One
One
IWho is there who has not felt a sudden startled pang at reliving an old experience, or feeling anold emotion?
“I have done this before. .?.?.”
Why do those words always move one so profoundly?
That was the question I asked myself as I sat in the train watching the flat Essex landscapeoutside.
How long ago was it that I had taken this selfsame journey? Had felt (ridiculously) that the bestof life was over for me! Wounded in that war that for me would always be the war—the war thatwas wiped out now by a second and a more desperate war.
It had seemed in 1916 to young Arthur Hastings that he was already old and mature. How littlehad I realized that, for me, life was only then beginning.
I had been journeying, though I did not know it, to meet the man whose influence over me wasto shape and mould my life. Actually, I had been going to stay with my old friend, JohnCavendish, whose mother, recently remarried, had a country house named Styles. A pleasantrenewing of old acquaintanceships, that was all I had thought it, not foreseeing that I was shortlyto plunge into all the dark embroilments of a mysterious murder.
It was at Styles that I had met again that strange little man, Hercule Poirot, whom I had firstcome across in Belgium.
How well I remembered my amazement when I had seen the limping figure with the largemoustache coming up the village street.
Hercule Poirot! Since those days he had been my dearest friend, his influence had moulded mylife. In company with him, in the hunting down of yet another murderer, I had met my wife, thetruest and sweetest companion any man could have had.
She lay now in Argentine soil, having died as she would have wished, with no long drawn outsuffering, or feebleness of old age. But she had left a very lonely and unhappy man behind her.
Ah! If I could go back—live life all over again. If this could have been that day in 1916 when Ifirst travelled to Styles .?.?. What changes had taken place since then! What gaps amongst thefamiliar faces! Styles itself had been sold by the Cavendishes. John Cavendish was dead, thoughhis wife, Mary (that fascinating enigmatical creature), was still alive, living in Devonshire.
Laurence was living with his wife and children in South Africa. Changes—changes everywhere.
But one thing, strangely enough, was the same. I was going to Styles to meet Hercule Poirot.
How stupefied I had been to receive his letter, with its heading Styles Court, Styles, Essex.
I had not seen my old friend for nearly a year. The last time I had seen him I had been shockedand saddened. He was now a very old man, and almost crippled with arthritis. He had gone toEgypt in the hopes of improving his health, but had returned, so his letter told me, rather worsethan better. Nevertheless, he wrote cheerfully. .?.?.
II
And does it not intrigue you, my friend, to see the address from which I write? Itrecalls old memories, does it not? Yes, I am here, at Styles. Figure to yourself, itis now what they call a guest house. Run by one of your so British old Colonels—very “old school tie” and “Poonar.” It is his wife, bien entendu, who makes itpay. She is a good manage, that one, but the tongue like vinegar, and the poorColonel, he suffers much from it. If it were me I would take a hatchet to her!
I saw their advertisement in the paper, and the fancy took me to go once againto the place which first was my home in this country. At my age one enjoysreliving the past.
Then figure to yourself, I find here a gentleman, a baronet who is a friend ofthe employer of your daughter. (That phrase it sounds a little like the Frenchexercise, does it not?)
Immediately I conceive a plan. He wishes to induce the Franklins to come herefor the summer. I in my turn will persuade you and we shall be all together, enfamille. It will be most agreeable. Therefore, mon cher Hastings, dépêchez-vous,arrive with the utmost celerity. I have commanded for you a room with bath (it ismodernized now, you comprehend, the dear old Styles) and disputed the pricewith Mrs. Colonel Luttrell until I have made an arrangement très bon marché.
The Franklins and your charming Judith have been here for some days. It is allarranged, so make no histories.
A bient?t,
Yours always, Hercule Poirot
The prospect was alluring, and I fell in with my old friend’s wishes without demur. I had no tiesand no settled home. Of my children, one boy was in the Navy, the other married and running theranch in the Argentine. My daughter Grace was married to a soldier and was at present in India.
My remaining child, Judith, was the one whom secretly I had always loved best, although I hadnever for one moment understood her. A queer, dark, secretive child, with a passion for keepingher own counsel, which had sometimes affronted and distressed me. My wife had been moreunderstanding. It was, she assured me, no lack of trust or confidence on Judith’s part, but a kind offierce compulsion. But she, like myself, was sometimes worried about the child. Judith’s feelings,she said, were too intense, too concentrated, and her instinctive reserve deprived her of any safetyvalve. She had queer fits of brooding silence and a fierce, almost bitter power of partisanship. Herbrains were the best of the family and we gladly fell in with her wish for a university education.
She had taken her B.Sc. about a year ago, and had then taken the post of secretary to a doctor whowas engaged in research work connected with tropical disease. His wife was somewhat of aninvalid.
I had occasionally had qualms as to whether Judith’s absorption in her work, and devotion toher employer, were not signs that she might be losing her heart, but the businesslike footing oftheir relationship assured me.
Judith was, I believed, fond of me, but she was very undemonstrative by nature, and she wasoften scornful and impatient of what she called my sentimental and outworn ideas. I was, frankly,a little nervous of my daughter!
At this point my meditations were interrupted by the train drawing up at the station of Styles St.
Mary. That at least had not changed. Time had passed it by. It was still perched up in the midst offields, with apparently no reason for existence.
As my taxi passed through the village, though, I realized the passage of years. Styles St. Marywas altered out of all recognition. Petrol stations, a cinema, two more inns and rows of councilhouses.
Presently we turned in at the gate of Styles. Here we seemed to recede again from moderntimes. The park was much as I remembered it, but the drive was badly kept and much overgrownwith weeds growing up over the gravel. We turned a corner and came in view of the house. It wasunaltered from the outside and badly needed a coat of paint.
As on my arrival all those years ago, there was a woman’s figure stooping over one of thegarden beds. My heart missed a beat. Then the figure straightened up and came towards me, and Ilaughed at myself. No greater contrast to the robust Evelyn Howard could have been imagined.
This was a frail elderly lady, with an abundance of curly white hair, pink cheeks, and a pair ofcold pale blue eyes that were widely at variance with the easy geniality of her manner, which wasfrankly a shade too gushing for my taste.
“It’ll be Captain Hastings now, won’t it?” she demanded. “And me with my hands all over dirtand not able to shake hands. We’re delighted to see you here—the amount we’ve heard about you!
I must introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Luttrell. My husband and I bought this place in a fit of madnessand have been trying to make a paying concern of it. I never thought the day would come when I’dbe a hotel keeper! But I’ll warn you, Captain Hastings, I’m a very businesslike woman. I pile upthe extras all I know how.”
We both laughed as though at an excellent joke, but it occurred to me that what Mrs. Luttrellhad just said was in all probability the literal truth. Behind the veneer of her charming old ladymanner, I caught a glimpse of flint-like hardness.
Although Mrs. Luttrell occasionally affected a faint brogue, she had no Irish blood. It was amere affectation.
I enquired after my friend.
“Ah, poor little M. Poirot. The way he’s been looking forward to your coming. It would melt aheart of stone. Terribly sorry I am for him, suffering the way he does.”
We were walking towards the house and she was peeling off her gardening gloves.
“And your pretty daughter, too,” she went on. “What a lovely girl she is. We all admire hertremendously. But I’m old-fashioned, you know, and it seems to me a shame and a sin that a girllike that, that ought to be going to parties and dancing with young men, should spend her timecutting up rabbits and bending over a microscope all day. Leave that sort of thing to the frumps, Isay.”
“Where is Judith?” I asked. “Is she somewhere about?”
Mrs. Luttrell made what children call “a face.”
“Ah, the poor girl. Sheh’s cooped up in tat studio place down at the bottom of the garden. Dr.
Franklin rents it from me and he’s had it all fitted up. Hutches of guinea pigs he’s got there, thepoor creatures, and mice and rabbits. I’m not sure that I like all this science, Captain Hastings. Ah,here’s my husband.”
Colonel Luttrell had just come round the corner of the house. He was a very tall, attenuated oldman, with a cadaverous face, mild blue eyes and a habit of irresolutely tugging at his little whitemoustache.
He had a vague, rather nervous manner.
“Ah, George, here’s Captain Hastings arrived.”
Colonel Luttrell shook hands. “You came by the five—er—forty, eh?”
“What else should he have come by?” said Mrs. Luttrell sharply. “And what does it matteranyway? Take him up and show him his room, George. And then maybe he’d like to go straight toM. Poirot—or would you rather have tea first?”
I assured her that I did not want tea and would prefer to go and greet my friend.
Colonel Luttrell said, “Right. Come along. I expect—er—they’ll have taken your things upalready—eh, Daisy?”
Mrs. Luttrell said tartly, “That’s your business, George. I’ve been gardening. I can’t see toeverything.”
“No, no, of course not. I—I’ll see to it, my dear.”
I followed him up the front steps. In the doorway we encountered a grey-haired man, slightlybuilt, who was hurrying out with a pair of field glasses. He limped, and had a boyish eager face.
He said, stammering slightly: “There’s a pair of n-nesting blackcaps down by the sycamore.”
As we went into the hall, Luttrell said, “That’s Norton. Nice fellow. Crazy about birds.”
