IMy memory is a little vague about the events of the days immediately following the inquest onMrs. Franklin. There was, of course, the funeral, which I may say was attended by a large numberof the curious of Styles St. Mary. It was on that occasion that I was addressed by an old womanwith rheumy eyes and an unpleasant ghoulish manner.
She accosted2 me just as we were filing out of the cemetery3.
“Remember you, sir, don’t I?”
“Well—er—possibly. .?.?.”
She went on, hardly listening to what I said.
“Twenty years ago and over. When the old lady died up at the Court. That was the first murderwe had at Styles. Won’t be the last, I say. Old Mrs. Inglethorp, her husband done her in so we allsaid. Sure of it we was.” She leered at me cunningly. “Maybe it’s the husband this time.”
“What do you mean?” I said sharply. “Didn’t you hear the verdict was suicide?”
“That’s what Coroner said. But he might be wrong, don’t you think?” She nudged me.
“Doctors, they know how to do away with their wives. And she wasn’t much good to himseemingly.”
I turned on her angrily and she slunk away murmuring she hadn’t meant anything, only itseemed odd like, didn’t it, happening a second time. “And it’s queer you should be there bothtimes, sir, isn’t it now?”
For one fantastic moment I wondered if she suspected me of having really committed bothcrimes. It was most disturbing. It certainly made me realize what a queer, haunting thing localsuspicion is.
And it was not, after all, so far wrong. For somebody had killed Mrs. Franklin.
As I say I remember very little of those days. Poirot’s health, for one thing, was giving megrave concern. Curtiss came to me with his wooden face slightly disturbed and reported that Poirothad had a somewhat alarming heart attack.
“Seems to me, sir, he ought to see a doctor.”
I went posthaste to Poirot who negatived the suggestion most vigorously. It was, I thought, alittle unlike him. He had always been, in my opinion, extremely fussy4 about his health. Distrustingdraughts, wrapping up his neck in silk and wool, showing a horror of getting his feet damp, andtaking his temperature and retiring to bed at the least suspicion of a chill—“For otherwise it maybe for me a fluxion de poitrine!” In most little ailments5, he had, I knew, always consulted a doctorimmediately.
Now, when he was really ill, the position seemed reversed.
Yet perhaps that was the real reason. Those other ailments had been trifling6. Now, when he wasindeed a sick man, he feared, perhaps, admitting the reality of his illness. He made light of itbecause he was afraid.
He answered my protests with energy and bitterness.
“Ah, but I have consulted doctors! Not one but many. I have been to Blank and to Dash [henamed two specialists] and they do what?—they send me to Egypt where immediately I amrendered much worse. I have been, too, to R. .?.?.”
R. was, I knew, a heart specialist. I asked quickly: “What did he say?”
Poirot gave me a sudden sidelong glance—and my heart gave an agonized7 leap.
He said quietly: “He has done for me all that can be done. I have my treatments, my remedies,all close at hand. Beyond that—there is nothing. So you see, Hastings, to call in more doctorswould be of no avail. The machine, mon ami, wears out. One cannot, alas8, install the new engineand continue to run as before like a motor car.”
“But look here, Poirot, surely there’s something. Curtiss—”
Poirot said sharply: “Curtiss?”
“Yes, he came to me. He was worried—You had an attack—”
Poirot nodded gently. “Yes, yes. They are sometimes, these attacks, painful to witness. Curtiss,I think, is not used to these attacks of the heart.”
“Won’t you really see a doctor?”
“It is of no avail, my friend.”
He spoke9 very gently but with finality. And again my heart felt a painful constriction10. Poirotsmiled at me. He said: “This, Hastings, will be my last case. It will be, too, my most interestingcase—and my most interesting criminal. For in X we have a technique superb, magnificent, thatarouses admiration11 in spite of oneself. So far, mon cher, this X has operated with so much abilitythat he has defeated me, Hercule Poirot! He has developed the attack to which I can find noanswer.”
“If you had your health—” I began soothingly12.
But apparently14 that was not the right thing to say. Hercule Poirot immediately flew into a rage.
“Ah! Have I got to tell you thirty-six times, and then again thirty-six, that there is no need ofphysical effort? One needs only—to think.”
“Well—of course—yes, you can do that all right.”
“All right? I can do it superlatively. My limbs they are paralysed, my heart, it plays me thetricks, but my brain, Hastings, my brain it functions without impairment of any kind. It is still ofthe first excellence15 my brain.”
“That,” I said soothingly, “is splendid.”
But as I went slowly downstairs, I thought to myself that Poirot’s brain was not getting on withthings as fast as it might do. First the narrow escape of Mrs. Luttrell and now the death of Mrs.
Franklin. And what were we doing about it? Practically nothing.
