One THE ACCIDENT
WHY DIDN’T THEY ASK EVANS
Published previously as “The Boomerang Clue”
To Christopher Mallock
in memory of Hinds
One THE ACCIDENT
Bobby Jones teed up his ball, gave a short preliminary waggle, took theclub back slowly, then brought it down and through with the rapidity oflightning.
Did the ball fly down the fairway straight and true, rising as it went andsoaring over the bunker to land within an easy mashie shot of the four-teenth green?
No, it did not. Badly topped, it scudded along the ground and embeddeditself firmly in the bunker!
There were no eager crowds to groan with dismay. The solitary witnessof the shot manifested no surprise. And that is easily explained—for it wasnot the American-born master of the game who had played the shot, butmerely the fourth son of the Vicar of Marchbolt—a small seaside town onthe coast of Wales.
Bobby uttered a decidedly profane ejaculation.
He was an amiable-looking young man of about eight and twenty. Hisbest friend could not have said that he was handsome, but his face was aneminently likeable one, and his eyes had the honest brown friendliness ofa dog’s.
“I get worse every day,” he muttered dejectedly.
“You press,” said his companion.
Dr. Thomas was a middle-aged man with grey hair and a red cheerfulface. He himself never took a full swing. He played short straight shotsdown the middle, and usually beat more brilliant but more erratic players.
Bobby attacked his ball fiercely with a niblick. The third time was suc-cessful. The ball lay a short distance from the green which Dr. Thomas hadreached with two creditable iron shots.
“Your hole,” said Bobby.
They proceeded to the next tee.
The doctor drove first—a nice straight shot, but with no great distanceabout it.
Bobby sighed, teed his ball, reteed it, waggled his club a long time, tookback stiffly, shut his eyes, raised his head, depressed his right shoulder,did everything he ought not to have done—and hit a screamer down themiddle of the course.
He drew a deep breath of satisfaction. The well-known golfer’s gloompassed from his eloquent face to be succeeded by the equally well-knowngolfer’s exultation.
“I know now what I’ve been doing,” said Bobby—quite untruthfully.
A perfect iron shot, a little chip with a mashie and Bobby lay dead. Heachieved a birdie four and Dr. Thomas was reduced to one up.
Full of confidence, Bobby stepped on to the sixteenth tee. He again dideverything he should not have done, and this time no miracle occurred. Aterrific, a magnificent, an almost superhuman slice happened! The ballwent round at right angles.
“If that had been straight—whew!” said Dr. Thomas.
“If,” said Bobby bitterly. “Hullo, I thought I heard a shout! Hope the balldidn’t hit anyone.”
He peered out to the right. It was a difficult light. The sun was on thepoint of setting, and, looking straight into it, it was hard to see anythingdistinctly. Also there was a slight mist rising from the sea. The edge of thecliff was a few hundred yards away.
“The footpath runs along there,” said Bobby. “But the ball can’t possiblyhave travelled as far as that. All the same, I did think I heard a cry. Didyou?”
But the doctor had heard nothing.
Bobby went after his ball. He had some difficulty in finding it, but ran itto earth at last. It was practically unplayable—embedded in a furze bush.
He had a couple of hacks at it, then picked it up and called out to his com-panion that he gave up the hole.
The doctor came over towards him since the next tee was right on theedge of the cliff.
The seventeenth was Bobby’s particular bugbear. At it you had to driveover a chasm. The distance was not actually so great, but the attraction ofthe depths below was overpowering.
They had crossed the footpath which now ran inland to their left, skirt-ing the very edge of the cliff.
The doctor took an iron and just landed on the other side.
Bobby took a deep breath and drove. The ball scudded forward and dis-appeared over the lip of the abyss.
“Every single dashed time,” said Bobby bitterly. “I do the same dashedidiotic thing.”
He skirted the chasm, peering over. Far below the sea sparkled, but notevery ball was lost in its depths. The drop was sheer at the top, but belowit shelved gradually.
Bobby walked slowly along. There was, he knew, one place where onecould scramble down fairly easily. Caddies did so, hurling themselves overthe edge and reappearing triumphant and panting with the missing ball.
Suddenly Bobby stiffened and called to his companion.
“I say, doctor, come here. What do you make of that?”
Some forty feet below was a dark heap of something that looked like oldclothes.
The doctor caught his breath.
“By Jove,” he said. “Somebody’s fallen over the cliff. We must get downto him.”
Side by side the two men scrambled down the rock, the more athleticBobby helping the other. At last they reached the ominous dark bundle. Itwas a man of about forty, and he was still breathing, though unconscious.
The doctor examined him, touching his limbs, feeling his pulse, drawingdown the lids of his eyes. He knelt down beside him and completed his ex-amination. Then he looked up at Bobby, who was standing there feelingrather sick, and slowly shook his head.
“Nothing to be done,” he said. “His number’s up, poor fellow. His back’sbroken. Well, well. I suppose he wasn’t familiar with the path, and whenthe mist came up he walked over the edge. I’ve told the council more thanonce there ought to be a railing just here.”
He stood up again.
“I’ll go off and get help,” he said. “Make arrangements to have the bodygot up. It’ll be dark before we know where we are. Will you stay here?”
Bobby nodded.
“There’s nothing to be done for him, I suppose?” he asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“Nothing. It won’t be long—the pulse is weakening fast. He’ll last an-other twenty minutes at most. Just possible he may recover consciousnessbefore the end; but very likely he won’t. Still—”
“Rather,” said Bobby quickly. “I’ll stay. You get along. If he does come to,there’s no drug or anything—” he hesitated.
The doctor shook his head.
“There’ll be no pain,” he said. “No pain at all.”
Turning away, he began rapidly to climb up the cliff again. Bobbywatched him till he disappeared over the top with a wave of his hand.
Bobby moved a step or two along the narrow ledge, sat down on a pro-jection in the rock and lit a cigarette. The business had shaken him. Up tonow he had never come in contact with illness or death.
What rotten luck there was in the world! A swirl of mist on a fine even-ing, a false step—and life came to an end. Fine healthy-looking fellow too—probably never known a day’s illness in his life. The pallor of approach-ing death couldn’t disguise the deep tan of the skin. A man who had livedan out-of-door life—abroad, perhaps. Bobby studied him more closely—the crisp curling chestnut hair just touched with grey at the temples, thebig nose, the strong jaw, the white teeth just showing through the partedlips. Then the broad shoulders and the fine sinewy hands. The legs weretwisted at a curious angle. Bobby shuddered and brought his eyes upagain to the face. An attractive face, humorous, determined, resourceful.
The eyes, he thought, were probably blue—
And just as he reached that point in his thoughts, the eyes suddenlyopened.
They were blue—a clear deep blue. They looked straight at Bobby. Therewas nothing uncertain or hazy about them. They seemed completely con-scious. They were watchful and at the same time they seemed to be askinga question.
Bobby got up quickly and came towards the man. Before he got there,the other spoke. His voice was not weak—it came out clear and resonant.
“Why didn’t they ask Evans?” he said.
And then a queer little shudder passed over him, the eyelids dropped,the jaw fell .?.?.
The man was dead.

第一章 意外
第一章 意外
博比•琼斯在球座上放好球，先是预备性地快速摆了几下球杆，接着将杆向后方缓缓扬起，以闪电般的速度一挥而下。
球会笔直地沿着球道飞出去，一路攀升，飞越沙坑，降落在可以用五号铁轻松一击入洞的第十四洞果岭上面吗？
不，并没有。那是个糟糕的削顶球，它疾速擦着地皮，结结实实地落入了沙坑之中！
周围并没有热切的观众发出失望的叹息。这一杆唯一的目击者也并未表现出丝毫惊讶。这很好解释，因为挥出这一杆的并不是在美国出生的高尔夫球大师，而是博比•琼斯，威尔士海滨小镇（马奇博尔特）教区牧师家的第四个儿子。
博比突然蹦出一句显然是骂街的话。
他是个二十八岁左右、和蔼可亲的年轻人。他最好的朋友也不会说他相貌英俊，但他的脸却很招人喜欢，褐色的眼睛里拥有那种像小狗一样亲切坦诚的神情。
“我真是一天不如一天了。”他沮丧地喃喃自语道。
“你这记长打击球过猛了。”他的同伴说。
托马斯医生是个中年人，一头灰发，满面红光。他自己从来不采取高挥杆。他用直短杆技术沿球道中间的方向击打，还常常能击败一些比他技艺更高超但发挥更不稳定的选手。
博比用九号铁把球狠狠地击打出去，这第三次算是成功了。球停在离托马斯医生用两记高水平的铁杆击打后所到达的果岭附近。
“那是你的洞了。”博比说道。
他们接着转战到下一个发球区。
由医生先开球——这是一记漂亮的直球，不过打得并不是很远。
博比叹了口气，把球放在球座上，随即又重新安放了一次，接着将球杆预摆动了很久之后才略显僵硬地向后方扬起，紧闭双眼，抬起脑袋，压低右肩，他做了一切本不用做的动作，最终打出了一记沿着球道正中飞出的远击球。
他满意地深吸了一口气，富于表情的脸上那种高尔夫球手的愁眉不展也消失殆尽，取而代之的是打出好球的欣喜若狂。
“我现在知道我一直都在干什么了。”博比有些言不由衷地说。
一次完美的击球，用五号铁打出的一记小小低飞，让博比的球落在了离洞口很近的地方。他在第四杆时抓到了一只小鸟 [1] ，而托马斯医生的领先优势则减少到只剩一杆了。
博比信心百倍地踏上了第十六洞的发球区，再次做了所有他本不必做的动作，而这一次奇迹没有发生。一记非同寻常，无与伦比，惊为天人之作的右曲球就此诞生！球冲着右侧呈直角飞了出去。
“要是这球打直了的话——喔！”托马斯医生说道。
“要是，”博比悻悻地说，“哎，我觉得我听见有人喊了一声！但愿那球没打着什么人吧。”
他向右望去，光线有点儿昏暗。太阳正要落山，直直看过去显然很难看清什么东西。
而且一层薄雾正从海面上升起，悬崖的边缘位于几百码之外。
“那条小路是沿着那边走的，”博比说，“但球不可能跑到那么远的地方。我还是觉得我听见了一声呼喊，你听见了吗？”
医生什么都没听见。
博比去找击出的球，颇费了一番周章，但最终还是找到了。事实上它已经无法再被击打了，因为它嵌入了荆豆 [2] 丛中。他劈开几个树枝，把球捡了出来，接着大声地告诉他的同伴，这一洞他放弃了。
医生朝他走了过来，因为下一个发球区恰好位于悬崖边上。
第十七洞让博比特别犯怵。在这一洞发球的时候你必须得把球打过一道裂谷。其实距离倒没有那么远，可下方深渊的引力却让人难以抵挡。
他们穿过那条紧挨着悬崖边的小路，此时路已经转向他们的左侧，背离悬崖的方向延伸下去了。
医生用了一把铁头球杆，球刚好落在了另一侧。
博比深吸一口气，猛然挥出一杆。小球向前方疾飞而出，消失在裂谷的边缘。
“每次都他妈这样，”博比恨恨地说道，“我老干同样的蠢事。”
他走到裂谷的边缘，向下张望。下面远处是波光粼粼的大海，却不是所有的球都会掉到那么深的地方。陡坡的顶部落差很大，但到了下面就逐渐变缓了。
博比沿着坡顶缓步前行。他知道有一个地方爬下去相当容易。球童们就会这么干，他们从那里翻过崖边一跃而下，再出现的时候就会气喘吁吁、得意扬扬地拿着打丢了的球。
突然，博比的身体绷直了，冲着他的同伴呼喊起来。
“哎，医生，过来一下，你看看那是什么呀？”
在下方大约四十英尺的地方，有一堆黑乎乎的东西，看起来就像是一团旧衣服。
医生屏住了呼吸。
“天哪，”他说，“有人掉到悬崖下面去了。咱们得下去看看。”
在身手更为矫健的博比的帮助下，两个人一起爬下岩壁。最终来到了那一堆黑乎乎的不祥之物面前。那是个四十岁上下的男人，尽管已经不省人事，但还有呼吸。
医生检查了一下此人，摸了摸四肢，触了触脉搏，帮他合上了眼帘。跪在那人身旁完成了全部检查之后，他抬起头，看了看站在旁边直犯恶心的博比，缓缓摇了摇头。
“没戏了，”他说，“这可怜的家伙快不行了。他的脊梁摔断了。唉，真是。我猜他对这条路不是很熟，起雾的时候一脚迈出了悬崖。我已经跟议会说过不止一次了，这儿就应该加个围栏。”
他再次站起身来。
“我去找人帮忙，”他说，“安排好把他弄上去。不然咱们还没弄明白这是在哪儿，天就该黑了。你能待在这儿吗？”
博比点点头。
“我们真的帮不到他了吗？”他问道。
医生摇摇头。
“没辙了，他很快就要死了。脉搏正在迅速变弱，最多也就再坚持个二十分钟。虽然死前可能还会恢复一下意识，但也很可能不会。尽管如此——”
“当然啦，”博比连忙说道，“我会留在这儿的。你去吧。要是他真的苏醒过来，有没有药或是什么——”他还有些疑虑。
医生摇了摇头。
“不会有痛苦的，”他说，“完全不会。”
说罢他转过身去，开始迅速地再次爬上悬崖。博比目送着他，一直到他挥了挥手，身影消失在崖顶那边。
博比顺着狭窄的岩脊挪动了一两步，在其中一块突起的地方坐了下来，点上一支烟。
眼前发生的事让他有些震惊。迄今为止他还从来没跟疾病或是死亡之类的事情打过交道呢。
世界上真有这么倒霉的事！在一个晴朗的傍晚，赶上这么一团迷雾，一步踏错便要命丧黄泉。这家伙也算是个相貌英俊、看起来很健康的人，怕是这辈子都没有生过一天病。
死神的迫近带来的惨白也无法掩盖他黝黑的肤色。这是个长期在户外生活的男人吧，兴许是在海外。博比更仔细地端详了他一番：一头栗色鬈发在两鬓开始变得灰白，大鼻子，方下巴，微启的唇间露出一口白牙。双肩宽阔，两手强健有力。两条腿扭曲成一种怪异的角度。博比打了个寒战，抬眼又一次打量起那人的脸。这是一张挺有魅力的脸，幽默，坚定，足智多谋。那双眼睛，他想，或许是蓝色的吧——就在他这么想的时候，那双眼睛突然睁开了。
还真是蓝色的，清澈的深蓝色。睁开的眼睛直勾勾地看着博比。眼神中没有一丝飘忽迟疑，看起来是完全清醒的。这双眼睛非常警觉，与此同时那眼神似乎还想要问个问题。
博比迅速起身，朝那个男人走去。还没走到他身边，那人便开口说话了。他说话的时候并非有气无力，反而吐字清晰、声音洪亮。
“他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？”他说。
接着，一阵古怪的战栗袭过他的全身，他的眼皮耷拉下来，牙关也松弛了……这个男人死了。
[1]高尔夫球中的小鸟球是指击球杆数低于标准杆一杆。
[2]欧洲的豆科——荆豆属多刺灌木植物。

Two CONCERNING FATHERS
Two CONCERNING FATHERS
Bobby knelt down beside him, but there was no doubt. The man was dead.
A last moment of consciousness, that sudden question, and then—the end.
Rather apologetically, Bobby put his hand into the dead man’s pocketand, drawing out a silk handkerchief, he spread it reverently over thedead face. There was nothing more he could do.
Then he noticed that in his action he had jerked something else out ofthe pocket. It was a photograph and in the act of replacing it he glanced atthe pictured face.
It was a woman’s face, strangely haunting in quality. A fair woman withwide-apart eyes. She seemed little more than a girl, certainly under thirty,but it was the arresting quality of her beauty rather than the beauty itselfthat seized upon the boy’s imagination. It was the kind of face, he thought,not easy to forget.
Gently and reverently, he replaced the photograph in the pocket fromwhich it had come, then he sat down again to wait for the doctor’s return.
The time passed very slowly—or at least so it seemed to the waiting boy.
Also, he had just remembered something. He had promised his father toplay the organ at the evening service at six o’clock and it was now tenminutes to six. Naturally, his father would understand the circumstances,but all the same he wished that he had remembered to send a message bythe doctor. The Rev. Thomas Jones was a man of extremely nervous tem-perament. He was, par excellence, a fusser, and when he fussed, his digest-ive apparatus collapsed and he suffered agonizing pain. Bobby, though heconsidered his father a pitiful old ass, was nevertheless extremely fond ofhim. The Rev. Thomas, on the other hand, considered his fourth son a piti-ful young ass, and with less tolerance than Bobby sought to effect improve-ment in the young man.
“The poor old gov’nor,” thought Bobby. “He’ll be ramping up and down.
He won’t know whether to start the service or not. He’ll work himself uptill he gets that pain in the tummy, and then he won’t be able to eat hissupper. He won’t have the sense to realize that I wouldn’t let him downunless it were quite unavoidable—and, anyway, what does it matter? Buthe’ll never see it that way. Nobody over fifty has got any sense — theyworry themselves to death about tuppeny-ha’peny things that don’t mat-ter. They’ve been brought up all wrong, I suppose, and now they can’t helpthemselves. Poor old Dad, he’s got less sense than a chicken!”
He sat there thinking of his father with mingled affection and exaspera-tion. His life at home seemed to him to be one long sacrifice to his father’speculiar ideas. To Mr. Jones, the same time seemed to be one long sacrificeon his part, ill-understood or appreciated by the younger generation. Somany ideas on the same subject differ.
What an age the doctor was! Surely he might have been back by thistime?
Bobby got up and stamped his feet moodily. At that moment he heardsomething above him and looked up, thankful that help was at hand andhis own services no longer needed.
But it was not the doctor. It was a man in plus fours whom Bobby didnot know.
“I say,” said the newcomer. “Is anything the matter? Has there been anaccident? Can I help in any way?”
He was a tall man with a pleasant tenor voice. Bobby could not see himvery clearly for it was now fast growing dusk.
He explained what had happened whilst the stranger made shockedcomments.
“There’s nothing I can do?” he asked. “Get help or anything?”
Bobby explained that help was on the way and asked if the other couldsee any signs of its arriving.
“There’s nothing at present.”
“You see,” went on Bobby, “I’ve got an appointment at six.”
“And you don’t like to leave—”
“No, I don’t quite,” said Bobby. “I mean, the poor chap’s dead and allthat, and of course one can’t do anything, but all the same—”
He paused, finding it, as usual, difficult to put confused emotions intowords.
The other, however, seemed to understand.
“I know,” he said. “Look here, I’ll come down—that is, if I can see myway—and I’ll stay till these fellows arrive.”
“Oh, would you?” said Bobby gratefully. “You see, it’s my father. He’s nota bad sort really, and things upset him. Can you see your way? A bit moreto the left—now to the right—that’s it. It’s not really difficult.”
He encouraged the other with directions until the two men were face toface on the narrow plateau. The newcomer was a man of about thirty-five.
He had a rather indecisive face which seemed to be calling for a monocleand a little moustache.
“I’m a stranger down here,” he explained. “My name’s Bassington-ffrench, by the way. Come down to see about a house. I say, what a beastlything to happen! Did he walk over the edge?”
Bobby nodded.
“Bit of mist got up,” he explained. “It’s a dangerous bit of path. Well, solong. Thanks very much. I’ve got to hurry. It’s awfully good of you.”
“Not at all,” the other protested. “Anybody would do the same. Can’tleave the poor chap lying—well, I mean, it wouldn’t be decent somehow.”
Bobby was scrambling up the precipitous path. At the top he waved hishand to the other then set off at a brisk run across country. To save time,he vaulted the churchyard wall instead of going round to the gate on theroad—a proceeding observed by the Vicar from the vestry window anddeeply disapproved of by him.
It was five minutes past six, but the bell was still tolling.
Explanations and recriminations were postponed until after the service.
Breathless, Bobby sank into his seat and manipulated the stops of the an-cient organ. Association of ideas led his fingers into Chopin’s funeralmarch.
Afterwards, more in sorrow than in anger (as he expressly pointed out),the Vicar took his son to task.
“If you cannot do a thing properly, my dear Bobby,” he said, “it is betternot to do it at all. I know that you and all your young friends seem to haveno idea of time, but there is One whom we should not keep waiting. Youoffered to play the organ of your own accord. I did not coerce you. In-stead, faint-hearted, you preferred playing a game—”
Bobby thought he had better interrupt before his father got too wellaway.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said, speaking cheerfully and breezily as was his habitno matter what the subject. “Not my fault this time. I was keeping guardover a corpse.”
“You were what?”
“Keeping guard over a blighter who stepped over the cliff. You know—the place where the chasm is—by the seventeenth tee. There was a bit ofmist just then, and he must have gone straight on and over.”
“Good heavens,” cried the Vicar. “What a tragedy! Was the man killedoutright?”
“No. He was unconscious. He died just after Dr. Thomas had gone off.
But of course I felt I had to squat there—couldn’t just push off and leavehim. And then another fellow came along so I passed the job of chiefmourner on to him and legged it here as fast as I could.”
The Vicar sighed.
“Oh, my dear Bobby,” he said. “Will nothing shake your deplorable cal-lousness? It grieves me more than I can say. Here you have been broughtface to face with death—with sudden death. And you can joke about it! Itleaves you unmoved. Everything—everything, however solemn, howeversacred, is merely a joke to your generation.”
Bobby shuffled his feet.
If his father couldn’t see that, of course, you joked about a thing becauseyou had felt badly about it—well, he couldn’t see it! It wasn’t the sort ofthing you could explain. With death and tragedy about you had to keep astiff upper lip.
But what could you expect? Nobody over fifty understood anything atall. They had the most extraordinary ideas.
“I expect it was the War,” thought Bobby loyally. “It upset them and theynever got straight again.”
He felt ashamed of his father and sorry for him.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said with a clear-eyed realization that explanation wasimpossible.
The Vicar felt sorry for his son—he looked abashed—but he also feltashamed of him. The boy had no conception of the seriousness of life.
Even his apology was cheery and impenitent.
They moved towards the Vicarage, each making enormous efforts tofind excuses for the other.
The Vicar thought: “I wonder when Bobby will find something to do .?.?.
?”
Bobby thought: “Wonder how much longer I can stick it down here .?.?.
?”
Yet they were both extremely fond of each other.
第二章 父亲
第二章 父亲
博比在他身边跪下，然而毫无疑问，这个人已经死了。最后关头的回光返照，突如其来的问题，而接下来呢？一命呜呼。
带着几分歉意，博比把手伸进了死者的衣服口袋，抽出一条丝质手帕，他毕恭毕敬地把它铺开，盖在死者脸上。没有更多他可以做的事情了。
随后他注意到，他刚才的举动还带出了死者口袋里的另一样东西。这是一张照片，博比在放回去之前瞥了一眼照片上的人。
那是一张女人的脸。不可思议的是，那张脸竟能够久久萦绕在心间。这是一个相貌俊美，眼睛分得挺开的女子。她看上去不过是个姑娘，肯定还不满三十岁，但真正让人浮想联翩的却不是美貌本身，而是这美貌摄人心魄的力量。他心想，这是那种让人难以忘怀的面庞。
他毕恭毕敬地把照片轻轻放回原本的口袋，然后再次坐下，等着医生回来。
时间过得慢极了，至少对于这个正在等待中的小伙子来说是这样的。他刚刚又想起来一件事情。他答应过父亲，要在六点晚祷的时候演奏管风琴，而现在已经是差十分钟六点了。当然，父亲会理解的，但他还是觉得刚才要是想起来让医生捎个信儿回去就好了。托马斯•琼斯牧师是个极度神经质的人，最擅长小题大做，每当他大惊小怪的时候，他的消化系统就要出毛病，让他疼痛难耐。尽管在博比眼里，他老爸就是个令人同情的老家伙，不过他还是非常喜欢他。而另一方面，托马斯牧师则觉得他家第四个儿子就是个可怜的小蠢货，他在教育博比的问题上还不如博比自己有耐心呢。
“可怜的老爸啊，”博比心想，“他肯定要上蹿下跳了。他会不知道到底该不该开始做晚祷。他会情绪激动，一直到他觉得肚子疼，然后他就吃不下晚饭了。他不明白我是不会让他失望的，除非碰到根本无法避免的情况。而且不管怎么说，只是演奏而已，就算真的不去又有什么关系呢？然而他永远都不会这么看待问题。任何人只要年过五十都会变得不可理喻，会为一些无关紧要、鸡毛蒜皮的事庸人自扰。我猜他们是在完全错误的观念下被抚养长大的，如今已经无法再纠正了。可怜的老爸，他的见识还不如一只小雏鸡呢！”
他坐在那里想着他的父亲，心里喜怒参半。在他看来，家里的生活就仿佛一种长久的牺牲，要不断迎合父亲那些奇思怪想。而对他父亲来说，在晚辈们的误会曲解之下，做出长久牺牲的其实是他这一方。所以，父子二人对于同一个问题的看法很可能大相径庭。
医生这都已经去了多久了呀！他这会儿也该回来了吧？
博比站起身，闷闷不乐地跺了跺脚。就在此时，他听见上面有什么动静，于是便抬头观看，心中庆幸着援助马上就要到了，而自己的这份差事也眼看着就可以收工了。
但来人不是医生，而是个穿着高尔夫球裤的男子，博比并不认识他。
“我说，”新来的人说，“出什么事儿了吗？发生意外了？我能帮上什么忙吗？”
他是个高个子，说起话来就像男高音一般悦耳动听。此刻，夜幕正在迅速降临，博比看不太清他的样子。
他一边说明事情的来龙去脉，陌生人一边表达震惊之情。
“没有什么我能做的了吗？”他问道，“去找人帮忙之类的？”
博比解释说援助已经在路上了，并且问那个人能否帮他看一下有没有来人的迹象。
“现在还看不见影儿呢。”
“听我说，”博比继续说道，“我六点钟的时候有个约。”
“而你不想离开——”
“是的，我并不想，”博比说，“我的意思是，虽说这个可怜的家伙已经死了，而且当然啦，咱们什么也做不了，可还是——”
他停了下来，发现很难用言语表述他混乱的思绪，跟平时一样。
而对方似乎已经会意了。
“我明白，”他说，“听我的，我可以下去——如果我能下得去的话——然后守在这儿，等那些人来。”
“哦，可以吗？”博比心怀感激地说道，“要知道，跟我约定的人是我父亲。他人其实不坏，就是容易心烦意乱。你能看清楚路吗？多往左一点儿——现在再往右——这就对啦。
其实也不算太难走。”
他一边指路一边鼓励对方前进，直到两个人面对面站在了狭窄的平台之上。这个男人三十五岁上下，长着一张有些优柔寡断的脸，看上去似乎应该配上一片单片眼镜和一撇小胡子。
“我在这儿还人生地不熟呢，”他解释道，“顺便说一句，我姓巴辛顿-弗伦奇。来看个房子。唉，他可真是太惨了！他是从悬崖边上踩空了掉下来的吗？”
博比点点头。
“起了点儿雾，”他解释说，“这条小路有点危险。好吧，回头见。非常感谢。我得赶快走了，你真是太好了。”
“别客气，”对方很坚决地表示道，“任何人都会这么做的。总不能留下这个可怜的家伙自己躺在这儿。呃，我是说，总觉得这样有点不合适。”
博比爬上了那条险峻的小径。到顶端的时候冲另外那人挥了挥手，接着拔腿便跑，一溜烟飞奔着穿过了田野。为了节省时间，他没有绕到教堂庭院临街的大门，而是翻过了庭院的围墙。这一幕被教区牧师从礼拜堂的窗口里看了个正着，他心里对此极其不满。
时间已经是六点过五分了，然而钟声依然在鸣响。
各种辩解和指责都被推迟到了晚祷之后。博比气喘吁吁地坐进了他的位子，熟练地摆弄起那台古老的管风琴。心中的郁结让他的指尖奏出了肖邦的《葬礼进行曲》。
晚祷过后，牧师开始悲伤多于愤怒地（这一点他特别指明了）责备起他的儿子来。
“我亲爱的博比，如果你没法把一件事情规规矩矩地做好，”他说，“那你最好压根儿就别做。我明白，你和你那些年轻朋友似乎都没什么时间观念，但我们是不该让上帝等的。
是你自己主动提出来要演奏管风琴。我可没强迫你。而你呢，临阵脱逃，宁可跑出去玩儿——”
博比觉得最好还是趁着他父亲开始长篇大论之前赶紧打断他。
“不好意思，老爸，”他轻松愉快地开口说道，无论说什么话题，他都习惯用这种语气，“这次可不是我的错啊，我当时正守着一具尸体呢。”
“你在干吗？”
“守着个一脚迈下悬崖的家伙。你知道，就在那道裂谷旁边，挨着第十七洞的发球区。
当时起了点雾，他肯定是直接走过去，摔下悬崖了。”
“天哪，”牧师惊呼道，“简直太不幸了！这人当场就死了吗？”
“没有。他只是不省人事。等托马斯医生一离开他就死了。而我觉得我当然得蹲守在那儿，总不能就这么一走了之，把他撂下不管吧。后来又来了一个人，我就把守丧的重任交给他，用最快的速度一路飞奔回来了。”
牧师叹了口气。
“哦，我亲爱的博比，”他说，“就没有什么东西能够动摇你那种可悲的麻木不仁吗？这件事让我悲痛得无以言表。这次你是直面了死亡，还是突如其来的死亡。而你居然还能拿这件事开玩笑！你无动于衷。所有的事情，一切的一切，无论多么庄严，多么神圣，在你们这代人眼里都不过是玩笑而已。”
博比挪了挪脚。
当然了，如果他的父亲无法明白拿一件事情来打趣正是因为你为之感到难过的话，那也没什么办法。好吧，他真的是不明白啊！这不是那种能解释清楚的事情。当死亡和悲剧出现在身边的时候，你只能咬紧牙关勇敢面对。
但你还能指望什么呢？人一旦年过五十就什么都理解不了，脑子里都是些最稀奇古怪的观念。
“我估计都是战争闹的，”他是真心这么想，“战争使他们沮丧不安、心烦意乱，然后他们就再也不正常了。”
他既为父亲感到惭愧又替他觉得难过。
“对不起，老爸。”他说这句话的时候心里很清楚，解释是没用的。
牧师也为他儿子感到难过——他看上去有些窘迫——但他替他觉得害臊。这孩子对生活的严肃性概念全无，就连道歉都显得那么兴高采烈、执迷不悟。
他们朝牧师寓所走去，彼此都在心里极力为对方找借口。
牧师想：“我真不知道博比什么时候才能找点事情去做……”
博比想：“也不知道我还能在这里撑多久……”
然而他们两人都还是深深爱着对方的。
Three A RAILWAY JOURNEY
Three A RAILWAY JOURNEY
Bobby did not see the immediate sequel of his adventure. On the followingmorning he went up to town, there to meet a friend who was thinking ofstarting a garage and who fancied Bobby’s cooperation might be valuable.
After settling things to everybody’s satisfaction, Bobby caught the 11:30train home two days later. He caught it, true, but only by a very narrowmargin. He arrived at Paddington when the clock announced the time tobe 11:28, dashed down the subway, emerged on No. 3 Platform just as thetrain was moving and hurled himself at the first carriage he saw, heedlessof indignant ticket collectors and porters in his immediate rear.
Wrenching open the door, he fell in on his hands and knees, picked him-self up. The door was shut with a slam by an agile porter and Bobby foundhimself looking at the sole occupant of the compartment.
It was a first-class carriage and in the corner facing the engine sat adark girl smoking a cigarette. She had on a red skirt, a short green jacketand a brilliant blue beret, and despite a certain resemblance to an organgrinder’s monkey (she had long, sorrowful dark eyes and a puckered-upface) she was distinctly attractive.
In the midst of an apology, Bobby broke off.
“Why, it’s you, Frankie!” he said. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
“Well, I haven’t seen you. Sit down and talk.”
Bobby grinned.
“My ticket’s the wrong colour.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Frankie kindly. “I’ll pay the difference foryou.”
“My manly indignation rises at the thought,” said Bobby. “How could Ilet a lady pay for me?”
“It’s about all we seem to be good for these days,” said Frankie.
“I will pay the difference myself,” said Bobby heroically as a burly figurein blue appeared at the door from the corridor.
“Leave it to me,” said Frankie.
She smiled graciously at the ticket collector, who touched his hat as hetook the piece of white cardboard from her and punched it.
“Mr. Jones has just come in to talk to me for a bit,” she said. “That won’tmatter, will it?”
“That’s all right, your ladyship. The gentleman won’t be staying long, Iexpect.” He coughed tactfully. “I shan’t be round again till after Bristol,” headded significantly.
“What can be done with a smile,” said Bobby as the official withdrew.
Lady Frances Derwent shook her head thoughtfully.
“I’m not so sure it’s the smile,” she said. “I rather think it’s father’s habitof tipping everybody five shillings whenever he travels that does it.”
“I thought you’d given up Wales for good, Frankie.”
Frances sighed.
“My dear, you know what it is. You know how mouldy parents can be.
What with that and the bathrooms in the state they are, and nothing to doand nobody to see—and people simply won’t come to the country to staynowadays! They say they’re economizing and they can’t go so far. Well, Imean, what’s a girl to do?”
Bobby shook his head, sadly recognizing the problem.
“However,” went on Frankie, “after the party I went to last night, Ithought even home couldn’t be worse.”
“What was wrong with the party?”
“Nothing at all. It was just like any other party, only more so. It was tostart at the Savoy at half past eight. Some of us rolled up about a quarterpast nine and, of course, we got entangled with other people, but we gotsorted out about ten. And we had dinner and then after a bit we went onto the Marionette—there was a rumour it was going to be raided, but noth-ing happened—it was just moribund, and we drank a bit and then wewent on to the Bullring and that was even deader, and then we went to acoffee stall, and then we went to a fried-fish place, and then we thoughtwe’d go and breakfast with Angela’s uncle and see if he’d be shocked, buthe wasn’t—only bored, and then we sort of fizzled home. Honestly, Bobby,it isn’t good enough.”
“I suppose not,” said Bobby, stifling a pang of envy.
Never in his wildest moments did he dream of being able to be a mem-ber of the Marionette or the Bullring.
His relationship with Frankie was a peculiar one.
As children, he and his brothers had played with the children at theCastle. Now that they were all grown-up, they seldom came across eachother. When they did, they still used Christian names. On the rare occa-sions when Frankie was at home, Bobby and his brothers would go up andplay tennis. But Frankie and her two brothers were not asked to the Vicar-age. It seemed to be tacitly recognized that it would not be amusing forthem. On the other hand, extra men were always wanted for tennis. Theremay have been a trace of constraint in spite of the Christian names. TheDerwents were, perhaps, a shade more friendly than they need have beenas though to show that “there was no difference.” The Jones, on their side,were a shade formal, as though determined not to claim more friendshipthan was offered them. The two families had now nothing in commonsave certain childish memories. Yet Bobbie was very fond of Frankie andwas always pleased on the rare occasions when Fate threw them together.
“I’m so tired of everything,” said Frankie in a weary voice. “Aren’t you?”
Bobby considered.
“No, I don’t think I am.”
“My dear, how wonderful,” said Frankie.
“I don’t mean I’m hearty,” said Bobby, anxious not to create a painfulimpression. “I just can’t stand people who are hearty.”
Frankie shuddered at the mere mention of the word.
“I know,” she murmured. “They’re dreadful.”
They looked at each other sympathetically.
“By the way,” said Frankie suddenly. “What’s all this about a man fallingover the cliffs?”
“Dr. Thomas and I found him,” said Bobby. “How did you know about it,Frankie?”
“Saw it in the paper. Look.”
She indicated with her finger a small paragraph headed: “Fatal Accidentin Sea Mist.”
The victim of the tragedy at Marchbolt was identifiedlate last night by means of a photograph which he wascarrying. The photograph proved to be that of Mrs. LeoCayman. Mrs. Cayman was communicated with andjourneyed at once to Marchbolt, where she identifiedthe deceased as her brother, Alex Pritchard. Mr.
Pritchard had recently returned from Siam. He hadbeen out of England for ten years and was just startingupon a walking tour. The inquest will be held at March-bolt tomorrow.
Bobby’s thoughts flew back to the strangely haunting face of the photo-graph.
“I believe I shall have to give evidence at the inquest,” he said.
“How thrilling. I shall come and hear you.”
“I don’t suppose there will be anything thrilling about it,” said Bobby.
“We just found him, you know.”
“Was he dead?”
“No, not then. He died about a quarter of an hour later. I was alone withhim.”
He paused.
“Rather grim,” said Frankie with that immediate understanding thatBobby’s father had lacked.
“Of course he didn’t feel anything—”
“No?”
“But all the same—well—you see, he looked awfully alive—that sort ofperson—rather a rotten way to finish—just stepping off a cliff in a sillylittle bit of mist.”
“I get you, Steve,” said Frankie, and again the queer phrase representedsympathy and understanding.
“Did you see the sister?” she asked presently.
“No. I’ve been up in town two days. Had to see a friend of mine about agarage business we’re going in for. You remember him. Badger Beadon.”
“Do I?”
“Of course you do. You must remember good old Badger. He squints.”
Frankie wrinkled her brows.
“He’s got an awfully silly kind of laugh—haw haw haw—like that,” con-tinued Bobby helpfully.
Still Frankie wrinkled her brows.
“Fell off his pony when we were kids,” continued Bobby. “Stuck in themud head down, and we had to pull him out by the legs.”
“Oh!” said Frankie in a flood of recollection. “I know now. Hestammered.”
“He still does,” said Bobby proudly.
“Didn’t he run a chicken farm and it went bust?” inquired Frankie.
“That’s right.”
“And then he went into a stockbroker’s office and they fired him after amonth?”
“That’s it.”
“And then they sent him to Australia and he came back?”
“Yes.”
“Bobby,” said Frankie. “You’re not putting any money into this businessventure, I hope?”
“I haven’t got any money to put,” said Bobby.
“That’s just as well,” said Frankie.
“Naturally,” went on Bobby. “Badger has tried to get hold of someonewith a little capital to invest. But it isn’t so easy as you’d think.”
“When you look round you,” said Frankie, “you wouldn’t believe peoplehad any sense at all—but they have.”
The point of these remarks seemed at last to strike Bobby.
“Look here, Frankie,” he said. “Badger’s one of the best—one of the verybest.”
“They always are,” said Frankie.
“Who are?”
“The ones who go to Australia and come back again. How did he gethold of the money to start this business?”
“An aunt or something died and left him a garage for six cars with threerooms over and his people stumped up a hundred pounds to buy second-hand cars with. You’d be surprised what bargains there are to be had insecondhand cars.”
“I bought one once,” said Frankie. “It’s a painful subject. Don’t let’s talkof it. What did you want to leave the Navy for? They didn’t axe you, didthey? Not at your age.”
Bobby flushed.
“Eyes,” he said gruffly.
“You always had trouble with your eyes, I remember.”
“I know. But I just managed to scrape through. Then foreign service—the strong light, you know—that rather did for them. So—well—I had toget out.”
“Grim,” murmured Frankie, looking out of the window.
There was an eloquent pause.
“All the same, it’s a shame,” burst out Bobby. “My eyes aren’t really bad—they won’t get any worse, they say. I could have carried on perfectly.”
“They look all right,” said Frankie.
She looked straight into their honest brown depths.
“So you see,” said Bobby, “I’m going in with Badger.”
Frankie nodded.
An attendant opened the door and said, “First luncheon.”
“Shall we?” said Frankie.
They passed along to the dining car.
Bobby made a short strategic retreat during the time when the ticketcollector might be expected.
“We don’t want him to strain his conscience too much,” he said.
But Frankie said she didn’t expect ticket collectors had any consciences.
It was just after five o’clock when they reached Sileham, which was thestation for Marchbolt.
“The car’s meeting me,” said Frankie. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thanks. That will save me carrying this beastly thing for two miles.”
He kicked his suitcase disparagingly.
“Three miles, not two,” said Frankie.
“Two miles if you go by the footpath over the links.”
“The one where—”
“Yes—where that fellow went over.”
“I suppose nobody pushed him over, did they?” asked Frankie as shehanded her dressing case to her maid.
“Pushed him over? Good Lord, no. Why?”
“Well, it would make it much more exciting, wouldn’t it?” said Frankieidly.
