Four people sat in Poirot’s room. Poirot in his square chair was drinking a glass of sirop de cassis.
Norma and Mrs. Oliver sat on the sofa. Mrs. Oliver was looking particularly festive1 inunbecoming apple green brocade, surmounted2 by one of her more painstaking3 coiffures. Dr.
Stillingfleet was sprawled4 out in a chair with his long legs stretched out, so that they seemed toreach half across the room.
“Now then, there are lots of things I want to know,” said Mrs. Oliver. Her voice was accusatory.
Poirot hastened to pour oil on troubled waters.
“But, chère Madame, consider. What I owe to you I can hardly express. All, but all my goodideas were suggested to me by you.”
Mrs. Oliver looked at him doubtfully.
“Was it not you who introduced to me the phrase ‘Third Girl?’ It is there that I started—andthere, too, that I ended—at the third girl of three living in a flat. Norma was always technically5, Isuppose, the Third Girl—but when I looked at things the right way round it all fell into place. Themissing answer, the lost piece of the puzzle, every time it was the same—the third girl.
“It was always, if you comprehend me, the person who was not there. She was a name to me, nomore.”
“I wonder I never connected her with Mary Restarick,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’d seen MaryRestarick at Crosshedges, talked to her. Of course the first time I saw Frances Cary, she had blackhair hanging all over her face. That would have put anyone off!”
“Again it was you, Madame, who drew my attention to how easily a woman’s appearance isaltered by the way she arranges her hair. Frances Cary, remember, had had dramatic training. Sheknew all about the art of swift makeup6. She could alter her voice at need. As Frances, she had longblack hair, framing her face and half hiding it, heavy dead white maquillage, dark pencilledeyebrows and mascara, with a drawling husky voice. Mary Restarick, with her wig7 of formallyarranged golden hair with crimped waves, her conventional clothes, her slight Colonial accent, herbrisk way of talking, presented a complete contrast. Yet one felt, from the beginning, that she wasnot quite real. What kind of a woman was she? I did not know.
“I was not clever about her—No—I, Hercule Poirot, was not clever at all.”
“Hear, hear,” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “First time I’ve ever heard you say that, Poirot! Wonderswill never cease!”
“I don’t really see why she wanted two personalities,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems unnecessarilyconfusing.”
“No. It was very valuable to her. It gave her, you see, a perpetual alibi8 whenever she wanted it.
To think that it was there, all the time, before my eyes, and I did not see it! There was the wig—Ikept being subconsciously9 worried by it, but not seeing why I was worried. Two women—never,at any time, seen together. Their lives so arranged that no one noticed the large gaps in their timeschedules when they were unaccounted for. Mary goes often to London, to shop, to visit houseagents, to depart with a sheaf of orders to view, supposedly to spend her time that way. Francesgoes to Birmingham, to Manchester, even flies abroad, frequents Chelsea with her special coterieof arty young men whom she employs in various capacities which would not be looked on withapproval by the law. Special picture frames were designed for the Wedderburn Gallery. Risingyoung artists had ‘shows’ there—their pictures sold quite well, and were shipped abroad or sent onexhibition with their frames stuffed with secret packets of heroin—Art rackets—skilful forgeriesof the more obscure Old Masters—She arranged and organised all these things. David Baker10 wasone of the artists she employed. He had the gift of being a marvellous copyist.”
Norma murmured: “Poor David. When I first met him I thought he was wonderful.”
“That picture,” said Poirot dreamily. “Always, always, I came back to that in my mind. Whyhad Restarick brought it up to his office? What special significance did it have for him? Enfin, I donot admire myself for being so dense11.”
“I don’t understand about the pictures.”
“It was a very clever idea. It served as a kind of certificate of identity. A pair of portraits,husband and wife, by a celebrated12 and fashionable portrait painter of his day. David Baker, whenthey come out of store, replaces Restarick’s portrait with one of Orwell, making him about twentyyears younger in appearance. Nobody would have dreamed that the portrait was a fake; the style,the brush strokes, the canvas, it was a splendidly convincing bit of work. Restarick hung it over hisdesk. Anyone who knew Restarick years ago, might say: ‘I’d hardly have known you!’ Or‘You’ve changed quite a lot,’ would look up at the portrait, but would only think he himself hadreally forgotten what the other man had looked like!”
“It was a great risk for Restarick—or rather Orwell—to take,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully.
