Poirot sat in his big square armchair. His hands rested on the arms, his eyes looked at thechimneypiece in front of him without seeing it. By his elbow was a small table and on it, neatlyclipped together, were various documents. Reports from Mr. Goby, information obtained from hisfriend, Chief Inspector2 Neele, a series of separate pages under the heading of “Hearsay, gossip,rumour” and the sources from which it had been obtained.
At the moment he had no need to consult these documents. He had, in fact, read them throughcarefully and laid them there in case there was any particular point he wished to refer to oncemore. He wanted now to assemble together in his mind all that he knew and had learned becausehe was convinced that these things must form a pattern. There must be a pattern there. He wasconsidering now, from what exact angle to approach it. He was not one to trust in enthusiasm forsome particular intuition. He was not an intuitive person—but he did have feelings. The importantthing was not the feelings themselves—but what might have caused them. It was the cause thatwas interesting, the cause was so often not what you thought it was. You had very often to work itout by logic3, by sense and by knowledge.
What did he feel about this case—what kind of a case was it? Let him start from the general,then proceed to the particular. What were the salient facts of this case?
Money was one of them, he thought, though he did not know how. Somehow or other, money…He also thought, increasingly so, that there was evil somewhere. He knew evil. He had met itbefore. He knew the tang of it, the taste of it, the way it went. The trouble was that here he did notyet know exactly where it was. He had taken certain steps to combat evil. He hoped they would besufficient. Something was happening, something was in progress, that was not yet accomplished4.
Someone, somewhere, was in danger.
The trouble was that the facts pointed5 both ways. If the person he thought was in danger wasreally in danger, there seemed so far as he could see no reason why. Why should that particularperson be in danger? There was no motive6. If the person he thought was in danger was not indanger, then the whole approach might have to be completely reversed…Everything that pointedone way he must turn round and look at from the complete opposite point of view.
He left that for the moment in the balance, and he came from there to the personalities—to thepeople. What pattern did they make? What part were they playing?
First—Andrew Restarick. He had accumulated by now a fair amount of information aboutAndrew Restarick. A general picture of his life before and after going abroad. A restless man,never sticking to one place or purpose long, but generally liked. Nothing of the wastrel7 about him,nothing shoddy or tricky8. Not, perhaps, a strong personality? Weak in many ways?
Poirot frowned, dissatisfied. That picture did not somehow fit the Andrew Restarick that hehimself had met. Not weak surely, with that thrust-out chin, the steady eyes, the air of resolution.
He had been a successful businessman, too, apparently9. Good at his job in the earlier years, and hehad put through good deals in South Africa and in South America. He had increased his holdings.
It was a success story that he had brought home with him, not one of failure. How then could hebe a weak personality? Weak, perhaps, only where women were concerned. He had made amistake in his marriage—married the wrong woman…Pushed into it perhaps by his family? Andthen he had met the other woman. Just that one woman? Or had there been several women? It washard to find a record of that kind after so many years. Certainly he had not been a notoriouslyunfaithful husband. He had had a normal home, he had been fond, by all accounts, of his smalldaughter. But then he had come across a woman whom he had cared for enough to leave his homeand to leave his country. It had been a real love affair.
But had it, perhaps, matched up with any additional motive? Dislike of office work, the City, thedaily routine of London? He thought it might. It matched the pattern. He seemed, too, to have beena solitary10 type. Everyone had liked him both here and abroad, but there seemed no intimatefriends. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to have intimate friends abroad because hehad never stopped in any one spot long enough. He had plunged11 into some gamble, attempted acoup, had made good, then tired of the thing and gone on somewhere else. Nomadic13! A wanderer.
It still did not quite accord with his own picture of the man…A picture? The word stirred in hismind the memory of the picture that hung in Restarick’s office, on the wall behind his desk. It hadbeen a portrait of the same man fifteen years ago. How much difference had those fifteen yearsmade in the man sitting there? Surprisingly little, on the whole! More grey in the hair, a heavier setto the shoulders, but the lines of character on the face were much the same. A determined14 face. Aman who knew what he wanted, who meant to get it. A man who would take risks. A man with acertain ruthlessness.
Why, he wondered, had Restarick brought that picture up to London? They had beencompanion portraits of a husband and wife. Strictly15 speaking artistically17, they should haveremained together. Would a psychologist have said that subconsciously18 Restarick wanted todissociate himself from his former wife once more, to separate himself from her? Was he thenmentally still retreating from her personality although she was dead? An interesting point….
