Hercule Poirot looked over the small gate which gave admission to Pine Crest1. It was a modern,perky little house, nicely built. Hercule Poirot was slightly out of breath. The small, neat house infront of him was very suitably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a fewsparse pines. It had a small neat garden and a large elderly man was trundling along a path a bigtin galvanized waterer.
Superintendent2 Spence’s hair was now grey all over instead of having a neat touch of grey hairat the temples. He had not shrunk much in girth. He stopped trundling his can and looked at thevisitor at the gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without moving.
“God bless my soul,” said Superintendent Spence. “It must be. It can’t be but it is. Yes, it mustbe. Hercule Poirot, as I live.”
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot, “you know me. That is gratifying.”
“May your moustaches never grow less,” said Spence.
He abandoned the watering can and came down to the gate.
“Diabolical weeds,” he said. “And what brings you down here?”
“What has brought me to many places in my time,” said Hercule Poirot, “and what once a goodmany years ago brought you to see me. Murder.”
“I’ve done with murder,” said Spence, “except in the case of weeds. That’s what I’m doingnow. Applying weed killer3. Never so easy as you think, something’s always wrong, usually theweather. Mustn’t be too wet, mustn’t be too dry and all the rest of it. How did you know where tofind me?” he asked as he unlatched the gate and Poirot passed through.
“You sent me a Christmas card. It had your new address notified on it.”
“Ah yes, so I did. I’m old-fashioned, you know. I like to send round cards at Christmas time to afew old friends.”
“I appreciate that,” said Poirot.
Spence said, “I’m an old man now.”
“We are both old men.”
“Not much grey in your hair,” said Spence.
“I attend to that with a bottle,” said Hercule Poirot. “There is no need to appear in public withgrey hair unless you wish to do so.”
“Well, I don’t think jet black would suit me,” said Spence.
“I agree,” said Poirot. “You look most distinguished4 with grey hair.”
“I should never think of myself as a distinguished man.”
“I think of you as such. Why have you come to live in Woodleigh Common?”
“As a matter of fact, I came here to join forces with a sister of mine. She lost her husband, herchildren are married and living abroad, one in Australia and the other in South Africa. So I movedin here. Pensions don’t go far nowadays, but we do pretty comfortably living together. Come andsit down.”
He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there were chairs and a table or two.
The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this retreat.
“What shall I get you?” said Spence. “No fancy stuff here, I’m afraid. No blackcurrant or rosehip syrup5 or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth to make you a cup of tea? Or Ican do you a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoadrinker.”
“You are very kind. For me, I think a shandy. The ginger6 beer and the beer? That is right, is itnot?”
“Absolutely so.”
He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying two large glass mugs. “I’mjoining you,” he said.
He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses in front of himself andPoirot.
“What was it you said just now?” he said, raising his glass. “We won’t say ‘Here’s to crime.’
I’ve done with crime, and if you mean the crime I think you do, in fact which I think you have todo, because I don’t recall any other crime just lately. I don’t like the particular form of murderwe’ve just had.”
“No. I do not think you would do so.”
“We are talking about the child who had her head shoved into a bucket?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “that is what I am talking about.”
“I don’t know why you come to me,” said Spence. “I’m nothing to do with the policenowadays. All that’s over many years ago.”
“Once a policeman,” said Hercule Poirot, “always a policeman. That is to say, there is alwaysthe point of view of the policeman behind the point of view of the ordinary man. I know, I whotalk to you. I, too, started in the police force in my country.”
“Yes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one’s outlook is a bitslanted, but it’s a long time since I’ve had any active connection.”
“But you hear the gossip,” said Poirot. “You have friends of your own trade. You will hear whatthey think or suspect or what they know.”
Spence sighed.
“One knows too much,” he said, “that is one of the troubles nowadays. There is a crime, a crimeof which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, prettywell who’s probably done that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries,and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further than that—well, things have theirdifficulties.”
“You mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?”
“Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one’s man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I’dsay, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong ’uns than they ever used toin my time.”
