One
One
Hercule Poirot came out of the Vieille Grand’mère restaurant into Soho. He turned up the collar ofhis overcoat through prudence, rather than necessity, since the night was not cold. “But at my age,one takes no risks,” Poirot was wont to declare.
His eyes held a reflective sleepy pleasure. The Escargots de la Vieille Grand’mère had beendelicious. A real find, this dingy little restaurant. Meditatively, like a well-fed dog, Hercule Poirotcurled his tongue round his lips. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed hisluxuriant moustaches.
Yes, he had dined well .?.?. And now what?
A taxi, passing him, slowed down invitingly. Poirot hesitated for a moment, but made nosign. Why take a taxi? He would in any case reach home too early to go to bed.
“Alas,” murmured Poirot to his moustaches, “that one can only eat three times a day. .?.?.”
For afternoon tea was a meal to which he had never become acclimatized. “If one partakes ofthe five o’clock, one does not,” he explained, “approach the dinner with the proper quality ofexpectant gastric juices. And the dinner, let us remember, is the supreme meal of the day!”
Not for him, either, the mid-morning coffee. No, chocolate and croissants for breakfast,Déjeuner at twelve- thirty if possible but certainly not later than one o’clock, and finally theclimax: Le D?ner!
These were the peak periods of Hercule Poirot’s day. Always a man who had taken hisstomach seriously, he was reaping his reward in old age. Eating was now not only a physicalpleasure, it was also an intellectual research. For in between meals he spent quite a lot of timesearching out and marking down possible sources of new and delicious food. La VieilleGrand’mère was the result of one of these quests and La Vieille Grand’mère had just received theseal of Hercule Poirot’s gastronomic approval.
But now, unfortunately, there was the evening to put in.
Hercule Poirot sighed.
“If only,” he thought, “ce cher Hastings were available. .?.?.”
He dwelt with pleasure on his remembrances of his old friend.
“My first friend in this country—and still to me the dearest friend I have. True, often andoften did he enrage me. But do I remember that now? No. I remember only his incredulouswonder, his openmouthed appreciation of my talents—the ease with which I misled him withoututtering an untrue word, his bafflement, his stupendous astonishment when he at last perceived thetruth that had been clear to me all along. Ce cher, cher ami! It is my weakness, it has always beenmy weakness, to desire to show off. That weakness, Hastings could never understand. But indeedit is very necessary for a man of my abilities to admire himself — and for that one needsstimulation from outside. I cannot, truly I cannot, sit in a chair all day reflecting how trulyadmirable I am. One needs the human touch. One needs—as they say nowadays—the stooge.”
Hercule Poirot sighed. He turned into Shaftesbury Avenue.
Should he cross it and go on to Leicester Square and spend the evening at a cinema?
Frowning slightly, he shook his head. The cinema, more often than not, enraged him by thelooseness of its plots—the lack of logical continuity in the argument—even the photographywhich, raved over by some, to Hercule Poirot seemed often no more than the portrayal of scenesand objects so as to make them appear totally different from what they were in reality.
Everything, Hercule Poirot decided, was too artistic nowadays. Nowhere was there the loveof order and method that he himself prized so highly. And seldom was there any appreciation ofsubtlety. Scenes of violence and crude brutality were the fashion, and as a former police officer,Poirot was bored by brutality. In his early days, he had seen plenty of crude brutality. It had beenmore the rule than the exception. He found it fatiguing, and unintelligent.
“The truth is,” Poirot reflected as he turned his steps homeward, “I am not in tune with themodern world. And I am, in a superior way, a slave as other men are slaves. My work hasenslaved me just as their work enslaves them. When the hour of leisure arrives, they have nothingwith which to fill their leisure. The retired financier takes up golf, the little merchant puts bulbs inhis garden, me, I eat. But there it is, I come round to it again. One can only eat three times a day.
And in between are the gaps.”
He passed a newspaper seller and scanned the bill.
“Result of McGinty Trial. Verdict.”
It stirred no interest in him. He recalled vaguely a small paragraph in the papers. It had notbeen an interesting murder. Some wretched old woman knocked on the head for a few pounds. Allpart of the senseless crude brutality of these days.
Poirot turned into the courtyard of his block of flats. As always his heart swelled in approval.
He was proud of his home. A splendid symmetrical building. The lift took him up to the third floorwhere he had a large luxury flat with impeccable chromium fittings, square armchairs, andseverely rectangular ornaments. There could truly be said not to be a curve in the place.
As he opened the door with his latchkey and stepped into the square, white lobby, hismanservant, George, stepped softly to meet him.
“Good evening, sir. There is a—gentleman waiting to see you.”
He relieved Poirot deftly of his overcoat.
“Indeed?” Poirot was aware of that very slight pause before the word gentleman. As a socialsnob, George was an expert.
“What is his name?”
“A Mr. Spence, sir.”
“Spence.” The name, for the moment, meant nothing to Poirot. Yet he knew that it should doso.
Pausing for a moment before the mirror to adjust his moustaches to a state of perfection,Poirot opened the door of the sitting room and entered. The man sitting in one of the big squarearmchairs got up.
“Hallo, M. Poirot, hope you remember me. It’s a long time .?.?. Superintendent Spence.”
“But of course.” Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
Superintendent Spence of the Kilchester Police. A very interesting case that had been .?.?. AsSpence had said, a long time ago now. .?.?.
Poirot pressed his guest with refreshments. A grenadine? Crème de Menthe? Benedictine?
Crème de Cacao? .?.?.
At this moment George entered with a tray on which was a whisky bottle and a siphon. “Orbeer if you prefer it, sir?” he murmured to the visitor.
Superintendent Spence’s large red face lightened.
“Beer for me,” he said.
Poirot was left to wonder once more at the accomplishments of George. He himself had hadno idea that there was beer in the flat and it seemed incomprehensible to him that it could bepreferred to a sweet liqueur.
When Spence had his foaming tankard, Poirot poured himself out a tiny glass of gleaminggreen crème de menthe.
“But it is charming of you to look me up,” he said. “Charming. You have come up from—?”
“Kilchester. I’ll be retired in about six months. Actually, I was due for retirement eighteenmonths ago. They asked me to stop on and I did.”
“You were wise,” said Poirot with feeling. “You were very wise. .?.?.”
“Was I? I wonder. I’m not so sure.”
“Yes, yes, you were wise,” Poirot insisted. “The long hours of ennui, you have no conceptionof them.”
“Oh, I’ll have plenty to do when I retire. Moved into a new house last year, we did. Quite abit of garden and shamefully neglected. I haven’t been able to get down to it properly yet.”
“Ah yes, you are one of those who garden. Me, once I decided to live in the country and growvegetable marrows. It did not succeed. I have not the temperament.”
“You should have seen one of my marrows last year,” said Spence with enthusiasm.
“Colossal! And my roses. I’m keen on roses. I’m going to have—”
He broke off.
“That’s not what I came to talk about.”
“No, no, you came to see an old acquaintance—it was kind. I appreciate it.”
“There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid, M. Poirot. I’ll be honest. I want something.”
Poirot murmured delicately:
“There is a mortgage, possibly, on your house? You would like a loan—”
Spence interrupted in a horrified voice:
“Oh, good Lord, it’s not money! Nothing of that kind.”
Poirot waved his hands in graceful apology.
“I demand your pardon.”
“I’ll tell you straight out—it’s damned cheek what I’ve come for. If you send me away with aflea in my ear I shan’t be surprised.”
“There will be no flea,” said Poirot. “But continue.”
“It’s the McGinty case. You’ve read about it, perhaps?”
Poirot shook his head.
“Not with attention. Mrs. McGinty—an old woman in a shop or a house. She is dead, yes.
How did she die?”
Spence stared at him.
“Lord!” he said. “That takes me back. Extraordinary. And I never thought of it until now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Just a game. Child’s game. We used to play it when we were kids. A lot of us in arow. Question and answer all down the line. ‘Mrs. McGinty’s dead!’ ‘How did she die?’ ‘Down onone knee just like I.’ And then the next question, ‘Mrs. McGinty’s dead.’ ‘How did she die?’
‘Holding her hand out just like I.’ And there we’d be, all kneeling and our right arms held out stiff.
And then you got it! ‘Mrs. McGinty’s dead.’ ‘How did she die?’ ‘Like THIS!’ Smack, the top ofthe row would fall sideways and down we all went like a pack of ninepins!” Spence laugheduproariously at the remembrance. “Takes me back, it does!”
Poirot waited politely. This was one of the moments when, even after half a lifetime in thecountry, he found the English incomprehensible. He himself had played at Cache Cache in hischildhood, but he felt no desire to talk about it or even to think about it.
When Spence had overcome his own amusement, Poirot repeated with some slight weariness,“How did she die?”
The laughter was wiped off Spence’s face. He was suddenly himself again.
“She was hit on the back of her head with some sharp, heavy implement. Her savings, aboutthirty pounds in cash, were taken after her room had been ransacked. She lived alone in a smallcottage except for a lodger. Man of the name of Bentley. James Bentley.”
“Ah yes, Bentley.”
“The place wasn’t broken into. No signs of any tampering with the windows or locks.
Bentley was hard up, had lost his job, and owed two months’ rent. The money was found hiddenunder a loose stone at the back of the cottage. Bentley’s coat sleeve had blood on it and hair—same blood group and the right hair. According to his first statement he was never near the body—so it couldn’t have come there by accident.”
“Who found her?”
“The baker called with bread. It was the day he got paid. James Bentley opened the door tohim and said he’d knocked at Mrs. McGinty’s bedroom door, but couldn’t get an answer. Thebaker suggested she might have been taken bad. They got the woman from next door to go up andsee. Mrs. McGinty wasn’t in the bedroom, and hadn’t slept in the bed, but the room had beenransacked and the floorboards had been prised up. Then they thought of looking in the parlour.
She was there, lying on the floor, and the neighbour fairly screamed her head off. Then they gotthe police, of course.”
“And Bentley was eventually arrested and tried?”
“Yes. The case came on at the Assizes. Yesterday. Open and shut case. The jury were onlyout twenty minutes this morning. Verdict: Guilty. Condemned to death.”
Poirot nodded.
“And then, after the verdict, you got in a train and came to London and came here to see me.
Why?”
Superintendent Spence was looking into his beer glass. He ran his finger slowly round andround the rim.
“Because,” he said, “I don’t think he did it. .?.?.”
第一章
第一章
赫尔克里•波洛从“维拉大妈” （注：原文为法语。后文中均以仿宋字体呈现。） 餐厅出来，向苏活区走去。他竖起大衣的领子，与其说是必须，不如说是出于谨慎，因为晚上并不冷。“在我这个年纪，还是不要冒什么风险的好。”波洛常常这样宣称。
他睡意惺忪，心满意足。“维拉大妈”餐厅的蜗牛是真正的人间美味。这个昏暗肮脏的小餐馆真是个难得的发现。赫尔克里•波洛闭目养神，像一只吃饱喝足的狗，伸出舌头舔了舔嘴唇。他从口袋里掏出手帕，擦了擦华丽的胡子。
是的，他吃了一顿美食……那么接下来要干什么呢？
一辆出租车从他身边经过，放慢了速度。波洛犹豫了一下，但没有招手让出租车停下。为什么要搭出租车呢？反正时间还早，不急着回家，还没到上床睡觉的时间。
“唉！”波洛吹了吹胡子，喃喃道，“可惜的是人一天只能吃三顿……”
英式下午茶是他从来都接受不了的用餐习惯。“如果一个人在五点钟就吃了东西，”他解释说，“那么就没有足够的胃液去消化晚餐了。而晚餐，别忘了，是一天中最重要的一顿大餐！”
对他来说，早晨喝咖啡也不习惯。不，早餐应该是热巧克力配羊角面包。如果可能，十二点半用午餐，最迟不能晚于一点。最后是一天的高潮：晚餐！
这一日三餐是赫尔克里•波洛一天中的几个巅峰时刻。作为一个向来重视保护肠胃的人，他在晚年得到了回报。吃现在不仅仅为了满足口腹之欲，也是一项智力研究。因此在两餐之间，他花了不少时间寻找并记录新的美食场所。“维拉大妈”餐厅正是这些搜寻的结果之一，而且“维拉大妈”餐厅刚刚获得了波洛的美食认证。
但现在，不幸的是，还有一整个晚上需要打发。
赫尔克里•波洛叹了口气。
“如果，”他想，“亲爱的黑斯廷斯在这里该有多好……”
他沉浸在回忆老友的愉悦里。
“他是我在这个国家的第一位朋友——现在依然是我最亲密的朋友。的确，他总是一次又一次地惹我生气。但是我现在还记得这些吗？不，我只记得他难以置信的好奇样子，被我的天才所震慑的张口结舌的样子，我不用说一句假话就能误导他，使他迷惑不解的样子，还有当他终于察觉那些在我看来一目了然的真相时，惊奇万分的样子。我亲爱的朋友！这是我的弱点，一直是我的弱点，喜欢卖弄和炫耀。黑斯廷斯也无法理解我这个弱点。但它对于像我这样具有非凡本领的人来说又是非常必要的，我们需要孤芳自赏，也需要别人捧场。我总不能一整天坐在椅子里，心想自己是多么了不起吧。人们需要人际交往。需要——照现在的话来说——一个应声虫。”
赫尔克里•波洛叹了口气，转入沙夫茨伯里大街。
他是否应该穿过大街，到莱斯特广场，在电影院里消磨一个晚上呢？他微微皱眉，摇了摇头。电影，常常看得他生气，情节松散，缺乏逻辑性和连贯性，甚至那些备受推崇的电影画面在波洛看来也只不过是一些场景和物体的特写，故意使它们看起来和现实中完全不同罢了。
波洛觉得，如今的一切都太人工化了。看不到他所高度推崇的那种对秩序和条理的热爱。鲜见对精微细致的欣赏，充斥着暴力和野蛮残酷的画面成为时尚。作为一名退休警官，波洛早已厌倦了残酷和暴力。早年他见过许多暴行，早已见怪不怪。他只觉得令人生厌，愚蠢透顶。
“事实是，”波洛迈步回家的时候心想，“我和现在的世界格格不入。我和其他人一样，都是奴隶，只不过我的层次更高。我的工作奴役我，就像他们的工作奴役他们。当有空闲的时候，大家都不知道怎么打发这些闲暇的时间。退休的金融家打打高尔夫；小商人在花园里种种球茎植物；而我，则是吃。但现在又碰到老问题了。可惜的是人一天只能吃三顿，三餐之间的空隙难以打发。”
他经过一家报摊，瞄了瞄报纸上的新闻标题。
“麦金蒂案审理结果裁定。”
这引不起他一点兴趣。他依稀记得曾在报纸上看到的一则短新闻。不是什么吸引人的谋杀。有个可怜的老妇人因为区区几英镑被人敲碎了头颅。正是当今这些毫无意义的暴行中的一例。
波洛走进他的公寓所在大楼的庭院，照例满怀赞赏。他深以自己的家为傲——一幢堂皇对称的建筑。他乘电梯来到三楼，他的豪华大套房就在这一层。屋里装饰精美，陈设考究，正方形的扶手椅，棱角分明的长方形饰物。全都方方正正，可以毫不夸张地说，几乎找不到一条曲线。
当他用钥匙打开门，走进白色的门厅，他的男仆乔治轻轻走上前来迎接他。
“晚上好，先生。有一位——绅士在等您。”
他熟练地帮波洛脱下大衣。
“是吗？”波洛察觉到在“绅士”这个词之前有片刻非常细微的停顿。作为一个深谙社会等级之分的势利小人，乔治在这方面是一个专家。
“一位叫做斯彭斯的先生。”
“斯彭斯 （注：斯彭斯警监曾出现在《万圣节前夜的谋杀》一书中与波洛和奥利弗太太一同破案。） 。”波洛一时想不起这个名字，但他觉得应该在哪儿听过。
波洛在镜子前稍稍停留了片刻，将胡子整理到完美的状态，然后打开客厅的门走了进去。坐在正方形大扶手椅里的男人站了起来。
“你好，波洛先生，希望你还记得我。已经过去很久了……我是斯彭斯警监。”
“当然记得。”波洛热情地与他握手。
科尔切斯特警局的斯彭斯警监。一个非常有趣的案子……正如斯彭斯说的，是很久以前的事情了……
波洛竭力劝说他的客人喝点什么。石榴汁？薄荷甜酒？本笃酒？可可甜酒……正在这时，乔治端着托盘走进房间，托盘上是一瓶威士忌和吸管。“您是否想来杯啤酒呢，先生？”他轻声地问客人。
斯彭斯警监红润的宽大脸庞一亮。
“那就啤酒吧。”他说。
波洛再一次惊叹于乔治的本事。他自己从来都不知道公寓里竟然有啤酒，而且他也无法理解有人竟然宁愿喝啤酒而不要甜酒。
当斯彭斯端起冒着泡的啤酒杯，波洛给自己倒了一小杯亮晶晶的绿色薄荷酒。
“你来看我真好，”他说。“真好。你是从哪里来的？”
“吉尔切斯特。我再过半年就要退休了。其实，我一年半之前就应该退休了。他们挽留我，我就多留了一阵子。”
“你是明智的，”波洛感慨地说，“非常明智……”
“是吗？我不知道。我不敢确定。”
“是的，是的，你很明智，”波洛坚持说，“你不知道无所事事的时间多么难打发。”
“哦，我退休后有很多事情可以做。去年我们搬进了新房子，有一个相当大的花园，可是疏于打理。我到现在都还没有时间拾掇拾掇它呢。”
“啊，是的，你是喜欢打理花园的那类人。我也曾经下定决心住到乡下，种种西葫芦，可是没有成功，与我脾气不合。”
“你真该看看我去年种的一个西葫芦，”斯彭斯热情地说，“硕大无比！还有我的玫瑰。
我特别喜欢玫瑰。我打算——”
他停住了。
“我今天来不是想谈这个。”
“不，不，你是来见老朋友的，真是有心。我很感激。 ”
“恐怕不仅如此，波洛先生。我还是实话实说吧，我是有求而来。”
波洛小心翼翼地说：
“你的房子，是抵押贷款的吧？你是要借钱——”
斯彭斯惊恐万分地打断了他的话：
“哦，老天爷，不是钱的问题！跟钱没有半点关系。”
波洛优雅地挥挥手表示道歉。
“请你原谅。”
“我会原原本本地告诉你，我来是为了桩该死的案子。如果你把我轰出去，我是不会感到意外的。”
“不会有那样的事，”波洛说，“继续说吧。”
“是麦金蒂的案子。也许你已经从报纸上看到了？”
波洛摇摇头。
“没怎么关注。麦金蒂太太——是商店还是住家里的一个老妇人死了。她是怎么死的？”
斯彭斯盯着他。
“天啊！”他说。“让我想起了过去。不可思议……我之前从来没有想过。”
“你说什么？”
“没什么。只是个游戏。小孩子玩的游戏。我们小的时候经常玩。很多人排成一排。挨个提问并回答问题。‘麦金蒂太太死了！’‘她怎么死的？’‘单膝下跪，像我这样。’然后接着下一个问题，‘麦金蒂太太死了。’‘她怎么死的？’‘伸出手来，像我这样。’于是我们所有的人都会跪在地上，把右臂伸出来，一动不动。然后，你就知道会怎么样了！‘麦金蒂太太死了。’‘怎么死的？’‘就像这样！’‘啪’的一声，排头的人向后倒下来，然后我们就像保龄球一样摔成一串！”斯彭斯回忆往事放声大笑。“真的勾起了我儿时的回忆！”
波洛礼貌地等着。虽然在这个国家住了将近半辈子，可是总有这样一些时候让他感到难以理解英国人。他本人小时候也玩过捉迷藏一类的游戏，但他并不想谈论它，甚至根本想都不会想到它。
斯彭斯终于止住笑，波洛略带些倦意地重复了一遍问题：“她是怎么死的？”
笑意从斯彭斯的脸上消失了。他突然恢复了老样子。
“她的后脑勺被人用尖锐的重物狠狠地打了。她的房间遭到洗劫，她的大约三十英镑现金的存款也不见了。她独自住在一栋小房子里，此外还有一个房客。一个叫本特利的男人，詹姆斯•本特利。”
“啊，是的，本特利。”
“没有破门而入的痕迹，窗户和门锁也都没有任何被撬的迹象。本特利生活艰难，失业，欠了两个月的房租。丢失的那些钱在屋后一块松动的石头底下发现了。本特利外套的袖子上有血迹和头发——与死者的血型和头发一样。根据他第一次调查时的供词，他说自己从来没有靠近过尸体——所以血迹和头发不可能是无意间沾到的。”
“是谁发现的尸体？”
“面包师送面包来的时候发现的。那天是他收账的日子。詹姆斯•本特利开的门，说他敲过麦金蒂太太卧室的门，但没有人应答。面包师说她可能生病了。他们请女邻居上去看看。麦金蒂太太没有在卧室里，也没在床上睡觉，但房间被洗劫过，地板也被撬开了。于是他们想到去客厅里看看。她就在那里，躺在地板上，那个女邻居女人吓破了胆，尖叫起来。后来，当然，他们报了警。”
“那么本特利最终被捕并受审了？”
“是的。案子移交到了刑事法庭，昨天开庭审理。今天早上陪审团只花了二十分钟就做出了裁决：有罪。判处死刑。”
波洛点点头。
“然而，在判决之后，你搭火车来到伦敦，来这里见我。为什么？”
斯彭斯警监盯着他的啤酒杯，手指在杯口慢慢地划着圈。
“因为，”他说，“我认为凶手不是他……”
Two
Two
There was a moment or two of silence.
