Hardcastle had arrived. We had had the introduction and the greetings. We were now settled downin a companionable fashion, with Dick occasionally glancing surreptitiously at Poirot with the airof a man at the Zoo studying a new and surprising acquisition. I doubt if he had ever met anyonequite like Hercule Poirot before!
Finally, the amenities1 and politeness having been observed, Hardcastle cleared his throat andspoke.
“I suppose, M. Poirot,” he said cautiously, “that you’ll want to see—well, the whole setup foryourself? It won’t be exactly easy—” He hesitated. “The chief constable2 told me to do everythingI could for you. But you must appreciate that there are difficulties, questions that may be asked,objections. Still, as you have come down here specially—”
Poirot interrupted him—with a touch of coldness.
“I came here,” he said, “because of the reconstruction3 and decoration of my apartment inLondon.”
I gave a horse laugh and Poirot shot me a look of reproach.
“M. Poirot doesn’t have to go and see things,” I said. “He has always insisted that you can do itall from an armchair. But that’s not quite true, is it, Poirot? Or why have you come here?”
Poirot replied with dignity.
“I said that it was not necessary to be the foxhound, the bloodhound, the tracking dog, runningto and fro upon the scent5. But I will admit that for the chase a dog is necessary. A retriever, myfriend. A good retriever.”
He turned towards the inspector6. One hand twirled his moustache in a satisfied gesture.
“Let me tell you,” he said, “that I am not like the English, obsessed7 with dogs. I, personally, canlive without the dog. But I accept, nevertheless, your ideal of the dog. The man loves and respectshis dog. He indulges him, he boasts of the intelligence and sagacity of his dog to his friends. Nowfigure to yourself, the opposite may also come to pass! The dog is fond of his master. He indulgesthat master! He, too, boasts of his master, boasts of his master’s sagacity and intelligence. And asa man will rouse himself when he does not really want to go out, and take his dog for a walkbecause the dog enjoys the walk so much, so will the dog endeavour to give his master what thatmaster pines to have.
“It was so with my kind young friend Colin here. He came to see me, not to ask for help withhis own problem; that he was confident that he could solve for himself, and has, I gather, done so.
No, he felt concern that I was unoccupied and lonely so he brought to me a problem that he feltwould interest me and give me something to work upon. He challenged me with it—challengedme to do what I had so often told him it was possible to do—sit still in my chair and—in duecourse—resolve that problem. It may be, I suspect it is, that there was a little malice8, just a smallharmless amount, behind that challenge. He wanted, let us say, to prove to me that it was not soeasy after all. Mais oui, mon ami, it is true, that! You wanted to mock yourself at me—just a little!
I do not reproach you. All I say is, you did not know your Hercule Poirot.”
He thrust out his chest and twirled his moustaches.
I looked at him and grinned affectionately.
“All right then,” I said. “Give us the answer to the problem—if you know it.”
“But of course I know it!”
Hardcastle stared at him incredulously.
“Are you saying you know who killed the man at 19, Wilbraham Crescent?”
“Certainly.”
“And also who killed Edna Brent?”
“Of course.”
“You know the identity of the dead man?”
“I know who he must be.”
Hardcastle had a very doubtful expression on his face. Mindful of the chief constable, heremained polite. But there was scepticism in his voice.
“Excuse me, M. Poirot, you claim that you know who killed three people. And why?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got an open and shut case?”
“That, no.”
“All you mean is that you have a hunch,” I said, unkindly.
“I will not quarrel with you over a word, mon cher Colin. All I say is, I know!”
Hardcastle sighed.
“But you see, M. Poirot, I have to have evidence.”
“Naturally, but with the resources you have at your disposal, it will be possible for you, I think,to get that evidence.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Come now, Inspector. If you know—really know—is not that the first step? Can you not,nearly always, go on from there?”
“Not always,” said Hardcastle with a sigh. “There are men walking about today who ought to bein gaol9. They know it and we know it.”