第三章 铁路旅程
第三章 铁路旅程
博比的这段奇遇并没有什么后续展开。第二天早上他进了城，去见一个朋友，这个朋友打算开一家汽车修理厂，想让博比跟他合作，博比能成为很大的助力。
花了两天时间把事情安排妥当之后，博比赶上了十一点半的火车回家。他确实是赶上了，但也不过是将将赶上。到达帕丁顿车站的时候时钟指向了十一点二十八，他冲进地下通道，在列车刚刚启动的时候出现在三号站台上，猛地扑向映入眼帘的第一节车厢，完全没有在意身后怒气冲冲的检票员和行李搬运工。
使劲拉开车厢门之后，他连滚带爬地跌了进去，接着又站起身来。门被一个身手敏捷的搬运工砰的一声关上，博比发现他正面对着这节车厢里唯一的乘客。
这是头等车厢，角落里面向车头的座椅上坐着一个肤色黝黑的姑娘，正在抽烟。她穿着一条红色的裙子、一件绿色的短夹克，头戴一顶亮蓝色的贝雷帽。尽管长得跟街头卖艺的手风琴师身边的猴子有几分相似（她有一双狭长而悲伤的黑眼睛和一张皱皱巴巴的脸），但她显然还是挺有吸引力的。
博比道歉的话刚到嘴边又突然停住了。
“嗨，是你啊，弗兰基！”他说，“好久没见到你了。”
“是啊，我也是。快坐下来聊聊。”
博比咧着嘴笑了。
“我的车票颜色不对。”
“不要紧的，”弗兰基亲切地说，“我来替你付差价。”
“我的男子气概可不允许这种事情，”博比说，“怎么能让一位女士替我付钱呢？”
“最近的女士似乎也只有这个作用了。”弗兰基说。
“我会自己补差价的。”博比带着几分英雄气概说道，就在此时，一个魁梧的蓝色身影出现在了通往走廊的门边。
“看我的吧。”弗兰基说。
她冲收票员优雅地微微一笑，后者正从她手里接过那张白色的卡纸，在上面打孔的同时轻触帽檐向她致意。
“琼斯先生刚刚进来，想跟我说几句话，”她说，“可以的吧？”
“不要紧的，小姐。我想这位先生也不会待太久。”他很巧妙地咳嗽了一声，“车到布里斯托尔之前我也不会再过来了。”他又意味深长地加上了一句。
“一个微笑能有这么大作用啊。”收票员退出去之后博比说道。
弗朗西斯•德温特 [1] 小姐若有所思地摇了摇头。
“我可没那么大把握说是微笑起的作用，”她说，“我宁可认为这是父亲不论何时旅行都给每个人五先令小费的习惯带来的结果。”
“我还以为你已经永远抛弃威尔士了呢，弗兰基。”
弗朗西斯叹了口气。
“亲爱的，你懂的。你也知道父母能有多烦人。再加上浴室的那种状况。还没事可干，没人可见——如今人们就是不愿意跑到乡下来待着呀！他们会说他们在节省开支，说他们去不了那么远的地方。唉，我的意思是说，我还能怎么办呢？”
博比摇摇头，很悲哀地意识到了这个问题。
“但是呢，”弗兰基接着说下去，“在我参加完昨晚的那次聚会之后，就觉得我们家也不可能比它更糟糕了。”
“聚会上出什么岔子了？”
“什么事也没发生。就跟其他所有聚会一样，只不过更像是个聚会罢了。本来是定在八点半开始，在萨伏伊酒店。我们当中一些人快九点一刻才到，当然啦，我们半路碰到了别人，差不多十点才摆脱他们。然后我们吃了晚饭，又过了一会儿，转场去了‘提线木偶’。
有传言说那里会被突击检查，不过什么也没发生，实在是死气沉沉。我们喝了几杯后接着去了‘斗牛场’，结果那儿更加死气沉沉，然后我们就找了一个咖啡馆，后来又去了一家炸鱼店，接下来我们想去找安吉拉的叔叔共进早餐，看看他会不会被吓到，可是他并没有，只是觉得我们很烦。后来我们也有点儿打不起精神来了，于是各回各家。说老实话，博比，这真的算不上好玩儿。”
“我没觉得啊。”博比强忍住自己的一阵羡慕之情说道。
即使在最为疯狂的时候，他也从未梦想过能够成为“提线木偶”或者“斗牛场”的会员。
他与弗兰基之间的关系说起来有些特别。
在孩提时代，他和他的兄弟们常跟住在城堡的孩子一起玩耍。后来他们长大成人，相互之间就连见面都很难了。每当遇到的时候，他们依然会用教名称呼彼此。弗兰基偶尔在家的时候，博比和他的兄弟们也会过去打打网球。不过弗兰基和她的两个兄弟却不会被叫到牧师寓所去。因为大家都知道，弗兰基他们可能不会觉得牧师寓所很有趣。而从另一方面来说，打网球总是需要更多人手。尽管互相以教名相称，但他们还是会感到一丝丝拘束。德温特家表现出的友善也许已经略微超出了他们所需要表现的程度，仿佛是为了表明“其实我们并没有什么差别”。而琼斯家又有些过于刻板拘礼，除去已经拥有的，似乎铁了心不再领受更多的友谊。现在，除了一些跟童年有关的回忆之外，两家人毫无共同点可言。然而博比还是非常喜欢弗兰基，每次造化弄人，让他们不期而遇的时候，他总是特别高兴。
“我对这一切都厌倦了，”弗兰基的声音中充满疲惫，“你没有这种感觉吗？”
博比思考了一下。
“不，我觉得还没有。”
“真好。”弗兰基说。
“我可不是说我有多热情，”博比一边说一边担心自己的话会给对方造成痛苦，“我还忍受不了特别热情的人呢。”
“我知道，”弗兰基低声说道，“那种人太可怕了。”
他们满怀同情地对视了一眼。
“对了，顺便问一句，”弗兰基突然开口说道，“那个从悬崖上掉下去的男人是怎么回事啊？”
“是托马斯医生和我发现的他，”博比说，“你又是怎么知道的，弗兰基？”
“报纸上看到的呀，你瞧。”
她用手指着一小段报道，标题是《海雾中的致命事故》。
昨晚，警方根据一张随身携带的照片确认了马奇博尔特事件中遇难者的身份。照片上的人被证实为利奥•凯曼夫人。凯曼夫人在接到消息后马上赶到了马奇博尔特，在那里她确认了死者是她的哥哥亚历克斯•普里查德。普里查德先生最近刚从暹罗回国。他离开英格兰已有十年之久，这次正准备展开一次徒步之旅。死因调查听证会将于明日在马奇博尔特举行。
博比的思绪飞回到照片中那张不知为何令人难以忘却的脸庞之上。
“我想我肯定得到听证会上去做证。”他说。
“多刺激啊，我也要去听你做证。”
“我并不觉得这有什么刺激的，”博比说，“要知道，我们只不过是发现了他而已。”
“他当时死了吗？”
“没有，他当时还没死。又过了大约一刻钟才死的。当时他身边只有我一个人。”
他停顿了一下。
“挺可怕的。”弗兰基那种敏锐的理解力是博比的父亲所不具备的。
“当然，他也什么都感觉不到——”
“感觉不到吗？”
“不过话说回来，嗯，你明白吗？他看上去还活得好好的呢。像他那种人，就在那么荒唐可笑的一小团雾气中迈下了悬崖，这种死法也真是挺糟心的。”
“我懂你，史蒂夫。”弗兰基这句有点儿奇怪的玩笑再次表达出了她的同情和理解。
“你见过他妹妹了吗？”她马上又接着问道。
“没有。我进城去待了两天，见一个朋友，他要开个汽车修理厂。你应该记得他，巴杰•比登。”
“我该记得吗？”
“你当然应该记得，你肯定记得善良的老巴杰啊。他有点斜视。”
弗兰基皱起了眉头。
“他笑起来声音特别傻。‘嚯嚯嚯’，就像这样。”博比继续帮助她回想。
弗兰基依然眉头紧锁。
“咱们还是孩子的时候他从小马上掉下来过，”博比接着说，“头冲下扎进了泥里，咱们不得不拉住他的腿把他拽出来。”
“哦！”弗兰基脑海里一下子涌进了太多回忆，“我现在想起来了，他当时说话有点儿结巴。”
“他现在依然结巴。”博比自豪道。
“他是不是开过一家养鸡场后来破产了？”弗兰基问。
“对啊。”
“接着他去了一家股票经纪人公司，结果一个月之后他们就把他解雇了？”
“没错。”
“然后他们送他去了澳大利亚，他又回来啦？”
“是的。”
“博比，”弗兰基说，“但愿你没在这桩冒险的生意上投资。”
“我没钱可投啊。”博比说。
“幸亏如此。”弗兰基说。
“自然，”博比继续说道，“巴杰想要抓住个有点本钱的人投资入股，不过这不像你想的那么简单。”
“当你环顾四周的时候，”弗兰基说，“你根本不会相信人类有什么理性可言，但其实不然。”
这番话最终触动了博比。
“听我说，弗兰基，”他说，“巴杰是个好人，数一数二的好人。”
“他们通常都是。”弗兰基说。
“谁们是？”
“那些去了澳大利亚又回来的人。他是怎么弄到钱开始这桩生意的呀？”
“他的一个姑妈还是谁去世了，留给他一间能停放六辆车的车库，外带上面的三个房间，他家人拿出了一百英镑用来买二手车。要说起二手车有多物美价廉你会很吃惊的。”
“我曾经买过一辆，”弗兰基说，“那是个让人痛苦的话题，咱们还是别说这个了。你离开海军又是为什么呀？他们不会是把你裁了吧？你这个年龄不应该啊。”
博比的脸腾的一下红了。
“眼睛的缘故。”他没好气地说。
“我记得你的眼睛一直都有些毛病。”
“我知道啊，我也想设法对付过去。后来去了国外服役，你也知道，那里光线太强了，真的很伤眼睛。所以，呃，我就不得不离开了。”
“真残酷。”弗兰基望着窗外，嘴里小声嘟囔道。
接下来是一段意味深长的停顿。
“再怎么说，这还是挺丢人的。”博比突然又开口道，“我的眼睛其实也没那么糟糕。他们说不会再恶化了，我本来是完全可以继续服役的。”
“你的眼睛看起来挺好的。”弗兰基说。
她直直地望进那双诚实的褐色眼睛深处。
“所以你明白了，”博比说，“我打算在巴杰那儿入股。”
弗兰基点点头。
一名服务员推开门说：“首轮午餐。”
“一起好吗？”弗兰基说。
他们往前面的餐车走去。
在收票员可能会出现的那段时间里，博比战略性地短暂回避了一下。
“咱们也不想让他的良心承受太多负担。”他说。
不过弗兰基说她并不指望收票员能有什么良心。
五点钟刚过，他们就到了赛尔哈姆，去马奇博尔特就在这站下车。
“有车接我，”弗兰基说，“我送你吧。”
“谢啦。这样就省得我拿着这些讨厌的行李走上两英里路了。”
他轻蔑地踢了自己的行李箱一脚。
“是三英里，不是两英里。”弗兰基说。
“如果你走高尔夫球场上那条小路的话就是两英里。”
“就是那条——”
“没错啊，就是那家伙走过的路。”
“不会是有谁把他推下去的吧？”弗兰基把梳妆箱递给女仆时随口问道。
“把他推下去？天哪，不会的。你怎么会这么想？”
“嗯，那样的话可就刺激多了，不是吗？”弗兰基有几分懒散地说道。
[1]弗兰基是弗朗西斯的昵称。
Four THE INQUEST
Four THE INQUEST
The inquest on the body of Alex Pritchard was held on the following day.
Dr. Thomas gave evidence as to the finding of the body.
“Life was not then extinct?” asked the coroner.
“No, deceased was still breathing. There was, however, no hope of re-covery. The—”
Here the doctor became highly technical. The coroner came to the res-cue of the jury:
“In ordinary everyday language, the man’s back was broken?”
“If you like to put it that way,” said Dr. Thomas sadly.
He described how he had gone off to get help, leaving the dying man inBobby’s charge.
“Now as to the cause of this disaster, what is your opinion, Dr. Thomas?”
“I should say that in all probability (failing any evidence as to his stateof mind, that is to say) the deceased stepped inadvertently over the edge ofthe cliff. There was a mist rising from the sea, and at that particular pointthe path turns abruptly inland. Owing to the mist the deceased may nothave noticed the danger and walked straight on—in which case two stepswould take him over the edge.”
“There were no signs of violence? Such as might have been admin-istered by a third party?”
“I can only say that all the injuries present are fully explained by thebody striking the rocks fifty or sixty feet below.”
“There remains the question of suicide?”
“That is, of course, perfectly possible. Whether the deceased walkedover the edge or threw himself over is a matter on which I can say noth-ing.”
Robert Jones was called next.
Bobby explained that he had been playing golf with the doctor and hadsliced his ball towards the sea. A mist was rising at the time and it was dif-ficult to see. He thought he heard a cry, and for a moment wondered if hisball could have hit anybody coming along the footpath. He had decided,however, that it could not possibly have travelled so far.
“Did you find the ball?”
“Yes, it was about a hundred yards short of the footpath.”
He then described how they had driven from the next tee and how hehimself had driven into the chasm.
Here the coroner stopped him since his evidence would have been a re-petition of the doctor’s. He questioned him closely, however, as to the cryhe had heard or thought he heard.
“It was just a cry.”
“A cry for help?”
“Oh, no. Just a sort of shout, you know. In fact I wasn’t quite sure I heardit.”
“A startled kind of cry?”
“That’s more like it,” said Bobby gratefully. “Sort of noise a fellow mightlet out if a ball hit him unexpectedly.”
“Or if he took a step into nothingness when he thought he was on apath?”
“Yes.”
Then, having explained that the man actually died about five minutesafter the doctor left to get help, Bobby’s ordeal came to an end.
The coroner was by now anxious to get on with a perfectly straightfor-ward business.
Mrs. Leo Cayman was called.
Bobby gave a gasp of acute disappointment. Where was the face of thephoto that had tumbled from the dead man’s pocket? Photographers,thought Bobby disgustedly, were the worst kind of liars. The photo obvi-ously must have been taken some years ago, but even then it was hard tobelieve that that charming wide- eyed beauty could have become thisbrazen-looking woman with plucked eyebrows and obviously dyed hair.
Time, thought Bobby suddenly, was a very frightening thing. What wouldFrankie, for instance, look like in twenty years’ time? He gave a littleshiver.
Meanwhile, Amelia Cayman, of 17 St. Leonard’s Gardens, Paddington,was giving evidence.
Deceased was her only brother, Alexander Pritchard. She had last seenher brother the day before the tragedy when he had announced his inten-tion of going for a walking tour in Wales. Her brother had recently re-turned from the East.
“Did he seem in a happy and normal state of mind?”
“Oh, quite. Alex was always cheerful.”
“So far as you know, he had nothing on his mind?”
“Oh! I’m sure he hadn’t. He was looking forward to his trip.”
“There have been no money troubles—or other troubles of any kind inhis life recently?”
“Well, really I couldn’t say as to that,” said Mrs. Cayman. “You see, he’donly just come back, and before that I hadn’t seen him for ten years andhe was never one much for writing. But he took me out to theatres andlunches in London and gave me one or two presents, so I don’t think hecould have been short of money, and he was in such good spirits that Idon’t think there could have been anything else.”
“What was your brother’s profession, Mrs. Cayman?”
The lady seemed slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I can’t say I rightly know. Prospecting—that’s what he called it.
He was very seldom in England.”
“You know of no reason which should cause him to take his own life?”
“Oh, no; and I can’t believe that he did such a thing. It must have beenan accident.”
“How do you explain the fact that your brother had no luggage with him—not even a knapsack?”
“He didn’t like carrying a knapsack. He meant to post parcels alternatedays. He posted one the day before he left with his night things and a pairof socks, only he addressed it to Derbyshire instead of Denbighshire, so itonly got here today.”
“Ah! That clears up a somewhat curious point.”
Mrs. Cayman went on to explain how she had been communicated withthrough the photographers whose name was on the photo her brother hadcarried. She had come down with her husband to Marchbolt and had atonce recognized the body as that of her brother.
As she said the last words she sniffed audibly and began to cry.
The coroner said a few soothing words and dismissed her.
Then he address the jury. Their task was to state how this man came byhis death. Fortunately, the matter appeared to be quite simple. There wasno suggestion that Mr. Pritchard had been worried or depressed or in astate of mind where he would be likely to take his own life. On the con-trary, he had been in good health and spirits and had been looking for-ward to his holiday. It was unfortunately the case that when a sea mistwas rising the path along the cliff was a dangerous one and possibly theymight agree with him that it was time something was done about it.
The jury’s verdict was prompt.
“We find that the deceased came to his death by misadventure and wewish to add a rider that in our opinion the Town Council should immedi-ately take steps to put a fence or rail on the sea side of the path where itskirts the chasm.”
The coroner nodded approval.
The inquest was over.
第四章 死因调查听证会
第四章 死因调查听证会
亚历克斯•普里查德的死因调查听证会在第二天举行。托马斯医生就发现尸体的过程做了证。
“当时还有生命迹象吗？”验尸官问。
“是的，死者当时还有呼吸。但是已经没有复苏的希望了。他的——”
医生的用词在此处变得高度专业起来，验尸官则负责帮助陪审团听懂他的证词：
“通俗一点说，就是这个男人的脊梁摔断了，对吗？”
“您愿意这么说的话也可以。”托马斯医生有些悲伤地说道。
他讲述了他是如何离开去寻求支援，把这个垂死之人留给博比照看的过程。
“您对这起不幸事件的原因有什么看法吗，托马斯医生？”
“我想说十有八九（也就是说，在没有什么关于他心理状态方面证据的前提下）死者是一不留神失足掉下悬崖的。当时海上起雾了，而恰好就在那个地方，小路骤然转向了内陆。因为大雾，死者可能没有注意到危险，还一直往前走。在这种情况下，只要走两步他就会越过悬崖边缘了。”
“现场没有打斗的迹象吗？比如说，有没有可能是由他人造成的？”
“我只能说，当时所有的伤势都可以解释成是身体与下方五六十英尺处的岩石撞击导致的。”
“那么有没有自杀的可能？”
“那是当然，完全有可能。不过对于死者究竟是行走时越过了悬崖边缘还是自己主动跳下去的，我一无所知。”
接下来被传唤的是罗伯特•琼斯 [1] 。
博比解释说他当时正和医生一起打高尔夫球。他打出了一杆右曲球，球冲着海的方向飞去。那时正好有点起雾，很难看清楚。他觉得他听见了一声喊叫，有那么一瞬间他也在纳闷是不是球击中了哪个沿着小路走来的人。然而他还是断定球不可能飞那么远。
“你找到球了吗？”
“找到了，离那条小路大约还有一百码远呢。”
他接着描述了他们是如何到下一个发球区去击球，以及他自己又是如何把球打到了裂谷下面。
验尸官在这里打断了他的叙述，因为他的证词基本上是对医生证词的一种重复。然后验尸官又开始追问起博比听到，或者认为他听到的那声叫喊。
“那就是一声喊叫。”
“求救的喊叫吗？”
“哦，不是的。您知道，只是大声喊叫。事实上我也拿不准究竟是不是听到了。”
“是一声惊叫？”
“差不多吧，”博比语带感激地说道，“就像是一个人出乎意料被球击中时可能会发出的声音。”
“或者他以为自己走在路上，结果却一脚踏空的时候？”
“是的。”
随后，博比解释说那个人在医生离去求援之后大约五分钟就死了，煎熬总算是告一段落。
验尸官现在已经迫不及待想要给案件画上句号了。
利奥•凯曼太太被传唤上来。
博比因为强烈的失望而倒抽了一口气。她和死者口袋里照片上的人完全不同，那张脸跑到哪儿去了呢？博比十分厌恶地想，摄影师是一群最差劲的骗子。那张照片很显然是多年前拍摄的，但即便如此，你也很难相信照片上那个双眼妩媚动人的美女会变成眼前这个拔过眉毛又染了头发的黄脸婆。博比忽然觉得，岁月是个极其可怕的东西。就比如说，二十年以后的弗兰基看起来又会是什么样呢？他不由得打了个寒战。
与此同时，来自帕丁顿圣伦纳德花园十七号的阿梅利亚•凯曼正在做证。
死者是她唯一的哥哥亚历山大•普里查德。她最后一次见到他是在悲剧发生的前一天，他当时宣布说要在威尔士进行一次徒步旅行。她哥哥最近才从东方回国。
“他看上去心情愉快，并且情绪正常吗？”
“哦，完全正常。亚历克斯 [2] 总是高高兴兴的。”
“就您所知，他没有什么心事吧？”
“哦！我敢肯定他没有。他当时正一心想着他的旅行呢。”
“他最近在生活中没有遇到什么金钱方面，或者其他方面的麻烦吧？”
“嗯，关于这一点我确实说不好，”凯曼太太说，“您看，他才刚刚回来，之前我都十年没见过他了，他也从不是个爱写信的人。不过在伦敦他带我又是出去看戏又是吃午饭，还送了我一两件礼物，所以我并不觉得他缺钱，而且他总是那么精神饱满、兴致高昂，我也没觉得会有什么其他的事情。”
“您哥哥从事的是什么职业，凯曼太太？”
这位夫人看上去略显尴尬。
“呃，我不能说我知道得很确切。勘探吧，他反正是这么说的。他很少在英格兰待着。”
“您知道有什么会导致他轻生吗？”
“哦，不知道。而且我也不相信他会做出这种事情来。这肯定是个意外。”
“您怎么解释您哥哥没带随身行李这个事实呢？甚至连个背包都没有？”
“他不喜欢背包。他打算每隔一天就寄一个包裹。他在临出发前的一天寄了一个，里面是他过夜用的东西和一双袜子，只不过他写的地址是德比郡 [3] 而不是登比郡 [4] ，所以今天才寄到这里。”
“啊！这就澄清了一个疑点。”
凯曼太太继续解释了人们是如何通过哥哥随身携带的那张照片上摄影师的名字联系到了她。她和她的丈夫一起来到了马奇博尔特，立刻就辨认出死者是她的哥哥。
最后一句话刚说完，她便抽抽搭搭地哭了起来。
验尸官说了几句安慰的话便打发她下去了。
随后他转向陪审团。他们的任务是确定这个男人究竟是怎么死的。幸运的是，整件事情似乎相当简单。没有迹象表明普里查德先生曾经心怀忧虑或者情绪低落，又或者处于一种可能会自寻短见的心理状态之下。相反，他一直都身体健康，精神抖擞，对自己的假期满怀期待。不幸的是，当海雾升起时，沿着悬崖边缘的这条小路行走是很危险的，而大家或许会同意他的观点：对于那条小路，是时候采取一些措施了。
陪审团非常迅速地做出了裁决：
“我们认为导致死者死亡的是一次不幸的事件，同时我们还想附加一条意见，在我们看来，镇议会应立即采取措施，在小路行经裂谷边缘那段临海区域安装栅栏或围栏。”
验尸官点头表示赞同。
死因调查听证会就此结束。
[1]博比是罗伯特的昵称。
[2]亚历克斯是亚历山大的昵称。
[3]位于英格兰中部。
[4]位于威尔士。
Five MR. AND MRS. CAYMAN
Five MR. AND MRS. CAYMAN
On arriving back at the Vicarage about half an hour later, Bobby foundthat his connection with the death of Alex Pritchard was not yet quiteover. He was informed that Mr. and Mrs. Cayman had called to see himand were in the study with his father. Bobby made his way there andfound his father bravely making suitable conversation without, appar-ently, much enjoying his task.
“Ah!” he said with some slight relief. “Here is Bobby.”
Mr. Cayman rose and advanced towards the young man with out-stretched hand. Mr. Cayman was a big florid man with a would-be heartymanner and a cold and somewhat shifty eye that rather belied the man-ner. As for Mrs. Cayman, though she might be considered attractive in abold, coarse fashion, she had little now in common with that early photo-graph of herself, and no trace of that wistful expression remained. In fact,Bobby reflected, if she had not recognized her own photograph, it seemeddoubtful if anyone else would have done so.
“I came down with the wife,” said Mr. Cayman, enclosing Bobby’s handin a firm and painful grip. “Had to stand by, you know; Amelia’s naturallyupset.”
Mrs. Cayman sniffed.
“We came round to see you,” continued Mr. Cayman. “You see, my poorwife’s brother died, practically speaking, in your arms. Naturally, shewanted to know all you could tell her of his last moments.”
“Absolutely,” said Bobby unhappily. “Oh, absolutely.”
He grinned nervously and was immediately aware of his father’s sigh—a sigh of Christian resignation.
“Poor Alex,” said Mrs. Cayman, dabbing her eyes. “Poor, poor Alex.”
“I know,” said Bobby. “Absolutely grim.”
He wriggled uncomfortably.
“You see,” said Mrs. Cayman, looking hopefully at Bobby, “if he left anylast words or messages, naturally I want to know.”
“Oh, rather,” said Bobby. “But as a matter of fact he didn’t.”
“Nothing at all?”
Mrs. Cayman looked disappointed and incredulous. Bobby felt apolo-getic.
“No—well—as a matter of fact, nothing at all.”
“It was best so,” said Mr. Cayman solemnly. “To pass away unconscious—without pain—why, you must think of it as a mercy, Amelia.”
“I suppose I must,” said Mrs. Cayman. “You don’t think he felt anypain?”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Bobby.
Mrs. Cayman sighed deeply.
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for. Perhaps I did hope he’d left alast message, but I can see that it’s best as it is. Poor Alex. Such a fine out-of-door man.”
“Yes, wasn’t he?” said Bobby. He recalled the bronze face, the deep blueeyes. An attractive personality, that of Alex Pritchard, attractive even sonear death. Strange that he should be the brother of Mrs. Cayman and thebrother-in-law of Mr. Cayman. He had been worthy, Bobby felt, of betterthings.
“Well, we’re very much indebted to you, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Cayman.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Bobby. “I mean—well, couldn’t do anythingelse—I mean—”
He floundered hopelessly.
“We shan’t forget it,” said Mr. Cayman. Bobby suffered once more thatpainful grip. He received a flabby hand from Mrs. Cayman. His fathermade further adieus. Bobby accompanied the Caymans to the front door.
“And what do you do with yourself, young man?” inquired Cayman.
“Home on leave—something of that kind?”
“I spend most of my time looking for a job,” said Bobby. He paused. “Iwas in the Navy.”
“Hard times — hard times nowadays,” said Mr. Cayman, shaking hishead. “Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure.”
“Thank you very much,” said Bobby politely.
He watched them down the weed-grown drive.
Standing there, he fell into a brown study. Various ideas flashed chaotic-ally through his mind—confused reflections—the photograph—that girl’sface with the wide-apart eyes and the misty hair—and ten or fifteen yearslater Mrs. Cayman with her heavy makeup, her plucked eyebrows, thosewide-apart eyes sunk in between folds of flesh till they looked like pig’seyes, and her violent henna-tinted hair. All traces of youth and innocencehad vanished. The pity of things! It all came, perhaps, of marrying ahearty bounder like Mr. Cayman. If she had married someone else shemight possibly have grown older gracefully. A touch of grey in her hair,eyes still wide apart looking out from a smooth pale face. But perhaps any-way—
Bobby sighed and shook his head.
“That’s the worst of marriage,” he said gloomily.
“What did you say?”
Bobby awoke from meditation to become aware of Frankie, whose ap-proach he had not heard.
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo. Why marriage? And whose?”
“I was making a reflection of a general nature,” said Bobby.
“Namely—?”
“On the devasting effects of marriage.”
“Who is devastated?”
Bobby explained. He found Frankie unsympathetic.
“Nonsense. The woman’s exactly like her photograph.”
“When did you see her? Were you at the inquest?”
“Of course I was at the inquest. What do you think? There’s little enoughto do down here. An inquest is a perfect godsend. I’ve never been to onebefore. I was thrilled to the teeth. Of course, it would have been better if ithad been a mysterious poisoning case, with the analyst’s reports and allthat sort of thing; but one mustn’t be too exacting when these simplepleasures come one’s way. I hoped up to the end for a suspicion of foulplay, but it all seemed most regrettably straightforward.”
“What bloodthirsty instincts you have, Frankie.”
“I know. It’s probably atavism (however do you pronounce it? — I’venever been sure). Don’t you think so? I’m sure I’m atavistic. My nicknameat school was Monkey Face.”
“Do monkeys like murder?” queried Bobby.
“You sound like a correspondence in a Sunday paper,” said Frankie.
“Our correspondents’ views on this subject are solicited.”
“You know,” said Bobby, reverting to the original topic, “I don’t agreewith you about the female Cayman. Her photograph was lovely.”
“Touched up—that’s all,” interrupted Frankie.
“Well, then, it was so much touched up that you wouldn’t have knownthem for the same person.”
“You’re blind,” said Frankie. “The photographer had done all that the artof photography could do, but it was still a nasty bit of work.”
“I absolutely disagree with you,” said Bobby coldly. “Anyway, where didyou see it?”
“In the local Evening Echo.”
“It probably reproduced badly.”
“It seems to me you’re absolutely batty,” said Frankie crossly, “over apainted-up raddled bitch—yes, I said bitch—like the Cayman.”
“Frankie,” said Bobby, “I’m surprised at you. In the Vicarage drive, too.
Semi-holy ground, so to speak.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have been so ridiculous.”
There was a pause, then Frankie’s sudden fit of temper abated.
“What is ridiculous,” she said, “is to quarrel about the damned woman. Icame to suggest a round of golf. What about it?”
“OK, chief,” said Bobby happily.
They set off amicably together and their conversation was of such thingsas slicing and pulling and how to perfect a chip shot on to the green.
The recent tragedy passed quite out of mind until Bobby, holing a longputt at the eleventh to halve the hole, suddenly gave an exclamation.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I’ve just remembered something.”
“What?”
“Well, these people, the Caymans—they came round and asked if the fel-low had said anything before he died—and I told them he hadn’t.”
“Well?”
“And now I’ve just remembered that he did.”
“Not one of your brightest mornings, in fact.”
“Well, you see, it wasn’t the sort of thing they meant. That’s why, I sup-pose, I didn’t think of it.”
“What did he say?” asked Frankie curiously.
“He said: ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ ”
“What a funny thing to say. Nothing else?”
“No. He just opened his eyes and said that—quite suddenly—and thendied, poor chap.”
“Oh, well,” said Frankie, turning it over in her mind. “I don’t see thatyou need worry. It wasn’t important.”
“No, of course not. Still, I wish I’d just mentioned it. You see, I said he’dsaid nothing at all.”
“Well, it amounts to the same thing,” said Frankie. “I mean, it isn’t like—‘Tell Gladys I always loved her,’ or ‘The will is in the walnut bureau,’ orany of the proper romantic Last Words there are in books.”
“You don’t think it’s worth writing about it to them?”
“I shouldn’t bother. It couldn’t be important.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Bobby and turned his attention with re-newed vigour to the game.
But the matter did not really dismiss itself from his mind. It was a smallpoint but it fretted him. He felt very faintly uncomfortable about it.
Frankie’s point of view was, he felt sure, the right and sensible one. Thething was of no importance—let it go. But his conscience continued to re-proach him faintly. He had said that the dead man had said nothing. Thatwasn’t true. It was all very trivial and silly but he couldn’t feel quite com-fortable about it.
Finally, that evening, on an impulse, he sat down and wrote to Mr. Cay-man.
Dear Mr. Cayman, I have just remembered that yourbrother-in-law did actually say something before he died. Ithink the exact words were, “Why didn’t they ask Evans?”
I apologize for not mentioning this this morning, but I at-tached no importance to the words at the time and so, Isuppose, they slipped my memory.
Yours truly,
Robert Jones.
On the next day but one he received a reply:
Dear Mr. Jones (wrote Mr. Cayman), Your letter of 6th in-stant to hand. Many thanks for repeating my poorbrother- in- law’s last words so punctiliously in spite oftheir trivial character. What my wife hoped was that herbrother might have left her some last message. Still, thankyou for being so conscientious.
Yours faithfully,
Leo Cayman.
Bobby felt snubbed.
第五章 凯曼夫妇
第五章 凯曼夫妇
大约半个小时后返回牧师寓所的时候，博比发现他与亚历克斯•普里查德死亡事件间的联系仍未完全结束。他听说凯曼夫妇前来拜访他了，正跟他父亲一起在书房里。博比走到书房，看见父亲正英勇无畏地寻找着合适的话题与客人交谈，很显然，他并不怎么喜欢这个任务。
“啊！”他稍稍松了一口气，“博比来了。”
凯曼先生站起身来，伸出手迎向这个年轻人。凯曼先生是个面色红润的大块头，他想表现出热情和友好，但那双冷淡又有些游移不定的眼睛却或多或少地证明了他并非真心。
至于凯曼太太，尽管也可能会有人觉得她这种鲁莽粗俗的举止有几分魅力，但如今的她跟早年照片中的她几乎没有共同之处，那种怅惘的神情早已荡然无存。事实上，博比仔细想了想，假如她没有认出自己的照片，还能不能有其他人认得出来似乎都是个疑问呢。
“我和我太太一起来的，”凯曼先生一边说，一边紧紧握着博比的手，他都觉得有点儿疼了，“你知道，我必须在她身边，阿梅利亚很难过。”
凯曼太太吸了吸鼻子。
“我们顺道过来拜访你一下，”凯曼先生继续说，“你瞧，实际上，我这可怜太太的哥哥是在你怀抱中死去的。所以很自然，她想要知道他临终时的情况。希望你能尽你所能把知道的都告诉我们。”
“当然，”博比不无遗憾地说道，“哦，那是当然。”
他紧张不安地咧嘴一笑，然后立刻察觉到父亲叹了一口气。那是一种基督徒式的无奈叹息。
“可怜的亚历克斯，”凯曼太太说着轻拭了一下眼角，“他太可怜了。”
“我明白，”博比说，“这是非常残酷的事情。”
他不自在地扭动了一下身子。
“你知道，”凯曼太太满怀希望地看着博比，说，“如果他留下了什么话或者消息，我真的很想知道。”
“哦，当然啦，”博比说，“不过事实上，他什么话都没留下。”
“什么都没说吗？”
凯曼太太看起来一脸的失望和怀疑。博比觉得很抱歉。
“没有，嗯，事实上，什么都没说。”
“这样最好了，”凯曼先生郑重地说道，“在无意识的情况下离去，没有痛苦。唉，你得把这看成一种幸运的解脱，阿梅利亚。”
“我想也只能这样想了，”凯曼太太说，“他没有感受到任何痛苦吗？”
“我确定他没有。”博比说。
凯曼太太深深地叹了口气。
“好吧，这也算是件值得欣慰的事。或许我是太希望他能留下什么遗言了，不过我也明白这样是最好不过了。可怜的亚历克斯。那么优秀的一个户外达人啊。”
“是啊。”博比说。他回想起了那张古铜色的脸和那双深蓝色的眼睛。亚历克斯•普里查德是个富有魅力的人，即使是在弥留之际也依然充满魅力。真奇怪，他会有这样的妹妹和妹夫。博比觉得他完全配得上更好的。
“好了，我们非常感激，欠了你好大一个人情，真的。”凯曼太太说。
“哦，没关系的，”博比说，“我的意思是，呃，我也帮不上什么其他的忙。我是说——”
他绝望得有些不知所措。
“我们不会忘记的。”凯曼先生说道。博比又经受了一次那种让人痛苦的握手，随后他接过了凯曼太太一只松软无力的手。他父亲再次跟他们道别。博比陪同凯曼夫妇来到了房子的正门。
“那你平时都做些什么呢，年轻人？”凯曼问道，“在家休假？”
“我大部分时间都花在找工作上了，”博比说道，顿了一下，“我以前在海军服役。”
“世事艰难，现在真是世事艰难啊。”凯曼边说边摇头，“好吧，祝你好运。”
“非常感谢您。”博比彬彬有礼地说道。
他目送着他们沿着杂草丛生的车道离去。
站在那里，他开始陷入沉思，各种各样的想法一股脑地掠过心头。杂乱无章的映象。
那张照片。那个眼睛分得很开，长着一头朦胧秀发的姑娘。还有十年或者十五年之后，这个浓妆艳抹，拔过眉毛，分开的双眼像猪一样深陷赘肉之中，染着鲜艳红褐色头发的凯曼太太。所有青春和天真无邪的踪迹都已消失殆尽。真是太遗憾了！或许这都是因为她嫁给了一个凯曼先生那样身强力壮的粗鲁之人吧。如果嫁给了其他什么人，也许就会优雅地老去。鬓边一抹灰白，光滑苍白的面庞之上，一双依然分得很开的眼睛望向前方。不过不管怎样，也有可能——
博比叹了口气，摇了摇头。
“这真是最糟糕的婚姻了。”他闷闷不乐地说道。
“你在说什么呢？”
博比从沉思中回过神来，这才发觉弗兰基不知何时已经来到近前。
“你好。”他说。
“你好啊。怎么说起婚姻来了？谁的婚姻呀？”
“我是在反思一个普遍性的问题。”博比说道。
“也就是说——”
“关于婚姻毁灭性的后果。”
“谁被毁了？”
博比解释了一下，他发现弗兰基对此并不苟同。
“净瞎说，那个女人跟照片里一模一样。”
“你什么时候见过她啊？你去听证会啦？”
“我当然去参加听证会了呀。你以为呢？在这儿待着也没什么好干的。死因调查听证会正是天赐良机。我以前从来没参加过，兴奋得很。当然，这要是一桩神秘的毒杀案，再有几份分析报告之类的就更好了。不过既然简单的快乐从天而降，我也不能太苛求。我自始至终都希望他们会怀疑这是一桩谋杀，可惜这一切似乎太简单明了了。”
“你还真是有种嗜血的本性啊，弗兰基。”
“我知道。这大概是叫返祖现象吧（这词究竟怎么念啊？我从来都拿不准）。你不觉得吗？我敢肯定我是有点儿返祖。上学的时候我的绰号就叫‘猴子脸’。”
“猴子喜欢谋杀吗？”博比质疑道。
“你这话听起来就像是刊登在周日报纸上的报道标题，”弗兰基说，“我们的记者先生已就此问题发表看法。”
“你要知道，”博比又转回原先的话题上，“我并不同意你对那个凯曼夫人的说法，她的照片很漂亮。”
“照片经过了修饰，就这么简单。”弗兰基插嘴道。
“嗯，要这么说的话，那照片被修饰得也太厉害了，都认不出来是同一个人。”
“那是你眼拙，”弗兰基说，“摄影艺术能办到的事情都已经被摄影师给做绝了，不过照片里的家伙还是一样让人讨厌。”
“我绝对不同意你的观点，”博比冷冷地说道，“话说回来，你又是在哪儿看见的照片？”
“在本地的《晚间回声报》上呀。”
“可能是报纸印得太差劲了。”
“要我说你这个人绝对是疯了，”弗兰基气哼哼地说道，“在一个涂脂抹粉的婊子的问题上纠缠不休。没错，我说的就是婊子，就是那个凯曼。”
“弗兰基，”博比说，“你吓到我了。而且这还是在牧师寓所的车道上，好歹也是半个圣洁之地呢。”
“得了吧，你用不着说这种荒唐的话。”
停顿了一下之后，弗兰基那股突然爆发的怒气消去了不少。
“真正荒唐的，”她说，“是为了那个该死的女人吵架。我来本是想提议打一场高尔夫的，怎么样啊？”
“行啊，头儿。”博比开心地说道。
他们心平气和地一路同行，说的都是些右旋球、左飞球以及如何打出一记完美的低飞球攻上果岭之类的话题。
刚刚发生的悲剧已经被博比淡忘了，直到他在第十一洞，以一记长推杆入洞平了标准杆的时候，突然发出了一声惊呼。
“怎么啦？”
“没什么，我就是想起了一件事。”
“什么事？”
“嗯，这两个人，就是凯曼夫妇，他们来拜访我，问我那个人在临死前说了什么话，我告诉他们他什么也没说。”
“然后呢？”
“我刚刚想起来，他其实说了。”
“事实上，今天早上你的脑子确实没在最佳状态。”
“嗯，你看啊，他说的也不是他们想问的问题，不是遗言什么的。我猜这应该就是我当时没想起来的原因。”
“他说了什么？”弗兰基好奇地问道。
“他说：‘他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？’”
“说这么句话还真挺奇怪的，没说别的？”
“没有。他只是睁开眼睛说了这句话，相当突然，然后就死了，可怜的家伙。”
“哦，好吧。”弗兰基沉思了片刻，说道，“我觉得你用不着烦恼，这句话没什么重要的。”
“是，当然不重要。不过我还是希望当时能提一句就好了。你知道，我当时说他什么都没说。”
“嗨，这都是一码事儿，”弗兰基说，“我的意思是说，这不像是‘告诉格拉迪斯我一直都爱她’‘遗嘱放在胡桃木写字台里’，或者任何一句书本里像模像样的浪漫遗言。”
“你认为写信告诉他们这件事是小题大做吗？”
“要是我就不为这种事费心，这不可能是什么重要的话。”
“我希望你是对的。”博比说完便又重整旗鼓，把注意力转回到高尔夫球上去了。
然而这件事其实并未真正从他心中消失。事情虽小，却一直困扰着他。对此，他心里总是模模糊糊地感觉有些不舒服。他相信弗兰基的看法既正确又明智，这句话一点也不重要，随它去好了。但他隐约觉得受到了良心的谴责。他当时说那个死去的男人什么话都没说，那不是真的。这是件很微不足道的蠢事，可每思及此，他就会觉得心里不太舒服。
最终，那天晚上，他一时心血来潮，坐下来给凯曼先生写了一封信。
亲爱的凯曼先生，我刚刚才回忆起来，实际上您内兄在临终之前是说过一句话的。我想他的原话是，“他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？”我很抱歉，今天上午我没有提到这件事，但我当时的确没怎么重视这句话，我想我应该是一时把它忘记了。
您忠实的
罗伯特•琼斯敬上
一天之后他收到了回复：
亲爱的琼斯先生（凯曼先生写道），六日来函已收悉。非常感谢您如此细心严谨地把我那可怜内兄的临终遗言转告于我，尽管它们的确无关紧要。我太太本希望哥哥可能会给她留下只言片语。即便如此，还是感谢您能如此认真尽责。
您忠实的
利奥•凯曼
博比感觉自己碰了一鼻子灰。
Six END OF A PICNIC
Six END OF A PICNIC
On the following day Bobby received a letter of quite a different nature:
It’s all fixed, old boy, (wrote Badger in an illiteratescrawl which reflected no credit on the expensive pub-lic school which had educated him). Actually got fivecars yesterday for fifteen pounds the lot—an Austin, twoMorrises and a couple of Rovers. At the moment they won’tactually go, but we can tinker them up sufficiently, Ithink. Dash it all, a car’s a car, after all. So long as it takesthe purchaser home without breaking down, that’s allthey can expect. I thought of opening up Monday week andam relying on you, so don’t let me down, will you, old boy?
I must say old Aunt Carrie was a sport. I once broke thewindow of an old boy next door to her who’d been rude toher about her cats and she never got over it. Sent me a fiverevery Christmas—and now this.
We’re bound to succeed. The thing’s a dead cert. I mean, acar’s a car after all. You can pick ’em up for nothing. Put alick of paint on and that’s all the ordinary fool notices. Thething will go with a Bang. Now don’t forget. Monday week.
I’m relying on you.
Yours ever,
Badger.
Bobby informed his father that he would be going up to town onMonday week to take up a job. The description of the job did not rouse theVicar to anything like enthusiasm. He had, it may be pointed out, comeacross Badger Beadon in the past. He merely treated Bobby to a long lec-ture on the advisability of not making himself liable for anything. Not anauthority on fianancial or business matters, his advice was technicallyvague, but its meaning unmistakable.
On the Wednesday of that week Bobby received another letter. It wasaddressed in a foreign slanting handwriting. Its contents were somewhatsurprising to the young man.
It was from the firm of Henriquez and Dallo in Buenos Aires and, to putit concisely, it offered Bobby a job in the firm with a salary of a thousand ayear.
For the first minute or two the young man thought he must be dream-ing. A thousand a year. He reread the letter more carefully. There wasmention of an ex-Naval man being preferred. A suggestion that Bobby’sname had been put forward by someone (someone not named). That ac-ceptance must be immediate, and that Bobby must be prepared to start forBuenos Aires within a week.
“Well, I’m damned!” said Bobby, giving vent to his feelings in a some-what unfortunate manner.
“Bobby!”
“Sorry, Dad. Forgot you were there.”
Mr. Jones cleared his throat.
“I should like to point out to you—”
Bobby felt that this process—usually a long one—must at all costs beavoided. He achieved this course by a simple statement:
“Someone’s offered me a thousand a year.”
The Vicar remained openmouthed, unable for the moment to make anycomment.
“That’s put him off his drive all right,” thought Bobby with satisfaction.
“My dear Bobby, did I understand you to say that someone had offeredyou a thousand a year? A thousand?”
“Holed it in one, Dad,” said Bobby.
“It’s impossible,” said the Vicar.
Bobby was not hurt by this frank incredulity. His estimate of his ownmonetary value differed little from that of his father.
“They must be complete mutts,” he agreed heartily.
“Who—er—are these people?”
Bobby handed him the letter. The Vicar, fumbling for his pince- nez,peered at it suspiciously. Finally he perused it twice.
“Most remarkable,” he said at last. “Most remarkable.”
“Lunatics,” said Bobby.
“Ah! my boy,” said the Vicar. “It is after all, a great thing to be an Eng-lishman. Honesty. That’s what we stand for. The Navy has carried thatideal all over the world. An Englishman’s world! This South Americanfirm realizes the value of a young man whose integrity will be unshakenand of whose fidelity his employers will be assured. You can always de-pend on an Englishman to play the game—”
“And keep a straight bat,” said Bobby.
The Vicar looked at his son doubtfully. The phrase, an excellent one, hadactually been on the tip of his tongue, but there was something in Bobby’stone that struck him as not quite sincere.
The young man, however, appeared to be perfectly serious.
“All the same, Dad,” he said, “why me?”
“What do you mean—why you?”
“There are a lot of Englishmen in England,” said Bobby. “Hearty fellows,full of cricketing qualities. Why pick on me?”
“Probably your late commanding officer may have recommended you.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Bobby doubtfully. “It doesn’t matter,anyway, since I can’t take the job.”
“Can’t take it? My dear boy, what do you mean?”
“Well, I’m fixed up, you see. With Badger.”
“Badger? Badger Beadon. Nonsense, my dear Bobby. This is serious.”
“It’s a bit hard, I own,” said Bobby with a sigh.
“Any childish arrangement you have made with young Beadon cannotcount for a moment.”
“It counts with me.”
“Young Beadon is completely irresponsible. He has already, I under-stand, been a source of considerable trouble and expense to his parents.”
“He’s not had much luck. Badger’s so infernally trusting.”
“Luck—luck! I should say that young man had never done a hand’s turnin his life.”
“Nonsense, Dad. Why, he used to get up at five in the morning to feedthose beastly chickens. It wasn’t his fault they all got the roop or thecroup, or whatever it was.”
