One A LITERARY LUNCHEON
One A LITERARY LUNCHEON
Mrs. Oliver looked at herself in the glass. She gave a brief, sideways look towards the clock on themantelpiece, which she had some idea was twenty minutes slow. Then she resumed her study ofher coiffure. The trouble with Mrs. Oliver was—and she admitted it freely—that her styles ofhairdressing were always being changed. She had tried almost everything in turn. A severepompadour at one time, then a windswept style where you brushed back your locks to display anintellectual brow, at least she hoped the brow was intellectual. She had tried tightly arranged curls,she had tried a kind of artistic disarray. She had to admit that it did not matter very much todaywhat her type of hairdressing was, because today she was going to do what she very seldom did,wear a hat.
On the top shelf of Mrs. Oliver’s wardrobe there reposed four hats. One was definitely allottedto weddings. When you went to a wedding, a hat was a “must.” But even then Mrs. Oliver kepttwo. One, in a round bandbox, was of feathers. It fitted closely to the head and stood up very wellto sudden squalls of rain if they should overtake one unexpectedly as one passed from a car to theinterior of the sacred edifice, or as so often nowadays, a registrar’s office.
The other, and more elaborate, hat was definitely for attending a wedding held on a Saturdayafternoon in summer. It had flowers and chiffon and a covering of yellow net attached withmimosa.
The other two hats on the shelf were of a more all-purpose character. One was what Mrs. Olivercalled her “country house hat,” made of tan felt suitable for wearing with tweeds of almost anypattern, with a becoming brim that you could turn up or turn down.
Mrs. Oliver had a cashmere pullover for warmth and a thin pullover for hot days, either ofwhich was suitable in colour to go with this. However, though the pullovers were frequently worn,the hat was practically never worn. Because, really, why put on a hat just to go to the country andhave a meal with your friends?
The fourth hat was the most expensive of the lot and it had extraordinarily durable advantagesabout it. Possibly, Mrs. Oliver sometimes thought, because it was so expensive. It consisted of akind of turban of various layers of contrasting velvets, all of rather becoming pastel shades whichwould go with anything.
Mrs. Oliver paused in doubt and then called for assistance.
“Maria,” she said, then louder, “Maria. Come here a minute.”
Maria came. She was used to being asked to give advice on what Mrs. Oliver was thinking ofwearing.
“Going to wear your lovely smart hat, are you?” said Maria.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wanted to know whether you think it looks best this way or the otherway round.”
Maria stood back and took a look.
“Well, that’s back to front you’re wearing it now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know that quite well. But I thought somehow it lookedbetter that way.”
“Oh, why should it?” said Maria.
“Well, it’s meant, I suppose. But it’s got to be meant by me as well as the shop that sold it,” saidMrs. Oliver.
“Why do you think it’s better the wrong way round?”
“Because you get that lovely shade of blue and the dark brown, and I think that looks better thanthe other way which is green with the red and the chocolate colour.”
At this point Mrs. Oliver removed the hat, put it on again and tried it wrong way round, rightway round and sideways, which both she and Maria disapproved of.
“You can’t have it the wide way. I mean, it’s wrong for your face, isn’t it? It’d be wrong foranyone’s face.”
“No. That won’t do. I think I’ll have it the right way round, after all.”
“Well, I think it’s safer always,” said Maria.
Mrs. Oliver took off the hat. Maria assisted her to put on a well cut, thin woollen dress of adelicate puce colour, and helped her to adjust the hat.
“You look ever so smart,” said Maria.
That was what Mrs. Oliver liked so much about Maria. If given the least excuse for saying so,she always approved and gave praise.
“Going to make a speech at the luncheon, are you?” Maria asked.
“A speech!” Mrs. Oliver sounded horrified. “No, of course not. You know I never makespeeches.”
“Well, I thought they always did at these here literary luncheons. That’s what you’re going to,isn’t it? Famous writers of 1973—or whichever year it is we’ve got to now.”
“I don’t need to make a speech,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Several other people who like doing it willbe making speeches, and they are much better at it than I would be.”
“I’m sure you’d make a lovely speech if you put your mind to it,” said Maria, adjusting herselfto the r?le of a tempter.
“No, I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know what I can do and I know what I can’t. I can’tmake speeches. I get all worried and nervy and I should probably stammer or say the same thingtwice. I should not only feel silly, I should probably look silly. Now it’s all right with words. Youcan write words down or speak them into a machine or dictate them. I can do things with words solong as I know it’s not a speech I’m making.”
“Oh well. I hope everything’ll go all right. But I’m sure it will. Quite a grand luncheon, isn’tit?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a deeply depressed voice. “Quite a grand luncheon.”
And why, she thought, but did not say, why on earth am I going to it? She searched her mind fora bit because she always really liked knowing what she was going to do instead of doing it firstand wondering why she had done it afterwards.
“I suppose,” she said, again to herself and not to Maria, who had had to return rather hurriedlyto the kitchen, summoned by a smell of overflowing jam which she happened to have on the stove,“I wanted to see what it felt like. I’m always being asked to literary lunches or something like thatand I never go.”
Mrs. Oliver arrived at the last course of the grand luncheon with a sigh of satisfaction as she toyedwith the remains of the meringue on her plate. She was particularly fond of meringues and it was adelicious last course in a very delicious luncheon. Nevertheless, when one reached middle age,one had to be careful with meringues. One’s teeth? They looked all right, they had the greatadvantage that they could not ache, they were white and quite agreeable looking—just like the realthing. But it was true enough that they were not real teeth. And teeth that were not real teeth—orso Mrs. Oliver believed—were not really of high-class material. Dogs, she had always understood,had teeth of real ivory, but human beings had teeth merely of bone. Or, she supposed, if they werefalse teeth, of plastic. Anyway, the point was that you mustn’t get involved in some rather shame-making appearance, which false teeth might lead you into. Lettuce was a difficulty, and saltedalmonds, and such things as chocolates with hard centres, clinging caramels and the deliciousstickiness and adherence of meringues. With a sigh of satisfaction, she dealt with the finalmouthful. It had been a good lunch, a very good lunch.
Mrs. Oliver was fond of her creature comforts. She had enjoyed the luncheon very much. Shehad enjoyed the company, too. The luncheon, which had been given to celebrated female writers,had fortunately not been confined to female writers only. There had been other writers, and critics,and those who read books as well as those who wrote them. Mrs. Oliver had sat between two verycharming members of the male sex. Edwin Aubyn, whose poetry she always enjoyed, anextremely entertaining person who had had various entertaining experiences in his tours abroad,and various literary and personal adventures. Also he was interested in restaurants and food andthey had talked very happily about food, and left the subject of literature aside.
Sir Wesley Kent, on her other side, had also been an agreeable luncheon companion. He hadsaid very nice things about her books, and had had the tact to say things that did not make her feelembarrassed, which many people could do almost without trying. He had mentioned one or tworeasons why he had liked one or other of her books, and they had been the right reasons, andtherefore Mrs. Oliver had thought favourably of him for that reason. Praise from men, Mrs. Oliverthought to herself, is always acceptable. It was women who gushed. Some of the things thatwomen wrote to her! Really! Not always women, of course. Sometimes emotional young menfrom very far away countries. Only last week she had received a fan letter beginning “Readingyour book, I feel what a noble woman you must be.” After reading The Second Goldfish he hadthen gone off into an intense kind of literary ecstasy which was, Mrs. Oliver felt, completelyunfitting. She was not unduly modest. She thought the detective stories she wrote were quite goodof their kind. Some were not so good and some were much better than others. But there was noreason, so far as she could see, to make anyone think that she was a noble woman. She was alucky woman who had established a happy knack of writing what quite a lot of people wanted toread. Wonderful luck that was, Mrs. Oliver thought to herself.
Well, all things considered, she had got through this ordeal very well. She had quite enjoyedherself, talked to some nice people. Now they were moving to where coffee was being handedround and where you could change partners and chat with other people. This was the moment ofdanger, as Mrs. Oliver knew well. This was now where other women would come and attack her.
Attack her with fulsome praise, and where she always felt lamentably inefficient at giving the rightanswers because there weren’t really any right answers that you could give. It went really ratherlike a travel book for going abroad with the right phrases.
Question: “I must tell you how very fond I am of reading your books and how wonderful I thinkthey are.”
Answer from flustered author, “Well, that’s very kind. I am so glad.”
“You must understand that I’ve been waiting to meet you for months. It really is wonderful.”
“Oh, it’s very nice of you. Very nice indeed.”
It went on very much like that. Neither of you seemed to be able to talk about anything ofoutside interest. It had to be all about your books, or the other woman’s books if you knew whather books were. You were in the literary web and you weren’t good at this sort of stuff. Somepeople could do it, but Mrs. Oliver was bitterly aware of not having the proper capacity. A foreignfriend of hers had once put her, when she was staying at an embassy abroad, through a kind ofcourse.
“I listen to you,” Albertina had said in her charming, low, foreign voice, “I have listened towhat you say to that young man who came from the newspaper to interview you. You have not got—no! you have not got the pride you should have in your work. You should say ‘Yes, I write well.
I write better than anyone else who writes detective stories.’?”
“But I don’t,” Mrs. Oliver had said at that moment. “I’m not bad, but—”
“Ah, do not say ‘I don’t’ like that. You must say you do; even if you do not think you do, youought to say you do.”
“I wish, Albertina,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that you could interview these journalists who come.
You would do it so well. Can’t you pretend to be me one day, and I’ll listen behind the door?”
“Yes, I suppose I could do it. It would be rather fun. But they would know I was not you. Theyknow your face. But you must say ‘Yes, yes, I know that I am better than anyone else.’ You mustsay that to everybody. They should know it. They should announce it. Oh yes—it is terrible tohear you sitting there and say things as though you apologize for what you are. It must not be likethat.”
It had been rather, Mrs. Oliver thought, as though she had been a budding actress trying to learna part, and the director had found her hopelessly bad at taking direction. Well, anyway, there’d benot much difficulty here. There’d be a few waiting females when they all got up from the table. Infact, she could see one or two hovering already. That wouldn’t matter much. She would go andsmile and be nice and say “So kind of you. I’m so pleased. One is so glad to know people likeone’s books.” All the stale old things. Rather as you put a hand into a box and took out someuseful words already strung together like a necklace of beads. And then, before very long now, shecould leave.
Her eyes went round the table because she might perhaps see some friends there as well aswould-be admirers. Yes, she did see in the distance Maurine Grant, who was great fun. Themoment came, the literary women and the attendant cavaliers who had also attended the lunch,rose. They streamed towards chairs, towards coffee tables, towards sofas, and confidential corners.
The moment of peril, Mrs. Oliver often thought of it to herself, though usually at cocktail and notliterary parties because she seldom went to the latter. At any moment the danger might arise, assomeone whom you did not remember but who remembered you, or someone whom you definitelydid not want to talk to but whom you found you could not avoid. In this case it was the firstdilemma that came to her. A large woman. Ample proportions, large white champing teeth. Whatin French could have been called une femme formidable, but who definitely had not only theFrench variety of being formidable, but the English one of being supremely bossy. Obviously sheeither knew Mrs. Oliver, or was intent on making her acquaintance there and then. The last washow it happened to go.
“Oh, Mrs. Oliver,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “What a pleasure to meet you today. I havewanted to for so long. I simply adore your books. So does my son. And my husband used to insiston never travelling without at least two of your books. But come, do sit down. There are so manythings I want to ask you about.”
Oh well, thought Mrs. Oliver, not my favourite type of woman, this. But as well her as anyother.
She allowed herself to be conducted in a firm way rather as a police officer might have done.
She was taken to a settee for two across a corner, and her new friend accepted coffee and placedcoffee before her also.
“There. Now we are settled. I don’t suppose you know my name. I am Mrs. Burton-Cox.”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, embarrassed, as usual. Mrs. Burton-Cox? Did she write books also?
No, she couldn’t really remember anything about her. But she seemed to have heard the name. Afaint thought came to her. A book on politics, something like that? Not fiction, not fun, not crime.
Perhaps a highbrow intellectual with political bias? That ought to be easy, Mrs. Oliver thoughtwith relief. I can just let her talk and say “How interesting!” from time to time.
“You’ll be very surprised, really, at what I’m going to say,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “But I havefelt, from reading your books, how sympathetic you are, how much you understand of humannature. And I feel that if there is anyone who can give me an answer to the question I want to ask,you will be the one to do so.”
“I don’t think, really .?.?.” said Mrs. Oliver, trying to think of suitable words to say that she feltvery uncertain of being able to rise to the heights demanded of her.
Mrs. Burton-Cox dipped a lump of sugar in her coffee and crunched it in a rather carnivorousway, as though it was a bone. Ivory teeth, perhaps, thought Mrs. Oliver vaguely. Ivory? Dogs hadivory, walruses had ivory and elephants had ivory, of course. Great big tusks of ivory. Mrs.
Burton-Cox was saying:
“Now the first thing I must ask you — I’m pretty sure I am right, though — you have agoddaughter, haven’t you? A goddaughter who’s called Celia Ravenscroft?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, rather pleasurably surprised. She felt she could deal perhaps with agoddaughter. She had a good many goddaughters—and godsons, for that matter. There weretimes, she had to admit as the years were growing upon her, when she couldn’t remember them all.
She had done her duty in due course, one’s duty being to send toys to your godchildren atChristmas in their early years, to visit them and their parents, or to have them visit you during thecourse of their upbringing, to take the boys out from school perhaps, and the girls also. And then,when the crowning days came, either the twenty-first birthday at which a godmother must do theright thing and let it be acknowledged to be done, and do it handsomely, or else marriage whichentailed the same type of gift and a financial or other blessing. After that godchildren ratherreceded into the middle or far distance. They married or went abroad to foreign countries, foreignembassies, or taught in foreign schools or took up social projects. Anyway, they faded little bylittle out of your life. You were pleased to see them if they suddenly, as it were, floated up on thehorizon again. But you had to remember to think when you had seen them last, whose daughtersthey were, what link had led to your being chosen as a godmother.
“Celia Ravenscroft,” said Mrs. Oliver, doing her best. “Yes, yes, of course. Yes, definitely.”
Not that any picture rose before her eyes of Celia Ravenscroft, not, that is, since a very earlytime. The christening. She’d gone to Celia’s christening and had found a very nice Queen Annesilver strainer as a christening present. Very nice. Do nicely for straining milk and would also bethe sort of thing a goddaughter could always sell for a nice little sum if she wanted ready money atany time. Yes, she remembered the strainer very well indeed. Queen Anne—Seventeen-eleven ithad been. Britannia mark. How much easier it was to remember silver coffeepots or strainers orchristening mugs than it was the actual child.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, of course. I’m afraid I haven’t seen Celia for a very long time now.”
“Ah yes. She is, of course, a rather impulsive girl,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, she’schanged her ideas very often. Of course, very intellectual, did very well at university, but—herpolitical notions—I suppose all young people have political notions nowadays.”
“I’m afraid I don’t deal much with politics,” said Mrs. Oliver, to whom politics had always beenanathema.
“You see, I’m going to confide in you. I’m going to tell you exactly what it is I want to know.
I’m sure you won’t mind. I’ve heard from so many people how kind you are, how willing always.”
I wonder if she’s going to try and borrow money from me, thought Mrs. Oliver, who had knownmany interviews that began with this kind of approach.
