Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation1 wrought2 by age.
My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to you the difference.
Crippled with arthritis3, he propelled himself about in a wheeled chair. His once plump frame hadfallen in. He was a thin little man now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair,it is true, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly4, though I would not for the world have hurthis feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake. There comes a moment when hair dye is onlytoo painfully obvious. There had been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blacknessof Poirot’s hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality5 was apparent and merely created theimpression that he wore a wig6 and had adorned7 his upper lip to amuse the children!
Only his eyes were the same as ever, shrewd and twinkling, and now—yes, undoubtedly—softened with emotion.
“Ah, mon ami Hastings—mon ami Hastings. .?.?.”
I bent8 my head and, as was his custom, he embraced me warmly.
“Mon ami Hastings!”
He leaned back, surveying me with his head a little to one side.
“Yes, just the same—the straight back, the broad shoulders, the grey of the hair—très distingué.
You know, my friend, you have worn well. Les femmes, they still take an interest in you? Yes?”
“Really, Poirot,” I protested. “Must you—”
“But I assure you, my friend, it is a test—it is the test. When the very young girls come and talkto you kindly9, oh so kindly—it is the end! ‘The poor old man,’ they say, ‘we must be nice to him.
It must be so awful to be like that.’ But you, Hastings—vous êtes encore jeune. For you there arestill possibilities. That is right, twist your moustache, hunch10 your shoulders—I see it is as I say—you would not look so self-conscious otherwise.”
I burst out laughing. “You really are the limit, Poirot. And how are you yourself?”
“Me,” said Poirot with a grimace11. “I am a wreck12. I am a ruin. I cannot walk. I am crippled andtwisted. Mercifully I can still feed myself, but otherwise I have to be attended to like a baby. Put tobed, washed and dressed. Enfin, it is not amusing that. Mercifully, though the outside decays, thecore is still sound.”
“Yes, indeed. The best heart in the world.”
“The heart? Perhaps. I was not referring to the heart. The brain, mon cher, is what I mean by thecore. My brain, it still functions magnificently.”
I could at least perceive clearly that no deterioration13 of the brain in the direction of modesty14 hadtaken place.
“And you like it here?” I asked.
Poirot shrugged15 his shoulders. “It suffices. It is not, you comprehend, the Ritz. No, indeed. Theroom I was in when I first came here was both small and inadequately16 furnished. I moved to thisone with no increase of price. Then, the cooking, it is English at its worst. Those Brussels sproutsso enormous, so hard, that the English like so much. The potatoes boiled and either hard or fallingto pieces. The vegetables that taste of water, water, and again water. The complete absence of thesalt and pepper in any dish—” he paused expressively17.
“It sounds terrible,” I said.
“I do not complain,” said Poirot, and proceeded to do so. “And there is also the modernization,so called. The bathrooms, the taps everywhere and what comes out of them? Lukewarm water,mon ami, at most hours of the day. And the towels, so thin, so meagre!”
“There is something to be said for the old days,” I said thoughtfully. I remembered the clouds ofsteam which had gushed18 from the hot tap of the one bathroom Styles had originally possessed19, oneof those bathrooms in which an immense bath with mahogany sides had reposed20 proudly in themiddle of the bathroom floor. Remembered, too, the immense bath towels, and the frequentshining brass21 cans of boiling hot water that stood in one’s old-fashioned basin.
“But one must not complain,” said Poirot again. “I am content to suffer—for a good cause.”
A sudden thought struck me.
“I say, Poirot, you’re not—er—hard up, are you? I know the war hit investments very badly—”
Poirot reassured22 me quickly.
“No, no, my friend. I am in most comfortable circumstances. Indeed, I am rich. It is not theeconomy that brings me here.”
“Then that’s all right,” I said. I went on: “I think I can understand your feeling. As one gets on,one tends more and more to revert23 to the old days. One tries to recapture old emotions. I find itpainful to be here, in a way, and yet it brings back to me a hundred old thoughts and emotions thatI’d quite forgotten I ever felt. I daresay you feel the same.”
“Not in the least. I do not feel like that at all.”
“They were good days,” I said sadly.
“You may speak for yourself, Hastings. For me, my arrival at Styles St. Mary was a sad andpainful time. I was a refugee, wounded, exiled from home and country, existing by charity in aforeign land. No, it was not gay. I did not know then that England would come to be my home andthat I should find happiness here.”
“I had forgotten that,” I admitted.
“Precisely. You attribute always to others the sentiments that you yourself experience. Hastingswas happy—everybody was happy!”
“No, no,” I protested, laughing.