“I have never approved of this garage project. Mere folly. You must giveit up.”
“Can’t sir. I’ve promised. I can’t let old Badger down. He’s counting onme.”
The discussion proceeded. The Vicar, biased by his views on the subjectof Badger, was quite unable to regard any promise made to that youngman as binding. He looked on Bobby as obstinate and determined at allcosts to lead an idle life in company with one of the worse possible com-panions. Bobby, on the other hand, stolidly repeated without originalitythat he “couldn’t let old Badger down.”
The Vicar finally left the room in anger and Bobby then and there satdown to write to the firm of Henriquez and Dallo, refusing their offer.
He sighed as he did so. He was letting a chance go here which was neverlikely to occur again. But he saw no alternative.
Later, on the links, he put the problem to Frankie. She listened attent-ively.
“You’d have had to go to South America?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have liked that?”
“Yes, why not?”
Frankie sighed.
“Anyway,” she said with decision. “I think you did quite right.”
“About Badger, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t let the old bird down, could I?”
“No, but be careful the old bird, as you call him, doesn’t let you in.”
“Oh! I shall be careful. Anyway, I shall be all right. I haven’t got any as-sets.”
“That must be rather fun,” said Frankie.
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. It just sounded rather nice and free and irrespons-ible. I suppose, though, when I come to think of it, that I haven’t got anyassets much, either. I mean, Father gives me an allowance and I’ve got lotsof houses to live in and clothes and maids and some hideous family jewelsand a good deal of credits at shops; but that’s all the family really. It’s notme.”
“No, but all the same—” Bobby paused.
“Oh, it’s quite different, I know.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “It’s quite different.”
He felt suddenly very depressed.
They walked in silence to the next tee.
“I’m going to town tomorrow,” said Frankie, as Bobby teed up his ball.
“Tomorrow? Oh—and I was going to suggest you should come for a pic-nic.”
“I’d have liked to. However, it’s arranged. You see, Father’s got the goutagain.”
“You ought to stay and minister to him,” said Bobby.
“He doesn’t like being ministered to. It annoys him frightfully. He likesthe second footman best. He’s sympathetic and doesn’t mind having thingsthrown at him and being called a damned fool.”
Bobby topped his drive and it trickled into the bunker.
“Hard lines,” said Frankie and drove a nice straight ball that sailed overit.
“By the way,” she remarked. “We might do something together in Lon-don. You’ll be up soon?”
“On Monday. But—well—it’s no good, is it?”
“What do you mean—no good?”
“Well, I mean I shall be working as a mechanic most of the time. I mean—”
“Even then,” said Frankie, “I suppose you’re just as capable of coming toa cocktail party and getting tight as any other of my friends.”
Bobby merely shook his head.
“I’ll give a beer and sausage party if you prefer it,” said Frankie encour-agingly.
“Oh, look here, Frankie, what’s the good? I mean, you can’t mix yourcrowds. Your crowd’s a different crowd from mine.”
“I assure you,” said Frankie, “that my crowd is a very mixed one.”
“You’re pretending not to understand.”
“You can bring Badger if you like. There’s friendship for you.”
“You’ve got some sort of prejudice against Badger.”
“I daresay it’s his stammer. People who stammer always make me stam-mer, too.”
“Look here, Frankie, it’s no good and you know it isn’t. It’s all rightdown here. There’s not much to do and I suppose I’m better than nothing.
I mean you’re always awfully decent to me and all that, and I’m grateful.
But I mean I know I’m just nobody—I mean—”
“When you’ve quite finished expressing your inferiority complex,” saidFrankie coldly, “perhaps you’ll try getting out of the bunker with a niblickinstead of a putter.”
“Have I—oh! damn!” He replaced the putter in his bag and took out theniblick. Frankie watched with malicious satisfaction as he hacked at theball five times in succession. Clouds of sand rose round them.
“Your hole,” said Bobby, picking up the ball.
“I think it is,” said Frankie. “And that gives me the match.”
“Shall we play the bye?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Of course. I suppose you have.”
They walked together in silence to the clubhouse.
“Well,” said Frankie, holding out her hand. “Goodbye, my dear. It’s beentoo marvellous to have you to make use of while I’ve been down here. Seesomething of you again, perhaps, when I’ve nothing better to do.”
“Look here, Frankie—”
“Perhaps you’ll condescend to come to my coster party. I believe youcan get pearl buttons quite cheaply at Woolworth’s.”
“Frankie—”
His words were drowned in the noise of the Bentley’s engine whichFrankie had just started. She drove away with an airy wave of her hand.
“Damn!” said Bobby in a heartfelt tone.
Frankie, he considered, had behaved outrageously. Perhaps he hadn’tput things very tactfully, but, dash it all, what he had said was trueenough.
Perhaps, though, he shouldn’t have put it into words.
The next three days seemed interminably long.
The Vicar had a sore throat which necessitated his speaking in a whis-per when he spoke at all. He spoke very little and was obviously bearinghis fourth son’s presence as a Christian should. Once or twice he quotedShakespeare to the effect that a serpent’s tooth, etc.
On Saturday Bobby felt that he could bear the strain of home life nolonger. He got Mrs. Roberts, who, with her husband, “ran” the Vicarage, togive him a packet of sandwiches, and, supplementing this with a bottle ofbeer which he bought in Marchbolt, he set off for a solitary picnic.
He had missed Frankie abominably these last few days. These olderpeople were the limit .?.?. They harped on things so.
Bobby stretched himself out on a brackeny bank and debated with him-self whether he should eat his lunch first and go to sleep afterwards, orsleep first and eat afterwards.
While he was cogitating, the matter was settled for him by his fallingasleep without noticing it.
When he awoke it was half past three! Bobby grinned as he thought howhis father would disapprove of this way of spending a day. A good walkacross country—twelve miles or so—that was the kind of thing that ahealthy young man should do. It led inevitably to that famous remark:
“And now, I think, I’ve earned my lunch.”
“Idiotic,” thought Bobby. “Why earn lunch by doing a lot of walking youdon’t particularly want to do? What’s the merit in it? If you enjoy it, thenit’s pure self-indulgence, and if you don’t enjoy it you’re a fool to do it.”
Whereupon he fell upon his unearned lunch and ate it with gusto. Witha sigh of satisfaction he unscrewed the bottle of beer. Unusually bitterbeer, but decidedly refreshing .?.?.
He lay back again, having tossed the empty beer bottle into a clump ofheather.
He felt rather god- like lounging there. The world was at his feet. Aphrase, but a good phrase. He could do anything—anything if he tried!
Plans of great splendour and daring initiative flashed through his mind.
Then he grew sleepy again. Lethargy stole over him.
He slept. .?.?.
Heavy, numbing sleep .?.?.
第六章 野餐的结局
第六章 野餐的结局
翌日，博比收到了一封性质截然不同的来信：
都搞定了，老兄（巴杰的信字迹潦草，让人觉得他接受的那些昂贵的公立学校教育一点也没派上用场）。事实上我昨天一共花十五英镑弄到了五辆车。一辆奥斯汀，两辆莫里斯，还有两辆罗孚。眼下它们其实还不能开，但我想咱们能把这些车都修好。去他的吧，车怎么着都是车。只要买主们能开着车到家，路上不抛锚，也就够了。我想在下下周一开张，到时就全仰仗你了，你可别让我失望啊，行吗，老兄？我必须得说，卡丽姑妈真够意思。她隔壁一个老兄因为她家的那些猫对她很粗鲁，她一直怀恨在心。我有次砸了他家的窗户，结果她就每年圣诞节送给我五英镑，这回也是。
咱们注定能成。这都是板上钉钉的事儿。我的意思是，车怎么着都是车。你可以把它们白白捡来。刷上点儿漆，那帮笨蛋注意的也就是这个。咱这买卖会大获成功的。最后别忘了啊。下下周一，我就靠你了。
你永远的朋友
巴杰
博比告诉父亲，为了干一份工作他下下周一要进城去。他对这份工作的描述并没有激起牧师太大的热情。或许应该指出，牧师以前曾经见过巴杰•比登。他只是对着博比长篇大论了一番，告诉他真正明智的人不会让自己卷进这种事情里。由于不是财务或者生意问题方面的权威，他的忠告从技术层面上来说都语焉不详，不过想要表达的意思却又明白无误。
那周的周三，博比收到了另一封信。信是用陌生的斜体写就的，内容多少让这个年轻人有点儿惊讶。
信是从布宜诺斯艾利斯的“恩里克斯与道洛”公司寄来的。简而言之，这家公司为博比提供了一份年薪一千英镑的工作。
开始的一两分钟里，这个年轻人认为他肯定是在做梦。年薪一千英镑啊。他更加仔细地重读了那封来信，里面提到退伍的海军军人是公司首选。信中暗示说博比的名字是某人推荐的（此人匿名）。他必须即刻决定是否要接受这份工作，博比也必须准备好在一周之内动身前往布宜诺斯艾利斯。
“唉，真他妈活见鬼了！”博比宣泄着自己的情绪，就像是遇到了什么倒霉事。
“博比！”
“对不起，老爸。我忘了您在这儿呢。”
琼斯先生清了清嗓子。
“我想跟你指出的是——”
博比觉得要避免接下来的这个过程（通常都是极其冗长的），必须不惜一切代价。于是他用一句简单明了的话把它化解了：
“有人给我开价年薪一千英镑。”
牧师惊愕地大张着嘴，一时间不知该说什么好。
“这句话正好打乱了他的阵脚。”博比心满意足地想道。
“我亲爱的博比，我刚刚是不是听你说，有人要给你开价年薪一千英镑？一千英镑？”
“一杆进洞，老爸。”博比说。
“这不可能啊。”牧师说道。
博比并没有被这种坦率直白的质疑伤害，他对自己身价的估计与他父亲对他身价的估计相差不远。
“他们肯定是群彻头彻尾的笨蛋。”他兴高采烈地应和道。
“这些人，呃，是谁啊？”
博比把信递给他。牧师笨手笨脚地拿出夹鼻眼镜，满心疑惑地盯着那封信，仔仔细细地读了两遍。
“不同凡响，”他最终说道，“太不同凡响了。”
“一群疯子。”博比说。
“啊！我的孩子，”牧师说，“作为一个英国人终究是件很了不起的事情。诚实是我们的代名词。海军把这个优良作风传播到了全世界。一个英国人的世界！这个南美的公司意识到了一个刚正不阿、忠心可嘉的年轻人的价值所在。你永远都可以信赖英国人，他们会照章办事——”
“而且恪守诚信。”博比说道。
牧师怀疑地看着他儿子。后面这半句点睛之笔其实已经到了他的嘴边，但被博比说出来的时候，语气中有些东西让他觉得并不是那么发自肺腑。
然而这个年轻人看上去却一本正经。
“可是老爸，”他说，“为什么是我啊？”
“什么叫为什么是你？”
“有那么多英国人呢，”博比说，“活力四射，身强体健。怎么就挑上我了呀？”
“没准是你以前的指挥官推荐了你呢。”
“是啊，也许是吧，”博比将信将疑地说道，“不过再怎么说都无所谓啦，反正我也不能接受这份工作。”
“不能接受？我亲爱的儿子啊，你这又是什么意思？”
“嗯，您也知道，我的工作都已经落实了呀。跟巴杰一块儿。”
“巴杰？巴杰•比登。真是胡闹，我亲爱的博比。这可是件严肃的事。”
“我承认，这是有点儿难办。”博比叹了口气，说道。
“你跟比登那孩子商定的幼稚项目不能算数。”
“但是对我很重要啊。”
“比登那孩子根本就靠不住。就我所知，对他的父母来说，他已经成了大麻烦和大花销的根源了。”
“他运气一直不太好，巴杰实在是太轻信别人了。”
“运气，运气！要我说，这小伙子这辈子就从来没干过正事。”
“别胡说了，老爸。唉，他以前可经常早上五点钟起床去喂那些讨厌的小鸡的。虽然后来它们全都得了鸡瘟，可那也不是他的错啊。”
“我从来就不赞成这桩汽车修理厂的生意，纯属胡闹。你必须放弃这个。”
“不行啊，我已经答应了。我可不能让老巴杰失望，他就指着我呢。”
讨论还在继续。牧师出于对巴杰的偏见，死活没法把博比和那个年轻人的约定当一回事。一方面，他觉得博比冥顽不灵，铁了心，不惜一切代价要跟他最差劲的朋友去过无所事事的生活。而另一方面呢，博比则只是木然地重复着他“不能让老巴杰失望”这句了无新意的话。
到最后，牧师气冲冲地离开了房间，而博比马上坐下来，给恩里克斯与道洛公司回信，拒绝了他们提供的工作。
他一边写一边叹气。此刻他正在放走一个机会，这个机会可能再也不会有了，可他别无选择。
后来在高尔夫球场上的时候，他把这个问题提给了弗兰基，她聚精会神地听着。
“你本来是该去南美洲的对吗？”
“对。”
“你想去吗？”
“想啊，为什么不想？”
弗兰基叹了口气。
“不管怎么说，”她断然开口道，“我觉得你做得完全正确。”
“你是说对巴杰？”
“是的。”
“我不能让这老家伙失望啊，是吧？”
“对啊，但要留神‘这个老家伙’，你是这么叫他的，别让他把你拉下水。”
“哦！我会留神的。无论如何，我不会有事的。我什么财产都没有。”
“那肯定相当有意思。”弗兰基说。
“为什么呀？”
“我也不知道为什么。只是听起来挺棒的，无拘无束，又不用承担责任。可一想到这儿，我就觉得其实我也同样没有什么财产。我是说，父亲会给我一笔零用钱，我有好多房子可以住，有一大堆衣服，很多仆人，有一些让人看了都受不了的家传珠宝，还有好多在商店里的信用额度，但那些其实都是家里的，不是我的。”
“是啊，不过再怎么说——”博比停了下来。
“哦，还是很不一样的，我知道。”
“对啊，”博比说，“很不一样。”
他突然间感到非常沮丧。
他们一起默默地走向下一个发球区。
“明天我要进城去。”弗兰基趁着博比把球放在球座上的时候说道。
“明天？哦，我刚刚正想跟你说你应该来参加个野餐呢。”
“我也想去啊，可是事情都安排好了。你知道，父亲的痛风又犯了。”
“你应该待在他身边伺候他。”博比说。
“他不喜欢被人伺候，那会让他烦不胜烦。他最喜欢第二个男仆。他富有同情心，既不在乎别人往他身上扔东西，也不在乎别人叫他该死的傻瓜。”
博比这一杆打了个剃头球，球缓缓滚入了沙坑。
“运气太差了。”弗兰基说着便打出了一记漂亮的直线球，球越过了沙坑。
“顺便说一句，”她说道，“咱们没准可以一起在伦敦干点什么，你很快就会去吗？”
“周一吧。不过，呃，这样不太好吧，对吗？”
“不太好？为什么？”
“哦，我是说我大部分时间都得像个修理工一样干活儿，我的意思是——”
“就算是那样，”弗兰基说，“我猜你一样也可以去参加鸡尾酒会，然后喝得烂醉如泥，就像我其他那些朋友一样。”
博比只是摇了摇头。
“我可以办一场啤酒香肠派对，假如你更喜欢这个的话。”弗兰基鼓励地说道。
“哦，听我说，弗兰基，这又有什么好处呢？我的意思是，你不能把你的朋友们都混在一起。你的朋友圈和我的不一样。”
“我向你保证，”弗兰基说，“我的圈子里面什么类型的人都有。”
“你这是在装糊涂。”
“你要是愿意的话可以带着巴杰来呀，这样就有跟你关系好的朋友啦。”
“你对巴杰有某种偏见。”
“我猜是因为他口吃吧，口吃的人总是弄得我也跟着口吃。”
“听我说，弗兰基，这样没什么用，你知道的。在这里其实也挺好的。就算没太多事情可做，我也比百无一用的人强。你一直对我都特别好，这点我很感激。但我的意思是，我知道自己其实就是个无名小辈，我是说——”
“等你把你的自卑情结都充分表露完了之后，”弗兰基冷冷地说道，“或许就该试着用九号铁而不是推杆来把球打出沙坑了。”
“我是用——哦！该死！”他把推杆放回球袋中，拿出了九号铁。弗兰基在一旁幸灾乐祸地看着他接连胡乱挥了五杆，在他们的周围扬起了一片沙尘。
“这洞你赢了。”博比说着捡起球来。
“我觉得也是，”弗兰基说，“这样的话比赛我也赢了。”
“剩下的洞咱们还打吗？”
“不了，我不想打了。我还有好多事儿要干呢。”
“当然啦，我猜你也挺忙的。”
他们一起走回了俱乐部会所，一路上一言不发。
“好啦，”弗兰基伸出一只手来，说道，“再见了，亲爱的。这几天你能来陪我真是太棒了，回头等我没什么更好的事情可做时，或许还能再见见你。”
“听我说，弗兰基——”
“没准儿你还会屈尊来参加我组织的果蔬小贩聚会呢。我相信你能在伍尔沃斯连锁零售店 [1] 里买到很便宜的珍珠纽扣。”
“弗兰基——”
他的话音被刚刚发动的宾利车引擎声所淹没，弗兰基随意地挥了挥手便驾车离开了。
“妈的！”博比发自内心地骂了一句。
他觉得弗兰基的表现有点儿太不像话了。或许他在处理问题的时候是不怎么机智圆滑，但是真见鬼，他说的可都是肺腑之言。
不过也许他就不该把这些话说出来。
接下来的三天显得无比漫长。
牧师的嗓子疼，迫使他说话的时候只能轻声低语。他说的话很少，显然是在以一名基督徒应有的方式忍耐着他第四个儿子的存在。有那么一两次引用了莎士比亚的话，大意是逆子无情甚于蛇蝎 [2] ，诸如此类。
到了星期六，博比觉得他已经再也无法忍受家庭生活的压力了。他找到和丈夫一起“管理”牧师寓所的罗伯茨太太，让她给了他一袋三明治，再加上他在马奇博尔特买的一瓶啤酒，动身准备来一次独自野餐。
最近几天他十分想念弗兰基。老一辈的人对他来说是种束缚……他们唠叨起来就会喋喋不休，没完没了。
博比躺在长满欧洲蕨的山坡上，四肢都伸展开来，心里纠结着究竟是该先吃午饭再睡觉呢，还是先睡觉再吃午饭。
就在他左思右想的时候，问题却因为他在不知不觉中沉沉睡去而得以解决了。
等他一觉醒来，时间已经到了下午三点半！博比一想到他父亲会如何不赞同以这种方式度过一天的时光，不禁咧着嘴笑了。一次美妙的乡间漫步，走上差不多十二英里，这正是一个健康的年轻人应该做的事情啊。这让人不可避免地想起了那句名言：“那么现在，我想我已经挣到了我的午餐。”
“真愚蠢，”博比心想，“干吗要靠走上一大段你并不是特别想走的路来挣得午餐呢？这又有什么好处呢？如果你乐在其中，那纯粹就是自我放纵，如果你不喜欢这么做，那就是在犯傻。”
于是他开始享用他这份不劳而获的午餐，吃得津津有味。在满足地长出一口气之后，他拧开了啤酒瓶的盖子。啤酒的味道苦涩异常，却毫无疑问令人精神一振……他再次躺下来，把空啤酒瓶随手扔到了一丛欧石南中。
他觉得自己躺在这里简直像上帝一样。世界就在他的脚下。这是种说法，但真是个不错的说法。他可以无所不能，只要他尽力而为！宏伟壮丽的计划和积极大胆的进取精神掠过他的心头。
接着，一阵倦意袭来，让他再次感到昏昏欲睡。
他睡着了……
睡得很沉，不省人事……
[1]起源于美国的廉价商品连锁零售店，在英国曾有很多店面，后于二〇〇九年宣布破产。
[2]原话出自莎士比亚的《李尔王》。
Seven AN ESCAPE FROM DEATH
Seven AN ESCAPE FROM DEATH
Driving her large green Bentley, Frankie drew up to the kerb outside alarge old-fashioned house over the doorway of which was inscribed “St.
Asaph’s.”
Frankie jumped out and, turning, extracted a large bunch of lilies. Thenshe rang the bell. A woman in nurse’s dress answered the door.
“Can I see Mr. Jones?” inquired Frankie.
The nurse’s eyes took in the Bentley, the lilies and Frankie with intenseinterest.
“What name shall I say?”
“Lady Frances Derwent.”
The nurse was thrilled and her patient went up in her estimation.
She guided Frankie upstairs into a room on the first floor.
“You’ve a visitor to see you, Mr. Jones. Now, who do you think it is? Sucha nice surprise for you.”
All this is the “bright” manner usual to nursing homes.
“Gosh!” said Bobby, very much surprised. “If it isn’t Frankie!”
“Hullo, Bobby, I’ve brought the usual flowers. Rather a graveyard sug-gestion about them, but the choice was limited.”
“Oh, Lady Frances,” said the nurse, “they’re lovely. I’ll put them into wa-ter.”
She left the room.
Frankie sat down in an obvious visitor’s chair.
“Well, Bobby,” she said. “What’s all this?”
“You may well ask,” said Bobby. “I’m the complete sensation of thisplace. Eight grains of morphia, no less. They’re going to write about me inthe Lancet and the BMJ.”
“What’s the BMJ?” interrupted Frankie.
“The British Medical Journal.”
“All right. Go ahead. Rattle off some more initials.”
“Do you know, my girl, that half a grain is a fatal dose? I ought to bedead about sixteen times over. It’s true that recovery has been knownafter sixteen grains—still, eight is pretty good, don’t you think? I’m thehero of this place. They’ve never had a case like me before.”
“How nice for them.”
“Isn’t it? Gives them something to talk about to all the other patients.”
The nurse reentered, bearing lilies in vases.
“It’s true, isn’t it, nurse?” demanded Bobby. “You’ve never had a caselike mine?”
“Oh! you oughtn’t to be here at all,” said the nurse. “In the churchyardyou ought to be. But it’s only the good die young, they say.” She giggled ather own wit and went out.
“There you are,” said Bobby. “You’ll see, I shall be famous all over Eng-land.”
He continued to talk. Any signs of inferiority complex that he had dis-played at his last meeting with Frankie had now quite disappeared. Hetook a firm and egotistical pleasure in recounting every detail of his case.
“That’s enough,” said Frankie, quelling him. “I don’t really care terriblyfor stomach pumps. To listen to you one would think nobody had everbeen poisoned before.”
“Jolly few have been poisoned with eight grains of morphia and got overit,” Bobby pointed out. “Dash it all, you’re not sufficiently impressed.”
“Pretty sickening for the people who poisoned you,” said Frankie.
“I know. Waste of perfectly good morphia.”
“It was in the beer, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. You see, someone found me sleeping like the dead, tried to wakeme and couldn’t. Then they got alarmed, carried me to a farmhouse andsent for a doctor—”
“I know all the next part,” said Frankie hastily.
“At first they had the idea that I’d taken the stuff deliberately. Thenwhen they heard my story, they went off and looked for the beer bottleand found it where I’d thrown it and had it analysed—the dregs of it werequite enough for that, apparently.”
“No clue as to how the morphia got in the bottle?”
“None whatever. They’ve interviewed the pub where I bought it andopened other bottles and everything’s been quite all right.”
“Someone must have put the stuff in the beer while you were asleep?”
“That’s it. I remember that the paper across the top wasn’t still stickingproperly.”
Frankie nodded thoughtfully.
“Well,” she said. “It shows that what I said in the train that day wasquite right.”
“What did you say?”
“That that man—Pritchard—had been pushed over the cliff.”
“That wasn’t in the train. You said that at the station,” said Bobby feebly.
“Same thing.”
“But why—”
“Darling—it’s obvious. Why should anyone want to put you out of theway? You’re not the heir to a fortune or anything.”
“I may be. Some great aunt I’ve never heard of in New Zealand or some-where may have left me all her money.”
“Nonsense. Not without knowing you. And if she didn’t know you, whyleave money to a fourth son? Why, in these hard times even a clergymanmightn’t have a fourth son! No, it’s all quite clear. No one benefits by yourdeath, so that’s ruled out. Then there’s revenge. You haven’t seduced achemist’s daughter, by any chance?”
“Not that I can remember,” said Bobby with dignity.
“I know. One seduces so much that one can’t keep count. But I shouldsay offhand that you’ve never seduced anyone at all.”
“You’re making me blush, Frankie. And why must it be a chemist’sdaughter, anyway?”
“Free access to morphia. It’s not so easy to get hold of morphia.”
“Well, I haven’t seduced a chemist’s daughter.”
“And you haven’t got any enemies that you know of?”
Bobby shook his head.
“Well, there you are,” said Frankie triumphantly. “It must be the manwho was pushed over the cliff. What do the police think?”
“They think it must have been a lunatic.”
“Nonsense. Lunatics don’t wander about with unlimited supplies ofmorphia looking for odd bottles of beer to put it into. No, somebodypushed Pritchard over the cliff. A minute or two later you come along andhe thinks you saw him do it and so determines to put you out of the way.”
“I don’t think that will hold water, Frankie.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to begin with, I didn’t see anything.”
“Yes, but he didn’t know that.”
“And if I had seen anything, I should have said so at the inquest.”
“I suppose that’s so,” said Frankie unwillingly.
She thought for a minute or two.
“Perhaps he thought you’d seen something that you didn’t think wasanything but which really was something. That sounds pure gibberish, butyou get the idea?”
Bobby nodded.
“Yes, I see what you mean, but it doesn’t seem very probable, some-how.”
“I’m sure that cliff business had something to do with this. You were onthe spot—the first person to be there—”
“Thomas was there, too,” Bobby reminded her. “And nobody’s tried topoison him.”
“Perhaps they’re going to,” said Frankie cheerfully. “Or perhaps they’vetried and failed.”
“It all seems very far-fetched.”
“I think it’s logical. If you get two out of the way things happening in astagnant pond like Marchbolt—wait—there’s a third thing.”
“What?”
“That job you were offered. That, of course, is quite a small thing, but itwas odd, you must admit. I’ve never heard of a foreign firm that special-ized in seeking out undistinguished ex-Naval officers.”
“Did you say undistinguished?”
“You hadn’t got into the BMJ, then. But you see my point. You’ve seensomething you weren’t meant to see—or so they (whoever they are) think.
Very well. They first try to get rid of you by offering you a job abroad.
Then, when that fails, they try to put you out of the way altogether.”
“Isn’t that rather drastic? And anyway a great risk to take?”
“Oh! but murderers are always frightfully rash. The more murders theydo, the more murders they want to do.”
“Like The Third Bloodstain,” said Bobby, remembering one of his favour-ite works of fiction.
“Yes, and in real life, too — Smith and his wives and Armstrong andpeople.”
“Well, but, Frankie, what on earth is it I’m supposed to have seen?”
“That, of course, is the difficulty,” admitted Frankie. “I agree that it can’thave been the actual pushing, because you would have told about that. Itmust be something about the man himself. Perhaps he had a birthmark ordouble-jointed fingers or some strange physical peculiarity.”
“Your mind is running on Dr. Thorndyke, I see. It couldn’t be anythinglike that because whatever I saw the police would see as well.”
“So they would. That was an idiotic suggestion. It’s very difficult, isn’tit?”
“It’s a pleasing theory,” said Bobby. “And it makes me feel important,but all the same, I don’t believe it’s much more than a theory.”
“I’m sure I’m right.” Frankie rose. “I must be off now. Shall I come andsee you again tomorrow?”
“Oh! Do. The arch chatter of the nurses gets very monotonous. By theway, you’re back from London very soon?”
“My dear, as soon as I heard about you, I tore back. It’s most exciting tohave a romantically poisoned friend.”
“I don’t know whether morphia is so very romantic,” said Bobby remin-iscently.
“Well, I’ll come tomorrow. Do I kiss you or don’t I?”
“It’s not catching,” said Bobby encouragingly.
“Then I’ll do my duty to the sick thoroughly.”
She kissed him lightly.
“See you tomorrow.”
The nurse came in with Bobby’s tea as she went out.
“I’ve seen her pictures in the papers often. She’s not so very like them,though. And, of course, I’ve seen her driving about in her car, but I’venever seen her before close to, so to speak. Not a bit haughty, is she?”
“Oh, no!” said Bobby. “I should never call Frankie haughty.”
“I said to Sister, I said, she’s as natural as anything. Not a bit stuck up. Isaid to Sister, she’s just like you or me, I said.”
Silently dissenting violently from this view, Bobby returned no reply.
The nurse, disappointed by his lack of response, left the room.
Bobby was left to his own thoughts.
He finished his tea. Then he went over in his mind the possibilities ofFrankie’s amazing theory, and ended by deciding reluctantly against it. Hethen cast about for other distractions.
His eye was caught by the vases of lilies. Frightfully sweet of Frankie tobring him all these flowers, and of course they were lovely, but he wishedit had occurred to her to bring him a few detective stories instead. He casthis eye over the table beside him. There was a novel of Ouida’s and a copyof John Halifax, Gentleman and last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times. Hepicked up John Halifax, Gentleman.
After five minutes he put it down. To a mind nourished on The ThirdBloodstain, The Case of the Murdered Archduke and The Strange Adventureof the Florentine Dagger, John Halifax, Gentleman, lacked pep.
With a sigh he picked up last week’s Marchbolt Weekly Times.
A moment or two later he was pressing the bell beneath his pillow witha vigour which brought a nurse into the room at a run.
“Whatever’s the matter, Mr. Jones? Are you taken bad?”
“Ring up the Castle,” cried Bobby. “Tell Lady Frances she must comeback here at once.”
“Oh, Mr. Jones. You can’t send a message like that.”
“Can’t I?” said Bobby. “If I were allowed to get up from this blasted bedyou’d soon see whether I could or couldn’t. As it is, you’ve got to do it forme.”
“But she’ll hardly be back.”
“You don’t know that Bentley.”
“She won’t have had her tea.”
“Now look here, my dear girl,” said Bobby, “don’t stand there arguingwith me. Ring up as I tell you. Tell her she’s got to come here at once be-cause I’ve got something very important to say to her.”
Overborne, but unwilling, the nurse went. She took some liberties withBobby’s message.
If it was no inconvenience to Lady Frances, Mr. Jones wondered if shewould mind coming as he had something he would like to say to her, but,of course, Lady Frances was not to put herself out in any way.
Lady Frances replied curtly that she would come at once.
“Depend upon it,” said the nurse to her colleagues, “she’s sweet on him!
That’s what it is.”
Frankie arrived all agog.
“What’s this desperate summons?” she demanded.
Bobby was sitting up in bed, a bright red spot in each cheek. In his handhe waved the copy of the Marchbolt Weekly Times.
“Look at this, Frankie.”
Frankie looked.
“Well,” she demanded.
“This is the picture you meant when you said it was touched up butquite like the Cayman woman.”
Bobby’s finger pointed to a somewhat blurred reproduction of a photo-graph. Underneath it were the words: “PORTRAIT FOUND ON THE DEADMAN AND BY WHICH HE WAS IDENTIFIED. MRS. AMELIA CAYMAN, THEDEAD MAN’S SISTER.”
“That’s what I said, and it’s true, too. I can’t see anything to rave over init.”
“No more than I.”
“But you said—”
“I know I said. But you see, Frankie”—Bobby’s voice became very im-pressive —“this isn’t the photograph that I put back in the dead man’spocket. .?.?.”
They looked at each other.
“Then in that case,” began Frankie slowly.
“Either there must have been two photographs—”
“—Which isn’t likely—”
“Or else—”
They paused.
“That man—what’s his name?” said Frankie.
“Bassington-ffrench!” said Bobby.
“I’m quite sure!”
第七章 死里逃生
第七章 死里逃生
弗兰基开着她那辆绿色的大宾利，停在了一栋老式大房子门外的路边上，门上写着“圣•阿萨夫”。
弗兰基从车里跳出来，转过身去，拿出一大束百合花，随后按响了门铃，一个身穿护士服的女人前来应门。
“我能看望一下琼斯先生吗？”弗兰基问道。
护士看了看宾利和百合花，又看了看弗兰基，眼神中显现出了浓厚的兴趣。
“我该怎么称呼您呢？”
“弗朗西斯•德温特小姐。”
护士一阵激动，据她估计，她的病人应该已经起来了。
她领着弗朗西斯上了楼，走进二楼的一个房间。
“有人来看您啦，琼斯先生。您觉得会是谁呢？真是个惊喜啊。”
疗养院里的人都用这种异常“积极明快”的方式说话。
“天哪！”博比十分惊讶，“这不是弗兰基嘛！”
“你好，博比。我带了些普通的花来。这花儿有点容易让人联想到墓地，不过确实也没什么可挑的了。”
“哦，弗朗西斯小姐，”护士说道，“这些花真漂亮，我去把它们插在水里。”
她离开了房间。
弗兰基坐在了一把明显是给探视者准备的椅子上。
“好啦，博比。”她说，“这到底是怎么回事啊？”
“我就知道你会这么问，”博比说，“我都成这一带彻头彻尾的轰动人物了。往少了说也是八粒吗啡啊，他们都打算把我写进《柳叶刀》 [1] 和《BMJ》里去啦。”
“《BMJ》是什么呀？”弗兰基插嘴问道。
“《英国医学杂志》 [2] 。”
“好吧，继续，再一口气说几个首字母缩写出来。”
“你知道半粒就是致死剂量了吗，小丫头？我应该已经死了差不多十六次了。虽说也听说过吃了十六粒还能活过来的例子，但八粒还是够多的，你不觉得吗？我都成这里的英雄了，他们以前从来没处理过像我这样的病例。”
“对他们来说可真是太好了。”
“难道不是吗？给他们提供了一些可以跟所有其他病人谈论的话题。”
护士又走进屋来，手里拿着插在花瓶里的百合。
“我说得没错吧，护士小姐？”博比问道，“你们从来没有过像我这样的病例吧？”
“哦！您压根儿就不该待在这里，”护士说，“您应该躺在墓地里才对，不过他们都说只有好人才短命。”她被自己的机智风趣逗得咯咯直笑，随后便走了出去。
“我就说嘛，”博比说道，“你等着看吧，我会在整个英格兰声名远扬的。”
他继续滔滔不绝地说着，上次跟弗兰基在一起时表现出的那种自卑此刻已经荡然无存。他自顾自地叙述着自己病情中的每一个细节，享受其中，乐此不疲。
“够啦，”弗兰基打断了他的话，“我对洗胃机什么的其实真没那么在意。听你这么一说，简直让人以为以前从来没有人中过毒似的。”
“吞下了八粒吗啡中毒之后还能缓过来的人可是少之又少。”博比解释道，“真见鬼，这都不能让你刮目相看。”
“对给你下毒的人来说是挺添堵的。”弗兰基说。
“是啊，那么好的吗啡都白白浪费了。”
“药是下在啤酒里的，对不对？”
“没错。你知道，有人发现我睡得像个死人似的，想叫醒我又叫不醒。然后他们就慌了，把我送到一间农舍里，叫人去请了医生——”
“后来的事情我都知道了。”弗兰基连忙说。
“一开始他们还以为我是故意吃了那玩意儿。后来等到听我说完，他们就去找那个啤酒瓶子，结果还真在我扔的地方找到了，然后就把它拿去做分析化验。很显然，那里面剩的渣滓用来毒杀一个人是绰绰有余的。”
“没有线索表明吗啡是怎么进到瓶子里去的吗？”
“一点儿都没有。他们去走访了我买那瓶酒的酒馆，把其他瓶子都打开了，结果一切正常。”
“肯定是有人趁你睡着的时候把药放进啤酒里去了。”
“就是这么回事儿，我记得瓶口上的纸粘得不是很对劲。”
弗兰基若有所思地点点头。
“嗯，”她说，“这就说明我那天在火车上说的话是完全正确的。”
“你说什么来着？”
“我说那个人，普里查德，是被推下悬崖去的。”
“那不是在火车上说的，你是在车站说的。”博比有气无力地说道。
“一样的。”
“可为什么——”
“亲爱的，这明摆着啊。为什么会有人想把你干掉？你又不是什么财产继承人。”
“我也可能是啊。没准儿哪个我没听说过的，住在新西兰的姨妈会把所有的钱都留给我呢。”
“胡扯吧。不认识你才不会留钱呢。她要是都不认识你，干吗要把钱留给家里的老四啊？再说了，现在日子都这么难，就算是牧师家也不太可能还有四个儿子！不会的，一切都很清楚。没有人会因为你的死而受益，所以这个理由可以排除了。再有就是报复。你不会是碰巧勾搭了哪个药剂师的女儿吧？”
“我可不记得有这回事。”博比正色道。
“我懂。勾搭得太多了，数也数不清。不过我还是可以不假思索地说，你从来都没勾搭过谁。”
“你说得我都脸红了，弗兰基。可说到底，为什么非得是药剂师的女儿？”
“吗啡可以说拿就拿啊，想搞到吗啡可不是那么容易的事。”
“好吧，我从来都没有勾搭过药剂师的女儿。”
“那就你所知，你也没跟什么人结过仇？”
博比摇摇头。
“嗯，我说什么来着，”弗兰基得意扬扬地说道，“这件事肯定跟那个被推下悬崖的人有关，警方怎么想？”
“他们觉得肯定是疯子干的。”
“净瞎说。疯子才不会带着不计其数的吗啡到处晃荡，然后找个奇奇怪怪的啤酒瓶子把药放进去呢。不，是有人把普里查德推下了悬崖。一两分钟之后你出现了，而他以为你看到了他干的事，于是下定决心要把你除掉。”
“我觉得这个说法站不住脚，弗兰基。”
“为什么站不住脚？”
“呃，首先，我什么都没看见。”
“对呀，可他并不知道啊。”
“而且我要是看见了什么，在死因调查听证会上就会说的呀。”
“这倒也是。”弗兰基有些不情愿地说。
她思索了片刻。
“或许他以为你看见了什么你觉得不重要，但其实很重要的事情？这话听起来真是够绕的，但你能明白我的意思吧？”
博比点点头。
“是啊，我明白你的意思，不过不知怎么的，这似乎也不大可能。”
“悬崖那件事跟这件事之间肯定有某种联系。你当时就在现场，是第一个到那儿的人——”
“托马斯也在，”博比提醒她道，“但没人给他下毒。”
“没准儿他们正在打算呢，”弗兰基欢快地说道，“或者他们已经尝试过，但是失败了。”
“这些想法似乎都太离谱了。”
“我觉得挺合逻辑的呀。如果在一个像马奇博尔特这样一潭死水的地方，发生了两件不同寻常的事情……等等，还有第三件呢。”
“什么？”
“那个提供给你的工作机会。当然啦，那件事真的挺小的，但你必须承认，那也确实挺奇怪的。我从来都没听说过有外国公司会专门去物色那些平平无奇的退伍海军。”
“你是说了‘平平无奇’这个词吗？”
“你那会儿可还没进《BMJ》呢。但你能懂我的意思。你看到了一些你本不该看到的事情，或者说他们（不管他们是谁）是这么认为的。好极了，他们先是试图通过给你提供一份海外工作来摆脱你。接着，那招儿也不灵的时候，他们就要设法把你干掉了。”
“这么做难道不是太极端了吗？而且不管怎么说，也得冒很大的风险吧？”
“哦！可杀人犯向来都不计后果。他们杀的人越多，就越想杀人。”
“就像《第三滴血迹》。”博比想起了他最喜欢的小说之一，说道。
“没错，现实生活中也是如此。有史密斯和他的老婆们 [3] ，还有阿姆斯特朗什么的。”
“好吧。不过，弗兰基，他们究竟以为我看见了什么呢？”
“当然，这正是困难所在，”弗兰基承认道，“我认为不可能是实际推的那一下，因为那样的话你会说出来的。肯定是跟那个人自身有关的什么事情。没准儿他有块胎记，手指关节活动过度，或者某种奇怪的生理特征。”
“我看出来了，你的思绪已经跑到桑代克博士 [4] 那儿去了。这是不可能的，因为不管我看到了什么，警察也能看到。”
“的确是，这个想法够白痴的。这事儿真是让人绞尽脑汁啊，对不对？”
“这种推测倒挺合我心意的，”博比说，“这让我觉得自己很重要。可说归说，这充其量也就是种推测罢了。”
“我肯定是对的。”弗兰基站起身来，“现在我必须得走了，明天我还能来看你吗？”
“哦！来吧。护士们那些起哄调侃真是无聊至极。顺便问一句，你是立刻就从伦敦回来的吗？”
“亲爱的，我一听说你的事情就飞奔回来啦。能有个中毒都中得那么浪漫的朋友，实在是太让人兴奋了。”
“我可不知道吗啡是不是真有那么浪漫。”博比像是回想起了什么一样说道。
“好啦，我明天再来。我是该吻你一下呢，还是不该？”
“这个不传染。”博比用鼓励的口吻说道。
“那我就彻底履行完对一个病人应有的义务吧。”
她轻轻地吻了他一下。
“明天见。”
她走出去的时候护士正好进来，端来了博比的茶。
“我经常能在报纸上看到她的照片，但她跟照片上不太像。而且，当然啦，我以前也见过她开着车到处转，但我从来没有这么近距离地看过她。她一点儿都不目中无人，是吧？”
“哦，不！”博比说，“我永远都不会说弗兰基目中无人的。”
“我跟护士长说了，她挺平易近人的。一点儿架子都没有，我还跟护士长说，她就跟你和我一样。”
博比并不答话，用他的沉默来强烈反对这个观点。护士见他一言不发，便有些失望地离开了房间。
剩下博比一个人沉浸在思绪之中。
他喝完了茶。接着在心里把弗兰基那些惊人的推测反复掂量了一番，最终还是有些不情愿地决定不予苟同，于是便开始另寻消遣。
他的目光被花瓶里的百合所吸引。弗兰基能给他送来这些花简直太亲切了，当然那些花也很漂亮，不过他倒希望她给他带来的是几本侦探小说。他又把目光投向了身旁的桌子。那上面有一本维达 [5] 的小说，一本《绅士约翰•哈利法克斯》 [6] 和上星期的《马奇博尔特周报》。他拿起了《绅士约翰•哈利法克斯》。
五分钟以后他把书放下了。对于一个被《第三滴血迹》《大公谋杀案》以及《佛罗伦萨匕首的奇异历险》滋润起来的头脑而言，《绅士约翰•哈利法克斯》差点儿意思。
他叹了口气，拿起了上个星期的《马奇博尔特周报》。
没一会儿工夫，他便拼命地按响了枕头下的呼叫铃，一个护士伴着铃声跑进了房间。
“出什么事了，琼斯先生？您又不舒服了？”
“给城堡打电话，”博比叫道，“告诉弗朗西斯小姐，她必须马上回来。”
“哦，琼斯先生。您可不能捎这样的口信。”
“我怎么不能？”博比说，“要是我能从这张该死的床上起来，你们马上就能见识到我到底能不能。而要像现在这样，你就得替我去干这件事。”
“她不太可能回来的。”
“那你是不知道那辆宾利。”
“她还没喝完她的下午茶呢。”
“现在听我说，亲爱的姑娘，”博比说道，“别站在那儿跟我争来争去的了。照我说的去打电话，告诉她必须马上来，因为我有极其重要的话要对她说。”
护士屈服了，去打电话，但还是有些不情愿。她把博比的口信随意改动了一下。
如果弗朗西斯小姐没有什么不方便的话，琼斯先生想知道她介不介意过来一趟，因为他有些话想对她说，不过当然啦，弗朗西斯小姐无论如何都不用勉为其难。
弗朗西斯小姐简单地回答说她马上就来。
“相信我说的吧，”这个护士对她的同事们说道，“她是爱上他了！就是这样。”
弗兰基迫不及待地来了。
“你这么催命似的把我召来是什么意思？”她问道。
博比正坐在床上，两颊泛红，手里挥舞着那份《马奇博尔特周报》。
“看这个，弗兰基。”
弗兰基看了看。
“然后呢？”弗兰基问。
“这就是你说过的那张修饰过，但是很像凯曼夫人的照片。”
博比的手指着一张有些模糊的翻版照片。照片下方写着：“在死者身上找到并借此确定其身份的相片。阿梅利亚•凯曼太太，死者的妹妹。”
“我是那么说的，照片也没错。我看不出来这有什么可大惊小怪的。”
“我也是。”
“可你说——”
“我知道我说了。但你瞧啊，弗兰基，”博比的嗓音变得极其动人，“这不是我放回死者口袋里的那张照片……”
他们两人四目相对。
“那要是这样的话……”弗兰基缓缓开口说道。
“要么就肯定有两张照片——”
“这不大可能——”
“要不然——”
他们停了下来。
“那个男人，他叫什么名字？”弗兰基说道。
“巴辛顿-弗伦奇！”博比说道。
“没错，我敢肯定！”
[1]由英国Elsevier出版公司出版的世界权威医学杂志，其刊名来源于外科手术用刀“柳叶刀”（Lancet）。
[2]世界著名的四大综合性医学期刊之一。
[3]指乔治•约瑟夫•史密斯，二十世纪初期英国著名的重婚者和连环杀手。一九一二年至一九一四年，曾连续用化名在浴缸中溺死三位与其结婚的新娘，与下文的阿姆斯特朗同为著名的英国谋杀犯。
[4]英国侦探小说作家奥斯汀•弗里曼笔下著名的法医神探形象，是侦探小说史上科学办案的典范。代表作《歌唱的白骨》（新星出版社，2010年出版）。
[5]十九世纪英国小说家玛丽亚•路易丝•拉梅的笔名，她一生共创作小说四十余部。
[6]英国小说家及诗人黛娜•玛丽亚•克雷克的代表作，出版于一八五七年。
Eight RIDDLE OF A PHOTOGRAPH
Eight RIDDLE OF A PHOTOGRAPH
They stared at each other as they tried to adjust themselves to the alteredsituation.
