One
One
Hercule Poirot was sitting at the breakfast table. At his right hand was a steaming cup ofchocolate. He had always had a sweet tooth. To accompany the chocolate was a brioche. It wentagreeably with chocolate. He nodded his approval. This was from the fourth shop he had tried. Itwas a Danish p?tisserie but infinitely superior to the so-called French one nearby. That had beennothing less than a fraud.
He was satisfied gastronomically. His stomach was at peace. His mind also was at peace,perhaps somewhat too much so. He had finished his Magnum Opus, an analysis of great writers ofdetective fiction. He had dared to speak scathingly of Edgar Allen Poe, he had complained of thelack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, had lauded to the skies twoAmerican authors who were practically unknown, and had in various other ways given honourwhere honour was due and sternly withheld it where he considered it was not. He had seen thevolume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from a really incredible numberof printer’s errors, pronounced that it was good. He had enjoyed this literary achievement andenjoyed the vast amount of reading he had had to do, had enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flunga book across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up and dispose of it tidily inthe wastepaper basket) and had enjoyed appreciatively nodding his head on the rare occasionswhen such approval was justified.
And now? He had had a pleasant interlude of relaxation, very necessary after his intellectuallabour. But one could not relax forever, one had to go on to the next thing. Unfortunately he hadno idea what the next thing might be. Some further literary accomplishment? He thought not. Do athing well then leave it alone. That was his maxim. The truth of the matter was, he was bored. Allthis strenuous mental activity in which he had been indulging—there had been too much of it. Ithad got him into bad habits, it had made him restless….
Vexatious! He shook his head and took another sip of chocolate.
The door opened and his well-trained servant, George, entered. His manner was deferential andslightly apologetic. He coughed and murmured, “A—” he paused, “—a—young lady has called.”
Poirot looked at him with surprise and mild distaste.
“I do not see people at this hour,” he said reprovingly.
“No, sir,” agreed George.
Master and servant looked at each other. Communication was sometimes fraught withdifficulties for them. By inflexion or innuendo or a certain choice of words George would signifythat there was something that might be elicited if the right question was asked. Poirot consideredwhat the right question in this case might be.
“She is good-looking, this young lady?” he inquired carefully.
“In my view—no, sir, but there is no accounting for tastes.”
Poirot considered his reply. He remembered the slight pause that George had made before thephrase—young lady. George was a delicate social recorder. He had been uncertain of the visitor’sstatus but had given her the benefit of the doubt.
“You are of the opinion that she is a young lady rather than, let us say, a young person?”
“I think so, sir, though it is not always easy to tell nowadays.” George spoke with genuineregret.
“Did she give a reason for wishing to see me?”
“She said—” George pronounced the words with some reluctance, apologising for them inadvance as it were, “that she wanted to consult you about a murder she might have committed.”
Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows rose. “Might have committed? Does she not know?”
“That is what she said, sir.”
“Unsatisfactory, but possibly interesting,” said Poirot.
“It might—have been a joke, sir,” said George, dubiously.
“Anything is possible, I suppose,” conceded Poirot, “but one would hardly think—” He liftedhis cup. “Show her in after five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” George withdrew.
Poirot finished the last sip of chocolate. He pushed aside his cup and rose to his feet. He walkedto the fireplace and adjusted his moustaches carefully in the mirror over the chimneypiece.
Satisfied, he returned to his chair and awaited the arrival of his visitor. He did not know exactlywhat to expect….
He had hoped perhaps for something nearer to his own estimate of female attraction. Theoutworn phrase “beauty in distress” had occurred to him. He was disappointed when Georgereturned ushering in the visitor; inwardly he shook his head and sighed. Here was no beauty—andno noticeable distress either. Mild perplexity would seem nearer the mark.
“Pha!” thought Poirot disgustedly. “These girls! Do they not even try to make something ofthemselves? Well made-up, attractively dressed, hair that has been arranged by a good hairdresser,then perhaps she might pass. But now!”
His visitor was a girl of perhaps twenty-odd. Long straggly hair of indeterminate colour strayedover her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large, bore a vacant expression and were of a greenishblue. She wore what were presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leatherboots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpy skirt, and a long andsloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot’s age and generation would have had only onedesire. To drop the girl into a bath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reactionwalking along the streets. There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same. They all lookeddirty. And yet—a contradiction in terms—this one had the look of having been recently drownedand pulled out of a river. Such girls, he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely tookenormous care and pains to look so.
He rose with his usual politeness, shook hands, drew out a chair.
“You demanded to see me, mademoiselle? Sit down, I pray of you.”
“Oh,” said the girl, in a slightly breathless voice. She stared at him.
“Eh bien?” said Poirot.
She hesitated. “I think I’d—rather stand.” The large eyes continued to stare doubtfully.
“As you please.” Poirot resumed his seat and looked at her. He waited. The girl shuffled herfeet. She looked down on them then up again at Poirot.
“You—you are Hercule Poirot?”
“Assuredly. In what way can I be of use to you?”
“Oh, well, it’s rather difficult. I mean—”
Poirot felt that she might need perhaps a little assistance. He said helpfully, “My manservanttold me that you wanted to consult me because you thought you ‘might have committed a murder.’
Is that correct?”
The girl nodded. “That’s right.”
“Surely that is not a matter that admits of any doubt. You must know yourself whether you havecommitted a murder or not.”
“Well, I don’t know quite how to put it. I mean—”
“Come now,” said Poirot kindly. “Sit down. Relax the muscles. Tell me all about it.”
“I don’t think—oh dear, I don’t know how to—You see, it’s all so difficult. I’ve—I’ve changedmy mind. I don’t want to be rude but—well, I think I’d better go.”
“Come now. Courage.”
“No, I can’t. I thought I could come and—and ask you, ask you what I ought to do—but I can’t,you see. It’s all so different from—”
“From what?”
“I’m awfully sorry and I really don’t want to be rude, but—”
She breathed an enormous sigh, looked at Poirot, looked away, and suddenly blurted out,“You’re too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I really don’t want to be rude but—there it is.
You’re too old. I’m really very sorry.”
She turned abruptly and blundered out of the room, rather like a desperate moth in lamplight.
Poirot, his mouth open, heard the bang of the front door.
He ejaculated: “Nom d’un nom d’un nom….”
第一章
第一章
赫尔克里•波洛坐在早餐桌旁。右手边是一杯热巧克力。他偏爱甜食。搭配巧克力的是奶油蛋糕卷，与热巧克力极为相配。他满足地点点头。他是逛到第四家店铺才找到这种糕点的。这是家丹麦糕点铺，绝对比旁边的那家所谓法国糕点店要好得多。那家店根本就是徒有虚名。
这顿美食让他颇为满意。口腹之欲得到了抚慰，精神也相当放松，可能有点过于安逸了。他已经完成了自己的巨著，一本分析伟大的侦探小说作家的书。他大胆地评论了埃德加•爱伦•坡 [1] ，也指出威尔基•柯林斯 [2] 的浪漫表达中缺乏相应的手法和条理，将两位默默无名的美国作家吹捧上了天。并且，他还对该褒扬的予以褒扬，对该贬低的也予以无情的批评。他已经看过付印样了，浏览了全书，除了一堆印刷错误之外，总体来说还算不错。
他从自己的文学成就中获得了很多享受；他也喜欢大量阅读那些自己不得不看的读物；当他怒气冲冲地把一本粗制滥造的书扔在地上的时候（虽然之后他总是会站起身来，把它捡起来，弄得平整了再扔进废纸篓里），他也不会感到沮丧；而当他读到一本令他感到非常满意的书的时候，他会赞赏地不停点头，这分快乐简直难以言喻。
那么现在呢？在绞尽脑汁之后，他已经享受完了一次必要且舒心的消遣。但是人不能总是这么悠闲，需要去做下一件事。不幸的是，他对于下一步可能要做什么完全没有想法。再写几本更深入的文学作品？他不这么想。一件事只要做好之后，就可以不再继续了。这就是他的人生准则。说句实话，他现在真是无聊极了。他已经沉迷于这种费神的消遣太久，这种消遣简直太多了。这让他沾染上了坏习惯，使他焦躁不安……烦人！他摇摇头，又抿了一口热巧克力。
门开了，他训练有素的仆人乔治走了进来。他的举止恭顺，还略微有点谦卑。他咳嗽了一下，嘟囔着说：“一位——”他顿了顿。“一位年轻女士要见您。”
波洛有些惊讶且面色不悦地看着他。
“在这个时间，我不见访客。”他责备地说。
“我知道的，先生。”乔治附和着。
主仆之间互相看着对方。他们之间，有时候在沟通上存在着某些困难。当做出含蓄的暗示或是对某个字眼进行强调的时候，只要主人的问题切中要害，乔治就会暗中提醒主人可能发生了什么不同寻常之事。波洛正在想这种情况下什么是最切中要害的问题。
“她很美貌吗，这位年轻女士？”他小心翼翼地问道。
“在我看来，不是的，先生。但是这跟我的品位无关。”
波洛考虑着自己的答复。他想起乔治在说“年轻女士”这个词之前做了小小的停顿。乔治精通世故。他对于这位访客的身份并不清楚，但是他却体谅了她。
“你觉得她是位年轻女士，而不是——我们这么说吧，一位年轻人？”
“是这样的，先生，现今能够分清这个可不太容易。”乔治颇为遗憾地说。
“她有没有说为什么要见我？”
“她说——”乔治说这话的时候有些迟疑，仿佛要代为致歉一样，“她想要请教您关于她可能犯了谋杀罪的事。”赫尔克里•波洛惊住了。他挑起眉毛。“可能犯了谋杀罪？她自己不知道吗？”
“她就是这么说的，先生。”
“不尽如人意，但是可能会很有趣。”波洛说。
“有可能是一个玩笑，先生。”乔治怀疑地说。
“什么事都有可能，我想。”波洛退让道，“但是这真是令人难以置信——”他拿起杯子。“五分钟后，带她来见我。”
“好的，先生。”乔治退出房间。
波洛喝完了最后一口热巧克力。他推开杯子，站起身来，走向壁炉，在壁炉架上方的镜子前整理了一下胡须。对胡须感到满意之后，他回到了椅子边，等候着他的访客。他不知道自己等待的究竟是个什么样的人……
他希望最起码跟他自己对女性魅力的评估相近。那个常用的词“忧伤的美女”出现在他脑海。当乔治带着这位访客进屋的时候，他感到大为失望。他摇着头，叹着气。这绝对不是什么美女，也没有怀着什么忧伤之情，最多有点轻微的迷茫之感。
“哎！”波洛反感地说，“这种女孩！她们都不拾捯自己吗？漂亮的妆容，美丽的衣服，找个好发型师设计一下发型，或许还能看得过眼。但是看看她这副样子！”
他的访客是一位大约二十岁的姑娘。稀疏的长发搭在肩膀上，分辨不出什么颜色。她的眼睛大而无神，呈蓝青色。她的衣着是他们这一代人所钟爱的：黑色的高筒皮靴子，看上去不太干净的白色网状毛袜子，又短又紧的裙子和又长又松垮的厚羊毛衫。任何一位像波洛这个年代的人都只有一个念头，想把这个女孩立马丢进浴缸里。当他在街上走的时候，他也经常会有这样的念头。他们看起来都脏脏的，但是这个姑娘却正相反：她看起来好像是溺水之后，被人从河里捞出来一样。这样的姑娘，他感觉或许不是真的如此肮脏，她们只是想尽办法要做出这种肮脏的样子。
他以自己一贯的优雅姿态站了起来，跟她握握手，给她一把椅子。
“您要见我，小姐？请您坐下吧。”
“啊。”这位姑娘轻轻喘息着。她盯着他。
“怎么了？”波洛问道。
她有些迟疑。“我想我最好还是站着。”她那双大眼睛依旧满是疑惑地盯着他。
“您随意。”波洛坐在椅子上看着她说。他等待着。这位姑娘的双脚动来动去。她盯着它们看，接着又抬起眼来看向波洛。
“您，您就是赫尔克里•波洛？”
“当然。我能为您做些什么？”
“啊，是的，这很困难。我的意思是——”
波洛感到她也许需要别人帮她一把。他代她说：“我的仆人告诉我您来找我是因为您以为‘自己可能犯了谋杀罪’。是这样吗？”
这位姑娘点点头。“是的。”
“但是这样的事是不该存在什么怀疑之处的。您肯定知道自己是否犯了谋杀罪。”
“嗯，我实在不知道怎么说。我的意思是——”
“别太在意。”波洛温和地说，“坐下来。全身放松。跟我讲讲。”
“我认为还是不要……啊，天呐，我不知道如何……您知道的，这如此困难。我已经，我已经改变主意了。我不想这么粗鲁无礼，但是好的，我想我最好还是走吧。”
“说吧。勇敢一点。”
“不，我做不到。我想我可以来这里问问您，问问您我应该怎么做，但是我不能，您看，这实在是太难了，不同于……”
“不同于什么？”
“我实在是抱歉，我真的不想这么粗鲁无礼，但是——”
她深深叹了口气，看向波洛，视线又转移了，她猛然脱口而出：“您太老了。没人告诉我您是如此年迈，我真的不想这么无礼，但是真的。您确实太老了。我真的很抱歉。”
她猛然转身，就像一只扑火的飞蛾，冲出了屋子。
波洛大张着嘴，听到了前门砰地关上的声音。
他突然喊道：“真是太气人了……” [3]
[1]埃德加•爱伦•坡（Edgar Allan Poe）（1809—1849），十九世纪美国诗人、小说家和文学评论家。
坡以神秘故事和恐怖小说闻名于世，他是美国短篇故事的先驱者之一，又被尊为推理小说的开山鼻祖。——译者注
[2]威尔基•柯林斯(William Wilkie Collins)（1824—1889），英国侦探小说作家，主要作品有《月亮宝石》《白衣女人》等。——译者注
[3]原文为法语。——译者注
Two I
Two I

The telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot did not even seem aware of the fact.
It rang with shrill and insistent persistence.
George entered the room and stepped towards it, turning a questioning glance towards Poirot.
Poirot gestured with his hand.
“Leave it,” he said.
George obeyed, leaving the room again. The telephone continued to ring. The shrill irritatingnoise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After a minute or two, however, it commenced to ring again.
“Ah Sapristi! That must be a woman—undoubtedly a woman.”
He sighed, rose to his feet and came to the instrument.
He picked up the receiver. “’Allo,” he said.
“Are you—is that M. Poirot?”
“I, myself.”
“It’s Mrs. Oliver—your voice sounds different. I didn’t recognise it at first.”
“Bonjour, Madame—you are well, I hope?”
“Oh, I’m all right.” Ariadne Oliver’s voice came through in its usual cheerful accents. The well-known detective story writer and Hercule Poirot were on friendly terms.
“It’s rather early to ring you up, but I want to ask you a favour.”
“Yes?”
“It is the annual dinner of our Detective Authors’ Club; I wondered if you would come and beour Guest Speaker this year. It would be very very sweet of you if you would.”
“When is this?”
“Next month—the twenty-third.”
A deep sigh came over the telephone.
“Alas! I am too old.”
“Too old? What on earth do you mean? You’re not old at all.”
“You think not?”
“Of course not. You’ll be wonderful. You can tell us lots of lovely stories about real crimes.”
“And who will want to listen?”
“Everyone. They—M. Poirot, is there anything the matter? Has something happened? Yousound upset.”
“Yes, I am upset. My feelings—ah, well, no matter.”
“But tell me about it.”
“Why should I make a fuss?”
“Why shouldn’t you? You’d better come and tell me all about it. When will you come? Thisafternoon. Come and have tea with me.”
“Afternoon tea, I do not drink it.”
“Then you can have coffee.”
“It is not the time of day I usually drink coffee.”
“Chocolate? With whipped cream on top? Or a tisane. You love sipping tisanes. Or lemonade.
Or orangeade. Or would you like decaffeinated coffee if I can get it—”
“Ah ?a, non, par example! It is an abomination.”
“One of those sirops you like so much. I know, I’ve got half a bottle of Ribena in thecupboard.”
“What is Ribena?”
“Black currant flavour.”
“Indeed, one has to hand it to you! You really do try, Madame. I am touched by your solicitude.
I will accept with pleasure to drink a cup of chocolate this afternoon.”
“Good. And then you’ll tell me all about what’s upset you.”
She rang off.
第二章 1
第二章 1

电话铃响了。
赫尔克里•波洛一点都没有察觉。
铃声刺耳地响个不停。
乔治走进屋内，走到电话机旁，向波洛先生投去询问的眼神。
波洛对他做了个手势。
“不要管它了。”他说。
乔治领命，再次离开房间。电话铃一直在响着，忽然间停住。一两分钟后，又再次响了起来。“该死的！ [1] 一定是那个女人！毫无疑问，就是那个女人。”
他叹了口气，站了起来，走到电话旁。
他拿起听筒说：“喂？”
“您是，是波洛先生吗？”
“是我本人。”
“我是奥利弗夫人，你的声音听起来有些不一样。我一开始没听出来。”
“早安，夫人。您最近还好吧？”
“啊，我很好。”阿里阿德涅•奥利弗的声音一直是欢欣鼓舞的。这位知名侦探小说家和赫尔克里•波洛私交甚好。
“抱歉这么早就打电话给你，但是我要请你帮我个忙。”
“好的。”
“我们侦探小说作家俱乐部要举行年度晚宴，我想你能否大驾光临并作为今年的演讲嘉宾。如果你愿意的话，那真是太好了。”
“什么时候？”
“下个月二十三号。”
电话中传来一声长叹。
“哎！我太老了。”
“太老了？你到底在说些什么？你一点都不老。”
“您不觉得我老？”
“当然不觉得了。你活得精彩极了。你可以告诉我们很多基于真实罪案的有趣故事。”
“都有谁要去听啊？”
“每一个人。他们……波洛先生，有哪里不对吗？发生了什么事？你的声音听起来有些沮丧。”“是的，我很沮丧。我的感觉……啊，嗯，没什么事。”
“跟我讲讲。”
“我为什么要如此小题大做？”
“为什么不可以？你最好过来，把这一切跟我说说。你什么时候过来呢？今天下午吧。
来吧，跟我喝喝茶。”
“下午茶，我不喝下午茶。”
“那么就喝咖啡吧。”
“这不是我平时喝咖啡的时间点。”
“热巧克力，杯顶上加鲜奶油？或是一杯草药茶。我记得你喜欢草药茶，或是柠檬汁，或是橘子汁。或是你喜欢不含咖啡因的咖啡，我想办法给你弄点——”
“亏您能想到！ [2] 这真让人受不了。”
“有一种糖浆你很喜欢。我知道的，在我的壁橱里还有半瓶子利宾纳 [3] 。”
“什么是利宾纳？”
“黑醋栗味的糖水。”
“真的，我真是服了您！您真是有能耐，夫人。我被您的热心打动了。我很乐意在今天下午陪您喝一杯热巧克力。”“好的。到时你可以告诉我是什么让你如此沮丧。”
她挂断了电话。
Two II
II
Poirot considered for a moment. Then he dialled a number. Presently he said: “Mr. Goby? HerculePoirot here. Are you very fully occupied at this moment?”
“Middling,” said the voice of Mr. Goby. “Middling to fair. But to oblige you, Monsieur Poirot,if you’re in a hurry, as you usually are—well, I wouldn’t say that my young men couldn’t managemostly what’s on hand at present. Of course good boys aren’t as easy to get as they used to be.
Think too much of themselves nowadays. Think they know it all before they’ve started to learn.
But there! Can’t expect old heads on young shoulders. I’ll be pleased to put myself at yourdisposal, M. Poirot. Maybe I can put one or two of the better lads on the job. I suppose it’s theusual—collecting information?”
He nodded his head and listened whilst Poirot went into details of exactly what he wanted done.
When he had finished with Mr. Goby, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard where in due course he gotthrough to a friend of his. When he in turn had listened to Poirot’s requirements, he replied,“Don’t want much, do you? Any murder, anywhere. Time, place and victim unknown. Sounds abit of a wild goose chase, if you ask me, old boy.” He added disapprovingly, “You don’t seemreally to know anything!”
第二章 2
2
波洛思考了一会儿然后拨了一个号码。打通之后他立马说：“戈比先生？我是赫尔克里•波洛。您此时是否正忙着？”
“还行。”戈比先生说道，“尚可。但是波洛先生，只要您遇到急事，我愿意为您效劳，您一贯都是这样。嗯，我不是说我手下这群年轻人不能应对我现在遇到的这些事。当然了，优秀的小伙子们不如往日那样容易寻得。现今，他们都太自以为是了。还没开始学呢，就以为自己知道了一切。不过，我们也不能对他们期望过高。波洛先生，我很乐意为您效劳，或许我能派一两位得力的干将为您做些什么。我想还是跟以往一样吧？搜集情报？”
当波洛把他想要做的事一五一十地讲给戈比先生听的时候，戈比先生不停点头。他们说完之后，波洛又打给了伦敦警察厅，打给他的一位熟人。当这位熟人听完波洛先生的诉求之后，回应道：
“您要求得太多了吧。是否出现了谋杀案，范围是任何地点。时间、地点和被害人都不知道。如果要我说，老哥，这听起来就像是徒劳无功的事儿。”他不以为意地说，“您看上去似乎一无所知！”
Two III
III
At 4:15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver’s drawing room sipping appreciatively at a largecup of chocolate topped with foaming whipped cream which his hostess had just placed on a smalltable beside him. She added a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.
“Chère Madame, what kindness.” He looked over his cup with faint surprise at Mrs. Oliver’scoiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both were new to him. The last time he had seen Mrs.
Oliver, her hairstyle had been plain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twistsarranged in intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific luxury was, he suspected, largelyartificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hair might unexpectedly fall off if Mrs.
Oliver was to get suddenly excited, as was her wont. As for the wallpaper….
“These cherries—they are new?” he waved a teaspoon. It was, he felt, rather like being in acherry orchard.
“Are there too many of them, do you think?” said Mrs. Oliver. “So hard to tell beforehand withwallpaper. Do you think my old one was better?”
Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of brightcoloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark “Plus ?a change, plus c’est la mêmechose,” but restrained himself.
“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat backwith a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, “what is allthis about?”
“That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she mightmake an appointment. One has one’s routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that shewanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder.”
“What an odd thing to say. Didn’t she know?”
“Precisely! C’est inou?! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused tosit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half-witted. I tried to encourage her.
Then suddenly she said that she’d changed her mind. She said she didn’t want to be rude but that—(what do you think?)—but that I was too old.…”
Mrs. Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. “Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They’ve no sense, girls, you must realise that.”
“It wounded me,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say.”
“That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried.”
“Well, I should forget all about it if I were you,” advised Mrs. Oliver comfortably.
“You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then shedecided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goeswithout saying, and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help.”
“I don’t suppose she does really,” said Mrs. Oliver soothingly. “Girls make a fuss about things.”
“No. You are wrong. She needs help.”
“You don’t think she really has committed a murder?”
“Why not? She said she had.”
“Yes, but—” Mrs. Oliver stopped. “She said she might have,” she said slowly. “But what canshe possibly mean by that?”
“Exactly. It does not make sense.”
“Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“And why did she murder someone?”
Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course it could be all sorts of things.” Mrs. Oliver began to brighten as she set her everprolific imagination to work. “She could have run over someone in her car and not stopped. Shecould have been assaulted by a man on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push himover. She could have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could have gone to oneof those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. She could have come to and found shehad stabbed someone. She—”
“Assez, madame, assez!”
But Mrs. Oliver was well away.
“She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic or—” she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. “What did she look like?”
Poirot considered for a moment.
“An Ophelia devoid of physical attraction.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I can almost see her when you say that. How queer.”
“She is not competent,” said Poirot. “That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope withdifficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the dangers that must come. She is oneof whom others will look round and say ‘we want a victim. That one will do.’”
But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with bothhands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.
“Wait,” she cried in a kind of agony. “Wait!”
Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised.
“You didn’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you.”
“Wait!” implored Mrs. Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head anduttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a superimperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put itdiscreetly on the table.
“Now then,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin or two, andnodded her head while she thought. “Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?”
“No one, so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me, no doubt.”
Mrs. Oliver thought that “naturally” was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirothimself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people wouldonly look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the youngergeneration. “But how am I going to put that to him,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “in such a way that itwon’t hurt his feelings?”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said. “Girls—well, girls and young men—they don’t know verymuch about detectives and things like that. They don’t hear about them.”
“Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, superbly.
It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.
“But they are all so badly educated nowadays,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Really, the only peoplewhose names they know are pop singers, or groups, or disc jockeys—that sort of thing. If youneed someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist—well, then, I mean you wouldask someone—ask who’s the right person to go to? And then the other person says—‘My dear,you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne’s Street, twists your legs three timesround your head and you’re cured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have beenfurious, so I couldn’t go to the police, but there’s a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, andhe got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time.
Someone sent that girl to you.”
“I doubt it very much.”
“You wouldn’t know until you were told. And you’re going to be told now. It’s only just cometo me. I sent that girl to you.”
Poirot stared. “You? But why did you not say so at once?”
“Because it’s only just come to me—when you spoke about Ophelia—long wet-looking hair,and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then itcame to me who it was.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking—about privatedetectives and private eyes—and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you haddone.”
“And you gave her my address?”
“No, of course I didn’t. I’d no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought wewere just talking. But I’d mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to lookyou up in the telephone book and just come along.”
“Were you talking about murder?”
“Not that I can remember. I don’t even know how we came to be talking about detectives—unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject….”
“Tell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you knowabout her.”
“Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it exceptthat they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and Ididn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have tofind a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—youknow—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing to meet me—and it allmakes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they sayhow much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But mypublisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real lifegrew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. Whenyou said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: ‘Now who does that remind meof?’ And then it came to me: ‘Of course. The girl at the party that day.’ I rather think she belongedthere unless I’m confusing her with some other girl.”
Poirot sighed. With Mrs. Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.
“Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?”
“Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name—he’s a tycoon. Rich. Something inthe City, but he’s spent most of his life in South Africa—”
“He has a wife?”
“Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife.
The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Ratherdeaf. He’s frightfully distinguished—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air marshalor something. He’s an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he’s got a kind of big telescope stickingout of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too,who sort of trots about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees hedoesn’t get run over. Rather pretty, she was.”
Poirot sorted out the information Mrs. Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a humancomputer.
“There lives then in the house Mr. and Mrs. Trefusis—”
“It’s not Trefusis—I remember now—It’s Restarick.”
“That is not at all the same type of name.”
“Yes it is. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?”
“There lives there then, Mr. and Mrs. Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his nameRestarick too?”
“It’s Sir Roderick something.”
“And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter—anymore children?”
“I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live at home, by the way. Shewas only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get on with the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job inLondon, and she’s picked up with a boyfriend they don’t much like, so I understand.”
“You seem to know quite a lot about the family.”
“Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering aboutsomeone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, onegets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian name.
Something connected with a song…Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something likethat, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt inmarble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma—Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.”
She added inconsequently, “She’s a third girl.”
“I thought you said you thought she was an only child.”
“So she is—or I think so.”
“Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?”
“Good gracious, don’t you know what a third girl is? Don’t you read The Times?”
“I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest.”
“No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn’t in the front now. So I’m thinking oftaking some other paper. But I’ll show you.”
She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him.
“Here you are—look. ‘THIRD GIRL for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating,Earl’s Court.’ ‘Third girl wanted to share flat. 5gns. week own room.’ ‘4th girl wanted. Regent’spark. Own room.’ It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs or a hostel. The main girltakes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find athird girl by advertising if they don’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage tosqueeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl lessstill and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herselfwhich night a week—or something like that. It works reasonably well.”
“And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?”
“As I’ve told you I don’t really know anything about her.”
“But you could find out?”
“Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy.”
“You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?”
“Do you mean a death in London—or at the Restaricks’ home?”
“Either.”
“I don’t think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?”
Mrs. Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She was by now entering into the spirit of thething.
“That would be very kind.”
“I’ll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time.” She went towards thetelephone. “I shall have to think of reasons and things—perhaps invent things?”
She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.
“But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination — you will have nodifficulty. But—not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation.”
Mrs. Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.
She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed: “Have you gota pencil and paper—or a notebook—something to write down names or addresses or places?”
Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly.
Mrs. Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech. Poirotlistened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.
“Hallo. Can I speak to—Oh, it’s you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes—well, it was rathera crowd…Oh, you mean the old boy?…No, you know I don’t…Practically blind?…I thought hewas going up to London with the little foreign girl…Yes, it must be rather worrying for themsometimes—but she seems to manage him quite well…One of the things I rang up for was to askyou what the girl’s address was—No, the Restarick girl, I mean—somewhere in South Ken, isn’tit? Or was it Knightsbridge? Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but ofcourse I’ve lost it as usual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?…Yes, Ithought it was Norma: … Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil… Yes, I’m ready… 67 BorodeneMansions…I know—that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison…Yes, Ibelieve the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything…Who are the other twogirls she lives with?… Friends of hers?… or advertisements?… Claudia Reece- Holland… herfather’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?…No, I suppose you wouldn’t know—she’s quitenice, too, I suppose…What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don’t they?…Oh,the other girl’s an interior decorator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, ofcourse I don’t really want to know—one just wonders—what do all the girls do nowadays?—well,it’s useful for me to know because of my books—one wants to keep up to date…What was it youtold me about some boyfriend…Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactlyas they like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh, that kind—Brocadewaistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair—lying on his shoulders—yes, so hard to tell whetherthey’re girls or boys, isn’t it?—Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they’re good-looking…What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?…Yes, men usually do…Mary Restarick?…Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she wasquite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things…Why, couldn’t they find out what was the matter with her?…Who said?…Yes, but what did theyhush up?…Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see—The doctors couldn’t find out…No, but people are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. Thesethings are usually quite untrue…Oh, gastric, was it?…But how ridiculous. Do you mean peoplesaid what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers about—Yes, but why?…I mean, it’s not a case of some wife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger than he is and good-looking…Yes, I suppose that could be—but why shouldthe foreign girl want to either?…You mean she might have resented things that Mrs. Restaricksaid to her…She’s quite an attractive little thing—I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy toher—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might havepitched into the girl and—”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.
“Just a moment, darling,” said Mrs. Oliver into the telephone. “It’s the baker.” Poirot lookedaffronted. “Hang on.”
She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.
“Yes,” she demanded breathlessly.
“A baker,” said Poirot with scorn. “Me!”
“Well, I had to think of something quickly. What were you signalling about? Did youunderstand what she—”
Poirot cut her short.
“You shall tell me presently. I know enough. What I want you to do is, with your rapid powersof improvisation, to arrange some plausible pretext for me to visit the Restaricks—an old friend ofyours, shortly to be in the neighbourhood. Perhaps you could say—”
“Leave it to me. I’ll think of something. Shall you give a false name?”
“Certainly not. Let us at least try to keep it simple.”
Mrs. Oliver nodded, and hurried back to the abandoned telephone.
“Naomi? I can’t remember what we were saying. Why does something always come to interruptjust when one has settled down to a nice gossip? I can’t even remember now what I rang you upfor to begin with—Oh yes—that child Thora’s address—Norma, I mean—and you gave it to me.
But there was something else I wanted to—oh, I remember. An old friend of mine. A mostfascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him the other day down there. Hercule Poirothis name is. He’s going to be staying quite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendouslyanxious to meet old Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admiration for him,and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war—or some scientific thing he did—anyway, heis very anxious to ‘call upon him and present his respects,’ that’s how he put it. Will that be allright, do you think? Will you warn them? Yes, he’ll probably just turn up out of the blue. Tellthem to make him tell them some wonderful espionage stories…He—what? Oh! your mowers?
Yes, of course you must go. Good-bye.”
She put back the receiver and sank down in an armchair. “Goodness, how exhausting. Was thatall right?”
“Not bad,” said Poirot.
“I thought I’d better pin it all to the old boy. Then you’ll get to see the lot which I suppose iswhat you want. And one can always be vague about scientific subjects if one is a woman, and youcan think up something more definite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do youwant to hear what she was telling me?”
“There has been gossip, I gather. About the health of Mrs. Restarick?”
“That’s it. It seems she had some kind of mysterious illness—gastric in nature—and the doctorswere puzzled. They sent her into hospital and she got quite all right, but there didn’t seem any realcause to account for it. And she went home, and it all began to start again—and again the doctorswere puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nurse started it and her sistertold a neighbour, and the neighbour went out on daily work and told someone else, and how queerit all was. And then people began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. The sort ofthing people always say—but in this case it really didn’t seem to make sense. And then Naomi andI wondered about the au pair girl, she’s a kind of secretary companion to the old boy—so reallythere isn’t any kind of reason why she should administer weed killer to Mrs. Restarick.”
“I heard you suggesting a few.”
“Well, there is usually something possible.…”
“Murder desired…” said Poirot thoughtfully…“But not yet committed.”
第二章 3
3
下午四点十五分，波洛坐在奥利弗夫人的会客厅里，细细品味着女主人放在他身边小桌子上的大杯热巧克力，顶端满是泡沫状的鲜奶油。她还端出了一小盘侬格酥 [4] 。
“亲爱的 [5] 夫人，您真是太热情了。”他接过杯子，有点惊讶地察觉到奥利弗夫人的新发型，还有她的新壁纸。这两样对他来说都是崭新的。他上一次见到奥利弗夫人的时候，她的发型还是普通而古板的，但是她这次的发型却是满头错综复杂的发卷。如此浮夸与华丽，他想这一定是假发。他心里暗中想着，如果奥利弗夫人突然习惯性地激动起来，有多少发卷会垂下来。至于壁纸……
“这些樱桃，它们是新换的吗？”他用茶匙指了指壁纸。他感觉自己好像身处樱桃园里。
“是不是数量太多了，你觉得呢？”奥利弗夫人说，“挑选壁纸真是太难了。你觉得之前的壁纸是不是看上去更好一些？”
波洛模糊地想起一大群五彩斑斓的热带鸟类栖息在树林中的画面。他本来想说的是：“换这个选那个都差不多 [6] 。”但是他还是忍住了。
“那么现在……”奥利弗夫人看到她的客人终于把茶杯放回碟子，很是满意地吐了一口气，坐回到椅子上，将粘在胡子上的奶油抹掉之后，她问：“究竟发生了什么？”
“我简单跟您说说。今天早晨一位姑娘来拜访我。我建议她事先预约。每个人都有自己的行程安排，这您是知道的。但是她让仆人回复我，说要立即见我，因为她觉得自己可能犯了谋杀罪。”
“这么说简直太奇怪了。难道她自己不知道吗？”
“就是啊！不明所以 [7] ！所以我只能让乔治带她来见我。她站在那里！拒绝坐下来。她只是站在那里盯着我看。她看上去有点愚钝。我试图鼓励她。接着她突然之间改变了主意，她说她不该如此粗鲁无礼，但是您猜后来怎么了？她居然说我实在是太老了……”
奥利弗夫人急忙说出宽慰的话。“啊，这个嘛，姑娘们就是这样的。她们认为过了三十五岁的人都已经半死不活了。她不是有意的，您必须知道这一点。”
“这伤害了我。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“嗯，如果我是你，就不会在意了。当然了，这么说是相当无礼的。”
“这无关紧要。这不仅仅关乎我的感受，我很担心。是的，我很担心。”
“嗯，如果我是你，我会全都忘了的。”奥利弗夫人贴心地建议道。
“您不明白。我是担心那位姑娘。她来找我寻求帮助，接着她认为我太过老迈，没办法帮助她。当然，她错了，这是毋庸多言的，然后她就跑开了。但是我告诉您，那位姑娘真的需要帮助。”
“我不觉得她真是这样的。”奥利弗夫人劝说道，“姑娘们总是小题大做。”
“不，您错了。她真的需要帮助。”
“你不是真的以为她杀了人吧？”
“为什么不呢？她说她杀了人。”
“是的，但是——”奥利弗夫人顿住了。“她说她可能，”她缓缓地说，“但是她这么说究竟是什么意思呢？”“是的。这讲不通。”
“她杀了谁？或者她认为自己杀了谁？”
波洛耸耸肩。
“而且她为什么要杀人呢？”
波洛再次耸耸肩。
“当然了，可能性有很多。”奥利弗夫人开始发挥她丰富的想象力了，“她可能是驾车撞到了人，但是逃逸了。她可能奋力挣脱在悬崖上对她施暴的男人，结果把他推下了山崖。
她可能不经意间给错了某人药品。也可能跟一群人一起吃了兴奋剂，结果跟其中一个打了起来，等她清醒过来的时候，发现她刺中了什么人。她——”
“行了 [8] ，夫人，行了！”
但是奥利弗夫人的想象仍在继续。
“她可能是一位手术室里的护士，用错了麻醉剂，或者是——”她停了下来，突然急切地想了解更清楚的细节，“她长什么样？”
波洛思考片刻。
“啊，就像外表毫无吸引力的奥菲莉亚 [9] 。”
“啊，天呐。”奥利弗夫人说道，“当你这么说的时候，她仿佛就在我眼前。真是奇怪。”
“她不是那么精干。”波洛说，“这就是我对她的看法。她不是那种可以很好地应对困难的人，也不是那种可以事先预料到必然的危险的人。她是那种当有人环视周围说‘我要找个替罪羊’，就是她了。”
但是奥利弗夫人已经不想再听下去了。她用双手摆弄着自己浓密的发卷，这姿态对波洛来说再熟悉不过了。
“等等。”她有些痛苦地叫道，“等等！”
波洛等待着，挑起了眉毛。
“您还没告诉我她的名字。”奥利弗夫人说。
“她没告诉我。我也觉得很遗憾。”
“等等！”奥利弗夫人再次焦心地推测起来。她紧攥着发卷的手松了下来，深深叹了口气。发卷一下子耷拉下来，落在她的肩膀上。一绺华丽的卷发，完全掉落在地板上。波洛拾了起来，小心翼翼地放回到桌子上。
“那么现在，”奥利弗夫人突然间恢复平静，当她思考的时候，她往自己的卷发上别了一两个发夹，“波洛先生，是谁跟那个姑娘说起你的呢？”
“据我目前所知，没人。自然了，毫无疑问，她肯定是听说过我。”
奥利弗夫人觉得“自然”这个字眼用得一点都不对。只是波洛本人认为所有人自然都曾听闻他的名号。而大多数人、特别是年轻的一代，在听说赫尔克里•波洛这个名字的时候，最多会茫然地看你一眼。“但是我该怎么跟他讲呢，”奥利弗夫人思考着，“用什么方式不会伤害到他的感受。”
“我认为你错了。”她说，“姑娘们，嗯，姑娘们和年轻的小伙子们，他们对于侦探这一类的事不是很了解。他们不爱听这些。”
“但是大家肯定听说过赫尔克里•波洛。”波洛郑重地说。
这对于赫尔克里•波洛来说，是不可撼动的信念。
“但是他们现今所接受的教育简直糟糕透了。”奥利弗夫人说，“真的，他们只知道流行歌手、乐团或是电台音乐节目主持人这一类的人。如果你需要找一些特殊职业的人，比如医生、侦探或是牙医，嗯，我的意思是说你就需要去问问什么人了，问问该去找谁。这样那人才会告诉你：‘亲爱的，你一定要去见见安妮王后大道的那位能人，他能把你的腿绕你的头三圈，你肯定能被治好的。’或是说：‘我所有的钻石都被偷走了，亨利一定会大为光火的，但是我不能去找警察，我需要一名密探，最能保守秘密，他能帮我把钻石找回来，亨利永远都不会知道它们曾经被弄丢过。’总是这样。一定是有什么人告诉这个姑娘，让她去找你。”
“我对此深表怀疑。”
“除非我告诉你，你才能知道。我现在就告诉你。我才想起来，是我让那个姑娘去找你的。”
波洛目瞪口呆。“您？但是您为什么不立刻告诉我？”
“我不是才想起来嘛，当你说到奥菲莉亚的时候，长长的、湿漉漉的头发，样子很平常。这个描述跟我最近见到过的一个姑娘很相似。就是最近才见到的，接着我就想起这说的是谁了。”
“她是谁？”
“我不太清楚她的名字，但是我能轻易查到。我们谈论关于私人侦探和私人眼线的事儿，我提起了你和你侦破的一些令人惊叹的案子。”
“您给了她我的地址？”
“当然没有了。我不知道她是要找侦探或是其他类似的什么人。我想我们只是在聊天。
但是我有几次提到了你的名字，这很容易从电话本里找到，她就顺着这个找到了你。”
“你们说到关于谋杀的事儿吗？”
“我记不清了。我甚至不记得我们是怎么说起侦探的，除非——是的，可能是她引起了这个话题……”
“快告诉我，把您知道的都告诉我，即使您不知道她的名字，但是您最起码能把您知道的都告诉我。”
“嗯，是上个周末的事儿了。我在洛里默家里暂住。他们对侦探这一类的事情并不感兴趣，那天只是带着我去他们的朋友家里喝酒。一共就几个人，我玩得并不尽兴，如你所知，我真的不太喜欢喝酒，所以他们不得不给我弄一些软饮料，这让他们觉得有点麻烦。
接着他们跟我攀谈，你知道的，说什么他们是多么喜欢我写的书，他们是多么盼望见到我，这让我感到有些不好意思，有些心烦意乱，还觉得很可笑。但是我多多少少得应付着。他们说他们爱死了那个糟糕的侦探斯文•赫尔森。要知道我是多么讨厌他！但是我的出版商总是告诫我不要这么说。不管怎样，当大家提起真实生活中的侦探而滔滔不绝的时候，我就提到了你，于是就被那个站在我旁边的姑娘听到了。当你说起一位毫无魅力的奥菲莉亚的时候，我就猛地想起来了。我想：‘到底是谁让我想起来的呢？’然后我就想到，一定是‘那天在聚会上的那位姑娘’。我想她应该属于那里，除非我把她跟别的什么姑娘弄混了。”
波洛叹了口气。跟奥利弗夫人相处的时候，总是要耐心十足。
“那些跟您一起喝酒的是些什么人？”
“特里富西斯，要不就是特里赫恩，大概是这类的名字。他是一位巨头，非常富有。他有时住在城里，但是大部分时间住在南非——”
“他有妻子吗？”
“是的，一位非常貌美的女士，比他年轻多了。有着浓密的金色头发，是他的第二任妻子。他有一个和前妻生的女儿。那里还有一个非常年老的老爷子。耳朵几乎聋了。他令人望而生畏，他的名下有很多头衔，海军将军或是空军元帅，或是什么其他的。我想他也是位天文学家。不管怎么说，他在屋顶上装了一个大型望远镜，虽然这可能只是一种爱好。
除此之外还有一位外国姑娘，步步紧跟着那个老爷子。我想她也会陪伴他去伦敦，看着他以防他被车子撞到。她相当貌美。”
波洛把奥利弗夫人提供给他的信息归纳了一下，感到自己像一台人形电脑。
“那么住在那所房子里的是特里富西斯夫妇——”
“不是特里富西斯，现在我想起来了，是雷斯塔里克。”
“这完全不是一类的姓氏。”
“是的。这是康沃尔郡那一带的姓，是吗？”
“那么，那里住着的是雷斯塔里克夫妇，那个颇负盛名的老爷子也姓雷斯塔里克吗？”
“似乎是什么罗德里克爵士。”
“那个照料 [10] 他的姑娘呢，先不管她是谁，还有个女儿，除此之外，他们还有其他孩子吗？”
“应该没有了，但是我也不是太清楚。顺便说一句，那个女儿不住在家里，她只是回家过周末。我猜，她跟自己的继母相处得不是那么愉快。据说，她在伦敦找了个工作，还交了个父母不是太喜欢的男朋友。”
“您似乎对这个家庭很了解嘛。”
“嗯，是的，我把听来的信息聚合在一起。洛里默一家都善于言谈，总是扯东扯西。有时候，听多了周围人的八卦，就容易搞混。我或许就有点迷糊了。我真希望自己记得那个姑娘的教名。好像是跟一首歌有关系……索拉？告诉我，索拉。索拉，索拉。就像是这样，或是迈拉？迈拉，啊，迈拉，把所有的爱都献给你。类似这样的。我梦到自己住在大理石宫殿里。诺玛？或者我说的是马里塔诺？诺玛——诺玛•雷斯塔里克。就是这个，我能确定。”她又不切题地补充说，“她是第三个女郎。”
“我想您说过她是家里唯一的孩子。”
“她确实是——或者我是这么认为的。”
“那么您所说的她是第三个女郎是什么意思？”
“老天，你不知道第三个女郎吗？你不读《泰晤士报》吗？”
“我看关于出生、讣告和结婚的消息，还有那些我感兴趣的文章。”
“不是，我是说报纸上的头版广告。只是现在不刊登在头版上了而已。所以我正考虑改订其他的报纸。我给你拿一份看看。”
她走向桌子，抽出一张《泰晤士报》，翻到了那一页给他看。“就是这里，看呐。‘征第三个女郎，合租二楼公寓，独立卧室，集中采暖，地点在厄尔广场。’‘征第三个女郎合租公寓，每周五天独享房间。’‘征第四个女郎，地点在摄政公园，独立卧房。’姑娘们现在都这么住。比寄人篱下或是住招待所要好多了。先有一个女郎租下一个带家具的公寓，接着再分租出去。第二个女郎通常是她的朋友。然后她们会登广告寻找第三个女郎，如果她们没有熟识的朋友的话。就如你所见，经常需要再挤进去第四个女郎呢。第一个女郎占据最好的房间，第二个女郎付比较少的钱，第三个女郎付得更少，她就只能屈身于一个猫洞一样狭小的房间里。她们自己安排一周之中哪天晚上可以独自享用公寓或是什么类似的计划。这常常进行得不错。”
“这个或许叫诺玛的姑娘住在伦敦哪个地方？”
“我刚说过，我对她的事不是很清楚。”
“但是您能找到吧？”
“啊，是的。我想这挺容易的。”
“您能肯定那天没人谈到什么意外死亡的事情吗？”“你是指在伦敦，还是在雷斯塔里克的家里？”
“都包括。”
“我想没有。要不要我想办法看看能找出什么？”
奥利弗夫人的眼睛兴奋得闪闪发光。在这件事上，她已经陷了进去。
“那再好不过了。”
“我给洛里默家打个电话。事实上，这个时间正合适。”她走向电话。“我应该想个理由或是什么的，或者编造些什么事？”
她有些迟疑地看着波洛。
“那是自然了，这是可以理解的。您是一位充满想象力的女士，您做这些事应该毫无困难。但是，不要太过离奇，您明白的，要适度。”
奥利弗夫人向他投来会意的眼神。
她拨通了电话，问到了她想要的号码。她转过头来，压低声音说：“你身边有纸和笔吗？或是笔记本也可以，把姓名、地址或是地点记下来。”
波洛早已把笔记本放在手臂上，向她点头示意。
奥利弗夫人又转向了电话听筒，她开始畅所欲言。波洛全神贯注地倾听着这段通话。
“你好。我能跟——啊，是您，内奥米。我是阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。啊，是的，嗯，您那边很嘈杂啊……啊，您说那个老头子啊……不，您知道的我不会……差不多全盲了？……我想他跟那个外国姑娘去伦敦了……是的，确实有时候会担心他们，但是她看起来把他照顾得很好……我给您打电话是为了问问您那个姑娘的地址。不，那个雷斯塔里克家的姑娘，我指的是——在南肯辛顿 [11] 的某个地方，是吗？或是在骑士桥？是的，我答应她送她一本书，我之前记了她的地址，但又跟往常一样把它弄丢了。我甚至想不起她的名字。是索拉还是诺玛？……是的，我想是诺玛……稍等片刻，我拿笔来……是的，我准备好了……博罗登大楼六十七号……我知道了，是那座看上去像苦艾草监狱一样的大楼……是的，我相信那里的公寓条件很舒适，集中采暖，什么都有……跟她住在一起的另外两个女孩是谁呢？她的朋友们，或是登广告招来的？……克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰……她父亲是位下议院议员，是吗？另外一个是谁？不，我想您不知道。她人也很不错，我想……她们是做什么的？她们看起来像是在做秘书，不是吗？……啊，另外一个姑娘看上去像是位室内设计师。你认为她跟一家画廊有什么联系？不，内奥米，我当然不知道了，我只是在猜测。
现今这些姑娘都在做些什么？嗯，这对我很有用，因为我的写作——人总是要与时俱进啊……你跟我说起谁的男朋友的事儿……是的，但是这真是无能为力啊，不是吗？我的意思是姑娘们总是由着性子来……他看起来是不是很糟糕？他是那种不修边幅、肮脏不堪的人吗？啊，这种缎子马甲，还有长长的栗色卷发散落在肩膀上。是的，很难分辨出是男是女，不是吗？——是的，他们有时看上去确实很像凡•戴克 [12] 画笔下的俊美少年……你说什么？你说安德鲁•雷斯塔里克很厌恶他？……是的，男人们通常会……玛丽•雷斯塔里克？……嗯，我想她总是会和自己的继母有些嫌隙的。我想那个姑娘在伦敦找到了工作，她的继母对此应该很是庆幸吧。你说什么，有人在背后说这说那……为什么他们总是不肯给她检查，看看到底出了什么问题？……谁说的？……是的，但是他们想要掩盖些什么呢？……啊，一位护士？和詹纳斯家的女管家说的？您是说她的丈夫吗？啊，我明白了。
那个医生没能查出来……不，但是人心叵测。我赞同你说的。对这样的事人们总是会乱说……啊，肠胃炎，是吗？……但是这真是荒谬啊。您是说有人说那个叫安德鲁？您说有了这些除草剂，会很容易是什么意思？是的，但是为什么？……我的意思是，这又不是他痛恨多年的那个太太啊！她是第二任妻子，比他长得好多了，又年轻……是的，我想这有可能。但是为什么一个外国姑娘也想这么做呢？……您的意思是也许是雷斯塔里克太太对她说了什么让人难堪的话……她真是个极具魅力的小东西。我想安德鲁可能很喜欢她，当然不会太过分，但是这也许会惹恼玛丽，接着她或许就开始嫉恨那个姑娘，后来……”
奥利弗夫人用眼角扫到波洛正在对她忙不迭地打手势。
“请等片刻，亲爱的。”奥利弗夫人对着话筒说道，“是面包师。”波洛脸上表现出一种被冒犯的神情。“别挂电话。”
她放下话筒，匆匆穿越客厅，把波洛拽到了吃早餐的地方。
“怎么？”她喘着气问道。
“一位面包师。”波洛带着责备的口气说，“我！”
“哎，我总得及时找个借口啊。你跟我打手势是什么意思？她说的你都明白吗？”
波洛打断了她的话。
“您一会儿再跟我说。我了解得够多了。我想要你做的是，用您那种即兴创作的能力，为我去雷斯塔里克家拜访找个好由头，他是一位您的老朋友，最近会到他们家附近去。您或许可以这么讲……”
“都交给我吧，我会想办法的。你需要用一个假名字吗？”
“当然不用了。我们把事情弄得简单点。”
奥利弗点点头，急忙跑回话筒旁。
“内奥米？我都忘了刚才我们在说什么了，为什么当人们坐下来好好聊天的时候，总是有人会来打扰呢？我甚至不记得自己为什么要给你打电话了。啊，是的，是问您要那个孩子索拉的地址。诺玛，请您把它给我。但是我还有别的事想要说。啊，我记起来了。我有一位老朋友，是一个极为风趣、个头不高的男人。事实上，那次我在您那儿说的就是他。
他的名字是赫尔克里•波洛。他最近会去雷斯塔里克家附近待上一阵子，他非常期盼能见到罗德里克爵士。他对他了解颇多，对他在大战过程中的真知灼见以及他的一些科学发明很是赞赏。总之，他很想去‘拜访他并向他致意’，他就是这么说的。您看，这可以吗？您能先告知他们一下吗？是的，或许哪天他心情好就会去的。告诉他们一定要讲讲那些精彩绝伦的间谍故事……他——什么？啊！给您家修剪草坪的人来了？是的，当然了，您赶紧去吧。再会！”
她挂好听筒，坐在扶手椅里。“天呐，真是筋疲力尽。我表现得还行吗？”
“还不错。”波洛说。
“我想我最好还是把重点放在那个老爷子身上。接着你就能去他家里仔细瞧瞧了，我想这正是你想要的。女人们对科学之类的事情总是不甚了解，你自己去的时候，可以想一些听上去更加切中要害的事。现在，你想听听她都跟我说了些什么吗？”
“我想肯定有些闲言闲语。关于雷斯塔里克夫人的健康问题。”
“是的。她似乎得了什么疑难杂症，好像是胃部问题。医生对此也疑惑不解。他们把她送到医院去，她很快就恢复了，似乎也没查出来什么病因。当她回家之后，胃病就又犯了，医生还是无能为力。人们就开始说闲话了。一位没什么职业道德的护士最先告诉她妹妹，她妹妹又告诉邻居，邻居在上班的时候又告诉了别的什么人，这真是太奇怪了。接着人们就开始说一定是她丈夫想要毒害她。那种喜欢搬弄是非的人总是会这么说，但是在这件事上，实在说不出什么。我和内奥米怀疑那个帮忙 [13] 的女孩，她是陪伴那个老爷子生活的秘书。照理来说，她没什么理由要用除草剂毒害雷斯塔里克夫人啊。”
“我听到您说了几种可能性。”
“嗯，这通常总是会有一些可能的……”
“蓄意谋杀……”波洛若有所思地说，“但是还没真正实施。”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注
[3]利宾纳（Ribena）是葛兰素史克旗下的一种饮料，成分为黑加仑汁(黑加仑不是葡萄,是黑醋栗)、蔗糖水、柠檬酸和山梨酸钾。——译者注
[4]侬格酥，原文为法语，来自法国，在法语中意为“猫的舌头”。它是一种用黄油、砂糖、香草、发酵奶油等材料烘烤而成的小甜点。——译者注8
[5]原文为法语。——译者注
[6]原文为法语。——译者注
[7]原文为法语。——译者注
[8]原文为法语。——译者注
[9]奥菲莉亚（ophelia）：莎士比亚的四大悲剧之一《哈姆雷特》中哈姆雷特的未婚妻。因不堪王子的出走与父亲之死而精神失常，终日四处游荡，采花、歌唱。某日当她想把花冠戴上枝梢时，身下的树枝断了，不慎落入河中溺水而亡。——译者注[10]原文为法语。——译者注
[11]南肯辛顿(South Kensington)，是英国伦敦市中心偏西部肯辛顿-切尔西区中的一个地区，主要由伦敦地铁南肯辛顿站周边的商业区、博览会路周边的文化教育区域，以及周边的公园和居民区组成。——译者注
[12]安东尼•凡•戴克爵士(Sir Anthon anck，1641—1599年）是法兰德斯•洛克艺术家，成为英国领先的宫艺画家，后在意大利和佛兰德享受巨大的成功。——译者注[13]原文为法语。——译者注
Three
Three
Mrs. Oliver drove into the inner court of Borodene Mansions. There were six cars filling theparking space. As Mrs. Oliver hesitated, one of the cars reversed out and drove away. Mrs. Oliverhurried neatly into the vacant space.
She descended, banged the door and stood looking up to the sky. It was a recent block,occupying a space left by the havoc of a land mine in the last war. It might, Mrs. Oliver thought,have been lifted en bloc from the Great West Road and, first deprived of some such legend asSKYLARK’S FEATHER RAZOR BLADES, have been deposited as a block of flats in situ. Itlooked extremely functional and whoever had built it had obviously scorned any ornamentaladditions.
It was a busy time. Cars and people were going in and out of the courtyard as the day’s workcame to a close.
Mrs. Oliver glanced down at her wrist. Ten minutes to seven. About the right time, as far as shecould judge. The kind of time when girls in jobs might be presumed to have returned, either torenew their makeup, change their clothes to tight exotic pants or whatever their particularaddiction was, and go out again, or else to settle down to home life and wash their smalls and theirstockings. Anyway, quite a sensible time to try. The block was exactly the same on the east andthe west, with big swing doors set in the centre. Mrs. Oliver chose the left- hand side butimmediately found that she was wrong. All this side was numbers from 100 to 200. She crossedover to the other side.
No. 67 was on the sixth floor. Mrs. Oliver pressed the button of the lift. The doors opened like ayawning mouth with a menacing clash. Mrs. Oliver hurried into the yawning cavern. She wasalways afraid of modern lifts.
Crash. The doors came to again. The lift went up. It stopped almost immediately (that wasfrightening too!). Mrs. Oliver scuttled out like a frightened rabbit.
She looked up at the wall and went along the right-hand passage. She came to a door marked 67in metal numbers affixed to the centre of the door. The numeral 7 detached itself and fell on herfeet as she arrived.
“This place doesn’t like me,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself as she winced with pain and picked thenumber up gingerly and affixed it by its spike to the door again.
She pressed the bell. Perhaps everyone was out.
However, the door opened almost at once. A tall handsome girl stood in the doorway. She waswearing a dark well-cut suit with a very short skirt, a white silk shirt, and was very well shod. Shehad swept-up dark hair, good but discreet makeup, and for some reason was slightly alarming toMrs. Oliver.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, galvanizing herself to say the right thing. “Is Miss Restarick in, by anychance?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s out. Can I give her a message?”
Mrs. Oliver said, “Oh” again—before proceeding. She made a play of action by producing aparcel rather untidily done up in brown paper. “I promised her a book,” she explained. “One ofmine that she hadn’t read. I hope I’ve remembered actually which it was. She won’t be in soon, Isuppose?”
“I really couldn’t say. I don’t know what she is doing tonight.”
“Oh. Are you Miss Reece-Holland?”
The girl looked slightly surprised.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve met your father,” said Mrs. Oliver. She went on, “I’m Mrs. Oliver. I write books,” sheadded in the usual guilty style in which she invariably made such an announcement.
“Won’t you come in?”
Mrs. Oliver accepted the invitation, and Claudia Reece-Holland led her into a sitting room. Allthe rooms of the flats were papered the same with an artificial raw wood pattern. Tenants couldthen display their modern pictures or apply any forms of decoration they fancied. There was afoundation of modern built-in furniture, cupboard, bookshelves and so on, a large settee and apullout type of table. Personal bits and pieces could be added by the tenants. There were also signsof individuality displayed here by a gigantic Harlequin pasted on one wall, and a stencil of amonkey swinging from branches of palm fronds on another wall.
“I’m sure Norma will be thrilled to get your book, Mrs. Oliver. Won’t you have a drink?
Sherry? Gin?”
This girl had the brisk manner of a really good secretary. Mrs. Oliver refused.
“You’ve got a splendid view up here,” she said, looking out of the window and blinking a littleas she got the setting sun straight in her eyes.
“Yes. Not so funny when the lift goes out of order.”
“I shouldn’t have thought that lift would dare to go out of order. It’s so—so—robot-like.”
“Recently installed, but none the better for that,” said Claudia. “It needs frequent adjusting andall that.”
Another girl came in, talking as she entered.
“Claudia, have you any idea where I put—”
She stopped, looking at Mrs. Oliver.
Claudia made a quick introduction.
“Frances Cary—Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.”
“Oh, how exciting,” said Frances.
She was a tall willowy girl, with long black hair, a heavily made up dead-white face, andeyebrows and eyelashes slightly slanted upwards—the effect heightened by mascara. She woretight velvet pants and a heavy sweater. She was a complete contrast to the brisk and efficientClaudia.
“I brought a book I’d promised Norma Restarick,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Oh!—what a pity she’s still in the country.”
“Hasn’t she come back?”
There was quite definitely a pause. Mrs. Oliver thought the two girls exchanged a glance.
“I thought she had a job in London,” said Mrs. Oliver, endeavouring to convey innocentsurprise.
“Oh yes,” said Claudia. “She’s in an interior decorating place. She’s sent down with patternsoccasionally to places in the country.” She smiled. “We live rather separate lives here,” sheexplained. “Come and go as we like—and don’t usually bother to leave messages. But I won’tforget to give her your book when she does get back.”
Nothing could have been easier than the casual explanation.
Mrs. Oliver rose. “Well, thank you very much.”
Claudia accompanied her to the door. “I shall tell my father I’ve met you,” she said. “He’s agreat reader of detective stories.”
Closing the door she went back into the sitting room.
The girl Frances was leaning against the window.
“Sorry,” she said. “Did I boob?”
“I’d just said that Norma was out.”
Frances shrugged her shoulders.
“I couldn’t tell. Claudia, where is that girl? Why didn’t she come back on Monday? Where hasshe gone?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“She didn’t stay on down with her people? That’s where she went for the weekend.”
“No. I rang up, actually, to find out.”
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter…All the same, she is—well, there’s something queer abouther.”
“She’s not really queerer than anyone else.” But the opinion sounded uncertain.
“Oh yes, she is,” said Frances. “Sometimes she gives me the shivers. She’s not normal, youknow.”
She laughed suddenly.
“Norma isn’t normal! You know she isn’t, Claudia, although you won’t admit it. Loyalty toyour employer, I suppose.”
第三章
第三章
奥利弗夫人把车开进博罗登大楼的内部大院里。停车处已经停满了六辆车。奥利弗夫人正在迟疑之时，有一辆车从车位倒车，开了出去。奥利弗夫人急忙把车停在了空位处。
她走下车，砰的一声关上车门，站直了身体仰望天空。这是座新建筑，占用的是上次大战中被炸毁的一处煤矿的用地。奥利弗夫人想，这块地方可能本来是西大道的一整段 [1]
街区，先是去除诸如“雁过留毛”的传说，接着决定建筑这排大楼的地址。这里看上去功能完备，但是不论设计师是谁，都显然忽略了任何外在的美观性。
这真是个慌乱的时刻。车辆和人流密集地在院里来来去去。
奥利弗夫人低头看了眼腕表。差十分钟七点。时间正好，她是这么估计的。这正是外出工作的姑娘们回来的时间，或是重新打扮一下，换上样式奇怪的紧身裤或是她们认为很时尚的衣服，或是出去逛逛，或是待在家里，洗洗她们的内衣和袜子。不论怎样，这是个很适合去碰碰运气的时刻。这排大楼的东西两侧完全对称，中间都有一扇大的旋转门。奥利弗夫人选择从左边走，但是她立即发觉自己走错了。这一侧的门牌号是从100至200。于是她又转回到另一侧。
67号在六层。奥利弗夫人按了电梯的按钮。门发出了凶恶的碰撞声，像打哈欠的嘴一样咧开了。奥利弗夫人赶紧进到了这个哈欠连连的洞穴里。她对这种新式电梯总是心生畏惧。
砰的一声，电梯门又关上了。开始向上升，几乎又立即停了下来。（这同样非常骇人！）奥利弗夫人就像只惊慌失措的兔子一般逃了出来。
她看了看墙壁，顺着左手边的走廊继续走。她走到了那扇门中心嵌有67号金属门牌的房门前。当她停住脚步的时候，门牌上的数字7正好砸在她的脚上。
“这个地方不欢迎我。”奥利弗夫人自言自语道，她忍着痛，小心地拾起地上的数字号码，把它钉回门牌上。
她按了门铃。或许没人在家。
但是，门却马上开了。一位高挑英气的姑娘站在门口。她穿着一身剪裁得体的深色上衣，配一条超短裙，白色丝绸衬衫，脚上穿的鞋子也相当讲究。她乌黑的头发打理得很是整洁，妆容精致而不张扬，不知为何，这让奥利弗夫人有点不舒服。
“啊。”奥利弗夫人鼓起勇气，想要说出最得体的话，“请问，雷斯塔里克小姐在吗？”
“不，很抱歉，她出去了。我可以为您带个话。”
在下一步行动之前，奥利弗夫人“啊”了一声。她拿出了一个包得很粗糙的牛皮纸包。“我答应送她一本书的。”她解释道，“是我写的一本书，她没有读过。我希望我没有带错。我想，她不会很快就回来吧？”
“这我不敢肯定。我不知道她今晚的安排。”
“哦。您是瑞希-何兰小姐吗？”
那个姑娘看上去有点吃惊。
“是的，我是。”
“我曾见过您父亲。”奥利弗夫人说。她继续说道：“我是奥利弗夫人，是个作家。”她补充这一句的时候，带着一种她惯常在表露身份之后会出现的难为情的表情。
“您不进来吗？”
奥利弗夫人高兴地接受了邀请，克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰领着她走进客厅。这里的公寓墙壁采用的是统一的人造原木的式样。租客们可以在墙上悬挂自己喜爱的现代画或是任何样式的装饰物。这里的家具是内嵌式的，碗柜和书架等一应俱全，还有一张长靠背椅和一张折叠桌。租客可以再添置些小玩意儿。房间的布置，可以窥见租客们的个人品位，墙上贴有一张巨大的小丑海报，另一面墙上贴着用模版印刷的一张图片，图上有只猴子在棕榈树枝杈前来回荡悠。
“我肯定诺玛看到您的书一定会很高兴的，奥利弗夫人。您想喝点什么吗？雪莉酒？杜松子酒？”
这个姑娘有着真正训练有素的秘书应有的机敏的仪态。奥利弗夫人婉拒了盛情招待。
“您这里的景色真不错。”她望向窗外说道，落日的余晖照进了她的眼睛，她眨了下眼睛。
“是的，但是一旦电梯坏了就比较棘手。”
“我都不会想到那电梯会出什么问题。它看上去是那样——像机器人一样。”
“最近才装上的，但是也没好到哪儿去。”克劳迪亚说道，“总是要修这修那的。”
另一位姑娘走了进来，边走边说。
“克劳迪亚，你知不知道我把——”
她停住了，看向奥利弗夫人。
克劳迪亚迅速为她们介绍了彼此。
“这是弗朗西丝•凯莉，这是奥利弗夫人。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。”
“啊，真是幸会。”弗朗西丝说道。
她是个身材颀长窈窕的姑娘，有一头黑色长发，惨白的脸上画着浓妆，眉毛和睫毛在睫毛膏的作用下都有些微微上翘。她穿着紫罗兰色的紧身裤和厚毛衣。与干练的克劳迪亚相比，她是个绝好的对照物。
“我带了一本允诺给诺玛•雷斯塔里克的书。”奥利弗夫人说。
“啊！真是遗憾啊，她还在乡下。”
“她还没回来吗？”
很明显出现了一阵沉默。奥利弗夫人察觉到这两个姑娘交换了一下眼神。
“我以为她在伦敦找到了工作。”奥利弗夫人故意表现出一种毫不知情的惊讶。
“啊，是的。”克劳迪亚说，“她在一家室内装修公司工作，有时会被派往乡下送图纸。”她笑了。“我们在这里各过各的，”她解释道，“来去自由，通常不会给彼此留言。但是当她回来的时候，我会记得把您的书交给她的。”
没有什么比这种随意的解释更容易的了。
奥利弗夫人站起身来。“好的，多谢您了。”
克劳迪亚把她送到门口。“我会告诉父亲我跟您见过面了。”她说，“他是个侦探小说迷。”
关上房门之后，她回到了客厅。
那个叫作弗朗西丝的姑娘靠在窗户边。
“对不起。”她说，“我犯了什么错误吗？”
“我刚刚说诺玛出门去了。”
弗朗西丝耸耸肩。
“我想不明白。克劳迪亚，那个姑娘去哪儿了？为什么她周一没回来？她去了哪里？”“我不知道。”
“她没和家人在一起吗？她不是回家过周末了？”
“没有。我打过电话确认了。”
“我想不会真的出什么事的……虽然，她有一点——嗯，有点古怪。”
“其实她还好吧。”但是这话听起来不是那么肯定。
“啊，是的，她是有点古怪。”弗朗西丝说，“有时候她让我毛骨悚然。她不正常，你知道的。”她猛地笑起来。
“诺玛不正常！你知道的，克劳迪亚，虽然你不承认。但是我猜，你对你的老板忠心耿耿。”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
Four
Four
Hercule Poirot walked along the main street of Long Basing. That is, if you can describe as a mainstreet a street that is to all intents and purposes the only street, which was the case in Long Basing.
It was one of those villages that exhibit a tendency to length without breadth. It had an impressivechurch with a tall tower and a yew tree of elderly dignity in its churchyard. It had its full quota ofvillage shops disclosing much variety. It had two antique shops, one mostly consisting of strippedpine chimneypieces, the other disclosing a full house of piled up ancient maps, a good deal ofporcelain, most of it chipped, some worm-eaten old oak chests, shelves of glass, some Victoriansilver, all somewhat hampered in display by lack of space. There were two cafés, both rathernasty, there was a basket shop, quite delightful, with a large variety of homemade wares, there wasa post office-cum-greengrocer, there was a draper’s which dealt largely in millinery and also ashoe department for children and a large miscellaneous selection of haberdashery of all kinds.
There was a stationery and newspaper shop which also dealt in tobacco and sweets. There was awool shop which was clearly the aristocrat of the place. Two white-haired severe women were incharge of shelves and shelves of knitting materials of every description. Also large quantities ofdressmaking patterns and knitting patterns and which branched off into a counter for artneedlework. What had lately been the local grocer’s had now blossomed into calling itself “asupermarket” complete with stacks of wire baskets and packaged materials of every cereal andcleaning material, all in dazzling paper boxes. And there was a small establishment with one smallwindow with Lillah written across it in fancy letters, a fashion display of one French blouse,labelled “Latest chic,” and a navy skirt and a purple striped jumper labelled “separates.” Thesewere displayed by being flung down as by a careless hand in the window.
All of this Poirot observed with a detached interest. Also contained within the limits of thevillage and facing on the street were several small houses, old-fashioned in style, sometimesretaining Georgian purity, more often showing some signs of Victorian improvement, as averanda, bow window, or a small conservatory. One or two houses had had a complete face-liftand showed signs of claiming to be new and proud of it. There were also some delightful anddecrepit old-world cottages, some pretending to be a hundred or so years older than they were,others completely genuine, any added comforts of plumbing or such being carefully hidden fromany casual glance.
Poirot walked gently along digesting all that he saw. If his impatient friend, Mrs. Oliver, hadbeen with him, she would have immediately demanded why he was wasting time, as the house towhich he was bound was a quarter of a mile beyond the village limits. Poirot would have told herthat he was absorbing the local atmosphere; that these things were sometimes important. At theend of the village there came an abrupt transition. On one side, set back from the road, was a rowof newly built council houses, a strip of green in front of them and a gay note set by each househaving been given a different coloured front door. Beyond the council houses the sway of fieldsand hedges resumed its course interspersed now and then by the occasional “desirable residences”
of a house agent’s list, with their own trees and gardens and a general air of reserve and of keepingthemselves to themselves. Ahead of him farther down the road Poirot descried a house, the topstorey of which displayed an unusual note of bulbous construction. Something had evidently beentacked on up there not so many years ago. This no doubt was the Mecca towards which his feetwere bent. He arrived at a gate to which the nameplate Crosshedges was attached. He surveyed thehouse. It was a conventional house dating perhaps to the beginning of the century. It was neitherbeautiful nor ugly. Commonplace was perhaps the word to describe it. The garden was moreattractive than the house and had obviously been the subject of a great deal of care and attention inits time, though it had been allowed to fall into disarray. It still had smooth green lawns, plenty offlower beds, carefully planted areas of shrubs to display a certain landscape effect. It was all ingood order. A gardener was certainly employed in this garden, Poirot reflected. A personal interestwas perhaps also taken, since he noted in a corner near the house a woman bending over one ofthe flower beds, tying up dahlias, he thought. Her head showed as a bright circle of pure goldcolour. She was tall, slim but square- shouldered. He unlatched the gate, passed through andwalked up towards the house. The woman turned her head and then straightened herself, turningtowards him inquiringly.
She remained standing, waiting for him to speak, some garden twine hanging from her lefthand. She looked, he noted, puzzled.
“Yes?” she said.
Poirot, very foreign, took off his hat with a flourish and bowed. Her eyes rested on hismoustaches with a kind of fascination.
“Mrs. Restarick?”
“Yes. I—”
“I hope I do not derange you, Madame.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Not at all. Are you—”
“I have permitted myself to pay a visit on you. A friend of mine, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver—”
“Oh, of course. I know who you must be. Monsieur Poiret.”
“Monsieur Poirot,” he corrected her with an emphasis on the last syllable. “Hercule Poirot, atyour service. I was passing through this neighbourhood and I ventured to call upon you here in thehope that I might be allowed to pay my respects to Sir Roderick Horsefield.”
“Yes. Naomi Lorrimer told us you might turn up.”
“I hope it is not inconvenient?”
“Oh, it is not inconvenient at all. Ariadne Oliver was here last weekend. She came over with theLorrimers. Her books are most amusing, aren’t they? But perhaps you don’t find detective storiesamusing. You are a detective yourself, aren’t you—a real one?”
“I am all that there is of the most real,” said Hercule Poirot.
He noticed that she repressed a smile. He studied her more closely. She was handsome in arather artificial fashion. Her golden hair was stiffly arranged. He wondered whether she might notat heart be secretly unsure of herself, whether she were not carefully playing the part of theEnglish lady absorbed in her garden. He wondered a little what her social background might havebeen.
“You have a very fine garden here,” he said.
“You like gardens?”
“Not as the English like gardens. You have for a garden a special talent in England. It meanssomething to you that it does not to us.”
“To French people, you mean? Oh yes. I believe that Mrs. Oliver mentioned that you were oncewith the Belgian Police Force?”
“That is so. Me, I am an old Belgian police dog.” He gave a polite little laugh and said, wavinghis hands, “But your gardens, you English, I admire. I sit at your feet! The Latin races, they likethe formal garden, the gardens of the ch?teau, the Ch?teau of Versailles in miniature, and also ofcourse they invented the potager. Very important, the potager. Here in England you have thepotager, but you got it from France and you do not love your potager as much as you love yourflowers. Hein? That is so?”
“Yes, I think you are right,” said Mary Restarick. “Do come into the house. You came to see myuncle.”
“I came, as you say, to pay homage to Sir Roderick, but I pay homage to you also, Madame.
Always I pay homage to beauty when I meet it.” He bowed.
She laughed with slight embarrassment. “You mustn’t pay me so many compliments.”
She led the way through an open French window and he followed her.
“I knew your uncle slightly in 1944.”
“Poor dear, he’s getting quite an old man now. He’s very deaf, I’m afraid.”
“It was long ago that I encountered him. He will probably have forgotten. It was a matter ofespionage and of scientific developments of a certain invention. We owed that invention to theingenuity of Sir Roderick. He will be willing, I hope, to receive me.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll love it,” said Mrs. Restarick. “He has rather a dull life in some waysnowadays. I have to be so much in London—we are looking for a suitable house there.” Shesighed and said, “Elderly people can be very difficult sometimes.”
“I know,” said Poirot. “Frequently I, too, am difficult.”
She laughed. “Ah no, M. Poirot, come now, you mustn’t pretend you’re old.”
“Sometimes I am told so,” said Poirot. He sighed. “By young girls,” he added mournfully.
“That’s very unkind of them. It’s probably the sort of thing that our daughter would do,” sheadded.
“Ah, you have a daughter?”
“Yes. At least, she is my stepdaughter.”
“I shall have much pleasure in meeting her,” said Poirot politely.
“Oh well, I’m afraid she is not here. She’s in London. She works there.”
“The young girls, they all do jobs nowadays.”
“Everybody’s supposed to do a job,” said Mrs. Restarick vaguely. “Even when they get marriedthey’re always being persuaded back into industry or back into teaching.”
“Have they persuaded you, Madame, to come back into anything?”
“No. I was brought up in South Africa. I only came here with my husband a short time ago—It’s all—rather strange to me still.”
She looked round her with what Poirot judged to be an absence of enthusiasm. It was ahandsomely furnished room of a conventional type—without personality. Two large portraits hungon the walls—the only personal touch. The first was that of a thin lipped woman in a grey velvetevening dress. Facing her on the opposite wall was a man of about thirty-odd with an air ofrepressed energy about him.
“Your daughter, I suppose, finds it dull in the country?”
“Yes, it is much better for her to be in London. She doesn’t like it here.” She paused abruptly,and then as though the last words were almost dragged out of her, she said, “—and she doesn’tlike me.”
“Impossible,” said Hercule Poirot, with Gallic politeness.
“Not at all impossible! Oh well, I suppose it often happens. I suppose it’s hard for girls to accepta stepmother.”
“Was your daughter very fond of her own mother?”
“I suppose she must have been. She’s a difficult girl. I suppose most girls are.”
Poirot sighed and said, “Mothers and fathers have much less control over daughters nowadays.
It is not as it used to be in the old good-fashioned days.”
“No indeed.”
“One dare not say so, Madame, but I must confess I regret that they show so very littlediscrimination in choosing their—how do you say it?—their boyfriends?”
“Norma has been a great worry to her father in that way. However, I suppose it is no goodcomplaining. People must make their own experiments. But I must take you up to Uncle Roddy—he has his own rooms upstairs.”
She led the way out of the room. Poirot looked back over his shoulder. A dull room, a roomwithout character—except perhaps for the two portraits. By the style of the woman’s dress, Poirotjudged that they dated from some years back. If that was the first Mrs. Restarick, Poirot did notthink that he would have liked her.
He said, “Those are fine portraits, Madame.”
“Yes. Lansberger did them.”
It was the name of a famous and exceedingly expensive fashionable portrait painter of twentyyears ago. His meticulous naturalism had now gone out of fashion, and since his death, he waslittle spoken of. His sitters were sometimes sneeringly spoken of as “clothes props,” but Poirotthought they were a good deal more than that. He suspected that there was a carefully concealedmockery behind the smooth exteriors that Lansberger executed so effortlessly.
Mary Restarick said as she went up the stairs ahead of him:
“They have just come out of storage—and been cleaned up and—”
She stopped abruptly—coming to a dead halt, one hand on the stair rail.
Above her, a figure had just turned the corner of the staircase on its way down. It was a figurethat seemed strangely incongruous. It might have been someone in fancy dress, someone whocertainly did not match with this house.
He was a figure familiar enough to Poirot in different conditions, a figure often met in the streetsof London or even at parties. A representative of the youth of today. He wore a black coat, anelaborate velvet waistcoat, skintight pants, and rich curls of chestnut hair hung down on his neck.
He looked exotic and rather beautiful, and it needed a few moments to be certain of his sex.
“David!” Mary Restarick spoke sharply. “What on earth are you doing here?”
The young man was by no means taken aback. “Startled you?” he asked. “So sorry.”
“What are you doing here—in this house? You—have you come down here with Norma?”
“Norma? No, I hoped to find her here.”
“Find her here—what do you mean? She’s in London.”
“Oh, but my dear, she isn’t. At any rate, she’s not at 67 Borodene Mansions.”
“What do you mean, she isn’t there?”
“Well, since she didn’t come back this weekend, I thought she was probably here with you. Icame down to see what she was up to.”
“She left here Sunday night as usual.” She added in an angry voice, “Why didn’t you ring thebell and let us know you were here? What are you doing roaming about the house?”
“Really, darling, you seem to be thinking I’m going to pinch the spoons or something. Surelyit’s natural to walk into a house in broad daylight. Why ever not?”
“Well, we’re old-fashioned and we don’t like it.”
“Oh dear, dear.” David sighed. “The fuss everyone makes. Well, my dear, if I’m not going tohave a welcome and you don’t seem to know where your stepdaughter is, I suppose I’d better bemoving along. Shall I turn out my pockets before I go?”
“Don’t be absurd, David.”
“Ta-ta, then.” The young man passed them, waved an airy hand and went on down and outthrough the open front door.
“Horrible creature,” said Mary Restarick, with a sharpness of rancour that startled Poirot. “Ican’t bear him. I simply can’t stand him. Why is En gland absolutely full of these peoplenowadays?”
“Ah, Madame, do not disquiet yourself. It is all a question of fashion. There have always beenfashions. You see less in the country, but in London you meet plenty of them.”
“Dreadful,” said Mary. “Absolutely dreadful. Effeminate, exotic.”
“And yet not unlike a Vandyke portrait, do you not think so, Madame? In a gold frame, wearinga lace collar, you would not then say he was effeminate or exotic.”
“Daring to come down here like that. Andrew would have been furious. It worries himdreadfully. Daughters can be very worrying. It’s not even as though Andrew knew Norma well.
He’s been abroad since she was a child. He left her entirely to her mother to bring up, and now hefinds her a complete puzzle. So do I for that matter. I can’t help feeling that she is a very odd typeof girl. One has no kind of authority over them these days. They seem to like the worst type ofyoung men. She’s absolutely infatuated with this David Baker. One can’t do anything. Andrewforbade him the house, and look, he turns up here, walks in as cool as a cucumber. I think—Ialmost think I’d better not tell Andrew. I don’t want him to be unduly worried. I believe she goesabout with this creature in London, and not only with him. There are some much worse ones even.
The kind that don’t wash, completely unshaven faces and funny sprouting beards and greasyclothes.”
Poirot said cheerfully, “Alas, Madame, you must not distress yourself. The indiscretions ofyouth pass.”
“I hope so, I’m sure. Norma is a very difficult girl. Sometimes I think she’s not right in the head.
She’s so peculiar. She really looks sometimes as though she isn’t all there. These extraordinarydislikes she takes—”
“Dislikes?”
“She hates me. Really hates me. I don’t see why it’s necessary. I suppose she was very devotedto her mother, but after all it’s only reasonable that her father should marry again, isn’t it?”
“Do you think she really hates you?”
“Oh, I know she does. I’ve had ample proof of it. I can’t say how relieved I was when she wentoff to London. I didn’t want to make trouble—” She stopped suddenly. It was as though for thefirst time she realised that she was talking to a stranger.
Poirot had the capacity to attract confidences. It was as though when people were talking to himthey hardly realised who it was they were talking to. She gave a short laugh now.
“Dear me,” she said, “I don’t really know why I’m saying all this to you. I expect every familyhas these problems. Poor stepmothers, we have a hard time of it. Ah, here we are.”
She tapped on a door.
“Come in, come in.”
It was a stentorian roar.
“Here is a visitor to see you, Uncle,” said Mary Restarick, as she walked into the room, Poirotbehind her.
A broad-shouldered, square-faced, red-cheeked, irascible looking elderly man had been pacingthe floor. He stumped forward towards them. At the table behind him a girl was sitting sortingletters and papers. Her head was bent over them, a sleek, dark head.
“This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot, Uncle Roddy,” said Mary Restarick.
Poirot stepped forward gracefully into action and speech. “Ah, Sir Roderick, it is many years—many years since I have had the pleasure of meeting you. We have to go back, so far as the lastwar. It was, I think, in Normandy the last time. How well I remember, there was there alsoColonel Race and there was General Abercromby and there was Air- Marshal Sir EdmundCollingsby. What decisions we had to take! And what difficulties we had with security. Ah,nowadays, there is no longer the need for secrecy. I recall the unmasking of that secret agent whosucceeded for so long—you remember Captain Henderson.”
“Ah. Captain Henderson indeed. Lord, that damned swine! Unmasked!”
“You may not remember me, Hercule Poirot.”
“Yes, yes, of course I remember you. Ah, it was a close shave that, a close shave. You were theFrench representative, weren’t you? There were one or two of them, one I couldn’t get on with—can’t remember his name. Ah well, sit down, sit down. Nothing like having a chat over old days.”
“I feared so much that you might not remember me or my colleague, Monsieur Giraud.”
“Yes, yes, of course I remember both of you. Ah, those were the days, those were the daysindeed.”
The girl at the table got up. She moved a chair politely towards Poirot.
“That’s right, Sonia, that’s right,” said Sir Roderick. “Let me introduce you,” he said, “to mycharming little secretary here. Makes a great difference to me. Helps me, you know, files all mywork. Don’t know how I ever got on without her.”
Poirot bowed politely. “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he murmured.
The girl murmured something in rejoinder. She was a small creature with black bobbed hair.
She looked shy. Her dark blue eyes were usually modestly cast down, but she smiled up sweetlyand shyly at her employer. He patted her on the shoulder.
“Don’t know what I should do without her,” he said. “I don’t really.”
“Oh, no,” the girl protested. “I am not much good really. I cannot type very fast.”
“You type quite fast enough, my dear. You’re my memory, too. My eyes and my ears and agreat many other things.”
She smiled again at him.
“One remembers,” murmured Poirot, “some of the excellent stories that used to go the round. Idon’t know if they were exaggerated or not. Now, for instance, the day that someone stole yourcar and—” he proceeded to follow up the tale.
Sir Roderick was delighted. “Ha, ha, of course now. Yes, indeed, well, bit of exaggeration, Iexpect. But on the whole, that’s how it was. Yes, yes, well, fancy your remembering that, after allthis long time. But I could tell you a better one than that now.” He launched forth into another tale.
Poirot listened, applauded. Finally he glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.
“But I must detain you no longer,” he said. “You are engaged, I can see, in important work. Itwas just that being in this neighbourhood I could not help paying my respects. Years pass, butyou, I see, have lost none of your vigour, of your enjoyment of life.”
“Well, well, perhaps you may say so. Anyway, you mustn’t pay me too many compliments—but surely you’ll stay and have tea. I’m sure Mary will give you some tea.” He looked round. “Oh,she’s gone away. Nice girl.”
“Yes, indeed, and very handsome. I expect she has been a great comfort to you for many years.”
“Oh! They’ve only married recently. She’s my nephew’s second wife. I’ll be frank with you.
I’ve never cared very much for this nephew of mine, Andrew—not a steady chap. Always restless.
His elder brother Simon was my favourite. Not that I knew him well, either. As for Andrew, hebehaved very badly to his first wife. Went off, you know. Left her high and dry. Went off with athoroughly bad lot. Everybody knew about her. But he was infatuated with her. The whole thingbroke up in a year or two: silly fellow. The girl he’s married seems all right. Nothing wrong withher as far as I know. Now Simon was a steady chap—damned dull, though. I can’t say I liked itwhen my sister married into that family. Marrying into trade, you know. Rich, of course, butmoney isn’t everything — we’ve usually married into the Services. I never saw much of theRestarick lot.”
“They have, I believe, a daughter. A friend of mine met her last week.”
“Oh, Norma. Silly girl. Goes about in dreadful clothes and has picked up with a dreadful youngman. Ah well, they’re all alike nowadays. Long-haired young fellows, beatniks, Beatles, all sortsof names they’ve got. I can’t keep up with them. Practically talk a foreign language. Still, nobodycares to hear an old man’s criticisms, so there we are. Even Mary—I always thought she was agood, sensible sort, but as far as I can see she can be thoroughly hysterical in some ways—mainlyabout her health. Some fuss about going to hospital for observation or something. What about adrink? Whisky? No? Sure you won’t stop and have a drop of tea?”
“Thank you, but I am staying with friends.”
“Well, I must say I have enjoyed this chat with you very much. Nice to remember some of thethings that happened in the old days. Sonia, dear, perhaps you’ll take Monsieur—sorry, what’syour name, it’s gone again—ah, yes, Poirot. Take him down to Mary, will you?”
“No, no,” Hercule Poirot hastily waved aside the offer. “I could not dream of troubling Madameanymore. I am quite all right. Quite all right. I can find my way perfectly. It has been a greatpleasure to meet you again.”
He left the room.
“Haven’t the faintest idea who that chap was,” said Sir Roderick, after Poirot had gone.
“You do not know who he was?” Sonia asked, looking at him in a startled manner.
“Personally I don’t remember who half the people are who come up and talk to me nowadays.
Of course, I have to make a good shot at it. One learns to get away with that, you know. Samething at parties. Up comes a chap and says, ‘Perhaps you don’t remember me. I last saw you in1939.’ I have to say ‘Of course I remember,’ but I don’t. It’s a handicap being nearly blind anddeaf. We got pally with a lot of frogs like that towards the end of the war. Don’t remember half ofthem. Oh, he’d been there all right. He knew me and I knew a good many of the chaps he talkedabout. That story about me and the stolen car, that was true enough. Exaggerated a bit, of course,they made a pretty good story of it at the time. Ah well, I don’t think he knew I didn’t rememberhim. Clever chap, I should say, but a thorough frog, isn’t he? You know, mincing and dancing andbowing and scraping. Now then, where were we?”
Sonia picked up a letter and handed it to him. She tentatively proffered a pair of spectacleswhich he immediately rejected.
“Don’t want those damned things—I can see all right.”
He screwed up his eyes and peered down at the letter he was holding. Then he capitulated andthrust it back into her hands.
“Well, perhaps you’d better read it to me.”
She started reading it in her clear soft voice.
