CHAPTER 1 Crow's Nest
1 
Mr. Satterthwaite sat on the terrace of “Crow’s Nest” and watched his host, Sir Charles Cartwright, climbing up the path from the sea. Crow’s Nest was a modern bungalow of the better type. It had no half timbering, no gables, no excrescences dear to a third-class builder’s heart. It was a plain white solid building - deceptive as to size, since it was a good deal bigger than it looked. It owed its name to its position, high up, overlooking the harbour of Loomouth. Indeed from one corner of the terrace, protected by a strong balustrade, there was a sheer drop to the sea below. By road Crow’s Nest was a mile from the town. The road ran inland and then zigzagged high up above the sea. On foot it was accessible in seven minutes by the steep fisherman’s path that Sir Charles Cartwright was ascending at this minute. 
Sir Charles was a well-built, sunburnt man of middle age. He wore old grey flannel trousers and a white sweater. He had a slight rolling gait, and carried his hands half closed as he walked. Nine people out of ten would say, “Retired Naval man - can’t mistake the type.” The tenth, and more discerning, would have hesitated, puzzled by something indefinable that did not ring true. And then perhaps a picture would rise, unsought, the deck of a ship - but not a real ship - a ship curtailed by hanging curtains of thick rich material - a man, Charles Cartwright, standing on that deck, light that was not sunlight streaming down on him, the hands half clenched, the easy gait and a voice - the easy pleasant voice of an English sailor and gentleman, a great deal magnified in tone. 
“No, sir,” Charles Cartwright was saying, “I’m afraid I can’t give you any answer to that question.” 
And swish fell the heavy curtains, up sprang the lights, an orchestra plunged into the latest syncopated measure, girls with exaggerated bows in their hair said, Chocolates? Lemonade? The first act of The Call of the Sea, with Charles Cartwright as Commander Vanstone, was over. 
From his post of vantage, looking down, Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. A dried-up little pipkin of a man, Mr. Satterthwaite, a patron of art and the drama, a determined but pleasant snob, always included in the more important house-parties and social functions (the word 
“and Mr. Satterthwaite” appeared invariably at the tail of a list of guests.) Withal a man of considerable intelligence and a very shrewd observer of people and things. 
He murmured now, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t have thought it. No, really, I wouldn’t have thought it.” 
A step sounded on the terrace and he turned his head. The big grey-haired man who drew a chair forward and sat down had his profession clearly stamped on his keen, kindly, middle-aged face. 
“Doctor” and “Harley Street,” Sir Bartholomew Strange had succeeded in his profession. He was a well-known specialist in nervous disorders, and had recently received a knighthood in the Birthday Honours list. 
He drew his chair forward beside that of Mr. Satterthwaite and said: 
“What wouldn’t you have thought? “ 
With a smile Mr. Satterthwaite drew attention to the figure below rapidly ascending the path. 
“I shouldn’t have thought Sir Charles would have remained contented so long in - er - exile.” 
“By Jove, no more should I!” The other laughed, throwing back his head. “I’ve known Charles since he was a boy. We were at Oxford together. He’s always been the same - a better actor in private life than on the stage! Charles is always acting. He can’t help it - it’s second nature to him. Charles doesn’t go out of a room - he ‘makes an exit’ - and he usually has to have a good line to make it on. All the same, he likes a change of part - none better. Two years ago he retired from the stage - said he wanted to live a simple country life, out of the world, and indulge his old fancy for the sea. He comes down here and builds this place. His idea of a simple country cottage. Three bathrooms and all the latest gadgets! I was like you, Satterthwaite, I didn’t think it would last. After all, Charles is human 
-he needs his audience. Two or three retired captains, a bunch of old women and a parson - that’s not much of a house to play to. I thought the ‘simple fellow, with his love of the sea,’ would run for six months. Then, frankly, I thought he’d tire of the part. I thought the next thing to fill the bill would be the weary man of the world at Monte Carlo, or possibly a laird in the Highlands - he’s versatile, Charles is.” 
The doctor stopped. It had been a long speech. His eyes were full of affection and amusement as he watched the unconscious man below. In a couple of minutes he would be with them. 
“However,” Sir Bartholomew went on, “it seems we were wrong. The attraction of the simple life holds.” 
“A man who dramatises himself is sometimes misjudged,” pointed out Mr. Satterthwaite. “One does not take his sincerities seriously.” 
The doctor nodded. 
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true.” 
With a cheerful halloo Charles Cartwright ran up the steps on to the terrace. 
“Mirabelle surpassed herself,” he said. “You ought to have come, Satterthwaite.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. He had suffered too often crossing the Channel to have any illusions about the strength of his stomach afloat. He had observed the Mirabelle from his bedroom window that morning. There had been a stiff sailing breeze and Mr. Satterthwaite had thanked heaven devoutly for dry land. 
Sir Charles went to the drawing-room window and called for drinks. 
“You ought to have come, Tollie,” he said to his friend. “Don’t you spend half your life sitting in Harley Street telling your patients how good life on the ocean wave would be for them?” 
“The great merit of being a doctor,” said Sir Bartholomew, “is that you are not obliged to follow your own advice.” 
Sir Charles laughed. He was still unconsciously playing his part - the bluff breezy Naval man. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man, beautifully proportioned, with a lean humorous face, and the touch of grey at his temples gave him a kind of added distinction. He looked what he was - a gentleman first and an actor second. 
“Did you go alone?” asked the doctor. 
“No,” Sir Charles turned to take his drink from a smart parlourmaid who was holding a tray. “I had a ‘hand.’ The girl Egg, to be exact.” 
There was something, some faint trace of self-consciousness in his voice which made Mr. Satterthwaite look up sharply. 
“Miss Lytton Gore? She knows something about sailing, doesn’t she?” 
Sir Charles laughed rather ruefully. 
“She succeeds in making me feel a complete landlubber; but I’m coming on - thanks to her.” 
Thought sipped quickly in and out of Mr. Satterthwaite’s mind. 
“I wonder - Egg Lytton Gore - perhaps that’s why he hasn’t tired - the age - a dangerous age - it’s always a young girl at that time of life … ” 
Sir Charles went on: “The sea - there’s nothing like it - sun and wind and sea - and a simple shanty to come home to.” 
And he looked with pleasure at the white building behind him, equipped with three bathrooms, hot and cold water in all the bathrooms, the latest system of central heating, the newest electrical fittings and a staff of parlourmaid, housemaid, chef, and kitchenmaid. Sir Charles’s interpretation of simple living was, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated. 
A tall and exceedingly ugly woman issued from the house and bore down upon them. 
“Good morning, Miss Milray.” 
“Good morning, Sir Charles. Good morning (a slight inclination of the head towards the other two.) 
This is the menu for dinner. I don’t know whether you would like it altered in any way.” 
Sir Charles took it and murmured: 
“Let’s see. Melon Cantaloupe, Bortch Soup, Fresh Mackerel, Grouse, Soufflé Surprise, Canape Diane ... No, I think that will do excellently, Miss Milray. Everyone is coming by the four-thirty train.” 
“I have already given Holgate his orders. By the way, Sir Charles, if you will excuse me, it would be better if I dined with you tonight.” 
Sir Charles looked startled, but said courteously: 
“Delighted, I am sure, Miss Milray - but - er - ” 
Miss Milray proceeded calmly to explain. 
“Otherwise, Sir Charles, it would make thirteen at table; and so many people are superstitious.” 
From her tone it could be gathered that Miss Milray would have sat down thirteen to dinner every night of her life without the slightest qualm. She went on: 
“I think everything is arranged. I have told Holgate the car is to fetch Lady Mary and the Babbingtons. Is that right?” 
“Absolutely. Just what I was going to ask you to do.” 
With a slightly superior smile on her rugged countenance, Miss Milray withdrew. 
“That,” said Sir Charles reverently, “is a very remarkable woman. I’m always afraid she’ll come and brush my teeth for me.” 
“Efficiency personified,” said Strange. 
“She’s been with me for six years,” said Sir Charles. “First as my secretary in London, and here, I suppose, she’s kind of glorified housekeeper. Runs this place like clockwork. And now, if you please, she’s going to leave.” 
“Why?” 
“She says - ” Sir Charles rubbed his nose dubiously “ - she says she’s got an invalid mother. Personally I don’t believe it. That kind of woman never had a mother at all. Spontaneously generated from a dynamo. No, there’s something else.” 
“Quite probably,” said Sir Bartholomew, “people have been talking.” 
“Talking?” The actor stared. “Talking - what about?” 
“My dear Charles. You know what talking means.” 
“You mean talking about her - and me? With that face? And at her age?” 
“She’s probably under fifty.” 
“I suppose she is,” Sir Charles considered the matter. “But, seriously, Tollie, have you noticed her face? It’s got two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but it’s not what you would call a face -not a 
female face. The most scandal-loving old cat in the neighbourhood couldn’t seriously connect sexual passion with a face like that.” 
“You underrate the imagination of the British spinster.” 
Sir Charles shook his head. 
“I don’t believe it. There’s a kind of hideous respectability about Miss Milray that even a British spinster must recognise. She is virtue and respectability personified - and a damned useful woman. I always choose my secretaries plain as sin.” 
“Wise man.” 
Sir Charles remained deep in thought for some minutes. To distract him, Sir Bartholomew asked: 
“Who’s coming this afternoon?” 
“Angie, for one.” 
“Angela Sutcliffe? That’s good.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward interestedly, keen to know the composition of the house party. Angela Sutcliffe was a well-known actress, no longer younger, but with a strong hold on the public and celebrated for her wit and charm. She was sometimes spoken of as Ellen Terry’s successor. 
“Then there are the Dacres.” 
Again Mr. Satterthwaite nodded to himself. Mrs. Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd., that successful dressmaking establishment. You saw it on programs - “Miss Blank’s dresses in the first act by Ambrosine Ltd., Brook Street.” Her husband, Captain Dacres, was a dark horse in his own racing parlance. He spent a lot of time on racecourses - had ridden himself in the Grand National in years gone by. There had been some trouble - nobody knew exactly - though rumours had been spread about. There had been no inquiry 
-nothing overt, but somehow at mention of Freddie Dacres people’s eyebrows went up a little. 
“Then there’s Anthony Astor, the playwright.” 
“Of course,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “She wrote One-Way Traffic. I saw it twice. It made a great hit.” 
He rather enjoyed the show that he knew that Anthony Astor was a woman. 
“That’s right,” said Sir Charles. “I forget what her real name is - Wills, I think. I’ve only met her once. I asked her to please Angela. That’s the lot - of the house-party, I mean.” 
“And the locals?” asked the doctor. 
“Oh, the locals! Well, there are the Babbingtons - he’s the parson, quite a good fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife’s a really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening. They’re coming - and Lady Mary and Egg. That’s all. Oh, yes, there’s a young fellow called Manders, he’s a journalist, or something. Good-looking young fellow. That completes the party.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was a man of methodical nature. He counted heads. 
“Miss Sutcliffe, one, the Dacres, three, Anthony Astor, four, Lady Mary and her daughter, six, the parson and his wife, eight, the young fellow nine, ourselves twelve. Either you or Miss Milray must have counted wrong, Sir Charles.” 
“It couldn’t be Miss Milray,” said Sir Charles with assurance. “That woman’s never wrong. Let me see: Yes, by Jove, you’re right. I 
have missed out one guest. He’s slipped my memory.” 
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be best pleased at that, either. The fellow is the most conceited little devil I ever met.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite’s eyes twinkled. He had always been of the opinion that the vainest men in creation were actors. He did not exempt Sir Charles Cartwright. This instance of the pot calling the kettle black amused him. 
“Who is the egoist?” he asked. 
“Rum little beggar,” said Sir Charles. “Rather a celebrated little beggar, though. You may have heard of him. Hercule Poirot. He’s a Belgian.” 
“The detective,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “I have met him. Rather a remarkable personage.” 
“I’ve never met him,” said Sir Bartholomew, “but I’ve heard a good deal about him. He retired some time ago, though, didn’t he? 
Probably most of what I’ve heard is legend. Well, Charles, I hope we shan’t have a crime this weekend.” 
“Why? Because we’ve got a detective in the house? Rather putting the cart before the horse, aren’t you, Tollie?” 
“Well, it’s by way of being a theory of mine.” 
“What is your theory, doctor?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“That events come to people - not people to events. Why do some people have exciting lives and other people dull ones? Because of their surroundings? Not at all. One man may travel to the ends of the earth and nothing will happen to him. There will be a massacre a week before he arrives, and an earthquake the day after he leaves, and the boat that he nearly took will be shipwrecked. And another man may live at Balham and travel to the City everyday, and things will happen to him. He will be mixed up with blackmailing gangs and beautiful girls and motor bandits. There are people with a tendency to shipwrecks - even if they go on a boat on an ornamental lake something will happen to it. In the same way men like your Hercule Poirot don’t have to look for crime - it comes to them.” 
“In that case,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “perhaps it is as well that Miss Milray is joining us, and that we are not sitting down thirteen to dinner.” 
“Well,” said Sir Charles handsomely, “you can have your murder, Tollie, if you’re so keen on it. I make only one stipulation - that I shan’t be the corpse.” 
And, laughing, the three men went into the house.
第一章　鸦巢屋
第一章　鸦巢屋

　　萨特思韦特先生坐在鸦巢屋的露台上，看着屋主查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士从海边爬上小路。 
　　鸦巢屋是一座漂亮的现代平房，木质结构不到一半，没有三角墙，没有三流建筑师爱不释手的多佘累赘的设计。 
　　这是一幢简洁而坚固的白色建筑物。它看起来比实际的体积小得多．真是不可貌相。这房子的名声要归功于它的位置—居高临下，俯瞰整个鲁茅斯海港。露台由结实的回栏保护着．从露台的一角看过去，有一堵悬崖峭璧，直落海底．鸦巢屋离城里有一英里路程．这条路从内地过来，然后在海岸高处迂回盘旋。如果徒步跋涉，七分钟就可以走完查尔斯爵士此刻正在攀登的陡峭的渔夫小道。 
　　查尔斯爵士是一个体格健壮、皮肤黝黑的中年男子．他穿着一条灰色的法兰绒旧裤，上身套一件白色毛衣．他走起路来有点儿左右摇摆．还常常把双手半插在口袋里．十个观众有九个会说：“真像个退役的海军军官。他绝不会演错角色。”只有一位虽目光敏锐，但受某种难以判断的假象所困惑，对他的表演总是不加褒贬。这时，一个画面也许会出人意料地展现在人们眼前．这是舞台上船的甲板，悬挂着厚实豪华的帷幕，将船的一部分遮盖。有一个人站在甲板上，那就是查尔斯•卡特赖特．代表阳光的灯照射在他的身上．他双手半握，步履轻盈．说话时声音爽朗宏亮，带有英国水兵和绅士的腔调。 
　　“不，先生。”查尔斯•卡特赖特说道，“恐怕我不能回答你的问题。” 
　　沉重的帷幕刷的一声落了下来．灯光突然向上直射．管弦乐队奏起了最新式的切分音曲调．已到后台的姑娘们头上扎着大蝴蝶结。她们说：“有巧克力吗？有柠檬吗？”《大海的呼唤》第一幕就这样结束。查尔斯•卡特赖特在剧中扮演副舰长范斯通…… 
　　萨特思韦特先生微笑着，从他所站的有利位置向下俯视。 
　　萨特思韦特先生是一个干瘦的小个子男人，就像个小锅。他是一位美术和戏剧的赞助人．一个固执己见而又快乐开朗的准绅士．凡是重要一点的别墅招待会和社交场合，总会有他的身影．“还有萨特思韦特先生”这句话，毫无例外地出现在来宾名单的末尾．他还是一个智慧过人、看待人和事物目光锐利的观察家。 
　　露台上响起了脚步声，萨特思韦特先生调过头去。是那位灰白头发的大个子．他拉了一张椅子坐下来．那张严肃而又慈祥的中年人的脸，清楚地表明了他的职业．这位就是哈利大街的医生巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士．他是个事业成功的著名精神病专家。最近，他荣获英国女王诞辰时授予的爵士头衔。 
　　他把椅子拉到萨特思韦特先生旁边说。 
　　“你说，你居然没有想到什么？说出来大家听听。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生报之一笑，一心注视着正在从下面小道往上爬的那个人。 
　　“我居然没有想到查尔斯爵士在异乡的生活中，还会如此长时间地感到心满意足。” 
　　“哎呀，我也没有想到过！”医生把头朝后一仰，大笑起来．“我从小就认识查尔斯．我们一起进牛津大学．他从来不改本色。在个人生活中，他是一个比在舞台上还要出色的演员！查尔斯总是在演戏，已经不能自拔。这是他的第二天性。他不是走出一间屋子，而是在．退场，。他办事常常耍遵循已经拟定好的汁划．同样，他喜欢变换角色。谁也没有他在行。两年前，他从舞台上告退，说是希望过一种简朴的乡间生活，远离尘嚣，沉溺于往昔对大海的梦幻．于是他来到这儿，修建了这幢房子．这体现了他对简朴的乡间别墅的向往．屋里有三个洗澡间，最时髦的小玩意儿应有尽有．萨特思韦特，我像你一样，认为他的这种生活持续不了多久。毕竟，查尔斯也是个凡人。他需要有观众。两三个退职船长，-群女士，还有-个牧师。好在来客还不算太多。我想，这位‘对大海怀有深情的简朴绅士’，只会在这儿呆上六个月。 
　　随后，他就会开始厌恶这个角色．我看，下一个角色会变为一个对世界厌倦的蒙特卡洛人，或者是一位苏格兰高地的地主。确实，他是一个演技高超的演员。” 
　　医生停了下来．他的话是一篇冗长的演讲．他的眼睛里充满了激情和喜悦。他正在观看的下面那一位却一无所知。再过几分钟，他就要来到大家身边。 
　　巴塞罗缪爵士继续说：“不管怎么说，我们似乎弄错了筒朴生活的魅力所在。” 
　　“一个戏剧化的人，有时会让人家误解。”萨特思韦特先生指出，“人们决不会信赖他的忠诚。” 
　　医生点了点头。 
　　“是的。”他若有所思地说，“完全正确。” 
　　当查尔斯•卡特赖特爬上露台前的阶梯时，人们发出一阵欢呼声。 
　　“‘米拉贝尔’战胜了自我。”他说，“萨特思韦特先生，你也应该来试一试。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生摇摇头．在乘船跨过英吉利海峡时，他的胃不听使唤，让他吃了不少苦头．那天早晨，他从卫生间的窗口观看米拉贝尔号轮船．它航行时刮起了一阵大风。萨特思韦特先生虔诚地感谢天公作美，希望陆地上晴朗干燥。 
　　查尔斯爵士走到客厅的窗口要仆人给他送杯酒来。 
　　“你应当加人我们的行列，托利。”他对老朋友巴塞罗缪爵士说，“难道你要消磨半辈子时间，坐在哈利大街告诉你的病人说，生活在大海波涛之上对他们的身体会有多好？” 
　　“作医生的最大好处是。”巴塞罗缨爵士说，“他不必遵循自己的忠告。” 
　　查尔斯爵士大笑起来．他仍然在不知不觉地扮演自己的角色—一个屹立在船头、海风扑面的海军军官。他是个仪表堂堂、体格匀称健美的男子．-张消瘦的脸富有幽默感．两鬓的几根灰发，使他更加与众不同。貌如其人，一看就会知道，他首先是个绅士，其次是个演员。 
　　“你是一个人去的吗？”医生问道。 
　　“不。”查尔斯爵士转身从一个漂亮的客厅女仆端着的托盘里拿了一杯酒．“我有个帮手．具体地说，是蛋蛋姑娘。” 
　　他的声音里隐隐约约流露出一种不自在的神情．这使得萨特思韦特先生猛然抬起头来。 
　　“是蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔吗？她对航行略知一二，是吧？” 
　　查尔斯爵士懊悔地苦笑了起来。 
　　“她成功地让我感到自己是个彻底的大笨蛋．但是我闯过来了—多亏有了她。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生思绪万端。 
　　“真让人纳闷……也许，蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔小姐，就是使他不知疲倦的因素……年龄啊，他已到了危险的年龄．像他那种年纪的男人，总会交上一个年轻女郎……”查尔斯爵士继续说，“世上无论什么都比不上大海，比不上阳光、风和大海，还有一间可以像家一样居住的简朴的茅舍。” 
　　他满怀喜悦地看着身后那幢房子．里面有三个洗澡间，有最新式的中央暖气系统，有最时髦的电器和一群客厅女仆，打扫卫生的佣人、司机和厨娘．查尔斯爵士对简朴生活的解释，似乎言过其实。 
　　这时，一个奇丑无比的高个儿女人从房里出来，走到他们身边。 
　　“早上好，查尔斯爵士。”她又朝另外两位轻轻点点头。 
　　“早上好．这是晚餐的菜单，我不知道你们是不是想换换口味。” 
　　查尔斯爵士接过菜单咕哝着说，“我们看看吧。甜瓜、俄式荣汤、新鲜蜻鱼、松鸡、幸运蛋奶酥、黛安娜乳酪面包……够了，这很好，米尔雷小姐。客人们都会乘四点三十分的火车到达。” 
　　“我已经让霍尔盖特安排了．顺便问一问，查尔斯爵士，如果您愿意，今晚我最好跟你们一起吃饭。” 
　　查尔斯爵士显得有点儿惊讶．但还是很客气地说。 
　　“我很乐意，米尔雷小姐．但是，呃……”米尔雷小姐平静地抢先解释道。 
　　“如果我不跟你们一起吃饭，查尔斯爵士，餐桌上就正好是十三个人。这儿有很多人都很迷信。” 
　　她说话的语气使人感到，如果米尔雷小姐的一生中每天晚上都与十二个人一起吃饭，她本人也毫无惧色。 
　　“我想，一切都安排妥当。我要霍尔盖特驾车去接玛丽夫人和巴宾顿一家．没问题吧？” 
　　“绝对没问题。我正要告诉你这事儿。” 
　　米尔雷小姐退了出去．她那张凸眉凹眼的脸上．带着一丝得意的微笑。 
　　查尔斯爵士谦恭地说，“她是个了不起的女人。我常常担心她会把我给惯坏了。” 
　　斯特兰奇说，“是个高效率的化身。” 
　　“她跟我六年了。”查尔斯爵士说，“她原是我在伦敦的秘书。到了这儿，她实际上成了一位顶呱呱的管家。像时钟一样管理这个地方．现在，她就要离开了。” 
　　“为什么？” 
　　“她说，”查尔斯爵士犹豫不决地擦了擦鼻子。“她说她有个残废的母亲。我并不相信，像她那样的女人根本不会有什么母亲。她像发电机一样自发地产生动力。不，她身上还有别的什么。” 
　　“完全有可能。”巴塞罗缪爵士说，“人们一直在议论她。” 
　　“议论她？”演员睁大眼睛说．“议论什么？” 
　　“亲爱的查尔斯，你知道．议论，指的是什么。” 
　　“你的意思是议论她……跟我？我跟那样一张脸孔的女人？像她那么大的年龄？” 
　　“她也许还不到五十岁。” 
　　“我想她有五十岁了。”查尔斯爵士想着这事，“老实说，托利，你注意她的脸了吗？也是一双眼睛，-个鼻子和一张嘴巴．可是这不是一张脸，不是一张女性的脸。街坊里最爱造谣生事的老猫，也绝不会将风流韵事与这样一张脸联系在一起。” 
　　“你小看了我们这位英国牧师的想象力。” 
　　查尔斯爵士摇了摇头。 
　　“我才不相信哩．米尔雷小姐身上蕴藏着某种尊严．甚至连英国牧师也会另眼相看．她是贞洁和尊严的化身，是个绝顶能干的女人．我选择秘书历来都是很挑剔的。” 
　　“聪明的人。” 
　　查尔斯爵士沉思了一会儿。 
　　巴塞罗缪爵士改变话题问道，“今天下午来的什么客人？” 
　　“第一位，安吉。” 
　　“是安吉拉•萨克利夫吗？太好了。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生饶有兴趣地侧过身去。他极想知道这次别墅招待会的组成．安吉拉•萨克利夫是个著名女演员，也不太年轻了．但仍然让观众注目．人们赞扬她的聪慧和魅力，有时．还称她为埃伦．特里的接班人。 
　　“还有戴克斯一家。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生又一次点了点头．戴克斯太太是安布罗赛思有限公司的剪裁师。那是个生意兴隆的时装公司，在电视节目上有广告。那就是布鲁克大街的安布罗赛思公司时装表演第一场“布兰克小姐时装系列”。她的丈夫是戴克斯船长．用他自己的赛马行话来说，他是一匹黑马。他把大量时间花费在赛马场上．过去很多年，他一头栽进大英野外障碍赛马会。尽管谣言四起，谁也不会清楚地知道，他曾经惹过什么样的麻烦．谁也不会去打听，什么都不会张扬出去。但是．无论怎么说，一提到弗雷迪．戴克斯，人们就会扬起眉头。 
　　“还有剧作家安东尼．阿斯特。” 
　　“当然会有她。”萨特思韦特先生说，“她写过《单行道》。 
　　我看了两遍．剧本有很强的震撼力。” 
　　他有意表明自己知道安东尼．阿斯特是个女人。 
　　“说得对。”查尔斯爵士说，“我忘了她的真名．恐怕姓威尔斯．我只见过她一面。我请她陪安吉拉来．我是说，安吉拉出席这次别墅招待会是件幸事。” 
　　“哦，还有当地的客人．巴宾顿一家。他是个牧师，-位好人。只是不太像个牧师。他妻子真是个不错的女人，常给我长篇大论地讲解园艺。还有玛丽夫人和蛋蛋要来．哦，还有一位叫曼德斯的小伙子，是个旅行家还是别的什么．这年轻人长得挺帅．这就是招待会的全班人马。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生是个办事井井有条的人．他正在数人头。 
　　“萨克利夫小姐，一个；戴克斯夫妇，三个；安东尼．阿斯特，四个；玛丽夫人和她女儿，六个；牧师和他的妻子．八个；那年轻人，九个；加上我们几个，共十二个人．查尔斯爵士，不是你就是米尔雷小姐数错了。” 
　　“米尔雷小姐不可能弄错。”查尔斯爵士肯定地说，“那个女人永远都不会有差错的．让我来算一算．是的，你是对的．是我漏了一位客人，一下子想不起他来了。” 
　　他噗嗤一声笑了起来．“这位先生似乎不是很受欢迎的人。这家伙是我所见过的最刚愎自用的人，鬼精灵。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生眨了眨眼睛。他一直坚持这样一个观点．演员是世界上最最虚荣的人。他认为查尔斯爵士也不例外。这种五十步笑百步的情形使他感到开心。 
　　“谁是这个刚愎自用的自我主义者？”他问道。 
　　“是朗姆这个矮鬼。”查尔斯爵士说，“当然，是个杰出的矮鬼。你们可能听说过他．赫尔克里．波洛．一个比利时人。” 
　　“是那位侦探吧？”萨特思韦特先生说，“我见过他，是个了不起的人才。” 
　　“他是个人物。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“我还没有见过他。”巴塞罗缨爵士说，“但经常听到他的传闻．不久前他退休了，是吧？也许我听到的多是谣传。 
　　嗬，查尔斯．我希望这个周末我们这儿不会发生什么案件。” 
　　“怎么会呢？这屋里不是有位侦探吗？托利，你可别胡说。” 
　　“好呀，这正好是我的观点。” 
　　“你是什么观点，医生？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“案件找人，不是人找案件。为什么有的人生活激动人心．而有的人生活却平淡无奇？这是因为他们有不同的环境吗？完全不是。有人可以游遍天涯海角而平安无事，可在他到达某地的前一周却发生过大屠杀．或许在他离开后的第二天，地震突然爆发．或许他差一点要去乘坐的小船会遭受沉船的灾难。可是，另外一个住巴勒姆的男人．每天都要进城，却不幸大难临头．他可能被卷进敲诈勒索的歹徒、花枝招展的姑娘或摩托车土匪制造的事端之中．还有一些人，即使乘坐的湖上小船有良好的设施．也难免翻船的厄运．同样的道理，像赫尔克里．波涪那样的人就不必寻找犯罪案件，案件会自己找上门来。” 
　　“照你这么说，”萨特思韦特先生说道，“米尔雷小姐最好来参加我们的宴会，我们不要十三个人在一起吃饭。” 
　　“好吧。”查尔斯爵士洒脱地说，“托利，如果你热衷于此，你尽管可以设想你的凶杀案……反正我只下一个结论我自己不会成为那具尸体。” 
　　于是，三个人都笑了起来，迈步走进屋里。
CHAPTER 2 Incident Before Dinner
2 
The principal interest of Mr. Satterthwaite’s life was people. He was on the whole more interested in women than men. For a manly man, Mr. Satterthwaite knew far too much about women. There was a womanish strain in his character which lent him insight into the feminine mind. Women all his life had confided in him, but they had never taken him seriously. Sometimes he felt a little bitter about this. He was, he felt, always in the stalls watching the play, never on the stage taking part in the drama. But in truth the r?le of onlooker suited him very well. 
This evening, sitting in the large room giving on to the terrace, cleverly decorated by a modern form to resemble a ship’s cabin de luxe, he was principally interested in the exact shade of hair dye attained by Cynthia Dacres. It was an entirely new tone - straight from Paris, he suspected - a curious and rather pleasing effect of greenish bronze. What Mrs. Dacres really looked like it was impossible to tell. She was a tall woman with a figure perfectly disciplined to the demands of the moment. Her neck and arms were her usual shade of summer tan for the country - whether naturally or artificially produced it was impossible to tell. The greenish bronze hair was set in a clever and novel style that only London’s best hairdresser could achieve. Her plucked eyebrows, darkened lashes, exquisitely made-up face, and mouth lip-sticked to a curve that its naturally straight line did not possess, seemed all adjuncts to the perfection of her evening gown of a deed and unusual blue, cut very simply it seemed (though this was ludicrously far from the case) and of an unusual material - dull, but with hidden lights in it. 
“That’s a clever woman,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, eyeing her with approval. “I wonder what she’s really like.” 
But this time he meant in mind, not in body. 
Her words came drawlingly, in the mode of the moment. 
“My dear, it wasn’t possible. I mean, things either are possible or they’re not. This wasn’t. It was simply penetrating.” 
That was the new word just now - everything was “penetrating”. Sir Charles was vigorously shaking cocktails and talking to Angela Sutcliffe, a tall, grey-haired woman with a mischievous mouth and fine eyes. 
Dacres was talking to Bartholomew Strange. 
“Everyone knows what’s wrong with old Ladisbourne. The whole stable knows.” 
He spoke in a high clipped voice - a little red, foxy man with a short moustache and slightly shifty eyes. 
Beside Mr. Satterthwaite sat Miss Wills, whose play, One-Way 
Traffic, had been acclaimed as one of the most witty and daring seen in London for some years. Miss Wills was tall and thin, with a receding chin and very badly waved fair hair. She wore pince-nez, and was dressed in exceedingly limp green chiffon. Her voice was high and undistinguished. 
“I went to the South of France,” she said. “But, really, I didn’t enjoy it very much. Not friendly at all. But of course it’s useful to me in my work - to see all the goings on, you know.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “Poor soul. Cut off by success from her spiritual home - a boarding house in Bournemouth. That’s where she’d like to be.” He marvelled at the difference between written works and their authors. That cultivated “man-of-the-world” tone that Anthony Astor imparted to his plays - what faintest spark of it could be perceived in Miss Wills? Then he noticed that the pale-blue eyes behind the pince-nez were singularly intelligent. They were turned on him now with an appraising look that slightly disconcerted him. It was as though Miss Wills were painstaking learning him by heart. 
Sir Charles was just pouring out the cocktails. 
“Let me get you a cocktail,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, springing up. Miss Wills giggled. 
“I don’t mind if I do,” she said. 
The door opened and Temple announced Lady Mary Lytton Gore and Mr. and Mrs. Babbington and Miss Lytton Gore. As has been stated before, he had a weakness for titles. 
Mr. Satterthwaite supplied Miss Wills with her cocktail and then sidled into the neighbourhood of Lady Mary Lytton Gore. As has been stated before, he had a weakness for titles. 
Also, apart from snobbishness, he liked a gentlewoman, and that Lady Mary most undeniably was. 
Left as a widow very badly off with a child of three, she had come to Loomouth and taken a small cottage where she had lived with one devoted maid ever since. She was a tall thin woman, looking older than her fifty-five years. Her expression was sweet and rather timid. She adored her daughter, but was a little alarmed by her. 
Hermione Lytton Gore, usually known for some obscure reason as Egg, bore little resemblance to her mother. She was of a more energetic type. She was not, Mr. Satterthwaite decided, beautiful, but she was undeniably attractive. And the cause of that attraction, he thought, lay in her abounding vitality. She seemed twice as alive as anyone in that room. She had dark hair, and grey eyes and was of medium height. It was something in the way the hair curled crisply in her neck, in the straight glance of the grey eyes, in the curve of the cheek, in the infectious laugh that gave one that impression of riotous youth and vitality. 
She stood talking to Oliver Manders, who had just arrived. 
“I can’t think why sailing bores you so much. You used to like it.” 
“Egg - my dear. One grows up.” 
He drawled the words, raising his eyebrows. 
A handsome young fellow, twenty-five at a guess. Something, perhaps, a little sleek about his good looks. Something else - something - was it foreign? Something unEnglish about him. 
Somebody else was watching Oliver Manders. A little man with an egg-shaped head and very foreign-looking moustaches. Mr. Satterthwaite had recalled himself to M. Hercule Poirot’s memory. The little man had been very affable. Mr. Satterthwaite suspected him of deliberately exaggerating his foreign mannerisms. His small twinkly eyes seemed to say, “You expect me to be the buffoon? To play the comedy for you? Bien -it shall be as you wish!” 
But there was no twinkle now in Hercule Poirot’s eyes. He looked grave and a little sad. 
The Rev. Stephen Babbington, rector of Loomouth, came and joined Lady Mary and Mr. Satterthwaite. He was a man of sixty old, with kind faded eyes and a disarming diffident manner. He said to Mr. Satterthwaite: 
“We are very lucky to have Sir Charles living among us. He has been most kind - most generous. A very pleasant neighbour to have. Lady Mary agrees, I am sure.” 
Lady Mary smiled. 
“I like him very much. His success hasn’t spoilt him. In many ways he is,” her smile deepened, “a child still.” 
The parlourmaid approached with the tray of cocktails as Mr. Satterthwaite reflected how unendingly maternal women were. Being of the Victorian generation, he approved that trait. 
“You can have a cocktail, Mums,” said Egg, flashing up to them, glass in hand. “Just one.” 
“Thank you, dear,” said Lady Mary meekly. 
“I think,” said Mr. Babbington, “that my wife would allow me to have one.” 
And he laughed a little gentle clerical laugh. 
Mr. Satterthwaite glanced over at Mrs. Babbington, who was talking earnestly to Sir Charles on the subject of manure. 
“She’s got fine eyes,” he thought. 
Mrs. Babbington was a big untidy woman. She looked full of energy and likely to be free from petty mindedness. As Charles Cartwright had said - a nice woman. 
“Tell me,” Lady Mary leaned forward. “Who is the young woman you were talking to when we came in - the one in green?” 
“That’s the playwright - Anthony Astor.” 
“What? That - that anaemic-looking young woman? Oh!” She caught herself up. “How dreadful of me. But it was a surprise. She doesn’t look - I mean she looks exactly like an inefficient nursery governess.” 
It was such an apt description of Miss Wills’ appearance that Mr. Satterthwaite laughed. Mr. Babbington was peering across the room with amiable shortsighted eyes. He took a sip of his cocktail and choked a little. He was unused to cocktails, thought Mr. Satterthwaite amusedly - probably they represented modernity to his mind - but he didn’t like them. Mr. Babbington took another determined mouthful with a slightly wry face and said: 
“Is it the lady over there? Oh dear - ” 
His hand went to his throat. 
Egg Lytton Gore’s voice rang out: 
“Oliver - you slippery Shylock - ” 
“Of course,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite, “that’s it - not foreign - Jew!” 
What a handsome pair they made. Both so young and good-looking 
... and quarrelling, too - always a healthy sign ... 
He was distracted by a sound at his side. Mr. Babbington had risen to his feet and was swaying to and fro. His face was convulsed. It was Egg’s clear voice that drew the attention of the room, though Lady Mary had risen and stretched out an anxious hand. 
“Look,” said Egg’s voice. “Mr. Babbington is ill.” 
Sir Bartholomew Strange came forward hurriedly, supporting the stricken man and half lifting him to a couch at one side of the room. The others crowded round, anxious to help, but impotent ... Two minutes later Strange straightened himself and shook his head. He spoke bluntly, aware that it was no use to beat about the bush. 
“I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s dead ... ”
第二章　饭前惨案
第二章　饭前惨案

　　萨特思韦特先生生活中的主要兴趣是人．总的来说，他对女人比对男人更感兴趣。作为一个男子汉．萨特思韦特先生对女人的了解要深得多。在他的性格里有一种女性的气质，这使他能够更深人地观察女性的内心世界。他身边的女人都会对他吐露真情，但她们对他并不认真．对此，他有时会感到不是滋味．他感到自己好像在小包厢里看戏，而不是在剧中亲自扮演一个角色．然而，旁观者的角色实际上最适合他不过了。 
　　这天晚上，他坐在一间面对露台的大房间里。一家现代装璜公司精巧地将它装饰成船上的特等舱模样。他主要感兴趣的还是辛西娅．戴克斯头上染发剂的颜色．这是一种全新的颜色．他猜想那肯定是直接从巴黎进口的。这种铜绿色有一种使人好奇和欣喜的效果。简直不可能说清戴克斯太太的相貌．她是个高个子女人，绝对符合眼下时兴的形象。她的脖子和手臂有着夏天乡间生活中女人们那种黝黑的肤色。谁也不知道这是天然生成，还是人工所造．她的铜绿色头发梳理成一种优雅而新颖的发式，只有伦敦第一流的理发师才会有这种技艺。她的眉毛向上弯曲，睫毛画黑，脸部经过精心修饰，原来平平的嘴形变得轮廓鲜明，弯曲可人。这一切都映衬着她身上那件美妙绝伦、不同寻常的深蓝色晚装．衣服剪裁得简洁明快(尽管与这种场合格格不人)，面料质地也非同一般，色泽淡雅，却有暗光闪烁。 
　　“那是个精明的女人。”萨特思韦特先生说着，眼睛凝视着她，流露出赞赏的神情。“我可不知道她的真实面貌了。” 
　　这一次，他是在用心，而不是在用嘴说话。 
　　她谈话时总拖长声调，这种语气眼下最为流行。 
　　“我亲爱的，这是不可能的．我的意思是，有的事可能，有的事不可能．你所说的就是不可能．这是最具有渗透力的事。” 
　　这是目前的一个新词儿．一切都具有“渗透力”。 
　　查尔斯爵士兴致勃勃地摇着鸡尾酒，一边与安吉拉•萨克利夫交谈。她是高个的灰头发女人，有着一张顽皮的嘴和一双漂亮的眼睛。 
　　戴克斯在向巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇说话： 
　　“人人都知道老拉迪斯伯思出了什么错。整个赛马场都清楚。” 
　　他说话时把嗓门提高，声音短促。他是个小个头男人，皮肤发红，有褐斑，嘴上留一小撮短须，还有一双不安分的眼睛。 
　　在萨特思韦特先生旁边坐着威尔斯小姐。她的剧本《单行道》被誉为多年来在伦敦演出的最诙谐机智、最震撼人心的剧目之一。威尔斯小姐身材高挑瘦削．下巴后缩．头发却蓬松凌乱．她脸上架着夹鼻眼镜，身穿极其柔软的雪纺绸衣服，嗓门很高，却缺乏抑扬顿挫。 
　　“我去了法国南方。”她说，“但是说真的，我不太喜欢那儿．这样说很不友好．当然啦，你是知道的，这对我的写作很有好处．去看看那儿发生的一切。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生想道广真是个可怜的人！事业的成功使她背井离乡，常常不能回到她精神的归宿—伯恩茅斯的寓所里。这是她喜欢居住的地方。”对于作品和作者之间的明显反差，他很惊奇．安东尼．阿斯特在剧本里体现了一种“当代男性”的风格，可是，难道能在威尔斯小姐的身上。 
　　察觉到这种风格最微弱的火花吗？于是，他注意到夹鼻眼镜后面那双淡蓝色的眼睛异常机敏聪慧．此时，这双眼睛以一种明察秋毫的目光投向了他，使他有点儿心神不安．威尔斯小姐好像是在用心观察他。 
　　查尔斯爵士正在倒鸡尾酒。 
　　“让我给您弄一杯吧。”萨特思韦特先生突然跳起身来。 
　　威尔斯小姐格格地笑了。 
　　“我倒乐意为你调制一杯。”她说。 
　　门开了，坦普尔宣布玛丽．利顿•戈尔夫人、巴宾顿夫妇和利顿•戈尔小姐到达。 
　　萨特思韦特先生给威尔斯小姐送去一杯鸡尾酒。然后悄悄酒到玛丽．利顿•戈尔夫人身边。正如刚才所述，他对罄位有特殊的兴趣。 
　　他善于奉承，也喜欢上流女士。理所当然，玛丽夫人就是其中一位。 
　　丈夫抛下这个可怜的寡妇时，留下了一个三岁小女孩。 
　　此后，她来到鲁茅斯，住进一幢小平房．从此，一个忠实的女仆一直陪伴着她．她是个高个清瘦的女人，看上去比她五十五岁的年纪还出老．她谈吐温柔，略带羞怯．她溺爱女儿，常为她担惊受怕。不知为什么，人们通常把赫米欧•利顿。 
　　戈尔叫作蛋蛋．她与母亲几乎没有相似之处．她属于比较热情开朗的类型。在萨特思韦特先生看来，她并不漂亮，但毫无疑问具有一种魅力．他想，这种魅力在于她那朝气勃勃的活力．她比屋里所有的人都要活跃得多。她有一头黑发，灰色眼睛．中等身材．也许是她的卷曲齐颈的短发、灰色眼珠直勾勾看人的目光，曲线柔美的脸颊和具有感染力的笑声，她给人一种奔放不羁的青春活力的印象。 
　　她站着与刚刚到达的奥利弗•曼德斯说话。 
　　“我简直不能想象，你为什么对航海如此着迷．你一向都很喜欢航海。” 
　　“蛋蛋，我亲爱的，你可长大啦！” 
　　他慢吞吞地说着，并扬起眉头。 
　　这是个挺帅的年轻人，估计有二十五岁．在他好看的脸上，也许流露出一点圆滑的表情．还有某种……是一种异乡的神态吧？反正他身上有某种非英国式的神态。 
　　还有一个人在看着奥利弗•曼德斯。是一位小个子男人，蛋形头部、留着很特殊的胡须。萨特思韦特先生唤起自己对赫尔克里．波洛先生的记忆．这位矮个子男入总是笑容可鞠。萨特思韦特先生怀疑他是在故意夸大他的异乡人风度。他那双炯炯有神的眼睛似乎要说广难道你要让我变成滑稽戏里的小丑吗？难道要我为你们演喜剧吗？那就让你们如愿以偿！” 
　　但是，赫尔克里．波洛的眼睛此刻已不再闪闪发光．他显得有些不快和忧伤。 
　　鲁茅斯的教区牧师斯蒂芬．巴宾顿走过来与玛丽夫人和萨特思韦特先生谈话．他已六十开外，一双仁慈的眼睛显得暗淡无光。他的言谈举止已缺乏锐气和自信．他对萨特思韦特先生说： 
　　“查尔斯爵士能跟我们生活在一起，我们实在幸运．他多么仁慈、多么慷慨，真是一个令人愉快的邻居．相信玛丽夫人也会有同感。” 
　　玛丽夫人微笑道： 
　　“我非常喜欢他。他的成功没有宠坏了他。”她笑得更开心了。“他在很多方面还像个孩子。” 
　　客厅女仆端着一盘鸡尾酒定了过来。这时，萨特思韦特先生正在观察，一个具有永恒母爱的女人会有什么样的表现．由于他属于维多利亚时代的人．对她的品质很是赞赏。 
　　“你们可以喝杯鸡尾酒，太太们。”蛋蛋姑娘举着酒杯对她们挥一挥手说，“每人一杯。” 
　　“谢谢你，亲爱的。”玛丽夫人温柔地说。 
　　“我想，”巴宾顿先生说，“我妻子会允许我喝一杯。” 
　　接着他发出几声慈祥的牧师特有的笑声。 
　　萨特思韦特先生从远处凝望着巴宾顿太太，她正在向查尔斯爵士认真地谈着种花施肥的事情。 
　　“她的眼力很好。”他想道。 
　　巴宾顿太太是个高大的女人。她穿着随便，精力充沛，总想摆脱狭隘的意识。正如查尔斯•卡特赖特曾经说过的那样，那是个好女人。 
　　“告诉我，”玛丽夫人将身子朝前倾了倾说，“那个年轻人是谁？我们进来的时候．你在跟她说话。就是穿绿衣服那一位。” 
　　“她是个剧作家。安东尼．阿斯特。” 
　　“什么？就是那个看上去像患了贫血症的年轻女人吗？ 
　　哦！”她控制住自己．“我真差劲。这可真令人吃惊．她的样子不像一我是说，她看上去确实像一个无能的托儿所保姆。” 
　　她对威尔斯小姐的这种恰如其分的印象，使萨特思韦特先生笑了起来．巴宾顿先生用他那双温和的近视眼在屋里四处探望。他呷了一口鸡尾酒．在嘴里品尝着酒的滋味。 
　　萨特思韦特先生饶有兴趣地想着，巴宾顿不常喝鸡尾酒。在他看来，喝鸡尾酒也许能代表现代人的风度……不过，他不喜欢喝就是了．巴宾顿先生下决心又喝了一口，脸上的肌肉开始有点扭曲了．他说： 
　　“是那边那位太太吗？哦，我的天……”他伸手放在喉咙上。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘的声音响了起来： 
　　“奥利弗，你这个狡猾的福尔摩斯……”萨特思韦特先生想道广当然，说对了．他又不是什么异乡人，只不过是个犹太人！” 
　　他们是很相配的一对．两人都这么年轻漂亮……当然也会是引起争议的一对……总之，是健康的象征。 
　　旁边的声响突然打断他的思绪．巴宾顿先生刚从座位上站起来，正在前后摇晃．他的面部出现了痉挛。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘清脆的尖叫惊动了全屋子的人。在这之前，玛丽夫人已经站起身来、焦急地伸出了手。 
　　“哎呀！”蛋蛋叫道，“巴宾顿先生病倒了。” 
　　巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士连忙跑过来，一把扶住病魔缠身的人，并将他半抬到客厅一侧的长沙发上．其他人也围了上来．紧张地帮着医生．然而，一切都无济于事…… 
　　两分钟之后，斯特兰奇医生站直身子，摇了摇头。转弯抹角是没有用的，于是他直截了当地说： 
　　“很遗憾，他死了……”
CHAPTER 3 Sir Charles Wonders
3 
“Come in here a minute, Satterthwaite, will you?” 
Sir Charles poked his head out of the door. 
An hour and a half had passed. To confusion had succeeded peace. Lady Mary had led the weeping Mrs. Babbington out of the room and had finally gone home with her to the vicarage. Miss Milray had been efficient with the telephone. The local doctor had arrived and taken charge. A simplified dinner had been served, and by mutual consent the house party had retired to their rooms after it. Mr. Satterthwaite had been making his own retreat when Sir Charles had called to him from the door of the Ship-room where the death had taken place. 
Mr. Satterthwaite passed in, repressing a slight shiver as he did so. He was old enough not to like the sight of death ... For soon, perhaps, he himself ... But why think of that? 
“I’m good for another twenty years,” said Mr. Satterthwaite robustly to himself. 
The only other occupant of the Ship-room was Bartholomew Strange. He nodded approval at the sight of Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Good man,” he said. “We can do with Satterthwaite. He knows life.” 
A little surprised, Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in an armchair near the doctor. Sir Charles was pacing up and down. He had forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and looked definitely less naval. 
“Charles doesn’t like it,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Poor old Babbington’s death, I mean.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought the sentiment ill expressed. Surely nobody could be expected to “like” what had occurred. He realised that Strange had quite another meaning from the bald one the words conveyed. 
“It was very distressing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way. “Very distressing indeed,” he added with a reminiscent shiver. 
“H’m, yes, it was rather painful,” said the physician, the professional accent creeping for a moment into his voice. 
Cartwright paused in his pacing. 
“Ever see anyone die quite like that before, Tollie?” 
“No,” said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully. “I can’t say that I have.” 
“But,” he added in a moment or two. “I haven’t really seen as many deaths as you might suppose. A nerve specialist doesn’t kill off many of his patients. He keeps ’em alive and makes his income out of them. MacDougal has seen far more deceases than I have, I don’t doubt.” 
Dr. MacDougal was the principal doctor in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had summoned. 
“MacDougal didn’t see this man die. He was dead when he arrived. There was only what we could tell him, what you could tell him. He said it was some kind of seizure,” said Babbington was elderly, and his health was none too good. That doesn’t satisfy me.” 
“Probably didn’t satisfy him,” grunted the other. “ But a doctor has to say something. Seizure is a good word - means nothing at all, but satisfies the lay mind. And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had been giving him trouble lately; his wife told us so. There may have been some unsuspected weakness somewhere.” 
“Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever you call it?” 
“Typical of what?” 
“Of any known disease?” 
“If you’d ever studied medicine,” said Sir Bartholomew, “you’d know that there is hardly any such thing as a typical case.” 
“What, precisely, are you suggesting, Sir Charles?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
Cartwright did not answer. He made a vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a slight chuckle. 
“Charles doesn’t know himself,” he said. “It’s just this mind turning naturally to the dramatic possibilities.” 
Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture. His face was absorbed - thoughtful. He shook his head slightly in an abstracted manner. An elusive resemblance teased Mr. Satterthwaite - then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the Secret Service, unravelling the tangled plot of Underground Wires. In another minute he was sure. Sir Charles was limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide Duval had been known as The Man With a Limp. 
Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless common sense to Sir Charles’s unformulated suspicious. 
“Yes, what do you suspect, Charles? Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a harmless old clergyman? It’s fantastic. Suicide? Well, I suppose that is a point. One might perhaps imagine reason for Babbington wanting to make away with himself - ” 
“What reason?” 
Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently. 
“How can we tell the secrets of the human mind? Just one suggestion - suppose that Babbington had been told he suffered from an incurable disease - such as cancer. Something of that kind might supply a motive. He might wish to spare his wife the pain of watching his own long-drawn-out suffering. That’s only a suggestion, of course. There’s nothing on earth to make us think that Babbington did want to put an end to himself.” 
“I wasn’t thinking so much of suicide,” began Sir Charles. 
Bartholomew Strange again gave his low chuckle. 
“Exactly. You’re not out for probability. You want sensation - new and untraceable poison in the cocktails.” 
Sir Charles made an expressive grimace. 
“I’m not so sure I do want that. Damn it all, Tollie, remember I mixed those cocktails.” 
“Sudden attack of homicidal mania, eh? I suppose the symptoms are delayed in our case, but we’ll all be dead before morning.” 
“Damn it all, you joke, but - ” Sir Charles broke off irritably. 
“I’m not really joking,” said the physician. 
His voice had altered. It was grave, and not unsympathetic. 
“I’m not joking about poor old Babbington’s death. I’m casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because - well - because I don’t want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm.” 
“Harm?” demanded Sir Charles. 
“Perhaps you understand what I’m driving at, Mr. Satterthwaite?” 
“I think, perhaps, I can guess,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Don’t you see, Charles,” went on Sir Bartholomew, “that those idle suspicions of yours might be definitely harmful? These things get about. A vague suggestion of foul play, totally unfounded, might cause serious trouble and pain to Mrs. Babbington. I’ve known things of that kind happen once or twice. A sudden death - a few idle tongues wagging - rumours flying all round the place - rumours that go on growing - and that no one can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don’t you see how cruel and unnecessary it would be? You’re merely indulging your vivid imagination in a gallop over a wholly speculative course.” 
A look of irresolution appeared on the actor’s face. 
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted. 
“You’re a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away with you. Come now: do you seriously believe anyone, anyone at all, would want to murder that perfectly harmless old man?” 
“I suppose not,” said Sir Charles. “No, as you say, it’s ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it wasn’t really a mere ‘stunt’ on my part. I did genuinely have a ‘hunch’ that something was wrong.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite gave a little cough. 
“May I make a suggestion? Mr. Babbington was taken ill a very few moments after entering the room and just after drinking his cocktail. Now, I did happen to notice he made a wry face when drinking. I imagined because he was unused to the taste. But supposing that Sir Bartholomew’s tentative suggestion is correct - that Mr. Babbington may for some reason have wished to commit suicide. That does strike me as just possible, whereas the suggestion of murder seems quite ridiculous.” 
“I feel that it is possible, though not probable, that Mr. Babbington introduced somehow into that glass unseen by us. 
“Now I see that nothing has yet been touched in this room. The cocktail glasses are exactly where they were. This is Mr. Babbington’s. I know, because I was sitting here talking to him. I suggest that Sir Bartholomew should get the glass analysed - that can be done quite quietly and without causing any ‘talk’.” 
Sir Bartholomew rose and picked up the glass. 
“Right,” he said. “I’ll humour you so far, Charles, and I’ll bet you ten pounds to one that there’s nothing in it but honest-to-God gin and vermouth.” 
“Done,” said Sir Charles. 
Then he added with a rueful smile: 
“You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of fancy.” 
“I?” 
“Yes, with your talk of crime this morning. You said this man, Hercule Poirot, was a kind of stormy petrel, that where he went crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive than we have a suspiciously sudden death. Of course my thoughts fly to murder at once.” 
“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. 
“Yes,” said Charles Cartwright. “I’d thought of that. What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of it all? Is it etiquette, I mean?” 
“A nice point,” murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“I know medical etiquette, but I’m hanged if I know anything about the etiquette of detection.” 
“You can’t ask a professional singer to sing,” murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. “Can one ask a professional detective to detect? 
Yes, a very nice point.” 
“Just an opinion,” said Sir Charles. 
There was a gentle tap on the door, and Hercule Poirot’s face appeared, peering in with an apologetic expression. 
“Come in, man,” cried Sir Charles, springing up. “We were just talking of you.” 
“I thought perhaps I might be intruding.” 
“Not at all. Have a drink.” 
“I thank you, no. I seldom drink the whisky. A glass of sirop, now - ” 
But sirop was not included in Sir Charles’s conception of drinkable fluids. Having settled his guest in a chair, the actor went straight to the point. 
“I’m not going to beat about the bush,” he said. “We were just talking of you, M. Poirot, and - and - of what happened tonight. Look here, do you think there’s anything wrong about it?” 
Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said: 
“Wrong? How do you mean that - wrong?” 
Bartholomew Strange said, “My friend has got an idea into his head that old Babbington was murdered. 
“And you do not think so - eh?” 
“We’d like to know what you think.” 
Poirot said thoughtfully: 
“He was taken ill, of course, very suddenly - very suddenly indeed.” 
“Just so.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite explained the theory of suicide and his own suggestion of having a cocktail glass analysed. 
Poirot nodded approval. 
“That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely in the extreme that anyone would wish to do away with a charming and harmless old gentleman. Still less does the solution of suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail glass will tell us one way or another.” 
“And the result of the analysis, you think, will be - what?” 
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 
“Me? I can only guess. You ask me to guess what will be the result of the analysis?” 
“Yes - ?” 
“Then I guess that they will find only the remains of a very excellent dry Martini.” (He bowed to Sir Charles.) “To poison a man in a cocktail, one of many handed round on a tray - well, it would be a technique very - very - difficult. And if that charming old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I do not think he would do it at a party. That would show a very decided lack of consideration for others, and Mr. Babbington struck me as a very considerate person. He paused. That, since you ask me, is my opinion.” 
There was a moment’s silence. Then Sir Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of the windows and looked out. 
“Wind’s gone round a point,” he said. 
The sailor had come back and the Secret Service detective had disappeared. 
But to the observant Mr. Satterthwaite it seemed as though Sir Charles hankered slightly after the part he was not, after all, to play.
第三章　查尔斯爵士的疑团
第三章　查尔斯爵士的疑团

　　查尔斯爵士把头伸出门外叫道： 
　　“萨特思韦特，进来一会儿好吗？” 
　　一个半小时已经过去。平静代替了混乱．玛丽夫人把哭哭啼啼的巴宾顿太太带出别墅，并与她一起到了牧师的住宅．米尔雷小姐一直在电话机前忙碌．当地的医生赶来查看情况。大家简单地用过晚餐。相互寒喧几句之后．客人们都回到各自的房间。当查尔斯爵士从发生死亡事件的“船舱大厅”门边叫他时，萨特思韦特先生正准备回到他的房里。 
　　萨特思韦特先生走进大厅时．拼命克制身体的颤抖。他已经是个上了年纪的人，实在不能目睹死人的场面。也许，他自己也很快会……不过，想这个干什么呢？ 
　　“我很健康，还能再活二十年。”萨特思韦特先生自言自语地说，心里充满自信。 
　　留在船舱大厅的另外一个人是巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇。 
　　他一见到萨特思韦特先生就向他点头致意，还带有几分赞许。 
　　“好人啊！”他说，“我们都能与萨特思韦特先生很好地相处．他懂得生活。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生坐到医生旁边的扶手椅上，听了这话有点儿吃惊。查尔斯爵±在来回走动．他下意识地半握着拳头，但那神态绝对不像一个海军军官。 
　　“查尔斯不喜欢这样的事情发生。”巴塞罗缪爵士说，“我是指可怜的巴宾顿老人的死。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生想，人的情绪是很难用语言来表达的。 
　　显然，谁都不会“喜欢”刚才发生的事情。他意识到斯特兰苛医生表示的不是他话中所表达的一般含义，而是别有所指。 
　　“真令人悲叹。”萨特思韦特先生小心翼翼地表达自己的情感。“确实非常令人悲叹！”他以一种缅怀往事的心情颤栗地重复着。 
　　“唉，是啊．这是相当悲痛的事。”医生说话时，声音里有一种职业化的腔调。 
　　查尔斯•卡特赖特停下脚步。 
　　“托利，曾经看见过有人这样死去吗？” 
　　“没有。”巴塞罗缨若有所思地说，“可以说我没有见过。” 
　　“但是。”片刻之后，他又补充说，“我不像你想象的那样，看见过很多人的死亡．在一个精神病医生的手下，不会有多少人死掉．他要让病人生存下来，还要从他们那儿获得收人．毫无疑问，麦克杜格尔比我见过的死人多得多。” 
　　麦克杜格尔是鲁茅斯镇的主治医师．米尔雷小姐请他看过病。 
　　“麦克杜格尔并没有看见这个人死去．当他赶到这儿时，那人已经死了。他只知道我们告诉他的情况．也只有你能告诉他具体情况．他说，死亡是某种疾病突然发作引起的。还说巴宾顿先生已上了年纪，他的体质不太好．我对他的话并不满意。” 
　　“我也许同样不会使他满意。”另一位咕哝道，“但是，-个医生总得说点什么。突然发作，是一个很好的解释，但根本不说明什么，却能够让外行人满意．而且，巴宾顿毕竟上了年纪．他的妻子告诉我们，最近他的身体一直有毛病。可能是某个器官患有意想不到的疾病。” 
　　“那就是典型的痉挛，或者突然发作吗？你随便叫它什么好了。” 
　　“典型的什么？” 
　　“某种典型的疾病。” 
　　“如果你学过医，”巴塞罗缪爵士说，“你就会明白，几乎没有所谓典型的病例。” 
　　“你到底在暗示什么，查尔斯爵士？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　卡特赖特没有回答．他只是做了一个不明确的手势。斯特兰奇轻轻笑出声来。 
　　“查尔斯不了解他自己，”他说．“他的思路总有可能导致戏剧性的结果。” 
　　查尔斯爵士做了一个责备的手势．他的脸上显出专注的样子，思绪万端。他轻轻地摇摇头，茫然若失。 
　　萨特思韦特先生正在苦苦思索．他跟谁有难以想象的相似之处？随后，他终于想起来了．那是情报部头目阿里斯蒂德．杜瓦尔．是他解开了“地下网络组织”错综复杂的疑团．过了片刻，他坚信不移．查尔斯爵士走路时步履瞒珊。 
　　而阿里斯蒂德．杜瓦尔……直被称之为“步履蹒跚的男人”。 
　　巴塞罗缪爵士继续为查尔斯未成形的疑团提供常识性的解释。 
　　“是的，你怀疑什么，查尔斯？自杀？他杀？谁会谋杀一个与世无争的老牧师？真是不可思议。自杀吗？这个，我想也有道理。人们也许不难想象巴宾顿要自寻短见的原因。” 
　　“什么原因？” 
　　巴塞罗缪爵士轻轻地摇摇头。 
　　“我们怎么能说清人的内心秘密？我有个设想—假如有人告诉巴宾顿．说他患了不治之症，比如说癌症．这样一类事情就会引发一个动机。他会希望妻子摆脱看见他长期遭受折磨的痛苦．当然，这只是一种设想．世界上没有什么会使巴宾顿愿意像这样去了结一生。” 
　　“我对自杀没有想这么多。”查尔斯爵士开始说话了。 
　　巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇又一次发出轻轻的笑声。 
　　“确实．你要想方设法找出可能的线索。你需要有轰动效应的证据．如有人在鸡尾酒里放了一种很难查出的新型毒药。” 
　　查尔斯爵士做了一个意味深长的怪相。 
　　“我不敢说我想得到证据．真他妈的够呛，托利，你还记得吧，是我调兑的鸡尾酒。” 
　　“是杀人狂的突然袭击，是吗？我想，我们这个案子的征兆被拖迟了，否则，我们所有的人在天亮之前都会死去。” 
　　“该死，你在开玩笑，但是……”查尔斯爵士激动地打断了他的话。 
　　“我真的不是在开玩笑。”医生说。 
　　他的声音变了，显得很痛心，但没有反感的情绪。 
　　“对于可怜的老巴宾顿的死，我怎么会开玩笑。我只是对你的设想说几句有趣的话，查尔斯．这是因为……直说吧，因为我不想让你轻率地加害于人。” 
　　“加害于人？”查尔斯爵士大声问道。 
　　“萨特思韦特先生，也许你明白我针对什么而言？” 
　　“我想，我也许猜得出来。”萨特思韦特先生说道。 
　　“查尔斯，难道你没有看见，”巴塞罗缨爵士继续说，“你毫无根据地猜疑，显然会伤害别人。事情总要传开．对案件完全没有根据的模糊不清的设想，可能会对巴宾顿太太带来严重的麻烦和痛苦．我知道这种事情发生过不止一次。只要有几个加油添醋的家伙插手，关于突然死亡的流言就会满天飞，并且会愈演愈烈，最后谁也无法收拾．你真够呛，查尔斯，你难道没有看出其后果不堪设想吗？这完全是要避免的．你这是在放纵自己的想象力，完完全全在凭空猜测。” 
　　演员的脸上露出不知所措的神情。 
　　“我并不是那样去想问题。”他说。 
　　“你是一个响当当的人物，查尔斯，但是你却让你的想象漫无边际地奔驰。说说看，你真的相信有人会杀害一位绝对与世无争的老人吗？” 
　　“我想不会，”查尔斯说，“不会的。正如你所说．那是荒谬的。对不起，托利．在我看来，这确实不是一个单纯的．突发事件，。我有一种预感，总觉得有什么不对头。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生轻轻地咳了几声。 
　　“我可以说说我的想法吗？巴宾顿先生走进屋里，刚刚喝了鸡尾酒之后不到几分钟就病倒了。那时，我碰巧注意到他喝酒时面有苦相．当时我猜想他不习惯鸡尾酒的昧道．假如巴塞罗缨爵士的推测是正确的话，巴宾顿先生是会因为某种缘故去自杀的．如果有这种可能．那确实让我感到震惊．然而，他杀的意见看起来却又十分荒唐可笑。” 
　　“我感到巴宾顿先生有可能将什么东西放进杯里，而不让我们发现。当然这种可能性不太大。” 
　　“现在屋里所有的东西都没有被人动过．鸡尾酒杯都没有动过．仍摆在那儿．这就是巴宾顿先生的那一杯．我记得很清楚，因为我当时正坐在这儿跟他谈话。我建议请巴塞罗缪先生把这个杯子拿去检查．做这事要悄无声息，才不至于引起闲话。” 
　　巴塞罗缨爵士站起来，拿了酒杯。 
　　“对了。”他说，“我会遵命的，查尔斯．我敢拿出十英镑来跟谁打赌，杯里肯定什么也不会有．绝对只有杜松子酒和苦艾酒。” 
　　“成交。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　随后他脸上又露出了懊侮的笑容。 
　　“要知道，托利，我这样胡思乱想，你是有部分责任的。” 
　　“我？” 
　　“是的，与你今天上午谈论的犯罪有关．你说，赫尔克里．波洛这位仁兄是暴风雨中的海燕．你还说他到哪里，案件就会跟到哪里．他刚刚到达，我们这儿就出现了可疑的突然死亡事件．于是我的思路当然一下子转到了谋杀上。” 
　　“我不明白。”萨特思韦特先生说着又停了下来。 
　　“是的。”查尔斯爵士说，“我是想到过谋杀的可能．你怎么想，托利？我们可以问问人家想到了什么？这是一种常规吗？” 
　　“说得好。”萨特思韦特先生喃喃地说。 
　　“我知道医学常规．要是我知道一点破案常规，我就该死。” 
　　“你不必要求一个职业歌手唱歌。”萨特思韦特先生咕哝着，“难道你有必耍要求一个职业侦探去侦查吗？是的，查尔斯说得好。” 
　　“只不过是个人的看法。”查尔斯爵±说。 
　　有人在轻轻敲门，接着赫尔克里．波洛出现了，他抱歉地看着屋里的人。 
　　“进来吧。”查尔斯爵士站起来叫道，“我们刚刚才谈到你。” 
　　“所以我想我来得太唐突了。” 
　　“哪里哪里！喝一杯吧。” 
　　“谢谢你，我不喝．我很少喝威士忌．来杯果汁吧。” 
　　可是，查尔斯爵士的饮料柜里不会有果汁．刚把客人安顿坐在椅子上，这位演员就开门见山地说了起来。 
　　“我不想转弯抹角。”他说，“我们刚刚谈到你，波洛先生．而且，而且也谈到今天发生的事情。你说，你认为有什么不妥的吗？” 
　　波洛眉头一扬，说道，“不妥？你指的什么……不妥？” 
　　巴塞罗缨．斯特兰奇说．“我的朋友脑子里有一个想法，就是老巴宾顿是被谋杀的。” 
　　“你不这么想吗，呢？” 
　　“我们希望知道您的看法。” 
　　波洛意味深长地说。 
　　“他病倒了。当然，病得突然……确实非常突然。” 
　　“就是这些吗？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生说明他对自杀的看法，以及他要求检查鸡尾酒杯的建议。 
　　波洛点头同意。 
　　“不管怎么说，这没有坏处。从人性的角度来判断．我无论如何也想象不到，有人竟企图除掉一个极好的、与世无争的老年人．在我看来，自杀的可能也很少．然而，鸡尾酒杯会告诉我们一点蛛丝马迹。” 
　　“你认为检查的结果会是什么呢？” 
　　波洛耸耸肩头。 
　　“我吗？我只是猜测。你问我检查的结果吗？” 
　　“对。” 
　　“那么我猜他只会发现杯里有非常高级的鸡尾酒残余(他向查尔斯爵士点了点头)。为了在鸡尾酒里下毒谋害一个人，托盘里的酒杯经过这么多人的手要那个人得到，这在技术上是非常、非常困难的。如果是那个漂亮的老牧师想要自杀，我认为他是不会在一个晚宴中干这种事情的。那会表明他逮不顾及他人，而巴宾顿先生体谅他人的性格给我很深的印象。”他停了一下又说，“既然你问到了我，这就是我的看法。” 
　　屋里沉默了一会儿。然后查尔斯爵士深深地叹了一口气。他打开一扇窗子朝外看去。 
　　“风随人意。”他说。 
　　当查尔斯转身回来时，情报局的侦探已经无影无踪。 
　　对于观察敏锐的萨特思韦特先生来说，查尔斯爵士似乎在渴望着他毕竟不能扮演的角色。
CHAPTER 4 A Modern Elaine
4 
“Yes, but what do you think, Mr. Satterthwaite? Really think?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite looked this way and that. There was no escape. Egg Lytton Gore had got him securely cornered on the fishing quay. Merciless, these modern young women - and terrifying alive. 
“Sir Charles has put this idea into your head,” he said. 
“No, he hasn’t. It was there already. It’s been there from the beginning. It was so frightfully sudden.” 
“He was an old man, and his health wasn’t very good - ” 
Egg cut the recital short. 
“That’s all tripe. He had neuritis and a touch of rheumatoid arthritis. That doesn’t make you fall down in a fit. He never had fits. He was the sort of gentle creaking gate that would have lived to be ninety. What did you think of the inquest?” 
“It all seemed quite - er - normal.” 
“What did you think of Dr. MacDougal’s evidence? Frightfully technical, and all that - close description of the organs - but didn’t it strike you that behind all that bombardment of words he was hedging? What he said amounted to this: that there was nothing to show death had not arisen from natural causes. He didn’t say it was the result of natural causes.” 
“Aren’t you splitting hairs a little, my dear?” 
“The point is that he did - he was puzzled, but he had nothing to go upon, so he had to take refuge in medical caution. What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated some of the physician’s dictums. 
“Pooh-poohed it, did he?” said Egg thoughtfully. “Of course, he’s a cautious man - I suppose a Harley Street big bug has to be.” 
“There was nothing in the cocktail glass but gin and vermouth,” Mr. Satterthwaite reminded her. 
“That seems to settle it. All the same, something that happened after the inquest made me wonder - ” 
“Something Sir Bartholomew said to you?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite began to feel a pleasant curiosity. 
“Not to me - to Oliver. Oliver Manders - he was at dinner that night, but perhaps you don’t remember him.” 
“Yes, I remember him very well. Is he a great friend of yours?” 
“Used to be. Now we scrap most of the time. He’s gone into his uncle’s office in the city, and he’s getting - well, a bit oily, if you know what I mean. Always talks of chucking it and being a journalist - he writes rather well. But I don’t think it’s any more than talk now. He wants to get rich. I think everybody is rather disgusting about money, don’t you, Mr. Satterthwaite?” 
Her youth came home to him then - the crude, arrogant childishness of her. 
“My dear,” he said, “so many people are disgusting about so many things.” 
“Most people are swine, of course,” agreed Egg cheerfully. “That’s why I’m really cut up about old Mr. Babbington. Because you see, he really was rather a pet. He prepared me for confirmation and all that, and though of course a lot of that business is all bunkum, he really was rather sweet about it. You see, Mr. Satterthwaite, I really believe in Christianity - not like Mother does, with little books and early service, and things - but intelligently and as a matter of history. The Church is all clotted up with the Pauline tradition - in fact the Church is a mess - but Christianity itself is all right. That’s why I can’t be a communist like Oliver. In practice our beliefs would work out much the same, things in common and ownership by all, but the difference - well, I needn’t go into that. But the Babbingtons really were Christians; they didn’t poke and pry and condemn, and they were never unkind about people or things. They were pets - and there was Robin ... ” 
“Robin?” 
“Their son ... He was out in India and got killed ... I - I had rather a pash on Robin ... ” 
Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea ... 
Then her attention returned to Mr. Satterthwaite and the present. 
“So, you see, I feel rather strongly about this. Supposing it wasn’t a natural death ... ” 
“My dear child!” 
“Well, it’s damned odd! You must admit it’s damned odd.” 
“But surely you yourself have just practically admitted that the Babbingtons hadn’t an enemy in the world.” 
“That’s what’s so queer about it. I can’t think of any conceivable motive ... ” 
“Fantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail.” 
“Perhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic.” 
“Containing the arrow poison of the South America Indians,” 
suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing. 
Egg grinned. 
“That’s it. The good old untraceable stuff. Oh, well, you’re all very superior about it. Some day, perhaps, you’ll find out we are right.” 
“We?” 
“Sir Charles and I.” She flushed slightly. 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought in the words and metre of his generation when Quotations for All Occasions was to be found in every bookcase. 
“Of more than twice her years, 
Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was her doom.” 
He felt a little ashamed of himself for thinking in quotations - Tennyson, too, was very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed he was not scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless capable of a healthy passion, did not look at all likely to perish of love and drift about rivers on a barge. There was nothing of the lily maid of Astolat about her. 
“Except,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite, “her youth ... ” 
Girls were always attracted to middle-aged men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to be no exception to this rule. 
“Why hasn’t he ever married?” she asked abruptly. 
“Well ... ” Mr. Satterthwaite paused. His own answer, put bluntly, would have been, “Caution,” but he realised that such a word would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore. 
Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony. Egg was clearly seeking for a more romantic explanation. 
“That girl who died of consumption - some actress, name began with an M - wasn’t he suppose to be very fond of her?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite remembered the lady in question. Rumour had coupled Charles Cartwright’s name with hers, but only very slightly, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not for a moment believe that Sir Charles had remained unmarried in order to be faithful to her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully. 
“I suppose he’s had lots of affairs,” said Egg. 
“Er - h’m - probably,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian. 
“I like men to have affairs,” said Egg. “It shows they’re not queer or anything.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite’s Victorianism suffered a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply. Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went on musingly. 
“You know, Sir Charles is really cleverer than you’d think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatises himself; but behind all that he’s got brains. He’s far better sailing a boat than you’d ever think, to hear him talk. You’d think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, but it isn’t. It’s the same about this business. You think it’s all done for effect - that he wants to play the part of the great detective. All I say is: I think he’d play it rather well.” 
“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite. 
The inflection of his voice showed his feelings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them and expressed them in words. 
“But your view is that ‘Death of a Clergyman’ isn’t a thriller. It’s merely ‘Regrettable Incident at a Dinner Party.’ Purely a social catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He ought to know.” 
“M. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis of the cocktail; but in his opinion everything was quite all right.” 
“Oh, well,” said Egg, “he’s getting old. He’s a back number.” Mr. Satterthwaite winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality: 
“Come home and have tea with Mother. She likes you. She said so.” 
Delicately flattered, Mr. Satterthwaite accepted the invitation. On arrival Egg volunteered to ring up Sir Charles and explain the non-appearance of his guest. 
Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny sitting room with its faded chintzes and its well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a Victorian room, what Mr. Satterthwaite called in his own mind a lady’s room, and he approved of it. 
His conversation with Lady Mary was agreeable, nothing brilliant, but pleasantly chatty. They spoke of Sir Charles. Did Mr. Satterthwaite know him well? Not intimately, Mr. Satterthwaite said. He had a financial interest in one of Sir Charles’s plays some years ago. They had been friends ever since. 
“He has great charm,” said Lady Mary, smiling. “I feel it as well as Egg. I suppose you’ve discovered that Egg is suffering badly from hero worship?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite wondered if, as a mother, Lady Mary was not made slightly uneasy by that hero worship. But it did not seem so. 
“Egg sees so little of the world,” she said, sighing. “We are so badly off. One of my cousins presented her and took her to a few things in town, but since then she has hardly been away from here, except for an occasional visit. Young people, I feel, should see plenty of people and places - especially people. Otherwise - well, propinquity is sometimes a dangerous thing.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite agreed, thinking of Sir Charles and the sailing, but that this was not what was in Lady Mary’s mind, she showed a moment or two later. 
“Sir Charles’s coming has done a lot for Egg. It has widened her horizon. You see, there are very few young people down here - especially men. I’ve always been afraid that Egg might marry someone simply from being thrown with one person only and seeing no one else.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite had a quick intuition. 
“Are you thinking of young Oliver Manders?” 
Lady Mary blushed in ingenuous surprise. 
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, I don’t know how you knew! I was thinking of him. He and Egg were together a lot at one time, and I know I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t like some of his ideas.” 
“Youth must have its fling,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
Lady Mary shook her head. 
“I’ve been so afraid - it’s quite suitable, of course, I know all about him, and his uncle, who has recently taken him into his firm, is a very rich man; it’s not that - it’s silly of me - but - ” 
She shook her head, unable to express herself further. 
Mr. Satterthwaite felt curiously intimate. He said quietly and plainly: 
“All the same, Lady Mary, you wouldn’t like your girl to marry a man twice her own age.” 
Her answer surprised him. 
“It might be safer so. If you do that, at least you know where you are. At that age a man’s follies and sins are definitely behind him; they are not - still to come ... ” 
Before Mr. Satterthwaite could say any more, Egg rejoined them. 
“You’ve been a long time, darling,” said her mother. 
“I was talking to Sir Charles, my sweet. He’s all alone in his glory.” 
She turned reproachfully to Mr. Satterthwaite. “You didn’t tell me the house-party had flitted.” 
“They went back yesterday - all but Sir Bartholomew Strange. He was staying till tomorrow, but he was recalled to London by an urgent telegram this morning. One of his patients was in a critical condition.” 
“It’s a pity,” said Egg. “Because I meant to study the house-party. I might have got a clue.” 
“A clue to what, darling?” 
“Mr. Satterthwaite knows. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Oliver’s still here. We’ll rope him in. he’s got brains when he likes.” 
When Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back at Crow's Nest he found his host sitting on the terrace overlooking the sea. 
“Hullo, Satterthwaite. Been having tea with the Lytton Gore?” 
“Yes. You don’t mind?” 
“Of course not. Egg telephoned ... Odd sort of girl, Egg ... ” 
“Attractive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“H’m, yes, I suppose she is.” 
He got up and walked a few aimless steps. 
“I wish to God, he said suddenly and bitterly, that I’d never come to this cursed place.”
第四章　当代伊莱恩
第四章　当代伊莱恩