“It couldn’t be anyone else,” said Bobby. “He was the only person whohad the chance.”
“Unless, as we said, there were two photographs.”
“We agreed that that wasn’t likely. If there had been two photographsthey’d have tried to identify him by means of both of them—not only one.”
“Anyway, that’s easily found out,” said Frankie. “We can ask the police.
We’ll assume for the moment that there was just the one photograph, theone you saw that you put back again in his pocket. It was there when youleft him, and it wasn’t there when the police came, therefore the only per-son who could have taken it away and put the other one in its place wasthis man Bassington-ffrench. What was he like, Bobby?”
Bobby frowned in the effort of remembrance.
“A sort of nondescript fellow. Pleasant voice. A gentleman and all that. Ireally didn’t notice him particularly. He said that he was a stranger downhere—and something about looking for a house.”
“We can verify that, anyway,” said Frankie. “Wheeler & Owen are theonly house agents.” Suddenly she gave a shiver. “Bobby, have youthought? If Pritchard was pushed over—Bassington-ffrench must be theman who did it. .?.?.”
“That’s pretty grim,” said Bobby. “He seemed such a nice pleasant sort offellow. But you know, Frankie, we can’t be sure he really was pushedover.”
“You have been all along.”
“No, I just wanted it to be that way because it made things more excit-ing. But now it’s more or less proved. If it was murder everything fits in.
Your unexpected appearance which upsets the murderer’s plans. Your dis-covery of the photograph and, in consequence, the need to put you out ofthe way.”
“There’s a flaw there,” said Bobby.
“Why?” You were the only person who saw that photograph. As soon asBassington-ffrench was left alone with the body he changed the photo-graph which only you had seen.”
But Bobby continued to shake his head.
“No, that won’t do. Let’s grant for the moment that that photograph wasso important that I had to be ‘got out of the way,’ as you put it. Sounds ab-surd but I suppose it’s just possible. Well, then, whatever was going to bedone would have to be done at once. The fact that I went to London andnever saw the Marchbolt Weekly Times or the other papers with the photo-graph in it was just pure chance—a thing nobody could count on. Theprobability was that I should say at once, ‘That isn’t the photograph I saw.’
Why wait till after the inquest when everything was nicely settled?”
“There’s something in that,” admitted Frankie.
“And there’s another point. I can’t be absolutely sure, of course, but Icould almost swear that when I put the photograph back in the deadman’s pocket Bassington-ffrench wasn’t there. He didn’t arrive till aboutfive or ten minutes later.”
“He might have been watching you all the time,” argued Frankie.
“I don’t see very well how he could,” said Bobby slowly. “There’s reallyonly one place where you can see down to exactly the spot we were.
Farther round, the cliff bulges and then recedes underneath, so that youcan’t see over. There’s just the one place and when Bassington-ffrench didarrive there I heard him at once. Footsteps echo down below. He mayhave been near at hand, but he wasn’t looking over till then—I’ll swear.”
“Then you think that he didn’t know about your seeing the photo-graph?”
“I don’t see how he could have known.”
“And he can’t have been afraid you’d seen him doing it—the murder, Imean—because, as you say, that’s absurd. You’d never have held yourtongue about it. It looks as though it must have been something else alto-gether.”
“Only I don’t see what it could have been.”
“Something they didn’t know about till after the inquest. I don’t knowwhy I say ‘they.’ ”
“Why not? After all, the Caymans must have been in it, too. It’s probablya gang. I like gangs.”
“That’s a low taste,” said Frankie absently. “A single-handed murder ismuch higher-class. Bobby!”
“Yes?”
“What was it Pritchard said—just before he died? You know, you toldme about it that day on the links. That funny question?”
“ ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ ”
“Yes. Suppose that was it?”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“It sounds so, but it might be important, really. Bobby, I’m sure it’s that.
Oh, no, I’m being an idiot—you never told the Caymans about it?”
“I did, as a matter of fact,” said Bobby slowly.
“You did?”
“Yes. I wrote to them that evening. Saying, of course, that it was prob-ably quite unimportant.”
“And what happened?”
“Cayman wrote back, politely agreeing, of course, that there was noth-ing in it, but thanking me for taking the trouble. I felt rather snubbed.”
“And two days later you got this letter from a strange firm bribing youto go to South America?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Frankie, “I don’t know what more you want. They try thatfirst; you turn it down, and the next thing is that they follow you roundand seize a good moment to empty a lot of morphia into your bottle ofbeer.”
“Then the Caymans are in it?”
“Of course the Caymans are in it!”
“Yes,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “If your reconstruction is correct, theymust be in it. According to our present theory, it goes like this. Dead manX is deliberately pushed over cliff—presumably by BF (pardon these ini-tials). It is important that X should not be correctly identified, so portraitof Mrs. C is put in his pocket and portrait of fair unknown removed. (Whowas she, I wonder?)”
“Keep to the point,” said Frankie sternly.
“Mrs. C waits for photographs to appear and turns up as grief-strickensister and identifies X as her brother from foreign parts.”
“You don’t believe he could really have been her brother?”
“Not for a moment! You know, it puzzled me all along. The Caymanswere a different class altogether. The dead man was—well, it sounds amost awful thing to say and just like some deadly old retired Anglo-Indian,but the dead man was a pukka sahib.”
“And the Caymans most emphatically weren’t?”
“Most emphatically.”
“And then, just when everything has gone off well from the Caymans’
point of view—body successfully identified, verdict of accidental death,everything in the garden lovely—you come along and mess things up,”
mused Frankie.
“ ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ ” Bobby repeated the phrase thoughtfully.
“You know, I can’t see what on earth there can be in that to put the windup anybody.”
“Ah! that’s because you don’t know. It’s like making crossword puzzles.
You write down a clue and you think it’s too idiotically simple and thateveryone will guess it straight off, and you’re frightfully surprised whenthey simply can’t get it in the least. ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ must havebeen a most frightfully significant phrase to them, and they couldn’t real-ize that it meant nothing at all to you.”
“More fools they.”
“Oh, quite so. But it’s just possible they thought that if Pritchard saidthat, he might have said something more which would also recur to you indue time. Anyway, they weren’t going to take chances. You were safer outof the way.”
“They took a lot of risk. Why didn’t they engineer another ‘accident?’ ”
“No, no. That would have been stupid. Two accidents within a week ofeach other? It might have suggested a connection between the two, andthen people would have begun inquiring into the first one. No, I thinkthere’s a kind of bald simplicity about their method which is really ratherclever.”
“And yet you said just now that morphia wasn’t easy to get hold of.”
“No more it isn’t. You have to sign poison books and things. Oh! ofcourse, that’s a clue. Whoever did it had easy access to supplies ofmorphia.”
“A doctor, a hospital nurse, or a chemist,” suggested Bobby.
“Well, I was thinking more of illicitly imported drugs.”
“You can’t mix up too many different sorts of crime,” said Bobby.
“You see, the strong point would be the absence of motive. Your deathdoesn’t benefit anyone. So what will the police think?”
“A lunatic,” said Bobby. “And that’s what they do think.”
“You see? It’s awfully simple, really.”
Bobby began to laugh suddenly.
“What’s amusing you?”
“Just the thought of how sick- making it must be for them! All thatmorphia—enough to kill five or six people—and here I am still alive andkicking.”
“One of Life’s little ironies that one can’t foresee,” agreed Frankie.
“The question is—what do we do next?” said Bobby practically.
“Oh! lots of things,” said Frankie promptly.
“Such as .?.?. ?”
“Well—finding out about the photograph—that there was only one, nottwo. And about Bassington-ffrench’s house hunting.”
“That will probably be quite all right and aboveboard.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look here, Frankie, think a minute. Bassington-ffrench must be abovesuspicion. He must be all clear and aboveboard. Not only must there benothing to connect him in any way with the dead man, but he must have aproper reason for being down here. He may have invented house huntingon the spur of the moment, but I bet he carried out something of the kind.
There must be no suggestion of a ‘mysterious stranger seen in the neigh-bourhood of the accident.’ I fancy that Bassington-ffrench is his own nameand that he’s the sort of person who would be quite above suspicion.”
“Yes,” said Frankie thoughtfully. “That’s a very good deduction. Therewill be nothing whatever to connect Bassington- ffrench with AlexPritchard. Now, if we knew who the dead man really was—”
“Ah, then it might be different.”
“So it was very important that the body should not be recognized —hence all the Cayman camouflage. And yet it was taking a big risk.”
“You forget that Mrs. Cayman identified him as soon as was humanlypossible. After that, even if there had been pictures of him in the papers(you know how blurry these things are) people would only say: ‘Curious,this man Pritchard, who fell over a cliff, is really extraordinarily like Mr.
X.’ ”
“There must be more to it than that,” said Frankie shrewdly. “X musthave been a man who wouldn’t easily be missed. I mean, he couldn’t havebeen the sort of family man whose wife or relations would go to the policeat once and report him missing.”
“Good for you, Frankie. No, he must have been just going abroad or per-haps just come back (he was marvellously tanned—like a big-game hunter—he looked that sort of person) and he can’t have had any very near rela-tions who knew all about his movements.”
“We’re deducing beautifully,” said Frankie. “I hope we’re not deducingall wrong.”
“Very likely,” said Bobby. “But I think what we’ve said so far is fairlysound sense—granted, that is, the wild improbability of the whole thing.”
Frankie waved away the wild improbability with an airy gesture.
“The thing is—what to do next,” she said. “It seems to me we’ve got threeangles of attack.”
“Go on, Sherlock.”
“The first is you. They’ve made one attempt on your life. They’ll prob-ably try again. This time we might get what they call ‘a line’ on them. Us-ing you as a decoy, I mean.”
“No thank you, Frankie,” said Bobby with feeling. “I’ve been very luckythis time, but I mightn’t be so lucky again if they changed the attack to ablunt instrument. I was thinking of taking a great deal of care of myself inthe future. The decoy idea can be washed out.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Frankie with a sigh. “Young men aresadly degenerate nowadays. Father says so. They don’t enjoy being un-comfortable and doing dangerous and unpleasant things any longer. It’s apity.”
“A great pity,” said Bobby, but he spoke with firmness. “What’s thesecond plan of campaign?”
“Working from the ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ clue,” said Frankie. “Pre-sumably the dead man came down here to see Evans, whoever he was.
Now, if we could find Evans—”
“How many Evanses,” Bobby interrupted, “do you think there are inMarchbolt?”
“Seven hundred, I should think,” admitted Frankie.
“At least! We might do something that way, but I’m rather doubtful.”
“We could list all the Evanses and visit the likely ones.”
“And ask them—what?”
“That’s the difficulty,” said Frankie.
“We need to know a little more,” said Bobby. “Then that idea of yoursmight come in useful. What’s No. 3?”
“This man Bassington-ffrench. There we have got something tangible togo upon. It’s an uncommon name. I’ll ask Father. He knows all thesecounty family names and their various branches.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “We might do something that way.”
“At any rate, we are going to do something?”
“Of course we are. Do you think I’m going to be given eight grains ofmorphia and do nothing about it?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Frankie.
“And besides that,” said Bobby, “there’s the indignity of the stomachpump to be washed out.”
“That’s enough,” said Frankie. “You’ll be getting morbid and indecentagain if I don’t stop you.”
“You have no true womanly sympathy,” said Bobby.
第八章 照片之谜
第八章 照片之谜
他们凝视着彼此，试图让自己适应一下这种变故。
“不可能是别人了，”博比说，“他是唯一有机会的人。”
“除非就像我们说的，有两张照片。”
“我们都知道那不太可能。假如真有两张照片，他们辨别死者身份时就会把两张都用上，而不是只用一张。”
“不管怎么说，这个很容易搞清楚，”弗兰基说，“我们可以去问问警方。我们暂时先假设只有一张照片，也就是你看到后又放回他口袋里的那一张。你离开他的时候照片还在那儿，而警察赶到的时候就不在了，因此唯一能把它拿走，然后再放另一张照片进口袋的就是这个姓巴辛顿-弗伦奇的男人。他长什么样，博比？”
博比紧皱着眉头，努力回想。
“他是那种没什么明显特征，不太好形容的家伙。说话声音悦耳，像个绅士。我真的没有特别注意他。他说他在这儿人生地不熟，还说了什么找房子的事情。”
“无论如何，这个是可以核实的，”弗兰基说，“惠勒与欧文是唯一的房屋中介。”突然间，她打了个冷战，“博比，你想过没有？如果普里查德真是被推下去的，那巴辛顿-弗伦奇肯定是罪魁祸首……”
“那可真够可怕的，”博比说，“他看上去挺和蔼可亲的。不过你也知道，弗兰基，我们还不能肯定普里查德真是被推下去的。”
“你一直都这么想。”弗兰基说，“不，我希望他是被推下去的，只是因为那会让事情变得更刺激。不过现在已经多多少少被证实了。如果这是一桩谋杀的话，事情就都能说得通了。你的意外出现打乱了凶手的计划。你发现了照片，所以要把你干掉。”
“这里有个瑕疵。”博比说道。
“怎么会？你是唯一看过那张照片的人。巴辛顿-弗伦奇单独守着尸体的时候，把只有你看见过的照片换掉了。”
然而博比还在继续摇头。
“不，还是不对。我们暂时先承认那张照片如你所说非常重要，以至于我不得不被‘干掉’。听起来有点儿荒谬，但我想还是有可能的。好，那么无论他下一步打算做什么，都得马上行动。而我去了伦敦，始终都没见过刊登了那张照片的《马奇博尔特周报》或者其他报纸。这纯属偶然，没有人会指望发生这种事情。很有可能我会马上说‘那不是我见到的照片’。为什么还要等到死因调查听证会以后，一切都尘埃落定的时候再行动呢？”
“这里面是有些名堂。”弗兰基承认道。
“此外还有一点，当然，我也不能肯定，但我几乎可以发誓，当我把那张照片放回死者口袋里的时候，巴辛顿-弗伦奇并不在场。他是差不多五到十分钟之后才到的。”
“他也可能一直都在监视你呢。”弗兰基争辩道。
“我不太明白他怎么能办得到，”博比不急不忙地说道，“只有一个地方能清清楚楚地看到下面我们所在的事发地。再往远走，悬崖是凸出来的，然后底下又缩进去，你就什么也看不见了。就只有那么一个地方，而巴辛顿-弗伦奇到那儿的时候我马上就听见了。脚步声能传到底下来。他的确可能近在咫尺，但直到他露面之前，他什么也看不见，我发誓。”
“也就是说，你认为他不可能知道你看见了那张照片？”
“我不明白他是怎么知道的。”
“而他也不可能担心你看见他干了什么。我是说谋杀。因为如你所言，这有些荒谬。你不会对这件事缄口不语的。看起来一定还有什么别的原因。”
“只不过我不知道会是什么。”
“一些直到听证会之后他们才得知的事情，我不知道我为什么会说‘他们’。”
“为什么不呢？归根结底，凯曼夫妇肯定也参与其中了。没准是个团伙呢。我喜欢犯罪团伙。”
“这个品位有点低，”弗兰基漫不经心地说道，“一次单枪匹马的谋杀档次就高多了……博比！”
“啊，怎么啦？”
“普里查德说什么了——在他临死之前？你知道，就是那天在高尔夫球场上你告诉我的那个古怪的问题？”
“‘他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？’”
“对！假定这句话就是原因呢。”
“这可就有点荒唐了。”
“听上去是，但这句话可能很重要，真的。博比，这肯定就是关键所在。哦，不，我可真够白痴的，你从来都没告诉过凯曼夫妇这件事吧。”
“事实上，我告诉他们了。”博比慢条斯理地说。
“你告诉他们了？”
“是啊，那天晚上我给他们写了封信。当然，我在信中说这句话或许无关紧要。”
“然后呢？”
“凯曼给我回了信，自然也是很客气地认同了我的想法，觉得这句话没什么用，但还是感谢我如此费心。我觉得就像是碰了一鼻子灰。”
“而两天之后你就收到了一家陌生公司寄给你的信，要收买你去南美？”
“是啊。”
“好吧，”弗兰基说，“我不明白你还想知道些什么。他们先是尝试了一下，你拒绝了他们的提议，接下来他们就跟踪你，抓住了一个好机会，把大量的吗啡倒进你那瓶啤酒里。”
“所以说，这事儿真有凯曼夫妇参与喽？”
“当然了！”
“对，”博比若有所思地说道，“如果你的情景重现是正确的话，他们就肯定参与其中了。按照我们目前的推断，事情便该如此。死者X被故意推下了悬崖，很可能是BF [1] 干的——请原谅我用这些姓名的首字母缩写——重要的是X的身份不能被人认出来，所以C [2] 太太的照片便被放进他的口袋中，而那位身份不明的漂亮女子的照片则被拿走了。我想知道她究竟是谁？”
“抓住重点。”弗兰基厉声说道。
“C太太等待着照片被披露出来，然后便以一位悲痛欲绝的妹妹的身份出现了，指认X是她从国外归来的哥哥。”
“你不相信他真有可能是她的哥哥？”
“一刻都没相信过！你知道吗，这件事一直让我百思不得其解。凯曼夫妇根本就是另一个档次的人。死去的那个人——嗯，这么说可能特别招人讨厌，凯曼夫妇就像某些退了休、老掉牙的英裔印度人似的，但那个死者可像是个正人君子啊。”
“而凯曼夫妇显然不是？”
“太显然了。”
“而接下来，从凯曼夫妇的角度来看，当所有事情都进展顺利，尸体身份被成功指认，死因裁定为意外死亡，一切都称心如意的时候，你又跑出来坏事儿了。”弗兰基沉思着说道。
“他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？”博比若有所思地重复着这句话，“你要知道，我真是搞不明白这句话里究竟有什么可让人惊慌失措的。”
“啊！正是因为你不知道啊。这就跟玩填字游戏一样。你写下来一条提示，还觉得这也太简单了，大家都能一下子猜到，但当你发现他们就是一点儿都猜不出来的时候，你会觉得惊讶至极。‘他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？’对他们而言肯定是一句举足轻重的话，而他们并没有意识到这句话对你来说无关痛痒。”
“他们可真够傻的。”
“哦，就是啊。但是他们可能认为如果普里查德说过那句话，那他或许还说过别的，没准儿在什么时候也会被你回想起来呢。不管怎么说，他们是不打算再冒这种险了。把你除掉的话更安全。”
“他们已经冒了很多风险了，干吗不再策划另一起‘意外事故’呢？”
“不，不行。那样就太愚蠢了。在一周之内发生两起意外？这会暗示两者之间是有关联的，然后人们也许就会开始调查第一起意外了。不，我倒觉得他们这种方法简单直白，其实是相当聪明的。”
“可你刚才还说吗啡没那么容易弄到手呢。”
“也没有那么不容易，只是得在毒药登记簿之类的东西上签字。哦！当然啦，这是条线索啊。无论是谁下的手，都有能轻易得到吗啡的渠道。”
“医生、护士或者药剂师。”博比提示道。
“嗯，我想的更多的是非法进口的毒品。”
“你可别把太多种类的犯罪搅和在一起啦。”博比说道。
“要知道，关键就在于缺少犯罪动机。你死了并不会让任何人获益。那警方还会怎么想？”
“疯子干的呗。”博比说，“而他们也的确是这么想的。”
“你明白了？简单至极，真的。”
博比突然哈哈大笑起来。
“你笑什么呢？”
“我只是想到对他们来说这事儿肯定特别闹心！那么多的吗啡啊，都够杀死五六个人了，而我还在这儿活蹦乱跳的呢。”
“生活给人的小小嘲弄之一，人算不如天算。”弗兰基赞同道。
“问题是，咱们下一步干什么呢？”博比很务实地问。
“哦！多了去了。”弗兰基立即答道。
“比如？”
“嗯，查清楚关于照片的事情。是否真的只有一张而不是两张。还有巴辛顿-弗伦奇找房子的事情。”
“那件事大概没什么关系，是光明正大的。”
“你凭什么这么说呢？”
“听我说，弗兰基，想一想。巴辛顿-弗伦奇一定是没有嫌疑的啊。他必须一身清白，他不但决不能跟死者有任何瓜葛，还非得有一个到这儿来的正当理由不可。他有可能是一时兴起捏造了个找房子的借口，但我敢打赌他实际上也干了类似的事情。绝对不能让人有这种联想，说‘一名神秘的陌生人被人目击出现在意外事故的现场附近’。我认为巴辛顿-弗伦奇就是他的本名，而他是那种可以完全洗脱嫌疑的人。”
“没错，”弗兰基若有所思地说道，“这个推理非常棒。巴辛顿-弗伦奇与亚历克斯•普里查德之间不会有任何联系。现在，如果我们能知道那个死者的真实身份——”
“啊，那可能就会大不相同了。”
“所以关键是尸体的身份不能被人认出来，于是就有了那些凯曼夫妇搞出来的伪装。可这也是冒了很大风险的呀。”
“你忘记了凯曼太太已经竭尽所能地尽快指认了他。在那之后，即便他的照片出现在报纸上（你也知道这些照片有多模糊），人们也只会说：‘奇怪，这个坠崖的普里查德，长得跟X先生真是太像了。’”
“肯定还不止这样呢，”弗兰基很机敏地说道，“X一定是个不会很容易被别人惦念的人。我的意思是，他不能有妻子或者亲属会马上跑去报警，说他失踪了。”
“真了不起啊，弗兰基。对，他一定是刚刚出国，或者是刚刚回来（他的皮肤被晒成不可思议的黑色，像是个专捕大型猎物的猎人，他看起来就像是那种人），并且他还不能有任何对他的行踪了如指掌的近亲。”
“我们推理得太漂亮了，”弗兰基说，“真希望我们的推断没有完全搞错。”
“这是很有可能的，”博比说，“但我认为到目前为止我们所说的这些还是相当合理的。
也就是说，如果这整件事真的这么荒诞不经的话。”
弗兰基随意挥了挥手，对荒诞不经这种说法不以为然。
“关键是，下一步怎么办。”她说，“在我看来，我们现在可以从三个角度来解决问题。”
“说下去，歇洛克。”
“第一个就是你。他们已经尝试过一次想要你的小命，也许还会再试一次。这次咱们也可以给他们下个‘陷阱’来对付他们。我的意思是，用你来当诱饵。”
“不了，谢谢，弗兰基，”博比感慨道，“这次我算是吉星高照了，但如果他们下次改用钝器来袭击我，我可能就不会再有这么好的运气了。我还想着将来要多加小心呢，用我当诱饵的念头可以打消了。”
“我就怕你会这么说，”弗兰基叹了口气，说道，“真悲哀，如今的年轻人都堕落了。父亲说过，他们不再以苦为乐，不再愿意去做那些危险和令人不快的事情。这真是个遗憾啊。”
“一个巨大的遗憾，”博比嘴上这么说，但他的语气却很坚定，“第二套作战方案是什么？”
“从‘他们干吗不找埃文斯呢？’这条线索入手。”弗兰基说，“死者想必是到这儿来看望埃文斯的，先不管他是谁吧，如果我们能找到埃文斯的话——”
“你觉得，”博比插嘴道，“马奇博尔特有多少个埃文斯呢？”
“至少得有七百个吧。”弗兰基承认道。
“至少咱们可以顺着这条线索查下去，但我还是有点儿怀疑。”
“我们可以先把所有叫埃文斯的人列出来，再去拜访那些有可能是的人。”
“然后问他们——什么呢？”
“这就是难题所在了。”弗兰基说。
“咱们还得再多知道一些东西，”博比说，“你的那些主意才能派上用场。三号方案又是什么呢？”
“这个姓巴辛顿-弗伦奇的人。我们确实已经掌握了一些实际情况，可以根据这些去采取行动。这个名字不怎么常见。我要去问问父亲。他知道所有名门望族的姓氏以及他们各自的支系。”
“嗯，”博比说，“我觉得可以。”
“无论如何，咱们是打算有所行动的吧？”
“当然了，你觉得我会在被人下了八粒吗啡之后还无动于衷吗？”
“这就对啦。”弗兰基说。
“而且除此之外，”博比说，“还有洗胃机带给我的耻辱需要被洗刷。”
“省省吧，”弗兰基说道，“我要是不拦着你，你又会变得既病态又下流了。”
“你真是一点儿女人的同情心都没有啊。”博比说。
[1]此处对应巴辛顿-弗伦奇的首字母缩写。
[2]此处对应凯曼太太的姓氏首字母。
Nine CONCERNING MR. BASSINGTON-FFRENCH
Nine CONCERNING MR. BASSINGTON-FFRENCH
Frankie lost no time in setting to work. She attacked her father that sameevening.
“Father,” she said, “do you know any Bassington-ffrenches?”
Lord Marchington, who was reading a political article, did not quite takein the question.
“It’s not the French so much as the Americans,” he said severely. “Allthis tomfoolery and conferences—wasting the nation’s time and money—”
Frankie abstracted her mind until Lord Marchington, running like arailway train along an accustomed line, came, as it were, to a halt at a sta-tion.
“The Bassington-ffrenches,” repeated Frankie.
“What about ’em?” said Lord Marchington.
Frankie didn’t know what about them. She made a statement, knowingwell enough that her father enjoyed contradiction.
“They’re a Yorkshire family, aren’t they?”
“Nonsense—Hampshire. There’s the Shropshire branch, of course, andthen there’s the Irish lot. Which are your friends?”
“I’m not sure,” said Frankie, accepting the implication of friendship withseveral unknown people.
“Not sure? What do you mean? You must be sure.”
“People drift about so nowadays,” said Frankie.
“Drift—drift—that’s about all they do. In my days we asked people. Thenone knew where one was—fellow said he was the Hampshire branch—very well, your grandmother married my second cousin. It made a link.”
“It must have been too sweet,” said Frankie, “But there really isn’t timefor genealogical and geographical research nowadays.”
“No—you’ve no time nowadays for anything but drinking these poison-ous cocktails.”
Lord Marchington gave a sudden yelp of pain as he moved his gouty leg,which some free imbibing of the family port had not improved.
“Are they well off?” asked Frankie.
“The Bassington-ffrenches? Couldn’t say. The Shropshire lot have beenhard hit, I believe—death duties, and one thing or another. One of theHampshire ones married an heiress. An American woman.”
“One of them was down here the other day,” said Frankie. “Looking fora house, I believe.”
“Funny idea. What should anyone want with a house down here?”
That, thought Frankie, was the question.
On the following day she walked into the office of Messrs. Wheeler &Owen, House and Estate Agents.
Mr. Owen himself sprang up to receive her. Frankie gave him a gracioussmile and dropped into a chair.
“And what can we have the pleasure of doing for you, Lady Frances?
You don’t want to sell the Castle, I suppose. Ha! Ha!” Mr. Owen laughed athis own wit.
“I wish we could,” said Frankie. “No, as a matter of fact, I believe afriend of mine was down here the other day—a Mr. Bassington-ffrench.
He was looking for a house.”
“Ah! yes, indeed. I remember the name perfectly. Two small f ’s.”
“That’s right,” said Frankie.
“He was making inquiries about various small properties with a view topurchase. He was obliged to return to town the next day, so could notview many of the houses, but I understand he is in no great hurry. Sincehe left, one or two suitable properties have come into the market and Ihave sent him on particulars, but have had no reply.”
“Did you write to London—or to the—er—country address?” inquiredFrankie.
“Let me see now.” He called to a junior clerk. “Frank, Mr. Bassington-ffrench’s address.”
“Roger Bassington-ffrench, Esq., Merroway Court, Staverley, Hants,” saidthe junior clerk glibly.
“Ah!” said Frankie. “Then it wasn’t my Mr. Bassington- ffrench. Thismust be his cousin. I thought it was odd his being here and not looking meup.”
“Quite so—quite so,” said Mr. Owen intelligently.
“Let me see, it must have been the Wednesday he came to see you.”
“That’s right. Just before six-thirty. We close at six-thirty. I rememberparticularly because it was the day when that sad accident happened. Manfell over the cliff. Mr. Bassington-ffrench had actually stayed by the bodytill the police came. He looked quite upset when he came in here. Very sadtragedy, that, and high time something was done about that bit of path.
The Town Council have been criticized very freely, I can tell you, LadyFrances. Most dangerous. Why we haven’t had more accidents than wehave I can’t imagine.”
“Extraordinary,” said Frankie.
She left the office in a thoughtful mood. As Bobby had prophesied, allMr. Bassington-ffrench’s actions seemed clear and above aboard. He wasone of the Hampshire Bassington-ffrenches, he had given his proper ad-dress, he had actually mentioned his part in the tragedy to the houseagent. Was it possible that, after all, Mr. Bassington-ffrench was the com-pletely innocent person he seemed?
Frankie had a qualm of doubt. Then she refused it.
“No,” she said to herself. “A man who wants to buy a little place wouldeither get here earlier in the day, or else stay over the next day. Youwouldn’t go into a house agent’s at six-thirty in the evening and go up toLondon the following day. Why make the journey at all? Why not write?”
No, she decided, Bassington-ffrench was the guilty party.
Her next call was the police station.
Inspector Williams was an old acquaintance, having succeeded in track-ing down a maid with a false reference who had absconded with some ofFrankie’s jewellery.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
“Good afternoon, your Ladyship. Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“Not as yet, but I’m thinking of holding up a bank soon, because I’m get-ting so short of money.”
The inspector gave a rumbling laugh in acknowledgement of this witti-cism.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve come to ask questions out of sheer curiosity,”
said Frankie.
“Is that so, Lady Frances?”
“Now do tell me this, Inspector — the man who fell over the cliff —Pritchard, or whatever his name was—”
“Pritchard, that’s right.”
“He had only one photograph on him, didn’t he? Somebody told me hehad three!”
“One’s right,” said the inspector. “Photograph of his sister it was. Shecame down and identified him.”
“How absurd to say there were three!”
“Oh! That’s easy, your Ladyship. These newspaper reporters don’t mindhow much they exaggerate and as often as not they get the whole thingwrong.”
“I know,” said Frankie. “I’ve heard the wildest stories.” She paused amoment then drew freely on her imagination. “I’ve heard that his pocketswere stuffed with papers proving him to be a Bolshevik agent, and there’sanother story that his pockets were full of dope, and another again abouthis having pockets full of counterfeit bank notes.”
The inspector laughed heartily.
“That’s a good one.”
“I suppose really he had just the usual things in his pockets?”
“And very few at that. A handkerchief, not marked. Some loose change,a packet of cigarettes and a couple of treasury notes—loose, not in a case.
No letters. We’d have had a job to identify him if it hadn’t been for thephoto. Providential, you might call it.”
“I wonder,” said Frankie.
In view of her private knowledge, she considered providential a singu-larly inappropriate word. She changed the conversation.
“I went to see Mr. Jones, the Vicar’s son, yesterday. The one who’s beenpoisoned. What an extraordinary thing that was.”
“Ah!” said the inspector. “Now that is extraordinary, if you like. Neverheard of anything like it happening before. A nice young gentlemanwithout an enemy in the world, or so you’d say. You know, Lady Frances,there are some queer customers going about. All the same, I never heardof a homicidal maniac who acted just this way.”
“Is there any clue at all to who did it?”
Frankie was all wide-eyed inquiry.
“It’s so interesting to hear all this,” she added.
The inspector swelled with gratification. He enjoyed this friendly con-versation with an Earl’s daughter. Nothing stuck up or snobbish aboutLady Frances.
“There was a car seen in the vicinity,” said the inspector. “Dark-blue Tal-bot saloon. A man on Lock’s Corner reported dark-blue Talbot, No. GG8282, passed going direction St. Botolph’s.”
“And you think?”
“GG 8282 is the number of the Bishop of Botolph’s car.”
Frankie toyed for a minute or two with the idea of a homicidal bishopwho offered sacrifices of clergymen’s sons, but rejected it with a sigh.
“You don’t suspect the Bishop, I suppose?” she said.
“We’ve found out that the Bishop’s car never left the Palace garage thatafternoon.”
“So it was a false number.”
“Yes. We’ve got that to go on all right.”
With expressions of admiration, Frankie took her leave. She made nodamping remark, but she thought to herself:
“There must be a large number of dark-blue Talbots in England.”
On her return home she took a directory of Marchbolt from its place onthe writing table in the library and removed it to her own room. Sheworked over it for some hours.
The result was not satisfactory.
There were four hundred and eighty-two Evanses in Marchbolt.
“Damn!” said Frankie.
She began to make plans for the future.
第九章 巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生
第九章 巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生
弗兰基立刻就开始行动了，当晚就向父亲发起了攻势。
“爸爸，”她说，“您认识哪个巴辛顿-弗伦奇家的人吗？”
马钦顿伯爵正在读一篇政论文章，并未听清这个问题。
“与其说这是法国人，还不如说是美国人呢。”他厉声说道，“瞧瞧他们犯的那些傻和开的那些会，就是在浪费国家的时间和金钱——”
弗兰基有一搭没一搭地听他说完，马钦顿伯爵这串话语就像是一列奔驰在习以为常的轨道上的列车，直至到站才会停下来。
“巴辛顿-弗伦奇家的人。”弗兰基又重复了一遍。
“他们怎么了？”马钦顿伯爵问。
弗兰基也不知道该问什么。她很了解她父亲喜欢反驳别人，于是起了个头。
“他们来自约克郡，不是吗？”
“胡说，是汉普郡的。当然，在什罗普郡有个支系，然后在爱尔兰还有一支。你的朋友是哪支啊？”
“我也说不准。”弗兰基说，言外之意等于是承认她跟一些根本不认识的人成了朋友。
“说不准？你这是什么意思？你必须得说准了啊。”
“如今人们都是漂泊不定的。”弗兰基说。
“漂泊，漂泊——他们也只会漂泊了。在我那个时代，我们只需问一个问题，就知道他是哪里人了。他说他是汉普郡那一支的，很好啊，你的祖母嫁给了我的远房表哥。这么就建立起关系来了。”
“那肯定特别甜蜜，”弗兰基说，“只是现如今真没工夫去做那些家族谱系还有地域方面的调查。”
“是啊，你们如今干什么都没工夫，除了喝那些个有毒的鸡尾酒。”
马钦顿伯爵边说边挪动他那条患了痛风的腿，他突然发出一声痛苦的尖叫，就算喝了家酿的波尔多葡萄酒也无法缓解疼痛。
“他们家很富有吗？”弗兰基问。
“巴辛顿-弗伦奇家族？说不上。我记得什罗普郡那一支还在经济上受到了重创，因为遗产税之类的事情。汉普郡那支中有个人娶了个有大笔财产的女继承人，一个美国女人。”
“那天他们家有个人来过，”弗兰基说，“好像是来找房子的。”
“笑话，到这儿来找房子做什么？”
弗兰基心想，那正是问题所在。
第二天她走进了房屋及地产代理商惠勒与欧文先生的办公室。
欧文先生起身相迎。弗兰基给了他一个礼貌的微笑，一屁股坐在了椅子上。
“我们能有幸为您做些什么呢，弗朗西斯小姐？我猜您不会是想把城堡卖掉吧，哈哈！”欧文先生为他抖的小机灵放声大笑起来。
“我倒希望能把它卖了呢，”弗兰基说，“不是为这个，实际上我来是因为我听说一个朋友前几天来过这儿。巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生，他在找房子。”
“啊！没错，有这么个人。这个名字我记得很清楚，有两个小写的f。”
“那就对了。”弗兰基说。
“他询问了各种各样的小型房产，想要买下。他第二天必须返回城里，所以很多房子没法去看，但我明白他其实也没那么着急。他走了以后，又有一两处合适的房产入市，我就把房子的详细情况写信告诉了他，不过还没有收到答复。”
“您是把信寄到了伦敦，还是寄到了，唔，乡下的地址呢？”弗兰基问道。
“让我看看啊，”他给一个低级别的职员打了电话，“弗兰克，查一下巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生的地址。”
“罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生，住在汉普郡斯塔弗利的梅罗威宅邸。”那位职员流利地说道。
“啊！”弗兰基说，“这不是我要找的那个巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生，这肯定是他的堂兄弟。
我还觉得奇怪呢，他都到这儿来了也没来找我。”
“就是，就是。”欧文先生很聪明地附和道。
“让我想想啊，他是星期三来找您的？”
“没错，将近六点半。我们六点半关门。我记得特别清楚，因为那天正好发生了那件不幸的意外。有个男人从悬崖上掉下去了。事实上，巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生在警察赶到之前一直待在死者身边。他到我这儿的时候看上去心情挺糟的。非常不幸的悲剧，他们早就该对那段小路采取点儿防护措施了。告诉你吧，弗朗西斯小姐，镇议会已经受到了很多批评。简直太危险了。我真是无法想象，我们怎么会没发生更多的意外事故？”
“说得太对了。”弗兰基说。
她心事重重地离开了办公室。正如博比预言的那样，巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生的所有行为似乎都清清白白，毫无嫌疑。他是汉普郡的巴辛顿-弗伦奇家族中的一员，他留了正确的地址，而且还真的跟房地产经纪人提到了他在这起悲剧中所扮演的角色。难道说巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生真的有可能像他看上去的那样是个完全清白的人吗？
弗兰基心头因为怀疑产生了一丝不安，随后又把它置之脑后了。
“不对，”她自言自语道，“想要买一小处房产的人，要么会在当天早些时候到这里，要么就会留在这里过夜直到第二天。你不会在傍晚六点半的时候才走进房地产经纪人的办公室，第二天就要回到伦敦。他何苦要跑这一趟？干吗不写封信呢？”
不，她暗自认定了巴辛顿-弗伦奇是有嫌疑的。
她接下来造访了警察局。
威廉斯督察是她的老相识，他曾经成功地追查到一个带着虚假证明并且卷走弗兰基一部分珠宝首饰潜逃的女仆。
“下午好啊，督察。”
“下午好，尊敬的小姐，但愿没出什么事。”
“还没出，不过我正想着马上要去持械抢劫银行呢，因为我太缺钱了。”
督察听懂了这句俏皮话，不禁哈哈大笑。
“说实话，我纯粹是出于好奇才来打听的。”弗兰基说。
“是吗，弗朗西斯小姐？”
“您一定得告诉我啊，那个掉下悬崖的男人，叫普里查德还是什么的——”
“就是叫普里查德。”
“他身上只带着一张照片，是不是？有人告诉我他身上有三张！”
“只有一张，”督察说，“那是他妹妹的照片，她来这儿指认了他。”
“那说有三张实在是太荒唐了！”
“哦！这个很好解释，尊敬的小姐。那些新闻记者并不在意把事实夸大了多少，而且往往说得驴唇不对马嘴。”
“我明白，”弗兰基说，“我还听了些荒诞至极的说法。”她停顿了片刻，便接着随意发挥起自己的想象力来，“我听说他的口袋里塞满了能证明他是个布尔什维克间谍的材料，另一种说法是他口袋里装满了毒品，还有种说法是他口袋里全都是假钞。”
督察放声大笑起来。
“说得还真不赖。”
“我猜他口袋里其实也就是些平常的东西吧？”
“而且还很少。一块手帕，没有标记。一些零钱，一包烟，还有几张国库券。都是散放的，没有搁在盒子里，没有信件。要不是有那张照片，我们本来还得费劲去确认他的身份。你也可以称之为机缘巧合吧。”
“我表示怀疑。”弗兰基说。
以她个人的经历来看，她觉得机缘巧合是个极其不妥的词。于是她改变了话题。
“昨天我去看望了琼斯先生，就是牧师的儿子，那个中毒的人，这件事可真够邪门的。”
“啊！”督察说道，“真要这么说，的确是呢。以前从来没听说过有这种事情。那么好的一个年轻绅士，与世无争。你知道吧，弗朗西斯小姐，是会有精神不正常的家伙在四处游荡。尽管如此，我也从来没听说过哪个杀人狂会采用这种方法行事。”
“有线索表明是谁干的吗？”
弗兰基睁大了眼睛问道。
“这可真是太有意思了。”她又加了一句。
督察满心欢喜，他很享受与伯爵女儿进行的这番友好交谈。弗朗西斯小姐既没有架子，也不那么势利。
“有人在那附近看见过一辆车，”督察说，“一辆深蓝色的塔尔博特小轿车。有个在洛克角的人报告说，车牌号为GG8282的深蓝色塔尔博特经过那里往圣博托尔夫教堂的方向去了。”
“您怎么看？”
“GG8282是博托尔夫教堂主教的车牌号。”
一个嗜杀成性的主教，拿牧师之子作为献祭。有那么一两分钟，弗圣兰基在脑海里盘算着这个念头，不过她还是叹了口气，摒弃了这个想法。
“您不会怀疑主教大人吧？”她说道。
“我们已经查明，那天下午主教大人的车从来没有离开过主教宅邸的车库。”
“所以说这是个假车牌号。”
“没错，我们得继续查下去。”
弗兰基在告辞之际，表达了她的钦佩之情。她嘴上虽然没说什么泄气话，心中却暗想：
“英格兰肯定有一大堆深蓝色的塔尔博特。”
回到家里，她从书房的写字台上抄起一本马奇博尔特的姓名地址录，拿到自己的房间，花费了几个小时来仔细查阅。
结果并不能令人满意。
马奇博尔特有四百八十二个叫埃文斯的人。
“该死！”弗兰基说。
她开始为将来制订计划。
Ten PREPARATIONS FOR AN ACCIDENT
Ten PREPARATIONS FOR AN ACCIDENT
A week later Bobby had joined Badger in London. He had received severalenigmatical communications from Frankie, most in such an illegiblescrawl that he was quite unable to do more than guess at their meaning.
However, their general purport seemed to be that Frankie had a plan andthat he (Bobby) was to do nothing until he heard from her. This was aswell, for Bobby would certainly have had no leisure to do anything, sincethe unlucky Badger had already succeeded in embroiling himself and hisbusiness in every way ingenuity could suggest, and Bobby was kept busydisentangling the extraordinary mess his friend seemed to have got into.
