也可以去找她。我可以对她说：‘我知道你要干什么，我知道你有什么打算。但是如果埃米亚斯或者埃尔莎被毒芹碱毒死了，你就得上绞架！’那也许能够阻止她。或者我也可以打电话报警。
噢！有那么多的事儿可以干，我却让自己受了梅瑞迪斯的影响，不紧不慢、小心翼翼地做事情。‘我们必须得确定——再仔细想想——彻底弄清楚到底是谁拿的……’这个该死的老笨蛋——他这一辈子就从来没做过什么果断的决定！幸亏他是长子，可以靠那片庄园活着。要是让他靠自己挣钱的话，到最后肯定是不名一文。”
波洛问道：“你自己对是谁拿走的毒药从来都没有过疑问吗？”
“当然没有。我立刻就知道肯定是卡罗琳。你瞧，因为我太了解卡罗琳了。”
波洛说：“那太有意思了。布莱克先生，我想要知道，卡罗琳•克雷尔究竟是个什么样的女人。”
菲利普•布莱克尖刻地说道：“她可不是在审判的时候人们想象中的那种无辜的受害者！”
“那么，她是什么样的人呢？”
布莱克再次坐下来，一脸严肃地说道：“你真的想知道吗？”
“我确实特别想知道。”
“卡罗琳是个无赖，她就是个彻头彻尾的无赖。不过你得记住，她很有魅力。她那种和蔼可亲、讨人喜欢的态度能够彻底地蒙蔽很多人，她脆弱无助的样子也常常会激起人们的怜香惜玉之心。有时我在看一些历史故事的时候，就觉得苏格兰的玛丽皇后肯定跟她有点儿像。总是那么温柔，那么不幸，又那么充满魅力——实际上却是个会算计的冷血女人，阴谋策划杀害了达恩利，还能逍遥法外。卡罗琳就像她那样，冷酷无情，工于心计，而且脾气还很坏。
“我不知道他们有没有告诉你她对自己的小妹妹都干了些什么？这事儿对于审判来说也许不怎么重要，却能告诉你她是个什么样的人。你看，她就是嫉妒心这么重。她妈妈再嫁了，所有的关注和情感都放在了小安吉拉身上，卡罗琳就忍受不了了。她用铁撬棍打那孩子的脑袋，想把她杀了。好在那一下没致命。不过能做出这种事来也真是够可怕的。”
“是啊，够可怕的。”
“嗯，这才是真正的卡罗琳。她凡事都要当第一，当不成第一是她根本无法忍受的事情。她内心里那种冷酷无情和自私自利要是被唤醒了，就有可能干出杀人的勾当。
“你知道吗，她表面看起来容易冲动，实际上却很有心眼儿。她小时候来奥尔德伯里住的时候就把我们所有这些人都在心里掂量了一遍，然后想好了计划。她自己没什么钱。我从来都不在她的考虑之列，因为我是次子，得靠自己挣生活。（说起来也有意思，现如今克雷尔要是活着的话，我也许能把梅瑞迪斯和他的家产都买下来呢！）她曾经一度考虑过梅瑞迪斯，不过最终还是选定了埃米亚斯。埃米亚斯将来会继承奥尔德伯里，尽管这并不能为他带来多少钱，不过她还是意识到他作为画家来说是相当有天赋的。于是她就把赌注都押在了他身上，不仅仅因为他是个天才，没准儿还能成为一棵摇钱树呢。
“结果她赌赢了。埃米亚斯早早地就得到了认可。他完全不是那种时髦的画家，但是他的天赋为人赞赏，有人买他的画。你看过他的作品吗？这儿就有一幅。过来看看吧。”
他领路进了餐厅，指着左手边的墙。
“这幅就是埃米亚斯的作品。”
波洛默默地看着。他惊诧于一个传统的题材竟然可以在一个人独有的神奇画笔之下表现得如此不可思议。那是一瓶玫瑰花，摆在一张擦得锃亮的桃花心木桌子上。一个老掉牙的主题。可埃米亚斯•克雷尔又是怎样设法使他笔下的玫瑰花看起来就像火焰在燃烧一般，透出狂放不羁甚至几分淫秽感觉的呢？光亮的木头桌面似乎也在颤抖，仿佛被赋予了生命。而观者被这幅画唤起的那种兴奋之情又该作何解释呢？因为它着实令人激动不已。这张桌子的比例很可能会让黑尔警司感到难受，他肯定还会抱怨从没见过哪种玫瑰花会是这样的外形或者这样的颜色。然后，当他再看见玫瑰花的时候就会觉得怎么看怎么别扭，却又说不清是为什么，而各种桃花心木的圆桌估计也会让他心中无名火起的。