The pictures had presumably come out of storage with various other family articles offurnishing. Mary Restarick had no doubt selected certain personal objects to supplement thefurniture of Crosshedges for which Sir Roderick had made room. He wondered whether MaryRestarick, the new wife, had liked hanging up that particular pair of portraits. More natural,perhaps, if she had put the first wife’s portrait in an attic20! But then he reflected that she wouldprobably not have had an attic to stow away unwanted objects at Crosshedges. Presumably SirRoderick had made room for a few family things whilst the returned couple were looking aboutfor a suitable house in London. So it had not mattered much, and it would have been easier to hangboth portraits. Besides, Mary Restarick seemed a sensible type of woman — not a jealous oremotional type.
“Tout de même,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself, “les femmes, they are all capable ofjealousy, and sometimes the one you would consider the least likely!”
His thoughts passed to Mary Restarick, and he considered her in turn. It struck him that whatwas really odd was that he had so few thoughts about her! He had seen her only the once, and shehad, somehow or other, not made much impression on him. A certain efficiency, he thought, andalso a certain—how could he put it?—artificiality? (“But there, my friend,” said Hercule Poirot,again in parenthesis22, “there you are considering her wig23!”)It was absurd really that one should know so little about a woman. A woman who was efficientand who wore a wig, and who was good-looking, and who was sensible, and who could feel anger.
Yes, she had been angry when she had found the Peacock Boy wandering uninvited in her house.
She had displayed it sharply and unmistakably. And the boy—he had seemed what? Amused, nomore. But she had been angry, very angry at finding him there. Well, that was natural enough. Hewould not be any mother’s choice for her daughter—Poirot stopped short in his thoughts, shaking his head vexedly. Mary Restarick was not Norma’smother. Not for her the agony, the apprehension24 about a daughter making an unsuitable unhappymarriage, or announcing an illegitimate baby with an unsuitable father! What did Mary feel aboutNorma? Presumably, to begin with, that she was a thoroughly25 tiresome26 girl—who had picked upwith a young man who was going to be obviously a source of worry and annoyance27 to AndrewRestarick. But after that? What had she thought and felt about a stepdaughter who was apparentlydeliberately trying to poison her?
Her attitude seemed to have been the sensible one. She had wanted to get Norma out of thehouse, herself out of danger; and to cooperate with her husband in suppressing any scandal aboutwhat had happened. Norma came down for an occasional weekend to keep up appearances, but herlife henceforward was bound to centre in London. Even when the Restaricks moved into the housethey were looking for, they would not suggest Norma living with them. Most girls, nowadays,lived away from their families. So that problem had been settled.
Except that, for Poirot, the question of who had administered poison to Mary Restarick wasvery far from settled. Restarick himself believed it was his daughter—But Poirot wondered….
His mind played with the possibilities of the girl Sonia. What was she doing in that house? Whyhad she come there? She had Sir Roderick eating out of her hand all right—perhaps she had nowish to go back to her own country? Possibly her designs were purely28 matrimonial—old men ofSir Roderick’s age married pretty young girls every day of the week. In the worldly sense, Soniacould do very well for herself. A secure social position, and widowhood to look forward to with asettled and sufficient income—or were her aims quite different? Had she gone to Kew Gardenswith Sir Roderick’s missing papers tucked between the pages of a book?
Had Mary Restarick become suspicious of her—of her activities, of her loyalties29, of where shewent on her days off, and of whom she met? And had Sonia, then, administered the substanceswhich, in cumulative30 small doses, would arouse no suspicion of anything but ordinarygastroenteritis?
For the time being, he put the household at Crosshedges out of his mind.
He came, as Norma had come, to London, and proceeded to the consideration of three girls whoshared a flat.
Claudia Reece-Holland, Frances Cary, Norma Restarick. Claudia Reece-Holland, daughter of awell-known Member of Parliament, well-off, capable, well-trained, good-looking, a first-classsecretary. Frances Cary, a country solicitor31’s daughter, artistic16, had been to drama school for ashort time, then to the Slade, chucked that also, occasionally worked for the Arts Council, nowemployed by an art gallery. Earned a good salary, was artistic and had bohemian associations. Sheknew the young man, David Baker32, though not apparently more than casually33. Perhaps she was inlove with him? He was the kind of young man, Poirot thought, disliked generally by parents,members of the Establishment and also the police. Where the attraction lay for wellborn girlsPoirot failed to see. But one had to acknowledge it as a fact. What did he himself think of David?
