II gave Norton Poirot’s message.
“I’ll go up and see him, certainly. I’d like to. But you know, Hastings, I’m rather sorry Imentioned the matter even to you.”
“By the way,” I said, “you haven’t said anything to anyone else about it, have you?”
“No—at least—no, of course not.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“No, no, I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, don’t. Not until after you’ve seen Poirot.”
I had noticed the slight hesitation1 in his tone when he first answered, but his second assurancewas quite firm. I was to remember that slight hesitation afterwards, though.
II
I went up again to the grassy2 knoll3 where we had been on that day. Someone else was therealready. Elizabeth Cole. She turned her head as I came up the slope.
She said: “You look very excited, Captain Hastings. Is anything the matter?”
I tried to calm myself.
“No, no, nothing at all. I’m just out of breath with walking fast.” I added in an everyday,commonplace voice: “It’s going to rain.”
She looked up at the sky. “Yes, I think it is.”
We stood there silent for a minute or two. There was something about this woman that I foundvery sympathetic. Ever since she had told me who she really was, and the tragedy that had ruinedher life, I had taken an interest in her. Two people who have suffered unhappiness have a greatbond in common. Yet for her there was, or so I suspected, a second spring. I said now impulsively4:
“Far from being excited, I’m depressed5 today. I’ve had bad news about my dear old friend.”
“About M. Poirot?”
Her sympathetic interest led me to unburden myself.
When I had finished she said softly: “I see. So—the end might come at any time?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
After a minute or two I said: “When he’s gone I shall indeed be alone in the world.”
“Oh, no, you’ve got Judith—and your other children.”
“They’re scattered6 over the world, and Judith—well, she’s got her work, she doesn’t need me.”
“I suspect that children don’t ever need their parents until they are in trouble of some kind. Ishould make up your mind to that as to some fundamental law. I’m far more lonely than you are.
My two sisters are far away, one in America and one in Italy.”
“My dear girl,” I said. “You’re life’s beginning.”
“At thirty-five?”
“What’s thirty-five? I wish I were thirty-five.” I added maliciously7: “I’m not quite blind, youknow.”
She turned an enquiring8 glance on me, then blushed.
“You don’t think — oh! Stephen Norton and I are only friends. We’ve got a good deal incommon—”
“All the better.”
“He’s—he’s just awfully9 kind.”
“Oh, my dear,” I said. “Don’t believe it’s all kindness. We men aren’t made that way.”
But Elizabeth Cole had turned suddenly white. She said in a low, strained voice: “You’re cruel—blind! How can I ever think of—of marriage? With my history. With my sister a murderess—orif not that, insane. I don’t know which is worse.”
I said strongly: “Don’t let that prey10 on your mind. Remember, it may not be true.”
“What do you mean? It is true.”
“Don’t you remember saying to me once, ‘That wasn’t Maggie?’ ”
She caught her breath. “One feels like that.”
“What one feels is often—true.”
She stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“Your sister,” I said, “did not kill her father.”
Her hand crept up to her mouth. Her eyes, wide and scared, looked into mine.
“You’re mad,” she said. “You must be mad. Who told you that?”
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s true. Some day I’ll prove it to you.”
III
Near the house I ran into Boyd Carrington.
“This is my last evening,” he told me. “I move out tomorrow.”
“To Knatton?”
“Yes.”
“That’s very exciting for you.”
“Is it? I suppose it is.” He gave a sigh. “Anyway, Hastings, I don’t mind telling you, I shall beglad to leave here.”
“The food is certainly pretty bad and the service isn’t good.”
“I don’t mean that. After all, it’s cheap, and you can’t expect much from these paying-guestplaces. No, Hastings, I mean more than discomfort11. I don’t like this house—there’s some maligninfluence about it. Things happen here.”
“They certainly do.”
“I don’t know what it is. Perhaps a house that has once had a murder in it is never quite thesame afterwards .?.?. But I don’t like it. First there was that accident to Mrs. Luttrell—a damnedunlucky thing to happen. And then there was poor little Barbara.” He paused. “The most unlikelyperson in the world to have committed suicide I should have said.”
I hesitated. “Well, I don’t know that I’d go as far as that—”
He interrupted me. “Well, I would. Hang it all, I was with her most of the day before. She wasin good spirits—enjoyed our outing. The only thing she was worrying about was whether Johnwasn’t getting too much wrapped up in his experiments and might overdo12 things, or try some ofhis messes upon himself. Do you know what I think, Hastings?”
“No.”
“That husband of hers is the one who’s responsible for her death. Nagged13 at her, I expect. Shewas always happy enough when she was with me. He let her see that she handicapped his preciouscareer (I’d give him a career!) and it broke her up. Damned callous14, that fellow, hasn’t turned ahair. Told me as cool as anything he was off to Africa now. Really, you know, Hastings, Ishouldn’t be surprised if he’d actually murdered her.”
“You don’t mean that,” I said sharply.
“No—no, I don’t really. Though, mind you, mainly because I can see that if he murdered her,he wouldn’t do it that way. I mean, he was known to be working on this stuff physostigmine, so itstands to reason if he’d done her in, he wouldn’t have used that. But all the same, Hastings, I’mnot the only one to think that Franklin’s a suspicious character. I had the tip from someone whoought to know.”