第四章
第四章
赫尔克里•波洛沿着长麓村的主干道走着。就这个村庄来讲，这条道路实际上是唯一可以这样称呼的街道。它是那种似乎在长度上蔓延无尽而在宽度却几乎可以忽略的村庄。这里有一座尖塔高耸的引人注目的教堂，教堂的院子里有一棵肃穆老迈的紫杉树。村子的街道两旁排列着各式各样的店铺。其中有两家古董店，一家陈列着斑驳剥落的松木壁炉架；另外一家满是古董地图，大量瓷器（这些瓷器大部分都有缺口），虫蛀的老旧橡木柜子，一架子玻璃杯，维多利亚时期的银器，因为地方不够，所有这些东西都挤在一起。有两间咖啡馆，环境都很糟糕。有一间可爱的帽子店，陈设着各种各样的家庭手工物品。还有一间邮局附带着蔬菜水果店。一家布料店，里面售卖女帽。一家儿童鞋店和一家货品丰富的百货商店。还有一家兼卖烟草和糖果的文具报纸店。一家绒线商店，它明显是此地最具上流气息的地方。两位头发花白的严厉的女接待员守着架子上摆设着的各种材质的编织材料。这里还有各种工艺刺绣所用的裁剪和编织图样。几家本地的杂货店现在都跟随着流行趋势改作“超市”了，货架上满是铁线篮筐，里面有包着各式各样彩色包装纸的货品，从谷物制品到卫生用品一应俱全。有一家有一扇小橱窗的服装店，上面用花体英文写着店名“莉拉”，橱窗里展示了一件法式女衬衫，广告上写着“时尚前沿”，还有一件海军蓝裙子和一件标着“分体套装”的紫色条纹套头毛衣。这些展示的衣服都像是被人随意丢在橱窗里一样。
波洛漫不经心地浏览着这一切。这个狭长的村落和小街道里还散落着几座小房子，老式的风格，有的还保留着英国乔治国王时代的气息，更多的地方显露出的是维多利亚时代残存的气息，诸如走廊，弧形窗或小小的温室。有那么一两座房子有完备的电梯，它们透出一种自诩为新潮的感觉，并对此颇为自豪。这里还有一些让人愉悦的属于旧世界的小村舍，有一些故意营造出比它们自己实际存在的年头要长一百多年的感觉；另外一些就很实在，任何额外的方便的管道或是类似的设施都被小心翼翼地隐藏起来。
波洛轻轻地走着，仔细观察着他所看到的一切。如果他那位缺乏耐心的朋友奥利弗夫人跟他同行的话，她肯定会质疑他为什么如此浪费时间，因为这里距离他们要去拜访的人家还有四分之一英里路呢。波洛会告诉她他正沉浸于当地的氛围之中，这些东西有时会具有重要的意义。走到村庄的尽头，眼前的景色突然发生了变化，被路挡住的那一侧是一排新建的政府公屋，房子前面是绿色的草坪，每户人家的门口都被涂上了不同的颜色。公屋后面，风吹过田野和树篱笆，不时地点缀着被房产中介名单推荐的“令人向往的住宅”，这些住宅每一幢都有自己的树丛和花园，自带一种孤芳自赏的气质。在波洛前方的马路的尽头，他发现了一幢房子，顶楼上盖了一个不寻常的球形建筑物。这很显然是几年前加盖在上面的。毋庸置疑，这肯定是他此次要去的地方。他走到大门前，门上挂有克劳斯海吉斯的名牌。他仔细探查这座房子。这是一幢建于本世纪初的房屋，它说不上漂亮也谈不上丑陋，“平常”应该是最适合的用来形容它的词语了。花园远比房屋本身要美丽得多，显然当年是被精心打理过的，虽然现今有些凋敝了。它仍旧保留修剪得整整齐齐的绿草坪和大量的美丽花圃，被细心打理的菜园多少也为这里增光添彩。一切都井然有序。波洛推测，一定是有人雇了园丁来这里打理花园的，主人也花费了不少精力，因为在房子的一角，他看到一位妇人正弯着腰在花圃上忙着，他想她应该是在捆绑大丽花，她的头部就像是闪耀着的金色光环。她又高又瘦，却有着宽阔的肩膀。他拉开了大门，迈了进去，走向里面的房子。那位妇人转过头，接着整理了一下衣服，有些好奇地望向他。
她仍旧站在那里，等着他先开口，她的左手还垂着一些捆绑鲜花用的麻线绳。他留意到她看上去有点迷惑不解。
“您有什么事吗？”她问道。
波洛用外国式的礼节，脱帽在身前一挥舞，然后鞠躬致意。她的眼中满是惊讶，目光落在了他的胡子上。
“雷斯塔里克夫人？”
“是的，我——”
“希望我没打搅您，夫人。”
她的唇边现出一丝浅浅的微笑。“一点都没有，您是？”
“我答应过要来拜访您的。我的一位朋友，阿里阿德涅•奥利弗——”
“啊，是的。您一定是波莱特先生。”
“波洛先生。”他特意强调自己的名字的第二个音节来纠正她，“赫尔克里•波洛，请您多指教。我途经此地，请恕我冒昧来访，希望我能有幸向罗德里克爵士请安。”
“是的，内奥米•洛里默告诉我们您或许会来这里。”
“希望我没有打搅到你们。”
“啊，一点都没有。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗上周来这里过周末。她和洛里默夫妇一起来的。她写的书精彩极了，不是吗？但是您可能对侦探故事不感兴趣。您本人就是侦探，不是吗？一位真正的侦探？”
“我是个货真价实的侦探。”波洛说。
他注意到她勉强挤出一丝微笑。他进一步观察她。她的样貌是那种刻意打扮出来的俊朗，她的金发打理得十分密实。他猜想她是否在内心对自己的身份不是那么肯定，对于自己所扮演的那种沉醉于打理花园的英国主妇的角色表现得不是那么娴熟。他对她的身家背景有些怀疑。
“您这里的花园可真是美极了。”他说。
“您喜欢花园吗？”
“不像英国人那么喜欢。你们英国人对于打理花园颇具天赋。它们对于你们的意义可比对于我们要重要。”
“您是指法国人？啊，是的，我记得奥利弗夫人提起过您曾在比利时警界工作过？”
“确实如此。我，是一条比利时老警犬。”他礼貌地一笑，挥着手说道，“但是您的花园，你们英国人，我真是无比佩服，简直五体投地！拉丁民族，他们喜欢大气的花园，城堡式的花园，小型的凡尔赛城堡，当然了，他们也发明了家庭菜园。这真是很重要，菜园必不可少。在英国你们也有菜园，但是你们是从法国人那里学来的，您喜爱鲜花超过蔬菜，是吗？是这样吗？”
“是的，您说得对。”玛丽•雷斯塔里克说道，“请进屋吧。您来这里是为了看我舅舅的吧。”
“就像您所说的，我来这里是为了拜访罗德里克爵士，但是我也向您请安，夫人。我也向我所见的美人儿问安。”他鞠躬致敬。
她有些羞涩地笑了起来。“您不必如此恭维我。”
她在前面领路，穿过一扇法式落地窗，波洛在后面跟着。
“我在1944年见过您的舅舅。”
“可怜的舅舅，他现在真是老迈极了。恐怕他几乎已经完全聋了。”
“我很久之前曾遇到过他。他或许已经忘了。那是一次关于间谍与科学发明的某个会议。那项发明全仰仗罗德里克爵士。我希望他愿意与我会面。”
“啊，我肯定他会很乐意的。”玛丽•雷斯塔里克说道，“现今，他的生活也相当无趣。我经常去伦敦，我们想在那里找到合适的房子。”她叹了口气说，“老人有时候很难相处。”
“我知道的。”波洛说，“我常常也是这样的，我很难相处。”
她笑了。“啊，不，波洛先生，怎么这么说呢，您怎么能说自己老呢？”
“有时别人会这么说我。”波洛叹了口气说，“您的女儿们可能就会这么说。”他感伤地补充道。
“她们这么做可真不礼貌。我们的女儿可能就会这么做。”她说。
“啊，您有个女儿吗？”
“是的。最起码，她是我的继女。”
“希望能有幸见到她。”波洛礼貌地说。
“嗯，我恐怕她不在这里。她在伦敦，在那里工作。”
“那些年轻姑娘，她们现今都出去工作了。”
“每个人都该有事做。”雷斯塔里克夫人含糊地说，“甚至当她们结婚之后，她们还总是被劝说，要回到工厂或是学校里去工作。”
“夫人，有人劝您回去工作吗？”
“没有。我在南非长大。我跟我先生不久前才来的这儿，这里的一切于我来说都还是陌生的。”
她四下看看，波洛察觉到她的目光中缺乏对这里的热情。这是一间装潢考究但是却很俗气的屋子，没有什么个性。墙上悬挂着两幅巨幅肖像，这是唯一彰显个性的地方。一幅画里是一个身着灰色晚礼服的薄嘴唇的女人。对面的墙壁上挂着一个三十岁左右的男性的画，整个人显露出精力过剩之感。
“我想您的女儿一定感觉乡村生活很是无聊吧？”
“是的，对她来说，待在伦敦要好得多。她不喜欢待在这儿。”她突然闭上了嘴，接着勉强挤出最后一句话，“而且，她不喜欢我。”
“怎么可能！”赫尔克里•波洛说，带着高卢人的优雅口气。
“怎么不可能！这个嘛，我想这也算是常事。我想对于姑娘们来说，接受一个继母不太容易。”
“您的女儿对自己的亲生母亲很有感情吗？”
“我想一定是的。她是个很难对付的姑娘。我想大多数姑娘都是这样。”
波洛叹了口气说：“如今，父母亲很难掌控自己的女儿们。过去那种老式的美好日子一去不复返了。”
“确实是啊。”
“夫人，我不该这么说，但是我不得不表示遗憾，她们在选择她们的，我该怎么说呢，她们的男朋友方面真是一点都不谨慎啊。”
“诺玛最令她父亲担忧的正是这一点，但是我想抱怨也是无益，人们总是要经历过才能明白。我得带您去见我的罗迪舅舅了，他在楼上有自己的房间。”
她带领着他走出了这间屋子。波洛扭头瞥了一眼，真是个无趣的房间啊，一间毫无个性的房间——除了那两幅肖像。从画中女人的衣饰来看，波洛觉得这必定是很多年前的画作了。如果那就是第一任雷斯塔里克夫人的话，波洛私下里想，自己也不会喜欢她的。
他说：“夫人，那真是不错的画作。”
“是的，是兰斯贝格的画作。”
这是二十年前非常著名，而且画作索要的报酬也极高的一位人像画家。他的那种细致的自然主义风格现在已经不流行了，从他逝世之后，就再也没被人谈及过。他画作中的模特有时被戏称为“衣服架子”，但是波洛认为事实远非如此。他推测隐藏在兰斯贝格圆滑的笔触之外，不动声色又轻而易举地表达了一丝嘲讽。
玛丽•雷斯塔里克一边上楼梯一边说着：
“它们是刚刚从储藏室里被翻出来的，被清理过了并且——”
她猛地停住脚步，动作变得僵直起来，一只手紧紧攥住楼梯扶手。
在她上方，一个人影转向楼梯角落，正要往下走。这个人影看起来极不协调，穿着奢华，和这座房子的气质完全不搭。
对于波洛来说，在不同的场景中，这个人影都很熟悉，一个经常会在伦敦的大街上或是聚会上遇到的那种人，代表着现今的一代青年。他穿着黑色的外套、精致的天鹅绒马甲、紧身裤子，浓密的栗色长卷发垂在颈侧。他看起来很新潮，有一种说不出的美丽，需要花费几分钟来分辨他的性别。
“大卫！”玛丽•雷斯塔里克厉声呵斥，“你究竟在这里做什么？”
那位年轻人一点都没有感到惊讶。“吓着您了？”他问，“很抱歉。”
“你在这里做什么？在我家里？你，你是跟诺玛一起来的吗？”
“诺玛？不，我原以为能在这儿找到她。”
“在这儿找到她？你什么意思？她在伦敦。”
“啊，但是亲爱的，她不在。反正她不在博罗登大楼67号。”
“你这么说是什么意思？她不在那里吗？”
“嗯，自从上个周末她就没有回来，我想她可能跟你们在一起。我来这里是为了看看她到底怎么了。”
“她跟往常一样是周六晚上离开的。”她愤怒地补充道，“为什么你不按门铃，让我们知道你来了这里呢？你在这所房子里游荡是要干什么啊？”
“这可真是，亲爱的，您好像以为我是来窃取您家钥匙或是做什么事似的。大白天走到别人家里再自然不过了。为什么不行呢？”
“这个，我们是老派家庭，我们不喜欢这样。”
“啊，亲爱的，亲爱的。”大卫叹了口气，“每个人都这么小题大做。如果我不受欢迎的话，而您又不知道自己的继女在哪里，我想我还是离开吧。需要我翻翻口袋让你们检查检查吗？”
“不要这么可笑，大卫。”
“那么，回见！”那个年轻人轻快地挥了挥手，从他们身边走过，下了楼，穿过敞开着的前门。
“真是可怕的怪胎。”玛丽•雷斯塔里克抱怨道，语气中的憎恶之感让波洛感到震惊。“我无法忍受他。我简直忍不了。为什么英国现今随处都是这样的人？”
“啊，夫人，不要这么生气。这就是时尚的问题。人们总是追求时尚。在乡村，这还不多见，但是在伦敦，您随处可见这样的人。”
“可怕。”玛丽说道，“真是可怕。像女人一样，古怪极了。”
“而且有点像凡•戴克笔下的少年，夫人，您不这么认为吗？如果嵌在金边的画框里，穿着花边领，您就不会觉得他那么女里女气或是奇异了。”
“像这样贸然闯进来，安德鲁要是知道的话会抓狂的。这本来就让他无比焦虑。女儿总是让人担心。安德鲁并不是很了解诺玛。自她是个孩子起，他就出国了。他把她完全丢给她妈妈抚育，现在他一点都不了解她。我也是如此。我不禁会觉得她是那种很古怪的姑娘。她们根本就没办法管教，她们好像总是会爱上那些最糟糕的男人。她完全被大卫•贝克迷住了。我们简直无能为力。安德鲁禁止他进我们家门，可是您看看，他就这么出现在这里，就这么泰然自若地走了进来。我想，我想我最好还是不要告诉安德鲁了。我不希望他过度担忧。我想她在伦敦不光是跟那个怪胎混在一起，肯定还有别的人，甚至还有些比那个人更糟糕的人。那种不洗漱、不刮脸，满脸胡子，衣服脏兮兮的人。”
波洛安抚她道：“啊，夫人，您不必给自己添烦恼。年轻人的轻率之举会过去的。”
“我希望如此，我也相信。诺玛是个很难弄明白的姑娘。有时候我觉得她脑子不好使。
她行事很奇怪，她有时候看起来真的好像是神游天外。还有她对人的极度憎恶——”
“憎恶？”
“她憎恶我，真的很厌恶我。我不知道她为什么要这样。我想她大概对自己的生母感情太深，但是她父亲再婚也是理所当然之事，不是吗？”
“您认为她真的很憎恶您？”
“是的，我知道她确实憎恶我。我有许多证据。她去往伦敦，这真让我松了口气。我不想惹麻烦——”她突然停住了。好像第一次意识到自己正在和一位陌生人讲话。
波洛有那种能获得别人信任的天赋。人们似乎在跟他讲话的时候几乎没有意识到他们是在跟谁交谈。她笑了几声。
“看看我，”她说，“我真的不知道为什么要跟您说这一切。我想每个家庭都有这类的问题。可怜的继母啊，继母真是不好当啊，我们到了。”
她轻轻叩响了门。
“请进，请进。”
一声洪亮的吼声。
“舅舅，有人来拜访您。”当玛丽•雷斯塔里克走进房间的时候，她说道。波洛跟在她身后。
一位宽肩膀，方脸形，红光满面，看上去脾气颇为暴躁的老人正在屋里踱着步。他脚步蹒跚地向他们这边走来。书桌后面，一位姑娘坐在那里整理书信和文件。她低着头，有一头光滑乌黑的秀发。
“罗迪舅舅，这位是赫尔克里•波洛。”玛丽•雷斯塔里克说道。
波洛步态优雅地向前走去，开口说道：“啊，罗德里克爵士，在很多年前——我第一次有幸见到您是很多年前了，要上溯到上次大战了。那次，我想，是在诺曼底战役的时候吧。我记得很清楚，还有瑞斯上校、阿伯克龙比将军，空军元帅埃德蒙•柯林斯比也在。我们下了多大的决心啊！在会议的保密措施上也费尽心力。啊，现今不用再这样小心翼翼了。我想起我们揭露那个骗了我们那么久的间谍的事了。您还记得亨德森上尉吗？”
“啊，我当然能想起亨德森上尉了。天呐，那头该死的猪！露出真面目了！”
“您或许不记得我了。赫尔克里•波洛。”
“不，不，我当然记得您了。啊，那次真是惊险啊，真是惊险。您是法国方面的代表，不是吗？好像有一两位，有一位我实在记不得了，记不起他的名字。啊，好的，您坐下吧。没有什么比说说往昔之事更好的了。”
“我还怕您记不起我或者我的同伴吉罗先生了呢。”
“不，不，我当然记得你们。啊，就是那些日子，就是那些日子。”
坐在桌子后面的姑娘站了起来。她礼貌地给波洛搬来一张椅子。
“好的，索尼娅，好极了。”罗德里克爵士说，“让我给您介绍。这位是我讨人喜欢的小秘书。真是对我帮助极大。您知道的，协助我处理我的工作。要是没了她，我都不知道该怎么办好了。”
波洛礼貌地弯腰致意。“很高兴见到您 [1] ，小姐 [2] 。”他低声说道。
那位姑娘也低声回应了一句。她是位纤瘦的姑娘，有着一头漆黑的短发。她看上去颇为害羞，她的深蓝色眼眸总是谦虚地向下看去，但是当她看向自己的雇主的时候，又会露出甜美害羞的笑容。
“不知道没了她，我还能做些什么。”他说，“我真的不知道。”
“啊，不。”那姑娘反驳道，“我真的没那么好。我打字不快。”
“我亲爱的，你的打字速度已经可以了。你还是我的记性，我的眼睛和我的耳朵，还有很多其他的东西。”
她再次笑着看着他。
“我想起来了。”波洛嘟囔着，“之前流传的一些精彩绝伦的故事。我不知道它们是不是被过度夸张了。就比如，有一次有人偷了您的车——”接着他把这个故事复述了一番。
罗德里克爵士很是高兴。“哈，哈，当然了。是的，确实有点夸张了，我想。但是总体来说，确实是那样的。是的，是的，嗯，这么久了，亏您还记得那件事情。但是我现在跟您讲一个更好的故事。”他开始讲述另一个故事。波洛倾听着，连连称赞。最后他看了眼表，站了起来。
“我真的不能再打搅您了。”他说，“我知道，您现在有事要做，是一件重要的工作。我就是途经这附近，不禁想要来拜访。时光飞逝，但是在我看来，您依然精力充沛，生活趣味丝毫不减。”
“好的，好的，虽然您这么讲，但是您也不能太恭维我了，您再待一会儿嘛，喝点茶。
我想玛丽一定给您备茶了。”他环顾四周，“啊，她已经走了。不错的姑娘。”
“是的，确实，还有些英朗。我想她这些年来一定给您极大的安慰。”
“啊！他们最近才结的婚。她是我外甥的第二任妻子。坦白说吧，我不是很喜欢我的外甥安德鲁，不是什么稳重的家伙，总是毛毛躁躁。我最喜欢他的哥哥西蒙。我也对他不是很了解。至于安德鲁，他对他的第一任妻子很不好。您知道的，他把她抛弃了，让她活在水深火热之中，跟一个坏女人跑了。大家都知道那个女人是什么货色，但是他却被她迷住了，他们两个在一起一两年之后也分开了。蠢货！他现在结婚的这个女人好像还不错。据我所知，没什么不妥的地方。现在西蒙是个稳重的家伙了，简直有些无趣。我妹妹嫁到这家的时候，我不是很赞同。您知道的，嫁到商人之家。当然他们很富裕，但是钱不是一切。我们总是跟军界通婚。我不常跟雷斯塔里克一家往来。”
“据说，他们有一个女儿。我的一位朋友上周见到过她。”
“啊，你说诺玛啊。蠢姑娘。总是穿着奇装异服，跟那些糟糕透顶的男人往来。嗯，是的，现今他们就是喜欢这样。长发的年轻人，总是搞一些‘垮掉的一代’‘披头士’这类的怪名字。我实在跟不上他们。简直像在说外国话一样。可是，就是没人愿意听听老人的劝告，我们又能怎么办。甚至玛丽，我一直觉得她还不错，是那种明事理的人，但是据我所见，她有时也会神经兮兮，主要表现在她的健康方面。总是小题大做去医院做些检查或是什么的。喝杯饮料怎么样？威士忌？不？您真的不坐下来喝杯茶吗？”
“谢谢您，但是我的朋友还在等我呢。”
“嗯，我必须说能跟您谈话真是开心。真好啊，能记得那么久之前的事情。索尼娅，亲爱的，或许你可以带这位先生——不好意思，您的名字是？我又忘了，啊，是的，波洛。
带他去玛丽那边，好吗？”
“不，不。”赫尔克里•波洛连忙拒绝了这番好意，“我不想再打搅夫人了。我没什么问题，真的没什么问题。我能找到出去的路。今天真是幸会。”
他退出了房间。
“我一点也想不起那个家伙是谁。”波洛走后，罗德里克爵士说道。
“您不知道他是谁？”索尼娅惊讶地看向他。
“如今，半数来我这里拜访、跟我谈话的人我都不记得了。当然了，我不得不好好招待。你知道的，时间久了，就很容易处理了。就像在聚会上一样。一个家伙走了过来，说道：‘可能您不记得我了。我上一次见到您还是在1939年。’我只得说：‘我当然记得了。’但是其实我并没有。我已经差不多又瞎又聋了。在大战的末期，我们和很多这样的法国佬交往过。半数我都记不得了。啊，他确实说得没错。他知道我，我也知道很多他所谈论的那些家伙。那个关于我的故事和那辆被偷的车也是真的，只是稍微夸张了点。当然了，当时那个故事广为流传。啊，是的，我不认为他知道我不记得他。真是个聪明的家伙，我不得不说，但是还是个彻头彻尾的法国佬，不是吗？你知道的，装腔作势、手舞足蹈、鞠躬致意、滥竽充数。那么现在，我们的工作进行到哪了？”
索尼娅拿起一封信，递给了他。她又随手递给他一副眼镜，但是他立即拒绝了。
“不需要这见鬼的玩意儿了，我能看到的。”
他眯起眼睛，把手里的信拿远了一点。接着他不得不屈服，把信又塞到她的手里。
“好的，最好还是你读给我听。”
她开始用清晰而温柔的声音读了起来。
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注
Five I
Five I
Hercule Poirot stood upon the landing for a moment. His head was a little on one side with alistening air. He could hear nothing from downstairs. He crossed to the landing window andlooked out. Mary Restarick was below on the terrace, resuming her gardening work. Poirot noddedhis head in satisfaction. He walked gently along the corridor. One by one in turn he opened thedoors. A bathroom, a linen cupboard, a double bedded spare room, an occupied single bedroom, awoman’s room with a double bed (Mary Restarick’s?). The next door was that of an adjoiningroom and was, he guessed, the room belonging to Andrew Restarick. He turned to the other side ofthe landing. The door he opened first was a single bedroom. It was not, he judged, occupied at thetime, but it was a room which possibly was occupied at weekends. There were toilet brushes onthe dressing table. He listened carefully, then tiptoed in. He opened the wardrobe. Yes, there weresome clothes hanging up there. Country clothes.
There was a writing table but there was nothing on it. He opened the desk drawers very softly.
There were a few odds and ends, a letter or two, but the letters were trivial and dated some timeago. He shut the desk drawers. He walked downstairs, and going out of the house, bade farewell tohis hostess. He refused her offer of tea. He had promised to get back, he said, as he had to catch atrain to town very shortly afterwards.
“Don’t you want a taxi? We could order you one, or I could drive you in the car.”
“No, no, Madame, you are too kind.”
Poirot walked back to the village and turned down the lane by the church. He crossed a littlebridge over a stream. Presently he came to where a large car with a chauffeur was waitingdiscreetly under a beech tree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat downand removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp of relief.
“Now we return to London,” he said.
The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purred quietly away. The sight ofa young man standing by the roadside furiously thumbing a ride was not an unusual one. Poirot’seyes rested almost indifferently on this member of the fraternity, a brightly dressed young manwith long and exotic hair. There were many such but in the moment of passing him Poirotsuddenly sat upright and addressed the driver.
“If you please, stop. Yes, and if you can reverse a little…There is someone requesting a lift.”
The chauffeur turned an incredulous eye over his shoulder. It was the last remark he would haveexpected. However, Poirot was gently nodding his head, so he obeyed.
The young man called David advanced to the door. “Thought you weren’t going to stop forme,” he said cheerfully. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”
He got in, removed a small pack from his shoulders and let it slide to the floor, smoothed downhis copper brown locks. “So you recognised me,” he said.
“You are perhaps somewhat conspicuously dressed.”
“Oh, do you think so? Not really. I’m just one of a band of brothers.”
“The school of Vandyke. Very dressy.”
“Oh. I’ve never thought of it like that. Yes, there may be something in what you say.”
“You should wear a cavalier’s hat,” said Poirot, “and a lace collar, if I might advise.”
“Oh, I don’t think we go quite as far as that.” The young man laughed. “How Mrs. Restarickdislikes the mere sight of me. Actually I reciprocate her dislike. I don’t care much for Restarick,either. There is something singularly unattractive about successful tycoons, don’t you think?”
“It depends on the point of view. You have been paying attentions to the daughter, Iunderstand.”
“That is such a nice phrase,” said David. “Paying attentions to the daughter. I suppose it mightbe called that. But there’s plenty of fifty-fifty about it, you know. She’s paying attention to me,too.”
“Where is Mademoiselle now?”
David turned his head rather sharply. “And why do you ask that?”
“I should like to meet her.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t believe she’d be your type, you know, anymore than I am. Norma’s in London.”
“But you said to her stepmother—”
“Oh! We don’t tell stepmothers everything.”
“And where is she in London?”
“She works in an interior decorator’s down the King’s Road somewhere in Chelsea. Can’tremember the name of it for the moment. Susan Phelps, I think.”
“But that is not where she lives, I presume. You have her address?”
“Oh yes, a great block of flats. I don’t really understand your interest.”
“One is interested in so many things.”
“What do you mean?”
“What brought you to that house—(what is its name?—Crosshedges) today. Brought yousecretly into the house and up the stairs.”
“I came in the back door, I admit.”
“What were you looking for upstairs?”
“That’s my business. I don’t want to be rude—but aren’t you being rather nosy?”
“Yes, I am displaying curiosity. I would like to know exactly where this young lady is.”
“I see. Dear Andrew and dear Mary—lord rot ’em—are employing you, is that it? They aretrying to find her?”
“As yet,” said Poirot, “I do not think they know that she is missing.”
“Someone must be employing you.”
“You are exceedingly perceptive,” said Poirot. He leant back.
“I wondered what you were up to,” said David. “That’s why I hailed you. I hoped you’d stopand give me a bit of dope. She’s my girl. You know that, I suppose?”
“I understand that that is supposed to be the idea,” said Poirot cautiously. “If so, you shouldknow where she is. Is that not so, Mr.—I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, thatis, that your Christian name is David.”
“Baker.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel.”
“No, we haven’t had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?”
“Miss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening, or was it Monday morning?”
“It depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It wouldmake her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night.”
“She left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions.”
“Apparently not. So Claudia says.”
“This Miss Reece-Holland—that is her name, is it not?—was she surprised or worried?”
“Good lord, no, why should she be. They don’t keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls.”
“But you thought she was going back there?”
“She didn’t go back to work either. They’re fed up at the shop, I can tell you.”
“Are you worried, Mr. Baker?”
“No. Naturally—I mean, well, I’m damned if I know. I don’t see any reason I should beworried, only time’s getting on. What is it today—Thursday?”
“She has not quarrelled with you?”
“No. We don’t quarrel.”
“But you are worried about her, Mr. Baker?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“It is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not likeher stepmother.”
“Quite right too. She’s a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn’t like Norma either.”
“She has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital.”
“Who are you talking about—Norma?”
“No, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick.”
“I believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I’d say.”
“And Miss Restarick hates her stepmother.”
“She’s a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end. I tell you, girlsalways hate their stepmothers.”
“Does that always make stepmothers ill? Ill enough to go to hospital?”
“What the hell are you getting at?”
“Gardening perhaps—or the use of weed killer.”
“What do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma—that she’ddream of—that—”
“People talk,” said Poirot. “Talk goes round the neighbourhood.”
“Do you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother? That’sridiculous. It’s absolutely absurd.”
“It is very unlikely, I agree,” said Poirot. “Actually, people have not been saying that.”
“Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But—what did you mean?”
“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “you must realise that there are rumours going about, andrumours are almost always about the same person—a husband.”
“What, poor old Andrew? Most unlikely I should say.”
“Yes. Yes, it does not seem to me very likely.”
“Well, what were you there for then? You are a detective, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?”
“We are talking at cross-purposes,” said Poirot. “I did not go down there to inquire into anydoubtful or possible case of poisoning. You must forgive me if I cannot answer your question. It isall very hush-hush, you understand.”
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
“I went there,” said Poirot, “to see Sir Roderick Horsefield.”
“What, that old boy? He’s practically gaga, isn’t he?”
“He is a man,” said Poirot, “who is in possession of a great many secrets. I do not mean that hetakes an active part in such things nowadays, but he knows a good deal. He was connected with agreat many things in the past war. He knew several people.”
“That’s all over years ago, though.”
“Yes, yes, his part in things is all over years ago. But do you not realise that there are certainthings that it might be useful to know?”
“What sort of things?”
“Faces,” said Poirot. “A well-known face perhaps, which Sir Roderick might recognise. A faceor a mannerism, a way of talking, a way of walking, a gesture. People do remember, you know.
Old people. They remember, not things that have happened last week or last month or last year,but they remember something that happened, say, nearly twenty years ago. And they mayremember someone who does not want to be remembered. And they can tell you certain thingsabout a certain man or a certain woman or something they were mixed up in—I am speaking veryvaguely, you understand. I went to him for information.”
“You went to him for information, did you? That old boy? Gaga. And he gave it to you?”
“Let us say that I am quite satisfied.”
David continued to stare at him. “I wonder now,” he said. “Did you go to see the old boy or didyou go to see the little girl, eh? Did you want to know what she was doing in the house? I’vewondered once or twice myself. Do you think she took that post there to get a bit of pastinformation out of the old boy?”
“I do not think,” said Poirot, “that it will serve any useful purpose to discuss these matters. Sheseems a very devoted and attentive—what shall I call her—secretary?”
“A mixture of a hospital nurse, a secretary, a companion, an au pair girl, an uncle’s help? Yes,one could find a good many names for her, couldn’t one? He’s besotted about her. You noticedthat?”
“It is not unnatural under the circumstances,” said Poirot primly.
“I can tell you someone who doesn’t like her, and that’s our Mary.”
“And she perhaps does not like Mary Restarick either.”
“So that’s what you think, is it?” said David. “That Sonia doesn’t like Mary Restarick. Perhapsyou go as far as thinking that she may have made a few inquiries as to where the weed killer waskept? Bah,” he added, “the whole thing’s ridiculous. All right. Thanks for the lift. I think I’ll getout here.”
“Aha. This is where you want to be? We are still a good seven miles out of London.”
“I’ll get out here. Good-bye, M. Poirot.”
“Good-bye.”
Poirot leant back in his seat as David slammed the door.
第五章 1
第五章 1

赫尔克里•波洛在楼梯处停留了一会儿。他转过头侧耳倾听，楼下几乎没有什么声音。
他走向靠楼梯平台的窗口，向外张望。玛丽•雷斯塔里克在下面的花园里，忙着自己的园艺工作。波洛满意地点点头。他小心翼翼地沿着走廊走着。他一扇又一扇地打开面前的房门。一间浴室，一个放置亚麻制品的壁橱，一间空着的双人睡房，一间有人住的单人房，一间有双人床的女士房间（或者是玛丽•雷斯塔里克的？），下一扇门是一间可以和隔壁互通的房间，他推测那应该是安德鲁•雷斯塔里克的房间。他走向了楼梯的另一侧。他打开的第一扇门是一个单人间，据他判断这里没人居住，但是周末可能会有人住。梳妆台上放着一把梳妆刷。他仔细听了听，然后蹑手蹑脚地走了进去。他打开衣橱，里面挂着些在乡村会穿着的衣物。
这里有一张写字台，但是上面空无一物。他轻轻地拉开了桌子抽屉。这里面有一些杂物，还有一两封信，但是信上写的都是些很久之前发生的鸡毛蒜皮。他关上了抽屉，走下楼，走出了这座房子。他婉拒了女主人请他喝茶的美意。他说，他答应别人要赶回去的，一会儿就要搭乘火车返回。
“您需要一辆出租车吗？我们能给您叫一辆，或者我自己开车送您一段。”
“不必了，夫人，您真是太客气了。”
波洛走回村庄，转到教堂边的小巷里。他在走过一座横跨小溪的桥之后，看见一辆大型轿车停在一棵山毛榉树下，司机机警地等候着。司机打开了门，波洛坐了进去，脱下了自己的黑色漆皮鞋，松了口气。
“现在我们回伦敦。”他说。
司机关上门，坐回驾驶位，轿车平稳地向前驶去。一个青年站在路边，急切地比着大拇指，想要搭便车，这种场景很普遍。波洛的眼睛有些漠然地停留在这个“兄弟会”成员的身上，这个年轻人衣着亮眼，头发长长的，发型很奇特。这样的人随处都是，但此刻波洛忽然坐直身子，对司机说：
“请您停车。是的，倒一下车……有人要搭便车。”
司机有些难以置信地往后瞥了一眼，他没料到波洛会说这样的话。但是波洛很温和地点点头，所以他还是听从指示了。
那个叫大卫的年轻人走向车门。“还以为您不会为我停下呢。”他欢快地说，“真的，很感谢您。”
他坐进车里，把肩膀上挎着的小包拿下来，随意地扔滑到地板上，轻抚他栗色的卷发。“这么说您认出我了。”他说。“或许是你穿得太过引人注目。”
“啊，您是这么想的吗？还好，只是我有一帮哥们儿都穿成这样。”
“凡•戴克的风范。非常时髦。”
“啊，我从未意识到这点。是的，您说得也有些道理。”
“依照我的建议，你应该戴一顶骑士帽，”波洛说，“还需要一个蕾丝领子。”
“啊，我不认为我们是如此浮夸之人。”那个年轻人笑了起来，“雷斯塔里克夫人讨厌见到我。实际上，我也不喜欢她。我对雷斯塔里克家的人都不在意。成功的富人家总是或多或少令人生厌，您不这么认为吗？”
“这取决于个人的观点。我觉得你对他家的女儿倒是挺上心。”
“您的措辞妙极了。”大卫说，“对他家女儿挺上心。或许可以这么说。但是您知道的，这也算是两相情愿，她也对我很上心。”
“这位小姐现在在哪儿？”
大卫猛地转头。“您为什么要问这个？”
“我想见见她。”波洛耸耸肩。
“我不认为她是您感兴趣的类型，您知道的，她跟我属于一类人。诺玛在伦敦。”
“但是你对她的继母说——”
“啊！我们什么也不告诉继母。”
“那么她在伦敦哪里呢？”
“她在切尔西区国王大道上的一家室内装修公司工作。我一时想不起那家公司的名字了。我想，大概是苏珊•菲尔普斯吧。”
“但是我想她不住在那儿吧。你有她的地址吗？”
“是的，一排大楼。我不知道您怎么会对她有兴趣。”
“人对很多事情都会感兴趣的。”
“您的意思是？”
“你为什么今天溜进那所房子？偷偷摸摸进去，还上了楼。”
“我承认自己是从后门溜进去的。”
“你在楼上找什么呢？”
“这是我的事儿。我不想这么粗鲁，但是您是不是管得太宽了？”
“是的，我很好奇，我想知道那位年轻的女士到底在哪儿。”
“我明白了。亲爱的安德鲁和玛丽，老天真是不开眼，雇了您，是吗？他们想要找到她。”
“还没有。”波洛说，“我不认为他们知道她失踪了。”
“肯定是有人雇了您。”
“你富有卓越的洞察力。”波洛身子向后靠去。
“我想知道您去那儿的企图，”大卫说，“这也是我为什么要拦下您的车。我希望您能停下来，给我透露些什么。她是我的女朋友，我想您是知道的。”
“我知道应该是这样。”波洛谨慎地说，“如果是这样，你应该知道她身在何处。不是吗，先生？不好意思，我想我只知道你的教名是大卫，你姓什么？”
“贝克。”
“贝克先生，或许你们俩吵架了。”
“没有，我们从未吵过架。您为什么会以为我们吵架了呢？”
“诺玛•雷斯塔里克在周六晚上或是周日早晨离开了克劳斯海吉斯的老房子。”
“视情况而定。有一班早班车，十点多就可以抵达伦敦。她上班就会迟到一点，但是也不会迟到太久。她总是在周日晚上坐车回去。”
“她周日晚上离开了，但是她没有回到博罗登大楼。”
“应该没有吧。克劳迪亚是这么说的。”
“这位瑞希-何兰小姐，她的名字是这个吧？她是感到惊讶还是担忧呢？”
“天呐，不，她为什么要那样。那些姑娘，她们才不是一直都紧盯着彼此呢。”
“但是你认为她是回到了那里吗？”
“她也没去工作的地点。我告诉您，她公司那边也对她忍无可忍。”
“贝克先生，你担心吗？”
“不。当然了，我的意思是，嗯，我怎么知道。我看不出我有什么要担心的，只是时间在流逝。今天是星期几？星期四吗？”
“她没跟你争吵吗？”
“不，我们不吵架。”
“贝克先生，可是你在担心她。”
“这跟您有什么关系呢？”
“跟我一点关系都没有，但是据我所知，她家那边出了些问题。她不喜欢她的继母。”“一点都不奇怪。她是个泼妇，那个女人就像钉子一般强硬。她也不喜欢诺玛。”
“她最近生病了，是吧？她还去了医院。”
“您说的是谁——诺玛？”
“不，我说的不是雷斯塔里克小姐。我是说，雷斯塔里克夫人。”
“我想她去过疗养院。她没理由这么做。要我说，她强健得如一匹马一般。”“雷斯塔里克小姐厌恶她的继母。”
“她只是有时候有点心理不平衡。诺玛，您知道的，一条道走到黑。我告诉您，姑娘们总是厌恶她们的继母。”“这分憎恶能让她的继母生病吗？病得都要住院了。”
“见鬼了，您究竟指的是什么啊？”
“可能是园艺，或是使用除草剂。”
“您说除草剂是什么意思？您是否在暗示诺玛在谋划着，想去做——”
“人们总是会议论。”波洛说，“邻里们都在四下八卦。”
“您的意思是有人说诺玛试图毒杀她的继母吗？真是荒谬，荒谬极了。”
“这不可能，我也这么认为。”波洛说，“实际上，人们并没有这么说。”
“啊，抱歉，我误会了。但是，您到底是什么意思？”
“我亲爱的小伙子，”波洛说，“你知道，谣言四处散播，这些谣言几乎都是指向同一个人——一位丈夫。”“什么，可怜的老安德鲁？在我看来这太不可能了。”
“是的，是的，对我来说也不可能。”
“那么，您去他家那里是要做什么呢？您是一位侦探，不是吗？”
“是的。”
“然后呢？您是要做什么？”
“我们存在意见分歧，”波洛说，“我到那里去不是为了调查任何可疑或是可能的下毒案件。请原谅，我不能回答你的问题。你明白吧，这一切都是机密。”
“您这么说到底是为什么？”
“我去那儿，”波洛说，“是为了去拜访罗德里克爵士。”
“什么，那个老家伙吗？他就是个老糊涂，不是吗？”
“他是一个拥有很多秘密的男人，我并不是说现在也如此，但他的确知道很多。在过去的那场战争中，他有很多故事，熟知一些人。”
“但那都是很多年前的事了。”
“是的，是的，他本人经历过的事确实已经过去很多年了。但是你没有意识到有些事或许现在还有用处吗？”
“什么类型的事？”
“脸孔。”波洛说，“或许是那种很有名的脸孔，罗德里克爵士会认出来的。面容，言行举止，谈话的方式，走路的样子，一种姿态。人们都记得，你懂的。老年人。他们记得的不是那种发生在上个月或是去年的事，而是那些几乎发生在二十年前的事。他们会记得那些不想被人记起的人，并且他们能告诉你关于某个女人或是某个男人牵涉的一些事。我这么说有点含糊不清，你能懂吧。我去找他是为了打听点消息。”
“您去找他是为了打听点消息，是吗？那个老家伙吗？老糊涂。那么他给你透露了什么消息吗？”
“我可以这么说，我感到非常满意。”
大卫继续盯着波洛。“我现在想，”他说，“您是去见那个老家伙呢，还是去看那个小姑娘呢？您想知道她在那所房子里做了什么吗？我有那么一两次想到。她做那份工作，有没有可能是想从那个老家伙那里弄到点什么过去的情报呢？”
“我不这么认为。”波洛说，“说这些没什么用。她看起来全心奉献、无比细心，我该怎么称呼她呢？秘书？”
“一份混合了医院护士、秘书、陪伴者、寄宿姑娘以及辅助老爷子的工作？是的，能给她许多头衔，不是吗？他完全被她迷住了。您注意到了吗？”
“在这种情况下，这也不是什么难以理解的事。”波洛一本正经地说。
“我能告诉您谁不喜欢她，那就是我们的玛丽。”
“并且那姑娘或许也不喜欢玛丽•雷斯塔里克。”
“您是这么想的，是吗？”大卫问道，“索尼娅不喜欢玛丽•雷斯塔里克。或许您在想她可能已经做了些调查，调查除草剂是在哪里存放的？呸！”他补充道，“整件事简直荒谬可笑。好了。谢谢您载我一程。我想我要在这儿下车了。”
“啊，你在这里下车？我们距离伦敦还有七英里呢。”
“我就在这儿下车。再会，波洛先生。”
“再会。”
当大卫把车门关上的时候，波洛又靠回了座椅。
Five II
II
Mrs. Oliver prowled round her sitting room. She was very restless. An hour ago she had parcelledup a typescript that she had just finished correcting. She was about to send it off to her publisherwho was anxiously awaiting it and constantly prodding her about it every three or four days.
“There you are,” said Mrs. Oliver, addressing the empty air and conjuring up an imaginarypublisher. “There you are, and I hope you like it! I don’t. I think it’s lousy! I don’t believe youknow whether anything I write is good or bad. Anyway, I warned you. I told you it was frightful.
You said ‘Oh! no, no, I don’t believe that for a moment.’
“You just wait and see,” said Mrs. Oliver vengefully. “You just wait and see.”
She opened the door, called to Edith, her maid, gave her the parcel and directed that it should betaken to the post at once.
“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what am I going to do with myself?”
She began strolling about again. “Yes,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I wish I had those tropical birdsand things back on the wall instead of these idiotic cherries. I used to feel like something in atropical wood. A lion or a tiger or a leopard or a cheetah! What could I possibly feel like in acherry orchard except a bird scarer?”
She looked round again. “Cheeping like a bird, that’s what I ought to be doing,” she saidgloomily. “Eating cherries… I wish it was the right time of year for cherries. I’d like somecherries. I wonder now—” She went to the telephone. “I will ascertain, Madam,” said the voice ofGeorge in answer to her inquiry. Presently another voice spoke.
“Hercule Poirot, at your service, Madame,” he said.
“Where’ve you been?” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve been away all day. I suppose you went downto look up the Restaricks. Is that it? Did you see Sir Roderick? What did you find out?”
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot.
“How dreadfully dull,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“No, I do not think it is really so dull. It is rather astonishing that I have not found outanything.”
“Why is it so astonishing? I don’t understand.”
“Because,” said Poirot, “it means either there was nothing to find out, and that, let me tell you,does not accord with the facts; or else something was being very cleverly concealed. That, yousee, would be interesting. Mrs. Restarick, by the way, did not know the girl was missing.”
“You mean—she has nothing to do with the girl having disappeared?”
“So it seems. I met there the young man.”
“You mean the unsatisfactory young man that nobody likes?”
“That is right. The unsatisfactory young man.”
“Did you think he was unsatisfactory?”
“From whose point of view?”
“Not from the girl’s point of view, I suppose.”
“The girl who came to see me I am sure would have been highly delighted with him.”
“Did he look very awful?”
“He looked very beautiful,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Beautiful?” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know that I like beautiful young men.”
“Girls do,” said Poirot.
“Yes, you’re quite right. They like beautiful young men. I don’t mean good-looking young menor smart-looking young men or well-dressed or well-washed looking young men. I mean theyeither like young men looking as though they were just going on in a Restoration comedy, or elsevery dirty young men looking as though they were just going to take some awful tramp’s job.”
“It seemed that he also did not know where the girl is now—”
“Or else he wasn’t admitting it.”
“Perhaps. He had gone down there. Why? He was actually in the house. He had taken thetrouble to walk in without anyone seeing him. Again why? For what reason? Was he looking forthe girl? Or was he looking for something else?”
“You think he was looking for something?”
“He was looking for something in the girl’s room,” said Poirot.
“How do you know? Did you see him there?”
“No, I only saw him coming down the stairs, but I found a very nice little piece of damp mud inNorma’s room that could have come from his shoe. It is possible that she herself may have askedhim to bring her something from that room—there are a lot of possibilities. There is another girl inthat house — and a pretty one — He may have come down there to meet her. Yes — manypossibilities.”
“What are you going to do next?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
“Nothing,” said Poirot.
“That’s very dull,” said Mrs. Oliver disapprovingly.
“I am going to receive, perhaps, a little information from those I have employed to find it;though it is quite possible that I shall receive nothing at all.”
“But aren’t you going to do something?”
“Not till the right moment,” said Poirot.
“Well, I shall,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Pray, pray be very careful,” he implored her.
“What nonsense! What could happen to me?”
“Where there is murder, anything can happen. I tell that to you. I, Poirot.”
第五章 2
2
奥利弗夫人在客厅里来回踱步。她非常坐立不安。一小时前，她把自己校对修改完的稿件包好，她要把这些稿件寄送给那个焦急的出版商，他每隔三四天就来催稿。
“给您，”奥利弗夫人对着空屋子里幻想出来的出版商说道，“给您，我希望您能喜欢！
我不太喜欢，我感觉它差劲极了！我不相信您是否真的知道我所写的是好是坏。反正我也已经警告过您了。我告诉您它们可怕极了。您说：‘啊！不，不，我根本就不信。’”
“您等着看好了。”奥利弗夫人愤恨地说，“您等着看好了。”
她打开门，叫来她的女仆艾迪斯，把包裹交给她，让她立马去邮局寄送。
“那么现在，”奥利弗夫人自言自语道，“我要做什么呢？”
她又开始踱步了。“是的，”奥利弗夫人想，“我真应该把这些热带鸟类的壁纸给重新贴上去，换下这愚蠢可笑的樱桃壁纸。我之前感觉自己就像是热带丛林里的一只狮子或是老虎，或是一头豹子或是一只猩猩！除了稻草人，我在樱桃园里还能像什么呢？”
她再次四下环顾。“我该像鸟一样鸣叫。”她无奈地说，“吃些樱桃……真希望这是樱桃成熟的好时节。我想吃点樱桃。不知道我现在——”她走向电话机。“我会查明白的，夫人。”话筒里传来乔治应答的声音。另一个声音立马传了过来。
“赫尔克里•波洛，听候吩咐，夫人。”他说。
“你去了哪儿？”奥利弗夫人问道，“你一整天都不在。我想你是去了雷斯塔里克家那边了。是吗？你见到罗德里克爵士了吗？查到些什么了？”
“什么都没有。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“真是极其无趣。”奥利弗夫人说道。
“不，我一点都不觉得无趣。什么都没查出来，我只会感到惊讶。”
“为什么会如此惊讶呢？我不明白。”
“因为，”波洛说，“这就意味着那里并非没有什么可调查的，而且我告诉您，这跟事实不符；或是有些事被非常高明地掩藏起来了。您看，这就很有意思了。雷斯塔里克夫人，顺便说一声，她并不知道那个姑娘失踪了。”
“你的意思是——她跟这个姑娘的失踪并没有关系吗？”
“看起来是的。我在那里见到了那个年轻人。”
“你说的是那个没人喜欢的、不尽如人意的年轻人吗？”
“是的，那个不尽如人意的年轻人。”
“你认为他不尽如人意吗？”
“从谁的角度来讲？”
“我想，肯定不是从那个姑娘的角度来说。”“那个来找我的姑娘一定是非常喜欢他的。”
“他看起来很糟糕吗？”
“他看起来很美。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“美？”奥利弗夫人惊呼道，“我想我可不喜欢什么美貌的年轻男人。”
“姑娘们喜欢。”波洛说。
“是的，你说得很对。她们喜欢美貌的年轻男人。我不是指那种长相英俊或是那种看上去就很聪明的年轻人，或是那种衣着考究、十分整洁的年轻人。我是指那种好像刚从复辟时代的喜剧里走出来的年轻人，或是那种肮脏的四处闲逛的流浪汉。”
“好像他也不知道那个姑娘现在在哪儿？”
“或者他就是不肯承认罢了。”
“或许吧。他也去了那儿。为什么？他的确在那座房子里。他还费了些事，以确保没人看到他。这又是为什么？出于什么原因？他是去找那个姑娘，或是要去找什么别的东西？”
“你认为他是去找什么别的东西吗？”
“他在那个姑娘的房间内找什么东西。”波洛说。
“你是怎么知道的？你看到他在那里了吗？”
“没有，我只是看到他下了楼梯，但是我在诺玛的房间内看到一小块潮湿的泥，可能来自他的鞋子。很可能是她自己要求他去她的房间里找什么东西。这就有很多可能性。那座房子里还有另外一个姑娘，一个美丽的姑娘，他或许是去找她的。是的，存在很多可能性。”
“你下一步要做些什么？”奥利弗夫人问道。
“什么都不做。”波洛说。
“真是无趣。”奥利弗夫人不以为然地说。
“我想我或许会从我雇的那些人那里得到一些什么信息。虽然很有可能一无所获。”“但是你自己不去做点什么吗？”
“要等时机成熟。”波洛说。
“嗯，我要去做点什么了。”奥利弗夫人说。
“请您，请您千万小心点。”他恳求道。
“真是胡言乱语！我能出什么事？”
“谋杀案出现之后，什么事情都有可能发生。记住我对您说的。是我，波洛。”
Six I
Six I
Mr. Goby sat in a chair. He was a small shrunken little man, so nondescript as to be practicallynonexistent.
He looked attentively at the claw foot of an antique table and addressed his remarks to it. Henever addressed anybody direct.
“Glad you got the names for me, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “Otherwise, you know, it might havetaken a lot of time. As it is, I’ve got the main facts—and a bit of gossip on the side…Alwaysuseful, that. I’ll begin at Borodene Mansions, shall I?”
Poirot inclined his head graciously.
“Plenty of porters,” Mr. Goby informed the clock on the chimneypiece. “I started there, usedone or two different young men. Expensive, but worth it. Didn’t want it thought that there wasanyone making any particular inquiries! Shall I use initials, or names?”
“Within these walls you can use the names,” said Poirot.
“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland spoken of as a very nice young lady. Father an MP. Ambitiousman. Gets himself in the news a lot. She’s his only daughter. She does secretarial work. Seriousgirl. No wild parties, no drink, no beatniks. Shares flat with two others. Number two works for theWedderburn Gallery in Bond Street. Arty type. Whoops it up a bit with the Chelsea set. Goesaround to places arranging exhibitions and art shows.
“The third one is your one. Not been there long. General opinion is that she’s a bit ‘wanting.’
Not all there in the top storey. But it’s all a bit vague. One of the porters is a gossipy type. Buyhim a drink or two and you’ll be surprised at the things he’ll tell you! Who drinks, and who drugs,and who’s having trouble with his income tax, and who keeps his cash behind the cistern. Ofcourse you can’t believe it all. Anyway, there was some story about a revolver being fired onenight.”
“A revolver fired? Was anyone injured?”
“There seems a bit of doubt as to that. His story is he heard a shot fired one night, and he comesout and there was this girl, your girl, standing there with a revolver in her hand. She looked sort ofdazed. And then one of the other young ladies—or both of them, in fact—they come runningalong. And Miss Cary (that’s the arty one) says, ‘Norma, what on earth have you done?’ and MissReece-Holland, she says sharp-like, ‘Shut up, can’t you, Frances. Don’t be a fool!’ and she tookthe revolver away from your girl and says, ‘Give me that.’ She slams it into her handbag and thenshe notices this chap Micky, and goes over to him and says, laughing-like, ‘That must havestartled you, didn’t it?’ and Micky he says it gave him quite a turn, and she says, ‘You needn’tworry. Matter of fact, we’d no idea this thing was loaded. We were just fooling about.’ And thenshe says: ‘Anyway, if anybody asks you questions, tell them it is quite all right,’ and then she says:
‘Come on, Norma,’ and took her arm and led her along to the elevator, and they all went up again.
“But Micky said he was a bit doubtful still. He went and had a good look round the courtyard.”
Mr. Goby lowered his eyes and quoted from his notebook:
“‘I’ll tell you, I found something, I did! I found some wet patches. Sure as anything I did. Dropsof blood they were. I touched them with my finger. I tell you what I think. Somebody had beenshot—some man as he was running away…I went upstairs and I asked if I could speak to MissHolland. I says to her: “I think there may have been someone shot, Miss,” I says. “There are somedrops of blood in the courtyard.” “Good gracious,” she says, “How ridiculous. I expect, youknow,” she says, “it must have been one of the pigeons.” And then she says: “I’m sorry if it gaveyou a turn. Forget about it,” and she slipped me a five pound note. Five pound note, no less! Well,naturally, I didn’t open my mouth after that.’
“And then, after another whisky, he comes out with some more. ‘If you ask me, she took apotshot at that low class young chap that comes to see her. I think she and he had a row and shedid her best to shoot him. That’s what I think. But least said soonest mended, so I’m not repeatingit. If anyone asks me anything I’ll say I don’t know what they’re talking about.’” Mr. Gobypaused.
“Interesting,” said Poirot.
“Yes, but it’s as likely as not that it’s a pack of lies. Nobody else seems to know anything aboutit. There’s a story about a gang of young thugs who came barging into the courtyard one night,and had a bit of a fight—flick-knives out and all that.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Another possible source of blood in the courtyard.”
“Maybe the girl did have a row with her young man, threatened to shoot him, perhaps. AndMicky overheard it and mixed the whole thing up—especially if there was a car backfiring justthen.”
“Yes,” said Hercule Poirot, and sighed, “that would account for things quite well.”
Mr. Goby turned over another leaf of his notebook and selected his confidant. He chose anelectric radiator.
“Joshua Restarick Ltd. Family firm. Been going over a hundred years. Well thought of in theCity. Always very sound. Nothing spectacular. Founded by Joshua Restarick in 1850. Launchedout after the first war, with greatly increased investments abroad, mostly South Africa, WestAfrica and Australia. Simon and Andrew Restarick—the last of the Restaricks. Simon, the elderbrother, died about a year ago, no children. His wife had died some years previously. AndrewRestarick seems to have been a restless chap. His heart was never really in the business thougheveryone says he had plenty of ability. Finally ran off with some woman, leaving his wife and adaughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and various other places. No divorce. Hiswife died two years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. He travelled about a lot, andwherever he went he seems to have made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything hetouched prospered.
“After his brother’s death, he seems to have decided it was time to settle down. He’d marriedagain and he thought the right thing to do was to come back and make a home for his daughter.
They’re living at the moment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield—uncle by marriage that is.
That’s only temporary. His wife’s looking at houses all over London. Expense no object. They’rerolling in money.”
Poirot sighed. “I know,” he said. “What you outline to me is a success story! Everyone makesmoney! Everybody is of good family and highly respected. Their relations are distinguished. Theyare well thought of in business circles.
“There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be ‘a bit wanting,’ a girl who is mixedup with a dubious boyfriend who has been on probation more than once. A girl who may quitepossibly have tried to poison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or elsehas committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the success story you havebrought me.”
Mr. Goby shook his head sadly and said rather obscurely:
“There’s one in every family.”
“This Mrs. Restarick is quite a young woman. I presume she is not the woman he originally ranaway with?”
“Oh no, that bust up quite soon. She was a pretty bad lot by all accounts, and a tartar as well. Hewas a fool ever to be taken in by her.” Mr. Goby shut his notebook and looked inquiringly atPoirot. “Anything more you want me to do?”
“Yes. I want to know a little more about the late Mrs. Andrew Restarick. She was an invalid,she was frequently in nursing homes. What kind of nursing homes? Mental homes?”
“I take your point, Mr. Poirot.”
“And any history of insanity in the family—on either side?”
“I’ll see to it, Mr. Poirot.”
Mr. Goby rose to his feet. “Then I’ll take leave of you, sir. Good night.”
Poirot remained thoughtful after Mr. Goby had left. He raised and lowered his eyebrows. Hewondered, he wondered very much.
Then he rang Mrs. Oliver:
“I told you before,” he said, “to be careful. I repeat that—Be very careful.”
“Careful of what?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone who goes poking about wherethey are not wanted. There is murder in the air—I do not want it to be yours.”
“Have you had the information you said you might have?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I have had a little information. Mostly rumour and gossip, but it seemssomething happened at Borodene Mansions.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Blood in the courtyard,” said Poirot.
“Really!” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. TheStain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like She Asked for Death.”
“Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what animaginative, Irish porter imagined.”
“Probably an upset milk bottle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He couldn’t see it at night. Whathappened?”
Poirot did not answer directly.
“The girl thought she ‘might have committed a murder.’ Was that the murder she meant?”
“You mean she did shoot someone?”
“One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missedthem. A few drops of blood…That was all. No body.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of acourtyard, you wouldn’t think you’d killed him, would you?”
“C’est difficile,” said Poirot, and rang off.
第六章 1
第六章 1

戈比先生坐在椅子上。他是个小个子的干瘦男人，相貌如此平凡，难以描述，以至于人们会忽略他的存在。
他聚精会神地盯着一张爪形古董桌的桌脚，发表着意见。在说话的时候，他从不直视人的眼睛。
“波洛先生，幸好您把名字告诉了我。”他说，“不然的话，您懂的，这会耗费更多的时间。看样子，主要的事实我都掌握了，还有些边边角角的传言……总是会有用的。我先从博罗登大楼开始说吧，可以吗？”
波洛亲切地点点头。
“那里有很多杂役。”戈比先生对着壁炉烟囱上的钟表说道，“我从他们身上着手，差使了我手下的一两个年轻人。花费不少，但是很值。我不想让人感觉有人在做什么刻意的调查！我是用名字缩写，还是全名？”
“在这里，您能用全名。”波洛说。
“克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰小姐被人交口称赞。她的父亲是议会的议员，一个野心勃勃的男人，总是上报纸。她是独生女，她做一些秘书工作，是一个正经的姑娘。不参加疯狂的聚会，也不饮酒，不跟那些穿着奇装异服、行为乖僻的人混在一起。跟另外两个姑娘合租一间公寓。第二个姑娘在邦德街的韦德伯恩画廊工作，属于艺术圈的那种类型。和切尔西区的那一帮人鬼混。到处去布置画展和艺术展。
“第三个姑娘就是你说的那个。她刚搬过来不久。人们对她的普通看法是她有点‘欠缺些什么’。但是这些传言也是不清不楚。有一个做杂役的人是那种爱传闲话的人。给他买上一两杯酒，他就什么都会告诉你！谁酗酒，谁吸毒，谁偷税漏税，谁把现金藏在水箱后面。当然了，你不能全信。但是，有一晚，他听到有什么人用左轮手枪开了一枪。”
“用左轮手枪开了一枪吗？有人受伤吗？”
“这件事好像有点存疑。他说，那天晚上他听到一声枪响，他跑了出来，看到一个姑娘，就是那个姑娘，手拿一把左轮手枪站在那里。她看上去有点茫然失措。之后另一个年轻的姑娘，或者事实上是另外两个姑娘一道跑了出来。凯莉小姐（就是那位从事艺术工作的姑娘）说：‘诺玛，你究竟在做什么？’而瑞希-何兰小姐厉声呵斥道：‘闭嘴，行吗？弗朗西丝。不要这么蠢！’她从那个姑娘手中接过左轮手枪说：‘把这个给我。’她把手枪放在自己的背包里，她察觉到这个叫米奇的家伙在那里，就走了过去，笑着说：‘你一定是吓呆了，是吗？’米奇说他确实被吓住了，然后她就说：‘你不必担心。事实上，我们根本就不知道子弹上膛了。我们就是无意中闹着玩的。’接着她说：‘总而言之，如果有什么人问你的话，你就告诉他们这里根本什么都没发生。’她继续说：‘来吧，诺玛。’一边说一边扶着她走进了电梯，她们又都上楼去了。”
“但是米奇说他还是有点迷惑不解。于是他就跑去院子里四处查看了一遍。”
戈比先生低垂着目光，看着他的笔记本念道：
“我告诉您，我发现了些什么，真的！我发现一些湿迹。我确定。那是几滴血迹。我用手指捻了捻。我告诉您我是怎么想的吧。有人被射中了，当他要逃走的时候被射中了……我走上楼去，问我是否能问何兰小姐一些事。我跟她说：‘我想有人被射中了，小姐。在院子里，有血迹。’‘天呐。’她说：‘真是荒谬，我想，你明白的。’她说：‘一定是鸽子。’她接着说：‘真是抱歉让你受惊。忘了这件事吧。’她给我塞了五英镑。五英镑，一点都不少！
所以，自然了，从那之后我就守口如瓶了。”
“然后，在又一杯威士忌之后，他又透露了一些信息。‘如果您问我，我想她是对着那个常来她这里的低级的年轻家伙开了一枪。我想她肯定是跟他吵架了，她十分想要开枪打他。我是这么想的，但是多言惹祸。我还是不要再絮叨了。如果有人问我这些事，我会说我根本就不知道他们在说什么。’”戈比先生停住了。
“真有意思。”波洛说。
“是的，但是这听起来不像是谎话。除了他似乎没有其他人知道这件事。还有一个版本说是有一天晚上，一群年轻的暴徒闯进院子里，在这里拔刀相向，聚众斗殴。”
“我明白了。”波洛说，“院子里的血迹可能另有来源。”
“可能那个姑娘跟她的男朋友吵架了，威胁要开枪打他。米奇无意中听到了，把它跟其他的事情混淆了，特别是如果那时有汽车要从院内倒车出去的话，很容易出现这种情况。”
“是的。”赫尔克里•波洛叹了口气说，“这倒也讲得通。”
戈比先生翻开笔记本的另一页，挑选好自己的听众。他选择了一个电暖炉。
“约书亚•雷斯塔里克股份有限公司是一家家族企业，已经经营了上百年。在本市内风评很好，声名在外，但是也没有什么特别受到瞩目的地方。它是由约书亚•雷斯塔里克在1850年建立的。在第一次世界大战后飞速发展，很快就在海外增加了巨额投资，大部分用在南非、西非和澳大利亚。西蒙和安德鲁•雷斯塔里克是雷斯塔里克家族最后的一代人。大哥西蒙一年前去世了，没有留下子嗣。他的妻子很多年前就去世了。安德鲁•雷斯塔里克看上去是个颇为浮躁的人。虽然人们说他很有才能，但是他却从未把心思放在事业上。之后他跟一个女人私奔了，撇下了妻子和五岁的女儿。他曾去过南非、肯尼亚和其他很多地方。并没有离婚。他的妻子两年前去世了，生前患病多年。安德鲁经常在外旅行，不管他去哪儿，似乎都能赚到很多钱。多是靠授权经营矿产来获利。凡是他所涉足的领域，总是获利颇丰。
“在他哥哥去世后，他似乎下定决心要安定下来。他再婚了，并且认为是时候弥补一下自己的女儿，给她家庭的温暖。现今，他们跟他舅舅罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德爵士住在一起。
这只是暂时的。他的妻子在伦敦各处找房子并不在乎价钱。他们非常富有。”
波洛叹了口气。“我知道。”他说，“您给我描述的是一个成功的家族的故事！每个人都能赚钱！每个人都有很好的家世，备受尊敬。他们的人际圈子很高端，在商圈也备受赞誉。”
“但是在这片宁静的天空上却飘着一朵乌云。这家的一个姑娘被人认为‘欠缺些什么’，她跟一个缓刑不止一两次的举止可疑的男朋友鬼混在一起。这个姑娘很有可能试图毒杀她的继母，如果她不是深陷幻觉的话，那她就犯下了严重的罪行！我告诉您，这些事情跟您探查到的这个成功的故事一点都不符合。”
戈比先生悲伤地摇摇头，有点含糊地说：
“每个家庭都会出这样的子女。”
“雷斯塔里克夫人是位年轻的女士。我想她不是之前跟雷斯塔里克先生私奔的那个女人吧？”
“啊，不是的，那个女人很快就跟他分手了。她是个作恶多端的女人，而且还很难搞。
他曾被她迷住，这真是愚蠢极了。”戈比先生合上笔记本，目光里带着询问看向波洛先生。“您还有什么想要我去做的吗？”
“是的，我想了解关于已经去世的安德鲁•雷斯塔里克夫人的一些事。她总是生病，总是住在疗养院里。是什么类型的疗养院？精神病院吗？”
“我明白您的意思，波洛先生。”
“他们家族里有没有精神病史，在双方的家族里？”
“我会去调查的，波洛先生。”
戈比先生站起来。“先生，我要告辞了。晚安。”
戈比先生离开之后，波洛继续沉思。他的眉毛忽上忽下。他满腹疑问。
随后他拨通了奥利弗夫人的电话。
“我之前告诉过您，”他说，“要谨慎小心。我再次强调一遍，要非常小心。”
“小心什么？”奥利弗夫人问道。
“您自己。我想会有危险。对于那些去他们不受欢迎的地方刺探消息的人。空气中弥漫着谋杀的味道。我不想您遇到这样的事。”
“你得到了你说的那些可能搜集到的情报了吗？”
“是的。”波洛说，“我获取了些许情报。多半是谣言和鸡毛蒜皮，但是貌似博罗登大楼里发生了什么事情。”
“什么类型的事？”
“院子里有血迹。”波洛说。
“真的吗？”奥利弗夫人说道，“这像是老式侦探小说的题目。《楼梯上的血迹》。我觉得现今人们更愿意把书名改为《她自寻死路》。”
“或许院子里并没有血迹。没准儿只是那个爱胡思乱想的爱尔兰杂役编造出来的。”
“或许是摔碎的牛奶瓶，”奥利弗夫人说，“晚上他没看清楚。到底发生了什么？”
波洛没有直接回答。
“那个姑娘以为自己‘或许犯了谋杀罪’。这就是她所说的那桩罪行吗？”
“你是说她确实射杀了某人吗？”
“我们或许可以假设她射中了某人，但是不管出于有意还是无意，她没有射中目标。只留下几滴血……就是这样了。没有尸体。”
“啊，我的天呐。”奥利弗夫人说，“这真是让人困惑。如果那个人还能跑出院子的话，你就不会认为自己杀了他，不是吗？”
“难说 [1] 。”波洛挂断了电话。
Six II
II
“I’m worried,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She refilled her cup from the coffee percolator. Frances Cary gave an enormous yawn. Bothgirls were breakfasting in the small kitchen of the flat. Claudia was dressed and ready to start forher day’s work. Frances was still in dressing gown and pyjamas. Her black hair fell over one eye.
“I’m worried about Norma,” continued Claudia.
Frances yawned.
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you. She’ll ring up or turn up sooner or later, I suppose.”
“Will she? You know, Fran, I can’t help wondering—”
“I don’t see why,” said Frances, pouring herself out more coffee. She sipped it doubtfully. “Imean—Norma’s not really our business, is she? I mean, we’re not looking after her or spoon-feeding her or anything. She just shares the flat. Why all this motherly solicitude? I certainlywouldn’t worry.”
“I daresay you wouldn’t. You never worry over anything. But it’s not the same for you as it isfor me.”
“Why isn’t it the same? You mean because you’re the tenant of the flat or something?”
“Well, I’m in rather a special position, as you might say.”
Frances gave another enormous yawn.
“I was up too late last night,” she said. “At Basil’s party. I feel dreadful. Oh well, I supposeblack coffee will be helpful. Have some more before I’ve drunk it all? Basil would make us trysome new pills—Emerald Dreams. I don’t think it’s really worth trying all these silly things.”
“You’ll be late at your gallery,” said Claudia.
“Oh well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Nobody notices or cares.
“I saw David last night,” she added. “He was all dressed up and really looked ratherwonderful.”
“Now don’t say you’re falling for him, too, Fran. He really is too awful.”
“Oh, I know you think so. You’re such a conventional type, Claudia.”
“Not at all. But I cannot say I care for all your arty set. Trying out all these drugs and passingout or getting fighting mad.”
Frances looked amused.
“I’m not a drug fiend, dear—I just like to see what these things are like. And some of the gangare all right. David can paint, you know, if he wants to.”
“David doesn’t very often want to, though, does he?”
“You’ve always got your knife into him, Claudia…You hate him coming here to see Norma.
And talking of knives….”
“Well? Talking of knives?”
“I’ve been worrying,” said Frances slowly, “whether to tell you something or not.”
Claudia glanced at her wristwatch.
“I haven’t got time now,” she said. “You can tell me this evening if you want to tell mesomething. Anyway, I’m not in the mood. Oh dear,” she sighed, “I wish I knew what to do.”
“About Norma?”
“Yes. I’m wondering if her parents ought to know that we don’t know where she is….”
“That would be very unsporting. Poor Norma, why shouldn’t she slope off on her own if shewants to?”
“Well, Norma isn’t exactly—” Claudia stopped.
“No, she isn’t, is she? Non compos mentis. That’s what you meant. Have you rung up thatterrible place where she works? ‘Homebirds,’ or whatever it’s called? Oh yes, of course you did. Iremember.”
“So where is she?” demanded Claudia. “Did David say anything last night?”
“David didn’t seem to know. Really, Claudia, I can’t see that it matters.”
“It matters for me,” said Claudia, “because my boss happens to be her father. Sooner or later, ifanything peculiar has happened to her, they’ll ask me why I didn’t mention the fact that she hadn’tcome home.”
“Yes, I suppose they might pitch on you. But there’s no real reason, is there, why Norma shouldhave to report to us every time she’s going to be away from here for a day or two. Or even a fewnights. I mean, she’s not a paying guest or anything. You’re not in charge of the girl.”
“No, but Mr. Restarick did mention he felt glad to know that she had got a room here with us.”
“So that entitles you to go and tittle-tattle about her every time she’s absent without leave?
She’s probably got a crush on some new man.”
“She’s got a crush on David,” said Claudia. “Are you sure she isn’t holed up at his place?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t really care for her, you know.”
“You’d like to think he doesn’t,” said Claudia. “You are rather sweet on David yourself.”
“Certainly not,” said Frances sharply. “Nothing of the kind.”
“David’s really keen on her,” said Claudia. “If not, why did he come round looking for her herethe other day?”
“You soon marched him out again,” said Frances. “I think,” she added, getting up and looking ather face in a rather unflattering small kitchen mirror, “I think it might have been me he really cameto see.”
“You’re too idiotic! He came here looking for Norma.”
“That girl’s mental,” said Frances.
“Sometimes I really think she is!”
“Well, I know she is. Look here, Claudia, I’m going to tell you that something now. You oughtto know. I broke the string of my bra the other day and I was in a hurry. I know you don’t likeanyone fiddling with your things—”
“I certainly don’t,” said Claudia.
“—but Norma never minds, or doesn’t notice. Anyway, I went into her room and I rootled inher drawer and I—well, I found something. A knife.”
“A knife!” said Claudia, surprised. “What sort of a knife?”
“You know we had that sort of shindy thing in the courtyard? A group of beats, teenagerswho’d come in here and were having a fight with flick-knives and all that? And Norma came injust after.”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“One of the boys got stabbed, so a reporter told me, and he ran away. Well, the knife inNorma’s drawer was a flick-knife. It had got a stain on it—looked like dried blood.”
“Frances! You’re being absurdly dramatic.”
“Perhaps. But I’m sure that’s what it was. And what on earth was that doing hidden away inNorma’s drawer, I should like to know?”
“I suppose—she might have picked it up.”
“What—a souvenir? And hidden it away and never told us?”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it back,” said Frances slowly. “I—I didn’t know what else to do…I couldn’t decidewhether to tell you or not. Then yesterday I looked again and it was gone, Claudia. Not a trace ofit.”
“You think she sent David here to get it?”
“Well, she might have done…I tell you, Claudia, in future I’m going to keep my door locked atnight.”
第六章 2
2
“我很担心。”克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰说。
她从咖啡壶里倒出一杯咖啡。弗朗西丝•凯莉打了个大大的哈欠。这两位姑娘在公寓的小厨房里吃早餐。克劳迪亚已经打扮停当，准备开始新一天的工作。弗朗西丝还穿着睡衣睡裤，她的黑色长发垂在眼睛上。
“我有些担心诺玛。”克劳迪亚说。
弗朗西丝打着哈欠。
“如果我是你，我才不会担心呢。我觉得她迟早会打电话或是回到这里的。”
“她会吗？你知道的，弗兰，我止不住会想——”
“我不明白为什么。”弗朗西丝倒了杯咖啡，疑惑不解地说道，“我的意思是，诺玛跟我们没什么关系，不是吗？我是说我们不是来照顾她的，也不是她的保姆。她就是和我们合租公寓。为什么如此担心？我是绝对不会担忧的。”
“我想你也不会的，你从不担忧任何事。但是我和你的境况不同。”
“有什么不一样呢？你是说因为你承租了这间公寓还是什么其他的？”
“是的，你或许可以这么说，我处在相当特殊的处境里。”
弗朗西丝又大大地打了个哈欠。
“昨天晚上我睡得太晚了。”她说，“参加 兹尔的聚会。我真是糟糕透了。我想多喝点咖啡能好些。你要不要再喝点，不然这些就被我喝光了。兹尔给我们尝试了一些新的药片，祖母绿之梦。吃那些愚蠢的东西可真不值。”
“你去画廊上班要迟到了。”克劳迪亚说。
“我想这没什么关系。没人会注意，也没人会在意。”
“我昨晚看到了大卫。”她补充道，“他盛装出席，看上去美极了。”
“你现在不是要说自己也被他迷住了吧，弗兰。他真是太可怕了。”
“啊，我就知道你会这么想。你是那种传统的人，克劳迪亚。”
“完全不是。但是我只是不想接触你们艺术圈子里的那类人。吃尽各种药，整日昏睡，或是发狂地争斗。”
弗朗西丝看上去被逗乐了。
“我不是什么嗜毒鬼，亲爱的，我只是想看看吃了那些药是什么样子而已。说到我们那群人，有一些还是挺好的。大卫会画画，你知道的，只要他想画的话。”
“但大卫也不是经常想画画，不是吗？”
“你总是攻击他，克劳迪亚……你讨厌他来这里看诺玛。说到攻击……”
“嗯？说到攻击怎么了？”
“我一直很担心。”弗朗西丝缓缓地说，“是否该告诉你些什么。”
克劳迪亚看看腕表。
“我现在没时间了。”她说，“如果你想告诉我些什么，今晚再跟我说吧。不管怎么说，我现在情绪不佳。天呐。”她叹了口气说，“我希望自己知道该怎么做。”
“关于诺玛吗？”
“是的。我想她的父母是否应该知道我们也不知道她在哪里……”
“这就太不公平了。可怜的诺玛，如果她自己想偷偷藏起来，这又有什么不行呢？”
“嗯，诺玛不是真的——”克劳迪亚欲言又止。
“不，她不是的，不然呢？精神错乱，你说的是这个吗？你有没有给她工作的那个破地方打电话？‘归鸟’还是什么名字？啊，是的，你肯定是打过了。我想起来了。”
“那么她在哪儿？”克劳迪亚问道，“昨晚大卫说什么了吗？”
“看起来大卫也一无所知，克劳迪亚，我看这也没什么要紧的。”
“对我来说很要紧。”克劳迪亚说，“因为我的老板正巧是她的父亲。要是她出了什么怪事，他们早晚会来质问我为什么一直没有告诉他们她根本就没有回来这件事。”
“是的，我想他们会这么做的。但是，这也没什么正当的理由，难道诺玛每次外宿一两晚或是几个晚上就应该向我们打报告？我是说，她只是个租客。你不用对她负责。”
“不，但是雷斯塔里克先生提到过他对于自己的女儿跟我们一起住感到很高兴。”
“所以每次当她要离开的时候，你都要去跟她说个没完吗？她可能只是被什么新的男人给迷住了。”
“迷住她的是大卫。”克劳迪亚说，“你能肯定她真的不是被大卫关在自己住的地方了吗？”
“啊，我才不会这么想。他对她不是那么上心，你知道的。”
“你倒是希望大卫对她不是很上心。”克劳迪亚说，“你自己对大卫倒是很迷恋。”
“当然不了。”弗朗西丝厉声说道，“从没有的事。”
“大卫真的很喜欢她。”克劳迪亚说，“如果不是这样，为什么他那天会来找她？”
“可你很快就把他撵了出去。我想，”弗朗西丝她在小厨房的镜子前上下打量之后补充道，“我想他来这里实际上是为了来看我。”
“你真是太蠢了！他来这里是为了找诺玛。”
“那个姑娘的精神状态……”
“有时候我真觉得她不对劲。”
“嗯，我知道她有问题。克劳迪亚，我现在要告诉你些事。你应该知道的。有一次我弄坏了文胸的带子，我又急着出门。我知道你不喜欢别人乱动你的东西。”
“我是不喜欢别人动我的东西。”
“——但是诺玛不在意啊，或是她不会觉察。总之，我进了她的房间，在她的抽屉里搜索着，而我找到了某件东西。一把刀。”
“一把刀！”克劳迪亚惊讶地说，“什么样的刀？”
“你知道在我们大楼的院子里，有人斗殴的事吧？一群小无赖来到那里，挥着弹簧刀打架。诺玛就是在他们跑开之后回来的。”
“是的，是的，我记得。”
“有位记者告诉我，其中一个男孩被刺伤了，然后他就跑了。嗯，在诺玛抽屉里的就是一把弹簧刀。上面有污迹，看上去就像是干了的血迹。”
“弗朗西丝！你又在胡说了。”
“或许吧。但是我能肯定那是什么。我想知道为什么它会藏在诺玛的抽屉里。”
“我觉得——她可能把它捡了起来？”
“什么？当纪念品吗？而且把它藏起来，准备永远都不告诉我们？”
“你把那把刀放在哪儿了。”
“我把它放回原处了。”弗朗西丝缓缓地说，“我，我不知道还应该做些什么……我不知道是否要告诉你。昨天我又看了看，它不在了，克劳迪亚。一点痕迹都没有。”
“你觉得她叫大卫来这里就是为了拿这把刀吗？”
“是的，她或许会这么做……我告诉你，克劳迪亚，以后晚上我肯定会锁好门。”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
Seven
Seven
Mrs. Oliver woke up dissatisfied. She saw stretching before her a day with nothing to do. Havingpacked off her completed manuscript with a highly virtuous feeling, work was over. She had nowonly, as many times before, to relax, to enjoy herself; to lie fallow until the creative urge becameactive once more. She walked about her flat in a rather aimless fashion, touching things, pickingthem up, putting them down, looking in the drawers of her desk, realising that there were plenty ofletters there to be dealt with but feeling also that in her present state of virtuous accomplishment,she was certainly not going to deal with anything so tiresome as that now. She wanted somethinginteresting to do. She wanted—what did she want?
She thought about the conversation she had had with Hercule Poirot, the warning he had givenher. Ridiculous! After all, why shouldn’t she participate in this problem which she was sharingwith Poirot? Poirot might choose to sit in a chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and set hisgrey cells whirring to work while his body reclined comfortably within four walls. That was notthe procedure that appealed to Ariadne Oliver. She had said, very forcibly, that she at least wasgoing to do something. She was going to find out more about this mysterious girl. Where wasNorma Restarick? What was she doing? What more could she, Ariadne Oliver, find out about her?
Mrs. Oliver prowled about, more and more disconsolate. What could one do? It wasn’t veryeasy to decide. Go somewhere and ask questions? Should she go down to Long Basing? But Poirothad already been there—and found out presumably what there was to be found out. And whatexcuse could she offer for barging into Sir Roderick Horsefield’s house?
She considered another visit to Borodene Mansions. Something still to be found out there,perhaps? She would have to think of another excuse for going there. She wasn’t quite sure whatexcuse she would use but anyway, that seemed the only possible place where more informationcould be obtained. What was the time? Ten a.m. There were certain possibilities….
On the way there she concocted an excuse. Not a very original excuse. In fact, Mrs. Oliverwould have liked to have found something more intriguing, but perhaps, she reflected prudently, itwas just as well to keep to something completely everyday and plausible. She arrived at the statelyif grim elevation of Borodene Mansions and walked slowly round the courtyard considering it.
A porter was conversing with a furniture van—A milkman, pushing his milk float, came to joinMrs. Oliver near the service lift.
He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs. Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at thefurniture van.
“Number 76 moving out,” explained the milkman to Mrs. Oliver, mistaking her interest. Hetransferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.
“Not that she hasn’t moved already in a manner of speaking,” he added, emerging again. Heseemed a cheery kind of milkman.
He pointed a thumb upwards.
“Pitched herself out of a window—seventh floor—only a week ago, it was. Five o’clock in themorning. Funny time to choose.”
Mrs. Oliver didn’t think it so funny.
“Why?”
“Why did she do it? Nobody knows. Balance of mind disturbed, they said.”
“Was she—young?”
“Nah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day.”
Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahoganydrawers crashed to the ground—a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs. Oliver who caught it.
“Don’t smash everything, Charlie,” said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in thelift with his cargo of bottles.
An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs. Oliver offered them the piece ofpaper, but they waved it away.
Making up her mind, Mrs. Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank camefrom inside and presently the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a mop who wasclearly engaged in household labours.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, using her favourite monosyllable. “Good morning. Is—I wonder—isanyone in?”
“No, I’m afraid not, Madam. They’re all out. They’ve gone to work.”
“Yes, of course… As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind. Soannoying. It must be in the sitting room somewhere.”
“Well, I haven’t picked up anything of the kind, Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn’thave known it was yours. Would you like to come in?” She opened the door hospitably, set asidethe mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs. Oliver into thesitting room.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, “yes, I see here—that’s thebook I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?”
“I don’t think she’s living here at the moment. Her bed wasn’t slept in. Perhaps she’s still downwith her people in the country. I know she was going there last weekend.”
“Yes, I expect that’s it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “This was a book I brought her. One of my books.”
One of Mrs. Oliver’s books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman.
“I was sitting here,” went on Mrs. Oliver, patting an armchair, “at least I think so. And then Imoved to the window and perhaps to the sofa.”
She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged bydoing the same thing to the sofa cushions.
“You’ve no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like that,” went on Mrs. Oliver,chattily. “One has all one’s engagements written down there. I’m quite sure I’m lunching withsomeone very important today, and I can’t remember who it was or where the luncheon was to be.
Only, of course, it may be tomorrow. If so, I’m lunching with someone else quite different. Ohdear.”
“Very trying for you, ma’am, I’m sure,” said the cleaning woman with sympathy.
“They’re such nice flats, these,” said Mrs. Oliver, looking round.
“A long way up.”
“Well, that gives you a very good view, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but if they face east you get a lot of cold wind in winter. Comes right through these metalwindow frames. Some people have had double windows put in. Oh yes, I wouldn’t care for a flatfacing this way in winter. No, give me a nice ground floor flat every time. Much more convenienttoo if you’ve got children. For prams and all that, you know. Oh yes, I’m all for the ground floor, Iam. Think if there was to be a fire.”
“Yes, of course, that would be terrible,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I suppose there are fire escapes?”
“You can’t always get to a fire door. Terrified of fire, I am. Always have been. And they’re everso expensive, these flats. You wouldn’t believe the rents they ask! That’s why Miss Holland, shegets two other girls to go in with her.”
“Oh yes, I think I met them both. Miss Cary’s an artist, isn’t she?”
“Works for an art gallery, she does. Don’t work at it very hard, though. She paints a bit—cowsand trees that you’d never recognise as being what they’re meant to be. An untidy young lady. Thestate her room is in—you wouldn’t believe it! Now Miss Holland, everything is always as neat asa new pin. She was a secretary in the Coal Board at one time but she’s a private secretary in theCity now. She likes it better, she says. She’s secretary to a very rich gentleman just come backfrom South America or somewhere like that. He’s Miss Norma’s father, and it was he who askedMiss Holland to take her as a boarder when the last young lady went off to get married—and shementioned as she was looking for another girl. Well, she couldn’t very well refuse, could she? Notsince he was her employer.”
“Did she want to refuse?”
The woman sniffed.
“I think she would have—if she’d known.”
“Known what?” The question was too direct.
“It’s not for me to say anything, I’m sure. It’s not my business—”
Mrs. Oliver continued to look mildly inquiring. Mrs. Mop fell.
“It’s not that she isn’t a nice young lady. Scatty but then they’re nearly all scatty. But I think asa doctor ought to see her. There are times when she doesn’t seem to know rightly what she’sdoing, or where she is. It gives you quite a turn, sometimes—Looks just how my husband’snephew does after he’s had a fit. (Terrible fits he has—you wouldn’t believe!) Only I’ve neverknown her have fits. Maybe she takes things—a lot do.”
“I believe there is a young man her family doesn’t approve of.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. He’s come here to call for her once or twice—though I’ve never seen him.
One of these Mods by all accounts. Miss Holland doesn’t like it—but what can you do nowadays?
Girls go their own way.”
“Sometimes one feels very upset about girls nowadays,” said Mrs. Oliver, and tried to lookserious and responsible.
“Not brought up right, that’s what I says.”
“I’m afraid not. No, I’m afraid not. One feels really a girl like Norma Restarick would be betterat home than coming all alone to London and earning her living as an interior decorator.”
“She don’t like it at home.”
“Really?”
“Got a stepmother. Girls don’t like stepmothers. From what I’ve heard the stepmother’s doneher best, tried to pull her up, tried to keep flashy young men out of the house, that sort of thing.
She knows girls pick up with the wrong young man and a lot of harm may come of it. Sometimes—” the cleaning woman spoke impressively, “—I’m thankful I’ve never had any daughters.”
“Have you got sons?”
“Two boys, we’ve got. One’s doing very well at school, and the other one, he’s in a printer’s,doing well there too. Yes, very nice boys they are. Mind you, boys can cause you trouble, too. Butgirls is more worrying, I think. You feel you ought to be able to do something about them.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, thoughtfully, “one does feel that.”
She saw signs of the cleaning woman wishing to return to her cleaning.
“It’s too bad about my diary,” she said. “Well, thank you very much and I hope I haven’twasted your time.”
“Well, I hope you’ll find it, I’m sure,” said the other woman obligingly.
Mrs. Oliver went out of the flat and considered what she should do next. She couldn’t think ofanything she could do further that day, but a plan for tomorrow began to form in her mind.
When she got home, Mrs. Oliver, in an important way, got out a notebook and jotted down in itvarious things under the heading “Facts I have learned.” On the whole the facts did not amount tovery much but Mrs. Oliver, true to her calling, managed to make the most of them that could bemade. Possibly the fact that Claudia Reece-Holland was employed by Norma’s father was themost salient fact of any. She had not known that before, she rather doubted if Hercule Poirot hadknown it either. She thought of ringing him up on the telephone and acquainting him with it butdecided to keep it to herself for the moment because of her plan for the morrow. In fact, Mrs.
Oliver felt at this moment less like a detective novelist than like an ardent bloodhound. She was onthe trail, nose down on the scent, and tomorrow morning—well, tomorrow morning we would see.
True to her plan, Mrs. Oliver rose early, partook of two cups of tea and a boiled egg and startedout on her quest. Once more she arrived in the vicinity of Borodene Mansions. She wonderedwhether she might be getting a bit well known there, so this time she did not enter the courtyard,but skulked around either one entrance to it or the other, scanning the various people who wereturning out into the morning drizzle to trot off on their way to work. They were mostly girls, andlooked deceptively alike. How extraordinary human beings were when you considered them likethis, emerging purposefully from these large tall buildings—just like anthills, thought Mrs. Oliver.
One had never considered an anthill properly, she decided. It always looked so aimless, as onedisturbed it with the toe of a shoe. All those little things rushing about with bits of grass in theirmouths, streaming along industriously, worried, anxious, looking as though they were running toand fro and going nowhere, but presumably they were just as well organised as these humanbeings here. That man, for instance, who had just passed her. Scurrying along, muttering tohimself. “I wonder what’s upsetting you,” thought Mrs. Oliver. She walked up and down a littlemore, then she drew back suddenly.