A good-looking boy with the impudent34 and slightly amused air whom he had first seen in theupper storeys of Crosshedges, doing an errand for Norma (or reconnoitring on his own, whoshould say?). He had seen him again when he gave him a lift in his car. A young man ofpersonality, giving indeed an impression of ability in what he chose to do. And yet there wasclearly an unsatisfactory side to him. Poirot picked up one of the papers on the table by his sideand studied it. A bad record though not positively35 criminal. Small frauds on garages, hooliganism,smashing up things, on probation36 twice. All those things were the fashion of the day. They did notcome under Poirot’s category of evil. He had been a promising37 painter, but had chucked it. He wasthe kind that did no steady work. He was vain, proud, a peacock in love with his own appearance.
Was he anything more than that? Poirot wondered.
He stretched out an arm and picked up a sheet of paper on which was scribbled38 down the roughheads of the conversation held between Norma and David in the café—that is, as well as Mrs.
Oliver could remember them. And how well was that, Poirot thought? He shook his headdoubtfully. One never knew quite at what point Mrs. Oliver’s imagination would take over! Didthe boy care for Norma, really want to marry her? There was no doubt about her feelings for him.
He had suggested marrying her. Had Norma got money of her own? She was the daughter of a richman, but that was not the same thing. Poirot made an exclamation39 of vexation. He had forgotten toinquire the terms of the late Mrs. Restarick’s will. He flipped40 through the sheets of notes. No, Mr.
Goby had not neglected this obvious need. Mrs. Restarick apparently had been well provided forby her husband during her lifetime. She had had, apparently, a small income of her ownamounting perhaps to a thousand a year. She had left everything she possessed41 to her daughter. Itwould hardly amount, Poirot thought, to a motive for marriage. Probably, as his only child, shewould inherit a lot of money at her father’s death but that was not at all the same thing. Her fathermight leave her very little indeed if he disliked the man she had married.
He would say then, that David did care for her, since he was willing to marry her. And yet—Poirot shook his head. It was about the fifth time he had shaken it. All these things did not tie up,they did not make a satisfactory pattern. He remembered Restarick’s desk, and the cheque he hadbeen writing—apparently to buy off the young man—and the young man, apparently, was quitewilling to be bought off! So that again did not tally19. The cheque had certainly been made out toDavid Baker and it was for a very large—really a preposterous42—sum. It was a sum that mighthave tempted12 any impecunious43 young man of bad character. And yet he had suggested marriage toher only a day before. That, of course, might have been just a move in the game—a move to raisethe price he was asking. Poirot remembered Restarick sitting there, his lips hard. He must care agreat deal for his daughter to be willing to pay so high a sum; and he must have been afraid toothat the girl herself was quite determined to marry him.
From thoughts of Restarick, he went on to Claudia. Claudia and Andrew Restarick. Was itchance, sheer chance, that she had come to be his secretary? There might be a link between them.
Claudia. He considered her. Three girls in a flat, Claudia Reece-Holland’s flat. She had been theone who had taken the flat originally, and shared it first with a friend, a girl she already knew, andthen with another girl, the third girl. The third girl, thought Poirot. Yes, it always came back tothat. The third girl. And that is where he had come in the end. Where he had had to come. Whereall this thinking out of patterns had led. To Norma Restarick.
A girl who had come to consult him as he sat at breakfast. A girl whom he had joined at a tablein a café where she had recently been eating baked beans with the young man she loved. (Healways seemed to see her at mealtimes, he noted44!) And what did he think about her? First, whatdid other people think about her? Restarick cared for her and was desperately45 anxious about her,desperately frightened for her. He not only suspected—he was quite sure, apparently, that she hadtried to poison his recently married wife. He had consulted a doctor about her. Poirot felt he wouldlike dearly to talk to that doctor himself, but he doubted if he would get anywhere. Doctors werevery chary46 of parting with medical information to anyone but a duly accredited47 person such as theparents. But Poirot could imagine fairly well what the doctor had said. He had been cautious,Poirot thought, as doctors are apt to be. He’d hemmed48 and hawed and spoken perhaps of medicaltreatment. He had not stressed too positively a mental angle, but had certainly suggested it orhinted at it. In fact, the doctor probably was privately50 sure that that was what had happened. Buthe also knew a good deal about hysterical51 girls, and that they sometimes did things that were notreally the result of mental causes, but merely of temper, jealousy21, emotion, and hysteria. He wouldnot be a psychiatrist52 himself nor a neurologist. He would be a GP who took no risks of makingaccusations about which he could not be sure, but suggested certain things out of caution. A jobsomewhere or other—a job in London, later perhaps treatment from a specialist?
