Chapter 29  A LETTER FROM HOME 

"Dear Katherine, 

"Living among grand friends as you are doing now, I don't suppose you will care to hear any of our news; but as I always thought you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose. Everything goes on much the same here. There was great trouble about the new curate, who is scandalously high. In my view, he is neither more nor less than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to the Vicar about it, but you know what the Vicar is - all Christian charity and no proper spirit. I have had a lot of trouble with maids lately. That girl Annie was no good - skirts up to her knees and wouldn't wear sensible woollen stockings. Not one of them can bear being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr Harris persuaded me to go and see a London specialist - a waste of three guineas and a railway fare, as I told him; but by waiting until Wednesday I managed to get a cheap return. The London doctor pulled a long face and talked all round about and never straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a plain woman, Doctor, and I like things to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it not?' And then, of course, he had to say it was. They say a year with care, and not too much pain, though I am sure I can bear pain as well as any other Christian woman. Life seems rather lonely at times, with most of my friends dead or gone before. I wish you were in St Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact. If you hadn't come into this money and gone off into grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there - there's no good wanting what we can't get. However, if things should go ill with you - and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much 

attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plain-spoken woman I am a warm-hearted one too. 

"Your affectionate old friend, 

"Amelia Viner. 

"P.S. - I saw a mention of you in the paper with your cousin, Viscountess Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it with my cuttings. I prayed for you on Sunday that you might be kept from pride and vain glory." 

Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things - and yet - home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry. 

Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her. 

"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say - what is the matter?" 

"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag. 

"You looked rather queer," said Lenox. "I say - I hope you don't mind - I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me." 

"Did you want to see him then?" asked Katherine. 

"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's." 

"All right," said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint. 

"I have ordered the car," said Lenox, "and I have told Mother some lie or other - unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot." 

The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting. 

He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter, yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, and Lenox made bursts of 

conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting on the terrace sipping their coffee she suddenly attacked Poirot bluntly. 

"How are things going? You know what I mean?" 

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "They take their course," he said. 

"And you are just letting them take their course?" 

He looked at Lenox a little sadly. 

"You are young, Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried - le bon Dieu, Nature, and old people." 

"Nonsense!" said Lenox. "You are not old." 

"Ah, it is pretty what you say there." 

"Here is Major Knighton," said Lenox. Katherine looked round quickly and then turned back again. 

"He is with Mr Van Aldin," continued Lenox. "There is something I want to ask Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute." 

Left alone together, Poirot bent forward and murmured to Katherine: 

"You are distraite, Mademoiselle; your thoughts, they are far away, are they not?" 

"Just as far as England, no farther." 

Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the letter she had received that morning and handed it across to him to read. 

"That is the first word that has come to me from my old life; somehow or other - it hurts." 

He read it through and then handed it back to her. "So you are going back to St Mary Mead?" he said slowly. 

"No, I am not," said Katherine, "why should I?" 

"Ah," said Poirot, "it is my mistake. You will excuse me one little minute." 

He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton. 

The American looked old and haggard. He greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without any other sign of animation. 

As he turned to reply to some observation made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton aside. 

"M. Van Aldin looks ill," he said. 

"Do you wonder?" asked Knighton. "The scandal of Derek Kettering's arrest has about put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned. He is even regretting that he asked you to find out the truth." 

"He should go back to England," said Poirot. 

"We are going the day after tomorrow." 

"That is good news," said Poirot. 

He hesitated, and looked across the terrace to where Katherine was sitting. 

"I wish," he murmured, "that you could tell Miss Grey that." 

"Tell her what?" 

"That you - I mean that M. Van Aldin is I returning to England." 

Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he readily crossed the terrace and joined Katherine. 

Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of the head, and then joined Lenox and the American. After a minute or two they joined the others. Conversation was general for a few minutes, then the millionaire and his secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to take his departure. 

"A thousand thanks for your hospitality, Mesdemoiselles," he cried, "it has been a most charming luncheon. Ma foi, I needed it!" He swelled out his chest and thumped it. "I am now a lion - a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle Katherine, you have not seen me as I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to strike terror into the hearts of those who listen to me." 

He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her under lip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth had a suspicious twitch. 

"And I shall do it," he said gravely. "Oh yes, I shall succeed." 

He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's voice made him turn. 

"M. Poirot, I - I want to tell you. I think you were right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately." 

Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed. 

"I see," he said gravely. 

"I don't believe you do," said Katherine. 

"I know more than you think, Mademoiselle," he said quietly. 

He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes. 

Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful cut- glass table. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. 

Chancing to look out of the window, Hippolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to the hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hippolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called ce type là. 

"It is not the police again?" said Marie anxiously. 