波洛轻叹了一声。
他小声说道：“啊，原来如此。”
布莱克带路回来，他一边走一边咕哝道：“我自己对艺术从来都是一窍不通。我不知道我为什么那么喜欢看那幅画，但我就是喜欢。这玩意儿——真他妈见鬼，确实好看啊。”
波洛用力地点点头。
布莱克递给客人一支烟，自己也点上一支，然后说道：“就是这个男人，画了那些玫瑰花的男人，画了《拿着鸡尾酒调酒器的女人》的男人，画了那幅让人看了肝肠寸断的《耶稣降生》的男人，竟然在他事业最辉煌的时候英年早逝了。一条鲜活有力的生命就这么被夺走了，全都是因为那个心怀怨恨、生性残忍的女人！”
他顿了一下。
“你可能会觉得我很刻薄，对卡罗琳的成见太深。她确实很有魅力，这一点我也能感觉到。但我知道，一直都知道她的本来面目。波洛先生，这个女人就是个祸害。她残忍恶毒，什么都要霸占！”
“可是也有人告诉我说，克雷尔太太在婚后生活中也忍受了很多委屈啊？”
“是啊，她不就是想让所有人都知道这些吗？总是摆出一副受害者的样子！可怜的老埃米亚斯，他的婚姻生活简直就像是没有尽头的地狱一样——或者应该说，若不是因为他拥有这种杰出才能的话，肯定会是这样。要知道，他一直都有他的艺术为伴，那就是一种逃避和解脱。他画画的时候什么都可以不在乎，把卡罗琳和她的唠唠叨叨，以及无休无止的吵闹和争辩都抛在脑后。你知道吗，真的是无休无止啊。没有一个星期不大吵一架的，不是为了这个就是为了那个。她就喜欢这样。我相信，吵架让她觉得很兴奋，对她来说是一种发泄的方法。争吵起来她想说什么难听话就说什么难听话，每次吵完之后她都会带着心满意足转身走开，像一只被喂饱了肚子捋顺了毛儿的猫一样。但这让他感觉精疲力竭。他想要的是安宁、平静、波澜不惊的生活。当然，他这样的男人应该永远都不结婚，他就不适合家庭生活。克雷尔这类人可以有一些露水情缘，但不能想着用承诺把他拴住。它们最终肯定会惹恼他的。”
“他很信任你，对你讲了这些吗？”
“嗯，他知道我对朋友忠心耿耿，所以他会告诉我很多。他没有抱怨，因为他不是那样的人。有时候他会说：‘所有的女人都他妈该死。’要么就对我说，‘兄弟，永远都别结婚。
否则就等着下地狱吧。’”
“你知道他喜欢格里尔小姐的事儿吗？”
“哦，当然了，至少我是亲眼看着他们开始的。他告诉我他遇上了一个很棒的女孩儿，说她与众不同，和他以前遇见过的任何一个人都不一样。这种话我是不会太在意的。埃米亚斯总是会遇见这样那样‘与众不同’的女人。常常是一个月以后你再对他提起这个人，他会瞪着你而不知道你在说谁！不过这个埃尔莎•格里尔还真是与众不同。这一点当我来奥尔德伯里小住的时候就意识到了。你知道吗，她算是彻底地把他抓住了。这可怜的老伙计对她已经是唯命是从了。”
“你同样也不喜欢埃尔莎•格里尔吧？”
“对，我不喜欢她。她绝对是个掠夺成性的女人，想要同时占有克雷尔的肉体和灵魂。
不过尽管如此，我还是认为她比卡罗琳对于克雷尔来说更合适。可以想象到，一旦她确定得到了他，很可能就不会再干涉他的事情了。或者也可能她对他感到厌倦之后就移情别恋了。对埃米亚斯来说，最好的事情就是别和任何女人有瓜葛。”
“不过这种生活似乎并不合他的心意吧？”
菲利普•布莱克叹了口气，说道：“这个该死的笨蛋总是让自己和这样那样的女人纠缠不清，可是从某种程度上来说，女人对他来说又真的是算不了什么。他这一辈子真正给他留下印象的女人就两个，卡罗琳和埃尔莎。”
波洛说：“他喜欢孩子吗？”