Meanwhile, the young man remained very strictly on his guard. The ef-fect of eight grains of morphia was to render their taker extremely suspi-cious of food and drink and had also induced him to bring to London aService revolver, the possession of which was extremely irksome to him.
He was just beginning to feel that the whole thing had been an extravag-ant nightmare when Frankie’s Bentley roared down the Mews and drewup outside the garage. Bobby, in grease-stained overalls, came out to re-ceive it. Frankie was at the wheel and beside her sat a rather gloomy-look-ing young man.
“Hullo, Bobby,” said Frankie. “This is George Arbuthnot. He’s a doctor,and we shall need him.”
Bobby winced slightly as he and George Arbuthnot made faint recogni-tions of each other’s presence.
“Are you sure we’re going to need a doctor?” he asked. “Aren’t you beinga bit pessimistic?”
“I didn’t mean we should need him in that way,” said Frankie. “I needhim for a scheme that I’ve got on. Look here, is there anywhere we can goand talk?”
Bobby looked round him.
“Well, there’s my bedroom,” he said doubtfully.
“Excellent,” said Frankie.
She got out of the car and she and George Arbuthnot followed Bobby upsome outside steps and into a microscopic bedroom.
“I don’t know,” said Bobby, looking round dubiously, “if there’s any-where to sit.”
There was not. The only chair was loaded with, apparently, the whole ofBobby’s wardrobe.
“The bed will do,” said Frankie.
She plumped down on it. George Arbuthnot did the same and the bedgroaned protestingly.
“I’ve got everything planned out,” said Frankie. “To begin with, we wanta car. One of yours will do.”
“Do you mean you want to buy one of our cars?”
“Yes.”
“That’s really very nice of you, Frankie,” said Bobby, with warm appre-ciation. “But you needn’t. I really do draw the line at sticking my friends.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Frankie. “It isn’t like that at all. I knowwhat you mean—it’s like buying perfectly appalling clothes and hats fromone’s friends who are just starting in business. A nuisance, but it’s got tobe done. But this isn’t like that at all. I really need a car.”
“What about the Bentley?”
“The Bentley’s no good.”
“You’re mad,” said Bobby.
“No, I’m not. The Bentley’s no good for what I want it for.”
“What’s that?”
“Smashing it up.”
Bobby groaned and put a hand to his head.
“I don’t seem very well this morning.”
George Arbuthnot spoke for the first time. His voice was deep and mel-ancholy.
“She means,” he said, “that’s she going to have an accident.”
“How does she know?” said Bobby wildly.
Frankie gave an exasperated sigh.
“Somehow or other,” she said, “we seem to have started wrong. Nowjust listen quietly, Bobby, and try and take in what I’m going to say. I knowyour brains are practically negligible, but you ought to be able to under-stand if you really concentrate.”
She paused, then resumed.
“I am on the trail of Bassington-ffrench.”
“Hear, hear.”
“Bassington-ffrench—our particular Bassington-ffrench—lives at Merro-way Court at the village of Staverley in Hampshire. Merroway Court be-longs to Bassington- ffrench’s brother, and our Bassington- ffrench livesthere with his brother and his wife.”
“Whose wife?”
“The brother’s wife, of course. That isn’t the point. The point is how areyou or I or both of us is going to worm ourselves into the household. I’vebeen down and reconnoitred the ground. Staverley’s a mere village.
Strangers arriving there to stay would stick out a mile. It would be the sortof thing that simply isn’t done. So I’ve evolved a plan. This is what is goingto happen: Lady Frances Derwent, driving her car more recklessly thanwell, crashes into the wall near the gates of Merroway Court. Completewreckage of the car, less complete wreckage of Lady Frances, who is car-ried to the house, suffering from concussion and shock and must emphat-ically not be moved.”
“Who says so?”
“George. Now you see where George comes in. We can’t risk a strangedoctor saying there is nothing the matter with me. Or perhaps some offi-cious person might pick up my prostrate form and take it to some localhospital. No, what happens is this: George is passing, also in a car (you’dbetter sell us a second one), sees the accident, leaps out and takes charge.
‘I am a doctor. Stand back, everybody’ (That is, if there is anybody to standback). ‘We must take her into that house—what is it, Merroway Court?
That will do. I must be able to make a thorough examination.’ I am carriedto the best spare room, the Bassington-ffrenches either sympathetic or bit-terly resisting, but in any case, George will overbear them. George makeshis examination and emerges with his verdict. Happily, it is not as seriousas he thought. No bones broken, but danger of concussion. I must on noaccount be moved for two or three days. After that, I shall be able to re-turn to London.
“And then George departs and it’s up to me to ingratiate myself with thehousehold.”
“And where do I come in?”
“You don’t.”
“But look here—”
“My dear child, do remember that Bassington-ffrench knows you. Hedoesn’t know me from Adam. And I’m in a frightfully strong position, be-cause I’ve got a title. You see how useful that is. I’m not just a stray youngwoman gaining admission to the house for mysterious purposes. I am anearl’s daughter and therefore highly respectable. And George is a real doc-tor and everything is quite above suspicion.”
“Oh! I suppose it’s all right,” said Bobby unhappily.
“It’s a remarkably well- planned scheme, I think,” said Frankie withpride.
“And I don’t do anything at all?” asked Bobby.
He still felt injured—much like a dog who has been unexpectedly de-prived of a bone. This, he felt, was his own particular crime, and now hewas being ousted.
“Of course you do, darling. You grow a moustache.”
“Oh! I grow a moustache, do I?”
“Yes. How long will it take?”
“Two or three weeks, I expect.”
“Heavens! I’d no idea it was such a slow process. Can’t you speed it up?”
“No. Why can’t I wear a false one?”
“They always look so false and they twist or come off or smell of spiritgum. Wait a minute, though, I believe there is a kind you can get stuck onhair by hair, so to speak, that absolutely defies detection. I expect a theat-rical wigmaker would do it for you.”
“He’d probably think I was trying to escape from justice.”
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”
“Once I’ve got the moustache, what do I do?”
“Put on a chauffeur’s uniform and drive the Bentley down to Staverley.”
“Oh, I see.”
Bobby brightened.
“You see my idea is this,” said Frankie: “Nobody looks at a chauffeur inthe way they look at a person. In any case, Bassington-ffrench only sawyou for a minute or two and he must have been too rattled wondering ifhe could change the photograph in time to look at you much. You werejust a young golfing ass to him. It isn’t like the Caymans who sat oppositeyou and talked to you and who were deliberately trying to sum you up. I’dbet anything that seeing you in chauffeur’s uniform, Bassington-ffrenchwouldn’t recognize you even without the moustache. He might just pos-sibly think that your face reminded him of somebody—no more than that.
And with the moustache it ought to be perfectly safe. Now tell me, what doyou think of the plan?”
Bobby turned it over in his mind.
“To tell you the truth, Frankie,” he said generously, “I think it’s prettygood.”
“In that case,” said Frankie briskly. “Let’s go and buy some cars. I say, Ithink George has broken your bed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bobby hospitably. “It was never a particularlygood bed.”
They descended to the garage, where a nervous-looking young man witha curious lack of chin and an agreeable smile greeted them with a vague“Haw, haw, haw!” His general appearance was slightly marred by the factthat his eyes had a distinct disinclination to look in the same direction.
“Hullo, Badger,” said Bobby. “You remember Frankie, don’t you?”
Badger clearly didn’t, but he said, “Haw, haw, haw!” again in an amiablemanner.
“Last time I saw you,” said Frankie, “you were head downward in themud and we had to pull you out by the legs.”
“No, not really?” said Badger. “Why, that m-m-must have been W-w-w-wales.”
“Quite right,” said Frankie. “It was.”
“I always was a p-p-putrid r-r-r-rider,” said Badger. “I s-s-s-still am,” headded mournfully.
“Frankie wants to buy a car,” said Bobby.
“Two cars,” said Frankie. “George has got to have one, too. He’s crashedhis at the moment.”
“We can hire him one,” said Bobby.
“Well, come and look at what we’ve got in s-s-stock,” said Badger.
“They look very smart,” said Frankie, dazzled by lurid hues of scarletand apple-green.
“They look all right,” said Bobby darkly.
“That’s r-r-r-remarkably good value in a s-s-secondhand Chrysler,” saidBadger.
“No, not that one,” said Bobby. “Whatever she buys has got to go at leastforty miles.”
Badger cast his partner a look of reproach.
“The Standard is pretty much on its last legs,” mused Bobby. “But I thinkit would just get you there. The Essex is a bit too good for the job. She’ll goat least two hundred before breaking down.”
“All right,” said Frankie. “I’ll have the Standard.”
Badger drew his colleague a little aside.
“W-w-what do you think about p-p-price?” he murmured. “Don’t want tos-s-stick a friend of yours too much. T-t-t-ten pounds?”
“Ten pounds is all right,” said Frankie, entering the discussion. “I’ll payfor it now.”
“Who is she really?” asked Badger in a loud whisper.
Bobby whispered back.
“F-f-f-first time I ever knew anyone with a t-t-t-title who c-c-could paycash,” said Badger with respect.
Bobby followed the other two out to the Bentley.
“When is this business going to take place?” he demanded.
“The sooner the better,” said Frankie. “We thought tomorrow after-noon.”
“Look here, can’t I be there? I’ll put on a beard if you like.”
“Certainly not,” said Frankie. “A beard would probably ruin everythingby falling off at the wrong moment. But I don’t see why you shouldn’t be amotorcyclist—with a lot of cap and goggles. What do you think, George?”
George Arbuthnot spoke for the second time:
“All right,” he said, “the more the merrier.”
His voice was even more melancholy than before.
第十章 车祸的准备工作
第十章 车祸的准备工作
一周之后，博比就到伦敦和巴杰一起工作了。他收到了几封弗兰基写来的令人费解的信，上面的字迹大多潦草难辨，其中的意思除了靠猜，他也没有其他办法。不过，这些信件总体而言似乎是在说弗兰基有了一个计划，而他（博比）在接到她的信之前什么都不要做。这样倒好，反正博比也没时间去干什么别的事情，因为倒霉的巴杰已经用尽浑身解数成功地把生意搞得一团糟了，而博比则要忙于收拾他这位朋友搞出来的烂摊子。
与此同时，这位年轻人保持着高度的警惕。领教过八粒吗啡威力的人对食物和饮料全都疑神疑鬼，而且还导致他来伦敦的时候带上了一把军用左轮手枪，尽管带着这把枪让他觉得烦不胜烦。
就在博比开始觉得这一切不过是场不切实际的噩梦之际，弗兰基开的那辆宾利沿着小巷一路咆哮轰鸣而来，停在了车库的外面。博比穿着遍布油渍的工作服出来迎接。弗兰基坐在驾驶座上，身边是一个面色阴郁的年轻人。
“嗨，博比，”弗兰基说道，“这位是乔治•阿巴思诺特。他是个医生，我们会用得着他的。”
博比和乔治•阿巴思诺特相互敷衍地问候了一下，同时微微皱了皱眉头。
“你确定咱们真的会需要一名医生吗？”他问道，“不是有点太悲观了吗？”
“我倒不是说咱们会在那方面需要他，”弗兰基说，“我需要他是为了一个我正在实施的计划。听我说，咱们能去哪儿谈谈吗？”
博比四下张望了一番。
“呃，可以去我的卧室。”他有些拿不定主意地说道。
“好极了。”弗兰基说。
她下了车，和乔治•阿巴思诺特一起跟着博比上了几级外部台阶，进入一间小得可怜的卧室。
“我不确定，”博比环顾四周，迟疑不决地说，“还有没有能坐的地方。”
确实没有。很显然，唯一的一把椅子上放着博比所有的衣物。
“坐床就行。”弗兰基说。
她一屁股坐了上去。乔治•阿巴思诺特也如法炮制，床铺抗议一般发出了嘎吱声。
“我已经把所有事情都计划好了。”弗兰基说，“首先，我们需要一辆车。从你们这儿选一辆就可以。”
“你是说你想从我们这儿买一辆车？”
“没错。”
“你真是太好了，弗兰基。”博比满怀感激地说，“但你并不需要这样。我也是有底线的，不会宰自己的朋友。”
“你全搞错啦。”弗兰基说，“根本不是你想的那样，我明白你的意思。就像是从一个生意刚开张的朋友那儿买上一堆特别吓人的衣服和帽子似的。很讨厌的事情，却又不得不干。不过咱们的计划跟那个不一样，我真的需要一辆车。”
“宾利怎么样？”
“宾利不行。”
“你疯了吧。”博比说。
“不，我没疯。宾利干不了我想干的事情。”
“你想要拿它干什么？”
“把它撞烂。”
博比把一只手放在脑门上，呻吟了一声：
“我今天早上似乎不太对劲。”
乔治•阿巴思诺特第一次开口说话，声音深沉而忧郁。
“她的意思是，”他说，“她想要来一次车祸。”
“她怎么能知道要出车祸的？”博比粗暴地说道。
弗兰基恼火地叹了口气。
“也不知怎么回事，”她说，“切入点好像不太对。现在你安静下来听我说，博比，试着去理解我的意思。我知道你基本上没什么脑子，但如果你真的全神贯注的话，应该还是能明白的。”
她停顿了一下，然后又继续说了下去。
“我正在追踪巴辛顿-弗伦奇。”
“好啊，好啊。”
“巴辛顿-弗伦奇。就是咱们的那个巴辛顿-弗伦奇，他住在汉普郡斯塔弗利村的梅罗威宅邸。梅罗威宅邸归巴辛顿-弗伦奇的哥哥所有，而咱们这位巴辛顿-弗伦奇则跟他的哥哥和他妻子一起住在那里。”
“谁的妻子？”
“当然是他哥哥的妻子啦。这个不是重点。重点在于你或者我，或者咱们两个如何才能打入那家人的内部。我去实地侦察过，斯塔弗利就是个小村子，陌生人在那儿逗留太显眼了。这样肯定行不通，所以我制订了一个计划，大致如下：弗朗西斯•德温特小姐不顾一切地开着车，一头撞上了梅罗威宅邸大门附近的墙。车子完全报废，弗朗西斯小姐也差点儿一命呜呼，她被抬到屋子里，人撞成了脑震荡，受到了惊吓，绝对不能挪动。”
“这话要由谁来说？”
“乔治啊。这下你明白乔治的用处了吧。咱们不能冒险找个不认识的医生来说我什么事儿都没有。或者哪个爱管闲事的人把我四仰八叉地拉到当地医院去。”不，事情要这样进行：乔治正好路过，也开着一辆车（你最好再卖给我们一辆车），目睹了这起车祸，他跳下车来接管这件事。‘我是医生，所有人都往后站’（换句话说，假如现场有人的话）。‘咱们必须把她抬到那栋房子里去。那栋房子叫什么，梅罗威宅邸吗？这样就行，我得给她彻底检查一下。’我被抬到最好的空房间，巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家人要么会表示同情，要么会极力反对，但不管怎么样，乔治都会压制住他们。乔治做完检查以后会给出意见。很幸运，情况并不像他以为的那么严重。骨头都没断，但脑震荡还是挺危险的。两三天之内我绝对不能动地方。在那之后，我应该就可以回伦敦去了。
“然后乔治离开，接下去就该轮到我来讨这家人的欢心了。”
“那我什么时候出场啊？”
“你不用出场。”
“但你听我说——”
“我亲爱的孩子，你可别忘了巴辛顿-弗伦奇认识你，但他不认识我。而且我还处于一个得天独厚的有利位置，因为我有头衔。你知道这有多管用了吧，我可不仅仅是个获准进入了屋子而又怀揣着秘密企图的流浪年轻女子。我是伯爵的女儿，并且因此备受尊敬。而乔治是个货真价实的医生，一切都毋庸置疑。”
“哦！我倒觉得没什么关系。”博比的语气有些不快。
“我认为这是个非常精妙的计划。”弗兰基充满自豪地说。
“那我就什么都不干？”博比问道。
他还是感觉受到了伤害，就像一只狗出乎意料地被抢走了骨头。他觉得这是属于自己独有的罪案，而现在他却被排除在外了。
“你当然有事干啦，亲爱的。你要蓄胡子。”
“哦！我要蓄胡子？”
“没错，这需要多长时间？”
“两到三周吧，我想。”
“天哪！我还真不知道这么慢，你没法让它快点儿留起来吗？”
“没办法。我为什么不能戴个假胡子呢？”
“假胡子通常看起来都太假了，要么会拧麻花，要么会掉下来，要么闻上去一股速干胶水味儿。不过等一下，我记得有种胡子可以一根根地粘上去，绝对看不出破绽。也许剧院里做假发的人能帮你办这件事。”
“他没准儿会以为我是想要逃避正义的制裁呢。”
“他怎么想都无所谓。”
“等我有了胡子以后要干什么呀？”
“穿上司机制服，开着宾利去斯塔弗利。”
“哦，我懂了。”
博比面露喜色。
“你明白我的计划了吧？”弗兰基说，“没人会像看一般人那样看一个司机。再说了，巴辛顿-弗伦奇只见过你一两分钟，而且他当时肯定很紧张，琢磨着能不能及时把照片换过来，所以也没心思多看你。对他来说，你不过是个打高尔夫球的小蠢货。他可不像凯曼夫妇，能一边坐在你对面跟你说话，一边处心积虑地想要看清楚你是个什么样的人。我敢拿任何东西打赌，你穿着司机的制服，就算没有胡子，巴辛顿-弗伦奇也认不出来你。他大概只会觉得你这张脸有些眼熟，不会更多了。而有了胡子的话应该就万无一失了。现在你跟我说说，你认为这个计划怎么样？”
博比在心中仔细斟酌了一番。
“说实话吧，弗兰基。”他不吝赞赏地说道，“我认为相当不错。”
“既然这样，”弗兰基轻快地说，“咱们就去买车吧。哎呀，我觉得乔治都已经把你的床坐塌了。”
“没关系。”博比亲切地说道，“这本来也不是什么特别好的床。”
他们下楼来到车库里，一个下巴小得出奇，神情有些紧张的年轻人面带爽朗的笑容跟他们打招呼，嘴里含含糊糊地发出“嚯嚯嚯”的声音。他的整体相貌略有瑕疵，因为他两只眼睛看的明显不是同一个方向。
“嗨，巴杰。”博比说，“你还记得弗兰基吧？”
巴杰显然不记得了，但他还是和颜悦色地说着“嚯嚯嚯！”
“我上次见到你的时候，”弗兰基说，“你还脑袋冲下扎在泥里呢，我们不得不拉住你的腿才能把你拽出来。”
“不、不是真的吧？”巴杰说，“啊，那肯、肯、肯定是在威、威、威尔士。”
“就是啊。”弗兰基说，“就是在威尔士。”
“我一直都是个差、差劲的骑、骑、骑手，”巴杰说，“现在依、依、依然是。”他又悲哀地添上一句。
“弗兰基想要买辆车。”博比说。
“两辆，”弗兰基说，“乔治也得要一辆，他那辆现在已经撞坏了。”
“我们可以租给他一辆。”博比说。
“好吧，来看看我们还有什么存、存、存货。”巴杰说。
“看上去都很漂亮。”猩红果绿的艳丽色调令弗兰基有些眼花缭乱。
“光看外表的话还挺好的。”博比阴郁地说道。
“那是辆非、非、非、非常划算的二、二、二手克莱斯勒。”巴杰说。
“不，不要这辆。”博比说，“她要买的车必须至少能跑上四十英里才行。”
巴杰向他的合伙人投去了责备的一瞥。
“这辆斯坦达德基本上就要报废了。”博比沉思着说道，“但我觉得它刚好能把你送到地方。那辆埃塞克斯对这项任务来说有点儿太奢侈了，它至少还能跑上二百英里都不至于出毛病呢。”
“那好，”弗兰基说，“我要这辆斯坦达德。”
巴杰把他的伙伴往旁边拉了拉。
“你觉得要多、多、多少价、价钱合适啊？”他低声咕哝道，“不想跟你的朋友要、要、要价太高。十、十、十英镑？”
“十英镑没问题。”弗兰基加入了讨论，“我现在就付钱。”
“她到底是谁啊？”巴杰用耳语声问道，声音却很大。
博比用耳语声回应了他。
“我还是第、第、第、第一次认识有头、头、头、头衔还能、能、能付现金的人。”巴杰语带敬意地说道。
博比跟着另外两个人走出去，来到宾利车旁。
“你准备什么时候实施计划？”他问道。
“越快越好。”弗兰基说，“我们想在明天下午。”
“喂，我真的不能去吗？你要是喜欢的话我可以戴上胡子。”
“当然不行啊。”弗兰基说，“万一胡子不合时宜地掉下来，可能就把所有事都搞砸了。
但你当然可以扮成一个骑摩托车的人，戴上一大堆帽子和护目镜之类的。你觉得怎么样，乔治？”
乔治•阿巴思诺特第二次开口说话了。
“不错。”他说，“越多越好。”
他的声音甚至比之前还要忧郁。
Eleven THE ACCIDENT HAPPENS
Eleven THE ACCIDENT HAPPENS
The rendezvous for the great accident party was fixed at a spot about amile from Staverley village where the road to Staverley branched off fromthe main road to Andover.
All three arrived there safely, though Frankie’s Standard had shown un-mistakable signs of decrepitude at every hill.
The time fixed had been one o’clock.
“We don’t want to be interrupted when we’re staging the thing,” Frankiehad said. “Hardly anything ever goes down this road, I should imagine,but at lunch time we ought to be perfectly safe.”
They proceeded for half a mile on the side road and then Frankie poin-ted out the place she had selected for the accident to take place.
“It couldn’t be better in my opinion,” she said. “Straight down this hilland then, as you see, the road gives a sudden very sharp turn round thatbulging bit of wall. The wall is actually the wall of Merroway Court. If westart the car and let it run down the hill it will crash straight into the walland something pretty drastic ought to happen to it.”
“I should say so,” Bobby agreed. “But someone ought to be on thelookout at the corner to be sure someone isn’t coming round it in the op-posite direction.”
“Quite right,” said Frankie. “We don’t want to involve anybody else in amess and perhaps maim them for life. George can take his car down thereand turn it as though he were coming from the other direction. Thenwhen he waves a handkerchief it will show that all is clear.”
“You’re looking very pale, Frankie,” said Bobby anxiously. “Are you sureyou’re all right?”
“I’m made up pale,” explained Frankie. “Ready for the concussion. Youdon’t want me to be carried into the house blooming with health.”
“How wonderful women are,” said Bobby appreciatively. “You look ex-actly like a sick monkey.”
“I think you’re very rude,” said Frankie. “Now, then, I shall go and pro-spect at the gate into Merroway Court. It’s just this side of the bulge.
There’s no lodge, fortunately. When George waves his handkerchief and Iwave mine, you start her off.”
“Right,” said Bobby. “I’ll stay on the running board to guide her until thepace gets too hot and then I’ll jump off.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” said Frankie.
“I shall be extremely careful not to. It would complicate matters to havea real accident on the spot of the faked one.”
“Well, start off, George,” said Frankie.
George nodded, jumped into the second car and ran slowly down thehill. Bobby and Frankie stood looking after him.
“You’ll—look after yourself, won’t you, Frankie?” said Bobby with a sud-den gruffness. “I mean—don’t go doing anything foolish.”
“I shall be all right. Most circumspect. By the way, I don’t think I’d betterwrite to you direct. I’ll write to George or my maid or someone or other topass on to you.”
“I wonder if George is going to be a success in his profession.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to have acquired a chatty bedside manner yet.”
“I expect that will come,” said Frankie. “I’d better be going now. I’ll letyou know when I want you to come down with the Bentley.”
“I’ll get busy with the moustache. So long, Frankie.”
“They looked at each other for a moment, and then Frankie nodded andbegan to walk down the hill.
George had turned the car and then backed it round the bulge.
Frankie disappeared for a moment then reappeared in the road, wavinga handkerchief. A second handkerchief waved from the bottom of theroad at the turn.
Bobby put the car into third gear, then, standing on the footboard, he re-leased the brake. The car moved grudgingly forward, impeded by being ingear. The slope, however, was sufficiently steep. The engine started. Thecar gathered way. Bobby steadied the steering wheel. At the last possiblemoment he jumped off.
The car went on down the hill and crashed into the wall with consider-able force. All was well—the accident had taken place successfully.
Bobby saw Frankie run quickly to the scene of the crime and plop downamid the wreckage. George in his car came round the corner and pulledup.
With a sigh Bobby mounted his motorcycle and rode away in the direc-tion of London.
At the scene of the accident things were busy.
“Shall I roll about in the road a bit,” asked Frankie, “to get myselfdusty?”
“You might as well,” said George. “Here, give me your hat.”
He took it and inflicted a terrific dent on it. Frankie gave a faint an-guished cry.
“That’s the concussion,” explained George. “Now, then, lie doggo justwhere you are. I think I heard a bicycle bell.”
Sure enough, at that moment, a boy of about seventeen came whistlinground the corner. He stopped at once, delighted with the pleasurable spec-tacle that met his eyes.
“Ooer!” he ejaculated, “ ’as there been an accident?”
“No,” said George sarcastically. “The young lady ran her car into thewall on purpose.”
Accepting, as he was meant to do, this remark as irony rather than thesimple truth which it was, the boy said with relish:
“Looks bad, don’t she? Is she dead?”
“Not yet,” said George. “She must be taken somewhere at once. I’m adoctor. What’s this place in here?”
“Merroway Court. Belongs to Mr. Bassington-ffrench. He’s a JP, he is.”
“She must be carried there at once,” said George authoritatively. “Here,leave your bicycle and lend me a hand.”
Only too willing, the boy propped his bicycle against the wall and cameto assist. Between them George and the boy carried Frankie up the driveto a pleasant old-fashioned-looking manor house.
Their approach had been observed, for an elderly butler came out tomeet them.
“There’s been an accident,” said George curtly. “Is there a room I cancarry this lady into? She must be attended to at once.”
The butler went back into the hall in a flustered way. George and theboy followed him up closely, still carrying the limp body of Frankie. Thebutler had gone into a room on the left and from there a woman emerged.
She was tall, with red hair, and about thirty years of age. Her eyes were alight clear blue.
She dealt with the situation quickly.
“There is a spare bedroom on the ground floor,” she said. “Will youbring her in there? Ought I to telephone for a doctor?”
“I am a doctor,” explained George. “I was passing in my car and saw theaccident occur.”
“Oh! how very fortunate. Come this way, will you?”
She showed them the way into a pleasant bedroom with windows givingon the garden.
“Is she badly hurt?” she inquired.
“I can’t tell yet.”
Mrs. Bassington-ffrench took the hint and retired. The boy accompaniedher and launched out into a description of the accident as though he hadbeen an actual witness of it.
“Run smack into the wall she did. Car’s all smashed up. There she waslying on the ground with her hat all dinted in. The gentleman, he waspassing in his car—”
He proceeded ad lib till got rid of with a half crown.
Meanwhile Frankie and George were conversing in careful whispers.
“George, darling, this won’t blight your career, will it? They won’t strikeyou off the register, or whatever it is, will they?”
“Probably,” said George gloomily. “That is, if it ever comes out.”
“It won’t,” said Frankie. “Don’t worry, George. I shan’t let you down.”
She added thoughtfully: “You did it very well. I’ve never heard you talk somuch before.”
George sighed. He looked at his watch.
“I shall give my examination another three minutes,” he said.
“What about the car?”
“I’ll arrange with a garage to have that cleared up.”
“Good.”
George continued to study his watch. Finally he said with an air of re-lief:
“Time.”
“George,” said Frankie, “you’ve been an angel. I don’t know why you didit.”
“No more do I,” said George. “Damn fool thing to do.”
He nodded to her.
“Bye bye. Enjoy yourself.”
“I wonder if I shall,” said Frankie.
She was thinking of that cool impersonal voice with the slight Americanaccent.
George went in search of the owner of it, whom he found waiting forhim in the drawing room.
“Well,” he said abruptly. “I’m glad to say it’s not so bad as I feared. Con-cussion very slight and already passing off. She ought to stay quietlywhere she is for a day or so, though.” He paused. “She seems to be a LadyFrances Derwent.”
“Oh, fancy!” said Mrs. Bassington-ffrench. “Then I know some cousins ofhers—the Draycotts—quite well.”
“I don’t know if it’s inconvenient for you to have her here,” said George.
“But if she could stay where she is for a day or two .?.?.” Here Georgepaused.
“Oh, of course. That will be all right, Dr.—?”
“Arbuthnot. By the way, I’ll see to the car business. I shall be passing agarage.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Arbuthnot. How very lucky you happened tobe passing. I suppose a doctor ought to see her tomorrow just to see she’sgetting on all right.”
“Don’t think it’s necessary,” said George. “All she needs is quiet.”
“But I should feel happier. And her people ought to know.”
“I’ll attend to that,” said George. “And as to the doctoring business—well,it seems she’s a Christian Scientist and won’t have doctors at any price.
She wasn’t too pleased at finding me in attendance.”
“Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Bassington-ffrench.
“But she’ll be quite all right,” said George reassuringly. “You can takemy word for it.”
“If you really think so, Dr. Arbuthnot,” said Mrs. Bassington- ffrenchrather doubtfully.
“I do,” said George. “Goodbye. Dear me. I left one of my instruments inthe bedroom.”
He came rapidly into the room and up to the bedside.
“Frankie,” he said in a quick whisper. “You’re a Christian Scientist. Don’tforget.”
“But why?”
“I had to do it. Only way.”
“All right,” said Frankie. “I won’t forget.”
第十一章 车祸发生
第十一章 车祸发生
这伙了不起的车祸阴谋组把集合地点定在了离斯塔弗利村大约一英里的地方，去往安多弗的主路从这里分出一条岔路，通向斯塔弗利。
尽管弗兰基那辆斯坦达德在经过每座小山坡时都会出现年久失修的迹象，但三个人还是平安抵达了。
预定的时间是一点钟。
“咱们演这出戏的时候可不希望被人打扰，”弗兰基曾经说过，“想来几乎不会有什么人走这条路，午餐时间应该是安全的。”
他们在这条岔路上往前走了半英里，接着弗兰基便指出了她挑选的车祸发生地点。
“依我看，没有更好的地点了。”她说，“从这个山坡直接下去，你们也能看到，这条路在那面有点凸出的墙那儿突然急转弯，那堵墙实际上是梅罗威宅邸的院墙。如果我们发动汽车，让它从山坡上冲下去，就会直接撞在墙上，应该会撞得相当狠。”
“的确如此。”博比赞同道，“但是应该有个人去拐角那儿望风，以确保不会有人从对面绕过来。”
“说得对。”弗兰基说，“我们可不想把其他人搅和到这场混乱中来，没准还会让他们终身残疾呢。乔治可以把他的车开到那儿去，然后掉个头，就像他正从另外那个方向过来似的。接着等他挥舞手帕的时候，就说明已经清场啦。”
“你的脸色看上去很苍白啊，弗兰基。”博比担忧地说，“你确定你没事吗？”
“我化妆化成这样的。”弗兰基解释道，“要为脑震荡做好准备啊，你不会想让我被抬进屋去的时候还一副容光焕发的样子吧。”
“女人可真奇妙，”博比赞赏道，“你看起来就像一只生了病的猴子。”
“我觉得你这人非常粗鲁。”弗兰基说，“好啦，我要过去了，到梅罗威宅邸的大门前勘察一下。刚好在凸出来的这一边。很幸运，没有门卫。等乔治挥动他的手帕，而我也挥动手帕的时候，你就把车开起来。”
“好的，”博比说，“我会站在踏脚板上把控方向，直到速度太快的时候再跳下来。”
“自己别受伤。”弗兰基说。
“我会非常小心的。要是在假车祸的现场出了真车祸，那可就是节外生枝了。”
“好了，出发吧，乔治。”弗兰基说。
乔治点点头，跳进了第二辆车，缓缓驶下山坡。博比和弗兰基站在那里目送着他。
“你会——照顾好自己的，对不对，弗兰基？”博比突然嗓音沙哑地说道，“我的意思是，别做任何傻事。”
“我会没事的，一定会特别小心谨慎。顺便说一句，我觉得我最好还是不要直接给你写信。我会写给乔治，或者我的女仆，或是其他哪个人，让他们把信转给你。”
“我不知道乔治在医生这行会不会取得成功。”
“为什么不会呢？”
“唔，他似乎还没学会医生对病人的那种亲切健谈。”
“希望他能学会吧。”弗兰基说，“现在我得走了，我需要你开着宾利来的时候会让你知道的。”
“我也得去弄我的胡子了。再见了，弗兰基。”
他们对视了片刻，随后弗兰基点了点头，开始朝山坡下走去。
乔治已经把车掉了头，接着绕着墙壁凸起的地方往后倒了倒车。
弗兰基消失了一小会儿，随即又出现在路上，手里挥动着手帕。接着在道路尽头的拐弯处，第二块手帕也挥舞了起来。
博比把车挂上三挡，然后站在踏脚板上，松开了刹车。车子由于挂上了挡，向前移动的时候还有些勉强。然而山坡的坡度足够陡，引擎开始运转，车子加速了。博比稳住方向盘，在最后关头跳下了车。
车子继续冲下山去，以相当大的力量结结实实地撞在了墙上。一切顺利，车祸成功地发生了。
博比瞧见弗兰基飞快地跑到罪案现场，扑通一下子坐进了事故车的残骸之中。乔治开着他的车绕过转角，靠边停了下来。
博比叹了口气，跨上他的摩托车，往伦敦方向驶去。
此时的车祸现场一片忙碌。
“我需要在路上稍微打个滚儿，”弗兰基问道，“让自己身上沾点土吗？”
“的确，滚一下会比较好。”乔治说，“嘿，把你的帽子给我。”
他接过帽子，在上面折出一道可怕的凹痕，弗兰基轻轻发出了一声悲鸣。
“这就是脑震荡，”乔治解释道，“好了，接下来你在原地躺着别动。我好像听见自行车铃声了。”
果然，就在此时，一个约莫十七岁的小伙子骑着车吹着口哨拐过弯来。他立刻停了下来，为眼前这有趣的一幕感到很是开心。
“哦哟！”他脱口而出，“这是出车祸了吗？”
“不是，”乔治反唇相讥，“这位年轻的女士开车故意撞墙上了。”
小伙子似乎注定要把这句话当成反话来听，而不会认为它就是简单的事实。他饶有兴致地说道：
“她看起来很糟糕啊，是不是？她死了吗？”
“还没死呢，”乔治说，“得马上把她抬到哪儿去。我是医生，这里面是什么地方？”
“梅罗威宅邸。属于巴辛顿-弗伦奇先生，他是个治安法官，没错。”
“必须马上把她抬到那里去。”乔治用发号施令的口吻说道，“喂，把自行车放一边，过来帮我一把。”
小伙子很乐意，他把自行车靠墙放好，然后走过来帮忙。乔治和小伙子两个人一前一后抬着弗兰基，沿着车道，朝着一幢看起来老派而舒适的庄园宅邸走去。
他们走近的时候就已被人注意到了，一位年长的男管家出门相迎。
“出了一起车祸。”乔治简短地说道，“有房间能容我把这位小姐抬进去吗？她必须马上得到照顾。”
男管家惊慌失措地回到大厅。乔治和小伙子紧随其后，仍然抬着弗兰基绵软无力的身躯。男管家进了左手边的一个房间，一个女人从里面走出来。她身材高挑，一头红发，年纪在三十岁上下，一双浅蓝色的眼睛清澈明亮。
她迅速处理起眼前的情况。
“一楼有间空闲的卧室。”她说，“你们要不把她抬到那儿去？我要去打个电话叫医生来吗？”
“我就是医生。”乔治解释道，“我正好开车路过，看见了车祸发生。”
“哦！简直太幸运了。请往这边来。”
她带他们进了一间舒适的卧室，卧室的窗子对着花园。
“她伤得很严重吗？”她问道。
“我还说不好呢。”
巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太理解了医生话中的暗示，退出了房间。小伙子陪着她一起离开，描述起车祸的现场来，仿佛亲眼看见了一般。
“她一下子撞在墙上，车完全撞坏了。当时她躺在地上，帽子也全都瘪进去了。那位先生正好开车路过——”
他就一直这么随性发挥，直至拿到了半克朗硬币才罢休。
与此同时，弗兰基和乔治也在小心翼翼地低声细语。
“乔治，亲爱的，这么做不会妨害到你的职业信誉吧？他们不会取消你的注册执照之类的，是吧？”
“也有可能，”乔治有些忧郁地说，“更确切地说，是如果这件事败露了的话。”
“不会的。”弗兰基说，“别担心，乔治。我不会让你失望的。”接着她又亲切地加上了一句：“你干得非常棒，我以前从没听你说过那么多话。”
乔治叹了口气，看了一眼手表。
“我还得再检查上三分钟。”他说。
“车子怎么办？”
“我会找一家汽车修理厂妥善处理的。”
“好的。”
乔治继续注视着手表。终于，他松了口气似的说道：
“时间到了。”
“乔治，”弗兰基说，“你一直都是个天使，我不明白你为什么要做这件事。”
“下不为例吧，”乔治说，“做这种事情简直蠢到家了。”
他冲她点点头。
“再见，祝你玩儿得开心。”
“真不知道我能不能开心。”弗兰基说。
她想起那个略带美国口音的声音，冷冰冰的，没有一点人情味儿。
乔治前去寻找房屋的主人，发现她正在起居室里等着他。
“好吧，”他有些唐突地开口说道，“我很高兴，情况并不像我担心的那么糟糕。脑震荡很轻微，现在已经逐渐消退了。但她还是应该待在原地静养上一两天。”他顿了顿，“她好像是什么弗朗西斯•德温特小姐。”
“哦，真没想到！”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太说，“那我还跟她的一些表亲——德雷科特家的人——很熟呢。”
“我不知道留她在这儿会不会对您不方便，”乔治说，“但她如果能在这里待上一两天的话……”说到这儿乔治停住了。
“哦，当然可以，没有问题，医生——呃，请问您贵姓？”
“阿巴思诺特。顺便说一句，车子的事情我去处理，我正好会路过一家汽车修理厂。”
“非常感谢您，阿巴思诺特医生，您碰巧路过这里真是太幸运了。我想明天应该再请个医生来一下，看看她是否恢复良好。”
“并不一定非得请人来。”乔治说，“她只需要静养。”
“但那样我会更放心一些，而且也应该让她家里的人知道。”
“我会去办这件事的，”乔治说，“至于医生，呃，她似乎是基督教科学派 [1] 的信徒，无论如何也不愿意看医生。她刚才发现我在场的时候还不太高兴呢。”
“哦，天哪！”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太说。
“但是她会好起来的，”乔治安慰她道，“这件事情上您尽管相信我。”
“如果您真的这么认为的话，阿巴思诺特医生。”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太还是将信将疑。
“我真的这么想，”乔治说，“再见了。哎呀，我落了一样工具在卧室里。”
他迅即进了屋，快步来到床边。
“弗兰基，”他飞快地用耳语声说道，“你是个基督教科学派的信徒，别忘了啊。”
“可为什么呢？”
“我不得不这么说，这是唯一的办法。”
“没问题，”弗兰基说，“我不会忘记的。”
[1]基督教新教的一个边缘教派，信奉可以依靠信仰、祈祷等方法治愈疾病。
Twelve IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP
Twelve IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP
“Well, here I am,” thought Frankie. “Safely in the enemy’s camp. Now, it’sup to me.”
There was a tap on the door and Mrs. Bassington-ffrench entered.
Frankie raised herself a little on her pillows.
“I’m so frightfully sorry,” she said in a faint voice. “Causing you all thisbother.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bassington-ffrench. Frankie heard anew that coolattractive drawling voice with a slight American accent, and rememberedthat Lord Marchington had said that one of the Hampshire Bassington-ffrenches had married an American heiress. “Dr. Arbuthnot says you willbe quite all right in a day or two if you just keep quiet.”
Frankie felt that she ought at this point to say something about “error”
or “mortal mind,” but was frightened of saying the wrong thing.
“He seems nice,” she said. “He was very kind.”
“He seemed a most capable young man,” said Mrs. Bassington-ffrench.
“It was very fortunate that he just happened to be passing.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? Not, of course, that I really needed him.”
“But you mustn’t talk,” continued her hostess. “I’ll send my maid alongwith some things for you and then she can get you properly into bed.”
“It’s frightfully kind of you.”
“Not at all.”
Frankie felt a momentary qualm as the other woman withdrew.
“A nice kind creature,” she said to herself. “And beautifully unsuspect-ing.”
For the first time she felt that she was playing a mean trick on her host-ess. Her mind had been so taken up with the vision of a murderousBassington-ffrench pushing an unsuspecting victim over a precipice thatlesser characters in the drama had not entered her imagination.
“Oh, well,” thought Frankie, “I’ve got to go through with it now. But Iwish she hadn’t been so nice about it.”
She spent a dull afternoon and evening lying in her darkened room.
Mrs. Bassington-ffrench looked in once or twice to see how she was butdid not stay.
The next day, however, Frankie admitted the daylight and expressed adesire for company and her hostess came and sat with her for some time.
They discovered many mutual acquaintances and friends and by the endof the day, Frankie felt, with a guilty qualm, that they had become friends.
Mrs. Bassington-ffrench referred several times to her husband and toher small boy, Tommy. She seemed a simple woman, deeply attached toher home, and yet, for some reason or other, Frankie fancied that she wasnot quite happy. There was an anxious expression in her eyes sometimesthat did not agree with a mind at peace with itself.
On the third day Frankie got up and was introduced to the master of thehouse.
He was a big man, heavy jowled, with a kindly but rather abstracted air.
He seemed to spend a good deal of his time shut up in his study. YetFrankie judged him to be very fond of his wife, though interesting himselfvery little in her concerns.
Tommy, the small boy, was seven, and a healthy, mischievous child.
Sylvia Bassington-ffrench obviously adored him.
“It’s so nice down here,” said Frankie with a sigh.
She was lying out on a long chair in the garden.
“I don’t know whether it’s the bang on the head, or what it is, but I justdon’t feel I want to move. I’d like to lie here for days and days.”
“Well, do,” said Sylvia Bassington-ffrench in her calm, incurious tones.
“No, really, I mean it. Don’t hurry back to town. You see,” she went on, “it’sa great pleasure to me to have you here. You’re so bright and amusing. Itquite cheers me up.”
“So she needs cheering up,” flashed across Frankie’s mind.
At the same time she felt ashamed of herself.
“I feel we really have become friends,” continued the other woman.
Frankie felt still more ashamed.
It was a mean thing she was doing—mean—mean—mean. She wouldgive it up! Go back to town—
Her hostess went on:
“It won’t be too dull here. Tomorrow my brother-in-law is coming back.
You’ll like him, I’m sure. Everyone likes Roger.”
“He lives with you?”
“Off and on. He’s a restless creature. He calls himself the ne’er-do-weelof the family, and perhaps it’s true in a way. He never sticks to a job forlong—in fact I don’t believe he’s ever done any real work in his life. Butsome people just are like that—especially in old families. And they’re usu-ally people with a great charm of manner. Roger is wonderfully sympath-etic. I don’t know what I should have done without him this spring whenTommy was ill.”
“What was the matter with Tommy?”
“He had a bad fall from the swing. It must have been tied on to a rottenbranch and the branch gave way. Roger was very upset because he wasswinging the child at the time—you know, giving him high ones, such aschildren love. We thought at first Tommy’s spine was hurt, but it turnedout to be a very slight injury and he’s quite all right now.”
“He certainly looks it,” said Frankie, smiling, as she heard faint yells andwhoops in the distance.