“You came to me—”
Poirot did not finish the sentence.
Superintendent Spence looked up. The colour in his face was deeper than it had been. It was atypical countryman’s face, unexpressive, self-contained, with shrewd but honest eyes. It was theface of a man with definite standards who would never be bothered by doubts of himself or bydoubts of what constituted right and wrong.
“I’ve been a long time in the Force,” he said. “I’ve had a good deal of experience of this, thatand the other. I can judge a man as well as any other could do. I’ve had cases of murder during myservice—some of them straightforward enough, some of them not so straightforward. One caseyou know of, M. Poirot—”
Poirot nodded.
“Tricky, that was. But for you, we mightn’t have seen clear. But we did see clear—and therewasn’t any doubt. The same with the others you don’t know about. There was Whistler, he got his—and deserved it. There were those chaps who shot old Guterman. There was Verall and hisarsenic. Tranter got off—but he did it all right. Mrs. Courtland—she was lucky—her husband wasa nasty perverted bit of work, and the jury acquitted her accordingly. Not justice—just sentiment.
You’ve got to allow for that happening now and again. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence—sometimes there’s sentiment, sometimes a murderer manages to put it across the jury—that lastdoesn’t happen often, but it can happen. Sometimes it’s a clever bit of work by defending counsel—or a prosecuting counsel takes the wrong tack. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of things like that. But—but—”
Spence wagged a heavy forefinger.
“I haven’t seen—not in my experience—an innocent man hanged for something he didn’t do.
It’s a thing, M. Poirot, that I don’t want to see.
“Not,” added Spence, “in this country!”
Poirot gazed back at him.
“And you think you are going to see it now. But why—”
Spence interrupted him.
“I know some of the things you’re going to say. I’ll answer them without you having to askthem. I was put on this case. I was put on to get evidence of what happened. I went into the wholebusiness very carefully. I got the facts, all the facts I could. All those facts pointed one way—pointed to one person. When I’d got all the facts I took them to my superior officer. After that itwas out of my hands. The case went to the Public Prosecutor and it was up to him. He decided toprosecute—he couldn’t have done anything else—not on the evidence. And so James Bentley wasarrested and committed for trial, and was duly tried and has been found guilty. They couldn’t havefound him anything else, not on the evidence. And evidence is what a jury have to consider.
Didn’t have any qualms about it either, I should say. No, I should say they were all quite satisfiedhe was guilty.”
“But you—are not?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Superintendent Spence sighed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his big hand.
“I don’t know. What I mean is, I can’t give a reason—a concrete reason. To the jury I daresay he looked like a murderer—to me he didn’t—and I know a lot more about murderers than theydo.”
“Yes, yes, you are an expert.”
“For one thing, you know, he wasn’t cocky. Not cocky at all. And in my experience theyusually are. Always so damned pleased with themselves. Always think they’re stringing youalong. Always sure they’ve been so clever about the whole thing. And even when they’re in thedock and must know they’re for it, they’re still in a queer sort of way getting a kick out of it all.
They’re in the limelight. They’re the central figure. Playing the star part—perhaps for the first timein their lives. They’re—well—you know—cocky!”
Spence brought out the word with an air of finality.
“You’ll understand what I mean by that, M. Poirot.”
“I understand very well. And this James Bentley—he was not like that?”
“No. He was—well, just scared stiff. Scared stiff from the start. And to some people thatwould square in with his being guilty. But not to me.”
“No, I agree with you. What is he like, this James Bentley?”
“Thirty-three, medium height, sallow complexion, wears glasses—”
Poirot arrested the flow.
“No, I do not mean his physical characteristics. What sort of a personality?”
“Oh—that.” Superintendent Spence considered. “Unprepossessing sort of fellow. Nervousmanner. Can’t look you straight in the face. Has a sly sideways way of peering at you. Worstpossible sort of manner for a jury. Sometimes cringing and sometimes truculent. Blusters in aninefficient kind of way.”
He paused and added in a conversational tone:
“Really a shy kind of chap. Had a cousin rather like that. If anything’s awkward they go andtell some silly lie that hasn’t a chance of being believed.”
“He does not sound attractive, your James Bentley.”
“Oh, he isn’t. Nobody could like him. But I don’t want to see him hanged for all that.”
“And you think he will be hanged?”
“I don’t see why not. His counsel may lodge an appeal—but if so it will be on very flimsygrounds—a technicality of some kind, and I don’t see that it will have a chance of success.”
“Did he have a good counsel?”
“Young Graybrook was allotted to him under the Poor Persons’ Defence Act. I’d say he wasthoroughly conscientious and put up the best show he could.”
“So the man had a fair trial and was condemned by a jury of his fellow men.”
“That’s right. A good average jury. Seven men, five women—all decent reasonable souls.
Judge was old Stanisdale. Scrupulously fair—no bias.”
“So—according to the law of the land—James Bentley has nothing to complain of?”
“If he’s hanged for something he didn’t do, he’s got something to complain of!”
“A very just observation.”
“And the case against him was my case—I collected the facts and put them together—and it’son that case and those facts that he’s been condemned. And I don’t like it, M. Poirot, I don’t likeit.”
Hercule Poirot looked for a long time at the red agitated face of Superintendent Spence.
“Eh bien,” he said. “What do you suggest?”
Spence looked acutely embarrassed.
“I expect you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s coming. The Bentley case is closed. I’m onanother case already—embezzlement. Got to go up to Scotland tonight. I’m not a free man.”
“And I—am?”
Spence nodded in a shamefaced sort of way.
“You’ve got it. Awful cheek, you’ll think. But I can’t think of anything else—of any otherway. I did all I could at the time, I examined every possibility I could. And I didn’t get anywhere. Idon’t believe I ever would get anywhere. But who knows, it may be different for you. You look atthings in—if you’ll pardon me for saying so—in a funny sort of way. Maybe that’s the wayyou’ve got to look at them in this case. Because if James Bentley didn’t kill her, then somebodyelse did. She didn’t chop the back of her head in herself. You may be able to find something that Imissed. There’s no reason why you should do anything about this business. It’s infernal cheek myeven suggesting such a thing. But there it is. I came to you because it was the only thing I couldthink of. But if you don’t want to put yourself out—and why should you—”
Poirot interrupted him.
“Oh, but indeed there are reasons. I have leisure—too much leisure. And you have intriguedme—yes, you have intrigued me very much. It is a challenge—to the little grey cells of my brain.
And then, I have a regard for you. I see you, in your garden in six months’ time, planting, perhaps,the rose bushes—and as you plant them it is not with the happiness you should be feeling, becausebehind everything there is an unpleasantness in your brain, a recollection that you try to pushaway, and I would not have you feel that, my friend. And finally—” Poirot sat upright and noddedhis head vigorously, “there is the principle of the thing. If a man has not committed murder, heshould not be hanged.” He paused and then added, “But supposing that after all, he did kill her?”
“In that case I’d be only too thankful to be convinced of it.”
“And two heads are better than one? Voilà, everything is settled. I precipitate myself upon thebusiness. There is, that is clear, no time to be lost. Already the scent is cold. Mrs. McGinty waskilled—when?”
“Last November, 22nd.”
“Then let us at once get down to the brass tacks.”
“I’ve got my notes on the case which I’ll pass over to you.”
“Good. For the moment, we need only the bare outline. If James Bentley did not kill Mrs.
McGinty, who did?”
Spence shrugged his shoulders and said heavily:
“There’s nobody, so far as I can see.”
“But that answer we do not accept. Now, since for every murder there must be a motive,what, in the case of Mrs. McGinty, could the motive be? Envy, revenge, jealousy, fear, money?
Let us take the last and the simplest? Who profited by her death?”
“Nobody very much. She had two hundred pounds in the Savings Bank. Her niece gets that.”
“Two hundred pounds is not very much—but in certain circumstances it could be enough. Solet us consider the niece. I apologize, my friend, for treading in your footsteps. You too, I know,must have considered all this. But I have to go over with you the ground already traversed.”
Spence nodded his large head.
“We considered the niece, of course. She’s thirty-eight, married. Husband is employed in thebuilding and decorating trade—a painter. He’s got a good character, steady employment, sharpsort of fellow, no fool. She’s a pleasant young woman, a bit talkative, seemed fond of her aunt in amild sort of way. Neither of them had any urgent need for two hundred pounds, though quitepleased to have it, I dare say.”
“What about the cottage? Do they get that?”
“It was rented. Of course, under the Rent Restriction Act the landlord couldn’t get the oldwoman out. But now she’s dead, I don’t think the niece could have taken over—anyway she andher husband didn’t want to. They’ve got a small modern council house of their own of which theyare extremely proud.” Spence sighed. “I went into the niece and her husband pretty closely—theyseemed the best bet, as you’ll understand. But I couldn’t get hold of anything.”
“Bien. Now let us talk about Mrs. McGinty herself. Describe her to me—and not only inphysical terms, if you please.”
Spence grinned.
“Don’t want a police description? Well, she was sixty- four. Widow. Husband had beenemployed in the drapery department of Hodges in Kilchester. He died about seven years ago.
Pneumonia. Since then, Mrs. McGinty has been going out daily to various houses round about.
Domestic chores. Broadhinny’s a small village which has lately become residential. One or tworetired people, one of the partners in an engineering works, a doctor, that sort of thing. There’squite a good bus and train service to Kilchester, and Cullenquay which, as I expect you know, isquite a large summer resort, is only eight miles away, but Broadhinny itself is still quite pretty andrural—about a quarter of a mile off the main Drymouth and Kilchester road.”
Poirot nodded.
“Mrs. McGinty’s cottage was one of four that form the village proper. There is the post officeand village shop, and agricultural labourers live in the others.”
“And she took in a lodger?”
“Yes. Before her husband died, it used to be summer visitors, but after his death she just tookone regular. James Bentley had been there for some months.”
“So we come to—James Bentley?”
“Bentley’s last job was with a house agent’s in Kilchester. Before that, he lived with hismother in Cullenquay. She was an invalid and he looked after her and never went out much. Thenshe died, and an annuity she had died with her. He sold the little house and found a job. Well-educated man, but no special qualifications or aptitudes, and, as I say, an unprepossessing manner.
Didn’t find it easy to get anything. Anyway, they took him on at Breather & Scuttle’s. Rather asecond-rate firm. I don’t think he was particularly efficient or successful. They cut down staff andhe was the one to go. He couldn’t get another job, and his money ran out. He usually paid Mrs.
McGinty every month for his room. She gave him breakfast and supper and charged him threepounds a week—quite reasonable, all things considered. He was two months behind in paying her,and he was nearly at the end of his resources. He hadn’t got another job and she was pressing himfor what he owed her.”
“And he knew that she had thirty pounds in the house? Why did she have thirty pounds in thehouse, by the way, since she had a Savings Bank account?”
“Because she didn’t trust the Government. Said they’d got two hundred pounds of hermoney, but they wouldn’t get any more. She’d keep that where she could lay her hands on it anyminute. She said that to one or two people. It was under a loose board in her bedroom floor—avery obvious place. James Bentley admitted he knew it was there.”
“Very obliging of him. And did niece and husband know that too?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then we have now arrived back at my first question to you. How did Mrs. McGinty die?”
“She died on the night of November 22nd. Police surgeon put the time of death as beingbetween 7 and 10 p.m. She’d had her supper—a kipper and bread and margarine, and according toall accounts, she usually had that about half past six. If she adhered to that on the night in question,then by the evidence of digestion she was killed about eight thirty or nine o’clock. James Bentley,by his own account, was out walking that evening from seven fifteen to about nine. He went outand walked most evenings after dark. According to his own story he came in at about nine o’clock(he had his own key) and went straight upstairs to his room. Mrs. McGinty had had washbasinsfixed in the bedrooms because of summer visitors. He read for about half an hour and then went tobed. He heard and noticed nothing out of the way. Next morning he came downstairs and lookedinto the kitchen, but there was no one there and no signs of breakfast being prepared. He says hehesitated a bit and then knocked on Mrs. McGinty’s door, but got no reply.
“He thought she must have overslept, but didn’t like to go on knocking. Then the baker cameand James Bentley went up and knocked again, and after that, as I told you, the baker went nextdoor and fetched in a Mrs. Elliot, who eventually found the body and went off the deep end. Mrs.
McGinty was lying on the parlour floor. She’d been hit on the back of the head with somethingrather in the nature of a meat chopper with a very sharp edge. She’d been killed instantaneously.
Drawers were pulled open and things strewn about, and the loose board in the floor in herbedroom had been prised up and the cache was empty. All the windows were closed and shutteredon the inside. No signs of anything being tampered with or of being broken into from outside.”
“Therefore,” said Poirot, “either James Bentley must have killed her, or else she must haveadmitted her killer herself whilst Bentley was out?”
“Exactly. It wasn’t any holdup or burglar. Now who would she be likely to let in? One of theneighbours, or her niece, or her niece’s husband. It boils down to that. We eliminated theneighbours. Niece and her husband were at the pictures that night. It is possible—just possible,that one or other of them left the cinema unobserved, bicycled three miles, killed the old woman,hid the money outside the house, and got back into the cinema unnoticed. We looked into thatpossibility, but we didn’t find any confirmation of it. And why hide the money outside McGinty’shouse if so? Difficult place to pick it up later. Why not somewhere along the three miles back? No,the only reason for hiding it where it was hidden—”
Poirot finished the sentence for him.
“Would be because you were living in that house, but didn’t want to hide it in your room oranywhere inside. In fact: James Bentley.”
“That’s right. Everywhere, every time, you came up against Bentley. Finally there was theblood on his cuff.”
“How did he account for that?”
“Said he remembered brushing up against a butcher’s shop the previous day. Baloney! Itwasn’t animal blood.”
“And he stuck to that story?”
“Not likely. At the trial he told a completely different tale. You see, there was a hair on thecuff as well—a bloodstained hair, and the hair was identical with Mrs. McGinty’s hair. That hadgot to be explained away. He admitted then that he had gone into the room the night before whenhe came back from his walk. He’d gone in, he said, after knocking, and found her there, on thefloor, dead. He’d bent over and touched her, he said, to make sure. And then he’d lost his head.
He’d always been very much affected by the sight of blood, he said. He went to his room in a stateof collapse and more or less fainted. In the morning he couldn’t bring himself to admit he knewwhat had happened.”
“A very fishy story,” commented Poirot.
“Yes, indeed. And yet, you know,” said Spence thoughtfully, “it might well be true. It’s notthe sort of thing that an ordinary man—or a jury—can believe. But I’ve come across people likethat. I don’t mean the collapse story. I mean people who are confronted by a demand forresponsible action and who simply can’t face up to it. Shy people. He goes in, say, and finds her.
He knows that he ought to do something—get the police—go to a neighbour—do the right thingwhatever it is. And he funks it. He thinks ‘I don’t need to know anything about it. I needn’t havecome in here tonight. I’ll go to bed just as if I hadn’t come in here at all .?.?.’ Behind it, of course,there’s fear—fear that he may be suspected of having a hand in it. He thinks he’ll keep himself outof it as long as possible, and so the silly juggins goes and puts himself into it—up to his neck.”
Spence paused.
“It could have been that way.”
“It could,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Or again, it may have been just the best story his counsel could think up for him. But I don’tknow. The waitress in the café in Kilchester where he usually had lunch said that he always chosea table where he could look into a wall or a corner and not see people. He was that kind of a chap— just a bit screwy. But not screwy enough to be a killer. He’d no persecution complex oranything of that kind.”
Spence looked hopefully at Poirot—but Poirot did not respond—he was frowning.
The two men sat silent for a while.
