[table=500,#ffffff,#000000,2][tr][td][align=center][attachment=11778783][/align]
[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]

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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。

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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 star

[content too large, truncated for display]

[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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)枪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�

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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 rou

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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

[content too large, truncated for display]

[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]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 fro

[content too large, truncated for display]

[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]Chapter 23

SEPTEMBER 11TH, DONCASTER



Doncaster!

I shall, I think, remember that 11th of September all my life.

Indeed, whenever I see a mention of the St. Leger my mind flies automatically not to horse-racing but to murder.

When I recall my own sensations, the thing that stands out most is a sickening sense of insufficiency. We were here - on the spot - Poirot, myself, Clarke, Fraser, Megan Barnard, Thora Grey and Mary Drower, and in the last resort what could any of us do?

We were building on a forlorn hope on the chance of recognizing amongst a crowd of thousands of people a face or figure imperfectly seen on an occasion one, two or three months back.

The odds were in reality greater than that. Of us all, the only person likely to make such a recognition was Thora Grey.

Some of her serenity had broken down under the strain. Her callous efficient manner was gone. She sat twisting her hands together and weeping, appealing incoherently to Poirot.

"I never really looked at him... Why didn't I? What a fool I was. You're depending on me, all of you... and I shall let you down. Because even if I did see him again I mightn't recognize him. I've got bad memory for faces."

Poirot, whatever he might say to me, and however harshly he might seem to criticize the girl, showed nothing but kindness now. His manner was tender in the extreme. It struck me that Poirot was no more indifferent to beauty in distress than I was.

He patted her shoulder kindly.

"Now then, petite, not the hysteria. We cannot have that. If you should see this man you would recognize him."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, a great many reasons - for one, because the red succeeds the black."

"What do you mean, Poirot?" I cried.

"I speak the language of the tables. At roulette there may be a long run on the black - but in the end red must turn up. It is the mathematical laws of chance."

"You mean that luck turns?"

"Exactly, Hastings. And that is where the gambler (and the murderer, who is, after all, only a supreme kind of gambler since what he risks is not his money but his life) often lacks intelligent anticipation. Because he has won he thinks he will continue to win! He does not leave the tables in good time with his pockets full. So in crime the murderer who is successful cannot conceive the possibility of not being successful! He takes to himself all the credit for a successful performance - but I tell you, my friends, however carefully planned - no crime can be successful without luck!"

"Isn't that going rather far?" demurred Franklin Clarke.

Poirot waved his hands excitedly.

"No, no. It is an even chance, if you like, but it must be in your favour. Consider! It might have happened that some one enters Mrs. Ascher's shop just as the murderer is leaving. That person might have thought of looking behind the counter, have seen the dead woman - and either laid hands on the murderer straight away or else been able to give such an accurate description of him to the police that he would have been arrested forthwith."

"Yes, of course, that's possible," admitted Clarke. "What it comes to is that a murderer's got to take a chance."

"Precisely. A murderer is always a gambler. And, like many gamblers, a murderer often does not know when to stop. With each crime his opinion of his own abilities is strengthened. His sense of proportion is warped. He does not say, 'I have been clever and lucky!' No, he says only, 'I have been clever!' And his opinion of his cleverness grows... nd then, mes amis, the ball spins, and the run of colour is over - it drops into a new number and the croupier calls out 'Rouge.'"

"You think that will happen in this case?" asked Megan, drawing her brows together in a frown.

"It must happen sooner or later! So far the luck has been with the criminal - sooner or later it must turn and be with us. I believe that it has turned! The clue of the stockings is the beginning. Now, instead of everything going right for him, everything will go wrong for him! And he, too, will begin to make mistakes..."

"I will say you're heartening," said Franklin Clarke. "We all need a bit of comfort. I've had a paralyzing feeling of helplessness ever since I woke up."

"It seems to me highly problematical that we can accomplish anything of practical value," said Donald Fraser.

Megan rapped out:

"Don't be a defeatist, Don."

Mary Drower, flushing up a little, said:

"What I say is, you never know. That wicked fiend's in this place, and so are we - and after all, you do run up against people in the funniest way sometimes."

I fumed:

"If only we could do something more."

"You must remember, Hastings, that the police are doing everything reasonably possible. Special constables have been enrolled. The good Inspector Crome may have the irritating manner, but he is a very able police officer, and Colonel Anderson, the Chief Constable, is a man of action. They have taken the fullest measures for watching and patrolling the town and the race-course. There will be plain clothes men everywhere. There is also the press campaign. The public is fully warned."

Donald Fraser shook his head.

"He'll never attempt it, I'm thinking," he said more hopefully. "The man would just be mad!"

"Unfortunately," said Clarke dryly, "he is mad! What do you think, M. Poirot? Will he give it up or will he try to carry it through?"

"In my opinion the strength of his obsession is such that he must attempt to carry out his promise! Not to do so would he to admit failure, and that his insane egoism would never allow. That, I may say, is also Dr. Thompson's opinion. Our hope is that he may he caught in the attempt."

Donald shook his head again.

"He'll be very cunning."

Poirot glanced at his watch. We took the hint. It had been agreed that we were to make an all day session of it, patrolling as many streets as possible in the morning, and later, stationing ourselves at various likely points on the racecourse.

I say "we." Of course, in my own case such a patrol was of little avail since I was never likely to have set eyes on A.B.C. However, as the idea was to separate so as to cover as wide an area as possible I had suggested that I should act as escort to one of the ladies.

Poirot had agreed - I am afraid with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye.

The girls went off to get their hats on. Donald Fraser was standing by the window looking out, apparently lost in thought.

Franklin Clarke glanced over at him, then evidently deciding that the other was too abstracted to count as a listener, he lowered his voice a little and addressed Poirot.

"Look here, M. Poirot. You went down to Churston, I know, and saw my sister-in-law. Did she say - or hint - I mean - did she suggest at all -?"

He stopped, embarrassed.

Poirot answered with a face of blank innocence that aroused my strongest suspicions.

"Comment? Did your sister-in-law say, hint or suggest - what?"

Franklin Clarke got rather red.

"Perhaps you think this isn't a time for butting in with personal things -"

"Du tout!"

"But I feel I'd like to get things quite straight."

"An admirable course."

This time I think Clarke began to suspect Poirot's bland face of concealing some inner amusement. He ploughed on rather heavily.

"My sister-in-law's an awfully nice woman - I've been very fond of her always - but of course she's been ill some time - and in that kind of illness - being given drugs and all that - one tends to - well to fancy things about people!"

"Ah!"

By now there was no mistaking the twinkle in Poirot's eye. But Franklin Clarke, absorbed in his diplomatic task, was past noticing it. "It's about Thora - Miss Grey," he said.

"Oh, it is of Miss Grey you speak?" Poirot's tone held innocent surprise.

"Yes. Lady Clarke got certain ideas in her head. You see, Thora - Miss Grey is well, rather a good-looking girl -"

"Perhaps - yes," conceded Poirot.

"And women are, even the best of them, a bit catty about other women. Of course, Thora was invaluable to my brother - he always said she was the best secretary he ever had - and he was very fond of her, too. But it was all perfectly straight and above-board. I mean, Thora isn't the sort of girl -"

"No?" said Poirot helpfully.

"But my sister-in-law got it into her head to be - well - jealous, I suppose. Not that she ever showed anything. But after Car's death, when there was a question of Miss Grey staying on - well, Charlotte cut up rough. Of course, it's partly the illness and the morphia and all that - Nurse Capstick says so - she says we mustn't blame Charlotte for getting these ideas into her head -"

He paused.

"Yes?

"What I want you to understand, M. Poirot, is that there isn't anything in it at all. It's just a sick woman's imaginings. Look here -" he fumbled in his pocket - "here's a letter I received from my brother when I was in the Malay States. I'd like you to read it because it shows exactly what terms they were on."

Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud.

- things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me that I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and a true affection.

"You see," said Franklin. "That's how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot."

"Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember."

"I know. That's what I keep saying to myself. One mustn't judge her. All the same, I thought I'd show you this. I don't want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said."

Poirot returned the letter.

"I can assure you," he said, smiling, "that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything any one tells me. I form my own judgments."

"Well," said Clarke, stowing away the letter, "I'm glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We'd better be off."

As we left the room, Poirot called me back.

"You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?"

"Oh, yes. I shouldn't be happy staying here inactive."

"There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings."

"Well, you're better at it than I am," I said.

"You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?"

"That was the idea."

"And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?"

"Well - I - er - hadn't considered yet."

"What about Miss Barnard?"

"She's rather the independent type," I demurred.

"Miss Grey?"

"Yes. She's better."

"I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently honest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!"

"Oh, really, Poirot!"

"I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere."

"Oh, all right. I think you've got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl."

"The person you are to escort is Mary Drower - and I must request you not to leave her."

"But, Poirot, why?"

"Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances."

I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched. But then I realized that if A.B.C. had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot's movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very neat fourth stroke.

I promised to be faithful to my trust.

I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window.

In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me:

"Rouge - that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!"

