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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？
[color=#ffffff][backcolor=#000000][b]故事简介[/b][/backcolor][/color]
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]

In this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of relating only those incidents and scenes at which I myself was present. Certain chapters, therefore, are written in the third person. I wish to assure my readers that I can vouch for the occurrences related in these chapters. If I have taken a certain poetic license in describing the thoughts and feelings of various persons, it is because I believe I have set them down with a reasonable amount of accuracy. I may add that they have been "vetted" by my friend Hercule Poirot himself. In conclusion, I will say that if I have described at too great length some of the secondary personal relationships which arose as a consequence of this strange series of crimes, it is because the human and personal element can never be ignored. Hercule Poirot once taught me in a very dramatic manner that romance can be a by-product of crime. As to the solving of the A.B.C. mystery, I can only say that in my opinion Poirot showed real genius in the way he tackled a problem entirely unlike any which had previously come his way. 序言 　　在我的这本记叙性的书中，我摒弃了常规，仅仅以第一人称叙述了我亲自处理过的一些案件和勘查过的现场，而其它章节是以第三人称的方式写的。 　　我希冀读者相信书中的情节是真实的。虽然在描述各种不同人物的思想及感情上过于细腻，可是我保证，这都是我当时精细的笔录。此外，我的朋友赫尔克里.波洛还亲自对它们进行过校对。 　　最后所要说的是，之所以我对这个奇特的系列犯罪所涉及的一些次要的人的关系做了大量的描述，是因为人以及个人的因素是永不能被忽视的。赫尔克里·波洛曾以非常幽默的方式教诲我说，浪漫往往是犯罪的影子。 　　有关ABC系列谋杀案的侦破，我只能说，在我看来，波洛在解决问题的方式上显示了真正的天才，完全突破了他以往侦破案件的习惯。 Chapter 1 THE LETTER It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like every one else, we had suffered from world depression. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch. I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot. I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats in London. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen this particular building entirely on account of its strictly geometrical appearance and proportions. "But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not find it so?" I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding to an old joke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed to induce hens to lay square eggs? Poirot laughed heartily. "Ah, you remember that? Alas! no - science has not yet induced the hens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes and colours!" I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well - hardly a day older than when I had last seen him. "You're looking in fine fettle, Poirot," I said. "You've hardly aged at all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewer grey hairs than when I saw you last." Poirot beamed on me. "And why is that not possible? It is quite true." "Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?" "Precisely." "But surely that's a scientific impossibility!" "Not at all." "But that's very extraordinary. It seems against nature." "As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing so!" I stared at him puzzled. Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bottle in his hand which he handed to me. I took it, for the moment uncomprehending. It bore the words: REVIVIT. - To bring back the natural tone of the hair. REVIVIT is not a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, Titian, Brown, Black. "Poirot," I cried. "You have dyed your hair!" "Ah, the comprehension comes to you!" "So that's why your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time I was back." "Exactly." "Dear me," I said, recovering from the shock. "I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches - or are you doing so now?" Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw. "No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustaches! Quelle horreur." He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character. "Well, they are very luxuriant still," I said. "N'est-ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine." A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot's feelings by saying so. Instead I asked if he still practiced his profession on occasions. "I know," I said, "that you actually retired years ago." "C'est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows! And immediately a murder occurs - and I send the vegetable marrows to promenade themselves to the devil. And since then - I know very well what you will say - I am like the Prima Donna who makes positively the farewell performance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite number of times!" I laughed. "In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: This is the end. But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust." "I see," I said. "You exercise them in moderation." "Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the cream of crime." "Has there been much cream about?" "Pas mal. Not long ago I had a narrow escape." "Of failure?" "No, no." Poirot looked shocked. "But I - I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly exterminated." I whistled. "An enterprising murderer!" "Not so much enterprising as careless," said Poirot. "Precisely that - careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I regard you as my mascot." "Indeed?" I said. "In what ways?" Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on: "As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: Something will arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But if so it must be no common affair. It must be something -" he waved his hands excitedly - "something recherchй - delicate - fine..." He gave the last untranslatable word its full flavour. "Upon my word, Poirot," I said. "Any one would think you were ordering a dinner at the Ritz." "Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true." He sighed. "But I believe in luck - in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable error." "What do you call the unforgivable error? "Overlooking the obvious." I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point. "Well," I said presently, smiling, "has this super crime turned up yet?" "Pas encore. At least -" He paused. A frown of perplexity creased his forehead. His hands automatically straightened an object or two that I had inadvertently pushed awry. "I am not sure," he said slowly. There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him in surprise. The frown still lingered. Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room to a desk near the window. Its contents, I need hardly say, were all neatly docketed and pigeon-holed so that he was able at once to lay his hand upon the paper he wanted. He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read it through himself, then passed it to me. "Tell me, mon ami," he said. "What do you make of this?" I took it from him with some interest. It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters: Mr. Hercule Poirot, You fancy yourself, don't you, at solving mysteries that are too difficult for our poor thick-headed British police? Let us see, Mr. Clever Poirot, just how clever you can be. Perhaps you'll find this nut too hard to crack. Look out for Andover on the 21st of the month. Yours, etc., A.B.C. I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed. "Postmarked W.C.1," said Poirot as I turned my attention to the postmark. "Well, what is your opinion?" I shrugged my shoulders as I handed it back to him. "Some madman or other, I suppose." "That is all you have to say?" "Well - doesn't it sound like a madman to you?" "Yes, my friend, it does." His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously. "You take this very seriously, Poirot." "A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a very dangerous thing." "Yes, of course, that is true... I hadn't considered that point... But what I meant was, it sounds more like a rather idiotic kind of hoax. Perhaps some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight." "Comment? Nine? Nine what?" "Nothing - just an expression. I meant a fellow who was tight. No, damn it, a fellow who had had a spot too much to drink." "Merci, Hastings - the expression 'tight' I am acquainted with it. As you say, there may be nothing more to it than that..." "But you think there is?" I asked, struck by the dissatisfaction of his tone. Poirot shook his head doubtfully, but he did not speak. "What have you done about it?" I inquired. "What can one do? I showed it to Japp. He was of the same opinion as you - a stupid hoax - that was the expression he used. They get these things every day at Scotland Yard. I, too, have had my share." "But you take this one seriously?" Poirot replied slowly. "There is something about that letter, Hastings, that I do not like..." In spite of myself, his tone impressed me. "You think - what?" He shook his head, and picking up the letter, put it away again in the desk. "If you really take it seriously, can't you do something?" I asked. "As always, the man of action! But what is there to do? The county police have seen the letter but they, too, do not take it seriously. There are no fingerprints on it. There are no local clues as to the possible writer." "In fact there is only your own instinct?" "Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge - my experience - that tells me that something about that letter is wrong -" He gesticulated as words failed him, then shook his head again. "I may be making the mountain out of the ant-hill. In any case there is nothing to be done but wait." "Well, the 21st is Friday. If a whacking great robbery takes place near Andover then -" "Ah, what a comfort that would be!" "A comfort?" I stared. The word seemed to be a very extraordinary one to use. "A robbery may be a thrill but it can hardly be a comfort!" I protested. Poirot shook his head energetically. "You are in error, my friend. You do not understand my meaning. A robbery would be a relief since it would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else." "Of what?" "Murder," said Hercule Poirot. 第一章　第一封信 　　一九三五年六月，我从南美洲的牧场返回家（曹健注：此句原译为“我从美国南方的牧场返回家”，显然是误译。克里斯蒂迷都知道，黑斯廷斯和他的夫人“灰姑娘”是在阿根廷经营牧场的。）。我在那儿呆了六个月，世界性经济危机波及之广，我们也未能幸免，真是度日如年。这次回来，是要到英格兰去处理几起棘手的事，这些事都非得我亲自出马不可，夫人还留在那儿管理牧场。 　　不用说，一到英格兰，我就拜访老朋友赫尔克里·波洛。波洛又搬家了。我费了九牛二虎之力才在伦敦的一幢新式公寓找到他。一见面我就抱怨他选择这样一个奇特的建筑，完全是处于对它的严格对称的几何形的癖好。他承认这是事实。 　　“是啊，朋友，它的对称真叫人赏心悦目，难道你没有这种感受吗？” 　　我说，我认为它大方了，不禁使人想起一个古老的笑话。我问他，是不是要在这个超现代化的旅馆里饲养产统一型号，方形鸡蛋的母鸡？ 　　波洛开怀大笑。“哈哈，遗憾的是一一还没有一门科学使母鸡适应现代化的口味儿，它们仍然生着大小不一、颜色各异的椭圆鸡蛋！” 　　我深情仔细地端详着波洛。他看起来荣光焕发、神采奕奕，和我上次见到他的时候相比，他一点儿都不显老，甚至还年轻了少许。 　　“波洛，你气色好极了，”我说，“你怎么一点儿都不显老，说实在的，如果可能的话，应该说你现在比我们上次见面时的白发减少了，黑发增多了。” 　　波洛微笑地注视着我。 　　“为什么不可能呢？这完全是事实。” 　　“你是说你的头发正由白变黑，而不是由黑变白？” 　　“确实如此。” 　　“不过，根据科学，这是不可能的！” 　　“并非如此。” 　　“那就太叫人惊奇了，这似乎是违背自然的。” 　　“黑斯廷斯，你还是那样，永远怀着善良、无疑的心。岁月未能改变你的性格。你接受一件事物，一口气背下它的规则，而并不注意你自己正是这么做着。” 　　我凝视着他，迷惑不解。 　　他并没解释而是走进起居室，手里拿着个瓶子转身，递给我。 　　我莫名其妙地接过瓶子。 　　瓶予的标签上写着： 　　头发再生剂——恢复头发的自然颜色。本品分五步渐变，灰色、栗色、橙红色、棕色、黑色。但它不同于一般染料，具有自己独特的效能。 　　“波洛！”我大声惊叫起来“你的头发是染过的！” 　　“啊，你开始明白了！”“我说你的头发比我上次回来时黑多了。” 　　“不错。” 　　“我的天哪，”我开始平静下来，“我想下次回来，你就会装上假发，没准儿，你现在已经装上了假发？ 　　波洛沉默不语。他的假发装的形同真发，波洛为此引以自豪。却也十分敏感。因此，我的话使得他十分尴尬。 　　“不不，我的朋友，真的，我向上帝保证，离这天还远着呢。假发！太可怕了！” 　　他用劲地拽着头发，向我证实他的头发是真发而非假发。 　　“是的，你的头发使你一直显得风度蒲洒。”我恭维了他两句。 　　“是吗？在整个伦敦我还没有看到过和我的假发一样的人。” 　　真是一语道破天机，我暗自想着，但我决不再这样提及此事，以免刺痛波洛的情感。 　　我避开此话题，问他是否还继续搞他的老本行。 　　“如果我没有记错的话。你几年前就说过要退休了。”我说。 　　“是这样，早想炮食终日！可是谋杀案不断地发生，只能让那种悠然自得的日子见鬼去了。你一张嘴，我就知道你想说什么。从那时起，我就象举行告别演出的普赖纳·多里一样！这种告别演出，重复的次数也不知道有多少回了！” 　　我会心地笑了。“的确，两者十分相似，每次我总是说，‘这是最后一次’但话音未落，新案子就又光顾了！朋友，我不得不承认，我还没有时间考虑退休呢！如果大脑那些微小的、灰色的细胞不活动的活，它们就会生锈的！” 　　“我知道了，你用现代化的方式使用他们！” 　　“没错，我进行筛选和挑选。对赫尔克里·波洛来说，现在仅涉猎一些棘手的犯罪！” 　　“有这么棘手的案子吗？” 　　“倒霉得很，不久前我险些送掉这条老命！” 　　“失败了？” 　　“不，不。”波洛看上去非常的震惊，“我几乎去见上帝！” 　　我倒吸了一口凉气。 　　“一个恶性谋杀案！” 　　“凶手的狂恶程度是无法预想到的，确实无法顶想。” 　　波洛说：“我们不谈这些了。黑斯廷斯，你知道，在许多方面我把你看作我的上帝！” 　　“真的？”我说，“在哪些方面？” 　　波洛没有直接回答我，而继续讲道： 　　“当我一听到你来这儿的时候，我就知道一定又发生什么重大案件了。因为在过去我们俩一块儿侦破。如果真是这样，那么此事就非同一般。”他兴奋地挥动着双手：“一定是一个离奇的，神妙的，令人感兴趣的……”他激动地找不出一个合适的字眼来表示对此事的极大兴趣。 　　“暖呀！波洛，”我说“任何人都以为你在准备一桌丰盛的餐宴。” 　　“难道就没有人叫罪犯去准备吗？这是非常现实的。”他叹了口气，“但我相信能交好运，如果你愿意的话，和我在一块儿，制止我犯不可饶恕的错误，就是你的使命了。” 　　“你说的不可饶恕的错误是指什么？” 　　“这是显而易见的。” 　　我的脑海里转了几转，却百思不解其意。 　　“行了。”我微笑着，和气地说，“莫非又发生了蓄谋杀人案？” 　　“有能这样说，但起码是……”他收住了说到嘴边的话。在他的前额上，聚起了变幻莫测的皱纹。他的双手下意识地撑直了我随意扔掉的一些东西。 　　“我还没有十分把握。”他馒慢地说着。 　　他的声调是如此地令人惊奇，我不由吃惊地盯着他。 　　他额上的皱纹慢慢地延伸着。 　　猛地，他坚定地点了点头，朝靠近窗口的一张桌子走去。不用多说，桌子上的东西整理的井井有条，他很快地找出了他所需要的东西。 　　他手里捧着一封打开的信件，缓慢地向我踱来。他自己先把信看了一遍，然后交给了我。 　　他说：“请告诉我，朋友，你如何看这个？” 　　我饶有兴趣地从他手中接过了信件。 　　信是以印刷体的形式写在厚厚的、白色的笔记本纸上的： 　　　　赫尔克里，波洛先生——你自己认为能解决那些，使可怜的愚笨的 　　英国警察感到束手无策、迷惑不解的案件，对呀？聪明的波洛先生，倒 　　让我们看着你倒底有多么的聪明。很可能你会发现揭开此秘密并非‘登 　　天。”本月二十一日，请注意安德沃尔。 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ABC 　　我瞟了一眼信封，信封上同样也是印刷体的字迹。 　　“邮戳是W.C.I”当我把注意力转向邮戳时，波洛说，“你怎么想的？” 　　我把信还给了他，无可奈何地耸了耸肩膀。 　　“我推测是一些有精神病的人。” 　　“这就是你要说的全部吗？” 　　“嗯。难过你不认为这是疯子干的？” 　　“是的，亲爱的，确实如此。” 　　他的语调是严肃的，我惊奇地望着他。 　　“你把它看好十分严重，波洛。” 　　“朋友，应把一个疯子看得严重一些。这个疯子是一个非常危险的家伙！” 　　“有道理，我确实没有意识到这点……但我的意思是，它更象一种拙劣的骗人把戏，很可能是一些酵鬼的恶作剧。” 　　“恶作剧？为什么？” 　　“没什么，只不过是一种猜测罢了。我认为是一个喝得烂醉的家伙，不，该死的家伙，一个喝过量的家伙！” 　　“宽恕我吧，黑斯廷斯——‘烂醉’，这个字眼我还是能领教的，正象你讲的那样，对此醉鬼也只不过是……” 　　“可你认为还有什么？”听着他那不满的腔调，我问道。 　　波洛满腹狐疑地摇着头，一言不发。 　　“能干什么？我把它透露给了贾普，他和你的看法一致一一是一个恶作剧的醉鬼。在苏格兰场每天有这种事情出现，但我有我的看法……” 　　“你对此持有异议？” 　　波洛慢条斯理地答应着。 　　“这封信有点来头儿，黑斯廷斯，我不喜欢……” 　　我不由地被他的语调震惊。 　　“你认为是什么？” 　　他摇动着脑袋，拣起那封信把它放在桌子上。 　　“即使你真的把它看得如此重要，你能提出点名堂来吗？”我问道。 　　“象平常一样，不过是一个男人的勾当，还有什么名堂可搞？那里的警察已经看过这封信，但他们对此也不屑一顾，在这封信上没有指印，也没有任何线索能证明是当地人发信的可能性。” 　　“事实上，仅仅是自己本能的直觉？” 　　“黑斯廷斯，不是直觉，直觉是一个十分不恰当的字眼。是我的知识，我的经验告诉我人们对这封信的看法、做法都是错误的……” 　　他比划着，表达他不能用语言表达的意思。然后，又摇起头来。 　　“可能是我小题大作，无论怎样，在任何憎况下，除了等待，别无他法。” 　　“嗯，二十一号是星期五，如果那时在靠近安德沃尔的地方举行一次击败团伙抢劫犯的战斗……”“是的，那将是多么的令人惬意！”“惬意”我惊愕了，这个词用的似乎非同一般。 　　“抢劫是一场灾难，却不会是惬意的！”我不同意他的说法。 　　波洛精神抖擞地晃着脑袋。 　　“亲爱的，你错了，你没有理解我的意思。真要是一个抢劫案的话，那倒是一种安慰，我的脑海里一直担心发生别的案件。” 　　“什么案件？” 　　“谋杀，”赫尔克里说道。 Chapter 2 (Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative) Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust rose from his seat and peered near-sightedly round the shabby bedroom. His back was stiff from sitting in a cramped position and as he stretched himself to his full height an on-looker would have realized that he was, in reality, quite a tall man. His stoop and his near-sighted peering gave a delusive impression. Going to a well-worn overcoat hanging on the back of the door, he took from the pocket a packet of cheap cigarettes and some matches. He lit a cigarette and then returned to the table at which he had been sitting. He picked up a railway guide and consulted it, then he returned to the consideration of a typewritten list of names. With a pen, he made a tick against one of the first names on the list. It was Thursday, June 20th. 第二章　不是来自黑斯廷斯个人的叙述 　　亚历山大·波拿巴·卡斯特先生（曹健注：此人名为Alexaneder Bonaparte Cust，字首即为ABC。另外他的名字中，“亚历山大”是横跨欧亚的马其顿帝国的的国王的名字，“波拿巴”就是拿破仑，可以说这是一个很威风也很可笑的名字。）离开座位，凝视着破烂不堪的卧室，换坐在一个狭窄的椅子上，他的背部显得僵硬，当他伸个懒腰，把整个身体舒展开时，就会发现他个子相当高，事实也确实如此。他弓形的腰背以及似乎近视的凝滞的目光给人一种捉摸不定的感觉。 　　他走到挂在门后的破旧的大衣旁，从口袋里摸出一包廉价的香烟和火柴，燃上一支烟，又返回到他一直坐在旁边的桌子旁，拿着一本列车时刻表察看着，然后又将目光移到一份打印的花名册上，用钢笔在花名册的一个名字下重重地打上了一个点。 　　此时是六月二十日，星期四。 Chapter 3 ANDOVER I had been impressed at the time by Poirot's forebodings about the anonymous letter he had received, but I must admit that the matter had passed from my mind when the 21st actually arrived and the first reminder of it came with a visit paid to my friend by Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. The C.I.D. inspector had been known to us for many years and he gave me a hearty welcome. "Well, I never," he exclaimed. "If it isn't Captain Hastings back from the wilds of the what do you call it! Quite like old days seeing you here with Monsieur Poirot. You're looking well, too. Just a little bit thin on top, eh? Well, that's what we're all coming to. I'm the same." I winced slightly. I was under the impression that owing to the careful way I brushed my hair across the top of my head that thinness referred to by Japp was quite unnoticeable. However, Japp had never been remarkable for tact where I was concerned so I put a good face upon it and agreed that we were none of us getting any younger. "Except Monsieur Poirot here," said Japp. "Quite a good advertisement for a hair tonic, he'd be. Face fungus sprouting finer than ever. Coming out into the limelight, too, in his old age. Mixed up in all the celebrated cases of the day. Train mysteries, air mysteries, high society deaths - oh, he's here, there and everywhere. Never been so celebrated as since he retired." "I have already told Hastings that I am like the Prima Donna who makes always one more appearance," said Poirot, smiling. "Shouldn't wonder if you ended by detecting your own death," said Japp, laughing heartily. "That's an idea, that is. Ought to be put in a book." "It will be Hastings who will have to do that," said Poirot, twinkling at me. "Ha ha! That would be a joke, that would," laughed Japp. I failed to see why the idea was so extremely amusing, and in any case I thought the joke was in poor taste. Poirot, poor old chap, is getting on. Jokes about his approaching demise can hardly be agreeable to him. Perhaps my manner showed my feelings, for Japp changed the subject. "Have you heard about Monsieur Poirot's anonymous letter?" he asked. "I showed it to Hastings the other day," said my friend. "Of course," I exclaimed. "It had quite slipped my memory. Let me see, what was the date mentioned?" "The 21st," said Japp. "That's what I dropped in about. Yesterday was the 21st and just out of curiosity I rang up Andover last night. It was a hoax all right. Nothing doing. One broken shop window - kid throwing stones - and a couple of drunk and disorderlies. So just for once our Belgian friend was barking up the wrong tree." "I am relieved, I must confess," acknowledged Poirot. "You'd quite got the wind up about it, hadn't you?" said Japp affectionately. "Bless you, we get dozens of letters like that coming in every day! People with nothing better to do and a bit weak in the top story sit down and write 'em. They don't mean any harm! Just a kind of excitement." "I have indeed been foolish to take the matter so seriously," said Poirot. "It is the nest of the horse that I put my nose into there." "You're mixing up mares and wasps," said Japp. "Pardon?" "Just a couple of proverbs. Well, I must be off. Got a little business in the next street to see to - receiving stolen jewelry. I thought I'd just drop in on my way and put your mind at rest. Pity to let those grey cells function unnecessarily." With which words and a hearty laugh, Japp departed. "He does not change much, the good Japp, eh?" asked Poirot. "He looks much older," I said. "Getting as grey as a badger," I added vindictively. Poirot coughed and said: "You know, Hastings, there is a little device - my hairdresser is a man of great ingenuity - one attaches it to the scalp and brushes one's own hair over it - it is not a wig, you comprehend - but -" "Poirot," I roared. "Once and for all I will have nothing to do with the beastly inventions of your confounded hairdresser. What's the matter with the top of my head?" "Nothing - nothing at all." "It's not as though I were going bald." "Of course not! Of course not!" "The hot summers out there naturally cause the hair to fall out a bit. I shall take back a really good hair tonic." "Prйcisйment." "And, anyway, what business is it of Japp's? He always was an offensive kind of devil. And no sense of humour. The kind of man who laughs when a chair is pulled away just as a man is about to sit down." "A great many people would laugh at that." "It's utterly senseless." "From the point of view of the man about to sit, certainly it is." "Well," I said, slightly recovering my temper. (I admit that I am touchy about the thinness of my hair.) "I'm sorry that anonymous letter business came to nothing." "I have indeed been in the wrong over that. About that letter, there was, I thought, the odour of the fish. Instead a mere stupidity. Alas, I grow old and suspicious like the blind watch-dog who growls when there is nothing there." "If I'm going to co-operate with you, we must look about for some other 'creamy' crime," I said with a laugh. "You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?" I fell in with his humour. "Let me see now. Let's review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder - red-blooded murder - with trimmings, of course." "Naturally. The hors d'oeuvres." "Who shall the victim be - man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig. American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor. Scene of the crime - well, what's wrong with the good old library? Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon - well, it might be a curiously twisted dagger - or some blunt instrument - a carved stone idol -" Poirot sighed. "Or, of course," I said, "there's poison - but that's always so technical. Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beautiful girl or two -" "With auburn hair," murmured my friend. "Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be unjustly suspected - and there's some misunderstanding between her and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other suspects - an older woman, dangerous type - and some friend or rival of the dead man's - and a quiet secretary - dark horse - and a hearty man with a bluff manner - and a couple of discharged servants or gamekeepers or something - and a damn fool of a detective rather like Japp - and well - that's about all." "That is your idea of the cream, eh?" "I gather you don't agree." Poirot looked at me sadly. "You have made there a very pretty rйsumй of nearly all the detective stories that have ever been written." "Well," I said. "What would you order?" Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came puningly from between his lips. "A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of quiet domestic life... very unimpassioned - very intime." "How can a crime be intime?" "Supposing," murmured Poirot, "that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and, intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?" "Well," I said. "I can't see any excitement in that!" Poirot threw me a glance of reproof. "No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders." "I admit," I said, "that a second murder in a book often cheers things up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow up everybody's alibi until the last page but one - well, it does get a bit tedious." The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer. "'Allo," he said." 'Allo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking." He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change. His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed. "Mais oui... "Yes, of course... "But yes, we will come... "Naturally... "It may be as you say... "Yes, I will bring it. A tout l'heure then." He replaced the receiver and came across the room to me. "That was Japp speaking, Hastings." "Yes?" "He had just got back to the Yard. There was a message from Andover..." "Andover?" I cried excitedly. Poirot said slowly: "An old woman of the name of Ascher who keeps a little tobacco and newspaper shop has been found murdered." I think I felt ever so slightly damped. My interest, quickened by the sound of Andover, suffered a faint check. I had expected something fantastic - out of the way! The murder of an old woman who kept a little tobacco shop seemed, somehow, sordid and uninteresting. Poirot continued in the same slow, grave voice: "The Andover police believe they can put their hand on the man who did it -" I felt a second throb of disappointment. "It seems the woman was on bad terms with her husband. He drinks and is by way of being rather a nasty customer. He's threatened to take her life more than once. "Nevertheless," continued Poirot, "in view of what has happened, the police there would like to have another look at the anonymous letter l received. I have said that you and I will go down to Andover at once." My spirits revived a little. After all, sordid as this crime seemed be, it was a crime, and it was a long time since I had had any association with crime and criminals. I hardly listened to the next words Poirot said. But they were to come back to me with significance later. "This is the beginning," said Hercule Poirot. 第三章　安德沃尔 　　波洛对匿名信的推测一直萦绕在我的脑海里。但必须承认，在二十一日这天，我的脑海里早已忘掉了此事，和苏格兰场的首席检察官贾普一块儿去拜访我的朋友时，才猛然想了起来。在许多年前我们就认识了这位苏格兰场的检察官，波洛很热情地接待了我们。 　　贾普向我们解释说：“要不是黑斯廷斯上尉从那个所谓的未开发的地方返回来的话，我永远也不会想到，这和过去与波洛先生在这儿见到你的情形极其相似，你的身体看上去还不错，只不过头顶的头发略显稀疏了些，对吗？唉，这是我们都会遇到的烦心事情，我也如此喽。” 　　我稍微痉挛了一下。我暗自庆幸，由于我的头发梳理得十分精细而贾普并没有觉察到我的头发十分稀疏。还好，贾普并没有对我担忧的地方过多地注意，因此，我笑脸相迎，随声附和地说我们都显得老了。 　　“除了波洛先生，”贾普说，“他的确是一个头发滋补药的绝好广告模特，脸色比以往任何时候都好。在他这把岁数，也算是出尽风头了。他涉猎到当今所有各种著名的案件——发生在列车上的奇案，飞机上的奇案，官场惨案——哪儿都有他的身影，自他退休以来更是名扬全球了。” 　　“我早就告诉过黑斯廷斯，我象普赖斯·多曼一样，总是使得他人更加显眼。”波洛笑呵阿他说道。 　　“不应怀疑是你要通过侦查自己的死亡而结束自己的一生。” 　　贾普说着，开怀大笑，“这倒是一个高见，应该写到一本书里去。” 　　“这事只能让黑斯廷斯去办了。”波洛狡黠的目光望着我。 　　“哈哈，这只是一个笑话，一个笑话而已。”贾普笑着说。 　　我弄不清为什么这个主意是如此地吸引人，我总想笑，话是没有什么意思的，可波洛，这个老家伙，有关他正在得到遗赠不动产的笑话，儿乎不能和他本人的秉性相一致。 　　很可能我的神态反映出我的思绪、情感，因此贾普有意地转换了活题。 　　“你听到波洛先生收到匿名信一事了吗？”他间道。 　　“我早已把匿名信交给黑斯廷斯看了。”我的朋友答道。 　　“这是事实。”我说道，“我把这事全丢在九霄云外了，让我想一下确切的日期。”“二十一号。”贾普脱口而出，“这是我前来拜访的原因。昨天是二十一号，我出于好奇心，在昨天晚上给安德沃尔打了电话，只不过是一个醉鬼罢了，没有其它可值得深究的，一个顽童用石头打碎了商店的橱窗，或者是一些酗酒的人和扰乱秩序的坏家伙，因此，我们的比利时朋友不过又演了一幕‘竹篮打水——场空’的小节目罢了。”“我感到宽慰，我确应承认，”波洛认输似地回答。 　　“为此你确实担惊受怕了，对吗？”贾普颇动感情地询问着。“祝神你！我们每天收到相类似的信件。那些饱食终日，无所事事的人尽干这些蠢事儿，他们没有任何恶意，只不过是自讨乐趣罢了。” 　　“我把此事看得如此严重，确实是太蠢了。”波洛谦卑他说，“我干预此事简直是无事生非” 　　“你把母马和黄蜂弄混了。” 　　“对不起，请再重复一遍。” 　　“仅仅是一个谚语中的张冠李戴。好了，我得告辞了。我到另一条街上去办点事——负责接受被盗的宝石。我想我只是据我自己的意愿而来并使你能平静下来，可惜的是，没能让您那聪明的大脑发挥它应有的作用！” 　　未等话音落地，随着一串开怀的笑声，贾普走了。 　　“贾普没有多少变化，对吗？”波洛问我。 　　“看上去老了许多，”我答道：“变得象獾一样老奸巨猾。”我又补充了一句。 　　波洛边咳嗽边说： 　　“黑斯廷斯，我告诉你一个小小的机密，我的理发师是一个非常精明能干的人，他造了一种东西，和人的头发极其相象，可以使头发俊美，但又不是假发，你知道，但是一一一” 　　“波洛，”我大声吼着，“无论怎么说，我都和你那个神秘莫恻的理发师令人厌恶的发明没有任何关系，这秘密又关我的头顶什么事？” 　　“没什么，确实没什么。” 　　“尽管我脱发了，但确未秃顶。” 　　“不错，没秃，一点都不错。” 　　“炎热的夏天自然会造成一些头发脱落。我得去拿一些优质的头发生长剂。” 　　“确实该去。” 　　“管怎么说，贾普干了些什么事？他总是显得象咄咄逼人的魔鬼一样，一点儿幽默感都没有。见人要坐下，他就悄悄地把椅子抽走，给别人来个仰趴，招来大伙的哄堂大笑。他就是这种料。” 　　“绝大多数人见此都会捧腹大笑的。” 　　“简直是没有理智的人。” 　　“对坐椅子的人来说确实如此。” 　　“好了。”我稍压了压火气说道（我承认对自己稀疏的头发十分地敏感）：“很抱歉，有关匿名信的事情一无所获。” 　　“在这方面，我确实错了，我原以为从这封信闻到了鱼的香味儿，这真是愚蠢，我象一条咬夜的瞎眼看门狗一样，变得老眼昏花，疑神疑鬼了。” 　　“如果要我和你合作的话，我们必须寻找一些‘米色’的罪犯，”我笑着说道。 　　“还记得那天你讲的话吗？如果你能象一个人点菜谱一样去点拣犯罪，你将要选择什么？” 　　我听着他那幽默的话语沉思起来。 　　“让我想想看。让我们重新检查一下菜单。抢劫？诈骗？不是。我想不是。味儿太素了一点儿。一定是谋杀——带有花色配菜的血腥的谋杀。” 　　“当然了。” 　　“谁是受害者？男人还是女人？我想是男的，可能是一些名人，美国亿万富翁，总理大臣，报社老板。犯罪现场——那个漂亮古老的图书馆怎么样？从气势上讲，没有能和它相匹敌的。致于武器，可以是一个奇特的，弯曲的匕首，或是一些钝器，一个雕刻的石头塑像——” 　　波洛叹了口气。 　　“或者是一支手(蟹)熗，但总好象带有专业性，或者是一个左轮手(蟹)熗在夜空回响着射击声。可能在那儿有几个美貌的姑娘……” 　　“长着深棕色的头发。”我的朋友咕哝着。 　　“这同样是一个古老的笑话。的确，可能其中的一位漂亮的姑娘受到不公正的怀疑——在她和一个年轻小伙子之间产生了误解，或者是一个年老的妇女——神秘的，危险的角色，或者一些已故男人的朋友或敌手，或者一个少言寡语的秘书——黑马，或者一个表面吓人，心底善良的男人，一些被启用的佣人或者猎场看守人，或是某些和贾普十分相似的愚蠢到家的侦探！好了，就这些。” 　　“这就是你对塑像的看法？” 　　“我想你是不会同意的。” 　　波洛悲哀地望着我。 　　“你对几乎所有别人描述过的侦探做了一个很好的概述。” 　　“是的，你还需要什么？”我说。 　　波洛闭上了双限，靠在座椅上，从嘴唇间挤出了带有得意的声音： 　　“一个非常简单的案子。没有复杂背景的罪犯，一个国内常见的普普通通的罪犯——一点激情都没有——非常熟悉。” 　　“非常熟悉怎么能犯罪呢？”波洛低声咕哝着：“假如四个人坐在那儿打桥脾，有一个奇怪的人，坐在靠近火炉的椅子上，在黎明前发现此人已死去。四人中的某一个人，当他作“明家”时，走过去杀死了此人，其它的人只注意手中的牌而没有发觉他的行动，这就可能产生了你所说的犯罪，可四个人中谁是凶手呢？” 　　“好了，我不能从这里面发现任何值得高兴的事情。”我说。 　　波洛向我投之责备的一瞥。 　　“不，因为没有奇特的、弯曲的匕首，没有敲诈，没有被窃的作神像眼睛的绿宝石，没有难以发现的西部的毒药。黑斯廷斯，你有令人惊奇的灵感，你不仅仅喜欢一个谋杀案，而是一连串的谋杀。” 　　我说；“我承认在书中描述的谋杀往往使人们对案情发生兴趣。在第一章　中如果对谋杀进行了描述，你就不得不跟着小说的描述一直看到倒数第二页。这种书会使你感到太冗长了。” 　　这时，电话铃响了，波洛站起来去接电话。 　　“喂，喂，是的，我是赫尔克里·波洛。” 　　他静静地听着电话有一、两分钟之久，馒慢地我看见他的脸色变了。 　　他的回答简朴而又前后不连贯。 　　“果真如此。” 　　“是的，没错。” 　　“但是，我们将要去？” 　　“当然了。” 　　“可能象你讲的那样……” 　　“是的，我将带上它。” 　　他放下话筒向我走来。 　　“黑斯廷斯，刚才是贾普来的电话。” 　　“真的？” 　　“他刚刚返回警察厅就收到了从安德沃尔发来的一封信……” 　　“安德沃尔？”我兴奋地嚷了起来。 　　波洛却慢条斯理他说： 　　“一个开小杂铺的老妇阿谢尔（曹健注：安德沃尔和阿谢尔都是以字母A打头的）被谋杀了。” 　　“我说怎么的了，甚至感觉有点沮丧，安德沃尔的回音使我兴奋，我的情趣承受了一次痛苦的磨砺。我早就预料到有些离奇怪诞的事情一一非同寻常，不管怎么说，谋杀一个开小铺的老妇似乎是卑鄙的和毫无兴趣的。” 　　波洛继续慢悠悠地、严肃地说着，“安德沃尔的警察自信能找到凶手！” 　　我又一次感到失望的痛苦。 　　“似乎这个老妇和她的丈夫闹了别扭。他喝酒，算得上是一个令人作呕的顾客。他不止一次地威胁说要去杀掉他的老妇人。” 　　“因此，从己发生事情的角度看，警察可能对我接到的匿名信有新的看法。我早已讲过，你我都得马上赶往安德沃尔。” 　　我的精神稍振作了一点儿。毕竟，这些犯罪是卑鄙无耻的，它是犯罪！我和犯罪以及犯人已经打交道这么长时间了！ 　　我几乎没有听到波洛还讲了些什么。但是后来的话对我来说是至关重要的—— 　　“这仅仅是个开始。”

Chapter 4 MRS. ASCHER We were received at Andover by Inspector Glen, a tall, fair-haired man with a pleasant smile. For the sake of conciseness I think I had better give a brief rйsumй of the bare facts of the case. The crime was discovered by Police Constable Dover at 1 A.M. in the morning of the 22nd. When on his round he tried the door of the shop and found it unfastened. He entered and at first thought the place was empty. Directing his torch over the counter, however, he caught sight of the huddled-up body of the old woman. When the police surgeon arrived on the spot it was elicited that the woman had been struck down by a heavy blow on the back of the head, probably while she was reaching down a packet of cigarettes from the shelf behind the counter. Death must have occurred about nine to seven hours previously. "But we've been able to get it down a bit nearer than that," explained the inspector. "We've found a man who went in and bought some tobacco at 5:30. And a second man went in and found the shop empty, as he thought, at five minutes past six. That puts the time at between 5:30 and 6:05. So far I haven't been able to find any one who saw this man Ascher in the neighbourhood, but, of course, it's early yet. He was in the Three Crowns at nine o'clock pretty far gone on drink. When we get hold of him he'll be detained on suspicion." "Not a very desirable character, inspector?" asked Poirot. "Unpleasant bit of goods." "He didn't live with his wife?" "No, they separated some years ago. Ascher's a German. He was waiter at one time, but he took to drink and gradually became unemployable. His wife went into service for a bit. Her last place was as cook-housekeeper to an old lady, Miss Rose. She allowed her husband so much out of her wages to keep himself, but he was always getting drunk and coming round and making scenes at the places where she was employed. That's why she took the post with Miss Rose at The Grange. It's three miles out of Andover, dead in the country. He couldn't get at her there so well. When Miss Rose died, she left Mrs. Ascher a small legacy, and the woman started this tobacco and newsagent business - quite a tiny place - just cheap cigarettes and a few newspapers - that sort of thing. She just about managed to keep going. Ascher used to come round and abuse her now and again and she used to give him a bit to get rid of him. She allowed him fifteen shillings a week regular." "Had they any children?" asked Poirot. "No. There's a niece. She's in service near Overton. Very superior steady young woman." "And you say this man Ascher used to threaten his wife?" "That's right. He was a terror when he was in drink - cursing and swearing that he'd bash her head in. She had a hard time, did Mrs. Ascher." "What age of woman was she?" "Close on sixty - respectable and hardworking." Poirot said gravely: "It is your opinion, inspector, that this man Ascher committed the crime?" The inspector coughed cautiously. "It's a bit early to say that, Mr. Poirot, but I'd like to hear Franz Ascher's own account of how he spent yesterday evening. If he can give a satisfactory account of himself, well and good - if not -" His pause was a pregnant one. "Nothing was missing from the shop?" "Nothing. Money in the till quite undisturbed. No signs of robbery." "You think that this man Ascher came into the shop drunk, started abusing his wife and finally struck her down?" "It seems the most likely solution. But I must confess, sir, I'd like to have another look at that very odd letter you received. I was wondering if it was just possible that it came from this man Ascher." Poirot handed over the letter and the inspector read it with a frown. "It doesn't read like Ascher," he said at last. "I doubt if Ascher would use the term 'our' British police - not unless he was trying to be extra cunning - and I doubt if he's got the wits for that. Then the man's a wreck - all to pieces. His hand's too shaky to print letters clearly like this. It's good quality notepaper and ink, too. It's odd that the letter should mention the 21st of the month. Of course it might be a coincidence." "That is possible - yes." "But I don't like this kind of coincidence, Mr. Poirot. It's a bit too pat." He was silent for a minute or two - a frown creasing his forehead. "A.B.C. Who the devil could A.B.C. be? We'll see if Mary Drower (that's the niece) can give us any help. It's an odd business. But for this letter I'd have put my money on Franz Ascher for a certainty." "Do you know anything of Mrs. Ascher's past?" "She's a Hampshire woman. Went into service as a girl up in London - that's where she met Ascher and married him. Things must have been difficult for them during the war. She actually left him for good in 1922. They were in London then. She came back here to get away from him, but he got wind of where she was and followed her down here, pestering her for money -" A constable came in. "Yes, Briggs, what is it?" "It's the man Ascher, sir. We've brought him in." "Right. Bring him in here. Where was he?" "Hiding in a truck on the railway siding." "He was, was he? Bring him along." Franz Ascher was indeed a miserable and unprepossessing specimen. He was blubbering and cringing and blustering alternately. His bleary eyes moved shiftily from one face to another. "What do you want with me? I have not done nothing. It is a shame and a scandal to bring me here! You swine, how dare you?" His manner changed suddenly. "No, no, I do not mean that - you would not hurt a poor old man - not be hard on him. Every one is hard on poor old Franz. Poor old Franz." Mr. Ascher started to weep. "That'll do, Ascher," said the inspector. "Pull yourself together. I'm not charging you with anything - yet. And you're not bound to make a statement unless you like. On the other hand, if you're not concerned in the murder of your wife -" Ascher interrupted him - his voice rising to a scream. "I did not kill her! I did not kill her! It is all lies! You are goddamned English pigs - all against me. I never kill her - never." "You threatened to often enough, Ascher." "No, no. You do not understand. That was just a joke - a good joke between me and Alice. She understood." "Funny kind of joke! Do you care to say where you were yesterday evening, Ascher?" "Yes, yes - I tell you everything. I did not go near Alice. I am with friends - good friends. We are at the Seven Stars - and then we are at the Red Dog -" He hurried on, his words tumbling over each other. "Dick Willows - he was with me - and old Curdie - and George - and Platt and lots of the boys. I tell you I do not never go near Alice. Ach Gott, it is the truth I am telling you." His voice rose to a scream. The inspector nodded to his underling. "Take him away. Detained on suspicion." "I don't know what to think," he said as the unpleasant shaking old man with the malevolent, mouthing jaw was removed. "If it wasn't for the letter, I'd say he did it." "What about the men he mentions?" "A bad crowd - not one of them would stick at perjury. I've no doubt he was with them the greater part of the evening. A lot depends on whether any one saw him near the shop between half-past five and six." Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. "You are sure nothing was taken from the shop?" The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "That depends. A packet or two of cigarettes might have been taken - but you'd hardly commit murder for that." "And there was nothing - how shall I put it - introduced into the shop. Nothing that was odd there - incongruous?" "There was a railway guide," said the inspector. "A railway guide?" "Yes. It was open and turned face downward on the counter. Looked as though some one had been looking up the trains from Andover. Either the old woman or a customer." "Did she sell that type of thing?" The inspector shook his head. "She sold penny time-tables. This was a big one - kind of thing only Smith's or a big stationer would keep." A light came into Poirot's eyes. He leant forward. "A railway guide, you say. A Bradshaw - or an A.B.C.?" A light came into the inspector's eyes also. "By the Lord," he said, "it was an A.B.C." 第四章　阿谢尔太太 　　在安德沃尔，笑容可掬、头发缜密、个子高高的检察官哥莱恩接待了我们。出于职业习惯，我想最好先把案件的主要事实做一个概述。 　　二十二日凌晨一点，警官达沃尔巡逻时，经过一家小店，他随手推了推小店的门，发现门没拴着，就走了进去。起初，他以为里面是空的，但是，当他目光落到柜台上时，才看到一具用绳子捆绑着的老女人的尸体。警察局的法医到现场鉴定：死者脑后受到致命的撞击。很可能是当她在柜台后转身从货架上取香烟时被击中的。她大约死于七至九小时以前。 　　“我们已得到比这更为可靠有力的线索。”检察官解释道：“五点半，有人看到一个男人进去买烟，大约在六点零五分，又有一个男人进去，发现小店空无一人。这就把时间卡在了五点半至六点零五分之间。到目前为止，临近的人谁也没看见阿谢尔本人。但确实时间还早。在九点钟，他在相当远的“三冠酒店”喝酒，当我们抓住他时，以嫌疑对象将其拘留。” 　　“并不是一个非常理想的嫌疑犯。对吧？”波洛问道 　　“一个没有多大价值的东西！” 　　“他和他妻子分居？”“是的，在前些年就分居了。阿谢尔是一个德国人，他曾做过招待员，但他喜欢喝酒，后来便失业了，他的妻子当过一段佣人，她最后的处所是给罗斯大大，一个老女人做佣人。她把挣下的大部分钱都给了她丈夫。但她丈夫总是喝得酩酊大醉，然后到她干活的地方惹事生非，闯出许多乱子。这就是她和罗斯太大一起住在格兰奇的原因。这里离安德沃尔三英里远，极其安静。搬到这以后，她的丈夫给她找的麻烦就少多了。罗斯过世后，阿谢尔太太便用罗斯太大给她留下的一笔财产开了一个小杂货店——卖烟草、报纸一类的东西。她的收入勉强维持小店的营业。阿谢尔不时地来找她的麻烦，她常多少给他一点钱把他打发走了事。大约每个星期给他十五先今。” 　　“他们有孩子吗？”波洛问道。 　　“没有孩子，倒是有个侄女，她在附近的奥弗顿工作，是一个非常出众的、稳重的年轻姑娘。” 　　“你是说阿谢尔经常去骚拢他的妻子？” 　　“正是这样，当他喝醉时就变成了恐怖分子，又咒骂，又发誓。要打破他妻子的头。由于阿谢尔的作恶，她过的太艰难了。” 　　“这个女人多大了？” 　　“差不多六十多了，受人尊敬，任劳任怨。”波洛低声他说着。 　　“检察官，你认为是阿谢尔杀死了他的大太？” 　　检察官嗫嗫嚅嚅地干咳着。 　　“波洛先生，这样讲还有点为时过早。我希望听弗朗兹·阿谢尔自己陈述一下昨天晚上他干什么去了。如果他做出的回答找不出任何破绽，也就罢了，如果不是这样——”他恰到好处地停了下来。 　　“小店没有丢东西吗？” 　　“没发现丢东西，钱柜的现金分文未动，没任何抢劫的迹象。” 　　“你认为阿谢尔是醉酗酗地来到商店，然后便对他妻子大打出手，最后把她打倒在地？” 　　“这似乎是可能性最大的一幕。