“But that is a very small percentage, is it not—”
I interrupted.
“All right. All right. You know … Now let us know too!”
“I perceive you are still sceptical. But first let me say this: To be sure means that when the rightsolution is reached, everything falls into place. You perceive that in no other way could thingshave happened.”
“For the love of Mike,” I said, “get on with it! I grant you all the points you’ve made.”
Poirot arranged himself comfortably in his chair and motioned to the inspector to replenish10 hisglass.
“One thing, mes amis, must be clearly understood. To solve any problem one must have thefacts. For that one needs the dog, the dog who is a retriever, who brings the pieces one by one andlays them at—”
“At the feet of the master,” I said. “Admitted.”
“One cannot from one’s seat in a chair solve a case solely11 from reading about it in a newspaper.
For one’s facts must be accurate, and newspapers are seldom, if ever, accurate. They reportsomething happened at four o’clock when it was a quarter past four, they say a man had a sistercalled Elizabeth when actually he had a sister-in-law called Alexandra. And so on. But in Colinhere, I have a dog of remarkable12 ability—an ability, I may say, which has taken him far in his owncareer. He has always had a remarkable memory. He can repeat to you, even several days later,conversations that have taken place. He can repeat them accurately—that is, not transposing them,as nearly all of us do, to what the impression made on him was. To explain roughly—he would notsay, ‘And at twenty past eleven the post came’ instead of describing what actually happened,namely a knock on the front door and someone coming into the room with letters in their hand. Allthis is very important. It means that he heard what I would have heard if I had been there and seenwhat I would have seen.”
“Only the poor dog hasn’t made the necessary deductions13?”
“So, as far as can be, I have the facts—I am ‘in the picture.’ It is your wartime term, is it not?
To ‘put one in the picture.’ The thing that struck me first of all, when Colin recounted the story tome, was its highly fantastic character. Four clocks, each roughly an hour ahead of the right time,and all introduced into the house without the knowledge of the owner, or so she said. For we mustnever, must we, believe what we are told, until such statements have been carefully checked?”
“Your mind works the way that mine does,” said Hardcastle approvingly.
“On the floor lies a dead man—a respectable-looking elderly man. Nobody knows who he is (oragain so they say). In his pocket is a card bearing the name of Mr. R. H. Curry15, 7, Denvers Street.
Metropolis16 Insurance Company. But there is no Metropolis Insurance Company. There is noDenvers Street and there seems to be no such person as Mr. Curry. That is negative evidence, butit is evidence. We now proceed further. Apparently17 at about ten minutes to two a secretarialagency is rung up, a Miss Millicent Pebmarsh asks for a stenographer18 to be sent to 19, WilbrahamCrescent at three o’clock. It is particularly asked that a Miss Sheila Webb should be sent. MissWebb is sent. She arrives there at a few minutes before three; goes, according to instructions, intothe sitting room, finds a dead man on the floor and rushes out of the house screaming. She rushesinto the arms of a young man.”
Poirot paused and looked at me. I bowed.
“Enter our young hero,” I said.
“You see,” Poirot pointed19 out. “Even you cannot resist a farcical melodramatic tone when youspeak of it. The whole thing is melodramatic, fantastic and completely unreal. It is the kind ofthing that could occur in the writings of such people as Garry Gregson, for instance. I maymention that when my young friend arrived with this tale I was embarking21 on a course of thrillerwriters who had plied4 their craft over the last sixty years. Most interesting. One comes almost toregard actual crimes in the light of fiction. That is to say that if I observe that a dog has not barkedwhen he should bark, I say to myself, ‘Ha! A Sherlock Holmes crime!’ Similarly, if the corpse22 isfound in a sealed room, naturally I say, ‘Ha! A Dickson Carr case!’ Then there is my friend Mrs.