“You see, it is a matter of the greatest moment to me. Something that I really feel I must findout. Celia, you see, is going to marry—or thinks she is going to marry—my son, Desmond.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Oliver.
“At least, that is their idea at present. Of course, one has to know about people, and there’ssomething I want very much to know. It’s an extraordinary thing to ask anyone and I couldn’t go—well, I mean, I couldn’t very well go and ask a stranger, but I don’t feel you are a stranger, dearMrs. Oliver.”
Mrs. Oliver thought, I wish you did. She was getting nervous now. She wondered if Celia hadhad an illegitimate baby or was going to have an illegitimate baby, and whether she, Mrs. Oliver,was supposed to know about it and give details. That would be very awkward. On the other hand,thought Mrs. Oliver, I haven’t seen her now for five or six years and she must be about twenty-fiveor -six, so it would be quite easy to say I don’t know anything.
Mrs. Burton-Cox leaned forward and breathed hard.
“I want you to tell me because I’m sure you must know or perhaps have a very good idea how itall came about. Did her mother kill her father or was it the father who killed the mother?”
Whatever Mrs. Oliver had expected, it was certainly not that. She stared at Mrs. Burton-Coxunbelievingly.
“But I don’t—” She stopped. “I—I can’t understand. I mean—what reason—”
“Dear Mrs. Oliver, you must know .?.?. I mean, such a famous case .?.?. Of course, I know it’s along time ago now, well, I suppose ten—twelve years at least, but it did cause a lot of attention atthe time. I’m sure you’ll remember, you must remember.”
Mrs. Oliver’s brain was working desperately. Celia was her goddaughter. That was quite true.
Celia’s mother—yes, of course. Celia’s mother had been Molly Preston-Grey, who had been afriend of hers, though not a particularly intimate one, and of course she had married a man in theArmy, yes — what was his name — Sir Something Ravenscroft. Or was he an ambassador?
Extraordinary, one couldn’t remember these things. She couldn’t even remember whether sheherself had been Molly’s bridesmaid. She thought she had. Rather a smart wedding at the GuardsChapel or something like that. But one did forget so. And after that she hadn’t met them for years—they’d been out somewhere—in the Middle East? In Persia? In Iraq? One time in Egypt?
Malaya? Very occasionally, when they had been visiting England, she met them again. But they’dbeen like one of those photographs that one takes and looks at. One knows the people vaguelywho are in it but it’s so faded that you really can’t recognize them or remember who they were.
And she couldn’t remember now whether Sir Something Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft, bornMolly Preston-Grey, had entered much into her life. She didn’t think so. But then .?.?. Mrs. Burton-Cox was still looking at her. Looking at her as though disappointed in her lack of savoir-faire, herinability to remember what had evidently been a cause célèbre.
“Killed? You mean—an accident?”
“Oh no. Not an accident. In one of those houses by the sea. Cornwall, I think. Somewherewhere there were rocks. Anyway, they had a house down there. And they were both found on thecliff there and they’d been shot, you know. But there was nothing really by which the police couldtell whether the wife shot the husband and then shot herself, or whether the husband shot the wifeand then shot himself. They went into the evidence of the—you know—of the bullets and thevarious things, but it was very difficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact and—I forget whatthe verdict was. Something—it could have been misadventure or something like that. But ofcourse everyone knew it must have been meant, and there were a lot of stories that went about, ofcourse, at the time—”
“Probably all invented ones,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, trying to remember even one of thestories if she could.
“Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of a quarrel either that dayor before, there was some talk of another man, and then of course there was the usual talk aboutsome other woman. And one never knows which way it was about. I think things were hushed upa good deal because General Ravenscroft’s position was rather a high one, and I think it was saidthat he’d been in a nursing home that year, and he’d been very run down or something, and that hereally didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I’m really afraid,” said Mrs. Oliver, speaking firmly, “that I must say that I don’t knowanything about it. I do remember, now you mention it, that there was such a case, and I rememberthe names and that I knew the people, but I never knew what happened or anything at all about it.
And I really don’t think I have the least idea. .?.?.”
And really, thought Mrs. Oliver, wishing she was brave enough to say it, how on earth you havethe impertinence to ask me such a thing I don’t know.
“It’s very important that I should know,” Mrs. Burton-Cox said.
Her eyes, which were rather like hard marbles, started to snap.
“It’s important, you see, because of my boy, my dear boy wanting to marry Celia.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’ve never heard anything.”
“But you must know,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, you write these wonderful stories, youknow all about crime. You know who commits crimes and why they do it, and I’m sure that allsorts of people will tell you the story behind the story, as one so much thinks of these things.”
“I don’t know anything,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a voice which no longer held very muchpoliteness, and definitely now spoke in tones of distaste.
“But you do see that really one doesn’t know who to go to ask about it? I mean, one couldn’t goto the police after all these years, and I don’t suppose they’d tell you anyway because obviouslythey were trying to hush it up. But I feel it’s important to get the truth.”
“I only write books,” said Mrs. Oliver coldly. “They are entirely fictional. I know nothingpersonally about crime and have no opinions on criminology. So I’m afraid I can’t help you in anyway.”
“But you could ask your goddaughter. You could ask Celia.”
“Ask Celia!” Mrs. Oliver stared again. “I don’t see how I could do that. She was—why, I thinkshe must have been quite a child when this tragedy happened.”
“Oh, I expect she knew all about it, though,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “Children always knoweverything. And she’d tell you. I’m sure she’d tell you.”
“You’d better ask her yourself, I should think,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I don’t think I could really do that,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I don’t think, you know, thatDesmond would like it. You know he’s rather—well, he’s rather touchy where Celia is concernedand I really don’t think that—no—I’m sure she’d tell you.”
“I really shouldn’t dream of asking her,” said Mrs. Oliver. She made a pretence of looking ather watch. “Oh dear,” she said, “what a long time we’ve been over this delightful lunch. I must runnow, I have a very important appointment. Goodbye, Mrs.—er—Bedley-Cox, so sorry I can’t helpyou but these things are rather delicate and—does it really make any difference anyway, from yourpoint of view?”
“Oh, I think it makes all the difference.”
At that moment, a literary figure whom Mrs. Oliver knew well drifted past. Mrs. Oliver jumpedup to catch her by the arm.
“Louise, my dear, how lovely to see you. I hadn’t noticed you were here.”
“Oh, Ariadne, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown a lot thinner, haven’t you?”
“What nice things you always say to me,” said Mrs. Oliver, engaging her friend by the arm andretreating from the settee. “I’m rushing away because I’ve got an appointment.”
“I suppose you got tied up with that awful woman, didn’t you?” said her friend, looking overher shoulder at Mrs. Burton-Cox.
“She was asking me the most extraordinary questions,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Oh. Didn’t you know how to answer them?”
“No. They weren’t any of my business anyway. I didn’t know anything about them. Anyway, Iwouldn’t have wanted to answer them.”
“Was it about anything interesting?”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver, letting a new idea come into her head. “I suppose it might beinteresting, only—”
“She’s getting up to chase you,” said her friend. “Come along. I’ll see you get out and give youa lift to anywhere you want to go if you haven’t got your car here.”
“I never take my car about in London, it’s so awful to park.”
“I know it is. Absolutely deadly.”
Mrs. Oliver made the proper goodbyes. Thanks, words of greatly expressed pleasure, andpresently was being driven round a London square.
“Eaton Terrace, isn’t it?” said the kindly friend.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but where I’ve got to go now is—I think it’s Whitefriars Mansions. Ican’t quite remember the name of it, but I know where it is.”
“Oh, flats. Rather modern ones. Very square and geometrical.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver.
第一章 文学午宴
第一章 文学午宴
奥利弗夫人看着镜子中的自己，瞟了一眼壁炉架上的时钟。她知道它已经慢了二十分钟。接着，她继续摆弄着自己的头发。奥利弗夫人坦率地承认，总要换发型这件事让她十分烦恼，她几乎试遍了所有的发型。她先梳了一个庄重的蓬帕杜尔发型 （蓬帕杜尔发型，指一种最初流行于十八世纪的发型。梳该种发型的人需将前额的头发向脑后梳理，并在头顶隆起。——译者注） ，接着又将发绺向后梳，看上去就像被风吹过的样子，营造出一种学者气质，至少她希望如此。她试过排列整齐的紧绷卷发，也试过充满艺术气息的凌乱发型。她不得不承认，今天梳什么发型并不太重要，因为今天她要做一件很少做的事情——戴一顶帽子。