“Who was that?” I asked sharply.
Boyd Carrington lowered his voice. “Nurse Craven.”
“What?” I was intensely surprised.
“Hush. Don’t shout. Yes, Nurse Craven put the idea into my head. She’s a smart girl, you know,got her wits about her. She doesn’t like Franklin—hasn’t liked him all along.”
I wondered. I should have said that it was her own patient whom Nurse Craven had disliked. Itoccurred to me suddenly that Nurse Craven must know a good deal about the Franklin ménage.
“She’s staying here tonight,” said Boyd Carrington.
“What?” I was rather startled. Nurse Craven had left immediately after the funeral.
“Just for a night between cases,” explained Boyd Carrington.
“I see.”
I was vaguely15 disquieted16 by Nurse Craven’s return, yet I could hardly have said why. Wasthere, I wondered, any reason for her coming back? She didn’t like Franklin, Boyd Carrington hadsaid. .?.?.
Reassuring17 myself I said with sudden vehemence18: “She’s no right to hint things about Franklin.
After all, it was her evidence that helped to establish suicide. That, and Poirot’s seeing Mrs.
Franklin coming out of the studio with a bottle in her hand.”
Boyd Carrington snapped: “What’s a bottle? Women are always carrying bottles—scent bottles,hair lotion19, nail polish. That wench of yours was running about with a bottle in her hand thatevening—it doesn’t mean she was thinking of suicide, does it? Nonsense!”
He broke off as Allerton came up to us. Most appropriately, in melodramatic fashion, there wasa low rumble20 of thunder in the distance. I reflected, as I had reflected before, that Allerton wascertainly cast for the part of the villain21.
But he had been away from the house on the night of Barbara Franklin’s death. And besides,what possible motive22 could he have had?
But then, I reflected, X never had a motive. That was the strength of his position. It was that,and that only, that was holding us up. And yet, at any minute, that tiny flash of illumination mightcome.
IV
I think that here and now I should like to place on record that I had never, all through, consideredfor one moment that Poirot might fail. In the conflict between Poirot and X I had nevercontemplated the possibility that X might come out victor. In spite of Poirot’s feebleness and illhealth, I had faith in him as potentially the stronger of the two. I was used, you see, to Poirot’ssucceeding.
It was Poirot himself who first put a doubt into my head.
I went in to see him on my way down to dinner. I forget now exactly what led to it, but hesuddenly used the phrase “if anything happens to me.”
I protested immediately and loudly. Nothing would happen—nothing could happen.
“Eh bien, then you have not listened carefully to what Dr. Franklin told you.”
“Franklin doesn’t know. You’re good for many a long year yet, Poirot.”
“It is possible, my friend, though extremely unlikely. But I speak now in the particular and notthe general sense. Though I may die very soon, it may still be not soon enough to suit our friendX.”
“What?” My face showed my shocked reaction.
Poirot nodded. “But yes, Hastings. X is, after all, intelligent. In fact, most intelligent. And Xcannot fail to perceive that my elimination23, even if it were only to precede natural decease by afew days, might be of inestimable advantage.”
“But then—but then—what would happen?” I was bewildered.
“When the Colonel falls, mon ami, the second in command takes over. You will continue.”
“How can I? I’m entirely24 in the dark.”
“I have arranged for that. If anything happens to me, my friend, you will find here—” he pattedthe locked despatch25 case by his side—“all the clues you need. I have arranged, you see, for everyeventuality.”
“There is really no need to be clever. Just tell me now everything there is to know.”
“No, my friend. The fact that you do not know what I know is a valuable asset.”
“You have left me a clearly written account of things?”
“Certainly not. X might get hold of it.”
“Then what have you left?”
“Indications in kind. They will mean nothing to X—be assured of that—but they will lead youto the discovery of the truth.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Why must you have such a tortuous26 mind, Poirot? You always likemaking everything difficult. You always have!”
“And it is now with me a passion? Is that what you would say? Perhaps. But rest assured, myindications will lead you to the truth.” He paused. Then he said: “And perhaps, then, you wouldwish that they had not led you so far. You would say instead: ‘Ring down the curtain.’?”
Something in his voice started again that vague unformulated dread27 that I had once or twice feltspasms of already. It was as though somewhere, just out of sight, was a fact that I did not want tosee—that I could not bear to acknowledge. Something that already, deep down, I knew. .?.?.
I shook the feeling off and went down to dinner.
点击收听单词发音
1 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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2 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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3 knoll | |
n.小山,小丘 | |
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4 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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5 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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6 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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7 maliciously | |
adv.有敌意地 | |
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8 enquiring | |
a.爱打听的,显得好奇的 | |
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9 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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10 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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11 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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12 overdo | |
vt.把...做得过头,演得过火 | |
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13 nagged | |
adj.经常遭责怪的;被压制的;感到厌烦的;被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的过去式和过去分词 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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14 callous | |
adj.无情的,冷淡的,硬结的,起老茧的 | |
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15 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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16 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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18 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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19 lotion | |
n.洗剂 | |
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20 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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21 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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22 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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23 elimination | |
n.排除,消除,消灭 | |
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24 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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25 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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26 tortuous | |
adj.弯弯曲曲的,蜿蜒的 | |
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27 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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