Chapter One
Chapter One
Hercule Poirot frowned.
“Miss Lemon,” he said.
“Yes, M. Poirot?”
“There are three mistakes in this letter.”
His voice held incredulity. For Miss Lemon, that hideous and efficient woman, never mademistakes. She was never ill, never tired, never upset, never inaccurate. For all practical purposes,that is to say, she was not a woman at all. She was a machine—the perfect secretary. She kneweverything, she coped with everything. She ran Hercule Poirot’s life for him, so that it, too,functioned like a machine. Order and method had been Hercule Poirot’s watchwords from manyyears ago. With George, his perfect manservant, and Miss Lemon, his perfect secretary, order andmethod ruled supreme in his life. Now that crumpets were baked square as well as round, he hadnothing about which to complain.
And yet, this morning, Miss Lemon had made three mistakes in typing a perfectly simple letter,and moreover, had not even noticed those mistakes. The stars stood still in their courses!
Hercule Poirot held out the offending document. He was not annoyed, he was merelybewildered. This was one of the things that could not happen—but it had happened!
Miss Lemon took the letter. She looked at it. For the first time in his life, Poirot saw her blush; adeep ugly unbecoming flush that dyed her face right up to the roots of her strong grizzled hair.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I can’t think how—at least I can. It’s because of my sister.”
“Your sister?”
Another shock. Poirot had never conceived of Miss Lemon’s having a sister. Or, for that matter,having a father, mother, or even grandparents. Miss Lemon, somehow, was so completely machinemade—a precision instrument so to speak—that to think of her having affections, or anxieties, orfamily worries, seemed quite ludicrous. It was well known that the whole of Miss Lemon’s heartand mind was given, when she was not on duty, to the perfection of a new filing system which wasto be patented and bear her name.
“Your sister?” Hercule Poirot repeated, therefore, with an incredulous note in his voice.
Miss Lemon nodded a vigorous assent.
“Yes,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned her to you. Practically all her life has beenspent in Singapore. Her husband was in the rubber business there.”
Hercule Poirot nodded understandingly. It seemed to him appropriate that Miss Lemon’s sistershould have spent most of her life in Singapore. That was what places like Singapore were for.
The sisters of women like Miss Lemon married men in Singapore, so that the Miss Lemons of thisworld could devote themselves with machinelike efficiency to their employers’ affairs (and ofcourse to the invention of filing systems in their moments of relaxation).
“I comprehend,” he said. “Proceed.”
Miss Lemon proceeded.
“She was left a widow four years ago. No children. I managed to get her fixed up in a very nicelittle flat at quite a reasonable rent—”
(Of course Miss Lemon would manage to do just that almost impossible thing.)“She is reasonably well off—though money doesn’t go as far as it did, but her tastes aren’texpensive and she has enough to be quite comfortable if she is careful.”
Miss Lemon paused and then continued:
“But the truth is, of course, she was lonely. She had never lived in England and she’d got no oldfriends or cronies and of course she had a lot of time on her hands. Anyway, she told me about sixmonths ago that she was thinking of taking up this job.”
“Job?”
“Warden, I think they call it—or matron—of a hostel for students. It was owned by a womanwho was partly Greek and she wanted someone to run it for her. Manage the catering and see thatthings went smoothly. It’s an old-fashioned roomy house—in Hickory Road, if you know wherethat is.” Poirot did not. “It used to be a superior neighbourhood once, and the houses are well built.
My sister was to have very nice accommodation, bedroom and sitting room and a tiny bathkitchenette of her own—”
Miss Lemon paused. Poirot made an encouraging noise. So far this did not seem at all like a taleof disaster.
“I wasn’t any too sure about it myself, but I saw the force of my sister’s arguments. She’s neverbeen one to sit with her hands crossed all day long and she’s a very practical woman and good atrunning things—and of course it wasn’t as though she were thinking of putting money into it oranything like that. It was purely a salaried position—not a high salary, but she didn’t need that,and there was no hard physical work. She’s always been fond of young people and good withthem, and having lived in the East so long she understands racial differences and people’ssusceptibilities. Because these students at the hostel are of all nationalities; mostly English, butsome of them actually black, I believe.”
“Naturally,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Half the nurses in our hospitals seem to be black nowadays,” said Miss Lemon doubtfully,“and I understand much pleasanter and more attentive than the English ones. But that’s neitherhere nor there. We talked the scheme over and finally my sister moved in. Neither she nor I caredvery much for the proprietress, Mrs. Nicoletis, a woman of very uncertain temper, sometimescharming and sometimes, I’m sorry to say, quite the reverse—and both cheeseparing andimpractical. Still, naturally, if she’d been a thoroughly competent woman, she wouldn’t haveneeded any assistance. My sister is not one to let people’s tantrums and vagaries worry her. Shecan hold her own with anyone and she never stands any nonsense.”
Poirot nodded. He felt a vague resemblance to Miss Lemon showing in this account of MissLemon’s sister—a Miss Lemon softened as it were by marriage and the climate of Singapore, buta woman with the same hard core of sense.
“So your sister took the job?” he asked.
“Yes, she moved into 26 Hickory Road about six months ago. On the whole, she liked her workthere and found it interesting.”
Hercule Poirot listened. So far the adventure of Miss Lemon’s sister had been disappointinglytame.
“But for some time now she’s been badly worried. Very badly worried.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, M. Poirot, she doesn’t like the things that are going on.”
“There are students there of both sexes?” Poirot inquired delicately.
“Oh no, M. Poirot, I don’t mean that! One is always prepared for difficulties of that kind, oneexpects them! No, you see, things have been disappearing.”
“Disappearing?”
“Yes. And such odd things . . . And all in rather an unnatural way.”
“When you say things have been disappearing, you mean things have been stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Have the police been called in?”
“No. Not yet. My sister hopes that it may not be necessary. She is fond of these young people—of some of them, that is—and she would very much prefer to straighten things out by herself.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “I can quite see that. But that does not explain, if I may say so,your own anxiety which I take to be a reflex of your sister’s anxiety.”
“I don’t like the situation, M. Poirot. I don’t like it at all. I cannot help feeling that something isgoing on which I do not understand. No ordinary explanation seems quite to cover the facts—and Ireally cannot imagine what other explanation there can be.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Miss Lemon’s Heel of Achilles had always been her imagination. She had none. On questionsof fact she was invincible. On questions of surmise, she was lost. Not for her the state of mind ofCortez’s men upon the peak of Darien.
“Not ordinary petty thieving? A kleptomaniac, perhaps?”
“I do not think so. I read up the subject,” said the conscientious Miss Lemon, “in theEncyclopaedia Britannica and in a medical work. But I was not convinced.”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.
Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon’s sister and the passions andgrievances of a polyglot hostel? But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemonmaking mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in thematter, that would be the reason. He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of lateand that the very triviality of the business attracted him.
“ ‘The parsley sinking into the butter on a hot day,’ ” he murmured to himself.
“Parsley? Butter?” Miss Lemon looked startled.
“A quotation from one of your classics,” he said. “You are acquainted, no doubt, with theAdventures, to say nothing of the Exploits, of Sherlock Holmes.”
“You mean these Baker Street societies and all that,” said Miss Lemon. “Grown men being sosilly! But there, that’s men all over. Like the model railways they go on playing with. I can’t sayI’ve ever had time to read any of the stories. When I do get time for reading, which isn’t veryoften, I prefer an improving book.”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head gracefully.
“How would it be, Miss Lemon, if you were to invite your sister here for some suitablerefreshment—afternoon tea, perhaps? I might be able to be of some slight assistance to her.”
“That’s very kind of you, M. Poirot. Really very kind indeed. My sister is always free in theafternoons.”
“Then shall we say tomorrow, if you can arrange it?”
And in due course, the faithful George was instructed to provide a meal of square crumpetsrichly buttered, symmetrical sandwiches, and other suitable components of a lavish Englishafternoon tea.