“I know. He seems in perfect condition. It’s such a relief. He’s had badluck in accidents. He was nearly drowned last winter.”
“Was he really?” said Frankie thoughtfully.
She no longer meditated returning to town. The feeling of guilt hadabated.
Accidents!
Did Roger Bassington-ffrench specialize in accidents, she wondered.
She said:
“If you’re sure you mean it, I’d love to stay a little longer. But won’t yourhusband mind my butting in like this?”
“Henry?” Mrs. Bassington-ffrench’s lips curled in a strange expression.
“No, Henry won’t mind. Henry never minds anything—nowadays.”
Frankie looked at her curiously.
“If she knew me better she’d tell me something,” she thought to herself.
“I believe there are lots of odd things going on in this household.”
Henry Bassington-ffrench joined them for tea and Frankie studied himclosely. There was certainly something odd about the man. His type wasan obvious one — a jovial, sport- loving, simple country gentleman. Butsuch a man ought not to sit twitching nervously, his nerves obviously onedge, now sunk in an abstraction from which it was impossible to rousehim, now giving out bitter and sarcastic replies to anything said to him.
Not that he was always like that. Later that evening, at dinner, he showedout in quite a new light. He joked, laughed, told stories, and was, for a manof his abilities, quite brilliant. Too brilliant, Frankie felt. The brilliancewas just as unnatural and out of character.
“He has such queer eyes,” she thought. “They frighten me a little.”
And yet surely she did not suspect Henry Bassington- ffrench of any-thing? It was his brother, not he, who had been in Marchbolt on that fatalday.
As to the brother, Frankie looked forward to seeing him with eager in-terest. According to her and to Bobby, the man was a murderer. She wasgoing to meet a murderer face to face.
She felt momentarily nervous.
Yet, after all, how could he guess?
How could he, in any way, connect her with a successfully accomplishedcrime?
“You’re making a bogey for yourself out of nothing,” she said to herself.
Roger Bassington-ffrench arrived just before tea on the following after-noon.
Frankie did not meet him till tea time. She was still supposed to “rest” inthe afternoon.
When she came out on to the lawn where tea was laid, Sylvia said smil-ing:
“Here is our invalid. This is my brother-in-law, Lady Frances Derwent.”
Frankie saw a tall, slender young man of something over thirty withvery pleasant eyes. Although she could see what Bobby meant by sayinghe ought to have a monocle and a toothbrush moustache, she herself wasmore inclined to notice the intense blue of his eyes. They shook hands.
He said: “I’ve been hearing all about the way you tried to break downthe park wall.”
“I’ll admit,” said Frankie, “that I’m the world’s worst driver. But I wasdriving an awful old rattletrap. My own car was laid up and I bought acheap one secondhand.”
“She was rescued from the ruins by a very good-looking young doctor,”
said Sylvia.
“He was rather sweet,” agreed Frankie.
Tommy arrived at this moment and flung himself upon his uncle withsqueaks of joy.
“Have you brought me a Hornby train? You said you would. You saidyou would.”
“Oh, Tommy! You mustn’t ask for things,” said Sylvia.
“That’s all right, Sylvia. It was a promise. I’ve got your train all right, oldman.” He looked casually at his sister-in-law. “Isn’t Henry coming to tea?”
“I don’t think so.” The constrained note was in her voice. “He isn’t feel-ing awfully well today, I imagine.”
Then she said impulsively:
“Oh, Roger, I’m glad you’re back.”
He put his hand on her arm for a minute.
“That’s all right, Sylvia, old girl.”
After tea, Roger played trains with his nephew.
Frankie watched them, her mind in a turmoil.
Surely this wasn’t the sort of man to push people over cliffs! This charm-ing young man couldn’t be a cold-blooded murderer!
But, then—she and Bobby must have been wrong all along. Wrong, thatis, about this part of it.
She felt sure now that it wasn’t Bassington- ffrench who had pushedPritchard over the cliff.
Then who was it?
She was still convinced he had been pushed over. Who had done it? Andwho had put the morphia in Bobby’s beer?
With the thought of morphia suddenly the explanation of HenryBassington-ffrench’s peculiar eyes came to her, with their pinpoint pupils.
Was Henry Bassington-ffrench a drug fiend?
第十二章 身处敌营
第十二章 身处敌营
“好了，我进来了，”弗兰基心想，“安全地进入了敌营，现在就看我的了。”
有人轻叩房门，巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太走了进来。
弗兰基从枕头上略微欠了欠身子。
“真是万分抱歉，”她以微弱的声音说道，“给您添了这么多麻烦。”
“别胡说了。”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太说道。弗兰基再次听到了这个略带美国口音，冷冰冰、慢吞吞又充满吸引力的声音，想起来马钦顿伯爵说过，汉普郡那一支巴辛顿-弗伦奇家族中有人娶了个美国的女继承人，“阿巴思诺特医生说你只需静养，一两天之内就会没事了。”
弗兰基觉得此时此刻她应该说几句跟“罪过”或者“凡人之心” [1] 有关的台词，但她又害怕说错话。
“他看上去很好，”她说，“对人非常和善。”
“他似乎是个很能干的年轻人，”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太说，“他刚好从这里路过真的是幸运之至。”
“对呀，不是吗？当然了，其实我并不需要他。”
“但你不可以说太多话，”女主人继续说，“我会吩咐女仆给你送些东西过来，然后她可以服侍你舒舒服服地睡个好觉。”
“您真是太好了。”
“别客气。”
这个女人离开的时候弗兰基感到了一瞬间的不安。
“真是个善良的人，”她自言自语道，“丝毫没有戒心。”
她第一次感到自己正在卑鄙地捉弄她的女主人。她满脑子想的都是残忍的巴辛顿-弗伦奇把一个毫无防备的受害者推下悬崖峭壁的场景，没想到故事里还会有其他配角。
“哦，好吧。”弗兰基心想，“眼下我也只能硬着头皮坚持到底了，不过我真希望她不要对我这么好。”
她就这样躺在这间渐渐变暗的房间里，度过了一个沉闷无聊的下午和晚上。巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太来探望过一两回，看看她的情况，但都没作停留。
然而第二天，弗兰基便让日光照进卧室里来，还说想找个人做伴，于是女主人就过来陪她坐了一段时间。结果这一天结束时，她们发现了很多共同的熟人和朋友，弗兰基内疚不安地感到她们已经成了朋友。
巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太有好几次提到她的丈夫和小儿子汤米。她看上去是个很单纯的女人，深爱着她的家庭，可是出于某种原因，弗兰基认为她并不是特别快乐。她的眼中有时会流露出一丝忧虑，这和她表面上的心平气和并不一致。
第三天，弗兰基起床后被引见给了这栋房子的主人。
他是个大块头，有双下巴，态度友好却显得有些心不在焉。他似乎花了大把的时间把自己关在书房里。尽管他对妻子关心的事情兴趣寥寥，但弗兰基觉得他还是非常疼爱她的。
汤米是个健康又顽皮的七岁小男孩儿。西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇显然很喜欢他。
“住在这儿真是太舒服了。”弗兰基说着叹了口气。
此时她正躺在花园里的一张长椅上。
“我也不知道究竟是因为脑袋被撞了一下，还是因为别的什么，但我就是不想动弹。我真想在这儿日复一日地躺着。”
“好啊，躺吧。”西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇平静而又漫不经心地说道，“不，说真的，别急着回城里去。你瞧，”她继续说，“有你在这里我非常高兴。你那么开朗，又那么有趣，格外能让我打起精神来。”
“这么说，她需要打起精神来。”这念头在弗兰基的脑海中一闪而过。
与此同时，她也为自己感到惭愧。
“我真觉得我们已经成为朋友了呢。”对方接着说道。
弗兰基更加羞愧难当了。
她正在做一件卑鄙的事情。卑鄙，卑鄙，卑鄙。她应该就此放弃，回城里去！
她的女主人还在继续：
“待在这儿也不会太沉闷的，明天我的小叔子就要回来了。你肯定会喜欢他的，大家都喜欢罗杰。”
“他跟你们住一起吗？”
“时不时地吧，他是那种不安分的人，说自己在这个家里一事无成，这话从某种程度上来说可能是事实。从没有一件工作能让他坚持下去，实际上，我认为他这辈子就从没干过什么真正的工作。但有些人就是这样，尤其是在一些古老的家族里。而他们通常都风度优雅，魅力十足。罗杰极富同情心。今年春天汤米生病的时候，要是没有他，我都不知道该怎么办了。”
“汤米怎么了？”
“他从秋千上摔下来了，摔得很重。秋千肯定是绑在一根朽烂的树枝上，而树枝折了。
罗杰心里很难受，因为当时正好是他在帮孩子荡秋千。你知道吧，给他荡得很高，孩子们都喜欢那样。一开始我们都以为汤米的脊椎摔坏了，不过结果伤得很轻，他现在已经完全恢复了。”
“看样子他肯定是恢复了。”弗兰基说着微微一笑，听到远处隐约传来了孩子叫喊的声音。
“我明白。他看起来状态非常好，这很让人欣慰。他运气不好，老是会碰上意外。去年冬天他就差点儿被淹死。”
“真的吗？”弗兰基若有所思地问道。
她不再想着回城里的事了，心里的内疚也减轻了一些。
意外！
她想不通，难道罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇就是专门负责制造意外的吗？
她说：
“如果你真的愿意，我也想在这儿再多待一阵子。不过你丈夫会介意我像现在这样贸然闯进来吗？”
“亨利？”巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太的嘴一撇，做出一副古怪的表情，“不，他不会介意的。
亨利如今……对什么事情都不介意。”
弗兰基好奇地看着她。
“我们要是更熟悉一点，她就会告诉我更多。”她心中暗想，“这个家庭似乎发生了许多奇怪的事情。”
亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇与她们一起喝了下午茶，而弗兰基则对他仔细研究了一番。这个人身上无疑有些古怪之处。很显然，他是那种单纯朴素的乡绅——生性快活，喜爱运动。可这样一个人不应该坐在那里神经质地不停抽搐。他的紧张不安一目了然，他时而有些愣神，沉浸其中无法自拔；时而又对别人说的任何话都给予尖酸刻薄、讽刺挖苦的回答——虽然不是一贯如此。后来，那天晚上吃饭的时候，他焕然一新地出现在大家面前。他插科打诨，放声大笑，讲各种故事。就一个男人而言，简直可以说是才华横溢。弗兰基认为他表现得过于光彩夺目了。这种光彩给人的感觉并不自然，跟他本人的性格相比显得格格不入。
“他那双眼睛可真够古怪的。”弗兰基心想，“都有点吓着我了。”
但毫无疑问，她并未对亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇产生任何怀疑。因为发生命案的那一天，身处马奇博尔特的人是他弟弟，而不是他。
说到这个弟弟，弗兰基则是怀着浓厚的兴趣，急切地想要见到他。按照她和博比的想法，这是个杀人凶手。她就要与一个杀人凶手面对面了。
她一时感到有些紧张。
可是说到底，他又怎么可能猜得到呢？
他怎么可能把她跟一桩已经成功实施的罪行联系到一起呢？
“你这是在疑神疑鬼，无中生有。”她自言自语道。
罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇于第二天下午抵达，刚好赶在下午茶之前。
弗兰基见到他的时候已经是下午茶时间了，他们还以为她下午应该是在“休息”呢。
当她走出屋子，来到摆放下午茶的草坪上时，西尔维娅微笑着说：
“咱们的伤员来啦。弗朗西斯•德温特小姐，这位是我的小叔子。”
弗兰基见到的是一个又高又瘦的年轻男子，看样子三十岁出头，长着一双非常怡人的眼睛。尽管她能明白博比的意思，说他应该配上一片单片眼镜和一道牙刷样的小胡子，但她还是更在意那双深邃的蓝色眼睛。他们握了握手。
他说：“我已经听说了你试图撞开花园围墙的壮举。”
“我得承认，”弗兰基说，“我是这世界上最蹩脚的司机。不过我当时开着一辆老掉牙的老爷车。我自己的车出毛病开不了了，就买了一辆便宜的二手货。”
“她是被一位非常英俊的年轻医生从那堆残骸里救出来的。”西尔维娅说。
“他可温柔了。”弗兰基附和道。
汤米这时出现了，高兴地尖叫着扑到叔叔身上。
“你给我带霍恩比火车 [2] 了吗？你说了你会带的，你说了你会带的。”
“哦，汤米！不许这么要东西。”西尔维娅说。
“没关系的，西尔维娅。这是个承诺。我把您的火车带回来啦，长官。”他很随意地看了嫂子一眼，“亨利是不来喝下午茶了吗？”
“我想是不会来了，”她语气中透着一种压抑，“我猜他今天不太舒服。”
随后她又有些冲动地说道：
“哦，罗杰，我真高兴你回来了。”
他把手在她的胳膊上搭了一小会儿。
“没什么的，西尔维娅。”
喝完下午茶以后，罗杰陪着他的侄子一起玩火车。
弗兰基看着他们，心里乱成了一团。
毫无疑问，这不是那种会把人推下悬崖的人！这个讨人喜欢的小伙子不可能是个冷血的杀人凶手！
可是这样一来，她和博比肯定是从一开始就搞错了。换句话说，错在了最初的推理上。
现在她很确定把普里查德推下悬崖的人并非巴辛顿-弗伦奇。
那么又会是谁呢？
她依然坚信普理查德是被人推下去的。是谁干的呢？又是谁把吗啡放进了博比的啤酒里？
一想到吗啡，她脑海中突然浮现出了亨利那双古怪的眼睛，还有他那对针尖大小的瞳孔。
亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇是个瘾君子吗？
[1]两者皆与基督教科学派的教义相关。
[2]英国著名的火车模型玩具制造商品牌。
Thirteen ALAN CARSTAIRS
Thirteen ALAN CARSTAIRS
Strangely enough, she received confirmation of this theory no later thanthe following day, and it came from Roger.
They had been playing a single at tennis against each other and were sit-ting afterwards sipping iced drinks.
They had been talking about various indifferent subjects and Frankiehad become more and more sensible of the charm of someone who had,like Roger Bassington-ffrench, travelled about all over the world. The fam-ily ne’er-do-weel, she could not help thinking, contrasted very favourablywith his heavy, serious-minded brother.
A pause had fallen while these thoughts were passing through Frankie’smind. It was broken by Roger—speaking this time in an entirely differenttone of voice.
“Lady Frances, I’m going to do a rather peculiar thing. I’ve known youless than twenty-four hours, but I feel instinctively that you’re the one per-son I can ask advice from.”
“Advice?” said Frankie, surprised.
“Yes. I can’t make up my mind between two different courses of action.”
He paused. He was leaning forward, swinging a racquet between hisknees, a light frown on his forehead. He looked worried and upset.
“It’s about my brother, Lady Frances.”
“Yes?”
“He is taking drugs. I am sure of it.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Frankie.
“Everything. His appearance. His extraordinary changes of mood. Andhave you noticed his eyes? The pupils are like pinpoints.”
“I had noticed that,” admitted Frankie. “What do you think it is?”
“Morphia or some form of opium.”
“Has it been going on for long?”
“I date the beginning of it from about six months ago. I remember thathe complained of sleeplessness a good deal. How he first came to take thestuff, I don’t know, but I think it must have begun soon after then.”
“How does he get hold of it?” inquired Frankie practically.
“I think it comes to him by post. Have you noticed that he is particularlynervous and irritable some days at tea time?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I suspect that that is when he has finished up his supply and is waitingfor more. Then, after the six o’clock post has come, he goes into his studyand emerges for dinner in quite a different mood.”
Frankie nodded. She remembered that unnatural brilliance of conversa-tion sometimes at dinner.
“But where does the supply come from?” she asked.
“Ah, that I don’t know. No reputable doctor would give it to him. Thereare, I suppose, various sources where one could get it in London by payinga big price.”
Frankie nodded thoughtfully.
She was remembering having said to Bobby something about a gang ofdrug smugglers and his replying that one could not mix up too manycrimes. It was queer that so soon in their investigations they should havecome upon the traces of such a thing.
It was queerer that it should be the chief suspect who should draw herattention to the fact. It made her more inclined than ever to acquit RogerBassington-ffrench of the charge of murder.
And yet there was the inexplicable matter of the changed photograph.
The evidence against him, she reminded herself, was still exactly what ithad been. On the other side was only the personality of the man himself.
And everyone always said that murderers were charming people!
She shook off these reflections and turned to her companion.
“Why exactly are you telling me this?” she asked frankly.
“Because I don’t know what to do about Sylvia,” he said simply.
“You think she doesn’t know?”
“Of course she doesn’t know. Ought I to tell her?”
“It’s very difficult—”
“It is difficult. That’s why I thought you might be able to help me. Sylviahas taken a great fancy to you. She doesn’t care much for any of thepeople round about, but she liked you at once, she tells me. What ought Ito do, Lady Frances? By telling her I shall add a great burden to her life.”
“If she knew she might have some influence,” suggested Frankie.
“I doubt it. When it’s a case of drug-taking, nobody, even the nearest anddearest, has any influence.”
“That’s rather a hopeless point of view, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fact. There are ways, of course. If Henry would only consent to goin for a cure—there’s a place actually near here. Run by a Dr. Nicholson.”
“But he’d never consent, would he?”
“He might. You can catch a morphia taker in a mood of extravagant re-morse sometimes when they’d do anything to cure themselves. I’m in-clined to think that Henry might be got to that frame of mind more easilyif he thought Sylvia didn’t know—if her knowing was held over him as akind of threat. If the cure was successful (they’d call it ‘nerves,’ of course)she never need know.”
“Would he have to go away for the cure?”
“The place I mean is about three miles from here, the other side of thevillage. It’s run by a Canadian—Dr. Nicholson. A very clever man, I be-lieve. And, fortunately, Henry likes him. Hush—here comes Sylvia.”
Mrs. Bassington-ffrench joined them, observing:
“Have you been very energetic?”
“Three sets,” said Frankie. “And I was beaten every time.”
“You play a very good game,” said Roger.
“I’m terribly lazy about tennis,” said Sylvia. “We must ask the Nich-olsons over one day. She’s very fond of a game. Why—what is it?” She hadcaught the glance the other two had exchanged.
“Nothing—only I happened to be talking about the Nicholsons to LadyFrances.”
“You’d better call her Frankie like I do,” said Sylvia. “Isn’t it odd howwhenever one talks of any person or thing, somebody else does the sameimmediately afterwards?”
“They are Canadians, aren’t they?” inquired Frankie.
“He is, certainly. I rather fancy she is English, but I’m not sure. She’s avery pretty little thing—quite charming with the most lovely big wistfuleyes. Somehow or other, I fancy she isn’t terribly happy. It must be a de-pressing life.”
“He runs a kind of sanatorium, doesn’t he?”
“Yes—nerve cases and people who take drugs. He’s very successful, I be-lieve. He’s rather an impressive man.”
“You like him?”
“No,” said Sylvia abruptly, “I don’t.” And rather vehemently, after a mo-ment or two, she added: “Not at all.”
Later on, she pointed out to Frankie a photograph of a charming large-eyed woman which stood on the piano.
“That’s Moira Nicholson. An appealing face, isn’t it? A man who camedown here with some friends of ours some time ago was quite struck withit. He wanted an introduction to her, I think.”
She laughed.
“I’ll ask them to dinner tomorrow night. I’d like to know what you thinkof him.”
“Him?”
“Yes. As I told you, I dislike him, and yet he’s quite an attractive-lookingman.”
Something in her tone made Frankie look at her quickly, but SylviaBassington-ffrench had turned away and was taking some dead flowersout of a vase.
“I must collect my ideas,” thought Frankie, as she drew a comb throughher thick dark hair when dressing for dinner that night. “And,” she addedresolutely, “it’s time I made a few experiments.”
Was, or was not, Roger Bassington-ffrench the villain she and Bobby as-sumed him to be?
She and Bobby had agreed that whoever had tried to put the latter outof the way must have easy access to morphia. Now in a way this held goodfor Roger Bassington-ffrench. If his brother received supplies of morphiaby post, it would be easy enough for Roger to abstract a packet and use itfor his own purposes.
“Mem.,” wrote Frankie on a sheet of paper: “(1) Find out where Rogerwas on the 16th—day when Bobby was poisoned.”
She thought she saw her way to doing that fairly clearly.
“(2),” she wrote. “Produce picture of dead man and observe reactions ifany. Also note if R.B.F. admits being in Marchbolt then.”
She felt slightly nervous over the second resolution. It meant coming outinto the open. On the other hand, the tragedy had happened in her ownpart of the world, and to mention it casually would be the most naturalthing in the world.
She crumpled up the sheet of paper and burnt it.
She managed to introduce the first point fairly naturally at dinner.
“You know,” she said frankly to Roger. “I can’t help feeling that we’vemet before. And it wasn’t very long ago, either. It wasn’t, by any chance, atthat party of Lady Shane’s at Claridges. On the 16th it was.”
“It couldn’t have been on the 16th,” said Sylvia quickly. “Roger was herethen. I remember, because we had a children’s party that day and what Ishould have done without Roger I simply don’t know.”
She gave a grateful glance at her brother-in-law and he smiled back ather.
“I don’t feel I’ve ever met you before,” he said thoughtfully to Frankie,and added: “I’m sure if I had I’d remember it.”
He said it rather nicely.
“One point settled,” thought Frankie. “Roger Bassington-ffrench was notin Wales on the day that Bobby was poisoned.”
The second point came up fairly easily later. Frankie led the talk tocountry places, the dullness thereof, and the interest aroused by any localexcitement.
“We had a man fall over the cliff last month,” she remarked. “We wereall thrilled to the core. I went to the inquest full of excitement, but it wasall rather dull, really.”
“Was that a place called Marchbolt?” asked Sylvia suddenly.
Frankie nodded.
“Derwent Castle is only about seven miles from Marchbolt,” she ex-plained.
“Roger, that must have been your man,” cried Sylvia.
Frankie looked inquiringly at him.
“I was actually in at the death,” said Roger. “I stayed with the body tillthe police came.”
“I thought one of the Vicar’s sons did that,” said Frankie.
“He had to go off to play the organ or something—so I took over.”
“How perfectly extraordinary,” said Frankie. “I did hear somebody elsehad been there, too, but I never heard the name. So it was you?”
There was a general atmosphere of “How curious. Isn’t the worldsmall?” Frankie felt she was doing this rather well.
“Perhaps that’s where you saw me before—in Marchbolt?” suggestedRoger.
“I wasn’t there actually at the time of the accident,” said Frankie. “Icame back from London a couple of days afterwards. Were you at the in-quest?”
“No. I went back to London the morning after the tragedy.”
“He had some absurd idea of buying a house down there,” said Sylvia.
“Utter nonsense,” said Henry Bassington-ffrench.
“Not at all,” said Roger good-humouredly.
“You know perfectly well, Roger, that as soon as you’d bought it, you’dget a fit of wanderlust and go off abroad again.”
“Oh, I shall settle down some day, Sylvia.”
“When you do you’d better settle down near us,” said Sylvia. “Not go offto Wales.”
Roger laughed. Then he turned to Frankie.
“Any points of interest about the accident? It didn’t turn out to be sui-cide or anything?”
“Oh, no, it was all painfully aboveboard and some appalling relationscame and identified the man. He was on a walking tour, it seems. Verysad, really, because he was awfully good-looking. Did you see his picturein the papers?”
“I think I did,” said Sylvia vaguely. “But I don’t remember.”
“I’ve got a cutting upstairs from our local paper.”
Frankie was all eagerness. She ran upstairs and came down with thecutting in her hand. She gave it to Sylvia. Roger came and looked overSylvia’s shoulder.
“Don’t you think he’s good-looking?” she demanded in a rather school-girl manner.
“He is, rather,” said Sylvia. “He looks very like that man, Alan Carstairs,don’t you think so, Roger? I believe I remembered saying so at the time.”
“He’s got quite a look of him here,” agreed Roger. “But there wasn’tmuch real resemblance, you know.”
“You can’t tell from newspaper pictures, can you?” said Sylvia, as shehanded the cutting back.
Frankie agreed that you couldn’t.
The conversation passed to other matters.
Frankie went to bed undecided. Everyone seemed to have reacted withperfect naturalness. Roger’s house-hunting stunt had been no secret.
The only thing she had succeeded in getting was a name. The name ofAlan Carstairs.
第十三章 艾伦·卡斯泰尔斯
第十三章 艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯
说来也怪，她的这一想法还没到第二天就得到了确认，而且还是从罗杰口中。
他们打了一会儿网球，之后便坐在一起小口喝着冰镇饮料。
他们一直在谈论各种各样无关紧要的话题，而弗兰基越来越能感觉到像罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇这样周游了世界各地的人所散发出的魅力。她忍不住想到，家里这个一事无成的人，比他那个身形笨重、不苟言笑的哥哥亨利可爱多了。
就在弗兰基这么想的时候，两人的谈话也停了下来。最终罗杰打破了沉默，这次他说话的语气与之前截然不同。
“弗朗西斯小姐，我打算做一件不太寻常的事情。我认识你还不到二十四小时，但我本能地觉得你是个值得信赖的人，我需要你的建议。”
“建议？”弗兰基惊讶地问道。
“是的，我在两种不同的做法之间犹豫不决。”
他停顿了一下，随后身子向前俯下，球拍在两膝之间晃动，额间眉头微蹙，看上去一副忧心忡忡的样子。
“跟我哥哥有关，弗朗西斯小姐。”
“哦？”
“我很确定他在吸毒。”
“你凭什么这么说？”弗兰基问道。
“凭他的外表，他那种躁郁的脾气，和他有关的一切。你注意到他的眼睛了吗？他的瞳孔小得就像针尖一样。”
“我注意到了。”弗兰基承认道，“你认为他用的是什么？”
“吗啡或者某种鸦片类的东西。”
“这件事持续很久了吗？”
“应该是从六个月前开始的。我记得他那会儿一直在抱怨失眠，不知道他最初怎么会想到要碰那东西，但他肯定是在那之后不久开始吸的。”
“他是怎么搞到毒品的？”弗兰基几乎是在打听了。
“我觉得是有人给他寄过来的。你注意到了吗？在某些日子里，一到下午茶时间他就尤其神经质，爱发脾气。”
“没错，我注意到了。”
“我怀疑那就是他用完了手头的存货，等着更多毒品送来的时候。然后，六点钟的邮包一到，他就进到书房里去，直到吃晚饭再露面，整个人的情绪就完全不一样了。”
弗兰基点点头，她记起了有时亨利在晚餐桌上那种异常的神采奕奕。
“可那些存货又是来自何方的呢？”她问道。
“啊，那我可就不知道了。没有哪个有名望的医生会给他提供这种东西的。我猜要是肯出大价钱的话，你能在伦敦通过各种各样的渠道搞到。”
弗兰基若有所思地点了点头。
她想起之前跟博比分析这起案件的时候，她还提出过背后可能有一伙毒品走私犯，博比则说她不能把这么多种犯罪联系到一块儿。真奇怪，他们的调查工作这么快就找到了暗示这种可能性的蛛丝马迹。
更奇怪的是，把她的注意力引向这个事实的竟然是他们的主要嫌疑人。这令她比以往任何时候都更倾向于认定罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇是无辜的。
但是还有一件令人费解的事，那便是调换照片的行为。她提醒自己，对他不利的证据依然跟原来毫无二致。相反，让她相信他的清白的证据只有他本身的人格特点，而大家总是说杀人凶手都是富有魅力的人！
她甩掉这些想法，转向了她的同伴。
“你究竟为什么要告诉我这些呢？”她坦率地问道。
“因为我不知道该怎么面对西尔维娅。”他简单地回答道。
“你认为她还不知道？”
“她当然还不知道，我应该告诉她吗？”
“这个很难——”
“的确很难。这也是我为什么觉得你或许可以帮忙，西尔维娅特别喜欢你。她对周围的人都不怎么在意，但她告诉我，她一眼就喜欢上你了。我该怎么办，弗朗西斯小姐？我要是告诉她的话，就会给她平添一个沉重的负担。”
“她要是知道了的话，也许能施加些影响呢？”弗兰基提议道。
“我很怀疑。一旦涉及吸毒，没人能施加什么影响，哪怕是最亲近、最亲爱的人。”
“这是个有点让人绝望的观点，不是吗？”
“这是事实。当然了，办法是有的。只要亨利能同意去接受治疗，实际上这附近就有个地方，是尼科尔森医生开办的。”
“但他绝不会同意的，对吗？”
“也许会。有时候吸食吗啡的人会沉浸在极度悔恨中，这时他们为了治愈自己会不惜一切代价。我倒觉得如果亨利认为西尔维娅不知道这件事，反倒更容易进入那种心境之中。
暴露自己吸食毒品的事实本身就是一种威胁。假如治疗能够成功（当然，他们会把这种问题称为‘神经紧张’），她也就永远都不需要知道了。”
“他必须要离开家去接受治疗吗？”
“那个地方距这里有三英里左右，在村子的另一边。经营者尼科尔森医生是个加拿大人。我相信他是个非常聪明的人，而且很幸运的是，亨利也喜欢他。嘘——西尔维娅过来了。”
巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太来到他们身边，说：
“你们俩一直这么精力充沛吗？”
“打了三盘，”弗兰基说，“每盘都是我输。”
“你打得非常好。”罗杰说。
“我就特别懒得打网球，”西尔维娅说，“哪天我们必须把尼科尔森夫妇请过来。尼科尔森太太很喜欢打比赛。哎，你们怎么回事？”她发现另外两人交换了一下眼色。
“没什么，只是我碰巧正跟弗朗西斯小姐说起尼科尔森夫妇呢。”
“你最好像我一样叫她弗兰基，”西尔维娅说，“无论什么时候，当一个人说起什么人或者什么事，另一个人紧接着也说起这个人或者这件事，不是挺奇怪的吗？”
“他们是加拿大人，对不对？”弗兰基问道。
“尼科尔森医生肯定是。我倒觉得他太太是个英国人，不过我也说不准。她是个特别漂亮的姑娘，那双极其可爱、充满渴望的大眼睛让她显得楚楚动人。不知为什么，我总觉得她并不是特别幸福。她的生活肯定很沉闷。”
“他开了一家疗养院之类的机构吧，对不对？”
“是的，收治那些有精神疾病的人和吸毒的人。我相信他做得很成功，他是个挺了不起的人。”
“你喜欢他吗？”
“不，”西尔维娅断然道，“我不喜欢他。”片刻之后，她又激烈地补充道：“一点儿都不喜欢。”
再后来，她指给弗兰基看一张立在钢琴上的照片，上面是一位迷人的女子，她有一双美丽的大眼睛。
“她就是莫伊拉•尼科尔森。一张令人心动的脸，对不对？前些日子有个人跟我们的几个朋友到这儿来，这张脸就给他留下了很深刻的印象。照我看，他还想让人把他介绍给她呢。”
她大笑起来。
“我明天会请他们过来吃晚饭，真想知道你对他怎么看。”
“对他？”
“没错啊。我告诉你啦，我不喜欢他，可他又是个相貌相当英俊的人。”
她语气中的某些东西让弗兰基禁不住飞快地看了她一眼，但西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇已经转过身去，正把一些凋谢的花朵从花瓶中拿出来。
“我必须整理整理思路。”弗兰基一面为那天的晚餐梳妆打扮，用梳子梳理一头浓密的黑发，一边思忖着。“而且，”她毅然决然地想道，“也该去做几个试验了。”
罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇究竟是不是她和博比假定的那个罪魁祸首呢？
她和博比一致认同，想要置博比于死地的人肯定能很轻易地获得吗啡。如今从某种程度上来说，罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇正好符合这一点。如果他哥哥是通过邮寄得到吗啡的话，那么对罗杰而言，从中抽取一包为自己所用简直就是易如反掌。
“备忘录，”弗兰基在一张纸上写道：“（1）查明罗杰十六日，也就是博比被人下毒的那天在何处。”
她觉得她有办法弄清楚这件事。
“（2），”她又写道，“出示死者的照片，观察一下会引起什么反应。同时留意罗杰是否承认他当时在马奇博尔特。”
对于第二个决定，她略微感到了一丝紧张，那样就意味着要把这件事挑明了。但从另一个角度来说，这桩惨剧就发生在她自己那一方宝地上，随口提起应该也算是这世上最自然不过的事情了。
她把那张纸揉成一团后烧掉了。
晚饭的时候，她想方设法自然地把话题引到了第一个问题上。
“你知道吗，”她坦诚地对罗杰说道，“我总觉得咱们以前在哪儿见过，就在不久之前。
不会是在沙恩夫人家的宴会上吧？就在克拉里奇斯，十六号那天。”
“不可能是在十六号，”西尔维娅马上说，“那天罗杰在这里。因为那天我们给孩子们举办了一次派对，我都不知道要是没有罗杰我该怎么办。”
说罢，她对罗杰投去了感激的一瞥，而他则对之报以一个微笑。
“我还真没觉得以前见过你，”他沉思着对弗兰基说，随即又接口道，“我敢保证，咱们要是见过面的话，我肯定会记得。”
他这句话说得很是得体。
“一个问题解决了，”弗兰基心想，“博比被人下毒的那天罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇不在威尔士。”
稍后再提起第二个问题就相当简单了。弗兰基把话题引向了乡村，说那里沉闷乏味，任何令人兴奋的新闻都能激起当地人的关注。
“上个月我们那儿有个人从悬崖上掉下去了，”她说，“我们都兴奋得不得了。我满心激动地去参加了死因调查听证会，可那场听证会实在太无聊了。”
“是在一个叫马奇博尔特的地方吗？”西尔维娅突然问道。
弗兰基点点头。
“德温特城堡距马奇博尔特只有大约七英里。”她解释道。
“罗杰，那肯定是你说的那个人啊。”西尔维娅叫道。
弗兰基以探询的目光望着他。
“实际上那人死的时候我就在场，”罗杰说，“我在尸体旁边，一直待到警察赶过来。”
“我还以为守在那儿的是牧师的一个儿子呢。”弗兰基说。
“他要去演奏风琴还是什么的，非走不可，于是我就接替了他。”
“真是神奇，”弗兰基说，“我确实听说另外还有个人也在，不过我从来都没听人提过名字。这么说来，那个人就是你喽？”
空气中弥漫着一种“多神奇啊，这世界真是太小了”的氛围。弗兰基感到自己这一招使得相当不错。
“也许你以前就是在那儿看见我的吧，在马奇博尔特？”罗杰提醒道。
“事实上意外发生的时候我并不在那里，”弗兰基说，“我是又过了几天才从伦敦回去的。你参加死因调查听证会了吗？”
“没有。悲剧发生后第二天早上我就回伦敦了。”
“他起了个荒唐的念头，想在那儿买栋房子。”西尔维娅说。
“根本就是胡闹。”亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇说。
“才不是呢。”罗杰和颜悦色地说。
“你自己也清楚得很，罗杰，等你一买下来，你的旅行癖就要犯，又要出国去了。”
“哦，西尔维娅，总有一天我会安定下来的。”
“你安定下来的时候最好就住在我们附近，”西尔维娅说，“可别跑到威尔士去。”
罗杰哈哈大笑起来，接着转向了弗兰基。
“那起意外还有什么有意思的事情吗？是不是还没搞清楚死因是自杀还是别的？”
“哦，不是的，一切都已经真相大白了，来了几个有点吓人的亲戚，确认了那个人的身份。当时他似乎正在做一次徒步旅行。说实话，真的很悲惨，因为他长得帅极了。你们在报纸上见过他的照片吗？”
“我觉得我看见过，”西尔维娅说得有些模棱两可，“不过我记不清了。”
“我楼上房间里有一张从当地报纸上剪下来的剪报。”
弗兰基有些急不可耐。她跑上楼去，下来的时候手里拿着那张剪报，把它递给了西尔维娅。罗杰走了过来，目光越过西尔维娅的肩头看去。
“你们不觉得他很帅吗？”她问话的口气就像个小女生似的。
“是挺英俊的，”西尔维娅说，“看上去特别像那个叫艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯的人，罗杰，你不觉得吗？我记得我当时就这么说过。”
“光看照片确实挺像的，”罗杰表示赞同，“不过你要知道，他们其实并没有多少相似之处。”
“光看报纸照片也说不准，对吧？”西尔维娅边说边将剪报递还回去。
弗兰基也附和了一句。
谈话随即转向了其他事情。
弗兰基上床睡觉的时候心里还是没想明白。每个人的反应看起来都无比自然，也都知道罗杰是去找房子的。
她唯一的成功便是获知了一个名字：艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯。
Fourteen DR. NICHOLSON
Fourteen DR. NICHOLSON
Frankie attacked Sylvia the following morning.
She started by saying carelessly:
“What was that man’s name you mentioned last night? Alan Carstairs,was it? I feel sure I’ve heard that name before.”
“I daresay you have. He’s rather a celebrity in his way, I believe. He’s aCanadian—a naturalist and big game hunter and explorer. I don’t reallyknow him. Some friends of ours, the Rivingtons, brought him down hereone day for lunch. A very attractive man—big and bronzed and nice blueeyes.”
“I was sure I’d heard of him.”
“He’d never been over to this country before, I believe. Last year hewent on a tour through Africa with that millionaire man, John Savage—the one who thought he had cancer and killed himself in that tragic way.
Carstairs has been all over the world. East Africa, South America—simplyeverywhere, I believe.”
“Sounds a nice adventurous person,” said Frankie.
“Oh, he was. Distinctly attractive.”
“Funny—his being so like the man who fell over the cliff at Marchbolt,”
said Frankie.
“I wonder if everyone has a double.”
They compared instances, citing Adolf Beck and referring lightly to theLyons Mail. Frankie was careful to make no further references to AlanCarstairs. To show too much interest in him would be fatal.
In her own mind, however, she felt she was getting on now. She wasquite convinced that Alan Carstairs had been the victim of the cliff tragedyat Marchbolt. He fulfilled all the conditions. He had no intimate friends orrelations in this country and his disappearance was unlikely to be noticedfor some time. A man who frequently ran off to East Africa and SouthAmerica was not likely to be missed at once. Moreover, Frankie noted, al-though Sylvia Bassington-ffrench had commented on the resemblance inthe newspaper reproduction, it had not occurred to her for a moment thatit actually was the man.
That, Frankie thought, was rather an interesting bit of psychology.
We seldom suspect people who are “news” of being people we have usu-ally seen or met.
Very good, then. Alan Carstairs was the dead man. The next step was tolearn more about Alan Carstairs. His connection with the Bassington-ffrenches seemed to have been of the slightest. He had been brought downthere quite by chance by friends. What was the name? Rivington. Frankiestored it in her memory for future use.
That certainly was a possible avenue of inquiry. But it would be well togo slowly. Inquiries about Alan Carstairs must be very discreetly made.
“I don’t want to be poisoned or knocked on the head,” thought Frankiewith a grimace. “They were ready enough to bump off Bobby for practic-ally nothing at all—”
Her thoughts flew off at a tangent to that tantalizing phrase that hadstarted the whole business.
Evans! Who was Evans? Where did Evans fit in?
“A dope gang,” decided Frankie. Perhaps some relation of Carstairs wasvictimized, and he was determined to bust it up. Perhaps he came to Eng-land for that purpose. Evans may have been one of the gang who had re-tired and gone to Wales to live. Carstairs had bribed Evans to give the oth-ers away and Evans had consented and Carstairs went there to see him,and someone followed him and killed him.
Was that somebody Roger Bassington-ffrench? It seemed very unlikely.
The Caymans, now, were far more what Frankie imagined a gang of dopesmugglers would be likely to be.
And yet—that photograph. If only there was some explanation of thatphotograph.
That evening, Dr. Nicholson and his wife were expected to dinner.
Frankie was finishing dressing when she heard their car drive up to thefront door. Her window faced that way and she looked out.
A tall man was just alighting from the driver’s seat of a dark-blue Talbot.
Frankie withdrew her head thoughtfully.
Carstairs had been a Canadian. Dr. Nicholson was a Canadian. And Dr.
Nicholson had a dark-blue Talbot.
Absurd to build anything upon that, of course, but wasn’t it just faintlysuggestive?
Dr. Nicholson was a big man with a manner that suggested great re-serves of power. His speech was slow, on the whole he said very little, butcontrived somehow to make every word sound significant. He wore strongglasses and behind them his very pale-blue eyes glittered reflectively.
His wife was a slender creature of perhaps twenty-seven, pretty, indeedbeautiful. She seemed, Frankie, thought, slightly nervous and chatteredrather feverishly as though to conceal the fact.
“You had an accident, I hear, Lady Frances,” said Dr. Nicholson as hetook his seat beside her at the dinner table.
Frankie explained the catastrophe. She wondered why she should feelso nervous doing so. The doctor’s manner was simple and interested. Whyshould she feel as though she were rehearsing a defence to a charge thathad never been made. Was there any earthly reason why the doctorshould disbelieve in her accident?
“That was too bad,” he said, as she finished, having, perhaps, made amore detailed story of it than seemed strictly necessary. “But you seem tohave made a very good recovery.”
“We won’t admit she’s cured yet. We’re keeping her with us,” saidSylvia.
The doctor’s gaze went to Sylvia. Something like a very faint smile cameto his lips but passed almost immediately.
“I should keep her with you as long as possible,” he said gravely.
Frankie was sitting between her host and Dr. Nicholson. Henry Bassing-ton-ffrench was decidedly moody tonight. His hands twitched, he ate nextto nothing and he took no part in the conversation.
Mrs. Nicholson, opposite, had a difficult time with him, and turned toRoger with obvious relief. She talked to him in a desultory fashion, butFrankie noticed that her eyes were never long absent from her husband’sface.
Dr. Nicholson was talking about life in the country.
“Do you know what a culture is, Lady Frances?”
“Do you mean book learning?” asked Frankie, rather puzzled.
“No, no. I was referring to germs. They develop, you know, in speciallyprepared serum. The country, Lady Frances, is a little like that. There istime and space and infinite leisure—suitable conditions, you see, for de-velopment.”
“Do you mean bad things?” asked Frankie puzzled.
“That depends, Lady Frances, on the kind of germ cultivated.”
Idiotic conversation, thought Frankie, and why should it make me feelcreepy, but it does!
She said flippantly:
“I expect I’m developing all sorts of dark qualities.”
He looked at her and said calmly:
“Oh, no, I don’t think so, Lady Frances. I think you would always be onthe side of law and order.”
Was there a faint emphasis on the word law?
Suddenly, across the table, Mrs. Nicholson said:
“My husband prides himself on summing up character.”
Dr. Nicholson nodded his head gently.
“Quite right, Moira. Little things interest me.” He turned to Frankieagain. “I had heard of your accident, you know. One thing about it in-trigued me very much.”
“Yes?” said Frankie, her heart beating suddenly.
“The doctor who was passing—the one who brought you in here.”
“Yes?”
“He must have had a curious character—to turn his car before going tothe rescue.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not. You were unconscious. But young Reeves, the messageboy, came from Staverley on his bicycle and no car passed him, yet hecomes round the corner, finds the smash, and the doctor’s car pointing thesame way he was going—towards London. You see the point? The doctordid not come from the direction of Staveley so he must have come theother way, down the hill. But in that case his car should have been point-ing towards Staverley. But it wasn’t. Therefore he must have turned it.”
“Unless he had come from Staverley some time before,” said Frankie.
“Then his car would have been standing there as you came down thehill. Was it?”
The pale-blue eyes were looking at her very intently through the thickglasses.
“I don’t remember,” said Frankie. “I don’t think so.”
“You sound like a detective, Jasper,” said Mrs. Nicholson. “And all aboutnothing at all.”
“Little things interest me,” said Nicholson.
He turned to his hostess, and Frankie drew a breath of relief.
Why had he catechized her like that? How had he found out all aboutthe accident? “Little things interest me,” he had said. Was that all therewas to it?