II
It was the following day that Poirot said to me: “You suggested, Hastings, that I should see adoctor.”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’d feel much happier if you would.”
“Eh bien, I will consent. I will see Franklin.”
“Franklin?” I looked doubtful.
“Well, he is a doctor, is he not?”
“Yes, but—his main line is research, is it not?”
“Undoubtedly. He would not succeed, I fancy, as a general practitioner16. He has not sufficientlywhat you call the ‘side of the bed manner.’ But he has the qualifications. In fact I should say that,as the films say, ‘he knows his stuff better than most.’ ”
I was still not entirely17 satisfied. Although I did not doubt Franklin’s ability, he had alwaysstruck me as a man who was impatient of and uninterested in human ailments. Possibly anadmirable attitude for research work, but not so good for any sick persons he might attend.
However, for Poirot to go so far was a concession18, and as Poirot had no local medical attendant,Franklin readily agreed to take a look at him. But he explained that if regular medical attendancewas needed, a local practitioner must be called in. He could not attend the case.
Franklin spent a long time with him.
When he came out finally I was waiting for him. I drew him into my room and shut the door.
“Well?” I demanded anxiously.
Franklin said thoughtfully: “He’s a very remarkable19 man.”
“Oh, that. Yes—” I brushed aside this self-evident fact. “But his health?”
“Oh! His health?” Franklin seemed quite surprised—as though I had mentioned something ofno importance at all. “Oh! His health’s rotten, of course.”
It was not, I felt, at all a professional way of putting it. And yet I had heard—from Judith—thatFranklin had been one of the most brilliant students of his time.
“How bad is he?” I demanded anxiously.
He shot me a look. “D’you want to know?”
“Of course.”
What did the fool think?
He almost immediately told me.
“Most people,” he said, “don’t want to know. They want soothing13 syrup20. They want hope. Theywant reassurance21 ladled out in driblets. And of course amazing recoveries do occur. But theywon’t in Poirot’s case.”
“Do you mean—” Again that cold hand closed round my heart.
Franklin nodded. “Oh yes, he’s for it all right. And pretty soon, I should say. I shouldn’t tell youso if he hadn’t authorized22 me to do so.”
“Then—he knows.”
Franklin said: “He knows all right. That heart of his may go out—phut—any moment. Onecan’t say, of course, exactly when.”
He paused, then he said slowly: “From what he says, I gather he’s worrying about gettingsomething finished, something that, as he puts it, he’s undertaken. D’you know about that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
Franklin shot me an interested glance.
“He wants to be sure of finishing off the job.”
“I see.”
I wondered if John Franklin had any idea of what that job was!
He said slowly: “I hope he’ll manage it. From what he said it means a lot to him.” He pausedand added: “He’s got a methodical mind.”
I asked anxiously: “Isn’t there something that can be done—something in the way of treatment—”
He shook his head. “Nothing doing. He’s got ampoules of amyl nitrate to use when he feels anattack is coming on.”
Then he said a rather curious thing.
“Got a very great respect for human life, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he has.”
How often had I not heard Poirot say: “I do not approve of murder.” That understatement, madeso primly23, had always tickled24 my fancy.
Franklin was going on. “That’s the difference between us. I haven’t .?.?. !”
I looked at him curiously25. He inclined his head with a faint smile.
“Quite true,” he said. “Since death comes anyway, what does it matter if it comes early or late?
There’s so little difference.”
“Then what on earth made you become a doctor if you feel like that?” I demanded with someindignation.
“Oh, my dear fellow, doctoring isn’t just a matter of dodging26 the ultimate end. It’s a lot more—it’s improving living. If a healthy man dies, it doesn’t matter—much. If an imbecile—a cretin—dies, it’s a good thing—but if by the discovery of administering the correct gland27 you turn yourcretin into a healthy normal individual by correcting his thyroid deficiency, that, to my mind,matters a good deal.”
I looked at him with more interest. I still felt that it would not be Dr. Franklin I should call in ifI had influenza28, but I had to pay tribute to a kind of white-hot sincerity29 and a very real force in theman. I had noticed a change in him since his wife’s death. He had displayed few of theconventional signs of mourning. On the contrary he seemed more alive, less absentminded, andfull of a new energy and fire.
He said abruptly30, breaking into my thoughts: “You and Judith aren’t much alike, are you?”
“No, I suppose we’re not.”
“Is she like her mother?”
I reflected, then slowly shook my head. “Not really. My wife was a merry, laughing creature.
She wouldn’t take anything seriously—and tried to make me the same, without much success I’mafraid.”
He smiled faintly. “No, you’re rather the heavy father, aren’t you? So Judith says. Judithdoesn’t laugh much—serious young woman. Too much work, I expect. My fault.”