第一章
第一章
赫尔克里•波洛皱着眉头。
“莱蒙小姐。”他叫道。
“什么事，波洛先生？”
“这封信里有三处错误。”
他的语气中带着疑惑，因为莱蒙小姐这位做事高效得可以称之为恐怖的女人从来没有犯过错误。她从未生过病、从未感到累、从未心烦过，也从未犯过错。事实上换句话说，她根本不是女人，而是机器——一位完美的秘书。她知晓一切，能处理所有事务。她为赫尔克里•波洛处理生活琐事，以便让他也像机器一样运转着。多年以来，规则和方法成为赫尔克里•波洛的口号。他与完美的仆人乔治和完美的秘书莱蒙小姐在一起，规则和方法在他的生活中处于至高无上的地位。既然松脆饼既可以烤成方形的，也可以烤成圆形的，他就没什么可抱怨的了。
然而今天早晨，莱蒙小姐打一封极其简单的信就错了三处，而且她甚至没注意到这些错误。这种打破规律的事简直就像星星在轨道上停滞不前了！
赫尔克里递过那份令他不悦的文件。他并没有生气，只不过感到困惑。这是件不可能发生的事情——但它确实发生了！
莱蒙小姐接过这封信，看着它。这还是波洛平生第一次看见她脸红；一副与她特别不相称的窘迫表情从她的脸上蔓延到浓密而有些花白的发根。
“哎呀，”她说，“不敢想象怎么会这样。但我想是因为我的姐姐。”
“你的姐姐？”
心中又是一震。波洛从没想过莱蒙小姐还有个姐姐，或者类似的有父亲、母亲甚至祖父母。不知怎么，他觉得莱蒙小姐完全像是机器做的——可以说是精密仪器——以至于想象她有情感、会焦虑、会为亲属担忧似乎是荒唐可笑的。众所周知，当莱蒙小姐不当班时，她将全部精力都倾注在完善新的文件编排系统上，她有可能就此申请专利并署名。
“你的姐姐？”赫尔克里•波洛故此又问了一次，语气中带着怀疑。
莱蒙小姐用力地点了点头，表示肯定。
“是的，”她说，“我想我从没跟您提起过她。事实上，她的前半生都是在新加坡度过的。她丈夫在那里做橡胶生意。”
赫尔克里•波洛点头会意。在他看来，莱蒙小姐的姐姐大部分时间生活在新加坡是理所当然的。新加坡这类地方正适合这种生活。像莱蒙小姐这类女人的姐姐在新加坡嫁了人，这个世界上所有的莱蒙小姐就能够像高效的机器般致力于她们雇主的事务了。（当然，她们在业余时间还能发明文件编排系统。）
“我知道了，”他说，“请继续说吧。”
莱蒙小姐接着说。
“四年前她成了寡妇，膝下无儿无女。我设法帮她安排住进了一间非常不错的小公寓里，租金也很合理……”
（当然了，莱蒙小姐总会有办法解决这样或那样几乎不可能的事。）“她手头上也还算比较宽裕——尽管钱不像以前那么多了。但她不追求奢华，如果谨慎度日，足够她过得非常舒服。”
莱蒙小姐停顿了一下，然后继续说：“然而实话实说，当然了，她感到孤单。她从没在英格兰居住过，没有老朋友或是关系密切的朋友。她自然有大把的空闲时间。总之，半年前她告诉我，她正考虑着找一份工作。”
“工作？”
“学监，我想人们也称之为女宿管，青年学生宿舍里的那种。宿舍是个有希腊血统的女人开的，她希望找个人帮她管理。负责饮食，顺利开展日常事务。那是一所老式宽敞的房子，在山核桃大街，如果你知道那个地方。”波洛并不了解。“那里曾经是高档住宅区，房子盖得很不错。我姐姐在那里的食宿条件很好，有自己的卧室、客厅、小浴室和厨房……”
莱蒙小姐停了下来。波洛鼓励她继续说。到目前为止还看不出这哪里像个不幸的故事。
“我对这事不以为然，但我发现我姐姐的理由很有说服力。她从来都不是整天无所事事的那种人，而是个非常务实的女人，善于处理事情——当然她好像并不想把钱拿来做投资之类的。那只是个能领到薪水的职位——薪资不算高，她也不缺钱花，没有什么重体力活要干。她向来喜欢年轻人，与他们相处融洽。她在东方生活了那么久，自然比较了解种族的差异和人类的情感。因为那家宿舍里的学生来自各个国家；大部分是英国人，但实际上想必其中有些是黑人。”
“很正常。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“我们医院里现在几乎一半的护士都是黑人。”莱蒙小姐疑惑地说，“在我看来，他们比那些英国人更和蔼可亲、更细致入微。这与我要说的没什么关系。我们详细讨论过这个计划，最终我姐姐搬进去了。我们俩都不太喜欢那家的女主人，尼科莱蒂斯夫人，一个喜怒无常的女人。她有时可爱迷人，而有时嘛，我不得不遗憾地说，完全相反——既吝啬又不切实际。当然，如果她是个十分能干的女人，那就不需要帮手了。别人大发雷霆也好，反复无常也罢，我姐姐是个不受这些影响的人。她能够在任何人面前坚持自己的意见，绝不容忍别人胡闹。”
波洛点了点头。听了介绍的情况，他感到莱蒙小姐和她的姐姐隐约有些相似之处——一个由于婚姻和新加坡的气候而变得温柔的莱蒙小姐，但拥有同样坚强无比的内心。
“那么你姐姐接受了这项工作？”他问道。
“是的，半年前她搬到了山核桃大街二十六号。总体上她喜欢那里的工作，觉得很有意思。”
赫尔克里•波洛倾听着。到目前为止，莱蒙小姐姐姐的冒险经历还是平淡无奇得让人失望。
“然而，近一段时间她忧心忡忡，十分焦虑。”
“为什么？”
“这个，跟您说，波洛先生，她不太喜欢正在发生的一些事情。”
“那里是男女学生混住吧？”波洛含蓄地问道。
“哦，不，波洛先生，我不是要表达那个意思！通常人们对那种问题有心理准备，可以说是意料之中！不，跟您说吧，是有东西不见了。”
“不见了？”
“是的。还是些稀奇古怪的东西……而且丢东西的方式异乎寻常。”
“你说东西不见了，是指东西被偷了吗？”
“正是。”
“打过电话叫警察了吗？”
“没有，还没。我姐姐希望不必惊动警察。她喜爱那些年轻人——确切地说是其中一些人，她更愿意自己查明真相。”
“是，”波洛若有所思地说，“我完全理解。但恕我直言，这个解释不了你的担忧，我认为你是受了你姐姐焦虑的影响。”
“我不喜欢这种状态，波洛先生，一点也不喜欢。我不禁感到我不理解的一些事情正在发生。普通的解释似乎都不能很好地还原事实真相——我实在想不出还能有什么其他解释。”
波洛思索着点了点头。
莱蒙小姐唯一的弱点是缺乏想象力。一点想象力都没有。在处理实际问题时，什么都难不住她。但在需要推测时，她就不知所措了。她可不具备达瑞恩山顶上科特兹随从们（注：典故来源于英国诗人约翰•济慈的十四行诗《初读查普曼译荷马有感》（On FirstLooking Into Chapman’s Homer）。诗中有一部分内容是科特兹站在达瑞恩山顶凝视着太平洋，而他的随从纷纷做出天马行空的猜测。）的心理状态。
“不是一般的小偷？也许是个有偷窃癖的人？”
“我认为不是那种人干的。”莱蒙小姐认真地说，“我研读了《大英百科全书》和医疗著作里的相关内容，但我不能确定。”
赫尔克里•波洛足足有一分半钟沉默不语。
他想让自己陷入莱蒙小姐的姐姐以及多国人宿舍的麻烦中去吗？不参与的话，莱蒙小姐再给他打字时出了错可就比较烦人和不便了。他告诉自己，如果参与这件麻烦事，也完全是出于这个理由。波洛自己并不承认近来相当无聊，因此连这么一点鸡毛蒜皮的小事也能引起他的兴趣。
“芹菜在热天沉在黄油里（注：引自《福尔摩斯探案全集•归来记》（The Return ofSherlock Holmes）中的《六尊拿破仑半身像》（The Six Napoleons）。福尔摩斯在讲述怪癖行动对破案的作用时提到，热天放到黄油里的芹菜会沉多深引起了他的注意，从而破了阿巴涅特家的案子。）。”他嘟囔着。
“芹菜？黄油？”莱蒙小姐一脸吃惊的表情。
“从你们的一部经典著作中引用的。”他说，“无疑你应该很熟悉夏洛克•福尔摩斯的《冒险史》（注：准确地说应该出自《归来记》。），更不必说《福尔摩斯的功绩》（注：由阿瑟•柯南•道尔的儿子阿德里安•柯南•道尔和美国作家约翰•迪克森•卡尔合著，出版于一九五四年。本书写于一九五五年，故波洛认为莱蒙小姐应该熟悉。）了。”
“你是指那些贝克街协会之类的吧。”莱蒙小姐说，“成年男人真是愚蠢！但是那里到处都是。他们长这么大了还在玩铁路模型之类的玩具。我得说我没什么时间读那些故事书。
我看书的时间不太多，闲暇时我更愿意读读有助于提升能力的书。”
赫尔克里•波洛优雅地点了下头。
“莱蒙小姐，假如邀请你姐姐过来吃些不错的点心，或许是下午茶，怎么样？我也许可以给她一点帮助。”
“您太好了，波洛先生。真是个大好人。我姐姐通常下午都休息。”
“那么如果你能安排的话，我们明天聊聊怎么样？”
他又安排忠诚的乔治在适当的时候提供些多涂黄油的方形松脆饼、均匀的三明治和其他适合组成丰盛的英国下午茶的点心。
Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Miss Lemon’s sister, whose name was Mrs. Hubbard, had a definite resemblance to her sister. Shewas a good deal yellower of skin, she was plumper, her hair was more frivolously done, and shewas less brisk in manner, but the eyes that looked out of a round and amiable countenance werethe same shrewd eyes that gleamed through Miss Lemon’s pince-nez.
“This is very kind of you, I’m sure, M. Poirot,” she said. “Very kind. And such a delicious tea,too. I’m sure I’ve eaten far more than I should—well, perhaps just one more sandwich—tea? Well,just half a cup.”
“First,” said Poirot, “we make the repast—afterwards we get down to business.”
He smiled at her amiably and twirled his moustache, and Mrs. Hubbard said:
“You know, you’re exactly like I pictured you from Felicity’s description.”
After a moment’s startled realisation that Felicity was the severe Miss Lemon’s Christian name,Poirot replied that he should have expected no less given Miss Lemon’s efficiency.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Hubbard absently, taking a second sandwich, “Felicity has never caredfor people. I do. That’s why I’m so worried.”
“Can you explain to me exactly what does worry you?”
“Yes, I can. It would be natural enough for money to be taken—small sums here and there. Andif it were jewellery that’s quite straightforward too—at least, I don’t mean straightforward, quitethe opposite—but it would fit in—with kleptomania or dishonesty. But I’ll just read you a list ofthe things that have been taken, that I’ve put down on paper.”
Mrs. Hubbard opened her bag and took out a small notebook.