In the hall itself, a very big man was standing by the table. He had obviously just finishedtelephoning. Looking up he said, “I’d like to hang, draw and quarter all contractors and builders.
Never get anything done right, curse ’em.”
His wrath was so comical and so rueful, that we both laughed. I felt very attracted at oncetowards the man. He was very good-looking, though a man well over fifty, with a deeply tannedface. He looked as though he had led an out-of-doors life, and he looked, too, the type of man thatis becoming more and more rare, an Englishman of the old school, straightforward, fond of out-of-doors life, and the kind of man who can command.
I was hardly surprised when Colonel Luttrell introduced him as Sir William Boyd Carrington.
He had been, I knew, Governor of a province in India, where he had been a signal success. He wasalso renowned as a first-class shot and big game hunter. The sort of man, I reflected sadly, that weno longer seemed to breed in these degenerate days.
“Aha,” he said. “I’m glad to meet in the flesh that famous personage mon ami Hastings.” Helaughed. “The dear old Belgian fellow talks about you a lot, you know. And then, of course, we’vegot your daughter here. She’s a fine girl.”
“I don’t suppose Judith talks about me much,” I said, smiling.
“No, no, far too modern. These girls nowadays always seem embarrassed at having to admit to afather or mother at all.”
“Parents,” I said, “are practically a disgrace.”
He laughed. “Oh, well—I don’t suffer that way. I’ve no children, worse luck. Your Judith is avery good-looking wench, but terribly highbrow. I find it rather alarming.” He picked up thetelephone receiver again. “Hope you don’t mind, Luttrell, if I start damning your exchange to hell.
I’m not a patient man.”
“Do ’em good,” said Luttrell.
He led the way upstairs and I followed him. He took me along the left wing of the house to adoor at the end, and I realized that Poirot had chosen for me the room I had occupied before.
There were changes here. As I walked along the corridor some of the doors were open and I sawthat the old-fashioned large bedrooms had been partitioned off so as to make several smaller ones.
My own room, which had not been large, was unaltered save for the installation of hot and coldwater, and part of it had been partitioned off to make a small bathroom. It was furnished in a cheapmodern style which rather disappointed me. I should have preferred a style more nearlyapproximating to the architecture of the house itself.
My luggage was in my room and the Colonel explained that Poirot’s room was exactly opposite.
He was about to take me there when a sharp cry of “George” echoed up from the hall below.
Colonel Luttrell started like a nervous horse. His hand went to his lips.
“I—I—sure you’re all right? Ring for what you want—”
“George.”
“Coming, my dear, coming.”
He hurried off down the corridor. I stood for a moment looking after him. Then, with my heartbeating slightly faster, I crossed the corridor and rapped on the door of Poirot’s room.
第一章
第一章
1当往事再临，重温旧梦，有谁能不为之心头一惊？
“一切都似曾相识……”
为何这几个字总能如此打动人心？
当我遥望火车窗外埃塞克斯平原的景色时，不由得这样问自己。
我上次踏上同样的旅程是多久之前的事了？那时的我曾以为自己人生的巅峰已经过去，如今想来真是可笑！令我负伤的那场战争永远地成为我心中“战争”的代名词——虽然关于它的记忆已经随着那更为惨烈的二次大战而逐渐逝去。
一九一六年，年轻的亚瑟•黑斯廷斯觉得自己已经足够成熟，岂知人生才刚刚开始。
那时我万万没有想到，自己即将遇到那个会改变我生命的男人。当时我是要去找我的老朋友约翰•卡文迪什，而他再婚不久的母亲名下有一座名为斯泰尔斯的乡村庄园。我一心盼着与老友重聚，做梦也想不到自己即将卷入一场神秘的凶案。
而正是在斯泰尔斯庄园，我又重新见到了赫尔克里•波洛，那个曾在比利时和我有过一面之缘的小个子男人。
我至今仍记得看到那个留着小胡子的身影跛着脚沿着乡村小路走来时，我是多么惊讶。
赫尔克里•波洛！从那之后我们就成了最好的朋友，而他对我的影响也彻底改变了我的生活。在与他朝夕相处、揭穿一个又一个杀人凶犯的过程中，我结识了我的妻子，我最真挚、最甜蜜的伴侣。
如今她已在阿根廷的土地中长眠。她的死完全如她所愿，没有长时间的病痛折磨，也没有年老力衰的虚弱无助。唯独留我一人，凄冷孤独。
啊！如果可以回到过去，重新来过该有多好。如果时光可以转回一九一六年我首次来到斯泰尔斯庄园的那一天……物是人非，沧海桑田！斯泰尔斯庄园已经易主。约翰•卡文迪什过世，只留下他的妻子玛丽（那个迷人的谜一样的女人）住在德文郡。劳伦斯则跟妻儿搬到了南非。改变——一切都变了。
只有一件事没变。我此去斯泰尔斯，还是要见赫尔克里•波洛。
接到他从埃塞克斯的斯泰尔斯庄园寄来的信时，我完全惊呆了。
我已经将近一年没有与这位老朋友见面了。我上次见他时既吃惊又感伤。垂暮之年的波洛饱受关节炎困扰，近乎残疾。他在给我的信中提到为了恢复健康曾去埃及疗养，但回来时情况反而愈发糟糕。尽管如此，他的口吻依旧轻松欢愉……2我的朋友，难道我这封信的发信地址没有引起你的好奇？它能唤起很多旧时的回忆吧？没错，我现在就在斯泰尔斯。你知道吗？如今的斯泰尔斯庄园已经变成所谓的“高级旅馆”了。老板是一位典型的英国上校——他不仅是名校出身，还曾在印度任职。不过实际的经营大权掌握在老板娘手里。她精于管理，不过唇舌如剑，可怜的上校没少吃夫人的苦头。要换了我可受不了！
我在报纸上看到他们发的广告，出于好奇决定回来看看，毕竟这里是我初到英国之时的落脚之地。人到了我这个年纪就是喜欢重温旧梦。
我在这儿遇到了一位绅士。这位准男爵是你女儿的雇主的朋友。（这个说法是不是听起来有点像法语？）
于是我有了这样一个想法。准男爵想邀请富兰克林夫妇来此度夏，我想说服你也过来，这样我们就能像家人一样团聚了。那当然是最好不过的了。所以啊，我亲爱的黑斯廷斯，赶快来吧。我让他们给你留了一间有浴室的房间（你应该可以想象到，历史悠久的斯泰尔斯庄园如今也现代化了），而且经过与勒特雷尔上校夫人反复地讨价还价，她终于同意给我一个便宜的价格。
富兰克林夫妇和你那漂亮的女儿朱迪斯前几天已经到了。万事俱备，别磨蹭了。
再见。
你永远的
赫尔克里•波洛
听起来不错，于是我不假思索地遵从了我那位老朋友的意愿。我没什么亲人，也没有固定住处。一个儿子在海军服役，另一个已经结婚，在阿根廷经营牧场。我的大女儿格蕾丝嫁给了一位军人，现居印度。再有就是朱迪斯。我心里其实一直最喜欢她，不过我一直没有真正理解她。这孩子生性古怪，难以捉摸，心里有什么事从不对别人说，这一点时常让我感到沮丧。我妻子比我更懂她。她宽慰我说，朱迪斯性格本就如此，倒不是因为她不信任我们。但我妻子有时也会像我一样担心。她说朱迪斯的感情太强烈，太集中，而她本性中的内敛让她失去了一个释放压力的渠道。她常常若有所思地陷入沉默，却又近乎顽固地坚持己见。她的头脑比家里其他人都要好，因此当她提出想上大学时，我们欣然同意。
她一年前获得理科学士学位，毕业后给一位研究热带疾病的医生当秘书。那位医生的夫人似乎身体不佳。
我曾经疑心朱迪斯对工作如此投入是不是因为爱上了她的雇主，但他们之间公事公办的关系让我打消了这种忧虑。
我相信朱迪斯是爱我的，但她天生不是那种擅长表达感情的人。她说我观念陈旧，太过感情用事，时常对我报以不耐烦的冷嘲热讽。坦白地讲，我多少有点儿害怕我的小女儿！
这时火车即将抵达斯泰尔斯圣玛丽车站，我也从沉思中醒来。至少这座车站还没什么变化。分秒流逝的时间似乎忘却了这里。它仍兀自矗立在田野中，与周遭环境格格不入。
但当出租车穿过村镇的时候，我还是清楚地意识到了时间的流逝。今天的斯泰尔斯圣玛丽与昔日完全不同。加油站、电影院、两家旅店和几排镇政府修建的简易房都是当初没有的。
