Chapter 1 The Majestic Hotel 美琪旅馆
Chapter 1 - The Majestic Hotel
No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St Loo. It is well named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cornish coast is to my mind every bit as fascinating as that of the south of France.
I remarked as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. 'So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, mon ami. Your remark is not original.'
'But don't you agree?'
He was smiling to himself and did not at once answer my question. I repeated it.
'A thousand pardons, Hastings. My thoughts were wandering. Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now.'
'The south of France?'
'Yes. I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred.'
I remembered. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and the mystery-a complicated and baffling one-had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen.
'How I wish I had been with you,' I said with deep regret.
'I too,' said Poirot. 'Your experience would have been invaluable to me.'
I looked at him sideways. As a result of long habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious. And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs.
'What I particularly missed was your vivid imagination, Hastings,' he went on dreamily. 'One needs a certain amount of light relief. My valet, Georges, an admirable man with whom I sometimes permitted myself to discuss a point, has no imagination whatever.' This remark seemed to me quite irrelevant.
'Tell me, Poirot,' I said. 'Are you never tempted to renew your activities? This passive life-'
'Suits me admirably, my friend. To sit in the sun-what could be more charming? To step from your pedestal at the zenith of your fame-what could be a grander gesture? They say of me: "That is Hercule Poirot!-The great-the unique!-There was never any one like him, there never will be!" Eh bien-I am satisfied. I ask no more. I am modest.'
I should not myself have used the word modest. It seemed to me that my little friend's egotism had certainly not declined with his years. He leaned back in his chair, caressing his moustache and almost purring with self-satisfaction.
We were sitting on one of the terraces of the Majestic Hotel. It is the biggest hotel in St Loo and stands in its own grounds on a headland overlooking the sea. The gardens of the hotel lay below us freely interspersed with palm trees. The sea was of a deep and lovely blue, the sky clear and the sun shining with all the single-hearted fervour an August sun should (but in England so often does not) have. There was a vigorous humming of bees, a pleasant sound-and altogether nothing could have been more ideal.
We had only arrived last night, and this was the first morning of what we proposed should be a week's stay. If only these weather conditions continued, we should indeed have a perfect holiday.
I picked up the morning paper which had fallen from my hand and resumed my perusal of the morning's news. The political situation seemed unsatisfactory, but uninteresting, there was trouble in China, there was a long account of a rumoured City swindle, but on the whole there was no news of a very thrilling order.
'Curious thing this parrot disease,' I remarked, as I turned the sheet. 'Very curious.'
'Two more deaths at Leeds, I see.' 'Most regrettable.' I turned a page.
'Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he's gone west. Not that they've given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific islands.'
'The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not?' inquired Poirot pleasantly.
'Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it's a good thing to be an Englishman after all.'
'It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon,' said Poirot.
'I-I didn't mean,' I began.
My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.
'Me,' he announced. 'I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.'
My attention had strayed to political news.
'They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it,' I remarked with a chuckle.
'The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.'
I stared at him.
With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning's correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.
'It must have missed us yesterday,' he said.
I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.
'But, Poirot,' I cried. 'This is most flattering!'
'You think so, my friend?'
'He speaks in the warmest terms of your ability.'
'He is right,' said Poirot, modestly averting his eyes.
'He begs you to investigate this matter for him-puts it as a personal favour.'
'Quite so. It is unnecessary to repeat all this to me. You understand, my dear Hastings. I have read the letter myself.'
'It is too bad,' I cried. 'This will put an end to our holiday.' 'No, no, calmez vous -there is no question of that.' 'But the Home Secretary says the matter is urgent.'
'He may be right-or again he may not. These politicians, they are easily excited. I have seen myself, in the Chambre des Deputes in Paris-'
'Yes, yes, but Poirot, surely we ought to be making arrangements? The express to London has gone-it leaves at twelve o'clock. The next-'
'Calm yourself, Hastings, calm yourself, I pray of you! Always the excitement, the agitation. We are not going to London today nor yet tomorrow.'
'But this summons-'
'Does not concern me. I do not belong to your police force, Hastings. I am asked to undertake a case as a private investigator. I refuse.'
'You refuse?'
'Certainly. I write with perfect politeness, tender my regrets, my apologies, explain that I am completely desolated-but what will you? I have retired-I am finished.'
'You are not finished,' I exclaimed warmly. Poirot patted my knee.
'There speaks the good friend-the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function-the order, the method-it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells. In all generosity I say: let the young men have a chance. They may possibly do something creditable. I doubt it, but they may. Anyway they will do well enough for this doubtless tiresome affair of the Home Secretary's.'
'But, Poirot, the compliment!'
'Me, I am above compliments. The Home Secretary, being a man of sense, realizes that if he can only obtain my services all will be successful. What will you? He is unlucky. Hercule Poirot has solved his last case.'
I looked at him. In my heart of hearts I deplored his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already worldwide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.
Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.
'I wonder,' I said, 'that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.'
'Impossible,' he replied, 'that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.'
'Impossible, Poirot?'
'You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!'
I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot's fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.
'Yes-one is human. One is the sleeping dog-well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.'
'In fact,' I said, 'if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning-let the criminal who put it there beware!'
He nodded, but rather absently.
Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.
I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.
'A thousand pardons,' stammered Poirot. 'Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly-ouch!-my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really-the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings-you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.'
With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot on to a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.
'It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over.' He made a grimace. 'See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.'
The girl took a chair.
'It's nothing,' she said. 'But I wish you would let it be seen to.'
'Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle ! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already.'
The girl laughed.
'That's good.'
'What about a cocktail?' I suggested. 'It's just about the time.'
'Well-' She hesitated. 'Thanks very much.'
'Martini?'
'Yes, please-dry Martini.'
I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.
'Imagine, Hastings,' he said, 'that house there-the one on the point-that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.'
'Indeed?' I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. 'It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.'
'It's called End House,' said the girl. 'I love it-but it's a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.'
'You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?'
'Oh! we're nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I'm the last of the family.'
'That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?'
'Oh! I'm away a good deal and when I'm at home there's usually a cheery crowd coming and going.'
'That is so modern. Me, I was picturing you in a dark mysterious mansion, haunted by a family curse.'
'How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it's not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I've had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.'
Poirot sat up alertly.
'Escapes from death? That sounds interesting, Mademoiselle.'
'Oh! they weren't very thrilling. Just accidents you know.' She jerked her head sharply as a wasp flew past. 'Curse these wasps. There must be a nest of them round here.'
'The bees and the wasps-you do not like them, Mademoiselle? You have been stung-yes?'
'No-but I hate the way they come right past your face.' 'The bee in the bonnet,' said Poirot. 'Your English phrase.'
At that moment the cocktails arrived. We all held up our glasses and made the usual inane observations.
'I'm due in the hotel for cocktails, really,' said Miss Buckley. 'I expect they're wondering what has become of me.'
Poirot cleared his throat and set down his glass.
'Ah! for a cup of good rich chocolate,' he murmured. 'But in England they make it not. Still, in England you have some very pleasing customs. The young girls, their hats come on and off-so prettily-so easily-'
The girl stared at him.
'What do you mean? Why shouldn't they?'
'You ask that because you are young-so young, Mademoiselle. But to me the natural thing seems to have a coiffure high and rigid-so-and the hat attached with many hat pins-la-la-la-et la.'
He executed four vicious jabs in the air. 'But how frightfully uncomfortable!'
'Ah! I should think so,' said Poirot. No martyred lady could have spoken with more feeling. 'When the wind blew it was the agony-it gave you the migraine.'
Miss Buckley dragged off the simple wide-brimmed felt she was wearing and cast it down beside her.
'And now we do this,' she laughed.
'Which is sensible and charming,' said Poirot, with a little bow.
I looked at her with interest. Her dark hair was ruffled and gave her an elfin look. There was something elfin about her altogether. The small, vivid face, pansy shaped, the enormous dark-blue eyes, and something else-something haunting and arresting. Was it a hint of recklessness? There were dark shadows under the eyes.
The terrace on which we were sitting was a little-used one. The main terrace where most people sat was just round the corner at a point where the cliff shelved directly down to the sea.
From round this corner now there appeared a man, a red-faced man with a rolling carriage who carried his hands half clenched by his side. There was something breezy and carefree about him-a typical sailor.
'I can't think where the girl's got to,' he was saying in tones that easily carried to where we sat. 'Nick-Nick.'
Miss Buckley rose.
'I knew they'd be getting in a state. Attaboy-George-here I am.'
'Freddie's frantic for a drink. Come on, girl.'
He cast a glance of frank curiosity at Poirot, who must have differed considerably from most of Nick's friends.
The girl performed a wave of introduction. 'This is Commander Challenger-er-'
But to my surprise Poirot did not supply the name for which she was waiting. Instead he rose, bowed very ceremoniously and murmured: 'Of the English Navy. I have a great regard for the English Navy.'
This type of remark is not one that an Englishman acclaims most readily. Commander Challenger flushed and Nick Buckley took command of the situation.
'Come on, George. Don't gape. Let's find Freddie and Jim.'
She smiled at Poirot.
'Thanks for the cocktail. I hope the ankle will be all right.'
With a nod to me she slipped her hand through the sailor's arm and they disappeared round the corner together.
'So that is one of Mademoiselle's friends,' murmured Poirot thoughtfully. 'One of her cheery crowd. What about him? Give me your expert judgement, Hastings. Is he what you call a good fellow-yes?'
Pausing for a moment to try and decide exactly what Poirot thought I should mean by a 'good fellow', I gave a doubtful assent.
'He seems all right-yes,' I said. 'So far as one can tell by a cursory glance.' 'I wonder,' said Poirot.
The girl had left her hat behind. Poirot stooped to pick it up and twirled it round absent-mindedly on his finger.
'Has he atendresse for her? What do you think, Hastings?'
'My dear Poirot! How can I tell? Here-give me that hat. The lady will want it. I'll take it to her.'
Poirot paid no attention to my request. He continued to revolve the hat slowly on his finger.
'Pas encore. Qa m'amuse.'
'Really, Poirot!'
'Yes, my friend, I grow old and childish, do I not?'
This was so exactly what I was feeling that I was somewhat disconcerted to have it put into words. Poirot gave a little chuckle, then leaning forward he laid a finger against the side of his nose.
'But no-I am not so completely imbecile as you think! We will return the hat-but assuredly-but later! We will return it to End House and thus we shall have the opportunity of seeing the charming Miss Nick again.'
'Poirot,' I said. 'I believe you have fallen in love.'
'She is a pretty girl-eh?'
'Well-you saw for yourself. Why ask me?'
'Because, alas! I cannot judge. To me, nowadays, anything young is beautiful. Jeunesse-jeunesse. It is the tragedy of my years. But you-I appeal to you! Your judgement is not up-to-date, naturally, having lived in the Argentine so long. You admire the figure of five years ago, but you are at any rate more modern than I am. She is pretty-yes? She has the appeal to the sexes?'
'One sex is sufficient, Poirot. The answer, I should say, is very much in the affirmative. Why are you so interested in the lady?'
'Am I interested?'
'Well-look at what you've just being saying.'
'You are under a misapprehension, mon ami. I may be interested in the lady-yes-but I am much more interested in her hat.'
I stared at him, but he appeared perfectly serious. He nodded his head at me.
'Yes, Hastings, this very hat.' He held it towards me. 'You see the reason for my interest?'
'It's a nice hat,' I said, bewildered. 'But quite an ordinary hat. Lots of girls have hats like it.'
'Not like this one.'
I looked at it more closely.
'You see, Hastings?'
'A perfectly plain fawn felt. Good style-'
'I did not ask you to describe the hat. It is plain that you do not see. Almost incredible, my poor Hastings, how you hardly ever do see! It amazes me every time anew! But regard, my dear old imbecile-it is not necessary to employ the grey cells-the eyes will do. Regard-regard-'
And then at last I saw to what he had been trying to draw my attention. The slowly turning hat was revolving on his finger, and that finger was stuck neatly through a hole in the brim of the hat. When he saw that I had realized his meaning, he drew his finger out and held the hat towards me. It was a small neat hole, quite round, and I could not imagine its purpose, if purpose it had.
'Did you observe the way Mademoiselle Nick flinched when a bee flew past? The bee in the bonnet-the hole in the hat.'
'But a bee couldn't make a hole like that.'
'Exactly, Hastings! What acumen! It could not. But a bullet could, mon cher!'
'A bullet?'
'Mai oui! A bullet like this.'
He held out his hand with a small object in the palm of it.
'A spent bullet, mon ami. It was that which hit the terrace just now when we were talking. A spent bullet!'
'You mean-'
'I mean that one inch of a difference and that hole would not be through the hat but through the head. Now do you see why I am interested, Hastings? You were right, my friend, when you told me not to use the word "impossible". Yes-one is human! Ah! but he made a grave mistake, that would-be murderer, when he shot at his victim within a dozen yards of Hercule Poirot! For him, it is indeed la mauvaise chance. But you see now why we must make our entry into End House and get into touch with Mademoiselle? Three near escapes from death in three days. That is what she said. We must act quickly, Hastings. The peril is very close at hand.'

第一章　美琪旅馆
我觉得，英国南部没有哪个滨海小镇有圣卢那么令人流连忘返，因此，人们称它为“水城皇后”真是再恰当也没有了。到了这里，游客便会自然而然地想起维埃拉。在我的印象里，康沃尔郡的海岸正像法国南方的海滨一样迷人。
我把这个想法告诉了我的朋友赫尔克里•波洛。他听了以后说：
“昨天餐车里的那份菜单上就是这么说的，我的朋友，所以这并非你的创见。”
“难道你不同意这种说法吗？”
他出神地微笑着，没有回答。我又问了一遍。
“哦，真是对不起，黑斯廷斯。我想到别处去了。我在想你刚才提起的那个遥远的地方。”
“法国南方吗？”
“是的，我在想去年冬天，去年冬天我就在那个地方，还有那个案子……”
我记起来了。去年冬天在法国南方的蓝色列车上发生了一起谋杀案。案情复杂神秘，但被波洛侦破了。他永远是那么审慎敏锐，而且老是百无一失。
“要是我当时同你在一起该有多好！”我深感惋惜。
“我也是这么想的，”波洛说，“要是你在，你的经验一定会对我大有裨益。”
我从侧面打量着他，经验告诉我他的恭维是不可信的，但这次他显得相当一本正经，不过他那一套我是心里有数的。
“尤其是你那引人入胜的想象和推测，黑斯廷斯，”他沉思着往下说，“一个人总是喜欢换换口味的。有时我也屈尊跟我那出类拔萃的男仆乔治讨论个把问题，可是他连一点想象力都没有。”
这段话简直不着边际。
“告诉我，波洛，”我说，“你难道不想再重操旧业了吗？这种无所事事的生活……”
“对我非常合适，我的朋友。躺在海滩上晒晒太阳——还有什么比这更悠闲舒适的吗？从大功告成的顶峰上急流勇退——还有什么比这更冠冕堂皇的吗？人们这样在议论我：‘看呀，那就是赫尔克里•波洛——一个伟大的、举世无双的人！前无古人，后无来者！’这样我就满足了，我不再有更多的要求了。我是谦虚知足的呀！”
我从来没有用过“谦虚”之类的字眼来描写自己。看来我这位朋友的自我吹嘘并没有因年纪的增长而有所消减。他往后一仰靠在椅背上，用各种自以为极其优美的姿势拈着唇髭，发出一种自我陶醉的“唔……唔……”的声音。
我们坐在旅馆的小阳台上。这是圣卢最大的一家旅馆，座落在海岬上，俯瞰着浩瀚无边的大海。小阳台下就是旅馆的花园，里边到处是棕榈树。大海深蓝悦目，天上万里无云。八月的太阳以它所拥有的全部热量一心一意地照耀着（这在英国实在难得）。蜜蜂发出嗡嗡声，听着使人心平气和——所有这一切都好得无以复加。
我们是昨天晚上才到这里的，打算在这儿逗留一个星期。如果这种好天气能延续下去的话，我们的这次休假便肯定完美无缺。
我拾起从手中落下的晨报细看起来。政治形势令人担忧，而且在中国又出了麻烦。有一则消息详细报道了一个传闻中的城市骗局。总之一句话，报纸上没有什么振奋人心的东西。
“有一种叫做什么‘鹦鹉病’的毛病十分奇怪。”我说着把报纸翻了过去。
“非常奇怪。”波洛这样应了一声。
“瞧，在利兹又有两个人得这种病死了。”
“遗憾之至。”
我又翻了一页。
“关于飞行员塞顿上尉的环球飞行还是没有消息。这些家伙真勇敢。他那架叫‘信天翁号’的水陆两用飞机一定是一项伟大的发明。如果他上了西天可就太糟糕了。不过也许还有点希望，他可能降落在太平洋里一个什么海岛上了。”
“所罗门群岛上大概还有吃人的生番吧，有吗？”波洛笑嘻嘻地问。
“那飞行员一定是个好样儿的小伙子。这种壮举归根结底是为我们英国人争光的。”
“是呀，大可以安慰一下在温布尔登的失败了，”波洛说。
“我，我并不是说……”
我的朋友巧妙地岔开了我的辩解，宣称说：
“我并不是塞顿那倒霉虫的什么两用飞机，我是个世界主义者。对于英国人，如你所知，我向来佩服得五体投地。比方说吧，他们始终一丝不苟，就连看报纸也总是一字不漏，看得十分彻底。”
我继续浏览着政治新闻。
“内政部长的日子不好过呢！”我笑了起来。
波洛听了，说：
“可怜的人，他有他的难处。啊哈，不错，他还在缘木求鱼哩。”
我不解地看着他。
波洛微笑着从口袋里取出一卷用橡皮筋扎住的邮件，从中抽出一封信递给我。
“这信我本来昨天就应当收到的。”他说。
我把信看了一遍，心里不禁又愉快又激动。
“波洛，”我叫道，“这真是对你最高的赞誉了。”
“你这样想吗，我的朋友？”
“他对你的才能恭维备至。”
“他是对的。”波洛说着，谦虚地把眼光移到了别处。
“他请求你帮他解决这些难题，而且是作为私人的要求。”
“不错，但你大可不必向我复述这封信的内容。你总该知道，亲爱的黑斯廷斯，我自己看过这封信了。”
“不妙啊，”我叹道，“这就意味着我们的休假算是到此结束了。”
“不，不，你别急——完全不是那么回事。”
“但内政部长说事情已经火烧眉毛了。”
“他可能是对的，也可能不对。政治家们总是神经过敏。我在巴黎下议院亲眼看到……”
“是呀，是呀。但，波洛，我们总应当准备启程了吧？去伦敦的快车已经在十二点开走了，下一班……”
“镇静些，黑斯廷斯，镇静些，我求求你。嗨，老是那么冲动，见到风就是雨。我们今天不到伦敦去，明天也不去！”
“但部长的要求……”
“跟我毫不相干。我不属于你们的警察系统，黑斯廷斯。他要我作为一个顾问侦探参加工作，我拒绝了。”
“你拒绝了？”
“当然。我礼数周到地写了封信向他深致歉意，告诉他我已经成了一座荒凉的废墟。我退休了，告老了，完蛋了。”
“你没有完，没有！”我激动地喊了起来。
波洛拍拍我的膝盖。
“啊，我忠实的朋友，你的话当然也有道理。我大脑里那些小小的灰色细胞还照样有用，我的机敏才智也不减当年。但退休之后，我的朋友，我毕竟是个退了休的人啦。我不是那种戏演完了还赖在台上对着喝彩的观众谢幕十二次的名角儿。我以一切慷慨姿态中之最慷慨的姿态说：让年轻人有个机会来一显身手吧。虽然我怀疑他们到底有没有什么身手可显，但谁知道呢？也许他们真的会有那么两下子，至少应付一下部长的那些令人沉闷不堪的案子总还是可以的。”
“可是，波洛，部长毕竟是很恭维了你一番的。”
“我，哦——我是不吃那一套的。内政部长是个有头脑的人。他当然明白如果有我助他一臂之力，一切疑难都会迎刃而解。可惜他运气不佳，赫尔克里•波洛已经办完他一生中最后一个案子了。”
我默默地看着他，打心眼里痛惜他如此固执。侦破了部长委托给他的案子以后，他那早已蜚声全欧的声誉不是会添上一道更耀眼的光彩吗？不过，我对他的坚决态度又不能不钦佩。
突然我想起了激将法，就说：
“我想，你不会是害怕了吧？信里那一席话甚至可以打动上帝。”
“不，”他回答说，“谁都不可能动摇赫尔克里•波洛。”
“不可能吗？波洛。”
“的确，我的朋友。‘不可能’这种字眼是不应当随口乱用的。其实，我并不是说即使有一颗子弹打在我身边的墙上我都会置之不理。人总是人呀。”
我笑了。他说话时一颗小石子刚刚打在我们脚下的台阶上。他那迅捷的联想叫我觉得有趣。他弯腰拾起那玩意儿，继续说道：
“是呀，人总是人。虽然有时就像一条睡得又香又甜的狗，却还是一叫就醒的。你们有句格言就是这么说的。”
“不错，”我说，“要是有人在你眼皮底下作案，尽管你已经退休了，那家伙还是要倒霉的。”
他点点头，可是心不在焉。
突然间不知为什么他站了起来，迈下台阶走进了花园。这时一位姑娘正在花园里向我们这边匆匆走来。这是个非常娇媚的姑娘，当她走到波洛身边时，波洛不知在看什么地方，结果一不小心在树根上绊了一下，重重地摔倒在地。我连忙跑过去同那姑娘一起把他搀了起来。我虽然全部心思都在我那朋友身上，却也感觉到——不是吗？人们有时不用眼睛只凭感觉也能看得一样清楚——那姑娘有深棕色的头发和深蓝色的大眼睛，满脸顽皮的神情。
“太对不起了，”波洛结结巴巴地说，“小姐，你太好了，我非常抱歉——哎哟，我的脚疼得厉害。哦，不，不，没什么，只不过脚脖子扭了一下而已，过几分钟就会好的。不过要是你们能扶我一下，黑斯廷斯，还有这位好心肠的小姐……嗯，求这位小姐来扶我可真是怪害臊的。”
我们一边一个扶着这位唠叨不已的老头子走到台阶上，让他坐在一张椅子里。我建议马上找个医生，可他坚决反对。
“没事儿，我告诉你。只不过是脚脖子扭了一下。疼上一阵子便会万事大吉的。”他龇牙咧嘴地皱起眉头，“瞧吧，一会儿我就会把这件倒霉事忘得一干二净。小姐，我对你千恩万谢啦。请坐一会儿，求求你。”
姑娘坐了下来。
“有什么可谢的！”她说，“不过我总觉得应当请个医生看看。”
“小姐，我向你保证用不着麻烦医生。你在这儿比医生还强呢。”
姑娘笑了起来，说：
“这倒很有趣。”
“来点鸡尾酒怎样？”我提议，“现在正是喝点鸡尾酒的时候。”
“那么——”她含糊地说，“我就沾光了。”
“马丁尼酒好吗？”
“好的，要那种不带甜味的。”
等我去叫了酒回来，发现波洛和那姑娘已经谈得十分投机了。
“你想到没有，黑斯廷斯，”他说，“岬尖上那所房子，就是我们刚才赞美不已的那所，就属于这位小姐。”
“真的？”我说。我根本想不起什么时候赞美过那所房子，事实上我几乎压根儿没注意到那里有一所房子。“它看起来怪阴森森孤零零的。”
“它叫作‘悬崖山庄’，”这姑娘说，“我很喜欢它。但它是一所古老破旧的房子，而且一天比一天凋敝了。”
“你是一个古老世家的惟一后裔吧，小姐？”
“哦，算不上什么世家。但我们姓巴克利的住在这儿已有两三百年了。我哥哥三年前去世后，我就成了巴克利这一家族的惟一继承人了。”
“多凄凉！你一个人住在那所房子里？”
“啊，我常出门。不过我不出门的时候家里总是宾朋满座的。”
“这倒相当时髦，不知怎么回事，我脑子里总有这么个画面：你在那所房子里，身边围绕着徘徊不去的阴魂，坐在神秘的古屋深处。”
“真怪，你怎么会想出这样一幅图画？不，没有什么阴魂。就算有，也一定是些善良的幽灵。我三天里三次幸免于惨遭横死，所以我觉得一定有一种冥冥中的神力在庇佑着我。”
波洛在椅子上挺起了身子。
“幸免于死？那倒是挺有意思的，小姐。”
“哦，倒也不是什么惊人的事儿，只是些意外事故，你知道。”她掉开头避开了一只飞过的黄蜂，“这些该死的黄蜂！这附近肯定有它们的巢。”
“啊，这些蜜蜂黄蜂什么的——你不喜欢它们吗，小姐？你大概被它们螫过了吧？”
“那倒没有。可是讨厌它们紧挨着你的脸大模大样飞过去的那股邪恶劲儿。”
“帽子里有一只蜜蜂，”波洛说，“这是你们英国人的说法。”
这时鸡尾酒送来了。我们举起酒杯，照例互相说些无聊的祝酒词，干了杯。
“我该到旅馆里去了，真的，”巴克利小姐说，“我猜他们一定在找我了。”
波洛清了清嗓子放下酒杯。
“嗨，如果有一杯美味的巧克力该多好！”他喃喃地说，“但是在英国，人们是做不出这种饮料的。不过英国人有些习惯倒也叫人看着觉得赏心悦目。比方说，女孩子们帽子的戴法怪有模有样的，而且这种戴法多么方便……”
姑娘看着他，说：
“我简直不懂你在说些什么，难道这样戴帽子不好吗？”
“你问这话是因为你很年轻，太年轻了，小姐。但我见得比较多的倒是那种老式的戴法：头发梳得又高又结实，帽子扣在上面，用一大堆别针从四面八方把它紧紧地别在头发上。”
他用手在头上比划着怎样用那些别针狠狠地把帽子和头发夹在一起。
“那多不舒服呀！”
“我倒不这么想，”波洛说。可是他说出来的话却说明他对那种发式的帽子的弊端了解得十分透彻，“不过一旦起了风可就遭罪了。要飞走的帽子靠了那些别针死死抓住你的头发，叫你像得了偏头痛似的。”
巴克利小姐取下她的宽边呢帽放在一旁，说：
“现在取下帽子才不费事哩。”
“所以我才深有感触，说话既简便又优雅。”波洛说着微微弯了弯腰。
我很有兴致地打量着她。她那乱蓬蓬的深棕色的头发使她看上去很淘气。其实她整个人都是一身调皮相。小小的脸蛋，丰富的表情，活像一朵猫脸花。那双深蓝色的大眼睛，还有其它一些只可意会不可言传的韵味，都具有勾魂摄魄的魅力。但当我看见她眼圈发黑，就暗自思忖，这会不会是轻浮的标志。
我们坐的地方是比较冷僻的。一般人都坐在正面大阳台上。那个大阳台就在海边峭壁上。现在那里出现了一个红脸汉子，他走起路来左摇右摆，两手半握着拳，满面春风，无忧无虑，一望而知是个吃航海饭的。
“我真想不出她跑到哪儿去了，”他说起话来声如洪钟，连我们都听到了，“尼克！尼克！”
巴克利小姐站了起来。
“我知道他们等急了。好小子——乔治！我在这儿呢！”
“弗雷迪想喝酒都快想疯了。来吧，姑娘！”
他边说边好奇地瞟了波洛一眼，大概觉得波洛一点都不像尼克的其他朋友，跟这么个老头有什么话可谈这么久的。
姑娘把手一伸，介绍说：
“这位是查林杰中校——呃——”
那姑娘在等波洛作自我介绍，但出我意料之外，波洛没有说出自己的姓名。他站起来客气地鞠了一躬，呐呐地说：
“英国海军里的！我对英国海军素来敬仰备至。”
在人家请他介绍自己的时候却说出这些不伦不类的话来，真是唐突无礼。查林杰中校的脸更红了。尼克•巴克利马上扭转了僵局，说：
“来吧，乔治，别那么怪模怪样的。我们找弗雷迪和吉姆去吧。”
她对波洛笑道：
“谢谢你的鸡尾酒。但愿你的脚脖子快快痊愈。”
她对我点头一笑，挽着海员的胳膊走了。
“他是小姐的一个朋友，”波洛若有所思地说，“是她那些欢天喜地的伙伴中的一个。他是怎样的人呢？请你用专家的眼光判断一下，黑斯廷斯。他是不是人们可以称之为‘好人’的那种人？”
我迟疑了片刻，想弄清楚波洛所说的“好人”究竟是指哪一类人。后来我犹豫不决地同意了。
“他看起来好像并不坏，”我说，“一眼之下我也看不出什么名堂来。”
“不一定吧？”波洛说着弯下腰去把姑娘忘在这儿的那顶帽子拿了起来，心不在焉地用手指顶着它旋转。
“他对她很有意思吧？你是怎么想的，黑斯廷斯？”
“我亲爱的波洛！我怎么知道呢？来，把这顶帽子给我，让我去还给她。”
波洛没理我，继续慢慢地在指头上旋转那顶帽子，说道：
“他对她也许还没有什么意思，不过我倒要把这顶帽子留着玩玩。”
“真的吗，波洛？”
“是的，我的朋友。我老糊涂了，是吗？”
我觉得正是如此，只不过难于出口罢了。波洛嘻嘻一笑，用一个指头搔着鼻梁，凑过身来说：
“但是不对，我还不至于像你所想象的那么神志不清。我们要把这顶帽子还给她的，不过不是现在，还得过一会儿。我们要把它带到‘悬崖山庄’去。这样我们就有个借口可以再看看那位迷人的尼克小姐了。”
“波洛，”我说，“我觉得你堕入情网了。”
“她美得很，呃？”
“你自己看得见，何必问我？”
“因为我说不准。对我来说，现在凡是年轻的都是美的。啊，青春哪，青春……但你觉得怎样？其实你对于美的鉴赏力也不见得高明。你在阿根廷住得太久了。你欣赏的是五年前那一套，不过虽然过时也还是比我强，她很漂亮，是不是？男人和女人都会被她迷住的。”
“有个人就已被她迷得神魂颠倒的啦！波洛。”我说，“我这句话是一点儿也不会错的。你为什么对这个女子这么感兴趣？”
“我感兴趣了？”
“嘿，回味一下你自己刚才说的那些话吧。”
“你误会了，我的朋友。我对那位女郎可能是感兴趣，是的，但我对她的帽子更觉得兴味无穷。”
我困惑地看着他，但他显然不是在开玩笑。他对我点点头，把帽子向我递过来说：
“是呀，黑斯廷斯，就是这顶异乎寻常的帽子。你看得出我感兴趣的原因吗？”
“一顶挺好的帽子，”我说，“一顶普普通通的帽子。许多姑娘都戴这种帽子。”
“但不像这一顶！”
我更仔细地打量了这顶帽子。
“看出点什么了吗，黑斯廷斯？”
“……淡黄色的女帽，式样美观……”
“我不要你形容它。你还没看出来？简直叫人不能相信，我可怜的黑斯廷斯，你这双眼睛大概从来就没有派过用场，真叫我诧异。可是你注意看呀，我亲爱的老傻瓜，这并不需要动脑筋，用眼睛就行了。仔细看看——看呀——”
后来我总算看到了他要我看的东西。那顶帽子在他一个手指上慢慢地打转，而那个手指头插在帽子边沿上的一个小洞眼里。看到这个洞眼后，我明白了他的意思。他从洞里抽出手指，把帽子递给我。那是个小小的边缘整齐的圆洞，可我想不出这个小洞洞有什么含意——如果它真的有什么含意的话。
“尼克小姐讨厌黄蜂，哈哈，‘蜂逐花钿入云鬓’。真奇怪呀，黄蜂钻进了美人儿那芬芳的头发，在帽子上就留下了一个洞。”
“黄蜂是钻不出这样一个洞的。”
“啊，对极了，黑斯廷斯！我早就说过你是聪明绝顶的！蜂儿自然钻不出这样一个洞，但子弹却有这个本事，我的伙计。”
“子弹？”
“一点不错，像这样的一颗子弹。”
他伸出手来，掌心里有一样小东西。
“这是一颗打过的弹头，我的朋友。就是它，而不是小石子，当我们刚才在闲谈时打在阳台上的。一颗子弹！”
“你的意思是……”
“我的意思是只差一英寸，这个被子弹击穿的洞就不在帽子上而在她的脑袋上了。现在懂了吧，黑斯廷斯，我为什么这么感兴趣？我的朋友，你对我说不应当使用‘不可能’这个字眼，你说对了。是呀，人总是人。但那开枪的人犯了一个重大的错误：他居然胆敢在距离赫尔克里•波洛不到十二码的地方开枪杀人！对他来说，这是大失策！现在你总该明白我们为什么要到‘悬崖山庄’去看那位小姐了吧？三天里三次险些丧命，这是她自己说的。我们必须赶快行动，黑斯廷斯，危险已经迫在眉睫了！”
Chapter 2  End House 悬崖山庄
Chapter 2 - End House
'Poirot,' I said. 'I have been thinking.'
'An admirable exercise, my friend. Continue it.'
We were sitting facing each other at lunch at a small table in the window.
'This shot must have been fired quite close to us. And yet we did not hear it.'
'And you think that in the peaceful stillness, with the rippling waves the only sound, we should have done so?'
'Well, it's odd.'
'No, it is not odd. Some sounds-you get used to them so soon that you hardly notice they are there. All this morning, my friend, speedboats have been making trips in the bay. You complained at first-soon, you did not even notice. But, ma foi, you could fire a machine gun almost and not notice it when one of those boats is on the sea.'
'Yes, that's true.'
'Ah! voila,' murmured Poirot. 'Mademoiselle and her friends. They are to lunch here, it seems. And therefore I must return the hat. But no matter. The affair is sufficiently serious to warrant a visit all on its own.'
He leaped up nimbly from his seat, hurried across the room, and presented the hat with a bow just as Miss Buckley and her companions were seating themselves at table.
They were a party of four, Nick Buckley, Commander Challenger, another man and another girl. From where we sat we had a very imperfect view of them. From time to time the naval man's laugh boomed out. He seemed a simple, likeable soul, and I had already taken a fancy to him.
My friend was silent and distrait during our meal. He crumbled his bread, made strange little ejaculations to himself and straightened everything on the table. I tried to talk, but meeting with no encouragement soon gave up.
He continued to sit on at the table long after he had finished his cheese. As soon as the other party had left the room, however, he too rose to his feet. They were just settling themselves at a table in the lounge when Poirot marched up to them in his most military fashion, and addressed Nick directly.
'Mademoiselle, may I crave one little word with you.'
The girl frowned. I realized her feelings clearly enough. She was afraid that this queer little foreigner was going to be a nuisance. I could not but sympathize with her, knowing how it must appear in her eyes. Rather unwillingly, she moved a few steps aside.
Almost immediately I saw an expression of surprise pass over her face at the low hurried words Poirot was uttering.
In the meantime, I was feeling rather awkward and ill at ease. Challenger with ready tact came to my rescue, offering me a cigarette and making some commonplace observation. We had taken each other's measure and were inclined to be sympathetic to each other. I fancied that I was more his own kind than the man with whom he had been lunching. I now had the opportunity of observing the latter. A tall, fair, rather exquisite young man, with a rather fleshy nose and over-emphasized good looks. He had a supercilious manner and a tired drawl. There was a sleekness about him that I especially disliked.
Then I looked at the woman. She was sitting straight opposite me in a big chair and had just thrown off her hat. She was an unusual type-a weary Madonna describes it best. She had fair, almost colourless hair, parted in the middle and drawn straight down over her ears to a knot in the neck. Her face was dead white and emaciated-yet curiously attractive. Her eyes were very light grey with large pupils. She had a curious look of detachment. She was staring at me. Suddenly she spoke.
'Sit down-till your friend has finished with Nick.'
She had an affected voice, languid and artificial-yet which had a curious attraction-a kind of resonant lingering beauty. She impressed me, I think, as the most tired person I had ever met. Tired in mind, not in body, as though she had found everything in the world to be empty and valueless.
'Miss Buckley very kindly helped my friend when he twisted his ankle this morning,' I explained as I accepted her offer.
'So Nick said.' Her eyes considered me, still detachedly. 'Nothing wrong with his ankle now, is there?'
I felt myself blushing.
'Just a momentary sprain,' I explained.
'Oh! well-I'm glad to hear Nick didn't invent the whole thing. She's the most heaven-sent little liar that ever existed, you know. Amazing-it's quite a gift.'
I hardly knew what to say. My discomfiture seemed to amuse her.
'She's one of my oldest friends,' she said, 'and I always think loyalty's such a tiresome virtue, don't you? Principally practised by the Scots-like thrift and keeping the Sabbath. But Nick is a liar, isn't she, Jim? That marvellous story about the brakes of the car-and Jim says there was nothing in it at all.'
The fair man said in a soft rich voice: 'I know something about cars.'
He half turned his head. Outside amongst other cars was a long, red car. It seemed longer and redder than any car could be. It had a long gleaming bonnet of polished metal. A super car!
'Is that your car?' I asked on a sudden impulse.
He nodded.
'Yes.'
I had an insane desire to say, 'It would be!'
Poirot rejoined us at that moment. I rose, he took me by the arm, gave a quick bow to the party, and drew me rapidly away.
'It is arranged, my friend. We are to call on Mademoiselle at End House at half-past six. She will be returned from the motoring by then. Yes, yes, surely she will have returned-in safety.'
His face was anxious and his tone was worried. 'What did you say to her?'
'I asked her to accord me an interview-as soon as possible. She was a little unwilling-naturally. She thinks-I can see the thoughts passing through her mind: 'Who is he-this little man? Is he the bounder, the upstart, the Moving Picture director?' If she could have refused she would-but it is difficult-asked like that on the spur of the moment it is easier to consent. She admits that she will be back by six-thirty. Qa y est!'
I remarked that that seemed to be all right then, but my remark met with little favour. Indeed Poirot was as jumpy as the proverbial cat. He walked about our sitting-room all the afternoon, murmuring to himself and ceaselessly rearranging and straightening the ornaments. When I spoke to him, he waved his hands and shook his head.
In the end we started out from the hotel at barely six o'clock.
'It seems incredible,' I remarked, as we descended the steps of the terrace. 'To attempt to shoot anyone in a hotel garden. Only a madman would do such a thing.'
'I disagree with you. Given one condition, it would be quite a reasonably safe affair. To begin with the garden is deserted. The people who come to hotels are like a flock of sheep. It is customary to sit on the terrace overlooking the bay-eh bien, so everyone sits on the terrace. Only, I who am an original, sit overlooking the garden. And even then, I saw nothing. There is plenty of cover, you observe-trees, groups of palms, flowering shrubs. Anyone could hide himself comfortably and be unobserved whilst he waited for Mademoiselle to pass this way. And she would come this way. To come round by the road from End House would be much longer. Mademoiselle Nick Buckley, she would be of those who are always late and taking the short cut!'
'All the same, the risk was enormous. He might have been seen-and you can't make shooting look like an accident.'
'Not like an accident -no.' 'What do you mean?'
'Nothing-a little idea. I may or may not be justified. Leaving it aside for a moment, there is what I mentioned just now-an essential condition.'
'Which is?'
'Surely you can tell me, Hastings.'
'I wouldn't like to deprive you of the pleasure of being clever at my expense!'
'Oh! the sarcasm! The irony! Well, what leaps to the eye is this: the motive cannot be obvious. If it were -why, then, truly the risk would indeed be too great to be taken! People would say: "I wonder if it were So-and-So. Where was So-and-So when the shot was fired?" No, the murderer-the would-be murderer, I should say-cannot be obvious. And that, Hastings is why I am afraid! Yes, at this minute I am afraid. I reassure myself. I say: "There are four of them." I say: "Nothing can happen when they are all together." I say: "It would be madness!" And all the time I am afraid. These "accidents"-I want to hear about them!'
He turned back abruptly.
'It is still early. We will go the other way by the road. The garden has nothing to tell us. Let us inspect the orthodox approach to End House.'
Our way led out of the front gate of the hotel and up a sharp hill to the right. At the top of it was a small lane with a notice on the wall: 'TO END HOUSE ONLY.'
We followed it and after a few hundred yards the lane gave an abrupt turn and ended in a pair of dilapidated entrance gates, which would have been the better for a coat of paint.
Inside the gates, to the right, was a small lodge. This lodge presented a piquant contrast to the gates and to the condition of the grass-grown drive. The small garden round it was spick and span, the window frames and sashes had been lately painted and there were clean bright curtains at the windows.
Bending over a flower-bed was a man in a faded Norfolk jacket. He straightened up as the gate creaked and turned to look at us. He was a man of about sixty, six foot at least, with a powerful frame and a weather-beaten face. His head was almost completely bald. His eyes were a vivid blue and twinkled. He seemed a genial soul.
'Good-afternoon,' he observed as we passed.
I responded in kind and as we went on up the drive I was conscious of those blue eyes raking our backs inquisitively.
'I wonder,' said Poirot, thoughtfully.
He left it at that without vouchsafing any explanation of what it was that he wondered.
The house itself was large and rather dreary looking. It was shut in by trees, the branches of which actually touched the roof. It was clearly in bad repair. Poirot swept it with an appraising glance before ringing the bell-an old-fashioned bell that needed a Herculean pull to produce any effect and which once started, echoed mournfully on and on.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman-'a decent woman in black'-so I felt she should be described. Very respectable, rather mournful, completely uninterested.
Miss Buckley, she said, had not yet returned. Poirot explained that we had an appointment. He had some little difficulty in gaining his point, she was the type that is apt to be suspicious of foreigners. Indeed I flatter myself that it was my appearance which turned the scale. We were admitted and ushered into the drawing-room to await Miss Buckley's return.
There was no mournful note here. The room gave on the sea and was full of sunshine. It was shabby and betrayed conflicting styles-ultra modern of a cheap variety superimposed on solid Victorian. The curtains were of faded brocade, but the covers were new and gay and the cushions were positively hectic. On the walls were hung family portraits. Some of them, I thought, looked remarkably good. There was a gramophone and there were some records lying idly about. There were a portable wireless, practically no books, and one newspaper flung open on the end of the sofa. Poirot picked it up-then laid it down with a grimace. It was the St Loo Weekly Herald and Directory. Something impelled him to pick it up a second time, and he was glancing at a column when the door opened and Nick Buckley came into the room.
'Bring the ice, Ellen,' she called over her shoulder, then addressed herself to us.
'Well, here I am-and I've shaken off the others. I'm devoured with curiosity. Am I the long-lost heroine that is badly wanted for the Talkies? You were so very solemn'-she addressed herself to Poirot-'that I feel it can't be anything else. Do make me a handsome offer.'
'Alas! Mademoiselle-' began Poirot.
'Don't say it's the opposite,' she begged him. 'Don't say you paint miniatures and want me to buy one. But no-with that moustache and staying at the Majestic, which has the nastiest food and the highest prices in England-no, it simply can't be.'
The woman who had opened the door to us came into the room with ice and a tray of bottles. Nick mixed cocktails expertly, continuing to talk. I think at last Poirot's silence (so unlike him) impressed itself upon her. She stopped in the very act of filling the glasses and said sharply: 'Well?'
'That is what I wish it to be-well, Mademoiselle.' He took the cocktail from her hand. 'To your good health, Mademoiselle-to your continued good health.'
The girl was no fool. The significance of his tone was not lost on her. 'Is-anything the matter?' 'Yes, Mademoiselle. This...'
He held out his hand to her with the bullet on the palm of it. She picked it up with a puzzled frown.
'You know what that is?'
'Yes, of course I know. It's a bullet.'
'Exactly. Mademoiselle-it was not a wasp that flew past your face this morning-it was this bullet.'
'Do you mean-was some criminal idiot shooting bullets in a hotel garden?' 'It would seem so.'
'Well, I'm damned,' said Nick frankly. 'I do seem to bear a charmed life. That's number four.'
'Yes,' said Poirot. 'That is number four. I want, Mademoiselle, to hear about the other three-accidents.'
She stared at him.
'I want to be very sure, Mademoiselle, that they were-accidents.'
'Why, of course! What else could they be?'
'Mademoiselle, prepare yourself, I beg, for a great shock. What if someone is attempting your life?'
All Nick's response to this was a burst of laughter. The idea seemed to amuse her hugely.
'What a marvellous idea! My dear man, who on earth do you think would attempt my life? I'm not the beautiful young heiress whose death releases millions. I wish somebody was trying to kill me-that would be a thrill, if you like-but I'm afraid there's not a hope!'
'Will you tell me, Mademoiselle, about those accidents?'
'Of course-but there's nothing in it. They were just stupid things. There's a heavy picture hangs over my bed. It fell in the night. Just by pure chance I had happened to hear a door banging somewhere in the house and went down to find it and shut it-and so I escaped. It would probably have bashed my head in. That's No. 1.'
Poirot did not smile.
'Continue, Mademoiselle. Let us pass to No. 2.'
'Oh, that's weaker still. There's a scrambly cliff path down to the sea. I go down that way to bathe. There's a rock you can dive off. A boulder got dislodged somehow and came roaring down just missing me. The third thing was quite different. Something went wrong with the brakes of the car-I don't know quite what-the garage man explained, but I didn't follow it. Anyway if I'd gone through the gate and down the hill, they wouldn't have held and I suppose I'd have gone slap into the Town Hall and there would have been the devil of a smash. Slight defacement of the Town Hall, complete obliteration of me. But owing to my always leaving something behind, I turned back and merely ran into the laurel hedge.'
'And you cannot tell me what the trouble was?'
'You can go and ask them at Mott's Garage. They'll know. It was something quite simple and mechanical that had been unscrewed, I think. I wondered if Ellen's boy (my stand-by who opened the door to you, has got a small boy) had tinkered with it. Boys do like messing about with cars. Of course Ellen swore he'd never been near the car. I think something must just have worked loose in spite of what Mott said.'
'Where is your garage, Mademoiselle?'
'Round the other side of the house.'
'Is it kept locked?'
Nick's eyes widened in surprise.
'Oh! no. Of course not.'
'Anyone could tamper with the car unobserved?'
'Well-yes-I suppose so. But it's so silly.'
'No, Mademoiselle. It is not silly. You do not understand. You are in danger-grave danger. I tell it to you. I! And you do not know who I am?'
'No.' said Nick, breathlessly.
'I am Hercule Poirot.'
'Oh!' said Nick, in rather a flat tone. 'Oh, yes.'
'You know my name, eh?'
'Oh, yes.'
She wriggled uncomfortably. A hunted look came into her eyes. Poirot observed her keenly.
'You are not at ease. That means, I suppose, that you have not read my books.' 'Well-no-not all of them. But I know the name, of course.'
'Mademoiselle, you are a polite little liar.' (I started, remembering the words spoken at the Majestic Hotel that day after lunch.) 'I forget-you are only a child-you would not have heard. So quickly does fame pass. My friend there-he will tell you.'
Nick looked at me. I cleared my throat, somewhat embarrassed. 'Monsieur Poirot is-er-was-a great detective,' I explained.
'Ah! my friend,' cried Poirot. 'Is that all you can find to say? Mais dis donc! Say then to Mademoiselle that I am a detective unique, unsurpassed, the greatest that ever lived!'
'That is now unnecessary,' I said coldly. 'You have told her yourself.'
'Ah, yes, but it is more agreeable to have been able to preserve the modesty. One should not sing one's own praises.'
'One should not keep a dog and have to bark oneself,' agreed Nick, with mock sympathy. 'Who is the dog, by the way? Dr Watson, I presume.'
'My name is Hastings,' I said coldly.
'Battle of-1066,' said Nick. 'Who said I wasn't educated? Well, this is all too, too marvellous! Do you think someone really wants to do away with me? It would be thrilling. But, of course, that sort of thing doesn't really happen. Only in books. I expect Monsieur Poirot is like a surgeon who's invented an operation or a doctor who's found an obscure disease and wants everyone to have it.'
'Sacre tonnerre!' thundered Poirot. 'Will you be serious? You young people of today, will nothing make you serious? It would not have been a joke, Mademoiselle, if you had been lying in the hotel garden a pretty little corpse with a nice little hole through your head instead of your hat. You would not have laughed then-eh?'
'Unearthly laughter heard at a seance,' said Nick. 'But seriously, M. Poirot-it's very kind of you and all that-but the whole thing must be an accident.'
'You are as obstinate as the devil!'
'That's where I got my name from. My grandfather was popularly supposed to have sold his soul to the devil. Everyone round here called him Old Nick. He was a wicked old man-but great fun. I adored him. I went everywhere with him and so they called us Old Nick and Young Nick. My real name is Magdala.'
'That is an uncommon name.'
'Yes, it's a kind of family one. There have been lots of Magdalas in the Buckley family. There's one up there.'
She nodded at a picture on the wall.
'Ah!' said Poirot. Then looking at a portrait hanging over the mantelpiece, he said: 'Is that your grandfather, Mademoiselle?'
'Yes, rather an arresting portrait, isn't it? Jim Lazarus offered to buy it, I wouldn't sell. I've got an affection for Old Nick.'
'Ah!' Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said very earnestly: 'Revenons a nos moutons. Listen, Mademoiselle. I implore you to be serious. You are in danger. Today, somebody shot at you with a Mauser pistol-'
'A Mauser pistol?-'
For a moment she was startled.
'Yes, why? Do you know of anyone who has a Mauser pistol?'
She smiled.
'I've got one myself.'
'You have?'
'Yes-it was Dad's. He brought it back from the War. It's been knocking round here ever since. I saw it only the other day in that drawer.'
She indicated an old-fashioned bureau. Now, as though suddenly struck by an idea, she crossed to it and pulled the drawer open. She turned rather blankly. Her voice held a new note.
'Oh!' she said. 'It's-it's gone.'

第二章　悬崖山庄
“波洛，”我说，“我一直在想……”
“想是一种应当大力提倡的运动，继续想下去吧。”
我们面对面地坐在窗口一张小桌子上吃午饭。
“这一枪是在离我们很近的地方打的，但我们怎么没听见呢？”
“你认为在除了海涛拍岸之外似乎什么声响都没有的环境里，这一枪声应当使我们俩一起跳起来？”
“是啊，很奇怪。”
“不，并不奇怪。有些声音你听惯之后根本就不会感觉到这种声音的存在。今天整个上午那些赛艇都在下面海湾里东冲西闯，闹声连天。刚开始你烦得要命，但很快就习惯了，置若罔闻。这些赛艇只要有一艘在海湾里开，开手枪的声音就不易被人察觉。”
“这倒也是。”
“啊，看，”波洛轻声说道，“小姐和她的朋友们！他们像是要到这儿来吃午饭了。这一来我不得不把帽子还给她了。不过没关系，还了帽子我依然可以到她家去看她的。”
他敏捷地站了起来，匆匆穿过餐厅，在他们刚刚围着桌子坐下的时候把帽子还给了她，还风度翩翩地鞠了一躬。
他们一共四人。尼克•巴克利、查林杰中校，还有另外一男一女。从我们坐的地方不大看得清他们，但不时听到那个海军军官放声大笑。他好像是个开朗快活的人，我对他已经有了好感。
吃饭时，我的朋友心不在焉地沉默着。他把面包撕成小块，自言自语地发出一些奇怪的轻呼声，还下意识地把桌上的每样东西摆得井井有条。我打算跟他谈话，他却没有反应。我只好作罢。
吃完了奶酪，他又坐了很久。但那四位一离开餐室，他也马上站了起来。他们走进休息室，刚在桌旁坐下，波洛就以他最出色的军人风度走过去，直截了当地对尼克说：
“小姐，我是否可以和你说几句话？”
姑娘皱起眉头。我觉得她无疑感到厌烦，怕这个形迹可疑的外国佬纠缠不休。她很不情愿地走到了一旁。
在波洛跟她说话的当儿，我见她脸上突然现出惊异的表情。同时我却浑身不自在。幸亏老练豁达的查林杰把我救出了尴尬的处境。他过来请我抽烟并闲聊了几句。我们互相看看，彼此都觉得满意。我感到查林杰和与他同桌吃饭的那个男人不大合得来，还是跟我更为融洽一些。现在我有机会来端详一下与查林杰同桌的那个男子了。他是个高个子、黄头发、大鼻子、白皮肤的青年，可以算得上是个美男子。他老是卖弄着懒散倦怠的傲慢风度。我尤其不喜欢他那种对什么都装出不屑一顾的神情。
然后我的视线又移到旁边的那位女士身上。她面对着我坐在一张大椅子里，刚刚扔下她的帽子。她不是我们常见的那种女郎。她的外貌其实不用形容，你只要想象一下圣母马利亚的无精打采的塑像就行了。一头淡得几乎发白的黄头发从中间分开，垂下来遮出两只耳朵，在颈部漫不经心地挽了个结。苍白憔悴的双颊配上一双瞳仁很大的浅灰色的眼睛，倒也自有一种妩媚。她脸上有一种万念俱灰的淡漠的神情，像是冰从眼睛一直结到了心底。
她凝视着我，突然开口了：
“坐下——坐到你的朋友跟尼克把话讲完。”
她的语气忧郁做作，但她的音调缠绵悱恻，倒是怪吸引人的。这位女士几乎可以算是我所遇见过的最委顿的人了——不是指体力而是指心灵。她好像觉得世上一切都是空虚的，既无意义，也无价值。
“今天中午，当我的朋友扭伤了脚的时候，她帮了很大的忙。”我坐下时这么说。
“尼克告诉过我，”她眼神恍惚地看着我，“他的脚好些了没有？”
我觉得脸上有些发热，解释说：“只不过蹩了一下而已。”
“哦，这样说来尼克这次说的倒是真话。你知道吗，她是个天字第一号的说谎专家。真叫人奇怪——无中生有也是招待朋友的一种办法。”
我无话可说了。她像是觉得我的窘态很好玩，就接着说：
“尼克是我的老朋友。我总感到诚实是一种难能可贵的美德。你说呢？像苏格兰人似地省吃俭用、循规蹈矩多不容易呀。可尼克多会撒谎，吉姆，你说是吗？什么关于汽车刹车失灵的耸人听闻的故事……吉姆说压根儿就没有这么回事。”
那淡黄头发的年轻人用一种温柔而响亮的声音说：
“我是懂得汽车结构的。”
他侧过头去。外面，在其它许多汽车当中停着一辆车身颀长的红色轿车，它比其它随便哪辆车身都长，颜色也红得别具一格，的确是一辆呱呱叫的小轿车。
“那是你的车吗？”我信口问道。
他点点头：“是的。”
我酸溜溜地加上一句：“是啊，像这样一辆轿车除了你还会是谁的呢？”
这时波洛走了过来。我刚站起来他就拉着我的膀子对大家很快地鞠了一躬，把我拖走了。
“约好了，我的朋友。我们将在六点半钟到悬崖山庄去拜访那位小姐。到那时她会回去的。嗯，是的，她肯定会回去的——平平安安地回到家里的。”
他神色忧虑，说话的口气也显得十分不安。
“你对她说了些什么？”
“我要求她安排一次会晤，越快越好。当然她不太乐意。她肯定在想——我看得出她在这样想：‘他是什么人？这男的到底是谁？一个肖像画家？一个暴发户？还是个电影导演？’她想要拒绝我——但又不好意思出口，因为突如其来地提出的要求叫她难以应付。她答应在六点半回到悬崖山庄去。一切顺利！”
剩下要做的只是等待。波洛真是没有片刻安宁。整个下午他自言自语地在我们的起居间里踱来踱去，周而复始地把屋里各种小摆设移来移去，弄出种种新花样。我想跟他谈话时，他就向我又是摆手又是摇头。
好容易捱到六点，我们便离开了旅馆。
“简直不可思议，”当我们走下旅馆的台阶时我这么说，“竟企图在旅馆的花园里开枪杀人！只有疯子才会干出这种事来。”
“我倒颇不以为然，”波洛说，“这个花园相当荒芜，游客们又全都像一群羊似的喜欢坐在大阳台上眺望海湾，因此在花园里干这种勾当很安全。嘿，只有我——与众不同的赫尔克里•波洛却坐在冷僻的小阳台上欣赏花园！遗憾的是即便如此我还是没能看见开枪的人。有许多东西挡住了我的视线——树呀、棕榈呀、开满了花的灌木呀什么的。随便什么人在等待小姐经过的时候都可以十分安全地隐藏起来。而且尼克小姐一定会走这条路的，因为从山庄到旅馆的正路要远得多。这位小姐是这样一种人，她老是姗姗来迟，然后不得不抄近路。”
“反正不管怎么说，这么干对于凶手来说是很危险的，可能被人看见。况且你总不见得有办法使枪杀看起来像一次偶然事故。”
“偶然事故？不，不像偶然事故，但可能会像别的……”
“你的意思是——”
“没什么。我有个想法，但也可能不对，且不去说它。我认为，这次枪杀说明那个罪犯具有一个主要的有利条件。”
“什么条件？”
“你自然是明知故问罗，黑斯廷斯。”
“我是不会使你丧失拿我取乐的机会的。”
“啊，你话里带刺好了！你挖苦我好了！不过我不介意。瞧，有一点是很清楚的：罪犯的动机一定不明显。否则这样莽撞行事就未免太冒险了。人们会说：‘我怀疑是某某人干的。开枪时某某人在什么地方？’由此可见，这个凶手——我应当说是未遂凶手——的动机一定隐藏得很深，因此不容易或者说不可能怀疑到凶手身上。而这，黑斯廷斯，就是我所担心的。是啊，此时此刻我就十分提心吊胆。我安慰自己说：‘他们有四个人，他们都在一起时什么事也不会发生的。’我说，‘要是还会出事，就真的只能是疯子干的了。’但我还是放心不下。这些‘偶然事故’还没完呢。”
突然他转过身来说：
“还早呢，我们走另外那条路吧。在花园里的小路上我们不会再发现什么的。让我们看一看到悬崖山庄去的正路吧。”
我们沿大路走出旅馆正门，向右转上了一座陡峭小山丘。小山顶上有条小路，路旁的山石上写道：“此路仅通悬崖山庄。”
沿这条小路走了几百码以后，小路突然一弯，眼前就出现了两扇久经失修、破败不堪的大门。门内右边有一所门房小屋，这所小屋同那两扇大门以及荒草满径的小道形成鲜明的对比。它周围的小花园是得到精心照料的，生气勃勃，洋溢着香味。小屋的窗框和窗棂都是新近油漆的，窗上还挂着清洁的浅色窗帘。
花床上有一个身穿诺福克上衣的人正弯腰干活。听见大门的吱嘎声他直起身来回头看看我们。这是个年近花甲的人，至少有六英尺高，他几乎完全秃了顶，但还魁梧有力；饱经风霜的脸上有一双炯炯有神的天蓝色眼睛，看上去忠厚慈祥。
“下午好！”当我们从他身旁走过时他这样招呼道。
我照样回答了一声，同波洛一起沿着小径继续往前走，可是却感觉那双天蓝色的眼睛一直在好奇地打量着我们的背影。
“我在想。”波洛心事重重地说。可是他没告诉我他在想什么。那句话就这么开了个头，就算是说完了。
我们面前的这所悬崖山庄是一所又大又阴沉的房子，被浓密的树荫包围着。那些树枝几乎伸进屋顶也没人管。波洛把房子从外面打量了一番，就去拉门上的拉铃。要把铃拉响可不是件轻而易举的事，得花上九牛二虎之力才行。但一旦被你拉响了，它那凄凉的回声便在深宅里徘徊徜徉，经久不息。
出来开门的是个中年妇人。我想应当这样来描写她：一位浑身缁衣的端庄妇人，令人尊敬，但却又哀愁满面，毫无生趣。
她说巴克利小姐还没回来。波洛解释说我们跟小姐是有约在先的。为了说明这件事他很费了一番口舌，因为她是那种对一切外国人深具戒心的女人。我确实满可以得意一下，因为我不是外国人，而我的在场帮了波洛不少忙。我们被让进客厅，坐等巴克利小姐归来。
这间客厅里倒没有那种凄凉味儿。它面向大海，阳光充足。房间布置得不伦不类，捉襟见肘的窘态一目了然：最时新的廉价小玩意儿与维多利亚时代古色古香的笨重家具相映成趣。当年华美的缎子窗帘已经发脆，在风里飘动起来虽然依旧仪态万方，但发出的声音却叫人听了不由得要为它们的寿命担些心事。椅子上的坐垫套全是新做的，色彩绚丽夺目，可是坐垫本身却七拼八凑，没有两只是一样的。墙上挂着许多幅家庭成员的肖像画。我觉得有几位祖宗看上去温文尔雅、大有古风。房间里有台留声机，唱片东一张西一张随意乱放。还有一台手提收音机脸朝下躺在沙发上，里头还叽哩咕噜地发出些莫名其妙的声音，像个爱发牢骚的老头独自在生闷气。房间里东西不少，就是找不到一本书。一张报纸摊开在沙发上。波洛把它捡了起来，皱皱眉头又扔下了。这是《圣卢周报》。报上有什么东西使得他又把它重新捡起来。正当他看报的时候门开了。尼克•巴克利走了进来。
“拿冷饮来，埃伦。”她回头喊了一声，然后跟我们打了招呼。
“我来了——甩开了那几位，我好奇心很重。你说，我会不会是个人家踏破铁鞋无觅处的电影明星？你不以为然吗？”她对波洛说，真的把他当成了电影导演。“但我觉得当个电影里的女主角，做了电影明星，才是老天爷把我派到这个世界上来的目的。你给我一个机会试试吧。”
“哎呀，小姐……”波洛刚要开始解释，又被她打断了。
“可别是你倒想叫我给你一个机会吧？”她的声音近于恳求了。“别对我说你画了些小玩意儿要我买一幅。不过不会的，一个长着如此威严的胡须，住在全英国价钱最贵而饭菜最劣的美琪旅馆的人，决不会是个画画的。”
那位给我们开门的仪态端庄的妇人，拿着冰和一些酒瓶进来了。尼克熟练地调起了鸡尾酒，边调边絮絮不休。最后大约她察觉到波洛不寻常的沉默，就突然放下鸡尾酒问道：
“喂，怎么啦？”
“我但愿你平安无事，小姐，”他从她手中接过鸡尾酒，“为了你的健康，小姐，为了你还继续健康下去，干杯！”
那姑娘并非傻瓜，她听出了波洛的弦外之音。
“怎么，会出什么事吗？”
“嗯，小姐，你看——”
他把那颗子弹放在掌心里给她看。她蹙起眉头把它拿了起来。
“你知道这是什么吗？”
“当然知道，这是子弹。”
“一点不错，小姐。这就是今天上午从你耳边飞过的黄蜂之一。”
“你是不是说，今天有个白痴在旅馆的花园里向我开枪？”
“好像是这么回事。”
“那么，我可以起誓。”尼克肯定地说，“我的确生活在神灵的庇佑之下。这是第四次了。”
“是的。”波洛说，“这是第四次。小姐，我想请你谈谈另外三次的情形，可以吗？”
她怔怔地看着波洛。
“小姐，我要弄明白它们究竟是不是偶然事故。”
“当然是的啰。不然，是什么呢？”
“小姐，你得有所提防，我恳求你。你要遭大难了。有人想暗算你呢。”
听了这话尼克乐得大笑了一阵。她像是觉得这个说法十分有趣。
“多新鲜的想法！我亲爱的先生，竟会有什么人来暗算我？我又不是百万富翁的继承人。我倒希望真的会有人在想方设法谋害我，那才够味儿呢。但我怕没这个福气。”
“小姐，请你告诉我那些事故好吗？”
“当然可以，但没有什么说头，都是些无聊的事。我床头上挂着一幅很笨重的带框架的图画，它在夜里突然掉了下来。要不是我刚巧下楼去关一扇被风吹得乒乓作响的门，这下子准会砸得我脑浆迸裂。这是第一次。”
波洛脸上一丝笑意都没有。
“说下去，小姐。第二次呢？”
“哦，第二次更不值一提。那边有一堵峭壁，峭壁上有条极陡的小路通到下面的大海。我沿那条小路下去，到海里去游泳。海边有一块礁石可以用来跳水。我刚下到海边，峭壁顶上一块大石头忽然松动了，直滚下来，差点打中我。
“第三次就不同了。我汽车的刹车出了毛病——我不清楚是什么毛病——修车工人告诉过我，但我不懂。反正如果我把汽车开出大门，驶下那座小山，由于没有刹车，汽车就会失去控制，一直撞到山下的镇议会大厅上去，连车带人撞得粉碎。议会大厅的外墙会撞得不成样子，我呢，自然也就一命呜呼了。幸好我出门时老是把东西忘在家里。在我还没开到小山顶上就掉转头开回来取东西，结果仅仅冲进了那些月桂篱笆。”
“你说不出是什么零件出了故障？”
“你可以去问莫特先生车行里的人，他们知道。大概是个什么螺丝松了吧。我不知道埃伦的男孩子（埃伦就是给你们开门的那位妇人，她是我的佣人）是否动过我的车，因为男孩子是顶喜欢摆弄汽车的。当然，埃伦赌咒发誓地说他没走近过汽车。我想一定是车子用久了没有好好维修之故。”
“你的车库在哪儿，小姐？”
“就在这所房子的另一边。”
“上锁吗？”
尼克眼里露出惊奇的神色。
“上锁？干吗要上锁呀？”
“随便什么人都可以去摆弄你的车而不会被发现？”
“是吧，我想是这样的。不过谁会去做这种蠢事？”
“不，小姐，不是蠢事。你不明白，你正处在危险之中——极大的危险，我告诉你。我！你可知道我是谁？”
“不知道，”尼克屏住了气说。
“我是赫尔克里•波洛！”
“哦，”尼克无动于衷，“哦，是的。”
“你听说过我的名字吗？呃？”
“啊……听说过。”
她不自在地扭动了一下，眼里流露出不安的神色。这一切波洛看得清清楚楚。
“你不自在了。这就是说，我猜，你还没看过我的书。”
“嗯，是的，没有全部看过，但我当然知道这个名字。”
“小姐，你是个有礼貌的小骗人精（我听后吃了一惊，记起了在旅馆里同她朋友的谈话）。我忘了，你还只是个孩子——你还没有听到过我的名字。名气哪会传得那么快！我的朋友会告诉你我是谁的。”
尼克看着我。我咳嗽了一声，觉得怪别扭的。
“波洛先生是——嗯——是一位大侦探家。”我解释说。
“嗨，我的朋友，”波洛叫道，“难道你只有这么几个字好说吗？讲下去呀，你应当对小姐说，我是空前绝后的、绝无仅有的、料事如神的最伟大的侦探家！”
“现在不用我来讲了，”我冷冷地说，“你自己全说了出来。”
“哦，当然，一个人总还是谦虚点好。赞歌应当让别人来唱才有意思。”
“一个人养了条狗就应当让狗去叫而不要自己叫个不停。”尼克讥讽地表示同意，“那么谁是狗的角色呢？大概是华生医生吧？”
“我的名字叫黑斯廷斯。”我板着脸说。
“一○六六年那次战役就叫黑斯廷斯之战，”尼克说，“谁说我不学无术？不过今天的事儿太叫人费解了。你认为真的有人要杀我吗？这倒叫人不可思议，不过这种事不会真的发生，那只有小说书里才有。我觉得波洛先生活像一个发明了一种新手术的外科医生，急于一试，或者像个发现了一种前所未有的疾病而希望大家一患为快的内科大夫。”
“简直不像话，”波洛大声说，“你严肃些好不好？现时你们这些年轻人把什么都当成儿戏，但现在不是开玩笑的时候，小姐。如果你头上被精巧地凿了个小洞，变成一具美丽可爱的尸体躺在旅馆花园里的话，你可就笑不起来了。呃？”
尼克说：“但说真的，波洛先生，你对我真好，不过这些事情都只能是些偶然发生的意外事故。”
“你像魔鬼一样顽固不化！”
“这正是我名字的来由。我祖父老是说他把灵魂卖给了魔鬼，人们都叫他老尼克。他是个糟老头子，但很滑稽。我崇拜他，跟着他到处跑，因此他们叫他老尼克，叫我小尼克。我的真名是玛格黛勒。”
“这是个少见的名字。”
“是的。但我们姓巴克利的有好几个人叫玛格黛勒。喏，那里就有一个。”她朝墙上许多画像中的一幅点了点头。
“哦，”波洛对那些画像瞟了一眼，又看着壁炉架上方的一幅问道：“那是不是你祖父，小姐？”
“是的。这幅画很引人注目，对吧？吉姆•拉扎勒斯要买它，可我不卖。我很爱老尼克。”
波洛沉默了片刻之后很认真地说：
“言归正传。听着，小姐。我求你严肃些。你正处于危险之中。今天有人用毛瑟手枪向你射击——”
“毛瑟手枪？”她吃了一惊。
“是的。怎么？你知道什么人有毛瑟手枪吗？”
她笑了。
“我自己就有一枝。”
“你有？”
“是的。是我爸爸的。他把它从战场上带回来以后随处乱扔。前几天我看见它在那只抽屉里。”
她指了指一张老式写字台，接着好像想起什么似的走过去拉开抽屉。她显得迷茫困惑，连声音也变了：
“咦，它——不见了。”
Chapter 3  Accidents? 偶然事故
Chapter 3 - Accidents?
It was from that moment that the conversation took on a different tone. Up to now, Poirot and the girl had been at cross-purposes. They were separated by a gulf of years. His fame and reputation meant nothing to her-she was of the generation that knows only the great names of the immediate moment. She was, therefore, unimpressed by his warnings. He was to her only a rather comic elderly foreigner with an amusingly melodramatic mind.
And this attitude baffled Poirot. To begin with, his vanity suffered. It was his constant dictum that all the world knew Hercule Poirot. Here was someone who did not. Very good for him, I could not but feel-but not precisely helpful to the object in view!
With the discovery of the missing pistol, however, the affair took on a new phase. Nick ceased to treat it as a mildly amusing joke. She still treated the matter lightly, because it was her habit and her creed to treat all occurrences lightly, but there was a distinct difference in her manner.
She came back and sat down on the arm of a chair, frowning thoughtfully. 'That's odd,' she said. Poirot whirled round on me.
'You remember, Hastings, the little idea I mentioned? Well, it was correct, my little idea! Supposing Mademoiselle had been found shot lying in the hotel garden? She might not have been found for some hours-few people pass that way. And beside her hand -just fallen from it-is her own pistol. Doubtless the good Madame Ellen would identify it. There would be suggestions, no doubt, of worry or of sleeplessness-'
Nick moved uneasily.
'That's true. I have been worried to death. Everybody's been telling me I'm nervy. Yes-they'd say all that...'
'And bring in a verdict of suicide. Mademoiselle's fingerprints conveniently on the pistol and nobody else's-but yes, it would be very simple and convincing.'
'How terribly amusing!' said Nick, but not, I was glad to note, as though she were terribly amused.
Poirot accepted her words in the conventional sense in which they were uttered.
'N'est ce pas? But you understand, Mademoiselle, there must be no more of this. Four failures-yes-but the fifth time there may be a success.'
'Bring out your rubber-tyred hearses,' murmured Nick.
'But we are here, my friend and I, to obviate all that!' I felt grateful for the 'we'. Poirot has a habit of sometimes ignoring my existence.
'Yes,' I put in. 'You mustn't be alarmed, Miss Buckley. We will protect you.'
'How frightfully nice of you,' said Nick. 'I think the whole thing is perfectly marvellous. Too, too thrilling.'
She still preserved her airy detached manner, but her eyes, I thought, looked troubled.
'And the first thing to do,' said Poirot, 'is to have the consultation.' He sat down and beamed upon her in a friendly manner.
'To begin with, Mademoiselle, a conventional question-but-have you any enemies?'
Nick shook her head rather regretfully. 'I'm afraid not,' she said apologetically.
'Bon. We will dismiss that possibility then. And now we ask the question of the cinema, of the detective novel-Who profits by your death, Mademoiselle?'
'I can't imagine,' said Nick. 'That's why it all seems such nonsense. There's this beastly old barn, of course, but it's mortgaged up to the hilt, the roof leaks and there can't be a coal mine or anything exciting like that hidden in the cliff.'
'It is mortgaged-hein?'
'Yes. I had to mortgage it. You see there were two lots of death duties-quite soon after each other. First my grandfather died-just six years ago, and then my brother. That just about put the lid on the financial position.'
'And your father?'
'He was invalided home from the War, then got pneumonia and died in 1919. My mother died when I was a baby. I lived here with grandfather. He and Dad didn't get on (I don't wonder), so Dad found it convenient to park me and go roaming the world on his own account. Gerald-that was my brother-didn't get on with grandfather either. I dare say I shouldn't have got on with him if I'd been a boy. Being a girl saved me. Grandfather used to say I was a chip off the old block and had inherited his spirit.' She laughed. 'He was an awful old rip, I believe. But frightfully lucky. There was a saying round here that everything he touched turned to gold. He was a gambler, though, and gambled it away again. When he died he left hardly anything beside the house and land. I was sixteen when he died and Gerald was twenty-two. Gerald was killed in a motor accident just three years ago and the place came to me.'
'And after you, Mademoiselle? Who is your nearest relation?'
'My cousin, Charles. Charles Vyse. He's a lawyer down here. Quite good and worthy but very dull. He gives me good advice and tries to restrain my extravagant tastes.'
'He manages your affairs for you-eh?'
'Well-yes, if you like to put it that way. I haven't many affairs to manage. He arranged the mortgage for me and made me let the lodge.'
'Ah!-the lodge. I was going to ask you about that. It is let?'
'Yes-to some Australians. Croft their name is. Very hearty, you know-and all that sort of thing. Simply oppressively kind. Always bringing up sticks of celery and early peas and things like that. They're shocked at the way I let the garden go. They're rather a nuisance, really-at least he is. Too terribly friendly for words. She's a cripple, poor thing, and lies on a sofa all day. Anyway they pay the rent and that's the great thing.'
'How long have they been here?' 'Oh! about six months.'
'I see. Now, beyond this cousin of yours-on your father's side or your mother's, by the way?'
'Mother's. My mother was Amy Vyse.'
'Bien! Now, beyond this cousin, as I was saying, have you any other relatives?'
'Some very distant cousins in Yorkshire-Buckleys.'
'No one else?'
'No.'
'That is lonely.'
Nick stared at him.
'Lonely? What a funny idea. I'm not down here much, you know. I'm usually in London. Relations are too devastating as a rule. They fuss and interfere. It's much more fun to be on one's own.'
'I will not waste the sympathy. You are a modern, I see, Mademoiselle. Now-your household.'
'How grand that sounds! Ellen's the household. And her husband, who's a sort of gardener-not a very good one. I pay them frightfully little because I let them have the child here. Ellen does for me when I'm down here and if I have a party
we get in who and what we can to help. I'm giving a party on Monday. It's Regatta week, you know.'
'Monday-and today is Saturday. Yes. Yes. And now, Mademoiselle, your friends-the ones with whom you were lunching today, for instance?'
'Well, Freddie Rice-the fair girl-is practically my greatest friend. She's had a rotten life. Married to a beast-a man who drank and drugged and was altogether a queer of the worst description. She had to leave him a year or two ago. Since then she's drifted round. I wish to goodness she'd get a divorce and marry Jim Lazarus.'
'Lazarus? The art dealer in Bond Street?'
'Yes. Jim's the only son. Rolling in money, of course. Did you see that car of his? He's a Jew, of course, but a frightfully decent one. And he's devoted to Freddie. They go about everywhere together. They are staying at the Majestic over the week-end and are coming to me on Monday.'
'And Mrs Rice's husband?'
'The mess? Oh! he's dropped out of everything. Nobody knows where he is. It makes it horribly awkward for Freddie. You can't divorce a man when you don't know where he is.'
'Evidemment!'
'Poor Freddie,' said Nick, pensively. 'She's had rotten luck. The thing was all fixed once. She got hold of him and put it to him, and he said he was perfectly willing, but he simply hadn't got the cash to take a woman to a hotel. So the end of it all was she forked out-and he took it and off he went and has never been heard of from that day to this. Pretty mean, I call it.'
'Good heavens,' I exclaimed.
'My friend Hastings is shocked,' remarked Poirot. 'You must be more careful, Mademoiselle. He is out of date, you comprehend. He has just returned from
those great clear open spaces, etc., and he has yet to learn the language of nowadays.'
'Well, there's nothing to get shocked about,' said Nick, opening her eyes very wide. 'I mean, everybody knows, don't they, that there are such people. But I call it a low-down trick all the same. Poor old Freddie was so damned hard up at the time that she didn't know where to turn.'
'Yes, yes, not a very pretty affair. And your other friend, Mademoiselle. The good Commander Challenger?'
'George? I've known George all my life-well, for the last five years anyway. He's a good scout, George.'
'He wishes you to marry him-eh?'
'He does mention it now and again. In the small hours of the morning or after the second glass of port.'
'But you remain hard-hearted.'
'What would be the use of George and me marrying one another? We've neither of us got a bean. And one would get terribly bored with George. That "playing for one's side," "good old school" manner. After all, he's forty if he's a day.'
The remark made me wince slightly.
'In fact he has one foot in the grave,' said Poirot. 'Oh! do not mind me, Mademoiselle. I am a grandpapa-a nobody. And now tell me more about these accidents. The picture, for instance?'
'It's been hung up again-on a new cord. You can come and see it if you like.'
She led the way out of the room and we followed her. The picture in question was an oil painting in a heavy frame. It hung directly over the bed-head.
With a murmured, 'You permit, Mademoiselle,' Poirot removed his shoes and mounted upon the bed. He examined the picture and the cord, and gingerly tested the weight of the painting. With an elegant grimace he descended.
'To have that descend on one's head-no, it would not be pretty. The cord by which it was hung, Mademoiselle, was it, like this one, a wire cable?'
'Yes, but not so thick. I got a thicker one this time.'
'That is comprehensible. And you examined the break-the edges were frayed?'
'I think so-but I didn't notice particularly. Why should I?'
'Exactly. As you say, why should you? All the same, I should much like to look at that piece of wire. Is it about the house anywhere?'
'It was still on the picture. I expect the man who put the new wire on just threw the old one away.'
'A pity. I should like to have seen it.'
'You don't think it was just an accident after all? Surely it couldn't have been anything else.'
'It may have been an accident. It is impossible to say. But the damage to the brakes of your car-that was not an accident. And the stone that rolled down the cliff-I should like to see the spot where that accident occurred.'
Nick took us out in the garden and led us to the cliff edge. The sea glittered blue below us. A rough path led down the face of the rock. Nick described just where the accident occurred and Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he asked: 'How many ways are there into your garden, Mademoiselle?'
'There's the front way-past the lodge. And a tradesman's entrance-a door in the wall half-way up that lane. Then there's a gate just along here on the cliff edge. It leads out on to a zig zag path that leads up from that beach to the Majestic Hotel. And then, of course, you can go straight through a gap in the hedge into the Majestic garden-that's the way I went this morning. To go through the Majestic garden is a short cut to the town anyway.'
'And your gardener-where does he usually work?'
'Well, he usually potters round the kitchen garden, or else he sits in the potting-shed and pretends to be sharpening the shears.'
'Round the other side of the house, that is to say?'
'So that if anyone were to come in here and dislodge a boulder he would be very unlikely to be noticed.'
Nick gave a sudden little shiver.
'Do you-do you really think that is what happened?' she asked, 'I can't believe it somehow. It seems so perfectly futile.'
Poirot drew the bullet from his pocket again and looked at it. 'That was not futile, Mademoiselle,' he said gently. 'It must have been some madman.'
'Possibly. It is an interesting subject of after-dinner conversation-are all criminals really madmen? There may be a malformation in their little grey cells-yes, it is very likely. That, it is the affair of the doctor. For me-I have different work to perform. I have the innocent to think of, not the guilty-the victim, not the criminal. It is you I am considering now, Mademoiselle, not your unknown assailant. You are young and beautiful, and the sun shines and the world is pleasant, and there is life and love ahead of you. It is all that of which I think, Mademoiselle. Tell me, these friends of yours, Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus-they have been down here, how long?'
'Freddie came down on Wednesday to this part of the world. She stopped with some people near Tavistock for a couple of nights. She came on here yesterday. Jim has been touring round about, I believe.'
'And Commander Challenger?'
'He's at Devonport. He comes over in his car whenever he can-week-ends mostly.'
Poirot nodded. We were walking back to the house. There was a silence, and then he said suddenly: 'Have you a friend whom you can trust, Mademoiselle?'
'There's Freddie.'
'Other than Mrs Rice.'
'Well, I don't know. I suppose I have. Why?'
'Because I want you to have a friend to stay with you-immediately.'
'Oh!'
Nick seemed rather taken aback. She was silent a moment or two, thinking. Then she said doubtfully: 'There's Maggie. I could get hold of her, I expect.'
'Who is Maggie?'
'One of my Yorkshire cousins. There's a large family of them. He's a clergyman, you know. Maggie's about my age, and I usually have her to stay sometime or other in the summer. She's no fun, though-one of those painfully pure girls, with the kind of hair that has just become fashionable by accident. I was hoping to get out of having her this year.'
'Not at all. Your cousin, Mademoiselle, will do admirably. Just the type of person I had in mind.'
'All right,' said Nick, with a sigh. 'I'll wire her. I certainly don't know who else I could get hold of just now. Everyone's fixed up. But if it isn't the Choirboys' Outing or the Mothers' Beanfeast she'll come all right. Though what you expect her to do ...'
'Could you arrange for her to sleep in your room?'
'I suppose so.'
'She would not think that an odd request?'
'Oh, no, Maggie never thinks. She just does -earnestly, you know. Christian works-with faith and perseverance. All right, I'll wire her to come on Monday.'
'Why not tomorrow?'
'With Sunday trains? She'll think I'm dying if I suggest that. No, I'll say Monday. Are you going to tell her about the awful fate hanging over me?'
'Nous verrons. You still make a jest of it? You have courage, I am glad to see.' 'It makes a diversion anyway,' said Nick.
Something in her tone struck me and I glanced at her curiously. I had a feeling that there was something she had left untold. We had re-entered the drawing-room. Poirot was fingering the newspaper on the sofa.
'You read this, Mademoiselle?' he asked, suddenly.
'The St Loo Herald ? Not seriously. I opened it to see the tides. It gives them every week.'
'I see. By the way, Mademoiselle, have you ever made a will?' 'Yes, I did. About six months ago. Just before my op.' 'Qu'est ce que vous dites? Your op?'
'Operation. For appendicitis. Someone said I ought to make a will, so I did. It made me feel quite important.'
'And the terms of that will?'
'I left End House to Charles. I hadn't much else to leave, but what there was I left to Freddie. I should think probably the-what do you call them-liabilities would have exceeded the assets, really.'
Poirot nodded absently.
'I will take my leave now. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Be careful.'
'What of?' asked Nick.
'You are intelligent. Yes, that is the weak point-in which direction are you to be careful? Who can say? But have confidence, Mademoiselle. In a few days I shall have discovered the truth.'
'Until then beware of poison, bombs, revolver shots, motor accidents and arrows dipped in the secret poison of the South American Indians,' finished Nick glibly.
'Do not mock yourself, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot gravely. He paused as he reached the door.
'By the way,' he said. 'What price did M. Lazarus offer you for the portrait of your grandfather?'
'Fifty pounds.'
'Ah!' said Poirot.
He looked earnestly back at the dark saturnine face above the mantelpiece.
'But, as I told you, I don't want to sell the old boy.'
'No,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'No, I understand.'