Frankie remembered the dark- blue Talbot saloon, and the fact thatCarstairs had been a Canadian. It seemed to her that Dr. Nicholson was asinister man.
She kept out of his way after dinner, attaching herself to the gentle, fra-gile Mrs. Nicholson. She noticed that all the time Mrs. Nicholson’s eyes stillwatched her husband. Was it love, Frankie wondered, or fear?
Nicholson devoted himself to Sylvia and at half past ten he caught hiswife’s eye and they rose to go.
“Well,” said Roger after they had gone, “what do you think of our Dr.
Nicholson? A very forceful personality, hasn’t he?”
“I’m like Sylvia,” said Frankie. “I don’t think I like him very much. I likeher better.”
“Good-looking, but rather a little idiot,” said Roger. “She either worshipshim or is scared to death of him—I don’t know which.”
“That’s just what I wondered,” agreed Frankie.
“I don’t like him,” said Sylvia, “but I must admit that he’s got a lot of—offorce. I believe he’s cured drugtakers in the most marvellous way. Peoplewhose relations despaired utterly. They’ve gone there as a last hope andcome out absolutely cured.”
“Yes,” cried Henry Bassington- ffrench suddenly. “And do you knowwhat goes on there? Do you know the awful suffering and mental tor-ment? A man’s used to a drug and they cut him off it—cut him off it—tillhe goes raving mad for the lack of it and beats his head against the wall.
That’s what he does — your ‘forceful’ doctor tortures people — torturesthem—sends them to Hell—drives them mad. .?.?.”
He was shaking violently. Suddenly he turned and left the room.
Sylvia Bassington-ffrench looked startled.
“What is the matter with Henry?” she said wonderingly. “He seems veryupset.”
Frankie and Roger dared not look at each other.
“He’s not looked well all evening,” ventured Frankie.
“No. I noticed that. He’s very moody lately. I wish he hadn’t given upriding. Oh, by the way, Dr. Nicholson invited Tommy over tomorrow, but Idon’t like him going there very much — not with all those queer nervecases and dope-takers.”
“I don’t suppose the doctor would allow him to come into contact withthem,” said Roger. “He seems very fond of children.”
“Yes, I think it’s a disappointment he hasn’t got any of his own. Probablyto her, too. She looks very sad—and terribly delicate.”
“She’s like a sad Madonna,” said Frankie.
“Yes, that describes her very well.”
“If Dr. Nicholson is so fond of children I suppose he came to your chil-dren’s party?” said Frankie carelessly.
“Unfortunately he was away for a day or two just then. I think he had togo to London for some conference.”
“I see.”
They went up to bed. Before she went to sleep, Frankie wrote to Bobby.
第十四章 尼科尔森医生
第十四章 尼科尔森医生
第二天早上，弗兰基又对西尔维娅展开了攻势。
她开始的话说得漫不经心：
“你昨天晚上提到的那个人叫什么来着？艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯，对吗？我觉得我以前肯定听过这个名字。”
“我猜你肯定听说过，他在他那行里也算颇有名气。他是加拿大人，是个博物学家，还是专打大型动物的猎人和探险家。我其实并不认识他，有一天我们的朋友里文顿夫妇带他来吃过午饭，他是个魅力十足的男人，身材魁梧，皮肤晒成了古铜色，还有一双漂亮的蓝眼睛。”
“我肯定听说过他。”
“他可能以前从没来过这个国家。去年他和那个叫约翰•萨维奇的百万富翁游历了非洲。萨维奇就是那个认为自己得了癌症，然后自杀了的可怜人。卡斯泰尔斯的足迹遍布世界各地。东非、南美……他真的是哪儿都去过。”
“听起来是个很棒的冒险家呢。”弗兰基说。
“哦，没错，确实魅力十足。”
“真奇怪，他跟在马奇博尔特掉下悬崖的那个人长得那么像。”弗兰基说。
“我不知道是不是每个人都会有个翻版。”
他们开始对比实例，说到了阿道夫•贝克 [1] ，又稍带提起了莱昂斯•梅尔。弗兰基特别小心地不再谈及艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯。对他表现出过于浓厚的兴趣可能会带来严重的后果。
她觉得自己正在取得进展。她相当确信艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯就是马奇博尔特悬崖惨案的受害者。他满足了所有的条件：他在这个国家没有至亲好友，他的失踪在一段时间内不会引起关注。一个动不动就跑去东非和南美的人不太可能有人一直惦念着。而且，弗兰基还注意到，尽管西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇对报纸上那张照片和艾伦的相似之处发表了一番见解，但她完全没有想到死者其实就是那个人。
弗兰基心想，这还真是个有趣的心理现象。
我们很少会怀疑“新闻报道”中的人物就是我们常常看到或遇见的人。
这样一来就好极了。艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯是那个死者，接下来就需要多了解一些他的情况。他与巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家之间的联系看起来似乎无足轻重，只是碰巧被朋友带到这里来的。带他来的那个人叫什么来着？里文顿。弗兰基记下了这个名字，以备日后使用。
这当然是一条可能会有用的线索，不过最好还是慢慢来。对艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯的调查必须进行得极其小心。
“我可不想被人下毒或者敲脑袋，”弗兰基想到此处做了个鬼脸，“他们已经做好了无缘无故干掉博比的准备——”
她突然想到了那句令人百思不得其解的话，那是整件事情的开端。
埃文斯！埃文斯是谁？埃文斯跟这件事又有什么关系？
“一个贩毒团伙。”弗兰基断定是这样。或许卡斯泰尔斯的某个亲戚深受其害，而他下定决心要把它搞垮。或许他就是为此来到英格兰的。埃文斯没准儿曾经是团伙的成员之一，如今已经退了休，来到威尔士定居。卡斯泰尔斯贿赂了埃文斯，让他把其他人供出来，而埃文斯同意了。卡斯泰尔斯去见埃文斯，被人跟踪，然后杀害了。
跟踪并且杀害他的人是罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇吗？看起来不太可能。凯曼夫妇倒更像是弗兰基想象中的毒品走私贩。
可是还有那张照片呢，要是那张照片也能有个解释就好了。
当天晚上，尼科尔森医生和他太太来吃晚饭。他们的车开到门前时，弗兰基刚刚穿好衣服。她的窗户正对着那条路，于是向窗外望去。
一个高个子男人正从一辆深蓝色塔尔博特的驾驶座上下来。
弗兰基若有所思地把头往回缩了缩。
卡斯泰尔斯是加拿大人，尼科尔森医生也是加拿大人。而且尼科尔森医生有一辆深蓝色的塔尔博特。
当然，在此基础上得出什么结论都是很荒唐的，但难道这不像是在隐约暗示着什么吗？
尼科尔森医生身材高大，举手投足间给人一种大权在握的感觉。他说话的语速很慢，也不怎么开口，却总能让每个字都掷地有声。他戴着一副厚厚的眼镜，镜片后那双浅蓝色的眼睛闪烁着深思熟虑的光芒。
他的妻子身材苗条，约莫二十七岁，相貌标致，应该说是非常漂亮。弗兰基心想，她看起来似乎有点儿焦虑不安，一直在兴奋地喋喋不休，仿佛要隐瞒什么似的。
“我听说您出了一次车祸，弗朗西斯小姐。”尼科尔森医生说，在餐桌旁落座，紧挨着她。
弗兰基解释了那场飞来横祸。她不知道自己为什么在讲述的时候那么紧张。医生的态度很单纯，听得津津有味。可她怎么觉得自己就像是在为一项不存在的指控做辩护预演似的呢？医生又为何会对她的车祸产生怀疑呢？
“真是太不幸了，”医生等她讲完之后说道，她似乎根本没必要把这个故事讲得那么详尽，“不过你看上去已经恢复得很好了。”
“我们还不想承认她已经好了呢，还想让她多陪陪我们。”西尔维娅说。
医生凝视着西尔维娅。他唇边好像浮现了一抹淡淡的微笑，但几乎转瞬即逝。
“我得尽可能让她陪你们待得久一点儿。”他严肃地说道。
弗兰基坐在男主人和尼科尔森医生之间。亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇今晚明显有些闷闷不乐。
他的双手在抽搐，几乎什么都没吃，也没有参与谈话。
坐在他对面的尼科尔森太太很不自在，不过和罗杰谈话显然令她如释重负。她跟他东拉西扯地聊着天，但弗兰基注意到，她的目光从来没有离开过她丈夫的脸庞太久。
尼科尔森医生正说起乡间生活。
“你知道什么是培养物 [2] 吗，弗朗西斯小姐？”
“您指的是书本知识？”弗兰基一头雾水地问道。
“不，不。我是说像细菌这样的微生物。你知道吗，它们会在专门制备好的血清中生长繁殖。乡村就有点像这种环境。这里有时间，有空间，有无尽的闲暇——你瞧，很适合各种事物形成和发展。”
“您的意思是坏的事物吗？”弗兰基困惑地问。
“那就取决于所培养的细菌的种类了，弗朗西斯小姐。”
真是白痴般的对话，弗兰基暗忖道，但为什么会让她有些不寒而栗呢！
她轻率地随口说：
“我身上似乎培育出了各种邪恶的品质呢。”
他看着她，平静地说道：
“哦，不，弗朗西斯小姐，我认为不是的。我觉得你始终都会站在法律和秩序这一边。”
他在说法律这两个字的时候是不是略微强调了一下呢？
这时，桌子对面的尼科尔森太太突然开口道：
“我丈夫很会总结概括人的性格特点。”
尼科尔森医生轻轻点了点头。
“完全正确，莫伊拉。我喜欢关注细节。”他又一次转向了弗兰基，“你知道，听了你遭遇的车祸，有一件事让我非常好奇。”
“是吗？”弗兰基的心突然狂跳起来。
“那位正好经过的医生，也就是送你到这里来的人。”
“怎么？”
“他的性格肯定非常古怪，在施以援手之前还要先把车掉个头。”
“我不明白。”
“你当然不明白。你那个时候失去知觉了。可是年轻的里夫斯，也就是送信的那个小伙子，是骑着自行车从斯塔弗利过来的。一路上并没有汽车超过他，但他转过拐角便发现撞车了，而医生那辆车的车头朝向跟他要去的方向一致——朝着伦敦。你明白问题在哪儿了吗？医生不是从斯塔弗利过来的，那么他就肯定走的是另一条路，也就是从山上下来的。
可如果这样的话，他的车头应该冲着斯塔弗利方向才对。然而事实并非如此，因此他肯定是掉了个头。”
“除非他在之前就已经从斯塔弗利那边过来了。”弗兰基说。
“那么当你从山上开下来的时候他的车应该就停在那儿，对吗？”
那双浅蓝色的眼睛正透过厚厚的镜片极其专注地盯着她。
“我不记得了，”弗兰基说，“我觉得不是那样的。”
“你听起来就像个侦探似的，贾斯珀。”尼科尔森太太说，“这些事情都不重要。”
“细节会引起我的兴趣。”尼科尔森说。
他把脸转向了女主人，弗兰基这才松了一口气。
他为什么要这样盘问她？他是怎么识破这起车祸的呢？他刚才说“细节会引起我的兴趣”，真的只是这样吗？
弗兰基想起了那辆深蓝色的塔尔博特轿车，还有卡斯泰尔斯也是个加拿大人这件事。
她感觉尼科尔森医生是个阴险邪恶的人。
晚饭后她便躲开了他，依附在温婉柔弱的尼科尔森太太身边。她发觉尼科尔森太太的眼睛依然自始至终盯着她丈夫。弗兰基有点儿想不明白，这究竟是爱意还是畏惧呢？
尼科尔森的精力一直专注于西尔维娅身上，到了十点半的时候，他捕捉到了自己太太的眼神，两个人便起身告辞。
“好啦，”他们走了以后罗杰开口说道，“你觉得咱们的尼科尔森医生怎么样？个性特别强悍，对不对？”
“我跟西尔维娅一样，”弗兰基说，“不怎么喜欢他，倒是更喜欢他太太一些。”
“长得挺漂亮的，但多少有点儿傻，”罗杰说，“她若不是对他顶礼膜拜，就是对他怕得要死。我不知道是哪种情况。”
“我也在奇怪这个。”弗兰基赞同道。
“我不喜欢他，”西尔维娅说，“但我必须承认他很有——本领。我相信他能以最不可思议的方法帮人戒毒。那些自己家人都已经觉得不可救药了的人，抱着最后一丝希望进去，出来的时候毒瘾就彻底戒掉了。”
“对，”亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇突然叫道，“而你们知道那里都发生了些什么吗？你们了解那种可怕的痛苦和精神上的折磨吗？患者习惯了吸食一种毒品，医生则断绝他的毒品来源，直到他因为缺少毒品而发疯，用脑袋去撞墙。这就是他干的好事，你们那位‘强悍又有本领’的医生。他折磨人，折磨他们，送他们下地狱，把他们逼疯……”
他抖得像筛糠，接着猛地转过身，离开了房间。
西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇一脸错愕。
“亨利怎么了？”她惊讶地问道，“他看上去特别难过。”
弗兰基和罗杰都不敢对视。
“他整晚看起来都不太好。”弗兰基鼓起勇气说道。
“是不好，我注意到了。他最近有些喜怒无常，我真希望他没有把骑马给戒掉。哦，顺便说一句，尼科尔森医生邀请汤米明天过去，可我不太想让他过去。不想让他跟那些稀奇古怪的精神病人还有瘾君子待在一块儿。”
“我想医生应该不会让他跟患者接触的，”罗杰说，“他看上去非常喜欢孩子。”
“没错，我觉得他很失望没有自己的孩子，他太太可能也是。她看起来特别悲伤，而且很娇弱。”
“她就像个悲伤的圣母马利亚。”弗兰基说。
“是啊，用这个词来形容她特别合适。”
“要是尼科尔森医生那么喜欢孩子的话，我猜他应该也来参加你们给孩子们开的派对了吧？”弗兰基漫不经心地问道。
“很不巧，就那一两天他离开了，可能是去伦敦开个什么会。”
“我明白了。”
他们各自上楼就寝。在睡觉之前，弗兰基给博比写了一封信。
[1]英国著名冤案的当事人，曾被多人指认为诈骗案的嫌犯，后被判刑监禁，假释三年之后真正的罪犯落网，面部特征与其非常相似，而其本人最终获得平反。
[2]英文culture一词既有培养物之意，亦有文化、文明之意，故有下文弗兰基的曲解。
Fifteen A DISCOVERY
Fifteen A DISCOVERY
Bobby had had an irksome time. His forced inaction was exceedingly try-ing. He hated staying quietly in London and doing nothing.
He had been rung up on the telephone by George Arbuthnot who, in afew laconic words, told him that all had gone well. A couple of days later,he had a letter from Frankie, delivered to him by her maid, the letter hav-ing gone under cover to her at Lord Marchington’s town house.
Since then he had heard nothing.
“Letter for you,” called out Badger.
Bobby came forward excitedly but the letter was one addressed in hisfather’s handwriting, and postmarked Marchbolt.
At that moment, however, he caught sight of the neat black-gowned fig-ure of Frankie’s maid approaching down the Mews. Five minutes later hewas tearing open Frankie’s second letter.
Dear Bobby (wrote Frankie), I think it’s about time youcame down. I’ve given them instructions at home thatyou’re to have the Bentley whenever you ask for it. Get achauffeur’s livery — dark- green ours always are. Put itdown to father at Harrods. It’s best to be correct in details.
Concentrate on making a good job of the moustache. Itmakes a frightful difference to anyone’s face.
Come down here and ask for me. You might bring me anostensible note from Father. Report that the car is now inworking order again. The garage here only holds two carsand as it’s got the family Daimler and Roger Bassington-ffrench’s two-seater in it, it is fortunately full up, so youwill go to Staverley and put up there.
Get what local information you can when there—particu-larly about a Dr. Nicholson who runs a place for dope pa-tients. Several suspicious circumstances about him — hehas a dark-blue Talbot saloon, he was away from home onthe 16th when your beer was doctored, and he takes alto-gether too detailed an interest in the circumstances of myaccident.
I think I’ve identified the corpse!!!
Au revoir, my fellow sleuth.
Love from your successfully concussed,
Frankie.
P.S. I shall post this myself.
Bobby’s spirits rose with a bound.
Discarding his overalls and breaking the news of his immediate depar-ture to Badger, he was about to hurry off when he remembered that hehad not yet opened his father’s letter. He did so with a rather qualified en-thusiasm since the Vicar’s letters were actuated by a spirit of duty ratherthan pleasure and breathed an atmosphere of Christian forbearancewhich was highly depressing.
The Vicar gave conscientious news of doings in Marchbolt, describinghis own troubles with the organist and commenting on the unchristianspirit of one of his churchwardens. The rebinding of the hymn books wasalso touched upon. And the Vicar hoped that Bobby was sticking manfullyto his job and trying to make good, and remained his ever affectionatefather.
There was a postscript:
By the way, someone called who asked for your address inLondon. I was out at the time and he did not leave hisname. Mrs. Roberts describes him as a tall, stooping gen-tleman with pince-nez. He seemed very sorry to miss youand very anxious to see you again.
A tall, stooping man with pince-nez. Bobby ran over in his mind anyoneof his acquaintance likely to fit that description but could think of nobody.
Suddenly a quick suspicion darted into his mind. Was this the forerun-ner of a new attempt upon his life? Were these mysterious enemies, or en-emy, trying to track him down?
He sat still and did some serious thinking. They, whoever they were, hadonly just discovered that he had left the neighbourhood. All unsuspecting,Mrs. Roberts had given his new address.
So that already they, whoever they were, might be keeping a watchupon the place. If he went out he would be followed—and just as thingswere at the moment that would never do.
“Badger,” said Bobby.
“Yes, old lad.”
“Come here.”
The next five minutes were spent in genuine hard work. At the end often minutes Badger could repeat his instructions by heart.
When he was word perfect, Bobby got into a two-seater Fiat dating from1902 and drove dashingly down the Mews. He parked the Fiat in St.
James’s Square and walked straight from there to his club. There he didsome telephoning and a couple of hours later certain parcels were de-livered to him. Finally, about half past three, a chauffeur in dark green liv-ery walked to St. James’s Square and went rapidly up to a large Bentleywhich had been parked there about half an hour previously. The parkingattendant nodded to him—the gentleman who had left the car had re-marked, stammering slightly as he did so, that his chauffeur would befetching it shortly.
Bobby let in the clutch and drew neatly out. The abandoned Fiat stillstood demurely awaiting its owner. Bobby, despite the intense discomfortof his upper lip, began to enjoy himself. He headed north, not south, and,before long, the powerful engine was forging ahead on the Great NorthRoad.
It was only an extra precaution that he was taking. He was pretty surethat he was not being followed. Presently he turned off to the left andmade his way by circuitous roads to Hampshire.
It was just after tea that the Bentley purred up the drive of MerrowayCourt, a stiff and correct chauffeur at the wheel.
“Hullo,” said Frankie lightly. “There’s the car.”
She went out to the front door. Sylvia and Roger came with her.
“Is everything all right, Hawkins?”
The chauffeur touched his cap.
“Yes, m’lady. She’s been thoroughly overhauled.”
“That’s all right, then.”
The chauffeur produced a note.
“From his lordship, m’lady.”
Frankie took it.
“You’ll put up at the—what is it—Anglers’ Arms in Staverley, Hawkins.
I’ll telephone in the morning if I want the car.”
“Very good, your ladyship.”
Bobby backed, turned and sped down the drive.
“I’m so sorry we haven’t room here,” said Sylvia. “It’s a lovely car.”
“You get some pace out of that,” said Roger.
“I do,” admitted Frankie.
She was satisfied that no faintest quiver of recognition had shown onRoger’s face. She would have been surprised if it had. She would not haverecognized Bobby herself had she met him casually. The small moustachehad a perfectly natural appearance, and that, with the stiff demeanour souncharacteristic of the natural Bobby, completed the disguise enhancedby the chauffeur’s livery.
The voice, too, had been excellent, and quite unlike Bobby’s own.
Frankie began to think that Bobby was far more talented than she hadgiven him credit for being.
Meanwhile Bobby had successfully taken up his quarters at the Anglers’
Arms.
It was up to him to create the part of Edward Hawkins, chauffeur toLady Frances Derwent.
As to the behaviour of chauffeurs in private life, Bobby was singularlyill-informed, but he imagined that a certain haughtiness would not comeamiss. He tried to feel himself a superior being and to act accordingly. Theadmiring attitude of various young women employed in the Anglers’ Armshad a distinctly encouraging effect and he soon found that Frankie andher accident had provided the principal topic of conversation in Staverleyever since it had happened. Bobby unbent towards the landlord, a stout,genial person of the name of Thomas Askew, and permitted informationto leak from him.
“Young Reeves, he was there and saw it happen,” declared Mr. Askew.
Bobby blessed the natural mendacity of the young. The famous accidentwas now vouched for by an eye witness.
“Thought his last moment had come, he did,” went on Mr. Askew.
“Straight for him down the hill it come—and then took the wall instead. Awonder the young lady wasn’t killed.”
“Her ladyship takes some killing,” said Bobby.
“Had many accidents, has she?”
“She’s been lucky,” said Bobby. “But I assure you, Mr. Askew, that whenher ladyship’s taken over the wheel from me as she sometimes does—well,I’ve made sure my last hour has come.”
Several persons present shook their heads wisely and said they didn’twonder and it’s just what they would have thought.
“Very nice little place you have here, Mr. Askew,” said Bobby kindly andcondescendingly. “Very nice and snug.”
Mr. Askew expressed gratification.
“Merroway Court the only big place in the neighbourhood?”
“Well, there’s the Grange, Mr. Hawkins. Not that you’d call that a placeexactly. There’s no family living there. No, it had been empty for years un-til this American doctor took it.”
“An American doctor?”
“That’s it—Nicholson his name is. And if you ask me, Mr. Hawkins, thereare some very queer goings on there.”
The barmaid at this point remarked that Dr. Nicholson gave her theshivers, he did.
“Goings on, Mr. Askew?” said Bobby. “Now, what do you mean by goingson?”
Mr. Askew shook his head darkly.
“There’s those there that don’t want to be there. Put away by their rela-tions. I assure you, Mr. Hawkins, the moanings and the shrieks and thegroans that go on there you wouldn’t believe.”
“Why don’t the police interfere?”
“Oh, well, you see, it’s supposed to be all right. Nerve cases, and suchlike. Loonies that aren’t so very bad. The gentleman’s a doctor and it’s allright, so to speak—” Here the landlord buried his face in a pint pot andemerged again to shake his head in a very doubtful fashion.
“Ah!” said Bobby in a dark and meaning way. “If we knew everythingthat went on in these places .?.?.”
And he, too, applied himself to a pewter pot.
The barmaid chimed in eagerly.
“That’s what I say, Mr. Hawkins. What goes on there? Why, one night apoor young creature escaped—in her nightgown she was—and the doctorand a couple of nurses out looking for her. ‘Oh! don’t let them take meback!’ That’s what she was crying out. Pitiful it was. And about her beingrich really and her relations having her put away. But they took her back,they did, and the doctor he explained that she’d got a persecution mania—that’s what he called it. Kind of thinking everyone was against her. ButI’ve often wondered—yes, I have. I’ve often wondered. .?.?.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Askew. “It’s easy enough to say—”
Somebody present said that there was no knowing what went on inplaces. And somebody else said that was right.
Finally the meeting broke up and Bobby announced his intention of go-ing for a stroll before turning in.
The Grange was, he knew, on the other side of the village from Merro-way Court, so he turned his footsteps in that direction. What he had heardthat evening seemed to him worthy of attention. A lot of it could, ofcourse, be discounted. Villages are usually prejudiced against newcomers,and still more so if the newcomer is of a different nationality. If Nicholsonran a place for curing drugtakers, in all probability there would be strangesounds issuing from it—groans and even shrieks might be heard withoutany sinister reason for them, but all the same, the story of the escapinggirl struck Bobby unpleasantly.
Supposing the Grange were really a place where people were keptagainst their will? A certain amount of genuine cases might be taken ascamouflage.
At this point in his meditations Bobby arrived at a high wall with an en-trance of wrought iron gates. He stepped up to the gates and tried onegently. It was locked. Well, after all, why not?
And yet somehow, the touch of that locked gate gave him a faintly sinis-ter feeling. The place was like a prison.
He moved a little father along the road measuring the wall with his eye.
Would it be possible to climb over? The wall was smooth and high andpresented no accommodating crannies. He shook his head. Suddenly hecame upon a little door. Without much real hope he tried it. To his sur-prise it yielded. It was not locked.
“Bit of an oversight here,” thought Bobby with a grin.
He slipped through, closing the door softly behind him.
He found himself on a path leading through a shrubbery. He followedthe path which twisted a good deal—in fact, it reminded Bobby of the onein Alice Through the Looking Glass.
Suddenly, without any warning, the path gave a sharp turn andemerged into an open space close to the house. It was a moonlit night andthe space was clearly lit. Bobby had stepped full into the moonlight beforehe could stop himself.
At the same moment a woman’s figure came round the corner of thehouse. She was treading very softly, glancing from side to side with—or soit seemed to the watching Bobby—the nervous alertness of a hunted an-imal. Suddenly she stopped dead and stood, swaying as though she wouldfall.
Bobby rushed forward and caught her. Her lips were white and itseemed to him that never had he seen such an awful fear on any humancountenance.
“It’s all right,” he said reassuringly in a very low voice. “It’s quite allright.”
The girl, for she was little more, moaned faintly, her eyelids half-closed.
“I’m so frightened,” she murmured. “I’m so terribly frightened.”
“What’s the matter?” said Bobby.
The girl only shook her head and repeated faintly:
“I’m so frightened. I’m so horribly frightened.”
Suddenly some sound seemed to come to her ears. She sprang upright,away from Bobby. Then she turned to him.
“Go away,” she said. “Go away at once.”
“I want to help you,” said Bobby.
“Do you?” She looked at him for a minute or two, a strange searchingand moving glance. It was as though she explored his soul.
Then she shook her head.
“No one can help me.”
“I can,” said Bobby. “I’d do anything. Tell me what it is that frightensyou so.”
She shook her head.
“Not now. Oh! quick—they’re coming! You can’t help me unless you gonow. At once—at once.”
Bobby yielded to her urgency.
With a whispered: “I’m at the Anglers’ Arms,” he plunged back along thepath. The last he saw of her was an urgent gesture bidding him hurry.
Suddenly he heard footsteps on the path in front of him. Someone wascoming along the path from the little door. Bobby plunged abruptly intothe bushes at the side of the path.
He had not been mistaken. A man was coming along the path. He passedclose to Bobby but it was too dark for the young man to see his face.
When he had passed, Bobby resumed his retreat. He felt that he coulddo nothing more that night.
Anyway, his head was in a whirl.
For he had recognized the girl—recognized her beyond any possibledoubt.
She was the original of the photograph which had so mysteriously dis-appeared.
第十五章 一项发现

第十五章 一项发现
博比度过了一段令他厌烦的日子。那种被迫按兵不动的滋味简直让他难以忍受，他痛恨就这么静静地待在伦敦，什么都不做。
乔治•阿巴思诺特医生曾给他打过一个电话，寥寥数语言简意骇地告诉他一切顺利。几天后，博比接到了弗兰基的一封信，是她的女仆送来的。信寄到了马钦顿伯爵位于市内的宅邸，藏在给女仆的信中。
自那以后，他再未收到任何消息。
“有你的信。”巴杰叫道。
博比兴冲冲地走上前去，可信上的笔迹却是他父亲的，邮戳盖的则是马奇博尔特。
然而就在此时，他一眼瞅见了弗兰基的女仆正沿着小巷走来，身上穿着整洁的黑色长袍。五分钟之后，他撕开了弗兰基的第二封信。
亲爱的博比（弗兰基写道），我觉得该是你过来的时候了。我给家里人下了指示，无论什么时候，只要你要求，都可以开那辆宾利车。你得置办一身司机制服，我们家通常都是深绿色的。你可以去哈罗德百货 [1] 买，记在我父亲的账上。细节问题上最好务求准确，专注弄好你的胡子。任何人留了胡子，相貌都会跟原来大相径庭。
然后你到这儿来找我，可以假装带一张我爸的便条来，就说那辆车现在已经修好，又能正常开了。这里的车库只能容纳两辆车，他们家那辆戴姆勒和罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇的双座轿车都停在里面。幸亏停满了，所以你得去斯塔弗利，在那里留宿。
你到时尽可能地搜集些当地的情报，特别注意打听一下尼科尔森疗养院的消息，那里收治瘾君子。尼科尔森医生有些可疑。他有一辆深蓝色的塔尔博特轿车，十六日那天（也就是你的啤酒被人下药的那天）他不在家，而且他对我出车祸的细节表现出了过于浓厚的兴趣。
我觉得我已经确定那具尸体的真实身份了！
再见啦 [2][3] ，我的侦探搭档。
你亲爱的大获成功的脑震荡患者
弗兰基
又及：我会亲自寄出这封信的
博比的精神为之一振。
他脱掉工作服扔在一边，告诉巴杰他马上要走，就在匆忙准备离开的时候，忽然想起他还没有拆看父亲的来信。他读这封信的时候带着十足的热忱，因为牧师写来的信与其说是兴之所至还不如说是受责任心驱使，他从中嗅出了一种基督徒式极度压抑的隐忍气息。
牧师在信里尽职尽责地报告了马奇博尔特日常生活中的新闻逸事，讲述了他自己与管风琴师之间的一些小麻烦，并就他手下一个教堂执事的非基督教观念评头论足了一番，还提及了重新装订的《赞美诗集》。牧师希望博比能够恪尽职守，努力做出成绩，而他会永远是他慈爱的父亲。
信末有一段附言：
顺便一提，有个人来拜访过，问了你在伦敦的住址。当时我不在，他也没有留下姓名。罗伯茨太太说他是个高个子男人，有些驼背，戴着一副夹鼻眼镜。他似乎非常遗憾没能找到你，很想再次见到你。
一个高个子、有些驼背并且戴着夹鼻眼镜的男人。博比在心里把认识的人翻了个遍，也没想起来谁有可能符合这种描述。
突然之间，一阵疑虑涌上他的心头。这是否预示着有人正在为取他性命做新一轮的尝试？这神秘的敌人，或者敌人们，是在试图追踪他吗？
他静静地坐在那里，认真思索着。不管他们是什么人，都是刚刚才发现他已经离开了家。而罗伯茨太太则在毫无戒心的情况下把他的新地址给了出去。
所以无论他们是谁，都可能已经在监视这个地方了。他如果外出就有可能被跟踪，而照眼下的情形来看，那样做也无济于事。
“巴杰。”博比说。
“什么事儿，老伙计？”
“过来一下。”
接下来的五分钟耗费在了真正艰巨的工作上。十分钟过后，巴杰已经可以把他的种种指示背诵下来了。
等他背得滚瓜烂熟之后，博比便坐进一辆一九〇二年出厂的菲亚特双座轿车，沿着小巷飞驶而出。他把这辆菲亚特停在圣詹姆斯广场，再从广场径直走向他的俱乐部。在那里他打了几个电话，几个小时以后有人给他送来几个包裹。最终，在大约三点半的时候，一名身着深绿色制服的司机走向了圣詹姆斯广场，迅速坐进一辆半小时之前就停在那里的大型宾利车。停车管理员冲他点了点头。刚才把车停在这里的那位绅士说过（他说话的时候还稍稍有点儿结巴），说他的司机马上就会过来取车。
博比抬起离合器踏板，干净利落地驾车离开。那辆被遗弃的菲亚特依旧矜持地留在原地等待它的主人。尽管上嘴唇因为胡子非常不舒服，博比还是开始快活起来。他向着北边而非南边出发，不一会儿，强劲的引擎便带着他在北方大道上加速前进了。
他此刻正在做的不过是额外的预防措施，他很确信没有人在跟踪他。不久之后他便向左转弯，选了一条迂回的路线直奔汉普郡而去。
下午茶时间刚刚结束，宾利车便隆隆地开上了梅罗威宅邸的车道，开车的是一个身板笔挺、举止得体的司机。
“嘿，”弗兰基轻快地说道，“车来了。”
她来到大门前，西尔维娅和罗杰跟她一起。
“一切都搞定了吗，霍金斯？”
司机用手碰了碰帽子。
“是的，小姐。车已经被认真仔细地彻底检修过了。”
“那太好了。”
司机取出一张便笺。
“老爷给您的，小姐。”
弗兰基接了过去。
“你得去住在，叫什么来着……斯塔弗利的安格勒阿姆斯旅馆。我要是用车的话会一早打电话给你的。”
“好的，小姐。”
博比开着车向后倒去，接着掉转车头，沿着车道加速驶离。
“真是抱歉，我们这儿没地方停车了。”西尔维娅说，“这车真漂亮。”
“你在这方面领先一步呢。”罗杰说。
“是啊。”弗兰基承认道。
罗杰脸上没有显露出半分认出博比来的动摇，弗兰基很满意。要是他认出来了，她会非常吃惊的。如果是偶然相遇，就连她自己也很难认出博比来。那两撇小胡子简直是浑然天成，加上博比毫不做作的举止，以及那身司机制服锦上添花，使这次伪装得以圆满完成。
说话的嗓音也棒极了，与博比自己的声音大为不同。弗兰基开始觉得博比的天分要比她曾经认为的高得多。
与此同时，博比已经成功住进了安格勒阿姆斯旅馆。
他的任务是扮演好爱德华•霍金斯，也就是弗朗西斯•德温特小姐的司机。
博比对司机们平日里的行为举止所知甚少，不过带着点儿傲气总不会错。他试着让自己感觉高人一等，再表现出来。旅馆的年轻女雇员对他钦慕不已，这令他备受鼓舞。他很快就发现，从弗兰基出车祸那天起，这一事件便成了斯塔弗利最主要的谈资。店主是个和蔼可亲的胖子，名叫托马斯•艾斯丘。博比轻松随意地跟店主聊着天，听着消息从他嘴里泄露出来。
“年轻的里夫斯，他就在那儿，亲眼看见了车祸的发生。”艾斯丘先生宣称道。
博比打心眼儿里感激这个年轻人。多亏这份合情合理的谎言，车祸如今有个目击证人了。
“他还以为自己死定了，”艾斯丘先生继续说道，“那辆车从山坡上下来，直奔他面前，最终却一头撞到了墙上。那位年轻的女士没被撞死真是个奇迹。”
“小姐也算是去鬼门关走过一遭的人。”博比说。
“她出过好多次车祸了？”
“她命大，”博比说，“不过我跟你保证，艾斯丘先生，任何时候，只要小姐从我手里接过方向盘，就像她有时会做的那样，嗯，我都确信我生命的尽头已经到来了。”
在场的几个人纷纷精明地摇起头来，说他们并不觉得意外，这些事情都在他们的意料之中。
“你这块小地方真的很棒啊，艾斯丘先生。”博比纡尊降贵，亲切地说道，“非常好，非常舒适。”
艾斯丘先生露出一副心满意足的神情。
“梅罗威宅邸是这附近唯一的大宅子吗？”
“唔，还有格兰奇呢，霍金斯先生。不过准确地说，您不会把那儿称为宅子的。没有人家住在那里。那房子空了好多年，直到这个美国医生得到了它。”
“美国医生？”
“正是，他姓尼科尔森。而如果您问我的话，霍金斯先生，那里有一些很奇怪的见不得人的事情。”
就在此时，一个酒吧女招待插话说尼科尔森医生让她禁不住战栗发抖。
“见不得人的事情，艾斯丘先生？”博比说，“嗯，这又是什么意思呢？”
艾斯丘先生阴郁地摇了摇头。
“那些人其实并不想待在那里，都是被他们的亲戚送进去的。我敢说，霍金斯先生，那里面传出来的呜咽声、尖叫声和呻吟声都让您无法相信。”
“那警方为什么不干预一下呢？”
“哦，这个嘛，您要知道，别人都认为那里一切正常。那地方是治疗轻微精神疾病的，进去的都是些不那么严重的疯子。那位绅士是个医生，这没什么问题，可以说是——”说到这儿，店主把脸埋进了啤酒杯里，再次抬起来的时候十分疑惑地摇了摇头。
“啊！”博比阴沉又意味深长地说，“假如我们能了解那里到底发生了什么的话……”
他也把脸埋进了锡质酒杯里。
酒吧女侍忙不迭地插嘴道：
“我就是这么说的呀，霍金斯先生。那儿究竟发生了些什么？唉，有天晚上一个可怜的年轻姑娘逃了出来，身上穿着睡袍，医生和几个护士出来到处找她。‘哦！可别让他们把我带回去！’她喊着。真够惨的。说起来，她其实还挺有钱的，是她家亲戚把她送进去的。不过他们到底还是把她带回去了。医生解释说她有被害妄想症，反正他是这么说的。就是一种觉得所有人都想害她的毛病。不过我常常纳闷儿，真的，我经常想不明白……”
“啊！”艾斯丘先生说，“说得容易——”
有个在场的人说没人知道那里发生了什么，另一个人也附和了一句。
最终这场聚会告一段落，博比说他想在上床睡觉之前出去散个步。
他知道，相对于梅罗威宅邸而言，格兰奇疗养院在村子的另一头。所以他抬脚便向那个方向走去。在他看来，今晚收获的信息都很值得重视。当然，其中有很多内容也不必全信。村民们往往对新来的人抱有偏见，若还是个外国人的话，这种偏见就会更甚。如果尼科尔森开办的是一家戒毒所，那么里面传出些奇怪的声音本就情有可原。呻吟声甚至尖叫声也未必能说明医生很邪恶，不过话说回来，那则姑娘逃跑的传闻还是让博比觉得很不舒服。
万一格兰奇疗养院真是个违背当事人的意愿扣留患者的地方呢？可能一部分真正的患者只是被用作了幌子。
想及此处，博比来到了一面高墙前，墙上有两扇锻铁大门。他走到大门前，轻轻试了试其中一扇。门是锁着的。好吧，当然了，门当然会上锁。
可不知什么缘故，摸到这扇紧锁的大门让他隐隐有种不安的感觉。这地方就像是座监狱。
他沿着这条路又往远处走了一小段，目测了一下这面墙。他有可能翻墙而入吗？这面墙又高又光滑，没有适合用来攀爬的缝隙。他摇了摇头，突然发现边上还有一扇小门。他没抱太大希望地试着推了推，竟然推动了。博比大吃一惊，这扇门并没有上锁。
“这可真是有点疏忽大意了。”博比想着，不禁咧嘴一笑。
他溜进门去，又在身后轻轻把那扇小门掩上。
他发现自己站在一条穿过灌木丛的小路上。小路蜿蜒曲折，他沿着小路走去。事实上，这地方让博比想起了《爱丽丝镜中奇遇》。
在没有任何征兆的情况下，小路突然拐了个急弯，眼前显现出一片紧挨着房子的空地。今夜月色皎洁，空地在月光下一览无余。博比还没来得及收住脚，整个人便已步入月色之中。
就在这个时候，一个女人的身影从房屋的拐角处转了出来。她走起路来脚步极轻，边走边东张西望，警觉不安，像一只正在被追捕的动物。至少在博比眼中看起来就是这样。
她突然停住了脚步，死死站在原地，身子一晃，仿佛就要摔倒一般。
博比冲上前去一把抓住了她。她的嘴唇无比苍白，博比从来没见过谁的脸上出现如此害怕的神情。
“没事了，”他用极低的声音安慰道，“没事的。”
这姑娘很年轻，她轻声呻吟着，眼睑半睁半闭。
“我好害怕，”她喃喃自语道，“害怕极了。”
“出什么事了？”博比问道。
这个姑娘只是不住地摇头，有气无力地重复着：
“我好害怕，真是害怕极了。”
突然间，她仿佛听见了什么声音一般，挺直了身子，从博比的手中挣脱出来，随后转向了他。
“走，”她说，“马上走。”
“我想帮你。”博比说。
“是吗？”她看了他一两分钟，眼神中有种奇怪的洞察和感伤，就好像在触碰他的灵魂。
然后她摇了摇头。
“没人能帮得了我。”
“我能，”博比说，“我什么事情都愿意做，告诉我是什么让你怕成这个样子。”
她又摇摇头。
“现在不能说。哦！快走，他们来了！你现在不走的话就帮不了我了。立刻，马上。”
博比在她的急切要求之下屈服了。
他低声说了一句：“我住在安格勒阿姆斯旅馆。”便又重新踏上那条小路往回走去。他最后看了她一眼，她在打着手势催他快走。
他猛然间听到前方小路上有脚步声传来。有人从小门进来后沿着小路走来。博比急忙扎进了小路旁边的灌木丛中。
他没听错。一个男人顺着小路走了过来。他从博比身旁经过，外面太黑了，博比看不清他的脸。
等他走过去后，博比继续往外走。他觉得今夜已经没有更多的事情可做了。
而且，现在他的脑子一片混乱。
因为他已经认出了那个姑娘，确定无疑。
她就是最初那张神秘消失的照片上的人。
[1]英国伦敦最著名的高档百货公司之一。
[2]原文为法语。
[3]原文为法语。
Sixteen BOBBY BECOMES A SOLICITOR
Sixteen BOBBY BECOMES A SOLICITOR
“Mr. Hawkins?”
“Yes,” said Bobby, his voice slightly muffled owing to a large mouthful ofbacon and eggs.
“You’re wanted on the telephone.”
Bobby took a hasty gulp of coffee, wiped his mouth and rose. The tele-phone was in a small dark passage. He took up the receiver.
“Hullo,” said Frankie’s voice.
“Hullo, Frankie,” said Bobby incautiously.
“This is Lady Frances Derwent speaking,” said the voice coldly. “Is thatHawkins?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“I shall want the car at ten o’clock to take me up to London.”
“Very good, your ladyship.”
Bobby replaced the receiver.
“When does one say, ‘my lady,’ and when does one say, ‘your ladyship?’
“ he cogitated. “I ought to know, but I don’t. It’s the sort of thing that willlead a real chauffeur or butler to catch me out.”
At the other end, Frankie hung up the receiver and turned to RogerBassington-ffrench.
“It’s a nuisance,” she observed lightly, “to have to go up to Londontoday. All owing to Father’s fuss.”
“Still,” said Roger, “you’ll be back this evening?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I’d half thought of asking you if you’d give me a lift to town,” said Rogercarelessly.
Frankie paused for an infinitesimal second before her answer—givenwith an apparent readiness.
“Why, of course,” she said.
“But on second thoughts I don’t think I will go up today,” went on Roger.
“Henry’s looking even odder than usual. Somehow I don’t very much likeleaving Sylvia alone with him.”
“I know,” said Frankie.
“Are you driving yourself?” asked Roger casually as they moved awayfrom the telephone.
“Yes, but I shall take Hawkins. I’ve got some shopping to do as well andit’s a nuisance if you’re driving yourself — you can’t leave the car any-where.”
“Yes, of course.”
He said no more, but when the car came around, Bobby at the wheelvery stiff and correct of demeanour, he came out on the doorstep to seeher off.
“Goodbye,” said Frankie.
Under the circumstances she did not think of holding out a hand, but Ro-ger took hers and held it a minute.
“You are coming back?” he said with curious insistence.
Frankie laughed.
“Of course. I only meant good-bye till this evening.”
“Don’t have any more accidents.”
“I’ll let Hawkins drive if you like.”
She sprang in beside Bobby, who touched his cap. The car moved offdown the drive, Roger still standing on the step looking after it.
“Bobby,” said Frankie, “do you think it possible that Roger might fall forme?”
“Has he?” inquired Bobby.
“Well, I just wondered.”
“I expect you know the symptoms pretty well,” said Bobby.
But he spoke absently. Frankie shot him a quick glance.
“Has anything—happened?” she asked.