转眼就到了斯泰尔斯庄园门口。这里似乎并未发生太大变化。庭院跟我记忆中几乎一模一样，不过车道保养不善，杂草长得老高。车拐了一个弯就看到了宅子。房屋表面的结构和装饰并没有改变，不过油漆已经退色很严重了。
这时，一位女士在花圃中弯腰劳作的身影映入我的眼帘，一如多年前我初次来到这里的时候。我的心一瞬间停止了跳动。待到那个人直起身向我走来，我才哑然失笑。她跟那时精力充沛的伊芙琳•霍华德有着天壤之别。
迎面向我走来的是一位上了年纪的老太太。她满头的白发浓密卷曲，两颊泛红。她的态度和蔼可亲——老实讲，我觉得有点热情过度——但一双蓝色的眼睛却显出极不相称的冷淡。
“这位是黑斯廷斯上尉吧？”她问道，“我满手是泥，没法跟您握手。我们久闻您的大名，今天能见到您实在太高兴了！我先向您做个自我介绍吧。我是勒特雷尔夫人。我和我丈夫当初一时兴起买下了这座庄园，之后就一直想着怎么靠它赚点儿钱花。我以前从没想过我会开旅馆！不过我得有言在先，黑斯廷斯上尉，我是个公事公办的人。我可一分钱都不会少收你的。”
我们俩都笑了，就像刚刚听到了一个很好玩儿的笑话，但是我心里觉得勒特雷尔太太说的完全不是玩笑。在她和善老妇的面具下，我察觉到一丝强硬的态度。
勒特雷尔太太说话偶尔会带点儿爱尔兰口音，但其实她没有爱尔兰血统，只是装装样子。
我向勒特雷尔太太问起了我的朋友。
“啊，可怜的小波洛。他一直眼巴巴地盼着你来呢。那种期盼就算是铁石心肠的人也会感动的。他身体那么糟，我真为他难过。”
我们一起朝宅子走，她边走边摘掉园丁手套。
“还有您那位漂亮的女儿，”她接着说，“她多可爱呀。我们都特别喜欢她。可是您知道，我是老派人，我觉得像她那样一个漂亮的姑娘就应该跟小伙子们出去聚会、跳舞，可现在她整天不是解剖兔子就是弯腰盯着显微镜，真是太可惜了。要我说，那种活儿就应该让那些土妞儿们干。”
“朱迪斯现在在哪儿？”我问道，“她在这附近吗？”
勒特雷尔太太做了一个孩子们所说的“鬼脸”。
“啊，那个可怜的小姑娘。她应该在花园地下的实验室里。富兰克林博士从我这儿租了那个地方，里面设施一应俱全。他在那儿养了好多实验用的小动物，可怜的小家伙，老鼠啊兔子什么的。黑斯廷斯上尉，科学那类东西我可不太喜欢。啊，我丈夫来了。”
勒特雷尔上校刚好从宅子拐角转出来。他身材高大瘦削，面容憔悴，长着一双温柔的蓝眼睛，正若有所思地捻他那花白的小胡子。
他看上去犹疑不决，显得十分紧张。
“啊，乔治，黑斯廷斯上尉来了。”
勒特雷尔上校过来跟我握手。“你是坐五点——不对——五点四十的列车过来的吧？”
“不然还能坐哪趟车啊？”勒特雷尔太太尖刻地说，“再说黑斯廷斯上尉坐哪趟车来的又怎样？带他上楼到他的房间去，乔治。黑斯廷斯上尉之后恐怕还得去找波洛先生呢——还是您想先喝点儿茶？”
我告诉她不用喝茶了，我想直接去见我的朋友。
勒特雷尔上校说：“那好。跟我来吧。估计——唔——他们应该已经把您的行李拿上楼去了——是吧，黛西？”
勒特雷尔太太厉声说道：“那是你的事情啊，乔治。我一直在整理花园。不能什么都指望我做啊。”
“那是，那是，当然了。我——我来吧，亲爱的。”
我跟着他走上大门前的台阶。我们在门口遇上一个灰色头发的男人，身材较瘦，拿着一只双筒望远镜急匆匆地往外走。他走路有些跛，脸上带着一种孩子般的急切。他说话时略有些口吃：“枫树上有两只黑冠雀正在筑……筑巢。”
我们走进大厅，勒特雷尔告诉我：“刚才那位叫诺顿。人不错。是个鸟类爱好者。”
大厅里，桌子旁边站着一个身材魁梧的男人。他显然刚打完电话，抬头看着我们说：“我真想把所有的承包商和建筑师都绞死、剖腹，然后分尸。什么事都做不好，去他们的。”
他虽然满腔愤恨，看上去却既滑稽又可怜，弄得我和勒特雷尔上校不禁都笑了。我立刻觉得眼前这个男人很亲切。他虽然已经年过半百，却仍然十分英俊，面色黝黑。他似乎曾经历过长时间的野外生活，看上去也确实是那种越来越罕见的老派英国人，直爽、喜欢野外生活、具有主导力。
通过勒特雷尔上校的介绍，我得知这位是威廉•博伊德•卡灵顿爵士，对此我几乎没有感觉到意外。我知道他曾经做过印度一个邦的首长，并且十分成功。他还是著名的神枪手和优秀猎手。总之，像他这样的男人在这个堕落的时代已经很少见了。
“啊哈，”他说，“能亲眼见到大名鼎鼎的‘我的朋友’黑斯廷斯，真是一件幸事。”说到这儿他大笑起来，“那个比利时老伙计经常提起你。而且令嫒也在这里。她真是个漂亮的姑娘。”
“我估计朱迪斯没怎么提起过我。”我微笑着说。
“确实，确实，她可是个现代的姑娘。现在的女孩儿们说起父母就面露难色，恨不得说自己没爹没娘才好。”
“对他们来说，”我回答道，“父母简直就是一种耻辱。”
他也笑了。“唔——我倒不用操这个心。因为我一个孩子都没有，比你运气还差。你们家朱迪斯非常漂亮，但是学问太大了，让我觉得有点害怕。”说着他又抄起电话听筒，“一会儿我要是说话太难听你可别介意啊，勒特雷尔。我可不是个有耐心的人。”
“好好收拾收拾他们。”勒特雷尔说。
勒特雷尔在前面领路，我跟着他上了楼。他带着我拐进左侧配楼，一直走到走廊尽头，我这才意识到波洛给我选的这个房间正是我上次来时住的那间。
房间里面还是有些变化的。有些房间的门是敞开的，我从走廊经过时，发现原先一些古朴的大卧室已经被隔成了几个小间。
我的房间原本面积就不大，所以基本没怎么变样，只是新装了冷热水，此外还有一小部分隔成了一个小浴室。房间的装潢和家具都是廉价的现代风格，这一点让我大失所望。
我还是喜欢跟庄园本身接近的装饰风格。
我的行李已经放进了房间，上校告诉我波洛的房间就在对门。他刚要带我过去，楼下大厅里就传来一声尖利的叫喊声：“乔治！”
勒特雷尔上校像受惊的马儿一样吓得一哆嗦，随即用手捂住了嘴。
“我——我——想您没什么事了吧？需要什么就按铃——”
“乔治！”
“来了，亲爱的，来了。”
他急忙冲出房间往楼下赶。我目送他走远，这才穿过走廊，满怀着紧张和期待，敲了敲波洛的房门。
Two
Two
Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age.
My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to you the difference.
Crippled with arthritis, he propelled himself about in a wheeled chair. His once plump frame hadfallen in. He was a thin little man now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair,it is true, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly, though I would not for the world have hurthis feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake. There comes a moment when hair dye is onlytoo painfully obvious. There had been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blacknessof Poirot’s hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality was apparent and merely created theimpression that he wore a wig and had adorned his upper lip to amuse the children!
Only his eyes were the same as ever, shrewd and twinkling, and now—yes, undoubtedly—softened with emotion.
“Ah, mon ami Hastings—mon ami Hastings. .?.?.”
I bent my head and, as was his custom, he embraced me warmly.
“Mon ami Hastings!”
He leaned back, surveying me with his head a little to one side.
“Yes, just the same—the straight back, the broad shoulders, the grey of the hair—très distingué.
You know, my friend, you have worn well. Les femmes, they still take an interest in you? Yes?”
“Really, Poirot,” I protested. “Must you—”
“But I assure you, my friend, it is a test—it is the test. When the very young girls come and talkto you kindly, oh so kindly—it is the end! ‘The poor old man,’ they say, ‘we must be nice to him.
It must be so awful to be like that.’ But you, Hastings—vous êtes encore jeune. For you there arestill possibilities. That is right, twist your moustache, hunch your shoulders—I see it is as I say—you would not look so self-conscious otherwise.”
I burst out laughing. “You really are the limit, Poirot. And how are you yourself?”
“Me,” said Poirot with a grimace. “I am a wreck. I am a ruin. I cannot walk. I am crippled andtwisted. Mercifully I can still feed myself, but otherwise I have to be attended to like a baby. Put tobed, washed and dressed. Enfin, it is not amusing that. Mercifully, though the outside decays, thecore is still sound.”
“Yes, indeed. The best heart in the world.”
“The heart? Perhaps. I was not referring to the heart. The brain, mon cher, is what I mean by thecore. My brain, it still functions magnificently.”
I could at least perceive clearly that no deterioration of the brain in the direction of modesty hadtaken place.