在奥利弗夫人衣柜的最上层放着四顶帽子，其中一顶绝对适合在婚礼上戴。要去参加一场婚礼，一顶帽子绝对是“必需品”。尽管适合婚礼戴的帽子有一顶就足够了，但奥利弗夫人还是有两顶。放在圆形硬纸盒里的那一顶是带羽毛的。即使当你踏出车门，在走进某幢大厦或是登记员办公室时遇到突如其来的暴风雨，这顶帽子仍然会端端正正地紧贴在头上。
另外一顶帽子就更加精美了。戴着它去参加一场在夏日周六午后举行的婚礼再合适不过了。这顶帽子饰有花朵和雪纺，还有一层贴有含羞草的黄色面网。
架子上的另外两顶帽子则适合更多的场合。一顶被奥利弗夫人称作“农家帽”，是用黄褐色毡子做成的，还有一个大小合适的帽檐可以翻上翻下。这顶帽子几乎可以搭配任何图案的呢子大衣。
奥利弗夫人有一件保暖性能很好的羊绒衫和一件天热时穿的薄套头衫。这两件衣服的颜色都很适合配这顶帽子。尽管她经常穿套头衫，但她几乎没有戴过这顶帽子。确实，谁会为了去乡下跟几个朋友吃饭而特地戴一顶帽子呢？
第四顶帽子是最贵的，它最大的优点就是极其耐用。奥利弗夫人有时会想，这可能就是它那么贵的原因吧。这顶帽子是由好多层天鹅绒布做成的，每层颜色都十分柔和，所以和任何衣服都能完美搭配。
奥利弗夫人迟疑地停了下来，然后喊人来帮她。
“玛丽亚，”她叫着，然后又提高了声调，“玛丽亚，过来一下。”
玛丽亚来了。她已经习惯了对奥利弗夫人的穿衣打扮给出建议。
“您打算戴那顶可爱又时尚的帽子吗？”玛丽亚问。
“是的，”奥利弗夫人回答道，“我想知道，你觉得这样戴好看些还是反过来好看些。”
玛丽亚后退了几步仔细看了看。
“您现在是前后反着戴的，对吗？”
“是的，我知道，”奥利弗夫人说道，“我当然知道。但是我觉得这样反着戴好像更好看些。”
“哦？为什么呢？”玛丽亚问道。
“我猜它就应该这么戴。这种戴法是我发明的，商店也是这么推荐的。”奥利弗夫人说。
“为什么您会认为这种反着戴的错误戴法更好呢？”
“因为这样可以露出可爱的蓝色和深棕色阴影呀，我觉得这比正着戴时露出的红色、绿色和巧克力色好看得多。”
正说着，奥利弗夫人把帽子摘了下来，又试着把帽子反着戴，正着戴，侧着戴，但不论哪一种戴法都不能令她和玛丽亚满意。
“您不能那样横着戴。我的意思是，那不适合您的脸型，对吗？那样戴不适合任何人的脸型。”
“的确，那样戴不行。我还是正着戴吧。”
“嗯，这样戴会稳妥些。”玛丽亚说。
奥利弗夫人摘下帽子。玛丽亚帮她穿上一件剪裁得很合体的紫褐色薄羊毛裙，又帮她把帽子戴好。
“您看上去总是那么漂亮。”玛丽亚说。
这就是奥利弗夫人喜欢玛丽亚的原因。只要有一点借口，她就总是会恰到好处地夸奖你、赞美你。
“您要在午宴上演讲吗？”玛丽亚问。
“演讲？”奥利弗夫人语气中带着反感，“不，当然不会。你知道我从来不发表演讲的。”
“哦，我还以为在那种文学午宴上人们总是要发表演讲的。您不是正要去参加那样的午宴吗？一九七三年，或是我们现在所处的随便哪年的著名作家都会到场吧。”
“我不必发表演讲。”奥利弗夫人说，“那几个喜欢发表演讲的人自然会发言，而且他们一定会讲得比我好多了。”
“我相信如果您用心准备，一定可以发表一次精彩的演讲。”玛丽亚试探地说道。
“不，不会的。”奥利弗夫人说，“我知道自己能做什么，也知道自己不能做什么。如果让我发言，我会焦虑不安，可能还会结巴，甚至把同样的事情说上两遍。我不仅会觉得自己很愚蠢，别人看我时可能也会觉得我愚蠢。而对于文字就好办多了，我可以写下来，对着机器讲出来，或是自己口述后让别人听写下来。只要不是发表演讲，我对文字的运用可是得心应手。”
“那好吧，我希望一切顺利。我相信一定会顺利的，这可是一场盛大的午宴。”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人用一种深沉且沮丧的语气说道，“确实是一场盛大的午宴。”
为什么？她想着，但没说出来。我究竟为什么要去参加这个午宴？她在头脑中搜索着原因，因为她总喜欢知道自己打算做什么，而不是在做完后才回头纳闷自己究竟为什么要做这件事。
“我猜，”奥利弗夫人对自己而不是玛丽亚说，“我想看看这究竟是一种什么样的感觉。
我总是被邀请参加文学午宴或是类似的活动，但却从来没去过。”而这时玛丽亚已经匆忙赶回厨房，因为她闻到了一股果酱的焦煳味，那是她放在火炉上的果酱溢出后发出的味道。
奥利弗夫人赶到的时候，这个盛大午宴已经开始上最后一道菜了。她一脸满足地摆弄着盘子里剩下的蛋白甜饼。她特别喜欢蛋白甜饼，而它又是这些非常可口的菜品的中最后一道佳肴。不过，当一个人到了中年，就得对这些蛋白甜饼多加留意了。牙齿吗？它们看上去挺好的，它们最大的优势就是不会痛，而且还那么白，看上去十分顺眼，就像真的一样。但千真万确的是，它们并不是真的牙齿。而奥利弗夫人认为，那些假牙也不是由什么高级材料制成的。她一直都坚信，狗的牙齿才是真正象牙质的，人类的牙齿不过是骨质的。或者，如果它们是假牙的话，她猜那一定是塑料的。不管怎样，只要假牙不会让你出什么洋相就好。吃起来费劲的东西有很多种，像是生菜、咸杏仁、实心巧克力，还有粘牙的焦糖糖果或是好吃但更加粘牙的蛋白甜饼。奥利弗夫人一脸满足，吃完了最后一大口。
这是一顿非常棒的午餐，非常棒。
奥利弗夫人非常喜欢这样的物质享受。她享受这次午宴，也享受着他人的陪伴。尽管午宴是为女作家们举办的，但幸运的是，到场的宾客不仅限于她们，其他的评论家、作家和读者也均在座。奥利弗夫人坐在两位非常有魅力的男士中间。其中一位是埃德温•奥宾，奥利弗夫人一直很喜欢他的诗。他是一位非常有趣的人，这都源自他丰富的国外旅行见闻、广博的学识和亲身的探险经历。同时，埃德温•奥宾对餐馆和食物也很感兴趣，他们兴致勃勃地聊着关于食物的话题，把午宴的主题——文学抛在了脑后。
坐在奥利弗夫人另一边的是韦斯利•肯特爵士，他也是一位令人愉悦的午宴伙伴。他恰到好处地赞美了奥利弗夫人的作品，完全没有让她感到尴尬，这是很多人做不到的。他还提到了喜欢她的书的一两个理由，而这些理由都是合情合理的。因此奥利弗夫人十分喜欢他。她想，来自男人的赞美总是恰当的，女人的赞美则太过夸张。那些女性读者写给她的信啊！真的要提那些事吗？当然也不总是女性，有时候那些来自遥远国家的年轻男子，他们也会太过于情绪化。就在上周她才收到了一封读者来信，信的开头是这样的，“读了您的书之后，我觉得您一定是一位高尚的女士。”信中还提到，在看完《第二条金鱼》后，他就陷入了一种对文学的强烈痴迷状态，这让奥利弗夫人感觉很不合适。她并不是过分谦虚，她认为自己写的侦探小说的确是同类小说中的佼佼者。有一些故事并没那么好，但另一些要比其他小说好得多。但即使这样，从她的角度来说，也没有任何原因能让别人认为她是一个高尚的女人。她只是一个幸运的女人，一个拥有令人愉悦的写作技巧并有很多读者的幸运女人。这是多么棒的运气啊！奥利弗夫人暗自想道。
好了，如果把所有事情都考虑进去，她已经顺利地度过了这折磨人的午宴。她自己很享受，也跟别人进行了愉快的交谈。现在宾客们要移步至喝咖啡的地方。在那儿，你可以自由地更换谈话对象，和更多的人进行交谈。奥利弗夫人深知，这才是最危险的时刻，那些女人一定会来攻击她，而她们的武器便是虚伪的赞美。她总觉得自己的回答既拙劣又空洞，根本不是正确的回复，但这是因为你根本无法就那样的问题给出什么正确回答。这就像一本出国旅行攻略书中教你的日常用语一样没用。
例如：“我一定要告诉您我有多么喜欢您的书，它们真是太精彩了。”
每当这时，奥利弗夫人只能慌张地回答：“那可真好，我很高兴您喜欢它。”
“您必须明白，为了要见您，我已经等了好几个月了。这可真是太棒了。”
“噢，你人可真好，特别好。”
谈话就像这样进行下去，似乎你们的谈话只能是关于你的书，或是你了解的其他女作家的书，根本无法聊些书以外的趣事。你就像掉进了一张文学的大网，但你又不擅长谈论这样的话题。也许有些人能做到，但奥利弗夫人痛苦地意识到自己并不具备这种能力。她曾在一个外国大使馆暂住，那时一位外国朋友指出了这一点。
“我听过您讲话，”艾伯蒂娜用她那迷人、低沉的异国腔调说，“我听过一位年轻的报社记者对您进行的采访。您没有表达出来——完全没有！您完全没有表达出对自己作品应有的自豪。您应该说，‘是的，我写得很好。我写的侦探小说比其他侦探小说都好。’”
“但我并没有写得那么好，”奥利弗夫人说，“我是写得不差，但是——”
“哎呀，别说‘我并不是’。您一定要说您是。即便您不这么认为，也要这么说。”
“艾伯蒂娜，我希望你能见见那些来采访的记者，”奥利弗夫人说，“你一定能做得很好。你能不能装作是我，然后让我在门后偷偷听？”
“嗯，我觉得我能做到，那应该会很有趣。但是他们会知道我并不是您，因为他们认识您的脸。记住，您一定要说‘是的，我知道我比其他人都好’。您必须这样告诉所有人。他们应该知道这一点，甚至应该广而告之。真的，听您说那样的话真是太可怕了，好像您在为自己成为这样的人道歉似的。您可千万别再这样了。”
奥利弗夫人想，她就像一个新演员在学习如何表现角色似的，而导演却发现她在接受指导方面无药可救。好了，不管怎么样，到现在还没有什么大的窘境出现。当他们所有人一起从桌边站起身时，已经有几位女士在等着了。实际上，奥利弗夫人看到有几位已经徘徊了一阵子，这并不是什么大麻烦。她只要微笑着走过去，友善地说“你真好，我真高兴。
知道有人喜欢我的书真是太让人高兴了”。都是些陈词滥调。这就像把手伸进一个盒子，从中取出几个已经排列好的有用的词，像把珠子串成项链一样。而用不了多久，她就能离开这里了。
奥利弗夫人环视了一下桌子四周，因为她很可能会看到一些朋友，又或是潜在的仰慕者。的确，她看到了远处的莫林•格兰特，那可是个有趣的人。这时，女作家和参加午宴的骑士们都站了起来。他们向椅子、咖啡桌、沙发和那些隐秘的角落涌去。奥利弗夫人暗想，这种时刻才是最危险的。这样的场景应该更多地出现在鸡尾酒会上，而不是文学聚会，当然这也是因为她很少参加这样的文学聚会。任何时刻都可能发生危险情况，例如有些人记得你而你却不记得他们，又或是你无法避免地要与自己不想遇到的人交谈。这时，这种进退两难情况中的前者发生了。一个大个子女人向她走来。这个女人身材高大，牙齿洁白，嘴里像是在咀嚼着什么东西。法语中会将这种人称作“一个令人敬畏的女人 （原文为法语，une femme formidable。——译者注） ”。但她可不只是法语中所说的令人敬畏，英语中所谓专横跋扈在她身上也有体现。很明显，她要不就是认识奥利弗夫人，要不就是想当场跟奥利弗夫人套近乎。事实证明当时的情况是后者。
“奥利弗夫人，”她高声说，“今天能见到您可真是我的荣幸。我很久以前就希望能见到您。我和我的儿子都特别喜爱您写的书。我丈夫过去坚持说，不带上两本您的书就没法去旅行。您来，请坐下。我有好多事情想要向您请教呢。”
唉，她可不是我喜欢的那种女人，奥利弗夫人想，但是她跟其他人也没什么两样。
奥利弗夫人任由那女人像警察一样把自己领到一个角落里的长靠椅前。她的新朋友接过一杯咖啡后，也在她的面前放了一杯。
“好了，现在我们已经坐定了。我猜您不知道我的名字，我是伯顿-考克斯夫人。”
“好的。”奥利弗夫人如往常一样尴尬地说。伯顿-考克斯夫人？她也写书吗？不，奥利弗夫人真的想不起来任何与这女人有关的事，但又好像听过这个名字。她脑海中闪过一丝模糊的记忆，她是不是写了一本有关政治或是类似的书？不是小说，不是轶事，也不是侦探小说。也许是一本带有政治偏见的书，显得很有学问似的。这样就简单多了，奥利弗夫人松了一口气。她想到，我可以让她一直讲话，时不时说上几句“真有趣啊”就好了。
“对于我接下来要说的话，您一定会感到十分惊讶。”伯顿-考克斯夫人说，“但是通过读您的书，我感觉您是一位能够与人产生情感共鸣的人。我觉得如果有人能够对我接下来将要问您的问题给我一个答案，这个人一定是您。”
“我不这么认为，真的……”奥利弗夫人说道。她努力想要找出几个词来说明她并不确定自己是否担得起如此高的要求。
伯顿-考克斯夫人拿起一块方糖在咖啡里蘸了蘸，像食肉动物似的嘎吱嘎吱地嚼着，就像那是一块骨头似的。也许是象牙质的牙齿，奥利弗夫人模糊地想着。狗和海象的牙齿都是象牙质的，当然，大象的牙齿也是，它们的牙齿可是又大又长。
伯顿－考克斯夫人说道：“现在我要问您第一件事——虽然我敢肯定我是对的——您有个教女，对吗？她叫西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特？”
“噢，”奥利弗夫人说，既惊讶又开心。她觉得自己也许能应付一个教女的话题。问题是她有很多教女和教子。有时候她不得不承认，随着她慢慢上了年纪，她没法记得他们所有人。她已经在适当的时候尽了自己作为教母的责任。一个人作为教母的责任就是在教子、教女们还年幼的那几年送给他们圣诞礼物，去拜访他们和他们的父母，或是在他们成长的过程中让他们来自己家做客，又或是从学校中把他们接出来。然后，在加冕礼的二十一岁生日那天，做些气派的事情获得大家的认可，或是在他们结婚那天送上一些礼物或是礼金，以此来表达自己的祝福。从那之后教子们就会渐渐远离，他们要么结婚要么出国，到驻外使馆，在外国的学校中教书，又或从事各种社会工作。不管怎样，他们都会一点一点地从你的生活中消失。如果他们突然出现，你见到他们会很高兴。但是一定记得要想清楚你最后一次见他们是什么时候，他们是谁的儿女，以及你是因为什么被选为教母的。
“西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特，”奥利弗夫人尽她最大的努力说，“是的，当然。我当然有这么一个教女。”
她眼前并没有出现西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特的样子，有的话也是很早以前的记忆了，有关于那次洗礼的记忆。她去参加了西莉亚的洗礼仪式，还送了一个非常精美的安妮王后时期的银质过滤器作为礼物。那个过滤器确实非常精美，用来过滤牛奶特别好。而且如果教女急需用钱，她还可以把这个过滤器卖个好价钱。是的，她清清楚楚地记得那个过滤器是一七一一年安妮女王时期制成的。上面还印着不列颠尼亚 （不列颠尼亚，是罗马帝国对不列颠岛的拉丁语称呼， 后又据此衍生出守护不列颠岛的女神名称。——译者注） 女神标志。比起实实在在的小孩，记起一个银质咖啡壶、过滤器或是洗礼用的大杯子可要容易多了。
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“是的，当然。但恐怕我已经很久没有见过西莉亚了。”
“啊，是的。当然，她是一个比较冲动的女孩，”伯顿－考克斯夫人说，“我是说，她经常会改变主意。当然，她很聪明，在大学成绩也很好。但是——问题在于她的政治见解——我猜现在的年轻人都有自己的政治见解。”
“恐怕我对政治接触得不多。”奥利弗夫人说，她极其厌恶政治。
“您看，我正准备跟您说说心里话。我要告诉您我想知道的事，我相信您一定不会介意。我听很多人说起过您人有多好，总是愿意帮助别人。”
我想知道她是不是要跟我借钱，奥利弗夫人想，她经历过很多次谈话都是以这种方式开始的。
“您看，现在对我来说是最重要的时刻。我感觉有些关于西莉亚的事情我必须要了解。
西莉亚将要嫁给——至少她觉得她会嫁给——我的儿子，德斯蒙德。”
“噢，真的吗？”奥利弗夫人说。
“至少，他们目前是这么想的。当然，一个人必须要了解别人，有些事是我非常想知道的。这件事问别人有些不太妥当。而且我不能——我是说，我不能直接去问一个陌生人，但是我觉得您不是陌生人，亲爱的奥利弗夫人。”
奥利弗夫人想，我倒希望你觉得我是个陌生人。她开始紧张起来，想知道西莉亚是不是已经有了一个私生子，或是她将要有一个私生子。而奥利弗夫人她自己，是否应该知道这件事的细节。这可就太尴尬了。另一方面，奥利弗夫人想，我已经有五六年没有见过她了，她已经有二十五六岁了吧。所以我可以轻松地说我什么都不知道。
伯顿－考克斯夫人向前探着身子，呼吸沉重。
“我想让您告诉我是因为我觉得您一定知道这件事，或是知道这件事是怎么发生的。究竟是她母亲杀死了她父亲，还是她父亲杀死了她母亲？”
奥利弗夫人万万没想到她会提出这个问题。她难以置信地盯着伯顿-考克斯夫人。
“但是我不——”奥利弗夫人停了一下，“我，我不明白。我是说，为什么……”
“亲爱的奥利弗夫人，您一定知道……我是说，这么有名的案子……当然，我知道那已经是很久以前的事了，我猜至少有十到十二年了，但当年真是轰动一时。我敢肯定您记得，您一定记得。”
奥利弗夫人的大脑绝望地运转着。西莉亚是她的教女，这倒是没错。西莉亚的母亲——是的，当然，她的母亲莫莉•普雷斯顿-格雷是她的一位不太亲密的朋友。莫莉嫁给了一个军人，是的，他叫什么来着——什么雷文斯克罗夫特爵士。还是说他是个大使？不可思议，人总是记不清这种事。她甚至记不清有没有给莫莉当过伴娘，她想她是当过的。他们的婚礼相当时髦，好像是在士兵教堂或是类似的地方举行的。但她真的忘记了。婚礼之后她又有很多年没有见过他们——他们去了别的地方——中东？波斯？伊拉克？又一次去了埃及？马来亚？在他们偶然回到英格兰时，她再次遇见过他们。但他们就像一张拍好后供人观看的照片，你模糊地知道照片中的人是谁，但照片已经褪色，你认不出也记不得照片中的人。奥利弗夫人现在也想不起雷文斯克罗夫特爵士和夫人，即莫莉•普雷斯顿-格雷，是否对自己的生活产生过什么影响。她认为没有过。但是……伯顿-考克斯夫人还在盯着她看，似乎对她缺乏专业素养 （原文为法语，savoir-faire。——译者注） 和不能够回忆起如此轰动一时的案件 （原文为法语，cause célèbre。——译者注） 感到失望。
“杀死？你是说——一起事故？”
“噢，不，那并不是一起事故。我想那是在康沃尔，一栋海边的房子。那里有很多岩石。不管怎么说，他们在那儿有一栋房子。他们被发现时双双被枪射杀，死在悬崖上。但现场没有任何东西能让警察查出究竟是妻子先射杀了丈夫后自杀，还是丈夫先杀了妻子后自杀。警察仔细研究了那些证据——包括子弹和其他东西，但是太难了。他们认为可能是一种自杀约定——我忘了当时的结论了，可能是意外吧。但是所有的人都知道，那一定不是单纯的意外。那时真是传闻满天飞呢。”
“可能都是些凭空捏造的传闻吧。”奥利弗夫人说着，希望自己能努力回忆起其中一个故事。
“也许吧，也许，也很难说。有传言说这件事发生的当天或是前一天，有人听到他们争吵，也有传言说夫人在外面还有另一个男人，当然还有人说将军在外面有另一个女人。我们永远也没法知道事情究竟是怎样的。我想这件事能如此快地冷却下来是因为雷文斯克罗夫特将军的地位相当高。据说雷文斯克罗夫特将军那一年都待在疗养院中，他很虚弱或是什么的，而且他根本就不知道自己在做什么。”
“恐怕，”奥利弗夫人坚定地说，“我必须说明我对这件事一无所知。在你提起之后，我确实想起来发生过这么一件事。我记得那些名字，也认识那些人，但是我从来都不知道发生了什么，也不知道关于这件事的任何情况。我真的什么也不知道……”
真的，奥利弗夫人想，她希望自己有足够的勇气说，你怎么胆敢如此鲁莽无礼地问我这样一件我根本不知道的事情。
“我要知道这件事，它对我很重要。”伯顿-考克斯夫人说。
她的眼睛开始闪烁起来，就像坚硬的大理石。
“它很重要，您知道，因为我最爱的儿子想娶西莉亚。”
“恐怕我帮不了你，”奥利弗夫人说，“我什么都不知道。”
“您肯定知道，”伯顿-考克斯夫人说，“我是说，您写的故事那么精彩，您对犯罪这种事了如指掌。您知道谁会犯罪和他们为什么要犯罪。我很肯定各种各样的人都会告诉您那些故事背后的内情，因为他们对这种事情想过很多。”
“我一无所知。”奥利弗夫人不再礼貌，语气也有些厌恶。
“但是您肯定能理解，我真的不知道还能去问谁。我是说，经过这么多年之后，我肯定不能再去问警察。很显然，他们试图把这件事压下去，所以我想他们什么也不会告诉我。
但我觉得知道真相很重要。”
“我只写书。”奥利弗夫人冷淡地说，“我写的那些故事纯属虚构。我个人对犯罪一窍不通，对犯罪学也没什么研究。恐怕我无法以任何方式帮你。”
“但是您可以去问您的教女啊。您可以去问西莉亚。”
“去问西莉亚？”奥利弗夫人再次瞪大了双眼，“我不觉得我应该那么做。她还是——我想这件惨案发生时她还是个很小的孩子。”
“噢，但是我认为她知道一切。”伯顿-考克斯夫人说，“小孩子总是什么都知道。她会告诉您的，我确定她会告诉您。”
“我认为你最好亲自去问她。”奥利弗夫人说。
“我真的没法那样做。”伯顿-考克斯夫人说，“您知道，我认为德斯蒙德不会喜欢我那样做。他相当……唉，只要涉及西莉亚，他就相当敏感，所以我真的不认为……不……我相信她会告诉您的。”
“我真的做梦都没想过要去问她。”奥利弗夫人说，她假装看了一眼手表，“天啊，”她说，“这次愉快的午宴已经结束很久了。我得赶快走了，我还有个非常重要的约会。再见，呃，伯顿-考克斯夫人，真抱歉我帮不了你，这些事相当微妙。在你看来，知道或不知道这件事有什么区别吗？”
“我认为这区别可大了。”
这时，奥利弗夫人非常熟悉的一位文坛友人刚好经过。奥利弗夫人跳起来抓住了她的手臂。
“路易斯，亲爱的，见到你真高兴。我没注意到你也在这儿。”
“噢，阿里阿德涅，好久不见。你瘦了好多，对吗？”
“你总是说些令我愉悦的事。”奥利弗夫人一边说，一边用手挽住她的朋友，离开了长椅。“我正打算要离开这里，我还有个约会。”
“我猜你是被那个可怕的女人困住了，对吧？”她的朋友说着，越过她的肩膀看了看伯顿-考克斯夫人。
“她正在问我一些最不寻常的问题。”奥利弗夫人说。
“噢，你不知道怎么回答吗？”
“不知道。本来那也不关我的事，我什么都不知道。我根本也不想回答那些问题。”
“是关于什么有趣的事吗？”
“我猜，”奥利弗夫人说着，一个新念头浮现在她脑海中，“我猜可能很有趣，只不过——”
“她起身追来了。”她的朋友说，“来，我送你出去。你的车如果还没来的话，我送你去你要去的地方。”
“在伦敦我从来不把车开出来，太难停车了。”
“我知道，简直要命。”
奥利弗夫人友好地跟大家道了别。谢天谢地，她带着令人愉悦的话语离开了。汽车一会儿就行驶在伦敦的某个广场上了。
“伊顿公寓，是吗？”那个好心的朋友说。
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“但我现在要去——我想是怀特弗雷尔斯大厦。我记不太清名字了，但是我知道在哪儿。”
“噢，相当现代的公寓，方方正正的。”
“没错。”奥利弗夫人说。
Two FIRST MENTION OF ELEPHANTS
Two FIRST MENTION OF ELEPHANTS
Having failed to find her friend Hercule Poirot at home, Mrs. Oliver had to resort to a telephoneenquiry.