Evening shoe (one of a new pair)
Bracelet (costume jewellery)
Diamond ring (found in plate of soup)
Powder compact
Lipstick
Stethoscope
Earrings
Cigarette lighter
Old flannel trousers
Electric lightbulbs
Box of chocolates
Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)
Rucksack (ditto)
Boracic powder
Bath salts
Cookery book
Hercule Poirot drew in a long deep breath.
“Remarkable,” he said, “and quite—quite fascinating.”
He was entranced. He looked from the severe disapproving face of Miss Lemon to the kindly,distressed face of Mrs. Hubbard.
“I congratulate you,” he said warmly to the latter.
She looked startled.
“But why, M. Poirot?”
“I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem.”
“Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, M. Poirot, but—”
“It does not make sense at all. It reminds me of nothing so much as a round game I was recentlypersuaded to play by some young friends during the Christmas season. It was called, I understand,the Three Horned Lady. Each person in turn uttered the following phrase, ‘I went to Paris andbought—’ adding some article. The next person repeated that and added a further article and theobject of the game was to memorise in their proper order the articles thus enumerated, some ofthem, I may say, of a most monstrous and ridiculous nature. A piece of soap, a white elephant, agate-legged table and a Muscovy duck were, I remember, some of the items. The difficulty ofmemorisation lay, of course, in the totally unrelated nature of the objects—the lack of sequence, soto speak. As in the list you have just shown me. By the time that, say, twelve objects had beenmentioned, to enumerate them in their proper order became almost impossible. A failure to do soresulted in a paper horn being handed to the competitor and he or she had to continue therecitation next time in the terms, ‘I, a one horned lady, went to Paris,’ etc. After three horns hadbeen acquired, retirement was compulsory, the last left in was the winner.”
“I’m sure you were the winner, M. Poirot,” said Miss Lemon, with the faith of a loyalemployee.
Poirot beamed.
“That was, in fact, so,” he said. “To even the most haphazard assembly of objects one can bringorder, and with a little ingenuity, sequence, so to speak. That is: one says to oneself mentally,‘With a piece of soap I wash the dirt from a large white marble elephant which stands on agatelegged table’—and so on.”
Mrs. Hubbard said respectfully: “Perhaps you could do the same thing with the list of thingsI’ve given you.”
“Undoubtedly I could. A lady with her right shoe on, puts a bracelet on her left arm. She thenputs on powder and lipstick and goes down to dinner and drops her ring in the soup, and so on—Icould thus commit your list to memory—but that is not what we are seeking. Why was such ahaphazard collection of things stolen? Is there any system behind it? Some fixed idea of any kind?
We have here primarily a process of analysis. The first thing to do is to study the list of objectsvery carefully.”
There was a silence whilst Poirot applied himself to study. Mrs. Hubbard watched him with therapt attention of a small boy watching a conjurer, waiting hopefully for a rabbit or at least streamsof coloured ribbons to appear. Miss Lemon, unimpressed, withdrew into consideration of the finerpoints of the system.
When Poirot finally spoke, Mrs. Hubbard jumped.
“The first thing that strikes me is this,” said Poirot. “Of all these things that disappeared, most ofthem were of small value (some quite negligible) with the exception of two—a stethoscope and adiamond ring. Leaving the stethoscope aside for a moment, I should like to concentrate on thering. You say a valuable ring—how valuable?”
“Well, I couldn’t say exactly, M. Poirot. It was a solitaire diamond, with a cluster of smalldiamonds top and bottom. It had been Miss Lane’s mother’s engagement ring, I understand. Shewas most upset when it was missing, and we were all relieved when it turned up the same eveningin Miss Hobhouse’s plate of soup. Just a nasty practical joke, we thought.”
“And so it may have been. But I myself consider that its theft and return are significant. If alipstick, or a powder compact or a book are missing—it is not sufficient to make you call in thepolice. But a valuable diamond ring is different. There is every chance that the police will becalled in. So the ring is returned.”
“But why take it if you’re going to return it?” said Miss Lemon, frowning.
“Why indeed,” said Poirot. “But for the moment we will leave the questions. I am engaged nowon classifying these thefts, and I am taking the ring first. Who is this Miss Lane from whom it wasstolen?”
“Patricia Lane? She’s a very nice girl. Going in for a what-do-you-call-it, a diploma in historyor archaeology or something.”
“Well off?”
“Oh no. She’s got a little money of her own, but she’s very careful always. The ring, as I say,belonged to her mother. She has one or two nice bits of jewellery but she doesn’t have many newclothes, and she’s given up smoking lately.”
“What is she like? Describe her to me in your own words.”
“Well, she’s sort of betwixt and between in colouring. Rather washed-out looking. Quiet andladylike, but not much spirit to her. What you’d call rather a—well, an earnest type of girl.”
“And the ring turned up again in Miss Hobhouse’s plate of soup. Who is Miss Hobhouse?”
“Valerie Hobhouse? She’s a clever dark girl with rather a sarcastic way of talking. She works ina beauty parlour. Sabrina Fair—I suppose you have heard of it.”
“Are these two girls friendly?”
Mrs. Hubbard considered.
“I should say so—yes. They don’t have much to do with each other. Patricia gets on well witheverybody, I should say, without being particularly popular or anything like that. ValerieHobhouse has her enemies, her tongue being what it is—but she’s got quite a following too, if youknow what I mean.”
“I think I know,” said Poirot.
So Patricia Lane was nice but dull, and Valerie Hobhouse had personality. He resumed hisstudy of the list of thefts.
“What is so intriguing is all the different categories represented here. There are the small triflesthat would tempt a girl who was both vain and hard up, the lipstick, the costume jewellery, apowder compact—bath salts—the box of chocolates, perhaps. Then we have the stethoscope, amore likely theft for a man who would know just where to sell it or pawn it. Who did it belongto?”
“It belonged to Mr. Bateson—he’s a big friendly young man.”
“A medical student?”
“Yes.”
“Was he very angry?”
“He was absolutely livid, M. Poirot. He’s got one of those flaring up tempers—say anything atthe time, but it’s soon over. He’s not the sort who’d take kindly to having his things pinched.”
“Does anyone?”
“Well, there’s Mr. Gopal Ram, one of our Indian students. He smiles at everything. He waveshis hand and says material possessions do not matter—”
“Has anything been stolen from him?”
“No.”
“Ah! Who did the flannel trousers belong to?”
“Mr. McNabb. Very old they were, and anyone else would say they were done for, but Mr.
McNabb is very attached to his old clothes and he never throws anything away.”
“So we have come to the things that it would seem were not worth stealing—old flanneltrousers, electric lightbulbs, boracic powder, bath salts—a cookery book. They may be important,more likely they are not. The boracic was probably removed by error, someone may have removeda dead bulb and intended to replace it, but forgot—the cookery book may have been borrowed andnot returned. Some charwoman may have taken away the trousers.”
“We employ two very reliable cleaning women. I’m sure they would neither of them have donesuch a thing without asking first.”
“You may be right. Then there is the evening shoe, one of a new pair, I understand? Who dothey belong to?”
“Sally Finch. She’s an American girl studying over here on a Fulbright scholarship.”
“Are you sure that the shoe has not simply been mislaid? I cannot conceive what use one shoecould be to anyone.”
“It wasn’t mislaid, M. Poirot. We all had a terrific hunt. You see Miss Finch was going out to aparty in what she calls ‘formal dress’—evening dress to us—and the shoes were really vital—theywere her only evening ones.”
“It caused her inconvenience—and annoyance—yes . . . yes, I wonder. Perhaps there issomething there. . . .”
He was silent for a moment or two and then went on.
“And there are two more items—a rucksack cut to pieces and a silk scarf in the same state. Herewe have something that is neither vanity, nor profit—instead we have something that isdeliberately vindictive. Who did the rucksack belong to?”
“Nearly all the students have rucksacks—they all hitchhike a lot, you know. And a great manyof the rucksacks are alike—bought at the same place, so it’s hard to identify one from the other.
But it seems fairly certain that this one belonged to Leonard Bateson or Colin McNabb.”
“And the silk scarf that was also cut about. To whom did that belong?”
“To Valerie Hobhouse. She had it as a Christmas present—it was emerald green and really goodquality.”
“Miss Hobhouse . . . I see.”
Poirot closed his eyes. What he perceived mentally was a kaleidoscope, no more, no less. Piecesof cut-up scarves and rucksacks, cookery books, lipsticks, bath salts; names and thumbnailsketches of odd students. Nowhere was there cohesion or form. Unrelated incidents and peoplewhirled round in space. But Poirot knew quite well that somehow and somewhere there must be apattern . . . The question was where to start.. . . .
He opened his eyes.
“This is a matter that needs some reflection. A good deal of reflection.”
“Oh, I’m sure it does, M. Poirot,” assented Mrs. Hubbard eagerly. “And I’m sure I didn’t wantto trouble you—”
“You are not troubling me. I am intrigued. But whilst I am reflecting, we might make a start onthe practical side. A start . . . The shoe, the evening shoe . . . yes, we might make a start there.
Miss Lemon.”
“Yes, M. Poirot?” Miss Lemon banished filing from her thoughts, sat even more upright, andreached automatically for pad and pencil.
“Mrs. Hubbard will obtain for you, perhaps, the remaining shoe. Then go to Baker StreetStation, to the lost property department. The loss occurred—when?”
Mrs. Hubbard considered.
“Well, I can’t remember exactly now, M. Poirot. Perhaps two months ago. I can’t get nearerthan that. But I could find out from Sally Finch the date of the party.”
“Yes. Well——” He turned once more to Miss Lemon. “You can be a little vague. You will sayyou left a shoe in an Inner Circle train—that is the most likely—or you may have left it in someother train. Or possibly a bus. How many buses serve the neighbourhood of Hickory Road?”