但是，先生，我必须承认，我希望能再次审查一下你接到的那封奇特的信。我怀疑是否这封信就是发自阿谢尔之手。” 　　波洛把信递给了检察官，他皱着眉头，看了又看。 　　“不象阿谢尔写的。”最后他说，“我怀疑是否阿谢尔用‘我们的’英国警察这个字眼不排除他极力想耍一个花招。我也怀疑是否他有耍这种花招的智能。此人因过度饮酒而成为一个极不健康的人，他的手颤抖的厉害而不可能打出象这样字迹清晰的信。而且使用的是高质量的笔记本纸和墨水。更奇怪的是信中特别提到了本月21号，这可能是一种巧合。” 　　“是的，有些可能。” 　　“但我不希望有这种可能性。波洛先生，这种巧合令人难以置信。” 　　他沉默了好一会儿，眉宇间聚成了一个疙瘩、 　　“A·B·C，这鬼东西是谁？让我们去看一下玛莉·德劳尔——他的侄女，看她是否能给我们提供一些线索。这是一件棘手的事情。但就此信来看，我敢打赌，准和弗朗兹·阿谢尔有关。” 　　“你对阿谢尔太太的过去了解吗？”“她是一个汉普郡的女人，做姑娘时就在伦敦当佣人。在这儿她认识了阿谢尔并和他结了婚。在战争期间，对他们双方来说都是比较困苦的。实际上、在一九二二年她就正式离开他了。为了把他赶走，她又回了一趟伦敦。但他马上知道了他妻子的去向，又尾随他妻子来到这里，逼着她要钱……”这时，一个警宫走进来，“布里格斯，什么事？” 　　“先生，我们把阿谢尔带来了。” 　　“好，他躲在哪儿？把他带进来。” 　　“藏在铁道边上的一俩卡车里。” 　　“是他？正是他？把他带进来。” 　　弗朗兹·阿谢尔的确是一个粗劣的、令人作呕的家伙，他一会儿哭诉，一会儿咆哮发怒，一会儿卑躬屈膝，他那双泪水模糊的眼，在每个人的脸上迅速地滑动着。 　　“你们想要干什么？我没干坏事。把我带到这里来是荒唐的，无理的！你们这些下流无耻的家伙，你们太无法无天了！”突然，他的脸色又变了：“不，不，我不是这个意思。你们不应伤害一个孤独的老人，不能对他如此无情，人人都对贫困潦倒的老弗朗兹无情无义。” 　　阿谢尔先生开始啼哭起来。 　　“当然了，阿谢尔。”检察官说，“安静一点，我并没有责怪你。你不必如此地惊恐，除非你自己乐意。另外，如果你对妻子被谋杀一事没有关系的话”。 　　阿谢尔打断了他的活，他的声音近乎于咆哮。 　　“我没有杀她，我没有杀她！这完全是扯谎，这都是有意陷害我。你们这些该天杀的英国蠢猪。我决没有杀她，决没有！” 　　“够了，阿谢尔！”“不，不，你们根本不知道这是怎么回事，这只是一个笑话，是我和爱丽斯间的一个有趣的玩笑。她知道是怎么回事。” 　　“一个有趣的，令人不解的玩笑！阿谢尔，你能详细他讲一下昨晚你到哪儿去了吗？” 　　“是的，我把所有的情况都告诉你们。我没有去找爱丽斯，我和我的朋友在一起，是我的一个好朋友，我们在七星酒馆，后又到死狗酒馆。” 　　他慌里慌张，说话前言不搭后语。 　　“迪克·米隆斯和我在一起，还有老柯德尔，乔治·普拉特以及一帮男孩子，我说过，我决不去找爱丽斯，阿凯·戈特。我告诉你们的全是实话。” 　　他的声音开始颤抖起来，检察官向他的助手点头示意。 　　“把他带下去拘留审查。” 　　当令人讨厌的、颤颤抖抖而又含有恶意、满脸垂肉的阿谢尔出去后，他说，“我不知道该如何去思考此事，如果不是有这封信的话，我肯定认为是他干的。” 　　“他提到的都是些什么样的人？” 　　“一群乌合之众——他们中间没有一个能讲一句真话，我根本不怀疑发案那晚上的大部分时间里他是和他们在一块厮混。关诞是在五点半至六点之间是否有人看到他在小店的附近。” 　　波洛若有所思地摇着头。 　　“你确认小店里没有丢任何东西？” 　　检察官不置可否地耸了耸肩膀。 　　“这要再查查才能清楚，可能拿走了一、两盒香烟——但这并不能引起凶杀。”“商店里什么也没有卖出去？没有任何异样？我讲的是多么自相矛盾。” 　　“有一本列车时刻表。”检察官说。 　　“列车时刻表？” 　　“是的，在柜台上面朝下打开着。看样子似乎有人查看过从安德沃尔来的列车。或者是老女人或者是顾客。” 　　“她出售这种东西吗？” 　　检察官摇了摇头。 　　“她卖一便士一份的时刻表，这却是一个大本儿的，只能是史密斯的商店或者火车站才有的。” 　　波洛的眼顿时亮了起来，他把身体向前倾着。 　　检察官的眼里也透出希望的光。 　　“一个列车时刻表，就是说一个布拉德肖或一个A.B.C（曹健注：这种大本的时刻表是按字母顺序排列的，俗称“ABC时刻表”）。” 　　他嚷道：“天哪！是一个A.B.C。” Chapter 5 MARY DROWER I think that I can date my interest in the case from the first mention of the A.B.C. railway guide. Up till then I had not been able to raise much enthusiasm. This sordid murder of an old woman in a back street shop was so like the usual type of crime reported in the newspapers that it failed to strike a significant note. In my own mind I had put down the anonymous letter with its mention of the 21st as a mere coincidence. Mrs. Ascher, I felt reasonably sure, had been the victim of her drunken brute of a husband. But now the mention of the railway guide (so familiarly known by its abbreviation of A.B.C., listing as it did all railway stations in their alphabetical order) sent a quiver of excitement through me. Surely - surely this could not be a second coincidence? The sordid crime took on a new aspect. Who was the mysterious individual who had killed Mrs. Ascher and left an A.B.C. railway guide behind him? When we left the police station our first visit was to the mortuary to see the body of the dead woman. A strange feeling came over me as I gazed down on that wrinkled old face with the scanty grey hair drawn back tightly from the temples. It looked so peaceful, so incredibly remote from violence. "Never knew who or what struck her," observed the sergeant. "That's what Dr. Kerr says. I'm glad it was that way, poor old soul. A decent woman she was." "She must have been beautiful once," said Poirot. "Really?" I murmured incredulously. "But yes, look at the line of the jaw, the bones, the moulding of the head." He sighed as he replaced the sheet and we left the mortuary. Our next move was a brief interview with the police surgeon. Dr. Kerr was a competent-looking middle-aged man. He spoke briskly and with decision. "The weapon wasn't found," he said. "Impossible to say what it may have been. A weighted stick, a club, a form of sandbag - any of those would fit the case." "Would much force be needed to strike such a blow?" The doctor shot a keen glance at Poirot. "Meaning, I suppose, could a shaky old man of seventy do it? Oh, yes, it's perfectly possible - given sufficient weight in the head of the weapon, quite a feeble person could achieve the desired result." "Then the murderer could just as well be a woman as a man?" The suggestion took the doctor somewhat aback. "A woman, eh? Well, I confess it never occurred to me to connect a woman with this type of crime. But of course it's possible - perfectly possible. Only, psychologically speaking, I shouldn't say this was a woman's crime." Poirot nodded his head in eager agreement. "Perfectly, perfectly. On the face of it, highly improbable. But one must take all possibilities into account. The body was lying - how?" The doctor gave us a careful description of the position of the victim. It was his opinion that she had been standing with her back to the counter (and therefore to her assailant) when the blow had been struck. She had slipped down in a heap behind the counter quite out of sight of any one entering the shop casually. When we had thanked Dr. Kerr and taken our leave, Poirot said: "You perceive, Hastings, that we have already one further point in favour of Ascher's innocence. If he had been abusing his wife and threatening her, she would have been facing him over the counter. Instead, she had her back to her assailant - obviously she is reaching down tobacco or cigarettes for a customer." I gave a little shiver. "Pretty gruesome." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Pauvre femme," he murmured. Then he glanced at his watch. "Overton is not, I think, many miles from here. Shall we run over there and have an interview with the niece of the dead woman?" "Surely you will go first to the shop where the crime took place?" "I prefer to do that later. I have a reason." He did not explain further, and a few minutes later we were driving on the London road in the direction of Overton. The address which the inspector had given us was that of a good-sized house about a mile on the London side of the village. Our ring at the bell was answered by a pretty dark-haired girl whose eyes were red with recent weeping. Poirot said gently: "Ah! I think it is you who are Miss Mary Drower, the parlourmaid here?" "Yes, sir, that's right. I'm Mary, sir." "Then perhaps I can talk to you for a few minutes if your mistress will not object. It is about your aunt, Mrs. Ascher." "The mistress is out, sir. She wouldn't mind, I'm sure, if you came in here." She opened the door of a small morning-room. We entered and Poirot, seating himself on a chair by the window, looked up keenly into the girl's face. "You have heard of your aunt's death, of course?" The girl nodded, tears coming once more into her eyes. "This morning, sir. The police came over. Oh! it's terrible! Poor auntie! Such a hard life as she'd had, too. And now this - it's too awful." "The police did not suggest your returning to Andover?" "They said I must come to the inquest - that's on Monday, sir. But I've nowhere to go there - I couldn't fancy being over the shop - now - and what with the housemaid being away. I didn't want to put the mistress out more than may be." "You were fond of your aunt, Mary? said Poirot gently. "Indeed I was, sir. Very good she's been to me always, auntie has. I went to her in London when I was eleven years old, after mother died. I started in service when I was sixteen, but I usually went along to auntie's on my day out. A lot of trouble she went through with that German fellow. 'My old devil,' she used to call him. He'd never let her be in peace anywhere. Sponging, cadging old beast." The girl spoke with vehemence. "Your aunt never thought of freeing herself by legal means from this persecution?" "Well, you see, he was her husband, sir, you couldn't get away from that." The girl spoke simply but with finality. "Tell me, Mary, he threatened her, did he not?" "Oh, yes, sir, it was awful the things he used to say. That he'd cut her throat, and such like. Cursing and swearing too - both in German and in English. And yet auntie says he was a fine handsome figure of a man when she married him. It's dreadful to think, sir, what people come to." "Yes, indeed. And so, I suppose, Mary, having actually heard the threats, you were not so very surprised when you learnt what had happened?" "Oh, but I was, sir. You see, sir, I never thought for one moment that he meant it. I thought it was just nasty talk and nothing more to it. And it isn't as though auntie was afraid of him. Why, I've seen him slip away like a dog with its tail between its legs when she turned on him. He was afraid of her if you like." "And yet she gave him money?" "Well, he was her husband, you see, sir." "Yes, so you said before." He paused for a minute or two. Then he said. "Suppose that, after all, he did not kill her." "Didn't kill her?" She stared. "That is what I said. Supposing some one else killed her... Have you any idea who that some one else could be?" She stared at him with even more amazement. "I've no idea, sir. It doesn't seem likely, though, does it?" "There was no one your aunt was afraid of?" Mary shook her head. "Auntie wasn't afraid of people. She'd a sharp tongue and she stand up to anybody." "You never heard her mention any one who had a grudge again her?" "No, indeed, sir." "Did she ever get anonymous letters?" "What kind of letters did you say, sir?" "Letters that weren't signed - or only signed by something like A.B.C." He watched her narrowly, but plainly she was at a loss. She shook her head wonderingly. "Has your aunt any relations except you?" "Not now, sir. One of ten she was, but only three lived to grow up. My Uncle Tom was killed in the war, and my Uncle Harry went South America and no one's heard of him since, and mother's dead, of course, so there's only me." "Had your aunt any savings? Any money put by?" "She'd a little in the Savings Bank, sir - enough to bury her proper, that's what she always said. Otherwise she didn't more than just make ends meet - what with her old devil and all." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said - perhaps more to himself than to her: "At present one is in the dark - there is no direction - if things get clearer -" He got up. "If I want you at any time, Mary, I will write to you here." "As a matter of fact, sir, I'm giving in my notice. I don't like the country. I stayed here because I fancied it was a comfort to auntie to have me near by. But now -" again the tears rose in her eyes - "there's no reason I should stay, and so I'll go back to London. It's gayer for a girl there." "I wish that, when you do go, you would give me your address. Here is my card." He handed it to her. She looked at it with a puzzled frown. "Then you're not - anything to do with the police, sir?" "I am a private detective." She stood there looking at him for some moments in silence. She said at last: "Is there anything - queer going on, sir?" "Yes, my child. There is - something queer going on. Later you may be able to help me." "I - I'll do anything, sir. It - it wasn't right, sir, Auntie being killed." A strange way of putting it - but deeply moving. A few seconds later we were driving back to Andover. 第五章　玛丽.德劳尔 　　我想，那本ABC铁路指南书一被提及，我就对这件案子兴趣倍增。在此之前，我还没能唤起太多的热情。这桩对一个后街老妇人卑鄙的谋杀案，由于它太像是那种司空见惯地见诸于报端的犯罪，已无法吸引来人们特别的关注。在我的脑海之中，我认为匿名信中所提到的二十一日是种偶然的巧合。我有理由确信，阿谢尔太太是她那酗酒后的丈夫蛮劲发作的牺牲品。可现在所提及的铁路指南（每个人都熟悉那书的简称就是ABC，因为书中是按字母书顺序对所有的火车站名进行排列的）则带给我一种激动，很明显——这肯定不会是第二个巧合吧？ 　　那桩卑劣的罪行开启了新的一页。 　　谁会是那个杀害阿谢尔太太之后，又留下一本ABC铁路指南的人呢？ 　　离开警察局后，我们的首站访问便是去殡仪馆检查老妇人的尸体。当我低头注视那张布满皱纹的苍老面孔时，看见她头上稀疏的白发从太阳穴两侧紧紧地贴挂下来。她看上去是如此的平静安详，绝不象是经暴力致死。 　　“总弄不明白是谁用了什么物体击倒她的，”竟是解释道，“克尔医生就是这么说的。我倒是很高兴她看上去能很安静。可怜的灵魂，她是位体面的夫人。” 　　“她年轻时一定美丽动人。”波洛说。 　　“是吗？”我怀疑地小声嘟囔。 　　“肯定是的。你看她下颌的纹线，骨骼，头颅的模样。” 　　他盖上布单，叹了口气，我们随即离开殡仪馆。 　　我们的下一步行动是与法医作简短谋面。 　　克尔医生是位中年人，长相精明干练，将起话来轻松活跃，坚决果断。 　　“没找到凶器，”他说，“就不可能断定是件什么东西。有份量的棍子，棒棰，沙袋——这些东西中任何一件都可以作案。” 　　“这种猛击是否需要用很大力气？” 　　医生敏锐地瞥了波洛一眼。 　　“你是指，我想，一个摇摇欲坠的七十岁老人是否干的了？噢，可以。这完全有可能——在凶器的顶部施加适当的份量，即便是个很虚弱的人也能够达到目的。” 　　那么凶手有没有可能会是个女的？” 　　这种假设令医生吃了一惊。 　　“女的？我的看法是，我从未把这样的谋杀案与女人联系在一起。可当然这也有可能，完全可能。只是，从心理角度来讲，我认为这案子不是女人干的。” 　　波洛赞同的迅速点点头。 　　“确实如此。从表面上看，这的确极不可能，可我们必须考虑所有的可能性。当时那尸体是怎样躺着的？” 　　医生详细地向我们描述一番被害人的姿态。他认为，老太太在受到袭击时，正好背对柜台站着（也就是背部朝向攻击者）。他躬身跌倒在柜台内部，每个进店来的人都很难看见她。 　　当我们向克尔医生道谢并离开，波洛说道： 　　“你设想一下，黑斯廷斯，我们又进一步掌握了一点线索，可以说阿谢尔是无辜的。如果他虐待并威胁他妻子，她也该是隔着柜台面对他。而事实上，她却是背对着袭击者，——很显然，她是在为顾客拿取香烟。” 　　我感到一阵战栗。 　　“真可恨。” 　　波洛黯然摇头。 　　“Pauvre femme①。”他低语道。 　　①法文，译为：可怜的女人。——译注。 　　随即他看了一眼手表。 　　“奥弗顿离这儿不太远，我想。我们赶去那儿，见见老太太的外甥女，如何？” 　　“你肯定我们不该先去案发地的那家商店？” 　　“我希望随后再去，我自有道理。” 　　他没有继续解释下去，数分钟后我们行驶在伦敦的马路上，朝奥弗顿的方向前行。警督给我们的地址，是村子里一幢外形完好的房子，那房子位于朝向伦敦这边——英里的地方。 　　按响门铃之后，前来接应我们的是个漂亮的黑发姑娘，她双眼红肿，显然是刚刚哭过。 　　波洛温和地说道： 　　“我想你就是玛丽.德劳尔，这里的客厅女佣？” 　　“是的，先生，没错。我就是玛丽，先生。” 　　“那么，如果你的女主人不反对的话，我该可以和你谈几分钟，是关于你姨妈阿谢尔太太的事。” 　　女主人不在家，先生。我想你们进屋来谈，她不会介意的。” 　　她打开一间小起居室的门，我们进了屋。波洛坐在窗边的一把椅子上，抬头关注地凝视着姑娘的脸。 　　“你想必已听说了你姨妈被害的事情。” 　　姑娘点点头，眼睛里泪水越涌越多。 　　“今天早晨听说的，先生。警察来过这里，噢，实在是太可怕了。可怜的姨妈，她过的可真苦啊。现在又——这实在太恐怖了。” 　　“警察难道没提议让你回一趟安多弗吗？” 　　“他们告诉我，我必须去接受调查，让我星期一去，先生。可我一点也不想去那儿，我无法想象走进那家店铺，现在——如果我这个佣人离开，我可不想让女主人太为难了。” 　　“你很喜欢你的姨妈吧，玛丽？”波洛温和地问道。 　　“说实话，我确实喜欢她，她对我一直关怀倍至，我十一岁时母亲去世后，就跑去伦敦找她。我十六岁时开始做事，可休息时我通常去姨妈那儿。她与那个德国家伙一起一直麻烦不断，她过去常常称他为‘我的老魔鬼’，他在那儿都不让她安宁。这个靠依赖，乞讨过活的老鬼。” 　　姑娘言辞激烈。 　　“你姨妈难道从未想到过以合法的方式从这种压迫中解脱出来吗？” 　　“你瞧，她是他的太太，先生。你是无法从中解脱的。” 　　姑娘简单地回答，口气中带有结论的语调。 　　“告诉我玛丽，他曾经威胁过她，不是吗？” 　　“噢，是的，先生。他以前常说的这些事的确很可怕。他威胁说要割断她的喉咙，以及诸如此类的话。他还总用德语和英语诅咒、谩骂。可姨妈说，她结婚时他是个英俊的男人。先生，一想到人会变成那种样子，真是太可怕了。” 　　“哦，确实如此。我猜想，玛丽，你确实听见过这些威胁，而当你得知发生的一切之后，你难道不感到惊讶吗？” 　　“我非常吃惊。您瞧，先生，我从来都不认为他真会那样做的。我认为，他的那些威胁仅是些肮脏的话语，没什么更多的意思。姨妈看来也不像是惧怕他。因为我曾经见过姨妈发怒的时候，他像只狗一样地夹着尾巴溜走了。您可以认为，他也挺怕姨妈的。” 　　“她给他钱吗？” 　　“可他是她的丈夫呀，先生。” 　　“是的，你刚刚说过。”他停顿了一分钟，随即说道：“总之，可以设想，他并没有杀她。” 　　“没杀害她？” 　　她眼睛发直。 　　“那是我的看法。假设是别的男人干的……你有没有什么想法，会是谁呢？” 　　她盯着他看，眼睛中带有更多的惊愕。 　　“我倒是没什么想法，先生，看来都不像是。” 　　“难道就没有什么人能使你姨妈感到害怕吗？” 　　玛丽摇摇头。 　　“姨妈并不惧怕任何人，她唇齿锋利，足以与任何人抗衡。” 　　“你从未听说过有谁对她怀有恶意吗？” 　　“没有，先生。” 　　“她有没有收到过匿名信？” 　　“你说的是什么样的信，先生？” 　　“没人签名的信——或只是签了个ABC之类的东西。”他仔细地观察着她，很清楚她此刻正沉浸在痛楚之中。她诧异地摇了摇头。 　　“除了你之外，你姨妈还有其他亲戚吗？” 　　“现在已经没有了，先生。她是十兄妹中的一个，可十个人中只有三位长大成人。汤姆舅舅在战争中身亡，哈里舅舅则去了南美，从此杳无音讯。妈妈去世后，当然，只剩下我。” 　　“你姨妈有没有积蓄？或是积攒了些钱？” 　　“先生，她在萨文斯银行有点积蓄——她总是说足够她置办后事用。不然的话，她仅可以勉强度日——与那个老混蛋在一起能怎样，她是剩不了什么钱的。” 　　波洛若有所思地点点头。他更多地像是自言自语： 　　“现在一切都惘然无知，毫无线索，一旦案情更清晰明了一点，”他起身说，“玛丽，如果任何时候需要你帮助的话，我会给你写信。” 　　“实际上，先生。我正打算离开这里。我并不喜欢乡村生活。之所以留在此地，是因为离姨妈不远，对他来说是个安慰。可现在——”泪水再次湿润了她的眼睛——“我就毫无理由在待下来，我将回伦敦去，那儿对一个女孩子来说，要欢愉得多。” 　　“那我希望，当你动身起程的时候，你会留给我你的住址。这是我的名片。” 　　他把名片递交给她。她看着名片，满脸疑惑地皱眉头。 　　“那您——与警察局毫不相关吗，先生？” 　　“我是一名私家侦探。” 　　他伫立在那里，眼望着他，沉默了好长一会儿。 　　终于，她说道： 　　“是不是还会有什么事会发生，先生？” 　　“是的，我的孩子，会有稀奇古怪的事接着发生。你随后也许会帮上我的忙。” 　　“我回尽力做任何事情的，先生。姨妈被人谋杀，真是天理不容。” 　　她的表述显得奇特，但却感人肺腑。 　　即刻之后，我们行驶在回安多弗的路上。 Chapter 6 THE SCENE OF THE CRIME The street in which the tragedy had occurred was a turning off the main street. Mrs. Ascher's shop was situated about half-way down it on the right-hand side. As we turned into the street Poirot glanced at his watch and I realized why he had delayed his visit to the scene of the crime until now. It was just on half-past five, He had wished to reproduce yesterday's atmosphere as closely as possible. But if that had been his purpose it was defeated. Certainly at this moment the road bore very little likeness to its appearance on the previous evening. There were a certain number of small shops interspersed between private houses of the poorer class. I judged that ordinarily there would be a fair number of people passing up and down - mostly people of the poorer classes, with a good sprinkling of children playing on the pavements and in the road. At this moment there was a solid mass of people standing staring at one particular house or shop and it took little perspicuity to guess which that was. What we saw was a mass of average human beings looking with intense interest at the spot where another human being had been done to death. As we drew nearer this proved to be indeed the case. In front of a small dingy-looking shop with its shutters now closed stood a harassed-looking young policeman who was stolidly adjuring the crowd to "pass along there." By the help of a colleague, displacements took place - a certain number of people grudgingly sighed and betook themselves to their ordinary vocations, and almost immediately other persons came along and took up their stand to gaze their full on the spot where murder had been committed. Poirot stopped a little distance from the main body of the crowd. From where we stood the legend painted over the door could be read plainly enough. Poirot repeated it under his breath. "A. Ascher. Oui, c'est peut-кtre lа -" He broke off. "Come, let us go inside, Hastings." I was only too ready. We made our way through the crowd and accosted the young policeman. Poirot produced the credentials which the inspector had given him. The constable nodded, and unlocked the door to let us pass within. We did so and entered to the intense interest of the lookers-on. Inside it was very dark owing to the shutters being closed. The constable found and switched on the electric light. The bulb was a low-powered one so that the interior was still dimly lit. I looked about me. A dingy little place. A few cheap magazines strewn about, and yesterday's newspapers - all with a day's dust on them. Behind the counter a row of shelves reaching to the ceiling and packed with tobacco and packets of cigarettes. There were also a couple of jars o' peppermint humbugs and barley sugar. A commonplace little shop, one of many thousand such others. The constable in his slow Hampshire voice was explaining the mise-en-scйne. "Down in a heap behind the counter, that's where she was. Doctor says as how she never knew what hit her. Must have been reaching up to one of the shelves." "There was nothing in her hand?" "No, sir, but there was a packet of Players down beside her." Poirot nodded. His eyes swept round the small space observing - noting. "And the railway guide was - where?" "Here, sir." The constable pointed out the spot on the counter. "It was open at the right page for Andover and lying face down. Seems though he must have been looking up the trains to London. If so 'twasn't an Andover man at all. But then, of course, the railway guide might have belonged to some one else what had nothing to do with the murder at all, but just forgot it here." "Fingerprints?" I suggested. The man shook his head. "The whole place was examined straight away, sir. There weren't none." "Not on the counter itself?" asked Poirot. "A long sight too many, sir! All confused and jumbled up." "Any of Ascher's among them?" "Too soon to say, sir." Poirot nodded, then asked if the dead woman lived over the shop. "Yes, sir, you go through that door at the back, sir. You'll excuse me from coming with you, but I've got to stay -" Poirot passed through the door in question and I followed him. Behind the