“Are you by any chance going to be at home this evening?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
She sat by her telephone, her fingers tapping rather nervously on the table.
“Would that be—?”
“Ariadne Oliver,” said Mrs. Oliver, who was always surprised to find she had to give her namebecause she always expected all her friends to know her voice as soon as they heard it.
“Yes, I shall be at home all this evening. Does that mean that I may have the pleasure of a visitfrom you?”
“It’s very nice of you to put it that way,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know that it will be such apleasure.”
“It is always a pleasure to see you, chère Madame.”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I might be going to—well, bother you rather. Ask things. Iwant to know what you think about something.”
“That I am always ready to tell anyone,” said Poirot.
“Something’s come up,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Something tiresome and I don’t know what to doabout it.”
“And so you will come and see me. I am flattered. Highly flattered.”
“What time would suit you?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Nine o’clock? We will drink coffee together, perhaps, unless you prefer a Grenadine or a Siropde Cassis. But no, you do not like that. I remember.”
“George,” said Poirot, to his invaluable manservant, “we are to receive tonight the pleasure of avisit from Mrs. Oliver. Coffee, I think, and perhaps a liqueur of some kind. I am never sure whatshe likes.”
“I have seen her drink kirsch, sir.”
“And also, I think, crème de menthe. But kirsch, I think, is what she prefers. Very well then,”
said Poirot. “So be it.”
Mrs. Oliver came punctual to time. Poirot had been wondering, while eating his dinner, what itwas that was driving Mrs. Oliver to visit him, and why she was so doubtful about what she wasdoing. Was she bringing him some difficult problem, or was she acquainting him with a crime? AsPoirot knew well, it could be anything with Mrs. Oliver. The most commonplace things or themost extraordinary things. They were, as you might say, all alike to her. She was worried, hethought. Ah well, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, he could deal with Mrs. Oliver. He alwayshad been able to deal with Mrs. Oliver. On occasion she maddened him. At the same time he wasreally very much attached to her. They had shared many experiences and experiments together. Hehad read something about her in the paper only that morning—or was it the evening paper? Hemust try and remember it before she came. He had just done so when she was announced.
She came into the room and Poirot deduced at once that his diagnosis of worry was true enough.
Her hairdo, which was fairly elaborate, had been ruffled by the fact that she had been running herfingers through it in the frenzied and feverish way that she did sometimes. He received her withevery sign of pleasure, established her in a chair, poured her some coffee and handed her a glass ofkirsch.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Oliver, with the sigh of someone who has relief. “I expect you’re going to thinkI’m awfully silly, but still. .?.?.”
“I see, or rather, I saw in the paper that you were attending a literary luncheon today. Famouswomen writers. Something of that kind. I thought you never did that kind of thing.”
“I don’t usually,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and I shan’t ever do it again.”
“Ah. You suffered much?” Poirot was quite sympathetic.
He knew Mrs. Oliver’s embarrassing moments. Extravagant praise of her books always upsether highly because, as she had once told him, she never knew the proper answers.
“You did not enjoy it?”
“Up to a point I did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and then something very tiresome happened.”
“Ah. And that is what you have come to see me about.”
“Yes, but I really don’t know why. I mean, it’s nothing to do with you and I don’t think it’s thesort of thing you’d even be interested in. And I’m not really interested in it. At least, I suppose Imust be or I wouldn’t have wanted to come to you to know what you thought. To know what—well, what you’d do if you were me.”
“That is a very difficult question, that last one,” said Poirot. “I know how I, Hercule Poirot,would act in anything, but I do not know how you would act, well though I know you.”
“You must have some idea by this time,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve known me long enough.”
“About what—twenty years now?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can never remember what years are, what dates are. You know, I get mixedup. I know 1939 because that’s when the war started and I know other dates because of queerthings, here and there.”
“Anyway, you went to your literary luncheon. And you did not enjoy it very much.”
“I enjoyed the lunch but it was afterwards. .?.?.”
“People said things to you,” said Poirot, with the kindliness of a doctor demanding symptoms.
“Well, they were just getting ready to say things to me. Suddenly one of those large, bossywomen who always manage to dominate everyone and who can make you feel moreuncomfortable than anyone else, descended on me. You know, like somebody who catches abutterfly or something, only she’d have needed a butterfly net. She sort of rounded me up andpushed me onto a settee and then she began to talk to me, starting about a goddaughter of mine.”
“Ah yes. A goddaughter you are fond of?”
“I haven’t seen her for a good many years,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I can’t keep up with all of them,I mean. And then she asked me a most worrying question. She wanted me—oh dear, how verydifficult it is for me to tell this—”
“No, it isn’t,” said Poirot kindly. “It is quite easy. Everyone tells everything to me sooner orlater. I’m only a foreigner, you see, so it does not matter. It is easy because I am a foreigner.”
“Well, it is rather easy to say things to you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You see, she asked me about thegirl’s father and mother. She asked me whether her mother had killed her father or her father hadkilled her mother.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Poirot.
“Oh, I know it sounds mad. Well, I thought it was mad.”
“Whether your goddaughter’s mother had killed her father, or whether her father had killed hermother.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“But—was that a matter of fact? Had her father killed her mother or her mother killed herfather?”
“Well, they were both found shot,” said Mrs. Oliver. “On the top of a cliff. I can’t remember ifit was in Cornwall or in Corsica. Something like that.”
“Then it was true, then, what she said?”
“Oh yes, that part of it was true. It happened years ago. Well, but I mean—why come to me?”
“All because you were a crime writer,” said Poirot. “She no doubt said you knew all aboutcrime. This was a real thing that happened?”
“Oh yes. It wasn’t something like what would A do—or what would be the proper procedure ifyour mother had killed your father or your father had killed your mother. No, it was somethingthat really happened. I suppose really I’d better tell you all about it. I mean, I can’t remember allabout it but it was quite well known at the time. It was about—oh, I should think it was abouttwelve years ago at least. And, as I say, I can remember the names of the people because I didknow them. The wife had been at school with me and I’d known her quite well. We’d beenfriends. It was a well-known case—you know, it was in all the papers and things like that. SirAlistair Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft. A very happy couple and he was a colonel or a generaland she’d been with him and they’d been all over the world. Then they bought this housesomewhere—I think it was abroad but I can’t remember. And then there were suddenly accountsof this case in the papers. Whether somebody else had killed them or whether they’d beenassassinated or something, or whether they killed each other. I think it was a revolver that hadbeen in the house for ages and—well, I’d better tell you as much as I can remember.”
Pulling herself slightly together, Mrs. Oliver managed to give Poirot a more or less clear résuméof what she had been told. Poirot from time to time checked on a point here or there.
“But why?” he said finally, “why should this woman want to know this?”
“Well, that’s what I want to find out,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I could get hold of Celia, I think. Imean, she still lives in London. Or perhaps it’s Cambridge she lives in, or Oxford—I think she’sgot a degree and either lectures here or teaches somewhere, or does something like that. And—very modern, you know. Goes about with long-haired people in queer clothes. I don’t think shetakes drugs. She’s quite all right and—just very occasionally I hear from her. I mean, she sends acard at Christmas and things like that. Well, one doesn’t think of one’s godchildren all the time,and she’s quite twenty-five or -six.”
“Not married?”
“No. Apparently she is going to marry—or that is the idea—Mrs.—What’s the name of thatwoman again?—oh yes, Mrs. Brittle—no—Burton-Cox’s son.”
“And Mrs. Burton-Cox does not want her son to marry this girl because her father killed hermother or her mother killed her father?”
“Well, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s the only thing I can think. But what does it matterwhich? If one of your parents killed the other, would it really matter to the mother of the boy youwere going to marry, which way round it was?”
“That is a thing one might have to think about,” said Poirot. “It is—yes, you know it is quiteinteresting. I do not mean it is very interesting about Sir Alistair Ravenscroft or Lady Ravenscroft.
I seem to remember vaguely—oh, some case like this one, or it might not have been the same one.
But it is very strange about Mrs. Burton-Cox. Perhaps she is a bit touched in the head. Is she veryfond of her son?”
“Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Probably she doesn’t want him to marry this girl at all.”
“Because she may have inherited a predisposition to murder the man she marries—or somethingof that kind?”
“How do I know?” said Mrs. Oliver. “She seems to think that I can tell her, and she’s really nottold me enough, has she? But why, do you think? What’s behind it all? What does it mean?”
“It would be almost interesting to find out,” said Poirot.
“Well, that’s why I’ve come to you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You like finding out things. Things thatyou can’t see the reason for at first. I mean, that nobody can see the reason for.”
“Do you think Mrs. Burton-Cox has any preference?” said Poirot.
“You mean that she’d rather the husband killed the wife, or the wife killed the husband? I don’tthink so.”
“Well,” said Poirot, “I see your dilemma. It is very intriguing. You come home from a party.
You’ve been asked to do something that is very difficult, almost impossible, and—you wonderwhat is the proper way to deal with such a thing.”
“Well, what would you think is the proper way?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“It is not easy for me to say,” said Poirot. “I’m not a woman. A woman whom you do not reallyknow, whom you had met at a party, has put this problem to you, asked you to do it, giving nodiscernible reason.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Now what does Ariadne do? What does A do, in other words, if youwere reading this as a problem in a newspaper?”
“Well, I suppose,” said Poirot, “there are three things that A could do. A could write a note toMrs. Burton-Cox and say, ‘I’m very sorry but I really feel I cannot oblige you in this matter,’ orwhatever words you like to put. B. You get into touch with your goddaughter and you tell herwhat has been asked of you by the mother of the boy, or the young man, or whatever he is, whomshe is thinking of marrying. You will find out from her if she is really thinking of marrying thisyoung man. If so, whether she has any idea or whether the young man has said anything to herabout what his mother has got in her head. And there will be other interesting points, like findingout what this girl thinks of the mother of the young man she wants to marry. The third thing youcould do,” said Poirot, “and this really is what I firmly advise you to do, is .?.?.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Oliver, “one word.”
“Nothing,” said Poirot.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know that is the simple and proper thing to do. Nothing. It’sdarned cheek to go and tell a girl who’s my goddaughter what her future mother-in-law is goingabout saying, and asking people. But—”
“I know,” said Poirot, “it is human curiosity.”
“I want to know why that odious woman came and said what she did to me,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Once I know that I could relax and forget all about it. But until I know that. .?.?.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “you won’t sleep. You’ll wake up in the night and, if I know you, you willhave the most extraordinary and extravagant ideas which presently, probably, you will be able tomake into a most attractive crime story. A whodunit—a thriller. All sorts of things.”
“Well, I suppose I could if I thought of it that way,” said Mrs. Oliver. Her eyes flashed slightly.
“Leave it alone,” said Poirot. “It will be a very difficult plot to undertake. It seems as thoughthere could be no good reason for this.”
“But I’d like to make sure that there is no good reason.”
“Human curiosity,” said Poirot. “Such a very interesting thing.” He sighed. “To think what weowe to it throughout history. Curiosity. I don’t know who invented curiosity. It is said to beusually associated with the cat. Curiosity killed the cat. But I should say really that the Greekswere the inventors of curiosity. They wanted to know. Before them, as far as I can see, nobodywanted to know much. They just wanted to know what the rules of the country they were living inwere, and how they could avoid having their heads cut off or being impaled on spikes orsomething disagreeable happening to them. But they either obeyed or disobeyed. They didn’t wantto know why. But since then a lot of people have wanted to know why and all sorts of things havehappened because of that. Boats, trains, flying machines and atom bombs and penicillin and curesfor various illnesses. A little boy watches his mother’s kettle raising its lid because of the steam.
And the next thing we know is we have railway trains, leading on in due course to railway strikesand all that. And so on and so on.”
“Just tell me,” said Mrs. Oliver, “do you think I’m a terrible nosey parker?”