Claudia Reece-Holland came out of the entranceway walking at a brisk businesslike pace. Asbefore, she looked very well turned out. Mrs. Oliver turned away so that she should not berecognised. Once she had allowed Claudia to get a sufficient distance ahead of her, she wheeledround again and followed in her tracks. Claudia Reece-Holland came to the end of the street andturned right into a main thoroughfare. She came to a bus stop and joined the queue. Mrs. Oliver,still following her, felt a momentary uneasiness. Supposing Claudia should turn round, look at her,recognise her? All Mrs. Oliver could think of was to do several protracted but noiseless blows ofthe nose. But Claudia Reece-Holland seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts. She looked atnone of her fellow waiters for buses. Mrs. Oliver was about third in the queue behind her. Finallythe right bus came and there was a surge forward. Claudia got on the bus and went straight up tothe top. Mrs. Oliver got inside and was able to get a seat close to the door as the uncomfortablethird person. When the conductor came round for fares Mrs. Oliver pressed a reckless one andsixpence into his hand. After all, she had no idea by what route the bus went or indeed how far thedistance was to what the cleaning woman had described vaguely as “one of those new buildingsby St. Paul’s.” She was on the alert and ready when the venerable dome was at last sighted.
Anytime now, she thought to herself, and fixed a steady eye on those who descended from theplatform above. Ah yes, there came Claudia, neat and chic in her smart suit. She got off the bus.
Mrs. Oliver followed her in due course and kept at a nicely calculated distance.
“Very interesting,” thought Mrs. Oliver. “Here I am actually trailing someone! Just like in mybooks. And, what’s more, I must be doing it very well because she hasn’t the least idea.”
Claudia Reece-Holland, indeed, looked very much absorbed in her own thoughts. “That’s a verycapable looking girl,” thought Mrs. Oliver, as indeed she had thought before. “If I was thinking ofhaving a go at guessing a murderer, a good capable murderer, I’d choose someone very like her.”
Unfortunately, nobody had been murdered yet, that is to say, unless the girl Norma had beenentirely right in her assumption that she herself had committed a murder.
This part of London seemed to have suffered or profited from a large amount of building in therecent years. Enormous skyscrapers, most of which Mrs. Oliver thought very hideous, mounted tothe sky with a square matchbox-like air.
Claudia turned into a building. “Now I shall find out exactly,” thought Mrs. Oliver and turnedinto it after her. Four lifts appeared to be all going up and down with frantic haste. This, Mrs.
Oliver thought, was going to be more difficult. However, they were of a very large size and bygetting into Claudia’s one at the last minute Mrs. Oliver was able to interpose large masses of tallmen between herself and the figure she was following. Claudia’s destination turned out to be thefourth floor. She went along a corridor and Mrs. Oliver, lingering behind two of her tall men,noted the door where she went in. Three doors from the end of the corridor. Mrs. Oliver arrived atthe same door in due course and was able to read the legend on it. “Joshua Restarick Ltd.” was thelegend it bore.
Having got as far as that Mrs. Oliver felt as though she did not quite know what to do next. Shehad found Norma’s father’s place of business and the place where Claudia worked, but now,slightly disabused, she felt that this was not as much of a discovery as it might have been. Frankly,did it help? Probably it didn’t.
She waited around a few moments, walking from one end to the other of the corridor looking tosee if anybody else interesting went in at the door of Restarick Enterprises. Two or three girls didbut they did not look particularly interesting. Mrs. Oliver went down again in the lift and walkedrather disconsolately out of the building. She couldn’t quite think what to do next. She took a walkround the adjacent streets, she meditated a visit to St. Paul’s.
“I might go up in the Whispering Gallery and whisper,” thought Mrs. Oliver. “I wonder nowhow the Whispering Gallery would do for the scene of a murder?
“No,” she decided, “too profane, I’m afraid. No, I don’t think that would be quite nice.” Shewalked thoughtfully towards the Mermaid Theatre. That, she thought, had far more possibilities.
She walked back in the direction of the various new buildings. Then, feeling the lack of a moresubstantial breakfast than she had had, she turned into a local café. It was moderately well filledwith people having extra late breakfast or else early “elevenses.” Mrs. Oliver, looking roundvaguely for a suitable table, gave a gasp. At a table near the wall the girl Norma was sitting, andopposite her was sitting a young man with lavish chestnut hair curled on his shoulders, wearing ared velvet waistcoat and a very fancy jacket.
“David,” said Mrs. Oliver under her breath. “It must be David.” He and the girl Norma weretalking excitedly together.
Mrs. Oliver considered a plan of campaign, made up her mind, and nodding her head insatisfaction, crossed the floor of the café to a discreet door marked “Ladies.”
Mrs. Oliver was not quite sure whether Norma was likely to recognise her or not. It was notalways the vaguest looking people who proved the vaguest in fact. At the moment Norma did notlook as though she was likely to look at anybody but David, but who knows?
“I expect I can do something to myself anyway,” thought Mrs. Oliver. She looked at herself in asmall flyblown mirror provided by the café’s management, studying particularly what sheconsidered to be the focal point of a woman’s appearance, her hair. No one knew this better thanMrs. Oliver, owing to the innumerable times that she had changed her mode of hairdressing, andhad failed to be recognised by her friends in consequence. Giving her head an appraising eye shestarted work. Out came the pins, she took off several coils of hair, wrapped them up in herhandkerchief and stuffed them into her handbag, parted her hair in the middle, combed it sternlyback from her face and rolled it up into a modest bun at the back of her neck. She also took out apair of spectacles and put them on her nose. There was a really earnest look about her now!
“Almost intellectual,” Mrs. Oliver thought approvingly. She altered the shape of her mouth by anapplication of lipstick, and emerged once more into the café; moving carefully since the spectacleswere only for reading and in consequence the landscape was blurred. She crossed the café, andmade her way to an empty table next to that occupied by Norma and David. She sat down so thatshe was facing David. Norma, on the near side, sat with her back to her. Norma, therefore, wouldnot see her unless she turned her head right round. The waitress drifted up. Mrs. Oliver ordered acup of coffee and a Bath bun and settled down to be inconspicuous.
Norma and David did not even notice her. They were deeply in the middle of a passionatediscussion. It took Mrs. Oliver just a minute or two to tune into them.
“…But you only fancy these things,” David was saying. “You imagine them. They’re all utter,utter nonsense, my dear girl.”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.” Norma’s voice had a queer lack of resonance in it.
Mrs. Oliver could not hear her as well as she heard David, since Norma’s back was turned toher, but the dullness of the girl’s tone struck her disagreeably. There was something wrong here,she thought. Very wrong. She remembered the story as Poirot had first told it to her. “She thinksshe may have committed a murder.” What was the matter with the girl? Hallucinations? Was hermind really slightly affected, or was it no more and no less than truth, and in consequence the girlhad suffered a bad shock?
“If you ask me, it’s all fuss on Mary’s part! She’s a thoroughly stupid woman anyway, and sheimagines she has illnesses and all that sort of thing.”
“She was ill.”
“All right then, she was ill. Any sensible woman would get the doctor to give her someantibiotic or other, and not get het up.”
“She thought I did it to her. My father thinks so too.”
“I tell you, Norma, you imagine all these things.”
“You just say that to me, David. You say it to me to cheer me up. Supposing I did give her thestuff?”
“What do you mean, suppose? You must know whether you did or you didn’t. You can’t be soidiotic, Norma.”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that. You keep coming back to that, and saying it again and again. ‘I don’tknow.’ ‘I don’t know.’”
“You don’t understand. You don’t understand in the least what hate is. I hated her from the firstmoment I saw her.”
“I know. You told me that.”
“That’s the queer part of it. I told you that, and yet I don’t even remember telling you that.
D’you see? Every now and then I—I tell people things. I tell people things that I want to do, orthat I have done, or that I’m going to do. But I don’t even remember telling them the things. It’s asthough I was thinking all these things in my mind, and sometimes they come out in the open and Isay them to people. I did say them to you, didn’t I?”
“Well—I mean—look here, don’t let’s harp back to that.”
“But I did say it to you? Didn’t I?”
“All right, all right! One says things like that. ‘I hate her and I’d like to kill her. I think I’llpoison her!’ But that’s only kid stuff, if you know what I mean, as though you weren’t quitegrown-up. It’s a very natural thing. Children say it a lot. ‘I hate so and so. I’ll cut off his head!’
Kids say it at school. About some master they particularly dislike.”
“You think it was just that? But—that sounds as though I wasn’t grown-up.”
“Well, you’re not in some ways. If you’d just pull yourself together, realise how silly it all is.
What can it matter if you do hate her? You’ve got away from home and don’t have to live withher.”
“Why shouldn’t I live in my own home—with my own father?” said Norma. “It’s not fair. It’snot fair. First he went away and left my mother, and now, just when he’s coming back to me, hegoes and marries Mary. Of course I hate her and she hates me too. I used to think about killing her,used to think of ways of doing it. I used to enjoy thinking like that. But then—when she really gotill….”
David said uneasily:
“You don’t think you’re a witch or anything, do you? You don’t make figures in wax and stickpins into them or do that sort of thing?”
“Oh no. That would be silly. What I did was real. Quite real.”
“Look here, Norma, what do you mean when you say it was real?”
“The bottle was there, in my drawer. Yes, I opened the drawer and found it.”
“What bottle?”
“The Dragon Exterminator. Selective weed killer. That’s what it was labelled. Stuff in a darkgreen bottle and you were supposed to spray it on things. And it had labels with Caution andPoison, too.”
“Did you buy it? Or did you just find it?”
“I don’t know where I got it, but it was there, in my drawer, and it was half empty.”
“And then you—you—remembered—”
“Yes,” said Norma. “Yes…” Her voice was vague, almost dreamy. “Yes…I think it was then itall came back to me. You think so too, don’t you, David?”
“I don’t know what to make of you, Norma. I really don’t. I think in a way, you’re making it allup, you’re telling it to yourself.”
“But she went to hospital, for observation. They said they were puzzled. Then they said theycouldn’t find anything wrong so she came home—and then she got ill again, and I began to befrightened. My father began looking at me in a queer sort of way, and then the doctor came andthey talked together, shut up in Father’s study. I went round outside, and crept up to the windowand I tried to listen. I wanted to hear what they were saying. They were planning together—tosend me away to a place where I’d be shut up! A place where I’d have a ‘course of treatment’—orsomething. They thought, you see, that I was crazy, and I was frightened…Because—because Iwasn’t sure what I’d done or what I hadn’t done.”
“Is that when you ran away?”
“No—that was later—”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You’ll have to let them know sooner or later where you are—”
“I won’t! I hate them. I hate my father as much as I hate Mary. I wish they were dead. I wishthey were both dead. Then—then I think I’d be happy again.”
“Don’t get all het up! Look here, Norma—” He paused in an embarrassed manner—“I’m notvery set on marriage and all that rubbish…I mean I didn’t think I’d ever do anything of thatkind…oh well, not for years. One doesn’t want to tie oneself up—but I think it’s the best thing wecould do, you know. Get married. At a registry office or something. You’ll have to say you’re overtwenty-one. Roll up your hair, put on some spectacles or something. Make you look a bit older.
Once we’re married, your father can’t do a thing! He can’t send you away to what you call a‘place.’ He’ll be powerless.”
“I hate him.”
“You seem to hate everybody.”
“Only my father and Mary.”
“Well, after all, it’s quite natural for a man to marry again.”
“Look what he did to my mother.”
“All that must have been a long time ago.”
“Yes. I was only a child, but I remember. He went away and left us. He sent me presents atChristmas—but he never came himself. I wouldn’t even have known him if I’d met him in thestreet by the time he did come back. He didn’t mean anything to me by then. I think he got mymother shut up, too. She used to go away when she was ill. I don’t know where. I don’t knowwhat was the matter with her. Sometimes I wonder…I wonder, David. I think, you know, there’ssomething wrong in my head, and someday it will make me do something really bad. Like theknife.”
“What knife?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just a knife.”
“Well, can’t you tell me what you’re talking about?”
“I think it had bloodstains on it—it was hidden there…under my stockings.”
“Do you remember hiding a knife there?”
“I think so. But I can’t remember what I’d done with it before that. I can’t remember where I’dbeen…There is a whole hour gone out of that evening. A whole hour I didn’t know where I’dbeen. I’d been somewhere and done something.”
“Hush!” He hissed it quickly as the waitress approached their table. “You’ll be all right. I’lllook after you. Let’s have something more,” he said to the waitress in a loud voice, picking up themenu—“Two baked beans on toast.”
第七章
第七章
奥利弗夫人不悦地醒了过来。她知道摆在她面前的又是百无聊赖的一天。怀着高度负责的态度，她包好了自己的最终文稿，工作完成了。她现在只能与往常一样去休息，去放松身心；变得懒懒散散，直到创作欲望再次迸发。她在房间内漫无目的地踱着步，摸摸这儿碰碰那儿，把它们拿起来又放下，看看自己的抽屉，看到里面有大量等待处理的信件，但是一想到自己刚完成了一部良心之作，她就没有心思再去处理那些恼人的事情。她想要做些有意思的事情。她想要……她究竟想要做什么？
她想起上次跟赫尔克里•波洛的谈话，他给她的警告。荒谬无稽！为什么她不能参与到跟波洛说的那个问题之中？波洛或许更想坐在椅子里，合上双手，让他的大脑飞速运转，同时身子舒适地在房间内休息着。对于阿里阿德涅•奥利弗来说，她可没有这样的雅兴。她会非常坚定地说，最起码自己要去做些什么。她要在这个神秘的女郎身上挖掘出更多的东西。诺玛•雷斯塔里克在哪里？她在做什么？她——阿里阿德涅•奥利弗，还能在她身上探查到什么东西？
奥利弗夫人在屋里走来走去，愈发感到心烦意乱。能做些什么呢？这很难做决定。去某个地方，去打听点事情？她应该再去一趟长麓村吗？但是波洛已经去过那里了，那些应该被探查的东西他都查到了。她还能找到什么别的借口去罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德爵士家吗？
她想再去一次博罗登大楼。在那里也许还能找到些什么。她得想一个去那里的借口。
她真的不知道还能用什么借口，但是那里是唯一一个或许能获得什么信息的地方了。什么时候了？上午十点。还有很多可能……
在去博罗登大楼的路上，她想到了一个借口。不是一个什么有创意的借口。事实上，奥利弗夫人本希望能编造一个看上去更加巧妙的借口，但是她又转念一想，不如小心谨慎一点，用那种日常会用的且貌似合理的借口。她到了那个大气宏伟，而电梯间却阴气森森的博罗登大楼。她在内院里，一边慢慢走着，一边思索着。
一位杂役和搬运工正在交谈，一位送奶工推着装牛奶的车子，在靠近货运梯的地方跟奥利弗夫人攀谈起来。
他吹着欢快的口哨，车子里的瓶子哐当作响，奥利弗夫人还在出神地望着那辆搬家的货车。
“76号搬出去了。”送牛奶的工人对奥利弗夫人解释道，他误解了奥利弗夫人的关注点。他一边说着一边把一组牛奶从车里搬出来放进电梯。
“说起来，她已经搬出去了。”他补充道。他看起来是位爽朗的送奶工。
他用拇指向上指了指。
“从一扇窗户中跳了下来，七楼，就在一星期前，发生在凌晨五点。真是选了个有意思的时间。”
奥利弗夫人并不觉得好笑。
“为什么？”
“为什么她要这么做？没人知道。有人传言，是因为心智失衡。”
“那么她年轻吗？”
“别扯了！就是个老家伙。最少有五十岁了。”
两个工人费力地搬运着五斗橱。搬运过程中，两只桃花心木的抽屉掉落在地上，有一张纸朝奥利弗夫人飘了过来，她抓住了。
“别摔坏了东西，查理。”那个爽快的送奶工责备了一声，接着又往电梯里搬了一些牛奶瓶子。
两位搬运工争吵了起来。奥利弗夫人把那张纸递给他们，但是他们却挥手表示这东西没什么用。
下定决心之后，奥利弗夫人走进了大楼，乘电梯来到67号。门铃响了一声，很快门就被从里面打开了，一位中年女人拿着一把扫帚，明显是来清洁屋子的。
“啊。”奥利弗夫人用她最爱的单音节词语说道，“早安！嗯，我想知道有人在吗？”
“不，我恐怕她们不在，夫人。她们都出去了，去工作了。”
“是的，当然了……我上次来的时候把一个小日记本遗落在这里了。真是恼人。它肯定是落在客厅或是什么地方了。”
“哦，夫人，就我而言，我没捡到过什么类似的东西。当然了，我也不知道那是您的。
您要进来看看吗？”她礼貌地打开门，放下了她刚才清洁厨房地板用的扫帚，请奥利弗夫人来到客厅。
“是的。”奥利弗夫人说道。她决心要与这位女人套近乎。“是的，我看到了，这本就是我留给雷斯塔里克小姐的书，我是说诺玛小姐。她从乡下回来了吗？”
“我想她最近都不在这里。她的床都没有人睡过。或许她还在乡下跟她的家人待在一起。我知道她上个周末回乡下家里了。”
“是的，我猜也是。”奥利弗夫人说道，“这是我带给她的那本书。一本我写的书。”
奥利弗夫人写的书似乎并没有引起这位做清洁的女人的兴趣。
“我就坐在这里。”奥利弗夫人拍了拍一张扶手椅继续说道，“最起码我记得是这样的。
接着我就移到了窗边，然后又移到了沙发那里。”
她在椅子的靠垫后面拼命摸索着。那个做清洁的妇人也在沙发的坐垫下面搜索着。
“您不知道丢了这类东西多让人抓狂。”奥利弗夫人滔滔不绝地说，“我把重要的事都记录在那上面了。我十分确定今天要跟一位要人共进午餐，但是我记不起那个人是谁，午餐的地点在哪里。当然，也没准儿是明天。如果是这样的话，跟我共进午餐的人就是完全不同的其他的什么人，啊，天呐。”
“夫人，对您来说真是很难办啊，我明白的。”那位做清洁的女人满是同情地说道。
“这些公寓真是不错。”奥利弗夫人环视四周说道。
“楼层太高。”
“是的，但是视野很好，不是吗？”
“是的，但是如果是面朝东的话，冬天的冷风会灌进来。从铁制窗框里吹进来。有人装了双层窗户。啊，是的，我才不会在冬天住进这种朝东的房间，我宁愿住在底层。如果您有孩子的话，会方便很多的。您知道的，对于婴儿车和其他一些东西。啊，是的，我宁愿选择底层。想想要是失火了的话就更可怕。”
“是的，当然了，那将会很可怕。”奥利弗夫人说，“我想这里一定有逃生通道吧？”
“您不能总是有机会跑到防火门吧。我很怕失火，一贯如此。并且这里租金昂贵。您根本就不会相信他们索要的租金有多高！这就是为什么何兰小姐要找另外两位姑娘一起合租。”
“啊，是的，我想我见到了那两位小姐。凯莉小姐是一位艺术家，是吗？”
“她的确是在一家艺术画廊工作，但是工作不是很勤奋。她也作一些画，都是些奶牛啊，树木啊，那些你永远认不出的不明所以的东西。一位不怎么整洁的年轻姑娘。她房间里的样子——您简直不会相信的！但是何兰小姐，她所有的东西都是那样整洁一新。她曾在煤矿局工作，但是如今在城里做私人秘书。她说她更喜欢现在这份工作。她给刚从南美或是什么地方来的一个富有的先生做秘书。他是诺玛小姐的父亲，正是他请求何兰小姐和自己的女儿合住的，那时候正巧有一位小姐因为要结婚所以需要搬出去，她说过要找另一位小姐来合租。她当然没办法拒绝了，不是吗？更何况那人是她的老板。”
“她想要拒绝吗？”
那个女人哼了一声。
“我觉得她会拒绝，如果她知道的话。”
“知道什么？”这话问得有些过于直接。
“我明白我不该说三道四。这不关我的事。”
奥利弗夫人还是向她投去问询的目光。那位做清洁的女人败下阵来。
“也不是说她不是个好姑娘。她有点疯疯傻傻的，但是其他人也都有点疯疯傻傻的。我想她该去看看医生。有些时候，她似乎不太清楚自己是在做什么或是身处何地。这有时候会吓你一跳，跟我丈夫的侄子发病的时候很像。（当他发病的时候真是可怕极了，您根本就无法想象！）我从未见过她发病。可能她在服药，她总是吃很多药。”
“我听说她有个年轻的男朋友，她家里对他不是很满意。”
“是的，我也听说过。他来这里找过她一两次，虽然我从未见过他，但是大家都说他是那种摩登派的青年。何兰小姐不喜欢这种做派，但是现今又能怎样呢？姑娘们都是各行其是。”
“如今的姑娘们有时候真是让人失望。”奥利弗夫人说，装出一副严肃而有责任心的样子。
“家教不好，我是这么看的。”
“恐怕不是这样。一个像诺玛•雷斯塔里克那样的姑娘还是待在家里更好，而不是孤身一人来到伦敦工作，做什么室内装修的工作。”
“她不喜欢待在家。”
“真的吗？”
“她有个继母。姑娘们都不喜欢继母。我听说她的继母对她很上心，想要鼓励她振作起来，试图阻止那些花里胡哨的年轻人上门。她明白姑娘们要是挑选错了意中人会带来很多伤害。有时候，”那个做清洁的女人无比认真地说，“真是感谢老天，我没有女儿。”
“您有儿子吗？”
“我家里有两个男孩。一个在学校里，读书读得很不错，至于另外一个，他是个印刷工，工作也很勤勉。是的，他们都是好孩子。但是要注意，男孩也会招来麻烦的。但是女孩会更让人担心，我觉得。应该多去管管她们。”
“是的。”奥利弗夫人若有所思地说。“确实如此。”
她看出来这个做清洁的女人想要继续打扫卫生了。
“找不到笔记本真是太糟了。”她说，“真是十分感谢您，希望我没耽误您太长时间。”
“我希望您能找到它，您一定能找到。”那个女人亲切地说。
奥利弗夫人走出公寓，想着自己下一步的行动。她想不出今天还应该做什么进一步的行动，但是明天的计划已经了然于胸了。
回家之后，奥利弗夫人很是严肃地拿出一本笔记本，在题目《我所了解的事实》之下，记录下各种各样的事情。总的来说，她所能记录下来的事实并不多，基于她的探问，她尽可能多地写下了自己所了解的信息。何兰小姐受雇于诺玛的父亲这一事实是其中最突出的。她之前并不知道，她认为赫尔克里•波洛应该也不知道。她想打电话告诉他，但是最后还是决定把它放在心中，因为她明日还另有计划。事实上，奥利弗夫人此时此刻觉得自己与其说是个侦探小说作家，不如说是一条兴致勃勃的猎犬。她追踪着足迹，鼻子低嗅。
明天早晨，嗯，明天早晨可有的忙。
依照计划，奥利弗夫人很早就起床了，饮了两杯茶，吃了一枚水煮蛋，之后就出发开始去探查。她再一次来到博罗登大楼。她不确定自己在那里是否会被认出来，所以就没有进院，而是在入口处小心谨慎地徘徊着，看着在早晨拥出的急着去上班的各色人群。他们大多是姑娘，样子看上去十分相似。用这种方式去打量人群真是很特别，人们从这个庞大的建筑中怀着各自的目的拥了出来——就像是蚂蚁窝，奥利弗夫人想。她认为人们总是对蚂蚁窝没有恰当的认识。当用鞋尖惊扰它的时候，蚂蚁就会从中漫无目的拥出来。这些小家伙形色匆匆地在口里衔着一点草，又担忧又焦虑，莽莽撞撞地不知要往哪里去，但是就如这里的人一样，谁又知道它们是否有自身的条理性呢？就比如那个男人，他刚从她身旁经过，急匆匆的，嘟嘟囔囔地自言自语。“真不知道是什么得罪了你。”奥利弗夫人想着。
她走来走去，过了一会儿，就猛然退了出去。
克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰从出口走了出来，脚步轻快，一副职业女性的样子。与往常一样，她看起来很是干练。奥利弗夫人转身藏了起来，以免被她认出来。当克劳迪亚在她面前拉开了一段距离之后，她才立马跟上她。克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰走到了街道尽头，就右转走上了主干道，她走到了排队等待公共汽车的队列中。奥利弗夫人仍旧在跟踪她，忽然她感到了片刻的不安。假如克劳迪亚突然转过身子，看到了她，认出了她怎么办？奥利弗夫人现在所能做的就是小声地擤一下鼻子。但是克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰看上去好像完全陷入沉思。她连跟自己一起排队的人都没有留意。奥利弗夫人在她身后再数三个的位置上站着。最终那辆公共汽车来了，大家就向前挤着。克劳迪亚上了车，接着就走上了车的最高层。奥利弗夫人也上了车，她只能在靠近车门的地方找了个座位。当售票员走过来的时候，奥利弗夫人急忙往他手里塞了六便士。不管怎么说，她都不知道这辆车的路线是什么，也不知道那个做清洁的女人口中的“那幢靠近圣保罗的新大楼”具体有多远。她留心观察，注意着什么时候能看到那庄严肃穆的圆屋顶。她随时紧盯着从公共汽车上层下来的乘客。啊，是的，克劳迪亚下来了，穿着整洁时尚的干练衣服。她下了车。奥利弗夫人尾随着她，跟她保持着一段经过细心计算的安全距离。
“真是有趣极了。”奥利弗夫人想，“我真的是在跟踪某人！就像我书里写的一样。并且，我做得很不错呢，因为她还蒙在鼓里。”
克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰确实深深陷入自己的思考中。“真是个很能干的姑娘呢。”奥利弗夫人想，这跟她之前的想法一致。“如果要我猜出杀人凶手，一定是位很有能力的人，我会选择一个像她一样的人。”
然而，没有人被谋杀，也就是说，除非那个叫诺玛的姑娘假定的自己犯了谋杀罪是真的。
伦敦这一块区域近些年兴建了大量建筑，真不知道是利是弊。宏伟的摩天大楼，在奥利弗夫人看来有些面目可憎，就像是方形火柴盒一样冲入天际。
克劳迪亚转身进了一幢大楼。“现在我可要查明些什么了。”奥利弗夫人一边想，一边跟着她走了进去。四个电梯都在上上下下地运行着。奥利弗夫人想着这可就难办了。但是，电梯容量很大，奥利弗夫人在最后一刻挤了进去，躲在一大堆男人和自己的追踪目标之间。克劳迪亚要去的地方是四楼。她沿着一条走廊走着，奥利弗夫人躲在两位高大的男士身后，看到了她进了哪扇门。在走廊尽头往前数第三个门。奥利弗夫人来到了这扇门前，看到了门上的门牌。上面写着“约书亚•雷斯塔里克股份有限公司”。
事情进展到现在，奥利弗夫人不知道该怎么办了，她不知道下一步到底该做些什么。
她找到了诺玛父亲公司的所在地和克劳迪亚工作的地点，但是现在，她有点轻微的沮丧之感，她感到这个发现也算不上什么。坦白来说，真的有用吗？或者什么用都没有。
她在这里待了几分钟，从走廊这头走到走廊那头去看看是否有什么可疑的人走进雷斯塔里克公司。有那么两三个姑娘走了进去，但是没什么特别之处。奥利弗夫人再次乘电梯下楼，烦闷地走出了这幢大楼。她不知道下一步该怎么做。她在邻近的街道闲逛了一下，考虑着要不要去圣保罗大教堂看一看。
“或许我能去回音廊絮叨一会儿。”奥利弗夫人想，“不知道若是回音廊被用作谋杀现场会怎样？”
“不。”她否定了这个想法，“恐怕这么想有些过于亵渎了。不，我不能这么瞎想。”她若有所思地走向美人鱼剧场。她想在那里的可能性要大得多。
她又朝那些新建筑走去。接着，她感到自己早餐没吃饱，就转身进入了当地一家小餐馆。餐厅里就餐的人不是很多，多半是来吃早午餐的。奥利弗夫人环顾四周，寻找着合适的座位，却惊讶地张大了嘴。在靠墙的地方坐着那个叫诺玛的姑娘，她对面坐着的是那个栗色长发垂肩的年轻人，穿着红色天鹅绒马甲和一件非常花哨的夹克。
“大卫。”奥利弗夫人倒吸了一口气念叨道，“一定是大卫。”他和他女朋友坐在一起激动地攀谈着。
奥利弗夫人想出了一个计谋，她打定主意，很是满意地点点头，穿过小餐馆来到一扇写着“女士”的门前。
奥利弗夫人不是很确定诺玛是否能认出她来，通常那些印象模糊的人反而能被人想起。此刻诺玛除了大卫之外好像并没有留意什么，但是谁知道呢？
“我想我能自己想到些办法。”奥利弗夫人想。她在餐馆经营者放置的一面满是苍蝇屎的小镜子前打量自己，仔细地端详着她认为自己作为一个女性最明显的外表特征，她的头发。奥利弗夫人的头发没人能比得过，她不知换过多少发型，每一次跟她会面的朋友都没能认出她来。她仔细看了一眼她的头发，就开始动手了。她取下发夹，弄下来几绺卷发，把它们用手帕包起来放在手提包里，从中间分开头发，从额头狠劲地往后梳，之后在她的脖子后梳了个发髻。她还拿出一副眼镜戴在鼻梁上。她现在真是一副严肃的样子！“真是足智多谋啊！”奥利弗夫人满意地想着。她用口红将自己的唇形改造了一番，就再次出现在餐厅里；小心地走着，因为这副眼镜是用来看书的，所以戴上去视线会有些模糊。她穿过餐厅，在诺玛和大卫背后的一张空桌子边坐下。她坐了下来，这样就能面对着大卫了。诺玛，虽然跟她挨得很近，但是她是背对着她的。除非她转过头，否则是不会看到她的。女侍应生脚步拖沓地走了过来。奥利弗夫人点了一杯咖啡，还有一个 斯甜面包，装作不经意的样子坐在那里。
诺玛和大卫一点都没注意到她。他们正在激烈地讨论。奥利弗夫人用了一两分钟就弄明白了他们所谈论的东西。
“……但这只是你所幻想出来的啊，”大卫说，“你幻想出了这些。它们毫无道理，一点都没意义，我亲爱的姑娘。”
“我不知道。我分辨不出。”诺玛的声音中有些奇怪地缺少某种回应。
奥利弗夫人不像大卫听得那样清楚，因为诺玛背对着她，但是那女孩声音中的迟钝之感却让她不是很舒服。这里面有些问题，她想。很有问题。她记得波洛第一次告诉她的话。“她认为她自己可能犯了谋杀罪。”这姑娘到底怎么了？是幻觉吗？她的精神状态是否真的受到了些许影响，或者或多或少真的有这码事，才导致这姑娘受到了很大的冲击？
“如果你问我，那完全是玛丽的诡计！她是个彻头彻尾的神经病，她总是觉得自己有病或是出了什么类似的事。”
“她生病了。”
“那好吧，她生病了。任何明智的女人都会要求医生给开一些抗生素或是其他类的药物，好让自己恢复。”
“她认为是我对她做了什么。我的父亲也是这么想的。”
“我告诉你，诺玛，这都是你自己的胡思乱想。”
“大卫，我知道你这么说只是为了宽慰我。假如我真的给了她那个东西呢？”
“你的意思是什么？假如？你一定知道自己是否干了那样的事。你不会如此愚蠢的，诺玛。”“我不知道。”
“你总是这么说。总是反复回想，一遍一遍重复着。‘我不知道’‘我不知道’。”
“你不明白。你一点都不明白什么是恨。从我见到她的那一刻起，我就恨她。”
“我懂。你告诉我了。”
“这就是奇怪之处。我告诉过你，我却不记得我告诉过你。你明白吗？我时不时会告诉别人一些事。我告诉别人我要做什么，我做过什么，或是我想去做什么。但是我甚至不记得我告诉过他们这些事。就好像我是在心里这么想的，有时候它们就从心里跑了出来，我就把它们告诉了别人。我跟你说过这些，不是吗？”
“嗯，我的意思是，听我讲，你不要反复说这些。”
“但是我跟你说过了，是吗？”
“好的，说了！人们总是喜欢这么说。‘我恨她，我想要杀了她。我想毒死她！’但是这就是孩子气的话，如果你明白我的意思的话，就好像你还没有怎么长大。这真是再自然不过的事了。孩子们总是这么说，‘我真是恨极了。我要砍掉他的头！’孩子们在学校里这么说。关于那些他们特别讨厌的老师。”
“你以为就只是这样吗？但是这听起来好像是在说我还没有长大。”
“是的，从某些方面来讲是这样。只要你能鼓起勇气，意识到这一切都是如此可笑。就算是你恨她，又能怎样呢？你从家里离开了，你不需要跟她住在一起。”
“为什么我不能住在自己家里？跟我自己的父亲？”诺玛说，“这不公平，这不公平。最初是他抛弃我的母亲，而现在，他刚刚要回来跟我团聚，他就跟玛丽结婚了。我当然会恨她，她也恨我。我曾想过要杀了她，想过各种方式。当我这么想的时候，我总是会有很享受的感觉。但是接着，她真的生病了……”
大卫有些不安地说：
“你不是把自己当成巫女或是什么了吧？你是否做了拿针刺蜡制小人这类的事？”
“啊，没有。那太傻了。我做的是真事，非常真实的。”
“听我说，诺玛，你所说的真事是指什么？”
“瓶子就在那儿，在我的抽屉里。是的，我打开了抽屉，发现了它。”
“什么瓶子？”
“猛龙牌除草剂，专业除草。瓶子的标签上这么写着。药液装在深绿色的瓶子里，你可以拿它喷洒在物品上。标签上还写着小心，有毒。”
“是你买的吗？或者你只是发现了它？”
“我不知道我从哪里弄来的，但是它就在那儿，在我的抽屉里，还剩下半瓶。”
“那么你，你，只想起来——”
“是的。”诺玛说。“是的……”她的声音很模糊，有点像是在梦呓。“是的……我想那一刻我失忆了。你也是这么想的，大卫，不是吗？”
“我不知道你是怎么回事，诺玛，我真的不知道。我是这么想的，你编造了这一切，你是这么告诉自己的。”
“但是她去了医院，做了检查。医生们说他们也弄不清楚。接着他们说没发现什么不对劲，所以就让她回家了，接着她就再次生病，我有点开始怕了。我的父亲开始用一种奇怪的眼神看我，接着医生来到我家，跟我父亲关上书房门说悄悄话。我跑到屋外，攀上窗口想要听听他们在说什么。他们在一起计划着要把我送往某个地方关起来！一个我在那里能接受‘一系列治疗’的地方或是其他什么的。你懂的，他们以为我疯了，我感到害怕极了……因为我不确定我是否真的做了那样的事。”
“你是因为这个才逃走的吗？”
“不是的，那是之后的事了。”
“告诉我。”
“我不想再说这个了。”
“你迟早要让他们知道你在哪儿啊！”
“我不会的！我恨他们。我恨我的父亲和恨玛丽一样。我希望他们都死了。我希望他们双双暴毙。接着，接着我想我会再次快活起来。”
“不要这么激动！听我说，诺玛——”他突然有些尴尬地说，“我不太喜欢结婚那一套……我的意思是我不认为我会做那一类的事……反正这几年是不会的。人们总是不愿意束缚自己，但是我想这是我们能做的最好的事，你懂的，我是指结婚。去公证处或是什么地方。你就说你自己已经过了二十一岁。把你的头发卷起来，盛装出席什么的，让你自己看上去老成一点。一旦我们结了婚，你父亲就不能那么做！他就不能把你弄到你说的那个‘地方’去。他对此无能为力。”
“我恨他。”
“你似乎讨厌每一个人。”
“只有我父亲和玛丽。”
“嗯，不管怎么说，一个男人再婚也是再正常不过的事了。”
“看看他都对我母亲做了些什么。”
“那都是很久之前的事了。”
“是的。那时我只是个孩子，但是我都记得。他跑了，遗弃了我们。只是圣诞节给我送个礼物，但是他自己不会亲自回来。要不是他之后回来了，我就是在大街上遇到他，也认不出他。他那时对我而言什么都不是。我想他也想把我母亲关起来。后来她一发病，就被人送走了。我不知道是送往哪里，我不知道她到底是怎么了。有时候我想……我想，大卫，我以为你明白的，我的脑子有些问题，有朝一日我或许会做出什么可怕的事情。就像那把刀。”
“什么刀？”
“没什么，就是把刀。”
“噢，你能告诉我你说的是什么吗？”
“我想那上面有血迹，它藏在……我的长筒袜下面。”“你能记起自己曾在那儿藏过一把刀吗？”
“好像有印象。但是我不知道自己之前是否用过它。我不记得那天我在哪里……那晚有整整一个小时我都不知道自己在何处，去了什么地方，做过什么事。”
“嘘！”当女侍应生走过他们桌旁的时候，他喝止住了她。“你会好起来的。我会照料你。让我们再吃点什么吧。”他拿起菜单，高声对女侍应生说：“两片吐司加焗豆。”
Eight I
Eight I
Hercule Poirot was dictating to his secretary, Miss Lemon.
“And while I much appreciate the honour you have done me, I must regretfully inform youthat…”
The telephone rang. Miss Lemon stretched out a hand for it. “Yes? Who did you say?” She puther hand over the receiver and said to Poirot, “Mrs. Oliver.”
“Ah…Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot. He did not particularly want to be interrupted at this moment,but he took the receiver from Miss Lemon. “’Allo,” he said, “Hercule Poirot speaks.”
“Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so glad I got you! I’ve found her for you!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve found her for you. Your girl! You know, the one who’s committed a murder or thinks shehas. She’s talking about it too, a great deal. I think she is off her head. But never mind that now.
Do you want to come and get her?”
“Where are you, chère Madame?”
“Somewhere between St. Paul’s and the Mermaid Theatre and all that. Calthorpe Street,” saidMrs. Oliver, suddenly looking out of the telephone box in which she was standing. “Do you thinkyou can get here quickly? They’re in a restaurant.”
“They?”
“Oh, she and what I suppose is the unsuitable boyfriend. He is rather nice really, and he seemsvery fond of her. I can’t think why. People are odd. Well, I don’t want to talk because I want to getback again. I followed them, you see. I came into the restaurant and saw them there.”
“Aha? You have been very clever, Madame.”
“No, I haven’t really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small café place and therethe girl was, just sitting there.”
“Ah. You had the good fortune then. That is just as important.”
“And I’ve been sitting at the next table to them, only she’s got her back to me. And anyway Idon’t suppose she’d recognise me. I’ve done things to my hair. Anway, they’ve been talking asthough they were alone in the world, and when they ordered another course—baked beans—(Ican’t bear baked beans, it always seems to me so funny that people should)—”
“Never mind the baked beans. Go on. You left them and came out to telephone. Is that right?”
“Yes. Because the baked beans gave me time. And I shall go back now. Or I might hang aboutoutside. Anway, try and get here quickly.”
“What is the name of this café?”
“The Merry Shamrock—but it doesn’t look very merry. In fact, it looks rather sordid, but thecoffee is quite good.”
“Say no more. Go back. In due course, I will arrive.”
“Splendid,” said Mrs. Oliver, and rang off.
第八章 1
第八章 1
赫尔克里•波洛正在向他的秘书莱蒙小姐口述着什么。
“感谢您对我的厚爱，但是我必须遗憾地告知您……”
电话铃响了。莱蒙小姐伸出手接电话。“是的。您说什么？”她用手遮住电话听筒，和波洛说，“是奥利弗夫人。”
“啊……奥利弗夫人。”波洛念叨着。此时此刻，他不愿被他人叨扰，但是他还是从莱蒙小姐手里接过听筒。“您好！”他说，“赫尔克里•波洛在此。”
“啊，波洛先生，真高兴能联系到你！我为你找到她了！”
“请您再说一遍。”
“我替你找到了她。你的那位姑娘！你明白的，那个犯了谋杀罪或是以为自己犯了谋杀罪的姑娘。她也在想这件事呢，想了很多。我认为她的神志已经不是那么清楚了。但是现在不说这个。你想不想来见见她？”
“您在哪儿？亲爱的夫人。”
“就在圣保罗大教堂和美人鱼剧院之间的什么地方，卡尔索普大街。”奥利弗夫人说，她猛地从她所在的电话亭向外望了望。“你能尽快来这里吗？他们在一家餐馆里。”
“他们？”
“是的，我想应该是她和那位和她不相称的男朋友。他人相当不错，看上去也很喜欢她。我不知道是为什么，人们有时候很是奇怪。我不能再多说了，因为我要快点回去。我在跟踪他们，你明白的。我进了餐馆，就看到他们在那里。”
“啊哈？夫人，您真是聪明极了。”
“不，不是这样的。这纯粹是个意外。我的意思是我走进了一家小餐馆，那个姑娘就在那儿，就坐在那儿。”
“啊。那您真是好运气。这点也很重要。”
“我就坐在他们背后的桌子旁，她背朝着我。反正我认为她没认出我来。我改造了一下我的头发。总而言之，他们之间谈话的时候就好像全世界只有他们俩一样，当他们点了另一道菜——焗豆（我不能忍受焗豆，我总是不能明白为什么人们会……）。”
“不要再想那些焗豆了。继续说。你离开他们，然后出来给我打电话。是吗？”
“是的。因为焗豆做起来要花些时间。我现在就回去。或者我就待在餐馆外面，你尽快赶过来吧。”
“那家餐馆的名字是什么？”
“快乐三叶草，但是它看上去一点都不令人愉悦。事实上，它看起来很是脏乱，但是咖啡还不错。”
“别再说了。快回去。我尽快赶到。”
“很好。”奥利弗夫人挂了电话。
Eight II
II
Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She askedno questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her timewhilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do andshe was always right in what she did.
Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended, paid the taxi, and lookedaround him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all likeMrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs. Oliver.
So either the couple in which they were interested had left the café and Mrs. Oliver had gone on ashadowing expedition, or else—To answer “or else” he went to the café door. One could not seethe inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open andentered. His eyes swept round it.
He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting byherself at a table against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. Sheseemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that. There did not seem to be any thoughtthere. She was lost in a kind of oblivion. She was somewhere else.
He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She looked up then, and hewas at least gratified to see that he was recognised.
“So we meet again, Mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “I see you recognise me.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“It is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a veryshort time.”
She continued to look at him without speaking.
“And how did you know me, may I ask? What made you recognise me?”
“Your moustache,” said Norma immediately. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”
He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt todisplay on these occasions.
“Ah yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?”
“Yes—well, yes—I suppose it is.”
“Ah, you are perhaps not a connoisseur of moustaches, but I can tell you, Miss Restarick—MissNorma Restarick, is it not?—that it is a very fine moustache.”
He had dwelt deliberately upon her name. She had at first looked so oblivious to everythingaround her, so far away, that he wondered if she would notice. She did. It startled her.
“How did you know my name?” she said.
“True, you did not give your name to my servant when you came to see me that morning.”
“How did you know it? How did you get to know it? Who told you?”
He saw the alarm, the fear.
“A friend told me,” he said. “One’s friends can be very useful.”
“Who was it?”
“Mademoiselle, you like keeping your little secrets from me. I, too, have a preference forkeeping my little secrets from you.”
“I don’t see how you could know who I was.”
“I am Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, with his usual magnificence. Then he left the initiative toher, merely sitting there smiling gently at her.
“I—” she began, then stopped. “—Would—” Again she stopped.
“We did not get very far that morning, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “Only so far as your tellingme that you had committed a murder.”
“Oh that!”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, that.”
“But—I didn’t mean it of course. I didn’t mean anything like that. I mean, it was just a joke.”
“Vraiment? You came to see me rather early in the morning, at breakfast time. You said it wasurgent. The urgency was because you might have committed a murder. That is your idea of a joke,eh?”
A waitress who had been hovering, looking at Poirot with a fixed attention, suddenly came up tohim and proffered him what appeared to be a paper boat such as is made for children to sail in abath.
“This for you?” she said. “Mr. Porritt? A lady left it.”
“Ah yes,” said Poirot. “And how did you know who I was?”
“The lady said I’d know by your moustache. Said I wouldn’t have seen a moustache like thatbefore. And it’s true enough,” she added, gazing at it.
“Well, thank you very much.”
Poirot took the boat from her, untwisted it and smoothed it out; he read some hastily pencilledwords: “He’s just going. She’s staying behind, so I’m going to leave her for you, and follow him.”
It was signed Ariadne.
“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. “What were we talkingabout? Your sense of humour, I think, Miss Restarick.”
“Do you know just my name or—or do you know everything about me?”
“I know a few things about you. You are Miss Norma Restarick, your address in London is 67Borodene Mansions. Your home address is Crosshedges, Long Basing. You live there with afather, a stepmother, a great- uncle and — ah yes, an au pair girl. You see, I am quite wellinformed.”
“You’ve been having me followed.”
“No, no,” said Poirot. “Not at all. As to that, I give you my word of honour.”
“But you are not police, are you? You didn’t say you were.”
“I am not police, no.”
Her suspicion and defiance broke down.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“I am not urging you to employ me,” said Poirot. “For that you have said already that I am tooold. Possibly you are right. But since I know who you are and something about you, there is noreason we should not discuss together in a friendly fashion the troubles that afflict you. The old,you must remember, though considered incapable of action, have nevertheless a good fund ofexperience on which to draw.”
Norma continued to look at him doubtfully, that wide-eyed stare that had disquieted Poirotbefore. But she was in a sense trapped, and she had at this particular moment, or so Poirot judged,a wish to talk about things. For some reason, Poirot had always been a person it was easy to talkto.
“They think I’m crazy,” she said bluntly. “And—and I rather think I’m crazy, too. Mad.”
“That is most interesting,” said Hercule Poirot, cheerfully. “There are many different names forthese things. Very grand names. Names rolled out happily by psychiatrists, psychologists andothers. But when you say crazy, that describes very well what the general appearance may be toordinary, everyday people. Eh bien, then, you are crazy, or you appear crazy or you think you arecrazy, and possibly you may be crazy. But all the same that is not to say the condition is serious. Itis a thing that people suffer from a good deal, and it is usually easily cured with the propertreatment. It comes about because people have had too much mental strain, too much worry, havestudied too much for examinations, have dwelled too much perhaps on their emotions, have toomuch religion or have a lamentable lack of religion, or have good reasons for hating their fathersor their mothers! Or, of course, it can be as simple as having an unfortunate love affair.”
“I’ve got a stepmother. I hate her and I rather think I hate my father too. That seems rather a lot,doesn’t it?”
“It is more usual to hate one or the other,” said Poirot. “You were, I suppose, very fond of yourown mother. Is she divorced or dead?”
“Dead. She died two or three years ago.”
“And you cared for her very much?”
“Yes. I suppose I did. I mean of course I did. She was an invalid, you know, and she had to goto nursing homes a good deal.”
“And your father?”
“Father had gone abroad a long time before that. He went to South Africa when I was about fiveor six. I think he wanted Mother to divorce him but she wouldn’t. He went to South Africa andwas mixed up with mines or something like that. Anyway, he used to write to me at Christmas,and send me a Christmas present or arrange for one to come to me. That was about all. So hedidn’t really seem very real to me. He came home about a year ago because he had to wind up myuncle’s affairs and all that sort of financial thing. And when he came home he—he brought thisnew wife with him.”
“And you resented the fact?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But your mother was dead by then. It is not unusual, you know, for a man to marry again.
Especially when he and his wife have been estranged for many years. This wife he brought, wasshe the same lady he had wished to marry previously, when he asked your mother for a divorce?”
“Oh, no, this one is quite young. And she’s very good-looking and she acts as though she justowns my father!”
She went on after a pause—in a different, rather childish voice. “I thought perhaps when hecame home this time he would be fond of me and take notice of me and—but she won’t let him.
She’s against me. She’s crowded me out.”
“But that does not matter at all at the age you are. It is a good thing. You do not need anyone tolook after you now. You can stand on your own feet, you can enjoy life, you can choose your ownfriends—”
“You wouldn’t think so, the way they go on at home! Well, I mean to choose my own friends.”
“Most girls nowadays have to endure criticism about their friends,” said Poirot.
“It was all so different,” said Norma. “My father isn’t at all like I remember him when I wasfive years old. He used to play with me, all the time, and be so gay. He’s not gay now. He’sworried and rather fierce and—oh quite different.”
“That must be nearly fifteen years ago, I presume. People change.”
“But ought people to change so much?”
“Has he changed in appearance?”
“Oh no, no, not that. Oh no! If you look at his picture just over his chair, although it’s of himwhen he was much younger, it’s exactly like him now. But it isn’t at all the way I remember him.”
“But you know, my dear,” said Poirot gently, “people are never like what you remember them.
You make them, as the years go by, more and more the way you wish them to be, and as you thinkyou remember them. If you want to remember them as agreeable and gay and handsome, youmake them far more so than they actually were.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?” She paused and then said abruptly, “But why doyou think I want to kill people?” The question came out quite naturally. It was there betweenthem. They had, Poirot felt, got at last to a crucial moment.
“That may be quite an interesting question,” said Poirot, “and there may be quite an interestingreason. The person who can probably tell you the answer to that will be a doctor. The kind ofdoctor who knows.”
She reacted quickly.
“I won’t go to a doctor. I won’t go near a doctor! They wanted to send me to a doctor, and thenI’ll be shut up in one of those loony places and they won’t let me out again. I’m not going to doanything like that.” She was struggling now to rise to her feet.
“It is not I who can send you to one! You need not be alarmed. You could go to a doctorentirely on your own behalf if you liked. You can go and say to him the things you have beensaying to me, and you may ask him why, and he will perhaps tell you the cause.”
“That’s what David says. That’s what David says I should do but I don’t think—I don’t think heunderstands. I’d have to tell a doctor that I—I might have tried to do things….”
“What makes you think you have?”
“Because I don’t always remember what I’ve done—or where I’ve been. I lose an hour of time—two hours—and I can’t remember. I was in a corridor once—a corridor outside a door, her door.
I’d something in my hand—I don’t know how I got it. She came walking along towards me—Butwhen she got near me, her face changed. It wasn’t her at all. She’d changed into somebody else.”
“You are remembering, perhaps, a nightmare. There people do change into somebody else.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare. I picked up the revolver—It was lying there at my feet—”
“In a corridor?”
“No, in the courtyard. She came and took it away from me.”
“Who did?”
“Claudia. She took me upstairs and gave me some bitter stuff to drink.”
“Where was your stepmother then?”
“She was there, too—No, she wasn’t. She was at Crosshedges. Or in hospital. That’s where theyfound out she was being poisoned—and that it was me.”
“It need not have been you—It could have been someone else.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Perhaps—her husband.”
“Father? Why on earth should Father want to poison Mary. He’s devoted to her. He’s sillyabout her!”
“There are others in the house, are there not?”
“Old Uncle Roderick? Nonsense!”
“One does not know,” said Poirot, “he might be mentally afflicted. He might think it was hisduty to poison a woman who might be a beautiful spy. Something like that.”
“That would be very interesting,” said Norma, momentarily diverted, and speaking in aperfectly natural manner. “Uncle Roderick was mixed up a good deal with spies and things in thelast war. Who else is there? Sonia? I suppose she might be a beautiful spy, but she’s not quite myidea of one.”
“No, and there does not seem very much reason why she should wish to poison yourstepmother. I suppose there might be servants, gardeners?”
“No, they just come in for the days. I don’t think—well, they wouldn’t be the kind of people tohave any reason.”
“She might have done it herself.”
“Committed suicide, do you mean? Like the other one?”
“It is a possibility.”
“I can’t imagine Mary committing suicide. She’s far too sensible. And why should she wantto?”
“Yes, you feel that if she did, she would put her head in the gas oven, or she would lie on a bednicely arranged and take an overdose of sleeping draughts. Is that right?”
“Well, it would have been more natural. So you see,” said Norma earnestly, “it must have beenme.”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “that interests me. You would almost, it would seem, prefer that it should beyou. You are attracted to the idea that it was your hand who slipped the fatal dose of this, that orthe other. Yes, you like the idea.”
“How dare you say such a thing! How can you?”
“Because I think it is true,” said Poirot. “Why does the thought that you may have committedmurder excite you, please you?”
“It’s not true.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot.
She scooped up her bag and began feeling in it with shaking fingers.
“I’m not going to stop here and have you say these horrible things to me.” She signalled to thewaitress who came, scribbled on a pad of paper, detached it and laid it down by Norma’s plate.
“Permit me,” said Hercule Poirot.
He removed the slip of paper deftly, and prepared to draw his notecase from his pocket. The girlsnatched it back again.
“No, I won’t let you pay for me.”
“As you please,” said Poirot.
He had seen what he wanted to see. The bill was for two. It would seem therefore that David ofthe fine feathers had no objection to having his bills paid by an infatuated girl.
“So it is you who entertain a friend to elevenses, I see.”
“How did you know that I was with anyone?”
“I tell you, I know a good deal.”
She placed coins on the table and rose. “I’m going now,” she said, “and I forbid you to followme.”
“I doubt if I could,” said Poirot. “You must remember my advanced age. If you were to rundown the street I should certainly not be able to follow you.”
She got up and went towards the door.
“Do you hear? You are not to follow me.”
“You permit me at least to open the door for you.” He did so with something of a flourish. “Aurevoir, Mademoiselle.”
She threw a suspicious glance at him and walked away down the street with a rapid step, turningher head back over her shoulder from time to time. Poirot remained by the door watching her, butmade no attempt to gain the pavement or to catch her up. When she was out of sight, he turnedback into the café.
“And what the devil does all that mean?” said Poirot to himself.
The waitress was advancing upon him, displeasure on her face. Poirot regained his seat at thetable and placated her by ordering a cup of coffee. “There is something here very curious,” hemurmured to himself. “Yes, something very curious indeed.”
A cup of pale beige fluid was placed in front of him. He took a sip of it and made a grimace.
He wondered where Mrs. Oliver was at this moment.
第八章 2
2莱蒙小姐总是很高效，在他跑到街上之前，就叫了辆出租车等着他。她没有问什么问题，也没有表现出任何好奇。她没问波洛离开之后她应该做些什么。她不需要他告诉她。
她总是知道要做什么，而且从不出差错。
波洛很快就抵达了卡尔索普大街。他付了车费之后走下车，四下张望。他看到快乐三叶草的店名了，但是不管奥利弗夫人伪装得多高超，他没在附近看到一个类似她的人。他走到大街尽头又折返，若不是那对颇令他们感兴趣的男女离开了餐馆，奥利弗夫人跟踪过去了，就是出了其他的事。为了一探究竟，他走到了餐馆门口。里面因热气而起的雾气太大，从外面根本看不清里面的情况。于是他推门进去，眼睛四下扫视着。
他立马看到那个曾拜访过他的姑娘坐在一张早餐桌旁。她背靠着墙独自坐着，点燃一根香烟，盯着面前的墙壁。她看上去有些失神。不，波洛想，不止如此。她看起来似乎什么都没有想，好像进入了某种遗忘症的状态，好像身处在其他什么地方。
他悄悄穿过餐厅，坐在了她对面的椅子上。她抬起头，波洛感到些许安慰，好像她还认得他。
“很高兴再次见面，小姐。”他欢欣鼓舞地说，“我想你认得我。”
“是的，是的，我认得。”
“能被一位只短暂地见过一次面的年轻女士认出来真是荣幸至极。”
她还是什么都不说地看着他。
“我能问一句，您怎么知道是我？您是怎么认出我的？”
“您的胡子。”诺玛马上答道，“那不可能是别的什么人的。”
她的这一观察让他很满意，在这样的场合下，他一如往常满怀骄傲和自负地摸了摸自己的胡子。
“啊，是的，真是对极了。是的，没有什么人的胡子像我一样。它们真是不错，嗯？”
“是的，嗯，是的，我想是的。”
“啊，您在对胡子的了解方面不是什么行家里手，但是我告诉您，雷斯塔里克小姐，诺玛•雷斯塔里克小姐，您的名字是这个吗？这胡子真是棒极了。”
他在说她的名字的时候故意强调了一下。因为她最开始看着周围的一切，显露出一种茫然无知的感觉，那么渺远，他怀疑她是否能注意到他。她做到了，还有些吃惊。
“您是怎么知道我的名字的？”她问。
“确实，那天早晨您来拜访我的时候，并没把您的名字告诉我的男仆。”“您是怎么知道的？您究竟是怎么知道的？谁告诉您的？”
他察觉到了她的戒备和恐惧。
“我的一位朋友。”他说，“有时候，朋友们总是很有用处。”
“是谁？”
“小姐，您喜欢对我保密。同样地，我也选择对您保密。”
“我不知道您是如何知道我的名字的。”
“我是赫尔克里•波洛。”波洛用自己一贯的严肃口吻说。接着他闭上了嘴，等她主动说话，他只是坐在那里，温和地微笑着看着她。
“我，”她开口道，又停了下来。“——要——”她再次欲言又止。
“我们那天早晨并没有说到什么。我知道。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“您只是告诉我您可能犯了谋杀罪。”
“啊，您说的那个啊！”
“是的小姐，就是那件事。”
“但是，我的意思当然不是那样了。我根本就没有那个意思。我是说，那只是个玩笑。”
“是吗？您一大清早来找我，还是在我用早餐的时候。您说事情紧急。这种紧急的情况就是您可能犯了谋杀罪。现在您说这就是您的一个玩笑，不可能吧？”
一位女侍应生走来走去，特意看向波洛，她猛地朝他走来，递给他一只小孩子在洗澡的时候会折的小纸船。
“这是给您的吧，”她说，“波洛先生？一位女士留给您的。”
“啊，是的。”波洛说，“您是如何知道我的身份的？”
“那位女士说我只要看到您的胡子就知道您是谁了。她说我之前肯定没有看过这样的胡子。她说得对极了。”她一边盯着胡子看，一边补充着。
“嗯，非常感谢。”
波洛接过这只纸船，把它打开，抚平之后，他看到了上面用铅笔写着的急匆匆的笔迹：“他刚离开。她还在这里待着，所以我把她交给你了，我去跟踪他。”后面还有阿里阿德涅的签名。
“啊，是的。”赫尔克里•波洛把它折了起来，放进口袋。“我们说到哪儿了？我想是您的幽默感，雷斯塔里克小姐。”
“您是只知道我的名字还是，还是您知道我所有的事？”
“我了解您的一些事。您是诺玛•雷斯塔里克小姐，您的住址是伦敦博罗登大楼67号。
您的家庭地址是长麓村的克劳斯海吉斯。您跟您的父亲、继母和一位老舅公，还有，啊，是的，一位陪伴那个老爷子的看护姑娘住在一起。您瞧，我还算是消息灵通。”
“您一定是跟踪我了。”
“不，不。”波洛说，“根本没这回事。对于这件事，我以我的信誉作担保。”
“但是您不是警察吧，是吗？您没说过自己是警察。”
“我不是警察。”
她满腹的怀疑和抗拒消散了。
“我不知道该做什么。”她说。
“我不是要迫使您雇用我。”波洛说，“您早就说过了，我太年迈了。或许您是对的。但是因为我了解您的一些情况，我们何不坐下来平和地谈谈如何解决您的难题呢？那些老年人，或许行动迟缓，但是却可以提供给您许多人生经验教训。”
诺玛还是充满疑惑地看着他，显现出了那种之前出现过的大睁着眼睛、让波洛感到不安的神情。但是她无路可走，她此时面临着特殊的时刻，或者最起码波洛是这么判断的，她想要倾诉。出于某些原因，波洛是那种让人愿意与之交谈的人。
“他们觉得我疯了。”她直白地说，“并且，并且我也认为我疯了。精神错乱。”
“这真是有意思。”赫尔克里•波洛语气轻松地说，“关于这些事，有许多名称。这些名称都很宏大。精神病医师、心理学家或是其他什么人能轻易地将之脱口而出。但是当您说自己疯了，这就是普通人眼中的那种情形。您说自己疯了，或是表现得有些疯狂，或是自以为自己疯了，或是觉得自己有可能疯了，那又能怎样呢？这并不是说这种情况糟糕透了。
这是因为人忍受了过多的折磨才引起的，通常这很容易被治愈。病因多是源于过重的精神压力，过度担心，在考试上过于用功，在情绪上太过较真，太依赖宗教信仰或是没有信仰，或是有足够的原因去恨自己的父亲或是母亲！或是，当然了，还有可能是在爱情上遭遇了不幸。”
“我有个继母。我恨她，我也恨我父亲。这就足够了，不是吗？”
“恨这个人或是那个人再正常不过了。”波洛说，“我想您一定是很爱您的生母。她是跟您父亲离婚了还是去世了？”
“去世了，她死于两年前。”
“您是否很爱她？”
“是的。我想是的。我的意思是我当然很爱她。她是个病秧子，您知道的，她常年待在疗养院里。”
“那么您父亲呢？”
“我父亲在这之前就远赴海外了。在我五六岁的时候，他就去了南非。我想他是想要跟我母亲离婚，但是她不愿意。他去了南非，在那里从事矿业或是类似的职业。不管怎么说，他会在圣诞节给我写信，或是给我寄圣诞礼物或是派人带些什么东西给我。仅此而已。所以他于我而言不是很真实。他一年前回了家，因为他要打理我舅公的事务，还要处理所有财务类的事。当他回到家，他，他带回家一个新的妻子。”
“您忍受不了这件事情？”
“是的，确实。”
“但是您的母亲那时已经去世了。您知道的，对于男人来说，再婚再正常不过了。特别是他和妻子分居了那么久。那位他带来的新的妻子，是那位他想和您母亲离婚、急切想与之再婚的女人吗？”
“不，不是的，那个女人相当年轻，但是他的新妻子也相当漂亮，她做出一副要独占我父亲的姿态！”
她停顿了一下——用一种完全不同的、孩子气的口吻说着：“我还以为他这次回家能喜欢上我，能关心我，但是她不让他那样。她排斥我，她要把我排挤出去。”
“但是像您这样的年纪，这并没有什么啊。您现在不需要任何人照顾，您可以自力更生，您可以享受生活，您可以自己选择朋友——”
“在我家里，这完全做不到！嗯，我是指在选择自己的朋友方面。”
“现今的姑娘们在挑选朋友方面总是难以避免被人指摘。”波洛说。
“现今的一切都大为不同了。”诺玛说，“我父亲跟我五岁时的记忆已经完全不同了。他曾经会跟我一起开心地玩耍。但是他现在不是很愉快，他总是忧心忡忡，脾气暴躁。是的，完全不同了。”
“我想那大概是十五年前的事了。人总是会变的。”
“但是人会有如此巨大的变化吗？”
“他外貌改变了吗？”
“没有，这方面没变。啊，不！如果您看到过他挂在椅子后面的画作的话，虽然那是他年轻一些的时候画的，但是跟他现在的样子几乎完全一样。可是似乎又不是我记忆中的他。”
“但是您要知道，亲爱的。”波洛温和地说，“人永远不会像你所记得的那样。随着时光流逝，你把他们按照自己的想象来塑造，塑造成你想要他们成为的样子，或是塑造成你以为自己记忆中所存留的他们的样子。如果你把他们想成是亲切的、欢愉的、俊美的，那么你就会把他们塑造成远超现实的形象。”
“您是这么想的吗？您真的是这么想的吗？”她停顿了片刻，突然说道，“但是为什么您会以为我想要杀人？”这个问题提得如此自然，它早就横亘在他们之间了。波洛感到，他们最起码是到了紧要关头了。
“这或许是个相当有趣的问题。”波洛说，“并且可能有相当有趣的缘由。能回答这个问题的恐怕应该是医生吧。那种医生，您明白的。”
她反应迅速。
“我不会去看医生的，我不会去接近任何一位医生！他们想带我去看医生，接着我会被关在一个都是疯子的地方。他们不会再放我出去。我不要去任何像那样的地方。”她挣扎着站起身来。
“我不会把你送到这样的地方去的！您不需要这样惊恐。您可以完全按照自己的心意去看医生，如果您愿意的话。您可以把您跟我说过的事情告诉他，或许可以问问为什么会这样，他或许会告诉您缘由。”
“大卫也是这么说的。大卫说我该这么做，但是我不想。我想我不理解他。我一定要告诉医生我，我可能试图去做什么……”
“因为我总是记不得我做过什么，或是我去过哪里。我会迷失一个小时，两个小时，而且我自己还不记得。有一次我在走廊，一个门外的走廊，在我继母的门外。我手里拿着什么东西，我不记得我是怎么拿到的。她朝我走过来，但是当她靠近我，她的脸色突然一变。那根本就不是她，她变成了另外一个人。”
“您所记得的，我想可能是噩梦。人在梦里会变成其他什么人。”
“那不是噩梦。我把左轮手枪拾了起来，它就掉落在我脚边——”
“在走廊上吗？”
“不，在院子里。她走了过来，从我手里拿了过去。”
“谁拿走了那把手枪？”
“克劳迪亚。她把我带上楼，给我喝了一些苦涩的东西。”
“那时，您的继母在哪里？”
“她也在那里，不，她不在。她在克劳斯海吉斯，或是在医院里。在医院里，他们发现她被投毒了，并且说是我做的。”“可能不是您，可能是其他什么人。”
“那会是谁呢？”
“或许是她丈夫。”
“我父亲？他到底是为什么要给玛丽下毒呢？他对她全身心奉献。他痴迷于她！”
“你家里还有别的人，不是吗？”
“老舅公罗德里克？胡说！”
“没人知道。”波洛说，“他或许是精神错乱。他或许认为毒杀一位可能是妖艳女间谍的女人是他的责任。诸如此类。”
“那真有意思。”诺玛说，她放松了片刻，语气也变得自然多了。“罗德里克舅公确实在上次大战之中涉足了大量的间谍一类的事情。家里还有谁呢？索尼娅？我想她可能是个妖艳的间谍，但是她不是我想象中的那种类型。”
“是的，确实好像没什么理由怀疑她要去毒杀您的继母。我想或许是仆人或是园丁？”
“不会的，他们只是时不时来一次。我不认为，嗯，他们不是那种有理由做这类事的人。”
“或许是您的继母自己做的。”
“自杀，您的意思是，就像另一个人做的一样吗？”
“有这种可能。”
“我不能想象玛丽会自杀。她很明智，她为什么要这么做？”
“是的，您以为她要是自杀的话，她应该会把头放在烤箱里，或是在床上躺好，服下大量安眠药。是这样吗？”“是的，这样会更加自然。所以您看，”诺玛严肃地说，“那肯定是我干的了。”
“啊哈！”波洛说，“这吊起了我的兴趣。好像您甘愿这么想，您认为您亲手投下了足以使人毙命的毒药，并且对此深信不疑。是的，您喜欢这个想法。”
“您怎么敢说这样的话！您怎能说这样的话！”
“因为我想就是这样。”波洛说，“为什么您可能犯了谋杀罪这一想法如此令您激动，令您感到愉悦呢？”
“不是这样的。”
“我猜的。”波洛说。
她拿出自己的手包，开始在里面用手指摸索着。
“我不要在这里待着，听您对我说这些恐怖的话。”她给女侍应生打了个手势，女侍应生过来之后在账单上写着什么，之后把账单放在诺玛的盘子旁边。
“请让我来付钱。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“不必了，我不会让您替我付账的。”
“您随意。”波洛说。
他已经看到了自己想要看的东西了。那个账单写着是由两个人支付。看起来那个打扮花哨的大卫并不介意由这个深爱着他的姑娘来替他付账。
“这么说今天请朋友吃早餐的是您啊，我明白了。”
“您怎么知道我跟别人一起来的呢？”
“我告诉过您，我知道很多事。”
她把硬币放在桌子上，站起来，“我要走了。”她说，“您别跟踪我。”
“我想我也追不上您啊。”波洛说，“您一定记得我是如此老迈。如果您在大街上狂奔，我肯定是跟不上您的。”
她站起来，向着门口走去。
“您听到了吗？您不准跟着我。”
“您至少可以允许我为您开门吧。”他姿态优雅地为她打开门，“再会，小姐。”
她充满疑虑地看着他，之后快步走上大街，时不时还回头看着。波洛倚在门口看着她，但是并没有准备加快脚步跟上她。当她走出他的视线之后，波洛就转身回到了咖啡厅。
“这究竟是怎么回事？”波洛自言自语道。
那个女侍应生朝他这边走来，脸上的表情很难看。波洛又坐回到桌子旁边的椅子上，为了让她舒心一些，他点了一杯咖啡。“这里面有很多疑问。”他嘟囔着，“是的，肯定有诸多谜团。”
一杯浅米黄色的液体被端了上来，放在他面前。他拿起来抿了一小口，做出一副被苦到了的表情。
他在猜测奥利弗夫人此刻身在何处。
Nine
Nine
Mrs. Oliver was seated in a bus. She was slightly out of breath though full of the zest of the chase.
What she called in her own mind the Peacock, had led a somewhat brisk pace. Mrs. Oliver was nota rapid walker. Going along the Embankment she followed him at a distance of some twenty yardsor so. At Charing Cross he got into the underground. Mrs. Oliver also got into the underground. AtSloane Square he got out, so did Mrs. Oliver. She waited in a bus queue some three or four peoplebehind him. He got on a bus and so did she. He got out at World’s End, so did Mrs. Oliver. Heplunged into a bewildering maze of streets between King’s Road and the river. He turned intowhat seemed a builder’s yard. Mrs. Oliver stood in the shadow of a doorway and watched. Heturned into an alleyway, Mrs. Oliver gave him a moment or two and then followed—he wasnowhere to be seen. Mrs. Oliver reconnoitred her general surroundings. The whole place appearedsomewhat decrepit. She wandered farther down the alleyway. Other alleyways led off from it—some of them cul-de-sacs. She had completely lost her sense of direction when she once morecame to the builder’s yard and a voice spoke behind her, startling her considerably. It said,politely, “I hope I didn’t walk too fast for you.”
She turned sharply. Suddenly what had recently been almost fun, a chase undertakenlightheartedly and in the best of spirits, now was that no longer. What she felt now was a suddenunexpected throb of fear. Yes, she was afraid. The atmosphere had suddenly become tinged withmenace. Yet the voice was pleasant, polite; but behind it she knew there was anger. The suddenkind of anger that recalled to her in a confused fashion all the things one read in newspapers.
Elderly women attacked by gangs of young men. Young men who were ruthless, cruel, who weredriven by hate and the desire to do harm. This was the young man whom she had been following.
He had known she was there, had given her the slip and had then followed her into this alleyway,and he stood there now barring her way out. As is the precarious fashion of London, one momentyou are amongst people all round you and the next moment there is nobody in sight. There mustbe people in the next street, someone in the houses near, but nearer than that is a masterful figure,a figure with strong cruel hands. She felt that in this moment he was thinking of using thosehands…The Peacock. A proud peacock. In his velvets, his tight, elegant black trousers, speakingin that quiet ironical amused voice that held behind it anger…Mrs. Oliver took three big gasps.
Then, in a lightning moment of decision she put up a quickly imagined defence. Firmly andimmediately she sat down on a dustbin which was against the wall quite close to her.
“Goodness, how you startled me,” she said. “I’d no idea you were there. I hope you’re notannoyed.”
“So you were following me?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I was. I expect it must have been rather annoying to you. You see I thought itwould be such an excellent opportunity. I’m sure you’re frightfully angry but you needn’t be, youknow. Not really. You see—” Mrs. Oliver settled herself more firmly on the dustbin, “you see Iwrite books. I write detective stories and I’ve really been very worried this morning. In fact I wentinto a café to have a cup of coffee just to try and think things out. I’d just got to the point in mybook where I was following somebody. I mean my hero was following someone and I thought tomyself, ‘Really I know very little about following people.’ I mean, I’m always using the phrase ina book and I’ve read a lot of books where people do follow other people, and I wondered if it wasas easy as it seems to be in some people’s books or if it was as almost entirely impossible as itseemed in other people’s books. So I thought ‘Well, really, the only thing was to try it outmyself’—because until you try things out yourself you can’t really tell what it’s like. I mean youdon’t know what you feel like, or whether you get worried at losing a person. As it happened, Ijust looked up and you were sitting at the next table to me in the café and I thought you’d be—Ihope you won’t be annoyed again—but I thought you’d be an especially good person to follow.”
He was still staring at her with those strange, cold blue eyes, yet she felt somehow that thetension had left them.
“Why was I an especially good person to follow?”
“Well, you were so decorative,” explained Mrs. Oliver. “They are really very attractive clothes—almost Regency, you know, and I thought, well, I might take advantage of your being fairlyeasy to distinguish from other people. So you see, when you went out of the café I went out too.
And it’s not really easy at all.” She looked up at him. “Do you mind telling me if you knew I wasthere all the time?”
“Not at once, no.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully. “But of course I’m not as distinctive as you are. I meanyou wouldn’t be able to tell me very easily from a lot of other elderly women. I don’t stand outvery much, do I?”
“Do you write books that are published? Have I ever come across them?”
“Well, I don’t know. You may have. I’ve written forty-three by now. My name’s Oliver.”
“Ariadne Oliver?”
“So you do know my name,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Well, that’s rather gratifying, of course, thoughI daresay you wouldn’t like my books very much. You probably would find them rather old-fashioned—not violent enough.”
“You didn’t know me personally beforehand?”
Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “No, I’m sure I don’t—didn’t, I mean.”
“What about the girl I was with?”
“You mean the one you were having—baked beans, was it—with in the café? No, I don’t thinkso. Of course I only saw the back of her head. She looked to me—well, I mean girls do look ratheralike, don’t they?”
“She knew you,” said the boy suddenly. His tone in a moment had a sudden acid sharpness.
“She mentioned once that she’d met you not long ago. About a week ago, I believe.”
“Where? Was it at a party? I suppose I might have met her. What’s her name? Perhaps I’d knowthat.”
She thought he was in two moods whether to mention the name or not, but he decided to and hewatched her face very keenly as he did so.
“Her name’s Norma Restarick.”
“Norma Restarick. Oh, of course, yes, it was at a party in the country. A place called—wait aminute—Long Norton was it?—I don’t remember the name of the house. I went there with somefriends. I don’t think I would have recognised her anyway, though I believe she did say somethingabout my books. I even promised I’d give her one. It’s very odd, isn’t it, that I should make up mymind and actually choose to follow a person who was sitting with somebody I more or less knew.
Very odd. I don’t think I could put anything like that in my book. It would look rather too much ofa coincidence, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Oliver rose from her seat.
“Good gracious, what have I been sitting on? A dustbin! Really! Not a very nice dustbin either.”
She sniffed. “What is this place I’ve got to?”
David was looking at her. She felt suddenly that she was completely mistaken in everything shehad previously thought. “Absurd of me,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “absurd of me. Thinking that hewas dangerous, that he might do something to me.” He was smiling at her with an extraordinarycharm. He moved his head slightly and his chestnut ringlets moved on his shoulders. Whatfantastic creatures there were in the way of young men nowadays!
“The least I can do,” he said, “is to show you, I think, where you’ve been brought to, just byfollowing me. Come on, up these stairs.” He indicated a ramshackle outside staircase running upto what seemed to be a loft.
“Up those stairs?” Mrs. Oliver was not so certain about this. Perhaps he was trying to lure herup there with his charm, and he would then knock her on the head. “It’s no good, Ariadne,” saidMrs. Oliver to herself, “you’ve got yourself into this spot, and now you’ve got to go on with it andfind out what you can find out.”
“Do you think they’ll stand my weight?” she said, “they look frightfully rickety.”
“They’re quite all right. I’ll go up first,” he said, “and show you the way.”
Mrs. Oliver mounted the ladderlike stairs behind him. It was no good. She was, deep down, stillfrightened. Frightened, not so much of the Peacock, as frightened of where the Peacock might betaking her. Well, she’d know very soon. He pushed open the door at the top and went into a room.
It was a large, bare room and it was an artist’s studio, an improvised kind of one. A few mattresseslay here and there on the floor, there were canvasses stacked against the wall, a couple of easels.
There was a pervading smell of paint. There were two people in the room. A bearded young manwas standing at an easel, painting. He turned his head as they entered.
“Hallo, David,” he said, “bringing us company?”
He was, Mrs. Oliver thought, quite the dirtiest-looking young man she’d ever seen. Oily blackhair hung in a kind of circular bob down the back of his neck and over his eyes in front. His faceapart from the beard was unshaven, and his clothes seemed mainly composed of greasy blackleather and high boots. Mrs. Oliver’s glance went beyond him to a girl who was acting as a model.
She was on a wooden chair on a dais, half flung across it, her head back and her dark hairdrooping down from it. Mrs. Oliver recognised her at once. It was the second one of the three girlsin Borodene Mansions. Mrs. Oliver couldn’t remember her last name, but she remembered herfirst one. It was the highly decorative and languid-looking girl called Frances.
“Meet Peter,” said David, indicating the somewhat revolting looking artist. “One of our buddinggeniuses. And Frances who is posing as a desperate girl demanding abortion.”
“Shut up, you ape,” said Peter.
“I believe I know you, don’t I?” said Mrs. Oliver, cheerfully, without any air of consciouscertainty. “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere! Somewhere quite lately, too.”
“You’re Mrs. Oliver, aren’t you?” said Frances.
“That’s what she said she was,” said David. “True, too, is it?”
“Now, where did I meet you,” continued Mrs. Oliver. “Some party, was it? No. Let me think. Iknow. It was Borodene Mansions.”
Frances was sitting up now in her chair and speaking in weary but elegant tones. Peter uttered aloud and miserable groan.
“Now you’ve ruined the pose! Do you have to have all this wriggling about? Can’t you keepstill?”
“No, I couldn’t any longer. It was an awful pose. I’ve got the most frightful crick in myshoulder.”
“I’ve been making experiments in following people,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s much more difficultthan I thought. Is this an artist’s studio?” she added, looking round her brightly.
“That’s what they’re like nowadays, a kind of loft—and lucky if you don’t fall through thefloor,” said Peter.
“It’s got all you need,” said David. “It’s got a north light and plenty of room and a pad to sleepon, and a fourth share in the loo downstairs—and what they call cooking facilities. And it’s got abottle or two,” he added. Turning to Mrs. Oliver, but in an entirely different tone, one of utterpoliteness, he said, “And can we offer you a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“The lady doesn’t drink,” said David. “Who would have thought it!”
“That’s rather rude but you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Most people come up to me andsay, ‘I always thought you drank like a fish.’”
She opened her handbag—and immediately three coils of grey hair fell on the floor. Davidpicked them up and handed them to her.
“Oh! thank you.” Mrs. Oliver took them. “I hadn’t time this morning. I wonder if I’ve got anymore hairpins.” She delved in her bag and started attaching the coils to her head.
Peter roared with laughter—“Bully for you,” he said.
“How extraordinary,” Mrs. Oliver thought to herself, “that I should ever have had this silly ideathat I was in danger. Danger—from these people? No matter what they look like, they’re reallyvery nice and friendly. It’s quite true what people always say to me. I’ve far too muchimagination.”
Presently she said she must be going, and David, with Regency gallantry, helped her down therickety steps, and gave her definite directions as to how to rejoin the King’s Road in the quickestway.
“And then,” he said, “you can get a bus—or a taxi if you want it.”
“A taxi,” said Mrs. Oliver. “My feet are absolutely dead. The sooner I fall into a taxi the better.
Thank you,” she added, “for being so very nice about my following you in what must have seemeda very peculiar way. Though after all I don’t suppose private detectives, or private eyes orwhatever they call them, would look anything at all like me.”
“Perhaps not,” said David gravely. “Left here—and then right, and then left again until you seethe river and go towards it, and then sharp right and straight on.”
Curiously enough, as she walked across the shabby yard the same feeling of unease andsuspense came over her. “I mustn’t let my imagination go again.” She looked back at the steps andthe window of the studio. The figure of David still stood looking after her. “Three perfectly niceyoung people,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself. “Perfectly nice and very kind. Left here, and then right.
Just because they look rather peculiar, one goes and has silly ideas about their being dangerous.
Was it right again? or left? Left, I think—Oh goodness, my feet. It’s going to rain, too.” The walkseemed endless and the King’s Road incredibly far away. She could hardly hear the traffic now—And where on earth was the river? She began to suspect that she had followed the directionswrongly.
“Oh! well,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I’m bound to get somewhere soon—the river, or Putney orWandsworth or somewhere.” She asked her way to the King’s Road from a passing man who saidhe was a foreigner and didn’t speak English.
Mrs. Oliver turned another corner wearily and there ahead of her was the gleam of the water.
She hurried towards it down a narrow passageway, heard a footstep behind her, half turned, whenshe was struck from behind and the world went up in sparks.
第九章
第九章
奥利弗夫人坐在公共汽车里。虽然她对这次跟踪满怀热情，但是这一趟下来也让她有点喘不过气。她戏称为“孔雀”的那个男人还真是脚步轻快。奥利弗夫人不是个步速很快的人。她沿着筑堤一路走着，与他保持着一段大约二十码的距离。奥利弗夫人跟着他走进了地下通道。他在斯隆广场走了出去，奥利弗夫人也跟着走了出去。他去搭乘公共汽车，她就排在他身后三四个人的位置。他坐上了公共汽车，奥利弗夫人也上了车。他在一处叫作“世界尽头”的地方下车了，奥利弗夫人也跟着下了车。他钻进国王大道和河流之间的令人眼花缭乱的迷宫一般的街道。他转身进入了一处建筑场地。奥利弗夫人就站在门外监视着他。他走进了一条小巷，奥利弗夫人等了片刻就跟了上去，他不见了踪影。奥利弗夫人探查了周边的环境。这个地方呈现出一片衰败的景象。她向小巷深处走着。这条巷子还跟其他的巷子连通着，还有一些是死路。她完全迷路了，当她回到建筑工地的时候，她听到背后有人在说话，奥利弗夫人着实被吓住了。那个声音礼貌地说道：“我希望对于您来说，我的步速不会太快。”
她猛地转身。忽然间，跟踪所产生的那种欢悦的感觉和精神上的放松全部荡然无存，这次随意的跟踪之行，一下子消散无踪了。她现在只感到一阵害怕，她感到了一种出乎意料的惊恐。虽然那声音听上去很和善礼貌，但是她知道在这背后隐含的却是愤怒之情。那种突然爆发的愤怒，让她想到在报纸上读到的那些纷杂的事。一位老妇被一群年轻的帮派成员攻击。那些年轻人粗暴而残忍，被强烈的恨意和破坏欲支配着。她所跟踪的这个年轻人就是其中一员。他早就知道她在这里，故意引她前来，让她跟着他走入小巷，然后他现在突然站在这里，挡住她的去路。这就是变幻莫测的伦敦的真实面目，一刻前还是人山人海，下一刻你就呼救无门了。在下一条街道上一定还有人，在附近的房子里也有人，但是离她最近的却是一个手腕强硬、残酷无比之人。她此刻感到他就要采取行动了……这只孔雀。这只骄傲的孔雀。穿着天鹅绒的衣物，还有优雅的黑色紧身裤，用一种嘲讽中带着幸灾乐祸的声音说着话，这声音背后隐藏着愤怒……奥利弗夫人深吸三口气。接着，她飞速做了个决定，采取了一种想象中的自卫方式。她迅速地稳稳坐在了身边靠墙的一个大垃圾箱上。
“天呐，您真是吓到我了。”她说，“我根本没料到您在这儿。我希望我没有激怒您。”
“这么说您是在跟踪我？”
“是的，恐怕是的。我想这一定会激怒您。您看，我本以为这是一个最佳机会。我肯定您一定是气急了，但是这大可不必。真的没必要，您看——”奥利弗夫人更加稳当地坐在了垃圾箱上，“您看我是个写书的作家。我写侦探小说，今天早晨我真的烦闷极了。事实上，我在餐馆里喝咖啡，想要整理一下自己的思绪。我的这本书里刚巧写到我在跟踪什么人。
我是说我书里的主人公在跟踪一个什么人，我自己在心里这么想，实际上我对跟踪人一点都不了解。我的意思是，我总是在书里运用这个词语，还在很多书里读到过跟踪的情节，我想知道是否就如书里所写的那样，跟踪人是那么容易，或是像另一些人所写的那样，是完全不可能的。所以我就想：‘那么，好吧，我唯一要做的就是自己亲身试一试。’因为只有您亲身试一试，才能知道事实是否如此。就是说您不去自己试试就不会知道那种心情，或是跟丢一个人的感觉。结果正巧，我看到您坐在我前面的桌子旁边，我觉得您会——我再次希望您不要生气，但是我想您会是我最佳的人选。”
他仍旧用他那奇怪的蓝色眼睛盯着她，但是她却感到那种令人发紧的感觉好像消散了。
“为什么我就是那个最佳人选？”
“嗯，您是如此夺人眼球。”奥利弗夫人解释道，“您的穿着是如此引人注目，就好像在摄政统治一样，您明白吧。我想，您很容易跟其他人区分开来，这是个多好的条件啊。所以您看，当您走出餐馆的时候，我也跟出来了。结果这真的一点都不容易。”她抬头看他。“您是否介意告诉我，您一直都知道我在跟踪您吗？”
“我没有立即察觉，没有。”
“我明白了。”奥利弗夫人若有所思，“当然了，我不如您那么耀眼。我的意思是您不能轻易地把我和其他年老的女人区分开来。我并没有什么特殊之处，是吗？”
“您写的书出版过吗？我不知道自己是否看过？”
“嗯，我不知道。您可能看过吧。我迄今已经写了四十三本书了，我姓奥利弗。”
“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗？”
“那么您听说过我的名字了。”奥利弗夫人说，“这真是让人高兴，当然了，虽然我不敢说您很喜欢读我的书。您可能觉得它们太老派，不是那么激烈刺激。”
“您之前了解我吗？”
奥利弗夫人摇摇头。“不，我的意思是我肯定不知道。”
“那个跟我在一起的姑娘呢？”
“您是指那位跟您一起在餐馆吃焗豆的姑娘吗？不，我不知道她是谁。当然了，我就坐在她背后。在我看来，嗯，我的意思是在我看来姑娘们都长得差不多，不是吗？”
“她认得您。”那位年轻人猛然说道。他的声调顿时变得阴郁尖利。“她说过她不久前见到过您。我想大约是一周前。”
“哪里？是那次聚会吗？我想我可能跟她见过面。她叫什么？或许我能想起来。”
她想他处在两种选择之中：说出她的名字或是不说。但是他决定要告诉她，而且在说出口的时候，眼神尖锐地盯着她。
“她的名字是诺玛•雷斯塔里克。”
“诺玛•雷斯塔里克。啊，当然了，是的，在乡下的那次聚会。一个叫作，稍等，是长麓村吗？我不记得那所房子的名字了。我和一些朋友去了那儿。我觉得自己之后也不会认出她来，但是我想她跟我提到了我写的书。我甚至还答应她要送她一本。这真是碰巧，不是么，我竟然决定选了一个跟我或多或少算是认识的人同座的人来跟踪。真是碰巧。我可不能把这个写到我的书里，这样看起来太过巧合，您以为呢？”
奥利弗夫人站了起来。
“天呐，我是坐在了什么东西上？一个垃圾箱！真的是！还是个破烂的垃圾箱。”她哼了一声，“我到这里来究竟是为了什么？”
大卫盯着她。她突然感到她之前所想的一切都是完全错误的。“真是荒谬啊！”奥利弗夫人想，“我真是荒谬可笑。还以为他会很危险，会对我做些什么。”此刻他正非常温和地笑着看着她，他微微晃动脑袋，栗色的卷发在肩膀上飘动。以现今年轻人的做派来说，他真是个无比美好的生物啊。
“我想我至少应该——”他说，“我想，为了让您知道自己身处何处，我应该带您来看看。跟着我，上来。”他指着外面一条摇摇欲坠的楼梯，这条楼梯顶端看起来通往一座小阁楼。
“上这个楼梯吗？”奥利弗夫人对此不是很确定。或许他在试图用自己的魅力引诱她上来，然后拿棍子击打她的头部。“这没用啊，阿里阿德涅。”奥利弗夫人自言自语道，“你是自己陷入这一步的，现在只能硬撑着去找自己能找到的东西了。”
“您觉得它能承受住我的体重吗？”她说，“它看起来都快要塌了。”
“没问题的。我先上去。”他说，“我给您带路。”
奥利弗夫人在他身后爬着梯子一样的楼梯。这感觉真是不怎么样。她还是深深地感到恐惧。恐惧，不全是因为这只花孔雀，还因为她不知道这只孔雀要将她引至何处。不过她很快就会知道了。他打开楼顶房间的门，走进屋子里。这是间面积很大的房间，空荡荡的。这是一间改装过的艺术家工作室。地板上散落着几张床垫，靠墙的地方堆着油画画作，还有一对画架。屋里满是油彩散发出的味道。有两个人在屋里。一个有胡子的年轻男人站在画架旁边正在作画。当他们进门的时候，他转过头来。
“你好，大卫。”他说，“把朋友带来了啊。”
奥利弗夫人想这是她看到过的最肮脏的年轻人了。油腻的黑发盘成圆髻垂在脑后，前面的头发垂在眼前，脸上胡子拉茬。他的衣服好像是由脏兮兮的黑色皮革制成的，他还穿着高筒靴。奥利弗夫人的眼神扫过一位做模特的姑娘。她半趴在一张立在台子上的木椅子上，头部后仰，黑色的长发从椅子上垂了下来。奥利弗夫人立刻认出了她。她就是那个住在博罗登大楼的三个姑娘中的第二个。奥利弗夫人记不住她的名字了，但是她记得她的姓。她就是那个最爱打扮，看起来没什么精气神的叫作弗朗西丝的姑娘。
“这是彼得。”大卫指着那位看上去有些令人恶心的艺术家说，“这位是我们的新星——弗朗西丝，她正在扮演一位要堕胎的绝望女郎。”
“闭嘴，你这傻瓜。”彼得说。
“我觉得我认识您，是吗？”奥利弗夫人愉快地说，明知故问。“我肯定是在什么地方见过您！就是最近，在什么地方。”
“您是奥利弗夫人，是吗？”弗朗西丝说。
“她就是这么介绍自己的。”大卫说，“真的吗，是吗？”
“现在让我想想，我是在哪儿遇到您的呢？”奥利弗夫人继续絮叨着，“什么聚会，是吗？不，让我想想。我知道了。是在博罗登大楼。”
弗朗西丝从椅子上坐起来，用一种疲惫但是优雅的腔调说着。彼得伤心地大声咆哮道：“你现在又破坏了姿势！你就非要扭来扭去吗？你就不能静止不动吗？”
“不，我不能长时间保持那个姿势。那真是个糟糕的姿势。我的肩膀都僵硬了。”
“我在试验如何跟踪人。”奥利弗夫人说，“这比我想得难多了。这是个艺术工作室吗？”她补充道，四下里打量着。
“现今就是这样子，这种阁楼，要是您没从地板上掉落下来可真是运气好。”
“这里能全方位满足需要。”大卫说，“它北面的采光不错，空间也够大，可以睡觉，在楼下打牌需要第四个人的时候还能去凑个场，还有他们所谓餐饮设备。有那么一两瓶酒可以喝。”他转向奥利弗夫人，用一种全然不同的口吻十分热情地问道，“您想喝点什么吗？”
“我不喝酒。”奥利弗夫人说道。
“这位女士不喝酒。”大卫说，“谁能想到呢！”
“话糙理不糙。”奥利弗夫人说，“大部分见到我的人都会这么说：‘我总以为您是海量呢。’”
她打开手包，三缕灰色的卷发掉在地上，大卫拾起来交给她。
“啊！多谢。”奥利弗夫人接了过来。“我早晨时间不够了。我不知道我是否还有发夹。”她在手包里摸索着，把发卷用发夹别好了。
彼得大声笑了起来。“我赞同您说的。”他说。
“真是太离奇了。”奥利弗夫人心想。“我竟会如此愚蠢，以为自己处在危险中。危险，这些人？不管他们看上去如何，他们都很善良、很友好。我的朋友跟我所说的没错，我的想象力太过丰富了。”
接着她说自己必须要离开了，大卫，那个有着摄政时期绅士做派的青年，扶着她走下了摇摇晃晃的楼梯，还给她准确地指出通往国王大道最迅捷的路径。
“您走出去之后，”他说，“能搭乘公共汽车，或是叫一辆出租车。”
“还是叫辆出租车吧。”奥利弗夫人说，“我的脚已经完全僵硬了。越快坐进出租车越好。谢谢您。”她补充道：“您对我用这种似乎颇为特别的方式跟踪您竟如此大度。但是不管怎么说，我想那些私家侦探，或是私人眼线或是什么别的称谓的人，不会像我这样。”
“或许不会的。”大卫严肃地说，“往左转，接着右转，接着再次左转直到您看到一条河流，然后就马上右转，然后再一直直走。”
真是奇怪极了，当她路过那个荒僻的建筑工地的时候，一种不安和怀疑的感觉又向她袭来。“我不能再瞎想了。”她回头看自己走过的路，看了看艺术工作室的窗户。大卫还在那里望着她。“真是三个不错的年轻人。”奥利弗夫人自言自语道，“真是非常友善，非常可爱。向左转，接着右转。只是因为他们看上去有些特别，人们就冒出了他们是危险人物的愚蠢想法。是要再右转吗？还是左转？左转，我想，啊，天呐，我的脚。要下雨了。”这条路好像永无尽头，国王大道似乎遥不可及。她一点也听不到车辆嘈杂的声音，究竟河在哪里？她开始怀疑自己一定是记错了方向。
“啊！没事。”奥利弗夫人想，“我肯定会很快出去的，不管是哪条河，或是帕特尼，或是旺兹沃思或是什么其他地方。”她向一位过路的人询问怎么去国王大道，但是那个人是个外国人，他表示自己不会说英语。
奥利弗夫人精疲力竭地在小巷口转了个弯，她看到了河水泛出的波光。她匆忙朝狭窄的通往河边的小道走去，她听到了背后的脚步声，还没完全转过身，就受了重重的一击，她感到眼冒金星。
Ten I
Ten I
A voice said:
“Drink this.”
