Andrew Restarick was writing a cheque—he made a slight grimace1 as he did so.
His office was large and handsomely furnished in typical conventional tycoon2 fashion—thefurnishing and fittings had been Simon Restarick’s and Andrew Restarick had accepted themwithout interest and had made few changes except for removing a couple of pictures and replacingthem by his own portrait which he had brought up from the country, and a watercolour of TableMountain.
Andrew Restarick was a man of middle age, beginning to put on flesh, yet strangely littlechanged from the man some fifteen years younger in the picture hanging above him. There was thesame jutting3 out chin, the lips firmly pressed together, and the slightly raised quizzical eyebrows4.
Not a very noticeable man—an ordinary type and at the moment not a very happy man. Hissecretary entered the room—she advanced towards his desk, as he looked up.
“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot is here. He insists that he has an appointment with you—but I canfind no trace of one.”
“A Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” The name seemed vaguely5 familiar, but he could not rememberin what context. He shook his head—“I can’t remember anything about him—though I seem tohave heard the name. What does he look like?”
“A very small man—foreign—French I should say—with an enormous moustache—”
“Of course! I remember Mary describing him. He came to see old Roddy. But what’s all thisabout an appointment with me?”
“He says you wrote him a letter.”
“Can’t remember it—even if I did. Perhaps Mary—Oh well, never mind—bring him in. Isuppose I’d better see what this is all about.”
A moment or two later Claudia Reece-Holland returned ushering6 with her a small man with anegg-shaped head, large moustaches, pointed7 patent leather shoes and a general air of complacencywhich accorded very well with the description he had had from his wife.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She went out again as Hercule Poirot advanced towards the desk. Restarick rose.
“Monsieur Restarick? I am Hercule Poirot, at your service.”
“Oh yes. My wife mentioned that you’d called upon us or rather called upon my uncle. Whatcan I do for you?”
“I have presented myself in answer to your letter.”
“What letter? I did not write to you, M. Poirot.”
Poirot stared at him. Then he drew from his pocket a letter, unfolded it, glanced at it and handedit across the desk with a bow.
“See for yourself, Monsieur.”
Restarick stared at it. It was typewritten on his own office stationery8. His signature was writtenin ink at the bottom.
Dear Monsieur Poirot,
I should be very glad if you could call upon me at the above address at yourearliest convenience. I understand from what my wife tells me and also from whatI have learned by making various inquiries9 in London, that you are a man to betrusted when you agree to accept a mission that demands discretion10.
Yours truly,
Andrew Restarick
He said sharply:
“When did you receive this?”
“This morning. I had no matters of moment on my hands so I came along here.”
“This is an extraordinary thing, M. Poirot. That letter was not written by me.”
“Not written by you?”
“No. My signature is quite different—look for yourself.” He cast out a hand as though lookingfor some example of his handwriting and without conscious thought turned the cheque book onwhich he had just written his signature, so that Poirot could see it. “You see? The signature on theletter is not in the least like mine.”
“But that is extraordinary,” said Poirot. “Absolutely extraordinary. Who could have written thisletter?”
“That’s just what I’m asking myself.”
“It could not—excuse me—have been your wife?”
“No, no. Mary would never do a thing like that. And anyway why should she sign it with myname? Oh no, she would have told me if she’d done such a thing, prepared me for your visit.”
“Then you have no idea why anyone might have sent this letter?”
“No, indeed.”
“Have you no knowledge, Mr. Restarick, as to what the matter might be on which in this letteryou apparently11 want to engage me?”
“How could I have an idea?”
“Excuse me,” said Poirot, “you have not yet completely read this letter. You will notice at thebottom of the first page after the signature, there is a small p.t.o.”
Restarick turned the letter over. At the top of the next page the typewriting continued.
The matter on which I wish to consult you concerns my daughter, Norma.
Restarick’s manner changed. His face darkened.
“So, that’s it! But who could know—who could possibly meddle12 in this matter? Who knowsabout it?”