“No, I don’t,” said Poirot. “On the whole I don’t think you are a woman of great curiosity. But Ican quite see you getting in a het-up state at a literary party, busy defending yourself against toomuch kindness, too much praise. You ran yourself instead into a very awkward dilemma, and tooka very strong dislike to the person who ran you into it.”
“Yes. She’s a very tiresome woman, a very disagreeable woman.”
“This murder in the past of this husband and wife who were supposed to get on well togetherand no apparent signs of a quarrel was known. One never really read about any cause for it,according to you?”
“They were shot. Yes, they were shot. It could have been a suicide pact. I think the policethought it was at first. Of course, one can’t find out about things all those years afterwards.”
“Oh yes,” said Poirot, “I think I could find out something about it.”
“You mean—through the exciting friends you’ve got?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say the exciting friends, perhaps. Certainly there are knowledgeable friends,friends who could get certain records, look up the accounts that were given of the crime at thetime, some access I could get to certain records.”
“You could find out things,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, “and then tell me.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I think I could help you to know at any rate the full facts of the case. It’lltake a little time, though.”
“I can see that if you do that, which is what I want you to do, I’ve got to do something myself.
I’ll have to see the girl. I’ve got to see whether she knows anything about all this, ask her if she’dlike me to give her mother-in-law-to-be a raspberry or whether there is any other way in which Ican help her. And I’d like to see the boy she’s going to marry, too.”
“Quite right,” said Poirot. “Excellent.”
“And I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver, “there might be people—” She broke off, frowning.
“I don’t suppose people will be very much good,” said Hercule Poirot. “This is an affair of thepast. A cause célèbre perhaps at the time. But what is a cause célèbre when you come to think ofit? Unless it comes to an astonishing dénouement, which this one didn’t. Nobody remembers it.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that is quite true. There was a lot about it in the papers and mentions ofit for some time, and then it just—faded out. Well, like things do now. Like that girl, the other day.
You know, who left her home and they couldn’t find her anywhere. Well, I mean, that was five orsix years ago and then suddenly a little boy, playing about in a sand heap or a gravel pit orsomething, suddenly came across her dead body. Five or six years later.”
“That is true,” said Poirot. “And it is true that knowing from that body how long it is since deathand what happened on the particular day and going back over various events of which there is awritten record, one may in the end turn up a murderer. But it will be more difficult in your problemsince it seems the answer must be one of two things: that the husband disliked his wife and wantedto get rid of her, or that the wife hated her husband or else had a lover. Therefore, it might havebeen a passionate crime or something quite different. Anyway, there would be nothing, as it were,to find out about it. If the police could not find out at the time, then the motive must have been adifficult one, not easy to see. Therefore it has remained a nine days’ wonder, that is all.”
“I suppose I can go to the daughter. Perhaps that is what that odious woman was getting me todo—wanted me to do. She thought the daughter knew—well, the daughter might have known,”
said Mrs. Oliver. “Children do, you know. They know the most extraordinary things.”
“Have you any idea how old this goddaughter of yours would have been at the time?”
“Well, I have if I reckon it up, but I can’t say offhand. I think she might have been nine or ten,but perhaps older, I don’t know. I think that she was away at school at the time. But that may bejust my fancy, remembering back what I read.”
“But you think Mrs. Burton-Cox’s wish was to make you get information from the daughter?
Perhaps the daughter knows something, perhaps she said something to the son, and the son saidsomething to his mother. I expect Mrs. Burton-Cox tried to question the girl herself and gotrebuffed, but thought the famous Mrs. Oliver, being both a godmother and also full of criminalknowledge, might obtain information. Though why it should matter to her, I still don’t see,” saidPoirot. “And it does not seem to me that what you call vaguely ‘people’ can help after all thistime.” He added, “Would anybody remember?”
“Well, that’s where I think they might,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“You surprise me,” said Poirot, looking at her with a somewhat puzzled face. “Do peopleremember?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I was really thinking of elephants.”
“Elephants?”
As he had thought often before, Poirot thought that really Mrs. Oliver was the mostunaccountable woman. Why suddenly elephants?
“I was thinking of elephants at the lunch yesterday,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Why were you thinking of elephants?” said Poirot, with some curiosity.
“Well, I was really thinking of teeth. You know, things one tries to eat, and if you’ve got somesort of false teeth—well, you can’t do it very well. You know, you’ve got to know what you caneat and what you can’t.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, with a deep sigh. “Yes, yes. The dentists, they can do much for you, but noteverything.”
“Quite so. And then I thought of—you know—our teeth being only bone and so not awfullygood, and how nice it would be to be a dog, who has real ivory teeth. And then I thought ofanyone else who has ivory teeth, and I thought about walruses and—oh, other things like that. AndI thought about elephants. Of course when you think of ivory you do think of elephants, don’tyou? Great big elephant tusks.”
“That is very true,” said Poirot, still not seeing the point of what Mrs. Oliver was saying.
“So I thought that what we’ve really got to do is to get at the people who are like elephants.
Because elephants, so they say, don’t forget.”
“I have heard the phrase, yes,” said Poirot.
“Elephants don’t forget,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You know, a story children get brought up on?
How someone, an Indian tailor, stuck a needle or something in an elephant’s tusk. No. Not a tusk,his trunk, of course, an elephant’s trunk. And the next time the elephant came past he had a greatmouthful of water and he splashed it out all over the tailor though he hadn’t seen him for severalyears. He hadn’t forgotten. He remembered. That’s the point, you see. Elephants remember. WhatI’ve got to do is—I’ve got to get in touch with some elephants.”
“I do not know yet if I quite see what you mean,” said Hercule Poirot. “Who are you classifyingas elephants? You sound as though you were going for information to the Zoo.”
“Well, it’s not exactly like that,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Not elephants, as elephants, but the waypeople up to a point would resemble elephants. There are some people who do remember. In fact,one does remember queer things, I mean there are a lot of things that I remember very well. Theyhappened—I remember a birthday party I had when I was five, and a pink cake—a lovely pinkcake. It had a sugar bird on it. And I remember the day my canary flew away and I cried. And Iremember another day when I went into a field and there was a bull there and somebody said itwould gore me, and I was terrified and wanted to run out of the field. Well, I remember that quitewell. It was a Tuesday too. I don’t know why I should remember it was a Tuesday, but it was aTuesday. And I remember a wonderful picnic with blackberries. I remember getting prickedterribly, but getting more blackberries than anyone else. It was wonderful! By that time I was nine,I think. But one needn’t go back as far as that. I mean, I’ve been to hundreds of weddings in mylife, but when I look back on a wedding there are only two that I remember particularly. Onewhere I was a bridesmaid. It took place in the New Forest, I remember, and I can’t remember whowas there actually. I think it was a cousin of mine getting married. I didn’t know her very well butshe wanted a good many bridesmaids and, well, I came in handy, I suppose. But I know anotherwedding. That was a friend of mine in the Navy. He was nearly drowned in a submarine, and thenhe was saved, and then the girl he was engaged to, her people didn’t want her to marry him butthen he did marry her after that and I was one of her bridesmaids at the marriage. Well, I mean,there’s always things you do remember.”
“I see your point,” said Poirot. “I find it interesting. So you will go à la recherche deséléphants?”
“That’s right. I’d have to get the date right.”
“There,” said Poirot, “I hope I may be able to help you.”
“And then I’ll think of people I knew about at that time, people that I may have known who alsoknew the same friends that I did, who probably knew General What-not. People who may haveknown them abroad, but whom I also knew although I mayn’t have seen them for a good manyyears. You can look up people, you know, that you haven’t seen for a long time. Because peopleare always quite pleased to see someone coming up out of the past, even if they can’t remembervery much about you. And then you naturally will talk about the things that were happening at thatdate, that you remember about.”
“Very interesting,” said Poirot. “I think you are very well equipped for what you propose to do.
People who knew the Ravenscrofts either well or not very well; people who lived in the same partof the world where the things happened or who might have been staying there. More difficult, but Ithink one could get at it. And so, somehow or other one would try different things. Start a little talkgoing about what happened, what they think happened, what anyone else has ever told you aboutwhat might have happened. About any love affairs the husband or wife had, about any money thatsomebody might have inherited. I think you could scratch up a lot of things.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’m afraid really I’m just a nosey parker.”