“Yes, it has. Frankie, I’ve found the original of the photograph!”
“You mean—the one—the one you talked so much about—the one thatwas in the dead man’s pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Bobby! I’ve got a few things to tell you, but nothing to this. Where didyou find her?”
Bobby jerked his head back over his shoulder.
“In Dr. Nicholson’s nursing home.”
“Tell me.”
Carefully and meticulously Bobby described the events of the previousnight. Frankie listened breathlessly.
“Then we are on the right track,” she said. “And Dr. Nicholson is mixedup in all this! I’m afraid of that man.”
“What is he like?”
“Oh! big and forceful — and he watches you. Very intently behindglasses. And you feel he knows all about you.”
“When did you meet him?”
“He came to dinner.”
She described the dinner party and Dr. Nicholson’s insistent dwelling onthe details of her “accident.”
“I felt he was suspicious,” she ended up.
“It’s certainly queer his going into details like that,” said Bobby. “Whatdo you think is at the bottom of all this business, Frankie?”
“Well, I’m beginning to think that your suggestion of a dope gang, whichI was so haughty about at the time, isn’t such a bad guess after all.”
“With Dr. Nicholson at the head of the gang?”
“Yes. This nursing home business would be a very good cloak for thatsort of thing. He’d have a certain supply of drugs on the premises quite le-gitimately. While pretending to cure drug cases, he might really be supply-ing them with the stuff.”
“That seems plausible enough,” agreed Bobby.
“I haven’t told you yet about Henry Bassington-ffrench.”
Bobby listened attentively to her description of her host’s idiosyncra-cies.
“His wife doesn’t suspect?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t.”
“What is she like? Intelligent?”
“I never thought exactly. No, I suppose she isn’t very. And yet in someways she seems quite shrewd. A frank, pleasant woman.”
“And our Bassington-ffrench?”
“There I’m puzzled,” said Frankie slowly. “Do you think, Bobby, that justpossibly we might be all wrong about him?”
“Nonsense,” said Bobby. “We worked it all out and decided that he mustbe the villain of the piece.”
“Because of the photograph?”
“Because of the photograph. No one else could have changed that photo-graph for the other.”
“I know,” said Frankie. “But that one incident is all that we have againsthim.”
“It’s quite enough.”
“I suppose so. And yet—”
“Well?”
“I don’t know, but I have a queer sort of feeling that he’s innocent—thathe’s not concerned in the matter at all.”
Bobby looked at her coldly.
“Did you say that he had fallen for you or that you had fallen for him?”
he inquired politely.
Frankie flushed.
“Don’t be so absurd, Bobby. I just wondered if there couldn’t be some in-nocent explanation, that’s all.”
“I don’t see that there can be. Especially now that we’ve actually foundthe girl in the neighbourhood. That seems to clinch matters. If we onlyhad some inkling as to who the dead man was—”
“Oh, but I have. I told you so in my letter. I’m nearly sure that themurdered man was somebody called Alan Carstairs.”
Once more she plunged into narrative.
“You know,” said Bobby, “we really are getting on. Now we must try,more or less, to reconstruct the crime. Let’s spread out our facts and seewhat sort of a job we can make of it.”
He paused for a moment and the car slackened speed as though in sym-pathy. Then he pressed his foot down once more on the accelerator and atthe same time spoke.
“First, we’ll assume that you are right about Alan Carstairs. He certainlyfulfils the conditions. He’s the right sort of man, he led a wandering life, hehad very few friends and acquaintances in England, and if he disappearedhe wasn’t likely to be missed or sought after.
“So far, good. Alan Carstairs comes down to Staverley with these people—what did you say their name was—?”
“Rivington. There’s a possible channel of inquiry there. In fact, I thinkwe ought to follow it up.”
“We will. Very well, Carstairs comes down to Staverley with the Riving-tons. Now, is there anything in that?”
“You mean did he get them to bring him down here deliberately?”
“That’s what I mean. Or was it just a casual chance? Was he broughtdown here by them and did he then come across the girl by accident justas I did? I presume he knew her before or he wouldn’t have had her pho-tograph on him.”
“The alternative being,” said Frankie thoughtfully, “that he was alreadyon the track of Nicholson and his gang.”
“And used the Rivingtons as a means of getting to this part of the worldnaturally?”
“That’s quite a possible theory,” said Frankie. “He may have been on thetrack of this gang.”
“Or simply on the track of the girl.”
“The girl?”
“Yes. She may have been abducted. He may have come over to Englandto find her.”
“Well, but if he had tracked her down to Staverley, why should he go offto Wales?”
“Obviously, there’s a lot we don’t know yet,” said Bobby.
“Evans,” said Frankie thoughtfully. “We don’t get any clues as to Evans.
The Evans part of it must have to do with Wales.”
They were both silent for a moment or two. Then Frankie woke up toher surroundings.
“My dear, we’re actually at Putney Hill. It seems like five minutes.
Where are we going and what are we doing?”
“That’s for you to say. I don’t even know why we’ve come up to town.”
“The journey to town was only an excuse for getting a talk with you. Icouldn’t very well risk being seen walking the lanes at Staverley deep inconversation with my chauffeur. I used the pseudo-letter from Father asan excuse for driving up to town and talking to you on the way and eventhat was nearly wrecked by Bassington-ffrench coming too.”
“That would have torn it severely.”
“Not really. We’d have dropped him wherever he liked and then we’dhave gone on to Brook Street and talked there. I think we’d better do that,anyway. Your garage place may be watched.”
Bobby agreed and related the episode of the inquiries made about himat Marchbolt.
“We’ll go to the Derwents’ town residence,” said Frankie. “There’s noone there but my maid and a couple of caretakers.”
They drove to Brook Street. Frankie rang the bell and was admitted,Bobby remaining outside. Presently Frankie opened the door again andbeckoned him in. They went upstairs to the big drawing room and pulledup some of the blinds and removed the swathing from one of the sofas.
“There’s one other thing I forgot to tell you,” said Frankie. “On the 16th,the day you were poisoned, Bassington-ffrench was at Staverley, but Nich-olson was away—supposedly at a conference in London. And his car is adark-blue Talbot.”
“And he has access to morphia,” said Bobby.
They exchanged significant glances.
“It’s not exactly evidence, I suppose,” said Bobby, “but it fits in nicely.”
Frankie went to a side table and returned with a telephone directory.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m looking up the name Rivington.”
She turned pages rapidly.
“A. Rivington & Sons, Builders. B. A. C. Rivington, Dental Surgeon. D.
Rivington, Shooters Hill, I think not. Miss Florence Rivington. Col. H. Riv-ington, D.S.O.—that’s more like it—Tite Street, Chelsea.”
She continued her search.
“There’s M. R. Rivington, Onslow Square. He’s possible. And there’s aWilliam Rivington at Hampstead. I think Onslow Square and Tite Streetare the most likely ones. The Rivingtons, Bobby, have got to be seenwithout delay.”
“I think you’re right. But what are we going to say? Think up a few goodlies, Frankie. I’m not much good at that sort of thing.”
Frankie reflected for a minute or two.
“I think,” she said, “that’ll you have to go. Do you feel you could be thejunior partner of a solicitors’ firm?”
That seems a most gentlemanly r?le,” said Bobby. “I was afraid youmight think of something much worse than that. All the same, it’s notquite in character, is it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, solicitors never do make personal visits, do they? Surely they al-ways write letters at six and eightpence a time, or else write and asksomeone to keep an appointment at their office.”
“This particular firm of solicitors is unconventional,” said Frankie.
“Wait a minute.”
She left the room and returned with a card.
“Mr. Frederick Spragge,” she said, handing it to Bobby. “You are a youngmember of the firm of Spragge, Spragge, Jenkinson and Spragge, ofBloomsbury Square.”
“Did you invent that firm, Frankie?”
“Certainly not. They’re Father’s solicitors.”
“And suppose they have me up for impersonation?”
“That’s all right. There isn’t any young Spragge. The only Spragge isabout a hundred, and anyway he eats out of my hand. I’ll fix him if thingsgo wrong. He’s a great snob—he loves lords and dukes, however littlemoney he makes out of them.”
“What about clothes? Shall I ring up Badger to bring some along?”
Frankie looked doubtful.
“I don’t want to insult your clothes, Bobby,” she said. “Or throw yourpoverty in your teeth, or anything like that. But will they carry conviction?
I think, myself, that we’d better raid Father’s wardrobe. His clothes won’tfit you too badly.”
A quarter of an hour later, Bobby, attired in a morning coat and stripedtrousers of exquisitely correct cut and passable fit, stood surveying him-self in Lord Marchington’s pier glass.
“Your father does himself well in clothes,” he remarked graciously.
“With the might of Savile Row behind me, I feel a great increase of confid-ence.”
“I suppose you’ll have to stick to your moustache,” said Frankie.
“It’s sticking to me,” said Bobby. “It’s a work of art that couldn’t be re-peated in a hurry.”
“You’d better keep it, then. Though it’s more legal-looking to be clean-shaven.”
“It’s better than a beard,” said Bobby. “Now, then, Frankie, do you thinkyour father could lend me a hat?”
第十六章 博比成了律师
第十六章 博比成了律师
“霍金斯先生吗？”
“是我。”因为嘴里塞满了培根和鸡蛋，博比说话的声音有些发闷。
“有电话找您。”
博比连忙喝了一大口咖啡，擦了擦嘴，站起身来。电话在一条昏暗的小过道上。他拿起听筒。
“喂？”是弗兰基的声音。
“喂，弗兰基。”博比轻率地脱口而出。
“我是弗朗西斯•德温特小姐，”电话里的声音冷冰冰的，“是霍金斯先生吗？”
“是我，小姐。”
“我十点的时候需要用车，带我去趟伦敦。”
“好的，尊敬的小姐。”
博比挂上了听筒。
“什么时候该说‘小姐’，什么时候该说‘尊敬的小姐’呢？”他绞尽脑汁，“我应该知道的，但我不知道。这种细节可能会让一名真正的司机或者管家把我识破。”
在电话的另一端，弗兰基挂上听筒之后转向了罗杰•巴辛顿-弗伦奇。
“真够麻烦的，”她轻巧地说道，“今天还得去趟伦敦，都是因为我父亲大惊小怪。”
“那你今晚还回来吧？”罗杰说。
“哦，回来呀！”
“我正想问问你能不能让我搭个车去城里呢。”罗杰随口说道。
弗兰基极其短暂地顿了顿，然后给出了一个深思熟虑的回答。
“哎呀，当然可以啦。”她说。
“不过转念一想，我又不想今天去了，”罗杰接着说道，“亨利的样子比平时更怪异了。
不知怎么的，我不太想留下西尔维娅一个人跟他在一起。”
“我明白。”弗兰基说。
“你是亲自开车吗？”他们从电话旁离开的时候罗杰漫不经心地问道。
“是的，但我会带上霍金斯。因为我还得去买些东西，如果自己开车的话会很麻烦，毕竟不能随处停车。”
“是啊，当然不能。”
他没再多说，不过当举止得体的博比有板有眼地把车开来的时候，罗杰还是走出屋来站在门阶上，打算送送她。
“再见啦。”弗兰基说。
在这种情形下，她本没想着要伸出手去，但罗杰握住她的手足有一分钟。
“你真的会回来吧？”他语气中有种异乎寻常的执着。
弗兰基哈哈大笑起来。
“当然了，我说的再见只是到今天晚上。”
“别再出车祸了。”
“如果你担心的话，我让霍金斯开车吧。”
她跳进车里，坐在博比身边，他用手碰了碰帽子。汽车沿着车道驶去，罗杰则依然站在台阶上目送他们。
“博比，”弗兰基说，“你觉得罗杰有没有可能已经爱上我了？”
“有吗？”博比问道。
“嗯，我只是好奇。”
“我以为你对这些征兆应该了如指掌呢。”博比说。
但他说这句话的时候有些心不在焉，弗兰基迅速瞥了他一眼。
“出什么事了吗？”她问道。
“是啊，出了点事。我发现那张照片上的人了，弗兰基！”
“你是说，那张照片？你说了很多次的那张，就是死者口袋里的那张？”
“没错。”
“博比！我本来是有几件事要告诉你的，不过哪件也比不上这个。你在哪儿发现她的？”
博比把脖子往后一梗。
“在尼科尔森医生的私人疗养院里。”
“给我讲讲。”
于是博比便小心翼翼地把前一晚发生的事巨细靡遗地描述了一番。弗兰基则听得屏气凝神。
“这么说咱们还真想对路了，”她说，“尼科尔森医生确实跟这事有所牵连！我有点儿害怕这个人。”
“他是个什么样的人？”
“哦！身材魁梧，性格强悍，而且还老盯着你看。他透过眼镜看你，十分专注，让你觉得他对你简直是洞若观火。”
“你什么时候见过他？”
“他来吃晚饭的时候。”
她描述了那天的晚宴，以及尼科尔森医生是如何揪住她“车祸”的细节不放的。
“我觉得他起了疑心。”她最终说道。
“他这么刨根问底是挺奇怪的，”博比说，“你觉得这整件事归根结底是因何而起的呢，弗兰基？”
“嗯，我开始认为你说的有关贩毒团伙的猜测其实也没那么差劲了，我当时对这个说法还真有些不屑呢。”
“而尼科尔森医生是这个团伙的头儿？”
“是的。这家私人疗养院恰好可以成为绝妙的伪装，方便他们暗中行事。他在自己这一方宝地可以正当合法地得到毒品的供应。他一边假装治疗吸毒成瘾的患者，一边可能还在给他们提供毒品。”
“听起来好像还挺有道理的。”博比表示赞同。
“我还没跟你说亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇的事情呢。”
博比聚精会神地听她描述起这位男主人的种种怪癖。
“他妻子就不怀疑吗？”
“完全不怀疑。”
“她又是个什么样的人啊？聪明吗？”
“我从来没仔细想过。不，我觉得她没那么聪明，可是在某些方面看起来又相当精明。
是个挺直率又招人喜欢的女人。”
“那巴辛顿-弗伦奇呢？”
“这一点我就很困惑了，”弗兰基缓缓说道，“博比，你觉得咱们有可能在他的问题上大错特错了吗？”
“胡说八道，”博比说，“这个问题咱们早就解决了，已经断定他肯定是个坏蛋了。”
“因为那张照片？”
“因为那张照片。再没别人能有机会把那张照片调包了。”
“我明白，”弗兰基说，“不过我们手中对他不利的证据也就只有这一件小事而已。”
“这就足够了。”
“我也这么想。可是——”
“怎么？”
“我不知道，但我有种奇怪的感觉，觉得他是清白的——觉得他跟这件事一点瓜葛都没有。”
博比冷冷地看着她。
“你刚才是不是说过他可能已经爱上你了，还是说你已经爱上他了？”他很客气地问道。
弗兰基的脸一下子红了。
“别犯傻了，博比。我只不过想知道是不是真的没有能证明他清白的证据，仅此而已。”
“我看不出哪儿还能有。尤其是现在，我们实际上已经在这附近找到了那个姑娘。问题好像已经迎刃而解了。我们只要再搞明白死者是什么人——”
“哦，可我知道了呀。我在信里告诉过你了。我几乎可以肯定被害者是个叫艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯的家伙。”
于是她又把这部分内容讲了一遍。
“知道吗，”博比说道，“咱们是真的有进展了呢。现在咱们必须多少尝试一下，努力去重现这桩罪行，把已经掌握的事实列出来，看看用它们能干点儿什么。”
他停顿了片刻，车速也像是要与思维保持一致似的慢了下来。随后他的脚再度踩下油门，同时开口说话了。
“首先，我们假定你关于艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯的结论是正确的。他当然符合各种条件。他就是那种人，过着浪迹天涯的生活，在英国几乎没有朋友和熟人，而如果他消失了的话，也不太可能会有人想念或者寻找他。”
“到目前为止都很好。艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯是跟着几个人一起到斯塔弗利来的，你说他们姓什么来着？”
“里文顿。这是一个可能的调查方向。实际上，我认为咱们应该跟进这条线索。”
“当然。很好，卡斯泰尔斯跟着里文顿夫妇一起来到了斯塔弗利。那么，这里有什么名堂吗？”
“你是想说，他是蓄意让他们带他来这儿的吗？”
“是啊。还是说这不过是一次偶然？他是被他们带到这里来，随后又意外遇见了那个姑娘，就像我昨晚一样？我猜他以前就认识她，否则不会随身携带她的照片的。”
“另一种可能是，”弗兰基若有所思地说，“他已经在追踪尼科尔森和他的团伙了。”
“并且把里文顿夫妇当成他达到目的的手段，让他能够自然而然地到这个地方来。”
“这种推测很有可能，”弗兰基说，“他或许已经在追踪这个团伙了。”
“或者只是在追踪那个姑娘。”
“那个姑娘？”
“是的。她也许是被诱拐绑架的，而他到英格兰来有可能就是为了找她。”
“好吧，不过假如他是追着她一路来到斯塔弗利，那为什么又去了威尔士呢？”
“很显然，还有很多事情是我们不知道的。”博比说。
“埃文斯，”弗兰基边思考边说，“说起这个埃文斯，我们还什么线索都没有呢。埃文斯肯定跟威尔士有关。”
他们各自沉默了片刻，接着弗兰基突然认出了周遭的环境。
“亲爱的，咱们都到帕特尼山 [1] 了，感觉好像才过了五分钟。咱们去哪儿，干点儿什么呀？”
“这个得由你来说，我连咱们为什么要到城里来都不清楚。”
“进城只是个借口，就是为了跟你说会儿话。我可不能冒险让人看见我走在斯塔弗利的小巷里，跟我的司机推心置腹。我用我父亲那封假信作为开车进城来的借口，就是为了在路上跟你谈谈，就算这样咱们的计划还差点儿被巴辛顿-弗伦奇搅黄了呢，他也想到城里来。”
“那可就全毁了。”
“也不见得。咱们可以到他想去的地方把他放下，然后再去布鲁克街，在那里谈。不管怎么说，我觉得咱们最好就这么办。你在汽车修理厂的住处可能已经被监视了。”
博比也表示同意，同时还讲述了有人在马奇博尔特打听他下落的那件事。
“咱们就去德温特家在城里的住所吧，”弗兰基说，“那儿除了我的女仆和两个看门人之外没有别人。”
他们驾车到了布鲁克街。弗兰基按响门铃，里面的人放她进去，而博比留在了外面。
没一会儿，弗兰基又打开门，招呼他进屋。他们上楼进了大客厅，拉起几扇百叶窗，又掀开了其中一张沙发上的罩布。
“还有一件事我忘记告诉你了，”弗兰基说，“十六号，也就是你被人下毒那天，巴辛顿-弗伦奇在斯塔弗利，但尼科尔森不在。据说他在伦敦参加一个会议。而他的车是一辆深蓝色的塔尔博特。”
“同时他还能弄到吗啡。”博比说。
他们交换了一个意味深长的眼神。
“我想，这也算不上确凿的证据。”博比说，“但是却与线索非常吻合。”
弗兰基走到靠墙的桌子前，拿回来一本电话号码簿。
“你打算干什么？”
“我要查查里文顿这个姓氏。”
她飞快地翻动书页。
“A.里文顿父子，建筑工。B.A.C.里文顿，牙医。D.里文顿，住在射手山，我觉得这个不是。弗洛伦斯•里文顿小姐。H.里文顿上校，获得过杰出服务勋章——这才对嘛——住在切尔西的泰特街。”
她继续往下查找。
“这儿有个M.R.里文顿，地址是翁斯洛广场。他也有可能。在汉普斯特德还有个威廉•里文顿。我认为翁斯洛广场和泰特街的这两个最有可能。博比，我们必须去见见这些姓里文顿的人，不能耽搁了。”
“我觉得你说得对。但要用什么借口去呢？编几个不错的瞎话吧，弗兰基。那种事儿我可不怎么在行。”
弗兰基沉思了片刻。
“我认为，”她说，“这件事还得是你来出马。你觉得你能扮演一家律师事务所新来的合伙人吗？”
“这看起来是个很有绅士风度的角色，”博比说，“我还怕你会想出什么比这要糟糕得多的主意来呢。不过话说回来，这个角色好像不太符合实际情况啊。”
“这是什么意思？”
“呃，律师从来不会亲自登门拜访，对吗？想必他们通常都是靠写信的，六先令八便士一封，或者写信叫某人到他们的办公室去赴约。”
“这家独特的律师事务所标新立异，”弗兰基说，“你等一下。”
她离开了房间，回来的时候拿着一张名片。
“弗雷德里克•斯普拉格先生，”她说着把名片递给博比，“你是布鲁姆斯伯里广场上斯普拉格-斯普拉格-詹金森及斯普拉格事务所的一名年轻成员。”
“这家事务所是你瞎编出来的吧，弗兰基？”
“当然不是了，他们是我父亲的律师。”
“那他们会告我冒名顶替吗？”
“没关系的，并不存在年轻的斯普拉格。唯一的斯普拉格都差不多一百岁了，而且再怎么说，他对我都言听计从。如果真的出了岔子，我会搞定他的。他是个十足的势利眼，就喜欢那些伯爵啊公爵啊什么的，但从他们身上又赚不到多少钱。”
“衣服怎么办？用我给巴杰打电话带些过来吗？”
弗兰基看上去一脸疑惑。
“我无意冒犯你的衣着，博比，”她说，“或者拿你的贫穷来嘲笑你。不过那些衣服真的能令人信服吗？我想的是，咱们最好扫荡一下我父亲的衣橱。他的衣服对你来说不会太不合身的。”
一刻钟以后，博比站在马钦顿伯爵的穿衣镜前审视着自己，他身上穿着一件晨礼服和一条裁剪精良的条纹裤，还算合身。
“你父亲在衣着方面还真是挺养尊处优的，”他欣欣然地评论道，“有萨维尔街 [2] 赐予的力量在我身上，我整个人都信心倍增。”
“我觉得你还是得戴着你的小胡子。”弗兰基说。
“它粘在我脸上呢，”博比说，“这可是件艺术品，没法马上再做一个。”
“那最好还是留着它吧，虽然把脸刮干净了更像是从律师事务所出来的。”
“总比留大胡子好，”博比说，“那么现在，弗兰基，你觉得你父亲会借给我一顶帽子吗？”
[1]伦敦西南部的一个地区。
[2]伦敦以传统的男士定制服装而蜚声在外的街道，是手工定制量体裁衣的终极圣地。
Seventeen MRS. RIVINGTON TALKS
Seventeen MRS. RIVINGTON TALKS
“Supposing,” said Bobby, pausing on the doorstep, “that Mr. M. R. Riving-ton of Onslow Square is himself a solicitor? That would be a blow.”
“You’d better try the Tite Street colonel first,” said Frankie. “He won’tknow anything about solicitors.”
Accordingly, Bobby took a taxi to Tite Street. Colonel Rivington was out.
Mrs. Rivington, however, was at home. Bobby delivered over to the smartparlourmaid his card on which he had written: “From Messrs Spragge,Spragge, Jenkinson & Spragge. Very Urgent.”
The card and Lord Marchington’s clothes produced their effect upon theparlourmaid. She did not for an instant suspect that Bobby had come tosell miniatures or tout for insurances. He was shown into a beautifullyand expensively furnished drawing room and presently Mrs. Rivington,beautifully- and expensively-dressed and made-up, came into the room.
“I must apologize for troubling you, Mrs. Rivington,” said Bobby. “Butthe matter was rather urgent and we wished to avoid the delay of letters.”
That any solicitor could ever wish to avoid delay seemed so transpar-ently impossible that Bobby for a moment wondered anxiously whetherMrs. Rivington would see through the pretence.
Mrs. Rivington, however, was clearly a woman of more looks thanbrains who accepted things as they were presented to her.
“Oh, do sit down!” she said. “I got the telephone message just now fromyour office saying that you were on your way here.”
Bobby mentally applauded Frankie for this last-minute flash of brilli-ance.
He sat down and endeavoured to look legal.
“It is about our client, Mr. Alan Carstairs,” he said.
“Oh, yes?”
“He may have mentioned that we were acting for him.”
“Did he now? I believe he did,” said Mrs. Rivington, opening very largeblue eyes. She was clearly of a suggestible type. “But of course, I knowabout you. You acted for Dolly Maltravers, didn’t you, when she shot thatdreadful dressmaker man? I suppose you know all the details?”
She looked at him with frank curiosity. It seemed to Bobby that Mrs. Riv-ington was going to be easy meat.
“We know a lot that never comes into court,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, I suppose you must.” Mrs. Rivington looked at him enviously. “Tellme, did she really—I mean, was she dressed as that woman said?”
“The story was contradicted in court,” said Bobby solemnly. He slightlydropped the corner of his eyelid.
“Oh, I see,” breathed Mrs. Rivington, enraptured.
“About Mr. Carstairs,” said Bobby, feeling that he had now establishedfriendly relations and could get on with his job. “He left England very sud-denly, as perhaps you know?”
Mrs. Rivington shook her head.
“Has he left England? I didn’t know. We haven’t seen him for sometime.”
“Did he tell you how long he expected to be over here?”
“He said he might be here for a week or two or it might be six months ora year.”
“Where was he staying?”
“At the Savoy.”
“And you saw him last—when?”
“Oh, about three weeks or a month ago. I can’t remember.”
“You took him down to Staverley one day?”
“Of course! I believe that’s the last time we saw him. He rang up to knowwhen he could see us. He’d just arrived in London and Hubert was veryput out because we were going up to Scotland the next day, and we weregoing down to Staverley to lunch and dining out with some dreadfulpeople that we couldn’t get rid of, and he wanted to see Carstairs becausehe liked him so much, and so I said: ‘My dear, let’s take him down to theBassington- ffrenches with us. They won’t mind.’ And we did. And, ofcourse, they didn’t.”
She came breathlessly to a pause.
“Did he tell you his reasons for being in England?” asked Bobby.
“No. Did he have any? Oh yes, I know. We thought it was something todo with that millionaire man, that friend of his, who had such a tragicdeath. Some doctor told him he had cancer and he killed himself. A verywicked thing for a doctor to do, don’t you think so? And they’re often quitewrong. Our doctor said the other day that my little girl had measles and itturned out to be a sort of heat rash. I told Hubert I should change him.”
Ignoring Mrs. Rivington’s treatment of doctors as though they were lib-rary books, Bobby returned to the point.
“Did Mr. Carstairs know the Bassington-ffrenches?”
“Oh, no! But I think he liked them. Though he was very queer andmoody on the way back. I suppose something that had been said musthave upset him. He’s a Canadian, you know, and I often think Canadiansare so touchy.”
“You don’t know what it was that upset him?”
“I haven’t the least idea. The silliest things do it sometimes, don’t they?”
“Did he take any walks in the neighbourhood?” asked Bobby.
“Oh, no! What a very odd idea!” She stared at him.
Bobby tried again.
“Was there a party? Did he meet any of the neighbours?”
“No, it was just ourselves and them. But it’s odd your saying that—”
“Yes,” said Bobby eagerly, as she paused.
“Because he asked a most frightful lot of questions about some peoplewho lived near there.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“No, I don’t. It wasn’t anyone very interesting—some doctor or other.”
“Dr. Nicholson?”
“I believe that was the name. He wanted to know all about him and hiswife and when they came there — all sorts of things. It seemed so oddwhen he didn’t know them, and he wasn’t a bit a curious man as a rule.
But, of course, perhaps he was only making conversation, and couldn’tthink of anything to say. One does do things like that sometimes.”
Bobby agreed that one did and asked how the subject of the Nicholsonshad come up, but that Mrs. Rivington was unable to tell him. She had beenout with Henry Bassington-ffrench in the garden and had come in to findthe others discussing the Nicholsons.
So far, the conversation had proceeded easily, Bobby pumping the ladywithout any camouflage, but she now displayed a sudden curiosity.
“But what is it you want to know about Mr. Carstairs?” she asked.
“I really wanted his address,” explained Bobby. “As you know, we actfor him and we’ve just had a rather important cable from New York—youknow, there’s rather a serious fluctuation in the dollar just now—”
Mrs. Rivington nodded with desperate intelligence.
“And so,” continued Bobby rapidly, “we wanted to get in touch with him— to get his instructions — and he hasn’t left an address — and, havingheard him mention he was a friend of yours, I thought you might possiblyhave news of him.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Rivington, completely satisfied. “What a pity. Buthe’s always rather a vague man, I should think.”
“Oh, distinctly so,” said Bobby. “Well,” he rose, “I apologize for taking upso much of your time.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Mrs. Rivington. “And it’s so interesting to know thatDolly Maltravers really did—as you say she did.”
“I said nothing at all,” said Bobby.
“Yes, but then lawyers are so discreet, aren’t they?” said Mrs. Rivingtonwith a little gurgle of laughter.
“So that’s all right,” thought Bobby, as he walked away down Tite Street.
“I seem to have taken Dolly Whatsername’s character away for good, but Idaresay she deserves it, and that charming idiot of a woman will neverwonder why, if I wanted Carstairs’ address, I didn’t simply ring up and askfor it!”
Back in Brook Street he and Frankie discussed the matter from everyangle.
“It looks as though it were really pure chance that took him to theBassington-ffrenches,” said Frankie thoughtfully.
“I know. But evidently when he was down there some chance remarkdirected his attention to the Nicholsons.”
“So that, really, it is Nicholson who is at the heart of the mystery, not theBassington-ffrenches?”
Bobby looked at her.
“Still intent on whitewashing your hero,” he inquired coldly.
“My dear, I’m only pointing out what it looks like. It’s the mention ofNicholson and his nursing home that excited Carstairs. Being taken downto the Bassington-ffrenches was a pure matter of chance. You must admitthat.”
“It seems like it.”
“Why only ‘seems?’ ”
“Well, there is just one other possibility. In some way, Carstairs mayhave found out that the Rivingtons were going down to lunch with theBassington-ffrenches. He may have overheard some chance remark in arestaurant—at the Savoy, perhaps. So he rings them up, very urgent to seethem, and what he hopes may happen does happen. They’re very booked-up and they suggest his coming down with them — their friends won’tmind and they do so want to see him. That is possible, Frankie.”
“It is possible, I suppose. But it seems a very roundabout method of do-ing things.”
“No more roundabout than your accident,” said Bobby.
“My accident was vigorous direct action,” said Frankie coldly.
Bobby removed Lord Marchington’s clothes and replaced them wherehe had found them. Then he donned his chauffeur’s uniform once moreand they were soon speeding back to Staverley.
“If Roger has fallen for me,” said Frankie demurely, “he’ll be pleased I’vecome back so soon. He’ll think I can’t bear to be away from him for long.”
“I’m not sure that you can bear it, either,” said Bobby. “I’ve alwaysheard that really dangerous criminals were singularly attractive.”
“Somehow I can’t believe he is a criminal.”
“So you remarked before.”
“Well, I feel like that.”
“You can’t get over the photograph.”
“Damn the photograph!” said Frankie.
Bobby drove up the drive in silence. Frankie sprang out and went intothe house without a backward glance. Bobby drove away.
The house seemed very silent. Frankie glanced at the clock. It was halfpast two.
“They don’t expect me back for hours yet,” she thought. “I wonderwhere they are?”
She opened the door of the library and went in, stopping suddenly onthe threshold.
Dr. Nicholson was sitting on the sofa, holding both Sylvia Bassington-ffrench’s hands in his.
Sylvia jumped to her feet and came across the room towards Frankie.
“He’s been telling me,” she said.
Her voice was stifled. She put both hands to her face as though to hide itfrom view.
“It’s too terrible,” she sobbed, and, brushing past Frankie, she ran out ofthe room.
Dr. Nicholson had risen. Frankie advanced a step or two towards him.
His eyes, watchful as ever, met hers.
“Poor lady,” he said suavely. “It has been a great shock to her.”
The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment or twoFrankie fancied that he was amused. And then, quite suddenly, she real-ized that it was quite a different emotion.
The man was angry. He was holding himself in, hiding his anger behinda suave bland mask, but the emotion was there. It was all he could do tohold that emotion in.
There was a moment’s pause.
“It was best that Mrs. Bassington-ffrench should know the truth,” saidthe doctor. “I want her to induce her husband to place himself in myhands.”
“I’m afraid,” said Frankie gently, “that I interrupted you.” She paused. “Icame back sooner than I meant.”
第十七章 里文顿夫人开口说话
第十七章 里文顿夫人开口说话
“万一，”博比在门阶上站住脚，说道，“那个翁斯洛广场的M.R.里文顿先生自己就是个律师呢？那可就完蛋了。”
“你最好先去试试泰特街的那个上校，”弗兰基说，“他应该对律师的事情一窍不通。”
于是，博比打了一辆出租车来到泰特街。里文顿上校出门了，但里文顿太太在家。博比把名片交给了机灵的客厅女仆，那上面有他写的：“从斯普拉格-斯普拉格-詹金森及斯普拉格先生的律师事务所来，十万火急。”
这张名片和马钦顿伯爵的衣服在客厅女仆身上取得了喜人的成效。她丝毫不怀疑博比可能是来售卖袖珍画像或者推销保险的。他被带到一间富丽堂皇的客厅，没过多久，衣着和妆容都雍容华贵的里文顿太太便走进了屋。
“冒昧打扰您我深表歉意，里文顿太太。”博比说，“不过事出紧急，我们希望避免因信函导致的耽搁。”
要说有哪个律师会希望避免耽搁似乎是不可能的，这一点显而易见。博比有那么一刻感到忧心忡忡，不知道里文顿太太会不会看穿这个借口。
然而，里文顿太太显然是个外表胜于头脑的女人，摆在她面前的事情她都会全盘接受。
“哦，快请坐吧！”她说，“我刚刚接到了您办公室打来的电话，说您正在来这里的路上。”
博比在心里暗暗为弗兰基在最后关头的灵光一闪鼓掌。
他坐了下来，尽力让自己看上去有点儿律师的样子。
“这件事跟我们的客户艾伦•卡斯泰尔斯先生有关。”他说。
“哦，是吗？”
“他也许曾经提起过我们在为他代理法律事务。”
“他提过吗？我相信他是提过的。”里文顿太太的一双蓝眼睛睁得很大，说道。她显然还是个很容易接受暗示的人，“不过当然啦，我也了解你们。你们代理过多莉•马尔特雷弗斯的事务，就是她开枪袭击那个讨厌的女装裁缝的案子，对不对？我猜你们应该知道全部的细节吧？”
她看着他，毫不掩饰她的好奇心。在博比看来，里文顿太太是个很容易上当受骗的人。
“我们了解很多从未在法庭上公之于众的情况。”他说着微微一笑。
“哦，我猜你们肯定知道，”里文顿太太满心羡慕地看着他，“给我讲讲，她是真的——我是说，她穿得真的跟那个女人说的一样吗？”
“这件事在法庭上被驳回了。”博比很郑重地说道，眼帘微垂。
“哦，我明白了。”里文顿太太欣喜若狂地吸了一口气。
“关于卡斯泰尔斯先生，”博比接着说道，他觉得现在已经建立起了友好的关系，可以继续干正事儿了，“他非常突然地离开了英格兰，或许您知道？”
里文顿太太摇了摇头。
“他离开英格兰了吗？我不知道啊。我们已经有一阵子没见过他了。”
“他告诉过您他打算在这里待多久了吗？”
“他说他或许会在这儿待上一两个星期，也有可能待上个一年半载的。”
“他住在哪儿呢？”
“在萨伏伊酒店。”
“那您最后看见他是在什么时候？”
“哦，差不多是三个星期或者一个月以前，我也记不清了。”
“您带他去过斯塔弗利吗？”
“当然啦！我相信那就是我们最后一次看见他。他刚到伦敦，打电话来想知道什么时候可以来看望我们。休伯特觉得有点儿烦心，因为我们正准备第二天去苏格兰，还得去斯塔弗利吃午餐，再跟几个摆脱不了的讨厌鬼一起外出吃晚餐，而他想见卡斯泰尔斯，他特别喜欢他。于是我就说：‘亲爱的，咱们带上他一起去巴辛顿-弗伦奇家吧。他们不会介意的。’后来我们真的带上他了，而巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家当然也没有介意。”
说到这儿，她停了下来，有点气喘吁吁。
“他告诉过你们他到英格兰来的原因吗？”博比问。
“没告诉过。他来英格兰有原因吗？哦，对了，我知道了。我们认为跟他那个朋友，就是那个死得很惨的百万富翁有关系。有个医生说他得了癌症，然后他就自杀了。医生说这种话可真够缺德的，您不觉得吗？而且他们经常会大错特错。我们的医生前些天说我家小女儿得了麻疹，结果其实就是出了点儿痱子什么的。我跟休伯特说我们得把他换掉。”
在里文顿太太的眼中，医生仿佛是图书馆的藏书一样，对于这种态度，博比不予置喙，而是又重新说回正题。
“卡斯泰尔斯先生认识巴辛顿-弗伦奇家的人吗？”
“哦，不认识！不过我认为他喜欢他们。尽管他在回来的路上显得很奇怪，有些闷闷不乐。我猜肯定是他们说的哪些话让他心烦了吧。你知道，他是个加拿大人，而我总觉得加拿大人都有点儿过于敏感。”
“您并不知道是什么事情让他烦心吧？”
“我毫无头绪。有时候就是些最愚蠢的小事，不是吗？”
“他在那附近散过步吗？”博比问道。
“哦，没有啊！这个想法太奇怪了！”她目不转睛地盯着他。
博比则再次试探。
“当天有聚会吗？他遇见什么邻居了没有？”
“没有，就只有我们和巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家。不过你这么一说还真挺奇怪的——”
“哦？”趁着她停顿，博比急切地问道。
“因为他问了一大堆讨厌的问题，是跟住在那附近的某个人有关。”
“您记得那人叫什么吗？”
“不，我不记得了。不是什么特别有意思的人，是个医生之类的。”
“尼科尔森医生？”
“好像就是叫这个名字。他想了解关于他和他太太的事情，以及他们是何时来到这里的——各种各样的问题。这可太奇怪了，因为他并不认识他们啊，而且他通常也不是个好奇心旺盛的人。不过当然啦，他或许只是想找点话说，又想不出来该说些什么。人有时候是会干这种事情的。”
博比也赞同说人有时候就是这样，随后他便问起当时为什么会聊到尼科尔森夫妇，不过这一点里文顿太太就没法告诉他了。她当时跟亨利•巴辛顿-弗伦奇一起到花园里去了，回来的时候就发现其他人正在谈论尼科尔森夫妇。
到目前为止，谈话进行得都非常顺利，博比不停地追问这位夫人，丝毫不加掩饰，不过她现在却突然表现出了一种好奇。
“可你到底想要知道卡斯泰尔斯先生的什么呢？”她问道。
“我其实是想要他的地址，”博比解释道，“您也知道，我们在代理他的法律事务。我们刚好从纽约收到一封颇为重要的电报。您知道吗，美元汇率刚刚经历了一次相当剧烈的波动——”
里文顿太太拼命点着头，想显示出自己的聪慧。
“所以呢，”博比飞快地继续，“我们想联系上他，以便得到他的指示。而他又没有留下地址……以前曾经听他提到过是您二位的朋友，于是我就想，您或许知道他的消息。”
“哦，我明白了，”里文顿太太心满意足地说，“真是遗憾呐，不过他向来都行踪不定。”
“哦，显然如此。”博比说，“好吧。”他站起身来。“非常抱歉，占用了您那么宝贵的时间。”
“哦，别客气，”里文顿太太说，“能知道多莉•马尔特雷弗斯真的干了那件事——就像你说的那样——实在太有意思了。”
“我可什么都没说。”博比说。
“是啊，不过律师说起话来都是这么谨慎，不是吗？”里文顿太太边说边发出咯咯的轻笑声。
“这件事就算是办妥了。”博比沿着泰特街走去的时候心想，“看来我已经一劳永逸地把多莉•马尔特雷弗斯这个人搞臭了，不过我猜她也是罪有应得，而那个可爱的傻女人永远也不会怀疑我为什么不简单打电话问一下卡斯泰尔斯的地址！”
回到布鲁克街以后，他和弗兰基一起从各个角度讨论了这件事情。
“看起来，他去巴辛顿-弗伦奇家似乎真的纯属偶然。”弗兰基若有所思地说道。
“我知道。但是很显然，当他到那儿以后，某句无心之言让他的注意力转向了尼科尔森夫妇。”
“所以说，这个谜团的核心其实并不是巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家，而是尼科尔森？”
博比看着她。
“还在一心为你的英雄粉饰呢？”他冷冷地问道。
“亲爱的，我不过是在描述事情的现状。卡斯泰尔斯正是因为听到了尼科尔森和他的私人疗养院才兴奋了起来，而被带到巴辛顿-弗伦奇家则是个纯粹的偶然。你必须承认这一点。”
“似乎是这么回事。”
“干吗只是‘似乎’？”
“唔，因为恰好还有另一种可能。卡斯泰尔斯有可能通过某种渠道获悉了里文顿夫妇要去和巴辛顿-弗伦奇一家人共进午餐。他可能是在一家餐厅里，或许就是在萨伏伊，偶然听到了一些消息，于是就给他们打电话，非常急切地想去看他们。结果他就心想事成了。他们的日程排得很满，于是便提议让他跟着一起去——朋友不会介意，而里文顿夫妇又真的很想见到他。这是有可能的，弗兰基。”
“的确有可能，不过这也太拐弯抹角了。”
“不会比你的车祸更拐弯抹角的。”博比说。
“我的车祸可是轰轰烈烈的直接行动。”弗兰基冷冷地说。
博比脱去马钦顿伯爵的衣服，放回原处，随后再次披上司机制服。很快，两人便飞驰在返回斯塔弗利的路上了。
“如果罗杰已经爱上我了的话，”弗兰基故作庄重地说，“他会很高兴我这么快就回来了。他会觉得我离开他时间一长就难以忍受。”
“我也不确定你能受得了，”博比说，“我总听人说，真正危险的罪犯都格外有吸引力。”
“不知怎么的，我就是没法相信他是个罪犯。”
“你以前也这么说过。”
“对啊，我是有这种感觉。”
“你没办法解释照片的问题。”
“那该死的照片！”弗兰基说。
博比一言不发地驶上了车道。弗兰基跳下车，头也不回地进了屋。博比随即驾车离去。
屋子里似乎异常安静。弗兰基瞥了一眼时钟，时间是两点半。
“他们肯定觉得我还有几个小时才能回来呢，”她心想，“不知道他们都上哪儿去了？”
她推开书房的门，迈步往里走，却在门口突然站住了。
尼科尔森医生正坐在沙发上，两只手攥着西尔维娅•巴辛顿-弗伦奇的双手。
西尔维娅一跃而起，穿过房间朝弗兰基走来。
“他刚才已经告诉我了。”她说。
她的嗓音很压抑，同时用双手捂着脸，仿佛要藏起来不让人看到似的。
“太可怕了。”她呜咽着奔出房间，和弗兰基擦身而过。
尼科尔森医生已然站起身来，弗兰基朝他那边走了一两步，两人的目光不期而遇，医生眼里的警觉一如往常。
“可怜的夫人，”他温文尔雅地说道，“这对她来说是一个很大的打击。”
他嘴角边的肌肉有些抽搐。有那么一瞬间，弗兰基以为他对此感到好笑，然后她突然意识到那是一种截然不同的情绪。
这个人在生气。他在压抑自己的情绪，把怒气隐藏在一副温文尔雅的面具背后，但是那种情绪就摆在那里。他所能做的全部就是把自己的情绪控制好。
两人之间有片刻的沉默。
“巴辛顿-弗伦奇太太应该知道真相，这样最好。”医生说，“我想让她劝劝她丈夫，把他交给我来处理。”
“恐怕，”弗兰基轻声说道，“我打断了你们的谈话。”她顿了一下，“我回来的比我预计的要快。”