One
One
IIt was Miss Lemon, Poirot’s efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.
Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis,“Trafalgar 8137.”
Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditativesoft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished periods of theletter he had been dictating.
Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice:
“Will you accept a personal call from Nassecombe, Devon?”
Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.
“The name of the caller?” he demanded cautiously.
Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Air raid?” she asked doubtingly. “Oh, yes—what was the last name again?”
Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.
“Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.”
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows shot up. A memory rose in his mind: windswept grey hair…an eagleprofile….
He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.
“Hercule Poirot speaks,” he announced grandiloquently.
“Is that Mr. Hercules Porrot speaking personally?” the suspicious voice of the telephoneoperator demanded.
Poirot assured her that that was the case.
“You’re through to Mr. Porrot,” said the voice.
Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirothastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches farther from his ear.
“M. Poirot, is that really you?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
“Myself in person, Madame.”
“This is Mrs. Oliver. I don’t know if you’ll remember me—”
“But of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?”
“Well, people do sometimes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Quite often, in fact. I don’t think that I’ve gota very distinctive personality. Or perhaps it’s because I’m always doing different things to myhair. But all that’s neither here nor there. I hope I’m not interrupting you when you’re frightfullybusy?”
“No, no, you do not derange me in the least.”
“Good gracious—I’m sure I don’t want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.”
“Need me?”
“Yes, at once. Can you take an aeroplane?”
“I do not take aeroplanes. They make me sick.”
“They do me, too. Anyway, I don’t suppose it would be any quicker than the train really,because I think the only airport near here is Exeter which is miles away. So come by train. Twelveo’clock from Paddington to Nassecombe. You can do it nicely. You’ve got three-quarters of anhour if my watch is right—though it isn’t usually.”
“But where are you, Madame? What is all this about?”
“Nasse House, Nassecombe. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Nassecombe.”
“But why do you need me? What is all this about?” Poirot repeated frantically.
“Telephones are in such awkward places,” said Mrs. Oliver. “This one’s in the hall…Peoplepassing through and talking…I can’t really hear. But I’m expecting you. Everybody will be sothrilled. Good-bye.”
There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummed gently.
With a baffled air of bewilderment, Poirot put back the receiver and murmured something underhis breath. Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the finalphrase of dictation before the interruption.
“—allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advanced….”
Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis.
“That was Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have read…”
But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded suchfrivolities as fictional crime with contempt. “She wants me to go down to Devonshire today, atonce, in”—he glanced at the clock—“thirty-five minutes.”
Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows.
“That will be running it rather fine,” she said. “For what reason?”
“You may well ask! She did not tell me.”
“How very peculiar. Why not?”
“Because,” said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, “she was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she madethat quite clear.”
“Well, really,” said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employer’s defence. “The things peopleexpect! Fancy thinking that you’d go rushing off on some wild goose chase like that! An importantman like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced—no senseof proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?”
Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirot’s voice arrested the gesture.
“Du tout!” he said. “On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately.” He raisedhis voice. “Georges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, Ihave a train to catch.”
II
The train, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve milesjourney at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew intoNassecombe station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawninggap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the traina porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked backalong the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking office.
A large Humber saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward.
“Mr. Hercule Poirot?” he inquired respectfully.
He took Poirot’s case from him and opened the door of the car. They drove away from thestation over the railway bridge and turned down a country lane which wound between high hedgeson either side. Presently the ground fell away on the right and disclosed a very beautiful river viewwith hills of a misty blue in the distance. The chauffeur drew into the hedge and stopped.
“The River Helm, sir,” he said. “With Dartmoor in the distance.”
It was clear that admiration was necessary. Poirot made the necessary noises, murmuringMagnifique! several times. Actually, Nature appealed to him very little. A well-cultivated neatlyarranged kitchen garden was far more likely to bring a murmur of admiration to Poirot’s lips. Twogirls passed the car, toiling slowly up the hill. They were carrying heavy rucksacks on their backsand wore shorts, with bright coloured scarves tied over their heads.
“There is a Youth Hostel next door to us, sir,” explained the chauffeur, who had clearlyconstituted himself Poirot’s guide to Devon. “Hoodown Park. Mr. Fletcher’s place it used to be.
The Youth Hostel Association bought it and it’s fairly crammed in summer time. Take in over ahundred a night, they do. They’re not allowed to stay longer than a couple of nights—then they’vegot to move on. Both sexes and mostly foreigners.”
Poirot nodded absently. He was reflecting, not for the first time, that seen from the back, shortswere becoming to very few of the female sex. He shut his eyes in pain. Why, oh why, must youngwomen array themselves thus? Those scarlet thighs were singularly unattractive!
“They seem heavily laden,” he murmured.
“Yes, sir, and it’s a long pull from the station or the bus stop. Best part of two miles toHoodown Park.” He hesitated. “If you don’t object, sir, we could give them a lift?”
“By all means, by all means,” said Poirot benignantly. There was he in luxury in an almostempty car and here were these two panting and perspiring young women weighed down withheavy rucksacks and without the least idea how to dress themselves so as to appear attractive tothe other sex. The chauffeur started the car and came to a slow purring halt beside the two girls.
Their flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully.
Poirot opened the door and the girls climbed in.
“It is most kind, please,” said one of them, a fair girl with a foreign accent. “It is longer waythan I think, yes.”
The other girl, who had a sunburnt and deeply flushed face with bronzed chestnut curls peepingout beneath her headscarf, merely nodded her head several times, flashed her teeth, and murmured,Grazie. The fair girl continued to talk vivaciously.
“I to England come for two week holiday. I come from Holland. I like England very much. Ihave been Stratford Avon, Shakespeare Theatre and Warwick Castle. Then I have been Clovelly,now I have seen Exeter Cathedral and Torquay—very nice—I come to famous beauty spot hereand tomorrow I cross river, go to Plymouth where discovery of New World was made fromPlymouth Hoe.”
“And you, signorina?” Poirot turned to the other girl. But she only smiled and shook her curls.
“She does not much English speak,” said the Dutch girl kindly. “We both a little French speak—so we talk in train. She is coming from near Milan and has relative in England married togentleman who keeps shop for much groceries. She has come with friend to Exeter yesterday, butfriend has eat veal ham pie not good from shop in Exeter and has to stay there sick. It is not goodin hot weather, the veal ham pie.”
At this point the chauffeur slowed down where the road forked. The girls got out, uttered thanksin two languages and proceeded up the left-hand road. The chauffeur laid aside for a moment hisOlympian aloofness and said feelingly to Poirot:
“It’s not only veal and ham pie—you want to be careful of Cornish pasties too. Put anything ina pasty they will, holiday time!”
He restarted the car and drove down the right-hand road which shortly afterwards passed intothick woods. He proceeded to give a final verdict on the occupants of Hoodown Park YouthHostel.
“Nice enough young women, some of ’em, at that hostel,” he said; “but it’s hard to get them tounderstand about trespassing. Absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Don’t seem tounderstand that a gentleman’s place is private here. Always coming through our woods, they are,and pretending that they don’t understand what you say to them.” He shook his head darkly.
They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through big iron gates, and along a drive,winding up finally in front of a big white Georgian house looking out over the river.
The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall black-haired butler appeared on the steps.
“Mr. Hercule Poirot?” murmured the latter.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery. Allow me to show youthe way.”
Poirot was directed to a winding path that led along the wood with glimpses of the river below.
The path descended gradually until it came out at last on an open space, round in shape, with a lowbattlemented parapet. On the parapet Mrs. Oliver was sitting.
She rose to meet him and several apples fell from her lap and rolled in all directions. Applesseemed to be an inescapable motif of meeting Mrs. Oliver.
“I can’t think why I always drop things,” said Mrs. Oliver somewhat indistinctly, since hermouth was full of apple. “How are you, M. Poirot?”
“Très bien, chère Madame,” replied Poirot politely. “And you?”
Mrs. Oliver was looking somewhat different from when Poirot had last seen her, and the reasonlay, as she had already hinted over the telephone, in the fact that she had once more experimentedwith her coiffure. The last time Poirot had seen her, she had been adopting a windswept effect.
Today, her hair, richly blued, was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in apseudo Marquise style. The Marquise effect ended at her neck; the rest of her could have beendefinitely labelled “country practical,” consisting of a violent yolk-of-egg rough tweed coat andskirt and a rather bilious-looking mustard-coloured jumper.
“I knew you’d come,” said Mrs. Oliver cheerfully.
“You could not possibly have known,” said Poirot severely.
“Oh, yes, I did.”
“I still ask myself why I am here.”
“Well, I know the answer. Curiosity.”
Poirot looked at her and his eyes twinkled a little. “Your famous woman’s intuition,” he said,“has, perhaps, for once not led you too far astray.”
“Now, don’t laugh at my woman’s intuition. Haven’t I always spotted the murderer rightaway?”
Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise he might have replied, “At the fifth attempt, perhaps, andnot always then!”
Instead he said, looking round him:
“It is indeed a beautiful property that you have here.”
“This? But it doesn’t belong to me, M. Poirot. Did you think it did? Oh, no, it belongs to somepeople called Stubbs.”
“Who are they?”
“Oh, nobody really,” said Mrs. Oliver vaguely. “Just rich. No, I’m down here professionally,doing a job.”
“Ah, you are getting local colour for one of your chefs-d’oeuvre?”
“No, no. Just what I said. I’m doing a job. I’ve been engaged to arrange a murder.”
Poirot stared at her.
“Oh, not a real one,” said Mrs. Oliver reassuringly. “There’s a big fête thing on tomorrow, andas a kind of novelty there’s going to be a Murder Hunt. Arranged by me. Like a Treasure Hunt,you see; only they’ve had a Treasure Hunt so often that they thought this would be a novelty. Sothey offered me a very substantial fee to come down and think it up. Quite fun, really—rather achange from the usual grim routine.”
“How does it work?”
“Well, there’ll be a Victim, of course. And Clues. And Suspects. All rather conventional—youknow, the Vamp and the Blackmailer and the Young Lovers and the Sinister Butler and so on.
Half a crown to enter and you get shown the first Clue and you’ve got to find the Victim, and theWeapon and say Whodunnit and the Motive. And there are Prizes.”
“Remarkable!” said Hercule Poirot.
“Actually,” said Mrs. Oliver ruefully, “it’s all much harder to arrange than you’d think. Becauseyou’ve got to allow for real people being quite intelligent, and in my books they needn’t be.”
“And it is to assist you in arranging this that you have sent for me?”
Poirot did not try very hard to keep an outraged resentment out of his voice.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course not! I’ve done all that. Everything’s all set for tomorrow.
No, I wanted you for quite another reason.”
“What reason?”
Mrs. Oliver’s hands strayed upward to her head. She was just about to sweep them frenziedlythrough her hair in the old familiar gesture when she remembered the intricacy of her hairdo.
Instead, she relieved her feelings by tugging at her ear lobes.
“I dare say I’m a fool,” she said. “But I think there’s something wrong.”
