For a moment or two I stared at Poirot in dismay, then I reacted.
“No, it won’t,” I said. “You’ll prevent that.”
Poirot threw me an affectionate glance.
“My loyal friend. How much I appreciate your faith in me. Tout2 de même, I am not sure if it isjustified in this case.”
“Nonsense. Of course you can stop it.”
Poirot’s voice was grave as he said: “Reflect a minute, Hastings. One can catch a murderer, yes.
But how does one proceed to stop a murder?”
“Well, you—you—well, I mean—if you know beforehand—”
I paused rather feebly—for suddenly I saw the difficulties.
Poirot said: “You see? It is not so simple. There are, in fact, only three methods. The first is towarn the victim. To put the victim on his or her guard. That does not always succeed, for it isunbelievably difficult to convince some people that they are in grave danger—possibly fromsomeone near and dear to them. They are indignant and refuse to believe. The second course is towarn the murderer. To say, in language that is only slightly veiled, ‘I know your intentions. If so-and-so dies, my friend, you will most surely hang.’ That succeeds more often than the first method,but even there it is likely to fail. For a murderer, my friend, is more conceited3 than any creature onthis earth. A murderer is always more clever than anyone else—no one will ever suspect him orher—the police will be utterly4 baffled, etc. Therefore he (or she) goes ahead just the same, and allyou can have is the satisfaction of hanging them afterwards.” He paused and said thoughtfully:
“Twice in my life I have warned a murderer—once in Egypt, once elsewhere. In each case, thecriminal was determined5 to kill .?.?. It may be so here.”
“You said there was a third method,” I reminded him.
“Ah yes. For that one needs the utmost ingenuity6. You have to guess exactly how and when theblow is timed to fall and you have to be ready to step in at the exact psychological moment. Youhave to catch the murderer, if not quite red- handed, then guilty of the intention beyond anypossible doubt.
“And that, my friend,” went on Poirot, “is, I can assure you, a matter of great difficulty anddelicacy, and I would not for a moment guarantee its success! I may be conceited, but I am not soconceited as that.”
“Which method do you propose to try here?”
“Possibly all three. The first is the most difficult.”
“Why? I should have thought it the easiest.”
“Yes, if you know the intended victim. But do you not realize, Hastings, that here I do not knowthe victim?”
“What?”
I gave vent1 to the exclamation7 without reflecting. Then the difficulties of the position began todraw on me. There was, there must be, some link connecting this series of crimes, but we did notknow what that link was. The motive8, the vitally important motive, was missing. And withoutknowing that, we could not tell who was threatened.
Poirot nodded as he saw by my face that I was realizing the difficulties of the situation.
“You see, my friend, it is not so easy.”
“No,” I said. “I see that. You have so far been able to find no connection between these varyingcases?”
Poirot shook his head. “Nothing.”
I reflected again. In the ABC crimes, we had to deal with what purported9 to be an alphabeticalseries, though in actuality it had turned out to be something very different.
I asked: “There is, you are quite sure, no far-fetched financial motive—nothing, for instance,like you found in the case of Evelyn Carlisle?”
“No. You may be quite sure, my dear Hastings, that financial gain is the first thing for which Ilook.”
That was true enough. Poirot had always been completely cynical10 about money.
I thought again. A vendetta11 of some kind? That was more in accordance with the facts. But eventhere, there seemed a lack of any connecting link. I recalled a story I had read of a series ofpurposeless murders—the clue being that the victims had happened to serve as members of a jury,and the crimes had been committed by a man whom they had condemned12. It struck me thatsomething of that kind would meet this case. I am ashamed to say that I kept the idea to myself. Itwould have been such a feather in my cap if I could go to Poirot with the solution.
Instead I asked: “And now tell me, who is X?”
To my intense annoyance13 Poirot shook his head very decidedly. “That, my friend, I do not tell.”
“Nonsense. Why not?”
Poirot’s eyes twinkled. “Because, mon cher, you are still the same old Hastings. You have stillthe speaking countenance15. I do not wish, you see, that you should sit staring at X with your mouthhanging open, your face saying plainly: ‘This—this that I am looking at—is a murderer.’ ”
“You might give me credit for a little dissimulation16 at need.”
“When you try to dissimulate17, it is worse. No, no, mon ami, we must be very incognito18, you andI. Then, when we pounce19, we pounce.”
“You obstinate20 old devil,” I said. “I’ve a good mind to—”
I broke off as there was a tap on the door. Poirot called, “Come in,” and my daughter Judithentered.
I should like to describe Judith, but I’ve always been a poor hand at descriptions.
