At 4:15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver’s drawing room sipping1 appreciatively at a largecup of chocolate topped with foaming2 whipped cream which his hostess had just placed on a smalltable beside him. She added a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.
“Chère Madame, what kindness.” He looked over his cup with faint surprise at Mrs. Oliver’scoiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both were new to him. The last time he had seen Mrs.
Oliver, her hairstyle had been plain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twistsarranged in intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific3 luxury was, he suspected, largelyartificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hair might unexpectedly fall off if Mrs.
Oliver was to get suddenly excited, as was her wont4. As for the wallpaper….
“These cherries—they are new?” he waved a teaspoon5. It was, he felt, rather like being in acherry orchard6.
“Are there too many of them, do you think?” said Mrs. Oliver. “So hard to tell beforehand withwallpaper. Do you think my old one was better?”
Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of brightcoloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark “Plus ?a change, plus c’est la mêmechose,” but restrained himself.
“And now,” said Mrs. Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat backwith a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, “what is allthis about?”
“That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she mightmake an appointment. One has one’s routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that shewanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder.”
“What an odd thing to say. Didn’t she know?”
“Precisely! C’est inou?! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused tosit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half-witted. I tried to encourage her.
Then suddenly she said that she’d changed her mind. She said she didn’t want to be rude but that—(what do you think?)—but that I was too old.…”
Mrs. Oliver hastened to utter soothing7 words. “Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They’ve no sense, girls, you must realise that.”
“It wounded me,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say.”
“That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried.”
“Well, I should forget all about it if I were you,” advised Mrs. Oliver comfortably.
“You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then shedecided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goeswithout saying, and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help.”
“I don’t suppose she does really,” said Mrs. Oliver soothingly8. “Girls make a fuss about things.”
“No. You are wrong. She needs help.”
“You don’t think she really has committed a murder?”
“Why not? She said she had.”
“Yes, but—” Mrs. Oliver stopped. “She said she might have,” she said slowly. “But what canshe possibly mean by that?”
“Exactly. It does not make sense.”
“Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?”
Poirot shrugged9 his shoulders.
“And why did she murder someone?”
Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course it could be all sorts of things.” Mrs. Oliver began to brighten as she set her everprolific imagination to work. “She could have run over someone in her car and not stopped. Shecould have been assaulted by a man on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push himover. She could have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could have gone to oneof those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. She could have come to and found shehad stabbed someone. She—”
“Assez, madame, assez!”
But Mrs. Oliver was well away.
“She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic or—” she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. “What did she look like?”
Poirot considered for a moment.
“An Ophelia devoid10 of physical attraction.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I can almost see her when you say that. How queer.”
“She is not competent,” said Poirot. “That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope withdifficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the dangers that must come. She is oneof whom others will look round and say ‘we want a victim. That one will do.’”
But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with bothhands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.
“Wait,” she cried in a kind of agony. “Wait!”
Poirot waited, his eyebrows11 raised.
“You didn’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you.”
“Wait!” implored12 Mrs. Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head anduttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a superimperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put itdiscreetly on the table.
“Now then,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin14 or two, andnodded her head while she thought. “Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?”
“No one, so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me, no doubt.”
Mrs. Oliver thought that “naturally” was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirothimself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people wouldonly look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the youngergeneration. “But how am I going to put that to him,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “in such a way that itwon’t hurt his feelings?”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said. “Girls—well, girls and young men—they don’t know verymuch about detectives and things like that. They don’t hear about them.”
“Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, superbly.
It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.
“But they are all so badly educated nowadays,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Really, the only peoplewhose names they know are pop singers, or groups, or disc jockeys—that sort of thing. If youneed someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist—well, then, I mean you wouldask someone—ask who’s the right person to go to? And then the other person says—‘My dear,you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne’s Street, twists your legs three timesround your head and you’re cured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have beenfurious, so I couldn’t go to the police, but there’s a simply uncanny detective, most discreet13, andhe got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time.
Someone sent that girl to you.”
“I doubt it very much.”
“You wouldn’t know until you were told. And you’re going to be told now. It’s only just cometo me. I sent that girl to you.”
Poirot stared. “You? But why did you not say so at once?”
“Because it’s only just come to me—when you spoke15 about Ophelia—long wet-looking hair,and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then itcame to me who it was.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking—about privatedetectives and private eyes—and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you haddone.”