　　“是这样，萨特思韦特先生。但你是怎么想的呢？真实的想法？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生开始东张西望，无处藏身．蛋蛋．利顿．戈尔已经把他逼到了钓鱼码头．这些没有同情心的现代女郎，活泼开朗得实在过分。 
　　“查尔斯爵士已经将他的想法灌输到你的头脑中了。” 
　　他说。 
　　“不，他没有。这想法已经在我脑子里了．从一开始就是这样。事情来得太突然，令人毛骨悚然。” 
　　“他是个老年人，身体也不太好……”蛋蛋姑娘长话短说。 
　　“那都是无稽之谈。他患神经炎，也有轻度类风湿性关节炎。这不会使他突然发作倒地身亡。他过去也从来没有发作过．他是那种小病不断大病不犯可以活到九十岁的人。 
　　你认为调查的情况怎么样？” 
　　“这都是非常……唔，非常符合常理的事。” 
　　“你认为麦克杜格尔大夫的证词怎么样？他有令人震惊的技巧，对所有器官都进行了详细的描述。但是这些东西仍然没有说服你，尽管他使用了咄咄逼人的语言，其字里行间却表明他的态度模棱两可．他所说的可以归纳为一句话．没有什么可以表明这次死亡不是自然产生的．只是他没有直接说出，这是正常死亡。” 
　　“你有点吹毛求疵了，我亲爱的。” 
　　“问题是他说了那些话，自己却迷惑不解。他没有什么靠得住的东西，于是他不得不从药品告诚中找退路．巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士是怎么想的？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生重复了医生的声明。 
　　“对此他噬之以鼻，是吗？”蛋蛋意味深长地说，“当然啦，他是一个谨慎的人．我想，他肯定是哈利大街的名流。” 
　　“在鸡尾酒杯里没有发现什么，只有杜松子酒和苦艾酒。”萨特思韦特先生提醒她。 
　　“那就解决问题了。同样，在检查之后发生的事真叫我困惑……”“巴塞罗缪爵士对你说了些什么？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生感到好奇。 
　　“不是对我说的，是对奥利弗。奥利弗•曼德斯．那天晚上，他正在用餐。也许你不记得他了。” 
　　“不，我记得很清楚．他是你们的好朋友吧？” 
　　“过去是．现在我们经常吵嘴．他在城里他叔父的办事处任职，还混得……不错。他有点不安分．你也许懂我的意思．他总说要辞掉这份工作，去当新记记者一他擅长写作。但是我认为．他目前只是纸上谈兵．他想发财．可是我想，人人都说自己厌恶金钱，难道你不是吗，萨特思韦特先生？” 
　　在他面前，她充满了青春活力．此时她显露出粗犷而又娇生惯养的稚气。 
　　“我的好姑娘。”他说，“人们厌恶的事情多着哩。” 
　　“当然，大多数人都像愚蠢的猪锣。”蛋蛋激动地说，“老巴宾顿的死为什么使我这么痛心疾首呢？你知道，他确实让人敬重。他为我施行过按手礼，还做了很多好事．当然，有很多话他说了也没用，可他所说的真让人心里乐滋滋的。你可知道，萨特思韦特先生，我真的信仰基督教．不像妈妈那样，只会拿着小小的圣经做早礼拜。我是把它作为一种历史的现象去信仰，而且是一种理智的信仰。现在教会充斥着保罗教义的传统……事实上，教会是个大杂烩。当然，基督教本身是很好的．因此，我不会像奥利弗那样会成为激进派。 
　　实际上，我们大家的信仰都大同小异．无非是共同利益和公有制之类．其区别嘛……好啦，我不必再深入了．可是巴宾顿一家都是真正的基督徒。他们不会拨弄是非，不爱管闲事．也不会对人家评头品足。然而，他们对人对事从来都不会冷漠无情．他们都受人爱戴。有个叫罗宾的……”“罗宾？” 
　　“是他们的儿子……他去过印度，在那儿被杀死了．我……我曾经迷恋过他……”蛋蛋姑娘眨了眨眼睛，目光朝外面的大海望去…… 
　　接着，她的思绪又回到了现实，回到萨特思韦特先生身边。 
　　“所以，你该明白了，我对这次事故感觉十分强烈．假如他不是自然死亡……”“我亲爱的孩子！” 
　　“唉，这真叫倒霉透顶．你得承认．这真是倒霉透顶！” 
　　“可是你实际上已经承认，巴宾顿先生在世上没有仇人。” 
　　“所以这才是怪事。我简直不能想象会有任何谋杀的动机……”“真离奇！在鸡尾酒中什么也没有啊。” 
　　“也许有人用一个针头戳了他一下。” 
　　“一支南美印第安土人的毒箭。”萨特思韦特先生带着善意的讥讽，为她举了一个例子。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘冽嘴笑了起来。 
　　“就是这样，一桩没有线索的事件。好啦，好啦，你现在占了上风，有一天你会发现我们是正确的。” 
　　“你们？” 
　　“查尔斯和我。”她的脸上起了红晕。 
　　萨特思韦特先生想起《引语大全》这本书里的诗句和韵律。在他那个年代，每个书架上都能找到这本书： 
　　他脸上昔日的剑伤， 
　　已变成破损的古铜色疤痕， 
　　她对年长一倍的他一见钟情， 
　　这爱情注定给她带来厄运。 
　　他在这种时候还想到丁尼生的诗句，心里有点儿羞愧。 
　　而诗人也同样脱离了现实．何况，查尔斯爵士的皮肤虽已晒成古铜色，但脸上并没有留下疤痕．蛋蛋敢于迫求真挚的爱情．却完全不像那个为情而死，在河上漂泊的姑娘．在她身上找不到阿斯托拉特百合少女的影子。 
　　对于凤流的中年男人来说．姑娘们永远都具有诱惑力。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘似乎也不例外。 
　　“为什么他从不结婚？”她唐突地问道。 
　　“这个……”萨特思韦特先生停了下来。他的回答可能会是：“太谨慎。”但他意识到，这种回答是不会让蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔小姐满意的。 
　　查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士与许多女人过往甚密，其中有女演员．也有其他各种女人。可是他总是回避婚姻大事。蛋蛋显然在寻找一个更浪漫的解释。 
　　“有一个死于肺结核的姑娘，是个女演员，她的名字第一个字母是M。他是不是很喜欢她呢？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生记得她所说的这个女士。传闻总是把查尔斯•卡特赖特和这姑娘的名字连在一起。当然只是轻描淡写而已．萨特思韦特先生从来不相信查尔斯爵士保持单身．是为了表明自己的忠减和对她的怀念之情。 
　　“我想他会有许多风流韵事。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　“嗯……这，也许是的．”萨特思韦特先生感到自己很拘谨。 
　　“我喜欢男人有这样的事。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“这说明他们不怪僻。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生维多利亚时代的保守、拘谨的传统又受到一次新的打击。他不知所措，无言对答。蛋蛋没有注意到他的狼狈相，还在继续说“你知道，查尔斯爵士比你想象的还要聪明。当然．他表面上往往装腔作势，像演员在表演。但实际上他是个很有头脑的人．他谈话如行云流水，难以想象。因此，听他讲话，你会认为一切都是故意做作，其实并非如此．这次的事情也一样，你会认为他所做的一切都是为了迫求某种效果-就是说，他想扮演一个大侦探．我要说的是，他会扮演得很出色。” 
　　“很可能。”萨特思韦特先生表示赞同。 
　　他说话的声调十分清楚地表达了他的情感。蛋蛋姑娘注意地捕捉他的这种情感，并用语言将它表达出来。 
　　“你的观点是，牧师之死不是一出惊险戏剧，这只不过是一场宴会中令人遗憾的事故。纯粹是一次社交场合上的灾祸。波洛先生是怎么想的呢？他应当清楚。” 
　　“波洛先生劝我们耐心等待鸡尾酒的检验结果。但他的意见是，一切都很正常。” 
　　“是这样吗？”蛋蛋说，“他越来越老啦，不中用了。”萨特思韦特先生让步了。蛋蛋姑娘得寸进尺，没有意识到自己的失礼广到我家去吧，回家与我妈喝茶去。她喜欢你。她就是这么说的。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生受宠若惊，接受了她的邀请。 
　　刚到家里，蛋蛋自作主张地打电话给查尔斯爵士，解释萨特思韦特先生没有去他那儿的原因。 
　　萨特思韦特先生在小巧的客厅里坐下来。客厅里有退色的印花墙布和亮堂堂的老式家具。这是维多利亚时代的典型房间．萨特思韦特先生按自己的想法把它叫作“贵妇厅”．为此，他感到洋洋得意。 
　　他与玛丽夫人的交谈很是和谐。虽然没有妙语连珠．却令人心旷神怡。他们谈起查尔斯爵士．夫人问萨特思韦特先生跟他相处如何．萨特思韦特先生回答说，不算亲密。几年以前，他在查尔斯爵士的一次演出中入了股．那以后，他们就成了朋友。 
　　“他很有魅力。”玛丽夫人说着微笑起来．“我跟蛋蛋的感受一模一样。我估计你们已经发现，蛋蛋正在为崇拜英雄的感情而受折磨。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生很想知道，作为母亲的玛丽夫人是否对蛋蛋这种英雄崇拜无动于衷．看样子情况并非如此。 
　　“蛋蛋对这个世界了解太少了。”她说着叹了口气．“我们离题太远了。我的一个堂兄把她带到城里的好些地方，在社交场合引见她．从那以后．除了一次偶然的访问，她很难有机会出去．你想，年轻人．当见识各种各样的人．访问各种地方，特别要接触人．否则，故步自封有时候是很危险的”萨特思韦特先生赞成这个说法，同时还想起了查尔斯爵士和他的航海旅游．但是，这不是玛丽夫人心里所想的，过了一会儿她才开口。 
　　“查尔斯爵士来我们这儿对蛋蛋大有好处，使她开阔了视野．你看，这儿几乎没有年轻人，特别是年轻男子．我一直在担心，蛋蛋会嫁给什么样的人呢？这只是因为她与世隔绝，看不见别的任何人。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生突然有了一种直觉。 
　　“你是想到了年轻的奥利弗•曼德斯吧？” 
　　玛丽夫人不由得吃了一惊，脸也红了起来。 
　　“哎呀，萨特思韦特先生，我不明白你是怎么知道的？我是想到了他．有一段时间他常和蛋蛋在一起。我知道自己已经老气横秋，但我不喜欢他的某些想法。” 
　　“年轻人一定会很放纵。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　玛丽夫人摇摇头。 
　　“我一直很担心……当然我并没有过分。我了解他和他叔叔的一切．他叔叔很富有，最近让奥利弗进了他的公司。 
　　这并不是……我真傻，不过……”她摇摇头，再也说不下去了。 
　　萨特思韦特先生感到已经触及到她的隐私，于是不慢不紧地说道，“都是人之常情。玛丽夫人，你不会乐意让你的女儿嫁给一个年纪比她大一倍的男人吧？” 
　　她的回答使他大吃一惊。 
　　“那样更安全些．如果真是那样的话，至少你会知道你存在的价值。男人到了那种年龄，他的荒唐和恶习己经成为过去，老毛病不会再犯……”萨特思韦特先生正要开口，蛋蛋姑娘又想加人他们的谈话。 
　　“你呆得太久了，亲爱的。”她母亲说。 
　　“我要去跟查尔斯爵士说说话，好妈妈。他处在鼎盛时期，却寂寞孤单。”她转身对着萨特思韦特先生，用一种责备的口气说广你怎么不告诉我，别墅招待会已经换了地方？” 
　　“昨天他们都回去了。只留下巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇一个人。他打算待到明天．今天上午一个加急电报要将他召回了伦敦，因为他的一个病人病危。” 
　　“真遗憾。”蛋蛋说，“我原以为要去查一查这次聚会的现场，可能我会发现一些线索。” 
　　“什么线索，亲爱的？” 
　　“萨特思韦特先生清楚．哦，好啦，没关系，奥利弗还在这儿．我们要把他拖进来，只耍他喜欢的事，他是很会动脑筋的。” 
　　当萨特思韦特先生回到鸦巢屋时，他看见主人正坐在露台上眺望大海。 
　　“你好．萨特思韦特．你在跟利顿•戈尔一家喝茶吗？” 
　　查尔斯爵士问道。 
　　“是的，你没有意见吧？” 
　　“当然没有。蛋蛋打电话来……真是个特别的女孩．蛋蛋她……”“很有魅力。”萨特思韦特先生接着说。 
　　“唔，是的，我想她是有魅力。” 
　　他站起身来，毫无目的地走了几步。 
　　“要是上帝保佑，”他突然痛心地说，“我不来这个该死的鬼地方多好。”
CHAPTER 5 Flight From A Lady
5 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “He’s got it badly.” 
He felt a sudden pity for his host. At the age of fifty-two, Charles Cartwright, the gay debonair breaker of hearts, had fallen in love. And, as he himself realised, his case was doomed to disappointment. Youth turns to youth. 
“Girls don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “Egg makes a great parade of her feeling for Sir Charles. She wouldn’t if it really meant anything. Young Manders is the one.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was usually fairly shrewd in his assumptions. Still, there was probably one factor that he did not take into account, because he was unaware of it himself. That was the enhanced value placed by age on youth. To Mr. Satterthwaite, an elderly man, the fact that Egg might prefer a middle-aged man to a young one was frankly incredible. Youth was to him so much the most magical of all gifts. 
He felt strengthened in his beliefs when Egg rang up after dinner and demanded permission to bring Oliver along and “have a consultation.” 
Certainly a handsome lad, with his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and easy grace of movement. He had, it seemed, permitted himself to be brought - a tribute to Egg’s energy; but his general attitude was lazily sceptical. 
“Can’t you talk her out of it, sir?” he said to Sir Charles. “It’s this appallingly healthy bucolic life she leads that makes her so energetic. You know, Egg, you really are detestably hearty. And your tastes are childish - crime - sensation - and all that bunk.” 
“You’re a sceptic, Manders?” 
“Well, sir, really. That dear old bleating fellow. It’s fantastic to think of anything else but natural causes.” 
“I expect you’re right,” said Sir Charles. 
Mr. Satterthwaite glanced at him. What part was Charles Cartwright playing tonight. Not the ex-Naval man - not the international detective. No, some new and unfamiliar r?le. 
It came as a shock to Mr. Satterthwaite when he realised what that r?lewas. Sir Charles was playing second fiddle. Second fiddle to Oliver Manders. 
He sat back with his head in shadow watching those two, Egg and Oliver, as they disputed - Egg hotly, Oliver languidly. 
Sir Charles looked older than usual - old and tired. 
More than once Egg appealed to him - hotly and confidently - but his response was lacking. 
It was eleven o’clock when they left. Sir Charles went out on the terrace with them and offered the loan of an electric torch to help them down the stony path. 
But there was no need of a torch. It was a beautiful moonlight, Mr. Satterthwaite was not going to risk a chill. He returned to the Ship- room. Sir Charles stayed out on the terrace a little while longer. When he came in he latched the window behind him, and striding to a side table poured himself out a whisky and soda. 
“Satterthwaite,” he said, “I’m leaving here tomorrow for good.” 
“What?” cried Mr. Satterthwaite, astonished. 
A kind of melancholy pleasure at the effect he had produced showed for a minute on Charles Cartwright’s face. 
“It’s the Only Thing To Do,” he said, obviously speaking in capital letters. “I shall sell this place. What it has meant to me no one will ever know.” His voice dropped, lingeringly ... effectively. After an evening of second fiddle, Sir Charles’s egoism was taking its revenge. This was the great Renunciation Scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers dramas. Giving Up the Other Man’s Wife, Renouncing the Girl he Loved. 
There was a brave flippancy in his voice as he went on. 
“Cut your losses - it’s the only way ... Youth to youth ... They’re made for each other, those two ... I shall clear out ... ” 
“Where to?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
The actor made a careless gesture. 
“Anywhere. What does it matter?” He added with a slight change of voice, “Probably Monte Carlo.” 
And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, “In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd - what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary - alone. I have always been - a lonely soul ... ” 
It was clearly an exit line. 
He nodded to Mr. Satterthwaite and left the room. 
Mr. Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed. 
“But it won’t be the heart of a desert,” he thought to himself with a slight chuckle. 
On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr. Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day. 
“Don’t cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know you’re going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustn’t look back. No, I mustn’t look back.” 
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr. Satterthwaite’s hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray. 
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charles’s overnight decision. Nor could Mr. Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr. Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl. 
“What’s all this?” demanded Egg fiercely. 
“All what?” parried Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“It’s all over the place that Sir Charles is going away - that he’s going to sell Crow's Nest.” 
“Quite true.” 
“He is going away?” 
“He’s gone.” 
“Oh!” Egg relinquished his arm. She looked suddenly, like a very small child who has been cruelly hurt. 
Mr. Satterthwaite did not know what to say. 
“Where has he gone?” 
“Abroad. To the South of France.” 
“Oh!” 
Still he did not know what to say. For clearly there was more than hero worship here ... 
Pitying her, he was turning over various consolatory words in his mind when she spoke again - and startled him. 
“Which of those damned bitches is it?” asked Egg fiercely. 
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the arm again and shook him violently. 
“You must know,” she cried. “Which of them? The grey-haired one or the other?” 
“My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 
“You do. You must. Of course it’s some woman. He liked me - I know he liked me. One of those two women the other night must have seen it, too, and determined to get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy cats. Did you see her clothes - that one with the green hair? They made me gnash my teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes like that has a pull - you can’t deny it. She’s quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what does it matter. She makes everyone else look like a dowdy curate’s wife. Is it her? Or is it the other one with the grey hair? She’s amusing - you can see that. She’s got masses of S.A. And he called her Angie. It can’t be the one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one or is it Angie?” 
“My dear, you’ve got the most extraordinary ideas into your head. He - er - Charles Cartwright isn’t the least interested in either of those women.” 
“I don’t believe you. They’re interested in him, anyway ... ” 
“No, no, no, you’re making a mistake. This is all imagination.” 
“Bitches,” said Egg. “That’s what they are!” 
“You mustn’t use that word, my dear.” 
“I can think of a lot worse things to say than that.” 
“Possibly, possibly, but pray don’t do so. I can assure you that you are labouring under a misapprehension.” 
“Then why has he gone away - like this?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. 
“I fancy he - er - thought it best.” 
Egg stared at him piercing. 
“Do you mean - because of me?” 
“Well - something of the kind, perhaps.” 
“And so he’s legged it. I suppose I did show my hand a bit plainly ... Men do hate being chased, don’t they? Mums is right, after all ... You’ve no idea how sweet she is when she talks about men. Always in the third person - so Victorian and polite. ‘A man hates being run after; a girl should always let the man make the running.’ Don’t you think it’s a sweet expression - make the running? Sounds the opposite of what it means. Actually that’s just what Charles has done - made the running. He’s run away from me. He’s afraid. And the devil of it is, I can’t go after him. If I did I suppose he’d take a boat to the wilds of Africa or somewhere.” 
“Hermione,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “are you serious about Sir Charles?” 
The girl flung him an impatient glance. 
“Of course I am.” 
“What about Oliver Manders?” 
Egg dismissed Oliver Manders with an impatient whisk of the head. She was following out a train of thought of her own. 
“Do you think I might write to him? Nothing alarming. Just chatty girlish stuff ... you know, put him at his ease, so that he’d get over his scare?” 
She frowned. 
“What a fool I’ve been. Mums would have managed it much better. They knew how to do the trick, those Victorians. All blushing retreat. I’ve been all wrong about it. I actually thought he needed encouraging. He seemed - well, he seemed to need a bit of help. Tell me, she turned abruptly on Mr. Satterthwaite, did he see me do my kissing act with Oliver last night?” 
“Not that I know of. When - ?” 
“All in the moonlight. As we were going down the path. I thought he was still looking from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw me and Oliver - well, I thought it might wake him up a bit. Because he did like me. I could swear he liked him.” 
“Wasn’t that a little hard on Oliver?” 
Egg shook her head decisively. 
“Not in the least. Oliver thinks it’s an honour for any girl to be kissed by him. It was damned bad for his conceit, of course; but one can’t think of everything. I wanted to ginger up Charles. He’s been different lately - more standoffish.” 
“My dear child,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “I don’t think you realise quite why Sir Charles went away so suddenly. He thought that you cared for Oliver. He went away to save himself further pain.” 
Egg whisked round. She caught hold of Mr. Satterthwaite by the shoulders and peered into his face. 
“Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt! The boob! Oh - !” 
She released Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly and moved along beside him with a skipping motion. 
“Then he’ll come back,” she said. “He’ll come back. If he doesn’t - ” 
“Well, if he doesn’t?” 
Egg laughed. 
“I’ll get him back somehow. You see if I don’t.” 
It seemed as though allowing for difference of language Egg and the lily maid of Astolat had much in common, but Mr. Satterthwaite felt that Egg’s methods would be more practical than those of Elaine, and that dying of a broken heart would form no part of them.
第五章　逃避
第五章　逃避

　　萨特思韦特先生暗自思忖：“他可倒霉了。” 
　　他突然同情起鸦巢屋主人的遭遇来．查尔斯•卡特赖特这个欢天喜地、衣冠楚楚的男人，不知使多少女人动心。 
　　现在到了五十二岁的年纪，自己却坠人爱河．而且，正如他自己认识到的那样，这种关系注定要导致令人失望的结果。 
　　年轻人总要找年轻人。 
　　“女孩子不会公开表露自己的情感。”萨特思韦特先生想道，“蛋蛋却大肆炫耀她对查尔斯爵士的感情．如果这种感情真的意味着什么，那她就不会这样做了．小曼德斯就是这样的人。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生总是神机妙算．但是．也许有一个因素他没有考虑过，因为他并没有意识到．那就是年龄这个因素在年轻人的观念中已经增加了价值．在萨特思韦特先生这个上了年纪的人看来，蛋蛋宁愿选择一个中年人而不耍年轻人，确实令人难以置信。因为青春是一切天赋中最神奇的天赋。 
　　当蛋蛋饭后打电话来要求让奥利弗跟她一起来，并“有事求教”时，他更坚定了自己的观点。 
　　曼德斯确实是一个英俊的小伙子。眼窝深陷，眼珠黑亮，动作潇洒自如．他似乎已同意让姑娘带他来这儿，作为对蛋蛋热情邀请的回报。但他对一切总采取一种懒洋洋的怀疑态度。 
　　“你能不能劝她别管这事，爵士？”他对查尔斯爵士说，“正是她度过的这种健康的田园生活，才使她如此精力充沛．你知道，蛋蛋，你过分热情洋溢。你的兴趣还带有孩子气—犯罪案件、轰动事件以及那些想人非非的故事。” 
　　“你是个怀疑论者，是吧，曼德斯？” 
　　“哦，爵士，这是真的．认为那位可亲可敬的饶舌的老家伙不是自然死亡，而是别的原因致死，那才是咄咄怪事。” 
　　“希望你是对的。”查尔斯爵士说道。 
　　萨特思韦特先生瞥了他一眼。今晚查尔斯•卡特赖特要扮演什么角色呢？反正不是退役海军军官，不是国际侦探。都不是。他扮演的是鲜为人知的全新的角色。 
　　当萨特思韦特先生意识到那是什么样的角色时，他自己大吃了一惊。查尔斯爵士在扮演一个配角，充当奥利弗。 
　　曼德斯的配角。 
　　他仰后坐下，在阴影下观察着正在争论的蛋蛋和奥利弗两个人。蛋蛋情绪激昂，奥利弗无精打采。 
　　查尔斯爵士看起来比平常老了许多，又老又疲惫。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘不止一次热情而满怀信心地谈话，试图引起他的兴趣，但是他却不理不睬。 
　　他们离开时已经十一点钟．查尔斯爵士与他们一起走到露台上，用电筒照着他们走下石阶小路。 
　　其实并不需要用电筒。那是一个月光皎洁的夜晚。他们相互道别。两人定在石阶上的脚步声慢慢微弱了。 
　　不管有没有月光，萨特思韦特先生都不愿冒受风寒的危险．他回到了船舱大厅．而查尔斯爵士却在室外的露台上多呆了一会儿。 
　　他一进屋便随手把窗子销上，然后大步定到墙边一张桌子旁，给自己倒了一杯加苏打的威士忌。 
　　“萨特思韦特。”他说，“我明天就永远离开这儿了。” 
　　“什么？”萨特思韦特惊讶地叫起来。 
　　查尔斯•卡特赖特的脸上出现了一种既伤感又喜悦的表情，这是他自己酿成的结果。 
　　“这是惟一可做的事。”他一字一顿地强调道，“我要卖掉这个地方。谁也不知道这事对我的打击有多大。”他的声音低沉下来，放慢速度，充满了感染力。 
　　查尔斯爵士度过了当配角的夜晚，他的自我主义开始寻求报复的机会．这就是他在各式各样的演出中经常扮演自我克制的伟大人物，如《放弃他人的妻子》和《别了，亲爱的姑娘》等等。 
　　他说话的时候，声音里有一种胆大妄为的情绪“减少损失……这是惟一出路……年轻人向着年轻人……他们相互吸引……我一走了之……”“到哪儿？”萨特思韦特先生间道。 
　　演员做了一个满不在乎的姿势。 
　　“到哪儿都行．那有什么关系呢？”他稍为改变了声调又补充说：“也许去蒙特卡洛。”然后，他又敏感地恢复了刚才低落的情绪广到沙漠的中心去，到人流的中心去。那有什么关系呢？人内心深处的核心是孤独，是孤身一人．我从来都是一个……孤寂的灵魂。” 
　　这显然是退场的台词。 
　　他对萨特思韦特先生点点头，然后离开了屋子。 
　　萨特思韦特先生站了起来，打算跟随他进人卧室。 
　　“但你要去的不是沙漠的中心。”他想着，暗自笑了起来。 
　　第二天，查尔斯爵士恳求萨特思韦特先生说，如果他当天要进城里去，就请谅解他。 
　　“亲爱的朋友，不要缩短你的访问时间，按原计划你要待到明天。我知道你要去塔维斯托克城的哈伯顿家。我们派车把你送到那儿。我一旦做了决定，就不会回头，决不回头。” 
　　查尔斯爵士以男人的果断挺直肩头，激动地握住萨特思韦特先生的手．把他拉到能干的米尔雷小姐身边。 
　　应付这种场合，米尔雷小姐似乎已有淮备，就像她应付别的场合一样，临阵不乱．对于查尔斯爵士一夜之间做出的决定，她并没有表现出惊讶和紧张．萨特思韦特先生无法让她说出真情．突然死亡的事件和突然改变的计划也没有使米尔雷小姐激动起来．她接受所发生的任何事实，并着手妥善地处理它．她打电话给房屋经纪人．给国外发电报．在打字机前忙碌地写信．为了避开令人沮丧的场景，萨特思韦特先生漫步走向码头。当他毫无目的地走着的时候，有人从后面抓住他的胳膊．他一转身与一个白脸的姑娘打了个照面。 
　　“这一切到底是为了什么？”蛋蛋姑娘问道。 
　　“一切什么？”萨特思韦特先生故意回避她的问题。 
　　“就是这儿发生的一切。它使得查尔斯爵士要出走，使他想要卖掉整个鸦巢屋。” 
　　“这是真的。” 
　　“他硬要走吗？” 
　　“他已经走了。” 
　　“啊！”她松开刚才抓住的手臂．她看起来像一个受到伤害的天真无邪的小女孩。 
　　萨特思韦特先生不知道该说些什么。 
　　“他到了什么地方？” 
　　“国外．在法国南方。” 
　　“哦！” 
　　他自然无话可说．显然，这儿的气氛已经不止是英雄崇拜…… 
　　他可怜她，在她要开口时，他不断搜寻着各种安慰的语言。这使他自己也吃了一惊。 
　　“那个狗娘养的是谁？”蛋蛋情绪激昂地追问道。 
　　萨特思韦特先生盯着她，惊讶得张开了嘴巴。蛋蛋拉住他的手臂．拼命地摇动。 
　　“你一定知道。”她叫道，“是她们当中的哪一个？是灰头发的那个吗？到底是哪一个？” 
　　“我亲爱的．我不知道你在说些什么。” 
　　“你知道的，你一定知道。这当中肯定有某个女人。他是喜欢我的……我知道他喜欢我．前两天晚上，那个女人也一定看出了我们的事．因此她千方百计把他从我身边弄定。 
　　我恨女人，全都是卑鄙的贱货．你看见她穿的什么衣服？是染绿头发那个吧？她们让我嫉妒得咬牙切齿．穿那种衣服的女人会勾引男人的，你不能否认这一点。她很老，又丑得要死，真的，但又有什么关系呢？在别的女人看来．她像一个穿戴古板的助理牧师的妻子。就是她吧？或者是那个灰头发的女人？她滑稽可笑。你能看出这一点．她是一堆性感的肉团．他叫她的爱称‘安’．不会是那个像棵枯萎的大白菜的女人吧？是漂亮的那一个，还是安吉拉？” 
　　“我亲爱的，你脑子里尽是些稀奇古怪的东西。他—呃，查尔斯•卡特赖特对那些女人都毫无兴趣。” 
　　“我不相信。不管怎么说，她们对他却大有兴趣……”“不，不，不。你错了。那都是你的想象。” 
　　“那些母狗，”蛋蛋姑娘说，“她们就是些母狗！” 
　　“你不能这样叫她们，亲爱的。” 
　　“我还想到了比这更难听的。” 
　　“也许，也许，但求你别这样说．我可以让你相信，你这是徒劳无益的。” 
　　“那他为什么要出走呢？……像这个样子。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生清了清喉咙说，“我猜想他……唔……认为这样最好。” 
　　蛋蛋用一种咄咄逼人的目光看着他。 
　　“你的意思是……为了我？” 
　　“那……也许是这类原因吧。” 
　　“所以他就开路了。我想我过去太直率了……男人厌恶被别人追逐．是不是这样？毕竟妈妈是对的……你很难想象，当她谈到男人时那样子有多甜蜜，总是用第三人称，多么优雅和礼貌．她说，．一个男人讨厌被人追逐，而姑娘应当让男人领跑。，你不认为．领跑，是两个新颖的字眼吗？听起来与实际上的意思正好相反。事实上．这就是查尔斯所做的-领跑．他从我身边跑开，他害怕了．倒霉的是，我不能追随他。假若我追随他，我想他会弄只小船划到非洲的荒漠地带．或者别的什么地方。” 
　　“赫米欧，”萨特思韦特先生说．“你对查尔斯爵士是认真的吗？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘不耐烦地瞥了他一眼“我当然是认真的。” 
　　“那么，你对奥利弗•曼德斯怎么样呢？” 
　　蛋蛋不耐烦地把头一甩。她这时心事重重，思绪万端。 
　　“你认为我该写封信给他吧？要写也没有什么惊人之笔，都是些女孩子的唠叨话……你知道，我是想要他心里平静一点，让他能度过这段惊吓的日子。” 
　　她皱起了眉头。 
　　“我是多么傻啊。太太们碰到这样的事，就会比我处理得好得多．她们都是些正人君子，却知道怎样耍花招。都是些让人害腺的以守为攻的伎俩。我却一错再错。实际上我想到的是，他需要有人鼓励。他似乎……．呃，他似乎需要一点帮助。”她猛然转向萨特思韦特，“告诉我，昨天晚上他看见我跟奥利弗接吻的那场戏吗？” 
　　“连我也不知道。当时……”“那是在月光下．那时我们在小路上散步．我认为他还在露台上眺望。我想，如果他看见我和奥利弗……唔，我想，看见我们俩接吻会使他猛醒．因为，他确实喜欢我．我可以发誓，他是喜欢我的。” 
　　“这不是让奥利弗有点难堪吗？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘果断地摇摇头。 
　　“根本不会。奥利弗认为，任何姑娘让他亲吻，都是一种荣幸．当然，这是他的虚荣心在作祟．但是，谁也不会当真。 
　　我想刺激查尔斯．最近他变了，变得更加冷漠了。” 
　　“我亲爱的孩子，”萨特思韦特先生说，“我认为你还没有意识到查尔斯爵士突然出走的原因。他是以为你倾心于奥利弗。他出走是要摆脱进一步的痛苦。” 
　　蛋蛋环顾四周，她一把抓住萨特思韦特先生的肩膀，并盯着他的脸说： 
　　“那是真的吗？那确实是真的吗？这个呆子！愚蠢的错误！啊……！” 
　　她突然放开萨特思韦特先生，从他身边轻快地跳到前面。 
　　“那么他会回来的，”她说，“他会回来的。如果他不……”“哦？如果他不什么？” 
　　蛋蛋笑了起来。 
　　“反正我要把他找回来。你就看我行不行。” 
　　尽管有语言上的区别．蛋蛋姑娘与阿斯托拉特的百合少女仿佛有很多共同之处。然后，萨特思韦特光生感到．蛋蛋的方式比伊莱恩的方式更为实际。而且，她不会让一颗破碎的心死去。
Second Act - Certainty
6 
Mr. Satterthwaite had come over for the day to Monte Carlo. His round of house-parties was over, and the Riviera in September was rather a favourite haunt of his. 
He was sitting in the gardens enjoying the sun and reading a two- days-old Daily Mail. 
Suddenly a name caught his attention. Strange. Death of Sir 
Bartholomew Strange. He read the paragraph through: 
We much regret having to announce the death of Sir Bartholomew 
Strange, the eminent nerve specialist. Sir Bartholomew was 
entertaining a party of friends at his house in Yorkshire. Sir 
Bartholomew appeared to be in perfect health and spirits, and his 
demise occurred quite suddenly at the end of dinner. He was 
chatting with his friends and drinking a glass of port when he had a 
sudden seizure and died before medical aid could be summoned. 
Sir Bartholomew will be deeply regretted. He was ... 
Here followed a description of Sir Bartholomew’s career and work. Mr. Satterthwaite let the paper slip from his hand. He was very disagreeably impressed. A vision of the physician as he had seen him last flashed across his mind - big, jocund, in the pink of condition. And now - dead. Certain words detached themselves from their context and floated about disagreeably in Mr. Satterthwaite’s mind. “Drinking a glass of port.” “Sudden seizure ... Died before medical aid could be summoned ... ” 
Port, not a cocktail, but otherwise curiously reminiscent of that death in Cornwall. Mr. Satterthwaite saw again the convulsed face of the mild old clergyman ... 
Supposing that after all ... 
He looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright coming towards him across the grass. 
Satterthwaite, by all that’s wonderful! Just the man I’d have chosen to see. Have you seen about poor old Tollie? 
“I was just reading it now.” 
Sir Charles dropped into a chair beside him. He was immaculately got up in yachting costume. No more grey flannels and old sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman of the South of France. 
“Listen, Satterthwaite, Tollie was as sound as a bell. Never had anything wrong with him. Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or does this business remind you of - of - ?” 
“Of that business at Loomouth? Yes, it does. But of course we may be mistaken. The resemblance may be only superficial. After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time from a variety of causes.” 
Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently. Then he said: 
“I’ve just got a letter - from Egg Lytton Gore.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite concealed a smile. 
“The first you’ve had from her?” 
Sir Charles was unsuspecting. 
“No. I had a letter soon after I got here. It followed me about a bit. Just giving me the news and all that. I didn’t answer it ... Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn’t dare answer it ... The girl had no idea, of course, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite passed his hand over his mouth where the smile still lingered. 
“And this one?” he asked. 
“This is different. It’s an appeal for help ... ” 
“Help?” Mr. Satterthwaite’s eyebrows went up. 
“She was there - you see - in the house - when it happened.” 
“You mean she was staying with Sir Bartholomew Strange at the time of his death?” 
“Yes.” 
“What does she say about it?” 
Sir Charles had taken a letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he handed it to Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“You’d better read it for yourself.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite opened out the sheet with lively curiosity. 
“DEAR SIR CHARLES, - I don’t know when this will get to you. I do hope soon. I’m so worried, I don’t know what to do. You’ll have seen, I expect, in the papers that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead. Well, he died just the same way as Mr. Babbington. It can’t be a coincidence - it can’t - it can’t ... I’m worried to death ... 
“Look here, can’t you come home and do something? It sounds a bit crude put like that, but you did have suspicions before, and nobody would listen to you, and now it’s your own friend who’s been killed; and perhaps if you don’t come back nobody will ever find out the truth, and I’m sure you could. I feel it in my bones ... 
“And there’s something else. I’m worried, definitely, about someone ... He had absolutely nothing to do with it, I know that, but things might look a bit odd. Oh, I can’t explain in a letter. But won’t you come back? You could find out the truth. I know you could. 
“Yours in haste, 
“Egg.” 
“Well?” demanded Sir Charles impatiently. “A bit incoherent, of course; she wrote it in a hurry. But what about it?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite folded the letter slowly to give himself a minute or two before replying. 
He agreed that the letter was incoherent, but he did not think it had been written in a hurry. It was, in his view, a very careful production. It was designed to appeal to Sir Charles’s vanity, to his chivalry, and to his sporting instincts. 
From what Mr. Satterthwaite knew of Sir Charles, that letter was a certain draw. 
“Who do you think she means by ‘someone,’ and ‘he’?” he asked. 
“Manders, I suppose.” 
“Was he there, then?” 
“Must have been. I don’t know why. Tollie never met him except on that one occasion at my house. Why he should ask him to stay, I can’t imagine.” 
“Did he often have those big house-parties?” 
“Three or four times a year. Always one for the St. Leger.” 
“Did he spend much time in Yorkshire?” 
“Had a big sanatorium - nursing home, whatever you like to call it. He bought Melfort Abbey (it’s an old place), restored it and built a sanatorium in the grounds.” 
“I see.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: 
“I wonder who else there was in the house-party?” 
Sir Charles suggested that it might be in one of the other newspapers, and they went off to institute a newspaper hunt. 
“Here we are,” said Sir Charles. 
He read aloud: 
“Sir Bartholomew Strange is having his usual house-party for the 
St. Leger. Amongst the guests are Lord and Lady Eden, Lady Mary 
Lytton Gore, Sir Jocelyn and Lady Campbell, Captain and Mrs. 
Dacres, and Miss Angela Sutcliffe, the well-known actress.” 
He and Mr. Satterthwaite looked at each other. 
“The Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe,” said Sir Charles. “Nothing about Oliver Manders.” 
“Let’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“There might be something in that.” 
Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened. 
“My God, Satterthwaite, listen to this: 
“SIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE 
“At the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict 
of Death by Nicotine Poisoning was returned, there being no 
evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.” 
He frowned. 
“Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough - not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.” 
“What are you going to do?” 
“Do? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.” 
“Well,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “I might as well do the same.” 
“You?” Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised. 
“This sort of thing is rather in my line,” said Mr. Satterthwaite modestly. “I’ve - er - had a little experience. Besides, I know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well - Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.” 
“Good man,” cried Sir Charles. “Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: 
“The girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.” 
Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist. 
When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr. Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart. Mr. Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself: 
“Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?” 
The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size. 
A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging. 
“Don’t do that, darling,” said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper. 
“I haven’t anything to do,” said the child. 
The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr. Satterthwaite recognised him. 
“M. Poirot,” he said. “This is a very pleasant surprise.” 
M. Poirot rose and bowed. 
“Enchanté, monsieur.” 
They shook hands, and Mr. Satterthwaite sat down. 
“Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.” 
“Sir Charles, he also is here?” 
“He’s been yachting. You know that he gave up his house at Loomouth?” 
“Ah, no, I did not know it. I am surprised.” 
“I don’t know that I am. I don’t think Cartwright is really the kind of man who likes to live permanently out of the world.” 
“Ah, no, I agree with you there. I was surprised for another reason. It seemed to me that Sir Charles had a particular reason for staying in Loomouth - a very charming reason, eh? Am I not right? The little demoiselle who calls herself, so amusingly, the Egg?” 
His eyes were twinkling gently. 
“Oh, so you noticed that?” 
“Assuredly I noticed. I have the heart very susceptible to lovers - you too, I think. And la jeunesse, it is always touching.” 
He sighed. 
“I think,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that actually you have hit on Sir. Charles’s reason for leaving Loomouth. He was running away.” 
“From Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious that he adores her. Why, then, run?” 
“Ah,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “you don’t understand our Anglo- Saxon complexes.” 
M. Poirot was following his own line reasoning. 
“Of course,” he said, “it is a good move to pursue. Run from a woman - immediately she follows. Doubtless Sir Charles, a man of much experience, knows that.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was rather amused. 
“I don’t think it was quite that way,” he said. “Tell me, what are you doing out there? A holiday?” 
“My time is all holidays nowadays. I have succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel about seeing the world.” 
“Splendid,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“N’est-ce pas? ” 
“Mummy,” said the English child, “isn’t there anything to do?” 
“Darling,” said her mother reproachfully, “isn’t it lovely to have come abroad and to be in the beautiful sunshine?” 
“Yes, but there’s nothing to do.” 
“Run about - amuse yourself. Go and look at the sea.” 
“Maman,” said a French child, suddenly appearing. “Joue avec 
moi.” 
A French mother looked up from her book. 
“Amuse toi avec ta balle, Marcelle.” 
Obediently the French child bounced her ball with a gloomy face. 
“Je m’amuse,” said Hercule Poirot; and there was a very curious expression on his face. 
Then, as if in answer to something he read in Mr. Satterthwaite’s face, he said: 
“But yet, you have the quick perceptions. It is as you think - ” 
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: 
“See you, as a boy I was poor. There were many of us. We had to get on in the world. I entered the Police Force. I worked hard. Slowly I rose in that Force. I began to make a name for myself. I made a name for myself. I began to acquire an international reputation. At last, I was due to retire. There came the War. I was injured. I came, a sad and weary refugee, to England. A kind lady gave me hospitality. She died - not naturally; no, she was killed. Eh 
bien, I set my wits to work. I employed my little grey cells. I discovered her murderer. I found that I was not yet finished. No, indeed, my powers were stronger than ever. Then began my second career, that of a private inquiry agent in England. I have solved many fascinating and baffling problems. Ah, monsieur, I have lived! The psychology of human nature, it is wonderful. I grew rich. Some day, I said to myself, I will have all the money I need. I will realise all my dreams.” 
He laid a hand on Mr. Satterthwaite’s knee. 
“My friend, beware of the day when your dreams come true. That child near us, doubtless she too has dreamt of coming abroad - of the excitement - of how different everything would be. You understand?” 
“I understand,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that you are not amusing yourself.” 
Poirot nodded. 
“Exactly.” 
There were moments when Mr. Satterthwaite looked like Puck. This was one of them. His little wrinkled face twitched impishly. He hesitated. Should he? Should he not? 
Slowly he unfolded the newspaper he was still carrying. 
“Have you seen this, M. Poirot?” 
With his forefinger he indicated the paragraph he meant. 
The little Belgian took the paper. Mr. Satterthwaite watched him as he read. No change came over his face, but the Englishman had the impression that his body stiffened, as does that of a terrier when it sniffs a rat-hole. 
Hercule Poirot read the paragraph twice, then he folded the paper and returned it to Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“That is interesting,” he said. 
“Yes. It looks, does it not, as though Sir Charles Cartwright had been right and we had been wrong.” 
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It seems as though we had been wrong ... I will admit it, my friend, I could not believe that so harmless, so friendly an old man could have been murdered ... Well, it may be that I was wrong ... Although, see you, this other death may be coincidence. Coincidences do occur - the most amazing coincidences. I, Hercule Poirot, have known coincidences that would surprise you ... ” 
He paused, and went on: 
“Sir Charles Cartwright’s instinct may have been right. He is an artist - sensitive - impressionable - he feels things, rather than reasons about them ... Such a method in life is often disastrous - but it is sometimes justified. I wonder where Sir Charles is now.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. 
“I can tell you that. He is in the office of the Wagon Lits Co. he and I are returning to England tonight.” 
“Aha!” Poirot put immense meaning into the exclamation. His eyes, bright, inquiring, roguish, asked a question. “What zeal he has, our Sir Charles. He is determined, then, to play this r?le, the r?le of the amateur policeman? Or is here another reason?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply, but from his silence Poirot seemed to deduce an answer. 
“I see,” he said. “The bright eyes of Mademoiselle are concerned in his. It is not only crime that calls?” 
“She wrote to him,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “begging him to return.” 
Poirot nodded. 
“I wonder now,” he said. “I do not quite understand - ” 
Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted. 
“You do not understand the modern English girl? Well, that is not surprising. I do not always understand them myself. A girl like Miss Lytton Gore - ” 
In his turn Poirot interrupted. 
“Pardon. You have misunderstood me. I understand Miss Lytton Gore very well. I have met such another - many such others. You call the type modern; but it is - how shall I say? - age-long.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was slightly annoyed. He felt that he - and only he 
-understood Egg. This preposterous foreign knew nothing about your English womanhood. 
Poirot was still speaking. His tone was dreamy - brooding. 
“A knowledge of human nature - what a dangerous thing it can be.” 
“A useful thing,” corrected Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Perhaps. It depends upon the point of view.” 
“Well - ” Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated - got up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt that his own knowledge of human nature was at fault. “I will wish you a pleasant holiday.” 
“I thank you.” 
“I hope that when you are next in London you will come and see me.” He produced a card. “This is my address.” 
“You are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite. I shall be charmed.” 
“Good bye for the present, then.” 
“Good bye, and bon voyage.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot looked after him for a moment or two, then once more he stared straight ahead of him, looking out over the blue Mediterranean. 
So he sat for at least ten minutes. 
The English child reappeared. 
“I’ve looked at the sea, Mummy. What shall I do next?” 
“An admirable question,” said Hercule Poirot under his breath. He rose and walked slowly away - in the direction of the Wagon Lits offices.
第二幕 查证
第一章　蛋蛋来信

　　萨特思韦特先生搬过来，等待去蒙特卡洛的那一天．轮到他举办别墅招待会的日子已经过去．里维埃拉是他夏天喜欢去的游览胜地。 
　　他坐在花园里晒太阳，-边翻阅着两天前的《每日邮报》。 
　　突然，有一个名字引起了他的注意：斯特兰奇。标题是： 
　　“巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士之死”．他很快读完了这段报道我们沉痛地宣布．卓越的神经科专家巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士与世长辞。巴塞罗缪爵士在约克郡自己的家中举办别墅招待会时身体健康、情绪正常，在宴会中却突然发病，倒地身亡。 
　　当时巴塞罗缘正与朋友交谈，并在饮用一杯葡萄酒。死前来不及采取医疗急救措施．巴塞罗缪的逝世，将使人们万分悲痛。他曾经是…… 
　　下面还罗列了巴塞罗缪爵士的生平。 
　　萨特思韦特先生一松手让报纸落到地上．他感到非常难过。他最后看见的这位医生的形象在他的脑海里闪现．他身材高大，体格健壮．活泼开朗，然而现在却离开了人世。短文中的一些句子突然跳出，在他脑海里晃动，令人悲伤：“当时……并在饮用一杯葡萄酒”，“突然发病”，“死前来不及采取医疗急救措施”…… 
　　是葡萄酒，不是鸡尾酒，但仍然让人联想到康沃尔郡鸦巢屋发生的死亡事故。萨特思韦特先生又一次看见了和蔼可亲的老牧师惊恐万状的脸…… 
　　假如…… 
　　他抬头看见查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士踏过草坪，朝自己走来。 
　　“萨特思韦特，实在凑巧！我正好要见你．你读过可怜的老托利的消息了吗？” 
　　“我刚刚读过。” 
　　查尔斯坐在他身边的椅子上．他穿着游艇服，打扮考究．身上不再是那套灰色法兰绒裤和旧式毛衣．他是法国南方赛场上技艺高超的游艇驾驶者。 
　　“你听着，萨特思韦特，托利是一个响当当的男人．不会做错什么事．难道我真是个十足的异想天开的蠢驴？莫非这件事使你想起……”“想起鲁茅斯发生的事？是的．正是这样。然而，我们也许是弄错了。相似只不过是表面现象．毕竟，任何时候都有可能发生突然死亡事件，其原因多种多样。” 
　　查尔斯爵士不耐烦地点点头，然后说道“我刚收到一封信—是蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔寄来的。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生不让他看出自己的笑容。 
　　“她写给你的第一封信？” 
　　“不．我刚到这儿不久就收到她的一封信．可以说是紧紧跟随．只是告诉我一些新闻和各种琐事。我没有回信…… 
　　真是伤脑筋，萨特思韦特，我不敢回信……当然，这姑娘缺乏主见．但我不想愚弄自己。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生用手捂住还挂着笑容的嘴巴。 
　　“这一次呢？”他问道。 
　　“这一次可不同了．她是在求救……”“求救？”萨特思韦特先生扬起眉头。 
　　“她在现场。你知道，事件发生的时候，她在那间屋子里。” 
　　“你是说，巴塞罗缪死亡的时候，她跟他在一起？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“关于这件事，她说了些什么？” 
　　查尔斯爵士从衣袋里取出一封信．他犹豫了一会儿．然后将信递给萨特思韦特先生。 
　　“你还是自己读吧。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生小心翼翼地打开信笺。 
　　亲爱的查尔斯爵士。 
　　我不知道这封信什么时候能到你手中。我希望你能旱一点读到它．我真拒心，不知道该怎么办．我想你会在报纸上看到巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士死亡的消息．他与巴宾顿先生死亡的情形一样．这绝不是巧合，绝不可能……这不是巧合。我心里慌得要命…… 
　　请听我说，你能不能回来做些有益的工作？ 
　　我们的想法听起来未免残酷了一点．但你过去就存有疑心．只是当时没人听你的．现在轮到你自己的朋友被杀害．你耍是不回家，也许再没有人会发现真相，而我相信你能。我从心底里感觉到这一点…… 
　　还有，我很担心一个人……我知道，他与这个案件毫不相干。可是，事情看起来有点奇怪。 
　　哦．一封信也说不清楚．难道你还不想回家吗？ 
　　你是能发现真相的．我知道你能。 
　　你的朋友蛋蛋千匆忙之中“好啦！”查尔斯爵士不耐烦地说道，“行文有点不连贯。 
　　她是在匆匆忙忙之中写的．可怎么会是这样呢？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生慢慢地叠好信纸．让自己有一两分钟考虑如何回答。 
　　他承认这封信写得不连贯，但他认为，信并不是在匆匆忙忙中写的。在他看来，这是非常认真的工作．是有意要激发查尔斯爵士的虚荣心，唤起他的骑士精神和他冒险的本能。 
　　凭着萨特思韦特先生对查尔斯爵士的了解，这封信好像是一块吸铁石。 
　　“你认为她说的．一个人，指的是谁？”他问道。 
　　“我想是曼德斯。” 
　　“那么，他当时也在场吗？” 
　　“一定在场．我不知道其中的缘故。除了在我家那一次，托利从来没有见过他．难以想象，托利为什么会邀请他出席。” 
　　“托利经常举办这样大型的别墅招待会吗？” 
　　“一年三四次．总有一次是为圣莱杰赛马而举办的。” 
　　“他在约克郡住的时间长吗？” 
　　“他有一个大疗养院—护理之家，你愿意叫它什么都行。他买下了梅尔福特修道院(这是个古迹)，并把它照原样修复，还在空地上修建了这个疗养院。” 
　　“是吗？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生沉默了一会儿，又说。 
　　“我很想知道这次别墅招待会还有些什么人。” 
　　查尔斯爵士提醒他，在报纸上可能会有消息。于是他们走到堆报纸的地方进行查找。 
　　“找到了。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　他大声读道“巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士正在举办别墅招待会。光临的客人有伊登勋爵和夫人，玛丽．利顿•戈尔夫人、乔斯林爵士和坎贝尔夫人．戴克斯船长及夫人，著名演员安吉拉。 
　　萨克利夫小姐。” 
　　他和萨特思韦特先生都看了看对方。 
　　“提到了戴克斯一家和安吉拉•萨克利夫，”查尔斯爵士说，“根本没有提到奥利弗•曼德斯。” 
　　“让我们查看今天的《欧洲每日邮报》，”萨特思韦特先生说，“从里面可能看出点名堂。” 
　　查尔斯爵士浏览着那张报纸。突然间他愣住了。 
　　“我的上帝，萨特思韦特．你听着巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士今日对已故的巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士验尸结果确认，死亡系尼古丁中毒所致。目前尚无证据表明，毒物是以何种方式施放的。 
　　他皱起了眉头。 
　　“尼古丁中毒．听起来够平谈无奇的．那不至于让一个男人突然之间倒下去．我不明白所发生的一切。” 
　　“你打算怎么办？” 
　　“怎么办？我要订张今晚蓝色特快的卧铺票。” 
　　“那好。”萨特思韦特先生说，“我可能也要走。” 
　　“你？”查尔斯爵士惊讶地转过身来看着萨特思韦特。 
　　“这是我计划中的事。”萨特思韦特先生客气地说，“我己经……呢，有一点经验了。此外，我跟那地区的警察头子很熟．他就是约翰逊上校。总有一天会派上用场。” 
　　“聪明的人。”查尔斯爵士叫起来，“我们去铁路包房车售票处看看吧。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生暗自想着。 
　　“那姑娘成功了．她已经把他召了回去。她说过她能办到．我不明白她的信里有多少是真话。” 
　　很明显，蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔是个很会见风使舵的人。 
　　当查尔斯爵士已经去铁路包房车售票处时，萨特思韦特先生正漫步在花园中，-边在兴致勃勃地思考着蛋蛋。 
　　利顿•戈尔的感情纠葛．他赞赏她的聪明才智和感召力．他竭力克制他性格中略带传统的一面，即不允许女性在感情生活中占上风。 
　　萨特思韦特先生是个观察敏锐的人。虽然此时他正从总体上思考女性，特别是蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔，可他却在问自己“我过去在什么地方见识过这种特殊构成的头脑呢？” 
　　这个头脑的主人，此时正坐在椅子上，若有所思地凝视着他的前方．这是个瘦小的男人。他的胡须大得与自己的身材不相称。 
　　一个满面愁容的英国女孩站在附近玩耍。她先是一只脚站着，然后又换了一只，愁眉苦脸地踢着半边莲的叶片。 
　　“别那样做，亲爱的。”她母亲说道。她一直在津津有味地看着一份时装报。 
　　“我无聊得很。”女孩说。 
　　小个子男人调头看着她。这时萨特思韦特先生认出了他。 
　　“波洛先生，”他说，“这真是喜出望外∶”波洛先生站起身来，点头答礼。 
　　“非常高兴，先生”两人握手后，萨特思韦特先生坐了下来。 
　　“好像大家都到了蒙特卡洛．半个小时以前，我偶然碰见查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士．现在是你。” 
　　“查尔斯爵士也在这儿吗？” 
　　“他在玩游艇。你知道．他放弃了在鲁茅斯的房子。” 
　　“啊，不．我不知道。真使我感到吃惊。” 
　　“我不感到吃惊。我认为卡特赖特确实不是那种愿意长期与世隔绝的人。” 
　　“哦．是的，这一点我同意你的看法．我吃惊是另有原因的．对我来说，查尔斯爵士有一个特殊理由要住在鲁茅斯一个非常诱人的理由．呢？我说错了吗？是那个滑稽地把自己叫作．蛋蛋，的娇小的女郎吗？” 
　　他的眼睛在闪闪发光。 
　　“哦，原来你也注意到了这事儿。” 
　　“我确实注意到了．我对恋人们总是非常同情和宽容。 
　　我想你也一样。青春总是使人动情的。” 
　　他叹了一口气。 
　　“我想，”萨特思韦特先生说，“事实上你已经说中了查尔斯爵士离开鲁茅斯的原因。他在逃避。” 
　　“逃避蛋蛋小姐？但是很明显，他非常喜欢她．那么为什么还要逃避呢？” 
　　“哦，你不明白我们盎格鲁．撒克逊人的复杂心理。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　波洛先生正按照他自己的推理思考着。 
　　“当然，”他说，“这是高明之举。逃离一个女人，并让她立即追上来。查尔斯爵士这位阅历颇深的男人知道这种结果。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生被逗乐了。 
　　“我想，事情不至于那样吧。”他说，“告诉我，你到这儿来干什么？度假吗？” 
　　“最近我是在度假。我事业成功，有了钱，退休了。现在我到处旅游，看看大千世界。” 
　　“妙极了。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“难道不是吗？” 
　　“妈咪，”英国女孩叫道，“没有什么好玩的。” 
　　“亲爱的，”她母亲责备她说，“来到国外不是很好玩吗？ 
　　晒晒美丽的阳光不是很好吗？” 
　　“是很好，但是我无聊。” 
　　“到处跑跑．自己玩去，去看春大海。” 
　　“妈咪，”一个法国小孩突然出现，“跟我玩去。” 
　　那位法国母亲从书本后面抬起头来。 
　　“你去玩玩球吧．马塞勒。” 
　　法国小孩听话地拍起他的皮球．满脸露出不高兴的样子。 
　　“自得其乐”波洛说，脸上出现了奇特的表情。 
　　从萨特思韦特先生的脸上．他看出了什么．于是他回答说： 
　　“然而，你有很敏锐的洞察力。事惰正如你想的那样他沉默了一会儿，然后又说“告诉你吧，我还是个小男孩时，家里很穷。有很多我们这样的人．我们总碍在世上过日子．于是我进了警察署。我工作很卖力。慢慢地，我在警察署里晋了级．我开始有了名气，开始赢得国际声誉。最后，我退了职．战争爆发了．我受了伤。作为一个痛苦和疲惫不堪的难民．我来到了英国，得到一位好心女士的热情帮助．后来，她死了—不是自然死亡，是被人杀害了．于是，我凭我的聪明才智去调查，运用我的头脑去思索。我发现了杀害她的凶手．我这才意识到，我并没有完蛋。确实没有。我的能力比以前更强．于是我开始了我的第二个职业．英国私人侦探．我解开了许许多多扑朔迷离、光怪陆离的疑团．啊，先生，我还活着！人类的心理。 
　　其妙无穷。我富有了．某一天，我会对自己说，我将拥有我所需要的全部财产，我将实现我所有的梦想。” 
　　他把一只手放到萨特思韦特先生的膝盖上说“我的朋友，当心你的梦想变成现实的那一天．我们旁边那个小女孩，无疑也梦想过来到国外，以为一切都会令人激动．一切都会无比新鲜。你明白我的话吗？” 
　　“我明白。”萨特思韦特先生说，“我知道你自己不再开心了。” 
　　波洛点点头。 
　　“完全正确。” 
　　有好一会儿，萨特思韦特先生看上去像一个恶作剧的小精灵．他瘦小的有了皱纹的脸顽皮地抽动了一下。他应当这样吗？不应当。 
　　他慢慢打开还拿在手中的报纸。 
　　“你读过这篇东西吗，波洛？” 
　　他用食指点了一下那一段。 
　　矮个子的比利时人接过报纸。萨特思韦特先生在他读报时一直在瞅着他．可他面不改色．这位英国人觉得波洛的全身僵直了．就像机灵的小硬犬发现了耗子洞。 
　　波洛读了两遍，然后折起报纸，把它还给萨特思韦特先生。 
　　“真有意思。”他说。 
　　“是的．看起来是这样．怎么没有意思呢？尽管查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士当时说对了，我们错了。” 
　　“是的，”波洛说，“我们似乎都错了……我会承认的，我的朋友，那时我还不可能相信，那个与世无争、友好善良的老人怎么会被人暗杀呢？……好啦！可能是我错了……尽管．你知道，第二次死亡事件可能是一种巧合。巧合的事总会发生……这是最令人震惊的巧合．我．赫尔克里．波洛知道很多令人惊讶的巧合事件……”他停了停又继续说。 
　　“查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士的直觉可能是对的。他是个艺术家，敏感、判断力强．他能感觉事物本身，而不是靠分析和推理……在生活中．这样的方法常常会引起灾难的后果，但有时候也会被证实。我不知道查尔斯爵士现在在哪儿？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生笑了。 
　　“我可以告诉你，他在铁路包房车售栗处，今晚他和我要回英国。” 
　　“哈哈！”波洛的笑声意味深长。他那明亮、敏锐而又狡黠的眼睛在提出问题．“我们的查尔斯爵士，他到底有什么样的热情？为此他竟然下决心扮演业余警察的角色？也许事出有因？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生没有回答，但从他的沉默中，波洛似乎能推断出他的回答。 
　　“我知道了。”他说，“小姐明亮的眼睛与此有关．这不仅仅是想侦查罪犯的问题．对吗？” 
　　“她给他写信，”萨特思韦特先生说，“恳求他回去。” 
　　波洛点点头。 
　　“现在我很纳闷。”他说，“我不太理解……”萨特思韦特先生插话说“你不理解这位英国现代女郎吗？这不奇怪，我自己也常常不理解她们。一个像利顿•戈尔小姐那样的姑娘现在轮到波洛插话了。 
　　“对不起，你误解我了。我非常理解利顿•戈尔小姐．我曾经见过她那样的人，见过很多．你把她们这类人叫作现代女郎，但是……我该怎么说呢？……”萨特思韦特先生有点烦恼。他感到—只有他，才理解蛋蛋姑娘。而这个滑稽可笑的外国佬，对年轻的英国女性却一无所知。 
　　波洛仍在说话．他的声音像是在梦中—懵懵懂懂。 
　　“一种关于人类本性的知识—这是多么危险的东西。” 
　　“有用的东西。”萨特思韦特先生纠正道。 
　　“也许，这取决于观念。” 
　　“这个……”萨特思韦特先生站起身来，不知道该怎么说．他有些失望．他早已卸下鱼饵，鱼儿一直没有上钩．他感到自己对人类本性的理解是不正确的。“我祝你假日快乐。”他说。 
　　“谢谢你。” 
　　“我希望你下一次到伦敦时来看看我。”他取出一张名片．“这是我的地址。” 
　　“你对我非常友好，萨特思韦特先生，我受宠若惊。” 
　　“那么再见吧。” 
　　“再见，一路平安”萨特思韦特先生走了，波洛的目光跟随着他。过了一会儿，他转向正前方．凝视着蓝色的地中海。 
　　他就这样坐在那儿，至少有十分钟。 
　　英国女孩再次出现。 
　　“我看了大海，妈妈，我们下面该做什么？” 
　　“-个令人羡慕的问题。”赫尔克里．波洛说着，倒吸了一口气。 
　　他站起身来，慢慢离开那儿，朝着铁路包房车售栗处走去。
CHAPTER 2 The Missing Butler
7 
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting in Colonel Johnson’s study. The chief constable was a big red-faced man with a barrack- room voice and a hearty manner. 
He had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign of pleasure and was obviously delighted to make the acquaintance of the famous Charles Cartwright. 
“My missus is a great playgoer. She’s one of your - what do the Americans call it? - fans. That’s it - fans. I like a good play myself - good clean stuff that is, some of the things they put on the stage nowadays - faugh!” 
Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this respect - he had never put on “daring” plays, responded suitably with all his easy charm of manner. When they came to mention the object of their visit Colonel Johnson was only too ready to tell them he could. 
“Friend of yours, you say? Too bad - too bad. Yes, he was very popular round here. That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken of, and by all accounts Sir Bartholomew was a first-rate fellow, as well as being at the top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular all round. Last man in the world you’d expect to be murdered - and murder is what it looks like. There’s nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of the question.” 
“Satterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.” 
“And naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve got to look for. He was a new man - Sir Bartholomew had only had him a fortnight, and the moment after the crime he disappears - vanishes into thin air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it? Eh, what?” 
“You’ve no notion where he went?” 
Colonel Johnson’s naturally red face got a little redder. 
“Negligence on our part, you think. I admit it damn’ well looks like it. Naturally the fellow was under observation - just the same as everyone else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily - gave the London agency which obtained him the place. Last employer, Sir Horace Bird. All very civil spoken, no sign of panic. Next thing was he’d gone - and the house under observation. I’ve hauled my men over the coals, but they swear they didn’t bat an eyelid.” 
“Very remarkable,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Apart from everything else,” said Sir Charles thoughtfully, “it seems a damn’ fool thing to do. As far as he knew, the man wasn’t suspected. By bolting he draws attention to himself.” 
“Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His description’s been circulated. It’s only a matter of days before he’s pulled in.” 
“Very odd,” said Sir Charles. “I don’t understand it.” 
“Oh, the reason’s clear enough. He lost his nerve. Got the wind up suddenly.” 
“Wouldn’t a man who had the nerve to commit murder have the nerve to sit still afterward?” 
“Depends. Depends. I know criminals. Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought he was suspected, and he bolted.” 
“Have you verified his own account of himself?” 
“Naturally, Sir Charles. That’s plain routine work. London Agency confirms his story. He had a written reference from Sir Horace Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace himself is in East Africa.” 
“So the reference might have been forged?” 
“Exactly,” said Colonel Johnson, beaming upon Sir Charles, with the air of a schoolmaster congratulating a bright pupil. “We’ve wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it might be some little time before we get a reply. He’s on safari.” 
“When did the man disappear?” 
“Morning after the death. There was a doctor present at the dinner - Sir Jocelyn Campbell - bit of a toxicologist, I understand; he and Davis (local man) agreed over the case, and our people were called in immediately. We interviewed everybody that night. Ellis (that’s the butler) went to his room as usual and was missing in the morning. His bed hadn’t been slept in.” 
“He slipped away under cover of the darkness?” 
“Seems so. One of the ladies staying there, Miss Sutcliffe, the actress - you know her, perhaps?” 
“Very well, indeed.” 
“Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to us. She suggested that the man had left the house through a secret passage.” He blew his nose apologetically. “Sounds rather Edgar Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end of it comes out among some fallen masonry about half a mile away.” 
“That would be a possible explanation, certainly,” agreed Sir Charles. “Only - would the butler know of the existence of such a passage?” 
“That’s the point, of course. My missus always says servants know everything. Daresay she’s right.” 
“I understand the poison was nicotine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“That’s right. Most unusual stuff to use, I believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if a man’s a heavy smoker, such as the doctor was, it would tend to complicate matters. I mean, he might have died of nicotine poisoning in a natural way. Only, of course, this business was too sudden for that.” 
“How was it administered?” 
“We don’t know,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “That’s going to be the weak part of the case. According to medical evidence, it could only have been swallowed a few minutes previous to death.” 
“They were drinking port, I understand?” 
“Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in the port; but it wasn’t. We analysed his glass. That glass had contained port, and nothing but port. The other wine glasses had been cleared, of course, but they were all on a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one of them contained anything it shouldn’t. As for what he ate, it was the same as everybody else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant and chipped potatoes, chocolate soufflé, soft roes on toast. His cook’s been with him fifteen years. No, there doesn’t seem to be any way he could have been given the stuff, and yet there it is in the stomach. It’s a nasty problem.” 
Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“The same thing,” he said excitedly. “Exactly the same as before.” 
He turned apologetically to the chief constable. 
“I must explain. A death occurred at my house in Cornwall - ” 
Colonel Johnson looked interested. 
“I think I’ve heard about that. From a young lady - Miss Lytton Gore.” 
“Yes, she was there. She told you about it?” 
“She did. She was very set on her theory. But, you know, Sir Charles, I can’t believe there’s anything in that theory. It doesn’t explain the flight of the butler. Your man didn’t disappear, by any chance?” 
“Haven’t got a man - only a parlourmaid.” 
“She couldn’t have been a man in disguise?” 
Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine Temple, Sir Charles smiled. 
Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically. 
“Just an idea,” he said. “No, I can’t say I put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore’s theory. I understand the death in question was an elderly clergyman. Who would want to put an old clergyman out of the way?” 
“That’s just the puzzling part of it,” said Sir Charles. 
“I think you’ll find it’s just coincidence. Depend on it, the butler’s our man. Very likely he’s a regular criminal. Unluckily we can’t find any of his finger-prints. We had a finger-print expert go over his bedroom and the butler’s pantry, but he had no luck.” 
“If it was the butler, what motive can you suggest?” 
“That, of course, is one of our difficulties,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “The man might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him out.” 
Both Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson himself seemed to feel that the suggestion lacked plausibility. 
“The fact of the matter is, one can only theorise. Once we’ve got John Ellis under lock and key and have found out who he is, and whether he’s ever been through our hands before - well, the motive may be as clear as day.” 
“You’ve been through Sir Bartholomew’s papers, I suppose?” 
“Naturally, Sir Charles. We’ve given that side of the case every attention. I must introduce you to Superintendent Crossfield, who has charge of the case. A most reliable man. I pointed out to him, and he was quick to agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew’s profession might have had something to do with the crime. A doctor knows many professional secrets. Sir Bartholomew’s papers were all neatly filed and docketed - his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with Crossfield.” 
“And there was nothing?” 
“Nothing at all suggestive, Sir Charles.” 
“Was anything missing from the house - silver, jewellery, anything like that?” 
“Nothing whatsoever.” 
“Who exactly was staying in the house?” 
“I’ve got a list - now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet Crossfield; as a matter of fact, I’m expecting him any minute now to report” - as a bell went - “that’s probably the man now.” 
Superintendent Crossfield was a large, solid-looking man, rather slow of speech, but with a fairly keen blue eye. 
He saluted his superior officer, and was introduced to the two visitors. 
It is possible that had Mr. Satterthwaite been alone he would have found it hard to make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn’t hold with gentlemen from London - amateurs coming down with “ideas.” Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent Crossfield had a childish reverence for the glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir Charles act, and the excitement and rapture of seeing this hero of the footlights in a flesh-an-blood manner made him as friendly and loquacious as could be wished. 
“I saw you in London, sir, I did. I was up with the wife. Lord 
Aintree’s Dilemma -that’s what the play was. In the pit, I was - and the house was crowded out - we had to stand two hours beforehand. But nothing else would do for the wife. ‘I must see Sir Charles Cartwright in Lord Aintree’s Dilemma,’ she said. At the Pall Mall Theatre, it was.” 
“Well,” said Sir Charles, “I’ve retired from the stage now, as you know. But they still know my name at the Pall Mall.” He took out a card and wrote a few words on it. “You give this to the people at the box office next time you and Mrs. Crossfield are having a jaunt to town, and they’ll give you a couple of the best seats going.” 
“I take that very kindly of you, Sir Charles - very kindly, indeed. My wife will be all worked up when I tell her about this.” 
After this Superintendent Crossfield was as wax in the ex-actor’s hand. 
“It’s an odd case, Sir. Never come across a case of nicotine poisoning before in all my experience. No more has our Doctor Davis.” 
“I always thought it was a kind of disease you got from over- smoking.” 
“To tell the truth, so did I, Sir. But the doctor says that the pure alkaloid is an odourless liquid, and that a few drops of it are enough to kill a man almost instantaneously.” 
Sir Charles whistled. 
“Potent stuff.” 
“As you say, Sir. And yet it’s in common use, as you might say. Solutions are used to spray roses with. And of course it can be extracted from ordinary tobacco.” 
“Roses,” said Sir Charles. “Now, where have I heard - ?” 
He frowned, then shook his head. 
“Anything fresh to report, Crossfield?” asked Colonel Johnson. 
“Nothing definite, sir. We’ve had reports that our man Ellis has been seen at Durham, at Ipswich, at Balham, at Land’s End, and a dozen other places. That’s all got to be sifted out for what it’s worth. He turned to the other two. The moment a man’s description is circulated as wanted, he’s seen by someone all over England.” 
“What is the man’s description?” asked Sir Charles. 
Johnson took up a paper. 
“John Ellis, medium height, say five-foot seven, stoops slightly, grey hair, small side whiskers, dark eyes, husky voice, tooth missing in upper jaw, visible when he smiles, no special marks or characteristics.” 
“H’m,” said Sir Charles. “Very nondescript, bar the side whiskers and the tooth, and the first will be off by now, and you can’t rely on his smiling.” 
“The trouble is,” said Crossfield, “that nobody observes anything. The difficulty I had in getting anything but the vaguest description out of the maids at the Abbey. It’s always the same. I’ve had descriptions of one and the same man, and he’s been called tall, thin, short, stout, medium height, thickset, slender - not one in fifty really uses their eyes properly.” 
“You’re satisfied in you own mind, Superintendent, that Ellis is the man?” 
“Why else did he bolt, sir? You can’t get away from that.” 
“That’s the stumbling block,” said Sir Charles thoughtfully. Crossfield turned to Colonel Johnson and reported the measures that were being taken. The Colonel nodded approval and then asked the Superintendent for the list of inmates of the Abbey on the night of the crime. This was handed to the two new inquirers. It ran as follows: 
MARTHA LECKIE, cook.BEATRICE CHURCH, upper-housemaid. 
DORIS 
COCKER, 
under-housemaid. 
VICTORIA 
BALL, 
between-maid. 
ALICE 
WEST, 
parlourmaid. 
VIOLET 
BASSINGTON, 
kitchenmaid. 
(Above have all been in service of deceased for some time and bear good character. Mrs. Leckie has been there for fifteen years.) GLADYS LYNDON - secretary, thirty-three, has been secretary to Sir Bartholomew Strange for three years, can give no information as 
to 
Likely 
motive. 
GUESTS: 
LORD 
and 
LADY 
EDEN, 
187 
Cadogan 
Square. 
SIR JOCELYN and LADY CAMPBELL, 1256 Harley Street. 
MISS 
ANGELA 
SUTCLIFFE, 
28 
Cantrell 
Mansions, 
S.W.3. 
CAPTAIN and MRS. DACRES, 3 St. John’s House, W.I. 
(Mrs. Dacres carries on business as Ambrosine, Ltd., Brook Street.) LADY MARY and MISS HERMIONE LYTTON GORE, Rose Cottage, Loomouth. 
MISS 
MURIEL WILLS, 5 Upper Cathcart 
Road, 
Tooting. 
MR. OLIVER MANDERS, Messrs. Speier & Ross, Old Broad Street, E.C.2. 
“H’m,” said Sir Charles. “The Tooting touch was omitted by the papers. I see young Manders was there, too.” 
“That’s by the way of being an accident, sir,” said Superintendent Crossfield. “The young gentleman ran his car into a wall just by the Abbey, and Sir Bartholomew, who I understood was slightly acquainted with him, asked him to stay the night.” 
“Careless thing to do,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. 
“It was that, sir,” said Superintendent. “In fact, I fancy myself the young gentleman must have had one over the eight, as the saying goes. What made him ram the wall just where he did I can’t imagine, if he was sober at the time.” 
“Just high spirits, I expect,” said Sir Charles. 
“Spirits it was, in my opinion, sir.” 
“Well, thank you very much, Superintendent. Any objection to our going and having a look at the Abbey, Colonel Johnson?” 
“Of course not, my dear sir. Though I’m afraid you won’t learn much more there than I can tell you.” 
“Anybody there?” 
“Only the domestic staff, sir,” said Crossfield. “The house-party left immediately after the inquest, and Miss Lyndon has returned to Harley Street.” 
“We might, perhaps, see Dr. - er - Davis, too?” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Good idea.” 
They obtained the doctor’s address, and having thanked Colonel Johnson warmly for his kindness, they left.
第二章　管家失踪
第二章　管家失踪