“安吉拉？噢，我们都喜欢安吉拉。她可是个闲不住爱折腾的孩子，对什么事儿都争强好胜。她可把她可怜的家庭教师整惨了。没错，埃米亚斯是喜欢安吉拉，不过有时候她玩得过火了，他也真的会冲她发脾气。这个时候卡罗琳就要出面干涉了，卡罗琳总是站在安吉拉这边，最后让埃米亚斯也只得作罢。他讨厌卡罗琳向着安吉拉，和她一起跟他对着干。你明白吧，这里面到处都有那么点儿嫉妒心理。埃米亚斯嫉妒卡罗琳那种总是把安吉拉放在首位，愿意为她做任何事情的态度。而安吉拉也嫉妒埃米亚斯，总想反抗他那种傲慢专横的做法。让她那年秋天离开家去上学就是他的决定，她对此大发雷霆。我觉得她并非不喜欢去学校，我相信她其实还挺想去的，不过埃米亚斯这种什么事情都随随便便由他一个人说了算的做法把她惹怒了。她搞了各种恶作剧，就为了报复他。有一次她弄了十只鼻涕虫放在他床上。不过总的来说，我觉得埃米亚斯做得对。是该给她定点儿规矩了。威廉姆斯小姐很能干，不过连她都承认已经快要忍受不了安吉拉了。”
他停了下来。波洛说：“刚才我问他喜不喜欢孩子的时候，我指的是他喜不喜欢自己的孩子，他的女儿。”
“噢，你是指小卡拉啊？她绝对是他的掌上明珠。他心情好的时候可喜欢逗她玩儿了。
只不过他对她的爱并不能阻止他想要娶埃尔莎，如果你是想问这个的话。他对她的爱还不到那个份儿上。”
“那卡罗琳•克雷尔很喜欢这个孩子吗？”
菲利普的脸一阵抽搐扭曲。他说道：“我不能说她不是个好妈妈。对，我不能那么说。
这也是让我——”
“怎么，布莱克先生？”
菲利普缓慢而痛苦地说道：“这也是这个案子中真正让我感到惋惜的事。每每想到那个孩子就让我难过。小小年纪便遭此横祸。他们把她送到国外埃米亚斯的表妹和妹夫那里。
我希望，真诚地希望，他们能一直想办法对她保密。”
波洛摇摇头，说道：“布莱克先生，真相总是要大白于天下的，即便过去了很多年。”
证券经纪人喃喃地说：“我不知道。”
波洛继续说道：“布莱克先生，出于尊重事实的考虑，我想请你做一件事。”
“什么事？”
“我想请你为我确切地写下来那些天在奥尔德伯里究竟都发生了什么。也就是说，我想让你帮我写一份关于谋杀及相关情况的完整记述。”
“我亲爱的伙计，你是说在过了这么久之后吗？我怕我实在是记不准确了。”
“并不需要那么准确。”
“当然需要。”
“不，首先，随着时间的推移，人的记忆会忘掉一些表面的东西，而保留下来更重要的事情。”
“嗬！你是说只需要一个大致的梗概？”
“并非如此。我的意思是需要你认真详细地写下来发生过的每一件事，以及你所记得的每一段谈话。”
“那假如我记错了呢？”
“你至少可以尽可能地根据你的记忆来写。可能会和实际情况有些出入，但那也是难以避免的。”
布莱克好奇地瞧着他。
“但为什么要让我写呢？你看看警察的案卷就能了解整件事情，而且会比我的记忆准确得多。”
“不，布莱克先生，我们现在是从心理学的角度上来谈这个问题。我并不是想要那些最基本的事实。我想要的，是那些你所记得的事实。这些事实经过了时间和你的记忆的筛选，可能会有一些你们做过的事，说过的话，无论如何我是在警方的卷宗里找不到的。你从未谈起过这些事和这些话，也许是因为你觉得它们无关紧要，或者也许是因为你根本不愿再提。”
布莱克尖厉地说道：“我的这份记述不会出版吧？”
“当然不会。这只是给我看的，为了帮助我去演绎和推断。”
“那你不会不经我同意就引用里面的话吧？”
“当然不会。”
“嗯，”菲利普•布莱克说，“波洛先生，我可是个大忙人。”
“我明白这会占用你的时间，并且给你添不少麻烦。因此我很乐意为你支付一笔合理的报酬。”
一阵短暂的沉默。然后菲利普•布莱克突然说道：“不，如果我答应写了，我也不会要任何报酬。”
“那么你答应了吗？”
菲利普语带告诫地说道：“记着，我可不敢保证我的记忆都准确。”
“完全理解。”
“那么我想，”菲利普•布莱克说，“我愿意写下来。我觉得从某种意义上来说，这是我欠埃米亚斯•克雷尔的。”