shop was a microscopic sort of parlour and kitchen combined it was neat and clean but very dreary-looking and scantily furnished. On the mantelpiece were a few photographs. I went up and looked at them and Poirot joined me. The photographs were three in all. One was a cheap portrait of the girl we had been with that afternoon, Mary Drower. She was obviously wearing her best clothes and had the self-conscious, wooden smile on her face that so often disfigures the expression in posed photography, and makes a snapshot preferable. The second was a more expensive type of picture - an artistically blurred reproduction of an elderly woman with white hair. A high fur collar stood up round the neck. I guessed that this was probably the Miss Rose who had left Mrs. Ascher the small legacy which had enabled her to start in business. The third photograph was a very old one, now faded and yellow. It represented a young man and woman in somewhat old-fashioned clothes standing arm in arm. The man had a flower in his buttonhole and there was an air of bygone festivity about the whole pose. "Probably a wedding picture," said Poirot. "Regard, Hastings, did I not tell you that she had been a beautiful woman?" He was right. Disfigured by old-fashioned hair-dressing and weird clothes, there was no disguising the handsomeness of the girl in the picture with her clear-cut features and spirited bearing. I looked closely at the second figure. It was almost impossible to recognize the seedy Ascher in this smart young man with the military beating. I recalled the leering drunken old man, and the worn, toil-worn face of the dead woman - and I shivered a little at the remorselessness of time... From the parlour a stair led to two upstairs rooms. One was empty and unfurnished, the other had evidently been the dead woman's bedroom. After being searched by the police it had been left as it was. A couple of old worn blankets on the bed - a little stock of well-darned underwear in a drawer - cookery recipes in another - a paperbacked novel entitled The Green Oasis - a pair of new stockings - pathetic in their cheap shininess - a couple of china ornaments - a Dresden shepherd much broken, and a blue and yellow spotted dog - a black raincoat and a woolly jumper hanging on pegs - such were the worldly possessions of the late Alice Ascher. If there had been any personal papers, the police had taken them. "Pauvre femme," murmured Poirot. "Come, Hastings, there is nothing for us here." When we were once more in the street, he hesitated for a minute or two, then crossed the road. Almost exactly opposite Mrs. Ascher's was a greengrocer's shop - of the type that has most of its stock outside rather than inside. In a low voice Poirot gave me certain instructions. Then he himself entered the shop. After waiting a minute or two I followed him in. He was at the moment negotiating for a lettuce. I myself bought a pound of strawberries. Poirot was talking animatedly to the stout lady who was serving him. "It was just opposite you, was it not, that this murder occurred? What an affair! What a sensation it must have caused you!" The stout lady was obviously tired of talking about the murder. She must have had a long day of it. She observed: "It would be as well if some of that gaping crowd cleared off. What is there to look at, I'd like to know?" "It must have been very different last night," said Poirot. "Possibly you even observed the murderer enter the shop - a tall, fair man with a beard, was he not? A Russian, so I have heard." "What's that?" The woman looked up sharply. "A Russian did it, you say?" "I understand that the police have arrested him." "Did you ever now?" The woman was excited, voluble. "A foreigner." "Mais oui. I thought perhaps you might have noticed him last night? "Well, I don't get much chance of noticing, and that's a fact. The evening's our busy time and there's always a fair few passing along and getting home after their work. A tall, fair man with a beard - no, I can't say I saw any one of that description anywhere about." I broke in on my cue. "Excuse me, sir," I said to Poirot. "I think you have been misinformed. A short dark man I was told." An interested discussion intervened in which the stout lady, her lank husband and a hoarse-voiced shop-boy all participated. No less than four short dark men had been observed, and the hoarse boy had seen a tall fair one, "but he hadn't got no beard," he added regretfully. Finally, our purchases made, we left the establishment, leaving our falsehoods uncorrected. "And what was the point of all that, Poirot?" I demanded somewhat reproachfully. "Parbleu, I wanted to estimate the chances of a stranger being noticed entering the shop opposite." "Couldn't you simply have asked - without all that tissue of lies?" "No, mon ami. If I had 'simply asked,' as you put it, I should have got no answer at all to my questions. You yourself are English and yet you do not seem to appreciate the quality of the English reaction to a direct question. It is invariably one of suspicion and the natural result is reticence. If I had asked those people for information they would have shut up like oysters. But by making a statement (and a somewhat out-of-the-way and preposterous one) and by your contradiction of it, tongues are immediately loosened. We know also that that particular time was a 'busy time' - that is, that every one would be intent on their own concerns and that there would be a fair number of people passing along the pavements. Our murderer chose his time well, Hastings." He paused and then added on a deep note of reproach: "Is it that you have not in any degree the common sense, Hastings? I say to you: 'Make the purchase quelconque' - and you deliberately choose the strawberries! Already they commence to creep through their bag and endanger your good suit." With some dismay, I perceived that this was indeed the case. I hastily presented the strawberries to a small boy who seemed highly astonished and faintly suspicious. Poirot added the lettuce, thus setting the seal on the child's bewilderment. He continued to drive the moral home. "At a cheap greengrocer's - not strawberries. A strawberry, unless fresh picked, is bound to exude juice. A banana - some apples - even a cabbage - but strawberries -" "It was the first thing I thought of," I explained by way of excuse. "That is unworthy of your imagination," returned Poirot sternly. He paused on the sidewalk. The house and shop on the right of Mrs. Ascher's was empty. A "To Let" sign appeared in the windows. On the other side was a house with somewhat grimy muslin curtains. To this house Poirot betook himself and, there being no bell, executed a series of sharp flourishes with the knocker. The door was opened after some delay by a very dirty child with a nose that needed attending to. "Good-evening," said Poirot. "Is your mother within?" "Ay?" said the child. It stared at us with disfavour and deep suspicion. "Your mother," said Poirot. This took some twelve seconds to sink in, then the child turned and, bawling up the stairs, "Mum, you're wanted," retreated to some fastness in the dim interior. A sharp-faced woman looked over the balusters and began to descend. "No good you wasting your time -" she began, but Poirot interrupted her. He took off his hat and bowed magnificently. "Good-evening, madame. I am on the staff of the Evening Flicker. I want to persuade you to accept a fee of five pounds and let us have an article on your late neighbour, Mrs. Ascher." The irate words arrested on her lips, the woman came down the stairs smoothing her hair and hitching at her skirt. "Come inside, please - on the left there. Won't you sit down, sir." The tiny room was heavily over-crowded with a massive pseudo-Jacobean suite, but we managed to squeeze ourselves in and on to a hard-seated sofa. "You must excuse me," the woman was saying. "I am sure I'm sorry I spoke so sharp just now, but you'd hardly believe the worry one has to put up with - fellows coming along selling this, that and the other - vacuum cleaners, stockings, lavender bags and such like foolery - and all so plausible and civil spoken. Got your name, too, pat they have. It's Mrs. Fowler this, that and the other." Seizing adroitly on the name, Poirot said: "Well, Mrs. Fowler, I hope you're going to do what I ask." "I don't know, I'm sure." The five pounds hung alluringly before Mrs. Fowler's eyes. "I knew Mrs. Ascher, of course, but as to writing anything." Hastily Poirot reassured her. No labour on her part was required. He would elicit the facts from her and the interview would be written up. Thus encouraged, Mrs. Fowler plunged willingly into reminiscence, conjecture and hearsay. Kept to herself, Mrs. Ascher had. Not what you'd call really friendly, but there, she'd had a lot of trouble, poor soul, every one knew that. And by right Franz Ascher ought to have been locked up years ago. Not that Mrs. Ascher had been afraid of him - a real tartar she could be when roused! Give as good as she got any day. But there it was - the pitcher could go to the well once too often. Again and again, she, Mrs. Fowler, had said to her: "One of these days that man will do for you. Mark my words." And he had done, hadn't he? And there had she, Mrs. Fowler, been right next door and never heard a sound. In a pause Poirot managed to insert a question. Had Mrs. Ascher ever received any peculiar letters - letters without a proper signature - just something like A.B.C.? Regretfully, Mrs. Fowler returned a negative answer. "I know the kind of thing you mean - anonymous letters they call them - mostly full of words you'd blush to say out loud. Well, I don't know, I'm sure, if Franz Ascher ever took to writing those. Mrs. Ascher never let on to me if he did. What's that? A railway guide, an A.B.C.? No, I never saw such a thing about - and I'm sure if Mrs. Ascher had been sent one I'd have heard about it. I declare you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard about this whole business. It was my girl Edie what came to me. 'Mum,' she says, 'there's ever so many policemen next door.' Gave me quite a turn, it did. 'Well,' I said, when I heard about it, 'it does show that she ought never to have been alone in the house - that niece of hers ought to have been with her. A man in drink can be like a ravening wolf,' I said, 'and in my opinion a wild beast is neither more nor less than what that old devil of a husband of hers is. I've warned her,' I said, 'many times and now my words have come true. He'll do for you,' I said. And he has done for her! You can't rightly estimate what a man will do when he's in drink and this murder's a proof of it." She wound up with a deep gasp. "Nobody saw this man Ascher go into the shop, I believe?" said Poirot. Mrs. Fowler sniffed scornfully. "Naturally he wasn't going to show himself," she said. How Mr. Ascher had got there without showing himself she did not deign to explain. She agreed that there was no back way into the house and that Ascher was quite well known by sight in the district. "But he didn't want to swing for it and he kept himself well hid." Poirot kept the conversational ball rolling some little time longer but when it seemed certain that Mrs. Fowler had told all that she knew not once but many times over, he terminated the interview, first paying out the promised sum. "Rather a dear five pounds' worth, Poirot," I ventured to remark when we were once more in the street. "So far, yes." "You think she knows more than she has told?" "My friend, we are in the peculiar position of not knowing what questions to ask. We are like little children playing Cache Cache in the dark. We stretch out our hands and grope about. Mrs. Fowler has told us all that she thinks she knows - and has thrown in several conjectures for good measure! In the future, however, her evidence may be useful. It is for the future that I have invested that sum of five pounds." I did not quite understand the point, but at this moment we ran into Inspector Glen. 第六章　犯罪现场 　　悲剧发生处的小街道是主街的一条叉路。阿谢尔太太的小店就坐落在这条街靠右侧的中段。 　　当我转过街角进入小街时，波洛瞅了一眼手表，我这下子才意识到，他为何要拖延时间，直到现在才到犯罪现场来。此时刚好五点半，他希望能尽可能地重现昨天的气氛。 　　可他的目的是无法达到的。很显然，此时此刻，那街上的情景与昨天相比大相径庭。街道中，有数家小店铺散布在较贫穷阶层的私人住宅中。我断想，在平日，那里该有许多人来往走动，他们中大多数属于贫穷阶层，间或有几个孩子在人行道和马路上玩耍。 　　这时候，有一大堆人正围站着，盯着其中一座房子或商店看。毋庸置疑，这里发生过什么事。我们所看到的是，一大群人正以极大的兴趣注视着那另一个人被谋杀的地方。 　　我们越来越靠近，情形确实如此。那间暗淡的小店窗板紧关着，店前站着位一脸烦躁的年轻警察，呆头呆脑地引导人群“绕行”。他在一名同事的协助下转移人群——一些人不情愿地叹叹气，然后服从命令，移动了地方。其他人则立刻会走上前来，占据位置，满满地瞪眼瞅着那谋杀案发生之地。 　　波洛在离人群有一定距离的地方停下来。从我们站立的地方，可以很清晰地看到门上方的油漆招牌，波洛低声悄悄地重复招牌上的字： 　　“A·阿谢尔。Qui，c’est peut——etre①——” 　　①法文，意为：是的，可能是这个地方。——译注。 　　他突然停止讲话。 　　“来，我们进去看看，黑斯廷斯。” 　　我早已急不可待了。 　　我们穿越过人群，与那位年轻警察打招呼。波洛出示了警督事先给他的通行证。警士点了点头，打开门，让我们进到店内。我们照此办理，走进那家令旁观者兴趣沸然的小店中。 　　由于窗板紧闭，屋内相当黑暗。警士找到开关，打开电灯，由于功率很低，房间在灯光下依然昏暗。 　　我察看四周的情形。 　　这是一个昏暗乏味的小房子。几本廉价杂志散乱地摊着，还有昨天的报纸——上面均落有一整天的尘土。柜台之后安放着一排货架，高达天花板，架上摆放着烟草和盒装香烟，还有几瓶薄荷糖和麦芽糖。这是一家及其普通的小店铺，只是几千家中的一家。 　　警士用他那低沉的汉普郡口音解释mise en scene②。②法文，意为：现场状况。——译注。 　　她是在柜台后面，挤成一堆。法医说她自己都不知道是什么东西袭击了她。她当时一定是在货架上取货物。 　　“她手中什么也没有吗？” 　　“没有，先生。”警士在柜台上指出来，“书打开着，正好是安多弗的那页，朝下倒放着。看来拿人必定是在查询去伦敦的火车班次。如果是这样的话，那凶手就不会是安多弗人。不过，这本铁路指南当然也可能是属于另一个与谋杀案毫不相干的人，他可能只是忘在这里而已。” 　　“有指纹吗？”我探问。 　　那人摇头。 　　“整个地方都进行了检查，没有任何指纹。” 　　“柜台上也没有吗？”波洛问道。 　　“那儿则实在是太多了，先生。所有的指纹均混杂在一起，无从分便。” 　　“其中有阿谢尔的指纹吗？” 　　“现在断言还为时过早，先生。” 　　波洛点着头，然后问他那妇人是否住在店内。 　　“是的，先生，您穿过扇门，她就住在后面。请原谅我无法跟您进去，我还是待在这里……” 　　波洛穿过那扇门，我追随着他。店后是一处包括了起居室和厨房的小型住所，房间整齐洁净，但看上去阴郁沉闷，摆放少量的家俱。壁炉台上摆着几张相片，波洛也与我一起看。共有三张照片，有一张是玛丽·德劳尔的廉价相片，也就是下午我们见到的那个姑娘。她显然穿着最好的衣服，脸上带着半清醒的、呆板的微笑，这种微笑往往会破坏精心摄制的照片中的面部表情，而更适合于快照。 　　第二张照片是贵一些的那种，一张经艺术加工而变得朦胧的白发老妇人的照片。高耸的毛皮衣领直立着裹住脖子。 　　我猜想，那位夫人一定就是罗斯小【蟹】姐，是她留给阿谢尔太太一小笔遗赠，才使她得以开始生意。 　　第三章　照片非常陈旧，已经褪色泛黄，照片中是一对年轻男人和女人，身着老式的服装，手挽手站在一起。男人的衣服上有个钮扣眼，整个相片的姿式显出以往的欢乐。 　　“很可能是张结婚照。”波洛说，“记住，黑斯廷斯，我是否告诉过你，她从前是个漂亮的女人？” 　　他说对了。尽管受老式发型和奇异服饰的掩盖，照片中的女孩子身上依然毫不伪装地透出灵秀之气，她五官清丽，仪态活泼大方。我靠近观看第二个人，那是个英俊聪明、军人仪态的年轻男子，我几乎认不出那就是肮脏没落的阿谢尔。 　　我回想起那个斜着眼睛酩酊大醉的老人，和死去的老妇人那张劳累沧桑的脸庞，——时光流逝的无情令我颤然一惊…… 　　起居室的楼梯通向楼上的两个房间，其中一间空空如也，毫无摆设，另一间则显然是老妇人的卧室。警方搜查以后，房间又依原样摆放着。床上有几条破旧的毯子——抽屉里有一堆精心织补过的内衣，另一个抽屉内则是烹饪用的佐料，一本平装的名叫《绿洲》的小说，一双新袜子——因廉价的光泽而显得郁闷可怜，几件瓷装饰品——其中德累斯顿牧羊人破损了大部分，还有一只黄色斑点的小狗，木钉上挂着黑色雨衣和一件无袖羊毛罩衫——这些就是晚年的艾丽斯·阿谢尔的全部家当。 　　即便有什么私人信件，警察也一定先拿走了。 　　“Pauvre femme③，”波洛小声说，“走吧，黑斯廷斯，在这里我们什么也找不到。”③法文，意为：可怜的女人。——译注。 　　当我们再次上街时，他迟疑了一会儿，然后穿过马路。几乎正对着阿谢尔太太的小店是一家蔬菜水果店——是那种把大部分货品摆在门外而不是店内的小店铺。 　　波洛以极低的声音给了我一些指示。然后他进入店内，我过了一两分钟后才进去。他正在为一颗莴苣讨价还价，我则买了一磅草莓。 　　波洛则主动与那位接待他的胖墩墩的妇人搭讪谈话。 　　“在你的正对面，就是那件谋杀案发生的地方？这是件什么事！它一定令你震惊不已。” 　　这个敦实的妇人显然已厌倦了谈论谋杀案，她一定整天都被人追问个不休。她解答到： 　　“那些围着看热闹的人群散去才好。我真想知道有什么好看的？” 　　“昨夜的情形一定极为异常，”波洛说，“很可能你也见到过进入小店的那个凶手——是不是个长着胡子、身材高高、蛮帅的男人？我听说是个俄国人。” 　　“什么？”那妇人吃惊地抬眼看，“你说是个俄国人干的？” 　　“你怎么知道？”妇人很激动，不停地说，“是个外国人干的。” 　　“Mais Oui④。我想可能你昨晚看到了那个人。”④法文，意为：是的。——译注。 　　“噢，我并没有太多机会来注意，事实上我确实没看见。晚上我们很忙，总会有一些人下班回家时路过这里。一个长着胡子、个头高且蛮帅的男人，——不，我从来都没见过那种长相的人。” 　　我暗示着插话。 　　“对不起，先生，”我对波洛说，“我想你可能听错了，有人告诉我是个身材矮小的黑人。” 　　随即那胖墩墩的妇人，她那瘦长的丈夫和一个声音沙哑的店员小男孩均加入到这场有趣的讨论中来。被人看到的矮小黑人不下四位，那个话音沙哑的小男孩则看到过一个高大、英俊的男人，“可他并没留胡子。”他遗憾地补充到。 　　最终，我们收拾好各自的东西，离开了那家店铺，而我们的胡编乱造则没被纠正。 　　“为什么要那样做呢，波洛？”我带着些责备的口吻质问。 　　“Parbleu⑤，我想估计一下，一个陌生人进入对面商店时被人注意到的可能性有多大。”⑤法文，意为：当然。——译注。 　　“你难道不能简单地问，和必要编造那一大堆假话？” 　　“不，Mon ami⑥。如果像你所说的，简单地问，我根本就不会得到任何答复。你本人是英国人，可你看来并不了解英国人对一个直接的问题的反应。如果我试图从那些人那里得到些什么消息，他们会像牡蛎一样缄口不语。只有提出自己的观点，（而且是个有些反常出格的观点），再加上你自相矛盾的论调，人们才会松口。我们也知道那段时间‘店内很忙’——那就是说，每个人都关注自己手中的活，而人行道上确实会有相当多的人来往穿行。我们的凶手选择的时间极佳，黑斯廷斯。”⑥法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注。 　　他停顿一下，颇含责备之意地补充道： 　　“你是否连一点常识都没有，黑斯廷死？我告诉你买些quelconque⑦的东西，可你却故意选择草莓！这些草莓已开始渗透过纸袋，危及你漂亮的外套。”⑦法文，意为：随便、普通。——译注。 　　惊愕之余，我发现情形的确如此。 　　我仓促地把草莓递给一个小男孩，他看上去极为惊讶，微微地带着疑心。 　　波洛把莴苣也交给他，这样才使男孩的疑惑得以消除。 　　“在一家廉价瓜果店——那里的草莓可买不得。草莓——除非是刚摘的，否则一定会淌汁的。香蕉、苹果、甚至是一棵白菜都可以，可草莓……” 　　“它是我想到的第一样物品。”我带着歉意解释道。 　　“那并不值得你去想。”波洛严厉地回看我。 　　他在路边停下来。 　　阿谢尔太太的商店右邻的房屋和小店空着。窗上出现了“转让”的标识。另一边则是做房子，挂着满是污垢的窗帘。 　　波洛走向那座房子。那儿没有门铃，他用敲门环着实地敲打了许多下，发出尖利的响声。 　　过了一会门打开了，开门的是个浑身极脏的小孩，鼻子需要清洗。 　　“晚上好，”波洛说，“你妈妈在家吗？” 　　“啊，”小孩叫道。 　　眼睛盯着我们看，一副不悦之色和疑惑的神态。 　　“你妈妈在吗？”波洛说。 　　这一次小孩的怀疑过了好一会儿才消失，他转过身大声叫着爬上楼去：“妈妈，有人找。”随后迅速地退回到房内的暗处中去。 　　一位脸部轮廓分明的妇人越过栏杆望过来，并开始走下楼来。 　　“你们还是不要浪费时间的好。”她开始说，但波洛打断了她。 　　他摘下帽子，动人地鞠了一躬。 　　“晚上好，太太。我是《晚间闪耀》报的工作人员，我想劝说您能接纳五英镑的费用，让我们就您的已故邻居阿谢尔太太写篇文章。” 　　她唇间怒语遂止，从楼上走下来，梳理一下头发，曳拉一下衬衣。 　　“进来吧，请——到这边来。您不愿坐下吗，先生？” 　　由于摆着一套巨大的詹姆士一世时期的仿制家具，小巧的房间显得过分拥挤，我们还是想方设法把自己塞进一把硬邦邦的沙发之中。 　　“请原谅，”妇人开口说话，“我想我刚才语言太激烈了点，可您恐怕没法相信我必须应付的麻烦——总有人来推销这个，推销那个，还有许多其他的物品——真空吸尘器，长统袜，熏衣草编织的包和诸如此类的骗人玩艺。每个人都花言巧语，道貌岸然。他们还挺有办法，能探听到你的名字。然后口口声声地称呼你福勒太太这个那个的。” 　　波洛机敏地记住姓名，说： 　　“福勒太太，我希望您能按照我的提问去做。” 　　“我想我并不了解。”五磅钱诱惑地摆在福勒太太的眼前。 　　“当然，我认识阿谢尔太太，可并不足以用来写些什么。” 　　波洛再次仓促地向她保证，它并不需要做什么。他会从她这里得到真实情况，这次采访会被描写得有声有色。 　　福勒太太受此鼓励后，即心甘情愿地沉浸于回忆、推测和传闻之中。 　　阿谢尔太太从不与人来往，并不像你们认为的那样友善，可她也确实有一大堆麻烦，可怜的人，每个人都知道这些事。按理说，弗朗兹·阿谢尔数年前就应该被拘留起来。阿谢尔太太其实并不惧怕他——她易被激怒，可不是个好惹的。她会把每日所得尽数付出，可那个无赖来找她的次数太多了。而福勒太太曾多次告诫过她：“总有一天这家伙会对你动手的。记住我的话。”他已经做了，不是吗？而她，福勒太太，身处邻室，却丝毫没有听见任何动静。 　　波洛趁停顿时插了一句问话。 　　“阿谢尔太太是否曾经收到过怪异的信件——没有任何签名的信——或是仅签了个ABC之类的东西？” 　　很遗憾，福勒太太报以否定的答案。 　　“我懂您指的那种东西——他们称之为匿名信。既然您有话要问，就应该大方说出来。哦，我想，我拨知道，弗朗兹·阿谢尔是否写过那种信。就算他写了，阿谢尔太太也不会让我看的。还有什么？铁路指南，那本ABC？我从没见过这样的东西，而且我也确信，如果有人送了一本这样的书给阿谢尔太太，我会听说的，我可以坦率地说，当我听到这一切时，极度恐惧。是我女儿伊迪告诉我的，‘妈妈，’她说，‘隔壁来了很多警察。’这确使我感到非常吃惊。我听说此事时说过，这表明它从不该单独呆在房间里——她那个外甥女应该与她在一起。一个喝醉的人肯定象只贪婪的狼，我说过，‘我认为，她的那个恶魔般的丈夫不折不扣就是只野兽。’我也曾警告过她，我说，‘许多次和现在的情形都表明我的话没错，他肯定会下手的。’我说过。他确实动手杀了她。你无法正确估量一个喝醉的人的行为，而这件谋杀案就是明证。” 　　她极为激愤，深深地叹了口气。 　　“我想，没有人看见阿谢尔进过商店？”波洛说。 　　福勒太太含带讥讽地嗤之以鼻。 　　“他自然不会让人看见自己。”她说。 　　可她又没有解释，阿谢尔先生是如何进到店里又不让人看见的。 　　她也承认那所房子没有后门可以进入，而阿谢尔在这个街区是大家都熟知的人物。 　　“可他并不想招摇过市，他肯定隐藏得很好。” 　　波洛让谈话继续进行一会儿，但看到福勒太太已将她所了解且多次对人谈过的实情和盘托出时，波洛中断了谈话，随即支付了曾许诺的钱额。 　　“我想确实值五磅钱，波洛。”当我们再次走上街道时，我斗胆评论道。 　　“你认为她还有什么隐而不谈？” 　　“我的朋友，我们现在处境奇特，不只该提什么问题，我们就象是在黑暗中玩捉迷藏的小孩子。我们张开双臂，四处摸索。福勒太太已经告诉我们她了解的一切情况——而且分寸极佳地进行推测。然而，在过一段时间，她提供的线索必定会有用。我则是出于将来的考虑而预先投资了五磅钱。” 　　我其实并没弄懂其中的道理，可此刻我们要去找格伦警督。