　　查尔斯爵士与萨特思韦特先生坐在约翰逊上校的书房。 
　　里。警察局长是个红脸大汉，声昔沙哑，性格豪爽。 
　　他笑容满面地与萨特思韦特先生打招呼，兴高采烈地结识著名的查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士。 
　　“我太太是个了不起的票友。她是你们的一个……美园人叫什么来着？ˉ戏迷。对，就是戏迷。我本人也喜欢好戏．只要里面有干净的东西．时下舞台上有的东西……呸！” 
　　由于查尔斯爵士意识到严肃在戏剧中的重要性，他从来不会演出“放肆的”的剧目。此时，他恰如其分地以他那潇洒自如的风度来回答约翰逊上校．当他们终于说起这次访问的目的时．上校早有淮备，并没有把他所知道的一切告诉他们。 
　　“你说他是你们的一个朋友吗？太惨了！是的，他在这一带非常有名．他的那个疗养院人人夸奖。不论从哪方面看，巴塞罗缨爵士都是第一流的，正如他的医术也是拔尖的一样。他仁慈，慷慨，名传四方．无论出现什么样的凶杀棠件，人们都万万不会想到竟会杀到他的头上。可凶杀就是凶杀！没有任何线索说明自杀，看来也不可能是事故。” 
　　“萨特思韦特和我刚从国外回来。”查尔斯爵士说，“我们在报纸上只是看到一些零星报道。” 
　　“因此，你们自然就想知道所有的情况．好吧，我可以告诉你们事情发生的具体经过．我想，你们必须要寻找的人是管家。他是刚来的人．巴塞罗缨爵士刚雇他两周。凶杀案一发，他就失踪了，消失得无影无踪．这事儿看起来有一点蹊跷，不是吗？哦，你说什么？” 
　　“你们注意过他的行踪吗？” 
　　约翰逊上校本来就红的脸现在变得更红了。 
　　“你瞧，这是我们的疏忽。我承认，我们屁事也不知道。 
　　平时，我们是盯住他的—就像盯其他人一样．我们问他什么，他都作了满意的回答．他放弃了伦敦代理处的工作．代理处又推荐他来这儿工作。他的上一个雇主是霍勒斯．伯德爵士。他说话彬彬有礼，并没有神色惊慌．接着他就溜走了，整幢房子被监视起来。我把手下的人骂得狗血淋头，但他们发誓他们没有眨一眨眼皮。” 
　　“非常有意思。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“除此以外，”查尔斯爵士若有所思地说，“他干了一件蠢事．据我所知，这男人不是嫌疑人，可他匆匆逃走了，这就把视线转移到了他身上。” 
　　“完全正确．而且并没有逃脱的希望．对他的报道到处流传．将他缉拿归案，只不过是几天的事情。” 
　　“太奇怪了。”查尔斯爵士说，“我真弄不明白。” 
　　“嗬，其原因再清楚不过了．他心理失常，突然惊惶失措起来。” 
　　“有胆量凶杀的人，难道享后没有胆量安安静静地坐下来吗？” 
　　“那要看情况，看具体情况。我了解罪犯，他们胆小如鼠．大多是这样．他认为自己是嫌疑犯，于是仓皇出逃。” 
　　“你查实过他自己的简历吗？” 
　　“自然要查实，查尔斯爵士。那是一股的惯例。伦敦代理处确认了他的表现．霍勒斯．伯德曾为他写了-份简况，热情地推荐他．霍勒斯爵士本人目前在东非。” 
　　“所以这份简历可能是伪造的。” 
　　“正是这样。”约翰逊上校说道，对查尔斯爵士微笑着，那神气就像校长在表彰一个聪明的学生．“我们给霍勒斯爵士发了电报。当然，要等些时候才能得到答复。他正在旅游。” 
　　“这个人是什么时候失踪的？” 
　　“死亡事件发生之后的第二天上午。出席宴会的有个医生—乔斯林．坎佩尔爵士．据我了解，他是个毒物学家。 
　　他和当地的客人大卫对案件的看法一致。我们的人很快就被召到现场。我们与当晚所有的客人都谈了话。埃利斯—就是那个管家，像往常一样回到自己的房间，第二天清早就失踪了．他的床没有人睡过。” 
　　“他趁黑夜逃走了。” 
　　“看来是这样。有位女士呆在那儿，是萨克利夫小姐，一个女演员，你也认识她？” 
　　“确实很熟悉。” 
　　“萨克利夫小姐向我们提了一个建议．她认为那个人是穿过地下通道离开房子的。”他遗憾地哼了一声。“听起来很像埃德加．华莱士的伎俩．这似乎确有其事．巴塞罗缨爵士知道这通道，并引以为自豪。他曾指给萨克利夫小姐看过。 
　　大约有半英里长，通道的另一端出口处堆着倒塌的断墙泥瓦。” 
　　“这种解释确实有可能。”查尔斯爵士赞同这个看法，“只是……这管家知道有这个通道吗？” 
　　“这当然是个问题。我太太总是说，仆人们一切皆知。她说得太对了。” 
　　“听说毒物是尼古丁。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“对．配方不同寻常．还比较罕见．我想．如果这个人烟瘾很大，事情就会变得复杂了。医生就是这样的人。我的意思是，他中尼古丁毒物死亡是在自然而然的情况下发生的。 
　　当然、只不过事情发生得太突然。” 
　　“是怎么下的毒呢？” 
　　“这一点我们还不清楚。”约翰逊上校老老实实地说，“这是侦破这个案子的薄弱环节。根据医学论证报告，服了毒物仅仅几分钟就发生死亡。” 
　　“我听说他们当时在喝葡萄酒，是吗？” 
　　“是这样．仿佛那东西就在葡萄酒里，但情况不是这样。 
　　我们检查了他的杯子．杯里装过葡萄酒，除了酒，别的什么也没有。当然，其他酒杯也都是干净的．它们放在餐具室的一个托盘里，还没有清洗过．没有一个杯子装过异物．至于他吃过的食品，全是别的客人都吃过的那一些．有汤、烤蹋鱼、野鸡、土豆条、巧克力蛋奶酥和鱼子面包．他的厨师跟他已经十五年了。不，别人没有任何机会对他下毒。然而．这东西已经到了他的胃里。这的确是个难解的谜。” 
　　查尔斯爵士转身对着萨特思韦特先生。 
　　“一模一样，”他激动地说，“完全与上次的事件一模一样。” 
　　他充满歉意地转向警察局长，“我必须说明，在康沃尔郡我的家中发生过一起死亡事件。” 
　　警察局长看起来很感兴趣。 
　　“我已经听说过那件事．从一个年轻的女士利顿•戈尔小姐那儿听说的。” 
　　“是的，她也在场。她告诉了你？” 
　　“她说了．她对自己的观点坚信不移．可是你知道，查尔斯爵士，我不能相信，那样的观点有何可取之处。它无法解释管家的逃跑．你的下属碰巧也有失踪的吧！” 
　　“我没有男仆，只有一个客厅女仆。” 
　　“她不可能是个男扮女装吧？” 
　　-想到女性十足而且办事很漂亮的坦普尔，查尔斯爵士笑了。 
　　约翰逊上校也满怀歉意地笑了起来。 
　　“只是一种猜测，”他说，“我不能说我对利顿•戈尔小姐的观点会相信多少。我获悉，你们所说的死亡事件是落在一个年长牧师的头上．谁会企图将一个老牧师置于死地呢？” 
　　“所以才会令人迷惑不解。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“我想．你会发现两次事故纯属巧合。你尽可以相信，管家是我们要缉拿归案的罪犯，很可能是个惯犯。遗憾的是，我们还没有发现他的指纹．我们曾经请了一位指纹专家检查过卧室和餐具室，但都不走运。” 
　　“如果是这个管家干的，那么你看他的动机是什么？” 
　　“这自然是我们面前的难题之一。”约翰逊上校承认道，“管家到了那儿．可能是企图盗窃，而巴塞罗缪爵士可能发现了他。” 
　　查尔斯爵士和萨特思韦特先生礼貌地保持沉默．约翰逊上校自己似乎也感到他的分析缺乏合理性。 
　　“事实上人们也只能分析。我们一旦将管家约翰．埃利斯缉拿归案，并弄清他的身份，以前是否被我们抓过，那么，他的作案动机就会真相大白了。” 
　　“我想你一定读过巴塞罗缨爵士的文件。” 
　　“那当然，查尔斯爵士，我们对这个环节给予了充分重视．我一定把你们介绍给跨区警督，他管这个案子。一个十分可靠的人，我向他提出，巴塞罗缨爵士的职业，可能与凶杀案有关。他马上同意我的看法．一个医生总会了解很多职业上的秘密．巴塞罗缨爵士的文件井井有条，目录摘要清清楚楚。他的秘书林登小姐配合跨区警督查阅了那些文件。” 
　　“没有发现什么吗？” 
　　“没有什么疑点，查尔斯爵士。” 
　　“屋里丢了什么东西吗？譬如金银首饰和珠宝之类。” 
　　“什么也没有丢。” 
　　“当时到底还有谁在屋里？” 
　　“我弄了一份名单……放到哪儿去了？哦，我想在跨区警督那儿。你一定要见见警督．实际上，我现在急于要他向我报告哩。”此刻，门铃响了。“也许是他来了。” 
　　跨区警督是一个身材魁梧、样子厚道的男子汉。他说话慢吞吞地，蓝色的眼睛却相当敏锐。 
　　他向上司敬了个礼．上司将他介绍给两位客人。 
　　如果只是萨特思韦特先生一个人来访，他会发现警督不会如此平易近人．警督不赞同伦敦来的两位绅士的意见。 
　　他们是外行，是来找线索的．然而，对待查尔斯爵士却另当别论．跨区警督对舞台艺术有一种孩子般的崇拜．他两次观看过查尔斯爵士的演出．因此，看见这个名角有血有肉地站在面前，他感到激动和狂喜，以至变得特别友善和健谈。 
　　“我在伦敦见过您，爵士，我见过您。我与妻子一起看演出的。剧本是《安特雷勋爵的困境》。我坐在乐池里，因为大厅挤得满满的。演出前我们不得不站两个小时，但我妻子却全不当回事儿。她说，我必须见见剧中的查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士．那是在蓓尔美尔剧院。”。 
　　“很好。”查尔斯爵士说．“你知道，我现在已从舞台上退了下来．但人们还记得我在落尔美尔剧院的演出。”他取出一张卡片．在上面写了几个宇．并说，“下次你跟警督夫人进城游览时．请把这个交给剧院售票处，他们会给你们两个最好的座位。” 
　　“我不客气了．你真好．查尔斯爵士．真太好了。我回去告诉妻子这事儿．她一定会高兴得不得了。” 
　　后来．当这位退职演员捉住跨区警督的手时，他变得像个蜡人似的。 
　　“这是一个奇怪的案子．我过去办的案子中，从来没有碰到过尼古丁中毒案．我们的医生大卫也没有遇见过。” 
　　“我总在想．这是一种吸烟过量后发生的病症。” 
　　“说句老实话．我也这样想过。但是医生说，生物碱是一种无咪的液体，只要一滴就足以马上要人的命。” 
　　查尔斯爵士吹起了口哨。 
　　“剧毒。” 
　　“你说得对．爵士．而且你会说．凶手采取了惯用的手段。溶液是用喷嘴喷进去的，然后让普通的香烟自然吸收。” 
　　“喷嘴？”查尔斯爵士说道，“我在什么地方听说过……？” 
　　他皱起眉头，然后摇摇头。 
　　“警督，有什么新鲜事要报告的吗？”约翰逊上校问道。 
　　“没什么具体的事，长官．我们已经报告过了，我们在达勒姆、在伊普斯威奇、在巴勒姆、在兰兹角和好些地方都发现过犯人埃利斯。各种情况得经过筛选，找出有价值的东西。”他转身对着两位来访者说广我们一且公布一个人的外貌．在整个英国总会有人发现他。” 
　　“对这个人的外貌是怎么描述的？”查尔斯爵士问道。 
　　约翰逊取出一个文件： 
　　“约翰．埃利斯，中等身材，约五英尺七英寸高，背微驼．灰发．络腮胡，黑眼睛，声音沙哑，笑时可见上颚有缺齿，无特殊标记或特征。” 
　　“呢，”查尔斯爵士说，“除了络腮胡和牙齿，没有显著特征。这第一遭就不行，你不能指望他笑呀。” 
　　“麻烦的是，”警督说，“谁也没有发现任何疑点。我的困难是．什么证据也没有拿到，只有修道院女仆们模糊不清的描述．千篇一律．像是对同一个人的描述，只有高矮胖瘦之分，不是中等个头，就是健壮，或者纤细……五十个人中．没有一个人的观察跟别人真正有什么不同。” 
　　“在你的思想中，警督，你认定埃利斯就是凶手吗？” 
　　“还有别的什么原因，会使他仓皇逃走呢？你不能回避这个问题。” 
　　“这就是绊脚石。”查尔斯爵士若有所思地说。 
　　跨区警督转身对着约翰逊上校，报告他们正在采取的措施。上校点头赞同，然后向警督耍了一份案发当晚修道院住宿者的名单，接着又将这交给两位新来的侦探．名单如下： 
　　玛莎．莱基．厨师 
　　比阿特丽斯．丘奇．楼房女仆 
　　多丽丝．科克尔．楼屏女仆 
　　维多利亚．鲍尔．楼房女仆 
　　艾丽斯．韦斯特．客厅女仆 
　　维奥莱特．巴辛顿．厨房女仆 
　　(上述人员均为死者服务过一段时间．品行端正。莱基大大在该处已达十五年．)格拉迪斯•林登．秘书，三十三岁。拒任巴塞罗缘．斯特兰奇秘书工作三年．经调查尚未表明有作案动机。 
　　客人。 
　　伊登勋爵和夫人．卡多根广场衔187号 
　　乔斯林爵士和坎贝尔夫人，哈利街1256号 
　　安吉拉•萨克利夫小姐．坎特雷尔郧宅28号SW3 
　　戴克斯船长和太太．圣约输楼3号WI(戴克斯太大在布鲁顷大衔安布罗赛恩有限公司任职) 
　　玛丽失人和赫米欧•利顿•戈尔小姐．鲁茅斯城玫瑰舍 
　　穆里尔•威尔斯小姐，图廷市上卡思卡特路5号 
　　奥利弗•曼穗斯先生．斯皮尔-罗斯公司，老布罗穗大街EC2 
　　“唔，”查尔斯说，“文件忽略了在图廷发生的事。我想到小曼德斯也在场。” 
　　“当时他正巧出了事故，爵士。”跨区警督说，“这位年轻绅士开车正好撞在修道院旁边的一堵墙上。巴塞罗缪爵士与他有一面之交，就叫他在那儿过夜。” 
　　“真粗心。”查尔斯爵士幸灾乐祸地说。 
　　“是这样，爵士。”警督说道，“事实上，在我的想象中，这位年轻绅士正像俗话说的那样，一定是．九死一生，了。如果不是喝醉了酒的话，很难想象为什么正巧撞在那儿的墙上。” 
　　“我以为他是精神狂热。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“在我看来，也是精神问题，爵士。” 
　　“好啦，非常感谢你，警督。约翰逊上校不反对我们去看看修道院吧？” 
　　“当然不反对，亲爱的爵士，虽然我担心你们在那儿了解的东西不会比我告诉你们的多。” 
　　“有谁在那儿？” 
　　“只有家里人，爵士。”警督说，“开始侦查以后，别墅招待会立即就停止了．林登小姐己经回到哈利大街。” 
　　“也许，我们还是应当去看看……呃，看看大卫？”萨特思韦特先生提议道。 
　　“好主意。” 
　　他们得到了医生家的地址．在热情地向约翰逊上校道谢之后，他们便离开了。
CHAPTER 3 Which Of Them?
8 
As they walked along the street, Sir Charles said: 
“Any ideas, Satterthwaite?” 
“What about you?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. He liked to reserve judgment until the last possible moment. 
Not so Sir Charles. He spoke emphatically: 
“They’re wrong, Satterthwaite. They’re all wrong. They’ve got the butler on the brain. The butler’s done a bunk - ergo, the butler’s the murderer. It doesn’t fit. No, it doesn’t fit. You can’t leave that other death out of account - the one down at my place.” 
“You’re still of the opinion that the two are connected?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite asked the question, though he had already answered it in the affirmative in his own mind. 
“Man, they must be connected. Everything points to it ... We’ve got to find the common factor - someone who was present on both occasions - ” 
“Yes,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And that’s not going to be as simple a matter as one might think, on the face of it. We’ve got too many common factors. Do you realise, Cartwright, that practically every person who was present at the dinner at your house was present here?” 
Sir Charles nodded. 
“Of course I’ve realised that - but do you realise what deduction one can draw from it?” 
“I don’t quite follow you, Cartwright.” 
“Dash it all, man, do you suppose that’s coincidence? No, it was 
meant. Why are all the people who were at the first death present at the second? Accident? Not on your life. It was plan - design - Tollie’s plan.” 
“Oh!” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Yes, it’s possible ... ” 
“It’s certain. You didn’t know Tollie as well as I did, Satterthwaite. He was a man who kept his own counsel, and a very patient man. In all the years I’ve known him I’ve never known Tollie give utterance to a rash opinion or judgment.” 
“Look at it this way: Babbington’s murdered - yes, murdered -I’m not going to hedge, or mince terms - murdered one evening in my house. Tollie ridicules me gently for my suspicions in the matter, but all the time he’s got suspicions of his own. He doesn’t talk about them - that’s not his way. But quietly, in his own mind, he’s building up a case. I don’t know what he had to build upon. It can’t, I think, be a case against any one particular person. He believed that one of those people was responsible for the crime, and he made a plan, a test of some kind to find out which person it was.” 
“What about the other guests, the Edens and the Campbell’s?” 
“Camouflage. It made the whole thing less obvious.” 
“What do you think the plan was?” 
Sir Charles shrugged his shoulders - an exaggerated foreign gesture. He was Aristide Duval, that master mind of the Secret Service. His left foot limped as he walked. 
“How can we know? I am not a magician. I cannot guess. But there was a plan ... It went wrong, because the murderer was just one degree cleverer than Tollie thought ... He struck first ... ” 
“He?” 
“Or she. Poison is as much a woman’s weapon as a man’s - more so.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent. Sir Charles said: 
“Come now, don’t you agree? Or are you on the side of public opinion? ‘The butler’s the man. He done it.’” 
“What’s your explanation of the butler?” 
“I haven’t thought about him. In my view he doesn’t matter ... I could suggest an explanation.” 
“Such as?” 
“Well, say that the police are right so far - Ellis is a professional criminal, working in, shall we say, with a gang of burglars. Ellis obtains this post with false credentials. Then Tollie is murdered. What is Ellis’s position? A man is killed, and in the house is a man whose finger-prints are at Scotland Yard, and who is known to the police. Naturally he gets the wind up and bolts.” 
“By the secret passage?” 
“Secret passage be damned. He dodged out of the house while one of the fat-headed constables who were watching the house was taking forty winks.” 
“It certainly seems more probable.” 
“Well, Satterthwaite, what’s your view?” 
“Mine?” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Oh, it’s the same as yours. It has been all along. The butler seems to me a very clumsy red herring. I believe that Sir. Bartholomew and poor old Babbington were killed by the same person.” 
“One of the house-party?” 
“One of the house-party.” 
There was silence for a minute or two, and then Mr. Satterthwaite asked casually: 
“Which of them do you think it was?” 
“My God, Satterthwaite, how can I tell?” 
“You can’t tell, of course,” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly. “I just thought you might have some idea - you know, nothing scientific or reasoned. Just an ordinary guess.” 
“Well, I haven’t ... ” he thought for a minute and then burst out: “You know, Satterthwaite, the moment you begin to think it seems impossible that any of them did it.” 
“I suppose your theory is right,” mused Mr. Satterthwaite. “As to the assembling of the suspects, I mean. We’ve got to take it into account that there were certain definite exclusions. Yourself and myself and Mrs. Babbington, for instance. Young Manders, too, he was out of it.” 
“Manders?” 
“Yes, his arrival on the scene was an accident. He wasn’t asked or expected. That lets him out of the circle of suspects.” 
“The dramatist woman, too - Anthony Astor.” 
“No, no, she was there. Miss Muriel Wills of Tooting.” 
“So she was - I’d forgotten the woman’s name was Wills.” 
He frowned. Mr. Satterthwaite was fairly good at reading people’s thoughts. He estimated with fair accuracy what was passing through the actor’s mind. When the other spoke, Mr. Satterthwaite mentally patted himself on that back. 
“You know, Satterthwaite, you’re right. I don’t think it was definitely suspected people that he asked - because, after all, Lady Mary and Egg were there ... No, he wanted to stage some reproduction of the first business, perhaps ... He suspected someone, but he wanted other eyewitnesses there to confirm matters. Something of that kind ... ” 
“Something of the kind,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite. “One can only generalise at this stage. Very well, the Lytton Gores are out of it, you and I and Mrs. Babbington and Oliver Manders are out of it. Who is left? Angela Sutcliffe?” 
“Angie? My dear fellow. She’s been a friend of Tollie’s for years.” 
“Then it boils down to the Dacres ... In fact, Cartwright, you suspect the Dacres. You might just as well have said so when I asked you.” 
Sir Charles looked at him. Mr. Satterthwaite had a mildly triumphant air. 
“I suppose,” said Cartwright slowly, “that I do. At least, I don’t suspect them ... They just seem rather more possible than anyone else. I don’t know them very well, for one thing. But for the life of me, I can’t see why Freddie Dacres, who spends his life on the race course, or Cynthia, who spends her time designing fabulously expensive clothes for women, should have any desire to remove a dear, insignificant old clergyman ... ” 
He shook his head, then his face brightened. 
“There’s the Wills woman. I forgot her again. What is there about her that continually makes you forget her? She’s the most damnably nondescript creature I’ve ever seen.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. 
“I rather fancy she might embody Burns’s famous line - ‘A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes.’ I rather fancy that Miss Wills spend her time taking notes. There are sharp eyes behind that pair of glasses. I think you’ll find that anything worth noticing in this affair has been noticed by Miss Wills.” 
“Do you?” said Sir Charles doubtfully. 
“The next thing to do,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “is to have some lunch. After that, we’ll go out to the Abbey and see what we can discover on the spot.” 
“You seem to be taking very kindly to this, Satterthwaite,” said Sir Charles, with a twinkle of amusement. 
“The investigation of crime is not new to me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Once when my car broke down and I was staying at a lonely inn - ” 
He got no further. 
“I remember,” said Sir Charles, in his high, clear carrying actor’s voice, “when I was touring in 1921 ... ” 
Sir Charles won.
第三章　谁是凶手
第三章　谁是凶手

　　当他们沿街走的时候，查尔斯爵士说： 
　　“有什么想法吗，萨特思韦特？” 
　　“你呢？”萨特思韦特先生问道，他喜欢保留自己的判断，直到最后适当的时机才会说出来。 
　　查尔斯爵士却不同。他明确地说。 
　　“他们错了，萨特思韦特．他们完全错了．他们老是盯着管家。这不对，这不合情理。这事不能与另外那次死亡事件分离开来看-就是在我那儿发生的那一次。” 
　　“你还是认为两次案件有联系？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生的心里虽然已经作了肯定的答复，还是提出了这个问题。 
　　“我的朋友，它们绝对有联系．从各个方面都可以得到证实。我们得找出共同点-找出两次宴会都出席的那个人。” 
　　“是的，”萨特思韦特先生说，“但从表面看，事情不像人们想象的那么筒单．其中的共同因素太多。卡特赖特，你意识到了吗？在你家里出席招待会的人，也在这儿出席了招待会。” 
　　查尔斯爵士点点头。 
　　“当然，我已经想到了这一点。但是，我们能从中作出什么推论呢？” 
　　“我听不懂你的话，卡特赖特。” 
　　“你真够呛，老兄！你看出两者的巧合吗？不，这是有人故意干的。为什么第一次死亡事件所有在场的人，发生第二次事件时也都在场．事故吗？一辈子也没有见过这样的事故．这是阴谋，是精心设计的，是托利的策划。” 
　　“啊！”萨特思韦特先生说，“对，是有这个可能．……”“肯定是这样．你对托利的了解不像我了解得这么深，萨特思韦特．他是一个审慎而深思熟虑的人，一个有耐性的人．我认识他这么多年来，从来没有听见过他直抒己见。 
　　“你应当这样看，巴宾顿被谋杀了—是的，是被谋杀的．我不回避问题，也不转弯抹角．他是那天晚上在我的家里被杀害的．当时托利嘲笑我对事故的怀疑．后来他自己也一直在怀疑．但是他没有讲出自己的看法—他不该这样做．而是在悄悄设想一个案子。我不知道他的根据是什么。 
　　我想，它不会是针对某一个人的，但他相信，客人当中有一个人是作案的罪犯．于是他制定了一个计划，实际上是一次试探．以便发现凶手是谁。” 
　　“那为什么还请其他客人呢？比如伊登一家和坎贝尔一家。” 
　　“那是幌子。这就使得事情不至于显而易见。” 
　　“你认为那是什么样的计划？” 
　　查尔斯爵士耸耸肩头，这是一种夸张了的外国人的姿势。他似乎变成了情报局头面人物阿里斯蒂德．杜瓦尔．他的右腿定路时有点儿瘸。 
　　“我们怎么知道？我又不是魔术师．也猜不出．但是他肯定有一个计划……后来失败了。凶手比托利想象的技高一筹……他先下了手……”“一个男人？” 
　　“也许是个女的．女人也像男人一样能用毒物作武器，甚至更胜一筹。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生不言不语。查尔斯爵士说“说吧，你不同意吗？也许你跟大家的意见一样，认为凶手是那个管家。是他干的吗？” 
　　“你怎么解释管家的出走？” 
　　“我没有想到这事。在我看来，他是无关紧要的人…… 
　　我可以提出一种解释。” 
　　“举个例子……”“好吧。比如说．按警察说的，埃利斯是个职业罪犯，这次是一帮强盗参与行凶。埃利斯接受的任务是制造伪证．就这样，托利被谋杀了．埃利斯的作用是什么呢？有人被杀害，屋里又有一个男仆，他的指纹在伦敦警察局备案，警察对他了如指掌。自然他会惊惶失措，最后逃之夭夭。” 
　　“经过秘密通道？” 
　　“什么莫名其妙的通道．当时一个肥头大耳的警察在屋里站岗，一眨眼工夫，他就从大门逃出去了。” 
　　“看来这种可能性更大。” 
　　“那么，萨特思韦特，你的观点是什么？” 
　　“我的观点吗？”萨特思韦特先生说，“哦，跟你的一样。 
　　我们始终是一样。在我看来，管家是一个笨手笨脚的家伙。 
　　我相信，巴塞罗缨爵士和可怜的老巴宾顿都是由同一个人杀害的。” 
　　“别墅招待会里的一个人？” 
　　“别墅招待会里的一个人。” 
　　沉默了好一会儿之后，萨特思韦特先生随便问了-句“你认为是客人中的哪一个？” 
　　“我的上帝，萨特思韦特，我怎么能说呢？” 
　　“当然，你不能说。”萨特思韦特先生和善地说，“我只是想，你可能已经有了某种设想。你知道，所有的设想都没有科学根据，也不合情理，只是一般的猜测。” 
　　“这个，我还没有……”他想了一会儿，突然冒出一句，“你知道，萨特思韦特，你开始思考的那一刻，你会认为他们中的任何人都不可能行凶。” 
　　“我想．将所有的怀疑结合起来考虑，你的观点是对的。”萨特思韦特先生陷人了沉思．“我们现在必须思考的是，要明确地排除其中某些人员．比如说，你和我，巴宾顿。 
　　还有小曼德斯，他不在作案现场。” 
　　“曼德斯？” 
　　“是的，他到场只是因为出了事故。他没有被邀请，没有人想到他会来．那就是说，他不在嫌疑人圈内。” 
　　“那个女剧作家也不在圈内。她笔名叫安东尼．阿斯特。” 
　　“不，不，她当时在场．她就是图廷市的穆里尔•威尔斯小姐。” 
　　“原来她也在场．我忘了那女人姓威尔斯。” 
　　他皱起眉头。萨特思韦特先生最善于判断别人的思想。 
　　他准确地分析了演员的思路．查尔斯在说话时．萨特思韦特先生就暗暗鼓励自己继续观察他。 
　　“你瞧，萨特思韦特先生，你说对了．并不是所有被邀请的人都是嫌疑人。毕竟玛丽夫人和蛋蛋姑娘也在场……不，也许他是想让第一次事件重演……他也许怀疑了某个人，他需要可以作证的其他目击者．诸如此类的事……”“对，诸如此类的事。”萨特思韦特先生表示赞同，“人们只能通过像舞台上那样的表演，才会形成概念。很好，利顿．戈尔一家不是嫌疑人．你和我，巴宾顿和奥利弗•曼德斯也不是嫌疑人。还剩下谁呢？安吉拉•萨克利夫？” 
　　“安吉拉？我亲爱的伙计，她多年来一直是托利的好友。” 
　　“那么，事情就归结到戴克斯一家……”实际上，查尔斯，你怀疑戴克斯一家人．我过去问你时，你好像也说过同样的话。” 
　　查尔斯爵士看着他．萨特思韦特先生流露出一种友好的胜利者的神情。 
　　“我想，”查尔斯爵士慢吞吞地说，“我说过一些话．至少．我不是怀疑他们……他f门看起来只是比其他人更有可能性。再说，我不太了解他们．但是，要我的老命也看不出，一生沉溺于赛马的弗雷迪．戴克斯先生，-辈子为妇女设汁高价服装的戴克斯太太，竞然会企图除掉一个和蔼可亲而又无足轻重的老牧师……”他摇摇头，然后脸上显得兴奋起来。 
　　“还有那个威尔斯小姐．我又差点忘记了她。到底是什么原因使我老是忘记她？她是我所见过的最没有特征的人。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生笑了。 
　　“我只是认为她体现了彭斯的名句—在你们中间一位作笔记的青年．我总是想象威尔斯小姐整天都在作笔记．在她的眼镜后面有一双锐利的眼睛。我想，你会发现，如果这次事件中有什么值得注意的话，威尔斯小姐都已经注意到了。” 
　　“你是这样看的吗？”查尔斯爵士将信将疑地说。 
　　“下一步要办的事，”萨特思韦特先生说，“就是吃饭．然后，我们要去修道院，看看在现场能不能发现点什么？” 
　　“看来你已经迷上了这件事，萨特思韦特。”查尔斯爵士说，言语中充满了喜悦。 
　　“对凶杀案的调查，对我来说已经不再是新鲜事了。”萨特思韦特先生说，“有一次我的车抛锚了，我呆在一个孤零零的小旅店里……”他没有说下去。 
　　“我记得，”查尔斯爵士用他高亢而清晰的演员嗓子说道，“当我在一九二一年旅游时……”查尔斯爵士赢了。
CHAPTER 4 The Evidence Of The Servants
9 
Nothing could have been more peaceful than the grounds and building of Melfort Abbey as the two men saw it that afternoon in the September sunshine. Portions of the Abbey were fifteenth century. It had been restored and a new wing added on to it. The new Sanatorium was out of sight of the house, with grounds of its own. 
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were received by Mrs. Leckie, the cook, a portly lady, decorously gowned in black, who was tearful and voluble. Sir Charles she already knew, and it was to him she addressed most of her conversation. 
“You’ll understand, I’m sure, sir, what it’s meant to me. The master’s death and all. Policemen all over the place, poking their noses here and there - would you believe it, even the dustbins they had to have their noses in, and questions! - They wouldn’t have done with asking questions. Oh, that I should have lived to see such a thing - the doctor, such a quiet gentleman as he always was, and made Sir Bartholomew, too, which a proud day it was to all of us, as Beatrice and I well remember, though she’s been here two years less than I have. And such questions as that police fellow (for gentleman I will not call him, having been accustomed to gentlemen and their ways and knowing what’s what) fellow, I say, whether or no he is a superintendent - ” Mrs. Leckie paused, took breath and extricated herself from the somewhat complicated conversational morass into which she had fallen. “Questions, that’s what I say, about all the maids in the house, and good girls they are, every one of them - not that I’d say that Doris gets up when she should do in the morning. I have to speak about it at least once a week, and Vickie, she’s inclined to be impertinent, but, there, with the young ones you can’t expect the training - their mothers don’t give it to them nowadays - but good girls they are, and no police superintendent shall make me say otherwise. ‘Yes,’ I said to him, 
‘you needn’t think I’m going to say anything against my girls. They’re good girls, they are, and as to having anything to do with murder, why it’s right-down wicked to suggest such a thing.” 
Mrs. Leckie paused. 
“Mr. Ellis, now - that’s different. I don’t know anything about Mr. Ellis, and couldn’t answer for him in any way, he having been brought from London, and strange to the place, while Mr. Baker was on holiday.” 
“Baker?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Mr. Baker had been Sir Bartholomew’s butler for the last seven years, sir. He was in London most of the time, in Harley Street. You’ll remember him, sir?” She appealed to Sir Charles, who nodded. “Sir Bartholomew used to bring him up here when he had a party. But he hadn’t been so well in his health, so Sir Bartholomew said, and he gave him a couple of months’ holiday, paid for him, too, in a place near the sea down near Brighton - a real kind gentleman the doctor was - and he took Mr. Ellis on temporary for the time being, and so, as I said to that superintendent, I can’t say anything about Mr. Ellis, though, from all he said himself, he seems to have been with the best families, and he certainly had a gentlemanly way with him.” 
“You didn’t find anything - unusual about him?” asked Sir Charles hopefully. 
“Well, it’s odd your saying that, sir, because, if you know what I mean, I did and I didn’t.” 
Sir Charles looked encouraging, and Mrs. Leckie went on: 
“I couldn’t exactly say what it was, sir, but there was something - ” 
There always is - after the event - thought Mr. Satterthwaite to himself grimly. However much Mrs. Leckie had despised the police, she was not proof against suggestion. If Ellis turned out to be the criminal, well, Mrs. Leckie would have noticed something. 
“For one thing, he was standoffish. Oh, quite polite, quite the gentleman - as I said, he’d been used to good houses. But he kept himself to himself, spent a lot of time in his own room; and he was - well, I don’t know how to describe it, I’m sure - he was, well, there was something -” 
“You didn’t suspect he wasn’t - not really a butler?” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Oh, he’d been in service, right enough, sir. The things he knew - and about well-known people in society, too.” 
“Such as?” suggested Sir Charles gently. 
But Mrs. Leckie became vague, and non-committal. She was not going to retail servants’ hall gossip. 
Such a thing would have offended her sense of fitness. 
To put her at her ease, Mr. Satterthwaite said: 
“Perhaps you can describe his appearance.” 
Mrs. Leckie brightened. 
“Yes, indeed, sir. He was a very respectable-looking man - side- whiskers and grey hair, stooped a little, and he was growing stout - it worried him, that did. He had a rather shaky hand, too, but not from the cause you might imagine. He was a most abstemious man - not like many I’ve known. His eyes were a bit weak, I think, sir, the light hurt them - especially a bright light, used to make them water something cruel. Out with us he wore glasses, but not when he was on duty.” 
“No special distinguishing marks?” asked Sir Charles. “No scars? 
Or broken fingers? Or birth marks?” 
“Oh, no, sir, nothing of that kind.” 
“How superior detective stories are to life,” sighed Sir Charles. “In fiction there is always some distinguishing characteristic.” 
“He had a tooth missing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“I believe so, sir; I never noticed it myself.” 
“What was his manner on the night of the tragedy?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite in a slightly bookish manner. 
“Well, really, sir, I couldn’t say. I was busy, you see, in my kitchen. I hadn’t time for noticing things.” 
“No, no, quite so.” 
“When the news came out that the master was dead we were struck all of a heap. I cried and couldn’t stop, and so did Beatrice. The young ones, of course, were excited like, though very upset. Mr. Ellis naturally wasn’t so upset as we were, he being new, but he behaved very considerate, and insisted on Beatrice and me taking a little glass of port to counteract the shock. And to think that all the time it was he - the villain - ” 
Words failed Mrs. Leckie, her eyes shone with indignation. 
“He disappeared that night, I understand?” 
“Yes, sir, went to his room like the rest of us, and in the morning he wasn’t there. That’s what set the police on him, of course.” 
“Yes, yes, very foolish of him. Have you any idea how he left the house?” 
“Not the slightest. It seems the police were watching the house all night, and they never saw him go - but, there, that’s what the police are, human like anyone else, in spite of the airs they give themselves, coming into a gentleman’s house and nosing round.” 
“I hear there’s some question of a secret passage,” Sir Charles said. 
Mrs. Leckie sniffed. 
“That’s what the police say.” 
“Is there such a thing?” 
“I’ve heard mention of it,” Mrs. Leckie agreed cautiously. 
“Do you know where it starts from?” 
“No, I don’t, sir. Secret passages are all very well, but they’re not things to be encouraged in the servants’ hall. It gives the girls ideas. They might think of slipping out that way. My girls go out by the back door and in by the back door, and then we know where we are.” 
“Splendid, Mrs. Leckie. I think you’re very wise.” 
Mrs. Leckie bridled in the sun of Sir Charles’s approval. 
“I wonder,” he went on, “if we might just ask a few questions of the other servants?” 
“Of course, sir; but they can’t tell you anything more than I can.” 
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean so much about Ellis as about Sir Bartholomew himself - his manner that night, and so on. You see, he was a friend of mine.” 
“I know, sir. I quite understand. There’s Beatrice, and there’s Alice. She waited at table, of course.” 
“Yes, I’d like to see Alice.” 
Mrs. Leckie, however, had a belief in seniority. Beatrice Church, the upper-housemaid, was the first to appear. 
She was a tall thin woman, with a pinched mouth, who looked aggressively respectable. 
After a few unimportant questions, Sir Charles led the talk to the behaviour of the house party on the fatal evening. Had they all been terribly upset? What had they said or done? 
A little animation entered into Beatrice’s manner. She had the usual ghoulish relish for tragedy. 
“Miss Sutcliffe, she quite broke down. A very warm-hearted lady, she’s stayed here before. I suggested bringing her a little drop of brandy, or a nice cup of tea, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She took some aspirin, though. Said she was sure she couldn’t sleep. But she was sleeping like a little child the next morning when I bought her her early tea.” 
“And Mrs. Dacres?” 
“I don’t think anything would upset that lady much.” 
From Beatrice’s tone, she had not liked Cynthia Dacres. 
“Just anxious to get away, she was. Said her business would suffer. She’s a big dressmaker in London, so Mr. Ellis told us.” 
A big dressmaker, to Beatrice, meant “trade,” and trade she looked down upon. 
“And her husband?” 
Beatrice sniffed. 
“Steadied his nerves with brandy, he did. Or unsteadied them, some would say.” 
“What about Lady Mary Lytton Gore?” 
“A very nice lady,” said Beatrice, her tone softening. “My great aunt was in service with her father at the Castle. A pretty young girl she was, so I’ve always heard. Poor she may be, but you can see she’s someone - and so considerate, never giving trouble and always speaking so pleasant. Her daughter’s a nice young lady, too. They didn’t know Sir Bartholomew well, of course, but they were very distressed.” 
“Miss Wills?” 
Some of Beatrice’s rigidity returned. 
“I’m sure I couldn’t say sir, what Miss Wills thought about it.” 
“Or what you thought about her?” asked Sir Charles. “Come now, Beatrice, be human.” 
An unexpected smile dinted Beatrice’s wooden cheeks. There was something appealingly schoolboyish in Sir Charles’s manner. She was not proof against the charm that nightly audiences had felt so strongly. 
“Really, sir, I don’t know what you want me to say.” 
“Just what you thought and felt about Miss Wills.” 
“Nothing, sir, nothing at all. She wasn’t, of course - ” 
Beatrice hesitated. 
“Go on, Beatrice.” 
“Well, she wasn’t quite the ‘class’ of the others, sir. She couldn’t help it, I know, went on Beatrice kindly. But she did things a real lady wouldn’t have done. She pried, if you know what I mean, sir, poked and pried about.” 
Sir Charles tried hard to get this statement amplified, but Beatrice remained vague. Miss Wills had poked and pried, but asked to produce a special instance of the poking, Beatrice seemed unable to do so. She merely repeated that Miss Wills pried into things that were no business of hers. 
They gave it up at last, and Mr. Satterthwaite said: 
“Young Mr. Manders arrived unexpectedly, didn’t he?” 
“Yes, sir, he had an accident with his car - just by the lodge gates, it was. He said it was a bit of luck its happening just here. The house was full, of course, but Miss Lyndon had a bed made up for him in the little study.” 
“Was everyone very surprised to see him?” 
“Oh, yes, sir, naturally, sir.” 
Asked her opinion of Ellis, Beatrice was non-committal. She’d seen very little of him. Going off the way he did looked bad, though why he should want to harm the master she couldn’t imagine. Nobody could. 
“What was he like, the doctor, I mean? Did he seem to be looking forward to the house party? Had he anything on his mind?” 
“He seemed particularly cheerful, sir. Smiled to himself, he did, as though he had some joke on. I even heard him make a joke with Mr. Ellis, a thing he’d never done with Mr. Baker. He was usually a bit brusque with the servants, kind always, but not speaking to them much.” 
“What did he say?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite eagerly. 
“Well, I forget exactly now, sir. Mr. Ellis had come up with a telephone message, and Sir Bartholomew asked him if he was sure he’d got the names right, and Mr. Ellis said quite sure - speaking respectful, of course. And the doctor he laughed and said, ‘You’re a good fellow, Ellis, a first-class butler. Eh, Beatrice, what do you think?’ And I was so surprised, sir, at the master speaking like that - quite unlike his usual self - that I didn’t know what to say.” 
“And Ellis?” 
“He looked kind of disapproving, sir, as though it was the kind of thing he hadn’t been used to. Stiff like.” 
“What was the telephone message?” asked Sir Charles. 
“The message, sir? Oh, it was from the Sanatorium - about a patient who had arrived there and had stood the journey well.” 
“Do you remember the name?” 
“It was a queer name, sir.” Beatrice hesitated. “Mrs. de Rushbridger - something like that.” 
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Charles soothingly. “Not an easy name to get right on the telephone. Well, thank you very much, Beatrice. Perhaps we could see Alice now.” 
When Beatrice had left the room Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite compared notes by an interchange of glances. 
“Miss Wills poked and pried, Captain Dacres got drunk, Mrs. Dacres displayed no emotion. Anything there? Precious little.” 
“Very little indeed,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Let’s pin our hopes on Alice.” 
Alice was a demure, dark-eyed young woman of thirty. She was only too pleased to talk. 
She herself didn’t believe Mr. Ellis had anything to do with it. He was too much the gentleman. The police had suggested he was just a common crook. Alice was sure he was nothing of the sort. 
“You’re quite certain he was an ordinary honest-to-God butler?” 
asked Sir Charles. 
“Not ordinary, sir. He wasn’t like any butler I’ve ever worked with before. He arranged the work different.” 
“But you don’t think he poisoned your master.” 
“Oh, sir, I don’t see how he could have done. I was waiting at table with him, and he couldn’t have put anything in the master’s food without my seeing him.” 
“And the drinks?” 
“He went round with the wine, sir. Sherry first, with the soup, and then hock and claret. But what could he have done, sir? If there’d been anything in the wine he’d have poisoned everybody - or all those who took it. It’s not as though the master had anything that nobody else had. The same thing with the port. All the gentlemen had port, and some of the ladies.” 
“The wine glasses were taken out on a tray?” 
“Yes, sir, I held the tray and Mr. Ellis put the glasses on it, and I carried the tray out to the pantry, and there they were, sir, when the police came to examine them. The port glasses were still on the table. And the police didn’t find anything.” 
“You’re quite sure that the doctor didn’t have anything to eat or drink at dinner that nobody else had?” 
“Not that I saw, sir. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t.” 
“Nothing that one of the guests gave him - ” 
“Oh, no, sir.” 
“Do you know anything about a secret passage, Alice?” 
“One of the gardeners told me something about it. Comes out in the wood where there’s some old walls and things tumbled down. But I’ve never seen any opening to it in the house.” 
“Ellis never said anything about it?” 
“Oh, no, sir, he wouldn’t know anything about it, I’m sure.” 
“Who do you really think killed your master, Alice?” 
“I don’t know, Sir. I can’t believe anyone did ... I feel it must have been some kind of accident.” 
“H’m. Thank you, Alice.” 
“If it wasn’t for the death of Babbington,” said Sir Charles as the girl left the room, “we could make her the criminal. She’s a good- looking girl ... And she waited at table ... No, it won’t do. Babbington was murdered; and anyway Tollie never noticed good-looking girls. He wasn’t made that way.” 
“But he was fifty-five,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. 
“Why do you say that?” 
“It’s the age a man loses his head badly about a girl - even if he hasn’t done so before.” 
“Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I’m -er - getting on for fifty-five.” 
“I know,” said Satterthwaite. 
And before his gentle twinkling gaze Sir Charles’s eyes fell. Unmistakably he blushed ...
第四章　仆人的证词
第四章　仆人的证词

　　九月的一个阳光灿烂的下午，两人来到梅尔福特修道院的楼房和庭院，再没有比这儿更安静的地方了。修道院的一部分是十五世纪时修建的，后来经过重建，又增加了一幢侧楼．从这儿还看不见新的疗养院楼房和它的庭院。 
　　查尔斯爵士和萨特思韦特先生由厨娘莱基太太接待。 
　　她是一个肥胖的女人，穿着一件讲究的黑色长裙。她一把鼻沸一把眼泪地说个不停．她认识查尔斯爵士，他们之间的谈话大多数时间由她一个人包揽了。 
　　“我相信，爵士，你能理解主人的死和所发生的一切对我的影响有多么大。这屋里屋外到处是警察，他们耸着鼻子瞅这瞅那。说来你不相信，甚至连垃圾箱他们都把鼻子仲进夫闻闻．还要问各种问题！他们不应当老是问问题．啊，我这辈子居然看到这样的事发生．巴塞罗缪爵士是个一辈子安安静静的绅士，也同样遭此毒手．我和比阿特丽斯清清楚楚地记得，那一天对我们大家来说真是睛天霹雳。比阿特丽斯比我晚来两年．警察兄弟问了一些问题。(他要是绅士，我就不会叫他为兄弟．我已经习惯与绅士们相处，习惯他们的生活方式，知道他们的一切。)我叫他为兄弟，我说，不知道他是不是一个警督。”莱基太太停下来，喘了口气，让自己从她已经陷进去的滔滔不绝的谈话中解脱一会儿。“你们要查问屋里所有仆人的情况，‘查问’是我自个儿叫的名儿。他们都是些好姑娘，每一个人都好。不仅是多丽丝清早该做摹的时候就起了床．我一个星期必须两次说这事儿。还有维基．她做事容易鲁莽．可是．在这儿，你别指望小姑娘们受过训练……眼下她们的父母也不会教她们什么，但都是些好姑娘。警察也不能让我说相反的话。‘是的’，我对他说，‘你不用指望我说她们的坏话．她们都是好姑娘，真的是这样至于问她们跟凶杀有什么关系嘛，我说问这样的问题本身就完全不怀好意．’”莱基太太停了一会儿又说： 
　　“埃利斯先生现在的情况，就不同了．我不知道他的任何事情，因此不能回答关于他的任何问题．在贝克先生休假期间，有人从伦敦把他推荐到这儿，他对这里的情况很陌生。” 
　　“贝克？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“贝克先生曾经是巴塞罗缨爵士的管家，干了七年．先生．他多数时间是在伦敦，住在哈利大街。爵士．你会记得他的．对吗？”她询问查尔斯爵士。爵士点点头．“巴塞罗爵士过去总要在举办别墅招待会的时候，把他带到这儿来。 
　　但他身体一直不太好，这是巴塞罗缪爵士说的．他给了管家一两个月的假期在布莱顿附近的海滨度过，照样给他开工资．医生真是一个好人。埃利斯先生是他临时雇用的。所以我对警督说，我谈不出有关埃利斯先生的任何情况．根据他所说的，他好像一直是在最好的家庭里干活。跟他相处的时候．他显然有一种绅士派头。” 
　　“你没有发现他有什么……异常表现？”查尔斯爵士满怀希望地问道。 
　　“你问得真奇怪，爵士。可以说，我已经告诉了你，也没有告诉你．你知道我的意思吗？” 
　　查尔斯爵士用鼓励的目光看着她，于是莱基太太继续说“我不能确切地说那是什么，爵士，总觉得有点问题……”事后，萨特思韦特先生冷冷地想道．干篇一律．不管莱基太太如何鄙视警察，她还是不能否定警察的推断。假若埃利斯真的成了罪犯，那么莱基太太早就注意到了什么。 
　　“有件事需要说说，他这个人冷漠傲慢．哦，可实在彬彬有礼，像个绅士，就像我刚说的那样．他-直为名门旺族干活，但是他沉默寡言，经常一个人呆在自己的卧室里．而且他……这个，我真不知道怎样形容他……他是，这个．……总有问题。” 
　　“你是怀疑他……不是一个真的管家吧？”萨特思韦特先生提示道。 
　　“哦，他一直在干活，千真万确，爵士．什么事他都知道……还了解社会上的名人。” 
　　“举个例子好吗？”查尔斯爵士客气地提议道。 
　　可是莱基太太却变得犹豫不决，含糊其辞起来。她不打算暴露仆人们在大厅里的流言蜚语，否则会损害她为人正直的品格。 
　　为了让她平静下来，萨特思韦特先生说，“也许你能形容一下他的相貌。” 
　　莱基太太眼睛一亮说了起来。 
　　“确实是的，爵士．他是一个看起来非常受人尊敬的人。 
　　络腮胡，灰头发．有点驼背，身体发胖—这使他很担忧，真是这样．他还有一只发抖的手，但猜不透是什么原因造成的。他是-个非常节俭的人，跟我认识的许多人都不相同。 
　　他的眼睛有一点毛病，爵士，我想这是灯光刺伤的，特别是那种很强的灯光．我们不在场的时候，他戴眼镜，但他当班时就不戴。” 
　　“他没有什么特殊的标记吗？”查尔斯爵士问道，“没有疤痕？没有受伤的手指？也没有胎记？” 
　　“哦，没有，爵士，这些东西一概没有。” 
　　“精彩的侦探故事怎么会逼真呢！”查尔斯爵士叹口气道，“故事中的罪犯，总是有某种显著的特征。” 
　　“他掉了一颗牙。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“大概是吧，先生，我自己可从来没看见过。” 
　　“在悲剧发生的那天晚上．他的行为举止怎么样？”萨特思韦特先生问道．显得有点书生气。 
　　“这个嘛，先生，我确实说不出。我在厨房里．你瞧，我太忙，没有功夫注意到他。” 
　　“是的，是这样。” 
　　“当时传来消息，说主人死了，我们都惊呆了．我哭起来，硬是止不住．比阿特丽斯也一样。那些小女仆们好像很紧张，当然也很难过．埃利斯先生自然不像我们那样难受，他是新来的嘛。但他考虑周全，坚待要我和比阿特丽斯喝一小杯葡萄酒压压惊。你想想吧，整个晚上都是他……这个罪犯……”莱基太太找不到话说下去了，眼睛里闪动着愤怒的目光。 
　　“我听说当晚他就失踪了？” 
　　“是的，先生．他像我们大家一样回到自己的卧室．早上起来就不见他了。当然，这就让警察注意到他了。” 
　　“是的．是的，他真是太愚蠢了．你认为他是怎样离开这房子的？” 
　　“一点也不知道．警察好像整个晚上都在查看房子，他们也没有发现他逃走．这批警察就是这样，不过他们也是人咪．跟我们一样，尽管他们制造紧张气氛，冲进绅士的家里，邑耸着鼻子东张西望。” 
　　“我听说有人间到秘密通道的事。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　莱基太太吸了一口气。 
　　“警察是那样问过。” 
　　“真有通道吗？” 
　　“我听别人提起过。”莱基太太谨慎地答道。 
　　“你知道通道是从哪儿进去的？” 
　　“不，我不知道，先生。有个秘密通道倒挺好，可那不是让仆人知道的东西。要是姑娘们知道了．她们就会想，从那儿有条路可以溜出去．我的姑娘们出去从后门，进来也从后门，到了哪儿清清楚楚。” 
　　“好极了，莱基太太，我想你是非常聪明的人。” 
　　莱基太太听到查尔斯爵士称赞的话，就昂起头来。 
　　“我不知道，”查尔斯爵士继续说．“我们是否能问其他仆人几个问题？” 
　　“当然可以，爵士。可是她们不会比我告诉你的多。” 
　　“哦，我明白了。我不会问有关埃利斯太多的问题，我要问的是巴塞罗缪爵士本人的事。比如那天晚上他的行为举止等等．你知道，他是我的一个朋友。” 
　　“我知道，爵士。我很理解。那儿有比阿特丽斯，有艾丽斯．当然，她当时在桌边侍候。” 
　　“好的，我希望见见艾丽斯。” 
　　不管怎么说，莱基太太很尊重长者的话。楼房女仆比阿特丽斯是第一个出现的人。 
　　她是个瘦高女人，双唇紧闭，一本正经，目光础础逼人。 
　　查尔斯爵士问了几个无关紧要的问题之后，将话题引到那个不幸的夜晚在别墅招待会发生的事情．他们每个人都非常难受吗？他们都说了些什么？做了些什么？ 
　　比阿特丽斯的言谈中流露出一阵兴奋．她对于悲剧事件有一种不可思议的古怪嗜好。 
　　“萨克利夫小姐惊恐万状。她是个非常热心的女士。过去在这儿住过。我建议她喝一口白兰地，或一杯清茶，但是她不听，只是吃了几片阿斯匹林，说是她肯定睡不着觉了。 
　　第二天早晨我给她送茶点去时，她还在像小孩那样蒙头大睡。” 
　　“戴克斯太太呢？” 
　　“我看不会有什么事情能让那位太太感到不安。” 
　　听比阿特丽斯的口气，她并不喜欢辛西姬•戴克斯。 
　　“她吗？只急着要走。说她的生意要被耽误了．她是伦敦一家大的妇女缝纫店的剪裁师．这是埃利斯先生告诉我们的。” 
　　对于比阿特丽斯来说，缝纫是一种她瞧不起的“生意”。 
　　“那么她丈夫呢？” 
　　比阿特丽斯抽着鼻子说： 
　　“他喝了白兰地，稳住了自己的神经。也有人会说，喝了也稳不住。” 
　　“玛丽．利顿•戈尔夫人怎么样呢？” 
　　“一位非常好的夫人。”比阿特丽斯说，语气变得柔和起来，“我的姨奶奶在城堡为她父亲干过活儿．我经常听她说，那时玛丽夫人是一个漂亮的小女孩．现在她可能不再富有了，可一看就知道也是个大家闺秀，而且非常体贴人，从来不会让你感到麻烦，说话总是很中听．她女儿也是一个很好的小姐。当然，他们对巴塞罗缨爵士不太熟悉，但她们难过极了。” 
　　“威尔斯小姐呢？” 
　　比阿特丽斯原先那种生硬的语气又出现了。 
　　“可以肯定地说，爵士，我说不出威尔斯小姐到底对这件事是怎么想的。” 
　　“那么你对她是怎么想的呢？”查尔斯爵士问道：“说吧。 
　　比阿特丽斯，你是很通情达理的。” 
　　在比阿特丽斯木讷的脸颊上突然出现了笑容。查尔斯爵士像个小学生一般流露出恳求的神情．两个听众强烈地感受到的那种吸引力，也使她经受不住了。 
　　“真的，爵士，我不知道你想耍我说些什么？” 
　　“就是你对威尔斯小姐是怎么想的．你感觉她怎么样？” 
　　“什么也没有，爵±，根本没有。她当然不会是……”比阿特丽斯犹豫了。 
　　“说下去，比阿特丽斯。” 
　　“好吧，她不像是别的客人那种阶层的人、，爵士．我知道，她是瞒不住的。”比阿特丽斯继续说．“她做的事情是一个真正的小姐不会做的。她探头探脑的，爵士，你知道我的意思吗？她探头探脑，四处打听。” 
　　查尔斯爵士试图进一步弄清她的陈述，但比阿特丽斯仍然含糊其辞，只说威尔斯小姐探头探脑，四处打听。查尔斯爵士要求她举一个探头探脑的例子，比阿特丽斯却说不出来．她只是重复着威尔斯小姐老是打听跟她无关的事情。 
　　最后，他们只好到此为止。萨特思韦特先生又间道。 
　　“人们都没有预料到小曼德斯先生会突然到来，是吗？” 
　　“是的，先生．他的车子出了事故，正好撞在门房的大门边．他说，在这儿出事还算走运．那时，屋里都住满了人，林登小姐在小书房为他铺了一张床。” 
　　“大家看见他到来都很惊讶吗？” 
　　“哦，是的，先生．自然是这样，先生。” 
　　问到她对埃利斯的看法时，比阿特丽斯无可奉告．她很见到他．他很糟糕，竟会逃跑，但她不相信他会伤害主人。 
　　有谁会那样干。 
　　“说说他的情况行吗？我是说医生．看上去他期望举办这次别墅招待会吗？他到底想了些什么呢？” 
　　“他显得特别高兴，先生。整天都是笑逐颜开，好像想到什么笑话。我甚至听见他与埃利斯先生开玩笑．这是他从来都不会对贝克先生说的．他平常对仆人们都没有什么好脸色，他倒很仁慈，但不跟仆人多说话。” 
　　“他当时说了些什么？”萨特思韦特先生急切地问道。 
　　“这个，我一时想不起来了，先生．埃利斯先生走过来传达一个电话内容，巴塞罗谬爵士问他是否记清楚了名字，埃利斯先生说没有问题。当然他是很有礼貌地说这话的．接着，医生大笑起来说，．你是个好伙计，埃利斯。你是个完美无缺的管家。喂，比阿特丽斯，你认为呢？，我很惊慌，先生，主人家那样说话．不像是平时的口气……我简直不知道该怎么说。” 
　　“那么埃利斯呢？” 
　　“他看起来很不满，先生，好像这是他生平没有碰见过的事，有点目瞪口呆了。” 
　　“电话内容是什么？”查尔斯爵士问道。 
　　“内容吗？爵士．哦，那是从疗养院打来的，是关于一个病人的事，说她已经到了疗养院，而且路上安然无恙。” 
　　“你记得她的名字吗？” 
　　“那是个怪名字，”比阿特丽斯磨蹭了一会儿才说，“德．拉什布里杰太太，好像是这名儿。” 
　　“哦，是的。”查尔斯爵士安慰她道，“再筒单的名字，在电话里都是说不清楚的。好啦，非常感谢你，比阿特丽斯。我们现在可以见艾丽斯了。” 
　　当比阿特丽斯离开房间后，查尔斯爵士与萨特思韦特先生通过交换目光来交流各自的思想。 
　　“威尔斯小姐探头探脑，四处打听；戴克斯喝醉了酒；他太太无动于衷。还有什么吗？微不足道。” 
　　“确实少得可怜。”萨特思韦特先生表示同意。 
　　“让我们把希望寄托在艾丽斯身上。” 
　　艾丽斯是一个娴静的黑眼睛姑娘，三十岁了。她很愿意与他们交谈。 
　　她本人不相信埃利斯先生与此案有任何关系。他很有绅士风度。警察却认为他是一个低劣的恶棍．艾丽斯肯定他不是那一类的人。 
　　“你敢肯定，他是一个对上帝忠诚的普通人吗？” 
　　“不是普通的．爵士．他不像我从前干活时遇见的那些管家。他安排工作与他们不同。” 
　　“你认为他不会对你的主人下毒？” 
　　“啊，爵士，我不明白他怎么可能那样干。我当时与他站在餐桌边听使唤，他不可能在主人的食品里放任何东西而不被我发现。” 
　　“饮料里呢？” 
　　他拿着酒转了一圈，爵士。先上雪利酒．还有汤，然后白葡萄酒和红葡萄酒．他还能做些什么呢，爵士？如果酒有什么东西，他就会毒死所有的人-或者说．会毒死喝酒的人。凡是主人吃过的，别的人也不会没有吃过、喝过是同样的葡萄酒，所有的先生都喝了葡萄酒，i丕有一些女也喝过。” 
　　“酒杯是从托盘里拿的吗？” 
　　“是的，爵士。我拿着托盘．埃利斯把酒杯放在上面．然我端着它走出餐具室．当警察来检查的时候，大家都在那儿，装着葡萄酒的杯子都在餐桌上．警察并没有发现什么。” 
　　“你敢肯定医生在晚餐时，他吃过或喝过的东西中．没什么是别人不曾用过的吗？” 
　　“我没有看见。事实上，我敢肯定没有。” 
　　“客人中有谁拿过他的东西吗？” 
　　“哦，没有，爵士。” 
　　“你知道秘密通道的情况吗，艾丽斯？” 
　　“有个园丁告诉过我。通道出口在林子里，那儿有一堆旧墙和倒塌的砖瓦乱石。但是我从来没有见过屋里有什么入口。” 
　　“埃利斯从来没有提起过通道的事吗？” 
　　“哦，没有，爵士．我敢说，他不会知道有个通道。” 
　　“艾丽斯，你认为到底是谁杀了你的主人？” 
　　“我不知道，先生。我简直不相信淮会那样干……我感到那必定是什么事故。” 
　　“呃，谢谢你，艾丽斯。” 
　　“如果不是巴宾顿的死，”查尔斯爵士等姑娘离开房间之后说道，“我们可以把她看成凶手．她是一个漂亮姑娘……她站在餐桌边听使唤……不，那不成．巴宾顿是被杀害的；托利从不注视漂亮的姑娘。他不是那样被干掉的。” 
　　“但是他己经五十五岁。”萨特思韦特先生若有所思地说。 
　　“你为什么说这个？” 
　　“这是一个男人为姑娘失去理智的年龄—即使他过去没有风流韵事。” 
　　“你胡说八道．萨特思韦特，我也已经……呃……快五十五岁了。” 
　　“我知道。”萨特思韦特说。 
　　还不等他友善而又刺眼的目光射来，查尔斯爵士赶紧闭上双眼。 
　　萨特思韦特先生看得一清二楚，他满面通红了……
CHAPTER 5 In The Butler's Room
10 
“How about an examination of Ellis’s room?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite, having enjoyed the spectacle of Sir Charles’s blush to the full. 
The actor seized at the diversion. 
“Excellent, excellent. Just what I was about to suggest myself.” 
“Of course the police have already searched it thoroughly.” 
“The police - ” 
Aristide Duval waved the police away scornfully. Anxious to forget his momentary discomfiture, he flung himself with renewed vigour into his part. 
“The police are blockheads,” he said sweepingly. “What have they looked for in Ellis’s room? Evidences of his guilt. We shall look for evidences of his innocence - an entirely different thing.” 
“You’re completely convinced of Ellis’s innocence?” 
“If we’re right about Babbington, he must be innocent.” 
“Yes, besides - ” 
Mr. Satterthwaite did not finish his sentence. He had been about to say that if Ellis was a professional criminal who had been detected by Sir Bartholomew and had murdered him in consequence the whole affair would become unbearably dull. Just in time he remembered that Sir Bartholomew had been a friend of Sir Charles Cartwright’s and was duly appalled by the callousness of the sentiments he had nearly revealed. 
At first sight Ellis’s room did not seem to offer much promise of discovery. The clothes in the drawers and hanging in the cupboard were all neatly arranged. They were well cut, and bore different tailors’ marks. Clearly cast-offs given him in different situations. The underclothing was on the same scale. The boots were neatly polished and arranged on trees. 
Mr. Satterthwaite picked up a boot and murmured, “Nines, just so, nines.” But since there were no footprints in the case, that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. 
It seemed clear from its absence that Ellis had departed in his butler’s kit, and Mr. Satterthwaite pointed out to Sir Charles that that seemed rather remarkable fact. 
“Any man in his senses would have changed into an ordinary suit.” 
“Yes, it’s odd that ... Looks almost, though that’s absurd, as if he 
hadn’t gone at all ... Nonsense, of course.” 
They continued their search. No letters, no papers, except a cutting from a newspaper regarding a cure for corns, and a paragraph relating to the approaching marriage of a duke’s daughter. 
There was a small blotting-book and a penny bottle of ink on a side table - no pen. Sir Charles held up the blotting-book to the mirror, but without result. One page of it was very much used - a meaningless jumble, and the ink looked to both men old. 
“Either he hasn’t written any letters since he was here, or he hasn’t blotted them,” deduced Mr. Satterthwaite. “This is an old blotter. Ah, yes - ” With some gratification he pointed to a barely decipherable “L. Baker” amidst the jumble. 
“I should say Ellis hadn’t used this at all.” 
“That’s rather odd, isn’t it?” said Sir Charles slowly. 
“What do you mean?” 
“Well, a man usually writes letters ...” 
“Not if he’s a criminal.” 
“No, perhaps you’re right ... There must have been something fishy about him to make him bolt as he did ... All we say is that he didn’t murder Tollie.” 
They hunted round the floor, raising the carpet, looking under the bed. There was nothing anywhere, except a splash of ink beside the fireplace. The room was disappointingly bare. 
They left it in a somewhat disconcerted fashion. Their zeal as detectives was momentarily damped. 
Possibly the thought passed through their minds that things were arranged better in books. 
They had a few words with the other members of the staff, scared- looking juniors in awe of Mrs. Leckie and Beatrice church, but they elicited nothing further. 
Finally they took their leave. 
“Well, Satterthwaite,” said Sir Charles as they strolled across the park (Mr. Satterthwaite’s car had been instructed to pick them up at the lodge) “anything strike you - anything at all?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought. He was not to be hurried into an answer 
-especially as he felt something ought to have struck him. To confess that the whole expedition had been a waste of time was an unwelcome idea. He passed over in his mind the evidence of one servant after another - the information was extraordinarily meagre. As Sir Charles had summed it up just now, Miss Wills had poked and pried, Miss Sutcliffe had been very upset, Mrs. Dacres had not been upset at all, and Captain Dacres had got drunk. Very little there, unless Freddie Dacres’s indulgence showed the deadening of a guilty conscience. But Freddie Dacres, Mr. Satterthwaite knew, quite frequently got drunk. 
“Well?” repeated Sir Charles impatiently. 
“Nothing,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite reluctantly. “Except - well, I think we are entitled to assume from the clipping we found that Ellis suffered from corns.” 
Sir Charles gave a wry smile. 
“That seems quite a reasonable deduction. Does it - er - get us anywhere?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite confessed that it did not. 
“The only other thing -” he said and then stopped. 
“Yes? Go on, man. Anything may help.” 
“It struck me as a little odd the way that Sir Bartholomew chaffed his butler - you know what the housemaid told us. It seems somehow uncharacteristic.” 
“It was uncharacteristic,” said Sir Charles with emphasis. “I knew Tollie well - better than you did - and I can tell you that he wasn’t a facetious sort of man. He’d never have spoken like that unless - well, unless for some reason he wasn’t quite normal at the time. You’re right, Satterthwaite, that is a point. Now where does it get us?” 
“Well,” began Mr. Satterthwaite; but it was clear that Sir Charles’s question had been merely a rhetorical one. He was anxious, not to hear Mr. Satterthwaite’s views, but to air his own. 
“You remember when that incident occurred, Satterthwaite? Just 
after Ellis had brought him a telephone message. I think it’s a fair deduction to assume that it was that telephone message which was cause of Tollie’s sudden unusual hilarity. You may remember I asked the housemaid woman what that message had been.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. 
“It was to say that a woman named Mrs. de Rushbridger had arrived at the Sanatorium,” he said, to show that he, too, had paid attention to the point. “It doesn’t sound particularly thrilling.” 
“It doesn’t sound so, certainly. But, if our reasoning is correct, 
there must be some significance in that message.” 
“Ye-es,” said Mr. Satterthwaite doubtfully. 
“Indubitably,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve got to find out what that significance was. It just crosses my mind that it may have been a code message of some kind - a harmless sounding natural thing, but which really meant something entirely different. If Tollie had been making inquiries into Babbington’s death, this may have had something to do with those inquiries. Say, even, that he employed a private detective to find out a certain fact. He may have told him in the event of this particular suspicion being justified to ring up and use that particular phrase which would convey no hint of the truth to anyone taking it. That would explain his jubilation, it might explain his asking Ellis if he was sure of the name - he himself knowing well there was no such person, really. In fact, the slight lack of balance a person shows when they have brought off what can be described as a long shot.” 
“You think there’s no such person as Mrs. de Rushbridger?” 
“Well, I think we ought to find out for certain.” 
“How?” 
“We might run along to the Sanatorium now and ask the Matron.” 
“She may think it rather odd.” 
Sir Charles laughed. 
“You leave it to me,” he said. 
They turned aside from the drive and walked in the direction of the Sanatorium. 
Mr. Satterthwaite said: 
“What about you, Cartwright? Does anything strike you at all? 
Arising out of our visit to the house, I mean.” 
Sir Charles answered slowly. 
“Yes, there is something - the devil of it is, I can’t remember what.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him in surprise. The other frowned. 
“How can I explain? There was something - something which at the moment struck me as wrong - as unlikely - only - I hadn’t the time to think about it then, I put it aside in my own mind.” 
“And now you can’t remember what it was?” 
“No - only that at some moment I said to myself, ‘That’s odd.’” 
“Was it when we were questioning the servants? Which servant?” 
“I tell you I can’t remember. And the more I think the less I shall remember ... If I leave it alone, it may come back to me.” 
They came into view of the Sanatorium, a big white modern building, divided from the park by palings. There was a gate through which they passed, and they rang the front-door bell and asked for the Matron. 
The Matron, when she came, was a tall, middle-aged woman, with an intelligent face and a capable manner. Sir Charles she clearly knew by name as a friend of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Charles explained that he had just come back from abroad, had been horrified to hear of his friend’s death and of the terrible suspicions entertained, and had been up to the house to learn as many details as he could. The Matron spoke in moving terms of the loss Sir Bartholomew would be to them, and of his fine career as a doctor. Sir Charles professed himself anxious to know what was going to happen to the Sanatorium. The Matron explained that Sir Bartholomew had had two partners, both capable doctors, one was in residence at the Sanatorium. 
“Bartholomew was very proud of this place, I know,” said Sir Charles. 
“Yes, his treatments were a great success.” 
“Mostly nerve cases, isn’t it?” 
“Yes.” 
“That reminds me - fellow I met out at Monte had some kind of relation coming here. I forget her name now - odd sort of name - Rushbridger - Rusbrigger - something like that.” 
“Mrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?” 
“That’s it. Is she here now?” 
“Oh, yes. But I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you - not for some time yet. She’s having a very strict rest cure. The Matron smiled just a trifle archly. No letters, no exciting visitors ... ” 
“I say, she’s not very bad, is she?” 
“Rather a bad nervous breakdown - lapses of memory, and severe nervous exhaustion. Oh, we shall get her right in time.” 
The Matron smiled reassuringly. 
“Let me see, haven’t I heard Tollie - Sir Bartholomew - speak of her? She was a friend of his as well as a patient, wasn’t she?” 
“I don’t think so, Sir Charles. At least the doctor never said so. She has recently arrived from the West Indies - really, it was very funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult name for a servant to remember - the parlourmaid here is rather stupid. She came and said to me, 
‘Mrs. West India has come,’ and of course I suppose Rushbridger 
does sound rather like West India - but it was rather a coincidence her having just come from the West Indies.” 
“Rather - rather - most amusing. Her husband over, too?” 
“He’s still out there.” 
“Ah, quite - quite. I must be mixing her up with someone else. It was a case the doctor was specially interested in?” 
“Cases of amnesia are fairly common, but they’re always interesting to a medical man - the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom alike.” 
“Seems all very odd to me. Well, thank you, Matron, I’m glad to have had a little chat with you. I know how much Tollie thought of you. He often spoke about you,” finished Sir Charles mendaciously. 
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that”. The Matron flushed and bridled. “Such a splendid man - such a loss to us all. We were absolutely shocked - well, stunned would describe it better. Murder! Who ever would murder Dr. Strange, I said. It’s incredible. That awful butler. I hope the police catch him. And no motive or anything.” 
Sir Charles shook his head sadly and they took their departure, going round by the road to the spot where the car awaited them. In revenge for his enforced quiescence during the interview with the Matron, Mr. Satterthwaite displayed a lively interest in the scene of Oliver Manders’ accident, plying the lodge keeper, a slow- witted man of middle age, with questions. 
Yes, that was the place, where the wall was broken away. On a motor cycle the young gentleman was. No, he didn’t see it happen. He heard it, though, and come out to see. The young gentleman was standing there - just where the other gentleman was standing now. He didn’t seem to be hurt. Just looking rueful-like at his bike - and a proper mess that was. Just asked what the name of the place might be, and when he heard it was Sir Bartholomew Strange’s he said, “That’s a piece of luck,” and went on up to the house. A very calm young gentleman he seemed to be - tired like. How he come to have such an accident, the lodge keeper couldn’t see, but he supposed them things went wrong sometimes. 
“It was an odd accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. He looked at the wide straight road. No bends, no dangerous crossroads, nothing to cause a motor cyclist to swerve suddenly into a ten-foot wall. Yes, an odd accident. 
“What’s in your mind, Satterthwaite?” asked Sir Charles curiously. 
“Nothing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “nothing.” 
“It’s odd, certainly,” said Sir Charles, and he, too, stared at the scene of the accident in a puzzled manner. 
They got into the car and drove off. 
Mr. Satterthwaite was busy with his thoughts. Mrs. de Rushbridger - Cartwright’s theory wouldn’t work - it wasn’t a code message - there was such a person. But could there be something about the woman herself? Was she perhaps a witness of some kind, or was it just because she was an interesting case that Bartholomew Strange had displayed this unusual elation? Was she, perhaps, an attractive woman? To fall in love at the age of fifty-five did (Mr. Satterthwaite had observed it many a time) change a man’s character completely. It might, perhaps, make him facetious, where before he had been aloof - 
His thoughts were interrupted. Sir Charles leant forward. 
“Satterthwaite,” he said, “do you mind if we turn back?” 
Without waiting for a reply, he took up the speaking tube and gave the order. The car slowed down, stopped, and the chauffeur began to reverse into a convenient lane. A minute or two later they were bowling along the road in the opposite direction. 
“What is it?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“I’ve remembered,” said Sir Charles, “what struck me as odd. It was the ink-stain on the floor in the butler’s room.”
第五章　管家的卧室
第五章　管家的卧室

