Chapter 18 – The Face at the Window

The events of the next day are completely hazy in my memory. I was unfortunate enough to awake with fever on me. I have been liable to these bouts of fever at inconvenient times ever since I once contracted malaria.

In consequence, the events of that day take on in my memory the semblance of a nightmare-with Poirot coming and going as a kind of fantastic clown, making a periodic appearance in a circus.

He was, I fancy, enjoying himself to the the full. His poise of baffled despair was admirable. How he achieved the end he had in view and which he had disclosed to me in the early hours of the morning, I cannot say. But achieve it he did.

It cannot have been easy. The amount of deception and subterfuge involved must have been colossal. The English character is averse to lying on a wholesale scale and that, no less, was what Poirot's plan required. He had, first, to get Dr Graham converted to the scheme. With Dr Graham on his side, he had to persuade the Matron and some members of the staff of the nursing home to conform to the plan. There again, the difficulties must have been immense. It was probably Dr Graham's influence that turned the scale.

Then there was the Chief Constable and the police. Here, Poirot would be up against officialdom. Nevertheless he wrung at last an unwilling consent out of Colonel Weston. The Colonel made it clear that it was in no way his responsibility. Poirot and Poirot alone was responsible for the spreading abroad of these lying reports. Poirot agreed. He would have agreed to anything so long as he was permitted to carry out his plan.

I spent most of the day dozing in a large armchair with a rug over my knees. Every two or three hours or so, Poirot would burst in and report progress.

'Comment ca va, mon ami? How I commiserate you. But it is as well, perhaps. The farce, you do not play it as well as I do. I come this moment from ordering a wreath-a wreath immense-stupendous. Lilies, my friend-large quantities of lilies. "With heartfelt regret. From Hercule Poirot." Ah! what a comedy.'

He departed again.

'I come from a most poignant conversation with Madame Rice,' was his next piece of information. 'Very well dressed in black, that one. Her poor friend-what a tragedy! I groan sympathetically. Nick, she says, was so joyous, so full of life. Impossible to think of her as dead. I agree. "It is," I say, "the irony of death that it takes one like that. The old and useless are left." Oh! lala! I groan again.'

'How you are enjoying this,' I murmured feebly.

'Du tout. It is part of my plan, that is all. To play the comedy successfully, you must put the heart into it. Well, then, the conventional expressions of regret over, Madame comes to matters nearer home. All night she has lain awake wondering about those sweets. It is impossible-impossible. "Madame," I say, "it is not impossible. You can see the analyst's report." Then she says, and her voice is far from steady, "It was-cocaine, you say?" I assent. And she says, "Oh, my God. I don't understand."'

'Perhaps that's true.'

'She understands well enough that she is in danger. She is intelligent. I told you that before. Yes, she is in danger, and she knows it.'

'And yet it seems to me that for the first time you don't believe her guilty.' Poirot frowned. The excitement of his manner abated.

'It is profound what you say there, Hastings. No-it seems to me that-somehow-the facts no longer fit. These crimes-so far what has marked them most-the subtlety, is it not? And here is no subtlety at all-only the crudity, pure and simple. No, it does not fit.'

He sat down at the table.

'Voila-let us examine the facts. There are three possibilities. There are the sweets bought by Madame and delivered by M. Lazarus. And in that case the guilt rests with one or the other or both. And the telephone call, supposedly from Mademoiselle Nick, that is an invention pure and simple. That is the straightforward-the obvious solution.'

'Solution 2: The other box of sweets-that which came by post. Anyone may have sent those. Any of the suspects on our list from A. to J. (You remember? A very wide field.) But, if that were the guilty box, what is the point of the telephone call? Why complicate matters with a second box?'

I shook my head feebly. With a temperature of 102, any complication seemed to me quite unnecessary and absurd.

'Solution 3: A poisoned box was substituted for the innocent box bought by Madame. In that case the telephone call is ingenious and understandable. Madame is to be what you call the kitten's paw. She is to pull the roasting chestnuts out of the fire. So Solution 3 is the most logical-but, alas, it is also the most difficult. How be sure of substituting a box at the right moment? The orderly might take the box straight upstairs-a hundred and one possibilities might prevent the substitution being effected. No, it does not seem sense.'

'Unless it were Lazarus,' I said.

Poirot looked at me.

'You have the fever, my friend. It mounts, does it not?'

I nodded.