第二十三章　九月十一日，唐克斯特



　　唐克斯特！
　　我想，我这辈子都会记得九月十一日那天。
　　实际上，当我一遇到圣莱杰赛马被人提到时，我的心思便会自然而然地飞向谋杀案，而不是赛马。
　　当我回忆起自我的感觉，最突出的是要数那令人作呕、无所作为的感觉。我们就在此地——就在现场，波洛、我自己、克拉克、弗雷泽、梅根·巴纳德、托拉·格雷和玛丽·德劳尔。而作为最后的一种办法，我们当中的任何人又能够做什么呢？
　　我们怀着孤注一掷的期望——希望有机会能从数以千计的人群中认出一张脸或是某个人来，这个人仅仅是在一两个月以前被模糊地看到过。
　　现实中的可能性则要大得多。在我们所有人当中，唯一有可能做出确认的人是托拉·格雷。
　　在这种状况之下，她的一部分的安详宁静便崩溃了，她平日那种平静、麻利的模样消失得无影无踪。她坐在那里，双手搓绞在一起，几乎是在呜咽着哭泣，语无伦次地向波洛求助。
　　“我从没有正眼看过他……我为什么不看呢？我真是傻。你们都在依靠我，你们所有人……而我会使你们失望的。因为即便我再次见到他。我也可能已认不出他来。我对人的长相总是记不清。”
　　不管波洛会对我讲些什么，也无论他看上去像是要对那姑娘苛求责备，他现在所表现出来的只有和蔼。他的态度极端的友善温和。当身处烦恼之中的时候，波洛对漂亮姑娘的态度并不比我冷漠，这使我印象深刻。
　　他友好地拍拍她的肩膀。
　　“现在，Petite（法文，意为：小家伙。——译注），别太歇斯底里，我们可不能那样子。如果你见到这个人，你一定会认出他来的。”
　　“你怎么知道？”
　　“哦，有许多原因——其中之一，是因为红能胜过黑。”
　　“你是什么意思，波洛？”我叫道。
　　“我是在讲赌桌上的行话。在轮盘赌中黑色可能会一直运势不错，可最终红色定能倒转过来。这是数学概率。”
　　“你是说，时运会转变？”
　　“千真万确，黑斯廷斯，这就是赌徒（或凶手，由于他赌的不是金钱而是性命，他最终只是个超级赌徒）经常会缺乏预料的地方。因为他一旦得逞，便会相信他能够继续赢下去。他手气很好、口袋鼓鼓时是不会离开赌桌的。在犯罪案件当中，得逞的凶手是不会去设想那种失败的可能性的！他居功自傲。可我告诉你，我的朋友，无论经过多么周到的策划，若没有运气，是不会有罪行能够得逞的。”
　　“那是否离题太远了点？”富兰克林·克拉克反对地说。
　　波洛激动地摆摆手。
　　“不，不。如果你喜欢的话，它是一次均等的机会，可它必须对你有利。请注意！当凶手准备离开阿谢尔太太的小店时，有人也许正好进去，这是可能的事。那人可能会想起看看柜台后面，这就可能会看到那个死去的妇人——这样，他既可能马上会对凶手动手，也可能向警察准确无误地描述那人的模样，以至于他可能会立刻被逮捕。”
　　“是的，当然那很可能。”克拉克承认道，“可现在的情形是，那凶手已获得了机会。”
　　“确实如此。凶手往往就是个赌徒，而且，就像许多赌徒一样，凶手常常不知道什么时候能停下来。每经历过一次罪案，他对自己能力的判断就会得到加强，从而使之偏颇。他不会说‘我挺聪明和运气的’，不，他只会说‘我挺聪明！’他对自己聪明的认识渐渐增长。然后，mes amis（法文，意为：我的朋友们。——译注），小球便旋转，颜色会运转过去，球停在一个新的数字上，赌场的庄家便会叫出‘Rouge （法文，意为：红色。——译注）’。”
　　“你认为这种情况将在本案中出现吗？”梅根问道，她皱起眉头。
　　“它迟早肯定会发生！到目前为止，那罪犯一直运气不错——但迟早运气会转朝我们这边。我相信运气已经倒转！长统袜线索就是开端。现在，每件事都会与他做对，不会让他得心应手！而他，则开始犯错误……”
　　“我觉得你给人鼓舞，”富兰克林说，“我们大家都需要一点安慰。自醒来后，我已有了一种无助而气馁的感觉。”
　　“我看我们很难做成任何具有实际价值的事情。”唐纳德·弗雷泽说。
　　梅根粗声地说：
　　“别当一个失败主义者，唐。”
　　玛丽·德劳尔脸有点涨红，说道：
　　“我所说的话，你们永远也不会懂。那个邪恶的魔鬼就在此地，我们也同样在这里。而有的时候，你毕竟会以最离奇的方式遭遇到别人。”
　　我激动地说道：
　　“要是我们能再多做些事该多好。”
　　“你必须牢记，黑斯廷斯。警方正在极尽可能地做好每一件事，也已招募到一些拥有特殊技能的警监。那位好心的克罗姆警督可能容易发怒，可他仍是个能干的警官，而警察局长安德森上校则是个实干家。他们已经采取了最多的措施，在小镇和赛马场进行值勤和巡逻，到处都会有便衣。还有新闻宣传攻势，公众也得到了全面的警告。”
　　唐纳德·弗雷泽摇头。
　　“我在想，他是不会下手的，”他一相情愿地说，“那家伙一定会疯的。”
　　“不幸的事，”克拉克干巴巴地说，“他是个疯子！你怎么看，波洛先生？他会放弃不干，还是会铤而走险？”
　　“以我所见，他那种执迷不悟的力量会使他必须要竭力信守诺言！如果他不动手，就是在承认失败，而他那种疯狂的自我主义是永远不会放弃的。我可以说，这也是汤普森医生的观点。我们则寄希望于在他尝试时能逮住他。”
　　唐纳德再次摇摇头。
　　“他会十分狡诈的。”
　　波洛瞥了一眼手表。我们注意到了这个暗示。我们要全天都谨慎以待，上午在尽可能多的街道中巡逻。然后驻守在赛马场的众多可能的地点。
　　我说的是“我们”。当然，就我自己而言，这样的巡逻没什么大作用，因为我从未能够把眼睛盯住ABC。然而，既然这个主意是要尽可能的覆盖广阔的地盘，我便提议我还是做一位女士的护卫。
　　波洛表示同意——而我则担心他的眨眼之中藏着什么意思。
　　姑娘们带上帽子散开去。唐纳德·弗雷泽站在窗边，向外张望，显然是思绪茫然不知所措。
　　富兰克林·克拉克瞥眼看着他，明显地感觉到身边的这个男人心不在焉，听不进话。他于是降低话音，同波洛攀谈起来。
　　“瞧，波洛先生。我知道，你去了彻斯顿，见过我嫂子。她有没有说过——或是暗示——我的意思是，她有没有提起过什么事？”
　　他停住口，挺懊丧。
　　波洛显出一副单纯无知的神情，开口回答起来，这使我大生怀疑。
　　“Comment（法文，意为：什么。——译注）？你嫂子说过、暗示过或是提议过什么？”
　　富兰克林·克拉克脸色渐红。“可能你认为这并不是涉及个人事务的时机——”
　　“Du tout（法文，意为：一点也不。——译注）！”
　　“可我倒是想直接面对问题。”
　　“真是令人钦佩的理由。”
　　这一次，我想，克拉克对波洛那张温和的脸孔产生了怀疑，因为它掩饰着某种内在的欢娱。他重重地咳嗽起来。
　　“我嫂子是个很好的女人——我一直挺喜欢她的，可她时常生病。久病之人经常使用麻醉品之类的东西，往往难免会对别人胡思乱想！”
　　“噢？”
　　现在，波洛的眼神当中已没有异议。
　　但富兰克林·克拉克完全被自己的对话任务所吸引，并没有注意到这一点。
　　“那是关于托拉·格雷小、姐。”他说。
　　“哦，你是说格雷小、姐？”波洛的口气中带着纯真的惊讶。
　　“是的，克拉克女勋爵脑中有别的想法。你瞧，托拉——格雷小、姐是个挺漂亮的姑娘——”
　　“可能——是吧。”波洛承认道。
　　“而女人，即便是最优秀的女人，对其他女人总是有点恶意的。当然，托拉对我哥哥来说极其宝贵——他总说她是他见过的最好的秘书——他非常喜欢她。可这一切都是光明正大的。我的意思是，托拉不是那种姑娘——”
　　“不是吗？”波洛附和地说。
　　“可我嫂子择满脑子都是——嫉妒，我想。她到并没有显露过什么。可自从卡死后，只要格雷小、姐有什么问题——夏洛特总会发脾气。当然，这也有部分原因是由于病情和吗啡的缘故——卡普斯蒂克护士是这样讲的。她说我们不该责怪夏洛特满脑子里都塞满了这些念头。”
　　他停顿下来。
　　“是吗？”
　　“我想让你理解的是，波洛先生，那当中压根没什么事。那仅仅是一个病妇的胡思乱想。请看这里——”他在口袋中摸索，“这是我在马来群岛的时候，我哥哥给我写来的信。我希望你能读一下，以便能明白他们之间是什么关系。”
　　波洛接过信，富兰克林来到他身边，用手指指着信件，大声地朗读出信中的部分内容：
　　“——这里的情形一如既往。夏洛特的疼痛状况已有所减缓，我希望可以说是减轻了很多。你也许记得托拉·格雷？她是个可爱的姑娘，对我来说是极大的安慰。这远非我的言语可以表达。她的同情心和情趣不容怀疑的。她对美好的事物有着一种高雅的品位和鉴赏力，能与我分享对中国艺术的强烈爱好，能找到她确实是我的至幸。再没有别的姑娘能像她这样，成为我更亲近和更钟情合意的伙伴。她的生活挺辛苦的。也并不一直快乐，可我很高兴能感觉到她有一种对家庭的真正钟爱之情。”
　　“你瞧，”富兰克林说，“那就是我哥哥对她的切身感受。他把她看作女儿。而我哥哥一去世，他妻子实际上即把她逐出那所房子，这令我感觉极不公平！女人真是些恶魔，波洛先生。”
　　“请记住，你嫂子正沉浸在疾病和痛苦之中。”
　　“我知道。我也是那样告诉自己的，我们不该对她进行评论。同样，我想给你看这封信，是并不想因为克拉克女勋爵所说的任何话语，而使你对托拉产生错误的印象。”
　　波洛把信交还给他。
　　“我可以向你保证，”他笑着说，“我从不允许自己从别人告诉我的任何事物之中产生错误的印象。我有自己的判断。”
　　“好，”克拉克说，一边藏好那封信，“我很高兴还是给你看了信。姑娘们来了，我们最好离开吧。”
　　正当我们离开房间时，波洛把我叫了回来。
　　“你真的决定要一同去巡查，黑斯廷斯？”
　　“哦，是的。在这里呆着无所事事，我是不会高兴的。”
　　“思维同样可以向身体一样行动，黑斯廷斯。”
　　“哦，你在那方面做的比我要好。”我说。
　　“无可争辩，你很正确，黑斯廷斯。我提议你有意地向一位女士献殷勤，我说得对吗？”
　　“那倒是个好主意。”
　　“那你希望去陪伴那位女士呢？”
　　“哦，哦——呃——还没有考虑过。”
　　“巴纳德小、姐怎么样？”
　　“她是独立的那种人。”我反对道。
　　“格雷小、姐？”
　　“是的。她要好一些。”
　　“我发现你，黑斯廷斯，真是标新立异，尽管显而易见，你极不诚实！你早已打定主意要与你的金发天使在一起。”
　　“哦，是的，波洛。”
　　“我很抱歉搅乱你的计划，可我必须要求你另寻他人给予保护。”
　　“噢，没关系。我想你已发现那荷兰姑娘的弱点。”
　　“你要保护的姑娘是玛丽·德劳尔——而且我要你寸步不离她左右。”
　　“可是，波洛，这是为什么？”
　　“因为，我亲爱的朋友，她的姓名是以D开头的。我们不能措施任何机会。”
　　我领悟了他话语中间的含义。起初，这看来遥不可及，可随即我认识到，如果ABC 嫉妒憎恨波洛，他很可能会对波洛的行动了如指掌。在这种情况下，除掉玛丽·德劳尔会是对他最恰当不过的第四次打击。
　　我承诺要忠实于自己的责任。
　　我离屋出门，波洛则留下来，坐在窗边的椅子里。
　　在他面前是一个小型的轮盘赌的转轮。在我出门时，他拉动转轮，在我身后喊道：
　　“Rouge（法文，意为：红色。——译注）——这可是个好兆头，黑斯廷斯。运势在转变。”


Chapter 24

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)



Below his breath Mr. Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.

All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr. Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week.

The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr. Leadbetter's opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:

"Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan't starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls -"

Mr. Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn't wait till the end of a film... and to leave at this soul-stirring moment.

Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr. Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York.

And now she was boarding the train - the child in her arms... What curious trains they had in America - not at all like English trains.

Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains...

The film pursued its course to its emotional and semi-religious end. Mr. Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.

He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.

He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life.

He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon - naturally. They were all at the races. Mr. Leadbetter did not approve of racing or of playing cards or of drinking or of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures.

Every one was hurrying towards the exit. Mr. Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep - slumped down in his chair. Mr. Leadbetter felt indignant to think that any one could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on.

An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way:

"Excuse me, sir."

Mr. Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back.

There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire... little knot of people. Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep...

He hesitated and then passed out - and in so doing missed the sensation of the day - a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St. Leger at 85 to 1.

The commissionaire was saying:

"Believe you're right, sir... He's ill Why - what's the matter, sir?"

The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear.

"Blood..."

The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation.

He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat.

"Gorblimy!" he said. "It an A.B.C."

第二十四章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述）



　　利德贝特先生从喉咙里发出不耐烦的咕哝声。此刻，他的邻座正站起身来，笨拙而又步履蹒跚地经过他面前，倾斜着身子去取回他掉在前排的座位上的帽子。
　　这时，《不识燕雀》正是高潮时刻，这部悲伧美丽的影片中明星荟萃、震撼人心，利德贝特先生整个星期都在期望一睹为快。
　　那个满头金发的女英雄是由凯瑟琳·罗亚尔扮演（在利德贝特先生的心目当中，她是全世界最好的女演员），她此时正好在倾吐出一声愤怒的呐喊：
　　“决不。我将要挨饿，可是我不能挨饿。请记住这句话：燕雀不会跌落——”
　　利德贝特先生左顾右盼地摇头，极其烦恼。这些家伙！人们为什么不等到影片结尾……而要在这个扣人心弦的时刻离去。
　　噢，现在要好一些。那个恼人的男子已过去，利德贝特先生能看到画面的全景，能看到凯瑟琳·罗亚尔站在纽约范·西埃奈大厦的窗边。
　　而此时此刻，她正要登上火车——手中抱着孩子……在美国，他们那里的火车真奇怪——一点也不像英格兰的火车。
　　啊，又是史蒂夫在山中的小棚屋内……
　　电影正临近那个充满感情和半宗教色彩的结局。
　　灯光亮起，利德贝特先生满意地舒了一口气。
　　他慢慢地站起身，微微地挤挤眼睛。
　　他从不会迅即离开影院，总要花上一些时间，才能回到平乏的现实生活中来。
　　他环顾四周。今天下午自然是人头寥落，人们都在赛马场上。利德贝特先生并不赞赏赛马，也不喜欢玩牌，不嗜烟酒。这使得他有更多的经历欣赏电影。
　　每个人都在匆忙地涌向出口，利德贝特先生也准备尾随着人流。他座位前面的那个人睡着了——身体陷在座位当中。在像《不识燕雀》这样的电影上演时，居然还会有人睡着，利德贝特先生感到愤愤不平。
　　一位激怒的男子向这个睡着的人发话，他伸出的腿挡住了路：
　　“请让一下，先生。”
　　利德贝特先生已来到出口处，他回头张望。
　　那儿似乎有点骚乱。一个剧场保安……一小群人……可能他前面那个人是喝得醉死，而不是睡着了……
　　他犹豫着出门，正是这样，他错过了这一天的激情时刻——这比那匹诺特·哈夫小马在八十五匹马当中取胜还要令人激动。
　　那保安正说着：
　　“你该没事吧，先生……他病了……怎么，有什么事吗，先生？”
　　另外一个人则惊呼着抬开那人的手，检查一些红色、粘稠的污物。
　　“是血……”
　　保安员发出一声沉闷的惊叫。
　　他看到座位底下黄色物体的一角。
　　“哎呀！”他说。“那可是本ABC。”


Chapter 25

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)



Mr. Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky. A beautiful evening... A really beautiful evening... A quotation from Browning came into his head.

"God's in His heaven.

All's right with the world."

He had always been fond of that quotation.

Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn't true.

He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage.

As he entered the room, his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively - wet and red - blood...

His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something - a long, slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red...

Mr. Cust sat there a long time.

Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal.

His tongue passed feverishly over his lips...

"It isn't my fault," said Mr. Cust.

He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody - a schoolboy pleading to his schoolmaster.

He passed his tongue over his lips again...

Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve.

His eyes crossed the room to the washbasin.

A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out...

Ugh! The water was red now...

A tap on the door.

He stood there frozen into immobility - staring.

The door opened. A plump young woman - jug in hand.

"Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir."

He managed to speak then.

"Thank you. I've washed in cold "

Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin.

He said frenziedly: "I - I've cut my hand..."

There was a pause - yes, surely a very long pause - before she said: "Yes, sir."

She went out, shutting the door.

Mr. Cust stood as though turned to stone.

It had come - at last...

He listened.

Were there voices - exclamations - feet mounting the stairs?

He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart...

Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity.

He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noise as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs...

Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now?

He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers.

Mr. Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street.

Round the first corner to the right - then to the left - right again...

Dare he risk the station?

Yes - there would be crowds there - special trains - if luck were on his side he would do it all right...

If only luck were with him...

第二十五章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述）



　　卡斯特先生从王室影院中走出来，抬头望着天空。
　　这是个美丽的夜晚……一个真正美丽的夜晚……
　　他的头脑中闪过布朗宁的一句话。
　　“上帝在天国之中，世界秩序井然。”
　　他一直挺喜欢那句话的。
　　只是在有时候，他常常会感到现实并非如此……
　　他沿着街道小跑，一面冲着自己微笑，径直来到他下榻的黑天鹅旅店。
　　他登上楼梯来到房间，这是二楼的一间闷热的房间。有一间铺设地板的内院和车库已被弃之不用。
　　在他进入房间的时候，脸上的笑容突然间褪去。他衣服袖子的腕口有一处污迹。他尝试地摸了一下污迹——是湿湿的红色血迹……
　　他的手伸进口袋当中，拿出一样物品，是把细长的刀。那刀刃上同样也是粘粘的红色……
　　卡斯特先生长时间地坐着。
　　他双眼一度环视房间，像一头被擒获的野兽。
　　他的舌头不断地伸出嘴唇……
　　他再一次尝试着抚摸衣服上的袖口。
　　一分钟后，他把水从老式水壶中倒进盆里。他脱下衣服，漂洗袖口，小心地挤出水来……
　　啊！水现在变成了红色……
　　这时有人敲门。
　　他站在那里，僵直不动——眼睛盯着看。
　　门打开了。是位丰满的年轻女士，她手中拿着水壶。
　　“哦，对不起，先生。您的热水，先生。”
　　他试图开口说话。
　　“谢谢……我已用冷水洗……”
　　他怎么会那样说话？她的眼睛立刻盯向水盆。
　　他激动地说：“我——割伤了手……”
　　那里有一阵停顿——是的，的确是很漫长的一阵停顿。随后她说：“是的，先生。”
　　她走出房间，把门关上。
　　卡斯特先生站在那里，仿佛变成了一块石头。
　　他倾听着。
　　它终于来临……
　　有没有声音——惊叫——登上楼梯的脚步声？
　　除了自己的心跳之外，他什么也听不见……
　　然后，突然间，他从僵化的静止中变得活跃起来。
　　他迅速地穿上衣服，踮着脚走到门边，打开房门。那儿除了从酒吧传来的熟悉的叽喳声之外，别的什么声音也没有。他探步走下楼梯……
　　依然不见人影，那可真是运气。他在楼梯脚下停住，现在要去哪里呢？
　　他下定决心，迅速地沿着通道走去，穿过通向院子的门，走了出去。有几名司机在那里修整汽车，谈论着赛马地胜负。
　　卡斯特先生匆匆忙忙地穿过院子，来到大街上。
　　他在第一个街角向右拐——然后向左——再向右拐……
　　他敢于冒险去车站吗？
　　是的——那儿将会有人群——有特别的火车——如果运气在他这边的话，他会毫不出错地做到……
　　要是运气站在他这边的话就好了……


Chapter 26

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)



Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr. Leadbetter.

