II opened the subject with Poirot the following morning. His face lighted up and he wagged hishead appreciatively.
“Excellent, Hastings. I wondered if you would see the similarity. I did not want to prompt you,you understand.”
“Then I am right. This is another X case?”
“Undeniably.”
“But why, Poirot? What is the motive1?”
Poirot shook his head.
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you any idea?”
Poirot said slowly: “I have an idea, yes.”
“You’ve got the connection between all these different cases?”
“I think so.”
“Well then.”
I could hardly restrain my impatience2.
“No, Hastings.”
“But I’ve got to know.”
“It is much better that you should not.”
“Why?”
“You must take it from me that it is so.”
“You are incorrigible,” I said. “Twisted up with arthritis3. Sitting here helpless. And still tryingto play a lone4 hand.”
“Do not figure to yourself that I am playing a lone hand. Not at all. You are, on the contrary,very much in the picture, Hastings. You are my eyes and ears. I only refuse to give youinformation that might be dangerous.”
“To me?”
“To the murderer.”
“You want him,” I said slowly, “not to suspect that you are on his track? That is it, I suppose.
Or else you think that I cannot take care of myself.”
“You should at least know one thing, Hastings. A man who has killed once will kill again—andagain and again and again.”
“At any rate,” I said grimly, “there hasn’t been another murder this time. One bullet at least hasgone wide.”
“Yes, that was very fortunate—very fortunate indeed. As I told you, these things are difficult toforesee.”
He sighed. His face took on a worried expression.
I went away quietly, realizing sadly how unfit Poirot was now for any sustained effort. His brainwas still keen, but he was a sick and tired man.
Poirot had warned me not to try and penetrate5 the personality of X. In my own mind I still clungto my belief that I had penetrated6 that personality. There was only one person at Styles who struckme as definitely evil. By a simple question, however, I could make sure of one thing. The testwould be a negative one, but would nevertheless have a certain value.
I tackled Judith after breakfast.
“Where had you been yesterday evening when I met you, you and Major Allerton?”
The trouble is that when you are intent on one aspect of a thing, you tend to ignore all otheraspects. I was quite startled when Judith flared7 out at me.
“Really, Father, I don’t see what business it is of yours.”
I stared at her, rather taken aback. “I—I only asked.”
“Yes, but why? Why do you have to be continually asking questions? What was I doing? Wheredid I go? Who was I with? It’s really intolerable!”
The funny part of it was, of course, that this time I was not really asking at all where Judith was.
It was Allerton I was interested in.
I tried to pacify8 her.
“Really, Judith, I don’t see why I can’t ask a simple question.”
“I don’t see why you want to know.”
“I don’t particularly. I mean, I just wondered why neither of you—er—seemed to know whathad happened.”
“About the accident, do you mean? I’d been down to the village, if you must know, to get somestamps.”
I pounced9 on the personal pronoun.
“Allerton wasn’t with you then?”
Judith gave an exasperated10 gasp11.
“No, he was not,” she said in tones of cold fury. “Actually, we’d met just near the house andonly about two minutes before we met you. I hope you’re satisfied now. But I’d just like to saythat if I’d spent the whole day walking around with Major Allerton, it’s really not your business.
I’m twenty- one and earning my own living, and how I spend my time is entirely12 my ownbusiness.”
“Entirely,” I said, quickly trying to stem the tide.
“I’m glad you agree.” Judith looked mollified. She gave a rueful half smile. “Oh, dearest, do tryand not come the heavy father quite so much. You don’t know how maddening it is. If you justwouldn’t fuss so.”
“I won’t—I really won’t in future,” I promised her.
Franklin came striding along at this minute.
“Hullo, Judith. Come along. We’re later than usual.”
His manner was curt13 and really hardly polite. In spite of myself I felt annoyed. I knew thatFranklin was Judith’s employer, that he had a call upon her time and that, since he paid for it, hewas entitled to give her orders. Nevertheless, I did not see why he could not behave with commoncourtesy. His manners were not what one would call polished to anyone, but he did at least behaveto most people with a certain amount of everyday politeness. But to Judith, especially of late, hismanner was always curt and dictatorial14 in the extreme. He hardly looked at her when he spoke15 andmerely barked out orders. Judith never appeared to resent this, but I did on her behalf. It crossedmy mind that it was especially unfortunate since it contrasted in such a very marked way withAllerton’s exaggerated attention. No doubt John Franklin was a ten times better man than Allerton,but he compared very badly with him from the point of view of attraction.
I watched Franklin as he strode along the path towards the laboratory, his ungainly walk, hisangular build, the jutting16 bones of his face and head, his red hair and his freckles17. An ugly manand an ungainly man. None of the more obvious qualities. A good brain, yes, but women seldomfall for brains alone. I reflected with dismay that Judith, owing to the circumstances of her job,practically never came into contact with other men. She had no opportunity of sizing up variousattractive men. Compared with the gruff and unattractive Franklin, Allerton’s meretricious18 charmsstood out with all the force of contrast. My poor girl had no chance of appraising19 him at his trueworth.