第三章　偶然事故
从这一瞬间起，气氛就不同了。这以前，波洛和这姑娘总谈不到一块。他们年龄相差太远，他的名气和声望对她丝毫不起作用——她这一代人只知道眼下正在当权的显赫人物。她拿他郑重其事的警告尽情取乐。对她来说，他只不过是个脑子里装满了戏剧性怪念头的滑稽的外国老头。
这使波洛十分难堪，主要是伤了他的自尊心。他一向坚信不疑地认定自己的鼎鼎大名在全世界无人不知无人不晓，但这里竟有一位女郎对之一无所闻。我私下庆幸，觉得这盆冷水泼得大快人心，不过对眼下发生的事可就谈不上有任何助益了。
手枪的失踪使整个局面立刻改观。尼克不再把这一切当成引人入胜的笑话，可她仍然不觉得手枪的失踪有什么大不了的。对什么都满不在乎正是她的性格。不过从她的举止上看得出来她毕竟有了心事。
她过来坐在一张椅子的扶手上，沉思地蹙起了眉头，说：“真是怪事。”
波洛向我转过头来。
“你可记得，黑斯廷斯，在离开旅馆时我说过我有了一个想法？现在看来我那个没有说出来的想法是正确的。我们来设想一下：小姐被打中了躺在旅馆的花园里。她在短时间内不会被发现，因为那里很冷僻。而在她手边——有一枝她自己的手枪（毫无疑问那位尊敬的埃伦太太会认出它来）。于是这件不幸的事就会被很自然地看成是由于焦虑、担忧或失眠而自杀。”
尼克不自在地动了动。
“这是真的。我烦得要命，人人都说我看起来很紧张，神经过敏。是啊——他们都这么说……”
“于是自杀了。手枪上除了小姐的指纹外没别人的指纹——是啊，一切就是那样简单明白，使人信服。”
“真好玩！”尼克说。但我很高兴地看出来，其实她并不觉得怎么好玩。
波洛没有理会她说话的口气，接着说道：
“是吗？但你总该明白，小姐，这种好玩事儿决不能再来一次了。失败了四次，可第五次却也许会成功！”
“准备好棺材吧。”尼克喃喃地说。
“不过有我们在这儿，我和我的朋友。我们有法子使你转危为安。”
我很感激他说“我们”，而不是“我”。波洛有时根本不理会我的存在。
“是的，”我说，“别害怕，巴克利小姐，我们会保护你的。”
“你们真是太关心我了，”尼克说，“不过我总觉得这一切完全不能解释。太叫人、太叫人毛骨悚然了。”
她仍然装出无所谓的样子，眼里却流露出忧虑。
“现在我们要做的第一件事，”波洛说，“是把情况了解一下。”
他坐下来，温存友好地对她笑了笑。
“首先，小姐，你可有什么仇人？”
尼克有些遗憾地摇了摇头，好像没有仇人是一件对不起波洛的事似的。
“恐怕没有。”她道歉般地说。
“好，我们可以排除这种可能性。现在，我们要问一个电影里或是侦探小说里常出现的问题：小姐，要是你死了，谁会得益？”
“我想不出，”尼克说，“正是这一点使这一切显得荒唐。当然，我还有这所令人望而却步的朽屋，可它也抵押出去了。屋顶漏水，屋基下面又没有什么矿藏。”
“它抵押出去了？怎么回事？”
“我不得不把它抵押了。你看，我们被征了两次遗产税，一次紧跟着一次。先是我祖父死了，才过了六年又轮到我哥哥。这两次遗产税几乎叫我破产。”
“你父亲呢？”
“在战争中残废之后他就退役回家了。后来患肺炎在一九一九年死了。我母亲死得更早，那里我还是个婴儿。我跟祖父一起住在这儿。祖父跟我父亲合不来，所以父亲把我安顿在这儿之后就漫游世界去了。杰拉尔德——那是我哥哥——跟祖父也合不来。我敢说如果我是个男孩子，跟祖父也一定合不来的，我还好是个女的。祖父常说他和我是一个模子里用一样的材料浇出来的，他的秉性遗传给了我。”说到这里她笑了起来。“他是个可怕的老浪子，但一生运气倒不错。这一带的人都说他会点石成金哩。他也是个赌棍，不过赌起来老输。在他死的时候，除了这所房子和这块土地之外几乎一无所有。那时我十六岁，哥哥杰拉尔德二十二岁。杰拉尔德三年前死于摩托车祸，这个产业就传到我手里了。”
“你之后呢？小姐？谁是你最近的亲戚？”
“我表哥查尔斯•维斯。他是附近的一个律师，一个高尚人士，但并不聪明，他老是给我讲许多忠告，还想出种种花招想叫我改变挥霍的脾气。”
“他替你料理事务——呃？”
“是的，如果你愿意那么说的话。我没有多少事务需要料理，他为我办理了抵押手续，还要我把那间门房小屋租了出去。”
“哦，那间门房小屋，我正要问这件事。它出租了？”
“是的，租给一家澳大利亚人，姓克罗夫特。他们精神饱满，古道热肠，还有诸如此类的许多特点。他们不失时机地表达自己对别人的关心，叫人受不了，老是把些新鲜芹菜、刚上市的豌豆等等一大堆别的东西拿来送给我。他们见我让我的花园荒芜着，就大惊小怪得不得了。他们说起客气话来想都不用想，只要一张开嘴，那些最最客气的词句就像维多利亚瀑布一样冲得你没有招架之力。至少那老头儿是这样的，真叫人心烦。他女人是个瘸子，可怜巴巴地一天到晚躺在沙发上。不管怎么说，反正他们按时付房租，而这恰恰是最重要的。”
“他们到此地多久了？”
“哦，大概有半年了。”
“好，知道了。那么，除了你那位亲戚——顺便问一下，他是你父亲方面的亲戚还是你母亲方面的？”
“母亲方面的。我母亲叫艾米•维斯。”
“那么，除了这位表哥，你还有别的亲戚没有？”
“还有一些父亲方面的远亲住在约克郡，都姓巴克利。”
“再没有了吗？”
“没有了。”
“你真孤单。”
“孤单？好奇怪的想法。我不常住在这儿，你知道。我经常住在伦敦。亲戚有什么好呢？他们太叫人受不了啦，老以为自己有资格干涉你的事儿。一个人独处那就自由多了。”
“我不多浪费我的同情了。我懂了。小姐，你是个摩登女郎。现在请谈你的家人。”
“家人？听起来多么堂皇！其实就是埃伦和她的丈夫。她丈夫是个不大高明的园丁。我付给他们很少的薪水，因为我让他们随身带着他们的孩子。当我住在这里时，埃伦就帮我照料家务。我要举行宴会的话就另外再找人来临时帮帮忙。顺便告诉你，下星期一我要请客。下个星期这里要举行赛艇会了。”
“下星期一，嗯，今天是星期六。那么，小姐，你朋友们的情况呢？比方说今天跟你一起吃午饭的那几位？”
“弗雷迪•赖斯——头发颜色很浅的那位女郎——是我最好的朋友。她过着很糟糕的生活。她嫁了一个畜牲，一个无法形容的怪物，又是酗酒又是吸毒。一两年前她不得不同他分居了。那以后她到处游荡。老天爷，我希望她能跟他离婚，然后再嫁给吉姆•拉扎勒斯。”
“拉扎勒斯？在邦德街上开艺术品商店的那个？”
“对。吉姆是独子，腰缠万贯。你看见他那辆汽车了吗？他是个犹太人，不过心肠倒不错，正迷上了弗雷迪，跟她一起到处跑。他们在美琪旅馆度周末，下星期一到这里来。”
“那么赖斯太太的丈夫呢？”
“那家伙么？嗨，他不知去向。谁也不知道他在什么地方。这使弗雷迪感到十分棘手。你总不能跟一个影子都看不见的丈夫去办离婚手续呀。”
“当然。”
“可怜的弗雷迪，”尼克郁郁不欢地说，“她走了霉运。有一次到了手的鸟儿又飞走了。那次她好容易找到了他，并把离婚的意思对他讲了。他说他完全同意，只是当时他连带一个女人去住旅馆的钱都没有，她就把钱全给他——他钱一到手就远走高飞，从此杳无音讯。我把这叫做卑鄙。”
“老天！”我叹道。
“啊哟，我的朋友黑斯廷斯受惊了，”波洛说，“你说话可得当心一点，小姐。他是一位古风淳厚的君子，刚从最高尚圣洁的仙乡净土回来，还听不惯摩登的语言呢。”
“哦，有什么可惊奇的？”尼克睁大了双眼，说，“我是说，大家都知道世界上是有那么一种人的。但我把这家伙称为下流坯。当时可怜的弗雷迪身无分文，简直走投无路。”
“是呀，这不是件叫人开心的事。你的另一位朋友，那位可敬的查林杰中校呢？”
“乔治？我早先就认识他的，近五年来往更密了。他是个好人。”
“他希望你跟他结婚吗？呃？”
“他常常跟我提起这件事。”
“但你一直不动心。”
“他跟我结婚有什么用呢？我们俩的钱袋连小偷都不屑光顾，而且乔治会叫人生厌的。他一天到晚净对你说些球赛呀、学校生活呀一类的天真话儿，仿佛他不是四十岁而是十四岁似的。”
听了这种说法我掉过脸去。
“是啊，一只脚已经站在坟墓里了。”波洛说，“哦，别在意吧，小姐，我是个老爷爷，一个有等于无的龙钟老头。现在再告诉我一些关于这一连串偶然事故的情况。比方说那幅画像。”
“我重新把它挂上了。这次用了一根新绳子。要是你愿意，可以来看看。”
她领我们走出客厅，上楼进了她的卧室。那幅差点闯下大祸的画像是一幅油画，嵌在一个沉重的框子里，挂在床头正上方。
“请准许我，小姐。”波洛含糊其词地说了一声，就脱下鞋子站到床上去了。他检查了这幅画和绳子，又小心地试了试画的重量就下来了，优雅地做了个怪脸。
“这样的东西掉在头上可绝不是什么享受，小姐。以前用来挂这幅画的也是现在用的这种钢丝绳吗？”
“是的。但没有这么粗。这次我用了一根粗点的。”
“你有没有检查过那根钢丝绳的断头？是磨断的吗？”
“我想大概是。但当时我没注意。我为什么要注意这种东西呢？”
“当然要注意。我就很想看看那根绳子。它还在吗？”
“我叫那替我装新绳子的人扔了。”
“真可惜。能看一看就好了。”
“到现在你还认为这不是偶然事故？不可能是别的吗？”
“嗯，说不定。难道弄坏你汽车上的刹车也是偶然的？还有从峭壁上滚下去的石头——我想看看那个地方。”
尼克带我们穿过花园来到峭壁上。这就是悬崖。大海在我们下面闪耀着蓝色的波光。有一条陡峭的小路从这里通向下面那块可以用来跳水的礁石。尼克指出了石头滚下去的地点。波洛沉思地点点头，然后问道：
“有几条路可以走进你的花园，小姐？”
“有一条通过门房小屋的正路，在那条路一半的地方，围墙上还有个供商贩进出的边门。从这里过去，在峭壁的边上还有一扇门，那里有一条‘之’字形小道通向美琪旅馆前面的海滨，然后可以穿过一条缝隙走进旅馆的花园。这就是我今天上午走的路。走这条路穿过那个花园到镇上去是条捷径。”
“你的园丁通常在什么地方干活？”
“他一般在厨房周围磨磨洋工，要不然就在放花盆的那个棚子里装模作样地磨磨剪刀。”
“在房子的另一边？那么如果有人到这里来推那块石头，是不会有人看见的。”
尼克哆嗦了一下。
“你真的这样想吗？”她问，“但我总不能相信。因为把我弄死谁都无利可图。”
波洛从口袋里取出那颗弹头，温和地说：
“这可不是个没有用处的东西，小姐。”
“一定是疯子干的。”
“也有可能。是不是可以认为所有的罪犯都是疯子？这真是茶余饭后聊天的绝妙话题。罪犯的大脑可能有点畸形，是的，非常可能。不过这是医生们研究的课题。至于我，我有不同的工作要做。我要关怀保护的是无辜的人而不是凶手。现在我所关心的是你，小姐，而不是那个藏头躲尾的罪犯。你又年轻又美丽，生活在明媚的阳光和欢乐之中，前面有的是生命和爱情。这一切就是我所考虑的。小姐，告诉我，你的这些朋友，赖斯太太和拉扎勒斯先生在这儿有多久了？”
“弗雷迪是星期三来的。她同一些朋友在塔维斯托克附近逗留了两夜，昨天到美琪旅馆的。吉姆一直在到处旅行，我相信。”
“查林杰中校呢？”
“他在德文波特，只要一有空就开车到这里来——通常在周末。”
波洛点点头。我们漫步向屋子走去。沉默了一会以后他突然说：
“你有完全可以信赖的朋友吗，小姐？”
“弗雷迪。”
“除了她呢？”
“那就不知道了。我想总还有的。为什么呢？”
“因为我要你有个可靠的朋友同你住在一起——而且马上！”
“啊——”
尼克显得很意外。她一声不吭地思索着，后来犹豫地说：
“还有马吉。我想我能够把她找来的。”
“马吉是谁？”
“是我在约克郡的远房堂姐妹之一。她们是一个大家庭，家长是个牧师。马吉跟我年纪相仿。有时我在夏天请她来住上几天。她是个相当乏味的人，纯洁透顶。由于头发的梳法刚巧碰上是时髦的款式才显得不那么土气。今年我本想不请她来了。”
“不，小姐，好极了！你的堂姐正是我希望能找来陪伴你的人。”
“好吧，”尼克叹息了一声，“我会打电报叫她来的，我确实想不起还能找到别的什么人。大家全为各自的事忙得团团转。只要那边不举行什么唱诗班、远足或是妈妈们的宴会，她肯定会来。可是你想要她来做啥？”
“你能不能请她跟你睡在一个卧室里？”
“我想可以。”
“她不会觉得这个要求很古怪吗？”
“哦，不会的。马吉从来不想，她只是做——认真地做，你知道，虔诚而坚定地埋着头做那些教会工作。好吧，我打电报去叫她星期一来。”
“为什么不请她明天就来呢？”
“坐星期天的火车？接到这样的电报她会以为我快咽气了呢。不，星期一吧。你打不打算告诉她，说灾难之神在我头上盘旋？”
“还在开玩笑？我很高兴看见你这么勇敢。”
“反正换换口味吧。”尼克说。
她的声音里有种说不出的东西引起我的注意，我好奇地看着她，总感到她并没有把一切都对我们和盘托出。我们又走进了客厅。波洛翻动着沙发上的那张报纸。
“你看这个吗，小姐？”他忽然问。
“《圣卢周报》？随便翻翻罢了。看看潮讯。每星期的潮汐情况那上头都有预报。”
“是这样的。顺便打听一下，小姐，你可曾立过遗嘱？”
“立过的。大约半年前，就在我要挨刀子的时候。”
“什么？挨刀子？”
“动手术，切除盲肠。有人说我应该立个遗嘱，所以我就立了个遗嘱。这使我感觉到我还是个重要人物哩。”
“遗嘱里说什么？”
“我把悬崖山庄留给查尔斯，另外可留的——你们大概称之为‘动产’——不多了，我全留给了弗雷迪。我想我留下的债务比财产还多，真的。”
波洛不置可否地点了点头。
“我要告辞了，再见，小姐。自己当心些吧。”
“当心什么？”
“你很聪明，但别让聪明毁了你。你问在哪些方面当心？谁说得准呢？不过首先你要有信心，小姐。几天之后我就会使这一切真相大白的。”
“在那以前，我要谨防毒药、炸弹、冷枪、车祸，外加南美洲印第安人的毒箭。对不对？”尼克信口说了一大串。
“别拿性命开玩笑，小姐。”波洛严肃地说。
他走到门口又回过头去说：
“再问一句，拉扎勒斯先生肯出多少钱买你祖父的画像？”
“五十镑。”
“啊，”波洛说，回过头去仔细看了看壁炉架上那幅画像里阴沉沉的脸。
“但是我已经告诉过你，我不肯把那老浪子卖给别人。”
“不错，”波洛思索着说，“不错，我能理解的。”
Chapter 4  There Must Be Something! 还有未知数
Chapter 4 - There Must Be Something!
'Poirot,' I said, as soon as we were out upon the road. 'There is one thing I think you ought to know.'
'And what is that, mon ami?'
I told him of Mrs Rice's version of the trouble with the motor.
Tiens! C'est interessant, ca. There is, of course, a type, vain, hysterical, that seeks to make itself interesting by having marvellous escapes from death and which will recount to you surprising histories that never happened! Yes, it is well known, that type there. Such people will even do themselves grave bodily injury to sustain the fiction.'
'You don't think that-'
'That Mademoiselle Nick is of that type? No, indeed. You observed, Hastings, that we had great difficulty in convincing her of her danger. And right to the end she kept up the farce of a half-mocking disbelief. She is of her generation, that little one. All the same, it is interesting-what Madame Rice said. Why should she say it? Why say it even if it were true? It was unnecessary-almost gauche.'
'Yes,' I said. 'That's true. She dragged it into the conversation neck and crop-for no earthly reason that I could see.'
'That is curious. Yes, that is curious. The little facts that are curious, I like to see them appear. They are significant. They point the way.'
'The way-where?'
'You put your finger on the weak spot, my excellent Hastings. Where? Where indeed! Alas, we shall not know till we get there.'
'Tell me, Poirot,' I said. 'Why did you insist on her getting this cousin to stay?'
Poirot stopped and waved an excited forefinger at me.
'Consider,' he cried. 'Consider for one little moment, Hastings. How we are handicapped! How are our hands tied! To hunt down a murderer after a crime has been committed-c'est tout simple! Or at least it is simple to one of my ability. The murderer has, so to speak, signed his name by committing the crime. But here there is no crime-and what is more we do not want a crime. To detect a crime before it has been committed-that is indeed of a rare difficulty.'
'What is our first aim? The safety of Mademoiselle. And that is not easy. No, it is not easy, Hastings. We cannot watch over her day and night-we cannot even send a policeman in big boots to watch over her. We cannot pass the night in a young lady's sleeping chamber. The affair bristles with difficulties.'
'But we can do one thing. We can make it more difficult for our assassin. We can put Mademoiselle upon her guard and we can introduce a perfectly impartial witness. It will take a very clever man to get round those two circumstances.'
He paused, and then said in an entirely different tone of voice: 'But what I am afraid of, Hastings-'
'Yes?'
'What I am afraid of is-that he is a very clever man. And I am not easy in my mind. No, I am not easy at all.'
'Poirot,' I said. 'You're making me feel quite nervous.'
'So am I nervous. Listen, my friend, that paper, the St Loo Weekly Herald. It was open and folded back at-where do you think? A little paragraph which said, "Among the guests staying at the Majestic Hotel are M. Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings." Supposing-just supposing that someone had read that paragraph. They know my name-everyone knows my name-'
'Miss Buckley didn't,' I said, with a grin.
'She is a scatterbrain-she does not count. A serious man-a criminal-would know my name. And he would be afraid! He would wonder! He would ask himself questions. Three times he has attempted the life of Mademoiselle and now Hercule Poirot arrives in the neighbourhood. 'Is that coincidence?' he would ask himself. And he would fear that it might not be coincidence. What would he do then?'
'Lie low and hide his tracks,' I suggested.
'Yes-yes-or else-if he had real audacity, he would strike quickly -without loss of time. Before I had time to make inquiries-pouf, Mademoiselle is dead. That is what a man of audacity would do.'
'But why do you think that somebody read that paragraph other than Miss Buckley?'
'It was not Miss Buckley who read that paragraph. When I mentioned my name it meant nothing to her. It was not even familiar. Her face did not change. Besides she told us-she opened the paper to look at the tides-nothing else. Well, there was no tide table on that page.'
'You think someone in the house-'
'Someone in the house or who has access to it. And that last is easy-the window stands open. Without doubt Miss Buckley's friends pass in and out.'
'Have you any idea? Any suspicion?' Poirot flung out his hands.
'Nothing. Whatever the motive, it is, as I predicted, not an obvious one. That is the would-be murderer's security-that is why he could act so daringly this morning. On the face of it, no one seems to have any reason for desiring the little Nick's death. The property? End House? That passes to the cousin-but does he particularly want a heavily mortgaged and very dilapidated old house? It is not even a family place so far as he is concerned. He is not a Buckley, remember. We must see this Charles Vyse, certainly, but the idea seems fantastic.'
'Then there is Madame-the bosom friend-with her strange eyes and her air of a lost Madonna-'
'You felt that too?' I asked, startled.
'What is her concern in the business? She tells you that her friend is a liar. C'est gentil, ca! Why does she tell you? Is she afraid of something that Nick may say? Is that something connected with the car? Or did she use that as an instance, and was her real fear of something else? Did anyone tamper with the car, and if so, who? And does she know about it?'
'Then the handsome blond, M. Lazarus. Where does he fit in? With his marvellous automobile and his money. Can he possibly be concerned in any way? Commander Challenger-'
'He's all right,' I put in quickly. 'I'm sure of that. A real pukka sahib.'
'Doubtless he has been to what you consider the right school. Happily, being a foreigner, I am free from these prejudices, and can make investigations unhampered by them. But I will admit that I find it hard to connect Commander Challenger with the case. In fact, I do not see that he can be connected.'
'Of course he can't,' I said warmly. Poirot looked at me meditatively.
'You have an extraordinary effect on me, Hastings. You have so strongly the flair in the wrong direction that I am almost tempted to go by it! You are that wholly admirable type of man, honest, credulous, honourable, who is invariably taken in by any scoundrel. You are the type of man who invests in doubtful oil fields, and non-existent gold mines. From hundreds like you, the swindler makes his daily bread. Ah, well-I shall study this Commander Challenger. You have awakened my doubts.'
'My dear Poirot,' I cried, angrily. 'You are perfectly absurd. A man who has knocked about the world like I have-'
'Never learns,' said Poirot, sadly. 'It is amazing-but there it is.'
'Do you suppose I'd have made a success of my ranch out in the Argentine if I were the kind of credulous fool you make out?'
'Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it-you and your wife.'
'Bella,' I said, 'always goes by my judgement.'
'She is as wise as she is charming,' said Poirot. 'Let us not quarrel my friend. See, there ahead of us, it says Mott's Garage. That, I think, is the garage mentioned by Mademoiselle Buckley. A few inquiries will soon give us the truth of that little matter.'
We duly entered the place and Poirot introduced himself by explaining that he had been recommended there by Miss Buckley. He made some inquiries about hiring a car for some afternoon drives and from there slid easily into the topic of the damage sustained by Miss Buckley's car not long ago.
Immediately the garage proprietor waxed voluble. Most extraordinary thing he'd ever seen. He proceeded to be technical. I, alas, am not mechanically minded. Poirot, I should imagine, is even less so. But certain facts did emerge unmistakably. The car had been tampered with. And the damage had been something quite easily done, occupying very little time.
'So that is that,' said Poirot, as we strolled away. 'The little Nick was right, and the rich M. Lazarus was wrong. Hastings, my friend, all this is very interesting.'
'What do we do now?'
'We visit the post office and send off a telegram if it is not too late.'
'A telegram?' I said hopefully.
'Yes,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'A telegram.'
The post office was still open. Poirot wrote out his telegram and despatched it. He vouchsafed me no information as to its contents. Feeling that he wanted me to ask him, I carefully refrained from doing so.
'It is annoying that tomorrow is Sunday,' he remarked, as we strolled back to the hotel. 'We cannot now call upon M. Vyse till Monday morning.'
'You could get hold of him at his private address.'
'Naturally. But that is just what I am anxious not to do. I would prefer, in the first place, to consult him professionally and to form my judgement of him from that aspect.'
'Yes,' I said thoughtfully. 'I suppose that would be best.'
'The answer to one simple little question, for instance, might make a great difference. If M. Charles Vyse was in his office at twelve-thirty this morning, then it was not he who fired that shot in the garden of the Majestic Hotel.'
'Ought we not to examine the alibis of the three at the hotel?'
'That is much more difficult. It would be easy enough for one of them to leave the others for a few minutes, a hasty egress from one of the innumerable windows-lounge, smoking-room, drawing-room, writing-room, quickly under cover to the spot where the girl must pass-the shot fired and a rapid retreat. But as yet, mon ami, we are not even sure that we have arrived at all the dramatis personae in the drama. There is the respectable Ellen-and her so far unseen husband. Both inmates of the house and possibly, for all we know, with a grudge against our little Mademoiselle. There are even the unknown Australians at the lodge. And there may be others, friends and intimates of Miss Buckley's whom she has no reason for suspecting and consequently has not mentioned. I cannot help feeling, Hastings, that there is something behind this-something that has not yet come to light. I have a little idea that Miss Buckley knows more than she told us.'
'You think she is keeping something back?'
'Yes.'
'Possibly with an idea of shielding whoever it is?'
Poirot shook his head with the utmost energy.
'No, no. As far as that goes, she gave me the impression of being utterly frank. I am convinced that as regards these attempts on her life, she was telling all she knew. But there is something else-something that she believes has nothing to do with that at all. And I should like to know what that something is. For I-I say it in all modesty-am a great deal more intelligent thanune petite comme ca . I, Hercule Poirot, might see a connection where she sees none. It might give me the clue I am seeking. For I announce to you, Hastings, quite frankly and humbly, that I am as you express it, all on the sea. Until I can get some glimmering of the reason behind all this, I am in the dark. There must be something -some factor in the case that I do not grasp. What is it? Je me demande ca sans cesse. Qu'est-ce que c'est? '
'You will find out,' I said, soothingly.
'So long,' he said sombrely, 'as I do not find out too late.'

第四章　还有未知数
“波洛，”一到路上我就说：“有件事你应当知道。”
“哪件事？我的朋友？”
我把赖斯太太对那次汽车刹车事故的看法告诉了他。
“哈，真有意思，”波洛听后说，“不错，是有那么一种神经错乱的人，会凭空想出种种死里逃生的离奇故事，还硬要别人相信。不错，大家都知道这样的人是有的。这种人为了证明他那耸人听闻的荒诞经历确有其事，甚至不惜把自己弄得鲜血淋漓。”
“你不觉得……”
“尼克小姐是这种人？不，你自己看到的，黑斯廷斯。为了使她相信她处境之险恶，我们费了多少口舌和力气。一直到最后她还半信半疑地把这件事当成一出滑稽戏。她是这个新时代的产物呀，不过赖斯太太的话倒很有意思，她为什么说这些呢？明明是事实她却说是谎话，而且在那个场合下她并没有必要提起刹车故障这件事，这很不高明。”
“是的，”我说，“我看不出她硬把这件事拉进谈话里来有什么理由。”
“这是件怪事。是呀，怪事。我很愿意看到各种怪事接踵而来。它们很有意义，很能提供线索。”
“线索！什么线索？”
“你要不失时机地抓住疑点，我盖世无双的黑斯廷斯。至于什么线索，现在谁知道呢？”
“告诉我，波洛，”我说，“你为什么坚持要她找个亲戚来同住？”
波洛停了下来，用食指点着我说：
“想一想，”他说，“我们只要稍微想一想，黑斯廷斯。我们有多少障碍，我们受到多少束缚！在罪行发生之后去搜捕凶手，那倒不在话下。至少在我来说是易如反掌的。杀人犯行凶的过程，也就是他签名留姓的过程。但这里并没有发生什么案件——当然，太平无事是再好也没有了。可是要在一个案子发生之前就去侦破它，倒确实如堕烟海，棘手得很呢。
“我们要达到的第一个目标是什么呢？是小姐的人身安全。这不容易，是的，很不容易，黑斯廷斯。我们无法从早到晚盯住她——甚至连派一个全副武装的警察去给她当警卫都办不到。况且我们总不能在一位姑娘的香闺里过夜吧？这件事何其难也！
“不过有一件事我们可以办得到，那就是人为地给凶手作案增添困难。我们可以使小姐警觉起来，并且在她身边安置一个同她形影不离的见证人。要越过这两重防线来行凶，那凶手非得是个精于此道的老手不可。”
他顿了一顿，用一种迥然不同的语气说：
“可是我所担心的，黑斯廷斯——”
“是什么？”
“我所担心的是他恰恰是个老谋深算的行家！这种想法叫我很不安。嗯，我根本无法高枕无忧。”
“波洛，”我说，“听你这么说连我都紧张起来了。”
“我难道不紧张？听我说，我的朋友。那份报纸，就是刚才那份《圣卢周报》被打开看过。你猜它被翻开在哪一页上？是这么一页，那页上有一则短讯，说‘在美琪旅馆小憩的旅客中有赫尔克里•波洛先生和黑斯廷斯上尉。’假设——让我们来假设一下有人看过这则消息，他们知道我的名字——人人都熟悉我的名字……”
“巴克利小姐并不知道。”我笑着说。
“她是个浅薄的小鬼——不算。一个严肃的人，一个罪犯，就一定知道我的名字，并会为之浑身发抖！他会忧心忡忡地问自己一大堆疑神疑鬼的问题。他曾经四次企图夺走小姐的性命，而如今一切罪犯的克星赫尔克里•波洛来到了近旁。他会问他自己：‘这是巧合吗？’一想到可能并非巧合，他便会恐惧了。接下去他会怎么办呢？”
“藏匿起他的杀机，销声匿迹。”我提出这种设想。
“对，对——但如果他真的胆大包天，就会立即下手，不再浪费时间。在我还没来得及调查清楚之前——砰！小姐死了。这种事情，一个心狠手毒的人是干得出来的。”
“你为什么认为不是巴克利小姐而是别人看了那则消息呢？”
“注意到那则短讯的不是巴克利小姐。当我说出我的姓名时她一点反应都没有。甚至一点印象都没有，脸上毫无表情。再说她告诉我们说她打开报纸只不过想看看潮讯而已，可是那一页上并没有潮汐时刻表啊。”
“你怀疑是那所房子里的人？”
“那所房子里的，或者接近那所房子的人。因为对后者来说，到客厅里去翻看报纸并非是什么难事——那扇落地大玻璃窗一直开着。巴克利小姐的那些朋友们无疑时常通过那扇窗门进进出出的。”
“你形成什么想法没有？可有什么疑点吗？”
波洛摊开双手，说：
“没有。跟我早先预见的一样，动机不明。这正是那个未遂凶手不被发现的保证。这也说明了今天上午他为什么敢于如此大胆地行动。从表面上看，谁都没有理由盼望小尼克死亡。她的财产？悬崖山庄？房子在尼克死后将传给她表哥，但是难道他竟这样迫不及待地想得到这所已经高价抵押出去的破败古老的老房子？他甚至不会愿意在这所房子里安家。须知他不姓巴克利，对这所故居并没有什么感情。我们得去见见这位查尔斯•维斯。
“接下去是那位太太——尼克的知心朋友，那位有一双神思恍惚的眼睛和圣母般冷漠神情的女人——”
“你也有这种感觉？”我有点奇怪。
“她跟这件事有没有关系呢？她对你说她的朋友是个喜欢撒谎的人（真是妙不可言）。为什么她要这么对你讲呢？是否担心尼克会说出什么对她不利的话来？她跟汽车事故有关系吗？还是她只是以汽车的事做个例子来暗示另外某件事也纯属虚构，而那件事恰恰是她害怕被查究的？是否有人破坏过那辆汽车的刹车装置？如果有的话，她是否知情？
“再就是那位派头十足的美少年拉扎勒斯先生。他有什么可疑之处呢？他有那么华美不凡的汽车和那么多的钱，跟这个案子会有什么样的牵连呢？查林杰中校——”
“他没有什么嫌疑，”我赶忙说，“这点我可以肯定。他是个地地道道的男子汉大丈夫。”
“这大概只是因为他曾经在你认为是高尚的名牌学校里受过教育。幸而我是个外国人，不受这种偏见的束缚，从而能够比较客观地进行调查。但我也承认，很难发现查林杰中校与这些事情有什么关系。事实上，我现在还看不出他有什么嫌疑。”
“他当然不会有什么嫌疑的。”我激动地说。
波洛沉思地看着我。
“你对我的影响真是大得不可估量，黑斯廷斯。你有一种专门把事情搞错的本能，连我也常常差点看错。你是一个完完全全值得崇敬的人：忠诚老实，轻信不疑，嫉恶如仇，重视荣誉，一门心思地往无赖恶棍设下的圈套里钻。你是这样一种优秀人物，他们在把钱投资到十分可疑的油田里或是根本不存在的金矿中之前从来不会三思而行。而那些骗局也就因为有成百上千像你这样的人，才得以维持不败。啊，这样看来，我得把那个查林杰中校好好研究一番才是，你唤醒了我的疑心病。”
“我亲爱的波洛，”我不禁怒形于色地喊了起来，“你简直荒谬绝伦！像我这样一个跑遍全世界的人——”
“是啊，从不汲取教训。”波洛悻然地说，“这虽然奇怪，却正是事实。”
“要是我真像你刚才说的那样是个傻瓜，我怎么会在阿根廷成功呢？”
“别发火，我的朋友。你在阿根廷的确搞出了一点名堂——你和你妻子。”
“贝拉总是根据我的判断行事的。”
“她的聪明跟她的芳容一样出色，”波洛说，“我们别争了，朋友，看，前面就是巴克利小姐说起过的莫特先生的车行。只要进去问几个问题，汽车是失修还是被破坏的便可以立见分晓。”
我们走了进去。波洛说是巴克利小姐介绍他来的。问了几个有关租用汽车的问题之后，波洛很自然地把话题转到不久前巴克利小姐的汽车损坏的事情上。车行老板高声说，那是他见过的最特别的故障。我不懂机械，我猜波洛比我更不懂。所以车行老板的那一席充满学术味的解释像是对牛弹琴。不过事实和结论已经足够明白无误了：汽车被人摆弄过，破坏的方式十分简便，用不了几分钟。
“瞧，是这样。”我们走出车行时波洛说，“小尼克没有说谎。黑斯廷斯，我的朋友，这一切真是饶有兴味。”
“现在我们做什么呢？”
“如果不太迟的话，我们到邮局去发个电报。”
“电报？”我满怀希望地看看他的脸。
“不错，”波洛说，“电报。”
邮局还没关门。波洛拟好电稿发了出去，他没有告诉我电报内容。他又在摆架子了，要我主动去问他，可我偏偏不问。
“不巧明天是星期天，”当我们踱回旅馆去的时候，波洛说，“在星期一早晨之前我们无法去拜访维斯先生了。”
“你可以上他家去呀。”
“这个自然。但我想避免这么做。我宁愿上他办公室去通过对一些法律问题的商讨来形成对他的印象。”
“对，”我想了想说，“我觉得这个办法好。”
“有一个问题很简单，但是很有参考价值。如果今天中午十二点半查尔斯•维斯在他办公室里，那么在向尼克开枪这点上，他就可以排除嫌疑了。”
“我们是否应当把旅馆里那三个人的嫌疑也一个个用排除法过滤一下呢？”
“那要难得多，他们当中任何一个都可以从休息室、吸烟室、客厅或者写字间的玻璃门跑出去，一眨眼就来到了姑娘的必经之路上，开了枪又立刻跑回来。不过我的朋友，这出戏的主角也许还在我们视野之外或者我们没有加以注意。比方说那位可敬的埃伦，还有她那位我们还未见过的丈夫。他们同尼克一起住在那所房子里，会不会暗中怀恨尼克而我们不知道？还有那些住在门房小屋里我们并不认识的澳大利亚人怎么样呢？当然还有其他人，像尼克的什么亲戚朋友等等。尼克自以为他们完全可信，所以没有对我们提起。我总觉得，黑斯廷斯，在这一切背后一定还有某种至今未被了解的至关紧要的线索。我有一种想法，觉得巴克利小姐所知道的比她告诉了我们的要多。”
“你认为她隐瞒了什么？”
“是的。”
“或许她想保护什么人？”
波洛大摇其头。
“不，不。她给我的印象是坦率直爽的。我相信，在谋害她的这些情节上，她把所知道的全告诉了我们。但还有别的——一些她自己认为跟案子不相关的事却没讲。我恰恰就想知道这些貌似无关的事情。因为，我——我尽可能说得谦虚些——要比那个黄毛丫头远为高明。我，赫尔克里•波洛，能在她视而不见之处明察秋毫地看出关键所在，我会从中得到线索。可是现在我极其坦率而谦卑地告诉你，黑斯廷斯，我实在连一点头绪都没有。在我能够找到一线光明之前，一切都藏在夜幕之中，什么也看不见。嗯！一定还有未知数——一些我还不知道的、同此案紧密相关的事实。到底是什么呢？我要查下去，一定要查出我所不知道的究竟是什么。”
“你会成功的。”我给他鼓劲。
“但愿不会为时太晚。”他阴郁地说。
Chapter 5  Mr and Mrs Croft 克罗夫特夫妇
Chapter 5 - Mr and Mrs Croft
There was dancing that evening at the hotel. Nick Buckley dined there with her friends and waved a gay greeting to us.
She was dressed that evening in floating scarlet chiffon that dragged on the floor. Out of it rose her white neck and shoulders and her small impudent dark head.
'An engaging young devil,' I remarked. 'A contrast to her friend-eh?'
Frederica Rice was in white. She danced with a languorous weary grace that was as far removed from Nick's animation as anything could be.
'She is very beautiful,' said Poirot suddenly. 'Who? Our Nick?'
'No-the other. Is she evil? Is she good? Is she merely unhappy? One cannot tell. She is a mystery. She is, perhaps, nothing at all. But I tell you, my friend, she is anallumeuse.'
'What do you mean?' I asked curiously.
He shook his head, smiling.
'You will feel it sooner or later. Remember my words.'
Presently to my surprise, he rose. Nick was dancing with George Challenger. Frederica and Lazarus had just stopped and had sat down at their table. Then Lazarus got up and went away. Mrs Rice was alone. Poirot went straight to her table. I followed him.
His methods were direct and to the point.
'You permit?' He laid a hand on the back of a chair, then slid into it. 'I am anxious to have a word with you while your friend is dancing.'
'Yes?' Her voice sounded cool, uninterested.
'Madame, I do not know whether your friend has told you. If not, I will. Today her life has been attempted.'
Her great grey eyes widened in horror and surprise. The pupils, dilated black pupils, widened too.
'What do you mean?'
'Mademoiselle Buckley was shot at in the garden of this hotel.'
She smiled suddenly-a gentle, pitying, incredulous smile.
'Did Nick tell you so?'
'No, Madame, I happened to see it with my own eyes. Here is the bullet.'
He held it out to her and she drew back a little.
'But, then-but, then-'
'It is no fantasy of Mademoiselle's imagination, you understand. I vouch for that. And there is more. Several very curious accidents have happened in the last few days. You will have heard-no, perhaps you will not. You only arrived yesterday, did you not?'
'Yes-yesterday.'
'Before that you were staying with friends, I understand. At Tavistock.'
'Yes.'
'I wonder, Madame, what were the names of the friends with whom you were staying.'
She raised her eyebrows.
'Is there any reason why I should tell you that?' she asked coldly. Poirot was immediately all innocent surprise.
'A thousand pardons, Madame. I was most maladroit. But I myself, having friends at Tavistock, fancied that you might have met them there... Buchanan-that is the name of my friends.'
Mrs Rice shook her head.
'I don't remember them. I don't think I can have met them.' Her tone now was quite cordial. 'Don't let us talk about boring people. Go on about Nick. Who shot at her? Why?'
'I do not know who-as yet,' said Poirot. 'But I shall find out. Oh! yes, I shall find out. I am, you know, a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name.'
'A very famous name.'
'Madame is too kind.'
She said slowly: 'What do you want me to do?'
I think she surprised us both there. We had not expected just that.
'I will ask you, Madame, to watch over your friend.'
'I will.'
'That is all.'
He got up, made a quick bow, and we returned to our own table.
'Poirot,' I said, 'aren't you showing your hand very plainly?'
'Mon ami, what else can I do? It lacks subtlety, perhaps, but it makes for safety. I can take no chances. At any rate one thing emerges plain to see.'
'What is that?'
'Mrs Rice was not at Tavistock. Where was she? Ah! but I will find out. Impossible to keep information from Hercule Poirot. See-the handsome Lazarus has returned. She is telling him. He looks over at us. He is clever, that one. Note the shape of his head. Ah! I wish I knew-'
'What?' I asked, as he came to a stop.
'What I shall know on Monday,' he returned, ambiguously.
I looked at him but said nothing. He sighed.
'You have no longer the curiosity, my friend. In the old days-'
'There are some pleasures,' I said, coldly, 'that it is good for you to do without.'
'You mean-?'
'The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.'
'Ah c'est malin.'
'Quite so.'
'Ah, well, well,' murmured Poirot. 'The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.'
His eyes twinkled with their old glint.
Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.
'Dancing on the edge of death,' she said lightly.
'It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?'
'Yes. Rather fun.'
She was off again, with a wave of her hand.
'I wish she hadn't said that,' I said, slowly.
'Dancing on the edge of death. I don't like it.'
'I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage-voilace qu'il nous faut!'
The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-past eleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.
'Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.'
'Clear for what?' 'You shall see.'
We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.
When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, 'End House. Private.' There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.
In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick's bedroom-sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.
'You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any little affair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen to be in front of the house and see us coming. Then we would have a perfectly natural excuse-providing that we were known as friends of the house.'
'You mean that we can rule out a stranger?'
'That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.'
He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.
And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.
He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.
'What the hell are you doing here, I'd like to know?'
'Ah!' said Poirot. 'Monsieur-Croft, I think?'
'That's my name, but what-'
'Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.'
The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room, with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.
'I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.'
The other's face cleared a little.
'Oh!' he said slowly. 'You're the detective chap. I've read about you.'
'In the St Loo Herald ?'
'Eh? I've read about you way back in Australia. French, aren't you?'
'Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.'
'Glad to meet you. But look, what's the big idea? What are you doing here? Anything-wrong?'
'It depends what you call-wrong.'
The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face-a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.
'See here,' he said. 'I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good-bone idle-doesn't grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I-why, it makes us mad, and we feel it's only neighbourly to do what we can! We've got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don't you think? I came in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men's voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don't deal much in burglars round here-but after all it was possible. I thought I'd just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you're a bonza detective. What's it all about?'
'It is very simple,' said Poirot, smiling. 'Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?'
'She did. A mighty fine escape.'
'To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain-it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voila -it is simple.'
He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile. Croft drew a deep breath. 'So that's all it is?'
'Yes-you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.'
'Didn't I see you yesterday?' said Croft, slowly. 'Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.'
'Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.'
'That's right. Well-well. And you're the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I've heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you'd come back with me now-have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She's read all about you in the newspapers.'
'You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.'
'That's fine.'
'You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?' asked Poirot, turning to me.
I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.
Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles, of his meeting with his wife, of their combined efforts and of his final good fortune and success.
'Right away we made up our minds to travel,' he said. 'We'd always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world-tried to look up some of my wife's people-they came from round about here. But we couldn't trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent-Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence-all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident. My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn't it? I've taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same-there's nothing for it but time-time and lying up. It's an injury to the spine.'
'What a misfortune!'
'Hard luck, isn't it? Well, there it was. And she'd only got one kind of fancy-to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own-something small-it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away-no cars passing, or gramophones next door. I took it right away.'
With the last words we had come to the lodge itself. He sent his voice echoing forth in a loud 'Cooee,' to which came an answering 'Cooee.'
'Come in,' said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.
'Who do you think this is, mother?' said Mr Croft. 'The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.'
'If that isn't too exciting for words,' cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. 'Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since this trouble with my back, I've read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.'
'Right you are, mother.'
'She's a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,' Mrs Croft explained. 'She comes along each morning to fix me up. We're not bothering with servants. Bert's as good a cook and a house-parlour-man as you'd find anywhere, and it gives him occupation-that and the garden.'
'Here we are,' cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. 'Here's the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.'
'I suppose you're staying down here, Mr Poirot?' Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.
'Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.'
'But surely I read that you had retired-that you'd taken a holiday for good and all.'
'Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.' 'Well, that's true enough. So you still carry on business?' 'When I find a case that interests me.'
'Sure you're not down here on work?' inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. 'Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.'
'You mustn't ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,' said Mrs Croft. 'Or he won't come again. We're simple people, Mr Poirot, and you're giving us a great treat coming here today-you and your friend. You really don't know the pleasure you're giving us.'
She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.
'That was a bad business about that picture,' said Mr Croft.
'That poor little girl might have been killed,' said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. 'She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I've heard. But that's the way in these stuck English places. They don't like life and gaiety in a girl. I don't wonder she doesn't spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than-than-well, I don't know what.'
'Don't gossip, Milly,' said her husband.
'Aha!' said Poirot. 'The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?'
'He's silly about her,' said Mrs Croft. 'But she won't marry a country lawyer. And I don't blame her. He's a poor stick, anyway. I'd like her to marry that nice sailor-what's his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He's older than she is, but what of that? Steadying-that's what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She's a sweet girl, Mr Poirot-I know that well enough. But I'm worried about her. She's looked none too happy lately. She's had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I've got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven't I, Bert?'
Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.
'No need to go into that, Milly,' he said. 'I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you'd care to see some snapshots of Australia?'
The rest of our visit passed uneventfully. Ten minutes later we took our leave.
'Nice people,' I said. 'So simple and unassuming. Typical Australians.'
'You liked them?'
'Didn't you?'
'They were very pleasant-very friendly.'
'Well, what is it, then? There's something, I can see.'
'They were, perhaps, just a shade too "typical",' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'That cry of Cooee-that insistence on showing us snapshots-was it not playing a part just a little too thoroughly?'
'What a suspicious old devil you are!'
'You are right, mon ami. I am suspicious of everyone-of everything. I am afraid, Hastings-afraid.'
 