“You’ve been given an assignment,” said Poirot, “not by someone you like, not by someoneyou wish to oblige, but someone you entirely dislike. That does not matter. You are still on aquest, a quest of knowledge. You take your own path. It is the path of the elephants. The elephantsmay remember. Bon voyage,” said Poirot.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I’m sending you forth on your voyage of discovery,” said Poirot. “? la recherche deséléphants.”
“I expect I’m mad,” said Mrs. Oliver sadly. She brushed her hands through her hair again sothat she looked like the old picture books of Struwelpeter. “I was just thinking of starting a storyabout a golden retriever. But it wasn’t going well. I couldn’t get started, if you know what Imean.”
“All right, abandon the golden retriever. Concern yourself only with elephants.”
第二章 第一次提到大象
第二章 第一次提到大象
奥利弗夫人发现她的朋友赫尔克里•波洛并不在家，只好借助电话来询问。
“今晚你会在家吗？”奥利弗夫人问。
她坐在电话旁，有些焦急地用手指敲着桌子。
“您是——？”
“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。”奥利弗夫人说。她总是惊讶地发现自己必须报上姓名，因为她一直希望她所有的朋友一接电话就能分辨出她的声音。
“是的，整晚我都在家。这是否意味着我将有幸得到您的光临？”
“你可真会说话，”奥利弗夫人说，“我没想到你会认为这是一种荣幸。”
“见到您总是令人愉快的，亲爱的夫人 （原文为法语，chère Madame。——译者注）。”
“我不知道，”奥利弗夫人说，“我可能要，嗯，麻烦你一些事。我想问一些事情，想知道你的想法。”
“我随时都愿意告诉你任何事。”波洛说。
“发生了一些事，”奥利弗夫人说，“一些令人厌烦的事，我不知道该怎么处理。”
“所以您想来见我。我真是太荣幸了，非常荣幸。”
“你什么时间方便呢？”奥利弗夫人问。
“九点？也许我们可以一起喝点咖啡，除非您更喜欢石榴汁或是黑加仑酒 （原文为法语，Sirop de Cassis。——译者注） 。不过不会的，我记得您不喜欢那些。”
“乔治，”波洛对他忠诚的男仆说，“我们今晚将有幸见到奥利弗夫人。准备好咖啡，或者某种甜酒。我从来都不确定她喜欢什么。”
“我见过她喝樱桃白兰地，先生。”
“我想她也喝薄荷奶油酒 （原文为法语，crème de menthe。——译者注） ，但她更喜欢樱桃白兰地。很好，”波洛说，“那就这样。”
奥利弗夫人准时到访了。
吃晚饭的时候波洛一直在纳闷，究竟是什么原因驱使着奥利弗夫人来见他，为什么她对自己将要做的事情那么不确定？难道她会带来一些难题？或是她要告诉自己一件罪案？
波洛很清楚地知道，上述这些事在奥利弗夫人身上都有可能发生。有可能是最平凡的事，也有可能是最不寻常的事。这些事对她来说都差不多。他认为她很焦虑。好了，赫尔克里•波洛想，他能应付奥利弗夫人。他与奥利弗夫人打交道一直都很顺利。奥利弗夫人有时会惹恼他，但同时他也真的很喜欢她。他们一起经历过很多事。他今早还在报纸上看到了一些关于她的消息——或者是在晚报上？他得试着在她来之前把它记住。他刚记住那些内容，奥利弗夫人就到了。
奥利弗夫人一走进房间，波洛立刻断定自己关于她的焦虑所做的判断是千真万确的。
她的发型，虽然经过很精心的打理，但还是被她用手指弄乱了。每当奥利弗夫人紧张忙乱时，她都会这么做。波洛愉快地接待了奥利弗夫人，请她坐在椅子上，给她倒了一杯咖啡，又递给她一杯樱桃白兰地。
“噢！”奥利弗夫人如解脱般说道，“我想你准会认为我太傻，但是——”
“我明白。我在报纸上看到您今天去参加了一个为著名女作家举办的文学午宴。我以为您从来都不参加这种活动。”
“我通常不会去的，”奥利弗夫人说，“而且我再也不会去了。”
“啊，您在那儿不开心吗？”波洛同情地说。
波洛知道奥利弗夫人会在怎样的情况下感到尴尬，过分地称赞她的书会令她非常不安。她曾经告诉波洛，她从来都不知道在别人称赞她时该怎么恰当地回答。
“您感到不开心吗？”
“某些事发生之前，我还是开心的。”奥利弗夫人说，“接着发生了一件令人厌烦的事。”
“这样啊，那件事就是您来见我的原因吧。”
“是的，但是我真的不知道为什么。我是说，那件事跟你一点关系都没有，而且我觉得你也不会感兴趣。连我也不怎么感兴趣。但我想我还是对它产生了兴趣，不然我不会想来见你，听听你的想法——嗯，如果你是我会怎么做？”
“最后这个问题很难回答。”波洛说，“我知道我自己，赫尔克里•波洛，如何处理事情。
但是我不知道您会如何处理，尽管我很了解您。”
“现在你一定有些想法了，”奥利弗夫人说，“你已经认识我这么久了。”
“差不多——到现在有二十年了？”
“噢，我不知道，我从来都记不起哪年哪月这样的日期。你知道，我很容易把事情弄混。我记得一九三九年是因为那一年战争爆发，我记得其他日期是因为一些乱七八糟的怪事。”
“不管怎么说，您去了文学午宴，但一点也不享受。”
“我很享受那顿午宴，但后来……”
“有人对您说了一些事情？”波洛说，就像医生友善地询问病人的病症一样。
“嗯，几个参加午宴的宾客正在跟我谈论着什么，一个专横的大个子女人突然向我走来。她像是那种总能成功支配别人的人，但会让你感到很不自在。你知道，她就像那种抓蝴蝶的人，只是她手里没拿着网。她抓到了我，把我推进座位，然后开始跟我谈起我的一个教女。”
“是吗，您喜欢的一个教女？”
“我已经有很多年没有见过她了。”奥利弗夫人说，“我不可能掌握我所有教子、教女的情况。接着那女人问了我一个最令人烦恼的问题。她想要我——噢天哪，我是多么难以启齿——”
“不，不是的，”波洛温和地说，“这很容易。每个人迟早都会告诉我一切的。因为我只不过是个外国人，所以一点麻烦也没有。您可以告诉我。”
“嗯，告诉你是容易些。”奥利弗夫人说，“她问起我那个教女父母的情况。她问我是她母亲杀死了她父亲，还是她父亲杀死了她母亲。”
“请您再说一遍。”波洛说。
“我知道这听起来很荒唐。其实我也觉得这很荒唐。”
“是您教女的母亲杀死了她的父亲，还是她的父亲杀死了她的母亲。”
“没错。”奥利弗夫人说。
“但——这是真的吗？她父亲真的杀了她母亲，或者她母亲真的杀了她父亲？”
“嗯，他们双双死于枪杀。”奥利弗夫人说，“在一个悬崖上面，我记不清是在康沃尔还是在科西嘉了。事情差不多就是这样。”
“那么这是真的了。然后呢，她还说了什么？”
“噢，是的，一部分是真的。这件事发生在很多年前。但是我想知道，她为什么要来问我这件事？”
“因为您是一个侦探小说家。”波洛说，“她肯定说您了解犯罪的一切。这件事真的发生过吗？”
“是的，这可不是那种假设性问题，问你发现自己的母亲杀了父亲或是父亲杀了母亲之后，该如何做？不是的，这件事真的发生过。我想我最好把一切都告诉你。我的意思是，我想不起所有细节，但是这件事当时轰动一时。这件事发生在——噢，我想那至少是大约十二年前了。就像我提过的，我之所以能记住那些人的名字是因为我真的认识他们。那位妻子曾经和我一起上学，我和她很熟，我们是朋友。那个案子影响很大，报纸上铺天盖地的全是它。阿里斯泰尔•雷文斯克罗夫特爵士和雷文斯克罗夫特夫人，一对非常恩爱的夫妇。丈夫是个上校或者将军，妻子一直跟着他周游世界。然后他们在某个地方买了幢房子，我想是在国外，但具体哪里记不清了。然后，突然间报纸报道了这件案子。有人杀了他们，或是他们被暗杀，又或是他们相互杀死了对方。我想他们有一把左轮手枪，放在房子里很多年了——我最好把我记得的所有事都告诉你。”
稍稍打起精神后，奥利弗夫人向波洛原原本本地讲述了 （原文为法语，résumé。——译者注） 她知道的一切。波洛时不时就一些细节向她核实。
“但是为什么？”他终于开口说道，“为什么那个女人想打听这件事？”
“嗯，这就是我想搞清楚的。”奥利弗夫人说，“我想我能找到西莉亚。我是说，她仍然住在伦敦。不是剑桥，就是牛津——我想她已经拿到了学位，不是在这儿讲课就是在那儿教书，反正做着类似的事。还有——她非常现代，经常和一些穿着奇装异服、留着长头发的人在一起。我想她没有吸毒，应该过得挺不错的——我只偶尔和她有些联系。我是说，她会在圣诞节或类似的节日给我寄张卡片。唉，一个人没法什么时候都想着自己的教子教女们，况且她都已经二十五六岁了。”
“她没结婚？”
“没有。显然理论上她正要嫁给——那个女人叫什么来着？——噢，对，布里托夫人——不对——伯顿-考克斯夫人的儿子。”
“伯顿-考克斯夫人不想让她的儿子娶这位姑娘，因为她父亲杀了她母亲，或是她母亲杀了她父亲？”
“嗯，我想是这样的。”奥利弗夫人说，“这是我能想到的唯一理由。但是谁杀了谁有什么关系吗？如果你父母中的一个杀了另一个，这真的对你未婚夫的母亲很重要吗？这绕到哪儿去了？”
“一个人可能确实要考虑这种事。”波洛说，“这件事——是的，确实很有意思。我的意思不是说阿利斯泰尔•雷文斯克罗夫特爵士和雷文斯克罗夫特夫人很有意思。我好像模糊地记得某件和这件案子相似的案件，或许不是同一件。但伯顿-考克斯夫人很奇怪，她可能有些思考过度。她是不是很宠爱她的儿子？”
“有可能。”奥利弗夫人说，“她可能根本就不想让她儿子娶这个姑娘。”
“因为那个姑娘也许遗传了她母亲杀害自己丈夫的倾向——或类似的事情？”
“我怎么会知道？”奥利弗夫人说，“那女人似乎认为我能告诉她真相，但她真的没有告诉我足够的信息，对不对？你觉得这是为什么？这背后隐藏着什么？这意味着什么？”
“解开这个谜一定会很有趣。”波洛说。
“嗯，所以我才来找你。”奥利弗夫人说，“你喜欢找出事情的真相，那些你一开始看不清楚缘由的事。我的意思是，没人能看清那些缘由。”
“您知道伯顿-考克斯夫人更倾向于哪种想法吗？”波洛说。
“你是说她更希望丈夫杀了妻子，还是妻子杀了丈夫？我不这么认为。”
“好了。”波洛说，“我明白您的窘境。这确实很有趣。您从一个聚会回来，被要求做某件很困难、几乎不可能完成的事，您想知道怎么处理才是恰当的。”
“嗯，那你觉得怎么处理才恰当？”奥利弗夫人说。
“不好说。”波洛说，“我不是女人。您在宴会上碰到了一个您并不认识的女人，她把这个问题摆在您面前，让您解决，却又不告诉您什么清楚的理由。”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“现在阿里阿德涅应该怎么做？换句话说，如果你在报纸上看到这种事情，里面的主人公和我有一样的遭遇，他该怎么做？”
“嗯，我想，”波洛说，“您可以做三件事。第一，可以给伯顿-考克斯夫人写张字条，说，‘非常抱歉，但我觉得在这件事上我真的无法帮你’或写上任何您觉得合适的话。第二，您可以跟您的教女联系，告诉她，她的未婚夫——那个男孩或年轻男人，或是别的什么都可以——的母亲曾问过您什么。您会了解到她是否真的想要嫁给这个年轻人。如果她还想结婚，那么她是否知道为什么，或是那个年轻人有没有提过他母亲究竟在想些什么。
另外一点很有意思，您会了解到这个女孩对自己未婚夫的母亲有怎样的看法。您能做的第三件事，”波洛说，“这也是我坚定地建议您去做的，是……”
“我知道，”奥利弗夫人说，“一个词。”
“无为。”波洛说。
“对极了。”奥利弗夫人说，“我知道这样做最简单也最恰当。无为。去告诉我的教女她未来的婆婆正到处打听些什么、说些什么，这样也太厚脸皮了。但是——”
“我知道，”波洛说，“好奇是人类的天性。”
“我想知道为什么那个可恶的女人要来对我说那些话。”奥利弗夫人说，“只有我知道了原因，我才能放轻松，才能忘掉关于它的一切。但我知道之前……”
“是的，”波洛说：“您会失眠，会半夜醒来。如果我足够了解您的话，您还会产生一些最不寻常、最夸张的念头。您都可以用那些念头写一个引人入胜的侦探故事了，一本侦探小说——或是恐怖小说，各式各样的故事。”
“好吧，我想如果我这样看待这件事，我还真能写出一些故事。”奥利弗夫人说着，她的眼睛微微闪了闪。
“别管它，”波洛说，“这会是一件很棘手的事情。看起来似乎根本没有理由去做。”
“我想我确实没有好的理由去做这件事。”
“人类的好奇心啊，”波洛说，“多有趣的事情。”他叹了口气，“想想我们整个历史都要归功于它，好奇心。我不知道是谁发明的好奇心，据说与猫有关，好奇害死猫嘛。但是我觉得其实是希腊人发明了好奇心。他们总想知道。据我所知，在他们之前，没什么人想知道更多的东西。他们只想知道自己生活的国家的法规，自己怎么做才能避免被砍头或是被钉在柱子上，都是些不幸的事。他们要么服从，要么不服从，却从来没想过为什么。但是从希腊文明以后，很多人都开始想知道为什么，因此很多事情才发生——轮船，火车，飞行器，原子弹，青霉素，治疗各种疾病的药物。一个小男孩看到母亲的水壶盖子被蒸汽掀开，接下来我们就有了火车，之后又导致了铁路工人罢工和一切的一切。等等，等等。”
“告诉我，”奥利弗夫人说，“你觉得我是个爱管闲事的人吗？”
“不，我不这么觉得，”波洛说，“总的来说我不认为您是一个有极大好奇心的女人。但我可以看出您在文学午宴上处于一种很不安的状态，忙于保护自己免受过多的赞美和夸奖。您反而使自己陷入了一个极其尴尬的困境，并且非常厌恶使您陷入这种状态的人。”
“是的，她是个非常令人厌烦的女人，很难和她相处。”
“过去发生的这起谋杀案中，夫妻二人相处非常融洽，并没有发现明显的争吵迹象，也没有人看到过有关这件事起因的报道。按照您的说法是这样吗？”
“他们是被枪杀的。是的，是被枪杀的。也有可能是种自杀约定，我想警察一开始就是这么认为的。当然了，已经这么多年过去，谁也没法知道当年发生了什么。”
“不，”波洛说，“我觉得我能找出一些相关线索。”
“你是说——通过你那些厉害的朋友？”
“嗯，我倒不觉得他们有多么厉害。但肯定会有一些学识渊博的朋友，他们能够拿到真实的记录，还能查出当年对那件案子做出的解释。他们其实就像是我取得一些特定记录的途径。”
“你肯定能发现一些事情，”奥利弗夫人充满希望地说，“然后请告诉我。”
“好的，”波洛说，“我想无论如何我都能帮助您了解这件案子的全部事实。但是这可能要花点时间。”
“我想，如果你着手去做了——当然这正是我想让你做的——那我自己也必须得做点什么。我一定得去见见我的教女。我得了解她究竟知道什么，还得问问她想不想让我去嘲弄一下她未来的婆婆，或是做些什么别的能帮助她的事。我还想见见她的未婚夫。”
“对极了，”波洛说，“非常棒。”
“我想，”奥利弗夫人说，“可能会有一些人——”她停下来，皱紧眉头。
“我觉得去问人可能不是个好主意，” 赫尔克里•波洛说，“这是一件过去发生的事，也许当时是一件轰动一时的案件。但您仔细想想，轰动一时的案件究竟是什么？除非一个案子有个惊人的结局 （原文为法语，dénouement。——译者注） ，否则人们没法称它为轰动一时的案件。这件案子并没有这样的结局，所以没有人会记得它。”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“你说的这点倒是很对。那时报纸上铺天盖地全是关于这个案子的报道，热闹了一阵子，然后就淡了下来。嗯，就像现在的事一样。比如说前几天报道的，一个女孩离家出走之后就失踪了。五六年后，一个小男孩在沙堆或是小石子堆玩的时候，突然发现了她的尸体。这中间可经过了五六年呐。”
“是这样，”波洛说，“查证尸体死亡时间、当天发生了什么事，再查阅各种有书面记录的事件，很有可能发现凶手。但是您提出的问题要难得多，因为看上去这问题的答案肯定是以下两种之一：丈夫不喜欢他的妻子，想要摆脱她；或是妻子憎恨她的丈夫，或她有个情人。因此，这很可能是一起激情犯罪，或是很不寻常的一起罪案。不管怎么说，我们什么也发现不了。如果当时警察找不出杀人动机，那这个动机一定隐藏得很深。正是因此，这件事虽然轰动一时，但很快又被人们忘却。就是这样。”
“我想我该去见见我的教女。也许这就是那个可恶的女人想让我去做的。她认为那姑娘知道——好吧，她也许真的知道，”奥利弗夫人说，“你知道，小孩子总会知道些最离奇的事情。”
“您知道那时您的教女多大吗？”
“唔，我推算一下。她可能是九岁或是十岁，也有可能更大一点，我不知道。我想她那时正在别的地方上学。但这有可能只是我从我看过的报道中得来的设想。”
“但您认为伯顿-考克斯夫人想让您从那个姑娘那里得到些信息，是吗？也许那个女孩知道些什么，也许她跟她的男朋友说了什么，之后那个小伙子又对他母亲说了些什么。我认为伯顿-考克斯夫人曾经尝试过亲自去问那女孩，但她被拒绝了。然后她想到了著名的奥利弗夫人，您既是那姑娘的教母，又有着丰富的犯罪知识，她可能会从您这里得到些信息。但是我还是不明白这事究竟和她有什么关系。”波洛说，“而且我不认为您模模糊糊提到过的那些人能在这么多年后帮上忙，谁会记得呢？”
“嗯，我想他们可能会记得。”奥利弗夫人说。
“这真令我感到惊讶，”波洛一脸疑惑地看着奥利弗夫人说，“真的会有人记得？”
“其实，”奥利弗夫人说，“我是在想大象。”
“大象？”
就像他以前经常认为的那样，波洛认为奥利弗夫人真的是最莫名其妙的女人。为什么会突然提到大象？
“昨天午餐时我想起了大象。”奥利弗夫人说。
“您为什么会想起大象呢？”波洛好奇地问。
“其实，我是在想牙齿。你知道，一个人试着吃东西的时候，如果有假牙的话——他就没法吃得很顺利。他必须小心挑选能吃什么，不能吃什么。”
“啊！”波洛深深叹了一口气，说道，“是的，是的。牙医可以为你做很多事情，但并不能做到一切。”
“是这样。之后我想到——你知道——我们的牙齿只是骨质的，并不那么好。如果是狗的牙齿就好了，狗有真正象牙质的牙齿。之后我又想到还有谁有象牙质的牙齿呢，我就想到了海象，还有类似的动物。同时我也想到了大象。当然，当你想起象牙的时候一定会想到大象，对吗？巨大的象牙。”
“千真万确。”波洛说。他还是没有完全明白奥利弗夫人究竟想要表达些什么。
“所以我想我们真正要做的事就是去见见那些像大象一样的人。据说大象从不忘事。”
“是的，我听过这种说法。”波洛说。
“大象从不忘记，”奥利弗夫人说，“你知道，那是一个小孩子们从小听到大的故事。说的是一个印度裁缝把一根针或是类似的东西刺进大象的象牙。不，不是象牙，是象鼻，对的，是大象的鼻子。多年以后，有一次大象从那个裁缝身边经过时，含了满满一大口水喷了裁缝一身。虽然大象已经很多年没见过那个裁缝了，但它并没有忘记他。大象什么都记得。我要做的是——跟一些大象联系上。”
“我还是不太明白您的意思，” 赫尔克里•波洛说，“你把谁归入大象之列了？听起来您就像是要去动物园了解情况似的。”
“其实，不完全是那样。”奥利弗夫人说，“不是大象，是像大象一样的人。有些人从某种角度来说和大象很相似，他确实不容易忘事。事实上，人总会记得一些奇怪的事。我是说，有很多事我还记得很清楚。我记得我五岁的生日聚会，还有生日会上一个可爱的粉色蛋糕。蛋糕上有一只翻糖做的小鸟。我还记得有一天，因为我的金丝雀飞走了，我大哭了一场。还有一次我走进了一片田地，那里有一头公牛。有人跟我说公牛会来顶我，我害怕极了就跑了出去。嗯，我记得很清楚，那是个星期二。我不知道为什么我记得那是星期二，但确实是个星期二。还有，我记得一次美好的采摘黑莓的郊游。我被刺扎得很严重，但我比别人摘得都要多。那次真是太棒了！我想那是我九岁时候的事。不必回想得那么远。我是说，我一生中参加过上百次婚礼，但当我回想起来，只有两次让我印象特别深刻。一次是我当伴娘，那是在新福雷斯特举办的，但我记不清都有谁参加了。大概是我的一个表姐结婚。我跟她不太熟，但她想要很多的伴娘。邀请我去对她来说可能很方便吧。
我还记得的另一次婚礼，是我的一个海军朋友结婚。他在一艘潜水艇里差点淹死，之后被救了上来。原本跟他订婚的女孩的家人不想让女孩嫁给他，但他们后来还是结婚了。我当时是婚礼上的伴娘之一。我是说，有些事你总会记得。”
“我明白您的意思了，”波洛说，“我觉得这很有趣。所以您会去寻找大象 （原文为法语，à la recherche des éléphants。——译者注） ？”
“是的，我一定要问清楚事情发生的确切日期。”
“那么，”波洛说，“希望我能帮上忙。”
“接下来我要回想一下当时我认识的人，那些跟我有共同朋友的人，他们也许认识那个什么将军。有的朋友可能是在国外认识的将军夫妇，但我已经很多年没有见过他们了。人们能够寻找多年没见的人。因为人总是很开心能见到故人，即使他们不太能记得起你了。
之后你们就会很自然地聊起回忆里的事。”
“非常有趣。”波洛说，“我想您对自己的计划准备得很充分。您想到了那些和雷文斯克罗夫特一家相熟或不相熟的人；那些一直住在案件发生地点的人，或是曾经住在那里的人。这或许很困难，但是您一定能做到。而且，您可以尝试一些不同的方法。开始先聊聊当时发生了什么，他们认为发生了什么，或是别人跟他们提到的可能发生的事。谈谈关于那个丈夫或妻子的风流韵事，或是关于某人可能已经继承的财产。我想您肯定能挖出很多信息来。”
“天啊，”奥利弗夫人说，“恐怕我真的成了一个多管闲事的人了。”
“您被人分派了一个任务。”波洛说，“不是被您喜欢的人，也不是被您有责任帮助的人，而是一个您完全不喜欢的人。这没关系。您还在进行探索，对于未知的探索。您用自己的方式，这个方式就是通过大象。大象们会记得。一路顺风 （原文为法语，Bonvoyage。——译者注） 。”波洛说。
“抱歉，请你再说一遍。”奥利弗夫人说。
“我正在送您踏上探索的旅程，”波洛说，“一次寻找大象的旅程。”
“我想我是疯了。”奥利弗夫人难过地说。她又用手指拨弄了一下头发，这让她看起来很像旧画册中的蓬蓬头彼得 （原名Der Struwwelpeter，中译名为蓬蓬头彼得，作者海因里希•霍夫曼，是一本德国家喻户晓的儿童图画书。——译者注） 。“我本来正想要开始写一个关于金毛寻回犬的故事，但是并不太顺利。我没法开头，你懂吗。”
“好了，放弃金毛寻回犬，专心去弄大象的事吧。”
Three GREAT AUNT ALICE’S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE
BOOK ONE
ELEPHANTS
Three GREAT AUNT ALICE’S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE
“Can you find my address book for me, Miss Livingstone?”