"Look for yourself," said Hippolyte. 

Marie looked. 

"Certainly not the police," she declared. "I am glad." 

"They have not really worried us much," said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wine-shop to be what he was." 

The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door. 

"M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home." 

The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly. 

"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?" 

"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name." 

"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?" 

"Yes, Monsieur, but -" 

"I desire to see you both," said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall. 

"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen," he said. "I will go there." 

Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed 

to stare at him. 

"Voilà," said the stranger, and sank into a wooden armchair, "I am Hercule Poirot." 

"Yes, Monsieur?" 

"You do not know the name?" 

"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte. 

"Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world." 

He sighed and folded his hands across his chest. 

Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor. 

"Monsieur desires -" murmured Hippolyte mechanically. 

"I desire to know why you have lied to the police." 

"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte, "I - lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing." 

M. Poirot shook his head. 

"You are wrong," he said, "you have done on several occasions. Let me see." He took small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you." 

In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions. 

Hippolyte was taken aback. 

"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned - your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January." 

"But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?" 

Marie assented eagerly. 

"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly." 

"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?" 

"I -" Marie paused, trying to collect herself. 

"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things - and forgets others." 

He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger. 

"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes - two people. One is le bon Dieu -" 

He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably: 

"And the other is Hercule Poirot." 

"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night -" 

"True," said Poirot, "by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning." 

"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly. 

Poirot rose to his feet. 

"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity." 

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness. 

"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs Kettering, the English lady who was killed." 

"Murder!" 

The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep. 

"But it is impossible - impossible. I thought -" 

"Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish." 

He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him. 

"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I - I had no idea that it was anything of this kind. I - I thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murder - that is very different." 

"I have no patience with you," cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your look out. For the last time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina - Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning?" 

"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation. 

Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely. 

"You are wise, my children," he said quietly. "Very nearly you were in serious trouble." 

He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself. 

"One guess confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the other?" 

It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle. 

She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously. 

"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now? Have you not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?" 

"Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs Kettering's compartment -" 

"What is that?" 

Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again. 

"I say when you entered Mrs Kettering's compartment -" 

"I never did." 

"And found her -" 

"I never did." 

"Ah, sacré!" 

He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him. 

"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you 

found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful, Mademoiselle Mirelle." 

Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell. 

"I - I didn't -" she began uncertainly and stopped. 

"There is only one thing about which I wonder," said Poirot. "I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether -" 

"Whether what?" 

"Or whether someone else had been before you." 

"I will answer no more questions," screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in. 

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room. 

But he seemed satisfied. 

第二十九章 家乡的来信

“亲爱的卡泰丽娜！您现在是生活在花花世界里了，所以我们这个小村子

    里发生的事您是不感兴趣的。其实，也的确没发生什么事。我整天和女佣人们

    生气。安妮简直是不能用了。她穿的裙子不过膝盖，短到大腿根儿，而且也不

    穿毛袜子。风湿痛给我带来了很大的麻烦，哈里松医生一点也不得闲，有一天

    我只得去伦敦找个专家治病。（当然必须得找一个吉利的日子。）专家拉长了

    脸，东拉西扯地说个没完，最后我不得不问他：‘我是个普通妇女，请您说话

    简单点。痛快说，到底是不是癌症？’最后他说了实话。我已坚持有一年了。

    疼痛我还是能够忍受的。我只是感到非常孤单，我所有的朋友都不在这里了。

    我希望您能回玛丽泰德村来一趟，我的孩子。但是，这是不可能的。最大的可

    能是，当您有什么忧虑或是想得到母亲般的忠告时，请您想到，这里永远是您

    的故乡，是您的家。您那善良的老友

     艾梅莉·瓦伊尼

又及：诺利希最近在报上的社会新闻栏里读到您和您表姐坦普林女士的消

    息。我立即就把它剪下收起来了。我祝愿上帝给您勇气和信心。

    ×   ×  ×

    卡泰丽娜把这位老友的来信读了两遍，然后慢慢地放下，透过卧室的窗口看着地中海蓝色的波涛。她不禁潸然泪下。她是想家了吗？

    雷诺斯打断了她的深思。

    “唉，卡泰丽娜。”年轻女郎叫道，“你是怎么啦？”

    “没什么。”卡泰丽娜说着把信揉在手里。

    “你那样出神地望着，真奇怪。”雷诺斯说道。“对了，我给你的朋友，那个侦探打了个电话，邀请他今天中午到尼扎来吃饭。我还撒了个谎，说你要见他。如果以我的名义，他肯定不会答应。”

    “你想见到他的心情，是那么迫切吗？”