第五章　克罗夫特夫妇
那天晚上旅馆里有个舞会。尼克•巴克利来同她的朋友们一起进晚餐，见到我们，她容光焕发地打了个招呼。这天晚上她穿着石榴红的薄纱舞裙，裙裾飘飘地拖在地上。雪白的颈项和圆滑的双肩裸露着，加上梳得漫不经心的缎子般发亮的长发，可真叫人销魂。
“是个迷人的小妖精呀！”我评论说。
“跟她的朋友正好是个对照，呃？”
弗雷德里卡•赖斯穿着白色舞衣。她舞姿慵倦，步态迟缓，同尼克春风初度的充沛精力虽有天壤之别，却也别有风韵。
“她真美。”波洛突然说。
“谁？我们的尼克？”
“不——那一个。她是个坏蛋吗？是个好人吗？或者仅仅性情抑郁？没人知道这个谜。也许她什么也不是。不过我告诉你，我的朋友，她是个点燃指路灯的人。”
“这是什么意思？”我好奇地问。
他微笑着摇摇头。
“你迟早会感觉到的，记住我的话好了。”
尼克在同乔治•查林杰跳舞，弗雷德里卡同拉扎勒斯不跳了，回来坐在桌旁。拉扎勒斯才坐下又站起身来走了开去，赖斯太太一个人坐在那里。波洛站起来向她走了过去，我在后面跟着。
他直截了当地说：
“你允许吗？”他把手放在一张椅子的靠背上，一转眼就坐下了。“趁尼克在跳舞，我想同你讲句话。”
“请吧。”她的声音又冷淡又枯燥。
“太太，我不知道你的朋友是否已经对你讲过这事。如果还没有，就让我来讲吧，今天，有人想谋害她。”
她那双灰色的大眼睛因惊讶和恐怖而睁得更大了。
“这是怎么回事呢？”
“有人在这家旅馆的花园里向巴克利小姐开枪。”
她突然笑了——一种文雅的、怜悯的、怀疑的笑。
“是尼克告诉你的？”
“不，太太，是我碰巧亲眼看见的。这就是那颗子弹。”他拿出子弹时她往后一缩。
“但是，这个……”
“这并不是那位小姐的想象力在作怪，你知道，我敢保证，这种事还不止这一回，过去几天里还发生过好几件非常奇怪的事故。你可能听说过，哦，不，你可能没有听说过，因为你是昨天才到这里的，是吗？”
“是的——昨天。”
“在那之前，我想，你跟一些朋友一起待在塔维斯托克。”
“对。”
“我想知道，太太，跟你在一起的那些朋友叫什么名字。”
她抬了抬眉毛，冷冷地问：
“是否有什么理由使得我非说出他们的姓名不可？”
波洛忽然显出一副天真无邪的惊奇模样：
“太抱歉了，太太，我是个不拘小节的人，不过我有些朋友在塔维斯托克，我只是想打听一下你在那儿见过他们没有……他们当中有一个叫布坎南。”
赖斯太太摇摇头。
“没有印象。我想我没见到过这个人。”她的口气缓和些了，“别再提这些叫人厌烦的人吧，还是谈谈尼克。谁向她开枪？为什么要弄死她？”
“我也不知道是谁开的枪。”波洛说，“不过我会把他查出来的。嘿，不错，我会查出来的，我，你知道吗？我是个侦探。赫尔克里•波洛就是我的姓名。”
“这是个无人不知的名字呀。”
“太太过奖了。”
她不慌不忙地说道：“那么，你要我干什么呢？”
这一点我和波洛都感到意外。没料到她竟会这么主动。
“我们想请你，太太，照看好你的朋友。”
“我会这么做的。”
“没别的事了，再见，太太。”
他站起来很快地鞠了一躬，同我一起回到我们的座位上。
“波洛，”我说，“你怎么把手中的牌全亮了出来？”
“没别的办法呀，我的朋友。这样做也许不够圆滑，却很稳妥。我不能冒险，反正现在有件事已经很明显了。”
“什么事？”
“前几天赖斯太太不在塔维斯托克。她在什么地方呢？啊，我会搞清楚的。要瞒过赫尔克里•波洛谈何容易！看，美男子拉扎勒斯回来了，她正把刚才的事告诉他呢。他在朝我们看哪。只要看看他头颅的形状就知道是个机灵鬼。唉，我真想知道——”
“知道什么？”听见没有了下文，我这样问。
“想知道星期一我就会知道的事。”他转过身来敷衍了这样一句。
我看着他，一声不吭。他叹了口气说：
“你的好奇心不久就会得到满足的，我的朋友。在以往的岁月里……”
“在以往的岁月里有一种我深为你陶醉其中而遗憾之至的乐趣。”我冷冰冰地说。
“你指的是——”
“不回答我问题的乐趣。”
“啊，多不公正！”
“不错！”
“哦，好吧，好吧，”波洛无可奈何地说：
“我是爱德华时代的小说家所喜爱的那种坚强而寡言的主人公呀。”
他像往常一样朝我眨眨眼。
这时尼克从我们桌旁走过。她离开了她的舞伴，像一只五彩缤纷的鸟儿突然飞过我们的眼前，对我们唱歌般地说：
“我——在死神的——枕头上——翩翩起舞……”
“这倒是一个怪新鲜的说法，小姐。”
“对呀，多有趣啊！”
她向我们挥了挥手又飘然而去。
“干么说那么不吉利的话儿？”我慢声慢气地说：“‘我在死神的枕头上翩翩起舞’——我不喜欢这种说法。”
“我知道，这句话很接近事实，这小家伙倒真有点勇气哩。不错，她是有勇气。可倒霉的却是现在需要的不是勇气，而是谨慎。”
下一天是星期天。我们坐在旅馆前的阳台上。大约在十一点半的时候波洛突然站了起来。
“来，我的朋友。我们来进行一次小小的实验。现在我可以很有把握地告诉你，拉扎勒斯先生和那位太太已经开着汽车出去了，尼克小姐也跟他们一起走了。现在是个好机会。”
“什么机会？”
“你会知道的。”
我们走下台阶，穿过一片草地来到一扇门边，门外有条“之”字形小路直通大海。有一对刚游完泳的男女说笑着从下面上来，同我们擦肩而过。他们过去之后，波洛走到一个不显眼的小门口。虽然铰链锈迹斑斑，门上倒还能认出几个字：“悬崖山庄，私产。”这时四周阒无人声，我们一下了钻了进去。
一分钟后我们便来到房子前面的草地上，四下万籁无声。波洛在峭壁上张望了一番之后，转身向那所房子走去。走廊上的落地大窗正敞开着，我们从这里走进了客厅，波洛在客厅里没有停留。他打开门进了堂屋，在那里沿着楼梯跑上二楼，我一直跟着他，最后波洛一直走进尼克的卧室，在床沿上坐了下来，对我又是点头又是眨眼。
“瞧，我的朋友，多简单哪！没有谁看见我们来，也没有谁会看见我们走。我们想干什么就可以干什么，十分安全。比方说，我们可以用锉刀把画像上的绳子锉得恰如其分地会在几小时后突然断掉。退一步说，即使不巧有人在房子前面看见我们从那扇生锈的小门钻进来，我们也不会引起人家的疑心——谁都知道我们是这家人家的朋友呀！”
“你认为作案的不会是陌生人？”
“对，黑斯廷斯，我就是这个意思。这件事不会是个迷了路的精神病人干的。我们必须把注意力集中到这个家庭的周围。”
我们离开了这个房间，谁也不说话，我们都觉得有些东西需要好好想一想，可是在楼梯转弯处我们不约而同地站住了。一个男人正向我们走来。看见我们后，他也站住了。他的脸在阴影里看不清，但他的举动却说明他也受了惊。他先开口，用威胁的口气大声说道：
“你们究竟在这里干什么？我倒要知道一下。”
“啊，”波洛说：“先生——我想是克罗夫特先生吧？”
“正是。可是你们——”
“我们到客厅里去谈谈好吗？这样可能好些。”
那人后退了一步，陡地转过身向楼下走去。我们跟在后面。进了客厅，波洛关上门，向那人弯了弯腰，说：
“我来自我介绍一下。我是赫尔克里•波洛，请您指教。”
那一位脸色温和了一些。
“哦，”他缓慢地说，“你就是那位侦探。关于你，我在文章里看到过。”
“在《圣卢周报》上吗？”
“《圣卢周报》？不，我还在澳大利亚的那个时候看过描述你的书。你是个法国人，对不对？”
“比利时人，但这无妨。这位是我的朋友，黑斯廷斯上尉。”
“很高兴见到你们。不过你们到此地有何贵干？出了什么事？”
“这要看你怎样理解‘出事’这个词了。”
澳大利亚人点点头。尽管上了年纪秃了顶，他仍然相貌堂堂。他那多肉的双颊下面有一个朝前突出的下巴，说明他性格坚强。我觉得他的脸是粗糙的，脸上最引人注目的就是那双目光炯炯的蓝眼睛。
“你看，”他说，“我来给巴克利小姐送些黄瓜和西红柿。她那个园丁不管用，是个懒骨头，他什么也不种，我们真看不下去。邻居之间总该互相照应才是。我们种的西红柿吃不完，我就摘了些放进篮子里给巴克利小姐送来。我像平时一样从那扇落地窗口进来把篮子放在地上。正要转回去，却听见楼梯上有脚步声，还有男人说话的声音，不由得心下疑惑。虽说这一带不大有歹徒，但毕竟小心为妙，所以我进来看看。你说你是个有名侦探，可是究竟是怎么回事？”
“很简单，”波洛笑着说，“那天夜里小姐受了惊。一幅很重的图画掉下来砸在她的床头。她可能对你说起过了？”
“是的，一件危险的事。”
“我答应给她弄一根特殊的链条把那幅画挂得牢一些。这种事可绝对不能再发生第二次，呃？她对我说今天上午她要出去，叫我来量一量需要多长的链条，如此而已——很简单。”
波洛天真得像个儿童似的摊开双手，脸上堆满了他最拿手的迷惑人的笑容。
克罗夫特松了口气：“只是这么回事。”
“是的。我们都是守法良民——我和我的朋友。你大可不必疑神疑鬼了。”
“昨天我好像看见过你们，”克罗夫特说，“那是昨天傍晚。你们走过我的小花园。”
“啊，不错，那时你在园子里干活，还跟我们打了招呼哩。”
“是的。那么说来，你就是我久闻大名、如雷贯耳的赫尔克里•波洛先生了？请问波洛先生，你可有空？如果你现在不忙的话，我很想请你们到舍下去喝杯茶——澳大利亚式的茶。我想让我那老太婆也见见你。她在报纸上看到过你所有的事迹。”
“你太客气了，克罗夫特先生，我们很高兴有此荣幸。”
“太好了。”
波洛转身问我：“你已量下那链条的精确长度了吗？”
我说我早已办妥，于是我们就同这位新相识一起离开了尼克的客厅。
克罗夫特很健谈，我们很快就感觉到这一点。他谈起墨尔本附近他的家、他早年的奋斗、他的恋爱、他的事业和他的发迹。
“成功以后我决定去旅行，”他说，“我们回到我们一直在想念的祖国，想看看能不能找到我妻子的亲戚——她的老家就在圣卢这一带。我们谁也没找到。然后我们就到大陆上去旅行：巴黎、罗马、意大利的那些湖泊、佛罗伦萨等等地方我们都去过。在意大利一次铁路事故中我可怜的妻子受了重伤，真惨哪！我带着她遍访名医，但他们众口一辞，都说无法可想，只有让时间来治疗——长时间地卧床休息。她伤了脊椎骨。”
“真是大不幸！”
“乐极生悲，对不对？有什么办法！她只有一个想法，就是想回到故乡来住在自己的小天地里静静地休养。回来以后，我们去看过许多招租的房屋，但没有一座像样的。后来总算运气好，找到了这座小房子——又端正，又安静，与世隔绝，没有汽车开来开去，隔壁也没有从早唱到晚的留声机。我马上把它租了下来。”
说完最后一句话，我们已经来到了门房小屋。他学起鸟叫来：
“咕咿！”
里面也应了一声：“咕咿！”
“进来吧，”克罗夫特先生说。进门以后上了一段小楼梯，我们就来到一间舒适的小卧室。一张长沙发上躺着一位微微发胖的中年妇人。她有一双秀媚的棕色眼睛，笑起来很甜。
“你猜这位是谁，妈妈？”克罗夫特说，他管妻子叫妈妈。“这位是世界闻名的侦探赫尔克里•波洛先生。我把他带来同你谈谈。”
“哟，真叫我高兴得不知怎么好了，”克罗夫特太太喊道，热烈地同波洛握了手。“我看过蓝色列车上的那个案子的详细报道。那时幸亏你也在那趟列车上。我还从报上看过你办的许多其它案件。由于脊椎的毛病，我可以说看了所有的侦探小说，没有比这更好的消遣了。伯特，亲爱的，叫伊迪丝把茶端上来。”
“好的，妈妈。”
“伊迪丝是来护理我的。”克罗夫特太太解释说，“她每天上午来照料我。我们不喜欢雇佣人。伯特自己就是个第一流的厨师，在料理家务方面更是没人及得上他。这些事情加上外面那个小花园，也就够他花时间的了。”
“来吧，”克罗夫特先生托着茶盘来了，“茶来了，妈妈。今天是我们生活中的一个好日子啊。”
“我想，你将长住在这里了，波洛先生？”克罗夫特太太问道，支撑起身子来倒茶。
“啊，太太，我在这儿度假。”
“可是我不会记错的。我在一篇文章里看到你已经退休了——你开始永远度假啦！”
“哦，太太，你可不能轻易相信报纸。”
“嗯，倒也是。这么说你还在干？”
“当我遇到感兴趣的案子的时候。”
“你总不见得是在这里探什么案子吧？”克罗夫特先生狡猾地问，“随便干什么你都可以说成度假的。”
“别问出这种叫人发窘的问题，”史罗夫特太太说，“否则以后他不肯再来了。我们是些普普通通的人，波洛先生，你今天肯来喝杯茶真给了我们很大的面子，叫我们太兴奋了。”
她的感激之情是那么自然，那么真挚，我心里不由得感到十分亲切。
喝着茶，克罗夫特先生说：
“那幅画掉下来可不是件好事。”
“可怜的姑娘差点被打死。”克罗夫特太太说，“她是一根电线。当她住在这里的时候，这里就显得生气勃勃。我听说邻居们不大喜欢她。英国的小地方就是这种样子，又小器又古板。他们不喜欢鲜龙活跳的姑娘，而情愿让一个如花似玉的女孩看上去死气沉沉像个半老徐娘。他们管这叫端庄稳重。所以尼克在这里住不长，我一点不奇怪。她那个多管闲事想吃天鹅肉的表哥无法说服她定下心来在这儿安居乐业，我也觉得……完全可以理解。”
“别在背后说短论长的，米利。”她丈夫说。
“啊哈，”波洛说，“还有这样的瓜葛！让我们相信妇女的直觉吧。这么说，查尔斯•维斯爱上了我们那位小朋友？”
“他怎么会成功？”克罗夫特太太说，“她不会嫁给一个乡村律师呀。在这点上我觉得她无可厚非，因为他毕竟只是个穷光棍呀。我希望她嫁给那个善良的海员——叫什么来着？叫查林杰。他年纪比她大又有何妨？许多时髦的婚姻比这还不如得多。安定下来——这就是她所需要的。现在她到处飞，甚至跑到大陆上去，不是单枪匹马就是跟那个古里古怪的赖斯太太同行。唉！巴克利小姐是一位可爱的姑娘，波洛先生，这点我知道得很清楚。但我为她捏着把汗。近来她看上去不大高兴，那副模样像鬼迷了心窍似的，叫人担心。我有理由要关心她，对不对，伯特？”
克罗夫特先生有点突然地从椅子上站起身来。
“说这些干什么，米利！”他说，“波洛先生，我不知道你们是否有兴致看一些澳大利亚的照片？”
这以后我们的访问就平淡无味，不必赘述。十分钟之后我们告辞了。
“厚道的人，”我对波洛说出我对他们的看法，“淳朴谦逊，是典型的澳大利亚人。”
“你喜欢他们？”
“难道你不喜欢？”
“他们很热情，很友好。”
“不过怎样呢？我看得出这句话后头还有个‘不过’。”
“他们，好像太过分了。”波洛沉思着说，“什么装鸟叫，坚持要给我们看那些照片，都叫人感到有点儿太……那个了。”
“你这个老疑心鬼！”
“你说对了，我的朋友，我对什么都怀疑。我担心，黑斯廷斯，担心……”
Chapter 6 A Call Upon Mr Vyse 访维斯先生
Chapter 6 - A Call Upon Mr Vyse
Poirot clung firmly to the Continental breakfast. To see me consuming eggs and bacon upset and distressed him-so he always said. Consequently he breakfasted in bed upon coffee and rolls and I was free to start the day with the traditional Englishman's breakfast of bacon and eggs and marmalade.
I looked into his room on Monday morning as I went downstairs. He was sitting up in bed arrayed in a very marvellous dressing-gown.
'Bonjour, Hastings. I was just about to ring. This note that I have written, will you be so good as to get it taken over to End House and delivered to Mademoiselle at once.'
I held out my hand for it. Poirot looked at me and sighed.
'If only-if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache-a thing of beauty such as mine.'
Repressing a shudder at the thought, I took the note firmly from Poirot's hand and left the room.
I had rejoined him in our sitting-room when word was sent up to say Miss Buckley had called. Poirot gave the order for her to be shown up.
She came in gaily enough, but I fancied that the circles under her eyes were darker than usual. In her hand she held a telegram which she handed to Poirot.
'There,' she said. 'I hope that will please you!' Poirot read it aloud. 'Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.'
'My nurse and guardian!' said Nick. 'But you're wrong, you know. Maggie's got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she's fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.'
'And the Commander Challenger?'
'Oh! George! He'd never see anything till it was under his nose. But he'd let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.'
She tossed off her hat and went on: 'I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?'
Poirot shook his head.
'No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.'
'Oh, well,' said Nick. 'It's all great fun, isn't it?' 'Is it, Mademoiselle?' asked Poirot, gently.
She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.
'No,' she said. 'It-it isn't, really. I'm afraid-I'm afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.'
'So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.'
'Yes, indeed,' I put in warmly.
'No,' said Nick, shaking her head. 'I'm not brave. It's-it's the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more's going to happen. And how it'll happen! And expecting it to happen.'
'Yes, yes-it is the strain.'
'Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn't-I simply couldn't come through the garden. It's as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It's this thing coming on top of everything else.'
'What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?' There was a momentary pause before she replied.
'I don't mean anything particular. What the newspapers call "the strain of modern life", I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes-all that sort of thing. It's just that I've got into a ridiculous-sort of-of state.'
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
'You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.'
'There isn't-there really isn't.'
'There is something you have not told me.'
'I've told you every single smallest thing.'
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
'About these accidents-about the attacks upon you, yes.'
'Well-then?'
'But you have not told me everything that is in your heart-in your life...'
She said slowly: 'Can anyone do that...?'
'Ah! then,' said Poirot, with triumph. 'You admit it!'
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
'Perhaps,' he suggested, shrewdly. 'It is not your secret?'
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
'Really and truly, M. Poirot, I've told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It's having no suspicions that's driving me mad! Because I'm not a fool. I can see that if those "accidents" weren't accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand-somebody who-knows me. And that's what is so awful. Because I haven't the least idea-not the very least-who that somebody might be.'
She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl's self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.
'Do you know a queer wish I've always had? I love End House. I've always wanted to produce a play there. It's got an-an atmosphere of drama about it. I've seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it's as though a drama were being acted there. Only I'm not producing it... I'm in it! I'm right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who-dies in the first act.'
Her voice broke.
'Now, now, Mademoiselle.' Poirot's voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. 'This will not do. This is hysteria.'
She turned and looked at him sharply.
'Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?' she asked. 'She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn't always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when-when she isn't quite herself.'
There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question: 'Tell me, Mademoiselle,' he said. 'Have you ever received an offer for End House?'
'To sell it, do you mean?'
'That is what I meant.'
'No.'
'Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?'
Nick considered for a moment.
'No, I don't think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.'
'Precisement.'
'I don't want to sell it, you know, because I'm fond of it.'
'Quite so. I understand.'
Nick moved slowly towards the door.
'By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o'clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.'
'I shall be enchanted.'
'Both of you, of course,' said Nick.
'Many thanks,' I said.
'Nothing like a party for reviving the drooping spirits,' remarked Nick. And with a little laugh she went out.
'Pauvre enfant,' said Poirot.
He reached for his hat and carefully flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from its surface.
'We are going out?' I asked.
'Mais oui, we have legal business to transact, mon ami.'
'Of course. I understand.'
'One of your brilliant mentality could not fail to do so, Hastings.'
The offices of Messrs Vyse, Trevannion & Wynnard were situated in the main street of the town. We mounted the stairs to the first floor and entered a room where three clerks were busily writing. Poirot asked to see Mr Charles Vyse.
A clerk murmured a few words down a telephone, received, apparently, an affirmative reply, and remarking that Mr Vyse would see us now, he led us across the passage, tapped on a door and stood aside for us to pass in.
From behind a large desk covered with legal papers, Mr Vyse rose up to greet us.
He was a tall young man, rather pale, with impassive features. He was going a little bald on either temple and wore glasses. His colouring was fair and indeterminate.
Poirot had come prepared for the encounter. Fortunately he had with him an agreement, as yet unsigned, and so on some technical points in connection with this, he wanted Mr Vyse's advice.
Mr Vyse, speaking carefully and correctly, was soon able to allay Poirot's alleged doubts, and to clear up some obscure points of the wording.
'I am very much obliged to you,' murmured Poirot. 'As a foreigner, you comprehend, these legal matters and phrasing are most difficult.'
It was then that Mr Vyse asked who had sent Poirot to him.
'Miss Buckley,' said Poirot, promptly. 'Your cousin, is she not? A most charming young lady. I happened to mention that I was in perplexity and she told me to come to you. I tried to see you on Saturday morning-about half-past twelve-but you were out.'
'Yes, I remember. I left early on Saturday.'
'Mademoiselle your cousin must find that large house very lonely? She lives there alone, I understand.'
'Quite so.'
'Tell me, Mr Vyse, if I may ask, is there any chance of that property being in the market?'
'Not the least, I should say.'
'You understand, I do not ask idly. I have a reason! I am in search, myself, of just such a property. The climate of St Loo enchants me. It is true that the house appears to be in bad repair, there has not been, I gather, much money to spend upon it. Under those circumstances, is it not possible that Mademoiselle would consider an offer?'
'Not the least likelihood of it.' Charles Vyse shook his head with the utmost decision. 'My cousin is absolutely devoted to the place. Nothing would induce her to sell, I know. It is, you understand, a family place.'
'I comprehend that, but-'
'It is absolutely out of the question. I know my cousin. She has a fanatical devotion to the house.'
A few minutes later we were out in the street again.
'Well, my friend,' said Poirot. 'And what impression did this M. Charles Vyse make upon you?'
I considered.
'A very negative one,' I said at last. 'He is a curiously negative person.' 'Not a strong personality, you would say?'
'No, indeed. The kind of man you would never remember on meeting him again. A mediocre person.'
'His appearance is certainly not striking. Did you notice any discrepancy in the course of our conversation with him?'
'Yes,' I said slowly, 'I did. With regard to the selling of End House.'
'Exactly. Would you have described Mademoiselle Buckley's attitude towards End House as one of "fanatical devotion"?'
'It is a very strong term.'
'Yes-and Mr Vyse is not given to using strong terms. His normal attitude-a legal attitude-is to under, rather than over, state. Yet he says that Mademoiselle has a fanatical devotion to the home of her ancestors.'
'She did not convey that impression this morning,' I said. 'She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She's obviously fond of the place-just as anyone in her position would be-but certainly nothing more.'
'So, in fact, one of the two is lying,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'One would not suspect Vyse of lying.'
'Clearly a great asset if one has any lying to do,' remarked Poirot. 'Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?'
'What was that?'
'He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Saturday.'

第六章　访维斯先生
波洛的早点非得是法国式的不可。他总是说，看见我吃腊肉和煎得半生不熟的鸡蛋就很难受，非要把他对于早点的看法阐述再三，不管这些看法我早已熟悉得能够倒背如流。他的早点是在床上吃的——咖啡加上小圆面包。但我依然喜欢到餐厅里去吃英国式的早餐：腊肉鸡蛋和桔子酱。
星期一早上我下楼时，朝他房里看了一眼，他正坐在床上，穿着一件花里胡哨的睡衣。
“早上好，黑斯廷斯。我刚想打铃叫人请你过来。我写了个便条，你是否可以马上到悬崖山庄去一趟，把它交给小姐本人？”
我接过那张便条。波洛看着我叹了口气，说：
“如果你把头发从中间分开，而不是像现在这样从旁边分开，你的尊容肯定会生色不少。还有，如果你真的要蓄胡须的话，就得蓄一绺像我一样的髭须，要多美就有多美。”
想到我嘴唇上长出像他那样两头翘起不可一世的胡须来，我不禁哆嗦了一下，赶快收好条子离开了他的房间。
从悬崖山庄回来后，我同波洛一起坐在起居间里。这时有人来说巴克利小姐要见我们。波洛让那人带她进来。
她一脸喜色地走了进来，但我留意到她眼下的黑圈颜色更深了。她把一封电报递给波洛，说：“喏，我希望这会叫你高兴了吧。”
波洛大声念道：
“今天下午五点三十分到达。马吉。”
“我的看护和警卫要来了。”尼克说，“但你错了，波洛先生。马吉是个没有头脑的人，只配做做慈善工作，而且毫无幽默感。在发现暗藏的凶手这方面，弗雷迪比她强十倍，而吉姆•拉扎勒斯比她强二十倍。我总觉得没有谁真正了解吉姆。”
“查林杰中校呢？”
“哦，乔治！事情只要不出在眼皮子底下他就什么也看不出来。不过一旦被他看见了，对手就会吃够苦头的。像他这样的人在摊牌的时候倒还能派点用场。”
她脱下帽子继续说：
“我已经关照过了，你便条里写的那个人要是来了就让他进屋里去。这件事好像怪神秘似的。他是来安装窃听器、报警器之类东西的吗？”
波洛摇摇头。
“不，不，跟科学和仪器无关，小姐。只不过有些事情我想知道一下罢了。”
“哦，”尼克说，“趣味无穷，不是吗？”
“你说呢，小姐？”波洛文雅地反问。
她背朝我们站着，两眼看着窗外。一分钟后又转过身来，脸上那种玩世不恭的勇敢表情全没了。她像小孩一样瘪起了嘴，竭力忍住不让泪水夺眶而出。
“不，”她说，“不是件有趣的事，真的。我怕——我很害怕，简直是生活在恐怖之中。以前我总以为自己是勇敢的……”
“你是勇敢的，我的孩子，你是的。黑斯廷斯和我都赞美过你的勇气。”
“这是真的。”我连忙补充说。
“不，”尼克摇着头，“我并不勇敢，只是在等待。一直在等那个神秘的第五次暗算，并且期待着它发生。”
“是啊，是啊，这是很恐怖的。”
“昨天晚上我把床拖到房间中央，而且关上窗户锁上了门。今天我到这里来走的是大路，我没有胆量——根本没有这个胆量走花园里那条近路，我不敢了。所有的勇气一霎时全消逝了。已经发生了那么多可怕的怪事，又来了这个。”
“你指的是什么，小姐？‘又来了这个’？”
她回答之前沉默了片刻。
“我并没有具体指什么。我想，大概就是报纸上常说的那种‘现代生活的紧张感’吧。太多的鸡尾酒，太多的香烟——所有这一类东西使我落到今天这种被人当作笑柄的神经质的地步。”
她一屁股坐进一张沙发里，小手指头下意识地互相绞在一起又松开。
“你对我不够坦白，小姐。你还有些东西没告诉我。”
“不——我全说啦，真的。”
“有些东西你没告诉我。”
“哪怕是最微不足道的细节都对你讲了。”
她说得很当真。
“关于那些事故——那些袭击你的事，你确实是把知道的全说出来了。”
“那么，还有什么呢？”
“可是你没把心里的一切，生活中的一切都和盘托出。”
她迟疑地说：
“这，难道有人能办到吗？”
“啊，你瞧，”波洛胜利地说，“你承认了！”
她摇摇头，波洛满怀希望地注视着她。
“或许，”他狡猾地启示说，“这不是你自己的秘密，关系到别人……”
我似乎看到她眼皮跳了一下，但几乎是同时她蹦了起来。
“确确实实，波洛先生，我已经把有关这些蠢事的一切细节都告诉你了。如果你认为我还知道其他人的什么隐私，或者我对谁有怀疑，那你就错了。正因为没有人可以怀疑才使我神经过敏得几乎要发疯。我不是个傻瓜。如果说这些偶然事故并不是偶然事故的话，那么我完全看得出干这些事的人一定就在我身旁。至少是个认识我的人。这就是恐怖之处，因为我一点都想不出这个人可能是谁。”
她又走到窗口，站在那里朝外看。波洛打了个手势叫我别做声。我想他希望趁那位姑娘控制不住自己的时机多得到些进一步的线索。
她接着用一种梦呓般的声音说：
“你知不知道我常有一种古怪的想法？我爱悬崖山庄，总想在那里编排一出戏。那地方本身就有戏剧气氛。我心里仿佛已经看见过各种各样的戏剧在那里上演似的。而现在，悬崖山庄里真的演起戏来了，只不过不是由我导演的——我只是其中一个角色，也许，是个在第一幕里就要死去的角色。”
她哽住说不下去了。
“现在，小姐，”波洛坚定地说，“这是不会发生的。这种想法只不过是一种歇斯底里罢了。”
她转过身来，目光锐利地盯住波洛，说：
“弗雷迪告诉你说我歇斯底里吗？有时她是这么说的。但她的话你不能全信。有时候她根本不知道自己在说些什么。”
谈话中止了一会儿。然后波洛提出一个与上文毫不相关的问题：
“告诉我，小姐，有没有人想买悬崖山庄？”
“你是说，卖掉它吗？”
“是这个意思。”
“没有。”
“如果有人出了个好价钱，你会考虑卖掉它吗？”
尼克考虑了一会儿之后说：
“不，我想我不会卖的。除非他出的价钱真的很高。”
“不错。”
“我不愿意卖，因为我喜欢它。”
“不错，我能理解。”
尼克慢慢向门口走去。
“还有件事。今天晚上放焰火，你来不来？八点钟吃晚饭。焰火九点半开始。你们可以从峭壁上看得很清楚。”
“我很有兴趣。”
“当然，是请你们两位都来。”尼克说。
“非常感谢。”我说。
“只有宴会才能使我的精神振作起来。”说完之后尼克笑着出去了。
“可怜的孩子。”波洛说。
他伸手拿起他的帽子，小心翼翼地掸掉落在帽子上的一点灰尘。
“我们出去吗？”我问。
“是呀，我们有些法律方面的问题需要去请教一下，我的朋友。”
“当然，我明白了。”
“一个像你这样绝顶聪明的人是不会不明白的，黑斯廷斯。”
维斯、特里范尼恩和威纳德律师事务所在镇里的主要街道上。我们走进二楼的一个房间里，有三个职员正忙着写东西。波洛要求会见查尔斯•维斯先生。
一个职员拿起电话说了几句，看样子得到了肯定的答复，就放下听筒对我们说维斯先生现在可以接待我们。他带我们穿过走廊，在一扇门上轻轻敲了敲，就闪到一旁让我们进去。
维斯先生从一张堆满文件的大写字台后面站起来迎接我们。
他是个冷静的、脸色苍白的高个子年轻人，戴着眼镜，额角微秃，有一种叫人莫测高深的神情。
波洛对这次会见早有准备。他取出一份没签过字的合同，提出几个技术性的问题向维斯先生请教。
维斯先生的答复措辞谨慎准确，很快就减轻了波洛的怀疑。他还为波洛澄清了一些词义含糊不清的地方。
“你真帮了我一个大忙，”波洛呐呐地说，“你总知道，对一个外国人来说，这些法律文件的格式及其措辞是永远搞不清楚的。”
维斯问起是谁介绍波洛到他这里来的。
“巴克利小姐，”波洛马上说，“你的表妹，对吗？一位娇媚无比的女郎。我无意间跟她提起我的为难，她就让我来找你了。我星期六中午来看过你——大约十二点半，但你出去了。”
“是的，我记得的。星期六那天我很早就离开办公室了。”
“我想，你表妹一个人住那么大一幢老房子，一定怪寂寞的吧？”
“是的。”
“恕我冒昧，维斯先生，请你告诉我那处产业有没有出卖的可能？”
“一点都没有，我可以说。”
“你知道，我并不是随便问问的，我有我的理由。我正在到处寻找的就是这样一处产业。圣卢的气候对我十分适宜。那所房子看上去多年失修是真的，我猜在这方面没花过多少钱。在这种情况下，难道小姐不会考虑卖掉它？”
“根本不会，”查尔斯•维斯极其坚决地摇摇头说，“我表妹爱那所房子就跟着了魔似的。任何东西都无法引诱她卖掉那处产业。那是个祖居，你知道。”
“这个我知道，不过——”
“这很难办到。我了解我表妹。她对那所房子有一种盲目的崇拜和依恋。”
几分钟后我们走在街上了。
“我的朋友，”波洛说，“这位查尔斯•维斯先生给你的印象如何？”
我想了想说：
“是个持否定态度的人，很奇怪地老是唱反调。”
“你大概还会说他的个性不很强吧？”
“正是。他这样的人你以后再遇到的时候便会记不起在哪里见过面——一个最普通的人。”
“他的外表确实很难给人留下点什么印象。在他的谈话里你可注意到有什么与事实不符的地方没有？”
“有的，”我边想边说，“我注意到他关于出卖悬崖山庄一事的说法。”
“对极了！你会不会把巴克利小姐对悬崖山庄的爱说成是‘着了魔似的’？”
“这种说法太夸张了。”
“是的。应当注意到这么一个事实，即，维斯先生作为一个有经验的律师，是不会有说话夸张的习惯的。他正常的对事物的说法应当是大事化小而不是推波助澜。可是他却夸大其辞地说小姐对祖居爱得像着了魔！”
“她今天早晨说的话没有给我这样的印象。”我说，“她讲得合情合理。显然，她只不过是喜欢那个地方而已——就如同任何人处在她的地位上对那房子会产生的感情程度一样——仅此而已。”
“所以，两个人当中必有一个说了假话。”波洛得出这个结论。
“人们是不会把维斯当成说谎的人的。”
“很显然，一个人要说谎，总有一定的理由。”波洛说，“是的，他颇有乔治•华盛顿之风。黑斯廷斯，你另外还留心到什么没有？”
“什么呀？”
“星期六十二点半他不在他的办公室里！”
Chapter 7 Tragedy 惨遭不测
Chapter 7 - Tragedy
The first person we saw when we arrived at End House that evening was Nick. She was dancing about the hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.
'Oh! it's only you!' 'Mademoiselle-I am desolated!'
'I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I'm waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised-the brutes-promised faithfully!'
'Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette ! There is a dance tonight, is there not?' 'Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.' There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.
'Never give in! That's my motto. Don't think of trouble and trouble won't come! I've got my nerve back tonight. I'm going to be gay and enjoy myself.'
There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.
'Oh! here's Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret assassin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.'
In turn we shook hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.
It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old-fashioned sense-certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.
'Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,' she said. 'Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can't have an enemy in the world.'
Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.
'Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I assure you that it is the truth,' said Poirot quietly. She made no reply, but her face remained unbelieving.
'Nick seems quite fey tonight,' she remarked. 'I don't know what's the matter with her. She seems in the wildest spirits.'
That word-fey! It sent a shiver through me. Also, something in the intonation of her voice had set me wondering.
'Are you Scotch, Miss Buckley?' I asked, abruptly. 'My mother was Scottish,' she explained.
She viewed me, I noticed, with more approval than she viewed Poirot. I felt that my statement of the case would carry more weight with her than Poirot's would.
'Your cousin is behaving with great bravery,' I said. 'She's determined to carry on as usual.'
'It's the only way, isn't it?' said Maggie. 'I mean-whatever one's inward feelings are-it is no good making a fuss about them. That's only uncomfortable for everyone else.' She paused and then added in a soft voice: 'I'm very fond of Nick. She's been good to me always.'
We could say nothing more for at that moment Frederica Rice drifted into the room. She was wearing a gown of Madonna blue and looked very fragile and ethereal. Lazarus soon followed her and then Nick danced in. She was wearing a black frock, and round her was wrapped a marvellous old Chinese shawl of vivid lacquer red.
'Hello, people,' she said. 'Cocktails?'
We all drank, and Lazarus raised his glass to her.
'That's a marvellous shawl, Nick,' he said. 'It's an old one, isn't it?'
'Yes-brought back by Great-Great-Great-Uncle Timothy from his travels.'
'It's a beauty-a real beauty. You wouldn't find another to match it if you tried.'
'It's warm,' said Nick. 'It'll be nice when we're watching the fireworks. And it's gay. I-I hate black.'
'Yes,' said Frederica. 'I don't believe I've ever seen you in a black dress before, Nick. Why did you get it?'
'Oh! I don't know.' The girl flung aside with a petulant gesture, but I had caught a curious curl of her lips as though of pain. 'Why does one do anything?'
We went in to dinner. A mysterious manservant had appeared-hired, I presume, for the occasion. The food was indifferent. The champagne, on the other hand, was good.
'George hasn't turned up,' said Nick. 'A nuisance his having to go back to Plymouth last night. He'll get over this evening sometime or other, I expect. In time for the dance anyway. I've got a man for Maggie. Presentable, if not passionately interesting.'
A faint roaring sound drifted in through the window.
'Oh! curse that speedboat,' said Lazarus. 'I get so tired of it.'
'That's not the speedboat,' said Nick. 'That's a sea-plane.'
'I believe you're right.'
'Of course I'm right. The sound's quite different.'
'When are you going to get your Moth, Nick?'
'When I can raise the money,' laughed Nick.
'And then, I suppose you'll be off to Australia like that girl-what's her name?'
'I'd love to-'
'I admire her enormously,' said Mrs Rice, in her tired voice. 'What marvellous nerve! All by herself too.'
'I admire all these flying people,' said Lazarus. 'If Michael Seton had succeeded in his flight round the world he'd have been the hero of the day-and rightly so. A thousand pities he's come to grief. He's the kind of man England can't afford to lose.'
'He may still be all right,' said Nick.
'Hardly. It's a thousand to one against by now. Poor Mad Seton.' 'They always called him Mad Seton, didn't they?' asked Frederica. Lazarus nodded.
'He comes of rather a mad family,' he said. 'His uncle, Sir Matthew Seton, who died about a week ago-he was as mad as a hatter.'
'He was the mad millionaire who ran bird sanctuaries, wasn't he?' asked Frederica.
'Yes. Used to buy up islands. He was a great woman-hater. Some girl chucked him once, I believe, and he took to Natural History by way of consoling himself.'
'Why do you say Michael Seton is dead?' persisted Nick. 'I don't see any reason for giving up hope-yet.'
'Of course, you knew him, didn't you?' said Lazarus. 'I forgot.'
'Freddie and I met him at Le Touquet last year,' said Nick. 'He was too marvellous, wasn't he, Freddie?'
'Don't ask me, darling. He was your conquest, not mine. He took you up once, didn't he?'
'Yes-at Scarborough. It was simply too wonderful.'
'Have you done any flying, Captain Hastings?' Maggie asked of me in polite conversational tones.
I had to confess that a trip to Paris and back was the extent of my acquaintance with air travel.
Suddenly, with an exclamation, Nick sprang up.
'There's the telephone. Don't wait for me. It's getting late. And I've asked lots of people.'
She left the room. I glanced at my watch. It was just nine o'clock. Dessert was brought, and port. Poirot and Lazarus were talking Art. Pictures, Lazarus was saying, were a great drug in the market just now. They went on to discuss new ideas in furniture and decoration.
I endeavoured to do my duty by talking to Maggie Buckley, but I had to admit that the girl was heavy in hand. She answered pleasantly, but without throwing the ball back. It was uphill work.
Frederica Rice sat dreamily silent, her elbows on the table and the smoke from her cigarette curling round her fair head. She looked like a meditative angel.
It was just twenty past nine when Nick put her head round the door. 'Come out of it, all of you! The animals are coming in two by two.'
We rose obediently. Nick was busy greeting arrivals. About a dozen people had been asked. Most of them were rather uninteresting. Nick, I noticed, made a good hostess. She sank her modernisms and made everyone welcome in an old-fashioned way. Among the guests I noticed Charles Vyse.
Presently we all moved out into the garden to a place overlooking the sea and the harbour. A few chairs had been placed there for the elderly people, but most of us stood. The first rocket flamed to Heaven.
At that moment I heard a loud familiar voice, and turned my head to see Nick greeting Mr Croft.
'It's too bad,' she was saying, 'that Mrs Croft can't be here too. We ought to have carried her on a stretcher or something.'
'It's bad luck on poor mother altogether. But she never complains-that woman's got the sweetest nature-Ha! that's a good one.' This as a shower of golden rain showed up in the sky.
The night was a dark one-there was no moon-the new moon being due in three day's time. It was also, like most summer evenings, cold. Maggie Buckley, who was next to me, shivered.
'I'll just run in and get a coat,' she murmured.
'Let me.'
'No, you wouldn't know where to find it.'
She turned towards the house. At that moment Frederica Rice's voice called: 'Oh, Maggie, get mine too. It's in my room.'
'She didn't hear,' said Nick. 'I'll get it, Freddie. I want my fur one-this shawl isn't nearly hot enough. It's this wind.'
There was, indeed, a sharp breeze blowing off the sea.
Some set pieces started down on the quay. I fell into conversation with an elderly lady standing next to me who put me through a rigorous catechism as to life, career, tastes and probable length of stay.
Bang! A shower of green stars filled the sky. They changed to blue, then red, then silver.
Another and yet another.
'"Oh!" and then "Ah!" that is what one says,' observed Poirot suddenly close to my ear. 'At the end it becomes monotonous, do you not find? Brrr! The grass, it is damp to the feet! I shall suffer for this-a chill. And no possibility of obtaining a propertisane!'
'A chill? On a lovely night like this?'
'A lovely night! A lovely night! You say that, because the rain it does not pour down in sheets! Always when the rain does not fall, it is a lovely night. But I tell you, my friend, if there were a little thermometer to consult you would see.'
'Well,' I admitted, 'I wouldn't mind putting on a coat myself.' 'You are very sensible. You have come from a hot climate.' 'I'll bring yours.'
Poirot lifted first one, then the other foot from the ground with a cat-like motion.
'It is the dampness of the feet I fear. Would it, think you, be possible to lay hands on a pair of goloshes?'
I repressed a smile.
'Not a hope,' I said. 'You understand, Poirot, that it is no longer done.'
'Then I shall sit in the house,' he declared. 'Just for the Guy Fawkes show, shall I want only enrhumer myself? And catch, perhaps, afluxion de poitrine?'
Poirot still murmuring indignantly, we bent our footsteps towards the house. Loud clapping drifted up to us from the quay below where another set piece was being shown-a ship, I believe, with Welcome to Our Visitors displayed across it.
'We are all children at heart,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'Les Feux D'Artifices, the party, the games with balls-yes, and even the conjurer, the man who deceives the eye, however carefully it watches-mais qu'est-ce que vous avez?'
I had caught him by the arm, and was clutching him with one hand, while with the other I pointed.
We were within a hundred yards of the house, and just in front of us, between us and the open French window, there lay a huddled figure wrapped in a scarlet Chinese shawl...
'Mon Dieu!' whispered Poirot. 'Mon Dieu...'

第七章　惨遭不测
那天晚上，在悬崖山庄我们碰到的第一个人是尼克。她身上裹着一件做工精细的绣龙的日本式晨服，一个人在堂屋里旋来转去地跳着舞。
“嘿，怎么是你们？”
“小姐，这样说可伤了我的心了。”
“我知道这话听起来太无礼了。但你看，我正在等他们把我定做的礼服送来。他们保证过——这些家伙——信誓旦旦地保证过会送来，可是到现在还不见个影儿！”
“哦，只不过是个穿衣打扮上的问题！今晚有个舞会对不对？”
“对，看完焰火之后我们全都去参加。就是说，如果能全部都去的话。”
她的声音突然低沉下来，但下一分钟她又在笑了。
“别当真！我的座右铭是：只要不去想，麻烦就不来。今天晚上我的勇气又恢复了，我要好好乐上一场。”
楼梯上有脚步声，尼克转过身去。
“哦，马吉来了。马吉，他们就是要在那个看不见的凶手的魔爪下保护我的侦探。把他们带到客厅去让他们把这一切都讲给你听吧。”
我们跟马吉•巴克利小姐握了手，然后她就按照尼克所吩咐的，把我们领进了客厅。这时候我对她有了好感。
我想也许是她娴静的外表吸引了我。她是个文静的姑娘。用老眼光看，会觉得她是个入画的人。她一点都不时髦，穿一件朴素陈旧的黑色礼服，脸上透出纯洁的光辉。那双蓝眼睛透着一点稚气，说起话来嗓音圆润婉转。
“尼克把那些吓人的事情告诉我了，”她说，“她肯定是在捕风捉影吧？谁会想去伤害尼克？在这个世界上她不会有任何仇敌的。”
从她说话的声调里听得出她对此事表示极大的怀疑。从她的眼光里看得出她对波洛并不那么奉承恭维。我深知马吉•巴克利那样的姑娘对一个外国人素来抱有成见。
“尽管你说得颇有道理，巴克利小姐，我还是要对你说，这一切都是真的。”波洛心平气和地说。
她没说什么，却仍然满脸狐疑的神气。后来她说：
“今晚尼克像是中了邪似的，我不知道她是怎么搞的，神气疯狂得很。”
中了邪！这个说法使我哆嗦了一下。她的语气也叫我大为不安。
“你是苏格兰人吗，巴克利小姐？”我忽然问道。
“我母亲是苏格兰人。”她说着打量了我一眼。我注意到她的眼光比刚才看波洛要温和多了。我觉得在这方面我占了波洛的上风。
“你表妹很有勇气，”我说，“她决心像往常一样行事。”
“也只能这样了，对吗？”马吉说，“大肆渲染自我感觉是无济于事的，只能叫旁人跟着难受。”停了停，她又柔声说，“我喜欢尼克，她对我一直很好。”
这时弗雷德里卡•赖斯飘然而至，我们也就没能再说什么了。她穿一件画像里的圣母常穿的蓝色礼服，看起来羸弱无力，后面跟着拉扎勒斯。接着，尼克也旋转着跳了进来。她穿一件黑色礼服，肩上围着一条旧的中国披肩，颜色鲜红，十分醒目。
“好哇，诸位，”她说，“来点鸡尾酒怎样？”
我们就喝起酒来。拉扎勒斯向尼克举起酒杯说道：
“这的确是一条少见的围巾，尼克。是旧的吗？”
“是的。是我祖父的祖公的叔公蒂莫西出门旅行带回来的。”
“美得很——古色古香的美。你找不到能跟它相配的东西。”
“它很暖和，”尼克说，“在看焰火的时候是很有用的。而且这种颜色叫人快活。我不喜欢黑颜色。”
“不错，”弗雷德里卡说，“尼克，以前我从来没有看见过你穿黑衣服。咦，为什么现在你穿起黑颜色的衣服来了？”
“哦，我不知道为什么，”那姑娘负气地走到一旁。我看见她的双唇霎时像被螫了一下似的扭歪了。“一个人做的事情并不是都能说得出理由的。”
我们进去吃晚饭。这里有了一个带点神秘味儿的男仆——我猜是为了这次请客而临时雇用的。晚饭的食物普普通通，但香槟酒却是上等的名牌货。
“乔治还没来，”尼克说，“昨晚他得赶回普利茅斯真叫人扫兴。我希望他今天晚上会赶来，至少能赶上舞会。我给马吉找了个男舞伴。如果说风情味儿不够足，外表总还看得过去的。”
窗外隐约传来一阵马达喧嚣声。
“嗨，这些该死的赛艇，”拉扎勒斯说，“简直讨厌透顶！”
“那可不是赛艇，”尼克说，“是一架水上飞机。”
“我想你说得不错。”
“当然不会错的，从声音里听得出来。”
“你什么时候去买一只这种大飞蛾，尼克？”
“等我发了财吧。”尼克大笑起来。
“那时候，我想，你会飞到澳大利亚去，就像那个姑娘一样，她叫什么名字来着？”
“我要学她……”
“我对她佩服得五体投地，”赖斯太太用困倦的声音说，“多坚强啊，简直难以想象——一个女孩子独自开一架飞机飞越太平洋！”
“我为所有这些勇敢的飞行员唱赞歌，”拉扎勒斯说，“如果迈克尔•塞顿在他的环球飞行中获得成功，马上就会成为当今的英雄。可惜他开着飞机进了坟墓。像他这样的孤胆英雄英国是损失不起的。”
“他可能还活着。”尼克说。
“不会的，连千分之一的希望都不存在了，可怜的疯塞顿！”
“他们老是叫他疯塞顿，是吗？”弗雷德里卡问。
拉扎勒斯点点头，说：
“他出身于一个相当疯狂的家庭。他的叔叔马修•塞顿爵士是个疯狂到极点的人，一个星期之前死了。”
“就是那个创办了许多鸟类禁猎地的百万富翁吗？”弗雷德里卡问。
“是的。他憎恶女人。我猜他以前大概上过女人的当，于是他一心一意爱上了各种各样的鸟儿。他曾经买下沿海一些岛屿并把它们变成了鸟类的天堂。也许这就是他的自我安慰和对女人的报复。”
“你们为什么一口咬定说迈克尔•塞顿死了？”尼克对这件事锲而不舍，“我不懂为什么要放弃希望！”
“哦，你认识他，对吗？”拉扎勒斯说，“这我倒忘了。”
“去年我和弗雷迪在托基见到过他。”尼克说，“他对人有种特别的魅力，对不对，弗雷迪？”
“别问我，亲爱的。他是你的战利品而不是我的。我记得他带你飞过一次。”
“是的，在斯卡伯勒，真叫人心里发慌。”
这时，马吉用社交场合里那种彬彬有礼的口气问我：
“黑斯廷斯上尉，你坐过飞机没有？”
我告诉她说在一次去巴黎的往返飞行中，我算是尝够了空中旅行的滋味了。
忽然尼克叫了一声跳起身来，说：
“来电话了。你们别等我，时间不早了。我约了许多人呢。”
她出去的时候我看了看表，正好九点。甜食和红葡萄酒都送上来了。波洛和拉扎勒斯在大谈艺术。拉扎勒斯发表高见，说现在图画成了麻醉品。他们又谈起家具和装饰品，不同凡响的见解层出不穷。
我尽自己的义务陪马吉谈天，但这真是一件费心劳神的事。她接过你的话茬儿愉快地往下说，一说完就停下来不出声了，于是你只得再想个新的话题出来。社交谈话是种艺术，就像打球，你把球打给我，我接住后再打给你，一来一往，方才显得煞有介事。但马吉接了球却不打还给我，谈话就老是冷场，令人发窘。
弗雷德里卡双肘拄在桌子上，一个人悄没声儿地坐在那里出神，手上的香烟升起一缕青烟，盘旋在她淡金色的头发周围，看上去就像一个正在做梦的天使。
九点二十分，尼克从门外伸进头来说：
“出来吧，诸位。客人们成双作对地光临啦！”
我们顺从地站了起来。尼克正忙于欢迎新客，他们的人数有一打，大多数是些看着叫人提不起兴趣的人。我觉得尼克可以成为一个上流社会里的女主人。她把那套轻浮的摩登派头不露形迹地藏了起来，言谈举止循规蹈矩，迎候接待礼数周全。
客人差不多全到了，查尔斯•维斯也在其中。我们一起来到花园里一个可以俯瞰大海和港口的地方，那儿预先放了几张椅子给年纪大些的人坐，但大多数人都站着看。这时第一束焰火在天上开了花。
忽然我听见一个熟悉的声音。回头一看，是尼克正在同克罗夫特先生打招呼。
“太遗憾了，”她说，“克罗夫特太太不能和你一块儿来。我们应当用个担架去把她抬来看焰火。”
“嗨，可怜的妈妈命不好啊。但她总是逆来顺受，从来不抱怨——啊，这个好看！”
一束焰火迸裂了，金色的雨点满天闪烁。
这天夜里很黑——没有月亮，新月三天以后才会出来。像一般夏天的夜晚一样，潮湿的空气里带点寒意。坐在我旁边的马吉•巴克利衣衫单薄，冷得发抖了。
“我要进去穿件衣服。”她轻轻地说。
“我去给你拿。”
“不，你不知道那件衣服在哪里，还是我去。”说着马吉向房子走去，弗雷德里卡在后面叫道：
“喂，马吉，把我的也拿来，在我房里。”
“她没听见，”尼克说，“我去拿吧，弗雷迪，我自己也要去穿件皮的，这条围巾不够暖，风又这么大。”
真的，向海上吹去的风给这清冷的夜晚又平添了几分轻寒。
海岬上也放起了焰火，天空中五彩缤纷，热闹得很。我同旁边一位青春已残的女士攀谈起来。她问起我的生活、经历、兴趣、爱好，还问我在这里打算待多久，我们的谈话活像是在进行教义问答。
“砰！”又是一发焰火射上天空，溅得满天都是绿色的星星。那些星星在空中变换色彩，一会儿蓝，一会儿红，一会儿又变成闪烁的碎银。
焰火一发紧接一发，越来越多，越来越快。波洛突然凑着我耳朵说：
“你听，到处是一片‘哦！’‘啊！’的赞叹声。可我觉得越来越单调乏味了，你说呢？砰砰嘭嘭地响成一片，还有那股硫磺气味！嗯，草地把脚都弄湿了，我会伤风的，而且这种地方大概连治伤风的药都搞不到！”
“伤风？这样美好的夜晚会叫人伤风吗？”
“哼，美好的夜晚，美妙的夜晚！你以为没有大雨滂沱就算是良宵美景了，是吗？但是我告诉你，我的朋友，要是你现在有一枝小小的温度计，你就会发现里头的水银柱都快结冰了。”
“好吧，”我同意了，“我不反对去穿件外套。”
“这才对呀，我知书明理的朋友。”
“我去给你把外套也一起拿来。”
波洛像只猫似的一会抬起左脚，一会又抬起右脚。
“我怕我的脚已经受潮了。你可有办法找双橡皮套鞋来？”
我强忍住笑说：
“搞不到的。你总该明白，波洛，这种东西长久不生产了，它们老早就过时了！”
“那么我坐到屋里去，”他说，“我才不愿意为了看这种无聊的红绿灯而伤风受凉，说不定还会来一场肺炎！”
我们向房子走去，波洛一路上还在愤愤地咕噜着。一阵响亮的爆裂声从海湾里传来，又是几束焰火在天上开了花。那些焰火组成一艘船的模样，船头到船尾还有几个亮晶晶的字：“欢迎观众！”
“在内心，”波洛说，“我们都像儿童一样。什么焰火啊，宴会啊，球赛啊，甚至还有魔术都叫我们看得欢天喜地。其实只是些骗骗眼睛的东西而已。”
这时我一手抓住波洛的膀子，另一只手把一样东西指给他看。
我们离悬崖山庄那所大房子约有一百码。在我们面前，就在我们和那扇落地玻璃窗之间的地上，蜷曲着一个人，脖子上围着那条鲜红的中国披肩……
“我的上帝！”波洛倒抽一口冷气，“我的上帝……”
Chapter 8 The Fatal Shawl 致命的披肩
Chapter 8 - The Fatal Shawl
I suppose it was not more than forty seconds that we stood there, frozen with horror, unable to move, but it seemed like an hour. Then Poirot moved forward, shaking off my hand. He moved stiffly like an automaton.
'It has happened,' he murmured, and I can hardly describe the anguished bitterness of his voice. 'In spite of everything-in spite of my precautions, it has happened. Ah! miserable criminal that I am, why did I not guard her better. I should have foreseen. Not for one instant should I have left her side.'
'You mustn't blame yourself,' I said.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I could hardly articulate.
Poirot only responded with a sorrowful shake of his head. He knelt down by the body.
And at that moment we received a second shock.
For Nick's voice rang out, clear and gay, and a moment later Nick appeared in the square of the window silhouetted against the lighted room behind.
'Sorry I've been so long, Maggie,' she said. 'But-' Then she broke off-staring at the scene before her.
With a sharp exclamation, Poirot turned over the body on the lawn and I pressed forward to see.
I looked down into the dead face of Maggie Buckley.
In another minute Nick was beside us. She gave a sharp cry.
'Maggie-Oh! Maggie-it-it can't-'
Poirot was still examining the girl's body. At last very slowly he rose to his feet.
'Is she-is-' Nick's voice broke off.
'Yes, Mademoiselle. She is dead.'
'But why? But why? Who could have wanted to kill her?'
Poirot's reply came quickly and firmly.
'It was not her they meant to kill, Mademoiselle! It was you! They were misled by the shawl.'
A great cry broke from Nick.
'Why couldn't it have been me?' she wailed. 'Oh! why couldn't it have been me? I'd so much rather. I don't want to live-now. I'd be glad-willing-happy-to die.'
She flung up her arms wildly and then staggered slightly. I passed an arm round her quickly to support her.
'Take her into the house, Hastings,' said Poirot. 'Then ring up the police.' 'The police?'
'Mais oui! Tell them someone has been shot. And afterwards stay with Mademoiselle Nick. On no account leave her.'
I nodded comprehension of these instructions, and supporting the half-fainting girl, made my way through the drawing-room window. I laid the girl on the sofa there, with a cushion under her head, and then hurried out into the hall in search of the telephone.
I gave a slight start on almost running into Ellen. She was standing there with a most peculiar expression on her meek, respectable face. Her eyes were glittering and she was passing her tongue repeatedly over her dry lips. Her hands were trembling, as though with excitement. As soon as she saw me, she spoke.
'Has-has anything happened, sir?'
'Yes,' I said curtly. 'Where's the telephone?' 
'Nothing-nothing wrong, sir?'
'There's been an accident,' I said evasively. 'Somebody hurt. I must telephone.'
'Who has been hurt, sir?'
There was a positive eagerness in her face.
'Miss Buckley. Miss Maggie Buckley.'
'Miss Maggie? Miss Maggie ? Are you sure, sir-I mean are you sure that-that it's Miss Maggie?'
'I'm quite sure,' I said. 'Why?'
'Oh!-nothing. I-I thought it might be one of the other ladies. I thought perhaps it might be-Mrs Rice.'
'Look here,' I said. 'Where's the telephone?'
'It's in the little room here, sir.' She opened the door for me and indicated the instrument.
'Thanks,' I said. And, as she seemed disposed to linger, I added: 'That's all I want, thank you.'
'If you want Dr Graham-'
'No, no,' I said. 'That's all. Go, please.'
She withdrew reluctantly, as slowly as she dared. In all probability she would listen outside the door, but I could not help that. After all, she would soon know all there was to be known.
I got the police station and made my report. Then, on my own initiative, I rang up the Dr Graham, Ellen had mentioned. I found his number in the book. Nick, at any rate, should have medical attention, I felt-even though a doctor could do nothing for that poor girl lying out there. He promised to come at once and I hung up the receiver and came out into the hall again.
If Ellen had been listening outside the door she had managed to disappear very swiftly. There was no one in sight when I came out. I went back into the drawing-room. Nick was trying to sit up.
'Do you think-could you get me-some brandy?' 'Of course.'
I hurried into the dining-room, found what I wanted and came back. A few sips of the spirit revived the girl. The colour began to come back into her cheeks. I rearranged the cushion for her head.
'It's all-so awful.' She shivered. 'Everything-everywhere.' 'I know, my dear, I know.'
'No, you don't! You can't. And it's all such a waste. If it were only me. It would be all over...'
'You mustn't,' I said, "be morbid".'
She only shook her head, reiterating: 'You don't know! You don't know!'
Then, suddenly, she began to cry. A quiet, hopeless sobbing like a child. That, I thought, was probably the best thing for her, so I made no effort to stem her tears.
When their first violence had died down a little, I stole across to the window and looked out. I had heard an outcry of voices a few minutes before. They were all there by now, a semi-circle round the scene of the tragedy, with Poirot like a fantastical sentinel, keeping them back.
As I watched, two uniformed figures came striding across the grass. The police had arrived.
I went quietly back to my place by the sofa. Nick lifted her tear-stained face. 'Oughtn't I to be doing something?'
'No, my dear. Poirot will see to it. Leave it to him.' Nick was silent for a minute or two, then she said: 'Poor Maggie. Poor dear old Maggie. Such a good sort who never harmed a soul in her life. That this should happen to her. I feel as though I'd killed her-bringing her down in the way that I did.'
I shook my head sadly. How little one can foresee the future. When Poirot insisted on Nick's inviting a friend, how little did he think that he was signing an unknown girl's death warrant.
We sat in silence. I longed to know what was going on outside, but I loyally fulfilled Poirot's instructions and stuck to my post.
It seemed hours later when the door opened and Poirot and a police inspector entered the room. With them came a man who was evidently Dr Graham. He came over at once to Nick.
'And how are you feeling, Miss Buckley? This must have been a terrible shock.' His fingers were on her pulse.
'Not too bad.'
He turned to me.
'Has she had anything?'
'Some brandy,' I said.
'I'm all right,' said Nick, bravely.
'Able to answer a few questions, eh?'
'Of course.'
The police inspector moved forward with a preliminary cough. Nick greeted him with the ghost of a smile.
'Not impeding the traffic this time,' she said.
I gathered they were not strangers to each other.
'This is a terrible business, Miss Buckley,' said the inspector. 'I'm very sorry about it. Now Mr Poirot here, whose name I'm very familiar with (and proud we are to have him with us, I'm sure), tells me that to the best of his belief you were shot at in the grounds of the Majestic Hotel the other morning?'
Nick nodded.
'I thought it was just a wasp,' she explained. 'But it wasn't.'
'And you'd had some rather peculiar accidents before that?'
'Yes-at least it was odd their happening so close together.'
She gave a brief account of the various circumstances.
'Just so. Now how came it that your cousin was wearing your shawl tonight?'
'We came in to fetch her coat-it was rather cold watching the fireworks. I flung off the shawl on the sofa here. Then I went upstairs and put on the coat I'm wearing now-a light nutria one. I also got a wrap for my friend Mrs Rice out of her room. There it is on the floor by the window. Then Maggie called out that she couldn't find her coat. I said it must be downstairs. She went down and called up she still couldn't find it. I said it must have been left in the car-it was a tweed coat she was looking for-she hasn't got an evening furry one-and I said I'd bring her down something of mine. But she said it didn't matter-she'd take my shawl if I didn't want it. And I said of course but would that be enough? And she said Oh, yes, because she really didn't feel it particularly cold after Yorkshire. She just wanted something. And I said all right, I'd be out in a minute. And when I did-did come out-'
She stopped, her voice breaking...
'Now, don't distress yourself, Miss Buckley. Just tell me this. Did you hear a shot-or two shots?'
Nick shook her head.
'No-only just the fireworks popping and the squibs going off.'
'That's just it,' said the inspector. 'You'd never notice a shot with all that going on. It's no good asking you, I suppose, if you've any clue to who it is making these attacks upon you?'
'I haven't the least idea,' said Nick. 'I can't imagine.'
'And you wouldn't be likely to,' said the inspector. 'Some homicidal maniac-that's what it looks like to me. Nasty business. Well, I won't need to ask you any more questions to-night, miss. I'm more sorry about this than I can say.'
Dr Graham stepped forward.
'I'm going to suggest, Miss Buckley, that you don't stay here. I've been talking it over with M. Poirot. I know of an excellent nursing home. You've had a shock, you know. What you need is complete rest-'
Nick was not looking at him. Her eyes had gone to Poirot. 'Is it-because of the shock?' she asked. He came forward.
'I want you to feel safe, mon enfant. And I want to feel, too, that you are safe. There will be a nurse there-a nice practical unimaginative nurse. She will be near you all night. When you wake up and cry out-she will be there, close at hand. You understand?'
'Yes,' said Nick, 'I understand. But you don't. I'm not afraid any longer. I don't care one way or another. If anyone wants to murder me, they can.'
'Hush, hush,' I said. 'You're over-strung.' 'You don't know. None of you know!'
'I really think M. Poirot's plan is a good one,' the doctor broke in soothingly. 'I will take you in my car. And we will give you a little something to ensure a good night's rest. Now what do you say?'
'I don't mind,' said Nick. 'Anything you like. It doesn't matter.'
Poirot laid his hand on hers.
'I know, Mademoiselle. I know what you must feel. I stand before you ashamed and stricken to the heart. I, who promised protection, have not been able to protect. I have failed. I am a miserable. But believe me, Mademoiselle, my heart is in agony because of that failure. If you know what I am suffering you would forgive, I am sure.'
'That's all right,' said Nick, still in the same dull voice. 'You mustn't blame yourself. I'm sure you did the best you could. Nobody could have helped it-or done more, I'm sure. Please don't be unhappy.'
'You are very generous, Mademoiselle.' 'No, I-'
There was an interruption. The door flew open and George Challenger rushed into the room.
'What's all this?' he cried. 'I've just arrived. To find a policeman at the gate and a rumour that somebody's dead. What is it all about? For God's sake, tell me. Is it-is it-Nick?'
The anguish in his tone was dreadful to hear. I suddenly realized that Poirot and the doctor between them completely blotted out Nick from his sight.
Before anyone had time to answer, he repeated his question.
'Tell me-it can't be true-Nick isn't dead?'
'No, mon ami,' said Poirot, gently. 'She is alive.'
And he drew back so that Challenger could see the little figure on the sofa.
For a moment or two Challenger stared at her incredulously. Then, staggering a little, like a drunken man, he muttered: 'Nick-Nick.'
And suddenly dropping on his knees beside the sofa and hiding his head in his hands, he cried in a muffled voice: 'Nick-my darling-I thought that you were dead.'
Nick tried to sit up.
'It's all right, George. Don't be an idiot. I'm quite safe.'
He raised his head and looked round wildly.
'But somebody's dead? The policeman said so.'
'Yes,' said Nick. 'Maggie. Poor old Maggie. Oh!-'
A spasm twisted her face. The doctor and Poirot came forward. Graham helped her to her feet. He and Poirot, one on each side, helped her from the room.
'The sooner you get to your bed the better,' remarked the doctor. 'I'll take you along at once in my car. I've asked Mrs Rice to pack a few things ready for you to take.'
They disappeared through the door. Challenger caught my arm. 'I don't understand. Where are they taking her?' I explained.
'Oh! I see. Now, then, Hastings, for God's sake give me the hang of this thing. What a ghastly tragedy! That poor girl.'
'Come and have a drink,' I said. 'You're all to pieces.'
'I don't mind if I do.'
We adjourned to the dining-room.
'You see,' he explained, as he put away a stiff whisky and soda, 'I thought it was Nick.'
There was very little doubt as to the feelings of Commander George Challenger. A more transparent lover never lived.

