“Today I have much to do,” Hercule Poirot announced as he rose from the breakfast table nextmorning and joined Miss Lemon. “Inquiries to make. You have made the necessary researches forme, the appointments, the necessary contacts?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Lemon. “It is all here.” She handed him a small briefcase1. Poirot took aquick glance at its contents and nodded his head.
“I can always rely on you, Miss Lemon,” he said. “C’est fantastique.”
“Really, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see anything fantastic about it. You gave me instructions andI carried them out. Naturally.”
“Pah, it is not so natural as that,” said Poirot. “Do I not give instructions often to the gas men,the electricians, the man who comes to repair things, and do they always carry out myinstructions? Very, very seldom.”
He went into the hall.
“My slightly heavier overcoat, Georges. I think the autumn chill is setting in.”
He popped his head back in his secretary’s room. “By the way, what did you think of that youngwoman who came yesterday?”
Miss Lemon, arrested as she was about to plunge2 her fingers on the typewriter, said briefly,“Foreign.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Obviously foreign.”
“You do not think anything more about her than that?”
Miss Lemon considered. “I had no means of judging her capability3 in any way.” She addedrather doubtfully, “She seemed upset about something.”
“Yes. She is suspected, you see, of stealing! Not money, but papers, from her employer.”
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Lemon. “Important papers?”
“It seems highly probable. It is equally probable though, that he has not lost anything at all.”
“Oh well,” said Miss Lemon, giving her employer a special look that she always gave andwhich announced that she wished to get rid of him so that she could get on with proper fervourwith her work. “Well, I always say that it’s better to know where you are when you are employingsomeone, and buy British.”
Hercule Poirot went out. His first visit was to Borodene Mansions4. He took a taxi. Alighting atthe courtyard he cast his eyes around. A uniformed porter was standing5 in one of the doorways,whistling a somewhat doleful melody. As Poirot advanced upon him, he said:
“Yes, sir?”
“I wondered,” said Poirot, “if you can tell me anything about a very sad occurrence that tookplace here recently.”
“Sad occurrence?” said the porter. “Nothing that I know of.”
“A lady who threw herself, or shall we say fell from one of the upper storeys, and was killed.”
“Oh, that. I don’t know anything about that because I’ve only been here a week, you see. Hi,Joe.”
A porter emerging from the opposite side of the block came over.
“You’d know about the lady as fell from the seventh. About a month ago, was it?”
“Not quite as much as that,” said Joe. He was an elderly, slow-speaking man. “Nasty business itwas.”
“She was killed instantly?”
“Yes.”
“What was her name? It may, you understand, have been a relative of mine,” Poirot explained.
He was not a man who had any scruples6 about departing from the truth.
“Indeed, sir. Very sorry to hear it. She was a Mrs. Charpentier.”
“She had been in the flat some time?”
“Well, let me see now. About a year—a year and a half perhaps. No, I think it must have beenabout two years. No. 76, seventh floor.”
“That is the top floor?”
“Yes, sir. A Mrs. Charpentier.”
Poirot did not press for any other descriptive information since he might be presumed to knowsuch things about his own relative. Instead he asked:
“Did it cause much excitement, much questioning? What time of day was it?”
“Five or six o’clock in the morning, I think. No warning or anything. Just down she came. Inspite of being so early we got a crowd almost at once, pushing through the railing over there. Youknow what people are.”
“And the police, of course.”
“Oh yes, the police came quite quickly. And a doctor and an ambulance. All the usual,” said theporter rather in the weary tone of one who had had people throwing themselves out of a seventh-storey window once or twice every month.
“And I suppose people came down from the flats when they heard what had happened.”
“Oh, there wasn’t so many coming from the flats because for one thing with the noise of trafficand everything around here most of them didn’t know about it. Someone or other said she gave abit of a scream as she came down, but not so that it caused any real commotion7. It was only peoplein the street, passing by, who saw it happen. And then, of course, they craned their necks over therailings, and other people saw them craning, and joined them. You know what an accident is!”
Poirot assured him he knew what an accident was.
“She lived alone?” he said, making it only half a question.
“That’s right.”
“But she had friends, I suppose, among the other flat dwellers8?”
Joe shrugged9 and shook his head. “May have done. I couldn’t say. Never saw her in therestaurant much with any of our lot. She had outside friends to dinner here sometimes. No, Iwouldn’t say she was specially10 pally with anybody here. You’d do best,” said Joe, getting slightlyrestive, “to go and have a chat with Mr. McFarlane who’s in charge here if you want to knowabout her.”
“Ah, I thank you. Yes, that is what I mean to do.”
“His office is in that block over there, sir. On the ground floor. You’ll see it marked up on thedoor.”
Poirot went as directed. He detached from his briefcase the top letter with which Miss Lemonhad supplied him, and which was marked “Mr. McFarlane.” Mr. McFarlane turned out to be agood-looking, shrewd-looking man of about forty-five. Poirot handed him the letter. He openedand read it.
“Ah yes,” he said, “I see.”
He laid it down on the desk and looked at Poirot.
“The owners have instructed me to give you all the help I can about the sad death of Mrs.
Louise Charpentier. Now what do you want to know exactly, Monsieur”—he glanced at the letteragain—“Monsieur Poirot?”
“This is, of course, all quite confidential,” said Poirot. “Her relatives have been communicatedwith by the police and by a solicitor11, but they were anxious, as I was coming to England, that Ishould get a few more personal facts, if you understand me. It is distressing12 when one can get onlyofficial reports.”
“Yes, quite so. Yes, I quite understand that it must be. Well, I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“How long had she been here and how did she come to take the flat?”