　　“我们去检查检查埃利斯的卧室怎么样？”萨特思韦特问道，心里还津津有味地想着查尔斯爵士脸红脖子粗的傻相。 
　　演员抓住了改变话题的机会。 
　　“好极了，好极了。我正要提这个建议。” 
　　“警察已经彻彻底底搜查过那间屋子了。” 
　　“警察……”这位阿里斯蒂德．杜瓦尔傲慢地挥挥手要警察赶快走开．查尔斯急于要忘掉刚才的狼狈相，于是又精神焕发地投人他现在的角色。 
　　“警察都是些木头人，”他气势汹汹地说，“他们在埃利斯的房间里搜些什么呢？是找他犯罪的证据。可我们要找的是他无罪的证据一大不相同。” 
　　“你完全相信埃利斯是无罪的吗？” 
　　“如果我们对巴宾顿的判断是正确的，那他必定是无罪的。” 
　　“是的。还有……”萨特思韦特先生没有把话说完。他要说的是，如果埃利斯是一个职业罪犯．被巴塞罗缨察觉了，于是就把他给杀了．其结果，整个事情就会变得不可收拾。正在这时，他想起巴塞罗缨爵士曾经是查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士的好友，对于查尔斯暴露出的麻木感情，他感到震惊。 
　　初看时，埃利斯的卧室似乎没有提供多少有价值的东西．放在抽屉里和挂在柜子里的衣服，干净整洁、井井有条-它们裁剪考究，配有各种制衣店的商标．在各种场合人家送给他的旧衣服也整整齐齐地放着，内衣裤都摆在同一格柜子里，靴子全部擦得锃亮，依次放在鞋箱里。 
　　萨特思韦特先生拿起一只靴子喃喃地说，“有几双是这样．有九双。”但由于现场没有发现脚印，那就使侦破无从进展。 
　　有一个事实很清楚，用具袋不见了．埃利斯似乎是钻到袋子里逃掉的．萨特思韦特先生向查尔斯爵士指出，那是一个相当引人注目的事实。 
　　“任何一个有点头脑的人都会换一套普普通通的衣服。” 
　　“对。所以奇怪的是……看起来很相似．尽管那是很荒唐的，好像他根本没有出走……简直是胡闹。” 
　　他们继续检查屋子。没有信函，没有文书，只有一张有玉米烹调方法的剪报，和一段关于公爵女儿即将举行婚礼报道。 
　　在一张边桌上有一小叠吸墨纸，一瓶廉价的墨水，没有笔．查尔斯将吸墨纸拿到镜子前，看不出什么。有一张反复使用过的吸墨纸，己经皱皱巴巴的，墨迹已很陈旧。 
　　“他来这儿以后，要是没有写过信，就不会用过吸墨纸。”萨特思韦特先生判断说，“这是一种老式吸墨纸．啊，你瞧。”他得意洋洋地指着皱纸中间勉强可辨的“L．贝克”几个字。 
　　“可以说，埃利斯完全没有使用过它们。” 
　　“这真是怪事，不是吗？”查尔斯爵士慢慢地说道。 
　　“你是什么意思？” 
　　“哦，一个经常写信的人……”“他要是罪犯就不会写。” 
　　“也许你说对了，不会写的……一定有什么蹊跷使得他逃跑……我们要证明的是，他并没有谋杀托利。” 
　　他们四处检查地板，掀开地毯，查看床底，什么也没有发现，只看见在壁炉旁边溅了一些墨水．卧室简陋得令人失望。 
　　两人离开时怀着一种焦虑的心情。他们想当侦探的热情，暂时冷却了许多。 
　　也许他们心里在想，案情不像在书中安排的那么好。 
　　他们还与其他仆人谈了几句．出于对莱基太太和比阿特丽斯．丘奇的敬畏，这些年轻的姑娘看起来心惊胆颤．可是从她们口中却没有掏出一点新的东西。 
　　最后，他们只得离开了。 
　　他们要萨特思韦特先生的小车在门房那儿接他们。 
　　“喂，萨特思韦特，”当他们漫步穿过花园时，查尔斯爵士问道，“有什么使你印象深刻的吗？到底有什么？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生想道，他不打算急于回答问题，特别是当他感到有什么使他印象深刻的东西时，他更不会说。承认整个侦查过程是白费功夫，这是一个不受欢迎的主意．仆人们的证词一个接一个地掠过他的脑际—有用信息少得可怜。 
　　查尔斯爵士此刻也正在总结．威尔斯小姐探头探脑．四处打听，萨克利夫小姐一直坐卧不安，戴克斯太太无动于衷，戴克斯船长喝醉了酒．有用线索几乎不存在．只有弗雷迪．戴克斯船长沉溺于酒．显示了他的良知已经消失．弗雷迪．戴克斯经常喝得酩酊大醉，这一点萨特思韦特先生是清楚的。 
　　“怎么样？”查尔斯爵士再—次不耐烦地问题。 
　　“什么也没有。”萨特思韦特先生不情愿地承认道，“但是，我想我们从剪报的事可以有理由假设，埃利斯患有鸡眼。” 
　　查尔斯爵士做了一个鬼脸。 
　　“这看来是一个颇有根据的判断．可这个—对我们有何用？” 
　　“只有一件事……”他说着又停了下来。 
　　“怎么了？说下去吧．兄弟．有何用处？” 
　　“使我印象最深的是，巴塞罗缪爵士与管家打趣的那种的方式一仆人告诉我们的这件事，你是知道的．也许什么意义。” 
　　“毫无意义。”查尔斯爵士强调说，“我很了解托利…… 
　　你更了解他……我可以告诉你他不是一个爱开玩笑的人，他从来不会那样开玩笑．除非—呃，除非那时候由于某种原因，他表现反常。你说得对，萨特思韦特，那是一个疑点．那么，它给我们提供了什么线索呢？” 
　　“好吧。”萨特思韦特先生开口说，然而，他很清楚，查尔爵士的问题只是一种花言巧语，他并不想听萨特思韦特生的意见，而急于炫耀他自己的看法。 
　　“萨特思韦特，你记得在事件发生之前，埃利斯给托利转达一个电话留言吗？就是这个电话留言，使他突然变得兴离采烈，这是平常没有出现过的。对此，我可以很好地进行推断。你可能还记得我问过那女仆电话留言的内容。” 
　　萨特思韦特点头说道“电话说．一个叫德．拉什布里杰的女人被送到疗养院。”他这样说是要显示他同样注意到了这一点，“这事不值得大惊小怪。” 
　　“确实如此．但我们的判断如果正确的话，电话的内容里必定有某种含义。” 
　　“对，对。”萨特思韦特先生将信将疑地说。 
　　“毫无疑问，”查尔斯爵士说，“我们必须发现其中的奥妙。刚才我脑子里闪过一个想法，那个电话可能是某种密码信息一听起来是一件无关紧要的普通事，其意义却完全不同．如果托利当时查问巴宾顿的死，那么这个电话可能跟这样的查询有关系。打个比方吧，他雇了一个私人侦探去调查．他告诉侦探说，-旦对悬案调查有据．就打电话来，但要使用特殊用语，不能给接电话的人透露有关真相的任何信息。这才可以解释他感到兴高采烈的原因，也可以解释他为什么要问埃利斯是否弄准了名字—他自己显然知道根本没有这么-个人。事实上，人们在获得梦寐以求的东西时，在情绪上就会有些失常。” 
　　“你认为根本没有德．拉什布里杰太太这样一个人？” 
　　“哦，我想我们应当去弄清楚。” 
　　“怎么弄清楚？” 
　　“现在我们可以跑到疗养院去问问护士长。” 
　　“她会感到莫名其妙。” 
　　查尔斯爵士大笑起来。 
　　“让我来办这件事。”他说。 
　　他们从小路转向一边，朝疗养院方向走去。 
　　萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“查尔斯，你自己是怎么想的？有什么使你印象深刻的吗？我指的是我们访问的这个地方有什么使你印象深刻的？” 
　　查尔斯爵士慢吞吞地答道“是的．有的东西……鬼才知道，我记不清楚了。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生惊讶地瞅着他，对方紧皱眉头。 
　　“我怎么解释呢？有的东西……当时-下子让载感到不对头．不像是真的……只是我那时没有时间考虑，只好放到一边，保存在脑子里。” 
　　“现在你还记不起那是什么吗？” 
　　“记不起来了一只是有时我对自己说，那件事真奇怪？” 
　　“是不是在我们询问仆人时产生的想法？是哪一个仆人？” 
　　“我告诉你，我记不清楚了．我越想越记不起来……如果让我独自一人，也许它会回到我的记忆中。” 
　　他们走近了疗养院．那是一幢高大的白色楼房．有一个篱将它跟公园隔开。他们穿过一道大门，摁了前门的门铃，要求见护士长。 
　　护士长走来了。她是个高个的中年妇女，有一张聪慧的脸，举止精明能干。她很熟悉查尔斯爵士这个名字．知道他是已故巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇的一个朋友。 
　　查尔斯爵士解释说他刚从国外回来，听到朋友的死讯十分震惊，听说还是个悬案他惶恐不安，于是登门拜访，想尽可能多了解些详细情况。护士长用一种感人肺腑的语气说巴塞罗缨爵士去世造成了巨大损失，称赞他作为医生的高明医术．而查尔斯爵士表明他急于想知道疗养院发生的—切情况．护士长解释说巴塞罗缨爵士有两个同伴，两人都是医生，其中之一就住在疗养院里。 
　　“巴塞罗缪非常清楚这个地方。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“是的，他的手术都非常成功。” 
　　“大多数是神经方面的疾病，对吗？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“这使我想起我在蒙特卡洛遇见的一个人，他跟你们这儿有些联系。我忘了他的名字．好奇怪的名字—拉什布里杰。对，拉什布里杰……大概是这样。” 
　　“你是说德．拉什布里杰太太吗？” 
　　“对了！她现在住这儿吗？” 
　　“哦，是的，但是她恐怕不能见你们．她现在正在进行非常严格的疗养。”护士长笑了，以为是件琐事。“不能通信，不许有让她激动的来客……”“我看她病情很严重，对吗？” 
　　“是相当严重的神经崩溃．记忆丧失．严重的神经衰弱。 
　　哦，我们严格控制她的时间。” 
　　护士长让人宽慰地笑起来。 
　　“让我想想，我是否听见过托利—巴塞罗缨爵士说起过她？她是他的病人，也是朋友，对吗？” 
　　“我想不是的，查尔斯爵士．至少医生从来没有这样说过。她最近刚从西印度群岛来到这儿—我告诉你事情确实很有趣。对仆人来说．那是一个难记的名字，这儿的客厅女仆很笨．她走过来对我说．维希特因吉太太已经到了。 
　　当然我知道拉什布里杰听起来像维希特因吉—很凑巧。 
　　她是从西印度群岛来的。” 
　　“实在……实在可笑．她丈夫也在这儿吗？” 
　　“他还在那边。” 
　　“哦．太可笑了。我一定是把她跟别的什么人弄混淆了。 
　　这是医生非常感兴趣的病例吗？” 
　　“健忘症的病例是相当普遍的，这种病例有各式各样的类型，很少有两个病例相同的。” 
　　“这些事对我来说都是很新奇的．好啦，谢谢你，护士长，很高兴和你谈谈．我知道托利很关心你。他经常提起你。”查尔斯爵士用谎话来结束这次交谈。 
　　“哦，很高兴听你这么说。”护士长红着脸把头昂起来，多么杰出的人-对我们所有的人来说，用目瞪口呆来形更好些．谋杀！我说，有谁宽敢谋杀斯特兰奇爵士。真是不可思议．是那个丑陋的管家。我希望警察抓住他．不是无缘无故谋杀，就是事出有因。” 
　　查尔斯爵士沮丧地摇摇头。他们离开疗养院，在路上转了一圈，来到汽车等待他们的地方。 
　　为报复与护士长交谈中萨特思韦特先生被迫保持沉默的尴尬，他对奥利弗•曼德斯发生的事故表现了浓厚的兴趣，反复盘问那个反应迟钝的中年门房看守。 
　　是的，就是在那个地方出事的，墙己经撞塌了。骑摩托车的是个年轻绅士．不，他没有看见事故发生，但他听见了响声，然后跑出来观看。那年轻绅士站在那儿—就在你们另外那个先生现在站的地方，他好像没有受伤，无可奈何地看着他的车子，以及乱七八糟的现场．后来他问这地方叫什么。当他听说这是巴塞罗缨．斯特兰奇爵士的房子，他说“真是好运。”然后，他径直走上楼房，他看起来是位非常冷静的年轻绅士，只是很疲倦。问到他怎么会出这种事故呢？ 
　　门房看守说不出来，但是他认为往往事与愿违。 
　　“这是一次奇怪的事故。”萨恃思韦特先生若有所思地说。 
　　他看着平坦的大路。没有弯道．没有危险的十字路口，没有什么能造成一辆摩托车突然撞在十英尺高的墙上．是的，一次奇怪的事故。 
　　“你在想些什么．萨特思韦特？”查尔斯爵士好奇地问道。 
　　“没有呀，”萨特思韦特先生说．“没想什么。” 
　　“这确实很奇怪。”查尔斯爵士说道，他也在迷惑不解地注视着出事的现场。 
　　两人钻进小车，开走了。 
　　萨特思韦特先生忙于他的思索，德．拉什布里杰确有其人—查尔斯的分析是错误的，那不是什么密码信息．但是．那个女人本身有什么问题呢？也许她是一个见证人？或者她只是一个使巴塞罗缨．斯特兰奇欣喜若狂的有趣的病例？或许，她是一个有魅力的女人？萨特思韦特先生观察过很多次，五十五岁的年纪坠人爱河，会完全改变一个男人的性格。爱情可能使一向冷漠的他，变成一个爱开玩笑的人。 
　　查尔斯爵士探过身来，打断了他的思路。 
　　“萨特思韦特，”他说，“我们回去好吗？” 
　　不等回答，他拿起话筒就向司机发出命令．小车减速并停了下来．司机开始倒车．找一个方便的停车道．-会儿之后．他们沿着大路朝相反的方向开去。 
　　“那是什么？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“我己经想起来了，”查尔斯爵士说，“使我印象深刻的奇怪事情，就是管家卧室地板上的墨水痕迹。”
CHAPTER 6 Concerning An Ink-Stain
11 
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at his friend in surprise. 
“The ink-stain? What do you mean, Cartwright?” 
“You remember it?” 
“I remember there was an ink-stain, yes.” 
“You remember its position?” 
“Well - not exactly.” 
“It was close to the skirting board near the fireplace.” 
“Yes, so it was. I remember now.” 
“How do you think that stain was caused, Satterthwaite?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite reflected a minute or two. 
“It wasn’t a big stain,” he said at last. “It couldn’t have been an upset ink-bottle. I should say in all probability that the man dropped his fountain pen there - there was no pen in the room, you remember.” (He shall see I notice things just as much as he does, thought Mr. Satterthwaite.) “So it seems clear the man must have had a fountain pen if he ever wrote at all - and there’s no evidence that he ever did.” 
“Yes, there is, Satterthwaite. There’s the ink-stain.” 
“He mayn’t have been writing,” snapped Satterthwaite. “He may have just dropped the pen on the floor.” 
“But there wouldn’t have been a stain unless the top had been off the pen.” 
“I daresay you’re right,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I can’t see what’s odd about it.” 
“Perhaps there isn’t anything odd,” said Sir Charles. “I can’t tell till I get back and see for myself.” 
They were turning in at the lodge gates. A few minutes later they had arrived at the house and Sir Charles was allaying the curiosity caused by his return by inventing a pencil left behind in the butler’s room. 
“And now,” said Sir Charles, shutting the door of Ellis’s room behind them, having with some skill shaken off the helpful Mrs. Leckie, “let’s see if I’m making an infernal fool of myself, or whether there’s anything in my idea.” 
In Mr. Satterthwaite’s opinion the former alternative was by far the more probable, but he was much too polite to say so. He sat down on the bed and watched the other. 
“Here’s our stain,” said Sir Charles, indicating the mark with his foot. “Right up against the skirting board at the opposite side of the room to the writing-table. Under what circumstances would a man drop a pen just there?” 
“You can drop a pen anywhere,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“You can hurl it across the room, of course,” agreed Sir Charles. 
“But one doesn’t usually treat one’s pen like that. I don’t know, though. Fountain pens are damned annoying things. Dry up and refuse to write just when you want them to. Perhaps that’s the solution of the matter. Ellis lost his temper, said, ‘Damn the thing,’ 
and hurled it across the room.” 
“I think there are plenty of explanations,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“He may have simply laid the pen on the mantelpiece and it rolled off.” 
Sir Charles experimented with a pencil. He allowed it to roll off the corner of the mantelpiece. The pencil struck the ground at least a foot from the mark and rolled inwards towards the gas fire. 
“Well,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “What’s your explanation?” 
“I’m trying to find one.” 
From his seat on the bed Mr. Satterthwaite now witnessed a thoroughly amusing performance. 
Sir Charles tried dropping the pencil from his hand as he walked in the direction of the fireplace. He tried sitting on the edge of the bed and writing there and then dropping the pencil. To get the pencil to fall on the right spot it was necessary to stand or sit jammed up against the wall in a most unconvincing attitude. 
“That’s impossible,” said Sir Charles aloud. He stood considering the wall, the stain and the prim little gas fire. 
“If he were burning papers, now,” he said thoughtfully. “But one doesn’t burn papers in a gas fire - ” 
Suddenly he drew in his breath. 
A minute later Mr. Satterthwaite was realising Sir Charles’s profession to the full. 
Charles Cartwright had become Ellis the butler. He sat writing at the writing-table. He looked furtive, every now and then he raised his eyes, shooting them shiftily from side to side. Suddenly he seemed to hear something - Mr. Satterthwaite could even guess what that something was - footsteps along the passage. The man had a guilty conscience. He attached a certain meaning to those footsteps. He sprang up, the paper on which he had been writing in one hand, his pen in the other. He darted across the room to the fireplace, his head half-turned, still alert - listening - afraid. He tried to shove the papers under the gas fire - in order to use both hands he cast down the pen impatiently. Sir Charles’s pencil, the “pen” of the drama, fell accurately on the ink-stain ... 
“Bravo,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, applauding generously. 
So good had the performance been that he was left with the impression that so and only so could Ellis have acted. 
“You see?” said Sir Charles, resuming his own personality and speaking with modest elation. “If the fellow heard the police or what he thought was the police coming and had to hide what he was writing - well, where could he hide it? Not in a drawer or under the mattress - if the police searched the room, that would be found at once. He hadn’t time to take up a floorboard. No, behind the gas fire was the only chance.” 
“The next thing to do,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “is to see whether there is anything hidden behind the gas fire.” 
“Exactly. Of course, it may have been a false alarm, and he may have got the things out again later. But we’ll hope for the best.” 
Removing his coat and turning up his shirtsleeves, Sir Charles lay down on the floor and applied his eye to the crack under the gas fire. 
“There’s something under there,” he reported. “Something white. How can we get it out? We want something like a woman’s hatpins.” 
“Women don’t have hatpins any more,” said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly. “Perhaps a penknife.” 
But a penknife proved unavailing. 
In the end Mr. Satterthwaite went out and borrowed a knitting needle from Beatrice. Though extremely curious to know what he wanted it for, her sense of decorum was too great to permit her to ask. 
The knitting needle did the trick. Sir Charles extracted half a dozen sheets of crumpled writing-paper, hastily crushed together and pushed in. 
With growing excitement he and Mr. Satterthwaite smoothed them out. They were clearly several different drafts of a letter - written in a small, neat clerkly handwriting. 
This is to say (began the first) that the writer of this does not wish to 
cause unpleasantness, and may possibly have been mistaken in 
what he thought he saw tonight, but - 
Here the writer had clearly been dissatisfied, and had broken off to start afresh. 
John Ellis, butler, presents his compliments, and would be glad of a 
short interview touching the tragedy tonight before going to the 
police with certain information in his possession - 
Still dissatisfied, the man had tried again. 
John Ellis, butler, has certain facts concerning the death of the 
doctor in his possession. He has not yet given these facts to the 
police - 
In the next one the use of the third person had been abandoned. 
I am badly in need of money. A thousand pounds would make all the 
difference to me. There are certain things I could tell the police, but 
do not want to make trouble - 
The last one was even more unreserved. 
I know how the doctor died. I haven’t said anything to the police - 
yet. If you will meet me - 
This letter broke off in a different way - after the “me” the pen had tailed off in a scrawl, and the last five words were all blurred and blotchy. Clearly it was when writing this that Ellis had heard something that alarmed him. He had crumpled up the papers and dashed to conceal them. 
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. 
“I congratulate you, Cartwright,” he said. “Your instinct about that ink-stain was right. Good work. Now let’s see exactly where we stand.” 
He paused a minute. 
“Ellis, as we thought, is a scoundrel. He wasn’t the murderer, but he knew who the murderer was, and he was preparing to blackmail him or her - ” 
“Him or her,” interrupted Sir Charles. “Annoying we don’t know which. Why couldn’t the fellow begin one of his effusions Sir or Madam, then we’d know where we are. Ellis seems to have been an artistic sort of fellow. He was taking a lot of trouble over his blackmailing letter. If only he’d given us one clue - one simple little clue - as to whom that letter was addressed.” 
“Never mind,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We are getting on. You remember you said that what we wanted to find in this room was a proof of Ellis’s innocence. Well, we’ve found it. These letters show that he was innocent - of murder, I mean. He was a thorough-paced scoundrel in other ways. But he didn’t murder Sir Bartholomew Strange. Somebody else did it that. Someone who murdered Babbington also. I think even the police will have to come round to our view now.” 
“You’re going to tell them about this?” 
Sir Charles’s voice expressed dissatisfaction. 
“I don’t see that we can do otherwise. Why?” 
“Well -” Sir Charles sat down on the bed. His brow furrowed itself in thought. “How can I put it best? At the moment we know something that nobody else does. The police are looking for Ellis. They think he’s the murderer. Everyone knows that they think he’s the murderer. So the real criminal must be feeling pretty good. He (or she) will be not exactly off his or her guard, but feeling - well, comfortable. Isn’t it a pity to upset that state of things? Isn’t that just our chance? I mean our chance of finding a connection between Babbington and one of these people. They don’t know that anyone has connected this death with Babbington’s death. They’ll be unsuspicious. It’s a chance in a hundred.” 
“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And I agree with you. It is a chance. But, all the same, I don’t think we can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report this discovery of ours to the police at once. We have no right to withhold it from them.” 
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically. 
“You’re the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I’ve no doubt the orthodox thing must be done - but I’m not nearly such a good citizen as you are. I should have no scruples in keeping this find to myself for a day or two - only a day or two - eh? No? Well, I give in. let us be pillars of law and order.” 
“You see,” explained Mr. Satterthwaite, “Johnson is a friend of mine, and he was very decent about it all - let us into all the police were doing - gave us full information, and all that.” 
“Oh, you’re right,” sighed Sir Charles. “Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me thought of looking under that gas stove. The idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded policeman ... But have it your own way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think Ellis is now?” 
“I presume,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that he got what he wanted. He was paid to disappear, and he did disappear - most effectually.” 
“Yes,” said Sir Charles. “I suppose that is the explanation.” 
He gave a slight shiver. 
“I don’t like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.”
第六章　墨水痕迹
第六章　墨水痕迹

　　萨特思韦特先生惊讶地看着他的朋友。 
　　“墨水痕迹？你是什么意思，查尔斯？” 
　　“你还记得吗？” 
　　“我记得他屋里有墨水的痕迹。” 
　　“你记得它的位置吗？” 
　　“哦，不是很确切。” 
　　“是在壁炉旁边的护板上。” 
　　“对，是这样。我现在想起来了。” 
　　“你认为那痕迹是怎么引起的，萨特思韦特？” 
　　“那是一块比较大的痕迹。”他终于说道，“它不像是打翻墨水瓶弄的．我要说。极有可能是管家把他的自来水笔掉在那儿了．你记得吧，屋里没有笔。”萨特思韦特先生心想，他应当清楚，我像他一样注意观察．“所以很明显．要是管家写过点什么．那他肯定有枝笔．可是没有证据表明他写过什么。” 
　　“有证据，萨特思韦特．不是有墨水痕迹吗？” 
　　“估计他没写过什么。”萨特思韦特脱口而出．“他可能只是把钢笔掉在地板上。” 
　　“除非钢笔尖掉了下来．否则地板上就不会有那种底迹。” 
　　“你肯定是对的。”萨特思韦特先生说：“但是．我看不出有什么奇怪的。” 
　　“也许这没有什么值得奇怪的。”查尔斯爵士说．“让我回去再亲自看一看．我才能告诉你。” 
　　他们转身定进门房的大门．几分钟之后．他们又回到了楼房．为了减少他们的重访引起别人的好奇心．他撒谎说他把铅笔掉在管家的卧室里了。 
　　“现在。”查尔斯爵士想个办法摆脱了热心的莱基太太，溜进埃利斯的卧室后随手将门关上。“让我们来看看．我是不是个傻瓜．我头脑里是否还有些有用的东西。” 
　　在萨特思韦特先生看来，前者更有可能，但他出于礼貌没有说出口．他坐在床边，看着查尔斯爵士，“这就是我们要找的痕迹。”查尔斯爵士用脚指着那地方说，“写字台对面，正好是在屋子另一边的壁炉护板上。要在什么样的情况下，一个人才会把笔悼在那儿？” 
　　“任何地方都可以掉一枝笔。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“当然，你可以将笔从屋子这一头扔到那一头。”查尔斯爵士赞同地说．“但一个人通常是不会那样乱扔笔的．尽管这么说，我还是弄不清楚．自来水笔是令人伤脑筋的东西。 
　　你想用笔时，它干了，写不出墨水来．也许这就是事情的症结。埃利斯会大发雷霆说：‘滚它的破笔！’于是把它扔到屋子的另一头。” 
　　“我相信会有各种解释。”萨特思韦特先生说．“也许他只是把笔放在壁炉台上．它一下子滑落到地上。” 
　　查尔斯爵士用一枝铅笔作了试验。他让铅笔滚向壁炉台的边上．铅笔掉落在地上．但是离那个痕迹至少还有一英尺远，随后又朝壁炉方向滚去。 
　　“好啦，”萨特思韦特先生说．“你怎么解释？” 
　　“我正在寻找一种解释。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生坐在床边，目睹了查尔斯爵士十分可笑的表演。 
　　查尔斯爵士一边朝壁炉方向走着，一边试图让手中的铅笔往下掉．他又试着坐在床边写点什么，然后将笔滑落。 
　　为了让铅笔正好掉在那个地方，必须用一种难以想象的姿势，靠墙站着，或缩成一团蹲着。 
　　“那是不可能的。”查尔斯爵士大声地说．他站在那儿。 
　　看着墙壁、痕迹和古板的小壁炉发愣。 
　　“要是他当时正在烧文件呢？”他若有所思地说，“但是人们通常是在壁炉里烧文件的。” 
　　突然，他屏住了呼吸。 
　　此刻，萨特思韦特先生终于见识了查尔斯爵士的演员才能。 
　　查尔斯•卡特赖特已经变成了管家埃利斯．他坐在书桌前写字．鬼鬼祟祟，不时抬起眼睛东张西望。突然间他好像听见了什么声响．萨特思韦特先生猜得出那是什么声苔-过道上传来的脚步声．这个人有负罪感．一只手拿着刚才在写的那些纸，另一只手拿着笔．他飞快地奔到屋子另一边的火炉前，头侧向旁边，仍然惊惶失措地听着．他试图将纸仲到炉火中烧毁，为了使用两只手，他不留心丢掉了笔。 
　　查尔斯爵士手中的铅笔，就是这场表演中的“自来水笔”，正巧落在那个墨水痕迹上…… 
　　“妙啊！”萨特思韦特先生叫道，并慷慨地鼓起掌来。 
　　表演实在精彩，给他留下的印象是．埃利斯当时就是这样做的．也只能这样做。 
　　“你看见了吧？”查尔斯爵士说。他又恢复了自己的尊容．说话时有几分得意洋洋．“如果这家伙听见了警察的声音．或者以为警察来了，他必须藏起他刚才写的东西。那么。 
　　他不会藏在床垫之下．否则．警察一搜查这屋子，就会立即发现它．他没有时间撬开地板，只有炉火背后是惟一的选择。” 
　　“下一件事，”萨特思韦特先生说，“就是看看炉火后面是不是藏着东西。” 
　　“正是这样。当然啦，也许是虚惊一场，事后他可能又把那东西取了出来．但是．我希望事从人愿。” 
　　查尔斯爵士脱掉外衣，卷起袖管．趴在地板上．聚精会神地寻找壁炉下面的裂缝。 
　　“下面有件东西。”他报告说，“白色的。怎么把它弄出来呢？我想找一根女人发夹之类的东西。” 
　　“妇女们不再用发夹了。”萨特思韦特沮丧地说．“也许可以用铅笔刀。” 
　　但到处都找不到铅笔刀。 
　　最后．萨特思韦特先生定出去向比阿特丽斯借一根毛线针．虽然她非常想知道他要那东西干什么，但是她希望自己礼貌端庄的意识太强，因而没有提出任何问题。 
　　毛线针起了作用．查尔斯爵士挑出了好几张皱巴巴的信纸，那是在匆匆忙忙之中被揉在一起塞进去的。 
　　他和萨特思韦特先生将每张纸都抹平，心情越来越激动。它们是一封信的几种不同的手稿．书法整洁、字体很小，像文书的手笔。一开始就说这就是说．笔者不愿引起不愉快的事情发生。也许有人不理解他今晚所看见的一切，然而写到这儿，写信人显然不太满意．于是突然停下来，另起一段： 
　　管家约翰．埃利斯在此向您问候，并希望把手中情报送住警方之前．同您有一次关于今晚悲剧的简短谈话…… 
　　他又不满意，只好重新开始管家约输．埃利斯手中掌握医生死亡案件的线索，但尚未将其报告警方…… 
　　下面一段，他不再使用第三人称我急需一笔钱．一千英镑将会完全改变我的境况。我可以报告警方某些线索．但是本人不愿意制造麻烦…… 
　　最后一段更是开门见山： 
　　我知道医生是怎么死去的，但我还未报告警方，加呆你能见我一面…… 
　　这封信以不同的方式写了几遍，都中断了。写到“见我一面”之后，笔迹十分潦草，凌乱不堪，最后几个字模糊不清，还有墨渍．显然，这是埃利斯听见了使他惊恐的声音时写的．当时他马上把信纸揉成一团，冲过去藏它们。 
　　萨特思韦特先生深深地吸了一口气。 
　　“恭喜你，查尔斯。”他说，“你对墨水痕迹的直觉是淮确的．干得好！现在，让我们想想下一步究竟往哪儿走。” 
　　他停了一会儿又说“正如我们分析的那样，埃利斯是个无赖．他不是凶手。 
　　但是他知道凶手是谁．他企图敲诈他，或者她……”“他，或者她，”查尔斯爵士打断他的话说，“麻烦的是，我们仍不清楚是谁。为什么这家伙没有暴露一个．先生，或者‘女士’的称呼呢？否则我们就会知道该从何着手了．埃利斯看来是个有素养的人。他写那封敲诈信会冒很大风险。 
　　要是他给了我们一个线索—如这封信是给谁的，那该多好。” 
　　“没关系。”萨特思韦特先生说，“我们继续向前。记得你说过，我们在这间卧室里是要发现埃利斯无罪的证据．好啦，我们已经发现了。这些信件表明，他不是杀人凶手．只是从另一个角度讲，他是一个彻头彻尾的无赖。但是他确实没有杀害巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇爵士，是别人杀的．此人还杀了巴宾顿。我想，连警察都会跟着我们的观点转了。” 
　　“你打算告诉他们这件事吗？” 
　　查尔斯爵士的声音流露出不满的情绪。 
　　“我不明白，我们为什么不告诉他们呢？” 
　　“噢……”查尔斯爵士坐在床上．他皱起眉头陷人了沉思．“我们怎样才能打开局面呢？目前我们知道的情况，别人还不清楚。警察正在寻找埃利斯．他们认为他是凶手．大家都知道，他们认为他才是凶手．所以，真正的罪犯一定会幸灾乐祸．他(或者她)不会完全放松警戒，但会感觉良好。 
　　心情舒畅。改变这种感觉不是很可惜吗？这难道不正是我们的机会吗？我是说，我们要找机会发现巴宾顿和那些人中某一位之间的关系。他们并不知道，有一个人把这次死亡事故与巴宾顿的死联系在一起．他们还没有怀疑。这是百里挑一的机会。” 
　　“我明白你的意思，”萨特思韦特先生说．“而且我同意你的意见．这是个机会．可是．我还是认为我们不能采取行动．作为一个公民，我们有责任将我们发现的线索立即报告警方。我们无权对他们隐瞒。” 
　　查尔斯爵士困惑地看着他。 
　　“你是公民的楷模，萨特思韦特。毫无疑间．我们应当按章办事．但是，我不是像你那样优秀的公民．我要保留这事儿一两天，就是一两天，我不至于会感到内疚吧，呢？不行吗？那好吧，我放弃．让我们成为法律和社会秩序的支柱吧。” 
　　“你知道，”萨特思韦特先生解释说，“约翰逊是我的朋友，他对一切事情都是很公正的。让我们去警察局看看他们在干些什么，他们会告诉我们各种情况的。” 
　　“啊，你是对的。”查尔斯爵士叹了口气说．“非常正确。 
　　只是除了我以外，没有谁想到要查看壁炉底下．那些肥头大耳的警察，没有--个会想到这一层．……不过，你可以有自己的办法。我说．萨特思韦特．你认为埃利斯现在在哪儿？” 
　　“据我推测，”萨特思韦特先生说，“他得到了他耍的东西。有人拿钱给了他，要他销声匿迹，于是他就失踪了。非常奏效。” 
　　“对，”查尔斯爵士说．“我想，只能这样来解释。” 
　　他的身体颤抖了一下。 
　　“我不喜欢这间屋子，萨特思韦特，我们出去吧。”
CHAPTER 7 Plan Of Campaign
12 
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back in London the following evening. 
The interview with Colonel Johnson had had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent Crossfield had not been too pleased that mere “gentlemen” should have found what he and his assistants had missed. He was at some pains to save his face. 
“Very creditable, indeed, sir. I confess I never thought of looking under the gas fire. As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you looking there.” 
The two men had not gone into a detailed account of how theorising from an ink-blot had led to the discovery. “Just nosing around,” was how Sir Charles had put it. 
“Still, look you did,” continued the Superintendent, “and were justified. Not that what you’ve found is much surprise to me. You see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn’t the murderer, he must have disappeared for some reason or other, and it’s been in the back of my mind all along that blackmail might have been his line of business.” 
One thing did arise from their discovery. Colonel Johnson was going to communicate with the Loomouth police. The death of Stephen Babbington ought certainly to be investigated. 
“And if they find he died from nicotine poisoning, even Crossfield will admit the two deaths are connected,” said Sir Charles when they were speeding towards London. 
He was still a little disgruntled at having had to hand over his discovery to the police. 
Mr. Satterthwaite had soothed him by pointing out that the information was not to be made public or given to the press. 
“The guilty person will have no misgivings. The search for Ellis will still be continued.” 
Sir Charles admitted that that was true. 
On arrival in London, he explained to Mr. Satterthwaite, he proposed to get in touch with Egg Lytton Gore. Her letter had been written from an address in Belgrave Square. He hoped that she might still be there. 
Mr. Satterthwaite gravely approved this course. He himself was anxious to see Egg. It was arranged that Sir Charles should ring her up as soon as they reached London. 
Egg proved to be still in town. She and her mother were staying with relatives and were not returning to Loomouth for about a week. Egg was easily prevailed upon to come out and dine with the two men. 
“She can’t come here very well, I suppose,” said Sir Charles, looking round his luxurious flat. “Her mother mightn’t like it, eh? Of course we could have Miss Milray, too but I’d rather not. To tell the truth, Miss Milray cramps my style a bit. She’s so efficient that she gives me an inferiority complex.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite suggested his house. In the end it was arranged to dine at the Berkeley. Afterwards, if Egg liked, they could adjourn elsewhere. 
Mr. Satterthwaite noticed at once that the girl was looking thinner. Her eyes seemed larger and more feverish, her chin more decided. She was pale and had circles under her eyes. But her charm was as great as ever, her childish eagerness just as intense. 
She said to Sir Charles, “I knew you’d come ... ” 
Her tone implied: “Now that you’ve come everything will be all right 
... ” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “But she wasn’t sure he’d come she wasn’t sure at all. She’s been on tenterhooks. She’s been fretting herself to death.” And he thought: “Doesn’t the man realise? Actors are usually vain enough ... Doesn’t he know that girl’s head over ears in love with him?” 
It was, he thought, an odd situation. That Sir Charles was overwhelmingly in love with the girl, he had no doubt whatever. She was equally in love with him. And the link between them the link to which each of them clung frenziedly was a crime a double crime of a revolting nature. 
During dinner little was said. Sir Charles talked about his experiences abroad. Egg talked about Loomouth. Mr. Satterthwaite encouraged them both whenever the conversation seemed likely to flag. When dinner was over they went to Mr. Satterthwaite’s house. Mr. Satterthwaite’s house was on Chelsea Embankment. It was a large house, and contained many beautiful works of art. There were pictures, sculpture, Chinese porcelain, prehistoric pottery, ivories, miniatures and much genuine Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture. It had an atmosphere about it of mellowness and understanding. 
Egg Lytton Gore saw nothing, noticed nothing. She flung off her evening coat on to a chair and said: 
“At last. Now tell me all about it.” 
She listened with vivid interest white Sir Charles narrated their adventures in Yorkshire, drawing in her breath sharply when he described the discovery of the blackmailing letters. 
“What happened after that we can only conjecture,” finished Sir Charles. “Presumably Ellis was paid to hold his tongue and his escape was facilitated.” 
But Egg shook her head. 
“Oh, no,” she said. “Don’t you see? Ellis is dead.” 
Both men were startled, but Egg reiterated her assertion. 
“Of course he’s dead. That’s why he’s disappeared so successfully that no one can find a trace of him. He knew too much, and so he was killed. Ellis is the third murder.” 
Although neither of the two men had considered the possibility before, they were forced to admit that it did not entirely ring false. 
“But look here, my dear girl,” argued Sir Charles, “it’s all very well to say Ellis is dead. Where’s the body? There’s twelve stone or so of solid butler to be accounted for.” 
“I don’t know where the body is,” said Egg. “There must be lots of places.” 
“Hardly,” murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. “Hardly ... ” 
“Lots,” reiterated Egg. “Let me see …” She paused for a moment. 
“Attics, there are masses of attics that no one ever goes into. He’s probably in a trunk in the attic.” 
“Rather unlikely,” said Sir Charles. “But possible, of course. It might evade discovery - for - er - a time.” 
It was not Egg’s way to avoid unpleasantness. She dealt immediately with the point in Sir Charles’s mind. 
“Smell goes up, not down. You’d notice a decaying body in the cellar much sooner than in the attic. And, anyway, for a long time people would think it was a dead rat.” 
“If your theory were correct, it would point definitely to a man as the murderer. A woman couldn’t drag a body round the house. In fact, it would be a pretty good feat for a man.” 
“Well, there are other possibilities. There’s a secret passage there, you know. Miss Sutcliffe told me so, and Sir. Bartholomew told me he would show it to me. The murderer might have given Ellis the money and shown him the way to get out of the house gone down the passage with him and killed him there. A woman could do that. She could stab him, or something, from behind. Then she’d just leave the body there and go back, and no one would ever know.” 
Sir Charles shook his head doubtfully, but he no longer disputed Egg’s theory. 
Mr. Satterthwaite felt sure that the same suspicion had come to him for a moment in Ellis’s room when they had found the letters. He remembered Sir Charles’s little shiver. The idea that Ellis might be dead had come to him then ... 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “If Ellis is dead, then we’re dealing with a very dangerous person ... Yes, a very dangerous person ... ” And suddenly he felt a cold chill of fear down his spine ... 
A person who had killed three times wouldn’t hesitate to kill again 
... 
They were in danger, all three of them Sir Charles, and Egg, and he 
... 
If they found out too much ... 
He was recalled by the sound of Sir Charles’s voice. 
“There’s one thing I didn’t understand in your letter, Egg. You spoke of Oliver Manders being in danger of the police suspecting him. I can’t see that they attach the least suspicion to him.” 
It seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite that Egg was very slightly discomposed. He even fancied that she blushed. 
“Aha,” said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. “Let’s see how you get out of this, young lady.” 
“It was silly of me,” said Egg. “I got confused. I thought that Oliver arriving as he did, with what might have been a trumped-up excuse well, I thought the police were sure to suspect him.” 
Sir Charles accepted the explanation easily enough. 
“Yes,” he said. “I see.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke. 
“Was it a trumped-up excuse?” he said. 
Egg turned to him. 
“What do you mean?” 
“It was an odd sort of accident,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “I thought if it was a trumped-up excuse you might know.” 
Egg shook her head. 
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. But why should Oliver pretend to have an accident if he didn’t?” 
“He might have had reasons,” said Sir Charles. “Quite natural ones.” 
He was smiling at her. Egg blushed crimson. 
“Oh, no,” she said. “No.” 
Sir Charles sighed. It occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that his friend had interpreted that blush quite wrongly, Sir Charles seemed a sadder and older man when he spoke again. 
“Well,” he said, “if our young friend is in no danger, where do I come in?” 
Egg came forward quickly and caught him by the coat sleeve. 
“You’re not going away again. You’re not going to give up? You’re going to find out the truth - the truth. I don’t believe anybody but you could find out the truth. You can. You will.” 
She was tremendously in earnest. The waves of her vitality seemed to surge and eddy in the old-world air of the room. 
“You believe in me?” said Sir Charles. He was moved. 
“Yes, yes, yes. We’re going to get at the truth. You and I together.” 
“And Satterthwaite.” 
“Of course, and Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Egg without interest. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled covertly. Whether Egg wanted to include him or not, he had no intention of being left out. He was fond of mysteries, and he liked observing human nature, and he had a soft spot for lovers. All three tastes seemed likely to be gratified in this affair. 
Sir Charles sat down. His voice changed. He was in command, directing a production. 
“First of all we’ve got to clarify the situation. Do we, or do we not, believe that the same person killed Babbington and Bartholomew Strange?” 
“Yes,” said Egg. 
“Yes,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Do we believe that the second murder sprang directly from the first? I mean, do we believe that Bartholomew Strange was killed in order to prevent his revealing the facts of the first murder, or his suspicion about it?” 
“Yes,” said Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite again, but in unison this time. 
“Then it is the first murder we must investigate, not the second.” 
Egg nodded. 
“In my mind, until we discover the motive for the first murder, we can hardly hope to discover the murderer. The motive presents extraordinary difficulty. Babbington was a harmless, pleasant, gentle old man without, one would say, an enemy in the world. Yet he was killed and there must have been some reason for killing. We’ve got to find that reason.” 
He paused and then said in his ordinary everyday voice: 
“Let’s get down to it. What reasons are there for killing people? 
First, I suppose, gain.” 
“Revenge,” said Egg. 
“Homicidal mania,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “The crime passionel 
would hardly apply in this case. But there’s fear.” 
Charles Cartwright nodded. He was scribbling on a piece of paper. 
“That about covers the ground,” he said. “First, Gain. Does anyone gain by Babbington’s death? Has he any money or expectation of money?” 
“I should think it very unlikely,” said Egg. 
“So should I, but we’d better approach Mrs. Babbington on the point.” 
“Then there’s revenge. Did Babbington do an injury to anyone perhaps in his young days? Did he marry the girl that some other man wanted? We’ll have to look into that, too.” 
“Then homicidal mania. Were both Babbington and Tollie killed by a lunatic? I don’t think that theory will hold water. Even a lunatic has some kind of reasonableness in his crimes. I mean a lunatic might think himself divinely appointed to kill doctors, or to kill clergyman, but not to kill both. I think we can wash out the theory of homicidal mania. There remains fear.” 
“Now, frankly, that seems to me far the most likely solution. Babbington knew something about somebody or he recognised somebody. He was killed to prevent him telling what that something was.” 
“I can’t see what someone like Mr. Babbington could know that was damaging about anybody who was there that night.” 
“Perhaps,” said Sir Charles, “it was something that he didn’t know that he knew.” 
He went on, trying to make his meaning clear. 
“It’s difficult to say just what I mean. Suppose, for instance (this is only an instance) that Babbington saw a certain person in a certain place at a certain time. As far as he knows, there’s no reason why that person had concocted a very clever alibi for some reason showing that at that particular time he was somewhere else a hundred miles away. Well, at any minute old Babbington, in the most innocent way in the world, might give the show away.” 
“I see,” said Egg. “Say there’s a murder committed in London, and Babbington sees the man who did it at Paddington Station, but the man has proved that he didn’t do it by having an alibi showing that he was at Leeds at the time. Then Babbington might give the whole show away.” 
“That’s what I mean exactly. Of course that’s only an instance. It might be anything. Someone he saw that evening whom he’d known under a different name - ” 
“It might be something to do with a marriage,” said Egg. 
“Clergyman do lots of marriages. Somebody who’d committed bigamy.” 
“Or it might have to do with a birth or a death,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“It’s a very wide field,” said Egg, frowning. “We’ll have to get at it the other way. Work back from the people who were there. Let’s make a list. Who was at your house, and who was at Sir Bartholomew’s.” 
She took the paper and pencil from Sir Charles. 
“The Dacres, they were at both. That woman like a wilted cabbage, what’s her name Wills. Miss Sutcliffe. “ 
“You can leave Angela out of it,” said Sir Charles. “I’ve known her for years.” 
Egg frowned mutinously. 
“We can’t do that sort of thing,” she said. “Leave people out because we know them. We’ve got to be business-like. Besides, I 
don’t know anything about Angela Sutcliffe. She’s just as likely to have done it as anyone else, so far as I can see more likely. All actress have pasts. I think, on the whole, she’s the most likely person.” 
She gazed defiantly at Sir Charles. There was an answering spark in his eyes. 
“In that case we mustn’t leave out Oliver Manders.” 
“How could it be Oliver? He’d met Mr. Babbington ever so many times before.” 
“He was at both places, and his arrival is a little open to suspicion.” 
“Very well,” said Egg. She paused, and then added: “In that case I’d better put down Mother and myself as well ... That makes six suspects.” 
“I don’t think ” 
“We’ll do it properly, or not at all.” her eyes flashed. 
Mr. Satterthwaite made peace by offering refreshment. He rang for drinks. 
Sir Charles strolled off into a far corner to admire a head of Negro sculpture. Egg came over to Mr. Satterthwaite and slipped a hand through his arm. 
“Stupid of me to have lost my temper,” she murmured. “I am stupid but why should the woman be expected? Why is he so keen she should be? Oh, dear, why the devil am I so disgustingly jealous?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled and patted her hand. 
“Jealousy never pays, my dear,” he said. “If you feel jealous, don’t show it. By the way, did you really think young Manders might be suspected?” 
Egg grinned - a friendly childish grin. 
“Of course not. I put that in so as not to alarm the man.” She turned her head. Sir Charles was still moodily studying Negro sculpture. 
“You know I didn’t want him to feel he was being chased. But I don’t want him to think I really have a pash for Oliver because I haven’t. How difficult everything is! He’s gone back now to his ‘Bless you, my children,’ attitude. I don’t want that at all.” 
“Have patience,” counselled Mr. Satterthwaite. “Everything comes right in the end, you know.” 
“I’m not patient,” said Egg. “I want to have things at once, or even quicker.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite laughed, and Sir Charles turned and came towards them. 
As they sipped their drinks, they arranged a plan of campaign. Sir Charles should return to Crow's Nest, for which he had not yet found a purchaser. Egg and her mother would return to Rose Cottage rather sooner than they had meant to do. Mrs. Babbington was still living in Loomouth. They would get what information they could from her and then proceed to act upon it. 
“We’ll succeed,” said Egg. “I know we’ll succeed.” 
She leaned forward to Sir Charles, her eyes glowing. She held out her glass to touch his. 
“Drink to ours success,” she commanded. 
Slowly, very slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, he raised his glass to his lips. 
“To success,” he said, “and to the Future ... ”
第七章　战役计划
第七章　战役计划

　　第二天晚上，查尔斯爵士和萨特思韦特先生回到了伦敦。 
　　在这之前，他们与约翰逊上校的谈话，是在斗智斗勇。 
　　这位跨区警督不太满意的是，仅仅是这两位“绅士”，居然发现了他和他的助手f「]疏忽了的东西．他在费尽心机想挽回一点面子。 
　　“确实很难相信，先生。我承认我从末想过要查看壁炉的底部．事实上．是什么使得你们会去看那儿，真叫我摸不着头脑。” 
　　两人没有详细地叙述如何通过墨水痕迹进行推断，最后如何发现了重要情况．查尔斯爵士的回答是广只是到处查看。” 
　　“看看，你们只是看看。”警督接着说，“就有了证据？不是你们的发现使我们吃惊．你瞧，如果埃利斯不是凶手．那他失踪总是有原因，这才合情理．而且，我一直有这个念头。 
　　敲诈可能是他的拿手好戏。” 
　　他们的发现引出了一件事。约翰逊上校将要与鲁茅斯警察局交涉，要他们务必调查斯蒂芬．巴宾顿的死。 
　　“要是他们发现他死于尼古丁中毒．甚至连跨区警督都会承认．两人的死亡是有联系的。”在他们快速驶向伦敦时，查尔斯爵士说道。 
　　他一想到要把他发现的东西交给警方，心里仍然耿耿于怀。 
　　为了安慰他，萨特思韦特指出．不是要把情报公诸于众，也不是拿去发表。 
　　“罪犯是不会怀疑的．搜查埃利斯的行动还要继续。” 
　　查尔斯爵士承认说．那倒是真的。 
　　快到伦敦，他就向萨特思韦特先生建议跟蛋蛋．利顿．戈尔取得联系．她的信是从贝尔格雷夫广场的一个地址寄来的。他认为她还住那儿。 
　　萨特思韦特先生一本正经地赞同他的提议．他自己也急于见到蛋蛋姑娘。他们计划一到伦敦就由查尔斯爵士打电话给她。 
　　蛋蛋果然还在伦敦．她和母亲同亲戚住在一起，准备呆上一周，才会回到鲁茅斯。很容易就说服了蛋蛋姑娘，让她出来与两个男人吃饭。 
　　“我看她不会乐意来这儿。”查尔斯爵士一边说着，-边四处环顾着他的豪华房间．“她母亲可能不愿意她这样，呢？ 
　　蜀然，我们可以把米尔雷小姐也请来。不过，最好别请她。说句老实话，米尔雷小姐有点儿束缚我的风格．她太能干了，会使我产生一种自卑感。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生建议去他的家。最后，他们安排在伯克利饭店用餐．饭后，要是蛋蛋姑娘乐意，他们就会去别的地方。 
　　萨特思韦特先生马上注意到，姑娘显得瘦了一些．她的眼睛好像更大了，有些红肿，下巴轮廓更加分明，脸色苍白，眼下出现了眼囊。然而，她的魅力依然不减．她的孩子般的渴望真挚热切。 
　　她对查尔斯爵士说．“我早就知道你会来……”她的语气里暗示着．“你来了，一切就好了……”萨特思韦特先生对自己说广但是她不敢确定他会来。 
　　她根本没有把握，心里忐忑不安，整天烦得要命。”他还想道，“难道那位没有意识到吗？演员都是些太爱虚荣的人……难道他不知道，蛋蛋姑娘爱他爱得发狂？” 
　　他想道，这是一件不寻常的事情。他无论如何也不怀疑，查尔斯爵士完全爱上了蛋蛋姑娘．她同样也爱上了他。 
　　而把他们两个人紧紧地联在一起的纽带，是一桩罪行—一个残忍凶暴的家伙犯下的双重罪行。 
　　吃饭时很少说话。查尔斯爵士说起他在国外的经历。蛋蛋谈到鲁茅斯的情况．每当他们的谈话好像耍停止时，萨特思韦特先生都要在一旁鼓动他们两人。饭后，他们来到萨特思韦特先生的家。 
　　萨特思韦特先生的住房坐落在伦敦泰晤士河北面的切尔西河堤路上。这是一幢大楼房，装点着许多优美的艺术品．有绘画、雕塑、中国瓷器、史前陶佣、象牙、小肖像以及奇彭代尔式的和赫普尔怀特式的家具．整个建筑使人感到有一种成熟丰满、温馨宜人的气氛。 
　　蛋蛋．利顿•戈尔什么也看不见，什么也没有注意到。 
　　她把晚装扔在椅子上说：“好啦。现在把一切都告诉我吧。” 
　　当查尔斯爵士叙述他们在约克郡的经历时，她兴致勃勃地听着。说到发现敲诈信时．她紧张地屏住呼吸。 
　　“这以后发生了什么，我们只能靠推测了。” 
　　可是，蛋蛋姑娘摇摇头。 
　　“哦，不对。”她说，“难道你不明白？埃利斯已经死了。” 
　　两个男人都吃了一惊。蛋蛋姑娘重申了她的断言。 
　　“他当然已经死了。否则，他怎么能消失得无影无踪，谁也没有发现他的去向．他知道得太多．因此被人杀了．埃利斯的死是第三次凶杀。” 
　　虽然两个男人以前都没有考虑过这种可能，但他们不得不承认，她说的不太像是编造的故事。 
　　“听我说，我亲爱的姑娘。”查尔斯爵士申辩道，“说埃利斯死了，这太容易不过了．可尸体在哪儿？管家是块石头也要有个去处吧。” 
　　“我不知道尸体在哪儿。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“必定有很多地方可以查找嘛。” 
　　“太难了，”萨特思韦特先生说，“太难了……”“有很多地方。”蛋蛋姑娘强调说，“让我想一想……”她停了一会儿又说：“顶楼，有好几个楼的顶间，还没人进去过．他也许就在顶楼的一个通道里。” 
　　“不太像。”查尔斯爵士说，“当然也有可能。唉，也许会隐藏一段时间。” 
　　避免不愉快不是蛋蛋姑娘的方式．她立刻针对查尔斯爵士所想的问题说“臭味往上，不会往下。一具正在腐烂的尸体，在地窖里比在顶楼上更容易发现。总之，时间长了，人们以为那是一只死耗子。” 
　　“如果你的观点是正确的，这说明某一个男人是杀人犯．一个女人是不可能把一具尸体在屋里拖来拖去的。事实上，这对一个男人来说，也是一种了不起的功夫。” 
　　“不。还有其他可能性．你知道，屋里有个秘密通道．是萨克利夫小姐告诉我的。巴塞罗缪爵士告诉我他要带我去看看．凶手可能已经给了埃利斯一笔钱，还带他看了从房子逃出去的路．他们一起走下通道，他就在那儿被杀了．一个女人也可以那样做．她可能从后面捅了他一刀，或者用别的办法．然后她把尸体留在那儿，自己退了出来，谁也不会知道。” 
　　查尔斯爵士半信半疑地摇摇头，但他不再与蛋蛋姑娘争辩。 
　　萨特思韦特先生深信，当他们在埃利斯的卧室里发现那些信的时候，他脑子里一下子出现了同样的怀疑。他记得查尔斯爵士轻轻颤抖了一下．那时，他突然想到的是，埃利斯可能已经死亡…… 
　　萨特思韦特先生想：如果埃利斯死了，我们就要对付一个非常危险的人物……是的，一个非常危险的人物。”他突然由于恐惧而感到全身毛骨惊然。 
　　一个凶杀了三次的人，要杀另外一个人是决不会手软的…… 
　　他们三个人—查尔斯爵士、蛋蛋和他自己都处于危险之中……因为他们了解的事情太多了。 
　　查尔斯爵士的声音打断了他的思路。 
　　“你的信中有件事我不明白，蛋蛋．你说奥利弗•曼德斯有危险，有警察怀疑他的危险．我倒看不出他们竞会怀疑他。” 
　　在萨特思韦特先生看来，蛋蛋有点尴尬．她甚至己经脸红了。 
　　“哈哈，”萨特思韦特先生自言自语地说，“小姐，我看你怎么摆脱困境。” 
　　“我真傻，”蛋蛋姑娘说，“我弄糊涂了，以为奥利弗来到宴会是利用了一个精心设计的借口。这样，我就以为警察肯定耍怀疑他。” 
　　查尔斯爵士轻而易举地接受了这个解释。 
　　“是的。”他说，“我明白了。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“那真是一个精心设计的借口吗？” 
　　“你这是什么意思？” 
　　“那事故真是奇怪。”萨特思韦特先生说，“如果这真是一个精心设计的借口，我以为你会知道哩。” 
　　蛋蛋摇摇头。 
　　“我不知道。我从来没有思考过．但是，如果奥利弗不是在找借口的话，那么他何必制造一个假的事故呢？” 
　　“他可能事出有因，”查尔斯爵士说，“很自然的原因。” 
　　他朝她笑笑。蛋蛋满面通红。 
　　“哦，不，”她说，“不是。” 
　　查尔斯爵士叹了一口气。在萨特思韦特先生看来，他的朋友完全误解了她脸红的原因。当查尔斯爵士又说话的时候，他显得更沮丧，而且衰老。 
　　“好啦，”他说，“既然我们的年轻朋友没有危险，那么我下一步该往哪儿走？” 
　　蛋蛋很快走上前来，抓住他的上衣袖子。 
　　“你不要再置身事外了．你不要中途而废好吗？你要发现真相—真相啊！除了你，我不相信别人会发现真相。你能发现的，一定会发现的。” 
　　她极其坦诚。她的青春活力使屋里沉闷呆滞的氛围变得活跃起来。 
　　“你相信我吗？”查尔斯爵士深受感动。 
　　“是的，是的，是的．我们眼看就要发现真相了．你和我一起。” 
　　“还有萨特思韦特。” 
　　“当然，还有萨特思韦特。”蛋蛋姑娘平淡地说。 
　　萨特思韦特无可奈何地笑起来．不管蛋蛋姑娘是否把他包括在内，他都不会想到要离开他们，他喜欢神秘的事情，喜欢观察人的本性，而且对待恋人们总是礼让和宽容。 
　　三个人的兴趣，在这个案子中都得到了满足。 
　　查尔斯爵士坐了下来。他改变了腔调，坐阵指挥，导演一场戏剧。 
　　“首先，我们必须要澄清事实．我们相信还是不相信．杀害巴宾顿和巴塞罗缪．斯特兰奇的是同一个人？” 
　　“是的。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　“是的。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“我们相信第二个凶杀案是直接从第一个凶杀案引出的吗？我是说，我们相信巴塞罗缨被杀，是要防止他暴露第一个凶杀案的事实，或者防止他涉嫌第一个凶杀案吗？” 
　　“是的。”蛋蛋姑娘和萨特思韦特先生这一次是异口同声地说。 
　　“因此，我们必须调查的是第一次凶杀，而不是第二次。” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘点点头。 
　　“在我看来，要是我们没有发现第一次凶杀的动机，我们就几乎不可能有希望发现凶手。了解动机，难上加难。巴宾顿是一个与世无争、和蔼可亲的老人．人们总说，他在这个世界上没有敌人。然而，他被杀害了．杀人必定有起因。 
　　我们必须找出这个起因。” 
　　他停了一会儿，然后用他平常讲话的声调说。 
　　“让我们开始吧．杀人会有哪些原因呢？我想，首先是谋财。” 
　　“报仇。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　“杀人狂。”萨特思韦特先生说，“犯罪欲几乎不会出现在这个案子里．不过，还有．恐惧，。” 
　　查尔斯•卡特赖特点点头，迅速地在一张纸上写着。 
　　“差不多都包括了。”他说，“首先是谋财．有人会从巴宾顿的死获取横财吗？他有钱吗？或者他将得到一大笔遗产？” 
　　“我想这不太可能。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　“我也这么想．但是我们最好就这个问题向巴宾顿太太咨询。” 
　　“还有报仇．巴宾顿伤害了任何人吗？或许是在他年轻的时候？他是否娶了另外一个男人爱着的姑娘？我也要调查这种事情。” 
　　“还有杀人狂。巴宾顿和托利都是一个精神病患者杀的吗？我认为这个想法站不住脚，即使这个精神病人对他的犯罪有某种合乎情理的动机．我是说，精神病人可能认为他受神灵的指派耍杀掉医生，或者牧师，但不会是两种人都杀。 
　　我想，我们可以排除杀人狂这种观点．最后还有．恐惧，。说句老实话，载认为这是最可能的原因．巴宾顿知道某人的秘密，或者他认出了某人．杀掉他就没有人说出其中的秘密了。” 
　　“我不明白，像巴宾顿先生这样的人会知道什么危及某人的事情。而这个人当天晚上正在那儿。” 
　　“也许。”查尔斯爵士说，“有一件事，他不知道自己已经知道了。” 
　　他继续说，竭力把自己的意思讲清楚。 
　　“很难说清我的意思．假如—这只是假如，巴宾顿在某个时候，某个地方看见了某一个人。据他所知，这个人没有理由不到场．可这个人编造了因故不在犯罪现场的谎言，说他在事发时在一百英里之外的某一个地方。可是，老巴宾顿是世界上最老实忠厚的人，他有可能一不留神泄露了秘密。” 
　　“我明白了。”蛋蛋说，“如果在伦敦发现一起凶杀案．凶手在帕丁顿车站作案，巴宾顿看见了这个人．但是这个入己证明他不可能作案，因为他当时不在犯罪现场，而是在利兹．也许，后来巴宾顿泄露了秘密。” 
　　“这正是我的意思．当然，这只是举个例子。也可能是别的情况．那天晚上他看见的人是他从前认识的人，但名宇不一样……”“也可能跟一次婚姻有关。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“牧师涉及过很多人的婚姻．有个人犯了重婚罪。” 
　　“或者跟一次生育或者一次死亡有关。”萨特思韦特先生猜测道。 
　　“可以猜测的范围太宽。”蛋蛋姑娘皱着眉头说，“我们用别的方式也必须达到目的。让我们重新分析一下那天在场的人，拟一个名单。哪些入到过你家，哪些人到过巴塞罗缨家。” 
　　她从查尔斯爵士那儿接过纸和铅笔。 
　　“戴克斯一家，他们两家都到了．那个像干白菜的女人叫什么来着？—不是威尔斯，就是萨克利夫小姐。” 
　　“你可以排除安吉拉。”查尔斯爵士说，“我认识她很多了。” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘不以为然地皱起眉头。 
　　“我不能那样做。”她说，“排除某些人只是因为我们认识他们。我们必须按章办事。此外，我对安吉拉•萨克利夫一无所知。她像别的任何人一样，都有可能作菜．而且在我看来，她更有可能，所有的女演员都有前科．一般说来，我想她是最有可能作案的人。” 
　　她不顺从地盯着查尔斯爵士，眼睛里闪烁着反抗的目光。 
　　“要是那样的话，我们就不能排除奥利弗•曼德斯了。” 
　　“怎么可能是奥利弗呢？他以前遇见过巴宾顿先生不知有多少次。” 
　　“他两次聚会都到场。他的到场显然要引起一些怀疑。” 
　　“完全正确。”蛋蛋姑娘说着停了一会儿，然后她又说，“要是那样的话，我最好把母亲和我自己也算上．那就有了六个嫌疑人。” 
　　“我不知道……”“我们办事要合乎情理，否则就是胡来。”她的眼睛里闪着光。 
　　萨特思韦特先生利用食品来促使他们两个人休战．他打电话要来了饮料。 
　　查尔斯爵士溜到老远的一个角落，欣赏着一个黑人头像雕塑。蛋蛋姑娘走到萨特思韦特先生跟前，将一只手伸向他的胳膊。 
　　“我真傻，对他发了脾气。”她喃喃地说，“我是个傻瓜。 
　　可是，为什么要排除那个女人？为什么一说到耍排除她，他就那么感兴趣？啊，天啦！为什么我竟会生出那么令人厌恶的嫉妒心。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生笑着拍了拍她的手。 
　　“嫉妒永远不会有收获．亲爱的。”他说，“如果你嫉妒了，就不要显露出来。顺便问一问，你真的认为小曼德斯会是嫌疑人吗？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘啊嘴笑了—友好的、孩子般的笑容。 
　　“当然不是。我说那些话，为的是不要吓住那个人。”她扭头朝一边看去．查尔斯爵士仍然在闷闷不乐地研究着黑人塑像。“你知道．我希望他别认为我对奥利弗有恋情．因为我没有这样的感情．世上的事多难啊！他又回到他那种．祝福你们，我的孩子们，的神态中了。” 
　　“耐心一点吧。”萨特思韦特先生劝她道，“你知道，收头结大瓜。” 
　　“我没有耐心。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“我希望马上有个结果，或者快一点。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生大笑起来，而查尔斯爵士转身朝他们走来。 
　　饮酒时．他们策划了一个战役计划．查尔斯爵士回到鸦巢屋，他至今还没有找到房子的买主。蛋蛋和她的母亲比原计划提前回到攻瑰舍．巴宾顿太太仍居住在鲁茅斯．他们要从她那儿尽可能了解情况．然后按计划着手行动。 
　　“我们会成功的。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“我相信我们会成功。” 
　　她侧身靠着查尔斯爵士，眼睛里闪烁着炽热的目光。 
　　“为我们的成功干杯。”她提议道。 
　　他柔情地凝视着她的眼睛．把酒杯举到嘴边。 
　　“为了成功，”他说，“也为了未来……”
Third Act - Discovery
Third Act - Discovery

CHAPTER 1 Mrs Babbington
13 
Mrs. Babbington had moved into a small fisherman’s cottage not far from the harbour. She was expecting a sister home from Japan in about six months. Until her sister arrived she was making no plans for the future. The cottage chanced to be vacant, and she took it for six months. She felt too bewildered by her sudden loss to move away from Loomouth. Stephen Babbington had held the living of St. Petroch, Loomouth, for seventeen years. They had been, on the whole, seventeen happy and peaceful years, in spite of the sorrow occasioned by the death of her son Robin. Of her remaining children, Edward was in Ceylon, Lloyd was in South Africa, and Stephen was third officer on the Angolia. They wrote frequently and affectionately, but they could offer neither a home nor companionship to their mother. 
Margaret Babbington was very lonely ... 
Not that she allowed herself much time for thinking. She was still active in the parish - the new vicar was unmarried, and she spent a good deal of time working in the tiny plot of ground in front of the cottage. She was a woman whose flowers were part of her life. She was working there one afternoon when she heard the latch of the gate click, and looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. 
Margaret was not surprised to see Egg. She knew that the girl and her mother were due to return shortly. But she was surprised to see Sir Charles. Rumour had insisted that he had left the neighbourhood for good. There had been paragraphs copied from other papers about his doings in the South of France. There had been a board “TO BE SOLD” stuck up in the garden of Crow's Nest. No one had expected Sir Charles to return. Yet return he had. Mrs. Babbington shook the untidy hair back from her hot forehead and looked ruefully at her earth-stained hands. 
“I’m not fit to shake hands,” she said. “I ought to garden in gloves, I know. I do start in them sometimes; but I always tear them off sooner or later. One can feel tings so much better with bare hands.” 
She led the way into the house. The tiny sitting-room had been made cosy with chintz. There were photographs and bowls of chrysanthemums. 
“It’s a great surprise seeing you, Sir Charles. I thought you had given up Crow's Nest for good.” 
“I thought I had,” said the actor frankly. “But sometimes, Mrs. Babbington, our destiny is too strong for us.” 
Mrs. Babbington did not reply. She turned towards Egg, but the girl forestalled the words on her lips. 
“Look here, Mrs. Babbington. This isn’t just a call. Sir Charles and I have got something very serious to say. Only - I - I should hate to upset you.” 
Mrs. Babbington looked from the girl to Sir Charles. Her face had gone rather grey and pinched. 
“First of all,” said Sir Charles, “I would like to ask you if you have any communication from the Home Office?” 
Mrs. Babbington bowed her head. 
“I see - well, perhaps that makes what we are about to say easier.” 
“Is that what you have come about - this exhumation order?” 
“Yes. Is it - I’m afraid it must be - very distressing to you.” 
She softened to the sympathy in his voice. 
“Perhaps I do not mind as much as you think. To some people the idea of exhumation is very dreadful - not to me. It is not the dead clay that matters. My dear husband is elsewhere - at peace - where no one can trouble his rest. No, it is not that. It is the idea that is a shock to me - the idea, a terrible one, that Stephen did not die a natural death. It seems so impossible - utterly impossible.” 
“I’m afraid it must seem so to you. It did to me - to us - at first.” 
“What do you mean by at first, Sir Charles?” 
“Because the suspicion crossed my mind on the evening of your husband’s death, Mrs. Babbington. Like you, however, it seemed to me so impossible that I put it aside.” 
“I thought so, too,” said Egg. 
“You, too, Mrs. Babbington looked at her wonderingly. You thought someone could have killed - Stephen?” 
The incredulity in her voice was so great that neither of her visitors knew quite how to proceed. At last Sir Charles took up the tale. 
“As you know, Mrs. Babbington, I went abroad. When I was in the South of France I read in the paper of my friend Bartholomew Strange’s death in almost exactly similar circumstances. I also got a letter from Miss Lytton Gore.” 
Egg nodded. 
“I was there, you know, staying with him at the time. Mrs. Babbington, it was exactly the same - exactly. He drank some port and his face changed, and - and - well, it was just the same. He died two or three minutes later.” 
Mrs. Babbington shook her head slowly. 
“I can’t understand it. Stephen! Sir Bartholomew - a kind and clever doctor! Who could want to harm either of them? It must be a mistake.” 
“Sir Bartholomew was proved to have been poisoned, remember,” 
said Sir Charles. 
“Then it must have been the work of a lunatic.” 
Sir Charles went on: 
“Mrs. Babbington, I want to get to the bottom of this. I want to find out the truth. And I feel there is no time to lose. Once the news of the exhumation gets about our criminal will be on alert. I am amusing, for the sake of saving time, what the result of the autopsy on your husband’s body will be. I am talking it that he, too, died of nicotine poisoning. To begin with, did you or he know anything about the use of pure nicotine?” 
“I always use a solution of nicotine for spraying roses. I didn’t know it was supposed to be poisonous.” 
“I should imagine (I was reading up the subject last night) that in both cases the pure alkaloid must have been used. Cases of poisoning by nicotine are most unusual.” 
Mrs. Babbington shook her head. 
“I really don’t know anything about nicotine poisoning - expect that I suppose inveterate smokers might suffer from it.” 
“Did your husband smoke?” 
“Yes.” 
“Now tell me, Mrs. Babbington, you have expressed the utmost surprise that anyone should want to do away with your husband. Does that mean that as far as you know he had no enemies?” 
“I am sure Stephen had no enemies. Everyone was fond of him. People tried to hustle him sometimes, somehow smiled a little tearfully. He was getting on, you know, and rather afraid of innovations, but everybody liked him. You couldn’t dislike Stephen, Sir Charles.” 
“I suppose, Mrs. Babbington, that your husband didn’t leave very much money?” 
“No. Next to nothing. Stephen was not good at saving. He gave away far too much. I used to scold him about it.” 
“I suppose he had no expectations from anyone? He wasn’t the heir to any property?” 
“Oh, no. Stephen hadn’t many relations. He has a sister who is married to a clergyman in Northumberland, but they are very badly off, and all his uncles and aunts are dead.” 
“Then it does not seem as though there were anyone who could benefit by Mr. Babbington’s death?” 
“No, indeed.” 
“Let us come back to the question of enemies for a minute. Your husband had no enemies, you say; but he may have had as a young man.” 
Mrs. Babbington looked sceptical. 
“I should think it very unlikely. Stephen hadn’t a quarrelsome nature. He always got on well with people.” 
“I don’t want to sound melodramatic,” Sir Charles coughed a little nervously. “But - er - when he got engaged to you, for instance, there wasn’t any disappointed suitor in the offing?” 
A momentary twinkle came into Mrs. Babbington’s eyes. 
“Stephen was my father’s curate. He was the first young man I saw when I came home from school. I fell in love with him and he with me. We were engaged for four years, and then he got a living down in Kent, and we were able to get married. Ours was a very simple love story, Sir Charles - and a very happy one.” 
Sir Charles bowed his head. Mrs. Babbington’s simple dignity was very charming. 
Egg took up the r?le of questioner. 
“Mrs. Babbington, do you think your husband had met any of the guests at Sir Charles’s that night before?” 
Mrs. Babbington looked slightly puzzled. 
“Well, there were you and your mother, my dear, and young Oliver Manders.” 
“Yes, but any of the others?” 
“We had both seen Angela Sutcliffe in a play in London five years ago. Both Stephen and I were very excited that we were actually going to meet her.” 
“You had never actually met her before?” 
“No. We’ve never met any actresses - or actors, for the matter of that - until Sir Charles came to live here. And that,” added Mrs. Babbington, “was a great excitement. I don’t think Sir Charles knows what a wonderful thing it was to us. Quite a breath of romance in our lives.” 
“You hadn’t met Captain and Mrs. Dacres?” 
“Was he the little man, and the woman with the wonderful clothes?” 
“Yes.” 
“No. Nor the other woman - the one who wrote plays. Poor thing, she looked rather out of it, I thought.” 
“You’re sure you’d never seen any of them before?” 
“I’m quite sure I hadn’t - and so I’m fairly sure Stephen hadn’t, either. You see, we do everything together.” 
“And Mr. Babbington didn’t say anything to you - anything at all,” 
persisted Egg, “about the people you were going to meet, or about them, when he saw them?” 
“Nothing beforehand - except that he was looking forward to an interesting evening. And when we got there - well, there wasn’t much time - ” Her face twisted suddenly. 
Sir Charles broke in quickly. 
“You must forgive us badgering you like this. But, you see, we feel that there must be something, if only we could get at it. There must be some reason for an apparently brutal and meaningless murder.” 
“I see that,” said Mrs. Babbington. “If it was murder, there must be some reason ... But I don’t know - I can’t imagine - what that reason could be.” 
There was silence for a minute or two, then Sir Charles said: 
“Can you give me a slight biographical sketch of your husband’s career?” 
Mrs. Babbington had a good memory for dates. Sir Charles’s final notes ran thus: 
“Stephen Babbington, born Islington, Devon, 1868. Educated St. Paul’s School and Oxford. Ordained Deacon and received a title to the Parish of Hoxton, 1891. Priested 1892. Was Curate Eslington, Surrey, to Rev. Vernon Lorrimer, 1894-1899. Married Margaret Lorrimer, 1899, and presented to the living of Gilling, Kent. Transferred to living of St. Petroch, Loomouth, 1916.” 
“That gives us something to go upon,” said Sir Charles. “Our best chance seems to me the time during which Mr. Babbington was Vicar of St. Mary’s, Gilling. His earlier history seems rather far back to concern any of the people who were at my house that evening.” 
Mrs. Babbington shuddered. 
“Do you really think - that one of them - ?” 
“I don’t know what to think,” said Sir Charles. “Bartholomew saw something or guessed something, and Bartholomew Strange died same way, and five - ” 
“Seven,” said Egg. 
“ - of these people were also present. One of them must be guilty.” 
“But why?” cried Mrs. Babbington. “Why? What motive could there be for anyone killing Stephen?” 
“That,” said Sir Charles, “is what we are going to find out.” 
第三幕 结案
第一章　巴宾顿太太