第八章　致命的披肩
惊骇之中，我们一动不动地僵在那里，虽然只有几十秒，却像过了一个小时似的。
波洛甩开我的手走上前去，动作僵硬得像个机器人。
“终于出事了，”他喃喃地说，声音里带着无法描写的痛苦。“尽管我们小心提防，祸事还是发生了！啊，都怪我，我为什么没有更小心地保护她？我应当预见到的，是的——完全应当预见到的。我一刻也不该离开她呀。”
“别责备自己了，”我说。可是我的声音像凝结在喉咙里似的，听起来模模糊糊的。
波洛只是伤心地摇摇头。他在尸体旁跪了下去。
突然我们大吃一惊，不约而同地挺起了身子——我们听到了尼克的声音，又清晰又快活。接着在窗户明亮的背景上出现了尼克黑色的身影。
“真抱歉，马吉，我让你等久了，”她说，“怎么——”
她莫名其妙地看着眼前这个场面。
波洛尖叫了一声，把草地上的尸体翻了过来。我弯下腰去，看见马吉全无生气的脸。
尼克尖叫了一声。
“马吉——哦，马吉！这不，不……”
波洛草草检查了尸体，慢慢站了起来。
“她真的——她难道真的……”尼克说。
“是的，小姐，她死了。”
“这是为什么？是怎么回事？谁会去伤害她这样一个人？”
波洛的回答迅速坚决：
“他们要杀的不是她，是你！他们上了这块披肩的当了。”
尼克听了差点昏倒。
“为什么死的不是我？”她痛哭起来，“让我吃这一枪多好，我现在还留恋什么？死对于我只是解脱！”
她向空中挥舞着双臂，步履蹒跚，摇摇欲坠。我立刻伸过手去扶住了她。
“把她搀进屋里去，黑斯廷斯。”波洛说，“然后打电话给警察。”
“警察？”
“对，告诉他们有人被打死了。你得陪着尼克小姐，决不要离开她。”
接受了指示，我扶着半昏迷的姑娘从落地窗门艰难地走进了客厅。我把她安顿在一张长沙发上，在她头下塞了个软垫，然后急忙跑进堂屋去找电话。
我出乎意外地撞见埃伦。她正站在那里，庄严可敬的脸上有一种十分特别的表情。她两眼放光，舌头反复舔着干燥的嘴唇，双手好像由于激动而不停地颤抖。看见我，她说：
“先生，发生了——什么事吗？”
“是的，”我简短地说，“电话在哪儿？”
“别是出了……岔子了吧，先生？”
“出事了，”我推委地说，“有人受伤了。我必须打电话。”
“谁受伤了？先生？”这时她脸上那种极其迫切的表情叫人吃惊。
“巴克利小姐——马吉•巴克利小姐。”
“马吉小姐？马吉小姐？你能肯定吗，先生，我是说，你肯定是马吉小姐吗？”
“相当肯定。怎么啦？”
“哦，没什么。我——我还以为是另外一位。我以为可能是……赖斯太太。”
“嗨，电话在哪里？”
“在那个小房间里，先生，”她替我开了门，把电话机指给我看。
“谢谢，”我说。看见她踌躇不决，我又加了一句，“没别的事了，谢谢你。”
“如果你想请格雷厄姆医师……”
“不，不，”我说，“没另外的事了，你请便吧。”
于是她勉强退了出去。很可能她会在门外偷听，但我有什么办法呢？她终究会知道一切的。
我接通了当地警察局，向他们作了简单的报告，然后又自作主张打了个电话给埃伦推荐的那位格雷厄姆医师——电话号码是在号码簿里查到的。就算他不能让躺在花园里的那位可怜姑娘起死回生，总能够使躺在沙发上的那位不幸女孩顺脉定心。那医师答应尽快赶到。我挂上电话出了小房间。
要是埃伦曾在门外偷听，她一定溜得极快，因为我走出小房间时，目光所及空无一人。回到客厅里，尼克正想坐起身来。
“你觉得——是不是可以给我倒点白兰地？”
“当然可以。”
我急忙赶到餐厅倒了杯白兰地给尼克。抿了几口之后，她稍稍振作了一些，脸上也有了点血色。我给她把枕在头下的软垫摆正了。
“多吓人，”她战战兢兢地说：“时时处处——”
“我知道，亲爱的，我知道。”
“不，你不知道！你什么都不了解。一切全是白费劲！如果刚才死的是我，一切就全过去了……”
“你可千万别胡思乱想。”
她只是一再摇头。“你不懂，一点也不懂。”
她突然哭了起来，像个孩子似的绝望地抽泣。我想让她哭一场也好，就没有去打扰她。
外面第一阵大乱稍稍平息之后，我赶到窗前向外看。人们在出事地点围成个半圆形，波洛像个卫兵似的拚命把他们挡住。
正当我在观看的时候，有两个身穿制服的人穿过草地大步走来，警察到了。我赶快回到沙发旁。尼克抬起泪眼问道：
“我是不是应当做些什么？”
“不，我亲爱的，有波洛在呢，他会料理一切的。”
尼克静默了一两分钟，然后说：
“可怜的马吉，可怜的好姑娘！她一生中从没伤害过谁，这种惨祸竟会落到她头上！我觉得好像是我杀了她——是我那么急急地把她叫来的。”
我黯然地摇了摇头。将来的事太难预料了。当波洛坚持叫尼克请一个亲戚来陪她的时候，他何尝知道自己正在给一个毫不相识的姑娘签署死亡证书！
我们无言地坐着。虽然我很想知道他们在外边干什么，但还是忠实地执行着波洛的指示，在我的岗位上恪尽职守。
当波洛同一位警官推门进来时，我觉得自己好像已经等了好几个小时似的。同他们一起进来的另一位无疑就是格雷厄姆医师。他立刻走到尼克身边。
“你感觉怎样，巴克利小姐？唉，真是飞来横祸。”他用手指按着她的脉搏，说：“还好。”然后转向我问道：“她吃了什么没有？”
“喝了一点白兰地酒。”我说。
“我没事。”尼克打起精神说。
“能回答几个问题吗？”
“当然可以。”
警官清了清嗓子走到尼克身旁。尼克对他阴郁地笑了笑，说：
“这次我总没有违反交通规则吧。”
我猜他们以前打过交道。警官说：
“这件凶杀案使我深感不安，巴克利小姐。幸好我们久仰的波洛先生也在此地（跟他在一起是大可以引为自豪的），他很有把握地告诉我说有人在美琪旅馆对你开过枪，是这样吗？”
尼克点点头说：“那颗子弹从我头旁擦过时，我还以为是只飞得极快的黄蜂哩。”
“以前还发生过其它一些怪事？”
“是的，至少这点很奇怪：它们是接连发生的。”
她把那几件事简单地复述了一遍。
“跟我们所听说的一样。但今天晚上你的表姐怎么会披上你的披肩呢？”
“我们进屋来穿衣服——在外面看焰火有些冷。我把披肩扔在沙发上就跑到楼上去穿我现在穿在身上的这件大衣——是薄薄的海狸鼠皮大衣。我从赖斯太太的房里给她也拿出一条披肩，就是窗下地板上那一条。这时马吉叫了起来，说她找不到她的大衣。我说可能在楼下，她就下楼去找——她在找的是件苏格兰呢大衣，她没有皮的——我说我可以给她拿一件我的穿。可是她说不用了，她可以披我那块披肩，如果我不用的话。我说当然可以，就怕不够暖。她回答说够暖了，因为约克郡比这里冷得多，她随便围上点什么都行。我说好的，并告诉她我马上就出来。但当我出，出来时……”
她说不下去了。
“别难过，巴克利小姐。请告诉我，你是否听见一声枪声或者两声？”
尼克摇摇头。
“没有，我只听到放焰火和爆竹的噼啪声。”
“是啊。”警官说，“这种时候枪声是不会引起丝毫注意的。我还想请问一个我并不抱希望的问题：对于向你开枪的人你可能够提供什么线索吗？”
“一点也提供不了。”尼克说，“我想不出。”
“你自然想不出，”那警官说，“至于我，我觉得既然找不出动机，那么干这种事的就只能是个嗜杀成性的疯子了。好吧，小姐，今天晚上我不再打扰你了。对你的不幸我深表遗憾和同情。”
格雷厄姆医生说：
“巴克利小姐，我建议你别再待在这儿。我跟波洛先生商量了一下，想送你进休养所。你受的刺激太大了，需要百分之百的安静休养。”
尼克两眼看着波洛。
“是因为受了刺激？”她问。
波洛走到她身边。
“我要你产生一种安全感，孩子。而且我也必须把你放在一个安全的环境之中。那休养所里将有一个护士，一个切切实实讲究现实的好护士通宵在你附近值班。只要你醒过来低声一唤，她立刻便会应招而来。你懂了吗？”
“我懂，”尼克说，“但你却不懂：我的恐怖不会持续多久了。用这种手段杀我也好，用那种手段杀我也好，我全不在乎。如果有人一心要干掉我的话，他一定办得到。”
“嘘，镇静些，”我说，“你太紧张了。”
“不，你们谁也不懂！”
“我很赞成波洛先生的计划，”医生抚慰说，“我用我的汽车带你去吧。我们还要给你吃点药，让你可以好好休息一夜。你看怎样？”
“我无所谓，”尼克说，“悉听尊便吧。”
波洛把手按在她的手上说：
“我知道，小姐，我知道你会怎么想。我站在你面前，心里充满了羞赧和愧疚。我曾对你保证过要使你化险为夷，可我疏忽了，失败了，我责无旁贷，后悔莫及。请相信我，小姐，这次的失败深深地刺伤了我的心。要是你知道我多么痛苦，你一定会原谅我的。”
“没什么，”尼克木然地说，“不要苛责自己。我相信你已经尽了你的力。没有谁能比你做得更好了。请别难过。”
“你真宽容，小姐。”
“不，我——”
这句话被打断了。乔治•查林杰撞开门冲了进来。
“是怎么回事？”他叫道，“我一到就看见门外有警察，还听说死了人。究竟是怎么回事？看在上帝的分上，快告诉我。是——是尼克吗？”
他那痛苦的声音听着叫人害怕。我忽然发现波洛和医生刚好把尼克从他的视线里挡住了。没等别人来得及回答，他又重复了他的问题：
“告诉我——不会是真的——尼克没有死吧？”
“没有，我的朋友，”波洛从容地说，“她活着。”
说着，波洛闪到一旁。查林杰看见了躺在沙发上的尼克。有那么一刹那他怀疑地凝视着她，后来像个醉汉似的踉呛了一步，咕哝道：
“尼克——尼克！”
他突然在沙发旁跪了下去，双手捂住脸哭了起来，用压抑着的声音说：
“尼克，我的心肝，我以为你死了。”
尼克想要坐起来。
“没什么，乔治，别像个白痴似的，我很平安。”
他抬起头向左右看看。
“但警察说有人死了。”
“是的，”尼克说，“马吉，可怜的好马吉，哦……”
她的脸上泪痕未干，眼里又充满了泪水。医生同波洛走上前去把她扶了起来搀出客厅。
“你越快躺到床上越好，”医生说，“我马上用我的汽车带你去。我已经叫赖斯太太把你要用的东西包好了。”
他们的身影一会儿就消失在门外了。查林杰抓住我的膀子。
“我不懂，他们把她带到什么地方去？”
我告诉了他。
“哦，是这样。那么，黑斯廷斯，看在上帝的分上，快告诉我究竟是怎么回事。多恐怖的悲剧！那可怜的姑娘！”
“来喝点酒吧，”我说，“你的神经快要四分五裂了。”
“这才无关紧要呢。”
我们走进餐厅。
“你瞧，”他放下苏打水和威士忌瓶子时说，“我还以为是尼克出了事呢。”
对乔治•查林杰的感情是没有什么可怀疑的，因为实在找不出比他更不加掩饰的情人了。
Chapter 9  A. to J. 从一到十
Chapter 9 - A. to J.
I doubt if I shall ever forget the night that followed. Poirot was a prey to such an agony of self-reproach that I was really alarmed. Ceaselessly he strode up and down the room heaping anathemas on his own head and deaf to my well-meant remonstrances.
'What it is to have too good an opinion of oneself. I am punished-yes, I am punished. I, Hercule Poirot. I was too sure of myself.'
'No, no,' I interpolated.
'But who would imagine-who could imagine-such unparalleled audacity? I had taken, as I thought, all possible precautions. I had warned the murderer-'
'Warned the murderer?'
'Mais oui. I had drawn attention to myself. I had let him see that I suspected-someone. I had made it, or so I thought, too dangerous for him to dare to repeat his attempts at murder. I had drawn a cordon round Mademoiselle. And he slips through it! Boldly-under our very eyes almost, he slips through it! In spite of us all-of everyone being on the alert, he achieves his object.'
'Only he doesn't,' I reminded him.
'That is the chance only! From my point of view, it is the same. A human life has been taken, Hastings-whose life is non-essential.'
'Of course,' I said. 'I didn't mean that.'
'But on the other hand, what you say is true. And that makes it worse-ten times worse. For the murderer is still as far as ever from achieving his object. Do you understand, my friend? The position is changed-for the worse. It may mean that not one life-but two-will be sacrificed.'
'Not while you're about,' I said stoutly.
He stopped and wrung my hand.
'Merci, mon ami! Merci! You still have confidence in the old one-you still have the faith. You put new courage into me. Hercule Poirot will not fail again. No second life shall be taken. I will rectify my error-for, see you, there must have been an error! Somewhere there has been a lack of order and method in my usually so well arranged ideas. I will start again. Yes, I will start at the beginning. And this time-I will not fail.'
'You really think then,' I said, 'that Nick Buckley's life is still in danger?' 'My friend, for what other reason did I send her to this nursing home?' 'Then it wasn't the shock-'
'The shock! Pah! One can recover from shock as well in one's own home as in a nursing home-better, for that matter. It is not amusing there, the floors of green linoleum, the conversation of the nurses-the meals on trays, the ceaseless washing. No, no, it is for safety and safety only. I take the doctor into my confidence. He agrees. He will make all arrangements. No one, mon ami, not even her dearest friend, will be admitted to see Miss Buckley. You and I are the only ones permitted. Pour les autres-eh bien! "Doctor's orders," they will be told. A phrase very convenient and one not to be gainsayed.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Only-' 'Only what, Hastings?' 'That can't go on for ever.'
'A very true observation. But it gives us a little breathing space. And you realize, do you not, that the character of our operations has changed.'
'In what way?'
'Our original task was to ensure the safety of Mademoiselle. Our task now is a much simpler one-a task with which we are well acquainted. It is neither more nor less than the hunting down of a murderer.'
'You call that simpler?'
'Certainly it is simpler. The murderer has, as I said the other day, signed his name to the crime. He has come out into the open.'
'You don't think-' I hesitated, then went on. 'You don't think that the police are right? That this is the work of a madman, some wandering lunatic with homicidal mania?'
'I am more than ever convinced that such is not the case.'
'You really think that-'
I stopped. Poirot took up my sentence, speaking very gravely.
'That the murderer is someone in Mademoiselle's own circle? Yes, mon ami, I do.'
'But surely last night must almost rule out that possibility. We were all together and-'
He interrupted.
'Could you swear, Hastings, that any particular person had never left our little company there on the edge of the cliff? Is there any one person there whom you could swear you had seen all the time?'
'No,' I said slowly, struck by his words. 'I don't think I could. It was dark. We all moved about, more or less. On different occasions I noticed Mrs Rice, Lazarus, you, Croft, Vyse-but all the time-no.'
Poirot nodded his head.
'Exactly. It would be a matter of a very few minutes. The two girls go to the house. The murderer slips away unnoticed, hides behind that sycamore tree in the middle of the lawn. Nick Buckley, or so he thinks, comes out of the window, passes within a foot of him, he fires three shots in rapid succession-'
'Three?' I interjected.
'Yes. He was taking no chances this time. We found three bullets in the body.' 'That was risky, wasn't it?'
'Less risky in all probability than one shot would have been. A Mauser pistol does not make a great deal of noise. It would resemble more or less the popping of the fireworks and blend in very well with the noise of them.'
'Did you find the pistol?' I asked.
'No. And there, Hastings, lies to my mind the indisputable proof that no stranger is responsible for this. We agree, do we not, that Miss Buckley's own pistol was taken in the first place for one reason only-to give her death the appearance of suicide.'
'Yes.'
'That is the only possible reason, is it not? But now, you observe, there is no pretence of suicide. The murderer knows that we should not any longer be deceived by it. He knows, in fact, what we know!'
I reflected, admitting to myself the logic of Poirot's deduction. 'What did he do with the pistol do you think?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'For that, it is difficult to say. But the sea was exceedingly handy. A good toss of the arm, and the pistol sinks, never to be recovered. We cannot, of course, be absolutely sure-but that is what I should have done.'
His matter-of-fact tone made me shiver a little.
'Do you think-do you think he realized that he'd killed the wrong person?'
'I am quite sure he did not,' said Poirot, grimly. 'Yes, that must have been an unpleasant little surprise for him when he learnt the truth. To keep his face and betray nothing-it cannot have been easy.'
At that moment I bethought me of the strange attitude of the maid, Ellen. I gave Poirot an account of her peculiar demeanour. He seemed very interested.
'She betrayed surprise, did she, that it was Maggie who was dead?' 'Great surprise.'
'That is curious. And yet, the fact of a tragedy was clearly not a surprise to her. Yes, there is something there that must be looked into. Who is she, this Ellen? So quiet, so respectable in the English manner? Could it be she who-?' He broke off.
'If you're going to include the accidents,' I said, 'surely it would take a man to have rolled that heavy boulder down the cliff.'
'Not necessarily. It is very largely a question of leverage. Oh, yes, it could be done.'
He continued his slow pacing up and down the room.
'Anyone who was at End House last night comes under suspicion. But those guests-no, I do not think it was one of them. For the most part, I should say, they were mere acquaintances. There was no intimacy between them and the young mistress of the house.'
'Charles Vyse was there,' I remarked.
'Yes, we must not forget him. He is, logically, our strongest suspect.' He made a gesture of despair and threw himself into a chair opposite mine. 'Voila-it is always that we come back to! Motive! We must find the motive if we are to understand this crime. And it is there, Hastings, that I am continually baffled. Who can possibly have a motive for doing away with Mademoiselle Nick? I have let myself go to the most absurd suppositions. I, Hercule Poirot, have descended to the most ignominious flights of fancy. I have adopted the mentality of the cheap thriller. The grandfather-the "Old Nick"-he who is supposed to have gambled his money away. Did he really do so, I have asked myself? Did he, on the contrary, hide it away? Is it hidden somewhere in End House? Buried somewhere in the grounds? With that end in view (I am ashamed to say it) I inquired of Mademoiselle Nick whether there had ever been any offers to buy the house.'
'Do you know, Poirot,' I said, 'I call that rather a bright idea. There may be something in it.'
Poirot groaned.
'You would say that! It would appeal, I knew, to your romantic but slightly mediocre mind. Buried treasure-yes, you would enjoy that idea.'
'Well-I don't see why not-'
'Because, my friend, the more prosaic explanation is nearly always more probable. Then Mademoiselle's father-I have played with even more degrading ideas concerning him. He was a traveller. Supposing, I say to myself, that he has stolen a jewel-the eye of a God. Jealous priests are on his tracks. Yes, I, Hercule Poirot, have descended to depths such as these.'
'I have had other ideas concerning this father,' he went on. 'Ideas at once more dignified and more probable. Did he, in the course of his wanderings, contract a second marriage? Is there a nearer heir than M. Charles Vyse? But again, that leads nowhere, for we are up against the same difficulty-that there is really nothing of value to inherit.'
'I have neglected no possibility. Even that chance reference of Mademoiselle Nick's to the offer made her by M. Lazarus. You remember? The offer to purchase her grandfather's portrait. I telegraphed on Saturday for an expert to come down and examine that picture. He was the man about whom I wrote to Mademoiselle this morning. Supposing, for instance, it were worth several thousand pounds?'
'You surely don't think a rich man like young Lazarus-?'
'Is he rich? Appearances are not everything. Even an old-established firm with palatial showrooms and every appearance of prosperity may rest on a rotten basis. And what does one do then? Does one run about crying out that times are hard? No, one buys a new and luxurious car. One spends a little more money than usual. One lives a little more ostentatiously. For credit, see you, is everything! But sometimes a monumental business has crashed-for no more than a few thousand pounds-of ready money.'
'Oh! I know,' he continued, forestalling my protests. 'It is far-fetched-but it is not so bad as revengeful priests or buried treasure. It bears, at any rate, some relationship to things as they happen. And we can neglect nothing-nothing that might bring us nearer the truth.'
With careful fingers he straightened the objects on the table in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was grave and, for the first time, calm.
'Motive!' he said. 'Let us come back to that, and regard this problem calmly and methodically. To begin with, how many kinds of motive are there for murder? What are the motives which lead one human being to take another human being's life?'
'We exclude for the moment homicidal mania. Because I am absolutely convinced that the solution of our problem does not lie there. We also exclude killing done on the spur of the moment under the impulse of an ungovernable temper. This is cold-blooded deliberate murder. What are the motives that actuate such a murder as that?'
'There is, first, Gain. Who stood to gain by Mademoiselle Buckley's death? Directly or indirectly? Well, we can put down Charles Vyse. He inherits a property that, from the financial point of view, is probably not worth inheriting. He might, perhaps, pay off the mortgage, build small villas on the land and eventually make a small profit. It is possible. The place might be worth something to him if he had any deeply cherished love of it-if, it were, for instance, a family place. That is, undoubtedly, an instinct very deeply implanted in some human beings, and it has, in cases I have known, actually led to crime. But I cannot see any such motive in M. Vyse's case.'
'The only other person who would benefit at all by Mademoiselle Buckley's death is her friend, Madame Rice. But the amount would clearly be a very small one. Nobody else, as far as I can see, gains by Mademoiselle Buckley's death.'
'What is another motive? Hate-or love that has turned to hate. The crime passionnel. Well, there again we have the word of the observant Madame Croft that both Charles Vyse and Commander Challenger are in love with the young lady.'
'I think we can say that we have observed the latter phenomenon for ourselves,' I remarked, with a smile.
'Yes-he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, the honest sailor. For the other, we rely on the word of Madame Croft. Now, if Charles Vyse felt that he were supplanted, would he be so powerfully affected that he would kill his cousin rather than let her become the wife of another man?'
'It sounds very melodramatic,' I said, doubtfully.
'It sounds, you would say, un-English. I agree. But even the English have emotions. And a type such as Charles Vyse, is the most likely to have them. He is a repressed young man. One who does not show his feelings easily. Such often have the most violent feelings. I would never suspect the Commander Challenger of murder for emotional reasons. No, no, he is not the type. But with Charles Vyse-yes, it is possible. But it does not entirely satisfy me.'
'Another motive for crime-Jealousy. I separate it from the last, because jealousy may not, necessarily, be a sexual emotion. There is envy-envy of possession-of supremacy. Such a jealousy as drove the Iago of your great Shakespeare to one of the cleverest crimes (speaking from the professional point of view) that has ever been committed.'
'Why was it so clever?' I asked, momentarily diverted.
'Parbleu-because he got others to execute it. Imagine a criminal nowadays on whom one was unable to put the handcuffs because he had never done anything himself. But this is not the subject we were discussing. Can jealousy, of any kind, be responsible for this crime? Who has reason to envy Mademoiselle? Another woman? There is only Madame Rice, and as far as we can see, there was no rivalry between the two women. But again, that is only "as far as we can see". There may be something there.'
'Lastly-Fear. Does Mademoiselle Nick, by any chance, hold somebody's secret in her power? Does she know something which, if it were known, might ruin another life? If so, I think we can say very definitely, that she herself is unaware of it . But that might be, you know. That might be. And if so, it makes it very difficult. Because, whilst she holds the clue in her hands, she holds it unconsciously and will be quite unable to tell us what it is.'
'You really think that is possible?'
'It is a hypothesis. I am driven to it by the difficulty of finding a reasonable theory elsewhere. When you have eliminated other possibilities you turn to the one that is left and say-since the other is not-this must be so...'
He was silent a long time.
At last, rousing himself from his absorption, he drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write.
'What are you writing?' I asked, curiously.
'Mon ami, I am composing a list. It is a list of people surrounding Mademoiselle Buckley. Within that list, if my theory is correct, there must be the name of the murderer.'
He continued to write for perhaps twenty minutes-then shoved the sheets of paper across to me.
'Voila, mon ami. See what you make of it.' The following is a reproduction of the paper:
A. Ellen.
B. Her gardener husband.
? Their child.
D. Mr Croft.
E. Mrs Croft.
F. Mrs Rice.
G. Mr Lazarus.
H. Commander Challenger.
I. Mr Charles Vyse.
J.
Remarks:
Ellen.-Suspicious circumstances. Her attitude and words on hearing of the crime. Best opportunity of anyone to have staged accidents and to have known of pistol, but unlikely to have tampered with car, and general mentality of crime seems above her level.
Motive.-None-unless hate arising out of some incident unknown.
Note.-Further inquiries as to her antecedents and general relations with N. B.
Her Husband.-Same as above. More likely to have tampered with car.
Note.-Should be interviewed.
Child.-Can be ruled out.
Note.-Should be interviewed. Might give valuable information.
Mr Croft.-Only suspicious circumstance the fact that we met him mounting the stair to bedroom floor. Had ready explanation which may be true. But it may not!
Nothing known of antecedents. Motive.-None.
Mrs Croft.-Suspicious circumstances.-None.
Motive.-None.
Mrs Rice.-Suspicious circumstances. Full opportunity. Asked N. B. to fetch wrap. Has deliberately tried to create impression that N. B. is a liar and her account of 'accidents' not to be relied on. Was not at Tavistock when accidents occurred. Where was she?
Motive.-Gain? Very slight. Jealousy? Possible, but nothing known. Fear? Also possible, but nothing known.
Note.-Converse with N. B. on subject. See if any light is thrown upon matter. Possibly something to do with F. R.'s marriage.
Mr Lazarus.-Suspicious circumstances. General opportunity. Offer to buy picture. Said brakes of car were quite all right (according to F. R.). May have been in neighbourhood prior to Friday.
Motive.-None-unless profit on picture. Fear?-unlikely.
Note.-Find out where J. L. was before arriving at St Loo. Find out financial position of Aaron Lazarus & Son.
Commander Challenger.-Suspicious circumstances. None. Was in neighbourhood all last week, so opportunity for 'accidents' good. Arrived half an hour after murder.
Motive.-None.
Mr Vyse.-Suspicious circumstances. Was absent from office at time when shot was fired in garden of hotel. Opportunity good. Statement about selling of End House open to doubt. Of a repressed temperament. Would probably know about pistol.
Motive.-Gain? (slight) Love or Hate? Possible with one of his temperament. Fear? Unlikely.
Note.-Find out who held mortgage. Find out position of Vyse's firm.
?-There could be a J., e.g. an outsider. But with a link in the form of one of the foregoing. If so, probably connected with A. D. and E. or F. The existence of J. would explain (1) Ellen's lack of surprise at crime and her pleasurable satisfaction. (But that might be due to natural pleasurable excitement of her class over deaths.) (2) The reason for Croft and his wife coming to live in lodge. (3) Might supply motive for F. R.'s fear of secret being revealed or for jealousy.
Poirot watched me as I read.
'It is very English, is it not? he remarked, with pride. 'I am more English when I write than when I speak.'
'It's an excellent piece of work,' I said, warmly. 'It sets all the possibilities out most clearly.'
'Yes,' he said, thoughtfully, as he took it back from me. 'And one name leaps to the eye, my friend. Charles Vyse. He has the best opportunities. We have given him the choice of two motives. Ma foi -if that was a list of racehorses, he would start favourite, n'est-ce pas?'
'He is certainly the most likely suspect.'
'You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories. In real life, nine times out of ten, it is the most likely and the most obvious person who commits the crime.'
'But you don't really think that is so this time?'
'There is only one thing that is against it. The boldness of the crime! That has stood out from the first. Because of that, as I say, the motive cannot be obvious.'
'Yes, that is what you said at first.' 'And that is what I say again.'
With a sudden brusque gesture he crumpled the sheets of paper and threw them on the floor.
'No,' he said, as I uttered an exclamation of protest. 'That list has been in vain. Still, it has cleared my mind. Order and method! That is the first stage. To arrange the facts with neatness and precision. The next stage-'
'Yes.'
'The next stage is that of the psychology. The correct employment of the little grey cells! I advise you, Hastings, to go to bed.'
'No,' I said. 'Not unless you do. I'm not going to leave you.'
'Most faithful of dogs! But see you, Hastings, you cannot assist me to think. That is all I am going to do-think.'
I still shook my head.
'You might want to discuss some point with me.'
'Well-well-you are a loyal friend. Take at least, I beg of you, the easy-chair.'
That proposal I did accept. Presently the room began to swim and dip. The last thing I remember was seeing Poirot carefully retrieving the crumpled sheets of paper from the floor and putting them away tidily in the waste-paper basket.
Then I must have fallen asleep.

第九章　从一到十
那天深夜回到旅馆以后的情形我这辈子都不会忘记。
波洛对自己的失误所表现出来的那种痛心疾首、怨气冲天的样子叫我暗暗吃惊。他在房间里迈着大步走个不停，用他所知道的一切英文和法文的骂人话来咒骂他自己，对我的劝慰充耳不闻。
“这就是太自私的好结果，我受到惩罚了，是的，我受到惩罚了——我，赫尔克里•波洛！我太自以为是了。”
“别，别这么说。”我想宽慰他一下。
“可谁会想到，谁能够想到，那家伙居然有这样大的胆子？我自以为防范已经十分周密，还以为是万无一失，并且我还警告了那个罪犯——”
“警告了罪犯？”
“是的。我到处亮相，还显示出我已经有所怀疑的模样。我认为这一来他不敢再动杀人的念头了，因为危险之大足以令一切歹徒不敢轻举妄动。我在小姐周围设了无形的警戒线，不料被他当成了儿戏！胆子多大，算得多准——就在我们眼皮底下杀了人？尽管我们百倍提防，罪犯还是得逞了！”
“但他并没有达到目的。”我提醒他。
“只是侥幸而已。对我来说全都一样。一个人的性命被夺去了，黑斯廷斯。你说，谁的性命不值钱？”
“当然，我不是这个意思。”
“不过从另一方面看，你所说的也是事实。可是只有更糟，十倍地糟！因为那个凶手决不会就此罢手的，这就意味着要牺牲的不是一条人命而是两条了。”
“只要有你在，就不会是两条！”我说得很有把握。
他停下来紧紧握住我的手。
“谢谢你，我的朋友，谢谢你对老朋友还有信心！你给了我新的勇气。赫尔克里•波洛决不会再失败的。再不会有谁惨遭横死了。我将纠正我的错误，因为肯定有什么地方弄错了。在我通常百无一失的思考之链上看来缺了某一环。我要重起炉灶，是的，一切从头来起。这一次——我不会失败！”
“你现在还认为尼克的生命朝不保夕吗？”
“我的朋友，这就是我把她送到休养所去的原因呀。”
“这么说，并不是因为受了刺激……”
“刺激！哈！要让一个人从受到的刺激里恢复过来并不需要送到休养所去，在家里一样可以恢复的。要知道住休养所并不是一件值得羡慕的事。地板上铺着绿色的油毡，护士们对着你的饭食议论不休，还怨声载道地抱怨那些洗不完的被单。啊，送尼克到那儿去是为了安全，仅仅是为了她的安全。医生答应了我的要求，会把一切都安排好的。没有谁，我的朋友，甚至连她最亲密无间的亲友都得不到许可去探望巴克利小姐。只有你我两人有这个权利，其他的人将被告知这是大夫的吩咐，这是个很合适的借口，没有谁会抗议的。”
“是啊，”我说，“只不过——”
“不过什么，黑斯廷斯？”
“只不过不能永远这么下去呀。”
“说得对。但至少我们可以有个喘口气的余地了。你想必已经意识到我们的主要任务已经改变了吧？”
“变成什么了？”
“过去我们的主要任务是保护尼克。现在则简单多了，变成一个你我非常熟悉的任务了，就是捕捉凶手。”
“你把这叫作‘简单得多’吗？”
“当然简单啰。我曾经说过，凶手在作案的时候也就是在留名题姓。现在那家伙已经作了案了。”
“你认为，”我犹豫了一下说，“你认为那位警官说得不对？他说是疯子干的，一个嗜杀成性的神经错乱者。”
“现在我更相信不是这么回事。”
“你认为……”
波洛接着我的话严肃地往下说：
“凶手是尼克社交圈子里的人。是的，我的朋友，我是这样想的。”
“但刚才，哦，现在该说昨天晚上了，这种可能性却不存在。我们都在一起，而且——”
他打断我的话说：
“你能发誓说决没有一个人离开过峭壁边的我们那一群人吗？难道你能起誓说你了解每个人自始至终的位置和行为吗？”
我被他的话打动了，慢慢说道：
“不，这个我倒说不准。天很黑，每个人或多或少都在走动。我见到过赖斯太太、拉扎勒斯、你、克罗夫特、维斯，但并不是一直都看得见。”
波洛点点头。
“正确得很。凶杀只是几分钟的事。两个姑娘进屋去了。凶手趁人不备溜过去躲在草地中央那棵无花果树后边。尼克•巴克利——他当然看错了——从屋里走出来，走过那棵树的时候他连开三枪——”
“三枪？”我叫了起来。
“是的，他看不真切，怕打不准。我们从尸体上找到三处伤口。”
“这太冒险了，不是吗？”
“并不比开一枪更冒险。毛瑟手枪响声不大，很像焰火开花的爆裂声，所以一下子融合到焰火声中去了。”
“你找到那枝手枪没有？”我问。
“没有，黑斯廷斯。但我觉得有足够的理由认为此案与外人无关。这一点我们是一致同意的，即，尼克的手枪被窃，只是为了杀死尼克之后可以造成自杀的假象。”
“是的。”
“只能是这样的。可是现在还装得出什么自杀的假象呢？凶手知道这样做已经骗不了人了。事实上，我们所掌握的是些什么他全都明白。那么，藏着凶器还有什么意义呢？”
我思忖着，觉得他的推论很有道理。
“那么你认为他会怎样处理那枝手枪呢？”
波洛耸了耸肩，说：
“这倒难说。但大海近在咫尺，手一挥，那手枪不就销形匿迹了吗？当然不一定是这样，可要是我是那家伙，就会这样处理它的。”
他说话的语气是如此肯定，就像他已亲眼看见了似的。我不由得一怔。
“你想当时他有没有立即发觉杀错了人？”
“他当时肯定没有发觉。”波洛阴沉地说，“哼，发觉后他可要不那么愉快地发一阵子昏啦。既要掩饰自己的大失所望，又要装得若无其事，这可需要一点天才。”
这时我想起女佣人埃伦的反常表现，就对波洛说了。他听了大感兴趣。
“死的是马吉叫她感到意外，是这样吗？”
“何止意外，简直可以说是大惊失色哩。”
“这倒怪了。谋杀本身不叫她吃惊，死的是马吉倒使她大惊失色！啊，这很值得研究一番。她是什么人，这个埃伦？她那么安详冷静，从头到脚一派可敬的英国风度，会是她？”
他不说下去了。
“回忆一下以前发生的那几件事，”我说，“就会发现凶手应该是个男人。把那块石头憾松并推下悬崖可是要用点力气的。”
“这倒不见得。用一根合适的杠杆就谁都能行。唔，这并不是个理由。”
他继续在房间里慢步徘徊。
“昨天晚上在悬崖山庄的人都有嫌疑，但那几位后来的客人——不，我想不会是他们当中的人干的。他们中大多数跟尼克只是泛泛之交。也就是说，跟悬崖山庄的女主人没有什么比较密切的关系。”
“他们之中有查尔斯•维斯呢。”我给他指出了这一点。
“是的，不可把他忘记。从逻辑上说，他是最可疑的人。”波洛做了个绝望的手势，然后一屁股坐进我对面的一张沙发上。“就是说——我们归根结底总是要回到这上头来：动机！要想揭露这神秘的谋杀案，就一定得首先把杀人的动机搞清楚。然而正是在这关键性的一点上，黑斯廷斯，我至今茫无头绪，一筹莫展。谁会有干掉尼克的动机呢？为了解释动机，我作出了各种荒唐可笑的假设。我，赫尔克里•波洛，竟会每况愈下无能到这种地步，像个编造廉价侦探小说的人一样胡思乱想起来。我想，那个祖父——老尼克——人们猜想他把钱全赌光了，但真的赌光了吗？是不是正好相反，他把钱在悬崖山庄的某个地方藏了起来？比方说，埋在地下？正因为有这样的假设——说来真羞得我无地自容——我才问尼克是否有人提议买她的悬崖山庄。”
“你知道吗，波洛？”我说，“我觉得你的这个假设是合情合理的。嗯，很有点道理。”
波洛哼了一声。
“我就知道你会这么说，这种假设很合你的浪漫口味，嗬，埋藏在地下的财宝——不错，你一定很欣赏这种假设的。”
“这种假设有什么不对头呢？”
“因为，我的朋友，我们并不是生活在‘天方夜谭’的世界里。在现实当中，最枯燥无味的解释常常是最接近事实的。我还想到小姐的父亲——对于他，我的设想更不像话了。他是个旅行家，我对自己说，可能他偷了一块价值连城的宝石，而这块宝石是一尊什么神像的眼珠。于是守护神像的僧侣一路寻访，追踪到这里来了。瞧，我，赫尔克里•波洛快成为传奇小说家了。
“关于她父亲，我还有过另外一种奇想，这种想法比较正经一点。他到处游荡，是不是在外头又结了婚？是不是有一个比查尔斯•维斯更近的继承人？于是我又碰到了我们的老难题——没有什么东西真正值得继承。
“我把可以想得出来的可能性全考虑过了。甚至考虑过拉扎勒斯先生为什么想买尼克祖父的肖像。星期六我打了个电话给一位鉴定家，请他来把那幅肖像估价一下。关于此人，昨天早上我不是请你送了张便条给尼克小姐吗？假设一下，比方说，那幅画会不会值到好几千英镑呢？”
“难道你认为像拉扎勒斯这么一个有钱的人……”
“他有钱吗？外表是说明不了问题的。一家老牌商号看上去店堂里金碧辉煌，帐册上财源丰厚，令人艳羡不已，内里却可能早已寅吃卯粮，债台高筑了。这种时候人们会怎么办呢？难道会到处诉苦叫穷说自己快破产了不成？不，在这种不妙的窘境里，人们会买上一辆极尽奢华的小轿车，在大庭广众之中装得更加挥金如土。你瞧，这只是为了维持信誉，好再跟别人借钱。有时一家俨然巨资的公司会突然崩溃，就因为周转不灵，一时短少几千英镑现钞。”
“哦，我知道，”他不让我反驳，继续旁征博引，侃侃而谈。“这种说法可能有点牵强附会，但比起那些复仇的僧侣或者埋藏的珍宝来，还更近情理。无论如何，当一件事发生的时候，各种因素之间总有一定的关系。我们不要忽视任何可能引导我们走向事实的指路标。”
他小心翼翼地把面前桌上的东西一件一件摆得整整齐齐。他再开口的时候声调严肃，而且显得十分冷静了。
“动机！”他说：“让我们再回到这个题目上来。让我们冷静而有条理地研究一下这个问题。首先，谋杀往往有哪几种动机呢？是什么东西会使一个人要杀害别一个人呢？这里我们暂且不论有杀人怪癖的疯子，因为我认为在我们这个案件里根本不存在这种可能性。我们也排除因一时感情冲动而杀人的可能性。这次凶杀是一个心如铁石的人经过深思熟虑之后干出来的。这样一种谋杀可能有哪些动机呢？”
“第一，图利。谁能因尼克之死而直接或间接地得益呢？喏，我们可以着眼于查尔斯•维斯。从经济观点讲，他会继承一笔不值得继承的财产。他有可能偿清抵押款，在这块地方建造几幢小别墅图些薄利。如果这块地方是他的祖居，那么由于感情上的原因，这里对他就更有价值了。有些人心中生来就有那么一种依恋乡土、崇敬祖居的天性。这就可能导致犯罪行为。但是在查尔斯•维斯身上，我看不出有这种动机存在。
“因尼克之死而得益的另外一个人是她的朋友赖斯太太。可是那么一点点钱算得了什么。除了他们两人之外，我实在看不出还有什么人能够因尼克之死而得到经济上的好处了。
“下一个动机是什么呢？是仇恨——或者是由爱变成的仇恨，罪恶的情欲。克罗夫特太太告诉过我们，查尔斯•维斯和查林杰中校都爱上了这位年轻女郎。”
我笑着说：
“第二位先生对尼克的爱慕之情我们是有目共睹的。”
“对，这老实的海员对感情一点都不加掩饰。至于维斯对尼克的私心，我们就相信克罗夫特太太的说法吧。现在我们想想看。如果查尔斯•维斯意识到情场角逐之中自己处于劣势，他会不会觉得与其让自己所爱的姑娘成为情敌的老婆，还不如干脆杀了她，谁也到不了手？他有这种魄力吗？”
“太富有戏剧性了，”我疑惑地说。
“你会认为这种事情听起来有点异国情调，这我同意。但英国人也有激情！像查尔斯•维斯就正是这样的人。他是个情感深藏不露的青年，这种人往往用冷若冰霜面具来掩盖波涛汹涌的情感。由于这种情感是被牢牢禁锢在心灵的最深处，因此一旦爆发，便什么都干得出来。我决不认为查林杰中校会是个情杀案的凶手，但查尔斯•维斯却有这个可能。不过这样来解释动机，我总觉得是削足适履，有点儿生拉活扯的。
“另外还有一种动机，是妒忌，我把妒忌同前面提及的那种动机区别开来，是考虑到妒忌不一定是异性之间的情感。它可能是一种羡慕，对财富、对权力的眼红。就是这种妒忌，使得你们伟大的莎士比亚笔下的伊阿古——以职业的观点来看——用极高明的手段犯了罪。”
“怎么高明法？”我的兴趣被提起来了。
“自己不动手，让别人替他干。在今天，尽管一个坏蛋明明是罪恶之源，但只要他没有具体去干，你就没法把手铐往他手腕上戴。但这不是我们现在要讨论的课题。那么，从任何方面来看，我们的这个案子会不会是妒忌引起的呢？谁有理由妒忌这位小姐呢？如果说是另一个女人，就只有赖斯太太。不过据我们所知，她与尼克之间并无嫌隙。当然，这个推论仅仅立足于（就我们所知）这一点上。可能还有我们不知道的情况。
“最后还有一个动机，惧怕。是不是什么人有把柄落在尼克小姐手中呢？她是否知道了一件对另一个人的生命构成威胁的事情？如果是这样，我们可以准确无误地指出，她本人还没有意识到她已经知道了一个可以置某人于死地的事实。这是可能的，你懂吗？这是可能的。要是果真如此可就麻烦了。因为她是无意中不自觉地掌握着这条线索的，因而她便无法告诉我们这是一条什么线索。”
“你真的以为有这个可能？”
“这只是个假设。当你把其它的可能性都排除了还是找不到理由来说明动机，就只能回到剩下的可能性上面来——既然别的都不是，就一定是这个了……”
他沉默良久。后来他从深思中惊醒过来，取一张纸放在面前动起了笔。
“你写什么？”我好奇地问。
“我的朋友，我要把尼克周围的人列出一张表。如果我的论点正确，凶手必定就在这张表里了。”
他写了大约二十分钟，然后把这张纸推到我面前。
“就是这个，我的朋友。这就是我们所得到的名单。”
这张表是这样的：
一、埃伦
二、她的当园丁的丈夫
三、他们的孩子
四、克罗夫特先生
五、克罗夫特太太
六、赖斯太太
七、拉扎勒斯先生
八、查林杰中校
九、查尔斯•维斯
十、？
评述：
一、埃伦
可疑之处：听到凶杀时的举止言语，制造事故最为方便。最易获悉手枪所在，但破坏汽车一事似非此人所为。且作案之周密果敢也非此人所能企及。
动机：无。除非有尚未被知事件引起之仇恨。
注：进一步查明其身世及与尼克之关系。
二、埃伦之夫
可疑之处及动机同上。但有可能破坏汽车之刹车装置。
注：应与之一谈。
三、埃伦之子
此人尚幼，可排除。
注：应与之一谈以期发现新线索。
四、克罗夫特先生
仅有一可疑之处，即二楼系尼克小姐之卧室，他对与我们相遇的那次上楼之解释是否属实。且对此人之身世一无所知。
动机：无。
五、克罗夫特太太
可疑之处：无。
动机：无。
六、赖斯太太
可疑之处：尼克进屋取衣系应此人要求。想造成尼克系谎言大师之印象。故她对此前发生的那些事故之说法不可信。那些事故发生时此人不在塔维斯托克，在何处不明。
动机：所得？甚微。妒忌？可能，但无法说明。惧怕？可能，但也无法说明。
注：应与尼克就上述几点交换意见或能有所启示。动机是否与赖斯太太之婚事有牵连？
七、拉扎勒斯先生
可疑之处：有犯罪之机会。曾出价买画。认为尼克之汽车并未损坏（赖斯太太语），发生事故期间可能在此附近。
动机：无。除非求画心切。惧怕？不像。
注：查明此人到达圣卢之前在何处。查明拉扎勒斯父子公司之经济状况。
八、查林杰中校
可疑之处：无。但上星期常在此地。有制造事故之良好机会。不过此人于凶杀半小时后方到达悬崖山庄。
动机：无
九、查尔斯•维斯
可疑之处：旅馆花园内枪击尼克时此人不在办公室。有作案之机会。对出售悬崖山庄一事说法可疑。系一内向青年。有可能得悉尼克的手枪一向所在之处。
动机：所得？甚少。爱或恨？有可能。惧怕？不会。
注：查明悬崖山庄系抵押给谁。查明维斯律师事务所之处境。
十、？
此人或系外人，但与前九人中某一人有关。例如：可能与第一、四、五、六有关。此人之存在可为以下几点之一提供解释：
1、埃伦何以对凶杀本身不感意外（但此阶层之妇女对凶杀向来有本能之兴奋感）。
2、克罗夫特夫妇何以租下冷僻之门房小屋。
3、为赖斯太太之恐惧或妒忌提供理由。
当我在看这份名单时，波洛注视着我。
“很地道的英语，不是吗？”他自夸道，“我写的英文比我讲的更有英国味儿。”
“好得很，”我热情地说，“你把各种可能性都罗列得清清楚楚。”
“是呀，”他把那张纸拿回去，若有所思地说，“瞧这个名字，我的朋友。这个查尔斯•维斯，他最有机会作案。在他身上有两种动机可供选择。我相信，如果这是一张赛马会上那些马的名单，在他身上人们会下最大的赌注的。”
“他当然最可疑。”
“你有一个怪脾气，黑斯廷斯，老是情愿去怀疑最不可疑的东西。毫无疑问，是因为你看了太多侦探小说之故。现实生活里，犯罪的人十有八九正是动机最明显，可能性又最大的人。”
“这次也一样吗？”
“只有一个事实不大对头，就是作案的大胆！一开头就是如此。也正因为这个特点我才预言这个案子的动机不会是明显的。”
“对，一开头你就是这么说的。”
“现在我还是这么说。”
突然他把那份名单揉成一团扔在地下。我连忙阻止他，他却说：
“不，这东西没有用处。它只是把我的思绪整理了一下而已。把事实精确扼要地整理一下是第一步。下一步——”
“是什么呢？”
“下一步就是进行分析思考，也就是正确地运用头脑里那些小小的灰色细胞。我劝你，黑斯廷斯，睡觉去吧。”
“不，”我说，“除非你也去睡，否则我不会离开你的。”
“这样的忠诚的确是太感人了。但你看，黑斯廷斯，你无法帮我思考。思考——这就是下一步我要做的事。”
我还是摇摇头。
“你可能会想到要同我讨论一下观点的。”
“啊，啊，你真够朋友。不过，至少请你换一张能坐得舒服一点的沙发吧。”
我同意了。不久，房间里的一切都开始模糊起来。我记得我所看见的最后一件事，就是波洛小心翼翼地把他刚才扔掉的那个纸团从地上拾了起来，随手扔进了废纸篓。
后来我睡着了。
Chapter 10  Nick's Secret 尼克的秘密
Chapter 10 - Nick's Secret
It was daylight when I awoke.
Poirot was still sitting where he had been the night before. His attitude was the same, but in his face was a difference. His eyes were shining with that queer catlike green light that I knew so well.
I struggled to an upright position, feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping in a chair is a proceeding not to be recommended at my time of life. Yet one thing at least resulted from it-I awoke not in that pleasant state of lazy somnolence but with a mind and brain as active as when I fell asleep.
'Poirot,' I cried. 'You have thought of something.'
He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.
'Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress-she never wears black? Why did she say last night, "I have nothing to live for-now"?'
I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.
'Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.'
'Well-as to the first-she said she had been worried lately.'
'Precisely. What has she been worried about?'
'And the black dress-well, everybody wants a change sometimes.'
'For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.'
'And the last-well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.'
'No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin's death, to reproach herself for it-yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness-as of a thing no longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant-yes-she had snapped the fingers, yes-and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life-no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?'
'The shock of her cousin's death.'
'I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?'
'I don't know of anything.'
'Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.'
'Really-'
'What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?'
'Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.'
'Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome-purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?'
'She went to telephone,' I said, slowly.
'A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.'
'You really think so?'
'Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn't think it has any connection with the murder-but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking-why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me-eh bien-then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings. I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then-and then-I shall begin to see...'
'Well,' I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, 'I think a bath and a shave are indicated.'
By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.
I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton's death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: 'GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.' Something like that.
I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.
'I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?'
'I will take you up with me now,' I said. 'We shall find him in the sitting-room.'
'Thank you.'
'I hope,' I said, as we left the dining-room together, 'that you didn't sleep too badly?'
'It was a shock,' she said, in a meditative voice. 'But, of course, I didn't know the poor girl. It's not as though it had been Nick.'
'I suppose you'd never met this girl before?'
'Once-at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.'
'It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,' I said.
'Dreadful.'
But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.
Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.
'Madame,' he said. 'Enchante!' He drew forward a chair.
She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into speech. There was something a little frightening about her stillness and aloofness.
'M. Poirot,' she said at last. 'I suppose there is no doubt that this-sad business last night was all part and parcel of the same thing? I mean-that the intended victim was really Nick?'
'I should say, Madame, that there was no doubt at all.'
Frederica frowned a little.
'Nick bears a charmed life,' she said.
There was some curious undercurrent in her voice that I could not understand.
'Luck, they say, goes in cycles,' remarked Poirot.
'Perhaps. It is certainly useless to fight against it.'
Now there was only weariness in her tone. After a moment or two, she went on. 
'I must beg your pardon, M. Poirot. Nick's pardon, too. Up till last night I did not believe. I never dreamed that the danger was-serious.'
'Is that so, Madame?'
'I see now that everything will have to be gone into-carefully. And I imagine that Nick's immediate circle of friends will not be immune from suspicion. Ridiculous, of course, but there it is. Am I right, M. Poirot?'
'You are very intelligent, Madame.'
'You asked me some questions about Tavistock the other day, M. Poirot. As you will find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you the truth now. I was not at Tavistock.'
'No, Madame?'
'I motored down to this part of the world with Mr Lazarus early last week. We did not wish to arouse more comment than necessary. We stayed at a little place called Shellacombe.'
'That is, I think, about seven miles from here, Madame?'
'About that-yes.'
Still that quiet far-away weariness.
'May I be impertinent, Madame?'
'Is there such a thing-in these days?'
'Perhaps you are right, Madame. How long have you and M. Lazarus been friends?'
'I met him six months ago.'
'And you-care for him, Madame?'
Frederica shrugged her shoulders.
'He is-rich.'
'Oh! La la,' cried Poirot. 'That is an ugly thing to say.'
She seemed faintly amused.
'Isn't it better to say it myself-than to have you say it for me?'
'Well-there is always that, of course. May I repeat, Madame, that you are very intelligent.'
'You will give me a diploma soon,' said Frederica, and rose. 'There is nothing more you wish to tell me, Madame?'
'I do not think so-no. I am going to take some flowers round to Nick and see how she is.'
'Ah, that is very amiable of you. Thank you, Madame, for your frankness.'
She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went out of the room, smiling faintly at me as I held the door open for her.
'She is intelligent,' said Poirot. 'Yes, but so is Hercule Poirot!' 'What do you mean?'
'That it is all very well and very pretty to force the richness of M. Lazarus down my throat-'
'I must say that rather disgusted me.'
'Mon cher, always you have the right reaction in the wrong place. It is not, for the moment, a question of good taste or otherwise. If Madame Rice has a devoted friend who is rich and can give her all she needs-why then obviously Madame Rice would not need to murder her dearest friend for a mere pittance.'
'Oh!' I said.
'Precisement! "Oh!"' 
'Why didn't you stop her going to the nursing home?'
'Why should I show my hand? Is it Hercule Poirot who prevents Mademoiselle Nick from seeing her friends? Quelle idee! It is the doctors and the nurses. Those tiresome nurses! So full of rules and regulations and "doctors' orders".'
'You're not afraid that they may let her in after all? Nick may insist.'
'Nobody will be let in, my dear Hastings, but you and me. And for that matter, the sooner we make our way there, the better.'
The sitting-room door flew open and George Challenger barged in. His tanned face was alive with indignation.
'Look here, M. Poirot,' he said. 'What's the meaning of this? I rang up that damned nursing home where Nick is. Asked how she was and what time I could come round and see her. And they say the doctor won't allow any visitors. I want to know the meaning of that. To put it plainly, is this your work? Or is Nick really ill from shock?'
'I assure you, Monsieur, that I do not lay down rules for nursing homes. I would not dare. Why not ring up the good doctor-what was his name now?-Ah, yes, Graham.'
'I have. He says she's going on as well as could be expected-usual stuff. But I know all the tricks-my uncle's a doctor. Harley Street. Nerve specialist. Psychoanalysis-all the rest of it. Putting relations and friends off with soothing words. I've heard about it all. I don't believe Nick isn't up to seeing any one. I believe you're at the bottom of this, M. Poirot.'
Poirot smiled at him in a very kindly fashion. Indeed, I have always observed that Poirot has a kindly feeling for a lover.
'Now listen to me, mon ami,' he said. 'If one guest is admitted, others cannot be kept out. You comprehend? It must be all or none. We want Mademoiselle's safety, you and I, do we not? Exactly. Then, you understand-it must be none.'
'I get you,' said Challenger, slowly. 'But then-'
'Chut! We will say no more. We will forget even what we have said. The prudence, the extreme prudence, is what is needed at present.'
'I can hold my tongue,' said the sailor quietly.
He turned away to the door, pausing as he went out to say: 'No embargo on flowers, is there? So long as they are not white ones.'
Poirot smiled.
'And now,' he said, as the door shut behind the impetuous Challenger, 'whilst M. Challenger and Madame and perhaps M. Lazarus all encounter each other in the flower shop, you and I will drive quietly to our destination.'
'And ask for the answer to the three questions?' I said.
'Yes. We will ask. Though, as a matter of fact, I know the answer.'
'What?' I exclaimed.
'Yes.'
'But when did you find out?'
'Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.'
'Tell me.'
'No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.'
Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.
It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.
'So that is one matter cleared up,' said Poirot.
'No mouse in that mouse-hole,' I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot's on one past occasion.
'Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mouse-hole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.'
The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.
One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. She had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.
'Miss Buckley has passed a very fair night,' she said. 'Come up, will you?'
In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found Nick. In the narrow iron bed, she looked like a tired child. Her face was white and her eyes were suspiciously red, and she seemed listless and weary.
'It's good of you to come,' she said in a flat voice.
Poirot took her hand in both of his.
'Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.'
The words startled her. She looked up in his face.
'Oh!' she said. 'Oh!'
'Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.'
Her face flushed.
'So you know. Oh, well, it doesn't matter who knows now. Now that it's all over. Now that I shall never see him again.'
Her voice broke.
'Courage, Mademoiselle.'
'I haven't got any courage left. I've used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and-just lately-hoping against hope.'
I stared. I could not understand one word.
'Regard the poor Hastings,' said Poirot. 'He does not know what we are talking about.'
Her unhappy eyes met mine.
'Michael Seton, the airman,' she said. 'I was engaged to him-and he's dead.'

第十章　尼克的秘密
我醒来的时候已经天大亮了。
波洛还坐在昨天夜里那个老地方一步未移，而且还是那个姿势。但他脸上的表情不同了，他的眼睛里闪耀着我熟悉的绿光，就像猫的眼睛一样。
我勉强坐直了身子，感到浑身僵硬，怪不舒服的。在我这样的年纪上，坐在椅子里睡觉实在不是件值得提倡的事儿。它至少造成了一个后果：醒过来之后没有一点儿舒适的甜美味儿——像在床上睡了一夜醒过来所感觉到的那样。我的脑子不像昨夜睡前那样紧张。
“波洛！”我叫道：
“你可想出点什么没有？”
他点点头，向前凑了凑，用手指敲着面前的桌子，说：
“黑斯廷斯，回答我三个问题：为什么近来尼克小姐睡眠不好？为什么她从来不穿黑衣服却去买了件黑色的晚礼服？为什么昨晚她说‘我现在还留恋什么？死对我只是解脱？’”
我怔住了。这些问题能有什么意义呢？
“回答这些问题吧，黑斯廷斯，回答吧。”
“好吧。第一个问题可以这样回答：她说过她近来心中担忧，所以睡不好。”
“对。她担忧什么呢？”
“至于第二个问题，黑衣服——唔，人人都喜欢换换口味的。”
“你是个已婚男子，可是对于女人的心理你简直完全不懂。一个女人一旦认定某种颜色对自己不适宜，她就再也不肯去穿这种颜色的衣服。”
“最后一个问题——受了惊吓之后说出这种话来原是很自然的嘛。”
“不，我的朋友，不自然。被表姐的惨死吓得半死，为这种落在别人头上的横祸而责备自己，这些都很自然。但用那样的语气说出那样的话来，不，不是自然的。她用厌恶的口气说到生命，而不久前生命对她来说还十分宝贵——意味着幸福的憧憬。在那之前她从没流露过厌世情绪呀。以前她什么都觉得有趣，什么都拿来打哈哈取乐。后来，当她意识到她的生命受到严重的威胁之后，这种无忧无虑的精神崩溃了，理所当然地产生了恐惧。请注意，她之所以会感到恐惧，是因为生活对于她来说是甜蜜的，值得留恋的。她渴望活下去。厌倦生命吗？不，从来没有过，甚至在昨天吃晚饭之前都还不是这样的。黑斯廷斯，我们在这里发现了一个心理上的变化，这是很有启发性的。是什么使得她对生命的看法改变了呢？”
“是她表姐之死。”
“不，不，她表组之死使得她一时不慎泄漏了天机而已。这种对生命的看法在那之前可能就已经改变了。什么事情能够引起这种改变呢？”
“我什么也说不出。”
“想一想，黑斯廷斯，动动脑筋吧。”
“真的想不出。”
“我们最后有机会来观察她——在悲剧之前——是什么时候？”
“我想，是在吃晚饭的时候。”
“很对。那以后我们只见她庄重地迎接来宾。晚饭吃完的时候发生了件什么事？”
“她去打电话了。”我边想边说。
“对啦，你总算说到点子上了。她去打电话，去了很久，至少二十分钟。这对于打电话来说好像太长了一点。谁在跟她通话？他们说了些什么？她真的打了电话吗？这些都有待查明，黑斯廷斯。只要查明那二十分钟里发生了什么事，我相信，我们就会找到我们最关键的线索。”
“你这样想吗？”
“当然，黑斯廷斯，我一直跟你讲，尼克有些事没告诉我们。她觉得那些事与此案无关，但我，赫尔克里•波洛才能判断到底有关无关。我总感到我所掌握的事实当中少了点重要的东西。必定还有一个事实是我们至今还不知道的。正因此，我到今天还在五里雾中东碰西撞。也正因为我到今天还看不透这层层迷雾，才使我更确信我还没有掌握的那个事实就是本案的钥匙。我不会弄错的，黑斯廷斯。我必须知道那三个问题的答案，然后我就可以看出……”
“好吧，”我说着伸了伸发僵的双臂，“我想，我得去刮刮胡子洗个澡了。”
洗完澡，换上日常衣服之后我觉得好些了。由于一夜睡得不舒服而产生的酸痛和不愉快都已烟消云散。我来到早饭桌旁，心想，喝上一杯热咖啡一定会使我完全恢复过来的。
我瞟了报纸一眼，那上面除了一条消息说迈克尔•塞顿之死已被证实之外，简直没有东西值得一看。唉，那个勇敢的小伙子死了。我心中暗想，明天报纸的头版头条新闻会不会出现这一类耸人听闻的标题：
神秘的惨案！
——焰火晚会红颜殒命。
刚吃完早饭，弗雷德里卡•赖斯就走到我桌旁。她穿了件软褶白领的黑色皱纹绸上衣，丰采有加。
“我要见波洛先生，黑斯廷斯上尉，你知道他起床了没有？”
“我现在就领你到楼上去，”我说，“我们可以在起居间里见到他的。”
“谢谢。”
“我希望，”我们一起离开餐厅时，我说，“你的睡眠没有受到影响吧？”
“真把人吓坏了，”她说得很慢，“但是，当然啰，我同那位可怜的姑娘不熟，我跟她的关系不像跟尼克。”
“我猜你以前没见过那姑娘吧？”
“见过一次，在斯卡伯勒。她来跟尼克一起吃午饭。”
“这件祸事对她父母可真是个巨大的打击。”我说。
“太可怕了。”
但她说话的口气说明她觉得此事完全与己无关。我私下里想，这位太太太自私了，只要事不关己，她什么都无所谓。
波洛已经吃完了早点，正坐着看报，他站起身来，用他那种高卢人的礼貌迎接弗雷德里卡。
“太太，”他说，“非常高兴，不胜欢迎！”
说着给她拖了把椅子过来。
她谢谢他，微笑着坐了下来，两条膀子搁在扶手上。她并没有急于开口，只是直挺挺地坐在那儿，两眼直视前方。这种沉默叫人好生不自在。后来她终于说话了。
“波洛先生，我想，昨晚发生的那件不幸的事，同以前的没有什么两样。我是说，凶手想加害的是尼克。”
“太太，这一点当是无疑的。”
弗雷德里卡皱了皱眉头，说：
“尼克每次都能逃避灾祸，真有神佑！”
我听得出她话里有话，但那是什么呢？
“他们说祸福永远是均衡的，周而复始，循环不已。”波洛有一套跟妇女周旋的陈辞滥调，听起来很有哲学意味，仿佛寓意深远，其实空洞无物，只是缓兵之计。
“可能。和命运对抗是没有用的。”
这时她的声音只有厌倦。后来她又接着说：
“我得请你原谅，波洛先生，也请尼克原谅。我直到昨晚才相信了这一切。那以前我从来没有想到过这种危险——会是真的。”
“是吗，太太？”
“我现在看得出每件事都将被仔细研究，并且尼克周围的人都将成为怀疑对象。虽然可笑，却是真情。波洛先生，我说得对不对？”
“你极为聪明，太太。”
“那天你问了我一些塔维斯托克的问题，波洛先生。既然你迟早会发现，我还是现在就把真情告诉你为好。我不在塔维斯托克。”
“不在，太太？”
“我同拉扎勒斯先生上个星期一就开着汽车到这一带来了。我们不希望引起人们注意，就住在一个叫谢拉科姆的小地方。”
“我想，那地方离这里大约七英里吧，太太？”
“大概是的。”说话的声音还是那么冷漠。
“我可以请问一个十分失礼的问题吗？太太？”
“现在是什么时候，还顾得上这些！”
“太太，你可能是对的。那么，你同拉扎勒斯做朋友有多久了？”
“我是半年之前遇到他的。”
“你——对他很有意思，太太？”
弗雷德里卡耸耸肩：“他——很有钱。”
“哦！”波洛叫道，“这种话说出来可不大好听。”
她像是觉得有趣：“与其你来说，还不如我自己来说吧。”
“嗯，当然总是这样的。我是否可以再重复一遍，太太，你极为聪明。”
“你大概很快就要授给我一张智力证书了吧。”弗雷德里卡说着站了起来。
“没有别的事要告诉我了吗，太太？”
“我想没有了。我要带些花儿去看尼克。”
“啊，你想得多周到。太太，谢谢你的坦率。”
她目光炯炯地盯了他一眼，欲言又止，转身向房门走去。我替她开门的时候她朝我淡淡一笑。
见她走了，波洛说：“她好聪明，但赫尔克里•波洛也颇有头脑！”
“你这是什么意思？”
“她这是强迫我接受‘拉扎勒斯是有钱的’这个概念的一个好方法呀！”
“我得说，这位弗雷德里卡因为拉扎勒斯有钱而跟他拉拉扯扯，可真叫我恶心。”
“我亲爱的，你老是把正确的观点用到错误的地方去。现在根本不是情操高尚与否的问题。问题是：如果赖斯太太有一个能够满足她一切欲望的忠实而又有钱的男朋友，她就根本不必为了一点微不足道的钱财去谋杀她最要好的女友！”
“哦！”我恍然大悟。
“这才‘哦！’”
“你为什么不阻止她到休养所去。”
“干么要我来插手？是赫尔克里•波洛不让尼克小姐会见朋友吗？多笨的想法！不让见尼克的是医生和护士，是那些讨厌的护士，那些只知道规章制度，一天到晚对你说‘这是医生的指示’的护士！”
“你不怕他们或许会让她进去？尼克可能会坚持要见她的。”
“亲爱的黑斯廷斯，除了你我之外，谁也进不去的。我们现在就去看尼克，越快越好。”
起居间的门被撞开了。乔治•查林杰怒气冲冲地闯了进来。
“喂，波洛先生，”他说，“你这是什么意思？我打电话到尼克住的那家该死的休养所去探问她的病情，并且问他们我什么时候可以去看她，他们说医生不让任何人探望尼克。我要知道这是什么意思。直说吧，是你下的禁令，还是尼克真的吓成大病了？”
“我告诉你，先生，我无权过问休养所的事。我不敢这么做。你为什么不打电话去问问医生？他叫什么来着？哦，叫格雷厄姆。”
“我打过电话给他了。他说她恢复得就像预料中一样好。老调子，但我很知道这一套。我舅舅就是个医生，在哈利街开业，神经科专家、心理分析家，还有许多其它头衔。把亲戚朋友挡回去的各种手法我全知道。我不相信尼克的健康情况不允许她会客。我相信是你在里头捣鬼，波洛先生！”
波洛对他温厚地笑了笑，我注意到他对热恋中的情人向来特别宽容。
“现在请听我说，我的朋友，”他说，“要是一个人可以进去，其余的就谁也挡不住了。你听懂我的意思没有？或者全让进去，或者一个也不让。我们关心的是尼克的安全，你和我，对不对？对！那么你当然看得出，必须一个都不让进。”
“我懂了，”查林杰慢吞吞地说，“不过……”
“行了，我们不多说了，甚至还要把刚才说的话也全部忘掉。谨慎，绝对的谨慎，这就是目前我们特别需要的。”
“我可以守口如瓶，”那海员轻轻地说。他转身走到门口又停下来说：
“鲜花总不禁运吧？只要不是白色的。”
波洛笑了。
门在查林杰身后关上的时候，波洛说：
“现在，查林杰，赖斯太太，可能还有拉扎勒斯都一窝蜂涌进了花店，我们悄悄地把汽车开到休养所去吧。”
“去搞清那三个问题的答案？”
“是的，我们要问一下，虽然事实上我已经知道了。”
“什么？”我惊叫了一声。
“是的。”
“你是什么时候想出来的？”
“在我吃早点的时候，黑斯廷斯，答案自己寻上门来了。”
“告诉我吧。”
“不，让你亲耳从小姐那里听到答案吧。”
然后，为了分散我的注意力，他把一封拆开的信推到我面前。这是波洛请来鉴定老尼克•巴克利画像的专家寄来的，里头是一份鉴定报告。报告肯定地指出那幅画最多只值二十英镑。
“瞧，一个疑点澄清了。”波洛说。
“这个洞里没有耗子，”我说，因为我记得过去在这种情况下波洛曾说过这句话。
“啊，你还记得这句话！不错，正如你所说的，这个洞里没有耗子。一幅画只值二十英镑而拉扎勒斯却出价五十镑。这个外表精明的年轻人的判断力多糟糕！不过，啊，我们应当出发去办我们的事儿了。”
那个休养所座落在一座小山头上，高高地俯瞰着海湾。一个穿着白衣的服务员带我们走进楼下一个小会客室，接着马上来了一位动作轻快敏捷的护士。她一眼就认出了波洛。很明显，她已经从格雷厄姆医生那里得到了指示，并听医生详细形容过这位侦探的外貌。此时她面含笑意。
“巴克利小姐夜里睡得很好，”她说，“跟我来吧。”
我们在一间阳光充足令人愉快的房间里见到了尼克。她躺在一张狭窄的铁床上，活像个疲倦的小孩。她脸色很白，双眼却红得可疑，一副无精打采的模样。
“你们来了可真好，”她毫无感情地说。
波洛把她的纤纤玉手握在自己的双手中间，说：“勇敢些，小姐，活着总是美好的。”
这些话使她一惊。她端详着波洛的脸。
“哦，”她说，“哦——”
“你现在肯不肯告诉我，小姐，是什么事使你近来郁郁寡欢？还是要我来猜一下，并对你表示极其深切的同情呢？”
她脸红了。
“你知道了，啊，现在谁知道了都没有关系，一切全都成了过眼烟云，我再也看不见他了。”
她失声痛哭起来。
“勇敢些，小姐。”
“勇气，我一点也没有了。在过去几个星期里勇气全用完了。我一直抱着希望，直到最近还在一厢情愿地希望着。”
我愣愣地站着，什么也不明白。
“你看可怜的黑斯廷斯，”波洛说，“我们现在说的话他连一个字也听不懂。”
她那黯然失色的眼光遇上了我莫名其妙的眼光。
“迈克尔•塞顿，那位飞行员，”尼克说，“我已经跟他订了婚，可是他死了。”
Chapter 11   The Motive 动机
Chapter 11 - The Motive
I was dumbfounded.
I turned on Poirot.
'Is this what you meant?'
'Yes, mon ami. This morning-I knew.'
'How did you know? How did you guess? You said it stared you in the face at breakfast.'
'So it did, my friend. From the front page of the newspaper. I remembered the conversation at dinner last night-and I saw everything.'
He turned to Nick again.
'You heard the news last night?'
'Yes. On the wireless. I made an excuse about the telephone. I wanted to hear the news alone-in case...' She swallowed hard. 'And I heard it...'
'I know, I know.' He took her hand in both of his.
'It was-pretty ghastly. And all the people arriving. I don't know how I got through it. It all felt like a dream. I could see myself from outside-behaving just as usual. It was queer somehow.'
'Yes, yes, I understand.'
'And then, when I went to fetch Freddie's wrap-I broke down for a minute. I pulled myself together quite quickly. But Maggie kept calling up about her coat. And then at last she took my shawl and went, and I put on some powder and some rouge and followed her out. And there she was-dead...'
'Yes, yes, it must have been a terrible shock.'
'You don't understand. I was angry! I wished it had been me! I wanted to be dead-and there I was-alive and perhaps to live for years! And Michael dead-drowned far away in the Pacific.'
'Pauvre enfant.'
'I don't want to be alive. I don't want to live, I tell you!' she cried, rebelliously.
'I know-I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it passes-sorrow passes and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know. It is useless for an old man like me to talk. Idle words-that is what you think-idle words.'
'You think I'll forget-and marry someone else? Never!'
She looked rather lovely as she sat up in bed, her two hands clenched and her cheeks burning.
Poirot said gently: 'No, no. I am not thinking anything of the kind. You are very lucky, Mademoiselle. You have been loved by a brave man-a hero. How did you come to meet him?'
'It was at Le Touquet-last September. Nearly a year ago.'
'And you became engaged-when?'
'Just after Christmas. But it had to be a secret.'
'Why was that?'
'Michael's uncle-old Sir Matthew Seton. He loved birds and hated women.'
'Ah! ce n'est pas raisonnable!'
'Well-I don't mean quite that. He was a complete crank. Thought women ruined a man's life. And Michael was absolutely dependent on him. He was frightfully proud of Michael and it was he who financed the building of the Albatross and the expenses of the round-the-world flight. It was the dearest dream of his life as well as of Michael's. If Michael had pulled it off-well, then he could have asked
his uncle anything. And even if old Sir Matthew had still cut up rough, well, it wouldn't have really mattered. Michael would have been made-a kind of world hero. His uncle would have come round in the end.'
'Yes, yes, I see.'
'But Michael said it would be fatal if anything leaked out. We must keep it a dead secret. And I did. I never told anyone-not even Freddie.'
Poirot groaned.
'If only you had told me, Mademoiselle.'
Nick stared at him.
'But what difference would it have made? It couldn't have anything to do with these mysterious attacks on me? No, I'd promised Michael-and I kept my word. But it was awful-the anxiety, wondering and getting in a state the whole time. And everyone saying one was so nervy. And being unable to explain.'
'Yes, I comprehend all that.'
'He was missing once before, you know. Crossing the desert on the way to India. That was pretty awful, and then after all, it was all right. His machine was damaged, but it was put right, and he went on. And I kept saying to myself that it would be the same this time. Everyone said he must be dead-and I kept telling myself that he must be all right, really. And then-last night...'
Her voice trailed away. 'You had hoped up till then?'
'I don't know. I think it was more that I refused to believe. It was awful never being able to talk to anyone.'
'Yes, I can imagine that. Were you never tempted to tell Madame Rice, for instance?'
'Sometimes I wanted to frightfully.'
'You do not think she-guessed?'
'I don't think so.' Nick considered the idea carefully. 'She never said anything. Of course she used to hint things sometimes. About our being great friends and all that.'
'You never considered telling her when M. Seton's uncle died? You know that he died about a week ago?'
'I know. He had an operation or something. I suppose I might have told anybody then. But it wouldn't have been a nice way of doing it, would it? I mean, it would have seemed rather boastful-to do it just then-when all the papers were full of Michael. And reporters would have come and interviewed me. It would all have been rather cheap. And Michael would have hated it.'
'I agree with you, Mademoiselle. You could not have announced it publicly. I only meant that you could have spoken of it privately to a friend.'
'I did sort of hint to one person,' said Nick. 'I-thought it was only fair. But I don't know how much he-the person took in.'
Poirot nodded.
'Are you on good terms with your cousin M. Vyse?' he asked, with a rather abrupt change of subject.
'Charles? What put him into your head?' 'I was just wondering-that was all.'
'Charles means well,' said Nick. 'He's a frightful stick, of course. Never moves out of this place. He disapproves of me, I think.'
'Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle. And I hear that he has laid all his devotion at your feet!'
'Disapproving of a person doesn't keep you from having a pash for them. Charles thinks my mode of life is reprehensible and he disapproves of my cocktails, my complexion, my friends and my conversation. But he still feels my fatal fascination. He always hopes to reform me, I think.'
She paused and then said, with a ghost of a twinkle: 'Who have you been pumping to get the local information?'
'You must not give me away, Mademoiselle. I had a little conversation with the Australian lady, Madame Croft.'
'She's rather an old dear-when one has time for her. Terribly sentimental. Love and home and children-you know the sort of thing.'
'I am old-fashioned and sentimental myself, Mademoiselle.'
'Are you? I should have said that Captain Hastings was the sentimental one of you two.'
I blushed indignantly.
'He is furious,' said Poirot, eying my discomfiture with a good deal of pleasure. 'But you are right, Mademoiselle. Yes, you are right.'
'Not at all,' I said, angrily.
'Hastings has a singularly beautiful nature. It has been the greatest hindrance to me at times.'
'Don't be absurd, Poirot.'
'He is, to begin with, reluctant to see evil anywhere, and when he does see it his righteous indignation is so great that he is incapable of dissembling. Altogether a rare and beautiful nature. No, mon ami, I will not permit you to contradict me. It is as I say.'
'You've both been very kind to me,' said Nick, gently.
'La, la, Mademoiselle. That is nothing. We have much more to do. To begin with, you will remain here. You will obey orders. You will do what I tell you. At this juncture I must not be hampered.'
Nick sighed wearily.
'I'll do anything you like. I don't care what I do.'
'You will see no friends for the present.'
'I don't care. I don't want to see anyone.'
'For you the passive part-for us the active one. Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to leave you. I will not intrude longer upon your sorrow.'
He moved towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to say over his shoulder: 'By the way, you once mentioned a will you made. Where is it, this will?'
'Oh! it's knocking round somewhere.'
'At End House?'
'Yes.'
'In a safe? Locked up in your desk?'
'Well, I really don't know. It's somewhere about.' She frowned. 'I'm frightfully untidy, you know. Papers and things like that would be mostly in the writing-table in the library. That's where most of the bills are. The will is probably with them. Or it might be in my bedroom.'
'You permit me to make the search-yes?'
'If you want to-yes. Look at anything you like.'
'Merci, Mademoiselle. I will avail myself of your permission.'