Judith is tall, she holds her head high, she has level dark brows, and a very lovely line of cheekand jaw21, severe in its austerity. She is grave and slightly scornful, and to my mind there hasalways hung about her a suggestion of tragedy.
Judith didn’t come and kiss me—she is not that kind. She just smiled at me and said, “Hullo,Father.”
Her smile was shy and a little embarrassed, but it made me feel that in spite of herundemonstrativeness she was pleased to see me.
“Well,” I said, feeling foolish as I so often do with the younger generation, “I’ve got here.”
“Very clever of you, darling,” said Judith.
“I describe to him,” said Poirot, “the cooking.”
“Is it very bad?” asked Judith.
“You should not have to ask that, my child. Is it that you think of nothing but the test tubes andthe microscopes? Your middle finger it is stained with methylene blue. It is not a good thing foryour husband if you take no interest in his stomach.”
“I daresay I shan’t have a husband.”
“Certainly you will have a husband. What did the bon Dieu create you for?”
“Many things, I hope,” said Judith.
“Le mariage first of all.”
“Very well,” said Judith. “You will find me a nice husband and I will look after his stomachvery carefully.”
“She laughs at me,” said Poirot. “Some day she will know how wise old men are.”
There was another tap on the door and Dr. Franklin entered. He was a tall, angular young manof thirty-five, with a decided14 jaw, reddish hair, and bright blue eyes. He was the most ungainlyman I had ever known, and was always knocking into things in an absentminded way.
He cannoned22 into the screen round Poirot’s chair, and half turning his head murmured “I begyour pardon” to it automatically.
I wanted to laugh, but Judith, I noted23, remained quite grave. I suppose she was quite used to thatsort of thing.
“You remember my father,” said Judith.
Dr. Franklin started, shied nervously24, screwed up his eyes and peered at me, then stuck out ahand, saying awkwardly: “Of course, of course, how are you? I heard you were coming down.” Heturned to Judith. “I say, do you think we need change? If not we might go on a bit after dinner. Ifwe got a few more of those slides prepared—”
“No,” said Judith. “I want to talk to my father.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, of course.” Suddenly he smiled, an apologetic, boyish smile. “I am sorry—I getso awfully25 wrapped up in a thing. It’s quite unpardonable—makes me so selfish. Do forgive me.”
The clock struck and Franklin glanced at it hurriedly.
“Good Lord, is it as late as that? I shall get into trouble. Promised Barbara I’d read to her beforedinner.”
He grinned at us both and hurried out, colliding with the door post as he went.
“How is Mrs. Franklin?” I asked.
“The same and rather more so,” said Judith.
“It’s very sad her being such an invalid,” I said.
“It’s maddening for a doctor,” said Judith. “Doctors like healthy people.”
“How hard you young people are!” I exclaimed.
Judith said coldly: “I was just stating a fact.”
“Nevertheless,” said Poirot, “the good doctor hurries to read to her.”
“Very stupid,” said Judith. “That nurse of hers can read to her perfectly26 well if she wants to beread to. Personally I should loathe27 anyone reading aloud to me.”
“Well, well, tastes differ,” I said.
“She’s a very stupid woman,” said Judith.
“Now there, mon enfant,” said Poirot, “I do not agree with you.”
“She never reads anything but the cheapest kind of novel. She takes no interest in his work. Shedoesn’t keep abreast28 of current thought. She just talks about her health to everyone who willlisten.”
“I still maintain, said Poirot, “that she uses her grey cells in ways that you, my child, knownothing about.”
“She’s a very feminine sort of woman,” said Judith. “She coos and purrs. I expect you like ’emlike that, Uncle Hercule.”
“Not at all,” I said. “He likes them large and flamboyant29 and Russian for choice.”
“So that is how you give me away, Hastings? Your father, Judith, has always had a penchant30 forauburn hair. It has landed him in trouble many a time.”
Judith smiled at us both indulgently. She said: “What a funny couple you are.”
She turned away and I rose.
“I must get unpacked31, and I might have a bath before dinner.”
Poirot pressed a little bell within reach of his hand and a minute or two later his valet attendantentered. I was surprised to find that the man was a stranger.
“Why! Where’s George?”
Poirot’s valet George had been with him for many years.
“George has returned to his family. His father is ill. I hope he will come back to me some time.
In the meantime—” he smiled at the new valet—“Curtiss looks after me.”
Curtiss smiled back respectfully. He was a big man with a bovine32, rather stupid, face.
As I went out of the door I noted that Poirot was carefully locking up the despatch33 case with thepapers inside it.
My mind in a whirl I crossed the passage to my own room.
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收听单词发音
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1
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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8
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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9
purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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16
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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18
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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cannoned
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| vi.与…猛撞（cannon的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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31
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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32
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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33
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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