“Two only, M. Poirot.”
“Good. If you get no results from Baker Street, try Scotland Yard and say it was left in a taxi.”
“Lambeth,” corrected Miss Lemon efficiently.
Poirot waved a hand.
“You always know these things.”
“But why do you think—” began Mrs. Hubbard.
Poirot interrupted her.
“Let us see first what results we get. Then, if they are negative or positive, you and I, Mrs.
Hubbard, must consult again. You will tell me then those things which it is necessary that I shouldknow.”
“I really think I’ve told you everything I can.”
“No, no. I disagree. Here we have young people herded together, of varying temperaments, ofdifferent sexes. A loves B, but B loves C, and D and E are at daggers drawn because of A perhaps.
It is all that I need to know. The interplay of human emotions. The quarrels, the jealousies, thefriendships, the malice and all uncharitableness.”
“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Hubbard uncomfortably, “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. Idon’t mix at all. I just run the place and see to the catering and all that.”
“But you are interested in people. You have told me so. You like young people. You took thispost, not because it was of much interest financially, but because it would bring you in contactwith human problems. There will be those of the students that you like and some that you do notlike so well, or indeed at all, perhaps. You will tell me—yes, you will tell me! Because you areworried—not about what has been happening—you could go to the police about that—”
“Mrs. Nicoletis wouldn’t like to have the police in, I assure you.”
Poirot swept on, disregarding the interruption.
“No, you are worried about someone—someone who you think may have been responsible or atleast mixed up in this. Someone, therefore, that you like.”
“Really, M. Poirot.”
“Yes, really. And I think you are right to be worried. For that silk scarf cut to pieces, it is notnice. And the slashed rucksack, that also is not nice. For the rest it seems childishness—and yet—Iam not sure. I am not sure at all!”
第二章
第二章
莱蒙小姐的姐姐是哈伯德太太，和她妹妹颇有几分相似。只是她的皮肤要黄得多，体态丰满，头发更加凌乱，举止略显呆板，但双眼透射出的和蔼可亲之情，正如莱蒙小姐的眼睛透过夹鼻眼镜闪现出来的机智一样。
“您真好，真的，波洛先生。”她说，“特别感谢您，还准备了这么可口的茶点。我相信我已经吃了远远超过我应该吃的量。呃，可以的话就再给我一份三明治吧。茶？好吧，只要半杯好了。”
“现在，”波洛说，“我们吃饱喝足，该谈谈正事了。”
他一边和蔼地朝她笑了笑，一边用手捻着小胡子。
哈伯德太太说：“不瞒您说，您与费莉希蒂向我描述的形象几乎完全一致。”
波洛惊讶了好一会儿才反应过来，费莉希蒂是不苟言笑的莱蒙小姐的教名。他回答说本该预料到莱蒙小姐做事的严谨程度。
“当然了，”哈伯德太太心不在焉地说，又拿起一个三明治，“费莉希蒂从来不会关心别人。我可不那样。这就是我为什么这么担心。”
“你能具体解释一下究竟在担心什么吗？”
“好的，可以。如果是钱，散落在各处的零钱，被人拿走是再自然不过的事了。或者珠宝被偷也很简单——当然我不是说简单，恰恰相反，只是可以跟偷窃癖或者不诚实的行为对号入座。我给您读一下丢失东西的清单，我写在纸上了。”
哈伯德太太打开她的包，取出一个小笔记本。
晚装鞋（一双新鞋中的一只）
手镯（人造珠宝）
钻石戒指（后在汤盘里找到）
粉盒
口红
听诊器
耳环
香烟打火机
旧的法兰绒裤子
电灯泡
一盒巧克力
丝巾（发现被人剪碎了）
帆布背包（同上）
硼酸粉
浴盐
食谱
赫尔克里•波洛深吸了一口气。
“太不寻常了，”他说，“而且十分……十分吸引人。”
他完全着迷了。他的目光从莱蒙小姐表示严重反对的表情转移到哈伯德太太那亲切又忧虑的面孔。
“恭喜你。”他热情地对后者说。
哈伯德太太显得很吃惊。
“为什么这样说，波洛先生？”
“我恭喜你遇到了这么独特而又美妙的问题。”
“呃，或许这在您看来合情合理，波洛先生，但是——”
“这份清单根本没有任何意义。这恰好使我想起最近在圣诞时节被一群年轻朋友拉去玩的一轮游戏。我没记错的话是叫‘三只角的女人’。每个人轮流说出这样的短语，‘我去巴黎买……’，再加上一种物品。下一个人重复上一句并且再加上一种物品，游戏的规则是看能否记住物品的正确顺序并列举出来。我得说，她们说出的一些物品简直荒诞可笑至极。我记得有一块香皂、一头白象、一张折叠桌和一只美洲家鸭。当然，记忆的难度在于物品完全无关，可以说无序可循，如同你刚刚列出来给我看的那些。比方说，等提到了十二件东西以后，把它们按照正确顺序罗列出来就几乎是不可能的事了。谁没做到的后果是戴上对手给他的纸做的角，这个人下轮继续背这些条目：‘我，一只角的女人，去巴黎’之类的。
拿到三只角的人被迫出局，最终留下的就是赢家。”
“我确定您就是最终的赢家，波洛先生。”莱蒙小姐带着一种忠心耿耿的雇员所特有的忠诚说道。
波洛露出了笑容。
“事实上是这样的。”他说，“即使是毫无共性可言的物品，堆积在一起也能发现规律，再运用一点智慧，可以说就能变得有序了。比如，我在心里念：‘我用一块香皂洗去了一头白色大理石做的大象身上的污渍，这头大象站在折叠桌上。’诸如此类。”
哈伯德太太毕恭毕敬地说：“也许您能够用我给您的清单上的那些东西完成同样的事呢。”
“毫无疑问我能做到。一位女士右脚穿着鞋，左手腕上戴着手镯。接着她擦好了粉，涂了口红去赴宴，把戒指掉进了汤里，诸如此类。我可以把你的清单记下来，但那不是我们要关注的。为什么要偷这些毫无关联的东西？在这背后有什么规律吗？有怎样的固有联系吗？我们的当务之急是进行一系列分析，第一件事就是要仔细研究清单上所列出的物品。”
波洛独自陷入沉思时，周围鸦雀无声。哈伯德太太注视着他，就像小孩子全神贯注地看魔术师表演一样，期待着一只兔子或者至少一条条彩带出现。莱蒙小姐无动于衷，自顾自地思考着她那套系统的细节问题。
当波洛终于开口说话时，哈伯德太太吓了一跳。
“最先引起我注意的是，”波洛说，“在所有消失的东西中，绝大多数是不值钱的，有几个简直可以忽略不计。除了两个，听诊器和钻石戒指。先抛开听诊器不谈，我想把重点放在戒指上。你说是一枚价值不菲的戒指，有多贵重？”
“哦，我说不出一个确切的数来，波洛先生。戒指上有一颗大钻石，上下还镶嵌着一堆小钻石。据我了解，它是莱恩小姐母亲的订婚戒指。她发现丢了戒指之后心烦意乱到极点，当天晚上我们在霍布豪斯小姐的汤盘里找到了它，这才如释重负。我们认为那只是个令人讨厌的恶作剧。”
“的确有这个可能。但是我个人认为，戒指失而复得意义不凡。如果是口红、粉盒或书本丢了，这些都不足以让你报警。然而一枚贵重的钻石戒指就不同了，你很有可能为此报警，因此戒指被送还回来了。”
“但是如果要归还，为什么当初还要偷走呢？”莱蒙小姐皱着眉头问道。
“真实的原因嘛，”波洛说，“让我们暂时搁置这个问题。我现在想把丢的这些东西分分类，先说说丢失的戒指。这位失主莱恩小姐是谁？”
“帕特丽夏•莱恩？她是个非常不错的姑娘。正在攻读那个叫什么来着……历史学？考古学还是什么的学位。”
“手头宽裕吗？”
“哦，不太宽裕。她自己赚了一点钱，总是小心翼翼地花。正像我说的，那枚戒指是她母亲的。她有一两件珠宝，不过新衣服不多，而且她最近刚戒了烟。”
“她是一个怎样的人？请用你自己的语言描述一下她。”
“嗯，她的打扮没什么特点。长相相当平凡无奇。她文静优雅，却没有多少活力。可以说是个……嗯，一个本本分分的姑娘。”
“那枚戒指后来出现在霍布豪斯小姐的汤盘里。霍布豪斯小姐又是谁？”
“瓦莱丽•霍布豪斯？她是个聪明的黑皮肤姑娘，说起话来相当尖酸刻薄。她在一家美容院工作。‘塞布丽娜女神’，我想您听说过这个名字。”
“这两个姑娘的关系好吗？”
哈伯德太太稍加思索。
“我认为非常……好。她们之间没什么纠葛。我想，帕特丽夏与每个人相处得都很融洽，不过还没达到特别讨人喜欢的程度。瓦莱丽•霍布豪斯嘴上不饶人，使得一些人对她怀有敌意。但她也有相当多的追随者，如果你懂我的意思。”
“我想我懂。”波洛说。
这么说帕特丽夏•莱恩人不错却有些沉闷，而瓦莱丽•霍布豪斯则个性十足。他继续研究那张丢失物品的清单。
“着实吸引我的是，竟有这么多不同类别的东西。这些小东西绝对能诱惑一个既自负又缺钱的姑娘，口红、人造珠宝、粉盒、浴盐或是一盒巧克力。然后是听诊器，更像一个知道去哪儿卖掉或者当掉的男人偷的。这东西是谁的？”
“是贝特森先生的，他可是个极为和善的年轻人。”
“是个医学专业的学生？”
“是的。”
“他发现东西丢了之后很生气吗？”
“简直愤怒至极，波洛先生。他有时会勃然大怒，发怒时什么话都说，不过没多久就好了。他可不是那种东西没了还能泰然处之的人。”
“有那样的人吗？”
“哦，戈帕尔•拉姆先生会这样，他是一个从印度来的学生。他对一切都一笑置之。他摆摆手说物质财产没什么大不了的。”
“他被偷了什么东西吗？”
“没有。”
“啊！这条法兰绒裤子是谁的？”
“麦克纳布先生的。已经非常旧了，要是别人会说不能穿了，但麦克纳布先生非常爱惜他的旧衣服，从来不扔掉任何东西。”
“那么我们来数数那些看上去不值得偷的东西吧：旧法兰绒裤子、电灯泡、硼酸粉、浴盐，还有食谱。它们也许重要，不过可能性不大。硼酸或许是被人误拿了，有人可能取下坏灯泡想换个新的，但又忘了。食谱可能是被谁借走了而忘记归还。哪位女佣也是有可能拿走裤子的。”