第十一章　动机
这下我发呆了。
“这就是答案？”我问波洛。
“是的，我的朋友。我是今天早晨知道的。”
“你是怎么知道的？是怎么猜出来的？你说它是自己寻上门来的呀。”
“是的，我的朋友，就在报纸的第一版上。我记起了昨天吃晚饭时的谈话，就恍然大悟啦。”
说着他又转向尼克：
“你是昨天晚上听到这个消息的？”
“是的，在收音机上。我借口说要打电话，而实际上是想一个人去听听收音机上的消息。如果……”她把到了嘴边的话又咽了回去，“所以我昨晚就听到了……”
“我知道，我知道，”他捧住尼克的小手。
“这对于我来说是个致命的打击，可是客人们却纷纷到来。我真不知怎样才能把这一切应付过去，真像一场噩梦！但我看得出——好像我自己成了第三者——我的举止很正常，只是有点不自然。”
“是呀，我完全理解。”
“后来当我去拿弗雷迪的披肩时，有那么一瞬间我真的控制不住自己了，一时痛哭起来，但我还是马上收起了眼泪，因为马吉一直吵着找她的大衣。最后她拿了我的披肩出去了，我急忙搽了点粉和胭脂也跟了出来，可她却已经——死了。”
“嗯，这对你是多大的打击！”
“不，你不懂，当时我气极了，我希望死的是我！我想死——却活着，而且还不知要活上多久！迈克尔•塞顿却死了，淹死在太平洋里了。”
“不幸的孩子！”
“有什么不幸的。我告诉你：我厌弃生命！”她怨恨地哭了。
“我理解，我全都理解，小姐。对我们每个人来说，生活中总有那么一刻会叫人觉得死去比活着强。可是一切都会过去的，哀愁和痛苦，都会在不知不觉之中悄然而逝。你现在自然不会相信这种说法，我知道。像我这么个老头子对你说这些有什么用呢？空话——这就是你的看法——全是空话。”
“你以为我会忘掉我的爱情，去跟别人结婚吗？绝不会！”
她坐在床上，双手紧紧绞在一起，脸上泛着红晕，十分娇美。
波洛温存地说：
“不，不，我完全没有这个意思。你很有幸，小姐，曾被这么勇敢的英雄爱过。你是怎么遇上他的？”
“那是在托基——去年九月，差不多一年前。”
“后来你们订婚了。那是什么时候的事？”
“刚过圣诞节。可是我们一直保密。”
“为什么要保密呢？”
“迈克尔的叔叔——老马修•塞顿爵士，把一切鸟儿当作宝贝心肝而把女人当作仇人、死敌。”
“哦，这可真是毫无道理。”
“是呀，但我不是指的这个。老马修是个脾气古怪的人，认为女人是男人的克星。但他很喜欢迈克尔，并且为这个侄儿感到自豪。迈克尔一切都靠他叔叔。那架两用飞机就是他叔叔替他造的，这次环球探险的一切费用也全是这位老人支付的。这次环球飞行是迈克尔最大的希望，也是他叔叔最渴望实现的梦想。只要这次飞行成功了，在他叔叔面前，迈克尔就能有求必应。那时即使我们的事叫他发觉了也关系不大，因为侄儿成了世界知名的探险英雄，叔叔脸上光彩，一定会回心转意的。”
“是这样的，我明白了。”
“迈克尔说，在成功之前一点风声也不能走漏，我就一直守口如瓶，对谁也没讲——哪怕是弗雷迪。”
波洛呻吟了一声，说：
“要是你能早点告诉我，小姐……”
尼克凝视着他。
“那又怎样呢？这跟谋害我有什么关系呢？我向迈克尔保证过对谁也不讲，并且我也做到了。当然，这是痛苦的，焦虑和欣慰、绝望和希冀交替着折磨我，一天到晚坐卧不安，大家都说我神经过敏，可我又不能解释。”
“我想象得出。”
“他以前也失踪过一次，那是在他飞越沙漠去印度的途中。当时的情形叫人绝望，但后来他修好了机器，化险为夷。我一直对自己说这一次也一定是这种情形。人人都说他死了，但我始终像个驼鸟把头埋在沙里，直到昨天晚上……”
她的声音越来越低，终于听不见了。
“你一直抱着希望？”
“我也说不清，也许只是不肯相信吧。最受不了的是对谁也不能说，只好一个人发愁。”
“是啊，小姐，我能够体会。你有没有打算对谁透露一点风声？比方说，对赖斯太太？”
“有时我很想这么做，想得要命。”
“你想她会不会猜到了你的秘密？”
“不，我想不会。”尼克思索着说，“她什么也没说过。当然她有时老是对我暗示说我们是推心置腹的朋友，应当无话不谈。”
“迈克尔的叔叔死了以后你也没打算告诉她吗？他死了大约一个星期左右了。”
“我知道，他是动手术之后死的。但他一死就对别人透露我和迈克尔的关系是很不高尚的。在所有的报纸都把迈克尔失踪的消息当作热门新闻大登特登的时候，我这一说，记者便会蜂拥而来，我岂不显得是在趁人之危大出风头吗？迈克尔知道了一定不高兴的。”
“这是对的，小姐，你不能公开宣布。但我想，你可以同好朋友私下谈谈。”
“我对一个人暗示过，”尼克说，“就那么一次，但不知那个人听懂了没有。”
波洛点点头，突然改变了话题。
“你同你表哥维斯先生的关系是否很融洽？”
“查尔斯？提起他干么？”
“随便问问罢了。”
“查尔斯是个好心人，”尼克说，“当然，他固执得可恶。他从不离开这圣卢一带，老是说我这也不是那也不是。”
“啊，小姐，小姐！我倒有所耳闻，说他拜倒在你的石榴裙下哩。”
“我们并不互相疏远。他认为我的生活方式是大逆不道的，他不赞成我的鸡尾酒会，我的梳妆打扮，我的朋友往来和我的举止言谈。尽管如此，他还是见了我就神魂颠倒。他呀，老是想要改造我。”
停了停，她眨眨眼问：
“这些事你是从什么地方听来的？”
“我悄悄儿地对你说吧，小姐，我曾有幸同那位澳大利亚女士克罗夫特太太攀谈了几句。”
“她是个相当热情的人——只要你有时间坐着听她讲。那些个多情得要命的话题——什么爱情呀，家庭呀，孩子呀，没完没了地发挥个淋漓尽致。”
“我也是一位老派的多情绅士呀，小姐。”
“是吗？我觉得你们两位当中还是黑斯廷斯更多情些。”
我脸上发烫了。
“嗬，他神气起来啦，”波洛看见我的窘态，高兴得眉飞色舞，“不过小姐你说得对，是啊，正确之至。”
“完全不对！”我气起来了。
“黑斯廷斯有极为罕见的纯洁天性，有时候叫我伤透了脑筋。”
“别胡闹了，波洛。”
“他呀，素来与一切邪恶不共戴天。一旦遇见什么丑行劣迹，他那正义凛然的怒气是如此之雷霆万钧，以致一下子就把一切都给你搅个乱七八糟。啊，少见的德行。不，我的朋友，我不让你反驳，你就是这样一个人。”
“你俩对我都很好。”尼克柔情地说。
“啊，啊，小姐，这没什么。我们还有许多事要做呢。首先，你还得待在这儿，你得服从命令，得照我说的行事。在这点上我是不会让步的。”
尼克无可奈何地叹了口气。
“你叫我做什么我就做什么，我对一切都无所谓了。”
“目前你不能会见朋友。”
“我谁都不想见。”
“这在你是消极的，对我们来说却是积极的。现在，小姐，我们要走了。我们不再惊动你那圣洁的哀愁了。”
他走到门口，握着门上的把手转过头来说：
“顺便问一下。你说过立了遗嘱。在什么地方——这遗嘱？”
“哦，总在什么地方的。”
“在悬崖山庄吗？”
“是的。”
“在保险柜里还是锁在抽屉里？”
“哎，我真的不知道。反正总不外乎这些地方。”她皱起眉头说，“我的东西不大会在固定的地方，你知道。这种文件很可能在书房的写字台里，许多帐单什么的也在那儿，遗嘱可能就跟这些玩意儿混在一起。再不然就在我卧室里了。”
“你让我去找找看，好吗？”
“你想去找当然可以。你爱看什么就看什么好了。”
“多谢了，小姐。那么我就要去利用一下你给予我的这种方便了。”
Chapter 12  Ellen 埃伦
Chapter 12 - Ellen
Poirot said no word till we had emerged from the nursing home into the outer air. Then he caught me by the arm.
'You see, Hastings? You see? Ah! Sacre tonnerre! I was right! I was right! Always I knew there was something lacking-some piece of the puzzle that was not there. And without that missing piece the whole thing was meaningless.'
His almost despairing triumph was double-Dutch to me. I Could not see that anything very epoch-making had occurred.
'It was there all the time. And I could not see it. But how should I? To know there is something -that, yes-but to know what that something is. Ah! Qa c'est bien plus difficile.'
'Do you mean that this has some direct bearing on the crime?' 'Ma foi, do you not see?' 'As a matter of fact, I don't.'
'Is it possible? Why, it gives us what we have been looking for-the motive-the hidden obscure motive!'
'I may be very dense, but I can't see it. Do you mean jealousy of some kind?'
'Jealousy? No, no, my friend. The usual motive-the inevitable motive. Money, my friend, money!'
I stared. He went on, speaking more calmly.
'Listen, mon ami. Just over a week ago Sir Matthew Seton dies. And Sir Matthew Seton was a millionaire-one of the richest men in England.'
'Yes, but-'
'Attendez. One step at a time. He has a nephew whom he idolizes and to whom, we may safely assume, he has left his vast fortune.'
'But-'
'Mais oui-legacies, yes, an endowment to do with his hobby, yes, but the bulk of the money would go to Michael Seton. Last Tuesday, Michael Seton is reported missing-and on Wednesday the attacks on Mademoiselle's life begin. Supposing, Hastings, that Michael Seton made a will before he started on his flight, and that in that will he left all he had to his fiancee.'
'That's pure supposition.'
'It is supposition-yes. But it must be so. Because, if it is not so, there is no meaning in anything that has happened. It is no paltry inheritance that is at stake. It is an enormous fortune.'
I was silent for some minutes, turning the matter over in my mind. It seemed to me that Poirot was leaping to conclusions in a most reckless manner, and yet I was secretly convinced that he was right. It was his extraordinary flair for being right that influenced me. Yet it seemed to me that there was a good deal to be proved still.
'But if nobody knew of the engagement,' I argued.
'Pah! Somebody did know. For the matter of that, somebody always does know. If they do not know, they guess. Madame Rice suspected. Mademoiselle Nick admitted as much. She may have had means of turning those suspicions into certainties.'
'How?'
'Well, for one thing, there must have been letters from Michael Seton to Mademoiselle Nick. They had been engaged some time. And her best friend could not call that young lady anything but careless. She leaves things here and there, and everywhere. I doubt if she has ever locked up anything in her life. Oh, yes, there would be means of making sure.'
'And Frederica Rice would know about the will that her friend had made?'
'Doubtless. Oh, yes, it narrows down now. You remember my list-a list of persons numbered from A. to J. It has narrowed down to only two persons. I dismiss the servants. I dismiss the Commander Challenger-even though he did take one hour and a half to reach here from Plymouth-and the distance is only thirty miles. I dismiss the long-nosed M. Lazarus who offered fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty (it is odd, that, when you come to think of it. Most uncharacteristic of his race). I dismiss the Australians-so hearty and so pleasant. I keep two people on my list still.'
'One is Frederica Rice,' I said slowly.
I had a vision of her face, the golden hair, the white fragility of the features.
'Yes. She is indicated very clearly. However carelessly worded Mademoiselle's will may have been, she would be plainly indicated as residuary legatee. Apart from End House, everything was to go to her. If Mademoiselle Nick instead of Mademoiselle Maggie had been shot last night, Madame Rice would be a rich woman today.'
'I can hardly believe it!'
'You mean that you can hardly believe that a beautiful woman can be a murderess? One often has a little difficulty with members of a jury on that account. But you may be right. There is still another suspect.'
'Who?'
'Charles Vyse.'
'But he only inherits the house.'
'Yes-but he may not know that. Did he make Mademoiselle's will for her? I think not. If so, it would be in his keeping, not "knocking around somewhere", or whatever the phrase was that Mademoiselle used. So, you see, Hastings,it is quite probable that he knows nothing about that will. He may believe that she has never made a will and that, in that case, he will inherit as next of kin.'
'You know,' I said, 'that really seems to me much more probable.'
'That is your romantic mind, Hastings. The wicked solicitor. A familiar figure in fiction. If as well as being a solicitor he has an impassive face, it makes the matter almost certain. It is true that, in some ways, he is more in the picture than Madame. He would be more likely to know about the pistol and more likely to use one.'
'And to send the boulder crashing down.'
'Perhaps. Though, as I have told you, much can be done by leverage. And the fact that the boulder was dislodged at the wrong minute, and consequently missed Mademoiselle, is more suggestive of feminine agency. The idea of tampering with the interior of a car seems masculine in conception-though many women are as good mechanics as men nowadays. On the other hand, there are one or two gaps in the theory against M. Vyse.'
'Such as-?'
'He is less likely to have known of the engagement than Madame. And there is another point. His action was rather precipitate.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, until last night there was nocertitude that Seton was dead. To act rashly, without due assurance, seems very uncharacteristic of the legal mind.'
'Yes,' I said. 'A woman would jump to conclusions.'
'Exactly. Ce que femme veut, Dieu veut. That is the attitude.'
'It's really amazing the way Nick has escaped. It seems almost incredible.'
And suddenly I remembered the tone in Frederica's voice as she had said: 'Nick bears a charmed life.'
I shivered a little.
'Yes,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'And I can take no credit to myself. Which is humiliating.'
'Providence,' I murmured.
'Ah! mon ami, I would not put on the shoulders of the good God the burden of men's wrong doing. You say that in your Sunday morning voice of thankfulness-without reflecting that what you are really saying is that le bon Dieu has killed Miss Maggie Buckley.'
'Really, Poirot!'
'Really, my friend! But I will not sit back and say "le bon Dieu has arranged everything, I will not interfere". Because I am convinced that le bon Dieu created Hercule Poirot for the express purpose of interfering. It is my metier.'
We had been slowly ascending the zigzag path up the cliff. It was at this juncture that we passed through the little gate into the grounds of End House.
'Pouf!' said Poirot. 'That ascent is a steep one. I am hot. My moustaches are limp. Yes, as I was saying just now, I am on the side of the innocent. I am on the side of Mademoiselle Nick because she was attacked. I am on the side of Mademoiselle Maggie because she has been killed.'
'And you are against Frederica Rice and Charles Vyse.'
'No, no, Hastings. I keep an open mind. I say only that at the moment one of those two is indicated. Chut!'
We had come out on the strip of lawn by the house, and a man was driving a mowing machine. He had a long, stupid face and lack-lustre eyes. Beside him was a small boy of about ten, ugly but intelligent-looking.
It crossed my mind that we had not heard the mowing machine in action, but I presumed that the gardener was not overworking himself. He had probably been resting from his labours, and had sprung into action on hearing our voices approaching.
'Good morning,' said Poirot. 'Good morning, sir.'
'You are the gardener, I suppose. The husband of Madame who works in the house.'
'He's my Dad,' said the small boy.
'That's right, sir,' said the man. 'You'll be the foreign gentleman, I take it, that's really a detective. Is there any news of the young mistress, sir?'
'I come from seeing her at the immediate moment. She has passed a satisfactory night.'
'We've had policemen here,' said the small boy. 'That's where the lady was killed. Here by the steps. I seen a pig killed once, haven't I, Dad?'
'Ah!' said his father, unemotionally.
'Dad used to kill pigs when he worked on a farm. Didn't you, Dad? I seen a pig killed. I liked it.'
'Young 'uns like to see pigs killed,' said the man, as though stating one of the unalterable facts of nature.
'Shot with a pistol, the lady was,' continued the boy. 'She didn't have her throat cut. No!'
We passed on to the house, and I felt thankful to get away from the ghoulish child.
Poirot entered the drawing-room, the windows of which were open, and rang the bell. Ellen, neatly attired in black, came in answer to the bell. She showed no surprise at seeing us.
Poirot explained that we were here by permission of Miss Buckley to make a search of the house.
'Very good sir.'
'The police have finished?'
'They said they had seen everything they wanted, sir. They've been about the garden since very early in the morning. I don't know whether they've found anything.'
She was about to leave the room when Poirot stopped her with a question.
'Were you very surprised last night when you heard Miss Buckley had been shot?'
'Yes, sir, very surprised. Miss Maggie was a nice young lady, sir. I can't imagine anyone being so wicked as to want to harm her.'
'If it had been anyone else, you would not have been so surprised-eh?' 'I don't know what you mean, sir?'
'When I came into the hall last night,' he said, 'you asked at once whether anyone had been hurt. Were you expecting anything of the kind?'
She was silent. Her fingers pleated a corner of her apron. She shook her head and murmured: 'You gentlemen wouldn't understand.'
'Yes, yes,' said Poirot, 'I would understand. However fantastic what you may say, I would understand.'
She looked at him doubtfully, then seemed to make up her mind to trust him. 'You see, sir,' she said, 'this isn't a good house.'
I was surprised and a little contemptuous. Poirot, however, seemed to find the remark not in the least unusual.
'You mean it is an old house.' 'Yes, sir, not a good house.'
'You have been here long?'
'Six years, sir. But I was here as a girl. In the kitchen as kitchen-maid. That was in the time of old Sir Nicholas. It was the same then.'
Poirot looked at her attentively.
'In an old house,' she said, 'there is sometimes an atmosphere of evil.'
'That's it, sir,' said Ellen, eagerly. 'Evil. Bad thoughts and bad deeds too. It's like dry rot in a house, sir, you can't get it out. It's a sort of feeling in the air. I always knew something bad would happen in this house, someday.'
'Well, you have been proved right.' 'Yes, sir.'
There was a very slight underlying satisfaction in her tone, the satisfaction of one whose gloomy prognostications have been shown to be correct.
'But you didn't think it would be Miss Maggie.'
'No, indeed, I didn't, sir. Nobody hated her -I'm sure of it.'
It seemed to me that in those words was a clue. I expected Poirot to follow it up, but to my surprise he shifted to quite a different subject.
'You didn't hear the shots fired?'
'I couldn't have told with the fireworks going on. Very noisy they were.'
'You weren't out watching them?'
'No, I hadn't finished clearing up dinner.'
'Was the waiter helping you?'
'No, sir, he'd gone out into the garden to have a look at the fireworks.'
'But you didn't go.'
'No, sir.'
'Why was that?'
'I wanted to get finished.'
'You don't care for fireworks?'
'Oh, yes, sir, it wasn't that. But you see, there's two nights of them, and William and I get the evening off tomorrow and go down into the town and see them from there.'
'I comprehend. And you heard Mademoiselle Maggie asking for her coat and unable to find it?'
'I heard Miss Nick run upstairs, sir, and Miss Buckley call up from the front hall saying she couldn't find something and I heard her say, "All right-I'll take the shawl-"'
'Pardon,' Poirot interrupted. 'You did not endeavour to search for the coat for her-or get it from the car where it had been left?'
'I had my work to do, sir.'
'Quite so-and doubtless neither of the two young ladies asked you because they thought you were out looking at the fireworks?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So that, other years, you have been out looking at the fireworks?'
A sudden flush came into her pale cheeks.
'I don't know what you mean, sir. We're always allowed to go out into the garden. If I didn't feel like it this year, and would rather get on with my work and go to bed, well, that's my business, I imagine.'
'Mais oui. Mais oui. I did not intend to offend you. Why should you not do as you prefer. To make a change, it is pleasant.'
He paused and then added: 'Now another little matter in which I wonder whether you can help me. This is an old house. Are there, do you know, any secret chambers in it?'
'Well-there's a kind of sliding panel-in this very room. I remember being shown it as a girl. Only I can't remember just now where it is. Or was it in the library? I can't say, I'm sure.'
'Big enough for a person to hide in?'
'Oh, no indeed, sir! A little cupboard place-a kind of niche. About a foot square, sir, not more than that.'
'Oh! that is not what I mean at all.' The blush rose to her face again.
'If you think I was hiding anywhere-I wasn't! I heard Miss Nick run down the stairs and out and I heard her cry out-and I came into the hall to see if-if anything was the matter. And that's the gospel truth, sir. That's the gospel truth.'

第十二章　埃伦
从休养所里出来的时候波洛一声不吭。到了外面，他一把抓住我的手臂，说道：
“怎么样，黑斯廷斯？这下明白了吧？嘿，帷幔拉开了！我说得对啊，说得对啊！我一直就说我们的链条少了一环——关键性的一环。离开了它，整个事件就无从解释了。”
他那失望和狂喜交织在一起的声音使我完全摸不着头脑。我看不出发生了什么具有划时代意义的大事。
“这个事实始终就存在着，我却没有及时发现。不过怎么发现得了呢？知道存在着一个重要的未知数——这点我没弄错——但这个未知数究竟是什么，可就很难查明了。”
“你是说，尼克同迈克尔的订婚和这个案子有直接的关系？”
“难道你看不出来？”
“我看不出。”
“看不出？多怪！你要知道，它提供了我们一直在寻找的东西——动机，不为人知的极其明显的动机啊！”
“我可能太冥顽不化了，但我真的看不出。你指的是妒忌这类动机吗？”
“妒忌？不，不，不。此动机是司法界司空见惯的，最善诱人作恶，是谋财。”
我注视着他。他平静下来向我解释道：
“听我说，我的朋友。马修•塞顿爵士死去才一个星期。这位爵士是个百万豪富，是英伦三岛第一流阔佬之一。”
“是啊，不过——”
“别急，我们一步步来嘛。他崇拜自己的侄儿，因此我们可以不加思索地指出这么一个必然的事实：他会把极为可观的财产遗留给这个侄儿。”
“但是……”
“当然，那些遗产会有一部分捐赠给他所爱好的鸟类保护事业，可是大部分的财产将归属迈克尔•塞顿。上星期二开始有了关于迈克尔失踪的报道，而星期三对尼克小姐的谋害就开始了。我们假设一下，黑斯廷斯，迈克尔•塞顿在起飞前曾立过遗嘱，在那里头他把一切全都留给惟一的亲人未婚妻了。”
“这只是你的臆测罢了。”
“对，只是臆测，但肯定不会错的。如果不是这样，所发生的一切便只能是个无解方程。须知这不是一笔无足轻重的小遗产。这是一笔惊人的大赌注呀！”
我沉默了片刻，在心里仔细盘算。我觉得波洛这样下结论未免轻率，然而我也隐约感觉到他已经把握住了关键性的事实。他那卓越的眼力屡试不爽，在过去的年代里给我留下过深刻的印象。不过我还是觉得有不少疑点仍需澄清。
“要是他们的订婚根本就没人知道呢？”我争辩说。
“哈！肯定有人知道。这种事情是没有不走漏风声的。即使不知道，猜也猜得出。赖斯太太就疑心过——这是尼克小姐说的。而且她还可能证实了她的怀疑。”
“怎么证实的？”
“可以这样设想：迈克尔•塞顿必然有信写给尼克小姐，因为他们订婚的时间不短了。尼克小姐向来粗枝大叶，难道会费心把这些信特别秘密地锁在一个安全的地方？我简直不相信她会用锁锁过东西。因此赖斯太太要证实她的疑心实在太容易了。”
“弗雷德里卡•赖斯知道她朋友的遗嘱内容吗？”
“这更不用说了。啊，很好，现在范围缩小了。你还记得我列的那张从一到十的名单吗？表上现在只剩下两个人了。我排除了佣人，排除了查林杰中校——虽然从普利茅斯到这儿的三十英里路他竟开着汽车走了一个半小时，我也排除了拉扎勒斯先生，他曾出价五十镑去买一幅仅值二十镑的画。这在干他那种行当的人来说是耐人寻味的。我也排除了那两位古道热肠的澳大利亚人。表里只留下两个人了。”
“一个是弗雷德里卡•赖斯，”我慢吞吞地说，仿佛又看见了她那苍白的脸，浅黄的头发和柳条般的身影。
“对，她是很明显的。不管尼克那份遗嘱的措辞多么不正规，她总归是一切动产的继承人。除了悬崖山庄之外，其余一切东西都将落到她的手中。如果昨天晚上死的不是马吉小姐而是尼克小姐，赖斯太太今天已经是个腰缠万贯的阔妇人啦。”
“我简直无法相信。”
“你是说你不相信一个如此娇媚纤弱的女郎竟会杀人对不对？其实别说你了，就是陪审团里有时也会有个把不谙世事的陪审员受这种想法的影响哩。不过你也许是对的，因为另外还有一个人也很可疑。”
“谁？”
“查尔斯•维斯。”
“但他只能得到房子呀。”
“是的，不过他可能不知道这一点。是他替尼克起草遗嘱的吗？我想不是的。因为如果是他起草的，这份遗嘱就会由他保存而不会叫尼克说出‘总在什么地方的’这种话来。所以你看，黑斯廷斯，他可能对这个遗嘱一无所知，甚至以为她根本就没有立过遗嘱。这样，在没有遗嘱的情况下，他便是最近的亲属，可以继承尼克留下的一切财产。”
“对，”我说，“我现在认为这个人是凶手的可能性比赖斯太太大。”
“这是因为你怜香惜玉，黑斯廷斯。居心险恶的律师是小说里经常出现的熟悉形象。维斯是个律师，再加上生就一张冷淡的面孔，你就以为是他干的了。当然，从某些方面来看，他的确比赖斯太太更为可疑。他比她更容易知道那枝手枪在什么地方，也更像个会使用这种武器的人。”
“还有把那块石头推下峭壁。”
“是啊，可能的。虽然我说过只要有一根杠杆，这件事谁都干得了。况且那块石头滚得不是时候，没伤着尼克，看上去倒像个女人干的。但把汽车上的刹车搞坏却又像是男人才想得出的点子——虽然现在许多女人摆弄起机器来也是一把好手。不过从另一方面看，如果我们怀疑维斯先生，有一两个地方却解释不通。”
“比如说——”
“他不像赖斯太太那样有机会了解到尼克小姐订婚的消息。还有，他办起事来是沉着冷静的。”
“沉着冷静又怎么样呢？”
“塞顿之死直到昨天吃晚饭的时候才被证实。在这之前，塞顿之死仅仅是人们的猜测。没有任何把握地卤莽行事不像一个职业律师的处事方法。”
“对，”我说，“女人就不同了。她们感情冲动起来是又卤莽又不考虑后果的。”
“不错。”
“尼克至今还能安然无恙地活着，真是侥幸之侥幸。”
突然我想起弗雷德里卡说“尼克每次都能逃避灾难，真有神佑”这句话时所用的奇怪声调，不由得哆嗦了一下。
“是呀，”波洛低声说道，“我也说不出个所以然来——惭愧得很。”
“是天命吧。”我喃喃地说。
“啊，我的朋友，我是不会把人类的过错归咎于上帝的。我说，当你在星期天早上做祷告的时候，虽然出于无心，但在你的声音里总带有那么一种不满，仿佛说是上帝杀了马吉小姐，对不对？”
“真的，波洛！”
“可是，我的朋友，我却不会仰天长叹，说：‘既然上天安排了一切，我便只需袖手旁观’。因为我认为‘天生我材必有用’，上帝把我送到这个世界上来，就是要我来干涉世事的。这是我的天职。”
我们沿着“之”字形小路登上山顶，走进悬崖山庄的花园。
“啊，”波洛说，“这条路真陡，我走得满身是汗，连胡子都挂下来啦。刚才我说到哪里了？哦，对，我要来干涉世事，并且总是站在无辜者和受害者的一边。现在我站在尼克小姐这边，因为她是受害者。我也站在马吉小姐这边，因为她被无辜地打死了。”
“你把长矛指向弗雷德里卡•赖斯和查尔斯•维斯。”
“不，不，黑斯廷斯，我并不抱成见。我只是说，目前看来这两个人当中有一个可能搞了鬼。咦，你看。”
我们走到了屋前的草地上。一个看上去蠢得可以的长脸男人正在推一台割草机。他的双眼就像死鱼眼睛一样没有一点灵光。在他身旁有个十岁光景的男孩，相貌奇丑但相当聪明。
我忽然想起刚才我们好像没有听到割草机的响声，想来大概他干得太累休息了一下，后来听见我们的说话声连忙又干起来。
“早安。”波洛说。
“早安，先生。”
“我想你是园丁，屋里那位管家太太的丈夫吧？”
“他是我爸爸。”男孩说。
“很对，先生。”园丁说，“我想你是一位外国绅士，一位侦探吧？我们年轻的女主人可有什么消息？”
“我刚从她那里来。她夜里睡得很好。”
“刚才警察在这里，”男孩子说，“喏，就在台阶那儿，昨天那位小姐就是在这里被人杀掉的。我以前看过杀猪，对吧，爸爸？”
“哦，”他父亲毫无表情地说。
“爸爸在农场干活的时候常常杀猪的，是不是，爸爸？我看见过杀猪，那才好玩哩。”
“小孩子总是喜欢看杀猪的。”那位父亲说，好像在背诵一条颠扑不破的自然界的真理似的。
“那小姐是被手枪干掉的，”男孩子又说下去，“她没有像猪一样被割断喉管，没有。”
我们向屋子走去，谢天谢地，总算离开了那个残忍不祥的男孩。
波洛进了客厅就打铃唤人。埃伦穿着一身整洁的黑衣服应召而来。见到我们她并不奇怪。
波洛告诉她，我们已得到尼克的同意，要查看一下这幢房子。
“很好，先生。”
“警察已经来过了？”
“他们说他们已经查看完毕，先生。他们一早就在花园里忙乱。不知他们找到了什么没有。”
她正要走开，波洛又把她叫住了。
“昨晚当你听说巴克利小姐被枪杀时，是否非常吃惊？”
“是的，先生，我吓坏了。巴克利小姐是个好姑娘，先生。我想不通怎么她会被人杀害的。”
“如果被害的是另外一个人，你就不会这样惊恐，是吗？”
“你这是什么意思，先生？”
我说：“昨晚我进来打电话的时候你马上问是否有人出了事。你是不是在等待着这种事情的发生？”
她沉默了一会，手指摆弄着衣角。她摇摇头，轻声说道，“先生们，你们不会理解的。”
“不，不，”波洛说，“我会理解的。不管你说什么我都能理解。”
她疑惑地看了他一眼，最后还是相信了他。
“知道吧，先生，”她说，“这不是一幢好房子。”
我听了有点意外，就轻蔑地朝她瞟了一眼。波洛却好像觉得这种说法言之成理。
“你是说，这是一幢古老陈旧的房子吧？”
“是的，先生，这不是一幢好房子。”
“你在这里很久了吧？”
“六年了，先生，不过，当我还是个姑娘的时候，就在这里做过厨房里的女仆。”
波洛很注意地看着她。
“在一幢古屋里，”他说，“有时总有那么一种森冷的邪气。”
“就是，先生。”埃伦急切地说，“一种邪气，还有不良的念头和行为，房子里就好像有一种腐烂的东西被风干了似的，既找不到又无法清除；它是一种感觉，无处不在。我知道总有一天要出事的。”
“是啊，事实证明你是对的。”
“是的，先生。”
她的声音里有一种隐藏着的满足——她那阴沉沉的预言这次可真的成了事实。
“但你却没想到会应在马吉小姐身上。”
“这倒是真的，先生，没有人恨她——这点我是很有把握的。”
我觉得这些话里埋藏着一条线索，我希望波洛会顺藤摸瓜，但叫我大失所望的是他调转了话题。
“你没听到枪声？”
“那时正放焰火呀，吵得很。”
“你没出去看？”
“没有，我还没收拾好晚饭桌上那一摊子。”
“那个临时雇来的男仆在帮你的忙吗？”
“没有，先生，他到花园里看焰火去了。”
“但你却没去。”
“是的，先生。”
“为什么呢？”
“我得把活儿干完。”
“你对焰火不感兴趣？”
“不，先生，不是不感兴趣，但你瞧，焰火要放两晚，我和威廉今晚休息，我们要到城里去，并在那儿看焰火。”
“我明白了。你听到了马吉小姐在到处找她的大衣，可是找不到？”
“我听到尼克小姐跑上楼去，先生，还听到巴克利小姐在楼下堂屋里对尼克叫着说她找不到一样什么东西。我听见她说：‘好吧——我用你那块披肩……’”
“对不起，”波洛打断了她的话，“你没有帮她去找那件大衣，或者到汽车里去替她取？”
“我有我自己的事要干哪，先生。”
“不错，两位女士谁也没要你帮忙，因为她们以为你在外边看焰火。”
“是的，先生。”
“那么，以前几年里，你每年都在外边看焰火的啰？”
她双颊突然泛红。
“我不知道你这是什么意思，先生，并没有谁禁止我们到花园里去呀！今年我不想去看，情愿干完了活就去睡觉，这是我的自由啊，我想。”
“是啊，是啊，我并没有想要冒犯你，你当然可以随意行事的。换换口味，其乐无穷。”
他歇了口气，又说下去：
“还有一点事不知你能不能给我们一点帮助。这是一幢古屋，你是否知道，这所房子里有没有暗室？”
“唔，有一块滑动嵌板——就在这个房间里，我记得以前看到过——我还是个姑娘时，曾在这所屋子里做过女仆——只不过现在我记不得它在哪里了。也可能在书房里吧？我真的说不确切。”
“一个人可以藏在里面吗？”
“不，先生，藏不下的。那只是个壁龛，大约尺把见方而已。”
“啊，我指的根本不是这种东西。”
她脸又红了。
“如果你以为我躲在什么地方——没有！我听到尼克跑下楼，出了房子，又听见她呼喊，我到这里来看看是否出了什么事，就是这样，我可以凭圣经起誓，可以起誓的！”
Chapter 13  Letters 信
Chapter 13 - Letters
Having successfully got rid of Ellen, Poirot turned a somewhat thoughtful face towards me.
'I wonder now-did she hear those shots? I think she did. She heard them, she opened the kitchen door. She heard Nick rush down the stairs and out, and she herself came into the hall to find out what had happened. That is natural enough. But why did she not go out and watch the fireworks that evening? That is what I should like to know, Hastings.'
'What was your idea in asking about a secret hiding place?'
'A mere fanciful idea that, after all, we might not have disposed of J.'
'J?'
'Yes. The last person on my list. The problematical outsider. Supposing for some reason connected with Ellen, that J. had come to the house last night. He (I assume a he) conceals himself in a secret chamber in this room. A girl passes through whom he takes to be Nick. He follows her out-and shoots her. Non-c'est idiot! And anyway, we know that there is no hiding place. Ellen's decision to remain in the kitchen last night was a pure hazard. Come, let us search for the will of Mademoiselle Nick.'
There were no papers in the drawing-room. We adjourned to the library, a rather dark room looking out on the drive. Here there was a large old-fashioned walnut bureau-writing-table.
It took us some time to go through it. Everything was in complete confusion. Bills and receipts were mixed up together. Letters of invitation, letters pressing for payment of accounts, letters from friends.
'We will arrange these papers,' said Poirot, sternly, 'with order and method.'
He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly sorted, docketed and filed.
'C'est bien, ca. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.'
'No, indeed. Not that there's been much to find.' 'Except possibly this.'
He tossed across a letter. It was written in large sprawling handwriting, almost indecipherable.
'Darling,-Party was too, too marvellous. Feel rather a worm today. You were wise not to touch that stuff-don't ever start, darling. It's too damned hard to give up. I'm writing the boy friend to hurry up the supply. What Hell life is!
'Yours, 'Freddie.'
'Dated last February,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'She takes drugs, of course, I knew that as soon as I looked at her.'
'Really? I never suspected such a thing.'
'It is fairly obvious. You have only to look at her eyes. And then there are her extraordinary variations of mood. Sometimes she is all on edge, strung up-sometimes she is lifeless-inert.'
'Drug-taking affects the moral sense, does it not?'
'Inevitably. But I do not think Madame Rice is a real addict. She is at the beginning-not the end.'
'And Nick?'
'There are no signs of it. She may have attended a dope party now and then for fun, but she is no taker of drugs.'
'I'm glad of that.'
I remembered suddenly what Nick had said about Frederica: that she was not always herself. Poirot nodded and tapped the letter he held.
'This is what she was referring to, undoubtedly. Well, we have drawn the blank, as you say, here. Let us go up to Mademoiselle's room.'
There was a desk in Nick's room also, but comparatively little was kept in it. Here again, there was no sign of a will. We found the registration book of her car and a perfectly good dividend warrant of a month back. Otherwise there was nothing of importance.
Poirot sighed in an exasperated fashion.
'The young girls-they are not properly trained nowadays. The order, the method, it is left out of their bringing up. She is charming, Mademoiselle Nick, but she is a feather-head. Decidedly, she is a feather-head.'
He was now going through the contents of a chest of drawers.
'Surely, Poirot,' I said, with some embarrassment, 'those are underclothes.'
He paused in surprise.
'And why not, my friend?'
'Don't you think-I mean-we can hardly-'
He broke into a roar of laughter.
'Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The camisole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?'
'I don't see any need for what you are doing.'
'Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight-where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?'
He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.
'The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.'
Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.
'Poirot,' I cried, scandalized. 'You really can't do that. It isn't playing the game.'
'I am not playing a game, mon ami.' His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. 'I am hunting down a murderer.'
'Yes, but private letters-'
'May have nothing to tell me-on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.'
I did not like it. Still I realized that in Poirot's position he could not afford to be squeamish, and I consoled myself by the quibble that Nick's last word had been, 'Look at anything you like.'
The letters spread over several dates, beginning last winter. New Year's Day.
'Darling,-The New Year is in and I'm making good resolutions. It seems too wonderful to be true-that you should actually love me. You've made all the difference to my life. I believe we both knew-from the very first moment we met. Happy New Year, my lovely girl.
'Yours for ever, Michael.' February 8th.
'Dearest Love,-How I wish I could see you more often. This is pretty rotten, isn't it? I hate all this beastly concealment, but I explained to you how things are. I know how much you hate lies and concealment. I do too. But honestly, it might upset the whole apple cart. Uncle Matthew has got an absolute bee in his bonnet about early marriages and the way they wreck a man's career. As though you could wreck mine, you dear angel!
'Cheer up, darling. Everything will come right.
'Yours,
'Michael.'
March 2nd.
'I oughtn't to write to you two days running, I know. But I must. When I was up yesterday I thought of you. I flew over Scarborough. Blessed, blessed, blessed Scarborough-the most wonderful place in the world. Darling, you don't know how I love you!
'Yours, 'Michael.' April 18th.
'Dearest,-The whole thing is fixed up. Definitely. If I pull this off (and I shall pull it off) I shall be able to take a firm line with Uncle Matthew-and if he doesn't like it-well, what do I care? It's adorable of you to be so interested in my long technical descriptions of the Albatross. How I long to take you up in her. Some day! Don't, for goodness' sake, worry about me. The thing isn't half so risky as it sounds. I simply couldn't get killed now that I know you care for me. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. Trust your Michael.'
April 20th.
'You Angel,-Every word you say is true and I shall treasure that letter always. I'm not half good enough for you. You are so different from everybody else. I adore you.
'Your
'Michael.'
The last was undated.
'Dearest,-Well-I'm off tomorrow. Feeling tremendously keen and excited and absolutely certain of success. The old Albatrossis all tuned up. She won't let me down.
'Cheer up, sweetheart, and don't worry. There's a risk, of course, but all life's a risk really. By the way, somebody said I ought to make a will (tactful fellow-but he meant well), so I have-on a half sheet of notepaper-and sent it to old Whitfield. I'd no time to go round there. Somebody once told me that a man made a will of three words, "All to Mother", and it was legal all right. My will was rather like that-I remembered your name was really Magdala, which was clever of me! A couple of the fellows witnessed it.'
'Don't take all this solemn talk about wills to heart, will you? (I didn't mean that pun. An accident.) I shall be as right as rain. I'll send you telegrams from India and Australia and so on. And keep up heart. It's going to be all right. See?'
'Good night and God bless you,
'Michael.'
Poirot folded the letters together again.
'You see, Hastings? I had to read them-to make sure. It is as I told you.'
'Surely you could have found out some other way?'
'No, mon cher, that is just what I could not do. It had to be this way. We have now some very valuable evidence.'
'In what way?'
'We now know that the fact of Michael's having made a will in favour of Mademoiselle Nick is actually recorded in writing. Anyone who had read those letters would know the fact. And with letters carelessly hidden like that, anyone could read them.'
'Ellen?'
'Ellen, almost certainly, I should say. We will try a little experiment on her before passing out.'
'There is no sign of the will.'
'No, that is curious. But in all probability it is thrown on top of a bookcase, or inside a china jar. We must try to awaken Mademoiselle's memory on that point. At any rate, there is nothing more to be found here.'
Ellen was dusting the hall as we descended.
Poirot wished her good morning very pleasantly as we passed. He turned back from the front door to say: 'You knew, I suppose, that Miss Buckley was engaged to the airman, Michael Seton?'
She stared.
'What? The one there's all the fuss in the papers about?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I never. To think of that. Engaged to Miss Nick.'
'Complete and absolute surprise registered very convincingly,' I remarked, as we got outside.
'Yes. It really seemed genuine.'
'Perhaps it was,' I suggested.
'And that packet of letters reclining for months under the lingerie ? No, mon ami.'
'All very well,' I thought to myself. 'But we are not all Hercule Poirots. We do not all go nosing into what does not concern us.'
But I said nothing.
'This Ellen-she is an enigma,' said Poirot. 'I do not like it. There is something here that I do not understand.'

第十三章　信
成功地打发走埃伦之后，波洛若有所思地向我转过脸来。
“我在想，她听到枪声没有呢？我觉得她是听到的。她听到了枪声就打开了厨房门，她听见尼克从楼上下来走出户外，然后她自己也跑到堂前来看看发生了什么事，这是很自然的。但昨晚她为什么不出去看焰火呢？这是我很想知道的，黑斯廷斯。”
“你干吗要问她关于什么暗室的事？”
“这只是异想天开罢了。不过，我们并没有解决那第十个的问题呀。”
“第十个？”
“就是我那张人物表里的最后一个，那个很成问题的陌生人。假设那人跟埃伦有关系，而且昨晚到这儿来了。他（我且把他算作是个男的吧）藏身于这房间的一个暗室里，一个姑娘从他附近走过时，他错当她是尼克，就跟着她出去并向她开了枪。不——不会的。因为我们现在知道这儿无处可以藏身，埃伦昨晚留在厨房里也只是偶然罢了。来，我们去找尼克的遗嘱吧。”
客厅里什么文件也没有。我们推门走进书房，这是一间光线黯淡的房间，窗子对着花园里的汽车路，这个房间有一张式样古老的胡桃木写字台。
找遗嘱可真费时间。一切东西都杂乱无章：帐单和收据都混在一起；请帖、催款通知书和朋友的信件都不分彼此，亲密无间。
“我们来整理一下吧，”波洛毫不犹豫地说，“让它们各就各位。”
他马上动手，半小时后他很满意地坐直了身子。每样东西都被分了类，叠整齐了，并用文件夹夹好了。
“这就好啦，这么干至少有一个好处，每样东西都被仔细看过了，没有遗漏。”
“这是真的。但也没发现什么呀。”
“可能除了这个！”
他扔给我一封信，这封信里的字写得又大又潦草，几乎不可辨认。
我的宝贝：
那个晚会真是太美妙了。我今天懒得像条虫一样。你没去碰那玩意儿是明智的，以后也永远别起这个头，宝贝儿。要想戒掉它是极难的；我又要写信给那个男朋友去催我的命根子了。真是地狱里的生活啊！
你的弗雷迪
“是去年二月份写的，”波洛思索着，“很明显，她在吸毒，我一看见她就知道这一点了。”
“真的吗？我从来没想到会是这样。”
“这是显而易见的，只要看她的眼睛好了；还有她那变化多端的古怪的情绪，有时神经过敏，紧张得很；有时生气全无，迟钝之极。”
“吸毒会影响一个人的道德，是不是？”
“这是不可避免的。但我认为赖斯太太还未吸毒入瘾，她刚开始，陷得不深。”
“尼克呢？”
“她没有这种行为。她有时会参加一个这一类的晚会，但只是为了寻寻开心而已，她不是个吸毒者。”
“我很高兴。”
我突然记起尼克曾说过弗雷德里卡有时会控制不住自己，波洛点点头，用那封信敲着桌子，说：
“她所指的无疑就是这件事了。现在，正如你所说的，在这儿我们已经看不出更多的东西了，我们到楼上尼克的卧室里去吧。”
尼克的卧室里也有一张书桌，但里边空荡荡的，找不到遗嘱。我们找到她的汽车执照，还有一张尚未过期的上个月的红利股息券，另外就没有什么要紧的东西了。
波洛生气地叹息道：
“这些年轻小姐现在根本得不到应有的训练，在条理性方面简直毫无教养，也根本不懂得办事的方法。这位尼克小姐，她是有魅力的，但她的头脑里只有些棉花、稻草！她是只绣花枕头！”
这时，他开始倒腾起衣橱的抽屉了。
“波洛，可以肯定，”我不以为然地说，“这里面只是些内衣。”
他惊讶地停了下来，“那又怎样呢？”
“难道你不认为——我是说——我们不应当——”
他突然放声大笑起来。
“哦，黑斯廷斯，你是维多利亚时代的老古董。如果尼克在这里的话，她也会这样对你说的，极有可能她会说你的思想老得就像那只布满裂痕的洗脸缸！现在这个时代里，无论是大家闺秀还是小家碧玉，都不会为她们的内衣被人家看见而把精心保养的脸蛋涨成猪肝的颜色。那些胸衣、衬裤之类早已不是什么秘密了。在海滩上，每天你都能在你周围数英尺之内发现一大堆这一类的东西，那又怎么了呢？”
“我看不出你有什么必要去翻她的衣橱。”
“听我说，我的朋友。很清楚，她不会把她的珍宝锁起来——那位尼克小姐。如果她想藏起什么，她会藏到什么地方去呢？在那些袜子和裙子下面。啊哈！我们找到了什么？”
他举起一袋用红丝绳扎住的信。
“如果我没弄错的话，这是迈克尔•塞顿先生令人销魂的情书了！”
他若无其事地解开了绳子，开始把那些信一一展开。
“波洛，”我义愤填膺地叫了起来，“你真的不能那么做！这可不是闹着玩的。”
“我并不是在闹着玩，我的朋友，”他的声音突然变得粗暴严厉，“我在破案。”
“是的，但这些私信……”
“这些信可能不会提供什么。但反过来，它们也可能会提供一些线索的！我必须利用一切机会，我的朋友。来，你来跟我一起看吧。两双眼睛总比一双强些，你就这样开脱自己好了：认定那位忠实可靠的埃伦，对于这些信早已熟悉得可以倒背如流。”
我还是不明白，虽然我觉得处在波洛的地位上这样做是言之成理的，而且我还拿尼克的话来安慰自己，她说过：“你们想看什么就看什么吧。”
这些信相隔时间很长，第一封信是去年冬天写的。
亲爱的：
新年来到了，我在盘算着今年要做的事。一想起你真的爱我，我就沉浸在无限的柔情和幸福之中。你使我的生活完全改变了，这一点，我们相遇之时起就已心照不宣了。祝你新年快乐，我迷人的姑娘。
永远是你的迈克尔　　写于元旦
最亲爱的人儿：
我多希望能更经常地见到你呀，像现在这样真叫人难受。我不喜欢这样东躲西藏的，但我向你解释过我们的情形。我也知道你多么痛恨谎言和隐瞒，我也如此。但是小不忍则乱大谋，马修叔叔一想起早婚就怒火中烧，说这会毁灭男子的事业，好像你会使我的事业完蛋似的，我的天使呀！
高兴些吧，亲爱的，一切都会好的。
你的迈克尔　　于二月八日
我知道不该每两天给你写一封信，但我怎么办得到呢！昨天我起飞的时候又想起了你。我飞越了斯卡伯勒，欢乐和幸福的众神保佑的斯卡伯勒——世界上最叫人迷恋的地方。亲爱的，你不知道我爱你爱得心碎。
你的迈克尔　　三月二日
最亲爱的：
一切都准备好了。如果我能完成这次飞行（我一定能），我在马修叔叔面前就在说话的份儿了——如果他不愿意——又有什么关系呢？你对我写的那篇描述‘信天翁’号的冗长的技术文章如此感兴趣，可真叫我感激。我多想带你一起坐这架飞机飞行啊！但看在老天爷的分上，别为我担忧。这次飞行听起来很危险，实际上却没有什么。我不会死的，因为我知道你爱着我，一切都会好的，我的爱人。
你最忠实的迈克尔　　于四月八日
小天使：
你所说的每个字都是对的，我将永远珍藏这封信。我觉得我实在配不上你，你跟我所遇见过的每个人都不同，我崇拜你。
你的迈克尔　　　于四月二十日
最后一封信没有日期。
最亲爱的：
我明天启程了。我感到极度的振奋、激动，怀着必胜的信心，“信天翁”号的每个零件都调校过了，它不会辜负我的。开朗起来，爱人，别为我担忧，虽然冒险，但每个人在生活中都时常要冒险的。顺便告诉你一下，有人说我应当立个遗嘱（老练的人——出于一片好意），所以我就立了——立在半张笔记本的纸头上，寄给了惠特菲尔德老头；我没空在这上头动脑筋。有个人曾经告诉我，某人立的遗嘱只有四个字：“全给母亲。”这样的遗嘱在法律上也一样生效。我的遗嘱跟那份很像，我记得你的名字叫玛格黛勒——瞧我多聪明。那份遗嘱还有两个见证人。
别把这些关于遗嘱的一本正经的话放在心上（我也只是偶然提一下），我不会出事的。我将从印度和澳大利亚这些地方给你发电报。要有信心，一切都会顺利进行的，明白吗？
晚安，上帝保佑你！
迈克尔
波洛把信重新折好。
“瞧，黑斯廷斯，我得看这些信——证实一下，这我告诉过你的。”
“但你也可以通过其它途径来证实呀。”
“不，我的朋友，无法办到。只有采用现在这种方法。你瞧，我们有了很宝贵的证据了。”
“哪方面的？”
“我们现在知道了这么一个事实，即迈克尔书面立下了对尼克小姐很有利的遗嘱。随便什么人只要看了这些信，便都可以了解这一点。而这样不当心保存的信是谁都能看到的。”
“埃伦？”
“埃伦当然看过，我可以这样断言。我们出去的时候，不妨做个小实验来证实这一点。”
“遗嘱找不到。”
“唔，这很怪。但它也可能被扔到书架顶上或者塞进一个瓷花瓶里去了。我们必须想办法叫小姐回忆起来，不过无论如何，这儿再找不出什么了。”
我们下楼时，埃伦正在掸灰尘，我们从她身边经过时，波洛愉快地向她道了早安，他走到前门时，又回过头来说：
“我想你可能知道巴克利小姐同那个飞行员迈克尔•塞顿订了婚吧？”
她睁大了眼睛。
“什么？就是报上天天出现的那个飞行员吗？”
“是的。”
“啊，我没听说过，会有这样的事！跟尼克小姐订婚！”
当我们走出房子时，我对波洛说：
“她这可是真正地觉得十分意外，不像是装出来的呀。”
“是的，是像真的。”
“可能就是真的嘛。”我提出我的观点。
“那些信就真的一直放了好几个月没有动过？不，我的朋友。”
“很好，”我暗自思忖，“不过我不是赫尔克里•波洛，我也并不去干涉与已无关的事。”
但我什么也没说出口。
“这个埃伦——她是个谜，”波洛说，“我不喜欢这个谜！这儿有些东西我还弄不懂。”
Chapter 14 The Mystery of the Missing Will 遗嘱失踪之谜
Chapter 14 - The Mystery of the Missing Will
We went straight back to the nursing home. Nick looked rather surprised to see us.
'Yes, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, answering her look. 'I am like the Jack in the Case. I pop up again. To begin with I will tell you that I have put the order in your affairs. Everything is now neatly arranged.'
'Well, I expect it was about time,' said Nick, unable to help smiling. 'Are you very tidy, M. Poirot?'
'Ask my friend Hastings here.'
The girl turned an inquiring gaze on me.
I detailed some of Poirot's minor peculiarities-toast that had to be made from a square loaf-eggs matching in size-his objection to golf as a game 'shapeless and haphazard', whose only redeeming feature was the tee boxes! I ended by telling her the famous case which Poirot had solved by his habit of straightening ornaments on the mantelpiece.
Poirot sat by smiling.
'He makes the good tale of it, yes,' he said, when I had finished. 'But on the whole it is true. Figure to yourself, Mademoiselle, that I never cease trying to persuade Hastings to part his hair in the middle instead of on the side. See what an air, lop-sided and unsymmetrical, it gives him.'
'Then you must disapprove of me, M. Poirot,' said Nick. 'I wear a side parting. And you must approve of Freddie who parts her hair in the middle.'
'He was certainly admiring her the other evening,' I put in maliciously. 'Now I know the reason.'
'C'est assez,' said Poirot. 'I am here on serious business. Mademoiselle, this will of yours, I find it not.'
'Oh!' She wrinkled her brows. 'But does it matter so much? After all, I'm not dead. And wills aren't really important till you are dead, are they?'
'That is correct. All the same, I interest myself in this will of yours. I have various little ideas concerning it. Think Mademoiselle. Try to remember where you placed it-where you saw it last?'
'I don't suppose I put it anywhere particular,' said Nick. 'I never do put things in places. I probably shoved it into a drawer.'
'You did not put it in the secret panel by any chance?' 'The secret what?'
'Your maid, Ellen, says that there is a secret panel in the drawing-room or the library.'
'Nonsense,' said Nick. 'I've never heard of such a thing. Ellen said so?'
'Mais oui. It seems she was in service at End House as a young girl. The cook showed it to her.'
'It's the first I've ever heard of it. I suppose Grandfather must have known about it, but, if so, he didn't tell me. And I'm sure he would have told me. M. Poirot, are you sure Ellen isn't making it all up?'
'No, Mademoiselle, I am not at all sure! Il me semble that there is something-odd about this Ellen of yours.'
'Oh! I wouldn't call her odd. William's a half-wit, and the child is a nasty little brute, but Ellen's all right. The essence of respectability.'
'Did you give her leave to go out and see the fireworks last night, Mademoiselle?'
'Of course. They always do. They clear up afterwards.'
'Yet she did not go out.'
'Oh, yes, she did.'
'How do you know, Mademoiselle?'
'Well-well-I suppose I don't know. I told her to go and she thanked me-and so, of course, I assumed that she did go.'
'On the contrary-she remained in the house.'
'But-how very odd!'
'You think it odd?'
'Yes, I do. I'm sure she's never done such a thing before. Did she say why?'
'She did not tell me the real reason-of that I am sure.'
Nick looked at him questioningly.
'Is it-important?'
Poirot flung out his hands.
'That is just what I cannot say, Mademoiselle. C'est curieux. I leave it like that.'
'This panel business too,' said Nick, reflectively. 'I can't help thinking that's frightfully queer-and unconvincing. Did she show you where it was?'
'She said she couldn't remember.' 'I don't believe there is such a thing.' 'It certainly looks like it.' 'She must be going batty, poor thing.'
'She certainly recounts the histories! She said also that End House was not a good house to live in.'
Nick gave a little shiver.
'Perhaps she's right there,' she said slowly. 'Sometimes I've felt that way myself. There's a queer feeling in that house...'
Her eyes grew large and dark. They had a fated look. Poirot hastened to recall her to other topics.
'We have wandered from our subject, Mademoiselle. The will. The last will and testament of Magdala Buckley.'
'I put that,' said Nick, with some pride. 'I remember putting that, and I said pay all debts and testamentary expenses. I remembered that out of a book I'd read.'
'You did not use a will form, then?'
'No, there wasn't time for that. I was just going off to the nursing home, and besides Mr Croft said will forms were very dangerous. It was better to make a simple will and not try to be too legal.'
'M. Croft? He was there?'
'Yes. It was he who asked me if I'd made one. I'd never have thought of it myself. He said if you died in-in-'
'Intestate,' I said.
'Yes, that's it. He said if you died intestate, the Crown pinched a lot and that would be a pity.'
'Very helpful, the excellent M. Croft!'
'Oh, he was,' said Nick warmly. 'He got Ellen in and her husband to witness it. Oh! of course! What an idiot I've been!'
We looked at her inquiringly.
'I've been a perfect idiot. Letting you hunt round End House. Charles has got it, of course! My cousin, Charles Vyse.'
'Ah! so that is the explanation.'
'Mr Croft said a lawyer was the proper person to have charge of it.'
Tres correct, ce bon M. Croft.'
'Men are useful sometimes,' said Nick. 'A lawyer or the Bank-that's what he said. And I said Charles would be best. So we stuck it in an envelope and sent it off to him straight away.'
She lay back on her pillows with a sigh.
'I'm sorry I've been so frightfully stupid. But it is all right now. Charles has got it, and if you really want to see it, of course he'll show it to you.'
'Not without an authorization from you,' said Poirot, smiling.
'How silly.'
'No, Mademoiselle. Merely prudent.'
'Well, I think it's silly.' She took a piece of paper from a little stack that lay beside her bed. 'What shall I say? Let the dog see the rabbit?'
'Comment?'
I laughed at his startled face.
He dictated a form of words, and Nick wrote obediently.
'Thank you, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, as he took it.
'I'm sorry to have given you such a lot of trouble. But I really had forgotten. You know how one forgets things almost at once?'
'With order and method in the mind one does not forget.'
'I'll have to have a course of some kind,' said Nick. 'You're giving me quite an inferiority complex.'
'That is impossible. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.' He looked round the room. 'Your flowers are lovely.'
'Aren't they? The carnations are from Freddie and the roses from George and the lilies from Jim Lazarus. And look here-'
She pulled the wrapping from a large basket of hothouse grapes by her side. Poirot's face changed. He stepped forward sharply. 'You have not eaten any of them?' 'No. Not yet.'
'Do not do so. You must eat nothing, Mademoiselle, that comes in from outside. Nothing. You comprehend?'
'Oh!'
She stared at him, the colour ebbing slowly from her face.
'I see. You think-you think it isn't over yet. You think they're still trying?' she whispered.
He took her hand.
'Do not think of it. You are safe here. But remember-nothing that comes in from outside.'
I was conscious of that white frightened face on the pillow as we left the room. Poirot looked at his watch.
'Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.'
On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse's office after the briefest of delays. The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.
'Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?'
Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.
'I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?' 'Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?'
'In this letter,' he tapped it with his finger-nail, 'she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.'
'Yes, Monsieur.'
'But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!'
'Comment?'
'As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.'
'She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.'
The lawyer shook his head.
'In that case all I can say is that I never received it.'
'Really, M. Vyse-'
'I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.'
There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.
'In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There must be some mistake.'
'Certainly there must be some mistake.'
He rose also.
'Good day, M. Vyse.'
'Good day, M. Poirot.'
'And that is that,' I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.
'Precisement.'
'Is he lying, do you think?'
'Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.'
'Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.'
'Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voila. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.'
'Well, what do we do now?'
'Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.'
'He didn't profit by it in any way,' I said, thoughtfully.
'No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody-the man who likes to arrange his neighbour's affairs.'
Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.
We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.
He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.
'Half a jiffy,' he said. 'Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She'd never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee-Milly. Two friends coming up.'
Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.
'That poor dear girl,' she said. 'In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn't wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot-perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn't bear thinking about-it doesn't indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.'
'It's made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,' said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. 'I don't like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.'
'You're not going to leave me again, I can tell you,' said Mrs Croft. 'Not after dark, anyway. And I'm thinking I'd like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn't think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.'
It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl's relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?
Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot's mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.
At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.
'Why, of course,' said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. 'I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis-that's what the doctor said-'
'And probably not appendicitis at all,' interrupted Mrs Croft. 'These doctors-they always like cutting you up if they can. It wasn't the kind you have to operate on anyhow. She'd had indigestion and one thing and another, and they'd X-rayed her and they said out it had better come. And there she was, poor little soul, just going off to one of those nasty Homes.'
'I just asked her,' said Mr Croft, 'if she'd made a will. More as a joke than anything else.'
'Yes?'
'And she wrote it out then and there. Talked about getting a will form at the post office-but I advised her not to. Lot of trouble they cause sometimes, so a man told me. Anyway, her cousin is a lawyer. He could draw her out a proper one afterwards if everything was all right-as, of course, I knew it would be. This was just a precautionary matter.'
'Who witnessed it?'
'Oh! Ellen, the maid, and her husband.'
'And afterwards? What was done with it?'
'Oh! we posted it to Vyse. The lawyer, you know.'
'You know that it was posted?'
'My dear M. Poirot, I posted it myself. Right in this box here by the gate.'
'So if M. Vyse says he never got it-'
Croft stared.
'Do you mean that it got lost in the post? Oh! but surely that's impossible.'
'Anyway, you are certain that you posted it.'
'Certain sure,' said Mr Croft, heartily. 'I'll take my oath on that any day.'
'Ah! well,' said Poirot. 'Fortunately it does not matter. Mademoiselle is not likely to die just yet awhile.'
'Et voila!' said Poirot, when we were out of earshot and walking down to the hotel. 'Who is lying? M. Croft? Or M. Charles Vyse? I must confess I see no reason why M. Croft should be lying. To suppress the will would be of no advantage to him-especially when he had been instrumental in getting it made. No, his statement seems clear enough and tallies exactly with what was told us by Mademoiselle Nick. But all the same-'
'Yes?'
'All the same, I am glad that M. Croft was doing the cooking when we arrived. He left an excellent impression of a greasy thumb and first finger on a corner of the newspaper that covered the kitchen table. I managed to tear it off unseen by him. We will send it to our good friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. There is just a chance that he might know something about it.'
'Yes?'
'You know, Hastings, I cannot help feeling that our genial M. Croft is a little too good to be genuine.'
'And now,' he added. 'Le dejeuner. I faint with hunger.'