"I assure you, ins

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]Chapter 28

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)



Inspector Crome was in his office at Scotland Yard.

The telephone on his desk gave a discreet buzz and he picked it up.

"Jacobs speaking, sir. There's a young fellow come in with a story that I think you ought to hear."

Inspector Crome sighed. On an average twenty people a day turned up with so-called important information about the A.B.C. case. Some of them were harmless lunatics, some of them were well-meaning persons who genuinely believed that their information was of value. It was the duty of Sergeant Jacobs to act as a human sieve - retaining the grosser matter and passing on the residue to his superior.

"Very well, Jacobs," said Crome. "Send him along."

A few minutes later there was a tap on the inspector's door and Sergeant Jacobs appeared, ushering in a tall, moderately good-looking young man.

"This is Mr. Tom Hartigan, sir. He's got something to tell us which may have a possible bearing on the A.B.C. case."

The inspector rose pleasantly and shook hands.

"Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan. Sit down, won't you? Smoke? Have a cigarette?"

Tom Hartigan sat down awkwardly and looked with some awe at what he called in his own mind "one of the bigwigs." The appearance of the inspector vaguely disappointed him. He looked quite an ordinary person.

"Now then," said Crome. "You've got something to tell us that you think may have a bearing on the case. Fire ahead."

Tom began nervously.

"Of course it may be nothing at all. It's just an idea of mine. I may be wasting your time."

Again, Inspector Crome sighed imperceptibly. The amount of time he had to waste in reassuring people!

"We're the best judge of that. Let's have the facts, Mr. Hartigan."

"Well, it's like this, sir. I've got a young lady, you see, and her mother lets rooms. Up Camden Town way. Their second floor back has been let for over a year to a man called Cust."

"Cust - eh?"

"That's right, sir. A sort of middle-aged bloke what's rather vague and soft - and come down in the world a bit, I should say. Sort of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly, you'd say - and I'd never of dreamed of anything being wrong if it hadn't been for something rather odd."

In a somewhat confused manner and repeating himself once or twice, Tom described his encounter with Mr. Cust at Euston Station and the incident of the dropped ticket.

"You see, sir, look at it how you will, it's funny like. Lily, that's my young lady, sir - she was quite positive that it was Cheltenham he said, and her mother says the same - says she remembers distinct talking about it the morning he went off. Of course, I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. Lily - my young lady said as how she hoped he wouldn't cop it for this A.B.C. fellow going to Doncaster - and then she says it's rather a coincidence because he was down Churston way at the time of the last crime. Laughing like, I asks her whether he was at Bexhill the time before, and she says she don't know where he was, but he was away at the seaside - that she does know. And then I said to her it would be odd if he was the A.B.C. himself and she said poor Mr. Cust wouldn't hurt a fly - and that was all at the time. We didn't think no more about it. At least, in a sort of way I did, sir, underneath like. I began wondering about this Cust fellow and thinking that, after all, harmless as he seemed, he might be a bit batty."

Tom took a breath and then went on. Inspector Crome was listening intently now.

"And then after the Doncaster murder, sir, it was in all the papers that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a certain A.B. Case or Cash, and it gave a description that fitted well enough. First evening off I had, I went round to Lily's and asked her what her Mr. Cust's initials were. She couldn't remember at first, but her mother did.

Said they were A.B. right enough. Then we got down to it and tried to figure out if Cust had been away at the time of the first murder at Andover. Well, as you know, sir, it isn't too easy to remember things three months back. We had a job of it, but we got it fixed down in the end, because Mrs. Marbury had a brother come from Canada to see her on June 21st. He arrived unexpected like and she wanted to give him a bed, and Lily suggested that as Mr. Cust was away Bert Marbury might have his bed. But Mrs. Marbury wouldn't agree, because she said it wasn't acting right by her lodger, and she always liked to act fair and square. But we fixed the date all right because of Bert Marbury's ship docking at Southampton that day."

Inspector Crome had listened very attentively, jotting down an occasional note.

"That's all?" he asked.

"That's all, sir. I hope you don't think I'm making a lot of nothing." Tom flushed slightly.

"Not at all. You were quite right to come here. Of course, it's very slight evidence - these dates may be mere coincidence and the likeness of the name, too. But it certainly warrants my having an interview with your Mr. Cust. Is he at home now?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did he return?"

"The evening of the Doncaster murder, sir."

"What's he been doing since?"

"He's stayed in mostly, sir. And he's been looking very queer, Mrs. Marbury says. He buys a lot of newspapers - goes out early and gets the morning ones, and then after dark he goes out and gets the evening ones. Mrs. Marbury says he talks a lot to himself, too. She thinks he's getting queerer."

"What is this Mrs. Marbury's address?"

Tom gave it to him.

"Thank you. I shall probably be calling round in the course of the day. I need hardly tell you to be careful of your manner if you come across this Cust."

He rose and shook hands.

"You may he quite satisfied you did the right thing in coming to us. Good-morning, Mr. Hartigan."

"Well, sir?" asked Jacobs, re-entering the room a few minutes later. "Think it's the goods?

"It's promising," said Inspector Crome. "That is, if the facts are as the boy stated them. We've had no luck with the stocking manufacturers yet. It was time we got hold of something. By the way, give me that file of the Churston case."

He spent some minutes looking for what he wanted.

"Ah, here it is. It's amongst the statements made to the Torquay police. Young man of the name of Hill. Deposes he was leaving Torquay Pavilion after the film Not a Sparrow and noticed a man behaving queerly. He was talking to himself. Hill heard him say, 'That's an idea.' Not a Sparrow - that's the film that was on at the Regal in Doncaster?"

"Yes, sir."

"There may be something in that. Nothing to it at the time - but it's possible that the idea of the modus operandi for his next crime occurred to our man then. We've got Hill's name and address, I see. His description of the man is vague but it links up well enough with the descriptions of Mary Stroud and this Tom Hartigan..."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"We're getting warm," said Inspector Crome - rather inaccurately, for he himself was always slightly chilly.

"Any instructions, sir?"

"Put on a couple of men to watch this Camden Town address, but I don't want our bird frightened. I must have a word with the A.C. Then I think it would be as well if Cust was brought along here and asked if he'd like to make a statement. It sounds as though he's quite ready to get rattled."



Outside Tom Hartigan had rejoined Lily Marbury who was waiting for him on the Embankment.

"All right, Tom?" Tom nodded.

"I saw Inspector Crome himself. The one who's in charge of case."

"What's he like?"

"A bit quiet and la-di-da - not my idea of a detective."

"That's Lord Trenchard's new kind," said Lily with respect. "Some of them are ever so grand. Well, what did he say?"

Tom gave her a brief rйsumй of the interview.

"So they think as it really was him?"

"They think it might be. Anyway, they'll come along and ask him a question or two."

"Poor Mr. Cust."

"It's no good saying poor Mr. Cust, my girl. If he's A.B.C., he committed four terrible murders."

Lily sighed and shook her head.

"It does seem awful," she observed.

"Well, now you're going to come and have a bite of lunch, my girl. Just you think that if we're right I expect my name will be in the papers!"

"Oh, Tom, will it?"

"Rather. And yours, too. And your mother's. And I dare say you'll have your picture in, too."

"Oh, Tom." Lily squeezed his arm in an ecstasy.

"And in the meantime, what do you say to a bite at the Corner House?"

Lily squeezed tighter.

"Come on then!"

"All right - half a minute. I must just telephone from the station."

"Who to?"

"A girl I was going to meet." She slipped across the road, and rejoined him three minutes later, looking rather flushed.

"Now then, Tom." She slipped her arm in his. "Tell me more about Scotland Yard. You didn't see the other one there?"

"What other one7"

"The Belgian gentleman. The one that A.B.C. writes to always."

"No. He wasn't there."

"Well, tell me all about it. What happened when you got inside? Who did you speak to and what did you say?"



Mr. Cust put the receiver back very gently on the hook.

He turned to where Mrs. Marbury was standing in the doorway of a room, clearly devoured with curiosity.

"Not often you have a telephone call, Mr. Cust."

"No - er - no, Mrs. Marbury. It isn't."

"Not bad news, I trust?"

"No - no." How persistent the woman was. His eye caught the legend on the newspaper he was carrying.

Births - Marriages - Deaths...

"My sister's just had a little boy," he blurted out.

He - who had never had a sister!

"Oh, dear! Now - well, that is nice, I am sure. ('And never once mentioned a sister all these years,' was her inward thought. 'If that isn't just like a man!') I was surprised, I'll tell you, when the lady asked to speak to Mr. Cust. Just at first I fancied it was my Lily's voice - something like hers, it was - but haughtier if you know what I mean - sort of high up in the air. Well, Mr. Cust, my congratulations, I'm sure. Is it the first one, or have you other little nephews and nieces?"

"It's the only one," said Mr. Cust. "The only one I've ever had or likely to have, and - er - I think I must go off at once. They - they want me to come. I - I think I can just catch a train if I hurry."

"Will you be away long, Mr. Cust?" called Mrs. Marbury as he ran up the stairs.

"Oh, no - two or three days - that's all."

He disappeared into his bedroom. Mrs. Marbury retired into the kitchen, thinking sentimentally of "the dear little mite."

Her conscience gave her a sudden twinge.

Last night Tom and Lily and all the hunting back over dates! Trying to make out that Mr. Cust was that dreadful monster, A.B.C. Just because of his initials and because of a few coincidences.

"I don't suppose they meant it seriously," she thought comfortably. "And now I hope they'll be ashamed of themselves."

In some obscure way that she could not have explained, Mr. Cust's statement that his sister had had a baby had effectually removed any doubts Mrs. Marbury might have had of her lodger's bonafides.

"I hope she didn't have too bad a time of it, poor dear," thought Mrs. Marbury, testing an iron against her cheek before beginning to iron out Lily's silk slip.

Her mind ran comfortably on a well-worn obstetric track.

Mr. Cust came quietly down the stairs, a bag in his hand. His eyes rested a minute on the telephone.

That brief conversation re-echoed in his brain.

"Is that you, Mr. Cust? I thought you might like to know there's an inspector from Scotland Yard may be coming to see you."

What had he said? He couldn't remember.

"Thank you - thank you, my dear... very kind of you -"

Something like that.

Why had she telephoned to him? Could she possibly have guessed? Or did she just want to make sure he would stay in for the inspector's visit?

But how did she know the inspector was coming?

And her voice - she'd disguised her voice from her mother... It looked - it looked - as though she knew... But surely if she knew, she wouldn't...

She might, though. Women were very queer. Unexpectedly cruel and unexpectedly kind. He'd seen Lily once letting a mouse out of a mouse trap.

A kind girl...

A kind, pretty girl...

He paused by the hall stand with its load of umbrellas and coats.

Should he -?

A slight noise from the kitchen decided him...

No, there wasn't time...

Mrs. Marbury might come out...

He opened the front door, passed through and closed it behind him.

Where...?