“Could it be a way of urging you to consult me? Some well-meaning friend? You have really noidea who the writer may have been?”
“I’ve no idea whatever.”
“And you are not in trouble over a daughter of yours—a daughter named Norma?”
Restarick said slowly:
“I have a daughter named Norma. My only daughter.” His voice changed slightly as he said thelast words.
“And she is in trouble, difficulty of some kind?”
“Not that I know of.” But he hesitated slightly as he spoke13 the words.
Poirot leaned forward.
“I don’t think that is exactly right, Mr. Restarick. I think there is some trouble or difficultyconcerning your daughter.”
“Why should you think that? Has someone spoken to you on the subject?”
“I was going entirely14 by your intonation15, Monsieur. Many people,” added Hercule Poirot, “arein trouble over daughters at the present date. They have a genius, young ladies, for getting intovarious kinds of trouble and difficulty. It is possible that the same obtains here.”
Restarick was silent for some few moments, drumming with his fingers on the desk.
“Yes, I am worried about Norma,” he said at last. “She is a difficult girl. Neurotic16, inclined to behysterical. I—unfortunately I don’t know her very well.”
“Trouble, no doubt, over a young man?”
“In a way, yes, but that is not entirely what is worrying me. I think—” he looked appraisingly17 atPoirot. “Am I to take it that you are a man of discretion?”
“I should be very little good in my profession if I were not.”
“It is a case, you see, of wanting my daughter found.”
“Ah?”
“She came home last weekend as she usually does to our house in the country. She went backon Sunday night ostensibly to the flat which she occupies in common with two other girls, but Inow find that she did not go there. She must have gone—somewhere else.”
“In fact, she has disappeared?”
“It sounds too much of a melodramatic statement, but it does amount to that. I expect there’s aperfectly natural explanation, but—well, I suppose any father would be worried. She hasn’t rungup, you see, or given any explanation to the girls with whom she shares her flat.”
“They too are worried?”
“No, I should not say so. I think—well, I think they take such things easily enough. Girls arevery independent. More so than when I left En gland18 fifteen years ago.”
“What about the young man of whom you say you do not approve? Can she have gone awaywith him?”
“I devoutly19 hope not. It’s possible, but I don’t—my wife doesn’t think so. You saw him, Ibelieve, the day you came to our house to call on my uncle—”
“Ah yes, I think I know the young man of whom you speak. A very handsome young man butnot, if I may say so, a man of whom a father would approve. I noticed that your wife was notpleased, either.”
“My wife is quite certain that he came to the house that day hoping to escape observation.”
“He knows, perhaps, that he is not welcome there?”
“He knows all right,” said Restarick grimly.
“Do you not then think that it is only too likely your daughter may have joined him?”
“I don’t know what to think. I didn’t—at first.”
“You have been to the police.”
“No.”
“In the case of anyone who is missing, it is usually much better to go to the police. They too arediscreet and they have many means at their disposal which persons like myself have not.”
“I don’t want to go to the police. It’s my daughter, man, you understand? My daughter. If she’schosen to—to go away for a short time and not let us know, well, that’s up to her. There’s noreason to believe that she’s in any danger or anything like that. I—I just want to know for my ownsatisfaction where she is.”
“Is it possible, Mr. Restarick—I hope I am not unduly21 presuming, that that is not the only thingthat is worrying you about your daughter?”
“Why should you think there was anything else?”
“Because the mere22 fact that a girl is absent for a few days without telling her parents, or thefriends with whom she is living, where she is going, is not particularly unusual nowadays. It isthat, taken in conjunction with something else, I think, which has caused you this alarm.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. It’s—” he looked doubtfully at Poirot. “It is very hard to speak ofthese things to strangers.”
“Not really,” said Poirot. “It is infinitely23 easier to speak to strangers of such things than it wouldbe to speak of them to friends or acquaintances. Surely you must agree to that?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps. I can see what you mean. Well, I will admit I am upset about my girl. Yousee she—she’s not quite like other girls and there’s been something already that has definitelyworried me—worried us both.”