第二章
第二章
两人间有片刻的沉默。
“你来找我——”
波洛没有说完这句话。
斯彭斯警监抬起头。他脸上的神情更加凝重了。这是一张典型的乡下人的脸，平庸，自制，精明但诚实的眼睛。一看就知道是一个有原则的人，这是一张不会让自己陷入庸人自扰或不辨是非的人的脸。
“我在警队服役已经很长时间了，”他说，“在这方面有着丰富的经验。我看人很准，不比任何人逊色。我办过不少谋杀案——有些案情一目了然，有些不那么简单。其中一个案子你是知道的，波洛先生。”
波洛点点头。
“那个案子很棘手。要不是你，我们可能找不到真相。但后来我们确实搞清楚了——毋庸置疑。另一件你不知道的案子也一样。那人叫惠斯勒，他被抓住了——罪有应得。还有那些枪杀了老加特曼的家伙。用砒霜下毒的维罗尔。川特逃脱了，但绝对是他干的。科特兰太太，她很幸运，她的丈夫是个讨厌的下流胚，陪审团宣告她无罪。这不公正只是出于同情。这种事情时不时会发生。有时是因为没有足够的证据，有时是因为情感因素，有时凶手骗过了整个陪审团——最后这种情况不常发生，但的确有可能发生。有时，是由于辩护律师的出色工作或由于控方律师的失误。哦，是的，我见过很多这样的事情。但是，但是……”
斯彭斯摇了摇粗大的食指。
“在我的职业生涯中，我还没有见过一个无辜的人为他没有做过的事情而被绞死。这种事情，波洛先生，我不希望看到。”
“不，”斯彭斯加上一句，“这个国家不能发生这种事情！”
波洛回瞪他。
“你觉得你现在要碰到这种事情了。但为什么——”
斯彭斯打断了他。
“我知道你要问什么。即使你不问我也会告诉你的。我奉命侦办这个案子。我奉命搜集相关的证据。整个过程我非常谨慎，实事求是，寻找一切可能的证据。所有的事实都指向一个地方，指向一个人。搜集了所有证据之后，我把它们交给我的上司。之后，这个案子就不归我管了。案件移交到了检察官手中，由他负责。他决定起诉，证据确凿，他不可能有别的选择。所以，詹姆斯•本特利被逮捕并受审，经过正式审判，他被判有罪。证据确凿，他们不可能对他有别的判决。因为证据就是陪审团必须考虑的东西。我得说，关于证据不存在任何疑问。不，应该说判他有罪，大家都相当满意。”
“除了你，是不是？”
“是的。”
“为什么？”
斯彭斯警监叹了口气。他用大手抚摩着下巴。
“我不知道。我的意思是，我说不出理由，具体的理由。我敢说对于陪审团来讲，他看上去就像一个杀人犯，但对我来讲，他不是。我比陪审团更了解杀人犯。”
“是的，是的，在这方面你是专家。”
“你瞧，首先，他不狂妄自大。而根据我的经验，杀人凶手通常都是狂妄自大的。总是该死的对自己做的事情沾沾自喜，总以为他们骗倒了你，总是相信自己聪明过人，事情从头至尾都没有纰漏。甚至当他们站到了被告席上，知道自己罪无可赦，还是会从中得到某种奇怪的心理满足。他们大出风头。成了大众瞩目的对象。也许平生第一次，他们有了当明星的感觉。他们，嗯，你知道的，狂妄自大！”
斯彭斯以斩钉截铁的口气说出这个词。
“你理解我的意思吧，波洛先生。”
“我非常理解。那么这个詹姆斯•本特利，他不像这种人？”
“不像。他只是吓坏了。从一开始就胆战心惊。有些人可能会认为这正是他有罪的表现。但我不这么看。”
“是的，我同意你的看法。这位詹姆斯•本特利是什么样的人？”
“三十三岁，中等身材，面色萎黄，戴着眼镜——”
波洛打断了他的话。
“不，我不是问他的外貌特征。他的性格是什么样的？”
“哦，你是说这个。”斯彭斯警监沉思了片刻。“他是个其貌不扬的家伙。紧张兮兮的，不敢正眼瞧人，眼神飘忽闪烁。面对陪审团的时候这种态度是最要命的。有时畏畏缩缩，有时蛮横无理，乱发一通脾气。”
他顿了顿，用闲聊的语气说：
“其实他是个害羞的人。我有个表弟就是这样的。一旦碰到尴尬的事情，他们就会说些一目了然的愚蠢的谎言。”
“你的这位詹姆斯•本特利听起来不是个有魅力的人。”
“哦，的确如此。没有人会喜欢他。但我不希望看到他因此而被绞死。”
“你认为他会被绞死？”
“我看不出有幸免的可能。他的律师可能会提出上诉，但即使能上诉也是基于非常弱的理由，某种程序上的瑕疵，据我看，成功的希望渺茫。”
“他请到了好律师吗？”
“年轻的格雷•布鲁克是根据贫困人士的法律援助条例被指派给他的。我得说他认真负责，已经尽了全力。”
“因此那个人受到了公正的审判，被他的同胞所组成的陪审团宣判有罪。”
“是的。一个结构优良的陪审团。七个男人，五个女人——都是高尚讲理的人。法官是老斯坦尼斯•戴尔。公正严明，没有偏见。”
“所以，根据贵国法律，詹姆斯•本特利没什么好抱怨的？”
“如果他为了没有做过的事情上绞架，他当然有理由抱怨！”
“这样说很公道。”
“而且他的案子是我办的——我收集的证据，将它们综合在一起。正是因为那个案子和那些证据，他才被定罪。我不喜欢这样，波洛先生，我不喜欢。”
赫尔克里•波洛盯着斯彭斯警监那因激动而涨得通红的脸很长时间。
“那么，”他说，“你有什么建议？”
斯彭斯看上去非常尴尬。
“我希望你已经猜到我接下来要说什么了。本特利的案子已经结案。我已经受命调查另一个案子，一件贪污案。今晚就得去苏格兰。我不是一个自由的人。”
“而我——是？”
斯彭斯满脸羞愧地点了点头。
“你说对了。你一定觉得我厚颜无耻。但我想不出别的办法。我已经尽了全力，我认真调查了每一种可能性，但一无所获。我想不出还能怎么做。但谁知道呢，可能你就是不一样。请原谅我这么说，你看待事物的角度和方法很有趣。也许这个案子就应该用你的方法去解决。因为如果詹姆斯•本特利没有杀她，那就是别人杀的。她不会自己砍了自己的后脑勺。你也许可以找到我忽略了的东西。你没有任何理由去管这件事。我提出这样的建议，的确是厚脸皮。但我还是来了。我来找你，因为这是我唯一能想到的办法。但是，如果你不想插手，也并无不妥，你本来——”
波洛打断了他。
“哦，但确确实实有理由。我很闲，太闲了。而且你已经引起了我的兴趣。是的，我非常感兴趣。这是一个挑战，对我大脑里的那些灰色小细胞来说。而且，我也是为你考虑。
我能想象六个月后你在花园里种花的情景，也许是玫瑰花，但你却体会不到应有的幸福，因为你的脑海中有不愉快的回忆挥之不去，我不会让你有这种烦恼的，我的朋友。而且最后——”波洛坐直了身子，用力点了点头，“这是原则问题。如果一个人没有犯谋杀罪，他就不应该被绞死。”他顿了一下，接着说：“但假如最终证明的确是他杀的呢？”
“如果是这样，我会非常感激你能帮忙确认这一点。”
“两个头脑总胜过一个？瞧，那就这么说定了。我要投入此事中。很明显，已经没有时间可浪费了。现场的痕迹已不可查。麦金蒂太太被杀的具体日期是哪天？”
“去年十一月二十二日。”
“那我们先来了解基本事实吧。”
“我带来了那个案子的笔记，一会儿交给你。”
“好。就目前而言，我们只需要了解案子的大概脉络。如果詹姆斯•本特利没有杀死麦金蒂太太，那会是谁？”
斯彭斯耸了耸肩膀，语气沉重地说：
“到目前为止，据我所调查的结果看，没有人。”
“但是，我们不接受这个答案。既然每个谋杀案都必须有一个动机，那么，麦金蒂太太的案子，可能的动机会是什么？羡慕，嫉妒，报复，恐惧，钱？让我们先看看最后一个也是最简单的一个？谁将从她的死亡中获利？”
“没人能获利很多。她在银行有二百镑的储蓄，将由她的侄女继承。”
“两百镑不算很多，但在某些情况下，它足以派上大用场。所以，我们还是讨论一下侄女。很抱歉，我的朋友，要重新在你查过的线索的基础上再查一遍。我知道你一定仔细思考过这一切，但我还是要和你再审查一遍。”
斯彭斯点了点他的大头。
“我们当然考虑过她的侄女。她三十八岁，已婚。丈夫受雇于一家建筑装潢公司。他是油漆匠，品行良好，工作稳定，人也机灵，不是傻瓜。而她是个可爱的姑娘，有点健谈，看起来很喜欢她的姑姑。他们俩都没有迫切需要这两百镑的理由，虽然我敢说得到这笔钱他们还是很高兴的。”
“那老太太的小屋呢？也归他们了吗？”
“房子是租来的。当然，根据租赁条约，房东不能赶老太太走。但现在她死了，我不认为侄女能够接手，反正她和丈夫都不想要。他们自己有一小套现代化的公租房，他们一直引以为豪。”斯彭斯叹了口气。“我仔细调查过那位侄女和她的丈夫，你明白的，他们看起来是最理想的嫌疑人。但我查不到任何可疑之处。”
“现在让我们来谈谈麦金蒂太太本人。如果你愿意的话，请向我形容一下她——不仅仅在外貌方面。”
斯彭斯笑了。
“不想要警方的例行介绍吗？好吧，她六十四岁，是个寡妇。丈夫曾在吉尔切斯特的霍奇斯商店的纺织品部工作。他大约七年前去世了，死于肺炎。从那以后，麦金蒂太太每天都会到附近的人家里帮佣，做些家务零活。布罗德欣尼是个小村庄，近来开发成了住宅区。住着一两个退休人员，工程的合伙人，医生，诸如此类的人。那里到吉尔切斯特的公共汽车和火车线路都很方便，而卡伦奎，我想你知道这地方，是一个相当大的避暑胜地，离那儿也只有八英里远，再说布罗德欣尼本身就相当漂亮，一派田园风光，离德莱茅斯和吉尔切斯特之间的主路只有约四分之一英里。”
波洛点点头。
“麦金蒂太太的屋子是村子里原有的四栋老屋之一，另外一栋是邮局和商店，还有务农的雇工住的两栋。”
“她接收了一个房客？”
“是的。她丈夫在世的时候，他们接收夏季游客，但他去世后，她就只接收一个长住的房客。詹姆斯•本特利已经在那儿住了好几个月了。”
“所以我们现在要讨论的是——詹姆斯•本特利？”
“本特利最后一份工作是在吉尔切斯特的一家房产代理公司。在此之前，他与母亲住在卡伦奎。她行动不便，而他要照顾母亲，因此很少外出。后来母亲死了，母子赖以度日的退休金也没了。他卖掉了小房子，并找了一份工作。他是受过良好教育的人，但没有什么特别的资质或技能，而且，正如我说的，其貌不扬，并不讨人喜欢。找工作对他来说并不容易。不管怎么样，他后来还是在布瑞瑟与史考特事务所找到了一份工作。那是一家二流公司。我认为他干得不算出色，因为他们裁员的时候他就被裁掉了。他找不到另一份工作，钱也花光了。他平时每月向麦金蒂太太支付租金。她提供早餐和晚餐，每周额外收三镑——算起来比较公道。他已经有两个月没付房租了，差不多已经山穷水尽。他找不到新工作，房东又一直催他还清欠款。”
“他知道她在屋子里放了三十镑吗？顺便问一句，她为什么要在屋子里放三十镑，她不是在银行有储蓄账户吗？”
“因为她不相信政府。她曾说过他们可以拿走她两百镑，但休想得到更多。她宁愿把钱放在自己伸手就碰得到的地方。她跟一两个人说过这话。钱藏在她卧室地板的一块松动的木板下——一个非常明显的地方。詹姆斯•本特利承认，他知道钱在那里。”
“他可真配合。那么侄女和她的丈夫知道吗？”
“哦，是的。”
“那么，我们又回到我问你的第一个问题了。麦金蒂太太是怎么死的？”
“她死于十一月二十二日晚上。法医推断死亡时间在七点到十点之间，她已经吃过晚饭——腌鱼、面包、黄油。各方调查表明，她通常在大约六点半吃晚饭。如果那晚她还是和平时的习惯一样，那么根据消化情况推断，她大约是在八点半到九点钟之间被杀的。詹姆斯•本特利本人供称，那晚七点十五分到九点左右外出散步了。他经常天黑后出门散步。根据他自己的说法，他在大约九点钟回来（他有钥匙），并径直回了楼上他自己的房间。麦金蒂太太以前为了接待夏天的游客，在卧室里装了盥洗盆。他看了大约半小时书，然后就去睡觉了。他没听到也没看到任何异常的事情。第二天早上，他下楼到厨房，但里面一个人也没有，也没有准备早餐的迹象。他说他犹豫了一下，然后去敲了敲麦金蒂太太的门，但没人应答。
“他以为她一定睡过头了，就不想继续敲门。然后，面包师来了，就和詹姆斯•本特利上楼再敲了敲门，后来的事情我告诉过你了，面包师到隔壁请来埃利奥特太太，她发现了尸体，吓得歇斯底里。麦金蒂太太躺在客厅的地板上。她被人用什么东西击中后脑勺，凶器应该是非常锋利的剁肉刀之类的东西。她当场毙命。抽屉被打开了，东西散了一地，卧室地板那块松动的木板被撬起，里面已经空了。窗户都从里面关着。没有撬锁或从外部破门而入的迹象。”
“因此，”波洛说，“要么是詹姆斯•本特利杀了她，要么是她在本特利外出散步的时候杀了自己，是吗？”
“正是。不是小偷或强盗。那么她会让什么人进来呢？某个邻居，或她的侄女，还是她侄女的丈夫。只能想到这些。我们排除了邻居。侄女和她的丈夫那天晚上去看电影了。有这样的可能性，只是可能性，即其中一人在不被人察觉的情况下离开了电影院，骑自行车走了三英里，杀了老太太，把钱藏在屋外，再神不知鬼不觉地回到电影院。我们调查了这种可能性，但没有发现任何证据。而且如果是这样的话，为什么要把钱藏在麦金蒂太太的屋子附近？事后是很难把钱取走的。为什么不藏在三英里路上的某个地方呢？不，把钱藏在那里的唯一原因只能是——”
波洛帮他把这句话说完。
“——因为你住在那个屋子里，但不想把它藏在自己的房间或屋里的任何地方。所以就是：詹姆斯•本特利。”
“就是这样。无论何时何地，答案都指向本特利。最后，他的袖口上还有血。”
“他是怎么解释呢？”
“他说想起了前一天，他碰到了屠夫的剁刀。胡扯！那根本不是动物的血。”
“他坚持这套说辞吗？”
“没有。在庭审的时候，他讲了另一个完全不同的故事。你瞧，他袖口上还发现了一根头发——沾了血迹的头发，与麦金蒂太太的头发是一样的。这就需要解释了。于是他就承认，他前一天晚上散步回来的时候进入过房间。他说，他敲门后进去，发现她躺在地板上，已经死了。他弯下腰，摸了摸她，他说，是为了确认人是否真的死了。然后，他就昏了头。他说他一直非常害怕见血。他回到自己的房间，几近崩溃，险些晕倒。第二天早上，他还是无法让自己相信发生了什么事。”
“一个非常可疑的故事。”波洛评论道。
“是的，确实如此。然而你知道的，”斯彭斯思忖道，“这可能是真的。普通人或陪审团不会相信，但我真的遇到过这样的人。我不是指精神崩溃的事。我的意思是指有些在需要承担责任的时候，却根本无法面对的人。通常都是害羞的人。比如说，他进去了，发现她死了。他知道他应该做什么事——叫警察，找邻居，不管什么，总之应该做该做的事。但他惊慌失措。他想：‘我不需要知道这件事。我今晚不需要到这里来。去睡觉，就当我从来没有来过这里……’在这样想法的背后，当然，还有害怕，害怕自己会被怀疑与这件事有牵连。他认为要尽可能让自己撇清干系，所以这个傻瓜就这样套了进去，把自己的脖子套了进去。”
斯彭斯暂停了一下。
“可能就是这样。”
“有可能。”波洛若有所思地说，
“再或者，这可能只是他的律师编造的想帮他脱身的最好说辞。但是，我不知道。吉尔切斯特咖啡馆的女服务员说，他平时吃午饭的时候总是挑一张桌子坐，在那里他可以看着墙壁或角落，不用见人。他是有点心理扭曲。但并没有扭曲到成为一个凶手。他并没有妄想症或被迫害狂那类毛病。”
斯彭斯满怀希冀地望着波洛，但波洛没有反应，他紧皱着眉头。
两个人就这样默默地坐着。
Three
Three
At last Poirot roused himself with a sigh.
“Eh bien,” he said. “We have exhausted the motive of money. Let us pass to other theories.
Had Mrs. McGinty an enemy? Was she afraid of anyone?”
“No evidence of it.”
“What did her neighbours have to say?”
“Not very much. They wouldn’t to the police, perhaps, but I don’t think they were holdinganything back. She kept herself to herself, they said. But that’s regarded as natural enough. Ourvillages, you know, M. Poirot, aren’t friendly. Evacuees found that during the war. Mrs. McGintypassed the time of day with the neighbours but they weren’t intimate.”
“How long had she lived there?”
“Matter of eighteen or twenty years, I think.”
“And the forty years before that?”
“There’s no mystery about her. Farmer’s daughter from North Devon. She and her husbandlived near Ilfracombe for a time, and then moved to Kilchester. Had a cottage the other side of it—but found it damp, so they moved to Broadhinny. Husband seems to have been a quiet, decentman, delicate—didn’t go to the pub much. All very respectable and above board. No mysteriesanywhere, nothing to hide.”
“And yet she was killed?”
“And yet she was killed.”
“The niece didn’t know of anyone who had a grudge against her aunt?”
“She says not.”
Poirot rubbed his nose in an exasperated fashion.
“You comprehend, my dear friend, it would be so much easier if Mrs. McGinty was not Mrs.
McGinty, so to speak. If she could be what is called a Mystery Woman—a woman with a past.”
“Well, she wasn’t,” said Spence stolidly. “She was just Mrs. McGinty, a more or lessuneducated woman, who let rooms and went out charring. Thousands of them all over England.”
“But they do not all get murdered.”
“No. I grant you that.”
“So why should Mrs. McGinty get murdered? The obvious answer we do not accept. Whatremains? A shadowy and improbable niece. An even more shadowy and improbable stranger.
Facts? Let us stick to facts. What are the facts? An elderly charwoman is murdered. A shy anduncouth young man is arrested and convicted of the murder. Why was James Bentley arrested?”
Spence stared.
“The evidence against him. I’ve told you—”
“Yes. Evidence. But tell me, my Spence, was it real evidence or was it contrived?”
“Contrived?”
“Yes. Granted the premise that James Bentley is innocent, two possibilities remain. Theevidence was manufactured, deliberately, to throw suspicion upon him. Or else he was just theunfortunate victim of circumstances.”
Spence considered.
“Yes. I see what you’re driving at.”
“There is nothing to show that the former was the case. But again there is nothing to showthat it was not so. The money was taken and hidden outside the house in a place easily found. Tohave actually hidden it in his room would have been a little too much for the police to swallow.
The murder was committed at a time when Bentley was taking a lonely walk, as he often did. Didthe bloodstain come on his sleeve as he said it did at his trial, or was that, too, contrived? Didsomeone brush against him in the darkness and smear tell-tale evidence on his sleeve?”
“I think that’s going a bit far, M. Poirot.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. But we have got to go far. I think that in this case we have got to go so farthat the imagination cannot as yet see the path clearly .?.?. For, you see, mon cher Spence, if Mrs.
McGinty is just an ordinary charwoman—it is the murderer who must be extraordinary. Yes—thatfollows clearly. It is in the murderer and not the murdered that the interest of this case lies. That isnot the case in most crimes. Usually it is in the personality of the murdered person that the crux ofthe situation lies. It is the silent dead in whom I am usually interested. Their hates, their loves,their actions. And when you really know the murdered victim, then the victim speaks, and thosedead lips utter a name—the name you want to know.”
Spence looked rather uncomfortable.
“Those foreigners!” he seemed to be saying to himself.
“But here,” continued Poirot, “it is the opposite. Here we guess at a veiled personality—afigure still hidden in darkness. How did Mrs. McGinty die? Why did she die? The answer is not tobe found in studying the life of Mrs. McGinty. The answer is to be found in the personality of themurderer. You agree with me there?”
“I suppose so,” said Superintendent Spence cautiously.
“Someone who wanted—what? To strike down Mrs. McGinty? Or to strike down JamesBentley?”
The Superintendent gave a doubtful “H’m!”
“Yes—yes, that is one of the first points to be decided. Who is the real victim? Who wasintended to be the victim?”
Spence said incredulously: “You really think someone would bump off a perfectly inoffensiveold woman in order to get someone else hanged for murder?”
“One cannot make an omelette, they say, without breaking eggs. Mrs. McGinty, then, may bethe egg, and James Bentley is the omelette. So let me hear, now, what you know of JamesBentley.”