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
“Yes,” he said, “I can see that that might be so. I suspect that girls have always been partial tothe bad lots, as you say, but in the past there were safeguards.”
“That’s right. People were looking after them. Their mothers looked after them. Their aunts andtheir older sisters looked after them. Their younger sisters and brothers knew what was going on.
Their fathers were not averse7 to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, ofcourse, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there’s no need even to dothat. Mother doesn’t know who the girl’s out with, father’s not told who the girl is out with,brothers know who the girl is out with but they think ‘more fool her.’ If the parents refuse consent,the couple go before a magistrate8 and manage to get permission to marry, and then when theyoung man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to prove to everybody, including his wife,that he is a bad lot, the fat’s in the fire! But love’s love; the girl doesn’t want to think that herHenry has these revolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She’ll lie for him,swear black’s white for him and everything else. Yes, it’s difficult. Difficult for us, I mean. Well,there’s no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so.
Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn’t your part of the country,is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.”
“I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs. Oliver. Youremember Mrs. Oliver?”
Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect.
“Mrs. Oliver? Can’t say that I do.”
“She writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during thetime that you persuaded me to investigate the murder of Mrs. McGinty. You will not haveforgotten Mrs. McGinty?”
“Good lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a very goodturn. I went to you for help and you didn’t let me down.”
“I was honoured—flattered—that you should come to consult me,” said Poirot. “I must say thatI despaired once or twice. The man we had to save—to save his neck in those days I believe, it islong ago enough for that—was a man who was excessively difficult to do anything for. The kindof standard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.”
“Married that girl, didn’t he? The wet one. Not the bright one with the peroxide hair. Wonderhow they got on together. Have you ever heard about it?”
“No,” said Poirot. “I presume all goes well with them.”
“Can’t see what she saw in him.”
“It is difficult,” said Poirot, “but it is one of the great consolations9 in nature that a man, howeverunattractive, will find that he is attractive—to some woman. One can only say or hope that theymarried and lived happily ever afterwards.”
“Shouldn’t think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to have Mother to live withthem.”
“No, indeed,” said Poirot. “Or Stepfather,” he added.
“Well,” said Spence, “here we are talking of old days again. All that’s over. I always thoughtthat man, can’t remember his name now, ought to have run an undertaking10 parlour. Had just theface and manner for it. Perhaps he did. The girl had some money, didn’t she? Yes, he’d have madea very good undertaker. I can see him, all in black, calling for orders for the funeral. Perhaps hecan even have been enthusiastic over the right kind of elm or teak or whatever they use for coffins11.
But he’d never have made good selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don’t let’s harp12 back.”
Then he said suddenly, “Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she’s got herself mixedup in this? That poor child got her head shoved under water in a bucket of floating apples, didn’tshe, at a party? Is that what interested Mrs. Oliver?”
“I don’t think she was particularly attracted because of the apples,” said Poirot, “but she was atthe party.”
“Do you say she lived here?”
“No, she does not live here. She was staying with a friend, a Mrs. Butler.”
“Butler? Yes, I know her. Lives down not far from the church. Widow. Husband was an airlinepilot. Has a daughter. Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners. Mrs. Butler’s rather an attractivewoman, don’t you think so?”
“I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive.”
“And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren’t here when it happened?”
“No. Mrs. Oliver came to me in London. She was upset, very upset. She wanted me to dosomething.”
A faint smile showed on Superintendent Spence’s face.
“I see. Same old story. I came up to you, too, because I wanted you to do something.”
“And I have carried things one step further,” said Poirot. “I have come to you.”
“Because you want me to do something? I tell you, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Oh yes there is. You can tell me all about the people. The people who live here. The peoplewho went to that party. The fathers and mothers of the children who were at the party. The school,the teachers, the lawyers, the doctors. Somebody, during a party, induced a child to kneel down,and perhaps, laughing, saying: ‘I’ll show you the best way to get hold of an apple with your teeth.
I know the trick of it.’ And then he or she—whoever it was—put a hand on that girl’s head. Therewouldn’t have been much struggle or noise or anything of that kind.”