Chapter 7 MR. PARTRIDGE AND MR. RIDDELL Inspector Glen was looking rather gloomy. He had, I gathered, spent the afternoon trying to get a complete list of persons who had been noticed entering the tobacco shop. "And nobody has seen any one?" Poirot inquired. "Oh, yes, they have. Three tall men with furtive expressions four short men with black moustaches - two beards - three fat men - all strangers - and all, if I'm to believe witnesses, with sinister expressions! I wonder somebody didn't see a gang of masked men with revolvers while they were about it!" Poirot smiled sympathetically. "Does anybody claim to have seen the man Ascher?" "No, they don't. And that's another point in his favour. I've just told the Chief Constable that I think this is a job for Scotland Yard. I don't believe it's a local crime." Poirot said gravely: "I agree with you." The inspector said: "You know, Monsieur Poirot, it's a nasty business - a nasty business... I don't like it..." We had two more interviews before returning to London. The first was with Mr. James Partridge. Mr. Partridge was the last person known to have seen Mrs. Ascher alive. He had made a purchase from her at 5:30. Mr. Partridge was a small, spare man, a bank clerk by profession. He wore pince-nez, was very dry and spare-looking and extremely precise in all his utterances. He lived in a small house as neat and trim as himself. "Mr. - er - Poirot," he said, glancing at the card my friend had handed to him. "From Inspector Glen? What can I do for you, Mr. Poirot?" "I understand, Mr. Partridge, that you were the last person to see Mrs. Ascher alive." Mr. Partridge placed his finger-tips together and looked at Poirot as though he were a doubtful cheque. "That is a very debatable point, Mr. Poirot," he said. "Many people may have made purchases from Mrs. Ascher after I did so." "If so, they have not come forward to say so." Mr. Partridge coughed. "Some people, Mr. Poirot, have no sense of public duty." He looked at us owlishly through his spectacles. "Exceedingly true," murmured Poirot. "You, I understand, went to the police of your own accord?" "Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I perceived that my statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly." "A very proper spirit," said Poirot solemnly. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to repeat your story to me." "By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5:30 precisely -" "Pardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?" Mr. Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted. "The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was a minute slow. That was just before I entered Mrs. Ascher's shop." "Were you in the habit of making purchases there?" "Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice a week I was in the habit of purchasing two ounces of John Cotton mild." "Did you know Mrs. Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?" "Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional reference as to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her." "Did you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit of threatening her life?" "No, I knew nothing whatever about her." "You knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appearance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurried or put out in any way?" Mr. Partridge considered. "As far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual," he said. Poirot rose. "Thank you, Mr. Partridge, for answering these questions. Have you, by any chance, an A.B.C. in the house? I want to look up my return train to London." "On the shelf just behind you," said Mr. Partridge. On the shelf in question were an A.B.C., a Bradshaw, the Stock Exchange Year Book, Kelly's Directory, a Who's Who and a local directory. Poirot took down the A.B.C., pretended to look up a train, then thanked Mr. Partridge and took his leave. Our next interview was with Mr. Albert Riddell and was of a highly different character. Mr. Albert Riddell was a plate-layer and our conversation took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of plates and dishes by Mr. Riddell's obviously nervous wife, the growling of Mr. Riddell's dog and the undisguised hostility of Mr. Riddell himself. He was a big clumsy giant of a man with a broad face and small suspicious eyes. He was in the act of eating meatpie, washed down by exceedingly black tea. He peered at us angrily over the rim of his cup. "Told all I've got to tell once, haven't I?" he growled. "What's it to do with me, anyway? Told it to the blarsted police, I 'ave, and now I've got to spit it all out again to a couple of blarsted foreigners." Poirot gave a quick amused glance in my direction and then said: "In truth I sympathize with you, but what will you? It is a question of murder, is it not? One has to be very, very careful." "Best tell the gentleman what he wants, Bert," said the woman nervously. "You shut your blarsted mouth," roared the giant. "You did not, I think, go to the police of your own accord." Poirot slipped the remark in neatly. "Why the hell should I? It were no business of mine." "A matter of opinion," said Poirot indifferently. "There has been a murder - the police want to know who has been in the shop. I myself think it would have - what shall I say? - looked more natural if you had come forward." "I've got my work to do. Don't say I shouldn't have come forward in my own time -" "But as it was, the police were given your name as that of a person seen to go into Mrs. Ascher's and they had to come to you. Were they satisfied with your account?" "Why shouldn't they be?" demanded Bert truculently. Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders. "What are you getting at, mister? Nobody's got anything against me! Every one knows who did the old girl in, that beast of a husband of hers." "But he was not in the street that evening and you were." "Trying to fasten it on me are you? Well, you won't succeed. What reason had I got to do a thing like that? Think I wanted to pinch a tin of her bloody tobacco? Think I'm a bloody homicidal maniac as they call it? Think I -?" He rose threateningly from his seat. His wife bleated out: "Bert, Bert - don't say such things. Bert - they'll think -" "Calm yourself, Monsieur," said Poirot. "I demand only your account of your visit. That you refuse it seems to me - what shall we say - a little odd?" "Who said I refused anything?" Mr. Riddell sank back again into his seat. "I don't mind." "It was six o'clock when you entered the shop?" "That's right - a minute or two after, as a matter of fact. Wanted a packet of Gold Flake. I pushed open the door -" "It was closed, then?" "That's right. I thought shop was shut, maybe. But it wasn't. I went in, there wasn't any one about. I hammered on the counter and waited a bit. Nobody came, so I went out again. That's all, and you can put it in your pipe and smoke it." "You didn't see the body fallen down behind the counter?" "No, no more would you have done - unless you was looking for it, maybe." "Was there a railway guide lying about?" "Yes, there was - face downwards. It crossed my mind like that the old woman might have had to go off sudden by train and forgot to lock shop up." "Perhaps you picked up the railway guide or moved it along the counter?" "Didn't touch the blasted thing. I did just what I said." "And you did not see any one leaving the shop before you yourself got there?" "Didn't see any such thing. What I say is, why pitch on me?" Poirot rose. "Nobody is pitching upon you - yet. Bon soir, Monsieur." He left the man with his mouth open and I followed him. In the street he consulted his watch. "With great haste, my friend, we might manage to catch the 7:20. Let us dispatch ourselves quickly." 第七章　帕特里奇先生和里德尔先生 　　格伦警督面色及其阴沉。我猜想，他整个下午一定是在找出一份名单，那些被人看见曾进过那家烟草店的人的名单。 　　“有人见过谁进过烟草店吗？”波洛问。 　　“哦，有。有三个是神情诡秘的高个子，四个胡子黝黑的矮男人——其中两个长着络腮胡子，三个胖男人，这些人全都很陌生。如果我相信证人的话，他们这些人全都面目狰狞！我感到困惑的是，怎么会没人见过一群手持左轮手(蟹)熗的蒙面人在周围出现！” 　　波洛赞同地微笑。 　　“有人声称见过那个阿谢尔吗？” 　　“不，没人见过。那倒是对他挺有利的。我以近告诉警察局长，我认为这是苏格兰场的任务，这不是件本地的案子。” 　　波洛严肃地说。 　　“我同意你的观点。” 　　警督说道： 　　“你知道，波洛先生，这确实是件令人作呕的案件，令人作呕。我可不喜欢它。” 　　我们回到伦敦之前，又进行了两次会见。 　　第一次是与詹姆斯·帕特里奇先生。帕特里奇是最后一个见过阿谢尔太太还活着的人，他五点三十分去她店里卖过东西。 　　帕特里奇个头矮小，在一间银行做职员。他带着夹鼻眼镜，外观干瘪瘦小，言辞极端精确。他住所的房子如同他本人一样干净整洁。 　　“波洛——先生，”他说道，一边盯着我朋友递给他的名片看，“有格伦警督介绍来的？波洛先生，我能为您做些什么？” 　　“帕特里奇先生，我了解到，你是最后一位见过阿谢尔太太还活着的人。” 　　帕特里奇先生把指尖并拢到一块儿，望着波洛，仿佛他是张可疑的支票。 　　“那个问题有待商议，波洛先生。”他说，“许多人有可能在我之后去她那儿买过东西。” 　　“如果是那样的话，他们应该出来证实。” 　　帕特里奇先生咳嗽。 　　“有些人，波洛先生，根本就没有公共责任感。” 　　他透过眼镜面目严肃地望着我们。 　　“您所言极是，”波洛小声说道，“我知道，您是主动到警察局的。” 　　“我确实是的。一听说那令人发指的事件，我就想可能我的证词会对案件有帮助，所以就主动去说明情况。” 　　“这种精神真是可嘉。”波洛庄重地说，“也许可以重复一下您的见闻。” 　　“当然可以。五点半的时候，我正好回家来……” 　　“对不起，你怎么能如此精确地记得当时的时间？” 　　帕特里奇先生由于被打断而显得稍有点不耐烦。 　　“教堂的钟刚刚敲过。我看看手表，发觉慢了一分钟，而那时我恰好要进阿谢尔太太的商店。” 　　“你是否习惯于在那儿买东西？” 　　“非常频繁。那家店在我回家的路上。我大约每周去一两次，习惯于去那儿买两盎司约翰.考顿淡味酒。” 　　“你是否了解阿谢尔太太？了解她的任何情况或历史？” 　　“一无所知。我除了购物并偶尔会就天气状况稍言两句外，从未同她谈过话。” 　　“你是否了解她有一个酗酒的丈夫，他已习惯于威胁她的生活。” 　　“不，我对她一无所知。” 　　“不管怎么说，你见过她。在你看来，她昨晚的神情是否有异常之处？她是否显得慌张不安？” 　　帕特里奇沉思。 　　“我想我注意到的是，她同往常没什么两样。”他说。 　　波洛起身。 　　“谢谢你回答这些问题，帕特里奇先生。你家里是否有一本ABC铁路指南？我想查询一下会伦敦的火车。” 　　“在您身后的架子上。”帕特里奇先生说。 　　那个书架上有一本ABC铁路指南，一本布莱德肖铁路时刻表，《证券交易年鉴》，《凯利名录》，《名人名录》，还有一本当地的通讯名录。 　　波洛从架子上取下那本ABC，假装是在查阅一班火车，然后向帕特里奇先生道谢，随即离开。 　　我们的下一次会见是与艾伯特·里德尔先生，他性格截然不同。艾伯特.里德尔是位铁道养路工。我们在交谈的时候，不断传来里德尔先生的狗的吠叫声。里德尔先生本人对我们则毫不掩饰他的敌意。 　　他是个笨拙迟钝的高个子，脸盘很宽，张着疑神疑鬼的小眼睛。他正好在吃肉饼，大口地喝红茶以助吞咽。他透过茶杯边缘以愤怒的目光看着我们。 　　“我还要在谈一遍，不是吗？”他咆哮道，“那跟我到底有什么关系呢？我已经告诉过那些该死的警察了。现在我还要在吐露一次，讲给两个该死的外国人听。” 　　波洛迅速诙谐地朝我的方向瞥了一眼，然后说道： 　　“我是在挺同情你的，可你会怎么想呢？这是一件谋杀案，不是吗？我们必须加倍谨慎。” 　　“最好把这位先生想知道的都告诉他吧，伯特。”那妇人不安地说。 　　“闭上你那该死的嘴。”高个子吼道。 　　“我想你不是主动找去警局的。” 　　“我干吗要主动？它可不管我的事。” 　　“这仅仅是种不同的看法而已，”波洛冷淡地说，“因为这是件谋杀案——警方想知道有什么人去过那商店，我该怎么说呢？我个人认为，你如果能讲述一下，事情就会显得自然很多。” 　　“我有自己的事情要做。你不该说，我没在自己的时间里去主动说明情况。” 　　“可情况如此，警局得知有人看见你曾光顾过阿谢尔太太的商店，他们必须前来找你。不知他们对你所描绘的情况是否满意？” 　　“他们该不该感到不满意呢？”伯特粗暴地反问。 　　波洛只好耸耸肩膀。 　　“你讲话是什么意思，先生？有谁能够针对我？每个人都清楚是谁杀了那个老女人，是他那个混蛋丈夫。” 　　“可它那晚并没有在街上出现，而你则去过那家商店。” 　　“你想陷害我吗？哼，你不会得逞的。我有何理由要去做那样的事？你以为我想谋取她那血淋淋的一包烟。你以为我是他们所说的杀人狂？以为我是……” 　　他从椅子上威胁地站起身来。他妻子颤抖着叫道：“伯特，伯特——快别说这样的话。伯特，他们会以为……” 　　“请安静一点，先生。”波洛说，“我只要你讲述一下你的经历。可你却拒不透露，我们该怎么说呢——这似乎有点奇怪？” 　　“谁说我拒不做答？”里德尔先生再次坐进椅子里，“我毫不介意。” 　　“你进店的时候是六点刚过一两分钟。我想买一包‘金富莱’牌香烟。我推开门——” 　　“那时候店门是掩着的吗？” 　　“对。我起先以为店已关门了，但其实并没关。我进屋后，发现那儿没有人。我敲敲柜台，稍等了一会儿。可没人应答，于是我就走了出来。那就是全部情况，你自己慢慢考虑吧。” 　　“你难道没有看见柜台后面跌落地尸体吗？” 　　“没有，我才不会去留心更多的事——除非，你可能正好在寻找它。” 　　“那儿是否摆着一本铁路指南？” 　　“是的，朝下放着。在我看来，好像那老太太刚好突然赶去坐火车，而忘了把店门锁上。” 　　“也许是你捡起铁路指南或把它移放到柜台上的？” 　　“我才没碰那该死的东西。我做过的事都已说了。” 　　“你在到商店前是否看见有谁离开那儿？” 　　“没见过这样的人。我是说，为什么偏偏要挑上我——” 　　波洛站起身来。 　　“没人认为是你干的。晚安，先生。” 　　那人张嘴吃惊，他则离开，我追随着它。 　　在街上，他查看手表。 　　“我的朋友，我们要非常迅速，才可能赶上下一趟火车。我们赶紧走吧。” Chapter 8 THE SECOND LETTER "Well?" I demanded eagerly. We were seated in a first-class carriage which we had to ourselves. The train, an express, had just drawn out of Andover. "The crime," said Poirot, "was committed by a man of medium height with red hair and a cast in the left eye. He limps slightly on the right foot and has a mole just below the shoulder-blade." "Poirot?" I cried. For a moment I was completely taken in. Then the twinkle in my friend's eye undeceived me. "Poirot!" I said again, this time in reproach. "Mon ami, what will you? You fix upon me a look of dog-like devotion and demand of me a pronouncement like in Sherlock Holmes! Now for the truth - I do not know what the murderer looks like, nor where he lives, nor how to set hands upon him." "If only he had left some clue," I murmured. "Yes, the clue - it is always the clue that attracts you. Alas that he did not smoke the cigarette and leave the ash, and then step in it with a shoe that has nails of a curious pattern. No - he is not so obliging. But at least, my friend, you have the railway guide. The A.B.C., that is a clue for you!" "Do you think he left it by mistake then?" "Of course not. He left it on purpose. The fingerprints tell us that." "But there weren't any on it." "That is what I mean. What was yesterday evening? A warm June night. Does a man stroll about on such an evening in gloves? Such a man would certainly have attracted attention. Therefore since there are no fingerprints on the A.B.C., it must have been carefully wiped. A innocent man would have left prints - a guilty man would not. So the murderer left it there for a purpose - but for all that it is none the less a clue. That A.B.C. was bought by some one - it was carried by some one - there is a possibility there." "You think we may learn something that way?" "Frankly, Hastings, I am not particularly hopeful. This man, this unknown X, obviously prides himself on his abilities. He is not likely to blaze a trail that can be followed straight away." "So that really the A.B.C. isn't helpful at all." "Not in the sense you mean." "In any sense?" Poirot did not answer at once. Then he said slowly: "The answer to that is yes. We are confronted here by an unknown personage. He is in the dark and seeks to remain in the dark. But in the very nature of things he cannot help throwing light upon himself. In one sense we know nothing about him - in another sense we know already a good deal. I see his figure dimly taking shape - a man who prints clearly and well - who buys good quality paper - who is at great needs to express his personality. I see him as a child possibly ignored and passed over - I see him growing up with an inward sense of inferiority - warring with a sense of injustice... I see that inner urge - to assert himself - to focus attention on himself ever becoming stronger, and events, circumstances - crushing it down - heaping, perhaps, more humiliations on him. And inwardly the match is set to the powder train..." "That's all pure conjecture," I objected. "It doesn't give you any practical help." "You prefer the match end, the cigarette ash, the nailed boots! You always have. But at least we can ask ourselves some practical questions. Why the A.B.C.? Why Mrs. Ascher? Why Andover?" "The woman's past life seems simple enough," I mused. "The interviews with those two men were disappointing. They couldn't tell us anything more than we knew already." "To tell the truth, I did not expect much in that line. But we could not neglect two possible candidates for the murder." "Surely you don't think -" "There is at least a possibility that the murderer lives in or near Andover. That is a possible answer to our question: 'Why Andover?' Well, here were two men known to have been in the shop at the requisite time of day. Either of them might be the murderer. And there is nothing as yet to show that one or other of them is not the murderer." "That great hulking brute, Riddell, perhaps," I admitted. "Oh, I am inclined to acquit Riddell off-hand. He was nervous, blustering, obviously uneasy -" "But surely that just shows -" "A nature diametrically opposed to that which penned the A.B.C. letter. Conceit and self-confidence are the characteristics that we must look for." "Some one who throws his weight about." "Possibly. But some people, under a nervous and self-effacing manner, conceal a great deal of vanity and self-satisfaction." "You don't think that little Mr. Partridge -?" "He is more le type. One cannot say more than that. He acts as the writer of the letter would act - goes at once to the police - pushes himself to the fore-enjoys his position." "Do you really think -?" "No, Hastings. Personally I believe that the murderer came from outside Andover, but we must neglect no avenue of research. And although I say 'he' all the time, we must not exclude the possibility of a woman being concerned." "Surely not!" "The method of attack is that of a man, I agree. But anonymous letters are written by women rather than by men. We must bear that in mind." I was silent for a few minutes, then I said: "What do we do next?" "My energetic Hastings," Poirot said and smiled at me. "No, but what do we do?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" My disappointment rang out clearly. "Am I the magician? The sorcerer? What would you have me do?" Turning the matter over in my mind I found it difficult to give answer. Nevertheless I felt convinced that something ought to be done and that we should not allow the grass to grow under our feet. I said: "There is the A.B.C. - and the notepaper and envelope -" "Naturally everything is being done in that line. The police have all the means at their disposal for that kind of inquiry. If anything is to be discovered on those lines have no fear but that they will discover it." With that I was forced to rest content. In the days that followed I found Poirot curiously disinclined to discuss the case. When I tried to reopen the subject he waved it aside with an impatient hand. In my own mind I was afraid that I fathomed his motive. Over the murder of Mrs. Ascher, Poirot had sustained a defeat. A.B.C. had challenged him - and A.B.C. had won. My friend, accustomed to an unbroken line of successes, was sensitive to his failure - so much so that he could not even endure discussion of the subject. It was, perhaps, a sign of pettiness in so great a man, but even the most sober of us is liable to have his head turned by success. In Poirot's case the head-turning process had been going on for years. Small wonder if its effects became noticeable at long last. Understanding, I respected my friend's weakness and I made no further reference to the case. I read in the paper the account of the inquest. It was very brief, no mention was made of the A.B.C. letter, and a verdict was returned of murder by some person or persons unknown. The crime attracted very little attention in the press. It had no popular or spectacular features. The murder of an old woman in a side street was soon passed over in the press for more thrilling topics. Truth to tell, the affair was fading from my mind also, partly, I think, because I disliked to think of Poirot as being in any way associated with a failure, when on July 25th it was suddenly revived. I had not seen Poirot for a couple of days as I had been away in Yorkshire for the week-end. I arrived back on Monday afternoon and the letter came by the six o'clock post. I remember the sudden, sharp intake of breath that Poirot gave as he slit open that particular envelope. "It has come," he said. I stared at him - not understanding. "What has come?" "The second chapter of the A.B.C. business." For a minute I looked at him uncomprehendingly. The matter had really passed from my memory. "Read," said Poirot and passed ne over the letter. As before, it was printed on good-quality paper. Dear Mr. Poirot, Well, what about it? First game to me, I think. The Andover business went with a swing, didn't it? But the fun is only just beginning. Let me draw your attention to Bexhill-on-Sea, the 25th inst. What a merry time we are having! Yours, etc., A.B.C. "Good God, Poirot," I cried. "Does this mean that this fiend is going to attempt another crime? "Naturally, Hastings. What else did you expect? Did you think that the Andover business was an isolated case? Do you not remember my saying: 'This is the beginning.'