“Nothing much. Father was a doctor—died when Bentley was nine years old. He went to oneof the smaller public schools, unfit for the Army, had a weak chest, was in one of the Ministriesduring the war and lived with a possessive mother.”
“Well,” said Poirot, “there are certain possibilities there .?.?. More than there are in the lifehistory of Mrs. McGinty.”
“Do you seriously believe what you are suggesting?”
“No, I do not believe anything as yet. But I say that there are two distinct lines of research,and that we have to decide, very soon, which is the right one to follow.”
“How are you going to set about things, M. Poirot? Is there anything I can do?”
“First, I should like an interview with James Bentley.”
“That can be arranged. I’ll get on to his solicitors.”
“After that and subject, of course, to the result, if any—I am not hopeful—of that interview, Ishall go to Broadhinny. There, aided by your notes, I shall, as quickly as possible, go over thatsame ground where you have passed before me.”
“In case I’ve missed anything,” said Spence with a wry smile.
“In case, I would prefer to say, that some circumstance should strike me in a different light tothe one in which it struck you. Human reactions vary and so does human experience. Theresemblance of a rich financier to a soap boiler whom I had known in Liège once brought about amost satisfactory result. But no need to go into that. What I should like to do is to eliminate one orother of the trails I indicated just now. And to eliminate the Mrs. McGinty trail—trail No. 1—willobviously be quicker and easier than to attack trail No. 2. Where, now, can I stay in Broadhinny?
Is there an inn of moderate comfort?”
“There’s the Three Ducks—but it doesn’t put people up. There’s the Lamb in Cullavon threemiles away—or there is a kind of a Guest House in Broadhinny itself. It’s not really a GuestHouse, just a rather decrepit country house where the young couple who own it take in payingguests. I don’t think,” said Spence dubiously, “that it’s very comfortable.”
Hercule Poirot closed his eyes in agony.
“If I suffer, I suffer,” he said. “It has to be.”
“I don’t know what you’ll go there as,” continued Spence doubtfully as he eyed Poirot. “Youmight be some kind of an opera singer. Voice broken down. Got to rest. That might do.”
“I shall go,” said Hercule Poirot, speaking with accents of royal blood, “as myself.”
Spence received this pronouncement with pursed lips.
“D’you think that’s advisable?”
“I think it is essential! But yes, essential. Consider, cher ami, it is time we are up against.
What do we know? Nothing. So the hope, the best hope, is to go pretending that I know a greatdeal. I am Hercule Poirot. I am the great, the unique Hercule Poirot. And I, Hercule Poirot, am notsatisfied about the verdict in the McGinty case. I, Hercule Poirot, have a very shrewd suspicion ofwhat really happened. There is a circumstance that I, alone, estimate at its true value. You see?”
“And then?”
“And then, having made my effect, I observe the reactions. For there should be reactions.
Very definitely, there should be reactions.”
Superintendent Spence looked uneasily at the little man.
“Look here, M. Poirot,” he said. “Don’t go sticking out your neck. I don’t want anything tohappen to you.”
“But if it does, you would be proved right beyond the shadow of doubt, is it not so?”
“I don’t want it proved the hard way,” said Superintendent Spence.
第三章
第三章
最后波洛叹了口气，给自己鼓劲。
“呃，”他说，“我们已经排除了钱的动机。让我们再看看其他可能性。麦金蒂太太有仇人吗？她害怕什么人吗？”
“没有这类证据。”
“她的邻居们有什么看法？”
“几乎没有。也许他们不太愿意和警察说，不过我不认为他们有什么好隐瞒的。他们说，她总是独来独往。但这没什么不正常的。你知道的，波洛先生，我们的村民并不友好。战争期间疏散到这里的人都这么觉得。麦金蒂太太和邻居相安无事，但关系并不亲密。”
“她住在这里住多久了？”
“我想，大概十八年到二十年吧。”
“那之前四十年呢？”
“她的生平没什么神秘的。她是北德文郡一个农民的女儿。她和丈夫以前在伊尔弗勒科姆附近住了一段时间，后来搬到吉尔切斯特。在那里有一间小房子。后来觉得那里太潮湿，所以又搬到了布罗德欣尼。丈夫看起来是一个安分而正派的人，有些害羞，不常去酒馆。一切都堂堂正正，光明正大。没什么需要遮遮掩掩的地方。”
“然而她还是被人杀害了？”
“然而她还是被人杀害了。”
“侄女知不知道有谁和她姑妈有过结的？”
“她说没有。”
波洛恼怒地揉了揉鼻子。
“你能理解的，我亲爱的朋友，要是麦金蒂太太不是麦金蒂太太，事情会简单得多。这么说吧，如果她是所谓的神秘女人的话，我是指那种有过去的女人。”
“嗯，她不是，”斯彭斯木然地说，“她只是麦金蒂太太，一个没受过多少教育的女人，靠出租房间、帮人打扫屋子过活。英国有成千上万这样的人。”
“但她们没有都被人杀害。”
“是的。我承认。”
“那么，为什么麦金蒂太太会被谋杀呢？我们不接受那个显而易见的答案。还剩下什么？一个印象模糊，可能性不大的侄女。一个更模糊，更不可能的陌生人。事实呢？让我们回到事实。事实是什么？一位年老的清洁女工被谋杀了。一个害羞而没教养的年轻人被逮捕并被判谋杀。为什么詹姆斯•本特利会被抓？”
斯彭斯瞪大了眼睛。
“证据对他不利。我已经告诉过你——”
“是的。证据。但是告诉我，我的斯彭斯，那是真正的证据，还是伪造的？”
“伪造？”
“是的。假设詹姆斯•本特利是无辜的，那就有两种可能性。证据是伪造的，有人故意要陷害他。或者他只是运气不好碰上了。”
“是的。我明白你的意思了。”
“目前没有什么证据能证明是第一种情况，但同样没有什么证据可以证明不是这样。那些钱被拿走藏在房子外很容易被找到的地方。如果真的藏在他自己的房间，可能警察要找到它们还要花更多时间。谋杀是在本特利像平时一样一个人外出散步的时候发生的。袖口上的血迹是像他自己在法庭上说的那样沾上去的，还是也是有人故意弄上去的呢？是不是有人躲在暗处陷害他，故意在他的袖子上动了手脚？”
“我觉得这有点扯远了，波洛先生。”
“也许吧，也许吧。但是，我们就是得想远一点。我认为，在这个案子里，我们目前的想象力尚无法看清道路……因为，你瞧，我亲爱的斯彭斯，如果麦金蒂太太只是一个普通的女人，那么凶手一定是不同寻常的。是的，这毫无疑问。这件案子的关键在于凶手，而不是被害人。这和绝大部分的罪案不同。通常被害人的个性是案子的症结所在。我通常对那些无言的死者更有兴趣。他们的恨，他们的爱，他们的行为。而当你真正了解了这些被谋杀的被害人，那么被害人就会说话，那些死人会开口说出名字，你想知道的名字。”
斯彭斯看上去很不舒服。
“这些外国人！”他似乎在心里这么说。
“但在这个案子里，”波洛继续说，“情况恰恰相反。在这个案子里，我们猜测还有一个未曾现身的人，一个躲在暗处的身影。麦金蒂太太怎么死的？她为什么会死？答案无法从麦金蒂太太的生活中寻找，答案要从凶手的性格里去寻找。你同意我的看法吗？”
“我想是吧。”斯彭斯警监小心翼翼地说。
“有人想要得到什么？是为了除掉麦金蒂太太？还是为了除掉詹姆斯•本特利？”
警监将信将疑地“嗯”了一声。
“是的，是的，这是首先要解决的问题。谁是真正的被害人？凶手的真正意图是谁？”
斯彭斯怀疑地说：“你真的认为有人会杀掉一个无辜的老妇人，就为了将某人送上绞刑架吗？”
“俗话说，有失才有得 （注：原文为：One cannot make on omelette, they say, withoutbreaking eggs。不打碎鸡蛋就做不了煎蛋。） 。那么，如果麦金蒂太太是鸡蛋的话，詹姆斯•本特利就是煎蛋。所以，现在把你所知道的詹姆斯•本特利的情况说来给我听听。”
“我知道的也不多。他的父亲是一名医生，在本特利九岁时去世了。他上的是一间比较小的公立学校，因为身体不好免于服兵役，战争期间在政府部门工作，和支配欲很强的母亲一起生活。”
“嗯，”波洛说，“比起麦金蒂太太的生活，有更多可能性……”
“你真的相信是这样吗？”
“不，目前我什么都不相信。但我是说，现在有两条截然不同的调查线索，而我们必须赶快做出决定，到底追查那一条才是正确的。”
“你打算怎么着手调查呢，波洛先生？有什么我能帮忙的？”
“首先，我想和詹姆斯•本特利见一面。”
“这个可以安排。我会联系他的律师。”
“在那之后，当然，根据会面的结果，如果有收获的话——尽管我对此不抱什么希望，我会去一趟布罗德欣尼。到那之后，根据你的笔记，我将尽快把你告诉我的事情再调查一遍。”
“以免我漏掉了什么。”斯彭斯苦笑着说。
“我更愿意这么理解，有些情况对你和对我可能有不同的意义。人们的经验各不相同，所以反应也各不相同。一位富有的金融家和我在比利时列日 （注：比利时的一座城市。）所认识的一位煮皂工锅炉的相似之处曾经带来了最满意的结果。不过这事就不提了。我想这么做的原因是为了排除我刚才所说的两条线索中的一条。为了排除麦金蒂太太的这条线索——一号线索，显然这条线索比二号线索要简单容易得多。那么，在布罗德欣尼期间，我可以住在哪里呢？那儿有舒适的旅馆吗？”
“有个‘三鸭酒店’，不过那么不提供住宿。三英里外的卡拉文有一所‘羔羊旅馆’。布罗德欣尼本身也有一家旅馆。它算不上真正的旅馆，只是一间相当破旧的乡村院落。经营者是一对年轻夫妇，为付费的客人提供食宿。”斯彭斯不大有把握地说，“我不认为那里会很舒服。”
波洛痛苦地闭上了眼睛。
“该我受罪就去受罪吧，”他说，“这也是不得已的。”
“我不知道你用什么身份去那里好一点，”斯彭斯看看波洛，继续没有把握地说，“你可以说自己是一位歌剧演员，嗓子坏了，需要休息一阵子。这也许可行。”
“我就以我的真实身份前往。”波洛以一副皇室派头说。
斯彭斯听到此宣言不禁撅起了嘴。
“你认为这样明智吗？”
“我认为这是必要的！是的，必要的。想想看，亲爱的朋友，该是我们主动出击的时候了。我们知道什么？什么都不知道。所以我们最大的希望，就是假装我知道了很多。我是赫尔克里•波洛。伟大的，独一无二的波洛。而我，赫尔克里•波洛，不满意麦金蒂案的判决结果。我，赫尔克里•波洛，对真相到底是什么存在明显的怀疑。在这种情况下，我，独自一人，要去追查真相。你明白了吗？”
“然后呢？”
“然后，我施加影响，观察反应。应该会激起各方反应。毫无疑问，应该有反应。”
斯彭斯警监不安地看着眼前的小个子男人。
“瞧，波洛先生，”他说，“不要以身犯险。我不希望你出事。”
“但是，如果我真出事了，不就证明你的怀疑是对的了吗，难道不是吗？”
“我可不希望以这种方式来证明。”斯彭斯警监说。
Four
Four
With great distaste, Hercule Poirot looked round the room in which he stood. It was a room ofgracious proportions but there its attraction ended. Poirot made an eloquent grimace as he drew asuspicious finger along the top of a book case. As he had suspected—dust! He sat down gingerlyon a sofa and its broken springs sagged depressingly under him. The two faded armchairs were, ashe knew, little better. A large fierce-looking dog whom Poirot suspected of having mange growledfrom his position on a moderately comfortable fourth chair.
The room was large, and had a faded Morris wallpaper. Steel engravings of unpleasantsubjects hung crookedly on the walls with one or two good oil paintings. The chair covers wereboth faded and dirty, the carpet had holes in it and had never been of a pleasant design. A gooddeal of miscellaneous bric- à- brac was scattered haphazard here and there. Tables rockeddangerously owing to absence of castors. One window was open, and no power on earth could,apparently, shut it again. The door, temporarily shut, was not likely to remain so. The latch did nothold, and with every gust of wind it burst open and whirling gusts of cold wind eddied round theroom.
“I suffer,” said Hercule Poirot to himself in acute self-pity. “Yes, I suffer.”
The door burst open and the wind and Mrs. Summerhayes came in together. She lookedround the room, shouted “What?” to someone in the distance and went out again.
Mrs. Summerhayes had red hair and an attractively freckled face and was usually in adistracted state of putting things down, or else looking for them.
Hercule Poirot sprang to his feet and shut the door.
A moment or two later it opened again and Mrs. Summerhayes reappeared. This time she wascarrying a large enamel basin and a knife.
A man’s voice from some way away called out:
“Maureen, that cat’s been sick again. What shall I do?”
Mrs. Summerhayes called: “I’m coming, darling. Hold everything.”
She dropped the basin and the knife and went out again.
Poirot got up again and shut the door. He said:
“Decidedly, I suffer.”
A car drove up, the large dog leaped from the chair and raised its voice in a crescendo ofbarking. He jumped on a small table by the window and the table collapsed with a crash.
“Enfin,” said Hercule Poirot. “C’est insupportable!”
The door burst open, the wind surged round the room, the dog rushed out, still barking.
Maureen’s voice came, upraised loud and clear.
“Johnnie, why the hell did you leave the back door open! Those bloody hens are in thelarder.”
“And for this,” said Hercule Poirot with feeling, “I pay seven guineas a week!”
The door banged to with a crash. Through the window came the loud squawking of iratehens.
Then the door opened again and Maureen Summerhayes came in and fell upon the basin witha cry of joy.
“Couldn’t think where I’d left it. Would you mind frightfully, Mr. Er—hum—I mean, wouldit bother you if I sliced the beans in here? The smell in the kitchen is too frightful.”
“Madame, I should be enchanted.”
It was not, perhaps, the exact phrase, but it was near enough. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Poirot had seen any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds’ duration.
Mrs. Summerhayes flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenziedenergy and considerable awkwardness.
“I do hope,” she said, “that you’re not too frightfully uncomfortable? If there’s anything youwant altered, do say so.”
Poirot had already come to the opinion that the only thing in Long Meadows he could eventolerate was his hostess.
“You are too kind, madame,” he replied politely. “I only wish it were within my powers toprovide you with suitable domestics.”
“Domestics!” Mrs. Summerhayes gave a squeal. “What a hope! Can’t even get hold of adaily. Our really good one was murdered. Just my luck.”
“That would be Mrs. McGinty,” said Poirot quickly.
“Mrs. McGinty it was. God, how I miss that woman! Of course it was all a big thrill at thetime. First murder we’ve ever had right in the family, so to speak, but as I told Johnnie, it was adownright bit of bad luck for us. Without McGinty I just can’t cope.”
“You were attached to her?”
“My dear man, she was reliable. She came. Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings—just like a clock. Now I have that Burp woman from up by the station. Five children and ahusband. Naturally she’s never here. Either the husband’s taken queer, or the old mother, or thechildren have some foul disease or other. With old McGinty, at least it was only she herself whocame over queer, and I must say she hardly ever did.”
“And you found her always reliable and honest? You had trust in her?”
“Oh, she’d never pinch anything—not even food. Of course she snooped a bit. Had a look atone’s letters and all that. But one expects that sort of thing. I mean they must live such awfullydrab lives, mustn’t they?”
“Had Mrs. McGinty had a drab life?”
“Ghastly, I expect,” said Mrs. Summerhayes vaguely. “Always on your knees scrubbing. Andthen piles of other people’s washing- up waiting for you on the sink when you arrive in themorning. If I had to face that every day, I’d be positively relieved to be murdered. I really would.”
The face of Major Summerhayes appeared at the window. Mrs. Summerhayes sprang up,upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent.
“That damned dog’s eaten the hens’ food again, Maureen.”
“Oh damn, now he’ll be sick!”
“Look here,” John Summerhayes displayed a colander full of greenery, “is this enoughspinach?”
“Of course not.”
“Seems a colossal amount to me.”
“It’ll be about a teaspoonful when it’s cooked. Don’t you know by now what spinach islike?”
“Oh Lord!”
“Has the fish come?”
“Not a sign of it.”
“Hell, we’ll have to open a tin of something. You might do that, Johnnie. One of the ones inthe corner cupboard. That one we thought was a bit bulged. I expect it’s quite all right really.”
“What about the spinach?”
“I’ll get that.”
She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together.
“Nom d’un nom d’un nom!” said Hercule Poirot. He crossed the room and closed thewindow as nearly as he could. The voice of Major Summerhayes came to him borne on the wind.
“What about this new fellow, Maureen? Looks a bit peculiar to me. What’s his name again?”
“I couldn’t remember it just now when I was talking to him. Had to say Mr. Er-um. Poirot—that’s what it is. He’s French.”
“You know, Maureen, I seem to have seen that name somewhere.”
“Home Perm, perhaps. He looks like a hairdresser.” Poirot winced.
“N-no. Perhaps it’s pickles. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s familiar. Better get the first sevenguineas out of him, quick.”
The voices died away.
Hercule Poirot picked up the beans from the floor where they had scattered far and wide. Justas he finished doing so, Mrs. Summerhayes came in again through the door.
He presented them to her politely:
“Voici, madame.”
“Oh, thanks awfully. I say, these beans look a bit black. We store them, you know, in crocks,salted down. But these seem to have gone wrong. I’m afraid they won’t be very nice.”
“I, too, fear that .?.?. You permit that I shut the door? There is a decided draught.”
“Oh yes, do. I’m afraid I always leave doors open.”
“So I have noticed.”
“Anyway, that door never stays shut. This house is practically falling to pieces. Johnnie’sfather and mother lived here and they were badly off, poor dears, and they never did a thing to it.
And then when we came home from India to live here, we couldn’t afford to do anything either.
It’s fun for the children in the holidays, though, lots of room to run wild in, and the garden andeverything. Having paying guests here just enables us to keep going, though I must say we’ve hada few rude shocks.”
“Am I your only guest at present?”
“We’ve got an old lady upstairs. Took to her bed the day she came and has been there eversince. Nothing the matter with her that I can see. But there she is, and I carry up four trays a day.
Nothing wrong with her appetite. Anyway, she’s going tomorrow to some niece or other.”
Mrs. Summerhayes paused for a moment before resuming in a slightly artificial voice.
“The fishman will be here in a minute. I wonder if you’d mind—er—forking out the firstweek’s rent. You are staying a week, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps longer.”
“Sorry to bother you. But I’ve not got any cash in the house and you know what these peopleare like—always dunning you.”
“Pray do not apologize, madame.” Poirot took out seven pound notes and added sevenshillings. Mrs. Summerhayes gathered the money up with avidity.
“Thanks a lot.”
“I should, perhaps, madame, tell you a little more about myself. I am Hercule Poirot.”
The revelation left Mrs. Summerhayes unmoved.
“What a lovely name,” she said kindly. “Greek, isn’t it?”
“I am, as you may know,” said Poirot, “a detective.” He tapped his chest. “Perhaps the mostfamous detective there is.”
Mrs. Summerhayes screamed with amusement.
“I see you’re a great practical joker, M. Poirot. What are you detecting? Cigarette ash andfootprints?”
“I am investigating the murder of Mrs. McGinty,” said Poirot. “And I do not joke.”
“Ouch,” said Mrs. Summerhayes, “I’ve cut my hand.”