　　巴宾顿太太搬进了一幢小小的渔夫住宅里。这房子离海港不远。她正在等待妹妹大约六个月之后从日本归来。在妹妹到来之前，她对今后的生活还没有任何打算。这幢乡村别墅过去正好没有人住，于是她租了六个月。突然失去丈夫，使她感到慌乱，以致不得不离开了鲁茅斯。斯蒂芬•巴宾顿在鲁茅斯的彼得罗克区生活了十七年。总的来说，他们度过了十七年幸福和平静的光景。惟一的遗憾是她儿子罗宾的死。在其他的孩子中，爱德华在锡兰，罗伊德在南非，而斯蒂芬是安哥拉号轮船的三副。他们经常来信，封封热情洋溢。可是他们既不能为母亲提供一个家，也不能回来陪伴她。 
　　因此，玛格丽特•巴宾顿是非常孤单的……并不是她独自思索的时间大多。她在自己的教区（新来的教区牧师还没有结婚）里还是很活跃的，而且她花大量时间在别墅前一小块地上干活儿。她是一个爱花的女人，花是她生活的一部分。 
　　一天下午，当她正在干活的时候，听见大门锁卡嗒一声，抬头只见查尔斯•卡特赖特爵土和蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔站在门口。 
　　看见蛋蛋姑娘，玛格丽特并不惊讶。她知道这姑娘和她1母亲最近要回来。但是，看见查尔斯爵士使她吃了一惊。她一再听见谣传，说他已经永远离开了自己居住过的街区。从别的报纸上抄录下来的一些消息，叙述了他在法国南方的行踪。在鸦巢屋的花园里插了一块牌子，上面写着“出售”。 
　　谁也不会想到查尔斯爵士回来。然而，他真的回来了。 
　　巴宾顿太太将凌乱的头发从冒着热汗的前额甩向身后，看见手上沾满了泥土，她显得懊悔莫及。 
　　“我不便握手。”她说，“我知道，我应当戴手套在园子里卜干活。有时候我先是戴着手套干的，干一阵又把它脱掉。光着手干活方便多了。” 
　　她把客人带进屋里。小小的客厅里坐椅沙发全是印花棉布包装，显得很舒适。有几幅相片，还有几钵菊花。 
　　“看见你真叫人吃惊，查尔斯爵士。我以为你永远放弃： 
　　了鸦巢屋哩。” 
　　“我以前是那样想的。”演员坦白地说，“但有时候，巴宾顿太大，我们无力摆脱命运的安排。” 
　　巴宾顿太大没有回答，她转身对着蛋蛋。姑娘抢先说道： 
　　“你瞧，巴宾顿太太，这不是一般的拜访。查尔斯爵士和我有很重要的事要向你说。只是我……不好意思来打扰你。” 
　　巴宾顿太大看看姑娘，又看看查尔斯爵土。她脸色发青，眉头紧锁。 
　　“首先，”查尔斯爵士说，“我想问问，你是否从疗养院办公处得到了任何消息？” 
　　巴宾顿太大点点头。 
　　“我知道……唉，也许我应当先说。” 
　　“你是指你发现的东西吗？发现的过程怎样？” 
　　“是的，那对你来说一定是非常痛心的。” 
　　他的声音里充满了同情心，她的口气软了下来。 
　　“也许，我不像想象的那样在乎。对某些人来说，剖尸检查是非常可怕的事，但我不怕。重要的并不是死者的躯体。 
　　我亲爱的丈夫在地下安息，在那儿，谁也不会打扰他的安宁，不会的。重要的是有个想法使我震惊——这个想法很可怕。那就是斯蒂芬•巴宾顿不是自然死亡。这似乎不可能，完全不可能是自然死亡。” 
　　“我想，在你看来他必定如此。首先，我是这样看的，我们都是这样看的。” 
　　“你说‘首先’是什么意思，查尔斯爵士？” 
　　“巴宾顿大太，在你丈夫死亡的那天晚上，我就开始怀疑了。然而，像你一样，我的想法看起来不可能，因此我就放到了一边”“我也是这么想的。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“你也这样想吗？”巴宾顿太太奇怪地看着她。“你认为有人谋杀了斯蒂芬？” 
　　她的声音中充满了如此强烈的疑虑，以致于两位来访者都不知道如何开始他们的询问。最后还是查尔斯爵士打开了话匣子。 
　　“你是知道的，巴宾顿太太，我到国外去了。当我在法国南方的时候，从报纸上看到了我的朋友巴塞罗缪•斯特兰奇几乎是在完全相同的情况下死掉了。我还收到利顿•戈尔小姐的一封信。” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘点点头。 
　　“你知道，我那天就在那儿，跟他在一起。巴宾顿太太，这完全是一样的，完全是。他喝了一点葡萄酒，脸色就变了。 
　　接着……接着……唉，跟上次一模一样。他两三分钟就死了”巴宾顿太太慢吞吞地摇着头。 
　　“我真弄不懂。斯蒂芬！还有巴塞罗缨爵士—一个善良、聪明的医生！有谁会残害他们两个人呢？一定是弄错了”“你要记住，已经证明，巴塞罗缨爵士是被毒死的。”查尔斯爵士说道。 
　　“那一定是个精神病患者干的。” 
　　查尔斯爵士继续说： 
　　“巴宾顿太太，我要寻根究底我要弄清真相我感到时间很紧迫。一旦深入调查的消息传开，就会惊动罪犯。长话短说吧，我在设想对你丈夫验尸的结果会是什么。我是这么想的：他也死于尼古丁中毒。第一个问题是，你或者也知道纯尼古丁的用途吧？” 
　　“我经常使用尼古丁溶液来喷洒玫瑰花。我可不知道，有人会认为它能毒死人。” 
　　“我可以想象（昨天晚上我读了这方面的资料），在两个案件中，凶手都用了这种纯生物碱。尼古丁中毒事件是很不寻常的。” 
　　巴宾顿大大摇了摇头。 
　　“我根本不懂尼古丁中毒的知识，只知道烟痛很大的吸烟者会因为它得病。” 
　　“你丈夫吸烟吗”“是的。” 
　　“现在请告诉我，巴宾顿太太，有人竟要除掉你的丈夫，你表示万分惊讶。这是不是意味着，就你所知，他没有任何仇敌？” 
　　“我肯定他不会有仇敌。大家都很喜欢他。有时候，人们试图骗他。”她含着眼泪笑了一笑说，“你知道，他上了年纪，不喜欢革新，但是，每个人都喜欢他。你不可能讨厌他的，查尔斯爵士。” 
　　“巴宾顿太太，我认为你的丈夫不会留下很多钱，是吗？” 
　　“没有。几乎一无所有。斯蒂芬不善积蓄。他花钱大多。 
　　我过去常责备他这事儿。” 
　　“我想他不会从谁那儿继承什么遗产吧？他不会是什么财产的继承人吧？” 
　　“哦，不。斯蒂芬亲戚不多。他有个姐姐，嫁给一位卢森堡的牧师。他们生活拈据。他所有的叔、伯、舅舅还有姑姑、姨妈全都死了”“那么，这似乎说明，没有人会从巴宾顿的死谋取钱财，对吗？” 
　　“是的，确实如此。” 
　　“让我们重新谈一谈他有没有仇敌的问题。你说，你丈夫没有仇敌，但他年轻时可能会有吧。” 
　　巴宾顿大大显得疑惑不解。 
　　“应当说，这非常不可能。斯蒂芬与世无争，人缘很好。” 
　　“我不想危言耸听。”查尔斯爵士神经质地咳了两声。 
　　“呃……这样说吧，他跟你谈恋爱的时候，在你周围有没有失恋的求婚者？” 
　　巴宾顿大大的眼睛愉快地闪动了一下。 
　　“斯蒂芬是我父亲的助理牧师。自从我从学校回到家以后，他是我遇见的第一个小伙子，我爱上了他，他也爱我。我们恋爱了四年。后来他在肯特郡定居了，我们就结婚了。查尔斯爵士，我们的恋爱故事很简单，但我们都很幸福。” 
　　查尔斯爵士点了点头。巴宾顿大太简朴端庄的气质很有魅力。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘承担起询问者的角色。 
　　“巴宾顿太太，那天晚上在查尔斯爵士家吃饭之前，你丈夫曾经见过客人中的哪一位吗？” 
　　巴宾顿太太看起来有点儿纳闷。 
　　“这个，有你和你母亲，还有小曼德斯。” 
　　“对。还有其他人吗？” 
　　“五年前，在伦敦的一次演出中，我们两人都会见过安吉拉•萨克利夫。斯蒂芬和我一想到就要会见她，心里非常激动”“在这以前，你们确实没见过她吗”“没有。我们那时从来没有见过任何演员——不管男演员还是女演员，直到查尔斯爵士搬来这儿住。”巴宾顿太太补充道，“那真叫人激动。我想查尔斯爵士不会知道这对我们有多重要，这是我们生活中的奇遇。” 
　　“你那时还没有见过船长和戴克斯太太吗？” 
　　“是那个小个子男人和那位衣着时髦的女人吗”“是的。” 
　　“宴会前我没见过他们，也没有见过另外那个女人—— 
　　就是写剧本的那一位。可怜的女人，我想她相当孤僻”“你肯定过去从未见过那些客人吗？” 
　　“非常肯定，就是没见过。我也肯定斯蒂芬同样没有见过他们。你知道，无论做什么，我们都在一起”“巴宾顿先生没有跟你说过什么吗？一点儿也没说吗？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘毫不放松，继续问道，“他没有提到过你们就要会见的人，见面时也没谈论他们吗？” 
　　“在宴会以前一句也没有说过。他只是盼望那个美好的夜晚早点儿到来。当我们到那儿的时候……唉，没有过多久……”她的脸突然抽搐了一下。 
　　查尔斯爵士赶紧插话说： 
　　“你一定要谅解我们这样来烦扰你。但是，你瞧，要是我们努力，我们一定能发现点什么。这次毫无道理的凶杀，一定有什么原因。” 
　　“我明白。”巴宾顿太大说，“如果这是一次谋杀，那一定有什么原因……但是我不懂，也想象不出究竟会是什么原因”沉默了一会儿之后，查尔斯爵士说： 
　　“你能给我们一个你丈夫生平的简介吗？” 
　　巴宾顿太大对日期的记忆特别好。查尔斯爵士记录的结果是这样的： 
　　“斯蒂芬•巴宾顿，生于一八六八年德文郡伊斯灵顿市，曾在圣•保罗中学和牛津大学就读，一八九一年担任霍克斯顿教区执事，一八九二年获得牧师职位；一八九四一---八九九年，任萨里郡伊斯灵顿市牧师弗农•洛里默的助理；一八九九年与玛格丽特•洛里默结婚，在肯特郡吉灵市定居，一九一六年迁至鲁茅斯市彼得罗克区。” 
　　“我们办案时能派上用场。”查尔斯爵土说，“在我看来，巴宾顿先生担任吉灵市圣•玛丽教区代理主教的经历，是我们最需要了解的情况。他早期的生活跟那晚到我家的那些客人距离大远。” 
　　巴宾顿太太全身战栗起来。 
　　“真的认为……他们当中有一个人……？” 
　　“我不知道该怎么想。”查尔斯爵士说，“巴塞罗缪发现了什么，或者是猜中了什么，于是他以同样的方式被杀，他们中有五个人……”“有七个人。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“他们中有七个人两次到场。其中有一个必定有罪”“这是为什么？”巴宾顿太太哭起来，“为什么？杀害斯蒂芬的那个人到底有什么动机？” 
　　查尔斯爵士说道：“这正是我们要弄清的”
CHAPTER 2 Lady Mary
14 
Mr. Satterthwaite had come down to Crow's Nest with Sir Charles. Whilst his host and Egg Lytton Gore were visiting Mrs. Babbington, Mr. Satterthwaite was having tea with Lady Mary. 
Lady Mary liked Mr. Satterthwaite. For all her gentleness of manner, she was a woman who had very definite views on the subject of whom she did or did not like. 
Mr. Satterthwaite sipped China tea from a Dresden cup, and ate a microscopic sandwich and chatted. On his last visit they had found many friends and acquaintances in common. Their talk today began on the same subject, but gradually drifted into more intimate channels. Mr. Satterthwaite was a sympathetic person - he listened to the troubles of other people and did not intrude his own. Even on his last visit it had seemed natural to Lady Mary to speak to him of her preoccupation with her daughter’s future. She talked now as she would have talked to a friend of many years’ standing. 
“Egg is so headstrong,” she said. “She flings herself into a thing heart and soul. You know, Mr. Satterthwaite, I do not like the way she is - well, mixing herself up in this distressing business. It - Egg would laughed at me, I know - but it doesn’t seem to be ladylike.” 
She flushed as she spoke. Her brown eyes, gentle and ingenuous, looked with childish appeal at Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I confess that I don’t quite like it myself. I know that it’s simply an old-fashioned prejudice, but there it is. All the same,” he twinkled at her, “we can’t expect young ladies to sit at home and sew and shudder at the idea of crimes of violence in these enlightened days.” 
“I don’t like to think of murder,” said Lady Mary. “I never, never dreamed that I should be mixed up in anything of that kind. It was dreadful.” She shivered. “Poor Sir Bartholomew.” 
“You didn’t know him very well?” hazarded Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“I think I’d only met him twice. The first time about a year ago, when he came down to stay with Sir Charles for a weekend, and the second time was on that dreadful evening when poor Mr. Babbington died. I was really most surprised when his invitation arrived. I accepted because I thought Egg would enjoy it. She hasn’t many treats, poor child, and - well, she had seemed a little down in the mouth, as though she didn’t take any interest in anything. I thought a big house-party might cheer her up.” 
“Tell me something about Oliver Manders,” he said. “The young fellow rather interests me.” 
“I think he’s clever,” said Lady Mary. “Of course, things have been difficult for him … ” 
She flushed, and then in answer to the plain inquiry of Mr. Satterthwaite’s glance she went on. 
“You see, his father wasn’t married to his mother ... ” 
“Really? I had no idea of that.” 
“Everyone knows about it down here, otherwise I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Old Mrs. Manders, Oliver’s grandmother, lives at Dunboyne, that biggish house on the Plymouth road. Her husband was a lawyer down here. Her son went into a city firm and did very well. He’s quite a rich man. The daughter was a good- looking girl, and she became absolutely infatuated with a married man. I blame him very much indeed. Anyway, in the end, after a lot of scandal, they went off together. His wife wouldn’t divorce him. The girl died not long after Oliver was born. His uncle in London took charge of him. He and his wife had no children of their own. The boy divided his time between them and his grandmother. He always came down here for his summer holidays.” 
She paused and then went on: 
“I always felt sorry for him. I still do. I think that terribly conceited manner of his is a good deal put on.” 
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “It’s a very common phenomenon. If I ever see 
anyone who appears to think a lot of themselves and boats unceasingly, I always know that there’s a secret sense of inferiority somewhere.” 
“It seems very odd.” 
“An inferiority complex is a very peculiar thing. Crippen, for instance, undoubtedly suffered from it. It’s at the back of a lot of crimes. The desire to assert one’s personality.” 
“It seems very strange to me,” murmured Lady Mary. 
She seemed to shrink a little. Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her with an almost sentimental eye. He liked her graceful figure with the sloping shoulders, the soft brown of her eyes, her complete absence of make-up. He thought: 
“She must have been a beauty when she was young ... ” 
Not a flaunting beauty, not a rose - no, a modest, charming violet, hiding its sweetness ... 
His thoughts ran serenely in the idiom of his young days ... He remembered incidents in his own youth. 
Presently he found himself telling Lady Mary about his own love affair - the only love affair he had ever had. Rather a poor love affair by the standards of today, but very dear to Mr. Satterthwaite. He told her about the Girl, and how pretty she was, and of how they had gone together to see the bluebells at Kew. He had meant to propose to her that day. He had imagined (so he put it) that she reciprocated his sentiments. And then, as they were standing looking at the bluebells, she had confided in him ... He had discovered that she loved another. And he had hidden the thoughts surging in his breast and had taken up the r?le of the faithful Friend. It was not, perhaps, a very full-blooded romance, but it sounded well in the dim-faded chintz and eggshell china atmosphere of Lady Mary’s drawing-room. 
Afterwards Lady Mary spoke of her own life, of her married life, which had not been very happy. 
“I was such a foolish girl - girls are foolish, Mr. Satterthwaite. They are so sure of themselves, so convinced they know best. People write and talk a lot of a ‘woman’s instinct.’ I don’t believe, Mr. Satterthwaite, that there is any such thing. There doesn’t seem to be anything that warns girls against a certain type of man. Nothing in themselves, I mean. Their parents warn them, but that’s no good 
-one doesn’t believe. It seems dreadful to say so, but there is something attractive to a girl in being told anyone is a bad man. She thinks at once that her love will reform him.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gently. 
“One knows so little. When one knows more, it is too late.” 
She sighed. 
“It was all my own fault. My people didn’t want me to marry Ronald. He was well born, but he had a bad reputation. My father told me straight out that he was a wrong’un. I didn’t believe it. I believed that, for my sake, he would turn over a new leaf ... ” 
She was silent a moment or two, dwelling on the past. 
“Ronald was a very fascinating man. My father was quite right about him. I soon found that out. It’s an old-fashioned thing to say - but he broke my heart. Yes, he broke my heart. I was always afraid - of what might come out next.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite, always intensely interested in other people’s lives, made a cautious sympathetic noise. 
“It may seem a very wicked thing to say, Mr. Satterthwaite, but it was a relief when got pneumonia and died ... Not that I didn’t care for him - I loved him up to the end - but I had no illusions about him any longer. And there was Egg - ” 
Her voice softened. 
“Such a funny little thing she was. A regular little roly-poly, trying to stand up and falling over - just like an egg; that’s how that ridiculous nickname started ... ” 
She paused again. 
“Some books that I’ve read these last few years have brought a lot of comfort to me. Books on psychology. It seems to show that in many ways people can’t help themselves. A kind of kink. Sometimes, in the most carefully brought-up families you get it. As a boy Ronald stole money at school - money that he didn’t need. I can feel now that he couldn’t help himself ... He was born with a kink ... ” 
Very gently, with a small handkerchief, Lady Mary wiped her eyes. 
“It wasn’t what I was brought up to believe,” she said apologetically. “I was taught that everyone knew the difference between right and wrong. But somehow - I don’t always think that is so.” 
“The human mind is a great mystery,” said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. 
“As yet, we are going groping our way to understanding. Without acute mania it may nevertheless occur that certain natures lack what I should describe as braking power. If you or I were to say, ‘I hate someone - I wish he were dead,’ the idea would pass from our minds as soon as the words were uttered. The brakes would work automatically. But, in some people the idea, or obsession, holds. They see nothing but the immediate gratification of the idea formed.” 
“I’m afraid,” said Lady Mary, “that that’s rather too clever for me.” 
“I apologise. I was talking rather bookishly.” 
“Did you mean that young people have too little restraint nowadays? It sometimes worries me.” 
“No, no, I didn’t mean that at all. Less restraint is, I think, a good thing - wholesome. I suppose you are thinking of Miss - er - Egg.” 
“I think you’d better call her Egg,” said Lady Mary, smiling. 
“Thank you. Miss Egg does sound rather ridiculous.” 
“Egg’s very impulsive, and once she has set her mind on a thing nothing will stop her. As I said before, I hate her mixing herself up in all this, but she won’t listen to me.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled at the distress in Lady Mary’s tone. He thought to himself: 
“I wonder if she realise for one minute that Egg’s absorption in crime is neither more nor less than a new variant of that old, old game - the pursuit of the male by the female? No, she’d be horrified at the thought.” 
“Egg says that Mr. Babbington was poisoned also. Do you think that is true, Mr. Satterthwaite? Or do you think it is just one of Egg’s sweeping statements?” 
“We shall know for certain after the exhumation.” 
“There is to be an exhumation, then?” Lady Mary shivered. “How terrible for poor Mrs. Babbington. I can imagine nothing more awful for any woman.” 
“You knew the Babbingtons fairly intimately, I suppose, Lady Mary?” 
“Yes, indeed. They are - were - very dear friends of ours.” 
“Do you know of anyone who could possibly have had a grudge against the vicar?” 
“No, indeed.” 
“He never spoke of such a person?” 
“No.” 
“And they got on well together?” 
“They were perfectly mated - happy in each other and in their children. They were hardly off, of course, and Mr. Babbington suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Those were their only troubles.” 
“How did Oliver Manders get on with the vicar?” 
“Well - ” Lady Mary hesitated, “they didn’t hit it off very well. The Babbingtons were sorry for Oliver, and he used to go to the vicarage a good deal in the holidays to play with the Babbington boys - though I don’t think he got on very well with them. Oliver wasn’t exactly a popular boy. He boasted too much of the money he had and the tuck he took back to school, and all the fun he had in London. Boys are rather merciless about that sort of thing.” 
“Yes, but later - since he’s been grown up?” 
“I don’t think he and the vicarage people have been much of each other. As a matter of fact Oliver was rather rude to Mr. Babbington one day here, in my house. It was about two years ago.” 
“What happened?” 
“Oliver made a rather ill-bred attack on Christianity. Mr. Babbington was very patient and courteous with him. That only seemed to make Oliver worse. He said, ‘All you religious people look down your noses because my father and mother weren’t married. I suppose you’d call me the child of sin. Well, I admire people who have the courage of their convictions and don’t care what a lot of hypocrites and parsons think.’ Mr. Babbington didn’t answer, but Oliver went on: ‘You won’t answer that. It’s ecclesiasticism and superstition that’s got the whole world into the mess it’s in. I’d like to sweep away the churches all over the world.’ Mr. Babbington smiled and said, ‘And the clergy, too?’ I think it was his smile that annoyed Oliver. He felt he was not being taken seriously. He said, ‘I hate everything the Church stands for. Smugness, security and hypocrisy. Get rid of the whole canting tribe, I say!’ and Mr. Babbington smiled - he had a very sweet smile - and he said, ‘My dear boy, if you were to sweep away all the churches ever built or planned, you would still have to reckon with God.’” 
“What did young Manders say to that?” 
“He seemed taken aback, and then he recovered his temper and went back to his usual sneering tired manner.” 
“He said, ‘I’m afraid the things I’ve been saying are rather bad form, padre, and not very easily assimilated by your generation.’” 
“You don’t like young Manders, do you, Lady Mary?” 
“I’m sorry for him,” said Lady Mary defensively. 
“But you wouldn’t like him to marry Egg.” 
“Oh, no.” 
“I wonder why, exactly?” 
“Because - because, he isn’t kind ... and because - ” 
“Yes?” 
“Because there’s something in him, somewhere, that I don’t understand. Something cold -” 
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two, then he said: 
“What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think of him? Did he ever mention him?” 
“He said, I remember, that he found young Manders an interesting study. He said that he reminded him of a case he was treating at the moment in his nursing home. I said that I thought Oliver looked particularly strong and healthy, and he said, ‘Yes, his health’s all right, but he’s riding for a fall.’” 
She paused and then said: 
“I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very clever nerve specialist.” 
“I believe he was very highly thought of by his own colleagues.” 
“I liked him,” said Lady Mary. 
“Did he ever say anything to you about Babbington’s death?” 
“No.” 
“He never mentioned it at all?” 
“I don’t think so.” 
“Do you think - it’s difficult for you to tell, not knowing him well - but do you think he had anything on his mind?” 
“He seemed in very good spirits - even amused by something - some private joke of his own. He told me at dinner that night that he was going to spring a surprise on me.” 
“Oh, he did, did he?” 
On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered that statement. What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew had intended to spring on his guests? 
Would it, when it came, have been as amusing as he pretended? 
Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but indomitable purpose? 
Would anyone ever know?
第二章　玛丽夫人
第二章　玛丽夫人

　　萨特思韦特先生与查尔斯爵士来到了鸦巢屋。正当房主人查尔斯和蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔拜访巴宾顿太大的时候，萨特思韦特先生正在和玛丽夫人品茶。 
　　玛丽夫人喜欢萨特思韦特先生。她气质高雅，是一个爱憎分明的女人。 
　　萨特思韦特先生端起德累斯顿瓷杯，呷了一口中国茶。 
　　他一边吃着小块三明治，一边聊起天来。在他上一次拜访时，他们谈起过两人都认识的许多朋友和熟人。今天的谈话，一开始也是同样的内容，只是步步深入。萨特思韦特先生是一个富有同情心的人，他愿意倾听别人有些什么麻烦事，而不愿说起他个人碰到的麻烦。因此，他上次来拜访时，玛丽夫人自然而然地对他说起，她最担忧的事情是她女儿的前途。现在她又谈起这事儿，好像她在跟一个深交多年的好朋友谈心一样。 
　　“蛋蛋非常任性。”她说，“一旦她要做一件事，她就会一心一意地扑在上面。你知道，萨特思韦特先生，我不喜欢她这个样子。你看，她又搀和到这件令人心烦的事里面去。这有失高贵啊。我知道，蛋蛋会嘲笑我这样说。” 
　　说着，她脸色发红。她的褐色眼睛温柔而纯朴，充满了对萨特思韦特先生孩子般期盼的目光。 
　　“我知道你的意思。”他说，“但白他说，我自己也不大喜欢做这样的事。我知道，这简直是一种老式的偏见，但是，干就干了吧。”他朝她眨了眨眼睛。“同样，我们不能让年轻小姐呆在家里缝衣服，在这个开明的时代里，还要为担心暴力犯罪而整天提心吊胆。” 
　　“我不喜欢去想谋杀的事情，”玛丽夫人说，“我做梦都不会，绝不会想到要卷进这样的事情里去。那太可怕了。”她发抖了：“多么可怜的巴塞罗缨爵土。” 
　　“你过去不大了解他吧！”萨特思韦特冒昧他说。 
　　“我想我只见过他两次。第一次是在一年以前。那时他过来跟查尔斯爵士一起度周未。第二次就是在可怜的已宾顿先生死去的那个可怕的夜晚。收到他的请柬时，我很惊讶。不过，我想蛋蛋一定会喜欢去，就接受了邀请。她没有很多开心的事，可怜的孩子。她整天愁眉苦脸的，好像什么都不会引起她的兴趣，我想，这种大型的家庭招待会，兴许会让她开心起来。” 
　　萨特思韦特点点头。 
　　“谈谈奥利弗•曼德斯吧。”他说，“这个小伙子挺让我感兴趣。” 
　　“我想他很聪明”玛丽夫人说，“当然，他处境困难她的脸红了。看见萨特思韦特先生询问的目光，她继续回答说： 
　　“你知道，他父亲没有跟他的母亲结过婚……”“真的吗？我简直没有想到。” 
　　“在我们这儿，人人都知道这件事，否则我是不会说出来的。曼德斯老大太，就是奥利弗的祖母，住在邓博因市普利茅斯路一幢相当大的楼房里。她丈夫是这里的一个律师。 
　　儿子进了城里一家公司，在那儿干得很好，是个相当有钱的人。女儿模样很漂亮，但是跟一个已婚的男人打得火热。她曾经狠狠地骂过她一顿。然而，由于流言蜚语大甚，他们终于双双出走。这个男人的妻子没有跟他离婚。奥利弗出生不久，他母亲就死了。一个住在伦敦的叔叔抚养他。叔叔和婶婶没有自己的孩子。这男孩一段时间跟他们住，一段时间又跟奶奶住。他常常来这儿过暑假”她停了一会儿又说： 
　　“我总是为他感到难受，现在也是这样。我认为他那种过分的狂妄自大的作风完全是装出来的。” 
　　“我不感到意外。”萨特思韦特先生说，“这是人之常情。 
　　如果我看见有个人只为自己着想，没完没了他说大话，那么我就知道他身上隐藏着某种自卑感。” 
　　“这似乎很奇怪”“自卑这东西是一种非常特殊的情感。比如，克里平显然就有自卑感。很多犯罪都跟它息息相关，这是一种伸张人格尊严的欲望。” 
　　“听起来真令人感到莫名其妙”玛丽夫人哺哺他说。 
　　她打了个寒噤。萨特思韦特先生以一种近乎感伤的目光看着她。他喜欢她那优雅的身段，她的美人肩，她的眼睛里那种柔和的褐色，还有她那不加修饰的自然美。 
　　他想：“她年轻时一定是个美人”她不是一个花枝招展的美人，不是一朵玫瑰，而是质朴、有魅力的紫罗兰，暗藏着自己的清香…… 
　　他的思绪在慢慢地搜索着年轻时自己使用过的语言。 
　　他清楚地记得青年时代发生的往事。 
　　现在，他自己也在向玛丽夫人谈起他的恋爱故事—— 
　　他曾经有过的惟一的爱情。用现在的标准来看，这是一次微不足道的爱情。然而，对于萨特思韦特先生来说，他的爱情是多么甜蜜。 
　　他向她谈到“那姑娘”，她有多漂亮，他们如何一起去伦敦西郊的基尤国家植物园观看圆叶风铃草。就在那一天，他准备向她求婚。他想象她会如何来回报他的恋情。然后，他们站在一起凝视着风铃草，她向他吐露真情……终于，他明白她爱的是别人。因此，他埋藏起胸中翻腾的情思，充当起一个忠实朋友的角色。 
　　也许，这不是一个充满激情的浪漫故事，但在玛丽夫人装饰着褪色印花布和蛋壳似的中国瓷器的会客厅里，在这种气氛之下，这故事听起来却很美好。 
　　接下来，玛丽夫人谈到她自己的生活，她的不太幸福的婚姻。 
　　“我那时是一个傻姑娘——女孩子总是很傻，萨特思韦特先生。她们大自信，自以为什么事情都很清楚。人们写了很多，也谈了很多‘女人的本能’。萨特思韦特先生，我不相信有这种事。这根本不是在忠告女孩子们要提防某一类男人。我是说，她们心中毫无提防的念头。父母警告她们，但是无济于事，没有人会相信。这种说法听起来很叫人生畏。 
　　如果有人告诉一个姑娘说，某某人是个坏男人，那么这话对于她反而会有某种吸引力，她马上会认为，她的爱情将会改造他。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生轻轻地点点头。 
　　“人总是孤陋寡闻。等她知道多一点的时候，又太晚了”她叹了一口气。 
　　“这些事都是我自己的过错。我的家人不要我嫁给罗纳德。他出身高贵，可是名声很坏，我父亲直截了当地告诉我，他是一个坏蛋，我不相信。有了我，他会洗心革面……”她沉默了一会儿，回忆着往事。 
　　“罗纳德是一个能使人神魂颠倒的男人。我父亲对他的评价恰如其分。我很快也看穿了他。这里说的都是老实话，但是他伤透了我的心，是的，他伤透了我的心。我时时都在：提心吊胆，不知道第二天会发生什么。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生听别人的遭遇时总是聚精会神。现在他轻轻地发出一声叹息，以表示他的同情。 
　　“这些事说起来真令人厌恶，萨特思韦特先生，直到他患了肺炎死去，我才得到解脱……这不是说我不关心他……我爱他直到最后，但是，我对他已经不再有幻想。而且，我有了蛋蛋……”她的声音变得柔和起来。 
　　“蛋蛋是一个多么有趣的小东西，她胖得很匀称，像圆滚滚的小肉球。她常常会撑着爬起来，随后又滚倒在地上，就像一个鸡蛋似的。于是，我就给她取了这个可笑的小名儿她停了一会儿又说： 
　　“最近几年我读过的一些书给予我很大的安慰。都是些心理学方面的书，作者表明，在许多方面，人是不能自助的，就像一个绞缠的纽结。有时候，在那些最有教养的家庭中，你会发现这种纽结。罗纳德小时候在学校里偷人家的钱，可他并不需要这些钱。现在我才意识到，他已经不能自拔…… 
　　他，主下来就带着一个纽结……”玛丽夫人用小手绢轻轻地擦了擦眼睛。 
　　“这并不是我长大以后才相信的道理，”她抱歉他说，“我受的教育使我懂得，人人都知道是与非的区别。从某种意义上讲，我经常发现事情并非如此。” 
　　“人的思想是一种最神秘的东西。”萨特思韦特先生慢慢他说，“然而，我们要千方百计地去了解它，除了严重的癫狂病患者，某些人的本性中缺乏我要向你描述的刹车装置。 
　　如果我们说‘我恨某某人，我希望他死掉’，这些话一经说出，那种念头就会从我们的大脑中掠过，这时，刹车装置就会自动起作用。但是，有些人有了杀人的念头，这种恶魔般的欲望就会保存下来。他们别的什么也看不见，一心只希望头脑中形成的这种念头立即得到实现。” 
　　“我想，”玛丽夫人说，“对我来说，这些东西大深奥了。” 
　　“对不起。我说得大学究气了。” 
　　“你的意思是，现在的年轻人太缺乏对自己的约束。这事常常使我不高兴。” 
　　“不，不，我根本不是这个意思。我想，缺乏约束是件好事，有益于身心健康嘛，我猜你想到的是……呕……蛋蛋小姐。” 
　　“你最好叫她蛋蛋。”玛丽夫人笑道。 
　　“谢谢你。蛋蛋小姐这个名字听起来确实可笑”“蛋蛋是个感情冲动的人。一旦她下决心做某件事情，无论什么也不能制止她。就像我以前说过的那样，我讨厌她搀和到你们这件事当中去，但是她不听我的劝。” 
　　听见玛丽夫人说话时那种沮丧的声调，萨特思韦特先生笑了。他沉思着： 
　　“不知道她是否有丝毫察觉，蛋蛋姑娘沉溺于犯罪侦查，实际是那个古老而又古老的游戏的不折不扣的变种——即女性追求男性。她不会想到的，如果想到了，她会毛骨惊然。” 
　　“蛋蛋说，巴宾顿先生也是被毒死的。你认为这是真的吗，萨特思韦特先生？或许，这只是蛋蛋各种各样的推断之一～，“检查尸体之后，我们就能确切地知道真相。” 
　　“那么，将要解剖尸体了？”玛丽夫人战粟了。“对于可怜的巴宾顿大太来说，这太可怕了。对于任何女人来说，没有比这更可怕的了。” 
　　“你跟巴宾顿一家关系相当密切，玛丽夫人，是吗？” 
　　“确实是这样。他们是……过去是我们的好朋友。” 
　　“在你认识的人当中，有谁可能对那位教区牧师怀有忌妒之心？” 
　　“没有，确实没有。” 
　　“他也从未提到过有这样的人？” 
　　“没有”“他们俩相处很好吗？” 
　　“非常融洽。他们互敬互爱，与孩子们和睦相处。当然，他们景况不好。巴宾顿先生患了风湿关节炎，这是他们家惟一的麻烦。” 
　　“奥利弗•曼德斯与牧师关系如何？” 
　　“这个……”玛丽夫人犹豫了一会儿，“他们相处得不是很和谐。巴宾顿一家对奥利弗不太满意。一到假期，他常常去牧师住宅与巴宾顿家的男孩们玩耍，只是他们之间相处也不太好。奥利弗确实是一个有名气的男孩。他吹嘘自己如何有钱，带到学校的食品如何丰盛，以及他在伦敦的种种逸闻趣事。但孩子们对这一切都元动于衷。” 
　　“是这样。但后来呢？在他长大以后怎么样？” 
　　“我想，他和住在牧师住宅里的人们后来就不大见面了。事实上，有一天奥利弗对待巴宾顿先生相当粗鲁，就在这儿，在我的家里，那是大约两年前的事”“发生了什么？” 
　　“奥利弗对基督教进行了相当恶意的攻击。巴宾顿先生对他非常有耐心，而且也很客气。这反而使奥利弗变本加厉，他说：‘只因为我的父亲和母亲没有结过婚，你们所有信教的人就蔑视我。我想，你们会把我叫作‘罪恶之子’。我崇敬那些对自己个人的信念充满勇气的人，崇敬他们对伪君子和牧师们的思想不屑一顾的精神。’巴宾顿先生没有回答，奥利弗继续说道：‘你无法回答。正是教会中心主义和迷信将整个世界抛进了混乱之中。我要将全世界所有的教堂扫荡干净。’巴宾顿先生笑着说：‘也包括牧师吧？’我想他的微笑激怒了奥利弗，他感到他的话没有被认真对待。他接着说，‘我恨教会所代表的一切：自命不凡，四平八稳，虚假伪善。我说，要铲除只会说假话的这个群体！’巴宾顿先生又笑了。他笑得十分甜蜜。他说：‘我亲爱的孩子，假如你要扫除已经建起来，或者计划要建起来的所有教堂，那么你就只能找上帝算账了。’”“小曼德斯对此如何回答？” 
　　“他好像被吓了一跳，接着他恢复了刚才的脾气和冷嘲热讽的说话方式。” 
　　“他说，‘恐怕我说的这些话是很不中听的，而且，你们这一代人也是很难领悟的。’”萨特恩韦特先生说：“你不喜欢小曼德斯，是吗，玛丽夫人？” 
　　“我为他感到难过。”玛丽夫人没有正面回答。 
　　“但是你不会喜欢他娶蛋蛋。” 
　　“哦，不”“具体他说，这是为什么？” 
　　“因为……因为他不善良……而且……”“怎么样？” 
　　“因为他身上有问题，但是，我还不理解。只感到有些冷酷的东西……”萨特思韦特先生若有所思地朝她看了好一会儿，然后说道： 
　　“巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇认为他怎么样？提起过他吗”“记得他说，他发现小曼德斯是一个有趣的研究对象。 
　　他说小曼德斯使他想起他当时在疗养院治疗的一个病人。 
　　我说，奥利弗看起来身体健壮，他说：‘是的，他的健康没问题，但是他很危险。’”她停了一会儿又说： 
　　“我想，巴塞罗缨爵土是一个聪明的精神病专家。” 
　　“我相信他在同行中德高望重。” 
　　“我喜欢他。”玛丽夫人说。 
　　“他向你说起过有关巴宾顿的死吗？” 
　　“没有。” 
　　“他从来没有提起过吗？” 
　　“从来没有。” 
　　“你认为他会想些什么呢？由于你不太了解他，这样谈会有困难”“看来他情绪很好，甚至常常因为某件事发笑，自己也开开玩笑。那晚宴会时他告诉我，他要让我大吃一惊。” 
　　“哦！他是这样说的吗”在回家的路上，萨特思韦特先生一直在思索那句话。 
　　巴塞罗缨爵士打算要让他的客人大吃一惊的东西是什么？ 
　　他要做的事会不会像他想象的那样，能让大家取乐呢？ 
　　或者，他这风趣的谈话方式隐藏着一个不露声色然而毫不动摇的目的？这个目的会有谁知道吗？
CHAPTER 3 Re-Enter Hercule Poirot
15 
“Frankly,” said Sir Charles, “are we any forrader?” 
It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting in the Ship-room. A fire burned in the grate, and outside an equinoctial gale was howling. 
Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the question simultaneously. 
“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Yes,” said Egg. 
Sir Charles looked from one to the other of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully that the lady should speak first. 
Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting her ideas. 
“We are further on,” she said at last. “We are further on because we haven’t found out anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn’t. What I mean is that we had certain vague sketchy ideas; we know now that certain of those ideas are definitely washouts.” 
“Progress by elimination,” said Sir Charles. 
“That’s it.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. He liked to define things. 
“The idea of gain we can now put definitely away,” he said. “There does not seem to be anybody who (in detective story parlance) could benefit by Stephen Babbington’s death. Revenge seems equally out of the question. Apart from his naturally amiable and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he were important enough to make enemies. So we are back at our last rather sketchy idea - fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security.” 
“That’s rather well put,” said Egg. 
Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed. His was the star part, not Satterthwaite’s. 
“The point is,” said Egg, “what are we going to do next - actually do, I mean. Are we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we going to disguise ourselves and follow them?” 
“My dear child,” said Sir Charles, “I always did set my face against playing old men in beards, and I’m not going to begin now.” 
“Then what - ?” began Egg. 
But she was interrupted. The door opened, and Temple announced: 
“Mr. Hercule Poirot.” 
M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face and greeted three highly astonished people. 
“It is permitted,” he said with a twinkle, “that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not - it is a conference?” 
“My dear fellow, we’re delighted to see you.” Sir Charles, recovering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand and pushed him into a large armchair. “Where have you sprung from so suddenly?” 
“I went to call upon my good friend Mr. Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is away - in Cornwell. Eh bien, it leaps to the eye where he has gone. I take the first train to Loomouth, and here I am.” 
“Yes,” said Egg. “But why have you come?” 
“I mean,” she went on, flushing a little as she realised the possible discourtesy of her words, “you have come for some particular reason?” 
“I have come,” said Hercule Poirot, “to admit an error.” 
With an engaging smile he turned to Sir Charles and spread out his hands in a foreign gesture. 
“Monsieur, it was in this very room that you declared yourself not satisfied. And I - I thought it was your dramatic instinct - I said to myself, he is a great actor, at all costs he must have drama. It seemed, I will admit it, incredible that a harmless old gentleman should have died anything but a natural death. Even now I do not see how poison could have been administered to him, nor can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd - fantastic. And yet - since then, there has been another death, a death under similar circumstances. One cannot attribute it to coincidence. No, there must be a link between the two. And so, Sir Charles, I have come up to you to apologise - to say I, Hercule Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit me to your councils.” 
Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously. He looked a little embarrassed. 
“That’s extraordinary handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don’t know - taking up a lot of your time - I - ” 
He stopped, somewhere at a loss. His eyes consulted Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“It is very good of you - ” began Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“No, no, it is not good of me. It is the curiosity - and, yes, the hurt to my pride. I must repair my fault. My time - that is nothing - why voyage after all? The language may be different, but everywhere human nature is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude - ” 
Both men spoke at once. 
“No, indeed.” 
“Rather not.” 
Poirot turned his eyes to the girl. 
“And Mademoiselle?” 
For a minute or two Egg was silent, and on all three men the same impression was produced. Egg did not want the assistance of M. 
Poirot ... 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why. This was the private ploy of Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr. Satterthwaite had been admitted - on sufferance - on the clear understanding that he was a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot was different. His would be the leading role. Perhaps, even, Sir Charles might retire in his favour. And then Egg’s plans would come to naught. 
He watched the girl, sympathising with her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realised her dilemma. Egg was fighting for her happiness ... 
What would she say? 
After all what could she say? How could she speak the thoughts in her mind? “Go away - go away - your coming may spoil everything - 
I don’t want you here ... ” 
Egg Lytton Gore said the only thing she could say. 
“Of course,” she said with a little smile. “We’d love to have you.”
第三章　波洛重新登场
第三章　波洛重新登场
　　“坦白说吧，”查尔斯爵士说，“我们要不要继续干下去呢”这是一个战斗的群体。查尔斯爵士、萨特思韦特先生和蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔坐在“船舱大厅”里。壁炉里的火正在燃烧。半夜的狂风在窗外呼啸。 
　　萨特思韦特先生和蛋蛋姑娘的回答大相径庭。 
　　“不。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“要。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　查尔斯爵士看看这一个，又看看那一个。萨特思韦特客气地表示，女士先说。 
　　蛋蛋沉默了好一会儿，冥思苦想着。 
　　“我们一定要继续干下去。”她终于说，“要干下去，因为我们什么也没有查出来。听起来真是荒唐胡闹，但事实并非如此。我的意思是，我们已经有了一些模糊的轮廓式的想法，现在我们知道，有些想法肯定不能成立。” 
　　“运用排除法。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“正是那样。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生清了清嗓子。他希望把事情解释清楚。 
　　“要谋财的想法，现在可以完全抛开。”他说，“看起来至今还没有任何一个人（用侦探小说里的说法）能够从斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的死亡谋取钱财。报仇也同样是不可能的。除了他那天生的和蔼可亲和与世元争的性格之外，他并非是什么足以树敌的重要人物。所以，我们只有回到最后那种更加模糊的想法——恐惧。通过斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的死可以看出，有人已逍遥法外。” 
　　“说得太好了。”蛋蛋说。 
　　萨特思韦特先生和颜悦色。查尔斯爵士显得有点儿烦恼。他是明星的角色，不是萨特思韦特先生这种配角。 
　　“问题是，”蛋蛋说，“我们下一步该干什么。我指的是，具体要做些什么。我们要去侦查什么人，或者什么事情吗？ 
　　我们要不要乔装打扮，然后去追踪他们呢？” 
　　“我亲爱的孩子，”查尔斯爵士说，“我过去总是反对扮演长胡子的老人，现在也不打算那样做。” 
　　“那么，做什么……”蛋蛋正要讲下去，就被打断了。门开了，女仆坦普尔通报说： 
　　“赫尔克里•波洛先生到了。” 
　　波洛先生容光焕发地走了进来，他向异常惊讶的三个人打了招呼。 
　　“我被允许，”他眨了眨眼说，“前来参加你们的会议，助一臂之力。你们在开会。我说对了，还是错了？” 
　　“亲爱的朋友，我们非常高兴能见到你。”查尔斯爵士说。他从惊讶中恢复过来，上前与他的客人热情地握手，井把他拉到一张大扶手椅那儿坐下。“你是从哪儿突然冒出来的？” 
　　“在伦敦时，我曾拜访过老朋友萨特思韦特先生。他告诉我，他要离开伦敦，到康沃尔郡。Ehbien，他到了什么地方，我了如指掌。我乘第一班火车到了鲁茅斯，就来这儿了。” 
　　“是的。”蛋蛋姑娘说，“可你来这儿做什么？” 
　　当她意识到自己的话有失礼貌，脸上便起了红晕。她继续说道：“我是说，你来这儿有特殊使命吧？” 
　　“我来这儿，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“是要承认错误。” 
　　他带着一种动人的微笑，转身对着查尔斯爵士，以一种异样的姿势向他伸开双手。 
　　“先生，正是在这间屋子里，你曾宣布你并不满意。而且——我想这是你戏剧家的本能，我对自己说，他是一个大演员。无论花什么代价，他都要拥有戏剧。我承认，一位与世元争的老绅士竟死于非命，这简直令人难以置信。即使是现在，我仍然不清楚是怎样对他下毒的，也不能猜出其中有何动机。看起来实在荒唐，不可思议。然而，那以后又出现了第二次死亡事件——情况相似的死亡，人们不会认为那是巧合。不是的，两者之间必定有某种联系。所以，查尔斯爵士，我来这儿向你道歉：我，赫尔克里•波洛，判断错误，还请求你允许我加入你们的行列。” 
　　查尔斯爵士神经质地清了清喉咙，显得有些为难。 
　　“你做得真漂亮，波洛先生。我不知道……这会花费你很多时间……我……”他停下来，若有所失。他用眼睛向萨特思韦特先生征求意见。 
　　“你真好……”萨特思韦特开始说。 
　　“不，不，我有什么好。这是一种好奇心，而且，对了，是对我的自满的一种刺激。我必须弥补我的过失。我的时间——那算得了什么——毕竟一个人干吗要来世上走一遭呢？所用的语言可能不一样，但无论在哪儿，人性都是一样的。当然，如果你们不欢迎我，如果你们认为我会干扰……”两个男人同时说道： 
　　“不，不是那样。” 
　　“不会的”波洛把目光转向姑娘。 
　　“小姐的意见呢？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘沉默了好一会儿。三个男人有一个共同的印象：蛋蛋姑娘不想要波洛先生的帮助…… 
　　萨特思韦特先生认为他知道其中的原因。这是查尔斯•卡特赖特和蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔两人之间的游戏。萨特思韦特先生的心里一清二楚，他自己只是一个微不足道的陪衬。但是，赫尔克里•波洛可大不相同。他有可能成为主角。要是查尔斯爵士愿意让贤，那么蛋蛋姑娘的计划可就落空了。 
　　他看着姑娘，十分同情她的窘境。这些男人并不理解她，只有他以一种对于女人的敏感，意识到了她的尴尬。蛋蛋要为她的幸福而奋斗…… 
　　她会说些什么呢？ 
　　然而，她又能说什么呢？她怎么可能吐露内心的想法呢？“走吧，走吧！你一来就会破坏一切。我不希望你在这儿搀和……”然而蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔只说了她应当说的话。 
　　“当然，”她淡淡一笑说道，“我们都很欢迎你加入我们的行列。”
CHAPTER 4 A Watching Brief
16 
“Good,” said Poirot. “We are colleagues. Eh bien, you will put me, if you please, au courant of the situation.” 
He listened with close attention whilst Mr. Satterthwaite outlined the steps they had taken since returning to England. Mr. Satterthwaite was a good narrator. He had the faculty of creating an atmosphere, of painting a picture. His description of the Abbey, of the servants, of the Chief Constable was admirable. Poirot was warm in his appreciation of the discovery by Sir Charles of the unfinished letters under the fire. 
“Ah, mais c’est magnifique, ?a! ” he exclaimed ecstatically. “The deduction, the reconstruction - perfect! You should have been a great detective, Sir Charles, instead of a great actor.” 
Sir Charles received these plaudits with becoming modesty - his own particular brand of modesty. He had not received compliments on his stage performances for many years without perfecting a manner of acknowledging them. 
“Your observation, too, it was very just,” said Poirot, turning to Mr. Satterthwaite. “That point of yours about his sudden familiarity with the butler.” 
“Do you think there is anything in this Mrs. de Rushbridger idea?” 
asked Sir Charles eagerly. 
“It is an idea. It suggests - well, it suggests several things, does it not?” 
Nobody was quite sure about the several things, but nobody liked to say so, so there was merely an assenting murmur. 
Sir Charles took up the tale next. He described his and Egg’s visit to Mrs. Babbington and its rather negative result. 
“And now you’re up to date,” he said. “You know what we do. Tell us: how does it all strike you?” 
He leaned forward, boyishly eager. 
Poirot was silent for some minutes. The other three watched him. He said at last: 
“Can you remember at all, mademoiselle, what type of port glass Sir Bartholomew had on his table?” 
Sir Charles interposed just as Egg was shaking her head vexedly. 
“I can tell you that.” 
He got up and went to the cupboard, where he took out some heavy cut-glass sherry glasses. 
“They were a slightly different shape, of course - more rounded - proper port shape. He got them at old Lammersfield’s sale - a whole set of table glass. I admired them, and as there were more than they needed, he passed some of them on to me. They’re good, aren’t they?” 
Poirot took the glass and turned it about in his hand. 
“Yes,” he said. “They are fine specimens. I thought something of that kind had been used.” 
“Why?” cried Egg. 
Poirot merely smiled at her. 
“Yes,” he went on, “the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange could be explained easily enough; but the death of Stephen Babbington is more difficult. Ah, if only it had been the other way about!” 
“What do you mean, the other way about?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. Poirot turned to him. 
“Consider, my friend. Sir Bartholomew is a celebrated doctor. There might be many reasons for the death of a celebrated doctor. A doctor knows secrets, my friend, important secrets. A doctor has certain powers. Imagine a patient on the borderline of sanity. A word from the doctor, and the will be shut away from the world - what a temptation to an unbalanced brain! A doctor may have suspicions about the sudden death of his patients - oh, yes, we can find plenty of motives for the death of a doctor. 
“Now, as I say, if only it had been the other way about. If Sir Bartholomew Strange had died first and then Stephen Babbington. For Stephen Babbington might have seen something - might have suspected something about the first death.” 
He sighed and then resumed. 
“But one cannot have a case as one would like to have it. One must take a case as it is. Just one little idea I should like to suggest. I suppose it is not possible that Stephen Babbington’s death was an accident - that the poison (if poison there was) was intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange, and that, the wrong man was killed.” 
“That’s an ingenious idea,” said Sir Charles. His face, which had brightened, fell again. “But I don’t believe it will work. Babbington came into this room about four minutes before he was taken ill. During that time the only thing that passed his lips was half a cocktail - there was nothing in the cocktail - ” 
Poirot interrupted him. 
“That you have already told me - but suppose, for the sake of argument, that there was something in that cocktail. Could it have been intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange and did Mr. Babbington drink it by mistake?” 
Sir Charles shook his head. 
“Nobody who knew Tollie at all well would have tried poisoning him in a cocktail. 
Why?” 
“Because he never drank them.” 
“Never?” 
“Never.” 
Poirot made a gesture of annoyance. 
“Ah - this business - it goes all wrong. It does not make sense ... ” 
“Besides,” went on Sir Charles, “I don’t see how any one glass could have been mistaken for another - or anything of that kind. Temple carried them round on a tray and everyone helped themselves to any glass they fancied.” 
“True,” murmured Poirot. “One cannot force a cocktail like one forces a card. What is she like, this Temple of yours? She is the maid who admitted me tonight - yes?” 
“That’s right. I’ve had her three or four years - nice steady girl - knows her work. I don’t know where she came from - Miss Milray would know all about that.” 
“Miss Milray, that is your secretary? The tall woman - somewhat of the Grenadier?” 
“Very much of the Grenadier,” agreed Sir Charles. 
“I have dined with you before on various occasions, but I do not think I met her until that night.” 
“No, she doesn’t usually dine with us. It was a question of thirteen, you see.” 
Sir Charles explained the circumstances, to which Poirot listened very attentively. 
“It was her own suggestion that she should be present? I see.” 
He remained lost in thought a minute, then she said: 
“Might I speak to this parlourmaid of yours, this Temple?” 
“Certainly, my dear fellow.” 
Sir Charles pressed a bell. It was answered promptly. 
“You rang, sir?” 
Temple was a tall girl of thirty-two or three. She had a certain smartness - her hair was well brushed and glossy, but she was not pretty. Her manner was calm and efficient. 
“M. Poirot wants to ask you a few questions,” said Sir Charles. Temple transferred her superior gaze to Poirot. 
“We are talking of the night when Mr. Babbington died here,” said Poirot. “You remember that night?” 
“Oh, yes, sir.” 
“I want to know exactly how cocktails were served.” 
“I beg your pardon, sir.” 
“I want to know about the cocktails. Did you mix them?” 
“No, sir, Sir Charles liked doing that himself. I brought in the bottle - the vermouth, the gin, and all that.” 
“Where did you put them?” 
“On the table there, sir.” 
She indicated a table by the wall. 
“The tray with the glasses stood here, sir. Sir Charles, when he had finished mixing and shaking, poured out the cocktails into the glasses. Then I took the tray round and handed it to the ladies and gentlemen.” 
“Were all the cocktails on the tray you handed?” 
“Sir Charles gave one to Miss Lytton Gore, sir; he was talking to her at the time, and he took his own. And Mr. Satterthwaite - ” her eyes shifted to him for a moment “ - came and fetched one for a lady - Miss Wills, I think it was.” 
“Quite right,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“The others I handed, sir; I think everyone took one except Sir Bartholomew.” 
“Will you be so very obliging, Temple, as to repeat the performance. Let us put cushions for some of the people. I stood here, I remember - Miss Sutcliffe was there.” 
With Mr. Satterthwaite’s help, the scene was reconstructed. Mr. Satterthwaite was observant. He remembered fairly well where everyone had been in the room. Then Temple did her round. They ascertained that she had started with Mrs. Dacres, gone on to Miss Sutcliffe and Poirot, and had then come to Mr. Babbington, Lady Mary and Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been sitting together. 
This agreed with Mr. Satterthwaite’s recollection. 
Finally Temple was dismissed. 
“Pah,” cried Poirot. “It does not make sense. Temple is the last person to handle those cocktails, but it was impossible for her to tamper with them in any way, and, as I say, one cannot force a cocktail on a particular person.” 
“It’s instinctive to take the one nearest to you,” said Sir Charles. 
“Possibly that might work by handing the tray to the person first - but then it would be very uncertain. The glasses are close together; one does not look particularly nearer than another. No, no, such a haphazard method could not adopted. Tell me, Mr. Satterthwaite, did Mr. Babbington put his cocktail down, or did he retain it in his hand?” 
“He put it down on this table.” 
“Did anyone come near that table after he had done so?” 
“No. I was the nearest person to him, and I assure you I did not tamper with it in any way - even if I could have done so unobserved.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite spoke rather stiffly. Poirot hastened to apologise. 
“No, no, I am not making an accusation - quelle idée! But I want to be very sure of my facts. According to the analysis there was nothing out of the way in that cocktail - now it seems that, apart from that analysis there could have been nothing put in it. The same results from two different tests. But Mr. Babbington ate or drank nothing else, and if he was poisoned by pure nicotine, death would have resulted very rapidly. You see where that leads us?” 
“Nowhere, damn it all,” said Sir Charles. 
“I would not say that - no, I would not say that. It suggests a very monstrous idea - which I hope and trust cannot be true. No, of course it is not true - the death of Sir Bartholomew proves that ... And yet - ” 
He frowned, lost in thought. The others watched him curiously. He looked up. 
“You see my point, do you not? Mrs. Babbington was not at Melfort Abbey, therefore Mrs. Babbington is cleared of suspicion.” 
Poirot smiled beneficently. 
“No? It is a curious thing that. The idea occurred to me at once - but at once. If the poor gentleman is not poisoned by the cocktail, then he must have been poisoned a very few minutes before entering the house. What way could there be? A capsule? Something, perhaps, to prevent indigestion. But who, then, could tamper with that? Only a wife. Who might, perhaps, have a motive that no one outside could possibly suspect? Again a wife.” 
“But they were devoted to each other,” cried Egg indignantly. “You don’t understand a bit.” 
Poirot smiled kindly at her. 
“No. That is valuable. You know, but I do not. I see the facts unbiased by any preconceived notions. And let me tell you something, mademoiselle - in the course of my experience I have known five cases of wives murdered by devoted husband, and twenty-two of husbands murdered by devoted wives. Les femmes, they obviously keep up appearances better.” 
“I think you’re perfectly horrid,” said Egg. “I know the Babbingtons are not like that. It’s - it’s monstrous!” 
“Murder is monstrous, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, and there was a sudden sternness in his voice. 
He went on in a lighter tone. 
“But I - who see only the facts - agree that Mrs. Babbington did not do this thing. You see, she was not at Melfort Abbey. No, as Sir Charles had already said, the guilt must lie on a person who was present on both occasions - one of the seven on your list.” 
There was a silence. 
“And how do you advise us to act?” asked Satterthwaite. 
“You have doubtless already your plan?” suggested Poirot. 
Sir Charles cleared his throat. 
“The only feasible thing seems to be a process of elimination,” he said. “My idea was to take each person on that list and consider them guilty until they are proved innocent. I mean that we are to feel convinced ourselves that there is a connection between that person and Stephen Babbington, and we are to use ingenuity to find out what that connection can be. If we find no connection, then we pass on to the next person.” 
“It is good psychology, that,” approved Poirot. “And your method?” 
“That we have not yet had time to discuss. We should welcome your advice on that point, M. Poirot. Perhaps you yourself - ” 
Poirot held up a hand. 
“My friend, do not ask me to do anything of an active nature. It is my lifelong conviction that any problem is best solved by thought. Let me hold what is called, I believe, the watching brief. Continue your investigation which Sir Charles is so ably directing - ” 
“And what about me?” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “These actors! 
Always in the limelight playing the star part!” 
“You will, perhaps, from time to time require what we may describe as Counsel’s opinion. Me, I am the Counsel.” 
He smiled at Egg. 
“Does that strike you as the sense, mademoiselle?” 
“Excellent,” said Egg. “I’m sure your experience will be very useful to us.” 
Her face looked relieved. She glanced at her watch and gave an exclamation. 
“I must go home. Mother will have a fit.” 
“I’ll drive you home,” said Sir Charles. 
They went out together.
第四章　侦查简报
第四章　侦查简报

　　“好呀，”波洛说，“我们是同事了。好吧，如果你们愿意，请让我熟悉一下情况。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生简要地介绍了他们回到英国以后所采取的步骤，波洛十分认真地听着。萨特思韦特先生很善于讲解，他有创造一种气氛或描绘一张图画的本领。他对修道院、对仆人们、对警察局长的描述都很精彩。波洛对查尔斯爵土在壁炉底下发现未完成的信件表示十分赞赏。 
　　“呀！这太了不起了！”他欣喜若狂地叫起来，“这种推理，这种设想，真是妙极了！查尔斯爵士，你本来应当成为一个大侦探，而不是一个名演员。” 
　　查尔斯爵士有礼貌地接受了对他的赞许。这是一种特殊的礼貌。多年以来，每当他在演出后接受观众的称赞时，毫无例外地要以一种完美的方式来答谢他们。 
　　“你的观察也是很准确的。”波洛说着，转身对着萨特思韦特先生，“关于他与管家突然亲热起来的分析，也是很准确的。” 
　　“你认为我们对德•拉什布里杰太大的判断有什么问题吗？”查尔斯爵士急急地问道。 
　　“这只是一种设想。这个……它有很多可能性，对吧？” 
　　对这些可能性，谁也拿不准？但是谁也不愿那样说，所以只能说谋杀只是一种勉强的判断。 
　　查尔斯爵士接着介绍了他们后来的查询情况。他讲述他与蛋蛋姑娘拜访巴宾顿太大的情形，以及无功而返的结果。 
　　“你是个高级侦探，”他说，“你知道我们该做什么。告诉我们吧，我们说的这些情况，你是怎么看的”他孩子般地凑上前去，渴望着波洛的回答。 
　　波洛沉默了好一阵子。另外三个人看着他。 
　　他终于说道： 
　　“你还记得吗，小姐，巴塞罗缪爵士放在他餐桌上的是哪一种酒杯？” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘不耐烦地摇摇头。这时，查尔斯爵士插嘴说： 
　　“我可以告诉你。” 
　　他站起身来，走到一个厨柜前，从里面取出几个很厚的饮雪利酒的刻花玻璃杯。 
　　“不过，它们的形状有一点不同——更圆一些，正宗的葡萄酒杯。他从拉默斯菲尔德老店买来的，是一整套玻璃餐具。我非常欣赏。于是他把用不完的几个杯子给了我。它们不错，是吧？” 
　　波洛拿了一个酒杯，在手中反复观看着。 
　　“是的，”他说，“这是精品。我认为跟这相同的东西被利用了。” 
　　“为什么这样说／蛋蛋叫起来。 
　　波洛只是向她微微一笑。 
　　“是的，”他继续说，“巴塞罗缪•斯特兰奇爵士的死，很容易就能解释清楚，但斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的死就困难一些。 
　　哦，要是顺序不同，就好办了！” 
　　“你这是什么意思？顺序不同？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　波洛转身对着他说： 
　　“你想想吧，我的朋友，巴塞罗缨爵土是一个出色的医生。一个出色医生的死亡，会有很多原因。医生可以知道很多秘密，我的朋友，很重要的秘密。医生有某种特权。可以想象，一个处于危险的病人，只要医生一句话，就会被赶出这个世界。对于一个神志不清的人来说，他真是一个恶魔！ 
　　医生对于他的病人的突然死亡，可能会有疑义。好啦，这样看来，对于医生的死，我们能够发现各种各样的作案动机。 
　　“刚才我说，要是顺序不同就好了，现在告诉你，如果巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵土先死，然后才能轮到斯蒂芬•巴宾顿，那就好办了。因为，斯蒂芬•巴宾顿可能会察觉某些事情。他可能会对第一个人的死提出疑问。” 
　　他叹了一口气，又开始说： 
　　“但是，事与愿违。我们只有面对现实。我愿意提供一个小小的看法。我认为，斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的死，不可能是偶然的。是有人下毒（如果有毒的话），目的是要毒死巴塞罗缪•斯特兰奇爵土，可是却错将巴宾顿给毒死了。” 
　　“这是……个聪明的想法。”查尔斯爵士说，他那容光焕发的脸，现在变得阴沉起来。“但我相信它不可能成立。巴宾顿进入客厅四分钟以后，他就病倒了。在这段时间里，进入他口中的东西，只有半杯鸡尾酒。而鸡尾酒中什么也没有波洛打断了他的话： 
　　“刚才你已经告诉过我了。但是，我有不同的意见。假如鸡尾酒确实是有问题，那么，是有意要毒害巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的呢，还是巴宾顿先生喝错了酒？” 
　　查尔斯爵士摇摇头。 
　　“跟托利熟悉的人，没有谁会在鸡尾酒中下毒谋害他。” 
　　“为什么？” 
　　“因为他从来不喝鸡尾酒。” 
　　“从来都不喝吗？” 
　　“从来不喝。” 
　　波洛做了一个表示为难的手势。 
　　“哎呀，这事儿，全部弄错了。真是白费劲儿……”“还有，”查尔斯爵士继续说，“我不明白，一个人的酒杯怎么会被别人拿错了，还有诸如此类的事情。但普尔端着托盘轮流给大家送洒，每一个人都是自己拿他想要的酒。” 
　　“是这样。”波洛小声咕哝着，“每个人都不会强迫别人拿起鸡尾酒，不像打牌，发什么牌都非要不可；女仆是什么样子？就是你的那位但普尔。是今晚带我进来的那位女仆，对吗？” 
　　“对，对。我聘她已经三四年了。是个挺稳重的好女孩，干活很认真。我不知道她是从哪儿来的。米尔雷小姐对她的情况很了解。” 
　　“米尔雷小姐？就是你那个秘书吧？一个高个子女人，像个又高又大的掷弹兵，对吗？” 
　　“是这样。” 
　　“以前有很多次，我跟你一起吃过饭，但是，我记得那天晚上以前，可从来没有见过她。” 
　　“是的。她通常是不跟我们一起吃饭的。你知道，那天是避讳不吉利的十三这个数字。” 
　　查尔斯爵士解释的时候，波洛聚精会神地听着。 
　　“我看，是她自己建议要来参加宴会的吧？” 
　　他沉思了一会儿，然后说： 
　　“我可以跟你的那位客厅女仆但普尔谈谈吗？” 
　　“当然可以，我亲爱的朋友。” 
　　查尔斯爵士摁了摁铃，马上就有人应答。 
　　“你抿铃吗，先生？” 
　　但普尔是个三十二三岁的高个儿姑娘，她容貌端庄、头发梳理整洁，很有光泽。她并不漂亮，但举止文静，干事利落。 
　　“波洛先生想问你几个问题。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　但普尔把目光从她的主人转向波洛。 
　　“我们正在谈论巴宾顿先生在这儿死去那天晚上的事情。”波洛说道，“你还记得那个晚上吗？” 
　　“哦，是的，先生”“我想确切地知道鸡尾酒是怎么送给客人的。” 
　　“对不起，请您再说一遍，先生。” 
　　“我想知道鸡尾酒的情况，是你调制的吗？” 
　　“不，先生，查尔斯爵士自己调制。我把酒杯端给他，还有苦艾酒、杜松子酒和所有的东西”“你把这些东西放在哪儿？” 
　　“就放在那张餐桌上，先生。” 
　　她指了指靠墙的一张桌子。 
　　“酒杯托盘就放在这儿，先生。查尔斯爵士混合好了以后就开始摇匀，然后倒进每个杯子里，接着我端起托盘走一圈，把酒递给女士们和先生们。” 
　　“托盘上所有的鸡尾酒都是你递给客人的吗？” 
　　“查尔斯爵士拿了一杯递给利顿•戈尔小姐，他那时正在跟她谈话。他自己也拿了一杯，先生。萨特思韦特先生走过来，”她的目光移到他脸上。“他端了一杯送给一位女士。 
　　我记得是威尔斯小姐。” 
　　“完全是这样。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“其他的酒都是我端的，先生。我记得，除了巴塞罗缨爵士以外，每个人都有一杯酒。” 
　　“但普尔，麻烦你再表演一下当时的情景好吗？让我们把这些坐垫用来充当客人。我站这儿，我记得……萨克利夫小姐在那儿。” 
　　在萨特思韦特帮助下，当时的场景就布置好了。萨特思韦特先生是个善于观察的人。他清清楚楚地记得每一个人在客厅里的位置。于是，但普尔开始转圈送酒。他们看清了她是从戴克斯大大那儿开始的，随后是萨克利夫小姐和波洛，然后来到巴宾顿先生、玛丽夫人和萨特思韦特先生前面，他们三人是坐在一起的。 
　　这跟萨特思韦特先生的回忆是一致的。 
　　最后，但普尔退了出去。 
　　“晦，”波洛叫起来，“这有何用。但普尔是最后端鸡尾酒的人，但她无论如何都不可能擅自改变这些酒。我说过，每个人都不会强迫别人拿起鸡尾酒”“人人都会很自然地拿起离自己最近的那一杯酒。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“托盘有可能先送给要谋害的那个人，但这样做也不保险。所有的酒杯都是紧靠着，很难看出哪一个杯子比其他的离客人要近一些。不，不。这种完全没有把握的手段不可能被采纳。告诉我，萨特思韦特先生，巴宾顿先生把他的酒杯放下过吗？还是一直拿在手里？” 
　　“他把酒杯放在餐桌上。” 
　　“他放杯以后，有谁走到餐桌旁边吗？” 
　　“没有。我是离他最近的人，可我没动那个杯子，请您相信，即使我那样做了也不会有人发现的／萨特思韦特先生谈论时口气很生硬，波洛连忙向他道歉。 
　　“不，不，我不是在非难你-好一个主意！但是我想弄清事实。根据分析，鸡尾酒里没有异常物品，不管分析的情况如何，现在看来也不可能有什么东西被放在酒里。两种不同的考察得到了同一个结果。只是巴宾顿没有吃过或喝过别的东西。要是他是被纯尼古丁毒害的，那么死亡是相当迅速的。你们看看这样的分析会使我们进展到哪一步？” 
　　“毫无进展，真该死。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“我不那样看。不，我不会那样看。它暗示着一种非常奇特的可能性。但愿那不是真的。不，当然不是真的……巴宾顿爵士的死证明了……而且还是……”他皱起眉头，陷入了沉思。其他人好奇地看着他。他抬起头来；“你们明白了我的观点，是吗？梅尔福特修道院的宴会，巴宾顿太太不在场，因此，巴宾顿太太可以被排除嫌疑。” 
　　“巴宾顿大太……但是做梦也不会有人怀疑她啊。” 
　　波洛善意地笑起来。 
　　“不会吗？这是一桩奇特的案件。我只是在一瞬间闪过这个念头——仅仅一瞬间。如果这位可怜的绅士不是被鸡尾酒毒死的，那么他必定是在进入客厅之前几分钟被下的毒。用什么办法呢？一种胶囊？或是可能避免消化不良的东西。那么说谁才可以把它换成毒药？只有他的妻子。谁才会有别人不会怀疑的动机？还是只有妻子。” 
　　“但是他们相亲相爱。”蛋蛋不客气地叫了起来，“你简直不能理解。” 
　　波洛和善地冲着她笑起来。 
　　“诚然，爱情是可贵的。你理解，我不能理解。我看见的只是事实，是不受任何偏见影响的事实。让我告诉你一些情况吧，小姐。在我所办的案子中，有五宗由相亲相爱的丈夫谋害妻子的案件，二十二宗由相亲相爱的妻子谋害丈夫的案件。那些女人们，她们更会乔装打扮，做事不露声色。” 
　　“我说你这人实在可恶。”蛋蛋说，“我知道巴宾顿一家不是那样的人。真是……令人厌恶！” 
　　“凶杀才是令人厌恶的，小姐。”波洛说，声音里流露出一种责备的口气。 
　　他随后用比较轻松的语气继续说道： 
　　“但是我……也是依据事实，同意巴宾顿大太并没有于那种勾当的意见。你们瞧，梅尔福特修道院的宴会她不在场。不，正如查尔斯爵士曾经说过的，作案的人必定是两次招待会都到场的人，就是你们名单上的七个人之一／屋里一阵沉默。 
　　“那么你建议我们应当怎么行动？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“你们对自己的计划已经没有任何疑义了吗／波洛问道。 
　　查尔斯爵土清了清喉咙。 
　　“惟一可行的事情是采用排除法。”他说，“我的意见是逐个调查名单上的人，把他看成嫌疑人，直到有事实证明他无罪才放手，在我看来，我们要弄清那个人与斯蒂芬•巴宾顿之间的关系。我们要充分利用我们的聪明才智，找出两者联系的纽带。如果找不到这种纽带，我们就着手调查第二个人”“挺好的行为科学理论。”波洛笑着说，“那么你的方法是什么？” 
　　“具体方案我们还没有时间讨论。波洛先生对此有何见教？也许你已经……”波洛伸出一只手来。 
　　“我的朋友，请别要求我做具体的事情。我一生的信条是：只要动脑筋，天大的事情都能行。我会记住你们的…… 
　　叫什么来着？——侦查简报。你们的调查有查尔斯爵士如此巧妙的指导，请继续吧。” 
　　“还有我呢？”萨特思韦特先生想道，“这些演员啊！永远都想在聚光灯下扮演主角！” 
　　“你们也许会不时向我询问有关法律方面的意见。我吗？我就算是你们的顾问吧。” 
　　他向蛋蛋微笑道： 
　　“我说的对你有用吧，小姐？” 
　　“好极了。”蛋蛋说，“你的经验之谈对我们肯定非常有用。” 
　　她脸上的表情现在松弛了。她看看手表，惊叫起来。 
　　“我得回家啦！妈妈要大发脾气了。” 
　　“我开车送你回去。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　他们两人一起走了出来。
CHAPTER 5 Division of Labour
17 
“So, you see, the fish has risen,” said Hercule Poirot. 
Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been looking at the door which had just closed behind the other two, gave a start as he turned to Poirot. The latter was smiling with a hint of mockery. 
“Yes, yes, do not deny it. Deliberately you showed me the bait that day in Monte Carlo. Is it not so? You showed me the paragraph in the paper. You hoped that it would arouse my interest - that I should occupy myself with the affair.” 
“It is true,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I thought that I had failed.” 
“No, no, you did not fail. You are a shrewd judge of human nature, my friend. I was suffering from ennui - I had - in the words of the child who was playing near us - ‘nothing to do.’ You came at the psychological moment. (And, talking of that, how much crime depends, too, on that psychological moment. The crime, the psychology, they go hand in hand.) But let us come back to our muttons. This is 
a crime very intriguing - it puzzles me completely.” 
“Which crime - the first or the second?” 
“There is only one - what you call the first and second murder are only the two halves of the same crime. The second half is simple - the motive - the means adopted - ” 
Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted. 
“Surely the means present an equal difficulty. There was no poison found in any of the wine, and the food was eaten by everybody.” 
“No, no, it is quite different. In the first case it does not seem as though anybody could have poisoned Stephen Babbington. Sir Charles, if he had wanted to, could have poisoned one of his guests, but not any particular guest. Temple might possibly have slipped something into the last glass on the tray - but Mr. Babbington’s was not the last glass. No, the murder of Mr. Babbington seems so impossible that I still feel that perhaps it is 
impossible - that he died a natural death after all ... But that we shall soon know. The second case is different. Any one of the guests present, or the butler or parlourmaid, could have poisoned Bartholomew Strange. That presents no difficulty whatever.” 
“I don’t see - ” began Mr. Satterthwaite. 
Poirot went on: 
“I will prove that to you some time by a little experiment. Let us pass on to another and most important matter. It is vital, you see (and you will see, I am sure, you have the sympathetic heart and the delicate understanding), that I must not play the part of what you call the spoilsport.” 
“You mean - ” began Mr. Satterthwaite with the beginning of a smile. 
“That Sir Charles must have the star part! He is used to it. And, moreover, it is expected of him by someone else. Am I not right? It does not please mademoiselle at all that I come to concern myself in this matter.” 
“You are what we call ‘quick in the uptake,’ M. Poirot.” 
“Ah, that, it leaps to the eye! I am of a very susceptible nature - I wish to assist a love affair - not to hinder it. You and I, my friend, must work together in this - to the honour and glory of Charles Cartwright; it is not so? When the case is solved - ” 
“If - ” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly. 
“When! I do not permit myself to fail.” 
“Never?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite searchingly. 
“There have been times,” said Poirot with dignity, “when for a short time, I have been what I suppose you would call slow in the take-up. I have not perceived the truth as soon as I might have done.” 
“But you’re never failed altogether?” 
The persistence of Mr. Satterthwaite was curiosity, pure and simple. He wondered ... 
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “Once. Long ago, in Belgium. We will not talk of it ... ” 
Mr. Satterthwaite, his curiosity (and his malice) satisfied, hastened to change the subject. 
“Just so. You were saying that when the case is solved - ” 
“Sir Charles will have solved it. That is essential. I shall have been a little cog in the wheel, he spread out his hands. Now and then, here and there, I shall say a little word - just one little word - a hint, no more. I desire no honour - no renown. I have all the renown I need.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite studied him with interest. He was amused by the na?ve conceit, the immense egoism of the little man. But he did not make the easy mistake of considering it mere empty boasting. An Englishman is usually modest about what he does well, sometimes pleased with himself over something he does badly; but a Latin has a truer appreciation of his own powers. If he is clever he sees no reason for concealing the fact. 
“I should like to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “it would interest me very much - just what do you yourself hope to get out of this business? Is it the excitement of the chase?” 
Poirot shook his head. 
“No - no - it is not that. Like the chien de chasse, I follow the scent, and I get excited, and once on the scent I cannot be called off it. All that is true. But there is more ... It is - how shall I put it? - a passion for getting at the truth. In all the world there is nothing so curious and so interesting and so beautiful as truth ... ” 
There was silence for a little while after Poirot’s words. 
Then he took up the paper on which Mr. Satterthwaite had carefully copied out the seven names, and read them aloud. 
“Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Wills, Miss Sutcliffe, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Miss Lytton Gore, Oliver Manders.” 
“Yes,” he said, “suggestive, is it not?” 
“What is suggestive about it?” 
“The order in which the names occur.” 
“I don’t think there is anything suggestive about it. We just wrote the names down without any particular order about it.” 
“Exactly. The list is headed by Mrs. Dacres. I deduce from that that she is considered the most likely person to have committed the crime.” 
“Not the most likely,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “The least unlikely would express it better.” 
“And a third phrase would express it better still. She is perhaps the person you would all prefer to have committed the crime.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then met the gentle quizzical gaze of Poirot’s shining green eyes, and altered what he had been about to say. 
“I wonder - perhaps, M. Poirot, you are right - unconsciously that may be true.” 
“I would like to ask you something, Mr. Satterthwaite.” 
“Certainly - certainly,” Mr. Satterthwaite answered complacently. 
“From what you have told me, I gather that Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore went together to interview Mrs. Babbington.” 
“Yes.” 
“You did not accompany them?” 
“No. three would have been rather a crowd.” 
Poirot smiled. 
“And also, perhaps, your inclinations led you elsewhere. You had, as they say, different fish to fry. Where did you go, Mr. Satterthwaite?” 
“I had tea with Lady Mary Lytton Gore,” said Mr. Satterthwaite stiffly. 
“And what did you talk about?” 
“She was so good as to confide in me some of the troubles of her early married life.” 
He repeated the substances of Lady Mary’s story. Poirot nodded his head sympathetically. 
“That is so true to life - the idealistic young girl who marries the bad hat and will listen to nobody. But did you talk of nothing else? Did you, for instance, not speak of Mr. Oliver Manders?” 
“As a matter of fact we did.” 
“And you leant about him - what?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated what Lady Mary had told him. Then he said: 
“What made you think we had talked of him?” 
“Because you went there for that reason. Oh, yes, do not protest. You may hope that Mrs. Dacres or her husband committed the crime, but you think that young Manders did.” 
He stilled Mr. Satterthwaite’s protests. 
“Yes, yes, you have the secretive nature. You have your ideas, but you like keeping them to yourself. I have sympathy with you. I do the same myself ... ” 
“I don’t suspect him - that’s absurd. But I just want to know more about him.” 
“That is as I say. He is your instinctive choice. I, too, am interested in that young man. I was interested in him on the night of the dinner here, because I saw - ” 
“What did you see?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite eagerly. 
“I saw that there were two people at least (perhaps more) who were playing a part. One was Sir Charles.” He smiled. “He was playing the naval officer, am I not right? That is quite natural. A great actor does not cease to act because he is not on the stage any more. But young Manders, he too was acting. He was playing the part of the bored and blasé young man - but in reality he was neither bored nor blasé - he was very keenly alive. And therefore, my friend, I noticed him.” 
“How did you know I’d been wondering about him?” 
“In many little ways. You have been interested in that accident of his that brought him to Melfort Abbey that night. You had not gone with Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore to see Mrs. Babbington. Why? Because you wanted to follow out some line of your own unobserved. You went to Lady Mary’s to find out about someone. Who? It could only be someone local. Oliver Manders. And then, most characteristic, you put his name at the bottom of the list. Who are really the least likely suspects in you mind - Lady Mary and Mademoiselle Egg - but you put his name after theirs, because he is your dark horse, and you want to keep him to yourself.” 
“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Am I really that kind of man?” 
“Précisément. You have shrewd judgment and observation, and you like keeping its results to yourself. Your opinions of people are your private collection. You do not display them for all the world to see.” 
“I believe,” began Mr. Satterthwaite, but he was interrupted by the return of Sir Charles. 
The actor came in with a springing buoyant step. 
“Brrr,” he said. “It’s a wild night.” 
He poured himself out a whisky and soda. 
Mr. Satterthwaite and Poirot both declined. 
“Well,” said Sir Charles, “let’s map out our plan of campaign. Where’s that list, Satterthwaite? An, thanks. Now M. Poirot, counsel’s opinion, if you please. How shall we divide up the spadework?” 
“How would you suggest yourself, Sir Charles?” 
“Well, we might divide these people up - division of labour - eh? 
First, there’s Mrs. Dacres. Egg seems rather keen to take her on. She seems to think that anyone so perfectly turned out won’t get impartial treatment from mere males. It seems quite a good idea to approach her through the professional side. Satterthwaite and I might work the other gambit as well if it seemed advisable. Then there’s Dacres. I know some of his racing pals. I daresay I could pick up something that way. Then there’s Angela Sutcliffe.” 
“That also seems to be your work, Cartwright,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “You know her pretty well, don’t you?” 
“Yes. That’s why I’d rather somebody else tackled her ... Firstly,” he smiled ruefully, “I shall be accused of not putting my back into the job, and secondly - well - she’s a friend - you understand?” 
“Parfaitement, parfaitement -you feel the natural delicacy. It is most understandable. This good Mr. Satterthwaite - he will replace you in the task.” 
“Lady Mary and Egg - they don’t count, of course. What about young Manders? His presence on the night of Tollie’s death was an accident; still, I suppose we ought to include him.” 
“Mr. Satterthwaite will look after young Manders, said Poirot. But I think, Sir Charles, you have missed out a name on your list. You have passed over Miss Muriel Wills.” 
“So I have. Well, if Satterthwaite takes on Manders, I’ll take on Miss Wills. Is that settled? Any suggestions, M. Poirot?” 
“No, no - I do not think so. I shall be interested to hear your results.” 
“Of course - that goes without saying. Another idea: If we procured photographs of these people we might use them in making inquiries in Gilling.” 
“Excellent,” approved Poirot. “There was something - ah, yes, your friend, Sir Bartholomew, he did not drink cocktails, but he did drink the port?” 
“Yes, he had a particular weakness for port.” 
“It seems odd to me that he did not taste anything unusual. Pure nicotine has a most pungent and unpleasant taste.” 
“You’ve got to remember,” said Sir Charles, “that there probably wasn’t any nicotine in the port. The contents of the glass were analysed, remember.” 
“Ah, yes - foolish of me. But, however it was administered - nicotine has a very disagreeable taste.” 
“I don’t know that that would matter,” said Sir Charles slowly. 
“Tollie had a very bad go of influenza last spring, and it left him with his sense of taste and smell a good deal impaired.” 
“Ah, yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That might account for it. That simplifies things considerably.” 
Sir Charles went to the window and looked out. 
“Still blowing a gale. I’ll send for your things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is all very well for enthusiastic artists, but I think you’d prefer proper sanitation and a comfortable bed.” 
“You are extremely amiable, Sir Charles.” 
“Not at all. I’ll see to it now.” 
He left the room. 
Poirot looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“If I may permit myself a suggestion.” 
Poirot leaned forward, and said in a low voice: 
“Ask young Manders why he faked an accident. Tell him the police suspect him - and see what he says.”
第五章　分工
第五章　分工