“Less than you might think. He was never a claimant, you see, in the Tichborne sense. He wasonly a member of a well-known City firm, returning home after his brother’s death to settle up hisbrother’s affairs after having spent some years abroad. He brought with him a young wife recentlyacquired abroad, and took up residence with an elderly, half blind but extremely distinguisheduncle by marriage who had never known him well after his schoolboy days, and who accepted himwithout question. He had no other near relations, except for the daughter whom he had last seenwhen she was a child of five. When he originally left for South Africa, the office staff had had twovery elderly clerks, since deceased. Junior staff never remains13 anywhere long nowadays. Thefamily lawyer is also dead. You may be sure that the whole position was studied very carefully onthe spot by Frances after they had decided14 on their coup15.
“She had met him, it seems, in Kenya about two years ago. They were both crooks16, though withentirely different interests. He went in for various shoddy deals as a prospector—Restarick andOrwell went together to prospect18 for mineral deposits in somewhat wild country. There was arumour of Restarick’s death (probably true) which was later contradicted.”
“A lot of money in the gamble, I suspect?” said Stillingfleet.
“An enormous amount of money was involved. A terrific gamble—for a terrific stake. It cameoff. Andrew Restarick was a very rich man himself and he was his brother’s heir. Nobodyquestioned his identity. And then—things went wrong. Out of the blue, he got a letter from awoman who, if she ever came face to face with him, would know at once that he wasn’t AndrewRestarick. And a second piece of bad fortune occurred—David Baker started to blackmail19 him.”
“That might have been expected, I suppose,” said Stillingfleet thoughtfully.
“They didn’t expect it,” said Poirot. “David had never blackmailed20 before. It was the enormouswealth of this man that went to his head, I expect. The sum he had been paid for faking the portraitseemed to him grossly inadequate21. He wanted more. So Restarick wrote him large cheques, andpretended that it was on account of his daughter—to prevent her from making an undesirablemarriage. Whether he really wanted to marry her, I do not know—he may have done. But toblackmail two people like Orwell and Frances Cary was a dangerous thing to do.”
“You mean those two just cold-bloodedly planned to kill two people—quite calmly—just likethat?” demanded Mrs. Oliver.
She looked rather sick.
“They might have added you to their list, Madame,” said Poirot.
“Me? Do you mean that it was one of them who hit me on the head? Frances, I suppose? Not thepoor Peacock?”
“I do not think it was the Peacock. But you had been already to Borodene Mansions22. Now youperhaps follow Frances to Chelsea, or so she thinks, with a rather dubious23 story to account foryourself. So she slips out and gives you a nice little tap on the head to put paid to your curiosityfor a while. You would not listen when I warned you there was danger about.”
“I can hardly believe it of her! Lying about in attitudes of a Burne-Jones heroine in that dirtystudio that day. But why—” She looked at Norma—then back at Poirot. “They used her—deliberately—worked upon her, drugged her, made her believe that she had murdered two people.
Why?”
“They wanted a victim…” said Poirot.
He rose from his chair and went to Norma.
“Mon enfant, you have been through a terrible ordeal24. It is a thing that need never happen to youagain. Remember that now, you can have confidence in yourself always. To have known, at closequarters, what absolute evil means, is to be armoured against what life can do to you.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Norma. “To think you are mad — really to believe it, is afrightening thing…” She shivered. “I don’t see, even now, why I escaped—why anyone managedto believe that I hadn’t killed David—not when even I believed I had killed him?”
“Blood was wrong,” said Dr. Stillingfleet in a matter-of-fact tone. “Starting to coagulate. Shirtwas ‘stiff with it,’ as Miss Jacobs said, not wet. You were supposed to have killed him not morethan about five minutes before Frances’s screaming act.”
“How did she—” Mrs. Oliver began to work things out. “She had been to Manchester—”
“She came home by an earlier train, changed into her Mary wig and makeup on the train.
Walked into Borodene Mansions and went up in the lift as an unknown blonde. Went into the flatwhere David was waiting for her, as she had told him to do. He was quite unsuspecting, and shestabbed him. Then she went out again, and kept watch until she saw Norma coming. She slippedinto a public cloakroom, changed her appearance, and joined a friend at the end of the road andwalked with her, said good-bye to her at Borodene Mansions and went up herself and did her stuff—quite enjoying doing it, I expect. By the time the police had been called and got there, she didn’tthink anyone would suspect the time lag. I must say, Norma, you gave us all a hell of a time thatday. Insisting on having killed everyone the way you did!”
“I wanted to confess and get it all over…Did you—did you think I might really have done it,then?”