She raised a finger and inspected it.
Then she stared at Poirot.
“Look here,” she said. “Do you mean it? What I mean is, it’s all over, all that. They arrestedthat poor half- wit who lodged there and he’s been tried and convicted and everything. He’sprobably been hanged by now.”
“No, madame,” said Poirot. “He has not been hanged—yet. And it is not ‘over’—the case ofMrs. McGinty. I will remind you of the line from one of your poets. ‘A question is never settleduntil it is settled—right.’ ”
“Oo,” said Mrs. Summerhayes, her attention diverted from Poirot to the basin in her lap. “I’mbleeding over the beans. Not too good as we’ve got to have them for lunch. Still it won’t matterreally because they’ll go into boiling water. Things are always all right if you boil them, aren’tthey? Even tins.”
“I think,” said Hercule Poirot quietly, “that I shall not be in for lunch.”
第四章
第四章
波洛怀着极大的厌恶环顾他所在的房间。这是一间宽敞的房间，但几乎没有一点吸引力。波洛的手指沿着书架的上方边缘划过，他做了个鬼脸。果然不出所料，都是灰尘！他小心翼翼地坐到沙发上，断裂的弹簧一下陷了下去。那两张褪色的扶手椅可能好一点。第四张椅子看起来比较舒适，一只长相凶恶的大狗趴在上面呜呜地咆哮着，波洛怀疑这狗长有兽疥癣。
房间很大，贴着褪了色的莫里斯壁纸。墙上歪歪斜斜地挂着几件丑陋的钢雕作品和一两张还不错的油画。椅罩也褪了色，十分肮脏。地毯上都是破洞，图案也很难看。许多杂物和小装饰品胡乱地摆在各个地方。因为缺了脚轮，桌子摇摇晃晃。一扇窗子开着，而且显然地球上还没有什么力量可以将它再次关上。门暂时是关着的，但看样子也支撑不了多久了。门闩已经坏了，风一吹门就“砰”地开了，阵阵冷风在房间里盘旋。
“我在受罪，”波洛自怜自艾地喃喃自语，“是的，我在受罪。”
门突然开了，风卷裹着萨摩海斯太太进来。她环顾房间，冲远处什么人大喊一声“什么？”，然后又出门去了。
萨摩海斯太太一头红发，有一张长着雀斑的、迷人的脸，她总是忙个不停，不是在放东西，就是在找东西。
波洛跳起身把门关上。
片刻之后，门又开了，萨摩海斯太太又出现了。这次，她端着一个大陶盆和一把刀。
有个男人的声音在远处喊道：
“莫林，那只猫又病了。我该怎么办？”
萨摩海斯太太喊道：“我来了，亲爱的。坚持住。”
她把盆和刀往地下一丢又走了出去。
波洛再次起身关上了门。他说：
“没错，我在受罪。”
一辆汽车开来，大狗从椅子上一跃而起，声嘶力竭地狂吠着。它跳上窗边的一张小桌子，桌子哗啦一声倒了。
“总之，”波洛说。“这令人无法忍受！”
门突然又开了，风在房间里打转，狗冲了出去，还在叫个不停。莫林的声音传来，越来越响亮。
“约翰尼，你干嘛把后门开着！那些该死的母鸡都跑到储藏室里去了。”
“就这样的住宿条件，”波洛感慨道，“我竟然还需要每周付他们七个几尼 （注：英国的旧金币。——译者注） ！”
门“砰”地一声重重地关上了。透过窗户传来母鸡愤怒响亮的咯咯叫声。
然后，门又开了，莫林•萨摩海斯走了进来，高兴地大叫一声扑向地上的陶盆。
“我想不起来把它放哪儿了。呃，嗯，这位先生，你介不介意我在这儿剥豆子，不会打扰你吧？厨房里的气味太难闻了。”
“夫人，我不胜欢迎。”
这话也许有点言过其实，不过也差不多。这是二十四小时以来，波洛第一次和人有六秒钟以上交谈的机会。
萨摩海斯太太一屁股坐到椅子里，干劲十足地剥起豆子来，动作却十分生疏。
“我真的希望，”她说，“你不要觉得不舒服，如果有哪里需要改进的，请尽管说。”
波洛早就觉得，这个长草地旅馆唯一还能忍受的就是这位女主人。
“你太客气了，夫人，”他礼貌地回答，“我只希望我有本事帮你找到合适的佣人。”
“用人！”萨摩海斯太太尖叫道。“那可是奢望！现在连个短工都找不到。我们这儿最好的帮佣被谋杀了。我的运气不好。”
“你说的是麦金蒂太太吧。”波洛连忙说。
“正是麦金蒂太太。天啊，我真想念那个女人！当然了，这件事在当时可轰动了。可以说这是我们这儿第一次发生谋杀案，不过正如我对约翰尼说的，这对我们来说糟透了。没有麦金蒂太太，我真的应付不来。”
“你喜欢她吗？”
“亲爱的先生，她是个可靠的人。她每周一下午和周四上午来，像时钟一样准时。不像我现在请的这个叫波普的女人，住在车站附近的，有五个孩子一个丈夫，自然从来没准时过。不是丈夫有问题，就是老母亲或是孩子生病了之类的理由。而换做老麦金蒂太太，最多也就是她自己生个病，而且她几乎从没生病过。”
“你觉得她一向可靠诚实吗？你很信任她？”
“哦，她从来不会偷东西，甚至连吃的都不会拿。当然，她有点爱打探消息。会偷看别人的信件之类的。但这也是可以理解的。我的意思是，她们过着这种枯燥乏味的生活，总得找点消遣不是吗？”
“麦金蒂太太的日子过得枯燥乏味吗？”
“我认为糟透了，”萨摩海斯太太含糊地说，“总是跪在地上擦洗地板。每天一大早到了人家家里，就是成堆的脏衣服堆在水槽里等着她清洗。如果我每天像她这样过日子，我宁可被人杀掉。真的。”
萨摩海斯少校的脸出现在窗口。萨摩海斯太太蹦起来，豆子撒了一地，她冲到窗口，把窗子开到最大。
“那该死的狗又把母鸡的饲料吃掉了，莫林。”
“哦，该死，它会生病的！”
“看这儿，”约翰•萨摩海斯举着一个装满蔬菜的滤锅，“这些菠菜够不够？”
“当然不够。”
“看起来很多啊。”
“煮熟了大概只有一茶匙。难道你现在还不明白菠菜是怎么回事吗？”
“我的天！”
“鱼送来了？”
“影子都没有。”
“见鬼，我们不得不开一个罐头了。你去开吧，约翰尼。到角橱里的罐头中拿一个。就是我们觉得有点鼓起的那一个。我想应该没问题。”
“菠菜怎么办？”
“我去弄。”
她从窗子跳出去，夫妻俩一起走开了。
“混账东西！”波洛说。他穿过房间走到窗边，用尽全力想把窗户关小一点。萨摩海斯少校的声音从风中传来。
“新来的这个家伙是什么人，莫林？我怎么觉得他看起来有点怪怪的。他叫什么名字来着？”
“我刚才和他说话的时候也想不起他的名字。只好说呃，先生。波洛，我想起来了，应该是这个。他是法国人。”
“你知道吗，莫林，我好像在哪儿见过这个名字。”
“也许是家庭理发店吧。他看起来像一个理发师。”
波洛打了个寒噤。
“不，不，也许是个泡菜的牌子。我不知道。我敢肯定，这名字很熟悉。最好早点跟他要首期的七几尼，越快越好。”
声音渐渐远去了。
波洛从地上捡起他们撒了一地的豆子。正当他刚捡完豆子，萨摩海斯太太穿过门又进来了。
他客客气气地把豆子递给她：
“给你，夫人。”
“哦，太谢谢了。我说，这些豆子看起来有点发黑。你知道的，我们把它们放在缸里用盐腌起来保鲜。但这些好像没放好。恐怕它们不会很可口。”
“我也这么担心……你允许我把门关上吧？这里通风太好了。”
“哦，是的，请便。我老是忘了关门。”
“我已经注意到了。”
“反正这门永远也关不上。这所房子实际上已经破烂不堪了。约翰尼的父母以前住在这里，他们很穷，可怜的老人家，他们从来没有修过屋子。后来我们从印度回来住在这里，也没钱做任何修理。不过，孩子们假期住这里还真有趣，有很多房间可以乱跑。还有花园和其他一切。接收一些付费的客人使我们勉强能够支撑下去，不过我必须说，我们已经受了一些打击。”
“眼下我是你们的唯一的客人吧？”
“楼上还有一位老太太。她来的第一天就卧床不起，一直到今天都这样。不过我看不出她哪里生病。但她就那样，我每天送四托盘食物给她。她的胃口可没一点问题。不管怎样，她明天就要去一个侄女还是什么人那儿了。”
萨摩海斯太太歇了口气，才用稍微有点造作的口气说：
“送鱼的人应该马上到了。不知道你是否介意，呃，先交第一个星期的房租。你打算住一个星期的，是吗？”
“也许更久。”
“很抱歉麻烦你。但我家里没有现金，你知道这些人都是这样的，总是催你给钱。”
“请不用道歉，夫人。”
波洛掏出七张一英镑的钞票，并且加了七先令。萨摩海斯太太贪婪地把这些钱拢到一起。
“非常感谢。”
“夫人，也许我应该多告诉你一点关于我自己的事。我是赫尔克里•波洛。”
这样的提示让萨摩海斯太太丝毫不为所动。
“多么可爱的名字，”她善解人意地说，“希腊名，是不是？”
“你可能知道，”波洛说，“我是一个侦探。”他拍了拍自己的胸口。“也许是当今最有名的侦探。”
萨摩海斯太太好笑地尖叫一声。
“我看你真会开玩笑，波洛先生。你调查什么呢？烟灰和脚印？”
“我在调查麦金蒂太太的谋杀案，”波洛说，“我没开玩笑。”
“哎哟，”萨摩海斯太太说，“我切到手了。”
她举起一个手指查看。
然后，她盯着波洛。
“听着，”她说。“你是说真的吗？我的意思是，这桩案子已经结束了，一切都结束了。
他们逮捕了那个租住在那里的可怜的傻瓜，他受了审定了罪，都了结了。说不定现在他都已经被吊死了。”
“不，夫人，”波洛说，“他还没有被吊死。而且这事还没‘了结’——麦金蒂太太的案子。我想借用你们一位诗人的一句诗提醒你，‘问题若非正确地解决，就永远不算解决。’”
“噢噢，”萨摩海斯太太说，她的注意力从波洛转移到腿上的盆。“我的血流到豆子上了。这可不太好，我们要拿来做午饭的。不过没什么关系，反正要下水煮。东西只要煮开了就没事，对不对？即使罐头也一样。”
“我觉得，”波洛静静地说，“午饭我不能在这里吃。”
Five
Five
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Burch.
She had said that three times already. Her natural distrust of foreign-looking gentlemen withblack moustaches, wearing large fur-lined coats was not to be easily overcome.
“Very unpleasant, it’s been,” she went on. “Having poor auntie murdered and the police andall that. Tramping round everywhere, and ferreting about, and asking questions. With theneighbours all agog. I didn’t feel at first we’d ever live it down. And my husband’s mother’s beendownright nasty about it. Nothing of that kind ever happened in her family, she kept saying. And‘poor Joe’ and all that. What about poor me? She was my aunt, wasn’t she? But really I did think itwas all over now.”
“And supposing that James Bentley is innocent, after all?”
“Nonsense,” snapped Mrs. Burch. “Of course he isn’t innocent. He did it all right. I never didlike the looks of him. Wandering about muttering to himself. Said to auntie, I did: ‘You oughtn’tto have a man like that in the house. Might go off his head,’ I said. But she said he was quiet andobliging and didn’t give trouble. No drinking, she said, and he didn’t even smoke. Well, sheknows better now, poor soul.”
Poirot looked thoughtfully at her. She was a big, plump woman with a healthy colour and agood-humoured mouth. The small house was neat and clean and smelt of furniture polish andBrasso. A faint appetizing smell came from the direction of the kitchen.
A good wife who kept her house clean and took the trouble to cook for her man. Heapproved. She was prejudiced and obstinate but, after all, why not? Most decidedly, she was notthe kind of woman one could imagine using a meat chopper on her aunt, or conniving at herhusband’s doing so. Spence had not thought her that kind of woman, and rather reluctantly,Hercule Poirot agreed with him. Spence had gone into the financial background of the Burchesand had found no motive there for murder, and Spence was a very thorough man.
He sighed, and persevered with his task, which was the breaking down of Mrs. Burch’ssuspicion of foreigners. He led the conversation away from murder and focused on the victim of it.
He asked questions about “poor auntie,” her health, her habits, her preferences in food and drink,her politics, her late husband, her attitude to life, to sex, to sin, to religion, to children, to animals.
Whether any of this irrelevant matter would be of use, he had no idea. He was lookingthrough a haystack to find a needle. But, incidentally, he was learning something about BessieBurch.
Bessie did not really know very much about her aunt. It had been a family tie, honoured assuch, but without intimacy. Now and again, once a month or so, she and Joe had gone over on aSunday to have midday dinner with auntie, and more rarely, auntie had come over to see them.
They had exchanged presents at Christmas. They’d known that auntie had a little something putby, and that they’d get it when she died.
“But that’s not to say we were needing it,” Mrs. Burch explained with rising colour. “We’vegot something put by ourselves. And we buried her beautiful. A real nice funeral it was. Flowersand everything.”
Auntie had been fond of knitting. She didn’t like dogs, they messed up a place, but she usedto have a cat—a ginger. It strayed away and she hadn’t had one since, but the woman at the postoffice had been going to give her a kitten. Kept her house very neat and didn’t like litter. Keptbrass a treat and washed down the kitchen floor every day. She made quite a nice thing of goingout to work. One shilling and tenpence an hour—two shillings from Holmeleigh, that was Mr.
Carpenter’s of the Works’ house. Rolling in money, the Carpenters were. Tried to get auntie tocome more days in the week, but auntie wouldn’t disappoint her other ladies because she’d goneto them before she went to Mr. Carpenter’s, and it wouldn’t have been right.
Poirot mentioned Mrs. Summerhayes at Long Meadows.
Oh yes, auntie went to her—two days a week. They’d come back from India where they’dhad a lot of native servants and Mrs. Summerhayes didn’t know a thing about a house. They triedto market-garden, but they didn’t know anything about that, either. When the children came homefor the holidays, the house was just pandemonium. But Mrs. Summerhayes was a nice lady andauntie liked her.
So the portrait grew. Mrs. McGinty knitted, and scrubbed floors and polished brass, she likedcats and didn’t like dogs. She liked children, but not very much. She kept herself to herself.
She attended church on Sunday, but didn’t take part in any church activities. Sometimes, butrarely, she went to the pictures. She didn’t hold with goings on—and had given up working for anartist and his wife when she discovered they weren’t properly married. She didn’t read books, butshe enjoyed the Sunday paper and she liked old magazines when her ladies gave them to her.
Although she didn’t go much to the pictures, she was interested in hearing about film stars andtheir doings. She wasn’t interested in politics, but voted Conservative like her husband had alwaysdone. Never spent much on clothes, but got quite a lot given her from her ladies, and was of asaving disposition.
Mrs. McGinty was, in fact, very much the Mrs. McGinty that Poirot had imagined she wouldbe. And Bessie Burch, her niece, was the Bessie Burch of Superintendent Spence’s notes.
Before Poirot took his leave, Joe Burch came home for the lunch hour. A small, shrewd man,less easy to be sure about than his wife. There was a faint nervousness in his manner. He showedless signs of suspicion and hostility than his wife. Indeed he seemed anxious to appearcooperative. And that, Poirot reflected, was very faintly out of character. For why should JoeBurch be anxious to placate an importunate foreign stranger? The reason could only be that thestranger had brought with him a letter from Superintendent Spence of the County Police.
So Joe Burch was anxious to stand in well with the police? Was it that he couldn’t afford, ashis wife could, to be critical of the police?
A man, perhaps, with an uneasy conscience. Why was that conscience uneasy? There couldbe so many reasons — none of them connected with Mrs. McGinty’s death. Or was it that,somehow or other, the cinema alibi had been cleverly faked, and that it was Joe Burch who hadknocked on the door of the cottage, had been admitted by auntie and who had struck down theunsuspecting old woman? He would pull out the drawers and ransack the rooms to give theappearance of robbery, he might hide the money outside, cunningly, to incriminate James Bentley,the money that was in the Savings Bank was what he was after. Two hundred pounds coming tohis wife which, for some reason unknown, he badly needed. The weapon, Poirot remembered, hadnever been found. Why had that not also been found on the scene of the crime? Any moron knewenough to wear gloves or rub off fingerprints. Why then had the weapon, which must have been aheavy one with a sharp edge, been removed? Was it because it could easily be identified asbelonging to the Burch ménage? Was that same weapon, washed and polished, here in the housenow? Something in the nature of a meat chopper, the police surgeon had said—but not, it seemed,actually a meat chopper. Something, perhaps a little unusual .?.?. a little out of the ordinary, easilyidentified. The police had hunted for it, but not found it. They had searched woods, dragged ponds.
There was nothing missing from Mrs. McGinty’s kitchen, and nobody could say that JamesBentley had had anything of that kind in his possession. They had never traced any purchase of ameat chopper or any such implement to him. A small, but negative point in his favour. Ignored inthe weight of other evidence. But still a point .?.?.
Poirot cast a swift glance round the rather overcrowded little sitting room in which he wassitting.
Was the weapon here, somewhere, in this house? Was that why Joe Burch was uneasy andconciliatory?
Poirot did not know. He did not really think so. But he was not absolutely sure. .?.?.