“And you gave her my address?”
“No, of course I didn’t. I’d no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought wewere just talking. But I’d mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to lookyou up in the telephone book and just come along.”
“Were you talking about murder?”
“Not that I can remember. I don’t even know how we came to be talking about detectives—unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject….”
“Tell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you knowabout her.”
“Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it exceptthat they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and Ididn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have tofind a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—youknow—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing17 to meet me—and it allmakes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they sayhow much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But mypublisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real lifegrew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing18 around listening. Whenyou said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: ‘Now who does that remind meof?’ And then it came to me: ‘Of course. The girl at the party that day.’ I rather think she belongedthere unless I’m confusing her with some other girl.”
Poirot sighed. With Mrs. Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.
“Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?”
“Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name—he’s a tycoon19. Rich. Something inthe City, but he’s spent most of his life in South Africa—”
“He has a wife?”
“Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife.
The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity20. Ratherdeaf. He’s frightfully distinguished21—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air marshalor something. He’s an astronomer22 too, I think. Anyway, he’s got a kind of big telescope stickingout of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too,who sort of trots23 about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees hedoesn’t get run over. Rather pretty, she was.”
Poirot sorted out the information Mrs. Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a humancomputer.
“There lives then in the house Mr. and Mrs. Trefusis—”
“It’s not Trefusis—I remember now—It’s Restarick.”
“That is not at all the same type of name.”
“Yes it is. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?”
“There lives there then, Mr. and Mrs. Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his nameRestarick too?”
“It’s Sir Roderick something.”
“And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter—anymore children?”
“I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live at home, by the way. Shewas only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get on with the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job inLondon, and she’s picked up with a boyfriend they don’t much like, so I understand.”
“You seem to know quite a lot about the family.”
“Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering24 aboutsomeone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, onegets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian25 name.
Something connected with a song…Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something likethat, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt inmarble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma—Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.”
She added inconsequently, “She’s a third girl.”
“I thought you said you thought she was an only child.”
“So she is—or I think so.”
“Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?”
“Good gracious, don’t you know what a third girl is? Don’t you read The Times?”
“I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest.”
“No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn’t in the front now. So I’m thinking oftaking some other paper. But I’ll show you.”
She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him.
“Here you are—look. ‘THIRD GIRL for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating,Earl’s Court.’ ‘Third girl wanted to share flat. 5gns. week own room.’ ‘4th girl wanted. Regent’spark. Own room.’ It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs or a hostel26. The main girltakes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find athird girl by advertising27 if they don’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage tosqueeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl lessstill and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herselfwhich night a week—or something like that. It works reasonably well.”
“And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?”
“As I’ve told you I don’t really know anything about her.”
“But you could find out?”
“Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy.”
“You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?”
“Do you mean a death in London—or at the Restaricks’ home?”
“Either.”
“I don’t think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?”
Mrs. Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She was by now entering into the spirit of thething.
“That would be very kind.”
“I’ll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time.” She went towards thetelephone. “I shall have to think of reasons and things—perhaps invent things?”
She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.
“But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination — you will have nodifficulty. But—not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation.”
Mrs. Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.
She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed28: “Have you gota pencil and paper—or a notebook—something to write down names or addresses or places?”
Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly29.
Mrs. Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech. Poirotlistened attentively30 to one side of a telephone conversation.
“Hallo. Can I speak to—Oh, it’s you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes—well, it was rathera crowd…Oh, you mean the old boy?…No, you know I don’t…Practically blind?…I thought hewas going up to London with the little foreign girl…Yes, it must be rather worrying for themsometimes—but she seems to manage him quite well…One of the things I rang up for was to askyou what the girl’s address was—No, the Restarick girl, I mean—somewhere in South Ken16, isn’tit? Or was it Knightsbridge? Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but ofcourse I’ve lost it as usual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?…Yes, Ithought it was Norma: … Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil… Yes, I’m ready… 67 BorodeneMansions…I know—that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison…Yes, Ibelieve the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything…Who are the other twogirls she lives with?… Friends of hers?… or advertisements?… Claudia Reece- Holland… herfather’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?…No, I suppose you wouldn’t know—she’s quitenice, too, I suppose…What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don’t they?…Oh,the other girl’s an interior decorator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, ofcourse I don’t really want to know—one just wonders—what do all the girls do nowadays?—well,it’s useful for me to know because of my books—one wants to keep up to date…What was it youtold me about some boyfriend…Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactlyas they like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh, that kind—Brocadewaistcoats, and long curling chestnut31 hair—lying on his shoulders—yes, so hard to tell whetherthey’re girls or boys, isn’t it?—Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they’re good-looking…What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?…Yes, men usually do…Mary Restarick?…Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she wasquite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things…Why, couldn’t they find out what was the matter with her?…Who said?…Yes, but what did theyhush up?…Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see—The doctors couldn’t find out…No, but people are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. Thesethings are usually quite untrue…Oh, gastric32, was it?…But how ridiculous. Do you mean peoplesaid what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers34 about—Yes, but why?…I mean, it’s not a case of some wife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger than he is and good-looking…Yes, I suppose that could be—but why shouldthe foreign girl want to either?…You mean she might have resented things that Mrs. Restaricksaid to her…She’s quite an attractive little thing—I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy toher—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might havepitched into the girl and—”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.
