Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She askedno questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her timewhilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do andshe was always right in what she did.
Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended1, paid the taxi, and lookedaround him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all likeMrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs. Oliver.
So either the couple in which they were interested had left the café and Mrs. Oliver had gone on ashadowing expedition, or else—To answer “or else” he went to the café door. One could not seethe2 inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open andentered. His eyes swept round it.
He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting byherself at a table against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. Sheseemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that. There did not seem to be any thoughtthere. She was lost in a kind of oblivion. She was somewhere else.
He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She looked up then, and hewas at least gratified to see that he was recognised.
“So we meet again, Mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “I see you recognise me.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“It is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a veryshort time.”
She continued to look at him without speaking.
“And how did you know me, may I ask? What made you recognise me?”
“Your moustache,” said Norma immediately. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”
He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt todisplay on these occasions.
“Ah yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?”
“Yes—well, yes—I suppose it is.”
“Ah, you are perhaps not a connoisseur3 of moustaches, but I can tell you, Miss Restarick—MissNorma Restarick, is it not?—that it is a very fine moustache.”
He had dwelt deliberately4 upon her name. She had at first looked so oblivious5 to everythingaround her, so far away, that he wondered if she would notice. She did. It startled her.
“How did you know my name?” she said.
“True, you did not give your name to my servant when you came to see me that morning.”
“How did you know it? How did you get to know it? Who told you?”
He saw the alarm, the fear.
“A friend told me,” he said. “One’s friends can be very useful.”
“Who was it?”
“Mademoiselle, you like keeping your little secrets from me. I, too, have a preference forkeeping my little secrets from you.”
“I don’t see how you could know who I was.”
“I am Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot, with his usual magnificence. Then he left the initiative toher, merely sitting there smiling gently at her.
“I—” she began, then stopped. “—Would—” Again she stopped.
“We did not get very far that morning, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “Only so far as your tellingme that you had committed a murder.”
“Oh that!”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, that.”
“But—I didn’t mean it of course. I didn’t mean anything like that. I mean, it was just a joke.”
“Vraiment? You came to see me rather early in the morning, at breakfast time. You said it wasurgent. The urgency was because you might have committed a murder. That is your idea of a joke,eh?”
A waitress who had been hovering6, looking at Poirot with a fixed7 attention, suddenly came up tohim and proffered8 him what appeared to be a paper boat such as is made for children to sail in abath.
“This for you?” she said. “Mr. Porritt? A lady left it.”
“Ah yes,” said Poirot. “And how did you know who I was?”
“The lady said I’d know by your moustache. Said I wouldn’t have seen a moustache like thatbefore. And it’s true enough,” she added, gazing at it.
“Well, thank you very much.”
Poirot took the boat from her, untwisted it and smoothed it out; he read some hastily pencilledwords: “He’s just going. She’s staying behind, so I’m going to leave her for you, and follow him.”
It was signed Ariadne.
“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot, folding it and slipping it into his pocket. “What were we talkingabout? Your sense of humour, I think, Miss Restarick.”
“Do you know just my name or—or do you know everything about me?”
“I know a few things about you. You are Miss Norma Restarick, your address in London is 67Borodene Mansions9. Your home address is Crosshedges, Long Basing. You live there with afather, a stepmother, a great- uncle and — ah yes, an au pair girl. You see, I am quite wellinformed.”
“You’ve been having me followed.”
“No, no,” said Poirot. “Not at all. As to that, I give you my word of honour.”
“But you are not police, are you? You didn’t say you were.”
“I am not police, no.”
Her suspicion and defiance10 broke down.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“I am not urging you to employ me,” said Poirot. “For that you have said already that I am tooold. Possibly you are right. But since I know who you are and something about you, there is noreason we should not discuss together in a friendly fashion the troubles that afflict11 you. The old,you must remember, though considered incapable12 of action, have nevertheless a good fund ofexperience on which to draw.”
Norma continued to look at him doubtfully, that wide-eyed stare that had disquieted13 Poirotbefore. But she was in a sense trapped, and she had at this particular moment, or so Poirot judged,a wish to talk about things. For some reason, Poirot had always been a person it was easy to talkto.
“They think I’m crazy,” she said bluntly. “And—and I rather think I’m crazy, too. Mad.”