Norma was shivering. Her eyes had a dazed look. She shrank back a little in the chair. Thecommand was repeated. “Drink this.” This time she drank obediently, then choked a little.
“It’s—it’s very strong,” she gasped.
“It’ll put you right. You’ll feel better in a minute. Just sit still and wait.”
The sickness and the giddiness which had been confusing her passed off. A little colour cameinto her cheeks, and the shivering diminished. For the first time she looked round her, noting hersurroundings. She had been obsessed by a feeling of fear and horror but now things seemed to bereturning to normal. It was a medium-sized room and it was furnished in a way that seemed faintlyfamiliar. A desk, a couch, an armchair and an ordinary chair, a stethoscope on a side table andsome machine that she thought had to do with eyes. Then her attention went from the general tothe particular. The man who had told her to drink.
She saw a man of perhaps thirty-odd with red hair and a rather attractive ugly face, the kind offace that is craggy but interesting. He nodded at her in a reassuring fashion.
“Beginning to get your bearings?”
“I—I think so. I—did you—what happened?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“The traffic. I—it came at me—it—” She looked at him. “I was run over.”
“Oh no, you weren’t run over.” He shook his head. “I saw to that.”
“You?”
“Well, there you were in the middle of the road, a car bearing down on you and I just managedto snatch you out of its way. What were you thinking of to go running into the traffic like that?”
“I can’t remember. I—yes, I suppose I must have been thinking of something else.”
“A Jaguar was coming pretty fast, and there was a bus bearing down on the other side of theroad. The car wasn’t trying to run you down or anything like that, was it?”
“I—no, no, I’m sure it wasn’t. I mean I—”
“Well, I wondered—It just might have been something else, mightn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it could have been deliberate, you know.”
“What do you mean by deliberate?”
“Actually I just wondered whether you were trying to get yourself killed?” He added casually,“Were you?”
“I—no—well—no, of course not.”
“Damn’ silly way to do it, if so.” His tone changed slightly. “Come now, you must remembersomething about it.”
She began shivering again. “I thought—I thought it would be all over. I thought—”
“So you were trying to kill yourself, weren’t you? What’s the matter? You can tell me.
Boyfriend? That can make one feel pretty bad. Besides, there’s always the hopeful thought that ifyou kill yourself you make him sorry—but one should never trust to that. People don’t like feelingsorry or feeling anything is their fault. All the boyfriend will probably say is, ‘I always thought shewas unbalanced. It’s really all for the best.’ Just remember that next time you have an urge tocharge Jaguars. Even Jaguars have feelings to be considered. Was that the trouble? Boyfriend walkout on you?”
“No,” said Norma. “Oh no. It was quite the opposite.” She added suddenly, “He wanted tomarry me.”
“That’s no reason for throwing yourself down in front of a Jaguar.”
“Yes it is. I did it because—” She stopped.
“You’d better tell me about it, hadn’t you?”
“How did I get here?” asked Norma.
“I brought you here in a taxi. You didn’t seem injured—a few bruises, I expect. You merelylooked shaken to death, and in a state of shock. I asked you your address, but you looked at me asthough you didn’t know what I was talking about. A crowd was about to collect. So I hailed a taxiand brought you here.”
“Is this a—a doctor’s surgery?”
“This is a doctor’s consulting room and I’m the doctor. Stillingfleet, my name is.”
“I don’t want to see a doctor! I don’t want to talk to a doctor! I don’t—”
“Calm down, calm down. You’ve been talking to a doctor for the last ten minutes. What’s thematter with doctors, anyway?”
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid a doctor would say—”
“Come now, my dear girl, you’re not consulting me professionally. Regard me as a mereoutsider who’s been enough of a busybody to save you from being killed or, what is far morelikely, having a broken arm or a fractured leg or a head injury or something extremely unpleasantwhich might incapacitate you for life. There are other disadvantages. Formerly, if you deliberatelytried to commit suicide you could be had up in Court. You still can if it’s a suicide pact. Therenow, you can’t say I haven’t been frank. You could oblige now by being frank with me, andtelling me why on earth you’re afraid of doctors. What’s a doctor ever done to you?”
“Nothing. Nothing has been done to me. But I’m afraid that they might—”
“Might what?”
“Shut me up.”
Dr. Stillingfleet raised his sandy eyebrows and looked at her.
“Well, well,” he said. “You seem to have some very curious ideas about doctors. Why should Iwant to shut you up? Would you like a cup of tea,” he added, “or would you prefer a purple heartor a tranquilliser? That’s the kind of thing people of your age go in for. Done a bit yourself in thatline, haven’t you?”
She shook her head. “Not—not really.”
“I don’t believe you. Anyway, why the alarm and despondency? You’re not really mental, areyou? I shouldn’t have said so. Doctors aren’t at all anxious to have people shut up. Mental homesare far too full already. Difficult to squeeze in another body. In fact lately they’ve been letting agood many people out—in desperation—pushing them out, you might say—who jolly well oughtto have been kept in. Everything’s so overcrowded in this country.
“Well,” he went on, “what are your tastes? Something out of my drug cupboard or a good solidold-fashioned English cup of tea?”
“I—I’d like some tea,” said Norma.
“Indian or China? That’s the thing to ask, isn’t it? Mind you, I’m not sure if I’ve got anyChina.”
“I like Indian better.”
“Good.”
He went to the door, opened it and shouted, “Annie. Pot of tea for two.”
He came back and sat down and said, “Now you get this quite clear, young lady. What’s yourname, by the way?”
“Norma Res—” she stopped.
“Yes?”
“Norma West.”
“Well, Miss West, let’s get this clear. I’m not treating you, you’re not consulting me. You arethe victim of a street accident—that is the way we’ll put it and that is the way I suppose you meantit to appear, which would have been pretty hard on the fellow in the Jaguar.”
“I thought of throwing myself off a bridge first.”
“Did you? You wouldn’t have found that so easy. People who build bridges are rather carefulnowadays. I mean you’d have had to climb up onto the parapet and it’s not so easy. Somebodystops you. Well, to continue with my dissertation, I brought you home as you were in too much ofa state of shock to tell me your address. What is it, by the way?”
“I haven’t got an address. I—I don’t live anywhere.”
“Interesting,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “What the police call ‘of no fixed abode.’ What do you do—sit out on the Embankment all night?”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“I could have reported the accident to the police but there was no obligation upon me to do so. Ipreferred to take the view that in a state of maiden meditation you were crossing the street beforelooking left first.”
“You’re not at all like my idea of a doctor,” said Norma.
“Really? Well, I’ve been getting gradually disillusioned in my profession in this country. Infact, I’m giving up my practice here and I’m going to Australia in about a fortnight. So you’requite safe from me, and you can if you like tell me how you see pink elephants walking out of thewall, how you think the trees are leaning out their branches to wrap round and strangle you, howyou think you know just when the devil looks out of people’s eyes, or any other cheerful fantasy,and I shan’t do a thing about it! You look sane enough, if I may say so.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“Well, you may be right,” said Dr. Stillingfleet handsomely. “Let’s hear what your reasons are.”
“I do things and don’t remember about them…I tell people things about what I’ve done but Idon’t remember telling them….”
“It sounds as though you have a bad memory.”
“You don’t understand. They’re all—wicked things.”
“Religious mania? Now that would be very interesting.”
“It’s not religious. It’s just—just hate.”
There was a tap at the door and an elderly woman came in with a tea tray. She put it down onthe desk and went out again.
“Sugar?” said Dr. Stillingfleet.
“Yes, please.”
“Sensible girl. Sugar is very good for you when you’ve had a shock.” He poured out two cupsof tea, set hers at her side and placed the sugar basin beside it. “Now then,” he sat down. “Whatwere we talking about? Oh yes, hate.”
“It is possible, isn’t it, that you could hate someone so much that you really want to kill them?”
“Oh, yes,” said Stillingfleet, cheerfully still. “Perfectly possible. In fact, most natural. But evenif you really want to do it you can’t always screw yourself up to the point, you know. The humanbeing is equipped with a natural braking system and it applies the brakes for you just at the rightmoment.”
“You make it sound so ordinary,” said Norma. There was a distinct overtone of annoyance inher voice.
“Oh, well, it is quite natural. Children feel like it almost every day. Lose their tempers, say totheir mothers or their fathers: ‘You’re wicked, I hate you, I wish you were dead.’ Mothers, beingsometimes sensible people, don’t usually pay any attention. When you grow up, you still hatepeople, but you can’t take quite so much trouble wanting to kill them by then. Or if you still do—well, then you go to prison. That is, if you actually brought yourself to do such a messy anddifficult job. You aren’t putting all this on, are you, by the way?” he asked casually.
“Of course not.” Norma sat up straight. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Of course not. Do youthink I would say such awful things if they weren’t true?”
“Well, again,” said Dr. Stillingfleet, “people do. They say all sorts of awful things aboutthemselves and enjoy saying them.” He took her empty cup from her. “Now then,” he said, “you’dbetter tell me all about everything. Who you hate, why you hate them, what you’d like to do tothem.”
“Love can turn to hate.”
“Sounds like a melodramatic ballad. But remember hate can turn to love, too. It works bothways. And you say it’s not a boyfriend. He was your man and he did you wrong. None of thatstuff, eh?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s—it’s my stepmother.”
“The cruel stepmother motif. But that’s nonsense. At your age you can get away from astepmother. What has she done to you besides marrying your father? Do you hate him too, or areyou so devoted to him that you don’t want to share him?”
“It’s not like that at all. Not at all. I used to love him once. I loved him dearly. He was—he was—I thought he was wonderful.”
“Now then,” said Dr. Stillingfleet, “listen to me. I’m going to suggest something. You see thatdoor?”
Norma turned her head and looked in a puzzled fashion at the door.
“Perfectly ordinary door, isn’t it? Not locked. Opens and shuts in the ordinary way. Go on, try itfor yourself. You saw my housekeeper come in and go out through it, didn’t you? No illusions.
Come on. Get up. Do what I tell you.”
Norma rose from her chair and rather hesitatingly went to the door and opened it. She stood inthe aperture, her head turned towards him inquiringly.
“Right. What do you see? A perfectly ordinary hallway, wants redecorating but it’s not worthhaving it done when I’m just off to Australia. Now go to the front door, open it, also no tricksabout it. Go outside and down to the pavement and that will show you that you are perfectly freewith no attempts to shut you up in any way. After that, when you have satisfied yourself that youcould walk out of this place at any minute you like, come back, sit in that comfortable chair overthere and tell me all about yourself. After which I will give you my valuable advice. You needn’ttake it,” he added consolingly. “People seldom do take advice, but you might as well have it. See?
Agreed?”
Norma got up slowly, she went a little shakily out of the room, out into—as the doctor haddescribed—the perfectly ordinary hallway, opened the front door with a simple catch, down foursteps and stood on the pavement in a street of decorous but rather uninteresting houses. She stoodthere a moment, unaware that she was being watched through a lace blind by Dr. Stillingfleethimself. She stood there for about two minutes, then with a slightly more resolute bearing sheturned, went up the steps again, shut the front door and came back into the room.
“All right?” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Satisfied you there’s nothing up my sleeve? All clear andaboveboard.”
The girl nodded.
“Right. Sit down there. Make yourself comfortable. Do you smoke?”
“Well, I—”
“Only reefers—something of that kind? Never mind, you needn’t tell me.”
“Of course I don’t take anything of that kind.”
“I shouldn’t have said there was any ‘of course’ about it, but one must believe what the patienttells one. All right. Now tell me about yourself.”
“I—I don’t know. There’s nothing to tell really. Don’t you want me to lie down on a couch?”
“Oh, you mean your memory of dreams and all that stuff? No, not particularly. I just like to geta background. You know. You were born, you lived in the country or the town, you have brothersand sisters or you’re an only child and so on. When your own mother died, were you very upset byher death?”
“Of course I was.” Norma sounded indignant.
“You’re much too fond of saying of course, Miss West. By the way, West isn’t really yourname, is it? Oh, never mind, I don’t want to know any other one. Call yourself West or East orNorth or anything you like. Anyway, what went on after your mother died?”
“She was an invalid for a long time before she died. In nursing homes a good deal. I stayed withan aunt, rather an old aunt, down in Devonshire. She wasn’t really an aunt, she was Mother’s firstcousin. And then my father came home just about six months ago. It—it was wonderful.” Her facelighted up suddenly. She was unaware of the quick, shrewd glance the apparently casual youngman shot at her. “I could hardly remember him, you know. He must have gone away when I wasabout five. I didn’t really think I’d ever see him again. Mother didn’t very often talk about him. Ithink at first she hoped that he’d give up this other woman and come back.”
“Other woman?”
“Yes. He went away with someone. She was a very bad woman, Mother said. Mother talkedabout her very bitterly and very bitterly about Father too, but I used to think that perhaps—perhapsFather wasn’t as bad as she thought, that it was all this woman’s fault.”
“Did they marry?”
“No. Mother said she would never divorce Father. She was a—is it an Anglican?—very HighChurch, you know. Rather like a Roman Catholic. She didn’t believe in divorce.”
“Did they go on living together? What was the woman’s name or is that a secret too?”
“I don’t remember her last name.” Norma shook her head. “No, I don’t think they lived togetherlong, but I don’t know much about it all, you see. They went to South Africa but I think theyquarrelled and parted quite soon because that’s when Mother said she hoped Father might comeback again. But he didn’t. He didn’t write even. Not even to me. But he sent me things atChristmas. Presents always.”
“He was fond of you?”
“I don’t know. How could I tell? Nobody ever spoke about him. Only Uncle Simon—hisbrother, you know. He was in business in the City and he was very angry that Father had chuckedup everything. He said he had always been the same, could never settle to anything, but he said hewasn’t a bad chap really. He said he was just weak. I didn’t often see Uncle Simon. It was alwaysMother’s friends. Most of them were dreadfully dull. My whole life has been very dull….
“Oh, it seemed so wonderful that Father was really coming home. I tried to remember himbetter. You know, things he had said, games he had played with me. He used to make me laugh alot. I tried to see if I couldn’t find some old snapshots or photographs of him. They seem all tohave been thrown away. I think Mother must have torn them all up.”
“She had remained vindictive then.”
“I think it was really Louise she was vindictive against.”
“Louise?”
He saw a slight stiffening on the girl’s part.
“I don’t remember—I told you—I don’t remember any names.”
“Never mind. You’re talking about the woman your father ran away with. Is that it?”
“Yes. Mother said she drank too much and took drugs and would come to a bad end.”
“But you don’t know whether she did?”
“I don’t know anything.”…Her emotion was rising. “I wish you wouldn’t ask me questions! Idon’t know anything about her! I never heard of her again! I’d forgotten her until you spoke abouther. I tell you I don’t know anything.”
“Well, well,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Don’t get so agitated. You don’t need to bother about pasthistory. Let’s think about the future. What are you going to do next?”
Norma gave a deep sigh.
“I don’t know. I’ve nowhere to go. I can’t—it’s much better—I’m sure it’s much better to—toend it all—only—”
“Only you can’t make the attempt a second time, is that it? It would be very foolish if you did, Ican tell you that, my girl. All right, you’ve nowhere to go, no one to trust; got any money?”
“Yes, I’ve got a banking account, and Father pays so much into it every quarter but I’m notsure…I think perhaps, by now, they might be looking for me. I don’t want to be found.”
“You needn’t be. I’ll fix that up for you all right. Place called Kenway Court. Not as fine as itsounds. It’s a kind of convalescent nursing home where people go for a rest cure. It’s got nodoctors or couches, and you won’t be shut up there, I can promise you. You can walk out anytimeyou like. You can have breakfast in bed, stay in bed all day if you like. Have a good rest and I’llcome down one day and talk to you and we’ll solve a few problems together. Will that suit you?
Are you willing?”
Norma looked at him. She sat, without expression, staring at him; slowly she nodded her head.
第十章 1
第十章 1
一个声音说道：
“把这个喝了。”
诺玛颤抖了起来。她的眼睛显露出茫然无措的神情。她往身后的椅子里蜷缩了一些。
那个声音又重复道：“把这个喝了。”这次她顺从地喝了下去，接着微微咳嗽了一下。
“这个，这个好浓烈。”她喘息道。
“你喝了之后会好点的。几分钟后你就会舒服一些。只要在这里静静坐着等待就好了。”
之前那种令她感到有些难受和晕眩的感觉消散了。她的脸颊开始有了些血色，也不再颤抖了。她第一次环视四周，留意着周围的环境。她曾被那种害怕和恐惧的感觉所困扰，但是现在似乎一切都恢复正常了。这是一间不大不小的房间，屋内的陈设似乎有些眼熟。
一张桌子，一张长沙发，一张普通的椅子，还有一张上面放着听诊器和其他仪器的桌子，她觉得那些仪器是用来治疗眼睛的。接着她的注意力从这些普通的场景转到了那些特殊之处——那位命令她喝下药液的男人。
她看到了一个大约三十岁，红色头发，面目虽丑但是别有一番吸引力的男人，那是一张满脸皱纹却很有意思的脸庞。他安抚式地点点头。
“您清醒点了吧？”
“我，我想是的。我，您，发生了什么？”
“您不记得了吗？”
“那场交通事故。我，它朝我开来，它，”她看着他，“它轧到了我。”
“啊，没有，您没被轧到。”他摇摇头，“我看到了您。”
“您？”
“是的，您在马路中央，一辆车朝您开来，我把您拉了过来。您这样跑上机动车道是要做什么？”
“我记不得了。我，是的，我想我肯定是在想什么事。”
“那辆捷豹车速度太快了，马路另一侧还有一辆公共汽车开了过来。那辆车是想要撞倒您或是要做类似的事，是吗？”“我，不，不，我肯定不是这样的。我的意思是我——”
“嗯，我想可能有别的原因，可能吗？”
“您的意思是？”
“嗯，您明白的，可能是有意为之。”
“您说的有意为之是指什么？”
“实话说，我只是在想您是否意图自杀？”他看似随意地补充一句，“是吗？”
“我，不，嗯，不，当然不是了。”
“如果您真的要那么做就太傻了。”他的语调变得轻松了一些，“说吧，您一定还记得些什么。”
她又开始颤抖。“我想，我想这样就能永远结束了。我想——”
“那么您还是在试图自杀，是吗？出了什么事？您可以告诉我。为了男朋友？那倒真是令人难受至极的事情。而且，人们总是以为自己在自杀了之后，会令他人感到后悔。但是还是别这么想。人们不喜欢事后后悔，或是对于他们所犯的过错感到抱歉。那些男朋友或许会说：‘我总是觉得她有点不正常，但是其实这样最好了。’下次您去撞捷豹车的时候，最好记住我所说的话。即使猎豹也会去思考的。这是您的烦恼所在吗？男朋友跟您分手了？”
“不。啊，不是的。正相反。”她突然补充道，“他希望跟我结婚。”
“这也不至于让您去主动撞捷豹车啊。”
“是的，确实。我这么做是因为——”她欲言又止。
“您最好还是跟我说说，您愿意吗？”
“我是怎么来到这里的？”诺玛问。
“是我带您坐出租车到这里的。您看上去并没有受什么伤，只是有些擦伤。我想，您只是吓得要死，呆住了。我问您家庭地址，但是您看着我就好像不知道我在说什么一样。人们越围越多，所以我只好叫了一辆出租车带您来了这儿。”
“这是一间医生的诊疗室吗？”
“这是医生的诊室，我是个医生。我的名字是斯蒂林弗利特。”
“我不想看医生！我不想跟医生讲话！我不要——”
“安静，安静。您已经跟一位医生说了有十分钟的话了。医生怎么了，您告诉我？”
“我害怕，我害怕医生会说——”
“现在放松点，我亲爱的姑娘，您不是花钱雇我看病的。就把我当成一个爱闲操心的人，把您从死亡线上拉了回来，您才不至于胳膊腿骨折，头部受到重创或者终生残疾。还会有别的什么事呢。这要是以前，要是您蓄意自杀，可是要上法庭的。如今，要是能证明您是自杀，也是一样。所以啊，您不能说我不够坦诚了吧。您现在就算是为了感谢我，也该告诉我究竟为什么您这么害怕医生，医生曾对您做过什么？”
“什么都没有，他们什么都没有对我做过。但是我害怕他们可能会——”
“可能会怎样？”
“把我关起来。”
斯蒂林弗利特医生挑起他那泛黄的棕色眉毛，看着她。
“嗯，这样啊。”他说，“您似乎对医生有一些奇怪的看法。为什么我要把您关起来？您要喝杯茶吗？”他补充道，“或是您更愿意来一颗紫色药丸或是镇定剂什么的？这是您这个年纪的人最喜欢的东西。您自己也会服用一些吧，是吗？”
她摇摇头说：“不，不是的。”
“我不相信。抛去这些不谈，为什么您如此惊恐，如此心灰意冷呢？您不是真的脑子有问题吧，是吗？我不该这么说。医生才不愿意把病人关起来呢。精神病院早就爆满了，很难再塞一个进去。事实上，最近他们还放出去很多人，是那些真正该被关起来的人。在这个国家，各处都人满为患。”
“那么。”他继续说，“您的口味如何？您是想服用些我药柜里的药呢，还是喝一杯老式的正宗的英国浓茶？”
“我，我想喝茶。”诺玛说。
“印度茶还是中国茶？该这么问客人的，是吗？不好意思，我不肯定这里是否还有中国茶。”
“我更喜欢印度茶。”
“好的。”
他走向门口，打开门后喊道：“南妮，来一壶两人份的茶。”
他返身回来，坐下来说道：“现在您听好了，小姐，顺便问一句，您的名字是什么？”
“诺玛，雷斯……”她顿住了。
“什么？”
“诺玛•韦斯特。”
“好的，韦斯特小姐，让我们事先说清楚。我不是在治疗您，您也不是来找我看病。您就是个街头意外事故的受害者，我们就这么认为，相信您也愿意这么想。这么说对那辆捷豹车的驾驶者来说不是很公允。”
“我最先是想要从桥上跳下来的。”
“是吗？您会发现那也不是什么容易的事。现今筑桥的人也是相当谨慎的，我的意思是您需要攀上栏杆，这相当困难。会有人阻止您。是的，我还是那个看法，我带您回家是因为您受惊过度无法告知我您的地址。顺便问一句，您的地址到底是什么？”
“我没有什么地址。我，我不住在任何地方。”
“有意思。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说道，“这就是警察所说的‘没有固定的居所’的那种人。
您要怎么办？整夜坐在河堤上吗？”
她疑惑不解地看着他。
“我可以把这次事故报告给警察，但是我没有义务这么做。我更愿意相信这是因为您处于一种少女式的冥想之中，在穿越马路的时候忘了先往左看一眼。”
“您跟我想象中的医生不一样。”诺玛说。
“真的吗？嗯，在这个国家，我对自己所从事的行业越发厌倦。事实上，我已经决定关掉我的私人诊所，我要去澳大利亚开辟新的诊疗事业。所以您对我不应该抱什么疑虑，您也可以告诉我您看到一头粉红的大象从墙壁中走了出来，树木伸出枝杈好像要把你抓住之后扼死，您知道魔鬼什么时候会从人的眼中跳出来，或是其他什么神奇的幻想，我对此不会干涉的！如果要我说的话，您看起来足够理智清醒。”
“我不这么认为。”
“好吧，您可能是对的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生洒脱地说，“来讲讲您的依据吧。”
“我不记得自己做过的事……我告诉别人我做过的事，但是我却不记得我告诉过他们……”
“听起来您的记性好像很差。”
“您不明白。它们都是些——邪恶之事。”
“宗教狂吗？这听起来很有意思。”
“不是关于宗教的。它就是，就是仇恨。”
一阵敲门的声音之后，一位年迈的老妇端着放茶壶的托盘走了进来。她把托盘放在桌子上，又走了出去。
“要加糖吗？”斯蒂林弗利特医生问道。
“是的，谢谢您。”
“真是个明智的姑娘。当人受到惊吓之后，吃点糖还是很有好处的。”他倒了两杯茶，把其中一杯推到她那边，还把一个糖罐放在她身边。“那么现在，”他坐下之后说，“您有什么想跟我说的吗？啊，是的，关于仇恨。”
“这是有可能的，不是吗？当你恨一个人到极致的时候，你就想杀了他。”
“啊，是的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生语调轻松地说道，“极有可能。事实上，这再自然不过了。但是即使您真的想去做，也不一定有足够的勇气去实施，您明白的。人类有一种天然的刹车系统，在适当的时刻，它会为您制动的。”
“您把它说得那么平淡无奇。”诺玛说。她的语调中带着明显的厌弃感。
“是的，这本来就很寻常。孩子们每天都会有这样的感受。乱发脾气，对他们的母亲或是父亲说：‘你真是讨厌透了，我恨你。你要是死了就好了。’母亲们通常都会比较理智，不会对此感到太过惊讶。当您长大后，您仍旧会恨什么人，但是那时您不会想要给自己找麻烦，不会真的去杀了他们。或是您执意要杀人——嗯，那么您就要去蹲监狱了。也就是说，如果您真的做了这样麻烦又困难的事情。您这么说不是在跟我开玩笑，是吗？”他漫不经心地问道。
“当然不是了。”诺玛坐直了身子，她的眼睛闪烁着愤怒的火花。“当然不是了。您以为如果这不是真的，我会对您说如此可怕的事情吗？”
“那么好的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“人们经常会这么做。他们叙述着那类关于自己的可怕的事情，还非常享受这些。”他从她手里接过空杯子。“那么现在，”他说，“您最好告诉我所有这一切。您在恨谁，为什么您会恨他们，以及您对他们做了什么？”
“爱能变成恨。”
“听起来好像是一首夸张的歌谣。但是要记得，恨也能变成爱。这是相通的。您还说不是男朋友闹的。他是您的男人，但是他却辜负了您。不是这么回事吗？”
“不，不。不是这样的。那是，是我的继母。”
“被残暴的继母所激发的动机。但是这是多么无意义啊。在您这个年纪，可以选择远离继母。除了跟您父亲结婚之外，她还做了些什么事吗？您是否也恨他，或是您太爱他了，不愿意跟其他人共享他。”
“根本就不是这样的。不是这样的。我曾经很爱他。我深深地爱着他。他是，他是，我想他很好。”
“那么现在呢，”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“听我说。我给您些建议，您看到那边的门了吗？”
诺玛转头，满目疑惑地看着门。
“很普通的门，不是吗？没上锁。像平常那样可以打开和关上。去，您自己去感受一下。您会看到我的管家从这扇门进进出出，不是吗？没有幻觉。来吧，站起来。照我说的去做。”
诺玛从椅子上起身，迟疑地走向那扇门，然后打开了门。她站在门缝处，转过头疑惑不解地看着他。
“好的。您看到了什么？一条很普通的走廊，本来我想翻修一下，但是考虑到我要去澳大利亚，这么做就不值得了。现在走向前门，打开它。前门也没有什么机关。走出去，走到人行道上，您会知道我并没有任何想要把您关起来的企图。当然，当您明白您随时可以走出去这一点后，您可以回到这里，坐在这把舒适的椅子上，跟我讲讲您所有的事。之后，我会给您我的宝贵意见。您也可以不必听我的意见。”他安抚道，“人们极少会接受别人的意见，但是您为何不试着接受呢，明白吗？您同意这样做吗？”
诺玛慢慢站了起来，有些摇摇晃晃地走出屋子，就如医生所描述的，走到那个很普通的走廊，轻轻打开了前门，下了四个台阶，站在了街上的人行道上。街边的建筑虽然非常讲究但是没有什么特别之处。她站了片刻，却不知道斯蒂林弗利特医生正通过百叶窗观察她。她在那里站了两分钟，更加努力地转过身，再次走上了台阶，关上了前门，回到了屋子里。
“还好吗？”斯蒂林弗利特医生问道，“您满意了吧，我没有戏弄您。所有一切都是正大光明、清清楚楚的。”
那姑娘点点头。
“好的，坐在这里。放轻松点，您吸烟吗？”
“嗯，我——”
“只吸大麻烟卷还是类似的什么东西？不要紧，您不需要告诉我。”
“我当然不会吸那样的东西。”
“我才不会说什么类似‘当然’这样的话，但是我该相信病人所说的话。好吧，现在告诉我您的事吧。”
“我，我不知道。我实在不知道说什么。您不需要我躺在长沙发上吗？”
“啊，您是说您梦中的情景或是诸如此类的事情吗？不，不用再说了。我就是想知道您的背景。您明白的。您的身世，您是在乡下还是城市里成长的，您有兄弟姐妹或是您是独生子女……当您的生母去世之后，您是不是因为她的故去而万分悲伤呢？”
“当然了，我确实很悲伤。”诺玛的话语听起来有些气愤。
“您太喜欢当然这个说法了，韦斯特小姐。顺便一提，韦斯特 [1] 不是您的姓吧，是吗？
不要在意，我不想知道您真正的姓氏，您愿意叫西还是东，或是北，悉听尊便。当您母亲去世之后，发生了什么？”
“她在去世之前，就已经病恹恹的了。常年待在疗养院里。我跟一位姨妈生活，一位年迈的姨妈，她住在德文郡。她不是我真正的姨妈，是我母亲的表姐。接着我父亲在六个月后就回来了。真是好极了。”她的脸庞突然被点燃了。她并未察觉到那个温和随意的年轻医生对她投来迅速的一瞥。“您知道的，我几乎记不起来他了。大约在我五岁的时候，他就离开了。我真的没想到还能再见到他。母亲极少会提起他，我想最开始，她还奢望着他能离开那个女人回到家里呢。”
“另一个女人？”
“是的。他和那人私奔了。她是个非常邪恶的女人，我母亲是这么说的。母亲总是满腔怨恨地谈起她，说起我父亲的时候也很是怨愤，但是我想那可能是，可能我父亲并不像她所说的那样坏，这都是那个女人的错。”
“他们结婚了吗？”
“没有，我母亲说她永远不会跟我父亲离婚的。她是一个英国国教徒？非常虔诚的高教会派 [2] 的教徒，您明白的。就跟天主教徒一样，她是不会做离婚这样的事的。”
“他们同居在一起吗？那个女人叫什么名字，或者说这个也是个秘密？”
“我不记得她的名字了。”诺玛摇摇头，“不记得了，我想他们并没有在一起多久，但是我对这件事记得也不是很清楚。他们去了南非，但是我想他们很快就分道扬镳了，因为那时候母亲说她期盼着父亲或许能再回家。但是他没有，他甚至没有写过信，连给我的信也没有写过。他只是在圣诞节才会给我寄东西，他总是给我礼物。”
“他喜欢您吗？”
“我不知道。我怎么知道？没人跟我说起过他，除了西蒙伯伯，他的哥哥。他在城里做生意，他对于我父亲抛下一切的行为很是不齿。他说我父亲一贯如此，总是无法安定下来，但是他说父亲不是坏人，只是太软弱了而已。我不是经常能见到西蒙伯伯。我总是跟母亲的朋友在一起，他们中的大多数人都毫无生气，古板无趣。我的整个生活都是极其无趣的……
“我当时在想，父亲真的回家了该有多好啊。我试图把他想得更好。比如他跟我说过的事，他跟我一起玩的游戏。他以前时常会引我发笑。我想方设法去找一些他的旧照。它们好像都被丢弃了。我想我母亲一定把它们都撕毁了。”
“那么她一直对此怀恨在心了。”
“我想她真正怨恨的是露易丝。”
“露易丝？”
他看到那个姑娘有一些拘谨。
“我不记得了，我告诉过您，我不记得人和名字。”
“不要紧。您说的是那个与您父亲私奔的女人，是吗？”
“是的。我母亲说她酗酒无度，还滥用药物，最后不会有好果子吃的。”
“但是您不知道她是否做过这些？”
“我什么都不知道……”她的情绪又起了波澜，“我希望您不要问我这些问题！我不知道关于她的任何事！我再没听到过她的事！直到您说起她，我才想起来。我告诉您我什么都不知道。”
“好的，好的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说道，“不要如此激动。您不需要对过去的事如此困扰。让我们想想未来吧。您下一步打算怎么做？”
诺玛深深叹了口气。
“我不知道。我没地方可去。我不能，这样更好，我肯定这样更好，彻底结束，只是——”
“只是您不能再这样做傻事了，不是吗？如果您这么做那就太傻了，我告诉您，我的姑娘。好吧，您无处可去，没人可以信任。您有钱吗？”
“是的，我有一个银行账户，我父亲定期会给我存一大笔钱，但是我不确定……我想他们现在或许正在找我呢。我不想被找到。”
“您不会被找到的。我能给您做好安排。有个叫作肯维院的地方。那个地方并不如它的名字听起来那么好。它是个供人休养的疗养院。那里没有医生，也没有什么心理分析，您在那里不会被关起来的，我向您保证。您任何时候都可以自行离开。您可以在床上用早餐，如果您愿意的话，可以在床上待上一整天。您去那儿好好休养，我会去看您的，跟您一起解决这些问题。这样行吗？您愿意吗？”
诺玛看着他。她坐在那里，脸上毫无表情地盯着他。过了一会儿，她缓缓点了点头。
Ten II
II
Later that evening Dr. Stillingfleet made a telephone call.
“Quite a good operation kidnap,” he said. “She’s down at Kenway Court. Came like a lamb.
Can’t tell you much yet. The girl’s full of drugs. I’d say she’d been taking purple hearts, anddream bombs, and probably LSD…She’s been all hopped-up for some time. She says no, but Iwouldn’t trust much to what she says.”
He listened for a moment. “Don’t ask me! One will have to go carefully there. She gets the windup easy…Yes, she’s scared of something, or she’s pretending to be scared of something….
“I don’t know yet, I can’t tell. Remember people who take drugs are tricky. You can’t believewhat they say always. We haven’t rushed things and I don’t want to startle her….
“A father complex as a child. I’d say didn’t care much for her mother who sounds a grimwoman by all accounts—the self-righteous martyr type. I’d say Father was a gay one, and couldn’tquite stand the grimness of married life—Know of anyone called Louise?…The name seemed tofrighten her—She was the girl’s first hate, I should say. She took Father away at the time the childwas five. Children don’t understand very much at that age, but they’re very quick to feelresentment of the person they feel was responsible. She didn’t see Father again until apparently afew months ago. I’d say she’d had sentimental dreams of being her father’s companion and theapple of his eye. She got disillusioned apparently. Father came back with a wife, a new youngattractive wife. She’s not called Louise, is she?…Oh well, I only asked. I’m giving you roughlythe picture, the general picture, that is.”
The voice at the other end of the wire said sharply, “What is that you say? Say it again.”
“I said I’m giving you roughly the picture.”
There was a pause.
“By the way, here’s one little fact might interest you. The girl made a rather ham-handedattempt to commit suicide. Does that startle you?…“Oh, it doesn’t…No, she didn’t swallow the aspirin bottle, or put her head in the gas oven. Sherushed into the traffic in the path of a Jaguar going faster than it should have done…I can tell you Ionly got to her just in time…Yes, I’d say it was a genuine impulse…She admitted it. Usual classicphrase—she ‘wanted to get out of it all.’”
He listened to a rapid flow of words, then he said: “I don’t know. At this stage, I can’t be sure—The picture presented is clear. A nervy girl, neurotic and in an overwrought state from takingdrugs of too many kinds. No, I couldn’t tell you definitely what kind. There are dozens of thesethings going about all producing slightly different effects. There can be confusion, loss of memory,aggression, bewilderment, or sheer fuzzleheadedness! The difficulty is to tell what the realreactions are as opposed to the reactions produced by drugs. There are two choices, you see. Eitherthis is a girl who is playing herself up, depicting herself as neurotic and nervy and claimingsuicidal tendencies. It could be actually so. Or it could be a whole pack of lies. I wouldn’t put itpast her to be putting up this story for some obscure reason of her own—wanting to give anentirely false impression of herself. If so, she’s doing it very cleverly. Every now and then, thereseems something not quite right in the picture she’s giving. Is she a very clever little actress actinga part? Or is she a genuine semi-moronic suicidal victim? She could be either…What did yousay?…Oh, the Jaguar!…Yes, it was being driven far too fast. You think it mightn’t have been anattempt at suicide? That the Jaguar was deliberately meaning to run her down?”
He thought for a minute or two. “I can’t say,” he said slowly. “It just could be so. Yes, it couldbe so, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. The trouble is, everything’s possible, isn’t it? Anyway,I’m going to get more out of her shortly. I’ve got her in a position where she’s semi-willing totrust me, so long as I don’t go too far too quickly, and make her suspicious. She’ll become moretrusting soon, and tell me more, and if she’s a genuine case, she’ll pour out her whole story to me—force it on me in the end. At the moment she’s frightened of something….
“If, of course, she’s leading me up the garden path we’ll have to find out the reason why. She’sat Kenway Court and I think she’ll stay there. I’d suggest that you keep someone with an eye on itfor a day or so and if she does attempt to leave, someone she doesn’t know by sight had betterfollow her.”
第十章 2
2
那天稍晚的时候，斯蒂林弗利特医生打了一个电话。
“真是一次完美的绑架。”他说，“她现在待在肯维院，就像一只羔羊一般。我还不能告诉您更多的事。那个姑娘吃了太多的药物。我告诉您她吃了紫心锭、梦幻炸弹，或许还有迷幻药……她药物成瘾有一段时间了。她说自己没有服药，但是我对她所说的话不太相信。”
他听话筒那边的人说了一会儿。“不要问我！对于这件事，要小心点。她很容易激动……是的，她好像是害怕什么，或是假装害怕什么事……“我还不知道，我说不清。吃这种药的人往往很狡猾，您要知道。您不能总是相信他们所说的话，我们不能步步进逼，我不想吓着她……
“当她还是个孩子的时候，有着复杂的恋父情结。我感觉她并不是真心在意她的母亲，她的母亲不论从哪个方面看都是个阴郁的女人，还是那种自诩为贞洁女人的类型。要是我说，她父亲倒是个满心欢乐的人，他无法忍受那种阴郁沉闷的婚姻生活，您知道一个叫露易丝的女人吗？……这个名字似乎吓到了她。我认为她是那个姑娘最初怨恨的人。当她五岁的时候，那个女人拐跑了她的父亲。孩子们在那个年纪虽然不太懂事，但是他们会对那些始作俑者心怀怨恨。直到几个月前，她才见到了自己的父亲。我要说她对自己的父亲心怀美好的幻想——她是她父亲的伴侣，是她父亲的掌上明珠。然而，她明显失望至极。她的父亲带着新的妻子回到了家，一个新的年轻而有魅力的妻子。她不叫露易丝，是吗？……啊，好的，我只是问问。我给您一个粗略的轮廓，一个大致的情况介绍。”
电话另一边的人高声问道：“您说什么？再说一遍。”
“我说我只是给您提供一个粗略的轮廓。”
双方暂时都顿住了。
“顺便说一句，有个小小的事实细节，您可能会感兴趣。那个姑娘试图自杀。您对此感到很惊奇吧？……
“啊，并没有……不，她并不是服下一瓶阿司匹林，或是把头伸进烤箱里。她冲上快车道，撞向一辆车速很快的捷豹车……我告诉您，幸好我及时拉住了她……是的，我得说这只是一时冲动……她承认了这一点。依旧是那句老话，她‘想要彻底结束’。”
他听到对方滔滔不绝地说了一串话，接着他说：“我不知道。在这个阶段，我不能肯定，事实很清楚。一个精神紧张不安的姑娘，神经质，还有些滥用药物。不，我不能告诉您她服了什么类型的药物。这种药物随处可见，至少有几十种，每种产生的作用都不一样。会引起思维混乱，失忆，脾气暴躁，迷惘困惑，或是迟钝呆滞！困难的是，怎样分辨她的真实反应和因为服用药物所产生的反应。这里有两种选择，您懂的。要不就是这个姑娘自己戏弄了自己，觉得自己神经质，精神有问题，还有自杀倾向；也有可能真是这样。
或者这完全就是谎言，我不能排除她出于某种模糊不清的原因，编造了这一切——想要彻底地给人一种假象。如果是这样的话，她这么做非常高明。她给出的描述时不时地就会出现一些破绽，她是个很会演戏的人吗？或是她是个智力不健全的并且有自杀倾向的人？这两种情况都有可能……您怎么看？啊，那辆捷豹车！……是的，它的车速的确很快。您认为她不一定有自杀倾向，那辆捷豹车是要故意撞倒她吗？”
他思考了片刻。“我说不清。”他缓缓地说，“只是有可能。是的，只是有可能，但是我不确定。问题就是，什么事都有可能，不是吗？不管怎么说，我短时间内应该会从她那里套出些什么的。我已经取得了她的部分信任，我不能推进得太快，这会让她生疑的。她很快就会越来越信任我，告诉我更多的事，如果她确实有精神方面的问题，她会把她的一切都告诉我的。没准到了最后，我还不得不听她说呢。她现在还在惧怕着什么事……“当然，如果她故意要迷惑我们，我们就要找到她这么做的理由。她在肯维院，我想她会待在那里的。我建议您派个眼线去监视她一两天，防止她企图逃走。最好派一个她不认识的人监视跟踪她。”
[1]West，除了姓氏韦斯特之外，还有方向中的“西”的意思。——译者注[2]高教会派(Highchurch)，基督教(新教）的派别之一，与“低教会派”对立。最早于17世纪末开始在圣公会使用；19世纪因为牛津运动和英国天主教会派的兴起而流传于英国，并被路德宗的瑞典国教会等教会使用。主张在教义、礼仪和规章上大量保持天主教的传统，要求维持教会较高的权威地位，因而得名。——译者注
Eleven I
Eleven I
Andrew Restarick was writing a cheque—he made a slight grimace as he did so.
His office was large and handsomely furnished in typical conventional tycoon fashion—thefurnishing and fittings had been Simon Restarick’s and Andrew Restarick had accepted themwithout interest and had made few changes except for removing a couple of pictures and replacingthem by his own portrait which he had brought up from the country, and a watercolour of TableMountain.
Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh, yet strangely littlechanged from the man some fifteen years younger in the picture hanging above him. There was thesame jutting out chin, the lips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows.
Not a very noticeable man—an ordinary type and at the moment not a very happy man. Hissecretary entered the room—she advanced towards his desk, as he looked up.
“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appointment with you—but I canfind no trace of one.”
“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not rememberin what context. He shook his head—“I can’t remember anything about him—though I seem tohave heard the name. What does he look like?”
“A very small man—foreign—French I should say—with an enormous moustache—”
“Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy. But what’s all thisabout an appointment with me?”
“He says you wrote him a letter.”
“Can’t remember it—even if I did. Perhaps Mary—Oh well, never mind—bring him in. Isuppose I’d better see what this is all about.”
A moment or two later Claudia Reece-Holland returned ushering with her a small man with anegg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed patent leather shoes and a general air of complacencywhich accorded very well with the description he had had from his wife.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Restarick rose.
“Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service.”
“Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you’d called upon us or rather called upon my uncle. Whatcan I do for you?”
“I have presented myself in answer to your letter.”
“What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot.”
Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it, glanced at it and handedit across the desk with a bow.
“See for yourself, Monsieur.”
Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery. His signature was writtenin ink at the bottom.
Dear Monsieur Poirot,
I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at yourearliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also from whatI have learned by making various inquiries in London, that you are a man to betrusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discretion.
Yours truly,
Andrew Restarick
He said sharply:
“When did you receive this?”
“This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I came along here.”
“This is an extraordinary thing, M. Poirot. That letter was not written by me.”
“Not written by you?”
“No. My signature is quite different—look for yourself.” He cast out a hand as though lookingfor some example of his handwriting and without conscious thought turned the cheque book onwhich he had just written his signature, so that Poirot could see it. “You see? The signature on theletter is not in the least like mine.”
“But that is extraordinary,” said Poirot. “Absolutely extraordinary. Who could have written thisletter?”
“That’s just what I’m asking myself.”
“It could not—excuse me—have been your wife?”
“No, no. Mary would never do a thing like that. And anyway why should she sign it with myname? Oh no, she would have told me if she’d done such a thing, prepared me for your visit.”
“Then you have no idea why anyone might have sent this letter?”
“No, indeed.”
“Have you no knowledge, Mr. Restarick, as to what the matter might be on which in this letteryou apparently want to engage me?”
“How could I have an idea?”
“Excuse me,” said Poirot, “you have not yet completely read this letter. You will notice at thebottom of the first page after the signature, there is a small p.t.o.”
Restarick turned the letter over. At the top of the next page the typewriting continued.
The matter on which I wish to consult you concerns my daughter, Norma.
Restarick’s manner changed. His face darkened.
“So, that’s it! But who could know—who could possibly meddle in this matter? Who knowsabout it?”
“Could it be a way of urging you to consult me? Some well-meaning friend? You have really noidea who the writer may have been?”
“I’ve no idea whatever.”
“And you are not in trouble over a daughter of yours—a daughter named Norma?”
Restarick said slowly:
“I have a daughter named Norma. My only daughter.” His voice changed slightly as he said thelast words.
“And she is in trouble, difficulty of some kind?”
“Not that I know of.” But he hesitated slightly as he spoke the words.
Poirot leaned forward.
“I don’t think that is exactly right, Mr. Restarick. I think there is some trouble or difficultyconcerning your daughter.”
“Why should you think that? Has someone spoken to you on the subject?”
“I was going entirely by your intonation, Monsieur. Many people,” added Hercule Poirot, “arein trouble over daughters at the present date. They have a genius, young ladies, for getting intovarious kinds of trouble and difficulty. It is possible that the same obtains here.”
Restarick was silent for some few moments, drumming with his fingers on the desk.
“Yes, I am worried about Norma,” he said at last. “She is a difficult girl. Neurotic, inclined to behysterical. I—unfortunately I don’t know her very well.”
“Trouble, no doubt, over a young man?”
“In a way, yes, but that is not entirely what is worrying me. I think—” he looked appraisingly atPoirot. “Am I to take it that you are a man of discretion?”
“I should be very little good in my profession if I were not.”
“It is a case, you see, of wanting my daughter found.”
“Ah?”
“She came home last weekend as she usually does to our house in the country. She went backon Sunday night ostensibly to the flat which she occupies in common with two other girls, but Inow find that she did not go there. She must have gone—somewhere else.”
“In fact, she has disappeared?”
“It sounds too much of a melodramatic statement, but it does amount to that. I expect there’s aperfectly natural explanation, but—well, I suppose any father would be worried. She hasn’t rungup, you see, or given any explanation to the girls with whom she shares her flat.”
“They too are worried?”
“No, I should not say so. I think—well, I think they take such things easily enough. Girls arevery independent. More so than when I left En gland fifteen years ago.”
“What about the young man of whom you say you do not approve? Can she have gone awaywith him?”
“I devoutly hope not. It’s possible, but I don’t—my wife doesn’t think so. You saw him, Ibelieve, the day you came to our house to call on my uncle—”
“Ah yes, I think I know the young man of whom you speak. A very handsome young man butnot, if I may say so, a man of whom a father would approve. I noticed that your wife was notpleased, either.”
“My wife is quite certain that he came to the house that day hoping to escape observation.”
“He knows, perhaps, that he is not welcome there?”
“He knows all right,” said Restarick grimly.
“Do you not then think that it is only too likely your daughter may have joined him?”
“I don’t know what to think. I didn’t—at first.”
“You have been to the police.”
“No.”
“In the case of anyone who is missing, it is usually much better to go to the police. They too arediscreet and they have many means at their disposal which persons like myself have not.”
“I don’t want to go to the police. It’s my daughter, man, you understand? My daughter. If she’schosen to—to go away for a short time and not let us know, well, that’s up to her. There’s noreason to believe that she’s in any danger or anything like that. I—I just want to know for my ownsatisfaction where she is.”
“Is it possible, Mr. Restarick—I hope I am not unduly presuming, that that is not the only thingthat is worrying you about your daughter?”
“Why should you think there was anything else?”
“Because the mere fact that a girl is absent for a few days without telling her parents, or thefriends with whom she is living, where she is going, is not particularly unusual nowadays. It isthat, taken in conjunction with something else, I think, which has caused you this alarm.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s—” he looked doubtfully at Poirot. “It is very hard to speak ofthese things to strangers.”
“Not really,” said Poirot. “It is infinitely easier to speak to strangers of such things than it wouldbe to speak of them to friends or acquaintances. Surely you must agree to that?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps. I can see what you mean. Well, I will admit I am upset about my girl. Yousee she—she’s not quite like other girls and there’s been something already that has definitelyworried me—worried us both.”
Poirot said: “Your daughter, perhaps, is at that difficult age of young girlhood, an emotionaladolescence when, quite frankly, they are capable of performing actions for which they are hardlyto be held responsible. Do not take it amiss if I venture to make a surmise. Your daughter perhapsresents having a stepmother?”
“That is unfortunately true. And yet she has no reason to do so, M. Poirot. It is not as though myfirst wife and I had recently parted. The parting took place many years ago.” He paused and thensaid, “I might as well speak frankly to you. After all, there has been no concealment about thematter. My first wife and I drifted apart. I need not mince matters. I had met someone else,someone with whom I was quite infatuated. I left England and went to South Africa with the otherwoman. My wife did not approve of divorce and I did not ask her for one. I made suitable financialprovision for my wife and for the child—she was only five years old at the time—”
He paused and then went on:
“Looking back, I can see that I had been dissatisfied with life for some time. I’d been yearningto travel. At that period of my life I hated being tied down to an office desk. My brotherreproached me several times with not taking more interest in the family business, now that I hadcome in with him. He said that I was not pulling my weight. But I didn’t want that sort of life. Iwas restless. I wanted an adventurous life. I wanted to see the world and wild places….”
He broke off abruptly.
“Anyway—you don’t want to hear the story of my life. I went to South Africa and Louise wentwith me. It wasn’t a success. I’ll admit that straightaway. I was in love with her but we quarrelledincessantly. She hated life in South Africa. She wanted to get back to London and Paris—all thesophisticated places. We parted only about a year after we arrived there.”
He sighed.
“Perhaps I ought to have gone back then, back to the tame life that I disliked the idea of somuch. But I didn’t. I don’t know whether my wife would have had me back or not. Probably shewould have considered it her duty to do so. She was a great woman for doing her duty.”
Poirot noted the slight bitterness that ran through that sentence.
“But I ought to have thought more about Norma, I suppose. Well, there it was. The child wassafely with her mother. Financial arrangements had been made. I wrote to her occasionally andsent her presents, but I never once thought of going back to En gland and seeing her. That was notentirely blameworthy on my part. I had adopted a different way of life and I thought it would bemerely unsettling for the child to have a father who came and went, and perhaps disturbed her ownpeace of mind. Anyway, let’s say I thought I was acting for the best.”
Restarick’s words came fast now. It was as though he was feeling a definite solace in being ableto pour out his story to a sympathetic listener. It was a reaction that Poirot had often noticed beforeand he encouraged it.
“You never wished to come home on your own account?”
Restarick shook his head very definitely. “No. You see, I was living the kind of life I liked, thekind of life I was meant for. I went from South Africa to East Africa. I was doing very wellfinancially, everything I touched seemed to prosper; projects with which I was associated,occasionally with other people, sometimes on my own, all went well. I used to go off into the bushand trek. That was the life I’d always wanted. I am by nature an out-of-door man. Perhaps that’swhy when I was married to my first wife I felt trapped, held down. No, I enjoyed my freedom andI’d no wish to go back to the conventional type of life that I’d led here.”
“But you did come back in the end?”
Restarick sighed. “Yes. I did come back. Ah well, one grows old, I suppose. Also, another manand I had made a very good strike. We’d secured a concession which might have very importantconsequences. It would need negotiation in London. There I could have depended on my brotherto act, but my brother died. I was still a partner in the firm. I could return if I chose and see tothings myself. It was the first time I had thought of doing so. Of returning, I mean, to City life.”
“Perhaps your wife—your second wife—”
“Yes, you may have something there. I had been married to Mary just a month or two when mybrother died. Mary was born in South Africa but she had been to England several times and sheliked the life there. She liked particularly the idea of having an English garden!
“And I? Well, for the first time perhaps I felt I would like life in England, too. And I thought ofNorma as well. Her mother had died two years earlier. I talked to Mary about it all, and she wasquite willing to help me make a home for my daughter. The prospects all seemed good and so—”
he smiled, “—and so I came home.”
Poirot looked at the portrait that hung behind Restarick’s head. It was in a better light here thanit had been at the house in the country. It showed very plainly the man who was sitting at the desk;there were the distinctive features, the obstinancy of the chin, the quizzical eyebrows, the poise ofthe head, but the portrait had one thing that the man sitting in the chair beneath it lacked. Youth!
Another thought occurred to Poirot. Why had Andrew Restarick moved the portrait from thecountry to his London office? The two portraits of him and his wife had been companion portraitsdone at the same time and by that particular fashionable artist of the day whose speciality wasportrait painting. It would have been more natural, Poirot thought, to have left them together, asthey had been meant to be originally. But Restarick had moved one portrait, his own, to his office.
Was it a kind of vanity on his part—a wish to display himself as a City man, as someone importantto the City? Yet he was a man who had spent his time in wild places, who professed to prefer wildplaces. Or did he perhaps do it in order to keep before his mind himself in his City personality?
Did he feel the need of reinforcement?
“Or, of course,” thought Poirot, “it could be simple vanity!
“Even I myself,” said Poirot to himself, in an unusual fit of modesty, “even I myself am capableof vanity on occasions.”
The short silence, of which both men had seemed unaware, was broken. Restarick spokeapologetically.
“You must forgive me, M. Poirot. I seem to have been boring you with the story of my life.”
“There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Restarick. You have been talking really only of your life as itmay have affected that of your daughter. You are much disquieted about your daughter. But I donot think that you have yet told me the real reason. You want her found, you say?”
“Yes, I want her found.”
“You want her found, yes, but do you want her found by me? Ah, do not hesitate. La politesse—it is very necessary in life, but it is not necessary here. Listen. I tell you, if you want yourdaughter found I advise you, I—Hercule Poirot—to go to the police for they have the facilities.
And from my own knowledge they can be discreet.”
“I won’t go to the police unless—well, unless I get very desperate.”
“You would rather go to a private agent?”
“Yes. But you see, I don’t know anything about private agents. I don’t know who—who can betrusted. I don’t know who—”
“And what do you know about me?”
“I do know something about you. I know, for instance, that you held a responsible position inIntelligence during the war, since, in fact, my own uncle vouches for you. That is an admittedfact.”
The faintly cynical expression on Poirot’s face was not perceived by Restarick. The admittedfact was, as Poirot was well aware, a complete illusion—although Restarick must have knownhow undependable Sir Roderick was in the matter of memory and eyesight—he had swallowedPoirot’s own account of himself, hook, line and sinker. Poirot did not disillusion him. It merelyconfirmed him in his long-held belief that you should never believe anything anyone said withoutfirst checking it. Suspect everybody, had been for many years, if not his whole life, one of his firstaxioms.
“Let me reassure you,” said Poirot. “I have been throughout my career exceptionally successful.
I have been indeed in many ways unequalled.”
Restarick looked less reassured by this than he might have been! Indeed, to an Englishman, aman who praised himself in such terms aroused some misgivings.
He said: “What do you feel yourself, M. Poirot? Have you confidence that you can find mydaughter?”
“Probably not as quickly as the police could do, but yes. I shall find her.”
“And—and if you do—”
“But if you wish me to find her, Mr. Restarick, you must tell me all the circumstances.”
“But I have told them to you. The time, the place, where she ought to be. I can give you a list ofher friends….”
Poirot was making some violent shakings of his head. “No, no, I suggest you tell me the truth.”
“Do you suggest I haven’t told you the truth?”
“You have not told me all of it. Of that I am assured. What are you afraid of? What are theunknown facts—the facts that I have to know if I am to have success? Your daughter dislikes herstepmother. That is plain. There is nothing strange about that. It is a very natural reaction. Youmust remember that she may have secretly idealised you for many many years. That is quitepossible in the case of a broken marriage where a child has had a severe blow in her affections.
Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You say a child forgets. That is true. Your daughtercould have forgotten you in the sense that when she saw you again she might not remember yourface or your voice. She would make her own image of you. You went away. She wanted you tocome back. Her mother, no doubt, discouraged her from talking about you, and therefore shethought about you perhaps all the more. You mattered to her all the more. And because she couldnot talk about you to her own mother she had what is a very natural reaction with a child—theblaming of the parent who remains for the absence of the parent who has gone. She said to herselfsomething in the nature of ‘Father was fond of me. It’s Mother he didn’t like,’ and from that wasborn a kind of idealisation, a kind of secret liaison between you and her. What had happened wasnot her father’s fault. She will not believe it!
“Oh yes, that often happens, I assure you. I know something of the psychology. So when shelearns that you are coming home, that you and she will be reunited, many memories that she haspushed aside and not thought of for years return. Her father is coming back! He and she will behappy together! She hardly realises the stepmother, perhaps, until she sees her. And then she isviolently jealous. It is most natural, I assure you. She is violently jealous partly because your wifeis a good- looking woman, sophisticated, and well poised, which is a thing girls often resentbecause they frequently lack confidence in themselves. She herself is possibly gauche withperhaps an inferiority complex. So when she sees her competent and good-looking stepmother,quite possibly she hates her; but hates her as an adolescent girl who is still half a child might do.”
“Well—” Restarick hesitated. “That is more or less what the doctor said when we consulted him—I mean—”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “so you consulted a doctor? You must have had some reason, is it not so, forcalling in a doctor?”
“Nothing really.”
“Ah no, you cannot say that to Hercule Poirot. It was not nothing. It was something serious andyou had better tell me, because if I know just what has been in this girl’s mind, I shall make moreprogress. Things will go quicker.”
Restarick was silent for several moments, then he made up his mind.
“This is in absolute confidence, M. Poirot? I can rely on you—I have your assurance as to that?”
“By all means. What was the trouble?”
“I cannot be—be sure.”
“Your daughter entered into some action against your wife? Something more than being merelychildishly rude or saying unpleasant things. It was something worse than that—something moreserious. Did she perhaps attack her physically?”
“No, it was not an attack—not a physical attack but—nothing was proved.”
“No, no. We will admit that.”
“My wife became far from well—” He hesitated.
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Yes, I see…And what was the nature of her illness? Digestive, possibly? Aform of enteritis?”
“You’re quick, M. Poirot. You’re very quick. Yes, it was digestive. This complaint of my wife’swas puzzling, because she had always had excellent health. Finally they sent her to hospital for‘observation,’ as they call it. A check-up.”
“And the result?”
“I don’t think they were completely satisfied…She appeared to regain her health completely andwas sent home in due course. But the trouble recurred. We went carefully over the meals she had,the cooking. She seemed to be suffering from a form of intestinal poisoning for which thereappeared to be no cause. A further step was taken, tests were made of the dishes she ate. By takingsamples of everything, it was definitely proved that a certain substance had been administered invarious dishes. In each case it was a dish of which only my wife had partaken.”
“In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic. Is that right?”
“Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulative effect.”
“You suspected your daughter?”
“No.”
“I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected your daughter.”
Restarick gave a deep sigh.
“Frankly, yes.”
第十一章 1
第十一章 1
安德鲁•雷斯塔里克签了一张支票，他签字的时候露出了苦涩的表情。
他的办公室是一间宽敞大气、家具齐备、彰显出典型的巨富大亨风格的办公室。这里的家具和设备都是西蒙•雷斯塔里克遗留下来的，安德鲁•雷斯塔里克毫无兴趣地接手，并且未做过什么改动，只是把墙上的一两幅画像取了下来，换上了从乡下带过来的他自己的肖像画，还有一幅描绘桌山 [1] 的水彩画。
安德鲁•雷斯塔里克是个中年人，有点开始发福了，但是跟挂在墙上的他自己十五年前的画像相比，他却奇迹般地没有多大变化。一样凸出的下，嘴唇紧紧抿在一起，眉毛有点微微上扬，带着一种戏谑的感觉。他不是那种非常引人注目的人，只是个普通人，此时此刻，他并不感到快乐。他的秘书走了进来，他抬起头时，看到她向他的办公桌走来。
“有一位名叫赫尔克里•波洛的先生要见您。他坚持说他跟您约好了——但是我找不到预约的记录。”
“一位名叫赫尔克里•波洛的先生？”这个名字好像有些耳熟，但是他不记得是在什么场合听说过了。他摇摇头说：“我想不起关于他的任何事，虽然我好像听说过这个名字。他长什么样？”
“一个非常矮小的男人，外国人，可能是法国人，有着浓密的胡子。”
“啊，当然！我记得玛丽说起过他。他来拜访过老罗迪。但是他说跟我事先有约是怎么回事呢？”
“他说您给他写了封信。”
“我记不起来了。即使我真的写了，也可能是玛丽写的。啊，好的，不要紧，让他进来吧。我想我还是把这件事理理清楚。”
一两分钟之后，克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰就把一位身材矮小的男人带了进来。他有着鸡蛋一样圆圆的脑袋，还有浓密的八字胡，穿着一双尖头的黑色漆面皮鞋，神情中满是自信，跟他妻子所描述的那个形象非常符合。
“这位是赫尔克里•波洛先生。”克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰介绍说。
说完她就出去了，这时，赫尔克里•波洛走上前去。雷斯塔里克站了起来。
“雷斯塔里克先生？我是赫尔克里•波洛，乐意为您效劳。”
“啊，是的。我的妻子曾经提起过您，或者应该说您拜访过我舅舅。我能为您做些什么呢？”
“我是应您的那封信前来拜访您的。”
“什么信？我没给您写过信，波洛先生。”
波洛凝视着他。接着从口袋里拿出一封信，打开之后，扫了一眼，弯下身把它放到雷斯塔里克的办公桌上。“您自己看看吧，先生。”
雷斯塔里克看着这封信。这是用他自己的办公室的信纸打印出来的，他的签名在信件的末端。
亲爱的赫尔克里•波洛先生：
如果您能依照下面所写的地址尽早来与我会面的话，那我将不胜荣幸。我从我太太的描述和我在伦敦各个问讯处所打听的消息得知，如果需要办某件需要严守秘密、小心谨慎的事，您是最值得信任的人选。
谨致问候
安德鲁•雷斯塔里克
他语气尖锐地问道：“您是什么时候收到这封信的？”
“今天早晨。我手上正巧没有什么事，所以我就赶紧过来了。”
“这真是咄咄怪事，波洛先生。这封信不是我写的。”
“不是您写的？”
“不是的。我的签名根本就不是这样，您自己看看。”他随手翻开自己刚签上字的支票簿，递给波洛。“您看，这封信上的签名与我的签名完全不一样。”
“那就怪了。”波洛说，“真是太奇怪了。那么是谁写的这封信呢？”
“这也正是我的疑问。”
“会不会，不好意思，是您太太写的呢？”
“不会的，不会的，玛丽绝不会做这样的事。再说了，她为什么会签上我的名字呢？
不，不会的，如果是她要求您来这里拜访的话，她会告诉我的。”
“那么您是全然不知为什么会有某个人给我写这封信了？”
“是的，没错。”
“雷斯塔里克先生，那么您也不知道在这封信里，您说您要雇用我，是所谓何事了？”
“我怎么会知道？”
“不好意思。”波洛说，“您没看完这封信。您没注意到在这封信最后一个签名之下还有几个小字，上面写着‘请翻看下一页’。”
雷斯塔里克把信纸翻了过来。下面一张信纸上还有打印的字迹。
“我想和您谈谈我女儿诺玛的事情。”
雷斯塔里克神色大变，突然沉下脸。
“那么，就是这样的！但是谁会知道呢？谁可能会插手这件事？谁知道这件事？”
“是否有人想要促成您和我商量这件事呢？一位心存好意的朋友？您一点都不知道谁会这么做吗？”
“毫无头绪。”
“那么您的女儿没有陷入什么麻烦，您那个名叫诺玛的女儿？”
雷斯塔里克缓缓地说：“我有一个名叫诺玛的女儿。我唯一的女儿。”当他吐出最后这几个字的时候，语调也随之有些微微的改变。
“她是陷入了麻烦吗？”
“我不是很清楚。”他有些迟疑。
波洛身子前倾。
“我觉得您说得不太正确，雷斯塔里克先生。我想您女儿一定是遇到了什么麻烦或是困局。”
“为什么您会这么想呢？有人跟您谈过这件事吗？”
“我只是从您的语调中推测出来的，先生。有很多人，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“当今都遇到了关于女儿的这方面的困扰。他们家里有聪慧又年轻的姑娘，经常会惹各种麻烦和困难上身。很可能您也遇到了。”
雷斯塔里克沉默了好一阵，用手指轻弹着桌面。
“是的，我很担心诺玛。”他最后说道，“她是个棘手的姑娘。神经质，近乎歇斯底里。
很可惜，我不是那么了解她。”
“麻烦，无疑，是因为年轻男人吗？”
“从某方面来讲，是的，但不止如此。我想——”他审视着波洛，“我能把您当作一个谨慎而有判断力的人吗？”
“如果我不是如此的话，那么在我的行业里也没什么地位可言了。”
“您看，我就是想要找回我的女儿。”
“啊？”
“她上周末跟往常一样回到我们在乡下的房子里度周末。周末晚上，她表面上是回到跟另外两个姑娘合租的公寓，但是现在我知道她并没有回去。她一定是逃到什么别的地方去了。”
“您的意思是，她其实是失踪了吗？”
“听起来有些夸张，但是的确如此。我想总该有个说得过去的理由吧，做父亲的都会担心。您看，她不给家里打电话，也没有跟与她合租的那两个姑娘打过招呼。”
“她们也很担忧吗？”
“不是的，我认为没有。她们对此应该都见怪不怪了。姑娘们都比较独立，不像十五年前我离开英国时那样了。”
“那么您说的那个你们家都反对的年轻男人呢？她有没有可能跟他私奔了？”
“但愿不会这样。虽然有可能，但是我不这么认为，我的太太也不这么认为。我想那次您见到了他，就是您来拜访我舅舅的那天。”
“啊，是的。我想我知道您说的那个人。一个非常英俊的年轻人，但是我要说，他是那种做父亲的不会看得上的人。我注意到您的太太也对他不是很满意。”
“我太太确信他来我家的那天是故意避开家里人的。”
“可能他知道，他在那里不受欢迎？”
“他肯定知道。”雷斯塔里克先生严肃地说。
“那么您认为您的女儿是不太可能跟他在一起的吗？”
“我不知道我应该怎样想。我不知道，一开始我没这么想。”
“您报警了吗？”
“没有。”
“通常这种有人失踪的情况，最好还是去找警察。他们会很谨慎，并且有一些像我们这类人无法做到的处理方法。”
“我不想去找警察。这是我女儿的私事，兄弟，您明白吗？我的女儿。如果她选择暂时逃离这里，不让我们知晓，这取决于她自己。没有理由以为她身处危险中或是其他的险境。我，我只是为了让自己安心才想知道她到底在哪儿的。”
“雷斯塔里克先生，有可能，但愿我不是在胡乱猜测，这不是您唯一担忧您女儿的事吧？”
“为什么您会以为还有别的事？”
“如果只是一个姑娘在没有告知父母的情况下消失了几天，或是没有告诉跟她合租的人她的去向，这在当今不算是什么不寻常之事；因而，我认为一定是牵扯到其他什么事，才会让您如此焦心。”
“嗯，可能您是对的。那是——”他有些顾虑地看着波洛，“跟陌生人讲这些事真是难以开口。”
“那倒不一定。”波洛说，“有时对陌生人说要比对朋友或熟人说容易开口得多。您对此没有异议吧？”
“可能是的。可能是的。我知道您在说什么。是的，我承认我对我家女儿很担心。您看她，她跟其他的姑娘不太一样，还有些事已经令我感到很担忧了，让我们两人都很担忧。”
波洛说：“您的女儿，可能正处在少女时代的那种艰难时期，情绪不太稳定的青春期。
实话说，她们有能力去做很多事，但是不一定要承担做这些事的责任。请您不要介意我的推测。您的女儿可能对她的继母有些反感吧？”
“真是不幸被您言中。可是她没有理由这么做啊，波洛先生。我和我前妻并不是因为她才分开的。我们很久之前就分居了。”他顿了顿，接着说，“我还是坦诚跟您讲吧。不管怎么说，也没什么好遮掩的。我的前妻和我逐渐生疏，我不需要对此遮遮掩掩。我遇到了其他人，一个让我十分迷恋的人。我离开英国跟另一个女人去了南非。我妻子不肯跟我离婚，我也没有强迫她离婚。我为我的前妻和孩子做了适当的财务上的安排，那时候我的女儿只有五岁而已。”
他一声叹息，接着说：“回头看看，我能看到我已经对我的生活不满很久了。我盼望着四处游历。在我那段人生中，我厌弃了被束缚在办公桌前。我的哥哥好几次斥责我对家族事业不上心，现在我终于回来跟他一起了，他又说我没有全身心付出。但是我不喜欢这种生活，我不想安定下来，我想要充满冒险的生活。我想要看看世界，去往荒野之外……”
他突然停了下来。
“但是不论怎样，您也不想听我讲我的人生故事。我去往南非，露易丝与我一起。坦白地说，我们之间相处得并不好。我很爱她，但是我们不断地争吵。她讨厌在南非的生活，她想要回到伦敦和 黎，所有那些精致高雅之地。在南非待了一年之后，我们就分开了。”
他叹了口气。
“可能我那时候应该回家，回到自己如此厌弃的安稳生活中。但是我不想。我不知道我的前妻还会不会重新回到我身边。可能她会认为她有责任这么做，她是个有责任感的伟大女性。”
波洛注意到他在说这番话的时候，语气中带着一丝苦涩。
“但是我应该多为诺玛考虑。嗯，我确实该这么做。那孩子跟她母亲生活得很安稳。我为她做了很好的财务安排。我偶尔写信给她，给她寄礼物，但是我从未想过回到英国去看看她。这也不全是我的过错。我想我的生活方式是一种跟她完全不同的方式，对于孩子来说，一个总是来来去去的父亲，可能会打乱她内心的平静。总而言之，我想说，我这么做是最好的安排了。”
雷斯塔里克的语速越来越快。面对一个怀着同情心的倾听者倾吐一切，可能对他来说是莫大的心理抚慰。这是波洛之前总是会留意到并且不断加以鼓励的反应。
“您从未因自己的原因返家吗？”
雷斯塔里克非常坚定地摇摇头。“不，您看，我一直过着自己喜欢的生活，那种我想要的生活。我从南非去往东非。我在商务上做得很不错，凡是我经手的事业都很兴旺，有的项目是和他人合伙经营，有的是自己独立经营，做得都很好。我总是在森林里长途跋涉。
这才是我想要的生活。我是个天生喜爱户外生活的人。可能这就是为什么当我跟我第一任妻子结婚的时候感觉自己陷入牢笼，无法忍受的缘故。是的，我享受自由，我不希望回到这里的那种安逸生活之中。”
“但是您最终还是回来了啊？”
雷斯塔里克叹了口气。“是的，我还是回来了。啊，是的，我想我是老了。除此之外，我还跟另外一个人合作了一个非常不错的项目。我们取得了一项特许权，这会带来丰厚的利润。这需要在伦敦商谈，我本来可以拜托给我哥哥的，但是他去世了。我还是这家公司的股东，我可以回去自己经营。这是我第一次想这么做——我指的是回到城市的生活中。”
“可能您的太太，我是指您的第二任妻子——”
“是的，我明白。在我哥哥去世一两个月之后，我跟玛丽结婚了。玛丽出生在南非，但是她来过英国几次，她喜欢待在这里。她特别想拥有一个英式花园！
“至于我？我也是第一次感到自己可能也会喜欢在英国生活。我也想到了诺玛。她母亲两年前去世了。我跟玛丽谈到了这一切，她很愿意给我女儿一个家。这一切看起来是那么美好，因此——”他笑了起来，“——因此我回了家。”
波洛看了看挂在雷斯塔里克先生头上方的肖像画。这间屋子里的光线比乡下的老房子里要好，很容易就能分辨出肖像画里的人物就是此时此刻坐在桌子后面的那个人。他的容貌很有辨识性——凸出的下，有些戏谑意味的眉毛，头部的姿势，但是坐在椅子上的这个人却少了肖像画中的人物所具备的某样东西。没有了青春朝气！
波洛又有了一些别的想法。为什么安德鲁•雷斯塔里克会把这幅肖像画从乡间搬到这间伦敦的办公室里呢？他和他太太的两幅肖像画都是由当时一位名声斐然的人像画家所绘。
波洛想，按理说，依照之前的设想，这两幅画不是应该挂在一起吗？但是雷斯塔里克却把自己的肖像画移到了自己的办公室。这是不是他的某种虚荣心作怪呢？他想要传达他是一个城里人，对这个城市意义重大？虽然他在蛮荒之地待了很长时间，他也自称更喜爱荒野之地。或是他这么做是为了提醒自己，现在自己是个城里人了？他是否觉得需要强调这种形象呢？
“或是，当然了，”波洛想，“可能只是因为虚荣心！”
“甚至我自己。”波洛以一种不同寻常的谦虚之心想，“甚至我自己偶尔也会虚荣心泛滥。”
这一段这两人都未觉察的沉默被雷斯塔里克先生谦逊的话语打破了。
“您一定要原谅我，波洛先生。好像您已经被我絮叨的我的人生故事弄得很烦了吧？”
“这没什么，雷斯塔里克先生。您所谈到的您自己的生活也不过是那些可能会影响到您女儿的事罢了。您对您的女儿非常担忧。但是我觉得您还没有告诉我真正的原因。您想要找到她，您是这么说的吗？”
“是的，我想要找到她。”
“您想要找到她，是的，但是您是要我去找她吗？不，不要迟疑。那些客气话在生活中很有必要，但是此时此地却没有什么必要。听着，我告诉您，如果您想要我找到您女儿的话，我建议您，我，赫尔克里•波洛建议您去警察局，因为他们有这样的能力。据我所知，他们的言行都很谨慎。”
“我不想去找警察，除非，除非我走投无路。”
“您更愿意找一位私家侦探吗？”
“是的，但是您看，我不了解什么私家侦探。我不知道谁，谁能信任。我不知道谁——”
“您对我了解多少呢？”
“我对您略有了解。比如，您在大战期间在情报工作领域担当重任，事实上，我的舅舅就举荐过您。这是个无法辩驳的事实。”
波洛的脸上露出一丝轻微的嘲讽之感，雷斯塔里克并没有感觉到。那是无法辩驳的事实，波洛很清楚，完全就是幻想。雷斯塔里克对此也心知肚明，他知道罗德里克爵士记忆衰退、耳聋眼花，罗德里克爵士把波洛所说的那些关于他的所谓传言都一股脑吞下。波洛并没有欺骗他，只是证实了自己一贯坚持的信条：在没有证实之前，绝不相信任何人所说的任何话。对每一个人心存怀疑，即使说不上奉行终生，也坚持了很多年，这是他的首要信条。
“我向您保证。”波洛说，“我的整个职业生涯可以说是极其成功。我确实在很多方面都让人难以超越。”
雷斯塔里克听到这番话的表现比他可能该有的反应更缺乏说服力！对于一个英国人来说，一个如此吹捧自己的人，一定会引起他的某些怀疑的。
他说：“您自我感觉如何，波洛先生？您有信心找到我的女儿吗？”
“可能不如警察找得那么快，但是肯定可以。我能找到她。”
“那么，如果您可以——”
“如果您希望通过我找到她，雷斯塔里克先生，您一定要告诉我所有的情况。”
“但是我已经告诉过您了。时间，地点，她可能会去哪儿。我给您一份她的朋友的清单……”
波洛猛烈地摇摇头。“不，不，我要您告诉我实情。”
“您认为我对您隐瞒了什么吗？”
“您没有全部都告诉我。对此我可以肯定。您在害怕什么？那些不为人知的真相是什么？那些如果为了成功找到她需要了解的真相。您的女儿讨厌她的继母，这是显而易见的，对此不用感到奇怪，这是个很自然的反应。您一定记得她曾经在很多年间都把您当成一个理想的化身。对于在破碎婚姻中的孩子而言，这很有可能会发生。是的，是的，我知道我在说什么。您说一个孩子不太记事。确实如此。您女儿不太记得您，当你们再次重逢之时，她可能会忘了您的相貌和声音。她会自己塑造一个您的形象。您离她而去，她希望您再回来。她的母亲，毫无疑问，不想要她提起您，因此她可能会更加期盼您，您对她的意义会更如重要。并且因为她不能跟自己的母亲谈到您，所以一个孩子会有的正常反应是会将父母亲中离开的那一方的缺失都怪在留在自己身边的那一方的身上。她有时会理所当然地对自己说：‘父亲是喜欢我的，他只是不喜欢我母亲。’这种存在于您和她之间的那种奇妙的联系会产生一种理想化的形象。发生的一切都不是她父亲的错。她不会相信这些事！
“啊，是的，我敢说这种情况时常会发生。我略微懂一些心理学的知识。所以当她知道您要回家了，您和她会重聚，那么那些搁置在一旁的很多年都不愿意想起的记忆会再次翻涌起来。她的父亲要回来了！他和她会快乐地生活在一起！她可能几乎不会意识到她继母的存在，直到她真的见到了她。那么接着她会产生强烈的嫉妒。我跟您说，这再自然不过了。她的如此强烈的嫉妒心有一部分是因为您的太太是个美丽的年轻女人，精致高贵，姿态优雅，这是小姑娘们通常会感到非常嫉恨的地方，因为她们总是对自身缺乏自信。她自身可能言行笨拙，有自卑情结。所以当她看到她的继母是如此美丽优雅，她可能会嫉妒她，但是这种嫉恨只是一个像个半大孩子似的青春期的姑娘的行为。”
“嗯，”雷斯塔里克先生迟疑着，“我们去咨询医生的时候，他差不多也是这么讲的，我的意思是——”
“啊哈。”波洛说，“那么您是去咨询过医生了？您去找医生一定是出于某些理由吧？”
“倒也不能这么说。”
“啊，不，您可不能这么对我赫尔克里•波洛说。这没什么。一定是发生了严重的情况，您最好还是告诉我，因为如果我弄明白这个姑娘的所思所想之后，我会更好地推进这件事的，事情会办得更快。”
雷斯塔里克沉默了一会儿，接着下定决心。
“波洛先生，您能完全保守秘密吗？我信任您，在这件事上我能得到您的保证吗？”
“无论如何我都会的。您遇到了什么麻烦？”
“我不能那么肯定。”
“您的女儿对您太太做了什么事吗？不只是那种孩子似的粗鲁无礼或是说些令人不快的话，而是另一些更糟糕的事情，一些很严重的事？她是对她做出了什么身体上的攻击吗？”
“不是的，不是一次攻击，不是身体上的攻击，但是，这没办法证实。”
“不，不。我们需要对此证实。”
“我太太变得越发虚弱了。”他迟疑地说道。
“啊。”波洛说，“是的，我明白了……她患了什么病呢？消化系统疾病，我猜？一种胃肠炎吗？”
“您脑子转得真快，波洛先生。您的思维敏捷极了。是的，就是消化系统的疾病。我太太的这种疾病很让人费解，因为她身体一向很健康。最后我们只好送她去‘观察’，他们是这样说的。就是检查身体。”
“那么结果怎样呢？”
“我看他们也不知道是怎么回事……在留院观察之后，回到家她就康复了。但是接着病情又出现反复。我们仔细地对她的饮食做了检查，她好像是肠道中毒，但是找不到中毒的原因。我们做了进一步调查，检测了她吃过的每一道菜。在每样食物都抽样送检之后，发现在不同的食物里都包含有一种物质。抽检的菜品都是我太太偏爱的。”
“也就是有人给她下毒，是吗？”
“确实如此。下毒的分量很小，但是最终累积起来会产生效果。”
“您怀疑自己的女儿？”
“不。”
“我想您是怀疑过她，除了她之外还能有谁？您还是怀疑您的女儿。”雷斯塔里克深深叹了口气。
“坦白说，是的。”
Eleven II
II
When Poirot arrived home, George was awaiting him:
“A woman named Edith rang up, sir—”
“Edith?” Poirot frowned.
“She is, I gather, in the service of Mrs. Oliver. She asked me to inform you that Mrs. Oliver isin St. Giles’s Hospital.”
“What has happened to her?”
“I understand she has been—er—coshed.” George did not add the latter part of the message,which had been—“—and you tell him it’s been all his fault.”
Poirot clicked his tongue. “I warned her—I was uneasy last night when I rang her up, and therewas no answer. Les Femmes!”
第十一章 2
2
当波洛回到家之后，乔治正在等着他。
“一个名叫艾迪斯的女人给您打过电话，先生——”“艾迪斯？”波洛皱起眉来。
“她是，我猜啊，是在奥利弗夫人家里做帮佣的。她让我告知您奥利弗夫人现在在圣吉尔斯医院里。”“她出了什么事？”
“据我所知，呃，是被人用短棍打了。”乔治没有说剩下的口信——“你告诉他，这都是他的错。”
波洛感叹：“我警告过她，昨天晚上我给她打电话的时候，没人回应，我就有些不安了。女人啊！”
[1]Table Mountain，桌山，位于南非境内开普敦附近，海拔3550英尺，又译作塔布尔山。——译者注
Twelve
Twelve
“Let’s buy a peacock,” said Mrs. Oliver suddenly and unexpectedly. She did not open her eyes asshe made this remark, and her voice was weak though full of indignation.
Three people brought startled eyes to bear upon her. She made a further statement.
“Hit on the head.”
She opened badly focused eyes and endeavoured to make out where she was.
The first thing she saw was a face entirely strange to her. A young man who was writing in anotebook. He held the pencil poised in his hand.
“Policeman,” said Mrs. Oliver decisively.
“I beg your pardon, Madam?”
“I said you were a policeman,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Am I right?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Criminal assault,” said Mrs. Oliver and closed her eyes in a satisfied manner. When she openedthem again, she took in her surroundings more fully. She was in a bed, one of those rather highhygienic-looking hospital beds, she decided. The kind that you shoot up and down and round andabout. She was not in her own house. She looked round and decided on her environment.
“Hospital, or could be nursing home,” she said.
A sister was standing with an air of authority at the door, and a nurse was standing by her bed.
She identified a fourth figure. “Nobody,” said Mrs. Oliver, “could mistake those moustaches. Whatare you doing here, M. Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot advanced towards the bed. “I told you to be careful, Madame,” he said.
“Anyone might lose their way,” said Mrs. Oliver, somewhat obscurely, and added, “My headaches.”
“With good cause. As you surmise, you were hit on the head.”
“Yes. By the Peacock.”
The policeman stirred uneasily then said, “Excuse me, Madam, you say you were assaulted by apeacock?”
“Of course. I’d had an uneasy feeling for some time—you know, atmosphere.” Mrs. Oliver triedto wave her hand in an appropriate gesture to describe atmosphere, and winced. “Ouch,” she said,“I’d better not try that again.”
“My patient must not get overexcited,” said the sister with disapproval.
“Can you tell me where this assault occurred?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’d lost my way. I was coming from a kind of studio. Very badlykept. Dirty. The other young man hadn’t shaved for days. A greasy leather jacket.”
“Is this the man who assaulted you?”
“No, it’s another one.”
“If you could just tell me—”
“I am telling you, aren’t I? I’d followed him, you see, all the way from the café—only I’m notvery good at following people. No practice. It’s much more difficult than you’d think.”
Her eyes focused on the policeman. “But I suppose you know all about that. You have courses—in following people, I mean? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. You see,” she said, speakingwith sudden rapidity, “it’s quite simple. I had got off at The World’s End, I think it was, andnaturally I thought he had stayed with the others—or gone the other way. But instead, he came upbehind me.”
“Who was this?”
“The Peacock,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and he startled me, you see. It does startle you when you findthings are the wrong way round. I mean he following you instead of you following him—only itwas earlier—and I had a sort of uneasy feeling. In fact, you know, I was afraid. I don’t know why.
He spoke quite politely but I was afraid. Anyway there it was and he said ‘Come up and see thestudio’ and so I came up rather a rickety staircase. A kind of ladder staircase and there was thisother young man—the dirty young man—and he was painting a picture, and the girl was acting asmodel. She was quite clean. Rather pretty really. And so there we were and they were quite niceand polite, and then I said I must be getting home, and they told me the right way to get back tothe King’s Road. But they can’t really have told me the right way. Of course I might have made amistake. You know, when people tell you second left and third right, well, you sometimes do it thewrong way round. At least I do. Anyway, I got into a rather peculiar slummy part quite close tothe river. The afraid feeling had gone away by then. I must have been quite off my guard when thePeacock hit me.”
