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[hr][color=#ffffff][backcolor=#000000][b]内容简介[/b][/backcolor][/color]
　　《ABC谋杀案》是一部精心蕴涵技巧于无形的杰作，其独树一帜让人折服。故事讲述：一个逍遥法外的连环杀手通过字母表一步一步实施犯罪。作为死亡标记，杀手在每个被害人的尸体旁留下一本ABC铁路旅行指南，翻开的那页就是杀人之地。
　　先是在安多弗，接着是贝克斯希尔海滩，然后是克拉克爵士被发现谋杀于彻斯顿的海边小径。看起来继续作恶的凶手毫无被擒的希望，直到凶手自己犯了一个致命的错误——向波洛挑战杀人计划……　当第四封信到来，并宣布下一次作案地点是唐克斯特时，不仅媒体给予了铺天盖地的报道，苏格兰场也部署了大量警力来防范。　那么罪犯能得手吗？动机到底是什么？罪犯是谁？
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你相信吗？世界上有如此的大胆的凶手，他竟敢挑战大侦探波洛的智慧！
黑斯廷斯上尉从阿根廷返回英格兰探访老友波洛先生的那天早上，波洛先生的桌子上就摆着这样一封信：
赫尔克里·波洛先生：
你乐意于解决那些令我们的可怜而愚蠢的英国警察们难以应付的迷案，不是吗？让我们瞧瞧，聪明的波洛先生，看看您到底有多聪明。也许您会发现这个坚果硬得难以敲碎。留意本月二十一日的安多弗（Andover）。
——忠于您的ABC
来信者到底是谁？这封信的目的在何？这是恶作剧吗？还是疯子所为？
然而随后发生的事实却推翻了这些推论。
21日在安多弗（Andover），一位姓阿谢尔（Ascher）的老太太被杀死在自家的烟草店里，柜台上放着一本ABC铁路指南。
几天以后，波洛又收到第二封战书，随后在指定的日子饭店服务生巴纳德（Barnard）小姐被人用自己的腰带勒死在贝克斯希尔（Bexhill-on-Sea）的海滩上，她的身下，同样放着一本ABC铁路指南。
如果说开始的时候，波洛还只是感受到一点隐约的不安，那么，在第二件血案发生以后，他开始意识到这位挑战者是个不容忽视的对手。他决心要揪出这万恶的凶手，而苏格兰场也开始对这系列案件重视起来，协助波洛，预防下起血案的发生。
可是他们还是没能阻止惨案的继续，第三封信的地址没有写清楚导致了投递延误，当波洛收到信并匆匆赶往下个指定地点时，彻斯顿（Churston）的克拉克（Clarke）爵士已经被发现谋杀于海边小径上。
情况更加紧急了，不仅苏格兰场和波洛在侦察这个凶手的踪迹，受害者的亲属们也自发组织起来，希望能查出真凶，阻止他继续作恶，公众也密切地关注着这桩史无前例的罪案。
所以当第四封信到来，并宣布下一次作案地点时，不仅媒体给予了铺天盖地的报道，苏格兰场也部署了极大的警力来防止任何意外情况。
那么罪犯他能得手吗？他的动机到底是什么？他是谁？
是那位碰巧出现在每个作案地点的亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特（Alexander Bonaparte Cust）先生吗？他只是碰巧出现吗？
本书一改阿加莎·克里斯蒂以往故事将犯罪场所限定在某一固定空间的手法，是阿加莎·克里斯蒂唯一一部开放式的小说。 [/td][/tr][/table]

Chapter 34 POIROT EXPLAINS We were sitting in a state of tense attention to listen to Poirot's final explanation of the case. "All along," he said, "I have been worried over the why of this case. Hastings said to me the other day that the case was ended. I replied to him that the case was the man. The mystery was not the mystery of the murders, but the mystery of A.B.C. Why did he find it necessary to commit these murders? Why did he select me as his adversary? "It is no answer to say that the man was mentally unhinged. To say a man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his action as a sane man - given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the man himself is firmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical. "What was necessary in this case was to imagine a mind so constituted that it was logical and reasonable to commit four or more murders and to announce them beforehand by letters written to Hercule Poirot. "My friend, Hastings, will tell you that from the moment I received the first letter I was upset and disturbed. It seemed to me at once that there was something very wrong about the letter." "You were quite right," said Franklin Clarke dryly. "Yes. But there, at the very start, I made a grave error. I permitted my feeling - my very strong feeling about the letter to remain a mere impression. I treated it as though it had been an intuition. In a well-balanced, reasoning mind them is no such thing as an intuition - an inspired guess! You can guess, of course - and a guess is either right or wrong. If it is right you call it an intuition. If it is wrong you usual do not speak of it again. But what is often called an intuition is really an impression based on logical deduction or experience. When an expert feels that there is something wrong about a picture or a piece of furniture, or the signature on a cheque he is really basing that feeling on a host of small signs and details. He has no need to go into them minutely - his experience obviates that - the net result is the definite impression that something is wrong. But it is not a guess, it is an impression based on experience. "Eh bien, I admit that I did not regard that first letter in the way I should. It just made me extremely uneasy. The police regarded it as a hoax. I myself took it seriously. I was convinced that a murder would take place in Andover as stated. As you know, a murder did take place. "There was no means at that point, as I well realized, of knowing who the person was who had done the deed. The only course open to me was to try and understand just what kind of a person had done it. "I had certain indications. The letter - the manner of the crime - the person murdered. What I had to discover was: the motive of the crime, the motive of the letter." "Publicity," suggested Clarke. "Surely an inferiority complex covers that," added Thora Gray. "That was, of course, the obvious line to take. But why me? Why Hercule Poirot? Greater publicity could be ensured by sending the letters to Scotland Yard. More again by sending them to a newspaper. A newspaper might not print the first letter, but by the time the second crime took place, A.B.C. could have been assured of all the publicity the press could give. Why, then, Hercule Poirot? Was it for some personal reason? There was, discernible in the letter, a slight anti-foreign bias - but not enough to explain the matter to my satisfaction. "Then the second letter arrived - and was followed by the murder of Betty Barnard at Bexhill. It became clear now (what I had already suspected) that the murders were to proceed in an alphabetical plan, but that fact, which seemed final to most people, left the main question unaltered to my mind. Why did A.B.C. need to commit these murders?" Megan Barnard stirred in her chair. "Isn't them such a thing as - as a blood lust?" she said. Poirot turned to her. "You are quite right, mademoiselle. There is such a thing. The lust to kill. But that did not quite fit the facts of the case. A homicidal maniac who desires to kill usually desires to kill as many victims as possible. It is a recurring craving. The great idea of such a killer is to hide his tracks - not to advertise them. When we consider the four victims selected - or at any rate three of them (for I know very little of Mr. Downes or Mr. Earlsfield), we realize that if he had chosen, the murderer could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion. Franz Ascher, Donald Fraser or Megan Barnard, possibly Mr. Clarke - those are the people the police would have suspected even if they had been unable to get direct proof. An unknown homicidal murderer would not have been thought of! Why, then, did the murderer feel it necessary to call attention to himself? Was it the necessity of leaving on each body a copy of an A.B.C. railway guide? Was that the compulsion? Was there some complex connected with the railway guide? "I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of the murderer. Surely it could not be magnanimity? A horror of responsibility for the crime being fastened on an innocent person? "Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did feel I was learning about the murderer." "Such as?" asked Fraser. "To begin with - that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression - that was obviously important to him. On the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims - Mrs. Ascher, Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from each other. There was no sex complex - no particular age complex, and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately it is usually because he removes any one who stands in his way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular type of victim - nearly always of the opposite sex. There was something haphazard about the procedure of A.B.C. that seemed to me to be at war with the alphabetical selection. "The slight inferences I permitted myself to make. The choice of the A.B.C. suggested to me what I may call a railway-minded man. This is more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped mind. The 'boy' motif still predominated. "The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive. (Forgive me, Mr. Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt - therefore she must almost certainly have been killed by some one with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. When I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind. "Betty Barnard was a flirt. She liked attention from a personal male. Therefore A.B.C., to persuade her to come out with him, must have had a certain amount of attraction - of le sex appeal! He must be able, as you English say, to 'get off.' He must be capable of the click! I visualize the scene on the beach thus: the man admires her belt. She takes it off, he passes it playfully round her neck - says, perhaps, 'I shall strangle you.' It is all very playful. She giggles - and he pulls -" Donald Fraser sprang up. He was livid. "M. Poirot - for God's sake." Poirot made a gesture. "It is finished. I say no more. It is over. We pass to the next murder, that of Sir Carmichael Clarke. Here the murderer goes back to his first method - the blow on the head. The same alphabetical complex - but one fact worries me a little. To be consistent the murderer should have chosen his towns in some definite sequence. "If Andover is the 155th name under A, then the B crime should be the 155th also - or it should be the 156th and the C the 157th. Here again the towns seemed to be chosen in rather too haphazard a fashion." "Isn't that because you're rather biased on that subject, Poirot?" I suggested. "You yourself are normally methodical and orderly. It's almost a disease with you." "No, it is not a disease! Quelle idйe! But I admit that I may be over-stressing that point. Passons! "The Churston crime gave me very little extra help. We were unlucky over it, since the letter announcing it went astray, hence no preparations could be made. "But by the time the D crime was announced, a very formidable system of defence had been evolved. It must have been obvious that A.B.C. could not much longer hope to get away with his crimes. "Moreover, it was at this point that the clue of the stockings came into my hands. It was perfectly clear that the presence of an individual selling stockings on and near the scene of each crime could not be a incidence. Hence the stocking-seller must be the murderer. I may say that his description, as given me by Miss Grey, did not quite correspond with my own picture of the man who strangled Betty Barnard "I will pass over the next stages quickly. A fourth murder was committed - the murder of a man named George Earlsfield - it was supposed in mistake for a man named Downes, who was something of the same build and who was sitting near him in the cinema. "And now at last comes the turn of the tide. Events play against A.B.C. instead of into his hands. He is marked down - hunted - and at last arrested. "The case, as Hastings says, is ended! "True enough as far as the public is concerned. The man is in prison and will eventually, no doubt, go to Broadmoor. There will be no more murders. Exit! Finis! R.I.P. "But not for me. I know nothing - nothing at all! Neither the why nor the wherefore. "And there is one small vexing fact. The man Cust has an alibi for the night of the Bexhill crime." "That's been worrying me all along," said Franklin Clarke. "Yes. It worried me. For the alibi, it has the air of being genuine. But it cannot be genuine unless - and now we come to two very interesting speculations. "Supposing, my friends, that while Cust committed three of the crimes - the A, C and D crimes - he did not commit the B crime." "M. Poirot. It isn't -" Poirot silenced Megan Barnard with a look. "Be quiet, mademoiselle. I am for the truth, I am! I have done with lies. Supposing, I say, that A.B.C. did not commit the second crime. It took place, remember, in the early hours of the 25th - the day he had arrived for the crime. Supposing some one had forestalled him? What in those circumstances would he do? Commit a second murder, or lie low and accept the first as a kind of macabre present?" "M. Poirot!" said Megan. "That's a fantastic thought! All the crimes must have been committed by the same person!" He took no notice of her and went steadily on: "Such a hypothesis had the merit of explaining one fact - the discrepancy between the personality of Alexander Bonaparte Cust (who could never have made the click with any girl) and the personality of Betty Barnard's murderer. And it has been known, before now, that would-be murderers have taken advantage of the crimes committed by other people. Not all the crimes of Jack the Ripper were committed by Jack the Ripper, for instance. So far, so good. "But then I came up against a definite difficulty. "Up to the time of the Barnard murder, no facts about the A.B.C. murders had been made public. The Andover murder had created little interest. The incident of the open railway guide had not even been mentioned in the press. It therefore followed that whoever killed Betty Barnard must have had access to facts known only to certain persons - myself, the police, and certain relations and neighbours of Mrs. Ascher. "That line of research seemed to lead me up against a blank wall." The faces that looked at him were blank too. Blank and puzzled. Donald Fraser said thoughtfully: "The police, after all, are human beings. And they're good-looking men -" He stopped, looking at Poirot inquiringly. Poirot shook his head gently. "No - it is simpler than that. I told you that there was a second speculation. "Supposing that Cust was not responsible for the killing of Betty Barnard? Supposing that some one else killed her. Could that some one else have been responsible for the other murders too?" "But that doesn't make sense!" cried Clarke. "Doesn't it? I did then what I ought to have done at first. I examined the letters I had received from a totally different point of view. I had felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with them - just as a picture expert knows a picture is wrong... "I had assumed, without pausing to consider, that what was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a madman. "Now I examined them again - and this time I came to a totally different conclusion. What was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a sane man!" "What?" I cried. "But yes - just that precisely! They were wrong as a picture is wrong - because they were a fake. They pretended to be the letters of a madman - of a homicidal lunatic, but in reality they were nothing of the kind." "It doesn't make sense," Franklin Clarke repeated. "Mais si! One must reason - reflect. What would be the object of writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention to the murders! En veritй, it did not seem to make sense at first sight. And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders - on a group of murders... Is it not your great Shakespeare who has said, 'You cannot see the trees for the wood'?" I did not correct Poirot's literary reminiscences. I was trying to see his point. A glimmer came to me. He went on: "When do you notice a pin least? When it is in a pincushion! When do you notice an individual murder least? When it is one of a series of related murders. "I had to deal with an intensely clever, resourceful murderer - reckless, daring and a thorough gambler. Not Mr. Cust! He could never have committed these murders! No, I had to deal with a very different stamp of man - a man with a boyish temperament (witness the schoolboy-type letters and the railway guide), an attractive man to women, and a man with a ruthless disregard for human life, a man who was necessarily a prominent person in one of the crimes! Consider when a man or woman is killed, what are the questions that the police ask? Opportunity. Where was everybody at the time of the crime? Motive. Who benefited by the deceased's death? If the motive and the opportunity are fairly obvious, what is a would-be murderer to do? Fake an alibi - that is, manipulate time in some way? But that is always a hazardous proceeding. Our murderer thought of a more fantastic defence. Create a homicidal murderer! "I had now only to review the various crimes and find the possible guilty person. The Andover crime? The most likely suspect for that was Franz Ascher, but I could not imagine Ascher inventing and carrying out such an elaborate scheme, nor could I see him planning a premeditated murder. The Bexhill crime? Donald Fraser was a possibility. He had brains and ability, and a methodical turn of mind. But his motive for killing his sweetheart could only be jealousy - and jealousy does not tend to premeditation. Also I learned that he had his holiday early in August, which rendered it unlikely that he had anything to do with the Churston crime. We come to the Churston crime next - and at once we are on infinitely more promising ground. "Sir Carmichael Clarke was an immensely wealthy man. Who inherits his money? His wife, who is dying, has a life interest in it, and it then goes to his brother Franklin." Poirot turned slowly round till his eyes met those of Franklin Clarke. "I was quite sure then. The man I had known a long time in my secret mind was the same as the man whom I had known as a person. A.B.C. and Franklin Clarke were one and the same! The daring adventurous character, the roving life, the partiality for England that had showed itself, very faintly, in the jeer at foreigners. The attractive free and easy manner - nothing easier for him than to pick up a gift in a cafй. The methodical tabular mind - he made a list here one day, ticked off over the headings A.B.C. - and finally, the boyish mind - mentioned by Lady Clarke and even shown by his taste in fiction - I have ascertained that there is a book in the library called The Railway Children by E. Nesbit. I had no further doubt in my own mind - A.B.C., the man who wrote the letters and committed the crimes, was Franklin Clarke." Clarke suddenly burst out laughing. "Very ingenious! And what about our friend Cust, caught red-handed? What about the blood on his coat? And the knife he hid in his lodgings? He may deny he committed the crimes -" Poirot interrupted. "You are quite wrong. He admits the fact." "What?" Clarke looked really startled. "Oh, yes," said Poirot gently. "I had no sooner spoken to him than I was aware that Cust believed himself to be guilty." "And even that didn't satisfy M. Poirot?" said Clarke. "No. Because as soon as I saw him I also knew that he could not be guilty! He has neither the nerve nor the daring - nor, I may add, the brains to plan! All along I have been aware of the dual personality of the murderer. Now I see wherein it consisted. Two people were involved - the real murderer, cunning, resourceful and dating - and the pseudo murderer, stupid, vacillating and suggestible. "Suggestible - it is in that word that the mystery of Mr. Cust consists! It was not enough for you, Mr. Clarke, to devise this plan of a series to distract attention from a single crime. You had also to have a stalking horse. "I think the idea first originated in your mind as the result of a chance encounter in a city coffee den with this odd personality with his bombastic Christian names. You were at that time turning over in your mind various plans for the murder of your brother." "Really? And why?" "Because you were seriously alarmed for the future. I do not know whether you realize it, Mr. Clarke, but you played into my hands when you showed me a certain letter written to you by your brother. In it he displayed very clearly his affection and absorption in Miss Thora Grey. His regard may have been a paternal one - or he may have preferred to think it so. Nevertheless, there was a very real danger that on the death of your sister-in-law he might, in his loneliness, turn to this beautiful girl for sympathy and comfort and it might end - as so often happens with elderly men - in his marrying her. Your fear was increased by your knowledge of Miss Grey. You are, I fancy, an excellent, if somewhat cynical judge of character. You judged, whether correctly or not, that Miss Grey was a type of young woman 'on the make.' You had no doubt that she would jump at the chance of becoming Lady Clarke. Your brother was an extremely healthy and vigorous man. There might be children and your chance of inheriting your brother's wealth would vanish. "You have been, I fancy, in essence a disappointed man all your life. You have been the rolling stone - and you have gathered very little moss. You were bitterly jealous of your brother's wealth. "I repeat then that, turning over various schemes in your mind, your meeting with Mr. Cust gave you an idea. His bombastic Christian names, his account of his epileptic seizures and of his headaches, his whole shrinking and insignificant personality, struck you as fitting him for the tool you wanted. The whole alphabetical plan sprang into your mind - Cust's initials - the fact that your brother's name began with a C and that he lived at Churston were the nucleus of the scheme. You even went so far as to hint to Cust at his possible end - though you could hardly hope that that suggestion would bear the rich fruit that it did. "Your arrangements were excellent. In Cust's name you wrote for a large consignment of hosiery to be sent to him. You yourself sent a number of A.B.C.'s looking like a similar parcel. You wrote to him - a typed letter purporting to be from the same firm offering him a good salary and commission. Your plans were so well laid beforehand that you typed all the letters that were sent subsequently, and then presented him with the machine on which they had been typed. "You had now to look about for two victims whose names began with A and B respectively and who lived at places also beginning with those same letters. "You hit on Andover as quite a likely spot and your preliminary reconnaissance there led you to select Mrs. Ascher's shop as the scene of the first crime. Her name was written clearly over the door, and you found by experiment that she was usually alone in the shop. Her murder needed nerve, daring and reasonable luck. "For the letter B you had to vary your tactics. Lonely women in shops might conceivably have been warned. I should imagine that you frequented a few cafйs and teashops, laughing and joking with the girls there and finding out whose name began with the right letter and who would be suitable for your purpose. "In Betty Barnard you found just the type of girl you were looking for. You took her out once or twice, explaining to her that you were a married man, and that outings must therefore take place in a somewhat hole and corner manner. "Then, your preliminary plans completed, you set to work! You send the Andover list to Cust, directing him to go there on a certain date and you sent off the first A.B.C. letter to me. "On the appointed day, you went to Andover - and killed Mrs. Ascher - without anything occurring to damage your plans. "Murder No. 1 was successfully accomplished. "For the second murder, you took the precaution of committing it, in reality, the day before. I am fairly certain that Betty Barnard was killed well before midnight on the 24th July. "We now come to murder No. 3 - the important - in fact, the real murder from your point of view. "And here a full creed of praise is due to Hastings, who made a simple and obvious remark to which no attention was paid. "He suggested that the third letter went astray intentionally. And he was right!... "In that one simple fact lies the answer to the question that has puzzled me so all along. Why were the letters addressed in the first place to Hercule Poirot, a private detective, and not to the police? "Erroneously I imagined some personal reason. "Not at all! The letters were sent to me because the essence of your plan was that one of them should be wrongly addressed and go astray - but you cannot arrange for a letter addressed to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard to go astray! It is necessary to have a private address. You chose me as a fairly well-known person, and a person who was sure to take the letters to the police - and also, in your rather insular mind, you enjoyed scoring off a foreigner. "You addressed your envelope very cleverly - Whitehaven - Whitehorse - quite a natural slip. Only Hastings was sufficiently perspicacious to disregard subtleties and go straight for the obvious! "Of course the letter was meant to go astray! The police were to be set on the trail only when the murder was safely over. Your brother's nightly walk provided you with the opportunity. And so successfully had the A.B.C. terror taken hold on the public mind that the possibility of your guilt never occurred to any one. "After the death of your brother, of course, your object was accomplished. You had no wish to commit any more murders. On the other hand, if the murders stopped without reason, a suspicion of truth might come to some one. "Your stalking horse, Mr. Cust, had so successfully lived up to his rфle of the invisible - because insignificant - man, that so far no one had noticed that the same person had been seen in the vicinity of the three murders! To your annoyance, even his visit to Combeside had not been mentioned. The matter had passed completely out of Miss Grey's head. "Always daring, you decided that one more murder must take place but that this time the trail must be well blazed. "You selected Doncaster for the scene of operations. "Your plan was very simple. You yourself would be on the scene in the nature of things. Mr. Cust would be ordered to Doncaster by his firm. Your plan was to follow him round and trust to opportunity. Everything fell out well. Mr. Cust went to a cinema. That was simplicity itself. You sat a few seats away from him. When he got up to go, you did the same. You pretended to stumble, leaned over and stabbed a dozing man in the row in front, slid the A.B.C. on to his knees and managed to collide heavily with Mr. Cust in the darkened doorway, wiping the knife on his sleeve and slipping it into his pocket. "You were not in the least at pains to choose a victim whose name began with D. Any one would do! You assumed - and quite rightly - that it would be considered to be a mistake. There was sure to be some one who name began with D not far off in the audience. It would be assumed that he had been intended to be the victim. "And now, my friends, let us consider the matter from the point of view of the false A.B.C. - from the point of view of Mr. Cust. "The Andover crime means nothing to him. He is shocked and surprised by the Bexhill crime - why, he himself was there about the time! Then comes the Churston crime and the headlines in the newspapers. An A.B.C. crime at Andover when he was there, an A.B.C. crime at Bexhill, and now another close by... Three crimes and he has been at the scene of each of them. Persons suffering from epilepsy often have blanks when they cannot remember what they have done... Remember that Cust was a nervous, highly neurotic subject and extremely suggestible. "Then he receives the order to go to Doncaster. "Doncaster! And the next A.B.C. crime is to be in Doncaster. He must have felt as though it was fate. He loses his nerve, fancies his landlady is looking at him suspiciously, and tells her he is going to Cheltenham. "He goes to Doncaster because it is his duty. In the afternoon he goes to a cinema. Possibly he dozes off for a minute or two. "Imagine his feelings when on his return to his inn he discovers that there is blood on his coat sleeve and a bloodstained knife in his pocket. All his vague forebodings leap into certainty. "He - he himself - is the killer! He remembers his headaches - his lapses of memory. He is quite sure of the truth - he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, is a homicidal lunatic. "His conduct after that is the conduct of a hunted animal. He gets back to his lodgings in London. He is safe there - known. They think he has been in Cheltenham. He has the knife with him still - a thoroughly stupid thing to do, of course. He hides it behind the hall stand. "Then, one day, he is warned that the police are coming. It is the end! They know! "The hunted animal does his last run... "I do not know why he went to Andover - a morbid desire, I think, to go and look at the place where the crime was committed - the crime he committed though he can remember nothing about it... "He has no money left - he is worn out... his feet lead him of his own accord to the police station. "But even a cornered beast will fight. Mr. Cust fully believes that he did the murders but he sticks strongly to his plea of innocence. And he holds with desperation to that alibi for the second murder. At least that cannot be laid to his door. "As I say, when I saw him, I knew at once that he was not the murderer and that my name meant nothing to him. I knew too, that he thought himself the murderer! "After he had confessed his guilt to me, I knew more strongly than ever that my own theory was right." "Your theory," said Franklin Clarke, "is absurd!" Poirot shook his head. "No, Mr. Clarke. You were safe enough so long as no one suspected you. Once you were suspected proofs were easy to obtain." "Proofs?" "Yes, I found the stick that you used in the Andover and Churston murders in a cupboard at Combeside. An ordinary stick with a thick knob handle. A section of wood had been removed and melted lead poured in. Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by two people who saw you leaving the cinema when you were supposed to be on the race-course at Doncaster. You were identified at Bexhill the other day by Milly Higley and a girl from the Scarlet Runner Roadhouse, where you took Betty Barnard to dine on the fatal evening. And finally - most damning of all - you overlooked a most elementary precaution. You left a fingerprint on Cust's typewriter - the typewriter that, if you are innocent, you could never have handled." Clarke sat quite still for a minute, then he said: "Rouge, impair, manque! - you win, M. Poirot. But it was worth while trying!" With an incredibly rapid notion, he whipped a small automatic from his pocket and held it to his head. I gave a cry and involuntarily flinched as I waited for the report. But no report came - the hammer clicked harmlessly. Clarke stared at it in astonishment and uttered an oath. "No, Mr. Clarke," said Poirot. "You may have noticed I had a new manservant today - a friend of mine - an expert sneak thief. He removed your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it all without your being aware of the fact." "You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!" cried Clarke, purple with rage. "Yes, yes, that is how you feel. No, Mr. Clarke, no easy death for you. You told Mr. Cust that you had had near escapes from drowning. You know what that means - that you were born for another fate." "You -" Words failed him. His face was livid. His fists clenched menacingly. Two detectives from Scotland Yard emerged from the next room. One of them was Crome. He advanced and uttered his time-honoured formula: "I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence." "He has said quite enough," said Poirot, and he added to Clarke: "You are very full of an insular superiority, but for myself I consider your crime not an English crime at all - not above-board - not sporting -" 第三十四章　波洛的案情分析 　　我们都在全神贯注地坐着，倾听着波洛对本案的最终分析。 　　“案发以来，”他说道，“我一直在为本案的起因感到困惑。黑斯廷斯有一天对我说，本案已经结束。我回答说，本案元凶就是那个家伙！这个迷案并不是谋杀案之迷，而是ABC之迷？为什么会发现有必要干这些谋杀案，他为何又要挑选我作为对手呢？ 　　“我们不用多说，那个家伙精神失常。如果说一个人做疯狂的事情是因为他是个疯子，这是毫不明智和愚蠢的认识。一个疯子在他的行为之中，如同正常人一样，是符合逻辑和富有理智的——这主要是依据他那偏执的观点。比如说，有一个人浑身上下除了一块遮羞布外什么也不穿，还要坚持外出，他的行为看起来是怪异绝顶。可是你一旦明白，这个人非常强烈地认定自己就是圣雄甘地，那么他的行为就完全是理智和合乎逻辑的。 　　“在本案中，有必要考虑一种智能。这种智能正是这样组成的，干四起或更多的谋杀案并且事先写信向赫尔克里·波洛声明，这种智能认为这样做是符合逻辑和理智的。 　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯将告诉你们，在收到第一封信的时候，我确实是挺沮丧的，可在片刻之间，我看到这封信当中必定有什么事大错特错了。” 　　“你所言极是。”富兰克林·克拉克冷冰冰地说。 　　“是的，可在一开始，我就犯了一大错。我允许自己的感觉——我对那封信的强烈感觉——只是一种纯粹的印象而已。我把那封信当成了一种直觉。在一个全面、理性的头脑当中，是不会有直觉这样的事物存在的，它仅仅是一种受到启发的猜想！当然，你可以进行猜想——而猜想就会有对有错。如果它是对的话，你就可以称之为直觉。如果它是错的话，你通常不会再谈到它。可是经常被称作是直觉的事物，其实是一种以逻辑推理结论或经验为基础的印象。当内行人感到一幅画、一件家具或是支票上的签名有什么不对劲的时候，他其实是把这种感觉建立在许多细小的迹象和细节之上的。他毫无理由探究细枝末节——他的经验会排除掉这种做法——最终的结局是留下确切印象，这种印象表明会有错误之处。可这并不是一种猜想，是一种以经验为基础的印象。 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），我承认，对于第一封信，我并没有以应有的方式来考虑它。它使我极端的焦虑不安，警方则认为这是个恶作剧。我自己是谨慎以待，确信如信中所言，将会有一场谋杀案在安多弗发生。正如你们所知道的那样，确实有一场谋杀案发生了。 　　“就像我充分认识到的，还没有办法来识别干那件事的人是谁。我唯一能做的事情是尝试着去理解是什么样的人干的。 　　“我也了解某些迹象。那封信——那种犯罪的方式——被谋害的人。我必须发现的是：犯罪动机，写信的动机。” 　　“是为了公众影响。”克拉克建议道。 　　“肯定有一种自卑情结。”托拉·格雷补充道。 　　“当然，那是显而易见的。可为什么会是我呢？为什么是赫尔克里·波洛？如果把信寄给苏格兰场，保证可以获得更大的公众影响。寄给报社也会有更大的影响，报社可能不会把第一封信刊登出来，但是第二场谋杀案发生的时候，ABC 便可以确保所有的新闻界能提供的公众影响。然后，为什么会针对赫尔克里·波洛呢？这当中是否是因为有什么个人原因呢？在信中倒是分辨得出，有一点对外国人的轻微的仇视——可用来解释这个事件，但这还不足已令我感到满意。 　　“随后，第二封信到达——接着便是贝克斯希尔的贝蒂·巴纳德谋杀案。现在已变得很清楚了（这也是我早就怀疑的），这些谋杀案是用一个字母顺序的计划来进行的，可是，对每个人来说，这个事实看来已成定形，却使留在我心目中主要的问题一成不变。ABC 有什么必要来干这些谋杀案呢？” 　　梅根·巴纳德在座位中激动起来。 　　“这样的事难道不像是——是一种血腥的贪婪？”她说道。 　　波洛转身朝向她。 　　“你说得不错，小、姐。确实有这件事，那种杀人的欲望，这不太符合本案的实质。一个充满杀人欲望的杀人狂通常会想要杀死尽可能多的受害人，这是种周而复始的渴望。这样的凶手的强烈愿望便是藏匿起他的踪迹——而不是加以宣扬。当我们对四个被选中的受害人进行考虑——或者说，至少他们当中的三个人（因为我对唐斯先生和厄斯菲尔德先生了解甚少），如果他挑选了这些人，凶手可以杀死他们后而不引起任何怀疑。弗朗兹·阿谢尔，唐纳德·弗雷泽或梅根·巴纳德，还可能是富兰克林·克拉克先生——那些证据。人们怎么也不会想到有个不知名的杀人凶手！那么，为什么凶手会感到有必要把注意力引向自身呢？有必要在每具尸体上留下一本ABC 铁路指南书吗？那是种强迫的做法吗？是不是有什么与铁路指南相关的情结？ 　　“我发现，要探究凶手的心理是挺不可思议的。那肯定不能算是宽宏大量！是不是把一种对犯罪责任的恐惧强加在一个无辜的人身上？ 　　“尽管我无法解答那个主要的问题，我倒确实感觉到从凶手那里了解到某些情况。” 　　“比如说是什么情况？”弗雷泽问。 　　“首先呢——是他有一种平面状的心理。他的罪案以字母顺序的递进来进行排列——那么对他而言，这显然很重要。在另一方面，他对受害人并没有什么特别的品味——阿谢尔太太，贝蒂·巴纳德，卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士，他们彼此之间相差甚大。没有性别情结——也没有特定的年龄情结。对我而言，那是个相当奇怪的现象。如果一个人不加区别地杀人，这通常是因为他要根除掉那些挡住他去路或惹他恼火的人。可是字母顺序的递进表明，在这里情况可不是这样。另一种类型的凶手通常会挑选某一类特定的受害人——几乎总会是异性。ABC 的程序当中有些偶然性，这在我看来与字母顺序的选择格格不入。 　　“我允许自己做一个小小的推理。ABC 的选择使我想起我称之为‘铁路迷’的人，这在男人当中比女人更为普遍，男孩子要比女孩子更喜欢铁路。同样，在某些方面，这也可能是思维未完全定形的一种迹象。‘男孩’的动机仍然是占主导地位的。” 　　“贝蒂·巴纳德的死亡和它的方式令我获得了其他方面的启发。它死亡的方式尤其令人浮想联翩（对不起，弗雷泽先生。）。首先，她是被人用自己的腰带勒死的——那么杀害她的人肯定同她有着友好或亲密的关系。当我了解她性格当中的某些方面时，我的心中就生成一幅图像。 　　“贝蒂·巴纳德是个爱调情卖俏的人，她喜欢让风度翩翩的男士来注意她。因此，ABC 为了要说服她跟他外出，必须具备一定程度的吸引力——即性别的吸引力。他必须有办法，如同你们英国人所说的那样，去‘结识异性’。他要能够与女人一拍即合！我设想海滩上的场景是这样的：那男人恭维她的腰带，她便解下来，他玩耍一般地把腰带缠绕在她的脖子上——也许会说‘我要勒死你’。一切都是在打打闹闹之中，她咯咯地笑——而他则拉紧——” 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽跳将起来，他脸色发青。 　　“波洛先生，看在上帝的份上。” 　　波洛做了个手势。 　　“我已讲完，已结束了。我们再接着谈下一场卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士的谋杀案。在这里凶手又回复到他的第一种手法——猛击头部。这是相同的字母情结——可有一个事实令我担心，凶手应该以某种特定的顺序来挑选这些城镇，以保持一致。 　　“如果安多弗是A 目录下的第155个名字，那么B 谋杀案也应该是B 目录的第155个——或156个，然后C 谋杀案则是第157个。在这里，这些城镇是随机进行挑选的。” 　　“在这个问题上，难道不是因为你有失偏颇，波洛？”我提议道。“你自己通常是挺有条理的，这对你来说几乎是种弊病。” 　　“不，这可不是弊病！Quelle idee （法文，意为：什么观点。——译注）！可我承认，在这一点上，我可能是有点过分紧张了。Passons （法文，此处意为：先不谈这个。——译注）！ 　　“彻斯顿谋杀案给我的帮助极少，我们一点运气也没有。由于那封信误入歧途，因而我们无法做什么准备。 　　“可凶手在宣称D谋杀案的时候，我们已形成了一种相当艰巨的防御体系。ABC 已不能再寄希望于侥幸地干谋杀案，这是显而易见的事。 　　“还好，那时候我刚好才考虑到长统袜的线索。很显然，有一个推销长统袜的人曾在每一个犯罪现场或附近地区出现，这绝对不是一种巧合。因为，那个推销袜子的人就必定是凶手。我要说，对那个人的描述，就像格雷小、姐对我所说的话，并不符合我自己对那个勒死贝蒂·巴纳德的人的印象。 　　“我会迅速地越过以下几个步骤。第四场谋杀案最终发生了——那个名叫厄斯菲尔德的人被谋杀——这看起来，像是与那个叫唐斯的弄错了，他倒也差不多是同等身材，在电影院里两人也相邻而坐。 　　“而现在，高潮终于来临。ABC 事与愿违，他被识别——遭到逮捕——最终束手就擒。 　　“这件案子，正好是黑斯廷斯所说的那样，就此结束。 　　“对公众而言，这是顺理成章的事。那家伙已在狱中，他最终的下场无疑会像布罗德莫尔。从此不会再有更多的谋杀案，他将消亡！一切都终止！安息吧。 　　“可是，对我来说，情况绝对不会是这样的！我什么情况都不了解！一点也不知道原因何在。 　　“另外，还有一个令人挺伤脑筋的事实，在贝克斯希尔谋杀案案发当晚，那个卡斯特有不在现场的证据。” 　　“这也一直令我烦恼不已。”富兰克林·克拉克说道。 　　“是的，它让人烦恼。那个不在现场的证据，确实有点像是真的。但它也可能不是真的，除非——现在，让我们来看看这两个非常有意思的推测。 　　“请设想，朋友们，卡斯特确实干过三件谋杀——A 案、C 案和D 案——他并没有干B 案。” 　　“波洛先生，该不是——” 　　波洛看了一眼梅根·巴纳德，使她平静下来。 　　“请保持安静，小、姐。我是主张真相的。我是！我要排除谎言。请设想，我说过，ABC 并没有干第二件凶杀案。要记住，它是在二十五日凌晨的时间里发生的——那天他早已来到犯罪地点。我们要设想，有没有人会抢先一步呢？在那样的情况之下，他会做些什么呢？进行第二场谋杀，或是潜伏起来，并且把第一场谋杀案当作一种血腥的礼物接纳下来？” 　　“波洛先生，”梅根说道，“这真是异想天开的念头！所有的谋杀案肯定是同一个人干的！” 　　他并没有理睬她，继续沉着地说下去： 　　“这样的假设足以解释一个事实——亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特的个性（他同任何一个姑娘都无法一见如故）与杀害贝蒂·巴纳德的凶手所有的个性之间的差异。在此以前，那个可能的凶手已经利用了其他所发生的凶案，这是众所周知的事情。比如，肢解恶魔杰克的所有罪案也并不全部都是由他干的。到目前为止，情况一切顺利。 　　“可是，我随后便碰到了一个确定的难题。 　　“直到巴纳德谋杀案发生的时候，还没有关于ABC 的任何消息被公开过。安多弗谋杀案只是引起了极少量的关注。关于那本打开的铁路指南书事件，新闻界甚至都没有提到。于是，紧接下来的情况是，杀害贝蒂·巴纳德的那个人必定了解某些事实，这些情况只有少数人才知道——我自己、警方和阿谢尔太太的某些亲戚和邻居们。 　　“从那方面的调查来看，使我处于非常茫然的境地。” 　　那些望着他的脸也同样地茫然不知所措，充满困惑。 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽若有所思地说道： 　　“总而言之，警察也是些人嘛。他们是些外表顺眼的人——” 　　他停住口，询问地看着波洛。 　　波洛轻微地摇头。 　　“不，可没那么简单。我告诉你还有第二种假设。 　　“假设卡斯特不对杀害贝蒂·巴纳德一事负责，假设有其他人杀害了她，其他人是否也可能对其他的谋杀案负责呢？” 　　“可那样子是说不通的。”