第二十八章　（并非选自黑斯廷斯上尉的自述）



　　克罗姆警督此刻正在他的办公室里。
　　他办公桌上的电话发出长长的嗡嗡声，他拿起话筒。
　　“先生，我是雅各布斯。有个年轻人带来个故事，我想你应该听听。”
　　克罗姆警督叹了口气。每天平均有二十个人来，带着所谓与ABC 案相关的重要线索。其中有些人是些并无恶意的疯子，有些则是好心人，他们相信自己的信息是有价值的。雅各布斯警官的任务就是做一个过滤器——挡住那些没用的东西，将剩下的移交给他的上司。
　　“很好，雅各布斯，把他带来吧。”克罗姆说。
　　几分钟后，有人敲门，雅各布斯警官出现在门口，他带来一个高大的、样子倒蛮好看的年轻男子。
　　“先生，这位是汤姆·哈廷格先生。他要告诉我们一些情况，或许会与ABC案有关。”
　　警督很高兴地站起身来，同他握手。
　　“早上好，哈廷格先生，请坐。你吸烟吗？抽支烟吧？”
　　汤姆·哈廷格很笨拙地坐了下来，敬畏地看着他心目中的“名人之一”。眼前的警督形象似乎使他有点失望。他看上去只像是个很普通的人。
　　“那么，”克罗姆说，“你有情况要告诉我们，你认为这些情况与本案有关。那就说吧。”
　　汤姆紧张地开始讲述起来。
　　“当然那也可能一点用都没有。那只是我自己的想法，我可能会浪费您的时间。”
　　克罗姆警督轻轻地叹了口气，他又得浪费时间来劝说人了！
　　“噢，事情是这样的。我有个年轻的女人，她母亲出租房屋。那房子位于卡姆登镇的路上。他们房子的三楼租给了一个名叫卡斯特的男人，已有一年多时间了。”
　　“卡斯特——喔？”
　　“是的，先生。他是那种呆头呆脑的人，倒是挺温和的。他挺有点落魄，我想我应该说。他是那种连一只苍蝇都不会去伤害的人——如果不是因为有些事情实在是太奇怪，我是不会觉得这中间有什么不对劲的。”
　　汤姆以一种令人费解的方式并重复了一两边，讲述了在尤斯顿与卡斯特先生的遭遇，以及掉出来的车票的事。
　　“您看，先生，这看起来很可笑。莉莉——那是我的女人，先生。她倒是挺确信他说的是去切尔滕纳姆，她母亲也这么说——说她还记得那天上午他离开时的谈话。当然，我那时候也没太注意这些事。莉莉，我那个年轻姑娘，说过她希望他不会被那个去往唐克斯特的家伙杀害。然后她说因为上次谋杀案发生时，他正好去了彻斯顿，这可真是个巧合。我笑着问她，再上一次他是否在贝克斯希尔，她说她不知道他去了哪里，可她知道他去了海边。然后我告诉她说，如果他就是ABC，这实在是挺奇怪的。她说他连一只苍蝇都不会伤害，而那时候我们只谈了这些。我们也不是没再多想什么。至少，我还是觉得有点可疑，先生。我开始怀疑这个卡斯特，我认为，尽管他看上去毫无伤害，他是挺有点反常的。”
　　汤姆叹了口气后又接着说。克罗姆现在是全神贯注地听着。
　　“唐克斯特谋杀案发生后，先生，所有的报纸都在报道说，希望提供关于AB Case 或Cash 的行踪，所说的情况与他非常吻合。第一天晚上，我去莉莉家，问她卡斯特先生的名字缩写是什么。她起先已记不起来，可她母亲记起来了。她说肯定是ABC 没错。随后我们想继续弄清楚第一次谋杀案在安多弗发生时，他有没有外出。哦，先生，您该知道，要回忆起三个月前发生的事情可不是件容易的事。可最终我们还是有了答案，六月二十一日马伯里太太有位兄弟从加拿大来看望她。他好像是突然来的，她想给他找个床铺，于是莉莉便建议，由于卡斯特先生外出，伯特·史密斯可以睡他的床。可马伯里太太不同意，因为她认为用他租房人的房间不太好，她总是希望自己能做得公平。而我们则算出那个日子没错，因为伯特·史密斯的船就是那天在南汉普敦靠岸的。”
　　克罗姆警督非常仔细地听着，不时地记下点什么。
　　“讲完了？”他问。
　　“讲完了，先生。我希望您不会认为我是在无事生非。”
　　汤姆有点脸红。
　　“不会的。你来这里是相当正确的做法。当然，这个证据并不充分——时间可能是个巧合，而姓名则只是相仿而已。可这当然表明我该同你的卡斯特先生见个面。他现在在家吗？”
　　“是的，先生。”
　　“他什么时候回来的？”
　　“唐克斯特谋杀案的当天晚上，先生。”
　　“回来后他一直在做什么？”
　　“大部分时间他都呆在房间里，先生。他看上去非常奇怪，马伯里太太是那样说的。他买了许多报纸——很早就出门去买早报，天黑之后去买晚报。马伯里还说他不时自言自语。她觉得他越来越奇怪了。”
　　“马伯里太太的地址是什么？”
　　汤姆把地址给他。
　　“谢谢。我可能今天会到那里去转转，我得提醒你，如果碰到这位卡斯特先生的话，要注意你的态度。”
　　他站起来，握了握手。
　　“你到这里来，做得很对，应该感到很满意了。再见，哈廷格先生。”
　　“那么，先生，”过了一会儿，雅格布斯重新回到房间，他问道，“您是否认为那就是你要找的人？”
　　“极有可能。”克罗姆警督说，“如果那小伙子所说的情况属实的话，就是那个人。我们还没有找到长统袜的生产厂家。现在我们掌握了一些情况。请你顺便把彻斯顿案子的卷宗给我。”
　　他花了些时间来寻找他所要的情况。
　　“啊，早在这里。托基警方的供词纪录中有。有一位叫希尔的年轻人，他证明说，在看完电影《不识燕雀》之后离开托基雅典娜剧院时，他看到一个男人行动很古怪，在对自己说着什么。希尔听到他说‘这倒是个主意’。《不识燕雀》——，就是那部在唐克斯特王室影院里放映的影片。”
　　“是的，先生。”
　　“这当中可能有些情况。当时并不算什么，可那种操作方法被我们这个家伙运用在下一场谋杀中，这是极有可能的事。我们有希尔的姓名与地址。他对那个男人的描述挺不清楚的，但他和玛丽·斯特劳德以及汤姆·哈廷格的叙述相吻合。”
　　他若有所思地点点头。
　　“我们就快要找到他了。”克罗姆说道——这个说法相当不准确，因为他自己总是有点冷淡。
　　“有什么指示吗，先生？”
　　“要找两个人去监视卡姆登镇的这个地方，可我并不想惊动我们的小鸟。我必须同助理督察谈一谈。然后我想该把卡斯特带到这里来，问他是否愿意陈述一下情况。”
　　汤姆出来后，莉莉·马伯里迎了上去。她一直在泰晤士河堤上等着他。
　　“挺好吧，汤姆？”
　　“我见到了克罗姆警督，他负责这桩案子。”
　　“他长的什么样？”
　　“有点安静，呃，——不是我想象中的那样机敏。”
　　“他是特伦查德爵士式的新类型。”莉莉满怀敬意地说道，“他们当中的一些人真是伟大。那么，他说了些什么？”
　　汤姆简单地把谈话内容讲述了一遍。
　　“那么他们是否真的认为是他？”
　　“他们认为有可能是。不管怎样，他们会过去向他问一两个问题。”
　　“可怜的卡斯特先生。”
　　“最好别说是可怜的卡斯特先生。如果他真是ABC 的话，他已经制造了四起可怕的谋杀案。”
　　莉莉叹了口气，摇摇头。
　　“听起来真可怕。”莉莉说道。
　　“好的，现在随便吃点午餐吧。你可以想一想，如果我们弄对了的话，我希望我的名字会在报纸上出现。”
　　“哦，会吗，汤姆？”
　　“当然，还有你的名字，还会有马伯里太太的名字，而且我敢说你的照片也会出现在报上。”
　　“哦，汤姆。”莉莉心旷神怡地紧紧抓住汤姆的手臂。
　　“还有，你认为去角落屋餐厅吃午饭怎么样？”
　　莉莉抓得更紧了。
　　“那就快点吧。”
　　“好吧，马上就好。我必须从车站打个电话。”
　　“给谁打？”
　　“是我要见的一个女孩子。”
　　她穿过马路，三分钟后又回到他的身边，看起来很是得意。
　　“那么现在，汤姆。”
　　她的手臂挽住他。
　　“再给我讲讲苏格兰场的事。你去那里有没有见过另外一个人？”
　　“哪一个？”
　　“那个比利时绅士。那个ABC总写信去的人。”
　　“没有，他没在那里。”
　　“那么，把全部情况都讲给我听吧。”
　　卡斯特先生轻轻地将话筒放回到勾子上。
　　他回到房门口，马伯里太太站在那里，很显然是在好奇地听着。
　　“你不常有电话来，是吗，卡斯特先生。”
　　“哦——是的，马伯里太太，不常有。”
　　“不是什么坏消息吧，我相信。”
　　“不，不。”这个妇人真顽固。他的眼睛盯着自己的手中的报纸。
　　“我妹妹刚生了个男孩。”他漏出一句话。
　　他——可从没有过妹妹。
　　“哦，天哪！现在——噢，太好了，我想。（“这么些年来从未听他说过有一个妹妹，”她心里这么想。“那可不像是男人的行为。”）我感到很奇怪，我可以告诉你，当那个女士说要找卡斯特先生讲话的时候。起先我还以为是我的莉莉的声音——那有点像她的声音，它有点——只是更要傲慢些，如果你明白我的意思的话——那种声音比较尖。卡斯特先生，祝贺你。是第一个孩子，或者你还有其他的小外甥或外甥女？”
　　“就这一个，”卡斯特先生说道，“我只有这么一个，我想我该马上走。他们——他们希望我过去，我——我想如果快点的话，我还可以赶上一趟火车。”
　　“你会离开很长时间吗，卡斯特先生？”当他匆忙上楼时，马伯里太太问道。
　　“哦，不会，两到三天，就这么长。”
　　他走进卧室。马伯里太太回到厨房，动情地想着“那个可爱的小男孩”。
　　她的良心使她突然间感到内疚。
　　就在昨天晚上，汤姆和莉莉还在往回核对那些日子！试图弄清楚卡斯特就是那个可怕的怪物ABC。那只是因为他的名字缩写和一些巧合。
　　“我想他们不太当真。”她宽慰地说，“现在，我希望他们会为自己感到惭愧。”
　　在某种连她自己也解释不清的方式之下，卡斯特先生关于他妹妹有个孩子的说法已经很有效地使得马伯里太太消除她对这位房客真实身份的怀疑。
　　“我希望她没有太难受，可怜的人。”马伯里太太一边想着，一边在熨烫莉莉的丝绸套裙之前，先在她的脸颊上试了试熨斗的底部。
　　她的思绪则舒畅地想着那件并不轻松的生孩子的事情。
　　卡斯特先生轻轻地下了楼，手里拎着包。他双眼朝着电话机盯了一会儿。
　　刚才那简短的谈话又在他脑中回响。
　　“是你吗，卡斯特先生？我想你可能愿意知道，有位苏格兰场的警督想见见你……”
　　他说了些什么？他记不清了。
　　“谢谢——谢谢，我亲爱的……你真好……”
　　似乎就是这些话。
　　她为什么给他打电话？她是不是可能已经猜到？还是她只想证实一下他能留下来等候那个警督的来访？
　　可是她怎么会知道那警督会来呢？还有她的声音——她伪装的声音使她的母亲都听不出来。
　　看起来——看起来——好像她知道……
　　可是如果她真的知道，就不会……
　　不管如何，她可能已经知道。女人都是非常奇怪的，没法预知的狠心和没法预知的善良。她曾看到莉莉把一只老鼠从鼠夹中放跑。
　　一个善良的姑娘……
　　一个善良、美丽的姑娘……
　　他在挂有雨伞和上衣的架子旁停下。
　　他该怎么做？
　　从厨房传来的声响使他作出决定……
　　不，已没有时间……
　　马伯里太太可能会出来……
　　他打开前门，穿出去，又关上门。
　　要去哪里呢？


Chapter 29

AT SCOTLAND YARD



Conference again.

The Assistant Commissioner, Inspector Crome, Poirot and myself. The A.C. was saying:

"A good tip that of yours, M. Poirot, about checking a large sale of stockings."

Poirot spread out his hands.

"It was indicated. This man could not be a regular agent. He sold outright instead of touting for orders."

"Got everything clear so far, inspector?

"I think so, sir." Crome consulted a file. "Shall I run over the position to date?"

"Yes, please."

"I've checked up with Churston, Paignton and Torquay. Got a list of people where he went and offered stockings. I must say he did the thing thoroughly. Stayed at the Pitt, small hotel near Torre Station. Returned to the hotel at 10:30 on the night of the murder. Could have taken a train from Churston at 10:05, getting to Paignton at 10:15. No one answering to his description noticed on train or at stations, but that Thursday was Dartmouth Regatta and the trains back from Kingswear were pretty full.

"Bexhill much the same. Stayed at the Glove under his own name. Offered stockings to about a dozen addresses, including Mrs. Barnard and including the Ginger Cat. Left hotel early in the evening. Arrived back in London about 11:30 the following morning. As to Andover, same procedure. Stayed at the Feathers. Offered stockings to Mrs. Fowler, next door to Mrs. Ascher, and to half a dozen other people in the street. The pair Mrs. Ascher had I got from the niece (name of Drower) - they're identical with Cust's supply."

"So far, good," said the A.C.

"Acting on information received," said the inspector, "I went to the address given me by Hartigan, but found that Cust had left the house about half an hour previously. He received a telephone message, I'm told. First time such a thing had happened to him, so his landlady told me."

"An accomplice?" suggested the Assistant Commissioner.

"Hardly," said Poirot. "It is odd that - unless -"

We all looked at him inquiringly as he paused.

He shook his head, however, and the inspector proceeded.

"I made a thorough search of the room he had occupied. That search puts the matter beyond doubt. I found a block of notepaper similar to that on which the letters were written, a large quantity of hosiery and - at the back of the cupboard where the hosiery was stored - a parcel much the same shape and size but which turned out to contain - not hosiery - but eight new A.B.C. railway guides!"

"Proof positive," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"I've found something else, too," said the inspector - his voice becoming suddenly almost human with triumph. "Only found it this morning, sir. Not had time to report yet. There was no sign of the knife in his room -"

"It would be the act of an imbecile to bring that back with him," remarked Poirot.

"After all, he's not a reasonable human being," remarked the Inspector. "Anyway, it occurred to me that he might just possibly have brought it back to the house and then realized the danger of hiding it (as M. Poirot points out) in his room, and have looked about elsewhere. What place in the house would he be likely to select? I got it straightaway. The hall stand - no one ever moves a hall stand. With a lot of trouble I got it moved out from the wall - and there it was!"

"The knife?"

"The knife. Not a doubt of it. The dried blood's still on it."

"Good work, Crome," said the A.C. approvingly. "We only need one thing more now."

"What's that?"

"The man himself."

"We'll get him, sir. Never fear."

The inspector's tone was confident.

"What do you say, M. Poirot?"

Poirot started out of a reverie.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We were saying that it was only a matter of time before we get our man. Do you agree?"

"Oh, that - yes. Without a doubt."

His tone was so abstracted that the others looked at him curiously.

"Is there anything worrying you, M. Poirot?"

"There is something that worries me very much. It is the why? The motive?"

"But, my dear fellow, the man's crazy," said the Assistant Commissioner impatiently.

"I understand what M. Poirot means," said Crome, coming graciously to the rescue. "He's quite right. There's got to be some definite obsession. I think we'll find the root of the matter in an intensified inferiority complex. There may be persecution mania, too, and if so he may possibly associate M. Poirot with it. He may have the delusion that M. Poirot is a detective employed on purpose to hunt him down."

"H'm," said the A.C. "That's the jargon that's talked nowadays. In my day if a man was mad he was mad and we didn't look about for scientific terms to soften it down. I suppose a thoroughly up-to-date doctor would suggest putting a man like A.B.C. in a nursing home, telling him what a fine fellow he was for forty-five days on end and then letting him out as a responsible member of society."

Poirot smiled but did not answer.

The conference broke up.

"Well," said the Assistant Commissioner. "As you say, Crome, pulling him in is only a matter of time."

"We'd have had him before now," said the inspector, "if he wasn't so ordinary-looking. We've worried enough perfectly inoffensive citizens as it is."

"I wonder where he is at this minute," said the Assistant Commissioner.