'Curious how a few degrees of heat should stimulate the intellect. You have uttered there an observation of profound simplicity. So simple, was it, that I had failed to consider it. But it would suppose a very curious state of affairs. M. Lazarus, the dear friend of Madame, doing his best to get her hanged. It opens up possibilities of a very curious nature. But complex-very complex.'

I closed my eyes. I was glad I had been brilliant, but I did not want to think of anything complex. I wanted to go to sleep.

Poirot, I think, went on talking, but I did not listen. His voice was vaguely soothing...

It was late afternoon when I saw him next.

'My little plan, it has made the fortune of flower shops,' he announced. 'Everybody orders wreaths. M. Croft, M. Vyse, Commander Challenger-'

The last name awoke a chord of compunction in my mind.

'Look here, Poirot,' I said. 'You must let him in on this. Poor fellow, he will be distracted with grief. It isn't fair.'

'You have always the tenderness for him, Hastings.'

'I like him. He's a thoroughly decent chap. You've got to take him into the secret.'

Poirot shook his head.

'No, mon ami. I do not make the exceptions.'

'But you don't suspect him to have anything to do with it?'

'I do not make the exceptions.'

'Think how he must be suffering.'

'On the contrary, I prefer to think of what a joyful surprise I prepare for him. To think the loved one dead-and find her alive! It is a sensation unique-stupendous.'

'What a pig-headed old devil you are. He'd keep the secret all right.'

'I am not so sure.'

'He's the soul of honour. I'm certain of it.'

'That makes it all the more difficult to keep a secret. Keeping a secret is an art that requires many lies magnificently told, and a great aptitude for playing the comedy and enjoying it. Could he dissemble, the Commander Challenger? If he is what you say he is, he certainly could not.'

'Then you won't tell him?'

'I certainly refuse to imperil my little idea for the sake of the sentiment. It is life and death we play with, mon cher. Anyway, the suffering, it is good for the character. Many of your famous clergymen have said so-even a Bishop if I am not mistaken.'

I made no further attempt to shake his decision. His mind, I could see, was made up.

'I shall not dress for dinner,' he murmured. 'I am too much the broken old man. That is my part, you understand. All my self-confidence has crashed-I am broken. I have failed. I shall eat hardly any dinner-the food untasted on the plate. That is the attitude, I think. In my own apartment I will consume some brioches and some chocolate eclairs (so called) which I had the foresight to buy at a confectioners. Et vous?'

'Some more quinine, I think,' I said, sadly. 'Alas, my poor Hastings. But courage, all will be well to-morrow.' 'Very likely. These attacks often last only twenty-four hours.' I did not hear him return to the room. I must have been asleep.

When I awoke, he was sitting at the table writing. In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper smoothed out. I recognized it for the paper on which he had written that list of people-A. to J.-which he had afterwards crumpled up and thrown away.

He nodded in answer to my unspoken thought.

'Yes, my friend. I have resurrected it. I am at work upon it from a different angle. I compile a list of questions concerning each person. The questions may have no bearing on the crime-they are just things that I do not know-things that remain unexplained, and for which I seek to supply the answer from my own brain.'

'How far have you got?'

'I have finished. You would like to hear? You are strong enough?' 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I am feeling a great deal better.'

'Ala bonne heure! Very well, I will read them to you. Some of them, no doubt, you will consider puerile.'

He cleared his throat.

'A. Ellen.-Why did she remain in the house and not go out to see fireworks? (Unusual, as Mademoiselle's evidence and surprise make clear.) What did she think or suspect might happen? Did she admit anyone (J. for instance) to the house? Is she speaking the truth about the secret panel? If there is such a thing why is she unable to remember where it is? (Mademoiselle seems very certain there is no such thing-and she would surely know.) If she invented it, why did she invent it? Had she read Michael Seton's love letters or was her surprise at Mademoiselle Nick's engagement genuine?'

'B. Her Husband.-Is he as stupid as he seems? Does he share Ellen's knowledge, whatever it is, or does he not? Is he, in any respect, a mental case?'

'C. The Child.-Is his delight in blood a natural instinct common to his age and development, or is it morbid, and is that morbidity inherited from either parent? Has he ever shot with a toy pistol?'

'D. Who is Mr Croft? -Where does he really come from? Did he post the will as he swears he did? What motive could he have in not posting it?'

'E. Mrs Croft. Same as above.-Who are Mr and Mrs Croft? Are they in hiding for some reason-and if so, what reason? Have they any connection with the Buckley family?'