“It’s on your desk, Mrs. Oliver. In the left-hand corner.”
“I don’t mean that one,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s the one I’m using now. I mean my last one.
The one I had last year, or perhaps the one before that again.”
“Has it been thrown away, perhaps?” suggested Miss Livingstone.
“No, I don’t throw away address books and things like that because so often you want one. Imean some address that you haven’t copied into the new one. I expect it may be in one of thedrawers of the tallboys.”
Miss Livingstone was a fairly new arrival, replacing Miss Sedgwick. Ariadne Oliver missedMiss Sedgwick. Sedgwick knew so many things. She knew the places where Mrs. Oliversometimes put things, the kind of places Mrs. Oliver kept things in. She remembered the names ofpeople Mrs. Oliver had written nice letters to, and the names of people that Mrs. Oliver, goadedbeyond endurance, had written rather rude things to. She was invaluable, or rather, had beeninvaluable. “She was like—what was the book called?” Mrs. Oliver said, casting her mind back.
“Oh yes, I know—a big brown book. All Victorians had it. Enquire Within Upon Everything. Andyou could too! How to take iron mark stains off linen, how to deal with curdled mayonnaise, howto start a chatty letter to a bishop. Many, many things. It was all there in Enquire Within UponEverything.” Great Aunt Alice’s great standby.
Miss Sedgwick had been just as good as Aunt Alice’s book. Miss Livingstone was not at all thesame thing. Miss Livingstone stood there always, very long-faced with a sallow skin, lookingpurposefully efficient. Every line of her face said “I am very efficient.” But she wasn’t really, Mrs.
Oliver thought. She only knew all the places where former literary employers of hers had keptthings and where she clearly considered Mrs. Oliver ought to keep them.
“What I want,” said Mrs. Oliver, with firmness and the determination of a spoilt child, “is my1970 address book. And I think 1969 as well. Please look for it as quick as you can, will you?”
“Of course, of course,” said Miss Livingstone.
She looked round her with the rather vacant expression of someone who is looking forsomething she has never heard of before but which efficiency may be able to produce by someunexpected turn of luck.
If I don’t get Sedgwick back, I shall go mad, thought Mrs. Oliver to herself. I can’t deal withthis thing if I don’t have Sedgwick.
Miss Livingstone started pulling open various drawers in the furniture in Mrs. Oliver’s so-calledstudy and writing room.
“Here is last year’s,” said Miss Livingstone happily. “That will be much more up-to-date, won’tit? 1971.”
“I don’t want 1971,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Vague thoughts and memories came to her.
“Look in that tea caddy table,” she said.
Miss Livingstone looked round, looking worried.
“That table,” said Mrs. Oliver, pointing.
“A desk book wouldn’t be likely to be in a tea caddy,” said Miss Livingstone, pointing out toher employer the general facts of life.
“Yes, it could,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I seem to remember.”
Edging Miss Livingstone aside, she went to the tea caddy table, raised the lid, looked at theattractive inlaid work inside. “And it is here,” said Mrs. Oliver, raising the lid of a papier-m?chéround canister, devised to contain Lapsang Souchong as opposed to Indian tea, and taking out acurled up small brown notebook.
“Here it is,” she said.
“That’s only 1968, Mrs. Oliver. Four years ago.”
“That’s about right,” said Mrs. Oliver, seizing it and taking it back to the desk. “That’s all forthe present, Miss Livingstone, but you might see if you can find my birthday book somewhere.”
“I didn’t know. .?.?.”
“I don’t use it now,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I used to have one once. Quite a big one, you know.
Started when I was a child. Goes on for years. I expect it’ll be in the attic upstairs. You know, theone we use as a spare room sometimes when it’s only boys coming for holidays, or people whodon’t mind. The sort of chest or bureau thing next to the bed.”
“Oh. Shall I look and see?”
“That’s the idea,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She cheered up a little as Miss Livingstone went out of the room. Mrs. Oliver shut the doorfirmly behind her, went back to the desk and started looking down the addresses written in fadedink and smelling of tea.
“Ravenscroft. Celia Ravenscroft. Yes. 14 Fishacre Mews, S.W.3. That’s the Chelsea address.
She was living there then. But there was another one after that. Somewhere like Strand-on-the-Green near Kew Bridge.”
She turned a few more pages.
“Oh yes, this seems to be a later one. Mardyke Grove. That’s off Fulham Road, I think.
Somewhere like that. Has she got a telephone number? It’s very rubbed out, but I think—yes, Ithink that’s right—Flaxman .?.?. Anyway, I’ll try it.”
She went across to the telephone. The door opened and Miss Livingstone looked in.
“Do you think that perhaps—”
“I found the address I want,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go on looking for that birthday book. It’simportant.”
“Do you think you could have left it when you were in Sealy House?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go on looking.”
She murmured, as the door closed, “Be as long as you like about it.”
She dialled the telephone and waited, opening the door to call up the stairs: “You might try thatSpanish chest. You know, the one that’s bound with brass. I’ve forgotten where it is now. Underthe table in the hall, I think.”
Mrs. Oliver’s first dialling was not successful. She appeared to have connected herself to a Mrs.
Smith Potter, who seemed both annoyed and unhelpful and had no idea what the present telephonenumber might be of anyone who had lived in that particular flat before.
Mrs. Oliver applied herself to an examination of the address book once more. She discoveredtwo more addresses which were hastily scrawled over other numbers and did not seem wildlyhelpful. However, at the third attempt a somewhat illegible Ravenscroft seemed to emerge fromthe crossings out and initials and addresses.
A voice admitted to knowing Celia.
“Oh dear, yes. But she hasn’t lived here for years. I think she was in Newcastle when I lastheard from her.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I’m afraid I haven’t got that address.”
“No, I haven’t got it either,” said the kindly girl. “I think she went to be secretary to a veterinarysurgeon.”
It did not sound very hopeful. Mrs. Oliver tried once or twice more. The addresses in the latestof her two address books were no use, so she went back a bit further. She struck oil, as you mightput it, when she came to the last one, which was for the year 1967.
“Oh, you mean Celia,” said a voice. “Celia Ravenscroft, wasn’t it? Or was it Finchwell?”
Mrs. Oliver just prevented herself in time from saying, “No, and it wasn’t redbreast either.”
“A very competent girl,” said the voice. “She worked for me for over a year and a half. Oh yes,very competent. I would have been quite happy if she had stayed longer. I think she went fromhere to somewhere in Harley Street, but I think I’ve got her address somewhere. Now let me see.”
There was a long pause while Mrs. X—name unknown—was seeing. “I’ve got one address here. Itseems to be in Islington somewhere. Do you think that’s possible?”
Mrs. Oliver said that anything was possible and thanked Mrs. X very much and wrote it down.
“So difficult, isn’t it, trying to find people’s addresses. They do send them to you usually. Youknow, a sort of postcard or something of that kind. Personally I always seem to lose it.”
Mrs. Oliver said that she herself also suffered in this respect. She tried the Islington number. Aheavy, foreign voice replied to her.
“You want, yes—you tell me what? Yes, who live here?”
“Miss Celia Ravenscroft?”
“Oh yes, that is very true. Yes, yes she lives here. She has a room on the second floor. She is outnow and she not come home.”
“Will she be in later this evening?”
“Oh, she be home very soon now, I think, because she come home to dress for party and goout.”
Mrs. Oliver thanked her for the information and rang off.
“Really,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself, with some annoyance, “girls!”
She tried to think how long it was since she had last seen her goddaughter, Celia. One losttouch. That was the whole point. Celia, she thought, was in London now. If her boyfriend was inLondon, or if the mother of her boyfriend was in London—all of it went together. Oh dear,thought Mrs. Oliver, this really makes my head ache. “Yes, Miss Livingstone?” she turned herhead.
Miss Livingstone, looking rather unlike herself and decorated with a good many cobwebs and ageneral coating of dust, stood looking annoyed in the doorway holding a pile of dusty volumes.
“I don’t know whether any of these things will be any use to you, Mrs. Oliver. They seem to goback for a great many years.” She was disapproving.
“Bound to,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I don’t know if there’s anything particular you want me to search for.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Oliver, “if you’ll just put them on the corner of the sofa there I canlook at them this evening.”
Miss Livingstone, looking more disapproving every moment, said, “Very good, Mrs. Oliver. Ithink I will just dust them first.”
“That will be very kind of you,” said Mrs. Oliver, just stopping herself in time from saying—“and for goodness’ sake dust yourself as well. You’ve got six cobwebs in your left ear.”
She glanced at her watch and rang the Islington number again. The voice that answered thistime was purely Anglo-Saxon and had a crisp sharpness about it that Mrs. Oliver felt was rathersatisfactory.
“Miss Ravenscroft?—Celia Ravenscroft?”
“Yes, this is Celia Ravenscroft.”
“Well, I don’t expect you’ll remember me very well. I’m Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Wehaven’t seen each other for a long time, but actually I’m your godmother.”
“Oh yes, of course. I know that. No, we haven’t seen each other for a long time.”
“I wonder very much if I could see you, if you could come and see me, or whatever you like.
Would you like to come to a meal or?.?.?.”
“Well, it’s rather difficult at present, where I’m working. I could come round this evening, ifyou like. About half past seven or eight. I’ve got a date later but. .?.?.”
“If you do that I shall be very, very pleased,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Well, of course I will.”
“I’ll give you the address.” Mrs. Oliver gave it.
“Good. I’ll be there. Yes, I know where that is, quite well.”
Mrs. Oliver made a brief note on the telephone pad, and looked with some annoyance at MissLivingstone, who had just come into the room struggling under the weight of a large album.
“I wondered if this could possibly be it, Mrs. Oliver?”
“No, it couldn’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s got cookery recipes in it.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Livingstone, “so it has.”
“Well, I might as well look at some of them anyway,” said Mrs. Oliver, removing the volumefirmly. “Go and have another look. You know, I’ve thought about the linen cupboard. Next door tothe bathroom. You’d have to look on the top shelf above the bath towels. I do sometimes stickpapers and books in there. Wait a minute. I’ll come up and look myself.”
Ten minutes later Mrs. Oliver was looking through the pages of a faded album. MissLivingstone, having entered her final stage of martyrdom, was standing by the door. Unable tobear the sight of so much suffering, Mrs. Oliver said,“Well, that’s all right. You might just take a look in the desk in the dining room. The old desk.
You know, the one that’s broken a bit. See if you can find some more address books. Early ones.
Anything up to about ten years old will be worth while having a look at. And after that,” said Mrs.
Oliver, “I don’t think I shall want anything more today.”
Miss Livingstone departed.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself, releasing a deep sigh as she sat down. She lookedthrough the pages of the birthday book. “Who’s better pleased? She to go or I to see her go? AfterCelia has come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening.”
Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table by her desk, she enteredvarious dates, possible addresses and names, looked up one or two more things in the telephonebook and then proceeded to ring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
“Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes, madame, it is I myself.”
“Have you done anything?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I beg your pardon—have I done what?”
“Anything,” said Mrs. Oliver. “What I asked you about yesterday.”
“Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make certain enquiries.”
“But you haven’t made them yet,” said Mrs. Oliver, who had a poor view of what the male viewwas of doing something.
“And you, chère madame?”
“I have been very busy,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?”
“Assembling elephants,” said Mrs. Oliver, “if that means anything to you.”
“I think I can understand what you mean, yes.”
“It’s not very easy, looking into the past,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It is astonishing, really, how manypeople one does remember when one comes to look up names. My word, the silly things theywrite in birthday books sometimes, too. I can’t think why when I was about sixteen or seventeenor even thirty, I wanted people to write in my birthday book. There’s a sort of quotation from apoet for every particular day in the year. Some of them are terribly silly.”
“You are encouraged in your search?”
“Not quite encouraged,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But I still think I’m on the right lines. I’ve rung upmy goddaughter—”
“Ah. And you are going to see her?”
“Yes, she is coming to see me. Tonight between seven and eight, if she doesn’t run out on me.
One never knows. Young people are very unreliable.”
“She appeared pleased that you had rung her up?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Oliver, “not particularly pleased. She’s got a very incisive voice and—I remember now, the last time I saw her, that must be about six years ago, I thought then thatshe was rather frightening.”
“Frightening? In what way?”
“What I mean is that she was more likely to bully me than I would be to bully her.”
“That may be a good thing and not a bad thing.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“If people have made up their minds that they do not wish to like you, that they are quite surethey do not like you, they will get more pleasure out of making you aware of the fact and in thatway will release more information to you than they would have done if they were trying to beamiable and agreeable.”
“Sucking up to me, you mean? Yes, you have something there. You mean then they tell youthings that they thought would please you. And the other way they’d be annoyed with you andthey’d say things that they’d hope would annoy you. I wonder if Celia’s like that? I reallyremember her much better when she was five years old than at any other age. She had a nurserygoverness and she used to throw her boots at her.”
“The governess at the child, or the child at the governess?”
“The child at the governess, of course!” said Mrs. Oliver.
She replaced the receiver and went over to the sofa to examine the various piled-up memories ofthe past. She murmured names under her breath.
“Mariana Josephine Pontarlier—of course, yes, I haven’t thought of her for years—I thoughtshe was dead. Anna Braceby—yes, yes, she lived in that part of the world—I wonder now—”
Continuing all this, time passed—she was quite surprised when the bell rang. She went outherself to open the door.