“我们雇了两个非常值得信赖的女清洁工，我确信她们谁都不会事先不请示就那么做的。”
“你也许是对的。有只晚装鞋，一双新鞋中的一只，我没记错吧？鞋是谁的？”
“萨莉•芬奇。她是个美国姑娘，靠富布赖特奖学金（注：富布赖特奖学金（FulbrightScholarship）：美国政府设置的教育资助金，旨在通过教育和文化交流增进美国人民和各国人民之间的相互了解，由来自阿肯色州的参议员詹姆斯•威廉•富布莱特于一九四六年提出。）在这儿上学。”
“你确定鞋不是放错了地方吗？我想象不出谁拿一只鞋有什么用处。”
“不会是放错了，波洛先生。我们所有人来了个地毯式搜索。您要知道，芬奇小姐穿上她所谓的‘正装’——我们叫晚礼服，正要出去聚会，那双鞋至关重要，她可只有这么一双晚装鞋。”
“这给她造成了麻烦……还有烦恼。是的……是的，我有点纳闷，也许这里面有什么名堂……”
他沉默了好一会儿，然后继续道：“还有两件物品：剪碎的帆布背包和落得同样下场的丝巾。这两样既不能满足虚荣心又得不到什么好处。恰恰相反，我认为这是在恶意报复。
背包是谁的？”
“几乎所有学生都有背包。您要知道，他们经常搭便车旅行。绝大多数背包极其相似，是从同一个地方买的，因此很难从中辨别是哪一个。但是基本可以确定这个背包是莱纳德•贝特森或者科林•麦克纳布的。”
“还有那条被乱剪一气的丝巾，它是谁的？”
“是瓦莱丽•霍布豪斯的。那是她的圣诞礼物。嫩绿色的，质地上乘。”
“霍布豪斯小姐……我了解了。”
波洛闭上眼睛。脑海中浮现出一只不折不扣的万花筒。剪碎的丝巾和帆布背包、食谱、口红、浴盐；古怪学生的名字和简介，找不到它们的关联或组织方式。无关的事件和人物在空中转来转去。但是波洛心里非常清楚，一定存在着某种模式……问题是从哪儿开始……
他睁开眼睛。
“这件事需要思索一番，需要深思熟虑。”
“哦，这是毫无疑问的，波洛先生。”哈伯德太太急切地表示赞同，“而且我确实不想给您添麻烦……”
“你并没有给我添什么麻烦。是我自己被吸引住了。但是在思考的同时，我可以从实际出发。一个切入点……鞋，那双晚装鞋……没错，我们可以从那双鞋入手。莱蒙小姐！”
“什么事，波洛先生？”莱蒙小姐将思绪从文件编排中收回，坐得更加笔直，不自觉地去拿便笺和铅笔。
“或许哈伯德太太会把另一只鞋给你。然后你去贝克街站，到失物招领处。是什么时候发现丢失的？”
哈伯德太太想了想。
“哦，我记不清确切的时间了，波洛先生。可能是两个月前。我记不起更准确的时间了，但是我能从萨莉•芬奇赴宴的日子推断出来。”
“好的，嗯……”他又把头转向了莱蒙小姐，“你要写得含糊点。可以写你把一只鞋落在了内环列车上，这是最有可能发生的，或者落在其他什么列车上了。也可能是公共汽车。
山核桃大街周围有多少条公交线路？”
“只有两条，波洛先生。”
“太好了。如果在贝克街一无所获，就试试去苏格兰场。跟他们说丢在了出租车上。”
“是去兰贝斯区警察局（注：波洛所说的苏格兰场是伦敦地区警察的代名词，莱蒙小姐具体说出了该去的分局名称。）。”莱蒙小姐马上纠正道。
波洛摆了摆手。
“你对这些事总是了如指掌。”
“可是为什么您认为——”哈伯德太太刚要发问，波洛就打断了她。
“让我们先瞧瞧会有什么结果。然后，不管结果是好是坏，哈伯德太太，我们俩必须进一步商量。到那时你要把我需要了解的事情都告诉我。”
“我认为我已经将所知道的全部跟您说了。”
“不不，我不同意你的看法。不同脾气秉性和性别的年轻人聚在一起，A深爱着B，可B又爱着C，D和E可能因为A兵戎相见，所有这些我都需要了解。情绪的相互影响，争吵、嫉妒、友谊、怨恨和所有的无情无义。”
“我敢确定，”哈伯德太太倍感不快地说，“对于那类事情我一无所知。我一点也不参与。我仅仅是管理那个宿舍，照看好饮食和其他那一类的事情。”
“但是你对那些人感兴趣，你这么对我说过。你喜欢年轻人。你从事这项工作不是因为对待遇方面有多大兴趣，而是因为这项工作能与人打交道。也许有些学生你喜欢，有些则不那么喜欢，或是很讨厌。你要告诉我，是的，你一定要告诉我！因为你不是为正在发生的事担忧，如果是，你可以报警——”
“尼科莱蒂斯夫人不愿让警察来家里，我向您保证。”
波洛对被人打断毫不理睬，他继续说道：“不是，你是在为某个人担心，某个对这件事负责或至少有所牵连的人。是个你喜欢的人。”
“确实是这样的，波洛先生。”
“没错，果真如此。而且我认为你的担心有道理。把丝巾都剪碎了，这可不是什么好事。还有那个被乱砍了一气的背包，也是不正常的。其余的像是小孩子才干的出来的事，然而……我还不确定。我一点也不能确定！”
Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Hurrying a little as she went up the steps, Mrs. Hubbard inserted her latch key into the door of 26Hickory Road. Just as the door opened, a big young man with fiery red hair ran up the steps behindher.
“Hallo, Ma,” he said, for in such a fashion did Len Bateson usually address her. He was afriendly soul, with a Cockney accent and mercifully free from any kind of inferiority complex.
“Been out gallivanting?”
“I’ve been out to tea, Mr. Bateson. Don’t delay me now, I’m late.”
“I cut up a lovely corpse today,” said Len. “Smashing!”
“Don’t be so horrid, you nasty boy. A lovely corpse, indeed! The idea. You make me feel quitesqueamish.”
Len Bateson laughed, and the hall echoed the sound in a great ha ha.
“Nothing to Celia,” he said. “I went along to the Dispensary. ‘Come to tell you about a corpse,’
I said. She went as white as a sheet and I thought she was going to pass out. What do you think ofthat, Mother Hubbard?”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “The idea! Celia probably thought you meant a realone.”
“What do you mean—a real one? What do you think our corpses are? Synthetic?”
A thin young man with long untidy hair strolled out of a room on the right, and said in awaspish way:
“Oh, it’s only you. I thought it was at least a posse of strong men. The voice is but the voice ofone man, but the volume is as the volume of ten.”
“Hope it doesn’t get on your nerves, I’m sure.”
“Not more than usual,” said Nigel Chapman and went back again.
“Our delicate flower,” said Len.
“Now don’t you two scrap,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Good temper, that’s what I like, and a bit ofgive and take.”
The big young man grinned down at her affectionately.
“I don’t mind our Nigel, Ma,” he said.
“Oh, Mrs. Hubbard, Mrs. Nicoletis is in her room and said she would like to see you as soon asyou got back.”
Mrs. Hubbard sighed and started up the stairs. The tall dark girl who had given the messagestood against the wall to let her pass.
Len Bateson, divesting himself of his mackintosh said, “What’s up, Valerie? Complaints of ourbehaviour to be passed on by Mother Hubbard in due course?”
The girl shrugged her thin elegant shoulders. She came down the stairs and across the hall.
“This place gets more like a madhouse every day,” she said over her shoulder.
She went through the door at the right as she spoke. She moved with that insolent effortlessgrace that is common to those who have been professional mannequins.
Twenty-six Hickory Road was in reality two houses, 24 and 26 semidetached. They had beenthrown into one on the ground floor so that there was both a communal sitting room and a largedining room on the ground floor, as well as two cloakrooms and a small office towards the back ofthe house. Two separate staircases led to the floors above which remained detached. The girlsoccupied bedrooms in the right-hand side of the house, and the men on the other, the original No.
24.
Mrs. Hubbard went upstairs loosening the collar of her coat. She sighed as she turned in thedirection of Mrs. Nicoletis’s room.
She tapped on the door and entered.
“In one of her states again, I suppose,” she muttered.