第一章
第一章
接电话的是赫尔克里•波洛的秘书，干练利落的莱蒙小姐。
她放下手中的速记本，拿起听筒用平缓的语气说：“特拉法尔加（注：位于西班牙南部直布罗陀海峡两端。一八○五年，英国海军在这里与法国和西班牙联合舰队作战，大获全胜。）八一三七。”
赫尔克里•波洛再次躺回到直立的椅背上，闭上了双眼，若有所思地用手指轻轻敲打着桌子边儿，脑海里继续构思着刚才还没有口述完的那封信。
莱蒙小姐用手捂着话筒轻声问波洛：
“有人从德文郡的纳瑟康贝打来电话找你，你接吗？”
波洛皱起了眉头。这个地名对他没有任何意义。
“打电话的人叫什么？”他谨慎地问。
莱蒙小姐对着话筒说起话来。
“空袭（注：“air-raid”与奥利弗夫人的名字“Ariadne”发音相似，故莱蒙小姐一开始没能听清。）？”她半信半疑地问，“啊，明白了。你刚才说姓什么来着？”
她又一次把头转向赫尔克里•波洛。
“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人。”
赫尔克里•波洛的眉毛竖了起来。一幅画面渐渐出现在他脑海中：一头被风吹散的灰白发……老鹰般的轮廓……
他起身从莱蒙小姐手中接过电话。
“我是赫尔克里•波洛。”话音中透着一种炫耀。
“是赫尔克里•波洛先生本人吗？”接线员有些怀疑地问。
波洛向她保证说是他本人，不会有错。
“帮你接通了波洛先生。”电话里的声音说。
刚才那个纤细的声音突然变成了一个粗壮有力的声音，波洛立刻将听筒从耳边移开了一段距离。
“真的是你吗，波洛先生？”奥利弗夫人问道。
“没错，就是我，夫人。”
“我是奥利弗夫人。我不知道你是否还记得我——”
“我当然记得，夫人。谁能把您给忘了。”
“其实，人们有时候是会记不得，”奥利弗夫人说，“实际上，经常如此。我又没有什么突出的地方，说不定是因为我经常换发型。不过这些都是题外话。希望我没打扰你繁忙的工作吧？”
“没有没有，丝毫没有打扰我。”
“太好了，我可不想让你心烦，事实上，我需要你。”
“需要我？”
“是的，马上。你可以乘飞机过来吗？”
“我从不乘飞机，我晕机。”
“我也晕机。也好，反正飞机也不比火车快多少，因为离这里最近的机场在埃克赛特，离我这儿有好几英里远。你就乘火车来吧，十二点有一趟火车，从帕丁顿开往纳瑟康贝。
你完全可以赶得上。还有四十五分钟的时间，如果我的手表准的话，不过准的时候不多。”
“可是，你在什么地方，夫人？到底发生了什么事？”
“纳瑟康贝的纳斯庄园，到达纳瑟康贝后，车站会有轿车或出租车等你。”
“可是，你为什么需要我？这到底是怎么回事？”波洛有些焦急地又问了一遍。
“电话机安装得都不是地方，”奥利弗夫人说，“这部电话机装在走廊里……总有人来来往往的，总有人讲话……电话根本听不清。我等着你，大家都会对你的到来感到兴奋的，再见。”
对方咔嗒一声挂断了电话，听筒里发出一阵嗡嗡声。
波洛有些不知所措，一边放电话一边嘟囔着什么。莱蒙小姐镇定自若地坐在那里，对刚才的一幕没有流露出任何好奇。她用平缓的语气复述着被打断之前口述的最后那句话：
“……请允许我向你保证，亲爱的先生，你提出的那个假设……”
波洛挥了挥手，示意不要再复述那个假设了。
“来电话的是奥利弗夫人，”他说，“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗，侦探小说作家。你也许读过……”但他没有继续往下说，他想起来了，莱蒙小姐只读一些有助于她进步和提高方面的书籍，对犯罪小说这类无聊的书不屑一顾。“她要我今天就到德文郡去，立刻就到，要在——”他瞥了一眼钟表，“三十五分钟之内。”
莱蒙小姐抬了下眉毛，有些不以为然。
“时间够紧张的，”她说，“是什么事情非要您立刻赶过去？”
“这个问题我也没有答案！她没说。”
“真奇怪，为什么不说呢？”
“因为，”赫尔克里•波洛若有所思地说道，“她怕被别人听到，肯定是的，这一点她表达得很清楚。”
“哦，真的？”莱蒙小姐在为她的雇主打抱不平，“人们总期待事情按自己所想得那样发展！幻想着你能为了一件没有影子的事儿招之即来！您是个大人物！我早就注意到了，那些艺术家，还有那些作家，根本就没有分寸感，连最基本的判断力都没有。要不我给邮局打个电话发封电报：遗憾无法离开伦敦？”
她伸手去拿电话，却被波洛制止了。
“不要（注：原文为法语。），”他说，“不但不要发电报，而且请你马上叫辆出租车。”他抬高嗓门喊了一声：“乔治！把洗漱用品给我装到手提箱里，快，越快越好，我要赶火车。”
全程共二百一十二英里，列车全速跑了一百八十英里后，最后的三十多英里速度慢了下来。列车冒着白色的蒸汽有些羞愧地缓缓开进了纳瑟康贝火车站。只有一个人下车，那就是赫尔克里•波洛。他小心翼翼地跨过车厢台阶和站台之间的大间隙，朝四周望了望。一个搬运工在火车远远的一头一个行李车厢里正忙着。波洛拎起手提箱，沿着站台向出口方向走去。他交回票根，从售票室走了出去。
一辆亨伯轿车停在外面，有个身穿制服的司机朝他走来。
“您是赫尔克里•波洛先生吧？”他彬彬有礼地问道。
他接过波洛先生手里的箱子，为他打开车门。他们驱车离开车站，越过铁道桥，转入两旁都是高树篱的乡间小路。右侧的高树篱很快消失，露出一条美丽的河流，远处有朦朦胧胧的绿色的小山丘。司机把车子靠近树篱，停了下来。
“这是海尔姆河，先生，”他说，“远处是达特姆尔高原。”
很显然，这片景色是值得欣赏值得赞美的。波洛附和着司机小声赞美了几句“壮丽！”实际上，自然景观对他没有什么吸引力，一个精心培育整理出来的菜园子倒是很有可能让他打心底里赞美几句。两个女孩从他们的车旁走过，步履艰难地慢慢往山坡上走，她们背着沉重的行李，穿着短裤，头上包着彩色头巾。
“我们隔壁有家青年旅舍，先生，”司机解释道，很显然他这一路决定兼任导游的角色，“胡塘公园，以前是福莱彻先生住的地方，青年旅舍联盟把它买了下来，每个夏季都爆满，每天晚上都有上百名客人住店。住宿时间不能超过两个晚上，然后就得继续上路。男女青年都有，而且大部分是外国人。”
波洛心不在焉地点了点头。他心里在想——并非第一次——从背后看上去，女性很不适合穿短裤。
他痛苦地闭上了双眼。为什么，噢，为什么年轻妇女如此穿着？橘红色的大腿丝毫没有任何吸引力！
“看上去她们身上的东西很重啊。”他喃喃地说道。
“是的，先生，而且离火车站或公交车站还有好长一段距离。到胡塘公园至少有两英里。”他犹豫了一下，“如果您不反对的话，先生，我们可以让她们搭一下便车，你看行吗？”
“当然可以，当然可以。”波洛的语气里透着仁慈。他一个人坐在一部大汽车里，舒舒服服，而两个年轻姑娘却气喘吁吁、汗流浃背地背着沉重的背包行走，而且丝毫都不知道如何穿着打扮才能对异性产生吸引力。司机发动了车子，开到两个女孩身旁缓慢停了下来。她们扬起布满汗珠且红润的脸庞，心里充满了希望。
波洛打开车门，两个女孩爬进了车子里。
“真好心，”其中一个皮肤白皙的女孩带着外国口音说，“这段路比我想象得远。”
另一个女孩的脸被晒得黑里透红。她一头栗褐色鬈发，裹着头巾，眼睛转个不停，但没有说话，只是点头。
她一龇牙，露出一口洁白的牙齿。她是在低声道谢。皮肤白皙的女孩继续爽朗地谈着。
“我是到英国来度假的，两周。我是荷兰人，我非常喜欢英国。我去过莎士比亚的故乡斯特拉特福特，还参观过莎士比亚剧场和华威城堡。然后又去了克劳夫利，现在又来到了埃克塞特大教堂和托基——太美了——我到了著名的风景区。明天要过河，到普利茅斯，发现新大陆的人就是从普利茅斯港出发的。”
“你呢，姑娘？”波洛转过头去问另一个女孩儿，但那个满头鬈发的女孩儿只是微笑着摇了摇头。
“她不太会讲英语，”荷兰女孩儿好心地说，“法语我们会讲一点——所以在火车上我们用法语交流。她是从米兰附近来的，在英国有个亲戚，嫁给了一个开杂货铺的。她和朋友一起来，昨天到的埃克赛特，可是呢，她的朋友吃坏了肚子，在埃克赛特一家店里吃了有问题的牛肉火腿馅饼，病了，走不了了。天气这么热，吃牛肉火腿馅饼不好。”
这时候，司机放慢了车速，前面有个岔道。两个女孩儿下了车，两人用不同的语言跟司机道谢之后，顺着左边那条路向坡上走去。司机暂时放下了他那副傲气凌人的架子，推心置腹地对波洛说：
“不只是牛肉火腿馅饼，康沃尔馅饼也不要轻易吃。他们什么东西都往馅里放，现在是度假的季节。”
他重新启动了车子，沿着右边的岔路向前开去，不一会儿就驶进了一片茂密的林子。
他还在滔滔不绝地评论着青年旅舍的住客。
“在那家旅舍住的人，有些女孩儿不错，”他说，“不过呢，很难让她们明白，擅自闯入私人宅地是不对的。她们的做法真是让你目瞪口呆。这里的宅地归私人所有，连这点儿道理好像都不懂。她们这些人老是穿过我们的林地，装作不懂你对她们说什么。”
他神情黯然地摇摇头。
他们继续前行，穿过林地，下了一段陡坡，穿过一道大铁门，顺着车道拐了一个弯，最后来到一幢白色的乔治国王时代的别墅前，别墅俯瞰着河流。
司机打开车门，一个黑发高个子男管家出现在台阶上。
“您就是赫尔克里•波洛先生吧？”管家说。
“是的。”
“奥利弗夫人正等着您呢，先生。您会在炮台那儿见到她。请允许我给您引路。”
波洛被引上一条蜿蜒崎岖的小道，透过林子可以看到下面的河流。小道顺势而下，尽头是一块圆形的开阔地，这里有一道带有城垛的矮护墙。奥利弗夫人正坐在护墙上。
她起身去迎他，几个苹果从她膝头掉了下来，四处滚动。来见奥利弗夫人，苹果似乎是避不开的主题。
“我想不通为什么我总是掉东西。”奥利弗夫人有点含混不清地说，因为她满嘴都是苹果，“你好吗，波洛先生？”
“很好，夫人（注：原文为法语。），”赫尔克里•波洛彬彬有礼地回答道，“您好吗？”
奥利弗夫人看上去跟波洛上次见到她时有些不同，原因是——就像她在电话中已经暗示过的——她又改了一种新发型。上一次波洛见到她时，她的发型是披散开的。今天，她的头发染成了深蓝色，向上盘起，一层叠一层，还做出了许多小卷，像个侯爵夫人似的。
那侯爵夫人般的效果到她的脖子为止，身体其余部分的打扮可以标明为“乡村实用型”，她身着一件刺眼的蛋黄色粗呢上衣和裙子，外面披着一件令人作呕的芥末色外套。
“我就知道你会来的。”奥利弗夫人显得很得意。
“你不可能知道。”波洛非常认真地说。
“噢，是的，我知道。”
“我现在仍然在问我自己为什么来这里。”
“是啊，我知道答案，是你的好奇心。”
波洛看着她，两眼闪烁。“你那有名的女性直觉，”他说，“或许没有一度把你带到太离谱的地方去吧。”
“不要取笑我的女性直觉，我还不是每次都能马上认出凶手来？”
波洛殷勤地沉默了下来。要不然他可能会说：“或许是第五次的时候说准了，但并非每一次！”
可他没那么说，反而朝四周看了看，换了话题：
“你这里可真是个风景如画的地方啊。”
“这里吗？可惜这里并不是我的，波洛先生。你以为是我的吗？噢，不是，这个地方归斯塔布斯家族。”
“他们是什么人？”
“噢，其实是无名小卒，”奥利弗夫人含糊地说，“只是有钱。我来这里是为了正事，来工作。”
“啊，你是来为你的杰作（注：原文为法语。）寻找地方色彩？”
“不，不。就像我刚才说的，我在工作，我被约来策划一场谋杀。”
波洛睁大眼睛盯着她。
“噢，不是真的谋杀，”奥利弗夫人解释说，“明天这里有一场大型游园会，为了让大家有新奇感，游园会上将安排一场‘寻凶’游戏。由我来安排，就像寻宝游戏一样；只是他们经常举办寻宝活动，因此大家认为这么安排会带来新奇感。所以他们就付给我一笔非常可观的费用来这里筹划这场活动。相当好玩，真的——跟一般乏味的老套游戏不同，换换口味。”
“怎么个玩法？”
“呃，必须要有一个被害人。还得有一些线索，还得有嫌疑人，一切都是按照惯例来——淫妇、勒索者、年轻的情侣和邪恶的仆人等等。花两个半先令的钱买门票进园，就先给你看第一个线索，然后你就得找到被害人、凶器，而且说出是谁干的，动机何在，我们会备些奖品。”
“精彩极了！”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“实际上，”奥利弗夫人追悔莫及地说，“真正安排起来要比你想象得难多了，因为得考虑到现实中的人是相当聪明的，而在我的书里头他们不需要那么有智慧。”
“那就是说，你找我来是要我帮你安排这项活动？”
波洛无意掩饰心中的愤慨。
“哦，不是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“当然不是！该安排的我都安排完了，明天的安排全部妥当了。真的不是。我请你来是为了别的原因。”
“什么原因？”
奥利弗夫人双手举向头，正要习惯性地去狂抓头发时，突然想起了她发型的复杂性，便顺势拉了拉耳垂来宣泄她内心的感受。
“或许我是个傻瓜，”她说，“但我总感觉哪里不对劲儿。”
Two
Two
There was a moment’s silence as Poirot stared at her. Then he asked sharply: “Something wrong?