“A nasty business,” said Spence. “I thought so when I heard about it. What do you want toknow? I’ve been here a year. My sister’s been here longer—two or three years. It’s not a bigcommunity. It’s not a particularly settled one either. People come and go. The husband has a job ineither Medchester or Great Canning, or one of the other places round about. Their children go toschool here. Then perhaps the husband changes his job and they go somewhere else. It’s not afixed community. Some of the people have been here a long time, Miss Emlyn, the schoolmistress,has, Dr. Ferguson has. But on the whole, it fluctuates a bit.”
“One supposes,” said Hercule Poirot, “that having agreed with you that this was a nastybusiness, I might hope that you would know who are the nasty people here.”
“Yes,” said Spence. “It’s the first thing one looks for, isn’t it? And the next thing one looks foris a nasty adolescent in a thing of this kind. Who wants to strangle or drown or get rid of a lump ofa girl of thirteen? There doesn’t seem to have been any evidence of a sexual assault or anything ofthat kind, which would be the first thing one looks for. Plenty of that sort of thing in every smalltown or village nowadays. There again, I think there’s more of it than there used to be in myyoung day. We had our mentally disturbed, or whatever they call them, but not so many as wehave now. I expect there are more of them let out of the place they ought to be kept safe in. All ourmental homes are too full; overcrowded, so doctors say ‘Let him or her lead a normal life. Go backand live with his relatives,’ etc. And then the nasty bit of goods, or the poor afflicted13 fellow,whichever way you like to look at it, gets the urge again and another young woman goes outwalking and is found in a gravel14 pit, or is silly enough to take lifts in a car. Children don’t comehome from school because they’ve accepted a lift from a stranger, although they’ve been warnednot to. Yes, there’s a lot of that nowadays.”
“Does that quite fit the pattern we have here?”
“Well, it’s the first thing one thinks of,” said Spence. “Somebody was at the party who had theurge, shall we say. Perhaps he’d done it before, perhaps he’d only wanted to do it. I’d say roughlythat there might be some past history of assaulting a child somewhere. As far as I know, nobody’scome up with anything of that kind. Not officially, I mean. There were two in the right age groupat the party. Nicholas Ransom15, nice looking lad, seventeen or eighteen. He’d be the right age.
Comes from the East Coast or somewhere like that, I think. Seems all right. Looks normal enough,but who knows? And there’s Desmond, remanded once for a psychiatric report, but I wouldn’t saythere was much to it. It’s got to be someone at the party, though of course I suppose anyone couldhave come in from outside. A house isn’t usually locked up during a party. There’s a side dooropen, or a side window. One of our half-baked people, I suppose could have come along to seewhat was on and sneaked16 in. A pretty big risk to take. Would a child agree, a child who’d gone toa party, to go playing apple games with anyone she didn’t know? Anyway, you haven’t explainedyet, Poirot, what brings you into it. You said it was Mrs. Oliver. Some wild idea of hers?”
“Not exactly a wild idea,” said Poirot. “It is true that writers are prone17 to wild ideas. Ideas,perhaps, which are on the far side of probability. But this was simply something that she heard thegirl say.”
“What, the child Joyce?”
“Yes.”
Spence leant forward and looked at Poirot inquiringly.
“I will tell you,” said Poirot.
Quietly and succinctly18 he recounted the story as Mrs. Oliver had told it to him.
“I see,” said Spence. He rubbed his moustache. “The girl said that, did she? Said she’d seen amurder committed. Did she say when or how?”
“No,” said Poirot.
“What led up to it?”
“Some remark, I think, about the murders in Mrs. Oliver’s books. Somebody said somethingabout it to Mrs. Oliver. One of the children, I think, to the effect that there wasn’t enough blood inher books or enough bodies. And then Joyce spoke19 up and said she’d seen a murder once.”
“Boasted of it? That’s the impression you’re giving me.”
“That’s the impression Mrs. Oliver got. Yes, she boasted of it.”
“It mightn’t have been true.”
“No, it might not have been true at all,” said Poirot.