第二十九章　在苏格兰场



　　又是会议。
　　会议的参加人员包括厅长助理、克罗姆警督、波洛和我自己。
　　厅长助理正说着：
　　“波洛先生，你们在调查一大笔长统袜销售情况，干得很好。”
　　波洛摊开双手。
　　“这说明，那个男子并不是个固定的经销商，他向外推销却不招徕订单。”
　　“现在一切都清楚了吗，警督？”
　　“是的，先生。”克罗姆警督察看着一份卷宗，“我可以概括一下到目前为止的进展情况吗？”
　　“是的，请吧。”
　　“我已经检查过彻斯顿、佩恩顿和托基，获得了一张他前去推销长统袜的人的名单。我必须指出，他做得相当周密。他住在皮特，那是一间托雷车站旁边的小旅店，可能是从彻斯顿搭乘九点五十七分的火车，于十点二十分抵达托雷的。在火车上和车站里没人注意到过像他那种模样的人。可那个星期五正好是达特茅斯赛艇会，从金斯维尔返回的列车坐得相当满。”
　　“贝克斯希尔的情况也大致相同。他用自己的名字住在环球旅店，向巴纳德太太和黄猫餐厅在内的十几个地方推销袜子。他夜里早早地离开旅店，第二天早上约十一点三十分返回伦敦。至于在安多弗，也是相同的程序。他住在菲瑟斯酒店，向阿谢尔太太的邻居福勒太太和那条街上的好几个人出售袜子。我从阿谢尔太太的外甥女（名叫德劳尔）那里获得的那双袜子与卡斯特出售的一样。”
　　“好。”厅长助理说道。
　　“根据我们得到的消息，”警督说，“我去了哈廷格先生给我的地址，可发现卡斯特先生已在大约半个小时之前离开。我被告知，他接到了一个电话，这样的事情是第一次发生，是他的房东告诉我的。”
　　“是同谋吗？”厅长助理提醒道。
　　“不太像。”波洛说，“这很奇怪——除非——”
　　当他停下来时，我们都好奇地望着他。
　　他摇摇头，而警督接着说。
　　“我仔细地检查了他住的房间，检查使得事情清楚起来。我发现了一批便笺纸，这些纸同写信用的纸相同。有大量的袜子——藏在柜子背后——还有相同形状和大小的一包东西，里面装的可不是袜子——而是八本新的ABC铁路指南书。”
　　“这足以证明。”厅长助理说。
　　“我还发现其他一些物品，”警督说，他的声音突然变得颇有人情味，并得意洋洋，“只是在今天早上才发现，先生，还没来得及汇报。他的屋里倒是没有刀的迹象——”
　　“如果把刀带回家里，那是个低能儿的行为。”波洛说道。
　　“毕竟他并不是个可以理喻的人。”警督评论道，“不管怎样，我想到他有可能把刀子带回家，然后会意识到把刀藏在房间里的危险性（正如波洛先生所指出的那样），就寻找其他地方。他会选择什么地方来藏刀呢？我一下子就找到了。衣帽架——没有人动过衣帽架。我费了好大劲才将衣帽架从墙边移开——它就在那里。”
　　“是刀子吗？”
　　“是刀子。毫无疑问，上面还有干了的血迹。”
　　“干得好，克罗姆。”厅长助理赞赏道，“现在我们只是再需要一件事。”
　　“是什么？”
　　“那个人自己。”
　　“我们会抓住他的，先生。别担心。”
　　警督的语调满怀信心。
　　“波洛先生，你认为如何？”
　　波洛从沉思中惊醒。
　　“请再说一遍。”
　　“我们正说到要抓住那个人只是时间问题了。你同意吗？”
　　“噢，那个——是的，毫无疑问。”
　　他的语调是那么心不在焉，以至于别人都惊奇地看着他。
　　“你有什么可担心的吗，波洛先生？”
　　“有一件事情使我非常担心，就是为什么？就是动机。”
　　“可是，亲爱的朋友，那个人疯了。”厅长助理不耐烦地说。
　　“我明白波洛指的是什么意思。”克罗姆很有礼貌地解围，“他挺正确的，这里面肯定有令他困惑的地方。我想我们会从一种强烈的自卑感中找到问题的根源，也可能是个迫害狂，如果是这样的话，他就可能把它同波洛先生联系在一起了。他可能会误认为，波洛先生是专门雇来捉他的侦探。”
　　“嗯，”厅长助理说，“那就是这些天来谈论的行话。在我那个时候，如果一个人疯了，他就是疯了，而我们并不寻求科学的概念来使其变得柔和。我想，一个彻头彻尾现代化了的医生会建议把像ABC这样的人放在有护理的家中，用四十五天时间告诉他是个怎样的好人，然后把他放出去，当作是一个对社会负责的人。”
　　波洛笑了，但是他没有说话。
　　会议就此散了。
　　“那么，”厅长助理说。“正如你所说，克罗姆，将他抓获只是个时间问题。”
　　“如果他不是那样相貌平平的话，我们早就逮住他了。我们已经使得够多的无辜百姓担惊受怕了。”
　　“我倒疑惑他此刻在哪里。”厅长助理说。


Chapter 30

(Not from Captain Hastings' Personal Narrative)



Mr. Cust stood by a greengrocer's shop.

He stared across the road.

Yes, that was it.

Mrs. Ascher. Newsagent and Tobacconist... In the empty window was a sign.

To Let.

Empty...

Lifeless...

"Excuse me, sir."

The greengrocer's wife, trying to get at some lemons.

He apologized, moved to one side.

Slowly he shuffled away - back towards the main street of the town...

It was difficult - very difficult - now that he hadn't any money left...

Not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed...

He looked at a poster outside a newsagent's shop.

The A.B.C. Case. Murderer Still at Large. Interview with M. Hercule Poirot.

Mr. Cust said to himself:

"Hercule Poirot. I wonder if he knows "

He walked on ag

[content too large, truncated for display]

[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]Chapter 31

HERCULE POIROT ASKS QUESTIONS



It was a clear November day. Dr. Thompson and Chief Inspector Japp had come round to acquaint Poirot with the result of the police court proceedings in the case of Rex v. Alexander Bonaparte Cust.

Poirot himself had had a slight bronchial chill which had prevented his attending. Fortunately he had not insisted on having my company.

"Committed for trial," said Japp. "So that's that."

"Isn't it unusual," I asked, "for a defence to be offered at this stage? I thought prisoners always reserved their defence."

"It's the usual course," said Japp. "I suppose young Lucas thought he might rush it through. He's a trier, I will say. Insanity's the only defence possible."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"With insanity there can be no acquittal. Imprisonment during Her Majesty's pleasure is hardly preferable to death."

"I suppose Lucas thought there was a chance," said Japp. "With a first-class alibi for the Bexhill murder, the whole case might be weakened. I don't think he realized how strong our case is. Anyway Lucas goes in for originality. He's a young man, and he wanted to hit the public eye."

Poirot turned to Thompson.

"What's your opinion, doctor?"

"Of Cust? Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. He's playing the sane man remarkably well. He's an epileptic, of course."

"What an amazing denouement that was," I said.

"His falling into the Andover police station in a fit? Yes - it was a fitting dramatic curtain to the drama. A.B.C. had always timed his effects well."

"Is it possible to commit a crime and be unaware of it?" I asked. "His denials seem to have a ring of truth in them."

Dr. Thompson smiled a little.

"You mustn't be taken in by that theatrical 'I swear by God' pose. It's my opinion that Cust knows perfectly well he committed the murders."

"When they're as fervent as that they usually do," said Japp.

"As to your question," went on Thompson, "it's perfectly possible for an epileptic subject in a state of somnambulism to commit an action and be entirely unaware of having done so. But it is the general opinion that such an action must 'not be contrary to the will of the person in the waking state.'"

He went on discussing the matter, speaking of grand mal and petit mal and, to tell the truth, confusing me hopelessly as is often the case when a learned person holds forth on his own subject.

"However, I'm against the theory that Cust committed these crimes without knowing he'd done them. You might put that theory forward if it weren't for the letters. The letters knock the theory on the head. They show premeditation and a careful planning of the crime."

"And of the letters we have still no explanation," said Poirot.

"That interests you?"

"Naturally - since they were written to me. And on the subject of the letters Cust is persistently dumb. Until I get at the reason for those letters being written to me, I shall not feel that the case is solved."

"Yes - I can understand that from your point of view. There doesn't seem to be any reason to believe that the man ever came up against you in any way?"

"None whatever."

"I might make a suggestion. Your name!"

"My name?"

"Yes. Cust is saddled - apparently by the whim of his mother (Oedipus complex there, I shouldn't wonder!) - with two extremely bastic Christian names: Alexander and Bonaparte. You see the implications? Alexander - the popularly supposed undefeatable who sighed for more worlds to conquer. Bonaparte - the great Emperor of the French. He wants an adversary - an adversary, one might say, of his class. Well - there you are - Hercules the strong."

"Your words are very suggestive, doctor. They foster ideas -"

"Oh, it's only a suggestion. Well, I must be off."

Dr. Thompson went out. Japp remained.

"Does this alibi worry you?" Poirot asked.

"It does a little," admitted the inspector. "Mind you, I don't believe in it, because I know it isn't true. But it is going to be the deuce to break it. This man Strange is a tough character."

"Describe him to me."

"He's a man of forty. A tough, confident, self-opinionated mining engineer. It's my opinion that it was he who insisted on his evidence being taken now. He wants to get off to Chile. He hoped the thing might be settled out of hand."

"He's one of the most positive people I've ever seen," I said.

"The type of man who would not like to admit he was mistaken," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"He sticks to his story and he's not one to be heckled. He swears by all that's blue that he picked up Cust in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne on the evening of July 24th. He was poorly and wanted some one to talk to. As far as I can see, Cust made an ideal listener. He didn't interrupt! After dinner he and Cust played dominoes. It appears Strange was a whale on dominoes and to his surprise Cust was pretty hot stuff too. Queer game, dominoes. People go mad about it. They'll play for hours. That's what Strange and Cust did apparently. Cust wanted to go to bed but Strange wouldn't hear of it - swore they'd keep it up until midnight at least. And that's what they did do. They separated at ten minutes past midnight. And if Cust was in the Whitecross Hotel at Eastbourne at ten minutes past midnight on the morning of the 25th be couldn't very well be strangling Betty Barnard on the beach at Bexhill between midnight and one o'clock."

"The problem certainly seems insuperable," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Decidedly, it gives one to think."

"It's given Crome something to think about," said Japp.

"This man Strange is very positive?

"Yes. He's an obstinate devil. And it's difficult to see just where the flaw is. Supposing Strange is making a mistake and the man wasn't Cust - why on earth should he say his name is Cust? And the writing in the hotel register is his all right. You can't say he's an accomplice - homicidal lunatics don't have accomplices! Did the girl die later? The doctor was quite firm in his evidence, and anyway it would take some time for Cust to get out of the hotel at Eastbourne without being seen and get over to Bexhill - fourteen miles away -"

"It is a problem - yes," said Poirot.

"Of course, strictly speaking, it oughtn't to matter. We've got Cust on the Doncaster murder - the blood-stained coat, the knife - not a loophole there. You couldn't bounce any jury into acquitting him. But it spoils a pretty case. He did the Doncaster murder. He did the Churston murder. He did the Andover murder. Then, by hell, he must have done the Bexhill murder. But I don't see how!"

He shook his head and got up.

"Now's your chance, M. Poirot," he said. "Crome's in a fog. Exert those cellular arrangements of yours I used to hear so much about. Show us the way he did it."

Japp departed.

"What about it, Poirot?" I said. "Are the little grey cells equal to the task?"

Poirot answered my question by another.

"Tell me, Hastings, do you consider the case ended?"

"Well - yes, practically speaking. We've got the man. And we've got most of the evidence. It's only the trimmings that are needed."

Poirot shook his head.

"The case is ended! The case! The case is the man, Hastings. Until we know all about the man, the mystery is as deep as ever. It is not victory because we have put him in the dock!"

"We know a fair amount about him."

"We know nothing at all! We know where he was born. We know he fought in the war and received a slight wound in the head and that he was discharged from the Army owing to epilepsy. We know that he lodged with Mrs. Marbury for nearly two years. We know that he was quiet and retiring - the sort of man that nobody notices. We know that he invented and carded out an intensely clever scheme of systematized murder. We know that he made certain incredibly stupid blunders. We know that he killed without pity and quite ruthlessly. We know, too, that he was kindly enough not to let blame rest on any other person for the crimes he committed. If he wanted to kill unmolested - how easy to let other persons suffer for his crimes. Do you not see, Hastings, the man is a mass of contradictions? Stupid and cunning, ruthless and magnanimous - and that there must be some dominating factor that reconciles his two natures."

"Of course, if you treat him like a psychological study," I began.

"What else has this case been since the beginning? All along I have been groping my way - trying to get to know the murderer. And now I realize, Hastings, that I do not know him at all! I am at sea."

"The lust for power -" I began.

"Yes - that might explain a good deal... But it does not satisfy me. There are things I want to know. Why did he commit these murders? Why did he choose those particular people -?"

"Alphabetically -" I began.

"Was Betty Barnard the only person in Bexhill whose name began with a B? Betty Barnard - I had an idea there. It ought to be true - it must be true. But if so -"

He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him.

As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep.

I woke to find Poirot's hand on my shoulder.

"Mon cher Hastings," he said affectionately. "My good genius."

I was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem.

"It is true," Poirot insisted. "Always - always - you help me - you bring me luck. You inspire me."

"How have I inspired you this time?" I asked.

"While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours - a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear vision. Did I not say to you once that you had a genius for stating the obvious? It is the obvious that I have neglected."

"What is this brilliant remark of mine?" I asked

"It makes everything as clear as crystal. I see the answers to questions. The reason for Mrs. Ascher (that, it is true, I glimpsed long ago), the reason for Sir Carmichael Clarke, the reason for the Doncaster murder, and finally and supremely important, the reason for Hercule Poirot."

"Could you kindly explain?" I asked.

"Not at the moment. I require first a little more information. That I can get from our Special Legion. And then - then, when I have got the answer to a certain question, I will go and see A.B.C. We will be face to face at last - A.B.C, and Hercule Poirot - the adversaries."

"And then?" I asked.

"And then," said Poirot, "we will talk! Je vous assure, Hastings - there is nothing so dangerous for any one who has something to hide as conversation! Speech, so a wise old Frenchman said to me once, is an invention of man's to prevent him from thinking. It is also an infallible means of discovering that which he wishes to hide. A human being, Hastings, cannot resist the opportunity to reveal himself and express his personality which conversation gives him. Every time he will give himself away."

"What do you expect Cust to tell you?"

Hercule Poirot smiled.

"A lie," he said. "And by it, I shall know the truth!"