He went into a brown study. I said conventionally: “Your work must be very interesting.”
“Eh?”
“I said your work must be interesting.”
“Only to about half a dozen people. To everybody else it’s darned dull—and they’re probablyright. Anyway—” he flung his head back, his shoulders squared themselves, he suddenly lookedwhat he was, a powerful and virile31 man—“I’ve got my chance now! God, I could shout out loud.
The Minister Institute people let me know today. The job’s still open and I’ve got it. I start in tendays’ time.”
“For Africa?”
“Yes. It’s grand.”
“So soon.” I felt slightly shocked.
He stared at me. “What do you mean — soon? Oh.” His brow cleared. “You mean afterBarbara’s death? Why on earth not? It’s no good pretending, is it, that her death wasn’t thegreatest relief to me.”
He seemed amused by the expression on my face.
“I’ve not time, I’m afraid, for conventional attitudes. I fell in love with Barbara—she was a verypretty girl—married her and fell out of love with her again in about a year. I don’t think it lastedeven as long as that with her. I was a disappointment to her, of course. She thought she couldinfluence me. She couldn’t. I’m a selfish, pigheaded sort of brute32, and I do what I want to do.”
“But you did refuse this job in Africa on her account,” I reminded him.
“Yes. That was purely33 financial, though. I’d undertaken to support Barbara in the way of lifeshe was accustomed to. If I’d gone it would have meant leaving her very short. But now—” hesmiled, a completely frank, boyish smile—“it’s turned out amazingly lucky for me.”
I was revolted. It is true, I suppose, that many men whose wives die are not preciselyheartbroken and everyone more or less knows the fact. But this was so blatant34.
He saw my face, but did not seem put out.
“Truth,” he said, “is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time and a lot of inaccuratespeech.”
I said sharply: “And it doesn’t worry you at all that your wife committed suicide?”
He said thoughtfully: “I don’t really believe she did commit suicide. Most unlikely—”
“But, then, what do you think happened?”
He caught me up: “I don’t know. I don’t think I—want to know. Understand?”
I stared at him. His eyes were hard and cold.
He said again: “I don’t want to know. I’m not—interested. See?”
I did see—but I didn’t like it.
III
I don’t know when it was that I noticed that Stephen Norton had something on his mind. He hadbeen very silent after the inquest, and after that and the funeral were over he still walked about, hiseyes on the ground and his forehead puckered35. He had a habit of running his hands through hisshort grey hair until it stuck up on end like Struwwelpeter. It was comical but quite unconsciousand denoted some perplexity of his mind. He returned absentminded answers when you spoke tohim, and it did at last dawn upon me that he was definitely worried about something. I asked himtentatively if he had had bad news of any kind, which he promptly36 negatived. That closed thesubject for the time being.
But a little later he seemed to be trying to get an opinion from me on some matter in a clumsy,roundabout way.
Stammering37 a little, as he always did when he was serious about a thing, he embarked38 on aninvolved story centring about a point of ethics39.
“You know, Hastings, it should be awfully40 simple to say when a thing’s right or wrong—butreally when it comes to it, it isn’t quite such plain sailing. I mean, one may come across something—the kind of thing, you see, that isn’t meant for you—it’s all a kind of accident, and it’s the sortof thing you couldn’t take advantage of, and yet it might be most frightfully important. Do you seewhat I mean?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid,” I confessed.
Norton’s brow furrowed41 again. He ran his hands up through his hair again so that it stoodupright in its usual comical manner.
“It’s so hard to explain. What I mean is, suppose you just happened to see something in aprivate letter—one opened by mistake, that sort of thing—a letter meant for someone else and youbegan reading it because you thought it was written to you and so you actually read something youweren’t meant to before you realized. That could happen, you know.”
“Oh yes, of course it could.”
“Well, I mean, what would one do?”
“Well—” I gave my mind to the problem. “I suppose you’d go to the person and say, ‘I’mawfully sorry but I opened this by mistake.’ ”
Norton sighed. He said it wasn’t quite so simple as that.
“You see, you might have read something rather embarrassing, Hastings.”
“That would embarrass the other person, you mean? I suppose you’d have to pretend you hadn’tactually read anything—that you’d discovered your mistake in time.”
“Yes.” Norton said it after a moment’s pause, and he did not seem to feel that he had yet arrivedat a satisfactory solution.
He said rather wistfully: “I wish I did know what I ought to do.”
I said that I couldn’t see that there was anything else he could do.
Norton said, the perplexed42 frown still on his forehead: “You see, Hastings, there’s rather moreto it than that. Supposing that what you read was—well, rather important, to someone else again, Imean.”
I lost patience. “Really, Norton, I don’t see what you do mean. You can’t go about reading otherpeople’s private letters, can you?”