How?”
“I don’t know…That’s what I want you to find out. But I’ve felt—more and more—that I wasbeing—oh!—engineered…jockeyed along…Call me a fool if you like, but I can only say that ifthere was to be a real murder tomorrow instead of a fake one, I shouldn’t be surprised!”
Poirot stared at her and she looked back at him defiantly.
“Very interesting,” said Poirot.
“I suppose you think I’m a complete fool,” said Mrs. Oliver defensively.
“I have never thought you a fool,” said Poirot.
“And I know what you always say—or look—about intuition.”
“One calls things by different names,” said Poirot. “I am quite ready to believe that you havenoticed something, or heard something, that has definitely aroused in you anxiety. I think it ispossible that you yourself may not even know just what it is that you have seen or noticed orheard. You are aware only of the result. If I may so put it, you do not know what it is that youknow. You may label that intuition if you like.”
“It makes one feel such a fool,” said Mrs. Oliver, ruefully, “not to be able to be definite.”
“We shall arrive,” said Poirot encouragingly. “You say that you have had the feeling of being—how did you put it—jockeyed along? Can you explain a little more clearly what you mean bythat?”
“Well, it’s rather difficult…You see, this is my murder, so to speak. I’ve thought it out andplanned it and it all fits in—dovetails. Well, if you know anything at all about writers, you’ll knowthat they can’t stand suggestions. People say ‘Splendid, but wouldn’t it be better if so and so did soand so?’ or ‘Wouldn’t it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or the murdererturned out to be D instead of E?’ I mean, one wants to say: ‘All right then, write it yourself if youwant it that way!’”
Poirot nodded.
“And that is what has been happening?”
“Not quite…That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then I’ve flared up, and they’vegiven in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because I’ve made astand over the other, I’ve accepted the triviality without noticing much.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Yes—it is a method, that…Something rather crude and preposterous is putforward—but that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is thatwhat you mean?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And, of course, I may be imagining it, but Idon’t think I am—and none of the things seem to matter anyway. But it’s got me worried—that,and a sort of—well—atmosphere.”
“Who has made these suggestions of alterations to you?”
“Different people,” said Mrs. Oliver. “If it was just one person I’d be more sure of my ground.
But it’s not just one person—although I think it is really. I mean it’s one person working throughother quite unsuspecting people.”
“Have you an idea as to who that one person is?”
Mrs. Oliver shook her head.
“It’s somebody very clever and very careful,” she said. “It might be anybody.”
“Who is there?” asked Poirot. “The cast of characters must be fairly limited?”
“Well,” began Mrs. Oliver. “There’s Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeianand frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And there’sLady Stubbs—Hattie—about twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fish—in fact, I think she’s definitely half-witted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesn’tthink about anything but clothes and jewels. Then there’s Michael Weyman—he’s an architect,quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. He’s designing a tennis pavilionfor Sir George and repairing the Folly.”
“Folly? What is that—a masquerade?”
“No, it’s architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. You’veprobably seen them at Kew. Then there’s Miss Brewis, she’s a sort of secretary housekeeper, whoruns things and writes letters—very grim and efficient. And then there are the people round aboutwho come in and help. A young married couple who have taken a cottage down by the river—Alec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, who’s the Mastertons’ agent. And theMastertons, of course, and old Mrs. Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husband’speople owned Nasse originally. But they’ve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots ofdeath duties so the last heir sold the place.”
Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. Hereturned to the main issue.
“Whose idea was the Murder Hunt?”
“Mrs. Masterton’s, I think. She’s the local M.P.’s wife, very good at organizing. It was she whopersuaded Sir George to have the fête here. You see the place has been empty for so many yearsthat she thinks people will be keen to pay and come in to see it.”
“That all seems straightforward enough,” said Poirot.
“It all seems straightforward,” said Mrs. Oliver obstinately; “but it isn’t. I tell you, M. Poirot,there’s something wrong.”
Poirot looked at Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Oliver looked back at Poirot.
“How have you accounted for my presence here? For your summons to me?” Poirot asked.
“That was easy,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’re to give away the prizes for the Murder Hunt.
Everybody’s awfully thrilled. I said I knew you, and could probably persuade you to come andthat I was sure your name would be a terrific draw—as, of course, it will be,” Mrs. Oliver addedtactfully.
“And the suggestion was accepted—without demur?”
“I tell you, everybody was thrilled.”
Mrs. Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger generation one or twohad asked “Who is Hercule Poirot?”
“Everybody? Nobody spoke against the idea?”
Mrs. Oliver shook her head.
“That is a pity,” said Hercule Poirot.
“You mean it might have given us a line?”
“A would-be criminal could hardly be expected to welcome my presence.”
“I suppose you think I’ve imagined the whole thing,” said Mrs. Oliver ruefully. “I must admitthat until I started talking to you I hadn’t realized how very little I’ve got to go upon.”
“Calm yourself,” said Poirot kindly. “I am intrigued and interested. Where do we begin?”
Mrs. Oliver glanced at her watch.
“It’s just teatime. We’ll go back to the house and then you can meet everybody.”
She took a different path from the one by which Poirot had come. This one seemed to lead in theopposite direction.
“We pass by the boathouse this way,” Mrs. Oliver explained.
As she spoke the boathouse came into view. It jutted out on to the river and was a picturesquethatched affair.
“That’s where the Body’s going to be,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The body for the Murder Hunt, Imean.”
“And who is going to be killed?”
“Oh, a girl hiker, who is really the Yugoslavian first wife of a young Atom Scientist,” said Mrs.
Oliver glibly.
Poirot blinked.
“Of course it looks as though the Atom Scientist had killed her—but naturally it’s not as simpleas that.”
“Naturally not—since you are concerned….”
Mrs. Oliver accepted the compliment with a wave of the hand.
“Actually,” she said, “she’s killed by the Country Squire—and the motive is really ratheringenious—I don’t believe many people will get it—though there’s a perfectly clear pointer in thefifth clue.”
Poirot abandoned the subtleties of Mrs. Oliver’s plot to ask a practical question:
“But how do you arrange for a suitable body?”
“Girl Guide,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Sally Legge was going to be it—but now they want her to dressup in a turban and do the fortune-telling. So it’s a Girl Guide called Marlene Tucker. Rather dumband sniffs,” she added in an explanatory manner. “It’s quite easy—just peasant scarves and arucksack—and all she has to do when she hears someone coming is to flop down on the floor andarrange the cord round her neck. Rather dull for the poor kid—just sticking inside that boathouseuntil she’s found, but I’ve arranged for her to have a nice bundle of comics—there’s a clue to themurderer scribbled on one of them as a matter of fact—so it all works in.”
“Your ingenuity leaves me spellbound! The things you think of!”
“It’s never difficult to think of things,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The trouble is that you think of toomany, and then it all becomes too complicated, so you have to relinquish some of them and that israther agony. We go up this way now.”
They started up a steep zigzagging path that led them back along the river at a higher level. At atwist through the trees they came out on a space surmounted by a small white pilastered temple.
Standing back and frowning at it was a young man wearing dilapidated flannel trousers and a shirtof rather virulent green. He spun round towards them.
“Mr. Michael Weyman, M. Hercule Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver.
The young man acknowledged the introduction with a careless nod.
“Extraordinary,” he said bitterly, “the places people put things! This thing here, for instance. Putup only about a year ago—quite nice of its kind and quite in keeping with the period of the house.
But why here? These things were meant to be seen—‘situated on an eminence’—that’s how theyphrased it—with a nice grassy approach and daffodils, etcetera. But here’s this poor little devil,stuck away in the midst of trees—not visible from anywhere—you’d have to cut down abouttwenty trees before you’d even see it from the river.”
“Perhaps there wasn’t any other place,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Michael Weyman snorted.
“Top of that grassy bank by the house—perfect natural setting. But no, these tycoon fellows areall the same—no artistic sense. Has a fancy for a ‘Folly,’ as he calls it, orders one. Looks roundfor somewhere to put it. Then, I understand, a big oak tree crashes down in a gale. Leaves a nastyscar. ‘Oh, we’ll tidy the place up by putting a Folly there,’ says the silly ass. That’s all they everthink about, these rich city fellows, tidying up! I wonder he hasn’t put beds of red geraniums andcalceolarias all round the house! A man like that shouldn’t be allowed to own a place like this!”