“I think she’s delirous,” said the nurse in an explanatory voice.
“No, I’m not,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know what I’m talking about.”
The nurse opened her mouth, caught the sister’s admonitory eye and shut it again quickly.
“Velvets and satins and long curly hair,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“A peacock in satin? A real peacock, Madam. You thought you saw a peacock near the river inChelsea?”
“A real peacock?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course not. How silly. What would a real peacock bedoing down on Chelsea Embankment?”
Nobody appeared to have an answer to this question.
“He struts,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that’s why I nicknamed him a peacock. Shows off, you know.
Vain, I should think. Proud of his looks. Perhaps a lot of other things as well.” She looked atPoirot. “David something. You know who I mean.”
“You say this young man of the name of David assaulted you by striking you on the head?”
“Yes I do.”
Hercule Poirot spoke. “You saw him?”
“I didn’t see him,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I didn’t know anything about it. I just thought I heardsomething behind me, and before I could turn my head to look—it all happened! Just as if a ton ofbricks or something fell on me. I think I’ll go to sleep now,” she added.
She moved her head slightly, made a grimace of pain, and relapsed into what appeared to be aperfectly satisfactory unconsciousness.
第十二章
第十二章
“我们来买只孔雀吧。”奥利弗夫人毫无预兆地突然说出这句话。当她这么说的时候，眼睛并没有睁开，她的声音虽然满含愤恨但是却相当虚弱。
三双眼睛惊恐地紧盯着她。她又说起话来。
“往脑袋上敲。”
她睁开那双有些不太聚光的眼睛，努力想要知道自己身处何地。
她最先看到的是一张对于她来说完全陌生的脸庞。一个年轻人正在笔记本上写着什么。他拿着铅笔的手很是稳当。“警察。”奥利弗夫人断然说道。
“请您再说一遍，夫人。”
“我说你是个警察。”奥利弗夫人说，“我说得不对吗？”
“是的，夫人。”
“暴力殴打。”奥利弗夫人满意地闭上了眼睛。当她再次睁开眼的时候，她对周围的环境了解得更全面了些。她躺在床上，据她观察，这是一张看上去很整洁的高级病床，是那种可以摇上摇下、随意调整方向的病床。她四下环顾，确认了自己所处的环境。
“医院，或者可能是疗养院。”她说。
一位修女带着一种权威感站在门口，还有一位护士站在她床边。她认出了第四个人。“没有人，”奥利弗夫人说，“会认错他那浓密的胡子。你在这里做什么呢，波洛先生？”
赫尔克里•波洛向床边走去。“我告诉过您要小心，夫人。”他说。
“人都会迷路的嘛。”奥利弗夫人说道，语气有些含含糊糊，她补充道，“我头痛。”
“那肯定是了。据您推测，有人敲击了您的头。”
“是的，是那只孔雀。”
那位警察紧张不安地盯着她。“不好意思，夫人，您说您是被一只孔雀袭击了吗？”
“当然是。我一直有种很不安的感觉，您知道的，一种气氛。”奥利弗夫人想要挥动着手描绘一下那种气氛，却把手缩了回来。“哎呀。”她叫道，“我还是别这么做了。”
“我的病人不能过于激动。”那位修女制止道。
“您能告诉我这次袭击发生在哪里吗？”
“我一点概念都没有。我迷路了。我从一间艺术工作室里出来——是那种肮脏杂乱的工作室。有一个年轻人已经很久没有刮过胡子了，还穿着一件油腻的脏兮兮的夹克。”
“是那个人袭击了您吗？”
“不，是另一个人。”
“要是您能告诉我——”
“我就是在跟您说啊，不是吗？我追踪着他，从我出了咖啡店之后——我不是那么善于跟踪人。练得不够，比你想象的要困难得多。”
她的眼睛聚焦在那位警察身上。“但是我想您一定很擅长。我的意思是，您接受过如何跟踪人的培训。啊，不要在意，这不要紧。您明白的。”她语速突然加快，“这相当简单。
我在‘世界尽头’下了车，我想应该是那一站，我自然以为他会跟其他人待在那里的，或是走另外一条路。但是他却出现在我身后。”
“您说的是谁？”
“那只孔雀。”奥利弗夫人说，“您明白的，他吓住了我。当您发现事情被翻转过来之后，您就会被吓住。我的意思是，本来是我跟踪他，结果却反被跟踪，当然这之前我就有一种不安的紧张感。事实上，您知道的，我很害怕。我不知道为什么。他说话彬彬有礼，但是我还是感到害怕。总之，他就站在那儿，说：‘来吧，跟我去看看工作室。’我跟他一起上了一个相当摇晃的破楼梯。那种像梯子一样的楼梯，上面的工作室里有另外一个年轻人，一个脏兮兮的年轻人，他正在画画，有一个姑娘在当他的模特。她很干净，还相当美丽。我们攀谈了一会儿，他们都很友善礼貌，接着我说我必须回家了，他们告诉我去往国王大道的正确路径。但是他们不可能告诉我正确的路径。当然了，也可能是我自己弄错了。您知道的，当有人给您指路的时候，告诉您第二个路口左转，第三个路口右转，好的，您有时候就会把方向弄错。最起码我是这样的。不管怎么说，我来到了临河的一个贫民区。那时候我已经不怎么感到害怕了。当那只孔雀袭击我的时候，我一定是失去了戒心。”
“我想她一定是神志不清醒。”那位护士解释道。
“不，我恐怕不是的。”奥利弗夫人说道，“我知道我在说什么。”
那位护士大张着嘴，看到了那位修女责怪的眼神，她很快又闭上了嘴。
“穿着天鹅绒和绸缎，还有一头长长的卷发。”奥利弗夫人说道。
“穿着黑色丝质衬衫的孔雀吗？一只真正的孔雀，夫人。您说您在切尔西区的河边看到一只孔雀吗？”
“一只真正的孔雀？”奥利弗夫人说，“当然不是了。真是愚蠢！一只真正的孔雀跑到切尔西的河堤去做什么？”
没人能回答这个问题。
“他非常招摇。”奥利弗夫人说，“这就是我为什么给他取了‘孔雀’这个绰号。你知道的，四处炫耀，虚荣，我应该这么说。对他的外貌很是自负，可能还对别的方面也颇为自得。”她看向波洛补充说：“叫大卫什么的。你知道我说的是谁。”
“您说那个名叫大卫的年轻人敲击了您的脑袋。”
“是的，是这样的。”
波洛开口问：“您看见了他？”
“我没看到他。”奥利弗夫人说，“我什么都不知道。我只是感觉有什么东西在我身后，在我转过头去看之前就发生了这样的事！就好像被千斤重的石头或是什么东西砸中。我想我现在该睡会儿了。”她补充道。
她轻轻移动了一下头，脸上满是痛苦的表情，她很快就进入了看上去很安详的昏睡状态。
Thirteen
Thirteen
Poirot seldom used the key to his flat. Instead, in an old-fashioned manner, he pressed the bell andwaited for that admirable factotum, George, to open the door. On this occasion, however, after hisvisit to the hospital, the door was opened to him by Miss Lemon.
“You’ve got two visitors,” said Miss Lemon, pitching her voice in an admirable tone, not ascarrying as a whisper but a good many notes lower than her usual pitch. “One’s Mr. Goby and theother is an old gentleman called Sir Roderick Horsefield. I don’t know which you want to seefirst.”
“Sir Roderick Horsefield,” mused Poirot. He considered this with his head on one side, lookingrather like a robin while he decided how this latest development was likely to affect the generalpicture. Mr. Goby, however, materialised with his usual suddenness from the small room whichwas sacred to Miss Lemon’s typewriting and where she had evidently kept him in storage.
Poirot removed his overcoat. Miss Lemon hung it up on the hall stand, and Mr. Goby, as washis fashion, addressed the back of Miss Lemon’s head.
“I’ll have a cup of tea in the kitchen with George,” said Mr. Goby. “My time is my own. I’llkeep.”
He disappeared obligingly into the kitchen. Poirot went into his sitting room where Sir Roderickwas pacing up and down full of vitality.
“Run you down, my boy,” he said genially. “Wonderful thing the telephone.”
“You remembered my name? I am gratified.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly remember your name,” said Sir Roderick. “Names, you know, havenever been my strong point. Never forget a face,” he ended proudly. “No. I rang up ScotlandYard.”
“Oh!” Poirot looked faintly startled, though reflecting that that was the sort of thing that SirRoderick would do.
“Asked me who I wanted to speak to. I said, put me on to the top. That’s the thing to do in life,my boy. Never accept second in charge. No good. Go to the top, that’s what I say. I said who Iwas, mind you. Said I wanted to speak to the top brass and I got on to it in the end. Very civilfellow. Told him I wanted the address of a chap in Allied Intelligence who was out with me at acertain place in France at a certain date. The chap seemed a bit at sea, so I said: ‘You know who Imean.’ A Frenchman, I said, or a Belgian. Belgian, weren’t you? I said: ‘He’s got a Christianname something like Achilles. It’s not Achilles,’ I said, ‘but it’s like Achilles. Little chap,’ I said,‘big moustaches.’ And then he seemed to catch on, and he said you’d be in the telephone book, hethought. I said that’s all right, but I said: ‘He won’t be listed under Achilles or Hercules (as he saidit was), will he? and I can’t remember his second name.’ So then he gave it me. Very civil sort offellow. Very civil, I must say.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said Poirot, sparing a hurried thought for what might be said to himlater by Sir Roderick’s telephone acquaintance. Fortunately it was not likely to have been quite thetop brass. It was presumably someone with whom he was already acquainted, and whose job itwas to produce civility on tap for distinguished persons of a bygone day.
“Anyway,” said Sir Roderick, “I got here.”
“I am delighted. Let me offer you some refreshment. Tea, a grenadine, a whisky and soda, somesirop de cassis—”
“Good lord, no,” said Sir Roderick, alarmed at the mention of sirop de cassis. “I’ll take whiskyfor choice. Not that I’m allowed it,” he added, “but doctors are all fools, as we know. All they carefor is stopping you having anything you’ve a fancy for.”
Poirot rang for George and gave him the proper instructions. The whisky and the siphon wereplaced at Sir Roderick’s elbow and George withdrew.
“Now,” said Poirot, “what can I do for you?”
“Got a job for you, old boy.”
After the lapse of time, he seemed even more convinced of the close liaison between him andPoirot in the past, which was as well, thought Poirot, since it would produce an even greaterdependence on his, Poirot’s, capabilities by Sir Roderick’s nephew.
“Papers,” said Sir Roderick, dropping his voice. “Lost some papers and I’ve got to find ’em,see? So I thought what with my eyes not being as good as they were, and the memory being a trifleoff-key sometimes, I’d better go to someone in the know. See? You came along in the nick of timethe other day, just in time to be useful, because I’ve got to cough ’em up, you understand.”
“It sounds most interesting,” said Poirot. “What are these papers, if I may ask?”
“Well, I suppose if you’re going to find them, you’ll have to ask, won’t you? Mind you, they’revery secret and confidential. Top secret—or they were once. And it seems as though they aregoing to be again. An interchange of letters, it was. Not of any particular importance at the time—or it was thought they were of no importance; but then of course politics change. You know theway it is. They go round and face the other way. You know how it was when the war broke out.
None of us knew whether we were on our head or on our heels. One war we’re pals with theItalians, next war we’re enemies. I don’t know which of them all was the worst. First war theJapanese were our dear allies, and the next war there they are blowing up Pearl Harbor! Neverknew where you were! Start one way with the Russians, and finish the opposite way. I tell you,Poirot, nothing’s more difficult nowadays than the question of allies. They can change overnight.”
“And you have lost some papers,” said Poirot, recalling the old man to the subject of his visit.
“Yes. I’ve got a lot of papers, you know, and I’ve dug ’em out lately. I had ’em put away safely.
In a bank, as a matter of fact, but I got ’em all out and I began sorting through them because Ithought why not write my memoirs. All the chaps are doing it nowadays. We’ve had Montgomeryand Alanbrooke and Auchinleck all shooting their mouths off in print, mostly saying what theythought of the other generals. We’ve even had old Moran, a respectable physician, blabbing abouthis important patient. Don’t know what things will come to next! Anyway, there it is, and Ithought I’d be quite interested myself in telling a few facts about some people I knew! Whyshouldn’t I have a go as well as everyone else? I was in it all.”
“I am sure it could be a matter of much interest to people,” said Poirot.
“Ah-ha, yes! One knew a lot of people in the news. Everyone looked at them with awe. Theydidn’t know they were complete fools, but I knew. My goodness, the mistakes some of those brasshats made—you’d be surprised. So I got out my papers, and I had the little girl help me sort ’emout. Nice little girl, that, and quite bright. Doesn’t know English very well, but apart from that,she’s very bright and helpful. I’d salted away a lot of stuff, but everything was in a bit of amuddle. The point of the whole thing is, the papers I wanted weren’t there.”
“Weren’t there?”
“No. We thought we’d given it a miss by mistake to begin with, but we went over it again and Ican tell you, Poirot, a lot of stuff seemed to me to have been pinched. Some of it wasn’t important.
Actually, the stuff I was looking for wasn’t particularly important—I mean, nobody had thought itwas, otherwise I suppose I shouldn’t have been allowed to keep it. But anyway, these particularletters weren’t there.”
“I wish of course to be discreet,” said Poirot, “but can you tell me at all the nature of theseletters you refer to?”
“Don’t know that I can, old boy. The nearest I can go is of somebody who’s shooting off hismouth nowadays about what he did and what he said in the past. But he’s not speaking the truth,and these letters just show exactly how much of a liar he is! Mind you, I don’t suppose they’d bepublished now. We’ll just send him nice copies of them, and tell him this is exactly what he didsay at the time, and that we’ve got it in writing. I shouldn’t be surprised if—well, things went a bitdifferently after that. See? I hardly need ask that, need I? You’re familiar with all that kind oftalky-talky.”
“You’re quite right, Sir Roderick. I know exactly the kind of thing you mean, but you see alsothat it is not easy to help you recover something if one does not know what that something is, andwhere it is likely to be now.”
“First things first: I want to know who pinched ’em, because you see that’s the important point.
There may be more top secret stuff in my little collection, and I want to know who’s tamperingwith it.”
“Have you any ideas yourself?”
“You think I ought to have, heh?”
“Well, it would seem that the principal possibility—”
“I know. You want me to say it’s the little girl. Well, I don’t think it is the little girl. She saysshe didn’t, and I believe her. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Poirot with a slight sigh, “I understand.”
“For one thing she’s too young. She wouldn’t know these things were important. It’s before hertime.”
“Someone else might have instructed her as to that,” Poirot pointed out.
“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But it’s too obvious as well.”
Poirot sighed. He doubted if it was any use insisting in view of Sir Roderick’s obviouspartiality. “Who else had access?”
“Andrew and Mary, of course, but I doubt if Andrew would even be interested in such things.
Anyway, he’s always been a very decent boy. Always was. Not that I’ve ever known him verywell. Used to come for the holidays once or twice with his brother and that’s about all. Of course,he ditched his wife, and went off with an attractive bit of goods to South Africa, but that mighthappen to any man, especially with a wife like Grace. Not that I ever saw much of her, either.
Kind of woman who looked down her nose and was full of good works. Anyway you can’timagine a chap like Andrew being a spy. As for Mary, she seems all right. Never looks at anythingbut a rose bush as far as I can make out. There’s a gardener but he’s eighty-three and has lived inthe village all his life, and there are a couple of women always dodging about the house making anoise with Hoovers, but I can’t see them in the role of spies either. So you see it’s got to be anoutsider. Of course Mary wears a wig,” went on Sir Roderick rather inconsequently. “I mean itmight make you think she was a spy because she wore a wig, but that’s not the case. She lost herhair in a fever when she was eighteen. Pretty bad luck for a young woman. I’d no idea she wore awig to begin with but a rose bush caught in her hair one day and whisked it sideways. Yes, verybad luck.”
“I thought there was something a little odd about the way she had arranged her hair,” saidPoirot.
“Anyway, the best secret agents never wear wigs,” Sir Roderick informed him. “Poor devilshave to go to plastic surgeons and get their faces altered. But someone’s been mucking about withmy private papers.”
“You don’t think that you may perhaps have placed them in some different container—in adrawer or a different file. When did you see them last?”
“I handled these things about a year ago. I remember I thought then, they’d make rather goodcopy, and I noted those particular letters. Now they’re gone. Somebody’s taken them.”
“You do not suspect your nephew Andrew, his wife or the domestic staff. What about thedaughter?”
“Norma? Well Norma’s a bit off her onion, I’d say. I mean she might be one of thosekleptomaniacs who take people’s things without knowing they’re taking them but I don’t see herfumbling about among my papers.”
“Then what do you think?”
“Well, you’ve been in the house. You saw what the house is like. Anyone can walk in and outanytime they like. We don’t lock our doors. We never have.”
“Do you lock the door of your own room—if you go up to London, for instance?”
“I never thought of it as necessary. I do now of course, but what’s the use of that? Too late.
Anyway, I’ve only an ordinary key, fits any of the doors. Someone must have come in fromoutside. Why nowadays that’s how all the burglaries take place. People walk in in the middle ofthe day, stump up the stairs, go into any room they like, rifle the jewel box, go out again, andnobody sees them or cares who they are. They probably look like mods or rockers or beatniks orwhatever they call these chaps nowadays with the long hair and the dirty nails. I’ve seen more thanone of them prowling about. One doesn’t like to say ‘Who the devil are you?’ You never knowwhich sex they are, which is embarrassing. The place crawls with them. I suppose they’re Norma’sfriends. Wouldn’t have been allowed in the old days. But you turn them out of the house, and thenyou find out it’s Viscount Endersleigh or Lady Charlotte Marjoribanks. Don’t know where you arenowadays.” He paused. “If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can, Poirot.” He swallowed thelast mouthful of whisky and got up.
“Well, that’s that. It’s up to you. You’ll take it on, won’t you?”
“I will do my best,” said Poirot.
The front-door bell rang.
“That’s the little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “Punctual to the minute. Wonderful, isn’t it? Couldn’tgo about London without her, you know. Blind as a bat. Can’t see to cross the road.”
“Can you not have glasses?”
“I’ve got some somewhere, but they’re always falling off my nose or else I lose them. Besides, Idon’t like glasses. I’ve never had glasses. When I was sixty-five I could see to read without glassesand that’s pretty good.”
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot, “lasts forever.”
George ushered in Sonia. She was looking extremely pretty. Her slightly shy manner becameher very well, Poirot thought. He moved forward with Gallic empressement.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“I’m not late, am I, Sir Roderick,” she said, looking past him. “I have not kept you waiting.
Please I hope not.”
“Exactly to the minute, little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “All shipshape and Bristol fashion,” headded.
Sonia looked slightly perplexed.
“Made a good tea, I hope,” Sir Roderick went on. “I told you, you know, to have a good tea,buy yourself some buns or éclairs or whatever it is young ladies like nowadays, eh? You obeyedorders, I hope.”
“No, not exactly. I took the time to buy a pair of shoes. Look, they are pretty, are they not?” Shestuck out a foot.
It was certainly a very pretty foot. Sir Roderick beamed at it.
“Well, we must go and catch our train,” he said. “I may be old-fashioned but I’m all for trains.
Start to time and get there on time, or they should do. But these cars, they get in a queue in therush hour and you may idle the time away for about an hour and a half more than you need. Cars!
Pah!”
“Shall I ask Georges to get you a taxi?” asked Hercule Poirot. “It will be no trouble, I assureyou.”
“I have a taxi already waiting,” said Sonia.
“There you are,” said Sir Roderick, “you see, she thinks of everything.” He patted her on theshoulder. She looked at him in a way that Hercule Poirot fully appreciated.
Poirot accompanied them to the hall door and took a polite leave of them. Mr. Goby had comeout of the kitchen and was standing in the hall giving, it could be said, an excellent performance ofa man who had come to see about the gas.
George shut the hall door as soon as they had disappeared into the lift, and turned to meetPoirot’s gaze.
“And what is your opinion of that young lady, Georges, may I ask?” said Poirot. On certainpoints he always said George was infallible.
“Well, sir,” said George, “if I might put it that way, if you’ll allow me, I would say he’d got itbadly, sir. All over her as you might say.”
“I think you are right,” said Hercule Poirot.
“It’s not unusual of course with gentlemen of that age. I remember Lord Mountbryan. He’d hada lot of experience in his life and you’d say he was as fly as anyone. But you’d be surprised. Ayoung woman as came to give him massage. You’d be surprised at what he gave her. An eveningfrock, and a pretty bracelet. Forget-me-nots, it was. Turquoise and diamonds. Not too expensivebut costing quite a pretty penny all the same. Then a fur wrap—not mink, Russian ermine, and apetty point evening bag. After that her brother got into trouble, debt or something, though whethershe ever had a brother I sometimes wondered. Lord Mountbryan gave her the money to square it—she was so upset about it! All platonic, mind you, too. Gentlemen seem to lose their sense thatway when they get to that age. It’s the clinging ones they go for, not the bold type.”
“I have no doubt that you are quite right, Georges,” said Poirot. “It is all the same not acomplete answer to my question. I asked what you thought of the young lady.”
“Oh, the young lady…Well, sir, I wouldn’t like to say definitely, but she’s quite a definite type.
There’s never anything that you could put your finger on. But they know what they’re doing, I’dsay.”
Poirot entered his sitting room and Mr. Goby followed him, obeying Poirot’s gesture. Mr. Gobysat down on an upright chair in his usual attitude. Knees together, toes turned in. He took a ratherdog-eared little notebook from his pocket, opened it carefully and then proceeded to survey thesoda water siphon severely.
“Re the backgrounds you asked me to look up.
“Restarick family, perfectly respectable and of good standing. No scandal. The father, JamesPatrick Restarick, said to be a sharp man over a bargain. Business has been in the family threegenerations. Grandfather founded it, father enlarged it, Simon Restarick kept it going. SimonRestarick had coronary trouble two years ago, health declined. Died of coronary thrombosis, abouta year ago.
“Young brother Andrew Restarick came into the business soon after he came down fromOxford, married Miss Grace Baldwin. One daughter, Norma. Left his wife and went out to SouthAfrica. A Miss Birell went with him. No divorce proceedings. Mrs. Andrew Restarick died twoand a half years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. Miss Norma Restarick was a boarder atMeadowfield Girls’ School. Nothing against her.”
Allowing his eyes to sweep across Hercule Poirot’s face, Mr. Goby observed, “In facteverything about the family seems quite OK and according to Cocker.”
“No black sheep, no mental instability?”
“It doesn’t appear so.”
“Disappointing,” said Poirot.
Mr. Goby let this pass. He cleared his throat, licked his finger, and turned over a leaf of his littlebook.
“David Baker. Unsatisfactory record. Been on probation twice. Police are inclined to beinterested in him. He’s been on the fringe of several rather dubious affairs, thought to have beenconcerned in an important art robbery but no proof. He’s one of the arty lot. No particular meansof subsistence but he does quite well. Prefers girls with money. Not above living on some of thegirls who are keen on him. Not above being paid off by their fathers either. Thorough bad lot ifyou ask me but enough brains to keep himself out of trouble.”
Mr. Goby shot a sudden glance at Poirot.
“You met him?”
“Yes,” said Poirot.
“What conclusions did you form, if I may ask?”
“The same as you,” said Poirot. “A gaudy creature,” he added thoughtfully.
“Appeals to women,” said Mr. Goby. “Trouble is nowadays they won’t look twice at a nicehardworking lad. They prefer the bad lots—the scroungers. They usually say ‘he hasn’t had achance, poor boy.’”
“Strutting about like peacocks,” said Poirot.
“Well, you might put it like that,” said Mr. Goby, rather doubtfully.
“Do you think he’d use a cosh on anyone?”
Mr. Goby thought, then very slowly shook his head at the electric fire.
“Nobody’s accused him of anything like that. I don’t say he’d be past it, but I wouldn’t say itwas his line. He is a smooth-spoken type, not one for the rough stuff.”
“No,” said Poirot, “no, I should not have thought so. He could be bought off? That was youropinion?”
“He’d drop any girl like a hot coal if it was made worth his while.”
Poirot nodded. He was remembering something. Andrew Restarick turning a cheque towardshim so that he could read the signature on it. It was not only the signature that Poirot had read, itwas the person to whom the cheque was made out. It had been made out to David Baker and it wasfor a large sum. Would David Baker demur at taking such a cheque, Poirot wondered. He thoughtnot on the whole. Mr. Goby clearly was of that opinion. Undesirable young men had been boughtoff in any time or age, so had undesirable young women. Sons had sworn and daughters had weptbut money was money. To Norma, David had been urging marriage. Was he sincere? Could it bethat he really cared for Norma? If so, he would not be so easily paid off. He had sounded genuineenough. Norma no doubt believed him genuine. Andrew Restarick and Mr. Goby and HerculePoirot thought differently. They were very much more likely to be right.
Mr. Goby cleared his throat and went on.
“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland? She’s all right. Nothing against her. Nothing dubious, that is.
Father a Member of Parliament, well off. No scandals. Not like some MPs we’ve heard about.
Educated Roedean, Lady Margaret Hall, came down and did a secretarial course. First secretary toa doctor in Harley Street, then went to the Coal Board. First-class secretary. Has been secretary toMr. Restarick for the last two months. No special attachments, just what you’d call minorboyfriends. Eligible and useful if she wants a date. Nothing to show there’s anything between herand Restarick. I shouldn’t say there is, myself. Has had a flat in Borodene Mansions for the lastthree years. Quite a high rent there. She usually has two other girls sharing it, no special friends.
They come and go. Young lady, Frances Cary, the second girl, has been there some time. Was atRADA for a time, then went to the Slade. Works for the Wedderburn Gallery—well-known placein Bond Street. Specialises in arranging art shows in Manchester, Birmingham, sometimes abroad.
Goes to Switzerland and Portugal. Arty type and has a lot of friends amongst artists and actors.”
He paused, cleared his throat and gave a brief look at the little notebook.
“Haven’t been able to get much from South Africa yet. Don’t suppose I shall. Restarick movedabout a lot. Kenya, Uganda, Gold Coast, South America for a while. He just moved about.
Restless chap. Nobody seems to have known him particularly well. He’d got plenty of money ofhis own to go where he liked. He made money, too, quite a lot of it. Liked going to out of the wayplaces. Everyone who came across him seems to have liked him. Just seems as though he was aborn wanderer. He never kept in touch with anyone. Three times I believe he was reported dead—gone off into the bush and not turned up again—but he always did in the end. Five or six monthsand he’d pop up in some entirely different place or country.
“Then last year his brother in London died suddenly. They had a bit of trouble in tracing him.
His brother’s death seemed to give him a shock. Perhaps he’d had enough, and perhaps he’d metthe right woman at last. Good bit younger than him, she was, and a teacher, they say. The steadykind. Anyway he seems to have made up his mind then and there to chuck wandering about, andcome home to England. Besides being a very rich man himself, he’s his brother’s heir.”
“A success story and an unhappy girl,” said Poirot. “I wish I knew more about her. You haveascertained for me all that you could, the facts I needed. The people who surrounded that girl, whomight have influenced her, who perhaps did influence her. I wanted to know something about herfather, her stepmother, the boy she is in love with, the people she lived with, and worked for inLondon. You are sure that in connection with this girl there have been no deaths? That isimportant—”
“Not a smell of one,” said Mr. Goby. “She worked for a firm called Homebirds—on the vergeof bankruptcy, and they didn’t pay her much. Stepmother was in hospital for observation recently— in the country, that was. A lot of rumours flying about, but they didn’t seem to come toanything.”
“She did not die,” said Poirot. “What I need,” he added in a bloodthirsty manner, “is a death.”
Mr. Goby said he was sorry about that and rose to his feet. “Will there be anything more you arewanting at present?”
“Not in the nature of information.”
“Very good, sir.” As he replaced his notebook in his pocket, Mr. Goby said: “You’ll excuse me,sir, if I’m speaking out of turn, but that young lady you had here just now—”
“Yes, what about her?”
“Well, of course it’s—I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with this, but I thought I might justmention it to you, sir—”
“Please do. You have seen her before, I gather?”
“Yes. Couple of months ago.”
“Where did you see her?”
“Kew Gardens.”
“Kew Gardens?” Poirot looked slightly surprised.
“I wasn’t following her. I was following someone else, the person who met her.”
“And who was that?”
“I don’t suppose as it matters mentioning it to you, sir. It was one of the junior attachés of theHertzogovinian Embassy.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows. “That is interesting. Yes, very interesting. Kew Gardens,” he mused.
“A pleasant place for a rendezvous. Very pleasant.”
“I thought so at the time.”
“They talked together?”
“No, sir, you wouldn’t have said they knew each other. The young lady had a book with her.
She sat down on a seat. She read the book for a little then she laid it down beside her. Then mybloke came and sat there on the seat also. They didn’t speak—only the young lady got up andwandered away. He just sat there and presently he gets up and walks off. He takes with him thebook that the young lady has left behind. That’s all, sir.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very interesting.”
Mr. Goby looked at the bookcase and said good night to it. He went.
Poirot gave an exasperated sigh.
“Enfin,” he said, “it is too much! There is far too much. Now we have espionage andcounterespionage. All I am seeking is one perfectly simple murder. I begin to suspect that thatmurder only occurred in a drug addict’s brain!”
第十三章
第十三章
波洛很少用钥匙进入自己的公寓。相反的是，他选择了老式的做派，按门铃，等待着乔治来给他开门。可是，他从医院回来的这次，来开门的却是莱蒙小姐。
“您有两位来访者。”莱蒙小姐将自己的声音调整成一种让人感觉很舒服的语调，算不上私语，但是却比她平日里的声音低了几个音阶。“一个是戈比先生，另一个是一位名叫罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德的老绅士。我不知道您想先见谁。”
“罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德爵士。”波洛沉思着说。他思考的时候，头偏向另一侧，这让他看上去颇有些像一只知更鸟，他衡量着这个最新的发展对这整件事有怎样的影响。这时戈比先生如往常一样突然出现在供莱蒙小姐打字的小房间里，很显然他是被莱蒙小姐提前安排待在这里的。
波洛脱下大衣，莱蒙小姐帮他把大衣挂在衣帽架上，戈比先生还是习惯性地坐在莱蒙小姐后面说着话。
“我跟乔治一起去厨房喝杯茶。”戈比先生说，“我的时间属于我自己，由我自己支配。”
他很规矩地进入了厨房。波洛走进客厅，罗德里克爵士精力充沛地来回踱着步。
“终于见到了你，我的小伙子。”他温和可亲地说，“电话真是个好东西。”
“您还记得我的名字？我真是不胜荣幸。”
“嗯，我不是真的记得住您的名字。”罗德里克爵士说，“记名字，您知道的，不是我的强项。我却永远不会忘记任何一张脸。”他颇为自负地说，“不，我给伦敦警察厅打了电话。”
“啊！”波洛略微显得有些惊讶，虽然他知道这是罗德里克爵士喜欢做的那类事。
“他们问我想要跟谁通话，我说，给我找你们的头儿。我的小伙子，为人处世就要这样。不要跟那些次要的人等耗费时间，没有用。直接去找顶头上司，我就是这么办事的。
我说了我是谁，说我找上面的头儿通话，他们最后也为我接通了电话。那人倒也不错。我告诉他我想要问问某个时段在法国某地和我一起在联军情报工作机构共事的人的住址。那个人看上去好像有些茫然，于是我说：‘您知道我说的是谁。’我说是一个法国人，或是个比利时人。您是比利时人吧，是吗？我说：‘他的名字是阿基里斯什么的。不是阿基里斯，’我说：‘只是像阿基里斯，是个小个子。’我说：‘胡子浓密。’他似乎有些明白了，接着他说您的名字可能在电话簿里。我说这好极了，但是我说：‘他的名字不会只是阿基里斯或是赫尔克里（他是这么说的），是吗？我不记得他的姓了。’所以接着他就告诉我了。真是个很好的家伙，非常友善，我必须得这么说。”
“很高兴见到您。”波洛说，他的脑海中匆匆闪过一个念头，不知道那个之前在电话中跟罗德里克爵士交谈过的人之后会怎么跟他说呢。幸好那个人不是什么真正的头儿。可以推测那个人是某个跟他相熟的人，他所做的工作就是为那些昔日里声名显赫的名士做些服务。
“总而言之。”罗德里克爵士说，“我来到了这里。”
“不胜荣幸。我给您上点饮品。茶、红石榴汁、威士忌还是苏打水，或是黑醋栗蜜糖水[1] ——”
“天呐，不要。”罗德里克听到黑醋栗蜜糖水这个词就感到大为吃惊。“我还是喝威士忌吧。虽然我是不被允许喝酒的，”他补充道，“但是医生们都是些傻瓜，我们对此都心知肚明。他们做的就是去阻止你做你自己喜欢做的事。”
波洛摇铃把乔治召唤来，给了他指示。乔治把威士忌和苏打水放在罗德里克爵士手肘旁之后，就退了出去。
“现在，”波洛说，“我能为您做些什么呢？”
“我给您找了个活儿，老伙计。”
一段时间之后，他似乎更加确信自己过去和波洛确实有着紧密的来往，这正合波洛的意。因为这就会让罗德里克爵士的外甥更加依赖于波洛的能力。
“文件。”罗德里克爵士压低声音说，“我丢了一些文件，我必须要找回来，您明白吗？
所以我想既然我的眼神不好，记忆力衰退，我还是找个懂门道的人来帮我，您明白吗？您那天来拜访我，很是及时，也很有必要，因为我一定要找回它们，您知道的。”
“这听起来很有趣。”波洛说，“那些文件是什么？我能问问吗？”
“嗯，我想既然要请您帮我找它们，您肯定会询问我的，不是吗？不好意思，它们都是绝密的。最高机密，或者它们之前是这样的。看起来现在它们又是如此了。它们是一些往来的信件。在当时并没有那么重要，或者说人们认为它们没有那么重要；但是政治这事总是风云变幻。您对此应该能理解。总是反复无常，您知道当战事一起，什么都可能发生。
没有人知道我们将会往哪里去。上一场战争中，我们和意大利还是盟友，然而到了下一场战争中，就反目成仇了。我不知道什么才是最糟糕的。第一次世界大战中，日本是我们亲密的盟友，下一次大战中，他们就炸毁了珍珠港！你永远不知道自己是站在哪一边的！最初是跟俄罗斯并肩战斗，结果最后却分道扬镳。我告诉您，波洛，现今没什么比分辨盟友更为困难的事了。一夜之间，什么都会变的。”
“您说您丢失了一些文件？”波洛说，提醒那位老绅士注意此行的目的。
“是的。您知道，我有许多文件，我最近都翻了出来。我把它们保存得很安全。在一家银行里，事实上，我把它们都取了出来。我想要给它们做分类，因为我想写一本回忆录。
现在那些家伙都在写这玩意儿。蒙哥马利、阿兰布鲁克、奥钦列克都在书里胡侃乱说，多半是一些关于其他元帅们的闲言碎语。甚至那位老莫兰，那个备受尊敬的医生，也在大说特说他那些有名望的病人呢。真不知道下一个该轮到谁了！不管怎么说，我有些触动，想到我确实也有兴趣写一些我所知的逸闻轶事！为什么我不能跟其他人一样把这些倾吐出来呢？我也经历过这一切啊。”
“我肯定读者们一定会对此很感兴趣的。”波洛说。
“啊哈，是的！我认识很多新闻人物。人们都对他们很是敬畏，但是他们不知道那些人物所犯下的愚蠢的错误，我知道。我的天呐，那些著名人物所犯下的错误，您简直都不敢相信。所以我取出了我的文件，我找了个小姑娘协助我整理它们。一个非常不错的小姑娘，还相当聪慧，只是英文不是很好，但是除此之外，她很聪明，能帮我做很多事。我收藏了很多材料，但是它们有一些无序。最关键的是，我想要的文件竟然不在那里面。”
“不在里面？”
“不在。我们原以为是一开始自己搞丢了，但是又检查了一遍之后，我告诉您，波洛，我觉得这些文件中的很大一部分都被人动过了。它们中的一些文件不是很重要。实际上，我要找的文件也不是特别重要，我的意思是，没人觉得它们很重要，要不然我也不会被允许保留这些东西了。但是不管怎么说，那些重要的信件都不在了。”
“我肯定会保守秘密的。”波洛说，“您能告诉我您所说的那些信件的性质吗？”
“不知道我是否能说出来，老兄。我最多能跟您说这是关于现今那些人在书里胡侃那些自己过去做的事情和说的话，但是他们并没有说实话，这些信件恰恰能证明他们是怎样的骗子！不好意思，我认为现在我的这些信件都没有人敢付诸出版。我们就是想复制一份寄给当事人，告诉他们当时自己究竟说了些什么，可以以信件为凭证。如果事情之后会变得大为不同的话，您明白吧？我都不必问，我需要问吗？您对于这类消息的快速传播应该很熟悉吧。”
“您说得对极了，罗德里克先生。我知道您的意思，但是您要知道如果我不知道这些文件是什么，或是它们现在可能在哪儿的话，我是很难为您找回来的。”
“首要的事是：我想要知道是谁动过它们，因为您知道这一点很重要。在我收藏的东西里可能还有更机密的材料呢，我想要知道是谁胡乱翻动过它们。”
“您自己一点想法都没有吗？”
“您认为我应该知情，呃？”
“嗯，看起来最有可能的是——”
“我知道。您是想要我说是那个小姑娘。这件事，我不认为是那个小姑娘做的。她说她没有动过，我相信她。你明白吗？”
“是的。”波洛深深叹了口气，“我明白。”
“一方面来讲，她太年轻了。她不会知道这些文件的重要之处的。那些事发生在她很小的时候。”
“其他什么人或许会指使她这么做。”波洛向他指出了这一点。
“是的，是的，确实可能。但是这也太明显了吧。”
波洛叹息了一声。鉴于罗德里克爵士如此偏袒她，他怀疑自己的坚持有没有用。“还有谁能接触到这些文件呢？”
“安德鲁和玛丽，当然了，但是我甚至怀疑安德鲁会不会对此感兴趣。不管怎么说，他一直是个很正派的孩子，一贯如此。虽然我也没有那么了解他。只是在过节的时候，他和他哥哥会来看我一两次而已。当然了，他抛弃了自己的妻子，跟另一个魅惑的女人私奔到南非，但是这样的事，在任何男人身上都有可能发生，特别是那种娶了个像格蕾丝那样的妻子的男人。当然了，我也没有见过她很多次。她是那种眼高于顶的女人。不管怎么说我是不敢想象安德鲁那样的人会做间谍的。至于玛丽嘛，她看上去似乎也完全正常，除了她的玫瑰花圃，她什么都不在意。还有个老迈的园丁，但是他已经八十岁了，一辈子都待在乡下。还有两个女人，总是在房子里推着噪声巨大的吸尘器。所以您看他们肯定也是外行。当然了，玛丽戴着一顶假发。”罗德里克爵士有些跑题地说道，“我的意思是这可能会让人觉得她或许是个间谍，因为她戴着假发，但是这也事出有因。她十八岁那年发了一场高烧，这使她掉光了头发。这对于一个年轻女人来说真是太不幸了。最初我也不知道她戴了假发，直到有一天我看到她的头发挂到了玫瑰枝子上，玫瑰枝子把她的头发都弄歪了。
是的，真是不幸。”
“怪不得我总觉得她的发型有一些奇怪呢。”波洛说。
“总之，最优秀的情报人员是永远不会戴假发的。”罗德里克爵士告诉他，“那些可怜的家伙得做整形，需要改头换面。但是一定是有人乱动过我的私人文件了。”
“您会不会是把它们放在了其他别的地方呢？比如在抽屉里或是另一个档案夹中。您最后一次看到它们是在什么时候？”
“我一年前翻阅过它们。我那时想拷贝一些的，我特别留意的那几封信现在不见了。一定是有人拿走了它们。”
“您对您的外甥安德鲁不抱怀疑，认为他的妻子或是家里其他的用人也没什么值得怀疑的。那么他们家的女儿呢？”
“诺玛？嗯，诺玛是有些不太正常。我的意思是她可能患有偷窃癖，拿了别人的东西却不自知。但是要说是她拿了我的文件，也说不通。”
“那么您是怎么想的呢？”
“嗯，您来过我家。您看到了我的房子的构造。任何人都能随意进出。我们不锁门，我们从不锁门。”
“您自己的房间上锁吗？比如当您前往伦敦的时候？”
“我从不认为有必要那么做。我现在当然锁门了，但是那又有什么用？太迟了。反正，我只有一把普通的钥匙，适合于开任何门。一定是有外人进来过。现在为什么盗窃犯会如此猖獗呢？大白天，就跑进你的家，上楼去他们想去的任意房间，洗劫了珠宝箱，就开溜了。没人看到他们，或是看到了也不在意他们是谁。他们看上去大概是摩登派或是颓废派或是不知道该怎么称呼的家伙，留着长发，还有脏兮兮的指甲。在家里，我不止看到过一个这样的人。我也不想问，你到底是谁？您永远猜不出他们的性别，真是尴尬。这里全是这样的人。我猜可能是诺玛的朋友。这些人在往日是不能登堂入室的。如果您把他们赶出去，说不定您接着就会发现他们是恩德斯勒子爵或是夏洛特•马奇班克斯家的小姐。简直不知道如今是什么世道。”他顿了顿，“如果有人能查出来的话，那一定是您了，波洛。”他咽下了最后一口威士忌之后，站了起来。
“嗯，就是这样。全靠您了。您会接受的吧，是吗？”
“我会全力以赴的。”波洛说。
前门的门铃响了。
“是那个小姑娘。”罗德里克爵士说，“真是准时准点。好极了，不是吗？没有她跟我一起来伦敦真是不幸，您明白的。我眼瞎得就像只蝙蝠一样。我连马路也过不去。”
“您为什么不戴眼镜呢？”
“我有几副眼镜，不知放在哪儿了。他们不是从我的鼻梁上滑落下来，就是被我弄丢了。而且，我真的不喜欢眼镜。我不用眼镜。我六十五岁的时候还不用戴眼镜看书呢，这很不错吧。”
“没什么东西，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“能一直使用。”
乔治带着索尼娅进来。她看上去特别漂亮。她的那种略带羞涩的举止看上去很可爱，波洛想。他带着高卢人的热诚之态迎了上去。
“很高兴见到您 [2] ，小姐。”他弯下腰亲吻她的手。
“我没迟到吧，罗德里克爵士。”她说，她的目光略过波洛。“我没让您久候吧。希望没有。”
“小姑娘，一点都没有。”罗德里克爵士说，“全部都井然有序，妥妥当当。”他补充道。
索尼娅看上去有些不知所措。
“茶喝得还不错吧，但愿如此。”罗德里克爵士继续说，“我告诉你去享用一杯茶，给自己买一些圆面包或是手指小饼，或是现今那些年轻女士喜欢吃的点心，嗯？你是否听从我的建议了？我希望如此。”
“不，没有。我抽时间去买了一双鞋子。看啊，它们很漂亮，不是吗？”她伸出一只脚来。
真的是非常漂亮。罗德里克爵士高兴地看着它。
“好的，我们必须要离开了，去赶火车。”他说，“我可能有些老派，但是我真的很喜欢坐火车。开车准时，抵达准时，或是它们本就应当这样。但是那些汽车，在繁忙时，人们就大排长队，拖拖拉拉，至少要耗费一个半小时。这就是汽车！”
“要我叫乔治帮您叫辆出租车吗？”赫尔克里•波洛问，“我向您保证，这一点都不麻烦。”
“我已经叫了一辆出租车在外面等着了。”索尼娅说。
“您看，”罗德里克爵士说，“您看，她什么事都考虑得很周全。”他拍一拍她的肩膀。
她看向老爵士的眼神是赫尔克里•波洛最为欣赏的了。
波洛陪同他们走向大厅的门口，礼貌地道别。戈比先生从厨房里走出来，站在廊下，露出一副好像刚刚上门修好了瓦斯炉的工人的那种神情。
当他们走下台阶不见人影之后，乔治就迅速关上了大厅的门，和波洛的眼神正面相遇。
“乔治，我能问问您吗？您是如何看待那位年轻小姐的？”波洛说。在某些事情上，他一贯认为乔治是正确的。
“嗯，先生。”乔治说，“如果您允许的话，我可能会这么回答，先生，我要说他陷得很深，完全被她迷住了。”
“我想您是对的。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“对于他这样年纪的绅士，这种事情也算是很正常。我还记得蒙特伯伦爵士。他的人生经验丰富得很，您也说过他非常机智敏捷。但是让人大跌眼镜的是，有一次一位年轻的女人来给他做按摩，他送给她一套晚装、一只美丽的手镯，简直是一见倾心。还有绿松石和钻石，不是那么贵重但依然花费不菲。还有一件毛皮围巾——不是貂皮的，是俄国白鼬皮，还搭配了一只优雅的晚宴包。这之后，她的哥哥出了麻烦，负债或是什么其他的事，虽然有时我很怀疑她是否有个哥哥。蒙特伯伦爵士给她钱去还债，她对此表现得很是悲伤！但是可别被骗了，这都是些走理想纯情路线的设定，绅士们到了这样的年纪总是会失去理智。上钩的是那些心甘情愿之人，而不是那些厚脸皮的公子哥。”
“乔治，我对您所说的毫不怀疑。”波洛说，“但是您还是完全没有回答我的问题，我是问您是怎么看待那位年轻小姐的？”
“啊，那位年轻小姐啊……嗯，先生，我不敢说得那么肯定，但是她是那种很明确的类型。您在她身上找不出什么毛病。我要说，这种女孩很清楚自己的所作所为。”
波洛走进会客厅，戈比先生顺着波洛的手势紧跟其后。戈比先生一如常态般坐在一张高脚椅上。膝盖并拢，脚尖向内缩着。他从衣服口袋里拿出一本折角的笔记本，小心地打开它，对着那杯放在桌上的苏打水作起报告。
“跟您报告您要我调查的家庭背景的情况。
“雷斯塔里克家族，是个极受尊敬、声望斐然的家族，没有丑闻和流言。父亲詹姆斯•帕特里克•雷斯塔里克是个善于做生意的精明人。这个家族世代经商，已经传了三代。是由祖父最先创立的，父亲将生意扩张，西蒙•雷斯塔里克又接手过来继续经营。西蒙•雷斯塔里克两年前得了冠心病，健康情况每况愈下。一年前死于冠状动脉血栓。
“小弟弟安德鲁•雷斯塔里克从牛津大学毕业之后，就涉足家族产业了，他跟格蕾丝•鲍德温成婚。育有一个女儿——诺玛。之后抛下他的妻子去了南非。一位名叫比雷尔的小姐跟他一起去的。他没有和妻子办理离婚手续。安德鲁•雷斯塔里克夫人两年半前去世了，去世前已卧病多年。诺玛•雷斯塔里克小姐曾在牧野女子学校住宿读书。没有什么不好的记录。”
他的眼光在赫尔克里•波洛脸上扫过之后，戈比先生说道：“根据库克的调查，这家人事实上一切都正常。”
“没有败家子，也没有什么精神有问题的人？”
“好像没有。”
“真是让人沮丧。”波洛说。
戈比先生略过这部分，清清嗓子，舔舔手指，翻了一页。
“大卫•贝克，有很多不良记录，有两次缓刑。警方对他很关注。他与数起存疑的案子有关联，似乎是关于重要的艺术品失窃的案件，虽然没有什么证据能证明是他所为。他混在艺术圈子里，没有什么特别的谋生手段，但是似乎还过得不错。喜欢富有的姑娘，还厚颜无耻地靠着喜欢自己的姑娘过活。也不是很在乎她们的父亲掏钱把他打发走。”
戈比猛然看了一眼波洛。
“您遇到过他？”
“是的。”波洛说。
“我能问问，您是怎么看他的？”
“我的看法跟您一样。”波洛说，“一个华而不实的人。”他深思熟虑后补充说道。
“对女人很有吸引力。”戈比说，“问题就是现今那些姑娘对于那些勤恳工作的青年连看都不想看。她们总是喜欢坏小子，像‘乞丐’一般的人。她们总是说：‘他只是没有好机会，可怜的人。’”
“像孔雀一般招摇过市。”波洛说。
“是的，您倒是可以这么说。”戈比先生有些疑惑不解地说。
“您觉得他是那种会用棍子袭击他人的人吗？”
戈比先生想了想，对着壁炉里的火焰缓缓摇着头。
“他没有这类的犯罪记录。我不能说他没有这种可能，但是我认为那不是他所擅长的。
他是那种花言巧语的类型，不是那种会动手的类型。”
“不。”波洛说，“不，我不该这么想的。他能用钱给打发走？这是您的看法？”
“只要值得这么做，他会像丢掉一块烫手山芋一样把姑娘丢弃的。”
波洛点点头。他记起了什么事。安德鲁•雷斯塔里克曾经写了签名的支票簿拿给他看。
波洛不但看到了上面的签名，还看到了接受款项的人名。那一大笔钱是付给大卫•贝克的。
大卫•贝克会拒绝这张支票吗？波洛猜测着。他认为基本上他是不会拒绝的。戈比先生也很赞同这个想法。不被看好的年轻男人被钱打发走是任何一个时代都会发生的事，年轻女人也是一样的。男人们发着誓言，女人们泪水涟涟，但是钱毕竟是钱。对于诺玛来说，大卫确实曾经催促过他俩的婚事，但是他是发自内心这么想吗？他是真的爱着诺玛吗？如果是的话，他不会被钱轻易打败的。他的话听起来足够真诚，诺玛也不怀疑他的忠贞。安德鲁•雷斯塔里克和戈比先生以及赫尔克里•波洛看法迥异。他们的看法可能更为正确。
戈比先生清清嗓子，继续说。
“说到克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰小姐，她完全没问题。身家清白，没有任何值得怀疑之处，就是这样。她父亲是国会议员，很有钱，没有流言丑闻，不像我们听说的有些议员那样言行出格。在罗婷女子学院和牛津大学玛格丽特夫人学堂接受过教育，毕业之后担任秘书工作。最先是在哈利街的一家诊所做医生秘书，接着就去了煤矿局。她是一流的秘书，已经给雷斯塔里克先生做了两个月的秘书了。没有固定的爱人，只有几个你能称之为小情人的男朋友。如果她想要约会，那是不用发愁的。她和雷斯塔里克先生之间看不出有什么牵连。我自己也认为没有什么。之前的三年就租住在博罗登大楼，那里的租金很昂贵，所以她和另外两个姑娘合租，彼此不是什么密友。她们来来往往，各自独立。一位名叫弗朗西丝•凯莉的年轻女士，是第二位租客，已经住了一段时间了。她在英国皇家戏剧艺术学院读过一段时间书，接着去了史莱德。在韦德伯恩画廊工作，那是邦德街一处非常有名的地方。专门在曼彻斯特和伯明翰举行画展，有时候也在海外做画展。常常去瑞士和葡萄牙。
她是那种从事艺术的类型，在艺术圈和戏剧圈有很多朋友。”
他顿了顿，清清嗓子，大致看了一眼那本记事本。
“还无法在南非那边查到什么东西。我觉得我也查不到什么了。雷斯塔里克踪迹不定。
肯尼亚、乌干达，有时还会去南美待一段时间。他总是各处游荡。是那种不喜欢安定的家伙。似乎没人特别了解他。他很有赚钱的能力，能用这些钱去他喜欢的任何地方。他赚了很多钱，喜欢去往蛮荒之地。每个认识他的人似乎都会喜欢上他。好像他是个天生的游荡者。他不跟其他人保持联络。据我所知曾经有三次他被报告已经身亡，深入丛林后很久没有再现身，但最后他总是能脱身。五六个月之后他就能出现在完全不同的地方或国家。
“去年他在伦敦的哥哥突然去世了。他们费尽心力才找到了他。他哥哥的死亡似乎给他很大的震动。可能他游荡够了，也可能他最终遇到了那个对的女人。她要比他年轻得多，他们说，她是一位老师，是那种安稳的类型。不管怎么说他似乎下定决心结束游荡的生活，回到英国的家里。除了他自己的财富之外，还继承了他哥哥的遗产。”
“一个成功的故事，但是他家里却有个闷闷不乐的女儿。”波洛说，“我希望能更多地了解她。您已经竭尽全力为我搜集了我所需要的事实了。这个姑娘身边的人，谁可能会影响到她，或是真的影响到了她。我想知道她的父亲、她的继母和那个她喜欢的男人，那些和她合租的人，以及她在伦敦共事的同事的信息。您确信没有任何死亡事件和这个姑娘有牵连吗？这很重要——”
“没查出任何这类的信息。”戈比先生说，“她工作在一家名叫归鸟的公司——濒临倒闭了，他们对她也不是很在意。她的继母最近在医院里观察——在乡下，就是这些了。各种流言乱起，但是什么也查不出来。”
“她还没死。我需要的是，”波洛有些凶狠地说道，“是一桩死亡。”
戈比先生对此表示抱歉，并站起身来。“您目前还需要更多的资料吗？”
“不需要那种背景调查之类的信息了。”
“那好，先生。”他把笔记本合上装在口袋里，说：“先生，请您原谅我，我多说一句，那个刚才来这儿的年轻姑娘”
——
“是的，她怎么了？”
“嗯，当然我并不是想做什么，我只是想到我刚才也许是向您提到了——”
“请说。我猜，您之前见到过她？”
“是的。几个月之前。”
“您在哪儿看到她的？”
“英国皇家植物园。”
“皇家植物园？”波洛有些惊讶。
“我不是跟踪她。我是跟踪其他什么人，那个人去跟她会面。”
“那人是谁？”
“我想我跟您说说也不妨事。先生，那人是赫兹戈维尼大使馆新来的武官。”
波洛挑起眉毛。“真有意思。是的，很有意思。皇家植物园。”他思索着，“真是个见面的好地方。非常不错。”
“我也是这么想的。”
“他们说话了吗？”
“没有，先生，您都不能说他们是相互认识的。那位年轻女士带着一本书。她坐在椅子上，读了会儿书，接着她把书放在了旁边，接着那个武官也坐在了同一条长椅上。他们彼此之间没有交谈，然后那位年轻女士就起身独自离开了。他在那里坐了一小会儿也径自离开了，他把那位女士落在那里的书拿走了，就是这样，先生。”
“明白。”波洛说，“这真有意思。”
戈比先生对着书柜说了声晚安就走了。
波洛筋疲力尽地叹了口气。
“终于结束了 [3] 。”他说，“真是太复杂了！太离谱了。现在连间谍和反间谍这类的事情都出现了。我本来想要解决的不过是一桩简单的谋杀案。我现在开始怀疑那只不过是一个嗑药的糊涂脑袋所臆想出来的玩意儿。”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注
[3]原文为法语。——译者注
Fourteen
Fourteen
“Chère Madame,” Poirot bowed and presented Mrs. Oliver with a bouquet, very stylised, a posy inthe Victorian manner.
“M. Poirot! Well, really, that is very nice of you, and it’s very like you somehow. All myflowers are always so untidy.” She looked towards a vase of rather temperamental- lookingchrysanthemums, then back to the prim circle of rosebuds. “And how nice of you to come and seeme.”
“I come, Madame, to offer you my felicitations on your recovery.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I suppose I am all right again.” She shook her head to and fro rathergingerly. “I get headaches, though,” she said. “Quite bad headaches.”
“You remember, Madame, that I warned you not to do anything dangerous.”
“Not to stick my neck out, in fact. That I suppose is just what I did do.” She added, “I feltsomething evil was about. I was frightened, too, and I told myself I was a fool to be frightened,because what was I frightened of? I mean, it was London. Right in the middle of London. Peopleall about. I mean—how could I be frightened? It wasn’t like a lonely wood or anything.”
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He wondered, had Mrs. Oliver really felt this nervous fear,had she really suspected the presence of evil, the sinister feeling that something or someonewished her ill, or had she read it into the whole thing afterwards? He knew only too well howeasily that could be done. Countless clients had spoken in much the same words that Mrs. Oliverhad just used. “I knew something was wrong. I could feel evil. I knew something was going tohappen,” and actually they had not felt anything of the kind. What kind of a person was Mrs.
Oliver?
He looked at her consideringly. Mrs. Oliver in her own opinion was famous for her intuition.
One intuition succeeded another with remarkable rapidity and Mrs. Oliver always claimed theright to justify the particular intuition which turned out to be right!
And yet one shared very often with animals the uneasiness of a dog or a cat before athunderstorm, the knowledge that there is something wrong, although one does not know what it isthat is wrong.
“When did it come upon you, this fear?”
“When I left the main road,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Up till then it was all ordinary and quiteexciting and—yes, I was enjoying myself, though vexed at finding how difficult it was to trailanybody.”
She paused, considering. “Just like a game. Then suddenly it didn’t seem so much like a game,because there were queer little streets and rather sort of broken-down places, and sheds and openspaces being cleared for building—oh, I don’t know, I can’t explain it. But it was all different.
Like a dream really. You know how dreams are. They start with one thing, a party or something,and then suddenly you find you’re in a jungle or somewhere quite different—and it’s all sinister.”
“A jungle?” said Poirot. “Yet, it is interesting you should put it like that. So it felt to you asthough you were in a jungle and you were afraid of a peacock?”
“I don’t know that I was especially afraid of him. After all, a peacock isn’t a dangerous sort ofanimal. It’s—well I mean I thought of him as a peacock because I thought of him as a decorativecreature. A peacock is very decorative, isn’t it? And this awful boy is decorative too.”
“You didn’t have any idea anyone was following you before you were hit?”
“No. No, I’d no idea—but I think he directed me wrong all the same.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“But of course it must have been the Peacock who hit me,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Who else? Thedirty boy in the greasy clothes? He smelt nasty but he wasn’t sinister. And it could hardly be thatlimp Frances something—she was draped over a packing case with long black hair streaming allover the place. She reminded me of some actress or other.”
“You say she was acting as a model?”
“Yes. Not for the Peacock. For the dirty boy. I can’t remember if you’ve seen her or not.”
“I have not yet had that pleasure—if it is a pleasure.”
“Well, she’s quite nice looking in an untidy, arty sort of way. Very much made up. Dead whiteand lots of mascara and the usual kind of limp hair hanging over her face. Works in an art galleryso I suppose it’s quite natural that she should be all among the beatniks, acting as a model. Howthese girls can! I suppose she might have fallen for the Peacock. But it’s probably the dirty one.
All the same I don’t see her coshing me on the head somehow.”
“I had another possibility in mind, Madame. Someone may have noticed you following David—and in turn followed you.”
“Someone saw me trailing David, and then they trailed me?”
“Or someone may have been already in the mews or the yard, keeping perhaps an eye on thesame people that you were observing.”
“That’s an idea, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wonder who they could be?”
Poirot gave an exasperated sigh. “Ah, it is there. It is difficult—too difficult. Too many people,too many things. I cannot see anything clearly. I see only a girl who said that she may havecommitted a murder! That is all that I have to go on and you see even there there are difficulties.”
“What do you mean by difficulties?”
“Reflect,” said Poirot.
Reflection had never been Mrs. Oliver’s strong point.
“You always mix me up,” she complained.
“I am talking about a murder, but what murder?”
“The murder of the stepmother, I suppose.”
“But the stepmother is not murdered. She is alive.”
“You really are the most maddening man,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot sat up in his chair. He brought the tips of his fingers together and prepared—or so Mrs.
Oliver suspected—to enjoy himself.
“You refuse to reflect,” he said. “But to get anywhere we must reflect.”
“I don’t want to reflect. What I want to know is what you’ve been doing about everything whileI’ve been in hospital. You must have done something. What have you done?”
Poirot ignored this question.
“We must begin at the beginning. One day you ring me up. I was in distress. Yes, I admit it, Iwas in distress. Something extremely painful had been said to me. You, Madame, were kindnessitself. You cheered me, you encouraged me. You gave me a delicious tasse de chocolat. And whatis more you not only offered to help me, but you did help me. You helped me to find a girl whohad come to me and said that she thought she might have committed a murder! Let us askourselves, Madame, what about this murder? Who has been murdered? Where have they beenmurdered? Why have they been murdered?”
“Oh do stop,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’re making my head ache again, and that’s bad for me.”
Poirot paid no attention to this plea. “Have we got a murder at all? You say—the stepmother—but I reply that the stepmother is not dead—so as yet we have no murder. But there ought to havebeen a murder. So me, I inquire first of all, who is dead? Somebody comes to me and mentions amurder. A murder that has been committed somewhere and somehow. But I cannot find thatmurder, and what you are about to say once again, that the attempted murder of Mary Restarickwill do very well, does not satisfy Hercule Poirot.”
“I really can’t think what more you want,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I want a murder,” said Hercule Poirot.
“It sounds very bloodthirsty when you say it like that!”
“I look for a murder and I cannot find a murder. It is exasperating—so I ask you to reflect withme.”
“I’ve got a splendid idea,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Suppose Andrew Restarick murdered his first wifebefore he went off in a hurry to South Africa. Had you thought of that possibility?”
“I certainly did not think of any such thing,” said Poirot indignantly.
“Well, I’ve thought of it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s very interesting. He was in love with this otherwoman, and he wanted like Crippen to go off with her, and so he murdered the first one andnobody ever suspected.”
Poirot drew a long, exasperated sigh. “But his wife did not die until eleven or twelve years afterhe’d left this country for South Africa, and his child could not have been concerned in the murderof her own mother at the age of five years old.”
“She could have given her mother the wrong medicine or perhaps Restarick just said that shedied. After all, we don’t know that she’s dead.”
“I do,” said Hercule Poirot. “I have made inquiries. The first Mrs. Restarick died on the 14thApril, 1963.”
“How can you know these things?”
“Because I have employed someone to check the facts. I beg of you, Madame, do not jump toimpossible conclusions in this rash way.”
“I thought I was being rather clever,” said Mrs. Oliver obstinately. “If I was making it happen ina book that’s how I would arrange it. And I’d make the child have done it. Not meaning to, butjust by her father telling her to give her mother a drink made of pounded up box hedge.”
“Non d’un nom d’un nom!” said Poirot.
“All right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You tell it your way.”
“Alas, I have nothing to tell. I look for a murder and I do not find one.”
“Not after Mary Restarick is ill and goes to hospital and gets better and comes back and is illagain, and if they looked they’d probably find arsenic or something hidden away by Normasomewhere.”
“That is exactly what they did find.”
“Well, really, M. Poirot, what more do you want?”
“I want you to pay some attention to the meaning of language. That girl said to me the samething as she had said to my manservant, Georges. She did not say on either occasion ‘I have triedto kill someone’ or ‘I have tried to kill my stepmother.’ She spoke each time of a deed that hadbeen done, something that had already happened. Definitely happened. In the past tense.”
“I give up,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You just won’t believe that Norma tried to kill her stepmother.”
“Yes, I believe it is perfectly possible that Norma may have tried to kill her stepmother. I thinkit is probably what happened—it is in accord psychologically. With her distraught frame of mind.
But it is not proved. Anyone, remember, could have hidden a preparation of arsenic amongstNorma’s things. It could even have been put there by the husband.”
“You always seem to think that husbands are the ones who kill their wives,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“A husband is usually the most likely person,” said Hercule Poirot, “so one considers him first.
It could have been the girl, Norma, or it could have been one of the servants, or it could have beenthe au pair girl, or it could have been old Sir Roderick. Or it could have been Mrs. Restarickherself.”
“Nonsense. Why?”
“There could be reasons. Rather far-fetched reasons, but not beyond the bounds of belief.”
“Really, Monsieur Poirot, you can’t suspect everybody.”
“Mais oui, that is just what I can do. I suspect everybody. First I suspect, then I look forreasons.”
“And what reason would that poor foreign child have?”
“It might depend on what she is doing in that house, and what her reasons are for coming toEngland and a good deal more beside.”
“You’re really crazy.”
“Or it could have been the boy David. Your Peacock.”
“Much too far-fetched. David wasn’t there. He’s never been near the house.”
“Oh yes he has. He was wandering about its corridors the day I went there.”
“But not putting poison in Norma’s room.”
“How do you know?”
“But she and that awful boy are in love with each other.”
“They appear to be so, I admit.”
“You always want to make everything difficult,” complained Mrs. Oliver.
“Not at all. Things have been made difficult for me. I need information and there is only oneperson who can give me information. And she has disappeared.”
“You mean Norma.”
“Yes, I mean Norma.”
“But she hasn’t disappeared. We found her, you and I.”
“She walked out of that café and once more she has disappeared.”
“And you let her go?” Mrs. Oliver’s voice quivered with reproach.
“Alas!”
“You let her go? You didn’t even try to find her again?”
“I did not say I had not tried to find her.”
“But so far you have not succeeded. M. Poirot, I really am disappointed with you.”
“There is a pattern,” said Hercule Poirot almost dreamily. “Yes, there is a pattern. But becausethere is one factor missing, the pattern does not make sense. You see that, don’t you?”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, whose head was aching.
Poirot continued to talk more to himself than his listener. If Mrs. Oliver could be said to belistening. She was highly indignant with Poirot and she thought to herself that the Restarick girlhad been quite right and that Poirot was too old! There, she herself had found the girl for him, hadtelephoned him so that he might arrive in time, had gone off herself to shadow the other half of thecouple. She had left the girl to Poirot, and what had Poirot done—lost her! In fact she could notreally see that Poirot had done anything at all of any use at any time whatever. She wasdisappointed in him. When he stopped talking she would tell him so again.
Poirot was quietly and methodically outlining what he called “the pattern.”
“It interlocks. Yes, it interlocks and that is why it is difficult. One thing relates to another andthen you find that it relates to something else that seems outside the pattern. But it is not outsidethe pattern. And so it brings more people again into a ring of suspicion. Suspicion of what? Thereagain one does not know. We have first the girl and through all the maze of conflicting patterns Ihave to search the answer to the most poignant of questions. Is the girl a victim, is she in danger?
Or is the girl very astute? Is the girl creating the impression she wants to create for her ownpurposes? It can be taken either way. I need something still. Some one sure pointer, and it is theresomewhere. I am sure it is there somewhere.”
Mrs. Oliver was rummaging in her handbag.
“I can’t think why I can never find my aspirin when I want it,” she said in a vexed voice.
“We have one set of relationships that hook up. The father, the daughter, the stepmother. Theirlives are interrelated. We have the elderly uncle, somewhat gaga, with whom they live. We havethe girl Sonia. She is linked with the uncle. She works for him. She has pretty manners, prettyways. He is delighted with her. He is, shall we say, a little soft about her. But what is her role inthe household?”
“Wants to learn English, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“She meets one of the members of the Herzogovinian Embassy—in Kew Gardens. She meetshim there, but she does not speak to him. She leaves behind her a book and he takes it away—”
“What is all this?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Has this anything to do with the other pattern? We do not as yet know. It seems unlikely but itmay not be unlikely. Had Mary Restarick unwittingly stumbled upon something which might bedangerous to the girl?”
“Don’t tell me all this has something to do with espionage or something.”
“I am not telling you. I am wondering.”
“You said yourself that old Sir Roderick was gaga.”
“It is not a question of whether he is gaga or not. He was a person of some importance duringthe war. Important papers passed through his hands. Important letters can have been written tohim. Letters which he was at perfect liberty to have kept once they had lost their importance.”
“You’re talking of the war and that was ages ago.”
“Quite so. But the past is not always done with, because it is ages ago. New alliances are made.
Public speeches are made repudiating this, denying that, telling various lies about something else.
And suppose there exist still certain letters or documents that will change the picture of a certainpersonality. I am not telling you anything, you understand. I am only making assumptions.
Assumptions such as I have known to be true in the past. It might be of the utmost importance thatsome letters or papers should be destroyed, or else passed to some foreign government. Who betterto undertake that task than a charming young lady who assists and aids an elderly notability tocollect material for his memoirs. Everyone is writing their memoirs nowadays. One cannot stopthem from doing so! Suppose that the stepmother gets a little something in her food on the day thatthe helpful secretary plus au pair girl is doing the cooking? And suppose it is she who arrangesthat suspicion should fall on Norma?”
“What a mind you have,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Tortuous, that’s what I call it. I mean, all thesethings can’t have happened.”
“That is just it. There are too many patterns. Which is the right one? The girl Norma leaveshome, goes to London. She is, as you have instructed me, a third girl sharing a flat with two othergirls. There again you may have a pattern. The two girls are strangers to her. But then what do Ilearn? Claudia Reece-Holland is private secretary to Norma Restarick’s father. Here again wehave a link. Is that mere chance? Or could there be a pattern of some kind behind it? The othergirl, you tell me, acts as a model, and is acquainted with the boy you call ‘the Peacock’ with whomNorma is in love. Again a link. More links. And what is David—the Peacock—doing in all this? Ishe in love with Norma? It would seem so. Her parents dislike it as is only probable and natural.”
“It’s odd about Claudia Reece- Holland being Restarick’s secretary,” said Mrs. Oliverthoughtfully. “I should judge she was unusually efficient at anything she undertook. Perhaps it wasshe who pushed the woman out of the window on the seventh floor.”
Poirot turned slowly towards her.
“What are you saying?” he demanded. “What are you saying?”
“Just someone in the flats—I don’t even know her name, but she fell out of a window or threwherself out of a window on the seventh floor and killed herself.”
Poirot’s voice rose high and stern.
“And you never told me?” he said accusingly.
Mrs. Oliver stared at him in surprise.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What I mean? I ask you to tell me of a death. That is what I mean. A death. And you say thereare no deaths. You can think only of an attempted poisoning. And yet here is a death. A death at—what is the name of those mansions?”
“Borodene Mansions.”
“Yes, yes. And when did it happen?”
“This suicide? Or whatever it was? I think—yes—I think it was about a week before I wentthere.”
“Perfect! How did you hear about it?”
“A milkman told me.”
“A milkman, bon Dieu!”
“He was just being chatty,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It sounded rather sad. It was in the daytime—very early in the morning, I think.”
“What was her name?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t think he mentioned it.”
“Young, middle-aged, old?”
Mrs. Oliver considered. “Well, he didn’t say her exact age. Fifty-ish, I think, was what he said.”
“I wonder now. Anyone the three girls knew?”
“How can I tell? Nobody has said anything about it.”
“And you never thought of telling me.”
“Well, really, M. Poirot, I cannot say that it has anything to do with all this. Well, I suppose itmay have—but nobody seems to have said so, or thought of it.”
“But yes, there is the link. There is this girl, Norma, and she lives in those flats, and one daysomebody commits suicide (for that, I gather, was the general impression). That is, somebodythrows herself or falls out of a seventh-floor high window and is killed. And then? Some days laterthis girl Norma, after having heard you talk about me at a party, comes to call upon me and shesays to me that she is afraid that she may have committed a murder. Do you not see? A death—and not many days later someone who thinks she may have committed a murder. Yes, this must bethe murder.”
Mrs. Oliver wanted to say “Nonsense” but she did not quite dare to do so. Nevertheless, shethought it.
“This then must be the one piece of knowledge that had not yet come to me. This ought to tie upthe whole thing! Yes, yes, I do not see yet how, but it must be so. I must think. That is what I mustdo. I must go home and think until slowly the pieces fit together—because this will be the keypiece that ties them all together…Yes. At last. At last I shall see my way.”
He rose to his feet and said, “Adieu, chère Madame,” and hurried from the room. Mrs. Oliver atlast relieved her feelings.
“Nonsense,” she said to the empty room. “Absolute nonsense. I wonder if four would be toomany aspirins to take?”
第十四章
第十四章
“亲爱的夫人。”波洛向奥利弗夫人鞠躬致意，并送上一捧极具维多利亚气息的花束。
“波洛先生！嗯，说真的，能见到你太好了，这一看就是你的风格。我所有的花都是胡乱摆放的。”她看了看自己花瓶里很是蓬乱的菊花，接着又看了看这束整齐美丽的蔷薇花蕾。“你能来看我真是太好了。”
“夫人，我来这里是为了祈盼您早日康复的。”
“是的。”奥利弗夫人说，“我想我好多了。”她轻轻地左右摇动自己的脑袋。“我还是头疼。”她说，“头疼得厉害。”
“夫人，您记得我警告过您不要做任何危险之事么？”
“事实上，你叫我不要去冒险，但是我却一意孤行。”她补充道，“我感到事情有点不对劲儿。我也很惊恐，我告诉自己不要那么傻，那么害怕，因为我有什么可感到害怕的呢？
我的意思是，我是在伦敦，就在伦敦的城市中心地带，人来人往。我的意思是我为什么要感到害怕？我又不是身处蛮荒的森林或是什么这一类的地方。”
波洛若有所思地看着她。他想奥利弗夫人是真的感到了这种不安的恐惧之感，真的对邪恶的存在抱有疑虑，真的预感到某些人或事会给她招致麻烦，还是这一切发生之后才了解到事情的全部经过的？他只知道这些事经常会发生。不知道多少当事人说过与奥利弗夫人一样的话。“我知道什么不对劲。我能感知到不好的事情。我知道有什么事要发生。”实际上，他们在那时候根本就没有这样的感觉。奥利弗夫人究竟是哪一类的人呢？
他从她的立场来思考。奥利弗夫人觉得自己的直觉很靠谱。一件又一件事不断发生，每当她的直觉被证实是正确的之后，她都会非常自得。
然而这在动物身上也经常会出现，例如狗和猫在大暴雨之前都会有不安的感觉，它们知道有什么事不对劲，但是却不知道到底是哪里不对劲。
“它是什么时候向您袭来的呢，那种恐惧？”
“当我走上主路的时候。”奥利弗夫人说，“在那之前，一切都很正常而且相当刺激，是的，我很享受这个过程，虽然我发现跟踪某人真的很困难，这让我有些沮丧。”
她顿了顿，思考着。“就像一场游戏。接着突然它变得不再那么像一场游戏了，因为那里充斥着各种古怪的小巷和破败的地方，那里有仓库还有很多荒地，被清理干净之后要修筑新的建筑。啊，我不知道，我解释不了。但是就是变得不同了。真的就像是一场梦。你知道梦是怎样的吧。它们由一件事引发，一场聚会或是什么的，接着突然你发现自己跑进了灌木丛或是其他什么完全不同的地方，并且很骇人。”
“一片灌木丛？”波洛说，“这比喻倒是很有意思。您感觉自己误入了一片灌木丛，而且您对一只孔雀深感害怕？”
“我不知道自己是不是特别怕他。不管怎么说，一只孔雀不是什么危险的动物。它是——嗯，我的意思是我把他比作孔雀，因为我觉得他是那种花枝招展的种类。孔雀通常很招摇，不是吗？那个讨厌的家伙也很是招摇。”
“在您遭到袭击之前，您一点都没有觉察到后面有人跟着您吗？”
“是的，是的，我一点感觉都没有，但是我认为他就是故意给我指错了路。”
波洛若有所思地点点头。
“但是必然是那只孔雀袭击了我。”奥利弗夫人说，“还能有谁？那个穿着油腻肮脏衣服的小伙子吗？他闻起来恶心透了，但是他不是坏人。那个名叫弗朗西丝的慵懒的姑娘就更不可能了，她就像是盖着一块布的箱子，黑色的长发垂地。她让我想起了某些演员或是什么的。”
“您是说她在做模特？”
“是的，不是给那只孔雀做模特，而是给那个肮脏的小伙子。我不记得您是否见过她。”
“我还没有那种荣幸能见到她，如果那真的是一种荣幸的话。”
“嗯，她很美貌，是那种艺术家的类型。化很浓的妆。惨白的脸，刷了很多睫毛膏，柔软的头发贴在脸上。她在画廊工作，我认为她为那些颓废的青年做模特是再自然不过的事了。那些姑娘真是什么都敢做！我想她或许很喜欢那只孔雀，但也说不定是那个脏兮兮的小伙子。不管怎么说，我都觉得她不可能是那种会在我头上敲上一棒的人。”
“我还有另外一种想法，夫人。有人可能注意到您在跟踪大卫，并且转而跟踪您。”
“有人看到我在跟踪大卫，接着就开始跟踪我？”
“或者是有人早就藏在那块建筑工地里，也在监视着那个您在跟踪的人。”
“当然了，也有这种可能。”奥利弗夫人说，“他们会是谁呢？”
波洛沮丧地叹了口气。“啊，是啊。这就是困难所在，真是太难了。有太多的人和事。
我什么都弄不清楚。我只知道有个姑娘说她可能犯了谋杀罪！只有这些，我只好依据这些来进行下去，甚至连这一点本身也困难重重。”
“您所说的困难重重是什么意思？”
“反思。”波洛说。
奥利弗夫人对于反思这一点不是很在行。
“您总是让我犯迷糊。”她抱怨道。
“我是在谈论一桩谋杀，但是是谁被杀了呢？”“我想是继母被杀了。”
“但是继母并没有被谋杀，她还活着。”
“你真是个最神里神经的人。”奥利弗夫人说。
波洛在椅子上坐直身子。他十指合拢，或是如奥利弗夫人推测的那样，准备去自得其乐了。
“您拒绝反思。”他说，“但是要想得到些什么，必须要反思。”
“我不想去反思。我想要知道的就是当我躺在医院的这段时间，您的所作所为。您一定是去做了什么事。您都做了些什么呢？”
波洛忽略了这个问题。
“我们必须从头开始。那天您打电话给我，我很是烦躁。是的，我要承认这一点，我很烦躁。有些话深深伤害了我。夫人，您很善良。您鼓励我，您要我放宽心。您给我喝了杯热巧克力。除此之外，您还说要帮助我，而且您确实帮了我。您帮我找到了那个来我家拜访我的姑娘，她说自己可能犯了谋杀罪！让我们扪心自问，夫人，这桩谋杀究竟如何呢？
谁被谋杀了？它发生在何处？为什么他会被谋杀呢？”
“啊，不要说了。”奥利弗夫人说，“你让我又开始头疼了，这对我的身体很不好。”
波洛对这一请求置之不理。“我们是否接手了一桩谋杀案？您说，那位继母，但是我回复您她并没有死，于是这里面就没有谋杀存在了。但是这其中应当存在一桩谋杀，因此我最先要问的是，谁死了？有人来找我跟我提起一桩谋杀案，一桩没有时间和地点的谋杀案。但是我无法查到这桩谋杀案，对此您又会再次重复，是有人试图谋杀玛丽•雷斯塔里克，这就解释得通了，但这种说法并不能让我——赫尔克里•波洛感到满意。”
“我真的想不明白您还想要得到些什么？”奥利弗夫人问。
“我想要一桩谋杀案。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“这听起来真是凶残，当您这么说的时候。”
“我在寻找一桩谋杀案，但是我无法查到一桩谋杀案。这真是太让人焦心了，所以我要您和我一起反思。”
“我有个极好的想法。”奥利弗夫人说，“假设安德鲁•雷斯塔里克在他急匆匆要赶往南非之前，谋杀了他的前妻。您想到这种可能了吗？”
“我当然是没想过这样的事情。”波洛恼怒地说。
“嗯，我想到了。”奥利弗夫人说，“这很有意思。他跟另一个女人坠入爱河，他迫切想要跟她远走高飞，所以他就谋杀了自己的前妻，并且没有被任何人怀疑。”
波洛恼怒地长叹一口气。“但是他的前妻是在他去南非十一二年之后才去世的，而他的孩子是不会在五岁大的时候就能搞清楚这桩对于自己亲生母亲的谋杀案的。”
“她可能给她母亲吃错了药，或是可能就是雷斯塔里克本人说她死了。然而，我们并不知道她是否真的死了。”
“我知道。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我做过调查。第一任雷斯塔里克夫人是在1963年4月14日去世的。”
“您是怎么知道这些事的呢？”
“我雇了某些人去调查事实。夫人，我请您不要贸然下一些不可能的结论。”
“我想我还是很聪明的。”奥利弗夫人坚持说，“如果要我写书的话，我就会这么安排的。我会让那孩子动手的。不是有意为之，就是她的父亲告诉她要她给她母亲喝下一杯掺了捣碎的树枝的药水。”
“一派胡言 [1] ！”波洛说。
“那好吧。”奥利弗夫人说，“你跟我说说你查到的吧。”
“天呐，我没什么能说的。我要找谋杀案，却怎么也找不到。”
“玛丽•雷斯塔里克发病了，住进了医院，身体康复之后回了家，然后又再次发病，如果他们去搜查的话，可能会找到那些被诺玛藏起来的砒霜或是什么别的毒药。”
“他们目前所能找到的也就是如此了。”
“嗯，说真的，波洛先生，你还想找到些什么呢？”
“我想要您留意一下语言的内涵。那位姑娘对我和我的仆人乔治所说的话是一样的。她既没有说‘我想要杀一个人’，也没有说‘我想要杀死我的继母’。她每次都说那些已经做过的事，一些已经发生了的事。的的确确发生过了的事情，用过去式。”
“我放弃了。”奥利弗夫人说，“你就是不相信诺玛试图谋杀她的继母。”
“是的，我觉得诺玛极有可能想要谋杀自己的继母。我想这件事的确可能会发生。在那种精神状态之下，她的神志不清，有些发狂。但是这并没有得到证实。请记住，任何人都能在诺玛的私人物件里藏匿一些东西，甚至有可能是那位丈夫放的。”
“你总是认为谋害妻子的一定是她们的丈夫。”奥利弗夫人说。
“丈夫常常是最有可能的人选。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“所以应该最先考虑的人是他。也可能是那个叫诺玛的姑娘，那些仆人，或是那位陪伴老爵士的姑娘，或是那位老罗德里克爵士，或是雷斯塔里克夫人自己。”
“胡说。为什么？”
“总能找到理由。或许是八竿子打不着的理由，但是总不会让人完全无法相信。”
“真的是，波洛先生，你不能怀疑每个人。”
“当然喽 [2] ，我就是这么做的。我怀疑每一个人。先怀疑，再寻找理由。”
“那个可怜的外国小姑娘，你怀疑她有什么理由？”
“这可能取决于她在这个家里担当的工作了，还有她为什么要来英国，还有很多别的理由。”
“你真是疯了。”
“或者也可能是大卫那家伙，您说的那只孔雀。”
“真是八竿子打不着。大卫不在那儿。他从没去过他们家。”
“啊，他去过。那天我去他们家的时候，他就正在别人家里晃荡。”“不是去诺玛的屋子里藏毒药吧。”
“您是怎么知道的？”
“她和那个坏家伙正在恋爱啊。”
“我承认，表面上看是这样。”
“你总是把什么事情都搞得很复杂。”奥利弗夫人抱怨说。
“一点都不是，是事情本身让我很困扰。我需要更多的信息，只有一个人能提供给我这些信息。但是她却失踪了。”“你是指诺玛。”
“是的，我说的是诺玛？”
“但是她并没有失踪。我们找到她了，你和我。”
“她从咖啡店里逃走了，之后就消失了。”
“你就这么让她走了？”奥利弗夫人气得都有些发抖了。“天呐！”
“你让她走了？你甚至没有再去找她？”
“我并没有说我试图要找她。”
“但是你直到现在都没有什么眉目。波洛先生，我对你深感失望。”
“我已经有些模糊的构想了。”赫尔克里•波洛像说梦话一样嘟囔着，“是的，我已经有些想法了。但是因为缺失一项要素，这种思维模式还没能落实。您明白吧，是吧？”
“不。”奥利弗夫人说。她的头很疼痛。
波洛继续自言自语，不管他的听众是否在倾听。奥利弗夫人感到自己生气极了，她觉得雷斯塔里克家的那个姑娘说得不错，波洛真是太老了！她自己为他找到了那个姑娘，给他打电话让他及时赶来，自己去跟踪这对情侣中的另一个。她已经把那个姑娘留给波洛了，但是看看波洛都做什么——跟丢了她！事实上，她看不出整件事情从头到尾，波洛到底做了些什么，起了什么作用。当他住嘴之后，她一定要把这些话告诉他。
波洛仍旧在平静而有条理地描述着他所谓“那种模式”的大纲。
“是连锁性的。是的，因为是连锁性的，所以才显得如此困难。一件事与另一件事关联，接着你发现它又跟其他的看似不在这个模式之内的事情关联。但是这些事并非在这个模式之外。这会带来一连串的可疑的人。可疑之处在哪儿呢？我们对此一无所知。我们最先说这个姑娘，在这一堆混乱的自相矛盾的模式之中，我们要找到其中最关键的问题。那位姑娘是受害人，还是她自身处于危险之中？或是她很有心计，为了达到自己的目的而不惜制造出这种假象？这两种可能都会发生。我仍然需要些别的东西，一些更确定的指示，它一定存在于某处。我肯定它一定藏在哪里。”
奥利弗夫人在她的手包里寻找着什么。
“我不知道为什么在我需要阿司匹林的时候却总也找不到。”她气恼地说。
“我们能看到一组相互紧密连接的关系。那位父亲，他的女儿，她女儿的继母。他们互相关联地生活在一起。还有一位有些糊涂的老舅公跟他们一起居住。我们还能想到那位姑娘索尼娅。她跟那位老爷子有关联，她为他工作。她的言行举止都很优雅美丽。他对她很是倾心。我们或许能说他对她很着迷。但是她在这个家里是什么身份？”
“我想，是想学习英语吧？”奥利弗夫人说。
“她在皇家植物园跟一位赫兹戈维尼大使馆的职员相会。他们在那里会面，但是她并没有跟他说话。她把自己带来的一本书留在了那儿，那个职员拿走了它……”
“你说的都是些什么啊？”奥利弗夫人问。
“这跟其他的模式有无关联呢？我们还不知道。看起来似乎不可能但是也不一定。玛丽•雷斯塔里克是否无意中看到了一些对于那位姑娘来说会带来危险的文件呢？”
“不要跟我说，这些事又跟间谍或是什么事情有关联吧。”
“我不是跟您说了嘛，我只是在猜测。”
“您自己说过老罗德里克爵士是个老糊涂蛋。”
“问题不在于他是不是糊涂。他是第二次世界大战中的一位有些分量的人物。他经手过一些重要的文件，有很多写给他的重要信件。当战时的信件在失去其重要性之后，可以由他自己保存。”
“您所说的战争早就是很多年前的旧事了。”
“确实是的。但是过去发生的事并不会因为年代久远就被彻底抹去。新的联盟结成了。
公开演说总是批驳这个，否认那个，各处散播谣言。假如仍旧存留有某些人物的信或是文件，这会改变某些对于战争人物的设定。我没有告诉您任何事，我只是做一些推测。据我所知，这些推测在过去都是真实发生过的。由于它们极度重要，这些信和文件应当被销毁，不然就会流入一些外国政府的手中。担任此项任务的人，有谁能比那位年轻美丽的秘书小姐合适呢？她辅助老迈的爵士整理资料撰写回忆录。现今人们都喜欢写回忆录，人们无法阻止他们这么做！假设就在那个能干的秘书小姐做饭的那天，那位继母在她的食物里吃到了一些毒药呢？假设是她想要将它嫁祸给诺玛呢？”
“你真是异想天开。”奥利弗夫人说，“歪理邪说，依我看来。我的意思是你说的这些事都不可能发生。”
“就是这样啊。这里面包含太多的模式了。哪个才是正确的呢？那个名叫诺玛的姑娘离开了家，去往伦敦。您跟我说，她作为第三个女郎，和另外两个女郎合租一间公寓。那么我们又有了另一种模式。那两个女郎对她来说是陌生人。但是接着我又了解到了什么呢？
克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰是诺玛•雷斯塔里克父亲的私人秘书。这里又出现新的联系。这只是碰巧吗？抑或是隐藏在其他的模式之后？那另外一个女郎，您告诉我，是做模特的，与那个您称之为‘孔雀’的小伙子熟识，而那人又爱着诺玛。又是一个关联。更多的关联。至于那个大卫，那只孔雀，在整件事中又起了什么作用呢？他爱上了诺玛吗？看起来是这样的。
她的父母不喜欢他，正是指明了这种可能性和自然性。”
“克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰是雷斯塔里克的秘书这件事真是古怪。”奥利弗夫人若有所思地说，“我应该想到，她不管做任何事，都是如此高效。或许就是她把那位住在七楼的女人推下去的。”
波洛慢慢向她这边转过身。
“您在说什么？”他质询道，“您在说什么？”
“就是在公寓里有一个人，我甚至不知道她的名字，她从公寓七楼自己跳了下来或是被人推了下来。”
波洛很严肃地提高了嗓门。
“而您从未告诉过我！”他斥责道。
奥利弗夫人吃惊地盯着他。
“我不知道你是什么意思。”
“我是什么意思？我问您是否知道一桩死亡。这就是我的意思。一桩死亡。而您说您不知道什么死亡案件。您只是想着试图下毒的事。其实早就发生了死亡事件。一场发生在——那地方叫什么名字来着——的死亡？”
“博罗登大楼。”
“是的，是的。什么时候发生的事？”
“那次自杀事件吗？或是什么别的叫法？我想，是的，我想是发生在我去那里之前的一星期。”
“好极了！您是怎么打听到这件事的？”
“一个送奶工告诉我的。”
“一个送奶工，真的吗？”
“他只是跟我搭话。”奥利弗夫人说，“听起来真是太惨了。是在白天，我想是在凌晨时分。”“她的名字是什么？”
“我不知道，我想他并没有提起这个。”
“是年轻人，是中年人，还是老年人？”
奥利弗夫人思索着。“嗯，他没有说她确切的年纪。五十多岁，我记得他是这么说的。”
“现在我想，那三个姑娘中没人认得她吗？”
“我怎么知道？没人再说过那件事。”
“您就从未想过要告诉我吗？”
“是的，确实，波洛先生，我想不出这跟我们接手的这件案子有什么关联。好吧，我想这可能有关系，但是没人这么说过，也没人这么想过。”
“但是就是这样的，里面是有联系的。那个名叫诺玛的姑娘住在那幢公寓楼里，某一天有人自杀了（对于这个，我想大多数人都会这么认为）。也就是，有人从七楼的窗户摔下来，死了。那么接着发生了什么？几天后，那个诺玛在您参加的那次聚会中听您提到我之后，就自己来到我这儿，告诉我她恐怕自己可能犯了谋杀罪。您还不明白吗？一桩死亡，死亡发生之后没多久就有人认为自己可能犯了谋杀罪。是的，这一定是一桩谋杀案。”
奥利弗夫人想要说“一派胡言”，但是她没敢这么做。不管怎么说，她心里是这么想的。
“那么这个必定是我一直寻找的缺失的那条线索了。这可能把整件事连接起来！是的，是的，我虽然现在还看不明白，但是一定是这样。我要好好想一想。我必须这么做。我要回家，直到我能把这些碎片都慢慢拼接起来，因为这是把这些线索串联起来的关键一块。
是的，最起码我能看到我该如何推进了。”
他起身说道：“再会，亲爱的夫人。”接着迅速从屋子里跑开了。奥利弗夫人终于感到放松了。
“一派胡言。”她对着空荡荡的屋子说，“完全是荒谬无稽。吃四片阿司匹林是不是太多了？”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注
Fifteen
Fifteen
At Hercule Poirot’s elbow was a tisane prepared for him by George. He sipped at it and thought.
