Chapter 5 – Mr and Mrs Croft

There was dancing that evening at the hotel. Nick Buckley dined there with her friends and waved a gay greeting to us.

She was dressed that evening in floating scarlet chiffon that dragged on the floor. Out of it rose her white neck and shoulders and her small impudent dark head.

'An engaging young devil,' I remarked. 'A contrast to her friend-eh?'

Frederica Rice was in white. She danced with a languorous weary grace that was as far removed from Nick's animation as anything could be.

'She is very beautiful,' said Poirot suddenly. 'Who? Our Nick?'

'No-the other. Is she evil? Is she good? Is she merely unhappy? One cannot tell. She is a mystery. She is, perhaps, nothing at all. But I tell you, my friend, she is anallumeuse.'

'What do you mean?' I asked curiously.

He shook his head, smiling.

'You will feel it sooner or later. Remember my words.'

Presently to my surprise, he rose. Nick was dancing with George Challenger. Frederica and Lazarus had just stopped and had sat down at their table. Then Lazarus got up and went away. Mrs Rice was alone. Poirot went straight to her table. I followed him.

His methods were direct and to the point.

'You permit?' He laid a hand on the back of a chair, then slid into it. 'I am anxious to have a word with you while your friend is dancing.'

'Yes?' Her voice sounded cool, uninterested.

'Madame, I do not know whether your friend has told you. If not, I will. Today her life has been attempted.'

Her great grey eyes widened in horror and surprise. The pupils, dilated black pupils, widened too.

'What do you mean?'

'Mademoiselle Buckley was shot at in the garden of this hotel.'

She smiled suddenly-a gentle, pitying, incredulous smile.

'Did Nick tell you so?'

'No, Madame, I happened to see it with my own eyes. Here is the bullet.'

He held it out to her and she drew back a little.

'But, then-but, then-'

'It is no fantasy of Mademoiselle's imagination, you understand. I vouch for that. And there is more. Several very curious accidents have happened in the last few days. You will have heard-no, perhaps you will not. You only arrived yesterday, did you not?'

'Yes-yesterday.'

'Before that you were staying with friends, I understand. At Tavistock.'

'Yes.'

'I wonder, Madame, what were the names of the friends with whom you were staying.'

She raised her eyebrows.

'Is there any reason why I should tell you that?' she asked coldly. Poirot was immediately all innocent surprise.

'A thousand pardons, Madame. I was most maladroit. But I myself, having friends at Tavistock, fancied that you might have met them there... Buchanan-that is the name of my friends.'

Mrs Rice shook her head.

'I don't remember them. I don't think I can have met them.' Her tone now was quite cordial. 'Don't let us talk about boring people. Go on about Nick. Who shot at her? Why?'

'I do not know who-as yet,' said Poirot. 'But I shall find out. Oh! yes, I shall find out. I am, you know, a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name.'

'A very famous name.'

'Madame is too kind.'

She said slowly: 'What do you want me to do?'

I think she surprised us both there. We had not expected just that.

'I will ask you, Madame, to watch over your friend.'

'I will.'

'That is all.'

He got up, made a quick bow, and we returned to our own table.

'Poirot,' I said, 'aren't you showing your hand very plainly?'

'Mon ami, what else can I do? It lacks subtlety, perhaps, but it makes for safety. I can take no chances. At any rate one thing emerges plain to see.'

'What is that?'

'Mrs Rice was not at Tavistock. Where was she? Ah! but I will find out. Impossible to keep information from Hercule Poirot. See-the handsome Lazarus has returned. She is telling him. He looks over at us. He is clever, that one. Note the shape of his head. Ah! I wish I knew-'

'What?' I asked, as he came to a stop.

'What I shall know on Monday,' he returned, ambiguously.

I looked at him but said nothing. He sighed.

'You have no longer the curiosity, my friend. In the old days-'

'There are some pleasures,' I said, coldly, 'that it is good for you to do without.'

'You mean-?'

'The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.'

'Ah c'est malin.'

'Quite so.'

'Ah, well, well,' murmured Poirot. 'The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.'

His eyes twinkled with their old glint.

Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.

'Dancing on the edge of death,' she said lightly.

'It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?'

'Yes. Rather fun.'

She was off again, with a wave of her hand.

'I wish she hadn't said that,' I said, slowly.

'Dancing on the edge of death. I don't like it.'

'I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage-voilace qu'il nous faut!'