第三十一章　赫尔克里·波洛提问



　　这是十一月的一天，天气晴朗。汤普森医生和总警督贾普前来通告波洛关于亚历山大·波拿帕特·卡斯特一案的法院诉讼程序的结果。
　　波洛自己则由于支气管轻微受凉，使他无法参加。幸运的是，他没有让我一起去。
　　“决定提审，”贾普说，“就是那样。”
　　“这不是挺不寻常的吗？”我问道，“在这个阶段进行辩护？我原以为狱中犯人总是保留辩护权的。”
　　“这可是正常的程序，”贾普说，“我设想，年轻的卢卡斯认为他可以突击办理。我要说，他是个裁定员。精神时常是唯一可能的辩护理由。”
　　波洛耸了耸肩。
　　“如果是精神失常，就会被宣判无罪。在国王在位期间，囚禁很少能好过死刑。”
　　“我猜想，卢卡斯认为可能会有机会，”贾普说，“因为只要有那人在贝克斯希尔谋杀案中不在现场的确凿证据，整个案件就可能变得证据不充分。我认为他还没有意识到我们的案子是多么的证据充分。他是个年轻人，他想在公众面前露露脸。”
　　波洛转向汤普森。
　　“你有什么看法，医生？”
　　“对卡斯特吗？说心里话，我也不知道该说什么好。他扮演那个神志清醒的人非常出色。当然，他是个癫痫病人。”
　　“这是个多么令人惊奇的结局。”我说道。
　　“他正好在发病的时候，跌进了安多弗的警察局？是的，这是这场戏剧的合适而富有戏剧性的结尾。ABC 总是恰到好处。”
　　“有没有可能犯了罪却不清楚自己的罪行？”我问道。“他是否犯罪看起来倒有点真实的意思。”
　　汤普森医生笑了笑。
　　“你不该被那种‘我可以向上帝起誓’的戏剧式的装腔作势而蒙骗。我认为，卡斯特很清楚他自己干了那些谋杀案。”
　　“那些否认的言辞通常是激烈的。”贾普说。
　　“至于你的问题，”汤普森继续说道，“当一个癫痫病人处于梦游状态时做了一件事却浑然不觉，这是完全有可能的事。可普遍的观点是这样的行为必须‘不违背这个人在清醒状态下的意愿。’”
　　他继续讨论这个问题，说起grand mal（法文，意为：大错误。——译注）和petit mal（法文，意为：小错误。——译注），使我处于外行的困惑之中。当一个精通某门学问的人深入探讨他的专业方面的问题时，这是常有的情况。
　　“无论如何，我反对这种理论，认为卡斯特在进行谋杀时不知道自己的行为。如果没有那些信，你可能还能提出那样的观点。那些信件粉碎了这个观点。它们表明犯罪是经过预谋和仔细策划的。”
　　“可对于这些信件，我们还无法进行解释。”波洛说。
　　“那是否令你感兴趣？”
　　“自然是的——既然这些信是写给我的。一谈到信件这个问题，卡斯特坚决闭口不言。直到我找到这些写给我的信件的原因时，我才会认为本案得到了解决。”
　　“是的——我能够理解你的观点。无论在哪种情况之下，看来都没有任何理由能使人相信那个人要针对你？”
　　“无论什么都没有。”
　　“我可以提个建议吗？是你的名字！”
　　“我的名字？”
　　“是的，卡斯特很明显是背负了两个极端夸张的基督教姓名：亚历山大和波拿帕特，这主要是处于他母亲的一时奇想（我毫不怀疑，这其中有俄狄浦斯恋母情结）。你看出其中的含义了吗？亚历山大——普遍被假想成渴望征服更多的世界而不可战胜的人；波拿帕特——则是伟大的法兰西国王。他需要一名对手——一个对手，人们可以说，是同他在一个阶层中的人。所以就有了你——赫尔克里斯大力神。”
　　“你的话语相当有建议性，医生。这些话使我产生了一些想法……”
　　“噢，这只是个设想。好吧，我得走了。”
　　汤普森医生出门而去。贾普留了下来。
　　“是不是他不在现场的情况令你有点担心？”波洛问道。
　　“稍微有一点。”警督承认道，“你听着，我可不相信这一点，我认为这不是真的。可要打破它就有可能遭殃。斯特兰奇是个顽固的人。”
　　“给我讲讲他的情况。”
　　“他四十岁光景，是个固执、自信、极有主见的采矿工程师。我认为，就是他要求现在录证词。他想要离开去智利，希望手上的事情能办完。”
　　“他是我所见过的最独断的人之一。”我说。
　　“他是那种不愿意承认自己的错误的人。”波洛若有所思地说。
　　“他坚持自己的说法，而且不容只问。他极其忠实地发誓说，七月二十四日晚上在伊斯特本的白十字酒店曾碰到卡斯特。他当时很孤独，希望找人聊聊天。依我看，卡斯特是个理想的谈话对象。他并没有打断谈话！晚餐之后，他和卡斯特玩多米诺骨牌。看起来，斯特兰奇是个多米诺骨牌的高手，而出乎意料的是，卡斯特也极具水准。真是奇怪的游戏，多米诺骨牌。人们都玩疯了。他们会连续玩上好几个小时。很显然，斯特兰奇和卡斯特显然也是那样玩的。卡斯特想去睡觉了，可斯特兰奇并不听从——他发誓他们可以坚持玩到午夜之后，他们就是那样做的。他们午夜过后十分钟才分手。而如果卡斯特于二十五日凌晨零点十分仍在伊斯特本的白十字酒店，他是不可能在午夜和凌晨一点之间在贝克斯希尔的海滩上勒死贝蒂·巴纳德的。”
　　“这个问题显然难以回答。”波洛想了想说，“他确实令人深思。”
　　“这也使克罗姆可以有所思考。”贾普说。
　　“斯特兰奇这个家伙非常独断吗？”
　　“是的，他是个固执狂，而且很难看出哪里有漏洞。我们设想，斯特兰奇搞错了，那个人并不是卡斯特——他究竟为什么要说那个人就叫卡斯特呢？在酒店登记处的签字确实是他的。你可不能说同犯——杀人狂是不会有同犯的！那个姑娘死亡的时间是不是退后一点呢？法医的证据是很肯定的，而无论如何，卡斯特从酒店出来，又不被人看见，然后赶到大约在十四英里之外的贝克斯希尔去，是要花些时间的——”
　　“这确实是个问题——是的。”波洛说。
　　“当然，严格地说，它没有关系。我们在唐克斯特谋杀案中已抓到了卡斯特——那件沾有血迹的衣服，那把刀——这没什么可狡辩的。你无法强迫任何陪审团判他无罪，可这破坏了一件漂亮的案子。他制造了唐克斯特谋杀案，他制造了彻斯顿谋杀案，他制造了安多弗谋杀案。然后，见鬼，他肯定也制造了贝克斯希尔谋杀案。可我却不知道他是怎么干的！”
　　他摇摇头，站了起来。
　　“现在是你的机会，波洛先生。”他说，“克罗姆是模糊不清。发挥你的智力，我过去曾经多次听说过。让我们看看他是怎样作案的。”
　　贾普离开了。
　　“是怎么回事，波洛？”我说，“那些灰色脑细胞能解决这个任务吗？”
　　波洛则答非所问。
　　“告诉我，黑斯廷斯，你认为这案子已收场了吗？”
　　“哦，老实说，是的。我们抓到了那个人，我们也有了大部分证据，现在只需要些修饰。”
　　波洛摇摇头。
　　“案子已结束！那个案子！那案子就是那个家伙，黑斯廷斯。直到我们完全了解那个人，奥妙还会一样深不可测。这可不是因为我们把他推上被告席而获得的胜利！”
　　“我们对他已经有许多了解。”
　　“我们对他还一无所知！我们知道他在哪里出生。我们知道他参加了战争，头部受了点轻伤，还有他由于癫痫退伍。我们知道他租住马伯里太太的房子有近两年时间。我们知道他很安静和孤僻——是那种没人会留意的人。我们知道他炮制和实施了一个极其聪明的系列谋杀案计划。我们知道他犯了一些难以置信的愚蠢的错误。我们知道他毫无同情心和相当残暴地杀人。我们也知道他挺善良的，他不让别人因为他所犯的罪行受到责难。如果他想不受干扰地杀人——让别人为他的罪行受累是多么地容易。黑斯廷斯，你难道没有看见，这个人是个矛盾的混合体？愚蠢和精明，残暴和高尚，——而且这中间一定有什么决定因素来调和他的两重性。”
　　“当然，如果你把他当作一个心理学研究对象的话。”我开始发言。
　　“从一开始，这案子就一直有点其它什么东西呢？我一直摸索解决问题的办法——试图了解凶手。现在我意识到，黑斯廷斯，我其实一点也不了解他！我茫然无知。”
　　“是对权力的欲望。”我说。
　　“是的——这可能能解答许多东西……可它还是不能令我满意。有些事情我还想知道，他为什么要进行谋杀？他为什么会挑选这些特定的人——？”
　　“是字母顺序——”我开始说道。
　　“难道贝蒂·巴纳德是在贝克斯希尔唯一的以B 字母冠名的人吗？贝蒂·巴纳德——我倒是有个主意……它应该是真实的——肯定是对的。可如果是这样——”
　　他沉默了一会儿。我不愿去打断他。
　　事实上，我相信我睡着了。
　　我醒的时候，发现波洛的手搭在我的肩上。
　　“Mon cher Hastings（法文，意为：我亲爱的黑斯廷斯。——译注），”他热情洋溢地说，“我的天才。”
　　我被这突然的赞美之词弄得迷惑不解。
　　“是真的，”波洛坚持道，“长期以来——长期以来，你给我帮助——给我带来好运。你使我受到启发。”
　　“我这一次是怎样使你受到启发的呢？”我问。
　　“当我向自己问一些问题时，我想起你说过的一句评语——一句绝对清晰而闪亮的话。我不是曾经对你说过，你是一个说真话的天才。我对这么明显的东西倒是疏忽了。”
　　“我的这句英明的评论是什么？”我问。
　　“它使每一件物品都像水晶一样晶莹透明。我找到了所有问题的答案。关于阿谢尔太太的原因（对的，我很久前曾模糊地感到过），卡迈克尔·克拉克的原因，唐克斯特谋杀案的原因，而最终和最重要的是，赫尔克里·波洛的原因。”
　　“你是否可以解释一下？”我问。
　　“现在还不行。我还需要更多一点情况。我可以从我们的特别团体那里获得。然后——然后，当我获得某个问题的答案之后，我会去同ABC会面。我们最终能够面对面——ABC 与赫尔克里·波洛——两个对手。”
　　“然后呢？”我问道。
　　“然后，”波洛说，“我们会谈话。Je vous assure （法文，意为：我向你保证。——译注），黑斯廷斯，对任何想藏匿的人来说，没有任何东西比谈话更危险！一个明智的法国老人曾经告诉过我，谈话是阻止他思考的一个发明。这也是想要发现他所藏匿的东西的确实可靠的方法。黑斯廷斯，一个人无法阻止谈话给他带来的暴露自己和显示个性的机会。每一次他都会露出马脚。”
　　“你期望卡斯特会告诉你些什么？”
　　赫尔克里·波洛泛起笑意。
　　“是个谎言，”他说，“而通过谎言，我将会了解真相！”


Chapter 32

AND CATCH A FOX



During the next few days Poirot was very busy. He made mysterious absences, talked very little, frowned to himself, and consistently refused to satisfy my natural curiosity as to the brilliance I had, according to him, displayed in the past.

I was not invited to accompany him on his mysterious comings and goings - a fact which I somewhat resented.

Towards the end of the week, however, he announced his intention of paying a visit to Bexhill and neighbourhood and suggested that I should come with him. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity.

The invitation, I discovered, was not extended to me alone. The members of our Special Legion were also invited.

They were as intrigued by Poirot as I was. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, I had at any rate an idea as to the direction in which Poirot's thoughts were tending.

He first visited Mr. and Mrs. Barnard and got an exact account from her as to the hour at which Mr. Cust had called on her and exactly what he had said. He then went to the hotel at which Cust had put up and extracted a minute description of that gentleman's departure. As far as I could judge, no new facts were elicited by his questions but he himself seemed quite satisfied.

Next he went to the beach - to the place where Betty Barnard's body had been discovered. Here he walked round in circles for some minutes studying the shingle attentively. I could see little point in this, since the tide covered the spot twice a day.

However I have learnt by this time that Poirot's actions are dictated by an idea - however meaningless they may seem.

He then walked from the beach to the nearest point at which a car could have been parked. From there again he went to the place where the Eastbourne buses waited before leaving Bexhill.

Finally he took us all to the Ginger Cat cafй where we had a somewhat stale tea served by the plump waitress, Milly Higley.

Her he complimented in a flowing Gallic style on the shape of her ankles.

"The legs of the English - always they are too thin! But you, mademoiselle, have the perfect leg. It has shape - it has an ankle!"

Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She knew what French gentlemen were like.

Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality. He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost shocked.

"Voilб" said Poirot, "I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to Eastbourne. One little inquiry there - that is all. Unnecessary for all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and let us have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!"

As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously:

"I suppose we can guess what you are after? You're out to break that alibi. But I can't see what you're so pleased about. You haven't got a new fact of any kind."

"No - that is true."

"Well, then?"

"Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time."

"You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway."

"Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea - that is why."

His face grew serious.

"My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young played a game called The Truth. It was a game where every one in turn was asked three questions - two of which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with every one had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

He paused.

"Well?" said Megan.

"Eh bien - me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you."

"Of course," said Clarke impatiently. "We'll answer anything."

"Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?"

He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded.

"Bon, "said Poirot briskly. "Let us begin -"

"I'm ready," said Thora Grey.

"Ah, but ladies first - this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere."

He turned to Franklin Clarke.

"What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?"

Franklin Clarke stared at him.

"Is this a joke?"

"Certainly not."

"Is that seriously your question?"

"It is."

Clarke began to grin.

"Well, M. Poirot, I didn't actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women's hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily."

"Fantastic?"

"Quite fantastic."

Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser.

"When did you take your holiday this year, Monsieur?"

It was Fraser's turn to stare.

"My holiday? The first two weeks in August."

His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him.

Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear.

"Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke's death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?"

The girl sprang up.

"How dare you ask me such a question. It's - it's insulting!"

"Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien - Yes or no?"

"Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that's how I felt to him - just affectionate and grateful."

"Pardon me, but that is not answering yes or no, mademoiselle."

She hesitated.

"The answer, of course, is no!"

He made no comment.

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl's face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal.

Poirot's voice came out like the crack of a whip lash.

"Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigations? Do you want me to find out the truth - or not?"

Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.

Her answer came clearly - and it stupefied me.

"No!"

We all jumped. Poirot leaned forward, studying her face.

"Mademoiselle Megan," he said, "you may not want the truth but - ma foi - you can speak it!"

He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower.

"Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?"

Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I - I - well, I'm not sure."

He smiled.

"Alors c'est bien, mon enfant."

He looked round for me.

"Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne."

The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne.

"Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?"

"Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am doing."

I relapsed into silence.

Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look over the castle.

As we were returning towards the car, we paused a moment to watch a ring of children - Brownies, I guessed, by their getup - who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices...

"What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words."

I listened - till I caught one refrain.



"- And catch a fox

And put him in a box

And never let him go."



"And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!" repeated Poirot.

His face had gone suddenly grave and stern.

"It is very terrible that, Hastings." He was silent a minute. "You hunt the fox here?"

"I don't. I've never been able to afford to hunt. And I don't think there's much hunting in this part of the world."

"I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side - then they sound the tally-ho, do they not? - and the run begins - across the country - over the hedges and ditches - and the fox he runs - and sometimes he doubles back - but the dogs -"

"Hounds!"

"- hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies - quickly and horribly."

"I suppose it does sound cruel, but really -"

"The fox enjoys it? Do not say les bкtises, my friend. Tout de mкme - it is better that - the quick, cruel death - than what those children were singing...

"To be shut away - in a box - for ever... No, it is not good, that."

He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone:

"Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust," and he added to the chauffeur: "Back to London."

"Aren't you going to Eastbourne?" I cried.

"What need? I know - quite enough for my purpose."