He thought in a certain way peculiar to himself. It was the technique of a man who selectedthoughts as one might select pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In due course they would be reassembledtogether so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the important thing was theselection, the separation. He sipped his tisane, put down the cup, rested his hands on the arms ofhis chair and let various pieces of his puzzle come one by one into his mind. Once he recognisedthem all, he would select. Pieces of sky, pieces of green bank, perhaps striped pieces like those ofa tiger….
The painfulness of his own feet in patent leather shoes. He started there. Walking along a roadset on this path by his good friend, Mrs. Oliver. A stepmother. He saw himself with his hand on agate. A woman who turned, a woman bending her head cutting out the weak growth of a rose,turning and looking at him? What was there for him there? Nothing. A golden head, a golden headbright as a cornfield, with twists and loops of hair slightly reminiscent of Mrs. Oliver’s own inshape. He smiled a little. But Mary Restarick’s hair was more tidily arranged than Mrs. Oliver’sever was. A golden frame for her face that seemed just a little too large for her. He rememberedthat old Sir Roderick had said that she had to wear a wig, because of an illness. Sad for so young awoman. There was, when he came to think of it, something unusually heavy about her head. Fartoo static, too perfectly arranged. He considered Mary Restarick’s wig—if it was a wig—for hewas by no means sure that he could depend on Sir Roderick. He examined the possibilities of thewig in case they should be of significance. He reviewed the conversation they had had. Had theysaid anything important? He thought not. He remembered the room into which they had gone. Acharacterless room recently inhabited in someone else’s house. Two pictures on the wall, thepicture of a woman in a dove-grey dress. Thin mouth, lips set closely together. Hair that wasgreyish brown. The first Mrs. Restarick. She looked as though she might have been older than herhusband. His picture was on the opposite wall, facing her. Good portraits, both of them.
Lansberger had been a good portrait painter. His mind dwelt on the portrait of the husband. He hadnot seen it so well that first day, as he had later in Restarick’s office….
Andrew Restarick and Claudia Reece-Holland. Was there any thing there? Was their associationmore than a merely secretarial one? It need not be. Here was a man who had come back to thiscountry after years of absence, who had no near friends or relatives, who was perplexed andtroubled over his daughter’s character and conduct. It was probably natural enough that he shouldturn to his recently acquired eminently competent secretary and ask her to suggest somewhere forhis daughter to live in London. It would be a favour on her part to provide that accommodationsince she was looking for a Third Girl. Third girl…The phrase that he had acquired from Mrs.
Oliver always seemed to be coming to his mind. As though it had a second significance which forsome reason he could not see.
His manservant, George, entered the room, closing the door discreetly behind him.
“A young lady is here, sir. The young lady who came the other day.”
The words came too aptly with what Poirot was thinking. He sat up in a startled fashion.
“The young lady who came at breakfast time?”
“Oh no, sir. I mean the young lady who came with Sir Roderick Horsefield.”
“Ah, indeed.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows. “Bring her in. Where is she?”
“I showed her into Miss Lemon’s room, sir.”
“Ah. Yes, bring her in.”
Sonia did not wait for George to announce her. She came into the room ahead of him with aquick and rather aggressive step.
“It has been difficult for me to get away, but I have come to tell you that I did not take thosepapers. I did not steal anything. You understand?”
“Has anybody said that you had?” Poirot asked. “Sit down, Mademoiselle.”
“I do not want to sit down. I have very little time. I just came to tell you that it is absolutelyuntrue. I am very honest and I do what I am told.”
“I take your point. I have already taken it. Your statement is that you have not removed anypapers, information, letters, documents of any kind from Sir Roderick Horsefield’s house? That isso, is it not?”
“Yes, and I’ve come to tell you it is so. He believes me. He knows that I would not do such athing.”
“Very well then. That is a statement and I note it.”
“Do you think you are going to find those papers?”
“I have other inquiries in hand,” said Poirot. “Sir Roderick’s papers will have to take their turn.”
“He is worried. He is very worried. There is something that I cannot say to him. I will say it toyou. He loses things. Things are not put away where he thinks they are. He puts them in—how doyou say it—in funny places. Oh I know. You suspect me. Everyone suspects me because I amforeign. Because I come from a foreign country and so they think—they think I steal secret paperslike in one of your silly English spy stories. I am not like that. I am an intellectual.”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “It is always nice to know.” He added: “Is there anything else you wish totell me?”
“Why should I?”
“One never knows.”
“What are these other cases you speak of?”
“Ah, I do not want to detain you. It is your day out, perhaps.”
“Yes. I have one day a week when I can do what I like. I can come to London. I can go to theBritish Museum.”
“Ah yes and to the Victoria and Albert also, no doubt.”
“That is so.”
“And to the National Gallery and see the pictures. And on a fine day you can go to KensingtonGardens, or perhaps as far as Kew Gardens.”
She stiffened…She shot him an angry questioning glance.
“Why do you say Kew Gardens?”
“Because there are some very fine plants and shrubs and trees there. Ah! you should not missKew Gardens. The admission fee is very small. A penny I think, or twopence. And for that youcan go and see tropical trees, or you can sit on a seat and read a book.” He smiled at herdisarmingly and was interested to notice that her uneasiness was increased. “But I must not detainyou, Mademoiselle. You have perhaps friends to visit at one of the Embassies, maybe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No particular reason. You are, as you say, a foreigner and it is quite possible you may havefriends connected with your own Embassy here.”
“Someone has told you things. Someone has made accusations against me! I tell you he is a sillyold man who mislays things. That is all! And he knows nothing of importance. He has no secretpapers or documents. He never has had.”
“Ah, but you are not quite thinking of what you are saying. Time passes, you know. He wasonce an important man who did know important secrets.”
“You are trying to frighten me.”
“No, no. I am not being so melodramatic as that.”
“Mrs. Restarick. It is Mrs. Restarick who has been telling you things. She does not like me.”
“She has not said so to me.”
“Well, I do not like her. She is the kind of woman I mistrust. I think she has secrets.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, I think she has secrets from her husband. I think she goes up to London or to other placesto meet other men. To meet at any rate one other man.”
“Indeed,” said Poirot, “that is very interesting. You think she goes to meet another man?”
“Yes, I do. She goes up to London very often and I do not think she always tells her husband, orshe says it is shopping or things she has to buy. All those sort of things. He is busy in the officeand he does not think of why his wife comes up. She is more in London than she is in the country.
And yet she pretends to like gardening so much.”
“You have no idea who this man is whom she meets?”
“How should I know? I do not follow her. Mr. Restarick is not a suspicious man. He believeswhat his wife tells him. He thinks perhaps about business all the time. And, too, I think he isworried about his daughter.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “he is certainly worried about his daughter. How much do you know aboutthe daughter? How well do you know her?”
“I do not know her very well. If you ask what I think—well, I tell you! I think she is mad.”
“You think she is mad? Why?”
“She says odd things sometimes. She sees things that are not there.”
“Sees things that are not there?”
“People that are not there. Sometimes she is very excited and other times she seems as thoughshe is in a dream. You speak to her and she does not hear what you say to her. She does notanswer. I think there are people who she would like to have dead.”
“You mean Mrs. Restarick?”
“And her father. She looks at him as though she hates him.”
“Because they are both trying to prevent her marrying a young man of her choice?”
“Yes. They do not want that to happen. They are quite right, of course, but it makes her angry.
Someday,” added Sonia, nodding her head cheerfully, “I think she will kill herself. I hope she willdo nothing so foolish, but that is the thing one does when one is much in love.” She shrugged hershoulders. “Well—I go now.”
“Just tell me one thing. Does Mrs. Restarick wear a wig?”
“A wig? How should I know?” She considered for a moment. “She might, yes,” she admitted.
“It is useful for travelling. Also it is fashionable. I wear a wig myself sometimes. A green one! OrI did.” She added again, “I go now,” and went.
第十五章
第十五章
赫尔克里•波洛手肘旁边放着一杯乔治为他准备的草药茶。他一边品着茶，一边思索着。他那特定的思维方式对他自己来说也颇为特别。他选择的思维方式跟一位玩拼图游戏的人选择图片一样。按照一定的顺序，把这些图片一张一张拼凑起来，就能得到一幅清晰和谐的完整画面。此时此刻，最重要的事就是去挑选，去分门别类。他喝了一口草药茶，放下了杯子，将手臂放在椅子的扶手上，让这些纷繁复杂的图片一张张进入他的脑海中。
一旦他全部将它们分辨清楚之后，就可以开始选择了。一片蓝天，一块绿色的堤岸，或许还有一只老虎身上的条条斑纹……
他在黑色漆皮鞋里的脚趾隐隐作痛。他就从这里开始，沿着他的好友奥利弗夫人所铺就的道路。一位继母。他看到了自己的手在推一扇门。一位女人转过身来，她正在弯腰修剪玫瑰花，她转过身来，是要观察他吗？这一幕有什么可供他选择的吗？没有。一头金发，就像玉米田一般散发着金色光芒的金发，头发上的小发卷倒是与奥利弗夫人的发型有些许类似。他微微一笑，但是雷斯塔里克夫人的头发可比奥利弗夫人的要整齐得多。她的头发像一副金色画框一般围绕着她的脸庞，对于她的脸来说，这“画框”似乎有些太大了。
他记起罗德里克爵士曾说过，她不得已要戴一顶假发，因为她曾经生过重病。对于一位年轻的女士来说，这真是十分不幸。当他现在回想起来的时候，怪不得当时会觉得她的头发略微有些怪异。太服帖了，打理得也太整齐了。他在想雷斯塔里克夫人的假发——如果那真是一顶假发的话，因为他不知道自己到底能对罗德里克爵士的话相信多少。他开始审视这顶假发的可能性，因为其中可能会涉及什么重要的信息。他又仔细回忆了他们之间的谈话。他们说到过什么重要的事情吗？他觉得好像没有。他想起了那间他们一起走进去的屋子，那间屋子没有什么特色，之前曾有某个人在这里居住过。两幅画像挂在墙上，一幅画像是一位穿着鸽子灰衣服的女士。薄嘴唇，两片嘴唇紧紧抿着。发色是灰褐色的。那是第一任雷斯塔里克夫人，她看上去似乎比她的丈夫年纪大一些。雷斯塔里克先生的画像挂在另一面墙上，正对着她。真是极好的肖像画，两幅都是。兰斯贝格是一位优秀的人像画家。他的思绪停留在雷斯塔里克先生那幅画像上。他第一次看到这幅画像的时候，没有他之后在雷斯塔里克先生的办公室里见到的时候那么清楚……安德鲁•雷斯塔里克和克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰。他们之间有什么秘而不宣的东西吗？他们的关系是否不仅仅是老板和秘书的关系？看起来不会的。这是一个离开自己的国家多年，直到最近才回来的男人，他并没有亲密的朋友和亲戚，为了女儿的个性和行为而感到气恼和忧心。自然而然，他会向自己最近雇用的干练的秘书寻求建议，为她的女儿在伦敦寻得一处安身之地。对于那位秘书来说，她正好也在寻找“第三个女郎”，所以正好可以送个人情。“第三个女郎”……这句出自奥利弗夫人口中的词语，一直环绕在他的心中。好像其中还有某些不知出于什么原因导致他一直想不明白的第二种意义。
他的仆人乔治走进了屋子，轻轻关上了身后的门。
“先生，有位年轻的小姐来了。她之前来过这里。”
这句话跟波洛正在想的不谋而合。他大为惊诧。
“是那天在早餐时间来这里的小姐吗？
“不，不是的，先生。我说的是那位跟罗德里克先生一道来这里的小姐。”“啊，是她啊。”
波洛挑着眉毛。“带她进来。她现在在哪儿？”
“我让她在莱蒙小姐的屋子里先等着，先生。”
“啊，好的，带她来吧。”
索尼娅没等乔治带她进来，就急匆匆地在他之前闯了进来。
“我要离开一会儿是很困难的，但是我不得不来这里告知您，我没有拿那些文件，我没有偷任何东西。您明白吗？”
“有人这么说您吗？”波洛问道，“坐下来，小姐。”
“我不想坐下来。我的时间不多，我只是来告诉您这根本就没有根据。我是非常忠诚的，我只按照要求和命令行事。”
“我明白您的意思了。我已经知道了。您的意思是您没有从罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德爵士家里窃取任何东西。是这样吗？是不是？”
“是的，我来这里就是为了告诉您这个的。他相信我。他知道我是不会做这样的事情的。”
“那么好的。您的这些话我记下了。”
“您认为您能找到那些文件吗？”
“我还有些别的事情要做。”波洛说，“罗德里克爵士的文件得等我办完这些事才能处理。”
“他很担忧，非常担忧。有些话我不能跟他讲。但是我要跟您说说。他总是丢东西，总是会记错东西放置的地方。他把它们放在，我该怎么说呢，很有意思的地方。啊，我知道了。您是在怀疑我。每个人都怀疑我，因为我是个外国人。因为我来自外国，所以他们以为，他们以为我就像英国间谍小说里描写的那样去窃取文件。我不是那样的人。我是个有知识的人。”
“啊哈，”波洛说，“谢谢您告知我这些。”他补充道，“您还有什么要告诉我的吗？”
“为什么我要跟您说？”
“没人知道。”
“您说您还有别的事要调查，还有什么事？”
“啊，我不想浪费您的时间。可能您今天休息。”
“是的，一周之中我有一天可以自由支配。我可以来伦敦，我可以去大英博物馆。”
“啊，是的，毋庸置疑，您还会去逛逛维多利亚和艾伯特博物馆的。”
“是的。”
“还可以去英国伦敦国家美术馆看名画。或是在天气好的时候去肯辛顿花园，或者可能还会去稍远的英国皇家植物园。”
她呆住了……满是恼怒地瞥了他一眼。
“为什么要提英国皇家植物园呢？”
“因为那里有很多珍贵的植物，那里还有灌木和树。啊！您不该错过英国皇家植物园的，入场券很便宜。我想可能是一便士或是两便士。您可以去观赏热带树木，或是坐在椅子上看书。”他朝她友善地笑笑，同时注意到她不安紧张的情绪更加强烈了。“但是我想我不能再浪费您的时间了，小姐。你或许还要去看一位在大使馆里工作的友人吧？”
“您为什么这么说？”
“没什么特别的原因。正如您所说，您是个外国人，在驻英国的您自己国家的大使馆里，可能会有您的朋友。”
“一定是有人跟您汇报了，有人背地里说了一些不利于我的话！我告诉您，他就是个总是忘事的糊涂蛋！就是这样！他根本就不知道什么重要的事情。他没有什么秘密信件和文件，从来都没有过。”
“啊，但是您并没有仔细想过您说的话。您知道的，时光飞逝。他曾经是个知道很多重要秘密的重要人物。”
“您就是要恐吓我。”
“不，不是的。我不会那样虚张声势的。”
“雷斯塔里克夫人。一定是雷斯塔里克夫人跟您说的这些事。她不喜欢我。”
“她没有跟我说这些话。”
“嗯，我也不喜欢她。她是那种我最不信赖的女人。我想她倒是心怀秘密呢。”
“是吗？”
“是的，我想她有一些不能让她丈夫知晓的秘密。我想她经常去伦敦或是其他什么地方密会一些男人，每次至少见一个男人。”
“是吗？”波洛说，“这真是有意思了。您认为她常常跟其他男人密会？”
“是的，我是这么以为的。她频繁地去伦敦，我想她不太把她的行程告知她的丈夫，或是她借口说去伦敦购物什么的。诸如此类的事。他忙于事业，不会太在意他的妻子为什么会来伦敦。她在伦敦的时间远比在乡下的时间要长。可是她却总是假装忙于园艺事务。”
“您知道跟她密会的那个男人是谁吗？”
“我怎么会知道？我又没跟踪她。雷斯塔里克先生不是那种爱猜忌的人。他相信他太太告诉他的事。他整天可能都在为生意操心。而且，我觉得他对自己的女儿也很是忧心。”
“是的。”波洛说，“他确实很担忧他的女儿。您对他的女儿了解多少呢？你们之间相熟吗？”
“我不是太了解她。如果您问我对她的看法，嗯，我告诉您！我认为她精神错乱。”
“您以为她精神错乱？为什么？”
“她有时候会说一些奇怪的话。她能看到那些根本就不存在的东西。”
“看到不存在的东西？”
“根本就没人在那儿。有时候她会异常激动，有时又似乎在梦中。您跟她讲话，她似乎听不到您所说的话，她不会回应。我觉得她好像是在祈盼什么人去死一样。”
“您是指雷斯塔里克夫人吗？”
“还有她父亲。她看他的神情也满是恨意。”
“因为他们都试图阻止她跟自己选择的那个小伙子结婚吗？”
“是的，他们都不希望这件事发生。他们是对的，当然了，这让她大为光火。总有那么一天，”索尼娅有些欢欣地点点头补充道，“我觉得她会自杀。希望她不会做那样的傻事。
但是当一个人深陷爱河的时候，最有可能会这么做。”她耸耸肩。“那么，现在我要走了。”
“就再告诉我一件事。雷斯塔里克夫人是戴着一顶假发吗？”
“一顶假发？我怎么会知道？”她思索片刻。“可能是的，是的。”她又肯定地说，“这很方便出行。还很时尚。我有时候也戴假发。一顶绿色的！应该是的。”她再次补充道，“现在我要走了。”接着她就离开了。
Sixteen
Sixteen
“Today I have much to do,” Hercule Poirot announced as he rose from the breakfast table nextmorning and joined Miss Lemon. “Inquiries to make. You have made the necessary researches forme, the appointments, the necessary contacts?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Lemon. “It is all here.” She handed him a small briefcase. Poirot took aquick glance at its contents and nodded his head.
“I can always rely on you, Miss Lemon,” he said. “C’est fantastique.”
“Really, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see anything fantastic about it. You gave me instructions andI carried them out. Naturally.”
“Pah, it is not so natural as that,” said Poirot. “Do I not give instructions often to the gas men,the electricians, the man who comes to repair things, and do they always carry out myinstructions? Very, very seldom.”
He went into the hall.
“My slightly heavier overcoat, Georges. I think the autumn chill is setting in.”
He popped his head back in his secretary’s room. “By the way, what did you think of that youngwoman who came yesterday?”
Miss Lemon, arrested as she was about to plunge her fingers on the typewriter, said briefly,“Foreign.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Obviously foreign.”
“You do not think anything more about her than that?”
Miss Lemon considered. “I had no means of judging her capability in any way.” She addedrather doubtfully, “She seemed upset about something.”
“Yes. She is suspected, you see, of stealing! Not money, but papers, from her employer.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Lemon. “Important papers?”
“It seems highly probable. It is equally probable though, that he has not lost anything at all.”
“Oh well,” said Miss Lemon, giving her employer a special look that she always gave andwhich announced that she wished to get rid of him so that she could get on with proper fervourwith her work. “Well, I always say that it’s better to know where you are when you are employingsomeone, and buy British.”
Hercule Poirot went out. His first visit was to Borodene Mansions. He took a taxi. Alighting atthe courtyard he cast his eyes around. A uniformed porter was standing in one of the doorways,whistling a somewhat doleful melody. As Poirot advanced upon him, he said:
“Yes, sir?”
“I wondered,” said Poirot, “if you can tell me anything about a very sad occurrence that tookplace here recently.”
“Sad occurrence?” said the porter. “Nothing that I know of.”
“A lady who threw herself, or shall we say fell from one of the upper storeys, and was killed.”
“Oh, that. I don’t know anything about that because I’ve only been here a week, you see. Hi,Joe.”
A porter emerging from the opposite side of the block came over.
“You’d know about the lady as fell from the seventh. About a month ago, was it?”
“Not quite as much as that,” said Joe. He was an elderly, slow-speaking man. “Nasty business itwas.”
“She was killed instantly?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name? It may, you understand, have been a relative of mine,” Poirot explained.
He was not a man who had any scruples about departing from the truth.
“Indeed, sir. Very sorry to hear it. She was a Mrs. Charpentier.”
“She had been in the flat some time?”
“Well, let me see now. About a year—a year and a half perhaps. No, I think it must have beenabout two years. No. 76, seventh floor.”
“That is the top floor?”
“Yes, sir. A Mrs. Charpentier.”
Poirot did not press for any other descriptive information since he might be presumed to knowsuch things about his own relative. Instead he asked:
“Did it cause much excitement, much questioning? What time of day was it?”
“Five or six o’clock in the morning, I think. No warning or anything. Just down she came. Inspite of being so early we got a crowd almost at once, pushing through the railing over there. Youknow what people are.”
“And the police, of course.”
“Oh yes, the police came quite quickly. And a doctor and an ambulance. All the usual,” said theporter rather in the weary tone of one who had had people throwing themselves out of a seventh-storey window once or twice every month.
“And I suppose people came down from the flats when they heard what had happened.”
“Oh, there wasn’t so many coming from the flats because for one thing with the noise of trafficand everything around here most of them didn’t know about it. Someone or other said she gave abit of a scream as she came down, but not so that it caused any real commotion. It was only peoplein the street, passing by, who saw it happen. And then, of course, they craned their necks over therailings, and other people saw them craning, and joined them. You know what an accident is!”
Poirot assured him he knew what an accident was.
“She lived alone?” he said, making it only half a question.
“That’s right.”
“But she had friends, I suppose, among the other flat dwellers?”
Joe shrugged and shook his head. “May have done. I couldn’t say. Never saw her in therestaurant much with any of our lot. She had outside friends to dinner here sometimes. No, Iwouldn’t say she was specially pally with anybody here. You’d do best,” said Joe, getting slightlyrestive, “to go and have a chat with Mr. McFarlane who’s in charge here if you want to knowabout her.”
“Ah, I thank you. Yes, that is what I mean to do.”
“His office is in that block over there, sir. On the ground floor. You’ll see it marked up on thedoor.”
Poirot went as directed. He detached from his briefcase the top letter with which Miss Lemonhad supplied him, and which was marked “Mr. McFarlane.” Mr. McFarlane turned out to be agood-looking, shrewd-looking man of about forty-five. Poirot handed him the letter. He openedand read it.
“Ah yes,” he said, “I see.”
He laid it down on the desk and looked at Poirot.
“The owners have instructed me to give you all the help I can about the sad death of Mrs.
Louise Charpentier. Now what do you want to know exactly, Monsieur”—he glanced at the letteragain—“Monsieur Poirot?”
“This is, of course, all quite confidential,” said Poirot. “Her relatives have been communicatedwith by the police and by a solicitor, but they were anxious, as I was coming to England, that Ishould get a few more personal facts, if you understand me. It is distressing when one can get onlyofficial reports.”
“Yes, quite so. Yes, I quite understand that it must be. Well, I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“How long had she been here and how did she come to take the flat?”
“She’d been here—I can look it up exactly—about two years. There was a vacant tenancy and Iimagine that the lady who was leaving, being an acquaintance of hers, told her in advance that shewas giving it up. That was a Mrs. Wilder. Worked for the BBC. Had been in London for sometime, but was going to Canada. Very nice lady—I don’t think she knew the deceased well at all.
Just happened to mention she was giving up the flat. Mrs. Charpentier liked the flat.”
“You found her a suitable tenant?” There was a very faint hesitation before Mr. McFarlaneanswered:
“She was a satisfactory tenant, yes.”
“You need not mind telling me,” said Hercule Poirot. “There were wild parties, eh? A little too—shall we say—gay in her entertaining?”
Mr. McFarlane stopped being so discreet.
“There were a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people.”
Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.
“A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir—and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of troublenow and again.”
“And she was fond of the gentlemen?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like to go as far as that.”
“No, no, but one understands.”
“Of course she wasn’t so young.”
“Appearances are very often deceptive. How old would you have said she was?”
“It’s difficult to say. Forty—forty-five.” He added, “Her health wasn’t good, you know.”
“So I understand.”
“She drank too much—no doubt about it. And then she’d get very depressed. Nervous aboutherself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get itinto their heads—especially about that time of life—she thought that she had cancer. Was quitesure of it. The doctor reassured her but she didn’t believe him. He said at the inquest that there wasnothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all workedup and one fine day—” he nodded.
“It is very sad,” said Poirot. “Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?”
“Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn’t what I call the matey kind. They’re mostly peoplein business, in jobs.”
“I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known eachother.”
“Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don’t think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances,talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don’t think there was muchsocial contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean—” Mr.
McFarlane seemed a little flustered. Poirot wondered why.
He said, “One of the other girls who share Miss Holland’s flat knew Mrs. Charpentier, I believe—Miss Norma Restarick.”
“Did she? I wouldn’t know—she’s only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight.
Rather a frightened-looking young lady. Not long out of school, I’d say.” He added, “Is thereanything more I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been most kind. I wonder if possibly I could see the flat. Just in order tobe able to say—” Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.
“Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He’s in the City all day. Yes, come upwith me if you like, sir.”
They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fellfrom the door and narrowly avoided Poirot’s patent leather shoe. He hopped nimbly and then bentto pick it up. He replaced the spike which fixed it on the door very carefully.
“These numbers are loose,” he said.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll make a note of it. Yes, they wear loose from time to time. Well, here weare.”
Poirot went into the living room. At the moment it had little personality. The walls werepapered with a paper resembling grained wood. It had conventional comfortable furniture, the onlypersonal touch was a television set and a certain number of books.
“All the flats are partly furnished, you see,” said Mr. McFarlane. “The tenants don’t need tobring anything of their own, unless they want to. We cater very largely for people who come andgo.”
“And the decorations are all the same?”
“Not entirely. People seem to like this raw wood effect. Good background for pictures. The onlythings that are different are on the one wall facing the door. We have a whole set of frescoes whichpeople can choose from.
“We have a set of ten,” said Mr. McFarlane with some pride. “There is the Japanese one—veryartistic, don’t you think?—and there is an English garden one; a very striking one of birds; one oftrees, a Harlequin one, a rather interesting abstract effect—lines and cubes, in vividly contrastingcolours, that sort of thing. They’re all designs by good artists. Our furniture is all the same. Twochoices of colours, or of course people can add what they like of their own. But they don’t usuallybother.”
“Most of them are not, as you might say, homemakers,” Poirot suggested.
“No, rather the bird of passage type, or busy people who want solid comfort, good plumbingand all that but aren’t particularly interested in decoration, though we’ve had one or two of the do-it-yourself type, which isn’t really satisfactory from our point of view. We’ve had to put a clausein the lease saying they’ve got to put things back as they found them—or pay for that being done.”
They seemed to be getting rather far away from the subject of Mrs. Charpentier’s death. Poirotapproached the window.
“It was from here?” he murmured delicately.
“Yes. That’s the window. The left-hand one. It has a balcony.”
Poirot looked out down below.
“Seven floors,” he said. “A long way.”
“Yes, death was instantaneous, I am glad to say. Of course, it might have been an accident.”
Poirot shook his head.
“You cannot seriously suggest that, Mr. McFarlane. It must have been deliberate.”
“Well, one always likes to suggest an easier possibility. She wasn’t a happy woman, I’mafraid.”
“Thank you,” said Poirot, “for your great courtesy. I shall be able to give her relations in Francea very clear picture.”
His own picture of what had occurred was not as clear as he would have liked. So far there hadbeen nothing to support his theory that the death of Louise Charpentier had been important. Herepeated the Christian name thoughtfully. Louise…Why had the name Louise some hauntingmemory about it? He shook his head. He thanked Mr. McFarlane and left.
第十六章
第十六章
“今天我要做很多事。”第二天，当赫尔克里•波洛起身从餐桌边站起来，去找莱蒙小姐的时候这样说道，“要查询很多事。事先约定的会面和必要的联络人您都帮我安排妥当了吗？”
“那是自然了。”莱蒙小姐说，“都在这里了。”她递给他一个小公文包。波洛匆匆扫了一眼，接着点点头。
“莱蒙小姐，我总是信赖您。”他说，“您真是太不可思议了 [1] 。”
“真的，波洛先生，我一点也看不出这有什么不可思议的。您给我下命令，我遵照指令去做。自然而然。”
“呵，才不是那么理所当然呢。”波洛说，“我也常常给那些瓦斯工、水电工还有维修工指示，他们总是按照我的指示去做吗？极少，极少会这么做的。”
他走在通往前门的走廊的时候说：“乔治，拿我的那件薄外套来。我感受到了外面凉凉的秋意。”
他探头看向秘书室。“顺便问一句，那位昨天来这里的小姐，您觉得她怎么样？”
莱蒙小姐正准备伸出手指打字，她简洁地答道：“外国人。”
“是的，是的。”
“很明显是个外国人。”
“除此之外，您就没有别的评价了吗？”
莱蒙小姐思索着。“我判断不出她的能力。”她有些怀疑地补充道，“她似乎因为某事而深感沮丧。”
“是的，她被怀疑了，你明白的，怀疑偷了东西！不是钱，是文件，从她雇主那里。”
“天呐，天呐。”莱蒙小姐喊道，“很重要的文件吗？”
“很有可能是的。但是还有可能他根本就什么都没有丢。”
“啊，这样啊。”莱蒙小姐说道。她向她的雇主投去了意味深长的一瞥，当她想要把他打发走，以便于专心投入工作的时候，她总是会用这种眼神。“嗯，我总是说当您雇什么人的时候，最好还是要考虑到自己身处何地，还是用英国本地人比较妥当。”
赫尔克里•波洛走了出去。他要先去博罗登大楼。他叫了一辆出租车。在大楼院内下车后，他环视四周。有一位身着制服的看门人守在一扇大门之前，吹着一首有些孤寂的小调。当波洛走上前去的时候，他开口说道：“先生，您有什么事吗？”
“我想，”波洛说，“您能否告诉我关于最近发生在这里的那场惨不忍睹的事故。”
“惨不忍睹的事故？”看门人问道，“我一无所知。”
“一位女士纵身从楼上跳下，或者可以说她是从高楼上掉下来，结果摔死了。”
“啊，那件事啊。我对此一无所知，因为我只在这里工作了一个星期而已，您明白的。
您好，乔！”一位从对面公寓走出来的看门人朝他们这边走来。
“您知道那个从七楼掉下来的女士的事吗？那件事大约发生在一个月前，是吧？”
“没有隔那么久。”乔说。他是个语速很慢的年迈的人。“那真是太骇人了。”
“她是直接就摔死了吗？”
“是的。”
“她的名字是什么？她或许是我的一位亲戚。”波洛解释道。他不是那种对说谎心有顾虑的人。
“是吗？先生。真是太不幸了。她是一位叫作卡彭特的夫人。”
“她在这里住了有一段时间了吧？”
“是的，现在让我回想一下。大约是一年，或许是一年半。不是的，我想一定是两年。
住在七楼的76号。”
“那是顶层吗？”
“是的，先生。卡彭特夫人。”
波洛没有再进一步问一些细节，因为他想既然他是那位女士的“亲戚”，自然会对她有所了解。所以他又换了一种问法：
“那件事引起什么大的轰动了吗？有没有人对此问这问那的？它是什么时段发生的？”
“早晨五点或是六点，我想。事先没有什么预兆。她就这么掉了下来。虽然是清晨，但是还立即围上来一大群人。您知道人们都是喜欢看热闹的。”
“那是当然，警察也来了吧？”
“啊，是的。警察很快就来了。还来了一位医生和一辆救护车。就是通常的那套。”那位看门人用厌烦的口吻说道，听起来就好像这里每个月总有那么一两次会有人跳楼。
“我想楼上的住户听到楼下的声音之后，就都跑了下来吧。”
“啊，没什么人下来，因为这里的车辆往来的声音太过嘈杂，住户们大多数并不知道下面发生了什么。有人说当她摔下来的时候似乎小声尖叫了一下，但是声音太小，并没有引起什么真正的轰动。只有那些在街上路过的人看到了。当然了，之后，他们伸着脖子往栏杆里看，其他的人看到他们探头往里看，也跟着挤着一起看。您知道的，一旦出了什么事故，人们就喜欢看热闹！”
波洛对他说自己对这种现象也很是了解。
“她是独居吗？”他用一种很随意的口吻说道。
“是的。”
“但是我想她总有些朋友吧，她和住在这所公寓里的其他住户关系密切吗？”
乔耸耸肩，摇摇头。“可能会有，我不清楚。我从来没在餐厅里看到她和别人在一起。
有时候，她会请外面的朋友去餐厅吃饭。不，我不能说她跟这里的任何人有亲密的关系。
您最好还是，”乔略有些厌烦地说，“还是去找我们的主管麦克法兰先生吧，如果您想知道关于她的更多的事。”
“啊，谢谢您。是的，我正要去呢。”
“他的办公室在那幢楼的底层，先生。您能在他的门口看到门牌。”
波洛按照指示走了过去。他从手提包里莱蒙小姐为他准备好的信件中拿出最上面的那封信，上面写着“麦克法兰先生”。麦克法兰先生是一位长相英俊、颇为精明的二十五岁的男士。波洛把信递给他。他打开了信件，读了起来。
“啊，好的。”他说，“我知道了。”
他把信放在桌子上，看向波洛。
“这座公寓的主人吩咐我在露易丝•卡彭特夫人死亡这件事上全力协助您。先生，现在我具体能帮助您什么呢？”他再次看了一眼信，“波洛先生？”
“当然了，这次的行动要完全保密。”波洛说，“警察和律师曾经和她的亲属联系过，但是他们太过焦急，因为我要来英国，所以他们希望我能获得一些其他的事实真相。希望您能理解我，您知道只依靠官方的报告，是很难让人真正放心的。”
“是的，确实是这样。是的，我很明白确实是这样。好的，我会尽我所能告诉您一切的。”
“她在这里住了多久，她是怎么租下这里的公寓的？”
“她在这里，我能立马查出来，大约两年了。这里有一间空房，我想那位要搬走的女士肯定是跟她熟识，所以提前告诉她自己要搬走。那位女士是怀尔德夫人，在BBC工作。她在伦敦待了一段时间，但是她要去加拿大了。真是位不错的女士。我认为她与这位意外死亡的女士并不太熟。她只是偶然之间说起自己要搬走，而卡彭特夫人很喜欢这间公寓罢了。”
“您认为她是个合适的租客吗？”
在麦克法兰先生回答之前，先是迟疑了一阵。
“她是个不错的租客，是的。”
“您可以跟我有话直说，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“她在公寓里举办狂野的派对，呃？有一点太……我们该怎么说呢，在招待朋友的时候有些过于喧闹？”
麦克法兰先生的态度有些不那么拘束了。
“有时会这样，有人对此有些抱怨，但是大多是些年纪比较大的人。”
赫尔克里•波洛做了个意味深长的手势。
“有点过于爱喝酒了，是的，她的朋友都是些游戏人间之人。有时候，就会给自己招惹些麻烦。”“她喜欢跟男士们交往吗？”
“这个，我不想扯得太远。”
“是的，是的，我理解。”
“当然了她也不年轻了。”
“只看外表不是那么可信。您看她有多大年纪？”
“这很难说。四十，四十五。”他补充道，“您知道的，她的健康状况不是太好。”
“我知道。”
“她酗酒，毫无疑问。她还常常深陷忧郁之中。她对自己的状况很担忧。她总是去看医生，而且不相信医生所说的话。女士们在这种年纪，总是会有这样的担忧，她以为自己得了癌症，还对此深信不疑。医生说她没有生病，但是她却不相信。在验尸的时候，医生也说她一点病都没有。啊，是的，人们总是会听到这类的事。她对此无法忍受，有一天——”他点点头。
“真是太惨了。”波洛说，“在这所公寓楼的租户里，她有没有什么朋友？”
“对此我不是很了解。这个地方，您看，不是那种关系亲密的地方。租户们多半是经商的人或是有自己工作的人。”
“我想到了克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰小姐。不知道她们两个人之间熟识吗？”
“克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰小姐？不，我不认为如此。啊，我的意思是，她们只是认识而已，是那种会在电梯里打个招呼的关系。但是我认为她们在社交上没有任何联系。您看，她们不是一个年龄段的人。我的意思是——”麦克法兰先生有些慌张。波洛猜测着其中的原因。
波洛说：“我想，另一位跟何兰小姐合租的小姐知道卡彭特夫人——诺玛•雷斯塔里克小姐。”
“她知道卡彭特夫人吗？我一点都没想到，她是最近才搬过来的，我对她还有些不太眼熟呢。她是一个总是面露惊恐的年轻女士。我觉得她离开学校还没多久。”他补充道，“先生，我还能为您做些什么呢？”
“不了，谢谢您。您真是友善。我想如果可能，我是否可以去看看那间公寓？只是为了能跟她的亲属们说——”波洛顿住了，不知道自己要说些什么。
“好的，现在我带您去看看。现在是一位名叫特拉弗斯的先生住在那里。他全天都在城里工作。是的，如果您想看看的话，请随我来，先生。”
他们上到了七楼。当麦克法兰先生把钥匙插进锁眼的时候，门牌从大门上掉了下来，差点砸到波洛的黑色漆皮皮鞋上。他躲开了，接着弯腰拾起了门牌，小心地把门牌上的钉子复归原位。
“这个门牌都松了。”他说。
“先生，不好意思。我会记下来的。是的，它们时不时就会松。好的，我们进来吧。”
波洛走进起居室。他进来的那一刻，看到这里并没有什么个人特色。墙壁贴着木纹的壁纸。屋里摆放着那种常见的、舒适的家具，属于租客个人的东西只有那台电视机和一些书。
“您看，我们这里的公寓都是带家具的。”麦克法兰先生说，“租客不用带任何东西，除非他们自己要带。我们这里多半是搬进搬出的租客。”
“屋内的装饰都是一样的吗？”
“不全是。人们似乎很喜欢这种原木的效果，跟挂画很相配。唯一不同的是正对着大门的挂画。我们有一系列水彩画可供租客选择。”
“一共有十套。”麦克法兰先生带着自豪感说，“有日本风情系列，非常具有艺术气息，您不觉得吗？英国园林系列，还有一种稀有鸟类系列，树木系列，小丑系列，线条和立体抽象效果系列，色彩对比鲜明系列……它们都是由著名的艺术家设计的。我们的家具都是相同的。有两种色彩，可供租客随意挑选。但是通常都不劳他们费心。”
“就如您所说，他们中的大多数都不是那种爱操持家的类型。”波洛说道。
“是的，更像是那种漂泊不定之人，或者是那种工作繁忙，需要纯粹的舒适，只要可以方便洗漱，而对室内装饰不太感兴趣的人。虽然偶尔也会有那么一两位喜欢随自己的意愿摆弄，在我们看来，并没有什么好的效果。我们在租房合约上写明了在租客退租之前要把东西都摆回原位，如果有什么破坏之处，是要赔偿的。”
他们之间的谈话似乎离卡彭特夫人之死这个话题越来越远了。波洛朝窗口走了过去。
“是从这里跳下去的吗？”他轻声问道。
“是的，就是从这扇窗户。左手边的那个。那外面有个阳台。”
波洛朝下看去。
“七层。”他说，“真是挺高的。”
“是的，还算幸运，当场就死了。当然，这也可能是一场意外。”波洛摇摇头。
“您不会真的这么想吧，麦克法兰先生。这肯定是有意为之的。”
“嗯，总要找个说得通的理由。恐怕她不是个快活的女人。”
“谢谢您。”波洛说，“谢谢您帮忙。这么一来我就能给身在法国的她的亲戚们一个清楚的说法了。”
他对于这件事的了解不像他自己想要的那样清楚。迄今为止，没有什么发现可以支持他认为露易丝•卡彭特之死具有重要的意义这一理论。他若有所思地重复着她的名字。露易丝……为什么露易丝这个名字一直在他的脑中挥散不去呢？他摇摇头。他谢过了麦克法兰之后就离开了。
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
Seventeen
Seventeen
Chief Inspector Neele was sitting behind his desk looking very official and formal. He greetedPoirot politely and motioned him to a chair. As soon as the young man who had introduced Poirotto the presence had left, Chief Inspector Neele’s manner changed.
“And what are you after now, you secretive old devil?” he said.
“As to that,” said Poirot, “you already know.”
“Oh yes, I’ve rustled up some stuff but I don’t think there’s much for you from that particularhole.”
“Why call it a hole?”
“Because you’re so exactly like a good mouser. A cat sitting over a hole waiting for the mouseto come out. Well, if you ask me, there isn’t any mouse in this particular hole. Mind you, I don’tsay that you couldn’t unearth some dubious transactions. You know these financiers. I daresaythere’s a lot of hoky-poky business, and all that, about minerals and concessions and oil and allthose things. But Joshua Restarick Ltd. has got a good reputation. Family business—or used to be—but you can’t call it that now. Simon Restarick hadn’t any children, and his brother AndrewRestarick only has this daughter. There was an old aunt on the mother’s side. Andrew Restarick’sdaughter lived with her after she left school and her own mother died. The aunt died of a strokeabout six months ago. Mildly potty, I believe — belonged to a few rather peculiar religioussocieties. No harm in them. Simon Restarick was a perfectly plain type of shrewd businessman,and had a social wife. They were married rather late in life.”
“And Andrew?”
“Andrew seems to have suffered from wanderlust. Nothing known against him. Never stayedanywhere long, wandered about South Africa, South America, Kenya and a good many otherplaces. His brother pressed him to come back more than once, but he wasn’t having any. He didn’tlike London or business, but he seems to have had the Restarick family flair for making money.
He went after mineral deposits, things like that. He wasn’t an elephant hunter or an archaeologistor a plant man or any of those things. All his deals were business deals and they always turned outwell.”
“So he also in his way is conventional?”
“Yes, that about covers it. I don’t know what made him come back to England after his brotherdied. Possibly a new wife—he’s married again. Good-looking woman a good deal younger than heis. At the moment they’re living with old Sir Roderick Horsefield whose sister had marriedAndrew Restarick’s uncle. But I imagine that’s only temporary. Is any of this news to you? Or doyou know it all already?”
“I’ve heard most of it,” said Poirot. “Is there any insanity in the family on either side?”
“Shouldn’t think so, apart from old Auntie and her fancy religions. And that’s not unusual in awoman who lives alone.”
“So all you can tell me really is that there is a lot of money,” said Poirot.
“Lots of money,” said Chief Inspector Neele. “And all quite respectable. Some of it, mark you,Andrew Restarick brought into the firm. South African concessions, mines, mineral deposits. I’dsay that by the time these were developed, or placed on the market, there’d be a very large sum ofmoney indeed.”
“And who will inherit it?” said Poirot.
“That depends on how Andrew Restarick leaves it. It’s up to him, but I’d say that there’s no oneobvious, except his wife and his daughter.”
“So they both stand to inherit a very large amount of money one day?”
“I should say so. I expect there are a good many family trusts and things like that. All the usualCity gambits.”
“There is, for instance, no other woman in whom he might be interested?”
“Nothing known of such a thing. I shouldn’t think it likely. He’s got a good-looking new wife.”
“A young man,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “could easily learn all this?”
“You mean and marry the daughter? There’s nothing to stop him, even if she was made a wardof Court or something like that. Of course her father could then disinherit her if he wanted to.”
Poirot looked down at a neatly written list in his hand.
“What about the Wedderburn Gallery?”
“I wondered how you’d got onto that. Were you consulted by a client about a forgery?”
“Do they deal in forgeries?”
“People don’t deal in forgeries,” said Chief Inspector Neele reprovingly. “There was a ratherunpleasant business. A millionaire from Texas over here buying pictures, and paying incrediblesums for them. They sold him a Renoir and a Van Gogh. The Renoir was a small head of a girland there was some query about it. There seemed no reason to believe that the WedderburnGallery had not bought it in the first place in all good faith. There was a case about it. A greatmany art experts came and gave their verdicts. In fact, as usual, in the end they all seemed tocontradict each other. The gallery offered to take it back in any case. However, the millionairedidn’t change his mind, since the latest fashionable expert swore that it was perfectly genuine. Sohe stuck to it. All the same there’s been a bit of suspicion hanging round the gallery ever since.”
Poirot looked again at his list.
“And what about Mr. David Baker? Have you looked him up for me?”
“Oh, he’s one of the usual mob. Riffraff—go about in gangs and break up nightclubs. Live onpurple hearts—heroin—Coke—Girls go mad about them. He’s the kind they moan over saying hislife has been so hard and he’s such a wonderful genius. His painting is not appreciated. Nothingbut good old sex, if you ask me.”
Poirot consulted his list again.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Reece-Holland, MP?”
“Doing quite well, politically. Got the gift of the gab all right. One or two slightly peculiartransactions in the City, but he’s wriggled out of them quite neatly. I’d say he was a slippery one.
He’s made quite a good deal of money off and on by rather doubtful means.”
Poirot came to his last point.
“What about Sir Roderick Horsefield?”
“Nice old boy but gaga. What a nose you have, Poirot, get it into everything, don’t you? Yes,there’s been a lot of trouble in the Special Branch. It’s this craze for memoirs. Nobody knowswhat indiscreet revelations are going to be made next. All the old boys, service and otherwise, areracing hard to bring out their own particular brand of what they remember of the indiscretions ofothers! Usually it doesn’t much matter, but sometimes—well, you know, Cabinets change theirpolicies and you don’t want to afront someone’s susceptibilities or give the wrong publicity, so wehave to try and muffle the old boys. Some of them are not too easy. But you’ll have to go to theSpecial Branch if you want to nose into any of that. I shouldn’t think there was much wrong. Thetrouble is they don’t destroy the papers they should. They keep the lot. However, I don’t thinkthere is much in that, but we have evidence that a certain Power is nosing around.”
Poirot gave a deep sigh.
“Haven’t I helped?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“I am very glad to get the real lowdown from official quarters. But no, I don’t think there ismuch help in what you have told me.” He sighed and then said, “What would be your opinion ifsomeone said to you casually that a woman—a young attractive woman—wore a wig?”
“Nothing in that,” said Chief Inspector Neele, and added, with a slight asperity, “my wife wearsa wig when we’re travelling anytime. It saves a lot of trouble.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Hercule Poirot.
As the two men bade each other good-bye, the Chief Inspector asked:
“You got all the dope, I suppose, on that suicide case you were asking about in the flats? I had itsent round to you.”
“Yes, thank you. The official facts, at least. A bare record.”
“There was something you were talking about just now that brought it back to my mind. I’llthink of it in a moment. It was the usual, rather sad story. Gay woman, fond of men, enoughmoney to live upon, no particular worries, drank too much and went down the hill. And then shegets what I call the health bug. You know, they’re convinced they have cancer or something inthat line. They consult a doctor and he tells them they’re all right, and they go home and don’tbelieve him. If you ask me it’s usually because they find they’re no longer as attractive as theyused to be to men. That’s what’s really depressing them. Yes, it happens all the time. They’relonely, I suppose, poor devils. Mrs. Charpentier was just one of them. I don’t suppose that any—”
he stopped. “Oh yes, of course, I remember. You were asking about one of our MPs, Reece-Holland. He’s a fairly gay one himself in a discreet way. Anyway, Louise Charpentier was hismistress at one time. That’s all.”
“Was it a serious liaison?”
“Oh I shouldn’t say so particularly. They went to some rather questionable clubs together andthings like that. You know, we keep a discreet eye on things of that kind. But there was neveranything in the Press about them. Nothing of that kind.”
“I see.”
“But it lasted for a certain time. They were seen together, off and on, for about six months, but Idon’t think she was the only one and I don’t think he was the only one either. So you can’t makeanything of that, can you?”
“I do not think so,” said Poirot.
“But all the same,” he said to himself as he went down the stairs, “all the same, it is a link. Itexplains the embarrassment of Mr. McFarlane. It is a link, a tiny link, a link between EmlynReece-Holland, MP, and Louise Charpentier.” It didn’t mean anything probably. Why should it?
But yet—“I know too much,” said Poirot angrily to himself. “I know too much. I know a littleabout everything and everyone but I cannot get my pattern. Half these facts are irrelevant. I want apattern. A pattern. My kingdom for a pattern,” he said aloud.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lift boy, turning a startled head.
“It is nothing,” said Poirot.
第十七章
第十七章
尼尔检察官坐在桌子后面，显得相当官方和正式。他彬彬有礼地接待了波洛，并请他就座。当将波洛带进来的那位年轻人离开之后，尼尔的态度马上就变了。
“您这个神秘的老魔头，您来这里做什么呢？”他问。
“说到这个，”波洛说，“您已经知道了。”
“啊，是的。我已经搜集了一些资料，但是我想从那个洞里挖不到什么东西给你。”
“为什么是那个‘洞’呢？”
“因为您就像个优秀的捕鼠能手，一只蹲在洞口等待着老鼠出洞的猫。嗯，如果您问我，我会告诉您那个洞里并没有什么老鼠。不要介怀，我不是说那个洞里任何有价值的、可疑的勾当都挖不出来。我敢说一定会有些猫腻在其中，那些矿产、专利和石油还有诸如此类的事情。但是约书亚•雷斯塔里克有限公司是一家声望极高的公司，是个家族事业，或者一度是这样的，但是您现在不能这么说了。西蒙•雷斯塔里克没有孩子，他的弟弟安德鲁•雷斯塔里克只有一个女儿。还有他妈妈娘家那边的一位老姨妈，安德鲁•雷斯塔里克的女儿在离开学校、亲生母亲去世之后曾跟她住在一起。那位老姨妈因为中风在六个月前去世了。她有些迷迷糊糊，我认为她曾加入过一些相当古怪的宗教团体，倒也不是什么邪恶的团体。西蒙•雷斯塔里克是个彻头彻尾的精干的商人，他有一位善于交际的夫人。他们是晚婚。”
“那么安德鲁呢？”
“安德鲁看起来似乎很喜欢漫游。没什么对他不好的传闻。他从来不在任何一个地方待太久，在南非、南美、肯尼亚和其他很多地方漫游。他的哥哥不止一次强令他回来，但是他从不肯遵从。他不喜欢伦敦，也不爱生意，但是他似乎有雷斯塔里克家族赚钱的天赋。
他喜欢追逐矿藏，事情就是这样。他不是个捕猎大象的猎人，或是什么考古学家、植物搜集者或是其他的人。他所经手的都是些商业方面的事务，他经常能从中大赚一笔。”
“这么说从他的行事方式来说，他也算是个符合常规的人了。”
“是的，可以这么概括。我不知道在他哥哥去世之后，是什么让他返回英国的。可能是他的新太太，他再婚了。夫人是一位相貌美丽，比他年轻不少的女人。现今，他们和罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德老爵士一起居住，那位老爵士的妹妹曾经嫁给过安德鲁•雷斯塔里克的叔叔。但是我想他们也只是暂时住在那里。我说的这些对您来说有什么是未曾听闻的吗？或者说您都已经了解过了？”
“多数的事我都知道了。”波洛说，“这两方家族里有人患过精神病吗？”
“应该没有，除了那个老姨妈，她参加过一些古怪的宗教团体。这对于独居的老人来说也算是稀松平常之事。”
“这么说您能告诉我的事就是他们家很富有。”波洛说。
“很富有。”尼尔检察官说，“并且都是通过正当的途径。我提醒您，这其中一部分是由安德鲁•雷斯塔里克给这个公司带来的。包括南非的专利、矿产和矿藏。我要说当这些都被开发出来，或者是都上市之后，将会是一笔数目巨大的财富。”
“那么谁会继承它们呢？”波洛问。
“这取决于安德鲁•雷斯塔里克怎么处置了。这取决于他，但是我看除了他的妻子和女儿，再没有其他人了。”
“那么说她们两人有朝一日都有可能会继承到这一笔巨大的财富？”
“要我说是这样的。我猜应该有不少的家庭信托基金吧，通常在伦敦金融区里。”
“举个例子，他有没有可能钟情于另一位女人？”
“没听说过这样的事。我也不认为有这个可能。他的新妻子是个相貌美丽的女人。”
“一位年轻男人。”波洛若有所思地念叨着，“会很轻易就知道这一切吗？”
“您是说和他的女儿结婚吗？没人能够阻止他，甚至法庭裁定她受到监护，或是什么类似的。当然了，如果他父亲愿意的话，可以取消她的继承资格。”
波洛看着他手上那张字迹整齐的单子。
“韦德伯恩画廊那边情况如何？”
“我不知道您是怎么扯到这里来了。您是被委托调查赝品吗？”
“那里的人不售卖赝品。”尼尔检察长有些不悦地说，“那里倒是发生过一桩不是很愉快的交易。一位来自得克萨斯的百万富翁来买画，付给他们一大笔钱。他们卖给了他一幅雷诺的画和一幅梵高的画。雷诺的那幅画是一个小女孩的头像，关于这幅画，曾有些质疑的声音。虽然看起来韦德伯恩画廊当初在购进这幅画的时候并没有什么歪心思，但是这位富翁还是请来了很多艺术品专家做出鉴定。事实上，一如往常，最后鉴定的结果互相矛盾。
这家画廊说过他们无论如何都愿意将它收回，但是那位百万富翁并不想改变初衷，他让那位最炙手可热的鉴定专家发誓说这幅画是真的。于是他决定将它购进。从那之后，关于韦德伯恩画廊的可疑传言就散播了出去。”
波洛再次看了看单子。
“那么您知道大卫•贝克的底细吗？您有没有替我查查他的情况？”
“啊，他就是通常的那种团伙中的一员。乌合之众，拉帮结派，在夜总会里大肆捣乱。
靠着紫心锭、海洛因和可卡因过活，姑娘们对他疯狂着迷。他是那种姑娘们最为哀怜之人，她们说他命运坎坷，是个绝妙的天才，他的画作没有得到赏识之类的。如果要我说，他就是个身无长物，只能激起姑娘们欲望的人。”
波洛再次审视起自己的单子。
“您对于议员瑞希-何兰先生有什么了解吗？”
“在政治上做得相当不错，在论辩方面很有天赋。他在伦敦市内做过一两次不清不楚的交易，但是都很利落地全身而退。我要说这位先生很狡猾，他会用一些可疑的手段捞到一大笔钱。”
波洛提出了最后一点问题。
“那么罗德里克•霍斯菲尔德爵士呢？”
“很不错的一个老家伙，就是有点糊涂。您真是嗅觉灵敏啊，波洛，您什么都能感觉到，不是吗？是的，我们英国警方的政治保安处都快要被他烦死了，都是这阵盛行撰写回忆录的风潮惹的。没有人知道又会有什么人写些什么胡言乱语。那些老家伙，做过战时服务工作或是其他什么的，都争先恐后地发表自己所能记得的那些关于他人的失误遗漏之事！通常来说，这也无伤大雅，但是有时候，嗯，您知道的，内阁改变了政策，他们不想伤害某些人脆弱的感情或是做出错误的舆论引导，所以我们想方设法去堵住那些老家伙的嘴。他们中的一些人真是难对付。但是如果您想挖掘这方面的资料，最好还是去政治保安处吧。我想那里不应该会有多大的错误。问题是他们没有把该销毁的文件销毁掉，他们保存了大量的文件。但是，我想这些东西并没有多大价值，但是我们有证据表明，的确有一股势力在探查什么。”
波洛深深叹了口气。
“我今天所说的对您可否有帮助？”检察官问道。
“我很高兴能从官方得到一些真正的内幕。但是，我不觉得您说的事情对我有多大帮助。”他叹了口气接着说，“如果有人偶尔跟您提起，有一位年轻且充满魅力的女人戴着一顶假发，您怎么看？”
“这没什么。”尼尔检察官说道，接着又带着些许的刻薄意味补充道，“不论我们什么时候去旅行，我的太太总是戴着假发。这倒是省了不少麻烦。”
“不好意思。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
当这两个人互相道别的时候，检察官问道：“关于那起发生在公寓的自杀案件，我想，您都弄明白了吧？我已经把资料都送到您那里了。”
“是的，谢谢您。最起码官方的报告我是有了，虽然只是关于案件的笔录。”
“您刚刚提到的某些事让我想起了些什么。让我想一想。这是那种常见的悲剧故事。一个乐观的女性，很喜欢男人，还有足够的钱财，没有什么需要特别忧心之处，饮酒过量，人生走上了下坡路。接着她患上了过度担心健康的毛病。您知道的，她们会确信自己得了癌症或是这一类的绝症。她们去医生那里问诊，医生会告知她们的身体完全没问题，等她们回家之后，却对医生的话一点都不相信。如果您问我，我要说这通常是因为她们发觉自己已经不再那么具有女性魅力了，对男性而言吸引力愈来愈弱导致的。这是真正让她们感到沮丧的事。是的，这种情况总是会发生。我认为她们很孤单，是些可怜的家伙。卡彭特夫人就是其中一个。我想她不会——”他停了下来，“啊，是的，当然了，我记得。您问我关于瑞希-何兰议员的情况。他是个很喜欢玩乐的人，但是通常行事谨慎。不管怎么说，露易丝•卡彭特一度是他的情妇。就是这些了。”
“他们之间的关系密切吗？”
“啊，我想也没那么密切。他们曾经在一些声名狼藉的夜总会上一起出现过。您知道的，我们对这类事会予以监察。但是在报刊上并没有关于他们的任何绯闻，没有任何这类的消息。”
“我明白了。”
“他们的情人关系维系了很长一段时间。他们分分合合，大概在一起有六个月。但是我想他们都不是对方唯一的情人。所以您就不能说他们之间关系紧密了，不是吗？”
“我也不这么认为。”波洛说。
“但是仍然有可能。”当波洛下楼的时候口中喃喃自语道，“仍然有可能，这是一环。这解释了为什么麦克法兰先生会感到尴尬的原因。这是一个微弱的环节，一条连在埃姆林•瑞希-何兰议员和露易丝•卡彭特之间的环节。”可能这并不能说明什么。为什么它会有重要的意义呢？但是——“我想知道的简直太多了。”波洛气恼地对自己说，“我想知道的简直太多了。对于每件事、每个人我都知之甚少，但是我无法据此塑造出一种思维模型。一半的事实都与之不相关。我想要一种模式，我拼尽全力所求的不过是一种模式。”波洛大喊道。
“先生，您说什么？”开电梯的小伙子转过头吃惊地问道。
“没什么。”波洛说。
Eighteen
Eighteen
Poirot paused at the doorway of the Wedderburn Gallery to inspect a picture which depicted threeaggressive- looking cows with vastly elongated bodies overshadowed by a colossal andcomplicated design of windmills. The two seemed to have nothing to do with each other or thevery curious purple colouring.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said a soft purring voice.
A middle-aged man, who at first sight seemed to have shown a smile which exhibited an almostexcessive number of beautiful white teeth, was at his elbow.
“Such freshness.”
He had large white plump hands which he waved as though he was using them in an arabesque.
“Clever exhibition. Closed last week. Claude Raphael show opened the day before yesterday.
It’s going to do well. Very well indeed.”
“Ah,” said Poirot and was led through grey velvet curtains into a long room.
Poirot made a few cautious if doubtful remarks. The plump man took him in hand in a practisedmanner. Here was someone, he obviously felt, who must not be frightened away. He was a veryexperienced man in the art of salesmanship. You felt at once that you were welcome to be in hisgallery all day if you liked without making a purchase. Sheerly, solely looking at these delightfulpictures — though when you entered the gallery you might not have thought that they weredelightful. But by the time you went out you were convinced that delightful was exactly the wordto describe them. After receiving some useful artistic instruction, and making a few of theamateur’s stock remarks such as “I rather like that one,” Mr. Boscombe responded encouraginglyby some such phrase as:
“Now that’s very interesting that you should say that. It shows, if I may say so, greatperspicacity. Of course you know it isn’t the ordinary reaction. Most people prefer something—well, shall I say slightly obvious like that”—he pointed to a blue and green striped effect arrangedin one corner of the canvas—“but this, yes, you’ve spotted the quality of the thing. I’d say myself—of course it’s only my personal opinion—that that’s one of Raphael’s masterpieces.”
Poirot and he looked together with both their heads on one side at an orange lopsided diamondwith two human eyes depending from it by what looked like a spidery thread. Pleasant relationsestablished and time obviously being infinite, Poirot remarked:
“I think a Miss Frances Cary works for you, does she not?”
“Ah yes. Frances. Clever girl that. Very artistic and very competent too. Just come back fromPortugal where she’s been arranging an art show for us. Very successful. Quite a good artistherself, but not I should say really creative, if you understand me. She is better on the businessside. I think she recognises that herself.”
“I understand that she is a good patron of the arts?”
“Oh yes. She’s interested in Les Jeunes. Encourages talent, persuaded me to give a show for alittle group of young artists last spring. It was quite successful—the Press noticed it—all in a smallway, you understand. Yes, she has her protégés.”
“I am, you understand, somewhat old- fashioned. Some of these young men — vraiment!”
Poirot’s hands went up.
“Ah,” said Mr. Boscombe indulgently, “you mustn’t go by their appearances. It’s just a fashion,you know. Beards and jeans or brocades and hair. Just a passing phase.”
“David someone,” said Poirot. “I forget his last name. Miss Cary seemed to think highly ofhim.”
“Sure you don’t mean Peter Cardiff? He’s her present protégé. Mind you, I’m not quite so sureabout him as she is. He’s really not so much avant-garde as he is—well, positively reactionary.
Quite—quite—Burne-Jones sometimes! Still, one never knows. You do get these reactions. Sheacts as his model occasionally.”
“David Baker—that was the name I was trying to remember,” said Poirot.
“He is not bad,” said Mr. Boscombe, without enthusiasm. “Not much originality, in my opinion.
He was one of the group of artists I mentioned, but he didn’t make any particular impression. Agood painter, mind, but not striking. Derivative!”
Poirot went home. Miss Lemon presented him with letters to sign, and departed with them dulysigned. George served him with an omellette fines herbes garnished, as you might say, with adiscreetly sympathetic manner. After lunch, as Poirot was setting himself in his square-backedarmchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.
“Mrs. Oliver, sir,” said George, lifting the telephone and placing it at his elbow.
Poirot picked up the receiver reluctantly. He did not want to talk to Mrs. Oliver. He felt that shewould urge upon him something which he did not want to do.
“M. Poirot?”
“C’est moi.”
“Well, what are you doing? What have you done?”
“I am sitting in this chair,” said Poirot. “Thinking,” he added.
“Is that all?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“It is the important thing,” said Poirot. “Whether I shall have success in it or not I do not know.”
“But you must find that girl. She’s probably been kidnapped.”
“It would certainly seem so,” said Poirot. “And I have a letter here which came by the middaypost from her father, urging me to come and see him and tell him what progress I have made.”
“Well, what progress have you made?”
“At the moment,” said Poirot reluctantly, “none.”
“Really, M. Poirot, you really must take a grip on yourself.”
“You, too!”
“What do you mean, me too?”
“Urging me on.”
“Why don’t you go down to that place in Chelsea, where I was hit on the head?”
“And get myself hit on the head also?”
“I simply don’t understand you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I gave you a clue by finding the girl in thecafé. You said so.”
“I know, I know.”
“What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven’t you got anything out ofthat?”
“I have made inquiries, yes.”
“Well?”
“Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young, they have affairs, theyare passionate, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink toomuch, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and lonelinessthey throw themselves out of a window!”
“You said her death was important—that it meant something.”
“It ought to have done.”
“Really!” At a loss for further comment, Mrs. Oliver rang off.
Poirot leant back in his armchair, as far as he could lean back since it was of an upright nature,waved to George to remove the coffee pot and also the telephone and proceeded to reflect uponwhat he did or did not know. To clarify his thoughts he spoke out loud. He recalled threephilosophic questions.
“What do I know? What can I hope? What ought I to do?”
He was not sure that he got them in the right order or indeed if they were quite the rightquestions, but he reflected upon them.
“Perhaps I am too old,” said Hercule Poirot, at the bottom depths of despair. “What do I know?”
Upon reflection he thought that he knew too much! He laid that question aside for the moment.
“What can I hope?” Well, one could always hope. He could hope that those excellent brains ofhis, so much better than anybody else’s, would come up sooner or later with an answer to aproblem which he felt uneasily that he did not really understand.
“What ought I to do?” Well, that was very definite. What he ought to do was to go and call uponMr. Andrew Restarick who was obviously distraught about his daughter, and who would no doubtblame Poirot for not having by now delivered the daughter in person. Poirot could understand that,and sympathised with his point of view, but disliked having to present himself in such a veryunfavourable light. The only other thing he could do was to telephone to a certain number and askwhat developments there had been.
But before he did that, he would go back to the question he had laid aside.
“What do I know?”
He knew that the Wedderburn Gallery was under suspicion—so far it had kept on the right sideof the law, but it would not hesitate at swindling ignorant millionaires by selling them dubiouspictures.
He recalled Mr. Boscombe with his plump white hands and his plentiful teeth, and decided thathe did not like him. He was the kind of man who was almost certainly up to dirty work, though hewould no doubt protect himself remarkably well. That was a fact that might come into use becauseit might connect up with David Baker. Then there was David Baker himself, the Peacock. Whatdid he know about him? He had met him, he had conversed with him, and he had formed certainopinions about him. He would do a crooked deal of any kind for money, he would marry a richheiress for her money and not for love, he might perhaps be bought off. Yes, he probably could bebought off. Andrew Restarick certainly believed so and he was probably right. Unless—He considered Andrew Restarick, thinking more of the picture on the wall hanging above himthan of the man himself. He remembered the strong features, the jutting out chin, the air ofresolution, of decision. Then he thought of Mrs. Andrew Restarick, deceased. The bitter lines ofher mouth…Perhaps he would go down to Crosshedges again and look at that portrait, so as to seeit more clearly because there might be a clue to Norma in that. Norma—no, he must not think ofNorma yet. What else was there?
There was Mary Restarick whom the girl Sonia said must have a lover because she went up toLondon so often. He considered that point but he did not think that Sonia was right. He thoughtMrs. Restarick was much more likely to go to London in order to look at possible properties tobuy, luxury flats, houses in Mayfair, decorators, all the things that money in the metropolis couldbuy.
Money…It seemed to him that all the points that had been passing through his mind came to thisin the end. Money. The importance of money. There was a great deal of money in this case.
Somehow, in some way that was not obvious, money counted. Money played its part. So far therehad been nothing to justify his belief that the tragic death of Mrs. Charpentier had been the workof Norma. No sign of evidence, no motive; yet it seemed to him that there was an undeniable link.
The girl had said that she “might have committed a murder.” A death had taken place only a dayor two previously. A death that had occurred in the building where she lived. Surely it would betoo much of a coincidence that that death should not be connected in any way? He thought againof the mysterious illness which had affected Mary Restarick. An occurrence so simple as to beclassic in its outline. A poison case where the poisoner was—must be—one of the household. HadMary Restarick poisoned herself, had her husband tried to poison her, had the girl Soniaadministered poison? Or had Norma been the culprit? Everything pointed, Hercule Poirot had toconfess, to Norma as being the logical person.
“Tout de même,” said Poirot, “since I cannot find anything, et bien then the logic falls out of thewindow.”
He sighed, rose to his feet and told George to fetch him a taxi. He must keep his appointmentwith Andrew Restarick.
第十八章
第十八章
波洛在韦德伯恩画廊的门口停下脚步，站在那里观看一幅画，画中描绘了三头看上去颇富攻击性的牛，它们硕大颀长的身体被一座设计复杂的大型风车映衬着。这两者之间似乎没有关联，画上的颜色也是那种奇怪的紫色调。
“这幅画很有意趣，不是吗？”一个像猫一样轻柔的声音说道。
他的身旁出现了一位中年人，那人初看之时，就好像是在微笑，还露出了一排数量有些过多的美丽洁白的牙齿。“如此清新。”
他那双又白又胖的手像在跳芭蕾舞一般挥舞着。
“真是高明的展览。上周才闭幕。克劳德•拉斐尔的画展前天才开幕。会进行顺利的。
一定会很成功。”
“啊。”波洛附和着，穿过灰色的天鹅绒帷幕，走进了一间狭长的内室。
波洛作了一番小心谨慎却不置可否的评论。那个胖男人亲切地握住波洛的手。很显然他觉得这样的一个人一定不会被吓跑的。他是位在艺术推销领域颇为老到的人。从他那儿立即就能感受到，即使不购买任何艺术品，他也欢迎您在这家画廊里待上一整天，专心致志地看着这些令人愉悦的画作；即使当您刚踏进画廊的时候可能并不觉得它们令人赏心悦目，但是当您走出画廊的时候，就会确信赏心悦目确实是形容这些画作最恰当的词汇了。
在波洛听取了一些艺术方面的实用指导，还说了那些门外汉经常会说的“我很喜欢那幅画”之类的话之后，博斯库姆先生颇具鼓舞地吹捧道：
“您真是看法独到。要我说，这显示了您极强的洞察力。当然了，您知道这不是普通人的那种反应。很多人会选择，嗯，我该怎么说呢，那种更引人注目的，就像那幅画——”他指着一幅在画布的角上勾画了一些蓝绿相间的线条的画作。“但是这一幅，您的确是道出了这幅画的特质。我自己也觉得，当然了，这只是我的个人观点，那是拉斐尔的杰作之一。”
波洛和他一道转过头来，看到了一幅画，画上斜挂着一颗橙黄色的钻石，两边各用蛛丝一般的线系着一只人眼。完美的关系被建立了起来，时间一瞬间落入永恒之中，波洛说：
“我想一位名叫弗朗西丝•凯莉的小姐是在您这里工作，是吗？”
“啊，是的，弗朗西丝，那个聪慧的姑娘。非常有艺术品位，也很称职。她刚从葡萄牙归来，为我们安排了一次艺术展，非常成功。她也是个很优秀的艺术家，但是要我来说，她的创造力有所欠缺。她最好还是从事艺术商务方面的工作。我想她自己也意识到了这一点。”
“据我所知，她对于艺术界的人士很是扶持？”
“啊，是的。她对后起之秀很感兴趣，会鼓励那些有天分的人。春季的时候，她还劝我为一帮年轻的艺术家办了一次画展。那次画展相当成功。报纸也注意到了这次活动，刊登了一条短小的报道。您明白的，是的，她就是那群年轻画家的扶持者。”
“您知道，我是那种有些老派的人。其中一些人真是怪人 [1] ！”波洛双手一摊。
“啊。”博斯库姆先生宽慰道，“您不能从他们的外表来判断。这只是一种潮流，您明白的。胡子、牛仔服或是锦缎衣和长发。只是一时的时尚，很快就会过去的。”
“有个叫大卫什么的人。”波洛说，“我忘记他的姓了。凯莉小姐似乎对他评价很高。”
“您确定您说的不是彼得•卡迪夫吗？他是目前凯莉手下炙手可热的人物。但是我对他却不像她那么赞赏有加。他实在是算不上什么艺术先锋，嗯，还有些过于反动。颇具，颇具，有些时候颇具伯恩•琼斯之流的风范！然而，没人知道，您不能这么轻易下结论。她偶尔也做他的模特。”
“大卫•贝克，我想起来他的名字了。”波洛说。
“他还算不错。”博斯库姆先生毫无热情地说道，“依我看来，他没什么个人原创。他只是那个我刚才提及的艺术团体里的一员罢了，他给人的印象不那么深刻。但是仍旧是一位不错的画家，只是没什么突出之处。不太入流！”
波洛回了家。莱蒙小姐递给他一堆需要签名的信件，她接过签了名的信件就离开了。
乔治给他端上了一碟法式香草煎蛋卷，可以这么说，乔治端上来的时候带着一种对波洛既小心又心疼的感觉。午餐过后，当波洛坐在那张四方靠背椅上的时候，电话响了起来。
“先生，是奥利弗夫人。”乔治说着，把听筒放在波洛身旁。
波洛有些勉强地拿起听筒。他不想跟奥利弗夫人说话，他预感到她又要催他做一些他不愿意去做的事了。“是波洛先生吗？”
“正是在下。”
“嗯，你在做什么？你最近都做了些什么呢？”
“我正在椅子上坐着。”波洛说。“思考着。”他补充道。
“就这些了？”奥利弗夫人问道。
“这是很重要的事。”波洛说，“是否会有成功的结果现在还不得而知。”
“但是你一定要找到那个姑娘。她或许被人绑架了呢！”
“确实有这个可能。”波洛说，“今天中午我收到了他父亲寄来的一封信，催我去见他，跟他说说事情的进展情况。”“那么，有什么进展吗？”
“到现在为止。”波洛没好气地说，“什么都没有。”
“波洛先生，真的吗？你真的需要好好掌控自己的节奏啊。”
“您也是！”
“这是什么意思？”
“一直催促着我。”
“为什么不去切尔西区呢？就是那个我头部被打的区域。”
“然后让我自己也被打一棍子吗？”
“我就是搞不懂你。”奥利弗夫人说，“我在那个餐馆里替你找到了那个姑娘，提供给你一条线索。你是这么说的啊。”“我知道，我知道。”
“那么那个从窗户纵身一跃的女人呢？你从她那里查到了些什么呢？”
“我已经做了调查，是的。”
“结果呢？”
“什么都没查到。那个女人是个普通人。她年轻的时候很有魅力，各种风流韵事不断，之后她年华老去，不再那么有吸引力了，她变得悲伤，酗酒过度，自以为得了癌症或是什么绝症，因而最终变得绝望、孤独，从窗户里纵身一跃！”
“你说过这桩死亡意义重大，其中一定有什么内情。”
“应该是有的。”
“真是可以！”奥利弗夫人气得说不出话来，她挂断了电话。
波洛舒展身体尽力靠回了扶手椅中，当他挥手让乔治拿走咖啡壶和电话听筒的时候，开始反思那些他知道和不知道的事。为了理清思绪，他大声自言自语。他反复思索着三个形而上的问题。
“我知道些什么？我能期盼些什么？我应当做些什么？”
他不确定他这么排列这三个问题顺序是否正确，或者说，这些问题本身是否正确他也不确定。但是他还是想要反思这些。
“可能我真的太老了。”处在绝望的低谷中的赫尔克里•波洛说，“我都知道些什么？”
在经过反思之后，他想自己知道的太多了！他应当暂时把这个问题抛在一边。
“我能期望些什么？”嗯，人总是要有所希冀的。他希望自己那出色的、优于别人的头脑，迟早有一天能够给出这个让他坐立不安、让他无法真正了解的问题的答案。
“我应当做些什么呢？”嗯，这个问题的答案就明确多了。他应当做的就是去拜访一下雷斯塔里克先生，他显然为了他的女儿操碎了心，毫无疑问的是他也会责备波洛现在还没能找回他的女儿。波洛对此很了解，也对此深表同情，但是他不想在如此不利的情况下去与他会面。他唯一能做的事就是打个电话，问问那边的情况进行得怎么样了。
但是当他这么做之前，他又重新回到那个刚才抛在一边的问题上了。
“我都知道些什么？”
他知道韦德伯恩画廊处在质疑之下，至今为止，虽然没有在法律上有什么差池，但是他们在出售有待考证的名画给那些无知的百万富翁方面毫不手软。
他想起了博斯库姆先生的那双胖胖的白手和他那过盛的牙齿，他觉得自己不喜欢那个人。他是那种很明显会从事不法勾当的人，毫无疑问，他也很会妥善巧妙地自我保护。这是一个很有用的事实，因为这可能会与大卫•贝克有关联。说到大卫•贝克，那只孔雀，他对他又了解多少呢？他曾经遇到过他，跟他攀谈过，也在心中形成了对于大卫•贝克的某种看法。他会为了钱而从事不正当的事，会为了钱而不是出于爱跟一位有钱的女继承人结婚，他可能会被人收买吗？是的，他或许会被收买，安德鲁•雷斯塔里克一定是这么想的，他可能是对的。除非——
他思量着安德鲁•雷斯塔里克这个人，比起他本人，他想得更多的是那幅挂在他办公室墙上的肖像画。他想到了他那强烈的个人色彩，凸出的下，身上散发出的果决干练的气质。接着他想到了那位已故去的安德鲁•雷斯塔里克夫人。她的嘴唇边显露出悲苦的线条……可能他要再去克劳斯海吉斯那里一趟，看看那幅肖像画，因为说不定能从中发现什么关于诺玛的线索。诺玛，不，他不能再想诺玛了。除此之外还能想些别的什么呢？
据那位叫索尼娅的姑娘说，玛丽•雷斯塔里克夫人一定是在外面有了情人，因为她频繁地前往伦敦。他思考着这一想法，但是他不认为索尼娅说的是对的。他觉得雷斯塔里克夫人前往伦敦，更有可能是为了购置房屋，奢华的公寓、伦敦上流住宅区的房子，以及那些在大都市中能用金钱购买的一切东西。
金钱……似乎在他脑中闪过的一切东西都归结在这一点上了。金钱的重要性。在这件事情中牵涉了一大笔钱。不知为什么，虽然从某些角度来讲并不明显，但是金钱还是占据着重要的位置。迄今为止，没有什么证据能证明卡彭特夫人的死亡是诺玛造成的。没有证据，没有动机；虽然在他看来总觉得这两者之间似乎存在着什么牵连。那个姑娘说她“可能犯了谋杀罪”。而这桩死亡就是发生在这之前一两天。一桩碰巧发生在她所居住的公寓楼中的死亡案件。如果要说这桩死亡跟她一点关系都没有，这也太巧了吧？他再次想到玛丽•雷斯塔里克所患的那种神秘的疾病了。这整件事情是如此简明，以至于从表面看来有些过于典型。在下毒事件中，那个下毒的人一定是家里的某个人。玛丽•雷斯塔里克会不会是自己服毒的呢，还是她的丈夫试图毒死她，或是索尼娅下的手呢？还是嫌疑人是诺玛？赫尔克里•波洛不得不承认，所有的事实都指向这一点：诺玛才是那个最符合逻辑、最说得通的人。
“但是这又怎样 [2] ？”波洛说，“我还是找不出任何关于这次从窗户坠楼事件的合情合理的理由。”
他叹了口气，站起来，告诉乔治给他叫辆车。他一定要去赴安德鲁•雷斯塔里克的约。
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注
Nineteen
Nineteen
Claudia Reece-Holland was not in the office today. Instead, a middle-aged woman received Poirot.
She said that Mr. Restarick was waiting for him and ushered him into Restarick’s room.
“Well?” Restarick hardly waited until he had come through the door. “Well, what about mydaughter?”
Poirot spread out his hands.
“As yet—nothing.”
“But look here, man, there must be something—some clue. A girl can’t just disappear into thinair.”
“Girls have done it before now and will do it again.”
“Did you understand that no expense was to be spared, none whatever? I—I can’t go on likethis.”
He seemed completely on edge by this time. He looked thinner and his red-rimmed eyes spokeof sleepless nights.
“I know what your anxiety must be, but I assure you that I have done everything possible totrace her. These things, alas, cannot be hurried.”
“She may have lost her memory or—or she may—I mean, she might be sick. Ill.”
Poirot thought he knew what the broken form of the sentence meant. Restarick had been aboutto say “she may perhaps be dead.”
He sat down on the other side of the desk and said:
“Believe me, I appreciate your anxiety and I have to say to you once again that the resultswould be a lot quicker if you consulted the police.”
“No!” The word broke out explosively.
“They have greater facilities, more lines of inquiry. I assure you it is not only a question ofmoney. Money cannot give you the same result as a highly efficient organisation can do.”
“Man, it’s no use your talking in that soothing way. Norma is my daughter. My only daughter,the only flesh and blood I’ve got.”
“Are you sure that you have told me everything—everything possible—about your daughter?”
“What more can I tell you?”
“That is for you to say, not me. Have there been, for instance, any incidents in the past?”
“Such as? What do you mean, man?”
“Any definite history of mental instability.”
“You think that—that—”
“How do I know? How can I know?”
“And how do I know?” said Restarick, suddenly bitter. “What do I know of her? All theseyears. Grace was a bitter woman. A woman who did not easily forgive or forget. Sometimes I feel—I feel that she was the wrong person to have brought Norma up.”
He got up, walked up and down the room and then sat down again.
“Of course I shouldn’t have left my wife. I know that. I left her to bring up the child. But then atthe time I suppose I made excuses for myself. Grace was a woman of excellent character devotedto Norma. A thoroughly good guardian for her. But was she? Was she really? Some of the lettersGrace wrote to me were as though they breathed anger and revenge. Well, I suppose that’s naturalenough. But I was away all those years. I should have come back, come back more often andfound out how the child was getting on. I suppose I had a bad conscience. Oh, it’s no good makingexcuses now.”
He turned his head sharply.
“Yes. I did think when I saw her again that Norma’s whole attitude was neurotic, indisciplined.
I hoped she and Mary would—would get on better after a little while but I have to admit that Idon’t feel the girl was entirely normal. I felt it would be better for her to have a job in London andcome home for weekends, but not to be forced into Mary’s company the whole time. Oh, Isuppose I’ve made a mess of everything. But where is she, M. Poirot? Where is she? Do you thinkshe may have lost her memory? One hears of such things.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “that is a possibility. In her state, she may be wandering about quite unawareof who she is. Or she may have had an accident. That is less likely. I can assure you that I havemade all inquiries in hospitals and other places.”
“You don’t think she is—you don’t think she’s dead?”
“She would be easier to find dead than alive, I can assure you. Please calm yourself, Mr.
Restarick. Remember she may have friends of whom you know nothing. Friends in any part ofEngland, friends whom she has known while living with her mother, or with her aunt, or friendswho were friends of school friends of hers. All these things take time to sort out. It may be—youmust prepare yourself—that she is with a boyfriend of some kind.”
“David Baker? If I thought that—”
“She is not with David Baker. That,” said Poirot dryly, “I ascertained first of all.”
“How do I know what friends she has?” He sighed. “If I find her, when I find her—I’d rather putit that way—I’m going to take her out of all this.”
“Out of all what?”
“Out of this country. I have been miserable, M. Poirot, miserable ever since I returned here. Ialways hated City life. The boring round of office routine, continual consultations with lawyersand financiers. The life I liked was always the same. Travelling, moving about from place to place,going to wild and inaccessible places. That’s the life for me. I should never have left it. I shouldhave sent for Norma to come out to me and, as I say, when I find her that’s what I’m going to do.
Already I’m being approached with various takeover bids. Well, they can have the whole caboodleon very advantageous terms. I’ll take the cash and go back to a country that means something,that’s real.”
“Aha! And what will your wife say to that?”
“Mary? She’s used to that life. That’s where she comes from.”
“To les femmes with plenty of money,” said Poirot, “London can be very attractive.”
“She’ll see it my way.”
The telephone rang on his desk. He picked it up.
“Yes? Oh. From Manchester? Yes. If it’s Claudia Reece-Holland, put her through.”
He waited a minute.
“Hallo, Claudia. Yes. Speak up—it’s a very bad line, I can’t hear you. They agreed?…Ah,pity…No, I think you did very well…Right…All right then. Take the evening train back. We’lldiscuss it further tomorrow morning.”
He replaced the telephone on its rest.
“That’s a competent girl,” he said.
“Miss Reece-Holland?”
“Yes. Unusually competent. Takes a lot of bother off my shoulders. I gave her pretty well carteblanche to put through this deal in Manchester on her own terms. I really felt I couldn’tconcentrate. And she’s done exceedingly well. She’s as good as a man in some ways.”
He looked at Poirot, suddenly bringing himself back to the present.
“Ah yes, M. Poirot. Well, I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my grip. Do you need more money forexpenses?”
“No, Monsieur. I assure you that I will do my utmost to restore your daughter sound and well. Ihave taken all possible precautions for her safety.”
He went out through the outer office. When he reached the street he looked up at the sky.
“A definite answer to one question,” he said, “that is what I need.”
第十九章
第十九章
克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰今天不在办公室。取而代之的是一位中年妇人，她来负责招待波洛。她对波洛说雷斯塔里克先生正在恭候他，她带着波洛来到了雷斯塔里克先生的办公室。
“进展如何？”雷斯塔里克不等他进门就急切地问，“嗯，我女儿怎么样了？”
波洛摊开手。
“到现在为止还没有什么消息。”
“但是您看，您总会有些什么消息吧，一些线索。一个姑娘不能凭空消失的。”
“姑娘们之前这么做过，现今也会继续这么做。”
“您是否明白我说的不惜任何代价、什么代价都行的意思？我，我不能再这样等下去了。”
这一次，他似乎完全失控了。他看上去瘦了不少，双眼通红，无声地表露出他最近很少能睡安稳的情况。
“我明白您一定是感到极度焦虑，但是我向您保证，我已经竭尽全力做了一切事去追踪她。这些事，天呐，都是急不来的。”
“她或许是失忆了，或者，或者她有可能，我的意思是，她有可能是生病了。”
波洛想他明白他断断续续的话语背后的含义。雷斯塔里克原本是要说“她很有可能死了”。
他在桌子另一侧坐下，说道：
“相信我，我知道您的焦心的感觉，我再次跟您说，如果您去找警察的话，事情会推进得更快的。”
“不！”这个字眼如同火山喷发一样有力。
“他们有更好的设备，更多的线索和途径。我向您保证这不是钱的问题。钱不像一个更加高效的组织一样，能够给您同样的结果。”
“老兄，您这么安慰我是没用的。诺玛是我的女儿，我唯一的女儿，我唯一的骨肉。”
“您确定您已经将一切都告知我了吗？一切有可能的事，关于您的女儿？”
“我还能告知您些什么呢？”
“这要由您来说，不是我。比如，过去是否发生过什么事故？”
“哪一类的？您的意思是什么？”
“任何精神不稳定的确诊案例。”
“您认为，认为她——”
“我怎么会知道？我怎么能知道？”
“那么我怎么会了解呢？”雷斯塔里克突然苦涩地说，“我对她又了解多少呢？这些年来。格蕾丝是个心怀怨恨的女人，一个不会轻易忘却也不会轻易原谅的女人。有时候我感到，我感到她不是那个抚育诺玛的正确人选。”
他站了起来，在屋子里来回踱步，接着再次坐下。
“当然了，我不该抛下我的妻子。我知道这一点。我丢下她独自抚育孩子。但是那时我觉得自己做了正确的选择。格蕾丝是个对诺玛很负责的母亲，是她最佳的监护人。但是她是吗？她真的如此吗？格蕾丝给我写的信里尽是些愤怒和怨恨之情。嗯，我想这也很自然。但是我离开了这么些年，我应该回家的。经常回来看看我的孩子成长得怎么样了。我想我问心有愧。啊，现在再找借口也没用了。”
他猛然转过头来。
“是的，当我再次见到诺玛的时候，我觉得她整个人变得神经兮兮，并且毫无教养。我希望她和玛丽能够，能够在一段时间后，相处得更好，但是我不得不承认，这姑娘有些不正常。我觉得最好在伦敦给她找个工作，她在周末回家就好，这样就不会强迫她整日跟玛丽待在一起了。啊，我想我一定是把事情都搞得一团糟。但是她在哪里，波洛先生？她在哪里？您认为她会失忆吗？您认为她可能会失忆吗？我们都听闻过这一类事。”
“是的。”波洛说，“有这个可能。以她的处境来说，她可能完全没有意识地四处游荡。
或是她遇到了什么事故？这不太可能。我跟您保证，我在医院和其他地方都打听过了。”
“您不认为她，您不认为她死了吗？”
“她死了的话比她活着要好找得多，我向您保证。请放轻松，雷斯塔里克先生。她说不定还有一些您根本就不知道的朋友。在英国任何一个地方的朋友，可能是当她跟她母亲或是姨妈同住的时候认识的朋友，或者是她在学校的同学的朋友。这类事情要去慢慢调查。
或许，您一定要有心理准备，或许她和她的一个男朋友待在一起。”
“大卫•贝克吗？要是我能想到这个——”
“她没有跟大卫•贝克在一起。是的。”波洛冷淡地说，“我一开始就查清楚了。”
“我怎么会知道她有什么朋友呢？”他叹了口气，“如果我找到了她，我找到她，我宁愿这么做，这次我一定要把她带出去。”
“带到哪儿去？”
“带出这个国家。我真是难过极了，波洛先生，自从我回家就一直很难过。我总是对这都市生活感到厌倦。围绕着办公室的枯燥生活，和律师、金融业人士商谈无穷无尽的事。
我热爱的生活始终都是相似的，那就是旅行，从一个地方到另一个地方。这就是我的生活方式。我根本就不该回国的。我早就应当把诺玛接过来跟我在一起的，就如我所说的，等我找到她的时候就这么做。已经有人找我商洽收购的事了。嗯，他们能够以丰厚的条件收购整个公司。我需要现金，然后回归乡村，它意味着某些东西，那就是真实。”
“啊哈！您的夫人对此会怎么说呢？”
“玛丽吗？她已经习惯了那样的生活。那就是她的故乡啊。”
“对于一个富有的女人 [1] 来讲，”波洛说，“伦敦具有莫大的吸引力。”
“她会遵从我的意愿的。”
他办公桌上的电话响了。他拿起话筒。
“是吗？啊，从曼彻斯特来的电话吗？是的，如果是克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰的话，请她说话。”
他等了一会儿。
“您好，克劳迪亚。是的，请大声说话，线路不是太好，我听不清。他们同意了？……啊，遗憾……不，我认为您做得不错……是的……那么好的，坐明晚的火车回来吧。明天早晨我们再谈。”
他放下听筒。
“真是个称职的姑娘。”他说。
“瑞希-何兰小姐吗？”
“是的，相当能干。为我分担了不少麻烦。关于曼彻斯特的这次交易，我放手让她去自己权衡。我真的觉得自己有点难以集中精力。她做得很不错，在某些方面，她跟那些男人一样优秀。”
他看向波洛，猛地将话语又带回了目前的话题。
“啊，是的，波洛先生。嗯，我恐怕有点力不从心了。您需要更多的费用吗？”
“不，先生。我跟您保证，您的女儿一定会平平安安地回来的。对于她的人身安全，我已经采取了一定的措施。”
他穿过外面的办公室就出来了。当他走到街上时，抬头看了看天空。
“为了找到一个问题的明确答案。”他说，“这就是我所求的。”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
Twenty
Twenty
Hercule Poirot looked up at the fa?ade of the dignified Georgian house in what had been untilrecently a quiet street in an old-fashioned market town. Progress was rapidly overtaking it, but thenew supermarket, the Gifte Shoppe, Margery’s Boutique, Peg’s Café, and a palatial new bank, hadall chosen sites in Croft Road and not encroached on the narrow High Street.