克拉克说道。 　　“说不通吗？我一开始就做了我应该做的事。我以一种完全不同的观点，来对收到的那些信件进行检查。我从一开头就感到，它们中有些事情搞错了——就像一个研究画的专家能懂得某幅画有问题一样…… 　　“我并没有停止下来就设想到，这些信件的问题在于，写信的人是个疯子这一事实。 　　“现在，我对它们再次进行了检查——这一次我得出了完全不同的结论。它们的问题是这样一个事实，写信的人是一个正常人。” 　　“你在说些什么呀？”我叫道。 　　“是的，这千真万确！这些信件搞错了，就像一幅画会有问题一样——因为它们全都是伪造的。它们假装是个疯子所写——是个杀人狂所写，可事实上，它们才不是那个样子。” 　　“这毫无意义。”富兰克林·克拉克重复道。 　　“Mais si（法文，意为：不是这么回事。——译注）！人必须要进行推论——要反省。写这样的信会有些什么目的呢？是为了要把注意力集中到写信人身上，是为了要把注意力引向谋杀案！Ev verite（法文，意为：事实上。——译注），这表面上看起来没有多大意义。然后我看到新线索，它是为了把注意力集中到几个谋杀案上——集中到一群谋杀案上……难道你们那位伟大的莎士比亚没说过‘见树不见林’吗？” 　　我并没有纠正波洛对文学的记忆。我只是在试图了解他的观点，似乎若有所得。他继续说道： 　　“你什么时候能注意到针这样细微物体？当它在针插中的时候！你什么时候能注意到一件单独的谋杀案的细节情况？当它是一系列谋杀案的其中一件的时候。 　　“我必须去对付一个绝顶聪明、足智多谋的凶手——他不顾一切，胆大妄为，是个彻头彻尾的赌徒。它不是卡斯特先生！他可能从来都干不成这些谋杀案！不，我必须要去应付一类完全不同的人——一个带着小孩子脾气的人（有学校男生般的信件和铁路指南为证），一个对女人富有吸引力的男人，和一个残酷漠视生命的人，一个在其中一场谋杀案当中是个显要的人物的人！ 　　“请考虑，当一个男人或女人被杀害时，警方都会问些什么问题呢？是机会。最案发生的时候每个人都在哪里？是动机。从这些死者的死亡当中，谁将能获得利益？如果动机和机会都相当明显，一个可能的凶手会做些什么呢？是会伪造不在现场的证据——也就是，以某种方式篡改一下时间吗？可那总是种危险的做法。我们的凶手想到了一种更难以置信的防卫办法。他创造一个杀人凶手。 　　“我现在已对这么多起谋杀案进行了回顾，以发现可能有罪的人。安多弗谋杀案？那起谋杀案中，最受嫌疑的人是弗朗兹·阿谢尔，可是我无法想象的是，阿谢尔能够发明和实施这样一个设计精美的计划，我也无法理解他能策划一件有预谋的凶杀案。贝克斯希尔谋杀案？唐纳德·弗雷泽挺有可能，他有头脑和能力，并且他的思维运转井井有条。可他杀死心上人的动机只可能是出于嫉妒——而嫉妒并不会倾向于预谋。我还了解到，他在八月初就休了假，这表明他不太可能与彻斯顿谋杀案有瓜葛。我们再来谈谈下一场彻斯顿案——我们立即会处于理由极其充足的地位。 　　“卡迈克尔·克拉克就爵士是个巨富。谁将会继承他的钱财？他的妻子正病入膏肓，她要活着才能享有财产，随后，这些遗产会属于他的兄弟富兰克林·卡拉克。” 　　波洛慢慢地环视，直到他与富兰克林·卡拉克的眼神碰在一起。 　　“我随即相当确信。那个在我心灵深处已经了解了很长时间的人，恰好正是我曾经当作一个正常人来了解的那个人。ABC 和富兰克林·卡拉克正是同一个人！那种胆大妄为的冒险性格，四处漫游的生活，那种对英格兰的偏爱，已经非常微弱地表现出对外国人的藐视。富有吸引力的轻快大方的风度——在没有什么更能使他轻而易举地在餐厅门口约上那个姑娘。那种富有条理的平面状思维——他有一天在这里列出一个单子，勾掉以ABC 打头的标题——最后，是那种男孩子的思维——曾被克拉克女勋爵所提到过，甚至表露出他读小说的品味——我已弄清楚图书馆里有一本名叫《铁路男孩》的书，是由E.耐斯比特写的。我自己便不再有任何怀疑，那个ABC，那个写信并进行那些谋杀案的人，就是富兰克林·卡拉克。” 　　克拉克突然迸发出一阵大笑。 　　“真是富有创意！那我们那位卡斯特朋友，双手鲜红地被抓住，又该作什么解释呢？他衣服上的血迹是怎么回事？还有他藏在住处的那把刀？他可能会否认他干了那些谋杀案——” 　　波洛打断了他的话。 　　“你错了，他对这些供认不讳。” 　　“什么？”克拉克看上去相当震惊。 　　“哦，是的，”波洛温和地说，“我一开口跟他说话，就已明白卡斯特认定自己有罪。” 　　“那甚至连这些都没能使波洛先生满意？”克拉克说。 　　“不。因为我一看见他，我就知道他不可能是有罪！他既没有胆量，也不够勇敢——我还要说，他没有策划的头脑！我一直都很清楚凶手的双重性格。现在我知道这种性格存在于那个方面。案件涉及两个人——真正的凶手，狡诈、足智多谋、胆大妄为——而那个假的凶手，愚蠢、犹豫不决、容易受到影响。 　　“容易受影响——在这个词汇当中，正好有卡斯特先生之迷！克拉克先生，策划这个系列谋杀案以把人们的注意力从一个单独的谋杀案中分散出来，这对你来说还不够。你必须要有一个作掩护的人。 　　“我想，在一个偶然的机会，你在一件咖啡店碰到这个古怪的人，他有着招人眼目的基督教姓名，于是你的脑中就第一次产生了这个念头。当时，你的头脑当中正在翻来覆去地考虑着谋害你哥哥的许多计划。” 　　“真的吗？那为什么呢？” 　　“因为你很是为将来感到惊慌。我不知道你是否已意识到，克拉克先生，可是当你给我看你哥哥写给你的那封信时，你使我对这件事有了更好的了解。在信中，他非常清晰地表示出了他对托拉·格雷的爱慕和专注。他的态度也可能是父亲般的关爱——或者他也愿意这样考虑。不管怎样，真正的危险是，在你嫂子死后，他可能会因为孤独无聊而转向这个美丽的姑娘，以获取同情和安慰，而最后，就像很多老年人都发生过的那样，他可能会同她结婚。由于你对格雷小、姐的了解，你的恐惧与日俱增。我试想，你挺擅长于评判性格，尽管有点随意。你判断到，不管正确与否，格雷小、姐是那种‘正在改变中’的年轻女子。她某一天可能会成为克拉克女勋爵，对此你丝毫不感到怀疑。你的哥哥是个极其健康的人，他精力充沛。他们可能会有小孩，而你继承遗产的机会就会减少到微乎其微。 　　“我认为，实质上，你的一生都是一个满怀失望的人。你像滚石一样四处游逛，根本聚集不了什么财产。你也相当嫉妒你哥哥的财产。 　　“我在重复我的话，你脑中正反复考虑那些计划时，你与卡斯特先生的碰面使你有了一个主意。他那夸张的基督教姓名，他对癫痫病发作和头疼的描述，他那种浑身上下唯唯诺诺、低小卑微的模样，恰好是你所想要的工具，这打动了你。整个字母计划开始在你的头脑中涌现——卡斯特的姓名简称——你哥哥的姓以C开头和他住在彻斯顿的事实，使这个计划的核心内容。你甚至都提出了卡斯特可能的结局——尽管你很难期望这个建议能够如愿以偿。 　　“你所作的安排相当出色。你以卡斯特的名义写信，还把一大批袜子寄送给他，你自己则寄去一些ABC书，看上去像是相同的包裹。你写信给他——是一封打字机打印的信，声称同一家企业会向他提供一份优厚的薪水和佣金。你的计划事先经过了如此的精心策划，你把所有的信件都打印完，随后在寄发出去，然后你把打完信件的那架打字机再交给他。 　　“你现在必须要找到两个受害人，他们的姓名必须要分别以A 和B 开头，他们也要住在地名以相同字母开头的地方。 　　“你偶然选择安多弗作为一个可能的地点，你去那里进行预先侦察，这使你得以挑选阿谢尔太太的小店作为第一场谋杀案的地点。她的姓名很清楚地写在门上，而你也恰好发现她往往是一个人呆在店里。她的谋杀案需要勇气、胆量和理所当然的运气。 　　“这与字母B，你就必须改变一下策略。可以想见，商店的单身女子可能已经获得警告。我可以想象到，你经常性地去光顾一些餐厅和茶室，与那里的姑娘们逗乐打趣，并发现有谁的姓名正好是以那个字母开头的，发现谁正好符合你的目的。 　　“贝蒂·巴纳德正是你在寻找的那种姑娘。你带她出去了一两次，向她解释你是一个已婚男人，外出游览要进行得秘密一点。 　　“然后，你的预先计划已经完成，你开始实施！你把那张安多弗的名单寄给卡斯特，指令他于某一天到那里去，而你把第一封信寄给了我。 　　“在指定的那一天，你去安多弗——杀死了阿谢尔太太——你的计划没有遭到任何破坏。 　　“第一场谋杀案就成功地完成了。 　　“第二场谋杀案，你再谋杀是很有戒心，实际上，是在前一天干的。我相当确信，贝蒂·巴纳德是在七月二十四日午夜之前被杀害的。 　　“我们现在看第三场谋杀案——这才是重要的，实际上，从你的观点来看，这才是真正的谋杀案。 　　“在这里，黑斯廷斯应该得到极大的表扬，他对没人注意到的现象作出了很简单却明晰的评判。 　　“他建议道，那第三封信是故意绕了弯路的！ 　　“他的判断正确无误！…… 　　“在那个简单的事实当中，有那个困扰我很久的问题的答案。为什么这些信要首先寄给赫尔克里·波洛，寄给一个私人侦探，而不是警方呢？ 　　“我曾经错误地以为有什么个人原因。 　　“其实并不是这样！这些信之所以寄给我，是因为在你的计划当中有一条是其中的一封信必须写错地址并绕弯子——可你无法使寄给苏格兰场的犯罪调查科的信去绕弯子！它必须是个私人地址。你于是选择了我，因为我是个为人熟知的人物，并且一定会把这些信件交给警方——还有，在你那个相当偏见的头脑之中，你喜欢去嘲弄一个外国人。 　　“你非常清晰地在信封上写好地址——白港——白马，这是很自然的笔误。只有黑斯廷斯非常地敏锐，他对一些细微的假象不加理睬而去直接关注显而易见的事实。 　　“当然，这封信是故意绕了个圈子的！只有当谋杀案已经安然完成以后，警察们才会去巡查。你哥哥的晚间散步使你有机可乘，而ABC案的恐惧已成功地占据了大众的心理，你可能有罪的事实却从未让任何人发觉。 　　“你哥哥死后，当然，你的目的已经实现。你再没有愿望进行更多的谋杀。另一方面，如果谋杀案毫无缘由地终止，有可能会有人开始对真相产生怀疑。 　　“卡斯特先生，你的那个遮掩物，由于他外表难以引人注目，很成功地做到了掩人耳目，以至于到那时为止，没有人注意到有同一个人出现在三场谋杀案的现场附近地区！令你恼火的是，甚至连他到过库姆比赛德的情况都没有人提到。格雷小、姐的头脑当中已经完全没有这件事。 　　“你仍像往常一样大胆，你决定再进行一场谋杀，可这一次案件的总既要得到很好的宣扬。 　　“你于是挑选唐克斯特作为行动的地点。 　　“你的计划非常简单。你自己很自然会到犯罪现场去。卡斯特先生会得到他的企业的指令去唐克斯特。你的计划是要跟踪他以获取机会。事情都在顺利地进行着。卡斯特先生去了一家电影院，那倒是简单不过。你坐在离他几个座位之外。当他起身离开时，你也一样。你假装步履蹒跚，把身体倾斜并用刀刺死了前排那个正打瞌睡的人，把那本ABC 滑到他的脚边，在黑暗的通道中故意撞上卡斯特先生，在他的袖子上擦了擦刀，把刀又放进了他的口袋中。 　　“你根本用不着费心去寻找一个以D 作为姓名开头的人。任何人都可以！你认为——这也相当准确——这会被认为是一种失误。在座位不远的观众当中肯定有以D 为姓名开头的人、肯定会有人认为他才是那个注定要成为受害人的人。 　　“而现在，我的朋友，我们从那个假ABC的角度来考虑这个案子——从卡斯特先生的角度来考虑。 　　“安多弗谋杀案对他来说一点关系都没有。贝克斯希尔谋杀案则使他感到震惊和奇怪——为什么，那个时间他自己刚好在那里！随后是彻斯顿的罪案和报纸的大肆宣扬。他在安多弗的时候那里有一件ABC 谋杀案，在贝克斯希尔的时候有一件ABC 谋杀案，而现在又有另一件就在附近……三件案子发生的时候，他正好都在现场。饱受癫痫困扰的人通常会有记忆的空白，会记不起他们做过些什么事情……要记住卡斯特是个紧张兮兮、高度神经过敏的人物，而且极其容易受到影响。 　　“然后他收到了去唐克斯特的指令。 　　“唐克斯特！下一场ABC 案将会发生在唐克斯特。他肯定也感到这仿佛就是命运的安排。他丧失了勇气，以为他的房东太太在怀疑他，于是就告诉她说是要去切尔滕纳姆。 　　“他到唐克斯特去，因为这是他的任务。下午他去了一家电影院。他很可能在那里打了一两分钟瞌睡。 　　“当他返回到旅馆的时候，他发现了他衣服袖口上有血迹，口袋中有一把带着血渍的刀。我们可以想象他的感觉，他所有模糊的预兆都变得确定无疑。 　　“他——他自己——就是那个凶手！他想起他的头痛——他记忆的顿失。他很确信这个真相——他，亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特是一个杀人狂。 　　“他随后的行为是一个被围剿的野兽的行为。他回到伦敦的住所。在那里他很安全——这大家都知道。他们会以为他去了切尔滕纳姆。他还带着那把刀——这么做当然极其愚蠢。他把刀藏在衣帽架里。 　　“然后，有一天，他得到警告，说是警察要来了。一切都完了！他们都知道了！ 　　“那头被围剿的野兽开始最后的逃亡…… 　　“我不知道他为什么要去安多弗——我想，去看一看那个罪案发生的地方，这真是种病态的欲望——那个他曾经干过的罪案，尽管他什么也不记得了…… 　　“他身上分文皆无——精疲力尽……他的脚自愿地把他领向了警察局。 　　“可即便是一头被抓获的野兽，他也会挣扎不休。卡斯特先生完全相信他制造了这些谋杀案，可他仍然坚决地认定自己无罪。他绝望地坚持第二场谋杀案使他有不在现场的证据。至少那不该算在他的头上。 　　“正如我所讲过的，当我看到他的时候，立刻就知道他并不是那个凶手，而我的名字对他而言一文不值。我也知道，他自认为就是那个凶手。 　　“在他向我供认他的罪行之后，我更强烈的确知，我自己的推论是对的。” 　　“你的推论，”富兰克林·克拉克说，“真是荒谬。” 　　波洛摇了摇头。 　　“不，克拉克先生。由于没人怀疑你，你已经安然无事。一旦你遭到怀疑，要获得证据就相当容易。” 　　“什么证据？” 　　“是的，我在库姆比赛德的一个壁橱里发现了你在安多弗和彻斯顿谋杀案中使用过的棍子。那是个普通的棍子，带着一个厚实的把柄头，其中的一段木头被替换了，灌进了铅。你的相片也从好几张相片中被两个人识别，他们看见你离开电影院，而那时你应该是在赛马场。有一天你在贝克斯希尔也被米莉·希格利和‘绯红色跑步者’旅店的一个姑娘认出，你在案发当晚曾经带贝蒂·巴纳德去那里吃过饭。最后——那可是最最混蛋的事情——是你忽略了一个最基本的应该警惕的地方，你在卡斯特先生的打字机上留下了一个指纹——那架打字机，如果你真是清白无辜，你从来就不该碰过。” 　　克拉克静静地坐了一会儿，然后他说道： 　　“Rouge，impair，manque（法文，意为：红色，奇数，输了。——译注）！——你赢了，波洛先生！可这事值得尝试！” 　　他以一种难以置信的快速从口袋中掏出一支自动手熗，对准了自己的头。 　　我发出一声喊叫，不自觉地畏然退缩，等待着熗声响起。 　　可什么也没有发生——扳机毫无危害地响了一下。 　　克拉克惊奇地瞪着眼睛看，发出一声诅咒。 　　“不，克拉克先生，”波洛说，“你可能已经注意到我今天换了个新的男仆——他是我的一个朋友——是个顺手牵羊的偷窃专家。他从你的口袋中偷出手熗卸下子弹，然后又放回去，而你根本就没有注意到。” 　　“你这个十足的外国狂徒！”克拉克叫道，因狂怒而脸色发紫。 　　“是的，是的，那就是你所感觉的。不，克拉克先生，你不会死得太容易。你告诉卡斯特先生，你曾经差一点就溺水而死。你知道那是什么意思吗——你注定会有另外一种命运的。” 　　“你——” 　　他说不出话来。他的脸变得铁青，威胁般地紧握拳头。 　　两个苏格兰场的侦探从隔壁房间出来，其中的一位是克罗姆，他走向前，说出了由来已久的套话：“我警告你，你所说的每一句话都将作为呈堂证供。” 　　“他已经说的够多的了，”波洛说道。他又向克拉克补充说：“你塞满了偏执的优越感，可我自己则认为你的罪行一点也不像是个英国式的案件——不够光明正大——不够公平——” Chapter 35 FINALE I am sorry to relate that as the door closed behind Franklin Clarke I laughed hysterically. Poirot looked at me in mild surprise. "It's because you told him his crime was not sporting," I gasped. "It was quite true. It was abominable - not so much the murder of his brother - but the cruelty that condemned an unfortunate man to a living death. To catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go. That is not le sport!" Megan Barnard gave a deep sigh. "I can't believe it - I can't. Is it true?" "Yes, mademoiselle. The nightmare is over." She looked at him and her colour deepened. Poirot turned to Fraser. "Mademoiselle Megan, all along, was haunted by a fear that it was you who had committed the second crime." Donald Fraser said quietly: "I fancied so myself at one time." "Because of your dream?" He drew a little nearer to the young man and dropped his voice confidentially. "Your dream has a very natural explanation. It is that you find that already the image of one sister fades in your memory and that its place is taken by the other sister. Mademoiselle Megan replaces her sister in your heart, but since you cannot bear to think of yourself being unfaithful so soon to the dead, you strive to stifle the thought, to kill it! That is the explanation of the dream." Fraser's eyes went toward Megan. "Do not be afraid to forget," said Poirot gently. "She was not so well worth remembering. In Mademoiselle Megan you have one in a hundred - un coeur magnifique!" Donald Fraser's eyes lit up. "I believe you are right." We all crowded round Poirot asking questions, elucidating this point and that. "Those questions, Poirot? That you asked of everybody. Was there any point in them?" "Some of them were simplement une blague. But I learnt one thing that I wanted to know - that Franklin Clarke was in London when the first letter was posted - and also I wanted to see his face when I asked my question of Mademoiselle Thora. He was off his guard. I saw all the malice and anger in his eyes." "You hardly spared my feelings," said Thora Grey. "I do not fancy you returned me a truthful answer, mademoiselle," said Poirot dryly. "And now your second expectation is disappointed. Franklin Clarke will not inherit his brother's money." She flung up her head. "Is there any need for me to stay here and be insulted?" "None whatever," said Poirot and held the door open politely for her. "That fingerprint clinched things, Poirot," I said thoughtfully. "He went all to pieces when you mentioned that." "Yes, they are useful - fingerprints." He added thoughtfully: "I put that in to please you, mon ami." "But, Poirot," I cried, "wasn't it true?" "Not in the least, mon ami," said Hercule Poirot. I must mention a visit we had from Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust a few days later. After wringing Poirot's hand and endeavouring very incoherently and unsuccessfully to thank him, Mr. Cust drew himself up and said: "Do you know, a newspaper has actually offered me a hundred pounds - a hundred pounds - for a brief account of my life and history. I - I really don't know what to do about it." "I should not accept a hundred," said Poirot. "Be firm. Say five hundred is your price. And do not confine yourself to one newspaper." "You think then... that I should..." "You should remember," said Poirot smiling, "that now you are a famous man. Practically the most well-known in England." Mr. Cust straightened himself even more. His expression was of pure extase. "You know, I think you're right! Famous! My story in all the papers. I'll take your advice, Mr. Poirot. The money will be very useful... very good. I'll have a small vacation... and I also will want to give a nice wedding present to Lily Marbury, a good girl, really, Mr. Poirot." "Very well. Have fun. And... just a suggestion: why don't you see an eye doctor? Maybe your headaches come from the fact that you need new glasses?" "You think that this has been the reason?" "I do." Mr. Cust exchanged another handshake with my friend. "You are really a great man, Mr. Poirot." Poirot, as was his costume, enjoyed the flattery. He didn't even try to look modest. When Mr. Cust was gone, my old friend smiled and said to me: "So, Hastings, we went hunting together once more, did we not? Vive le sport." 第三十五章　结局 　　当门在富兰克林·克拉克身后关上时，我歇斯底里地笑了出来——我很抱歉作这样的叙述。 　　波洛看着我，带着些许的惊诧。 　　“这是因为你跟他说他的罪行并不公平。”我喘着气说道。 　　“这挺正确的。这使人感到厌恶——倒不是出于谋害自己的兄弟，而是宣判一个令人遗憾的家伙要过地狱般生活的残酷性。要抓住狐狸，把它关进笼子里，再也不让他跑掉！那可不是种公平的游戏！” 　　梅根·巴纳德深深地叹气。 　　“我无法相信这件事——我无法。这是真的吗？” 　　“是的，小、姐。恶梦已经过去。” 　　她看着他，脸色渐深。 　　波洛转向弗雷泽。 　　“梅根小、姐一直都有一种担心，害怕第二场谋杀案是你干的。” 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽平静地说： 　　“我曾经也这么想过。” 　　“是因为你做的梦？”他离这个年轻人更近了一点，暗暗地降低声音。“你的梦有一种很自然的解释。那时因为你发现妹妹的印象在你脑中淡漠下去时，它的位置由另一个姐姐来代替。在你的心目中，梅根小、姐取代了她的妹妹，但是由于你无法容忍自己这么快就对死者不忠实，你挣扎着要消灭这个念头，要根除它！这就是那个梦的解释。” 　　弗雷泽的眼睛瞄向梅根。 　　“不要害怕忘记，”波洛温和地说，“她不是那么值得去牢记。在梅根·巴纳德身上，你完全可以找到——un coeur magnifique（法文，意为：一颗美妙的心灵。——译注）！” 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽的眼睛发亮。 　　“我相信你的话是对的。” 　　我们都围绕在波洛身边提问，要他回答这样那样的问题。 　　“那些问题，波洛？你向每个人的提问，那里面有没有什么含义？” 　　“有些问题是simplememt une blague（法文，意为：仅仅是开玩笑。——译注）。可是了解到了我想要知道的一件事——当第一封信寄出的时候，富兰克林·克拉克正好在伦敦，而且，当我向托拉·格雷提问时，我也想看看他的脸色。他丝毫没加提防，我瞥见他眼中的恶意和愤怒。” 　　“你一点也不顾及我的感情。”托拉·格雷说。 　　“我并不指望你会给我一个真实的回答，小、姐。”波洛冷冰冰地说，“而现在，你的第二个希望又落空了，富兰克林·克拉克不会再继承他哥哥的钱财了。” 　　她猛然一抬头。 　　“我还有什么必要再留在这里遭受侮辱吗？” 　　“没什么必要。”波洛说道，礼貌地为她打开门。 　　“那个指纹极有说服力，波洛，”我寻思着说，“你一提到它，他就崩溃了。” 　　“是的，那些指纹挺管用的。” 　　他若有所思地补充道： 　　“我编了那些话以使你高兴，我的朋友。” 　　“可是，波洛，”我叫道，“这难道不是真的吗？” 　　“一点也不，mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注）。”赫尔克里·波洛说。 　　我必须要提到，几天之后，亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特前来拜访我们。他紧握波洛的手，极不连贯地竭力向波洛道谢，卡斯特收住口，说道： 　　“你们知道吗，有家报社已经出价一百英镑，一百英镑——要我简单地讲述我的一生和历史。我——我真是不知道该怎么做。” 　　“我才不会去接受一百英镑呢，”波洛说，“要坚定。告诉他们说五百英镑才是你的价码，而且别把你自己只限于一家报社。” 　　“你真的认为——我可以——” 　　“你必须要认识到，”波洛说着，面带笑意，“你已是一个著名的人物，实际上是现在英格兰最著名的人物。” 　　卡斯特先生再次收住口，脸上扫过一阵喜悦。 　　“您知道吗，我相信您是对的！著名！要登在所有的报纸上。我会采纳您的建议，波洛先生。那酬金必须是最合适的——最合适的。我要去度几天假……然后我要送给莉莉·马伯里一件精美的结婚礼物——她是个可爱的姑娘——真正可爱的姑娘，波洛先生。” 　　波洛鼓励地拍拍他的肩膀。 　　“你是对的，好好地过。另外还有一句话，去看看眼科医生怎么样？那些头痛，可能是因为你需要一副新眼镜。” 　　“您认为一直就是那样吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　卡斯特先生热情地同他握手。 　　“您真是个伟大的人，波洛先生。” 　　像往常一样，波洛并没有忽略这句恭维，他甚至都没有显得谦虚一点。 　　当卡斯特大摇大摆地走出门后，我那位老朋友冲着我笑。 　　“那么，黑斯廷斯，我们又侦破了一起案件，不是吗？Vive le sport（法文，意为：游戏万岁。——译注）。”

Chapter 31 HERCULE POIROT ASKS QUESTIONS It was a clear November day. Dr. Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company. "Committed for trial," said Japp. "So that's that." "Isn't it unusual," I asked, "for a defence to be offered at this stage? I thought prisoners always reserved their defence." "It's the usual course," said Japp. "I suppose young Lucas thought he might rush it through. He's a trier, I will say. Insanity's the only defence possible." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "With insanity there can be no acquittal. Imprisonment during Her Majesty's pleasure is hardly preferable to death." "I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance," said Japp. "With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don't think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway Lucas goes in for originality. He's a young man, and he wanted to hit the public eye." Poirot turned to Thompson. "What's your opinion, doctor?" "Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. He's playing the sane man remarkably well. He's an epileptic, of course." "What an amazing denouement that was," I said. "His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes - it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A.B.C. had always timed his effects well." "Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?" I asked. "His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them." Dr. Thompson smiled a little. "You mustn't be taken in by that theatrical 'I swear by God' pose. It's my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders." "When they're as fervent as that they usually do," said Japp. "As to your question," went on Thompson, "it's perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must 'not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state.'" He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mal and petit mal and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject. "However, I'm against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he'd done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren't for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime." "And of the letters we have still no explanation," said Poirot. "That interests you?" "Naturally - since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved." "Yes - I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn't seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?" "None whatever." "I might make a suggestion. Your name!" "My name?" "Yes. Cust is saddled - apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn't wonder!) - with two extremely bastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander - the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte - the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary - an adversary, one might say, of his class. Well - there you are - Hercules the strong." "Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas -" "Oh, it's only a suggestion. Well, I must be off." Dr. Thompson went out. Japp remained. "Does this alibi worry you?" Poirot asked. "It does a little," admitted the inspector. "Mind you, I don't believe in it, because I know it isn't true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character." "Describe him to me." "He's a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It's my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand." "He's one of the most positive people I've ever seen," I said. "The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken," said Poirot thoughtfully. "He sticks to his story and he's not one to be heckled. He swears by all that's blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was poorly and wanted some one to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn't interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They'll play for hours. That's what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn't hear of it - swore they'd keep it up until midnight at least. And that's what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th be couldn't very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o'clock." "The problem certainly seems insuperable," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Decidedly, it gives one to think." "It's given Crome something to think about," said Japp. "This man Strange is very positive? "Yes. He's an obstinate devil. And it's difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn't Cust - why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can't say he's an accomplice - homicidal lunatics don't have accomplices! Did the girl die later? The doctor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen and get over to Bexhill - fourteen miles away -" "It is a problem - yes," said Poirot. "Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn't to matter. We've got Cust on the Doncaster murder - the blood-stained coat, the knife - not a loophole there. You couldn't bounce any jury into acquitting him. But it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he must have done the Bexhill murder. But I don't see how!" He shook his head and got up. "Now's your chance, M. Poirot," he said. "Crome's in a fog. Exert those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about. Show us the way he did it." Japp departed. "What about it, Poirot?" I said. "Are the little grey cells equal to the task?" Poirot answered my question by another. "Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?" "Well - yes, practically speaking. We've got the man. And we've got most of the evidence. It's only the trimmings that are needed." Poirot shook his head. "The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory because we have put him in the dock!" "We know a fair amount about him." "We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that he was discharged from the Army owing to epilepsy. We know that he lodged with Mrs. Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was quiet and retiring - the sort of man that nobody notices. We know that he invented and carded out an intensely clever scheme of systematized murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders. We know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, too, that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested - how easy to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings, the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless and magnanimous - and that there must be some dominating factor that reconciles his two natures." "Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study," I began. "What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have been groping my way - trying to get to know the murderer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all! I am at sea." "The lust for power -" I began. "Yes - that might explain a good deal... But it does not satisfy me. There are things I want to know. Why did he commit these murders? Why did he choose those particular people -?" "Alphabetically -" I began. "Was Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name began with a B? Betty Barnard - I had an idea there. It ought to be true - it must be true. But if so -" He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him. As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep. I woke to find Poirot's hand on my shoulder. "Mon cher Hastings," he said affectionately. "My good genius." I was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem. "It is true," Poirot insisted. "Always - always - you help me - you bring me luck. You inspire me." "How have I inspired you this time?" I asked. "While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours - a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious? It is the obvious that I have neglected." "What is this brilliant remark of mine?" I asked "It makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to questions. The reason for Mrs. Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago), the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule Poirot." "Could you kindly explain?" I asked. "Not at the moment. I require first a little more information. That I can get from our Special Legion. And then - then, when I have got the answer to a certain question, I will go and see A.B.C. We will be face to face at last - A.B.C, and Hercule Poirot - the adversaries." "And then?" I asked. "And then," said Poirot, "we will talk! Je vous assure, Hastings - there is nothing so dangerous for any one who has something to hide as conversation! Speech, so a wise old Frenchman said to me once, is an invention of man's to prevent him from thinking. It is also an infallible means of discovering that which he wishes to hide. A human being, Hastings, cannot resist the opportunity to reveal himself and express his personality which conversation gives him. Every time he will give himself away." "What do you expect Cust to tell you?" Hercule Poirot smiled. "A lie," he said. "And by it, I shall know the truth!" 第三十一章　赫尔克里·波洛提问 　　这是十一月的一天，天气晴朗。汤普森医生和总警督贾普前来通告波洛关于亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特一案的法院诉讼程序的结果。 　　波洛自己则由于支气管轻微受凉，使他无法参加。幸运的是，他没有让我一起去。 　　“决定提审，”贾普说，“就是那样。” 　　“这不是挺不寻常的吗？”我问道，“在这个阶段进行辩护？我原以为狱中犯人总是保留辩护权的。” 　　“这可是正常的程序，”贾普说，“我设想，年轻的卢卡斯认为他可以突击办理。我要说，他是个裁定员。精神时常是唯一可能的辩护理由。” 　　波洛耸了耸肩。 　　“如果是精神失常，就会被宣判无罪。在国王在位期间，囚禁很少能好过死刑。” 　　“我猜想，卢卡斯认为可能会有机会，”贾普说，“因为只要有那人在贝克斯希尔谋杀案中不在现场的确凿证据，整个案件就可能变得证据不充分。我认为他还没有意识到我们的案子是多么的证据充分。他是个年轻人，他想在公众面前露露脸。” 　　波洛转向汤普森。 　　“你有什么看法，医生？” 　　“对卡斯特吗？说心里话，我也不知道该说什么好。他扮演那个神志清醒的人非常出色。当然，他是个癫痫病人。” 　　“这是个多么令人惊奇的结局。”我说道。 　　“他正好在发病的时候，跌进了安多弗的警察局？是的，这是这场戏剧的合适而富有戏剧性的结尾。ABC 总是恰到好处。” 　　“有没有可能犯了罪却不清楚自己的罪行？”我问道。“他是否犯罪看起来倒有点真实的意思。” 　　汤普森医生笑了笑。 　　“你不该被那种‘我可以向上帝起誓’的戏剧式的装腔作势而蒙骗。我认为，卡斯特很清楚他自己干了那些谋杀案。” 　　“那些否认的言辞通常是激烈的。”贾普说。 　　“至于你的问题，”汤普森继续说道，“当一个癫痫病人处于梦游状态时做了一件事却浑然不觉，这是完全有可能的事。可普遍的观点是这样的行为必须‘不违背这个人在清醒状态下的意愿。’” 　　他继续讨论这个问题，说起grand mal（法文，意为：大错误。——译注）和petit mal（法文，意为：小错误。——译注），使我处于外行的困惑之中。当一个精通某门学问的人深入探讨他的专业方面的问题时，这是常有的情况。 　　“无论如何，我反对这种理论，认为卡斯特在进行谋杀时不知道自己的行为。如果没有那些信，你可能还能提出那样的观点。那些信件粉碎了这个观点。它们表明犯罪是经过预谋和仔细策划的。” 　　“可对于这些信件，我们还无法进行解释。”波洛说。 　　“那是否令你感兴趣？” 　　“自然是的——既然这些信是写给我的。一谈到信件这个问题，卡斯特坚决闭口不言。直到我找到这些写给我的信件的原因时，我才会认为本案得到了解决。” 　　“是的——我能够理解你的观点。无论在哪种情况之下，看来都没有任何理由能使人相信那个人要针对你？” 　　“无论什么都没有。” 　　“我可以提个建议吗？是你的名字！” 　　“我的名字？” 　　“是的，卡斯特很明显是背负了两个极端夸张的基督教姓名：亚历山大和波拿帕特，这主要是处于他母亲的一时奇想（我毫不怀疑，这其中有俄狄浦斯恋母情结）。你看出其中的含义了吗？亚历山大——普遍被假想成渴望征服更多的世界而不可战胜的人；波拿帕特——则是伟大的法兰西国王。他需要一名对手——一个对手，人们可以说，是同他在一个阶层中的人。所以就有了你——赫尔克里斯大力神。” 　　“你的话语相当有建议性，医生。这些话使我产生了一些想法……” 　　“噢，这只是个设想。好吧，我得走了。” 　　汤普森医生出门而去。贾普留了下来。 　　“是不是他不在现场的情况令你有点担心？”波洛问道。 　　“稍微有一点。”警督承认道，“你听着，我可不相信这一点，我认为这不是真的。可要打破它就有可能遭殃。斯特兰奇是个顽固的人。” 　　“给我讲讲他的情况。” 　　“他四十岁光景，是个固执、自信、极有主见的采矿工程师。我认为，就是他要求现在录证词。他想要离开去智利，希望手上的事情能办完。” 　　“他是我所见过的最独断的人之一。”我说。 　　“他是那种不愿意承认自己的错误的人。”波洛若有所思地说。 　　“他坚持自己的说法，而且不容只问。他极其忠实地发誓说，七月二十四日晚上在伊斯特本的白十字酒店曾碰到卡斯特。他当时很孤独，希望找人聊聊天。依我看，卡斯特是个理想的谈话对象。他并没有打断谈话！晚餐之后，他和卡斯特玩多米诺骨牌。看起来，斯特兰奇是个多米诺骨牌的高手，而出乎意料的是，卡斯特也极具水准。真是奇怪的游戏，多米诺骨牌。人们都玩疯了。他们会连续玩上好几个小时。很显然，斯特兰奇和卡斯特显然也是那样玩的。卡斯特想去睡觉了，可斯特兰奇并不听从——他发誓他们可以坚持玩到午夜之后，他们就是那样做的。他们午夜过后十分钟才分手。而如果卡斯特于二十五日凌晨零点十分仍在伊斯特本的白十字酒店，他是不可能在午夜和凌晨一点之间在贝克斯希尔的海滩上勒死贝蒂·巴纳德的。” 　　“这个问题显然难以回答。”波洛想了想说，“他确实令人深思。” 　　“这也使克罗姆可以有所思考。”贾普说。 　　“斯特兰奇这个家伙非常独断吗？” 　　“是的，他是个固执狂，而且很难看出哪里有漏洞。我们设想，斯特兰奇搞错了，那个人并不是卡斯特——他究竟为什么要说那个人就叫卡斯特呢？在酒店登记处的签字确实是他的。你可不能说同犯——杀人狂是不会有同犯的！那个姑娘死亡的时间是不是退后一点呢？法医的证据是很肯定的，而无论如何，卡斯特从酒店出来，又不被人看见，然后赶到大约在十四英里之外的贝克斯希尔去，是要花些时间的——” 　　“这确实是个问题——是的。”波洛说。 　　“当然，严格地说，它没有关系。我们在唐克斯特谋杀案中已抓到了卡斯特——那件沾有血迹的衣服，那把刀——这没什么可狡辩的。你无法强迫任何陪审团判他无罪，可这破坏了一件漂亮的案子。他制造了唐克斯特谋杀案，他制造了彻斯顿谋杀案，他制造了安多弗谋杀案。然后，见鬼，他肯定也制造了贝克斯希尔谋杀案。可我却不知道他是怎么干的！” 　　他摇摇头，站了起来。 　　“现在是你的机会，波洛先生。”他说，“克罗姆是模糊不清。发挥你的智力，我过去曾经多次听说过。让我们看看他是怎样作案的。” 　　贾普离开了。 　　“是怎么回事，波洛？”我说，“那些灰色脑细胞能解决这个任务吗？” 　　波洛则答非所问。 　　“告诉我，黑斯廷斯，你认为这案子已收场了吗？” 　　“哦，老实说，是的。我们抓到了那个人，我们也有了大部分证据，现在只需要些修饰。” 　　波洛摇摇头。 　　“案子已结束！那个案子！那案子就是那个家伙，黑斯廷斯。直到我们完全了解那个人，奥妙还会一样深不可测。这可不是因为我们把他推上被告席而获得的胜利！” 　　“我们对他已经有许多了解。” 　　“我们对他还一无所知！我们知道他在哪里出生。我们知道他参加了战争，头部受了点轻伤，还有他由于癫痫退伍。我们知道他租住马伯里太太的房子有近两年时间。我们知道他很安静和孤僻——是那种没人会留意的人。我们知道他炮制和实施了一个极其聪明的系列谋杀案计划。我们知道他犯了一些难以置信的愚蠢的错误。我们知道他毫无同情心和相当残暴地杀人。我们也知道他挺善良的，他不让别人因为他所犯的罪行受到责难。如果他想不受干扰地杀人——让别人为他的罪行受累是多么地容易。黑斯廷斯，你难道没有看见，这个人是个矛盾的混合体？愚蠢和精明，残暴和高尚，——而且这中间一定有什么决定因素来调和他的两重性。” 　　“当然，如果你把他当作一个心理学研究对象的话。”我开始发言。 　　“从一开始，这案子就一直有点其它什么东西呢？我一直摸索解决问题的办法——试图了解凶手。现在我意识到，黑斯廷斯，我其实一点也不了解他！我茫然无知。” 　　“是对权力的欲望。”我说。 　　“是的——这可能能解答许多东西……可它还是不能令我满意。有些事情我还想知道，他为什么要进行谋杀？他为什么会挑选这些特定的人——？” 　　“是字母顺序——”我开始说道。 　　“难道贝蒂·巴纳德是在贝克斯希尔唯一的以B 字母冠名的人吗？贝蒂·巴纳德——我倒是有个主意……它应该是真实的——肯定是对的。可如果是这样——” 　　他沉默了一会儿。我不愿去打断他。 　　事实上，我相信我睡着了。 　　我醒的时候，发现波洛的手搭在我的肩上。 　　“Mon cher Hastings（法文，意为：我亲爱的黑斯廷斯。——译注），”他热情洋溢地说，“我的天才。” 　　我被这突然的赞美之词弄得迷惑不解。 　　“是真的，”波洛坚持道，“长期以来——长期以来，你给我帮助——给我带来好运。你使我受到启发。” 　　“我这一次是怎样使你受到启发的呢？”我问。 　　“当我向自己问一些问题时，我想起你说过的一句评语——一句绝对清晰而闪亮的话。我不是曾经对你说过，你是一个说真话的天才。我对这么明显的东西倒是疏忽了。” 　　“我的这句英明的评论是什么？”我问。 　　“它使每一件物品都像水晶一样晶莹透明。我找到了所有问题的答案。关于阿谢尔太太的原因（对的，我很久前曾模糊地感到过），卡迈克尔·克拉克的原因，唐克斯特谋杀案的原因，而最终和最重要的是，赫尔克里·波洛的原因。” 　　“你是否可以解释一下？”我问。 　　“现在还不行。我还需要更多一点情况。我可以从我们的特别团体那里获得。然后——然后，当我获得某个问题的答案之后，我会去同ABC会面。我们最终能够面对面——ABC 与赫尔克里·波洛——两个对手。” 　　“然后呢？”我问道。 　　“然后，”波洛说，“我们会谈话。Je vous assure （法文，意为：我向你保证。——译注），黑斯廷斯，对任何想藏匿的人来说，没有任何东西比谈话更危险！一个明智的法国老人曾经告诉过我，谈话是阻止他思考的一个发明。这也是想要发现他所藏匿的东西的确实可靠的方法。黑斯廷斯，一个人无法阻止谈话给他带来的暴露自己和显示个性的机会。每一次他都会露出马脚。” 　　“你期望卡斯特会告诉你些什么？” 　　赫尔克里·波洛泛起笑意。 　　“是个谎言，”他说，“而通过谎言，我将会了解真相！” Chapter 32 AND CATCH A FOX During the next few days Poirot was very busy. He made mysterious absences, talked very little, frowned to himself, and consistently refused to satisfy my natural curiosity as to the brilliance I had, according to him, displayed in the past. I was not invited to accompany him on his mysterious comings and goings - a fact which I somewhat resented. Towards the end of the week, however, he announced his intention of paying a visit to Bexhill and neighbourhood and suggested that I should come with him. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity. The invitation, I discovered, was not extended to me alone. The members of our Special Legion were also invited. They were as intrigued by Poirot as I was. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, I had at any rate an idea as to the direction in which Poirot's thoughts were tending. He first visited Mr. and Mrs. Barnard and got an exact account from her as to the hour at which Mr. Cust had called on her and exactly what he had said. He then went to the hotel at which Cust had put up and extracted a minute description of that gentleman's departure. As far as I could judge, no new facts were elicited by his questions but he himself seemed quite satisfied. Next he went to the beach - to the place where Betty Barnard's body had been discovered. Here he walked round in circles for some minutes studying the shingle attentively. I could see little point in this, since the tide covered the spot twice a day. However I have learnt by this time that Poirot's actions are dictated by an idea - however meaningless they may seem. He then walked from the beach to the nearest point at which a car could have been parked. From there again he went to the place where the Eastbourne buses waited before leaving Bexhill. Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat cafй where we had a somewhat stale tea served by the plump waitress, Milly Higley. Her he complimented in a flowing Gallic style on the shape of her ankles. "The legs of the English - always they are too thin! But you, mademoiselle, have the perfect leg. It has shape - it has an ankle!" Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She knew what French gentlemen were like. Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality. He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost shocked. "Voilб" said Poirot, "I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to Eastbourne. One little inquiry there - that is all. Unnecessary for all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and let us have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!" As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously: "I suppose we can guess what you are after? You're out to break that alibi. But I can't see what you're so pleased about. You haven't got a new fact of any kind." "No - that is true." "Well, then?" "Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time." "You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway." "Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea - that is why." His face grew serious. "My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young played a game called The Truth. It was a game where every one in turn was asked three questions - two of which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with every one had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." He paused. "Well?" said Megan. "Eh bien - me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you." "Of course," said Clarke impatiently. "We'll answer anything." "Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?" He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded. "Bon, "said Poirot briskly. "Let us begin -" "I'm ready," said Thora Grey. "Ah, but ladies first - this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere." He turned to Franklin Clarke. "What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?" Franklin Clarke stared at him. "Is this a joke?" "Certainly not." "Is that seriously your question?" "It is." Clarke began to grin. "Well, M. Poirot, I didn't actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women's hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily." "Fantastic?" "Quite fantastic." Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser. "When did you take your holiday this year, Monsieur?" It was Fraser's turn to stare. "My holiday? The first two weeks in August." His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him. Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear. "Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke's death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?" The girl sprang up. "How dare you ask me such a question. It's - it's insulting!" "Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien - Yes or no?" "Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that's how I felt to him - just affectionate and grateful." "Pardon me, but that is not answering yes or no, mademoiselle." She hesitated. "The answer, of course, is no!" He made no comment. "Thank you, mademoiselle." He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl's face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal. Poirot's voice came out like the crack of a whip lash. "Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigations? Do you want me to find out the truth - or not?" Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth. Her answer came clearly - and it stupefied me. "No!" We all jumped. Poirot leaned forward, studying her face. "Mademoiselle Megan," he said, "you may not want the truth but - ma foi - you can speak it!" He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower. "Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?" Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed. "Oh, Mr. Poirot, I - I - well, I'm not sure." He smiled. "Alors c'est bien, mon enfant." He looked round for me. "Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne." The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne. "Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?" "Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am doing." I relapsed into silence. Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look over the castle. As we were returning towards the car, we paused a moment to watch a ring of children - Brownies, I guessed, by their getup - who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices... "What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words." I listened - till I caught one refrain. "- And catch a fox And put him in a box And never let him go." "And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!" repeated Poirot. His face had gone suddenly grave and stern. "It is very terrible that, Hastings." He was silent a minute. "You hunt the fox here?" "I don't. I've never been able to afford to hunt. And I don't think there's much hunting in this part of the world." "I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side - then they sound the tally-ho, do they not? - and the run begins - across the country - over the hedges and ditches - and the fox he runs - and sometimes he doubles back - but the dogs -" "Hounds!" "- hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies - quickly and horribly." "I suppose it does sound cruel, but really -" "The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bкtises, my friend. Tout de mкme - it is better that - the quick, cruel death - than what those children were singing... "To be shut away - in a box - for ever... No, it is not good, that." He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone: "Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust," and he added to the chauffeur: "Back to London." "Aren't you going to Eastbourne?" I cried. "What need? I know - quite enough for my purpose." 第三十二章　抓住狐狸 　　在接下来的数日当中，波洛忙碌不堪。他神秘兮兮地缺席，少言寡语，眉头紧锁，而且不断地拒绝我那自然的好奇心，以及，按照他自己的说法，拒绝我在过去所表现出来的精明。 　　在那些神秘兮兮的来往行程中，我并没有受邀请与他同行——这个事实多少令我有些不满。 　　直到周末，他终于宣称将要去贝克斯希尔和附近地区一趟，并建议我与他同行。不用说，我欣然接受。 　　我发现，我并不是唯一受到邀请的人。我们的特别团体的成员都受到了邀请。 　　他们也像我一样，被波洛激发起了兴趣。不过，那天快结束时，我总算有了一个主意，了解波洛思想中的倾向性。 　　他首先访问巴纳德先生和太太，从后者那里获得准确的描述，知道卡斯特先生是什么时间来找她的，以及他确实讲过那些话。他然后去到卡斯特曾住过的那家饭店，得知了他离店的详细情况。就此，我可以判断，他的提问并没有获得新的实际情况，可他自己倒是挺满意的。 　　接着，他又去了海滩——去那个发现贝蒂·巴纳德的尸体的地点。在这里他转着圈走了几分钟，神情投入地研究那个鹅卵石的海滩。我从中看不出有什么道理，因为潮汐每天会把这个地方冲刷两遍。 　　然而，这一次我已明白，波洛的行动通常会受到一个主意的指使——不管这些行动看起来多么地毫无意义。 　　随后，他从海滩步行走到最近处的一个停车地点。从那里，他再次走向一个地方，那些公共汽车是开往伊斯特本的，在离开贝克斯希尔以前停在那里。 　　最后，他带着我们全体人员来到黄猫餐厅。在那里，我们品尝了有些陈旧的茶水，是由那位直爽的米莉·希格利为我们服务的。 　　他用一种流畅的高卢式风格对她的脚踝部加以赞美。 　　“英国人的腿——它们总是瘦兮兮的！可是你，小、姐，却有着完美无瑕的腿。它具备良好的形态——它有脚踝部。” 　　米莉·希格利咯咯地笑了好一阵子，告诉他别再说下去了。她深知法国男人的言行举止。 　　波洛并没有费劲地反驳她对他的国际的错误认识，他只是以一种令我感到惊讶甚至是震惊的方式向她抛媚眼。 　　“Voila（法文，意为：对的。——译注），”波洛说，“我在贝克斯希尔已经完成了想要做的事，现在要去伊斯特本。在那里还有个小问题——这就是全部。你们大家全陪着我也没什么必要，现在我们大家回酒店吧，让我们品尝一杯鸡尾酒，这种卡尔顿茶，真是令人厌恶。” 　　正当我们品尝鸡尾酒时，富兰克林·克拉克惊奇地说道： 　　“我想，我们能猜到你随后的目的是什么？你要外出，排除他不在犯罪现场的证据。可是我不明白，你为何会如此高兴，你还没有获得任何一种新的事情。” 　　“不，那倒是挺正确的。” 　　“那么，然后呢？” 　　“耐心。只要时间允许的话，一切都会自行准备好的。” 　　“到目前为止，还没有什么能驳倒我的小小观点——那就是原因所在。” 　　他的脸变得严肃认真。 　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯有一次告诉我，他在年轻的时候曾玩过一个叫做‘真相’的游戏。在这个游戏当中，每个人都会轮流被问三个问题——其中的两个问题必须要真实地来回答。第三个问题可以弃而不答。那些问题自然是最不明智的那种。可是一开头，每个人必须发誓，他们会讲真话，除了真话之外别无它物。” 　　他暂停下来。 　　“哦？”梅根说。 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——对我来说，我倒是想玩玩这个游戏，而只是没必要回答三个问题。一个问题就足够了。你们每个人都会有一个问题。” 　　“当然”，克拉克不耐烦地说，“我们会回答的。” 　　“噢，可我想要使它更严肃一些。你们全都能发誓讲真话吗？” 　　他是如此一本正经，其他人则感到困惑不解，也开始变得严肃正经起来。他们全照他的要求发誓。 　　“Bon（法文，意为：好。——译注），”波洛兴致勃勃地说，“我们开始吧——” 　　“我准备好了。”托拉·格雷说。 　　“啊，女士优先——这时候就不是什么礼貌的事了。我们还是先从别人开始吧。” 　　他转向富兰克林·克拉克。 　　“mon cher M.Clarke（法文，意为：我亲爱的克拉克先生。——译注），你认为今年在赛马场的女士们带的是什么式样的帽子？” 　　富兰克林·克拉克眼睛盯着他看。 　　“这是开玩笑吧？” 　　“当然不是。” 　　“这就是你的问题？” 　　“是的。” 　　克拉克开始咧开嘴笑。 　　“好，波洛先生，我其实并没有去赛马场，可是从她们在车里开车时我能够看到的情形来看，赛马场的女士们带的帽子比起她们平日常戴的来，是个更大的笑话。” 　　“是帽子稀奇古怪吗？” 　　“挺稀奇古怪的。” 　　波洛笑着转向唐纳德·弗雷泽。 　　“今年你是什么时候休的假，先生？” 　　这回轮到弗雷泽瞪大了眼睛。 　　“我的假期？是在八月份的头两个星期。” 　　