　　“你们瞧，鱼已经上钩了。”赫尔克里•波洛说。 
　　萨特思韦特先生在两位朋友离开之时，一直在注视着大门。当他一转身看见波洛时，吓了一跳。波洛笑了起来，略带一种嘲弄的神情。他说： 
　　“对，对，不要否认。那天在蒙特卡洛的时候，你随意让我看‘鱼饵”是吧？你让我读了那一段文字，希望它会引起我的兴趣，以致我会全力投入这件事情。” 
　　“那倒是真的。”萨特思韦特先生承认道，“但是我认为我失败了。” 
　　“不，不。你没有失败。你对人的本性判断精明，朋友。 
　　我那时感到很元聊，当时引用了在我们附近玩耍的小孩的一句话：‘烦死了。’当我处在这种心理状态的时候，你来了。 
　　（说到这里，我想到有很多犯罪也是发生在这种心理状态的时候。犯罪与心理活动，总是息息相关。）还是让我们言归正传吧。这是一次精心策划的犯罪，着楔让我迷惑不解。” 
　　“哪一次犯罪？第一次还是第二次？” 
　　“只有一次。你说的第一次或第二次谋杀只是一次犯罪的两次作案。第二次作案很简单、其动机，采取的手段萨特思韦特先生插话说： 
　　“我肯定第二次作案的难度也一模一样。在任何人的酒杯里都没有发现有毒物质，而且每个人都吃了食品。” 
　　“不，不。两者完全不凤在第一次时，好像没有任何人会毒害斯蒂芬•巴宾顿。假如查尔斯爵士愿意的话，他会毒死客人中的一位，而不是某个特定的客人。但普尔可能会将什么东西放人托盘里的最后一个杯子。但是，巴宾顿先生拿的不是最后一个杯子。不，杀害巴宾顿先生看起来是完全不可能的，至今我仍然感到，他同样也是不可能自然死亡的……不过，我们很快就会弄清楚的。书二次就不同了。任何一个出席的客人，还有管家和客厅女仆，都有可能对巴塞罗缪•斯特兰奇下毒。而且，不管怎么说，都元难度可言。” 
　　“我不明白……”萨惜思韦特先生开口说。 
　　波洛连忙接着说： 
　　“总有一天，我会用——个小小的试验向你们证明我所说的情况。让我们接着讨论另外一件丰常重要的事情。这是案子的关键。你们瞧，（我啃定你们会发现，你们都富有同情心，也有敏锐的理解力）我不能扮演一个使人扫兴的角色。” 
　　“你的意思是……”萨恃思韦特先生开始笑了。 
　　“查尔斯爵士必须是主角！他已经习惯于此。而且，这也是某个人的愿望。我说错了吗？我参加到这件事情里来，就已经使小姐不高兴了。” 
　　“你是我们所说的‘进入角色快’的那种人，波洛先生。” 
　　“哈，我真是受宠若惊啊！我是一个有特殊品性的人。我希望成全人家的爱情，而决不妨碍它。愿意为查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士的幸福和荣誉效力。难道不是这样吗？破案之时“如果能破案……”萨特思韦特先生轻轻他说。 
　　“会有那么一天！我不能允许自己失败。” 
　　“永远不会吗？”萨特思韦特先生寻根究底地问道。 
　　“有过几次，”波洛郑重其事他说，“很短的一段时间，我： 
　　一直是你们说的那种‘进入角色慢’的人。我还没有像以前： 
　　那样快就探查出真相。” 
　　“你从来都不曾失败过吗？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生寻根究底是出于一种好奇心，纯朴而又简单的好奇心。他在纳闷…… 
　　‘好吧”，波洛说，“只有一次，在很久以前，在比利时。我；们不谈这个好吗？……”萨特思韦特先生的好奇心（和他的预谋）得到了满足。 
　　他很快就改变了话题。 
　　“就这样吧。你刚才说破案的时候……”“查尔斯爵士是能够破案的。那才是最关键的。我只不过是轮子中的一个小钝齿。”他将双手一摊。“随时随地，我会说一两句话，只说一两句，一种暗示，别的不说。我不求荣誉，不求名望。我已经拥有我需要的一切名望了。 
　　萨特思韦特先生满怀兴致地打量着他。他被这位矮个子天真的自满情绪和强烈的自我主义逗乐了。但是他不会轻易地错将这些话仅仅看成空洞的吹嘘，英国人对自己的失败也不会生气。然而，拉丁人却十分看重自己的能力。如果他聪明一点，就没有理由去掩盖事实真相。 
　　“我很愿意知道，也非常感兴趣的是，”萨特思韦特先生说，“你期望从这件事中得到什么？是不是从侦破中获得激动和兴奋叶波洛摇了摇头。 
　　“不，不，不是那样，我就是一个猎犬，能跟踪线索，就激动万分，一旦发现目标，我就会穷追不舍。这都是事实。还有……怎么说呢？我还有一种探求真理的狂热。在这个世界上，没有什么像真理那样伟大，那样有价值，那样美好……”波洛说完之后，屋里一阵沉默。 
　　然后，他拿起一份报纸。刚才，萨特思韦特先生从这份报纸上抄录了那七个人的名字。现在，波洛大声读了起来： 
　　“戴克斯太太、戴克斯船长、威尔斯小姐、萨克利夫小姐、玛丽•利顿•戈尔夫人、利顿•戈尔小姐和奥利弗•曼德斯。” 
　　“对啦，”他说，“有某种启示，不是吗？” 
　　“有什么启示？” 
　　“名字排列的顺序。” 
　　“我看不出来这有什么启示。” 
　　“我们写这些名字的时候，没有依照任何特别的顺序”“确实。这份名单从戴克斯太太开始。由此我推断，她是最有可能进行谋杀的人。” 
　　“不要说最有可能，”萨特思韦特先生说，“应当说不作案的可能性最小还要恰当一些。” 
　　“还有第三种说法更加妥当：她也许是你主观认为已经作案的人。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生冲动地张开双唇，盯着波洛闪亮的绿眼睛里温柔而瘪戏的目光。他突然改变了本来要说的话。 
　　“我真不明白，波洛先生，也许，你是对的。我没有意识到那可能是事实。” 
　　“我愿意问你一个问题，萨特思韦特先生。” 
　　“当然，当然。”萨特思韦特先生得意地答道。 
　　“根据你告诉我的情况，我记得查尔斯爵士和利顿•戈尔小姐一起去拜访过巴宾顿大大。” 
　　“是的”“你有没有跟他们在一起？” 
　　“没有。三个人大多了。” 
　　波洛笑了起来。 
　　“还有一个原因，也许是你自己的兴趣把你带到别的地方了。像他们所说的，你别有他求。你到哪儿去了，萨特思韦特先生？” 
　　“我是跟玛丽•利顿•戈尔夫人喝茶去了。”萨特思韦特先生态度生硬他说。 
　　“你们谈了些什么？” 
　　“她真好，跟我吐露了她早年婚姻中的纠葛。” 
　　他复述了玛丽夫人的故事。波洛同情地点着头。 
　　“故事真实动人。一个满怀理想的姑娘嫁给了一个恶棍，可她不听别人的忠告。只是，你们还谈别的事情吗？比如，你们谈到奥利弗•曼德斯先生吗？” 
　　“我们确实谈了他。” 
　　“谈了他什么？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生重复着玛丽夫人告诉他的那些事情。 
　　然后他说： 
　　“为什么你会想到我们要谈到他？” 
　　“因为你去那儿正是为了这个目的。哦，好啦。不要否认。你可能希望戴克斯太太或者她丈夫犯罪。但是你认为那是小曼德斯作的案。” 
　　他堵住了萨特思韦特先生想否认的嘴。 
　　“是的，是的。你本性沉默寡言。你有自己的见解，但是你喜欢守口如瓶。我很理解，因为我自己也守口如瓶……”“我并不怀疑他，那是很荒唐的。我只是想了解他的情况”“跟我说的一样。他是你本能的选择对象。我也一样，对那个年轻人很感兴趣。之所以对他那晚在这儿吃饭的事很感兴趣，是因为我看见……”“你看见了什么？”萨特思韦特先生急切地问道。 
　　“我看见至少有两个人（也许更多的人）都在扮演角色。 
　　查尔斯爵士就是其中一个。”他笑了起来。“他扮演的是海军军官，我说对了吗？这是很自然的事。一个大演员不会因为停止了舞台生涯而停止演戏。但是，小曼德斯却演得太做作了。他扮演的是一个百元聊赖和玩世不恭的青年。但在现实生活中，他既不是百元聊赖，也不是玩世不恭。他是一个充满活力的人。因此，朋友，我很注意他。” 
　　“你怎么知道我对他一直有疑心？” 
　　“从很多方面可以看出。他在那天晚上由于事故而来到梅尔福特修道院，你对此很感兴趣。你没有跟查尔斯爵士和利顿•戈尔小姐去拜访巴宾顿太大。为什么？这是因为你想按照自己的思路去寻找没有被人注意的线索。你到了玛丽夫人的家中，想发现一个人的情况。是谁？这只可能是一个当地的人：奥利弗•曼德斯。后来，你把他的名字放在名单的末尾。这很说明问题。在你的头脑里，谁才是最不可能的嫌疑人？——玛丽夫人和蛋蛋小姐。但是你将奥利弗的名字放在她们之后。因为他是你的‘黑马’，情况尚待查明。 
　　于是你想留有一手。” 
　　“我的天。”萨特思韦特先生说，“难道我是那样的人吗？” 
　　“正是．你的判断力和观察力都了不起。只是你喜欢把观察到的结果隐藏起来。你对人的看法好像是你的私人收藏，你不愿将它们公诸于众。” 
　　“我相信，”萨特思韦特先生一开口，他的话就被刚刚回来的查尔斯爵士打断。 
　　“得得得。”他说，“这真是一个狂热的夜晚啊。” 
　　他给自己倒了一杯加苏打的威士忌。 
　　萨特思韦特先生和波洛两人都不愿再喝了。 
　　“好吧，”查尔斯爵士说，“让我们来布置一下战役计划。 
　　名单在哪儿，萨特思韦特？好，谢谢你。现在请顾问波洛先生发表意见，如果你愿意的话，谈谈我们怎样分工？” 
　　“你自己有什么高见，查尔斯爵士？” 
　　“我说，对这几个我们可以分别查询。我们各有分工嘛，对吗？首先是戴克斯大太，蛋蛋显然对查询她很感兴趣。大大会认为，并不是只有男人才会善待她这个有教养的人。从职业的角度与她接触，看来是个好主意。如果可行的话，萨特思韦特先生和我也可另起炉灶。接下来是戴克斯。我认识他的几个赛马场伙伴。我敢说，通过他们可以发现一些线索。还有安吉拉•萨克利夫。” 
　　“那也是你的任务，查尔斯。”萨特思韦特先生说，“你跟她还比较熟，对吧？” 
　　“对。正因为这样，我愿意让别的人来对付她……”他抱歉地笑着，“首先，你们会责备我没有全心全意投人工作。第二，这个……她是我的一个朋友……你们能理解吗？” 
　　“妙极了，你想得真是天衣无缝。 
　　每个人都非常赞赏你。这位好先生萨特思韦特，他会重新安排你的任务的。” 
　　“玛丽夫人和蛋蛋，当然，她们没有被列人。小曼德斯怎么办呢？托利死的那天晚上，他出席宴会是因为发生了事故。我仍然坚持要把他包括进去。” 
　　“萨特思韦特先生负责小曼德斯。”波洛说，“但是我认为，查尔斯爵士，你们的名单漏掉了一个人。你们忽略了穆里尔•威尔斯小姐。” 
　　“原来我漏掉了她。好吧，如果萨特思韦特负责曼德斯，我就负责威尔斯小姐。这样安排行吗？波洛先生，还有什么见教？” 
　　“不，不。我认为还没有完。我感兴趣的是能听听你们的侦查结果。” 
　　“当然，这毫无疑问。还有一个想法：如果我们手头有这几个人的照片，我们在吉灵探访时可能用得上。” 
　　“好极了。”波洛赞同道，“还有一件事。哦，对了，你的朋友巴塞罗缨不喝鸡尾酒，但是他居然喝了葡萄酒，是这样吗？” 
　　“是的，他对葡萄酒有特殊的嗜好。” 
　　“我真想不通，他并没有吃过任何异样的东西啊。可能尼古丁有一种强烈的刺激性，那味儿挺不舒服。” 
　　“你要记住，”查尔斯爵士说，“也许葡萄酒里根本就没有尼古丁。记得吗？杯子里的东西都检验过了。” 
　　“哦，对，我真蠢。但是，不管尼古丁是怎么让他吃下去，它总是有一种让人非常难受的味道。” 
　　“我不知道那有什么关系。”查尔斯爵士慢慢他说道，“去年春天，托利患了一场严重的流感，从此留下后遣症，他的味觉和嗅觉受到很大损害。” 
　　“哦，是这样。”波洛若有所思他说，“那就说明问题了。 
　　这样，事情就简单多了”查尔斯爵士走到窗口，看着户外。 
　　“还在刮大风。我要派人给你拿东西，波洛先生。玫瑰和王冠对热情洋溢的艺术家是再美不过的事了。但是我知道你更喜欢良好的环境卫生和一张舒适的床。” 
　　“你实在太好了，查尔斯爵土。” 
　　“不是这样。我得照顾你呀。” 
　　他离开了屋子。 
　　波洛看着萨特思韦特先生。 
　　“我是否能提一个建议？” 
　　“提吧。” 
　　波洛探过身去，低声他说道： 
　　“问问小曼德斯，为什么他要制造一起事故。告诉他，警察怀疑他了，看看他怎么说。”
CHAPTER 6 Cynthia Dacres
18 
The showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd., were very pure in appearance. The walls were a shade just off white - the thick pile carpet was son neutral as to be almost colourless - so was the upholstery. Chromium gleamed here and there, and on one wall was a gigantic geometric design in vivid blue and lemon yellow. The room had been designed by Mr. Sydney Sandford - the newest and youngest decorator of the moment. 
Egg Lytton Gore sat in an armchair of modern design - faintly reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, and watched exquisite snake-like young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her. Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixty pounds was a mere bagatelle to pay for a dress. Mrs. Dacres, looking as usual marvellously unreal, was (as Egg put it to herself) doing her stuff. 
“Now, do you like this? Those shoulder knots - rather amusing, don’t you think? And the waistline’s rather penetrating. I shouldn’t have the red lead colour, though - I should have it in the new colour 
-Espanol - most attractive - like mustard, with a dash of cayenne in it. How do you like Vin Ordinaire? Rather absurd, isn’t it? Quite penetrating and ridiculous. Clothes simply must not be serious nowadays.” 
“It’s very difficult to decide,” said Egg. “You see” - she became confidential - “I’ve never been able to afford any clothes before. We were always so dreadfully poor. I remembered how simply marvellous you looked that night at Crow's Nest, and I thought, Now that I’ve got money to spend, I shall go to Mrs. Dacres and ask her to advise me. I did admire you so much that night.” 
“My dear, how charming of you. I simply adore dressing a young girl. It’s so important that girls shouldn’t look raw - if you know what I mean.” 
“Nothing raw about you,” thought Egg ungratefully. “Cooked to a turn, you are.” 
“You’ve got so much personality,” continued Mrs. Dacres. “You mustn’t have anything at all ordinary. Your clothes must be simple and penetrating - and just faintly visible. You understand? Do you want several things?” 
“I thought about four evening frocks, and a couple of day things and a sports suit or two - that sort of thing.” 
The honey of Mrs. Dacres’s manner became sweeter. It was fortunate that she did not know that at that moment Egg’s bank balance was exactly fifteen pound twelve shillings, and that the said balance had got to last her until December. 
More girls in gowns filed past Egg. In the intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed other matters. 
“I suppose you’ve never been to Crow's Nest since?” she said. 
“No. My dear, I couldn’t. It was so upsetting - and, anyway, I always think Cornwall is rather terribly artisty ... I simply cannot bear artists. Their bodies are always such a curious shape.” 
“It was a shattering business, wasn’t it?” said Egg. “Old Mr. Babbington was rather a pet, too.” 
“Quite a period piece, I should imagine,” said Mrs. Dacres. 
“You’d met him before somewhere, hadn’t you?” 
“That dear old dug-out? Had I? I don’t remember.” 
“I think I remember his saying so,” said Egg. “Not in Cornwall, though. I think it was at a place called Gilling.” 
“Was it?” Mrs. Dacres’s eyes were vague. “No, Marcelle - Petite 
Scandale is what I want - the Jenny model - and after that blue Patou.” 
“Wasn’t it extraordinary,” said Egg, “about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?” 
“My dear, it was too penetrating for words! It’s done me a world of good. All sort of dreadful women come and order frocks from me just for the sensation. Now this Patou model would be perfect for you. Look at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill -it makes the whole thing adorable. Young without being tiresome. Yes, poor Sir Bartholomew’s death has been rather a godsend to me. There’s just an off chance, you see, that I might have murdered him. I’ve rather played up to that. Extraordinary fat women come and positively goggle at me. Too penetrating. And then, you see - ” 
But she was interrupted by the advent of a monumental American, evidently a valued client. 
While the American was unburdening herself of her requirements, which sounded comprehensive and expensive, Egg managed to make an unobtrusive exit, telling the young lady who had succeeded Mrs. Dacres that she would think it over before making a final choice. 
As she emerged into Bruton Street, Egg glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to one. Before very long she might be able to put her second plan into operation. 
She walked as far as Berkeley Square, and then slowly back again. At one o’clock she had her nose glued to a window displaying Chinese objects d’art. 
Miss Doris Sims came rapidly out into Bruton Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square. Just before she got there a voice spoke at her elbow. 
“Excuse me,” said Egg, “but can I speak to you a minute?” 
The girl turned, surprised. 
“You’re one of the mannequins at Ambrosine’s, aren’t you? I noticed you this morning. I hope you won’t be frightfully offended if I say I think you’ve got simply the most perfect figure I’ve ever seen.” 
Doris Sims was not offended. She was merely slightly confused. 
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, madam,” she said. 
“You look frightfully good-natured, too,” said Egg. “That’s why I’m going to ask you a favour. Will you have lunch with me at the Berkeley or the Ritz and let me tell you about it?” 
After a moment’s hesitation Doris Sims agreed. She was curious and she liked good food. 
Once established at a table and lunch ordered, Egg plunged into explanation. 
“I hope you’ll keep this to yourself, she said. You see, I’ve got a job - writing up various professions for women. I want you to tell me all about the dressmaking business.” 
Doris looked slightly disappointed, but she complied amiably enough, giving bald statements as to hours, rates of pay, conveniences and inconveniences of her employment. Egg entered particulars in a little note-book. 
“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “I’m very stupid at this. It’s quite new to me. You see I’ve frightfully badly off, and this little bit of journalistic work will make all the difference.” 
She went on confidentially. 
“It was rather nerve on my part, walking into Ambrosine’s and pretending I could buy lots of your models. Really, I’ve got just a few pounds of my dress allowance to last me till Christmas. I expect Mrs. Dacres would be simply wild if she knew.” 
Doris giggled. 
“I should say she would.” 
“Did I do it well?” asked Egg. “Did I look as though I had money?” 
“You did it splendid, Miss Lytton Gore. Madam thinks you’re going to get quite a lot of things.” 
“I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed,” said Egg. 
Doris giggled more. She was enjoying her lunch, and she felt attracted to Egg. “She may be a Society young lady,” she thought to herself, “but she doesn’t put on airs. She’s as natural as can be.” 
These pleasant relations once established, Egg found no difficulty in inducing her companion to talk freely on the subject of her employer. 
“I always think,” said Egg, “that Mrs. Dacres looks a frightful cat. Is she?” 
“None of us like her, Miss Lytton gore, and that’s a fact. But she’s clever, of course, and she’s got a rare head for business. Not like some Society ladies who take up the dressmaking business and go bankrupt because their friends get clothes and don’t’ pay. She’s as hard as nails, Madam is - though I will say she’s fair enough - and she’s got real taste - she knows what’s what, and she’s clever at getting people to have the style that suits them.” 
“I suppose she makes a lot of money?” 
A queer knowing look came into Doris’s eye. 
“It’s not for me to say anything - or to gossip.” 
“Of course not,” said Egg. “Go on.” 
“But if you ask me - the firm’s not far off Queer Street. There was a Jewish gentleman came to see Madam, and there have been one or two things - it’s my belief she’s been borrowing to keep going in the hope that trade would revive, and that she’s got in deep. Really, Miss Lytton Gore, she looks terrible sometimes. Quite desperate. I don’t know what she’d look like without her make-up. I don’t believe she sleeps of nights.” 
“What’s her husband like?” 
“He’s a queer fish. Bit of a bad lot, if you ask me. Not that we ever see much of him. None of the other girls agree with me, but I believe she’s very keen on him still. Of course a lot of nasty things have been said - ” 
“Such as?” asked Egg. 
“Well, I don’t like to repeat things. I never have been one for that.” 
“Of course not. Go on, you were saying - ” 
“Well, there’s been a lot of talk among the girls. About a young fellow - very rich and very soft. Not exactly balmy, if you know what I mean - sort of betwixt and between. Madam’s been running him for all she was worth. He might have put things right - he was soft enough for anything - but then he was ordered on a sea voyage - suddenly.” 
“Ordered by whom - a doctor?” 
“Yes, someone in Harley Street. I believe now that it was the same doctor who was murdered up in Yorkshire - poisoned, so they said.” 
“Sir Bartholomew Strange?” 
“That was the name. Madam was at the house-party, and we girls said among ourselves - just laughing, you know - well, we said, supposing Madame did him in - out of revenge, you know! Of course it was fun -” 
“Naturally,” said Egg. “Girlish fun. I quite understand. You know, Mrs. Dacres is quite my idea of a murderess - so hard and remorseless.” 
“She’s ever so hard - and she’s got a wicked temper! When she lets go, there’s not one of us dares to come near her. They say her husband’s frightened of her - and no wonder.” 
“Have you ever heard her speak of anyone called Babbington or of a place in Kent - Gilling?” 
“Really, now, I can’t call to mind that I have.” 
Doris looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation. 
“Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.” 
“Good-bye, and thanks so much for coming.” 
“It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure. Good-bye, Miss Lytton Gore, and I hope the article will be a great success. I shall look out for it.” 
“You’ll look in vain, my girl,” thought Egg, as she asked for her bill. Then, drawing a line through the supposed jottings for the article, she wrote in her little notebook: 
“Cynthia Dacres. Believed to be in financial difficulties. Described 
as having a ‘wicked temper.’ Young man (rich) with whom she was 
believed to be having an affair was ordered on sea voyage by Sir 
Bartholomew Strange. Showed no reaction at mention of Gilling or 
at statement that Babbington knew her.” 
“There doesn’t seem much there,” said Egg to herself. “A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin. M. Poirot may be able to make something of that. I can’t.”
第六章　辛西姬·戴克斯
第六章　辛西姬•戴克斯

　　安布罗赛恩公司的商品陈列室布置得纯净淡雅，墙壁涂成灰暗的米白色，厚绒毛地毯也清淡得近于无色，室内的装饰品也同样简洁淡雅。镀铬的货架闪闪发光，有一面墙上挂着巨大的几何图案设计，呈耀眼的蓝色和柠檬色。这是时下最新潮的、最年轻的装磺设计师西德尼•桑福德先生的杰作。 
　　蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔坐在时髦的沙发上，这种设计让人隐约想起牙科病人的椅子。她看着那些花枝招展的年轻女人像蛇一样摇摇摆摆地从她面前走过，她们的脸庞一个个妩媚动人却表情厌倦。蛋蛋最关心的是要竭力表现得落落大方，似乎买一件衣服花五六十英镑只不过是区区小数。 
　　戴克斯太大像平常那样矫揉造作，故意卖弄自己，就像蛋蛋正在表现的那样。 
　　“你看，你喜欢这件吗？肩上打了个结，有点儿滑稽，你说是吗？腰围过细。我不该做成红丹色，而应该选用一种新色调——西班牙黄，太迷人了，就像芥未的颜色，还带有一点辣椒红。你喜欢这种家常酒的颜色吗？真糟糕，是吗？太露，也太怪诞吧。现在选衣服一定不要大认真了。” 
　　“很难选定一件满意的，”蛋蛋姑娘说着，开始变得自信起来。“您瞧，我以前从来都买不起衣服，我们那时穷愁潦倒。我记得您在鸦巢屋那天晚上简直漂亮极了。当时我想： 
　　‘我现在有钱花了，就要去戴克斯太太那儿，请她参谋参谋。’那天晚上我真的很羡慕您。” 
　　“我的宝贝，你大迷人了。我非常喜欢打扮年轻姑娘，女孩子不应当让人看起来太本色，这非常重要，不知道你懂不懂我的意思。” 
　　“我自己倒毫无本色可言。”蛋蛋毫不客气地想道，“从头到脚都经过了修饰。” 
　　“你个性很突出，”戴克斯太太继续说道，“你不能穿任何普通的服装。你的衣服一定要简洁、透明——就是要隐约可见，你懂吗？买几件好吗？” 
　　“我想买四套晚礼眼，几件平时穿的衣服，一两套运动装，就是这一类东西。” 
　　戴克斯太大的神态变得更甜蜜，幸运的是，她还不知道，当时蛋蛋的银行存折上，只剩下五英镑十二先令，而且她这点余款要维持到十二月份。 
　　越来越多的姑娘穿着长裙从蛋蛋身边成群结队地走过，在技术性洽谈间歇时，蛋蛋开始引人其他话题。 
　　“我想，自从那天晚上以后，你再没去过鸦巢屋吧？”她说。 
　　“没有，亲爱的。我不能去，太叫人受不了。不管怎么说，我总认为康沃尔郡是一个充满艺术氛围的地方，我简直不能忍受艺术家的表现，他们的体型总是那么奇特。” 
　　“实在让人惊讶，对吧？”蛋蛋说，“老巴宾顿先生也是一个名流。” 
　　“可以想象，他是一代精英。”戴克斯太太说。 
　　“以前你是否在哪儿遇见过他？” 
　　“我吗？遇见那个可爱的老牧师吗？记不起来了。…… 
　　“我记得他曾经说过，他在哪儿遇见过您。”蛋蛋说，“但不是在康沃尔，我想那是在一个叫吉灵的地方。” 
　　“是吗？”戴克斯大大的眼睛显得很迷茫。“不，在马塞拉……小小的丑闻正是我需要的……模特儿詹尼的款式……模仿的就是穿蓝色礼服的名模帕托”“难道巴塞罗缨爵土被毒死，”蛋蛋说，“并不是一件值得大惊小怪的事？”她想引人正题。 
　　“亲爱的，说出来太刺激了！剪裁给我莫大的好处。各种各样可怕的女人来我这订制礼服，其目的是要引起轰动。 
　　这种名模帕托的时装对你来说是太完美了。看看那些绝妙的榴边装饰吧，它们使这一套衣服叫人爱不释手。充满青春活力，而又不会让人厌倦。是的，可怜的巴塞罗缨爵士的死，在我看来是上帝的安排，有某种偶然的机会，你瞧，我就可能杀死他。奇胖无比的女人走过来公然朝我瞪眼。太刺激了。然后，你瞧……”她的话由于一个身材高大的美国女人的出现而中断，她显然是一个有钱的主顾。 
　　美国女人在向她解释自己的要求，听口气，她要买的东西十分复杂，价格昂贵。这时蛋蛋趁人不注意时悄悄溜走。 
　　临行前她告诉接替戴克斯太大的年轻小姐说，她需要考虑考虑再作决定。 
　　当蛋蛋走在布鲁顿大街上时，她看了看手表。时间已是一点差二十分，过一会儿，她就要执行第二个计划了。 
　　她一直走到伯克利广场，然后又慢慢往回走。一点整，她来到一家商店的橱窗前，将鼻子贴在玻璃上看着里面陈列的中国工艺品。 
　　多丽丝•西姆斯小姐匆匆出门，走上布鲁顿大街，并朝伯克利广场的方向走去，她一到那儿，身后就传来一个人的声音。 
　　“打扰你了。”蛋蛋说，“我能不能跟你谈一会儿？” 
　　这姑娘吃惊地转过身去。 
　　“你是安布罗赛恩公司的时装模特儿，是吗？我今天上午被你吸引住了。如果我说，你是我所见过最完美的模特，希望你不要生气。” 
　　多丽丝并没有生气，她只是有点儿摸不着头脑。 
　　“您真好，女士。”她说。 
　　“你看起来性格也很好。”蛋蛋说，“所以我才来请你帮个忙。你愿跟我到伯克利广场或者里兹广场去吃午饭吗？我会把情况告诉你”犹豫了一会儿，多丽丝•西姆斯同意了。她很好奇，而且希望吃一顿好饭。 
　　两人刚刚上座订了菜，蛋蛋就直接了当他说起话来。 
　　“我希望你保守秘密。”她说，“你瞧，我找了份工作，只要记录女人的各种职业，我希望你告诉我有关服装制作业的一切情况。” 
　　多丽丝看来有点儿失望，但是她表现得非常友好，她开诚布公地谈了她的工作时间，工资待遇，她这个职业的利弊，蛋蛋在一个小笔记本上记录了重要的东西。 
　　“你实在太好了。”她说，“我对这份工作一无所知。对我来说，一切都是新的。你知道，我财运不佳。这份小小的新闻工作，会对我的生活大有改观”她满怀信心地继续说道： 
　　“我鼓起勇气，冒冒失失地跑到安布罗赛恩公司，假装要买许多时装。事实上，我买衣服的钱只剩几英镑了，而且还要维持到圣诞节。我想，要是戴克斯太太知道的话，她一定会气得发疯。” 
　　多丽丝格格地笑起来。 
　　“我想她肯定会的。” 
　　“我干得不错吧？”蛋蛋问道，“我看起来像有钱人吗？” 
　　“你干得太漂亮了，利顿•戈尔小姐。太大以为你打算买一大堆衣服哩。” 
　　“恐怕她要失望了。”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　多丽丝又格格地大笑起来。她喜欢这顿午餐，而且她感到自己引起了蛋蛋的羡慕。“她可能是个社交界的年轻小姐，”她暗自思忖，“但她自然纯真，一点儿也不造作。” 
　　一旦这种愉快的关系建立起来，蛋蛋不费吹灰之力就将谈话引人她想了解的问题。 
　　“我常常想，”蛋蛋说，“戴克斯太大就像一个讨厌的猫，你说像吗？” 
　　“我们都不喜欢她，利顿•戈尔小姐，你说得很对。当然她很聪明，做生意很有头脑，不像社会上从事服装制作行业的那些太太。她们就是因为亲朋好友买衣服不付钱，因此一个个破产。虽然她做生意还是够公平的了，但她有一副铁石心肠，而且品味很高。她知道行情，善于让人们去买下适合的服装。” 
　　“我想她挣了一大笔钱？” 
　　多丽丝的眼睛里出现了一种奇怪的会意的目光。 
　　“不是我在饶舌，制造流言吧。” 
　　“当然不是。”蛋蛋说，“你继续说吧。” 
　　“既然你问我，我就直说。这公司离魁尔大街不远。有一个犹太绅土来看大大，谈了一两件重要的事。我相信，她一直在借款使公司运转，一心想让生意兴隆起来。于是她陷得很深。真的，利顿•戈尔小姐，有时她的神色很可怕。她已经绝望了，要是她不化妆，真不知道她会是什么样，我不相信她每天会睡好觉。” 
　　“她丈夫怎么样呢？” 
　　“他是一个怪物。你既然问了我就直说，他是个坏蛋。不是因为我们经常看见他的许多毛病才这样说，但是我相信她是很爱他的，只是姑娘们都不同意我的看法。当然，有人还说过许多难听的话。” 
　　“举个例子吧。”蛋蛋要求道。 
　　“唉，我不喜欢重复别人的话。我自己也不是那种饶舌的人。” 
　　“当然不是，往下说吧，你说你听见了……”“好吧，姑娘们流传着许多闲话。那是关于一个年轻小伙子的。他很有钱，也很温柔。如果你懂我的意思，不完全是温和，而是介于两者之间。太太一直在为他的事车前马后地奔波，他自己也许办事认真周到，他做一切都会温柔体贴。但后来，突然有人吩咐他去航海旅行。” 
　　“谁吩咐他？一个医生吗？” 
　　“是的，医生，哈利大街的。我现在想起来了，正是在约克郡被杀的那个医生。人家说是被毒死的。” 
　　“巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士？” 
　　“是这个名字。太太参加了这次别墅招待会。你知道，我们女孩子聚在一起，当时还在一边说话一边笑。晤，我说，假若是太大干的——那就是出于报复。当然，这只是开个玩笑……”“这是很自然的事。”蛋蛋说，“女孩子的玩笑嘛，我很理解。你知道，说戴克斯大大是个凶手，这也完全是我的想法……太冷酷了，毫无悔恨之心。” 
　　“她一直非常冷酷，而且脾气很坏！当她让我们下班时，我们当中谁也不敢走近她。人家说，她丈夫怕她怕得要死，这毫不奇怪。” 
　　“你听她说过巴宾顿这个人吗？或者说起过肯特郡的吉灵这个地方吗？” 
　　“现在我一下子想不起来了，确实是这样。” 
　　多丽丝看看手表，叫了一声。 
　　“啊，天啦！我得赶紧走，我迟到了。” 
　　“再见，非常感谢你能来这儿。” 
　　“我很乐意。再见吧，利顿•戈尔小姐。我希望你这篇文章取得成功，我会找来看的。” 
　　“我的姑奶奶，你看不到了。”蛋蛋付账时心里这样想着。 
　　她在所谓用于写文章的笔记上，拦腰划了一条横线，然后写道： 
　　“辛西妞•戴克斯：被认为经济桔据，被描述为‘脾气很坏’，认为她与一富有青年过从甚密，后巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇吩咐该青年航海旅行，提到吉灵和与巴宾顿相识一事时，未见反应。” 
　　“看来所得不多。”蛋蛋自言自语他说，“谋杀巴塞罗缨爵士有了某种可能的动机，但太缺乏根据。波洛大概有本事查出来，我可不行。”
CHAPTER 7 Captain Dacres
19 
Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. There were sumptuous window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals. 
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half-past five. 
Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building. 
Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat. 
“Oh,” said Egg. “How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you? 
We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.” 
“Of course - of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we? 
Come in, Miss Lytton Gore.” 
“I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?” 
“She’s round in Bruton Street - at her dressmaking place.” 
“I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here - only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful bother - ” 
Egg paused appealingly. 
Freddie Dacres said to himself: 
“Nice looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.” 
Aloud he said: 
“Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy-Two Club and have a cocktail?” 
Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him. 
Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping a Martini, Egg said: “This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.” 
Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things - but well enough. 
“Upsettin’ sort of time, wasn’t it?” he said. “Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather amusin’ about a doctor being poisoned - you see what I mean - wrong way about. A doctor’s a chap who poisons other people.” 
He laughed uproariously at his own remark and ordered another pink gin. 
“That’s rather clever of you,” said Egg. “I never thought of it that way before.” 
“Only a joke, of course,” said Freddie Dacres. 
“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Egg, “that when we meet it’s always at a death.” 
“Bit odd,” admitted Captain Dacres. “You mean the old clergyman chap at what’s him name’s - the actor fellow’s place?” 
“Yes. It was very queer the way he died so suddenly.” 
“Damn’ disturbin’,” said Dacres. “Makes you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all over the place. You know, you think ‘my turn next,’ and it gives you the shivers.” 
“You knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you, at Gilling?” 
“Don’t know the place. No, I never set eyes on the old chap before. Funny thing is he popped off just the same way as old Strange did. Bit odd, that. Can’t have been bumped off, too, I suppose?” 
“Well, what do you think?” 
Dacres shook his head. 
“Can’t have been,” he said decisively. “Nobody murders parsons. Doctors are different.” 
“Yes,” said Egg. “I suppose doctors are different.” 
“Course they are. Stands to reason. Doctors are interfering devils.” 
He slurred the words a little. He leant forward. “Won’t let well alone. Understand?” 
“No,” said Egg. 
“They monkey about with fellows’ lives. They’ve got a damned sight too much power. Oughtn’t to be allowed.” 
“I don’t quite see what you mean.” 
“M’ dear girl, I’m telling you. Get a fellow shut up - that’s what I mean - put him in hell. God, they’re cruel. Shut him up and keep the stuff from him - and however much you beg and pray they won’t give it you. Don’t care a damn what torture you’re in. that’s doctors for you. I’m telling you - and I know.” 
His face twitched painfully. His little pinpoint pupils stared past her. 
“It’s hell, I tell you - hell. And they call it curing you! Pretend they’re doing a decent action. Swine!” 
“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange - ?” began Egg cautiously. 
He took the words out of her mouth. 
“Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Bartholomew Humbug. I’d like to know what goes on in that precious Sanatorium of his. Nerve cases. That’s what they say. You’re in there and you can’t get out. And they say you’ve gone of your own free will. Free will! Just because they get hold of you when you’ve got the horrors.” 
He was shaking now. His mouth drooped suddenly. 
“I’m all to pieces,” he said apologetically. “All to pieces.” He called to the waiter, pressed Egg to have another drink, and when she refused, ordered one himself. 
“That’s better,” he said as he drained the glass. “Got my nerve back now. Nasty business losing your nerve. Mustn’t make Cynthia angry. She told me not to talk.” He nodded his head once or twice. 
“Wouldn’t do to tell the police all this,” he said. “They might think I’d bumped old Strange off. Eh? You realise, don’t you, that someone must have done it? One of us must have killed him. That’s a funny thought. Which of us? That’s the question.” 
“Perhaps you know which,” said Egg. 
“What d’you say that for? Why should I know?” 
He looked at her angrily and suspiciously. 
“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. I wasn’t going to take that damnable ‘cure’ of his. No matter what Cynthia said - I wasn’t going to take it. He was up to something - they were both up to something. But they couldn’t fool me.” 
He drew himself up. 
“I’m a strong man, Miss Lytton Gore.” 
“I’m sure you are,” said Egg. “Tell me, do you know anything of a Mrs. de Rushbridger who is at the Sanatorium?” 
“Rushbridger? Rushbridger? Old Strange said something about her. Now what was it? Can’t remember anything.” 
He sighed, shook his head. 
“Memory’s going, that’s what it is. And I’ve got enemies - a lot of enemies. They may be spying on me now.” 
He looked round uneasily. Then he leant across the table to Egg. 
“What was that woman doing in my room that day?” 
“What woman?” 
“Rabbit-faced woman. Writes plays. It was the morning after - after he died. I’d just come up from breakfast. She came out of my room and went through the baize door at the end of the passage - went through into the servants’ quarter. Odd, eh? Why did she go into my room? What did she think she’d find there? What did she want to go nosing about for, anyway? What’s it got to do with her? He leaned forward confidentially. Or do you think it’s true what Cynthia says?” 
“What does Mrs. Dacres say?” 
“Says I imagined it. Says I was ‘seeing things.’” He laughed uncertainly. “I do see things now and again. Pink mice - snakes - all that sort of thing. But seein’ a woman’s different ... I did see her. She’s a queer fish, that woman. Nasty sort of eye she’s got. Goes through you.” 
He leaned back on the soft couch. He seemed to be dropping asleep. 
Egg got up. 
“I must be going. Thank you very much, Captain Dacres.” 
“Don’t thank me. Delighted. Absolutely delighted ... ” 
His voice tailed off. 
“I’d better go before he passes out altogether,” thought Egg. She emerged from the smoky atmosphere of the Seventy-Two Club into the cool evening air. 
Beatrice, the housemaid, had said that Miss Wills poked and pried. Now came this story from Freddie Dacres. What had Miss Wills been looking for? What had she found? Was it possible that Miss Wills knew something? 
Was there anything in this rather muddled story about Sir Bartholomew Strange? Had Freddie Dacres secretly feared and hated him? 
It seemed possible. 
But in all this no hint of any guilty knowledge in the Babbington case. 
“How odd it would be,” said Egg to herself, “if he wasn’t murdered after all.” 
And then she caught her breath sharply as she caught sight of the words on a newspaper placard a few feet away: “CORNISH 
EXHUMATION CASE - RESULT.” 
Hastily she held out a penny and snatched a paper. As she did so she collided with another woman doing the same thing. As Egg apologised she recognised Sir Charles’s secretary, the efficient Miss Milray. 
Standing side by side, they both sought the stop-press news. Yes, there it was. 
“RESULT OF CORNISH EXHUMATION.” The words danced before Egg’s eyes. “Analysis of the organs ... Nicotine ... ” 
“So he was murdered,” said Egg. 
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Milray. “This is terrible - terrible - ” 
Her rugged countenance was distorted with emotion. Egg looked at her in surprise. She had always regarded Miss Milray as something less than human. 
“It upsets me,” said Miss Milray, “in explanation. You see, I’ve known him all my life.” 
“Mr. Babbington?” 
“Yes. You see, my mother lives at Gilling, where he used to be vicar. Naturally it’s upsetting.” 
“Oh, of course.” 
“In fact,” said Miss Milray, “I don’t know what to do.” 
She flushed a little before Egg’s look of astonishment. 
“I’d like to write to Mrs. Babbington,” she said quickly. “Only it doesn’t seem quite - well, quite ... I don’t know what I had better do about it.” 
Somehow, to Egg, the explanation was not quite satisfying.
第七章　戴克斯船长
第七章　戴克斯船长

　　蛋蛋姑娘还没有完成今天的任务，她的下一个目标是圣约翰邸宅。戴克斯一家在里面有一个套房。圣约翰邪宅是一个新的公寓大楼，包括很多售价极其昂贵的套房。套房配有豪华的窗口花坛，还有穿制服的守门人，他们威严魁梧，看上去就像外国的将军。 
　　蛋蛋没有走进大楼里，只是在对面的街上来回踱步。大约一个小时之后，她算了一下，已经走了好几英里，时间到了五点半。 
　　这时，一辆出租车在郧宅前停下，戴克斯船长从车里面出来。蛋蛋等了三分钟，然后横穿街道，走进大楼里。 
　　蛋蛋摁了摁３号套房的门铃。戴克斯自己开了门，他正在脱他的衣服。 
　　“哦，”蛋蛋说，“你好，你一定记得我吧？我们在康沃尔郡见过面，在约克郡又见了一次。” 
　　“当然，当然记得。两次都发生了死亡，是吧？请进，利顿•戈尔小姐。” 
　　“我想见见你太太，她在家吗？” 
　　“她在布鲁顿大街忙乎，在她制作服装的地方。” 
　　“我知道，我今天到了那儿。我以为现在她已经回家了。 
　　我来这儿，我想她不会在意，只是……我遇到了些麻烦蛋蛋停了下来，眼里充满恳求的目光。 
　　弗雷迪•戴克斯心里想着： 
　　“是个好看的小妞，这姑娘真他妈的漂亮。” 
　　他大声说： 
　　“辛西姬要六点以后才会回来。我也刚从纽伯里回来。 
　　玩得不开心，只有早点儿回来。跟我去７２人俱乐部喝杯鸡尾酒好吗？” 
　　尽管蛋蛋担心戴克斯已经喝了大多的酒，她还是接受了邀请。 
　　他们坐在７２人俱乐部地下室幽暗的灯光下，一边品着马丁尼酒。蛋蛋说道：“真有趣，我以前从来没有到过这儿。” 
　　弗雷迪•戴克斯得意洋洋地笑起来。他喜欢年轻漂亮的女孩。也许，还不及他对某些东西那样喜爱，不过，已经够水平了。 
　　“真让人难过，不是吗？”他说，“我是说，在约克郡的事。 
　　一个医生被毒死，一定有什么很有趣的事。你知道我的意思吧——真是弄颠倒了，医生才是对别人下毒的家伙。” 
　　他被自己所说的话引得哈哈大笑，然后又要了一杯杜松子酒。 
　　“你很精明。”蛋蛋说，“我以前还没有想到这一层”“当然，这只是一句玩笑”弗雷迪•戴克斯说。 
　　“我们一聚会，总是有死亡。”蛋蛋说，“你说奇怪吗？” 
　　“有一点。”戴克斯船长承认道，“你是说，那牧师老头，在什么地方？……是在那个演戏的老兄家里发生的事吗？” 
　　“是的。他突然倒地而死，实在太奇怪了”“真让人心烦意乱。”戴克斯说，“你会感到一阵颤栗，整个屋子的人都会突然死掉。你瞧谁都会想‘下一个轮到我了’，让你全身发抖。” 
　　“以前你在吉灵认识巴宾顿先生吗？” 
　　“我以前不知道这个地方。我从来没有留心看这个老头。有趣的是他死亡的情况跟老斯特兰奇的死亡一模一样。 
　　是有点古怪，我想，不可能是被谋杀的吧？” 
　　“哦？你是怎么想的呢？” 
　　戴克斯摇摇头。 
　　“不可能是被谋杀的。”他果断他说，“谁也不会杀教区牧师。可是医生就不同了。” 
　　“对。”蛋蛋说，“我也认为医生是不同的。” 
　　“当然是这样。有许多原因可以证明。医生都是爱管闲事的魔鬼。”他说这话时有点含糊不清。他将身体朝前欠一欠又说：“不要让他们太放肆了，懂吗？” 
　　“不懂。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“他们把人的性命当儿戏。他们的权力也他妈的太大了，绝不能让他们这样下去。” 
　　“我还是不太明白你的意思。” 
　　“。亲爱的姑娘，我告诉你吧。要让这种家伙完蛋，这就是我的意思。把他送进地狱。上帝啊，他们是残忍的。干掉他，让他离你远远的。不管你怎么恳求和祈祷，他们是不会放过你的。不管你受什么样的罪，那都是医生给你造成的。我现在告诉你这一切，我心里明白。” 
　　他脸上的肌肉痛苦地抽搐着，收缩得很小的瞳孔凝视着她。 
　　“这是地狱，我告诉你，地狱。可是医生们说是在为你治病！假装他们在干的是一件正派的事。呸！” 
　　“巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇……”蛋蛋谨慎地改变话题。 
　　他开始滔滔不绝他说： 
　　“巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士，巴塞罗缨•骗子爵士。我倒想知道在他那个宝贝疗养院里发生了什么。精神病病例，他们是这么说的。一旦你进到里面，你就别想出来。他们说不准随意离开，不准随意离开！因为你感到恐惧，所以他们就把你控制住了。” 
　　现在他摇着头，突然耷拉下嘴角。 
　　“我累死了，”他抱歉他说，“实在累死了。”他把招待叫来，硬要蛋蛋再喝一杯，她谢绝了，他只好自己要了一杯。 
　　“现在好一些了。”他把酒喝完时说道。“我的精神恢复了正常。该死的生意使人精神崩溃。不能惹辛西姬生气。她叫我不要说出来。”他点了点头，“绝不要把这些事告诉警察”他说：“他们可能会以为我弄死了老斯特兰奇。嗯？不知你想过没有，一定有人干了这事儿吧。是我们当中的一个人杀死他的。这想法真有意思。是哪一个呢？这是个问题。” 
　　“也许，你知道是哪一个。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“你干吗要那样说？我怎么会知道呢？” 
　　他看看蛋蛋，心里很生气，并起了疑心。 
　　“我要告诉你，关于这事，我什么也不知道。我不打算弄掉那位该死的牧师。不管辛西娅对你说了什么，反正我当时不打算干那种事。他心怀鬼胎，他们两个都心怀鬼胎，但是他们骗不了我。” 
　　他直起身来说： 
　　“我是个强者，利顿•戈尔小姐。” 
　　“你肯定是个强者。”蛋蛋说，“告诉我，你知道在疗养院那位德•拉什布里杰太大的情况吗？” 
　　“拉什布里杰，拉什布里杰？老斯特兰奇说到她的一些情况。什么情况呢？一点儿也想不起来。”他叹了一口气，又摇摇头。 
　　“记忆坏了，什么也想不起来。我有敌人，一大群敌人。 
　　他们现在可能在偷听我说话。” 
　　他心神不安地朝四周看了看，然后凑近餐桌对面的蛋蛋。 
　　“那天那个女人在我屋里干了些什么？” 
　　“哪个女人？” 
　　“长一副兔子脸的女人，她写剧本。在他死掉的第二天早晨，我刚吃过早餐走上楼去，她从我屋里走了出来，穿过通道的一端装饰着台面呢的门，一直走进仆人们的卧室。怪不怪，嗯？为什么她要进我住的屋里？她想在那儿寻找什么呢？她窜来窜去的到底想探查什么？那件事与她有关吧？” 
　　他神秘地向前挪动身子，“或者，你认为辛西姬说的话是真的吗？” 
　　“戴克斯太太说了些什么？” 
　　“她说我在凭空想象。说我在观察事物。”他无可奈何地笑起来，“我确实经常在观察。粉红色的老鼠，蛇，所有的一切。但是观察一个女人却大不相同……我注意观察了她。这女人是个怪物。她的眼睛很刁，可以把你看穿。” 
　　他往后一仰，靠在软沙发背上，仿佛已沉沉人睡。 
　　蛋蛋站起身来。 
　　“我得走了，非常感谢你，戴克斯船长……”“不要谢我。很高兴，高兴极了……”他的声音已含混不清了。 
　　蛋蛋想道：“我最好在他喝得烂醉之前赶紧走。” 
　　她穿过烟雾弥漫的７２人俱乐部，走进空气清凉的夜幕中。 
　　女仆比阿特丽斯曾经说过，威尔斯小姐探头探脑的，四处打听。现在又有了弗雷迪•戴克斯的新故事，威尔斯小姐是否知道了什么秘密？ 
　　现在，关于巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士含含糊糊的故事里，也有什么秘密吗？弗雷迪•戴克斯是否既怕他，又恨他？ 
　　都有可能。 
　　然而，在巴宾顿的案子里竞毫无犯罪情况的任何线索。 
　　“如果他不是被谋杀的，”蛋蛋自言自语他说，“那就太离奇了。” 
　　就在这时，她突然屏住了呼吸，因为她从附近一张极低的布告栏里，瞥见了这几个字：“康沃尔案掘尸检验结果”。 
　　她连忙递过一便士，抓了一张报纸。就在她买报纸时，猛地跟一个妇女相撞。她也在做同样的事情。蛋蛋向她道歉时，认出了这位查尔斯爵土的秘书，能干的米尔雷小姐。 
　　她们俩站在一起，寻找着那条最新消息。对，就在这儿： 
　　“康沃尔案掘尸检验结果”这几个字在蛋蛋姑娘眼前跳跃。“对各部分器官的检验分析……尼古丁…… 
　　“果然他是被谋杀的。”蛋蛋说道。 
　　“啊，天啦！”米尔雷小姐叫道，“太可怕了……太可怕了她那张丑陋的脸由于激动而扭曲了。蛋蛋惊讶地看着她。她过去总以为米尔雷小姐是个缺乏人情味的女人。 
　　“这消息使我太难过了。”米尔雷小姐解释说，“你知道，我跟他相处了一辈子。” 
　　“跟巴宾顿先生吗？” 
　　“是的。你知道我母亲住在吉灵，他过去是那儿的教区牧师。自然，这事真让我伤心。” 
　　“哦，那当然。” 
　　“老实说，”米尔雷小姐说，“我不知道该怎么办。” 
　　还不等蛋蛋用吃惊的目光看着她，她的脸就先红了。 
　　“我要给巴宾顿太太写封信”她很快他说，“只是这似乎……不大好，不太好……这事我不知道该怎么做才好。” 
　　不知道为什么，对于蛋蛋来说，这种解释并没有令她满意。
CHAPTER 8 Angela Sutcliffe
20 
“Now, are you a friend or are you a sleuth? I simply must know.” 
Miss Sutcliffe flashed a pair of mocking eyes as she spoke. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her grey hair becomingly arranged, her legs were crossed and Mr. Satterthwaite admired the perfection of her beautifully shod feet and her slender ankles. Miss Sutcliffe was a very fascinating woman, mainly owing to the fact that she seldom took anything seriously. 
“Is that quite fair?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“My dear man, of course it’s fair. Have you come here for the sake of my beautiful eyes, as the French say so charmingly, or have you, you nasty man, come just to pump me about murders?” 
“Can you doubt that your first alternative is the correct one?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite with a little bow. 
“I can and I do,” said the actress with energy. “You are one of those people who look so mild, and really wallow in blood.” 
“No, no.” 
“Yes, yes. The only thing I can’t make up my mind about is whether it is an insult or a compliment to be considered a potential murderess. On the whole, I think it’s a compliment.” 
She cocked her head a little on one side and smiled that slow bewitching smile that never failed. 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: 
“Adorable creature.” 
Aloud he said, “I will admit, dear lady, that the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange has interested me considerably. I have, as you perhaps know, dabbled in such doings before ... ” 
He paused modestly, perhaps hoping that Miss Sutcliffe would show some knowledge of his activities. However, she merely asked: 
“Tell me one thing - is there anything in what that girl said?” 
“Which girl, and what did she say?” 
“The Lytton Gore girl. The one who is so fascinated by Charles. (What a wretch Charles is - he will do it!) She thinks that that nice old man down in Cornwall was murdered, too.” 
“What do you think?” 
“Well, it certainly happened just the same way ... She’s an intelligent girl, you know. Tell me - is Charles serious?” 
“I expect your views on the subject are likely to be much more valuable than mine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“What a tiresomely discreet man you are,” cried Miss Sutcliffe. 
“Now I - she sighed - am appallingly indiscreet ... ” 
She fluttered an eyelash at him. 
“I know Charles pretty well. I know men pretty well. He seems to me display all the signs of settling down. There’s an air of virtue about him. He’ll Bartholomew banding round the plate and founding a family in record time - that’s my view. How dull men are when they decide to settle down! They lose all their charm.” 
“I’ve often wondered why Sir Charles has never married,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“My dear, he never showed any signs of wanting to marry. He wasn’t what they call a marrying man. But he was a very attractive man ... ” She sighed. A slight twinkle shoed in her eyes as she looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “He and I were once - well, why deny what everybody knows? It was very pleasant while it lasted … and we’re still the best of friends. I suppose that’s the reason the Lytton Gore child looks at me so fiercely. She suspects I still have a 
tendresse for Charles. Have I? Perhaps I have. But at any rate I haven’t yet written my memoirs describing all my affairs in detail as most of my friends seem to have done. If I did, you know, the girl wouldn’t like it. She’d be shocked. Modern girls are easily shocked. Her mother wouldn’t be shocked at all. You can’t really shock a sweet mid-Victorian. They say so little, but always think the worst ... 
” 
Mr. Satterthwaite contented himself with saying: 
“I think you are right in suspecting that Egg Lytton Gore mistrusts you.” 
Miss Sutcliffe frowned. 
“I’m not at all sure that I’m not a little jealous of her ... We women are such cats, aren’t we? Scratch, scratch, miauw, miauw, purr, purr ... ” 
She laughed. 
“Why didn’t Charles come and catechise me on this business? Too much nice feeling, I suppose. The man must think me guilty ... Am I guilty, Mr. Satterthwaite? What do you think now?” 
She stood up and stretched out a hand. 
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand - ” 
She broke off. 
“No, I’m not Lady MacBeth. Comedy’s my line.” 
“There seems also a certain lack of motive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“True. I liked Bartholomew Strange. We were friends. I had no reason for wishing him out of the way. Because we were friends I’d rather like to take an active part in hunting down his murderer. Tell me if I can help in any way.” 
“I suppose, Miss Sutcliffe, you didn’t see or hear anything that might have a bearing on the crime?” 
“Nothing that I haven’t already told the police. The house party had only just arrived, you know. His death occurred on that first evening.” 
“The butler?” 
“I hardly noticed him.” 
“Any peculiar behaviour on the part of the guests?” 
“No. Of course that boy - what’s his name? - Manders turned up rather unexpectedly.” 
“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange seem surprised?” 
“Yes, I think he was. He said to me just before we went in to dinner that it was an odd business, ‘a new method of gate crashing,’ he called it. ‘Only,’ he said, ‘it’s my wall he’s crashed, not my gate.’” 
“Sir Bartholomew was in good spirits?” 
“Very good spirits.” 
“What about this secret passage you mentioned to the police?” 
“I believe it led out of the library. Sir Bartholomew promised to show it to me - but of course the poor man died.” 
“How did the subject come up?” 
“We were discussing a recent purchase of his - an old walnut bureau. I asked if it had a secret drawer in it. I told him I adored secret drawers. It’s a secret passion of mine. And he said, ‘No, there wasn’t a secret drawer that he knew of - but he had got a secret passage in the house.’” 
“He didn’t mention a patient of his, a Mrs. de Rushbridger?” 
“No.” 
“Do you know a place called Gilling, in Kent?” 
“Gilling? Gilling, no, I don’t think I do. Why?” 
“Well, you knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you?” 
“Who is Mr. Babbington?” 
“The man who died, or who was killed, at the Crow's Nest.” 
“Oh, the clergyman. I’d forgotten his name. No, I’d never seen him before in my life. Who told you I knew him?” 
“Someone who ought to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite boldly. Miss Sutcliffe seemed amused. 
“Dear old man, did they think I’d had an affair with him? 
Archdeacons are sometimes very naughty, aren’t they? So why not vicars? There’s the man in the barrel, isn’t there? But I must clear the poor mans’ memory. I’d never seen him before in my life.” 
And with that statement Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to rest content.
第八章　安吉拉·萨克利夫
第八章　安吉拉•萨克利夫

　　“首先，我必须要弄清楚，你来这儿是作为朋友，还是侦探？” 
　　萨克利夫小姐说话时，眼里闪过一丝嘲笑的目光。她双腿交叉坐在直背椅上，灰色的头发梳理得体。萨特思韦特先生看着她穿着漂亮鞋子的腿和线条柔美的脚踝，对它们的完美赞赏不已。萨克利夫小姐是一个非常迷人的姑娘，主要是因为她对一切都顺其自然。 
　　“那样做对我公平吗？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“亲爱的老兄，这当然是公平的。你到这儿来，是要看我的漂亮眼睛吧，就像法国人这种很动听的说法一样。你这个难缠的人，来这儿或许是要逼我说出有关谋杀的事吧？” 
　　“你认为你的第一个推测是正确的吗？”萨特思韦特先生说着，轻轻鞠了一个躬。 
　　“我是有怀疑”女演员兴奋他说，“你是那种看上去很温柔多情的人，实在很重感情。” 
　　“不，不。” 
　　“是的，是的。把我看成一个潜在的凶手，这种想法是一种侮辱，还是一种恭维？这是我惟一不能下结论的事。总的来说，我认为还是一种恭维。” 
　　她把头偏向一边笑了起来。这是一种令人消魂的微笑，谁也抵挡不了这种诱惑。 
　　萨特思韦特先生心里想道： 
　　“一个迷人的精灵！” 
　　他大声说：“我承认，亲爱的女士，巴塞罗缨爵士的死引起我极大的兴趣。也许你知道，过去我对这种事却漠不关心他客气地停下来，也许是希望萨克利夫小姐对他的话表示赞同。然而，她只是说道： 
　　“请告诉我，那姑娘……”“哪个姑娘？她说了什么？” 
　　“那个叫利顿•戈尔的姑娘，就是被查尔斯爵土迷住的那一位。（查尔斯多么可恶。他要坏事的！）她认为，康沃尔郡那个好老头也是被谋杀的。” 
　　“你是怎么想的呢？” 
　　“你看，发生的情况都一样……她是个有才气的姑娘，你知道。告诉我，查尔斯是真心的吗？” 
　　“我希望你对这件事情的观点会比我的观点有价值得多。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“你是一个多么谨小慎微的人。”萨克利夫小姐叫起来，“而我，说话又放肆得让人生畏……”她叹了一口气。 
　　接着，她向他眨了眨眼又说： 
　　“我对查尔斯比较了解。我对男人们都比较了解。在我看来，所有迹象都表明他想要安居乐业。他身上表现了一种美德。他在认真物色对象，在最佳的时机建立家庭——这就是我的观点。男人们在决定安家的时候，会变得多么乏味！ 
　　他们失去了所有的勉力。” 
　　“我常常纳闷，为什么查尔斯爵士从来没有结过婚。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“亲爱的，没有任何迹象表明，他过去想要结婚。他过去不是那种想要结婚的人。但他是一个有吸引力的男人……”她叹息道。她看着萨特思韦特先生，目光在轻轻闪烁。 
　　“他和我曾经……你瞧，我为什么要否认谁都知道的事情呢？那是令人愉快的往事……我们现在仍然是最好的朋友。 
　　我想，这就是利顿•戈尔小姐恶狠狠地看着我的原因。 
　　“她怀疑我现在仍然对查尔斯怀有旧情。我有吗？也许仍然有，不过，我无论如何还没有写下我的回忆，详细地描述那段往事，就像我大多数朋友所做的那样。你知道，如果我写了，那姑娘是不会高兴的。她甚至会被吓倒，现代女郎很容易被吓倒。但是要吓倒一个可爱的维多利亚中期的人是不可能的。他们几乎不开口，却总是想到了最坏的结果萨特思韦特先生心满意足他说： 
　　“你怀疑蛋蛋•利顿•戈尔不信任你，我想这没错。” 
　　萨克利夫小姐皱起眉头。 
　　“我不敢肯定，我一点儿嫉妒心都没有……我们女人就像猫一样，对吗？抓呀，抓个不停，喵呀喵呀，叫个不停，还要满意地呜呜直叫……”她说着大声笑起来。 
　　“为什么查尔斯自己不来问我这些问题？我想他真是太慎重了。这个男人必定认为我有罪……我犯了罪吗，萨特思韦特先生？现在你是怎么想的呢？” 
　　她站起身来，伸出了一只手。 
　　“所有阿拉伯的香料都不能叫这只小手变得香一点。” 
　　她突然又开口道： 
　　“不，我不是麦克白夫人。喜剧才是我的本行。” 
　　“看起来也同样缺少作案动机。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“确实是这样。我喜欢巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇。我们是朋友。我没有理由希望他白白死掉。因为我们是朋友，我很愿意积极参与侦破杀人罪行的行列。告诉我，我能做些什么？” 
　　“我想，萨克利夫小姐，你是否看见或听见与谋杀有关的事？” 
　　“我知道的情况已统统告诉了警察。别墅招待会的客人才刚刚到达，第一天晚上他就死了。” 
　　“那么管家呢？” 
　　“我几乎没有注意到他。” 
　　“客人中有没有行为举止异常的？” 
　　“没有。那男孩……他，叫什么名字来着？曼德斯。他的出现有些出乎意料。” 
　　“巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇显得很惊讶吗？” 
　　“是的，我想他是很惊讶的。我们一起走过去吃饭时，他告诉我，这事真奇怪。他把它叫作‘大门撞车新法’。他说，幸好他撞的是我家的墙，不是大门。” 
　　“巴塞罗缨爵士情绪好吗？” 
　　“情绪非常好！” 
　　“你向警察提到那个秘密通道了吗？” 
　　“我记得通道是从图书室里出去的。巴塞罗缨爵士曾答应指给我看看。可惜，这个可怜的人死了。” 
　　“你们怎么会谈到通道的事呢？” 
　　“我们当时正在谈论他最近买的一件东西——一张胡桃木写字台。我问他里面有没有一个秘密抽屉。我告诉他说，我很喜欢有几个秘密抽屉。这是我不为外所知的嗜好。接着他说，没有，据他所知，书桌里没有装秘密抽屉。但是，他屋里倒有一个秘密通道。” 
　　“他有没有提到一个叫德•拉什布里杰太大的病人？” 
　　“没有”“你知道肯特郡有一个叫吉灵的地方吗？” 
　　“吉灵，吉灵？不，我不知道。问这个干什么？” 
　　“这个……你以前就认识巴宾顿先生，对吗？” 
　　“谁是巴宾顿先生？” 
　　“他死了。应当说他被杀了。事情发生在鸦巢屋。” 
　　“哦，是那个牧师。我忘了他的名字，我不认识他。我这辈子没有见过他，谁告诉你们我认识他的？” 
　　“了解内情的人。”萨特思韦特先生大胆他说。 
　　这话把萨克利夫小姐逗笑了。 
　　“亲爱的老人家，他们是不是以为我跟他有什么关系？ 
　　执事长有时是非常不规矩的，我说对了吗？教区牧师为什么就会规矩呢？不过，我得澄清这个可悲的男土的记忆，这辈子我从来没有见过他。” 
　　听了这话，萨特思韦特先生不由得感到心满意足了。
CHAPTER 9 Murial Wills
21 
Five Upper Cathcart Road, Tooting, seemed an incongruous home for a satiric playwright. The room into which Sir Charles was shown had walls of a rather drab oatmeal colour with a frieze of laburnum round the top. The curtains were of rose-coloured velvet, there were a lot of photographs and china dogs, the telephone was coyly hidden by a lady with ruffled skirts, there were a great many little tables and some suspicious-looking brasswork from Birmingham via the Far East. 
Miss Wills entered the room so noiselessly that Sir Charles, who was at the moment examining a ridiculously elongated pierrot doll lying across the sofa, did not hear her. Her thin voice saying, “How d’you do, Sir Charles. This is really a great pleasure,” made him spin round. 
Miss Wills was dressed in a limp jumper suit which hung disconsolately on her angular form. Her stockings were slightly wrinkled, and she had on very high-heeled patent leather slippers. 
“Fancy you finding me out here,” said Miss Wills. “My mother will be ever so excited. She just adores the theatre - especially anything romantic. That play where you were a Prince at a University - she’s often talked of it. She goes to matinees, you know, and eats chocolates - she’s one of that kind. And she does love it.” 
“How delightful,” said Sir Charles. “You don’t know how charming it is to be remembered. The public memory is short!” He sighed. 
“She’ll be thrilled at meeting you,” said Miss Wills. “Miss Sutcliffe came the other day, and Mother was thrilled at meeting her.” 
“Angela was here?” 
“Yes. She’s putting on a play of mine, you know: Little Dog 
Laughed.” 
“Of course,” said Sir Charles. “I’ve read about it. Rather intriguing title.” 
“I’m so glad you think so. Miss Sutcliffe likes it, too. It’s a kind of modern version of the nursery rhyme - a lot of froth and nonsense - Hey diddle diddle and the dish and the spoon scandal. Of course, it all revolves round Miss Sutcliffe’s part - everyone dances to her fiddling - that’s the idea.” 
Sir Charles said: 
“Not bad. The world nowadays is rather like a mad nursery rhyme. And the little dog laughed to see such sport, eh?” And he thought suddenly: “Of course this woman’s the Little Dog. She looks on and laughs.” 
The light shifted from Mrs. Wills’s pince-nez, and he saw her pale- blue eyes regarding him intelligently through them. 
“This woman,” thought Sir Charles, “has a fiendish sense of humour.” 
Aloud he said: 
“I wonder if you can guess what errand has brought me here?” 
“Well,” said Miss Wills archly, “I don’t suppose it was only to see poor little me.” 
Sir Charles registered for a moment the difference between the spoken and the written word. On paper Miss Wills was witty and cynical, in speech she was arch. 
“It was really Satterthwaite put the idea into my head,” said Sir Charles. “He fancies himself as being a good judge of character.” 
“He’s very clever about people,” said Miss Wills. “It’s rather his hobby, I should say.” 
“And he is strongly of opinion that it there were anything worth noticing that night at Melfort Abbey you would have noticed it.” 
“Is that what he said?” 
“Yes.” 
“I was very interested, I must admit,” said Miss Wills slowly. “You see, I’d never seen a murder at close hand before. A writer’s got to take everything as copy, hasn’t she?” 
“I believe that’s a well-known axiom.” 
“So naturally,” said Miss Wills, “I tried to notice everything I could.” 
This was obviously Miss Wills’s version of Beatrice’s “poking and prying.” 
“About the guests?” 
“About the guests.” 
“And what exactly did you notice?” 
The pince-nez shifted. 
“I didn’t really find out anything - if I had I’d have told the police, of course,” she added virtuously. 
“But you noticed things.” 
“I always do notice things. I can’t help it. I’m funny that way.” She giggled. 
“And you noticed - what?” 
“Oh, nothing - that is - nothing that you’d call anything, Sir Charles. Just little odds and ends about people’s characters. I find people so very interesting. So typical, if you know what I mean.” 
“Typical of what?” 
“Of themselve. Oh, I can’t explain. I’m ever so silly at saying things.” 
She giggled again. 
“Your pen is deadlier than your tongue,” said Sir Charles, smiling. 
“I don’t think it’s very nice of you to say deadlier, Sir Charles.” 
“My dear Miss Wills, admit that with a pen in your hand you’re quite merciless. 
I think you’re horrid, Sir Charles. It’s you who are merciless to me.” 
“I must get out of this bog of badinage,” said Sir Charles to himself. He said aloud: 
“So you didn’t find out anything concrete, Miss Wills?” 
“No - not exactly. At least, there was one thing. Something I noticed and ought to have told the police about, only I forgot.” 
“What was that?” 
“The butler. He had a kind of strawberry mark on his left wrist. I noticed it when he was handing me vegetables. I suppose that’s the sort of thing which might come in useful.” 
“I should say very useful indeed. The police are trying hard to track down that man Ellis. Really, Miss Wills, you are a very remarkable woman. Not one of the servants or guests mentioned such a mark.” 
“Most people don’t use their eyes much, do they?” said Miss Wills. 
“Where exactly was the mark? And what size was it?” 
“If you’ll just stretch out your own wrist” - Sir Charles extended his arm. “Thank you. It was here. Miss Wills placed an unerring on the spot. It was about the size, roughly, of a sixpence, and rather the shape of Australia.” 
“Thank you, that’s very clear,” said Sir Charles, removing his hand and pulling down his cuffs again. 
“You think I ought to write to the police and tell them?” 
“Certainly I do. It might be most valuable in tracing the man. Dash it all,” went on Sir Charles with feeling, “in detective stories there’s always some identifying mark on the villain. I thought it was a bit hard that real life should prove so lamentably behindhand.” 
“It’s usually a scar in stories,” said Miss Wills thoughtfully. 
“A birthmark’s just as good,” said Sir Charles. 
He looked boyishly pleased. 
“The trouble is,” he went on, “most people are so indeterminate. There’s nothing about them to take hold of.” 
Miss Wills looked inquiringly at him. 
“Old Babbington, for instance,” went on Sir Charles, “he had a curiously vague personality. Very difficult to lay hold of.” 
“His hands were very characteristic,” said Miss Wills. “What I call a scholar’s hands. A little crippled with arthritis, but very refined fingers and beautiful nails.” 
“What an observer you are. Ah, but - of course, you knew him before.” 
“Knew Mr. Babbington?” 
“Yes, I remember his telling me so - where was it he said he had known you?” 
Miss Wills shook her head decisively. 
“Not me. You must have been mixing me up with someone else - or he was. I’d never met him before.” 
“It must be my mistake. I thought - at Gilling -” 
He looked at her keenly. Miss Wills appeared quite composed. 
“No,” she said. 
“Did it ever occur to you, Miss Wills, that he might have been murdered, too?” 
“I know you and Miss Lytton Gore think so - or rather you think so.” 
“Oh - and - er - what do you think?” 
“It doesn’t seem likely,” said Miss Wills. 
A little baffled by Miss Wills’s clear lack of interest in the subject Sir Charles started on another tack. 
“Did Sir Bartholomew mention a Mrs. de Rushbridger at all?” 
“No, I don’t think so.” 
“She was a patient in his Home. Suffering from nervous breakdown and loss of memory.” 
“He mentioned a case of lost memory,” said Miss Wills. “He said you could hypnotise a person and bring their memory back.” 
“Did he, now? I wonder - could that be significant?” 
Sir Charles frowned and remained lost in thought. Miss Wills said nothing. 
“There’s nothing else you could tell me? Nothing about any of the guests?” 
It seemed to him there was just the slightest pause before Miss Wills answered. 
“No.” 
“About Mrs. Dacres? Or Captain Dacres? Or Miss Sutcliffe? Or Mr. Manders?” 
He watched her very intently as he pronounced each name. 
Once he thought he saw the pince-nez flicker, but he could not be sure. 
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you, Sir Charles.” 
“Oh, well! He stood up. Satterthwaite will be disappointed.” 
“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Wills primly. 
“I’m sorry, too, for disturbing you. I expect you were busy writing.” 
“I was, as a matter of fact.” 
“Another play?” 
“Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of using some of the characters at the house-party at Melfort Abbey.” 
“What about libel?” 
“That’s quite all right, Sir Charles, I find people never recognise themselves.” She giggled. “Not if, as you said just now, one is really merciless.” 
“You mean,” said Sir Charles, “that we all have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities and don’t recognise the truth if it’s sufficiently brutally portrayed. I was quite right, Miss Wills, you are 
a cruel woman.” 
Miss Wills tittered. 
“You needn’t be afraid, Sir Charles. Women aren’t usually cruel to men - unless it’s some particular man - they’re only cruel to other women.” 
“Meaning you’ve got your analytical knife into some unfortunate female. Which one? Well, perhaps I can guess. Cynthia’s not beloved by her own sex.” 
Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to smile - rather a catlike smile. 
“Do you write your stuff or dictate it?” 
“Oh, I write it and send it to be typed.” 
“You ought to have a secretary.” 
“Perhaps. Have you still got that clever Miss - Miss Milray, wasn’t it?” 
“Yes, I’ve got Miss Milray. She went away for a time to look after her mother in the country, but she’s back again now. Most efficient woman.” 
“So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.” 
“Impulsive? Miss Milray?” 
Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray. 
“Only on occasions, perhaps,” said Miss Wills. 
Sir Charles shook his head. 
“Miss Milray’s the perfect robot. Good-bye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don’t forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.” 
“The mark on the butler’s right wrist? No, I won’t forget.” 
“Well, good-bye - half a sec - did you say right wrist? You said left just now.” 
“Did I? How stupid of me.” 
“Well, which was it?” 
Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes. 
“Let me see. I was sitting so - and he - would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish. Left side.” 
Sir Charles presented the beaten brass atrocity as directed. 
“Cabbage, madam?” 
“Thank you,” said Miss Wills. “I’m quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.” 
“No, no,” said Sir Charles. “Left and right are always puzzling.” 
He said good-bye for the third time. 
As he closed the door he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire, and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice. 
Sir Charles was startled. 
“That woman knows something,” he said to himself. “I’ll swear she knows something. And she won’t say ... But what the devil is it she knows?”
第九章　穆里尔·威尔斯
第九章　穆里尔•威尔斯