“And you like it here?” I asked.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “It suffices. It is not, you comprehend, the Ritz. No, indeed. Theroom I was in when I first came here was both small and inadequately furnished. I moved to thisone with no increase of price. Then, the cooking, it is English at its worst. Those Brussels sproutsso enormous, so hard, that the English like so much. The potatoes boiled and either hard or fallingto pieces. The vegetables that taste of water, water, and again water. The complete absence of thesalt and pepper in any dish—” he paused expressively.
“It sounds terrible,” I said.
“I do not complain,” said Poirot, and proceeded to do so. “And there is also the modernization,so called. The bathrooms, the taps everywhere and what comes out of them? Lukewarm water,mon ami, at most hours of the day. And the towels, so thin, so meagre!”
“There is something to be said for the old days,” I said thoughtfully. I remembered the clouds ofsteam which had gushed from the hot tap of the one bathroom Styles had originally possessed, oneof those bathrooms in which an immense bath with mahogany sides had reposed proudly in themiddle of the bathroom floor. Remembered, too, the immense bath towels, and the frequentshining brass cans of boiling hot water that stood in one’s old-fashioned basin.
“But one must not complain,” said Poirot again. “I am content to suffer—for a good cause.”
A sudden thought struck me.
“I say, Poirot, you’re not—er—hard up, are you? I know the war hit investments very badly—”
Poirot reassured me quickly.
“No, no, my friend. I am in most comfortable circumstances. Indeed, I am rich. It is not theeconomy that brings me here.”
“Then that’s all right,” I said. I went on: “I think I can understand your feeling. As one gets on,one tends more and more to revert to the old days. One tries to recapture old emotions. I find itpainful to be here, in a way, and yet it brings back to me a hundred old thoughts and emotions thatI’d quite forgotten I ever felt. I daresay you feel the same.”
“Not in the least. I do not feel like that at all.”
“They were good days,” I said sadly.
“You may speak for yourself, Hastings. For me, my arrival at Styles St. Mary was a sad andpainful time. I was a refugee, wounded, exiled from home and country, existing by charity in aforeign land. No, it was not gay. I did not know then that England would come to be my home andthat I should find happiness here.”
“I had forgotten that,” I admitted.
“Precisely. You attribute always to others the sentiments that you yourself experience. Hastingswas happy—everybody was happy!”
“No, no,” I protested, laughing.
“And in any case it is not true,” continued Poirot. “You look back, you say, the tears rising inyour eyes, ‘Oh, the happy days. Then I was young.’ But indeed, my friend, you were not so happyas you think. You had recently been severely wounded, you were fretting at being no longer fit foractive service, you had just been depressed beyond words by your sojourn in a drearyconvalescent home and, as far as I remember, you proceeded to complicate matters by falling inlove with two women at the same time.”
I laughed and flushed.
“What a memory you have, Poirot.”
“Ta ta ta—I remember now the melancholy sigh you heaved as you murmured fatuities abouttwo lovely women.”
“Do you remember what you said? You said, ‘And neither of them for you! But courage, monami. We may hunt together again and then perhaps—’ ”
I stopped. For Poirot and I had gone hunting again to France and it was there that I had met theone woman. .?.?.
Gently my friend patted my arm.
“I know, Hastings, I know. The wound is still fresh. But do not dwell on it, do not look back.
Instead look forward.”
I made a gesture of disgust.
“Look forward? What is there to look forward to?”
“Eh bien, my friend, there is work to be done.”
“Work? Where?”
“Here.”
I stared at him.
“Just now,” said Poirot, “you asked me why I had come here. You may not have observed that Igave you no answer. I will give the answer now. I am here to hunt down a murderer.”
I stared at him with even more astonishment. For a moment I thought he was rambling.
“You really mean that?”
“But certainly I mean it. For what other reason did I urge you to join me? My limbs, they are nolonger active, but my brain, as I told you, is unimpaired. My rule, remember, has been always thesame—sit back and think. That I still can do—in fact it is the only thing possible for me. For themore active side of the campaign I shall have with me my invaluable Hastings.”
“You really mean it?” I gasped.
“Of course I mean it. You and I, Hastings, are going hunting once again.”
It took some minutes to grasp that Poirot was really in earnest.
Fantastic though his statement sounded, I had no reason to doubt his judgement.
With a slight smile he said, “At last you are convinced. At first you imagined, did you not, that Ihad the softening of the brain?”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “Only this seems such an unlikely place.”
“Ah, you think so?”
“Of course I haven’t seen all the people yet—”
“Whom have you seen?”
“Just the Luttrells, and a man called Norton, seems an inoffensive chap, and Boyd Carrington—I must say I took the greatest fancy to him.”
Poirot nodded. “Well, Hastings, I will tell you this, when you have seen the rest of thehousehold, my statement will seem to you just as improbable as it is now.”
“Who else is there?”
“The Franklins — Doctor and Mrs., the hospital nurse who attends to Mrs. Franklin, yourdaughter Judith. Then there is a man called Allerton, something of a lady-killer, and a Miss Cole, awoman in her thirties. They are all, let me tell you, very nice people.”
“And one of them is a murderer?”
“And one of them is a murderer.”
“But why—how—why should you think—?”
I found it hard to frame my questions, they tumbled over each other.
“Calm yourself, Hastings. Let us begin from the beginning. Reach me, I pray you, that smallbox from the bureau. Bien. And now the key—so—”
Unlocking the despatch case, he took from it a mass of typescript and newspaper clippings.
“You can study these at your leisure, Hastings. For the moment I should not bother with thenewspaper cuttings. They are merely the press accounts of various tragedies, occasionallyinaccurate, sometimes suggestive. To give you an idea of the cases I suggest that you should readthrough the précis I have made.”
Deeply interested, I started reading.
CASE A. ETHERINGTON
Leonard Etherington. Unpleasant habits—took drugs and also drank. A peculiarand sadistic character. Wife young and attractive. Desperately unhappy with him.
Etherington died, apparently of food poisoning. Doctor not satisfied. As a resultof autopsy, death discovered to be due to arsenical poisoning. Supply of weedkiller in the house, but ordered a long time previously. Mrs. Etherington arrestedand charged with murder. She had recently been friends with a man in CivilService returning to India. No suggestion of actual infidelity, but evidence of deepsympathy between them. Young man had since become engaged to be married togirl he met on voyage out. Some doubt as to whether letter telling Mrs.
Etherington of this fact was received by her after or before her husband’s death.
She herself says before. Evidence against her mainly circumstantial, absence ofanother likely suspect and accident highly unlikely. Great sympathy felt with herat trial owing to husband’s character and the bad treatment she had receivedfrom him. Judge’s summing up was in her favour stressing that verdict must bebeyond any reasonable doubt.
Mrs. Etherington was acquitted. General opinion, however, was that she wasguilty. Her life afterwards very difficult owing to friends, etc., cold-shoulderingher. She died as a result of taking an overdose of sleeping draught two years afterthe trial. Verdict of accidental death returned at inquest.
CASE B. MISS SHARPLES
Elderly spinster. An invalid. Difficult, suffering much pain. She was looked afterby her niece, Freda Clay. Miss Sharples died as a result of an overdose ofmorphia. Freda Clay admitted an error, saying that her aunt’s sufferings were sobad that she could not stand it and gave her more morphia to ease the pain.
Opinion of police that act was deliberate, not a mistake, but they consideredevidence insufficient on which to prosecute.
CASE C. EDWARD RIGGS
Agricultural labourer. Suspected his wife of infidelity with their lodger, BenCraig. Craig and Mrs. Riggs found shot. Shots proved to be from Riggs’s gun.
Riggs gave himself up to the police, said he supposed he must have done it, butcouldn’t remember. His mind went blank, he said. Riggs sentenced to death,sentence afterwards commuted to penal servitude for life.
CASE D. DEREK BRADLEY
Was carrying on an intrigue with a girl. His wife discovered this, she threatenedto kill him. Bradley died of potassium cyanide administered in his beer. Mrs.
Bradley arrested and tried for murder. Broke down under cross-examination.
Convicted and hanged.
CASE E. MATTHEW LITCHFIELD
Elderly tyrant. Four daughters at home, not allowed any pleasures or money tospend. One evening on returning home, he was attacked outside his side door andkilled by a blow on the head. Later, after police investigation, his eldest daughter,Margaret, walked into the police station and gave herself up for her father’smurder. She did it, she said, in order that her younger sisters might be able tohave a life of their own before it was too late. Litchfield left a large fortune.
Margaret Litchfield was adjudged insane and committed to Broadmoor, but diedshortly afterwards.
I read carefully, but with a growing bewilderment. Finally I put the paper down and lookedenquiringly at Poirot.
“Well, mon ami?”
“I remember the Bradley case,” I said slowly, “I read about it at the time. She was a very good-looking woman.”
Poirot nodded.
“But you must enlighten me. What is all this about?”
“Tell me first what it amounts to in your eyes.”
I was rather puzzled.
“What you gave me was an account of five different murders. They all occurred in differentplaces and amongst different classes of people. Moreover there seems no superficial resemblancebetween them. That is to say, one was a case of jealousy, one was an unhappy wife seeking to getrid of her husband, another had money for a motive, another was, you might say, unselfish in aimsince the murderer did not try to escape punishment, and the fifth was frankly brutal, probablycommitted under the influence of drink.” I paused and said doubtfully: “Is there something incommon between them all that I have missed?”