He sounded heated.
“This young man,” Poirot observed to himself, “assuredly does not like Sir George Stubbs.”
“It’s bedded down in concrete,” said Weyman. “And there’s loose soil underneath—so it’ssubsided. Cracked all up here—it will be dangerous soon…Better pull the whole thing down andre-erect it on the top of the bank near the house. That’s my advice, but the obstinate old fool won’thear of it.”
“What about the tennis pavilion?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
Gloom settled even more deeply on the young man.
“He wants a kind of Chinese pagoda,” he said, with a groan. “Dragons if you please! Justbecause Lady Stubbs fancies herself in Chinese coolie hats. Who’d be an architect? Anyone whowants something decent built hasn’t got the money, and those who have the money wantsomething too utterly goddam awful!”
“You have my commiserations,” said Poirot gravely.
“George Stubbs,” said the architect scornfully. “Who does he think he is? Dug himself intosome cushy Admiralty job in the safe depths of Wales during the war—and grows a beard tosuggest he saw active naval service on convoy duty—or that’s what they say. Stinking with money—absolutely stinking!”
“Well, you architects have got to have someone who’s got money to spend, or you’d never havea job,” Mrs. Oliver pointed out reasonably enough. She moved on towards the house and Poirotand the dispirited architect prepared to follow her.
“These tycoons,” said the latter bitterly, “can’t understand first principles.” He delivered a finalkick to the lopsided Folly. “If the foundations are rotten—everything’s rotten.”
“It is profound what you say there,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is profound.”
The path they were following came out from the trees and the house showed white and beautifulbefore them in its setting of dark trees rising up behind it.
“It is of a veritable beauty, yes,” murmured Poirot.
“He wants to build a billiard room on,” said Mr. Weyman venomously.
On the bank below them a small elderly lady was busy with sécateurs on a clump of shrubs. Sheclimbed up to greet them, panting slightly.
“Everything neglected for years,” she said. “And so difficult nowadays to get a man whounderstands shrubs. This hillside should be a blaze of colour in March and April, but verydisappointing this year—all this dead wood ought to have been cut away last autumn—”
“M. Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Folliat,” said Mrs. Oliver.
The elderly lady beamed.
“So this is the great M. Poirot! It is kind of you to come and help us tomorrow. This clever ladyhere has thought out a most puzzling problem—it will be such a novelty.”
Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little lady’s manner. She might, hethought, have been his hostess.
He said politely:
“Mrs. Oliver is an old friend of mine. I was delighted to be able to respond to her request. Thisis indeed a beautiful spot, and what a superb and noble mansion.”
Mrs. Folliat nodded in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Yes. It was built by my husband’s great-grandfather in 1790. There was an Elizabethan housepreviously. It fell into disrepair and burned down in about 1700. Our family has lived here since1598.”
Her voice was calm and matter of fact. Poirot looked at her with closer attention. He saw a verysmall and compact little person, dressed in shabby tweeds. The most noticeable feature about herwas her clear china-blue eyes. Her grey hair was closely confined by a hairnet. Though obviouslycareless of her appearance, she had that indefinable air of being someone which is so hard toexplain.
As they walked together towards the house, Poirot said diffidently, “It must be hard for you tohave strangers living here.”
There was a moment’s pause before Mrs. Folliat answered. Her voice was clear and precise andcuriously devoid of emotion.
“So many things are hard, M. Poirot,” she said.
第二章
第二章
波洛睁大眼睛盯着她愣了半天，然后猛然问道：“哪里不对劲儿？怎么不对劲儿？”
“我不知道……这也是我急着让你来的原因。我有种感觉，而且越来越强烈，感觉从一开始就有人在背后——哦——密谋……搞鬼……或许我是个傻瓜，但我只能说如果明天出现的不是我设计的‘寻凶’游戏，而是桩真的凶杀案，我也不会惊讶的！”
波洛凝视着她，她也目不转睛地看着波洛。
“非常有趣。”波洛说。
“你现在肯定觉得我是个大傻瓜。”奥利弗夫人似乎怕对方小看她。
“我从没认为你是个傻瓜。”波洛说。
“而且我一直知道你对直觉的说法——或看法。”
“对待同一件事情，每个人的看法都不一样，”波洛说，“我肯定你是注意到了什么，或是听到了什么让你担心的事。很可能你自己都不知道具体是什么，你只是担心结果。或许我可以这样说：你不知道自己知道了什么。如果你乐意的话，也许可以把它称之为直觉。”
“它让我感觉自己好傻，”奥利弗夫人感到有些悲哀，“不敢确定是什么事。”
“我们会慢慢弄清楚的，”波洛给她鼓劲儿道，“你说你有种感觉，你是怎么说的来着，从一开始就是个骗局？你什么意思？再说清楚点儿？”
“哦，我说不清楚……你看，这就等于说是我搞的一场谋杀案，是我构思出来的，是我策划的，没有任何破绽，一切都天衣无缝。如果你对作家有所了解的话，你就会知道，作家是不会接受任何人的建议的。人们会说：‘是很棒，不过，如果这个人这么做的话不是更好吗？’或‘如果把受害人甲变成受害人乙不是会更妙吗？’或‘如果最后抓到的杀人犯是丙而不是丁岂不会更好？’我的意思是说，作者就会说：‘好吧，如果你想要那样的结局，那你就自己写吧！’”
波洛点点头。
“就这些？”
“不完全是……听了那种愚蠢的建议，我立马就火儿了，他们也就没再坚持，但他们的建议还是在一些无关紧要的情节上不知不觉地对我产生了些影响。由于我在关键的地方坚持了自己的立场，所以就在一些不明显的地方按照他们的建议做了些修改。”
“我明白了，”波洛说，“嗯——这就是一种方式……提出一些欠考虑甚至荒谬的东西——但重点不在这里。他们真正的目的是修改一些细小的情节，你是这个意思吗？”
“正是！”奥利弗夫人说，“当然了，这些有可能都是我想象出来的，可我并不认为我是胡乱猜测，而且反正都是一些无关紧要的事。但这很令我担忧，嗯，就是一……嗯……对整个气氛担忧。”
“这些修改建议是哪位提出来的？”
“不同的人提出来的，”奥利弗夫人说，“如果只是一个人的话，我就会十分肯定问题所在了，关键不是一个人——虽然我认为应该是一个人，我的意思是说，是一个人通过多个不太令人起疑心的人提出的。”
“你知道那个人是谁吗？”
奥利弗夫人摇了摇头说：
“是个很聪明的人，做事很谨慎，任何人都有可能。”
“都是些什么人？”波洛问，“人物肯定不会很多吧？”
“哦，”奥利弗夫人回答说，“有这个庄园的主人乔治•斯塔布斯爵士，有钱，俗气，但我认为他除了生意，其他一窍不通，或许在生意上精明得要命。另外还有斯塔布斯夫人，海蒂，大约比他小二十岁，长得很漂亮，不过愚笨得很——事实上，我认为她是个不折不扣的白痴。她是看中了他的钱才嫁给他的，这就不用说了。脑子里只有衣服和珠宝。还有一位，就是迈克尔•韦曼。他是个建筑师，年轻，帅气，骨子里透着艺术家的气质。他在为乔治爵士设计一个网球亭式看台，同时也在修复那个怪建筑。”
“怪建筑？那是什么，化装舞会馆？”
“不是，是个非常荒唐的建筑物，一个像庙宇的东西，白色的，有柱子。说不定你在皇家植物园见过类似的建筑。还有布鲁伊斯小姐，她算是个秘书兼女管家，管理着大事小情，还负责书写信件，待人很严肃，但很能干。再就是一些住在附近过来帮忙的人。一对住在河边一幢小平房的年轻夫妇——亚历克•莱格和他的妻子莎莉。还有沃伯顿上尉，他是马斯特顿夫妇的手下。当然还有马斯特顿夫妇，以及住在过去的门房里上了年纪的弗里亚特太太。她丈夫家原先是纳斯庄园的主人。但是他们家的人都去世了，也许是死于战争，遗产税太重，所以最后一位继承人把这个地方卖掉了。”
波洛思考着刚才这些人物，但是目前对他来说他们只不过是一些人名而已，没有太多的实际意义。他把话题又重新转回到主要问题上。
“是谁想出的这个‘寻凶’的游戏？”
“我想应该是马斯特顿太太。她是本地国会议员的妻子，很有组织能力，在这里举办这次游园会就是她说服的乔治爵士。你看，这个地方已经有好多年没有人住了，她认为人们会很乐于慷慨解囊进来一饱眼福。”
“这一切看起来都很清楚了。”波洛说。
“只不过看起来是，”奥利弗夫人很顽固地说，“但实际上并非如此。我告诉你，波洛先生，绝对有什么不对劲。”
波洛和奥利弗两人你看看我，我看看你。
“我出现在现场你是怎么跟大家说的？为什么请我来？”波洛问。
“那容易，”奥利弗夫人说，“你是来为‘寻凶’游戏颁奖的。大家都感到非常刺激。我说我认识你，说不定能说服你来，而且我当时就相信你的大名肯定会很吸引眼球——当然，肯定如此。”奥利弗夫人十分机智地加了一句。
“你的这个提议就这么被大家接受了，没有任何人提出异议？”
“当时所有在场的人都感到很兴奋。”
其实当时有那么一两个年龄小的人问起过“赫尔克里•波洛是谁？”，但奥利弗夫人认为没有必要提及此事。
“所有的人？没有任何人提出异议？”
奥利弗夫人摇了摇头。
“真是太可惜了。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“你的意思是这可能给我们提供一些线索？”
“一个打算杀人的家伙不可能希望我在现场。”
“我知道你是怎么想的，你认为这一切都是我想象出来的，”奥利弗夫人可怜兮兮地说，“我必须承认，在跟你交谈之前，我完全没有意识到我什么线索也提供不了。”
“你冷静一下，”波洛体贴地说，“对这件事我很好奇，而且也很感兴趣。我们从哪儿开始？”
奥利弗夫人看了看手表。
“现在正好是下午茶时间，我们回屋子去吧，你也和大家在那里见个面。”
她走上一条跟波洛来时截然不同的小道。这条小道看上去是通往相反方向的。
“我们这么走会经过船库。”奥利弗夫人解释说。
两人边走边说，转眼间船库就映入眼帘。船库伸向河面，茅草屋顶，美如画卷。
“尸体将会出现在那儿，”奥利弗夫人说，“我是指‘寻凶’游戏里的尸体。”
“那个将被杀害的人是谁？”
“噢，一个女背包客，其实她是一位年轻原子科学家的第一任南斯拉夫籍太太。”奥利弗夫人对答如流。
波洛眨了眨眼。
“当然了，表面上看起来像是这个原子科学家杀的——不过自然不是那么简单。”
“自然不是——既然是你的构思……”
奥利弗夫人挥挥手接受他的恭维。
“实际上，”她说，“她是被乡绅杀害的，而动机也的确十分罕见，我认为多数人是想不到的。尽管在第五条线索上有十分明显的指向。”
波洛决定先不去理会这些细节，转而向她提出一个实实在在的问题：
“可你是如何安排一个合适的尸体的呢？”
“女童子军，”奥利弗夫人说，“本来安排萨利•莱格当尸体，可是现在他们要她包上头巾当算命的。所以就改由一个叫玛琳•塔克的女童子军当尸体，她不太灵巧，还喜欢打听别人的事儿。”她补充了一句。“这个不难，有农夫的围巾和背包就行了。当她听见有人来的时候，就躺倒在地上，把绳子绕在脖子上就可以了。不过这对那个可怜的孩子来说有点乏味，一直闷在船库里头，直到被人发现，不过我已经为她准备了一摞好看的漫画书。事实上有一条凶手的线索就涂写在其中一本漫画书上，所以一切都顺理成章。”