“And in any case it is not true,” continued Poirot. “You look back, you say, the tears rising inyour eyes, ‘Oh, the happy days. Then I was young.’ But indeed, my friend, you were not so happyas you think. You had recently been severely24 wounded, you were fretting25 at being no longer fit foractive service, you had just been depressed26 beyond words by your sojourn27 in a drearyconvalescent home and, as far as I remember, you proceeded to complicate28 matters by falling inlove with two women at the same time.”
I laughed and flushed.
“What a memory you have, Poirot.”
“Ta ta ta—I remember now the melancholy29 sigh you heaved as you murmured fatuities30 abouttwo lovely women.”
“Do you remember what you said? You said, ‘And neither of them for you! But courage, monami. We may hunt together again and then perhaps—’ ”
I stopped. For Poirot and I had gone hunting again to France and it was there that I had met theone woman. .?.?.
Gently my friend patted my arm.
“I know, Hastings, I know. The wound is still fresh. But do not dwell on it, do not look back.
Instead look forward.”
I made a gesture of disgust.
“Look forward? What is there to look forward to?”
“Eh bien, my friend, there is work to be done.”
“Work? Where?”
“Here.”
I stared at him.
“Just now,” said Poirot, “you asked me why I had come here. You may not have observed that Igave you no answer. I will give the answer now. I am here to hunt down a murderer.”
I stared at him with even more astonishment31. For a moment I thought he was rambling32.
“You really mean that?”
“But certainly I mean it. For what other reason did I urge you to join me? My limbs, they are nolonger active, but my brain, as I told you, is unimpaired. My rule, remember, has been always thesame—sit back and think. That I still can do—in fact it is the only thing possible for me. For themore active side of the campaign I shall have with me my invaluable33 Hastings.”
“You really mean it?” I gasped34.
“Of course I mean it. You and I, Hastings, are going hunting once again.”
It took some minutes to grasp that Poirot was really in earnest.
Fantastic though his statement sounded, I had no reason to doubt his judgement.
With a slight smile he said, “At last you are convinced. At first you imagined, did you not, that Ihad the softening35 of the brain?”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “Only this seems such an unlikely place.”
“Ah, you think so?”
“Of course I haven’t seen all the people yet—”
“Whom have you seen?”
“Just the Luttrells, and a man called Norton, seems an inoffensive chap, and Boyd Carrington—I must say I took the greatest fancy to him.”
Poirot nodded. “Well, Hastings, I will tell you this, when you have seen the rest of thehousehold, my statement will seem to you just as improbable as it is now.”
“Who else is there?”
“The Franklins — Doctor and Mrs., the hospital nurse who attends to Mrs. Franklin, yourdaughter Judith. Then there is a man called Allerton, something of a lady-killer, and a Miss Cole, awoman in her thirties. They are all, let me tell you, very nice people.”
“And one of them is a murderer?”
“And one of them is a murderer.”
“But why—how—why should you think—?”
I found it hard to frame my questions, they tumbled over each other.
“Calm yourself, Hastings. Let us begin from the beginning. Reach me, I pray you, that smallbox from the bureau. Bien. And now the key—so—”
Unlocking the despatch36 case, he took from it a mass of typescript and newspaper clippings.
“You can study these at your leisure, Hastings. For the moment I should not bother with thenewspaper cuttings. They are merely the press accounts of various tragedies, occasionallyinaccurate, sometimes suggestive. To give you an idea of the cases I suggest that you should readthrough the précis I have made.”
Deeply interested, I started reading.
CASE A. ETHERINGTON
Leonard Etherington. Unpleasant habits—took drugs and also drank. A peculiarand sadistic37 character. Wife young and attractive. Desperately38 unhappy with him.
Etherington died, apparently39 of food poisoning. Doctor not satisfied. As a resultof autopsy40, death discovered to be due to arsenical poisoning. Supply of weedkiller in the house, but ordered a long time previously41. Mrs. Etherington arrestedand charged with murder. She had recently been friends with a man in CivilService returning to India. No suggestion of actual infidelity, but evidence of deepsympathy between them. Young man had since become engaged to be married togirl he met on voyage out. Some doubt as to whether letter telling Mrs.
Etherington of this fact was received by her after or before her husband’s death.
She herself says before. Evidence against her mainly circumstantial, absence ofanother likely suspect and accident highly unlikely. Great sympathy felt with herat trial owing to husband’s character and the bad treatment she had receivedfrom him. Judge’s summing up was in her favour stressing that verdict must bebeyond any reasonable doubt.
Mrs. Etherington was acquitted42. General opinion, however, was that she wasguilty. Her life afterwards very difficult owing to friends, etc., cold-shoulderingher. She died as a result of taking an overdose of sleeping draught43 two years afterthe trial. Verdict of accidental death returned at inquest.