“No, no, you have been very accurate in your summing up. The only point that you might havementioned, but did not, was the fact that in none of those cases did any real doubt exist.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Mrs. Etherington, for instance, was acquitted. But everybody, nevertheless, was quite certainthat she did it. Freda Clay was not openly accused, but no one thought of any alternative solutionto the crime. Riggs stated that he did not remember killing his wife and her lover, but there wasnever any question of anybody else having done so. Margaret Litchfield confessed. In each case,you see, Hastings, there was one clear suspect and no other.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Yes, that is true—but I don’t see what particular inferences you drawfrom that.”
“Ah, but you see, I am coming to a fact that you do not know as yet. Supposing, Hastings, thatin each of these cases that I have outlined, there was one alien note common to them all?”
“What do you mean?”
Poirot said slowly: “I intend, Hastings, to be very careful in what I say. Let me put it this way.
There is a certain person—X. In none of these cases did X (apparently) have any motive in doingaway with the victim. In one case, as far as I have been able to find out, X was actually twohundred miles away when the crime was committed. Nevertheless I will tell you this. X was onintimate terms with Etherington, X lived for a time in the same village as Riggs, X was acquaintedwith Mrs. Bradley. I have a snap of X and Freda Clay walking together in the street, and X wasnear the house when old Matthew Litchfield died. What do you say to that?”
I stared at him. I said slowly: “Yes, it’s a bit too much. Coincidence might account for twocases, or even three, but five is a bit too thick. There must, unlikely as it seems, be someconnection between these different murders.”
“You assume, then, what I have assumed?”
“That X is the murderer? Yes.”
“In that case, Hastings, you will be willing to go with me one step farther. Let me tell you this.
X is in this house.”
“Here? At Styles?”
“At Styles. What is the logical inference to be drawn from that?”
I knew what was coming as I said: “Go on—say it.”
Hercule Poirot said gravely: “A murder will shortly be committed here—here.”
第二章
第二章
在我看来，没有什么比岁月流逝对人的摧残更令人难过了。
我可怜的朋友。我以前曾多次向各位描述过他，但这次我见到的波洛与以往大不相同。因关节炎而几乎瘫痪的他如今只能靠轮椅到处走动。他那曾经圆鼓鼓的身材如今变得瘦小枯干。他的脸上堆满皱纹。他的胡子和头发虽然依旧乌黑，但老实说这是个错误——我不想伤害我朋友的感情，所以这话我不会对他直说的。染黑的头发总有一天会显得突兀。第一次得知波洛满头的乌发全拜染发剂所赐的时候，我十分惊讶。如今，那种喜剧效果已经十分明显，给人感觉就好像他是故意戴上假发、贴上假胡子要哄小孩子高兴似的！
只有那双眼睛一如既往，精明而闪亮，而且——毫无疑问——因为内心的感情而散发出柔和的光芒。
“啊，我的朋友黑斯廷斯——我的朋友黑斯廷斯……”
我俯下身，他一如当年一样热情地拥抱了我。
“我的朋友黑斯廷斯！”
他仰靠在椅背上，微微偏着头左右打量我。
“嗯，你还是老样子——笔直的后背、宽阔的肩膀、灰色的头发——真漂亮。我的朋友，你保养得真好。女人们还是对你感兴趣的吧？对吧？”
“说真的，波洛，”我抗议道，“你非要——”
“你听我说，我的朋友，这是一种测试魅力的方式——是测试。如果年轻女孩子们走过来特别和气地跟你说话，非常友善——那就没戏了！‘那个可怜的老头子，’她们说，‘我们得对他好点儿。像他那样太可怜了。’但你不一样，黑斯廷斯——你还年轻，仍然有希望。
对，你整整胡子、挺胸抬头——我是认真的——你看上去就不会这么羞怯了。”
我忍不住笑了出来。“我真服了你了，波洛。你怎么样？”
“我啊，”波洛做了个鬼脸，“废人一个。一个废人。不能走路，几乎瘫痪。幸好我还能自己吃饭，否则就真得找人像照料孩子一样伺候我了。每天把我抬到床上，给我擦身子、穿衣服，一直到死。一点儿都不好玩。幸好虽然我身体不行了，里面还没坏。”
“的确。你有世界上最美丽的心。”
“心？也许吧。我指的不是心脏。我说的里面啊，我亲爱的朋友，是脑子。我的大脑仍然灵敏如初。”
我能清楚地感觉到他的头脑一点儿也没有生锈。
“你在这儿住得怎么样？”我问道。
波洛耸耸肩。“还行吧。你也知道，这里毕竟不是丽兹酒店。天壤之别。我第一次来时住的那个房间太小，而且家具也不齐全。所以我就搬到这间屋来了，不过价格还是一样。
说到伙食，这里的伙食是我在英国吃到的最差的。这儿的抱子甘蓝块儿大而且硬，可是英国人特别喜欢。土豆不是煮得半生不熟就是碎成了渣。蔬菜怎么吃都是白开水的味儿。任何菜品都吃不出一丁点儿盐或者胡椒——”他意味深长地停了一下。
“听起来真糟糕。”我说。
“我没什么好抱怨的，”波洛说，但还是接着抱怨起来，“还有那所谓的现代化。浴室里到处都是水龙头，可是水龙头里流出来的是什么呢？不凉不热的温吞水，我的朋友，一天到晚多数时候都是如此。还有毛巾，那么薄，还就只有那么几条！”
“看来旧日的时光也并非一无是处啊。”我沉思道。我想起斯泰尔斯庄园原先唯一的浴室里，水龙头一拧开就会喷涌而出的热气，以及那骄傲地矗立在浴室正中央的桃花心木包边的巨大浴缸。还有那宽大的浴巾、老式的脸盆，以及盆里那擦得锃亮、装满滚烫开水的铜壶。
“但人不能总是满腹牢骚。”波洛又说，“我能忍受——当然，这是有原因的。”
一个念头突然涌上我的心头。
“我说，波洛，你不会是——呃——没钱花了吧？我听说好多投资在战争中都损失惨重——”
波洛马上告诉我别担心。
“没有，没有，我的朋友。我现在过得很自在。甚至可以不夸张地说，我很有钱。我来这儿不是为了省钱。”
“那就好。”我说。我接着说道：“我觉得我可以理解你的感受。随着一个人年纪越来越大，就越来越喜欢回忆原来的日子。上年纪的人总喜欢重温昔日的情感。从某种程度上说，这个地方让我感到难受，但来到这里，让我回想起许多我已经忘记的思绪和感情。我估计你也是一样。”
“根本不是。我完全没有那样的感觉。”
“那些都是美好的时光啊。”我悲伤地说。
“你说的可能是你的感受，黑斯廷斯。对我来说，我当时初到斯泰尔斯圣玛丽的时候正处在不幸和痛苦当中。我是个难民，负了伤，有家难归，有国难投，只能靠他人好心的收留在异国流浪。那段日子一点儿也不快乐。我那时根本没有想到英国会成为我的第二故乡，没有想到我会再次找到幸福。”
“我把这个忘了。”我承认。
“正是如此。你总是把自己的感受投射到他人身上。黑斯廷斯高兴的时候，所有人都是高兴的！”