“She’d been here—I can look it up exactly—about two years. There was a vacant tenancy and Iimagine that the lady who was leaving, being an acquaintance of hers, told her in advance that shewas giving it up. That was a Mrs. Wilder. Worked for the BBC. Had been in London for sometime, but was going to Canada. Very nice lady—I don’t think she knew the deceased well at all.
Just happened to mention she was giving up the flat. Mrs. Charpentier liked the flat.”
“You found her a suitable tenant13?” There was a very faint hesitation14 before Mr. McFarlaneanswered:
“She was a satisfactory tenant, yes.”
“You need not mind telling me,” said Hercule Poirot. “There were wild parties, eh? A little too—shall we say—gay in her entertaining?”
Mr. McFarlane stopped being so discreet15.
“There were a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people.”
Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.
“A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir—and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of troublenow and again.”
“And she was fond of the gentlemen?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like to go as far as that.”
“No, no, but one understands.”
“Of course she wasn’t so young.”
“Appearances are very often deceptive16. How old would you have said she was?”
“It’s difficult to say. Forty—forty-five.” He added, “Her health wasn’t good, you know.”
“So I understand.”
“She drank too much—no doubt about it. And then she’d get very depressed17. Nervous aboutherself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get itinto their heads—especially about that time of life—she thought that she had cancer. Was quitesure of it. The doctor reassured18 her but she didn’t believe him. He said at the inquest that there wasnothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all workedup and one fine day—” he nodded.
“It is very sad,” said Poirot. “Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?”
“Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn’t what I call the matey kind. They’re mostly peoplein business, in jobs.”
“I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known eachother.”
“Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don’t think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances,talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don’t think there was muchsocial contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean—” Mr.
McFarlane seemed a little flustered19. Poirot wondered why.
He said, “One of the other girls who share Miss Holland’s flat knew Mrs. Charpentier, I believe—Miss Norma Restarick.”
“Did she? I wouldn’t know—she’s only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight.
Rather a frightened-looking young lady. Not long out of school, I’d say.” He added, “Is thereanything more I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been most kind. I wonder if possibly I could see the flat. Just in order tobe able to say—” Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.
“Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He’s in the City all day. Yes, come upwith me if you like, sir.”
They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fellfrom the door and narrowly avoided Poirot’s patent leather shoe. He hopped20 nimbly and then bentto pick it up. He replaced the spike21 which fixed22 it on the door very carefully.
“These numbers are loose,” he said.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll make a note of it. Yes, they wear loose from time to time. Well, here weare.”
Poirot went into the living room. At the moment it had little personality. The walls werepapered with a paper resembling grained wood. It had conventional comfortable furniture, the onlypersonal touch was a television set and a certain number of books.
“All the flats are partly furnished, you see,” said Mr. McFarlane. “The tenants23 don’t need tobring anything of their own, unless they want to. We cater24 very largely for people who come andgo.”
“And the decorations are all the same?”
“Not entirely25. People seem to like this raw wood effect. Good background for pictures. The onlythings that are different are on the one wall facing the door. We have a whole set of frescoes26 whichpeople can choose from.
“We have a set of ten,” said Mr. McFarlane with some pride. “There is the Japanese one—veryartistic, don’t you think?—and there is an English garden one; a very striking one of birds; one oftrees, a Harlequin one, a rather interesting abstract effect—lines and cubes, in vividly27 contrastingcolours, that sort of thing. They’re all designs by good artists. Our furniture is all the same. Twochoices of colours, or of course people can add what they like of their own. But they don’t usuallybother.”
“Most of them are not, as you might say, homemakers,” Poirot suggested.
“No, rather the bird of passage type, or busy people who want solid comfort, good plumbingand all that but aren’t particularly interested in decoration, though we’ve had one or two of the do-it-yourself type, which isn’t really satisfactory from our point of view. We’ve had to put a clausein the lease saying they’ve got to put things back as they found them—or pay for that being done.”
They seemed to be getting rather far away from the subject of Mrs. Charpentier’s death. Poirotapproached the window.
“It was from here?” he murmured delicately.
“Yes. That’s the window. The left-hand one. It has a balcony.”
Poirot looked out down below.
“Seven floors,” he said. “A long way.”
“Yes, death was instantaneous, I am glad to say. Of course, it might have been an accident.”
Poirot shook his head.
“You cannot seriously suggest that, Mr. McFarlane. It must have been deliberate.”
“Well, one always likes to suggest an easier possibility. She wasn’t a happy woman, I’mafraid.”
“Thank you,” said Poirot, “for your great courtesy. I shall be able to give her relations in Francea very clear picture.”
His own picture of what had occurred was not as clear as he would have liked. So far there hadbeen nothing to support his theory that the death of Louise Charpentier had been important. Herepeated the Christian28 name thoughtfully. Louise…Why had the name Louise some hauntingmemory about it? He shook his head. He thanked Mr. McFarlane and left.
点击收听单词发音
1 briefcase | |
n.手提箱,公事皮包 | |
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2 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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3 capability | |
n.能力;才能;(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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4 mansions | |
n.宅第,公馆,大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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5 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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6 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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8 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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9 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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10 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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11 solicitor | |
n.初级律师,事务律师 | |
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12 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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13 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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14 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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15 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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16 deceptive | |
adj.骗人的,造成假象的,靠不住的 | |
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17 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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18 reassured | |
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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19 flustered | |
adj.慌张的;激动不安的v.使慌乱,使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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20 hopped | |
跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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21 spike | |
n.长钉,钉鞋;v.以大钉钉牢,使...失效 | |
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22 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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23 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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24 cater | |
vi.(for/to)满足,迎合;(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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25 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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26 frescoes | |
n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 );温壁画技法,湿壁画 | |
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27 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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28 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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