“你的构思太巧妙了，简直把我给迷住了！你想出来的这些情节！”
“想出这些情节向来不难。”奥利弗夫人说，
“麻烦的是你想得太多之后，就会变得太过复杂，这个时候就得删掉一些，这才叫人感到苦恼。现在我们沿这条路上去。”
他们向上走去，这是一条蜿蜒陡峭的小路，在较高的地面上沿着河流往回走。在树林里转过一个弯，他们来到一片空地上，这里有一座带白色壁柱的小庙宇。一个穿着破旧的法兰绒裤子和绿衬衫的年轻人皱着眉头站在不远处，盯着那座庙宇。那人突然朝他们转过身来。
“迈克尔•韦曼先生，这是赫尔克里•波洛先生。”奥利弗夫人说。
那个年轻人听后漫不经心地点了下头。
“太离谱了，”他尖刻地说，“在这种地方建东西！我是说，这里的这个东西。它大约一年前刚刚建起来——就建筑本身来说还是不错的，而且也符合房子的年代。可是，为什么要建在这里呢？建筑是为了给人看的——‘位居要津’——人们都这样说。应该建在绿草茵茵、水仙满塘等等的地方。可是这可怜的小东西却被建在林地里，被树遮挡着，从任何地方都看不见。要想从河流那一侧看见，你得砍下二三十棵树才行。”
“或许是没有任何其他的地方可建吧？”奥利弗夫人说。
迈克尔•韦曼哼了一声。
“那栋别墅旁边的草堤上就是完美的自然艺术背景。不过，这些企业大亨可不这么看，他们全都一个样，没有艺术细胞；就对一些奇形怪状的东西着迷，喜欢上了就找人来随便找个地方建一个。我后来了解到，这里有棵大橡树被大风刮倒了，地面上留下一个十分难看的大坑。‘噢，我们在那儿建一座装饰性的建筑把那难看的大坑掩盖起来’，那个笨蛋说。他们能想到的也就是掩饰，这帮富得流油的城里人！我奇怪他怎么没在别墅四周种上一席一垄的红天竺葵和蒲包草呢！像那种人，就不应该让他拥有这样的地方！”
他越说越来劲儿。
“这个年轻人，”波洛自言自语道，“一定不喜欢乔治•斯塔布斯爵士。”
“这是水泥地基，”韦曼说，“而底下都是松土——所以下陷了。这里全部都裂开了——不久就会有危险……最好全部拆掉，到别墅旁边的草堤上去重建。这是我的忠告，可是那个顽固的老傻瓜不听。”
“那个网球亭式看台呢？”奥利弗夫人问。
年轻人显得更加郁闷。
“他想要一个中国塔式的建筑，”他闷哼一声说，“亭柱上要有龙，拜托！就因为斯塔布斯夫人喜爱戴中国式的大檐儿帽，可是谁来当建筑师呢？想要建一栋像样的东西的人没钱，而那些有钱人建的那些东西要多丑有多丑！”
“我很同情你。”波洛认真地说。
“乔治•斯塔布斯，”建筑师对乔治爵士有些不屑一顾，“他以为他是谁？战争年代在远离硝烟的威尔士做过一些轻松舒服的海事工作，留起了胡子，以此来显示自己参加过护航任务，他们都这么说。铜臭，满身铜臭！”
“呃，你们建筑师总得要有个有钱可花的人，要不然你们就永远没工作了。”奥利弗夫人这么说还是有道理的。她继续朝别墅方向走去，波洛和那个无精打采的建筑师跟在后面。
“这些企业大亨，”年轻的建筑师火药味十足地说，“连最基本的原理都不懂。”他最后踢了一脚那个倾斜的建筑物，“如果地基烂了——一切就都烂了。”
“你这句话很有深度，”波洛说，“不错，是很有深度。”
他们沿着小路走出林地，眼前的别墅在背后阴暗的树木衬托下显得很白净，很漂亮。
“真是太美了，美极了。”波洛喃喃说道。
“他想要建个台球室。”韦曼先生恶狠狠地说。
在他们底下的堤坡上，一个矮小的老妇人正忙着修剪一片灌木丛。她爬上坡来跟他们打招呼，有点儿喘不过气。
“这些都荒废多年了，”她说，“而且时下要找个会弄灌木丛的人很难。这片坡地在三四月里应该是色彩斑斓，可是今年非常叫人失望，所有这些枯木都应该在去年秋天就剪掉——”
“赫尔克里•波洛先生，弗里亚特太太。”奥利弗夫人说。
老妇人微微一笑。
“原来这位就是伟大的波洛先生！你来帮我们明天的活动真好。这位聪明的太太已经想出了一个非常令人困惑的难题。这将是一大新奇活动。”
波洛被这个老妇人的优雅举止弄得不知如何是好。他想，她可能就是这里的女主人。
他彬彬有礼地说：
“奥利弗夫人是我的老朋友。我很高兴能应她之邀而来。这儿的确是个非常美丽的地方，多么高贵、多么雄伟的庄园啊。”
弗里亚特太太一本正经地点了点头。
“是的，这别墅是我先生的曾祖父在一七九○年建的。原先它是一幢伊丽莎白女王（注：指的是伊丽莎白一世（Elizabeth I，英国女王，1558—1603年在位）。统治期间，击溃西班牙无敌舰队，确立了英国的海上霸权。）时代的建筑，后来破旧得无法再修复，大约在一七○○年被烧毁。我们家自从一五九八年以来就一直住在这里。”
她的声音很平静，没有丝毫做作。波洛更加专注地看着她。他看到的是一个身材矮小、动作简练、穿着朴素的人。她最惹人注目的特征是那双清澈的蓝眼睛。她一头灰发罩在发网里。尽管她不注重外表——这一点非常明显——但她身上仍然透出一种让人难以言表的风度。
当他们一起走向别墅时，波洛客气地说：“让陌生人住在这里一定让你觉得不舒服吧。”
弗里亚特太太在回答之前，停顿了一下。她的声音清澈，语气语调都恰到好处，而且没有任何感情色彩。
“让人不舒服的事情太多了，波洛先生。”她说。
Three
Three
It was Mrs. Folliat who led the way into the house and Poirot followed her. It was a gracioushouse, beautifully proportioned. Mrs. Folliat went through a door on the left into a small daintilyfurnished sitting room and on into the big drawing room beyond, which was full of people who allseemed, at the moment, to be talking at once.
“George,” said Mrs. Folliat, “this is M. Poirot who is so kind as to come and help us. Sir GeorgeStubbs.”
Sir George, who had been talking in a loud voice, swung round. He was a big man with a ratherflorid red face and a slightly unexpected beard. It gave a rather disconcerting effect of an actorwho had not quite made up his mind whether he was playing the part of a country squire, or of a“rough diamond” from the Dominions. It certainly did not suggest the navy, in spite of MichaelWeyman’s remarks. His manner and voice were jovial, but his eyes were small and shrewd, of aparticularly penetrating pale blue.
He greeted Poirot heartily.
“We’re so glad that your friend Mrs. Oliver managed to persuade you to come,” he said. “Quitea brain wave on her part. You’ll be an enormous attraction.”
He looked round a little vaguely.
“Hattie?” He repeated the name in a slightly sharper tone. “Hattie!”
Lady Stubbs was reclining in a big armchair a little distance from the others. She seemed to bepaying no attention to what was going on round her. Instead she was smiling down at her handwhich was stretched out on the arm of the chair. She was turning it from left to right, so that a bigsolitaire emerald on her third finger caught the light in its green depths.
She looked up now in a slightly startled childlike way and said, “How do you do.”
Poirot bowed over her hand.
Sir George continued his introductions.
“Mrs. Masterton.”
Mrs. Masterton was a somewhat monumental woman who reminded Poirot faintly of abloodhound. She had a full underhung jaw and large, mournful, slightly blood-shot eyes.
She bowed and resumed her discourse in a deep voice which again made Poirot think of abloodhound’s baying note.
“This silly dispute about the tea tent has got to be settled, Jim,” she said forcefully. “They’vegot to see sense about it. We can’t have the whole show a fiasco because of these idiotic women’slocal feuds.”
“Oh, quite,” said the man addressed.
“Captain Warburton,” said Sir George.
Captain Warburton, who wore a check sports coat and had a vaguely horsy appearance, showeda lot of white teeth in a somewhat wolfish smile, then continued his conversation.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll settle it,” he said. “I’ll go and talk to them like a Dutch uncle. Whatabout the fortune-telling tent? In the space by the magnolia? Or at the far end of the lawn by therhododendrons?”
Sir George continued his introductions.
“Mr. and Mrs. Legge.”
A tall young man with his face peeling badly from sunburn grinned agreeably. His wife, anattractive freckled redhead, nodded in a friendly fashion, then plunged into controversy with Mrs.
Masterton, her agreeable high treble making a kind of duet with Mrs. Masterton’s deep bay.
“—not by the magnolia—a bottle-neck—”
“—one wants to disperse things—but if there’s a queue—”
“—much cooler. I mean, with the sun full on the house—”
“—and the coconut shy can’t be too near the house—the boys are so wild when they throw—”
“And this,” said Sir George, “is Miss Brewis—who runs us all.”
Miss Brewis was seated behind the large silver tea tray.
She was a spare efficient-looking woman of fortyodd, with a brisk pleasant manner.
“How do you do, M. Poirot,” she said. “I do hope you didn’t have too crowded a journey? Thetrains are sometimes too terrible this time of year. Let me give you some tea. Milk? Sugar?”
“Very little milk, mademoiselle, and four lumps of sugar.” He added, as Miss Brewis dealt withhis request, “I see that you are all in a great state of activity.”
“Yes, indeed. There are always so many last-minute things to see to. And people let one downin the most extraordinary way nowadays. Over marquees, and tents and chairs and cateringequipment. One has to keep on at them. I was on the telephone half the morning.”
“What about these pegs, Amanda?” said Sir George. “And the extra putters for the clock golf?”
“That’s all arranged, Sir George. Mr. Benson at the golf club was most kind.”
She handed Poirot his cup.
“A sandwich, M. Poirot? Those are tomato and these are paté. But perhaps,” said Miss Brewis,thinking of the four lumps of sugar, “you would rather have a cream cake?”
Poirot would rather have a cream cake, and helped himself to a particularly sweet and squelchyone.
Then, balancing it carefully on his saucer, he went and sat down by his hostess. She was stillletting the light play over the jewel on her hand, and she looked up at him with a pleased child’ssmile.