“才不是呢。”我笑着反对。
“不管怎么说，这都不是真的。”波洛继续说，“你回首往事的时候总会热泪盈眶地说：‘哦，那些快乐的日子啊。那时我多么年轻。’但实际上呢，我的朋友，你那个时候也不像你现在认为的那么快乐。当时的你负伤初愈，总是担心自己没法再继续服役了。刚从阴暗的疗养院搬出来的你仍然郁闷不已，而且如果我记得没错的话，你同时爱上两个女人，简直是雪上加霜。”
我笑了，脸也不由自主地红了。
“你记性真好啊，波洛。”
“那是自然——我现在还记得你一边嘟囔着关于两个可爱女人的傻话，一边悲伤地叹气。”
“你还记得你那时说的话吗？你说：‘她们两个都不适合你！你要振作起来啊，我的朋友。我们可以一起追捕凶犯，然后或许就——’”
说到这儿我停住了。因为后来我和波洛为了一起凶案前往法国，竟然真的在那里邂逅了那个女人……
我的朋友轻轻拍了拍我的胳膊。
“我明白，黑斯廷斯，我明白。你的伤口还没有愈合。但你不能纠缠着这件事不放，不要再回头看了。你应该向前看。”
我做了一个厌烦的手势。
“向前看？有什么值得我向前看的？”
“你这样想就错了啊，我的朋友，我们还有工作要做。”
“工作？哪儿？”
“就在这儿。”
我睁大眼睛盯着他。
“刚才，”波洛说，“你问我为什么要来这儿。你或许没注意到，我并没有回答你的问题。我现在就给你答案：我来这儿是为了追捕一个杀人犯。”
我更加惊讶地盯着他。有一瞬间，我感觉他肯定是在说胡话。
“你是认真的？”
“我当然是认真的。不然我为什么让你也过来呢？我的四肢已经不像以往那样灵活了，但我刚才跟你说了，我的头脑还跟以前一样。你应该记得，我一贯擅长冷静思考。现在的我仍然可以冷静思考——事实上这也是我唯一能做的事情。这次行动的那些机动的部分，就都要仰仗我最为珍贵的朋友黑斯廷斯了。”
“你说的是真的？”我倒吸一口凉气。
“当然是真的。你和我，黑斯廷斯，又要联手缉凶了。”
过了好几分钟我才明白，波洛的确是认真的。
虽然他的话听上去令人难以置信，我却没有任何理由怀疑他的判断力。
他微微一笑，说：“你终于相信了。你是不是一开始认为我的脑子不好使了？”
“没有，没有，”我赶紧说，“只是这里不太像是会有杀人犯出没的地方。”
“哦，你是这么认为的？”
“当然，我还没跟所有人见过面，不过——”
“你见过谁了？”
“只有勒特雷尔夫妇，还有一个叫诺顿的男人，看起来是个人畜无害的伙计。再有就是博伊德•卡灵顿——我必须说我非常喜欢他。”
波洛点点头。“嗯，黑斯廷斯，我这么跟你说吧，即便你已经见过这里所有的房客，你也不会认为我刚才说的那些话是认真的。”
“住在这儿的还有谁？”
“富兰克林夫妇——富兰克林博士和富兰克林太太、照顾富兰克林太太的医院护士、你的女儿朱迪斯。还有一个叫阿勒顿的男人，可以说是个女性杀手。还有科尔小姐，三十多岁的年纪。我可以直接告诉你，他们都是很好的人。”
“而他们中间有一个人是杀人犯？”
“他们中间有一个人是杀人犯。”
“可是为什么——怎么——为什么你会认为——”
我有许多问题要问，一时竟不知该怎么问才好。
“先冷静点儿，黑斯廷斯。我们先从头开始。请你把书桌上那个小箱子递给我。好的。
还有钥匙——对了——”
他打开公文箱，从里面取出一沓打印文稿和剪报。
“你可以先仔细读读这些材料，黑斯廷斯。关于这些剪报我现在不想跟你讲太多。这些不过是媒体对各种悲剧的报道，偶尔也有失实之处，有时则暗示性太强。你要是想初步了解案情，我建议你先读读我做的案情摘要。”
我很感兴趣，立即开始读起来。
案件一：艾泽灵顿
列奥纳德•艾泽灵顿。身染恶习——吸毒、酗酒。个性古怪嗜虐。妻子年轻漂亮，跟他在一起很不快乐。艾泽灵顿死亡，显然是由于食物中毒。医生不满意这个结果。尸检结果显示，死亡是由砷中毒引起。死者家里有除草剂，是事发很久之前购买的。艾泽灵顿太太以杀人罪被捕。她此前结交过一个现已回到印度的公务员。没有任何婚外恋情的迹象，但有证据表明两人感情很好。那名年轻男子后来与一名在旅途中结识的女孩儿订婚。艾泽灵顿太太曾收到一封告知她这一情况的信，是其丈夫死前还是死后收到的仍然存疑。她自称是在丈夫死前收到的。对她不利的证据主要是间接证据，不存在其他嫌犯，而且不太可能是意外致死。由于她丈夫的性格以及她受到的虐待，庭审时人们对她报以很大同情。法官的结案陈词对她有利，强调判决必须超越所有合理怀疑。
艾泽灵顿太太被无罪释放。但不少人认为是她杀了她丈夫。后来她受到家人和朋友冷遇，生活艰难。庭审两年后，她由于服用过量安眠药身亡。调查结果判定为意外死亡。
案件二：夏普尔斯小姐
老处女。身体羸弱。生活艰难痛苦，由侄女弗里达•克雷照顾。夏普尔斯小姐由于过量使用吗啡而死。弗里达•克雷承认犯错，她说姑姑的病痛太严重，她无法坐视不管，于是就给她用了高于平时剂量的吗啡缓解疼痛。警方认为是蓄意谋杀，不是意外，但他们认为证据不足以起诉。
案件三：爱德华•里格斯
佃农。怀疑妻子与房客本•克雷格有染。克雷格和里格斯太太被人发现死于枪杀。子弹被证明由里格斯的枪射出。里格斯向警方自首，声称虽然人应该是自己杀的，但他完全不记得自己做过。他自称头脑一片空白。里格斯被判死刑，后改判无期徒刑。
案件四：德里克•布拉德利
与一女孩儿私通。妻子发现并扬言要杀了他。布拉德利饮用放了氰化钾的啤酒之后死亡。布拉德利太太被捕，并因谋杀罪受审。交叉质询之后彻底崩溃。被判有罪，执行绞刑。
案件五：马修•里奇菲尔德
性情暴虐的老头。把四个女儿关在家里，不允许她们有任何快乐，不给她们钱花。一天晚上回家的时候在侧门外遇袭，头部遭受重击而死。警方调查后，长女玛格丽特到警局自首。她说自己这样做就是为了让几个妹妹尽早过上自由的生活。里奇菲尔德留下一笔巨额遗产。玛格丽特•里奇菲尔德被认定有精神病，发往布罗德莫服刑，但不久之后即死亡。
我仔仔细细读了一遍，越读越莫名其妙。最后我把这份摘要放下，疑惑地看着波洛。
“怎么样，我的朋友？”
“布拉德利那个案子我还记得，”我缓慢地说，“当时我读到过相关的报道。那个女人很漂亮。”
波洛点点头。
“不过你得给我讲讲。这到底是怎么回事？”
“先跟我说说你的看法。”
我只觉得一头雾水。
“你给我的这份材料讲了五个不同的案子。这些案子发生在不同的地方，涉及不同阶层的人。表面上看它们之间没有任何相似之处。也就是说，一个起因于嫉妒，一个是不幸福的妻子要弄死丈夫，一个部分杀人动机来自钱，一个可以说是出于无私的考虑，毕竟凶手并未打算逃避惩罚，另外一个坦率地讲很野蛮，大概是酒醉后行凶的吧。”我顿了一下，然后怀疑地说，“这几个案子之间是不是有什么共同点我遗漏掉了？”
“没有，没有，你概括得非常准确。只有一点你本来应该提到的，就是这几个案子似乎都不存在疑点。”
“我不明白。”
“比如说艾泽灵顿太太被无罪释放了，但是所有人都十分确信凶手就是她。弗里达•克雷没有被公开起诉，但谁也想不出这个案子还有什么别的可能性。里格斯说他不记得杀害过妻子和情敌，但毫无疑问，除了他之外没有其他任何人有行凶的可能性。玛格丽特•里奇菲尔德则亲口承认自己杀了人。你发现了吧，黑斯廷斯，每个案子都有且只有一个明明白白的嫌疑人。”
我皱起了眉头。“是，这倒没错——但我不明白，这又能说明什么问题呢？”
“啊，这里有一个事实你不知道，我正要说呢。黑斯廷斯，如果你假设我选出的这五个案子有一个共同的外在因素呢？”
“什么意思？”
波洛缓缓说道：“黑斯廷斯，这件事我还不能对你和盘托出。这么说吧。有某个人——我们暂且称为X。在这几个案子里，X显然没有任何要杀掉受害者的动机。根据我的调查，其中一个案件发生时，X离案发现场至少有两百英里的距离。不过我还是要告诉你：X跟艾泽灵顿关系很好；X曾一度跟里格斯夫妇住在同一个村庄；X认识布拉德利太太；我有一张X与弗里达•克雷一起逛街的照片，而且当老马修•里奇菲尔德死亡时X就在附近。你对此怎么看？”
我盯着他，缓缓地说：“确实，这有点太多了。巧合或许可以解释两个案子，或者顶多三个，但是五个就太多了。虽然看起来不太可能，但这五个不同的凶案之间肯定有什么联系。”
“那么你的推论是不是跟我的一样？”
“你是说X才是真凶？没错。”
“这么说，黑斯廷斯，我就可以再带着你往前走一步。我想告诉你的是：X就在这座宅子里。”
“在这儿？在斯泰尔斯庄园？”
“就在斯泰尔斯庄园。从这一点我们能得出什么逻辑推论呢？”
我知道他要说什么，于是说：“你接着说吧。”
赫尔克里•波洛沉重地说：“不久，将有命案在此发生——就在这座宅子里。”
Three
Three
For a moment or two I stared at Poirot in dismay, then I reacted.
“No, it won’t,” I said. “You’ll prevent that.”
Poirot threw me an affectionate glance.
“My loyal friend. How much I appreciate your faith in me. Tout de même, I am not sure if it isjustified in this case.”
“Nonsense. Of course you can stop it.”
Poirot’s voice was grave as he said: “Reflect a minute, Hastings. One can catch a murderer, yes.
But how does one proceed to stop a murder?”
“Well, you—you—well, I mean—if you know beforehand—”
I paused rather feebly—for suddenly I saw the difficulties.