The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-past eleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.

'Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.'

'Clear for what?' 'You shall see.'

We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.

When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, 'End House. Private.' There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.

In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick's bedroom-sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.

'You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any little affair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen to be in front of the house and see us coming. Then we would have a perfectly natural excuse-providing that we were known as friends of the house.'

'You mean that we can rule out a stranger?'

'That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.'

He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.

And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.

He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.

'What the hell are you doing here, I'd like to know?'

'Ah!' said Poirot. 'Monsieur-Croft, I think?'

'That's my name, but what-'

'Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.'

The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room, with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.

'I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.'

The other's face cleared a little.

'Oh!' he said slowly. 'You're the detective chap. I've read about you.'

'In the St Loo Herald ?'

'Eh? I've read about you way back in Australia. French, aren't you?'

'Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.'

'Glad to meet you. But look, what's the big idea? What are you doing here? Anything-wrong?'

'It depends what you call-wrong.'

The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face-a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.

'See here,' he said. 'I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good-bone idle-doesn't grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I-why, it makes us mad, and we feel it's only neighbourly to do what we can! We've got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don't you think? I came in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men's voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don't deal much in burglars round here-but after all it was possible. I thought I'd just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you're a bonza detective. What's it all about?'

'It is very simple,' said Poirot, smiling. 'Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?'

'She did. A mighty fine escape.'

'To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain-it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voila -it is simple.'

He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile. Croft drew a deep breath. 'So that's all it is?'

'Yes-you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.'

'Didn't I see you yesterday?' said Croft, slowly. 'Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.'

'Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.'

'That's right. Well-well. And you're the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I've heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you'd come back with me now-have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She's read all about you in the newspapers.'

'You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.'

'That's fine.'

'You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?' asked Poirot, turning to me.

I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.

Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles, of his meeting with his wife, of their combined efforts and of his final good fortune and success.

'Right away we made up our minds to travel,' he said. 'We'd always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world-tried to look up some of my wife's people-they came from round about here. But we couldn't trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent-Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence-all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident. My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn't it? I've taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same-there's nothing for it but time-time and lying up. It's an injury to the spine.'

'What a misfortune!'

'Hard luck, isn't it? Well, there it was. And she'd only got one kind of fancy-to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own-something small-it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away-no cars passing, or gramophones next door. I took it right away.'

With the last words we had come to the lodge itself. He sent his voice echoing forth in a loud 'Cooee,' to which came an answering 'Cooee.'

'Come in,' said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.

'Who do you think this is, mother?' said Mr Croft. 'The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.'

'If that isn't too exciting for words,' cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. 'Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since this trouble with my back, I've read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.'

'Right you are, mother.'

'She's a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,' Mrs Croft explained. 'She comes along each morning to fix me up. We're not bothering with servants. Bert's as good a cook and a house-parlour-man as you'd find anywhere, and it gives him occupation-that and the garden.'

'Here we are,' cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. 'Here's the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.'

'I suppose you're staying down here, Mr Poirot?' Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.

'Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.'

'But surely I read that you had retired-that you'd taken a holiday for good and all.'

'Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.' 'Well, that's true enough. So you still carry on business?' 'When I find a case that interests me.'

'Sure you're not down here on work?' inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. 'Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.'

'You mustn't ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,' said Mrs Croft. 'Or he won't come again. We're simple people, Mr Poirot, and you're giving us a great treat coming here today-you and your friend. You really don't know the pleasure you're giving us.'

She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.

'That was a bad business about that picture,' said Mr Croft.

'That poor little girl might have been killed,' said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. 'She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I've heard. But that's the way in these stuck English places. They don't like life and gaiety in a girl. I don't wonder she doesn't spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than-than-well, I don't know what.'

'Don't gossip, Milly,' said her husband.

'Aha!' said Poirot. 'The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?'

'He's silly about her,' said Mrs Croft. 'But she won't marry a country lawyer. And I don't blame her. He's a poor stick, anyway. I'd like her to marry that nice sailor-what's his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He's older than she is, but what of that? Steadying-that's what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She's a sweet girl, Mr Poirot-I know that well enough. But I'm worried about her. She's looked none too happy lately. She's had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I've got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven't I, Bert?'

Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.

'No need to go into that, Milly,' he said. 'I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you'd care to see some snapshots of Australia?'

The rest of our visit passed uneventfully. Ten minutes later we took our leave.