“No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean that. And anyway, it wasn’t a letter at all. I only said thatto try and explain the sort of thing. Naturally anything you saw or heard or read—by accident—you’d keep to yourself, unless—”
“Unless what?”
Norton said slowly: “Unless it was something you ought to speak about.”
I looked at him with suddenly awakened43 interest. He went on: “Look here, think of it this way,supposing you saw something through a—a keyhole—”
Keyholes made me think of Poirot! Norton was stumbling on:
“What I mean is, you’d got a perfectly44 good reason for looking through the keyhole—the keymight have stuck and you just looked to see if it was clear—or—or some quite good reason—andyou never for one minute expected to see what you did see. .?.?.”
For a moment or two I lost thread of his stumbling sentences, for enlightenment had come tome. I remembered a day on a grassy45 knoll46 and Norton swinging up his glasses to see a speckledwoodpecker. I remembered his immediate1 distress47 and embarrassment48, his endeavours to preventme from looking through the glasses in my turn. At the moment I had leaped to the conclusion thatwhat he had seen was something to do with me—in fact that it was Allerton and Judith. Butsupposing that that was not the case? That he had seen something quite different? I had assumedthat it was something to do with Allerton and Judith because I was so obsessed49 by them at thattime that I could think of nothing else.
I said abruptly: “Was it something you saw through those glasses of yours?”
Norton was both startled and relieved.
“I say, Hastings, how did you guess?”
“It was that day when you and I and Elizabeth Cole were up on that knoll, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you didn’t want me to see?”
“No. It wasn’t—well, I mean it wasn’t meant for any of us to see.”
“What was it?”
Norton frowned again. “That’s just it. Ought I to say? I mean it was—well, it was spying. I sawsomething I wasn’t meant to see. I wasn’t looking for it—there really was a speckled woodpecker—a lovely fellow, and then I saw the other thing.”
He stopped. I was curious, intensely curious, yet I respected his scruples50.
I asked: “Was it—something that mattered?”
He said slowly: “It might matter. That’s just it. I don’t know.”
I asked then: “Has it something to do with Mrs. Franklin’s death?”
He started. “It’s queer you should say that.”
“Then it has?”
“No—no, not directly. But it might have.” He said slowly: “It would throw a different light oncertain things. It would mean that—Oh, damn it all, I don’t know what to do!”
I was in a dilemma51. I was agog52 with curiosity, yet I felt that Norton was very reluctant to saywhat he had seen. I could understand that. I should have felt the same myself. It is alwaysunpleasant to come into possession of a piece of information that has been acquired in what theoutside world would consider a dubious53 manner.
Then an idea struck me.
“Why not consult Poirot?”
“Poirot?” Norton seemed a little doubtful.
“Yes, ask his advice.”
“Well,” said Norton slowly, “it’s an idea. Only, of course, he’s a foreigner—” he stopped, ratherembarrassed.
I knew what he meant. Poirot’s scathing54 remarks on the subject of “playing the game” wereonly too familiar to me. I only wondered that Poirot had never thought of taking to bird glasseshimself! He would have done if he had thought of it.
“He’d respect your confidence,” I urged. “And you needn’t act upon his advice if you don’t likeit.”
“That’s true,” said Norton, his brow clearing. “You know, Hastings, I think that’s just what Iwill do.”
IV
I was astonished at Poirot’s instant reaction to my piece of information.
“What is that you say, Hastings?”
He dropped the piece of thin toast he had been raising to his lips. He poked55 his head forward.
“Tell me. Tell me quickly.”
I repeated the story.
“He saw something through the glasses that day,” repeated Poirot thoughtfully. “Something thathe will not tell you.” His hand shot out and gripped my arm. “He has not told anyone else of this?”
“I don’t think so. No, I’m sure he hasn’t.”
“Be very careful, Hastings. It is urgent that he should not tell anyone—he must not even hint.
To do so might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Very dangerous.”
Poirot’s face was grave. “Arrange with him, mon ami, to come up and see me this evening. Justan ordinary friendly little visit, you understand. Do not let anyone else suspect that there is anyspecial reason for his coming. And be careful, Hastings, be very, very careful. Who else did yousay was with you at the time?”
“Elizabeth Cole.”
“Did she notice anything odd about his manner?”
I tried to recollect56. “I don’t know. She may have. Shall I ask her if—?”
“You will say nothing, Hastings—absolutely nothing.”
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accosted
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cemetery
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fussy
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trifling
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alas
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spoke
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constriction
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admiration
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soothingly
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soothing
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apparently
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excellence
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practitioner
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entirely
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concession
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primly
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purely
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awfully
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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43
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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44
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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47
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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48
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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50
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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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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54
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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