　　图廷市上卡思卡特路５号看起来是最适合一个讽刺剧作家的住所。查尔斯爵士被引进的房间，四壁涂成单调的燕麦色，上端有一圈环绕天花板的金链花型装饰条。大窗帘是玫瑰色绒布做成的。屋里有很多照片、陶瓷狗和一尊女子雕像，电话机就被她羞怯地藏在百折裙里。还有许许多多小桌子，以及一些让人看不懂的铜制品，它们是从远东经过伯明翰运来的。 
　　威尔斯小姐轻脚轻手地走进房间，以致查尔斯爵士都没有察觉到。这会儿，他正在观看横躺在沙发上的滑稽的长腿丑角玩偶。听见她纤细的声音说，“你好，查尔斯爵士，见到你非常荣幸”，他连忙转过身来。 
　　威尔斯小姐那件柔软的运动衫，松松垮垮地套在她那瘦骨嶙峋的身上，让人看去很不舒服，长统袜已经有些起皱。她的脚上穿着黑色漆皮拖鞋。 
　　查尔斯爵士跟她握了手，接过一支香烟，然后坐在丑角玩偶旁的沙发上。威尔斯小姐坐在他的对面。从窗口射进来的光照在她的夹鼻眼镜上，使镜片隐隐约约地闪烁。 
　　“真没有想到你会找到我这儿。”威尔斯小姐说，“我妈妈一定会很激动。她简直是个戏迷，特爱看言情戏。你扮演在大学读书的王子那出戏，她经常在谈论着。你知道，她嗜好马丁尼酒，还要吃巧克力。她就是那样的人，确实爱看戏。” 
　　“十分荣幸。”查尔斯爵士说，“你不知道，能让人们欣赏是多么美好的事啊，观众的记忆往往是短暂的！”他叹息起来。 
　　“看见你，我妈妈会欣喜若狂的。”威尔斯小姐说，“萨克利夫小姐前两天来过这儿，妈妈一见她就高兴极了。” 
　　“安吉拉来过这儿？” 
　　“是的。她要上演我的一个剧本《小狗笑了》。你知道吗？” 
　　“当然，”查尔斯爵士说，“我已经读过剧本了。剧名很吸引人。” 
　　“很高兴你这样想。萨克利夫也喜欢这出戏。这是童话的一种现代变体。有一大堆空谈和废话——‘嗨，骗子骗子，碟子勺子，丑闻丑死’。当然，这都是围绕萨克利夫小姐的角色在打转。就是让每个人都配合她的‘无聊话’伴舞。就是这么一种东西。” 
　　查尔斯爵士说： 
　　“不错，时下的世界犹如一个疯狂的童话。小狗笑着观看这种场面，呃？”他突然想道：“这女人正是小狗，她在旁观和嘲笑。” 
　　光线从威尔斯小姐的夹鼻眼镜上移开，他看见她那淡蓝色的眼睛正通过镜片在审视着他。 
　　“这个女人，”查尔斯爵士心想，“有一种巧妙的幽默感。” 
　　他大声说： 
　　“我不知道你是否能猜出我来这儿有什么使命？” 
　　“这个，”威尔斯小姐调皮他说，“我想你不会只是来看看元足轻重的我吧？” 
　　查尔斯爵士将她说的和写的在心里比较了一番。威尔斯小姐，写文章善于冷嘲热讽，说起话来有些调皮诡诈。 
　　“是萨特思韦特先生把他的想法灌输给了我。”查尔斯爵士说，“他认为自己是判断性格的行家。” 
　　“他对人的性格反应很敏感。”威尔斯小姐说，“应该说，这是他的嗜好。” 
　　“他坚持认为，如果那天晚上有什么值得注意的话，你一定注意到了。” 
　　“他是那样说的吗？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“我得承认，我非常好奇。”威尔斯小姐慢慢他说道，“你知道，我还从来没有见过一桩凶杀案在我眼皮底下发生。一个作家必须把一切都看成素材，你说是吧？” 
　　“我相信这是一句著名的格言。” 
　　“所以，”威尔斯小姐说，“我很自然地要观察一切。” 
　　显然，比阿特丽斯说的“探头探脑，四处打听”，反映了威尔斯小姐的观点。 
　　“你是张望和打听客人们吧？” 
　　“是要了解他们。” 
　　“你注意到了什么？” 
　　夹鼻眼镜动了一下。 
　　“我等来等去，但没有真正看到什么。”然后又加了一句，“如果我发现了什么，我早就告诉警察了。” 
　　“但你在观察一切”“我是在观察一切。我情不自禁要那样，但是，我那样做是有点疯疯癫癫的吧／她格格地笑了起来。 
　　“你注意到了什么秘密？” 
　　“哦，什么也没有。没有你所说的秘密，查尔斯爵士。只注意到一些有关客人性格的零星琐事，我发现人们大有趣了。我的意思是，这大典型了。” 
　　“什么样的典型？” 
　　“他们自己的典型。哦，我解释不了。我嘴笨，说不清楚。” 
　　她又格格地笑了起来。 
　　“你的笔比你的舌头厉害。”查尔斯爵士笑着说。 
　　“我想你说我‘厉害’可不太好，查尔斯爵士。” 
　　“亲爱的威尔斯小姐，你要承认，一只笔在手，你就变得无情起来。” 
　　“我认为你真可恶，查尔斯爵士，是你对我无情啊。” 
　　“我不能再胡闹了。”查尔斯爵士心里想道。他大声说： 
　　“所以你没有发现什么具体的东西，威尔斯小姐？” 
　　“没有。确切他说，一个也没有，至少没有一件大事。凡是我注意到的事情，我都报告了警察，我刚才倒忘记说了。” 
　　“是什么？” 
　　“是管家，他的左手腕上有一个草毒大的胎记。当他把蔬菜递给我时，我注意到了。我想这事可能会有用。” 
　　“我想当然，这的确是非常有用的。警察一直在尽力追踪那个叫埃利斯的人。确实，威尔斯小姐，你是一个了不起的女人。仆人和客人中，谁都没有注意到这样一个标记。” 
　　“大多数人都不会使用他们的眼睛，对吗？”威尔斯小姐说。 
　　“具体说，这标记是在什么地方？有多大？” 
　　“如果你伸出你的手来，”查尔斯爵士伸出自己的手。 
　　“谢谢你，就在这儿。”威尔斯小姐用手准确地指出具体的地方。“大概有这么大，大约像一个六便士硬币，好像一幅澳大利亚地图。” 
　　“谢谢你，已经很清楚了。”查尔斯爵士说着缩回他的手，并把袖口重新整理好。 
　　“你是不是认为我应该写信给警察，把情况报告给他们？” 
　　“当然，追踪那家伙是非常必要的。要一鼓作气”查尔斯爵士激动地接着说道，“在侦探故事里，常常有某个区别他人的标记。我想，在现实生活中要确认凶犯是相当困难的”“在小说里这标记是个伤疤。”威尔斯小姐若有所思他说。 
　　“或者是一个胎记”他像孩子一样乐起来。 
　　“现在的困难是，”他继续说，“大多数人的表现都不能确定。他们都没有任何把柄可以被抓住。” 
　　威尔斯小姐用询问的目光看着他。 
　　“举个例子说吧，老巴宾顿，”查尔斯爵士继续说，“他的性格游移不定，很难把握得住”“他的双手是很有特征的，”威尔斯小姐说，“我们称之为学者的手。虽然因为关节炎使它有点儿变形，但手指细皮嫩肉，指甲光洁漂亮。” 
　　“你是一个多么敏锐的观察家啊！不过，你过去是认识他的。” 
　　“认识巴宾顿先生吗？” 
　　“是的，我记得他曾经告诉过我这事，是在哪里他说他认识你？” 
　　威尔斯小姐肯定地摇摇头。 
　　“认识的不是我。你一定是把我跟别的什么人弄混了……要不，是他弄混了，我过去从来没有见过他。” 
　　“一定是弄错了。我以为……在吉灵……。”他严厉地看着她，而威尔斯小姐却显得十分镇定。 
　　“不。”她说。 
　　“威尔斯小姐，在你看来，他也可能是被谋杀的吗？” 
　　“我知道你和利顿•戈尔小姐都这么想。……或者说，是你自己这么想。” 
　　“哦……还有……那你是怎么想的呢？” 
　　“好像不太可能。”威尔斯小姐说。 
　　威尔斯小姐对这个话题明显不感兴趣，这使查尔斯爵士有点儿困惑，于是他立刻改变策略。 
　　“巴塞罗缨爵士可曾提到过一位德•拉什布里杰太太吗？” 
　　“不，我想没有提过。” 
　　“她是他疗养院的一个病人。她患神经衰弱和丧失记忆症”“他提到一个失去记忆的病例。”威尔斯小姐说，“他说可以对病人施行催眠术，以便恢复他的记忆”“他是那样说的吗？我不知道……那有作用吗？” 
　　查尔斯爵土紧锁眉头，陷入了沉思。威尔斯小姐什么话也不说。 
　　“你没有别的事可以告诉我吗？客人们的情况也没有可以说的吗？” 
　　在他看来，威尔斯小姐只是稍微停了一下就回答说： 
　　“没有啦！” 
　　“还有戴克斯太太呢？还有戴克斯船长呢？还有萨克利夫小姐呢？还有曼德斯先生呢？” 
　　当他说出这几个姓名的时候，非常注意地看着她。 
　　他认为他看见夹鼻眼镜摇晃了一下，只是他不能够确认她的心思。 
　　“恐怕我不能告诉你什么了，查尔斯爵士。” 
　　“哦，那好吧！”他站起身来，“萨特思韦特会失望的。” 
　　“实在对不起。”威尔斯小姐一本正经他说道。 
　　“我也很抱歉，打扰你了。我想你还忙着写作。” 
　　“事实上，我是在写东西。” 
　　“又一个剧本？” 
　　“是的。说老实话，我想采用参加梅尔福特修道院招待会的一些人物。” 
　　“用于讽刺剧？” 
　　“完全正确，查尔斯爵士，我发现人们永远都没有自知之明”她格格地笑起来，“正如你刚才说的，如果他们没有怜悯之心，那就不会有自知之明。” 
　　“你的意思是，”查尔斯爵士说，“我们往往把自己的性格和人品说得言过其实了。如果真理被冷酷无情地揭示出来时，我们反倒不能明辨是非了。我相信，威尔斯小姐，你是一个冷酷的女人”威尔斯小姐嗤嗤地笑。 
　　“你不用害怕，查尔斯爵士。女人对男人通常是不冷酷的，除非是怪僻的女人，她们只是对别的女人冷酷。” 
　　“你的意思是，你已经把精神分析之刀切人某一位不幸的女性之躯了。是哪一位？那么，我也许能够猜出来，辛西姬•戴克斯是不受女性喜欢的人”威尔斯小姐什么话也不说。她继续笑着，那笑声就像猫一样。 
　　“你是自己写，还是口述别人写？” 
　　“哦，我自己写，然后送去打字。” 
　　“你应当有一个秘书。” 
　　“也许是这样。你还在想着那位聪明的米……米尔雷小姐，是吗？” 
　　“是的，我注意到了她。她曾经离开一段时间，说是去照顾在农村的母亲，但是现在她又回来了，她是一个非常能干的女人。” 
　　“我也这样想，也许还有一点儿冲动。” 
　　“冲动？米尔雷小姐吗？” 
　　查尔斯爵士愣住了。他那驰骋万里的想象力，也从来没有把‘冲动’与米尔雷小姐联系在一起。 
　　“也许只是在某些场合。”威尔斯小姐说。 
　　查尔斯爵士摇摇头。 
　　“米尔雷小姐是一个完美的机器人，再见吧，威尔斯小姐，原谅我来打扰了你，别忘了告诉警察那事几。” 
　　“在管家右手腕上的标志吗？我不会忘记的。” 
　　“好吧，再见。……等一等，你说是在右手腕上吗？刚才你是说在左手腕上的呀。” 
　　“是吗？我多愚蠢。” 
　　“你说，是在哪一只手？” 
　　威尔斯小姐皱皱眉头，半闭着眼睛。 
　　“让我想想。当时我这样坐着，而他……对不起，查尔斯爵士，请把那个铜盘子递给我，好像它是蔬菜盘，在左边。” 
　　查尔斯爵士照吩咐把薄薄的铜盘递过去。 
　　“要卷心菜吗，大太？” 
　　“谢谢你。”威尔斯小姐说，“我完全能确定，标记是在左手碗。我第一次说对了。我真蠢。” 
　　“不，不。”查尔斯爵土说，“右边和左边容易弄混淆。” 
　　他第二次说了再见。 
　　关上门之后，他又回头看看。威尔斯小姐没有看他。她站在他们分手的地方，正在看着炉火，嘴上露出一种满足和恶意的笑容。 
　　查尔斯爵士吃了一惊。 
　　“这女人一定知道什么，”他自言自语他说。“我敢说她一定知道什么。只是不说出来……她到底知道些什么呢？”
CHAPTER 10 Oliver Manders
22 
At the office of Messrs. Speier & Ross, Mr. Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders and sent in his card. 
Presently he was ushered into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing-table. 
The young man got up and shook hands. 
“Good of you to look me up, sir,” he said. 
His tone implied. 
“I have to say that, but really it’s a damned bore.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said: 
“Seen the news this morning?” 
“You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar - ” 
“Not dollars,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation. Babbington was poisoned - by nicotine.” 
“Oh, that - yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.” 
“But it doesn’t interest you?” 
“My tastes aren’t so crude. After all, murder -” he shrugged his shoulders. “So violent and inartistic.” 
“Not always inartistic,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“No? Well, perhaps not.” 
“It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic manner.” 
“Nice of you to say so,” drawled Oliver. 
“But frankly, my dear boy, I don’t think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.” 
There was a moment’s silence - then a pen dropped to the floor. Oliver said: 
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you.” 
“That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I 
should be interested to know - just why you did it.” 
There was another silence, then Oliver said: 
“You say the police - suspect?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. 
“It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think?” he asked pleasantly. 
“But perhaps you have a perfectly good explanation.” 
“I’ve got an explanation,” said Oliver slowly. “Whether it’s a good one or not, I don’t know.” 
“Will you let me judge?” 
There was a pause, then Oliver said: 
“I came here - the way I did - at Sir Bartholomew’s own suggestion.” 
“What?” Mr. Satterthwaite was astonished. 
“A bit odd, isn’t it? But it’s true. I got a letter from him suggesting that I should have a sham accident and claim hospitality. He said he couldn’t put his reason in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.” 
“And did he explain?” 
“No, he didn’t ... I got there just before dinner. I didn’t see him alone. At the end of dinner he - he died.” 
The weariness had gone out of Oliver’s manner. His dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively the reactions aroused by his words. 
“You’ve got this letter?” 
“No, I tore it up.” 
“A pity,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. “And you said nothing to the police?” 
“No, it all seemed - well, rather fantastic.” 
“It is fantastic.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. Had Bartholomew Strange written such a letter? It seemed highly uncharacteristic. The story had a melodramatic touch most unlike the physician’s cheerful common sense. 
He looked up at the young man. Oliver was still watching him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “He’s looking to see if I swallow this story.” 
He said, “And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely no reason for his request?” 
“None whatever.” 
“An extraordinary story.” 
Oliver did not speak. 
“Yet you obeyed the summons?” 
Something of the weary manner returned. 
“Yes, it seemed refreshingly out of the way to a somewhat jaded palate. I was curious, I must confess.” 
“Is there anything else?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“What do you mean, sir, anything else?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite did not really know what he meant. He was led by some obscure instinct. 
“I mean,” he said, “is there anything else that might tell - against you?” 
There was a pause. Then the young man shrugged his shoulders. 
“I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it. The woman isn’t likely to hold her tongue about it.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite looked a question. 
“It was the morning after the murder stuff. I was talking to the Anthony Armstrong woman. I took out my pocket-book and something fell out of it. She picked it up and handed it back to me.” 
“And this something?” 
“Unfortunately she glanced at it before returning it to me. It was a cutting from a newspaper about nicotine - what a deadly poison it was, and so on.” 
“How did you come to have such an interest in the subject?” 
“I didn’t. I suppose I must have put that cutting in my wallet sometime or other, but I can’t remember doing so. Bit awkward, eh?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “A thin story.” 
“I suppose, went on Oliver Manders, she went to the police about it?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. 
“I don’t think so. I fancy she’s a woman who likes - well, to keep things to herself. She’s a collector of knowledge.” 
Oliver Manders leaned forward suddenly. 
“I’m innocent, sir, absolutely innocent.” 
“I haven’t suggested that you are guilty,” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly. 
“But someone has - someone must have done. Someone has put the police on to me.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. 
“No, no.” 
“Then why did you come here today?” 
“Partly as the result of my - er - investigations on the spot. Mr. Satterthwaite spoke a little pompously. And partly at the suggestion of - a friend.” 
“What friend?” 
“Hercule Poirot.” 
“That man! The expression burst from Oliver. Is he back in England?” 
“Yes.” 
“Why has he come back?” 
Mr. Satterthwaite rose. 
“Why does a dog go hunting?” he inquired. 
And, rather pleased with his retort, he left the room.
第十章　奥利弗·曼德斯
第十章　奥利弗•曼德斯
　
　在斯皮尔罗斯公司办事处门口，萨特思韦特先生询问奥利弗•曼德斯先生在哪儿，并递上他的名片。 
　　他很快就被引进一间小屋子里。奥利弗正坐写字台前。 
　　年轻人站起来跟他握手。 
　　“你好，先生，能来这儿看我。”他说。 
　　他那语气流露出的潜台词是： 
　　“我只能这样说。实际上真他妈烦死人。” 
　　不管怎么说，萨特思韦特先生好不容易才脱掉外衣坐了下来。他若有所思地擤了擤鼻子，一边端详着他的手绢。 
　　“看到今天上午的新闻了吧？” 
　　“你说的是新的金融行情，呃？美元……”“不是美元。”萨特思韦特先生说，“是死亡。是鲁茅斯的尸检结果。巴宾顿被人毒死了——用的是尼古丁”“哦，是这件事。我读了。我们热情的蛋蛋姑娘一定会很开心。她总是坚持说那是谋杀。” 
　　“你自己不感兴趣吗？” 
　　“我的兴致不至于这样粗俗。毕竟，谋杀不是……”他耸耸肩头说，“不是什么好玩的。” 
　　“并不全是这样。”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“那要看是谁在行凶。如果是你，我相信，就会用一种非常艺术的方式去进行谋杀。” 
　　“谢谢你这样说我，奥利弗”“说句老实话，亲爱的小伙子，我对你有意制造的事故还没有想得大多。我认为，警察也一样。” 
　　屋里出现了一阵沉默。有一枝笔掉到了地板上。 
　　奥利弗说：“对不起，我不大明白你的意思。” 
　　“我说的是你在梅尔福特修道院缺乏艺术的表演。我感兴趣的倒是你为什么要那样干？” 
　　又是一阵沉默，然后奥利弗说：“你说警察……‘吓疑吗叶萨特思韦特先生点点头。 
　　“那事看起来有点儿让人怀疑，你不这样想吗？”他友善地问道，“不过，你也许会做出最好的解释。” 
　　“我可能解释。”奥利弗慢慢他说，“至于是好是坏，反正我不知道。” 
　　“说出来让我听听。” 
　　停了一会儿，奥利弗说：“我是遵照巴塞罗缨爵土的建议，用我的那种方式到那儿去的。” 
　　“什么？”萨特思韦特先生感到很惊讶。 
　　“有点奇怪，是吗？但这是事实。我接到他的一封信，建议我假装出一次事故，并请求修道院接待。他说他不能在信上写下原因，但他会在见面后向我解释清楚。” 
　　“后来他解释了吗？” 
　　“不，他没有……我在宴会前到了那儿。我看见他不是一个人在一处。宴会还没结束他就死了。” 
　　奥利弗显得很疲惫。他的黑眼睛盯着萨特思韦特先生。 
　　他似乎在认真观察他的话引起的反应。 
　　“你还保存着这封信吗？” 
　　“不。我把它撕掉了。” 
　　“真可惜。”萨特思韦特先生冷淡他说，“你没有报告警察吗？” 
　　“没有，一切都……难以置信。” 
　　“是难以置信。”萨特思韦特先生摇摇头。巴塞罗缨爵士到底写过这封信没有？这事看起来非常不合情理。简直是在虚张声势，很不符合这位医生快活的性格。 
　　他抬头看看年轻人。奥利弗还在注视着他。萨特思韦特先生心想：“他在看我是不是已经相信了这个故事。” 
　　他说：“巴塞罗缨爵土对你一点也没说明这样要求的原因吗？” 
　　“一点也没有。” 
　　“真是一个离奇的故事。” 
　　奥利弗不再说话了。 
　　“你竟然听从了吩咐。” 
　　奥利弗又一次显得疲惫不堪。 
　　“是的，这事令人精神振奋，能解脱一点我的元聊生活。 
　　但白他说，我当时很好奇／“还有呢？”萨特思韦特先生问道。 
　　“还有呢？你这是什么意思？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生的确不清楚他自己的意思。说这话是出自某种膝陇的本能。 
　　“我是说，”他说，“还有什么可以告诉我的……跟你有关的？” 
　　停了一会儿，年轻人耸耸肩膀说：“我想我还是统统说了吧。那女人多半不会守口如瓶的。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生疑惑地看着他。 
　　“那是在谋杀事件发生后的第二天早晨，我正在与那位安东尼•阿姆斯特朗公司的妇女谈话。我从皮夹里拿出笔记本时，有件东西掉落在地上。她把它捡起来递给我。” 
　　“是什么东西呢？” 
　　“不巧得很，她交给我以前看了它一眼。那是有关尼古丁的一张剪报——就是尼古丁多么致命等等。” 
　　“你怎么会对这件事发生兴趣？” 
　　“我没有。我想我肯定是什么时候把那张剪报放进了皮包，可是我也忘了。真是狼狈，呃？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生想道：“平淡元奇的故事。” 
　　“我想，”奥利弗继续说道，“她后来去警察局报告了这事儿。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生摇摇头。 
　　“我想她不会。我认为她是一个守口如瓶的女人。她知识广博……”奥利弗突然俯身向前。 
　　“我是清白的，先生，我绝对清白。” 
　　“我没有说你是有罪的呀”萨特思韦特先生轻言细语他说。 
　　“但是有人……有人一定认为我有罪。有人已经去警察局告了我。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生摇了摇头。 
　　“没有，没有。” 
　　“那么你今天为什么来我这儿？” 
　　“部分原因是我自己要作调查，”萨特思韦特先生说话时有一点儿浮夸。“还有部分原因是遵照一位朋友的吩咐。” 
　　“什么朋友？” 
　　“赫尔克里•波洛。” 
　　“那个男人！”奥利弗脱口而出，“他已经回到了英国吗？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“他为什么要回来？” 
　　萨特思韦特先生站起身来。 
　　“狗为什么要打猎？”他反问道。 
　　他离开了房子，对自己的反问感到十分满意。
CHAPTER 11 Poirot Gives A Sherry Party
23 
Sitting in a comfortable armchair in his slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot listened. 
Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr. Satterthwaite sat a little farther away observing the group. 
“It’s failure all along the line,” said Egg. 
Poirot shook his head gently. 
“No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a link with Mr. Babbington, you have drawn the blank - yes; but you have collected other suggestive information.” 
“The Wills woman knows something,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll swear she knows something.” 
“And Captain Dacres, he too has not the clear conscience. And Mrs. Dacres was desperately in want of money, and Sir Bartholomew spoilt her chance of laying hold of some.” 
“What do you think of young Manders’s story?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“It strikes me as peculiar and as being highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.” 
“You mean it’s a lie?” asked Sir Charles bluntly. 
“There are so many kinds of lies,” said Hercule Poirot. 
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: 
“This Miss Wills, she has written a play for Miss Sutcliffe?” 
“Yes. The first night is Wednesday next.” 
“Ah!” 
He was silent again. Egg said: 
“Tell us: What shall we do now?” 
The little man smiled at her. 
“There is only one thing to do - think.” 
“Think?” cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted. 
Poirot beamed on her. 
“But yes, exactly that. Think! With thought, all problems can be solved.” 
“Can’t we do something?” 
“For you the action, eh, mademoiselle? But certainly, there are still things you can do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr. Babbington lived for so many years. You can make inquiries there. You say that this Miss Milray’s mother lives at Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows everything. She hears everything and forgets nothing. Make your inquiries of her, if may lead to something - who knows?” 
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” demanded Egg persistently. Poirot twinkled. 
“You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh bien. It shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall not leave this place. I am very comfortable here. But I will tell you what I will do: I will give the party - the Sherry Party - that is fashionable, is it not?” 
“A Sherry Party?” 
“Précisément, and to it I will ask Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.” 
“And me?” 
“Naturally, and you. The present company is included.” 
“Hurrah,” said Egg. “You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?” 
“We shall see,” said Poirot. “But do not expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.” 
As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically: 
“It’s lovely - just like detective stories. All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.” 
“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening. The invitation had been accepted by all. The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round. 
“Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in. I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous résumé of the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say, ‘Thou art the woman,’ and everyone will say, ‘She done it,’ 
and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.” 
“Quelle histoire,” cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. “This is a friendly little party. Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. Là, là! These things, they spoil the palate.” 
He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a forbidding expression on her face. 
“Voilà,” said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. “Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Ah, malheur, I have again mentioned death. Madame, he bowed to Mrs. Dacres, may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.” 
“Here’s to you, Egg,” said Sir Charles. 
“Cheerio,” said Freddie Dacres. 
Everybody murmured something. There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings. Everyone was determined to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily ... 
“The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail - and a thousand thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quel horreur, the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate. The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never - never - ah qu’est-ce 
qu’il ya -?” 
A strange sound had interrupted him - a kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed. The glass dropped from his hand on to the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed. 
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward. 
“Charles,” cried Egg. “Charles.” 
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr. Satterthwaite gently held her back. 
“Oh, dear God,” cried Lady Mary. “Not another! ” 
Angela Sutcliffe cried out: 
“He’s been poisoned, too ... This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful ... ” 
And suddenly collapsing on to a sofa, she began to sob and laugh - a horrible sound. 
Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination. He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly. There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe. 
“My friends,” began Poirot. 
He got no further, for Egg spat out at him: 
“You fool. You absurd play-acting little fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose ... If you’d let the whole thing alone this wouldn’t have happened ... It’s you who have murdered Charles - you - you - you ... ” 
She stopped, unable to get out the words. 
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly. 
“It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer. I can kill - and I can restore to life.” He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said: 
“A magnificent performance, Sir Charles. I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now like to take your curtain.” 
With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet and bowed mockingly. Egg gave a great gasp. 
“M. Poirot, you - you beast.” 
“Charles,” cried Angela Sutcliffe. “You complete devil ... ” 
“But why - ?” 
“How - ?” 
“What on earth - ?” 
By means of his upraised hand, Poirot obtained silence. 
“Messieurs, messdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to prove to you all, and incidentally, to prove to myself a fact which my reason already told me is true.” 
“Listen. On this tray of glasses I placed in one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That water represented pure nicotine. These glasses are of the same kind as those possessed by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy cut glass, a small quantity of a colourless liquid is quite undetectable. Imagine, then, the sport glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it was put on the table somebody introduced into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine. That might have been done by anybody. The butler, the parlourmaid, or one of the guests who slipped into the dining room on his or her way downstairs. Dessert arrived, the port is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir Bartholomew drinks - and dies.” 
“Tonight we have played a third tragedy - a sham tragedy - I asked Sir Charles to play the part of the victim. This he did magnificently. Now suppose for a minute that this was not a farce, but truth. Sir 
Charles is dead. What will be the steps taken by the police?” 
Miss Sutcliffe cried: 
“Why, the glass, of course.” She nodded to where the glass lay on the floor as it had fallen from Sir Charles’s hand. “You only put water in, but if it had been nicotine - ” 
“Let us suppose it was nicotine.” Poirot touched the glass gently with his toe. “You are of opinion that the police would analyse the glass, and that traces of nicotine would be found?” 
“Certainly.” 
Poirot shook his head gently. 
“You are wrong. No nicotine would be found.” 
They stared at him. 
“You see,” he smiled, “that is not the glass from which Sir Charles drank.” With an apologetic grin he extended a glass from the tail pocket of his coat. “This is the glass he used.” 
He went on: 
“It is, you see, the simple theory of the conjuring trick. The attention cannot be in two places at once. To do my conjuring trick I need the attention focused elsewhere. Well, there is a moment, a psychological moment. When Sir Charles falls - dead - every eye in the room is on his dead body. Everyone crowds forward to get near him, and no one, no one at all, looks at Hercule Poirot, and in that moment I exchange the glasses and no one sees ... 
“So you see, I prove my point ... There was such a moment at Crow's Nest, there was such a moment at Melfort Abbey - and so, there was nothing in the cocktail glass and nothing in the port glass 
... ” 
Egg cried: 
“Who changed them?” 
Looking at her, Poirot replied: 
“That, we have still to find out ... ” 
“You don’t know?” 
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 
Rather uncertainly, the guests made signs of departure. Their manner was a little cold. They felt they had been badly fooled. With a gesture of the hand, Poirot arrested them. 
“One little moment, I pray of you. There is one thing more that I have to say. Tonight, admittedly, we have played the comedy. But the comedy may be played in earnest - it may become a tragedy. Under certain conditions the murderer may strike a third time ... I speak now to all of you here present. If anyone of you knows 
something - something that may bear in any way one this crime, I 
implore that person to speak now. To keep knowledge to oneself at this juncture may be dangerous - so dangerous that death may be the result of silence. Therefore I beg again - if anyone knows 
anything, let that person speak now ... ” 
It seemed to Sir Charles that Poirot’s appeal was addressed especially to Miss Wills. If so, it had no result. Nobody spoke or answered. 
Poirot sighed. His hand fell. 
“Be it so, then. I have given warning. I can do no more. Remember, to keep silence is dangerous … ” 
But still nobody spoke. 
Awkwardly the guests departed. 
Egg, Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were left. 
Egg had not yet forgiven Poirot. She sat very still, her cheeks flushed and her eyes angry. She wouldn’t look at Sir Charles. 
“That was a damned clever bit of work, Poirot,” said Sir Charles appreciatively. 
“Amazing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t have believed that I wouldn’t have seen you do that exchange.” 
“That is why,” said Poirot, “I could take no one into any confidence. The experiment could only be fair this way.” 
“Was that the only reason you planned this - to see whether it could be done unnoticed?” 
“Well, not quite, perhaps. I had one other aim.” 
“Yes?” 
“I wanted to watch the expression on one person’s face when Sir Charles fell dead.” 
“Which person’s?” said Egg sharply. 
“Ah, that is my secret.” 
“And you did watch that person’s face?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Yes.” 
“Well?” 
Poirot did not reply. He merely shook his head. 
“Won’t you tell us what you saw there?” 
Poirot said slowly: 
“I saw an expression of the utmost surprise ... ” 
Egg drew her breath in sharply. 
“You mean,” she said, “that you know who the murderer is?” 
“You can put it that way if you like, mademoiselle.” 
“But then - but then - you know everything?” 
Poirot shook his head. 
“No; on the contrary I know nothing at all. For, you see, I do not know why Stephen Babbington was killed. Until I know that I can prove nothing. I can know nothing ... It all hinges on that - the motive for Stephen Babbington’s death ... ” 
There was a knock at the door and a page entered with a telegram on a tray. 
Poirot opened it. His face changed. He handed the telegram to Sir Charles. Learning over Sir Charlie’s shoulder, Egg read it aloud: 
“Please come and see me at once can give you valuable information 
as to Bartholomew Strange’s death - Margaret Rushbridger.” 
“Mrs. de Rushbridger!” cried Sir Charles. “We were right after all. She has got something to do with the case.”
第十一章　波洛举行雪利酒会
第十一章　波洛举行雪利酒会

　　赫尔克里•波洛身穿一套略显华丽的西服，坐在舒适的单人沙发上。他正在倾听别人的说话。 
　　蛋蛋姑娘坐在一张沙发的扶手上，查尔斯爵士站在壁炉前，萨特思韦特先生坐在远处，观察着人群。 
　　“我们到处碰壁”蛋蛋说。 
　　波洛轻轻地摇头。 
　　“不，不；你言过其实了；你在寻找有关巴宾顿先生的线索，虽然徒劳无功，但是，你已经搜集到了另外一些有用的情报。” 
　　“姓威尔斯的那个女人知道某些情况”查尔斯爵士说，“我敢担保她知道某些情况”“戴克斯船长做贼心虚。而戴克斯人太穷愁潦倒、财迷心窍，巴塞罗缪爵士却破坏了她大捞一把的机会”“你是怎么看曼德斯出事故的？”萨特思韦特问道。 
　　“我感到这事很奇怪，完全不像是已故的巴塞罗缨爵士能够做的事，”“你的意思是他在撤谎？”查尔斯爵士直截了当他说。 
　　“撒谎的方式大多了”赫尔克里•波洛说道。 
　　他停了一会儿又说： 
　　“那位威尔斯小姐，她为萨克利大小姐写了一个剧个“是的。第一场演出是在下星期三晚上”“哦！” 
　　他又沉默了一会儿。蛋蛋说： 
　　“告诉我们，现在该怎么办？” 
　　小个子男人向她笑了笑。 
　　“惟一要做的事，就是思考”“思考？”蛋蛋叫起来。她的叫声令人惊讶。 
　　波洛冲着她笑起来。 
　　“是的，确实要思考！通过思考，一切问题才能解决”“我们不能做点什么吗？” 
　　“你要采取行动吗？小姐，你肯定有事可干。比如说，可以去吉灵这个地方，就是巴宾顿先生生活了多年的地方。你可以在那里调查调查。你说过，米尔雷小姐的母亲住在吉灵，是个残疾人。一个伤残的入什么都知道。她会听见很多事情，而且什么也不会忘记，去询问她，有可能发现点什么----谁猜得到呢？” 
　　“你不打算做点什么吗？”蛋蛋坚持提出要求。 
　　波洛眼睛一亮。 
　　“你坚持要我也行动起来？好吧，你会如愿以偿的。我不会离开这个地方。只有我，我在这儿多舒服。但是，我要告诉你，我要办一件事情。我要举行一次晚会——雪利酒会。很时髦，不是吗？” 
　　“雪利酒会？” 
　　“正是！我要邀请戴克斯太太，戴克斯船长，萨克利夫小姐，威尔斯小姐，曼德斯先生和你那位迷人的母亲，小姐您”“还有我？” 
　　“当然，还有你。这群人都要被邀请”“啊哈，”蛋蛋说“你不要骗我，波洛先生。酒会上会有什么事发生吧，不是吗？” 
　　“我们等着瞧吧。”波洛说，“只是不要期望大多，小姐，请让我跟查尔斯爵士谈谈，因为我有一些事要征求他的意见”当蛋蛋和萨特思韦特先生站着等电梯时，蛋蛋欣喜若狂他说道： 
　　“真有趣，就像侦探小说里一样，所有的人会聚到一块，然后他要宣布是谁作的案”“不可思议”萨特思韦特先生这样说道。 
　　雪利酒会是在星期一晚上举行的。所有的客人都应邀出席，迷人而坦率的萨克利夫小姐一边看着周围的人，一边毫无顾忌地大声说笑起来。 
　　“好一个蜘蛛网似的大客厅啊，波洛先生，在这儿，我们大家都是可怜的小苍蝇，已经飞进了大网。我相信，你要向我们报告最精彩的案情，然后，你会突然指着我，咬文嚼字地说：‘你正是那个妇人’。于是，每个人都说‘是她干的’，于是，我泪流满面，马上供认不讳，说我为了写作而鬼迷心窍。哦，波洛先生，我对你感到恐怖”“什么样的故事啊！”波洛叫起来，他在忙乎着寻酒瓶和酒杯，他向她鞠了一躬，并递上一杯雪利酒“这是一个朋友间的聚会，让我们不要谈论杀人、流血和放毒。哦，哦！这些东西大败胃口”他把一杯酒递给表情严峻的米尔雷小姐。她跟随着查尔斯爵士，在他旁边板着面孔站着。 
　　“这就是”当波洛把酒分配完毕之后说道，“让我们忘悼第一次见面时的情景，我们要有开晚会的气氛，吃吧，喝吧，欢乐吧”他朝戴克斯大大点点头，“夫人，请允许我祝你好运，恭喜你穿了这一套迷人的晚礼服”“也恭喜你，蛋蛋”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“恭喜恭喜”弗雷迪•戴克斯说。 
　　每个人都在咕哝着什么，有一种迫不得已的欢乐气氛。 
　　在这样的场合，人人都决心要强颜欢笑，表现得满不在乎。 
　　只有波洛自己处之泰然，在客厅里愉快地走来走去…… 
　　“雪利酒好，我喜欢它胜过鸡尾酒，比威士忌更是好上千倍万倍。哦！威士忌，多么可怕，喝了威士忌，你的味觉就毁了彻底毁了。法国酒很精致。你要品尝它们，但不能……不能是什么呢？” 
　　一个奇怪的声音打断了他的话。那是一种闷在喉咙里的叫喊声。当查尔斯爵士摇摇晃晃地站起身来，每一双眼睛都转向了他。只见他的脸在抽搐。酒杯从他的手里掉落到地毯上，他往前踉跄了几步，然后倒在地上，客厅里鸦雀元声，过了一会儿，安吉拉•萨克利夫突然尖叫一声，蛋蛋拔腿就朝前面冲去。 
　　“查尔斯！”蛋蛋叫道，”查尔斯！” 
　　她不顾一切地往前挤。萨特思韦特先生轻轻地将她拉了回来。 
　　“啊，上帝呀！”玛丽夫人叫起来“不要再来一个啊！” 
　　安吉拉•萨克利夫喊道： 
　　“他也是被毒死的，……糟透了。哦，我的上帝，真是糟透了”她猛然倒在沙发上，开始抽泣，一会儿又大笑起来…… 
　　那声音真恐怖。 
　　波洛一直在控制看局面，现在，他跪在倒在地上的死者身旁。他在检查时其他的人都围了上来。他站起身，下意识地拍拍裤子上的灰尘。他看看周围的人们，一片沉寂，只有安吉拉•萨克利夫呜呜咽咽的哭泣声。 
　　“朋友们……”波洛开始说。 
　　他没有说下去，因为蛋蛋已经在责怪他： 
　　“你这个蠢猪，你这个荒唐可笑的疯子，你在演戏！你装得活灵活现，对一切了如指掌，现在你安排了这出戏，又一件新的谋杀案，就在你的眼皮底下……如果你任其发展，这件事就不会发生……是你杀了查尔斯，你……你……你……”她停住了，再也说不出话来。 
　　波洛悲伤地点点头。 
　　“这是事实，小姐，我承认，是我杀了查尔斯爵士。但是我是一个非常特别的凶手，我能杀人……也能将他复活”他转过身去，用一种完全不同的语气，一种平时道歉的口气说： 
　　“表演十分精彩，查尔斯爵士，我祝贺你。你现在该谢幕了”演员大笑一声，跳了起来，得意忘形地向大家鞠了一躬。 
　　蛋蛋气喘吁吁他说： 
　　“波洛，你……你这个混蛋！” 
　　“查尔斯，”安吉拉•萨克利夫叫道，“你完全是个魔鬼”“这是为什么……？” 
　　“怎么搞的……？” 
　　“究竟是什么……？” 
　　波格把手往上一举，大家才安静下来。 
　　“女士们，先生们，我要请求你们宽恕。我这场小小的闹剧是非常必要的，它向你们大家证明了，也同时向我证明了一个事实，我的判断是正确的。 
　　“大家听着，在这个托盘里，我在其中一个酒杯里放了一勺子水，它代表纯尼古丁，所有的杯子完全相同，就像查尔斯；卡特赖特爵士和巴塞罗缨爵士两家的情况一样，由于刻花玻璃很厚，少量元色的液体是不可能探察出来的。那么，大家想一想，巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的葡萄酒酒杯也是一样的。当酒杯放在餐桌上时，有人便将足够的纯尼古丁放人里面，任何人都可能那样干。管家，客厅女仆以及客人中的某一位，总之有个人溜到楼下，钻进餐厅，甜品送来了，葡萄酒都倒进了杯里，依次转了一圈送给各位客人。巴塞罗缪爵士喝了酒，倒地身亡。” 
　　“今天晚上，我们演出了第三个悲剧——一次模拟的悲剧，我请求查尔斯爵士扮演受害者的角色。他演得精彩极了，倘若这不是假的，而是真的，查尔斯爵士死了，警察将采取什么样的行动呢？” 
　　萨克利夫小姐叫道： 
　　“怎么啦，当然是这酒杯。”她对着从查尔斯爵士手中掉落在地毯上的杯子点了点头。“你只是把水放到了里面，假如你取的是尼古丁……”“我们假设它就是尼古丁”波洛用脚尖轻轻碰了碰那杯子。“你的观点是，会检查酒杯，那么，就会发现尼古丁的残余”“肯定的”波洛轻轻地摇摇头。 
　　“你错了，发现不了尼古丁的”大家都瞪着他。 
　　“你们知道，”他微笑着说，“查尔斯爵士喝的不是那个杯子”他抱歉地露齿一笑，从衣服后面的口袋里取出一个杯子说：“这才是他用过的酒杯”他继续说。 
　　“你们看，这很简单，用的是偷梁换柱的伎俩，一心不能二用，因此，要做我这套把戏，必须分散人们的注意力。当然，这只是一瞬间，心理上的一瞬间。当查尔斯爵士倒地而死，客厅里每一个人的眼睛都会集中到他的尸体上，每个人都会赶到他身边，没有人，根本不会有人看着我赫尔克里•波洛。就在那一瞬间，我调换了杯子，没有人能发现…… 
　　“因此，你们都看到了，我证明了我的观点……在鸦巢屋曾经有过这一瞬间，在梅尔福特修道院也曾经有过这一瞬间，所以，在鸡尾酒杯里什么异物也没有，在葡萄酒杯里，什么异物也没有……”蛋蛋叫起来： 
　　“是谁调换了酒杯？” 
　　波洛看着她答道： 
　　“这个，我们还要追踪……”“难道你不知道？” 
　　波洛只是耸耸肩膀。 
　　客人们纷纷走开，心里迷惑不解。他们的情绪冷淡下来，感到自己上当受骗了。 
　　波洛用手一挥，要大家注意。 
　　“我求你们，等一等，我还要谈一件事。无可否认，今天晚上，我们演出了一场喜剧，不过，这场喜剧演得太认真、以致有可能变为悲剧，在适当的条件下，凶手有可能干第三次……我现在对你们所有在场的客人讲话，如果有谁知道某些秘密——某些跟谋杀案有关的线索，我恳求这个人赶快说出来。在这种时刻隐瞒线索，是非常危险的。沉默可能带来杀身之祸。因此，我再一次恳求这个人，如果知道任何秘密，务必马上说出来……”在查尔斯爵士看来，波洛的恳求是特别针对威尔斯小姐的。 
　　如果是这样的话，那不会有结果的，没有谁会说话，也没有诓会答应。 
　　波洛发出叹息声，举起的手垂落下来。 
　　“让它去吧。我已经发出警告，我还能做什么呢？大家记住，保持沉默是很危险的……”然而，还是没有人说话。 
　　客人们开始灰心丧气地离去。 
　　蛋蛋、查尔斯爵士和萨特思韦特先生留下来。 
　　蛋蛋还没有原谅波洛，她静静地坐着，脸颊通红，两眼发出愤怒的目光。她一直不看查尔斯爵士。 
　　”这是一次聪明绝顶的演出，波洛／查尔斯爵士佯洋得意他说。 
　　“真是妙极了”萨特思韦特先生轻轻一笑说： 
　　“要不是亲眼看见你调换杯子，我是不会相信有那种事的”波洛说：“这就是我怀疑每一个人的原因。用这种方式进行试验，事情就一目了然”“你策划这次表演，就是这样一个目的？——只是让人们看看。当然，作案不会被人发现？” 
　　“这个也许不全是这样。我另有目的”“什么目的？” 
　　“当查尔斯爵士倒地身亡时，我想看看一个人的面部表情”“谁？”蛋蛋紧张地问道。 
　　“那是我的秘密”“你看见那个人的脸了吗？”萨特思韦特先生间道。 
　　“是的”“怎么样？” 
　　波洛没有答复，他只是摇摇头。 
　　”难道你不愿告诉我们你看见的情况？” 
　　波洛慢腾腾地说： 
　　“我看见了一张惊恐万状的脸……”蛋蛋紧张地屏住了呼吸。 
　　“你是说，”她问，“你知道了那个凶手是谁？” 
　　“如果你愿意，你可以那样想，小姐，”“那么……那么……你知道了一切？” 
　　波洛摇了摇头。 
　　“不。正相反我什么也不知道。因为你瞧，我并不知道斯蒂芬•巴宾顿是怎么被杀的。在我什么也没有证明以前。 
　　我就什么也不知道……一切都围绕着一个关键——将斯蒂芬•巴宾顿置于死地的动机……”有人在敲门，一个听差端着托盘走了进来，上面放着一份电报。 
　　波洛打开电报，他的脸色顿时变了，他将电报递给查尔斯爵士；蛋蛋靠在查尔斯爵上的肩头上看着电报，并大声朗读起来： 
　　“速来见我，可告知关于巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇死亡重要线索——玛格丽特•拉什布里杰”“德•拉什布里杰太太！”查尔斯爵士叫了起来，“我们还是弄对了。她与案件有关”
CHAPTER 12 Day At Gilling
24 
At once an excited discussion sprang up. An ABC was produced. It was decided that an early train would be better than going by car. 
“At last,” said Sir Charles, “we’re going to get that particular part of the mystery cleared up.” 
“What do you think of the mystery is?” asked Egg. 
“I can’t imagine. But it can’t fail to throw some light on the Babbington affair. If Tollie got those people together on purpose, as I feel pretty sure he did, then the ‘surprise’ he talked of springing on them had something to do with this Rushbridger woman. I think we can assume that, don’t you, M. Poirot?” 
Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. 
“This telegram complicates the affair,” he murmured. “But we must be quick - extremely quick.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite did not see the need for extreme haste, but he agreed politely. 
“Certainly, we will go by the first train in the morning. Er - that is to say, is it necessary for us all to go?” 
“Sir Charles and I had arranged to go down to Gilling,” said Egg. 
“We can postpone that,” said Sir Charles. 
“I don’t think we ought to postpone anything,” said Egg. “There is no need for all of us to go to Yorkshire. It’s absurd. Mass formation. M. Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite go to Yorkshire and Sir Charles and I go to Gilling.” 
“I’d rather like to look into this Rushbridger business,” said Sir Charles with a trace of wistfulness. “You see, I - er - talked to the Matron before - got my foot in, so to speak.” 
“That’s just why you’d better keep away,” said Egg. “You involved yourself in a lot of lies, and now this Rushbridger woman has come to herself you’ll be exposed as a thorough-paced liar. It’s far far more important that you should come to Gilling. If we want to see Miss Milray’s mother she’ll open out to you much more than she would to anyone else. You’re her daughter’s employer, and she’ll have confidence in you.” 
Sir Charles looked into Egg’s glowing, earnest face. 
“I’ll come to Gilling,” he said. “I think you’re quite right.” 
“I know I’m right,” said Egg. 
“In my opinion an excellent arrangement,” said Poirot briskly. “As mademoiselle says, Sir Charles is pre-eminently the person to interview this Mrs. Milray. Who knows, you may learn from her facts of much more importance than those we shall learn in Yorkshire.” 
Matters were arranged on this basis, and the following morning Sir Charles picked up Egg in his car at a quarter to ten. Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had already left London by train. 
It was a lovely crisp morning with just a touch of frost in the air. Egg felt her spirits rising as they turned and twisted through the various short cuts which Sir Charles’s experience had discovered south of the Thames. 
At last, however, they were flying smoothly along the Folkestone road. After passing through Maidstone, Sir Charles consulted a map, and they turned off from the main road and were shortly winding through country lanes. It was about a quarter to twelve when they at last reached their objective. 
Gilling was a village which the world had left behind. It had an old church, a vicarage, two or three shops, a row of cottages, three or four new council houses and a very attractive village green. Miss Milray’s mother lived in a tiny house on the other side of the green to the church. 
As the car drew up Egg asked: 
“Does Miss Milray know you are going to see her mother?” 
“Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old lady.” 
“Do you think that was a good thing?” 
“My dear child, why not?” 
“Oh, I don’t know ... You didn’t bring her down with you, though.” 
“As a matter of fact, I thought she might cramp my style. She’s so much more efficient than I am - she’d probably try to prompt me.” 
Egg laughed. 
Mrs. Milray turned out to be almost ludicrously unlike her daughter. Where Miss Milray was hard, she was soft, where Miss Milray was angular, she was round. Mrs. Milray was an immense dumpling of a woman immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently placed so that she could, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside. 
She seemed pleasurably excited by the arrival of her visitors. 
“This is very nice of you, I’m sure, Sir Charles. I’ve heard so much about you from my Violet. (Violet! Singularly incongruous name for Miss Milray.) You don’t know how much she admires you. It’s been almost interesting for her working with you all these years. Won’t you sit down, Miss Lytton Gore? You’ll excuse my not getting up. I’ve lost the use of my limbs for many years now. The Lord’s will, and I don’t complain, and what I say is one can get used to anything. Perhaps you’d like a little refreshment after your drive down?” 
Both Sir Charles and Egg disclaimed the need of refreshment, but Mrs. Milray paid no attention. She clapped her hands in an Oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made their appearance. As they nibbled and sipped, Sir Charles came to the object of their visit. 
“I expect you’ve heard, Mrs. Milray, all about the tragic death of Mr. Babbington who used to be vicar here?” 
The dumpling nodded its head in vigorous assent. 
“Yes, indeed. I’ve read all about the exhumation in the paper. And whoever can have poisoned him I can’t imagine. A very nice man, he was, everyone liked him here - and her, too. And their little children and all.” 
“It is indeed a great mystery,” said Sir Charles. “We’re all in despair about it. In fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw any light upon the matter.” 
“Me? But I haven’t seen the Babbingtons - let me see - it must be over fifteen years.” 
“I know, but some of us have the idea that there might be something in the past to account for his death.” 
“I’m sure I don’t know what there could be. They led very quiet lives 
-very badly off, poor things, with all those children.” 
Mrs. Milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed little light on the problem they had set out to solve. Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of a snapshot which included the Dacres, also an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss Wills cut from a newspaper. Mrs. Milray surveyed them all with great interest, but with no signs of recognition. 
“I can’t say I remember any of them - of course it’s a long time ago. But this is a small place. There’s not much coming and going. The Agnew girls, the doctor’s daughters - they’re all married and out in the world, and our present doctor’s a bachelor - he’s got a new young partner. Then there were the old Miss Cayleys - sat in the big pew - they’re all dead many years back. And the Richardsons - he died and she went to Wales. And the village people, of course. But there’s not much change there. Violet, I expect, could tell you as much as I could. She was a young girl hen and often over at the Vicarage.” 
Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Milray as a young girl and failed. He asked Mrs. Milray if she remembered anyone of the name of Rushbridger, but the name failed to evoke any response. 
Finally they took their leave. 
Their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker’s shop. Sir Charles had hankerings for fleshpots elsewhere, but Egg pointed out that they might get hold of some local gossip. 
“And boiled eggs and scones will do you no harm for once,” she said severely. “Men are so fussy about their food.” 
“I always find eggs so depressing,” said Sir Charles meekly. The woman who served them was communicative enough. She, too, had read of the exhumation in the paper and had been proportionately thrilled by its being “old vicar.” “I were a child at the time,” she explained. “But I remember him.” 
She could not, however, tell them much about him. 
After lunch they went to the church and looked through the register of births, marriages and deaths. Here again there seemed nothing hopeful or suggestive. 
They came out into the churchyard and lingered. Egg read the names on the tombstones. 
“What queer names there are,” she said. “Listen, here’s a whole family of Stavepennys and here’s a Mary Ann Sticklepath.” 
“None of them so queer as mine,” murmured Sir Charles. 
“Cartwright? I don’t think that’s a queer name at all.” 
“I didn’t mean Cartwright. Cartwright’s my acting name, and I finally adopted it legally.” 
“What’s your real name?” 
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. It’s my guilty secret.” 
“Is it as terrible as all that?” 
“It’s not so much terrible as humorous.” 
“Oh - tell it me.” 
“Certainly not,” said Sir Charles firmly. 
“Please.” 
“No.” 
“Why not?” 
“You’d laugh.” 
“I wouldn’t.” 
“You wouldn’t be able to help laughing.” 
“Oh, please tell me. Please, please, please.” 
“What a persistence creature you are, Egg. Why do you want to know?” 
“Because you won’t tell me.” 
“You adorable child,” said Sir Charles a little unsteadily. 
“I’m not a child.” 
“Aren’t you? I wonder.” 
“Tell me,” whispered Egg softly. 
A humorous and rueful smile twisted Sir Charles’s mouth. 
“Very well, here goes. My father’s name was Mugg.” 
“Not really?” 
“Really and truly.” 
“H’m,” said Egg. “That is a bit catastrophic. To go through life as Mugg - ” 
“Wouldn’t have taken me far in my career. I agree. I remember, went on Sir Charles dreamily, I played with the idea (I was young then) of calling myself Ludovic Castiglione - but I eventually compromised on British alliteration as Charles Cartwright.” 
“Are you really Charles?” 
“Yes, my godfathers and godmothers saw to that.” He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you say Charles - and drop the Sir?” 
“I might.” 
“You did yesterday. When - when - you thought I was dead.” 
“Oh, then.” Egg tried to make her voice nonchalant. 
Sir Charles said abruptly: “Egg, somehow or other this murder business doesn’t seem real any more. Today especially, it seems fantastic. I meant to clear the thing up before - before anything else. I’ve been superstitious about it. I’ve associated success in solving problems with - with another kind of success. Oh, damn, why do I beat about the bush? I’ve made love on the stage so often that I’m diffident about it in real life ... Is it me or is it young Manders, Egg? I must know. Yesterday I thought it was me ... ” 
“You thought right ... ” 
“You incredible angel,” cried Sir Charles. 
“Charles, Charles, you can’t kiss me in a churchyard ... ” 
“I shall kiss you anywhere I please ... ” 
“We’ve found out nothing,” said Egg later, as they were speeding back to London. 
“Nonsense, we’ve found out the only thing worth finding out ... What do I care about dead clergymen or dead doctors? You’re the only thing that matters ... You know, my dear, I’m thirty years older than you - are you sure it doesn’t matter?” 
Egg pinched his arm gently. 
“Don’t be silly ... I wonder if the others have found out anything!” 
“They’re welcome to it,” said Sir Charles generously. 
“Charles - you used to be so keen.” 
But Sir Charles was no longer playing the part of the great detective. 
“Well, it was my own show. Now I’ve handed over to Moustachios. It’s his business.” 
“Do you think he really knows who committed the crimes? He said he did.” 
“Probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.” 
Egg was silent. Sir Charles said: 
“What are you thinking about, darling?” 
“I was thinking about Miss Milray. She was so odd in her manner that evening I told you about. She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.” 
“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.” 
“Do be serious, Charles. She sounded - worried.” 
“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries? What do I care for anything but you and me?” 
“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.” 
They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them. 
“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.” 
“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. 
“Look here, I must tell you our news. Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.” 
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said: 
“Oh! I’m sure - I’m sure you’ll be very happy.” 
There was a queer note in her voice. Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation. 
“My God, Egg, look at this. It’s from Satterthwaite.” 
He shoved the telegram into her hands. Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.
第十二章　出访吉灵
第十二章　出访吉灵

　　他们展开了一场热烈的讨论，制定了每一步行动的计划。大家决定乘早班火车比开汽车去更好。 
　　“最终，”查尔斯爵士说，“我们就要解开这个疑团最奥秘的部分了”“你认为其中的奥秘是什么？”蛋蛋姑娘说。 
　　“我想象不出。但一定要弄清楚巴宾顿的案情。如果托利像我感觉的那样，有意把那些人请到一起，那么他谈到要令客人们‘震惊’的事情，一定跟那个叫拉什布里杰的女人有关。我认为我们可以这样来推断，你说对吗，波洛？” 
　　波洛摇摇头，露出一种难以理解的神态。 
　　“电报使案情更加错综复杂，”他喃喃地说。 
　　“但是，我们必须加快步伐——拼命加快步伐”萨特思韦特先生不明白要加快步伐的必要，但他有礼貌地表示同意。 
　　“显然，我们要乘上午第一班火车。呕……那就是说，我们全部都得去。” 
　　“查尔斯爵士和我已经作了去吉灵的安排。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“我们可以推迟去那儿。”查尔斯爵士说。 
　　“我认为我们不应该推迟任何事情。”蛋蛋说，“我们四个人没有必要全部都去约克郡。一群人都去，那是很可笑的。波洛和萨特思韦特先生去约克郡，查尔斯爵士和我去吉灵。” 
　　“我希望去调查拉什布里杰的事情。”查尔斯爵士说话时，流露出一种渴望的神情。“你瞧我……呃……我以前告诉过护士长，我说我要登门拜访。” 
　　“所以说，你最好离开那儿远一点”蛋蛋说“你自己编造了一大堆谎言，既然这个拉什布里杰女士已经清醒过来，你就会作为一个大骗子而暴露无遗。你去吉灵显得更加重要。如果我们去探望米尔雷小姐的母亲，她会敞开心扉，对你谈起很多她不对别人谈的事情，你是她女儿的主人，她会对你深信不促”查尔斯爵士凝视着蛋蛋那张容光焕发、诚实恳切的脸。 
　　“我去吉灵吧”他说“我想你的意见是很对的。” 
　　“我知道自己是对的。”蛋蛋说。 
　　“在我看来，这安排妙极了”波洛高兴他说“正如小姐所说，查尔斯爵士是会见米尔雷太太最合适的人选。谁能料得到呢？你们能从她那儿得到的情况，也许比我们从约克郡得到的还要重要得多”事情就这样安排妥当，第二天一早，查尔斯爵士带着蛋蛋于九点四十五分驾车出发了。那时波洛和萨特恩韦特先生已经乘火车离开了伦敦。 
　　这是一个凉爽的早晨，伸手可以触到空中的雾气。他们的汽车来到了泰晤士河南岸。查尔斯爵士凭自己的经验，驾车行驶在各种捷近的小道上时，蛋蛋感到精神振奋。 
　　他们终于飞驰在福克斯通大道上。穿过梅德斯通时，查尔斯爵士查看了地图，他们离开大道，在乡村小路上婉蜒行驶了一会儿。大约＋点差一刻，他们最终到达了目的地。 
　　吉灵是一个被世界遗忘的村庄。有个老教堂，一幢教区牧师的住宅，两三个小店，一排茅屋，三四间新建的郡政府会堂，一片极其诱人的乡间草地。 
　　米尔雷小姐的母亲住在教堂草坪对面的一间小屋里。 
　　当汽车停下来时，蛋蛋问道： 
　　“米尔霄小姐知道你要来看望她的母亲吗？” 
　　‘哦，是的。她已经写信要老大太做好准备。” 
　　“你认为这样好吗？” 
　　“亲爱的孩子，有什么不好？” 
　　“哦，我知道……可你并没有把她带来。” 
　　“事实上，我认为她会限制我发挥作用。她比我能干多了。她也许会竭力刺激我。” 
　　蛋蛋笑了起来。 
　　米尔雷大太跟她女儿千差万别。米尔雷小姐很严厉，她却很温柔。米尔雷小姐瘦骨嶙峋，她却又圆又胖。米尔雷大大就像一个巨大的面团，她躺在扶手椅中简直不能动弹。由于座位安置得恰到好处，所以她可以通过窗口观看外部世界发生的一切。 
　　看来客人们的到来使她兴高采烈。 
　　“您大好了，查尔斯爵土，我从紫罗兰那儿听到你的很多情况。（紫罗兰，这个名字与米尔雷小姐极不相称。）你简直不知道她是多么崇敬您。这些年来她能为您工作，大好不过了。坐吧，利顿，戈尔小姐。请原谅，我不能站起来，我的腿已经很多年不中用了。主的意志，我不会怨天尤人。我要说的是，人能够习惯一切。也许，你们开车饿了，需要吃一点东西？” 
　　查尔斯爵士和蛋蛋姑娘都说不需要吃东西，但是米尔雷太太不听他们的。她用东方人的方式拍了拍手掌，茶和饼干很快就送到。在她们嚼饼干和喝茶时，查尔斯爵士说明了他们来访的目的。 
　　“米尔雷大太，我相信你已经听说了巴宾顿先生死亡悲剧的一切情况，是吧？他曾经在这儿担任过教区牧师？” 
　　这位胖得像个面团的女人点头表示同意。 
　　“对，是这样，我读了报上所有关于验尸的报道，我想不出谁会把他毒死。他是一个非常好的人，这儿的人都喜欢他。也喜欢他的夫人，喜欢他们的小孩。” 
　　“这事非常离奇。”查尔斯爵士说，“我们大家都绝望了。 
　　说实在的，我们很想知道你是否能提供一些有用的东西。” 
　　“我？可是我从来没有见过巴宾顿一家啊。让我想想……已经有十五年了”“我知道，但是我们有一个想法，就是过去有的事，也许跟他的死有关系”“我肯定不知道有什么事跟那有关。他们那时过着平静的生活。这个可怜的家庭，有了这一堆孩子，景况很不好。” 
　　米尔雷太太很乐意回首往事，但是她的回忆对他们需要解决的问题却元济于事。 
　　查尔斯爵士把一张放大的快照给她看，照片里包括戴克斯一家。还拿出一幅安吉拉•萨克利夫早年的肖像画和一张从报上剪下来复制的威尔斯小姐的相片。米尔雷大太津津有味地注视着这些人像，可是没有迹象表明她认识谁。 
　　“我记不起他们中的任何一个人了。当然，这都是很久以前的事了，这个小小的地方，不会有多少事发生的。阿格纽的女孩子们，就是医生的女儿们，她们都结婚了，一个个都在外地。我们现在的医生却是一个光棍，他有了一个年轻的伙伴。还有凯利家的小姐们，那时她们坐在教堂的长凳上，现在都死了多年了。还有理查森一家，他死后，理查森夫人便到了威尔士。当然，还有村里的人们。只是那时没有太多的变化，我相信，我能告诉你的，紫罗兰都可以告诉你。那时她还是个小姑娘，常常跑到教区牧师住宅去玩。” 
　　查尔斯爵士无法想象米尔雷小姐还是一个小姑娘时的样子。 
　　他问米尔雷太太是否记得一个叫拉什布里杰的人，但这名字没有引起任何反应。 
　　最后，他们道别起程。 
　　接着，他们在面包店匆匆地吃了一顿午餐。查尔斯爵士渴望在别的地方吃点肉食品，但是蛋蛋姑娘指出，在这儿，他们可能会听到当地人的闲谈。 
　　“吃一次煮鸡蛋和烤饼，对你的身体不会有害。”她严肃他说道，“男人们太斤斤计较他们的食品。” 
　　“我发现吃鸡蛋总是让人憋得慌。”查尔斯爵士心平气和他说。 
　　端菜的女人十分健谈，她也读过了报纸上关于验尸的报道。当她发现说的就是那个“老牧师”时，她自然被吓得惊恐万状。“我那时还是个小孩，”她解释说，“但是我还记得他”然而，她没有告诉他们多少东西。 
　　午餐以后，他们来到教堂，查阅了出生、结婚和死亡的登记簿，同样，他们没有得到任何有用的线索。 
　　他们走到教堂的院子里，在那儿徘徊。蛋蛋读着墓碑上的名字。 
　　“都是些很怪的名字。”她说，“听着，这儿有一家姓史特夫彭尼的。这儿有一位玛丽•安•斯蒂克尔帕斯。” 
　　“没有哪一个名字像我的那样古怪。”查尔斯爵土咕哝着。 
　　“卡特赖特？我认为这个姓没有什么奇怪的”“我不是说卡特赖特。卡特赖特是我的艺名，我后来把它用作法定的姓”“你本来姓什么？” 
　　“也许我不会告诉你。这是我感到不安的秘密。” 
　　“会有那么可怕吗？” 
　　“别说可怕，我宁愿说它幽默”“哦……告诉我吧。” 
　　“一定不能告诉你。”查尔斯爵士肯定他说。 
　　“求您了。” 
　　“不。” 
　　“为什么不。” 
　　“你会笑我。…… 
　　“我不笑。” 
　　“你会忍不住要笑我”“哦，告诉我吧。请吧，请吧，请吧。” 
　　“你真是死皮赖脸，蛋蛋，你为什么想要知道呢？” 
　　“就因为你不愿意告诉我。” 
　　“你这个招人喜欢的小孩，”查尔斯爵士有点稳不住了。 
　　“我不是小孩。” 
　　“你不是小孩吗？我不明白。” 
　　“告诉我。”蛋蛋娇柔他说。 
　　一种滑稽而充满怜恤的笑容使查尔斯的嘴唇扭曲了。 
　　“好吧，我说。我父亲的姓是Ｍｕｇｇ。” 
　　“不是真的吧？” 
　　“千真万确。” 
　　“晤，”蛋蛋说，“这姓有点不吉利。像笨蛋那样混日子“对，不过这姓没有用多久。”查尔斯像是在做梦一样继续说，：。我记得，我自己想了个名字，叫卢多维克•卡斯蒂莱昂纳。那时我还年轻。后来，我终于屈从了，按英语的头韵改名为查尔斯•卡特顿特”“你真的是查尔斯吗？” 
　　“是的，我的教父教母作证”他犹豫了一会儿又说，“为什么你叫‘查尔斯’的时候不去掉‘爵士’？” 
　　“我本来是会去掉的。” 
　　“昨天你就是这样叫我的。那是当……当你认为我已经死了的时候。” 
　　“啊，那时候！”蛋蛋竭力使自己的声音保持平静。 
　　查尔斯爵士唐突他说：“蛋蛋，从某种角度来看，这次谋杀事件似乎不再是真实的了。特别是今天，它看起来实在是不可思议。我是说，必须把它弄个水落石出。我对这件事总是很迷信。我把这次办案成功与另外一件事的成功联系在一起。哦，该死，我何必要转弯抹角他说呢？我在舞台上谈情说爱，大胆放肆，而在现实生活中却变得顾虑重重……你中意的是我？还是小曼德斯？我必须知道。昨天我想到是我……”“你想得对……”蛋蛋说。 
　　“你这个神奇的天使！”查尔斯爵土叫起来。 
　　“查尔斯，查尔斯，你可不能在教堂的院子里吻我……，’“只要我高兴，我在任何地方都可以吻你……”“我们什么也没发现。”当他们向伦敦驶去的时候，蛋蛋说“胡说，我们发现了值得发现的惟一的事情……我究竟关心死去的牧师或医生什么呢？你才是我惟一要关心的人……你知道，我亲爱的，我比你大三十岁……你肯定这不要紧吧？” 
　　蛋蛋温柔地捏了捏他的胳膊。 
　　“别这么傻……我不知道另外两位是否发现了什么。” 
　　“随他们的便吧。”查尔斯爵士满不在乎他说。 
　　“查尔斯，你过去总是一丝不苟。” 
　　但是，查尔斯爵士此刻不再扮演大侦探的角色了。 
　　“好啦，这是我自己的演出。现在我已经把事情移交给大胡子波洛了。” 
　　“你认为他真的知道谁是凶手吗？他可说过，他知道啊”“也许连一点影子也没有，不过他不得不保住他干这一行的名声。” 
　　蛋蛋不说话了。查尔斯爵士说： 
　　“你在想些什么，亲爱的？” 
　　“我在想米尔雷小姐的事，那天晚上，她的举止非常古怪，我告诉过你的。她买了一张关于尸检的报纸。她说她不知道该怎么办。” 
　　“瞎说。”查尔斯爵土愉快他说，“那个女人永远都知道该干什么。” 
　　“认真一点吧，查尔斯。她的话听起来……有点担忧。” 
　　“蛋蛋，我亲爱的，我们为什么要去关心米尔雷的担忧呢？除了你和我，我们为什么要关心别人的事呢？” 
　　“你最好注意点，别撞上这些电车啊！”蛋蛋说，“我在做妻子以前，可不想守寡。” 
　　他们回到查尔斯爵土的住宅去吃茶点。米尔雷小姐出来迎接他们。 
　　“你有一份电报，查尔斯爵士。” 
　　“谢谢你，米尔雷小姐。”他大笑起来，那是一阵神经质的孩子般的笑。“你听着，我要宣布我们的新闻，利顿•戈尔小姐和我就要结婚了。” 
　　米尔雷小姐愣了一下，接着说： 
　　“哦！我相信，我相信你们会非常幸福。” 
　　她的声音有一种奇怪的腔调。蛋蛋注意到了这一点，但是，她还来不及思索她的反应，查尔斯•卡特赖特已经拿着电报在她眼前挥动，同时发出一阵短促的尖叫。 
　　“我的上帝啊，你看看这个，蛋蛋，是萨特思韦特先生发来的。” 
　　他将电报塞进她的手中，蛋蛋读着，眼睛睁得大大的。
Chapter 13  Mrs De Rushbridger
25 
Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary. Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of important to tell them. Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms. 
The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock. The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed. Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron. 
“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully. 
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it. 
“Please take her this.” 
They were shown into a small waiting room. In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. she was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self. 
Mr. Satterthwaite rose. 
“I hope you remember me,” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.” 
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked for poor Mrs. de Rushbridger the, and it seems such a coincidence.” 
“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.” 
Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently. She went on: 
“I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious. Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way? There must be some madman about - that’s the only way I can account for it. Having the police here and everything. It’s really been terrible.” 
“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised. 
“Yes, since ten o’clock they’ve been here.” 
“The police?” said Hercule Poirot. 
“Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger now,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. “Since she asked us to come - ” 
The Matron interrupted him. 
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don’t know!” 
“Know what?” demanded Poirot sharply. 
“Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She’s dead.” 
“Dead?” cried Poirot. “Mille tonnerres! That explains it. Yes, that explains it. I should have seen - ” He broke off. “How did she die?” 
“It’s most mysterious. A box of chocolates came for her - liqueur chocolates - by post. She ate one - it must have tasted horrible, but she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and she swallowed it. One doesn’t like spitting a thing out.” 
“Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly down your throat, it is difficult.” 
“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything. She died in about two minutes. Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates. And the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.” 
“And the poison employed?” 
“They think it’s nicotine.” 
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine. What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!” 
“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us. Unless - unless - she confided in someone?” 
He glanced interrogatively at the Matron. 
Poirot shook his head. 
“There will have been no confidences, you will find.” 
“We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?” 
“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given. Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram. 
On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room. They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot. 
Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman. She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful - it still showed the agony of her death. Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly: 
“Poor soul ... ” 
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face. 
Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver ... 
Mr. Satterthwaite said: 
“Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her ... She was killed in order to prevent her speaking ... ” 
Poirot nodded. 
“Yes, that is so.” 
“She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.” 
“Or what she did not know ... But let us not waste time ... There is much to be done. There must be no more deaths. We must see to that.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously: 
“Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?” 
“Yes, it fits ... But I realise one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought ... We must be careful.” 
Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them. The telegram had been handed it at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy. The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death. 
After six o’clock that evening the small boy who had handed in the telegram was found. He told his story promptly. He had been given the telegram by a man dressed in shabby clothes. The man told him that the telegram had been given him by a “loony lady” in the 
“House in the Park.” She had dropped it out of the window wrapped round two half-crowns. The man was afraid to be mixed up in some funny business, and was tramping in the other direction, so he had given the boy two and six and told him to keep the change. 
A search would be instituted for the man. In the meantime there seemed nothing more to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite returned to London. 
It was close on midnight when the two men arrived back in town. Egg had gone back to her mother, but Sir Charles met them, and the three men discussed the situation. 
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “be guided by me. Only one thing will solve this case - the little grey cells of the brain. To rush up and down England, to hope that this person and that will tell us what we want to know - all such methods are amateurish and absurd. The truth can only be seen from within.” 
Sir Charles looked slightly sceptical. 
“What do you want to do, then?” 
“I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four house - in which to think.” 
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight smile. 
“Will thinking tell you what it was this woman could have said if she lived?” 
“I believe so.” 
“It hardly seems possible. However, M. Poirot, you must have it your own way. If you can see through this mystery, it’s more than I can. I’m beaten, and I confess it. In any case, I’ve other fish to fry.” 
Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if so his expectation was disappointed. Mr. Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but Poirot remained lost in thought. 
“Well, I must be off,” said the actor. “Oh, just one thing. I’m rather worried about - Miss Wills.” 
“What about her?” 
“She’s gone.” 
Poirot stared at him. 
“Gone? Gone where?” 
“Nobody knows... I was thinking things over after I got your telegram. As I told you at the time, I felt convinced that that woman knew something she hadn’t told us. I thought I’d have a last shot at getting it out of her. I drove out to her house - it was about half-past nine when I got there - and asked for her. It appears she left home this morning - went up to London for the day - that’s what she said. Her people got a telegram in the evening saying she wasn’t returning for a day or so and not to worry.” 
“And were they worrying?” 
“I gather they were, rather. You see, she hadn’t taken any luggage with her.” 
“Odd,” murmured Poirot. 
“I know. It seems as though - I don’t know. I feel uneasy.” 
“I warned her,” said Poirot. “I warned everyone. You remember I said to them, ‘Speak now.’” 
“Yes, yes. Do you think that she, too - ?” 
“I have my ideas,” said Poirot. “For the moment I prefer not to discuss them.” 
“Fist, the butler - Ellis - then Miss Wills. Where is Ellis? It’s incredible that the police have never been able to lay hands on him.” 
“They have not looked for his body in the right place,” said Poirot. 
“Then you agree with Egg. You think he is dead?” 
“Ellis will never be seen alive again.” 
“My God,” burst out Sir Charles. “It’s a nightmare - the whole thing is utterly incomprehensible.” 
“No, no. It is sane and logical, on the contrary.” 
Sir Charles stared at him. 
“You say that?” 
“Certainly. You see, I have the orderly mind.” 
“I don’t understand you.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at the little detective. 
“What kind of mind have I?” demanded Sir Charles, slightly hurt. 
“You have the actor’s mind, Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values. Mr. Satterthwaite, he has the playgoer’s mind, he observes the characters, he has the sense of atmosphere. But me, I have the prosaic mind. I see only the facts without any dramatic trappings or footlights.” 
“Then we’re to leave you to it?” 
“That is my idea. For twenty-four hours.” 
“Good luck to you, then. Good-night.” 
As they went away together Sir Charles said to Mr. Satterthwaite: 
“That chap thinks a lot of himself.” 
He spoke rather coldly. 
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. That star part! So that was it. He said: 
“What did you mean by saying you had other fish to fry, Sir Charles?” 
On Sir Charles’s face appeared the sheepish expression that Mr. Satterthwaite knew so well from attending weddings in Hanover Square. 
“Well, as a matter of fact, I - er - well, Egg and I - ” 
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “My best congratulations.” 
“Of course I’m years too old for her.” 
“She doesn’t think so - and she’s the best judge.” 
“That’s very nice of you, Satterthwaite. You know, I’d got it into my head she was fond of young Manders.” 
“I wonder what made you think that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite innocently. 
“Anyway,” said Sir Charles firmly, “she isn’t ... ”
第十三章　拉什布里杰太太
第十三章　拉什布里杰太太