'Nice people,' I said. 'So simple and unassuming. Typical Australians.'

'You liked them?'

'Didn't you?'

'They were very pleasant-very friendly.'

'Well, what is it, then? There's something, I can see.'

'They were, perhaps, just a shade too "typical",' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'That cry of Cooee-that insistence on showing us snapshots-was it not playing a part just a little too thoroughly?'

'What a suspicious old devil you are!'

'You are right, mon ami. I am suspicious of everyone-of everything. I am afraid, Hastings-afraid.'

第五章　克罗夫特夫妇

那天晚上旅馆里有个舞会。尼克·巴克利来同她的朋友们一起进晚餐，见到我们，她容光焕发地打了个招呼。这天晚上她穿着石榴红的薄纱舞裙，裙裾飘飘地拖在地上。雪白的颈项和圆滑的双肩裸露着，加上梳得漫不经心的缎子般发亮的长发，可真叫人销魂。

“是个迷人的小妖精呀！”我评论说。

“跟她的朋友正好是个对照，呃？”

弗雷德里卡·赖斯穿着白色舞衣。她舞姿慵倦，步态迟缓，同尼克春风初度的充沛精力虽有天壤之别，却也别有风韵。

“她真美。”波洛突然说。

“谁？我们的尼克？”

“不——那一个。她是个坏蛋吗？是个好人吗？或者仅仅性情抑郁？没人知道这个谜。也许她什么也不是。不过我告诉你，我的朋友，她是个点燃指路灯的人。”

“这是什么意思？”我好奇地问。

他微笑着摇摇头。

“你迟早会感觉到的，记住我的话好了。”

尼克在同乔治·查林杰跳舞，弗雷德里卡同拉扎勒斯不跳了，回来坐在桌旁。拉扎勒斯才坐下又站起身来走了开去，赖斯太太一个人坐在那里。波洛站起来向她走了过去，我在后面跟着。

他直截了当地说：

“你允许吗？”他把手放在一张椅子的靠背上，一转眼就坐下了。“趁尼克在跳舞，我想同你讲句话。”

“请吧。”她的声音又冷淡又枯燥。

“太太，我不知道你的朋友是否已经对你讲过这事。如果还没有，就让我来讲吧，今天，有人想谋害她。”

她那双灰色的大眼睛因惊讶和恐怖而睁得更大了。

“这是怎么回事呢？”

“有人在这家旅馆的花园里向巴克利小姐开枪。”

她突然笑了——一种文雅的、怜悯的、怀疑的笑。

“是尼克告诉你的？”

“不，太太，是我碰巧亲眼看见的。这就是那颗子弹。”他拿出子弹时她往后一缩。

“但是，这个……”

“这并不是那位小姐的想象力在作怪，你知道，我敢保证，这种事还不止这一回，过去几天里还发生过好几件非常奇怪的事故。你可能听说过，哦，不，你可能没有听说过，因为你是昨天才到这里的，是吗？”

“是的——昨天。”

“在那之前，我想，你跟一些朋友一起待在塔维斯托克。”

“对。”

“我想知道，太太，跟你在一起的那些朋友叫什么名字。”

她抬了抬眉毛，冷冷地问：

“是否有什么理由使得我非说出他们的姓名不可？”

波洛忽然显出一副天真无邪的惊奇模样：

“太抱歉了，太太，我是个不拘小节的人，不过我有些朋友在塔维斯托克，我只是想打听一下你在那儿见过他们没有……他们当中有一个叫布坎南。”

赖斯太太摇摇头。

“没有印象。我想我没见到过这个人。”她的口气缓和些了，“别再提这些叫人厌烦的人吧，还是谈谈尼克。谁向她开枪？为什么要弄死她？”

“我也不知道是谁开的枪。”波洛说，“不过我会把他查出来的。嘿，不错，我会查出来的，我，你知道吗？我是个侦探。赫尔克里·波洛就是我的姓名。”

“这是个无人不知的名字呀。”

“太太过奖了。”

她不慌不忙地说道：“那么，你要我干什么呢？”

这一点我和波洛都感到意外。没料到她竟会这么主动。

“我们想请你，太太，照看好你的朋友。”

“我会这么做的。”

“没别的事了，再见，太太。”

他站起来很快地鞠了一躬，同我一起回到我们的座位上。

“波洛，”我说，“你怎么把手中的牌全亮了出来？”