他的脸突然颤动，我想这个问题勾起了他对深爱的姑娘的回忆。 　　然而，波洛似乎没太注意他的回答。他转向托拉·格雷，我听出了他话音之中微妙的异常之处。那声音变得紧张了一些，他的提问也变得尖锐和清晰明了。 　　“小、姐，假使克拉克女勋爵去世的话，如果卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士向你求爱的话，你会同他结婚吗？” 　　那姑娘跳将起来。 　　“你竟敢问我这样的问题，这——真是个侮辱。” 　　“也许吧。可是你发过誓要讲真话的。Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——是或者不是？” 　　“卡迈克尔爵士对我友好至极，他待我就像是女儿。而我对他则——也只是深情和感激。” 　　“对不起，可这并不是在回答会还是不会，小、姐。” 　　她犹豫不决。 　　“回答，当然是，不会！” 　　他没有作任何评价。 　　“谢谢你，小、姐。” 　　他转向梅根·巴纳德，那姑娘面色极其苍白。她深深地呼吸，仿佛是在打起精神来迎接一场严峻的考验。 　　波洛的声音冒出来，像是鞭子断裂的声音。 　　“小、姐，你希望我的调查结果会是什么？你想让我发现真相吗——还是不想？” 　　她骄傲地把头往回伸，我非常确定她会怎样回答。我知道，梅根对真相有一种狂热的爱好。 　　她的回答清晰明了——这使我惊得发呆。 　　“不。” 　　我们全都跳了起来，波洛把身体向前倾斜。观察着她的脸。 　　“梅根小、姐，”他说，“你可能不想得到真相，但是——ma foi（法文，意为：我的真相。——译注），你可以把它说出来。” 　　他转身向门口走去，然后，又重新鼓起勇气，走向玛丽·德劳尔。 　　“告诉我，mon enfant（法文，意为：我的孩子。——译注），你有男朋友吗？” 　　玛丽看上去一直是忧心忡忡的，听到问话她似乎挺吃惊，脸一下子就红了。 　　“哦，波洛先生，我——我，呃，我不太确定。” 　　他笑了。 　　“Alors c'est bien，mon enfant（法文，意为：那么，好吧，我的孩子。——译注）。” 　　他的眼睛环视，寻找我。 　　“请过来，黑斯廷斯，我们必须出发去伊斯特本。” 　　车已经在等候，不久我们开车行驶在海边的马路上，那条道路经过佩文塞通向伊斯特本。 　　“我可以问你一些事吗，波洛？” 　　“现在还是别问吧。对我还在做的事情，你该得出自己的结论。” 　　我陷入沉默之中。 　　波洛看来对自己挺满意，口里哼着小调。正当我们通过佩文塞时，他提议我们停下来，参观一下城堡。 　　当我们走回车子时，我们停了一会儿，观看一群围成一圈的孩子——我猜想，根据她们的服饰来看，是些女童子军，——她们正用尖利刺耳、毫不成调的声音哼唱着小调…… 　　“她们在说着什么，黑斯廷斯？我听不出那些词。” 　　我仔细听着，一直到我听懂几句歌词。 　　“——要抓住狐狸， 　　要把它关进笼子， 　　再也不把它放跑。” 　　“要抓住狐狸，要把它关进笼子，再也不把它放跑。”波洛重复道。 　　他的脸突然间变得阴郁和严厉起来。 　　“真是非常可怕，黑斯廷斯，”他静默了一分钟，“你在这里猎狐狸吗？” 　　“我可不是。我从来供不起打猎，而且我也不认为在这一地域中会有许多捕猎的机会。” 　　“我是说在英格兰的总体情况。这是一项奇怪的运动，在隐蔽的地方伺机埋伏，然后他会发出‘嗬’声，不是吗？然后一场追逐便开展起来，穿过乡野，翻越篱笆和沟渠，那狐狸快速奔跑——而有时候它则会往回跑——可那些狗——” 　　“是些猎狗。” 　　“猎狗会追踪它，最后它们会抓住它，狐狸则会迅速和恐怖地死去。” 　　“狐狸喜欢这种方式吗？别说是les betises（法文，意为：蠢事。——译注），我的朋友。Tout de meme（法文，意为：不管怎样。——译注），迅速、残暴地死要比那些孩子们歌中唱的情形更好。” 　　“被永远地……关押起来……关在一只箱子里……不，那种方式可不好。” 　　他摇摇头，随后改变了话音，说： 　　“明天，我要去见那个叫卡斯特的家伙。”他又对司机说： 　　“回伦敦吧。” 　　“你难道不去伊斯特本了吗？”我叫道。 　　“有什么必要呢？我知道——我已经可以到达目的了。” Chapter 33 ALEXANDER BONAPARTE CUST I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and that strange man - Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his association with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order - but that order did not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot's point of view, that that interview should be absolutely private - the two men face to face. He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I had actually been present. Mr. Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His fingers plucked vaguely at his coat. For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak. He sat and looked at the man opposite him. The atmosphere became restful - soothing - full of infinite leisure. It must have been a dramatic moment - this meeting of the two adversaries in the long drama. In Poirot's place I should have felt the dramatic thrill. Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him. At last he said gently: "Do you know who I am?" The other shook his head. "No - no - I can't say I do. Unless you are Mr. Lucas's - what do they call it? - junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr. Maynard?" (Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.) His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in some inner abstraction. "I am Hercule Poirot..." Poirot said the words very gently... and watched for the effect. Mr. Cust raised his head a little. "Oh, yes?" He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it - but without the superciliousness. Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark. "Oh, yes?" he said, and this time his tone was different - it held an awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot. Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or twice. "Yes," he said. "I am the man to whom you wrote the letters." At once the contact was broken. Mr. Cust dropped his eyes and spoke irritably and fretfully. "I never wrote to you. Those letters weren't written by me. I've said so again and again." "I know," said Poirot. "But if you did not write them, who did?" "An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The police - every one - all against me. It's a gigantic conspiracy." Poirot did not reply. Mr. Cust said: "Every one's hand has been against me - always." "Even when you were a child?" Mr. Cust seemed to consider. "No - no - not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious - terribly ambitious. That's why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I'd cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself - talking about will power... saying any one could be master of his fate... she said I could do anything!" He was silent for a minute. "She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn't the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things - making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid - afraid of people. I had a bad time at school - the boys found out my Christian names - they used to tease me about them. I did very badly at school - in games and work and everything." He shook his head. "Just as well poor mother died. She'd have been disappointed... Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid - it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than any one else. And yet I didn't feel stupid - if you know what I mean." He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man. "I know what you mean," said Poirot. "Go on." "It was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very paralyzing. It was the same thing later in the office." "And later still in the war?" prompted Poirot. Mr. Cust's face lightened up suddenly. "You know," he said, "I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as any one else." His smile faded. "And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out I had fits... I'd always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn't been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I'd fallen down. But I don't really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don't think it was right." "And afterwards?" asked Poirot. "I got a place as a clerk. Of course there was good money to be got just then. And I didn't do so badly after the war. Of course, a smaller salary... And - I didn't seem to get on. I was always being passed over for promotion. I wasn't going ahead enough. It grew very difficult - really very difficult... Especially when the slump came. To tell you the truth, I'd got hardly enough to keep body and soul together (and you've got to look presentable as a clerk) when I got the offer of this stocking job. A salary and commission!" Poirot said gently: "But you are aware, are you not, that the firm who you say employed you deny the fact?" Mr. Cust got excited again. "That's because they're in the conspiracy - they must be in the conspiracy." He went on: "I've got written evidence - written evidence. I've got their letters to me, giving me instructions as to what places to go and a list of people to call on." "Not written evidence exactly - typewritten evidence." "It's the same thing. Naturally a big firm of wholesale manufacturers typewrite their letters." "Don't you know, Mr. Cust, that a typewriter can be identified? All those letters were typed by one particular machine." "What of it?" "And that machine was your own - the one found in your room." "It was sent me by the firm at the beginning of my job." "Yes, but these letters were received afterwards. So it looks, does it not, as though you typed them yourself and posted them to yourself?" "No, no! It's all part of the plot against me!" He added suddenly: "Besides, their letters would be written on the same kind of machine." "The same kind, but not the same actual machine." Mr. Cust repeated obstinately: "It's a plot!" "And the A.B.C.'s that were found in the cupboard?" "I know nothing about them. I thought they were all stockings." "Why did you tick off the name of Mrs. Ascher in that first list of people in Andover?" "Because I decided to start with her. One must begin somewhere." "Yes, that is true. One must begin somewhere." "I don't mean that!" said Mr. Cust. "I don't mean what you mean!" "But you know what I meant?" Mr. Cust said nothing. He was trembling. "I didn't do it!" he said. "I'm perfectly innocent! It's all a mistake. Why, look at that second crime - that Bexhill one. I was playing dominoes at Eastbourne. You've got to admit that!" His voice was triumphant. "Yes," said Poirot. His voice was meditative - silky. "But it's so easy, isn't it, to make a mistake of one day? And if you're an obstinate, positive man, like Mr. Strange, you'll never consider the possibility of having been mistaken. What you've said you'll stick to. He's that kind of man. And the hotel register - it's very easy to put down the wrong date when you're signing it - probably no one will notice it at the time." "I was playing dominoes that evening!" "You play dominoes very well, I believe." Mr. Cust was a little flurried by this. "I - I - well, I believe I do." "It is a very absorbing game, is it not, with a lot of skill in it?" "Oh, there's a lot of play in it - a lot of play! We used to play a lot in the city, in the lunch hour. You'd be surprised the way total strangers come together over a game of dominoes." He chuckled. "I remember one man - I've never forgotten him because of something he told me - we just got talking over a cup of coffee, and we started dominoes. Well, I felt after twenty minutes that I'd known that man all his life." "What was it that he told you?" asked Poirot. Mr. Cust's face clouded over. "It gave me a turn - a nasty turn. Talking of your fate being written in your hand, he was. And he showed me his hand and the lines that showed he'd have two near escapes of being drowned - and he had had two near escapes. And then he looked at mine and he told me some amazing things. Said I was going to be one of the most celebrated men in England before I died. Said the whole country would be talking about me. But he said - he said -" Mr. Cust broke down - faltered... "Yes?" Poirot's gaze held a quiet magnetism. Mr. Cust looked at him, looked away, then back again like a fascinated rabbit. "He said - he said - that it looked as though I might die a violent death - and he laughed and said: 'Almost looks as though you might die on the scaffold,' and then he laughed and said that was only his joke..." He was silent suddenly. His eyes left Poirot's face - they ran from side to side... "My head - I suffer very badly with my head... the headaches are something cruel sometimes. And then there are times when I don't know - when I don't know -" He broke down. Poirot leant forward. He spoke very quietly but with great assurance. "But you do know, don't you," he said, "that you committed the murders?" Mr. Cust looked up. His glance was quite simple and direct. All resistance had left him. He looked strangely at peace. "Yes," he said. "I know." "But - I'm right, am I not? - you don't know why you did them?" Mr. Cust shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't." 第三十三章　亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特 　　波洛同那个怪人——亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特进行会面的时候，我并没有在场。由于波洛与警方的关系和本案的特殊情况，他毫不费力便从内政部获得了许可令——可是那个许可令当中并没有把我包括在内。在波洛看来，这次会见必须是绝对私人的，即只有两个人面对面地进行，这在任何情况下都是必要的。 　　然而，他还是向我详细地讲述了他们之间发生的事，我满怀信心地把它记录下来，好像我自己也曾经在场一样。 　　卡斯特先生看上去已经退缩。他那躬腰曲背的模样更加明显，手指漫无目的地拉扯着衣服。 　　我猜想，波洛在一段时间内必定沉默不语。 　　他坐在那里，看着对面的那个人。 　　屋子里的气氛变得很宁静悠闲——镇定安逸——充满了无穷无尽的闲适。 　　这肯定是个戏剧性的时刻——一幕长剧中两个对手的会面。如果当时身处波洛的位置，我一定会感受到那富有戏剧性的一阵惊悸。 　　然而，要不是为人熟知，波洛该是个无足轻重的人。他正专注于向面前这个人产生某种影响力。 　　他最终温和地说道： 　　“你知道我是谁吗？” 　　另外这个人摇摇头。 　　“不，不，我该说我并不知道，除非你是卢卡斯先生的——他们是怎样称呼你的？——随从。或者你是为梅纳德先生做事？” 　　（梅纳德和科尔是辩护律师。） 　　他的语气彬彬有礼，可兴致却不怎么盎然。他看来有些心不在焉。 　　“我是赫尔克里·波洛……” 　　波洛温和地说出这些词……并观察他的反应。 　　卡斯特先生悄悄抬起头来。 　　“哦，是吗？” 　　他说话的样子如同克罗姆警督一样自然——只是没有目空一切的傲慢。 　　片刻之后，他又重复了他的话。 　　“哦，是吗？”他说，这一次他的语调有所不同——谈话中带着醒悟过来的兴致。他抬起头，看着波洛。 　　赫尔克里·波洛迎着他那注视的目光，文雅地点了点头。 　　“是的，”他说，“我就是那个你写信去的人。” 　　这种目光的接触即刻间便告破裂。卡斯特先生低下眼睛，恼怒和烦躁地说： 　　“我可从来没有给你写过信。那些信不是我写的，我已经说过许多遍了。” 　　“我知道，”波洛说，“可是，如果你没有写过那些信的话，谁会写呢？” 　　“是个敌人，我肯定有个敌人。他们全都在针对我，警察——每个人——都在反对我。这是个巨大的阴谋。” 　　波洛并没有回答。 　　卡斯特先生说： 　　“每个人都在反对我——情况总是这样。” 　　“当你还是小孩子的时候也这样吗？” 　　卡斯特先生看来是在沉思。 　　“不，不，那时候可不是这样。我母亲很喜欢我，可她太雄心勃勃——那种可怕的雄心勃勃。那就是她给我取那些荒谬的名字的原因。她有些可笑的念头，认为我将会成为什么大人物。她总是要求我坚持追求，她总是谈论意志力……并说每个人都可以成为命运的主人……她说我可以做成任何事！” 　　他沉默了一分钟。 　　“当然，她大错特错了。我不久便认识到了自己。在生活中，我不是那种不断前进的人。我不断地做错事——使我自己看上去荒诞可笑，而且我胆小羞怯——害怕与人打交道。我在学校里并不好过——那些男孩子发现了我的教名，他们常常以此取笑我……我在学校里表现极差——游戏、功课，每件事都挺差的。” 　　他摇摇头。 　　“可怜的母亲就这样去世了。她满怀失望……即使是当我在念商科学校的时候，我也挺笨的——我学习打字和速记要比别人花更长的时间，然而我并没有感到愚蠢——如果你明白我的意思的话。” 　　他突然间恳切地看了另外那个人一眼。 　　“我明白你的意思。”波洛说，“继续说吧。” 　　“正好是那种感觉，其他每个人都认为我愚蠢，这非常令人泄气。后来在办公室工作的时候，情形也一样。” 　　“后来在战争中也一样吗？”波洛催问道。 　　卡斯特先生的脸突然间亮堂起来。 　　“你知道，”他说，“我喜欢战争。在战争当中，我第一次感觉到与别人一样，我们都处在相同的困境当中，我同别人一样棒。” 　　他的笑容消失了。 　　“随后我的头部受了伤，非常轻。可他们发现我有抽痉现象……当然，我一直都知道，有时候我无法确定自己在做什么。你知道，会有一时间的疏忽。当然，有一两次我会跌倒。我真的以为他们不该因此而控告我。不，我认为那样不对。” 　　“然后呢？”波洛问。 　　“我有一个做职员的机会，当然，那时也可以去做许多赚钱的工作。战后，我过得可不那么差。我总是错过提拔的机会，我并没有往前走太多。事情开始变得非常困难起来——确实非常困难……尤其是当消沉来临的时候。老实告诉你，我几乎要挺不过去了（而作为一个文员，你该是挺体面的），直到我得到这份推销长统袜的工作，有了一份薪水和佣金！” 　　波洛温和地说： 　　“可你是否清楚，你所说的那家雇佣你的企业否认这个事实？” 　　卡斯特先生再次激动起来。 　　“那是因为他们参与了合谋——他们肯定参与了合谋。” 　　他继续说： 　　“我收到了书面的依据——书面依据。我收到他们写给我的信，指示我要去什么地方，去见什么人。” 　　“实际上也不是什么书写的依据——那是用打字机打的。” 　　“那全都一样。一个批发生产商的大企业自然使用打字机写信。” 　　“卡斯特先生，你难道不知道打字机是可以被识别的？所有那些信都是用某台打字机打的。” 　　“你是什么意思？” 　　“是用你那台打字机——你房间里找到的那台打的。” 　　“那是我开始工作时，那家企业送来的。” 　　“是的，可这些信都是随后收到的。所以这就好像，是你自己打了那些信寄给你自己的，不是吗？” 　　“不，不。这是陷害我的一部分伎俩。” 　　他突然补充道： 　　“除此之外，这些也可能是用同一种打字机打的。” 　　“同一种，并不是用同一台打字机。” 　　卡斯特先生坚决地重复说： 　　“这是一个阴谋。” 　　“那么，还有那些在壁橱里发现的ABC 呢？” 　　“我一点也不知道它们，我还以为会是些长统袜呢。” 　　“在第一张安多弗的人名单中，你为什么会勾掉阿谢尔太太的名字呢？” 　　“因为我决定从她开始推销，人总会有开始的嘛。” 　　“是的，正确，人总会有所开始。” 　　“我可不是那个意思！”卡斯特先生说，“我可不是你说的那个意思。” 　　“可你知道我是什么意思吗？” 　　卡斯特先生无言以对，他在颤抖。 　　“我可没干过！”他说，“我完全是无辜的！这全都搞错了。为什么，你看那第二场谋杀——贝克斯希尔的那次。我当时正在伊斯特本玩多米诺骨牌。你得承认这一点！” 　　他的话音洋洋得意。 　　“是的，”波洛说，他的话音中带着沉思——挺讨好的，“可是要弄错一个日子是挺容易的事，不是吗？而且如果你是个顽强不屈、积极向上的人，像斯特兰奇一样，你是永远也不会考虑出差错的可能性的。你曾说过你会坚持……他就是那种类型的人。那个酒店接待——在你签字的时候，极其容易会写下错误的日期——那时候可能没有人会注意到。” 　　“那天晚上我在玩多米诺骨牌。” 　　“你的多米诺骨牌必定玩得很好，我相信。” 　　卡斯特先生有点慌张。 　　“我，我——哦，我相信我是。” 　　“那可是种引人入胜的游戏，不是吗？它有许多技巧？” 　　“噢，它挺好玩的——很好玩！我们以前在城市里玩得挺多的，在午餐时间里玩。完全不相识的陌生人聚在一起玩多米诺骨牌，你都会为那种方式感到奇怪。” 　　他噎住了。 　　“记得有一个人，因为他对我讲过的一些话，我永远都不会忘记他——我们只是在一起喝了杯咖啡，聊了聊天，并开始玩多米诺骨牌。哦，在随后的二十分钟内，我感到我一辈子都会了解那个人。” 　　“他对你讲了些什么？”波洛问道。 　　卡斯特脸色阴沉下来。 　　“它使得我有了一个转变——肮脏的转变。他说你的命运写在你自己的手中。他给我看了他的手，那些纹络表明他曾有两次差点溺水死亡——可他两次都死里逃生。随后，他看了我的手相，告诉我一些可笑的事情。他说我死前会成为英格兰最著名的人之一，说整个国家都会谈论我，可他说——他说……” 　　卡斯特先生垮掉了——说话支支吾吾…… 　　“是吗？” 　　波洛的瞪眼包含了一种平静的磁力。卡斯特先生看看他，看看别处，随后又回来看他，就像是一个神魂颠倒的兔子。 　　“他说——他说，那看起来好像我会死得很壮烈，他笑着说：‘看起来好像你会死在绞刑台上。’随后他大笑起来，说这只是他的玩笑……” 　　他突然沉默，他的眼睛离开波洛的脸——它们飘来飘去…… 　　“我的头——我的头令我痛苦异常……有时候头痛真是残酷的事。而有的时候我并不知道——我并不知道……” 　　他跨了下来。 　　“可你知道，难道你不知道吗？”他说，“你干了那些谋杀案？” 　　卡斯特先生抬头看，他的一瞥相当简单和直接。所有的抗拒都离他而去，他看上去异常平和。 　　“是的，”他说，“我知道。” 　　“可——我是对的，不是吗？——你并不知道你为什么要去干那些事？” 　　卡斯特先生摇摇头。 　　“不，”他说，“我不知道。”

Chapter 28 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard. The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up. "Jacobs speaking, sir. There's a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear." Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A.B.C. case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve - retaining the grosser matter and passing on the residue to his superior. "Very well, Jacobs," said Crome. "Send him along." A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector's door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking young man. "This is Mr. Tom Hartigan, sir. He's got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A.B.C. case." The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands. "Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan. Sit down, won't you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?" Tom Hartigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind "one of the bigwigs." The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person. "Now then," said Crome. "You've got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead." Tom began nervously. "Of course it may be nothing at all. It's just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time." Again, Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people! "We're the best judge of that. Let's have the facts, Mr. Hartigan." "Well, it's like this, sir. I've got a young lady, you see, and her mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second floor back has been let for over a year to a man called Cust." "Cust - eh?" "That's right, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what's rather vague and soft - and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly, you'd say - and I'd never of dreamed of anything being wrong if it hadn't been for something rather odd." In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once or twice, Tom described his encounter with Mr. Cust at Euston Station and the incident of the dropped ticket. "You see, sir, look at it how you will, it's funny like. Lily, that's my young lady, sir - she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said, and her mother says the same - says she remembers distinct talking about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. Lily - my young lady said as how she hoped he wouldn't cop it for this A.B.C. fellow going to Doncaster - and then she says it's rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don't know where he was, but he was away at the seaside - that she does know. And then I said to her it would be odd if he was the A.B.C. himself and she said poor Mr. Cust wouldn't hurt a fly - and that was all at the time. We didn't think no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinking that, after all, harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty." Tom took a breath and then went on. Inspector Crome was listening intently now. "And then after the Doncaster murder, sir, it was in all the papers that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a certain A.B. Case or Cash, and it gave a description that fitted well enough. First evening off I had, I went round to Lily's and asked her what her Mr. Cust's initials were. She couldn't remember at first, but her mother did. Said they were A.B. right enough. Then we got down to it and tried to figure out if Cust had been away at the time of the first murder at Andover. Well, as you know, sir, it isn't too easy to remember things three months back. We had a job of it, but we got it fixed down in the end, because Mrs. Marbury had a brother come from Canada to see her on June 21st. He arrived unexpected like and she wanted to give him a bed, and Lily suggested that as Mr. Cust was away Bert Marbury might have his bed. But Mrs. Marbury wouldn't agree, because she said it wasn't acting right by her lodger, and she always liked to act fair and square. But we fixed the date all right because of Bert Marbury's ship docking at Southampton that day." Inspector Crome had listened very attentively, jotting down an occasional note. "That's all?" he asked. "That's all, sir. I hope you don't think I'm making a lot of nothing." Tom flushed slightly. "Not at all. You were quite right to come here. Of course, it's very slight evidence - these dates may be mere coincidence and the likeness of the name, too. But it certainly warrants my having an interview with your Mr. Cust. Is he at home now?" "Yes, sir." "When did he return?" "The evening of the Doncaster murder, sir." "What's he been doing since?" "He's stayed in mostly, sir. And he's been looking very queer, Mrs. Marbury says. He buys a lot of newspapers - goes out early and gets the morning ones, and then after dark he goes out and gets the evening ones. Mrs. Marbury says he talks a lot to himself, too. She thinks he's getting queerer." "What is this Mrs. Marbury's address?" Tom gave it to him. "Thank you. I shall probably be calling round in the course of the day. I need hardly tell you to be careful of your manner if you come across this Cust." He rose and shook hands. "You may he quite satisfied you did the right thing in coming to us. Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan." "Well, sir?" asked Jacobs, re-entering the room a few minutes later. "Think it's the goods? "It's promising," said Inspector Crome. "That is, if the facts are as the boy stated them. We've had no luck with the stocking manufacturers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that file of the Churston case." He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted. "Ah, here it is. It's amongst the statements made to the Torquay police. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving Torquay Pavilion after the film Not a Sparrow and noticed a man behaving queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say, 'That's an idea.' Not a Sparrow - that's the film that was on at the Regal in Doncaster?" "Yes, sir." "There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time - but it's possible that the idea of the modus operandi for his next crime occurred to our man then. We've got Hill's name and address, I see. His description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the descriptions of Mary Stroud and this Tom Hartigan..." He nodded thoughtfully. "We're getting warm," said Inspector Crome - rather inaccurately, for he himself was always slightly chilly. "Any instructions, sir?" "Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Town address, but I don't want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the A.C. Then I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if he'd like to make a statement. It sounds as though he's quite ready to get rattled." Outside Tom Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting for him on the Embankment. "All right, Tom?" Tom nodded. "I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who's in charge of case." "What's he like?" "A bit quiet and la-di-da - not my idea of a detective." "That's Lord Trenchard's new kind," said Lily with respect. "Some of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?" Tom gave her a brief rйsumй of the interview. "So they think as it really was him?" "They think it might be. Anyway, they'll come along and ask him a question or two." "Poor Mr. Cust." "It's no good saying poor Mr. Cust, my girl. If he's A.B.C., he committed four terrible murders." Lily sighed and shook her head. "It does seem awful," she observed. "Well, now you're going to come and have a bite of lunch, my girl. Just you think that if we're right I expect my name will be in the papers!" "Oh, Tom, will it?" "Rather. And yours, too. And your mother's. And I dare say you'll have your picture in, too." "Oh, Tom." Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy. "And in the meantime, what do you say to a bite at the Corner House?" Lily squeezed tighter. "Come on then!" "All right - half a minute. I must just telephone from the station." "Who to?" "A girl I was going to meet." She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed. "Now then, Tom." She slipped her arm in his. "Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn't see the other one there?" "What other one7" "The Belgian gentleman. The one that A.B.C. writes to always." "No. He wasn't there." "Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?" Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook. He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of a room, clearly devoured with curiosity. "Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust." "No - er - no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn't." "Not bad news, I trust?" "No - no." How persistent the woman was. His eye caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying. Births - Marriages - Deaths... "My sister's just had a little boy," he blurted out. He - who had never had a sister! "Oh, dear! Now - well, that is nice, I am sure. ('And never once mentioned a sister all these years,' was her inward thought. 'If that isn't just like a man!') I was surprised, I'll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily's voice - something like hers, it was - but haughtier if you know what I mean - sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations, I'm sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?" "It's the only one," said Mr. Cust. "The only one I've ever had or likely to have, and - er - I think I must go off at once. They - they want me to come. I - I think I can just catch a train if I hurry." "Will you be away long, Mr. Cust?" called Mrs. Marbury as he ran up the stairs. "Oh, no - two or three days - that's all." He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of "the dear little mite." Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge. Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A.B.C. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences. "I don't suppose they meant it seriously," she thought comfortably. "And now I hope they'll be ashamed of themselves." In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust's statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger's bonafides. "I hope she didn't have too bad a time of it, poor dear," thought Mrs. Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily's silk slip. Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track. Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone. That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain. "Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there's an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you." What had he said? He couldn't remember. "Thank you - thank you, my dear... very kind of you -" Something like that. Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector's visit? But how did she know the inspector was coming? And her voice - she'd disguised her voice from her mother... It looked - it looked - as though she knew... But surely if she knew, she wouldn't... She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He'd seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mouse trap. A kind girl... A kind, pretty girl... He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats. Should he -? A slight noise from the kitchen decided him... No, there wasn't time... Mrs. Marbury might come out... He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind him. Where...? 第二十八章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　克罗姆警督此刻正在他的办公室里。 　　他办公桌上的电话发出长长的嗡嗡声，他拿起话筒。 　　“先生，我是雅各布斯。有个年轻人带来个故事，我想你应该听听。” 　　克罗姆警督叹了口气。每天平均有二十个人来，带着所谓与ABC 案相关的重要线索。其中有些人是些并无恶意的疯子，有些则是好心人，他们相信自己的信息是有价值的。雅各布斯警官的任务就是做一个过滤器——挡住那些没用的东西，将剩下的移交给他的上司。 　　“很好，雅各布斯，把他带来吧。”克罗姆说。 　　几分钟后，有人敲门，雅各布斯警官出现在门口，他带来一个高大的、样子倒蛮好看的年轻男子。 　　“先生，这位是汤姆·哈廷格先生。他要告诉我们一些情况，或许会与ABC案有关。” 　　警督很高兴地站起身来，同他握手。 　　“早上好，哈廷格先生，请坐。你吸烟吗？抽支烟吧？” 　　汤姆·哈廷格很笨拙地坐了下来，敬畏地看着他心目中的“名人之一”。眼前的警督形象似乎使他有点失望。他看上去只像是个很普通的人。 　　“那么，”克罗姆说，“你有情况要告诉我们，你认为这些情况与本案有关。那就说吧。” 　　汤姆紧张地开始讲述起来。 　　“当然那也可能一点用都没有。那只是我自己的想法，我可能会浪费您的时间。” 　　克罗姆警督轻轻地叹了口气，他又得浪费时间来劝说人了！ 　　“噢，事情是这样的。我有个年轻的女人，她母亲出租房屋。那房子位于卡姆登镇的路上。他们房子的三楼租给了一个名叫卡斯特的男人，已有一年多时间了。” 　　“卡斯特——喔？” 　　“是的，先生。他是那种呆头呆脑的人，倒是挺温和的。他挺有点落魄，我想我应该说。他是那种连一只苍蝇都不会去伤害的人——如果不是因为有些事情实在是太奇怪，我是不会觉得这中间有什么不对劲的。” 　　汤姆以一种令人费解的方式并重复了一两边，讲述了在尤斯顿与卡斯特先生的遭遇，以及掉出来的车票的事。 　　“您看，先生，这看起来很可笑。莉莉——那是我的女人，先生。她倒是挺确信他说的是去切尔滕纳姆，她母亲也这么说——说她还记得那天上午他离开时的谈话。当然，我那时候也没太注意这些事。莉莉，我那个年轻姑娘，说过她希望他不会被那个去往唐克斯特的家伙杀害。然后她说因为上次谋杀案发生时，他正好去了彻斯顿，这可真是个巧合。我笑着问她，再上一次他是否在贝克斯希尔，她说她不知道他去了哪里，可她知道他去了海边。然后我告诉她说，如果他就是ABC，这实在是挺奇怪的。她说他连一只苍蝇都不会伤害，而那时候我们只谈了这些。我们也不是没再多想什么。至少，我还是觉得有点可疑，先生。我开始怀疑这个卡斯特，我认为，尽管他看上去毫无伤害，他是挺有点反常的。” 　　汤姆叹了口气后又接着说。克罗姆现在是全神贯注地听着。 　　“唐克斯特谋杀案发生后，先生，所有的报纸都在报道说，希望提供关于AB Case 或Cash 的行踪，所说的情况与他非常吻合。第一天晚上，我去莉莉家，问她卡斯特先生的名字缩写是什么。她起先已记不起来，可她母亲记起来了。她说肯定是ABC 没错。随后我们想继续弄清楚第一次谋杀案在安多弗发生时，他有没有外出。哦，先生，您该知道，要回忆起三个月前发生的事情可不是件容易的事。可最终我们还是有了答案，六月二十一日马伯里太太有位兄弟从加拿大来看望她。他好像是突然来的，她想给他找个床铺，于是莉莉便建议，由于卡斯特先生外出，伯特·史密斯可以睡他的床。可马伯里太太不同意，因为她认为用他租房人的房间不太好，她总是希望自己能做得公平。而我们则算出那个日子没错，因为伯特·史密斯的船就是那天在南汉普敦靠岸的。” 　　克罗姆警督非常仔细地听着，不时地记下点什么。 　　“讲完了？”他问。 　　“讲完了，先生。我希望您不会认为我是在无事生非。” 　　汤姆有点脸红。 　　“不会的。你来这里是相当正确的做法。当然，这个证据并不充分——时间可能是个巧合，而姓名则只是相仿而已。可这当然表明我该同你的卡斯特先生见个面。他现在在家吗？” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“他什么时候回来的？” 　　“唐克斯特谋杀案的当天晚上，先生。” 　　“回来后他一直在做什么？” 　　“大部分时间他都呆在房间里，先生。他看上去非常奇怪，马伯里太太是那样说的。他买了许多报纸——很早就出门去买早报，天黑之后去买晚报。马伯里还说他不时自言自语。她觉得他越来越奇怪了。” 　　“马伯里太太的地址是什么？” 　　汤姆把地址给他。 　　“谢谢。我可能今天会到那里去转转，我得提醒你，如果碰到这位卡斯特先生的话，要注意你的态度。” 　　他站起来，握了握手。 　　“你到这里来，做得很对，应该感到很满意了。再见，哈廷格先生。” 　　“那么，先生，”过了一会儿，雅格布斯重新回到房间，他问道，“您是否认为那就是你要找的人？” 　　“极有可能。”克罗姆警督说，“如果那小伙子所说的情况属实的话，就是那个人。我们还没有找到长统袜的生产厂家。现在我们掌握了一些情况。请你顺便把彻斯顿案子的卷宗给我。” 　　他花了些时间来寻找他所要的情况。 　　“啊，早在这里。托基警方的供词纪录中有。有一位叫希尔的年轻人，他证明说，在看完电影《不识燕雀》之后离开托基雅典娜剧院时，他看到一个男人行动很古怪，在对自己说着什么。希尔听到他说‘这倒是个主意’。《不识燕雀》——，就是那部在唐克斯特王室影院里放映的影片。” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“这当中可能有些情况。当时并不算什么，可那种操作方法被我们这个家伙运用在下一场谋杀中，这是极有可能的事。我们有希尔的姓名与地址。他对那个男人的描述挺不清楚的，但他和玛丽·斯特劳德以及汤姆·哈廷格的叙述相吻合。” 　　他若有所思地点点头。 　　“我们就快要找到他了。”克罗姆说道——这个说法相当不准确，因为他自己总是有点冷淡。 　　“有什么指示吗，先生？” 　　“要找两个人去监视卡姆登镇的这个地方，可我并不想惊动我们的小鸟。我必须同助理督察谈一谈。然后我想该把卡斯特带到这里来，问他是否愿意陈述一下情况。” 　　汤姆出来后，莉莉·马伯里迎了上去。她一直在泰晤士河堤上等着他。 　　“挺好吧，汤姆？” 　　“我见到了克罗姆警督，他负责这桩案子。” 　　“他长的什么样？” 　　“有点安静，呃，——不是我想象中的那样机敏。” 　　“他是特伦查德爵士式的新类型。”莉莉满怀敬意地说道，“他们当中的一些人真是伟大。那么，他说了些什么？” 　　汤姆简单地把谈话内容讲述了一遍。 　　“那么他们是否真的认为是他？” 　　“他们认为有可能是。不管怎样，他们会过去向他问一两个问题。” 　　“可怜的卡斯特先生。” 　　“最好别说是可怜的卡斯特先生。如果他真是ABC 的话，他已经制造了四起可怕的谋杀案。” 　　莉莉叹了口气，摇摇头。 　　“听起来真可怕。”莉莉说道。 　　“好的，现在随便吃点午餐吧。你可以想一想，如果我们弄对了的话，我希望我的名字会在报纸上出现。” 　　“哦，会吗，汤姆？” 　　“当然，还有你的名字，还会有马伯里太太的名字，而且我敢说你的照片也会出现在报上。” 　　“哦，汤姆。”莉莉心旷神怡地紧紧抓住汤姆的手臂。 　　“还有，你认为去角落屋餐厅吃午饭怎么样？” 　　莉莉抓得更紧了。 　　“那就快点吧。” 　　“好吧，马上就好。我必须从车站打个电话。” 　　“给谁打？” 　　“是我要见的一个女孩子。” 　　她穿过马路，三分钟后又回到他的身边，看起来很是得意。 　　“那么现在，汤姆。” 　　她的手臂挽住他。 　　“再给我讲讲苏格兰场的事。你去那里有没有见过另外一个人？” 　　“哪一个？” 　　“那个比利时绅士。那个ABC总写信去的人。” 　　“没有，他没在那里。” 　　“那么，把全部情况都讲给我听吧。” 　　卡斯特先生轻轻地将话筒放回到勾子上。 　　他回到房门口，马伯里太太站在那里，很显然是在好奇地听着。 　　“你不常有电话来，是吗，卡斯特先生。” 　　“哦——是的，马伯里太太，不常有。” 　　“不是什么坏消息吧，我相信。” 　　“不，不。”这个妇人真顽固。他的眼睛盯着自己的手中的报纸。 　　“我妹妹刚生了个男孩。”他漏出一句话。 　　他——可从没有过妹妹。 　　“哦，天哪！现在——噢，太好了，我想。（“这么些年来从未听他说过有一个妹妹，”她心里这么想。“那可不像是男人的行为。”）我感到很奇怪，我可以告诉你，当那个女士说要找卡斯特先生讲话的时候。起先我还以为是我的莉莉的声音——那有点像她的声音，它有点——只是更要傲慢些，如果你明白我的意思的话——那种声音比较尖。卡斯特先生，祝贺你。是第一个孩子，或者你还有其他的小外甥或外甥女？” 　　“就这一个，”卡斯特先生说道，“我只有这么一个，我想我该马上走。他们——他们希望我过去，我——我想如果快点的话，我还可以赶上一趟火车。” 　　“你会离开很长时间吗，卡斯特先生？”当他匆忙上楼时，马伯里太太问道。 　　“哦，不会，两到三天，就这么长。” 　　他走进卧室。马伯里太太回到厨房，动情地想着“那个可爱的小男孩”。 　　她的良心使她突然间感到内疚。 　　就在昨天晚上，汤姆和莉莉还在往回核对那些日子！试图弄清楚卡斯特就是那个可怕的怪物ABC。那只是因为他的名字缩写和一些巧合。 　　“我想他们不太当真。”她宽慰地说，“现在，我希望他们会为自己感到惭愧。” 　　在某种连她自己也解释不清的方式之下，卡斯特先生关于他妹妹有个孩子的说法已经很有效地使得马伯里太太消除她对这位房客真实身份的怀疑。 　　“我希望她没有太难受，可怜的人。”马伯里太太一边想着，一边在熨烫莉莉的丝绸套裙之前，先在她的脸颊上试了试熨斗的底部。 　　她的思绪则舒畅地想着那件并不轻松的生孩子的事情。 　　卡斯特先生轻轻地下了楼，手里拎着包。他双眼朝着电话机盯了一会儿。 　　刚才那简短的谈话又在他脑中回响。 　　“是你吗，卡斯特先生？我想你可能愿意知道，有位苏格兰场的警督想见见你……” 　　他说了些什么？他记不清了。 　　“谢谢——谢谢，我亲爱的……你真好……” 　　似乎就是这些话。 　　她为什么给他打电话？她是不是可能已经猜到？还是她只想证实一下他能留下来等候那个警督的来访？ 　　可是她怎么会知道那警督会来呢？还有她的声音——她伪装的声音使她的母亲都听不出来。 　　看起来——看起来——好像她知道…… 　　可是如果她真的知道，就不会…… 　　不管如何，她可能已经知道。女人都是非常奇怪的，没法预知的狠心和没法预知的善良。她曾看到莉莉把一只老鼠从鼠夹中放跑。 　　一个善良的姑娘…… 　　一个善良、美丽的姑娘…… 　　他在挂有雨伞和上衣的架子旁停下。 　　他该怎么做？ 　　从厨房传来的声响使他作出决定…… 　　不，已没有时间…… 　　马伯里太太可能会出来…… 　　他打开前门，穿出去，又关上门。 　　要去哪里呢？ Chapter 29 AT SCOTLAND YARD Conference again. The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself. The A.C. was saying: "A good tip that of yours, M. Poirot, about checking a large sale of stockings." Poirot spread out his hands. "It was indicated. This man could not be a regular agent. He sold outright instead of touting for orders." "Got everything clear so far, inspector? "I think so, sir." Crome consulted a file. "Shall I run over the position to date?" "Yes, please." "I've checked up with Churston, Paignton and Torquay. Got a list of people where he went and offered stockings. I must say he did the thing thoroughly. Stayed at the Pitt, small hotel near Torre Station. Returned to the hotel at 10:30 on the night of the murder. Could have taken a train from Churston at 10:05, getting to Paignton at 10:15. No one answering to his description noticed on train or at stations, but that Thursday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear were pretty full. "Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Glove under his own name. Offered stockings to about a dozen addresses, including Mrs. Barnard and including the Ginger Cat. Left hotel early in the evening. Arrived back in London about 11:30 the following morning. As to Andover, same procedure. Stayed at the Feathers. Offered stockings to Mrs. Fowler, next door to Mrs. Ascher, and to half a dozen other people in the street. The pair Mrs. Ascher had I got from the niece (name of Drower) - they're identical with Cust's supply." "So far, good," said the A.C. "Acting on information received," said the inspector, "I went to the address given me by Hartigan, but found that Cust had left the house about half an hour previously. He received a telephone message, I'm told. First time such a thing had happened to him, so his landlady told me." "An accomplice?" suggested the Assistant Commissioner. "Hardly," said Poirot. "It is odd that - unless -" We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused. He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded. "I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery and - at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored - a parcel much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain - not hosiery - but eight new A.B.C. railway guides!" "Proof positive," said the Assistant Commissioner. "I've found something else, too," said the inspector - his voice becoming suddenly almost human with triumph. "Only found it this morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife in his room -" "It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him," remarked Poirot. "After all, he's not a reasonable human being," remarked the Inspector. "Anyway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it (as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about elsewhere. What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it straightaway. The hall stand - no one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall - and there it was!" "The knife?" "The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood's still on it." "Good work, Crome," said the A.C. approvingly. "We only need one thing more now." "What's that?" "The man himself." "We'll get him, sir. Never fear." The inspector's tone was confident. "What do you say, M. Poirot?" Poirot started out of a reverie. "I beg your pardon?" "We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we get our man. Do you agree?" "Oh, that - yes. Without a doubt." His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously. "Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?" "There is something that worries me very much. It is the why? The motive?" "But, my dear fellow, the man's crazy," said the Assistant Commissioner impatiently. "I understand what M. Poirot means," said Crome, coming graciously to the rescue. "He's quite right. There's got to be some definite obsession. I think we'll find the root of the matter in an intensified inferiority complex. There may be persecution mania, too, and if so he may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down." "H'm," said the A.C. "That's the jargon that's talked nowadays. In my day if a man was mad he was mad and we didn't look about for scientific terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor would suggest putting a man like A.B.C. in a nursing home, telling him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting him out as a responsible member of society." Poirot smiled but did not answer. The conference broke up. "Well," said the Assistant Commissioner. "As you say, Crome, pulling him in is only a matter of time." "We'd have had him before now," said the inspector, "if he wasn't so ordinary-looking. We've worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens as it is." "I wonder where he is at this minute," said the Assistant Commissioner. 第二十九章　在苏格兰场 　　又是会议。 　　会议的参加人员包括厅长助理、克罗姆警督、波洛和我自己。 　　厅长助理正说着： 　　“波洛先生，你们在调查一大笔长统袜销售情况，干得很好。” 　　波洛摊开双手。 　　“这说明，那个男子并不是个固定的经销商，他向外推销却不招徕订单。” 　　“现在一切都清楚了吗，警督？” 　　“是的，先生。”克罗姆警督察看着一份卷宗，“我可以概括一下到目前为止的进展情况吗？” 　　“是的，请吧。” 　　“我已经检查过彻斯顿、佩恩顿和托基，获得了一张他前去推销长统袜的人的名单。我必须指出，他做得相当周密。他住在皮特，那是一间托雷车站旁边的小旅店，可能是从彻斯顿搭乘九点五十七分的火车，于十点二十分抵达托雷的。在火车上和车站里没人注意到过像他那种模样的人。可那个星期五正好是达特茅斯赛艇会，从金斯维尔返回的列车坐得相当满。” 　　“贝克斯希尔的情况也大致相同。他用自己的名字住在环球旅店，向巴纳德太太和黄猫餐厅在内的十几个地方推销袜子。他夜里早早地离开旅店，第二天早上约十一点三十分返回伦敦。至于在安多弗，也是相同的程序。他住在菲瑟斯酒店，向阿谢尔太太的邻居福勒太太和那条街上的好几个人出售袜子。我从阿谢尔太太的外甥女（名叫德劳尔）那里获得的那双袜子与卡斯特出售的一样。” 　　“好。”厅长助理说道。 　　“根据我们得到的消息，”警督说，“我去了哈廷格先生给我的地址，可发现卡斯特先生已在大约半个小时之前离开。我被告知，他接到了一个电话，这样的事情是第一次发生，是他的房东告诉我的。” 　　“是同谋吗？”厅长助理提醒道。 　　“不太像。”波洛说，“这很奇怪——除非——” 　　当他停下来时，我们都好奇地望着他。 　　他摇摇头，而警督接着说。 　　“我仔细地检查了他住的房间，检查使得事情清楚起来。我发现了一批便笺纸，这些纸同写信用的纸相同。有大量的袜子——藏在柜子背后——还有相同形状和大小的一包东西，里面装的可不是袜子——而是八本新的ABC铁路指南书。” 　　“这足以证明。”厅长助理说。 　　“我还发现其他一些物品，”警督说，他的声音突然变得颇有人情味，并得意洋洋，“只是在今天早上才发现，先生，还没来得及汇报。他的屋里倒是没有刀的迹象——” 　　“如果把刀带回家里，那是个低能儿的行为。”波洛说道。 　　“毕竟他并不是个可以理喻的人。”警督评论道，“不管怎样，我想到他有可能把刀子带回家，然后会意识到把刀藏在房间里的危险性（正如波洛先生所指出的那样），就寻找其他地方。他会选择什么地方来藏刀呢？我一下子就找到了。衣帽架——没有人动过衣帽架。我费了好大劲才将衣帽架从墙边移开——它就在那里。” 　　“是刀子吗？” 　　“是刀子。毫无疑问，上面还有干了的血迹。” 　　“干得好，克罗姆。”厅长助理赞赏道，“现在我们只是再需要一件事。” 　　“是什么？” 　　“那个人自己。” 　　“我们会抓住他的，先生。别担心。” 　　警督的语调满怀信心。 　　“波洛先生，你认为如何？” 　　波洛从沉思中惊醒。 　　“请再说一遍。” 　　“我们正说到要抓住那个人只是时间问题了。你同意吗？” 　　“噢，那个——是的，毫无疑问。” 　　他的语调是那么心不在焉，以至于别人都惊奇地看着他。 　　“你有什么可担心的吗，波洛先生？” 　　“有一件事情使我非常担心，就是为什么？就是动机。” 　　“可是，亲爱的朋友，那个人疯了。”厅长助理不耐烦地说。 　　“我明白波洛指的是什么意思。”克罗姆很有礼貌地解围，“他挺正确的，这里面肯定有令他困惑的地方。我想我们会从一种强烈的自卑感中找到问题的根源，也可能是个迫害狂，如果是这样的话，他就可能把它同波洛先生联系在一起了。他可能会误认为，波洛先生是专门雇来捉他的侦探。” 　　“嗯，”厅长助理说，“那就是这些天来谈论的行话。在我那个时候，如果一个人疯了，他就是疯了，而我们并不寻求科学的概念来使其变得柔和。我想，一个彻头彻尾现代化了的医生会建议把像ABC这样的人放在有护理的家中，用四十五天时间告诉他是个怎样的好人，然后把他放出去，当作是一个对社会负责的人。” 　　波洛笑了，但是他没有说话。 　　会议就此散了。 　　“那么，”厅长助理说。“正如你所说，克罗姆，将他抓获只是个时间问题。” 　　“如果他不是那样相貌平平的话，我们早就逮住他了。我们已经使得够多的无辜百姓担惊受怕了。” 　　“我倒疑惑他此刻在哪里。”厅长助理说。 Chapter 30 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Mr. Cust stood by a greengrocer's shop. He stared across the road. Yes, that was it. Mrs. Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist... In the empty window was a sign. To Let. Empty... Lifeless... "Excuse me, sir." The greengrocer's wife, trying to get at some lemons. He apologized, moved to one side. Slowly he shuffled away - back towards the main street of the town... It was difficult - very difficult - now that he hadn't any money left... Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed... He looked at a poster outside a newsagent's shop. The A.B.C. Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interview with M. Hercule Poirot. Mr. Cust said to himself: "Hercule Poirot. I wonder if he knows " He walked on again. It wouldn't do to stand staring at that poster... He thought: "I can't go on much longer..." Foot in front of foot... what an odd thing walking was... Foot in front of foot - ridiculous. Highly ridiculous... But man was a ridiculous animal anyway... And he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, was particularly ridiculous... He always had been... People had always laughed at him... He couldn't blame them... Where was he going? He didn't know. He'd come to the end. He no longer looked anywhere but at his feet. Foot in front of foot. He looked up. Lights in front of him. And letters... Police Station. "That's funny," said Mr. Cust. He gave a little giggle. Then he stepped inside. Suddenly, as he did so, he swayed and fell forward. 第三十章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　卡斯特先生站在一家蔬菜水果店旁边。 　　他盯着马路对面。 　　是的，就是那个地方。 　　阿谢尔太太。报刊和烟草店…… 　　在那个空空的窗上有个招牌。 　　转让。 　　空空如也…… 　　毫无生气…… 　　“对不起，先生。” 　　蔬菜水果店的妻子要去取些柠檬。 　　他说了句歉意的话，站到一边。 　　他慢慢地挪开——回到镇里的大街上…… 　　这很难……非常之难……现在他已身无分文…… 　　一整天都没有吃任何东西，使得一个人感觉非常奇怪和轻飘飘…… 　　他看了看一家报刊店门外的海报。 　　ABC案件，凶犯依然在逃。采访赫尔克里·波洛先生。 　　卡斯特自言自语地说道： 　　“赫尔克里·波洛，我怀疑他是否已获知……” 　　他继续往前走。 　　站在那里盯着海报看毫无用处。 　　他想： 　　“我走不了太远……” 　　脚步摇摇晃晃……这样子走路多么奇怪…… 　　脚步摇摇晃晃——真是荒谬。 　　太荒谬了…… 　　可人就是一种荒谬的动物…… 　　而他，亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特尤其荒谬。 　　他总是这样…… 　　人们总是嘲笑他…… 　　他不能埋怨他们…… 　　他要到哪里去？他不知道。他走到了尽头。他哪儿也不看，只看着他的脚。 　　脚步摇摇晃晃。 　　他抬头向上看。前面是灯，还有信件…… 　　警察局。 　　“真有意思。”卡斯特先生说，他发出痴笑。 　　然后他走了进去。突然间，当他走进去的时候，他身子一晃，向前倒去。