第三十二章　抓住狐狸



　　在接下来的数日当中，波洛忙碌不堪。他神秘兮兮地缺席，少言寡语，眉头紧锁，而且不断地拒绝我那自然的好奇心，以及，按照他自己的说法，拒绝我在过去所表现出来的精明。
　　在那些神秘兮兮的来往行程中，我并没有受邀请与他同行——这个事实多少令我有些不满。
　　直到周末，他终于宣称将要去贝克斯希尔和附近地区一趟，并建议我与他同行。不用说，我欣然接受。
　　我发现，我并不是唯一受到邀请的人。我们的特别团体的成员都受到了邀请。
　　他们也像我一样，被波洛激发起了兴趣。不过，那天快结束时，我总算有了一个主意，了解波洛思想中的倾向性。
　　他首先访问巴纳德先生和太太，从后者那里获得准确的描述，知道卡斯特先生是什么时间来找她的，以及他确实讲过那些话。他然后去到卡斯特曾住过的那家饭店，得知了他离店的详细情况。就此，我可以判断，他的提问并没有获得新的实际情况，可他自己倒是挺满意的。
　　接着，他又去了海滩——去那个发现贝蒂·巴纳德的尸体的地点。在这里他转着圈走了几分钟，神情投入地研究那个鹅卵石的海滩。我从中看不出有什么道理，因为潮汐每天会把这个地方冲刷两遍。
　　然而，这一次我已明白，波洛的行动通常会受到一个主意的指使——不管这些行动看起来多么地毫无意义。
　　随后，他从海滩步行走到最近处的一个停车地点。从那里，他再次走向一个地方，那些公共汽车是开往伊斯特本的，在离开贝克斯希尔以前停在那里。
　　最后，他带着我们全体人员来到黄猫餐厅。在那里，我们品尝了有些陈旧的茶水，是由那位直爽的米莉·希格利为我们服务的。
　　他用一种流畅的高卢式风格对她的脚踝部加以赞美。
　　“英国人的腿——它们总是瘦兮兮的！可是你，小、姐，却有着完美无瑕的腿。它具备良好的形态——它有脚踝部。”
　　米莉·希格利咯咯地笑了好一阵子，告诉他别再说下去了。她深知法国男人的言行举止。
　　波洛并没有费劲地反驳她对他的国际的错误认识，他只是以一种令我感到惊讶甚至是震惊的方式向她抛媚眼。
　　“Voila（法文，意为：对的。——译注），”波洛说，“我在贝克斯希尔已经完成了想要做的事，现在要去伊斯特本。在那里还有个小问题——这就是全部。你们大家全陪着我也没什么必要，现在我们大家回酒店吧，让我们品尝一杯鸡尾酒，这种卡尔顿茶，真是令人厌恶。”
　　正当我们品尝鸡尾酒时，富兰克林·克拉克惊奇地说道：
　　“我想，我们能猜到你随后的目的是什么？你要外出，排除他不在犯罪现场的证据。可是我不明白，你为何会如此高兴，你还没有获得任何一种新的事情。”
　　“不，那倒是挺正确的。”
　　“那么，然后呢？”
　　“耐心。只要时间允许的话，一切都会自行准备好的。”
　　“到目前为止，还没有什么能驳倒我的小小观点——那就是原因所在。”
　　他的脸变得严肃认真。
　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯有一次告诉我，他在年轻的时候曾玩过一个叫做‘真相’的游戏。在这个游戏当中，每个人都会轮流被问三个问题——其中的两个问题必须要真实地来回答。第三个问题可以弃而不答。那些问题自然是最不明智的那种。可是一开头，每个人必须发誓，他们会讲真话，除了真话之外别无它物。”
　　他暂停下来。
　　“哦？”梅根说。
　　“Eh bien（法文，意为：好吧。——译注），——对我来说，我倒是想玩玩这个游戏，而只是没必要回答三个问题。一个问题就足够了。你们每个人都会有一个问题。”
　　“当然”，克拉克不耐烦地说，“我们会回答的。”
　　“噢，可我想要使它更严肃一些。你们全都能发誓讲真话吗？”
　　他是如此一本正经，其他人则感到困惑不解，也开始变得严肃正经起来。他们全照他的要求发誓。
　　“Bon（法文，意为：好。——译注），”波洛兴致勃勃地说，“我们开始吧——”
　　“我准备好了。”托拉·格雷说。
　　“啊，女士优先——这时候就不是什么礼貌的事了。我们还是先从别人开始吧。”
　　他转向富兰克林·克拉克。
　　“mon cher M.Clarke（法文，意为：我亲爱的克拉克先生。——译注），你认为今年在赛马场的女士�

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[table=600,#ffffff,#000000,1][tr][td]Chapter 34

POIROT EXPLAINS



We were sitting in a state of tense attention to listen to Poirot's final explanation of the case.

"All along," he said, "I have been worried over the why of this case. Hastings said to me the other day that the case was ended. I replied to him that the case was the man. The mystery was not the mystery of the murders, but the mystery of A.B.C. Why did he find it necessary to commit these murders? Why did he select me as his adversary?

"It is no answer to say that the man was mentally unhinged. To say a man does mad things because he is mad is merely unintelligent and stupid. A madman is as logical and reasoned in his action as a sane man - given his peculiar biased point of view. For example, if a man insists on going out and squatting about in nothing but a loin cloth his conduct seems eccentric in the extreme. But once you know that the man himself is firmly convinced that he is Mahatma Gandhi, then his conduct becomes perfectly reasonable and logical.

"What was necessary in this case was to imagine a mind so constituted that it was logical and reasonable to commit four or more murders and to announce them beforehand by letters written to Hercule Poirot.

"My friend, Hastings, will tell you that from the moment I received the first letter I was upset and disturbed. It seemed to me at once that there was something very wrong about the letter."

"You were quite right," said Franklin Clarke dryly.

"Yes. But there, at the very start, I made a grave error. I permitted my feeling - my very strong feeling about the letter to remain a mere impression. I treated it as though it had been an intuition. In a well-balanced, reasoning mind them is no such thing as an intuition - an inspired guess! You can guess, of course - and a guess is either right or wrong. If it is right you call it an intuition. If it is wrong you usual do not speak of it again. But what is often called an intuition is really an impression based on logical deduction or experience. When an expert feels that there is something wrong about a picture or a piece of furniture, or the signature on a cheque he is really basing that feeling on a host of small signs and details. He has no need to go into them minutely - his experience obviates that - the net result is the definite impression that something is wrong. But it is not a guess, it is an impression based on experience.

"Eh bien, I admit that I did not regard that first letter in the way I should. It just made me extremely uneasy. The police regarded it as a hoax. I myself took it seriously. I was convinced that a murder would take place in Andover as stated. As you know, a murder did take place.

"There was no means at that point, as I well realized, of knowing who the person was who had done the deed. The only course open to me was to try and understand just what kind of a person had done it.

"I had certain indications. The letter - the manner of the crime - the person murdered. What I had to discover was: the motive of the crime, the motive of the letter."

"Publicity," suggested Clarke.

"Surely an inferiority complex covers that," added Thora Gray.

"That was, of course, the obvious line to take. But why me? Why Hercule Poirot? Greater publicity could be ensured by sending the letters to Scotland Yard. More again by sending them to a newspaper. A newspaper might not print the first letter, but by the time the second crime took place, A.B.C. could have been assured of all the publicity the press could give. Why, then, Hercule Poirot? Was it for some personal reason? There was, discernible in the letter, a slight anti-foreign bias - but not enough to explain the matter to my satisfaction.

"Then the second letter arrived - and was followed by the murder of Betty Barnard at Bexhill. It became clear now (what I had already suspected) that the murders were to proceed in an alphabetical plan, but that fact, which seemed final to most people, left the main question unaltered to my mind. Why did A.B.C. need to commit these murders?"

Megan Barnard stirred in her chair.

"Isn't them such a thing as - as a blood lust?" she said.

Poirot turned to her.

"You are quite right, mademoiselle. There is such a thing. The lust to kill. But that did not quite fit the facts of the case. A homicidal maniac who desires to kill usually desires to kill as many victims as possible. It is a recurring craving. The great idea of such a killer is to hide his tracks - not to advertise them. When we consider the four victims selected - or at any rate three of them (for I know very little of Mr. Downes or Mr. Earlsfield), we realize that if he had chosen, the murderer could have done away with them without incurring any suspicion. Franz Ascher, Donald Fraser or Megan Barnard, possibly Mr. Clarke - those are the people the police would have suspected even if they had been unable to get direct proof. An unknown homicidal murderer would not have been thought of! Why, then, did the murderer feel it necessary to call attention to himself? Was it the necessity of leaving on each body a copy of an A.B.C. railway guide? Was that the compulsion? Was there some complex connected with the railway guide?

"I found it quite inconceivable at this point to enter into the mind of the murderer. Surely it could not be magnanimity? A horror of responsibility for the crime being fastened on an innocent person?

"Although I could not answer the main question, certain things I did feel I was learning about the murderer."

"Such as?" asked Fraser.

"To begin with - that he had a tabular mind. His crimes were listed by alphabetical progression - that was obviously important to him. On the other hand, he had no particular taste in victims - Mrs. Ascher, Betty Barnard, Sir Carmichael Clarke, they all differed widely from each other. There was no sex complex - no particular age complex, and that seemed to me to be a very curious fact. If a man kills indiscriminately it is usually because he removes any one who stands in his way or annoys him. But the alphabetical progression showed that such was not the case here. The other type of killer usually selects a particular type of victim - nearly always of the opposite sex. There was something haphazard about the procedure of A.B.C. that seemed to me to be at war with the alphabetical selection.

"The slight inferences I permitted myself to make. The choice of the A.B.C. suggested to me what I may call a railway-minded man. This is more common in men than women. Small boys love trains better than small girls do. It might be the sign, too, of an in some ways undeveloped mind. The 'boy' motif still predominated.

"The death of Betty Barnard and the manner of it gave me certain other indications. The manner of her death was particularly suggestive. (Forgive me, Mr. Fraser.) To begin with, she was strangled with her own belt - therefore she must almost certainly have been killed by some one with whom she was on friendly or affectionate terms. When I learnt something of her character a picture grew up in my mind.

"Betty Barnard was a flirt. She liked attention from a personal male. Therefore A.B.C., to persuade her to come out with him, must have had a certain amount of attraction - of le sex appeal! He must be able, as you English say, to 'get off.' He must be capable of the click! I visualize the scene on the beach thus: the man admires her belt. She takes it off, he passes it playfully round her neck - says, perhaps, 'I shall strangle you.' It is all very playful. She giggles - and he pulls -"

Donald Fraser sprang up. He was livid.

"M. Poirot - for God's sake."

Poirot made a gesture.

"It is finished. I say no more. It is over. We pass to the next murder, that of Sir Carmichael Clarke. Here the murderer goes back to his first method - the blow on the head. The same alphabetical complex - but one fact worries me a little. To be consistent the murderer should have chosen his towns in some definite sequence.

"If Andover is the 155th name under A, then the B crime should be the 155th also - or it should be the 156th and the C the 157th. Here again the towns seemed to be chosen in rather too haphazard a fashion."

"Isn't that because you're rather biased on that subject, Poirot?" I suggested. "You yourself are normally methodical and orderly. It's almost a disease with you."

"No, it is not a disease! Quelle idйe! But I admit that I may be over-stressing that point. Passons!

"The Churston crime gave me very little extra help. We were unlucky over it, since the letter announcing it went astray, hence no preparations could be made.

"But by the time the D crime was announced, a very formidable system of defence had been evolved. It must have been obvious that A.B.C. could not much longer hope to get away with his crimes.

"Moreover, it was at this point that the clue of the stockings came into my hands. It was perfectly clear that the presence of an individual selling stockings on and near the scene of each crime could not be a incidence. Hence the stocking-seller must be the murderer. I may say that his description, as given me by Miss Grey, did not quite correspond with my own picture of the man who strangled Betty Barnard

"I will pass over the next stages quickly. A fourth murder was committed - the murder of a man named George Earlsfield - it was supposed in mistake for a man named Downes, who was something of the same build and who was sitting near him in the cinema.

"And now at last comes the turn of the tide. Events play against A.B.C. instead of into his hands. He is marked down - hunted - and at last arrested.

"The case, as Hastings says, is ended!

"True enough as far as the public is concerned. The man is in prison and will eventually, no doubt, go to Broadmoor. There will be no more murders. Exit! Finis! R.I.P.

"But not for me. I know nothing - nothing at all! Neither the why nor the wherefore.

"And there is one small vexing fact. The man Cust has an alibi for the night of the Bexhill crime."

"That's been worrying me all along," said Franklin Clarke.

"Yes. It worried me. For the alibi, it has the air of being genuine. But it cannot be genuine unless - and now we come to two very interesting speculations.

"Supposing, my friends, that while Cust committed three of the crimes - the A, C and D crimes - he did not commit the B crime."

"M. Poirot. It isn't -"

Poirot silenced Megan Barnard with a look.

"Be quiet, mademoiselle. I am for the truth, I am! I have done with lies. Supposing, I say, that A.B.C. did not commit the second crime. It took place, remember, in the early hours of the 25th - the day he had arrived for the crime. Supposing some one had forestalled him? What in those circumstances would he do? Commit a second murder, or lie low and accept the first as a kind of macabre present?"

"M. Poirot!" said Megan. "That's a fantastic thought! All the crimes must have been committed by the same person!"

He took no notice of her and went steadily on:

"Such a hypothesis had the merit of explaining one fact - the discrepancy between the personality of Alexander Bonaparte Cust (who could never have made the click with any girl) and the personality of Betty Barnard's murderer. And it has been known, before now, that would-be murderers have taken advantage of the crimes committed by other people. Not all the crimes of Jack the Ripper were committed by Jack the Ripper, for instance. So far, so good.

"But then I came up against a definite difficulty.

"Up to the time of the Barnard murder, no facts about the A.B.C. murders had been made public. The Andover murder had created little interest. The incident of the open railway guide had not even been mentioned in the press. It therefore followed that whoever killed Betty Barnard must have had access to facts known only to certain persons - myself, the police, and certain relations and neighbours of Mrs. Ascher.

"That line of research seemed to lead me up against a blank wall."

The faces that looked at him were blank too. Blank and puzzled.

Donald Fraser said thoughtfully:

"The police, after all, are human beings. And they're good-looking men -"

He stopped, looking at Poirot inquiringly.

Poirot shook his head gently.

"No - it is simpler than that. I told you that there was a second speculation.

"Supposing that Cust was not responsible for the killing of Betty Barnard? Supposing that some one else killed her. Could that some one else have been responsible for the other murders too?"

"But that doesn't make sense!" cried Clarke.

"Doesn't it? I did then what I ought to have done at first. I examined the letters I had received from a totally different point of view. I had felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with them - just as a picture expert knows a picture is wrong...

"I had assumed, without pausing to consider, that what was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a madman.

"Now I examined them again - and this time I came to a totally different conclusion. What was wrong with them was the fact that they were written by a sane man!"

"What?" I cried.

"But yes - just that precisely! They were wrong as a picture is wrong - because they were a fake. They pretended to be the letters of a madman - of a homicidal lunatic, but in reality they were nothing of the kind."

"It doesn't make sense," Franklin Clarke repeated.

"Mais si! One must reason - reflect. What would be the object of writing such letters? To focus attention on the writer, to call attention to the murders! En veritй, it did not seem to make sense at first sight. And then I saw light. It was to focus attention on several murders - on a group of murders... Is it not your great Shakespeare who has said, 'You cannot see the trees for the wood'?"

I did not correct Poirot's literary reminiscences. I was trying to see his point. A glimmer came to me. He went on:

"When do you notice a pin least? When it is in a pincushion! When do you notice an individual murder least? When it is one of a series of related murders.