Oliver. If I were to find—but I will say no more. You catch my meaning? So here is the setting ofa crime in such wildly improbable circumstances that one feels at once, ‘This book is not true tolife. All this is quite unreal.’ But alas23, that will not do here, for this is real. It happened. That givesone to think furiously, does it not?”
Hardcastle would not have put it like that, but he fully14 agreed with the sentiment, and noddedvigorously. Poirot went on:
“It is, as it were, the opposite of Chesterton’s, ‘Where would you hide a leaf? In a forest. Wherewould you hide a pebble24? On a beach.’ Here there is excess, fantasy, melodrama20! When I say tomyself in imitation of Chesterton, ‘Where does a middle-aged25 woman hide her fading beauty?’ Ido not reply, ‘Amongst other faded middle-aged faces.’ Not at all. She hides it under makeup,under rouge26 and mascara, with handsome furs wrapped round her and with jewels round her neckand hanging in her ears. You follow me?”
“Well—” said the inspector, disguising the fact that he didn’t.
“Because then, you see, people will look at the furs and the jewels and the coiffure and thehaute couture, and they will not observe what the woman herself is like at all! So I say to myself—and I say to my friend Colin—Since this murder has so many fantastic trappings to distract one itmust really be very simple. Did I not?”
“You did,” I said. “But I still don’t see how you can possibly be right.”
“For that you must wait. So, then, we discard the trappings of the crime and we go to theessentials. A man has been killed. Why has he been killed? And who is he? The answer to the firstquestion will obviously depend on the answer to the second. And until you get the right answer tothese two questions you cannot possibly proceed. He could be a blackmailer27, or a confidencetrickster, or somebody’s husband whose existence was obnoxious28 or dangerous to his wife. Hecould be one of a dozen things. The more I heard, the more everybody seems to agree that helooked a perfectly29 ordinary, well-to-do, reputable elderly man. And suddenly I think to myself,‘You say this should be a simple crime? Very well, make it so. Let this man be exactly what heseems—a well-to-do respectable elderly man.’” He looked at the inspector. “You see?”
“Well—” said the inspector again, and paused politely.
“So here is someone, an ordinary, pleasant, elderly man whose removal is necessary tosomeone. To whom? And here at last we can narrow the field a little. There is local knowledge—of Miss Pebmarsh and her habits, of the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau, of a girl working therecalled Sheila Webb. And so I say to my friend Colin: ‘The neighbours. Converse30 with them. Findout about them. Their backgrounds. But above all, engage in conversation. Because inconversation you do not get merely the answers to questions—in ordinary conversational31 prattlethings slip out. People are on their guard when the subject may be dangerous to them, but themoment ordinary talk ensues they relax, they succumb32 to the relief of speaking the truth, which isalways very much easier than lying. And so they let slip one little fact which unbeknown to themmakes all the difference.”
“An admirable exposition,” I said. “Unfortunately it didn’t happen in this case.”
“But, mon cher, it did. One little sentence of inestimable importance.”
“What?” I demanded. “Who said it? When?”
“In due course, mon cher.”
“You were saying, M. Poirot?” The inspector politely drew Poirot back to the subject.
“If you draw a circle round Number 19, anybody within it might have killed Mr. Curry. Mrs.
Hemming33, the Blands, the McNaughtons, Miss Waterhouse. But more important still, there arethose already positioned on the spot. Miss Pebmarsh who could have killed him before she wentout at 1:35 or thereabouts and Miss Webb who could have arranged to meet him there, and killedhim before rushing from the house and giving the alarm.”
“Ah,” said the inspector. “You’re coming down to brass35 tacks36 now.”
“And of course,” said Poirot, wheeling round, “you, my dear Colin. You were also on the spot.
Looking for a high number where the low numbers were.”
“Well, really,” I said indignantly. “What will you say next?”
“Me, I say anything!” declared Poirot grandly.
“And yet I am the person who comes and dumps the whole thing in your lap!”
“Murderers are often conceited,” Poirot pointed out. “And there too, it might have amused you—to have a joke like that at my expense.”