“Me? What do you take me for? I know what my patients will do or won’t do. But I thought youwere going to make things damned difficult. I didn’t know how far Neele was sticking his neckout. Didn’t seem proper police procedure to me. Look at the way he gave Poirot here his head.”
Poirot smiled.
“Chief Inspector25 Neele and I have known each other for many years. Besides, he had beenmaking inquiries26 about certain matters already. You were never really outside Louise’s door.
Frances changed the numbers. She reversed the 6 and the 7 on your own door. Those numberswere loose, stuck on with spikes27. Claudia was away that night. Frances drugged you so that thewhole thing was a nightmare dream to you.
“I saw the truth suddenly. The only other person who could have killed Louise was the real‘third girl,’ Frances Cary.”
“You kept half recognising her, you know,” said Stillingfleet, “when you described to me howone person seemed to turn into another.”
Norma looked at him thoughtfully.
“You were very rude to people,” she said to Stillingfleet. He looked slightly taken aback.
“Rude?”
“The things you said to everyone. The way you shouted at them.”
“Oh well, yes, perhaps I was…I’ve got in the way of it. People are so damned irritating.”
He grinned suddenly at Poirot.
“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Oliver rose to her feet with a sigh.
“I must go home.” She looked at the two men and then at Norma. “What are we going to dowith her?” she asked.
They both looked startled.
“I know she’s staying with me at the moment,” she went on. “And she says she’s quite happy.
But I mean there it is, quite a problem. Lots and lots of money because your father—the real one, Imean—left it all to you. And that will cause complications, and begging letters and all that. Shecould go and live with old Sir Roderick, but that wouldn’t be fun for a girl—he’s pretty deafalready as well as blind—and completely selfish. By the way, what about his missing papers, andthe girl, and Kew Gardens?”
“They turned up where he thought he’d already looked—Sonia found them,” said Norma, andadded, “Uncle Roddy and Sonia are getting married—next week—”
“No fool like an old fool,” said Stillingfleet.
“Aha!” said Poirot. “So the young lady prefers life in England to being embroiled28 in lapolitique. She is perhaps wise, that little one.”
“So that’s that,” said Mrs. Oliver with finality. “But to go on about Norma, one has to bepractical. One’s got to make plans. The girl can’t know what she wants to do all by herself. She’swaiting for someone to tell her.”
She looked at them severely29.
Poirot said nothing. He smiled.
“Oh, her?” said Dr. Stillingfleet. “Well, I’ll tell you, Norma. I’m flying to Australia Tuesdayweek. I want to look around first—see if what’s been fixed30 up for me is going to work, and all that.
Then I’ll cable you and you can join me. Then we get married. You’ll have to take my word for itthat it’s not your money I want. I’m not one of those doctors who want to endow whacking31 greatresearch establishments and all that. I’m just interested in people. I think, too, that you’d be able tomanage me all right. All that about my being rude to people—I hadn’t noticed it myself. It’s odd,really, when you think of all the mess you’ve been in—helpless as a fly in treacle—yet it’s notgoing to be me running you, it’s going to be you running me.”
Norma stood quite still. She looked at John Stillingfleet very carefully, as though she wasconsidering something that she knew from an entirely17 different point of view.
And then she smiled. It was a very nice smile—like a happy young nannie.
“All right,” she said.
She crossed the room to Hercule Poirot.
“I was rude, too,” she said. “The day I came here when you were having breakfast. I said to youthat you were too old to help me. That was a rude thing to say. And it wasn’t true.…”
She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.
“You’d better get us a taxi,” she said to Stillingfleet.
Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and left the room. Mrs. Oliver collected a handbag and a fur stole andNorma slipped on a coat and followed her to the door.
“Madame, un petit moment—”
Mrs. Oliver turned. Poirot had collected from the recesses32 of the sofa a handsome coil of greyhair.
Mrs. Oliver exclaimed vexedly: “It’s just like everything that they make nowadays, no good atall! Hairpins33, I mean. They just slip out, and everything falls off!”
She went out frowning.
A moment or two later she poked34 her head round the door again. She spoke35 in a conspiratorialwhisper:
“Just tell me—it’s all right, I’ve sent her on down—did you send that girl to this particulardoctor on purpose?”
“Of course I did. His qualifications are—”
“Never mind his qualifications. You know what I mean. He and she—Did you?”
“If you must know, yes.”
“I thought so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You do think of things, don’t you.”
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1
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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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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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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27
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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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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whacking
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| adj.（用于强调）巨大的v.重击，使劲打( whack的现在分词 ) | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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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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