“Come in here a minute, Satterthwaite, will you?”
Sir Charles poked1 his head out of the door.
An hour and a half had passed. To confusion had succeeded peace. Lady Mary had led the weeping Mrs. Babbington out of the room and had finally gone home with her to the vicarage. Miss Milray had been efficient with the telephone. The local doctor had arrived and taken charge. A simplified dinner had been served, and by mutual2 consent the house party had retired3 to their rooms after it. Mr. Satterthwaite had been making his own retreat when Sir Charles had called to him from the door of the Ship-room where the death had taken place.
Mr. Satterthwaite passed in, repressing a slight shiver as he did so. He was old enough not to like the sight of death ... For soon, perhaps, he himself ... But why think of that?
“I’m good for another twenty years,” said Mr. Satterthwaite robustly4 to himself.
The only other occupant of the Ship-room was Bartholomew Strange. He nodded approval at the sight of Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Good man,” he said. “We can do with Satterthwaite. He knows life.”
A little surprised, Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in an armchair near the doctor. Sir Charles was pacing up and down. He had forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and looked definitely less naval5.
“Charles doesn’t like it,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Poor old Babbington’s death, I mean.”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought the sentiment ill expressed. Surely nobody could be expected to “like” what had occurred. He realised that Strange had quite another meaning from the bald one the words conveyed.
“It was very distressing6,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way. “Very distressing indeed,” he added with a reminiscent shiver.
“H’m, yes, it was rather painful,” said the physician, the professional accent creeping for a moment into his voice.
Cartwright paused in his pacing.
“Ever see anyone die quite like that before, Tollie?”
“No,” said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully. “I can’t say that I have.”
“But,” he added in a moment or two. “I haven’t really seen as many deaths as you might suppose. A nerve specialist doesn’t kill off many of his patients. He keeps ’em alive and makes his income out of them. MacDougal has seen far more deceases than I have, I don’t doubt.”
Dr. MacDougal was the principal doctor in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had summoned.
“MacDougal didn’t see this man die. He was dead when he arrived. There was only what we could tell him, what you could tell him. He said it was some kind of seizure7,” said Babbington was elderly, and his health was none too good. That doesn’t satisfy me.”
“Probably didn’t satisfy him,” grunted8 the other. “ But a doctor has to say something. Seizure is a good word - means nothing at all, but satisfies the lay mind. And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had been giving him trouble lately; his wife told us so. There may have been some unsuspected weakness somewhere.”
“Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever you call it?”
“Typical of what?”
“Of any known disease?”
“If you’d ever studied medicine,” said Sir Bartholomew, “you’d know that there is hardly any such thing as a typical case.”
“What, precisely9, are you suggesting, Sir Charles?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
Cartwright did not answer. He made a vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a slight chuckle10.
“Charles doesn’t know himself,” he said. “It’s just this mind turning naturally to the dramatic possibilities.”
Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture. His face was absorbed - thoughtful. He shook his head slightly in an abstracted manner. An elusive11 resemblance teased Mr. Satterthwaite - then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the Secret Service, unravelling12 the tangled13 plot of Underground Wires. In another minute he was sure. Sir Charles was limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide Duval had been known as The Man With a Limp.
Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless common sense to Sir Charles’s unformulated suspicious.
“Yes, what do you suspect, Charles? Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a harmless old clergyman? It’s fantastic. Suicide? Well, I suppose that is a point. One might perhaps imagine reason for Babbington wanting to make away with himself - ”
“What reason?”
Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently.
“How can we tell the secrets of the human mind? Just one suggestion - suppose that Babbington had been told he suffered from an incurable14 disease - such as cancer. Something of that kind might supply a motive15. He might wish to spare his wife the pain of watching his own long-drawn-out suffering. That’s only a suggestion, of course. There’s nothing on earth to make us think that Babbington did want to put an end to himself.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much of suicide,” began Sir Charles.
Bartholomew Strange again gave his low chuckle.
“Exactly. You’re not out for probability. You want sensation - new and untraceable poison in the cocktails16.”
Sir Charles made an expressive18 grimace19.
“I’m not so sure I do want that. Damn it all, Tollie, remember I mixed those cocktails.”
“Sudden attack of homicidal mania20, eh? I suppose the symptoms are delayed in our case, but we’ll all be dead before morning.”
“Damn it all, you joke, but - ” Sir Charles broke off irritably21.
“I’m not really joking,” said the physician.
His voice had altered. It was grave, and not unsympathetic.
“I’m not joking about poor old Babbington’s death. I’m casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because - well - because I don’t want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm.”
“Harm?” demanded Sir Charles.
“Perhaps you understand what I’m driving at, Mr. Satterthwaite?”