“Look,” she said. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
He had been studying her carefully. She was wearing a big coolie-style hat of vivid magentastraw. Beneath it her face showed its pinky reflection on the dead-white surface of her skin. Shewas heavily made up in an exotic un-English style. Dead-white matt skin; vivid cyclamen lips,mascara applied lavishly to the eyes. Her hair showed beneath the hat, black and smooth, fittinglike a velvet cap. There was a languorous un-English beauty about the face. She was a creature ofthe tropical sun, caught, as it were, by chance in an English drawing room. But it was the eyes thatstartled Poirot. They had a childlike, almost vacant, stare.
She had asked her question in a confidential childish way, and it was as though to a child thatPoirot answered.
“It is a very lovely ring,” he said.
She looked pleased.
“George gave it to me yesterday,” she said, dropping her voice as though she were sharing asecret with him. “He gives me lots of things. He’s very kind.”
Poirot looked down at the ring again and the hand outstretched on the side of the chair. Thenails were very long and varnished a deep puce.
Into his mind a quotation came: “They toil not, neither do they spin….”
He certainly couldn’t imagine Lady Stubbs toiling or spinning. And yet he would hardly havedescribed her as a lily of the field. She was a far more artificial product.
“This is a beautiful room you have here, Madame,” he said, looking round appreciatively.
“I suppose it is,” said Lady Stubbs vaguely.
Her attention was still on her ring; her head on one side, she watched the green fire in its depthsas her hand moved.
She said in a confidential whisper, “D’you see? It’s winking at me.”
She burst out laughing and Poirot had a sense of sudden shock. It was a loud uncontrolledlaugh.
From across the room Sir George said: “Hattie.”
His voice was quite kind but held a faint admonition. Lady Stubbs stopped laughing.
Poirot said in a conventional manner:
“Devonshire is a very lovely county. Do you not think so?”
“It’s nice in the daytime,” said Lady Stubbs. “When it doesn’t rain,” she added mournfully.
“But there aren’t any nightclubs.”
“Ah, I see. You like nightclubs?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Stubbs fervently.
“And why do you like nightclubs so much?”
“There is music and you dance. And I wear my nicest clothes and bracelets and rings. And allthe other women have nice clothes and jewels, but not as nice as mine.”
She smiled with enormous satisfaction. Poirot felt a slight pang of pity.
“And all that amuses you very much?”
“Yes. I like the casino, too. Why are there not any casinos in England?”
“I have often wondered,” said Poirot, with a sigh. “I do not think it would accord with theEnglish character.”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she bent slightly towards him.
“I won sixty thousand francs at Monte Carlo once. I put it on number twenty-seven and it cameup.”
“That must have been very exciting, Madame.”
“Oh, it was. George gives me money to play with—but usually I lose it.”
She looked disconsolate.
“That is sad.”
“Oh, it does not really matter. George is very rich. It is nice to be rich, don’t you think so?”
“Very nice,” said Poirot gently.
“Perhaps, if I was not rich, I should look like Amanda.” Her gaze went to Miss Brewis at the teatable and studied her dispassionately. “She is very ugly, don’t you think?”
Miss Brewis looked up at that moment and across to where they were sitting. Lady Stubbs hadnot spoken loudly, but Poirot wondered whether Amanda Brewis had heard.
As he withdrew his gaze, his eyes met those of Captain Warburton. The Captain’s glance wasironic and amused.
Poirot endeavoured to change the subject.
“Have you been very busy preparing for the fête?” he asked.
Hattie Stubbs shook her head.
“Oh, no, I think it is all very boring—very stupid. There are servants and gardeners. Whyshould not they make the preparations?”
“Oh, my dear.” It was Mrs. Folliat who spoke. She had come to sit on the sofa nearby. “Thoseare the ideas you were brought up with on your island estates. But life isn’t like that in Englandthese days. I wish it were.” She sighed. “Nowadays one has to do nearly everything oneself.”
Lady Stubbs shrugged her shoulders.
“I think it is stupid. What is the good of being rich if one has to do everything oneself?”
“Some people find it fun,” said Mrs. Folliat, smiling at her. “I do really. Not all things, butsome. I like gardening myself and I like preparing for a festivity like this one tomorrow.”
“It will be like a party?” asked Lady Stubbs hopefully.
“Just like a party—with lots and lots of people.”
“Will it be like Ascot? With big hats and everyone very chic?”
“Well, not quite like Ascot,” said Mrs. Folliat. She added gently, “But you must try and enjoycountry things, Hattie. You should have helped us this morning, instead of staying in bed and notgetting up until teatime.”
“I had a headache,” said Hattie sulkily. Then her mood changed and she smiled affectionately atMrs. Folliat.
“But I will be good tomorrow. I will do everything you tell me.”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear.”
“I’ve got a new dress to wear. It came this morning. Come upstairs with me and look at it.”
Mrs. Folliat hesitated. Lady Stubbs rose to her feet and said insistently:
“You must come. Please. It is a lovely dress. Come now!”
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Folliat gave a half laugh and rose.
As she went out of the room, her small figure following Hattie’s tall one, Poirot saw her faceand was quite startled at the weariness on it which had replaced her smiling composure. It was asthough, relaxed and off her guard for a moment, she no longer bothered to keep up the socialmask. And yet—it seemed more than that. Perhaps she was suffering from some disease aboutwhich, like many women, she never spoke. She was not a person, he thought, who would care toinvite pity or sympathy.
Captain Warburton dropped down in the chair Hattie Stubbs had just vacated. He, too, looked atthe door through which the two women had just passed, but it was not of the older woman that hespoke. Instead he drawled, with a slight grin:
“Beautiful creature, isn’t she?” He observed with the tail of his eye Sir George’s exit through afrench window with Mrs. Masterton and Mrs. Oliver in tow. “Bowled over old George Stubbs allright. Nothing’s too good for her! Jewels, mink, all the rest of it. Whether he realizes she’s a bitwanting in the top storey, I’ve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesn’t matter. After all, thesefinancial johnnies don’t ask for intellectual companionship.”
“What nationality is she?” Poirot asked curiously.
“Looks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies. One ofthose islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families there—a creole, I don’t meana half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.”
Young Mrs. Legge came over to join them.
“Look here, Jim,” she said, “you’ve got to be on my side. That tent’s got to be where we alldecided—on the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. It’s the only possible place.”
“Ma Masterton doesn’t think so.”
“Well, you’ve got to talk her out of it.”
He gave her his foxy smile.
“Mrs. Masterton’s my boss.”
“Wilfred Masterton’s your boss. He’s the M.P.”
“I dare say, but she should be. She’s the one who wears the pants—and don’t I know it.”
Sir George reentered the window.
“Oh, there you are, Sally,” he said. “We need you. You wouldn’t think everyone could get hetup over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where thefancy woollens was promised it should be. Where’s Amy Folliat? She can deal with these people—about the only person who can.”
“She went upstairs with Hattie.”
“Oh, did she—?”
Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from whereshe was writing tickets, and said, “I’ll fetch her for you, Sir George.”
“Thank you, Amanda.”
Miss Brewis went out of the room.
“Must get hold of some more wire fencing,” murmured Sir George.
“For the fête?”
“No, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuff’s rotted away,and that’s where they get through.”
“Who get through?”
“Trespassers!” ejaculated Sir George.
Sally Legge said amusedly:
“You sound like Betsy Trotwood campaigning against donkeys.”
“Betsy Trotwood? Who’s she?” asked Sir George simply.
“Dickens.”
“Oh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at all—surprised me. But,seriously, trespassers are a menace since they’ve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They comeout at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts—boy this morning had one allcovered with crawling turtles and things—made me think I’d been hitting the bottle or something.
Half of them can’t speak English—just gibber at you…” He mimicked: “‘Oh, plees—yes, haf you—tell me—iss way to ferry?’ I say no, it isn’t, roar at them, and send them back where they’vecome from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don’t understand. And the girls giggle.
All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian, Dutch, Finnish—Eskimos I shouldn’t be surprised!
Half of them communists, I shouldn’t wonder,” he ended darkly.
“Come now, George, don’t get started on communists,” said Mrs. Legge. “I’ll come and helpyou deal with the rabid women.”
She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: “Come on, Jim. Come and be tornto pieces in a good cause.”
“All right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he’s going topresent the prizes.”
“You can do that presently.”
“I will await you here,” said Poirot agreeably.
In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.
“Women!” he said. “Like a swarm of bees.”
He turned his head to look out of the window.
“And what’s it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn’t matter to anyone.”
“But obviously,” Poirot pointed out, “there are those to whom it does matter.”
“Why can’t people have some sense? Why can’t they think? Think of the mess the whole worldhas got itself into. Don’t they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committingsuicide?”
Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook hishead doubtfully.
“Unless we can do something before it’s too late…” Alec Legge broke off. An angry look sweptover his face. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m nervy, neurotic—all therest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and Icame down here and took the Mill Cottage for three months, and I’ve followed their prescription.
I’ve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathed—”
“I noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,” said Poirot politely.
“Oh, this?” Alec’s hand went to his sore face. “That’s the result of a fine English summer foronce in a way. But what’s the good of it all? You can’t get away from facing truth just by runningaway from it.”
“No, it is never any good running away.”
“And being in a rural atmosphere like this just makes you realize things more keenly—that andthe incredible apathy of the people of this country. Even Sally, who’s intelligent enough, is just thesame. Why bother? That’s what she says. It makes me mad! Why bother?”
“As a matter of interest, why do you?”
“Good God, you too?”
“No, it is not advice. It is just that I would like to know your answer.”
“Don’t you see, somebody’s got to do something.”
“And that somebody is you?”
“No, no, not me personally. One can’t be personal in times like these.”
“I do not see why not. Even in ‘these times’ as you call it, one is still a person.”
“But one shouldn’t be! In times of stress, when it’s a matter of life or death, one can’t think ofone’s own insignificant ills or preoccupations.”
“I assure you, you are quite wrong. In the late war, during a severe air raid, I was much lesspreoccupied by the thought of death than of the pain from a corn on my little toe. It surprised meat the time that it should be so. ‘Think,’ I said to myself, ‘at any moment now, death may come.’
But I was still conscious of my corn—indeed, I felt injured that I should have that to suffer as wellas the fear of death. It was because I might die that every small personal matter in my life acquiredincreased importance. I have seen a woman knocked down in a street accident, with a broken leg,and she has burst out crying because she sees that there is a ladder in her stocking.”
“Which just shows you what fools women are!”
“It shows you what people are. It is, perhaps, that absorption in one’s personal life that has ledthe human race to survive.”
Alec Legge gave a scornful laugh.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I think it’s a pity they ever did.”
“It is, you know,” Poirot persisted, “a form of humility. And humility is valuable. There was aslogan that was written up in your underground railways here, I remember, during the war. ‘It alldepends on you.’ It was composed, I think, by some eminent divine—but in my opinion it was adangerous and undesirable doctrine. For it is not true. Everything does not depend on, say, Mrs.
Blank of Little-Blank-in-the-Marsh. And if she is led to think it does, it will not be good for hercharacter. While she thinks of the part she can play in world affairs, the baby pulls over the kettle.”
“You are rather old-fashioned in your views, I think. Let’s hear what your slogan would be.”
“I do not need to formulate one of my own. There is an older one in this country which contentsme very well.”
“What is that?”
“‘Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry.’”