Supposing that she should come seriously to lose her heart to him? The irritability20 she hadshown just now was a disquieting21 sign. Allerton, I knew, was a real bad lot. He was possiblysomething more. If Allerton were X—?
He could be. At the time that the shot was fired he had not been with Judith.
But what was the motive of all these seemingly purposeless crimes? There was, I felt sure,nothing of the madman about Allerton. He was sane—altogether sane—and utterly22 unprincipled.
And Judith—my Judith—was seeing altogether too much of him.
II
Up to this time, though I had been faintly worried about my daughter, my preoccupation over Xand the possibility of a crime occurring at any moment had successfully driven more personalproblems to the back of my mind.
Now that the blow had fallen, that a crime had been attempted and had mercifully failed, I wasfree to reflect on these things. And the more I did so, the more anxious I became. A chance wordspoken one day revealed to me the fact that Allerton was a married man.
Boyd Carrington, who knew all about everyone, enlightened me further. Allerton’s wife was adevout Roman Catholic. She had left him a short time after their marriage. Owing to her religionthere had never been any question of divorce.
“And if you ask me,” said Boyd Carrington frankly23, “it suits the blighter down to the ground.
His intentions are always dishonourable, and a wife in the background suits the book very well.”
Pleasant hearing for a father!
The days after the shooting accident passed uneventfully enough on the surface, but theyaccompanied a growing undercurrent of unrest on my part.
Colonel Luttrell spent much time in his wife’s bedroom. A nurse had arrived to take charge ofthe patient and Nurse Craven was able to resume her ministrations to Mrs. Franklin.
Without wishing to be ill-natured, I must admit that I had observed signs on Mrs. Franklin’s partof irritation24 at not being the invalid25 en chef. The fuss and attention that centred round Mrs. Luttrellwas clearly very displeasing26 to the little lady who was accustomed to her own health being themain topic of the day.
She lay about in a hammock chair, her hand to her side, complaining of palpitation. No foodthat was served was suitable for her, and all her exactions were masked by a veneer27 of patientendurance.
“I do so hate making a fuss,” she murmured plaintively28 to Poirot. “I feel so ashamed of mywretched health. It’s so—so humiliating always to have to ask people to be doing things for me. Isometimes think ill health is really a crime. If one isn’t healthy and insensitive one isn’t fit for thisworld and one should just be put quietly away.”
“Ah no, madame.” Poirot, as always, was gallant29. “The delicate exotic flower has to have theshelter of the greenhouse—it cannot endure the cold winds. It is the common weed that thrives inthe wintry air, but it is not to be prized higher on that account. Consider my case—cramped,twisted, unable to move, but I—I do not think of quitting life. I enjoy still what I can—the food,the drink, the pleasures of the intellect.”
Mrs. Franklin sighed and murmured: “Ah, but it’s different for you. You have no one butyourself to consider. In my case, there is my poor John. I feel acutely what a burden I am to him.
A sickly useless wife. A millstone hung round his neck.”
“He has never said that you are that, I am sure.”
“Oh, not said so. Of course not. But men are so transparent30, poor dears. And John isn’t anygood at concealing31 his feelings. He doesn’t mean, of course, to be unkind, but he’s — well,mercifully for himself he’s a very insensitive sort of person. He’s no feelings and so he doesn’texpect anyone else to have them. It’s so terribly lucky to be born thick-skinned.”
“I should not describe Dr. Franklin as thick-skinned.”
“Wouldn’t you? Oh, but you don’t know him as well as I do. Of course I know that if it wasn’tfor me, he would be much freer. Sometimes, you know, I get so terribly depressed32 that I thinkwhat a relief it would be to end it all.”
“Oh, come, madame.”
“After all, what use am I to anybody? To go out of it all into the Great Unknown .?.?.” she shookher head. “And then John would be free.”
“Great fiddlesticks,” said Nurse Craven when I repeated this conversation to her. “She won’t doanything of the kind. Don’t you worry, Captain Hastings. These ones that talk about ‘ending it all’
in a dying-duck voice haven’t the faintest intention of doing anything of the kind.”
And I must say that once the excitement aroused by Mrs. Luttrell’s injury had died down, andNurse Craven was once more in attendance, Mrs. Franklin’s spirits improved very much.
On a particularly fine morning Curtiss had taken Poirot down to the corner below the beechtrees near the laboratory. This was a favourite spot of his. It was sheltered from any east wind andin fact hardly any breeze could ever be felt there. This suited Poirot, who abhorred33 draughts34 andwas always suspicious of the fresh air. Actually, I think he much preferred to be indoors but hadgrown to tolerate the outer air when muffled35 in rugs.
I strolled down to join him and as I got there Mrs. Franklin came out of the laboratory.
She was most becomingly dressed and looked remarkably36 cheerful. She explained that she wasdriving over with Boyd Carrington to see the house and give expert advice in choosing cretonnes.