Chapter 23 SEPTEMBER 11TH, DONCASTER Doncaster! I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life. Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies automatically not to horse-racing but to murder. When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense of insufficiency. We were here - on the spot - Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drower, and in the last resort what could any of us do? We were building on a forlorn hope on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three months back. The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such a recognition was Thora Grey. Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her callous efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together and weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot. "I never really looked at him... Why didn't I? What a fool I was. You're depending on me, all of you... and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn't recognize him. I've got bad memory for faces." Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirot was no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was. He patted her shoulder kindly. "Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you would recognize him." "How do you know?" "Oh, a great many reasons - for one, because the red succeeds the black." "What do you mean, Poirot?" I cried. "I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black - but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance." "You mean that luck turns?" "Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer, who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation. Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not leave the tables in good time with his pockets full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance - but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned - no crime can be successful without luck!" "Isn't that going rather far?" demurred Franklin Clarke. Poirot waved his hands excitedly. "No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that some one enters Mrs. Ascher's shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman - and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith." "Yes, of course, that's possible," admitted Clarke. "What it comes to is that a murderer's got to take a chance." "Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says only, 'I have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows... nd then, mes amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over - it drops into a new number and the croupier calls out 'Rouge.'" "You think that will happen in this case?" asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown. "It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal - sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes..." "I will say you're heartening," said Franklin Clarke. "We all need a bit of comfort. I've had a paralyzing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up." "It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value," said Donald Fraser. Megan rapped out: "Don't be a defeatist, Don." Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said: "What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend's in this place, and so are we - and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes." I fumed: "If only we could do something more." "You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the race-course. There will be plain clothes men everywhere. There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned." Donald Fraser shook his head. "He'll never attempt it, I'm thinking," he said more hopefully. "The man would just be mad!" "Unfortunately," said Clarke dryly, "he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?" "In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would he to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson's opinion. Our hope is that he may he caught in the attempt." Donald shook his head again. "He'll be very cunning." Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the racecourse. I say "we." Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A.B.C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies. Poirot had agreed - I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye. The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought. Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot. "Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say - or hint - I mean - did she suggest at all -?" He stopped, embarrassed. Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions. "Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint or suggest - what?" Franklin Clarke got rather red. "Perhaps you think this isn't a time for butting in with personal things -" "Du tout!" "But I feel I'd like to get things quite straight." "An admirable course." This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot's bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily. "My sister-in-law's an awfully nice woman - I've been very fond of her always - but of course she's been ill some time - and in that kind of illness - being given drugs and all that - one tends to - well to fancy things about people!" "Ah!" By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot's eye. But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it. "It's about Thora - Miss Grey," he said. "Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?" Poirot's tone held innocent surprise. "Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora - Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl -" "Perhaps - yes," conceded Poirot. "And women are, even the best of them, a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother - he always said she was the best secretary he ever had - and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and above-board. I mean, Thora isn't the sort of girl -" "No?" said Poirot helpfully. "But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be - well - jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car's death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on - well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it's partly the illness and the morphia and all that - Nurse Capstick says so - she says we mustn't blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head -" He paused. "Yes? "What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn't anything in it at all. It's just a sick woman's imaginings. Look here -" he fumbled in his pocket - "here's a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I'd like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on." Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud. - things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me that I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and a true affection. "You see," said Franklin. "That's how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot." "Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember." "I know. That's what I keep saying to myself. One mustn't judge her. All the same, I thought I'd show you this. I don't want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said." Poirot returned the letter. "I can assure you," he said, smiling, "that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything any one tells me. I form my own judgments." "Well," said Clarke, stowing away the letter, "I'm glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We'd better be off." As we left the room, Poirot called me back. "You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?" "Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here inactive." "There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings." "Well, you're better at it than I am," I said. "You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?" "That was the idea." "And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?" "Well - I - er - hadn't considered yet." "What about Miss Barnard?" "She's rather the independent type," I demurred. "Miss Grey?" "Yes. She's better." "I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently honest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!" "Oh, really, Poirot!" "I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere." "Oh, all right. I think you've got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl." "The person you are to escort is Mary Drower - and I must request you not to leave her." "But, Poirot, why?" "Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances." I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched. But then I realized that if A.B.C. had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot's movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very neat fourth stroke. I promised to be faithful to my trust. I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window. In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me: "Rouge - that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!" 第二十三章　九月十一日，唐克斯特 　　唐克斯特！ 　　我想，我这辈子都会记得九月十一日那天。 　　实际上，当我一遇到圣莱杰赛马被人提到时，我的心思便会自然而然地飞向谋杀案，而不是赛马。 　　当我回忆起自我的感觉，最突出的是要数那令人作呕、无所作为的感觉。我们就在此地——就在现场，波洛、我自己、克拉克、弗雷泽、梅根·巴纳德、托拉·格雷和玛丽·德劳尔。而作为最后的一种办法，我们当中的任何人又能够做什么呢？ 　　我们怀着孤注一掷的期望——希望有机会能从数以千计的人群中认出一张脸或是某个人来，这个人仅仅是在一两个月以前被模糊地看到过。 　　现实中的可能性则要大得多。在我们所有人当中，唯一有可能做出确认的人是托拉·格雷。 　　在这种状况之下，她的一部分的安详宁静便崩溃了，她平日那种平静、麻利的模样消失得无影无踪。她坐在那里，双手搓绞在一起，几乎是在呜咽着哭泣，语无伦次地向波洛求助。 　　“我从没有正眼看过他……我为什么不看呢？我真是傻。你们都在依靠我，你们所有人……而我会使你们失望的。因为即便我再次见到他。我也可能已认不出他来。我对人的长相总是记不清。” 　　不管波洛会对我讲些什么，也无论他看上去像是要对那姑娘苛求责备，他现在所表现出来的只有和蔼。他的态度极端的友善温和。当身处烦恼之中的时候，波洛对漂亮姑娘的态度并不比我冷漠，这使我印象深刻。 　　他友好地拍拍她的肩膀。 　　“现在，Petite（法文，意为：小家伙。——译注），别太歇斯底里，我们可不能那样子。如果你见到这个人，你一定会认出他来的。” 　　“你怎么知道？” 　　“哦，有许多原因——其中之一，是因为红能胜过黑。” 　　“你是什么意思，波洛？”我叫道。 　　“我是在讲赌桌上的行话。在轮盘赌中黑色可能会一直运势不错，可最终红色定能倒转过来。这是数学概率。” 　　“你是说，时运会转变？” 　　“千真万确，黑斯廷斯，这就是赌徒（或凶手，由于他赌的不是金钱而是性命，他最终只是个超级赌徒）经常会缺乏预料的地方。因为他一旦得逞，便会相信他能够继续赢下去。他手气很好、口袋鼓鼓时是不会离开赌桌的。在犯罪案件当中，得逞的凶手是不会去设想那种失败的可能性的！他居功自傲。可我告诉你，我的朋友，无论经过多么周到的策划，若没有运气，是不会有罪行能够得逞的。” 　　“那是否离题太远了点？”富兰克林·克拉克反对地说。 　　波洛激动地摆摆手。 　　“不，不。如果你喜欢的话，它是一次均等的机会，可它必须对你有利。请注意！当凶手准备离开阿谢尔太太的小店时，有人也许正好进去，这是可能的事。那人可能会想起看看柜台后面，这就可能会看到那个死去的妇人——这样，他既可能马上会对凶手动手，也可能向警察准确无误地描述那人的模样，以至于他可能会立刻被逮捕。” 　　“是的，当然那很可能。”克拉克承认道，“可现在的情形是，那凶手已获得了机会。” 　　“确实如此。凶手往往就是个赌徒，而且，就像许多赌徒一样，凶手常常不知道什么时候能停下来。每经历过一次罪案，他对自己能力的判断就会得到加强，从而使之偏颇。他不会说‘我挺聪明和运气的’，不，他只会说‘我挺聪明！’他对自己聪明的认识渐渐增长。然后，mes amis（法文，意为：我的朋友们。——译注），小球便旋转，颜色会运转过去，球停在一个新的数字上，赌场的庄家便会叫出‘Rouge （法文，意为：红色。——译注）’。” 　　“你认为这种情况将在本案中出现吗？”梅根问道，她皱起眉头。 　　“它迟早肯定会发生！到目前为止，那罪犯一直运气不错——但迟早运气会转朝我们这边。我相信运气已经倒转！长统袜线索就是开端。现在，每件事都会与他做对，不会让他得心应手！而他，则开始犯错误……” 　　“我觉得你给人鼓舞，”富兰克林说，“我们大家都需要一点安慰。自醒来后，我已有了一种无助而气馁的感觉。” 　　“我看我们很难做成任何具有实际价值的事情。”唐纳德·弗雷泽说。 　　梅根粗声地说： 　　“别当一个失败主义者，唐。” 　　玛丽·德劳尔脸有点涨红，说道： 　　“我所说的话，你们永远也不会懂。那个邪恶的魔鬼就在此地，我们也同样在这里。而有的时候，你毕竟会以最离奇的方式遭遇到别人。” 　　我激动地说道： 　　“要是我们能再多做些事该多好。” 　　“你必须牢记，黑斯廷斯。警方正在极尽可能地做好每一件事，也已招募到一些拥有特殊技能的警监。那位好心的克罗姆警督可能容易发怒，可他仍是个能干的警官，而警察局长安德森上校则是个实干家。他们已经采取了最多的措施，在小镇和赛马场进行值勤和巡逻，到处都会有便衣。还有新闻宣传攻势，公众也得到了全面的警告。” 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽摇头。 　　“我在想，他是不会下手的，”他一相情愿地说，“那家伙一定会疯的。” 　　“不幸的事，”克拉克干巴巴地说，“他是个疯子！你怎么看，波洛先生？他会放弃不干，还是会铤而走险？” 　　“以我所见，他那种执迷不悟的力量会使他必须要竭力信守诺言！如果他不动手，就是在承认失败，而他那种疯狂的自我主义是永远不会放弃的。我可以说，这也是汤普森医生的观点。我们则寄希望于在他尝试时能逮住他。” 　　唐纳德再次摇摇头。 　　“他会十分狡诈的。” 　　波洛瞥了一眼手表。我们注意到了这个暗示。我们要全天都谨慎以待，上午在尽可能多的街道中巡逻。然后驻守在赛马场的众多可能的地点。 　　我说的是“我们”。当然，就我自己而言，这样的巡逻没什么大作用，因为我从未能够把眼睛盯住ABC。然而，既然这个主意是要尽可能的覆盖广阔的地盘，我便提议我还是做一位女士的护卫。 　　波洛表示同意——而我则担心他的眨眼之中藏着什么意思。 　　姑娘们带上帽子散开去。唐纳德·弗雷泽站在窗边，向外张望，显然是思绪茫然不知所措。 　　富兰克林·克拉克瞥眼看着他，明显地感觉到身边的这个男人心不在焉，听不进话。他于是降低话音，同波洛攀谈起来。 　　“瞧，波洛先生。我知道，你去了彻斯顿，见过我嫂子。她有没有说过——或是暗示——我的意思是，她有没有提起过什么事？” 　　他停住口，挺懊丧。 　　波洛显出一副单纯无知的神情，开口回答起来，这使我大生怀疑。 　　“Comment（法文，意为：什么。——译注）？你嫂子说过、暗示过或是提议过什么？” 　　富兰克林·克拉克脸色渐红。“可能你认为这并不是涉及个人事务的时机——” 　　“Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注）！” 　　“可我倒是想直接面对问题。” 　　“真是令人钦佩的理由。” 　　这一次，我想，克拉克对波洛那张温和的脸孔产生了怀疑，因为它掩饰着某种内在的欢娱。他重重地咳嗽起来。 　　“我嫂子是个很好的女人——我一直挺喜欢她的，可她时常生病。久病之人经常使用麻醉品之类的东西，往往难免会对别人胡思乱想！” 　　“噢？” 　　现在，波洛的眼神当中已没有异议。 　　但富兰克林·克拉克完全被自己的对话任务所吸引，并没有注意到这一点。 　　“那是关于托拉·格雷小、姐。”他说。 　　“哦，你是说格雷小、姐？”波洛的口气中带着纯真的惊讶。 　　“是的，克拉克女勋爵脑中有别的想法。你瞧，托拉——格雷小、姐是个挺漂亮的姑娘——” 　　“可能——是吧。”波洛承认道。 　　“而女人，即便是最优秀的女人，对其他女人总是有点恶意的。当然，托拉对我哥哥来说极其宝贵——他总说她是他见过的最好的秘书——他非常喜欢她。可这一切都是光明正大的。我的意思是，托拉不是那种姑娘——” 　　“不是吗？”波洛附和地说。 　　“可我嫂子择满脑子都是——嫉妒，我想。她到并没有显露过什么。可自从卡死后，只要格雷小、姐有什么问题——夏洛特总会发脾气。当然，这也有部分原因是由于病情和吗啡的缘故——卡普斯蒂克护士是这样讲的。她说我们不该责怪夏洛特满脑子里都塞满了这些念头。” 　　他停顿下来。 　　“是吗？” 　　“我想让你理解的是，波洛先生，那当中压根没什么事。那仅仅是一个病妇的胡思乱想。请看这里——”他在口袋中摸索，“这是我在马来群岛的时候，我哥哥给我写来的信。我希望你能读一下，以便能明白他们之间是什么关系。” 　　波洛接过信，富兰克林来到他身边，用手指指着信件，大声地朗读出信中的部分内容： 　　“——这里的情形一如既往。夏洛特的疼痛状况已有所减缓，我希望可以说是减轻了很多。你也许记得托拉·格雷？她是个可爱的姑娘，对我来说是极大的安慰。这远非我的言语可以表达。她的同情心和情趣不容怀疑的。她对美好的事物有着一种高雅的品位和鉴赏力，能与我分享对中国艺术的强烈爱好，能找到她确实是我的至幸。再没有别的姑娘能像她这样，成为我更亲近和更钟情合意的伙伴。她的生活挺辛苦的。也并不一直快乐，可我很高兴能感觉到她有一种对家庭的真正钟爱之情。” 　　“你瞧，”富兰克林说，“那就是我哥哥对她的切身感受。他把她看作女儿。而我哥哥一去世，他妻子实际上即把她逐出那所房子，这令我感觉极不公平！女人真是些恶魔，波洛先生。” 　　“请记住，你嫂子正沉浸在疾病和痛苦之中。” 　　“我知道。我也是那样告诉自己的，我们不该对她进行评论。同样，我想给你看这封信，是并不想因为克拉克女勋爵所说的任何话语，而使你对托拉产生错误的印象。” 　　波洛把信交还给他。 　　“我可以向你保证，”他笑着说，“我从不允许自己从别人告诉我的任何事物之中产生错误的印象。我有自己的判断。” 　　“好，”克拉克说，一边藏好那封信，“我很高兴还是给你看了信。姑娘们来了，我们最好离开吧。” 　　正当我们离开房间时，波洛把我叫了回来。 　　“你真的决定要一同去巡查，黑斯廷斯？” 　　“哦，是的。在这里呆着无所事事，我是不会高兴的。” 　　“思维同样可以向身体一样行动，黑斯廷斯。” 　　“哦，你在那方面做的比我要好。”我说。 　　“无可争辩，你很正确，黑斯廷斯。我提议你有意地向一位女士献殷勤，我说得对吗？” 　　“那倒是个好主意。” 　　“那你希望去陪伴那位女士呢？” 　　“哦，哦——呃——还没有考虑过。” 　　“巴纳德小、姐怎么样？” 　　“她是独立的那种人。”我反对道。 　　“格雷小、姐？” 　　“是的。她要好一些。” 　　“我发现你，黑斯廷斯，真是标新立异，尽管显而易见，你极不诚实！你早已打定主意要与你的金发天使在一起。” 　　“哦，是的，波洛。” 　　“我很抱歉搅乱你的计划，可我必须要求你另寻他人给予保护。” 　　“噢，没关系。我想你已发现那荷兰姑娘的弱点。” 　　“你要保护的姑娘是玛丽·德劳尔——而且我要你寸步不离她左右。” 　　“可是，波洛，这是为什么？” 　　“因为，我亲爱的朋友，她的姓名是以D开头的。我们不能措施任何机会。” 　　我领悟了他话语中间的含义。起初，这看来遥不可及，可随即我认识到，如果ABC 嫉妒憎恨波洛，他很可能会对波洛的行动了如指掌。在这种情况下，除掉玛丽·德劳尔会是对他最恰当不过的第四次打击。 　　我承诺要忠实于自己的责任。 　　我离屋出门，波洛则留下来，坐在窗边的椅子里。 　　在他面前是一个小型的轮盘赌的转轮。在我出门时，他拉动转轮，在我身后喊道： 　　“Rouge（法文，意为：红色。——译注）——这可是个好兆头，黑斯廷斯。运势在转变。” Chapter 24 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Below his breath Mr. Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it. All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr. Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week. The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr. Leadbetter's opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation: "Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan't starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls -" Mr. Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn't wait till the end of a film... and to leave at this soul-stirring moment. Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr. Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York. And now she was boarding the train - the child in her arms... What curious trains they had in America - not at all like English trains. Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains... The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end. Mr. Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up. He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little. He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life. He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon - naturally. They were all at the races. Mr. Leadbetter did not approve of racing or of playing cards or of drinking or of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures. Every one was hurrying towards the exit. Mr. Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep - slumped down in his chair. Mr. Leadbetter felt indignant to think that any one could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on. An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way: "Excuse me, sir." Mr. Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back. There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire... little knot of people. Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep... He hesitated and then passed out - and in so doing missed the sensation of the day - a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St. Leger at 85 to 1. The commissionaire was saying: "Believe you're right, sir... He's ill Why - what's the matter, sir?" The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear. "Blood..." The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation. He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat. "Gorblimy!" he said. "It an A.B.C." 第二十四章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　利德贝特先生从喉咙里发出不耐烦的咕哝声。此刻，他的邻座正站起身来，笨拙而又步履蹒跚地经过他面前，倾斜着身子去取回他掉在前排的座位上的帽子。 　　这时，《不识燕雀》正是高潮时刻，这部悲伧美丽的影片中明星荟萃、震撼人心，利德贝特先生整个星期都在期望一睹为快。 　　那个满头金发的女英雄是由凯瑟琳·罗亚尔扮演（在利德贝特先生的心目当中，她是全世界最好的女演员），她此时正好在倾吐出一声愤怒的呐喊： 　　“决不。我将要挨饿，可是我不能挨饿。请记住这句话：燕雀不会跌落——” 　　利德贝特先生左顾右盼地摇头，极其烦恼。这些家伙！人们为什么不等到影片结尾……而要在这个扣人心弦的时刻离去。 　　噢，现在要好一些。那个恼人的男子已过去，利德贝特先生能看到画面的全景，能看到凯瑟琳·罗亚尔站在纽约范·西埃奈大厦的窗边。 　　而此时此刻，她正要登上火车——手中抱着孩子……在美国，他们那里的火车真奇怪——一点也不像英格兰的火车。 　　啊，又是史蒂夫在山中的小棚屋内…… 　　电影正临近那个充满感情和半宗教色彩的结局。 　　灯光亮起，利德贝特先生满意地舒了一口气。 　　他慢慢地站起身，微微地挤挤眼睛。 　　他从不会迅即离开影院，总要花上一些时间，才能回到平乏的现实生活中来。 　　他环顾四周。今天下午自然是人头寥落，人们都在赛马场上。利德贝特先生并不赞赏赛马，也不喜欢玩牌，不嗜烟酒。这使得他有更多的经历欣赏电影。 　　每个人都在匆忙地涌向出口，利德贝特先生也准备尾随着人流。他座位前面的那个人睡着了——身体陷在座位当中。在像《不识燕雀》这样的电影上演时，居然还会有人睡着，利德贝特先生感到愤愤不平。 　　一位激怒的男子向这个睡着的人发话，他伸出的腿挡住了路： 　　“请让一下，先生。” 　　利德贝特先生已来到出口处，他回头张望。 　　那儿似乎有点骚乱。一个剧场保安……一小群人……可能他前面那个人是喝得醉死，而不是睡着了…… 　　他犹豫着出门，正是这样，他错过了这一天的激情时刻——这比那匹诺特·哈夫小马在八十五匹马当中取胜还要令人激动。 　　那保安正说着： 　　“你该没事吧，先生……他病了……怎么，有什么事吗，先生？” 　　另外一个人则惊呼着抬开那人的手，检查一些红色、粘稠的污物。 　　“是血……” 　　保安员发出一声沉闷的惊叫。 　　他看到座位底下黄色物体的一角。 　　“哎呀！”他说。“那可是本ABC。” Chapter 25 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Mr. Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky. A beautiful evening... A really beautiful evening... A quotation from Browning came into his head. "God's in His heaven. All's right with the world." He had always been fond of that quotation. Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn't true. He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage. As he entered the room, his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively - wet and red - blood... His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something - a long, slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red... Mr. Cust sat there a long time. Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal. His tongue passed feverishly over his lips... "It isn't my fault," said Mr. Cust. He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody - a schoolboy pleading to his schoolmaster. He passed his tongue over his lips again... Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve. His eyes crossed the room to the washbasin. A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out... Ugh! The water was red now... A tap on the door. He stood there frozen into immobility - staring. The door opened. A plump young woman - jug in hand. "Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir." He managed to speak then. "Thank you. I've washed in cold " Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin. He said frenziedly: "I - I've cut my hand..." There was a pause - yes, surely a very long pause - before she said: "Yes, sir." She went out, shutting the door. Mr. Cust stood as though turned to stone. It had come - at last... He listened. Were there voices - exclamations - feet mounting the stairs? He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart... Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity. He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noise as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs... Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now? He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers. Mr. Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street. Round the first corner to the right - then to the left - right again... Dare he risk the station? Yes - there would be crowds there - special trains - if luck were on his side he would do it all right... If only luck were with him... 第二十五章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　卡斯特先生从王室影院中走出来，抬头望着天空。 　　这是个美丽的夜晚……一个真正美丽的夜晚…… 　　他的头脑中闪过布朗宁的一句话。 　　“上帝在天国之中，世界秩序井然。” 　　他一直挺喜欢那句话的。 　　只是在有时候，他常常会感到现实并非如此…… 　　他沿着街道小跑，一面冲着自己微笑，径直来到他下榻的黑天鹅旅店。 　　他登上楼梯来到房间，这是二楼的一间闷热的房间。有一间铺设地板的内院和车库已被弃之不用。 　　在他进入房间的时候，脸上的笑容突然间褪去。他衣服袖子的腕口有一处污迹。他尝试地摸了一下污迹——是湿湿的红色血迹…… 　　他的手伸进口袋当中，拿出一样物品，是把细长的刀。那刀刃上同样也是粘粘的红色…… 　　卡斯特先生长时间地坐着。 　　他双眼一度环视房间，像一头被擒获的野兽。 　　他的舌头不断地伸出嘴唇…… 　　他再一次尝试着抚摸衣服上的袖口。 　　一分钟后，他把水从老式水壶中倒进盆里。他脱下衣服，漂洗袖口，小心地挤出水来…… 　　啊！水现在变成了红色…… 　　这时有人敲门。 　　他站在那里，僵直不动——眼睛盯着看。 　　门打开了。是位丰满的年轻女士，她手中拿着水壶。 　　“哦，对不起，先生。您的热水，先生。” 　　他试图开口说话。 　　“谢谢……我已用冷水洗……” 　　他怎么会那样说话？她的眼睛立刻盯向水盆。 　　他激动地说：“我——割伤了手……” 　　那里有一阵停顿——是的，的确是很漫长的一阵停顿。随后她说：“是的，先生。” 　　她走出房间，把门关上。 　　卡斯特先生站在那里，仿佛变成了一块石头。 　　他倾听着。 　　它终于来临…… 　　有没有声音——惊叫——登上楼梯的脚步声？ 　　除了自己的心跳之外，他什么也听不见…… 　　然后，突然间，他从僵化的静止中变得活跃起来。 　　他迅速地穿上衣服，踮着脚走到门边，打开房门。那儿除了从酒吧传来的熟悉的叽喳声之外，别的什么声音也没有。他探步走下楼梯…… 　　依然不见人影，那可真是运气。他在楼梯脚下停住，现在要去哪里呢？ 　　他下定决心，迅速地沿着通道走去，穿过通向院子的门，走了出去。有几名司机在那里修整汽车，谈论着赛马地胜负。 　　卡斯特先生匆匆忙忙地穿过院子，来到大街上。 　　他在第一个街角向右拐——然后向左——再向右拐…… 　　他敢于冒险去车站吗？ 　　是的——那儿将会有人群——有特别的火车——如果运气在他这边的话，他会毫不出错地做到…… 　　要是运气站在他这边的话就好了…… Chapter 26 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr. Leadbetter. "I assure you, inspector, my heart misses a beat when I think of it. He must actually have been sitting beside me all through the programme!" Inspector Crome, completely indifferent to the behaviour of Mr. Leadbetter's heart, said: "Just let me have it quite clear. This man went out towards the close of the big picture -" "Not a Sparrow - Katherine Royal," murmured Mr. Leadbetter automatically. "He passed you and in doing so stumbled -" "He pretended to stumble, I see it now. Then he leaned over the seat in front to pick up his hat. He must have stabbed the poor fellow then." "You didn't hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?" Mr. Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a groan. Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him proceed. "And then he went out -" "Can you describe him?" "He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant." "Fair or dark?" "I - well - I'm not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow." "He didn't limp, did he?" asked Inspector Crome. "Yes - yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste." "Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?" "No. He came in after the big picture began." Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him. "That's about as bad a witness as you'll find," he remarked pessimistically. "He'd say anything with a little leading. It's perfectly clear that he hasn't the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let's have the commissionaire back." The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson. "Now, then, Jameson, let's hear your story." Jameson saluted. "Yes, sir. Close of the performance, sir, I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman's coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead - stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A.B.C. railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred." "Very good, Jameson, you acted very properly." "Thank you, sir." "Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five minutes earlier?" "There were several, sir." "Could you describe them?" "Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn't notice anybody else particular." "A pity. That'll do, Jameson." "Yes, sir." The commissionaire saluted and departed. "The medical details we've got," said Colonel Anderson. "We'd better have the fellow that found him next." A police constable came in and saluted. "Mr. Hercule Poirot's here, sir, and another gentleman." Inspector Crome frowned. "Oh, well," he said. "Better have 'em in, I suppose." 第二十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　克罗姆警督正在倾听利德贝特先生激动地讲述情况。 　　“警督，当我一想到这件事，我的心跳就会停止一下。在整个节目过程中，他肯定一直就坐在我身旁。” 　　克罗姆警督对利德贝特先生的心跳状态完全无动于衷，他说道： 　　“请让我了解得清楚一点。在影片快结束的时候，那个人离开座位出门——” 　　“那影片是《不识燕雀》，是由凯瑟琳·罗亚尔主演。”利德贝特先生自动地小声嘟囔。 　　“他经过你面前，步态蹒跚——” 　　“他是在假装步履跌跌绊绊的，我现在明白了。然后他把身体倾斜向前面的座位，去捡起帽子。他肯定是在那时候用刀刺向那个可怜的家伙的。” 　　“你听到什么没有？叫喊声？或是呻吟？” 　　除了凯瑟琳·罗亚尔那高声、嘶哑的口音之外，利德贝特先生什么也没听见。可他还是生动形象地依据想象杜撰了一声呻吟。 　　克罗姆警督浅显地注意了一下这呻吟声，要他继续讲下去。 　　“然后他便出去——” 　　“你能描述他的样子吗？” 　　“他是个大个子。至少有六英尺，是个高个。” 　　“肤色白晰还是黝黑？” 　　“我——嘿——我不太能确定。我想他秃头，是个面目狰狞的家伙。” 　　“他走路不瘸吧，是吗？”克罗姆警督问。 　　“是的，是的，你说对了，我想他是瘸腿。他长得很黑，可能是混血儿。” 　　“剧场内灯光还亮着的时候，他是否已在座位上了？” 　　“不。影片开始后，他才进来。” 　　克罗姆警督点点头，递给利德贝特先生一张声明让他签字，然后打发他走。 　　“那可是个你所能碰到的糟糕透顶的证人。”他悲观地评论道，“他讲的内容仅仅能有一点启发。我们的凶手长得什么样，他连最起码的印象都没有，这已经清楚无疑。我们把剧场保安叫来吧。” 　　那个保安是个身材挺拔、极具军人风范的人，走进门来，立正站着，他的眼睛盯着安德森上校。 　　“现在，詹姆森，让我们听听你的描述吧。” 　　“是的，先生。在电影结束时，先生，有人告诉我有位先生病倒了，那个人坐在低价票座位区，瘫倒在座位中。其他的人在周围站着。那个人看上去挺糟糕的，先生。周围的其中一个人把手放在那人的衣服上，这引起了我的注意。那是血，先生。很明显，这个人死了——是被人刺杀的，先生。我希望准确行事，便没有去碰他，只是立即向警方报告悲剧已经发生。” 　　“很好，詹姆森，你做的非常对。” 　　“谢谢，先生。” 　　“在那之前，大约五分钟，你有没有注意到有一名男子离开低价票座位区？” 　　“有好几位，先生。” 　　“你能描述一下吗？” 　　“恐怕不能，先生。有一位杰弗里·帕内尔先生。有一位年轻人，萨姆·贝克，同他的年轻女士一起，我并没有注意到其他什么特别的人。” 　　“真遗憾。这些会有帮助的，詹姆森。” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　剧场警卫敬了个礼，然后离开。 　　“我们有验尸的细节。”安德森上校说，“我们最好能同那个发现他的人谈一谈。” 　　一个警察进来，敬礼。 　　“赫尔克里·波洛来了，先生，还有另外一位先生。” 　　克罗姆警督皱眉头。 　　“哦，好吧，”他说，“我想，最好还是让他们进来吧。” Chapter 27 THE DONCASTER MURDER Coming in hard on Poirot's heels, I just caught the end of Inspector Crome's remark. Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and pressed. Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head. "Glad you've come, Mr. Poirot," he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome's remark might have reached our ears. "We got it in the neck again, you see." "Another A.B.C. murder? "Yes. Damned audacious bit of work. Man leaned over and stabbed the fellow in the back." "Stabbed this time?" "Yes, varies his methods a bit, doesn't he? Biff on the head, strangling, now a knife. Versatile devil - what? Here are the medical details if you care to see 'em." He shoved a paper towards Poirot. "A.B.C. down on the floor between the dead man's feet," he added. "Has the dead man been identified?" asked Poirot. "Yes. A.B.C.'s slipped up for once - if that's any satisfaction to us. Deceased's a man called Earlsfield - George Earlsfield. Barber by profession." "Curious," commented Poirot. "May have skipped a letter," suggested the Colonel. My friend shook his head doubtfully. "Shall we have in the next witness?" asked Crome. "He's anxious to get home." "Yes, yes - let's get on." A middle-aged gentleman strongly resembling the frog footman in Alice in Wonderland was led in. He was highly excited and his voice was shrill with emotion. "Most shocking experience I have ever known," he squeaked. "I have a weak heart, sir - a very weak heart; it might have been the death of me." "Your name, please," said the inspector. "Downes. Roger Emmanuel Downes." "Profession?" "I am a master at Highfield School for boys." "Now, Mr. Downes, will you tell us in your own words what happened." "I can tell you that very shortly, gentlemen. At the close of the performance I rose from my seat. The seat on my left was empty but in the one beyond a man was sitting, apparently asleep. I was unable to pass him to get out as his legs were stuck out in front of him. I asked him to allow me to pass. As he did not move I repeated my request in - a - er - slightly louder tone. He still made no response. I then took him by the shoulder to waken him. His body slumped down further and I came aware that he was either unconscious or seriously ill. I called out: 'This gentleman is taken ill. Fetch the commissionaire.' The commisionaire came. As I took my hand from the man's shoulder I found it was wet and red... I realized that the man had been stabbed. At the same moment the commissionaire noticed the A.B.C. railway guide... I can assure you, gentlemen, the shock was terrific! Anything might have happened! For years I have suffered from cardiac weakness -" Colonel Anderson was looking at Mr. Downes with a very curious expression. "You can consider that you're a lucky man, Mr. Downes." "I do, sir. Not even a palpitation!" "You don't quite take my meaning, Mr. Downes. You were sitting two seats away, you say?" "Actually I was sitting at first in the next seat to the murdered man - then I moved along so as to be behind an empty seat." "You're about the same height and build as the dead man, aren't you, and you were wearing a woollen scarf round your neck just as he was?" "I fail to see -" began Mr. Downes stiffly. "I'm telling you, man," said Colonel Anderson, "just where your luck came in. Somehow or other, when the murderer followed you in, he got confused. He picked on the wrong back. I'll eat my hat, Mr. Downes, if that knife wasn't meant for you!" However well Mr. Downes' heart had stood former tests, it was unable to stand up to this one. Mr. Downes sank on a chair, gasped, and turned purple in the face. "Water," he gasped. "Water..." A glass was brought him. He sipped it whilst his complexion gradually returned to normal. "Me?" he said. "Why me?" "It looks like it," said Crome. "In fact, it's the only explanation." "You mean that this man - this - this fiend incarnate - this blood-thirsty madman has been following me about waiting for an opportunity?" "I should say that was the way of it." "But in heaven's name, why me?" demanded the outraged schoolmaster. Inspector Crome struggled with the temptation to reply: "Why not?" and said instead: "I'm afraid it's no good expecting a lunatic to have reasons for what he does." "God bless my soul," said Mr. Downes, sobered into whispering. He got up. He looked suddenly old and shaken. "If you don't want me any more, gentlemen, I think I'll go home. I - I don't feel very well." "That's quite all right, Mr. Downes. I'll send a constable with you - just to see you're all right." "Oh, no - no, thank you. That's not necessary." "Might as well," said Colonel Anderson gruffly. His eyes slid sideways, asking an imperceptible question of the inspector. The latter gave an equally imperceptible nod. Mr. Downes went out shakily. "Just as well he didn't tumble to it," said Colonel Anderson. "There'll be a couple of them - eh?" "Yes, sir. Your Inspector Rice has made arrangements. The house will be watched." "You think," said Poirot, "that when A.B.C. finds out his mistake he might try again?" Anderson nodded. "It's a possibility," he said. "Seems a methodical sort of chap, A.B.C. It will upset him if things don't go according to programme." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Wish we could get a description of the fellow," said Colonel Anderson irritably. "We're as much in the dark as ever." "It may come," said Poirot. "Think so? Well, it's possible. Damn it all, hasn't any one got eyes in his head?" "Have patience," said Poirot. "You seem very confident, M. Poirot. Got any reason for this optimism?" "Yes, Colonel Anderson. Up to now, the murderer has not made a mistake. He is bound to make one soon." "If that's all you've got to go on," began the Chief Constable with a snort, but he was interrupted. "Mr. Ball of the Black Swan is here with a young woman, sir. He reckons he's got summat to say might help you." "Bring them along. Bring them along. We can do with anything helpful." Mr. Ball of the Black Swan was a large, slow-thinking, heavily-moving man. He exhaled a strong odour of beer. With him was a plump young woman with round eyes clearly in a state of high excitement. "Hope I'm not intruding or wasting valuable time," said Mr. Ball a slow, thick voice. "But this wench, Mary here, reckons she's got something to tell as you ought to know." Mary giggled in a half-hearted way. "Well, my girl, what is it?" said Anderson. "What's your name?" "Mary, sir - Mary Stroud." "Well, Mary, out with it." Mary turned her round eyes on her master. "It's her business to take up hot water to the gents' bedrooms," said Mr. Ball, coming to the rescue. "About half a dozen gentlemen we've got staying. Some for the races and some just commercials." "Yes, yes," said Anderson impatiently. "Get on, lass," said Mr. Ball. "Tell your tale. Nothing to be afraid of." Mary gasped, groaned and plunged in a breathless voice into her narrative. "I knocked on door and there wasn't no answer, otherwise I wouldn't have gone in leastways not unless gentleman had said 'Come in,' and as he didn't say nothing I went in and he was there washing his hands." She paused and breathed deeply. "Go on, my girl," said Anderson. Mary looked sideways at her master and as though receiving inspiration from his slow nod, plunged on again. "'It's your hot water, sir,' I said, 'and I did knock,' but 'Oh,' he says, 'I've washed in cold,' he said, and so, naturally, I looks in basin, and oh! God help me, sir, it were all red!" "Red?" said Anderson sharply. Ball struck in. "The lass told me that he had his coat off and that he was holding the sleeve of it, and it was all wet - that's right, eh, lass?" "Yes, sir, that's right, sir." She plunged on: "And his face, sir, it looked queer, mortal queer it looked. Gave me quite a turn." "When was this? asked Anderson sharply. "About a quarter after five, so near as I can reckon." "Over three hours ago," snapped Anderson. "Why didn't you come at once?" "Didn't hear about it at once," said Ball. "Not till news came along as there'd been another murder done. And then the lass she screams out as it might have been blood in the basin, and I asked her what she means, and she tells me. Well, it doesn't sound right to me and I went upstairs myself. Nobody in the room. I asks a few questions and one of the lads in courtyard says he saw a fellow sneaking out that way and by his description it was the right one. So I says to the missus as Mary here had best go to police. She doesn't like the idea, Mary doesn't, and I says I'll come along with her." Inspector Crome drew a sheet of paper towards him. "Describe this man," he said. "As quick as you can. There's no time to be lost." "Medium-sized, he were," said Mary. "And stooped and wore glasses." "His clothes?" "A dark suit and a Homburg hat. Rather shabby-looking." She could add little to this description. Inspector Crome did not insist unduly. The telephone wires were soon busy, but neither the inspector nor the Chief Constable were over-optimistic. Crome elicited the fact that the man, when seen sneaking across the yard, had had no bag or suitcase. "There's a chance there," he said. Two men were dispatched to the Black Swan. Mr. Ball, swelling with pride and importance, and Mary, somewhat tearful, accompanied them. The sergeant returned about ten minutes later. "I've brought the register, sir," he said. "Here's the signature." We crowded round. The writing was small and cramped - not easy to read. "A.B. Case - or is it Cash?" said the Chief Constable. "A.B.C.," said Crome significantly. "What about luggage?" asked Anderson. "One good-sized suitcase, sir, full of small cardboard boxes." "Boxes? What was in 'em?" "Stockings, sir. Silk stockings." Crome turned to Poirot. "Congratulations," he said. "Your hunch was right." 第二十七章　唐克斯特谋杀案 　　我由于是跟随着波洛进来，只听到克罗姆警督的只字片语。 　　他和警察局长看起来有点着急，两人闷闷不乐。 　　安德森上校向我们点头致意。 　　“很高兴你们来了，波洛先生。”他很有礼貌地说——我想，他猜想我们听到了克罗姆的话，“你瞧，我们又遭殃了。” 　　“又一起ABC谋杀案？” 　　“是的，该死的，胆子很大。那家伙是倾斜着身子从死者的背后刺进去的。” 　　“这一次是刺死的？” 　　“是的。与他的方式稍有不同，不是吗？打击头部，勒喉咙，现在是用刀。多才多艺的恶魔——什么？如果你想看的话，这里有法医的细节报告。” 　　他把一张纸递给波洛。“那个死者的两腿中间的地面上有那本ABC。”他补充道。 　　“死者的身份查明了吗？”波洛问。 　　“是的。ABC 这回可出了个差错，如果那对我们来说有任何满足感的话。死者名叫厄斯菲尔德（Earsfield）——乔治·厄斯菲尔德，职业是理发师。” 　　“真奇怪。”波洛评说道。 　　“可能是跳过了一个字母。”上校提醒道。 　　我的朋友怀疑地摇摇头。 　　“我们可以叫下一位证人进来吗？”克罗姆问道，“他可是急着回家。” 　　“可以，可以，让我们继续吧。” 　　一位中年男子被带了进来，他长得出奇地像是《爱丽斯漫游仙境》中的青蛙步兵。他极度兴奋，声音显得激动而刺耳。 　　“这是我所知道的最令人震惊的经历，”他尖声叫道，“先生，我的心脏很虚弱——相当虚弱，这件事可能要了我的命。” 　　“请问你的姓名？”警督说。 　　“唐斯（Downes）。罗杰·伊曼纽尔·唐斯。” 　　“你的职业？” 　　“我是海菲尔德男校的校长。” 　　“现在，唐斯先生，请你用自己的话语告诉我们所发生的一切。” 　　“先生们，我可以简单地告诉你们。影片结束时，我从座位上站起来。我左边的位置是空的，可那位置边上的座位上坐着一个男子，显然是睡着了。因为他的双腿伸向面前，我无法通过。我请他让我过去，他一点反应都没有。我于是就碰了碰他的肩膀，想把他弄醒。他的身子又往下滑落了一点，我开始意识到他要么神志不清，要么得了重病。我便大声叫道：‘这位先生病了。请叫保安来。’保安来了。当我把手从那人肩上拿回来时，我发现手上又湿又红……我可以向你们保证，先生们，这种惊吓太可怕了！任何事情都有可能发生！这些年来，我一直饱受心脏衰弱的痛苦。” 　　安德森上校用一种相当奇怪的表情看着唐斯先生。 　　“你可以认为自己是个幸运的人，唐斯先生。” 　　“是的，先生。我毫不犹豫地这样认为。” 　　“你不太明白我的意思，唐斯先生。你是说，你们中间隔着两个座位？” 　　“事实上，起先我是坐在那个被谋杀的人旁边的座位上——然后我挪了个位子，以便坐在一个空座位后面。” 　　“你与死者的身高和体形差不多，不是吗？而且你同他一样，脖子上围着羊毛围巾？” 　　“我没有注意到——”唐斯先生开始拘谨生硬起来。 　　“让我告诉你，”安德森上校说，“你幸运在什么地方？当凶手跟着你进去时，他弄错了。他认错了后背。如果那把刀子不是冲你来的，唐斯先生，我敢吃了这顶帽子！” 　　虽然唐斯先生的心脏经历了先前的考验，可这次他是无法承受了。他跌落在椅子上，透不过气来，脸色发紫。 　　“水，”他说道，“水……” 　　一杯水递给了他，他喝完之后，脸色恢复了常态。 　　“我？”他说，“为什么是我？” 　　“看来是这样。”克罗姆说，“事实上，这是唯一的解释。” 　　“你的意思是说，这个男人——这个——这个魔鬼的化身，这个嗜血的疯子一直在跟踪我，并伺机下手？” 　　“我想是这样的。” 　　“可是以上帝的名义，为什么会是我呢？”学校校长义愤填膺地说。 　　克罗姆则故意反驳道：“为什么不是呢？”接着又说，“我看盼望一个疯子的所作所为是有理由的，并没什么好处。” 　　“上帝保佑我，”唐斯先生说道，因抽泣而低不成声。 　　他站起身来，看上去突然间变得苍老和虚弱。 　　“先生们，如果没什么更多的问题的话，我想我该回家了。我感觉有点不太舒服。” 　　“好的，唐斯先生。我派一名警察陪你——只为确保你一切平安。” 　　“哦，不，不，谢谢。不用了。” 　　“可能这样也好。”安德森上校态度暴躁地说。 　　他的眼睛朝一旁斜视，向警督询问一个微妙的问题。后者则同样微妙地点了下头。 　　唐斯先生摇摇晃晃地走了出去。 　　“他同样没有察觉到，”安德森上校说，“他们有好几个人吧？” 　　“是的，先生。赖斯警督已进行了安排，那所房子将受到监视。” 　　“你认为，”波洛说，“如果ABC发现他搞错了，他可能会再次下手？” 　　安德森点点头。 　　“这只是种可能，”他说，“ABC 看来是个有计划的家伙。如果实情并未按照他的程序发展的话，他会感到不舒服的。” 　　波洛若有所思地点点头。 　　“真希望我们能知道那家伙长得什么模样。”安德森上校急躁地说，“我们还是茫然无知。” 　　“也许会有的。”波洛说。 　　“你是这样认为吗？是的，是有可能。该死的，难道每个人头上都没长眼睛吗？” 　　“得有点耐心。”波洛说。 　　“你看上去非常有信心，波洛先生。有什么原因使你如此乐观？” 　　“是的，安德森上校。到目前为止，那个凶手还没有犯错误。他肯定马上就会犯错误。” 　　“如果是这样的话，你们就要继续努力。”警察局长哼着鼻子，可他的话被打断了。 　　“先生，黑天鹅旅店的鲍尔先生与一位年轻女士来了。他认为他有些线索可以帮助我们。” 　　“带他进来吧。带他们进来吧。我们挺需要有帮助的东西的。” 　　黑天鹅旅店的鲍尔先生是个庞大的人，思维缓慢，行动很重。他散发出一股浓浓的啤酒味。同他一起的是一位丰满的年轻女士，眼睛圆圆的，很显然正处在高度兴奋之中。 　　“希望我没有打搅你们或是浪费你们的宝贵时间。”鲍尔先生嘶哑有迟缓地说，“可这位女工，玛丽断定有些事情要告诉你们，你们应该知道。” 　　玛丽心不在焉地咯笑。 　　“嘿，我的姑娘，是什么事？”安德森说，“你叫什么名字？” 　　“玛丽，玛丽·斯特劳德，先生。” 　　“好吧，玛丽，请说出来吧。” 　　玛丽的一双圆圆的眼睛朝向她的雇主。 　　“他的任务就是给男士的房间供应热水。”鲍尔先生替她解围道，“我们那里大概住着六个男士，有些人是为赛马而来，有些则是做生意的。” 　　“噢，噢，”安德森有点不耐烦了。 　　“接着说吧，小姑娘。”鲍尔说，“告诉我们你的故事。别害怕。” 　　玛丽屏住呼吸，在紧张而又困难的呻吟中开始了她的叙述。 　　“我敲了门，可没有人答应，否则的话，只有当屋内的先生说‘进来’，我才会进去。由于他说了点什么，我便进屋去，他正好在洗手。” 　　她停顿下来，深深地呼吸。 　　“请继续吧，我的姑娘。”安德森说。 　　玛丽的眼睛斜向她的雇主，看到他缓慢的点头后，仿佛受到了鼓励，又接着说了起来。 　　“‘先生，您的热水。’我说，‘我敲了门。’可他说‘哦，我已用冷水洗了。’他这样说，我自然会看一下水盆。哦，天哪，水全都红了！” 　　“红了？”安德森尖声叫道。 　　鲍尔插话道： 　　“她告诉我说，那个男的脱掉上衣，拎着袖口，袖子全湿了。嘿。对吧，小姑娘？” 　　“是的，先生，确实如此。” 　　她接着说：“他的脸看起来很奇怪，非常奇怪，这令我大吃一惊。” 　　“这是什么时候的事？”安德森尖声问。 　　“大概是五点一刻，我想同我能想起的时间挺接近。” 　　“那是在三个多小时以前。”安德森厉声说，“你为何不立即来？” 　　“我们并没有马上听到那消息。”鲍尔说，“直到有消息传来，说是又发生了一起谋杀案。玛丽便尖叫起来，因为面盆里可能是血。当我问她是怎么回事时，她便告诉了我。我不太相信，就上楼去看。房间里已空无一人，我便向人询问，院子里的一个司机说他见过有个男人鬼鬼祟祟地溜走。根据他的描述，就是那个人。所以我便对太太说，最好让玛丽去警察局，她不赞同这个意见，玛丽也不愿意，于是我说我陪她一起来。” 　　克罗姆警督递给他一张纸。 　　“请描述一下那个男人长得什么模样，”他说，“尽可能地快点，不能再浪费时间了。” 　　“他中等身材，”玛丽说，“有点驼背，戴眼镜。” 　　“他穿什么衣服？” 　　“一件黑色上装，头戴翘边帽，看上去很破旧。” 　　她只能讲这么多了。 　　克罗姆警督并没有过分坚持。过了一会儿，电话线路忙了起来，可是警督和警察局长谁也没有过分乐观。 　　克罗姆推断，那个被人看到从院子里跑出去的男子并没有带包或是箱子。 　　“还有机会。”他说。 　　两个人被派去黑天鹅旅店。 　　鲍尔先生满怀着自豪和骄傲，玛丽则有点泪流满面，陪同他们回去。 　　大约十分钟后，警官回来。 　　“先生，我把登记本带来，”他说，“这里有他的签名。” 　　我们挤过去看，字迹很小，很难辨认。 　　“签名是AB Case——或是Cash？”局长说道。 　　“行李怎么样？”安德森问。 　　“有一只大箱子，里面装满了小纸盒。” 　　“纸盒？里面是什么东西？” 　　“长统袜，先生。丝质长统袜。” 　　克罗姆转向波洛。 　　“祝贺你，”他说道，“你的预感很正确。”

Chapter 20 LADY CLARKE There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside when we saw it again for the second time. This may, perhaps, have been partly due to the weather - it was a moist September day with a touch of autumn in the air, and partly, no doubt, it was the semi-shut state of house. The downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered, and the small room into which we were shown smelt damp and airless. A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down her starched cuffs. "M. Poirot?" she said briskly. "I am Nurse Capstick. I got Mr. Clarke's letter saying you were coming." Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke's health. "Not bad at all really, all things considered." "All things considered," I presumed meant considering she was under sentence of death. "One can't hope for much improvement, of course, but some treatment has made things a little easier for her. Dr. Logan is quite pleased with her condition." "But it is true, is it not, that she can never recover?" "Oh, we never actually say that," said Nurse Capstick, a little shocked by this plain speaking. "I suppose her husband's death was a terrible shock to her?" "Well, M. Poirot if you understand what I mean, it wasn't so much of a shock as it would have been to any one in full possession of her health and faculties. Things are dimmed by Lady Clarke in her condition." "Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?" "Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It's always worse for a doctor, you know. They can't buoy themselves up with false hopes. I'm afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with." "To begin with? Not so much afterwards?" "One gets used to everything, doesn't one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system." "Oh, yes - Miss Grey. She has left, has she not? "Yes - I'm very sorry about it - but ladies do take these fancies sometimes when they're not well. And there's no arguing with them. It's better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it." "Has Lady Clarke always disliked her?" "No - that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn't keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us." She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting-room. Lady Clarke was sitting in a big arm-chair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly far-away, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpoints. "This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see," said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice. "Oh, yes, M. Poirot," said Lady Clarke vaguely. She extended her hand. "My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke." "How do you do? So good of you both to come." We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream. Presently with a slight effort she roused herself. "It was about Car, wasn't it? About Car's death. Oh, yes." She sighed, but still in a far-away manner, shaking her head. "We never thought it would be that way round... I was so sure I should be the first to go..." She mused a minute or two. "Car was very strong - wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty - but he seemed more like fifty... Yes, very strong..." She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing. Lady Clarke said suddenly: "Yes - it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn't forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn't going to be foolish... e's so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that They remain boys... Franklin, in particular." "He has an impulsive nature," said Poirot. "Yes - yes... And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car -" Her voice tailed off. She shook her head with a febrile impatience. "Everything's so dim... One's body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else - whether the pain will hold off or not - nothing else seems to matter." "I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life." "It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you." "Was it something about your husband's death?" "Car's death? Yes, perhaps... Mad, poor creature - the murderer, I mean. It's all the noise and the speed nowadays - people can't stand it. I've always been sorry for mad people - their heads must feel so queer. And then, being shut up - it must be so terrible. But what else can one do? If they kill people..." She shook her head - gently pained. "You haven't caught him yet?" she asked. "No, not yet." "He must have been hanging round here that day." "There were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season." "Yes - I forgot... But they keep down by the beaches, they don't come up near the house." "No stranger came to the house that day." "Who says so?" demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour. Poirot looked slightly taken aback. "The servants," he said. "Miss Grey." Lady Clarke said very distinctly: "That girl is a liar!" I started on my chair. Poirot threw me a glance. Lady Clarke was going on, speaking now rather feverishly. "I didn't like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her. Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world. What's wrong with being an orphan? Sometimes it's a blessing in disguise. You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank - then you would have something to complain about. Said she was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well! I don't know where all this bravery came in!" "Now don't excite yourself, dear," said Nurse Capstick, intervening. "We mustn't have you getting tired." "I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I saw the last of her the better - that's what I said! Franklin's a fool! I didn't want him getting mixed up with her. He's a boy! No sense! 'I'll give her three months' salary, if you like,' I said. 'But out she goes. I don't want her in the house a day longer.' There's one thing about being ill - men can't argue with you. He did what I said and she went. Went like a martyr, I expect - with more sweetness and bravery!" "Now, dear, don't get so excited. It's bad for you." Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away. "You were as much of a fool about her as any one else." "Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn't say that. I did think Miss Grey a very nice girl - so romantic-looking, like some one out of a novel." "I've no patience with the lot of you," said Lady Clarke feebly. "Well, she's gone now, my dear. Gone right away." Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not answer. Poirot said: "Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar? "Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn't she?" "Yes." "Very well, then. I saw her - with my own eyes - out of this window - talking to a perfectly strange man on the front door step." "When was this?" "In the morning of the day Car died - about eleven o'clock." "What did this man look like?" "An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special." "A gentleman - or a tradesman? "Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can't remember." A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face. "Please - you must go now - I'm a little tired - Nurse." We obeyed the cue and took our departure. "That's an extraordinary story," I said to Poirot as we journeyed back to London. "About Miss Grey and a strange man." "You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to be found out." "Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?" "I can think of seven separate reasons - one of them an extremely simple one." "Is that a snub?" I asked. "It is, perhaps, an invitation to use your ingenuity. But there is no need for us to perturb ourselves. The easiest way to answer the question is to ask her." "And suppose she tells us another lie." "That would indeed be interesting - and highly suggestive." "It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league with a madman." "Precisely - so I do not suppose it." I thought for some minutes longer. "A good-looking girl has a hard time of it," I said at last with a sigh. "Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea." "It's true," I insisted. "Every one's hand is against her simply because she is good-looking." "You speak the bкtises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at Combeside? Sir Carmichael's? Franklin's? Nurse Capstick's?" "Lady Clarke was down on her, all right." "Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke was the clear-sighted one - and that her husband, Mr. Franklin Clarke and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats - and Captain Hastings. "Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings - I never cease to be fascinated by them." "This is Paddington," was the only answer I made. It was time, I felt, that some one pricked the bubble. On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told gentleman was waiting to see Poirot. I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser. He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever. Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine. Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman. Not until we finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn. "You have come from Bexhill, Mr. Fraser?" "Yes." "Any success with Milly Higley?" "Milly Higley? Milly Higley?" Fraser repeated the name wonderingly. "Oh, that girl! No, I haven't done anything there yet. It's -" He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously. "I don't know why I've come to you," he burst out. "I know," said Poirot. "You can't. How can you?" "You have come to me because there is something that you must tell to some one. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!" Poirot's air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience. "You think so?" "Parbleu, I am sure of it." "M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?" It was the last thing I had expected him to say. Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised. "I do," he replied. "You have been dreaming -?" "Yes. I suppose you'll say it's only natural that I should - should dream about - it. But it isn't an ordinary dream." "No?" "I've dreamed it now three nights running, sir... I think I'm going mad..." "Tell me -" The man's face was livid. His eyes were starting out of his head. As a matter of fact, he looked mad. "It's always the same. I'm on the beach. Looking for Betty. She's lost - only lost, you understand. I've got to find her. I've got to give her her belt. I'm carrying it in my hand. And then -" "Yes?" "The dream changes... I'm not looking any more. She's there in front of me - sitting on the beach. She doesn't see me coming - oh - oh, I can't -" "Go on." Poirot's voice was authorative - firm. "I come up behind her... she doesn't hear me... I slip the belt round her neck and pull - oh - pull -" The agony in his voice was frightful... I gripped the arms of my chair... The thing was too real. "She's choking... she's dead... I've strangled her - and then her head falls back and I see her face... and it's Megan - not Betty!" He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him. "What's the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night?" "Drink up your wine," ordered Poirot. The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice: "What does it mean? I - I didn't kill her, did I?" What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman's knock and automatically I left the room. What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in Donald Fraser's extraordinary revelations. I raced back into the sitting-room. "Poirot," I cried. "It's come. The fourth letter." He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper-knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table. The three of us read it together. Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn't this fun? And where shall we go next for honey? Poor Mr. Poirot. I'm quite sorry for you. If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again. We've a long way to go still. Tipperary? No - that comes farther on. Letter T. The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th. So long, A.B.C. 第二十章　克拉克女勋爵 　　当我们再次回到库姆比赛德时，库姆比赛德的空中弥漫着浓浓的忧郁。这一部分也许是由于天气的缘故——那是个九月里潮湿的一天，空气显示出已是秋天，一部分则毫无疑问是由于房子的半开半闭状态。楼下的房间的房门和百叶窗是关着的，我们被带往的小房间又潮湿又闷。 　　一个外表能干的医院护士向我们走来，边走边放下她的那显得古板的袖口。 　　“波洛先生？我是护士卡普斯蒂克，我接到克拉克先生的来信，说您要来。”她轻快地说道。 　　波洛问起了克拉克女勋爵的病情。 　　“其实一点也不严重，所有的一切都已考虑到了。” 　　“所有的一切都已考虑到了。”也许意味着克拉克女勋爵已被判了死刑，我猜想。 　　“当然不能期望有太大的改善，但一种新的治疗方法能使她的情况有小小的好转。劳根医生对她的情况很满意。” 　　“但是，事实上她永远不会康复了，对不对？” 　　“噢，我们从来没有真正那样说过。”卡普斯蒂克答道，她对这一直率的说法感到有点儿震惊。 　　“我想她丈夫的死对她该是个可怕的打击吧？” 　　“嗯，波洛先生，如果您理解我所说的话，其实这同给任何一个完全健康的女人所带来的打击相比，算不了什么。对于克拉克女勋爵这样的情况，事情已经不太严重了。” 　　“请原谅我的问话，但是他们是不是深深的相互爱着对方？” 　　“噢，是的。他们是很幸福的一对。他为她很是操心和感到难受，可怜的男人。你知道，对于一位医生来说，这就更难了。他们无法通过并不存在的希望来支撑自己。我担心从一开始就对他的心理造成了严重的损伤。” 　　“从一开始？之后就不太严重了？” 　　“人总会习惯，是不是？那时卡迈克尔爵士开始了珍藏。爱好对于一个男人来说，是种极大的安慰。他常常光顾拍卖会，之后他便和格雷小、姐忙于在一个新的系统下对收藏品进行重新编号和安置。” 　　“噢，是的，格雷小、姐。她离开了，是不是？” 　　“是的——我为此感到难过，但是当女士们不舒心时，她们便会有这样的假想，而且无法与她们争辩。那最好是让步，格雷小、姐对这些是很理智的。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵总是不喜欢她？” 　　“不，并不是不喜欢。事实上，刚开始的时候，我想克拉克女勋爵很喜欢她。但是，我不可以和您在这闲聊了。我的病人会怀疑我们之间发生了什么。” 　　她带着我们来到二楼的一个房间。这个房间曾作为卧室，现在已改成一间舒适的客厅。 　　克拉克女勋爵坐在一张靠窗的大扶手椅上。她非常瘦削，脸色灰暗和憔悴，显示出她正在承受着巨大的痛苦。我注意到她有点精神恍惚，眼睛瞳孔极小。 　　“这位是您要见的波洛先生。”卡普斯蒂克高声欢快地说道。 　　“噢，是的，波洛先生。”克拉克女勋爵面无表情地说道。 　　她伸出了手。 　　“这位是我的朋友黑斯廷斯上尉，克拉克女勋爵。” 　　“你好，你们来了真好。” 　　在她似是而非的指引下，我们坐了下来。没人说话，一切相当平静。克拉克女勋爵似乎正沉浸在梦中。 　　过了一会儿，她费力地振作起精神。 　　“是关于卡，是吗？关于他的死，噢，是的。” 　　她摇着头叹息，但依然显得精神恍惚。 　　“我们从来没有想到事情会这样……我是非常确信我应先他而去……”她深思了一两分钟，“卡非常结实，在他的年龄他的身体是非常好的，他从来不生病。他将近六十了，可看起来更像五十……是的，非常结实……” 　　她又一次沉入梦中。波洛很清楚某些药物的作用，以及它们如何使得服药者会产生时间无限的感觉，他一言不发。 　　克拉克女勋爵突然说道： 　　“是的——你们来得好。我告诉过富兰克林，他说他不会忘记告诉你们，我希望富兰克林不会变得愚蠢……，他如此容易上当，尽管他曾经到世界很多地方漫游。男人像他那样……他们总是孩子……富兰克林尤其这样。” 　　“他天生感情用事。”波洛说。 　　“是的，是的……而且非常侠情仗义。男人在那方面总是挺愚蠢的。甚至卡——”她的声音变细。 　　她发热似的不耐烦地摇着头。 　　“每件事都模糊不清……人的身体是个麻烦事，尤其是当它占了上风的时候。一个人不会意识到其他东西——疼痛是否会延缓——其他事情都显得不重要。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵，我知道，这是人一生中的一个悲剧。” 　　“它使我如此之笨。我甚至都记不请我曾想对你说的话。” 　　“是不是关于您丈夫的死？” 　　“卡的死？是的，也许……疯狂的可怜家伙，我指的是凶手。如今全是噪音和速度——人们已经无法忍受这些。我一直为这些疯狂的人感到难过，他们的头脑感觉一定是奇怪的。而之后，又封闭起来？这实在太可怜了，但除此之外人又能做些什么呢？如果他们杀人……”她摇着头显然有点轻微疼痛。“你们还没有抓住他吗？”她问道。 　　“还没有。” 　　“那天他一定在这附近转悠。” 　　“克拉克女勋爵，那时有许多陌生人。那是假期。” 　　“是的，我忘了……但是他们都在海滩上，他们并不到房子附近来。” 　　“那一天没有陌生人到房子来。” 　　“谁说的？”克拉克女勋爵突然有力地询问道。 　　波洛看起来有点失言。 　　“那些仆人，”他说道，“格雷小、姐。” 　　克拉克女勋爵一字一板地说道：“那个姑娘是个骗子。” 　　我在椅子上吓了一跳。波洛看了我一眼。 　　克拉克女勋爵接着说，这一次显得非常激动。 　　“我不喜欢她。我从没有喜欢过她。卡的脑子里装的全是她，过去常说她是个孤儿，在世上孤苦伶仃。孤儿怎么了？有时这是祸中得福。你可能有一个饭桶父亲和一个酗酒的母亲，于是你便有可以抱怨的东西了。说她这样勇敢，是个好帮手。我敢说她的工作一定做得很好！我不知道这种勇敢究竟体现在哪里。” 　　“亲爱的，别太激动。”卡普斯蒂克护士插话道，“我们可不能让您累着。” 　　“不久我就把她赶走了！富兰克林却顽固地坚持认为她对我可能是个安慰。对我可真是个安慰！越早看到她离开越好——这是我说的！富兰克林真是个傻瓜！我可不希望他和她搅和在一起。他只是个孩子，还不懂事！‘如果你愿意的话，我给她三个月薪水。’我说，‘但她必须离开，我一天都不能再见到她了。’生病的一点好处就是——男人不会和你争吵。他按照我的话行事，她走了，像个殉道者，我希望——她能把更多的快乐和胆量一同带走。” 　　“亲爱的，别这样激动，这对你不好。” 　　克拉克女勋爵示意卡普斯蒂克护士离开。 　　“你和其他人一样像傻瓜一样对她。” 　　“噢，克拉克女勋爵您不能这么说。我认为格雷小、姐是个不错的姑娘，看上去挺浪漫的，就象小说中的某个人。” 　　“我没有耐性跟你说这个。”克拉克女勋爵无力地说。 　　“噢，亲爱的，她已经走了。” 　　克拉克女勋爵摇着头，显出有些不耐烦，什么也没说。 　　波洛说： 　　“为什么你说格雷小、姐是个骗子？” 　　“因为她是的。她对你说没有陌生人来到这屋子，是吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　“很好，那么我亲眼看见——通过这扇窗子——她站在前面的台阶上同一个完全陌生的人讲话。” 　　“那是什么时候？” 　　“克拉克死的那天早上，大约十一点。” 　　“那个男的长得什么样？” 　　“一个很平平常常的人，没有什么特别的地方。” 　　“是个绅士或是商人？” 　　“不是商人。一个穿着破旧的人，我记不清了。” 　　突然她的脸上显出一阵痛颤。 　　“请——你得走了——我有点累——护士。” 　　我们只好离开。 　　在回伦敦的路上我对波洛说：“这可是个不寻常的故事，关于格雷小、姐和一个陌生的男人。” 　　“你看，黑斯廷斯，正如我跟你说的，总会发现一些情况。” 　　“为什么那个姑娘要说谎，说她没看见任何人？” 　　“我可以想出七个不同的理由——其中一个相当简单。” 　　“那是一个疏忽？”我问道。 　　“是的，也许这就要让你发挥聪明才智了。可是我们不必自找麻烦，回答这个问题的最容易的方法就是去问她自己。” 　　“可是设想一下，她也许会告诉我们另一个谎言。” 　　“那真的会有趣——很有启发性。” 　　“去设想一个像她这样的姑娘和一个疯子串通一气，这实在是荒谬。” 　　“非常正确，所以我不去这样设想。” 　　我想了几分钟。 　　“一个长相不错的姑娘日子可不太好过。”我最后叹息道。 　　“Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注）。去掉你那个想法。” 　　“这是事实，”我坚持道，“每个人都陪着她，仅仅因为她长相不错。” 　　“你在说betises（法文，意为：蠢话。——译注），我的朋友。在库姆比赛德谁在对付她？卡迈克尔爵士？富兰克林？或是卡普斯蒂克护士？” 　　“好吧，克拉克女勋爵在欺负她。” 　　“Mou ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注），你对年轻的漂亮姑娘真是充满了仁爱。而我，我感觉对重病在身的老妇人充满仁爱。也许克拉克女勋爵的眼光很清晰的——而她的丈夫、富兰克林·克拉克先生、卡普斯蒂克护士都是瞎子——还有黑斯廷斯上尉。” 　　“波洛，你对那个姑娘依然怀恨在心。” 　　出乎我的意料，他的眼睛突然眨了眨。 　　“也许是我使得你浪漫自大，黑斯廷斯。你总是个真正的骑士，总是乐于营救难中的姑娘——漂亮姑娘，bien entendu（法文，意为：当然。——译注）。” 　　我忍不住笑了，“波洛，你可真能挖苦人。” 　　“嗳，人总不能一直悲惨下去。我越来越对产生自这个悲剧的人类发展发生兴趣。我们共有三出家庭生活戏。首先，是安多弗——阿谢尔夫人的整个悲剧生活，她的斗争，对她的德国丈夫的支持和对侄女的爱。这可以单独写成一部小说。接着是贝克斯希尔——那幸福悠闲的父亲和母亲以及两个截然不同的女儿——糊涂的傻子同有着强烈意志力的梅根，她富有才智，并执著追求真理。还有另一个人物——那个有自制力的年轻苏格兰男人，他多情，有嫉妒心并深深爱着死去的姑娘。最后是彻斯顿全家——垂死的妻子，以及沉溺于收藏的丈夫，他却又对因同情而帮助过自己的漂亮的姑娘满怀温柔和同情，还有那个弟弟，他充满活力，魅力四射，诙谐有趣，从他的长途跋涉中能发现他那迷人的神韵。” 　　“请记住，黑斯廷斯，在正常的情形之下，这三出独立的戏不会彼此关联，它们不会相互影响。生活中的排列组合——我永远不会为它们所迷倒。” 　　“这是帕丁顿。”这是我所能说。 　　我感觉是揭穿真相的时候到了。 　　当我们回到白港大厦的时候，有人告诉我们：有位先生正在等波洛。 　　我猜是富兰克林，或者可能是贾普，但居然是唐纳德·弗雷泽，这令我吃惊。 　　他显得非常局促不安，他的发音不清，比以往更显得明显。 　　波洛并没有急着让他说出他的来访的目的，倒是坚持建议来点三明治和一杯酒。 　　三明治和酒拿上来后，他便一个人在不停地说话，解释我们去过哪里，以及诚恳地说起对那个病妇的感觉。 　　直到我们吃下三明治，又喝完酒后，他才开启谈话。 　　“弗雷泽先生，你是从贝克斯希尔来吗？” 　　“是的。” 　　“和米莉·希格利在一起有什么进展吗？” 　　“米莉·希格利？米莉·希格利？”弗雷泽不解地重复着那个名字，“噢，那个姑娘！不，在那里，我什么都没有做。那是——” 　　他停了下来。紧张地叉着双手。 　　“我不知道为什么到您这里来。”他突然冒出一句。 　　“我知道。”波洛说。 　　“您不会。您怎么会知道？” 　　“你来我这里，是因为你有一件事必须对某个人讲。你非常正确，我就是那个合适的人，说吧。” 　　波洛的断言还真起了作用。弗雷泽看着他，显出一种奇怪的乐意遵从的神情。 　　“您这么认为？” 　　“parblue（法文，意为：哎呀。——译注），当然，我很确信。” 　　“波洛先生，您对梦有研究吗？” 　　这是我最没能想到的。 　　波洛却显得丝毫没感到惊讶。 　　“是的。”他答道，“你一直在做梦——？” 　　“是的，我想您会说我做梦是很自然的，可这并不是一个普通的梦。” 　　“是吗？” 　　“是吗？” 　　“我已经三个晚上连续做这个梦了，——先生……我想我快要疯了……” 　　“告诉我——” 　　那个男人的脸苍白，他的眼睛瞪着，事实上，他看起来疯了。 　　“梦总是相同。我在海滩上，寻找着贝蒂，她不见了——只是消失不见了，你知道。我得找到她。我得把她的腰带给她，我手中拿着那根腰带，然后——” 　　“嗯？” 　　“梦变了……我不再找了。她就在我的面前——坐在沙滩上。她没有看见我的到来——噢，我不能——” 　　“接着说吧。” 　　波洛的声音含着命令式的坚决。 　　“我走到她的身后……她听不到我……我偷偷地把皮带绕到她的脖子上，往上一拉——噢——拉……” 　　他的声音中的那份痛苦挣扎相当可怕……我紧握住椅子的把手……这件事太真实了。 　　“她窒息了……她死了……我勒死了她——随后她的头向后面倒来，我看清了她的脸……那是梅根——不是贝蒂！” 　　他倚靠在椅子上，脸色苍白，浑身发抖。波洛又倒了一杯酒递给他。 　　“这个梦是什么意思，波洛先生？为什么我会做这个梦？而且每天晚上……” 　　“喝掉你的酒吧。”波洛命令道。 　　那个年轻人喝完酒，然后用较平静的声音问道： 　　“这是什么意思？我——我并没有杀她，是不是？” 　　我不知道波洛是怎么回答的，因为这时候我听到邮差敲门，顺便离开房间。 　　从邮箱中取出的东西使我对弗雷泽那不同寻常的故事完全没了兴趣。 　　我跑回客厅。 　　“波洛，”我叫道，“来了，第四封信。” 　　他跳将起来，从我的手中抓过信，拿出他的裁纸刀打开信。他把那封信摊开在桌上。 　　我们三个人一起看信。 　　　　还是没有成功？呸！呸！你和警察在做什么？ 　　是的，这难道不可笑吗？亲爱的，我们下一站是 　　哪里？可怜的波洛，我真是为您难过。 　　　　如果起先没有成功，那么就再尝试、尝试、 　　尝试。 　　　　我们依然还有很长的路要走。 　　　　蒂帕雷里（Tipperary）？不——那还早着 　　呢。那是字母 T。 　　　　下一次小事故将于9月11日发生在唐克斯特 　　（Doncaster）。再见。 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 ABC Chapter 21 DESCRIPTION OF A MURDERER It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests... We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of doing something until the fourth letter should come revealing the projected place of the next crime. That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension. But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more. Inspector Crome had come round from the Yard, and while he was still there, Franklin Clarke and Megan Barnard came in. The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill. "I wanted to ask Mr. Clarke something." She seemed rather anxious to excuse and explain her procedure. I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it. The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else. Crome was not, I think, any too pleased to meet there several participants in the drama. He became extremely official. "I'll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to take a copy of it -" "No, no, it is not necessary." "What are your plans, inspector?" asked Clarke. "Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr. Clarke." "This time we've got to get him," said Clarke. "I may tell you, Inspector, that we've formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties." Inspector Crome said in his best manner: "Oh, yes?" "I gather you don't think much of amateurs, inspector?" "You've hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr. Clarke?" "We' we got a personal axe to grind - and that's something." "Oh, yes?" "I fancy your own task isn't going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A.B.C. has done you again." Crome, I had noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed. "I don't fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time," he said. "The fool has given us ample warning this time. The 11th isn't till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard - that's so much to the good. Also, we'll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That's already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man - and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!" Clarke said quietly: "It's easy to see you're not a sporting man, inspector." Crome stared at him. "What do you mean, Mr. Clarke?" "Man alive, don't you realize that on next Wednesday the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster?" The inspector's jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar "Oh, yes?" Instead he said: "That's true. Yes, that complicates matters " "A.B.C. is no fool, even if he is a madman." We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race-course - the passionate, sport-loving English public - the endless complications. Poirot murmured: "C'est ingйnieux. Tout de mкme c'est bien imaginй, зa." "It's my belief," said Clarke, "that the murder will take place on the race-course - perhaps actually while the Leger is being run." For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought... Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him. "The St. Leger is a complication," he allowed. "It's unfortunate." He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered. She said anxiously: "The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?" It was raining outside. Thora Grey was wearing a black coat and skirt and furs. A little black hat just perched itself on the side of her golden head. It was to Franklin Clarke that she spoke and she came right up to him and, with a hand on his arm, waited for his answer. "Doncaster - and on the day of the St. Leger." We settled down to a discussion. It went without saying that we all intended to be present, but the race-meeting undoubtedly complicated the plans we had made tentatively beforehand. A feeling of discouragement swept over me. What could this little band of six people do, after all, however strong their personal interest in the matter might be? There would be innumerable police, keen-eyed and alert, watching all likely spots. What could six more pairs of eyes do? As though in answer to my thought, Poirot raised his voice. He spoke rather like a schoolmaster or a priest. "Mes enfants," he said, "we must not disperse the strength. We must approach this matter with method and order in our thoughts. We must look within and not without for the truth. We must say to ourselves - each one of us - what do I know about the murderer? And so we must build up a composite picture of the man we are going to seek." "We know nothing about him," sighed Thora Grey helplessly. "No, no, mademoiselle. That is not true. Each one of us knows something about him - if we only knew what it is we know. I am convinced that the knowledge is there if we could only get at it." Clarke shook his head. "We don't know anything - whether he's old or young, fair or dark! None of us has even seen him or spoken to him! We've gone over everything we all know again and again." "Not everything! For instance, Miss Grey here told us that she did not see or speak to any stranger on the day that Sir Carmichael Clarke was murdered." Thora Grey nodded. "That's quite right." "Is it? Lady Clarke told us, mademoiselle, that from her window she saw you standing on the front door step talking to a man." "She saw me talking to a strange man?" The girl seemed genuinely astonished. Surely that pure, limpid look could not be anything but genuine. She shook her head. "Lady Clarke must have made a mistake. I never - Oh!" The exclamation came suddenly - jerked out of her. A crimson wave flooded her cheeks. "I remember now! How stupid! I'd forgotten all about it. But it wasn't important. Just one of those men who come round selling stockings - you know, ex-Army people. They're very persistent. I had to get rid of him. I was just crossing the hall when he came to the door. He spoke to me instead of ringing but he was quite a harmless sort person. I suppose that's why I forgot about him." Poirot was swaying to and fro, his hands clasped to his head. He muttering to himself with such vehemence that nobody else said anything, but stared at him instead. "Stockings," he was murmuring. "Stockings... stockings... stockings... зa vient... stockings... stockings... It is the motif - yes... three months ago... and the other day... and now. Bon Dieu, I have it!" He sat upright and fixed me with an imperious eye. "You remember, Hastings? Andover. The shop. We go upstairs. The bedroom. On a chair. A pair of new silk stockings. And now I know what it was that roused my attention two days ago. It was you, mademoiselle -" He turned on Megan. "You spoke of your mother who wept because she had bought your sister some new stockings on the very day of the murder..." He looked round on us all. "You see? It is the same motif three times repeated. That cannot be coincidence. When mademoiselle spoke I had the feeling that what she said linked up with something. I know now with what. The words spoken by Mrs. Ascher's next-door neighbour, Mrs. Fowler. About people who were always trying to sell you things - and she mentioned stockings. Tell me, mademoiselle, it is true, is it not, that your mother bought those stockings, not at a shop, but from some one who came to the door?" "Yes - yes - she did... I remember now. She said something about being sorry for these wretched men who go round and try to get on." "But what's the connection?" cried Franklin. "That a man came selling stockings proves nothing!" "I tell you, my friends, it cannot be coincidence. Three crimes - and every time a man selling stockings and spying out the land." He wheeled round on Thora. "A vous la parole! Describe this man." She looked at him blankly. "I can't... I don't know how... He had glasses, I think... and a shabby overcoat..." "Mieux que fa, mademoiselle." "He stooped... I don't know. I hardly looked at him. He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice " Poirot said gravely: "You are quite right, mademoiselle. The whole secret of the murders is there in your description of the murderer - for without a doubt he was the murderer! 'He wasn't the sort of man you'd notice.' Yes - there is no doubt about it... You have described the murderer!" 第二十一章　对凶手的描述 　　就在此时此刻，我想，波洛所谓的人性因素开始再度淡漠起来。这仿佛是由于人的心绪无法经受住十足的恐怖，我们因而获得了一段拥有正常的人类情趣的时间。 　　我们每个人都感觉到，要有所动作，这几乎是毫无可能的事。直到第四封信来临，揭示了D 谋杀案的预谋地点，那种等待的气氛才使紧张状态得以缓释下来。 　　可现在，那些用打字机打印在纸张上的字迹在白色的硬纸中嘲笑，追捕行动再一次开展起来。 　　克罗姆警督已从苏格兰场返回。他还留在此地时，富兰克林·克拉克和梅根·巴纳德走了进来。 　　那姑娘解释道，她也是刚从贝克斯希尔来。 　　“我希望能向克拉克先生询问一些问题。” 　　她看来在极其迫切地为她的行事步骤寻找借口和辩解。我刚刚注意到这一事实，却不以为然。 　　我脑中自然而然地灌满了那封信，脑子里什么别的想法都没有。 　　我想，对于见到这个戏剧当中的众多不同参与者，克罗姆丝毫没感到高兴。他变得极端的冠冕堂皇和漠不关心。 　　“我想把这封信带走，波洛先生。如果你乐意于留一份复印件……” 　　“不，不，这没必要。” 　　“你有什么计划，警督？”克拉克问。 　　“有相当全面的计划，克拉克先生。” 　　“这次我们要抓住他，”克拉克说，“我可以告诉你，警督。我们已组成了自己的团体来对付此事，这是个有关各方参加的团体。” 　　克罗姆警督以他最为礼貌的方式说： 　　“哦，是吗？” 　　“我猜想，你可能会不太赞成，警督？” 　　“你并没有可以指挥的资源，是吗，克拉克先生？” 　　“我们自有打算——那应该会有些效果的。” 　　“我想你的任务不会太轻松的，警督。实际上，我还是认为那个老练的ABC 会再次算计你。” 　　我注意到，在其它的方法统统都失效的时候，克罗姆常常会受唆使而开口发言。 　　“我想，这一次公众对我们的安排不会有太多的批评之辞，”他说。“那傻瓜已经给了我们充分的警告。直到下周三才是十一日，那就使得我们有足够的时间在新闻界开展公众活动。唐克斯特会进行全面的警戒，每个以D为姓氏开头的都要加强防备——那样子就太好了。另外，我们将大规模地派遣警士进驻镇内，全国的警察局长们均以同意对此进行安排。唐克斯特的全体人员，警察和平民百姓，都将出动去抓捕一个人。只要有相当的运气，我们就应该能抓住他。” 　　克拉克平静地说： 　　“显而易见，看来你不是个爱好运动的人，警督。” 　　克罗姆盯着他。 　　“你是什么意思，克拉克先生？” 　　“我的天啊，你怎么能没意识到下周三圣莱杰赛马会将在唐克斯特举行？” 　　警督下颌沉落。他无论如何都难以吐露出“哦，是吗”，取而代之的是，他说道： 　　“对。是的，那使事情变得复杂……” 　　“ABC可不是个笨蛋，尽管他是个疯子。” 　　我们都静默了一两分钟，来体会这种形势。赛马场上的那些人群，那些热情洋溢的、爱好体育的英国大众，会使事情无穷无尽地变得复杂起来。 　　波洛小声道： 　　“C'est ingenieux.Tout de meme c'est bien imagine，ca。（法文，意为：太巧妙了，可这还是想象出来的。——译注）” 　　“我深信，”克拉克说，“谋杀案将会在赛马场发生——可能恰好是在马匹赛跑的时候。” 　　此时，他那爱好体育的本性在思考之中有片刻的欢愉…… 　　克罗姆警督站起身来，拿着信件。 　　“圣莱杰赛马使事情变得纷烦杂乱，”他承认道，“这可真是时运不济。” 　　他出门离去。我们听到过道上有喧闹的声音。过了一会儿，托拉·格雷走进屋来。 　　她渴切地说： 　　“警督告诉我有另外一封信。这次凶案地点将在哪里？” 　　外面天气正下着雨。托拉·格雷身穿黑色上衣和裙子，还带有毛皮服饰，金色秀发的头上还戴着一顶小黑帽。 　　他冲着富兰克林·克拉克说话，径直向他走来，一只手搭在他的臂上，等待着他的回答。 　　“唐克斯特——是在圣莱杰赛马那一天。” 　　我们坐下来进行讨论。我们都有意赶赴犯罪现场，这自不待言，可是赛马的聚会无疑使我们事先尝试性地作出的计划变得复杂起来。 　　一阵沮丧的感觉扫掠过我的心头。无论这小组中六个人对这件事情多么地感兴趣，他们最终又能够做些什么呢？那里将会有无数的警察，他们将目不转睛，保持警戒，观望所有可能的地点。再多六双眼睛又能够干些什么呢？ 　　波洛提高音量，仿佛在回答我的思虑。他讲话的情形活像是个小学校长或是牧师。 　　“Mes enfants（法文，意为：我的孩子们。——译注），”他说，“我们不能分散力量。我们在处理这件事时，头脑中要有章法。我们必须发掘出真相。我们必须对自己说——对我们当中的每个人说——我们知道些关于凶手的什么情况呢？因而我们必须建立起即将寻找的这个人的合成影像。” 　　“我可是对他一无所知，”托拉·格雷无助地叹息。 　　“不，不，小、姐，并非如此。我们中的每个人都知道他的一些情况——只要我们能了解自己所知道的情况。我相信，只要我们能了解这些情况，真相就会显露。” 　　克拉克摇摇头。 　　“我们一无所知——他是年长还是年轻，白皙还是黝黑呢！我们当中没有一个人曾见过他或同他讲过话！我们已经把知道的所有情况回忆一遍又一遍。” 　　“并不是所有情况！比方说，格雷小、姐告诉过我们，在卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士被谋害那天，她并没有看见或是同陌生人讲过话。” 　　托拉·格雷点点头。 　　“的确如此。” 　　“是吗？克拉克女勋爵告诉我们，小、姐，她曾从窗户望出去，看见你站在台阶上同一个男人讲话。” 　　“她看见我在与一个男人讲话？”那姑娘看来真是感到震惊。很显然，她脸上那种纯真、清晰的脸色只能够是真实无邪的。 　　她摇摇头。 　　“克拉克女勋爵一定是搞错了。” 　　她突然间吐露出那声惊呼，一阵绯红掠过她的脸颊。 　　“我现在想起来了！多愚蠢啊！我全都忘记了，可这并不重要啊。那只是个推销袜子的人——你知道，你是个退伍军人。他非常固执，我必须要把他打发走。他来到门口时，我正好经过大厅，他同我说话而不是按响门铃，但他是那种毫无恶意的人。我想那就是我会把他忘记的原因。” 　　波洛前后摇晃着，双手抱紧头。他如此激烈地喃喃自语，以至于其他人都一言不发，眼睛望着他看。 　　“长统袜，”他低语，“长统袜……长统袜……长统袜……Ca vient（法文，意为：对的。——译注）……长统袜……长统袜……这才是主题——是的……三个月前……那一天……现在，Bon Dieu（法文，意为：我的天哪。——译注），我知道了。” 　　他笔直坐着，用一种专横的眼光注视着我。 　　“你还记得吗，黑斯廷斯？在安多弗那间小店，我们上楼去。在那间卧室里，椅子上有一双小的丝质长统袜。而现在我已知道两天前是什么引发了我的注意力。是你，小、姐——”他转向梅根，“你谈到你母亲曾哭泣，因为她正好在凶杀案发生那天为你妹妹买了些新的长统袜子……” 　　他环顾地望着我们所有人。 　　“你明白吗？这是在三次谋杀案中都重复的主题，那不可能是巧合。在小、姐开口说话的时候，我就有过一种感觉。她所说的话会同某件事情相联系。我现在知道是同什么事情有关联了。福勒太太，那位阿谢尔太太的隔墙邻居，曾说过一些话，提到有人总是试图向你推销产品——她也曾提到过长统袜。请告诉我，小、姐，你母亲并不是从商店里购买了那些袜子，而是从上门推销的某个人那里买的。这是不是真的？” 　　“是的，是的，她是这样做的……我现在想起来了。她曾说过一些话，说她为这些到处奔波、试图获得订单的倒霉男人们感到难过。” 　　“可这有什么联系呢？”富兰克林叫道，“一个上门推销长统袜的男人证明不了什么！” 　　“我告诉你们，我的朋友们，这不可能是巧合。三件罪案——每一次都有个男人在那儿推销长统袜，并窥视那个地方。” 　　他围绕着托拉旋步走着。 　　“A vous la parole（法文，意为：请你说吧。——译注）！请描述一下这个人吧。” 　　她茫然地朝着他看。 　　“我不……我记不得是怎样……他带着眼镜，我想——他穿着件寒酸的外套……” 　　“Mais que ca，mademoiselle（法文，意为：仅此而已，小、姐。——译注）。” 　　“他弯腰曲背……我不知道。我几乎没有看他，他才不是那种会令你关注的人……” 　　波洛语调低沉地说： 　　“你说得挺对，小、姐。毫无疑问，凶杀案的整个秘密都要依靠你对凶手的描述。他就是那个凶手！他不是那种会引起你注意的人！