“没别的办法呀，我的朋友。这样做也许不够圆滑，却很稳妥。我不能冒险，反正现在有件事已经很明显了。”

“什么事？”

“前几天赖斯太太不在塔维斯托克。她在什么地方呢？啊，我会搞清楚的。要瞒过赫尔克里·波洛谈何容易！看，美男子拉扎勒斯回来了，她正把刚才的事告诉他呢。他在朝我们看哪。只要看看他头颅的形状就知道是个机灵鬼。唉，我真想知道——”

“知道什么？”听见没有了下文，我这样问。

“想知道星期一我就会知道的事。”他转过身来敷衍了这样一句。

我看着他，一声不吭。他叹了口气说：

“你的好奇心不久就会得到满足的，我的朋友。在以往的岁月里……”

“在以往的岁月里有一种我深为你陶醉其中而遗憾之至的乐趣。”我冷冰冰地说。

“你指的是——”

“不回答我问题的乐趣。”

“啊，多不公正！”

“不错！”

“哦，好吧，好吧，”波洛无可奈何地说：

“我是爱德华时代的小说家所喜爱的那种坚强而寡言的主人公呀。”

他像往常一样朝我眨眨眼。

这时尼克从我们桌旁走过。她离开了她的舞伴，像一只五彩缤纷的鸟儿突然飞过我们的眼前，对我们唱歌般地说：

“我——在死神的——枕头上——翩翩起舞……”

“这倒是一个怪新鲜的说法，小姐。”

“对呀，多有趣啊！”

她向我们挥了挥手又飘然而去。

“干么说那么不吉利的话儿？”我慢声慢气地说：“‘我在死神的枕头上翩翩起舞’——我不喜欢这种说法。”

“我知道，这句话很接近事实，这小家伙倒真有点勇气哩。不错，她是有勇气。可倒霉的却是现在需要的不是勇气，而是谨慎。”

下一天是星期天。我们坐在旅馆前的阳台上。大约在十一点半的时候波洛突然站了起来。

“来，我的朋友。我们来进行一次小小的实验。现在我可以很有把握地告诉你，拉扎勒斯先生和那位太太已经开着汽车出去了，尼克小姐也跟他们一起走了。现在是个好机会。”

“什么机会？”

“你会知道的。”

我们走下台阶，穿过一片草地来到一扇门边，门外有条“之”字形小路直通大海。有一对刚游完泳的男女说笑着从下面上来，同我们擦肩而过。他们过去之后，波洛走到一个不显眼的小门口。虽然铰链锈迹斑斑，门上倒还能认出几个字：“悬崖山庄，私产。”这时四周阒无人声，我们一下了钻了进去。

一分钟后我们便来到房子前面的草地上，四下万籁无声。波洛在峭壁上张望了一番之后，转身向那所房子走去。走廊上的落地大窗正敞开着，我们从这里走进了客厅，波洛在客厅里没有停留。他打开门进了堂屋，在那里沿着楼梯跑上二楼，我一直跟着他，最后波洛一直走进尼克的卧室，在床沿上坐了下来，对我又是点头又是眨眼。

“瞧，我的朋友，多简单哪！没有谁看见我们来，也没有谁会看见我们走。我们想干什么就可以干什么，十分安全。比方说，我们可以用锉刀把画像上的绳子锉得恰如其分地会在几小时后突然断掉。退一步说，即使不巧有人在房子前面看见我们从那扇生锈的小门钻进来，我们也不会引起人家的疑心——谁都知道我们是这家人家的朋友呀！”

“你认为作案的不会是陌生人？”

“对，黑斯廷斯，我就是这个意思。这件事不会是个迷了路的精神病人干的。我们必须把注意力集中到这个家庭的周围。”

我们离开了这个房间，谁也不说话，我们都觉得有些东西需要好好想一想，可是在楼梯转弯处我们不约而同地站住了。一个男人正向我们走来。看见我们后，他也站住了。他的脸在阴影里看不清，但他的举动却说明他也受了惊。他先开口，用威胁的口气大声说道：

“你们究竟在这里干什么？我倒要知道一下。”

“啊，”波洛说：“先生——我想是克罗夫特先生吧？”

“正是。可是你们——”

“我们到客厅里去谈谈好吗？这样可能好些。”

那人后退了一步，陡地转过身向楼下走去。我们跟在后面。进了客厅，波洛关上门，向那人弯了弯腰，说：

“我来自我介绍一下。我是赫尔克里·波洛，请您指教。”