“Children often make these extravagant20 statements when they wish to call attention tothemselves or to make an effect. On the other hand, it might have been true. Is that what youthink?”
“I do not know,” said Poirot. “A child boasts of having witnessed a murder. Only a few hourslater, that child is dead. You must admit that there are grounds for believing that it might—it’s afar-fetched idea perhaps—but it might have been cause and effect. If so, somebody lost no time.”
“Definitely,” said Spence. “How many were present at the time the girl made her statement remurder, do you know exactly?”
“All that Mrs. Oliver said was that she thought there were about fourteen or fifteen people,perhaps more. Five or six children, five or six grown-ups who were running the show. But forexact information I must rely on you.”
“Well, that will be easy enough,” said Spence. “I don’t say I know offhand21 at the moment, butit’s easily obtained from the locals. As to the party itself, I know pretty well already. Apreponderance of women, on the whole. Fathers don’t turn up much at children’s parties. But theylook in, sometimes, or come to take their children home. Dr. Ferguson was there, the vicar wasthere. Otherwise, mothers, aunts, social workers, two teachers from the school. Oh, I can give youa list—and roughly about fourteen children. The youngest not more than ten—running on intoteenagers.”
“And I suppose you would know the list of probables amongst them?” said Poirot.
“Well, it won’t be so easy now if what you think is true.”
“You mean you are no longer looking for a sexually disturbed personality. You are lookinginstead for somebody who has committed a murder and got away with it, someone who neverexpected it to be found out and who suddenly got a nasty shock.”
“Blest if I can think who it could have been, all the same,” said Spence. “I shouldn’t have saidwe had any likely murderers round here. And certainly nothing spectacular in the way ofmurders.”
“One can have likely murderers anywhere,” said Poirot, “or shall I say unlikely murderers, butnevertheless murderers. Because unlikely murderers are not so prone to be suspected. There isprobably not very much evidence against them, and it would be a rude shock to such a murderer tofind that there had actually been an eyewitness22 to his or her crime.”
“Why didn’t Joyce say anything at the time? That’s what I’d like to know. Was she bribed23 tosilence by someone, do you think? Too risky24 surely.”
“No,” said Poirot. “I gather from what Mrs. Oliver mentioned that she didn’t recognize that itwas a murder she was looking at at the time.”
“Oh, surely that’s most unlikely,” said Spence.
“Not necessarily,” said Poirot. “A child of thirteen was speaking. She was rememberingsomething she’d seen in the past. We don’t know exactly when. It might have been three or evenfour years previously25. She saw something but she didn’t realize its true significance. That mightapply to a lot of things you know, mon cher. Some rather peculiar26 car accident. A car where itappeared that the driver drove straight at the person who was injured or perhaps killed. A childmight not realize it was deliberate at the time. But something someone said, or something she sawor heard a year or two later might awaken27 her memory and she’d think perhaps: ‘A or B or X did iton purpose.’ ‘Perhaps it was really a murder, not just an accident.’ And there are plenty of otherpossibilities. Some of them I will admit suggested by my friend, Mrs. Oliver, who can easily comeup with about twelve different solutions to everything, most of them not very probable but all ofthem faintly possible. Tablets added to a cup of tea administered to someone. Roughly that sort ofthing. A push perhaps on a dangerous spot. You have no cliffs here, which is rather a pity from thepoint of view of likely theories. Yes, I think there could be plenty of possibilities. Perhaps it issome murder story that the girl reads which recalls to her an incident. It may have been an incidentthat puzzled her at the time, and she might, when she reads the story, say: ‘Well, that might havebeen so-and-so and so-and-so. I wonder if he or she did it on purpose?’ Yes, there are a lot ofpossibilities.”
“And you have come here to inquire into them?”
“It would be in the public interest, I think, don’t you?” said Poirot.
“Ah, we’re to be public spirited, are we, you and I?”
“You can at least give me information,” said Poirot. “You know the people here.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Spence. “And I’ll rope in Elspeth. There’s not much about people shedoesn’t know.”
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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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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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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bribed
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risky
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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