第五章
第五章
“我不知道，真的。”伯奇太太说。
这句话她已经说了三遍了。她对于留着黑胡子，穿着裘皮衬里大衣，一副外国派头的绅士天生地不信任，这是不容易克服的。
“真是太烦人了，”她接着说，“可怜的姑姑被人杀害了，警方和所有这些人找上门来。
到处乱闯，东翻西找，问这问那。邻居们都传得沸沸扬扬。我一开始以为我们会永远忘不了这事了呢。而我婆婆更是讨厌透顶，她不停地说，她家从来没有发生过这种事。嚷嚷‘可怜的乔’什么的。怎么不可怜可怜我呢？死的是我的姑姑，不是吗？不过说真的，我觉得这一切现在都结束了。”
“假如詹姆斯•本特利是无辜的呢？”
“胡说，”伯奇太太厉声说，“他当然不是无辜的。就是他干的。我从来就不喜欢他那副样子。总是自言自语。我跟姑姑说过：‘你不应该让这样一个人住在家里。说不定什么时候会发疯。’但她说，他很安静，乐于助人，也不会给人添麻烦。还说他不喝酒，甚至不吸烟。好了，现在她知道了吧，可怜的姑姑。
波洛若有所思地看着她。她是个大块头的丰满女人，有着健康的肤色和乖巧的嘴。小屋子收拾得整洁干净，家具光可鉴人。厨房的方向飘来淡淡的令人胃口大开的香味。
她是个好妻子，会把房子收拾得干干净净，肯花心思给她的男人做饭。他对她的付出表示认可。她偏见，固执，但又有何不可呢？很显然，难以想象她会是那种对自己的姑姑举起剁肉刀，或纵容丈夫这么做的女人。斯彭斯认为她不是那样的女人，尽管令人颇为无奈，波洛同意他的看法。斯彭斯已经调查过伯奇夫妇的财务状况，没有发现谋杀动机，而斯彭斯是一个办事非常周到的人。
他叹了口气，继续他的任务，打消伯奇太太对外国人的疑虑。他把谈话带离谋杀案本身，而把重点放在受害者身上。他问起“可怜的姑姑”的情况，她的健康，她的习惯，她喜欢的食品和饮料，她的政治态度，她已故的丈夫，她对生活、性、犯罪、宗教、儿童、动物等等的看法。
他不知道这些不相干的事情有没有什么用处，他是在大海里捞针。但是，他顺便也了解了一些贝茜•伯奇的事情。
贝茜对她的姑姑并不十分了解。只是因为血缘关系，彼此以礼相待，但并不算亲密。
来往也不频繁，大约每一个月左右，她和乔会在星期天去看望姑姑，一起吃个午饭，而姑姑来看他们就更少了。他们圣诞节互送礼物。他们知道姑姑有点小积蓄，她死后会留给他们。
“但是，这并不表示我们需要这笔钱，”伯奇太太红着脸解释，“我们自己也存了一些钱。而且我们好好地安葬了她，丧事办得很体面。鲜花和所需的一切排场都有。”
姑姑一直喜欢编织。她不喜欢狗，嫌它们总是把房子弄得一团糟，但她曾经养过一只猫——一只姜黄色的猫。后来它走丢了，她就没有再养。不过邮局的女人打算送她一只小猫。她的家收拾得非常整洁，她不喜欢乱扔杂物，每天擦亮铜器，冲洗厨房的地板。她出去帮人做事，收入相当不错。在霍姆里的卡朋特先生家干活每小时的收入是一先令十便士到两先令。卡朋特先生是办工厂的，家里有的是钱。他们想让姑姑每周多去几天，但姑姑在给卡朋特先生家干活之前一直在其他几位太太家干活，她不愿意让她们失望，觉得这么做不应该。
波洛提起长草地旅馆的萨摩海斯太太。
哦，是的，姑姑之前的确帮她干活，每周两天。他们是从印度回来的，在那儿他们雇的都是当地的土著仆人，萨摩海斯太太根本不懂得管家。他们想种点经济作物来卖，但又对园艺一窍不通。孩子们放假一回家，房子里就乱成一团。不过萨摩海斯太太是个好人，姑姑很喜欢她。
被害人的肖像就这样渐渐成形了。麦金蒂太太编织，擦洗地板，抛光铜器。她喜欢猫，不喜欢狗。她喜欢孩子，但不是很着迷。她喜欢独来独往。
她星期天都会去教堂，但不参加任何教会的活动。有时，不过极偶尔，她会去看场电影。她不赞成不道德的行为——曾经因为发现一位艺术家和他的妻子不是正式的婚姻关系，她就辞职不在他们家干活了。她不看书，但喜欢看星期天的报纸。她很喜欢雇主太太们送她的旧杂志。她虽然电影看得不多，但对电影明星和他们的一举一动很感兴趣。她对政治不感兴趣，但像她丈夫那样一直投票给保守党。她很少花钱买衣服，但雇主们送了她很多，这让她省了不少钱。
麦金蒂太太，事实上，正是波洛想象中麦金蒂太太的样子。贝茜•伯奇，她的侄女，也一如斯彭斯警监笔记上记录的贝茜•伯奇那样。
波洛离开之前，乔•伯奇回家吃午饭了。他是个身材矮小、看起来很精明的人，不像他的妻子那样放松，他的态度显得有一点点紧张。不过他比妻子少一些怀疑和敌意。事实上，他似乎急于要显示配合的态度。这一点，波洛觉得，并不算太失常。乔•伯奇为什么要急于安抚一个胡搅蛮缠的外国陌生人呢？究其原因只能是那个陌生人随身带着一封郡警察局斯彭斯警监的介绍信。
那么乔•伯奇急于要和警察站在统一战线了？是不是因为他不像他的妻子那样，经得起警察的调查？
这个男人，也许，是良心不安。为什么会良心不安？理由可能有很多——可能都与麦金蒂太太的死无关。抑或是，去看电影的不在场证明是巧妙伪造的，正是这个乔•伯奇敲了小屋的门，被姑姑请进屋内，袭击了不知情的老妇人。他可以拉出抽屉，洗劫房间，弄成抢劫的样子；他可以把钱藏到屋外，狡猾地栽赃给詹姆斯•本特利。而他的目的是存在银行里的那笔钱。这样一来，两百镑就到了他妻子的手中，他可能出于某种不明的原因，迫切需要这笔钱。波洛想起凶器一直没找到。为什么不把凶器留在犯罪现场呢？白痴也知道可以戴手套或擦掉指纹。凶器一定是有着锋利边缘的重物。为什么要带走那样一把凶器呢？
是不是因为很容易就能看出是属于伯奇家的呢？那把凶器，是不是就在现在这个屋子里被清洗抛光呢？法医说过，凶器是一把类似剁肉刀的东西——但不是真正的剁肉刀。那个东西，也许是有点不寻常……有点与众不同，很容易识别。警方一直在找它，但没有找到。
他们搜遍了树林，抽干了池塘。麦金蒂太太的厨房没有丢失任何东西，也没人举报詹姆斯•本特利拥有那样的东西。警方查不到他买过剁肉刀这类东西的线索。这是对他有利的一件小事。但和其他证据相比就微不足道了。不过仍然是一个关键点……波洛快速地扫描了一圈他正置身其间的拥挤的小客厅。
凶器在这儿吗，在这所房子的某个地方？是因为这个原因乔•伯奇才忧心忡忡，讨好卖乖吗？
波洛不知道。他并不真的这么认为。他没有绝对的把握……
Six（1）
Six
I
In the offices of Messrs Breather & Scuttle, Poirot was shown, after some demur, into the room ofMr. Scuttle himself.
Mr. Scuttle was a brisk, bustling man, with a hearty manner.
“Good morning. Good morning.” He rubbed his hands. “Now, what can we do for you?”
His professional eye shot over Poirot, trying to place him, making, as it were, a series ofmarginal notes.
Foreign. Good quality clothes. Probably rich. Restaurant proprietor? Hotel manager? Films?
“I hope not to trespass on your time unduly. I wanted to talk to you about your formeremployee, James Bentley.”
Mr. Scuttle’s expressive eyebrows shot up an inch and dropped.
“James Bentley. James Bentley?” He shot out a question. “Press?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn’t be police?”
“No. At least—not of this country.”
“Not of this country.” Mr. Scuttle filed this away rapidly as though for future reference.
“What’s it all about?”
Poirot, never hindered by a pedantic regard for truth, launched out into speech.
“I am opening a further inquiry into James Bentley’s case—at the request of certain relativesof his.”
“Didn’t know he had any. Anyway, he’s been found guilty, you know, and condemned todeath.”
“But not yet executed.”
“While there’s life, there’s hope, eh?” Mr. Scuttle shook his head. “Should doubt it, though.
Evidence was strong. Who are these relations of his?”
“I can only tell you this, they are both rich and powerful. Immensely rich.”
“You surprise me.” Mr. Scuttle was unable to help thawing slightly. The words “immenselyrich” had an attractive and hypnotic quality. “Yes, you really do surprise me.”
“Bentley’s mother, the late Mrs. Bentley,” explained Poirot, “cut herself and her son offcompletely from her family.”
“One of these family feuds, eh? Well, well. And young Bentley without a farthing to blesshimself with. Pity these relations didn’t come to the rescue before.”
“They have only just become aware of the facts,” explained Poirot. “They have engaged meto come with all speed to this country and do everything possible.”
Mr. Scuttle leaned back, relaxing his business manner.
“Don’t know what you can do. I suppose there’s insanity? A bit late in the day—but if yougot hold of the big medicos. Of course I’m not up in these things myself.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“Monsieur, James Bentley worked here. You can tell me about him.”
“Precious little to tell—precious little. He was one of our junior clerks. Nothing against him.
Seemed a perfectly decent young fellow, quite conscientious and all that. But no idea ofsalesmanship. He just couldn’t put a project over. That’s no good in this job. If a client comes tous with a house he wants to sell, we’re there to sell it for him. And if a client wants a house, wefind him one. If it’s a house in a lonely place with no amenities, we stress its antiquity, call it aperiod piece—and don’t mention the plumbing! And if the house looks straight into the gasworks,we talk about amenities and facilities and don’t mention the view. Hustle your client into it—that’swhat you’re here to do. All sorts of little tricks there are. ‘We advise you, madam, to make animmediate offer. There’s a Member of Parliament who’s very keen on it—very keen indeed.
Going out to see it again this afternoon.’ They fall for that every time—a Member of Parliament isalways a good touch. Can’t think why! No member ever lives away from his constituency. It’s justthe good solid sound of it.” He laughed suddenly, displayed gleaming dentures. “Psychology—that’s what it is—just psychology.”
Poirot leapt at the word.
“Psychology. How right you are. I see that you are a judge of men.”
“Not too bad. Not too bad,” said Mr. Scuttle modestly.
“So I ask you again what was your impression of James Bentley? Between ourselves—strictly between ourselves—you think he killed the old woman?”
Scuttle stared.
“Of course.”
“And you think, too, that it was a likely thing for him to do—psychologically speaking?”
“Well—if you put it like that—no, not really. Shouldn’t have thought he had the guts. Tellyou what, if you ask me, he was barmy. Put it that way, and it works. Always a bit soft in thehead, and what with being out of a job and worrying and all that, he just went right over the edge.”
“You had no special reason for discharging him?”
Scuttle shook his head.
“Bad time of year. Staff hadn’t enough to do. We sacked the one who was least competent.
That was Bentley. Always would be, I expect. Gave him a good reference and all that. He didn’tget another job, though. No pep. Made a bad impression on people.”
It always came back to that, Poirot thought, as he left the office. James Bentley made a badimpression on people. He took comfort in considering various murderers he had known whommost people had found full of charm.
第六章（1）
第六章
1在布瑞瑟与史考特事务所，波洛被一番盘问后，才被带进史考特先生的办公室。
史考特先生是个活泼健谈的人，态度十分热诚。
“早上好。早上好。”他搓着手。“我能为你做些什么？”
他以职业的眼光打量着波洛，试图弄清他的身份，列出一条条旁注。
外国人。衣服质地很好。大概有钱。餐厅老板？酒店经理？电影明星？
“我希望不会占用你过多的时间。我想和你谈谈你以前的雇员，詹姆斯•本特利。”
史考特先生富有表现力的眉毛扬起足有一英寸高，又降了下来。“詹姆斯•本特利。詹姆斯•本特利？“他突然问，“你是记者？”
“不是。”
“你不会是警察吧？”
“不是。至少——不是这个国家的。”
“不是这个国家的。”史考特先生立即把这个信息存到大脑，以备将来参考。“那是怎么回事？”
波洛从来不忌于撒谎，张口即说：
“我正在深入调查詹姆斯•本特利一案——应他的某些亲戚要求。”
“我不知道他有亲戚。无论如何，你知道的，他被判有罪，而且判了死刑。”
“但尚未执行。”
“只要活着，就有希望，是吗？”史考特先生摇摇头，“不过我对此表示怀疑。证据太强有力了。他的这些亲戚是谁？”
“我只能告诉你他们都是有钱有势的人。非常富有。”
“这真让我吃惊。”史考特先生禁不住口气软了下来，“非常富有”这个词有着致命的吸引力和催眠效果。“是的，真让我吃惊。”
“本特利的母亲，已故的本特利太太，”波洛解释说，“让自己和儿子与她的家人完全断绝了联系。”
“豪门恩怨，是吗？好吧，好吧。年轻的本特利穷得叮当响。可惜这些亲戚没有早些出手相救。”
“他们刚刚得知此事，”波洛解释说，“委托我尽速赶来贵国，尽一切可能挽救他。”
史考特先生向后一靠，公事公办的态度缓和了许多。
“我不知道你可以做些什么。我猜以精神错乱为由？这么做有点晚了——不过如果你能请到名医作证的话也许可行。当然我自己对这些事情也不太懂。”
波洛向前倾了倾身。
“先生，詹姆斯•本特利曾在这里工作。你可以跟我说说他的情况。”
“没多少可讲的，我对他知之甚少。他只是我们的一个低级职员。我对他没什么不好的印象。看起来是个正派的小伙子，勤勤恳恳。但完全不懂推销，一个项目也做不好，不适合干我们这行。如果一个客户找我们想卖房子，我们就帮他卖掉；如果一个客户想买房子，我们就帮他找一间。如果一所房子位于人迹罕至的地方，又没有良好的设施，我们就强调它历史悠久，称之为时代的杰作——而不提它的水暖设施！如果一所房子正对着煤气厂，我们大谈特谈它的优良设施，而不提它的周围景观。撺掇你的客户买下它——这就是我们要做的。需要各种小伎俩。‘我们建议你尽快出价，夫人。有位国会议员对它也非常感兴趣——真的非常感兴趣。今天下午他还要再来看看。’他们每次都会上钩——国会议员永远是最佳借口。真不明白为什么！哪有国会议员会住在远离他的选区的地方。只是听起来比较令人信服而已。”他突然大笑起来，露出亮闪闪的假牙。“心理学，就是这么回事，只是心理学。”
波洛抓住了这个字眼。
“心理学。你说得对极了。我看你是个有判断力的人。”
“还不赖，还不赖。”史考特先生谦虚地说。
“所以我要再问你，你对詹姆斯•本特利的印象如何？只是我们俩私下说说，绝对是私下说说，你觉得是他杀了老妇人吗？”
史考特瞪大了眼睛。
“当然。”
“那么你也认为这像是他会做的事吗？从心理学上来看？”
“嗯，如果你这样问的话，不，我觉得不是。我认为他应该没这个胆量。如果你问我，告诉你，他有点疯疯癫癫的。如果这样看的话，也就说得通了。他的脑袋有点不好使，失业加上焦虑，担心这担心那，他已经处在崩溃的边缘了。”
“你解雇他没有什么特别的原因吗？”
史考特摇了摇头。
“今年生意不景气。职员没事可干。我们只好解雇干得最差的一个。就是本特利。我想这是迟早的事。我给他写了一封很好的推荐信。但他没有找到新工作。他无精打采的，给人的印象不好。”
最后总是归结到这一点，波洛离开办公室的时候心想。詹姆斯•本特利给人的印象不好。想起他认识的许多杀人凶手大部分都是充满魅力的人，他心里稍感安慰。
Six（2）
II
“Excuse me, do you mind if I sit down here and talk to you for a moment?”
Poirot, ensconced at a small table in the Blue Cat, looked up from the menu he was studyingwith a start. It was rather dark in the Blue Cat, which specialized in an old-world effect of oak andleaded panes, but the young woman who had just sat down opposite to him stood out brightly fromher dark background.
She had determinedly golden hair, and was wearing an electric blue jumper suit. Moreover,Hercule Poirot was conscious of having noticed her somewhere only a short time previously.
She went on:
“I couldn’t help, you see, hearing something of what you were saying to Mr. Scuttle.”
Poirot nodded. He had realized that the partitions in the offices of Breather & Scuttle weremade for convenience rather than privacy. That had not worried him, since it was chiefly publicitythat he desired.
“You were typing,” he said, “to the right of the back window.”
She nodded. Her teeth shone white in an acquiescing smile. A very healthy young woman,with a full buxom figure that Poirot approved. About thirty-three or four, he judged, and by naturedark-haired, but not one to be dictated to by nature.
“About Mr. Bentley,” she said.
“What about Mr. Bentley?”
“Is he going to appeal? Does it mean that there’s new evidence? Oh, I’m so glad. I couldn’t—I just couldn’t believe he did it.”
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“So you never thought he did it,” he said slowly.
“Well, not at first. I thought it must be a mistake. But then the evidence—” She stopped.
“Yes, the evidence,” said Poirot.
“There just didn’t seem anyone else who could have done it. I thought perhaps he’d gone alittle mad.”
“Did he ever seem to you a little—what shall I say—queer?”
“Oh no. Not queer in that way. He was just shy and awkward as anyone might be. The truthwas, he didn’t make the best of himself. He hadn’t confidence in himself.”
Poirot looked at her. She certainly had confidence in herself. Possibly she had enoughconfidence for two.
“You liked him?” he asked.
She flushed.
“Yes, I did. Amy—that’s the other girl in the office—used to laugh at him and call him a drip,but I liked him very much. He was gentle and polite—and he knew a lot really. Things out ofbooks, I mean.”
“Ah yes, things out of books.”
“He missed his mother. She’d been ill for years, you know. At least, not really ill, but notstrong, and he’d done everything for her.”
Poirot nodded. He knew those mothers.
“And of course she’d looked after him, too. I mean taken care of his health and his chest inwinter and what he ate and all that.”
Again he nodded. He asked:
“You and he were friends?”
“I don’t know—not exactly. We used to talk sometimes. But after he left here, he—I—Ididn’t see much of him. I wrote to him once in a friendly way, but he didn’t answer.”
Poirot said gently:
“But you like him?”
She said rather defiantly:
“Yes, I do. .?.?.”
“That is excellent,” said Poirot.
His mind switched back to the day of his interview with the condemned prisoner .?.?. He sawJames Bentley clearly. The mouse-coloured hair, the thin awkward body, the hands with their bigknuckles and wrists, the Adam’s apple in the lean neck. He saw the furtive, embarrassed—almostsly glance. Not straightforward, not a man whose word could be trusted—a secretive, sly deceitfulfellow with an ungracious, muttering way of talking .?.?. That was the impression James Bentleywould give to most superficial observers. It was the impression he had given in the dock. The sortof fellow who would tell lies, and steal money, and hit an old woman over the head. .?.?.
But on Superintendent Spence, who knew men, he had not made that impression. Nor onHercule Poirot .?.?. And now here was this girl.
“What is your name, mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Maude Williams. Is there anything I could do—to help?”
“I think there is. There are people who believe, Miss Williams, that James Bentley isinnocent. They are working to prove that fact. I am the person charged with that investigation, andI may tell you that I have already made considerable progress—yes, considerable progress.”
He uttered that lie without a blush. To his mind it was a very necessary lie. Someone,somewhere, had got to be made uneasy. Maude Williams would talk, and talk was like a stone in apond, it made a ripple that went on spreading outwards.
He said: “You tell me that you and James Bentley talked together. He told you about hismother and his home life. Did he ever mention anyone with whom he, or perhaps his mother, wason bad terms?”
Maude Williams reflected.
“No—not what you’d call bad terms. His mother didn’t like young women much, I gather.”
“Mothers of devoted sons never like young women. No, I mean more than that. Some familyfeud, some enmity. Someone with a grudge?”
She shook her head.
“He never mentioned anything of that kind.”
“Did he ever speak of his landlady, Mrs. McGinty?”
She shivered slightly.
“Not by name. He said once that she gave him kippers much too often—and once he said hislandlady was upset because she had lost her cat.”
“Did he ever—you must be honest, please—mention that he knew where she kept hermoney?”
Some of the colour went out of the girl’s face, but she threw up her chin defiantly.
“Actually, he did. We were talking about people being distrustful of banks—and he said hisold landlady kept her spare money under a floorboard. He said: ‘I could help myself any day to itwhen she’s out.’ Not quite as a joke, he didn’t joke, more as though he were really worried by hercarelessness.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “That is good. From my point of view, I mean. When James Bentley thinksof stealing, it presents itself to him as an action that is done behind someone’s back. He mighthave said, you see, ‘Some day someone will knock her on the head for it.’”
“But either way, he wouldn’t be meaning it.”
“Oh no. But talk, however light, however idle, gives away, inevitably, the sort of person youare. The wise criminal would never open his mouth, but criminals are seldom wise and usuallyvain and they talk a good deal—and so most criminals are caught.”