Mrs. Nicoletis’s sitting room was kept very hot. The big electric fire had all its bars turned onand the window was tightly shut. Mrs. Nicoletis was sitting smoking on a sofa surrounded by a lotof rather dirty silk and velvet sofa cushions. She was a big dark woman, still good-looking, with abad-tempered mouth and enormous brown eyes.
“Ah! So there you are.” Mrs. Nicoletis made it sound like an accusation.
Mrs. Hubbard, true to her Lemon blood, was unperturbed.
“Yes,” she said tartly, “I’m here. I was told you wanted to see me specially.”
“Yes, indeed I do. It is monstrous, no less, monstrous!”
“What’s monstrous?”
“These bills! Your accounts!” Mrs. Nicoletis produced a sheaf of papers from beneath a cushionin the manner of a successful conjuror. “What are we feeding these miserable students on? Foiegras and quails? Is this the Ritz? Who do they think they are, these students?”
“Young people with a healthy appetite,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “They get a good breakfast and adecent evening meal—plain food but nourishing. It all works out very economically.”
“Economically? Economically? You dare to say that to me? When I am being ruined?”
“You make a very substantial profit, Mrs. Nicoletis, out of this place. For students, the rates areon the high side.”
“But am I not always full? Do I ever have a vacancy that is not applied for three times over?
Am I not sent students by the British Council, by London University Lodging Board—by theEmbassies—by the French Lycée? Are not there always three applications for every vacancy?”
“That’s very largely because the meals here are appetising and sufficient. Young people must beproperly fed.”
“Bah! These totals are scandalous. It is that Italian cook and her husband. They swindle youover the food.”
“Oh no, they don’t, Mrs. Nicoletis. I can assure you that no foreigner is going to put anythingover on me.”
“Then it is you yourself—you who are robbing me.”
Mrs. Hubbard remained unperturbed.
“I can’t allow you to say things like that,” she said, in the voice an old-fashioned Nanny mighthave used to a particularly truculent charge. “It isn’t a nice thing to do, and one of these days itwill land you in trouble.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Nicoletis threw the sheaf of bills dramatically up in the air whence they fluttered tothe ground in all directions. Mrs. Hubbard bent and picked them up, pursing her lips. “You enrageme,” shouted her employer.
“I dare say,” said Mrs. Hubbard, “but it’s bad for you, you know, getting all worked up.
Tempers are bad for the blood pressure.”
“You admit that these totals are higher than those of last week?”
“Of course they are. There’s been some very good cut price stuff going at Lampson’s Stores.
I’ve taken advantage of it. Next week’s totals will be below average.”
Mrs. Nicoletis looked sulky.
“You explain everything so plausibly.”
“There.” Mrs. Hubbard put the bills in a neat pile on the table. “Anything else?”
“The American girl, Sally Finch, she talks of leaving—I do not want her to go. She is aFulbright scholar. She will bring here other Fulbright scholars. She must not leave.”
“What’s her reason for leaving?”
Mrs. Nicoletis humped monumental shoulders.
“How can I remember? It was not genuine. I could tell that. I always know.”
Mrs. Hubbard nodded thoughtfully. She was inclined to believe Mrs. Nicoletis on that point.
“Sally hasn’t said anything to me,” she said.
“But you will talk to her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And if it is these coloured students, these Indians, these Negresses—then they can all go, youunderstand? The colour bar, it means everything to these Americans—and for me it is theAmericans that matter—as for these coloured ones—scram!”
She made a dramatic gesture.
“Not while I’m in charge,” said Mrs. Hubbard coldly. “And anyway, you’re wrong. There’s nofeeling of that sort here amongst the students, and Sally certainly isn’t like that. She and Mr.
Akibombo have lunch together quite often, and nobody could be blacker than he is.”
“Then it is communists—you know what the Americans are about communists. Nigel Chapmannow—he is a communist.”
“I doubt it.”
“Yes, yes. You should have heard what he was saying the other evening.”
“Nigel will say anything to annoy people. He is very tiresome that way.”
“You know them all so well. Dear Mrs. Hubbard, you are wonderful! I say to myself again andagain—what should I do without Mrs. Hubbard? I rely on you utterly. You are a wonderful,wonderful woman.”
“After the powder, the jam,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“What is that?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do what I can.”
She left the room, cutting short a gushing speech of thanks.
Muttering to herself: “Wasting my time—what a maddening woman she is!” she hurried alongthe passage and into her own sitting room.
But there was to be no peace for Mrs. Hubbard as yet. A tall figure rose to her feet as Mrs.
Hubbard entered and said:
“I should be glad to speak to you for a few minutes, please.”
“Of course, Elizabeth.”
Mrs. Hubbard was rather surprised. Elizabeth Johnston was a girl from the West Indies who wasstudying law. She was a hard worker, ambitious, who kept very much to herself. She had alwaysseemed particularly well balanced and competent, and Mrs. Hubbard had always regarded her asone of the most satisfactory students in the hostel.
She was perfectly controlled now, but Mrs. Hubbard caught the slight tremor in her voicealthough the dark features were quite impassive.
“Is something the matter?”
“Yes. Will you come with me to my room, please?”
“Just a moment.” Mrs. Hubbard threw off her coat and gloves and then followed the girl out ofthe room and up the next flight of stairs. The girl had a room on the top floor. She opened the doorand went across to a table near the window.
“Here are the notes of my work,” she said. “This represents several months of hard study. Yousee what has been done?”
Mrs. Hubbard caught her breath with a slight gasp.
Ink had been spilled on the table. It had run all over the papers, soaking them through. Mrs.
Hubbard touched it with her fingertip. It was still wet.
She said, knowing the question to be foolish as she asked it:
“You didn’t spill the ink yourself?”
“No. It was done whilst I was out.”
“Mrs. Biggs, do you think—”
Mrs. Biggs was the cleaning woman who looked after the top-floor bedrooms.
“It was not Mrs. Biggs. It was not even my own ink. That is here on the shelf by my bed. It hasnot been touched. It was done by someone who brought ink here and did it deliberately.”
Mrs. Hubbard was shocked.
“What a very wicked—and cruel thing to do.”
“Yes, it is a bad thing.”
The girl spoke quietly, but Mrs. Hubbard did not make the mistake of underrating her feelings.
“Well, Elizabeth, I hardly know what to say. I am shocked, badly shocked, and I shall do myutmost to find out who did this wicked malicious thing. You’ve no ideas yourself as to that?”
The girl replied at once.
“This is green ink, you saw that.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“It is not very common, this green ink. I know one person here who uses it. Nigel Chapman.”
“Nigel? Do you think Nigel would do a thing like that?”
“I should not have thought so—no. But he writes his letters and his notes with green ink.”
“I shall have to ask a lot of questions. I’m very sorry, Elizabeth, that such a thing should happenin this house and I can only tell you that I shall do my best to get to the bottom of it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard. There have been—other things, have there not?”
“Yes—er—yes.”
Mrs. Hubbard left the room and started towards the stairs. But she stopped suddenly beforeproceeding down and instead went along the passage to a door at the end of the corridor. Sheknocked and the voice of Miss Sally Finch bade her enter.
The room was a pleasant one and Sally Finch herself, a cheerful redhead, was a pleasant person.
She was writing on a pad and looked up with a bulging cheek. She held out an open box ofsweets and said indistinctly:
“Candy from home. Have some.”
“Thank you, Sally. Not just now. I’m rather upset.” She paused. “Have you heard what’shappened to Elizabeth Johnston?”
“What’s happened to Black Bess?”
The nickname was an affectionate one and had been accepted as such by the girl herself.
Mrs. Hubbard described what had happened. Sally showed every sign of sympathetic anger.
“I’ll say that’s a mean thing to do. I wouldn’t believe anyone would do a thing like that to ourBess. Everybody likes her. She’s quiet and doesn’t get around much, or join in, but I’m surethere’s no one who dislikes her.”
“That’s what I should have said.”
“Well, it’s all of a piece, isn’t it, with the other things? That’s why—”
“That’s why what?” Mrs. Hubbard asked as the girl stopped abruptly.
Sally said slowly:
“That’s why I’m getting out of here. Did Mrs. Nick tell you?”
“Yes. She was very upset about it. Seemed to think you hadn’t given her the real reason.”
“Well, I didn’t. No point in making her go up in smoke. You know what she’s like. But that’sthe reason, right enough. I just don’t like what’s going on here. It was odd losing my shoe, andthen Valerie’s scarf being all cut to bits and Len’s rucksack . . . it wasn’t so much things beingpinched—after all, that may happen any time—it’s not nice but it’s roughly normal—but this otherisn’t.” She paused for a moment, smiling, and then suddenly grinned. “Akibombo’s scared,” shesaid. “He’s always very superior and civilised—but there’s a good old West African belief inmagic very close to the surface.”
“Tchah!” said Mrs. Hubbard crossly. “I’ve no patience with superstitious nonsense. Just someordinary human being making a nuisance of themselves. That’s all there is to it.”
Sally’s mouth curved up in a wide catlike grin.
“The emphasis,” she said, “is on ordinary. I’ve a sort of feeling that there’s a person in thishouse who isn’t ordinary.”
Mrs. Hubbard went on down the stairs. She turned into the students’ common room on theground floor. There were four people in the room. Valerie Hobhouse, prone on a sofa with hernarrow, elegant feet stuck up over the arm of it; Nigel Chapman sitting at a table with a heavybook open in front of him; Patricia Lane leaning against the mantelpiece, and a girl in amackintosh who had just come in and who was pulling off a woolly cap as Mrs. Hubbard entered.
She was a stocky, fair girl with brown eyes set wide apart and a mouth that was usually just a littleopen so that she seemed perpetually startled.