'F. Mrs Rice.-Was she really aware of the engagement between Nick and Michael Seton? Did she merely guess it, or had she actually read the letters which passed between them? (In that case she would know Mademoiselle was Seton's heir.) Did she know that she herself was Mademoiselle's residuary legatee? (This, I think, is likely. Mademoiselle would probably tell her so, adding perhaps that she would not get much out of it.) Is there any truth in Commander Challenger's 

suggestion that Lazarus was attracted by Mademoiselle Nick? (This might explain a certain lack of cordiality between the two friends which seems to have shown itself in the last few months.) Who is the 'boy friend' mentioned in her note as supplying the drug? Could this possibly be J.? Why did she turn faint one day in this room? Was it something that had been said-or was it something she saw? Is her account of the telephone message asking her to buy chocolates correct-or is it a deliberate lie? What did she mean by "I can understand the other-but not this"? If she is not herself guilty, what knowledge has she got that she is keeping to herself?'

'You perceive,' said Poirot, suddenly breaking off, 'that the questions concerning Madame Rice are almost innumerable. From beginning to end, she is an enigma. And that forces me to a conclusion. Either Madame Rice is guilty-or she knows-or shall we say, thinks she knows-who is guilty. But is she right? Does she know or does she merely suspect? And how is it possible to make her speak?'

He sighed.

'Well, I will go on with my list of questions.'

'G. Mr. Lazarus.-Curious-there are practically no questions to ask concerning him-except the crude one, "Did he substitute the poisoned sweets?" Otherwise I find only one totally irrelevant question. But I have put it down. "Why did M. Lazarus offer fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty?"'

'He wanted to do Nick a good turn,' I suggested.

'He would not do it that way. He is a dealer. He does not buy to sell at a loss. If he wished to be amiable he would lend her money as a private individual.'

'It can't have any bearing on the crime, anyway.'

'No, that is true-but all the same, I should like to know. I am a student of the psychology, you understand.'

'Now we come to H.'

'H. Commander Challenger.-Why did Mademoiselle Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? What necessitated her having to tell him that? She told no one else. Had he proposed to her? What are his relations with his uncle?'

'His uncle, Poirot?'

'Yes, the doctor. That rather questionable character. Did any private news of Michael Seton's death come through to the Admiralty before it was announced publicly?'

'I don't quite see what you're driving at Poirot. Even if Challenger knew beforehand about Seton's death, it does not seem to get us anywhere. It provides no earthly motive for killing the girl he loved.'

'I quite agree. What you say is perfectly reasonable. But these are just things I should like to know. I am still the dog, you see, nosing about for the things that are not very nice!'

'I. M. Vyse.-Why did he say what he did about his cousin's fanatical devotion to End House? What possible motive could he have in saying that? Did he, or did he not, receive the will? Is he, in fact, an honest man-or is he not an honest man?'

'And now J. -Eh bien, J. is what I put down before-a giant question mark. Is there such a person, or is there not-'

'Mon Dieu! my friend, what have you?'

I had started from my chair with a sudden shriek. With a shaking hand I pointed at the window.

'A face, Poirot!' I cried. 'A face pressed against the glass. A dreadful face! It's gone now-but I saw it.'

Poirot strode to the window and pushed it open. He leant out.

'There is no one there now,' he said, thoughtfully. 'You are sure you did not imagine it, Hastings?'

'Quite sure. It was a horrible face.'

'There is a balcony, of course. Anyone could reach there quite easily if they wanted to hear what we were saying. When you say a dreadful face, Hastings, just what do you mean?'

'A white, staring face, hardly human.'

'Mon ami, that is the fever. A face, yes. An unpleasant face, yes. But a face hardly human-no. What you saw was the effect of a face pressed closely against the glass-that allied to the shock of seeing it there at all.'

'It was a dreadful face,' I said, obstinately. 'It was not the face of-anyone you know?' 'No, indeed.'

'H'm-it might have been, though! I doubt if you would recognize it under these circumstances. I wonder now-yes, I very much wonder...'

He gathered up his papers thoughtfully.

'One thing at least is to the good. If the owner of that face overheard our conversation we did not mention that Mademoiselle Nick was alive and well. Whatever else our visitor may have heard, that at least escaped him.'

'But surely,' I said, 'the results of this-eh-brilliant manoeuvre of yours have been slightly disappointing up to date. Nick is dead and no startling developments have occurred!'