Maude Williams said abruptly:
“But someone must have killed the old woman.”
“Naturally.”
“Who did? Do you know? Have you any idea?”
“Yes,” said Hercule Poirot mendaciously. “I think I have a very good idea. But we are only atthe beginning of the road.”
The girl glanced at her watch.
“I must get back. We’re only supposed to take half an hour. One-horse place, Kilchester—I’ve always had jobs in London before. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do—really do,I mean?”
Poirot took out one of his cards. On it he wrote Long Meadows and the telephone number.
“That is where I am staying.”
His name, he noted with chagrin, made no particular impression on her. The youngergeneration, he could not but feel, were singularly lacking in knowledge of notable celebrities.
第六章
2“打扰了，你介意我坐下来和你聊一聊吗？”
波洛坐在蓝猫咖啡馆的一张小桌子旁，正在研究菜单，闻言吃惊地抬头。蓝猫咖啡馆里光线很暗，橡木和铅质的窗格营造出古香古色的格调，但刚刚坐到他对面的年轻女人，在昏暗背景的衬托下，却显得格外耀眼夺目。
她有一头金发，穿着一件亮蓝色的夹克衫。不仅如此，赫尔克里•波洛觉得他不久之前在什么地方见过她。
她接着说：
“是这么回事，我无意间听到你对史考特先生说的话。”
波洛点点头。他当时就注意到，布瑞瑟与史考特事务所办公室的隔断只是为了方便，而不是为了保护隐私。这点他并不担心，因为他本来就想要这事传扬开来。
“你就坐在后面窗户的右侧打字。”他说。
她点点头。笑的时候露出洁白的牙齿。她是一个非常健康的年轻姑娘，身材丰满，正是波洛欣赏的类型。他推断她大约三十三四岁，原本头发应该是黑色的，但不愿以原貌示人。
“是关于本特利先生。”她说。
“关于本特利先生什么事？”
“他打算上诉吗？这是否意味着有新的证据？哦，我真高兴。我无法，只是无法相信他会那么做。”
波洛的眉毛往上一扬。
“这么说你从不认为是他干的。”他慢慢地说。
“嗯，一开始不信。我以为这一定是弄错了。可是后来证据——”她停了下来。
“是的，证据。”波洛说。
“看起来似乎没有别人会那么干。我想也许他那会儿有点疯了吧。”
“你觉得他是不是有点，我该怎么形容呢，古怪吗？”
“哦，不是的。不是那种古怪。他只是和别人一样害羞和笨拙。事实是，他并没有表现出最好的自己。他缺乏自信。”
波洛看着她。她当然是个有自信的人，或许抵得上两个人的份儿。
“你喜欢他？”他问。
她脸红了。
“是的，我喜欢他。艾米，我们办公室里的另一个女孩，常常取笑他，叫他‘讨厌鬼’，但我非常喜欢他。他斯文有礼，而且懂得很多。我是指书上的东西。”
“啊，是的，书上的东西。”
“他很想念他的母亲。她病了很多年了。其实，她不算真的生病，就是身体虚弱。他无微不至地照顾着她。”
波洛点点头。他了解这些母亲。
“当然，她也照顾他。我的意思是她会关心他的健康，冬天注意肺部问题，还有衣食住行这些事。”
波洛又点点头。他问：
“你和他是朋友吗？”
“我不知道，不算是吧。我们偶尔会聊聊天。但自从他离开这里，他……我……我就很少看到他了。我曾经给他写过一封信，但他没有给我回信。”
波洛轻轻地说：
“可是你喜欢他吧？”
她大胆地说：
“是的，我喜欢……”
“那太好了。”波洛说。
他的思绪转到他去探望死刑犯那天的情形。他清清楚楚地记得詹姆斯•本特利的样子。
鼠灰色的头发，瘦削的身材，手指和手腕的关节粗大，细长的脖子上喉结突出。他的目光鬼鬼祟祟，尴尬，又像是害羞。不爽快，不可靠，是个奸诈、狡猾的家伙，说话粗鲁无礼，咕咕哝哝……这是詹姆斯•本特利给大多数人的印象。也正是他在法庭上给人的印象。
是那种会撒谎，会偷钱，会敲烂老妇人的头的家伙……但是斯彭斯警监，一个深谙人性的人，并 没有得出这样的印象。波洛也没有。现在又有这个姑娘出来表态。
“你叫什么名字，小姐？”他问。
“莫德•威廉姆斯。有什么我可以做的？有我可以帮忙的事吗？”
“我想有的。威廉姆斯小姐，还有一些人相信詹姆斯•本特利是无辜的。他们正在努力证明这一事实。我是负责调查的人，我可以告诉你，我已经取得了相当大的进展，是的，相当大的进展。”
他撒这个谎毫不脸红。在他看来，这是一个非常必要的谎言。一定什么地方有什么人会觉得不安。莫德•威廉姆斯会把话传出去，这些话就像往池塘里扔石头，会激起层层涟漪……
“你说你和詹姆斯•本特利聊过天。他和你说过他的母亲以及他的家庭生活。他有没有提过什么与他或者与他的母亲不和的人？”
莫德•威廉姆斯想了想。
“没有，没有你所谓的不和。我猜他的母亲不怎么喜欢年轻姑娘。”
“有孝顺儿子的母亲从来都不会喜欢年轻姑娘。不，我的意思不止于此。有没有家族世仇，有没有仇人，有没有人对他们怀恨在心？”
她摇摇头。
“他从来没有提到那种事。”
“他有没有说起他的房东，麦金蒂太太？”
她微微一颤。
“没指名道姓。他有一次说她老是给他吃腌鱼，还有一次说他的女房东很不高兴，因为她的猫丢了。”
“他有没有——请你一定要说实话，提到他知道她藏钱的地方？”
女孩有些花容失色，但她还是勇敢地抬起了下巴。
“其实，他提到了。我们当时说起有些人不信任银行——他说他的房东老太太总是把她的钱藏在地板下面。他说：‘哪天她不在家，我就可以拿走。’并不像开玩笑，他不是在开玩笑，倒像是他为她的粗心大意感到担心。”
“啊，”波洛说，“那很好。我的意思是，从我的角度来看。詹姆斯•本特利想到偷钱，是背着人偷偷做的行为。你瞧，他可能还说过，‘哪天有人会为此敲烂她的脑袋吧。’”
“但不管怎么样，他并不是真的想那么做。”
“噢，不是。但说话，不管是多么轻松的闲话，都不可避免地会暴露你是什么样的人。
聪明的罪犯绝不会轻易开口，但罪犯很少是聪明的，他们通常虚荣自负，夸夸其谈，所以大多数罪犯都被抓住了。”
莫德•威廉姆斯突然说：
“但肯定有人杀了那位老太太。”
“那是自然。”
“谁干的？你知道吗？你有头绪了吗？”
“是的，”波洛撒谎说，“我认为我已经有思路了。不过我们才刚刚起步。”
女孩看了看手表。
“我必须回去了。我们只有半小时的时间。吉尔切斯特是个小地方，我以前一直在伦敦上班。如果有什么我可以做的，请你告诉我，我是说真的。”
波洛拿出自己的一张名片。在上面写了长草地旅馆和电话号码。
“这是我现在住的地方。”
他懊恼地发现，他的名字没有给她留下什么特别的印象。他不禁感叹，年轻一代太缺乏对名人的了解了。
Six（3）
III
Hercule Poirot caught a bus back to Broadhinny feeling slightly more cheerful. At any rate therewas one person who shared his belief in James Bentley’s innocence. Bentley was not so friendlessas he had made himself out to be.
His mind went back again to Bentley in prison. What a dispiriting interview it had been.
There had been no hope aroused, hardly a stirring of interest.
“Thank you,” Bentley had said dully, “but I don’t suppose there is anything anyone can do.”
No, he was sure he had not got any enemies.
“When people barely notice you’re alive, you’re not likely to have any enemies.”
“Your mother? Did she have an enemy?”
“Certainly not. Everyone liked and respected her.”
There was a faint indignation in his tone.
“What about your friends?”
And James Bentley had said, or rather muttered, “I haven’t any friends. .?.?.”
But that had not been quite true. For Maude Williams was a friend.
“What a wonderful dispensation it is of Nature’s,” thought Hercule Poirot, “that every man,however superficially unattractive, should be some woman’s choice.”
For all Miss Williams’s sexy appearance, he had a shrewd suspicion that she was really thematernal type.
She had the qualities that James Bentley lacked, the energy, the drive, the refusal to bebeaten, the determination to succeed.
He sighed.
What monstrous lies he had told that day! Never mind—they were necessary.
“For somewhere,” said Poirot to himself, indulging in an absolute riot of mixed metaphors,“there is in the hay a needle, and among the sleeping dogs there is one on whom I shall put myfoot, and by shooting the arrows into the air, one will come down and hit a glasshouse!”
第六章（3）
3赫尔克里•波洛搭公共汽车回到布罗德欣尼，心情稍微愉快了一些。无论如何，还有一个人和他一样相信詹姆斯•本特利是无辜的。本特利并不像他自己以为的那么孤独。
他的思绪再次回到在监狱探访本特利时的情形。那是一次多么令人沮丧的会面啊，看不到任何希望，甚至提不起一点兴趣。
“谢谢你，”本特利干巴巴地说，“但我想谁都没办法了。”
不，他确信他没有仇人。
“人们几乎都没留意你的存在，你不可能会有仇人的。”
“你母亲呢？她有没有仇人？”
“当然没有。每个人都喜欢她，尊敬她。”
他的语气有些愤慨。
“那你的朋友呢？”
詹姆斯•本特利说，确切地说他是在喃喃自语，“我没有朋友……”
但这话不完全正确。因为莫德•威廉姆斯就是一个朋友。
“这是大自然多么美妙的造化啊，”波洛心想，“一个男人，无论多么没有魅力，总能得到某个女人的青睐。”
他敏锐地猜测，威廉姆斯小姐尽管外表性感，其实是个很有母性的人。
她拥有詹姆斯•本特利所缺乏的那些品质：活力、干劲、抗压力、争取成功的魄力。
他叹了口气。
今天他撒了多少谎！没关系，那些都是必要的。
波洛自言自语地说，一口气混合了很多的比喻：“大海的某处藏着一根针，草丛里藏着蛇，我必须要打草惊蛇，哪怕无的放矢，也总有一支会射中目标！”
Seven（1）
Seven
I
The cottage where Mrs. McGinty had lived was only a few steps from the bus stop. Two childrenwere playing on the doorstep. One was eating a rather wormy-looking apple and the other wasshouting and beating on the door with a tin tray. They appeared quite happy. Poirot added to thenoise by beating hard on the door himself.
A woman looked round the corner of the house. She had on a coloured overall and her hairwas untidy.
“Stop it, Ernie,” she said.
“Sha’n’t,” said Ernie and continued.
Poirot deserted the doorstep and made for the corner of the house.
“Can’t do anything with children, can you?” the woman said.
Poirot thought you could, but forbore to say so.
He was beckoned round to the back door.
“I keep the front bolted up, sir. Come in, won’t you?”
Poirot passed through a very dirty scullery into an almost more dirty kitchen.
“She wasn’t killed here,” said the woman. “In the parlour.”
Poirot blinked slightly.
“That’s what you’re down about, isn’t it? You’re the foreign gentleman from up atSummerhayes?”
“So you know all about me?” said Poirot. He beamed. “Yes, indeed, Mrs.—”
“Kiddle. My husband’s a plasterer. Moved in four months ago, we did. Been living withBert’s mother before .?.?. Some folks said: ‘You’d never go into a house where there’s been amurder, surely?’—but what I said was, a house is a house, and better than a back sitting-room andsleeping on two chairs. Awful, this ’ousing shortage, isn’t it? And anyway we’ve never beentroubled ’ere. Always say they walk if they’ve been murdered, but she doesn’t! Like to see whereit happened?”
Feeling like a tourist being taken on a conducted tour, Poirot assented.
Mrs. Kiddle led him into a small room overburdened with a heavy Jacobean suite. Unlike therest of the house, it showed no signs of ever having been occupied.
“Down on the floor she was and the back of her head split open. Didn’t half give Mrs. Elliot aturn. She’s the one what found her—she and Larkin who comes from the Co-op with the bread.
But the money was took from upstairs. Come along up and I’ll show you where.”
Mrs. Kiddle led the way up the staircase and into a bedroom which contained a large chest ofdrawers, a big brass bed, some chairs, and a fine assembly of baby clothes, wet and dry.
“Right here it was,” said Mrs. Kiddle proudly.
Poirot looked round him. Hard to visualize that this rampant stronghold of haphazardfecundity was once the well-scrubbed domain of an elderly woman who was house-proud. HereMrs. McGinty had lived and slept.
“I suppose this isn’t her furniture?”
“Oh no. Her niece over in Cullavon took away all that.”
There was nothing left here of Mrs. McGinty. The Kiddles had come and conquered. Lifewas stronger than death.
From downstairs the loud fierce wail of a baby arose.
“That’s the baby woken up,” said Mrs. Kiddle unnecessarily.
She plunged down the stairs and Poirot followed her.
There was nothing here for him.
He went next door.
第七章（1）
第七章
1麦金蒂太太的房子离公共汽车站仅有几步路。两个孩子正在家门口玩。一个在吃生虫的苹果，另一个在大喊大叫，用一个锡盘敲打着房门。他们看上去很高兴。
波洛也用力地敲门，使得噪音更吵了。
一个女人从屋角探出头来看了看。她穿着一件彩色罩衫，头发凌乱。
“住手，厄尼。”她说。
“才不。”厄尼说，继续敲打着。
波洛离开门口，走到屋角。
“拿小孩一点办法都没有，对吗？”女人说。
波洛想说你应该有办法的，但他忍住了没说出来。
女人向他指了指后门。
“我把前门栓上了，先生。进来吧，请吧。”
波洛经过一间脏兮兮的洗涤室，来到一间更脏的厨房。
“她不是在这里被杀的，”女人说，“是在客厅里。”
波洛眨了眨眼。
“你来就是为了调查这个事的，是不是？你是住在萨摩海斯家的外国绅士吧？”
“这么说你知道我的事？”波洛说。他微微一笑。“是的，的确，你是——”
“基德尔。我的丈夫是泥瓦匠。我们是四个月前搬到这儿来的。以前一直和伯特的母亲一起住……有些人说：‘你们千万不要搬进发生过凶杀案的房子里住。”——但要我说，房子就是房子，总比住客厅、睡在两张椅子搭的床上好吧。房荒太可怕了，是不是？反正我们在这儿从来没有受到打扰。都说被谋杀的冤魂会在房子里游荡，但她没有！你想看看出事的地点吗？”
波洛感觉像游客在导游的带领下参观，他点头表示同意。
基德尔太太把他领到一个小房间，房间里摆着詹姆士一世时期的笨重家具。和房子的其余部分不同，这间屋子好像没人住过。
“她躺在地板上，后脑勺都被敲裂了。埃利奥特太太吓坏了。她是第一个发现尸体的人——她和合作社卖面包的拉金一起。但是，钱是在楼上被拿走的。到楼上来，我告诉你在哪里。”
基德尔太太带头上楼梯，他们走进一间卧室，里面摆着一张大五斗柜、一张大铜床，几张椅子，晾着好几套婴儿的衣服，有干的，有湿的。
“就在这儿。”基德尔太太得意地说。
波洛环顾四周。很难想象这个杂乱无章如战场一样的地方曾经是爱好整洁的老妇人精心打理、引以为傲的房子。麦金蒂太太生前就在此居住和睡觉。
“我想这些不是她的家具吧？”
“哦，不是。她住在卡拉文的侄女把所有东西都搬走了。”
这里已经没有任何麦金蒂太太的东西了。基德尔一家搬来，征服了一切。生命总是比死亡更强大。
楼下传来婴儿的响亮哭声。
“宝宝醒了。”基德尔太太毫无必要地解释道。
她冲下楼梯，波洛跟在她后面。
这里没什么可查的了。
他去了隔壁。
Seven（2）
II
“Yes, sir, it was me found her.”
Mrs. Elliot was dramatic. A neat house, this, neat and prim. The only drama in it was Mrs.
Elliot’s, a tall gaunt dark-haired woman, recounting her one moment of glorious living.
“Larkin, the baker, he came and knocked at the door. ‘It’s Mrs. McGinty,’ he said, ‘we can’tmake her hear. Seems she might have been taken bad.’ And indeed I thought she might. Shewasn’t a young woman, not by any means. And palpitations she’d had, to my certain knowledge. Ithought she might have had a stroke. So I hurried over, seeing as there were only the two men, andnaturally they wouldn’t like to go into the bedroom.”
Poirot accepted this piece of propriety with an assenting murmur.
“Hurried up the stairs, I did. He was on the landing, pale as death he was. Not that I everthought at the time—well, of course, then I didn’t know what had happened. I knocked on thedoor loud and there wasn’t any answer, so I turned the handle and I went in. The whole placemessed about—and the board in the floor up. ‘It’s robbery,’ I said. ‘But where’s the poor soulherself?’ And then we thought to look in the sitting-room. And there she was .?.?. Down on thefloor with her poor head stove in. Murder! I saw at once what it was—murder! Couldn’t beanything else! Robbery and murder! Here in Broadhinny. I screamed and I screamed! Quite a jobthey had with me. Come over all faint, I did. They had to go and get me brandy from the ThreeDucks. And even then I was all of a shiver for hours and hours. ‘Don’t you take on so, mother,’
that’s what the sergeant said to me when he came. ‘Don’t you take on so. You go home and makeyourself a nice cup of tea.’ And so I did. And when Elliot came home, ‘Why, whatever’shappened?’ he says, staring at me. Still all of a tremble I was. Always was sensitive from a child.”
Poirot dexterously interrupted this thrilling personal narrative.
“Yes, yes, one can see that. And when was the last time you had seen poor Mrs. McGinty?”
“Must have been the day before, when she’d stepped out into the back garden to pick a bit ofmint. I was just feeding the chickens.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“Just good afternoon and were they laying any better.”
“And that’s the last time you saw her? You didn’t see her on the day she died?”
“No. I saw Him though.” Mrs. Elliot lowered her voice. “About eleven o’clock in themorning. Just walking along the road. Shuffling his feet the way he always did.”
Poirot waited, but it seemed that there was nothing to add.
He asked:
“Were you surprised when the police arrested him?”
“Well, I was and I wasn’t. Mind you, I’d always thought he was a bit daft. And no doubtabout it, these daft ones do turn nasty, sometimes. My uncle had a feeble-minded boy, and hecould go very nasty sometimes—as he grew up, that was. Didn’t know his strength. Yes, thatBentley was daft all right, and I shouldn’t be surprised if they don’t hang him when it comes to it,but sends him to the asylum instead. Why, look at the place he hid the money. No one would hidemoney in a place like that unless he wanted it to be found. Just silly and simple like, that’s what hewas.”
“Unless he wanted it found,” murmured Poirot. “You did not, by any chance, miss a chopper—or an axe?”
“No, sir, I did not. The police asked me that. Asked all of us in the cottages here. It’s amystery still what he killed her with.”