What did anyone else think of Norma Restarick? Claudia Reece-Holland? He didn’t know.
Certainly not from the little that he knew about her. She was capable of hiding any secret, shewould certainly let nothing escape her which she did not mean to let escape. She had shown nosigns of wanting to turn the girl out—which she might have done if she had been afraid of hermental condition. There could not have been much discussion between her and Frances on thesubject since the other girl had so innocently let escape the fact that Norma had not returned tothem after her weekend at home. Claudia had been annoyed about that. It was possible thatClaudia was more in the pattern than she appeared. She had brains, Poirot thought, andefficiency…He came back to Norma, came back once again to the third girl. What was her placein the pattern? The place that would pull the whole thing together. Ophelia, he thought? But therewere two opinions to that, just as there were two opinions about Norma. Was Ophelia mad or wasshe pretending madness? Actresses had been variously divided as to how the part should be played—or perhaps, he should say, producers. They were the ones who had the ideas. Was Hamlet mador sane53? Take your choice. Was Ophelia mad or sane?
Restarick would not have used the word “mad” even in his thoughts about his daughter.
Mentally disturbed was the term that everyone preferred to use. The other word that had been usedof Norma had been “batty.” “She’s a bit batty.” “Not quite all there.” “A bit wanting, if you knowwhat I mean.” Were “daily women” good judges? Poirot thought they might be. There wassomething odd about Norma, certainly, but she might be odd in a different way to what sheseemed. He remembered the picture she had made slouching into his room, a girl of today, themodern type looking just as so many other girls looked. Limp hair hanging on her shoulders, thecharacterless dress, a skimpy look about the knees—all to his old-fashioned eyes looking like anadult girl pretending to be a child.
“I’m sorry, you are too old.”
Perhaps it was true. He’d looked at her through the eyes of someone old, without admiration54, tohim just a girl without apparently will to please, without coquetry. A girl without any sense of herown femininity—no charm or mystery or enticement55, who had nothing to offer, perhaps, but plainbiological sex. So it may be that she was right in her condemnation56 of him. He could not help herbecause he did not understand her, because it was not even possible for him to appreciate her. Hehad done his best for her, but what had that meant up to date? What had he done for her since thatone moment of appeal? And in his thoughts the answer came quickly. He had kept her safe. Thatat least. If, indeed, she needed keeping safe. That was where the whole point lay. Did she needkeeping safe? That preposterous confession57! Really, not so much a confession as anannouncement: “I think I may have committed a murder.”
Hold on to that, because that was the crux58 of the whole thing. That was his métier. To deal withmurder, to clear up murder, to prevent murder! To be the good dog who hunts down murder.
Murder announced. Murder somewhere. He had looked for it and had not found it. The pattern ofarsenic in the soup? A pattern of young hooligans stabbing each other with knifes? The ridiculousand sinister59 phrase, bloodstains in the courtyard. A shot fired from a revolver. At whom, and why?
It was not as it ought to be, a form of crime that would fit with the words she had said: “I mayhave committed a murder.” He had stumbled on in the dark, trying to see a pattern of crime, tryingto see where the third girl fitted into that pattern, and coming back always to the same urgent needto know what this girl was really like.
And then with a casual phrase, Ariadne Oliver had, as he thought, shown him the light. Thesupposed suicide of a woman at Borodene Mansions60. That would fit. It was where the third girlhad her living quarters. It must be the murder that she had meant. Another murder committedabout the same time would have been too much of a coincidence! Besides there was no sign ortrace of any other murder that had been committed about then. No other death that could have senther hotfoot to consult him, after listening at a party to the lavish61 admiration of his ownachievements which his friend, Mrs. Oliver, had given to the world. And so, when Mrs. Oliver hadinformed him in a casual manner of the woman who had thrown herself out of the window, it hadseemed to him that at last he had got what he had been looking for.
Here was the clue. The answer to his perplexity. Here he would find what he needed. The why,the when, the where.