“That is most interesting,” said Hercule Poirot, cheerfully. “There are many different names forthese things. Very grand names. Names rolled out happily by psychiatrists14, psychologists andothers. But when you say crazy, that describes very well what the general appearance may be toordinary, everyday people. Eh bien, then, you are crazy, or you appear crazy or you think you arecrazy, and possibly you may be crazy. But all the same that is not to say the condition is serious. Itis a thing that people suffer from a good deal, and it is usually easily cured with the propertreatment. It comes about because people have had too much mental strain, too much worry, havestudied too much for examinations, have dwelled too much perhaps on their emotions, have toomuch religion or have a lamentable15 lack of religion, or have good reasons for hating their fathersor their mothers! Or, of course, it can be as simple as having an unfortunate love affair.”
“I’ve got a stepmother. I hate her and I rather think I hate my father too. That seems rather a lot,doesn’t it?”
“It is more usual to hate one or the other,” said Poirot. “You were, I suppose, very fond of yourown mother. Is she divorced or dead?”
“Dead. She died two or three years ago.”
“And you cared for her very much?”
“Yes. I suppose I did. I mean of course I did. She was an invalid16, you know, and she had to goto nursing homes a good deal.”
“And your father?”
“Father had gone abroad a long time before that. He went to South Africa when I was about fiveor six. I think he wanted Mother to divorce him but she wouldn’t. He went to South Africa andwas mixed up with mines or something like that. Anyway, he used to write to me at Christmas,and send me a Christmas present or arrange for one to come to me. That was about all. So hedidn’t really seem very real to me. He came home about a year ago because he had to wind up myuncle’s affairs and all that sort of financial thing. And when he came home he—he brought thisnew wife with him.”
“And you resented the fact?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But your mother was dead by then. It is not unusual, you know, for a man to marry again.
Especially when he and his wife have been estranged17 for many years. This wife he brought, wasshe the same lady he had wished to marry previously18, when he asked your mother for a divorce?”
“Oh, no, this one is quite young. And she’s very good-looking and she acts as though she justowns my father!”
She went on after a pause—in a different, rather childish voice. “I thought perhaps when hecame home this time he would be fond of me and take notice of me and—but she won’t let him.
She’s against me. She’s crowded me out.”
“But that does not matter at all at the age you are. It is a good thing. You do not need anyone tolook after you now. You can stand on your own feet, you can enjoy life, you can choose your ownfriends—”
“You wouldn’t think so, the way they go on at home! Well, I mean to choose my own friends.”
“Most girls nowadays have to endure criticism about their friends,” said Poirot.
“It was all so different,” said Norma. “My father isn’t at all like I remember him when I wasfive years old. He used to play with me, all the time, and be so gay. He’s not gay now. He’sworried and rather fierce and—oh quite different.”
“That must be nearly fifteen years ago, I presume. People change.”
“But ought people to change so much?”
“Has he changed in appearance?”
“Oh no, no, not that. Oh no! If you look at his picture just over his chair, although it’s of himwhen he was much younger, it’s exactly like him now. But it isn’t at all the way I remember him.”
“But you know, my dear,” said Poirot gently, “people are never like what you remember them.
You make them, as the years go by, more and more the way you wish them to be, and as you thinkyou remember them. If you want to remember them as agreeable and gay and handsome, youmake them far more so than they actually were.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?” She paused and then said abruptly19, “But why doyou think I want to kill people?” The question came out quite naturally. It was there betweenthem. They had, Poirot felt, got at last to a crucial moment.
“That may be quite an interesting question,” said Poirot, “and there may be quite an interestingreason. The person who can probably tell you the answer to that will be a doctor. The kind ofdoctor who knows.”
She reacted quickly.
“I won’t go to a doctor. I won’t go near a doctor! They wanted to send me to a doctor, and thenI’ll be shut up in one of those loony places and they won’t let me out again. I’m not going to doanything like that.” She was struggling now to rise to her feet.
“It is not I who can send you to one! You need not be alarmed. You could go to a doctorentirely on your own behalf if you liked. You can go and say to him the things you have beensaying to me, and you may ask him why, and he will perhaps tell you the cause.”
“That’s what David says. That’s what David says I should do but I don’t think—I don’t think heunderstands. I’d have to tell a doctor that I—I might have tried to do things….”
“What makes you think you have?”
“Because I don’t always remember what I’ve done—or where I’ve been. I lose an hour of time—two hours—and I can’t remember. I was in a corridor once—a corridor outside a door, her door.