“If you go on, you’ll convince me,” I said.
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Poirot turned back to Inspector Hardcastle.
“Here, I say to myself, must be essentially37 a simple crime. The presence of irrelevant38 clocks, theadvancing of time by an hour, the arrangements made so deliberately39 for the discovery of thebody, all these must be set aside for the moment. They are, as is said in your immortal40 ‘Alice’ like‘shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings.’ The vital point is that an ordinaryelderly man is dead and that somebody wanted him dead. If we knew who the dead man was, itwould give us a pointer to his killer41. If he was a well-known blackmailer then we must look for aman who could be blackmailed42. If he was a detective, then we look for a man who has a criminalsecret; if he is a man of wealth, then we look among his heirs. But if we do not know who the manis—then we have the more difficult task of hunting amongst those in the surrounding circle for aman who has a reason to kill.
“Setting aside Miss Pebmarsh and Sheila Webb, who is there who might not be what they seemto be? The answer was disappointing. With the exception of Mr. Ramsay who I understood wasnot what he seemed to be?” Here Poirot looked inquiringly at me and I nodded, “everybody’sbona fides were genuine. Bland34 was a well-known local builder, McNaughton had had a Chair atCambridge, Mrs. Hemming was the widow of a local auctioneer, the Waterhouses wererespectable residents of long standing43. So we come back to Mr. Curry. Where did he come from?
What brought him to 19, Wilbraham Crescent? And here one very valuable remark was spoken byone of the neighbours, Mrs. Hemming. When told that the dead man did not live at Number 19,she said, ‘Oh! I see. He just came there to be killed. How odd.’ She had the gift, often possessedby those who are too occupied with their own thoughts to pay attention to what others are saying,to come to the heart of the problem. She summed up the whole crime. Mr. Curry came to 19,Wilbraham Crescent to be killed. It was as simple as that!”
“That remark of hers struck me at the time,” I said.
Poirot took no notice of me.
“‘Dilly, dilly, dilly—come and be killed.’ Mr. Curry came—and he was killed. But that was notall. It was important that he should not be identified. He had no wallet, no papers, the tailor’smarks were removed from his clothes. But that would not be enough. The printed card of Curry,Insurance Agent, was only a temporary measure. If the man’s identity was to be concealedpermanently, he must be given a false identity. Sooner or later, I was sure, somebody would turnup, recognize him positively45 and that would be that. A brother, a sister, a wife. It was a wife. Mrs.
Rival—and the name alone might have aroused suspicion. There is a village in Somerset—I havestayed near there with friends—the village of Curry Rival—Subconsciously, without knowingwhy those two names suggested themselves, they were chosen. Mr. Curry—Mrs. Rival.
“So far—the plan is obvious, but what puzzled me was why our murderer took for granted thatthere would be no real identification. If the man had no family, there are at least landladies,servants, business associates. That led me to the next assumption—this man was not known to bemissing. A further assumption was that he was not English, and was only visiting this country.
That would tie in with the fact that the dental work done on his teeth did not correspond with anydental records here.
“I began to have a shadowy picture both of the victim and of the murderer. No more than that.
The crime was well-planned and intelligently carried out—but now there came that one piece ofsheer bad luck that no murderer can foresee.”
“And what was that?” asked Hardcastle.
Unexpectedly, Poirot threw his head back, and recited dramatically:
“For want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For want of a horse the battle was lost,
For want of a battle the Kingdom was lost,
And all for the want of a horse shoe nail.”
He leaned forward.
“A good many people could have killed Mr. Curry. But only one person could have killed, orcould have had reason to kill, the girl Edna.”
We both stared at him.