“Quelle déception,” said Hercule Poirot, out loud.
He stretched out his hand, and sorted out the neatly1 typed résumé of a woman’s life. The baldfacts of Mrs. Charpentier’s existence. A woman of forty-three of good social position, reported tohave been a wild girl—two marriages—two divorces—a woman who liked men. A woman who oflate years had drunk more than was good for her. A woman who liked parties. A woman who wasnow reported to go about with men a good many years younger than herself. Living in a flat alonein Borodene Mansions, Poirot could understand and feel the sort of woman she was, and had been,and he could see why such a woman might wish to throw herself out of a high window one earlymorning when she awoke to despair.
Because she had cancer or thought she had cancer? But at the inquest, the medical evidence hadsaid very definitely that that was not so.
What he wanted was some kind of a link with Norma Restarick. He could not find it. He readthrough the dry facts again.
Identification had been supplied at the inquest by a solicitor. Louise Carpenter, though she hadused a Frenchified form of her surname—Charpentier. Because it went better with her Christianname? Louise? Why was the name Louise familiar? Some casual mention?—a phrase?—hisfingers riffled neatly through typewritten pages. Ah! there it was! Just that one reference. The girlfor whom Andrew Restarick had left his wife had been a girl named Louise Birell. Someone whohad proved to be of little significance in Restarick’s later life. They had quarrelled and parted afterabout a year. The same pattern, Poirot thought. The same thing obtaining that had probablyobtained all through this particular woman’s life. To love a man violently, to break up his home,perhaps, to live with him, and then quarrel with him and leave him. He felt sure, absolutely sure,that this Louise Charpentier was the same Louise.
Even so, how did it tie up with the girl Norma? Had Restarick and Louise Charpentier cometogether again when he returned to England? Poirot doubted it. Their lives had parted years ago.
That they had by any chance come together again seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility! Ithad been a brief and in reality unimportant infatuation. His present wife would hardly be jealousenough of her husband’s past to wish to push his former mistress out of a window. Ridiculous!
The only person so far as he could see who might have been the type to harbour a grudge62 overmany long years, and wish to execute revenge upon the woman who had broken up her home,might have been the first Mrs. Restarick. And that sounded wildly impossible also, and anyway,the first Mrs. Restarick was dead!
The telephone rang. Poirot did not move. At this particular moment he did not want to bedisturbed. He had a feeling of being on a trail of some kind…He wanted to pursue it…Thetelephone stopped. Good. Miss Lemon would be coping with it.
The door opened and Miss Lemon entered.
“Mrs. Oliver wants to speak to you,” she said.
Poirot waved a hand. “Not now, not now, I pray you! I cannot speak to her now.”
“She says there is something that she has just thought of—something she forgot to tell you.
About a piece of paper—an unfinished letter, which seems to have fallen out of a blotter in a deskin a furniture van. A rather incoherent story,” added Miss Lemon, allowing a note of disapprovalto enter her voice.
Poirot waved more frantically63.
“Not now,” he urged. “I beg of you, not now.”
“I will tell her you are busy.”
Miss Lemon retreated.
Peace descended64 once more upon the room. Poirot felt waves of fatigue65 creeping over him. Toomuch thinking. One must relax. Yes, one must relax. One must let tension go—in relaxation66 thepattern would come. He closed his eyes. There were all the components67 there. He was sure of thatnow, there was nothing more he could learn from outside. It must come from inside.
And quite suddenly—just as his eyelids68 were relaxing in sleep—it came.…It was all there—waiting for him! He would have to work it all out. But he knew now. All thebits were there, disconnected bits and pieces, all fitting in. A wig, a picture, 5 a.m., women andtheir hairdos, the Peacock Boy—all leading to the phrase with which it had begun:
Third Girl…
“I may have committed a murder…” Of course!
A ridiculous nursery rhyme came into his mind. He repeated it aloud.
Rub a dub69 dub, three men in a tub
And who do you think they be?
A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker….
Too bad, he couldn’t remember the last line. A baker, yes, and in a far-fetched way, a butcher—He tried out a feminine parody70:
Pat a cake, pat, three girls in a flat
And who do you think they be?
A Personal Aide and a girl from the Slade
And the Third is a—
Miss Lemon came in.
“Ah—I remember now—‘And they all came out of a weenie POTATO.’”
Miss Lemon looked at him in anxiety.
“Dr. Stillingfleet insists on speaking to you at once. He says it is urgent.”