“Well, well…” Alec Legge seemed amused. “Most unexpected coming from you. Do you knowwhat I should like to see done in this country?”
“Something, no doubt, forceful and unpleasant,” said Poirot, smiling.
Alec Legge remained serious.
“I should like to see every feeble-minded person put out—right out! Don’t let them breed. If,for one generation, only the intelligent were allowed to breed, think what the result would be.”
“A very large increase of patients in the psychiatric wards, perhaps,” said Poirot dryly. “Oneneeds roots as well as flowers on a plant, Mr. Legge. However large and beautiful the flowers, ifthe earthy roots are destroyed there will be no more flowers.” He added in a conversational tone:
“Would you consider Lady Stubbs a candidate for the lethal chamber?”
“Yes, indeed. What’s the good of a woman like that? What contribution has she ever made tosociety? Has she ever had an idea in her head that wasn’t of clothes or furs or jewels? As I say,what good is she?”
“You and I,” said Poirot blandly, “are certainly much more intelligent than Lady Stubbs. But”—he shook his head sadly—“it is true, I fear, that we are not nearly so ornamental.”
“Ornamental…” Alec was beginning with a fierce snort, but he was interrupted by the reentry ofMrs. Oliver and Captain Warburton through the window.
第三章
第三章
弗里亚特太太率先进入别墅，波洛跟在她身后。别墅非常雅致，而且格局也很美。弗里亚特太太穿过左侧一道门，走进一间装修讲究的小客厅，继续向前进入一间大客厅。客厅里都是人，就在他们进入的一刹那，里面的人似乎同时开了腔。
“乔治，”弗里亚特太太说，“这位是波洛先生，他是专程过来为我们提供帮助的。这位是乔治•斯塔布斯爵士。”
一直在高谈阔论的乔治爵士猛然转过身来。他长得五大三粗，脸庞微红，看上去气色很好，但胡子和脸型有些不协调，像是一个拿不定主意扮演哪个角色才好的演员——是演乡绅还是演来自大英帝国自治领的土老帽领导人。虽然迈克尔•韦曼说乔治曾在海军服过役，但丝毫看不出他有军人的架势。他的举止以及讲话声音都透出一种快乐，淡蓝色的眼睛虽小但很精明，有一种特殊的穿透力。
他和波洛打着招呼，十分热情。
“奥利弗夫人能把您请来，我们真是太高兴了，”他说，“她的头脑太好用了，你将是这个活动的一大亮点。”
他茫然地朝四周看了看。
“海蒂？”他又拔高声音喊了一遍，“海蒂？”
斯塔布斯夫人正放松地倚靠在离人群远一点儿的一张大沙发里。她似乎没有注意周围的一切，而是低头看着自己放在沙发扶手上的一只手在微笑。她左右晃动着那只手，有意识地将中指上的那颗大大的绿宝石对着灯光映出深绿色。
这时她突然抬起头，像个受了惊吓的孩子般说：“你好。”
波洛俯首亲吻了她的手。
乔治爵士继续介绍说：
“这是马斯特顿太太。”
马斯特顿太太很高大，让波洛隐隐约约想起了侦探猎犬。她长着一副十分突出的下巴，一双圆溜溜充血的大眼睛，里面透着悲伤。
她回礼鞠躬后，用低沉的声音继续着她刚才的谈话，那声音令波洛再度想起了猎犬的狂吠声。
“对茶棚子的愚蠢的争执得解决一下，吉姆。”她的话很有分量，“她们不能这么不明事理。我们不能因为这些没见过世面的蠢女人的争论破坏了整个场面的气氛。”
“噢，的确。”和她说话的男人说。
“这是沃伯顿上尉。”乔治爵士说。
沃伯顿上尉穿着一件格子运动外套，长相似马非马，脸上挂着残忍狡诈的微笑，龇出满口白牙，继续对马斯特顿太太说：
“你不用操心，我会解决好的，”他说，“我这就去好好教训她们。算命棚子呢？搭建在木兰树旁的空地上，还是在杜鹃花丛旁边的草坪上？”
乔治爵士继续介绍说：
“这是莱格先生和太太。”
一个脸被太阳晒得脱皮的高个儿年轻人亲切地咧嘴一笑。他太太脸上有雀斑，是个迷人的红发女郎。她友善地点点头，然后就开始了与马斯特顿太太的舌战，她那悦耳的女高音和马斯特顿太太的吠叫形成了一种二重奏。
“——不要搭建在木兰树旁，那儿太狭窄——”
“——人们不愿挤在一起，但是如果排了长龙——”
“——凉快多了，我是说，大太阳直直地照在别墅上——”
“——而且打椰子游戏场地不能离别墅太近，男孩子掷球的动作是很野蛮的——”
“这位，”乔治爵士说，“是布鲁伊斯小姐。她是我们大家的总管。”
布鲁伊斯小姐座位前面放着一个银制的大茶盘。
她大约四十岁开外，身体偏瘦，看上去是个很能干的女人，举止大方。
“你好，波洛先生，”她说，“我衷心希望你在旅途的火车里不会太挤吧？在这个时节坐火车有时候太可怕了。我来帮你倒杯茶。要加牛奶吗？加糖吗？”
“一点点牛奶，小姐，还有四块糖。”当布鲁伊斯小姐照他的吩咐加牛奶和糖的时候，他又加了一句：“我知道你们都处在最忙的时刻。”
“是的，太对了。总有很多事情需要一分钟内处理完。而时下的人让人失望得出奇。大帐篷、小帐篷、凳子、餐饮设备等等等等，都得照顾到，哪一方面都不能出差错。我大半个上午都在忙着用电话联系。”
“这些木桩呢，阿曼达？”乔治爵士问，“还有这些多出来的高尔夫球推杆呢？”
“那些都安排妥了，乔治爵士。高尔夫俱乐部的本森先生非常好心帮了忙。”
她把茶杯端给了波洛。
“来块三明治吗，波洛先生？那些是番茄的，这些是肉酱的。还是，”布鲁伊斯小姐想起了给他的茶里加了四块糖，说，“你喜欢来一块奶油蛋糕？”
相比之下，波洛还是更喜欢奶油蛋糕，就自己动手拿了一块特别甜的。
然后，他小心翼翼地端着茶碟，走到女主人身边坐了下来。她仍在对着灯光玩弄中指上的宝石，抬起头来对他露出了孩子般满意的微笑。
“你看，”她说，“漂亮吧？”
他刚才一直在端详她。她戴着一顶深紫红色的麦秸秆编制的大檐儿帽。帽子底下，她那死人般惨白的皮肤衬托出微红的脸。她化着浓浓的异国妆。死白色的皮肤没有任何光泽，粉红色的口红，眼睛上涂了一层厚厚的睫毛膏，黑色的头发从帽子下面露出来，很光滑，像一顶天鹅绒帽子般服帖，脸上露出一种非英国式的怠惰的美。她本来是一个属于热带阳光下的人，但不知怎么就被困在了一个英国人家的客厅里。然而，她的那双眼睛令波洛感到吃惊。那像是一双孩子的眼睛，空洞地凝视着前方。
她问话的语气像是孩子在说悄悄话，而波洛的回答也像是对一个孩子。
“是一枚非常可爱的戒指。”他说。
她显得很高兴。
“是乔治昨天送给我的。”她说，声音压得很低，仿佛她在跟他分享一个秘密，“他送给我很多东西，他非常好。”
波洛再次低头看了看那枚戒指，又看了看她伸出来放在沙发扶手上的那只手。她指甲很长，染着深褐色的指甲油。
他脑海中闪出一句谚语：“她们不耕田，不织布……”
他确实无法想象斯塔布斯夫人耕田或织布，然而，又不可能把她描述成田地里的百合花。她更像是一种非自然的产物。
“你这个房间非常漂亮，夫人。”他用赞赏的目光打量着四周说。
“我想是吧。”斯塔布斯夫人含糊地说。
她的注意力仍在她的戒指上，她的头偏向一侧，望着手移动时戒指发出的绿色光芒。
她神秘兮兮地耳语道：“你知道吗？它在对我眨眼睛。”
她突然笑出声来，这让波洛感到愕然，她不是小声笑，而是不加控制地大笑。
乔治爵士在房间的另一头叫道：“海蒂。”
他的声音很和蔼，不过带着轻微的告诫。斯塔布斯夫人止住了笑声。
波洛若无其事地说：“德文郡是个非常可爱的郡，你不这样认为吗？”
“白天的时候很好，”斯塔布斯夫人说，“不下雨的时候。”她有些悲伤地加了一句，“可是连一家夜总会都没有。”
“啊，我明白，你喜欢夜总会？”
“哦，是的。”斯塔布斯夫人热诚地说。
“你为什么那么喜欢夜总会呢？”
“夜总会上有音乐，还可以跳舞，我可以穿上我最好的衣服，戴上我最好的手镯和戒指，而其他的女人虽然也都穿上好看的衣服，戴上好看的珠宝，但谁都赶不上我的好看。”
她巨大的满足感写在了脸上，波洛感到一阵怜悯心疼。
“而那一切让你感到非常开心？”
“是的，我也喜欢赌场，为什么英格兰就没有赌场呢？”
“我也感到奇怪，”波洛叹了一口气说，“我认为赌场和英国人的个性不配。”
她有些不解地看着波洛，然后轻轻向前倾了下身子说：
“有一次我在蒙特卡洛赢了六万法郎，我押在数字二十七上，结果赢了。”
“那一定非常刺激，夫人。”
“哦，非常刺激。通常乔治给我钱去玩，可是我每次都输掉。”
她显得有些闷闷不乐。
“那可太不幸了。”
“哦，其实无所谓，乔治有的是钱，有钱真是好，你不这么认为吗？”
“非常好。”波洛和气地说。
“如果我没有钱，或许我会看起来像阿曼达一样。”她的目光移向坐在茶桌旁的布鲁伊斯小姐，冷静地凝视着她，“她长得非常丑，你不觉得吗？”
这时，布鲁伊斯小姐正好抬头向他们看过来。斯塔布斯夫人讲话的声音并不大，不过波洛怀疑阿曼达•布鲁伊斯小姐也许已经听到了。
当他收回视线时，他的目光正好和沃伯顿上尉的相遇。上尉的眼神中闪着讽刺与顽皮。