    “坦率地说，是的。我的心都被他俘去了。我还从没有见过一个男人有那么美的绿眼珠。”

    “这可能。”卡泰丽娜随声附和地说道。

    最近几天真是严峻的日子。德里克的被捕成了人们经常谈论的话题。“蓝色特快”上的秘密已广为流传，而这个秘密一直涉及到两个人。

    “我已经租好汽车了。”雷诺斯说道，“妈妈又到什么地方吹牛去了。要是让她知道，她一定会跟着去的。她这个人老是纠缠不休。”

    波洛在内格列斯库饭店早已等着女士们的到来。尽管波洛大献法国式的殷勤，午饭吃得还是不那么痛快。卡泰丽娜郁郁不乐地陷入了深思。雷诺斯一反常态，由夸夸其谈变得沉默不语。在喝黑咖啡时她开口说话了，而且一下就上了正题。

    “有什么新情况吗？我指这当然是那个案子。”

    波洛耸了耸肩。“任何事物都有自己的规律。”

    “那么您就让它按照自己的规律进行？”

    他忧虑地看着雷诺斯。

    “您还年轻。但是，世界上有三件东西您不能催促：可爱的上帝，大自然，还有老头。”

    “尽胡扯。”雷诺斯说道，“您可不算老。”

    “我感谢您对我的夸奖。”

    “奈顿少校来了。”雷诺斯说道。

    卡泰丽娜不由自主地转过头去。

    “他在冯·阿尔丁那里做事。”雷诺斯继续说道。“我想向奈顿问点事。请原谅，我去去就来。”

    当只剩下他们俩的时候，波洛低下头来对卡泰丽娜说道：“您的情绪不好，您的心早就飞离了这里。”

    “到英国去了，飞得不太远。”

    她立即把从衣袋里掏出早晨收到的那封信，递给了波洛。

    “离开玛丽麦德村之后这是我得到的第一个关于家乡生活的消息，它使我很难受。”

    他看完信后又递给卡泰丽娜。

    “您还回玛丽泰德去吗？”他慢悠悠地问道。

    “我指的不是这个。”卡泰丽娜回答道，“为什么我要回去呢？”

    “那我领会错了。”波洛说道，“能够原谅我吗？”

    他走到雷诺斯那边，她正同冯·阿尔丁和奈顿他们谈话。美国佬显得很苍老，愁眉不展。他机械地向波洛点了一下头，表示欢迎。当他正在回答雷诺斯的问题时，波洛把奈顿叫到了一边。

    “冯·阿尔丁先生的脸色真是难看极了。”他说道。

    “您对此感到惊奇吗？”奈顿问道。“德里克的被捕而掀起的这场风波，对他来说实在难以忍受。他感到遗憾的是，他已完全委托您去查清事实真相。”

    “他是要回英国去？”波洛问道。

    “后天我们就回国。”

    波洛犹豫了一会儿，从花坛对面看着卡泰丽娜。“您应该告诉格蕾小姐一声，就说冯·阿尔丁要回英国去。”

    起初奈顿感到有点奇怪，然后却顺从地走向卡泰丽娜。波洛满意地望着他的身影。

    十几分钟后他告别了两位女士，对请他吃午饭也没说什么过分的道谢话。当波洛已离开她们很远的时候，卡泰丽娜又把他叫住。

    “波洛先生，我想对您说句话。您刚才说的对，我最近几天要回英国去。”

    波洛目不转睛地盯着她，以至使她的脸都涨红了。

    “我懂。”他说道。

    “您什么也不懂。”卡泰丽娜说道。

    “我懂的比您猜到的还要多，小姐。”

    他轻轻一笑离开了她，上了汽车直回昂蒂布城。

    罗歇伯爵的那位仪表堂堂的佣人，伊波利特，正在把主人的整套餐具擦得锃亮。伯爵在蒙特卡洛过着自己的日子。伊波利特看到一个小老头正向别墅走来。这次来访对他来说并不十分意外。他把自己的老婆玛丽从厨房里叫出来，低声对她说道：

    “你看那家伙，朝这里走来了。”

    “你相信吗？可能又是从警察局那里来的？”

    “你自己去看好了。”伊波利特望着外面。

    “不是，不是警察局的人。”她声明说。“谢天谢地。”

    门铃响起来，伊波利特开了门，表现得严肃而庄重。

    “伯爵先生不在家。”

    留着一撮胡子的小老头和蔼地看着他。

    “这我知道，”他回答说。“您是伊波利特·弗拉维尔，对吗？”

    “是的，先生。”

    “那么说玛丽·弗拉维尔是您的妻子了？”

    “正是，先生。但……”