“I think, perhaps, I can guess,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Don’t you see, Charles,” went on Sir Bartholomew, “that those idle suspicions of yours might be definitely harmful? These things get about. A vague suggestion of foul22 play, totally unfounded, might cause serious trouble and pain to Mrs. Babbington. I’ve known things of that kind happen once or twice. A sudden death - a few idle tongues wagging - rumours23 flying all round the place - rumours that go on growing - and that no one can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don’t you see how cruel and unnecessary it would be? You’re merely indulging your vivid imagination in a gallop25 over a wholly speculative26 course.”
A look of irresolution27 appeared on the actor’s face.
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted.
“You’re a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away with you. Come now: do you seriously believe anyone, anyone at all, would want to murder that perfectly28 harmless old man?”
“I suppose not,” said Sir Charles. “No, as you say, it’s ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it wasn’t really a mere24 ‘stunt’ on my part. I did genuinely have a ‘hunch’ that something was wrong.”
Mr. Satterthwaite gave a little cough.
“May I make a suggestion? Mr. Babbington was taken ill a very few moments after entering the room and just after drinking his cocktail17. Now, I did happen to notice he made a wry29 face when drinking. I imagined because he was unused to the taste. But supposing that Sir Bartholomew’s tentative suggestion is correct - that Mr. Babbington may for some reason have wished to commit suicide. That does strike me as just possible, whereas the suggestion of murder seems quite ridiculous.”
“I feel that it is possible, though not probable, that Mr. Babbington introduced somehow into that glass unseen by us.
“Now I see that nothing has yet been touched in this room. The cocktail glasses are exactly where they were. This is Mr. Babbington’s. I know, because I was sitting here talking to him. I suggest that Sir Bartholomew should get the glass analysed - that can be done quite quietly and without causing any ‘talk’.”
Sir Bartholomew rose and picked up the glass.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll humour you so far, Charles, and I’ll bet you ten pounds to one that there’s nothing in it but honest-to-God gin and vermouth.”
“Done,” said Sir Charles.
Then he added with a rueful smile:
“You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of fancy.”
“I?”
“Yes, with your talk of crime this morning. You said this man, Hercule Poirot, was a kind of stormy petrel, that where he went crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive than we have a suspiciously sudden death. Of course my thoughts fly to murder at once.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped.
“Yes,” said Charles Cartwright. “I’d thought of that. What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of it all? Is it etiquette30, I mean?”
“A nice point,” murmured Mr. Satterthwaite.
“I know medical etiquette, but I’m hanged if I know anything about the etiquette of detection.”
“You can’t ask a professional singer to sing,” murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. “Can one ask a professional detective to detect?
Yes, a very nice point.”
“Just an opinion,” said Sir Charles.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and Hercule Poirot’s face appeared, peering in with an apologetic expression.
“Come in, man,” cried Sir Charles, springing up. “We were just talking of you.”
“I thought perhaps I might be intruding31.”
“Not at all. Have a drink.”
“I thank you, no. I seldom drink the whisky. A glass of sirop, now - ”
But sirop was not included in Sir Charles’s conception of drinkable fluids. Having settled his guest in a chair, the actor went straight to the point.
“I’m not going to beat about the bush,” he said. “We were just talking of you, M. Poirot, and - and - of what happened tonight. Look here, do you think there’s anything wrong about it?”
Poirot’s eyebrows32 rose. He said:
“Wrong? How do you mean that - wrong?”
Bartholomew Strange said, “My friend has got an idea into his head that old Babbington was murdered.
“And you do not think so - eh?”
“We’d like to know what you think.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“He was taken ill, of course, very suddenly - very suddenly indeed.”
“Just so.”
Mr. Satterthwaite explained the theory of suicide and his own suggestion of having a cocktail glass analysed.
Poirot nodded approval.
“That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely in the extreme that anyone would wish to do away with a charming and harmless old gentleman. Still less does the solution of suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail glass will tell us one way or another.”
“And the result of the analysis, you think, will be - what?”
Poirot shrugged33 his shoulders.
“Me? I can only guess. You ask me to guess what will be the result of the analysis?”
“Yes - ?”
“Then I guess that they will find only the remains34 of a very excellent dry Martini.” (He bowed to Sir Charles.) “To poison a man in a cocktail, one of many handed round on a tray - well, it would be a technique very - very - difficult. And if that charming old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I do not think he would do it at a party. That would show a very decided35 lack of consideration for others, and Mr. Babbington struck me as a very considerate person. He paused. That, since you ask me, is my opinion.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Sir Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of the windows and looked out.
“Wind’s gone round a point,” he said.
The sailor had come back and the Secret Service detective had disappeared.
But to the observant Mr. Satterthwaite it seemed as though Sir Charles hankered slightly after the part he was not, after all, to play.
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收听单词发音
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1
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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12
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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14
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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15
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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16
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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31
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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32
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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33
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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34
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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35
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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