是的——这毫无疑问……你已描述了凶手地样子！” Chapter 22 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust sat very still. His breakfast lay cold and untasted on his plate. A newspaper was propped up against the teapot and it was this newspaper that Mr. Cust was reading with avid interest. Suddenly he got up, paced to and fro for a minute, then sank in a chair by the window. He buried his head in his hands with a stifled cry. He did not hear the sound of the opening door. His landlady, Mrs. Marbury, stood in the doorway. "I was wondering, Mr. Cust, if you'd fancy a nice - why, whatever is it? Aren't you feeling well?" Mr. Cust raised his head from his hands. "Nothing. It's nothing at all, Mrs. Marbury. I'm not - feeling very well this morning." Mrs. Marbury inspected the breakfast tray. "So I see. You haven't touched your breakfast. Is it your head troubling you again?" "No. At least, yes... I - I just feel a bit out of sorts." "Well, I'm sorry, I'm sure. You'll not be going away today then?" Mr. Cust sprang up abruptly. "No, no. I have to go. It's business. Important. Very important." His hands were shaking. Seeing him so agitated, Mrs. Marbury tried to soothe him. "Well, if you must - you must. Going far this time?" "No. I'm going to -" he hesitated for a minute or two - "Cheltenham -" There was something so peculiar about the tentative way he said the word that Mrs. Marbury looked at him in surprise. "Cheltenham's a nice place," she said conversationally. "I went there from Bristol one year. The shops are ever so nice." "I suppose so - yes." Mrs. Marbury stooped rather stiffly - for stooping did not suit her figure - to pick up the paper that was lying crumpled on the floor. "Nothing but this murdering business in the papers nowadays," she said as she glanced at the headlines before putting it back on the table. "Gives me the creeps, it does. I don't read it. It's like Jack the Ripper all over again." Mr. Cust's lips moved, but no sound came from them. "Doncaster - that's the place he's going to do his next murder," said Mrs. Marbury. "And tomorrow! Fairly makes your flesh creep, doesn't it? If I lived in Doncaster and my name began with a D, I'd take the first train away, that I would. I'd run no risks. What did you say, Mr. Cust?" "Nothing, Mrs. Marbury - nothing." "It's the races and all. No doubt he thinks he'll get his opportunity there. Hundreds of police, they say, they're drafting in and - Why, Mr. Cust, you do look bad. Hadn't you better have a little drop of something? Really, now, you oughtn't to go travelling today." Mr. Cust drew himself up. "It is necessary, Mrs. Marbury. I have always been punctual in my - engagements. People must have - must have confidence in you! When I have undertaken to do a thing, I carry it through. It is the only way to get on in - in - business." "But if you're ill?" "I am not ill, Mrs. Marbury. Just a little worried over - various personal matters. I slept badly. I am really quite all right." His manner was so firm that Mrs. Marbury gathered up the breakfast things and reluctantly left the room. Mr. Cust dragged out a suitcase from under the bed and began to Pack. Pyjamas, sponge-bag, spare collar, leather slippers. Then unlocking a cupboard, he transferred a dozen or so flattish cardboard boxes about ten inches by seven from a shelf to the suitcase. He just glanced at the railway guide on the table and then left the room, suitcase in hand. Setting it down in the hall, he put on his hat and overcoat. As he did so he sighed deeply, so deeply that the girl who came out from a room at the side looked at him in concern. "Anything the matter, Mr. Cust?" "Nothing, Miss Lily." "You were sighing so!" Mr. Cust said abruptly: "Are you at all subject to premonitions, Miss Lily? To presentiments?" "Well, I don't know that I am, really... Of course, there are days when you just feel everything's going wrong, and days when you feel everything's going right." "Quite," said Mr. Cust. He sighed again. "Well, good-bye, Miss Lily. Good-bye. I'm sure you've been very kind to me always here." "Well, don't say good-bye as though you were going away for ever," laughed Lily. "No, no, of course not." "See you Friday," laughed the girl. "Where are you going this time? Seaside again?" "No, no - er - Cheltenham." "Well, that's nice, too. But not quite as nice as Torquay. That must have been lovely. I want to go there for my holiday next year. By the way, you must have been quite near where the murder was - the A.B.C. murder. It happened while you were down there, didn't it?" "Er - yes. But Churston's six or seven miles away." "All the same, it must have been exciting! Why, you may have passed the murderer in the street! You may have been quite near to him!" "Yes, I may, of course," said Mr. Cust with such a ghastly and contorted smile that Lily Marbury noticed it. "Oh, Mr. Cust, you don't look well." "I'm quite all right, quite all right. Good-bye, Miss Marbury." He fumbled to raise his hat, caught up his suitcase and fairly hastened out of the front door. "Funny old thing," said Lily Marbury indulgently. "Looks half batty to my mind." Inspector Crome said to his subordinate: "Get me out a list of all stocking manufacturing firms and circularize them. I want a list of all their agents - you know, fellows who sell on commission and tout for orders." "This the A.B.C. case, sir?" "Yes. One of Mr. Hercule Poirot's ideas." The inspector's tone was disdainful. "Probably nothing in it, but it doesn't do to neglect any chance, however faint." "Right, sir. Mr. Poirot done some good stuff in his time, but I think he's a bit ga ga now, sir." "He's a mountebank," said Inspector Crome. "Always posing. Takes in some people. It doesn't take in me. Now then, about the arrangement for Doncaster..." Tom Hartigan said to Lily Marbury: "Saw your old dugout this morning." "Who? Mr. Cust?" "Cust it was. At Euston. Looking like a lost hen, as usual. I think the fellow's half a loony. He needs some one to look after him. First he dropped his paper and then he dropped his ticket. I picked that up - he hadn't the faintest idea he'd lost it. Thanked me in an agitated sort of manner, but I don't think he recognized me." "Oh, well," said Lily. "He's only seen you passing in the hall, and not very often at that." They danced once round the floor. "You dance something beautiful," said Tom. "Go on," said Lily and wriggled yet a little closer. They danced round again. "Did you say Euston or Paddington?" asked Lily abruptly. "Where you saw old Cust, I mean?" "Euston." "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. What do you think?" "Funny. I thought you went to Cheltenham from Paddington." "So you do. But old Cust wasn't going to Cheltenham. He was going to Doncaster." "Cheltenham." "Doncaster. I know, my girl! After all, I picked up his ticket, didn't I?" "Well, he told me he was going to Cheltenham. I'm sure he did." "Oh, you've got it wrong. He was going to Doncaster all right. Some people have all the luck. I've got a bit on Firefly for the Leger and I'd love to see it run." "I shouldn't think Mr. Cust went to race-meetings; he doesn't look the kind. Oh, Tom, I hope he won't get murdered. It's Doncaster the A.B.C. murder's going to be." "Cust'll be all right. His name doesn't begin with a D." "He might have been murdered last time. He was down near Churston at Torquay when the last murder happened." "Was he? That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" He laughed. "He wasn't at Bexhill the time before, was he?" Lily crinkled her brows. "He was away... Yes, I remember he was away... because he forgot his bathing-dress. Mother was mending it for him. And she said: 'There - Mr. Cust went away yesterday without his bathing-dress after all,' and I said: 'Oh, never mind the old bathing-dress - there's been the most awful murder,' I said, 'a girl strangled at Bexhill.'" "Well, if he wanted his bathing-dress, he must have been going to the seaside. I say, Lily -" his face crinkled up with amusement. "What price your old dugout being the murderer himself?" "Poor Mr. Cust? He wouldn't hurt a fly," laughed Lily. They danced on happily - in their conscious minds nothing but the pleasure of being together. In their unconscious minds something stirred... 第二十二章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特先生静静地坐着，他的早餐已搁久变凉了，在他的盘中没有被碰过。有一张报纸托靠着茶壶，卡斯特先生正以浓厚的兴趣阅读着报纸。 　　突然间他站起身，前后踱了一会儿步，然后又坐入临窗的一把椅子中。他把头埋在双手之中，发出一声沉闷的呻吟。 　　他没有听见门被打开的声音。他的房东太太，马伯里太太，站在门口。 　　“我在想，卡斯特先生，你是否会想吃点好的，怎么啦，是什么事？你觉得不舒服吗？” 　　卡斯特先生从手中抬起头来。 　　“没事，什么事也没有，马伯里太太。我今天早上有点不太舒服。” 　　马伯里太太检查了早餐托盘。 　　“我明白了。你还没碰过早餐，是你的头痛又在困扰你吗？” 　　“不是。不过，也是……我——我只是有点不舒服而已。” 　　“哦，我想我很抱歉。那么，你今天不出门吧？” 　　卡斯特先生突然发话。 　　“不，不，我必须去。那是些公务，很重要的事。非常重要。” 　　他的手在不停地颤抖着。看到他如此焦虑不安，马伯里太太试图安慰他。 　　“噢，如果你必须去——必须去的话，这一次是否要远行？” 　　“不，我要去——”他犹豫了一两分钟，“切尔滕纳姆。” 　　他吐露出这个词语时，那犹豫不定的样子是如此奇特，马伯里太太惊讶地看着他。 　　“切尔滕纳姆是个好地方，”她健谈地说，“有一年我从布里斯托尔出发去过那里，那儿的商店真是太好了。” 　　“我也这么认为——是的。” 　　马伯里太太极为僵硬地弯下身去，这是由于弯腰并不适合她的身材，她捡起地上皱巴巴的报纸。 　　“这些天尽是关于那件谋杀案的报道，”她说着话，瞥眼看看标题，随后把报纸放回桌上，“这案子真象是肢解者杰克的再版。” 　　卡斯特先生的嘴唇挪动，可是并没有出声。 　　“唐克斯特——他要在那儿进行下一场谋杀，”马伯里太太说。“就在明天！这太使你毛骨悚然，不是吗？如果我住在唐克斯特，我的姓名又是以D字母为开头的，我一定会搭乘头班车离开，我可不想冒险。卡斯特先生，你以为如何？” 　　“没什么，马伯里太太，我什么也不去想。” 　　“那儿会有赛马活动。他肯定想他在那里会得到机会下手的。他们说，将会有几百个警察被派往那里——怎么啦，卡斯特先生，你看上去挺不对劲的。你最好还是吃点什么东西，不好吗？真的，现在，你今天可不该外出旅行。” 　　卡斯特先生停止住颤抖。 　　“这很必要，马伯里太太。我对约会——一直非常守时，人们有必要——必须要对你有信心。当我着手去干一件事情时，我一定会全力以赴。这是开展业务的唯一途径。” 　　“可你在生病呀？” 　　“我可没病，马伯里太太。我只是对许多个人事务有点担忧罢了。我睡眠很差，我真的没什么事。” 　　他的态度非常坚决，马伯里太太收拾起早餐用具，勉强离开房间。 　　卡斯特先生从床下拉出一只箱子，开始装箱。睡衣、海绵袋、备用衬衫、皮拖鞋。他随后打开一个柜子，从架上取下一打左右的扁平纸盒。这些纸盒约莫有十英寸长七英寸宽，放入箱子内。 　　他瞥了一眼桌子上的铁路指南，然后离开房间，手中提着箱子。 　　他在客厅中放下箱子，戴上帽子，穿好外套。他深深地叹了口气，叹气声是如此之深，以至于那姑娘从一个房间中跑出来，在一旁关切地看着他。 　　“有什么事吗，卡斯特先生？” 　　“没事，莉莉小、姐。” 　　“可你在叹气。” 　　卡斯特先生粗鲁地说： 　　“你是不是有什么预兆，莉莉小、姐？还是预感？” 　　“哦，我不知道我是，真的……当然，有时候你会觉得一切都乱了头绪，有时候则觉得一切井井有条。” 　　“确是这样。”卡斯特先生说。 　　他又一次叹气。 　　“好吧，再见，莉莉小、姐。再见。我相信在这里你对我一直很友好。” 　　“哦，快别说再见，好像您一走就不回来了似的。”莉莉笑道。 　　“不，不，当然不会。” 　　“那就星期五见，”姑娘笑道，“您这次要去哪里？又去海边吗？” 　　“不，不，——是切尔滕纳姆。” 　　“哦，那倒是挺好的，可没有托基那么好。那儿一定挺令人愉快的，我想明年去那儿度假。还有，你一定与那个谋杀案——ABC 谋杀案离得挺近的。那凶案发生时，你正好在那里，是吗？” 　　“是的，可彻斯顿在六七英里之外。” 　　“不管怎样，那必定令人激动！怎么样，您可能在街中与那个凶手擦肩而过！您可能已非常接近他。” 　　“是的，当然可能。”卡斯特先生说着，露出恐怖和扭曲的笑意，这被莉莉·马伯里所注意到。 　　“噢，卡斯特先生，您脸色不好。” 　　“我挺好，挺好的。再见，马伯里小、姐。” 　　他笨手笨脚地戴上帽子，拿起箱子，相当匆忙地走出了前门。 　　“真是个有意思的老头。”莉莉·马伯里宽容地说，“只是有点反常。” 　　克罗姆警督对他的下属说： 　　“给我一份长统袜生产厂家的名单，并通知他们。我要一份他们所有代理人的名单——你们知道，还要包括所有收取佣金和拉订单的推销人。” 　　“这是ABC案件吗，先生？” 　　“是的，是赫尔克里·波洛先生的意见。”警督的语气轻蔑倨傲，“可能一点关系也没有，但我们不能忽视任何机会，不管它多细微。” 　　“对的，先生。波洛先生在他那时候确是干过不少漂亮活，可我认为现在已经老朽了，先生。” 　　“他是个江湖骗子，”克罗姆警督说，“他总是装腔作势，骗得了别人，可瞒不过我。现在，关于唐克斯特的安排……” 　　汤姆·哈廷格对莉莉·马伯里说： 　　“我今天早上见过你那个老家伙。” 　　“谁？卡斯特先生？” 　　“是卡斯特。在尤斯顿碰到的。他像往常一样，看上去像只迷途的羔羊。我想这家伙是半疯半痴，他需要有人照顾。他先是跌落了报纸，随后又丢了车票。我捡起车票——他还是一点都不知道自己已丢了票。他用一种焦虑不安的神态向我致谢。可我觉得他没认出我来。” 　　“哦，是的，”莉莉说，“他只是在客厅中见你走过去，也不太常能碰面。” 　　他们在地板上跳了一圈舞。 　　“你跳舞的姿势很美。”汤姆说。 　　“那就继续吧。”莉莉说，扭动着更贴近了一点。 　　他们再次跳舞转圈。 　　“你说的是尤斯顿还是帕丁顿？”莉莉突然问道，“我的意思是，你在哪里碰到老卡斯特？” 　　“在尤斯顿。” 　　“你确定吗？” 　　“我当然确定。你有何想法？” 　　“真有趣。我还以为你是从帕丁顿到切尔滕纳姆去的呢。” 　　“你这么认为，可老卡斯特并不是去切尔滕纳姆，他是去唐克斯特。” 　　“是去切尔滕纳姆。” 　　“是。我知道，姑娘！而且，我还捡起过他的车票，不是吗？” 　　“哦，他告诉我要去切尔滕纳姆的。我相信他会去的。” 　　“不，你弄错了。他正在赶往唐克斯特，这一点儿也没错。有些人总是运气很好。我也为马赛买了一点，赌那匹‘火蝇’。我真想去看赛马。” 　　“我可不认为卡斯特先生会去赛马大会，他看来可不像。哦，汤姆，我希望他不会被谋杀。ABC 谋杀案的下一个地点是唐克斯特……” 　　“卡斯特肯定没事，他的姓名又不是以D开首的。” 　　“他上一次就可能被谋杀。上一场谋杀案发生时，他正好在彻斯顿附近的托基。” 　　“是吗？那可真有点巧合，不是吗？” 　　他笑。 　　“他前一次没在贝克斯希尔，是吧？” 　　莉莉皱皱眉头。 　　“他当时外出。是的，我记得他外出了……因为他忘了带浴衣。妈妈好像在为他缝补那件浴衣，她说：‘卡斯特先生昨天出门，没带浴衣。’我说‘哦，别管那件破浴衣吧——有件最可怕的凶杀案。’我还说，‘贝克斯希尔有位姑娘被人勒喉致死。’” 　　“哦，如果他没带浴衣，他一定是去了海边。我说，莉莉——”他的脸因嘻笑而皱起，“如果你那位老家伙就是凶手，你敢赌多少钱？” 　　“可怜的卡斯特先生？他连只苍蝇都不会伤害。”莉莉说。 　　他们快活地继续跳舞——他们的心目中只有两情相悦的快乐。 　　他们没有意识到有些事正在引起轰动……

Chapter 16 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust came out with the rest of the audience the Torquay Pavilion, where he had been seeing and hearing that highly emotional film, Not a Sparrow... He blinked a little as he came out into the afternoon sunshine and peered round him in that lost-dog fashion that was characteristic of him. He murmured to himself: "It's an idea -" Newsboys passed along crying out: "Latest... Homicidal Maniac at Churston..." They carried placards on which was written: CHURSTON MURDER. LATEST. Mr. Cust fumbled in his pocket, found a coin, and bought a paper. He did not open it at once. Entering the Princess Gardens, he slowly made his way to a shelter facing Torquay harbour. He sat down and opened the paper. There were big headlines: SIR CARMICHAEL CLARKE MURDERED TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT CHURSTON WORK OF A HOMICIDAL MANIAC And below them: Only a month ago England was shocked and startled by the murder of a young girl, Elizabeth Barnard, at Bexhill. It may be remembered that an A.B.C. railway guide figured in the case. An A.B.C. as also found by the dead body of Sir Carmichael Clarke, and the police incline to the belief that both crimes were committed by the same person. Can it be possible that a homicidal murderer is going the round of our seaside resorts?... A young man in flannel trousers and a bright blue aertex shirt who was sitting beside Mr. Cust remarked: "Nasty business - eh?" Mr. Cust jumped. "Oh, very - very -" His hands, the young man noticed, were trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper. "You never know with lunatics," said the young man chattily. "They don't always look balmy, you know. Often they seem just the same as you or me..." "I suppose they do," said Mr. Cust. "It's a fact. Sometimes it's the war what unhinged them - never been right since." "I - I expect you're right." "I don't hold with wars," said the young man. His companion turned on him. "I don't hold with plague and sleeping sickness and famine and cancer... ut they happen all the same!" "War's preventable," said the young man with assurance. Mr. Cust laughed. He laughed for some time. The young man was slightly alarmed. "He's a bit batty himself," he thought. Aloud he said: "Sorry, sir, I expect you were in the war." "I was," said Mr. Cust. "It - it - unsettled me. My head's never been right since. It aches, you know. Aches terribly." "Oh! I'm sorry about that," said the young man awkwardly. "Sometimes I hardly know what I'm doing..." "Really? Well, I must be getting along," said the young man and removed himself hurriedly. He knew what people were once they began to talk about their health. Mr. Cust remained with his paper. He read and reread... People passed to and fro in front of him. Most of them were talking of the murder... "Awful... do you think it was anything to do with the Chinese? Wasn't the waitress in a Chinese cafй...?" "Actually on the golf links..." "I heard it was on the beach..." "- but, darling, we took out tea to Elbury only yesterday..." "- police are sure to get him..." "- say he may be arrested any minute now..." "- quite likely he's in Torquay... that other woman was who murdered the what do you call 'ems..." Mr. Cust folded up the paper very neatly and laid it on the seat. Then he rose and walked sedately along towards the town. Girls passed him, girls in white and pink and blue, in summery frocks and pyjamas and shorts. They laughed and giggled. Their eyes appraised the men they passed. Not once did their eyes linger for a second on Mr. Cust... He sat down at a little table and ordered tea and Devonshire cream... 第十六章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述） 　　阿历山大·波那帕特·卡斯特先生与余下的观众一同步出托基的雅典娜剧院，在那里他刚刚看完那场极其情感化的电影《不识燕雀》…… 　　他走入午后的阳光之中，稍稍眨眼，四处张望，一副若有所失的样子，这倒恰好是其性格所在。 　　他对自己小声说：“这倒是个主意……” 　　报童经过，口中叫喊着： 　　“最新消息……彻斯顿的杀人狂……” 　　彻斯顿谋杀案。最新消息。 　　卡斯特先生在他的口袋中摸索，找到一个硬币，买了一份报纸。他并没有马上翻开它。 　　他进入了王妃花园，慢慢走向面对托基港的一个荫凉处。他坐下来翻开报纸。 　　大大的标题印着： 　　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士被谋杀。 　　彻斯顿发生的恐怖惨案。 　　杀人狂之作。 　　接着是下面的报道： 　　　　仅仅是在一个月前，贝克斯希尔的一位年轻姑 　　娘伊丽莎白·巴纳德的谋杀案使得整个英格兰都大 　　为振动和惊恐。人们可能还记得，那案子中涉及一 　　本ABC铁路指南书。在卡迈克尔·克拉克尸体边上同 　　样发现一本ABC，警方倾向于认定两桩罪案系出自 　　一人之手。那么，这位杀人凶手在我们海滨胜地再 　　进行一轮谋杀，是否有可能呢…… 　　一位年轻人，他身穿着法兰绒长裤和鲜艳的蓝色“阿泰克斯”牌衬衫，坐在卡斯特先生身边，评说道： 　　“这真是件恶劣的勾当。” 　　卡斯特先生跳了起来。“非常……非常地……” 　　年轻人注意到，他的手颤抖不已，几乎拿不住报纸。 　　“你永远也无法了解那些疯子，”年轻人闲聊着说，“他们可不总是显得傻头傻脑，你知道，他们——经常看上去就像你我一样。” 　　“我想他们是这样的。”卡斯特先生说。 　　“事实如此。有时候战争使他们错乱——从此再也无法正常。” 　　“我——我希望你是对的。” 　　“我并不赞成战争。”年轻人说。 　　他的同伴则向他反击。 　　“我并不赞成瘟疫、昏睡症、饥荒和癌症，可它们照样会出现。” 　　“战争是可以防止的。”年轻人确信地说。 　　卡斯特先生笑了，他笑了一会儿。 　　年轻人则稍有惊恐。 　　“他有点反常。”他寻思道。 　　他大声说： 　　“对不起，先生，我料想您还沉浸在战争之中。” 　　“是的，”卡斯特先生说，“它——它困扰着我。我的头从未正常过，头老是痛，你知道，痛得厉害。” 　　“哦！我很抱歉。”年轻人尴尬地说道。 　　“有时候我几乎不明白自己在做些什么……” 　　“是吗？噢，我必须走了。”年轻人说着匆忙离去。他清楚人们一开始谈身体状况时会是什么样子。 　　卡斯特先生则拿着报纸留坐在那里。 　　他读了一遍又一遍…… 　　“太可怕了……你是否认为这跟中国人有关吗？难道不是一家中餐馆的女招待……？” 　　“实际上在高尔夫球场上……” 　　“我听说在海滩上……” 　　“——可是，亲爱的，我们昨天才带茶来厄尔布利……” 　　“——警察肯定会逮到他的……” 　　“——说是他现在每时每刻都有可能被抓获……” 　　“——看来他象是在托基，……而另一位妇女则是被你所称之为‘他们’的人谋杀的……” 　　卡斯特先生仔细地叠好报纸，放在座位上。然后他站起身，镇静地走向小城。 　　姑娘们从他身边经过，她们穿着白色、粉红色和蓝色的衣服，身着夏日的上衣、宽松裤和短装。她们欢笑，放声大笑。她们的眼睛评判着经过身边的男人们。 　　她们的眼睛一刻也没停留在卡斯特先生身上。 　　他在一个小餐桌边坐下，点了茶和达夫郡产的奶油。 Chapter 17 MARKING TIME With the murder of Sir Carmichael Clarke the A.B.C. mystery leaped into the fullest prominence. The newspapers were full of nothing else. All sorts of "clues" were reported to have been discovered. Arrests were announced to be imminent. There were photographs of every person or place remotely connected with the murder. There were interviews with any one who would give interviews. There were questions asked in Parliament. The Andover murder was not bracketed with the other two. It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths. The Daily Flicker had the grand inspiration of using the caption: He may be in your town! Poirot, of course, was in the thick of things. The letters sent to him were published and facsimiled. He was abused wholesale for not having prevented the crimes and defended on the ground that he was on the point of naming the murderer. Reporters incessantly badgered him for interviews. What M. Poirot Says Today. Which was usually followed by a half-column of imbecilities. M. Poirot Takes Grave View of Situation. M. Poirot on the Eve of Success. Captain Hastings, the great friend of M. Poirot, told our Special Representative... "Poirot," I would cry. "Pray believe me. I never said anything of the kind." My friend would reply kindly: "I know, Hastings - I know. The spoken word and the written - there is an astonishing gulf between them. There is a way of turning sentences that completely reverses the original meaning." "I wouldn't like you to think I'd said -" "But do not worry yourself. All this is of no importance. These imbecilities, even, may help." "How?" "Eh bien," said Poirot grimly. "If our madman reads what I am supposed to have said to the Daily Flicker today, he will lose all respect for me as an opponent!" I am, perhaps, giving the impression that nothing practical was being done in the way of investigations. On the contrary, Scotland Yard and the local police of the various counties were indefatigable in following up the smallest clues. Hotels, people who kept lodgings, boarding-houses - all those within a wide radius of the crimes were questioned minutely. Hundreds of stories from imaginative people who had "seen a man looking very queer and rolling his eyes," or "noticed a man with a sinister face slinking along," were sifted to the last detail. No information, even of the vaguest character, was neglected. Trains, buses, trams, railway porters, conductors, bookstalls, stationers - there was an indefatigable round of questions and verifications. At least a score of people were detained and questioned until they could satisfy the police as to their movements on the night in question. The net result was not entirely a blank. Certain statements were borne in mind and noted down as of possible value, but without further evidence they led nowhere. If Crome and his colleagues were indefatigable, Poirot seemed to me strangely supine. We argued now and again. "But what is it that you would have me do, my friend? The routine inquiries, the police make them better than I do. Always - always you want me to run about like the dog." "Instead of which you sit at home like - like -" "A sensible man! My force, Hastings, is in my brain, not in my feet! All the time, whilst I seem to you idle, I am reflecting." "Reflecting?" I cried. "Is this a time for reflection?" "Yes, a thousand times yes." "But what can you possibly gain by reflection? You know the facts of the three cases by heart." "It is not the facts I reflect upon - but the mind of the murderer." "The mind of a madman!" "Precisely. And therefore not to be arrived at in a minute. When I know what the murderer is like, I shall be able to find out who he is. And all the time I learn more. After the Andover crime, what did we know about the murderer? Next to nothing at all. After the Bexhill crime? A little more. After the Churston murder? More still. I begin to see - not what you would like to see - the outlines of a face and form - but the outlines of a mind. A mind that moves and works in certain definite directions. After the next crime -" "Poirot!" My friend looked at me dispassionately. "But, yes, Hastings, I think it is almost certain there will be another. A lot depends on la chance. So far our inconnu has been lucky. This time the luck may turn against him. But in any case, after another crime, we shall know infinitely more. Crime is terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealed by your actions. There are confusing indications - sometimes it is as though there were two intelligences at work - but soon the outline will clear itself, I shall know." "Who it is?" "No, Hastings, I shall not know his name and address! I shall know what kind of man he is." "And then?" "Et alors, je vais a la pкche." As I looked rather bewildered, he went on: "You comprehend, Hastings, an expert fisherman knows exactly what flies to offer to what fish. I shall offer the right kind of fly." "And then?" "And then? And then? You are as bad as the superior Crome with his eternal, 'Oh, yes?' Eh bien, and then he will take the bait and the hook and we will reel in the line..." "In the meantime people are dying right and left." "Three people. And there are, what is it - about 140 - road deaths every week?" "That is entirely different." "It is probably exactly the same to those who die. For the others, the relations, the friends - yes, there is a difference, but one thing at least rejoices me in this case." "By all means let us hear anything in the nature of rejoicing." "Inutile to be so sarcastic. It rejoices me that there is here no shadow of guilt to distress the innocent." "Isn't this worse?" "No, no, a thousand times no! There is nothing so terrible as to live in an atmosphere of suspicion - to see eyes watching you and the look in them changing to fear - nothing so terrible as to suspect those near and dear to you... It is poisonous - a miasma. No, the poisoning of life for the innocent, that, at least, we cannot lay at A.B.C.'s door." "You'll soon be making excuses for the man!" I said bitterly. "Why not? He may believe himself fully justified. We may, perhaps end by having sympathy with his point of view." "Really, Poirot!" "Alas! I have shocked you. First my inertia - and then my views." I shook my head without replying. "All the same," said Poirot after a minute or two, "I have one project that will please you - since it is active and not passive. Also, it will entail a lot of conversation and practically no thought." I did not quite like his tone. "What is it?" I asked cautiously. "The extraction from the friends, relations, and servants of the victims of all they know." "Do you suspect them of keeping things back, then?" "Not intentionally. But telling everything you know always implies selection. If I were to say to you, recount me your day yesterday, you would perhaps reply: 'I rose at nine, I breakfasted at half-past, I had eggs and bacon and coffee, I went to my club, etc.' You would not include: 'I tore my nail and had to cut it. I rang for shaving water. I spilt a little coffee on the tablecloth. I brushed my hat and put it on.' One cannot tell everything. Therefore one selects. At the time of a murder people select what they think is important. But quite frequently they think wrong!" "And how is one to get at the right things?" "Simply, as I said just now, by conversation. By talking! By discursing a certain happening, or a certain person, or a certain day, over and over again, extra details are bound to arise." "What kind of details?" "Naturally that I do not know or I should not want to find out! I think enough time has passed now for ordinary things to reassume their value. It is against all mathematical laws that in three cases of murder there is no single fact or sentence with a bearing on the case. Some trivial happening, some trivial remark there must be which would be a pointer! It is looking for the needle in the haystack, I grant - but in the haystack there is a needle - of that I am convinced!" It seemed to me extremely vague and hazy. "You do not see it? Your wits are not so sharp as those of a mere servant girl." He tossed me over a letter. It was neatly written in a sloping board-school hand. Dear Sir, I hope you will forgive the liberty I take in writing to you. I have been thinking a lot since these awful two murders like poor Auntie. It seems as though we're all in the same boat, as it were. I saw the young lady picture in the paper, the young lady, I mean, that is the sister of the young lady that was killed at Bexhill. I made so bold as to write to her and tell her I was coming to London to get a place and asked if I could come to her or her mother as I said two heads might be better than one and I would not want much wages, but only to find out who this awful fiend is and perhaps we might get at it better if we could say what we knew something might come of it. The young lady wrote very nicely and said as how she worked in an office and lived in a hotel, but she suggested I might write to you and she said she'd been thinking something of the same kind as I had. And she said we were in the same trouble and we ought to stand together. So I am writing, sir, to say I am coming to London and this is my address. Hoping I am not troubling you, Yours respectfully, Mary Drower "Mary Drower," said Poirot, "is a very intelligent girl." He picked up another letter. "Read this." It was a line from Franklin Clarke, saying that he was coming to London and would call upon Poirot the following day if not inconvenient. "Do not despair, mon ami," said Poirot. "Action is about to begin." 第十七章　标记时间 　　由卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士的谋杀案引起，ABC迷案迅速获得全方位的关注。 　　报纸上全是关于本案的新闻，而没有其他的事件。各种各样的“线索”均被报道，说是凶手已被发现，逮捕行动即将展开。报上还登有与谋杀案遥遥相关的个人和地点的照片。每个愿意接受采访的人都受到了采访，有人还在国会对案子提了问题。 　　安多弗谋杀案现在与其他两件案子扯上了关系。 　　苏格兰场则相信，最大程度的公众化是抓获凶手的最佳机会。英国的大众都正在改造成为一支业余侦探大军。 　　《每日闪耀》报用以下标题强烈地刺激人们的灵感： 　　他可能就在你的城镇中！ 　　波洛先生，当然，身处事件的最激烈之处，那些寄给他的信件被发表和摹写出来。他因未能阻止犯罪而遭到大规模的攻击，同时又有人为他辩护，说他正处于揭露凶手的前夕。 　　记者们继续不断地纠缠着他要求采访。 　　波洛先生今日所言。 　　其后总会有半个栏目的蠢笨的文章。 　　波洛先生就时势阐述重要见解。 　　波洛先生在成功前夕。 　　黑斯廷斯上尉，波洛先生的挚友，向我刊特别代表透露…… 　　“波洛，”我叫喊道，“请相信我，我可从未说过那样的话。” 　　我的朋友会心平气和地回答： 　　“我知道，黑斯廷斯——我知道。口说之言和笔录之词——它们之间往往会有一道惊人的鸿沟，总有办法把原意颠倒成完全相反的词句。” 　　“我只是不想让你以为我说过……” 　　“别担心吧。这一切无关紧要。这些愚蠢的话甚至可能会有所帮助。” 　　“怎么会？” 　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：那么。——译注），”波洛严厉地说，“如果我们这位疯子读到我据说是在今天的《每日趣事》中说的话，他会丧失把我作为一个对手的全部敬意。” 　　我可能有这样一种印象，觉得在案情调查方面还没有什么实质的进展。相反，苏格兰场与许多郡县的地方警局都在努力不懈地追踪最细小的线索。 　　酒店、管理出租房屋和寄宿房子的人，所有位于犯罪地点的广泛区域内的地方，均受到细致的盘查。 　　许多想象力丰富的人们声称“见到过一个外表极其怪诞、眼睛不断打转的人”，或是“注意到一个人，他长着阴险的脸，在鬼鬼祟祟地踱步”，他们提供的数百个故事，都经过了极其严格的筛选。所有的消息，甚至是最含糊不清的那一类，都没有被忽视，火车、公交车、有轨电车、铁路服务员、售票员、书摊、文具店——所有这些地方都进行了不折不扣的检查和验证。 　　相当多的人士受到了扣留和盘问，直到他们能够提供他们在出事当晚的行踪，使警察满意为止。 　　检查的结果倒也并非完全空白。某些证词留下印象，并因有可能的价值而被记录下来，但由于没有进一步的迹象而起不到任何作用。 　　如果说克罗姆与他的同事们尽心尽力，在我看来，波洛则异常地懒散。我们不时地吵嘴。 　　“可你要我做些什么呢，我的朋友？例行公事的查问，警局要比我做得好得多。你总是——总是要我像狗一样玩命地奔跑。” 　　“而你静坐在家中，就像是……就像是——” 　　“一个神经兮兮的人！黑斯廷斯，我的力量在于我的大脑，而不是双脚！我在你看来轻闲无事，其实我从头到尾都在反思之中。” 　　“反思？”我叫道，“这是反思的时候吗？” 　　“是的，绝对是的。” 　　“可你通过反思，会有些什么收获呢？你内心里十分清楚这三件案子的实情。” 　　“我可不是在反思案情——而是凶手的心理。” 　　“疯子的心理。” 　　“正确。因而，在短时间内不能下定论。当我获知凶手是什么样子时，我就能发现他是谁，我始终在收获更多的东西。在安多弗的凶案之后，我们对凶手了解些什么情况呢？我们几乎是一无所知。在贝克斯希尔凶案之后呢？则多了一点了解。彻斯顿凶案之后呢？又多了一点。我开始见到——那可不是你所乐意于见到的——一张脸和外形的轮廓，而且看到一种心理的轮廓。那是一种向某些固定方向远行和工作的心思。在下一场凶案之后——” 　　“波洛。” 　　我的朋友心平气和地看着我。 　　“但，是的，黑斯廷斯，我想几乎毋庸置疑，还会有另一场谋杀。有许多东西是依靠la chance（法文，意为：机会。——译注）。到目前为止我们的inconnu （法文，意为：陌生人。——译注）一直很幸运。这次时运很可能会与他背道而驰。可是无论如何，在下一场凶案之后，我们会有无数的了解。罪行正在可怕地暴露出来。试想，改变一下你的方法，你的品位，你的习惯，你的思维态式，那样你的心灵就是你行动的表现。总会有混淆的迹象——有时就好像是有两股智力在运作着——而不久，我知道，大体的轮廓就会凸现出来的。” 　　“是谁呢？” 　　“不，黑斯廷斯，我不知道他的姓名和地址？我知道他是哪一类人……” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“Et alors，je vais a.la peche.（法文，意为：那么，我去钓鱼。——译注）” 　　正当我一脸疑惑，他继续说道： 　　“你想，黑斯廷斯，一个经验老道的钓鱼者知道该用什么样的鱼饵喂给什么样的鱼。我是在对症下药地喂饵。” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“然后呢？然后呢？你与那位傲慢的克罗姆那无休止的‘哦，是吗？’一样糟糕。Em bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），然后他将会吞饵上钩，我们就收紧线轮……” 　　“与此同时，四处都有人们在死亡。” 　　“三个人。而每周，怎么讲——大约会有120个人死于道路交通。” 　　“那可是完全不同的两码事。” 　　“对死者来说，这也许恰好一样。对其他人而言，对亲戚、对朋友，——是的，的确有所不同，可这件案子中至少有一件事情令我欣喜。” 　　“不管怎样，让我听听有什么事情可如此欣喜？” 　　“这样挖苦毫无意义。令我感到欣慰的是，这件案子中并没有什么错误的阴影笼罩在无辜者身上。” 　　“这难道不是更坏吗？” 　　“不，不，绝对不是。没有什么事情要比生活在怀疑的氛围中更可怕——看看那些注视着你的眼睛，眼中的爱变成了恐惧——没有什么事情要比去怀疑那些与你亲近的人来得可怕。这种怀疑相当恶毒——是种有害的瘴气。不，对无辜人士的生命毒害，至少这一点，我们不能归咎于ABC。” 　　“你不久将会为这个人寻找借口。”我挖苦地说。 　　“为什么不呢？他可能认定自己是正当的。我们则可能，会因同情他的观点而告终。” 　　“真的吗，波洛！” 　　“哎呀！我令你感到震惊。首先是我的惰性——然后是我的观点。” 　　我摇头，没有作答。 　　“同样，”波洛停了一两分钟之后说，“我有一种设想，它肯定会使你感到高兴——因为它很积极，不消极。而且，这种设想需要大量的谈话，并且确实不带有思想。” 　　我不太喜欢他的口气。 　　“那是什么呢？”我疑心地问。 　　“受害人的朋友、亲戚和仆人们对他们所知道的全部情况都会进行筛选。” 　　“那么，你是否在怀疑他们将有些事情隐而不宣？” 　　“他们并不是有意要这样做。可是，告知你所了解的每一件事往往意味着选择。如果我要你向我复述一遍你昨天干的事情，你可能会答复：‘我九点钟起床，九点半吃早餐，我吃了鸡蛋、薰肉和咖啡，我又去了俱乐部，等等。’你却并没有包括：‘我弄破了指甲而必须剪掉它。我打电话定购洗面液。我洒了一点咖啡在台布上。我刷了帽子并带上它。’一个人不可能把每件事都讲出来，人们会选择他们认为重要的情况。可他们的想法通常是错误的！” 　　“可怎么才能获得正确的情况呢？” 　　“正如我刚才所说，只要通过对话就行。通过聊天！通过谈论某一件发生的事，或某个人，或某一天，通过反复谈论，多余的细节就必定会呈现出来。” 　　“什么样的细节？” 　　“自然，我并无所知也不想去发现。可等过了足够长的时间之后，普通的事物会重新拥有价值。在三场谋杀暗中，并没有某个事实，也没有任何意见与案件相关，这与所有确定的规则相违背。有些细微的事件，有些琐碎的评论必定可能会是个点子！我想，这好比大海捞针——可是在海水之中确实有针存在，我对此很确信！” 　　这在我听来极其含糊不清。 　　“你难道不理解吗？你的智慧还不如一个当女仆的姑娘那样敏锐。” 　　他仍给我一封信，信是用一种倾斜的寄宿学校的手法很清晰地写的。 　　　亲爱的先生： 　　　　　我希望您会原谅我冒昧写信给您。自那两件 　　　与可怜的姨妈如出一辙的谋杀案发生后，我一直 　　　在思考。看来我们大家都有相同的处境。我在报 　　　上见到了那个年轻姑娘，我是指那个在贝克斯希 　　　尔被谋杀的年轻姑娘的姐姐。我大着胆子写信给 　　　她，告诉她我正到伦敦来谋职，并问她我是否可 　　　以去为她或她母亲做事，因为我认为两个头脑会 　　　胜过一个头脑，而且我不会要太多工资，只是为 　　　了发现那个恶魔是谁，如果我们能从所知道的事 　　　情中悟出些什么，我们可能会更好地查明案情。 　　　　　那位年轻女士回信写得极友好，并说她在一 　　　件办公室工作，住在一家旅店，可她建议我写信 　　　给您。她还说，她也在考虑着一些与我相同的问 　　　题。她说我们处于同样的麻烦之中，我们应该站 　　　在同一个立场上。所以我写信给您，告诉您我来 　　　到伦敦，这儿有我的地址。 　　　　　希望我没有麻烦您。尊敬您的 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　玛丽·德劳尔 　　“玛丽·德劳尔，”波洛说，“是个非常精明的姑娘。” 　　他捡起另外一封信。 　　“读这封吧。” 　　这是富兰克林·克拉克的来信，信中说他也来到伦敦，如果没什么不方便的话，会在第二天拜访波洛。 　　“别绝望，mon ami（法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注），”波洛说，“行动就要开始。” Chapter 18 POIROT MAKES A SPEECH Franklin Clarke arrived at three o'clock on the following afternoon and came straight to the point without beating about the bush. "M. Poirot," he said, "I'm not satisfied." "No, Mr. Clarke?" "I've no doubt that Crome is a very efficient officer, but frankly, he puts my back up. That air of his of knowing best! I hinted something of what I had in mind to your friend here when he was down at Churston, but I've had all my brother's affairs to settle up and I haven't been free until now. My idea is, M. Poirot, that we oughtn't to let the grass grow under our feet -" "Just what Hastings is always saying!" "- but go right ahead. We've got to get ready for the next crime." "So you think there will be a next crime?" "Don't you?" "Certainly." "Very well, then. I want to get organized." "Tell me your idea exactly." "I propose, M. Poirot, a kind of special legion - to work under your orders - composed of the friends and relatives of the murdered people." "Une bonne idйe." "I'm glad you approve. By putting our heads together I feel we might get at something. Also, when the next warning comes, by being on the spot, one of us might - I don't say it's probable - but we might recognize some person as having been near the scene of a previous crime." "I see your idea, and I approve, but you must remember, Mr. Franklin, the relations and friends of the other victims are hardly in your sphere of life. They are employed persons and though they might be given a short vacation -" Franklin Clarke interrupted. "That's just it. I'm the only person in a position to foot the bill. Not that I'm particularly well off myself, but my brother died a rich man and it will eventually come to me. I propose, as I say, to enroll a special legion, the members to be paid for their services at the same rate as they get habitually, with, of course, the additional expenses." "Who do you propose should form this legion?" "I've been into that. As a matter of fact, I wrote to Miss Megan Barnard - indeed, this is partly her idea. I suggest myself, Miss Barnard, Mr. Donald Fraser, who was engaged to the dead girl. Then there is a niece of the Andover woman - Miss Barnard knows her address. I don't think the husband would be of any use to us - I hear he's usually drunk. I also think the Barnards - the father and mother - are a bit old for active campaigning." "Nobody else?" "Well - er - Miss Grey." He flushed slightly as he spoke the name. "Oh! Miss Grey?" Nobody in the world could put a gentle nuance of irony into a couple of words better than Poirot. About thirty-five years fell away from Franklin Clarke. He looked suddenly like a shy schoolboy. "Yes. You see, Miss Grey was with my brother for over two years. She knows the countryside and the people round, and everything. I've been away for a year and a half." Poirot took pity on him and turned the conversation. "You have been in the East? In China?" "Yes. I had a kind of roving commission to purchase things for my brother." "Very interesting it must have been. Eh bien, Mr. Clarke, I approve very highly of your idea. I was saying to Hastings only yesterday that a rapprochement of the people concerned was needed. It is necessary to pool reminiscences, to compare notes - enfin to talk the thing over - to talk - to talk - and again to talk. Out of some innocent phrase may come enlightenment." A few days later the "Special Legion" met at Poirot's rooms. As they sat round looking obediently towards Poirot, who had his place, like the chairman at a Board meeting, at the head of the table, I myself passed them, as it were, in review, confirming or revising my first impressions of them. The three girls were all of them striking looking - the extraordinary fair beauty of Thora Grey, the dark intensity of Megan Barnard, with her strange Red Indian immobility of face - Mary Drower, neatly dressed in a black coat and skirt, with her pretty, intelligent face. Of the two men, Franklin Clarke, big, bronzed and talkative, Donald Fraser, self-contained and quiet, made an interesting contrast to each other. Poirot, unable, of course, to resist the occasion, made a little speech. "Mesdames and Messieurs, you know what we are here for. The police are doing their utmost to track down the criminal. I, too, in my different way. But it seems to me a reunion of those who have a personal interest in the matter - and also, I may say, a personal knowledge of the victims - might have results that an outside investigation cannot pretend to attain. "Here we have three murders - an old woman, a young girl, an elderly man. Only one thing links these three people together - the fact that the same person killed them. That means that the same person was present in three different localities and was seen necessarily by a large number of people. That he is a madman in an advanced stage of mania goes without saying. That his appearance and behaviour give no suggestion of such a fact is equally certain. This person - and though I say he, remember it may be a man or woman - has all the devilish cunning of insanity. He has succeeded so far in covering his traces completely. The police have certain vague indications but nothing upon which they can act. "Nevertheless, there must exist indications which are not vague but certain. To take one particular point - this assassin he did not arrive at Bexhill at midnight and find conveniently on the beach a young lady whose name began with B -" "Must we go into that?" It was Donald Fraser who spoke - the words wrung from him, it seemed, by some inner anguish. "It is necessary to go into everything, Monsieur," said Poirot, turning to him. "You are here, not to save your feelings by refusing to think of details, but if necessary to harrow them by going into the matter au fond. As I say, it was not chance that provided A.B.C. with a victim in Betty Barnard. There must have been deliberate selection on his part - and therefore premeditation. That is to say, he must have reconnoitered the ground beforehand. There were facts of which he had informed himself - the best hour for the committing of the crime at Andover - the mise en scйne at Bexhill - the habits of Sir Carmichael Clarke at Churston. Me, for one, I refuse to believe that there is no indication - no slightest hint - that might help to establish his identity. "I make the assumption that one - or possibly all of you - knows something that they do not know they know. "Sooner or later, by reason of your association with one another, something will come to light, will take on a significance as yet undreamed of. It is like the jigsaw puzzle - each of you may have a piece apparently without meaning, but which when reunited may show a definite portion of the picture as a whole." "Words!" said Megan Barnard. "Eh?" Poirot looked at her inquiringly. "What you've been saying. It's just words. It doesn't mean anything." She spoke with that kind of desperate dark intensity that I had come to associate with her personality. "Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas." "Well, I think it's sense," said Mary Drower. "I do really, miss. It's often when you're talking over things that you seem to see your way clear. Your mind gets made up for you sometimes without your knowing how it's happened. Talking leads to a lot of things one way or another." "If 'least said is soonest mended,' it's the converse we want here," said Franklin Clarke. "What do you say, Mr. Fraser?" "I rather doubt the practical applicability of what you say, M. Poirot." "What do you think, Thora?" asked Clarke. "I think the principle of talking things over is always sound." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that you all go over your own remembrances of the time preceding the murder. Perhaps you'll start, Mr. Clarke." "Let me see, on the morning of the day Car was killed I went off sailing. Caught eight mackerel. Lovely out there on the bay. Lunch at home. Irish stew, I remember. Slept in the hammock. Tea. Wrote some letters, missed the post, and drove into Paignton to post them. Then dinner and - I'm not ashamed to say it - reread a book of E. Nesbit's that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephone rang -" "No further. Now reflect, Mr. Clarke, did you meet any one on your way down to the sea in the morning?" "Lots of people." "Can you remember anything about them?" "Not a damned thing now." "Sure?" "Well - let's see - I remember a remarkably fat woman - she wore a striped silk dress and I wondered why - had a couple of kids with her - two young men with a fox terrier on the beach throwing stones for it - Oh yes, a girl with yellow hair squeaking as she bathed - funny how things come back - like a photograph developing." "You are a good subject. Now later in the day - the garden - going to the post -" "The gardener watering... Going to the post? Nearly ran down a bicyclist - silly woman wobbling and shouting to a friend. That's all, I'm afraid." Poirot turned to Thora Grey. "Miss Grey?" Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice: "I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning - saw the housekeeper. I wrote letters and did needlework in the afternoon, I fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinary day. I went to bed early." Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said: "Miss Barnard - can you bring back your remembrances of the last time you saw your sister?" "It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday and Sunday. It was fine weather. We went to Hastings to the swimming pool." "What did you talk about most of the time?" "I gave her a piece of my mind," said Megan. "And what else? She conversed of what?" The girl frowned in an effort of memory. "She talked about being hard up - of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she'd just bought. And a little of Don... She also said she disliked Milly Higley - that's the girl at the cafй - and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the cafй... I don't remember anything else..." "She didn't mention any man - forgive me, Mr. Fraser - she might be meeting?" "She wouldn't to me," said Megan dryly. Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw. "Mr. Fraser - I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you said, to the cafй on the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember any one at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?" "There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can't remember any of them." "Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically - unintelligently but accurately..." The young man repeated doggedly: "I don't remember anybody." Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower. "I suppose you got letters from your aunt?" "Oh, yes, sir." "When was the last?" Mary thought a minute. "Two days before the murder, sir." "What did it say?" "She said the old devil had been round and that she'd sent him off with a flea in the ear - excuse the expression, sir - said she expected me over on the Wednesday - that's my day out, sir - and she said we'd go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir." Something - the thought of the little festivity perhaps, suddenly brought tears to Mary's eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it. "You must forgive me, sir. I don't want to be silly. Crying's no good. It was just the thought of her - and me - looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir." "I know just what you feel like," said Franklin Clarke. "It's always the little things that get one - and especially anything like a treat or a present - something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She'd just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there - and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out - it gave me a turn - they looked so pathetic." Megan said with a sudden eager warmth: "That's true - that's awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty - died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present - bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: 'I bought them for Betty - I bought them for Betty - and she never even saw them.'" Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy - a fraternity in trouble. "I know," he said. "I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember." Donald Fraser stirred uneasily. Thora Grey diverted the conversation. "Aren't we going to make any plans - for the future?" she asked. "Of course." Franklin Clarke resumed his ordinary manner. "I think that when the moment comes - that is, when the fourth letter arrives - we ought to join forces. Until then, perhaps we might each try our luck on our own. I don't know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?" "I could make some suggestions," said Poirot. "Good. I'll take them down." He produced a notebook. "Go ahead, M. Poirot. A -?" "I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might know something useful." "A - Milly Higley," wrote down Franklin Clarke. "I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try what I call the offensive approach." "I suppose you think that suits my style?" said Megan dryly. "Pick a quarrel with the girl - say you knew she never liked your sister - and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge." "And the second method?" "May I suggest, Mr. Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in the girl?" "Is that necessary?" "No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration." "Shall I try my hand?" asked Franklin. "I've - er - a pretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady." "You've got your own part of the world to attend to," said Thora Grey rather sharply. Franklin's face fell just a little. "Yes," he said. "I have." "Tout de mкme, I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted -" Thora Grey interrupted him. "But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good." "Ah? I did not understand." "Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things," said Franklin. "But naturally she prefers a post in London." Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other. "How is Lady Clarke?" he demanded. I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey's cheeks and almost missed Clarke's reply. "Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can't see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that - at my expense, of course." "Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say, the day after tomorrow?" "Good. I'll let nurse know and she'll arrange the dope accordingly." "For you, my child," said Poirot, turning to Mary, "I think you might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children." "The children?" "Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your aunt's shop." "What about Miss Grey and myself?" asked Clarke. "That is, if I'm not to go to Bexhill." "M. Poirot," said Thora Grey. "What was the postmark on the third letter?" "Putney, mademoiselle." She said thoughtfully: "S.W. 15, Putney, that is right, is it not?" "For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly." "That seems to point to A.B.C. being a Londoner." "On the face of it, yes." "One ought to be able to draw him," said Clarke. "M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted an advertisement - something after these lines: A.B.C. Urgent. H.P close on your track. A hundred for my silence. X.Y.Z. Nothing quite so crude as that - but you see the idea. It might draw him." "It is a possibility - yes." "Might induce him to try and have a shot at me." "I think it's very dangerous and silly," said Thora Grey sharply. "What about it, M. Poirot?" "It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A.B.C. will be too cunning to reply." Poirot smiled a little. "I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are - if I may say so without being offensive - still a boy at heart." Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed. "Well," he said, consulting his notebook, "we're making a start. A. - Miss Barnard and Milly Higley. B. - Mr. Fraser and Miss Higley. C. - Children in Andover. D. - Advertisement. I don't feel any of it is much good, but it will be something to do whilst waiting." He got up and a few minutes later the meeting had dispersed. 第十八章　波洛发表演讲 　　富兰克林·克拉克第二天下午三点到达，他丝毫没有旁敲侧击，谈话直入主体。 　　“波洛先生，”他说，“我并不满意。” 　　“是吗，克拉克先生？” 　　“我毫无疑问，克罗姆是个工作很有效率的官员，可是，坦白地说，他令我厌倦不已。他那种自以为是的神态。当你朋友还在彻斯顿时，我就向他暗示了一些我的想法，可我要把哥哥的事务都处理掉，直到现在才有空闲。波洛先生，我想我们应该抓紧时间行动……” 　　“黑斯廷斯一直就是这么说的！” 　　“那就抓紧干吧。我们该着手准备应付下一场罪案了。” 　　“那你认为会有下一次谋杀？” 　　“难道你不这么认为吗？” 　　“当然是的。” 　　“那么，很好，我想要严阵以待。” 　　“能否告诉我你的真实想法？” 　　“波洛先生，我提议建一个特殊的团体，是由那些遇害人的朋友和亲戚组成，听从你的命令行事。” 　　“Une bonne idee。（法文，意为：这是个好主意。——译注）” 　　“我很高兴你表示同意。通过群策群力，我感觉我们才可能掌握些什么。而且，当下次警告来临的时候，我们其中一人要赶赴案发地点，我没说这样一定合适，但我们可以认出上一次案发现场附近出现的某人。” 　　“我理解你的主意，而且我表示赞同，可你必须记住，克拉克先生，其他遇害人的亲戚朋友并没有生活在您的圈子里，他们都有工作，尽管他们可能会有一个较短的假期——” 　　富兰克林·克拉克打断他的话。 　　“那正好如此。我是唯一的出资人。这倒并不是因为我格外富有，而是我哥哥去世时财产颇丰，这些最终全属于我。如我所言，我提议招收一个特别团体。这些成员可以获得平日工资的同等报酬，当然，还有额外的费用。” 　　“你认为该由谁组成这个团组呢？” 　　“我已开始办理此事。事实上，我写信给梅根·巴纳德，——实际上，这有一部分是她的主意。我建议包括我自己，巴纳德小姐。与那位死去的姑娘订婚的唐纳德·弗雷泽先生，还有一位是安多弗妇人的侄女——巴纳德小姐知道她的地址。我不认为那个丈夫对我们会有什么用途——听说他经常喝醉。我还认为巴纳德夫妇——父亲和母亲——他们参加这样的行动可能年事稍高了一点。” 　　“就没有别人了吗？” 　　“嗯，格雷小姐。” 　　当他吐露出这一名字时，脸上微微泛红。 　　“哦！格雷小姐吗？” 　　这世上没人能比波洛更好地把这一微弱的讽刺融入到这个字眼当中。他仿佛比富兰克林·克拉克年轻了三十五年，突然间，他看上去像是个害羞的小男生。 　　“是的。你知道，格雷小姐跟我哥哥做事已有两年多了。她熟悉乡野村庄和周围居住的人们，她知道一切。我自己则是离开了一年半。” 　　波洛怜悯起他来，于是扭转话题。 　　“你去了东方？是在中国吗？” 　　“是的。我身负这种频繁奔走的职务，为哥哥采购物品。” 　　“那肯定有意思极了。Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），克拉克先生，我非常赞同你的主意。我昨天还对黑斯廷斯说，我们需要相关人士的和睦联络，很有必要集中起来进行回忆，对评论进行比较，然后，在就事论事——进行谈话，谈话——再谈话。从某些坦白的措辞之中，也许会有令人启发的事务出现。” 　　数天之后，这个特别团体在波洛的屋子里聚会。 　　他们围坐着，顺从地望着波洛，波洛则像是董事会主席，坐在桌子的一头。我自己则回顾他们每个人，确定和修正着我对他们的第一印象。 　　三位姑娘全都容貌惊艳——托拉·格雷那不同寻常的美貌；梅根·巴纳德黝黑浓烈，脸上带着一种奇特的红色印第安人的沉稳；玛丽·德劳尔整洁的身着黑色的上装和裙子，她长着漂亮、机敏的脸。在三个男人当中，富兰克林·克拉克，身材高大，铜黑色的皮肤，挺健谈的，唐纳德·弗雷泽则沉默寡言，相当安静。两个人之间形成有趣的对比。 　　波洛当然无法抵制这一场合，他讲了一小段话： 　　“女士们，先生们，你们都知道我们在此碰面的原因，警方正在尽全力追查案犯，我呢，在以不同的方式进行追查。在我看来，那些对此案怀有个人兴趣的人，还有，我想说，那些对死者有个人了解的人们，再进行碰面，可能会获得外在的调查无法获取的结果。” 　　“在此我们有三桩谋杀案——一位老太太，一位年轻姑娘，一位老人，只有一件事把他们三个人联系在一起，那就是杀害他们的是同一个人。那也即表示，同一个人曾在不同的三个地点出现，并有可能被一大堆人看到过。无须多说，他必定是个有狂燥症，且病入膏肓的疯子。同时也很显然，他的外表和行为举止，并不可能就把他表现出来。这个人——尽管我说的是他，可能是个男人或是女人——他有着恶魔般的疯狂狡猾。到目前为止，他成功地掩盖自己的蛛丝马迹。警方只是掌握了一些模糊的迹象，可他们还是无法据此采取行动。” 　　“而且，一定还存在一些清楚而明确的迹象。比方说有一点特别之处，那个凶手，他可不是在半夜抵达贝克斯希尔，便能够轻而易举地在海滩上发现一个以B为姓氏开头的年轻姑娘——” 　　“我们必须要探究那一点吗？” 　　是唐纳德·弗雷泽在讲话，那些话从他口中挤出来，透着些内心的苦楚。 　　“我有必要对每件事都深究一番，先生。”波洛说，转身向着他。“你来此地，并不是要用拒绝对细节进行思考而挽留你的感情，而是有必要探究此事，来对这些细节重新审理。如我所说，ABC并不是因机遇而得知像贝蒂·巴纳德这样的受害人。他肯定经过刻意的挑选，因而会进行预谋。也就是说，他事先肯定对这个地方进行过侦察。他已获得了一些事实，如在安多弗作案的最佳时间，贝克斯希尔的miseen scene（法文，意为：场景。——译注），彻斯顿的卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士的习惯。就我来说，我是不会相信会没有迹象——没有最细微的线索——有助于我们识别他的。” 　　“我假设有某个人——或者，也可能是你们当中的所有人，知道他们并不认为自己了解的什么事情。” 　　“由于你们将事物互相联系，迟早会有些情况显露出来，展现出料想不到的特殊意义。这就好比拼图游戏，你们中每个人可能会有显然是毫无意义的一个小块，可这些小拼块重组起来，会将整个画面的特点部分显现出来。” 　　“话语！”梅根·巴纳德说。 　　“嗯？”波洛疑问地望着她。 　　“你刚才说的话，只是些言语之辞，它并不意味着什么。” 　　她讲话的方式十分强烈，我认为这与她的个性有关。 　　“语言，小姐，只是思想的外衣。” 　　“哦，我倒认为这有道理。”玛丽·德劳尔说，“小姐，我真的是这样认为的。当你在谈论事物的时候，你看来像是把自己的路子弄清楚了，这是常有的情形。有时，你做出判断，可并不了解发生了些什么事。谈话总是能以某种方式引导出许多情况。” 　　“人说‘多言反坏事’，我们这里想要的恰恰相反。”富兰克林·克拉克说。 　　“你如何认为，弗雷泽先生？” 　　“我倒挺怀疑你所言之词的实用性，波洛先生。” 　　“你怎么想，托拉？”克拉克问。 　　“我认为反复谈话的原则总会是对的。” 　　“试想，”波洛建议道，“你们都重述一下案发前自己的回忆。克拉克先生，你先开始吧。” 　　“让我想想，卡迈克尔遇害那天早晨我去航海。捕了八条鲇鱼，海湾风景非常怡人，我在家吃午餐，吃的是爱尔兰炖品。在吊床上睡觉，然后喝茶，写了几封信，错过了邮递时间，便开车去佩恩顿寄掉信件。然后是吃晚餐，我也没什么不好意思说的，我又重新读了一本E·耐斯比特的书，在孩提时代我就喜欢。然后电话响了——” 　　“还有其它情况吗，克拉克先生，现在回想一下，你那天早晨去海边的路上碰到什么人没有？” 　　“有许多人。” 　　“你能记得他们中的一些什么吗？” 　　“什么也不记得了。” 　　“你确信吗？” 　　“嗯，我想想，有个相当胖的女人——她穿着条纹的丝绸外衣，我还纳闷，为何她还带着两个小孩，两个年轻人带着只狐狗在海滩上扔石头。哦，是的，那个长着黄头发的姑娘在沐浴时尖叫。真好笑，这些事情是如何冒出来的？像是在冲印胶卷。” 　　“你开了个好头。那天晚些时候——在花园的情形，去邮局的情况？” 　　“园艺工在浇水……去邮局吗？我几乎撞上一个骑车人，那个笨女人迟疑不决，对着一个朋友大叫。我想那就是全部了。” 　　波洛转向托拉·格雷。 　　“格雷小姐？” 　　托拉·格雷用她那清晰、生动的声音回答。 　　“我早上为卡迈克尔爵士处理邮件——见到过管家。下午我想是在……写信和做针线活。回忆起来挺困难的。那是很普通的一天，我很早就上床歇息了。” 　　令我感到惊奇的是，波洛没有再问。他说： 　　“巴纳德小姐，你可以回想起最后一次见你妹妹的情形吗？” 　　“那大概是在她死前两周。我回去过周六、周日。天气很好。我们去哈斯丁游泳。” 　　“你大部分时间内都在谈些什么？” 　　“我与她畅谈了一番。”梅根说。 　　“还有什么别的吗？她说了些什么吗？” 　　“她说带的帽子和几件夏装绷得挺紧的。谈了会儿关于唐的事……她还说并不喜欢米莉·希格利，就是那个餐厅里的姑娘。我们又嘲笑了一番那位开餐厅的梅里恩……我记不起还有些什么别的……” 　　“她没有提到她可能要与什么人会面吗？——请原谅，弗雷泽先生。” 　　“她不肯对我说的。” 　　波洛转向那个一头红发、下颌方正的年轻人。 　　“弗雷泽先生——我希望你能将思绪返回。你说过，发生命案那天晚上曾去过餐厅。你的首要意向是在那儿等待，看着贝蒂·巴纳德出来。你等在那里的时候，是否能想起你曾经注意到谁了呢？” 　　“前面有许多人在走动，我什么人都记不得了。” 　　“对不起，可你在尝试吗？无论脑子里的想法如何被预先占据过，眼睛总是在机械性地进行注视的——不用智力，却相当准确……” 　　年轻人固执地重复： 　　“我什么人也不记得了。” 　　波洛叹口气，转向玛丽·德劳尔。 　　“我猜想你接到过姨妈的信？” 　　“是的，先生。” 　　“最后一封信是在什么时候？” 　　玛丽思索了一会儿。 　　“凶案前两天，先生。” 　　“信中怎么说？” 　　“她说那个老魔鬼不断骚扰她，她用俏皮话气走了他。她还说希望我星期三过去，那是我的假期。她说我们去拍照，因为我刚好要过生日了，先生。” 　　一想到这一件小事，突然间玛丽的眼中涌出泪花。她哽咽着抽泣，然后又表示歉意。 　　“对不起，先生。我也不想如此蠢笨，哭是没有用的，我只是想起了她，而我曾期盼过那次聚餐。它令我伤心，先生。” 　　“我理解你的心情，”富兰克林·克拉克说，“那些小事情，比如聚会或是一件礼物总会让人快乐和坦然。我有一次曾见过一个妇女被车碾过，她刚买了些新鞋。我看到她丢在那儿擦破的包裹内露出那些难以置信的高跟便鞋，这是我一惊，它们看上去那样哀婉动人。” 　　梅根带着种渴切的暖意说： 　　“的确如此，那确是如此。贝蒂死后也一样。妈妈买了些长统袜想作为礼物，——就是出事那天买的。可怜的妈妈，她真实身心崩溃了。我看到她在那堆袜子前哭泣。她一直说：‘我是为贝蒂买的，我是为贝蒂买的，可她从未穿过……’” 　　她声音微微颤抖。她身子向前倾斜，直勾勾地看着富兰克林·克拉克。他们之间有一种突然的同情——痛苦之中的关爱。 　　“我知道，”他说，“我确实知道。那些正是牢记在心中的悲惨经历。” 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽不安地挪动身体。 　　托拉·格雷则转变话题。 　　“我们难道不为将来作些计划吗？” 　　“当然。”富兰克林·克拉克恢复了常态，“我想，那时刻来临的时候，那第四封信到来时，我们必须团结起来。到那时，我们可能要尝试每一份运气，我不知道波洛先生是否认为还有什么需要重新调查的。” 　　“我倒是可以提些建议。”波洛说。 　　“好，我纪录。”他拿出笔记本，“请讲，波洛先生。” 　　“我认为那个女招待，米莉·希格利可能会知道些有用的情况。” 　　“啊——米莉·希格利。”富兰克林·克拉克记录下来。 　　“我建议采取两种处理方法。你，巴纳德小姐，可以尝试这种我认为的攻势措施。” 　　“我想你认为那符合我的风格？”梅根乏味地说。 　　“与那个姑娘吵架——说你知道她从来不喜欢你妹妹，而你妹妹还把她的一切告诉你了。如果我没弄错的话，那将引起一阵反击。她会告诉你她对你妹妹的全部看法！有些有用的事实便会出现。” 　　“第二个方法呢？” 　　“我是否可以提议，弗雷泽先生，你向那个姑娘表示些兴趣吗？” 　　“那有必要吗？” 　　“不，没什么必要。这只是可能的一种探究办法。” 　　“我可以尝试一下吗？”富兰克林问道：“我——有过挺多经验，波洛先生。让我想想与这个年轻姑娘能干些什么。” 　　“你可有自己的事要干。”托拉·格雷尖刻地说。 　　富兰克林的脸沉下来一点。 　　“是的，”他说，“我有。” 　　“Tout de meme（法文，意为：不管怎样。译注），我认为在目前你还没有什么事可做，”波洛说，“格雷小姐呢，她更适合于……” 　　托拉·格雷打断了他的话。 　　“可您知道，波洛先生，我已经彻底离开了达夫郡。” 　　“噢？我不理解。” 　　“格雷小姐及其友善，她留下来帮我清理物品。”富兰克林说，“可是自然她更喜欢在伦敦有份工作。” 　　波洛的眼光尖锐的从一人扫向另一人。 　　“克拉克夫人怎么样了？”他询问道。 　　我正在欣赏着托拉·格雷泛着红晕的脸颊，几乎没听到克拉克的回答。 　　“她状态极差。顺便说一句，波洛先生，我在疑虑，您是否能安排去德文一趟，去看看她？我离开之前，她表达了一种想见您的愿望。当然，她有时可能几天都见不到人，不过，您如果愿意那样做，我可以支付费用。” 　　“当然可以，克拉克先生。我们可以后天去吗？” 　　“好，我会通知护士，她会相应地准备好镇静剂。” 　　“至于你，我的孩子，”波洛说，转向玛莉，“我想你可能在安多弗会干得挺好的。尝试一下孩子们。” 　　“孩子们？” 　　“是的。孩子们不会乐意与外来者交谈，可你在姨妈居住的街道为人所知。那里有许多孩子们在玩耍，他们可能曾注意到谁出入过你姨妈的商店。” 　　“格雷小姐和我干什么呢？”克拉克问，“如果我不去贝克斯希尔的话。” 　　“波洛先生，”托拉·格雷说，“第三封信上的邮戳是什么地方盖的？” 　　“普特耐，小姐。” 　　她回忆着说：“SW15区，普特耐，就是那儿，不是吗？” 　　“说来奇怪，报纸上居然印对了。” 　　“那好像表明ABC是伦敦人。” 　　“表面上看来，是的。” 　　“我们应该引他开口，”克拉克说，“波洛先生，如果我插登一则广告事情会是怎么样？——如下面几行：ABC 紧急。你的行踪已被高度追踪，用一百磅使我保持沉默。XYZ。这样做的确十分莽撞——可你会明白，这个主意很可能会引她开口。” 　　“这倒是有可能——是的。” 　　“可能会诱使他试着袭击我。” 　　“我认为这很危险，也很愚蠢。”托拉·格雷尖刻地说。 　　“您认为如何，波洛先生？” 　　“尝试一下也无妨，我自己认为ABC非常狡猾，不会回答。”波洛微笑。“我想，克拉克先生，如果我这样说并不太冒犯的话，你本质上还是个孩子。” 　　富兰克林·克拉克看上去有点窘迫。 　　“噢，”他说，一边查阅他的笔记本，“我们正在开始。 　　“A——巴纳德小姐与米莉·希格利 　　“B——弗雷泽先生与希格利小姐 　　“C——安多弗的孩子们 　　“D——广告 　　“我倒并不觉得这有多么好，但这是等待的过程之中该做的事情。” 　　他站起身来，几分钟后会议散去。 Chapter 19 BY WAY OF SWEDEN Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself. "Unfortunate that she is so intelligent," he murmured. "Who?" "Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. 'Words,' she snaps out. At once she perceives that what I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken in." "I thought it sounded very plausible." "Plausible, yes. It was just that that she perceived." "Didn't you mean what you said, then?" "What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself ad lib. without any one but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact." "But why?" "Eh bien - to get things going! To imbue every one with the impression that there was work to be done! To start - shall we say - conversations!" "Don't you think any of these lines will lead to anything?" "Oh, it is always possible." He chuckled. "In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?" "What do you mean?" "The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beings brought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences - tout а fait а part. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought together two people who loved one another by the simple method of having one of them arrested for murder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings. Murder, I have often noticed, is a great matchmaker." "Really, Poirot," I cried, scandalized. "I'm sure none of those people was thinking of anything but -" "Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?" "I?" "Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?" "One may do that without being callous." "Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts." "Indeed?" "Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune you hummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme зa," Poirot sang in an abominable falsetto voice: "Some of the time I love a brunette, Some of the time I love a blonde (who comes from Eden by way of Sweden). "What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette." "Really, Poirot," I cried, blushing slightly. "C'est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he -" "Poirot," I said, "your mind is incurably sentimental." "That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings." I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened. To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered. "Forgive me for coming back," she said composedly. "But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot." "Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?" She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words. "It is just this, Mr. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on - there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house." I could not but admire the girl's courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy. "I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this," I said. "It's always better to have the truth," she said with a little smile. "I don't want to shelter behind Mr. Clarke's chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man." There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously. "You have been very honest, mademoiselle," said Poirot. "It is rather a blow to me," said Thora ruefully. "I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me." She made a wry face. "One lives and learns." She rose. "That is all I came to say. Goodbye." I accompanied her downstairs. "I call that very sporting of her," I said as I returned to the room. "She has courage, that girl." "And calculation." "What do you mean - calculation?" "I mean that she has the power of looking ahead." I looked at him doubtfully. "She really is a lovely girl," I said. "And wears very lovely clothes. That crepe marocain and the silky fox collar - dernier cri!" "You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on." "You should join a nudist colony." As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject: "Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in our conversations this afternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd - I cannot pin down exactly what it was. Just an impression that passed through my mind. That reminds me of something I have already heard or seen or noted -" "Something at Churston?" "No - not at Churston... Before that... No matter, presently it will come to me... " He looked at me (perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once more to hum. "She is an angel, is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden " "Poirot," I said. "Go to the devil!" 第十九章　途径瑞典 　　波洛回到座位上坐下，嘴里哼着小调。 　　“很遗憾，她太聪明了。” 　　“谁？” 　　“梅根·巴纳德，梅根小姐。她那样急促地说出话语，她即刻便知道我所言之词一文不值，而其他人则轻信了。” 　　“我认为这听起来挺有道理的。” 　　“有道理，是的。那仅仅是她将觉察到的。” 　　“那么你所言之词毫无意义吗？” 　　“我所说的话本可用一句话完成，而我却随意重复，只有梅根小姐才认识到了这个事实。” 　　“可为什么要这样做呢？” 　　“En bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——是为了让大家行动起来！要让每个人都满怀这样一种印象，还有事情要做！我们该说的是，要开始对话了！” 　　“你不认为这些话会导致什么吗？” 　　“哦，这倒有可能。” 　　他暗自窃喜。 　　“在悲剧当中，我们展开喜剧。正是这样，不是吗？” 　　“你是什么意思？” 　　“是人的戏剧，黑斯廷斯！你试想，这儿有三组人物，是被一个共同的悲剧召集到一起的。第二个戏剧又突然开场——tout a fait a part（法文，意为：完全是不相干的。——译注）。你是否还记得我在英格兰的第一件案子？哦，那已经是在多年以前的事了。我把两个相互爱着的人凑在一起——采用的以谋杀罪逮捕其中一人的简单方法。没什么更简要的方法能达到这个目的。在死亡的过程当中我们生活于人世，黑斯廷斯……我经常注意到，谋杀案是个十足的媒人。” 　　“真的，波洛，”我震惊地叫道，“我相信那些人当中没有一个人会想到——” 　　“哦！我亲爱的朋友，你想到什么？” 　　“哦？” 　　“Mais oui（法文，意为：是的。——译注），他们离开后，你从门那边回来的时候，难道没哼着小调？” 　　“人无须冷淡便可这样做。” 　　“当然可以，可是那曲调向我透露了你的想法。” 　　“是吗？” 　　“是的，哼曲调是极度危险的。这表明了一种潜意识的心态。我想，你哼的曲调可以追溯到战争之时。Comme Ca（法文，意为：是这样子的。——译注），”波洛用一种令人生厌的假声唱道： 　　“曾几何时我深爱褐发丽人， 　　曾几何时我深爱金发丽人（她途径瑞典来到乐园）。” 　　“还有什么能更具表现力呢？Mais jecrois que la blonde l'emporte sur la brunette（法文，意为：可我却认为金发要比褐发更胜一筹。——译注）！” 　　“真的，波洛。”我叫道，脸色微红。 　　“C'est tout naturel（法文，意为：这很自然。——译注）。你有没有发现富兰克林·克拉克突然与梅根小姐持相同的观点并同情起她来？他怎样斜靠向前盯着她看？你是否还注意到托拉·格雷小姐对此深感厌恶？唐纳德·弗雷泽先生，他——” 　　“波洛，”我说，“你的头脑敏感得无可救药！” 　　“那是我心目中唯一剩下的东西。你才是那个敏感的人，黑斯廷斯。” 　　我正想就他的这一论点激烈辩论一番，此时门打开了。 　　进来的人是托拉·格雷，这令我感到惊讶。 　　“请原谅我又回来。”她镇静自若地说，“可有些事我想该告诉您，波洛先生。” 　　“当然，小姐。请坐下，不好吗？” 　　她坐下来，犹豫了一会儿，像是在选择措词。 　　“是这样的，波洛先生。克拉克先生刚才极其大方地使您相信我是自愿离开康比赛德的。他是个友善和忠实的人。可事实上，也并非全是那样子。我准备要留下来——还有一些与收藏品相关的事情要做，是克拉克夫人希望我离开！我说这话是有余地的。她病得很重，脑子由于他们给她的药物而迷糊。这使得她疑心重重，凭空幻想。她对我有股盲目冲动的厌恶，坚持我该离开那房子。” 　　我不得不钦佩那姑娘的勇气。她并未试图掩饰真相，而是以一种令人钦佩的直率直入主题。我内心深处挺佩服和同情她。 　　“我认为你来告诉我们，这样做极好。”我说。 　　“道明实情总会更好一点。”她笑着说，“我并不想躲在克拉克先生的殷勤之下，他是个挺会献殷勤的人。” 　　她话语之中洋溢着暖意，显然她极其崇拜富兰克林·克拉克。 　　“你非常的诚实，小姐。”波洛说。 　　“这对我来说是个打击。”托拉懊丧地说，“克拉克夫人如此讨厌我，我一点也没想到。事实上，我一直认为她挺喜欢我的。”她做了个鬼脸，“人真是活到老，学到老。” 　　她站起身。 　　“那就是我所有想说的。再见。” 　　我陪她走下楼梯。 　　“我觉得她挺光明正大的。”我回到房间时说，“她有勇气，那姑娘。” 　　“还有算计。” 　　“你是什么意思——算计？” 　　“我的意思是她有预见能力。” 　　我怀疑地望着他。 　　“她着实是个可爱的姑娘。”我说。 　　“她衣着极其秀美，那绉纱的马罗坎平纹绉和银狐衣领——dernier cri（法文，意为：最后的叫喊。——译注）。” 　　“你可真是个女装设计师，波洛。我可从来不注意人们穿什么衣服。” 　　“你真该加入裸体主义者聚居地。” 　　我义愤填膺，正想反唇相讥，他突然改变话题，说： 　　“黑斯廷斯，你知道吗？我无法摆脱头脑里早已存在的印象，今天下午的谈话当中，曾提到过一些值得注意的事。那倒是挺奇怪的——我无法确知那是什么……我脑中闪烁而过的只是一种印象……那提醒了我，使我想起曾经听到、看到、注意到的一些事情……” 　　“是在彻斯顿的什么事？” 　　“不，不是在彻斯顿……是在那之前……无论如何，现在它会出现……” 　　他看着我（可能我并不十分投入），笑着，再次开始哼着小调。 　　“她是个天使，不是吗？来自伊甸园，途径瑞典……” 　　“波洛，”我说，“见鬼去吧！”

Chapter 13 A CONFERENCE Conferences! Much of my memories of the A.B.C. case seem to be of conferences. Conferences at Scotland Yard. At Poirot's rooms. Official conferences. Unofficial conferences. This particular conference was to decide whether or not the facts relative to the anonymous letters should or should not be made public in the press. The Bexhill murder had attracted much more attention than the Andover one. It had, of course, far more elements of popularity. The victim was a young and good-looking girl to begin with. Also, it had taken place at a popular seaside resort. All the details of the crime were reported fully and rehashed daily in thin disguises. The A.B.C. railway guide came in for its share of attention. The favourite theory was that it had been bought locally by the murderer and that it was a valuable clue to his identity. It also seemed to show that he had come to the place by train and was intending to leave for London. The railway guide had not figured at all in the meagre accounts of the Andover murder so there seemed at present little likelihood of the two crimes being connected in the public eye. "We've got to decide upon a policy," said the Assistant Commissioner. "The thing is - which way will give us the best results? Shall we give the public the facts - enlist their co-operation - after all, it'll be the co-operation of several million people, looking out for a madman -" "He won't look like a madman," interjected Dr. Thompson. "- looking out for sales of A.B.C.'s - and so on. Against that I suppose there's the advantage of working in the dark - not letting our man know what we're up to, but then there's the fact that he knows very well that we know. He's drawn attention to himself deliberately by his letters. Eh, Crome, what's your opinion?" "I look at it this way, sir. If you make it public, you're playing A.B.C.'s game. That's what he wants - publicity - notoriety. That's what he's out after. I'm right, aren't I, doctor? He wants to make a splash." Thompson nodded. The Assistant Commissioner said thoughtfully: "So you're for baulking him. Refusing him the publicity he's hankering after. What about you, M. Poirot?" Poirot did not speak for a minute. When he did it was with an air of choosing his words carefully. "It is difficult for me, Sir Lionel," he said. "I am, as you might say, an interested party. The challenge was sent to me. If I say, 'Suppress that fact - do not make it public,' may it not be thought that it is my vanity that speaks? That I am afraid for my reputation? It is difficult! To speak out - to tell all - that has its advantages. It is, at least, a warning... On the other hand, I am as convinced as Inspector Crome that it is what the murderer wants us to do." "H'm!" said the Assistant Commissioner, rubbing his chin. He looked across at Dr. Thompson. "Suppose we refuse our lunatic the satisfaction of the publicity he craves. What's he likely to do?" "Commit another crime," said the doctor promptly. "Force your hand." "And if we splash the thing about in headlines. Then what's his reaction?" "Same answer. One way you feed his megalomania, the other you baulk it. The result's the same. Another crime." "What do you say, M. Poirot?" "I agree with Dr. Thompson." "A cleft stick - eh? How many crimes do you think this - lunatic has in mind?" Dr. Thompson looked across at Poirot. "Looks like A to Z," he said cheerfully. "Of course," he went on, "he won't get there. Not nearly. You'll have him by the heels long before that. Interesting to know how he'd have dealt with the letter X." He recalled himself guiltily from this purely enjoyable speculation. "But you'll have him long before that. G or H, let's say." The Assistant Commissioner struck the table with his fist. "My God, are you telling me we're going to have five more murders?" "It won't be as much as that, sir," said Inspector Crome. "Trust me." He spoke with confidence. "Which letter of the alphabet do you place it at, Inspector?" asked Poirot. There was a slight ironic note in his voice. Crome, I thought, looked at him with a tinge of dislike adulterating the usual calm superiority. "Might get him next time, M. Poirot. At any rate I'd guarantee to get him by the time he gets to E." He turned to the Assistant Commissioner. "I think I've got the psychology of the case fairly clear. Dr. Thompson will correct me if I'm wrong. I take it that every time he brings a crime off, his self-confidence increases about a hundred per cent. Every time he feels 'I'm clever - they can't catch me!' he becomes so overweeningly confident that he also becomes careless. He exaggerates his own cleverness and every one else's stupidity. Very soon he'll be hardly bothering to take any precautions at all. That's right, isn't it, doctor?" Thompson nodded. "That's usually the case. In non-medical terms it couldn't have been put better. You know something about such things, M. Poirot. Don't you agree?" I don't think that Crome liked Thompson's appeal to Poirot. He considered that he and he only was the expert on this subject. "It is as Inspector Crome says," agreed Poirot. "Paranoia," murmured the doctor. Poirot turned to Crome. "Are there any material facts of interest in the Bexhill case?" "Nothing very definite. A waiter at the Splendide at Eastbourne recognizes the dead girl's photograph as that of a young woman who dined there in company with a middle-aged man in spectacles. It's also been recognized at a roadhouse place called the Scarlet Runner, halfway between Bexhill and London. There they say she was with a man who looked like a naval officer. They can't both be right, but either of them's probable. Of course, there's a host of other identifications, but most of them not good for much. We haven't been able to trace the A.B.C." "Well, you seem to be doing all that can be done, Crome," said the Assistant Commissioner. "What do you say, M. Poirot? Does any line of inquiry suggest itself to you?" Poirot said slowly: "It seems to me that there is one very important clue - the discovery of the motive." "Isn't that pretty obvious? An alphabetical complex. Isn't that what you called it, doctor?" "Зa, oui," said Poirot. "There is an alphabetical complex. A madman in particular has always a very strong reason for the crimes he commits." "Come, come, M. Poirot," said Crome. "Look at Stoneman in 1929. He ended by trying to do away with any one who annoyed him in the slightest degree." Poirot turned to him. "Quite so. But if you are a sufficiently great and important person, it is necessary that you should be spared small annoyances. If a fly settles on your forehead again and again, maddening you by its tickling - what do you do? You endeavour to kill that fly. You have no qualms about it. You are important - the fly is not. You kill the fly and the annoyance ceases. Your action appears to you sane and justifiable. Another reason for killing a fly is if you have a strong passion for hygiene. The fly is a potential source of danger to the community - the fly must go. So works the mind of the mentally deranged criminal. But consider now this case - if the victims are alphabetically selected, then they are not being removed because they are a source of annoyance to him personally. It would be too much of a coincidence to combine the two." "That's a point," said Dr. Thompson. "I remember a case where a woman's husband was condemned to death. She started killing the members of the jury one by one. Quite a time before the crimes were connected up. They seemed entirely haphazard. But as M. Poirot says, there isn't such a thing as a murderer who commits crimes at random. Either he removes people who stand (however insignificantly) in his path, or else he kills by conviction. He removes clergymen, or policemen, or prostitutes because he firmly believes that they should be removed. That doesn't apply here either as far as I can see. Mrs. Ascher and Betty Barnard cannot be linked as members of the same class. Of course, it's possible that there is a sex complex. Both victims have been women. We can tell better, of course, after the next crime -" "For God's sake, Thompson, don't speak so glibly of the next crime," said Sir Lionel irritably. "We're going to do all we can to prevent another crime." Dr. Thompson held his peace and blew his nose with some violence. "Have it your own way," the noise seemed to say. "If you won't face facts -" The Assistant Commissioner turned to Poirot. "I see what you're driving at, but I'm not quite clear yet." "I ask myself," said Poirot, "what passes in itself exactly in the mind of the murderer? He kills, it would seem from his letters, pour le sport - to amuse himself. Can that really be true? And even if it is true, on what principle does he select his victims apart from the merely alphabetical one? If he kills merely to amuse himself he would not advertise the fact, since, otherwise, he could kill with impunity. But no, he seeks, as we all agree, to make the splash in the public eye - to assert his personality. In what way has his personality been suppressed that one can connect with the two victims he has so far selected? A final suggestion - Is his motive direct personal hatred of me, of Hercule Poirot? Does he challenge me in public because I have (unknown to myself) vanquished him somewhere in the course of my career? Or is his animosity impersonal - directed against a foreigner? And if so, what again has led to that? What injury has he suffered at a foreigner's hand?" "All very suggestive questions," said Dr. Thompson. Inspector Crome cleared his throat. "Oh, yes? A little unanswerable at present, perhaps." "Nevertheless, my friend," said Poirot, looking straight at him, "it is there in those questions that the solution lies. If we knew the exact reason - fantastic, perhaps, to us - but logical to him - of why our madman commits these crimes, we should know, perhaps, who the next victim is likely to be." Crome shook his head. "He selects them haphazard - that's my opinion." "The magnanimous murderer," said Poirot. "What's that you say?" "I said - the magnanimous murderer! Franz Ascher would have been arrested for the murder of his wife - Donald Fraser might have been arrested for the murder of Betty Barnard - if it had not been for the warning letters of A.B.C. Is he, then, so soft-hearted that he cannot bear others to suffer for something they did not do?" "I've known stranger things happen," said Dr. Thompson. "I've known men who've killed half a dozen victims all broken up because one of their victims didn't die instantaneously and suffered pain. All the same, I don't think that that is our fellow's reason. He wants the credit of these crimes for his own honour and glory. That's the explanation that fits best." "We've come to no decision about the publicity business," said the Assistant Commissioner. "If I may make a suggestion, sir," said Crome. "Why not wait till the receipt of the next letter? Make it public then - special editions, etc. It will make a bit of a panic in the particular town named, but it will put every one whose name begins with C on his guard, and it'll put A.B.C. on his mettle. He'll be determined to succeed. And that's when we'll get him." How little we knew what the future held. 第十三章 一次会议 　　会议! 　　我对ABC案例的很多记忆似乎都关于会议。 　　在苏格兰场的会议。在波洛的房间的会议。正式会议。非正式的会议。 　　这次会议是为了决定是否应该对媒体公开匿名信件的事实。 　　伯斯希尔谋杀案比安多弗人的吸引了更多的关注。 　　当然，它有更多的流行元素。受害者是一个年轻又漂亮的女孩开始。同时，它发生在一个受欢迎的海滨度假胜地。 　　所有犯罪的细节每日被完整和重复地报道。ABC铁路指引人是在公司股份的注意。最好的猜想是已经买了当地的凶手，而且这是一个有价值的线索，他的身份。它也似乎表明，他是来这个地方坐火车，打算动身去伦敦。 　　因此铁路指引人没有预料到安多弗谋杀可能性很小，两罪被连接在公众眼中。 　　“我们必须决定一个政策，”助理专员。“问题是，哪种方式会给我们最好的结果呢?我们应该让公众了解事实——招募他们的合作——毕竟，它会联合几百万人，寻找一个疯子——” 　　“他不会看起来像一个疯子，”汤普森博士插话道。 ”——寻找ABC的销售 -等等。对，我想那里的优势，在黑暗中工作，不让我们的人知道我们，但是那么事实是，他知道得很清楚，我们知道。他对自己的关注，他的信件，故意呃，克罗姆生于诺里克，你对此有什么看法?” 　　“我看这样，先生。如果你让它公开，你玩ABC的游戏。