Poirot said: “Your daughter, perhaps, is at that difficult age of young girlhood, an emotionaladolescence when, quite frankly24, they are capable of performing actions for which they are hardlyto be held responsible. Do not take it amiss if I venture to make a surmise25. Your daughter perhapsresents having a stepmother?”
“That is unfortunately true. And yet she has no reason to do so, M. Poirot. It is not as though myfirst wife and I had recently parted. The parting took place many years ago.” He paused and thensaid, “I might as well speak frankly to you. After all, there has been no concealment26 about thematter. My first wife and I drifted apart. I need not mince27 matters. I had met someone else,someone with whom I was quite infatuated. I left England and went to South Africa with the otherwoman. My wife did not approve of divorce and I did not ask her for one. I made suitable financialprovision for my wife and for the child—she was only five years old at the time—”
He paused and then went on:
“Looking back, I can see that I had been dissatisfied with life for some time. I’d been yearningto travel. At that period of my life I hated being tied down to an office desk. My brotherreproached me several times with not taking more interest in the family business, now that I hadcome in with him. He said that I was not pulling my weight. But I didn’t want that sort of life. Iwas restless. I wanted an adventurous28 life. I wanted to see the world and wild places….”
He broke off abruptly29.
“Anyway—you don’t want to hear the story of my life. I went to South Africa and Louise wentwith me. It wasn’t a success. I’ll admit that straightaway. I was in love with her but we quarrelledincessantly. She hated life in South Africa. She wanted to get back to London and Paris—all thesophisticated places. We parted only about a year after we arrived there.”
He sighed.
“Perhaps I ought to have gone back then, back to the tame life that I disliked the idea of somuch. But I didn’t. I don’t know whether my wife would have had me back or not. Probably shewould have considered it her duty to do so. She was a great woman for doing her duty.”
Poirot noted30 the slight bitterness that ran through that sentence.
“But I ought to have thought more about Norma, I suppose. Well, there it was. The child wassafely with her mother. Financial arrangements had been made. I wrote to her occasionally andsent her presents, but I never once thought of going back to En gland and seeing her. That was notentirely blameworthy on my part. I had adopted a different way of life and I thought it would bemerely unsettling for the child to have a father who came and went, and perhaps disturbed her ownpeace of mind. Anyway, let’s say I thought I was acting31 for the best.”
Restarick’s words came fast now. It was as though he was feeling a definite solace32 in being ableto pour out his story to a sympathetic listener. It was a reaction that Poirot had often noticed beforeand he encouraged it.
“You never wished to come home on your own account?”
Restarick shook his head very definitely. “No. You see, I was living the kind of life I liked, thekind of life I was meant for. I went from South Africa to East Africa. I was doing very wellfinancially, everything I touched seemed to prosper33; projects with which I was associated,occasionally with other people, sometimes on my own, all went well. I used to go off into the bushand trek34. That was the life I’d always wanted. I am by nature an out-of-door man. Perhaps that’swhy when I was married to my first wife I felt trapped, held down. No, I enjoyed my freedom andI’d no wish to go back to the conventional type of life that I’d led here.”
“But you did come back in the end?”
Restarick sighed. “Yes. I did come back. Ah well, one grows old, I suppose. Also, another manand I had made a very good strike. We’d secured a concession35 which might have very importantconsequences. It would need negotiation36 in London. There I could have depended on my brotherto act, but my brother died. I was still a partner in the firm. I could return if I chose and see tothings myself. It was the first time I had thought of doing so. Of returning, I mean, to City life.”
“Perhaps your wife—your second wife—”
“Yes, you may have something there. I had been married to Mary just a month or two when mybrother died. Mary was born in South Africa but she had been to England several times and sheliked the life there. She liked particularly the idea of having an English garden!
“And I? Well, for the first time perhaps I felt I would like life in England, too. And I thought ofNorma as well. Her mother had died two years earlier. I talked to Mary about it all, and she wasquite willing to help me make a home for my daughter. The prospects37 all seemed good and so—”
he smiled, “—and so I came home.”