　　赶火车以前，赫尔克里•波洛和萨特思韦特先生与巴塞罗缨。斯特兰奇的秘书林登小姐进行了一次简短的谈话。林登小姐非常乐意帮忙，可是并没有告诉他们任何有价值的东西。德•拉什布里杰大大的名字，只是在巴塞罗缨爵士的病例登记簿里以一种纯职业的方式才被提到。巴塞罗缨爵士用医学术语写到她，除此之外，从来没有谈到过她。 
　　大约＋二点左右，两人抵达疗养院。开门的女仆很紧张，脸也红了。萨特思韦特先生首先要求见护士长。 
　　“我不知道她今天上午是否能见你们。”姑娘含糊他说。 
　　萨特思韦特先生撕下一张纸片，在上面写了几个字。 
　　“请把这个交给她。” 
　　他们被带进一问候诊室。大约五分钟以后，门开了，护士长走了进来。她现在看起来完全不像平时那样轻松利索。 
　　萨特思韦特先生站起身来。 
　　“希望你还记得我。”他说，“我和查尔斯爵士在巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士去世之后，来过这儿。” 
　　“是这样，萨特思韦特先生。当然我记得你。而且，查尔斯爵士又来问过有关可怜的拉什布里杰太大的情况。这好像是一种巧合。” 
　　“让我介绍一下，这位是赫尔克里•波洛先生。” 
　　波洛鞠了一躬，护士长心不在焉地还礼。她继续说： 
　　“我不明白，你们怎么会接到那个电报？整个事情变得非常离奇古怪。不管怎么说，它显然不可能与可怜的医生的死有关，对吗？一定有个疯子在捣鬼，这就是我惟一的想法。 
　　警察也来这儿了。一切都乱七八糟的，真是可怕。” 
　　“警察？”萨特思韦特先生惊讶他说。 
　　“是的，十点以后，他们就一直呆在这儿。” 
　　“警察吗？”赫尔克里•波洛说。 
　　“也许我们可以去看看德•拉什布里杰太太了。”萨特思韦特先生提出要求，“既然她要我们来……”护士长打断了他的话： 
　　“哦，萨特思韦特先生，这么说来，你们还不知道？” 
　　“知道什么？”波洛赶紧追问道。 
　　“可怜的德•拉什布里杰太太已经死了。” 
　　“死了？”波洛叫起来。“晴天霹雳！那就清楚了。是的，那就清楚了。我当初应当拜访……”他自己中断了说话，“她怎么死的？” 
　　“十分奇怪。有人带了一盒巧克力给她——酒心巧克力。是邮寄来的。她吃了一大块。一定非常难吃，但是她令人惊讶地嚼起来，而且还把它吞了下去。人们总是不愿意把吃下去的东西吐出来。” 
　　“是的，是的．如果酒突然流进你的喉咙里，要吐出来是很困难的。” 
　　“所以她吞了下去，大声叫喊着。护士冲了进去，但是我们已无能为力。两分钟之后，她便死了。医生报告了警察局，他们来了，检查了巧克力。每一块上面的一层已经有人动过，里面都是好的。” 
　　“有人放了毒？” 
　　“他们认为是尼古丁。” 
　　“对。”波洛说，“又是尼古丁。多么毒辣的手段！多么肆元忌惮！” 
　　“我们来迟了一步，”萨特思韦特先生说，“我们再也不会知道她要告诉我们什么，除非她……除非她转告了别的人。”他说着，疑惑地看着护士长。 
　　波洛摇摇头。 
　　“你会发现，我们将一无所获。” 
　　“我们可以问问，”萨特思韦特先生说，“也许有个护士知道。” 
　　“无论如何，只管问吧。”波洛说，但他的声音里没有流露出任何希望。 
　　萨特思韦特先生转身对着护士长，她立即叫来两个护士。她们曾分别值日夜班，负责照看德•拉什布里杰太太。 
　　但是，她们俩都没有说出更多的情况。德•拉什布里杰大大从来也没有提起过巴塞罗缨爵士的死，她们甚至不知道发电报的事。 
　　应波洛的要求，他和萨特恩韦特先生被带到死者的房间。他们看见跨区警督正在值勤。萨特思韦特先生将他介绍给波洛。 
　　然后他们走到床边，认真查看女人的尸体。她大约四十岁，黑头发，皮肤苍白，面部不安详，显出死前极度痛苦。 
　　萨特思韦特先生慢慢他说： 
　　“可怜的人……”他看看对面的赫尔克里•波洛。在这位矮个子比利时人的脸上，有一种奇异的表情。那神态使萨特思韦特先生颤栗…… 
　　萨特思韦特先生说： 
　　“有人知道她要说话，所以杀了她。杀人灭口嘛……”波洛点了点头。 
　　“是的，正是这样”“谋杀她是要避免她告诉我们真相。” 
　　“或许她不知道……我们别耽误时间……有许多事情要做。绝不能再有人死了，我们必须警惕。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生好奇地问道： 
　　“这符合你对凶手特征的判断吗？” 
　　“是的，符合的……但是，我意识到一件事情，凶手比我想到的还要危险……我们必须小心从事。” 
　　跨区警督跟随着他们走出屋子，了解他们接到电报的有关情况。电报是交到梅尔福特邮局的。经查询，弄清了电报是由一个小男孩交来的。那天当班的小姐还记得这事，因为电报内容使她非常惊谎，上面提到了巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的死。 
　　他们与警督一块吃过午饭，又给查尔斯爵士发了一封电报。新的侦查又开始了。 
　　傍晚六点钟，递交电报的小男孩找到了。他很快就说出了事情的经过。一位穿着破；日的男人交给他这份电报稿，并告诉他，电报稿是“公园里那幢房子”的一个“疯子太太”给他的。她从窗口扔下电报稿，里面包着两个半克朗；日银市。 
　　这男人说怕误了自己的急事，他要去的地方又与邮局方向相反，于是他给男孩两先令六便士，要他发出电报，不用找钱。 
　　应当追查这个男人。他们在这儿已无事可做。于是，波洛与萨特思韦特先生只好赶回伦敦。 
　　他们两人回到伦敦时，时间已临近午夜。蛋蛋已经到了她母亲那儿。查尔斯爵士迎接他们。三个男人开始讨论事态的发展。 
　　“我的朋友”波洛说，“照我说的去做。查清这个案件的惟一要素是大脑中的灰色小细胞。要在英国上下奔走，找到这个人，要他告诉我们他想知道什么——这些手段是半路出家的人干的，确实荒唐可笑。真相只能从内部发现。” 
　　查尔斯爵士显得有点迷惑不解。 
　　“那么你要干什么？” 
　　“我要进行思考。我要求你给我二十四个小时去想问题”查尔斯爵士面带微笑摇起头来。 
　　“思考难道能让你知道，那女人如果活着会告诉你什么吗？” 
　　“我相信可以。” 
　　“这看起来几乎是不可能的。不管怎么说，波洛先生，你尽管用你自己的方式来达到目的。如果你能看穿这个疑团，我就该挨打，而且承认事实，因为这事超出了我的能力范围，何况我另有要事。” 
　　也许他希望他们向他提问，但如果真是这样，他的期望就会落空。萨特思韦特先生警觉地抬起头来，但波洛已经陷入了沉思。 
　　“好吧，我得走了。”演员说，“哦，还有一件事。我相当担心……威尔斯小姐。” 
　　“她怎么样了？” 
　　“她走了。” 
　　波洛瞪着他看。 
　　“走了？去哪儿？” 
　　“谁也不知道……自从我收到你们的电报以后，我一直在思索。正如我那次告诉你的一样。我确信，有件事情那女人没有告诉我们。我当时想，我要作最后一击，从她口中把那件事弄出来。我开车去她家。到那几时已经晚上九点半了。 
　　“我要求见她。他们说今天早晨她已经离开家了。据她自己说，是去伦敦度过一天。傍晚，她的家人得到一封电报，说她不回家了，要在外面住一两天，不用着急。” 
　　“他们着急吗？” 
　　“我想他们一定很着急。你瞧，她什么行李也没带。” 
　　“怪事。”波洛哺哺他说。 
　　“我知道。好像……真不明白，让人感到不安。” 
　　“我警告过她的。”波洛说，“我警告过每一个人。你还记得我对大家说的话吗？我说，现在该说了。” 
　　“是的，是的。你认为她也是……？” 
　　“我自有主张。”波洛说，“眼下我不想讨论这事”“首先是管家埃利斯，然后是威尔斯小姐。埃利斯在哪儿？真不可思议，警察一直抓不到他。” 
　　“他们还没有在适当的地方寻找他的尸体。” 
　　“那么你是同意蛋蛋的看法，认为他已经死了？” 
　　“我们永远都不会看见埃利斯还活着了。” 
　　“我的上帝啊！”查尔斯爵士突然叫起来，“这是一场恶梦。整个案件完全不可思议。” 
　　“不，不，正相反。事情完全符合情理，也符合逻辑。” 
　　查尔斯爵士凝视着他。 
　　“你是这样说的吗？” 
　　“肯定无疑。你瞧，我运用有序思维。” 
　　“我不懂。”萨特思韦特先生好奇地看着矮个子侦探。 
　　“那么我具有什么样的思维呢？”查尔斯爵士问这话时带有一点讥讽。 
　　“你具有演员思维，查尔斯爵士，富于创造性，别出心裁，看待一切总是从戏剧观念出发。萨特思韦特先生具有戏迷的思维。他观察性格，有制造气氛的素质。但是我，我的思维讲究实际，毫无诗意。我只看事实，不需要舞台上的装饰和灯光。” 
　　“那么，我们要让你一个人去思考了”“这是我的想法。需要二十四个小时。” 
　　“那么，祝你好运。晚安。” 
　　当他们同时离开波洛时，查尔斯爵土对萨特思韦特先生说： 
　　“那家伙只想他自己。” 
　　他说话的口气相当冷淡。 
　　萨特思韦特先生笑了。明星的角色，结果成这样子。他说： 
　　“你说你另有要事，这是什么意思，查尔斯爵士？” 
　　查尔斯爵士脸上出现了一种羞怯的表情，以致萨特思韦特先生确信，他就要在汉诺威广场参加婚礼了。 
　　“这个，其实……呃，蛋蛋和我……”“听到这消息很高兴。”萨特思韦特先生说，“恭喜你。” 
　　“当然，我比她年长很多岁。” 
　　“她不这样想。她的决断很正确。” 
　　“你真好，萨特思韦特。你知道，我过去一直以为她对小曼德斯感兴趣。” 
　　“很奇怪，你为什么会那样想。”萨特思韦特先生天真他说。 
　　“不管怎么说，”查尔斯爵士肯定他说，“她对他并没有兴趣……”
CHAPTER 14 Miss Milray
26 
Poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated. 
At twenty minutes past eleven on the following morning Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement she found the great detective engaged in building card houses. Her face showed such lively scorn that Poirot was impelled to defend himself. 
“It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become childish in my old age. No. But the building of card houses, I have always found it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately I make an error, they are not real cards. But they do just as well.” 
Egg looked more closely at the erection on the table. 
She laughed. 
“Good heavens, they’ve sold you Happy Families.” 
“What is that you say, the Happy Families?” 
“Yes, it’s a game. Children play it in the nursery.” 
“Ah, well, one can compose the houses just in the same manner.” 
Egg had picked up some of the cards from the table and was looking at them affectionately. 
“Master Bun, the baker’s son - I always loved him. And here’s Mrs. Mug, the milkman’s wife. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s me.” 
“Why is that funny picture you, mademoiselle?” 
“Because of the name.” 
Egg laughed at his bewildered face and then began explaining. When she had finished he said: 
“Ah, it was that that Sir Charles meant last night. I wondered ... Mugg - ah, yes, one says in slang, does one not, you are a mug -a fool? Naturally you would change your name. You would not like to be Lady Mugg, eh?” 
Egg laughed. She said: 
“Well, wish me happiness.” 
“I do wish you happiness, mademoiselle. Not the brief happiness of youth, but the happiness that endures - the happiness that is built upon a rock.” 
“I’ll tell Charles you call him a rock,” said Egg. “And now for what I came to see you about. I’ve been worrying and worrying about that cutting from the paper that Oliver dropped from his wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked up and handed back to him. It seems to me that either Oliver is telling a downright lie when he says he doesn’t remember its being there, or else it never was 
there. He dropped some odd bit of paper, and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting.” 
“Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?” 
“Because she wanted to get rid of it. She planted it one Oliver.” 
“You mean she is a criminal?” 
“Yes.” 
“What was her motive?” 
“It’s no good asking me that. I can only suggest that she’s a lunatic. Clever people often are rather mad. I can’t see any other reason - in fact I can’t see any motive anywhere.” 
“Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of myself that I ask that question without ceasing. What 
was the motive behind Mr. Babbington’s death? When I can answer that the case will be solved.” 
“You don’t think just madness - ?” suggested Egg. 
“No, mademoiselle - not madness in the sense you mean. There is a 
reason. I must find that reason.” 
“Well, good-bye,” said Egg. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred to me. I must hurry. I’m going with Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog Laughed -you know, the play Miss Wills has written for Angela Sutcliffe. It’s the first night tomorrow.” 
“Mon dieu! ” cried Poirot. 
“What is it? Has anything happened?” 
“Yes, indeed something has happened. An idea. A superb idea. Oh, but I have been blind - blind - ” 
Egg stared at him. As though realising his eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself. He patted Egg on the shoulder. 
“You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard what you said. You go to see 
The Little Dog Laughed, and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go then, and pay no attention to what I have said.” 
Rather doubtfully Egg departed. Left to himself, Poirot strode up and down the room muttering under his breath. His eyes hone green as any cat’s. 
“Mais oui -that explains everything. A curious motive - a very curious motive - such a motive as I have never come across before, and yet it is reasonable, and, given the circumstances, natural. Altogether a very curious case.” 
He passed the table where his card house still reposed. With a sweep of his hands he swept the cards from the table. 
“The happy family, I need it no longer,” he said. “The problem is solved. It only remains to act.” 
He caught up his had and put on his overcoat. Then he went downstairs and the commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave the address of Sir Charles’s flat. 
Arrived there, he paid off the taxi, and stepped into the hall. The porter was absent taking up the lift. Poirot walked up the stairs. Just as he arrived on the second floor the door of Sir Charles’s flat opened and Miss Milray came out. 
She started when she saw Poirot. 
“You!” 
Poirot smiled. 
“Me! Or is it I? Enfin, moi! ” 
Miss Milray said: 
“I’m afraid you won’t find Sir Charles. He’s gone to the Babylon Theatre with Miss Lytton Gore.” 
“It is not Sir Charles I seek. It is my stick that I think I have left behind one day.” 
“Oh, I see. Well, if you’ll ring, Temple will find it for you. I’m sorry I can’t stop. I’m on my way to catch a train. I’m going down to Kent - to my mother.” 
“I comprehend. Do not let me delay you, mademoiselle.” 
He stood aside and Miss Milray passed rapidly down the stairs. She was carrying a small attaché case. 
But when she had gone Poirot seemed to forget the purpose for which he had come. Instead of going on up to the landing, he turned and made his way downstairs again. He arrived at the front door just in time to see Miss Milray getting into a taxi. Another taxi was coming slowly along the kerb. Poirot raised a hand and it came to rest. He got in and directed the driver to follow the other taxi. No surprise showed on his face when the first taxi went north and finally drew up at Paddington Station, though Paddington is an odd station from which to proceed to Kent. Poirot went to the first-class booking window and demanded a return ticket to Loomouth. The train was due to depart in five minutes. Pulling up his overcoat well about his ears, for the day was cold, Poirot ensconced himself in the corner of a first-class carriage. 
They arrived at Loomouth about five o’clock. It was already growing dark. Standing back a little, Poirot heard Miss Milray being greeted by the friendly porter at the little station. 
“Well, now, miss, we didn’t expect you. Is Sir Charles coming down?” 
Miss Milray replied: 
“I’ve come down here unexpectedly. I shall be going back tomorrow morning. I’ve just come to fetch some things. No, I don’t want a cab, thank you. I’ll walk up by the cliff path.” 
The dusk had deepened. Miss Milray walked briskly up the steep zigzag path. A good way behind came Hercule Poirot. He trod softly like a cat. Miss Milray, on arrival at Crow's Nest, produced a key from her bag and passed through the side door, leaving it ajar. She reappeared a minute or two later. She had a rusty door key and an electric torch in her hand. Poirot drew back a little behind a convenient bush. 
Miss Milray passed round behind the house and up a scrambling overgrown path. Hercule Poirot followed. Up and up went Miss Milray until she came suddenly to an old stone tower such as is found often on that coast. This one was of humble and dilapidated appearance. There was, however, a curtain over the dirty window, and Miss Milray inserted her key in the big wooden door. 
The key turned with a protesting creak. The door swung with a groan on its hinges. Miss Milray and her torch passed inside. With an increase of pace Poirot caught up. He passed, in his turn, noiselessly through the door. The light of Miss Milray’s torch gleamed fitfully on glass retorts, a bunsen burner - various apparatus. 
Miss Milray had picked up a cowbar. She had raised it and was holding it over the glass apparatus when a hand caught her by the arm. She gasped and turned. 
The green, catlike eyes of Poirot looked into hers. 
“You cannot do that, mademoiselle,” he said. “For what you seek to destroy is evidence.”
第十四章　米尔雷小姐
第十四章　米尔雷小姐

　　波洛决意用来思考问题的二十四小时，还是被中断了。 
　　第二天十一点二十分，蛋蛋出乎意料地走了进来。使她惊讶的是，她看见大侦探正在聚精会神地玩纸片建房游戏。 
　　她脸上立刻露出一种明显的轻蔑的神情，以至于波洛不得不为自己辩解： 
　　“小姐，并不是我在这么大的年龄，还玩小孩的游戏。绝不是。我早就发现，用纸片建房对思维有很大的刺激和启发作用。这已经成为我的老习惯了。今天上午，我做的第一件事就是出去买一盒卡片。不巧，我犯了一个错误，它们不是真正的卡片。不过它们也可以代替。” 
　　蛋蛋注意地看着桌子上耸立的建筑物。她大笑起来。 
　　“天啦！他们卖给你的是《快乐家庭》。” 
　　“你说什么？《快乐家庭》”“是的，这是一种游戏。是儿童在托儿所玩的。” 
　　“哦，也好，我可以用同样的方式构思建筑房子。” 
　　蛋蛋从桌子上拿起几张卡片，津津有味地看着它们。 
　　“胖师傅，就是面包师的儿子。我总是很喜欢他。还有一个马格太太，送牛奶师傅的妻子。啊，天啦！我想这就是我。” 
　　“为什么这么滑稽的图片是你，小姐？” 
　　“因为这名字。” 
　　蛋蛋看着他那张迷惑不解的脸笑了起来，然后向他解释这名字的来龙去脉。听蛋蛋讲完以后，他说： 
　　“哦，这就是昨天晚上查尔斯爵士那句话的意思。我不大明白……ｍｕｇ——哦，对了。人们在俚语中用到。不太常用。某某是一个ｍｕｇ，就说他是个笨蛋，对吧？自然，他要改名儿。你也不喜人家叫你笨蛋太大，呃？” 
　　蛋蛋笑起来。她说： 
　　“好啦，祝我幸福吧。” 
　　“我衷心祝你幸福，小姐。不是青年时期的短暂幸福，而是持久的幸福，是建筑在磐石般的基础之上的幸福。” 
　　“我要告诉查尔斯，你把他叫做‘磐石’，”蛋蛋说，“今天我来你这儿的目的是，我非常非常担心奥利弗从他皮包里掉出来的那张剪报。你知道吧，就是威尔斯小姐拾起来的那个东西。在我看来，奥利弗说他不记得报纸就在包里，或者说从未放在那儿，这完全是弥天大谎。反正他掉了一张奇怪的剪报，那个女人胡说那是有关尼古丁的报道。” 
　　“为什么她要那样做，小姐？” 
　　“因为她想开脱罪责，把它栽赃给奥利弗。” 
　　“你是说她是罪犯？” 
　　“是的。” 
　　“她的动机是什么？” 
　　。，问我没用。我只能推测，她是个精神病患者。聪明的人往往有些疯癫。我看不出有其他原因。实际上，我在任何地方都没有发现这个案子有任何动机。” 
　　“那肯定是个死胡同。我不该要求你去猜作案动机。我一直不停地问我自己这个问题：致巴宾顿先生于死地的动机是什么？我能回答这个问题的时候，这个案子也就破了。” 
　　“你认为不是精神病……”蛋蛋提醒他说。 
　　“不，小姐。不是你说的那种精神病。这当中有某种原因。我必须发现这种原因。” 
　　“好吧，再见了。”蛋蛋说，“对不起，打扰你这么久。只是我刚刚冒出这个看法。我必须赶快告诉你。我要跟查尔斯爵士看《小狗笑了》的彩排，你知道，这是威尔斯小姐为安吉拉。萨克利夫小姐写的剧本。明天晚上就是第一场。” 
　　“我的上帝啊！”波洛叫道。 
　　“什么？发生了什么事？” 
　　“是的，确实发生了一件事。一种思想、一个精彩的念头。哦，但是我一直是瞎子……我瞎了眼。” 
　　蛋蛋注视着他。波洛似乎意识到他的反常情绪，他很快控制住自己。他拍了拍蛋蛋的肩膀。 
　　“你会认为我疯了。根本不是。我听见你刚才说要去看《小狗笑了》，萨克利夫小姐在剧中扮演角色。你们去吧，对我所说的不要在意。” 
　　蛋蛋疑虑重重地离开了。只留下波洛一个人。他在屋里快步地走来走去，一边在随着他的呼吸窃窃私语。他的眼睛像猫一样闪着绿光。 
　　“这可对了……这就可以解释一切了。一个稀奇古怪的动机，非常稀奇古怪的动机。这样的动机我从来都没有碰见过，然而却是合乎情理的。在一定环境下，这也是自然而然的，尽管这确是一个非常离奇古怪的案件。” 
　　他走过餐桌，他的纸片楼房还在那儿耸立着。他随手一挥，桌上的纸片全都被他掀倒了。 
　　“快乐的家庭，我不再需要它了。”他说，“难题已经解决，就等着行动了。” 
　　他抓起帽子，披上大衣，然后走下楼来，听差为他叫来了一辆出租车。波洛告诉司机查尔斯爵士住宅的地址。 
　　到了那儿，他付了车费，径直走进大厅。开电梯的听差不在，波洛只好走上楼去。当他到了二楼，查尔斯爵士套间的门打开了，米尔雷小姐走了出来。 
　　她一见波洛就说： 
　　“是你！” 
　　波洛笑了。 
　　“是我！不是吗？我又来了！” 
　　米尔雷小姐说道： 
　　“恐怕你找不到查尔斯爵士了。他和利顿•戈尔小姐已经去巴比伦剧院了。” 
　　“我找的不是查尔斯爵土。我想，有一天我把手杖掉在这儿了。” 
　　“哦，是这样。好吧，你抿铃，但普尔会给你找手杖。对不起，我不能呆在这儿，我正准备去赶火车。我要去肯特郡，到我母亲那儿。” 
　　“我理解。我不会耽误你，小姐。” 
　　他站在一旁，米尔雷小姐于是提着一个小皮箱，匆匆经过他身边走下楼梯。 
　　她刚离开，波洛似乎忘记了他的来意。他没有继续走上楼梯的平台，而是转身回到楼下。他走到大门口，正好看见米尔雷小姐走进一辆出租车。另一辆出租车沿着小路边慢慢开来，波洛把手一伸，它便停了下来。他钻了进去，要司机紧跟刚才那辆车。 
　　第一辆出租车往北驶去，最后在帕丁顿火车站停下。虽然从帕丁顿车站坐车前往肯特郡显然有些奇怪，波洛脸上井没有惊讶的表情。波洛走到头等车厢售票窗口，要求买一张去鲁茅斯的双程车票。五分钟后火车正点出站。他安坐在头等车厢的一个角落。由于天气寒冷，他把大衣领拉到耳边。 
　　大约五点钟，火车到达鲁茅斯的小车站。天色已经暗下来。波洛站在靠后的地方，他听见一个听差友好地向米尔雷小姐打招呼。 
　　“好吧，小姐，没有想到你会来。查尔斯爵士要来吗？” 
　　米尔雷小姐回答说： 
　　“我来这儿一定出乎你们预料。明天一早我就回去。我来拿点东西。不，我不想乘出租车。我沿岸边的石头小路走上去。” 
　　天色更黑了。米尔雷小姐快步走上陡峭的崎岖小路。波洛隐蔽在后面的路上紧紧跟随。他脚步轻盈，像猫一般。到达鸦巢屋时，米尔雷Ｊ、姐从提包里拿出钥匙，穿过侧门，并让它半开着。一两分钟后，她又走了出来，手里拿着生锈的门房钥匙和一只手电筒。波洛往后一退，躲在茂盛的灌木丛后面。 
　　米尔雷小姐绕过楼房后面，爬上一条杂草丛生的小道。 
　　赫尔克里。波洛跟着她。她不断地往上爬，最后突然在一个古老的石塔前停下。人们经常在海岸边看见这样的塔。这个塔比较矮小。然而，满是灰尘的窗子里有一块窗帘遮盖。 
　　米尔雷小姐把钥匙插进大木门上的锁里。 
　　钥匙转动时卡查卡查作响。门开了，铰链发出一阵呻吟。米尔雷小姐打开电筒走了进去。 
　　波洛快步赶上。他也同样轻手轻脚地穿过大门。米尔雷小姐手里的电筒不安地闪着微光，照着周围的玻璃蒸馏器，本生煤气灯，还有各种各样的仪器。 
　　米尔雷小姐拾起一根铁棍，把它举起来正准备打到下面的玻璃仪器上。突然有一只手抓住她的胳膊。她倒吸了一口气，转过身来。 
　　波洛那双猫一样的绿眼睛直瞪瞪地盯着她。 
　　“你不能那样干，小姐。”他说，“因为你企图破坏的是罪证”
CHAPTER 15 Curtain
27 
Hercule Poirot sat in a big armchair. The wall lights had been turned out. Only a rose-shaded lamp shed its glow on the figure in the armchair. There seemed something symbolic about it - he alone in the light - and the other three, Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore - Poirot’s audience - sitting in the outer darkness. Hercule Poirot’s voice was dreamy. He seemed to be addressing himself to space rather than his listeners. 
“To reconstruct the crime - that is the aim of the detective. To reconstruct a crime you must place one fact upon another just as you place one card on another in building a house of cards. And if the facts will not fit - if the card will not balance - well - you must start your house again, or else it will fall ... 
“As I said the other day there are three different types of mind: There is the dramatic mind - the producer’s mind, which sees the effect of reality that can be produced by mechanical appliances - there is also the mind that reacts easily to dramatic appearances - and there is the young romantic mind - and finally, my friends, there is the prosaic mind - the mind that sees not blue sea and mimosa tree, but the painted backcloth of stage scenery. 
“So I come, mes amis, to the murder of Stephen Babbington in August last. On that evening Sir Charles Cartwright advanced the theory that Stephen Babbington had been murdered. I did not agree with that theory. I could not believe (a) that such a man as Stephen Babbington was likely to have been murdered, and (b) that it was possible to administer poison to a particular person under the circumstances that had obtained that evening. 
“Now here I admit that Sir Charles was right and I was wrong. I was wrong because I was looking at the crime from an entirely false angle. It is only twenty-four hours ago that I suddenly perceived the proper angle of vision - and let me say that from that angle of vision the murder of Stephen Babbington is both reasonable and possible. But I will pass from that point for the moment and take you step by step along the path I myself have trodden. The death of Stephen Babbington I may call the first act of our drama. The curtain fell on that act when we all departed from Crow’s Nest. 
“What I might call the second act of the drama began in Monte Carlo when Mr. Satterthwaite showed me the newspaper account of Sir Bartholomew’s death. It was at once clear that I had been wrong and Sir Charles had been right. Both Stephen Babbington and Sir Bartholomew Strange had been murdered and the two murders formed part of one and the same crime. Later a third murder completed the series - the murder of Mrs. de Rushbridger. What we need, therefore, is a reasonable common-sense theory which will link those three deaths together - in other words those three crimes were committed by one and the same person, and were to the advantage and benefit of that particular person. 
“Now I may say at once that the principal thing that worried me was the fact that the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange came after that of Stephen Babbington. Looking at those three murders without distinction of time and place the probabilities pointed to the murder of Sir Bartholomew Strange being what one might call the central or principal crime, and the other two murders as secondary in character - that is, arising from the connection of those two people with Sir Bartholomew Strange. However, as I remarked before - one cannot have one’s crime as one would like to have it. Stephen Babbington had been murdered first and Sir Bartholomew Strange some time later. It seemed, therefore, as though the second crime must necessarily arise out of the first and that accordingly it was the first crime we must examine for the clue to the whole. 
“I did indeed so fair incline to the theory of probability that I seriously considered the idea of a mistake having arisen. Was it possible that Sir Bartholomew Strange was intended as the first victim, and that Mr. Babbington was poisoned by mistake? I was forced, however, to abandon that idea. Anybody who knew Sir Bartholomew Strange with any degree of intimacy knew that he disliked the cocktail habit. 
“Another suggestion: Had Stephen Babbington been poisoned in mistake for any other member of the original party? I could not find any evidence of such a thing. I was therefore forced back to the conclusion that the murder of Stephen Babbington had been definitely intended -and at once I came up against a complete stumbling block - the apparent impossibility of such a thing having happened. 
“One should always start an investigation with the simplest and most obvious theories. Granting that Stephen Babbington had drunk a poisoned cocktail, who had had the opportunity of poisoning that cocktail? At first sight, it seemed to that the only two people who could have done so (e.g. who handled the drinks) were Sir Charles Cartwright himself and the parlourmaid Temple. But though either of them could presumably have introduced the poison into the glass, neither of them had had any opportunity of directing 
that particular glass into Mr. Babbington’s hand. Temple might have done so by adroit handing of the tray so as to offer him the one remaining glass - (not easy, but it might have been done). Sir Charles could have done so by deliberately picking up the particular glass and handing it to him. But neither of these things had occurred. It looked as though chance and chance alone directed that particular glass to Stephen Babbington. 
“Sir Charles Cartwright and Temple had the handling of the cocktails. Were either of those two at Melfort Abbey? They were not. Who had the best chance of tampering with Sir Bartholomew’s port glass? The absconding butler, Ellis, and his helper, the parlourmaid. But here, however, the possibility that one of the guests had done so could not be laid aside. It was risky, but it was possible, for any of the house party to have slipped into the dining room and put the nicotine into the port glass. 
“When I joined you at Crow’s Nest you already had a list drawn up of the people who had been at Crow's Nest and at Melfort Abbey. I may say now that the four names which headed the list - Captain and Mrs. Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe and Miss Wills - I discarded immediately. 
“It was impossible that any of those four people should have known beforehand that they were going to meet Stephen Babbington at dinner. The employment of nicotine as a poison showed a carefully thought-out plan, not one that could be put into operation on the spur of the moment. There were three other names on that list - Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Miss Lytton Gore and Mr. Oliver Manders. Although not probable, those three were possible. They were local people, they might conceivably have motives for the removal of Stephen Babbington, and have chosen the evening of the dinner- party for putting their plans into operation. 
“On the other hand, I could find no evidence whatsoever that any of them had actually done such a thing. 
“Mr. Satterthwaite, I think, reasoned on much the same lines as I had done, and he fixed his suspicion on Oliver Manders. I may say that young Manders was by far the most possible suspect. He displayed all the signs of high nervous tension on that evening at Crow’s Nest - he had a somewhat distorted view of life owing to his private troubles - he had a strong inferiority complex, which is a frequent cause of crime, he was at an unbalanced age, he had actually had a quarrel, or shall we say had displayed animosity against 
Mr. 
Babbington. 
Then 
there 
were 
the 
curious 
circumstances of his arrival at Melfort Abbey. And later we had his somewhat incredible story of the letter from Sir Bartholomew Strange and the evidence of Miss Wills as to his having a newspaper cutting on the subject of nicotine poisoning in his possession. 
“Oliver Manders, then, was clearly the person who should be placed at the head of the list of those seven suspects. 
“But then, my friends, I was visited by a curious sensation. It seemed clear and logical enough that the person who had committed the crimes must have been a person who had been 
present on both occasions; in other words a person on that list of 
seven - but I had the feeling that that obviousness was an arranged 
obviousness.  It was what any sane and logical person would be 
expected to think. I felt that I was, in fact, looking not at reality but at an artfully painted bit of scenery. A really clever criminal would have realised that anyone whose name was on that list would 
necessarily be suspect, and therefore he or she would arrange for it not to be there. 
“In other words, the murderer of Stephen Babbington and Sir Bartholomew Strange was present on both occasions - but was not 
apparently so. 
“Who had been present on the first occasion and not on the second? Sir Charles Cartwright, Mr. Satterthwaite, Miss Milray and Mrs. Babbington. 
“Could any of those four have been present on the second occasion in some capacity other than their own? Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite had been in the South of France, Miss Milray had been in London, Mrs. Babbington had been in Loomouth. Of the four, then, Miss Milray and Mrs. Babbington seemed indicated. But could Miss Milray have been present at Melfort Abbey unrecognised by any of the company? Miss Milray has very striking features not easily disguised and not easily forgotten. I decided that it was impossible that Miss Milray could have been at Melfort Abbey unrecognised. The same applied to Mrs. Babbington. 
“For the matter of that could Mr. Satterthwaite or Sir Charles Cartwright have been at Melfort Abbey and not been recognised? 
Mr. Satterthwaite just possibly; but when we come to Sir Charles Cartwright we come to a very different matter. Sir Charles is an actor accustomed to playing a part. But what part could he have played? 
“And then I came to the consideration of the butler Ellis. 
“A very mysterious person, Ellis. A person who appears from nowhere a fortnight before the crime and vanishes afterwards with complete success. Why was Ellis so successful? Because Ellis did 
not really exist. Ellis, again, was a thing of pasteboard and paint and stagecraft - Ellis was not real. 
“But was it possible? After all, the servants at Melfort Abbey knew Sir Charles Cartwright, and Sir Bartholomew Strange was an intimate friend of his. The servants I got over easily enough. The impersonation of the butler risked nothing - if the servants recognised him - why, no harm would be done - the whole thing could be passed off as a joke. If, on the other hand, a fortnight passed without any suspicion being aroused, well, the thing was safe as houses. And I recalled what I had been told of the servants’ 
remarks about the butler. He was ‘quite the gentleman,’ and had been ‘in good houses,’ and knew several interesting scandals. That was easy enough. But a very significant statement was made by the parlourmaid Alice. She said, ‘He arranged the work different from any butler I ever knew before.’ When that remark was repeated to me, it became a confirmation of my theory. 
“But Sir Bartholomew Strange was another matter. It is hardly to be supposed that his friend could take him in. he must have known of the impersonation. Had we any evidence of that? Yes. The acute Mr. Satterthwaite pounced on one point quite early in the proceedings - the facetious remark of Sir Bartholomew (totally uncharacteristic of his manner to servants) - ‘You’re a first-class butler, aren’t you Ellis?’ A perfectly understandable remark if the 
butler were Sir Charles Cartwright and Sir Bartholomew was in on 
the joke. 
“Because that is undoubtedly how Sir Bartholomew saw the matter. The impersonation of Ellis was a joke, possibly even a wager, its culmination was designed to be the successful spoofing of the house party - hence Sir Bartholomew’s remark about a surprise and his cheerful humour. Note, too, that there was still time to draw back. If any of the house party had spotted Charles Cartwright that first evening at the dinner table, nothing irrevocable had yet occurred. The whole thing could have been passed off as a joke. But nobody noticed the stooping middle-aged butler, with his belladonna-darkened eyes, and his whiskers, and the painted birthmark on his wrist. A very subtle identifying touch that - which completely failed, owing to the lack of observation of most human beings! The birthmark was intended to bulk largely in the description of Ellis - and in all that fortnight no one noticed it! The only person who did was the sharp-eyed Miss Wills, to whom we shall come presently. 
“What happened next? Sir Bartholomew died. His time the death was not put down to natural causes. The police came. They questioned Ellis and the others. Later that night ‘Ellis’ left by the secret passage, resumed his own personality, and two days later was strolling about the gardens at Monte Carlo ready to be shocked and surprised by the news of his friend’s death. 
“This, mind you, was all theory. I had no actual proof, but everything that arose supported that theory. My house of cards was well and truly built. The blackmailing letters discovered in Ellis’s room? But it was Sir Charles himself who discovered them! 
“And what of the supposed letter from Sir Bartholomew Strange asking young Manders to arrange an accident? Well, what could be easier than for Sir Charles to write that letter in Sir Bartholomew’s name? If Manders had not destroyed that letter himself, Sir Charles in the role of Ellis can easily do so when he valets the young gentleman. In the same way the newspaper cutting is easily introduced by Ellis into Oliver Manders’s wallet. 
“And now we come to the third victim - Mrs. de Rushbridger. When do we first hear of Mrs. de Rushbridger? Immediately after that very awkward chaffing reference to Ellis being the perfect butler - that extremely uncharacteristic utterance of Sir Bartholomew Strange. At all costs attention must be drawn away from Sir Bartholomew’s manner to his butler. Sir Charles quickly asks what was the message the butler had brought. It is about this woman - this patient of the doctor’s. And immediately Sir Charles throws all his personality into directing attention to this unknown woman and away from the butler. He goes to the Sanatorium and questions the Matron. He runs Mrs. de Rushbridger for all he is worth as a red herring. 
“We must now examine the part played by Miss Wills in the drama. Miss Wills has a curious personality. She is one of those people who are quite unable to impress themselves on their surroundings. She is neither good-looking nor witty nor clever, nor even particularly sympathetic. She is nondescript. But she is extremely observant and extremely intelligent. She takes her revenge on the world with her pen. She had the great art of being able to reproduce character on paper. I do not know if there was anything about the butler that struck Miss Wills as unusual, but I do think that she was the only person at the table who noticed him at all. On the morning after the murder her insatiable curiosity led her to poke and pry, as the housemaid put it. She went into Dacres’s room, she went through the baize door into the servants’ quarters, led, I think, by the mongoose instinct for finding out. 
“She was the only person who occasioned Sir Charles any uneasiness. That is why he was anxious to be the one to tackle her. He was fairly reassured by his interview and distinctly gratified that she had noticed the birthmark. But after that came catastrophe. I don’t think that until that minute Miss Wills had connected Ellis the butler with Sir Charles Cartwright. I think she had only been vaguely struck by some resemblance to someone in Ellis. But she was an observer. When dishes were handed to her she had automatically noted - not the face - but the hands that held the dishes. 
“It did not occur to her that Ellis was Sir Charles. But when Sir Charles was talking to her it did suddenly occur to her that Sir 
Charles was Ellis! And so she asked him to pretend to hand her a dish of vegetables. But it was not whether the birthmark was on the right or the left wrist that interested her. 
She wanted a pretext to study his hands - hands held in the same position as those of Ellis the butler. 
“And so she leaped to the truth. But she was a peculiar woman. She enjoyed knowledge for its own sake. Besides, she was by no means sure that Sir Charles had murdered his friend. He had masqueraded as a butler, yes - but that did not necessarily make him a murderer. Many an innocent man has kept silence because speech would place him in an awkward position. 
“So Miss Wills kept her knowledge to herself - and enjoyed it. But Sir Charles was worried. He did not like that expression of satisfied malice on her face that he saw as he left the room. She knew something. What? Did it affect him? He could not be sure. But he felt that it was something connected with Ellis the butler. First Mr. Satterthwaite - now Miss Wills. Attention must be drawn away from that vital point. It must be focused definitely elsewhere. And he thought of a plan - simple, audacious and, as he fancied, definitely mystifying. 
“On the day of my Sherry Party I imagine Sir Charles rose very early, went to Yorkshire and, disguised in shabby clothes, gave the telegram to a small boy to send off. Then he returned to town in time to act the part I had indicated in my little drama. He did one more thing. He posted a box of chocolates to a woman he had never 
seen and of whom he knew nothing ... 
“You know what happened that evening. From Sir Charles’s uneasiness I was fairly sure that Miss Wills had certain suspicions. When Sir Charles did his ‘death scene’ I watched Miss Wills’s face. I saw the look of astonishment that showed on it. I knew then that 
Miss Wills definitely suspected Sir Charles of being the murderer. 
When he appeared to die poisoned like the other two she thought her deductions must be wrong. 
“But if Miss Wills suspected Sir Charles, then Miss Wills was in serious danger. A man who has killed twice will kill again. I uttered a very solemn warning. Later that night I communicated with Miss Wills by telephone, and on my advice she left home suddenly the next day. Since then she had been living here in this hotel. That I was wise is proved by the fact that Sir Charles went out to Tooting on the following evening after he had returned from Gilling. He was too late. The bird had flown. 
“In the meantime, from his point of view, the plan had worked well. Mrs. de Rushbridger had something of importance to tell us. Mrs. de Rushbridger was killed before she could speak. How dramatic! 
How like the detective stories, the plays, the films! Again the cardboard and the tinsel and the painted cloth. 
“But I, Hercule Poirot, was not deceived. Mr. Satterthwaite said to me she was killed in order that she should not speak. I agreed. He went on to say she was killed before she could tell us what she knew. I said, ‘ Or what she did NOT know.’ I think he was puzzled. But he should have seen then the truth. Mrs. de Rushbridger was killed because she could, in actual fact, have told us nothing at all. Because she had no connection with the crime. If she were to be Sir Charles’s successful red herring - she could only be so dead. And so Mrs. de Rushbridger, a harmless stranger, was murdered ... 
“Yet even in that seeming triumph Sir Charles made a colossal - a childish - error! The telegram was addressed to me, Hercule Poirot, at the Ritz Hotel. But Mrs. de Rushbridger had never heard of my connection with the case! No one up in that part of the world knew of it. It was an unbelievably childish error. 
“Eh bien, then I had reached a certain stage. I knew the identity of the murderer. But I did not know the motive for the original crime. 
“I reflected. 
“And once again, more clearly than ever, I saw the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange as the original and purposeful murder. What reason could Sir Charles Cartwright have for the murder of his friend? Could I imagine a motive? I thought I could.” 
There was a deep sigh. Sir Charles Cartwright rose slowly to his feet and strolled to the fireplace. He stood there, his hand on his hip, looking down at Poirot. His attitude (Mr. Satterthwaite could have told you) was that of Lord Eaglemount as he looks scornfully at the rascally solicitor who has succeeded in fastening an accusation of fraud upon him. He radiated nobility and disgust. He was the aristocrat looking down at the ignoble canaille. 
“You have an extraordinary imagination, M. Poirot, he said. It’s hardly worth while saying that there’s not one single word of truth in your story. How you have the damned impertinence to dish up such an absurd fandangle of lies I don’t know. But go on, I am interested. What was my motive for murdering a man whom I had known ever since boyhood?” 
Hercule Poirot, the little bourgeois, looked up at the aristocrat. He spoke quickly but firmly. 
“Sir Charles, we have a proverb that says, ‘ Cherchez la femme.’ It was there that I found my motive. I had seen you with Mademoiselle Lytton Gore. It was clear that you loved her - loved her with that terrible absorbing passion that comes to a middle-aged man and which is usually inspired by an innocent girl. 
“You loved her. She, I could see, had the hero worship for you. You had only to speak and she would fall into your arms. But you did not speak. Why? 
“You pretended to your friend, Mr. Satterthwaite, that you were the dense lover who cannot recognise his mistress’s answering passion. You pretended to think that Miss Lytton Gore was in love with Oliver Manders. But I say, Sir Charles, that you are a man of the world. You are a man with a great experience of women. You 
cannot have been deceived. You knew perfectly well that Miss Lytton Gore cared for you. Why, then, did you not marry her? You wanted to do so. 
“It must be that there was some obstacle. What could that obstacle be? It could only be the fact that you already had a wife. But nobody ever spoke of you as a married man. You passed always as a bachelor. The marriage, then, had taken place when you were very young - before you became known as a rising young actor. 
“What had happened to your wife? If she were still alive, why did nobody know about her? If you were living apart there was the remedy of divorce. If your wife was a Catholic, or one who disapproved of divorce, she would still be known as living apart from you. 
“But there are two tragedies where the law gives no relief. The woman you married might be serving a life sentence in some prison, or she might be confined in a lunatic asylum. In neither case 
could you obtain a divorce, and if it had happened while you were still a boy nobody might know about it. 
“If nobody knew, you might marry Miss Lytton Gore without telling her the truth. But supposing one person knew - a friend who had known you all your life? Sir Bartholomew Strange was an honourable, upright physician. He might pity you deeply, he might sympathise with a liaison or an irregular life, but he would not stand by silent and see you enter into a bigamous marriage with an unsuspecting young girl. 
Before you could marry Miss Lytton Gore, Sir Bartholomew Strange must be removed ... ” 
Sir Charles laughed. 
“And dear old Babbington? Did he know all about it, too?” 
“I fancied so at first. But I soon found that there was no evidence to support that theory. Besides, my original stumbling block remained. Even if it was you who put the nicotine into the cocktail 
glass, you could not have ensured its reaching one particular 
person. 
“That was my problem. And suddenly a chance word from Miss Lytton Gore showed me light.” 
“The poison was not intended especially for Stephen Babbington. It was intended for any one of those present, with three exceptions. These exceptions were Miss Lytton Gore, to whom you were careful to hand an innocent glass, yourself, and Sir Bartholomew Strange, who, you knew, did not drink cocktails.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite cried out: 
“But that’s nonsense! What’s the point of it? There isn’t any.” 
Poirot turned towards him. Triumph came into his voice. 
“Oh, yes, there is. A queer point - a very queer point. The only time I have come across such a motive for murder. The murder of Stephen Babbington was neither more nor less than a dress 
rehearsal.” 
“What?” 
“Yes, Sir Charles was an actor. He obeyed his actor’s instinct. He tried out his murder before committing it. No suspicion could possibly attach to him. Not one of those people’s deaths could benefit him in any way, and, moreover, as everyone has found, he 
could not have been proved to have poisoned any particular 
person. And, my friends, the dress rehearsal went well. Mr. Babbington dies, and foul play is not even suspected. It is left to Sir Charles to urge that suspicion and he is highly gratified at our refusal to take it seriously. The substitution of the glass, too, that has gone without a hitch. In fact, he can be sure that, when the real performance comes, it will be ‘all right on the night.’ 
“As you know, events took a slightly different turn. On the second occasion a doctor was present who immediately suspected poison. It was then to Sir Charles’s interests to stress the death of Babbington. Sir Bartholomew’s death must be presumed to be the outcome of the earlier death. Attention must be focused on the motive for Babbington’s murder, not on any motive that might exist for Sir Bartholomew’s removal. 
“But there was one thing that Sir Charles failed to realise - the efficient watchfulness of Miss Milray. Miss Milray knew that her employer dabbled in chemical experiments in the tower in the garden. Miss Milray paid bills for rose spraying solution, and realised that quite a lot of it had unaccountably disappeared. When she read that Mr. Babbington had died of nicotine poisoning, her clever brain leaped at once to the conclusion that Sir Charles had extracted the pure alkaloid from the rose solution. 
“And Miss Milray did not know what to do, for she had known Mr. Babbington as a little girl, and she was in love, deeply and devotedly as an ugly woman can be, with her fascinating employer. 
“In the end she decided to destroy Sir Charles’s apparatus. Sir Charles himself had been so cocksure of his success that he had never thought it necessary. She went down to Cornwall, and I followed.” 
Again Sir Charles laughed. More than ever he looked a fine gentleman disgusted by a rat. 
“Is some old chemical apparatus all your evidence?” he demanded contemptuously. 
“No,” said Poirot. “There is your passport showing the dates when you returned to and left England. And there is the fact that in the Harverton County Asylum there is a woman, Gladys Mary Mugg, the wife of Charles Mugg.” 
Egg had so far sat silent - a frozen figure. But now she stirred. A little cry - almost a moan - came from her. 
Sir Charles turned superbly. 
“Egg, you don’t believe a word of this absurd story, do you?” 
He laughed. His hands were outstretched. 
Egg came slowly forward as though hypnotised. Her eyes, appealing, tortured, gazed into her lover’s. And then, just before she reached him, she wavered, her glance fell, went this way and that as though seeking for reassurance. 
Then with a cry she fell on her knees by Poirot. 
“Is this true? Is this true?” 
He put both hands on her shoulders, s firm, kindly touch. 
“It is true, mademoiselle.” 
There was no sound then but Egg’s sobs. 
Sir Charles seemed suddenly to have aged. It was an old man’s face, a leering satyr’s face. 
“God damn you,” he said. 
And never, in all his acting career, had words come with such utter and compelling malignancy. 
Then he turned and went out of the room. 
Mr. Satterthwaite half sprang up from his chair, but Poirot shook his head, his hand still gently stroking the sobbing girl. 
“He’ll escape,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
Poirot shook his head. 
“No, he will only choose his exit. The slow one before the eyes of the world, or the quick one off stage.” 
The door opened softly and someone came in. it was Oliver Manders. His usual sneering expression was gone. He looked white and unhappy. 
Poirot bent over the girl. 
“See, mademoiselle,” he said gently. “Here is a friend come to take you home.” 
Egg rose to her feet. She looked uncertainly towards Oliver then made a step stumblingly towards him. 
“Oliver ... Take me to Mother. Oh, take me to Mother.” 
He put an arm round her and drew her towards the door. 
“Yes, dear, I’ll take you. Come.” 
Egg’s legs were trembling so that she could hardly walk. Between them Oliver and Mr. Satterthwaite guided her footsteps. At the door she took a hold upon herself and threw back her head. 
“I’m all right.” 
Poirot made a gesture, and Oliver Manders cane back into the room. 
“Be very good to her,” said Poirot. 
“I will, Sir. She’s all I care about in the world - you know that. Love for her made me bitter and cynical. But I shall be different now. I’m ready to stand by. And some day, perhaps - ” 
“I think so,” said Poirot. “I think she was beginning to care for you when he came along and dazzled her. Hero worship is a real and terrible danger to the young. Some day Egg will fall in love with a friend, and build her happiness upon rock.” 
He looked kindly after the young man as he left the room. 
Presently Mr. Satterthwaite returned. 
“M. Poirot,” he said. “You have been wonderful - absolutely wonderful.” 
Poirot put on his modest look. 
“It is nothing - nothing. A tragedy in three acts - and now the curtain has fallen.” 
“You’ll excuse me - ” said Mr. Satterthwaite. 
“Yes, there is some point you want explained to you?” 
“There is one thing I want to know.” 
“Ask then.” 
“Why do you sometimes speak perfectly good English and at other times not?” 
Poirot laughed. 
“Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English if an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. They say - a foreigner - he can’t even speak English properly. It is not my policy to terrify people - instead I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often, ‘A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much.’ That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides, he added, it has become a habit.” 
“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “quite the cunning of the serpent.” 
He was silent for a moment or two, thinking over the case. 
“I’m afraid I have not shone over this matter,” he said vexedly. 
“On the contrary. You appreciated that important point - Sir Bartholomew’s remark about the butler - you realised that astute observation of Miss Wills. I fact, you could have solved the whole thing but for your playgoer’s reaction to dramatic effect.” 
Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheerful. 
Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell. 
“My goodness,” he cried, “I’ve only just realised it. That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it. It might have been me.” 
“There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered,” said Poirot. 
“Eh?” 
“It might have been ME,” said Hercule Poirot.
第十五章　落幕
第十五章　落幕
　　赫尔克里•波洛先生坐在一张很大的单人沙发里。壁灯已经关掉，只有一盏玫瑰色的灯照在沙发里的这个人身上。这似乎有某种象征意义。他独自坐在灯光之下，另外三个人是波洛的听众——查尔斯爵士、萨特思韦特先生和蛋蛋。利顿•戈尔，他们坐在灯光外的黑暗里。 
　　赫尔克里•波洛的声音朦胧如梦。他似乎在对着空中而不是对着他的听众演讲： 
　　“弄清犯罪真相，这是侦探的目的。为了弄清犯罪真相，人们必须积累一个又一个的事实，正如我们在玩建房卡片游戏时堆积一张又一张的卡片。如果事实不成立，就如卡片失去了平衡。于是，你必须重建房子，否则它就会倒塌…… 
　　“正如我前两天所说的，有三种不同类型的思维：有戏剧性的思维，即创造性思维。它主张现实可以用机械的设备制造出来。还有一种对戏剧表演反应敏捷的思维或青春浪漫型的思维。最后一种，朋友们，那就是散文式的思维，这种思维看见的不是蓝色的大海和含羞草，而是舞台背景上绘制的黑布。 
　　“于是我来了，我的朋友们，来侦查８月份谋杀斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的案件。那天晚上，查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士提出了他的观点：说斯蒂芬•巴宾顿是被谋杀的。我当时没有同意这个观点。一、我不相信像斯蒂芬•巴宾顿这样一个人竞会被谋杀。二、我不相信，在那天晚上的客观环境下，对某一个特定的人下毒会有什么可能。 
　　“现在，在这儿，我承认查尔斯爵土是对的，是我错了。 
　　错就错在我是从一个完全虚假的角度来看待这次犯罪。就在二十四小时之前，我突然发现了正确的视角。现在我要说，从这个角度来看，斯蒂芬•巴宾顿被谋杀既是合情合理的，也是可能的。 
　　“不过，我想把这事暂时放一放，先带你们沿我踏过的小路一步一步往下走。我把斯蒂芬•巴宾顿之死叫作我们演出的第一幕。当我们从鸦巢屋退场的时候，幕也就落下了。 
　　“这场戏的第二幕，是从萨特思韦特先生给我看有关巴塞罗缨爵士死亡的报道时开始的。事实顿时明朗，查尔斯爵士判断正确，我判断错误。斯蒂芬•巴宾顿和巴塞罗缨。斯特兰奇爵士两人都是被谋杀的。两次谋杀是同样一个犯罪案件的两次作案。后来，第三次谋杀——杀害德•拉什布里杰太太完成了整个作案系列。因此，我们需要形成一个非常理性的观点，就是把三次死亡事件联系在一起，形成一个合情合理、一目了然的观点。这个观点就是：三次谋杀都是同一个人所为，而且，这个人有利可图。 
　　“现在我必须说，困扰我的事情是，为什么谋杀巴塞罗缨。斯特兰奇爵士会在谋杀斯蒂芬•巴宾顿之后。如果按时间和地点的差异来观察这三次谋杀，很有可能，巴塞罗缨．斯特兰奇的谋杀案，我们可称之为中心犯罪事实，或者主要犯罪事实。其他两次谋杀案在性质上可称为次要犯罪事实。那就是说，这个结论是从这两个人与巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的关系中得出的。然而，正如我过去说明的那样，人们犯罪都不是随心所欲的。斯蒂芬•巴宾顿先被谋杀。因而，第二次谋杀好像是缘于第一次谋杀。据此，第一次谋杀似乎是整个事件的关键。 
　　“到那时为止，我仍然倾向于概率论的观点，以致一种错误的想法在我头脑里形成。是否有这种可能：巴塞罗缨是被预谋杀害的第一个牺牲者。而巴宾顿先生中毒只是一种失误？然而，我被迫放弃了这种观点。凡是认识巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的人，不管对爵士熟悉到什么样的程度，都会知道他有厌恶鸡尾酒的习惯。 
　　“还有一种意见：凶手毒害的对象是第一次宴会的另外一个人，可却错把斯蒂芬•巴宾顿给毒死了俄找不到支持这个意见的任何证据。因此，我不得不回到原来的结论，即杀害斯蒂芬•巴宾顿肯定是有预谋的。马上，我又遇到了一块很大的绊脚石——这个结论明显是不可能成立的。 
　　“人们总是带着最简单、最明显的观点去开始查询。假设斯蒂芬•巴宾顿喝下了有毒的鸡尾酒，那么是谁才会有机会在鸡尾酒里下毒呢？乍一看，我以为能干这事的只有两个人，比如说兑酒和拿酒杯之类的人：查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士自己和客厅女仆但普尔。尽管他们两个人都有可能将毒品放人酒杯，但他们两人没有谁能够有机会安排将哪一个酒杯送到巴宾顿的手中。但普尔可以熟练地从托盘里递送酒杯，最后剩下那个有毒的酒杯，然后递给他，因此她可能作案（不容易，但可以做得到。）查尔斯爵士可以别有用心地拿起那一个酒杯，然后递给他，因此他也可能作案。但两种情况都没有发生。看起来，好像是偶然的，只有偶然的机遇才会把那杯有毒的酒送到斯蒂芬•巴宾顿手中。 
　　“查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士和但普尔都接触过那些鸡尾酒。但是他们两人有谁参加了梅尔福特修道院的宴会？都没有。谁最有可能调换巴塞罗缨的葡萄酒杯？是那个潜逃的管家埃利斯以及他的助手客厅女仆。但是，听着，客人中有人作案的可能性，也无论如何不能排除。这要冒险，但有可能，因为参加别墅宴会的任何一个人都有可能溜进客厅，将尼古丁放进葡萄酒杯中。 
　　“当我在鸦巢屋加入你们的行列时，你们已经去过鸦巢屋和梅尔福特修道院两次招待会，并且写下了所有客人的名单。现在我可以说，列在最前面的四个名字：戴克斯船长及夫人，萨克利夫小姐和威尔斯小姐，我立刻就排除了。 
　　“这四个人事先绝没有可能知道他们会在宴会上碰见斯蒂芬。巴宾顿。施放尼古丁毒品的手法是经过精心策划的，绝不可能一时心血来潮就能做到。名单上还有三个人——玛丽。利顿•戈尔夫人、利顿•戈尔小姐和奥利弗•曼德斯先生。虽然可能性不大，但还是有可能。他们都是当地人，可以设想都可能有除掉斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的动机，而且可能选定开宴会的那天晚上将他们的阴谋付诸实践。 
　　“另一方面，我没有发现他们中有任何人实际上已经作了案。 
　　“我想，萨特思韦特先生的推理在很大程度上跟我的一样。他把嫌疑放到奥利弗•曼德斯身上。可以说，小曼德斯在当时还是最有可能的嫌疑人。在鸦巢屋那天晚上，有种种迹象表明，他处于高度的精神紧张之中。由于他个人处境艰难，对生活有某些扭曲的观点，又正值不稳定的年龄。事实上，他曾经与巴宾顿先生争吵过，或者说他对巴宾顿先生表现出一种憎恶的情绪。然后，梅尔福特修道院发生的事情让人感到奇怪。接着又发生了他收到巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇来信的不可思议的故事，还有威尔斯小姐证实他持有一张有关尼古丁中毒的剪报。 
　　“就这样，奥利弗•曼德斯的名字显然被排在七个嫌疑人的名单之首。 
　　“但后来，我的朋友们，一种奇妙的感觉出现在我的头脑里。那个作案的罪犯必定是两次宴会都在场的人，这是显而易见的事，也是合乎逻辑的。换句话说，他出现在七人名单之列。不过，我有一种感觉，这种明显的事情，是有人有意安排得如此显眼。这是一位头脑清楚、思维缜密的人才有可能想到的。我意识到我实际上看到的不是现实，而是一块艺术加工绘制而成的布景。这个确实精明的罪犯已经认识到出现在名单上的任何人都必然会成为嫌疑人。因此，他，或者她，就有意不让自己出现在名单上。 
　　“换句话说，杀害斯蒂芬•巴宾顿和巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵土的凶手，两次宴会都在场，但又不让人发现。 
　　“第一次在场的人，有谁在第二次没有出现？查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士，萨特思韦特先生，米尔雷小姐和巴宾顿太太。 
　　“在这四个人当中，有谁比其他的人更有可能在第二次宴会上出现呢？查尔斯爵士和萨特思韦特先生已经去了法国南部，米尔雷小姐在伦敦而巴宾顿大太在鲁茅斯。那么，四个人之中，米尔雷小姐和巴宾顿太太看来是众矢之的。但是，米尔雷小姐怎么可能在梅尔福特修道院的宴会上露面而不被客人们认出来呢？米尔雷小姐有让人印象深刻的外貌，难以伪装，也难以被人忘记。我确信米尔雷小姐不可能出现在梅尔福特修道院而不被人认出来。巴宾顿大大的情况也跟她类似。 
　　“同样的问题，萨特思韦特先生和查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士可能在梅尔福特修道院出现而不被认出来吗？萨特思韦特先生虽有这个可能，但是，我们一想到查尔斯•卡特赖特爵土时，我们就会茅塞顿开。查尔斯爵土是个演员，习惯于扮演角色。但他会扮演什么角色呢？ 
　　“于是，我们想到了管家埃利斯。 
　　“埃利斯是一个非常神秘的人物。他在案件发生两周前，从什么鬼地方来到这儿，然后在案件之后消失得无影无踪。为什么埃利斯会如此为所欲为？因为埃利斯这个人根本不存在。埃利斯是一张纸板像，一幅画，或者一块舞台布景——埃利斯不是真的。 
　　“这是可能的吗？毕竟，梅尔福特修道院的仆人们都是认识查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士的。巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士是他的好友。我曾经轻而易举地试探过那些仆人们。而且假装管家不冒任何风险。万一仆人们认出了他，那也元关紧要，事情可以当作一场恶作剧一笑了之。另一方面，如果两周之后没有引起任何怀疑，那正好，一切都顺理成章，我回忆起仆人们关于管家的谈话。他有绅士般的风度，曾受雇于有地位的人家，知道许多轶闻趣事。这都是简单不过的事。 
　　但客厅女仆艾丽斯提供了一个非常有价值的陈述。她说： 
　　。他处理事情跟我见过的其他管家完全不同。’我反复思考这句话，我开始确认我的观点。但是，巴塞罗谬•斯特兰奇的案子又是另外一回事了。简直难以想象，他的朋友竟会向他下毒手。他必定是知道了装扮管家的事。对此我们有证据吗？有的。观察敏锐的萨特思韦特先生在事件刚开始的时候就抓住了一个重要的情节——就是巴塞罗缨爵士开玩笑的那句话：（这话完全不像他平常对仆人们所说的。）‘你是个完美无缺的管家，对吧，埃利斯？’如果管家是查尔斯爵士装扮的，这就是完全可以理解的事情了，因为巴塞罗缨是在开玩笑。 
　　“毫无疑义，巴塞罗缨爵士看出了问题。但他误认为装扮埃利斯只是一场恶作剧，甚至可能是一次打赌。于是，成功的骗局被设计成这次别墅招待会的高潮，因此出现了巴塞罗缨爵士表示惊讶和幽默的那些话。还必须注意，那时仍然有时间停止作案。如果那天晚上参加招待会的人有谁也能察觉出餐桌边的查尔斯，那么一切就会改变。整个事情就会被当作一场恶作剧而一笑了之。可惜谁也没有注意这位弯腰驼背的中年管家，没有注意他那颠茄色的黑眼睛、络腮胡子和画在手腕上的胎记。这胎记是一个能鉴别真相的非常细微的特征。由于善良的人们缺乏观察，他们完全不能识别出来！这胎记是有意涂成一大块，用于今后对埃利斯的描述。可是整整两周竟然没有人注意到！发现这胎记的只有目光敏锐的威尔斯小姐，我们等一会儿还要谈到她。 
　　“接着发生了什么呢？巴塞罗缨爵士死了。这一次死亡再没有人认为是自然死亡。警察来了。他们查问埃利斯和其他的人。接着，就在那天晚上，‘埃利斯，从秘密通道逃走了。他恢复本来的自我。两天之后，他已在蒙特卡洛的花园里漫步，准备着在接到他朋友死亡的噩耗时表现出惊恐万状的神色。 
　　“请记住，这就是我全部的判断。我井没有实际去证明，但是所发生的一切都能支持我的这些判断。我用卡片修建的房子又稳又牢。在埃利斯屋里找到的那些敲诈信件是怎么回事呢？那不过是查尔斯爵士自己发现的！ 
　　“那么所谓巴塞罗缨爵士要求小曼德斯制造一起事故，又是怎么回事呢？这个，假冒巴塞罗缨的名义写那样一封信，对于查尔斯爵士来说是何等容易。假如曼德斯自己不毁掉那封信的话，装扮成埃利斯的查尔斯爵士在等候这个年轻绅土时，也很容易毁掉它。同样，那张剪报也是由埃利斯轻而易举地装人奥利弗的提包里的。 
　　“现在，让我们来谈谈第三个牺牲者——德•拉什布里杰太太。我们是什么时候第一次听到德•拉什布里杰这个名字的？就是在埃利斯刚刚被称为‘完美元缺的管家’这句打趣的话之后。这种话也和巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士平时的言辞极不相称。无论如何，必须把视线从巴塞罗缨的言谈举止转向他的管家。查尔斯爵士问过管家带来了什么样的消息？这是关于那个女人的——她是医生的病人。查尔斯爵士立即使出全身解数，竭力将我们的注意力从管家那儿移开，转向那位不为人所知的女人身上。他到了疗养院，询问护士长。他围绕拉什布里杰太太大做文章，以引开别人的视线。 
　　“我们现在来观察一下威尔斯小姐在这出戏里所扮演的角色。威尔斯小姐生性好奇。她是一个不会引起外界注意的人。她既不漂亮，不俏皮，也不灵巧，甚至没有同情心。 
　　她是个极其普通的人。但是她的观察力极其敏锐，智商极高。她用自己的笔向世界报复。在纸上创造人物她有很高的技巧。我不知道管家身上有什么使威尔斯小姐印象深刻，感到异常。但是我认为她是餐桌上惟一注意到了他的人。谋杀之后的第二天，她那永不满足的好奇心驱使她到处打听，东张西望，正如那女仆说的那样。她溜进戴克斯的房间，穿过桌面呢包的门，进入仆人们的卧室。我想，她是出于一种猫鼬式的本能，企图发现其中的秘密。 
　　“她是惟一能够引起查尔斯爵士不安的人。这就是为什么他急于要成为调查她的人。直到进行访谈之后，他好不容易才放下心来，而且对她注意到胎记的事实感到心满意足。 
　　不过好景不长。在那以后，我没有意识到，威尔斯小姐已经将管家埃利斯与查尔斯。卡特赖特爵士联系在一起。我以为她只是模模糊糊地感到埃利斯与某个人有某种相似之处。但是她可真是个观察家，当菜盘递到她跟前的时候，她情不自禁地注视着端菜的那双手，而不是脸。 
　　“她那时还没有想到埃利斯就是查尔斯爵士。但是，当查尔斯爵土后来和她谈话时，她猛然意识到查尔斯爵土就是埃利斯！于是，她要求他假装递给他一盘蔬菜。使她感兴趣的不是胎记在右手腕还是左手腕。她只是想找个借口去观察他的手，观察他摆放的姿势正像管家埃利斯的那双手。 
　　“就这样，她接近了真相。然而，她是一个特殊的女人。 
　　她只为自己的写作而追求知识。此外，她无论如何没有想到，查尔斯爵土谋杀了他的朋友。他假装成管家，是的，但这不一定会使他成为凶手。很多元辜的人保持沉默，只是因为担心说话会把自己置于困境。 
　　“于是威尔斯小姐隐瞒了她的认识，自己一个人欣赏。 
　　但是查尔斯爵士可着急了。他讨厌他离开客厅时她脸上的那种恶意的满足感。她知道了什么。是什么呢？对他有影响吗？他一无所知。但是他感到那只是与管家埃利斯有关的事情。先是萨特思韦特先生，现在是威尔斯小姐。必须将他们的注意力从这个致命的事情上引开。焦点必须对准别的地方。于是他想出了一个计划，既简单而又大胆，而且正如他想象的那样，具有明显的欺骗性。 
　　“在我举行雪利酒会那天，我想象查尔斯爵士一定起得很早。他到了约克郡，化了装，穿着破旧的衣服，叫了一个小孩去发电报。然后他及时赶回城里，并面对客人们。根据我的小小剧本的要求，演出了那场戏。他多做了一件事。他寄了一盒巧克力给他从来未见过，也一无所知的女人。 
　　“你们都知道那天晚上发生的事情。从查尔斯爵士的不安，我确信威尔斯小姐已经对他有所怀疑。当查尔斯爵士‘倒地身亡’时，我看着威尔斯小姐的脸。我看见她的脸上出现了一种惊讶的神色。那时我就知道，威尔斯小姐肯定怀疑查尔斯爵士是那个凶手。当他演到自己也像前面的人一样中毒死亡时，她以为她的推断一定是错了。 
　　“如果威尔斯小姐怀疑查尔斯爵士，那么她就会处于严重的危险之中。一个已两次杀了人的凶手，会再一次杀人。 
　　我发出十分严肃的警告。后来，就在那个晚上，我通过电话跟威尔斯Ｊ、姐交换了意见。第二天，她便按我的忠告突然离开了家。从那以后，她一直住在这家旅馆里，后来的事实证明了我的明智之举。第二天，当查尔斯爵士从吉灵回来以后，又连夜赶到图廷。他太迟了，鸟儿已经飞了。 
　　“与此同时，按照他的思路，计划进行得十分顺利。拉什布里杰太大有重要的事要告诉我们。拉什布里杰太太在她说话之前被杀。多么富有戏剧性！多么像侦探小说、侦探话剧和侦探电影！同样是舞台上的纸板、华丽的装饰和绘制的布景。 
　　“但是我，赫尔克里•波洛，没有被蒙骗。萨特思韦特先生对我说，她被杀了，因此她再也不会说话了。我同意了。我继续说，她在告诉她知道的秘密以前被人杀了。我说：‘或许她并不知道。’我相信，他一定很迷惑。但他当时应当看出事实。实际上，德•拉什布里杰太大根本不可能告诉我们任何事情，因此她被杀了。因为她与凶杀没有丝毫联系。如果她充当了查尔斯爵士转移视线的目标，她只能是死路一条。于是，德•拉什布里杰，一个无辜的陌生人，就这样被杀害了“然而，就在这样一个暂时的胜利中，查尔斯爵士还是犯了一个极大的错误，一个幼稚的错误！那个电报是发给我波洛的，那时我住里茨饭店。但是，德•拉什布里杰太大从来没有听说过我在办这个案子！那儿所有的人没有一个知道这件事。犯了这样一个幼稚的错误，简直令人难以置信。 
　　“就这样，我取得了很大的进展。我知道了凶手的本来面目。但我还不清楚犯罪的原本动机。 
　　“我经过了深思熟虑。 
　　“我再一次更加清楚地把巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士的死看作是原来的、有预谋的凶杀案件。是什么原因使查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士杀害他的朋友呢？我是否可以设想一个动机？我想我能。” 
　　有人在深深叹息。查尔斯•卡特赖特爵士慢慢地站起来，迈步走向壁炉边。他站在那儿，一只手背在后面，朝下看着波洛。那姿态就像伊格尔蒙特勋爵鄙视地看着将欺诈罪强加给他的无赖律师一样。他的眼睛里射出高做和憎恶的目光。他严然是个堂堂贵族，正俯视着下面的芸芸众生。 
　　“你的想象力非同一般，波洛先生”他说道，“勿须我自费口舌，在你编造的故事里，简直没有一句真话。你竟然这样肆无忌惮，把我一无所知的荒唐故事编造得如此栩栩如生。不过，你尽管往下说，我会感兴趣的。你说，谋杀一个我从不认识的人，其动机是什么？” 
　　赫尔克里•波洛，这个小资产者，仰面看着贵族，开始迅速而又坚定他说： 
　　“查尔斯爵士，我们有一个谚语说：‘去找女人，正是从这儿，我们发现了动机。我曾见你常与利顿•戈尔小姐在一起。显然，你爱她，以一种引人注目的可怕的狂热爱着她，这种爱情来自一个中年男子，而通常是由一个天真元邪的年轻姑娘煽动起来的。你爱她。我可以看得出来，她像崇拜英雄一样崇拜你。你一开口，她就会投入你的怀抱。但是你没有说出来，为什么？ 
　　“你骗你的朋友萨特思韦特先生说，你是一个愚蠢的爱人，不能辨别情人回报的恋情。你假装以为利顿•戈尔小姐爱上了奥利弗•曼德斯。但是我要说，查尔斯爵士，你是一个老于世故的人，是一个善于与女人周旋的人。你不可能被谁欺骗。你非常清楚地知道，利顿•戈尔小姐很在乎你。你是想娶她的。那么，为什么你不娶她呢？ 
　　“这事必定有某种障碍。是什么障碍呢？唯一的现实是，你已经有了一个妻子。但是一谈到你，谁也不会把你看作一个已婚男人。你一直是以一个单身汉的身份过日子。你在很年轻的时候就结婚，那已是你成为一个著名的青年演员以前的事。 
　　“你的妻子怎么了？她还活着吗？为什么谁都不知道她？ 
　　假如你们俩分居了，那么这也可以成为事实上的离婚。如果你的妻子是一个天主教徒，或者一个不同意离婚的人，人们也会知道她与你分居了。 
　　“然而，出现了法律不可免除的悲剧。法律不可免除，跟你结婚的女人可能在某个监狱里被终身监禁，或者在一个精神病院被管制起来。不管是哪一种情况，你都不可能获准离婚，如果这事发生在你的少年时期，就不会有人知道。 
　　“如果无人知道这事，你就可以跟利顿•戈尔小姐结婚，而不告诉她事实的真相。但是，假如有一个人知道真相，他又是从小就跟你相识，那怎么办呢？巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士是一个有名望的正直的医生。他可能非常可怜你，甚至会同情你与人私通或者同情你的不正当行为，但是，当他看见你就要与一个天真无邪的姑娘结婚时，他对你的重婚罪却不能熟视无睹。 
　　“在你得以跟利顿•戈尔小姐结婚之前，你必然要除掉巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇爵士……”查尔斯爵士大笑起来。 
　　“还有亲爱的老巴宾顿呢？难道他也知道这一切吗？” 
　　“一开始我也是这样想的。但是我很快就发现，没有任何证据说明这种结论。此外，我原来的绊脚石仍然存在。即使是把尼古丁放人鸡尾酒杯里，你也不可能保证毒酒被送到他的手中。 
　　“这是我的一道难题。是利顿•戈尔小姐偶然之间说的一句话启发了我。 
　　“毒酒不是特意要交给斯蒂芬•巴宾顿的，而是要送给当时在场的任何一个人的，只有三个例外。那就是利顿•戈尔小姐，你非常小心地递给她一个元毒的酒杯，无毒的酒还给了你自己以及巴塞罗缨•斯特兰奇，你知道他是不会喝鸡尾酒的。” 
　　萨特恩韦特先生叫起来： 
　　“真是元稽之谈！这有何意义？没有呀。” 
　　波洛转身对着他，声音里带着胜利者的语气。 
　　“哦，不对。目的是有的，一个奇怪的目的，非常奇怪的目的。这是我第一次碰到的谋杀动机。杀害斯蒂芬•巴宾顿就是一个不折不扣的彩排。” 
　　“什么？” 
　　“是的，查尔斯爵士是一个演员。他遵循演员的本能。他在正式作案以前要试一试他的谋杀。不要人们怀疑到他身上。这些人当中无论死了谁，从各个方面来说都不会对他有利。再说，正如每个人都承认的那样，没有什么能证明是他有意地毒死一位客人。朋友们，彩排进行得很顺利，巴宾顿先生死了。这场谋杀的暴行甚至无人怀疑。反而是查尔斯爵士提出了怀疑。对了，我们没能认真对待此事，他感到洋洋得意。替换酒杯也是同样进行得十分顺利，没有遇到任何障碍。事实上他深信不疑，当真正表演的时候，一切都会很顺利。 
　　“正如你们所知，事情的发展稍稍有点变化。在第二次事件中，在场的一个医生立即怀疑有人下毒。这时查尔斯爵士大肆渲染巴宾顿的死，因为这对他大有好处。巴塞罗缨爵士的死被看成是第一次谋杀的继续。于是人们的注意力就必然会集中在谋杀巴宾顿的动机上，而不会考虑除掉巴塞罗缨爵土的根本动机。 
　　“但是，有件事查尔斯爵士没有意识到：那就是米尔雷小姐敏锐的观察力，米尔雷小姐知道她的主人在花园的小塔里进行化学试验的事。米尔雷曾经泄露过她曾付款买过玫瑰花喷剂。她发现，喷剂中有很大一部分莫名其妙地不见了。当她读到巴宾顿先生死于尼古丁中毒的消息时，她那聪明的头脑一下子得出了一个结论：查尔斯爵士从玫瑰花喷剂中提炼出了生物碱。 
　　“米尔雷小姐不知道该怎么办，因为她从当小姑娘的时候起就认识巴宾顿先生，然而她默默地一心一意地爱着她那位迷人的主人查尔斯爵士。一个其貌不扬的女人也只能如此。 
　　“最后，她决心破坏查尔斯爵士的仪器。查尔斯爵士对他的成功深信不疑，以至他从来没有想到要毁掉那些东西。 
　　她前往康沃尔郡，我跟随其后。” 
　　查尔斯爵土又一次大笑起来。他比任何时候看起来都像一个老鼠装扮的高贵绅士。 
　　“那些陈旧的化学仪器都是你的证据吗？”他轻蔑地问道。 
　　“不。”波洛说，“那儿有你的护照，标明你回到英国和离开英国的日期。事实是，在哈佛顿的郡精神病院有一个女人，格拉迪斯•玛丽•马格。她就是查尔斯爵士的妻子。” 
　　蛋蛋姑娘一直坐在那儿，一声不吭，像一个冰冻的塑像。现在，她突然一愣，从喉咙里发出一声微弱的惊叫，就像在呻吟。 
　　查尔斯爵士潇洒地转过身去。 
　　“蛋蛋，你不要相信这个荒唐故事里的任何一句话，好吗？” 
　　他笑着，把双手往前伸开。 
　　蛋蛋慢慢向前走了几步，仿佛进入了催眠状态。她的眼睛，充满着恳求的目光，无限痛苦地凝视着她的情人。这时，就在她走到他的身边以前，她的身体摇晃着，眼睛下垂，就这样又迈了几步，好像在寻找安全的地方。 
　　接着，她大叫一声跪倒在波洛脚下。 
　　“这是真的吗？是真的吗？” 
　　他将双手放到她的肩上，坚定而慈祥地抚摩着她。 
　　“是真的，小姐。” 
　　此时，除了蛋蛋的抽泣声外，一点声音也没有。 
　　查尔斯爵士突然变得老了许多，那是一张老人的脸，一张半人半鬼的邪恶的脸。 
　　“天杀的！”他说。 
　　在他的表演生涯中，他从来没有脱口说出这样凶恶的话来。 
　　然后他转身走出屋子。 
　　萨特思韦特先生差不多是从沙发里跳起身来，但波洛对他摇摇头，他的一只手仍然在抚慰着哭泣的蛋蛋姑娘。 
　　“他要逃跑”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　波洛摇摇头。 
　　“不，他只是在退场。不是在众目暌暌之下慢步退场，就是快速离开舞台。” 
　　门慢慢打开了，一个人走了进来。这是奥利弗•曼德斯。他平时那种蔑视一切的表情不见了。他面色苍白，充满忧伤。 
　　波洛靠近姑娘。 
　　“你看，小姐，”他轻轻他说，“有一个朋友来接你回家”蛋蛋站起身来她疑惑不定地看着奥利弗，接着摇摇晃晃地向他迈了一步。 
　　“奥利弗……带我到妈妈那儿。啊，带我到妈妈那儿。” 
　　他将手臂挽着她，把她扶向门边。 
　　“是的，亲爱的，我带你去。走吧。” 
　　蛋蛋的双腿在颤抖，几乎不能走路。奥利弗和萨特思韦特先生站在她的两边，扶着她往前走。走到门边，她站住了，突然回过头来。 
　　“我没事儿。” 
　　波洛作了一个手势。奥利弗回到屋里。 
　　“好好待她。”波洛说。 
　　“我会的，先生。她是我在这个世界上最心疼的人。这你是知道的。对她的爱使我变得冷漠和玩世不恭。但是我将会改变自己。我要遵守诺言。也许，有一天……”“我相信。”波洛说，“我想，当他溜掉井使她头晕目眩时，她已开始关注你了。崇拜明星对青年人来说是很可怕很危险的。有一天，蛋蛋会爱上一个真正的朋友。她会将自己的幸福建立在磐石般坚固的基础之上。” 
　　当年轻人离开屋子的时候，波洛充满仁慈地目送着他们。 
　　现在，萨特思韦特先生回到屋里。 
　　“波洛先生，”他说，“你真棒，实在棒极了。” 
　　波洛的眼睛里闪烁着谦逊的目光。 
　　“这没有什么，没有什么。这是一场三幕悲剧，现在该是落幕的时候了。” 
　　“请原谅我打扰你……”萨特思韦特先生说。 
　　“是的，有些事我得向你解释清楚，对吗？” 
　　“有件事，我想弄清楚。” 
　　“问吧。” 
　　“为什么你有时候说英语很标准，有时候却很蹩脚呢？” 
　　波洛笑了起来。 
　　“哦，我来解释。确实，我可以说得很准确，可以说一口地道的英语。但是，我的朋友，说蹩脚的英语是一件巨大的法宝。它能让人们瞧不起你。他们说，一个外国佬，他连英语也说得不正确，还破案？这是我迷惑人家的策略。我反而想惹起他们的善意的嘲笑。我也要说点大话！英国人常常说： 
　　‘一个自以为是的人，是区区小人。’这是英国人自己的观点。但根本不是事实。所以，你瞧，我已经让人们放松了警惕。”他补充道，“这已经习以为常了。” 
　　“天哪，”萨特思韦特先生说，“好一条阴险的蛇。” 
　　他沉默了一会儿，回顾着这个案件。 
　　“恐怕我还没有理解案件的全部情况。”他烦躁他说。 
　　“正相反，你注意到了一个重要的线索：巴塞罗缪爵士嘲笑管家的那句话，你认识到威尔斯小姐敏锐的观察力。事实上，假如你对戏剧没有那种戏迷般的反应，你早就能查清一切了。” 
　　萨特思韦特先生显得兴高采烈。 
　　突然，在他脑子里猛然闪现一个想法，嘴巴也大大张开了。 
　　“天哪！”他叫了起来，“我现在才想起来，那个恶棍带着有毒的鸡尾酒！任何人都有可能喝过它。有可能是我喝的呀。” 
　　“你同样没有想到，还有一种可能更令人恐惧。” 
　　“什么？” 
　　“喝那杯酒的人，也可能就是我嘛。”赫尔克里•波洛说。