    “我希望找你们俩个人谈一谈，”陌生人一面说着一面走进了屋。

    还不等提出什么问题，波洛早已舒适地坐在靠椅上叫道，“我是赫库勒·波洛。”

    “先生，怎样为您效劳好呢？”

    “难道我的名字还没有说明这一点吗？”

    “遗憾的是，并没有。”

    “请允许我给您指出，这是您受教育不足的表现。”

    波洛坐在那里双手抱在胸前。伊波利特与玛丽很不满意地瞧着。他们简直弄不明白，怎样来对待这位毫不知礼的不速之客。

    “先生是想……”伊波利特低声而呆板地问道。

    “我是弄弄清楚，为什么你们要欺骗警察？”

    “先生，”伊波利特叫了一声，“我欺骗警察？完全没有！”

    波洛掏出了一个笔记本在翻着。“您弄错了。您至少有七次对警察说了谎。我这里记录着说谎的细节。”

    他以温和的语调读着这七次谎言的内容。

    伊波利特张口结舌地站在那里。

    “我到这里来不是为了找您的碴，”波洛继续说下去，“您也别这么想，我的朋友。

我到这里来是为了证实一个我感兴趣的谎言。我指的是您曾说过的话，说伯爵是在一月十四日早晨到这个别墅的。”

    “可是，那不是谎言，那是事实。伯爵先生是星期二，一月十四日到别墅。是吗，玛丽？”

    玛丽急忙答应。

    “伯爵先生是星期一离开巴黎的。”伊波利特往下说道。

    “完全正确。”波洛说道，“是乘夜里的快车。在什么地方中断了旅行，这我不清楚。但是事实是，星期三早晨才到了这里，而不是星期二早晨。”

    “先生弄错了。”玛丽泰然自若地插话说。

    波洛跳了起来。

    “那我可要任凭事情的自然发展了。”他嘟哝着。“真可耻！”

    “您说这话是什么意思，先生？”玛丽有点稳不住神了。

    “您们俩将会被逮捕，罪名是协助谋杀凯特林女士，就是那个被人弄死的英国女士。”

    “谋杀……？”

    玛丽的脸面刹时变得象张白纸，两腿颤抖；她的丈夫也变得有点心神不定。

    “可是这简直是不可能的……不可能的！我一直认为……”

    “因为您坚持您的说法，所以任何话都是多余的了。你们是一对大傻瓜。”

    波洛已经走到了门口，这时一声激动的喊叫使他停了下来。

    “先生，先生！请再等一等！我当时认为，又是为了一个女人的事。由于女人的事，我们经常同警察发生小小的磨擦，可是因为谋杀！这是另外一回事，完全是另外一回事。”

    “我的忍耐是有限的。”波洛喊道。“我想知道真相。或者是说真话，或者是……我最后再问你们一次：什么时候伯爵回到别墅的？是星期二早晨还是星期三早晨？”

    “星期三。”男的踌躇地说，女的点头确认。

    波洛不声不响地看了他俩一会儿，然后严肃地点点头。

    “你们俩比我想象的要聪明。”他心平气和地说道。“你们的处境已经到了千钧一发的时刻了。”

    波洛满意地离开了别墅。“猜得很对”，他自言自语地说道。“是否再试一试我那猜谜的天才？”

    米蕾接到赫库勒·波洛的名片的时候，已经是六点钟了。波洛进屋时看到这位舞女神经质地在房间里走来走去。

    “您找我有什么事？”她朝他喊道。“难道你们还没把我折磨够？让我出卖我的德里克，难道这不是你们的罪过？您还想干什么？”

    “有一个小问题，小姐。火车离开里昂，您进了凯特林女士的包厢之后……”

    “您这是什么意思？”

    波洛以温和而责难的目光不断地打量着她。

    “我是说当您进了凯特林女士的包厢之后……”

    “我没有进去过。”

    “您看到她躺地那里……”

    “我不是对您说过吗，我没有走进她的包厢。”

    “见鬼！”他愤怒地大喊了一声，使她不由自主地向后退了一步。

    “您还想骗我？我能够把您当时的情景一丝不漏地描摹一番，就象我亲临其境一样。

您进了她的包厢，发现她已经死了。要想骗我那是危险的，小心点，我的米蕾小姐！”

    在他那敏锐的目光面前，他闭上了双眼，浑身发软，颓然坐下。

    “我只想问您一点。”波洛说道。“您想要找的东西是否已经找到，或是已经……”

    “或是什么？”

    “或是有人已经捷足先登了。”

    “我不想回答任何一个问题了。”米蕾声嘶力竭地叫道。她挣脱了波洛的手，呼呼地喘着气。

    波洛耸了一下肩膀离开了她的屋子。他显得很满意。