Poirot looked at the portrait that hung behind Restarick’s head. It was in a better light here thanit had been at the house in the country. It showed very plainly the man who was sitting at the desk;there were the distinctive38 features, the obstinancy of the chin, the quizzical eyebrows, the poise39 ofthe head, but the portrait had one thing that the man sitting in the chair beneath it lacked. Youth!
Another thought occurred to Poirot. Why had Andrew Restarick moved the portrait from thecountry to his London office? The two portraits of him and his wife had been companion portraitsdone at the same time and by that particular fashionable artist of the day whose speciality wasportrait painting. It would have been more natural, Poirot thought, to have left them together, asthey had been meant to be originally. But Restarick had moved one portrait, his own, to his office.
Was it a kind of vanity on his part—a wish to display himself as a City man, as someone importantto the City? Yet he was a man who had spent his time in wild places, who professed40 to prefer wildplaces. Or did he perhaps do it in order to keep before his mind himself in his City personality?
Did he feel the need of reinforcement?
“Or, of course,” thought Poirot, “it could be simple vanity!
“Even I myself,” said Poirot to himself, in an unusual fit of modesty41, “even I myself am capableof vanity on occasions.”
The short silence, of which both men had seemed unaware42, was broken. Restarick spokeapologetically.
“You must forgive me, M. Poirot. I seem to have been boring you with the story of my life.”
“There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Restarick. You have been talking really only of your life as itmay have affected43 that of your daughter. You are much disquieted44 about your daughter. But I donot think that you have yet told me the real reason. You want her found, you say?”
“Yes, I want her found.”
“You want her found, yes, but do you want her found by me? Ah, do not hesitate. La politesse—it is very necessary in life, but it is not necessary here. Listen. I tell you, if you want yourdaughter found I advise you, I—Hercule Poirot—to go to the police for they have the facilities.
And from my own knowledge they can be discreet20.”
“I won’t go to the police unless—well, unless I get very desperate.”
“You would rather go to a private agent?”
“Yes. But you see, I don’t know anything about private agents. I don’t know who—who can betrusted. I don’t know who—”
“And what do you know about me?”
“I do know something about you. I know, for instance, that you held a responsible position inIntelligence during the war, since, in fact, my own uncle vouches45 for you. That is an admittedfact.”
The faintly cynical46 expression on Poirot’s face was not perceived by Restarick. The admittedfact was, as Poirot was well aware, a complete illusion—although Restarick must have knownhow undependable Sir Roderick was in the matter of memory and eyesight—he had swallowedPoirot’s own account of himself, hook, line and sinker. Poirot did not disillusion47 him. It merelyconfirmed him in his long-held belief that you should never believe anything anyone said withoutfirst checking it. Suspect everybody, had been for many years, if not his whole life, one of his firstaxioms.
“Let me reassure48 you,” said Poirot. “I have been throughout my career exceptionally successful.
I have been indeed in many ways unequalled.”
Restarick looked less reassured49 by this than he might have been! Indeed, to an Englishman, aman who praised himself in such terms aroused some misgivings50.
He said: “What do you feel yourself, M. Poirot? Have you confidence that you can find mydaughter?”
“Probably not as quickly as the police could do, but yes. I shall find her.”
“And—and if you do—”
“But if you wish me to find her, Mr. Restarick, you must tell me all the circumstances.”
“But I have told them to you. The time, the place, where she ought to be. I can give you a list ofher friends….”
Poirot was making some violent shakings of his head. “No, no, I suggest you tell me the truth.”
“Do you suggest I haven’t told you the truth?”
“You have not told me all of it. Of that I am assured. What are you afraid of? What are theunknown facts—the facts that I have to know if I am to have success? Your daughter dislikes herstepmother. That is plain. There is nothing strange about that. It is a very natural reaction. Youmust remember that she may have secretly idealised you for many many years. That is quitepossible in the case of a broken marriage where a child has had a severe blow in her affections.
Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You say a child forgets. That is true. Your daughtercould have forgotten you in the sense that when she saw you again she might not remember yourface or your voice. She would make her own image of you. You went away. She wanted you tocome back. Her mother, no doubt, discouraged her from talking about you, and therefore shethought about you perhaps all the more. You mattered to her all the more. And because she couldnot talk about you to her own mother she had what is a very natural reaction with a child—theblaming of the parent who remains51 for the absence of the parent who has gone. She said to herselfsomething in the nature of ‘Father was fond of me. It’s Mother he didn’t like,’ and from that wasborn a kind of idealisation, a kind of secret liaison52 between you and her. What had happened wasnot her father’s fault. She will not believe it!
“Oh yes, that often happens, I assure you. I know something of the psychology53. So when shelearns that you are coming home, that you and she will be reunited, many memories that she haspushed aside and not thought of for years return. Her father is coming back! He and she will behappy together! She hardly realises the stepmother, perhaps, until she sees her. And then she isviolently jealous. It is most natural, I assure you. She is violently jealous partly because your wifeis a good- looking woman, sophisticated, and well poised54, which is a thing girls often resentbecause they frequently lack confidence in themselves. She herself is possibly gauche55 withperhaps an inferiority complex. So when she sees her competent and good-looking stepmother,quite possibly she hates her; but hates her as an adolescent girl who is still half a child might do.”
“Well—” Restarick hesitated. “That is more or less what the doctor said when we consulted him—I mean—”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “so you consulted a doctor? You must have had some reason, is it not so, forcalling in a doctor?”
“Nothing really.”
“Ah no, you cannot say that to Hercule Poirot. It was not nothing. It was something serious andyou had better tell me, because if I know just what has been in this girl’s mind, I shall make moreprogress. Things will go quicker.”
Restarick was silent for several moments, then he made up his mind.
“This is in absolute confidence, M. Poirot? I can rely on you—I have your assurance as to that?”
“By all means. What was the trouble?”
“I cannot be—be sure.”
“Your daughter entered into some action against your wife? Something more than being merelychildishly rude or saying unpleasant things. It was something worse than that—something moreserious. Did she perhaps attack her physically56?”
“No, it was not an attack—not a physical attack but—nothing was proved.”
“No, no. We will admit that.”
“My wife became far from well—” He hesitated.
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Yes, I see…And what was the nature of her illness? Digestive, possibly? Aform of enteritis?”
“You’re quick, M. Poirot. You’re very quick. Yes, it was digestive. This complaint of my wife’swas puzzling, because she had always had excellent health. Finally they sent her to hospital for‘observation,’ as they call it. A check-up.”
“And the result?”
“I don’t think they were completely satisfied…She appeared to regain57 her health completely andwas sent home in due course. But the trouble recurred58. We went carefully over the meals she had,the cooking. She seemed to be suffering from a form of intestinal59 poisoning for which thereappeared to be no cause. A further step was taken, tests were made of the dishes she ate. By takingsamples of everything, it was definitely proved that a certain substance had been administered invarious dishes. In each case it was a dish of which only my wife had partaken.”
“In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic60. Is that right?”
“Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulative61 effect.”
“You suspected your daughter?”
“No.”
“I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected your daughter.”
Restarick gave a deep sigh.
“Frankly, yes.”
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grimace
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tycoon
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| n.有钱有势的企业家，大亨 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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eyebrows
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vaguely
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ushering
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pointed
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stationery
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inquiries
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discretion
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apparently
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meddle
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spoke
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entirely
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intonation
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neurotic
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appraisingly
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gland
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devoutly
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discreet
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unduly
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mere
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infinitely
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frankly
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surmise
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concealment
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adventurous
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abruptly
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noted
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acting
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prosper
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trek
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concession
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negotiation
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prospects
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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vouches
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| v.保证( vouch的第三人称单数 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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intestinal
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| adj.肠的；肠壁；肠道细菌 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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