Valerie, removing a cigarette from her mouth, said in a lazy, drawling voice:
“Hallo, Ma, have you administered soothing syrup to the old devil, our revered proprietress?”
Patricia Lane said:
“Has she been on the warpath?”
“And how?” said Valerie and chuckled.
“Something very unpleasant has happened,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Nigel, I want you to help me.”
“Me, ma’am?” Nigel looked at her and shut his book. His thin, malicious face was suddenlyilluminated by a mischievous but surprisingly sweet smile. “What have I done?”
“Nothing, I hope,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “But ink has been deliberately and maliciously spilt allover Elizabeth Johnston’s notes, and it’s green ink. You write with green ink, Nigel.”
He stared at her, his smile disappearing.
“Yes, I use green ink.”
“Horrid stuff,” said Patricia. “I wish you wouldn’t, Nigel. I’ve always told you I think it’shorribly affected of you.”
“I like being affected,” said Nigel. “Lilac ink would be even better, I think. I must try and getsome. But are you serious, Mum? About the sabotage, I mean?”
“Yes, I am serious. Was it your doing, Nigel?”
“No, of course not. I like annoying people, as you know, but I’d never do a filthy trick like that—and certainly not to Black Bess who minds her own business in a way that’s an example to somepeople I could mention. Where is that ink of mine? I filled my pen yesterday evening, I remember.
I usually keep it on the shelf over there.” He sprang up and went across the room. “You’re right.
The bottle’s nearly empty. It should be practically full.”
The girl in the mackintosh gave a little gasp.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, I don’t like it—”
Nigel wheeled at her accusingly.
“Have you got an alibi, Celia?” he said menacingly.
The girl gave a gasp.
“I didn’t do it. I really didn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been at the hospital all day. I couldn’t—”
“Now, Nigel,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Don’t tease Celia.”
Patricia Lane said angrily:
“I don’t see why Nigel should be suspected. Just because his ink was taken—”
Valerie said cattishly:
“That’s right, darling, defend your young.”
“But it’s so unfair—”
“But really I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Celia protested earnestly.
“Nobody thinks you did, infant,” said Valerie impatiently. “All the same, you know,” her eyesmet Mrs. Hubbard’s and exchanged a glance, “all this is getting beyond a joke. Something willhave to be done about it.”
“Something is going to be done,” said Mrs. Hubbard grimly.
第三章
第三章
哈伯德太太急匆匆地走上山核桃大街二十六号的台阶，拿出钥匙去开门锁。门刚一开，一个火红色头发的大块头年轻人就从她后面跑上了台阶。
“嗨，妈。”伦恩（注：伦恩是莱纳德的昵称。）•贝特森用平常称呼她的方式打着招呼。他是个待人友善的家伙，操着一口伦敦腔，并且从未因此而感到自卑。“出去溜达了？”
“我出去喝茶了，贝特森先生。我已经回来晚了，别耽搁我。”
“我今天切碎了一具可爱的尸体，”伦恩说，“真了不起啊！”
“别说得这么恐怖，你这个坏孩子。可爱的尸体，真是的！怎么想的。你这么说让我感到很恶心。”
伦恩•贝特森笑了，哈哈大笑的声音在门厅里回响着。
“和西莉亚相比算不了什么。”他说，“我去了药房，对她说：‘过来，我给你讲讲有关一具尸体的事。’她的脸立马变得像纸一样白，我觉得她就要昏倒了。您觉得如何呢，哈伯德太太？”
“我并不感到吃惊。”哈伯德太太说，“你这鬼主意！估计西莉亚认为你打算弄一具真的尸体。”
“您是什么意思？真的尸体？您认为我们的尸体是什么？人工合成的吗？”
一个留着凌乱的长头发、身材瘦削的年轻人从右边的房间里溜达出来，尖刻地说：“哦，只有你在，我还以为至少有一队壮汉呢。声音是一个人发出的，但是音量像是十个人集体发出的似的。”
“希望没有搅得你心烦，我相信没有。”
“和平时差不多。”奈杰尔•查普曼边说边走了回去。
“真是个温室里的花朵。”伦恩说。
“你们俩不要吵。”哈伯德太太说，“我喜欢脾气好并能够尽量相互迁就的。”
那个魁梧的年轻人亲切地朝她咧嘴一笑。
“我不会介意奈杰尔的，妈。”他说。
“哦，哈伯德太太，尼科莱蒂斯夫人在她的房间里，她让你一回来就马上去找她。”
哈伯德太太叹了口气，然后迈步上楼梯。传这个口信的黑皮肤高个子姑娘靠墙站着，为了让她过去。
伦恩•贝特森边脱雨衣边说：“怎么了，瓦莱丽？哈伯德妈妈是不是要定期汇报我们的行踪？”
这位姑娘耸了耸她那瘦削而优雅的双肩。她下了楼，穿过大厅。“这地方越来越像精神病院了。”她转过头说了一句。
她穿过右边那扇门，一举一动毫不矫揉造作，自然地显出一种傲慢的魅力，与专业的时装模特没什么两样。
山核桃大街二十六号实际上是由二十四和二十六号两间半独立的房子构成。把一楼打通开来，就有了公共客厅和一间很大的餐厅，屋子后面还有两间盥洗室和一个小办公室。
两段单独的楼梯分别通往上面各自独立的楼层。姑娘们的卧室在房子的右边，小伙子们住另一边，也就是原来的二十四号。
哈伯德太太走上楼，松了松外套的衣领，然后她转向尼科莱蒂斯夫人的房间，叹了口气。
她轻轻地敲了敲门，走了进去。
“我猜她又要发作了。”她自言自语道。
尼科莱蒂斯夫人的起居室里一直保持着很高的温度。大号电暖炉的每一片散热片都开着，窗户也关得严严实实。尼科莱蒂斯夫人坐在沙发上抽烟，周围堆着许多丝绸或天鹅绒的沙发垫，都很脏。她是个身材高大的黑皮肤女人，风韵犹存，长着一张一看就很刻薄的嘴和一双大得出奇的棕色眼睛。
“啊！你可来了。”尼科莱蒂斯夫人的语气听起来像在谴责。
哈伯德太太不愧拥有莱蒙家族的血统，她镇定自若。
“是啊，”她针锋相对，“我来了，听说你点名找我。”
“没错，我确实要找你。太荒谬了，不是一点半点的，是十分荒谬！”
“什么东西荒谬？”
“那些账单！你的账目！”尼科莱蒂斯夫人变魔术似的从垫子下面拿出一叠纸，“我们给这些悲惨的学生都吃了什么？鹅肝酱和鹌鹑吗？这里是丽兹酒店吗？你认为那些学生是什么？”
“年轻人的胃口比较好。”哈伯德太太说，“他们吃着不错的早餐和像样的晚餐，都是家常饭菜，不过很有营养。所有的开销还是比较节俭的。”
“节俭？节俭吗？！你敢这么跟我说？我都要被他们吃垮了好吗？”
“尼科莱蒂斯夫人，您从这个地方赚得的利润可不少。对于学生们来讲，价格算是比较高了。”