Poirot said: “You see? It is not so simple. There are, in fact, only three methods. The first is towarn the victim. To put the victim on his or her guard. That does not always succeed, for it isunbelievably difficult to convince some people that they are in grave danger—possibly fromsomeone near and dear to them. They are indignant and refuse to believe. The second course is towarn the murderer. To say, in language that is only slightly veiled, ‘I know your intentions. If so-and-so dies, my friend, you will most surely hang.’ That succeeds more often than the first method,but even there it is likely to fail. For a murderer, my friend, is more conceited than any creature onthis earth. A murderer is always more clever than anyone else—no one will ever suspect him orher—the police will be utterly baffled, etc. Therefore he (or she) goes ahead just the same, and allyou can have is the satisfaction of hanging them afterwards.” He paused and said thoughtfully:
“Twice in my life I have warned a murderer—once in Egypt, once elsewhere. In each case, thecriminal was determined to kill .?.?. It may be so here.”
“You said there was a third method,” I reminded him.
“Ah yes. For that one needs the utmost ingenuity. You have to guess exactly how and when theblow is timed to fall and you have to be ready to step in at the exact psychological moment. Youhave to catch the murderer, if not quite red- handed, then guilty of the intention beyond anypossible doubt.
“And that, my friend,” went on Poirot, “is, I can assure you, a matter of great difficulty anddelicacy, and I would not for a moment guarantee its success! I may be conceited, but I am not soconceited as that.”
“Which method do you propose to try here?”
“Possibly all three. The first is the most difficult.”
“Why? I should have thought it the easiest.”
“Yes, if you know the intended victim. But do you not realize, Hastings, that here I do not knowthe victim?”
“What?”
I gave vent to the exclamation without reflecting. Then the difficulties of the position began todraw on me. There was, there must be, some link connecting this series of crimes, but we did notknow what that link was. The motive, the vitally important motive, was missing. And withoutknowing that, we could not tell who was threatened.
Poirot nodded as he saw by my face that I was realizing the difficulties of the situation.
“You see, my friend, it is not so easy.”
“No,” I said. “I see that. You have so far been able to find no connection between these varyingcases?”
Poirot shook his head. “Nothing.”
I reflected again. In the ABC crimes, we had to deal with what purported to be an alphabeticalseries, though in actuality it had turned out to be something very different.
I asked: “There is, you are quite sure, no far-fetched financial motive—nothing, for instance,like you found in the case of Evelyn Carlisle?”
“No. You may be quite sure, my dear Hastings, that financial gain is the first thing for which Ilook.”
That was true enough. Poirot had always been completely cynical about money.
I thought again. A vendetta of some kind? That was more in accordance with the facts. But eventhere, there seemed a lack of any connecting link. I recalled a story I had read of a series ofpurposeless murders—the clue being that the victims had happened to serve as members of a jury,and the crimes had been committed by a man whom they had condemned. It struck me thatsomething of that kind would meet this case. I am ashamed to say that I kept the idea to myself. Itwould have been such a feather in my cap if I could go to Poirot with the solution.
Instead I asked: “And now tell me, who is X?”
To my intense annoyance Poirot shook his head very decidedly. “That, my friend, I do not tell.”
“Nonsense. Why not?”
Poirot’s eyes twinkled. “Because, mon cher, you are still the same old Hastings. You have stillthe speaking countenance. I do not wish, you see, that you should sit staring at X with your mouthhanging open, your face saying plainly: ‘This—this that I am looking at—is a murderer.’ ”
“You might give me credit for a little dissimulation at need.”
“When you try to dissimulate, it is worse. No, no, mon ami, we must be very incognito, you andI. Then, when we pounce, we pounce.”
“You obstinate old devil,” I said. “I’ve a good mind to—”
I broke off as there was a tap on the door. Poirot called, “Come in,” and my daughter Judithentered.
I should like to describe Judith, but I’ve always been a poor hand at descriptions.
Judith is tall, she holds her head high, she has level dark brows, and a very lovely line of cheekand jaw, severe in its austerity. She is grave and slightly scornful, and to my mind there hasalways hung about her a suggestion of tragedy.
Judith didn’t come and kiss me—she is not that kind. She just smiled at me and said, “Hullo,Father.”
Her smile was shy and a little embarrassed, but it made me feel that in spite of herundemonstrativeness she was pleased to see me.
“Well,” I said, feeling foolish as I so often do with the younger generation, “I’ve got here.”
“Very clever of you, darling,” said Judith.
“I describe to him,” said Poirot, “the cooking.”
“Is it very bad?” asked Judith.
“You should not have to ask that, my child. Is it that you think of nothing but the test tubes andthe microscopes? Your middle finger it is stained with methylene blue. It is not a good thing foryour husband if you take no interest in his stomach.”
“I daresay I shan’t have a husband.”
“Certainly you will have a husband. What did the bon Dieu create you for?”
“Many things, I hope,” said Judith.
“Le mariage first of all.”
“Very well,” said Judith. “You will find me a nice husband and I will look after his stomachvery carefully.”
“She laughs at me,” said Poirot. “Some day she will know how wise old men are.”
There was another tap on the door and Dr. Franklin entered. He was a tall, angular young manof thirty-five, with a decided jaw, reddish hair, and bright blue eyes. He was the most ungainlyman I had ever known, and was always knocking into things in an absentminded way.
He cannoned into the screen round Poirot’s chair, and half turning his head murmured “I begyour pardon” to it automatically.
I wanted to laugh, but Judith, I noted, remained quite grave. I suppose she was quite used to thatsort of thing.
“You remember my father,” said Judith.
Dr. Franklin started, shied nervously, screwed up his eyes and peered at me, then stuck out ahand, saying awkwardly: “Of course, of course, how are you? I heard you were coming down.” Heturned to Judith. “I say, do you think we need change? If not we might go on a bit after dinner. Ifwe got a few more of those slides prepared—”
“No,” said Judith. “I want to talk to my father.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, of course.” Suddenly he smiled, an apologetic, boyish smile. “I am sorry—I getso awfully wrapped up in a thing. It’s quite unpardonable—makes me so selfish. Do forgive me.”
The clock struck and Franklin glanced at it hurriedly.
“Good Lord, is it as late as that? I shall get into trouble. Promised Barbara I’d read to her beforedinner.”
He grinned at us both and hurried out, colliding with the door post as he went.
“How is Mrs. Franklin?” I asked.
“The same and rather more so,” said Judith.
“It’s very sad her being such an invalid,” I said.
“It’s maddening for a doctor,” said Judith. “Doctors like healthy people.”
“How hard you young people are!” I exclaimed.
Judith said coldly: “I was just stating a fact.”
“Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “the good doctor hurries to read to her.”
“Very stupid,” said Judith. “That nurse of hers can read to her perfectly well if she wants to beread to. Personally I should loathe anyone reading aloud to me.”
“Well, well, tastes differ,” I said.
“She’s a very stupid woman,” said Judith.
“Now there, mon enfant,” said Poirot, “I do not agree with you.”
“She never reads anything but the cheapest kind of novel. She takes no interest in his work. Shedoesn’t keep abreast of current thought. She just talks about her health to everyone who willlisten.”
“I still maintain, said Poirot, “that she uses her grey cells in ways that you, my child, knownothing about.”
“She’s a very feminine sort of woman,” said Judith. “She coos and purrs. I expect you like ’emlike that, Uncle Hercule.”
“Not at all,” I said. “He likes them large and flamboyant and Russian for choice.”
“So that is how you give me away, Hastings? Your father, Judith, has always had a penchant forauburn hair. It has landed him in trouble many a time.”
Judith smiled at us both indulgently. She said: “What a funny couple you are.”
She turned away and I rose.
“I must get unpacked, and I might have a bath before dinner.”
Poirot pressed a little bell within reach of his hand and a minute or two later his valet attendantentered. I was surprised to find that the man was a stranger.
“Why! Where’s George?”
Poirot’s valet George had been with him for many years.
“George has returned to his family. His father is ill. I hope he will come back to me some time.
In the meantime—” he smiled at the new valet—“Curtiss looks after me.”
Curtiss smiled back respectfully. He was a big man with a bovine, rather stupid, face.
As I went out of the door I noted that Poirot was carefully locking up the despatch case with thepapers inside it.
My mind in a whirl I crossed the passage to my own room.