波洛马上改变了话题。
“是不是最近一直忙着准备这次游园会？”他问道。
海蒂•斯塔布斯摇了摇头。
“哦，没有，我认为这些安排很乏味，很愚蠢。有那么多的仆人和园丁，干吗不让他们去准备？”
“噢，天哪。”讲话的是弗里亚特太太。不知她什么时候已经过来坐在附近的沙发上了。“那些是你在岛上庄园里耳濡目染的观念。但是现在英格兰的生活可不是那个样子。我真希望是那样。”她叹了口气，“时下几乎所有的事情都得自己动手。”
斯塔布斯夫人耸了耸肩。
“我认为这么做很愚蠢。如果什么事情都得自己动手，那么有钱还有什么意义？”
“有人觉得自己动手更有趣。”弗里亚特太太微笑着对她说，“我就这么认为，当然不是所有的事情，我是说有些事情。我自己就很喜欢园艺，而且我喜欢为像明天这样的游园活动做准备工作。”
“会像是个大型聚会吗？”斯塔布斯夫人满怀希望地问道。
“就像是个大型聚会，要来很多很多人。”
“会像是阿斯科特赛马会吗？每个人都戴着大帽子，打扮得很时髦？”
“呃，和阿斯科特赛马会还不一样。”弗里亚特太太说。她接着又很温和地加了一句：“但你得学会慢慢欣赏乡下的东西。海蒂，今天上午你本该来帮帮我们，可你赖着不起床，都该喝下午茶了才起床。”
“我头疼。”海蒂闷闷不乐地说。紧接着她便来了个一百八十度的大转弯，温情地对弗里亚特太太笑着说：
“不过我明天就好了，我会照你的吩咐做。”
“你真招人喜欢，亲爱的。”
“我刚刚拿到一件新衣服。是上午才送来的，跟我上楼去看看吧。”
弗里亚特太太犹豫了一下。斯塔布斯夫人站起身来，恳求道：
“你一定要来看看，求求你了，是一件非常可爱的衣服，来吧！”
“哦，好吧。”弗里亚特太太似笑非笑地站起身来。
她走出房间时，矮小的身子跟在海蒂高高的身子后面。波洛惊奇地发现她脸上的微笑已被厌倦的神色取代。仿佛忽然松懈下来，不再警觉，不再费心保持社交的假面具。然而，似乎不仅仅是那样。或许她是在遭受什么疾病的折磨，但又不想对外说，很多女人都是这样的。他想，她不是个喜欢博取别人可怜或同情的人。
沃伯顿上尉落座在海蒂•斯塔布斯刚刚空出来的扶手沙发里。他也在看着那两个女人刚通过的那道门，但是他谈论的不是那个年纪较大的女人。他微微咧咧嘴，懒洋洋地说：
“长得太美了，是不是？”他用余光看见乔治爵士在马斯特顿太太和奥利弗夫人的陪同之下从一道法国式落地门窗走了出去。“对老乔治•斯塔布斯我太服气了，对她来说，给她任何东西都不过分！珠宝、貂皮大衣等等。我不晓得他究竟知不知道她智力有点问题。或许他认为这无所谓。毕竟，这些有钱的花花公子并不需要有智慧的伴侣。”
“她是哪里人？”波洛好奇地问。
“看起来像是南美洲人，我一直这么认为。不过我相信她来自西印度群岛。那些出产蔗糖、甜酒那类东西的某个岛屿。那里的老家族之一——我指的是在当地出生的法国或西班牙人的后裔，不是混血儿。我认为，在这些岛上人们都是近亲通婚。这是她智力低下的原因。”
年轻的莱格太太走过来加入了他们。
“听我说，吉姆，”她说，“你得站在我这边，那个棚子得搭建在我们大家决定的地方——在草坪的那一头，在杜鹃花丛的后面，那儿是唯一可行的地方。”
“可是马斯特顿太太不这样认为。”
“呃，那你得去说服她。”
他对她露出了狡猾的微笑。
“马斯特顿太太是我的老板。”
“威尔弗雷德•马斯特顿才是你的老板，他是国会议员。”
“我敢说，她就是。她是家里的老大——我清楚得很。”
乔治爵士从落地窗门外走了进来。
“噢，你在这里呀，莎莉。”他说，“我们需要你，你不会想到吧，大家竟然会为了一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事大为恼火，像什么面包上的奶油应该由谁来涂，蛋糕应该由谁来提供，还有，摆放蔬菜水果的位置为什么给挤占了，弄得那些精心挑选的毛制品都没地方放了。艾米•弗里亚特到哪里去了？她能对付这些人——差不多是唯一能对付他们的人。”
“她跟海蒂上楼去了。”
“哦，是吗？——”
乔治爵士无助地环顾了一下四周，布鲁伊斯小姐本来正坐在那儿忙着写门票，这时突然站起来说：“我帮你去叫她，乔治爵士。”
“谢谢你，阿曼达。”
布鲁伊斯小姐走出门去。
“得再多弄些铁丝网。”乔治爵士喃喃地说道。
“游园会要用的？”
“不，不是。是要架设在林子里，架在我们跟胡塘公园交界的地方。旧的铁丝网生锈烂掉了，他们就是从那儿穿过来的。”
“谁从那儿穿过来的？”
“那些擅自穿越私人宅地的人！”乔治爵士猛然大声说。
莎莉•莱格很开心地说：
“听上去你好像在说贝特西•特洛特伍德正和一群驴子争高低。”
“贝特西•特洛特伍德？贝特西•特洛特伍德是谁？”乔治爵士不加思索地问。
“狄更斯。”
“噢，狄更斯啊。我曾经读过他的《匹克威克外传》。写得不错，的确不错——很让我感到惊讶。不过，说正经的，自从他们开了这家无聊的青年旅舍之后，擅自穿越私人宅地的人就一直是个威胁。他们随时都会出现在你面前，衬衫上的图案简直让人难以置信。好家伙，今天上午就让我碰见一个男孩，衬衫上面都是爬行的乌龟，我还以为我喝醉了或什么的，他们大半不会说英语，只对着你叽里呱啦地……”他模仿道，“‘喔，拜托——对了，你有没——告诉我——这路到码头？’我说，不是，不到码头，对他们大声说，叫他们原路返回，可是他们大半只是眨眨眼睛，瞪着你，听不懂。女孩儿们则咯咯地笑起来。各种国籍的都有，意大利的、南斯拉夫的、荷兰的、芬兰的，就算还有爱斯基摩人我也不会感到吃惊。”他生气地说。
“来吧，乔治，”莱格太太说，“我来帮你收拾这些不安分守己的女人。”
她带他跨出法式落地窗门，然后回头喊道：“来吧，吉姆，来吧，为了正义而粉身碎骨也在所不惜。”
“好吧，不过既然我们邀请了波洛克先生来颁奖，我想让他多了解一些这次‘寻凶’游戏的活动安排。”
“你可以过会儿再跟他说。”
“我会在这里等你。”波洛欣然说。
在接下来的沉默中，亚历克•莱格在椅子里伸了伸懒腰，叹了口气。
“女人啊！”他说，“就像一群蜜蜂。”
他转身向窗外望去。
“他们在干什么？其实不过是一次游园会罢了，对谁都无关紧要的。”
“不过，”波洛指出，“显然对某些人来说很重要。”
“为什么就不能理智一些？为什么不动脑子想一想？想想整个世界乱成什么样子了。难道他们没有意识到住在这地球上的人都在忙着自杀吗？”
波洛不打算回答他对这个问题的判断是正确的，只是怀疑地摇了摇头。
“我们该采取行动做点儿什么，否则就晚了……”亚历克•莱格停了一下。他的脸上掠过气愤的神色。“哦，是的，”他说，“我知道你在想什么。你认为我紧张、神经质——等等等等。就像那些该死的医生一样，要我休息，换个环境，呼吸一下海边的空气。好了，莎莉和我来到这里，租下磨坊茅庐三个月，而我已经按照他们的处方做了。我钓鱼、游泳、散步、日光浴——”
“我注意到了，你已经晒了日光浴。”波洛礼貌地说。
“哦，这？”亚历克一只手伸向晒得发疼的脸，“这总算是一次英国美好夏日的结果。但到底有什么用呢？你总不能用躲开的方式来逃避现实吧。”
“是啊，逃避没有任何用。”
“而置身于像这样的乡村气息里会让你对事物了解得更加透彻——这些以及这个国家的人令人难以置信的冷漠。甚至聪明如莎莉，也是完全一样。为什么要去操那个心？她就是这么说的。这简直让我发疯！为什么要去操那个心？”
“恕我冒昧问一句，你为什么要操心？”
“天啊，你也一样？”
“不，我这不是忠告，我只是想知道你的答案。”
“难道你不明白吗，总得有人想办法采取行动啊。”
“而那个人就是你？”
“不，不，不是我个人。在这种情况下，不能是哪个‘个人’的事儿。”
“我不明白为什么不能。即使如同你所说的‘在这种情况下’，一个人仍然是‘个人’啊。”
“可是不应该是这样！在面临困境、生死攸关的情况下，人不能只想到自己那些无病呻吟的小事儿或是自己一心要干的事儿。”
“我告诉你，你大错特错了。大战接近尾声时，在一次猛烈的空袭中，我心里想的是我小脚趾上那个鸡眼的疼痛，而不是我对死亡的恐惧。那个时候我对自己的这种想法都感到吃惊。我对自己说：‘想想看，死亡随时都可能降临。’可是我仍然能意识到我脚趾上鸡眼的疼痛——真的，在忍受死亡恐惧的同时，我还得忍受鸡眼的疼痛，这使我感到我受到了伤害。正是因为我可能会死掉，所以生活中的每一件小事儿才变得异常重要。我见过一个女人在街上被撞倒在地，断了一条腿，而她放声大哭的原因不是别的，而是她看见自己的长筒袜上有一条线脱掉抽丝了。”
“这正说明女人是多么傻！”
“不对，这件事说明‘人’是什么样子，或者说，正是人们对个人事情的专注才使得人类至今能够在这个地球上幸存。”
亚历克•莱格发出一阵不屑的笑声。
“有时候，”他说，“我倒认为人类幸存下来是一种遗憾。”
“你知道，”波洛坚持说，“这是一种谦卑的形式，而谦卑是可贵的。我记得战时在你们这里的地铁里有一个口号写着：‘一切全靠你了。’我想，这句口号是某个圣贤想出来的——不过依我的观点，这是一则危险而令人生厌的教条。因为现实并非如此。一切并非全靠谁。比如说，某某太太，如果她被人误导而真的以为所有的事情都得靠她的话，那么这对她个人没有什么好处。正当她想着自己在世界事务中扮演的角色时，她的小宝宝却把热水瓶给弄倒了。”
“我认为你的观念太老套了。把你的口号说出来听听。”
“我并不需要形成自己的口号，这个国家就有一个更老的口号令我很受用。”
“是什么？”
“‘信任上帝，时刻准备着。’”
“哎，哎……”亚历克•莱格似乎觉得好玩，“真的没想到你会这样说，你知道我想看到这个国家做成点儿什么事吗？”
“无疑是一些力度大但令人不快的事。”波洛微笑着说。
亚历克•莱格仍然很严肃。
“我不想看到任何智力低下的人，这样的人都应该消失——全部消失！不要让他们繁殖后代。如果从某一代开始，只允许高智商的人生育后代，想想看那会是怎样的结果。”
“或许精神病院里的病人会大量增加。”波洛冷淡地说，“植物需要根也需要花，何况是人，莱格先生。无论花朵多么大多么美，如果底部的根被毁了，那就不再有花了。”他以聊天的口吻又加了一句，“你会考虑把斯塔布斯太太作为无痛行刑室的候选人吗？”
“是的，会的。像那种女人留着有什么用？她对社会有过什么贡献？她的脑子里除了衣服珠宝之外还想过什么？就像我说的，留着她有什么用？”
“你和我，”波洛温和地说，“确实比斯塔布斯夫人聪明多了。但是，”他有些遗憾地摇了摇头，“恐怕我们都没有她那么能增光添彩，这是事实。”
“增光添彩—”亚历克有些暴躁地哼了一声，但他的话紧接着就被从法式落地窗门进来的奥利弗夫人和沃伯顿上尉打断了。