“Let us consider the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau. Eight girls work there. On the 9th ofSeptember, four of those girls were out on assignments some little distance away—that is, theywere provided with lunch by the clients to whom they had gone. They were the four who normallytook the first lunch period from 12:30 to 1:30. The remaining four, Sheila Webb, Edna Brent andtwo girls, Janet and Maureen, took the second period, 1:30 to 2:30. But on that day Edna Brenthad an accident quite soon after leaving the office. She tore the heel off her shoe in the grating. Shecould not walk like that. She bought some buns and came back to the office.”
Poirot shook an emphatic46 finger at us.
“We have been told that Edna Brent was worried about something. She tried to see Sheila Webbout of the office, but failed. It has been assumed that that something was connected with SheilaWebb, but there is no evidence of that. She might only have wanted to consult Sheila Webb aboutsomething that had puzzled her—but if so one thing was clear. She wanted to talk to Sheila Webbaway from the bureau.
“Her words to the constable at the inquest are the only clue we have as to what was worryingher: She said something like: ‘I don’t see how what she said can have been true.’ Three womenhad given evidence that morning. Edna could have been referring to Miss Pebmarsh. Or, as it hasbeen generally assumed, she could have been referring to Sheila Webb. But there is a thirdpossibility—she could have been referring to Miss Martindale.”
“Miss Martindale? But her evidence only lasted a few minutes.”
“Exactly. It consisted only of the telephone call she had received purporting47 to be from MissPebmarsh.”
“Do you mean that Edna knew that it wasn’t from Miss Pebmarsh?”
“I think it was simpler than that. I am suggesting that there was no telephone call at all.”
He went on:
“The heel of Edna’s shoe came off. The grating was quite close to the office. She came back tothe bureau. But Miss Martindale, in her private office, did not know that Edna had come back. Asfar as she knew there was nobody but herself in the bureau. All she need do was to say a telephonecall had come through at 1:49. Edna does not see the significance of what she knows at first. Sheilais called in to Miss Martindale and told to go out on an appointment. How and when thatappointment was made is not mentioned to Edna. News of the murder comes through and little bylittle the story gets more definite. Miss Pebmarsh rang up and asked for Sheila Webb to be sent.
But Miss Pebmarsh says it was not she who rang up. The call is said to have come through at tenminutes to two. But Edna knows that couldn’t be true. No telephone call came through then. MissMartindale must have made a mistake—But Miss Martindale definitely doesn’t make mistakes.
The more Edna thinks about it, the more puzzling it is. She must ask Sheila about it. Sheila willknow.
“And then comes the inquest. And the girls all go to it. Miss Martindale repeats her story of thetelephone call and Edna knows definitely now that the evidence Miss Martindale gives so clearly,with such precision as to the exact time, is untrue. It was then that she asked the constable if shecould speak to the inspector. I think probably that Miss Martindale, leaving the Cornmarket in acrowd of people, overheard her asking that. Perhaps by then she had heard the girls chaffing Ednaabout her shoe accident without realizing what it involved. Anyway, she followed the girl toWilbraham Crescent. Why did Edna go there, I wonder?”
“Just to stare at the place where it happened, I expect,” said Hardcastle with a sigh. “People do.”
“Yes, that is true enough. Perhaps Miss Martindale speaks to her there, walks with her down theroad and Edna plumps out her question. Miss Martindale acts quickly. They are just by thetelephone box. She says, ‘This is very important. You must ring up the police at once. The numberof the police station is so and so. Ring up and tell them we are both coming there now.’ It issecond nature for Edna to do what she is told. She goes in, picks up the receiver and MissMartindale comes in behind her, pulls the scarf round her neck and strangles her.”
“And nobody saw this?”
Poirot shrugged48 his shoulders.
“They might have done, but they didn’t! It was just on one o’clock. Lunchtime. And whatpeople there were in the Crescent were busy staring at 19. It was a chance boldly taken by a boldand unscrupulous woman.”
Hardcastle was shaking his head doubtfully.
“Miss Martindale? I don’t see how she can possibly come into it.”