"I had to deal with an intensely clever, resourceful murderer - reckless, daring and a thorough gambler. Not Mr. Cust! He could never have committed these murders! No, I had to deal with a very different stamp of man - a man with a boyish temperament (witness the schoolboy-type letters and the railway guide), an attractive man to women, and a man with a ruthless disregard for human life, a man who was necessarily a prominent person in one of the crimes! Consider when a man or woman is killed, what are the questions that the police ask? Opportunity. Where was everybody at the time of the crime? Motive. Who benefited by the deceased's death? If the motive and the opportunity are fairly obvious, what is a would-be murderer to do? Fake an alibi - that is, manipulate time in some way? But that is always a hazardous proceeding. Our murderer thought of a more fantastic defence. Create a homicidal murderer!

"I had now only to review the various crimes and find the possible guilty person. The Andover crime? The most likely suspect for that was Franz Ascher, but I could not imagine Ascher inventing and carrying out such an elaborate scheme, nor could I see him planning a premeditated murder. The Bexhill crime? Donald Fraser was a possibility. He had brains and ability, and a methodical turn of mind. But his motive for killing his sweetheart could only be jealousy - and jealousy does not tend to premeditation. Also I learned that he had his holiday early in August, which rendered it unlikely that he had anything to do with the Churston crime. We come to the Churston crime next - and at once we are on infinitely more promising ground.

"Sir Carmichael Clarke was an immensely wealthy man. Who inherits his money? His wife, who is dying, has a life interest in it, and it then goes to his brother Franklin."

Poirot turned slowly round till his eyes met those of Franklin Clarke.

"I was quite sure then. The man I had known a long time in my secret mind was the same as the man whom I had known as a person. A.B.C. and Franklin Clarke were one and the same! The daring adventurous character, the roving life, the partiality for England that had showed itself, very faintly, in the jeer at foreigners. The attractive free and easy manner - nothing easier for him than to pick up a gift in a cafй. The methodical tabular mind - he made a list here one day, ticked off over the headings A.B.C. - and finally, the boyish mind - mentioned by Lady Clarke and even shown by his taste in fiction - I have ascertained that there is a book in the library called The Railway Children by E. Nesbit. I had no further doubt in my own mind - A.B.C., the man who wrote the letters and committed the crimes, was Franklin Clarke."

Clarke suddenly burst out laughing.

"Very ingenious! And what about our friend Cust, caught red-handed? What about the blood on his coat? And the knife he hid in his lodgings? He may deny he committed the crimes -"

Poirot interrupted.

"You are quite wrong. He admits the fact."

"What?" Clarke looked really startled.

"Oh, yes," said Poirot gently. "I had no sooner spoken to him than I was aware that Cust believed himself to be guilty."

"And even that didn't satisfy M. Poirot?" said Clarke.

"No. Because as soon as I saw him I also knew that he could not be guilty! He has neither the nerve nor the daring - nor, I may add, the brains to plan! All along I have been aware of the dual personality of the murderer. Now I see wherein it consisted. Two people were involved - the real murderer, cunning, resourceful and dating - and the pseudo murderer, stupid, vacillating and suggestible.

"Suggestible - it is in that word that the mystery of Mr. Cust consists! It was not enough for you, Mr. Clarke, to devise this plan of a series to distract attention from a single crime. You had also to have a stalking horse.

"I think the idea first originated in your mind as the result of a chance encounter in a city coffee den with this odd personality with his bombastic Christian names. You were at that time turning over in your mind various plans for the murder of your brother."

"Really? And why?"

"Because you were seriously alarmed for the future. I do not know whether you realize it, Mr. Clarke, but you played into my hands when you showed me a certain letter written to you by your brother. In it he displayed very clearly his affection and absorption in Miss Thora Grey. His regard may have been a paternal one - or he may have preferred to think it so. Nevertheless, there was a very real danger that on the death of your sister-in-law he might, in his loneliness, turn to this beautiful girl for sympathy and comfort and it might end - as so often happens with elderly men - in his marrying her. Your fear was increased by your knowledge of Miss Grey. You are, I fancy, an excellent, if somewhat cynical judge of character. You judged, whether correctly or not, that Miss Grey was a type of young woman 'on the make.' You had no doubt that she would jump at the chance of becoming Lady Clarke. Your brother was an extremely healthy and vigorous man. There might be children and your chance of inheriting your brother's wealth would vanish.

"You have been, I fancy, in essence a disappointed man all your life. You have been the rolling stone - and you have gathered very little moss. You were bitterly jealous of your brother's wealth.

"I repeat then that, turning over various schemes in your mind, your meeting with Mr. Cust gave you an idea. His bombastic Christian names, his account of his epileptic seizures and of his headaches, his whole shrinking and insignificant personality, struck you as fitting him for the tool you wanted. The whole alphabetical plan sprang into your mind - Cust's initials - the fact that your brother's name began with a C and that he lived at Churston were the nucleus of the scheme. You even went so far as to hint to Cust at his possible end - though you could hardly hope that that suggestion would bear the rich fruit that it did.

"Your arrangements were excellent. In Cust's name you wrote for a large consignment of hosiery to be sent to him. You yourself sent a number of A.B.C.'s looking like a similar parcel. You wrote to him - a typed letter purporting to be from the same firm offering him a good salary and commission. Your plans were so well laid beforehand that you typed all the letters that were sent subsequently, and then presented him with the machine on which they had been typed.

"You had now to look about for two victims whose names began with A and B respectively and who lived at places also beginning with those same letters.

"You hit on Andover as quite a likely spot and your preliminary reconnaissance there led you to select Mrs. Ascher's shop as the scene of the first crime. Her name was written clearly over the door, and you found by experiment that she was usually alone in the shop. Her murder needed nerve, daring and reasonable luck.

"For the letter B you had to vary your tactics. Lonely women in shops might conceivably have been warned. I should imagine that you frequented a few cafйs and teashops, laughing and joking with the girls there and finding out whose name began with the right letter and who would be suitable for your purpose.

"In Betty Barnard you found just the type of girl you were looking for. You took her out once or twice, explaining to her that you were a married man, and that outings must therefore take place in a somewhat hole and corner manner.

"Then, your preliminary plans completed, you set to work! You send the Andover list to Cust, directing him to go there on a certain date and you sent off the first A.B.C. letter to me.

"On the appointed day, you went to Andover - and killed Mrs. Ascher - without anything occurring to damage your plans.

"Murder No. 1 was successfully accomplished.

"For the second murder, you took the precaution of committing it, in reality, the day before. I am fairly certain that Betty Barnard was killed well before midnight on the 24th July.

"We now come to murder No. 3 - the important - in fact, the real murder from your point of view.

"And here a full creed of praise is due to Hastings, who made a simple and obvious remark to which no attention was paid.

"He suggested that the third letter went astray intentionally. And he was right!...

"In that one simple fact lies the answer to the question that has puzzled me so all along. Why were the letters addressed in the first place to Hercule Poirot, a private detective, and not to the police?

"Erroneously I imagined some personal reason.

"Not at all! The letters were sent to me because the essence of your plan was that one of them should be wrongly addressed and go astray - but you cannot arrange for a letter addressed to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard to go astray! It is necessary to have a private address. You chose me as a fairly well-known person, and a person who was sure to take the letters to the police - and also, in your rather insular mind, you enjoyed scoring off a foreigner.

"You addressed your envelope very cleverly - Whitehaven - Whitehorse - quite a natural slip. Only Hastings was sufficiently perspicacious to disregard subtleties and go straight for the obvious!

"Of course the letter was meant to go astray! The police were to be set on the trail only when the murder was safely over. Your brother's nightly walk provided you with the opportunity. And so successfully had the A.B.C. terror taken hold on the public mind that the possibility of your guilt never occurred to any one.

"After the death of your brother, of course, your object was accomplished. You had no wish to commit any more murders. On the other hand, if the murders stopped without reason, a suspicion of truth might come to some one.

"Your stalking horse, Mr. Cust, had so successfully lived up to his rфle of the invisible - because insignificant - man, that so far no one had noticed that the same person had been seen in the vicinity of the three murders! To your annoyance, even his visit to Combeside had not been mentioned. The matter had passed completely out of Miss Grey's head.

"Always daring, you decided that one more murder must take place but that this time the trail must be well blazed.

"You selected Doncaster for the scene of operations.

"Your plan was very simple. You yourself would be on the scene in the nature of things. Mr. Cust would be ordered to Doncaster by his firm. Your plan was to follow him round and trust to opportunity. Everything fell out well. Mr. Cust went to a cinema. That was simplicity itself. You sat a few seats away from him. When he got up to go, you did the same. You pretended to stumble, leaned over and stabbed a dozing man in the row in front, slid the A.B.C. on to his knees and managed to collide heavily with Mr. Cust in the darkened doorway, wiping the knife on his sleeve and slipping it into his pocket.

"You were not in the least at pains to choose a victim whose name began with D. Any one would do! You assumed - and quite rightly - that it would be considered to be a mistake. There was sure to be some one who name began with D not far off in the audience. It would be assumed that he had been intended to be the victim.

"And now, my friends, let us consider the matter from the point of view of the false A.B.C. - from the point of view of Mr. Cust.

"The Andover crime means nothing to him. He is shocked and surprised by the Bexhill crime - why, he himself was there about the time! Then comes the Churston crime and the headlines in the newspapers. An A.B.C. crime at Andover when he was there, an A.B.C. crime at Bexhill, and now another close by... Three crimes and he has been at the scene of each of them. Persons suffering from epilepsy often have blanks when they cannot remember what they have done... Remember that Cust was a nervous, highly neurotic subject and extremely suggestible.

"Then he receives the order to go to Doncaster.

"Doncaster! And the next A.B.C. crime is to be in Doncaster. He must have felt as though it was fate. He loses his nerve, fancies his landlady is looking at him suspiciously, and tells her he is going to Cheltenham.

"He goes to Doncaster because it is his duty. In the afternoon he goes to a cinema. Possibly he dozes off for a minute or two.

"Imagine his feelings when on his return to his inn he discovers that there is blood on his coat sleeve and a bloodstained knife in his pocket. All his vague forebodings leap into certainty.

"He - he himself - is the killer! He remembers his headaches - his lapses of memory. He is quite sure of the truth - he, Alexander Bonaparte Cust, is a homicidal lunatic.

"His conduct after that is the conduct of a hunted animal. He gets back to his lodgings in London. He is safe there - known. They think he has been in Cheltenham. He has the knife with him still - a thoroughly stupid thing to do, of course. He hides it behind the hall stand.

"Then, one day, he is warned that the police are coming. It is the end! They know!

"The hunted animal does his last run...

"I do not know why he went to Andover - a morbid desire, I think, to go and look at the place where the crime was committed - the crime he committed though he can remember nothing about it...

"He has no money left - he is worn out... his feet lead him of his own accord to the police station.

"But even a cornered beast will fight. Mr. Cust fully believes that he did the murders but he sticks strongly to his plea of innocence. And he holds with desperation to that alibi for the second murder. At least that cannot be laid to his door.

"As I say, when I saw him, I knew at once that he was not the murderer and that my name meant nothing to him. I knew too, that he thought himself the murderer!

"After he had confessed his guilt to me, I knew more strongly than ever that my own theory was right."

"Your theory," said Franklin Clarke, "is absurd!"

Poirot shook his head.

"No, Mr. Clarke. You were safe enough so long as no one suspected you. Once you were suspected proofs were easy to obtain."

"Proofs?"

"Yes, I found the stick that you used in the Andover and Churston murders in a cupboard at Combeside. An ordinary stick with a thick knob handle. A section of wood had been removed and melted lead poured in. Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by two people who saw you leaving the cinema when you were supposed to be on the race-course at Doncaster. You were identified at Bexhill the other day by Milly Higley and a girl from the Scarlet Runner Roadhouse, where you took Betty Barnard to dine on the fatal evening. And finally - most damning of all - you overlooked a most elementary precaution. You left a fingerprint on Cust's typewriter - the typewriter that, if you are innocent, you could never have handled."

Clarke sat quite still for a minute, then he said:

"Rouge, impair, manque! - you win, M. Poirot. But it was worth while trying!"

With an incredibly rapid notion, he whipped a small automatic from his pocket and held it to his head.

I gave a cry and involuntarily flinched as I waited for the report.

But no report came - the hammer clicked harmlessly.

Clarke stared at it in astonishment and uttered an oath.

"No, Mr. Clarke," said Poirot. "You may have noticed I had a new manservant today - a friend of mine - an expert sneak thief. He removed your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it all without your being aware of the fact."

"You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!" cried Clarke, purple with rage.

"Yes, yes, that is how you feel. No, Mr. Clarke, no easy death for you. You told Mr. Cust that you had had near escapes from drowning. You know what that means - that you were born for another fate."

"You -"

Words failed him. His face was livid. His fists clenched menacingly.

Two detectives from Scotland Yard emerged from the next room.

One of them was Crome. He advanced and uttered his time-honoured formula: "I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence."

"He has said quite enough," said Poirot, and he added to Clarke: "You are very full of an insular superiority, but for myself I consider your crime not an English crime at all - not above-board - not sporting -"

第三十四章　波洛的案情分析



　　我们都在全神贯注地坐着，倾听着波洛对本案的最终分析。
　　“案发以来，”他说道，“我一直在为本案的起因感到困惑。黑斯廷斯有一天对我说，本案已经结束。我回答说，本案元凶就是那个家伙！这个迷案并不是谋杀案之迷，而是ABC之迷？为什么会发现有必要干这些谋杀案，他为何又要挑选我作为对手呢？
　　“我们不用多说，那个家伙精神失常。如果说一个人做疯狂的事情是因为他是个疯子，这是毫不明智和愚蠢的认识。一个疯子在他的行为之中，如同正常人一样，是符合逻辑和富有理智的——这主要是依据他那偏执的观点。比如说，有一个人浑身上下除了一块遮羞布外什么也不穿，还要坚持外出，他的行为看起来是怪异绝顶。可是你一旦明白，这个人非常强烈地认定自己就是圣雄甘地，那么他的行为就完全是理智和合乎逻辑的。
　　“在本案中，有必要考虑一种智能。这种智能正是这样组成的，干四起或更多的谋杀案并且事先写信向赫尔克里·波洛声明，这种智能认为这样做是符合逻辑和理智的。
　　“我的朋友黑斯廷斯将告诉你们，在收到第一封信的时候，我确实是挺沮丧的，可在片刻之间，我看到这封信当中必定有什么事大错特错了。”
　　“你所言极是。”富兰克林·克拉克冷冰冰地说。
　　“是的，可在一开始，我就犯了一大错。我允许自己的感觉——我对那封信的强烈感觉——只是一种纯粹的印象而已。我把那封信当成了一种直觉。在一个全面、理性的头脑当中，是不会有直觉这样的事物存在的，它仅仅是一种受到启发的猜想！当然