“Just a moment, darling,” said Mrs. Oliver into the telephone. “It’s the baker35.” Poirot lookedaffronted. “Hang on.”
She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.
“Yes,” she demanded breathlessly.
“A baker,” said Poirot with scorn. “Me!”
“Well, I had to think of something quickly. What were you signalling about? Did youunderstand what she—”
Poirot cut her short.
“You shall tell me presently. I know enough. What I want you to do is, with your rapid powersof improvisation36, to arrange some plausible37 pretext38 for me to visit the Restaricks—an old friend ofyours, shortly to be in the neighbourhood. Perhaps you could say—”
“Leave it to me. I’ll think of something. Shall you give a false name?”
“Certainly not. Let us at least try to keep it simple.”
Mrs. Oliver nodded, and hurried back to the abandoned telephone.
“Naomi? I can’t remember what we were saying. Why does something always come to interruptjust when one has settled down to a nice gossip? I can’t even remember now what I rang you upfor to begin with—Oh yes—that child Thora’s address—Norma, I mean—and you gave it to me.
But there was something else I wanted to—oh, I remember. An old friend of mine. A mostfascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him the other day down there. Hercule Poirothis name is. He’s going to be staying quite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendouslyanxious to meet old Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admiration39 for him,and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war—or some scientific thing he did—anyway, heis very anxious to ‘call upon him and present his respects,’ that’s how he put it. Will that be allright, do you think? Will you warn them? Yes, he’ll probably just turn up out of the blue. Tellthem to make him tell them some wonderful espionage40 stories…He—what? Oh! your mowers?
Yes, of course you must go. Good-bye.”
She put back the receiver and sank down in an armchair. “Goodness, how exhausting. Was thatall right?”
“Not bad,” said Poirot.
“I thought I’d better pin it all to the old boy. Then you’ll get to see the lot which I suppose iswhat you want. And one can always be vague about scientific subjects if one is a woman, and youcan think up something more definite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do youwant to hear what she was telling me?”
“There has been gossip, I gather. About the health of Mrs. Restarick?”
“That’s it. It seems she had some kind of mysterious illness—gastric in nature—and the doctorswere puzzled. They sent her into hospital and she got quite all right, but there didn’t seem any realcause to account for it. And she went home, and it all began to start again—and again the doctorswere puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nurse started it and her sistertold a neighbour, and the neighbour went out on daily work and told someone else, and how queerit all was. And then people began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. The sort ofthing people always say—but in this case it really didn’t seem to make sense. And then Naomi andI wondered about the au pair girl, she’s a kind of secretary companion to the old boy—so reallythere isn’t any kind of reason why she should administer weed killer33 to Mrs. Restarick.”
“I heard you suggesting a few.”
“Well, there is usually something possible.…”
“Murder desired…” said Poirot thoughtfully…“But not yet committed.”
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sipping
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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prolific
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wont
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teaspoon
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orchard
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soothing
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soothingly
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shrugged
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devoid
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eyebrows
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implored
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discreet
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hairpin
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spoke
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ken
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longing
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standing
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tycoon
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antiquity
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distinguished
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astronomer
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trots
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chattering
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Christian
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hostel
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advertising
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hissed
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reassuringly
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attentively
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chestnut
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gastric
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killer
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killers
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baker
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improvisation
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plausible
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pretext
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admiration
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espionage
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