“Tell Dr. Stillingfleet he can—Dr. Stillingfleet, did you say?”
He pushed past her, caught up the receiver. “I am here. Poirot speaking! Something hashappened?”
“She’s walked out on me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. She’s walked out. Walked out through the front gate.”
“You let her go?”
“What else could I do?”
“You could have stopped her.”
“No.”
“To let her go was madness.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand.”
“That was the arrangement. Free to go at any time.”
“You don’t understand what may be involved.”
“All right then, I don’t. But I know what I’m doing. And if I don’t let her go, all the work I’vedone on her would go for nothing. And I have worked on her. Your job and my job aren’t thesame. We’re not out for the same thing. I tell you I was getting somewhere. Getting somewhere,so that I was quite sure she wouldn’t walk out on me.”
“Ah yes. And then, mon ami, she did.”
“Frankly, I can’t understand it. I can’t see why the setback71 came.”
“Something happened.”
“Yes, but what?”
“Somebody she saw, somebody who spoke49 to her, somebody who found out where she was.”
“I don’t see how that could have happened…But what you don’t seem to see is that she’s a freeagent. She had to be a free agent.”
“Somebody got at her. Somebody found out where she was. Did she get a letter, a telegram, atelephone call?”
“No, nothing of that kind. That I am quite sure of.”
“Then how—of course! Newspapers. You have newspapers, I suppose, in that establishment ofyours?”
“Certainly. Normal everyday life, that’s what I stand for in my place of business.”
“Then that is how they got at her. Normal, everyday life. What papers do you take?”
“Five.” He named the five.
“When did she go?”
“This morning. Half past ten.”
“Exactly. After she read the papers. That is good enough to start on. Which paper did sheusually read?”
“I don’t think she had any special choice. Sometimes one, sometimes another, sometimes thewhole lot of them—sometimes only glanced at them.”
“Well, I must not waste time talking.”
“You think she saw an advertisement. Something of that kind?”
“What other explanation can there be? Good-bye, I can say no more now. I have to search.
Search for the possible advertisement and then get on quickly.”
He replaced the receiver.
“Miss Lemon, bring me our two papers. The Morning News and the Daily Comet. Send Georgesout for all the others.”
As he opened out the papers to the Personal advertisements and went carefully down them, hefollowed his line of thought.
He would be in time. He must be in time…There had been one murder already. There would beanother one to come. But he, Hercule Poirot, would prevent that…If he was in time…He wasHercule Poirot—the avenger72 of the innocent. Did he not say (and people laughed when he said it),“I do not approve of murder.” They had thought it an understatement. But it was not anunderstatement. It was a simple statement of fact without melodrama73. He did not approve ofmurder.
George came in with a sheaf of newspapers.
“There are all this morning’s, sir.”
Poirot looked at Miss Lemon, who was standing74 by waiting to be efficient.
“Look through the ones that I have searched in case I have missed anything.”
“The Personal column, you mean?”
“Yes. I thought there would be the name David perhaps. A girl’s name. Some pet name ornickname. They would not use Norma. An appeal for help, perhaps, or to a meeting.”
Miss Lemon took the papers obediently with some distaste. This was not her kind of efficiency,but for the moment he had no other job to give her. He himself spread out the Morning Chronicle.
That was the biggest field to search. Three columns of it. He bent75 over the open sheet.
A lady who wanted to dispose of her fur coat…Passengers wanted for a car trip abroad…Lovelyperiod house for sale…Paying guests…Backward children…Homemade chocolates…“Julia. Shallnever forget. Always yours.” That was more the kind of thing. He considered it, but passed on.
Louis XVth furniture…Middle-aged lady to help run a hotel…“In desperate trouble. Must seeyou. Come to flat 4:30 without fail. Our code Goliath.”
He heard the doorbell ring just as he called out: “Georges, a taxi,” slipped on his overcoat, andwent into the hall just as George was opening the front door and colliding with Mrs. Oliver. Allthree of them struggled to disentangle themselves in the narrow hall.
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inspector
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logic
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accomplished
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pointed
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motive
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wastrel
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tricky
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apparently
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solitary
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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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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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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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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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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components
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| （机器、设备等的）构成要素，零件，成分； 成分( component的名词复数 )； [物理化学]组分； [数学]分量； （混合物的）组成部分 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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setback
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| n.退步，挫折，挫败 | |
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avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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