第七章（2）
2“是的，先生，是我发现她的尸体。”
艾略特太太的举止有些夸张。这是一所整洁的房子，整洁而呆板。其间唯一生动的就是艾略特太太，她是一位高高瘦瘦的黑发女人，一提起她生活中那激动人心的一刻就眉飞色舞。
“拉金，就是那个面包师，他走过来敲我家的门。‘是麦金蒂太太，’他说，‘我们怎么敲门都没回应。她可能生病了。’事实上我也这么认为。她毕竟不年轻了。据我所知，她还有心悸的毛病。我想她可能是中风了。于是，我赶紧去她家，看到那里只有他们两个男人，自然他们不方便进卧室。”
波洛嘟哝着对这种守礼的举动表示了赞赏。
“我匆忙上楼。他站在楼梯口，脸色苍白，面如死灰。当然，那时候我根本没想到，我不知道发生了什么事。我用力地敲了敲门，没有人答应，所以我转动门把手，打开门进去了。房间里乱成一团，地板也掀起来了。‘是抢劫，’我说，‘不过可怜的老太太哪儿去了？’然后我们才想到去客厅看看。她就在那儿……躺在地板上，脑袋开花！我一看就知道是怎么回事，是谋杀！不可能是别的！抢劫杀人！竟然发生在布罗德欣尼。我拼命叫啊叫！他们费了好大劲才劝住我。我真的吓昏过去了。他们不得不去三鸭酒吧给我弄了白兰地。即使这样，我还是抖了好几个小时。‘别这么激动了，大妈，’那警察来的时候对我说，‘别这么激动。回家给自己泡杯茶喝。’我照他说的做了。当艾略特回家的时候，他盯着我说，‘怎么啦，出什么事了？’因为我还在浑身发抖。我还是个孩子的时候就特别敏感。”
波洛巧妙地打断了这场惊心动魄的故事。
“是的，是的，我看得出来。那么你最后一次看到可怜的麦金蒂太太是什么时候？”
“应该是出事前一天，她到后花园摘了一点薄荷。我正在喂鸡。”
“她有没有和你说什么？”
“只道了午安，以及问鸡下蛋是不是多了一些。”
“这就是你最后一次见她吗？她死的那天你有没有见过她？”
“没有。不过我看到他了。”艾略特太太压低了声音说。“大概在上午十一点左右。就是沿着大路走。像他平时那样拖着脚走路。”
波洛等着，但她似乎没有什么要补充的。
他问：
“警察逮捕他的时候，你觉得意外吗？”
“嗯，我是觉得有些意外，但也不算太意外。你要知道，我一直觉得他有点疯疯癫癫的。毫无疑问，这些人有时会突然发狂。我叔叔有个低能的儿子，他有时就会狂性大作，我是说他长大后。不知道自己的力气有多大。是的，本特利就是一个疯疯癫癫的人，如果最后他们没有吊死他，而是把他送到疯人院，我是不会感到吃惊的。为什么，你看看他把钱藏到哪儿了。没有人会把钱藏在那样的地方，除非他想被人发现。真是愚蠢，头脑简单，他就是那样。”
“除非他想被人发现，”波洛喃喃地说，“你有没有丢过剁肉刀或者斧头？”
“没有，先生，我没有。警察问过我这个问题。问过我们这儿的所有人。他到底用什么凶器杀了她还是一个谜。”
Seven（3）
III
Hercule Poirot walked towards the post office.
The murderer had wanted the money found, but he had not wanted the weapon to be found.
For the money would point to James Bentley and the weapon would point to—whom?
He shook his head. He had visited the other two cottages. They had been less exuberant thanMrs. Kiddle and less dramatic than Mrs. Elliot. They had said in effect that Mrs. McGinty was avery respectable woman who kept herself to herself, that she had a niece over at Cullavon, thatnobody but the said niece ever came to see her, that nobody, so far as they knew, disliked her orbore a grudge against her, that was it true that there was a petition being got up for James Bentleyand would they be asked to sign it?
“I get nowhere—nowhere,” said Poirot to himself. “There is nothing—no little gleam. I canwell understand the despair of Superintendent Spence. But it should be different for me.
Superintendent Spence, he is a good and painstaking police officer, but me, I am Hercule Poirot.
For me, there should be illumination!”
One of his patent leather shoes slopped into a puddle and he winced.
He was the great, the unique Hercule Poirot, but he was also a very old man and his shoeswere tight.
He entered the post office.
The right-hand side was given to the business of His Majesty’s mails. The left-hand sidedisplayed a rich assortment of varied merchandise, comprising sweets, groceries, toys, hardware,stationery, birthday cards, knitting wool and children’s underclothes.
Poirot proceeded to a leisurely purchase of stamps.
The woman who bustled forward to attend to him was middle-aged with sharp, bright eyes.
“Here,” said Poirot to himself, “is undoubtedly the brains of the village of Broadhinny.”
Her name, not inappropriately, was Mrs. Sweetiman.
“And twelve pennies,” said Mrs. Sweetiman, deftly extracting them from a large book.
“That’s four and tenpence altogether. Will there be anything more, sir?”
She fixed a bright eager glance at him. Through the door at the back a girl’s head showedlistening avidly. She had untidy hair and a cold in the head.
“I am by way of being a stranger in these parts,” said Poirot solemnly.
“That’s right, sir,” agreed Mrs. Sweetiman. “Come down from London, haven’t you?”
“I expect you know my business here as well as I do,” said Poirot with a slight smile.
“Oh no, sir, I’ve really no idea,” said Mrs. Sweetiman in a wholly perfunctory manner.
“Mrs. McGinty,” said Poirot.
Mrs. Sweetiman shook her head.
“That was a sad business—a shocking business.”
“I expect you knew her well?”
“Oh I did. As well as anyone in Broadhinny, I should say. She’d always pass the time of daywith me when she came in here for any little thing. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. And not settledyet, or so I’ve heard people say.”
“There is a doubt—in some quarters—as to James Bentley’s guilt.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Sweetiman, “it wouldn’t be the first time the police got hold of the wrongman—though I wouldn’t say they had in this case. Not that I should have thought it of him really.
A shy, awkward sort of fellow, but not dangerous or so you’d think. But there, you never know, doyou?”
Poirot hazarded a request for notepaper.
“Of course, sir. Just come across the other side, will you?”
Mrs. Sweetiman bustled round to take her place behind the left-hand counter.
“What’s difficult to imagine is, who it could have been if it wasn’t Mr. Bentley,” sheremarked as she stretched up to a top shelf for notepaper and envelopes. “We do get some nastytramps along here sometimes, and it’s possible one of these might have found a windowunfastened and got in that way. But he wouldn’t go leaving the money behind him, would he? Notafter doing murder to get it—and pound notes anyway, nothing with numbers or marked. Here youare, sir, that’s a nice blue Bond, and envelopes to match.”
Poirot made his purchase.
“Mrs. McGinty never spoke of being nervous of anyone, or afraid, did she?” he asked.
“Not to me, she didn’t. She wasn’t a nervous woman. She’d stay late sometimes at Mr.
Carpenter’s—that’s Holmeleigh at the top of the hill. They often have people to dinner andstopping with them, and Mrs. McGinty would go there in the evening sometimes to help wash up,and she’d come down the hill in the dark, and that’s more than I’d like to do. Very dark it is—coming down that hill.”
“Do you know her niece at all—Mrs. Burch?”
“I know her just to speak to. She and her husband come over sometimes.”
“They inherited a little money when Mrs. McGinty died.”
The piercing dark eyes looked at him severely.
“Well, that’s natural enough, isn’t it, sir? You can’t take it with you, and it’s only right yourown flesh and blood should get it.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, I am entirely in agreement. Was Mrs. McGinty fond of her niece?”
“Very fond of her, I think, sir. In a quiet way.”
“And her niece’s husband?”
An evasive look appeared in Mrs. Sweetiman’s face.
“As far as I know.”
“When did you see Mrs. McGinty last?”
Mrs. Sweetiman considered, casting her mind back.
“Now let me see, when was it, Edna?” Edna, in the doorway, sniffed unhelpfully. “Was it theday she died? No, it was the day before—or the day before that again? Yes, it was a Monday.
That’s right. She was killed on the Wednesday. Yes, it was Monday. She came in to buy a bottleof ink.”
“She wanted a bottle of ink?”
“Expect she wanted to write a letter,” said Mrs. Sweetiman brightly.
“That seems probable. And she was quite her usual self, then? She did not seem different inany way?”
“N-no, I don’t think so.”
The sniffing Edna shuffled through the door into the shop and suddenly joined in theconversation.
“She was different,” she asserted. “Pleased about something—well—not quite pleased—excited.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Sweetiman. “Not that I noticed it at the time. But now thatyou say so—sort of spry, she was.”
“Do you remember anything she said on that day?”
“I wouldn’t ordinarily. But what with her being murdered and the police and everything, itmakes things stand out. She didn’t say anything about James Bentley, that I’m quite sure. Talkedabout the Carpenters a bit and Mrs. Upward—places where she worked, you know.”
“Oh yes, I was going to ask you whom exactly she worked for here.”
Mrs. Sweetiman replied promptly:
“Mondays and Thursdays she went to Mrs. Summerhayes at Long Meadow. That’s whereyou are staying, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Poirot sighed, “I suppose there is not anywhere else to stay?”
“Not right in Broadhinny, there isn’t. I suppose you aren’t very comfortable at LongMeadows? Mrs. Summerhayes is a nice lady but she doesn’t know the first thing about a house.
These ladies don’t who come back from foreign parts. Terrible mess there always was there toclean up, or so Mrs. McGinty used to say. Yes, Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings Mrs.
Summerhayes, then Tuesday mornings Dr. Rendell’s and afternoons Mrs. Upward at Laburnums.
Wednesday was Mrs. Wetherby at Hunter’s Close and Friday Mrs. Selkirk—Mrs. Carpenter she isnow. Mrs. Upward’s an elderly lady who lives with her son. They’ve got a maid, but she’s gettingon, and Mrs. McGinty used to go once a week to give things a good turn out. Mr. and Mrs.
Wetherby never seem to keep any help long—she’s rather an invalid. Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter havea beautiful home and do a lot of entertaining. They’re all very nice people.”
It was with this final pronouncement on the population of Broadhinny that Poirot went outinto the street again.
He walked slowly up the hill towards Long Meadows. He hoped devoutly that the contents ofthe bulged tin and the bloodstained beans had been duly eaten for lunch and had not been savedfor a supper treat for him. But possibly there were other doubtful tins. Life at Long Meadowscertainly had its dangers.
It had been, on the whole, a disappointing day.
What had he learned?
That James Bentley had a friend. That neither he nor Mrs. McGinty had had any enemies.
That Mrs. McGinty had looked excited two days before her death and had bought a bottle of ink—Poirot stopped dead .?.?. Was that a fact, a tiny fact at last?
He had asked idly, what Mrs. McGinty should want with a bottle of ink, and Mrs. Sweetimanhad replied, quite seriously, that she supposed she wanted to write a letter.
There was significance there—a significance that had nearly escaped him because to him, asto most people, writing a letter was a common everyday occurrence.
But it was not so to Mrs. McGinty. Writing a letter was to Mrs. McGinty such an uncommonoccurrence that she had to go out and buy a bottle of ink if she wanted to do so.
Mrs. McGinty, then, hardly ever wrote letters. Mrs. Sweetiman, who was the postmistress,was thoroughly cognisant of the fact. But Mrs. McGinty had written a letter two days before herdeath. To whom had she written and why?
It might be quite unimportant. She might have written to her niece—to an absent friend.
Absurd to lay such stress on a simple thing like a bottle of ink.
But it was all he had got and he was going to follow it up.
A bottle of ink .?.?.
第七章（3）
3波洛朝邮局走去。
凶手想让钱被发现，但他不想让凶器被发现。因为这笔钱将把矛头指向詹姆斯•本特利，那么凶器会指向谁？
他摇了摇头，然后拜访了其他两户邻居。他们没有基德尔太太那么兴致勃勃，也没有艾略特太太那么夸张。他们实事求是地说，麦金蒂太太是个受人尊敬的人。她不爱交际，有个侄女住在卡拉文。除了侄女，平时没有别人来探望她，据他们了解，没有人不喜欢她或对她怀恨在心。是不是真的有人为詹姆斯•本特利起草了一份请愿书，会要求他们签名吗？
“我一无所获，一无所获，”波洛自言自语道，“什么都没有，一点线索都没有。我现在能理解斯彭斯警监的绝望了。但我应该不同才是。斯彭斯警监是一个认真敬业的好警察，但我，我是赫尔克里•波洛啊。对我来说，应该能发现一线生机！”
他的一只漆皮鞋踩进了一处水坑。他缩回了脚。
他是伟大的、独一无二的波洛，但他也是一位老人，而他的鞋子太紧了。
他进了邮局。
右边是皇家邮政业务的区域。左边则陈列着琳琅满目的商品，包括糖果、杂货、玩具、五金、文具、生日贺卡、毛线、儿童内衣等。
波洛慢悠悠地走上前要买邮票。
上前来招呼他的中年妇女有着一双锐利而明亮的眼睛。
波洛自言自语道，“这儿应是布罗德欣尼的中心。”
她的名字恰如其分，叫斯威特曼，意即“甜心”。
“十二便士，”斯威特曼太太说，她麻利地从一个大本上撕下邮票。“一共是四先令十便士。还需要别的吗，先生？”
她明亮又热切的眼睛盯着他。门后露出一个女孩的头，显然在如饥似渴地偷听。她的头发凌乱，好像还感冒了。
“我在这里人生地不熟。”波洛一本正经地说。
“是的，先生，”斯威特曼太太说，“你从伦敦来的，是不是？”
“我想你很清楚我来此地的目的。”波洛微笑着说。
“哦，不，先生，我真的不知道。”斯威特曼太太敷衍道。
“麦金蒂太太。”波洛说。
斯威特曼太太摇了摇头。
“这是一场悲剧，一件令人震惊的惨剧。”
“我想你和她很熟吧？”
“哦，是的。应该说，我和布罗德欣尼的所有人一样和她相熟。她每次来这儿买些小东西的时候，总是会和我聊上一会儿。是的，真是一件可怕的悲剧。而且我听说，到现在都还没有结案。”
“目前还存在一些疑点，詹姆斯•本特利是否真的有罪。”
“好吧，”斯威特曼太太说，“这也不是警察第一次抓错人，虽然我不是指这个案子。我也没想到真的会是他。他是个害羞笨拙的家伙，但并不是什么危险的人。但是，谁也说不准，不是吗？”
波洛说还要买信纸。
“没问题，先生。请到另外一边，好吗？”
斯威特曼太太连忙来到左边柜台处。
“很难想象的是，如果不是本特利先生干的，那会是谁呢？”她说着伸手到最顶层的架子上去拿信纸和信封。“我们这儿有时也会来一些讨厌的流浪汉，也许他们中有人发现一扇窗子没关好，就进到屋里去了。但是，他不会把钱留下，对吗？杀人本来就是为了钱，一英镑的钞票上又没什么记号。给您，先生，这种蓝色的邦德信纸不错，信封也很配。”
波洛付了钱。
“麦金蒂太太有没有提过担心或害怕什么人吗？”他问。
“她没有跟我提过。她不是一个胆小的女人。她有时在卡朋特先生家做家务到很晚——就是在山顶上的霍姆雷庄。他们经常请人来吃饭，过夜，麦金蒂太太有时傍晚上去那里帮忙清洗打扫，就得摸黑下山，我可不敢这么做。天那么暗。还要独自下山。”
“你认识她的侄女伯奇太太吗？”
“只是说过话。她和她的丈夫有时会过来。”
“麦金蒂太太死后，他们继承了一点钱。”
犀利的黑眼睛严肃地望着他。
“嗯，这是自然的，是不是，先生？钱又带不走，留给自己的亲人是天经地义吧。”
“哦，是的，是的，我完全同意。麦金蒂太太喜欢她的侄女吗？”
“我认为很喜欢，先生。只是不那么外露。”
“那么她侄女的丈夫呢？”
斯威特曼太太的脸上现出回避的神色。
“据我所知也是的。”
“你最后一次见到麦金蒂太太是什么时候？”
斯威特曼太太想了想，回过神来。
“让我想想，是什么时候，埃德娜？”埃德娜站在门口，吸了吸鼻涕，帮不上忙。“是她死的那天吗？不，是前一天，还是再前一天？是的，是星期一。那就对了。她是星期三被杀的。是的，是星期一。她进来买了一瓶墨水。”
“她要买一瓶墨水？”
“大概要写信吧。”斯威特曼太太轻快地说。
“这似乎是可能的。那她和平常一样吗？有没有什么不寻常的地方？”
“没有，我没这么觉得。”
吸着鼻涕的埃德娜从门后出来，进到店里，突然加入了谈话。
“她那天不一样，”她断言，“好像为什么事开心，嗯，不算很开心，是兴奋。”
“也许你是对的，”斯威特曼太太说。“我当时没注意。但现在你这么一说，她的确有些快活。”
“你还记得她那天说了什么吗？”
“我通常是记不得这些事的。但因为她被杀，警察再三询问，印象就清晰了。她没有提起詹姆斯•本特利，这一点我敢肯定。谈了一点卡朋特家的事，还有厄普沃德夫人，都是她工作的地方。”
“哦，是的，我正想问你，她到底在哪些人家里帮佣。”
斯威特曼太太不假思索地回答：
“星期一和星期四她去长草地旅馆的萨摩海斯家。你就住在那里，对吗？”
“是的。”波洛叹了口气，“我想这儿没有别的地方可住的吧？”
“在布罗德欣尼是没有。我想你在长草地住得不是很舒服吧？萨摩海斯太太是个好姑娘，但她完全不会理家。这些从国外回来的小姐太太都是这样。麦金蒂太太常说，那里乱得可怕，有收拾不完的东西。是的，星期一下午和星期四上午给萨摩海斯太太帮忙，星期二上午在伦德尔医生家，下午在‘金链花庄园’的厄普沃德太太家。星期三是‘亨特庄’的韦瑟比太太家，星期五是谢尔柯克太太——她现在成了卡朋特太太了。厄普沃德太太是一位老夫人，和她的儿子住在一起。他们有一个女佣，但她还是个新手，麦金蒂太太每个星期去一次，大体上清理清理。韦瑟比夫妇请人似乎从来干不长，韦瑟比太太行动不便。卡朋特夫妇有一幢漂亮的房子，常常大宴宾客。他们都是非常好的人。”
听完对布罗德欣尼居民的评价，波洛又回到了街上。
他慢慢地走上小丘，向长草地旅馆走去。他由衷地希望，那些鼓起的罐头和沾了血的豆子已经被当作午餐吃掉了，没有留在晚餐招待他。但可能还有其他可疑的罐头。住在长草地旅馆的确有风险。
这一天，整体而言，是令人失望的一天。
他到底打听到了什么？
詹姆斯•本特利有一个朋友。无论他还是麦金蒂太太都没有任何仇人。麦金蒂太太在死前两天似乎很兴奋，买了一瓶墨水——
波洛突然停了下来……这不就是一个线索，一个小小的线索吗？
他当时随口问了一句，麦金蒂太太买一瓶墨水想要干什么，斯威特曼太太颇为慎重地回答，她认为她想写信……
此事别有深意，他差点忽略了它的意义，因为对于他来说，对于大多数人来说，写信是极其寻常的日常琐事。
但对于麦金蒂太太不一样。写信对麦金蒂太太是极不寻常的，以至于她还不得不特地去买了一瓶墨水。
麦金蒂太太几乎没有写过信。斯威特曼太太——这位邮政局长，是充分了解这一事实的。但是麦金蒂太太在她死前两天写了一封信。她写给谁，为什么？
这也许无关紧要。她可能写给她的侄女或者远方的朋友。为了一瓶墨水这样简单的东西而大费周章实在太荒谬了。
但是，这是他目前为止唯一的线索，他打算继续追查下去。
一瓶墨水……