第三章 艾丽斯姨妈指点迷津
第一部分 大象的证词
第三章 艾丽斯姨妈指点迷津
“利文斯通小姐，你能帮我找找我的通讯录吗？”
“在您的桌子上，奥利弗夫人，在左边的角落里。”
“我不是说那本，”奥利弗夫人说，“那是我现在正在用的。我说的是之前的那本。我去年在用的那本，或者是再之前的一本。”
“也许已经被扔掉了？”利文斯通小姐说。
“不会的，我不会扔掉通讯录之类的东西，因为经常要用到。我是指一些没有抄进新通讯录的地址。我估计放在高脚柜的某个抽屉里了。”
利文斯通小姐是新来顶替塞奇威克小姐的。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗很怀念塞奇威克小姐，因为她什么都知道。她知道奥利弗夫人时常把东西随手放在哪儿，也记得奥利弗夫人把东西收在哪儿。她记得奥利弗夫人给哪些人写过友好的信，也记得奥利弗夫人给哪些令她忍无可忍的人写过相当不友好的信。她简直是无价之宝，或者说，曾经是无价之宝。“它很像——那本书叫什么来着？”奥利弗夫人回忆着，“噢，我知道了——一本棕色的大书。所有维多利亚时代 （维多利亚时代，英格兰的维多利亚时代前接承治王时代，后启爱德华时代，通常被定义为一八三七年至一九〇一年，即维多利亚女王的统治时期。——译者注）的人都有那么一本。那本书叫《有求必应》，你也应该对我有求必应！那本书里提到如何去掉亚麻织物上的锈渍，如何处理结块的蛋黄酱，如何为一封写给主教的非正式信件开头。很多很多内容，都在《有求必应》那本书里。”那是艾丽斯姨妈最信赖的一本书。
塞奇威克小姐以前就像艾丽斯姨妈的书一样全能，但利文斯通小姐就完全不是那么一回事了。她总是站在那儿，面如土色地耷拉着脸，试图让自己看上去很能干。她脸上的每一条线仿佛都在说：“我很能干。”但奥利弗夫人并不这样认为。利文斯通只知道她之前的作家雇主们都把东西放在哪儿，她还会自以为是地认为奥利弗夫人会把东西放在别的地方。
“我想要的，”奥利弗夫人像个被宠坏的孩子一样坚定地说，“是一九七〇年的那本通讯录，还有一九六九年的。请你尽快找出来，好吗？”
“当然，当然。”利文斯通小姐说。
利文斯通小姐一脸茫然地环视四周，就像在寻找一样她从来没有听说过的东西，希望靠一些意外的好运气找到它们。
如果不把塞奇威克找回来，我会发疯的，奥利弗夫人暗自想道。没有塞奇威克我可应付不了这些琐事。
利文斯通小姐开始逐一打开奥利弗夫人书房和写作室中的抽屉。
“这是去年的，”利文斯通小姐高兴地说，“这足够新了，不是吗？一九七一年。”
“我不要一九七一年的。”奥利弗夫人说。
她的脑海中浮现出一些模糊的想法和记忆。
“在那张茶几上找一找。”奥利弗夫人一边指着一边说道。
利文斯通小姐环顾了一下四周，看上去有些着急。
“一本案头的通讯录好像不太会出现在茶叶罐里。”利文斯通小姐说，向她的雇主指出了生活中的常识。
“不，会的。”奥利弗夫人说，“我好像记起来了。”
她把利文斯通小姐挤到一旁，向那张茶几走去，掀开茶几盖子，看到了里面那个迷人的镶嵌工艺品。“就在这儿呢。”奥利弗夫人说着，打开纸质圆形茶叶罐的盖子。这个罐子是专门用来装正山小种茶叶，而不是装印度红茶的。之后奥利弗夫人从中拿出了一本卷起来的棕色小笔记本。
“在这儿呢。”她说。
“这是一九六八年的，奥利弗夫人，是四年前的。”
“大概就是这本了。”奥利弗夫人说着，抓着笔记本回到书桌前。“就这样吧，利文斯通小姐，不过你倒可以看看能否找到我的生日书。”
“我不知道……”
“我现在不用它了，”奥利弗夫人说，“但是我以前有一本，很大的一本。我从小开始用了它很多年。我想应该在阁楼里，就是闲置的那间。有时候只有男孩子们来度假，或是那些不怎么介意的客人来访时，他们住的那个客房。那本生日书应该在床边的箱子里或写字台上。”
“好的，要我去找找看吗？”
“正是这样。”奥利弗夫人说。
待利文斯通小姐走出房间后，奥利弗夫人的心情愉快了些许。她紧紧地把门关上，走回书桌前，开始看那些字迹已褪色，还带有茶叶气息的地址。
“雷文斯克罗夫特。西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特。是的，西南三区，菲什艾克缪斯十四号，这是她在切尔西的地址。她那时候是住在这儿的。但在这之后她还有另一个地址，好像是基尤桥附近的格林河畔公寓。”
奥利弗夫人又翻了几页。
“是的，这好像是之后的地址。马尔代克林区。我想是要从富勒姆路下去，大概就是那里。她有电话号码吗？差不多被磨掉了，但是我想——对，我想这是对的——弗拉克斯曼……不管怎样，我要试一试。”
奥利弗夫人走向电话，这时候门被打开了。利文斯通小姐在向里面张望。
“您认为也许——”
“我找到了需要的地址，”奥利弗夫人说，“你继续去找那本生日书吧，它很重要的。”
“您认为有没有可能把它留在了西利公寓？”
“不，我不觉得，”奥利弗夫人说，“接着找吧。”
房门被关上时奥利弗夫人嘟囔着：“你爱找多久就找多久吧。”
奥利弗夫人拨了电话并等着接通，同时打开门向楼上喊道：“你可以试着找找那个西班牙箱子，就是那个表面镶了黄铜的。我忘了现在它在哪儿了，我想也许在大厅里那张桌子下面。”
奥利弗夫人的第一次拨号并不成功，接电话的人叫作史密斯•波特夫人。但她既不耐烦，又完全帮不上忙，她不知道过去曾住在那间公寓的住户现在的电话号码。
奥利弗夫人又仔细地看了一遍地址簿。她又发现了两个字迹潦草的地址，乱到盖住了其他号码，看上去好像没什么用。然而，在第三次努力下，一个难以辨认的“雷文斯克罗夫特”似乎出现在那些潦草得交叉到一起的名字缩写和地址中。
电话那边的声音承认自己认识西莉亚。
“噢，是的。她不住在这儿已经很多年了，我想我最后一次听到她消息的时候，她是在纽卡斯尔。”
“噢天哪，”奥利弗夫人说，“恐怕我没有那个地址。”
“我也没有。”那个好心的姑娘说，“我想她去那儿给一个兽医当秘书了。”
这听上去并没有什么希望。奥利弗夫人又尝试了一两次。她最近的两本地址簿中的地址都没有什么用，所以她又往回翻。当她翻到最后，也就是一本一九六七年的地址簿时，就像人们说的那样，她挖到了宝藏。
“噢，你是说西莉亚，”一个声音说，“西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特，是吗？还是芬奇维尔？”
奥利弗夫人及时控制住自己才没说出“不是芬奇维尔，也不是知更鸟 （芬奇维尔英文为Finchwell，Finch指雀类，故奥利弗夫人会提到知更鸟。——译者注） ”。
那个声音说：“她是个很能干的女孩，为我工作了一年半多。是的，非常能干。如果她能在我这儿工作更长时间，我会很高兴的。我想她从这儿搬去了哈利大街的某个地方，不过我有她的新地址，我找一下。”过了好一会儿，不知姓名的夫人说道：“我找到了一个地址，看上去是在伊斯林顿的某个地方，您觉得这有可能吗？”
奥利弗夫人表示什么事都是有可能的。然后她向对方道了谢，并记下了地址。
“想找一个人的地址可真难。他们一般都会在寄明信片或是类似的东西给你时才把地址写上。但我总会弄丢别人的地址。”
奥利弗夫人说她在这方面也有同样的遭遇。她试着拨了伊斯林顿的电话号码，一个低沉的外国人的声音回答了她。
“你想找，是的——你说什么？是的，你找住在这里的谁？”
“西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特小姐？”
“噢，是的，她确实住在这儿。她的房间在二楼。她现在出去了，还没回家。”
“今晚她会回来吗？”
“我想她很快就会回来的。因为她回家换上了礼服裙，然后才出去的。”
奥利弗夫人感谢了那人提供的信息，然后挂上了电话。
“真是的，”奥利弗夫人有些恼怒地自言自语道，“姑娘们啊！”
奥利弗夫人试图回想距离上次见到她的教女西莉亚有多长时间了。一个失去联系的人，这才是所有事情的重点。她想西莉亚男朋友的母亲在伦敦，那么西莉亚的男朋友就会在伦敦，那么西莉亚现在也会在伦敦。所有的一切加在一起，噢天哪，奥利弗夫人想，这可真让我头疼。“利文斯通小姐？你怎么样了？”她转头说道。
利文斯通小姐看上去简直变了一个人，浑身沾满了蜘蛛网，衣服上全是灰尘。看起来有些生气地站在走廊里，手里拿着一摞满是灰尘的册子。
“我不知道这些东西是否对您有用，奥利弗夫人。它们看上去都很有年头了。”利文斯通小姐疑惑地说道。
“的确有年头了。”奥利弗夫人说。
“我不知道您是不是还需要我找什么东西。”
“没什么了，”奥利弗夫人说，“你把它们放在那边的沙发上吧，今晚我要看看。”
利文斯通小姐看上去仿佛更加疑惑。她说：“好的，奥利弗夫人，我想我还是先把册子上的灰尘掸掉吧。”
“那太好了。”奥利弗夫人说。她及时忍住才没有说出“行行好，把你自己也掸掸吧。你左耳上足足有六片蜘蛛网”。
她看了一眼手表，再次拨通了伊斯林顿的电话号码。这次接电话的人有纯正、清脆的盎格鲁撒克逊口音。这令奥利弗夫人感到相当舒服。
“是雷文斯克罗夫特小姐吗？西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特？”
“对，我是西莉亚•雷文斯克罗夫特。”
“我想你记不太清我了。我是奥利弗夫人，阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。我们已经很久没有见过面了，但我其实是你的教母。”
“是的，当然，我知道。我们确实很久没有见面了。”
“我很想知道能不能见见你，或是你能不能来看看我，或是你喜欢怎样都行。你愿意来吃顿饭或……”
“现在不行，我上班的地方不允许。但我今晚可以过去，如果您乐意的话。大概七点半或是八点。之后我还有个约会，不过……”
“如果你能来我会非常非常高兴的。”奥利弗夫人说。
“我当然会去的。”
“我把地址给你。”奥利弗夫人将地址告诉了她。
“好的，我会准时到。我很熟悉那一带。”
奥利弗夫人在便笺上写了一条笔记，然后有些恼火地看着利文斯通小姐，她刚刚走进房间，吃力地抱着一本沉重的大号册子。
“我想这有可能是您的生日书，奥利弗夫人。”
“不，这本不是，”奥利弗夫人说，“那里写的都是烹饪菜谱。”
“天哪，”利文斯通小姐说，“是这样啊。”
“好了，我可能偶尔也会翻翻看。”奥利弗夫人说着，坚定地拿开那本册子。“再去找一找。我想有可能在那个亚麻色柜子里，在洗手间的隔壁。你最好看看柜子顶层浴巾的上面。我有时候确实会放些报纸和书在那儿。等一下，我自己上去找吧。”
十分钟后，奥利弗夫人翻到了一本已经褪色的大册子。利文斯通小姐站在门边，看上去已经快要崩溃了。奥利弗夫人不想再看到她受这种折磨，说道：
“这儿可以了。你可以去看看餐厅里的桌子，那张旧桌子。就是那张有点破损了的。看看能不能在那儿找到别的地址簿，特别是早年的那些。任何十年前的东西都值得看看。然后，”奥利弗夫人说，“我想今天我应该不需要别的东西了。”
利文斯通小姐离开了。
“我想知道，让她这样离开，”奥利弗夫人一边坐下，一边深深地叹了一口气，她翻看着那本生日书，“谁会更高兴呢？是她还是我。西莉亚来过以后，我晚上一定会很忙碌。”
她从书桌旁的小边几上的书堆中拿起一本新的笔记本，写下各种日期、可能有用的地址和名字，并从电话簿中查了几个条目，然后开始给赫尔克里•波洛先生打电话。
“是你吗？波洛先生。”
“是的，夫人，正是我。”
“你有做些什么吗？”奥利弗夫人问。
“请您再说一遍——我做了什么？”
“任何事情，”奥利弗夫人说，“昨天我问你的事。”
“哦，当然，我已经开始行动了。我安排了一些调查计划。”
“但是你还没有去做。”奥利弗夫人说，她一向认为男人做事效率不高。
“您呢，亲爱的夫人？”
“我一直非常忙。”奥利弗夫人说。
“是吗！您在忙些什么呢，夫人？”
“搜集大象。”奥利弗夫人说，“你懂的。”
“是的，我想我能懂您的意思。”
“回头看过去的事情真的不容易。”奥利弗夫人说，“真令人惊讶，真的。当我去查找名字时，我一下子记起了那么多的人。当然也有他们写在我生日书中的傻里傻气的话。我无法想象自己在十六七岁时竟然想让别人在我的生日书上写东西。还有当年每个特殊的日子我摘抄的那些诗句，有些真是傻得可怕。”
“您的调查结果令您振奋吗？”
“不太振奋，”奥利弗夫人说，“但我仍认为我的思路是对的。我已经给我的教女打了电话。”
“这样啊，您准备见她？”
“是的，她要来见我，如果不出意外今晚七点半到八点之间。我也不知道她会不会真的出现，现在的年轻人很不可靠。”
“您给她打电话时她听起来高兴吗？”
“我不知道，”奥利弗夫人说，“不是特别高兴。她的声音很尖，还有——我现在记起来了，我最后一次见她是在六年前，我当时觉得她挺令人害怕的。”
“令人害怕？您指哪一方面？”
“我的意思是，比起我欺负她来，她更有可能欺负我。”
“这可能反而是件好事。”
“是吗，你这么认为吗？”
“如果人们已经打定了主意不想喜欢你，或是他们已经确定他们根本就不喜欢你，他们会希望你意识到这件事，因为在这个过程中他们会得到更多的快感。与表现得亲和友好相比，这种不友善的表现反而会使他们向你透露出更多的信息。”
“你是指拍我的马屁吗？是的，我想你说到点上了。你是说，那样的话他们就会告诉你一些他们认为你想听的事。但另一种情况是，他们会跟你说些会让你不悦的事。我想知道西莉亚是不是这样的人。我印象最深的是她五岁时有个保姆，她常常把靴子扔到她身上。”
“是保姆把靴子扔到孩子身上，还是孩子把靴子扔到保姆身上？”
“当然是孩子把靴子扔到保姆身上！”奥利弗夫人说。
奥利弗夫人把听筒放好，走到沙发边，开始翻阅堆积如山的回忆。她低声嘟囔着一些名字。
“玛丽安娜•约瑟芬•庞塔利尔——是的，我好些年没有想起她了——我想她已经不在人世了。安娜•布雷斯比——是的，是的，她住在那儿——我想知道现在——”
她继续看着，不知不觉中时间就过去了——突然响起的门铃声让她大吃一惊。她亲自去开了门。