那一位脸色温和了一些。

“哦，”他缓慢地说，“你就是那位侦探。关于你，我在文章里看到过。”

“在《圣卢周报》上吗？”

“《圣卢周报》？不，我还在澳大利亚的那个时候看过描述你的书。你是个法国人，对不对？”

“比利时人，但这无妨。这位是我的朋友，黑斯廷斯上尉。”

“很高兴见到你们。不过你们到此地有何贵干？出了什么事？”

“这要看你怎样理解‘出事’这个词了。”

澳大利亚人点点头。尽管上了年纪秃了顶，他仍然相貌堂堂。他那多肉的双颊下面有一个朝前突出的下巴，说明他性格坚强。我觉得他的脸是粗糙的，脸上最引人注目的就是那双目光炯炯的蓝眼睛。

“你看，”他说，“我来给巴克利小姐送些黄瓜和西红柿。她那个园丁不管用，是个懒骨头，他什么也不种，我们真看不下去。邻居之间总该互相照应才是。我们种的西红柿吃不完，我就摘了些放进篮子里给巴克利小姐送来。我像平时一样从那扇落地窗口进来把篮子放在地上。正要转回去，却听见楼梯上有脚步声，还有男人说话的声音，不由得心下疑惑。虽说这一带不大有歹徒，但毕竟小心为妙，所以我进来看看。你说你是个有名侦探，可是究竟是怎么回事？”

“很简单，”波洛笑着说，“那天夜里小姐受了惊。一幅很重的图画掉下来砸在她的床头。她可能对你说起过了？”

“是的，一件危险的事。”

“我答应给她弄一根特殊的链条把那幅画挂得牢一些。这种事可绝对不能再发生第二次，呃？她对我说今天上午她要出去，叫我来量一量需要多长的链条，如此而已——很简单。”

波洛天真得像个儿童似的摊开双手，脸上堆满了他最拿手的迷惑人的笑容。

克罗夫特松了口气：“只是这么回事。”

“是的。我们都是守法良民——我和我的朋友。你大可不必疑神疑鬼了。”

“昨天我好像看见过你们，”克罗夫特说，“那是昨天傍晚。你们走过我的小花园。”

“啊，不错，那时你在园子里干活，还跟我们打了招呼哩。”

“是的。那么说来，你就是我久闻大名、如雷贯耳的赫尔克里·波洛先生了？请问波洛先生，你可有空？如果你现在不忙的话，我很想请你们到舍下去喝杯茶——澳大利亚式的茶。我想让我那老太婆也见见你。她在报纸上看到过你所有的事迹。”

“你太客气了，克罗夫特先生，我们很高兴有此荣幸。”

“太好了。”

波洛转身问我：“你已量下那链条的精确长度了吗？”

我说我早已办妥，于是我们就同这位新相识一起离开了尼克的客厅。

克罗夫特很健谈，我们很快就感觉到这一点。他谈起墨尔本附近他的家、他早年的奋斗、他的恋爱、他的事业和他的发迹。

“成功以后我决定去旅行，”他说，“我们回到我们一直在想念的祖国，想看看能不能找到我妻子的亲戚——她的老家就在圣卢这一带。我们谁也没找到。然后我们就到大陆上去旅行：巴黎、罗马、意大利的那些湖泊、佛罗伦萨等等地方我们都去过。在意大利一次铁路事故中我可怜的妻子受了重伤，真惨哪！我带着她遍访名医，但他们众口一辞，都说无法可想，只有让时间来治疗——长时间地卧床休息。她伤了脊椎骨。”

“真是大不幸！”

“乐极生悲，对不对？有什么办法！她只有一个想法，就是想回到故乡来住在自己的小天地里静静地休养。回来以后，我们去看过许多招租的房屋，但没有一座像样的。后来总算运气好，找到了这座小房子——又端正，又安静，与世隔绝，没有汽车开来开去，隔壁也没有从早唱到晚的留声机。我马上把它租了下来。”

说完最后一句话，我们已经来到了门房小屋。他学起鸟叫来：

“咕咿！”

里面也应了一声：“咕咿！”

“进来吧，”克罗夫特先生说。进门以后上了一段小楼梯，我们就来到一间舒适的小卧室。一张长沙发上躺着一位微微发胖的中年妇人。她有一双秀媚的棕色眼睛，笑起来很甜。

“你猜这位是谁，妈妈？”克罗夫特说，他管妻子叫妈妈。“这位是世界闻名的侦探赫尔克里·波洛先生。我把他带来同你谈谈。”