The brass knocker on the door was brightly polished, Poirot noted with approval. He pressed thebell at the side.
It was opened almost at once by a tall distinguished-looking woman with upswept grey hair andan energetic manner.
“M. Poirot? You are very punctual. Come in.”
“Miss Battersby?”
“Certainly.” She held back the door. Poirot entered. She deposited his hat on the hall stand andled the way to a pleasant room overlooking a narrow walled garden.
She waved towards a chair and sat down herself in an attitude of expectation. It was clear thatMiss Battersby was not one to lose time in conventional utterances.
“You are, I think, the former Principal of Meadowfield School?”
“Yes. I retired a year ago. I understand you wished to see me on the subject of Norma Restarick,a former pupil.”
“That is right.”
“In your letters,” said Miss Battersby, “you gave me no further details.” She added, “I may saythat I know who you are, M. Poirot. I should therefore like a little more information before Iproceed further. Are you, for instance, thinking of employing Norma Restarick?”
“That is not my intention, no.”
“Knowing what your profession is you understand why I should want further details. Have you,for instance, an introduction to me from any of Norma’s relations?”
“Again, no,” said Hercule Poirot. “I will explain myself further.”
“Thank you.”
“In actual fact, I am employed by Miss Restarick’s father, Andrew Restarick.”
“Ah. He has recently returned to England, I believe, after many years’ absence.”
“That is so.”
“But you do not bring me a letter of introduction from him?”
“I did not ask him for one.”
Miss Battersby looked at him inquiringly.
“He might have insisted on coming with me,” said Hercule Poirot. “That would have hamperedme in asking you the questions that I wish to ask, because it is likely that the answers to themmight cause him pain and distress. There is no reason why he should be caused further distressthan he is already suffering at this moment.”
“Has anything happened to Norma?”
“I hope not…There is, however, a possibility of that. You remember the girl, Miss Battersby?”
“I remember all my pupils. I have an excellent memory. Meadowfield, in any case, is not a verylarge school. Two hundred girls, no more.”
“Why have you resigned from it, Miss Battersby?”
“Really, M. Poirot, I cannot see that that is any of your business.”
“No, I am merely expressing my quite natural curiosity.”
“I am seventy. Is that not a reason?”
“Not in your case, I should say. You appear to me to be in full vigour and energy, fully capableof continuing your headmistressship for a good many years to come.”
“Times change, M. Poirot. One does not always like the way they are changing. I will satisfyyour curiosity. I found I was having less and less patience with parents. Their aims for theirdaughters are shortsighted and quite frankly stupid.”
Miss Battersby was, as Poirot knew from looking up her qualifications, a very well-knownmathematician.
“Do not think that I lead an idle life,” said Miss Battersby. “I lead a life where the work is farmore congenial to me. I coach senior students. And now, please, may I know the reason for yourinterest in the girl, Norma Restarick?”
“There is some occasion for anxiety. She has, to put it baldly, disappeared.”
Miss Battersby continued to look quite unconcerned.
“Indeed? When you say ‘disappeared,’ I presume you mean that she has left home withouttelling her parents where she was going. Oh, I believe her mother is dead, so without telling herfather where she was going. That is really not at all uncommon nowadays, M. Poirot. Mr.
Restarick has not consulted the police?”
“He is adamant on that subject. He refuses definitely.”
“I can assure you that I have no knowledge as to where the girl is. I have heard nothing fromher. Indeed, I have had no news from her since she left Meadowfield. So I fear I cannot help youin any way.”
“It is not precisely that kind of information that I want. I want to know what kind of a girl she is—how you would describe her. Not her personal appearance. I do not mean that. I mean as to herpersonality and characteristics.”
“Norma, at school, was a perfectly ordinary girl. Not scholastically brilliant, but her work wasadequate.”
“Not a neurotic type?”
Miss Battersby considered. Then she said slowly: “No, I would not say so. Not more, that is,than might be expected considering her home circumstances.”
“You mean her invalid mother?”
“Yes. She came from a broken home. The father, to whom I think she was very devoted, lefthome suddenly with another woman — a fact which her mother quite naturally resented. Sheprobably upset her daughter more than she need have done by voicing her resentment withoutrestraint.”
“Perhaps it may be more to the point if I ask you your opinion of the late Mrs. Restarick?”
“What you are asking me for is my private opinion?”
“If you do not object?”
“No, I have no hesitation at all in answering your question. Home conditions are very importantin a girl’s life and I have always studied them as much as I can through the meagre informationthat comes to me. Mrs. Restarick was a worthy and upright woman, I should say. Self-righteous,censorious and handicapped in life by being an extremely stupid one!”
“Ah,” said Poirot appreciatively.
“She was also, I would say, a malade imaginaire. A type that would exaggerate her ailments.
The type of woman who is always in and out of nursing homes. An unfortunate home backgroundfor a girl—especially a girl who has no very definite personality of her own. Norma had nomarked intellectual ambitions, she had no confidence in herself, she was not a girl to whom Iwould recommend a career. A nice ordinary job followed by marriage and children was what Iwould have hoped for her.”
“You saw—forgive me for asking—no signs at any time of mental instability?”
“Mental instability?” said Miss Battersby. “Rubbish!”
“So that is what you say. Rubbish! And not neurotic?”
“Any girl, or almost any girl, can be neurotic, especially in adolescence, and in her firstencounters with the world. She is still immature, and needs guidance in her first encounters withsex. Girls are frequently attracted to completely unsuitable, sometimes even dangerous youngmen. There are, it seems, no parents nowadays, or hardly any, with the strength of character tosave them from this, so they often go through a time of hysterical misery, and perhaps make anunsuitable marriage which ends not long after in divorce.”
“But Norma showed no signs of mental instability?” Poirot persisted with the question.
“She is an emotional but normal girl,” said Miss Battersby. “Mental instability! As I said before—rubbish! She’s probably run away with some young man to get married, and there’s nothingmore normal than that!”
第二十章
第二十章
赫尔克里•波洛观察着这座肃穆庄严的、具有乔治时代风格的房屋，不久之前这个地方还是一个老式的商业街区。时代的进步迅速占据了这一地区，幸好新的超级市场、礼品店、玛格丽特服装店、佩格咖啡店还有一家宏伟的银行都在克罗夫特大街上选址，而没有蚕食这条狭窄的大街。
波洛带着些赞许注意到，门环被擦拭得锃亮。他按响了门环旁边的门铃。
一位身形高大、看上去很高贵的女人立马就来开了门，她灰色的头发向上梳着，看上去精神饱满。
“波洛先生？您真守时，请进来吧。”
“您是贝特斯比小姐吗？”
“是的。”她向后拉着门，让波洛进来。她把他的帽子挂在衣帽架上之后，就领着他前往一间令人感到舒适的屋子，从那间屋子向外看，能看到一个被墙围起来的狭小的花园。
她给波洛拉来了一张椅子，自己也带着满是期待的神情坐了下来。很明显，贝特斯比小姐不是那种会在通常的寒暄上浪费时间的人。
“您是牧野女子学校的前校长吗？”
“是的，我一年前退休了。据我所知您来见我是为了我之前的一位学生——诺玛•雷斯塔里克。”
“确实是这样。”
“在信里，”贝特斯比小姐说，“您并没有提供进一步的细节。”她补充道，“我可以这么说，我知道您是谁，您是波洛先生。在我们谈话之前，我想知道多一点的信息。比如，您是否考虑雇用诺玛•雷斯塔里克？”
“这不是我的目的，不是的。”
“根据您的职业，您会理解为什么我要知道更多的细节。您是否有来自诺玛亲属的介绍信？”
“我没有。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我会进一步向您解释的。”
“谢谢您。”
“事实上我是被雷斯塔里克小姐的父亲所雇用的，也就是安德鲁•雷斯塔里克。”“啊。我想他在多年的海外漂泊后，最近回英国了。”
“确实是的。”
“但是您没有他写的介绍信吗？”
“我没有让他给我写一封。”
贝特斯比小姐有些疑惑地看着他。
“这样的话，他可能会坚持要跟我一道来。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“这会妨碍我问您我想问的问题，因为这样的问题可能会给他带来悲痛和苦恼。他现在已经受尽折磨了，我不想再给他徒增烦恼。”
“诺玛发生了什么事吗？”
“我希望没有……但是也有这种可能。贝特斯比小姐，您记得那个姑娘吗？”
“我记得我所有的学生。我的记忆力好极了。而且牧野学校不是个什么大型的学校。只有两百个姑娘。”
“贝特斯比小姐，您为什么要从那里离职？”
“波洛先生，我觉得这个跟您一点关系都没有。”
“不是的，我只是想表达一下我自然而然的好奇。”
“我七十岁了，这个理由还不够吗？”
“我要说，以您的状况来看这根本就不是问题。您显得那么精力充沛，还能继续担任校长的职位好多年呢。”
“时代不同了，波洛先生。不是所有人都喜欢这种变化。我会满足您的好奇心。我发现自己对家长们越发无法忍受了。他们为自己的女儿所设的目标十分短视，坦白来说，简直是愚昧。”
从波洛对贝特斯比小姐的履历的查看中得知，她是一位非常著名的数学家。
“不要以为我过得很清闲。”贝特斯比小姐说道，“我现在的工作和生活与我的性格更加相投。我指导高年级的学生。那么现在，您是否能告诉我您对那个姑娘——诺玛•雷斯塔里克感兴趣的原因？”
“情势相当令人焦心。她已经，我直截了当地告诉您，她失踪了。”
贝特斯比小姐还是那副不甚关心的样子。
“是吗？当您说‘失踪’的时候，我想您是说她在没有告知父母的情况下就离家出走了。
啊，我知道她母亲去世了，所以应该是没有告知自己的父亲就私自离家了。如今，这样的事真的不算是什么不寻常的事。波洛先生，雷斯塔里克先生没有报警吗？”
“他在这点上固执己见。他拒绝报警。”
“我能向您保证，我对于那个姑娘身在何处一无所知。我没有听闻过她的任何消息。自从我离开牧野学校之后，就不曾听闻过她的消息。所以我恐怕是帮不上您的忙了。”
“我所需要的不仅仅是这方面的信息。我想要知道的是她到底是怎样的一个姑娘，您是如何形容她的。不是她的个人外貌特征，我指的不是那个。我的意思是她的品德和个性如何？”
“诺玛在学校的时候，是一个非常普通的姑娘。学业上并不是那么优秀，但是学习还算跟得上。”
“不是那种神经质的类型吗？”
贝特斯比小姐思考了一下。接着她缓缓地说：“不，我不那么认为。从她的家庭状况来说，似乎绝对不会到此种境地。”
“您是说她那病恹恹的母亲吗？”
“是的。她来自一个破碎的家庭。她的父亲，我想是她深爱的人，突然之间抛家舍业跟另一个女人私奔了，这一事实自然而然地让她的母亲厌恶至极。她可能把这种极大的怨气毫无节制地撒在她女儿的身上，这让她女儿的情绪更加沮丧低落。”
“可能我要问问您关于已故的雷斯塔里克夫人的情况才更切题吧？”
“您是问我的个人看法吗？”
“如果您不反对的话。”
“不会的。在回答您的问题这一点上，我没有什么好顾虑的。家庭环境在一个姑娘的一生中扮演着重要角色，我总是竭尽所能地去搜寻他们的家庭背景。我要说，雷斯塔里克夫人是一位值得尊敬的、正直的女性。但是，自以为是、吹毛求疵，在生活中软弱无能，这让她变成了彻底的愚昧可怜之人。”
“啊。”波洛赞赏地叹了口气。
“我觉得她也是一个病态的假想者，会过分夸大身上的小毛病，是那种把进出疗养院当作常态的女人。这种家庭背景对一个姑娘来说很不幸，特别是那些没有非常明确的个人特性的女孩。诺玛没有表现出在知识层面的指向，对自己也没什么自信，她是那种我会为她推荐职业的姑娘。她只不过需要找个普通的工作，然后结婚生子，这就是我对她的唯一期望了。”
“您看，原谅我这么问，在任何一个时段她都没有表现出精神不稳定吗？”
“精神不稳定？”贝特斯比小姐说道，“真是胡说！”
“那么按您所说的，是一派胡言！而不是什么精神疾病？”
“任何一个姑娘，或者说几乎是所有的姑娘，都可能会有些神经质，特别是在青少年时期，在她与外界社会最初接触的时候。她还没有成熟，面对性方面的问题还需要引导。姑娘们通常会被那些完全不适合自己，甚至带着些危险性的年轻男子所吸引。现今，几乎没有家长有能力去把女儿们从这种危局中解救出来，所以她们总是会经历一段令人迷醉发狂的时段，可能还会进入不合适的婚姻之中，没过多久就会以离婚收场。”
“但是诺玛没有表现出一点精神不稳定的情况吗？”波洛坚持问这个问题。
“她是个情绪化的女孩，但是她是个正常的姑娘。”贝特斯比小姐大声说道，“精神不稳定？就如我之前所说的，是一派胡言！她可能是跟某个年轻人私奔结婚了，再也没有什么比这个更正常的事了！”
Twenty-one
Twenty-one
Poirot sat in his big square armchair. His hands rested on the arms, his eyes looked at thechimneypiece in front of him without seeing it. By his elbow was a small table and on it, neatlyclipped together, were various documents. Reports from Mr. Goby, information obtained from hisfriend, Chief Inspector Neele, a series of separate pages under the heading of “Hearsay, gossip,rumour” and the sources from which it had been obtained.
At the moment he had no need to consult these documents. He had, in fact, read them throughcarefully and laid them there in case there was any particular point he wished to refer to oncemore. He wanted now to assemble together in his mind all that he knew and had learned becausehe was convinced that these things must form a pattern. There must be a pattern there. He wasconsidering now, from what exact angle to approach it. He was not one to trust in enthusiasm forsome particular intuition. He was not an intuitive person—but he did have feelings. The importantthing was not the feelings themselves—but what might have caused them. It was the cause thatwas interesting, the cause was so often not what you thought it was. You had very often to work itout by logic, by sense and by knowledge.
What did he feel about this case—what kind of a case was it? Let him start from the general,then proceed to the particular. What were the salient facts of this case?
Money was one of them, he thought, though he did not know how. Somehow or other, money…He also thought, increasingly so, that there was evil somewhere. He knew evil. He had met itbefore. He knew the tang of it, the taste of it, the way it went. The trouble was that here he did notyet know exactly where it was. He had taken certain steps to combat evil. He hoped they would besufficient. Something was happening, something was in progress, that was not yet accomplished.
Someone, somewhere, was in danger.
The trouble was that the facts pointed both ways. If the person he thought was in danger wasreally in danger, there seemed so far as he could see no reason why. Why should that particularperson be in danger? There was no motive. If the person he thought was in danger was not indanger, then the whole approach might have to be completely reversed…Everything that pointedone way he must turn round and look at from the complete opposite point of view.
He left that for the moment in the balance, and he came from there to the personalities—to thepeople. What pattern did they make? What part were they playing?
First—Andrew Restarick. He had accumulated by now a fair amount of information aboutAndrew Restarick. A general picture of his life before and after going abroad. A restless man,never sticking to one place or purpose long, but generally liked. Nothing of the wastrel about him,nothing shoddy or tricky. Not, perhaps, a strong personality? Weak in many ways?
Poirot frowned, dissatisfied. That picture did not somehow fit the Andrew Restarick that hehimself had met. Not weak surely, with that thrust-out chin, the steady eyes, the air of resolution.
He had been a successful businessman, too, apparently. Good at his job in the earlier years, and hehad put through good deals in South Africa and in South America. He had increased his holdings.
It was a success story that he had brought home with him, not one of failure. How then could hebe a weak personality? Weak, perhaps, only where women were concerned. He had made amistake in his marriage—married the wrong woman…Pushed into it perhaps by his family? Andthen he had met the other woman. Just that one woman? Or had there been several women? It washard to find a record of that kind after so many years. Certainly he had not been a notoriouslyunfaithful husband. He had had a normal home, he had been fond, by all accounts, of his smalldaughter. But then he had come across a woman whom he had cared for enough to leave his homeand to leave his country. It had been a real love affair.
But had it, perhaps, matched up with any additional motive? Dislike of office work, the City, thedaily routine of London? He thought it might. It matched the pattern. He seemed, too, to have beena solitary type. Everyone had liked him both here and abroad, but there seemed no intimatefriends. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to have intimate friends abroad because hehad never stopped in any one spot long enough. He had plunged into some gamble, attempted acoup, had made good, then tired of the thing and gone on somewhere else. Nomadic! A wanderer.
It still did not quite accord with his own picture of the man…A picture? The word stirred in hismind the memory of the picture that hung in Restarick’s office, on the wall behind his desk. It hadbeen a portrait of the same man fifteen years ago. How much difference had those fifteen yearsmade in the man sitting there? Surprisingly little, on the whole! More grey in the hair, a heavier setto the shoulders, but the lines of character on the face were much the same. A determined face. Aman who knew what he wanted, who meant to get it. A man who would take risks. A man with acertain ruthlessness.
Why, he wondered, had Restarick brought that picture up to London? They had beencompanion portraits of a husband and wife. Strictly speaking artistically, they should haveremained together. Would a psychologist have said that subconsciously Restarick wanted todissociate himself from his former wife once more, to separate himself from her? Was he thenmentally still retreating from her personality although she was dead? An interesting point….
The pictures had presumably come out of storage with various other family articles offurnishing. Mary Restarick had no doubt selected certain personal objects to supplement thefurniture of Crosshedges for which Sir Roderick had made room. He wondered whether MaryRestarick, the new wife, had liked hanging up that particular pair of portraits. More natural,perhaps, if she had put the first wife’s portrait in an attic! But then he reflected that she wouldprobably not have had an attic to stow away unwanted objects at Crosshedges. Presumably SirRoderick had made room for a few family things whilst the returned couple were looking aboutfor a suitable house in London. So it had not mattered much, and it would have been easier to hangboth portraits. Besides, Mary Restarick seemed a sensible type of woman — not a jealous oremotional type.
“Tout de même,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself, “les femmes, they are all capable ofjealousy, and sometimes the one you would consider the least likely!”
His thoughts passed to Mary Restarick, and he considered her in turn. It struck him that whatwas really odd was that he had so few thoughts about her! He had seen her only the once, and shehad, somehow or other, not made much impression on him. A certain efficiency, he thought, andalso a certain—how could he put it?—artificiality? (“But there, my friend,” said Hercule Poirot,again in parenthesis, “there you are considering her wig!”)It was absurd really that one should know so little about a woman. A woman who was efficientand who wore a wig, and who was good-looking, and who was sensible, and who could feel anger.
Yes, she had been angry when she had found the Peacock Boy wandering uninvited in her house.
She had displayed it sharply and unmistakably. And the boy—he had seemed what? Amused, nomore. But she had been angry, very angry at finding him there. Well, that was natural enough. Hewould not be any mother’s choice for her daughter—Poirot stopped short in his thoughts, shaking his head vexedly. Mary Restarick was not Norma’smother. Not for her the agony, the apprehension about a daughter making an unsuitable unhappymarriage, or announcing an illegitimate baby with an unsuitable father! What did Mary feel aboutNorma? Presumably, to begin with, that she was a thoroughly tiresome girl—who had picked upwith a young man who was going to be obviously a source of worry and annoyance to AndrewRestarick. But after that? What had she thought and felt about a stepdaughter who was apparentlydeliberately trying to poison her?
Her attitude seemed to have been the sensible one. She had wanted to get Norma out of thehouse, herself out of danger; and to cooperate with her husband in suppressing any scandal aboutwhat had happened. Norma came down for an occasional weekend to keep up appearances, but herlife henceforward was bound to centre in London. Even when the Restaricks moved into the housethey were looking for, they would not suggest Norma living with them. Most girls, nowadays,lived away from their families. So that problem had been settled.
Except that, for Poirot, the question of who had administered poison to Mary Restarick wasvery far from settled. Restarick himself believed it was his daughter—But Poirot wondered….
His mind played with the possibilities of the girl Sonia. What was she doing in that house? Whyhad she come there? She had Sir Roderick eating out of her hand all right—perhaps she had nowish to go back to her own country? Possibly her designs were purely matrimonial—old men ofSir Roderick’s age married pretty young girls every day of the week. In the worldly sense, Soniacould do very well for herself. A secure social position, and widowhood to look forward to with asettled and sufficient income—or were her aims quite different? Had she gone to Kew Gardenswith Sir Roderick’s missing papers tucked between the pages of a book?
Had Mary Restarick become suspicious of her—of her activities, of her loyalties, of where shewent on her days off, and of whom she met? And had Sonia, then, administered the substanceswhich, in cumulative small doses, would arouse no suspicion of anything but ordinarygastroenteritis?
For the time being, he put the household at Crosshedges out of his mind.
He came, as Norma had come, to London, and proceeded to the consideration of three girls whoshared a flat.
Claudia Reece-Holland, Frances Cary, Norma Restarick. Claudia Reece-Holland, daughter of awell-known Member of Parliament, well-off, capable, well-trained, good-looking, a first-classsecretary. Frances Cary, a country solicitor’s daughter, artistic, had been to drama school for ashort time, then to the Slade, chucked that also, occasionally worked for the Arts Council, nowemployed by an art gallery. Earned a good salary, was artistic and had bohemian associations. Sheknew the young man, David Baker, though not apparently more than casually. Perhaps she was inlove with him? He was the kind of young man, Poirot thought, disliked generally by parents,members of the Establishment and also the police. Where the attraction lay for wellborn girlsPoirot failed to see. But one had to acknowledge it as a fact. What did he himself think of David?
A good-looking boy with the impudent and slightly amused air whom he had first seen in theupper storeys of Crosshedges, doing an errand for Norma (or reconnoitring on his own, whoshould say?). He had seen him again when he gave him a lift in his car. A young man ofpersonality, giving indeed an impression of ability in what he chose to do. And yet there wasclearly an unsatisfactory side to him. Poirot picked up one of the papers on the table by his sideand studied it. A bad record though not positively criminal. Small frauds on garages, hooliganism,smashing up things, on probation twice. All those things were the fashion of the day. They did notcome under Poirot’s category of evil. He had been a promising painter, but had chucked it. He wasthe kind that did no steady work. He was vain, proud, a peacock in love with his own appearance.
Was he anything more than that? Poirot wondered.
He stretched out an arm and picked up a sheet of paper on which was scribbled down the roughheads of the conversation held between Norma and David in the café—that is, as well as Mrs.
Oliver could remember them. And how well was that, Poirot thought? He shook his headdoubtfully. One never knew quite at what point Mrs. Oliver’s imagination would take over! Didthe boy care for Norma, really want to marry her? There was no doubt about her feelings for him.
He had suggested marrying her. Had Norma got money of her own? She was the daughter of a richman, but that was not the same thing. Poirot made an exclamation of vexation. He had forgotten toinquire the terms of the late Mrs. Restarick’s will. He flipped through the sheets of notes. No, Mr.
Goby had not neglected this obvious need. Mrs. Restarick apparently had been well provided forby her husband during her lifetime. She had had, apparently, a small income of her ownamounting perhaps to a thousand a year. She had left everything she possessed to her daughter. Itwould hardly amount, Poirot thought, to a motive for marriage. Probably, as his only child, shewould inherit a lot of money at her father’s death but that was not at all the same thing. Her fathermight leave her very little indeed if he disliked the man she had married.
He would say then, that David did care for her, since he was willing to marry her. And yet—Poirot shook his head. It was about the fifth time he had shaken it. All these things did not tie up,they did not make a satisfactory pattern. He remembered Restarick’s desk, and the cheque he hadbeen writing—apparently to buy off the young man—and the young man, apparently, was quitewilling to be bought off! So that again did not tally. The cheque had certainly been made out toDavid Baker and it was for a very large—really a preposterous—sum. It was a sum that mighthave tempted any impecunious young man of bad character. And yet he had suggested marriage toher only a day before. That, of course, might have been just a move in the game—a move to raisethe price he was asking. Poirot remembered Restarick sitting there, his lips hard. He must care agreat deal for his daughter to be willing to pay so high a sum; and he must have been afraid toothat the girl herself was quite determined to marry him.
From thoughts of Restarick, he went on to Claudia. Claudia and Andrew Restarick. Was itchance, sheer chance, that she had come to be his secretary? There might be a link between them.
Claudia. He considered her. Three girls in a flat, Claudia Reece-Holland’s flat. She had been theone who had taken the flat originally, and shared it first with a friend, a girl she already knew, andthen with another girl, the third girl. The third girl, thought Poirot. Yes, it always came back tothat. The third girl. And that is where he had come in the end. Where he had had to come. Whereall this thinking out of patterns had led. To Norma Restarick.
A girl who had come to consult him as he sat at breakfast. A girl whom he had joined at a tablein a café where she had recently been eating baked beans with the young man she loved. (Healways seemed to see her at mealtimes, he noted!) And what did he think about her? First, whatdid other people think about her? Restarick cared for her and was desperately anxious about her,desperately frightened for her. He not only suspected—he was quite sure, apparently, that she hadtried to poison his recently married wife. He had consulted a doctor about her. Poirot felt he wouldlike dearly to talk to that doctor himself, but he doubted if he would get anywhere. Doctors werevery chary of parting with medical information to anyone but a duly accredited person such as theparents. But Poirot could imagine fairly well what the doctor had said. He had been cautious,Poirot thought, as doctors are apt to be. He’d hemmed and hawed and spoken perhaps of medicaltreatment. He had not stressed too positively a mental angle, but had certainly suggested it orhinted at it. In fact, the doctor probably was privately sure that that was what had happened. Buthe also knew a good deal about hysterical girls, and that they sometimes did things that were notreally the result of mental causes, but merely of temper, jealousy, emotion, and hysteria. He wouldnot be a psychiatrist himself nor a neurologist. He would be a GP who took no risks of makingaccusations about which he could not be sure, but suggested certain things out of caution. A jobsomewhere or other—a job in London, later perhaps treatment from a specialist?
What did anyone else think of Norma Restarick? Claudia Reece-Holland? He didn’t know.
Certainly not from the little that he knew about her. She was capable of hiding any secret, shewould certainly let nothing escape her which she did not mean to let escape. She had shown nosigns of wanting to turn the girl out—which she might have done if she had been afraid of hermental condition. There could not have been much discussion between her and Frances on thesubject since the other girl had so innocently let escape the fact that Norma had not returned tothem after her weekend at home. Claudia had been annoyed about that. It was possible thatClaudia was more in the pattern than she appeared. She had brains, Poirot thought, andefficiency…He came back to Norma, came back once again to the third girl. What was her placein the pattern? The place that would pull the whole thing together. Ophelia, he thought? But therewere two opinions to that, just as there were two opinions about Norma. Was Ophelia mad or wasshe pretending madness? Actresses had been variously divided as to how the part should be played—or perhaps, he should say, producers. They were the ones who had the ideas. Was Hamlet mador sane? Take your choice. Was Ophelia mad or sane?
Restarick would not have used the word “mad” even in his thoughts about his daughter.
Mentally disturbed was the term that everyone preferred to use. The other word that had been usedof Norma had been “batty.” “She’s a bit batty.” “Not quite all there.” “A bit wanting, if you knowwhat I mean.” Were “daily women” good judges? Poirot thought they might be. There wassomething odd about Norma, certainly, but she might be odd in a different way to what sheseemed. He remembered the picture she had made slouching into his room, a girl of today, themodern type looking just as so many other girls looked. Limp hair hanging on her shoulders, thecharacterless dress, a skimpy look about the knees—all to his old-fashioned eyes looking like anadult girl pretending to be a child.
“I’m sorry, you are too old.”
Perhaps it was true. He’d looked at her through the eyes of someone old, without admiration, tohim just a girl without apparently will to please, without coquetry. A girl without any sense of herown femininity—no charm or mystery or enticement, who had nothing to offer, perhaps, but plainbiological sex. So it may be that she was right in her condemnation of him. He could not help herbecause he did not understand her, because it was not even possible for him to appreciate her. Hehad done his best for her, but what had that meant up to date? What had he done for her since thatone moment of appeal? And in his thoughts the answer came quickly. He had kept her safe. Thatat least. If, indeed, she needed keeping safe. That was where the whole point lay. Did she needkeeping safe? That preposterous confession! Really, not so much a confession as anannouncement: “I think I may have committed a murder.”
Hold on to that, because that was the crux of the whole thing. That was his métier. To deal withmurder, to clear up murder, to prevent murder! To be the good dog who hunts down murder.
Murder announced. Murder somewhere. He had looked for it and had not found it. The pattern ofarsenic in the soup? A pattern of young hooligans stabbing each other with knifes? The ridiculousand sinister phrase, bloodstains in the courtyard. A shot fired from a revolver. At whom, and why?
It was not as it ought to be, a form of crime that would fit with the words she had said: “I mayhave committed a murder.” He had stumbled on in the dark, trying to see a pattern of crime, tryingto see where the third girl fitted into that pattern, and coming back always to the same urgent needto know what this girl was really like.
And then with a casual phrase, Ariadne Oliver had, as he thought, shown him the light. Thesupposed suicide of a woman at Borodene Mansions. That would fit. It was where the third girlhad her living quarters. It must be the murder that she had meant. Another murder committedabout the same time would have been too much of a coincidence! Besides there was no sign ortrace of any other murder that had been committed about then. No other death that could have senther hotfoot to consult him, after listening at a party to the lavish admiration of his ownachievements which his friend, Mrs. Oliver, had given to the world. And so, when Mrs. Oliver hadinformed him in a casual manner of the woman who had thrown herself out of the window, it hadseemed to him that at last he had got what he had been looking for.
Here was the clue. The answer to his perplexity. Here he would find what he needed. The why,the when, the where.
“Quelle déception,” said Hercule Poirot, out loud.
He stretched out his hand, and sorted out the neatly typed résumé of a woman’s life. The baldfacts of Mrs. Charpentier’s existence. A woman of forty-three of good social position, reported tohave been a wild girl—two marriages—two divorces—a woman who liked men. A woman who oflate years had drunk more than was good for her. A woman who liked parties. A woman who wasnow reported to go about with men a good many years younger than herself. Living in a flat alonein Borodene Mansions, Poirot could understand and feel the sort of woman she was, and had been,and he could see why such a woman might wish to throw herself out of a high window one earlymorning when she awoke to despair.
Because she had cancer or thought she had cancer? But at the inquest, the medical evidence hadsaid very definitely that that was not so.
What he wanted was some kind of a link with Norma Restarick. He could not find it. He readthrough the dry facts again.
Identification had been supplied at the inquest by a solicitor. Louise Carpenter, though she hadused a Frenchified form of her surname—Charpentier. Because it went better with her Christianname? Louise? Why was the name Louise familiar? Some casual mention?—a phrase?—hisfingers riffled neatly through typewritten pages. Ah! there it was! Just that one reference. The girlfor whom Andrew Restarick had left his wife had been a girl named Louise Birell. Someone whohad proved to be of little significance in Restarick’s later life. They had quarrelled and parted afterabout a year. The same pattern, Poirot thought. The same thing obtaining that had probablyobtained all through this particular woman’s life. To love a man violently, to break up his home,perhaps, to live with him, and then quarrel with him and leave him. He felt sure, absolutely sure,that this Louise Charpentier was the same Louise.
Even so, how did it tie up with the girl Norma? Had Restarick and Louise Charpentier cometogether again when he returned to England? Poirot doubted it. Their lives had parted years ago.
That they had by any chance come together again seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility! Ithad been a brief and in reality unimportant infatuation. His present wife would hardly be jealousenough of her husband’s past to wish to push his former mistress out of a window. Ridiculous!
The only person so far as he could see who might have been the type to harbour a grudge overmany long years, and wish to execute revenge upon the woman who had broken up her home,might have been the first Mrs. Restarick. And that sounded wildly impossible also, and anyway,the first Mrs. Restarick was dead!
The telephone rang. Poirot did not move. At this particular moment he did not want to bedisturbed. He had a feeling of being on a trail of some kind…He wanted to pursue it…Thetelephone stopped. Good. Miss Lemon would be coping with it.
The door opened and Miss Lemon entered.
“Mrs. Oliver wants to speak to you,” she said.
Poirot waved a hand. “Not now, not now, I pray you! I cannot speak to her now.”
“She says there is something that she has just thought of—something she forgot to tell you.
About a piece of paper—an unfinished letter, which seems to have fallen out of a blotter in a deskin a furniture van. A rather incoherent story,” added Miss Lemon, allowing a note of disapprovalto enter her voice.
Poirot waved more frantically.
“Not now,” he urged. “I beg of you, not now.”
“I will tell her you are busy.”
Miss Lemon retreated.
Peace descended once more upon the room. Poirot felt waves of fatigue creeping over him. Toomuch thinking. One must relax. Yes, one must relax. One must let tension go—in relaxation thepattern would come. He closed his eyes. There were all the components there. He was sure of thatnow, there was nothing more he could learn from outside. It must come from inside.
And quite suddenly—just as his eyelids were relaxing in sleep—it came.…It was all there—waiting for him! He would have to work it all out. But he knew now. All thebits were there, disconnected bits and pieces, all fitting in. A wig, a picture, 5 a.m., women andtheir hairdos, the Peacock Boy—all leading to the phrase with which it had begun:
Third Girl…
“I may have committed a murder…” Of course!
A ridiculous nursery rhyme came into his mind. He repeated it aloud.
Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub
And who do you think they be?
A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker….
Too bad, he couldn’t remember the last line. A baker, yes, and in a far-fetched way, a butcher—He tried out a feminine parody:
Pat a cake, pat, three girls in a flat
And who do you think they be?
A Personal Aide and a girl from the Slade
And the Third is a—
Miss Lemon came in.
“Ah—I remember now—‘And they all came out of a weenie POTATO.’”
Miss Lemon looked at him in anxiety.
“Dr. Stillingfleet insists on speaking to you at once. He says it is urgent.”
“Tell Dr. Stillingfleet he can—Dr. Stillingfleet, did you say?”
He pushed past her, caught up the receiver. “I am here. Poirot speaking! Something hashappened?”
“She’s walked out on me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. She’s walked out. Walked out through the front gate.”
“You let her go?”
“What else could I do?”
“You could have stopped her.”
“No.”
“To let her go was madness.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“That was the arrangement. Free to go at any time.”
“You don’t understand what may be involved.”
“All right then, I don’t. But I know what I’m doing. And if I don’t let her go, all the work I’vedone on her would go for nothing. And I have worked on her. Your job and my job aren’t thesame. We’re not out for the same thing. I tell you I was getting somewhere. Getting somewhere,so that I was quite sure she wouldn’t walk out on me.”
“Ah yes. And then, mon ami, she did.”
“Frankly, I can’t understand it. I can’t see why the setback came.”
“Something happened.”
“Yes, but what?”
“Somebody she saw, somebody who spoke to her, somebody who found out where she was.”
“I don’t see how that could have happened…But what you don’t seem to see is that she’s a freeagent. She had to be a free agent.”
“Somebody got at her. Somebody found out where she was. Did she get a letter, a telegram, atelephone call?”
“No, nothing of that kind. That I am quite sure of.”
“Then how—of course! Newspapers. You have newspapers, I suppose, in that establishment ofyours?”
“Certainly. Normal everyday life, that’s what I stand for in my place of business.”
“Then that is how they got at her. Normal, everyday life. What papers do you take?”
“Five.” He named the five.
“When did she go?”
“This morning. Half past ten.”
“Exactly. After she read the papers. That is good enough to start on. Which paper did sheusually read?”
“I don’t think she had any special choice. Sometimes one, sometimes another, sometimes thewhole lot of them—sometimes only glanced at them.”
“Well, I must not waste time talking.”
“You think she saw an advertisement. Something of that kind?”
“What other explanation can there be? Good-bye, I can say no more now. I have to search.
Search for the possible advertisement and then get on quickly.”
He replaced the receiver.
“Miss Lemon, bring me our two papers. The Morning News and the Daily Comet. Send Georgesout for all the others.”
As he opened out the papers to the Personal advertisements and went carefully down them, hefollowed his line of thought.
He would be in time. He must be in time…There had been one murder already. There would beanother one to come. But he, Hercule Poirot, would prevent that…If he was in time…He wasHercule Poirot—the avenger of the innocent. Did he not say (and people laughed when he said it),“I do not approve of murder.” They had thought it an understatement. But it was not anunderstatement. It was a simple statement of fact without melodrama. He did not approve ofmurder.
George came in with a sheaf of newspapers.
“There are all this morning’s, sir.”
Poirot looked at Miss Lemon, who was standing by waiting to be efficient.
“Look through the ones that I have searched in case I have missed anything.”
“The Personal column, you mean?”
“Yes. I thought there would be the name David perhaps. A girl’s name. Some pet name ornickname. They would not use Norma. An appeal for help, perhaps, or to a meeting.”
Miss Lemon took the papers obediently with some distaste. This was not her kind of efficiency,but for the moment he had no other job to give her. He himself spread out the Morning Chronicle.
That was the biggest field to search. Three columns of it. He bent over the open sheet.
A lady who wanted to dispose of her fur coat…Passengers wanted for a car trip abroad…Lovelyperiod house for sale…Paying guests…Backward children…Homemade chocolates…“Julia. Shallnever forget. Always yours.” That was more the kind of thing. He considered it, but passed on.
Louis XVth furniture…Middle-aged lady to help run a hotel…“In desperate trouble. Must seeyou. Come to flat 4:30 without fail. Our code Goliath.”
He heard the doorbell ring just as he called out: “Georges, a taxi,” slipped on his overcoat, andwent into the hall just as George was opening the front door and colliding with Mrs. Oliver. Allthree of them struggled to disentangle themselves in the narrow hall.
第二十一章
第二十一章
波洛坐在他的那张方形扶手椅上。他的手搭在扶手上，眼神落在面前的壁炉架上，却没有看它一眼。他旁边是一张小桌子，上面整齐地摆放着各种各样的文件。来自戈比先生的报告，波洛的朋友尼尔检察官提供的消息，还有一堆散页，上面标有“传闻，流言，谣言”，还写明了消息的来源。
此时此刻，他并不用看这些文件。事实上，他都仔细地看过了，他把它们放在这里，是为了在遇到任何特殊的情况时，再去看一下。他现在把他所知道和了解的情况聚集在一起，因为他坚信这些东西一定能形成某种模式。这里面一定有某种模式。他现在思索着，应该从哪个角度来找到这个模式。他不是那种对直觉深信不疑的人，他不是那种直觉能力超群的人——但是他有着自己的直觉。重要的事情不是直觉本身，而是那种可能会引发它的原因。那种引发它的原因才是有趣之处，这种起因通常不是你所想的那样。你需要依靠逻辑、感觉、直觉才能将它发掘出来。
对于这个案件，他的直觉又是什么？这到底是个什么类型的案件？他要从最普通的事实入手，接着去探寻那些特殊之处。这个案件有什么突出之处呢？
他认为金钱是其中之一，虽然他不知道自己为什么会这么想。但是莫名其妙地就是这样，金钱……他也这么想，这种想法愈发强烈，这里面隐含着罪恶。他了解罪恶。他之前遇到过。他知道罪恶的气息、味道和它显露的方式。麻烦之处在于他不知道这罪恶究竟藏在哪里。他已经采取了某些措施去和罪恶搏斗。他希望这些措施能够起作用。有些事情已经在悄然发生了，有些事情还在推进中，还没有完成。处在某地的某个人正在面临着危险的境遇。
问题在于，事实指向两个方向。如果他认为那个身处危险中的人确实面临危险的话，但是至今为止，他却找不到出现这种情况的原因。为什么这个特定的人会身处危险中呢？
这里面没有动机。如果他认为的那个身处危险中的人不是真的面临危险的话，那么整个办案的思路就要做个彻底的调整了……他必须要掉转过来，从完全相反的角度来看这整件事的指向。
此刻他将这个问题放到一边，将重点转移至对于个性的探讨上来，也就是那些人的个性。他们塑造了什么样的模式？他们在其中扮演了什么样的角色？
先说安德鲁•雷斯塔里克。迄今为止，他已经搜集了不少关于安德鲁•雷斯塔里克的信息。对他出国前后的生活有了大体的了解。他是一个不安稳的人，从不在一个地方久留，也从不长久坚守一个目标，但是总体来说，口碑不错。不是什么败家子，也不是什么卑劣、狡猾之人。或许，不是一个个性极强的人，在很多方面都表现得很软弱？
波洛不满意地皱着眉。这种形象跟他自己所见到的安德鲁•雷斯塔里克不相符。他那突出的下，坚毅的眼神，还有果决的气质都很明显地显示出他不是那种软弱之人。很明显，他也是位成功的商人。早些年，他做得相当不错，在南非和南美都做过几笔不错的生意。
他持有的资产也在不断增长。他带回英国的是一段成功的经历而不是失败的伤痛。这么说，他的个性又怎能是软弱不堪的呢？可能，在女人方面，他是软弱的。他有着一段错误的婚姻，跟一位错误女人结了婚……是被他的家庭逼婚的吗？接着他遇到了另外一个女人。只有那个女人，或者另外还有几个女人？想要调查关于这方面的多年前的记录简直太难了。不管怎么说，众所周知，他的确是个不忠的丈夫。他曾有个正常的家庭，从各个方面来说，他还是很爱自己的小女儿的。但是他遇到了另外一个女人，他爱上了她，为她抛妻弃子，背井离乡。这是一段真实存在的恋情。
但是这可能与任何其他的动机相匹配吗？厌恶办公事务，厌恶城市，厌恶每日在伦敦的日常生活？他想这有可能。这跟这个模式相匹配。他似乎也是那种孤独的类型。国内和国外遇到他的人都喜欢与他打交道，但是他却似乎没有亲密的朋友。确实，因为他从来不在一个地方久留，所以在国外就更难交到知心的朋友。他曾经一度沉迷于赌博，出了一手妙招，赚了一笔，接着就对此厌倦了，之后又去其他地方游历。游牧者！一位漫游者！
但是这仍然跟他对于这个男人的形象不甚相符……一个形象？这个词汇唤起了他对于悬挂在他办公桌后面墙壁上的肖像画的印象。那是同一个男人十五年前的画像。十五年的时间使得这个坐在办公室的男人有多少改变呢？总的看来，竟然只有令人惊讶的微小之处！头发中夹杂了几缕灰发，肩膀变得更宽了一些，但是脸上的富有个人特征的线条依然未变。一张果决的脸。一位知道自己想要什么的男人，也会为了目标而持续追逐。一位敢于冒险的男人。一个带着些许无情和冷酷之感的男人。
他在想，为什么雷斯塔里克会把这幅画带到伦敦？这是一对夫妻的肖像画。但从艺术的角度来说，它们应当被挂在一起的。心理学家是否会说这是雷斯塔里克在潜意识里想要再次和他的前妻断绝关系，与她分离？虽然她已故去，但是他在心理上仍然试图避开她的个性特征？真是颇有意味的观点……
这幅肖像画想必是和那些家庭装饰品一起从储藏室里拿出来的。玛丽•雷斯塔里克无疑是为了在克劳斯海吉斯这所宅子里布置一些自己所选择的家具而请罗德里克爵士腾出一些地方来的。他想是否是玛丽•雷斯塔里克，这位新的夫人，要把这一对肖像画悬挂起来。她把前任夫人的肖像画扔在阁楼里反倒更自然。但是接着他又想，可能克劳斯海吉斯这个地方并没有什么可以放置杂物的阁楼。推测起来，可能是这对夫妇从国外回来在伦敦寻觅新的住处的时候，罗德里克爵士暂借一些地方给他们放置东西。那这些东西也就没那么碍事了，把这两幅肖像画挂在一起也更加方便。除此之外，玛丽•雷斯塔里克也是个明事理的女人而不是那种爱嫉妒、情绪化的女人。
“罢了 [1] 。”赫尔克里•波洛私下里想着，“女人，都是爱嫉妒的，特别是那种你觉得最不会嫉妒别人的女人！”
他又转向了玛丽•雷斯塔里克，他开始思量起这个女人。最令他感到奇怪的是，他竟然对她没有什么想法！他只见过她一次，但是不知道为什么，她却没有给他留下什么印象。
他想到的就是她的干练，也还有一种，他该怎么说呢，有些造作？（“但是，伙计，”赫尔克里•波洛又插进来一句话，“您又想到了她那顶假发！”）真是荒谬，一个人竟然对一位女士知之甚少。一位干练的女人，一位戴着一顶假发的女人，很是貌美，还十分明智，并且容易感到愤怒。是的，当她看到那个如孔雀般浮夸的青年在家里游荡的时候，她感到十分愤怒了。她展露出一种尖锐的、不容置疑的态度。而那个青年，他又怎样了？不再受欢迎。但是她表现得很愤怒，当她发现他在那里的时候满是愤怒。嗯，这再自然不过了。他不是那种身为母亲会为自己女儿选择的青年——波洛的思路又碰壁了，他生气地摇着头。玛丽•雷斯塔里克不是诺玛的母亲，她不至于为了女儿不适宜、不愉快的婚姻或是跟一位不得体的青年私下里生了个孩子而痛苦气恼！
玛丽对诺玛的感觉是怎样的？推测一下，她原本就是一个让人感觉烦透了的女孩，她挑选了一个让安德鲁•雷斯塔里克担忧和烦恼的男朋友。但是除此之外呢？对于一个明显有意要毒杀她的继女，她是怎么想的，自身的感受又如何？
她的态度看起来似乎是很明事理的。她想要把诺玛赶出家门，让自己远离危险；她也曾和她的丈夫一道试图掩盖家中发生的丑闻。诺玛每个周末都回家，在家里露个脸，但是她的生活重心将转向伦敦。甚至当雷斯塔里克夫妇在伦敦找到了新住处之后，他们也不会提议诺玛搬过来一同居住。现今的大多数姑娘都住在远离家庭的地方。那么这个问题早就已经被解决了。
除此之外，对于波洛来说，谁给玛丽•雷斯塔里克下的毒这个问题还远没有答案。雷斯塔里克也相信是他的女儿做的——
但是波洛还是在猜测着……
他在脑海中思考着那个名叫索尼娅的姑娘的可能性。她在这所房子里要做些什么？为什么她要来这里？她让罗德里克爵士时时刻刻都处在她的掌控之中，可能她并没有想返回自己国家的想法，或许她只是想要盘算着跟他结婚，一个像罗德里克爵士那样年纪的老人跟一位年轻漂亮的姑娘成婚这样的事每天都在上演。从世俗的眼光来看，索尼娅这么做对自己大有裨益。一个更加稳固的社会地位，守寡之后还能得到一大笔丰厚的收入，或者她还有完全不同的目的？她去英国皇家植物园是将罗德里克爵士丢失的文件夹在那本书里吗？
玛丽•雷斯塔里克曾对她起过疑心吗？对于她的行为还有她的忠诚度，以及在她休息的日子里都去了哪儿，去见了谁？那么是不是索尼娅下了那种剂量很少、不会引起任何怀疑，但是累积起来会引起肠胃疾病的药物呢？
他决定先把克劳斯海吉斯这所房子里所发生的事情放在一边。
他就像诺玛一样，把思路拉到了伦敦。他开始思量起那三位在伦敦合租的姑娘。
克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰，弗朗西丝•凯莉，诺玛•雷斯塔里克。克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰是一位知名的国会议员的女儿，富有、干练、训练有素、样貌美丽，是一位一流的秘书。弗朗西丝•凯莉是一位乡下律师的女儿，颇有艺术气质，在戏剧学校短期培训过，接着去了史莱德学校，在那里中途退学，偶尔为艺术委员会工作，现在在一家艺术画廊工作，收入丰厚，还有许多放荡不羁的朋友。她认得那个年轻人，大卫•贝克，虽然表面上看两人不是那么亲密。可能她会爱上他？波洛觉得他是那种通常不会被父母认可，不会被一般人和警察所喜欢的人。为什么他会对那些家世良好的姑娘如此有吸引力，波洛百思不得其解。但是我们又得承认这是事实。就波洛自己来说，他是如何看待大卫•贝克的呢？
一个样貌俊美的青年，带着些厚颜无耻和诙谐俏皮的气质，他第一次见到他是在克劳斯海吉斯的宅子里，他应该是为诺玛来这里的。（或者是自己去探查些什么，谁知道呢？）他让他搭顺风车的那次是他第二次见到他。大卫•贝克是一位极具个性的年轻人，给人的印象是确实有能力去做他想要做的事。虽然很明显，他有着令人感到不甚满意的一面。波洛拿起桌上的资料看了起来。虽然说不上是犯罪，但是他还是有些不良记录。在汽修厂有过小的欺诈行为，打架斗殴，损毁东西，还有过两次缓刑记录。所有这些事在当今都算得上是一时的风气。在波洛的分类中这也算不上是罪恶之流。他曾是个前途光明的画家，但是他放弃了。他是那种不会从事稳定工作的人。他贪慕虚荣、颇为自负，就像一只被自己外貌迷住了的孔雀。除了这些，他还有什么别的吗？波洛推测着。
他伸出一只胳膊，拿起一张上面大致写着诺玛和大卫那一日在餐馆里的谈话内容的纲要，那也只是奥利弗夫人所能记得的内容了。她能记住多少呢？他有些怀疑地摇摇头。没人知道奥利弗夫人的想象力会在什么点上显露出来！那个年轻人真的关心诺玛吗？真的想要跟她结婚吗？她对他的感情是毋庸置疑的。他曾建议她和他成婚。诺玛拿到了自己的那部分钱了吗？她是一位富有的男人的女儿，但是这又是另一档子事。波洛气恼地感叹了一声。他忘了去查看一下已经故去的雷斯塔里克夫人的遗嘱的条目了。他又查阅了一些资料。不，戈比先生没有忽略这个明显的需求。雷斯塔里克夫人显然在生前被她丈夫很好地供养了起来。看起来，她每年大约有一千英镑的收入，她把这笔钱都留给了女儿。波洛想，这笔钱也没能构成缔结一桩婚姻的足够动机。或许，作为他唯一的女儿，诺玛会在她父亲去世之后继承到一大笔钱财，但是这也不一定。她的父亲如果很不喜欢她的结婚对象的话，可能不会留给她多少钱。
那么他可以这么说，大卫真的很爱她，因为他想要跟她成婚。虽是这样，波洛摇摇头，这是他第五次摇头了，所有这些事都无法密切联系在一起，它们无法构成一个令人满意的模式。他想起雷斯塔里克的办公桌，还有他写的那张支票，很明显是为了收买那个年轻人，并且那个年轻人是相当乐意被收买的！但是这又跟实情不符。那张支票确实是给大卫•贝克的，而且面额巨大，真的可谓惊人的数额。这笔钱足以诱惑任何品行不端的穷困的年轻人。但是他是在这张支票开出来的前一天向诺玛提议结婚的，当然这可能是他的阴谋中的一招——为了抬高自身的要价。波洛记得雷斯塔里克坐在那里，他的嘴唇紧闭。他一定是对他女儿怀着深切的爱，才会愿意付出如此高昂的数额；他一定是害怕自己的女儿下定决心要嫁给这位年轻人。
他把思路从雷斯塔里克身上转移到克劳迪亚身上。克劳迪亚和雷斯塔里克。是否是机遇，纯粹的机遇，让她成为他的秘书？可能在他们之间存在什么联系。他在思考着关于克劳迪亚的问题。三个姑娘分租的公寓，是克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰的公寓。是她最先完整地租了下来，之后分租给她的一个朋友，一个她已经熟知的朋友，接着又分租给另外一个姑娘，第三个姑娘。波洛想着。是的，总还是要回到这个地方。第三个姑娘。事情最终还是离不开她。他不得不把思路拉回到她身上。当他思考着不同的模式的时候，总会被引回到她身上，回到诺玛•雷斯塔里克这里。
一个在他享用早餐的时候来他家里请教的姑娘，一个他曾在餐馆里与之交谈过的女郎，她在那里刚和自己深爱的男朋友吃完了一盘焗豆。（他发现，自己总是在进餐的时间遇到她！）他怎么看待她呢？首先，应该想一想别人是怎么看待她的。雷斯塔里克很爱她，为她感到万分焦心，极度恐惧。他不只是怀疑，很明显他对此非常确信，他女儿想要毒死他的新婚夫人。他曾经找过医生去咨询关于他女儿的事。波洛觉得自己也非常想和那位医生聊聊，但是他怀疑即使他去了也不会有什么结果。医生是极端谨言慎行的，除了那些极其可靠的人，比如病人的双亲之外，他们通常不愿意把病人的病情透露给他人。但是波洛能想到那位医生会怎么说。波洛想他一定很谨慎，作为医生理应如此。他可能会含糊而委婉地说到一些可能的治疗方法。他不会直接过于强调精神类的疾病，但是肯定会暗示它的存在。事实上，医生可能私下里认为诺玛肯定是发病了。但是他也对那种歇斯底里的姑娘很了解，有时候她们做事不一定真的是受精神病症的影响，可能只是发脾气、嫉妒、情绪化和精神躁狂而已。可能那位医生本身并不是一位心理分析学家或是精神病学家，只是一位内科医生，他自己并不敢冒风险去做那些自己也不甚肯定的诊断，他只是出于谨慎的态度去做了些建议。比如在某个地方先找份工作，在伦敦找份工作，接着可能再接受专业的专科医生的治疗？
那其他人对诺玛•雷斯塔里克是如何看待的呢？克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰？他不知道。他自己对何兰小姐知之甚少。她是那种善于掩藏秘密的人，她必定能保守那些她不愿意透露的秘密，她不会把这些秘密泄露出去的。在她这里，没有任何迹象显露她有意要把诺玛的消息透露出去，要是她担忧她的精神状况的话，她可能会这么做的。她和弗朗西丝之间对此也不会有过多的讨论的，因为那个叫弗朗西丝的姑娘毫无顾忌地脱口而出，诺玛上个周末回到家之后就没有返回这里。克劳迪亚对此感到有些生气。可能相比弗朗西丝来说，克劳迪亚更有可能会在这个模式中。波洛觉得她有头脑，非常干练……他的思路回到诺玛身上，再次回到了第三个女郎身上。在这个模式中，她扮演了什么角色？搞清楚她的位置可以把这整件事整合在一起。他猜想，是跟奥菲莉亚一样吗？但是说到奥菲莉亚，有两种看法，对诺玛的看法也是分为两极。奥菲莉亚是真的疯了还是在装疯？演员们用两种完全不同的方式去演绎这个角色，或者可能，他会说，是制作人造成了这两种观点。哈姆雷特是发疯了还是精神正常，由观众自己决定吧。那么奥菲莉亚是疯了还是正常的？
即使雷斯塔里克这样看待他的女儿，他也不会用“疯癫”这个词汇来形容她。一般人会选择“神经错乱”这个词语。其他的形容诺玛的词汇有“怪异”“她有些怪异”“精神有点恍惚”“少点什么，您知道我的意思吧”“普通的女人”，这些都是可信的判断吗？波洛觉得或许是这样的。诺玛确实有点怪异，但是这种怪异跟她表现出来的怪异不一样。他想起当她毫无生气地走进他的房间时的样子，一个属于现代的姑娘，跟其他的时尚的姑娘一样。软塌塌的头发垂在肩膀上，连衣裙的长度没有过膝，在那些老派的人士看来，就像是一个成年女人非要装出一副小女孩的样子。
“不好意思，您实在太老了。”
可能这句话是对的。他就是以一种老年人的眼光来审视她的，没有什么赞赏的意味，他觉得她就是个不会逢迎、魅力全无的姑娘。一个对于自身女性特征完全没有意识的姑娘，没有亮眼的感觉，或是神秘感和打动人心的东西，可能除了平淡的生理特性之外，再没有什么可以展露出来的了。因而，他对她的看法是有一定道理的。他无法帮助她，因为他根本就不了解她，因为他无力去欣赏她。他已经尽力了，但是直到现在，又有什么成果呢？自从她来寻求帮助的那一刻起，他都为她做了些什么呢？关于这个问题的答案立即就跳了出来。他已经尽力保障了她的安全，最起码他做到了这一点。如果她确实需要被保护的话。这就是问题的关键所在了。她需要被保护吗？还是那句不明所以的招供！真的，与其说是招供，不如说是一句宣言：“我觉得我可能犯了谋杀罪。”
波洛紧紧抓住这句话，因为这是这整件事的关键所在。这也是他所擅长之处，处理谋杀案。去搞清楚谋杀案，去阻止一桩谋杀案！就像是一条追捕凶手的优秀警犬一样。谋杀案已经被宣告了。在某处一定发生了谋杀案。他曾经费心找寻，但是一无所获。是在汤里下毒的模式，还是年轻的小混混用刀打架斗殴的模式，还是那句荒谬的、令人脊背发凉的话：在公寓内院的血迹，左轮手枪的枪响，手枪指向了谁？为什么会这样！
这应当不是和她所描述的那种犯罪方式相符合的模式。“我可能犯了谋杀罪。”他一直在暗处摸索着，试图看明白这种犯罪的模式，试图找到这第三个女郎是如何与这种模式相匹配的，这又回到了那个最急切想要知晓的问题：那第三个女郎到底是个什么样的人？
他认为阿里阿德涅•奥利弗不经意所说的一句话，给他指明了道路。居住在博罗登大楼的一位女人被传自杀。这就匹配上了。那正是第三个女郎所居住的区域。这一定是她所指的那桩谋杀。如果要说在同一时段又发生了一桩谋杀的话，那也过于巧合了吧。而且也没有任何迹象表明同一时段还发生了另外一桩谋杀。在听闻了他的朋友奥利弗夫人在聚会上对他成就的大肆赞扬之后，不会有其他的死亡案件能让诺玛急匆匆地跑来向他求救的。因而当奥利弗夫人不经意间向他说起有一个女人纵身跳出窗外的时候，对他而言这似乎正是他在尽力求索的答案。
线索就在这里。这个答案解决了他的疑惑。他所需要寻找的正是这个。原因、时间和地点。
“我差点儿以为就是这样。”赫尔克里•波洛大声喊了出来。
他伸出手拿出一份整齐的记录有这位女士生平的资料。上面有关于卡彭特夫人直白的生平事迹。一位有着良好社会地位的四十三岁的女人，据说是一位颇为放纵不羁的女人。
她结过两次婚，离过两次婚。她是一个很喜欢跟男人交往的女人。一个上了年纪之后就饮酒过度的女人。她很喜欢各式各样的聚会。据说她是一个喜欢跟比自己年轻的男人交往的女人，在博罗登大楼独自居住。波洛能够体会这类女人的感受，他也能看得出为什么这样一个女人会在一大早精神崩溃，陷入绝望，之后从高楼上纵身跳下。
是因为她罹患癌症或者是她以为自己罹患癌症？但是在验尸报告中显示的结果却不是这样的。
他需要的是一个和诺玛•雷斯塔里克相关联的环节。他找不到这种关联性。他再次审阅这个女人的生平资料。
一位律师在验尸报告中提供了她的身份证明。露易丝•卡彭特，她用了一个法国姓氏，卡彭特。因为这和她的名字更搭配吗？露易丝？为什么露易丝这个名字如此熟悉呢？是不是有人在不经意间提起过？在一句话里出现过吗？他的手指在打印得整整齐齐的资料上翻动着。啊！就在这里！就是这条。那个让安德鲁•雷斯塔里克抛弃妻子和她一起私奔的女人的名字就是露易丝•比雷尔。这个女子后来被证明在雷斯塔里克的晚年生活中没有什么重要性。他们大约在一年之后就因为争吵而分道扬镳了。波洛想这是同一个模式。相同的事情也发生在资料中这个特别的女人身上。激烈地爱着一个男人，拆散了他的家庭，可能还跟他同居在一起，接着跟他争吵，继而离开他。他很确信，完全确信，这个露易丝•卡彭特就是那个露易丝。
即使是这样，又能跟那个女孩诺玛扯上什么关系呢？难道当雷斯塔里克返回英国之后，他和露易丝•卡彭特又鸳梦重温了吗？波洛对此感到很怀疑。他们的生活早在多年前就不相干了。他们之间再度聚首的机会看上去似乎可能性极小！他们之间的关系也只是简短的、不甚重要的迷恋罢了。他现在的妻子完全没可能会出于嫉妒将这个之前的情妇推出窗外。真是荒谬！照他看来，那个唯一可能身怀怨恨多年，要对一个拆散她的家庭的女人做报复的人，只可能是雷斯塔里克的前妻。但是这听起来也完全没可能，因为第一任雷斯塔里克夫人已经去世多年了。
电话铃响了。波洛却没有起身。在这个特殊的时刻，他不想被别人打搅。他有一种感觉，感觉自己要进行一场追寻……他想要追踪到它……电话铃停止了。好的，莱蒙小姐会去处理的。
门被打开了，莱蒙小姐进来了。
“奥利弗夫人想要跟您通电话。”她说。
波洛摆摆手。“现在不行，现在不行，我求求您！我现在不能跟她通话。”
“她说她刚刚想到一些事情，一些她忘了告诉您的事情。关于一张纸条，一封未完成的信。看起来似乎是从那辆搬运行李的货车上的书桌抽屉里飘落下来的。不知道她在说些什么。”莱蒙小姐补充道，语气中明显有一种不满的情绪。
波洛更加猛烈地摆着手。
“现在不行。”他催促她，“求求您，现在不行。”
“我会告诉她您现在正忙。”
莱蒙小姐重复道。
屋内再一次恢复安静。波洛感到一阵阵精疲力竭的感觉向他袭来。想得太多了。一定要休息。是的，一定要休息，一定要放轻松。在休息的过程中，那种模式说不定就会出现。他闭上了眼。所有的元素都在这里了。他现在很肯定，他不会从外界再获取到什么了。如果有的话，一定是来自内在。
但是十分突然，就在他闭眼休息的时候，它来了……都在这里了，在等着他！虽然他要把它们都整理出来。但是最起码他现在知道了大概。所有的碎片都在这里了，它们都可以被拼凑起来。一顶假发，一幅肖像画，早晨五点，女人和她们的发型，那个孔雀一般的小伙子，所有的这一切都指向了一句话，那句话的开头是：
第三个女郎……
“我可能犯了谋杀罪……”当然了！
他的脑中突然出现了一首可笑的童谣。他大声唱了出来。
刷刷刷，三个男人坐在浴盆里
你猜都有谁
一个屠户，一个面包师，一个制作烛台的人
……
真是糟糕，他不记得最后一句了。
一个面包师，是的，但是这句有些牵强附会了，一个屠户——他把里面的人都改换成了女人，模仿着作了另外一首童谣：
嘭嘭嘭，三个女郎住在公寓里
你猜都有谁？
一位私人秘书，还有一个来自史莱德的女郎那第三个女郎是一个——莱蒙小姐进来了。
“啊，我现在想起来了，‘他们都是从一个马铃薯里出来的’。”
莱蒙小姐有些担心地看着他。
“斯蒂林弗利特医生坚持要立马跟您通话。他说有急事。”
“告诉斯蒂林弗利特医生，他可以，您是说，斯蒂林弗利特医生吗？”他越过她，拿起电话听筒。“是我，我是波洛！发生了什么事？”
“她偷偷跑了。”
“什么？”
“您听我说。她跑出去了。从大门跑出去了。”
“您让她走的吗？”
“我能怎么样呢？”
“您应该阻止她。”
“不。”
“让她走了，真是疯了。”
“不。”
“您不明白。”
“我们之间有过约定。她想什么时候走就什么时候走。”
“您不知道这可能会牵扯起多大的事。”
“那么好吧，就算我不知道。但是我知道要做什么，并且如果我不让她走，所有我在她身上所做的工作就都白费了。我在她身上下了不少功夫呢。您的工作和我的工作不一样，我们所指向的不是同样的事。我告诉您我的工作已经起了一些效果。因为有了效果，所以我才相当确信她是不会走掉的。”
“啊，是的。那么现在呢，老兄，她确实是跑了。”
“坦白来说，我不是很理解。我不明白怎么会出现这种差错。”
“发生了一些事。”
“肯定是的，但是究竟是什么事？”
“她见到了什么人，那人跟她说过话，有人发现了她身在何地。”
“我真不知道这是怎么发生的……但是您似乎忘了她是自由人。她是有自身意志的。”
“有人抓住了她。有人发现了她身在何处。她收到过一封信、一个电报或是一个电话吗？”“不，任何这类的事都没有。我对此很确信。”
“那么怎么会？当然了！报纸。我想您那里有报纸，您一定订阅了报纸。”
“当然。这是日常的事，做我们这个行业的要留意这些。”
“那么就是通过这个，他们找到了她。您订阅了多少份报纸？”
“五份。”他说出了那五份报纸的名称。
“她什么时候离开的？”
“今天早晨。十点半。”
“那正好，这时间正好是她读完报纸的时候，这就好着手了。她经常阅读什么报纸？”
“我想她没有特定的阅读习惯。有时候是这一种，有时候是另一种，有时候都会看，有时候只是随便浏览一下。”“嗯，我不能再闲聊了。”
“您觉得她是看到了广告吗？诸如此类的东西……”
“那还有别的什么解释吗？再见，我不能再跟您聊了。我要去找找，找到那条有可能的广告，立马采取行动。”
他把电话听筒放下。
“莱蒙小姐，给我拿两份报纸。《早报》和《每日彗星报》。让乔治再去买些别的报纸。”
他打开报纸在个人广告栏仔细搜寻着，心里也有了思路。
他会及时找到的，他一定能找得到……已经发生了一桩命案了，可能还会再有一桩。
但是他，赫尔克里•波洛，会阻止它，只要他发现得及时。他是赫尔克里•波洛，无辜受难者的复仇天使。他不是说过吗（当他这么说的时候人们还嘲笑他），“我不赞成谋杀”。别人以为这只是一种轻描淡写的陈述。但是这不只是一种陈述，这是对于事实本身不带情绪色彩的看法。他不赞同谋杀。
乔治拿着一沓报纸来了。
“先生，早晨的报纸都在这里了。”
波洛看向莱蒙小姐，她站在一旁正等候着为他效力。
“看看我之前看过的那些报纸，以防我遗漏了什么。”
“您是说私人广告栏吗？”
“是的。我想那里会出现大卫这样的名字。一个姑娘的名字。小名或是外号。他们不会用诺玛这个名字。可能是求助或者是要求会面那一类的。”
莱蒙小姐有些不情愿地接过报纸。这不是那种能体现出她的效率的事情，但是此时此刻，他没什么别的工作可交给她做。他自己打开了《纪事晨报》。这份报纸上有最大的私人广告栏的版面可供他搜寻，共有三栏。他弯腰凑近看。
一位女士想要出让她的皮毛大衣，有旅客征求同伴一道去海外搭车旅行，舒适的房子求出售，求寄宿房客，发育迟缓的儿童，家庭自制巧克力。“朱丽叶，永远难忘，您永远的爱人。”这个广告还有些贴近。他思考着，但是仍然跳过了这条。路易十五时期的家具，中年妇人想要参与经营旅社，“紧急事件，一定要碰面。准时在下午四点半来公寓。我们的暗号是哥利亚。”
他听到了门铃响的同时，高喊道：“乔治，叫辆出租车。”他穿上大衣，穿过走廊，当乔治为他打开大门的时候，他正好撞上了奥利弗夫人。在这条狭窄的走廊上，三个人挣扎着给对方让路。
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
Twenty-two I
Twenty-two I

Frances Cary, carrying her overnight bag, walked down Mandeville Road, chattering with thefriend she had just met on the corner, towards the bulk of Borodene Mansions.
“Really, Frances, it’s like living in a prison block, that building. Wormwood Scrubs orsomething.”
“Nonsense, Eileen. I tell you, they’re frightfully comfortable, these flats. I’m very lucky andClaudia is a splendid person to share with—never bothers you. And she’s got a wonderful daily.
The flat’s really very nicely run.”
“Are there just the two of you? I forget. I thought you had a third girl?”
“Oh, well, she seems to have walked out on us.”
“You mean she doesn’t pay her rent?”
“Oh, I think the rent’s all right. I think she’s probably having some affair with a boyfriend.”
Eileen lost interest. Boyfriends were too much a matter of course.
“Where are you coming back from now?”
“Manchester. Private view was on. Great success.”
“Are you really going to Vienna next month?”
“Yes, I think so. It’s pretty well fixed up by now. Rather fun.”
“Wouldn’t it be awful if some of the pictures got stolen?”
“Oh, they’re all insured,” said Frances. “All the really valuable ones, anyway.”
“How did your friend Peter’s show go?”
“Not terribly well, I’m afraid. But there was quite a good review by the critic of The Artist, andthat counts a lot.”
Frances turned into Borodene Mansions, and her friend went on her way to her own small mewshouse farther down the road. Frances said “Good evening” to the porter, and went up in the lift tothe sixth floor. She walked along the passage, humming a little tune to herself.
She inserted her key in the door of the flat. The light in the hall was not on yet. Claudia was notdue back from the office for another hour and a half. But in the sitting room, the door of whichwas ajar, the light was on.
Frances said aloud: “Light’s on. That’s funny.”
She slipped out of her coat, dropped her overnight bag, pushed the sitting room door fartheropen and went in….
Then she stopped dead. Her mouth opened and then shut. She stiffened all over—her eyesstaring at the prone figure on the floor; then they rose slowly to the mirror on the wall thatreflected back at her her own horror-stricken face….
Then she drew a deep breath. The momentary paralysis over, she flung back her head andscreamed. Stumbling over her bag on the hall floor and kicking it aside, she ran out of the flat andalong the passage and beat frenziedly at the door of the next flat.
An elderly woman opened it.
“What on earth—”
“There’s someone dead—someone dead. And I think it’s someone I know…David Baker. He’slying there on the floor…I think he’s stabbed…he must have been stabbed. There’s blood—bloodeverywhere.”
She began to sob hysterically. Miss Jacobs shoved a glass into her hand. “Stay there and drinkit.”
Frances sipped obediently. Miss Jacobs went rapidly out of the door along the passage andthrough the open door from which the light was pouring out. The living room door was wide openand Miss Jacobs went straight through it.
She was not the kind of woman who screams. She stood just within the doorway, her lips pursedhard together.
What she was looking at had a nightmarish quality. On the floor lay a handsome young man, hisarms flung wide, his chestnut hair falling on his shoulders. He wore a crimson velvet coat, and hiswhite shirt was dappled with blood….
She was aware with a start that there was a second figure with her in the room. A girl wasstanding pressed back against the wall, the great Harlequin above seeming to be leaping across thepainted sky.
The girl had a white woollen shift dress on, and her pale brown hair hung limp on either side ofher face. In her hand she was holding a kitchen knife.
Miss Jacobs stared at her and she stared back at Miss Jacobs.
Then she said in a quiet reflective voice, as though she was answering what someone had said toher:
“Yes, I’ve killed him…The blood got on my hands from the knife…I went into the bathroom towash it off—but you can’t really wash things like that off, can you? And then I came back in hereto see if it was really true…But it is…Poor David…But I suppose I had to do it.”
Shock forced unlikely words from Miss Jacobs. As she said them, she thought how ridiculousthey sounded!
“Indeed? Why did you have to do anything of the kind?”
“I don’t know…At least—I suppose I do—really. He was in great trouble. He sent for me—andI came…But I wanted to be free of him. I wanted to get away from him. I didn’t really love him.”
She laid the knife carefully on the table and sat down on a chair.
“It isn’t safe, is it?” she said. “To hate anyone…It isn’t safe because you never know what youmight do…Like Louise….”
Then she said quietly, “Hadn’t you better ring up the police?”
Obediently, Miss Jacobs dialled 999.
第二十二章 1
第二十二章 1
弗朗西丝•凯莉拿着她的旅行袋，走在曼德维尔路上，与在街角偶遇的朋友一边走一边攀谈。不远处就是博罗登大楼。
“真的，弗朗西丝，你住的那公寓就像是监狱一般，就像是苦艾草监狱或是什么其他地方一样。”
“真是胡说，艾琳。我告诉你，那个公寓舒适极了。我能跟克劳迪亚这样的好姑娘合租真是走运，她永远不会打扰你。她雇的那个清洁女工也很不错。公寓运行得相当好。”
“那公寓里只有你们两个人吗？我忘了，我想你们还有第三个女郎一起合租呢？”
“啊，是的，她似乎是丢下了我们。”
“你的意思是她不付房租吗？”
“啊，不是房租的问题。我想她可能是找到了男朋友吧。”
艾琳失去了兴趣。男朋友当然是另一回事了。
“这次你是从哪里回来的？”
“曼彻斯特。不是公开的画展，但是很成功。”
“你下个月真的要去维也纳吗？”
“是的，我想是的。我现在已经做好决定了。应该相当有意思。”
“如果带去的画作被偷了，岂不是很糟糕吗？”
“啊，它们都上了保险。”弗朗西丝说，“起码所有那些值钱的画作都上了保险。”“你的朋友彼得的画展怎么样了？”
“恐怕不是那么好。但是在《艺术家》杂志上的评论还不错，那还挺有用的。”
弗朗西丝转身进入了博罗登大楼，她的朋友向马路前面走着，要回到自己居住的那间老旧的小房子去。弗朗西丝跟守门人道了声晚安，接着坐电梯上六层。她哼着小调走上了走廊。
她把钥匙插进公寓的锁眼里。门廊的灯没有开，克劳迪亚还要一个半小时才会从公司回家，但是从半掩的门透出了客厅传来的灯光。
弗朗西丝大声说：“灯是亮的。真是奇怪。”
她脱下外套，放下旅行袋，推开了客厅的门，接着走了进去……之后她僵在那里。嘴大张着，又合上了。她全身僵硬，眼睛惊恐地看着倒在地板上的人；然后视线又慢慢转移到墙壁上的镜子，她在里面看到了自己无比惊恐的脸庞……她深吸一口气。暂时的瘫软过去之后，她向后猛一甩头，大声尖叫起来。踩到了旅行袋，她把它踢到一边，沿走廊跑出了公寓，之后猛烈地叩响隔壁屋子的大门。
一位上了年纪的女人打开了门。
“究竟出了什么事？”
“有人死了，有人死了。我想是我认识的某个人死了……大卫•贝克。他躺倒在地板上……我想他被刺伤了……他一定是被刺死了。血，到处都是血。”
她开始歇斯底里地呜咽起来。雅各布斯小姐递给她一杯酒。“别动，先喝了这个。”
弗朗西丝听话地喝了下去。雅各布斯小姐迅速走出房门，沿着走廊进入了灯光洒落在外面的房间，客厅的门是开着的，雅各布斯小姐径直走了进去。
她不是那种爱大嚷大叫的女人。她站在门口，嘴唇紧紧地闭在一起。
她看到的是噩梦般的场景。地板上躺着一个俊美的年轻男人，他的双臂展开，栗色的长发搭在肩膀上，身穿一件深红色天鹅绒外套，白色的衬衫上满是血迹……当她发现屋里还有另外一个人的时候，大为吃惊。一个姑娘紧紧靠着墙，她上方的小丑面具似乎要从彩绘的天空中跳出来一样。
那个姑娘穿着白色羊毛连衣裙，浅褐色的头发黏在脸颊两旁。她手上握着一柄菜刀。
雅各布斯小姐盯着她，她也以同样的目光回看着她。
接着她用一种答话式的语气说着话，就好像她是在回答某人的提问：
“是的，是我杀了他……刀上的血沾到了我的手上……我要去浴室清洗，但是无法真的清洗掉这类痕迹，您能吗？接着我又回到了这儿，看看事情是不是真的发生了……但是它确实……可怜的大卫……但是我想我不得不这么做。”
惊吓使得雅各布斯小姐说出了某些听起来不像是她会说的话。当她这么说的时候，她自己都感觉有些荒谬无稽！
“真的吗？你为什么要做这样的事呢？”
“我不知道……最起码——我想，我真的不知道。他陷在困境里。他来找我，而我来了……但是我要摆脱他。我想要离开他。我不是真的爱他。”
她小心地把菜刀放在桌子上，然后坐在椅子上。
“这不安全，不是吗？”她说，“去恨一个人……这很不安全，因为你永远不知道自己可能会做些什么……就像露易丝……”
接着她平静地说：“你们还不去叫警察吗？”
雅各布斯小姐遵从命令拨打了999。
Twenty-two II
II
There were six people now in the room with the Harlequin on the wall. A long time had passed.
The police had come and gone.
Andrew Restarick sat like a man stunned. Once or twice he said the same words. “I can’tbelieve it…” Telephoned for, he had come from his office, and Claudia Reece-Holland had comewith him. In her quiet way, she had been ceaselessly efficient. She had put through telephone callsto lawyers, had rung Crosshedges and two firms of estate agents to try and get in touch with MaryRestarick. She had given Frances Cary a sedative and sent her to lie down.
Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on a sofa. They had arrived together at the sametime as the police.
Last of all to arrive, when nearly everyone else had gone, had been a quiet man with grey hairand a gentle manner, Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard, who had greeted Poirot with a slightnod, and been introduced to Andrew Restarick. A tall red-haired young man was standing by thewindow staring down into the courtyard.
What were they all waiting for? Mrs. Oliver wondered. The body had been removed, thephotographers and other police officers had done their work, they themselves, after being herdedinto Claudia’s bedroom, had been readmitted into the sitting room, where they had been waiting,she supposed, for the Scotland Yard man to arrive.
“If you want me to go,” Mrs. Oliver said to him uncertainly—“Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you? No, if you have no objection, I’d rather you remained. I knowit hasn’t been pleasant—”
“It didn’t seem real.”
Mrs. Oliver shut her eyes—seeing the whole thing again. The Peacock Boy, so picturesquelydead that he had seemed like a stage figure. And the girl—the girl had been different—not theuncertain Norma from Crosshedges—the unattractive Ophelia, as Poirot had called her—but somequiet figure of tragic dignity—accepting her doom.
Poirot had asked if he might make two telephone calls. One had been to Scotland Yard, and thathad been agreed to, after the sergeant had made a preliminary suspicious inquiry on the phone.
The sergeant had directed Poirot to the extension in Claudia’s bedroom, and he had made his callfrom there, closing the door behind him.
The sergeant had continued to look doubtful, murmuring to his subordinate, “They say it’s allright. Wonder who he is? Odd-looking little bloke.”
“Foreign, isn’t he? Might be Special Branch?”
“Don’t think so. It was Chief Inspector Neele he wanted.”
His assistant raised his eyebrows and suppressed a whistle.
After making his calls, Poirot had reopened the door and beckoned Mrs. Oliver from where shewas standing uncertainly inside the kitchen, to join him. They had sat down side by side onClaudia Reece-Holland’s bed.
“I wish we could do something,” said Mrs. Oliver—always one for action.
“Patience, chère Madame.”
“Surely you can do something?”
“I have. I have rung up the people it is necessary to ring up. We can do nothing here until thepolice have finished their preliminary investigations.”
“Who did you ring up after the inspector man? Her father? Couldn’t he come and bail her out orsomething?”
“Bail is not likely to be granted where murder is concerned,” said Poirot dryly. “The police havealready notified her father. They got his number from Miss Cary.”
“Where is she?”
“Having hysterics in the flat of a Miss Jacobs next door, I understand. She was the one whodiscovered the body. It seems to have upset her. She rushed out of here screaming.”
“She’s the arty one, isn’t she? Claudia would have kept her head.”
“I agree with you. A very—poised young woman.”
“Who did you ring up, then?”
“First, as perhaps you heard, Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard.”
“Will this lot like his coming and meddling?”
“He is not coming to meddle. He has of late been making certain inquiries for me, which maythrow light on this matter.”
“Oh—I see…Who else did you ring up?”
“Dr. John Stillingfleet.”
“Who’s he? To say that poor Norma is potty and can’t help killing people?”
“His qualifications would entitle him to give evidence to that effect in court if necessary.”
“Does he know anything about her?”
“A good deal, I should say. She has been in his care since the day you found her in theShamrock café.”
“Who sent her there?”
Poirot smiled. “I did. I made certain arrangements by telephone before I came to join you at thecafé.”
“What? All the time I was so disappointed in you and kept urging you to do something—youhad done something? And you never told me! Really, Poirot! Not a word! How could you be so—so mean.”
“Do not enrage yourself, Madame, I beg. What I did, I did for the best.”
“People always say that when they have done something particularly maddening. What else didyou do?”
“I arranged that my services should be retained by her father, so that I could make the necessaryarrangements for her safety.”
“Meaning this Doctor Stillingwater?”
“Stilling fleet. Yes.”
“How on earth did you manage that? I shouldn’t have thought for a moment that you would bethe kind of person that her father would choose to make all these arrangements. He looks the kindof man who would be very suspicious of foreigners.”
“I forced myself upon him—as a conjurer forces a card. I called upon him, purporting to havereceived a letter from him asking me to do so.”
“And did he believe you?”
“Naturally. I showed the letter to him. It was typed on his office stationery and signed with hisname—though as he pointed out to me, the handwriting was not his.”
“Do you mean you had actually written that letter yourself?”
“Yes. I judged correctly that it would awaken his curiosity, and that he would want to see me.
Having got so far, I trusted to my own talents.”
“You told him what you were going to do about this Dr. Stillingfleet?”
“No. I told no one. There was danger, you see.”
“Danger to Norma?”
“To Norma, or Norma was dangerous to someone else. From the very beginning there havealways been the two possibilities. The facts could be interpreted in either way. The attemptedpoisoning of Mrs. Restarick was not convincing—it was delayed too long, it was not a seriousattempt to kill. Then there was an indeterminate story of a revolver shot fired here in BorodeneMansions—and another tale of flick-knives and bloodstains. Every time these things happen,Norma knows nothing about them, cannot remember, etcetera. She finds arsenic in a drawer—butdoes not remember putting it there. Claims to have had lapses of memory, to have lost longperiods of time when she does not remember what she had been doing. So one has to ask oneself—is what she says true, or did she, for some reason of her own, invent it? Is she a potential victimof some monstrous and perhaps crazy plot—or is it she herself who is the moving spirit? Is shepainting a picture of herself as a girl suffering from mental instability, or has she murder in mind,with a defence of diminished responsibility?”
“She was different today,” said Mrs. Oliver slowly. “Did you notice? Quite different. Not—notscatty any longer.”
Poirot nodded.
“Not Ophelia—Iphigeneia.”
A sound of added commotion outside in the flat diverted the attention of both of them.
“Do you think—” Mrs. Oliver stopped. Poirot had gone to the window and was looking down tothe courtyard far below. An ambulance was drawn up there.
“Are they going to take It away?” asked Mrs. Oliver in a shaky voice. And then added in asudden rush of pity: “Poor Peacock.”
“He was hardly a likeable character,” said Poirot coldly.
“He was very decorative…And so young,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That is sufficient for les femmes.” Poirot was opening the bedroom door a careful crack, as hepeered out.
“Excuse me,” he said, “if I leave you for a moment.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Mrs. Oliver suspiciously.
“I understood that that was not a question considered delicate in this country,” said Poirotreproachfully.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.
“And that’s not the way to the loo,” she breathed sotto voce after him, as she too applied an eyeto the crack of the door.
She went back to the window to observe what was going on below.
“Mr. Restarick has just driven up in a taxi,” she observed when Poirot slipped back quietly intothe room a few minutes later, “and Claudia has come with him. Did you manage to get intoNorma’s room, or wherever you really wanted to go?”
“Norma’s room is in the occupation of the police.”
“How annoying for you. What are you carrying in that kind of black folder thing you’ve got inyour hand?”
Poirot in his turn asked a question.
“What have you got in that canvas bag with Persian horses on it?”
“My shopping bag? Only a couple of Avocado pears, as it happens.”
“Then if I may, I will entrust this folder to you. Do not be rough with it, or squeeze it, I beg.”
“What is it?”
“Something that I hoped to find—and that I have found—Ah, things begin to pass themselves—” He referred to increased sounds of activities.
Poirot’s words struck Mrs. Oliver as being much more exactly descriptive than English wordswould have been. Restarick, his voice loud and angry. Claudia coming in to telephone. A glimpseof a police stenographer on an excursion to the flat next door to take statements from Frances Caryand a mythical person called Miss Jacobs. A coming and going of ordered business, and a finaldeparture of two men with cameras.
Then unexpectedly the sudden incursion into Claudia’s bedroom of a tall loosely-jointed youngman with red hair.
Without taking any notice of Mrs. Oliver, he spoke to Poirot.
“What’s she done? Murder? Who is it? The boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“She admits it?”
“It would seem so.”
“Not good enough. Did she say so in definite words?”
“I have not heard her do so. I have had no chance of asking her anything myself.”
A policeman looked in.
“Dr. Stillingfleet?” he asked. “The police surgeon would like a word with you.”
Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and followed him out of the room.
“So that’s Dr. Stillingfleet,” said Mrs. Oliver. She considered for a moment or two. “Quitesomething, isn’t he?”