?" "But this is horrible!" "Yes, it is horrible." "We're up against a homicidal maniac." "Yes." His quietness was more impressive than any heroics could have been. I handed back the letter with a shudder. The following morning saw us at a conference of powers. The Chief Constable of Sussex, the Assistant Commissioner of the C.I.D., Inspector Glen from Andover, Superintendent Carter of the Sussex police, Japp and a younger inspector called Crome, and Dr. Thompson, the famous alienist, were all assembled together. The postmark on this letter was Hampstead, but in Poirot's opinion little importance could be attached to this fact. The matter was discussed fully. Dr. Thompson was a pleasant middle-aged man who, in spite of his learning, contented himself with homely language, avoiding the technicalities of his profession. "There's no doubt," said the Assistant Commissioner, "that the two letters are in the same hand. Both were written by the same person." "And we can fairly assume that that person was responsible for the Andover murder." "Quite. We've now got definite warning of a second crime scheduled to take place on the 25th - tomorrow - at Bexhill. What steps can be taken?" The Sussex Chief Constable looked at his superintendent. "Well, Carter, what about it?" The superintendent shook his head gravely. "It's difficult, sir. There's not the least clue towards whom the next victim may he. Speaking fair and square, what steps can we take?" "A suggestion," murmured Poirot. Their faces turned to him. "I think it possible that the surname of the intended victim will begin with the letter B." "That would be something," said the superintendent doubtfully. "An alphabetical complex," said Dr. Thompson thoughtfully. "I suggest it as a possibility - no more. It came into my mind when I saw the name Ascher clearly written over the shop door of the unfortunate woman who was murdered last month. When I got the letter naming Bexhill it occurred to me as a possibility that the victim as well as the place might be selected by an alphabetical system." "It's possible," said the doctor. "On the other hand, it may be that the name Ascher was a coincidence - that the victim this time, no matter what her name is, will again be an old woman who keeps a shop. We're dealing, remember, with a madman. So far he hasn't given us any clue as to motive." "Has a madman any motive, sir?" asked the superintendent skeptically. "Of course he has, man. A deadly logic is one of the special characteristics of acute mania. A man may believe himself divinely appointed to kill clergymen - or doctors - or old women in tobacco shops - and there's always some perfectly coherent reason behind it. We mustn't let the alphabetical business run away with us. Bexhill succeeding to Andover may be a mere coincidence." "We can at least take certain precautions, Carter, and make a special note of the B's, especially small shopkeepers, and keep a watch on all small tobacconists and newsagents looked after by a single person. I don't think there's anything more we can do than that. Naturally keep tabs on all strangers as far as possible." The superintendent uttered a groan. "With the schools breaking up and the holidays beginning? People are fairly flooding into the place this week." "We must do what we can," the Chief Constable said sharply. Inspector Glen spoke in his turn. "I'll have a watch kept on any one connected with the Ascher business. Those two witnesses, Partridge and Riddell, and of course on Ascher himself. If they show any signs of leaving Andover they'll be followed." The conference broke up after a few more suggestions and a little desultory conversation. "Poirot," I said as we walked along by the river, "surely this crime can be prevented?" He turned a haggard face to me. "The sanity of a city full of men against the insanity of one? I fear, Hastings - I very much fear. Remember the long-continued successes of Jack the Ripper." "It's horrible," I said. "Madness, Hastings, is a terrible thing. I am afraid... I am very much afraid..." 第八章　第二封信 　　“哦？”我渴切地问道。 　　我们坐在头等车厢内，那是趟刚刚驶离安多弗的快车。 　　“这件案子，”波洛说，“是个中等身材的人干的，他长着红色头发，左眼是假的铸模。他右脚微跛，肩胛骨下长着一颗痣。” 　　“波洛？”我叫道。 　　那一刻我完全受其蒙骗，而我朋友的眨眼又使我醒悟。 　　“波洛！”我再次说，这次满怀怨恨。 　　“mon ami①，你会怎么认为呢？你那样忠诚专注地凝视着我，要求我像歇洛克·福尔摩斯那样发表见解！说真的，我并不清楚凶手长得什么模样，不了解他住在哪里，也不知道怎样去逮获他。” 　　①法文，意为：我的朋友。——译注。 　　“要是他留下些线索就好了。”我低声说。 　　“是的，线索——线索总是诱人之处。可惜他不抽烟，没留下烟灰，然后穿着底纹奇特的鞋踏门进来。不——他才不会如此彬彬有礼。可至少，我的朋友，你还有铁路指南着一线索。那本ABC是本案的线索。” 　　“你认为他是错把书留下的吗？” 　　“当然不是，他故意留下它。指纹告诉我们，他是故意这样做的。” 　　“可书上一点指纹也没留下啊。” 　　“那正好是我的意思。昨晚是什么天气？炎热的六月之夜。一个人是否会在这样的夜晚带着手套四处闲逛？这样的人当然会引起注意。因而既然ABC书上没有留下指纹，一定是有人小心翼翼地抹去了。一个清白无私的人必定会留下指纹，而心怀鬼胎的人则不会。所以我们的凶手故意留下书，可不管如何，这是仅存的一丝线索。那本ABC是有人购买，有人携带来的，这总是可能的。” 　　“你认为从那种方式当中，我们可以学道些什么？” 　　“坦白地说，黑斯廷丝，我并不特别报希望。这个人，这个未知数，很显然地在炫耀他自己的能力，他是不会留下能被人直接追踪的尾巴的。” 　　“因而，实际上ABC对破案也没什么帮助。” 　　“才不是呢。” 　　“一点帮助都没有吗？” 　　波洛并未立即回答，他接着慢吞吞地说： 　　“我的回答是有。我们在此遭遇这个未知的人士。他藏身在暗处，想继续潜伏在黑暗中。可理所当然的事，他总禁不住会有些显山露水。在一种意义上，我们对他一无所知；而在另一种意义上，我们则已经了解了许多情况。我渐渐看到他的模样在形成——是个能清晰地用打字机打字的人，他购买优质纸张，极端地渴望显示个性。我瞧见他就像是个可能被忽视和省略的小孩子，我瞧见他怀带着内心的自卑感而长大——与一种不公平的感觉作着斗争……我瞧见那种内心的冲动，要表现他自己，要把注意力聚焦在他身上，这种冲动变得越来越强烈，许多事件和周遭的情形则在碾碎着这种冲动，可能在他身上堆积起更多的羞辱。在他的心灵深处，火柴还在点燃着火药车……” 　　“那纯属猜测。”我反对道，“这不会给你任何实际的帮助。” 　　“你更喜欢火柴头、香烟灰、敲了钉子的靴子！你总是如此，可至少我们可以自问一些问题，为什么会有ABC？为什么会是阿谢尔太太？为什么要发生在安多弗？” 　　“那妇人过去的生活看起来平淡无奇，”我思索道，“同那两个男人的会见也令人失望。我们无法说出比我们所知更多的情况。” 　　“老实说，在那方面我并没有期望得到更多的情况，可我们不该忽视两个可能是凶手的嫌疑人。” 　　“你当然不会以为……” 　　“凶手至少可能生活在安多弗附近。我们要问‘为什么会选在安多弗’，那便是个可能的答案。噢，这里有两个人在那天的特定时刻进过商店，他们当中任何一个都有可能是凶手，并且毫无迹象表明他们中有哪个是凶手。” 　　“那个笨重的蛮徒，里德尔，很可能就是。”我断言。 　　“哦，我倒是倾向于立即确定里德尔是无辜的。他神情紧张，满口谩骂，显然焦虑不安……” 　　“那正好在表示——” 　　“写那封ABC信的人性格与此恰好完全相反。傲慢和自信是我们必须寻找的特征。” 　　“那个人是在四处炫耀自己的影响力？” 　　“很可能就是。但也有些人，在一种紧张不安和自我埋没的状况之下，会隐藏极多的名利和自满。” 　　“你不会认为那个小巧的帕特里奇先生——” 　　“他更是le type②。对他已用不着多说。他所作所为正好像那个写信的人，他又立刻去警察局，把自己直接推向前沿——并对他的位置沾沾自喜。”②法文，意为：那种人。——译注。 　　“你真的认为——？” 　　“不，黑斯廷斯。我个人认为凶手来自安多弗以外的地方，可我们不能忽视任何一点蛛丝马迹。尽管我从头至尾说的都是‘他’，我们仍不能排除女人作案的可能性。” 　　“当然不会事。” 　　“我同意，那种袭击方式是男人所为，可匿名信则可能是个女人写的。我们必须牢记着一点。” 　　我静默了几分钟，然后说： 　　“我们接下去干什么？” 　　“黑斯廷斯，你真是精力充沛。”波洛说着，冲我微笑。 　　“不，我们要做些什么呢？” 　　“什么也不做。” 　　“什么也不做？”我的话音中失望之情清晰可见。 　　“我是个魔术师还是巫师？你想要我做些什么？” 　　我转动脑子，思考这个问题，发现很难做出回答。不管怎样，我觉得该做些什么，应该抓紧时间采取行动。 　　我说： 　　“那本ABC——还有便笺纸和信封——” 　　“自然，在那方面所有的事情都在进行之中，警方更是在竭尽全力处理这样的疑问。如果在那些方面会有什么发现的话，我们用不着担心，他们会发现的。” 　　听完他这一番话，我只好被迫善罢甘休。 　　在随后的几天中，我发觉波洛奇怪地回避谈论那案子。当我试图重谈该话题时，他总是不耐烦地用手势将其摆在一边。 　　在我的脑子里，我害怕去揣摩波洛的动机。在阿谢尔太太这件谋杀案上，波洛遭受了挫败。ABC向他发起挑战——而ABC已经获胜。我这位朋友早已习惯于攻无不破的成功，对他的失败则异常的敏感，以至于他无法忍受对这件事进行谈论，这也许就是一个伟大人物身上的狭隘之处。可是我们最清醒的想法就是要用成功来使他扬眉吐气。对波洛而言，这种转变的过程已开展多年。这种转变的效果最终令人瞩目，并且将成为一个小小的奇迹。 　　当我理解了这一切后，我便开始尊重我朋友的软弱之处，于是不再提及此案。我读报纸，以了解对案情调查的描述。报纸上的报道篇幅很小，没提到那封ABC匿名信，有不知名人士对谋杀案做出了一些判断。这桩案子并未引起新闻界多少注意。它丝毫没有诱人或是特别的地方。小街老妇人的谋杀案不久便被更多抢眼的标题所掩盖， 　　说真的，这件事在我脑海中同样在局部地淡化。我想，这是因为我并不喜欢去联想——想到这个案子对波洛来说是种失败。在七月二十五日，它重新又燃起了火焰。 　　我去约克郡度周末，好几天都没与波洛谋面。星期一下午我返回，六点钟时邮件中送来了这封信。我记得波洛在拆开那个特制信封时曾突然、急促地倒吸了口气。 　　“它来了。”他说。 　　我盯着他看，有点困惑不解。 　　“是什么？” 　　“ABC案件的第二章　。” 　　我难以理解地看了他一会儿，在我的脑海里，这件事确实已经淡忘。 　　“你读信吧。”波洛说着，把信递给我。 　　与以前一样，信仍是打印在优质纸张上的。 　　亲爱的波洛先生： 　　　　哦，感觉如何？我想，这是我的首场游戏。安多弗的事件顺利进行， 　　不是吗？ 　　　　可游戏才刚刚开头。让我把您的注意力吸引到海滨贝克斯希尔 　　（Bexhill-on-Sea）去吧。 　　　　日期，本月二十五日。 　　　　我们正在经历着一段多么快乐的日子啊！ 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　忠实于您的 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ABC 　　“天哪，波洛，”我叫喊道，“这是否意味着那位朋友还要再干一件罪行？” 　　“当然，黑斯廷斯。你还期待别的什么？你是否以为安多弗的事件是桩孤立的案子？你难道忘了我曾经说过：‘这仅仅是开始’？” 　　“可是，这太可怕了。” 　　“是的，很可怕。” 　　“我们要面对的是个杀人狂。” 　　“正是这样。” 　　他的镇定自若比任何的英勇行为都更加令人印象深刻。我感到一阵震颤，把信递交给他。 　　第二天早晨，我们出现在一次会议上，参加会议的是群有权力的人物。萨塞克斯的警察局长、皇家警察的厅长助理、来自安多弗的格伦警督、萨塞克斯的警方的警监卡特、贾普和一个名叫克罗姆的年轻警督，还有著名的精神病学家汤普森医生，他们齐聚一堂。信上的邮戳是汉普斯特德，可波洛认为这无关紧要。 　　人们就这一事件展开了全面讨论。汤普森医生是位愉快的中年人，尽管学问高深，他说话时语言质朴，避免使用他那行业的专业术语。 　　“毫无疑问，”厅长助理开口说，“两封信出自同一只手，是由同一个人所写。” 　　“而且，我们可以公开地推断，那个人对安多弗谋杀案负有责任。” 　　“的确如此。我们现在已精确地得到第二桩罪案的警告。那将是在二十五日，就是后天，发生在贝克斯希尔。我们该采取什么措施？” 　　萨塞克斯的警察局长望着他的警监。 　　“哦，卡特，你有什么想法？” 　　警监阴郁地摇摇头。 　　“挺困难的，先生。谁将会是受害人，我们连一点线索都没有。坦白、直率地讲，我们能采取什么步骤呢？” 　　“我倒是由一个建议。”波洛小声说。 　　大家都把脸转向他。 　　“我认为，预计中的受害人的姓名可能会是以字母B开头的。” 　　“这倒有些道理。”警监疑虑地说。 　　“这是一种按字母顺序排列的情结。”唐普森医生说。 　　“我认为有这种可能性——并没有更多的意思。当上个月那不幸的妇女被谋杀时，她的商店门上清楚地写着阿谢尔的名字时，我脑中突然产生了这个念头。当我收到的第二封信中提到贝克斯希尔时，我就想到受害人和案发地点都是以字母顺序来挑选的。” 　　“这倒是有可能，”医生说，“另一方面，阿谢尔这个名字也许会是个巧合。” 　　“这次的受害人，不管她叫什么名字，也该会是个开小店铺的老太太。切记，我们是在同一个疯子打交道。到现在为止，他还没有向我们透露别有用心的线索。” 　　“一个疯子还会有动机吗，医生？”警监怀疑地问。 　　“他当然会有动机，先生。致命的逻辑是敏感性狂燥症的特征之一。一个人可能会认定自己有神圣的使命来杀死教士、医生或是开烟草店的老太太，而在此背后总会有某种非常合乎逻辑的理由。我们一定不能让这桩字母案件失去控制。贝克斯希尔紧随在安多弗之后，这可能仅仅是一种巧合而已。” 　　“我们至少应该谨慎以待，卡特。要特别注意那些B姓的人们，尤其是开小商店的，要派一个人来监视所有的小烟贩和买报人。我以为这是我们所能够做到的。只要可能，自然还要留意所有陌生人。” 　　警监发出一声呻吟。 　　“就在这学校停课、假期刚刚开始的时候？本星期人们正在大量涌入该地区。” 　　“我们必须尽力而为！”警察局长严厉地说道。 　　格伦警监发表他的见解。 　　“我会监视任何与阿谢尔案件相关的人。那两个目击证人，帕特里奇和里德尔，当然，还有阿谢尔本人。只要他们有迹象离开安多弗，他们就会被跟踪。” 　　大家又提了些意议，进行了一段散漫的对话之后，会议结束。 　　“波洛，”我们沿着河步行时，我说，“这次犯罪可以被阻止吧？” 　　他一脸憔悴地转向我。 　　“让满城人的正常心智来对付一个人的错乱疯狂？我感到害怕，黑斯廷斯，我非常惧怕。你该记得那个肢解恶魔杰克的屡屡得手吧？” 　　“这太可怕了。”我说。 　　“黑斯廷斯，疯狂是件可怕的事物……我很惧怕……我很惧怕……” Chapter 9 THE BEXHILL-ON-SEA MURDER I still remember my awakening on the morning of the 25th of July. It must have been about seven-thirty. Poirot was standing by my bedside gently shaking me by the shoulder. One glance at his face brought me from semi-consciousness into full possession of my faculties. "What is it?" I demanded, sitting up rapidly. His answer came quite simply, but a wealth of emotion lay behind the three words he uttered. "It has happened." "What?" I cried. "You mean - but today is the 25th." "It took place last night - or rather in the early hours of this morning." As I sprang from bed and made a rapid toilet, he recounted briefly what he had just learnt over the telephone. "The body of a young girl has been found on the beach at Bexhill. She has been identified as Elizabeth Barnard, a waitress in one of the cafйs, who lived with her parents in a little recently built bungalow. Medical evidence gave the time of death as between 11:30 and 1 A.M." "They're quite sure that this is the crime?" I asked, as I hastily lathered my face. "An A.B.C. open at the trains to Bexhill was found actually under the body." I shivered. "This is horrible!" "Faites attention, Hastings. I do not want a second tragedy in my rooms!" I wiped the blood from my chin rather ruefully. "What is our plan of campaign?" I asked. "The car will call for us in a few moments' time. I will bring you a cup of coffee here so that there will be no delay in starting." Twenty minutes later we were in a fast police car crossing the Thames on our way out of London. With us was Inspector Crome, who had been present at the conference the other day, and who was officially in charge of the case. Crome was a very different type of officer from Japp. A much younger man, he was the silent, superior type. Well educated and well read, he was, for my taste, several shades too pleased with himself. He had lately gained kudos over a series of child murders, having patiently tracked down the criminal who was now in Broadmoor. He was obviously a suitable person to undertake the present case, but I thought that he was just a little too aware of the fact himself. His manner to Poirot was a shade patronizing. He deferred to him as younger man to an older one - in a rather self-conscious, "public-school" way. "I've had a good long talk with Dr. Thompson," he said. "He's very interested in the 'chain' or 'series' type of murder. It's the product of a particular distorted type of mentality. As a layman one can't, of course, appreciate the finer points as they present themselves to a medical point of view." He coughed. "As a matter of fact - my last case - I don't know whether you read about it - the Mabel Homer case, the Muswell Hill schoolgirl, you know - that man Capper was extraordinary. Amazingly difficult to pin the crime on to him - it was his third, too! Looked as sane as you or I. But there are various tests - verbal traps, you know - quite modern, of course, there was nothing of that kind in your day. Once you can induce a man to give himself away, you've got him! He knows that you know and his nerve goes. He starts giving himself away right and left." "Even in my day that happened sometimes," said Poirot. Inspector Crome looked at him and murmured conversationally: "Oh, yes?" There was silence between us for some time. As we passed New Cross Station, Crome said: "If there's anything you want to ask me about the case, pray do so." "You have not, I presume, a description of the dead girl?" "She was twenty-three years of age, engaged as a waitress at the Ginger Cat cafй -" "Pas зa. I wondered - if she were pretty?" "As to that I've no information," said Inspector Crome with a hint of withdrawal. His manner said: "Really - these foreigners! All the same." A final look of amusement came into Poirot's eyes. "It does not seem to you important, that? Yet, pour une femme, it is of the first importance. Often it decides her destiny!" Inspector Crome fell back on his conversational full stop. "Oh, yes?" he inquired politely. Another silence fell. It was not until we were nearing Seven Oaks that Poirot opened the conversation again. "Were you informed, by any chance, how and with what the girl was strangled?" Inspector Crome replied briefly. "Strangled with her own belt - a thick, knitted affair, I gather." Poirot's eyes opened very wide. "Aha," he said. "At last we have a piece of information that is very definite. That tells one something, does it not?" "I haven't seen it yet," said Inspector Crome coldly. I felt impatient with the man's caution and lack of imagination. "It gives us the hall-mark of the murderer," I said. "The girl's own belt. It shows the particular beastliness of his mind!" Poirot shot me a glance I could not fathom. On the face of it it conveyed humorous impatience. I thought that perhaps it was a warning not to be too outspoken in front of the inspector. I relapsed into silence. At Bexhill we were greeted by Superintendent Carter. He had with him a pleasant-faced, intelligent-looking young inspector called Kelsey. The latter was detailed to work in with Crome over the case. "You'll want to make your own inquiries, Crome," said the superintendent. "So I'll just give you the main heads of the matter and then you can get busy right away." "Thank you sir," said Crome. "We've broken the news to her father and mother," said the superintendent. "Terrible shock to them, of course. I left them to recover a bit before questioning them, so you can start from the beginning there." "There are other members of the families?" asked Poirot. "There's a sister - a typist in London. She's been communicated with. And there's a young man - in fact, she was supposed to be out with him last night, I gather." "Any help from the A.B.C. guide?" asked Crome. "It's there," the superintendent nodded towards the table. "No fingerprints. Open at the page for Bexhill. A new copy, I should say - doesn't seem to have been opened much. Not bought anywhere round here. I' we tried all the likely stationers!" "Who discovered the body, sir?" "One of these fresh-air, early-morning old colonels. Colonel Jerome. He was out with his dog about 6 A.M. Went along the front in the direction of Cooden, and down on to the beach. Dog went off and sniffed at something. Colonel called it. Dog didn't come. Colonel had a look and thought something queer was up. Went over and looked. Behaved very properly. Didn't touch her at all and rang us up immediately." "And the time of death was round about midnight last night?" "Between midnight and 1 A.M. - that's pretty certain. Our homicidal joker is a man of his word. If he says the 25th, it is the 25th - though it may have been only by a few minutes." Crome nodded. "Yes, that's his mentality all right. There's nothing else? Nobody saw anything helpful?" "Not as far as we know. But it's early yet. Every one who saw a girl in white walking with a man last night will be along to tell us about it soon, and as I imagine there were about four or five hundred girls in white walking with young men last night, it ought to be a nice business." "Well, sir, I'd better get down to it," said Crome. "There's the cafй and there's the girl's home. I'd better go to both of them. Kelsey can come with me." "And Mr. Poirot?" asked the superintendent. "I will accompany you," said Poirot to Crome with a little bow. Crome, I thought, looked slightly annoyed. Kelsey, who had not seen Poirot before, grinned broadly. It was an unfortunate circumstance that the first time people saw my friend they were always disposed to consider him as a joke of the first water. "What about this belt she was strangled with?" asked Crome. "Poirot is inclined to think it's a valuable clue. I expect he'd like to see it." "Du tout," said Poirot quickly. "You misunderstood me." "You'll get nothing from that," said Carter. "It wasn't a leather belt - might have got fingerprints if it had been. Just a thick sort of knitted silk - ideal for the purpose." I gave a shiver. "Well," said Crome, "we'd better be getting along." We set out forthwith. Our first visit was to the Ginger Cat. Situated on the sea front, this was the usual type of small tea-room. It had little tables covered with orange-checked cloths and basket-work chairs of exceeding discomfort with orange cushions on them. It was the kind of place that specialized in morning coffee, five different kinds of teas (Devonshire, farmhouse, fruit, Carlton and plain), and a few sparing lunch dishes for females such as scrambled eggs and shrimps and macaroni au gratin. The morning coffees were just getting under way. The manageress ushered us hastily into a very untidy back sanctum. "Miss - er - Merrion?" inquired Crome. Miss Merrion bleated out in a high, distressed gentlewoman voice: "That is my name. This is a most distressing business. Most distressing. How it will affect our business I really cannot think!" Miss Merrion was a very thin woman of forty with wispy orange hair (indeed she was astonishingly like a ginger cat herself). She played nervously with various fichus and frills that were part of her official costume. "You'll have a boom," said Inspector Kelsey encouragingly. "You'll see! You won't be able to serve teas fast enough!" "Disgusting," said Miss Men'ion. "Truly disgusting. It makes one despair of human nature." But her eye brightened nevertheless. "What can you tell me about the dead girl, Miss Merrion?" "Nothing," said Miss Merrion positively. "Absolutely nothing!" "How long had she been working here?" "This was the second summer." "You were satisfied with her?" "She was a good waitress - quick and obliging." "She was pretty, yes?" inquired Poirot. Miss Merrion, in her turn, gave him an "Oh, these foreigners" look. "She was a nice, clean-looking girl," she said distantly. "What time did she go off duty last night?" asked Crome. "Eight o'clock. We close at eight. We do not serve dinners. There is no demand for them. Scrambled eggs and tea (Poirot shuddered) people come in for up to seven o'clock and sometimes after, but our rush is over by 6:30." "Did she mention to you how she proposed to spend her evening?" "Certainly not," said Miss Merrion emphatically. "We were not on those terms." "No one came in and called for her? Anything like that?" "No." "Did she seem quite her ordinary self? Not excited or depressed?" "Really I could not say," said Miss Merrion aloofly. "How many waitresses do you employ?" "Two normally, and an extra two after the 20th of July until the end of August." "But Elizabeth Barnard was not one of the extras?" "Miss Barnard was one of the regulars." "What about the other one?" "Miss Higley? She is a very nice young lady." "Were she and Miss Barnard friends?" "Really I could not say." "Perhaps we'd better have a word with her." "Now?" "If you please." "I will send her to you," said Miss Merrion, rising. "Please keep her as short a time as possible. This is the morning coffee rush hour." The feline and gingery Miss Merrion left the room. "Very refined," remarked Inspector Kelsey. He mimicked the lady's mincing tone. "Really I could not say." A plump girl, slightly out of breath, with dark hair, rosy cheeks and dark eyes goggling with excitement, bounced in. "Miss Merrion sent me," she announced breathlessly. "Miss Higley?" "Yes, that's me." "You knew Elizabeth Barnard?" "Oh, yes, I knew Betty. Isn't it awful? It's just too awful! I can't believe it's true. I've been saying to the girls all the morning I just can't believe it! 