第十四章　遗嘱失踪之谜
我们又回到休养所。
见到我们，尼克显得相当惊讶。
“是啊，小姐，”波洛这样回答她那询问的目光，“我就像‘盒子里的杰克’又在你面前跳出来啦。首先我要告诉你，我们给你把那些文件和信都整理好了，现在每样东西都有自己的位置了。”
“是该理一理了，”尼克忍不住笑了起来，“波洛先生，你大概对什么都是一丝不苟的吧？”
“我的朋友黑斯廷斯就在这儿，你问他好了。”
姑娘向我转过脸来，我就对她讲了些波洛无伤大雅的怪癖：烤面包非得切成长方形枕头面包不可；鸡蛋如果不是一个个同样大小，他吃着就很不受用；他认定打高尔夫球只是胡闹，输赢全凭运气，要不是那些球座儿还有点特色，早就应当淘汰了。我又给她讲了一个著名的案件，那案件的破获完全归功于波洛有摆弄壁炉架上的装饰品的习惯。
波洛含笑而听。我讲完后他说：
“他像是在讲故事，不过说的倒全是真话。其实还不止这些呢，小姐。他认为我还有一种叫他头疼的爱好，却不肯告诉你。那便是我一有机会就苦口婆心地劝黑斯廷斯别梳小分头，而应当把头发从天灵盖正中分开。小姐你看，这种把头发从旁边分开的式样多不对称，简直不三不四，怪七怪八！”
“这么说来你对我也一定看不顺眼啰，波洛先生？”尼克说，“我的头发也是从旁边分开的。不过我想你对弗雷迪想必十分称道，因为她的头发是从中间分开的。”
“哦，我现在才明白，昨天晚上他对赖斯太太大献殷勤原来是这个道理！”我报复地说。
“行了行了，”波洛说，“我到这儿来是为了一件严肃的事情，小姐，你那份遗嘱我找不到。”
“哦，”她皱起眉头，“这难道很严重？我还没死，再写一个不就得了？人还活着的时候，遗嘱好像并不怎么重要。”
“说得对，不过我还是对这份遗嘱感兴趣——我有我的想法。小姐，想一想吧，设法回忆起你把它放在什么地方了。你最后一次是在哪里看见它的？”
“我好像并没有把它放在一个特别的地方，”尼克说，“我从来没有这种习惯。可能我把它塞进哪个抽屉里了。”
“你有没有把它放进壁龛里？”
“什么里？”
“壁龛。你的埃伦说不知在客厅还是书房里有一个壁龛，也就是暗橱之类的东西吧。”
“胡说，”尼克道，“我从来没有听说过有这种东西在我家里。是埃伦说的吗？”
“对。她年轻时好像曾经在这所房子里当过女仆。当时有人把这个壁龛指给她看过。”
“我倒才第一次听说。我祖父总知道这个暗橱，可他并没有对我提起过。而我相信如果真有这么个东西的话，他是会告诉我的。波洛先生，你能肯定埃伦不是在无中生有信口开河？”
“不，小姐，我肯定不了。我觉得你那位埃伦在某些方面有点古怪。”
“哦？我倒并不觉得这点。威廉是个白痴，他们的儿子阴险残忍，不过埃伦很好，是个可敬的人。”
“昨天晚上你并不反对她出去看焰火，小姐？”
“当然不反对。他们总是先出去看了焰火以后才回来收拾餐具的。”
“可是她昨晚没出去看。”
“哦，她出去的。”
“你怎么知道的，小姐？”
“啊——啊，其实我并不知道。我叫她出去看焰火，她向我道了谢，所以我想她出去了。”
“正相反，她待在屋里。”
“可是——多怪！”
“你觉得怪？”
“是的，我可以肯定她以前不是这样的。她有没有说她为什么不出去？”
“我想她并没有说出真正的原因。”
尼克疑问地看看他：“这很重要吗？”
波洛摊开双手。
“这是个我无法回答的问题，小姐。很有意思，不过暂且不去管它吧。”
“那个什么壁龛，”尼克一边说一边还在想，“真叫我纳闷——叫人无法相信。她指给你看了没有？”
“她说想不起它的位置了。”
“我决不相信有那么个东西！”
“但听她的口气，好像是有的。”
“她开始相信自己的幻觉了，可怜的人。”
“不，她讲得相当详细。她还说悬崖山庄是一幢不吉祥的房子。”
尼克打了一个寒噤。
“这倒可能被她说对了，”她慢吞吞地说，“有时我自己也这么想。在那幢房子里，人总有一种很不愉快的神秘感觉……”
她眼睛慢慢睁大了，黑色的瞳人里露出了呆滞的神情，仿佛认准了自己劫数已定，在劫难逃。波洛看了赶紧把话题拉了回来。
“我们离题太远了，小姐。还是谈遗嘱吧。玛格黛勒•巴克利小姐的有效遗嘱。”
“这句话我写在遗嘱里的，”尼克有点得意，“而且我说要付清我的葬礼费用和遗产转户税。这种说法是我从一本什么书里看来的。”
“你没有用正式的遗嘱纸？”
“没有。时间不够了。我当时正要离家住到休养所去准备动手术。况且克罗夫特先生说用正式的遗嘱纸写遗嘱很危险，不如写个简单的遗嘱，不那么正规却照样有效。”
“克罗夫特先生？他当时在场吗？”
“在。就是他问我有没有立过遗嘱。我自己从来没有想到过这个。他说如果我万一遇到了意外却没有……”
“没有事先立好遗嘱，”我说。
“对，那么我的一切都可能充公，这太可惜了。”
“他的提醒正是时候啊，这位不同寻常的克罗夫特先生！”
“是啊，”尼克热情地说，“等我写完，他把埃伦和她丈夫叫进来做见证人，他们虽然不知道遗嘱的内容，但在上头签了名，证明这份遗嘱是我写的。后来——啊，啊，你们看我现在多糊涂！”
我们困惑地望着她。
“我成了地道的糊涂虫，竟会叫你们到悬崖山庄去到处搜寻。遗嘱在查尔斯那里，是的，我的表哥查尔斯•维斯！”
“哦，这就对了。”
“克罗夫特先生说，律师是最理想的遗嘱保管人。”
“太对了，这位头脑健全的克罗夫特先生。”
“男人有时是挺管用的，”尼克说，“律师或者银行家。当时我觉得他说得很有道理，就把遗嘱装进信封封了起来，给查尔斯寄去了。”
她往后一仰靠在枕头上，轻轻叹了口气。
“我怎么会傻成这个样子，真是抱歉。不过总算想出来了，遗嘱的确在我表哥那里。如果你们想看，他当然会交给你们的。”
“不，除非你亲笔写张条子给他。”
“这是多此一举。”
“不，小姐，谨慎是一种美德。”
“我看不出有什么必要。”她从床头一个小书架上取了一张纸。“我该写什么呢？‘请让小狗看看肉骨头’？”
“什么？”
波洛脸上那副怪相叫我暗暗好笑。
后来波洛口授了几句话，尼克一一写在纸上。
“谢谢，小姐。”他说着从她手中取过了条子。
“无缘无故给你添了这么多麻烦可真叫我过意不去。但我真的忘了，一个人有时会在一瞬间把事情忘得干干净净。”
“不过要是你有个讲究秩序的头脑，就什么也不会忘记了。”
“我应该受这种责备，”尼克说，“是个教训。”
“很好。再见了，小姐。”他环顾了一下这个房间，“你的花儿开得很美呀。”
“是吗？康乃馨是弗雷迪送的，玫瑰花是乔治送的，百合花是吉姆•拉扎勒斯送的，再看这个——”
她把身边一个大篮子上的花纸揭开，露出一篮温室里种出来的葡萄。
波洛一见，脸色都变了。他急忙走上两步。
“你没吃过吧？”
“还没有。”
“千万别吃！你什么也不能尝，小姐。凡是外边送进来的食物，你闻都不能闻。我的意思你懂吗？”
“哦！”
她凝视着他，脸上的红晕渐渐消退了。
“我懂了。你认为，认为谋杀还没有完。你认为他们还在千方百计地干！”她细声细气地说。
波洛拿起她的手。
“别老是想这件事了。你在这里是安全的。不过记住，外面送来的东西千万不能吃！”
离开这个房间时我回头看了一眼，尼克无力地倚在枕头上，脸色又苍白又不安。
波洛看看表。
“啊，我们的时间刚刚好，还来得及在查尔斯•维斯离开办公室去吃午饭之前见到他。”
一到维斯的律师事务所，我们马上就被让进维斯的办公室。
这位年轻的律师站起来迎接我们，依旧像平时一样不动声色。
“早上好，波洛先生，我能为你效劳吗？”
波洛没说废话，直截了当地拿出了尼克写的纸条。他接过去看了一遍，然后抬起眼睛，用一种莫测高深的眼光望着我们。
“对不起，我真的不明白……”
“巴克利小姐写得太潦草吗？”
“在这封信里，”他用指甲弹着那张纸，“她要我把去年二月份她立的遗嘱——这份遗嘱保存在我这里——交给你。”
“不错，先生。”
“但是我亲爱的先生，并没有什么遗嘱交给我保存过！”
“怎么——”
“就我所知我的表妹没有立过遗嘱，我也根本没有替她起草过一份遗嘱！”
“她的遗嘱是她亲笔写的，写在一张笔记簿的纸头上，并且把它寄给你了。”
律师摇摇头。
“那么我所能奉告的就是我从来没有收到过这么一份遗嘱。”
“真的，维斯先生？”
“没有收到过，波洛先生。”
冷场了一分钟，然后波洛站了起来。
“那么，没有什么可说的了，维斯先生，一定出了岔子。”
“肯定的。”说着他也站了起来。
“再见，维斯先生。”
“再见，波洛先生。”
重新走到街上之后，我对波洛说：
“是这样！”
“正是。”
“他在撒谎吗——你想？”
“很难说。他有一张看不透的脸，那位维斯先生，而且还有一颗摸不透的心。有一件事可以肯定，即他是不会改口的。他根本没有收到过那份遗嘱——这就是他的立足点。”
“尼克寄出一份遗嘱总应当有一张收据吧？”
“那孩子才不会想到这种事哩。她把它寄出之后就立刻忘得一干二净了。就是这样。况且那天她要去割盲肠，哪里还有什么心思！”
“我们怎么办？”
“去看克罗夫特先生。让我们看看他能提供些什么情况，因为他在这件事情里是有份的。”
“不管从哪方面讲，他都无法从这件事情当中得到好处的。”我思索着说。
“对。确实看不出他有什么利可图。他仅仅是个喜欢无事空忙的人，专门喜欢去管左邻右舍的闲事。”
我觉得，克罗夫特正是这么一个人。正是这种无所不知无所不在的热心人，在我们这个早已是非无穷的世界里孜孜不倦地引起麻烦挑起事端。
来到他家时，我们看见他正卷起了袖子在享受烹调之乐。小屋里香气四溢，动人食欲。克罗夫特先生一见我们跨进门来就乐不可支地迎上前来跟我们握手，置油锅于火上而不顾。
“到楼上去吧，”他说，“谈起破案的事妈妈可感兴趣哩，如果我们在这里谈她会不乐意的，咕咿——米利，两位朋友上来啦！”
克罗夫特太太以一个残废者所能有的热情欢迎了我们。她急于了解一些有关尼克的消息。比起她丈夫来，我觉得我更喜欢她。
“可怜的好姑娘，”她说，“她还住在休养所里？她的乐天精神崩溃了，这一点不奇怪。那件血案实在太恐怖了，波洛先生，实在恐怖之极。一个这样纯洁的姑娘被打死了，简直无法相信，真的。世界上居然会有这样无法无天的事情发生在这样安全的地方——就在这古老国家的中心！夜里我失眠了，害怕得怎么也睡不着。”
“这个惨剧使得我神经过敏起来。我不敢出去，害怕把你一个人留在这儿，我的老太太。”她丈夫穿上外衣加入了谈话，“一想起昨天晚上把你一个人留在家里我就心跳得慌。”
“你不会再离开我一个人出去了吧？”他太太说，“至少天黑之后。我希望离开这个地方，越快越好。我再也不会对这块土地感到亲切了。我想，可怜的尼克•巴克利再也不敢睡到她那幢古老的房子里去了。”
我们插不进一个字，怎样才能把谈话引导到我们感兴趣的话题上去呢？克罗夫特夫妇谈锋极健，他们纺织的谈话之网滴水不漏。这两位什么都想打听：死者的家属来了没有？葬礼几时举行？是否还要验尸？警方有何高见？他们可有线索？传闻在普利茅斯有人被捕，此话有无根据？等等，等等。
一一回答了这些问题之后，他们便一定要留我们吃午饭，波洛虚晃一枪，说是今天中午我们有约在先，得回去同警察局长共进午餐，这才使他们退却了。
这时谈话十分侥幸地出现一个短暂的停顿。波洛捷足先登，终于提出了他的问题。
“哦，这件事，”克罗夫特先生拉拉百叶窗的绳子，心不在焉地对它皱起了眉头。“我当然记得的。那大概是我们刚到此地不久的事。盲肠炎——当时医生对尼克小姐说……”
“可能根本不是什么盲肠炎，”克罗夫特太太决不放过一个说话的机会，“这些医生，只要他们办得到，就总想给你来上一刀，而且这一刀总是切在根本没有毛病的地方。她大概只不过有点消化不良什么的，他们就煞有介事地给她大照一通X光，说是应当去开刀。她呀，那个可怜的丫头同意了，当时正要住到一家休养所去。”
“我只是随便问了她一声，”克罗夫特先生说，“问她有没有立过遗嘱。当时我不过是想说个笑话而已。”
“后来呢？”
“她马上就动笔写了。曾经说过要到邮局去买一张遗嘱纸，但我劝她不必那么小题大作。有人告诉我，立一份正式的遗嘱是十分费事的。反正她表哥是个律师，如果一切顺利的话，事后他可以替她起草一份正式的。当然我知道不会出什么事的，立个简单的遗嘱仅仅是预防万一罢了。”
“谁做见证人？”
“哦，埃伦，那个女佣人，还有她丈夫。”
“后来呢？你们把这份遗嘱怎么处理呢？”
“我们把它寄给了维斯，就是那个律师，你知道。”
“确实寄出去了吗？”
“我亲爱的波洛先生，是我亲自去寄的呀！我把它投进了花园大门旁的信箱里了。”
“因此，如果维斯先生声称他未曾收到过这份遗嘱……”
克罗夫特呆住了。
“你是说邮局把它弄丢了？哦，这是完全不可能的啊！”
“总之，你确信你把它寄出了？”
“太确信了，”克罗夫特先生认真地说，“可以起誓的。”
“好吧，”波洛说，“其实关系也不大，尼克小姐还健在呢。”
在我们告辞之后向旅馆走去时，波洛说：
“好啊，谁在撒谎？克罗夫特先生还是查尔斯•维斯先生呢？我得承认，我看不出克罗夫特先生有什么理由要撒谎。把遗嘱藏起来对他能有什么好处呢？况且立遗嘱还是由于他的建议。不，他没有嫌疑，而且他所说的同尼克讲的话对得起头来。但是——”
“但是什么？”
“但是我很高兴当我们去的时候他正在烧菜。他在覆盖着厨房桌子的那张报纸的一个角落上留下了拇指和食指的相当清晰的指纹。我趁他不留意的时候把它撕了下来。我要把这些指纹送到我们的好朋友——苏格兰场的贾普警督那儿请他查一查。真是个好机会啊，他可能会告诉我们一些情况的。”
“什么情况？”
“你知道吗，黑斯廷斯，我总感觉到这位和蔼可亲的克罗夫特先生天真得有点儿过分。”然后他改变了话题，“不过现在去吃中饭吧，我空空的肚子里好像有一种十分可疑的声音哩。”
Chapter 15  Strange Behaviour of Frederica 弗雷德里卡的反常
Chapter 15 - Strange Behaviour of Frederica
Poirot's inventions about the Chief Constable were proved not to have been so mendacious after all. Colonel Weston called upon us soon after lunch.
He was a tall man of military carriage with considerable good-looks. He had a suitable reverence for Poirot's achievements, with which he seemed to be well acquainted.
'Marvellous piece of luck for us having you down here, M. Poirot,' he said again and again.
His one fear was that he should be compelled to call in the assistance of Scotland Yard. He was anxious to solve the mystery and catch the criminal without their aid. Hence his delight at Poirot's presence in the neighbourhood.
Poirot, so far as I could judge, took him completely into his confidence.
'Deuced odd business,' said the Colonel. 'Never heard of anything like it. Well, the girl ought to be safe enough in a nursing home. Still, you can't keep her there for ever!'
'That, M. le Colonel, is just the difficulty. There is only one way of dealing with it.'
'And that is?'
'We must lay our hands on the person responsible.'
'If what you suspect is true, that isn't going to be so easy.'
'Ah! je le sais bien.'
'Evidence! Getting evidence is going to be the devil.'
He frowned abstractedly.
'Always difficult, these cases, where there's no routine work. If we could get hold of the pistol-'
'In all probability it is at the bottom of the sea. That is, if the murderer had any sense.'
'Ah!' said Colonel Weston. 'But often they haven't. You'd be surprised at the fool things people do. I'm not talking of murders-we don't have many murders down in these parts, I'm glad to say-but in ordinary police court cases. The sheer damn foolishness of these people would surprise you.'
'They are of a different mentality, though,'
'Yes-perhaps. If Vyse is the chap, well, we'll have our work cut out. He's a cautious man and a sound lawyer. He'll not give himself away. The woman-well, there would be more hope there. Ten to one she'll try again. Women have no patience.'
He rose.
'Inquest tomorrow morning. Coroner will work in with us and give away as little as possible. We want to keep things dark at present.'
He was turning towards the door when he suddenly came back.
'Upon my soul, I'd forgotten the very thing that will interest you most, and that I want your opinion about.'
Sitting down again, he drew from his pocket a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and handed it to Poirot.
'My police found this when they were searching the grounds. Nor far from where you were all watching the fireworks. It's the only suggestive thing they did find.'
Poirot smoothed it out. The writing was large and straggling.
'...must have money at once. If not you... what will happen. I'm warning you.'
Poirot frowned. He read and re-read it.
'This is interesting,' he said. 'I may keep it?'
'Certainly. There are no finger-prints on it. I'll be glad if you can make anything of it.'
Colonel Weston got to his feet again.
'I really must be off. Inquest tomorrow, as I said. By the way, you are not being called as witness-only Captain Hastings. Don't want the newspaper people to get wise to your being on the job.'
'I comprehend. What of the relations of the poor young lady?'
'The father and mother are coming from Yorkshire today. They'll arrive about half-past five. Poor souls. I'm heartily sorry for them. They are taking the body back with them the following day.'
He shook his head.
'Unpleasant business. I'm not enjoying this, M. Poirot.'
'Who could, M. le Colonel? It is, as you say, an unpleasant business.'
When he had gone, Poirot examined the scrap of paper once more.
'An important clue?' I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'How can one tell? There is a hint of blackmail about it! Someone of our party that night was being pressed for money in a very unpleasant way. Of course, it is possible that it was one of the strangers.'
He looked at the writing through a little magnifying glass.
'Does this writing look at all familiar to you, Hastings?'
'It reminds me a little of something-Ah! I have it-that note of Mrs Rice's.'
'Yes,' said Poirot, slowly. 'There are resemblances. Decidedly there are resemblances. It is curious. Yet I do not think that this is the writing of Madame Rice. Come in,' he said, as a knock came at the door.
It was Commander Challenger.
'Just looked in,' he explained. 'Wanted to know if you were any further forward.'
'Parbleu,' said Poirot. 'At this moment I am feeling that I am considerably further back. I seem to progressen reculant.'
'That's bad. But I don't really believe it, M. Poirot. I've been hearing all about you and what a wonderful chap you are. Never had a failure, they say.'
'That is not true,' said Poirot. 'I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect, Hastings? I recounted it to you. The affair of the box of chocolates.'
'I remember,' I said.
And I smiled, for at the time that Poirot told me that tale, he had instructed me to say 'chocolate box' to him if ever I should fancy he was growing conceited! He was then bitterly offended when I used the magical words only a minute and a quarter later.
'Oh, well,' said Challenger, 'that is such a long time ago it hardly counts. You are going to get to the bottom of this, aren't you?'
'That I swear. On the word of Hercule Poirot. I am the dog who stays on the scent and does not leave it.'
'Good. Got any ideas?'
'I have suspicions of two people.'
'I suppose I mustn't ask you who they are?'
'I should not tell you! You see, I might possibly be in error.'
'My alibi is satisfactory, I trust,' said Challenger, with a faint twinkle.
Poirot smiled indulgently at the bronzed face in front of him. 'You left Devonport at a few minutes past 8.30. You arrived here at five minutes past ten-twenty minutes after the crime had been committed. But the distance from Devonport is only just over thirty miles, and you have often done it in an hour since the road is good. So, you see, your alibi is not good at all!'
'Well, I'm-'
'You comprehend, I inquire into everything. Your alibi, as I say, is not good. But there are other things beside alibis. You would like, I think, to marry Mademoiselle Nick?'
The sailor's face flushed.
'I've always wanted to marry her,' he said huskily.
'Precisely. Eh bien -Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to another man. A reason, perhaps, for killing the other man. But that is unnecessary-he dies the death of a hero.'
'So it is true-that Nick was engaged to Michael Seton? There's a rumour to that effect all over the town this morning.'
'Yes-it is interesting how soon news spreads. You never suspected it before?'
'I knew Nick was engaged to someone-she told me so two days ago. But she didn't give me a clue as to whom it was.'
'It was Michael Seton. Entre nous, he has left her, I fancy, a very pretty fortune. Ah! assuredly, it is not a moment for killing Mademoiselle Nick-from your point of view. She weeps for her lover now, but the heart consoles itself. She is young. And I think, Monsieur, that she is very fond of you...'
Challenger was silent for a moment or two. 'If it should be...' he murmured. There was a tap on the door.
It was Frederica Rice.
'I've been looking for you,' she said to Challenger. 'They told me you were here. I wanted to know if you'd got my wrist-watch back yet.'
'Oh, yes, I called for it this morning.'
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a watch of rather an unusual shape-round, like a globe, set on a strap of plain black moire. I remembered that I had seen one much the same shape on Nick Buckley's wrist.
'I hope it will keep better time now.'
'It's rather a bore. Something is always going wrong with it.'
'It is for beauty, Madame, and not for utility,' said Poirot.
'Can't one have both?' She looked from one to the other of us. 'Am I interrupting a conference?'
'No, indeed, Madame. We were talking gossip-not the crime. We were saying how quickly news spreads-how that everyone now knows that Mademoiselle Nick was engaged to that brave airman who perished.'
'So Nick was engaged to Michael Seton!' exclaimed Frederica. 'It surprises you, Madame?'
'It does a little. I don't know why. Certainly I did think he was very taken with her last autumn. They went about a lot together. And then, after Christmas, they both seemed to cool off. As far as I know, they hardly met.'
'The secret, they kept it very well.'
'That was because of old Sir Matthew, I suppose. He was really a little off his head, I think.'
'You had no suspicion, Madame? And yet Mademoiselle was such an intimate friend.'
'Nick's a close little devil when she likes,' murmured Frederica. 'But I understand now why she's been so nervy lately. Oh! and I ought to have guessed from something she said only the other day.'
'Your little friend is very attractive, Madame.'
'Old Jim Lazarus used to think so at one time,' said Challenger, with his loud, rather tactless laugh.
'Oh! Jim-' She shrugged her shoulders, but I thought she was annoyed.
She turned to Poirot.
'Tell me, M. Poirot, did you-'
She stopped. Her tall figure swayed and her face turned whiter still. Her eyes were fixed on the centre of the table.
'You are not well, Madame.'
I pushed forward a chair, helped her to sink into it. She shook her head, murmured, 'I'm all right,' and leaned forward, her face between her hands. We watched her awkwardly.
She sat up in a minute.
'How absurd! George, darling, don't look so worried. Let's talk about murders. Something exciting. I want to know if M. Poirot is on the track.'
'It is early to say, Madame,' said Poirot, noncommittally.
'But you have ideas-yes?'
'Perhaps. But I need a great deal more evidence.'
'Oh!' She sounded uncertain.
Suddenly she rose.
'I've got a head. I think I'll go and lie down. Perhaps tomorrow they'll let me see Nick.'
She left the room abruptly. Challenger frowned.
'You never know what that woman's up to. Nick may have been fond of her, but I don't believe she was fond of Nick. But there, you can't tell with women. It's darling-darling-darling-all the time-and "damn you" would probably express it much better. Are you going out, M. Poirot?' For Poirot had risen and was carefully brushing a speck off his hat.
'Yes, I am going into the town.'
'I've got nothing to do. May I come with you.'
'Assuredly. It will be a pleasure.'
We left the room. Poirot, with an apology, went back.
'My stick,' he explained, as he rejoined us.
Challenger winced slightly. And indeed the stick, with its embossed gold band, was somewhat ornate.
Poirot's first visit was to a florist.
'I must send some flowers to Mademoiselle Nick,' he explained.
He proved difficult to suit.
In the end he chose an ornate gold basket to be filled with orange carnations. The whole to be tied up with a large blue bow.
The shopwoman gave him a card and he wrote on it with a flourish: 'With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.'
'I sent her some flowers this morning,' said Challenger. 'I might send her some fruit.'
'Inutile!' said Poirot.
'What?'
'I said it was useless. The eatable-it is not permitted.'
'Who says so?'
'I say so. I have made the rule. It has already been impressed on Mademoiselle Nick. She understands.'
'Good Lord!' said Challenger.
He looked thoroughly startled. He stared at Poirot curiously.
'So that's it, is it?' he said. 'You're still-afraid.'

第十五章　弗雷德里卡的反常
波洛为摆脱克罗夫特先生极其热情的纠缠而灵机一动凭空捏造出来的跟警察局长的约会，看来其真实性实在无可指责。一吃过午饭，韦斯顿上校就来拜访我们了。他是个好看的颇有军人风度的高个子，对于波洛过去的丰功伟绩表示出恰如其分的敬意。由此看来，他大概会得到波洛的合作和帮助的。
“你在这里可真是我们不可多得的幸运，波洛先生。”他不厌其烦地说。
他深怕不得不求助于苏格兰场，一心指望独力侦破此案捕获凶手。所以波洛的近在咫尺使他深感欣慰。
波洛，就如我现在可以断定的，完全信赖这位上校。
“真怪呀，”上校说，“从来没听说过这种案子。不错，在休养所里的那位姑娘该是很安全了，但你总不能使她永远住在那里边呀。”
“这正是困难的地方，上校先生，要解决这个难点只有一个办法。”
“就是——”
“我们必须找到作案的人。”
“那可不是件容易的事。”
“啊，这我知道。”
“线索！只有魔鬼才找得到的线索和证据！”他双眉紧锁，“这种事情老是那么困难重重，根本没有固定的方法可循，如果我们能拿到那枝手枪——”
“那枝手枪最大的可能是在海底——就是说如果凶手理智健全的话。”
“啊，”韦斯顿上校说，“这种人的理智往往是不健全的！人们干出来的蠢事往往叫你惊异不已呢。我并不是说在谋杀案里——我们这里不大有谋杀案出现，我高兴能这么说——我说的是在一般的刑事案件当中，人们无以复加的疏忽和愚笨会叫你叹为观止的。”
“他们另有一套想法吧。”
“是的——可能。如果维斯就是作案者，我们就很难进行了，他是个谨慎的人，也是个成熟的律师，短时间内不会暴露自己，如果是那个女的，那就比较好办，十有八九她还会再干一下子，女人是没有耐性的。”
他站起身来。
“明天上午验尸，验尸官明天会来跟我们一起干，他是不会声张的，目前我们要在暗中进行，不能弄得沸沸扬扬。”
他向房门转过身去，又突然走回来。
“老天，我把一件会使你大感兴趣的事给忘了，我要听听你关于这东西的见解。”
他又坐了下来，从口袋里掏出一张揉成一团的字条，把它递给波洛。
“我的警察在搜查花园时发现了这个字条，离你们昨晚看焰火的地方不远，这是他们所找到的惟一有点意思的东西，可惜不全。”
波洛把它摊平，那上头的字写得很大，歪歪斜斜的。
“……立刻就要钱，不然的话，你……就将发生，我警告你。”
波洛皱起眉头，把它看了一遍又一遍。
“很有意思，”他说，“可以放在我这里吗？”
“当然可以，那上头没有指纹，如果你能从中发现什么线索的话就太叫我高兴啦。”
韦斯顿上校又站了起来。
“我真的该走了。明天就要着手进行验尸了，还有，你不会被请去做见证人，但会请黑斯廷斯上尉。我们不想让新闻记者知道你也参与此事。”
“我明白。那位不幸姑娘的家属有什么消息吗？”
“她父亲和母亲今天就要从约克郡到这儿来，他们将在五点半左右到。真可怜哪，我实在同情他们，他们打算第二天就把遗体带回去。”
他摇摇头。
“不愉快的事情，我一点兴致都提不起，波洛先生。”
“谁提得起呢，上校先生？正如你所说的，这是一件不愉快的事。”
他走了以后，波洛把那张纸头又察看了一遍。
“有很重要的线索吗？”我问。
他耸耸肩。
“谁说得准呢？是封讹诈信！在昨晚我们的宴会上有人为了某种很不愉快的事而急需一笔钱，当然，可能是个陌生人。”
他用放大镜看了看那些字。
“黑斯廷斯，你觉得这种书法熟悉吗？”
“它叫我想起——啊！有了——它叫我想起赖斯太太的信！”
“是的，”波洛慢吞吞地说，“是像的，确实很像。怪啊，不过我想这不是赖斯太太的字迹。”这时有人正在敲门，他说，“进来。”
来人是查林杰中校。
“没有什么事，只不过来看看，”他解释说，“我想知道你们有没有什么进展。”
“说真的，”波洛说，“现在我觉得我不但没有进展，反而倒退了，好像在向后前进。”
“糟糕。但我并不真的相信，波洛先生。我听说过你的一切事迹，并且知道你是个多么与众不同的人物，他们说你从来没有失败过。”
“那可不是真的，”波洛说，“一八九三年在比利时我曾告失败。记得吗，黑斯廷斯——我对你讲过的，那盒巧克力的案子。”
“记得的，”我说着微笑起来，因为当时波洛对我讲了那个故事之后指示我说，如果以后我发现他得意忘形了，就对他说“巧克力盒子！”而就在他给了我这个指示以后只过了一分钟零十五秒，我发现他又开始吹嘘起来，就对他说：“巧克力盒子！”谁知道他竟恼羞成怒了。
“哦，”查林杰说，“那是老早以前的事了，不算。你会把这个案子搞个水落石出的，是吗？”
“这我可以发誓，赫尔克里•波洛说话算数。”
“好！有什么想法没有？”
“我怀疑两个人。”
“我想我不应该打听他们是谁吧？”
“我也不会告诉你的，我可能转错了念头。”
“我想，我当时不在现场，总不在嫌疑之列吧？”查林杰眨眨眼说。
波洛对他面前这张古铜色脸宽容地笑了笑：“你八点三十几分离开德文波特，到达这里是十点零五分——案发后二十分钟，但从这儿到德文波特只有三十英里，由于路面平滑，这段距离你通常只用一个小时就够了，因此，你看，你不在场的证明其实是很有漏洞的。”
“啊，我——”
“你得明白，我要查明每件事，你当时不在场，如我刚才说的，是得不到证明的，但除了不在场之外还有其它一些情况却对你有利。我认为，你一定很想跟尼克小姐结婚吧！”
查林杰脸红了。
“我一直想跟她结婚。”他声音嘶哑地说。
“很对，然而——尼克小姐已跟另一个人订了婚，这可能成为杀掉另一个男人的理由，但其实没有必要——他已经像一个英雄似的死去了。”
“这么说来这是真的了——尼克跟迈克尔•塞顿订了婚了？这个消息今天早晨已经传遍全城。”
“是呀，消息会传得这么快可真是件有趣的事。以前你从来没有猜疑过这件事？”
“我知道尼克跟别人订了婚——她两天前告诉我的。但她没有透露那个人是谁。”
“是迈克尔•塞顿，而且我想他给她留下了一大笔钱财哩。啊！肯定地说，从你的立场上讲，现在杀掉尼克可完全不是时候，目前她在为爱人痛哭流涕，不过，她的心会逐渐平静下来的。她正当妙龄，我想，先生，她对你一向青睐有加……”
查林杰沉默了一两分钟。
“如果是……”他喃喃地说。
这时有人敲门。进来的是弗雷德里卡•赖斯。
“我一直在找你，”她对查林杰说，“他们告诉我你在这儿，我想知道你有没有把我那只表取回来。”
“哦，取回来了，我今天上午去取的。”
他从口袋里拿出表来交给她。这是一只式样不寻常的表——圆圆的像个球，配上了一对黑色的皱纹表带，我记得在尼克•巴克利的手腕上也看见过同样一只表。
“我希望现在它能走得比较准些了。”
“这可真是个讨厌的东西，老是出毛病。”
“这东西只是为了好看，太太，而不是为了派用场。”波洛说。
“难道不能两全其美？”她把我们一个个打量过来，“我是否打断了你们的谈话？”
“没有，太太，真的，我们只不过随便谈谈罢了，并不在谈那桩凶杀案。我们在谈消息传播得多快，现在怎么每个人都知道了尼克小姐已经跟死去的飞行勇士订了婚？”
“这么说来尼克确实是跟迈克尔•塞顿订了婚的！”弗雷德里卡惊叹了一声。
“这使你惊奇吗，太太？”
“有点儿，但我不知道为什么。我知道去年秋天他对尼克很感兴趣，他们老在一起，后来，圣诞节之后，他们的关系好像冷淡下来了。就我所知，他们几乎不见面了。”
“这是个秘密，他们一直守口如瓶。”
“我猜这是因为那个老马修爵士的缘故，我觉得他有点老糊涂了。”
“你一直没有猜疑过尼克小姐和塞顿先生的关系，太太？你跟小姐是推心置腹的朋友呀。”
“只要有必要，尼克是守口如瓶的，”弗雷德里卡喃喃地说，“但现在我明白了近来她为什么老是那么神经质，啊，其实从她昨天说的话里我就应当猜到的呀！”
“你那位年轻朋友很迷人呐，太太。”
“吉姆•拉扎勒斯那好小子也有过同感。”查林杰说着很不策略地大笑起来。
“哦！吉姆——”她耸耸肩，但我想她心中老大不高兴。
她转向波洛：
“告诉我，波洛先生，你有没有——”
她停住了，修长的身子摇晃起来，脸色逐渐变得更加苍白，像要昏过去似的。她的双眼牢牢盯在桌子上。
“你不大对劲呀，太太。”
我推过去一张椅子，扶她坐了下来，她缓过气来摇摇头，含糊地说：“我没什么。”身子凑向前去，把脸搁在双手中间，我们很不自在地看着她。
一分钟后她站了起来。
“多荒唐呀！乔治，亲爱的，别那么担心，我们来谈谈那件谋杀案吧。那是个有刺激性的话题，我想知道波洛先生是否已经找到了路子。”
“现在来说还为时过早，太太。”波洛不着边际地说。
“但你总形成了某种看法——对吧？”
“可能。但我需要大量的证据。”
“啊，”她的声音听起来含糊不清。
突然她站了起来。
“我头疼，得去躺一躺，也许明天他们会让我去见尼克的。”
她走出去了，查林杰蹙起了眉头。
“你永远也猜不透一个女人的心思。尼克可能很喜欢她，但我却不相信她喜欢尼克。不过，女人的事情是说不准的，一天到晚是‘亲爱的’、‘心肝’、‘宝贝儿’，心底里的称呼却更可能是‘该死的’、‘鬼东西’、‘狐狸精’。你要出去吗，波洛先生？”这时波洛已经站了起来，正在小心翼翼地掸去帽子上的一星灰尘。
“是的，我要进城去。”
“我没事干，可以和你同去吗？”
“当然可以。很高兴。”
我们离开了房间，波洛道歉了一声又转回去。
“我的拐杖。”出来以后他说。
查林杰难以察觉地往后退了一步。那根拐杖镶着镂花金箍，的确是件华美的装饰品。
波洛首先到花店去。
“我得送些花给尼克小姐。”他解释说。
他挑来挑去，最后选中一只华丽的金色花篮，里面装着橙红色的康乃馨。花篮和花儿被一条蓝色的带子扎在一起，头上还打了个巨大的蝴蝶结。
女店主给了他一张卡片，他在上面用花体字写道：“赫尔克里•波洛鞠躬致意。”
“今天早上我送了一些花给她，”查林杰说，“我想再送一点水果给她。”
“毫无意思！”波洛说。
“什么？”
“我说毫无意思。可吃的东西是不让送进去的。”
“谁说的？”
“我说的。我定下了这条规矩，并且已经把它深深地印在尼克小姐心里了，她理解我的用意。”
“老天！”查林杰说。
他呆呆地盯住波洛。
“原来是这样！”他说，“你还在——害怕！”
Chapter 16 Interview with Mr Whitfield 访惠特菲尔德先生
Chapter 16 - Interview with Mr Whitfield
The inquest was a dry proceeding-mere bare bones. There was evidence of identification, then I gave evidence of the finding of the body. Medical evidence followed.
The inquest was adjourned for a week.
The St Loo murder had jumped into prominence in the daily press. It had, in fact, succeeded 'Seton Still Missing. Unknown Fate of Missing Airman.'
Now that Seton was dead and due tribute had been paid to his memory, a new sensation was due. The St Loo Mystery was a godsend to papers at their wits' end for news in the month of August.
After the inquest, having successfully dodged reporters, I met Poirot, and we had an interview with the Rev. Giles Buckley and his wife.
Maggie's father and mother were a charming pair, completely unworldly and unsophisticated.
Mrs Buckley was a woman of character, tall and fair and showing very plainly her northern ancestry. Her husband was a small man, grey-haired, with a diffident appealing manner.
Poor souls, they were completely dazed by the misfortune that had overtaken them and robbed them of a well-beloved daughter. 'Our Maggie', as they called her.
'I can scarcely realize it even now,' said Mr Buckley. 'Such a dear child, M. Poirot. So quiet and unselfish-always thinking of others. Who could wish to harm her?'
'I could hardly understand the telegram,' said Mrs Buckley. 'Why it was only the morning before that we had seen her off.'
'In the midst of life we are in death,' murmured her husband.
'Colonel Weston has been very kind,' said Mrs Buckley. 'He assures us that everything is being done to find the man who did this thing. He must be a madman. No other explanation is possible.'
'Madame, I cannot tell you how I sympathize with you in your loss-and how I admire your bravery!'
'Breaking down would not bring Maggie back to us,' said Mrs Buckley, sadly.
'My wife is wonderful,' said the clergyman. 'Her faith and courage are greater than mine. It is all so-so bewildering, M. Poirot.'
'I know-I know, Monsieur.'
'You are a great detective, M. Poirot?' said Mrs Buckley.
'It has been said, Madame.'
'Oh! I know. Even in our remote country village we have heard of you. You are going to find out the truth, M. Poirot?'
'I shall not rest until I do, Madame.'
'It will be revealed to you, M. Poirot,' quavered the clergyman. 'Evil cannot go unpunished.'
'Evil never goes unpunished, Monsieur. But the punishment is sometimes secret.'
'What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?' Poirot only shook his head.
'Poor little Nick,' said Mrs Buckley. 'I am really sorriest of all for her. I had a most pathetic letter. She says she feels she asked Maggie down here to her death.'
'That is morbid,' said Mr Buckley.
'Yes, but I know how she feels. I wish they would let me see her. It seems so extraordinary not to let her own family visit her.'
'Doctors and nurses are very strict,' said Poirot, evasively. 'They make the rules-so-and nothing will change them. And doubtless they fear for her the emotion-the natural emotion-she would experience on seeing you.'
'Perhaps,' said Mrs Buckley, doubtfully. 'But I don't hold with nursing homes. Nick would do much better if they let her come back with me-right away from this place.'
'It is possible-but I fear they will not agree. It is long since you have seen Mademoiselle Buckley?'
'I haven't seen her since last autumn. She was at Scarborough. Maggie went over and spent the day with her and then she came back and spent a night with us. She's a pretty creature-though I can't say I like her friends. And the life she leads-well, it's hardly her fault, poor child. She's had no upbringing of any kind.'
'It is a strange house-End House,' said Poirot thoughtfully.
'I don't like it,' said Mrs Buckley. 'I never have. There's something all wrong about that house. I disliked old Sir Nicholas intensely. He made me shiver.'
'Not a good man, I'm afraid,' said her husband. 'But he had a curious charm.'
'I never felt it,' said Mrs Buckley. 'There's an evil feeling about that house. I wish we'd never let our Maggie go there.'
'Ah! wishing,' said Mr Buckley, and shook his head.
'Well,' said Poirot. 'I must not intrude upon you any longer. I only wished to proffer to you my deep sympathy.'
'You have been very kind, M. Poirot. And we are indeed grateful for all you are doing.'
'You return to Yorkshire-when?'
'Tomorrow. A sad journey. Goodbye, M. Poirot, and thank you again.' 'Very simple delightful people,' I said, after we had left. Poirot nodded.
'It makes the heart ache, does it not, mon ami? A tragedy so useless-so purposeless. Cette jeune fille -Ah! but I reproach myself bitterly. I, Hercule Poirot, was on the spot and I did not prevent the crime!'
'Nobody could have prevented it.'
'You speak without reflection, Hastings. No ordinary person could have prevented it-but of what good is it to be Hercule Poirot with grey cells of a finer quality than other people's, if you do not manage to do what ordinary people cannot?'
'Well, of course,' I said. 'If you are going to put it like that-' 'Yes, indeed. I am abased, downhearted-completely abased.'
I reflected that Poirot's abasement was strangely like other people's conceit, but I prudently forbore from making any remark.
'And now,' he said, 'en avant. To London.' 'London?'
'Mais oui. We shall catch the two o'clock train very comfortably. All is peaceful here. Mademoiselle is safe in the nursing home. No one can harm her. The watch-dogs, therefore, can take leave of absence. There are one or two little pieces of information that I require.'
Our first proceeding on arriving in London was to call upon the late Captain Seton's solicitors, Messrs Whitfield, Pargiter & Whitfield.
Poirot had arranged for an appointment beforehand, and although it was past six o'clock, we were soon closeted with Mr Whitfield, the head of the firm.
He was a very urbane and impressive person. He had in front of him a letter from the Chief Constable and another from some high official at Scotland Yard.
'This is all very irregular and unusual, M.-ah-Poirot,' he said, as he polished his eyeglasses.
'Quite so, M. Whitfield. But then murder is also irregular-and, I am glad to say, sufficiently unusual.'
'True. True. But rather far-fetched-to make a connection between this murder and my late client's bequest-eh?'
'I think not.'
'Ah! you think not. Well-under the circumstances-and I must admit that Sir Henry puts it very strongly in his letter-I shall be-er-happy to do anything that is in my power.'
'You acted as legal adviser to the late Captain Seton?'
'To all the Seton family, my dear sir. We have done so-our firm have done so, I mean-for the last hundred years.'
'Parfaitement. The late Sir Matthew Seton made a will?'
'We made it for him.'
'And he left his fortune-how?'
'There were several bequests-one to the Natural History Museum-but the bulk of his large-his, I may say, very large fortune -he left to Captain Michael Seton absolutely. He had no other near relations.'
'A very large fortune, you say?'
'The late Sir Matthew was the second richest man in England,' replied Mr Whitfield, composedly.
'He had somewhat peculiar views, had he not?' Mr Whitfield looked at him severely.
'A millionaire, M. Poirot, is allowed to be eccentric. It is almost expected of him.' Poirot received his correction meekly and asked another question. 'His death was unexpected, I understand?'
'Most unexpected. Sir Matthew enjoyed remarkably good health. He had an internal growth, however, which no one had suspected. It reached a vital tissue and an immediate operation was necessary. The operation was, as always on these occasions, completely successful. But Sir Matthew died.'
'And his fortune passed to Captain Seton.'
'That is so.'
'Captain Seton had, I understand, made a will before leaving England?'
'If you can call it a will-yes,' said Mr Whitfield, with strong distaste.
'It is legal?'
'It is perfectly legal. The intention of the testator is plain and it is properly witnessed. Oh, yes, it is legal.'
'But you do not approve of it?' 'My dear sir, what are we for?'
I had often wondered. Having once had occasion to make a perfectly simple will myself. I had been appalled at the length and verbiage that resulted from my solicitor's office.
'The truth of the matter was,' continued Mr Whitfield, 'that at the time Captain Seton had little or nothing to leave. He was dependent on the allowance he received from his uncle. He felt, I suppose, that anything would do.'
And had thought correctly, I whispered to myself. 'And the terms of this will?' asked Poirot.
'He leaves everything of which he dies possessed to his affianced wife, Miss Magdala Buckley absolutely. He names me as his executor.
'Then Miss Buckley inherits?'
'Certainly Miss Buckley inherits.'
'And if Miss Buckley had happened to die last Monday?'
'Captain Seton having predeceased her, the money would go to whomever she had named in her will as residuary legatee-or failing a will to her next of kin.'
'I may say,' added Mr Whitfield, with an air of enjoyment, 'that death duties would have been enormous. Enormous! Three deaths, remember, in rapid succession.' He shook his head. 'Enormous!'
'But there would have been something left?' murmured Poirot, meekly.
'My dear sir, as I told you, Sir Matthew was the second richest man in England.'
Poirot rose.
'Thank you, Mr Whitfield, very much for the information that you have given me.'
'Not at all. Not at all. I may say that I shall be in communication with Miss Buckley-indeed, I believe the letter has already gone. I shall be happy to be of any service I can to her.'
'She is a young lady,' said Poirot, 'who could do with some sound legal advice.' 'There will be fortune hunters, I am afraid,' said Mr Whitfield, shaking his head. 'It seems indicated,' agreed Poirot. 'Good day, Monsieur.'
'Goodbye, M. Poirot. Glad to have been of service to you. Your name is-ah!-familiar to me.'
He said this kindly-with an air of one making a valuable admission. 'It is all exactly as you thought, Poirot,' I said, when we were outside.
'Mon ami, it was bound to be. It could not be any other way. We will go now to the Cheshire Cheese where Japp meets us for an early dinner.'
We found Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard awaiting us at the chosen rendezvous. He greeted Poirot with every sign of warmth.
'Years since I've seen you, Monsieur Poirot. Thought you were growing vegetable marrows in the country.'
'I tried, Japp, I tried. But even when you grow vegetable marrows you cannot get away from murder.'
He sighed. I knew of what he was thinking-that strange affair at Fernley Park. How I regretted that I had been far away at that time.
'And Captain Hastings too,' said Japp. 'How are you, sir?' 'Very fit, thanks,' I said.
'And now there are more murders?' continued Japp, facetiously. 'As you say-more murders.'
'Well, you mustn't be depressed, old cock,' said Japp. 'Even if you can't see your way clear-well-you can't go about at your time of life and expect to have the success you used to do. We all of us get stale as the years go by. Got to give the young 'uns a chance, you know.'
'And yet the old dog is the one who knows the tricks,' murmured Poirot. 'He is cunning. He does not leave the scent.'
'Oh! well-we're talking about human beings, not dogs.'
'Is there so much difference?'
'Well, it depends how you look at things. But you're a caution, isn't he, Captain Hastings? Always was. Looks much the same-hair a bit thinner on top but the face fungus fuller than ever.'
'Eh?' said Poirot. 'What is that?'
'He's congratulating you on your moustaches,' I said, soothingly. 'They are luxuriant, yes,' said Poirot, complacently caressing them. Japp went off into a roar of laughter.
'Well,' he said, after a minute or two, 'I've done your bit of business. Those finger-prints you sent me-'
'Yes?' said Poirot, eagerly.
'Nothing doing. Whoever the gentleman may be-he hasn't passed throughour hands. On the other hand, I wired to Melbourne and nobody of that description or name is known there.'
'Ah!'
'So there may be something fishy after all. But he's not one of the lads.'
'As to the other business,' went on Japp.
'Yes?'
'Lazarus and Son have a good reputation. Quite straight and honourable in their dealings. Sharp, of course-but that's another matter. You've got to be sharp in business. But they're all right. They're in a bad way, though-financially, I mean.'
'Oh!-is that so?'
'Yes-the slump in pictures has hit them badly. And antique furniture too. All this modern continental stuff coming into fashion. They built new premises last year and-well-as I say, they're not far from Queer Street.'
'I am much obliged to you.'
'Not at all. That sort of thing isn't my line, as you know. But I made a point of finding out as you wanted to know. We can always get information.'
'My good Japp, what should I do without you?'
'Oh! that's all right. Always glad to oblige an old friend. I let you in on some pretty good cases in the old days, didn't I?'
This, I realized, was Japp's way of acknowledging indebtedness to Poirot, who had solved many a case which had baffled the inspector.
'They were the good days-yes.'
'I wouldn't mind having a chat with you now and again even in these days. Your methods may be old-fashioned but you've got your head screwed on the right way, M. Poirot.'
'What about my other question. The Dr MacAllister?'
'Oh, him! He's a woman's doctor. I don't mean a gynaecologist. I mean one of these nerve doctors-tell you to sleep in purple walls and orange ceiling-talk to you about your libido, whatever that is-tell you to let it rip. He's a bit of a quack, if you ask me-but he gets the women all right. They flock to him. Goes abroad a good deal-does some kind of medical work in Paris, I believe.'
'Why Dr MacAllister?' I asked, bewildered. I had never heard of the name. 'Where does he come in?'
'Dr MacAllister is the uncle of Commander Challenger,' explained Poirot. 'You remember he referred to an uncle who was a doctor?'
'How thorough you are,' I said. 'Did you think he had operated on Sir Matthew?'
'He's not a surgeon,' said Japp.
'Mon ami,' said Poirot, 'I like to inquire into everything. Hercule Poirot is a good dog. The good dog follows the scent, and if, regrettably, there is no scent to follow, he noses around-seeking always something that is not very nice. So also, does Hercule Poirot. And often-Oh! so often-does he find it!'
'It's not a nice profession, ours,' said Japp. 'Stilton, did you say? I don't mind if I do. No, it's not a nice profession. And yours is worse than mine-not official, you see, and therefore a lot more worming yourself into places in underhand ways.'
'I do not disguise myself, Japp. Never have I disguised myself.'
'You couldn't,' said Japp. 'You're unique. Once seen, never forgotten.'
Poirot looked at him rather doubtfully.
'Only my fun,' said Japp. 'Don't mind me. Glass of port? Well, if you say so.'
The evening became thoroughly harmonious. We were soon in the middle of reminiscences. This case, that case, and the other. I must say that I, too, enjoyed talking over the past. Those had been good days. How old and experienced I felt now!
Poor old Poirot. He was perplexed by this case-I could see that. His powers were not what they were. I had the feeling that he was going to fail-that the murderer of Maggie Buckley would never be brought to book.
'Courage, my friend,' said Poirot, slapping me on the shoulder. 'All is not lost. Do not pull the long face, I beg of you.'
'That's all right. I'm all right.'
'And so am I. And so is Japp.'
'We're all all right,' declared Japp, hilariously.
And on this pleasant note we parted.
The following morning we journeyed back to St Loo. On arrival at the hotel Poirot rang up the nursing home and asked to speak to Nick.
Suddenly I saw his face change-he almost dropped the instrument. 'Comment? What is that? Say it again, I beg.'
He waited for a minute or two listening. Then he said: 'Yes, yes, I will come at once.'
He turned a pale face to me.
'Why did I go away, Hastings? Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?'
'What has happened?'
'Mademoiselle Nick is dangerously ill. Cocaine poisoning. They have got at her after all. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?'

第十六章　访惠特菲尔德先生
验尸是件枯燥无味的事，先验明了死者确系玛格黛勒•巴克利，然后我对发现尸体的地点做了见证。接着进行了医学检查和化学处理，一星期后作出结论。
圣卢谋杀案成了报纸上的重大新闻。在这之前，引人注目的标题大都是这样的：
塞顿仍无下落　　英雄生死未卜
现在人们业已证实了这位飞行员之死，各种应有的悼念活动也都举行过了。报馆的编辑和记者开始忧心忡忡，担心出现八月份常见的那种新闻萧条。于是圣卢的这个谋杀案对于报界来说无疑成了天赐良机。
验尸结束后，我巧妙地躲开了那些记者，同波洛一起去看望贾尔斯•巴克利牧师和他的夫人。
马吉的双亲是高尚朴实的人，一点没有尘世的俗气。
巴克利太太看上去意志坚强。从她高高的身材和白皙的肤色上一眼就能看出她的祖先是北方人。她丈夫个子瘦小，头发花白，对人和蔼可亲。两位可怜的老人一生中没有做过一件亏心事，在这个突如其来的打击面前呆若木鸡。
“我，我真的不懂，”巴克利先生说，“多好的一个孩子，波洛先生！她是那么惹人疼爱，老是为别人着想，难道会得罪什么人吗？”
“那个电报我怎么也看不懂，”巴克利太太说，“就在我们送她走的第二天早上！”
“阳光多明媚啊，”她丈夫喃喃地说，“但可怜的女儿再也看不见了……”
“韦斯顿上校对我们很好，”巴克利太太说，“他告诉我们正在尽一切力量查出凶手。一定是个疯子干的，不然怎么解释呢？”
“太太，我对你的同情是无法表达的。在这样的不幸面前你能如此坚强，更叫我十分钦佩。”
“痛哭流涕并不能让马吉复活。”巴克利太太惨然地说。
“我的妻子是了不起的，”牧师说，“她的信心和勇气都比我强。这样的祸事叫人怎么受得了，波洛先生。”
“我理解你——完全能够理解，先生。”
“你是个出名的大侦探家吧，波洛先生？”巴克利太太问。
“他们是这么说的，太太。”
“我知道的。甚至在我们那种穷乡僻壤，你的大名也是家喻户晓的。你会把这件事搞清楚的，对吗，波洛先生？”
“否则我决不罢休，太太。”
“你一定会查出真相的，波洛先生，”牧师颤颤地说，“邪恶是逃避不了惩罚的。”
“天网恢恢，疏而不漏，先生。不过有时报应是悄悄下手的。”
“这是指的什么呢，先生？”
波洛只是摇摇头。
“可怜的小尼克，”巴克利太太说，“我该怎样安慰她才好。我收到她一封伤感的信，说她觉得是她断送了马吉，因为是她请马吉到这里来的。”
“这是一种病态的心理。”巴克利先生说。
“是啊，但她心中的滋味可以想象得出。我希望他们会让我去看看她。连家属都不让进去探望是不合情理的。”
“医生护士是从不通融的。”波洛推诿说，“他们订下了章程，什么也没法叫他们改变做法。而且他们不希望她的感情出现波动，因为见到你们，她很自然地会感情冲动起来的。”
“这也有点道理，”巴克利太太疑惑地说，“但我觉得让她住在休养所里也不是办法。要是他们让尼克跟我们一起回家——马上就离开这个地方——对尼克更有好处。”
“可能是的，但我怕他们不会同意。你们有很长时间没见过尼克小姐了吧？”
“从去年秋天起就没见过。那时她在斯卡伯勒，马吉到她那儿去待了一天，然后她来同我们一起住了一夜。她讨人喜欢，可是她那些朋友我不赞成，还有她的生活方式。不过这不是她的错，可怜的孩子。她从来就没有受过好好的教养。”
“她住在那幢古怪的房子里——悬崖山庄。”波洛好像在想什么。
“我不喜欢那房子，”巴克利太太说，“从来就没有喜欢过。总有什么不对劲的地方。我也很不喜欢老尼古拉，想起他就要发抖。”
“恐怕他不是个好人，”她丈夫说，“但他身上确实有一种说不出的魅力。”
“我倒不觉得他有什么魅力，”巴克利太太说，“这幢房子鬼气森森，我真不想让尼克再住在里头了。”
“啊，真的。”巴克利先生摇摇头说。
“好吧，”波洛说，“我不打扰你们了。我只是来向你们表达我真诚的同情。”
“你对我们真好，波洛先生。对于你在进行的工作我们将永远感谢的。”
“你们要回约克郡去——什么时候？”
“明天。多伤心的旅行啊！再见，波洛先生。再一次谢谢你。”
离开他们之后，我说：“真是善良的人。”
波洛点点头。
“真叫人心酸，不是吗，我的朋友？这样一个糊里糊涂的悲剧。这位年轻的姑娘——啊！我怎么责备自己都不过分。我，赫尔克里•波洛，当时明明在场却没能阻止这次凶杀！”
“谁也没法子阻止的。”
“别乱说了，黑斯廷斯。一般的人当然阻止不了——但如果赫尔克里•波洛也没法办到一般人办不到的事，那么他脑子里那些灰色细胞虽然比别人的质量好又有什么意义呢？”
“啊，”我说，“如果你硬要这么说的话——”
“当然要这么说，因为正是这么回事。我在走下坡路，惭愧呀惭愧，我完全不中用了。”
波洛的自谦与别人的自负有惊人的相似之处，所以听了他这一番自怨自艾的话之后，我慎重地缄口不言。
“现在，”他说，“动身。到伦敦去。”
“伦敦？”
“对。我们可以惬意地乘上两点钟那趟火车。这里平安无事，小姐在休养所里也不会有任何意外，谁也碰不了她。警犬们可以去逛荡一回啦。我还有一两个情况需要了解。”
到了伦敦之后，第一步，我们先去拜访已故塞顿上尉的律师，帕吉特和惠特菲尔德律师事务所的惠特菲尔德。
波洛同他有约在先，因此虽然六点已过，我们还是很快见到了事务所的负责人惠特菲尔德先生。
像一切高级律师一样，他是个温文尔雅的人。一眼之后就能叫人十年不忘。他面前放着两封信，一封来自警察局，另一封来自苏格兰场某高级长官。
“塞顿的婚约非同寻常，呃，波洛先生？”他边说边用一方绸绢揉拭他的眼镜。
“是啊，惠特菲尔德先生。但这个凶杀案也是非同寻常的——并且我有幸能这样说，非同寻常之至！”
“对，对。不过这次凶杀跟我已故主顾的遗产想必是泾渭无涉的吧。呃？”
“我不这么认为。”
“啊，你持异议！瞧，在这种情况下——我得承认亨利爵士在他的信里表示他对此案十分重视——我将，呃，十分乐意在我的能力范围之内为您效劳。”
“你是塞顿上尉的法律顾问？”
“是整个塞顿家族的法律顾问，我亲爱的先生。我们作为他们家的法律顾问——我指的是敝事务所——已有近百年之久了。”
“而现在完美告终。已故马修•塞顿爵士有个遗嘱？”
“荣幸得很，是我们替他起草的。”
“他怎样分配他的财产呢？”
“有几项遗嘱，如，有一笔款子赠给了自然历史博物馆。但他那庞大的财产——可以说是巨万家私——当中的绝大部分留给了迈克尔•塞顿上尉。老塞顿没有其他近亲了。”
“巨万家私，你刚才说？”
“故世的马修爵士是英国第二位大财主，”惠特菲尔德先生不动声色地说。
“听说他有些怪癖？”
惠特菲尔德先生严厉地看着他。
“波洛先生，一个百万富翁是可以别具情趣的，否则便不孚众望了。”
碰了这个钉子波洛毫无愠色。他接着又提出另外一个问题。
“他的死是出人意外的，我想？”
“十分意外，谁也没料到。马修爵士年事虽高，身体却一向结实，不料得了癌症。等到发现的时候已经扩展到致命的地步了。于是立即动手术。但像一般常有的情况一样，手术是出色的，病人却还是死了。”
“财产就传给了塞顿上尉。”
“正是如此。”
“我想，塞顿上尉起飞探险之前也曾立过一个遗嘱？”
“是啊——如果你把它称为遗嘱的话。”惠特菲尔德极其不以为然地说。
“合法吗？”
“完全合法。立遗嘱人的意图简单明了，而且有无可挑剔的见证。啊，是的，完全合法。”
“那么你不赞成他的遗嘱？”
“我亲爱的先生，我们有什么赞成不赞成的！”
对于遗嘱的格式我时常纳闷。我立过一份遗嘱。可是当我的律师事务所把照我意愿写成的遗嘱正文拿给我签字的时候，我着实被那文件的冗长累赘吓了一跳。
“事实是，”惠特菲尔德先生说，“塞顿上尉在当时并没有什么财产可以遗留，他一切都依靠叔叔。所以我想他当时根本就没把立遗嘱当回事儿。”
我觉得这个想法很有道理。
波洛问：“遗嘱的内容呢？”
“他把他死时已经和应当拥有的一切东西统统留给了他的未婚妻玛格黛勒•巴克利小姐，还指定我做遗嘱执行人。”
“这么说来，巴克利小姐是他的继承人了？”
“当然。”
“如果巴克利小姐星期一也死了呢？”
“只要她是在塞顿上尉之后死的，这笔财产就将属于她在自己的遗嘱中指定的那个继承人。要是她未立遗嘱，就属于她最近的亲属。”
说到这里，惠特菲尔德先生停了停。然后又补充说：
“在这种情形下，我要说一句，遗产继承税将会大得惊人，大得惊人！死亡接踵而来，财产三易其主，”他摇摇头，“这一连付出的三笔继承税可实在是一笔巨款哩！”
“总还会有所幸存的吧？”波洛嗫嚅着说。
“我亲爱的先生，我已经告诉你，马修爵士是英国第二位大财主。”
波洛站起身来。
“谢谢你，惠特菲尔德先生，非常感谢你提供了如此宝贵的情况。”
“高兴为你效劳。我可以告诉你，我将开始同巴克利小姐联系。真的，我相信我们的信业已发出。我随时准备在我力所能及的任何方面为她效劳。”
“她年幼无知，”波洛说，“正需要行家给予法律上的指点。”
“我怕要有一场财产上的逐鹿了。”惠特菲尔德摇摇头说。
“已经开场啦，”波洛叹了口气，“再见，先生。”
“再见，波洛先生。很高兴能对你有所帮助。你的大名——呃，是有声誉的。”
他说这话的口气就像一经他认可，波洛便将名垂青史，永垂不朽似的。
出了事务所，我说：
“跟你的设想完全相符，波洛。”
“我的朋友，要知道不可能再有别的解释了。现在我们到切希尔餐馆去，贾普就在那里等我们吃饭。”
苏格兰场的贾普警督果真在约定的地方等着我们。他见到波洛真是亲热得不行。
“多少年没见面啦，老波洛？我还当你退隐在乡下种些葫芦南瓜什么的呢。”
“我是想这么办，贾普，我是想这么办的。但即使是在种南瓜你也摆脱不了谋杀案。”
他叹了一口气。我知道他想起了费恩利公园的那件奇案。但遗憾的是那时我远在别处，未悉其详。
“还有，黑斯廷斯上尉，”贾普说，“你好吗，阁下？”
“很好，谢谢。”
“那么说来，现在谋杀正在行时？”贾普打趣道。
“你说得对，是多起来了——很行时。”
“你可不能怯阵呀，老公鸡，”贾普说，“哪怕一点头绪都没有——不过话说回来，在你这个年纪上可不能期望取得过去的那种成功啰。你我都不中用啦，该让年轻人来试试，你懂吗？”
“老马识途啊，”波洛喃喃地说，“它熟悉道路，不会迷路的。”
“哎，我们在说人，不是说马！”
“怎么，区别很大吗？”
“那要看你是怎么对待这个问题了。不过你向来小心谨慎，不是吗，黑斯廷斯？他看上去还是老样子——只不过脑门上的头发无伤大雅地少了几根，而脸上的老年斑却恰到好处地添了许多。”
“呃？”波洛说，“你说什么？”
“他在赞美你的胡须呢。”我连忙安慰他。
“哦，不错。我的胡须之美的确是有目共睹的。”说着，他极有风度地捻起他的胡子来了。
贾普忍不住放声大笑起来。后来他终于抑制住自己的幽默感，说：
“瞧，你托我办的事，我已经给你办好了。你寄来的那些指纹——”
“怎么样？”波洛迫不及待了。
“什么也没有发现。不管这位绅士是谁，反正我们这里没有他过去的作案指纹存档。我们打电报到墨尔本去查询，那里说根本不知道有这么个人。”
“啊！”
“反正总有不对头的地方，但有一点似乎是明显的，即他不是经常作案的惯犯。至于你问的另外那件事……”
“对？”
“拉扎勒斯父子公司信誉良好。他们的业务诚实可靠。当然他们做生意门槛很精，不过这是另一回事了，买卖人不精怎么行！他们没有什么问题，虽然现在处境很窘——我指的是资金方面。”
“哦，是吗？”
“是的。图画生意不景气对他们打击很大，还有那些老式家具的滞销对他们也有影响。欧洲大陆上的摩登玩意儿正走红。他们去年又开了一个新的店铺，离奎尔街不远。”
“你帮了我很大的忙啊，贾普。”
“哪里话。这种事虽然不是我的本行，但既然你要了解这些情况，我总得尽力而为。”
“我的好贾普，要是没有你可叫我怎么办？”
“哦，别这么说吧。我永远乐于助老朋友一臂之力。在过去那些日子里我还让你参加侦查过一些漂亮的案子。可还记得？”
我想，贾普用这样一种说法承认了他欠波洛一大笔人情债。波洛曾经帮助过这个一筹莫展的官方侦探侦破过许多复杂的案子。
“那些日子可真叫人留恋哪——”
“我现在还是很愿意不时地同你聊上几句。你办案的方法可能有点过时了，但你的思路始终对头，波洛先生。”
“我还有一个问题呢？关于麦卡利斯特医生的？”
“哦，他！他是个妇女们的医生，我指的不是妇科医生。他是专搞精神疗法的——奉劝你睡在橙紫二色的房间里，脑子里尽想着自己的肚脐眼，说什么这是长生不老之妙诀，然后劝你割舍七情六欲，说是返老还童之要谛，还有许多诸如此类的妙语镌言，句句可供你用作座右铭。要是你问我呀，我就告诉你他实在只是个江湖郎中，但妇女们把他奉若神明。他常出国行医，前不久听说还在巴黎大出了一阵风头呢。”
“怎么弄出个麦卡利斯特医生来了？”我困惑地问，这名字我从未听说过。“他跟这个案子有什么关系？”
“麦卡利斯特医生是查林杰中校的舅舅。”波洛说，“记得吗？他说起过他有个当医生的舅舅。”
“你什么都没放过，”我说，“你认为是他给马修爵士动的手术？”
“他不是个外科医生呀！”贾普说。
“我的朋友，”波洛说，“我对什么都喜欢放上个问号。赫尔克里•波洛是条好狗，而一条好狗对于它所找到的气味是紧跟不放的。要是没有什么气味可跟，它就四处嗅寻，并且它所寻找的气味总是闻了叫人恶心的。赫尔克里•波洛就是这样一条好狗，而且常常——嘿，十拿九稳——能找出他想找的东西！”
“我们干的可不是什么值得羡慕的工作，”贾普说，“老是到处寻找臭味然后跟着臭味跑，还提心吊胆深怕臭味断了线儿。啊，不是什么好职业。但你的比我的更不行。你不是官方侦探，很多场合下你只好偷偷摸钻进去干而不能公开进行。”
“谁说的？为什么要偷偷摸摸？我从来不改名换姓，也不乔装打扮，我在探案的时候谁不知道是波洛本人在侦查？我从来光明磊落，从来不屑隐姓埋名！”
“其实你也办不到，”贾普说，“你太与众不同了，只要看上一眼就会叫人终身难忘。”
波洛疑心重重地看着他。
“我只是开开玩笑而已，”贾普说，“别当真。喝杯葡萄酒怎么样？”
整个晚上过得很和谐。我们都沉浸在往事的回忆之中。这个案子那个案子谈个没完。我也很爱回忆往事，回忆那些一去不复返的光荣的日子。现在我觉得自己老了。
可怜的老波洛，我看得出他被这个案子难倒了。今不如昔，年岁不饶人哪。我有一种预感，觉得这回他要失败了。玛格黛勒•巴克利谋杀案不会被载入他的光荣史册。
“振作起来，我的朋友，”波洛拍拍我的肩膀，“胜负还没见分晓呢，别把脸拉得那么长，我求求你。”
“没有，我这不是好端端的吗？”
“我也是，贾普也是。”
“我们三个都好。”贾普高兴地说。
我们就这样愉快地分了手。
第二天早上我们动身回到了圣卢，一到旅馆波洛就打电话到休养所，要求跟尼克通话。
骤然间我见他脸色大变，差点把话筒落到地下。
“怎么？什么？你再说一遍……”
他听了一两分钟，然后说：
“好，好，我马上就来。”
他向我转过苍白的脸来。
“我干吗要离开这里去伦敦，黑斯廷斯？我的上帝，我为什么离开了？”
“发生了什么事？”
“尼克小姐很危险，可卡因中毒！天哪，那只魔爪还是抓住了她，我干吗要离开这里？我的上帝！”
Chapter 17  A Box of Chocolates 一盒巧克力
Chapter 17 - A Box of Chocolates
All the way to the nursing home Poirot murmured and muttered to himself. He was full of self-reproach.
'I should have known,' he groaned. 'I should have known! And yet, what could I do? I took every precaution. It is impossible-impossible. No one could get to her! Who has disobeyed my orders?'
At the nursing home we were shown into a little room downstairs, and after a few minutes Dr Graham came to us. He looked exhausted and white.
'She'll do,' he said. 'It's going to be all right. The trouble was knowing how much she'd taken of the damned stuff.'
'What was it?' 'Cocaine.' 'She will live?' 'Yes, yes, she'll live.'
'But how did it happen? How did they get at her? Who has been allowed in?' Poirot fairly danced with impotent excitement.
'Nobody has been allowed in.'
'Impossible.'
'It's true.'
'But then-'
'It was a box of chocolates.'
'Ah! Sacre. And I told her to eat nothing-nothing -that came from outside.'
'I don't know about that. It's hard work keeping a girl from a box of chocolates. She only ate one, thank goodness.'
'Was the cocaine in all the chocolates?'
'No. The girl ate one. There were two others in the top layer. The rest were all right.'
'How was it done?'
'Quite clumsily. Chocolate cut in half-the cocaine mixed with the filling and the chocolate stuck together again. Amateurishly. What you might call a homemade job.'
Poirot groaned.
'Ah! if I knew-if I knew. Can I see Mademoiselle?'
'If you come back in an hour I think you can see her,' said the doctor. 'Pull yourself together, man. She isn't going to die.'
For another hour we walked the streets of St Loo. I did my best to distract Poirot's mind-pointing out to him that all was well, that, after all, no mischief had been done.
But he only shook his head, and repeated at intervals: 'I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid...'
And the strange way he said it made me, too, feel afraid.
Once he caught me by the arm.
'Listen, my friend. I am all wrong. I have been all wrong from the beginning.'
'You mean it isn't the money-'
'No, no, I am right about that. Oh, yes. But those two-it is too simple-too easy, that. There is another twist still. Yes, there is something!'
And then in an outburst of indignation: 'Ah! cette petite! Did I not forbid her? Did I not say, "Do not touch anything from outside?" And she disobeys me-me, Hercule Poirot. Are not four escapes from death enough for her? Must she take a fifth chance? Ah, c'est in oui!'
At last we made our way back. After a brief wait we were conducted upstairs.
Nick was sitting up in bed. The pupils of her eyes were widely dilated. She looked feverish and her hands kept twitching violently.
'At it again,' she murmured.
Poirot experienced real emotion at the sight of her. He cleared his throat and took her hand in his.
'Ah! Mademoiselle-Mademoiselle.'
'I shouldn't care,' she said, defiantly, 'if they had got me this time. I'm sick of it all-sick of it!'
'Pauvre petite!'
'Something in me doesn't like to give them best!'
'That is the spirit-le sport-you must be the good sport, Mademoiselle.'
'Your old nursing home hasn't been so safe after all,' said Nick.
'If you had obeyed orders, Mademoiselle-'
She looked faintly astonished.
'But I have.'
'Did I not impress upon you that you were to eat nothing that came from outside?'
'No more I did.'
'But these chocolates-'
'Well, they were all right. You sent them.'
'What is that you say, Mademoiselle?'
'You sent them!'
'Me? Never. Never anything of the kind.'
'But you did. Your card was in the box.'
'What?'
Nick made a spasmodic gesture towards the table by the bed. The nurse came forward.
'You want the card that was in the box?' 'Yes, please, nurse.'
There was a moment's pause. The nurse returned to the room with it in her hand.
'Here it is.'
I gasped. So did Poirot. For on the card, in flourishing handwriting, were written the same words that I had seen Poirot inscribe on the card that accompanied the basket of flowers.
'With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.'
'Sacre tonnerre!'
'You see,' said Nick, accusingly.
'I did not write this!' cried Poirot.
'What?'
'And yet,' murmured Poirot, 'and yet it is my handwriting.'
'I know. It's exactly the same as the card that came with the orange carnations. I never doubted that the chocolates came from you.'
Poirot shook his head.
'How should you doubt? Oh! the devil! The clever, cruel devil! To think of that! Ah! but he has genius, this man, genius! "With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot." So simple. Yes, but one had to think of it. And I-I did not think. I omitted to foresee this move.'
Nick moved restlessly.
'Do not agitate yourself, Mademoiselle. You are blameless-blameless. It is I that am to blame, miserable imbecile that I am! I should have foreseen this move. Yes, I should have foreseen it.'
His chin dropped on his breast. He looked the picture of misery.
'I really think-' said the nurse.
She had been hovering nearby, a disapproving expression on her face.
'Eh? Yes, yes, I will go. Courage, Mademoiselle. This is the last mistake I will make. I am ashamed, desolated-I have been tricked, outwitted-as though I were a little schoolboy. But it shall not happen again. No. I promise you. Come, Hastings.'
Poirot's first proceeding was to interview the matron. She was, naturally, terribly upset over the whole business.
'It seems incredible to me, M. Poirot, absolutely incredible. That a thing like that should happen in my nursing home.'
Poirot was sympathetic and tactful. Having soothed her sufficiently, he began to inquire into the circumstance of the arrival of the fatal packet. Here, the matron declared, he would do best to interview the orderly who had been on duty at the time of its arrival.
The man in question, whose name was Hood, was a stupid but honest-looking young fellow of about twenty-two. He looked nervous and frightened. Poirot put him at his ease, however.
'No blame can be attached to you,' he said kindly. 'But I want you to tell me exactly when and how this parcel arrived.'
The orderly looked puzzled.
'It's difficult to say, sir,' he said, slowly. 'Lots of people come and inquire and leave things for the different patients.'
'The nurse says this came last night,' I said. 'About six o'clock.'
The lad's face brightened.
'I do remember, now, sir. A gentleman brought it.'
'A thin-faced gentleman-fair-haired?'
'He was fair-haired-but I don't know about thin-faced.'
'Would Charles Vyse bring it himself?' I murmured to Poirot.
I had forgotten that the lad would know a local name.
'It wasn't Mr Vyse,' he said. 'I know him. It was a bigger gentleman-handsome-looking-came in a big car.'
'Lazarus,' I exclaimed.
Poirot shot me a warning glance and I regretted my precipitance.
'He came in a large car and he left this parcel. It was addressed to Miss Buckley?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And what did you do with it?'
'I didn't touch it, sir. Nurse took it up.'
'Quite so, but you touched it when you took it from the gentleman, n'est ce pas?' 'Oh! that, yes, of course, sir. I took it from him and put it on the table.' 'Which table? Show me, if you please.'
The orderly led us into the hall. The front door was open. Close to it, in the hall, was a long marble-topped table on which lay letters and parcels.
'Everything that comes is put on here, sir. Then the nurses take things up to the patients.'
'Do you remember what time this parcel was left?'
'Must have been about five-thirty, or a little after. I know the post had just been, and that's usually at about half-past five. It was a pretty busy afternoon, a lot of people leaving flowers and coming to see patients.'
'Thank you. Now, I think, we will see the nurse who took up the parcel.'
This proved to be one of the probationers, a fluffy little person all agog with excitement. She remembered taking the parcel up at six o'clock when she came on duty.
'Six o'clock,' murmured Poirot. 'Then it must have been twenty minutes or so that the parcel was lying on the table downstairs.'
'Pardon?'
'Nothing, Mademoiselle. Continue. You took the parcel to Miss Buckley?'
'Yes, there were several things for her. There was this box and some flowers also-sweet peas-from a Mr and Mrs Croft, I think. I took them up at the same time. And there was a parcel that had come by post-and curiously enough that was a box of Fuller's chocolates also.'
'Comment? A second box?'
'Yes, rather a coincidence. Miss Buckley opened them both. She said: "Oh! what a shame. I'm not allowed to eat them." Then she opened the lids to look inside and see if they were both just the same, and your card was in one and she said, "Take the other impure box away, nurse. I might have got them mixed up." Oh! dear, whoever would have thought of such a thing? Seems like an Edgar Wallace, doesn't it?'
Poirot cut short this flood of speech.
'Two boxes, you say? From whom was the other box?'
'There was no name inside.'
'And which was the one that came-that had the appearance of coming-from me? The one by post or the other?'
'I declare now-I can't remember. Shall I go up and ask Miss Buckley?'
'If you would be so amiable.'
She ran up the stairs.
'Two boxes,' murmured Poirot. 'There is confusion for you.'
The nurse returned breathless.
'Miss Buckley isn't sure. She unwrapped them both before she looked inside. But she thinks it wasn't the box that came by post.'
'Eh?' said Poirot, a little confused.
'The box from you was the one that didn't come by post. At least she thinks so, but she isn't quite sure.'
'Diable!' said Poirot, as we walked away. 'Is no one ever quite sure? In detective books-yes. But life-real life-is always full of muddle. Am I sure, myself, about anything at all? No, no-a thousand times, no.'
'Lazarus,' I said. 
'Yes, that is a surprise, is it not?'
'Shall you say anything to him about it?'
'Assuredly. I shall be interested to see how he takes it. By the way, we might as well exaggerate the serious condition of Mademoiselle. It will do no harm to let it be assumed that she is at death's door. You comprehend? The solemn face-yes, admirable. You resemble closely an undertaker. C'est tout a fait bien.'
We were lucky in finding Lazarus. He was bending over the bonnet of his car outside the hotel.
Poirot went straight up to him.
'Yesterday evening, Monsieur Lazarus, you left a box of chocolates for Mademoiselle,' he began without preamble.
Lazarus looked rather surprised.
'Yes?'
'That was very amiable of you.'
'As a matter of fact they were from Freddie, from Mrs Rice. She asked me to get them.'
'Oh! I see.'
'I took them round in the car.'
'I comprehend.'
He was silent for a minute or two and then said: 'Madame Rice, where is she?'
'I think she's in the lounge.'
We found Frederica having tea. She looked up at us with an anxious face.
'What is this I hear about Nick being taken ill?'
'It is a most mysterious affair, Madame. Tell me, did you send her a box of chocolates yesterday?'
'Yes. At least she asked me to get them for her.'
'She asked you to get them for her?'
'Yes.'
'But she was not allowed to see anyone. How did you see her?'
'I didn't. She telephoned.'
'Ah! And she said-what?'
'Would I get her a two-pound box of Fuller's chocolates.'
'How did her voice sound-weak?'
'No-not at all. Quite strong. But different somehow. I didn't realize it was she speaking at first.'
'Until she told you who she was?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure, Madame, that it was your friend?'
Frederica looked startled.
'I-I-why, of course it was. Who else could it have been?'
'That is an interesting question, Madame.'
'You don't mean-'
'Could you swear, Madame, that it was your friend's voice-apart from what she said?'
'No,' said Frederica, slowly, 'I couldn't. Her voice was certainly different. I thought it was the phone-or perhaps being ill...'
'If she had not told you who she was, you would not have recognized it?'
'No, no, I don't think I should. Who was it, M. Poirot? Who was it?'
'That is what I mean to know, Madame.'
The graveness of his face seemed to awaken her suspicions.
'Is Nick-has anything happened?' she asked, breathlessly.
Poirot nodded.
'She is ill-dangerously ill. Those chocolates, Madame-were poisoned.'
'The chocolates I sent her? But that's impossible-impossible!'
'Not impossible, Madame, since Mademoiselle is at death's door.'
'Oh, my God.' She hid her face in her hands, then raised it white and quivering. 'I don't understand-I don't understand. The other, yes, but not this. They couldn't be poisoned. Nobody ever touched them but me and Jim. You're making some dreadful mistake, M. Poirot.'
'It is not I that make a mistake-even though my name was in the box.' She stared at him blankly.
'If Mademoiselle Nick dies-' he said, and made a threatening gesture with his hand.
She gave a low cry.
He turned away, and taking me by the arm, went up to the sitting-room.
He flung his hat on the table.
'I understand nothing-but nothing! I am in the dark. I am a little child. Who stands to gain by Mademoiselle's death? Madame Rice. Who buys the chocolates and admits it and tells a story of being rung up on the telephone that cannot hold water for a minute? Madame Rice. It is too simple-too stupid. And she is not stupid-no.'
'Well, then-'
'But she takes cocaine, Hastings. I am certain she takes cocaine. There is no mistaking it. And there was cocaine in those chocolates. And what did she mean when she said, "The other, yes, but not this." It needs explaining, that! And the sleek M. Lazarus-what is he doing in all this? What does she know, Madame Rice? She knows something. But I cannot make her speak. She is not of those you can frighten into speech. But she knows something, Hastings. Is her tale of the telephone true, or did she invent it? If it is true whose voice was it?
'I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black-very black.' 'Always darkest before dawn,' I said reassuringly. He shook his head.
'Then the other box-that came by post. Can we rule that out? No, we cannot, because Mademoiselle is not sure. It is an annoyance, that!'
He groaned.
I was about to speak when he stopped me.
'No, no. Not another proverb. I cannot bear it. If you would be the good friend-the good helpful friend-'
'Yes,' I said eagerly.
'Go out, I beg of you, and buy me some playing cards.'
I stared.
'Very well,' I said coldly.
I could not but suspect that he was making a deliberate excuse to get rid of me.
Here, however, I misjudged him. That night, when I came into the sitting-room about ten o'clock, I found Poirot carefully building card houses-and I remembered!
It was an old trick of his-soothing his nerves. He smiled at me.
'Yes-you remember. One needs the precision. One card on another-so-in exactly the right place and that supports the weight of the card on top and so on, up and up. Go to bed, Hastings. Leave me here, with my house of cards. I clear the mind.'
It was about five in the morning when I was shaken awake. Poirot was standing by my bedside. He looked pleased and happy.
'It was very just what you said, mon ami. Oh! it was very just. More, it was spiritual!'
I blinked at him, being imperfectly awake.
'Always darkest before dawn-that is what you said. It has been very dark-and now it is dawn.'
I looked at the window. He was perfectly right.
'No, no, Hastings. In the head! The mind! The little grey cells!'
He paused and then said quietly: 'You see, Hastings, Mademoiselle is dead.'
'What?' I cried, suddenly wide awake.
'Hush-hush. It is as I say. Not really-bien entendu-but it can be arranged. Yes, for twenty-four hours it can be arranged. I arrange it with the doctor, with the nurses.'
'You comprehend, Hastings? The murderer has been successful. Four times he has tried and failed. The fifth time he has succeeded.'
'And now, we shall see what happens next.. 'It will be very interesting.'