“No. One does not see at first. But since Miss Martindale undoubtedly50 killed Edna—oh, yes—only she could have killed Edna, then she must come into it. And I begin to suspect that in MissMartindale we have the Lady Macbeth of this crime, a woman who is ruthless and unimaginative.”
“Unimaginative?” queried51 Hardcastle.
“Oh, yes, quite unimaginative. But very efficient. A good planner.”
“But why? Where’s the motive52?”
Hercule Poirot looked at me. He wagged a finger.
“So the neighbours’ conversation was no use to you, eh? I found one most illuminatingsentence. Do you remember that after talking of living abroad, Mrs. Bland remarked that she likedliving in Crowdean because she had a sister here. But Mrs. Bland was not supposed to have asister. She had inherited a large fortune a year ago from a Canadian great-uncle because she wasthe only surviving member of his family.”
Hardcastle sat up alertly.
“So you think—”
Poirot leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. He half closed his eyes and spokedreamily.
“Say you are a man, a very ordinary and not too scrupulous49 man, in bad financial difficulties. Aletter comes one day from a firm of lawyers to say that your wife has inherited a big fortune from agreat-uncle in Canada. The letter is addressed to Mrs. Bland and the only difficulty is that the Mrs.
Bland who receives it is the wrong Mrs. Bland—she is the second wife—not the first one—Imagine the chagrin53! The fury! And then an idea comes. Who is to know that it is the wrong Mrs.
Bland? Nobody in Crowdean knows that Bland was married before. His first marriage, years ago,took place during the war when he was overseas. Presumably his first wife died soon afterwards,and he almost immediately remarried. He has the original marriage certificate, various familypapers, photographs of Canadian relations now dead—It will be all plain sailing. Anyway, it isworth risking. They risk it, and it comes off. The legal formalities go through. And there theBlands are, rich and prosperous, all their financial troubles over—“And then—a year later—something happens. What happens? I suggest that someone wascoming over from Canada to this country—and that this someone had known the first Mrs. Blandwell enough not to be deceived by an impersonation. He may have been an elderly member of thefamily attorneys, or a close friend of the family—but whoever he was, he will know. Perhaps theythought of ways of avoiding a meeting. Mrs. Bland could feign54 illness, she could go abroad—butanything of that kind would only arouse suspicion. The visitor would insist on seeing the womanhe had come over to see—”
“And so—to murder?”
“Yes. And here, I fancy, Mrs. Bland’s sister may have been the ruling spirit. She thought up andplanned the whole thing.”
“You are taking it that Miss Martindale and Mrs. Bland are sisters?”
“It is the only way things make sense.”
“Mrs. Bland did remind me of someone when I saw her,” said Hardcastle. “They’re verydifferent in manner—but it’s true—there is a likeness55. But how could they hope to get away withit?” The man would be missed. Inquiries56 would be made—”
“If this man were travelling abroad—perhaps for pleasure, not for business, his schedule wouldbe vague. A letter from one place—a postcard from another—it would be a little time beforepeople wondered why they had not heard from him. By that time who would connect a manidentified and buried as Harry57 Castleton, with a rich Canadian visitor to the country who has noteven been seen in this part of the world? If I had been the murderer, I would have slipped over ona day trip to France or Belgium and discarded the dead man’s passport in a train or a tram so thatthe inquiry58 would take place from another country.”
I moved involuntarily, and Poirot’s eyes came round to me.
“Yes?” he said.
“Bland mentioned to me that he had recently taken a day trip to Boulogne—with a blonde, Iunderstand—”
“Which would make it quite a natural thing to do. Doubtless it is a habit of his.”
“This is still conjecture,” Hardcastle objected.
“But inquiries can be made,” said Poirot.
He took a sheet of hotel notepaper from the rack in front of him and handed it to Hardcastle.
“If you will write to Mr. Enderby at 10, Ennismore Gardens, S.W. 7 he has promised to makecertain inquiries for me in Canada. He is a well-known international lawyer.”