“I left my handbag in the lab yesterday when I was talking to John,” she explained. “Poor John,he and Judith have driven into Tadcaster—they were short of some chemical reagent or other.”
She sank down on a seat near Poirot and shook her head with a comical expression. “Poor dears—I’m so glad I haven’t got the scientific mind. On a lovely day like this it all seems so puerile37.”
“You must not let scientists hear you say that, madame.”
“No, of course not.” Her face changed. It grew serious. She said quietly: “You mustn’t think,M. Poirot, that I don’t admire my husband. I do. I think the way he just lives for his work is really—tremendous.”
There was a little tremor38 in her voice.
A suspicion crossed my mind that Mrs. Franklin rather liked playing different roles. At thismoment she was being the loyal and hero-worshipping wife.
She leaned forward, placing an earnest hand on Poirot’s knee. “John,” she said, “is really a—akind of saint. It makes me quite frightened sometimes.”
To call Franklin a saint was somewhat overstating the case, I thought, but Barbara Franklinwent on, her eyes shining.
“He’ll do anything—take any risk—just to advance the sum of human knowledge. That is prettyfine, don’t you think?”
“Assuredly, assuredly,” said Poirot quickly.
“But sometimes, you know,” went on Mrs. Franklin, “I’m really nervous about him. The lengthsto which he’ll go, I mean. This horrible bean thing he’s experimenting with now. I’m so afraidhe’ll start experimenting on himself.”
“He’d take every precaution, surely,” I said.
She shook her head with a slight, rueful smile. “You don’t know John. Did you never hearabout what he did with that new gas?”
I shook my head.
“It was some new gas they wanted to find out about. John volunteered to test it. He was shut upin a tank for something like thirty-six hours, taking his pulse and temperature and respiration39, tosee what the aftereffects were and if they were the same for men as for animals. It was a frightfulrisk, so one of the professors told me afterwards. He might easily have passed out altogether. Butthat’s the sort of person John is — absolutely oblivious40 of his own safety. I think it’s ratherwonderful, don’t you, to be like that? I should never be brave enough.”
“It needs, indeed, high courage,” said Poirot, “to do these things in cold blood.”
Barbara Franklin said: “Yes, it does. I’m awfully41 proud of him, you know, but at the same timeit makes me rather nervous, too. Because, you see, guinea pigs and frogs are no good after acertain point. You want the human reaction. That’s why I feel so terrified that John will go anddose himself with this nasty ordeal42 bean and that something awful might happen.” She sighed andshook her head. “But he only laughs at my fears. He really is a sort of saint, you know.”
At this moment Boyd Carrington came towards us.
“Hullo, Babs, ready?”
“Yes, Bill, waiting for you.”
“I do hope it won’t tire you too much.”
“Of course it won’t. I feel better today than I have for ages.”
She got up, smiled prettily43 at us both, and walked up the lawn with her tall escort.
“Dr. Franklin, the modern saint—h’m,” said Poirot.
“Rather a change of attitude,” I said. “But I think the lady is like that.”
“Like what?”
“Given to dramatizing herself in various roles. One day the misunderstood, neglected wife, thenthe self-sacrificing, suffering woman who hates to be a burden on the man she loves. Today it’s thehero-worshipping helpmate. The trouble is that all the roles are slightly overdone44.”
Poirot said thoughtfully: “You think Mrs. Franklin, do you not, rather a fool?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that—yes, perhaps not a very brilliant intellect.”
“Ah, she is not your type.”
“Who is my type?” I snapped.
Poirot replied unexpectedly: “Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what the fairies willsend you—”
I was prevented from replying because Nurse Craven came tripping hastily across the grass. Shegave us a smile with a brilliant flash of teeth, unlocked the door of the lab, passed inside andreappeared with a pair of gloves.
“First a hanky and now gloves, always something left behind,” she observed as she sped backwith them to where Barbara Franklin and Boyd Carrington were waiting.
Mrs. Franklin, I reflected, was that rather feckless type of woman who always did leave thingsbehind, shedding her possessions and expecting everybody to retrieve45 them as a matter of courseand even, I fancied, was rather proud of herself for so doing. I had heard her more than oncemurmur complacently46: “Of course I’ve got a head like a sieve47.”
I sat looking after Nurse Craven as she ran across the lawn and out of sight. She ran well, herbody was vigorous and well balanced. I said impulsively48: “I should think a girl must get fed upwith that sort of life. I mean when there isn’t much nursing to be done—when it’s just fetch andcarry. I don’t suppose Mrs. Franklin is particularly considerate or kindly49.”
Poirot’s response was distinctly annoying. For no reason whatever, he closed his eyes andmurmured: “Auburn hair.”
Undoubtedly50 Nurse Craven had got auburn hair, but I did not see why Poirot should choose justthis minute to comment upon it.
I made no reply.
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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arthritis
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| n.关节炎 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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penetrated
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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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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curt
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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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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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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appraising
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irritability
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disquieting
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utterly
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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irritation
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invalid
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displeasing
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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plaintively
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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transparent
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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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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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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draughts
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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puerile
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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awfully
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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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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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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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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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