I’d something in my hand—I don’t know how I got it. She came walking along towards me—Butwhen she got near me, her face changed. It wasn’t her at all. She’d changed into somebody else.”
“You are remembering, perhaps, a nightmare. There people do change into somebody else.”
“It wasn’t a nightmare. I picked up the revolver—It was lying there at my feet—”
“In a corridor?”
“No, in the courtyard. She came and took it away from me.”
“Who did?”
“Claudia. She took me upstairs and gave me some bitter stuff to drink.”
“Where was your stepmother then?”
“She was there, too—No, she wasn’t. She was at Crosshedges. Or in hospital. That’s where theyfound out she was being poisoned—and that it was me.”
“It need not have been you—It could have been someone else.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Perhaps—her husband.”
“Father? Why on earth should Father want to poison Mary. He’s devoted20 to her. He’s sillyabout her!”
“There are others in the house, are there not?”
“Old Uncle Roderick? Nonsense!”
“One does not know,” said Poirot, “he might be mentally afflicted21. He might think it was hisduty to poison a woman who might be a beautiful spy. Something like that.”
“That would be very interesting,” said Norma, momentarily diverted, and speaking in aperfectly natural manner. “Uncle Roderick was mixed up a good deal with spies and things in thelast war. Who else is there? Sonia? I suppose she might be a beautiful spy, but she’s not quite myidea of one.”
“No, and there does not seem very much reason why she should wish to poison yourstepmother. I suppose there might be servants, gardeners?”
“No, they just come in for the days. I don’t think—well, they wouldn’t be the kind of people tohave any reason.”
“She might have done it herself.”
“Committed suicide, do you mean? Like the other one?”
“It is a possibility.”
“I can’t imagine Mary committing suicide. She’s far too sensible. And why should she wantto?”
“Yes, you feel that if she did, she would put her head in the gas oven, or she would lie on a bednicely arranged and take an overdose of sleeping draughts22. Is that right?”
“Well, it would have been more natural. So you see,” said Norma earnestly, “it must have beenme.”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “that interests me. You would almost, it would seem, prefer that it should beyou. You are attracted to the idea that it was your hand who slipped the fatal dose of this, that orthe other. Yes, you like the idea.”
“How dare you say such a thing! How can you?”
“Because I think it is true,” said Poirot. “Why does the thought that you may have committedmurder excite you, please you?”
“It’s not true.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot.
She scooped23 up her bag and began feeling in it with shaking fingers.
“I’m not going to stop here and have you say these horrible things to me.” She signalled to thewaitress who came, scribbled24 on a pad of paper, detached it and laid it down by Norma’s plate.
“Permit me,” said Hercule Poirot.
He removed the slip of paper deftly25, and prepared to draw his notecase from his pocket. The girlsnatched it back again.
“No, I won’t let you pay for me.”
“As you please,” said Poirot.
He had seen what he wanted to see. The bill was for two. It would seem therefore that David ofthe fine feathers had no objection to having his bills paid by an infatuated girl.
“So it is you who entertain a friend to elevenses, I see.”
“How did you know that I was with anyone?”
“I tell you, I know a good deal.”
She placed coins on the table and rose. “I’m going now,” she said, “and I forbid you to followme.”
“I doubt if I could,” said Poirot. “You must remember my advanced age. If you were to rundown the street I should certainly not be able to follow you.”
She got up and went towards the door.
“Do you hear? You are not to follow me.”
“You permit me at least to open the door for you.” He did so with something of a flourish. “Aurevoir, Mademoiselle.”
She threw a suspicious glance at him and walked away down the street with a rapid step, turningher head back over her shoulder from time to time. Poirot remained by the door watching her, butmade no attempt to gain the pavement or to catch her up. When she was out of sight, he turnedback into the café.
“And what the devil does all that mean?” said Poirot to himself.
The waitress was advancing upon him, displeasure on her face. Poirot regained26 his seat at thetable and placated27 her by ordering a cup of coffee. “There is something here very curious,” hemurmured to himself. “Yes, something very curious indeed.”
A cup of pale beige fluid was placed in front of him. He took a sip28 of it and made a grimace29.
He wondered where Mrs. Oliver was at this moment.
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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psychiatrists
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| n.精神病专家，精神病医生( psychiatrist的名词复数 ) | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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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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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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