第三章
第三章
我失望地盯着波洛沉默片刻，然后才反应过来。
“不，不会的，”我说，“你会阻止凶案发生的。”
波洛向我瞥来慈爱的目光。
“我忠诚的朋友。我是多么感激你对我的信任。尽管如此，恐怕我这一次要辜负你的期待了。”
“胡说。你一定可以阻止罪行。”
波洛用沉重的声音说道：“回想一下，黑斯廷斯。一个人可以抓住凶手，没错。但一个人怎么才能阻止凶手？”
“唔，你……你……呃，我是说——如果你预先知道——”
我无力地停下了——因为我突然明白了这有多么困难。
波洛说：“明白了吧？不是那么简单的。实际上只有三种方法。第一种：警告受害人，让受害人加以提防。但这种方法并非总能成功，因为要让某人意识到他们身处极度危险之中是一件极其困难的事情——何况这种危险可能往往来自他们亲近的人。他们会愤怒地拒绝相信。第二种方法是警告凶手。用较为含蓄的语言告诉凶手：‘我知道你的打算了。如果某某人死了，我的朋友，你就完蛋了。’这种方法成功率比第一种要高，但即便如此，还是很有可能会失败。因为杀人凶手，我的朋友，比这个世界上任何人都要自负。杀人者总是要比别人聪明——所以高明的凶犯一般不会引起怀疑——就连警方也往往弄不清状况。因此即便你发出了警告，凶手还是会按原计划行事，而你能做的只是事后绞死他们而已。”他顿了一下，然后深沉地说：“我这辈子曾经两次警告凶手不要动手，一次是在埃及，另一次在别处。每一次凶手都已经下定决心要动手……这次或许也一样。”
“你说还有第三种办法。”我提醒他。
“啊，是的。第三种方法要求我们必须足智多谋。我们必须准确地猜中凶手将在何时以何种方式下手，然后看准时机出手相救。我们必须当场抓住凶手——即便他的计划可能未遂——并且证明他的杀人意图超越了所有合理怀疑。
“我的朋友，”波洛接着说，“我可以保证，这种方法难度极大，我根本无法保证它会成功！我或许很自负，但还没自负到那个程度。”
“那你认为这次应该采取哪种方法呢？”
“也许三个都可以采用。第一种最难。”
“为什么呢？我觉得第一个最简单。”
“的确，如果你知道凶手的目标是谁，第一种方法当然最简单。但是黑斯廷斯，难道你没有意识到，我们现在不知道谁会成为受害者吗？”
“什么？”
我不假思索地说出了这两个字。然后我才开始意识到要确定凶手的目标是多么困难。
这一系列犯罪之间肯定存在关联，但我们不知道这种关联是什么。至关重要的动机一环缺失。不知道动机，我们就没法确定谁有危险。
波洛看出我意识到我们面临的困难，点了点头。
“你看，我的朋友，很难办。”
“的确，”我说。“我也明白了。到目前为止，你没找到这几个案件之间的联系吗？”
波洛摇摇头。“一无所获。”
我又想了一下。在AB C谋杀案里，我们面对的就是一个貌似按照字母顺序，实则大不相同的序列。
我接着问道：“你确定这个凶手不是出于经济方面的动机杀人吗——就像伊芙琳•卡莱尔那个案子一样？”
“没有。你应该清楚的，我亲爱的黑斯廷斯，我调查案件一上来就会关注经济利益的问题。”
这倒不假。波洛对钱一直抱着玩世不恭的态度。
我又陷入思考。要不然就是某种复仇？这跟已经掌握的事实比较相符。但即便是这样，似乎还是缺乏某种联系。我回想起曾经读过的一个故事里面讲的一系列漫无目的的谋杀——最终破案的线索是所有受害人都碰巧是同一个陪审团的成员，而犯下罪行的正是他们当初判定有罪的那个嫌犯。我突然感觉这次的情况或许是类似的。我不得不惭愧地承认，我并没有把这个想法说出来。要是我能给波洛指出解决问题的办法该有多好……但我只是问他：“告诉我吧，X是谁？”
让我恼怒异常的是，波洛坚定地摇摇头。“这一点嘛，我的朋友，我现在不会告诉你。”
“笑话。为什么不能告诉我？”
波洛的眼睛一闪。“因为，我亲爱的朋友，你还是老样子，长着一张会说话的脸。我可不希望你大张着嘴一个劲儿地盯着X看，好像满脸都在说：‘这个人——我现在盯着的这个人——是个杀人犯。’”
“你应该知道，如果我想装也能装得出来。”
“当你试图要装作平静如常的时候情况更糟。还是算了，我的朋友，我们必须保持低调，我们俩都必须不动声色。这样我们出手的时候才能一击致命。”
“你这个顽固的老家伙，”我说，“我的头脑也不——”
这时，敲门声打断了我的话。波洛叫了一声“请进”，我的女儿朱迪斯走了进来。
虽然我一向不擅长描述，但我还是想给大家介绍一下我的女儿。
朱迪斯身材修长，无论何时都挺胸抬头。她长着一对笔直的黑眉，面颊与下颌的线条秀美而朴实无华。她面色严肃，略带讥讽之色。在我看来，她带有一种悲剧的气质。
朱迪斯没有上来亲吻我——这样的事她是万万做不出来的。她只是微笑着对我说：“你好，父亲。”
她的笑容羞涩而略显尴尬，但仍然让我感觉到她见到我是高兴的，只不过她不善表达。
“嗯，”我说这话时感觉傻傻的，就像我每次跟年轻人聊天时一样，“我找到这儿了。”
“你很聪明啊，亲爱的。”朱迪斯说。
“我跟他说过了，”波洛说，“关于这儿的饭菜。”
“有那么差吗？”朱迪斯问道。
“你不应该这样问我，我的孩子。难道你除了试管和显微镜之外，脑子里什么都不想吗？你的中指上还沾着亚甲蓝。你丈夫的胃口可还指望你照顾呢。”
“我不会结婚的。”
“你当然会结婚。不然上帝为什么要创造你？”
“我希望上帝创造我不单单是为了结婚这一个理由。”朱迪斯说。
“但结婚显然是最重要的理由。”
“好吧，”朱迪斯说，“你给我找个好丈夫，我就好好照顾他的胃口。”
“别看她现在嘲笑我，”波洛说，“总有一天她会知道我说得没错。”
又有人敲了一下门，接着富兰克林博士走了进来。他今年三十五岁，身材高大瘦削。
他有坚毅的下巴，微微发红的头发和明亮的蓝色眼睛。他是我见过的最其貌不扬的男人，而且总是心不在焉地到处乱撞。
他一头撞上波洛座椅旁边的屏风，然后马上半扭着脸咕哝着“对不起”。
我很想笑，却注意到朱迪斯依旧很严肃。我估计她早就对这种事司空见惯了。
“你记得我父亲吧？”朱迪斯说。
富兰克林博士一愣，紧张地一躲，眯着眼睛看了看我，这才伸出手，尴尬地说：“当然记得，当然记得，您好吗？我听说您会来。”说完他转向朱迪斯，“我说，你觉得我们用不用换一下衣服？如果不用的话，晚饭之后还可以再工作一会儿。如果能再准备几个切片的话……”
“不要，”朱迪斯说，“我想跟我父亲聊聊天。”
“哦，当然。哦，当然。”他突然笑了起来，那是一种表达歉意的、孩子式的微笑，“真抱歉——最近我太忙了。真是不可原谅——我怎么能这么自私。请您别见怪。”
时钟敲响，富兰克林赶紧扫了一眼。
“老天爷，已经这么晚了？糟糕。我答应芭芭拉要在晚餐前给她读书的。”
他冲着我们俩露齿一笑，然后急匆匆地出去了，出门时一头撞在门柱上。
“富兰克林太太身体怎样？”我问道。
“还是老样子，甚至还不如以前呢。”朱迪斯说。
“她病成这样真是令人难过。”我说。
“医生才郁闷呢，”朱迪斯说，“医生都喜欢健康的人。”
“你们年轻人可真刻薄！”我感叹道。
朱迪斯冷冷地说：“我只是在陈述事实。”
“尽管如此，”波洛说，“我们的好医生还是赶着给她读书去了。”
“这傻透了，”朱迪斯说，“如果那个女人想找人读书给她听，她的护士完全可以胜任。
反正我是不喜欢听别人给我读书。”
“嗨，每个人的口味都不一样嘛。”我说。
“她真是个愚蠢的女人。”朱迪斯说。
“我的孩子，你这个说法，”波洛说，“我不同意。”
“她只会读一些廉价的通俗小说。她根本不关心她丈夫的工作。她的脑子也跟不上时代的步伐。只要有人肯听，她就没完没了地说她的病。”
“我还是坚持我的看法，”波洛说，“那就是她使用自己大脑里灰色细胞的方式，这是你一无所知的。”
“她是那种非常柔弱的女人，”朱迪斯说，“她总是柔声细语地喋喋不休。我估计你喜欢她那样的女人，赫尔克里叔叔。”
“不对，”我说，“他喜欢的是那种体形丰满、性格豪放的，比如俄罗斯女人。”
“你就这样把我出卖了啊，黑斯廷斯？朱迪斯啊，你父亲一直喜欢红褐色头发的女人。
就因为这个偏好，他还遇到了好几次麻烦。”
朱迪斯宽容地对我们笑了笑。她说：“你们俩真是有意思。”
她转过身去，我也站了起来。
“我得先去整理行李，晚餐前可能还要洗个澡。”
波洛伸手按了一下电铃，过了一两分钟，他的贴身男仆走了进来。我惊奇地发现进来的是个陌生人。
“咦！乔治呢？”
波洛的男仆乔治已经跟随他多年。
“乔治回家了。他父亲生病了。我也盼着他过一段时间能回到我身边。但在那以前——”他对这位新男仆笑了笑，“由科蒂斯照顾我。”
科蒂斯礼貌地向我微笑了一下。他是个大块头，长相笨拙，甚至有些愚蠢。
我出门时注意到，波洛小心翼翼地把那个装着案情文件的公文箱锁好。
我头昏脑涨地穿过走廊，回到了自己的房间。