CASE B. MISS SHARPLES
Elderly spinster. An invalid44. Difficult, suffering much pain. She was looked afterby her niece, Freda Clay. Miss Sharples died as a result of an overdose ofmorphia. Freda Clay admitted an error, saying that her aunt’s sufferings were sobad that she could not stand it and gave her more morphia to ease the pain.
Opinion of police that act was deliberate, not a mistake, but they consideredevidence insufficient45 on which to prosecute46.
CASE C. EDWARD RIGGS
Agricultural labourer. Suspected his wife of infidelity with their lodger47, BenCraig. Craig and Mrs. Riggs found shot. Shots proved to be from Riggs’s gun.
Riggs gave himself up to the police, said he supposed he must have done it, butcouldn’t remember. His mind went blank, he said. Riggs sentenced to death,sentence afterwards commuted48 to penal49 servitude for life.
CASE D. DEREK BRADLEY
Was carrying on an intrigue50 with a girl. His wife discovered this, she threatenedto kill him. Bradley died of potassium cyanide administered in his beer. Mrs.
Bradley arrested and tried for murder. Broke down under cross-examination.
Convicted and hanged.
CASE E. MATTHEW LITCHFIELD
Elderly tyrant51. Four daughters at home, not allowed any pleasures or money tospend. One evening on returning home, he was attacked outside his side door andkilled by a blow on the head. Later, after police investigation52, his eldest53 daughter,Margaret, walked into the police station and gave herself up for her father’smurder. She did it, she said, in order that her younger sisters might be able tohave a life of their own before it was too late. Litchfield left a large fortune.
Margaret Litchfield was adjudged insane and committed to Broadmoor, but diedshortly afterwards.
I read carefully, but with a growing bewilderment. Finally I put the paper down and lookedenquiringly at Poirot.
“Well, mon ami?”
“I remember the Bradley case,” I said slowly, “I read about it at the time. She was a very good-looking woman.”
Poirot nodded.
“But you must enlighten me. What is all this about?”
“Tell me first what it amounts to in your eyes.”
I was rather puzzled.
“What you gave me was an account of five different murders. They all occurred in differentplaces and amongst different classes of people. Moreover there seems no superficial resemblancebetween them. That is to say, one was a case of jealousy54, one was an unhappy wife seeking to getrid of her husband, another had money for a motive55, another was, you might say, unselfish in aimsince the murderer did not try to escape punishment, and the fifth was frankly56 brutal57, probablycommitted under the influence of drink.” I paused and said doubtfully: “Is there something incommon between them all that I have missed?”
“No, no, you have been very accurate in your summing up. The only point that you might havementioned, but did not, was the fact that in none of those cases did any real doubt exist.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Mrs. Etherington, for instance, was acquitted. But everybody, nevertheless, was quite certainthat she did it. Freda Clay was not openly accused, but no one thought of any alternative solutionto the crime. Riggs stated that he did not remember killing58 his wife and her lover, but there wasnever any question of anybody else having done so. Margaret Litchfield confessed. In each case,you see, Hastings, there was one clear suspect and no other.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Yes, that is true—but I don’t see what particular inferences you drawfrom that.”
“Ah, but you see, I am coming to a fact that you do not know as yet. Supposing, Hastings, thatin each of these cases that I have outlined, there was one alien note common to them all?”
“What do you mean?”
Poirot said slowly: “I intend, Hastings, to be very careful in what I say. Let me put it this way.
There is a certain person—X. In none of these cases did X (apparently) have any motive in doingaway with the victim. In one case, as far as I have been able to find out, X was actually twohundred miles away when the crime was committed. Nevertheless I will tell you this. X was onintimate terms with Etherington, X lived for a time in the same village as Riggs, X was acquaintedwith Mrs. Bradley. I have a snap of X and Freda Clay walking together in the street, and X wasnear the house when old Matthew Litchfield died. What do you say to that?”
I stared at him. I said slowly: “Yes, it’s a bit too much. Coincidence might account for twocases, or even three, but five is a bit too thick. There must, unlikely as it seems, be someconnection between these different murders.”
“You assume, then, what I have assumed?”
“That X is the murderer? Yes.”
“In that case, Hastings, you will be willing to go with me one step farther. Let me tell you this.
X is in this house.”
“Here? At Styles?”
“At Styles. What is the logical inference to be drawn59 from that?”
I knew what was coming as I said: “Go on—say it.”
Hercule Poirot said gravely: “A murder will shortly be committed here—here.”
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1
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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arthritis
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| n.关节炎 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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theatricality
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| n.戏剧风格，不自然 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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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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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fatuities
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| n.愚昧，昏庸( fatuity的名词复数 )；愚蠢的言行 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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sadistic
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| adj.虐待狂的 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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autopsy
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| n.尸体解剖；尸检 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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43
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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48
commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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50
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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51
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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55
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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58
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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59
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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