第十七章　一盒巧克力
到休养所去的路上，波洛一直在自言自语地责备自己。
“我应当想到的。”他抱怨地说，“我应当想到的！我还能干些什么呢？我采取了一切预防措施，这不可能——不可能。谁也接触不了她！是谁违反了我的命令呢？”
到了休养所，我们被让进楼下一间小会客室。几分钟后格雷厄姆医生进来了。他看上去精疲力竭，憔悴苍白。
“她不会死的，”他说，“危险期过去了。当时最大的困难是弄不清楚那些该死的东西她究竟吃了多少。”
“什么东西？”
“可卡因。”
“她会恢复得跟以前一样？”
“会的。没有问题。”
“这件事是怎么发生的？他们是怎么跟她接触的？什么人被放进来了？”波洛气咻咻地问。
“谁也没被放进来。”
“不可能！”
“是真的。”
“那怎么会——”
“是一盒巧克力。”
“啊，该死！我交待过她不许吃外边送进来的东西。”
“这我不知道。叫一个女孩子不去碰巧克力是件异想天开的事。她只吃了一块，谢天谢地。”
“所有的巧克力里都有可卡因吗？”
“不，她吃的那块里有，上面那层里还有两块里边也有可卡因。其它的没有。”
“可卡因是怎样放进去的？”
“方法很笨。巧克力被切成两半，把毒药同夹心层混合起来，再把两半巧克力重新粘合在一起。这是生手干的活儿，你们通常称之为‘业余自制品’。”
波洛低声说：
“啊！我要是没弄错的话……我可以去看看尼克小姐吗？”
“如果你过一个小时再来，我想你可以去看她了。”医生说，“别那么失魂落魄的，先生。她不要紧的。”
我们在街上逛了一个钟头。我想尽办法安慰他，我对他说一切正常，并没有出什么无法补救的乱子。
他只是摇摇头，老是说：
“我担心，黑斯廷斯，恐怕……”
他说话的奇怪声调使我也跟着感觉到一种无可名状的害怕。
有一次他位住我的膀子说，“听我说，朋友，我全都错了。从一开头就错了。”
“你是说问题不是出在那笔遗产上？”
“不，不，关于遗产我并没弄错。是的，没错。但是那两个我所怀疑的人……他们的可疑之处太明显了，其中必然还有奥妙！”接着他忿然叫道：“啊，那个丫头！难道我还关照得不够？难道我没叫她不许吃外面送来的东西？她不听话——我，赫尔克里•波洛的金玉良言！四次差点送命还嫌不够，还要再来第五次！噢，多不可思议！”
我们又回到了休养所。稍等了片刻之后，就被领上了楼。
尼克在床上坐着，瞳人散大无光，看上去好像还在发烧，双手微微颤抖。
“又是一次，”她咕噜着说。
见到她波洛真的动了感情。老侦探无限温存地捧着尼克的小手，慈爱地凝视着她，几乎说不出话来。
“噢，小姐呀，小姐……”
“如果他们这次成功了，”她怨恨地哭了，“我也不会在意。我已经厌倦了，是的，我厌倦了。”
“可怜的孩子。”
“但我不想让他们得意。”
“这就对了，是得争这口气，小姐。”
“说到头来，你的休养所也并不安全。”尼克说。
“如果你听了我的话，小姐——”
她惊讶地看着波洛。
“我是听你的话的呀。”
“我不是再三叮嘱过你不能吃外面送进来的东西吗？”
“我也是一直照办的呀。”
“但那些巧克力——”
“那些巧克力有什么呢？是你送来的嘛。”
“你说什么！小姐？”
“巧克力是你送的！”
“我？没有。从来没有送过。”
“是你送的！你的卡片就在盒子里。”
“什么？”
尼克敲敲床边的一张桌子。护士走了过来。
“你要盒子里的那张卡片吗？”
“对，劳驾你给拿一下。”
护士把它拿来了。
“喏，这就是。”
我和波洛同时低呼了一声，因为卡片上用花体字写着：
“赫尔克里•波洛鞠躬致意。”
“见鬼！”
“瞧，”尼克语气中带着责备的意味。
“我没写这个！”波洛说。
“什么？”
“不过，”波洛讷讷地说，“不过这确实是我的笔迹。”
“我认识的。这笔迹和上次同那些桔黄色康乃馨一起送来的卡片上的字迹完全一样。我根本没有疑心这巧克力到底是不是你送的。”
波洛摇摇头。
“你怎么会疑心呢？哦，这魔鬼，狡猾而冷酷的魔鬼！他确实有天才，居然想得出这种主意。‘赫尔克里•波洛鞠躬致意’——‘可卡因鞠躬致命’！嘿，多简单！多漂亮！但我怎么没能预见到这一着！”
尼克不安地扭动了一下。
“哦，小姐，你是没有责任的，是无可指责的。应当负责任的是我。我太无能了，那罪犯的每一个步骤怎么会都出乎我的意料之外呢？”
他的下巴垂了下来，看上去陷入了深不可测的痛苦深渊。
“我想——”护士说。
她一直在近旁徘徊，现在显得不耐烦起来。
“呃？啊，对，对，我们该让病人休息休息了。勇敢些，小姐，这将是我犯的最后一个错误了。真难为情——我上了当、中了计，仿佛我是个小学生似的。但这种事决不会再发生了。不会的，我向你保证。走吧，黑斯廷斯。”
第一步波洛先去找护士长。她被整个事情弄得心烦意乱。
“这种事情怎么会发生在我们休养所里！波洛先生，完全不可想象。”
波洛对她表示同情，并很老练地使她镇静下来，然后就开始询问那个致命的包裹是怎么来的。护士长说他最好还是去问包裹到达时正在当班的服务员。
那人名叫胡德，是个二十二岁的年轻人，看上去虽然不聪明，但相当老实。波洛设法使他从紧张慌乱中安静下来。
“这件事跟你没有关系，”他温和地说，“不过我要请你精确地告诉我这个包裹是在什么时间、通过什么方法送到这儿来的。”
服务员显得相当为难。
“很难说，先生，”他有点结结巴巴地说，“有很多人到这里来探问病情，并把带给病人们的东西交给我们。”
“护士说这包裹是昨晚送来的，”我说，“大约六点光景。”
那年轻人脸上放出光来。
“我想起来了，先生，是一位绅士把它送来的。”
“瘦瘦的脸，淡颜色的头发？”
“头发颜色不深，但脸——我记不起了。”
“会不会是查尔斯•维斯？”我犹豫地问波洛，忘记了面前站着的这个年轻人对这一带人的名字可能都熟悉。
“不是维斯先生，”他说，“维斯先生我认识的。来人还要高大些，很有派头，开着一辆大个头的轿车来的。”
“拉扎勒斯！”我惊呼了一声。
波洛警告地盯了我一眼，我知道我又莽撞了。
“那位先生驾驶一辆个头挺大的轿车到这儿来，留下了这个写明是给巴克利小姐的包裹。是这样吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“你是怎么处理这个包裹的呢？”
“我没碰它，先生。护士把它拿到楼上去了。”
“不错。但当你从那位先生手中接过包裹时不是碰了它吗？”
“哦，那，当然啰，先生。我从他手中接过之后就顺手放在那张桌子上了。”
“哪张桌子？请指给我看。”
服务员把我们领到大厅里。前门开着。不远处有一张大理石台面的长桌，上面摆着许多信和包裹。
“送来的东西都放在这里，先生。然后由护士把它们拿上楼去分送给病人。”
“你还记得我们所说的这个包裹是什么时候送来的吗？”
“想必是五点半或稍迟一些，那时候邮递员刚到——他总是五点半的样子来的。那天傍晚相当忙，探望病人和送花、送东西的人特别多。”
“谢谢。现在，我想见见那位把包裹送上楼去的护士。”
那是一位见习护士，生着一头浓密的软发，对什么都大惊小怪得不得了。她记得是在六点钟她来上班时把那个包裹拿到楼上去的。
“六点钟，”波洛低声说，“这么说来，包裹在楼下那张桌子上搁了有二十分钟左右。”
“什么？”
“没什么，小姐，说下去吧。你把包裹带给了巴克利小姐？”
“是的。送给她的东西还真不少，有这盒巧克力，还有一束香豌豆花，是克罗夫特夫妇送的，我想，我把它们一起送上去的。另外还有一个从邮局寄来的包裹——你看怪不怪，那也是一盒福勒牌巧克力。”
“什么？第二盒？”
“是的，真是巧事。巴克利小姐把它们一起拆开了。她说，‘哦，多可惜，我不能吃！’接着她掀开两盒巧克力的盖子看看里面的巧克力是不是一样的。其中有一只盒子里搁着你的卡片。她看了就说，‘把另外那盒不干净的巧克力拿走，护士，别让我把它们混到一起了。’哦，天哪，谁知道后来会出这种事，简直像埃德加•华莱士的小说一样，你说是不是？”
波洛截住了她的话语。
“两盒，你说？另外那盒是谁寄来的？”
“那盒子里没有卡片，不知道。”
“那么哪一盒是——看上去好像是——我送的呢？从邮局来的还是直接送来的？”
“我记不清了，要不要我到上面去问问巴克利小姐？”
“再好没有了。”
她跑上楼去了。
“两盒，”波洛喃喃地说，“这倒真叫我糊涂起来了。”
那护士上气不接下气地跑了回来，说：
“巴克利小姐也拿不准。在她掀开盖子之前把两只盒子的包装纸一起拆掉了，不过她想不会是寄来的那盒。”
“哦？”波洛疑惑地说。
“你那盒不是通过邮局寄来的——至少她觉得是这样，不过她也不十分肯定。”
“见鬼！”我们走出休养所时波洛说道，“不十分肯定！难道有人对一切都能十分肯定吗？侦探小说里有这样的人，但现实生活中没有。生活是千变万化、杂乱无章的。我——赫尔克里•波洛对一切都能有把握吗？都能肯定吗？不，不，这只是神话。”
“拉扎勒斯这个人，”我说。
“是啊，真想不到，对不对？”
“你要去同他谈谈吗？”
“对，我很想看看他听了这件事之后会有什么反应。而且我们可以夸大尼克小姐的病情，宣称她奄奄一息了，这不会有什么坏处的，你明白吗？噢，瞧你那张脸多严肃——啊，可钦可佩，活像个殡仪馆的老板，嘿，真是惟妙惟肖！”
我们运气不错，很快就找到了拉扎勒斯。他正弯着腰在旅馆外头修汽车。
波洛照直向他走去，开门见山地说：
“昨天傍晚，拉扎勒斯先生，你送了一盒巧克力给巴克利小姐。”
拉扎勒斯有点奇怪。
“是啊——”
“你可真够朋友的。”
“那盒巧克力事实上是弗雷迪——我是说赖斯太太——叫我去买来又叫我送去的。”
“哦，是这样。”
“我昨天开汽车把它送到休养所去了。”
“我知道。”
波洛沉默了一两分钟后说：“赖斯太太——她在哪儿？”
“我想在休息室里吧。”
我们找到她时她正坐在那里喝茶。见我们进去，她满脸是急切想知道些什么的神情。
“我听说尼克病了，是怎么回事呀？”
“是件十分神秘的事，太太。请你告诉我，昨天你送了她一盒巧克力？”
“是的。是她要我替她买一盒的。”
“她要你买的？”
“对。”
“但她谁也不能见，你是怎么见到她的呢？”
“我没见到她。是她打电话给我的。”
“啊！她说什么？”
“她问我是否可以给她买一盒两磅的福勒牌巧克力。”
“她的声音听看来怎么样？很弱吗？”
“不，一点也不弱，那声音很响，不过有点两样。一开始我听不出是她在说话。”
“直到她告诉你她是谁？”
“对了。”
“你能不能肯定，太太，那个打电话的人是你那位好朋友？”
弗雷德里卡怔住了。
“我，我，唔，当然是她啰，还会是谁呢？”
“这倒是个很有趣的问题呀，太太。”
“你总不是说——”
“你能不能发誓，太太，电话里确实是尼克小姐的声音——不要从她所说的话上推测。”
“不，”弗雷德里卡迟疑地说，“我不能发誓。她的声音肯定不是那样的。我当时以为是电话的毛病，要不然就是她身体不好的关系……”
“如果她不告诉你她是谁，你就听不出是谁在说话？”
“是的，我想我是听不出的。不过那到底是谁呢？波洛先生，是谁？”
“这正是我想知道的，太太。”
波洛的严重神色使她起了疑心。
“尼克——出了什么事吗？”她屏住气问。
波洛点点头。
“她病了——危在旦夕，太太。那些巧克力被下了毒。”
“我送的巧克力？这不可能，不可能的！”
“并非不可能，太太。尼克已经奄奄一息了。”
“哦，我的上帝！”她把脸埋进双手又抬了起来，脸色白得像死人，嘴唇直哆嗦。“我不明白——真不明白了。上一次那件事倒还可以理解，但这一回，我一点都不懂了。巧克力糖里不可能下毒的。除了我和吉姆，没人碰过它呀。你一定搞错了，波洛先生。”
“你以为盒子里有我的名片就是我搞错了吗？”
她不知所措地看着他。
“要是尼克小姐死了——”他用手做了一个威胁的手势。
她低声饮泣起来。
波洛转过身去，拉着我回到了我们的起居间。他把帽子往桌上一甩。
“我什么也不明白——一团糟！没有一线光明！我简直像个三岁小孩。谁是尼克之死的得益者呢？赖斯太太。谁送了巧克力然后又编出一个接到电话的故事呢？赖斯太太。疑点太简单太明显了，在这种情况之下还不偃旗息鼓，还要给自己增添新的疑点可真是太愚蠢了，然而你觉得她是一个愚蠢的人吗？不，不像啊！”
“那么——”
“可是她吸毒——可卡因！我可以肯定她吸可卡因。这是毫无疑问的。巧克力里面的毒药就是可卡因！她刚才说‘上次那件事倒还可以理解，但这一回，我一点都不懂了。’是什么意思呢？这个问题得搞清楚，这个问题！至于那个圆滑精明的拉扎勒斯先生，他是个什么角色呢？有些事情赖斯太太是知道的，但是些什么呢？我没法让她说出来。她不是那种吓得倒的人，可是她肚子里确实有些货色，黑斯廷斯。电话的故事是真的吗？如果是真的，打电话的人是谁？告诉你吧，黑斯廷斯，这一切全在黑暗当中，伸手不见五指的黑暗！”
“黎明前总是黑暗的。”我劝慰他说。
他摇摇头。
“再说另外那盒巧克力，通过邮局寄来的那盒。我们能排除它的可能性吗？不，不能，因为尼克小姐拿不准到底是哪盒有毒。这真叫人恼火！”
他哼了一声。
我刚想开口却被他挡住了。
“不，别说了，别再给我来上一句格言什么的，我受不了。如果你够朋友，肯帮忙的话……”
“怎么样呢？”我急忙问。
“就出去，我请求你，去给我买一副扑克牌来。”
我一怔，然后冷冷地说：“好吧。”
我想他只是找了个借口摆脱我罢了。
然而我错怪了他。那天晚上十点光景我走进起居间时，发现他正小心翼翼地在那里用扑克牌架房子。我恍然大悟了。
这是他的老习惯。他用这种方法来镇静他的神经和大脑。
他朝我笑笑。
“啊，我看得出你还记得我这个老习惯。人的思维应当严谨精确，架扑克牌也一样。每一张都只能放在一个位置上，否则就保持不了平衡。如果每一张的位置都精确，所有的牌就能全部架上去而不会倒塌。睡觉去吧，黑斯廷斯，让我一个人在这里搭我的纸牌房子，清醒一下头脑。”
大约早上五点钟我被摇醒了。
波洛站在我身边，精神焕发，兴高采烈。
“你说得对极了，我的朋友，啊，对极了，简直才气横溢！”
我对他眨眨眼睛，还没有完全醒过来。
“黎明前总是黑暗的——这就是你说的。那一阵子可的确黑得什么也看不见呀！现在黎明到了！”
我看看窗户，发现他说得完全正确。
“不，不，黑斯廷斯。黎明在我头脑里，在我那些小小的灰色细胞里！”
他停了一停，很快又说下去道：
“瞧，黑斯廷斯，尼克小姐死了。”
“什么？”我叫了起来，顿时睡意全消。
“嘘——别响！不是真的死了——当然。不过可以安排这么一个假象。是的，可以安排她去世二十四个小时。我和医生护士们全说妥啦。你懂吗，黑斯廷斯？谋杀成功了。他干了四次，四次都失败了，而第五次，他终于大功告成！这样一来，我们就可以看到下一步将发生什么事情了……
“这将是十分有趣味的。”
Chapter 18 The Face at the Window 窗上的怪脸
Chapter 18 - The Face at the Window
The events of the next day are completely hazy in my memory. I was unfortunate enough to awake with fever on me. I have been liable to these bouts of fever at inconvenient times ever since I once contracted malaria.
In consequence, the events of that day take on in my memory the semblance of a nightmare-with Poirot coming and going as a kind of fantastic clown, making a periodic appearance in a circus.
He was, I fancy, enjoying himself to the the full. His poise of baffled despair was admirable. How he achieved the end he had in view and which he had disclosed to me in the early hours of the morning, I cannot say. But achieve it he did.
It cannot have been easy. The amount of deception and subterfuge involved must have been colossal. The English character is averse to lying on a wholesale scale and that, no less, was what Poirot's plan required. He had, first, to get Dr Graham converted to the scheme. With Dr Graham on his side, he had to persuade the Matron and some members of the staff of the nursing home to conform to the plan. There again, the difficulties must have been immense. It was probably Dr Graham's influence that turned the scale.
Then there was the Chief Constable and the police. Here, Poirot would be up against officialdom. Nevertheless he wrung at last an unwilling consent out of Colonel Weston. The Colonel made it clear that it was in no way his responsibility. Poirot and Poirot alone was responsible for the spreading abroad of these lying reports. Poirot agreed. He would have agreed to anything so long as he was permitted to carry out his plan.
I spent most of the day dozing in a large armchair with a rug over my knees. Every two or three hours or so, Poirot would burst in and report progress.
'Comment ca va, mon ami? How I commiserate you. But it is as well, perhaps. The farce, you do not play it as well as I do. I come this moment from ordering a wreath-a wreath immense-stupendous. Lilies, my friend-large quantities of lilies. "With heartfelt regret. From Hercule Poirot." Ah! what a comedy.'
He departed again.
'I come from a most poignant conversation with Madame Rice,' was his next piece of information. 'Very well dressed in black, that one. Her poor friend-what a tragedy! I groan sympathetically. Nick, she says, was so joyous, so full of life. Impossible to think of her as dead. I agree. "It is," I say, "the irony of death that it takes one like that. The old and useless are left." Oh! lala! I groan again.'
'How you are enjoying this,' I murmured feebly.
'Du tout. It is part of my plan, that is all. To play the comedy successfully, you must put the heart into it. Well, then, the conventional expressions of regret over, Madame comes to matters nearer home. All night she has lain awake wondering about those sweets. It is impossible-impossible. "Madame," I say, "it is not impossible. You can see the analyst's report." Then she says, and her voice is far from steady, "It was-cocaine, you say?" I assent. And she says, "Oh, my God. I don't understand."'
'Perhaps that's true.'
'She understands well enough that she is in danger. She is intelligent. I told you that before. Yes, she is in danger, and she knows it.'
'And yet it seems to me that for the first time you don't believe her guilty.' Poirot frowned. The excitement of his manner abated.
'It is profound what you say there, Hastings. No-it seems to me that-somehow-the facts no longer fit. These crimes-so far what has marked them most-the subtlety, is it not? And here is no subtlety at all-only the crudity, pure and simple. No, it does not fit.'
He sat down at the table.
'Voila-let us examine the facts. There are three possibilities. There are the sweets bought by Madame and delivered by M. Lazarus. And in that case the guilt rests with one or the other or both. And the telephone call, supposedly from Mademoiselle Nick, that is an invention pure and simple. That is the straightforward-the obvious solution.'
'Solution 2: The other box of sweets-that which came by post. Anyone may have sent those. Any of the suspects on our list from A. to J. (You remember? A very wide field.) But, if that were the guilty box, what is the point of the telephone call? Why complicate matters with a second box?'
I shook my head feebly. With a temperature of 102, any complication seemed to me quite unnecessary and absurd.
'Solution 3: A poisoned box was substituted for the innocent box bought by Madame. In that case the telephone call is ingenious and understandable. Madame is to be what you call the kitten's paw. She is to pull the roasting chestnuts out of the fire. So Solution 3 is the most logical-but, alas, it is also the most difficult. How be sure of substituting a box at the right moment? The orderly might take the box straight upstairs-a hundred and one possibilities might prevent the substitution being effected. No, it does not seem sense.'
'Unless it were Lazarus,' I said.
Poirot looked at me.
'You have the fever, my friend. It mounts, does it not?'
I nodded.
'Curious how a few degrees of heat should stimulate the intellect. You have uttered there an observation of profound simplicity. So simple, was it, that I had failed to consider it. But it would suppose a very curious state of affairs. M. Lazarus, the dear friend of Madame, doing his best to get her hanged. It opens up possibilities of a very curious nature. But complex-very complex.'
I closed my eyes. I was glad I had been brilliant, but I did not want to think of anything complex. I wanted to go to sleep.
Poirot, I think, went on talking, but I did not listen. His voice was vaguely soothing...
It was late afternoon when I saw him next.
'My little plan, it has made the fortune of flower shops,' he announced. 'Everybody orders wreaths. M. Croft, M. Vyse, Commander Challenger-'
The last name awoke a chord of compunction in my mind.
'Look here, Poirot,' I said. 'You must let him in on this. Poor fellow, he will be distracted with grief. It isn't fair.'
'You have always the tenderness for him, Hastings.'
'I like him. He's a thoroughly decent chap. You've got to take him into the secret.'
Poirot shook his head.
'No, mon ami. I do not make the exceptions.'
'But you don't suspect him to have anything to do with it?'
'I do not make the exceptions.'
'Think how he must be suffering.'
'On the contrary, I prefer to think of what a joyful surprise I prepare for him. To think the loved one dead-and find her alive! It is a sensation unique-stupendous.'
'What a pig-headed old devil you are. He'd keep the secret all right.'
'I am not so sure.'
'He's the soul of honour. I'm certain of it.'
'That makes it all the more difficult to keep a secret. Keeping a secret is an art that requires many lies magnificently told, and a great aptitude for playing the comedy and enjoying it. Could he dissemble, the Commander Challenger? If he is what you say he is, he certainly could not.'
'Then you won't tell him?'
'I certainly refuse to imperil my little idea for the sake of the sentiment. It is life and death we play with, mon cher. Anyway, the suffering, it is good for the character. Many of your famous clergymen have said so-even a Bishop if I am not mistaken.'
I made no further attempt to shake his decision. His mind, I could see, was made up.
'I shall not dress for dinner,' he murmured. 'I am too much the broken old man. That is my part, you understand. All my self-confidence has crashed-I am broken. I have failed. I shall eat hardly any dinner-the food untasted on the plate. That is the attitude, I think. In my own apartment I will consume some brioches and some chocolate eclairs (so called) which I had the foresight to buy at a confectioners. Et vous?'
'Some more quinine, I think,' I said, sadly. 'Alas, my poor Hastings. But courage, all will be well to-morrow.' 'Very likely. These attacks often last only twenty-four hours.' I did not hear him return to the room. I must have been asleep.
When I awoke, he was sitting at the table writing. In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper smoothed out. I recognized it for the paper on which he had written that list of people-A. to J.-which he had afterwards crumpled up and thrown away.
He nodded in answer to my unspoken thought.
'Yes, my friend. I have resurrected it. I am at work upon it from a different angle. I compile a list of questions concerning each person. The questions may have no bearing on the crime-they are just things that I do not know-things that remain unexplained, and for which I seek to supply the answer from my own brain.'
'How far have you got?'
'I have finished. You would like to hear? You are strong enough?' 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I am feeling a great deal better.'
'Ala bonne heure! Very well, I will read them to you. Some of them, no doubt, you will consider puerile.'
He cleared his throat.
'A. Ellen.-Why did she remain in the house and not go out to see fireworks? (Unusual, as Mademoiselle's evidence and surprise make clear.) What did she think or suspect might happen? Did she admit anyone (J. for instance) to the house? Is she speaking the truth about the secret panel? If there is such a thing why is she unable to remember where it is? (Mademoiselle seems very certain there is no such thing-and she would surely know.) If she invented it, why did she invent it? Had she read Michael Seton's love letters or was her surprise at Mademoiselle Nick's engagement genuine?'
'B. Her Husband.-Is he as stupid as he seems? Does he share Ellen's knowledge, whatever it is, or does he not? Is he, in any respect, a mental case?'
'C. The Child.-Is his delight in blood a natural instinct common to his age and development, or is it morbid, and is that morbidity inherited from either parent? Has he ever shot with a toy pistol?'
'D. Who is Mr Croft? -Where does he really come from? Did he post the will as he swears he did? What motive could he have in not posting it?'
'E. Mrs Croft. Same as above.-Who are Mr and Mrs Croft? Are they in hiding for some reason-and if so, what reason? Have they any connection with the Buckley family?'
'F. Mrs Rice.-Was she really aware of the engagement between Nick and Michael Seton? Did she merely guess it, or had she actually read the letters which passed between them? (In that case she would know Mademoiselle was Seton's heir.) Did she know that she herself was Mademoiselle's residuary legatee? (This, I think, is likely. Mademoiselle would probably tell her so, adding perhaps that she would not get much out of it.) Is there any truth in Commander Challenger's 
suggestion that Lazarus was attracted by Mademoiselle Nick? (This might explain a certain lack of cordiality between the two friends which seems to have shown itself in the last few months.) Who is the 'boy friend' mentioned in her note as supplying the drug? Could this possibly be J.? Why did she turn faint one day in this room? Was it something that had been said-or was it something she saw? Is her account of the telephone message asking her to buy chocolates correct-or is it a deliberate lie? What did she mean by "I can understand the other-but not this"? If she is not herself guilty, what knowledge has she got that she is keeping to herself?'
'You perceive,' said Poirot, suddenly breaking off, 'that the questions concerning Madame Rice are almost innumerable. From beginning to end, she is an enigma. And that forces me to a conclusion. Either Madame Rice is guilty-or she knows-or shall we say, thinks she knows-who is guilty. But is she right? Does she know or does she merely suspect? And how is it possible to make her speak?'
He sighed.
'Well, I will go on with my list of questions.'
'G. Mr. Lazarus.-Curious-there are practically no questions to ask concerning him-except the crude one, "Did he substitute the poisoned sweets?" Otherwise I find only one totally irrelevant question. But I have put it down. "Why did M. Lazarus offer fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty?"'
'He wanted to do Nick a good turn,' I suggested.
'He would not do it that way. He is a dealer. He does not buy to sell at a loss. If he wished to be amiable he would lend her money as a private individual.'
'It can't have any bearing on the crime, anyway.'
'No, that is true-but all the same, I should like to know. I am a student of the psychology, you understand.'
'Now we come to H.'
'H. Commander Challenger.-Why did Mademoiselle Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? What necessitated her having to tell him that? She told no one else. Had he proposed to her? What are his relations with his uncle?'
'His uncle, Poirot?'
'Yes, the doctor. That rather questionable character. Did any private news of Michael Seton's death come through to the Admiralty before it was announced publicly?'
'I don't quite see what you're driving at Poirot. Even if Challenger knew beforehand about Seton's death, it does not seem to get us anywhere. It provides no earthly motive for killing the girl he loved.'
'I quite agree. What you say is perfectly reasonable. But these are just things I should like to know. I am still the dog, you see, nosing about for the things that are not very nice!'
'I. M. Vyse.-Why did he say what he did about his cousin's fanatical devotion to End House? What possible motive could he have in saying that? Did he, or did he not, receive the will? Is he, in fact, an honest man-or is he not an honest man?'
'And now J. -Eh bien, J. is what I put down before-a giant question mark. Is there such a person, or is there not-'
'Mon Dieu! my friend, what have you?'
I had started from my chair with a sudden shriek. With a shaking hand I pointed at the window.
'A face, Poirot!' I cried. 'A face pressed against the glass. A dreadful face! It's gone now-but I saw it.'
Poirot strode to the window and pushed it open. He leant out.
'There is no one there now,' he said, thoughtfully. 'You are sure you did not imagine it, Hastings?'
'Quite sure. It was a horrible face.'
'There is a balcony, of course. Anyone could reach there quite easily if they wanted to hear what we were saying. When you say a dreadful face, Hastings, just what do you mean?'
'A white, staring face, hardly human.'
'Mon ami, that is the fever. A face, yes. An unpleasant face, yes. But a face hardly human-no. What you saw was the effect of a face pressed closely against the glass-that allied to the shock of seeing it there at all.'
'It was a dreadful face,' I said, obstinately. 'It was not the face of-anyone you know?' 'No, indeed.'
'H'm-it might have been, though! I doubt if you would recognize it under these circumstances. I wonder now-yes, I very much wonder...'
He gathered up his papers thoughtfully.
'One thing at least is to the good. If the owner of that face overheard our conversation we did not mention that Mademoiselle Nick was alive and well. Whatever else our visitor may have heard, that at least escaped him.'
'But surely,' I said, 'the results of this-eh-brilliant manoeuvre of yours have been slightly disappointing up to date. Nick is dead and no startling developments have occurred!'
'I did not expect them yet awhile. Twenty-four hours, I said. Mon ami, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, certain things will arise. Otherwise -otherwise I am wrong from start to finish. There is the post, you see. I have hopes of tomorrow's post.'
I awoke in the morning feeling weak but with the fever abated. I also felt hungry. Poirot and I had breakfast served in our sitting-room.
'Well?' I said, maliciously, as he sorted his letters. 'Has the post done what you expected of it?'
Poirot, who had just opened two envelopes which patently contained bills, did not reply. I thought he looked rather cast down and not his usual cock-a-hoop self.
I opened my own mail. The first was a notice of a spiritualist meeting.
'If all else fails, we must go to the spiritualists,' I remarked. 'I often wonder that more tests of this kind aren't made. The spirit of the victim comes back and names the murderer. That would be a proof.'
'It would hardly help us,' said Poirot, absently. 'I doubt if Maggie Buckley knew whose hand it was shot her down. Even if she could speak she would have nothing of value to tell us. Tiens! that is odd.'
'What is?'
'You talk of the dead speaking, and at that moment I open this letter.' He tossed it across to me. It was from Mrs Buckley and ran as follows: 'Langley Rectory.'
'Dear Monsieur Poirot,-On my return here I found a letter written by my poor child on her arrival at St Loo. There is nothing in it of interest to you, I'm afraid, but I thought perhaps you would care to see it.
'Thanking you for your kindness, 'Yours sincerely, 'Jean Buckley.'
The enclosure brought a lump to my throat. It was so terribly commonplace and so completely untouched by any apprehension of tragedy:
'Dear Mother,-I arrived safely. Quite a comfortable journey. Only two people in the carriage all the way to Exeter.'
'It is lovely weather here. Nick seems very well and gay-a little restless, perhaps, but I cannot see why she should have telegraphed for me in the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.'
'No more now. We are going to have tea with some neighbours. They are Australians and have rented the lodge. Nick says they are kind but rather awful. Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus are coming to stay. He is the art dealer. I will post this in the box by the gate, then it will catch the post. Will write to-morrow.'
'Your loving daughter, 'Maggie.'
'P.S.-Nick says there is a reason for her wire. She will tell me after tea. She is very queer and jumpy.'
'The voice of the dead,' said Poirot, quietly. 'And it tells us-nothing.'
'The box by the gate,' I remarked idly. 'That's where Croft said he posted the will.'
'Said so-yes. I wonder. How I wonder!'
'There is nothing else of interest among your letters?'
'Nothing. Hastings, I am very unhappy. I am in the dark. Still in the dark. I comprehend nothing.'
At that moment the telephone rang. Poirot went to it.
Immediately I saw a change come over his face. His manner was very restrained, nevertheless he could not disguise from my eyes his intense excitement.
His own contributions to the conversation were entirely non-committal so that I could not gather what it was all about.
Presently, however, with a Tres bien. Jevous remercie,' he put back the receiver and came back to where I was sitting. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.
'Mon ami,' he said. 'What did I tell you? Things have begun to happen.' 'What was it?'
'That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, through the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.'
'What? The will?'
'Evidemment.'
'It has turned up?'
'Just at the right moment, n'est-ce pas?'
'Do you think he is speaking the truth?'
'Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments-and sure enough here they are!'
'Extraordinary,' I said. 'You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?'
'M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.'
'So we are back at the old problem,' I said. 'Frederica Rice.'
'The enigma!'
'Frederica Rice,' I murmured, inconsequently. 'It's a pretty name.'
'Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie'-he made a face-'ce n'est pas joli-for a young lady.'
'There aren't many abbreviations of Frederica,' I said. 'It's not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen-Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie-'
'True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?' 'Yes, of course. Tell me-did you expect this to happen?'
'No-not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.'
'Yes,' I said, respectfully.
'What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?' mused Poirot. 'Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.'
I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.
He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.
Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.
'Oh!' he groaned. 'But I have been blind-blind.' 'What's the matter?'
'Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme-extreme. And miserable one that I am, I saw nothing-nothing.'
'Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?'
'Wait-wait-do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.'
Seizing his list of questions, he ran over them silently, his lips moving busily. Once or twice he nodded his head emphatically.
Then he laid them down and leaning back in his chair he shut his eyes. I thought at last that he had gone to sleep.
Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes.
'But yes!' he said. 'It all fits in! All the things that have puzzled me. All the things that have seemed to me a little unnatural. They all have their place.'
'You mean-you know everything?'
'Nearly everything. All that matters. In some respects I have been right in my deductions. In other ways ludicrously far from the truth. But now it is all clear. I shall send today a telegram asking two questions-but the answers to them I know already-I know here!' He tapped his forehead.
'And when you receive the answers?' I asked, curiously. He sprang to his feet.
'My friend, do you remember that Mademoiselle Nick said she wanted to stage a play at End House? Tonight, we stage such a play in End House. But it will be a play produced by Hercule Poirot. Mademoiselle Nick will have a part to play in it.' He grinned suddenly.
'You comprehend, Hastings, there will be a ghost in this play. Yes, a ghost. End House has never seen a ghost. It will have one tonight. No'-as I tried to ask a question-'I will say no more. Tonight, Hastings, we will produce our comedy-and reveal the truth. But now, there is much to do-much to do.'
He hurried from the room.

第十八章　窗上的怪脸
接下去那个白天发生的事在我的记忆当中就相当模糊了。因为不幸得很，我醒来之后便开始发烧了。自从有一次得了疟疾以后，我老是会在最不该生病的时候发高烧。于是那天发生的事对我来说就像一场荒诞不经的怪梦。波洛幽灵般地来来去去，每过一会就在我面前出现一次。
我想，他对自己的锦囊妙计大为得意，他的表演精彩无比。那种惭愧和绝望的神情装得如此逼真，足以叫一切电影明星为之绝倒。他是如何使他那个计划——就是他一清早向我透露的那个主意——付诸实施的，我不得而知，但有一点可以肯定，即他那台戏已经紧锣密鼓地开场了。
这不是件容易的事，因为这个骗局牵涉的面相当广。英国人通常不喜欢搞那些大规模的骗局，而波洛这次所设的这个圈套却必须兴师动众。
首先，他把格雷厄姆医生拉到了自己一边，然后在医生的协助下开始说服护士长和休养所里其他一些有关人员赞同并配合这个计划。真是困难重重，要不是德高望重的格雷厄姆医生助了波洛一臂之力，这出喜剧可能还未开幕就告终了。
接着还有警察局长和他那些警察。在这一方面，波洛又遇到来自官方的麻烦。费尽口舌，他终于说服韦斯顿上校勉强同意了他的办法，但上校把话说在前头，这件事他概不负责。有关这个圈套的一切可能引起的后果都要由波洛自己承担。波洛欣然同意了。只要允许他实行自己的计划，他什么都会同意的。
我几乎整天坐在一张大沙发里，腿上盖着一床毯子闭目养神。每过两三个小时，波洛就跑来告诉我他的进展。
“好点了吗？我的朋友？你病得多可怜！但这样也好，省得你演戏时露出马脚。我刚去订做了一只花圈，一只硕大无比的花圈。那上头缀满了百合花，我的朋友——数不清的象征着痛心得死去活来的百合花。挽联更是呱呱叫：
“‘芳魂长眠。赫尔克里•波洛含泪敬挽。’”
“啊，多妙的喜剧！”
说完他又匆匆离去了。
下一次他来的时候给我带来了这些话：
“我刚同赖斯太太交了一次锋。她呀，穿了一身考究的黑礼服，而她那可怜的朋友——多惨！我悲天悯人地叹息了一声。她说尼克是那么聪明活泼、生趣盎然的一个姑娘，怎能想象她已与世长辞了。我点点头说：‘以我来看，富有讽刺意义的是死神带走了她那样一个好端端的人，而把老弱病残的无用之辈留在人间。’”
“你多得意呀。”我无力地轻声说道。
“绝非如此。这是我那计策中的一部分呀。要装得像，就得投入全副身心。诉说一番心中的伤感之后，赖斯太太开始说到我关心的事情上来了。她说她整夜翻来复去睡不着，一直在想那些巧克力糖，在想这件不可能发生的事。‘太太，’我说，‘怎么是不可能的呢？你可以看化验报告。’她就用发抖的声音说：‘是可卡因，你说的？’我点点头，她说，‘啊，上帝，我弄不懂！’”
“这也可能。”
“她清楚地看出了面前的深渊，她是聪明的，这我早就对你说过了。是呀，她处于危险之中并且她自己也明白这一点。”
“但我看得出你开始相信她无罪了。”
波洛皱起了眉头，不像刚才那样激动了。
“你的话说得很巧妙啊，黑斯廷斯。不错，我觉得有些事实对不起头来。这个案子作案手法最重要的特征就是周密严谨不留痕迹。但巧克力这件事却干得一点也不周密，可以说幼稚得可笑，留下瞎子也看得见的明显标记，而且这些标记像指路牌似的明确无误地指向赖斯太太。啊，不，不对头！”
他在桌子旁边坐了下来。
“这就意味着有三种可能性。还是让我们来核对一下事实吧。巧克力是赖斯太太买了来由拉扎勒斯先生送去的。在这种情形下，犯罪的不是这个便是那个，或者两个都是罪犯。那个电话便纯系捏造无疑。这是最明显的一种情况。
“第二种情形：下了毒的是另一盒巧克力——邮寄的那一盒——我们那张从一到十的人物名单上的任何一个人都能寄（你还记得那张表吗？很广的一个面）。但如果说邮寄的一盒是有毒的，电话的事就是真的了。可是罪犯为什么要打这样一个电话呢？为什么要用两盒巧克力把事情搞复杂呢？因为罪犯并不知道尼克小姐会碰巧同时收到两盒巧克力，而且同时拆掉包装纸呀。”
我无力地摇摇头，在体温高达三十九度的时候，任何复杂化的东西我都无法理解。
“第三种情形：邮寄的有毒的一盒同赖斯太太买的无毒的一盒被调换了。在这种情况下，那个电话便很巧妙，可以理解了。赖斯太太成了替罪羊，她无意间为真正的作案者火中取栗。这种情形是合乎逻辑的。但是，嗯，这第三种情形也是作案者最难办到的。他怎么能料到邮递员会同拉扎勒斯先生同时到达？而且要是服务员随手把无毒的那盒送上楼去，而不是让它在桌上搁了二十分钟，调包计划就不会成功。是啊，好像也不合情理。”
“除非作案的是拉扎勒斯。”我说。
波洛看着我。
“你在发烧，我的朋友，并且体温还在上升吧？”
我点点头。
“真怪呀，几度体温竟能激发智力！你刚才发表了一个很有意思的观点，它是如此之简单，以至于我连想都没想到。不过这就带来一个极为奇怪的问题：拉扎勒斯先生正在使尽全身解数，想把他亲爱的人儿送上断头台。这是第四种情形——无法理解的一种情形。哎，复杂呀，复杂。”
我闭上眼睛，为我的一得之见而沾沾自喜，但我不愿意去思考任何费脑筋的事儿，一心只想睡觉。
我觉得波洛——还在那里旁征博引侃侃而述，但我没法听下去了。他的声音渐渐飘忽模糊了。
再一次见到他已是傍晚时分。
“我略施小计却便宜了礼品店，”他声称道，“大家都去订花圈。克罗夫特先生，维斯先生，查林杰中校……”
最后那个名字拨动了我心中一根不安的弦。
“听我说，波洛，”我说，“你必须把真相告诉他，否则这个可怜的海员要伤心死了。”
“对于他，你真是照顾备至呀，黑斯廷斯。”
“我喜欢他，他是个好人，你应当把秘密告诉他。”
波洛摇摇头。
“不，我的朋友，我一视同仁。”
“你总不见得会怀疑他吧？”
“我对谁都不例外。”
“想象一下他会多么痛苦。”
“我情愿想象一下我给他准备了一个多么意想不到的喜悦。以为爱人死了——到头来却发现她还活着！想一想吧，古往今来，领略过这种喜悦的人并不多呀！”
“你怎么这样不近人情！他一定会保守秘密的。”
“我不大相信。”
“他是个视荣誉为生命的人，我敢打赌。”
“这就使他更难保密了。保守秘密是一种艺术，要能不动声色地说一大套假话，还得有演戏的爱好和天才。他办得到吗——那位查林杰中校？如果他是你刚才说的那种人，他就肯定办不到。”
“那么你不肯告诉他了？”
“我不能让我的计策冒风险，这个计策关系重大，我亲爱的。不管怎么说吧，痛苦是磨炼意志的。你那许多有名的牧师包括红衣大主教本人都是这么说的。”
我看得出他已经拿定了主意，只好作罢。
“我要穿得随随便便地去吃晚饭，”波洛说，“我扮演的是个自尊心受到了重伤的老头儿，你懂吗？我的自信心完全崩溃了——我整个儿地输光了。我什么都吃不下，晚饭在盘子上动都不动，我还得在恰当的时候叹一口长气，然后自言自语地说几句我自己也听不懂的话。这就是我的模样，我想。不过等我回到自己房间里来，我就要津津有味地大嚼一顿奶油蛋糕和巧克力蛋卷。敝人极有先见之明，早已备下精美食品，先生您瞧？”
“我却只要再来几粒奎宁丸。”我黯然地说。
“哎，我可怜的黑斯廷斯。拿出勇气，明天一定万事如意。”
“可能的。疟疾的发作通常不超过二十四小时。”
我没有听见他再回到房间来，想必我已经睡着了。
这一觉睡得比较好，醒来时看见波洛坐在桌子旁埋头疾书。他面前平摊着一张揉皱的纸，我认出就是那张写着从一到十那些姓名的人物名单。这张名单他曾经扔掉过。
他对我点点头。好像看出我在想什么。
“是的，我的朋友，我又把它拣起来了。我现在从一个不同的角度来研究它。我重新编了一张表，上面罗列着与每个人有关的问题。这些问题可能与犯罪无关，只是些我还不明白的东西，一些还未得到解释的东西。现在我要用我的脑子寻求解答。”
“写到哪儿了？”
“写完了。想听听吗？你可有这个精神？”
“我现在觉得好多了。”
“真走运！很好，我来读给你听。其中有些问题你一定会觉得提得很无聊。”
他清了清嗓子。
“一、埃伦——她为什么待在屋里没有出去看焰火（尼克小姐的证词以及小姐对此表现出来的意外都说明这是反常的）？她猜想会发生什么事？她有没有让什么人（比方说，第十位——那个未知的人）走进那幢房子？关于那个壁龛她说的是实话吗？如果真有那么个东西，她为什么记不起它的位置（小姐好像明确表示没有这种壁龛，她当然知道有还是没有）？如果她是捏造出来的，那又为了什么？她有没有看过迈克尔•塞顿的那些情书？她对尼克小姐的订婚是否真的感到意外？
“二、她丈夫——他真的像他的外表所显示的那么蠢吗？埃伦知道的事他是否也知道？他在某些方面会不会有精神病？
“三、她儿子——在他这样的年龄和个性发展水平上，喜欢看屠杀是寻常的天性吗？抑或是一种病态的，受之于父亲或母亲的遗传性畸形心理？他曾经用玩具手枪射击过没有？
“四、克罗夫特先生何许人也——他到底是从什么地方来的？他真的如他所发誓说的那样把遗嘱投邮了吗？要是未投，动机何在？
“五、克罗夫特太太何许人也——这对夫妇是什么人？他们是不是为了某种理由而躲藏在这里？如果是的话，是为了什么理由？他们与巴克利家族可有亲戚关系？
“六、赖斯太太——她究竟知不知道迈克尔•塞顿和尼克的订婚？仅仅是猜到的，还是偷看过他们之间的通信（这样，她便会知道尼克是塞顿的继承人）？她是否知道自己是尼克小姐的动产继承人（我想她很可能知道，尼克小姐会告诉她并补上一句说那是微不足道的）？查林杰中校暗示说拉扎勒斯被尼克小姐迷住了是真的吗（这能解释赖斯太太和尼克小姐这两个好朋友近几个月来感情疏远的原因）？在她关于吸毒的那封信里提及的那个‘男朋友’是谁呢？会是那‘第十个’吗？她那天为什么在这个房间里举止反常好像要昏过去？是听到了什么还是看到了什么？关于叫她买巧克力的电话是事实呢还是个精心编造的谎言？她说，‘上一次那件事倒还可以理解，但这一回我一点都不懂了’是什么意思？如果她不是罪犯，那么她究竟知道些什么而又不肯讲？”
“你看，”波洛突然停下来说，“差不多所有的要紧问题都与赖斯太太有关。她从头到尾都是个谜。这就迫使我得出这样一个结论：或者她就是罪犯，或者她知道谁是罪犯，但这是否正确呢？她确实知道，还是仅仅疑心？有什么法子能叫她开口？”
他叹了口气。
“好吧，我再往下读。
“七、拉扎勒斯——奇怪得很，关于他，我们几乎提不出什么问题。只有那个老问题：有没有调换巧克力？除此之外，仅有一个似乎全不相干的问题，我也把它写上了：‘为什么对一幅只值二十镑的图画肯出五十镑的价钱？’”
“他想讨好尼克。”我提出了我的看法。
“讨好也不会用这种方法。他是买卖人，不会做蚀本生意的。如果他想为尼克做点好事，他会私下里借钱给她。”
“反正这事跟本案无关。”
“是呀，这是对的——但我什么都想知道。我是研究心理学的。你懂吗？我们再来看看第八位。
“八、查林杰中校——为什么尼克要告诉他说她同别人订了婚？是否有什么必要？因为她没有告诉过别人。他向她求过婚吗？他跟他舅舅有什么关系？”
“他舅舅，波洛？”
“就是那个医生，很成问题的一个角色。关于迈克尔•塞顿之死，在公布于众之前有没有什么消息私下里先传到海军部？”
“我不明白你在想些什么，波洛。即使查林杰中校事先得悉塞顿的死讯又怎样？这并不产生一个去杀死他心爱姑娘的动机呀。”
“同意之至。你讲得很有道理，但这些却是我想了解的。我是一只到处嗅寻臭味的狗。”
“九、维斯先生——为什么他要告诉我们说他表妹对悬崖山庄有盲目的眷恋和崇拜？这样做动机何在？他到底收到那份遗嘱没有？他是个诚实的人，还是个伪君子？”
“最后是十——啊哈，这是我上回写下的一个未曾露面的人，一个巨大的问号。到底有没有‘第十位’这么个人呢？”
“天哪，我的朋友！你怎么啦？”
我大叫一声从沙发上跳了起来，用颤抖的手指着窗子：
“脸，波洛！”我喊道，“贴在玻璃上的吓人的脸！现在没了，但我看见的！”
波洛冲过去推开窗子，探出身去张望了一回。
“外面什么也没有，”他思索着说，“你肯定不是幻觉吗，黑斯廷斯？”
“不是！不是幻觉！我看见一张像死人一样的脸。”
“外面是阳台，要跑到这个阳台上来偷听我们的谈话是任何人都能办到的事。你为什么说那是一张吓人的脸呢？”
“那张脸死白死白的，不是活人的面孔。”
“我的朋友，这是体温在作怪吧？一张脸，是对的。一张难看的脸，也有可能。但不是活人的面孔——这就荒谬绝伦了。你所看见的是一张紧紧贴在玻璃上的脸，这就使得它看上去吓人了。”
“是吓人嘛！”我固执地说。
“不是熟人的面孔吗？”
“不，决不是熟人，真的。”
“哦，不是熟人？我怀疑在这种情形之下你能不能认出一张熟悉的面孔来。我怀疑，是的，我很怀疑……”
他沉思着把面前那些纸头收拾起来。
“至少有一件事值得庆幸。如果有人在偷听，我们幸好没提到尼克小姐的真实情况。不管被他听去多少，这一点总算没有泄露。”
“不过说来遗憾，”我说，“你那独具匠心的锦囊妙计看来有点不合时宜，到现在还没有任何收获。尼克死了，但又怎样呢？我早就拭目以待了，但到现在……”
“哈，你病到现在睡到现在，只有打哈欠的时候才揉揉眼睛，还说一直在拭目以待呢？没那么快，我说过要二十四小时才会有反应，我的朋友。如果我没有搞错的话，明天一定会有惊人的发现，否则，否则我便从头到尾错了个干干净净！最后一班邮件来了，你看。我的希望寄托在明天的邮件上。”
早上醒来我软绵绵地没有力气，不过烧已经退了，我也感到想吃点什么，就和波洛一起在我们的起居间里吃早饭。
“怎么样？”他在整理信件时，我不怀好意地问，“希望来了吗——惊天动地的新发现？”
波洛刚刚拆开了两个很明显是装着帐单的信封，没有回答。我觉得他现在看起来十分沮丧，一点也没有他通常那种自命不凡的公鸡气概了。
我拆开我自己的信，第一只信封里装着招魂术讨论会的简报。
“要是这次也失败了，”我说，“我们只好去求教一位招魂大法师了。如果被害者的灵魂会回来对我们说出凶手的姓名，并且法律也承认这种证词，该有多便当。”
“可是却帮不了我们一点忙，”波洛心不在焉地答道，“如果尼克被人打死了，我想她的灵魂对于是谁打死她的这一点也跟我们一样莫名其妙。所以就算她死后还能说话，也提供不出什么有价值的线索来。咦，真是奇事。”
“什么？”
“你在大谈死人说话的时候，我拆开了这么一封信，”说着他把信扔了过来。信是巴克利太太寄来的。
亲爱的波洛先生：
回到家里发现一封我可怜的孩子在到达圣卢之后写给我们的信。里边恐怕没有什么能够引起你的兴趣的东西，但我想也许你愿意看一看。
谢谢你的关怀。
你恭顺的琼•巴克利
附在里面的那封信是那么平凡，一点都看不出大祸将临的征兆，看着真叫人难过。
亲爱的母亲：
我平安地到达了圣卢。旅途上相当舒适。直到埃克塞特，车厢里除了我之外一直就只有两个乘客。
这里天气好极了。尼克又健康又快活——大概休息少了些，但我看不出她有什么必要十万火急地打电报把我叫来。星期二来其实也未尝不可。
另外没有什么可写了。我们要去同一些邻居吃茶点，他们是些澳大利亚人，租下了门房小屋。尼克说他们热情得叫人吃不消。赖斯太太和拉扎勒斯先生也要来住一阵子，他是个艺术品商人。我将把这封信投进大门旁边那个信箱里，这样正好能赶上下一班邮车。明天再谈。
热爱你的女儿　　马吉
又及：尼克说她打电报叫我是有她的道理的，吃过茶点之后就会告诉我。她神情古怪而且好像有些神经过敏。
“死人的声音，”波洛平静地说，“但什么也没告诉我们。”
“大门旁的信箱，”我信口说，“就是克罗夫特说他寄遗嘱的地方。”
“这么说——是的。但那遗嘱的下落太神秘了。”
“你那些信里头还有什么有意思的东西吗？”
“没有了，黑斯廷斯。我很失望，还是在一片漆黑之中，什么也不明白。”
这时电话铃响了，波洛走过去拿起了听筒。
我见他脸色豁然开朗起来。尽管他竭力装得若无其事，我还是发觉了他的兴奋和激动。
这时他说了声“很好，谢谢你。”就挂断了电话，回到我身旁来，眼睛里闪耀着愉快的光彩。
“我的朋友，”他说，“我是怎么对你说的？瞧，反应开始出现啦！”
“出现了什么反应？”
“电话是查尔斯•维斯打来的。他通知我，说今天早上他从邮局收到了由她表妹巴克利小姐在去年2月25日签署的一份遗嘱。”
“什么？遗嘱？”
“正是。”
“遗嘱出现了？”
“不迟不早，正是时候。”
“你认为他说的是真话吗？”
“还是我认为那份遗嘱一直就在他手中——你是不是想这么说？啊，全都有点儿怪，不过至少有一点是肯定的，那就是如果外间认为尼克小姐死了，我们就会有所发现的——现在来了。”
“是的，”我说，“你是对的。刚才出现的那份遗嘱，我想就是指定弗雷德里卡•赖斯为动产继承人的那份吧？”
“关于遗嘱的内容维斯先生什么也没说。他做得对。没有什么理由可以怀疑这不是原来那份遗嘱。他告诉我，遗嘱由埃伦•威尔逊和她丈夫签字做见证。”
“于是我们又遇到了弗雷德里卡•赖斯。”我说。
“这个谜一样的人。”
“弗雷德里卡•赖斯，”我前言不对后语地说，“这名字倒相当漂亮。”
“比她那些朋友叫她的‘弗雷迪’要漂亮些，”他做了个怪相，“对一个年轻女郎来说，‘弗雷迪’这个名字的确不太动听。”
“弗雷德里卡这个名字的爱称恐怕只有‘弗雷迪’这一个，”我说，“不像玛格丽特这种名字，你可以找到半打的爱称。马吉、马戈特、马奇、佩吉等等。”
“不错，那么，黑斯廷斯，现在你可觉得高兴些了？我们所等待的反应已经开始啦。”
“当然高兴啰。告诉我，你是不是期待着这件事发生？”
“不，不完全是。我并不确切知道我在期待什么。我只知道这样做一定会有一些结果的，但导致产生这些结果的原因还得我们去查清。”
“对。”我恭敬地说。
“刚才电话铃响的时候我好像正要说什么，”波洛思索着说，“啊，对对，那封马吉小姐的信。我还要再看看，我隐隐觉得信里有某种东西使我汗毛直竖，很奇怪呀！”
我把信从桌上拿起来扔给了他。
他默默地从头到尾细看了一遍。我在房间里踱来踱去，透过窗子观看海湾里的游艇比赛。
突然一声惊呼吓了我一跳，我转过身去，看见波洛双手捧住了头前摇后晃，看上去苦恼万分。
“哦，”他呻吟道，“天哪！我是个瞎子——瞎子！”
“怎么啦？”
“复杂——我是不是这么说过——复杂极了？不，根本不！这个奇案极其简单——极其！我怎么没有想到这点呢？我怎么什么也没看出来呢？啊，我这可悲的糟老头子！”
“发发慈悲吧，波洛。你发现了什么？一道什么光明照到了你心里啦？”
“等一下——等一下，别做声。我得赶快抓住这道照亮了一切的灵感之光，好好整理一下我的思路。”
他抓起那张嫌疑人物表从头到尾默读一遍。口中念念有词。有一两次他重重地点了点头。
然后他把这些纸头放回桌上，往后一仰靠在椅子背上，闭上了双眼。见他一动不动，我还当他兴奋得精疲力竭而睡着了。
忽然间他叹了一口气又张开了眼睛。
“是啊，”他说，“都对上号了，所有那些叫我伤透了脑筋的事全都各就各位啦。”
“你是说，一切你都明白了？”
“差不多了。有些地方我是对的，至于其它那一切包括基本的观点在内，我是从一开始就大错而特错了。现在总算全弄清楚了。今天我要发两个电报去问几个问题，虽然答案已经全在这里头了！”他敲敲前额说。
“收到回电之后呢？”我好奇地问。
他倏地站了起来。
“我的朋友，你记不记得尼克小姐说过她要在悬崖山庄演一出戏？今天晚上我们就在悬崖山庄演上一场，不过要由赫尔克里•波洛导演。尼克小姐也将扮演其中一个角色。”他突然咧嘴一笑，“你知道，黑斯廷斯，我们的戏里将出现一个幽魂，是的，一个鬼！悬崖山庄从来没见识过鬼，今天晚上可要用它那股子阴气为鬼开门了！不，别问了，”当我想问他几句话时，他匆匆说道，“我不再多说什么了。今天晚上，黑斯廷斯，我们将上演我们的喜剧，并使这悬崖山庄的奇案真相大白。但现在还有许多事要做，许多许多。”
他从房间里跑出去了。
Chapter 19 Poirot Produces a Play 波洛导演的戏
Chapter 19 - Poirot Produces a Play
It was a curious gathering that met that night at End House.
I had hardly seen Poirot all day. He had been out for dinner but had left me a message that I was to be at End House at nine o'clock. Evening dress, he had added, was not necessary.
The whole thing was like a rather ridiculous dream.
On arrival I was ushered into the dining-room and when I looked round I realized that every person on Poirot's list from A. to I. (J. was necessarily excluded, being in the Mrs Harris-like position of 'there ain't no such person') was present.
Even Mrs Croft was there in a kind of invalid chair. She smiled and nodded at me.
'This is a surprise, isn't it?' she said, cheerfully. 'It makes a change for me, I must say. I think I shall try and get out now and again. All M. Poirot's idea. Come and sit by me, Captain Hastings. Somehow I feel this is rather a gruesome business-but Mr Vyse made a point of it.'
'Mr Vyse?' I said, rather surprised.
Charles Vyse was standing by the mantelpiece. Poirot was beside him talking earnestly to him in an under-tone.
I looked round the room. Yes, they were all there. After showing me in (I had been a minute or two late) Ellen had taken her place on a chair just beside the door. On another chair, sitting painfully straight and breathing hard, was her husband. The child, Alfred, squirmed uneasily between his father and mother.
The rest sat round the dining-table. Frederica in her black dress, Lazarus beside her, George Challenger and Croft on the other side of the table. I sat a little away from it near Mrs Croft. And now Charles Vyse, a final nod of the head, took his place at the head of the table, and Poirot slipped unobtrusively into a seat next to Lazarus.
Clearly the producer, as Poirot had styled himself, did not propose to take a prominent part in the play. Charles Vyse was apparently in charge of the proceedings. I wondered what surprises Poirot had in store for him.
The young lawyer cleared his throat and stood up. He looked just the same as ever, impassive, formal and unemotional.
'This is rather an unconventional gathering we have here tonight,' he said. 'But the circumstances are very peculiar. I refer, of course, to the circumstances surrounding the death of my cousin, Miss Buckley. There will have, of course, to be an autopsy-there seems to be no doubt that she met her death by poison, and that that poison was administered with the intent to kill. This is police business and I need not go into it. The police would doubtless prefer me not to do so.'
'In an ordinary case, the will of a deceased person is read after the funeral, but in deference to M. Poirot's special wish, I am proposing to read it before the funeral takes place. In fact, I am proposing to read it here and now. That is why everyone has been asked to come here. As I said just now, the circumstances are unusual and justify a departure from precedent.'
'The will itself came into my possession in a somewhat unusual manner. Although dated last February, it only reached me by post this morning. However, it is undoubtedly in the handwriting of my cousin-I have no doubt on that point, and though a most informal document, it is properly attested.'
He paused and cleared his throat once more. Every eye was upon his face.
From a long envelope in his hand, he drew out an enclosure. It was, as we could see, an ordinary piece of End House notepaper with writing on it.
'It is quite short,' said Vyse. He made a suitable pause, then began to read:
'This is the last Will and Testament of Magdala Buckley. I direct that all my funeral expenses should be paid and I appoint my cousin Charles Vyse as my executor. I leave everything of which I die possessed to Mildred Croft in grateful recognition of the services rendered by her to my father, Philip Buckley, which services nothing can ever repay.'
'Signed-Magdala Buckley, 'Witnesses-Ellen Wilson, William Wilson.'
I was dumbfounded! So I think was everyone else. Only Mrs Croft nodded her head in quiet understanding.
'It's true,' she said, quietly. 'Not that I ever meant to let on about it. Philip Buckley was out in Australia, and if it hadn't been for me-well, I'm not going into that. A secret it's been and a secret it had better remain. She knew about it, though. Nick did, I mean. Her father must have told her. We came down here because we wanted to have a look at the place. I'd always been curious about this End House Philip Buckley talked of. And that dear girl knew all about it, and couldn't do enough for us. Wanted us to come and live with her, she did. But we wouldn't do that. And so she insisted on our having the lodge-and not a penny of rent would she take. We pretended to pay it, of course, so as not to cause talk, but she handed it back to us. And now-this! Well, if anyone says there is no gratitude in the world, I'll tell them they're wrong! This proves it.'
There was still an amazed silence. Poirot looked at Vyse. 'Had you any idea of this?' Vyse shook his head.
'I knew Philip Buckley had been in Australia. But I never heard any rumours of a scandal there.'
He looked inquiringly at Mrs Croft. She shook her head.
'No, you won't get a word out of me. I never have said a word and I never shall. The secret goes to the grave with me.'
Vyse said nothing. He sat quietly tapping the table with a pencil.
'I presume, M. Vyse'-Poirot leaned forward-'that as next of kin you could contest that will? There is, I understand, a vast fortune at stake which was not the case when the will was made.'
Vyse looked at him coldly.
'The will is perfectly valid. I should not dream of contesting my cousin's disposal of her property.'
'You're an honest fellow,' said Mrs Croft, approvingly. 'And I'll see you don't lose by it.'
Charles sank a little from this well-meant but slightly embarrassing remark.
'Well, Mother,' said Mr Croft, with an elation he could not quite keep out of his voice. 'This is a surprise! Nick didn't tell me what she was doing.'
'The dear sweet girl,' murmured Mrs Croft, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. 'I wish she could look down and see us now. Perhaps she does-who knows?'
'Perhaps,' agreed Poirot.
Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He looked round.
'An idea! We are all here seated round a table. Let us hold a seance.'
'A seance?' said Mrs Croft, somewhat shocked. 'But surely-'
'Yes, yes, it will be most interesting. Hastings, here, has pronounced mediumistic powers.' (Why fix on me, I thought.) 'To get through a message from the other world-the opportunity is unique! I feel the conditions are propitious. You feel the same, Hastings.'
'Yes,' I said resolutely, playing up. 'Good. I knew it. Quick, the lights.'
In another minute he had risen and switched them off. The whole thing had been rushed on the company before they had had the energy to protest had
they wanted to do so. As a matter of fact they were, I think, still dazed with astonishment over the will.
The room was not quite dark. The curtains were drawn back and the window was open for it was a hot night, and through those windows came a faint light. After a minute or two, as we sat in silence, I began to be able to make out the faint outlines of the furniture. I wondered very much what I was supposed to do and cursed Poirot heartily for not having given me my instructions beforehand.
However, I closed my eyes and breathed in a rather stertorous manner.
Presently Poirot rose and tiptoed to my chair. Then returning to his own, he murmured.
'Yes, he is already in a trance. Soon-things will begin to happen.'
There is something about sitting in the dark, waiting, that fills one with unbearable apprehension. I know that I myself was a prey to nerves and so, I was sure, was everyone else. And yet I had at least an idea of what was about to happen. I knew the one vital fact that no one else knew.
And yet, in spite of all that, my heart leapt into my mouth as I saw the dining-room door slowly opening.
It did so quite soundlessly (it must have been oiled) and the effect was horribly grisly. It swung slowly open and for a minute or two that was all. With its opening a cold blast of air seemed to enter the room. It was, I suppose, a common or garden draught owing to the open window, but it felt like the icy chill mentioned in all the ghost stories I have ever read.
And then we all saw it! Framed in the doorway was a white shadowy figure. Nick Buckley...
She advanced slowly and noiselessly-with a kind of floating ethereal motion that certainly conveyed the impression of nothing human...
I realized then what an actress the world had missed. Nick had wanted to play a part at End House. Now she was playing it, and I felt convinced that she was enjoying herself to the core. She did it perfectly.
She floated forward into the room-and the silence was broken.
There was a gasping cry from the invalid chair beside me. A kind of gurgle from Mr Croft. A startled oath from Challenger. Charles Vyse drew back his chair, I think. Lazarus leaned forward. Frederica alone made no sound or movement.
And then a scream rent the room. Ellen sprang up from her chair.
'It's her!' she shrieked. 'She's come back. She's walking! Them that's murdered always walks. It's her! It's her!'
And then, with a click the lights went on.
I saw Poirot standing by them, the smile of the ringmaster on his face. Nick stood in the middle of the room in her white draperies.
It was Frederica who spoke first. She stretched out an unbelieving hand-touched her friend.
'Nick,' she said. 'You're-you're real!' It was almost a whisper. Nick laughed. She advanced.
'Yes,' she said. 'I'm real enough. Thank you so much for what you did for my father, Mrs Croft. But I'm afraid you won't be able to enjoy the benefit of that will just yet.'
'Oh, my God,' gasped Mrs Croft. 'Oh, my God.' She twisted to and fro in her chair. 'Take me away, Bert. Take me away. It was all a joke, my dear-all a joke, that's all it was. Honest.'
'A queer sort of joke,' said Nick.
The door had opened again and a man had entered so quietly that I had not heard him. To my surprise I saw that it was Japp. He exchanged a quick nod with Poirot as though satisfying him of something. Then his face suddenly lit up and he took a step forward towards the squirming figure in the invalid chair.
'Hello-ello-ello,' he said. 'What's this? An old friend! Milly Merton, I declare! And at your old tricks again, my dear.'
He turned round in an explanatory way to the company disregarding Mrs Croft's shrill protests.
'Cleverest forger we've ever had, Milly Merton. We knew there had been an accident to the car they made their last getaway in. But there! Even an injury to the spine wouldn't keep Milly from her tricks. She's an artist, she is!'
'Was that will a forgery?' said Vyse. He spoke in tones of amazement.
'Of course it was a forgery,' said Nick scornfully. 'You don't think I'd make a silly will like that, do you? I left you End House, Charles, and everything else to Frederica.'
She crossed as she spoke and stood by her friend, and just at that moment it happened!
A spurt of flame from the window and the hiss of a bullet. Then another and the sound of a groan and a fall outside...
And Frederica on her feet with a thin trickle of blood running down her arm...