“哟，真叫我高兴得不知怎么好了，”克罗夫特太太喊道，热烈地同波洛握了手。“我看过蓝色列车上的那个案子的详细报道。那时幸亏你也在那趟列车上。我还从报上看过你办的许多其它案件。由于脊椎的毛病，我可以说看了所有的侦探小说，没有比这更好的消遣了。伯特，亲爱的，叫伊迪丝把茶端上来。”

“好的，妈妈。”

“伊迪丝是来护理我的。”克罗夫特太太解释说，“她每天上午来照料我。我们不喜欢雇佣人。伯特自己就是个第一流的厨师，在料理家务方面更是没人及得上他。这些事情加上外面那个小花园，也就够他花时间的了。”

“来吧，”克罗夫特先生托着茶盘来了，“茶来了，妈妈。今天是我们生活中的一个好日子啊。”

“我想，你将长住在这里了，波洛先生？”克罗夫特太太问道，支撑起身子来倒茶。

“啊，太太，我在这儿度假。”

“可是我不会记错的。我在一篇文章里看到你已经退休了——你开始永远度假啦！”

“哦，太太，你可不能轻易相信报纸。”

“嗯，倒也是。这么说你还在干？”

“当我遇到感兴趣的案子的时候。”

“你总不见得是在这里探什么案子吧？”克罗夫特先生狡猾地问，“随便干什么你都可以说成度假的。”

“别问出这种叫人发窘的问题，”史罗夫特太太说，“否则以后他不肯再来了。我们是些普普通通的人，波洛先生，你今天肯来喝杯茶真给了我们很大的面子，叫我们太兴奋了。”

她的感激之情是那么自然，那么真挚，我心里不由得感到十分亲切。

喝着茶，克罗夫特先生说：

“那幅画掉下来可不是件好事。”

“可怜的姑娘差点被打死。”克罗夫特太太说，“她是一根电线。当她住在这里的时候，这里就显得生气勃勃。我听说邻居们不大喜欢她。英国的小地方就是这种样子，又小器又古板。他们不喜欢鲜龙活跳的姑娘，而情愿让一个如花似玉的女孩看上去死气沉沉像个半老徐娘。他们管这叫端庄稳重。所以尼克在这里住不长，我一点不奇怪。她那个多管闲事想吃天鹅肉的表哥无法说服她定下心来在这儿安居乐业，我也觉得……完全可以理解。”

“别在背后说短论长的，米利。”她丈夫说。

“啊哈，”波洛说，“还有这样的瓜葛！让我们相信妇女的直觉吧。这么说，查尔斯·维斯爱上了我们那位小朋友？”

“他怎么会成功？”克罗夫特太太说，“她不会嫁给一个乡村律师呀。在这点上我觉得她无可厚非，因为他毕竟只是个穷光棍呀。我希望她嫁给那个善良的海员——叫什么来着？叫查林杰。他年纪比她大又有何妨？许多时髦的婚姻比这还不如得多。安定下来——这就是她所需要的。现在她到处飞，甚至跑到大陆上去，不是单枪匹马就是跟那个古里古怪的赖斯太太同行。唉！巴克利小姐是一位可爱的姑娘，波洛先生，这点我知道得很清楚。但我为她捏着把汗。近来她看上去不大高兴，那副模样像鬼迷了心窍似的，叫人担心。我有理由要关心她，对不对，伯特？”

克罗夫特先生有点突然地从椅子上站起身来。

“说这些干什么，米利！”他说，“波洛先生，我不知道你们是否有兴致看一些澳大利亚的照片？”

这以后我们的访问就平淡无味，不必赘述。十分钟之后我们告辞了。

“厚道的人，”我对波洛说出我对他们的看法，“淳朴谦逊，是典型的澳大利亚人。”

“你喜欢他们？”

“难道你不喜欢？”

“他们很热情，很友好。”

“不过怎样呢？我看得出这句话后头还有个‘不过’。”

“他们，好像太过分了。”波洛沉思着说，“什么装鸟叫，坚持要给我们看那些照片，都叫人感到有点儿太……那个了。”

“你这个老疑心鬼！”

“你说对了，我的朋友，我对什么都怀疑。我担心，黑斯廷斯，担心……”