'You know, girls,' I said, 'it just doesn't seem real.' Betty! I mean, Betty Barnard, who's been here all along, murdered! 'I just can't believe it,' I said. Five or six times I've pinched myself just to see if I wouldn't wake up. Betty murdered... It's - well, you know what I mean - it doesn't seem real." "You knew the dead girl well?" asked Crome. "Well, she's worked here longer than I have. I only came this March. She was here last year. She was rather quiet, if you know what I mean. She wasn't one to joke or laugh a lot. I don't mean that she was exactly quiet - she'd plenty of fun in her and all that - but she didn't - well, she was quiet and she wasn't quiet, if you know what I mean." I will say for Inspector Crome that he was exceedingly patient. As a witness the buxom Miss Higley was persistently maddening. Every statement she made was repeated and qualified half a dozen times. The net result was meagre in the extreme. She had not been on terms of intimacy with the dead girl. Elizabeth Barnard, it could be guessed, had considered herself a cut above Miss Higley. She had been friendly in working hours, but the gifts had not seen much of her out of them. Elizabeth Barnard had had a "friend" - worked in the estate agents near the station. Court & Brunskill. No, he wasn't Mr. Court nor Mr. Brunskill. He was a clerk there. She didn't know his name. But she knew him by sight well. Good-looking - oh, very good-looking, and always so nicely dressed. Clearly, there was a tinge of jealousy in Miss Higley's voice. In the end it boiled down to this. Elizabeth Barnard had not confided in any one in the cafй as to her plans for the evening, but in Miss Higley's opinion she had been going to meet her "friend." She had had on a new white dress, "ever so sweet with one of the new necks." We had a word with each of the other two girls but with no further results. Betty Barnard had not said anything as to her plans and no one had noticed her in Bexhill during the course of the evening. 第九章　海滨贝克斯希尔谋杀案 　　我依然牢记七月二十五日早晨睡醒过来的情形，那时该是七点三十分左右。 　　波洛正站在我的床边，轻柔地摇动我的肩膀。我看了他一眼，这将我从半意识带回到本能的清醒状态之中。 　　“什么事？”我问，迅速地坐起来。 　　他的回答极简单至极，可他吐露出的三个字背后却蕴藏着丰富的感情。 　　“它发生了。” 　　“什么事？”我叫道，“你是说——可今天才是二十五日啊。” 　　“案件是昨晚发生的。或者说，是在今天凌晨的早些时候。” 　　我从床上一跃而起，迅速地上完洗手间。他简单地复述了刚从电话中获知的内容。 　　“一位年轻姑娘的尸体在贝克斯希尔的海滩上被人发现。有人认出是伊丽莎白·巴纳德，在一间餐厅做女招待，她与父母住在一处新建成的平房内。医学鉴定表明死亡时间是在十一点半到一点之间。” 　　“他们就能如此确信，认定这就是那桩罪案？”我问道，一边匆忙用肥皂涂脸。 　　“尸体底下有一本ABC，打开的那页正好是去贝克斯希尔的火车时刻表。” 　　我直打冷颤。 　　“这太可怕了。” 　　“Faites attention①，黑斯廷斯。我也不想再碰到第二个悲剧。” 　　①法文，意为：当心。——译注。 　　我沮丧地洗去下巴上的血。 　　“我们该有什么样的作战计划？”我问。 　　“车要过一会儿才来接我们。我会端给你一杯咖啡，这样就不会耽误出发。” 　　二十分钟后，我们坐入一辆警车，疾驶着穿越过泰晤士河，驶出伦敦。 　　克罗姆警督与我们同行，他曾出席过那次会议，现在正式负责此案。 　　与贾普相比，克罗姆截然不同。他要年轻许多，是那种安静、优越的人。他受过良好的教育，善解人意。就我的口味而言，他沉浸与过分自满的阴影之中。最近，他因为破获一系列儿童谋杀案而获得许多褒奖，他极具耐心地追捕到那个罪犯，那家伙现在已经被关押在布罗得摩尔监狱。 　　显然，他来承担本案，是个合适的人选，可我认为他有点自视过高。他对波洛的态度带着些傲慢，把波洛当作是个年轻人而不是长辈——以一种相当自负的、“公立学校”的方式。 　　“我已与汤普森医生好好地长谈了一次，”他说，“他对‘连锁’或‘系列’谋杀案极感兴趣。这是一种精神异常所至的行为。当然，要是外行，就无法从中欣赏其经典的内容。这要从医学的角度来体会。”他咳着嗽道。“事实上，我上次的案子，不知你们听说过没有，那件梅布尔·霍默案，马瑟尔山的女学生。你知道，那个卡珀是个异常的人物，要给他定罪极其之难——同样，只是他的第三件案子。不过倒是可以用许多种测试——如口供诱导，你知道，这是种很先进的方法，当然在你的年代还没有这样的事物。一旦你能使一个人泄漏自己，你就能逮到他。他一明白你已掌握一切，他的神经就会动摇，就会破绽百出。” 　　“即使在我那时候，这种方法也采纳过许多次。”波洛说。 　　克罗姆警督看着他，小声说道： 　　“哦，是吗？” 　　我们大家一阵沉默。在我们通过新十字车站时，克罗姆开口说： 　　“如果你们想了解一些此案的情况，那就请问吧。” 　　“你还没有形容一下那个遇害的姑娘吧？” 　　“她二十三岁，在黄猫餐厅当女招待——” 　　“Pas ca②，我感到疑惑的是——她长的漂亮吗？”②法文，意为：不是这样。——译注。 　　“那我倒是不太了解。”克罗姆警督有点畏缩地说。他的表情显示出：“真的——这些外国佬，全都一个模样！” 　　波洛的眼中闪现一丝淡淡的欢愉。 　　“那对你而言无关紧要吗？然而，pour une femme③，外貌是最最重要的，这往往会决定她的命运。”③法文，意为：对一个女人而言。——译注。 　　又是一阵沉默。 　　直到我们临近赛文诺克时，波洛再次打破僵局。 　　“你是否刚好知道，那姑娘是怎样被人用什么东西勒喉致死的？” 　　克罗姆警督简要作答。 　　“是用她自己的腰带勒死的——我想，是厚厚的那种针织腰带。” 　　波洛眼睛睁得极大。 　　“啊哈，”他说，“我们终于掌握一点确切的消息，那真是有点意思，不是吗？” 　　“我还没有认识到。”克罗姆警督冷冷地说。 　　我对此人的疑虑重重和想象力的贫乏感到厌恶。 　　“这提供给我们凶手的特征。”我说，“那姑娘自己的腰带，它表明凶手特别凶残。” 　　波洛朝我瞥了一眼，我无法揣摩其含义。表面上，这转达给我一种带有幽默的不耐烦。 　　我重新又陷入到静默之中。 　　卡特警监在贝克斯希尔迎接我们，与他同来的还有一个叫凯尔西的年轻警督，他面色友善，模样机敏，被指派与克罗姆一起侦破此案。 　　“你可以自行开展调查，克罗姆。”警监说道，“因而我只透露给你本案的主要情节，然后你们就着手去查。” 　　“谢谢您，先生。”克罗姆说。 　　“我们已将消息传给了她的父母亲。”警监说，“对他们而言，这绝对是个可怕的打击。在向他们询问之前，我让他们有时间恢复了一下，因此你们可以从头开始提问。” 　　“她家里还有其他人吗？”波洛问。 　　“有个姐姐——在伦敦做打字员工作，也已经通知过她了。还有个小伙子——事实上，我设想，那姑娘昨晚该是与他一起外出的。” 　　“那本ABC铁路之难有和帮助吗？”克罗姆问。 　　“就放在那边，”警监冲着桌子点头，“上面没有指纹。书打开着，翻到贝克斯希尔的那页。那是本新书，我该说——这本书看来没翻阅过几次。书也不是在这附近买的，我已去调查过本地所有的文具店。” 　　“尸体是谁发现的，先生？” 　　“是一位早起晨练的上校，杰罗姆上校。他大约清晨六点带狗出门，朝着库登的方向前进，走在沙滩上。他的狗跑开去，像是嗅着了什么东西。上校叫唤那狗，可狗并没回来，他上前一看，便觉得发生了蹊跷的事情。他做事很有分寸，没有去碰她的尸体，便立刻给我们打了电话。” 　　“死亡时间大约是在昨天午夜前后吧？” 　　“是在午夜与凌晨一点之间，这很有把握。我们的杀人玩家是位言出必行的人，如果他说过要在二十五日行动，那就一定会是二十五日，即便刚刚过去几分钟。” 　　克罗姆点点头。 　　“是的，那确实是他的心智所在。没有其他情况吗？没人见过些有帮助的情况吗？” 　　“还没有。不过现在还为时过早。任何人，只要在昨晚见过一位与男士一同散步的白衣女郎，都会马上来向我们提供情况。而据我猜想，昨晚大概会有四五百名白衣女郎曾与年轻男士一起散步，该会令我们应接不暇。” 　　“好，先生，我最好着手开始进行调查。”克罗姆说，“那餐厅同那姑娘的家，我最好两个地方都去一下。凯尔西同我一起去。” 　　“波洛先生也去吗？”警监问。 　　“我与你同去。”波洛微微躬了一下身体，对克罗姆说。 　　我想，克罗姆感到有点懊恼。凯尔西以前没见过波洛，裂开嘴笑。 　　遗憾的是，每当人们第一次见到我的朋友时，总会有意把他视为一个大玩笑。 　　“勒她致死的那条腰带怎么样？”克罗姆问道，“波洛先生认为它是条极有宝贵价值的线索。我想他非常乐意检查一下。” 　　“Du tout④，”波洛迅即说，“你误会了。”④法文，意为：一点也不。——译注。 　　“你将会一无所获。”卡特说，“它不是条皮质腰带——如果是皮带，那上面将会留下指纹。这仅是条厚厚的针织丝质腰带，是致命的理想工具而已。” 　　我感到一阵战栗。 　　“好，”克罗姆说，“我们最好出发吧。” 　　我们即刻出发。 　　我们首先去黄猫餐厅。这是间常见的小茶馆，坐落在海边。餐厅内摆设的餐桌上铺盖着橙色格子花的台布，编织的椅子上亦摆放着橙色的靠垫，显得极度的不舒服。这件餐厅专门供应晨间咖啡，供应五种不同的茶（德文郡茶、农舍茶、果味茶、卡尔顿茶和原味茶），还供应几样为女士准备的小份午餐，如炒鸡蛋、虾和面包屑、通心粉。 　　餐厅此刻正供应晨间咖啡。餐厅的女经理把我们匆忙迎入后边的一间极不干净的小房间。 　　“你就是梅里恩小【蟹】姐？”克罗姆询问道。 　　梅里恩小【蟹】姐脱口发出一种声调高高的、极不悦耳的淑女嗓音： 　　“我就是。这是实在太令人难过，是件最悲痛的事。我难以想象，这将给我们的生意带来多大的影响！” 　　梅里恩小【蟹】姐身材瘦削，年纪四十岁左右，橙黄色的头发扎成许多小束（实际上，她自己就惊人地象一只黄猫）。她极其紧张地摆弄着身上衣服的薄围巾和褶边。 　　“你会生意兴隆的。”凯尔西警督鼓励地说，“你将看到，你会连菜都供应不过来的。” 　　“真可恶。”她说道，“太可恶了，这件事令人对人性感到绝望。” 　　可不管如何，她的眼睛还是在闪着亮光。 　　“关于那死去的姑娘，你能告诉我些什么，梅里恩小【蟹】姐？” 　　“无可奉告。”梅里恩小【蟹】姐明确地说，“绝对无可奉告。” 　　“她在这儿干多久了？” 　　“今年是第二个夏季。” 　　“你对她是否满意？” 　　“她是个很好的女招待，干活快捷，遵守规定。” 　　“她长得漂亮吗？”波洛问道。 　　梅里恩小【蟹】姐回了他一眼，眼神中显示出“瞧，这些外国人”的神情。 　　“她是位很好的姑娘，长相清秀。”她干巴巴地说。 　　“昨天晚上她是几点钟下班的？”克罗姆问。 　　“八点钟。我们八点钟关门。店里不供应晚餐，就不需要她们做事。来吃炒鸡蛋和饮茶的人们到七点钟后就挺少的了。我们的高峰时间六点半就已结束。” 　　“她跟你提过她晚上要干些什么吗？” 　　“当然没有，”梅里恩小【蟹】姐强调着说，“我们之间的关系还没那么近乎。” 　　“有没有人来找过她？或有些什么别的事？” 　　“没有。” 　　“她自己看上去跟平常是否一样？既不激动也不低沉？” 　　“我实在是无言相告。”梅里恩小【蟹】姐冷淡地说。 　　“你店里顾几位女招待员？” 　　“平时两位，在七月二十日后直到八月底会加招两位临时的。” 　　“伊丽莎白.巴纳德并不是加招的其中一位吧？” 　　“巴纳德小【蟹】姐是固定的一位。” 　　“那另外一位是谁？” 　　“希格利小【蟹】姐。她是位可爱的小【蟹】姐。” 　　“她和巴纳德小【蟹】姐时朋友吗？” 　　“我实在是无言相告。” 　　“也许我们还是最好同她谈几句话。” 　　“是现在吗？” 　　“如果你答应的话。” 　　“我会叫她来，”梅里恩小【蟹】姐说着，站起身来，“请尽量简短一些，现在是晨间咖啡的高峰时间。” 　　这位狡猾、姜黄色的梅里恩小【蟹】姐离开房间。 　　“真是精练得很，”凯尔西警督评价道，他模仿那女人矫揉造作的声调，“我实在是无言相告。” 　　一位体态丰满的姑娘猛然闯进屋来。她微微有点喘不上气，长着黝黑的头发，脸颊呈粉红色，黑色的双眼因激动而圆瞪。 　　“梅里恩小【蟹】姐让我进来。”她气喘吁吁地说。 　　“你就是希格利小【蟹】姐？” 　　“是的，我是。” 　　“你认识伊丽莎白·巴纳德？” 　　“哦，是的，我认识贝蒂。这难道不可怕吗？它实在太可怕了。我简直都不敢相信这是真的。我整个上午都在与姑娘们谈论这件事，我真是不敢相信！‘你们都知道，姑娘们，’我说，‘这看来不象是真的。贝蒂！我指的是成天在这里的贝蒂·巴纳德，被人谋杀了。我简直不敢相信。’我说。我捏了自己五六次，看看我是否醒不过来了。贝蒂被人谋杀……哦，你知道我的意思，它实在不像是真的。” 　　“你很了解那死去的姑娘吗？” 　　“她在这做招待的时间要比我长。我是今年三月份才来的，她去年就在这儿了。如果您理解我的意思的话，她是个安静的人。她不是那种爱开玩笑和爱笑的人，我是指她实际上又不是个真正安静的人，她有许多自己的乐趣，可她从不与别人共享。所以，她是个安静的人，又是个不安静的人，如果你们能理解的话。” 　　我想说，克罗姆警督实在太有耐心了。作为一位证人，这位丰腴的希格利小【蟹】姐总是令人烦恼。她每说一句话都要重复地论证好几遍，最终却让人不得要领。 　　她与那位死去的姑娘并不亲密。我们可以猜想到，伊丽莎白·巴纳德认为自己胜出希格利小【蟹】姐一筹。在工作时间，她非常友善，可姑娘们同她交往不深。伊丽莎白·巴纳德曾有过一位“朋友”，在车站附近的房地产事务所工作。那家事务所叫做考特和布伦斯基尔，可他既不是考特先生，也并非布伦斯基尔先生，他只是位办事员。她并不知道他叫什么名字，只要见到他就很熟悉。他外表非常英俊，哦，非常英俊，而且总是衣冠楚楚。很显然，希格利小【蟹】姐内心深处有股嫉妒的味道。 　　谈话终于到此为止。伊丽莎白·巴纳德并没有想餐厅中的任何人透露昨晚的计划，而希格利小【蟹】姐则认为，她是去与她的“朋友”会面。她身穿白色外套。“由于衣着新颖，她显得非常甜美动人。” 　　我们与另外两位姑娘都小谈了一会儿，可是并没有获得更多的情况。贝蒂·巴纳德未曾讲过她要做些什么，当晚也没人在贝克斯希尔见过她。

Chapter 10 THE BARNARDS Elizabeth Barnard's parents lived in a minute bungalow, one of fifty or so recently run up by a speculative builder on the confines of the town. The name of it was Llandudno. Mr. Barnard, a stout, bewildered-looking man of fifty-five or so, had noticed our approach and was standing waiting in the doorway. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. Inspector Kelsey took the initiative. "This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir," he said. "He's come down to help us over this business." "Scotland Yard?" said Mr. Barnard hopefully. "That's good. This murdering villain's got to be laid by the heels. My poor little girl -" His face was distorted by a spasm of grief. "And this is Mr. Hercule Poirot, also from London, and er -" "Captain Hastings," said Poirot. "Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," said Mr. Barnard mechanically. "Come into the snuggery. I don't know that my poor wife's up to seeing you. All broken up, she is." However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living-room of the bungalow, Mrs. Barnard had made her appearance. She had evidently been crying bitterly, her eyes were reddened and she walked with the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock. "Why, Mother, that's fine," said Mr. Barnard. "You're sure you're all right - eh?" He patted her shoulder and draw her down into a chain. "The superintendent was very kind," said Mr. Barnard. "After he'd broken the news to us, he said he'd leave any questions till later when we'd got over the first shock." "It is too cruel. Oh, it is too cruel," cried Mrs. Barnard tearfully. "The cruelest thing that ever was, it is." Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation that I thought for a moment was foreign till I remembered the name on the gate and realized that the "effer wass" of her speech was in reality proof of her Welsh origin. "It's very painful, madam, I know," said Inspector Crome. "And we've every sympathy for you, but we want to know all the facts we can so as to get to work as quick as possible." "That's sense, that is," said Mr. Barnard, nodding approval. "Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here with you and worked at the Ginger Cat cafй, is that right?" "That's it." "This is a new place, isn't it? Where did you live before?" "I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired two years ago. Always meant to live near the sea." "You have two daughters?" "Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London in the City." "Weren't you alarmed when your daughter didn't come home last night?" "We didn't know she hadn't," said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. "Dad and I always go to bed early. Nine o'clock's our time. We never knew Betty hadn't come home till the police officer came and said - and said -" She broke down. "Was your daughter in the habit of - er - returning home late?" "You know what girls are nowadays, inspector," said Barnard. "Independent, that's what they are. These summer evenings they're not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven." "How did she get in? Was the door open?" "Left the key under the mat - that's what we always did." "There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?" "They don't put it as formally as that nowadays," said Mr. Barnard. "Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much," said Mrs. Barnard. "Poor fellow, it'll be terrible for him - this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?" "He works in Court & Brunskill's, I understand?" "Yes, they're the estate agents." "Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?" "Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer." "Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?" "She didn't say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can't believe -" Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again. "Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, Mother," urged her husband. "We' we got to get to the bottom of this..." "I'm sure Donald would never - would never -" sobbed Mrs. Barnard. "Now just you pull yourself together," repeated Mr. Barnard. He turned to the two inspectors. "I wish to God I could give you some help - but the plain fact is I know nothing - nothing at all that can help you to the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl - with a decent young fellow that she was - well, we'd have called it walking out with in my young days. Why any one should want to murder her simply beats me - it doesn't make sense." "You're very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard," said Crome. "I tell you what I'd like to do - have a look over Miss Barnard's room. There may be something - letters - or a diary." "Look over it and welcome," said Mr. Barnard, rising. He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear. I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelace, and as I did so, a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead. There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me. "Who are you?" she said. I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision. "Oh, well," she said, "I can guess." She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her. My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheekbones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-looking - plain rather - but there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook. "You are Miss Barnard?" I asked. "I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose." "Well," I said, "not exactly -" She interrupted me. "I don't think I've got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice bright girl with no men friends. Good-morning." She gave a short laugh as she spoke and regarded me challengingly. "That's the correct phrase, I believe?" she said. "I'm not a reporter, if that's what you're getting at." "Well, what are you?" She looked round. "Where's mum and dad?" "Your father is showing the police your sister's bedroom. Your mother's in there. She's very upset." The girl seemed to make a decision. "Come in here," she said. She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her and found myself in a small, neat kitchen. I was about to shut the door behind me - but found an unexpected resistance. The next moment Poirot had slipped quietly into the room and shut the door behind him. "Mademoiselle Barnard?" he said with a quick bow. "This is M. Hercule Poirot," I said. Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising glance. "I've heard of you," she said. "You're the fashionable private sleuth, aren't you?" "Not a pretty description - but it suffices," said Poirot. The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in her bag for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips, lighted it, and then said in between two puffs of smoke: "Somehow, I don't see what M. Hercule Poirot is doing in our humble little crime." "Mademoiselle," said Poirot, "what you do not see and what I do not see would probably fill a volume. But all that is of no practical importance. What is of practical importance is something that will not be easy to find." "What's that?" "Death, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prejudice. A prejudice in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said just now to my friend Hastings. 'A nice bright girl with no men friends.' You said that in mockery of the newspapers, And it is very true - when a young girl is dead, that is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was happy. She was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. She had no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always to the dead. Do you know what I should like this minute? I should like to find some one who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead. Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me - the truth." Megan Barnard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst she smoked. Then, at last, she spoke. Her words made me jump. "Betty," she said, "was an unmitigated little ass!" 第十章　巴纳德一家 　　伊丽莎白·巴纳德的父母居住的十一初狭小的平房，那儿有五十家左右这样的住家。这些平房是由一位投机建筑商在小镇内匆匆修建的。小镇名叫兰达尔诺。巴纳德先生是一位身材矮小、满脸迷惑的人，年纪约莫五十五岁光景，他注意到我们的临近，就站在门口等着我们。 　　“请进来吧，先生们。”他说。 　　凯尔西警督率先发话。 　　“这位是苏格兰场的克罗姆警督，先生。”他说， 　　“他是专门就此案来帮助我们的。” 　　“苏格兰场？”巴纳德先生满怀希望地说，“真是太好了。那个行凶的恶棍真该被车轮轧死。我可怜的姑娘。”他的脸因悲伤一阵痉挛儿变形。 　　“这位是赫尔克里·波洛，也从伦敦来，还有——” 　　“黑斯廷斯上尉。”波洛说。 　　“很高兴见到你们，先生们，”巴纳德先生机械地说，“请到里屋来。我不知道我可怜的太太是否可以见你们。她已经完全崩溃了。” 　　当我们在平房的起居室里坐定时，巴纳德太太总算露了面。很显然，她哭的悲痛欲绝，两眼红肿，步履蹒跚，一副遭受过沉重打击的模样。 　　“怎么，你没事吧。”巴纳德先生说，“你确信没事了吧？” 　　他扶着她的肩膀，把她让进一把椅子当中。 　　“警监很好心，”巴纳德先生说，“他把消息通知我们后，说是要等到我们经受初次震惊之后，再来调查些问题。” 　　“这太残忍了，这太残忍了，”巴纳德太太泪流满面地哭泣，“这必定是最残忍的事。” 　　她声音中带有轻微的歌唱声调，我原以为是外国口音。直到我想起门上的姓名，才意识到她讲话中的某些发音实际上已表明她是威尔士人。 　　“我知道，这的确令人深感悲痛，女士。”克罗姆说，“我们非常同情你，可是我们想要了解所有的真相，以便能尽快开展工作。” 　　“那有道理。”巴纳德先生说，一边点头表示赞同。 　　“我了解到，你女儿二十三岁了。她与你们住在一起，在姜汁猫餐厅工作，对吧？” 　　“不错。” 　　“这地方是新建的，是吧？你以前住在哪儿？” 　　“我在肯宁顿做些五金生意。两年前我退了休。我们总想住在海边。” 　　“你又两个女儿？” 　　“是的。大女儿在伦敦一间办公室工作。” 　　“昨晚你女儿没回家，你们难道不感到震惊吗？” 　　“我们并不知道她没回来。”巴纳德太太流着泪说，“她爸爸和我习惯于早睡，我们九点钟就上床休息。我们并不知道贝蒂没回家，直到警察来告诉我，说……” 　　她情不自禁痛哭起来。 　　“你女儿是否经常很晚才回家？” 　　“警督，你该知道现在的女孩是什么样。”巴纳德说，“他们挺独立。在夏天的晚上，她们才不会急匆匆地赶回家。同样，贝蒂通常十一点钟才回家。” 　　“她怎么进了？门开着吗？” 　　“钥匙放在垫子下面——我们一那样做。” 　　“我想，有谣传说你女儿已订婚了。” 　　“现在他们并不正式进行订婚。”巴纳德先生说。 　　“他叫唐纳德·弗雷泽，我喜欢他。我非常喜欢他，”巴纳德太太说，“可怜的人，这消息对他来说真是太为难了。我在想，他是否已经知道？” 　　“我了解到，他是在考特和布伦斯基尔事务所工作？” 　　“是。他们经营房地产。” 　　“他下班之后，是不是多半会同你女儿约会？” 　　“他们并不是每天晚上都见面，大概每周一两次吧。” 　　“你是否知道昨天晚上他们有没有约会？” 　　“她没说。贝蒂对她要桌什么事、要去哪儿，从来都不会多说。可她是个好姑娘。哦，我简直不能相信。” 　　巴纳德太太开始抽泣起来。 　　“镇静点，老伴。振作一点。”她丈夫劝解道，“我们快回答完了。” 　　“我想唐纳德永远也——永远也——”巴纳德太太哭泣着说。 　　“现在你该振作点。”巴纳德先生重复道。 　　“我但愿能给你些帮助，可事实上我一无所知，我一无所知，也无法帮助你们找到那个该死的恶棍。贝蒂是个可爱的、快乐的姑娘——她与那个正派的年轻人来往，这使我们回忆起我们自己年轻时代。令我感到伤心的是，有谁会去谋害她呢，这实在是令人费解。” 　　“你已经如实相告，巴纳德先生。”克罗姆说，“我想告诉你我想干什么——想去看看巴纳德小【蟹】姐的房间。那儿也许会有信件什么的——或是日记本。” 　　“请过去看吧。”巴纳德先生说，站起身来。 　　他带路，克罗姆跟随他，然后是波洛，随后是凯尔西，我殿后。 　　我停了一会儿来系上鞋带，就在这时候，一辆出租车在门口停了下来，车内下来一个姑娘，她付钱给司机后，匆忙向房子这边走来，手中提着一只箱子。她进门时见到我，便愣在那儿。 　　“你是谁？”她说。 　　我下了几个台阶，我感到烦恼，不只如何来回答。我要报以大名吗？或是说我是同警方一起来的。这个姑娘却没有时间供我作决定。 　　“哦，”她说，“我也猜得出来。” 　　她摘下带着的白色小羊皮帽，扔在地上。她转了转身，光照在她身上，我现在可以更清晰的看到她。 　　她给我的第一印象是小时候我的姐妹们玩耍的荷兰娃娃。她头发乌黑，前额留剪成直直的短刘海。她的颧骨很高，整个身体形态是一种怪异的现代式的僵硬，然而挺吸引人的。她长的不怎么漂亮，相当平庸，可她身上有一种强烈的东西，有股说服力，使人没有办法忽略她。 　　“你是巴纳德小【蟹】姐？”我问。 　　“我是梅甘·巴纳德。我想，你是警察局的？” 　　“哦，”我说，“也不完全是——” 　　她打断我的话。 　　“我认为我没什么可告诉你的。我妹妹是个美丽聪明的女孩子，她没有男朋友，早上好！” 　　她说话时简短地冲我一笑，挑战性地注视着我。 　　“我相信，这个说法很准确。”她说。 　　“我可不是记者，如果你那样认为的话。” 　　“那么你是谁？”她环顾四周，“妈和爸在哪儿？” 　　“你父亲正在带警察看你妹妹的房间。你母亲进屋去了，她很难过。” 　　姑娘看来象是作了个决定。 　　“到这边来吧。”她说。 　　