第十九章　波洛导演的戏
那天晚上在悬崖山庄的聚会是相当奇怪的。
我几乎一整天没有见到波洛，他出去吃晚饭时给我留了个字条，叫我在九点到悬崖山庄去。他在字条上还特地加了一句，叫我不必穿晚礼服。
整个经过都像一幕精心导演的荒唐闹剧。
我到达悬崖山庄后，被让进客厅。我环顾了一下，注意到波洛那张从一到十的嫌疑人物表上的每个人都在场（第十位当然不在场，那本来就是一位乌有先生）。甚至克罗夫特太太都来了，她坐在一张残废人用的手推椅里，朝我笑着点点头。
“想不到我也会来吧？”她欢快地说，“这对我来说可真够换口味的，我想我应当多出来活动，这也是波洛先生的想法。过来坐在我身边吧，黑斯廷斯上尉，不知怎地我总觉得今天晚上的事有点叫人头皮发麻，这都是维斯先生想出来的。”
“维斯先生？”我感到相当意外。
查尔斯•维斯正站在壁炉架旁，波洛在他身边很严肃地跟他低声交谈。我又朝整个房间看了看，是的，这些人全在这儿，我被引进来之后（我迟到了一两分钟），埃伦就在门边一张椅子上坐了下来，另一张椅子上笔直地坐着她那喘气如牛的丈夫，那孩子，艾尔弗雷德，很不自在地扭来扭去，坐在他父母当中。
其余的人围绕餐桌坐着，弗雷德里卡穿着她黑色的礼服，旁边是拉扎勒斯，桌子另一边是乔治•查林杰和克罗夫特，我坐得离桌子稍远一些，在克罗夫特太太身边。现在查尔斯•维斯最后点了点头，坐到桌子顶端主人的位置上。波洛则悄没声儿地坐到拉扎勒斯旁边。
年轻的律师咳嗽了一声站起来，看上去依然一本正经，毫无表情。
“今天晚上我们的聚会是很不平常的，”他说，“地点也很特别，我指的当然是，这是我已故表妹巴克利小姐住的地方。当然，要进行验尸。她无疑是中毒死的。那毒药的目的也正是为了毒死她。不过这是警察们的事，我不打算多谈，而且警察也不希望我这样做。
“一般情形之下，死者的遗嘱总是在葬礼举行之后才宣读的，但由于波洛先生的要求，我将在葬礼之前宣读遗嘱。事实上，我就在此时此地当众宣读。这就是诸位被请来的原因，就如我刚才所说的，在不寻常的情形之下，我认为我这样做是有充分理由的。
“这份遗嘱有点不寻常，签署日期是去年二月，但直至今天上午才由邮局送来，遗嘱是我表妹亲笔写的——对这一点我毫不怀疑，虽然格式不对，但它有正式的见证人，因些它是完全有效的。”
他停了停，又清了清嗓子，每双眼睛都注视着他。
他从手中的一只长信封里抽出一张纸，我们都看见那是一张普通的悬崖山庄便笺。
“相当短，”维斯说着，恰如其分地顿了顿，就开始读道：
这是我——玛格黛勒•巴克利最后的遗嘱，我指定我葬礼的一切费用必须全部付清，并且指定我的表哥查尔斯•维斯为遗嘱执行人，为了报答米尔德里德•克罗夫特对我父亲菲利普•巴克利的无法报答的恩情，我把我死时所拥有的一切财产留给米尔德里德•克罗夫特。
签名：玛格黛勒•巴克利
见证：埃伦•威尔逊
威廉•威尔逊
我怔住了，我猜大家也全怔住了，只有克罗夫特太太深知就里地点了点头。
“是的，这是真的，”她平静地说，“我并不是想提起往事，但当时菲利普•巴克利在澳大利亚，要不是我——算了。我不说了，那是一个秘密，没有必要揭示出来，但显然她知道了这段往事秘密，我指的当然是尼克，一定是她父亲告诉了她。我们从澳大利亚到这儿来为的是看看这块地方。我以前时常听菲利普•巴克利说起这个悬崖山庄，心里充满了好奇，那亲爱的好姑娘知道一切，总觉得怎么做也表达不了她的谢意，她要我们跟她住在一起，但我们不愿意这么做，后来她坚持要我们住进门房小屋，一个便士的租金都不肯收，当然啰，为了防止飞短流长的闲话议论，我们假装付给她租金，然而她暗地里又还给我们。现在呢——又是这么个遗嘱！好吧，如果有人认为世人都是忘恩负义的，我就要告诉他们想错了！这就是证明。”
在一片充满了惊诧的静默中，波洛看看维斯，说：
“你知道这件事吗？”
维斯摇了摇头。
“我知道菲利普•巴克利到过澳大利亚，但没有听说过关于他在那里的任何传闻。”
他疑问地看看克罗夫特太太。
她摇摇头：
“不，从我这儿你是一个字也不会得到的。我从未对别人说起过这件事，将来也决不会说的。这个秘密将同我一起埋进坟墓。”
维斯不做声了。他静静地坐在那里，用一枝铅笔敲着桌子。
“我认为，维斯先生，”波洛向前凑了凑说道，“你是死者最近的亲属，你可以对这份遗嘱提出抗议，因为，我知道立这份遗嘱的时候，立遗嘱人不知道这份遗嘱现有的价值，由于塞顿的死，财产一下子增加了数千倍！”
维斯冷冷地看着他。
“这份遗嘱是完全有效的。我绝不会对我表妹处理她财产的方式表示异议。”
“你是个忠厚的人，”克罗夫特太太赞赏地说，“你将知道你这样做是值得的。”
这种评价和这番好意使查尔斯不自在地往后缩了缩。
“啊，妈妈，”克罗夫特先生用一种掩盖不住的兴奋声音说，“真想不到！尼克没告诉过我她是这么办的。”
“亲爱的小姑娘，”克罗夫特太太喃喃地说道，用手帕擦了擦眼角，“我但愿她现在能从天上俯视我们，也许她确实能看见我们的——谁知道呢？”
“可能的。”波洛表示同意。
他好像突然想起了什么似的前后左右看了看。
“我有个想法！既然我们都坐在桌子旁边，就来一次招魂术怎样？”
“招魂术！”克罗夫特不知为何一惊，“但无疑地——”
“啊，啊，肯定会十分有趣。黑斯廷斯有一种沟通两个世界的法术（为什么扯到我头上来了），能够从另一个世界里招回幽魂——机会难得，我觉得地点也正好，你也这样想吗，黑斯廷斯？”
“是的。”我毅然答道，准备豁出去了。
“好，我知道了，快，熄灯！”
说着他自己站了起来把灯全关掉了，他的动作是如此之快，谁也来不及提出异议，事实上他们——我想——还没有从那个遗嘱所造成的惊异中清醒过来。
房间里并非漆黑一片，窗帘拉开着，而且由于天气暖和，窗子也开在那里。窗外映进一片昏暗的光，我们无声地坐着，一两分钟后，我已经能够辨认出家具模糊的轮廓。我真急死了，一点也不知道下一步该怎么做，因为事前波洛根本没关照过我。
我闭上了双眼，假装打起鼾来。
这时波洛站了起来，踮起脚尖走到我的椅子旁，然后又折回他自己的座位，自言自语地说：
“啊，她已经出了元神，我们马上就要看到……”
坐在黑暗当中等待一种不可知的神秘事件是会叫人心胆俱裂的，我的神经紧张极了，我想别人也一样，这时我终于猜出了将会发生什么事，因为我知道一个别人都不知道的重要事实。
即使是这样，当我看见餐厅的门被无声地推开时，我的心也还是跳到了喉咙口。那扇门想必上过了油，因此造成了一种恐怖到极点的鬼气，随着那扇门被缓缓推开，房间里像吹进了一股阴森森的冷风。我想，这是窗外流进来的花园里的夜气，但此时它就像我所看过的鬼怪小说里的阴风一样，令人毛骨悚然。
我们都看见了！门口有一个白色的人影，是尼克•巴克利……
她无声无息地移动着，那种飘忽的步态真像个幽灵。
这时我才真正意识到我们这个世界损失了一个多么了不起的女演员，尼克早就想在悬崖山庄演一出戏，现在她如愿以偿了。而且我可以肯定她陶醉于自己扮演的角色，她演得不能再好了。
她慢慢地往房间里飘了进来。
我旁边那张残废人的椅子里发出一声恐怖的低呼，那是克罗夫特太太的声音。查林杰因为非常惊骇而呼起“我的天”来。查尔斯•维斯呢，我觉得，他把椅子往后挪了一挪。拉扎勒斯向前弯着身子，瞪大了双眼。只有弗雷德里卡静静地坐着没动也没响。
这时候一声尖叫，埃伦跳了起来。
“是她！”她叫道，“她还魂了！她在走路！枉死鬼走起路来就是这种样子的呀，是她，是她啊！”
就在这时，“啪嗒”一声，灯光复明。
我看见波洛站在那儿，满脸是马戏团主导演了得意杰作以后等待观众鼓掌的那种微笑。尼克穿着白色长衫站在房间当中。
弗雷德里卡第一个说话，她半信半疑地伸出手去碰碰她的朋友。
“尼克，”她说，“你是，你真的是人吗？”
这句话轻得像是耳语。
尼克笑了起来，她走上前来说道：
“是的，我是实实在在的。”然后转向克罗夫特太太，说，“对于你为我父亲所做的事我这辈子感激不尽，克罗夫特太太，但我怕你还不能享受那份遗嘱所提供的利益。”
“哦，我的上帝，”克罗夫特太太喘吁吁地说道，“我的上帝！”她在椅子里扭动着身子直摇晃，“带我走吧，帕特，带我回去。他们开了个大玩笑，我亲爱的——大玩笑呀，真的，就是这么回事。”
“很古怪的一种玩笑。”尼克说。
门又开了，进来一个人，他走路是如此之轻，以致我都没有听见。我吃惊地发现那是贾普，他很快地跟波洛点了点头，他点头时脸上的神情好像知道这一点头波洛一定会觉得满意似的。
接着他脸色豁然开朗，快步走向残废椅里的那位不自在的太太。
“你好哇，好哇，好哇！”他说，“这是谁呀？一位老朋友！告诉诸位，这是米利•默顿，而且还在干她的老勾当，我亲爱的。”
他不理会克罗夫特太太的阻挠，对大家解释说：
“这是我们碰到过的最有才干的证件伪造者，米利•默顿。上回是由于一次交通事故才被他们逃走的，瞧啊，即使断了脊梁骨她也不肯改邪归正。她是个艺术家，货真价实的。”
“这个遗嘱是伪造的吗？”维斯问道。他的声音充满了惊讶。
“当然是伪造的，”尼克嘲弄地说，“你总不至于认为我会立这样荒唐的一个遗嘱吧，我把山庄留给你，查尔斯，其它的统统给了弗雷德里卡。”
她说着走到她那位女朋友身边。就在这时出事了。
窗口火光一闪，一颗子弹呼啸而入，接着又是一枪，我们听见窗外有人呻吟了一声摔倒在地上。
弗雷德里卡呆呆地站着，臂上流下一股殷红的血……
Chapter 20 J. “第十”
Chapter 20 - J.
It was all so sudden that for a moment no one knew what had happened.
Then, with a violent exclamation, Poirot ran to the window. Challenger was with him.
A moment later they reappeared, carrying with them the limp body of a man. As they lowered him carefully into a big leather armchair and his face came into view, I uttered a cry.
'The face-the face at the window...'
It was the man I had seen looking in on us the previous evening. I recognized him at once. I realized that when I had said he was hardly human I had exaggerated as Poirot had accused me of doing.
Yet there was something about his face that justified my impression. It was a lost face-the face of one removed from ordinary humanity.
White, weak, depraved-it seemed a mere mask-as though the spirit within had fled long ago.
Down the side of it there trickled a stream of blood.
Frederica came slowly forward till she stood by the chair.
Poirot intercepted her.
'You are hurt, Madame?'
She shook her head.
'The bullet grazed my shoulder-that is all.'
She put him aside with a gentle hand and bent down.
The man's eyes opened and he saw her looking down at him.
'I've done for you this time, I hope,' he said in a low vicious snarl, and then, his voice changing suddenly till it sounded like a child's, 'Oh! Freddie, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. You've always been so decent to me...'
'It's all right-'
She knelt down beside him.
'I didn't mean-'
His head dropped. The sentence was never finished.
Frederica looked up at Poirot.
'Yes, Madame, he is dead,' he said, gently.
She rose slowly from her knees and stood looking down at him. With one hand she touched his forehead-pitifully, it seemed. Then she sighed and turned to the rest of us.
'He was my husband,' she said, quietly.
'J.,' I murmured.
Poirot caught my remark, and nodded a quick assent.
'Yes,' he said softly. 'Always I felt that there was a J. I said so from the beginning, did I not?'
'He was my husband,' said Frederica again. Her voice was terribly tired. She sank into a chair that Lazarus brought for her. 'I might as well tell you everything-now.'
'He was-completely debased. He was a drug fiend. He taught me to take drugs. I have been fighting the habit ever since I left him. I think-at last-I am nearly cured. But it has been difficult. Oh! so horribly difficult. Nobody knows how difficult!'
'I could never escape from him. He used to turn up and demand money-with threats. A kind of blackmail. If I did not give him money he would shoot himself. That was always his threat. Then he took to threatening to shoot me. He was not responsible. He was mad-crazy...'
'I suppose it was he who shot Maggie Buckley. He didn't mean to shoot her, of course. He must have thought it was me.
'I ought to have said, I suppose. But, after all, I wasn't sure. And those queer accidents Nick had-that made me feel that perhaps it wasn't him after all. It might have been someone quite different.
'And then-one day-I saw a bit of his handwriting on a torn piece of paper on M. Poirot's table. It was part of a letter he had sent me. I knew then that M. Poirot was on the track.
'Since then I have felt that it was only a matter of time...'
'But I don't understand about the sweets. He wouldn't have wanted to poison Nick. And anyway, I don't see how he could have had anything to do with that. I've puzzled and puzzled.'
She put both hands to her face, then took them away and said with a queer pathetic finality: 'That's all...'

第二十章　“第十”
这事发生得如此突如其来，有那么一瞬间大家全怔住了。
紧接着波洛大叫一声奔出窗外，查林杰跟随着他。
他们很快就回来了，抬着软绵绵的一个人。他们把他小心地放在一张皮沙发上。我看清他的面孔以后惊呼起来：
“这就是——这就是窗上的那张脸！”
是的，昨晚从窗外窥视我们的就是这个人，我立刻认了出来。我还记得当我说他有一张死人的脸时，波洛还为此责备过我。
然而眼前的这张面孔证明了我当时的说法并无大错。这是一张迷惘呆滞的脸，跟一般人类的脸大不相同：苍白憔悴，虚弱不堪，而且变了形，好像一个假面具，看上去叫人觉得仿佛此人早就没有了灵魂；脸的另一侧下面淌满了血。
弗雷德里卡慢慢地走了过来，站在沙发旁边。波洛转身遮住了她，不让她看这幅惨淡的图画。
“你受伤了，太太？”
她摇摇头。
“子弹擦破了肩膀，没什么。”
她轻轻推开波洛，弯下身去。
那人张开了眼睛，见她正看着自己。
“我但愿这次能叫你满意了，”他恶毒地低声咆哮起来。但突然间他的声音变得同一个孩子差不多，“哦，弗雷迪，我这不是真心话，不是真心话呀。你老是对我这么宽容……”
“别难过了——”
她跪在他身边。
“我不是真的想……”
说到这里他的头猛地歪到了一边，这句话永远不会有下文了。
弗雷德里卡抬起头看看波洛。
“是啊，太太，他死了。”他轻声说。
弗雷德里卡慢慢地站了起来，低头看着死去的人，用一只手怜悯地抚摸着他的前额，然后叹了一口气，转向我们大家。
“他是我丈夫。”她平静地说。
“第十，那个始终存在的问号。”我自言自语地说。
波洛点点头，接着我的话说：
“是的，我一直就觉得存在着第十个人。我一开始就这么说的，不是吗？”
“他是我丈夫，”弗雷德里卡有气无力地说，然后一下子坐进了拉扎勒斯搬给她的一张椅子里。“我可以把一切都告诉你们了——现在。”
“他是个完全堕落的浪子，是个吸毒者，而且教我吸毒。跟他分居以来我一直挣扎着想戒掉这种瘾头。我觉得终于有了成效。这是很痛苦，很困难的，噢，难得无法想象，没有这种经历的人是完全无法体会的。
“但我摆脱不了他。他老是来讨钱——连恫吓带诈骗，或者说是勒索。要是我不给钱，他就要自杀——这便是他手中的王牌。后来他又说要是拿不到钱，不但要自杀，而且还要先把我杀掉。他是什么都干得出来的，是个疯子，是个狂妄的人。
“我认为是他杀了玛格黛勒•巴克利。当然，他要杀的不是她而是我，但他搞错了。
“我想我应当早就把这个情况讲出来了，但我毕竟只是猜测，并无凭据。而且尼克所遇到的那些奇怪的事故好像是精心策划的，这就使我感到杀死玛格黛勒•巴克利的可能根本不是他，而是另外有人。
“后来，有一天我在波洛先生桌上看见了一张撕破的纸，上面有他的笔迹，那是他给我的信的残片，于是我就惊骇地明白了波洛先生已经有了线索。
“打那时起，我觉得只是时间问题了……
“虽然我懂得玛格黛勒•巴克利小姐为什么会被打死，但巧克力糖的事我却完全想不通。他不会想去毒死尼克的，反正我看不出他这么做有什么意义。我困惑极了，一直想不出个道理来。”
她双手捂着脸，然后又缓缓松开，像要晕过去似的。
“就是这些了……”
Chapter 21 The Person-K. “第十一”
Chapter 21 - The Person-K.
Lazarus came quickly to her side. 'My dear,' he said. 'My dear.'
Poirot went to the sideboard, poured out a glass of wine and brought it to her, standing over her while she drank it.
She handed the glass back to him and smiled.
'I'm all right now,' she said. 'What-what had we better do next?'
She looked at Japp, but the Inspector shook his head. 'I'm on a holiday, Mrs Rice. Just obliging an old friend-that's all I'm doing. The St Loo police are in charge of the case.'
She looked at Poirot.
'And M. Poirot is in charge of the St Loo Police?'
'Oh! Quelle idee, Madame! I am a mere humble adviser.'
'M. Poirot,' said Nick. 'Can't we hush it up?'
'You wish that, Mademoiselle?'
'Yes. After all-I'm the person most concerned. And there will be no more attacks on me-now.'
'No, that is true. There will be no more attacks on you now.'
'You're thinking of Maggie. But, M. Poirot, nothing will bring Maggie back to life again! If you make all this public, you'll only bring a terrible lot of suffering and publicity on Frederica-and she hasn't deserved it.'
'You say she has not deserved it?'
'Of course she hasn't! I told you right at the beginning that she had a brute of a husband. You've seen to-night-what he was. Well, he's dead. Let that be the end of things. Let the police go on looking for the man who shot Maggie. They just won't find him, that's all.'
'So that is what you say, Mademoiselle? Hush it all up.'
'Yes. Please. Oh! Please. Please, dear M. Poirot.'
Poirot looked slowly round.
'What do you all say?'
Each spoke in turn.
'I agree,' I said, as Poirot looked at me.
'I, too,' said Lazarus.
'Best thing to do,' from Challenger.
'Let's forget everything that's passed in this room tonight.' This very determinedly from Croft.
'You would say that!' interpolated Japp.
'Don't be hard on me, dearie,' his wife sniffed to Nick, who looked at her scornfully but made no reply.
'Ellen?'
'Me and William won't say a word, sir. Least said, soonest mended.'
'And you, M. Vyse?'
'A thing like this can't be hushed up,' said Charles Vyse. 'The facts must be made known in the proper quarter.'
'Charles!' cried Nick.
'I'm sorry, dear. I look at it from the legal aspect.' Poirot gave a sudden laugh. 'So you are seven to one. The good Japp is neutral.' 'I'm on holiday,' said Japp, with a grin. 'I don't count.'
'Seven to one. Only M. Vyse holds out-on the side of law and order! You know, M. Vyse, you are a man of character!'
Vyse shrugged his shoulders.
'The position is quite clear. There is only one thing to do.'
'Yes-you are an honest man. Eh bien -I, too, range myself on the side of the minority. I, too, am for the truth.'
'M. Poirot!' cried Nick.
'Mademoiselle-you dragged me into the case. I came into it at your wish. You cannot silence me now.'
He raised a threatening forefinger in a gesture that I knew well. 'Sit down-all of you, and I will tell you-the truth.'
Silenced by his imperious attitude, we sat down meekly and turned attentive faces towards him.
'Ecoutez! I have a list here-a list of persons connected with the crime. I numbered them with the letters of the alphabet including the letter J. J. stood for a person unknown-linked to the crime by one of the others. I did not know who J. was until tonight, but I knew that there was such a person. The events of tonight have proved that I was right.'
'But yesterday, I suddenly realized that I had made a grave error. I had made an omission. I added another letter to my list. The letter K.'
'Another person unknown?' asked Vyse, with a slight sneer.
'Not exactly. I adopted J. as the symbol for a person unknown. Another person unknown would be merely another J. K. has a different significance. It stands for a person who should have been included in the original list, but who was overlooked.'
He bent over Frederica.
'Reassure yourself, Madame. Your husband was not guilty of murder. It was the person K. who shot Mademoiselle Maggie.'
She stared. 'But who is K.?'
Poirot nodded to Japp. He stepped forward and spoke in tones reminiscent of the days when he had given evidence in police courts.
'Acting on information received, I took up a position here early in the evening, having been introduced secretly into the house by M. Poirot. I was concealed behind the curtains in the drawing-room. When everyone was assembled in this room, a young lady entered the drawing-room and switched on the light. She made her way to the fireplace and opened a small recess in the panelling that appeared to be operated with a spring. She took from the recess a pistol. With this in her hand she left the room. I followed her and opening the door a crack I was able to observe her further movements. Coats and wraps had been left in the hall by the visitors on arrival. The young lady carefully wiped the pistol with a handkerchief and then placed it in the pocket of a grey wrap, the property of Mrs Rice-'
A cry burst from Nick.
'This is untrue-every word of it!'
Poirot pointed a hand at her.
'Voila!' he said. 'The person K.! It was Mademoiselle Nick who shot her cousin, Maggie Buckley.'
'Are you mad?' cried Nick. 'Why should I kill Maggie?'
'In order to inherit the money left to her by Michael Seton! Her name too was Magdala Buckley-and it was to her he was engaged-not you.'
'You-you-'
She stood there trembling-unable to speak. Poirot turned to Japp.
'You telephoned to the police?'
'Yes, they are waiting in the hall now. They've got the warrant.'
'You're all mad!' cried Nick, contemptuously. She moved swiftly to Frederica's side. 'Freddie, give me your wrist-watch as-as a souvenir, will you?'
Slowly Frederica unclasped the jewelled watch from her wrist and handed it to Nick.
'Thanks. And now-I suppose we must go through with this perfectly ridiculous comedy.'
'The comedy you planned and produced in End House. Yes-but you should not have given the star part to Hercule Poirot. That, Mademoiselle, was your mistake-your very grave mistake.'

第二十一章　“第十一”
拉扎勒斯快步走到她身旁。
“我亲爱的，”他说，“我亲爱的。”
波洛打开食品橱倒了杯酒递给她，她喝了以后，把酒杯递还给波洛。
“现在好些了。下一步我们怎么办呢？”
她看看贾普，但警督摇摇头。
“我在休假，赖斯太太。我只是来帮助老朋友一臂之力的。对这个案子负责的是圣卢的警察呀。”
她又看看波洛，问：
“那么波洛先生代表圣卢警察当局吗？”
“哦，多奇怪的想法，太太。我只是个微不足道的咨询侦探。”
这时尼克小姐很快地把在场的人打量了一遍，走上前来对波洛说：
“我们别声张，就让这个案子悄悄了结了难道不好吗，波洛先生？”
“你希望这样，小姐？”
“是的。反正我是当事人，现在我不会再遭到暗算了。”
“说得对，你不会再被暗算了。”
“你在想马吉吧？但是，波洛先生，不管怎样，马吉是不能复活了。如果你把这一切都公开的话，只能给弗雷德里卡造成损失，她会受到社会的歧视和诽谤的。你总明白，她是无辜的，不应当受到这样的惩罚。”
“你说不应当？”
“当然不应当。我一开始就告诉你，她嫁了一个野蛮残忍的丈夫。今天晚上你自己就可以证实这一点。现在他死了，我们就让这场噩梦结束了吧。让警察们继续徒劳无益地追查杀死马吉的凶手好了，他们什么也不会找到，一切就不了了之了。”
“那么，你的意思，小姐，就是大家保持缄默？”
“是的。好吗？哦，就这么办吧，亲爱的波洛先生。”
尼克撒娇地摇摇波洛的膀子，像一个受宠的孩子要求父亲给她买一个昂贵的玩具。
波洛缓缓地环顾了一圈。
“你们说呢？”
一个个都表了态。
“我同意。”当波洛看我的时候，我这么说。
“我也是。”这是拉扎勒斯的意见。
“再好没有了。”查林杰这时更爱尼克了。
“让我们把今天晚上这里发生的一切都完全忘掉吧。”克罗夫特先生毫不犹豫地表示赞同。
“你当然希望这样啰。”贾普瞟了克罗夫特先生一眼。
“高抬贵手吧，亲爱的。”克罗夫特太太谄媚地对尼克说。尼克轻蔑地看了她一眼，没有答话。
“埃伦，你呢？”
“我和威廉不会走漏一点风声。就这样结束了吧。”
“维斯先生？”
“纸里包不住火，”查尔斯•维斯说，“事实总应当有它本来的面目。”
“查尔斯！”尼克叫道。
“哦，对不起，亲爱的。我是站在法律的立场上看问题的。”
波洛忽然笑了。
“你们是七比一。我们的好贾普持中立。”
“我在休假，”贾普一笑，“不算。”
“七比一。只有维斯先生持异议，他站在法律和道义的立场上。我知道，维斯先生，你是一个品格高尚的人。”
维斯耸耸肩膀，说：
“情况很清楚。我们应当做的只有一件事。”
“好。你是个诚实的人。啊，我站在少数这一边。我赞成追查到底。”
“波洛先生！”尼克叫道。
“小姐，是你让我参与了这个案子，我是按照你的愿望承担本案的，因此，现在你不能使我半途而废。”
Chapter 22  The End of the Story 尾声
Chapter 22 - The End of the Story
'You want me to explain?'
Poirot looked round with a gratified smile and the air of mock humility I knew so well.
We had moved into the drawing-room and our numbers had lessened. The domestics had withdrawn tactfully, and the Crofts had been asked to accompany the police. Frederica, Lazarus, Challenger, Vyse and I remained.
'Eh bien-I confess it-I was fooled-fooled completely and absolutely. The little Nick, she had me where she wanted me, as your idiom so well expresses it. Ah! Madame, when you said that your friend was a clever little liar-how right you were! How right!'
'Nick always told lies,' said Frederica, composedly. 'That's why I didn't really believe in these marvellous escapes of hers.'
'And I-imbecile that I was-did!'
'Didn't they really happen?' I asked. I was, I admit, still hopelessly confused. 'They were invented-very cleverly-to give just the impression they did.' 'What was that?'
'They gave the impression that Mademoiselle Nick's life was in danger. But I will begin earlier than that. I will tell you the story as I have pieced it out-not as it came to me imperfectly and in flashes.'
'At the beginning of the business then, we have this girl, this Nick Buckley, young and beautiful, unscrupulous, and passionately and fanatically devoted to her home.'
Charles Vyse nodded.
'I told you that.'
'And you were right. Mademoiselle Nick loved End House. But she had no money. The house was mortgaged. She wanted money-she wanted it feverishly-and she could not get it. She meets this young Seton at Le Touquet, he is attracted by her. She knows that in all probability he is his uncle's heir and that that uncle is worth millions. Good, her star is in the ascendant, she thinks. But he is not really seriously attracted. He thinks her good fun, that is all. They meet at Scarborough, he takes her up in his machine and then-the catastrophe occurs. He meets Maggie and falls in love with her at first sight.'
'Mademoiselle Nick is dumbfounded. Her cousin Maggie whom she has never considered pretty! But to young Seton she is "different". The one girl in the world for him. They become secretly engaged. Only one person knows-has to know. That person is Mademoiselle Nick. The poor Maggie-she is glad that there is one person she can talk to. Doubtless she reads to her cousin parts of her fiance's letters. So it is that Mademoiselle gets to hear of the will. She pays no attention to it at the time. But it remains in her mind.'
'Then comes the sudden and unexpected death of Sir Matthew Seton, and hard upon that the rumours of Michael Seton's being missing. And straightaway an outrageous plan comes into our young lady's head. Seton does not know that her name is Magdala also. He only knows her as Nick. His will is clearly quite informal-a mere mention of a name. But in the eyes of the world Seton is her friend! It is with her that his name has been coupled. If she were to claim to be engaged to him, no one would be surprised. But to do that successfully Maggie must be out of the way.'
'Time is short. She arranges for Maggie to come and stay in a few days' time. Then she has her escapes from death. The picture whose cord she cuts through. The brake of the car that she tampers with. The boulder-that perhaps was natural and she merely invented the story of being underneath on the path.'
'And then-she sees my name in the paper. (I told you, Hastings, everyone knew Hercule Poirot!) and she has the audacity to make me an accomplice! The bullet through the hat that falls at my feet. Oh! the pretty comedy. And I am taken in! I believe in the peril that menaces her! Bon! She has got a valuable witness on her side. I play into her hands by asking her to send for a friend.'
'She seizes the chance and sends for Maggie to come a day earlier.'
'How easy the crime is actually! She leaves us at the dinner table and after hearing on the wireless that Seton's death is a fact, she starts to put her plan into action. She has plenty of time, then, to take Seton's letters to Maggie-look through them and select the few that will answer her purpose. These she places in her own room. Then, later, she and Maggie leave the fireworks and go back to the house. She tells her cousin to put on her shawl. Then stealing out after her, she shoots her. Quick, into the house, the pistol concealed in the secret panel (of whose existence she thinks nobody knows). Then upstairs. There she waits till voices are heard. The body is discovered. It is her cue.'
'Down she rushes and out through the window.'
'How well she played her part! Magnificently! Oh, yes, she staged a fine drama here. The maid, Ellen, said this was an evil house. I am inclined to agree with her. It was from the house that Mademoiselle Nick took her inspiration.'
'But those poisoned sweets,' said Frederica. 'I still don't understand about that.'
'It was all part of the same scheme. Do you not see that if Nick's life was attempted after Maggie was dead that absolutely settled the question that Maggie's death had been a mistake.'
'When she thought the time was ripe she rang up Madame Rice and asked her to get her a box of chocolates.'
'Then it was her voice?'
'But, yes! How often the simple explanation is the true one! N'est ce pas? She made her voice sound a little different-that was all. So that you might be in doubt when questioned. Then, when the box arrived-again how simple. She fills three of the chocolates with cocaine (she had cocaine with her, cleverly concealed), eats one of them and is ill-but not too ill. She knows very well how much cocaine to take and just what symptoms to exaggerate.'
'And the card-my card! Ah! Sapristi -she has a nerve! It was my card-the one I sent with the flowers. Simple, was it not? Yes, but it had to be thought of...'
There was a pause and then Frederica asked: 'Why did she put the pistol in my coat?'
'I thought you would ask me that, Madame. It was bound to occur to you in time. Tell me-had it ever entered your head that Mademoiselle Nick no longer liked you? Did you ever feel that she might-hate you?'
'It's difficult to say,' said Frederica, slowly. 'We lived an insincere life. She used to be fond of me.'
'Tell me, M. Lazarus-it is not a time for false modesty, you understand-was there ever anything between you and her?'
'No.' Lazarus shook his head. 'I was attracted to her at one time. And then-I don't know why-I went off her.'
'Ah!' said Poirot, nodding his head sagely. 'That was her tragedy. She attracted people-and then they "went off her". Instead of liking her better and better you fell in love with her friend. She began to hate Madame-Madame who had a rich friend behind her. Last winter when she made a will, she was fond of Madame. Later it was different.'
'She remembered that will. She did not know that Croft had suppressed it-that it had never reached its destination. Madame (or so the world would say) had got a motive for desiring her death. So it was to Madame she telephoned asking her to get the chocolates. Tonight, the will would have been read, naming Madame her residuary legatee-and then the pistol would be found in her coat-the pistol with which Maggie Buckley was shot. If Madame found it, she might incriminate herself by trying to get rid of it.'
'She must have hated me,' murmured Frederica.
'Yes, Madame. You had what she had not-the knack of winning love, and keeping it.'
'I'm rather dense,' said Challenger, 'but I haven't quite fathomed the will business yet.'
'No? That's a different business altogether-a very simple one. The Crofts are lying low down here. Mademoiselle Nick has to have an operation. She has made no will. The Crofts see a chance. They persuade her to make one and take charge of it for the post. Then, if anything happens to her-if she dies-they produce a cleverly forged will-leaving the money to Mrs Croft with a reference to Australia and Philip Buckley whom they know once visited the country.'
'But Mademoiselle Nick has her appendix removed quite satisfactorily so the forged will is no good. For the moment, that is. Then the attempts on her life begin. The Crofts are hopeful once more. Finally, I announce her death. The chance is too good to be missed. The forged will is immediately posted to M. Vyse. Of course, to begin with, they naturally thought her much richer than she is. They knew nothing about the mortgage.'
'What I really want to know, M. Poirot,' said Lazarus, 'is how you actually got wise to all this. When did you begin to suspect?'
'Ah! there I am ashamed. I was so long-so long. There were things that worried me-yes. Things that seemed not quite right. Discrepancies between what Mademoiselle Nick told me and what other people told me. Unfortunately, I always believed Mademoiselle Nick.'
'And then, suddenly, I got a revelation. Mademoiselle Nick made one mistake. She was too clever. When I urged her to send for a friend she promised to do so-and suppressed the fact that she had already sent for Mademoiselle Maggie. It seemed to her less suspicious-but it was a mistake.'
'For Maggie Buckley wrote a letter home immediately on arrival, and in it she used one innocent phrase that puzzled me: "I don't see why Nick should have telegraphed for me the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well." What did that mention of Tuesday mean? It could only mean one thing. Maggie had been coming to stay on Tuesday anyway. But in that case Mademoiselle Nick had lied-or had at any rate suppressed the truth.'
'And for the first time I looked at her in a different light. I criticized her statements. Instead of believing them, I said, "Suppose this were not true." I remembered the discrepancies. "How would it be if every time it was Mademoiselle Nick who was lying and not the other person?"'
'I said to myself: "Let us be simple. What has really happened?"'
'And I saw that what had really happened was that Maggie Buckley had been killed. Just that! But who could want Maggie Buckley dead?'
'And then I thought of something else-a few foolish remarks that Hastings had made not five minutes before. He had said that there were plenty of abbreviations for Margaret-Maggie, Margot, etc. And it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what was Mademoiselle Maggie's real name?'
'Then, tout d'un coup, it came to me! Supposing her name was Magdala! It was a Buckley name, Mademoiselle Nick had told me so. Two Magadala Buckleys. Supposing...'
'In my mind I ran over the letters of Michael Seton's that I had read. Yes-there was nothing impossible. There was a mention of Scarborough-but Maggie had been in Scarborough with Nick-her mother had told me so.'
'And it explained one thing which had worried me. Why were there so few letters? If a girl keeps her love letters at all, she keeps all of them. Why these select few? Was there any peculiarity about them?'
'And I remembered that there was no name mentioned in them. They all began differently-but they began with a term of endearment. Nowhere in them was there the name-Nick.
'And there was something else, something that I ought to have seen at once-that cried the truth aloud.'
'What was that?'
'Why-this. Mademoiselle Nick underwent an operation for appendicitis on February 27th last. There is a letter of Michael Seton's dated March 2nd, and no mention of anxiety, of illness or anything unusal. That ought to have shown me that the letters were written to a different person altogether.'
'Then I went through a list of questions that I had made. And I answered them in the light of my new idea.'
'In all but a few isolated questions the result was simple and convincing. And I answered, too, another question which I had asked myself earlier. Why did Mademoiselle Nick buy a black dress? The answer was that she and her cousin had to be dressed alike, with the scarlet shawl as an additional touch. That was the true and convincing answer, not the other. A girl would not buy mourning before she knew her lover was dead. She would be unreal-unnatural.'
'And so I, in turn, staged my little drama. And the thing I hoped for happened! Nick Buckley had been very vehement about the question of a secret panel. She had declared there was no such thing. But if there were-and I did not see why Ellen should have invented it-Nick must know of it. Why was she so vehement? Was it possible that she had hidden the pistol there? With the secret intention of using it to throw suspicion on somebody later?'
'I let her see that appearances were very black against Madame. That was as she had planned. As I foresaw, she was unable to resist the crowning proof. Besides it was safer for herself. That secret panel might be found by Ellen and the pistol in it!'
'We are all safely in here. She is waiting outside for her cue. It is absolutely safe, she thinks, to take the pistol from its hiding place and put it in Madame's coat...'
'And so-at the last-she failed...'
Frederica shivered.
'All the same,' she said. 'I'm glad I gave her my watch.'
'Yes, Madame.'
She looked up at him quickly.
'You know about that too?'
'What about Ellen?' I asked, breaking in. 'Did she know or suspect anything?'
'No. I asked her. She told me that she decided to stay in the house that night because in her own phrase she "thought something was up". Apparently Nick urged her to see the fireworks rather too decisively. She had fathomed Nick's dislike of Madame. She told me that "she felt in her bones something was going to happen", but she thought it was going to happen to Madame. She knew Miss Nick's temper, she said, and she was always a queer little girl.'
'Yes,' murmured Frederica. 'Yes, let us think of her like that. A queer little girl. A queer little girl who couldn't help herself... I shall-anyway.'
Poirot took her hand and raised it gently to his lips. Charles Vyse stirred uneasily.
'It's going to be a very unpleasant business,' he said, quietly. 'I must see about some kind of defence for her, I suppose.'
'There will be no need, I think,' said Poirot, gently. 'Not if I am correct in my assumptions.'
He turned suddenly on Challenger.
'That's where you put the stuff, isn't it?' he said. 'In those wrist-watches.'
'I-I-' The sailor stammered-at a loss.
'Do not try and deceive me-with your hearty good-fellow manner. It has deceived Hastings-but it does not deceive me. You make a good thing out of it, do you not-the traffic in drugs-you and your uncle in Harley Street.'
'M. Poirot.'
Challenger rose to his feet.
My little friend blinked up at him placidly.
'You are the useful "boy friend". Deny it, if you like. But I advise you, if you do not want the facts put in the hands of the police-to go.'
And to my utter amazement, Challenger did go. He went from the room like a flash. I stared after him open-mouthed.
Poirot laughed.
'I told you so, mon ami. Your instincts are always wrong. C'est epatant!'
'Cocaine was in the wrist-watch-' I began.
'Yes, yes. That is how Mademoiselle Nick had it with her so conveniently at the nursing home. And having finished her supply in the chocolate box she asked Madame just now for hers which was full.'
'You mean she can't do without it?'
'Non, non. Mademoiselle Nick is not a addict. Sometimes-for fun-that is all. But tonight she needed it for a different purpose. It will be a full dose this time.'
'You mean-?' I gasped.
'It is the best way. Better than the hangman's rope. But pst! we must not say so before M. Vyse who is all for law and order. Officially I know nothing. The contents of the wrist-watch-it is the merest guess on my part.'
'Your guesses are always right, M. Poirot,' said Frederica.
'I must be going,' said Charles Vyse, cold disapproval in his attitude as he left the room.
Poirot looked from Frederica to Lazarus. 'You are going to get married-eh?' 'As soon as we can.'
'And indeed, M. Poirot,' said Frederica. 'I am not the drug-taker you think. I have cut myself down to a tiny dose. I think now-with happiness in front of me-I shall not need a wrist-watch any more.'
'I hope you will have happiness, Madame,' said Poirot. gently. 'You have suffered a great deal. And in spite of everything you have suffered, you have still the quality of mercy in your heart...'
'I will look after her,' said Lazarus. 'My business is in a bad way, but I believe I shall pull through. And if I don't-well, Frederica does not mind being poor-with me.'
She shook her head, smiling.
'It is late,' said Poirot, looking at the clock.
We all rose.
'We have spent a strange night in this strange house,' Poirot went on. 'It is, I think, as Ellen says, an evil house...'
He looked up at the picture of old Sir Nicholas. Then, with a sudden gesture, he drew Lazarus aside.
'I ask your pardon, but, of all my questions, there is one still unanswered. Tell me, why did you offer fifty pounds for that picture? It would give me much pleasure to know-so as, you comprehend, to leave nothing unanswered.'
Lazarus looked at him with an impassive face for a minute or two. Then he smiled.
'You see, M. Poirot,' he said. 'I am a dealer.' 'Exactly.'
'That picture is not worth a penny more than twenty pounds. I knew that if I offered Nick fifty, she would immediately suspect it was worth more and would get it valued elsewhere. Then she would find that I had offered her far more than it was worth. The next time I offered to buy a picture she would not have got it valued.'
'Yes, and then?'
'The picture on the far wall is worth at least five thousand pounds,' said Lazarus drily.
'Ah!' Poirot drew a long breath.
'Now I know everything,' he said happily.

第二十二章　尾声
“你们要我解释一下吗？”
波洛朝大家看了一眼，脸上明明堆满了踌躇满志的笑容，却还尽量装出虚怀若谷的模样。他这一套我最有数了。
我们已经坐到客厅里来，人数也减少了。佣人们识时务地退了出去，克罗夫特夫妇也跟着警察走了。留下的只有我、弗雷德里卡、拉扎勒斯、查林杰和维斯。
“好吧，我得承认，我被愚弄了，被当成一个小丑般的玩具，用你们的话来说，我被尼克小姐这个乳臭未干的黄毛丫头牵着鼻子团团转——我！世界闻名的侦探大师赫尔克里•波洛！啊，太太，你说过你那位朋友是个天才的撒谎专家——你说得多么正确啊！”
“尼克老是说谎，”弗雷德里卡在这种恭维面前无动于衷，“所以我不相信她那些死里逃生的奇闻。”
“但我这个大傻瓜却相信了她。”
“这些事故到底发生过没有呢？”我直到这时还莫名其妙。
“全是假的，但布置得很周密，给人造成了一种印象。”
“什么印象？”
“尼克小姐生活在危险之中的印象。但我还要从更早讲起。让我把这个故事原原本本讲给你们听，因为我已经把各种事实连接在一起，还原了它本来的面目。
“一年多之前，尼克小姐是这么一个人：芳龄正妙，如花似玉，寡廉鲜耻，盲目地眷恋着她的悬崖山庄。”
查尔斯•维斯点点头。
“她眷恋山庄，我对你讲过。”
“你讲得对。尼克小姐热爱她的故居，但她没有钱。房子被抵押出去了，要是赎不回来，她就可能失去她的悬崖山庄。她需要钱——梦寐以求，但无法可想。不久她在托基遇见了年轻的塞顿并吸引了他。她知道不论发生什么情况，塞顿都是他叔叔的继承人，而尤其叫她心动的是那位叔叔富可敌国。好！她审时度势，觉得时来运转，该下手了。她得叫塞顿为她神魂颠倒，然后向她求婚。可是尼克在塞顿周围撒下的情网本身就有一个漏洞，这是她所不知的。尼克的美貌能叫人一见销魂，她的性格只能叫人觉得有趣，至于她的内涵，可就叫人一览无余，不由得情趣索然了。我们说，昙花一现的爱情可以用迷人的外貌赢得，但始终不渝的忠诚却只能靠美好的心灵来保持。尼克从小受她那浪子祖父的栽培，她的德行便可想而知了。所以塞顿虽然被她吸引，却没有被她迷住，他只是觉得尼克很有意思而已。他们在斯卡伯勒相会的时候，他带她坐上那架飞机到处兜风，谁知正当尼克小姐一个劲儿狠下功夫的当口，天不作美，塞顿遇到了马吉，两人一见钟情。
“这下子尼克小姐惊得目瞪口呆。她深自反省也弄不清塞顿为什么会逸出她那张天衣无缝的情网而去爱上一个不具美貌、不善风情的老实姑娘。然而事实毕竟总是事实，塞顿觉得马吉才是世界上惟一值得他追求的姑娘。他们情投意合，秘密订婚了。
“知悉内情的人只有一个，便是尼克小姐。因为可怜的马吉小姐对她毫不提防，什么都告诉了这位表妹。她无疑还把未婚夫的信读过几封给她听，所以尼克小姐便获悉了塞顿遗嘱的内容。当时她并未留意这个遗嘱，可是她记住了遗嘱的内容。
“接着马修爵士突然去世，同时传来迈克尔•塞顿失踪的消息。于是这位年轻女郎心中产生了一个险恶的念头。尼克和马吉这两位小姐同名同姓，都叫玛格黛勒•巴克利，但这点塞顿是不知道的，他以为尼克小姐的名字就叫尼克。所以他在遗嘱里并未特别指明财产留给哪个玛格黛勒•巴克利。可是人人都知道塞顿是尼克的好朋友，都会相信塞顿是和尼克订婚的。如果她宣称说自己是塞顿的未婚妻，谁也不会感到意外。可是要想冒名顶替，就必须把马吉除掉。
“时间很紧。她写信去叫马吉到圣卢来陪伴她。然后着手安排那些使她几乎丧生的事故，为找机会杀掉马吉小姐埋下伏线。图画上的绳子是她自己弄断的，汽车的刹车是她自己搞坏的。有一天峭壁上有块石头偶然滚了下去，她又编出一段惊险遭遇来。
“这时她在报纸上看到了我的名字（我告诉过你，黑斯廷斯，我的大名是妇孺皆知的）。她胆子很大，要想在这件谋杀案中利用我。噢，多妙的喜剧！于是我就被拉进了她所导演的这场戏里，相信她真的大难当头。这一来，她使自己有了一个很有价值的证人，而我要她去接一个朋友来同住这一点正中她的下怀。
“她抓住这个机会叫马吉小姐提早一天到圣卢来。
“作案实际上十分简单。她离开餐厅，从无线电里证实了塞顿的死讯之后，就开始实行她的计划了。她有足够的时间把塞顿写给马吉小姐的信从她衣箱里翻出来一一看过。为了自己的目的她从中选出了几封拿进自己的卧室，其余的付之一炬。下一步，大家在看焰火时，她同马吉离开我们回到屋子里。她叫她表姐围上她的披肩——马吉的外衣已被她事先藏了起来——自己则悄悄尾随她走出屋子，趁焰火的爆发声向她开了枪。然后她迅速跑回屋里，把枪藏进秘密的壁龛里（她以为谁也不知道有这么个壁龛），转身上了楼。当她听到花园里有了响动，说明尸体已经被人发现，这才下来。这就是她作案的经过。
“下楼后她从落地长窗跑进了花园，这里演得多逼真哪！简直了不起！一个人有幸见到了这样空前绝后的表演是永远不会忘记的。那个佣人埃伦说这是一幢不吉祥的房子，我颇有同感。尼克小姐犯罪的灵感就来自这幢鬼气森森的古屋。”
“但那些下了毒的巧克力，”弗雷德里卡说，“我还是弄不懂是怎么回事。”
“这是作案计划中的一环。你难道看不出，如果马吉死了之后尼克的生命仍受威胁的话，就可证明马吉之死纯系误杀？当她认为时机成熟了，就打个电话给赖斯太太，请她送盒巧克力来。”
“那么说，电话里是她的声音？”
“是的。最简单的解释往往是最接近事实的。她稍稍改变了一下自己说话的声音而已。这样，当你被询问的时候就拿不定主意了。你拿不定主意就必然支支吾吾，于是电话的事就会被看成是你在捏造。当巧克力送到之后，又是多简单。她把其中三块下了可卡因（她身边巧妙地藏有这种毒品），把我送花时留下的卡片放进盒子，然后再把盒子包好，当护士再来她身旁时，她当着护士的面拆了包装，掀了盖，发现了卡片，吃了一块下了毒的巧克力，就那样中毒了——但病得不至于无法抢救。她知道得很清楚什么剂量是致命的，什么剂量能显示出中毒症状但是无关大局。
“这件事里使我惊奇的是她会想到用我的卡片，跟花儿一起送去的卡片！啊，活见鬼！这种做法多么简单，但一般人是想不出来的。”
一时谁也不做声。后来弗雷德里卡问道：
“她为什么要把手枪放进我的外衣口袋呢？”
“我就知道你会问这个问题的，太太。你问得正是时候。告诉我，你有没有感觉到尼克小姐不喜欢你了？或者她是否早就对你已经怀恨在心？”
“很难说，”弗雷德里卡迟疑地说，“我们之间并没有真情挚爱。她过去是喜欢我的。”
“告诉我，拉扎勒斯先生——现在不是讲究礼貌和客套的时候了——你和尼克小姐之间可曾有过什么关系？”
“没有，”拉扎勒斯摇摇头，“有一段时间她吸引了我，但后来，不知为什么我跟她疏远了。”
“啊，”波洛用一种“果然不出山人所料”的神情点点头，说：“这是她的不幸之处。她能吸引人，却不能使人一往情深，到头来，人们都会索然离去。你没有对她越来越钟情，倒反爱上了她的朋友，她就开始恨赖斯太太了——身边走着一位有钱朋友的赖斯太太。去年冬天她立遗嘱时还是喜欢太太的，后来就不同了。
“她记得她那个遗嘱，却不知道它已被克罗夫特扣押下来，还以为它已到了该去的地方。这样，谁都看得出赖斯太太希望弄死尼克是有很容易解释的动机的。因此她就把要巧克力的电话打给太太。今天晚上宣读遗嘱，太太被指定为动产继承人——然后又在太太的衣袋里发现用来杀死马吉的手枪！想想吧太太，这一来，就有了充分的理由和证据逮捕你了。如果手枪是你自己在衣袋里发现的而打算把它扔掉，那就更显得可疑了。”
“她一定恨我。”弗雷德里卡嗫嚅着说。
“是的，太太，你拥有她所没有的东西——不但能够得到并且能够保持的爱情。”
“我大概太笨了，”查林杰说，“关于尼克遗嘱的事我还是不大明白。”
“不明白吗？这跟尼克作的案不是一回事，但也很简单。克罗夫特夫妇怕被警察发现，躲藏在这里。他们从尼克小姐动手术这件事里看到一个机会，尼克没立过遗嘱，他们就说服她立了一个遗嘱，并主动把它拿去寄掉——实际上扣了下来。这样，如果她发生了意外，就是说如果她死了，他们就可以伪造一份遗嘱，说是为了在澳大利亚发生的一件牵涉到菲利普•巴克利的神秘事件，尼克把一切都留给他们作为报答——大家都知道尼克的父亲菲利普确实去过澳大利亚。
“但尼克小姐的手术动得很成功，所以他们的希望落了空，伪造一份遗嘱至少在当时失去了意义。但不久就发生了那些致命的事故，尼克的生命受到了威胁。克罗夫特夫妇心中的希望又复燃了。最后我宣布尼克小姐中毒而死。这个机会终于被他们等到了。于是一份伪造的遗嘱马上寄到了维斯先生的手中。当然啰，他们完全不知道尼克的经济情况，还以为她比看上去要富有得多。关于房子抵押一事他们更是一无所闻了。”
“我想知道，波洛先生，”拉扎勒斯说，“你是怎么知道这些的？你从什么时候开始对尼克小姐产生怀疑的？”
“啊，说来惭愧，我被牵着鼻子转得太久了。有些东西使我很困惑，因为我觉得在我的逻辑里总有些什么不对头的地方。尼克小姐对我说的话和别人告诉我的总是有出入，不幸的是我始终相信她。
“后来我突然得到一个启示，尼克小姐犯了一个错误。在我劝她接一个可靠的亲友来陪她同住时，她答应了我，却隐瞒了一个事实，即她已经写了一封信去叫马吉星期二来。在她看来这个秘密在马吉死后便只有她自己知道，因此十分安全。但确实是个失着。
“因为马吉•巴克利一到这里就写了封信回家，信里她天真地写道：‘我看不出她有什么必要十万火急地打电报把我叫来，星期二来其实也未尝不可。’注意这种说法：‘星期二来其实也未尝不可’这句话只能说明一件事，那就是马吉反正星期一不来，星期二也要来的。这一来，我看出尼克小姐说了谎，或者说是隐瞒了真情。
“这时我才第一次用另外一种眼光来看待她。我不再相信她所说的每一句话，而是从截然相反的角度去研究她所提供的情况了。我想起了她的话和别人的说法之间的矛盾。我问自己，如果每次都是尼克小姐而不是别人说了谎，那会是怎样呢？
“我走了一条捷径，向自己提出一个问题：到现在为止，实际上发生的是什么事？
“于是我看到实际上只发生了一件事，那就是马吉•巴克利被杀害了。只发生了这件事，不过谁会因马吉之死而得益呢？
“这时我想起这么一件事——在我考虑这个问题前不久，黑斯廷斯对于人们的名字信口发表了一些高见，说玛格丽特有许多爱称——马吉、马戈特等等。于是我就想马吉小姐的真名是什么呢？
“一下子工夫，一个新的想法震撼了我。我突然想起她叫玛格黛勒！这是巴克利家族常用的名字，尼克小姐这样告诉过我的。两个玛格黛勒•巴克利！如果……”
“我马上想起我看过的那几封迈克尔•塞顿的信。是呀，我这种想法并不是不可能的。信里提到过斯卡伯勒，但尼克和塞顿在斯卡伯勒的时候，马吉也同他们在一起，这是马吉的母亲亲口对我说的。
“这就解释了一个我一直找不到答案的问题：为什么塞顿的信那么少？一个姑娘如果保存情书，她就会把它们全都保存起来，而不会仅仅保存其中几封。那么尼克小姐为什么偏偏保存了这几封呢？是不是这几封信有什么特别的地方？
“我于是记起这些信有一个共同之处，就是信里都没有提及收信人的名字或爱称。开头的称呼不是名字而总是‘亲爱的’之类。信里没有一处提及她的爱称——尼克。
“还有一个破绽——我本应当立即发现的——更进一步泄漏了天机。”
“是什么？”
“啊，是这个。尼克小姐于去年二月二十七日去开刀割盲肠。有封迈克尔•塞顿的信是三月二日写的。信里无一字提及这个手术，连一句表示问候的话都没有。这个情况应当提醒我这一点：这些信本来就是写给另外一个人的。
“然后我把那张嫌疑人物表上的问题又从头到尾看了一遍。我从新的立场出发，用新的观点回答了它们。
“除了几个孤立的问题之外，所有的疑点都被澄清了。同时我也回答了早些时候我百思不得其解的一个问题：尼克小姐为什么买了件黑礼服？答复是，她必须和她的表姐穿得很相像，这样，当马吉披上她的红披肩之后就为‘误杀’提供了必要的条件了。这个答案是令人信服的。答案只能是这样，而不能看成是尼克去买了件黑礼服为未婚夫服丧。因为一个姑娘是不会在她心爱的人的死讯被证实之前就预先订做丧服的——这是不可能的，牵强附会的解释是不通的。
“现在，尼克的戏该由我来导演它的尾声了。当初我问起那个秘密的壁龛时，她矢口否认说根本就没有这么个东西。但如果有的话——我看不出埃伦有什么理由要凭空捏造出这个壁龛——尼克肯定知道。于是我想，她为什么竭力否认呢？她是否有可能把手枪藏在那里边，而为了某种目的以后又好拿出来移花接木、嫁祸于人？
“我让尼克小姐看到我极不信任赖斯太太，她已经陷入了在尼克的计划之中她应当陷入的绝境：一切疑点都指向赖斯太太了。我早就预见到尼克无法抗拒这样一个念头的诱惑：把最关键的物证加到赖斯太太头上去！况且这样做有利于她本人的安全，因为万一埃伦记起那个壁龛的位置就会去打开它，同时也就会发现那枝手枪。
“我们全都聚集在餐厅里，她独自等在外面扮演鬼魂。这种情形下谁也不会被放出我们那个房间的。她认为最安全的时刻到了，就把手枪从暗龛中取了出来放进赖斯太太的外套口袋。
“于是，终于——她落网了。”
弗雷德里卡哆嗦了一下。
“但我还是很高兴我把手表给了她。”
“是的，太太。”
她抬起眼皮朝他闪电般的一瞥。
“你也知道？”
“埃伦怎样呢？”我插了进去，“她知道这件事吗？还是疑心到什么？”
“不，我问过她。她告诉我那天晚上她之所以没有出去看焰火而留在屋里，用她自己的话说，是因为她预感到要出事的。那天晚上尼克小姐极力怂恿她出去看焰火叫她惴惴不安。她知道尼克小姐不喜欢赖斯太太。埃伦对我说，‘我从骨子里预感到一种凶兆。’但她以为遭殃的是太太。她说她知道尼克小姐的脾气——一个不可捉摸的鬼姑娘。”
“是啊，”弗雷德里卡喃喃地说，“我们就这样评价她吧——一个鬼姑娘，一个陷入了绝境的作法自毙的鬼姑娘。不过我使得她体面地解脱了。”
波洛拿起她的手郑重其事地吻了一下。
查尔斯•维斯感到不安了。
“这是一件极不愉快的事，”他冷静地说，“我想，我得准备替她出庭辩护了。”
“恐怕无济于事，”波洛文雅地说，“如果我的推测不错的话。”
他突然转向查林杰。
“你原来把毒品放在这个地方？”他说，“放在那些手表里？”
“我，我——”海员开始结结巴巴了。
“用不着瞒我。你看上去像个正人君子，但你只能骗骗黑斯廷斯，却骗不了我。你们干的好事——走私贩毒——你和你哈利街上的那个舅舅！”
“波洛先生！”
查林杰站了起来。
我那矮小的朋友阴沉地盯着他。
“你就是那有用处的‘男朋友’——你要是高兴的话尽可以否认。凶杀的那天你根本不在德文波特，你在走私！怎么，不服气吗？如果你不想把这件事闹到警察手里，就滚蛋吧！”
使我惊异不已的是他真的一溜烟逃出了房间。我怔怔地看着那扇门，嘴都合不拢了。
波洛仰天大笑起来。
“我对你讲过的，我的朋友。你的直觉只有一种功能，就是颠倒黑白。可真了不起得很哪！”
“可卡因原来在手表里——”我说。
“不错，不错，这就是为什么尼克小姐住在休养所里还能弄到这种麻醉剂的道理。现在她自己的存货用完了，就把赖斯太太新装满的手表讨去了。”
“她瘾头那么大？”
“不，不，她吸毒只是为了好玩，并未上瘾。但今天晚上她要把她那些可卡因另派用途。这次她要用足分量——致命的剂量了。”
“你是说——”我叫了起来。
“这是最好的方法了，比上断头台体面得多。但是，哎，我们怎么可以在忠于法律的维斯先生面前道破天机呢？从官方的立场上说，我什么也不知道。手表里的东西我只是胡乱猜猜罢了。”
“你的猜测总是正确的，波洛先生。”弗雷德里卡说。
“我得走了。”查尔斯•维斯说。他离开我们的时候脸上的表情不以为然，冷若冰霜。
波洛看看弗雷德里卡，又看看拉扎勒斯。
“你们要结婚了，是吗？”
“很快。”
“真的，波洛先生，”弗雷德里卡说，“我并不像你所想象的那样是个吸毒者。我已经戒到极少量了。现在，我想，幸福就在眼前，我永远不再需要这种手表了。”
“我祝你幸福，太太，”波洛温存地说，“你受了许多难言的苦楚，却仍然有一颗仁慈的心。”
“我会照顾她的，”拉扎勒斯说，“我的生意不景气，但我相信我会度过难关的。即使我破了产——啊，弗雷德里卡不在乎穷，她会跟我在一起的。”
她第一次容光焕发地笑了。
“不早啦。”波洛看着钟说。
我们全站了起来。
“我们在这幢不寻常的古屋里消磨了一个不寻常的夜晚。”波洛说，“是啊，一幢不吉祥的老屋，就像埃伦说的那样……”
他抬起头看了看墙上那幅老尼古拉的画像，突然把拉扎勒斯拉到一边。
“请你原谅，但是，在我所有那些问题里只有一个我还不明白。告诉我，你为什么要出五十镑的代价去买那幅图画？要是你不吝赐教，我就不胜感激啦——你明白，这一来，这件案子里我就没有任何不懂的东西了。”
拉扎勒斯毫无反应地看了他一两分钟，然后笑了。
“你瞧，波洛先生，”他说，“我是个买卖人。”
“正是。”
“那幅画最多只值二十镑。我知道如果我出五十镑，她就会疑心这幅画可能不止值这个数。她就会想法子另外请人估价。这一来她就会发觉我出的价钱比它实际所值的钱多得多。下次我再要买她的画，她就不会再请别人估价了。”
“那又怎样呢？”
“墙的那一头挂着一幅不显眼的画，你看见了没有？那幅画至少要值五千镑！”拉扎勒斯不无遗憾地说。
“啊，”波洛舒了一口大气，“现在我全明白啦！”
全文完