“And what about the business of the clocks?”
“Oh! The clocks. Those famous clocks!” Poirot smiled. “I think you will find that MissMartindale was responsible for them. Since the crime, as I said, was a simple crime, it wasdisguised by making it a fantastic one. That Rosemary clock that Sheila Webb took to be repaired.
Did she lose it in the Bureau of Secretarial Studies? Did Miss Martindale take it as the foundationof her rigmarole, and was it partly because of that clock that she chose Sheila as the person todiscover the body—?”
Hardcastle burst out:
“And you say this woman is unimaginative? When she concocted59 all this?”
“But she did not concoct60 it. That is what is so interesting. It was all there—waiting for her.
From the very first I detected a pattern—a pattern I knew. A pattern familiar because I had justbeen reading such patterns. I have been very fortunate. As Colin here will tell you, I attended thisweek a sale of authors’ manuscripts. Among them were some of Garry Gregson’s. I hardly daredhope. But luck was with me. Here—” Like a conjuror61 he whipped from a drawer in the desk twoshabby exercise books “—it is all here! Among the many plots of books he planned to write. Hedid not live to write this one—but Miss Martindale, who was his secretary, knew all about it. Shejust lifted it bodily to suit her purpose.”
“But the clocks must have meant something originally—in Gregson’s plot, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. His clocks were set at one minute past five, four minutes past five and seven minutespast five. That was the combination number of a safe, 515457. The safe was concealed44 behind areproduction of the Mona Lisa. Inside the safe,” continued Poirot, with distaste, “were the Crownjewels of the Russian Royal Family. Un tas de bêtises, the whole thing! And of course there was astory of kinds—a persecuted62 girl. Oh, yes, it came in very handy for la Martindale. She just choseher local characters and adapted the story to fit in. All these flamboyant63 clues would lead—where?
Exactly nowhere! Ah, yes, an efficient woman. One wonders—he left her a legacy—did he not?
How and of what did he die, I wonder?”
Hardcastle refused to be interested in past history. He gathered up the exercise books and tookthe sheet of hotel paper from my hand. For the last two minutes I had been staring at it, fascinated.
Hardcastle had scribbled64 down Enderby’s address without troubling to turn the sheet the right wayup. The hotel address was upside down in the left-hand bottom corner.
Staring at the sheet of paper, I knew what a fool I had been.
“Well, thank you, M. Poirot,” said Hardcastle. “You’ve certainly given us something to thinkabout. Whether anything will come of it—”
“I am most delighted if I have been of any assistance.”
Poirot was playing it modestly.
“I’ll have to check various things—”
“Naturally—naturally—”
Good-byes were said. Hardcastle took his departure.
Poirot turned his attention to me. His eyebrows65 rose.
“Eh bien — and what, may I ask, is biting you? — you look like a man who has seen anapparition.”
“I’ve seen what a fool I’ve been.”
“Aha. Well, that happens to many of us.”
But presumably not to Hercule Poirot! I had to attack him.
“Just tell me one thing, Poirot. If, as you said, you could do all this sitting in your chair inLondon and could have got me and Dick Hardcastle to come to you there, why—oh, why, did youcome down here at all?”
“I told you, they make the reparation in my apartment.”
“They would have lent you another apartment. Or you could have gone to the Ritz, you wouldhave been more comfortable there than in the Curlew Hotel.”
“Indubitably,” said Hercule Poirot. “The coffee here, mon dieu, the coffee!”
“Well, then, why?”
Hercule Poirot flew into a rage.
“Eh bien, since you are too stupid to guess, I will tell you. I am human, am I not? I can be themachine if it is necessary. I can lie back and think. I can solve the problem so. But I am human, Itell you. And the problems concern human beings.”
“And so?”
“The explanation is as simple as the murder was simple. I came out of human curiosity,” saidHercule Poirot, with an attempt at dignity.
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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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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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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62
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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63
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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64
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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65
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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