那是他想要的东西——宣传——恶名。这就是他的目的。我是对的，不是吗，博士?他想引起轰动。” 　　汤普森点点头。 　　助理专员仔细想了想说: 　　“所以你为了膨胀他。拒绝为他宣传他的渴望。你呢，波洛先生?” 　　波洛没有说话一会儿。当他的话是空气。 　　“这对我来说是很困难的，莱昂内尔先生。”他说。“我，正如你可能会说，利害关系方。挑战是送给我的。如果我说，‘抑制这一事实，不会将其公开，“可能它不是认为它是我的虚荣，讲吗?这恐怕对我的名声?它是困难的!说出来，告诉所有的人，都有其优点。这是，至少，一个警告……另一方面，我坚信，这是诺里克的凶手检查员克罗姆想要我们做。” 　　“嗯!”助理专员，揉着他的下巴。他看着对面的汤普森博士。“假设我们拒绝我们的疯子的满足宣传他的渴望。他可能做什么?” 　　“提交另一犯罪，”博士及时地说。“强迫你的行动。” 　　“如果我们发布在头条新闻。然后他是什么反应?” 　　“同样的回答。你喂他的狂妄自大的一种方法，其他你错过它。结果是相同的。另一个犯罪。” 　　“你说，波洛先生?” 　　“我同意汤普森博士。” 　　“进退两难——嗯?你认为多少罪——疯子在介意吗?” 　　汤普森博士看着对面的波洛。 　　“看起来像A到Z，”他兴致勃勃地说。 　　“当然，”他接着说，“他不会到达那里。不近。你会有他的在那之前。我很想知道知道他会如何处理这封信X。”他回忆自己心虚地从这个纯粹的愉快的投机。“但你要他长在那之前。G和H，咱们说的。” 　　助理专员用拳头捶着桌子。 　　“我的上帝，你告诉我，我们将有五个谋杀吗?” 　　“不会有那么多的，先生，”检查员克罗姆诺里克说。“相信我。” 　　他充满了信心。 　　“你会用哪一个字母呢，检查员?波洛问道。 　　有一个轻微的讽刺注意他的声音。克罗姆诺里克，我以为，看着他带着些许的不喜欢掺和平静的优势。 　　“可能让他下次，波洛先生。无论如何我会保证让他当他到达E” 　　他转向助理专员。 　　“我想我心里已经大概清楚情况了。如果我错了，汤普森博士将纠正我。我认为每次他带来犯罪了，他的自信增加大约百分之一百。每次他觉得我聪明。他们抓不到我!“他变得如此字符，相信他也变得粗心大意。他夸大了自己的聪明和每个人的愚蠢。很快他会感到困扰采取任何措施。这是正确的，不是吗，博士?” 　　汤普森点点头。 　　“通常是这样的。在非医疗它不能一直把更好的。你知道一些关于这样的事，波洛先生。你不同意吗?” 　　我不认为克罗姆诺里克喜欢汤普森同一波洛。他认为他和他只在这个问题上被尊重。 　　“这是检查员克罗姆诺里克说。”同意波洛。 　　“偏执”，博士低声说。 　　波洛转向克罗姆诺里克。 　　“有什么物质事实的兴趣情况?伯斯希尔” 　　“没有非常明确的。一个服务员在Splendide在伊斯特本承认死者女孩的照片作为一个年轻的女人在公司用餐的中年男子在眼镜。它也被认为在一个客栈的地方叫做猩红色的选手，介于伯斯希尔和伦敦。他们说她和一个男人看起来像一个海军军官。他们不可能都是正确的，但是他们中的任何一个可能的。当然，还有许多其他的证件，但他们中的大多数不适合多。我们还没有能够跟踪ABC” 　　“嗯，你似乎做所有能做的，克罗姆诺里克说，“助理专员。“你说，波洛先生做任何调查建议之前要征询你?” 　　波洛缓缓地说: 　　“在我看来，有一个非常重要的线索——发现的动机。” 　　“这不是很明显吗?一个字母的复杂。不是，你叫它什么，医生?” 　　“3a，是的，”波洛说。“有一个字母的复杂。一个疯子在特定的总是一个非常强大的原因。”他犯的罪。 　　“来，来，波洛先生，”克罗姆诺里克说。“看看石匠在1929年。结果他试图去掉任何一个谁惹恼了他的一点也。” 　　波洛转向他。 　　“那么。但如果你是一个足够巨大和重要的人，这是必要的，你应该免于小烦恼。如果一只苍蝇落在你的额头一次又一次疯狂的挠你，你做什么工作?你努力杀了那个飞。你会毫不犹豫地它。你是重要的——飞不是。你杀死苍蝇和烦恼停止。你的行动似乎你理智的和合理的。另一个原因是如果你杀死一只苍蝇有强烈的激情，卫生。苍蝇的一个潜在来源危险社区——飞必须去。所以作品的思想精神疯狂的犯罪。但是现在这种情况下，如果考虑受害者是按字母顺序选定，然后他们不被删除，因为他们是一个源的烦恼，他个人。它是太多的巧合的是合并两个。” 　　“这是一个点，”汤普森博士说。“我记得一个案件，一个女人的丈夫被判死刑。她开始杀害陪审团的成员一个接一个。相当时间的罪行被连接起来。他们似乎完全偶然的。但随着m .波洛说，没有这样的事情作为一个杀人犯随机贪污。他要么除掉站着的人(不过无关紧要的)在他的道路，否则他杀死的信念。他给神职人员或警察，或者妓女，因为他坚信，他们应该被删除。不适用在这里也就我看到的。亚瑟和贝蒂巴纳德太太不能联系同一个类的成员。当然，这是可能有一种性复杂。两个受害者都是女性。我们可以告诉好，当然，在接下来的犯罪- - -” 　　“看在上帝面上，汤普森，不要说那么流利地接下来的犯罪，”莱昂内尔性急地爵士说。“我们将尽我们所能来阻止另一个犯罪。” 　　汤普森博士举行他的和平和吹他的鼻子有些暴力。 　　“有它自己的方式，“噪音似乎说。“如果你不面对现实- - -” 　　助理专员转向波洛。 　　“我明白你的意思，但是我不是很清楚呢。” 　　“我问自己，”波洛说，“通过本身到底心里的凶手吗?他杀死，似乎从他的信件，倒勒运动——逗自己。那确实是真的吗?即使这是真的，在什么原则他是否选择他的受害者除了仅仅是字母吗?如果他仅仅是为了取悦自己杀死他不会宣传这个事实，因为，否则，他可以杀死而不受惩罚。但是没有，他寻求，我们都同意，使飞溅在公众眼中，维护自己的人格。在什么方面他的个性被压抑，一个可以连接两个受害者，迄今为止他选择吗?最后一个建议是他个人仇恨我的直接动机，赫丘勒•波洛?在公共场合，他挑战我，因为我有(未知的自己)征服他的过程中，某些地方我的职业吗?或者是他个人的敌意——针对一个外国人吗?如果是这样，又什么导致的呢?他遭受什么伤势已经在一个外国人的手?” 　　“所有非常暗示问题，”汤普森博士说。 　　检查员克罗姆诺里克清了清嗓子。 　　“哦，是吗?有点无法回答的目前，也许。” 　　“不过，我的朋友，”波洛说，直视他，“这是在那些问题，解决方法就是。如果我们知道确切的原因——神奇，也许，我们——但逻辑他——为什么我们的疯子犯这些罪行。我们应该知道，也许，下一个受害者可能。” 　　克罗姆生于诺里克摇了摇头。 　　“他选择他们偶然的——这是我的观点。” 　　“宽宏大量的杀人犯，”波洛说。 　　“你说什么?” 　　“我说——宽宏大量的凶手!弗朗茨·亚瑟会被逮捕谋杀他的妻子——唐纳德·弗雷泽可能被捕谋杀贝蒂巴纳德-如果没有警告信件的ABC是他，所以，他不能忍受他人宽厚的受苦，他们从未做过的事吗?” 　　“我认识陌生人的事情发生，”汤普森博士说。“我已经知道男人已经杀死了半打受害者所有的破裂是因为他们的受害者并没有死，遭受痛苦的瞬间。都是一样的，我不认为这是我们人的原因。他希望这些罪行的信用为自己的荣誉和辉煌。这是最好的解释，符合。” 　　“我们已经没有决定宣传业务，”助理专员。 　　“如果我还可以提一个建议，先生，”克罗姆生于诺里克说。“为什么不能等到收到第二封信?使其公共然后-特别版，等等。它将使有点恐慌在特定的城市命名，但它会把每一个人，他的名字在他的卫队开始与C，它就会把ABC在他的勇气。他会成功的决心。这时我们会得到他。” 　　我们不知道的未来正在继续。 Chapter 14 THE THIRD LETTER I well remember the arrival of A.B.C.'s third letter. I may say that all precautions had been taken so that when A.B.C. resumed his campaign there should be no unnecessary delays. A young sergeant from Scotland Yard was attached to the house and if Poirot and I were out it was his duty to open anything that came so as to be able to communicate with headquarters without loss of time. As the days succeeded each other we had all grown more and more on edge. Inspector Crome's aloof and superior manner grew more and more aloof and superior as one by one his more hopeful clues petered out. The vague descriptions of men said to have been seen with Betty Barnard proved useless - various men noticed in the vicinity of Bexhill and Cooden were either accounted for or could not be traced. The investigation of purchases of A.B.C. railway guides caused inconvenience and trouble to heaps of innocent people. As for ourselves, each time the postman's familiar rat-tat sounded on the door, our hearts beat faster with apprehension. At least that was true for me, and I cannot but believe that Poirot experienced the same sensation. He was, I knew, deeply unhappy over the case. He refused to leave London, preferring to be on the spot in case of emergency. In those hot dog days even his moustaches drooped - neglected for once by their owner. It was on a Friday that A.B.C.'s third letter came. The evening post arrived about ten o'clock. When we heard the familiar step and the brisk rat-tat, I rose and went along to the box. There were four or five letters, I remember. The last one I looked at was addressed in printed characters. "Poirot," I cried... My voice died away. "It has come? Open it, Hastings. Quickly. Every moment may be needed. We must make our plans." I tore open the letter (Poirot for once did not reproach me for untidiness) and extracted the printed sheet. "Read it," said Poirot. I read aloud: Poor Mr. Poirot, Not so good at these little criminal matters as you thought yourself, are you? Rather past your prime, perhaps? Let us see if you can do any better this time. This time its an easy one. Churston on the 30th. Do try and do something about it! It's a bit dull having it all my own way, you know! Good hunting. Ever yours, A.B.C. "Churston," I said, jumping to our own copy of an A.B.C. "Let's see where it is." "Hastings," Poirot's voice came sharply and interrupted me. "When was that letter written? Is there a date on it?" I glanced at the letter in my hand. "Written on the 27th," I announced. "Did I hear you alright, Hastings? Did he give the date of the murder as the 30th?" "That's right. Let me see, that's -" "Bon Dieu, Hastings - do you not realize? Today is the 30th." His eloquent hand pointed to the calendar on the wall. I caught up the daily paper to confirm it. "But why - how -" I stammered. Poirot caught up the torn envelope from the floor. Something unusual about the address had registered itself vaguely in my brain, but I had been too anxious to get at the contents of the letter to pay more than fleeting attention to it. Poirot was at the time living in Whitehaven Mansions. The address ran: M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehorse Mansions. Across the corner was scrawled: "Not known at Whitehorse Mansions, E.C., nor at Whitehorse Court - try Whitehaven Mansions." "Mon Dieu!" murmured Poirot. "Does even chance aid this madman? Vite, vite - we must get on to Scotland Yard." A minute or two later we were speaking to Crome over the wire. For once the self-controlled inspector did not reply "Oh, yes?" Instead a quickly stifled curse came to his lips. He heard what we had to say, then rang off in order to get a connection to Churston as rapidly as possible. "C'est trop tard," murmured Poirot. "You can't be sure of that," I argued, though without any great hope. He glanced at the clock. "Twenty minutes past ten? An hour and forty minutes to go. Is it likely that A.B.C. will have held his hand so long?" I opened the railway guide I had previously taken from its shelf. "Churston, Devon," I read, "from Paddington 204 miles. Population 544. It sounds a fairly small place. Surely our man will be bound to be noticed there." "Even so, another life will have been taken," murmured Poirot. "What are the trains? I imagine a train will be quicker than a car." "There's a midnight train - sleeping-car to Newton Abbot - gets there 6:08 A.M., and to Churston at 7:15." "That is from Paddington?" "Paddington, yes." "We will take that, Hastings." "You'll hardly have time to get news before we start." "If we receive bad news tonight or tomorrow morning, does it matter which?" "There's something in that." I put a few things together in a suitcase whilst Poirot once more rang up Scotland Yard. A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and demanded: "Mais qu'est-ce que vous faites lа?" "I was packing for you. I thought it would save time." "Vous йprouvez trop d'emotion, Hastings. It affects your hands and your wits. Is that a way to fold a coat? And regard what you have done to my pyjamas. If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?" "Good heavens, Poirot," I cried, "this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter what happens to our clothes?" "You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one's clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder." Taking his suitcase from me firmly, he took the packing into his own hands. He explained that we were to take the letter and envelope to Paddington with us. Some one from Scotland Yard would meet us there. When we arrived on the platform the first person we saw was Inspector Crome. He answered Poirot's look of inquiry. "No news as yet. All men available are on the lookout. All persons whose name begins with C are being warned by phone when possible. There's just a chance. Where's the letter?" Poirot gave it to him. He examined it, sweating softly under his breath. "Of all the damned luck. The stars in their courses fight for the fellow." "You don't think," I suggested, "that it was done on purpose?" Crome shook his head. "No. He's got his rules - crazy rules - and abides by them. Fair warning. He makes a point of that. That's where his boastfulness comes in. I wonder now - I'd almost bet the chap drinks White Horse whisky." "Ah, c'est ingйnieux зa!" said Poirot, driven to admiration in spite of himself. "He prints the letter and the bottle is in front of him." "That's the way of it," said Crome. "We've all of us done much the same thing one time or another: unconsciously copied something that's just under the eye. He started off White and went on horse instead of haven..." The inspector, we found, was also travelling by the train. "Even if by some unbelievable luck nothing happened, Churston is the place to be. Our murderer is there, or has been there today. One of my men is on the phone here up to the last minute in case anything comes through." Just as the train was leaving the station we saw a man running down the platform. He reached the inspector's window and called up something. As the train drew out of the station Poirot and I hurried along the corridor and tapped on the door of the inspector's sleeper. "You have news - yes? demanded Poirot. Crome said quietly: "It's about as bad as it can be. Sir Carmichael Clarke has been found with his head bashed in." Sir Carmichael Clarke, although his name was not very well known to the general public, was a man of some eminence. He had been in his time a very well-known throat specialist. Retiring from his profession, very comfortably off, he had been able to indulge what had been one of the chief passions of his life - a collection of Chinese pottery and porcelain. A few years later, inheriting a considerable fortune from an elderly uncle, he had been able to indulge his passion to the full, and he was now the possessor of one of the best known collections of Chinese art. He was married but had no children, and lived in a house he had built for himself near the Devon coast, only coming to London on rare occasions such as when some important sale was on. It did not require much reflection to realize that his death, following that of the young and pretty Betty Barnard, would provide the best newspaper sensation in years. The fact that it was August and that the papers were hard up for subject matter would make matters worse. "Eh bien," said Poirot. "It is possible that publicity may do what private efforts have failed to do. The whole country now will be looking for A.B.C." "Unfortunately," I said, "that's what he wants." "True. But it may, all the same, be his undoing. Gratified by success, he may become careless... That is what I hope - that he may be drunk with his own cleverness." "How odd all this is, Poirot," I exclaimed, struck suddenly by an idea. "Do you know, this is the first crime of this kind that you and I have worked on together? All our murders have been - well, private murders, so to speak." "You are quite right, my friend. Always, up to now, it has fallen our lot to work from the inside. It has been the history of the victim that was important. The important points have been: 'Who benefited by the death? What opportunities had those round him to commit the crime?' It has always been the 'crime intime.' Here, for the first time in our association, it is cold-blooded, impersonal murder. Murder from the outside." I shivered. "It's rather horrible..." "Yes. I felt from the first, when I read the original letter, that there was something wrong - misshapen -" He made an impatient gesture. "One must not give way to the nerves... This is no worse than any ordinary crime..." "It is... It is..." "Is it worse to take the life or lives of strangers than to take the life of some one near and dear to you - some one who trusts and believes in you, perhaps?" "It's worse because it's mad..." "No, Hastings. It is not worse. It is only more difficult." "No, no, I do not agree with you. It's infinitely more frightening." Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: "It should be easier to discover because it is mad. A crime committed by some one shrewd and sane would be far more complicated. Here, if one could but hit on the idea... This alphabetical business, it has discrepancies. If I could once see the idea - then everything would be clear and simple..." He sighed and shook his head. "These crimes must not go on. Soon, soon, I must see the truth... Go, Hastings. Get some sleep. There will be much to do tomorrow." 第十四章　第三封信 　　我非常清楚地记得第三封信到来时的情形。 　　我可以说，我们已采取了所有的预防措施，当ABC再次采取行动时，就不会有不必要的耽误。苏格兰场的一位年轻警官被派到我们的住所，一旦波洛和我有事外出，他将负责拆开所有寄来的邮件，以便不失时机地与总部保持联络。 　　日子就这样一天天地过去，我们变得愈发地焦虑不安。克罗姆警督那冷淡而傲慢的神态变得愈发地冷淡和傲慢。因为他寄予希望的线索一个接一个地破灭。那些见到贝蒂·巴纳德的人所提供的含糊描述已经毫无作用。在贝克斯希尔和库登附近被人看见过的许多汽车，不是各圆其说，就是难以追踪。对ABC铁路指南的购买情况也进行了调查，这引来许多不便之处，也给众多无辜人士带来麻烦。 　　对我们而言，每一次门口响起邮递员那熟悉的砰砰敲门声，我们的心就会因忧虑而跳动得更快。至少对我来说，情况的确如此，而我只能相信波洛的感受肯定也一样。 　　我知道，他对这个案子肯定极感不快。他不愿意离开伦敦，更愿意留在事件可能突发的现场。在那些焦虑不安的日子里，甚至连他的胡子都萎靡不振——被他的主人忽略了好长一阵时间。 　　当我们听到那熟悉的脚步声和清脆的敲门声时，我起身走向邮箱。我记得有四五封信。我看到最后一封信是用打字机打印的地址。 　　“波洛。”我叫道……声音渐渐消失。 　　“信来了吗？拆开信吧，黑斯廷斯，快点。我们分秒必争，必须做好计划。” 　　我撕开信（波洛这一次倒没有因我鲁莽行事而责备我），抽出用打字机打印的纸条。 　　“把它读一下。”波洛说。 　　我大声诵读道：可怜的波洛先生： 　　您认为您自己并不擅长于这些小案子，是吧？可能您早已过了黄金时期？让我们看看，您这一次是否能做的更好一些。这次的案子很容易。三十日在彻斯顿（Churston）。您确实应该尝试做些什么！您知道，总是由我在尽情地表现，这实在太沉闷了一点。 　　祝您收获良多！永远的， ABC 　　“彻斯顿，”我说，奔向我们自己的那本ABC铁路指南。“让我们查查它在哪里。” 　　“黑斯廷斯，”波洛的话音尖利，打断了我。“那信是什么时候写的？上面有日期吗？” 　　我看了一眼手中的信。 　　“是二十七日写的。”我宣称。 　　“我听得没错吧，黑斯廷斯？他是否说到谋杀案的日期是三十日？” 　　“对啊，我们看，那是……” 　　“Bon Dieu①，黑斯廷斯，你难道还没意识到吗？今天就是三十日。” 　　①法文，意为：上帝啊。——译注。 　　他动情地用手指着墙上的日历。我则抓起报纸以作证实。 　　“可为什么——怎么会——”我结结巴巴地说。 　　波洛从地上捡起已撕开的信封，我脑中粗略有些印象，信封上的地址有点反常，可我由于太急于读信的内容而忽略了它。 　　波洛现住白港公寓内。信封上的地址是：白马公寓，赫尔克里·波洛先生收。信封角上潦草地住着：“ECI区白马公寓查无此人，白马苑查无此人——试投白港公寓。” 　　“Mon Dieu②！”波洛小声道。“这个疯子又获得良机？Vite——vite③，我们必须赶去苏格兰场。”②法文，意为：我的天啊。——译注。③法文，意为：快点。——译注。 　　一两分钟后，我们通过电话与克罗姆交谈。这位极有自制力的警督这次倒是没有回答“哦，是吗？”而是迅即用嘴唇沉闷地哼了一声。他听我讲完一切之后，挂上电话，以最快的速度准备好一辆车赶赴彻斯顿。 　　“C'est trop tard④。”波洛小声说。④法文，意为：这太晚了。——译注。 　　“你可不能那样确定。”我争辩道，尽管感觉也没什么希望。 　　他瞅了一眼钟。 　　“十点二十分？要一个小时四十分钟才能到那里。这么长的时间内，ABC会不下手吗？” 　　我打开已从架上取下的那本铁路指南。 　　“彻斯顿，达夫郡，”我读到，“离帕丁顿204-3/4英里，人口为656人。这看来是个很小的地方，显然我们这位杀手会被人注意到的。” 　　“即便如此，还会有另一条生命被谋杀。”波洛小声道。“有哪几趟火车？我料想坐火车会比汽车快。” 　　“有午夜的火车，——可以做卧车先到纽顿·阿布特，早晨六点八分到那儿，然后可于七点十五分到达彻斯顿。” 　　“那是从帕丁顿出发？” 　　“帕丁顿，是的。” 　　“我们就坐那趟车，黑斯廷斯。” 　　“在我们出发之前，你几乎不会获得任何消息。” 　　“就算我们今晚或明天早晨得到些坏消息，也将于事无补。” 　　“总还可以做些什么。” 　　我把一些物品收拾进箱子，波洛再次拨通苏格兰场的电话。 　　几分钟后，他走进卧室，问道： 　　“Mais qu'est ce que vous faites la⑤？”⑤法文，意为：可你在干些什么呀。——译注。 　　“我在为你收拾。我想这样可以节省些时间。” 　　“Vous eprouvez trop d'emotion⑥，黑斯廷斯。他使你的双手和脑子受影响。怎么能那样来叠衣服？看看你对我的睡衣都干了些什么。如果洗衣液被摔碎的话，睡衣将会变成什么样子？”⑥法文，意为：你真是太受刺激了。——译注。 　　“老天啊，波洛。”我叫道，“这可是生死攸关的事情。我们的衣服发生些什么，又有什么关系？” 　　“你真是缺乏分寸感，黑斯廷斯。在火车开动之前，我们是无法先行一步的，而毁坏一个人的衣服根本就无法阻止谋杀案的发生。” 　　他坚决地从我手中取过箱子，用手拿住衣物。 　　他解释道，我们要把信和信封带到帕丁顿去，苏格兰场会派人在那里与我们会面。 　　当我们抵达站台时，第一个见到的人就是克罗姆警督。 　　他向波洛那满是疑惑的神情投以回答。 　　“现在还没有消息。所有可派遣的人都已在巡查。只要可能的话，以C为姓名开头的人都将通过电话受到警告。我们只有一点机会。信在哪里？” 　　波洛把信交给他。 　　他检查了信件，喘口气，口中咒骂着。 　　“这家伙真他妈的好运气！运气在助长这家伙。” 　　“你难道不认为，”我建议道，“他是故意这样做的吗？” 　　克罗姆摇摇头。 　　“不，他有自己的规矩——那些疯狂的规矩，他会牢牢地遵守这些规矩。他会给予充分的警告。他必定会那样做的，那也即是他自吹自擂之所在。我现在倒是感到困惑——我敢打赌这家伙必定是在喝白马牌威士忌。” 　　“Ah，c'est ingenieux，ca⑦！”波洛说，不由自主地对此加以赞叹。“他在写信的时候一定把酒瓶摆在跟前。”⑦法文，意为：啊，这太巧了。——译注。 　　“肯定是那样子的。”克罗姆说，“我们都干过那样的事，无意识地抄写下眼皮底下的话语。他一定先写了‘白’字，然后写了‘马’而不是‘港’字……” 　　我们发现，警督也是坐火车进行旅行的。 　　“尽管有这种难以预料的运气在内，居然什么都没发生。可彻斯顿必定会发生什么事。我们的凶手正在那里，或是今天他去过那里。在这里，我们有位同事守着电话直到现在，万一有什么事发生，就会传过来。” 　　正当火车驶离站台时，我们看见有个人沿着站台跑来。他跑到警督的窗前，口里叫喊着什么事。 　　火车驶出车站后，波洛和我迅速穿过走廊，敲打着警督的卧厢的门。 　　“有什么消息吗？”波洛问道。 　　克罗姆平静地回答： 　　“事情真的很糟糕。卡迈克尔·克拉克（Clarke）爵士被人击打头部致死。” 　　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士是个颇有声望的人，尽管他的姓名对普通大众来说并不太熟悉。他曾是个非常有名的喉科专家。他退休后生活富足，开始沉醉于他生命中主要的爱好之一——收藏中国陶器和瓷器。数年之后，他从一位上了年纪的伯父那里继承了相当数额的一笔财产，现在他已经是中国艺术最好的收藏家之一了。他结过婚，但并未生育孩子，住在德文海边一幢自己建造的房子里，只有在有重要的销售会时，他才偶尔来伦敦。 　　用不着太多的反应，我们就已能够认识到，在那位年轻美貌的贝蒂·巴纳德之后，他的死会成为几年来报界的最佳热点。此时正值八月，报纸大都缺少主题事件，这一实情会使事态变得更为糟糕。 　　“Eh bien⑧。”波洛说，“很可能，这种公开宣传能够达到一些私下的努力所无法做到的事情。现在整个国家都在追查ABC。”⑧法文，意为：好吧。——译注。 　　“不行的是，”我说，“那正是他所图谋的。” 　　“正确。但这可能也同样会是他毁灭的根源。由于不断得手，他会变得粗心大意……那倒是我所希望的样子——他可能会沉醉于自己的聪明之中。” 　　“这一切是多么奇怪，波洛。”我惊呼道，突然间我灵机一动。“你知道吗，这件案子是你我共同侦破的第一件这种类型的案子？我们所有的凶犯都曾是些潜伏暗处的罪犯。” 　　“你说得对，我的朋友。直到现在，所有的案子都是由我们从内部开始侦破，被害人的历史总是关键所在。那些关键的地方则是‘谁能够从死亡中得利？他会有些什么机会来作案？’那一直是‘Crime intime⑨’。而在这里，是我们联手的第一次，我们面临的是一个冷血的、不具个人感情的凶手，是个由外部而来的凶手。”⑨法文，意为：隐秘的犯罪。——译注。 　　我感到一阵颤栗。 　　“那真是非常可怕……” 　　“是的。自从我看到第一封信起，我就开始感觉到，肯定会有什么错误的事情……奇怪的事情……” 　　他不耐烦地打了一下手势。 　　“人不能屈服于这种神经紧张的态度……这也并不比一件普通的案子来的糟糕……” 　　“它是……它是……” 　　“也许，比起谋害与你亲近的人的生命——那些相信和信任你的人的生命来，谋害陌生人的生命要糟糕得多。” 　　“那样子更糟糕是因为那很疯狂……” 　　“不，黑斯廷斯。那并不更糟糕，而是更加困难。” 　　“不，不，我不同意你的观点，这会令人无限制地担惊受怕。” 　　赫尔克里·波洛若有所思地说道： 　　“正因为他很疯狂，它就更容易被侦破。一个机灵、明智的人所犯的罪行要复杂得许多。在这里，如果一个人只盯准一种观点的话……，这件以字母顺序而进行的谋杀案，会有其破绽之处。如果我能再度思考这种观点，那么任何事情都会清楚、简单……” 　　他叹口气，摇摇头。 　　“这些罪行不应该继续下去。不久以后，我必须要使真相大白……去吧，黑斯廷斯，睡会儿觉吧，明天我们还有许多事情要做。” Chapter 15 SIR CARMICHAEL CLARK Churston, lying as it does between Brixham on the one side and Paignton and Torquay on the other, occupies a position about halfway round the curve of Torbay. Until about ten years ago it was merely a golf links and below the links a green sweep of countryside dropping down to the sea with only a farmhouse or two in the way of human occupation. But of late years there have been big building developments between Churston and Paignton and the coastline is now dotted with small houses and bungalows, new roads, etc. Sir Carmichael Clarke had purchased a site of some two acres commanding an uninterrupted view of the sea. The house he had built was of modern design - a white rectangle that was not unpleasing to the eye. Apart from two big galleries that housed his collection it was not a large house. Our arrival there took place about 8 A.M. A local police officer had met us at the station and had put us au courant of the situation. Sir Carmichael Clarke, it seemed, had been in the habit of taking a stroll after dinner every evening. When the police rang up - at some time after eleven - it was ascertained that he had not returned. Since his stroll usually followed the same course, it was not long before a search-party discovered his body. Death was due to a crashing blow with some heavy instrument on the back of the head. An open A.B.C. ad been placed face downwards on the dead body. We arrived at Combeside (as the house was called) at about eight o'clock. The door was opened by an elderly butler whose shaking hands and disturbed face showed how much the tragedy had affected him. "Good-morning, Deveril," said the local police officer. "Good-morning, Mr. Wells." "These are the gentlemen from London, Deveril." "This way, sir." He ushered us into a long dining-room where breakfast was laid. "I'll get Mr. Franklin, sir." A minute or two later a big fair-haired man with a sunburnt face entered the room. This was Franklin Clarke, the dead man's only brother. He had the resolute competent manner of a man accustomed to meeting with emergencies. "Good-morning, gentlemen." Inspector Wells made the introductions. "This is Inspector Crome of the C.I.D., Mr. Hercule Poirot and - er - Captain Hayter." "Hastings," I corrected coldly. Franklin Clarke shook hands with each of us in turn and in each case the handshake was accompanied by a piercing look. "Let me offer you some breakfast," he said. "We can discuss the position as we eat." There were no dissentient voices and we were soon doing justice to excellent eggs and bacon and coffee. "Now for it," said Franklin Clarke. "Inspector Wells gave me a rough idea of the position last night - though I may say it seemed one of the wildest tales I have ever heard. Am I really to believe, Inspector Crome, that my poor brother is the victim of a homicidal maniac, that this is the third murder that has occurred and that in each case an A.B.C. railway guide has been deposited beside the body?" "That is substantially the position, Mr. Clarke." "But why? What earthly benefit can accrue from such a crime - even in the most diseased imagination?" Poirot nodded his head in approval. "You go straight to the point, Mr. Clarke," he said. "It's not much good looking for motives at this stage, Mr. Clarke," said Inspector Crome. "That's a matter for an alienist - though I may say that I've had a certain experience of criminal lunacy and that the motives are usually grossly inadequate. There is a desire to assert one's personality, to make a splash in the public eye - in fact, to be a somebody instead of a nonentity." "Is that true, M. Poirot?" Clarke seemed incredulous. His appeal to the older man was not too well received by Inspector Crome, who frowned. "Absolutely true," replied my friend. "At any rate such a man cannot escape detection long," said Clarke thoughtfully. "Vous croyez? Ah, but they are cunning - ces gens lа. And you must remember such a type has usually all the outer signs of insignificance - he belongs to the class of person who is usually passed over and ignored or even laughed at!" "Will you let me have a few facts, please, Mr. Clarke," said Crome, breaking in on the conversation. "Certainly." "Your brother, I take it, was in his usual health and spirits yesterday? He received no unexpected letters? Nothing to upset him?" "No. I should say he was quite his usual self." "Not upset and worried in any way?" "Excuse me, inspector. I didn't say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother's normal condition." "Why was that?" "You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly, between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother's mind. I myself returned from the East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him." Poirot interpolated a question. "Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff - or shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?" "Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide," said Clarke. "Encore!" said Poirot. "What is that?" "A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter." "Anyway, it wasn't suicide," said Crome with a touch of curtness. "Now I believe, Mr. Clarke, that it was your brother's habit to go for a stroll every evening?" "Quite right. He always did." "Every night?" "Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally." "And every one in the house knew of this habit?" "Of course." "And outside?" "I don't quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may have been aware of it or not, I don't know." "And in the village?" "Strictly speaking, we haven't got a village. There's a post office and cottages at Churston Fetters - but there's no village or shops." "I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?" "On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers. They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is Elbury Cove - it s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they didn't! You've no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and the beginning of July." "So you don't think a stranger would be noticed?" "Not unless he looked - well, off his head." "This man doesn't look off his head," said Crome with certainty. "You see what I'm getting at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your brother's habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?" "Not that I know of - but we'll ask Deveril." He rang the bell and put the question to the butler. "No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn't notice any one hanging about the house either. No more did the maids, because I've asked them." The butler waited a moment, then inquired: "Is that all, sir?" "Yes, Deveril, you can go." The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass. Franklin Clarke rose as she came. "This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother's secretary." My attention was caught at once by the girl's extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had the almost colourless ash hair - light grey eyes - and transparent glowing pallor that one finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as efficient as she was decorative. "Can I help you in any way?" she asked as she sat down. Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food. "Did you deal with Sir Carmichael's correspondence?" asked Crome. "Yes, all of it." "I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A.B.C.?" "A.B.C.?" She shook her head. "No, I'm sure he didn't." "He didn't mention having seen any one hanging about during his evening walks lately?" "No. He never mentioned anything of the kind." "And you yourself have noticed no strangers?" "Not exactly hanging about. Of course, there are a lot of people what you might call wandering about at this time of year. One often meets people strolling with an aimless look across the golf links or down the lanes to the sea. In the same way, practically every one one sees this time of year is a stranger." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Inspector Crome asked to be taken over the ground of Sir Carmichael's nightly walk. Franklin Clarke led the way through the French window, and Miss Grey accompanied us. She and I were a little behind the others. "All this must have been a terrible shock to you all," I said. "It seems quite unbelievable. I had gone to bed last night when the police rang up. I heard voices downstairs and at last I came out and asked what was the matter. Deveril and Mr. Clarke were just setting out with lanterns." "What time did Sir Carmichael usually come back from his walk?" "About a quarter to ten. He used to let himself in by the side door and then sometimes he went straight to bed, sometimes to the gallery where his collections were. That is why, unless the police had rung up, he would probably not have been missed till they went to call him this morning." "It must have been a terrible shock to his wife?" "Lady Clarke is kept under morphia a good deal. I think she is in too dazed a condition to appreciate what goes on round her." We had come out through a garden gate on to the golf links. Crossing a corner of them, we passed over a stile into a steep, winding lane. "This leads down to Elbury Cove," explained Franklin Clarke. "But two years ago they made a new road leading from the main road to Broadsands and on to Elbury, so that now this lane is practically deserted." We went on down the lane. At the foot of it a path led between brambles and bracken down to the sea. Suddenly we came out on a grassy ridge overlooking the sea and a beach of glistening white stones. All round dark green trees ran down to the sea. It was an enchanting spot - white, deep green - and sapphire blue. "How beautiful!" I exclaimed. Clarke turned to me eagerly. "Isn't it? Why people want to go abroad to the Riviera when they've got this! I've wandered all over the world in my time and, honest to God, I've never seen anything as beautiful." Then, as though ashamed of his eagerness, he said in a more matter-of-fact tone: "This was my brother's evening walk. He came as far as here, then back up the path, and turning to the right instead of the left, went past the farm and across the fields back to the house." We proceeded on our way till we came to a spot near the hedge, halfway across the field where the body had been found. Crome nodded. "Easy enough. The man stood here in the shadow. Your brother would have noticed nothing till the blow fell." The girl at my side gave a quick shiver. Franklin Clarke said: "Hold up, Thora. It's pretty beastly, but it's no use shirking facts." Thora Grey - the name suited her. We went back to the house where the body had been taken after being photographed. As we mounted the wide staircase the doctor came out of a room, black hag in hand. "Anything to tell us, doctor?" inquired Clarke. The doctor shook his head. "Perfectly simple case. I'll keep the technicalities for the inquest. Anyway, he didn't suffer. Death must have been instantaneous." He moved away. "I'll just go in and see Lady Clarke." A hospital nurse came out of a room further along the corridor and the doctor joined her. We went into the room out of which the doctor had come. I came out again rather quickly. Thora Grey was still standing at the head of the stairs. There was a queer scared expression on her face. "Miss Grey -" I stopped. "Is anything the matter?" She looked at me. "I was thinking," she said - "about D." "About D?" I stared at her stupidly. "Yes. The next murder. Something must be done. It's got to be stopped." Clarke came out of the room behind me. He said: "What's got to be stopped, Thora?" "These awful murders." "Yes." His jaw thrust itself out aggressively. "I want to talk to M. Poirot some time. Is Crome any good?" He shot the words out unexpectedly. I replied that he was supposed to be a very clever officer. My voice was perhaps not as enthusiastic as it might have been. "He's got a damned offensive manner," said Clarke. "Looks as though he knows everything - and what does he know? Nothing at all as far as I can make out." He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "M. Poirot's the man for my money. I've got a plan. But we'll talk of that later." He went along the passage and tapped at the same door as the doctor had entered. I hesitated a moment. The girl was staring in front of her. "What are you thinking of, Miss Grey?" She turned her eyes towards me. "I'm wondering where he is now... the murderer, I mean. It's not twelve hours yet since it happened... Oh! aren't there any real clairvoyants who could see where he is now and what he is doing...?" "The police are searching -" I began. My commonplace words broke the spell. Thora Grey pulled herself together. "Yes," she said. "Of course." In her turn she descended the staircase. I stood there a moment longer going her words over in my mind. A.B.C... Where was he now...? 第十五章　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士 　　彻斯顿，位于布里克瑟姆和另一边的派恩顿与托基的中间，地处托基海湾曲线的半中间地带。直到大约十年以前，它还是一个高尔夫球场，球场的下面是一片芳草萋萋乡郊地带，一直绵延到海边，其间偶尔有一两处有人居住的农家房舍。近些年来，在彻斯顿与派恩顿之间有了些大的建设发展，现在的海岸边不时会有些小农舍和平房、新修筑的公路等。 　　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士在此地购置了大约两英亩的土地，这里的海景一览无余。他购买的房子设计挺现代化的——那白色的长方形则有点儿煞风景。除了两间放置他的收藏品的大房间被用作展室之外，这所房子并不太大。 　　我们大概是早晨八点到达那里的，当地的一位警官来车站接我们，并给我们讲述了大致的情形。 　　卡迈克尔·克拉克爵士看来是已养成了晚餐之后出门散步的习惯，当警察打电话来的时候——那大约是在十一点之后，他还没有返回家中。由于他外出散步总是挺守时的，一支搜查队伍不久便发现了他的尸体。他的死是因被人用重物猛击后脑部所致。有一本打开的ABC铁路指南书，朝下放在尸体边上。 　　我们约莫八点钟光景就抵达康比赛德（这是那所房子的名字）。开门的是位年长的老管家，他的双手颤抖不停，一脸哀色，让人明显感到这个悲剧对他的打击很大。 　　“早上好，德夫里尔。”警官说。 　　“早上好，韦尔斯先生。” 　　“这几位是从伦敦来的先生们，德夫里尔。” 　　“这边请，先生们。”他招呼我们进入一间长长的摆放着早餐的餐室。“我去叫富兰克林先生。” 　　一两分钟后，一位高大的金发男子走进屋内，他的脸晒得黝黑。 　　他表现出坚毅、能干的风格，是个善于应付突发事件的人。 　　“早上好，先生们。” 　　韦尔斯警督作介绍。 　　“这位是皇家警察的克罗姆警督，赫尔克里·波洛先生和——呃——黑特尔先生。” 　　“黑斯廷斯。”我冷冷地予以纠正。 　　富兰克林·克拉克同我们每个人轮流握手。每次握手的时候，他总会用满怀洞察力的眼神看着我们。 　　“我请你们用早餐吧。”他说，“我们可以边吃边谈。” 　　没人表示异议，我们立刻大口地品尝起来那些烹制精美的鸡蛋、薰肉和咖啡来。 　　“现在，”富兰克林·克拉克说，“韦尔斯警督已告诉我昨晚发生的大概情况——尽管如此，我要说，这是我所听说过的最野蛮的故事之一。克罗姆警督，难道我真要相信，我那可怜的哥哥是一个杀人狂的牺牲品。这是已经出现的第三桩凶杀案，而在每次案发时都会有一本ABC铁路指南书放在尸体边上？” 　　“情况确实如此，克拉克先生。” 　　“可是为什么？在这种最病态的臆想当中，这样的罪行究竟会带来些什么好处呢？” 　　波洛点头表示赞许。 　　“你真是直指要害，富兰克林先生。”他说道。 　　“现在还无法调查清楚犯罪的动机，克拉克先生，”克罗姆警督说，“那是精神病学家的事情——尽管我可以说，我对犯罪的精神错乱有过一点经验，其动机大体上都不充分。罪犯总是会有欲望来展现自己的个性，在公众的眼中引起轰动——实际上，是想成为大人物而并非无足轻重之徒。” 　　“波洛先生，对吗？” 　　克拉克面露怀疑之色。他向这个年长者的垂询，看来并没获得克罗姆警督的好感，他皱了一下眉头。 　　“千真万确。”我的朋友答复道。 　　“无论如何，这样的人是不会长期逍遥法外的。”克拉克沉思着说道。 　　“Vous croyez①？啊，可他们挺狡猾的——ces gens la②！而你必须牢记，这种人通常会有微不足道的外部特征——他属于那种通常会被人省略、受人忽视甚至嘲笑的那类人！” 　　①法文，意为：你相信吗。——译注。 　　②法文，意为：这些人吗。——译注。 　　“你是否可以告诉我一些事情，克拉克先生。”克罗姆突然间插话。 　　“当然可以。” 　　“我想知道，昨天你哥哥的身体和精神状况是否正常？他没收到过意外的信件吧？没什么事使他心烦意乱吗？” 　　“没有。我必须说他与平常挺一样的。” 　　“没有心情烦躁或是焦虑吧。” 　　“对不起，警督。我可没那样说，我可怜的哥哥平常就挺烦躁焦虑的。” 　　“为什么会那样？” 　　“你可能并不了解我的嫂子，克拉克夫人。她身体非常糟糕，坦率地说，也就在我们之间说，她已得了不治的癌症，生活不了太长时间了。她的病情使我哥哥忧心忡忡。我自己从东方回来不久，当我看到他身上的变化之后，我震惊不已。” 　　波洛插话，问了一个问题。 　　“试想，克拉克先生，如果你哥哥被人在悬崖底下熗杀——或者尸体旁边留下一把左轮手熗，你的第一反应会是什么？” 　　“坦白地说，我会得出这是自杀的结论。”克拉克说。 　　“Encore③！”波洛说。③法文，意为：不仅如此。——译注。 　　“什么意思？” 　　“重复一种事实，这没什么大不了的。” 　　“不管怎样，这次可不是自杀。”克罗姆带着一丝草率，说道，“现在我相信，克拉克先生，你哥哥已养成每晚出去散步的习惯。” 　　“是的，他总是这样做的。” 　　“每晚都去吗？” 　　“嗯，当然在下大雨时，他就不去。” 　　“这所房子里每个人都知道这个习惯吗？” 　　“当然。” 　　“外边的人知道吗？” 　　“我不太明白你所指的外边的人是谁，我不知道花匠是否了解这个习惯。” 　　“村子里的人们呢？” 　　“严格地说，我们并没有一个村子。彻斯顿·费蕾斯那儿有个邮局和一些村舍——但并没有村庄或商店。” 　　“我猜想，一个陌生人如果在此地走动，他会极易被别人注意到？” 　　“恰恰相反。八月份，这个地方充满了闹哄哄的陌生人群。他们每天坐着大车、小车或是步行从布里克瑟姆、托基和派恩顿赶来。在那底下有个布罗德桑兹（他用手一指那个方向），是个受人欢迎的沙滩，埃尔布里湾也是如此——是个著名的风景点，人们去那儿晚餐。我真希望他们别这么干！你一定无法想象，在六月份和七月初的时节，这块地方有多么的美丽和安宁！” 　　“所以你认为，一个陌生人是不会被注意到的？” 　　“除非他看上去是怪里怪气的样子。” 　　“这个人外表看来并不会异常。”克罗姆自信地说，“你该懂得我的意思。这个人肯定事先来检查过此地，发现了你哥哥每晚要散步的习惯。顺便说一句，我猜想，昨天并没有什么陌生人到这所房子来，要见卡迈克尔爵士。” 　　“我倒是不清楚，我们可以问问德夫里尔。” 　　他按响铃，像老管家提问。 　　“不，先生，没有人来找过卡迈克尔爵士。我并没有看到有人在房子附近转悠，女仆们也不知道，因为我已问过他们。” 　　管家等了一会儿，然后询问道：“就这些吗，先生？” 　　“是的，德夫里尔，你可以走了。” 　　管家退出，在门口身体往后一退，以便让一位年轻女士进屋。 　　她进入房间时，富兰克林·克拉克站起身来。 　　“这位是格雷小姐，先生们，她是我哥哥的秘书。” 　　这位姑娘有着与众不同的斯堪的纳维亚气质，我的注意力马上被她所捕捉。她有着几乎是无色的灰质头发和浅灰色眼睛，长着一身能在挪威人和瑞典人中间找到的那种明朗亮丽的白皙皮肤。她看上去像二十七岁，跟她的打扮一样明快。 　　“我能为您做些什么？”她说着坐下。 　　克拉克端了一杯咖啡给她，可她拒绝任何食品。 　　“你是否处理卡迈克尔爵士的邮件？”克罗姆问道。 　　“是的，所有邮件。” 　　“我猜想他从未收到过落款为ABC的信件。” 　　“ABC？”她摇摇头，“不，我确定他没有收到过这样的信件。” 　　“他最近没提到晚上散步时看到过什么人在闲逛？” 　　“没有。他从未提到过那种情形。” 　　“确实没见过有人在闲逛。当然，这个季节外面有许多人在闲逛，你可能会这样说的。一个人常常能碰到那些带着漫无目的的表情在散步的人，他们穿过高尔夫球场，走下通道，直奔海边。同样，实际上每年此时所见到的每个人都是陌生人。” 　　波洛思考着点点头。 　　克罗姆警督要求能被带去察看一下卡迈克尔爵士晚间散步的地方。富兰克林·克拉克带领我们穿过落地长窗，格雷小姐则陪着我们。 　　他与我悄悄落在别人后面。 　　“所有这一切对你一定是个可怕的打击。”我说。 　　“它看来令人难以置信。昨天警局来电话的时候，我已经上床休息。我听见楼下的声音，最后跑出来问是怎么回事。德夫里尔和克拉克先生正在灯下探讨着……” 　　“卡迈克尔爵士通常什么时间散步归来？” 　　“大约十点差一刻。他常从便门进来，然后有时他直接去卧室睡觉，有时去那间摆放收藏品的陈列室。那就是为何可能直到早晨他们去叫他的时候，他也不被人发现的原因，除非警局打电话来。” 　　“对他太太而言，这必定是个可怕的打击？” 　　“克拉克夫人靠使用大量的吗啡来得以维持。我想，她太虚弱了，无法承受周遭发生的事。” 　　我们已走出花园的门，继续走向高尔夫球场。转过球场的一个弯后，我们穿过一扇旋转栅门，走入一条险峻蜿蜒的小径。 　　“这条道通向厄尔布利湾，”富兰克林·克拉克解释道，“可是在两年前，他们修筑了一条新路，从主要的公路通向布罗德珊，然后再通向厄尔布利湾，因而现在这条小道实际上已废弃不用。” 　　我们沿着小路往下走。小路底下有一条小道，小道两边长满荆棘和蕨草，直达海边。转眼间，我们已置身于一片青草葱郁的山脊，俯视着大海和一片熠熠闪光的白色卵石沙滩。四周全是墨绿色的树木，树林一直延伸到海岸边上。这个地方的景色沁人心脾——洁白、深绿和宝石蓝交相辉映。 　　“这真是太迷人了。”我惊呼道。 　　克拉克热切地转向我。 　　“可不是吗？人们为什么要去维埃拉④，他们可以到这儿来吗！我这辈子游历了世界各地。我可以向上帝起誓，从来没见过有如此美丽的地方。”④法国东南部和意大利北部沿地中海的假日游憩胜地。——译注。 　　然后，尽管他因过分的热切而显得有点惭愧，他用一种平实的口吻说： 　　“这里就是我哥哥每晚散步的地方。他走到这么远，然后回到那条小路，穿过农场和田野，再回到家里。” 　　我们继续前行，来到树篱旁的农田中央的一个地方，尸体就是在这里被发现的。 　　克罗姆点点头。 　　“这太容易了。那个人站在这儿的阴影当中，你哥哥是无法注意到任何的举动，直到袭击降临。” 　　我身边的姑娘突然一阵战栗。 　　富兰克林·克拉克说： 　　“坚强点，托拉。这事确实挺残酷的，可没必要对事实闭口不谈。” 　　托拉·格雷——这个名字倒是蛮适合她的。 　　我们步行回到那房子，尸体已在拍完照后运回到屋里。 　　当我们迈步登上宽大的楼梯时，医生从屋里走出来，手中握着黑包。 　　“有什么情况可告诉我们的吗，医生？”克拉克询问道。 　　医生摇了摇头。 　　“这案子极其简单。我会保存好验尸的技术细节。不管如何，他倒是没有感到任何痛苦，可能是在瞬间就死亡的。” 　　他离开了。 　　“我要去看看克拉克夫人。” 　　一位护士从房间中走出来，沿走廊走远，医生与她并排而行。 　　我们走进那个医生刚刚出来的房间。 　　我极快速地走出来，托拉·格雷仍然站在楼梯尽头。 　　她脸上带着一丝奇怪的害怕的表情。 　　“格雷小姐——”我停住口，“有什么事吗？” 　　她望着我。 　　“我在想，”她说，“关于D的事情。” 　　“关于D的情况？”我笨拙地望着她。 　　“是的。下一场谋杀。我们一定要做些什么事，必须使它停止。” 　　克拉克在我身后也走出房间来。 　　“什么必须停止，托拉？” 　　“这些可怕的谋杀案。” 　　“对。”他的下颌部过分地伸展出来，“我想找时间与波洛先生聊一聊……克罗姆先生，他能行吗？”他语气诚恳，出人意料。 　　我回答说克罗姆是个非常聪明的警官。 　　我的话音可能显得不是那样热情。 　　“他的态度真他妈的令人讨厌，”克拉克说，“好像他什么都懂，他又知道些什么呢？据我了解，他一无所知。” 　　他沉默不语了一会儿，然后说： 　　“波洛先生才是值得我花钱的人。我自有计划，我们随后再谈此事。” 　　他沿通道走去，敲敲医生进去的那扇门。 　　我迟疑了一会儿。姑娘盯着前面看。 　　“你在想什么，格雷小姐？” 　　她把眼睛转向我。 　　“我在想他现在哪里……我是指，那个凶手。案发到现在还不到十二个小时……哦，有没有真正的远见卓识之人可以看到他现在在哪里，他又在做些什么……” 　　“警察们正在搜查——”我开始说。 　　我平时的话语打破了沉寂。托拉·格雷打起精神来。 　　“是的，”她说，“当然。” 　　她接着从楼梯上走下来，我又在那里站了一会儿，脑中默记着她的话语。 　　ABC…… 　　他现在哪里？