她拉开一扇门，走了进去。我跟着她，发现自己很快置身于一间小巧、洁净的厨房之中。 　　我试图关上身后的门，却意想不到地遇到阻力。波洛平静地闪进屋来，并掩上身后的门。 　　“巴纳德小【蟹】姐？”他迅速鞠躬说。 　　“这位是赫尔克里·波洛。”我说。 　　梅甘·巴纳德快速地打量了她一眼，心里在嘀咕着。 　　“我听说过你，”她说，“你是位很风光的私人侦探，不是吗？” 　　“这个描绘可不太漂亮，但也足够了。”波洛说。 　　姑娘在厨房桌边坐下，她从包中摸出一支烟放在唇间点燃，然后在两口烟之间开口说： 　　“我真不明白，赫尔克里·波洛先生在我们这样一件卑劣的小案子中能做些什么？” 　　“小【蟹】姐，”波洛说，“你我都不明白的事情可能比比皆是。可所有这一切都并不重要，重要的是那些不容易被发现的情况。” 　　“那会是些什么？” 　　“小【蟹】姐，死亡能非常不幸地产生偏见。对死去的人往往会存在有利的偏见。刚才我听你对我的朋友黑斯廷斯说‘她是个美丽聪明的女孩子，而且没有男朋友。’你是在嘲笑那些报纸。但事实确实如此，当一个姑娘死了的时候，那些就是要说的话。她很聪明，她很快活，她脾气温和，她在世上毫无烦恼，她没有讨厌的熟人。对死者而言，人们总会宽容大度。你知道我此刻想做什么吗？我想找到一个了解伊丽莎白·巴纳德但并不知道她已经死去的人！然后我才有可能会听到一些有用之词——真相。” 　　梅甘·巴纳德抽着烟，静望了他几分钟，然后，最终她发言了。她的话语使我大吃一惊。 　　“贝蒂，”她说道，“是个十足的小傻瓜。” 、 Chapter 11 MEGAN BARNARD As I said, Megan Barnard's words, and still more the crisp businesslike tone in which they were uttered, made me jump. Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely. "A la bonne heure," he said. "You are intelligent, mademoiselle." Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone: "I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn't blind me from seeing exactly the kind of silly little fool she was - and even telling her so upon occasion! Sisters are like that." "And did she pay any attention to your advice?" "Probably not," said Megan cynically. "Will you, mademoiselle, be precise." The girl hesitated for a minute or two. Poirot said with a slight smile: "I will help you. I heard what you said to Hastings. That your sister was a bright, happy girl with no men friends. It was - un peu - the opposite that was true, was it not?" Megan said slowly: "There wasn't any harm in Betty. I want you to understand that. She'd always go straight. She's not the week-ending kind. Nothing of that sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and - oh, cheap flattery and compliments and all that sort of thing." "And she was pretty - yes?" This question, the third time I had heard it, met this time with a practical response. Megan slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it open and extracted something which she handed to Poirot. In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smiling girl. Her hair had evidently recently been permed; it stood out from her head in a mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile was arch and artificial. It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it had an obvious and cheap prettiness. Poirot handed it back, saying: "You and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle." "Oh, I'm the plain one of the family. I've always known that." She seemed to brush aside the fact as unimportant. "In what way exactly do you consider your sister was behaving foolishly? Do you mean perhaps, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?" "That's it, exactly. Don's a very quiet sort of person - but he - well, naturally he'd resent certain things - and then -" "And then what, mademoiselle?" His eyes were on her very steadily. It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated a second before answering. "I afraid that he might - chuck her altogether. And that would have been a pity. He's a very steady and hard-working man and would have made her a good husband." Poirot continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance but returned it with one of her own equally steady and with something else in it - something that reminded me of her first defiant, disdainful manner. "So it is like that," he said at last. "We do not speak the truth any longer." She shrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door. "Well," she said, "I've done what I could to help you." Poirot's voice arrested her. "Wait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back." Rather unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed. Somewhat to my surprise Poirot plunged into the whole story of the letters, the murder at Andover, and the railway guide found by the victims. He had no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her lips parted, her eyes gleaming, she hung on his words. "Is this all true, M. Poirot?" "Yes, it is true." "You really mean my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal maniac?" "Precisely." She drew a deep breath. "Oh! Betty - Betty - How - how ghastly!" "You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you can give freely without wondering whether or not it will hurt any one." "Yes, I see that now." "Then let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea that this Donald Fraser has, perhaps, a violent and jealous temper, is that right?" Megan Barnard said quietly: "I'm trusting you now, M. Poirot. I'm going to give you the absolute truth. Don is, as I say, a very quiet person - a bottled-up person if you know what I mean. He can't always express what he feels in words. But underneath it all he minds things terribly. And he's got a jealous nature. He was always jealous of Betty. He was devoted to her - and of course she was very fond of him, but it wasn't in Betty to be fond of one person and not notice anybody else. She wasn't made that way. She'd got a - well, an eye for any nice-looking man who'd pass the time of day with her. And of course, working in the Ginger Cat, she was always running up against men - especially in the summer holidays. She was always very pat with her tongue and if they chaffed her she'd chaff back again. And then perhaps she'd meet them and go to the pictures or something like that. Nothing serious - never anything of that kind - but she just liked her fun. She used to say that as she'd got to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her fun now while she could." Megan paused and Poirot said: "I understand. Continue." "It was just that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn't understand. If she was really keen on him he couldn't see why she wanted to go out with other people. And once or twice they had flaming big rows about it." "M. Don, he was no longer quiet?" "It's like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers they lose them with a vengeance. Don was so violent that Betty was frightened." "When was this? "There was one row nearly a year ago and another - a worse one - just over a month ago. I was home for the weekend - and I got them to patch it up again, and it was then that I tried to knock a little sense into Betty - told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that there hadn't been any harm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all the same she was riding for a fall. You see, after the row a year ago, she'd got into the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that what the mind doesn't know the heart doesn't grieve over. This last flare-up came because she'd told Don she was going to Hastings to see a girl pal and he found out that she'd really been over to Eastbourne with some man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he'd been a bit secretive about the business anyway - and so that made it worse. They had an awful scene - Betty saying that she wasn't married to him yet and she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Don all white and shaking and saying that one day - one day -" "Yes?" "He'd commit murder -" said Megan in a lowered voice. She stopped and stared at Poirot. He nodded his head gravely several times. "And so, naturally, you were afraid..." "I didn't think he'd actually done it - not for a minute! But I was afraid it might be brought up - the quarrel and all that he'd said - several people knew about it." Again Poirot nodded his head gravely. "Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egotistical vanity of a killer, that is just what would have happened. If Donald Fraser escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A.B.C.'s maniacal boasting." He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: "Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man, lately?" Megan shook her head. "I don't know. I've been away, you see." "But what do you think?" "She mayn't have met that particular man again. He'd probably sheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn't surprise me if Betty had - well, been telling Don a few lies again. You see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don couldn't afford to take her all the time." "If so, is she likely to have confided in any one? The girl at the cafй, for instance?" "I don't think that's likely. Betty couldn't bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn't the confiding sort anyway." An electric bell trilled sharply above, the girl's head. She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head sharply. "It's Don." "Bring him in here," said Poirot quickly. "I would like a word with him before our good inspector takes him in hand." Like a flash Megan Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand. 第十一章　梅甘·巴纳德 　　正如我所言，梅甘·巴纳德的话，仍然带着干脆得体的事务性的口吻，着实令我大吃一惊。 　　然而，波洛仅仅是庄重地鞠一下头。 　　“A la bonne heure①，”他说道，“你真是很精明，小【蟹】姐。” 　　①法文，意为：在那个时刻。——译注。 　　梅甘·巴纳德仍然以一成不变的超然语气说： 　　“我非常喜欢贝蒂，但这并不能使我盲目到看不出她是那种小傻瓜——我有时甚至这样对她说‘姐妹之间就是这样子的。’” 　　“她是否理睬你的建议呢？” 　　“可能没有吧。”梅甘带着讥讽味说。 　　“小【蟹】姐，你可以准确点说。” 　　姑娘犹豫了一两分钟。 　　波洛带着一丝笑意说： 　　“我会帮助你的。我听到你刚才对黑斯廷斯说的话，说你妹妹是个聪明、快活的姑娘，没有男朋友。这是——有点，要反过来说才对吧，不是吗？” 　　梅甘慢吞吞说： 　　“贝蒂并没有什么危害，我希望你能了解这一点。她为人正直，才不是乐于过周末的那种人，她从不做那种事。可她喜欢受人邀请外出和跳舞，喜欢廉价的奉承和赞美之词，诸如此类。” 　　“她很漂亮，是吗？” 　　这句问话，我已经是第三次听见，这次得到了明确的答复。 　　梅甘离开桌子，走向她的箱子，啪地一声打开箱子，取出一件物品并交给波洛。 　　在皮质的相框中是位头发漂亮、微笑着的姑娘。头发很明显刚刚烫过，以一堆鬈曲的形状从她头上生长出来。她脸上的微笑挺调皮和矫揉造作。那显然不是一张你可称之为美丽的脸，但它却带着明显和廉价的亮丽。 　　波洛把相架递回去，同时说： 　　“你和她长得并不像，小【蟹】姐。” 　　“哦！我在这家里是长相平常的。我很清楚。”她看来象是把这个事实摆到一边，显得并不重要。 　　“究竟在哪些方面你认为你妹妹行事愚蠢？也许，你是指她与唐纳德·弗雷泽先生交往？” 　　“确实事。唐是那种极度安静的人，可他——哦，自然他也会对某些事情不满，然后——” 　　“然后怎么样，小【蟹】姐？” 　　他的眼睛稳稳地盯着她。 　　这可能只是我的臆想——她看来有些犹豫，过了一会才回答说： 　　“我恐怕她会放弃她，而那样就会是个遗憾。他是位非常稳重、勤劳的人，肯定会成为一个好丈夫。” 　　波洛继续凝视着她。在他的目光注视之下，她并没有满脸通红，而是回报以同样的沉着和冷静——这使我想起她起先那挑战性的倨傲神态。 　　“所以事情就是如此，”他终于说，“我们不想再谈真相。” 　　她耸耸肩膀，转身向着门那边。 　　“哦，”她说，“我已经尽我所能来帮助你。” 　　波洛的主意抑制了她。 　　“等一下，小【蟹】姐，有些事我要告诉你，请回来。” 　　我看出来，她是极不情愿地停住了脚。 　　令我惊讶的是，波洛投入地讲出ABC信件的整个故事，安多弗谋杀案，以及在尸体旁边发现的铁路指南书。 　　他毫无理由抱怨她对此是缺乏兴趣。她双唇分离，两眼发亮，有些着急地问他。 　　“这些全都是真的吗，波洛先生？” 　　“是的，全是真的。” 　　“你是说我妹妹真的是被某个杀人狂谋害的？” 　　“正是这样。” 　　她深深地吸了一口气。 　　“哦，贝蒂，贝蒂，这太恐怖了。” 　　“你看，小【蟹】姐，你不用顾虑是否会伤害别人，就该毫不费劲地提供我想了解的情况。” 　　“是的，我现在明白了。” 　　“让我们继续谈话。我已形成了这样的观点，那位唐纳德·弗雷泽可能会是个脾气狂暴和嫉妒的人，对吗？” 　　梅甘·巴纳德安静地说： 　　“我现在相信你，波洛先生。我会告诉你千真万确的事实。如我所言，唐是个极其安静的人——是个挺封闭的人，如果你理解我的话。他通常无法用语言来表达思想感受，可在这一切之后，他对待事物的态度又极其糟糕。他生性好嫉妒，他总是嫉妒贝蒂。他全身心地爱着她——当然她也非常喜欢他，可贝蒂不仅仅只喜欢一个人而不留意其他人，她本来就不是这样的。嗯，他留意于那些长相优雅、能陪伴她的男人。当然，在黄猫餐厅，她总可以遭遇到一些男人——尤其是在夏日的假期。她总是辞令锋利，如果那些人对她浑言趣语，她也一定会诮语相对。然后她可能会同他们约会，去看看电影或做些别的。没什么大不了的事——从没有那种事——可她只是喜欢以此为乐。她总说有一天她会与唐安定地生活，但只要在能够的时候，她会同样像现在一样向了。” 　　梅甘停住口，波洛说： 　　“我理解。请继续讲吧。” 　　“唐无法理解的是她的行为方式。如果她对他真是专一投入，那么他就无法明白她为何还要与其他人外出。有一两次他们为这件事还大吵特吵。” 　　“那位唐先生，他再也不会平心静气了？” 　　“就像所有那些安静的人那样，当他们要发脾气时，他们会大发雷霆。唐显得那么暴躁，连贝蒂都吓坏了。” 　　“那是什么时候的事？” 　　“大约一年前吵过一次，另一次则吵得更凶——仅是在一个月以前。我当时回家过周末。我使他们尽量平息下来，那时我试图让贝蒂有点脑子——跟她说她真的有点傻。她会说那没什么可怕的。哦，那倒也挺对的，可她还是会招致危害。你看，在一年前的那次吵架之后，她已形成了一种习惯，不时根据信手拈来、无伤大雅的原则撒几个有用的小谎。由于她告诉唐她要去哈斯丁看一位女朋友，可他却发现她实际上是与某些男人——一同去了伊斯特本。这场喧闹终于来临。由于以订婚，他是个已婚男人，他对这件事总有点守口如瓶，这恰恰使事情变得更加糟糕。他们吵架的情形挺可怕的——贝蒂声称她还没有与他结婚，有权同她乐意的人外出。唐则满脸苍白，气得颤抖，扬言有朝一日，有朝一日……” 　　“什么？” 　　“他会杀了她——”梅甘低声说道。 　　她停下话，盯着波洛。 　　他阴沉地点了几下头。 　　“因而，自然，你担心……” 　　“我倒是认为他不会真动手的，一点也不这么认为。可我倒是恐怕这些——吵架和他所说的话，会被翻出来，许多人都知道那事。” 　　波洛再次阴沉地点头。 　　“就这样吧。小【蟹】姐，我想说，要不是凶手那自私自利的虚荣心，那倒可能是发生的一切。如果唐纳德·弗雷泽得以脱离嫌疑，那倒要归功于ABC狂躁的吹嘘。”他沉默了一会儿，随即说： 　　“你是否知道你妹妹最近跟某个已婚男人或其他什么人见过面？” 　　梅甘摇头否认。 　　“我不清楚。你知道，我不在这里住。” 　　“那你有什么想法吗？” 　　“她可能没再见过那个人。他可能觉得会有争吵，就避开了，但如果贝蒂又向唐撒了一些谎的话，我丝毫不会感到奇怪。你知道，她确实喜欢跳舞和看电影，而唐则当然无法从头至尾地说她出入那些地方。” 　　“如果是这样的话，她是否会向别人吐露心思？比方说，那个在餐厅做事的姑娘？” 　　“我认为那不大像。贝蒂无法接纳那个希格利姑娘。她认为她平庸，而其他的姑娘又是新来的。贝蒂可不是那种倾吐衷肠的人。” 　　姑娘头上端的电铃尖利地叫响。 　　她走到窗前，侧身向外张望。她又敏捷地撤回来。 　　“是唐……” 　　“叫他进了吧。”波洛迅速地说道，“我想在警督碰到他之前同他谈谈话。” 　　梅甘·巴纳德疾闪出厨房，数秒钟后她手曳着唐纳德·弗雷泽回屋来。 Chapter 12 DONALD FRASER I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had. He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high cheekbones and flaming red hair. "What's this, Megan?" he said. "Why in here? For God's sake, tell me - I've only just heard - Betty..." His voice trailed away. Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it. My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said: "Drink some of this, Mr. Fraser. It will do you good." The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a little colour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled. "It's true, I suppose?" he said. "Betty is - dead - killed?" "It's true, Don." He said as though mechanically: "Have you just come down from London? "Yes. Dad phoned me." "By the 9:20, I suppose?" said Donald Fraser. His mind, shrinking from reality, ran for safety along these unimportant details. "Yes." There was silence for a minute or two, then Fraser said: "The police? Are they doing anything?" "They're upstairs now. Looking through Betty's things, I suppose." "They've no idea who -? They don't know -?" He stopped. He had all a sensitive, shy person's dislike of putting violent facts into words. Poirot moved forward a little and asked a question. He spoke in a business-like, matter-of-fact voice as though what he asked was an unimportant detail. "Did Miss Barnard tell you where she was going last night?" Fraser replied to the question. He seemed to be speaking mechanically. "She told me she was going with a girl friend to St. Leonards." "Did you believe her?" "I -" Suddenly the automaton came to life. "What the devil do you mean?" His face then, menacing, convulsed by sudden passion, made me understand that a girl might well be afraid of rousing his anger. Poirot said crisply: "Betty Barnard was killed by a homicidal murderer. Only by speaking the exact truth can you help us to get on his track." His glance for a minute turned to Megan. "That's right, Don," she said. "It isn't a time for considering one's own feelings or any one else's. You've got to come clean." Donald Fraser looked suspiciously at Poirot. "Who are you? You don't belong to the police?" "I am better than the police," said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact. "Tell him," said Megan. Donald Fraser capitulated. "I - wasn't sure," he said. "I believed her when she said it. Never thought of doing anything else. Afterwards - perhaps it was something in her manner. I - I, well, I began to wonder." "Yes?" said Poirot. He had sat down opposite Donald Fraser. His eyes, fixed on the other man's, seemed to be exercising a mesmeric spell. "I was ashamed of myself for being so suspicious. But - but I was suspicious... I thought of going down to the front and watching her when she left the cafй. I actually went there. Then I felt I couldn't do that. Betty would see me and she'd be angry. She'd realize at once that I was watching her." "What did you do?" "I went over to St. Leonards. Got over there by eight o'clock. Then I watched the buses - to see if she were in them. But there was no sign of her..." "And then?" "I - I lost my head rather. I was convinced she was with some man. I thought it probable he had taken her in his car to Hastings. I went on there - looked in hotels and restaurants, hung round cinemas - went on the pier. All damn foolishness. Even if she was there I was unlikely to find her, and anyway, there were heaps of other places he might have taken her to instead of Hastings." He stopped. Precise as his tone had remained, I caught an undertone of that blind, bewildering misery and anger that had possessed him at the time he described. "In the end I gave it up - came back." "At what time?" "I don't know. I walked. It must have been midnight or after when I got home -" "Then - " The kitchen door opened. "Oh, there you are," said Inspector Kelsey. Inspector Crome pushed past him, shot a glance at Poirot and a glance at the two strangers. "Miss Megan Barnard and Mr. Donald Fraser," said Poirot, introducing them. "This is Inspector Crome from London," he explained. Turning to the inspector, he said: "While you pursued your investigations upstairs I have been conversing with Miss Barnard and Mr. Fraser, endeavouring if I could to find something that will throw light upon the matter." "Oh, yes?" said Inspector Crome, his thoughts not upon Poirot but upon the two newcomers. Poirot retreated to the hall. Inspector Kelsey said kindly as he passed: "Get anything?" But his attention was distracted by his colleague and he did not wait for a reply. I joined Poirot in the hall. "Did anything strike you, Poirot?" I inquired. "Only the amazing magnanimity of the murderer, Hastings." I had not the courage to say that I had not the least idea what he meant. 第十二章　唐纳德·弗雷泽 　　我立刻对这个年轻人感到难过起来。他的脸苍白憔悴，双眼迷惑不解，显现出他刚遭受过多么沉重的打击。 　　这个年轻人体格健壮，外貌帅气，身高近六尺，虽然并不是十分英俊，可长着一张友善、带有雀斑点的脸，他颧骨高突，留着火红色的头发。 　　“这是怎么回事，梅甘？”他说，“干吗要到这里来？看在上帝的份上，告诉我吧，我刚听说——贝蒂……” 　　他的语音渐渐减弱下去。 　　波洛把一把椅子推向前，年轻人坐了上去。 　　我的朋友从口袋中取出一个小酒瓶，把一些就倒进了挂在食品柜上的一只酒杯，说道： 　　“喝一点吧，弗雷泽先生。它对你会有好处。” 　　年轻人照此办理。白兰地使他的脸重新又有了些颜色。他坐直身子，再一次转向那姑娘，神态相当平静和自控。 　　“我想，这是真的？”他说，“贝蒂，死了，——被人谋杀？” 　　“这是真的，唐。” 　　他还是机械地说道： 　　“你刚从伦敦赶来吗？” 　　“是的，是我爸爸打电话通知我的。” 　　“他是在九点半的时候打的吧，我想？”唐纳德·弗雷泽说。 　　他的思绪远离实情，平静地关注这些无关紧要的细节。 　　“是的。” 　　沉默了片刻之后，弗雷泽说道： 　　“是警察吗？他们在做些什么？” 　　“他们正在楼上。我想是在检查贝蒂的物品。” 　　“他们不知道是谁……？他们不知道……？” 　　他停滞下来。 　　他敏感、害羞，有着这一类人的全部憎恶，厌倦把残暴的事实溢于言表。 　　波洛把身体向前稍作挪动，提了个问题。他是在用一种事务性的、务实的语气说话，尽管他询问的话题是个毫不重要的细节。 　　“巴纳德小【蟹】姐是否告诉过你，昨天晚上她去了哪里？” 　　弗雷泽回答问话，他看起来像是在机械地说话： 　　“她告诉我她将同一位女朋友去圣莱奥娜兹。” 　　“你是否相信她的话？” 　　“我，——”突然间，这个动作机械的人醒悟过来，“你究竟是什么意思？” 　　他面露威胁，因猛然的愤慨而痉挛，这是我相信姑娘会挺怕激惹他发怒的。 　　波洛干脆地说： 　　“贝蒂·巴纳德是被一个杀人犯所谋害。你只有告诉我们实情，才能有助于我们逮捕他。” 　　他的眼光转向梅甘，停了一会。 　　唐纳德·弗雷泽怀疑地望着波洛。 　　“你是谁？你不是警方的人吗？” 　　“我比警察要更好一点。”波洛说道，他说话的时候不夹带着有意识的狂妄。对他而言，这仅是简单的事实陈述。 　　“告诉他吧。”梅甘说。 　　唐纳德.弗雷泽收敛起敌意。 　　“我，——可不太确信。”他说道，“我相信她说的话，从未想到过要再做些别的什么。随后，也许她的行为有些什么意思，我，我开始有点困惑。” 　　“是吗？”波洛说。 　　他面对唐纳德·弗雷泽坐着，他的双眼紧盯着另外这个人的眼睛，像是在经历着片刻的催眠。 　　“我对自己的疑心重重感到羞愧，可是——我确实感到怀疑……我想到过要直来直往，在她离开餐厅的时侯去看看她。我确实去了那儿，然后我觉得自己不能那样做。贝蒂会看见我，她会生气的，她马上就会意识到我在盯梢。” 　　“那你做了什么呢？” 　　“我去了圣莱奥娜兹，大约八点光景到那地方。然后我去察看公共汽车，想发现她是否在车中……可她毫无踪影……” 　　“然后呢？” 　　“我便慌乱不知所措。我相信她一定是与什么男人在一起。我想拿人开车带她去了哈斯丁。我就赶去那里，在旅馆、饭店进行查询，在电影院游逛，我还去了码头。那全是些愚蠢的做法。即使她就在那儿，我看来也无法找到她。然而，他可以带她去一大堆别的地方，而不是哈斯丁。” 　　他收住口。正如他的话音一样清晰，我分辨出他话语之中所隐含的那种盲然、迷惑的痛苦与愤怒。在他开口畅言时，这些情绪拥裹着他。 　　“最终我放弃了，便回家来。” 　　“是在什么时间？” 　　“我不知道，我是步行的，到家时应该是午夜或更晚一点。” 　　“随后——” 　　厨房门被人推开。 　　“噢，你们在这里。”凯尔西警督说。 　　克罗姆警督推身走过他，看了一眼波洛，也瞥了一眼陌生人。 　　“这是梅甘·巴纳德小【蟹】姐和唐纳德·弗雷泽先生。”波洛介绍他们。 　　“这位是从伦敦来的克罗姆警督。”他解释道。 　　他转向警督说道： 　　“当你在楼上进行例行检查时，我同巴纳德小【蟹】姐和弗雷泽先生交谈，尽力想弄清楚是否我能为此案找到一些亮光。” 　　“哦，是吗？”克罗姆警督说，他此时的思维并没有集中在波洛身上，而在那位新来者身上。 　　波洛退回到客厅里，他通过时，凯尔西警督好言说道： 　　“发生什么没有？” 　　可他的注意力被他的同事所烦扰，他并没有等候答复。 　　我也随波洛来到客厅。 　　“有什么东西激发了你吗，波洛？”我询问道。 　　“只有凶手那好笑的宽宏大量，黑色廷斯。” 　　我毫无勇气来表示，我其实一点也没弄懂他是什么意思。

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？

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 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……