第二十二章 2
2
此刻，除了墙上的小丑之外，屋里有六个人。时间过了很久。警察们来了又离开了。
安德鲁•雷斯塔里克像个受惊的男人一样坐在那里。他口中好几次蹦出同一句话。“我不敢相信……”接到电话之后，在克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰的陪伴下，他从办公室赶来。一路无言，她总是办事效率极高。她给律师和克劳斯海吉斯那边打了电话，还向两家房产公司打听，试图联系到玛丽•雷斯塔里克。她给弗朗西丝•凯莉一片镇定药，搀着她躺下休息。
赫尔克里•波洛和奥利弗夫人在沙发上挨着坐在一起。他们是和警察一同赶来的。
几乎所有人都赶来之后，一位灰色头发、举止文雅的男人才匆匆赶到。那是伦敦警察厅的尼尔检察官，他跟波洛轻轻点头致意，波洛给他介绍安德鲁•雷斯塔里克。一个身形高大的红发年轻人站在窗户边盯着下面的院子。
他们都在等什么？奥利弗夫人百思不得其解。尸体被移走了，现场拍摄人员和其他的警务人员都完成了工作，他们被带到了克劳迪亚的房间之后，又被带回客厅，她猜测，大概是在等着这位伦敦警察厅的长官来这里吧。
“要是你想要我离开的话……”奥利弗夫人有些不太确定地问道——“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人，是您吗？不，如果您不介意的话，我希望您能待在这里。
我知道这不是什么令人愉悦的事儿——”
“简直有点不真实。”
奥利弗夫人闭上眼，整件事再次浮现在眼前。那个孔雀一般的小伙子，像倒在舞台上一样真切。而那个姑娘，那个姑娘又不同了，不是那个来自克劳斯海吉斯的畏畏缩缩的诺玛了，那个并不吸引人的奥菲莉亚，波洛就是这么称呼她的，但是确实是位悲壮的人物，接受了自己的宿命。
波洛曾请求打过两个电话。一个是打给伦敦警察厅的，这个电话是经过警方允许的，一位警官先是在电话里作了一番质询，才让波洛到克劳迪亚的房间里去使用电话的分机，他把克劳迪亚的门关上之后，就开始打电话了。
那位警官仍旧是满腹质疑，对他手下的人嘟囔道：“他们说没问题。不知道这人到底是谁？是个看上去有些古怪的小个子。”
“外国人，是吗？可能是政治保安处的人吗？”
“不是这样的。他想要找的人是尼尔检察官。”
他的助手挑起眉毛，吹了声口哨。
他打完电话之后，打开了门，招手示意站在厨房里满心犹疑的奥利弗夫人，让她过来，他们肩并肩坐在克劳迪亚•瑞希-何兰的床上。
“我希望我们能做点什么。”奥利弗夫人总是待不住。
“有点耐心，亲爱的 [1] 夫人。”
“你肯定有事可做吧？”
“我已经做完了。我给我必要的人打了电话。在警察们做完初步调查之前，我们只能待在这里什么都做不了。”
“您是给负责刑侦的人打了电话吗？给她父亲打电话了吗？难道他不能把她保释出来吗？”
“牵涉到谋杀案的嫌疑人是不能被保释的。”波洛冷淡地说，“警方已经通知他的父亲了。他们从凯莉小姐那里要到了电话号码。”
“她在哪儿？”
“据我所知，她待在隔壁雅各布斯小姐的房间里，惊恐万分。是她发现了尸体。这让她惊恐极了。她当时是从公寓里尖叫着跑出去的。”
“她是那个搞艺术的，是吗？克劳迪亚会比她更沉稳。”
“我同意您的说法。克劳迪亚是一个非常泰然自若的年轻女士。”
“那么，您是给谁打的电话呢？”
“第一通电话，您已经听说了，是给伦敦警察厅的尼尔检察官。”
“那群人愿意他来插手此事吗？”
“他不是来这里插手这件事的。最近他一直帮我进行某些调查，这些调查会促成这件案子真相大白的。”“啊，我明白了……你还给谁打了电话？”
“约翰•斯蒂林弗利特医生。”
“他是谁？是来证明可怜的诺玛陷入疯狂，无法抑制自己而杀了人吗？”
“如果将来要在法庭上做出这类必要的举证的话，我想以他的资历完全可以胜任。”
“他对她了解吗？”
“非常了解，我要说的是，自从您在快乐三叶草餐馆发现她的那天起，他就在悉心照料她了。”
“是谁把她送到了他那里？”
波洛笑了起来。“是我。当我跟您在餐馆会合之前，就在电话里做了相应的安排。”
“什么？我一直对你深感失望，一直催促你要去做些什么。你居然已经做了这些事了？
并且从未告诉我！真是的，波洛！什么都没说！你怎么可以这么、这么恶劣！”
“夫人，我请求您别那么生气。我这么做，是为了事情可以更好地推进。”
“当人们这么做的时候总是有自己的一套说辞。你还做了些什么别的事？”
“我想方设法让她的父亲雇用我，以便我为了她的安全做一些安排。”
“您是指斯蒂林弗利特医生吗？”
“斯蒂林弗利特医生，是的。”
“你究竟是怎么做到的？我怎么也想不出她的父亲会选择你这样的人来做这些安排。他看上去是那种对外国人心存怀疑的人。”
“我把自己强推给他，就像是魔术师在做纸牌的戏法一样。我去拜访他，谎称自己收到了一封他托我去协助处理他女儿的事情的信件。”
“他相信你所说的吗？”
“那是自然。我把信拿给他看。那封信是用他公司的信纸打印的，上面还签了他的名字，虽然他向我说明那字迹不是出自他手。”
“您的意思是那封信实际上是你自己写的吗？”
“是的，正如我所想，这引起了他的好奇心，他想要见到我。既然到了这一步，我对自己的才智很有信心。”
“你告诉他你在斯蒂林弗利特医生那里所做的安排了吗？”
“不，我谁都没有告诉。你知道的，这很危险。”
“是对诺玛有危险吗？”
“是对诺玛，或者是诺玛对别人有危险。从一开始，就有两种可能性。事实可以从两种方式来解释。试图毒杀雷斯塔里克夫人这件事不是那么可信，这事拖拖拉拉得太久，不像是真的想要谋杀谁。接着是在博罗登大楼里发生的关于左轮手枪枪击的事件也说不清楚，其次还有关于弹簧刀和血迹的事。每一次这类事发生的时候，诺玛不是全然不知，就是记不清楚了。她在抽屉里发现了砒霜，但是不记得自己曾把它放在了那儿。她曾宣称自己有好几次都失忆了，每当她不记得自己做过的事的时候，她就会忘记一大段日子里所发生的事。对于这一点我们要探究一下，她所说的是否是真的，还是出于什么原因编造出来的？
她是一桩庞大的疯狂的阴谋的潜在受害者，还是这桩案件的主使者？她是否将自己塑造成一个正遭受着精神状况不稳定所带来的伤害的女人，还是在她心中就隐藏着谋杀的想法，她对此不敢承担责任所以就做出这种‘自卫’的行为？”
“她今天的情况与往日不同。”奥利弗夫人缓缓地说，“你注意到了吗？与之前判若两人。不是，不是那么疯癫了。”波洛点点头。
“不再是奥菲莉亚了，也不是依菲琴尼亚 [2] 。”
公寓外面的一阵骚动声把他们的注意力吸引住了。
“您是否认为——”奥利弗夫人停住了。波洛走到窗外，俯视下面的院子。一辆救护车开来了。
“他们是来把尸体拉走的吗？”奥利弗夫人颤抖地问道。接着又闪现出一阵怜惜之情：“可怜的孔雀。”“他也没有什么讨喜的个性。”波洛冷酷地说。
“他非常爱打扮……还那样年轻。”奥利弗夫人说。
“这对女人来说就足够了。”波洛小心地把卧室门打开了一条小缝，探头看向外面。
“不好意思。”他说，“我要离开一小会儿。”
“你要去哪儿？”奥利弗夫人质询道。
“据我所知，在您的国家，问这种问题不太礼貌。”波洛责备地说道。
“啊，真是不好意思。”
“卫生间也不在那边。”当她从门缝里向外看去的时候，压低声音在他背后嘟囔道。
她又回到了窗户那儿，看着内院的情况。
“雷斯塔里克先生已经坐出租车来了。”几分钟后，当波洛悄悄返回的时候，奥利弗夫人一边看着窗外一边说，“克劳迪亚跟他一起来的。你刚才偷偷跑去诺玛的房间，还是去了某个你想去探看的地方？”
“诺玛的房间里满是警察。”
“这一定让你很着急。你手里拿着的那个黑色的皮夹装的是什么？”
波洛也连忙反问了一句。
“您那个印有波斯宝马的帆布袋子里装的是什么？”
“我的购物袋吗？那里面只有两只鳄梨啊。”
“那么，我把这个皮夹交给您。您要小心点，不要压着它，拜托您。”
“这是什么？”
“我一直想要找的东西，我已经找到了。啊，事情已经开始推进了。”他是指外面行动所产生的声响。
波洛的话在奥利弗夫人听来，比他想说的那句英国话更为贴切。雷斯塔里克高声叫喊着，满是愤怒。克劳迪亚正在打电话。时不时可以看到一名警方速记员在公寓和隔壁公寓两方往来，记录下弗朗西丝•凯莉和那个谜一样的女人雅各布斯小姐的证词。来来往往的人奉命行事，最后离开的是两个拿着摄像机的人。
接着一位身形高大、全身松松垮垮的红发年轻人突然闯进了克劳迪亚的卧室。
他丝毫没有注意到奥利弗夫人，他开口对波洛说：“她都做了什么？谋杀吗？她的男朋友？”
“是的。”
“她承认了吗？”
“看起来是的。”
“这不够。她是否完完全全地承认了？”
“我没听到她这么说。我没有机会亲自问她任何事。”
一位警察进来了。
“斯蒂林弗利特医生？”他问道，“那位法医想要跟您说句话。”
斯蒂林弗利特医生点点头，跟着他走出了房间。
“那么他就是斯蒂林弗利特医生了。”奥利弗夫人说。她思考片刻，“真是不错的样子，不是吗？”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]依菲琴尼亚，《希腊神话》中的人物。希腊军队准备好了扬帆驶向战场，可是风却迟迟不来。他们的领袖——国王阿伽门外出寻找食物，没想到却误伤了一头神鹿。他必须接受天神们的惩罚，那就是献出他的女儿依菲琴尼亚作为祭祀品。——译者注
Twenty-three
Twenty-three
Chief Inspector Neele drew a sheet of paper towards him, jotted one or two notes on it; and lookedround at the other five people in the room. His voice was crisp and formal.
“Miss Jacobs?” he said. He looked towards the policeman who stood by the door. “SergeantConolly, I know, has taken her statement. But I’d like to ask her a few questions myself.”
Miss Jacobs was ushered into the room a few minutes later. Neele rose courteously to greet her.
“I am Chief Inspector Neele,” he said, shaking hands with her. “I am sorry to trouble you for asecond time. But this time it is quite informal. I just want to get a clearer picture of exactly whatyou saw and heard. I’m afraid it may be painful—”
“Painful, no,” said Miss Jacobs, accepting the chair he offered her. “It was a shock, of course.
But no emotions were involved.” She added: “You seem to have tidied up things.”
He presumed she was referring to the removal of the body.
Her eyes, both observant and critical, passed lightly over the assembled people, registering, forPoirot, frank astonishment (What on earth is this?), for Mrs. Oliver, mild curiosity; appraisementfor the back of Dr. Stillingfleet’s red head, neighbourly recognition for Claudia to whom shevouchsafed a slight nod, and finally dawning sympathy for Andrew Restarick.
“You must be the girl’s father,” she said to him. “There’s not much point to condolences from atotal stranger. They’re better left unsaid. It’s a sad world we live in nowadays—or so it seems tome. Girls study too hard in my opinion.”
Then she turned her face composedly towards Neele.
“Yes?”
“I would like you, Miss Jacobs, to tell me in your own words exactly what you saw and heard.”
“I expect it will vary from what I said before,” said Miss Jacobs unexpectedly. “Things do, youknow. One tries to make one’s description as accurate as possible, and so one uses more words. Idon’t think one is any more accurate; I think, unconsciously, one adds things that you think youmay have seen or ought to have seen—or heard. But I will do my best.
“It started with screams. I was startled. I thought someone must have been hurt. So I wasalready coming to the door when someone began beating on it, and still screaming. I opened it andsaw it was one of my next-door neighbours—the three girls who live in 67. I’m afraid I don’tknow her name, though I know her by sight.”
“Frances Cary,” said Claudia.
“She was quite incoherent, and stammered out something about someone being dead—someoneshe knew—David Someone—I didn’t catch his last name. She was sobbing and shaking all over. Ibrought her in, gave her some brandy, and went to see for myself.”
Everyone felt that throughout life that would be what Miss Jacobs would invariably do.
“You know what I found. Need I describe it?”
“Just briefly, perhaps.”
“A young man, one of these modern young men—gaudy clothes and long hair. He was lying onthe floor and he was clearly dead. His shirt was stiff with blood.”
Stillingfleet stirred. He turned his head and looked keenly at Miss Jacobs.
“Then I became aware that there was a girl in the room. She was holding a kitchen knife. Sheseemed quite calm and self-possessed—really, most peculiar.”
Stillingfleet said: “Did she say anything?”
“She said she had been into the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands—and then she said,‘But you can’t wash things like that off, can you?’”
“Out, damnéd spot, in fact?”
“I cannot say that she reminded me particularly of Lady Macbeth. She was—how shall I put it?
—perfectly composed. She laid the knife down on the table and sat down on a chair.”
“What else did she say?” asked Chief Inspector Neele, his eyes dropping to a scrawled note infront of him.
“Something about hate. That it wasn’t safe to hate anybody.”
“She said something about ‘poor David,’ didn’t she? Or so you told Sergeant Conolly. And thatshe wanted to be free of him.”
“I’d forgotten that. Yes. She said something about his making her come here—and somethingabout Louise, too.”
“What did she say about Louise?” It was Poirot who asked, leaning forward sharply. MissJacobs looked at him doubtfully.
“Nothing, really, just mentioned the name. ‘Like Louise,’ she said, and then stopped. It was aftershe had said about its not being safe to hate people….”
“And then?”
“Then she told me, quite calmly, I had better ring up the police. Which I did. We just—sat thereuntil they came…I did not think I ought to leave her. We did not say anything. She seemedabsorbed in her thoughts, and I—well, frankly, I couldn’t think of anything to say.”
“You could see, couldn’t you, that she was mentally unstable?” said Andrew Restarick. “Youcould see that she didn’t know what she had done or why, poor child?”
He spoke pleadingly—hopefully.
“If it is a sign of mental instability to appear perfectly cool and collected after committing amurder, then I will agree with you.”
Miss Jacobs spoke in the voice of one who quite decidedly did not agree.
Stillingfleet said:
“Miss Jacobs, did she at any time admit that she had killed him?”
“Oh yes. I should have mentioned that before—It was the very first thing she did say. As thoughshe was answering some question I had asked her. She said, ‘Yes. I’ve killed him.’ And then wenton about having washed her hands.”
Restarick groaned and buried his face in his hands. Claudia put her hand on his arm.
Poirot said:
“Miss Jacobs, you say the girl put down the knife she was carrying on that table. It was quitenear you? You saw it clearly? Did it appear to you that the knife also had been washed?”
Miss Jacobs looked hesitantly at Chief Inspector Neele. It was clear that she felt that Poirotstruck an alien and unofficial note in this presumably official inquiry.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer that?” said Neele.
“No — I don’t think the knife had been washed or wiped in any way. It was stained anddiscoloured with some thick sticky substance.”
“Ah.” Poirot leaned back in his chair.
“I should have thought you would have known all about the knife yourself,” said Miss Jacobs toNeele accusingly. “Didn’t your police examine it? It seems to me very lax if they didn’t.”
“Oh yes, the police examined it,” said Neele. “But we—er—always like to get corroboration.”
She darted him a shrewd glance.
“What you really mean, I suppose, is that you like to find out how accurate the observation ofyour witnesses is. How much they make up, or how much they actually see, or think they haveseen.”
He smiled slightly as he said:
“I don’t think we need have doubts about you, Miss Jacobs. You will make an excellentwitness.”
“I shan’t enjoy it. But it’s the kind of thing one has to go through with, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so. Thank you, Miss Jacobs.” He looked round. “No one has any additionalquestions?”
Poirot indicated that he had. Miss Jacobs paused near the doorway, displeased.
“Yes?” she said.
“About this mention of someone called Louise. Did you know who it was the girl meant?”
“How should I know?”
“Isn’t it possible that she might have meant Mrs. Louise Charpentier? You knew Mrs.
Charpentier, didn’t you?”
“I did not.”
“You knew that she recently threw herself out of a window in this block of flats?”
“I knew that, of course. I didn’t know her Christian name was Louise, and I was not personallyacquainted with her.”
“Nor, perhaps, particularly wished to be?”
“I have not said so, since the woman is dead. But I will admit that that is quite true. She was amost undesirable tenant, and I and other residents have frequently complained to the managementhere.”
“Of what exactly?”
“To speak frankly, the woman drank. Her flat was actually on the top floor above mine andthere were continual disorderly parties, with broken glass, furniture knocked over, singing andshouting, a lot of—er—coming and going.”
“She was, perhaps, a lonely woman,” suggested Poirot.
“That was hardly the impression she conveyed,” said Miss Jacobs acidly. “It was put forward atthe inquest that she was depressed over the state of her health. Entirely her own imagination. Sheseems to have had nothing the matter with her.”
And having disposed of the late Mrs. Charpentier without sympathy, Miss Jacobs took herdeparture.
Poirot turned his attention to Andrew Restarick. He asked delicately:
“Am I correct in thinking, Mr. Restarick, that you were at one time well acquainted with Mrs.
Charpentier?”
Restarick did not answer for a moment or two. Then he sighed deeply and transferred his gazeto Poirot.
“Yes. At one time, many years ago, I knew her very well indeed…Not, I may say, under thename of Charpentier. She was Louise Birell when I knew her.”
“You were—er—in love with her!”
“Yes, I was in love with her…Head over ears in love with her! I left my wife on her account.
We went to South Africa. After barely a year the whole thing blew up. She returned to England. Inever heard from her again. I never even knew what had become of her.”
“What about your daughter? Did she, also, know Louise Birell?”
“Not to remember her, surely. A child of five years old!”
“But did she know her?” Poirot persisted.
“Yes,” said Restarick slowly. “She knew Louise. That is to say, Louise came to our house. Sheused to play with the child.”
“So it is possible that the girl might remember her, even after a lapse of years?”
“I don’t know. I simply don’t know. I don’t know what she looked like; how much Louisemight have changed. I never saw her again, as I told you.”
Poirot said gently, “But you heard from her, didn’t you, Mr. Restarick? I mean, you have heardfrom her since your return to England?”
Again there came that pause, and the deep unhappy sigh:
“Yes—I heard from her…” said Restarick. And then, with sudden curiosity, he asked: “How didyou know that, M. Poirot?”
From his pocket, Poirot drew a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it toRestarick.
The latter looked at it with a faintly puzzled frown.
Dear Andy
I see from the papers you’re home again. We must meet and compare notes asto what we’ve both been doing all these years—It broke off here—and started again.
Andy—Guess who this is from! Louise. Don’t dare to say you’ve forgotten me!—Dear Andy,
As you will see by this letterhead, I’m living in the same block of flats as yoursecretary. What a small world it is! We must meet. Could you come for a drinkMonday or Tuesday next week?
Andy darling, I must see you again…Nobody has ever mattered to me but you—you haven’t really forgotten me, either, have you?
“How did you get this?” asked Restarick of Poirot, tapping it curiously.
“From a friend of mine via a furniture van,” said Poirot, with a glance at Mrs. Oliver.
Restarick looked at her without favour.
“I couldn’t help it,” said Mrs. Oliver, interpreting his look correctly. “I suppose it was herfurniture being moved out, and the men let go of a desk, and a drawer fell out and scattered a lot ofthings, and the wind blew this along the courtyard, so I picked it up and tried to give it back tothem, but they were cross and didn’t want it, so I just put it in my coat pocket without thinking.
And I never even looked at it until this afternoon when I was taking things out of pockets beforesending the coat to the cleaners. So it really wasn’t my fault.”
She paused, slightly out of breath.
“Did she get her letter to you written in the end?” Poirot asked.
“Yes—she did—one of the more formal versions! I didn’t answer it. I thought it would be wisernot to do so.”
“You didn’t want to see her again?”
“She was the last person I wanted to see! She was a particularly difficult woman—always hadbeen. And I’d heard things about her—for one that she had become a heavy drinker. And well—other things.”
“Did you keep her letter to you?”
“No, I tore it up!”
Dr. Stillingfleet asked an abrupt question.
“Did your daughter ever speak about her to you?”
Restarick seemed unwilling to answer.
Dr. Stillingfleet urged him:
“It might be significant if she did, you know.”
“You doctors! Yes, she did mention her once.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“She said quite suddenly: ‘I saw Louise the other day, Father.’ I was startled. I said: ‘Where didyou see her?’ And she said: ‘In the restaurant of our flats.’ I was a bit embarrassed. I said: ‘I neverdreamed you’d remembered her.’ And she said: ‘I’ve never forgotten. Mother wouldn’t have letme forget, even if I wanted to.’”
“Yes,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Yes, that could certainly be significant.”
“And you, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, turning suddenly to Claudia. “Did Norma ever speak toyou about Louise Carpenter?”
“Yes—it was after the suicide. She said something about her being a wicked woman. She said itin rather a childish way, if you know what I mean.”
“You were here in the flats yourself on the night—or more correctly the early morning whenMrs. Carpenter’s suicide occurred?”
“I was not here that night, no! I was away from home. I remember arriving back here the nextday and hearing about it.”
She half turned to Restarick…“You remember? It was the twenty- third. I had gone toLiverpool.”
“Yes, of course. You were to represent me at the Hever Trust meeting.”
Poirot said:
“But Norma slept here that night?”
“Yes.” Claudia seemed uncomfortable.
“Claudia?” Restarick laid his hand on her arm. “What is it you know about Norma? There’ssomething. Something that you’re holding back.”
“Nothing! What should I know about her?”
“You think she’s off her head, don’t you?” said Dr. Stillingfleet in a conversational voice. “Andso does the girl with the black hair. And so do you,” he added, turning suddenly on Restarick. “Allof us behaving nicely and avoiding the subject and thinking the same thing! Except, that is, thechief inspector. He’s not thinking anything. He’s collecting the facts: mad or a murderess. Whatabout you, Madam?”
“Me?” Mrs. Oliver jumped. “I—don’t know.”
“You reserve judgment? I don’t blame you. It’s difficult. On the whole, most people agree onwhat they think. They use different terms for it—that’s all. Bats in the Belfry. Wanting in the topstorey. Off her onion. Mental. Delusions. Does anyone think that girl is sane?”
“Miss Battersby,” said Poirot.
“Who the devil is Miss Battersby?”
“A schoolmistress.”
“If I ever have a daughter I shall send her to that school…Of course I’m in a different category.
I know. I know everything about that girl!”
Norma’s father stared at him.
“Who is this man?” he demanded of Neele. “What can he possibly mean by saying that heknows everything about my daughter?”
“I know about her,” said Stillingfleet, “because she’s been under my professional care for thelast ten days.”
“Dr. Stillingfleet,” said Chief Inspector Neele, “is a highly qualified and reputable psychiatrist.”
“And how did she come into your clutches—without someone getting my consent first?”
“Ask Moustaches,” said Dr. Stillingfleet, nodding towards Poirot.
“You—you…”
Restarick could hardly speak he was so angry.
Poirot spoke placidly.
“I had your instructions. You wanted care and protection for your daughter when she wasfound. I found her—and I was able to interest Dr. Stillingfleet in her case. She was in danger, Mr.
Restarick, very grave danger.”
“She could hardly be in any more danger than she is now! Arrested on a charge of murder!”
“Technically she is not yet charged,” murmured Neele.
He went on:
“Dr. Stillingfleet, do I understand that you are willing to give your professional opinion as toMiss Restarick’s mental condition, and as to how well she knows the nature and meaning of heracts?”
“We can save the M’Naughten act for court,” said Stillingfleet. “What you want to know nowis, quite simply, if the girl is mad or sane? All right, I’ll tell you. That girl is sane—as sane as anyone of you sitting here in this room!”
第二十三章
第二十三章
尼尔检察官拿出一张纸，在上面记录下几行字；之后扫视了一下屋子里的五个人。他的声音清脆而严肃。
“雅各布斯小姐？”他说。看了一眼站在门口的警察。“我知道康诺利警长已经记录下她的证言，但是我还想亲自问她一些问题。”
雅各布斯小姐被带到了这个屋里，尼尔站起身来彬彬有礼地跟她打招呼。
“我是尼尔检察官。”他一边说着话，一边跟她握手，“我很抱歉又要打搅您，但是这次就是随便问问。我只是想要更清楚地知晓您所看到的和听到的情况。我恐怕这会令人有些痛苦——”
“痛苦，一点都不。”雅各布斯小姐说。她坐在给她搬来的一张椅子上。“当然了，我会感到震惊。但是没什么情绪因素在其中。”她补充道，“就好像所有事情都被打理好了一样。”
他推测她是指尸体已经被移走了。
她的那双善于观察、善于评判的眼睛匆匆掠过这群人，记下了波洛那毫不遮掩的惊讶，（这到底是怎么回事？）记下了奥利弗夫人轻微的好奇之感，还有斯蒂林弗利特医生满头红发的背影。对于邻居克劳迪亚，她点头致意，最后她向雷斯塔里克先生投去怜悯的一瞥。
“您肯定是那个姑娘的父亲了。”她对他说，“向一个完全陌生的人致以哀悼是没什么用的。最好不要开口。我们现今生活在一个悲惨的世界，或者对我来说是这样的。在我看来，姑娘们太用功了。”
接着她镇定地转向了尼尔。
“您要问什么？”
“雅各布斯小姐，我想请您用您自己的话把您所看到和听到的确切地描述出来。”
“我想我这次说的跟我之前说的会有很大差距。”雅各布斯小姐出乎意料地说，“您知道的，事情通常就是这样。一个人试图尽可能地准确描述的时候，就会用到更多的词。我不认为这会让描述显得更准确。我想，人们无意间就会在看到的或是听到的事情上添油加醋，但是这次我会尽全力的。
“我先是听到了一阵惊叫。我被吓住了。我想肯定是有人受伤了。所以当有人来敲我的门的时候，我已经准备朝着门口走去。我打开了门，看到了我的其中一位邻居——那三个住在公寓67号房间的姑娘中的一个。我恐怕记不清她的名字了，虽然我能认出她来。”
“弗朗西丝•凯莉。”克劳迪亚说。
“她有点语无伦次，结结 地说着有人死了，她认识的某个人叫大卫什么的，我没记住他的姓。她颤抖着哭泣。我带她进来了，给了她一点白兰地，接着就自己过去看了。”
大家都觉得以雅各布斯小姐的性格，她肯定是会这么做的。
“您知道我发现了什么吗？需要我描述一下吗？”
“可以简单说一说。”
“一位年轻人，那种年轻时尚的青年，穿着极其艳丽的衣装，还留着长头发。他躺倒在地板上，明显已经死了。他衬衫上的血迹都干了。”
斯蒂林弗利特医生似乎被震动了。他转头密切关注着雅各布斯小姐。
“接着我发现屋里还有另一位姑娘。她站在那里拿着一把厨房菜刀。她似乎很平静，很静定，真的，非常奇怪。”
斯蒂林弗利特医生说：“她说了什么吗？”
“她说她曾试图到浴室里把手上的血迹洗掉，接着她又说：‘但是您无法真的清洗掉这类痕迹，您能吗？’”
“实际上，是无法洗掉这些该死的血迹吧。”
“我不能说她让我想起了麦克白夫人。她是，我该怎么说呢？非常淡定。她把菜刀放在桌子上，在椅子上坐下。”“她还说了别的什么吗？”尼尔检察官问道，他的眼神落在了面前粗略的记录上。
“什么关于仇恨的东西。去恨一个人不安全。”
“她说了什么关于‘可怜的大卫’之类的话吗？您对康利诺警官是这么说的，还说她想要摆脱他。”
“我忘了。是的。她说他一定要她来这里，还说了什么露易丝。”
“对于露易丝，她都说了什么？”波洛问道，猛地前倾身子。雅各布斯小姐有些不解地看着他。
“什么都没说，真的。只是提到了这个名字。‘就像露易丝。’她说，接着就闭嘴了。她是在说了去恨一个人不安全之后才说了这句话的……”
“那么接着呢？”
“接着她告诉我，她非常淡定，说我最好是去叫警察。我照做了。我们就坐在这里等你们来……我想我不该留她一个人在那儿。我们什么都没说。她似乎完全陷入自己的思考中了，至于我，嗯，坦白来说，我也不知道要说些什么。”
“您能看出她的精神状态是不稳定的吗？”安德鲁•雷斯塔里克问，“您能看出她不知道自己做了什么，以及为什么这么做吗？可怜的孩子。”
他祈求般地说着，还带着些期盼。
“如果您是说在犯了谋杀罪之后还能表现得如此镇静淡定，那么我赞同您的说法。”
雅各布斯小姐的口吻明显是不赞同的。
斯蒂林弗利特医生说：“雅各布斯小姐，她有没有在任何时刻承认是她杀了人？”
“啊，是的，我之前说过，这是她说的第一句话。好像是在回答我的问题一样。她说：‘是的，我杀了他。’接着就说到自己洗手的事了。”
雷斯塔里克咆哮着把头埋在手中。克劳迪亚把手放在他的肩膀上。
波洛说：“雅各布斯小姐，您说那个姑娘把刀放在桌子上，那把刀子离您很近吗？您是否看清楚了？那把刀是否已经清洗过了？”
雅各布斯小姐有些犹疑地望向尼尔检察官。很显然，她是觉得波洛在这次官方性的问询中加入了一些不同的非正式的成分。
“如果您不介意回答这个问题的话……”尼尔说。
“不，我不认为那把刀清洗过了或者是被擦拭过。那上面沾染了一些黏糊糊的东西。”
“啊。”波洛靠回了椅子上。
“我本以为你们应当对那个凶器很了解的。”雅各布斯小姐有些责难般地说，“你们警方没有检查过吗？要是没有的话，这也太疏忽了吧。”
“啊，是的，警方检查过了。”尼尔说，“但是我们想要得到您的帮助。”
她有些狡黠地看了他一眼。
“我想，您真正的意思是想要看看您的目击者的观察能力有多强。有多少部分是编造的，或者是有多少是他们真切看到的，或者是他们以为自己看到了的。”
他一边微笑一边说：
“我不是在质疑您，雅各布斯小姐。您是最好的目击者。”
“我对这一过程不感到享受，但是我想要是遇到了这类的事，躲也躲不过。”
“恐怕是这样的，谢谢您，雅各布斯小姐。”他四下里看看。“还有人要问问题吗？”波洛示意他还有问题。雅各布斯小姐在门口不太情愿地站住。
“什么问题？”她说。
“关于您说到的那个叫露易丝的女人。您知道那个姑娘说的是谁吗？”
“我怎么会知道？”
“有没有可能她说的是露易丝•卡彭特夫人呢？您认识卡彭特夫人，是吗？”“我不认识。”
“您知道她最近从大楼的窗户纵身跃出的那件事吧？”
“当然了，我知道。我不知道她的教名是露易丝，而且我也跟她不熟。”
“又或者，可能，您不大愿意跟她结识？”
“我没这么说过，而且这个女人已经死了。但是我要承认您说得相当对。她是公寓里最讨人厌的租客，我和其他住在这里的租客总是向公寓管理者抱怨她。”
“抱怨的内容是什么呢？”
“坦白说，那个女人酗酒过度。她的公寓正好在我的楼上，那里经常会举办嘈杂的聚会，充满了玻璃酒杯被打碎的声音，家具被推翻的声音，还有大声唱歌，大喊大叫的声音。各种人来来往往，出出进进。”
“她可能是个寂寞的女人。”波洛暗示道。
“她给我的印象可不是这样。”雅各布斯小姐刻薄地说，“验尸结果显示她处于长期过度担忧自己身体健康的状态，但那完全出自她的幻想，她看起来什么毛病都没有。”
做了对于已故的卡彭特夫人不带任何同情色彩的表述之后，雅各布斯小姐就离开了。
波洛把自己的注意力转向安德鲁•雷斯塔里克。他温和地问道：
“雷斯塔里克先生，不知道我想的是不是正确的，您曾经是认识卡彭特夫人的吧？”
雷斯塔里克过了一会儿才回答。他深深叹了一口气，将目光转到波洛身上。
“是的。我是一度跟她熟识，那是很多年前的事了，那时我对她很熟悉……不，我要说她那时并不叫卡彭特。那时她的名字是露易丝•比雷尔。”
“您曾，呃，爱上了她！”
“是的，我爱上了她……完完全全地爱着她！因为她的缘故我离弃了我的妻子。我们去了南非。仅仅过了一年，我们就分手了。她回到了英国。从那时起我就再也没有听到过她的消息，我甚至不知道她究竟怎样了。”
“那么您的女儿呢？她是否也认识露易丝•比雷尔？”
“当然了，她不记得她。她那时还是个五岁的孩子而已！”
“但是她确实不认识她吗？”波洛坚持不懈地问道。
“是的。”雷斯塔里克缓缓地说，“她知道露易丝。也就是说，露易丝来过我们家。她曾跟孩子一起做过游戏。”
“那么有可能，即使时光已经流逝，但是那个姑娘还记得她。”
“我不知道，我就是不知道。我不知道她长的什么样，露易丝到底有多少改变。我跟您说过，我永远不想再见到她。”
波洛温和地问道：“但是雷斯塔里克先生，您收到过她的信件，是吗？我的意思是，您回到英国后，曾收到过她的信件吧？”
又是一阵默默无语，接着是一声不愉快的长叹：
“是的，我收到过她的信件……”雷斯塔里克说。接着，他突然有些奇怪地问道，“波洛先生，您怎么会知道呢？”
从他的口袋里，波洛拿出了一张叠得很整齐的信纸。他打开了它，把它递到雷斯塔里克手里。
后者看着这封信，稍显困惑地微微皱起了眉。
亲爱的安迪：
我在报纸上看到你归国的消息。我们必须要见一面，聊聊我们这些年都过的怎么样了——
信在这里中断了，接着又写了下去。
安迪，你猜这封信是出自谁手？露易丝。你敢说你已忘了我！——亲爱的安迪：
你可以在信封上看到我的地址。我和你的秘书住在同一幢大楼的公寓里。世界真是小啊！我们一定要见个面。你下周一或周二能来我这里喝杯酒吗？
安迪亲爱的，我一定要再见见你……只有你对我来说意义重大——你也一定没有真的忘记我，是吗？
“您是怎么找到这封信的？”雷斯塔里克轻轻地指着信问波洛。
“是我的一个朋友在一辆搬运车上找到的。”波洛说，并瞥了一眼奥利弗夫人。
雷斯塔里克有点厌恶地看着奥利弗夫人。
“我可不是有意为之。”奥利弗夫人说，好像是表明他的这个厌恶的眼神没有正确性。“我想被人搬出来的家具大概是她的，那个男人不小心把一张桌子摔了出去，上面的一个抽屉掉了出来，到处都是杂物，一阵风把这张纸吹到了院子里，于是我捡起了它，想要把它还给那个男人，但是他们不耐烦地说他们不需要这个，所以我就不假思索地把它放在我的外套口袋里了。直到今天下午，我要把外套送去清洗的时候，整理口袋，才发现了它。所以这实在不是我的过错。”
她停住了，有点喘不过气来。
“最终她是否把信寄给您了呢？”波洛问。
“是的，她寄了，是一封更加正式的版本！我没有回信。我想我还是不要回信最好。”
“您不想再见见她？”
“她是我最不想见到的人！她是个极其难对付的女人，一贯如此。我听闻过很多她的闲言碎语，比如她酗酒过度。并且还有——其他的事。”
“您保留了她的信件吗？”
“没有，我撕毁了它！”
斯蒂林弗利特医生插话问道：
“您的女儿曾经跟您提到过她吗？”
雷斯塔里克有些不情愿回答。
斯蒂林弗利特医生催促道：
“您知道的，如果她提到过她，这个事实很重要。”
“您们这些医生！是的，她曾有一次跟我提到过她。”
“她具体说了什么？”
“她说这个的时候很突然。‘爸爸，我前几天看到了露易丝。’我很惊讶，说：‘你在哪儿见到她的？’她回答道：‘在我公寓的餐厅里。’我有点尴尬，就说：‘我想不到你还会记得她。’她说：‘我永不会忘记。妈妈也不会让我忘了她的，即使我自己要忘记她。’”
“是的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“是的，这的确很重要。”
“小姐，至于您，”波洛突然转向克劳迪亚说，“诺玛曾经跟您提到过露易丝•卡彭特吗？”
“是的，在她自杀之后。她说她是个邪恶的女人什么的。她说话的口气很孩子气，我想您知道我的意思是什么。”
“那晚您是在这间公寓里吧，或者更准确地说是在清晨，当卡彭特夫人的自杀案件发生的时候？”
“那晚我不在这里，不在！我不在家里。我记得我是第二天回来的时候才听说这件事的。”
她转身面对雷斯塔里克说：“您记得吗？那是二十三号。我去了利物浦。”
“是的，当然了。你代表我去出席海威尔信托会议。”
波洛说：“但是诺玛那晚是待在这里的吗？”
“是的。”克劳迪亚有些不安地说。
“克劳迪亚？”雷斯塔里克把手放在她的肩膀上面，“你究竟对诺玛了解多少？肯定是有什么事，你肯定隐瞒了什么事。”
“没有的事！我能知道些什么？”
“你觉得她脑子有些不清醒，是吗？”斯蒂林弗利特医生用一种随意的口吻问道，“那个黑发的姑娘也这么想。就跟您一样。”他补充道。之后猛地转向雷斯塔里克说：“我们大家都表现得很正常，极力避免说到这个问题，但是心里想的却是同一件事情！除了尼尔检察官之外。他什么都没有去想。只是在搜集事实：疯狂或是一桩谋杀。那么夫人，您呢？”
“我？”奥利弗夫人吓得跳了起来。“我不知道。”
“您是在保留自己的判断吗？这我不怪您。这很困难。整体说来，大多数人会赞同自己心之所想的事情。他们对此会用各种各样的词汇，就是这样。脑袋不正常，异想天开，胡思乱想，精神有问题，经常出现幻觉……有任何人觉得这个姑娘神志正常吗？”
“贝特斯比小姐。”波洛说。
“怎么又出现了一位贝特斯比小姐呢？”
“是一位女校长。”
“如果我有女儿的话，我会把她送往那所学校的。当然了，我跟诸位不一样。我了解。
我了解这个姑娘的一切事！”诺玛的父亲盯着他。
“这个人是谁？”他向尼尔质询道，“他怎么能说他知道我女儿的一切事呢？”
“我了解她。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“因为她在过去的十天内都在受着我的专业治疗和关照。”“斯蒂林弗利特医生。”尼尔检察官说，“是一位资格极高的著名心理分析学家。”
“她是如何落入您的手中的，在没有取得我的同意的前提下？”
“问问那个‘小胡子’吧？”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，向波洛点点头。
“您，您……”
雷斯塔里克因为过于生气都说不出话来了。
“我曾经收到过您的指示。您希望在我找到她之后，好好地照料并保护她。我找到了她，并且我劝服斯蒂林弗利特医生看护她。她处在危险之中，雷斯塔里克先生，真的是极端危险。”
“她会比现在更危险吗？因为谋杀罪而被逮捕！”
“从法律来说，她没有被控有这项罪名。”尼尔嘟囔道。
他继续说：“斯蒂林弗利特医生，据我所知，您愿意对雷斯塔里克小姐的精神状况做出自身的专业判断，还有她对自己的行为的本质和意义到底了解多少做出解释，是这样吗？”
“关于《麦诺腾法规》的规定，我们还是在法庭上再谈吧。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“我们现在要知道的是，这个姑娘心智是否正常？好的，我告诉您。这个姑娘心智正常，就跟在我们这间屋子里所有的人一样！”
Twenty-four I
Twenty-four I

They stared at him.
“Didn’t expect that, did you?”
Restarick said angrily: “You’re wrong. That girl doesn’t even know what she’s done. She’sinnocent—completely innocent. She can’t be held responsible for what she doesn’t know she’sdone.”
“You let me talk for a while. I know what I’m talking about. You don’t. That girl is sane andresponsible for her actions. In a moment or two we’ll have her in and let her speak for herself.
She’s the only one who hasn’t had the chance of speaking for herself! Oh yes, they’ve got her herestill—locked up with a police matron in her bedroom. But before we ask her a question or two,I’ve got something to say that you’d better hear first.
“When that girl came to me she was full of drugs.”
“And he gave them to her!” shouted Restarick. “That degenerate, miserable boy.”
“He started her on them, no doubt.”
“Thank God,” said Restarick. “Thank God for it.”
“What are you thanking God for?”
“I misunderstood you. I thought you were going to throw her to the lions when you kept harpingon her being sane. I misjudged you. It was the drugs that did it. Drugs that made her do things shewould never have done of her own volition, and left her with no knowledge of having done them.”
Stillingfleet raised his voice:
“If you let me talk instead of talking so much yourself, and being so sure you know all abouteverything, we might get on a bit. First of all, she’s not an addict. There are no marks ofinjections. She didn’t sniff snow. Someone or other, perhaps the boy, perhaps someone else, wasadministering drugs to her without her knowledge. Not just a purple heart or two in the modernfashion. A rather interesting medley of drugs—LSD giving vivid dream sequences—nightmares orpleasurable. Hemp distorting the time factor, so that she might believe an experience has lasted anhour instead of a few minutes. And a good many other curious substances that I have no intentionof letting any of you know about. Somebody who was clever with drugs played merry hell withthat girl. Stimulants, sedatives, they all played their part in controlling her, and showing her toherself as a completely different person.”
Restarick interrupted: “That’s what I say. Norma wasn’t responsible! Someone was hypnotisingher to do these things.”
“You still haven’t got the point! Nobody could make the girl do what she didn’t want to do!
What they could do, was make her think she had done it. Now we’ll have her in and make her seewhat’s been happening to her.”
He looked inquiringly at Chief Inspector Neele, who nodded.
Stillingfleet spoke over his shoulder to Claudia, as he went out of the sitting room. “Where’dyou put that other girl, the one you took away from Jacobs, gave a sedative to? In her room on herbed? Better shake her up a bit, and drag her along, somehow. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
Claudia also went out of the sitting room.
Stillingfleet came back, propelling Norma, and uttering rough encouragement.
“There’s a good girl…Nobody’s going to bite you. Sit there.”
She sat obediently. Her docility was still rather frightening.
The policewoman hovered by the door looking scandalised.
“All I’m asking you to do is to speak the truth. It isn’t nearly as difficult as you think.”
Claudia came in with Frances Cary. Frances was yawning heavily. Her black hair hung like acurtain hiding half her mouth as she yawned and yawned again.
“You need a pick-me-up,” said Stillingfleet to her.
“I wish you’d all let me go to sleep,” murmured Frances indistinctly.
“Nobody’s going to have a chance of sleep until I’ve done with them! Now, Norma, you answermy questions—That woman along the passage says you admitted to her that you killed DavidBaker. Is that right?”
Her docile voice said:
“Yes. I killed David.”
“Stabbed him?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know you did?”
She looked faintly puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. He was there on the floor—dead.”
“Where was the knife?”
“I picked it up.”
“It had blood on it?”
“Yes. And on his shirt.”
“What did it feel like—the blood on the knife? The blood that you got on your hand and had towash off—Wet? Or more like strawberry jam?”
“It was like strawberry jam—sticky.” She shivered. “I had to go and wash it off my hands.”
“Very sensible. Well, that ties up everything very nicely. Victim, murderer—you—all completewith the weapon. Do you remember actually doing it?”
“No…I don’t remember that…But I must have done it, mustn’t I?”
“Don’t ask me! I wasn’t there. It’s you are the one who’s saying it. But there was another killingbefore that, wasn’t there? An earlier killing.”
“You mean—Louise?”
“Yes. I mean Louise…When did you first think of killing her?”
“Years ago. Oh, years ago.”
“When you were a child.”
“Yes.”
“Had to wait a long time, didn’t you?”
“I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Until you saw her again and recognised her?”
“Yes.”
“When you were a child, you hated her. Why?”
“Because she took Father, my father, away.”
“And made your mother unhappy?”
“Mother hated Louise. She said Louise was a really wicked woman.”
“Talked to you about her a lot, I suppose?”
“Yes. I wish she hadn’t…I didn’t want to go on hearing about her.”
“Monotonous—I know. Hate isn’t creative. When you saw her again did you really want to killher?”
Norma seemed to consider. A faintly interested look came into her face.
“I didn’t, really, you know…It seemed all so long ago. I couldn’t imagine myself—that’s why—”
“Why you weren’t sure you had?”
“Yes. I had some quite wild idea that I hadn’t killed her at all. That it had been all a dream. Thatperhaps she really had thrown herself out of the window.”
“Well—why not?”
“Because I knew I had done it—I said I had done it.”
“You said you had done it? Who did you say that to?”
Norma shook her head. “I mustn’t…It was someone who tried to be kind—to help me. She saidshe was going to pretend to have known nothing about it.” She went on, the words coming fastand excitedly: “I was outside Louise’s door, the door of 76, just coming out of it. I thought I’dbeen walking in my sleep. They—she—said there had been an accident. Down in the courtyard.
She kept telling me it had been nothing to do with me. Nobody would ever know—And I couldn’tremember what I had done—but there was stuff in my hand—”
“Stuff? What stuff? Do you mean blood?”
“No, not blood—torn curtain stuff. When I’d pushed her out.”
“You remember pushing her out, do you?”
“No, no. That’s what was so awful. I didn’t remember anything. That’s why I hoped. That’swhy I went—” She turned her head towards Poirot—“to him—”
She turned back again to Stillingfleet.
“I never remembered the things I’d done, none of them. But I got more and more frightened.
Because there used to be quite long times that were blank—quite blank—hours I couldn’t accountfor, or remember where I’d been and what I’d been doing. But I found things—things I must havehidden away myself. Mary was being poisoned by me, they found out she was being poisoned atthe hospital. And I found the weed killer I’d hidden away in the drawer. In the flat here there was aflick-knife. And I had a revolver that I didn’t even know I’d bought! I did kill people, but I didn’tremember killing them, so I’m not really a murderer—I’m just—mad! I realised that at last. I’mmad, and I can’t help it. People can’t blame you if you do things when you are mad. If I couldcome here and even kill David, it shows I am mad, doesn’t it?”
“You’d like to be mad, very much?”
“I—yes, I suppose so.”
“If so, why did you confess to someone that you had killed a woman by pushing her out of thewindow? Who was it you told?”
Norma turned her head, hesitated. Then raised her hand and pointed.
“I told Claudia.”
“That is absolutely untrue.” Claudia looked at her scornfully. “You never said anything of thekind to me!”
“I did. I did.”
“When? Where?”
“I—don’t know.”
“She told me that she had confessed it all to you,” said Frances indistinctly. “Frankly, I thoughtshe was hysterical and making the whole thing up.”
Stillingfleet looked across at Poirot.
“She could be making it all up,” he said judicially. “There is quite a case for that solution. But ifso, we would have to find the motive, a strong motive, for her desiring the death of those twopeople, Louise Carpenter and David Baker. A childish hate? Forgotten and done with years ago?
Nonsense. David—just to be ‘free of him?’ It is not for that that girls kill! We want better motivesthan that. A whacking great lot of money—say!—Greed!” He looked round him and his voicechanged to a conventional tone.
“We want a little more help. There’s still one person missing. Your wife is a long time joiningus here, Mr. Restarick?”
“I can’t think where Mary can be. I’ve rung up. Claudia has left messages in every place we canthink of. By now she ought to have rung up at least from somewhere.”
“Perhaps we have the wrong idea,” said Hercule Poirot. “Perhaps Madame is at least partly herealready—in a manner of speaking.”
“What on earth do you mean?” shouted Restarick angrily.
“Might I trouble you, chère Madame?”
Poirot leaned towards Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Oliver stared.
“The parcel I entrusted to you—”
“Oh.” Mrs. Oliver dived into her shopping bag. She handed the black folder to him.
He heard a sharply indrawn breath near him, but did not turn his head.
He shook off the wrappings delicately and held up—a wig of bouffant golden hair.
“Mrs. Restarick is not here,” he said, “but her wig is. Interesting.”
“Where the devil did you get that, Poirot?” asked Neele.
“From the overnight bag of Miss Frances Cary from which she had as yet no opportunity ofremoving it. Shall we see how it becomes her?”
With a single deft movement, he swept aside the black hair that masked Frances’s face soeffectively. Crowned with a golden aureole before she could defend herself, she glared at them.
Mrs. Oliver exclaimed:
“Good gracious—it is Mary Restarick.”
Frances was twisting like an angry snake. Restarick jumped from his seat to come to her—butNeele’s strong grip restrained him.
“No. We don’t want any violence from you. The game’s up, you know, Mr. Restarick—or shallI call you Robert Orwell—”
A stream of profanity came from the man’s lips. Frances’s voice was raised sharply:
“Shut up, you damned fool!” she said.
第二十四章 1
第二十四章 1
他们都目瞪口呆地看着他。
“没有预料到这一点，是吧？”
雷斯塔里克愤怒地说：“您错了！这个姑娘甚至不知道自己做了什么！她是无辜的，完全是无辜的！她不能对连她自己都不知道是否做过的事情负责任！”
“您让我继续说。我知道我在说什么，您不明白。那个姑娘心智正常，能为她的行为负责。过一会儿，我们就会让她进屋来，自己说清楚。她是唯一一个没有得到为自己辩解的机会的人！啊，是的，他们仍旧在看守着她，有一名女警察在她的卧室里看守。但是在我们问她一些问题之前，我要说点什么，你们最好还是先听听。
“那个姑娘到我这里的时候，她已服下了不知道多少毒物。”
“一定是他给她的！”雷斯塔里克咆哮道，“那个堕落、可恶的小子！”
“毫无疑问，是他诱使她吃的。”
“感谢上帝。”雷斯塔里克说，“对此真是感谢上帝。”
“您为什么要感谢上帝？”
“我误解了您。我想您坚持说她神志正常，是要把她送入虎口。都是毒品造成了这个局面。毒品使得她做出了她的判断力绝对不会允许她做的事情，还使她对自己所做过的事情一无所知。”
斯蒂林弗利特提高了声音。
“如果您能少说两句，不要做出一副什么都知道的样子，让我说下去，我们还能了解得更多。首先，她不是个成瘾者。她身上没有针孔。她没有吸海洛因。有什么人，可能是那个小伙子，也可能是别的什么人，偷偷在她不知道的情况下给她服下了毒物。不是那种紫心锭或是什么时下流行的药物，而是一种相当有意思的混杂的药物。迷幻药让她产生了一系列的幻梦，有噩梦也有美梦。大麻把时间要素弄得混乱了，所以她会把一次几分钟的经历当作是持续了一个小时的事。除此之外，还有几种奇怪的药物，我现在还不想让你们知道。一个对于药物很是熟稔的人带着这个姑娘在地狱里游历。兴奋剂、镇定剂都曾经控制过她，让她把自己看作是一个与别人迥然不同的人。”
雷斯塔里克打断他说道：“这就是我所说的啊。诺玛不该负责任！有人催眠了她，要她去做这些事的。”
“您还是没能了解我的观点！没人让这个姑娘去做她不想去做的事！他们所做的是，让这个姑娘去相信自己做了这样的事。现在我们把她带进来，看看她身上到底发生了什么。”
他请示般地看着尼尔检察官，后者点点头。
斯蒂林弗利特医生在走出客厅的时候，侧身对克劳迪亚说：“你把另一个姑娘安置在哪里了？那个你从雅各布斯那里带过来的，给她服下了镇定剂的那位？是在她房间的床上吗？最好摇醒她，想办法把她带过来。所有能帮上忙的，我们都需要。”
克劳迪亚也走出了客厅。
斯蒂林弗利特医生回来了，扶着诺玛，还粗声粗气地鼓励着她。
“这才是好姑娘……没人会咬你的。坐在这里吧。”
她顺从地坐下了，她那副温驯的样子还是让人相当惊恐。
女警察在门口有些生气地走来走去。
“我需要你说实话。这绝对不会像你所想的那样艰难。”
克劳迪亚带着弗朗西丝•凯莉进来了。弗朗西丝打着大大的哈欠。她的黑头发就像是一块幕布一样搭在脸上，把她那哈欠连连的嘴遮住了一半。
“您需要一点提神的饮品。”斯蒂林弗利特医生对她说。
“我希望你们能让我去睡觉。”弗朗西丝有些含混地嘟囔道。
“在我对大家质询完毕之前，谁也别想去睡觉！现在，诺玛，你回答我的问题，那个在走廊上的女人说你向她坦陈是你杀了大卫•贝克，是这样吗？”
她用顺从的口吻回答道：
“是的，我杀了大卫。”
“是用刀刺死的吗？”
“是的。”
“你是怎么知道是你刺死了他的呢？”
她看上去有些疑惑不解。“我不知道您在说什么。他躺倒在地板上，死了。”“刀在哪里？”
“我把它拾起来了。”
“那上面有血迹吗？”
“是的，他的衬衫上也有血迹。”
“它摸起来是什么样的感觉，刀上的血迹？你沾到手上的，你想要洗掉的血迹，是湿的吗？或者是像草莓果酱？”
“它摸起来有些像草莓果酱，是黏的。”她颤抖了一下，“我一定要洗干净我的手。”
“很合理。嗯，一切事情都能说通了。被害人，谋杀者，你，还有凶器，这就齐备了。
你还能记起到底是不是你自己下的手吗？”
“不……我不记得了……但是我一定是动了手，不是吗？”
“不要问我！我又不在现场。是你自己这么说的。但是在这个案件之前还出过一桩命案，是不是？之前的那桩命案。”
“您的意思是，露易丝？”
“是的，我指的就是露易丝……你第一次想要谋杀她是在什么时候？”
“很多年前吧，嗯，很久之前。”
“当你还是个孩子的时候……”
“是的。”
“已经等待多年了，是吗？”
“我已经忘了。”
“直到你再次见到她，并且还认出了她？”
“是的。”
“当你还是个孩子的时候，你就恨她。为什么？”
“因为她把我的父亲抢走了。”
“而且她令你的母亲倍感忧伤？”
“母亲也恨露易丝。她说露易丝实在是个邪恶的女人。”
“你们经常会谈到她，是吗？”
“是的。我真希望她能不这么做……我不想要总是听到她的事情。”
“单调无趣，我明白。仇恨不会有什么新意。当你再次见到她的时候，你是真的想要谋杀她吗？”
诺玛似乎在思考。她的脸上现出一些饶有趣味的神色。
“我没有，真的，您知道的……这都是很多年前的事情了。我不能想象自己会，这也就是为什么——”
“为什么你不敢确定是自己杀了她？”
“是的，我的心中有很多奇怪的想法，知道我自己并没有杀了她。但是这就像是一场梦境一样。或许她真的是自己从窗户里纵身跃下的。”
“嗯，为什么不是这样的呢？”
“因为我知道是我做的，我说了是我做的。”
“你是说你动的手？你对谁说了这样的话？”
诺玛摇摇头。“我不能……那人是一个向我展露善意的人，想要帮我。她说她会假装什么都不知情。”她继续说着，语速变快，情绪更加激动，“我在露易丝的门外，第76号门，我刚从那里出来。我觉得自己像是在梦游一样。她们，她，说出事了。跌落在院子里面。
她反复告诉我，这跟我没什么关系。甚至没人会知道，我不记得我做过什么了，但是我手上有东西——”
“东西？什么东西？你是指血迹吗？”
“不，不是血，是撕碎的窗帘之类的东西。当我把她推下去的时候。”
“你记得是你把她推下去的，是吗？
“不，不。这就是让我烦心的地方。我不记得任何事。这就是为什么我期盼着。这也就是为什么我要去——”她把头转向波洛，“去找他——”
她又转头去看斯蒂林弗利特医生。
“我永远记不清我做过什么，一件也记不得。我变得越来越惊恐。因为曾经有那么一大段的时间是空白的，完全空白，有些时段的事我记不清楚，有时我不记得自己去了哪儿，干了什么。但是我发现了一些东西，一些肯定是我自己藏起来的东西。玛丽被我下了毒，他们在医院里发现她被下了毒。并且我发现在我的抽屉里藏着除草剂。在公寓房里，我又找到了弹簧刀。还有一把我根本就不记得我曾经买过的左轮手枪！我杀了人，但是我不记得自己杀了他们，所以我不是一个真正的谋杀犯，我只是疯癫了！最起码我自己是这么认为的。我疯了，我无法抑制自己。人们不该去责怪一个不记得自己在发疯的时候所做过的事的人。如果我来到这里，杀了大卫，这正证明我疯了，不是吗？”
“您很乐意发疯吗？”
“我，是的，我想是的。”
“如果是这样，为什么你要向别人说是你把一个女人推出窗口的呢？你把这件事告诉了谁？”
诺玛转头，迟疑着。接着她举起手，指向某个人。
“我告诉克劳迪亚了。”
“完全不是这样的。”克劳迪亚斥责她，“你从没有告诉我这类的事！”
“我说了，我说了。”
“什么时候？在哪里？”
“我不知道。”
“她告诉我她把这一切都向您说了。”弗朗西丝有些口齿不清地说道，“坦白来说，我想她是有些歇斯底里，她编造了这一切。”
斯蒂林弗利特医生看向波洛。
“她可能会编造这一切。”他带着判断的意味说着，“要想解决这个问题，要花费不少心血。但是如果假设是这样的话，我们需要找到动机，一个强有力的动机，一个让她计划谋杀两个人的动机，露易丝•卡彭特和大卫•贝克。孩子式的仇恨？多年前发生的旧事？荒谬无稽。大卫，只是想要‘逃离他’？这不会成为她杀他的动因的！我们想要比这更有力的动机。一笔惊人的财富，是的！贪婪！”他四下里看了看，把自己的语调换成了普通的声音。
“我们还需要一点帮助。这里还有个人不在。您的夫人真是让我们久候了，雷斯塔里克先生？”
“我想不到玛丽会去哪里。我打过电话了。克劳迪亚也在我们能想到的地方留言了。到现在为止，她起码该从某个地方给我打个电话啊。”
“或者我们都想错了。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“要是说起来，或许，最起码夫人的一部分已经在这里了。”
“您到底是什么意思？”雷斯塔里克愤怒地咆哮道。
“夫人，能麻烦您一下吗？”
波洛身子向前靠向奥利弗夫人，奥利弗夫人有些呆住了。
“我交给您代为保管的那个包——”
“啊。”奥利弗夫人把手伸到自己的帆布袋里摸索着。她把那个黑色的皮夹递到了波洛手里。他听到他近旁有人发出了剧烈的吸气声，但是他并没有转过头去。
他小心翼翼地把包装纸去掉，举起了那个东西，一顶金色的蓬松的假发。
“雷斯塔里克夫人不在这里。”他说，“但是她的假发在这里。真有意思。”
“波洛，您是怎么找到这个的？”尼尔问道。
“从弗朗西丝•凯莉小姐的旅行袋里找到的。她到现在都没有机会把它弄走。你们要看看她戴上这顶假发是什么样的吗？”
他灵巧地一跃，熟练地拨开搭在弗朗西丝脸上的黑色头发，趁她无法反抗之际，就把一顶金发戴到了她的头上，她怒目注视着众人。
奥利弗夫人惊叫道：
“天呐！这就是玛丽•雷斯塔里克。”
弗朗西丝就像是一条愤怒的毒蛇那样弓着身子。雷斯塔里克从椅子上跃起，准备冲向她，但是尼尔紧紧钳制住了他。“不，我们不会让您动手的。把戏结束了，您知道的，雷斯塔里克先生，或者我该叫您罗伯特•奥威尔。”
一堆咒骂的话从这个男人的口中脱口而出。弗朗西丝提高声音尖声叫骂道：
“闭嘴，你个蠢蛋！”
Twenty-four II
II
Poirot had abandoned his trophy, the wig. He had gone to Norma, and taken her hand gently inhis.
“Your ordeal is over, my child. The victim will not be sacrificed. You are neither mad, nor haveyou killed anyone. There are two cruel and heartless creatures who plotted against you, withcunningly administered drugs, with lies, doing their best to drive you either to suicide or to beliefin your own guilt and madness.”
Norma was staring with horror at the other plotter.
“My father. My father? He could think of doing that to me. His daughter. My father who lovedme—”
“Not your father, mon enfant—a man who came here after your father’s death, to impersonatehim and lay hands on an enormous fortune. Only one person was likely to recognise him—orrather to recognise that this man was not Andrew Restarick—the woman who had been AndrewRestarick’s mistress fifteen years ago.”
第二十四章 2
2
波洛放下了他的战利品，那顶假发。他走向了诺玛，并且温柔地握起她的手。
“对您残酷的折磨都过去了。受害者不会被牺牲的。您也没有发疯，或者是杀了任何人。有两个残忍的、毫无心肝的坏人耍了您，他们处心积虑地对您用药，还对您撒各种谎，费尽各种心机想要您自杀或者是相信自己有罪或是真的疯了。”
诺玛目瞪口呆地看着另外一位阴谋者。
“我的父亲，我的父亲？他竟然会如此待我，他的女儿。我的父亲是爱我的——”
“那不是您的父亲，乖孩子，他是在您父亲死后才来这里的，想要冒充他去抢夺一大笔财产。只有一个人或许能认出他，或者应该说能辨认出这个人不是安德鲁•雷斯塔里克——那个十五年前曾经是安德鲁•雷斯塔里克情妇的女人。”
Twenty-five
Twenty-five
Four people sat in Poirot’s room. Poirot in his square chair was drinking a glass of sirop de cassis.
Norma and Mrs. Oliver sat on the sofa. Mrs. Oliver was looking particularly festive inunbecoming apple green brocade, surmounted by one of her more painstaking coiffures. Dr.
Stillingfleet was sprawled out in a chair with his long legs stretched out, so that they seemed toreach half across the room.
“Now then, there are lots of things I want to know,” said Mrs. Oliver. Her voice was accusatory.
Poirot hastened to pour oil on troubled waters.
“But, chère Madame, consider. What I owe to you I can hardly express. All, but all my goodideas were suggested to me by you.”
Mrs. Oliver looked at him doubtfully.
“Was it not you who introduced to me the phrase ‘Third Girl?’ It is there that I started—andthere, too, that I ended—at the third girl of three living in a flat. Norma was always technically, Isuppose, the Third Girl—but when I looked at things the right way round it all fell into place. Themissing answer, the lost piece of the puzzle, every time it was the same—the third girl.
“It was always, if you comprehend me, the person who was not there. She was a name to me, nomore.”
“I wonder I never connected her with Mary Restarick,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’d seen MaryRestarick at Crosshedges, talked to her. Of course the first time I saw Frances Cary, she had blackhair hanging all over her face. That would have put anyone off!”
“Again it was you, Madame, who drew my attention to how easily a woman’s appearance isaltered by the way she arranges her hair. Frances Cary, remember, had had dramatic training. Sheknew all about the art of swift makeup. She could alter her voice at need. As Frances, she had longblack hair, framing her face and half hiding it, heavy dead white maquillage, dark pencilledeyebrows and mascara, with a drawling husky voice. Mary Restarick, with her wig of formallyarranged golden hair with crimped waves, her conventional clothes, her slight Colonial accent, herbrisk way of talking, presented a complete contrast. Yet one felt, from the beginning, that she wasnot quite real. What kind of a woman was she? I did not know.
“I was not clever about her—No—I, Hercule Poirot, was not clever at all.”
“Hear, hear,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “First time I’ve ever heard you say that, Poirot! Wonderswill never cease!”
“I don’t really see why she wanted two personalities,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems unnecessarilyconfusing.”
“No. It was very valuable to her. It gave her, you see, a perpetual alibi whenever she wanted it.
To think that it was there, all the time, before my eyes, and I did not see it! There was the wig—Ikept being subconsciously worried by it, but not seeing why I was worried. Two women—never,at any time, seen together. Their lives so arranged that no one noticed the large gaps in their timeschedules when they were unaccounted for. Mary goes often to London, to shop, to visit houseagents, to depart with a sheaf of orders to view, supposedly to spend her time that way. Francesgoes to Birmingham, to Manchester, even flies abroad, frequents Chelsea with her special coterieof arty young men whom she employs in various capacities which would not be looked on withapproval by the law. Special picture frames were designed for the Wedderburn Gallery. Risingyoung artists had ‘shows’ there—their pictures sold quite well, and were shipped abroad or sent onexhibition with their frames stuffed with secret packets of heroin—Art rackets—skilful forgeriesof the more obscure Old Masters—She arranged and organised all these things. David Baker wasone of the artists she employed. He had the gift of being a marvellous copyist.”
Norma murmured: “Poor David. When I first met him I thought he was wonderful.”
“That picture,” said Poirot dreamily. “Always, always, I came back to that in my mind. Whyhad Restarick brought it up to his office? What special significance did it have for him? Enfin, I donot admire myself for being so dense.”
“I don’t understand about the pictures.”
“It was a very clever idea. It served as a kind of certificate of identity. A pair of portraits,husband and wife, by a celebrated and fashionable portrait painter of his day. David Baker, whenthey come out of store, replaces Restarick’s portrait with one of Orwell, making him about twentyyears younger in appearance. Nobody would have dreamed that the portrait was a fake; the style,the brush strokes, the canvas, it was a splendidly convincing bit of work. Restarick hung it over hisdesk. Anyone who knew Restarick years ago, might say: ‘I’d hardly have known you!’ Or‘You’ve changed quite a lot,’ would look up at the portrait, but would only think he himself hadreally forgotten what the other man had looked like!”
“It was a great risk for Restarick—or rather Orwell—to take,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully.
“Less than you might think. He was never a claimant, you see, in the Tichborne sense. He wasonly a member of a well-known City firm, returning home after his brother’s death to settle up hisbrother’s affairs after having spent some years abroad. He brought with him a young wife recentlyacquired abroad, and took up residence with an elderly, half blind but extremely distinguisheduncle by marriage who had never known him well after his schoolboy days, and who accepted himwithout question. He had no other near relations, except for the daughter whom he had last seenwhen she was a child of five. When he originally left for South Africa, the office staff had had twovery elderly clerks, since deceased. Junior staff never remains anywhere long nowadays. Thefamily lawyer is also dead. You may be sure that the whole position was studied very carefully onthe spot by Frances after they had decided on their coup.
“She had met him, it seems, in Kenya about two years ago. They were both crooks, though withentirely different interests. He went in for various shoddy deals as a prospector—Restarick andOrwell went together to prospect for mineral deposits in somewhat wild country. There was arumour of Restarick’s death (probably true) which was later contradicted.”
“A lot of money in the gamble, I suspect?” said Stillingfleet.
“An enormous amount of money was involved. A terrific gamble—for a terrific stake. It cameoff. Andrew Restarick was a very rich man himself and he was his brother’s heir. Nobodyquestioned his identity. And then—things went wrong. Out of the blue, he got a letter from awoman who, if she ever came face to face with him, would know at once that he wasn’t AndrewRestarick. And a second piece of bad fortune occurred—David Baker started to blackmail him.”
“That might have been expected, I suppose,” said Stillingfleet thoughtfully.
“They didn’t expect it,” said Poirot. “David had never blackmailed before. It was the enormouswealth of this man that went to his head, I expect. The sum he had been paid for faking the portraitseemed to him grossly inadequate. He wanted more. So Restarick wrote him large cheques, andpretended that it was on account of his daughter—to prevent her from making an undesirablemarriage. Whether he really wanted to marry her, I do not know—he may have done. But toblackmail two people like Orwell and Frances Cary was a dangerous thing to do.”
“You mean those two just cold-bloodedly planned to kill two people—quite calmly—just likethat?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
She looked rather sick.
“They might have added you to their list, Madame,” said Poirot.
“Me? Do you mean that it was one of them who hit me on the head? Frances, I suppose? Not thepoor Peacock?”
“I do not think it was the Peacock. But you had been already to Borodene Mansions. Now youperhaps follow Frances to Chelsea, or so she thinks, with a rather dubious story to account foryourself. So she slips out and gives you a nice little tap on the head to put paid to your curiosityfor a while. You would not listen when I warned you there was danger about.”
“I can hardly believe it of her! Lying about in attitudes of a Burne-Jones heroine in that dirtystudio that day. But why—” She looked at Norma—then back at Poirot. “They used her—deliberately—worked upon her, drugged her, made her believe that she had murdered two people.
Why?”
“They wanted a victim…” said Poirot.
He rose from his chair and went to Norma.
“Mon enfant, you have been through a terrible ordeal. It is a thing that need never happen to youagain. Remember that now, you can have confidence in yourself always. To have known, at closequarters, what absolute evil means, is to be armoured against what life can do to you.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Norma. “To think you are mad — really to believe it, is afrightening thing…” She shivered. “I don’t see, even now, why I escaped—why anyone managedto believe that I hadn’t killed David—not when even I believed I had killed him?”
“Blood was wrong,” said Dr. Stillingfleet in a matter-of-fact tone. “Starting to coagulate. Shirtwas ‘stiff with it,’ as Miss Jacobs said, not wet. You were supposed to have killed him not morethan about five minutes before Frances’s screaming act.”
“How did she—” Mrs. Oliver began to work things out. “She had been to Manchester—”
“She came home by an earlier train, changed into her Mary wig and makeup on the train.
Walked into Borodene Mansions and went up in the lift as an unknown blonde. Went into the flatwhere David was waiting for her, as she had told him to do. He was quite unsuspecting, and shestabbed him. Then she went out again, and kept watch until she saw Norma coming. She slippedinto a public cloakroom, changed her appearance, and joined a friend at the end of the road andwalked with her, said good-bye to her at Borodene Mansions and went up herself and did her stuff—quite enjoying doing it, I expect. By the time the police had been called and got there, she didn’tthink anyone would suspect the time lag. I must say, Norma, you gave us all a hell of a time thatday. Insisting on having killed everyone the way you did!”
“I wanted to confess and get it all over…Did you—did you think I might really have done it,then?”
“Me? What do you take me for? I know what my patients will do or won’t do. But I thought youwere going to make things damned difficult. I didn’t know how far Neele was sticking his neckout. Didn’t seem proper police procedure to me. Look at the way he gave Poirot here his head.”
Poirot smiled.
“Chief Inspector Neele and I have known each other for many years. Besides, he had beenmaking inquiries about certain matters already. You were never really outside Louise’s door.
Frances changed the numbers. She reversed the 6 and the 7 on your own door. Those numberswere loose, stuck on with spikes. Claudia was away that night. Frances drugged you so that thewhole thing was a nightmare dream to you.
“I saw the truth suddenly. The only other person who could have killed Louise was the real‘third girl,’ Frances Cary.”
“You kept half recognising her, you know,” said Stillingfleet, “when you described to me howone person seemed to turn into another.”
Norma looked at him thoughtfully.
“You were very rude to people,” she said to Stillingfleet. He looked slightly taken aback.
“Rude?”
“The things you said to everyone. The way you shouted at them.”
“Oh well, yes, perhaps I was…I’ve got in the way of it. People are so damned irritating.”
He grinned suddenly at Poirot.
“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Oliver rose to her feet with a sigh.
“I must go home.” She looked at the two men and then at Norma. “What are we going to dowith her?” she asked.
They both looked startled.
“I know she’s staying with me at the moment,” she went on. “And she says she’s quite happy.
But I mean there it is, quite a problem. Lots and lots of money because your father—the real one, Imean—left it all to you. And that will cause complications, and begging letters and all that. Shecould go and live with old Sir Roderick, but that wouldn’t be fun for a girl—he’s pretty deafalready as well as blind—and completely selfish. By the way, what about his missing papers, andthe girl, and Kew Gardens?”
“They turned up where he thought he’d already looked—Sonia found them,” said Norma, andadded, “Uncle Roddy and Sonia are getting married—next week—”
“No fool like an old fool,” said Stillingfleet.
“Aha!” said Poirot. “So the young lady prefers life in England to being embroiled in lapolitique. She is perhaps wise, that little one.”
“So that’s that,” said Mrs. Oliver with finality. “But to go on about Norma, one has to bepractical. One’s got to make plans. The girl can’t know what she wants to do all by herself. She’swaiting for someone to tell her.”
She looked at them severely.
Poirot said nothing. He smiled.
“Oh, her?” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Well, I’ll tell you, Norma. I’m flying to Australia Tuesdayweek. I want to look around first—see if what’s been fixed up for me is going to work, and all that.
Then I’ll cable you and you can join me. Then we get married. You’ll have to take my word for itthat it’s not your money I want. I’m not one of those doctors who want to endow whacking greatresearch establishments and all that. I’m just interested in people. I think, too, that you’d be able tomanage me all right. All that about my being rude to people—I hadn’t noticed it myself. It’s odd,really, when you think of all the mess you’ve been in—helpless as a fly in treacle—yet it’s notgoing to be me running you, it’s going to be you running me.”
Norma stood quite still. She looked at John Stillingfleet very carefully, as though she wasconsidering something that she knew from an entirely different point of view.
And then she smiled. It was a very nice smile—like a happy young nannie.
“All right,” she said.
She crossed the room to Hercule Poirot.
“I was rude, too,” she said. “The day I came here when you were having breakfast. I said to youthat you were too old to help me. That was a rude thing to say. And it wasn’t true.…”
She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.
“You’d better get us a taxi,” she said to Stillingfleet.
Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and left the room. Mrs. Oliver collected a handbag and a fur stole andNorma slipped on a coat and followed her to the door.
“Madame, un petit moment—”
Mrs. Oliver turned. Poirot had collected from the recesses of the sofa a handsome coil of greyhair.
Mrs. Oliver exclaimed vexedly: “It’s just like everything that they make nowadays, no good atall! Hairpins, I mean. They just slip out, and everything falls off!”
She went out frowning.
A moment or two later she poked her head round the door again. She spoke in a conspiratorialwhisper:
“Just tell me—it’s all right, I’ve sent her on down—did you send that girl to this particulardoctor on purpose?”
“Of course I did. His qualifications are—”
“Never mind his qualifications. You know what I mean. He and she—Did you?”
“If you must know, yes.”
“I thought so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You do think of things, don’t you.”
第二十五章
第二十五章
四个人坐在波洛的屋子里。波洛坐在他的方椅上喝着一杯黑醋栗蜜糖水 [1] 。诺玛和奥利弗夫人坐在沙发上。奥利弗夫人身着与她不太相称的果绿色锦缎外套，配上一个费心打造的发型，显得很是快活。斯蒂林弗利特医生从椅子上伸出两条细长的腿，似乎可以越过半个屋子。
“那么现在，我还有很多事情要问。”奥利弗夫人说道，她的声音里透着一股责难的意味。
波洛连忙息事宁人。
“但是，亲爱的夫人，您想想，我欠您的真是难以言喻。所有这一切，我所有的好主意都是被您启发的。”
奥利弗夫人疑惑地看着他。
“不是您把‘第三个女郎’这个词汇说给我听的吗？我从这一点开始着手，也在这三个合租公寓的女郎身上结束了。从专业技术角度来说，我一直把诺玛当作那第三个女郎，但是当我绕了一大圈之后，才找到正确的切入方式。那个遗失的问题，那块缺失的拼图，每一次都是同样的，回到了这第三个女郎身上。
“一直是这样，如果您懂我的话，那个不在场的人。她对我而言，就是个名字而已。”
“我从未把她跟玛丽•雷斯塔里克联系在一起。”奥利弗夫人说，“我在克劳斯海吉斯见过玛丽•雷斯塔里克，跟她说过话。当然了，第一次我见到弗朗西丝•凯莉的时候，她的黑发挡住了脸。不论是谁都会被她骗过去的。”
“但是还是您，夫人，让我留意到女性的外貌是如何轻易地被发型所改变的。您要记住，弗朗西丝•凯莉可是受过戏剧表演训练的。她擅长易容，她也可以在需要的时候改换腔调。作为弗朗西丝，她留着长长的黑发，半遮着自己的脸庞，擦着浓重惨白的遮瑕粉，浓黑的眉毛和睫毛膏，声调是低沉喑哑的。而玛丽•雷斯塔里克，戴着精心打理过的波浪形卷发，穿着普通的衣物，她的口音稍带一些殖民地的腔调，她说话时的那种清脆的声音，与弗朗西丝形成了完全不同的鲜明对比。虽是这样，但是从一开始，她就让人觉得不像是一个真实存在的人物。她是个什么类型的女人？我不知道。
“我对她完全摸不到头脑，不，我，赫尔克里•波洛，一点也不清楚。”
“听听，听听。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“第一次，我听到您这么说，波洛！真是什么奇迹都会发生！”
“我真的不知道她为什么要扮演两个角色。”奥利弗夫人说，“似乎没什么必要。”
“不，这对她来说很重要。您看，这让她不论在什么时候都能拿出不在场证明。想想它就在那儿，一直都在，就在我眼前，我就是会忽视它！那顶假发，我下意识地一直留意它，但是不明白为什么它会让我分心。两个女人，永不在同一时刻同时出现。她们的生活安排得如此巧妙，当人们不去特别留心的时候，是不会注意到这两个人的日常行程会有如此大的差异。玛丽总是去伦敦，去购物，去寻找房产中介，还拿着一大沓单子去看货品，假装那是她消磨时间的方式。弗朗西丝去伯明翰、曼彻斯特，甚至飞往国外，经常跟切尔西区的属于她的那个艺术圈子里的年轻男人打交道，她雇用他们从事一些法律不允许的行为。韦德伯恩画廊的画框都是经过特别设计的。冉冉上升的年轻艺术家在那里举办画展，他们的画作销售得都很不错，还被运往国外，运往国外参展的画作的画框里都被偷偷放置了小包的海洛因，艺术欺诈，善于伪造身份不清不楚的绘画大师，这类事都是她策划和组织的。大卫•贝克就是她所雇用的其中一个艺术家，他是个天赋异禀的善于仿作的画家。”
诺玛嘟囔道：“可怜的大卫。当我第一次遇到他的时候，还以为他很好呢。”
“那些画作。”波洛像说梦话一般，“总是，总是，不断在我脑海中重现。为什么雷斯塔里克会把那幅肖像画带到办公室里呢？这对他又有什么特殊的意义吗？我对自己如此愚钝感到很不满意。”
“我不明白这两幅肖像画到底是怎么回事。”
“这是个绝妙的主意。它是用来起到某种身份认证的作用的。两幅肖像画，丈夫和妻子，是当时一位极受欢迎且十分入时的人像画家所画的。当把原来的画作从储藏室里拿出来之后，大卫•贝克就把奥威尔的肖像画跟雷斯塔里克的对调了，还将奥威尔的样貌画得年轻了二十岁。没人会想得到这幅画像会作假；那种风格，画作的笔触，还有画布，都是令人心悦诚服的优秀作品。雷斯塔里克把它挂在自己的办公桌后面的墙壁上。任何多年前曾经认识雷斯塔里克的人可能都会这么说：‘我都快要认不出您了！’或者‘您真是变了好多’。
他们会再看看肖像画，但是只会以为自己是真的忘了另一个人的相貌究竟如何。”
“这对于雷斯塔里克来说是有很大风险，或者应该说是奥威尔，要去承担的。”奥利弗夫人若有所思地说。
“可能没您想的那么大。从商业信用来说，您看，他不是那种喜欢追债的人。他只是这个著名的城市企业圈中的一员，多年旅居海外，他哥哥去世之后，回到英国来料理他哥哥的产业。他携在海外结识不久的新夫人一起回来，跟一位年迈、半瞎但是声名显赫的舅舅住在一起，那位舅舅自从他还在上学时起，就跟他不是太熟络。他没有什么疑问就接纳了他。他也没有什么亲密的近亲，除了那个五岁就跟他分开的女儿。当他原先离开这里去南非的时候，还在公司的两位老办事员也相继去世了。年轻的职员都不会在公司待太久。他们家族的律师也去世了。据此可以断定，在弗朗西丝决定牟取这家的财产的时候，就已经把这家的情况摸得明明白白的了。”
“看起来，她在两年前就在肯尼亚遇到了他。他们都是骗子，虽然兴趣点不一致。他专做各式各样采矿方面的伪造交易，雷斯塔里克和奥威尔曾一起去荒野之地探查过矿藏。曾经流传过雷斯塔里克已死亡的谣言（可能是真的），谣言之后又被击破了。”
“我猜他是在赌博上卷入了很多钱？”斯蒂林弗利特医生问道。
“一笔数量惊人的钱财被卷了进去。是一次令人惊讶的赌博，赌注也非常骇人。最后他赢了。安德鲁•雷斯塔里克本身是个极端聪明的人，他还是他哥哥财产的继承人。没人质疑过他的身份。然而后来，事情就变得不妙了，天空阴云密布，他收到了一个女人的来信，如果这个女人见到了他，她就会立马认出他不是安德鲁•雷斯塔里克。另一件糟糕的事情也发生了，大卫•贝克开始敲诈他。”
“我想，这可能是他们早该料想到的。”斯蒂林弗利特医生沉思着说。
“他们没有预料到会这样。”波洛说，“大卫之前从未敲诈过他们。我想是因为这个男人惊人的财富冲昏了他的头脑。他觉得相形之下，他为这个男人伪造的肖像画所得到的报酬也未免太微薄了，他想要更多的钱。所以雷斯塔里克给他开了一张大额支票，假装是为了他的女儿，防止她跟那个他看不上的男人成婚。不论他是否真的愿意娶她，我不知道，他可能会这么做。但是想要敲诈像奥威尔和弗朗西丝•凯莉这样的人是很危险的。”
“您的意思是这两个人就这样冷血地计划谋杀大卫和露易丝，如此坦然，就这样去做？”奥利弗夫人问道。
她看上去有些支撑不住了。
“他们可能把您也添加在名单里了，夫人。”
“我？您的意思是他们中的一个在背后敲了我一棒吗？我想是弗朗西丝做的，而不是那只可怜的‘孔雀’？”
“我不认为是那只‘孔雀’做的。那个时候您已经去过博罗登大楼了。现在您可能会跟踪弗朗西丝去切尔西区，或者她是这么想的，您还为您的那次行为编造了如此多的理由。所以她就偷偷溜了出来，在您头上重重一击，以便能暂时抑制住您的好奇心。您没有听进去我对您说有危险的警告。”
“我完全不敢相信是她！在那个脏兮兮的工作室里，她躺在那里做出一副伯恩-琼斯的女主角的样子。但是为什么——”她看向诺玛，接着又看看波洛。“他们要利用她，费尽心机，想要嫁祸给她，给她用药，让她相信是她谋杀了那两个人。为什么呢？”
“他们想要一个替罪者……”波洛说。
他从椅子上站起身来，走向了诺玛。
“乖孩子，你已经经历过如此可怕残酷的事，这样的事不会再发生在你身上了。现在记住，你要永远对自己充满信心。在危急关头知晓什么是彻头彻尾的邪恶，这是对人生中潜在危险的一种防御。”
“我想您是对的。”诺玛说，“一想起我发了疯，真的相信自己发了疯，真是件恐怖的事……”她颤抖着。“即使现在，我也不知道为什么我能逃脱，为什么每个人都竭尽全力相信不是我杀了大卫，即使在我自己都认为是我杀了他的时候？”
“血迹有问题。”斯蒂林弗利特医生简单明了地说，“凝结得如此之快。就如雅各布斯小姐所说，那衬衫上的血迹都‘僵硬了’，不是湿的。在弗朗西丝做出那一番尖叫的表演之前，您杀他也不过是五分钟之前的事。”
“她是怎么做到的——”奥利弗夫人开始有些明白了，“她去过曼彻斯特——”
“她搭乘了早一班的火车，在车上换上了玛丽的假发和衣装。走进了博罗登大楼，以一位没人认识的金发女郎的样子乘坐电梯。在公寓里，大卫早就在那里等候她了，是她告诉他这么做的。当她刺向他的时候，他完全没有防备。接着她再次走出去，等待着诺玛到来。她溜进一间公共更衣室里，在那里改头换面，之后又在路上偶遇她的一个朋友，在博罗登大楼跟她告别，她就上楼继续她的把戏，我想她对此相当享受。等到警察被叫到这里的时候，她认为不会有人怀疑这其中的时间差的。诺玛，我要说，那天你可真是让我们如坐针毡。你坚持说那两个人都是你所杀的那个样子！”
“我想要坦白，想要这一切都结束……您曾经，您曾经有没有想过我可能真的杀了人？”
“我？你把我当作什么人了？我知道我的病人会做什么，不会做什么。但是我想你不会把事情弄得如此复杂困难。我不知道尼尔会支持我们多久。这并不属于警方办案的流程。
但是看看他对波洛的那副顺从的样子。”
波洛笑了起来。
“尼尔检察官和我相知多年。除此之外，他自己也已经做了相当全面的调查。您从未到过露易丝的门前。弗朗西丝把门牌号换了。她把你们门牌上的6和7对调了。这些数字是松动的，是用钉子钉在上面的。克劳迪亚那天晚上不在家，弗朗西丝给你下药了，所以这整件事对你来说就是噩梦一桩。”
“我突然明白了。那个唯一有可能杀了露易丝的人就是真正的‘第三个女郎’，弗朗西丝•凯莉。”
“你知道，你始终对她一知半解。”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“当你跟我描述说，一个人不知怎么就变成了另一个人的时候。”
诺玛若有所思地望着他。
“您对人真是粗鲁。”她对斯蒂林弗利特医生说。他看上去有些呆住了。
“粗鲁？”
“您对每一个人说的那些话。您跟他们说话都是用吼的。”
“啊，是的，是的，可能我有点……我有点气急了。人们有时会让人极端恼火。”他突然向波洛咧嘴一笑。
“她是个不错的姑娘，不是吗？”
奥利弗夫人站起来，深深吐了口气。
“我必须要回家了。”她看看那两个男人又看看诺玛，“我们该如何安置她呢？”她问道。
他们都被这问话吓住了。
“我知道她暂时跟我一起住。”她继续说下去，“并且她说她很快活。但是我的意思是这还有个问题，真的是个问题。因为她的父亲给她留下了大笔的钱，我所说的是她真正的父亲，把大笔的钱都留给了她。这会引起很多麻烦的，会有很多人来祈求施舍。她可以回去跟老罗德里克爵士住在一起，但是这对一个姑娘来说太无趣了，他几乎又聋又瞎，而且就是个彻头彻尾的自私鬼。顺便提一句，他的那些遗失的文件怎么样了？至于那个姑娘，还有皇家植物园的那档子事呢？”
“在他以为自己已经找过了的地方发现了它们，是索尼娅找到的。”诺玛说，接着又补充道，“老舅公罗迪和索尼娅要结婚了，就在下周——”
“真是越老越迷糊！”斯蒂林弗利特医生说道。
“啊哈！”波洛说，“那么这位年轻的女士选择在英国留下好好搞政治运动 [2] 啊。可能对她来说是个明智的决定，那个娇小的女人。”
“我们不说这个了。”奥利弗夫人总结似的说，“我们还是说说诺玛的事儿，人要脚踏实地一点。要去制订计划。那个姑娘不知道如何自己去拿主意。她等待着有人来告诉她、指导她。”
她严肃地看着他们。
波洛一言未发。他笑了。
“啊，她？”斯蒂林弗利特医生说，“嗯，我告诉你，诺玛，我周二要飞往澳大利亚。我要先去看看情况——看看那边为我所做的安排是否合适，这之后，我会给你发个电报，你来跟我会合。接着我们就结婚，你要记住我的话，我并不是想要你的钱。我不是那种想要筹钱去建造研究机构或者诸如此类的医生中的一员。我只是对人感兴趣。我也认为你有能力管住我。比如我对你有些粗鲁啊，我自己都没注意到。这真是奇怪，真的，当你想起这些糟心的事情的时候，就会像只陷入蜜糖里的苍蝇一样，然而最后却不是我去管你，而是你来管我。”
诺玛静静站在那里。她认真细致地看着约翰•斯蒂林弗利特，就好像是用完全不同的观点来思考事物一样。
接着她笑了。真是个甜美的笑容，就像是个年轻快乐的照看孩子的保姆一样。
“没问题。”她说。
她穿过屋子走向赫尔克里•波洛。
“我也很粗鲁。”她说，“那一天当您在用早餐的时候，我来到这里。我跟您说您太老了，帮不了我。这么说真是粗鲁，而且这也并不是真的……”
她把手放在他的肩膀上，吻了他。
“你快去给我们叫辆出租车。”她对斯蒂林弗利特医生说道。
斯蒂林弗利特医生点点头，离开屋子。奥利弗夫人拿起手提包和一条皮毛围巾，诺玛穿上外套，跟着她走出门。
“夫人，稍等片刻——”
奥利弗夫人转过身来。波洛从沙发垫子的缝隙处找出了一撮美丽的灰色卷发。
奥利弗夫人生气地叫起来：“如今做什么东西都是这样，质量低劣！我指的是发夹。它们松掉了，什么都掉下来了！”她皱着眉走了出去。
一两分钟后，她又把头探进来。她有些狡猾地低声问道：
“告诉我，这没什么。还是我把她送到这儿来的，你是有意把这个姑娘送到这位医生那里的吗？”
“当然是了。他的资历是——”
“别提他的资历了。您知道我在说什么。他和她，是你有意为之吗？”
“如果您一定要知道的话，是的。”
“我也这么认为。”奥利弗夫人说，“你总是考虑得很周全，不是么？”
[1]原文为法语。——译者注
[2]原文为法语。——译者注