“但这里不是什么时候都住得满满当当的吗？哪个空位不是三天两头有人申请？英国文化协会、伦敦大学寄宿处、大使馆和法国公立中学不都往我这儿送学生吗？每个空位不都是三番五次有人申请吗？”
“这主要是因为这里的饭菜好吃且份量足。年轻人必须吃得好。”
“呸！这总额简直太无耻了。一定是那个意大利厨子和她丈夫，他们在食材上欺骗了你。”
“哦，不，他们没有，尼科莱蒂斯夫人。我敢向你保证，没有外国人能骗得了我任何事。”
“那就是你自己，你在打劫我。”
哈伯德太太保持着镇定。
“我不允许你这样说。”她说，声音就像守旧的保姆在面对极其无理的指责，“这么说可不太妥当，总有一天会给你惹来麻烦的。”
“啊！”尼科莱蒂斯夫人猛地把那堆账单抛向空中，飘得到处都是。
哈伯德太太弯腰捡起来，噘着嘴唇。“你把我惹火了。”她的主人喊道。
“大概吧。”哈伯德太太说，“不过要知道，这样过于激动对你不好。脾气太大对血压不好。”
“你承认总额比上周要高吧？”
“无疑是高一些。兰普森商店有些非常不错的打折食材在卖，我趁机多买了一些。下周的花销总额就会低于平均水平了。”
尼科莱蒂斯夫人的脸色阴沉。
“你解释每件事都振振有词。”
“好了。”哈伯德太太把账单整理成一堆放在桌上，“还有其他事吗？”
“那个美国姑娘，萨莉•芬奇，她说要离开。我不想让她走。她拿着富布赖特奖学金，她能把其他富布赖特奖学金获得者引到这里来。她一定不能离开。”
“她为什么要走呢？”
尼科莱蒂斯夫人耸起宽阔的肩膀。
“我不记得了。她没说真话，我能看出来。他们向来瞒不了我。”
哈伯德太太若有所思地点了点头。在这点上她倾向于相信尼科莱蒂斯夫人。
“萨莉什么都没对我说过。”她说。
“可你会找她聊聊的吧？”
“是的，当然。”
“而且如果是那些有色人种学生，像那些印度人、女黑人，他们都可以走，你懂吗？种族歧视，美国人极为重视这点。而我看重的是美国人。那么让那些有色人种滚开吧！”
她做了个夸张的手势。
“只要是我负责这里时就不行。”哈伯德太太冷冷地说，“不管怎么说，你的说法不对。
学生中间并没有那样的情绪，而且萨莉一定不是那样的人。她和阿基博姆博先生经常共进午餐，没人肤色比他更黑了。”
“另外还有共产党人。你是知道美国人是怎么看待共产党人的，奈杰尔•查普曼现在……他就是个共产党员。”
“我对此表示怀疑。”
“好，好，你真应该听听那天晚上他是怎么说的。”
“奈杰尔常常口无遮拦，惹恼别人。他那样非常令人讨厌。”
“你对他们所有人都了解得很。亲爱的哈伯德太太，你真是太棒了！我一次又一次对自己说，如果没有哈伯德太太我该怎么办？我完完全全依赖你。你是个极好的、极好的女人。”
“打一棒子给颗甜枣。”哈伯德太太说。
“你说什么？”
“没什么。我会做好力所能及的事。”
她离开了房间，不顾身后那些喷涌而出的感谢之辞。
她自言自语道：“白白浪费我的时间，真是个让人抓狂的女人！”说完急匆匆地穿过走廊，进到自己的起居室。
但是哈伯德太太仍然没能得来些许安静。她刚一进屋，就有个高个子的姑娘站起来对她说：“我想跟您聊几分钟，可以吗？”
“当然了，伊丽莎白。”
哈伯德太太相当惊讶。伊丽莎白•约翰斯顿是个从西印度群岛来这里学习法律的姑娘，她学习努力且很有雄心，但不怎么与人交往。她一向给人的印象是各方面表现得特别均衡，办事能力强，哈伯德太太一直把她当成宿舍里最满意的学生之一。
她已经在极力地控制了，虽然黝黑的脸上面无表情，不过哈伯德太太从她的声音里听出了轻微的颤抖。
“有什么事情吗？”
“有。能请您到我的房间里吗？”
“稍等一会儿。”哈伯德太太脱掉外套、摘下手套，然后跟着这个姑娘出了房间，走上通往楼上的楼梯。这个姑娘的房间在顶层。她打开房门，径直走向窗边的桌子。
“这是我的论文。”她说，“这代表了我几个月的辛苦努力。您看看有人对它做了什么？”
哈伯德太太倒吸了一口冷气。
墨水洒在了桌子上，流得论文上到处都是，完全浸透了。哈伯德太太用指尖碰了一下，还是湿的。
她虽然知道问题有些愚蠢，可还是问道：“不是你自己弄洒了墨水吧？”
“不是。这是在我出去时洒上的。”
“比格斯太太，你认不认为……”
比格斯太太是照看顶层卧室的女清洁工。
“不是比格斯太太。这甚至都不是我自己的墨水。我的墨水在床边的书架上，没人动过。有人把墨水带到这儿，故意做了这件坏事。”
哈伯德太太惊呆了。
“真是干了件极其恶劣残忍的事。”
“是啊，真是件坏事。”
姑娘平静地说着，但是哈伯德太太不会真的以为她能这么心平气和。
“呃，伊丽莎白，我几乎不知道该说什么了。我感到震惊，非常震惊，我会尽最大努力找出是谁做了这么缺德恶毒的事。关于这点，你有什么思路吗？”
姑娘脱口而出。“这是绿墨水，您看到了。”
“是的，我注意到了。”
“绿墨水不是很常见。我知道这里有一个人在用。是奈杰尔•查普曼。”
“奈杰尔？你认为奈杰尔会做这样的事？”
“我不应该这么认为。但他确实用绿墨水写信和记笔记。”
“我必须问一些问题。伊丽莎白，对于在这间屋子里发生这样的事情我感到非常抱歉，我唯一能告诉你的就是，我会竭尽全力揭开真相。”
“谢谢您，哈伯德太太。还发生了……其他的事情，不是吗？”
“是。呃……是的。”
哈伯德太太离开房间，走向楼梯。但她在刚要下楼的一刻突然停住了，走向了走廊尽头的一扇房门。她敲了一下门，萨莉•芬奇小姐的声音响起，让她进去。
这个房间让人感到舒服，而且生性开朗、长着红头发的萨莉•芬奇本人也是个讨人喜欢的人。
她正在写便笺，鼓着腮帮子抬起了头。她拿出一盒打开的糖果，有些口齿不清地说：“从家里带来的糖果，吃点吧。”
“谢谢你，萨莉，但我现在不想吃。我相当心烦意乱。”哈伯德太太顿了一下，“你听说伊丽莎白•约翰斯顿出了什么事吗？”
“黑贝丝出了什么事？”
黑贝丝是个充满爱意的昵称，而且那个姑娘本人已经接受了。
哈伯德太太描述了所发生的事。萨莉表现出既十分同情又无比愤怒的样子。
“我想说那真是件卑鄙的事。真是难以置信，什么人会对我们的黑贝丝做出那样的事。
每个人都喜欢她。她那么文静，很少与人打交道或参加什么活动，但是我相信，没有人不喜欢她。”
“这也是我想说的。”
“哦，和其他的事情十分相似，不是吗？这就是为什么……”
“什么为什么？”哈伯德太太见这姑娘突然停了下来了，便追问道。
萨莉慢悠悠地说：“这就是我为什么要离开这里。尼科太太跟您讲了吗？”
“讲了。她对于你要离开非常烦躁不安，她似乎认为你并没有告诉她真正的原因。”
“嗯，我是没告诉她。没有必要让她火冒三丈。您知道她是个什么样的人。但那个理由已经足够充分了。我只是不喜欢这里最近发生的事。我的鞋丢了真是件怪事，然后是瓦莱丽的丝巾被人剪碎了，还有伦恩的背包……小偷小摸并没什么大不了的，毕竟时有发生。
这种事不光彩，不过还说得过去。但这里发生的事可就不一样了。”她停顿了一会儿，面带微笑，然后突然咧嘴大笑了起来，“阿基博姆博害怕了。”她说，“他总是很出众，有文化素养，但他们西非有个不错的老旧信仰，非常接近于表象的巫术。”
“讨厌！”哈伯德太太生气地说，“我可忍受不了迷信的荒谬说法。那只是普通人自己做些惹人烦的事罢了。仅此而已。”
萨莉的嘴角向上翘，像猫一样笑起来。
“重点，”她说，“在‘普通’上。我有一种预感，这个房子里的某个人并不普通。”
哈伯德太太走下楼梯，转身走进位于一楼的学生公共休息室。房间里有四个人。瓦莱丽•霍布豪斯斜躺在沙发上，她那双优雅纤细的双腿高高地架在沙发扶手上；奈杰尔•查普曼坐在桌子旁边，面前摊着一本打开的厚书；帕特丽夏•莱恩倚靠着壁炉台。一个身穿雨衣的姑娘刚刚走进屋，哈伯德太太进来时她正摘下羊毛帽。她是个身材矮胖但皮肤白皙的姑娘，一双棕色的眼睛分得有点开，嘴总是微微张开着，就像一直受着什么惊吓似的。
瓦莱丽把烟从嘴里拿开，用懒洋洋、慢吞吞的腔调说：“您好呀，妈。有没有给那个让我们如老魔鬼般敬畏的女主人拿一杯舒缓糖浆呢？”
帕特丽夏•莱恩说：“她还在气头上吗？”
“她因为什么发火？”瓦莱丽咯咯地笑着说。
“发生了一些不愉快的事。”哈伯德太太说，“奈杰尔，我想让你帮我个忙。”
“我吗，妈妈？”奈杰尔一边看着她一边合上了书。他那不怀好意的瘦削脸庞上忽然显现出淘气的神态，但是笑容出奇地甜。“我做了什么？”
“没做什么，我希望。”哈伯德太太说，“但是有人故意使坏，把墨水狠狠地泼在了伊丽莎白•约翰斯顿的论文上，而且是绿墨水。你用绿墨水写字，奈杰尔。”
他盯着她，笑容消失了。
“是的，我是用绿墨水。”
“可恶的家伙，”帕特丽夏说，“我希望你没那么做，奈杰尔。我对你说过很多次，这样下去会给你带来非常大的影响。”
“我喜欢受到影响。”奈杰尔说，“淡紫色的墨水更好，我认为。我一定要试着搞一些来。不过您是认真的吗，妈妈？我是说搞破坏？”
“是的，我是认真的。是你干的吗，奈杰尔？”
“不，当然不是。我喜欢捉弄人，正如您所知道的，但我从来不做那种肮脏的恶作剧，当然也不会对专注于自己事业的黑贝丝那么做，她和我心中那些能提起的榜样人物一样。
我的墨水在哪儿？我记得，昨晚给钢笔加满了。我通常把它放在那边的书架上。”他一跃而起，穿过房间，“您是对的。墨水瓶几乎空了，但实际上它应该是满的。”
穿雨衣的姑娘轻轻地吸了口气。
“哦，天哪，”她说，“哦，天哪，我不喜欢这种事……”
奈杰尔转向她，并发难。
“你有不在场证明吗，西莉亚？”他用威胁的语气说。
那姑娘吓得屏住了呼吸。
“不是我做的，我真的没做。我一整天都在医院里。我不可能……”
“好了，奈杰尔。”哈伯德太太说，“别吓唬西莉亚了。”
帕特丽夏•莱恩生气地说：“我不理解奈杰尔为什么会被怀疑，只是因为他的墨水被人用来……”
瓦莱丽刻薄地说：“做得对，亲爱的，保护好你的小孩。”
“但这样不公平……”
“我真的什么都没有做。”西莉亚一本正经地表示抗议。
“没人认为是你干的，孩子。”瓦莱丽不耐烦地说，“要我看，都一样。”她与哈伯德太太目光相接，彼此交换了一下眼神，“所有这些都已经超出了开玩笑的范围，是该做点什么了。”
“是该采取点措施了。”哈伯德太太严肃地说。