'I did not expect them yet awhile. Twenty-four hours, I said. Mon ami, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, certain things will arise. Otherwise -otherwise I am wrong from start to finish. There is the post, you see. I have hopes of tomorrow's post.'

I awoke in the morning feeling weak but with the fever abated. I also felt hungry. Poirot and I had breakfast served in our sitting-room.

'Well?' I said, maliciously, as he sorted his letters. 'Has the post done what you expected of it?'

Poirot, who had just opened two envelopes which patently contained bills, did not reply. I thought he looked rather cast down and not his usual cock-a-hoop self.

I opened my own mail. The first was a notice of a spiritualist meeting.

'If all else fails, we must go to the spiritualists,' I remarked. 'I often wonder that more tests of this kind aren't made. The spirit of the victim comes back and names the murderer. That would be a proof.'

'It would hardly help us,' said Poirot, absently. 'I doubt if Maggie Buckley knew whose hand it was shot her down. Even if she could speak she would have nothing of value to tell us. Tiens! that is odd.'

'What is?'

'You talk of the dead speaking, and at that moment I open this letter.' He tossed it across to me. It was from Mrs Buckley and ran as follows: 'Langley Rectory.'

'Dear Monsieur Poirot,-On my return here I found a letter written by my poor child on her arrival at St Loo. There is nothing in it of interest to you, I'm afraid, but I thought perhaps you would care to see it.

'Thanking you for your kindness, 'Yours sincerely, 'Jean Buckley.'

The enclosure brought a lump to my throat. It was so terribly commonplace and so completely untouched by any apprehension of tragedy:

'Dear Mother,-I arrived safely. Quite a comfortable journey. Only two people in the carriage all the way to Exeter.'

'It is lovely weather here. Nick seems very well and gay-a little restless, perhaps, but I cannot see why she should have telegraphed for me in the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.'

'No more now. We are going to have tea with some neighbours. They are Australians and have rented the lodge. Nick says they are kind but rather awful. Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus are coming to stay. He is the art dealer. I will post this in the box by the gate, then it will catch the post. Will write to-morrow.'

'Your loving daughter, 'Maggie.'

'P.S.-Nick says there is a reason for her wire. She will tell me after tea. She is very queer and jumpy.'

'The voice of the dead,' said Poirot, quietly. 'And it tells us-nothing.'

'The box by the gate,' I remarked idly. 'That's where Croft said he posted the will.'

'Said so-yes. I wonder. How I wonder!'

'There is nothing else of interest among your letters?'

'Nothing. Hastings, I am very unhappy. I am in the dark. Still in the dark. I comprehend nothing.'

At that moment the telephone rang. Poirot went to it.

Immediately I saw a change come over his face. His manner was very restrained, nevertheless he could not disguise from my eyes his intense excitement.

His own contributions to the conversation were entirely non-committal so that I could not gather what it was all about.

Presently, however, with a Tres bien. Jevous remercie,' he put back the receiver and came back to where I was sitting. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.

'Mon ami,' he said. 'What did I tell you? Things have begun to happen.' 'What was it?'

'That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, through the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.'

'What? The will?'

'Evidemment.'

'It has turned up?'

'Just at the right moment, n'est-ce pas?'

'Do you think he is speaking the truth?'

'Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments-and sure enough here they are!'

'Extraordinary,' I said. 'You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?'

'M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.'

'So we are back at the old problem,' I said. 'Frederica Rice.'

'The enigma!'

'Frederica Rice,' I murmured, inconsequently. 'It's a pretty name.'

'Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie'-he made a face-'ce n'est pas joli-for a young lady.'

'There aren't many abbreviations of Frederica,' I said. 'It's not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen-Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie-'

'True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?' 'Yes, of course. Tell me-did you expect this to happen?'

'No-not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.'

'Yes,' I said, respectfully.

'What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?' mused Poirot. 'Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.'

I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.

He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.

Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.

'Oh!' he groaned. 'But I have been blind-blind.' 'What's the matter?'

'Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme-extreme. And miserable one that I am, I saw nothing-nothing.'

'Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?'

'Wait-wait-do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.'

Seizing his list of questions, he ran over them silently, his lips moving busily. Once or twice he nodded his head emphatically.

Then he laid them down and leaning back in his chair he shut his eyes. I thought at last that he had gone to sleep.

Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes.

'But yes!' he said. 'It all fits in! All the things that have puzzled me. All the things that have seemed to me a little unnatural. They all have their place.'

'You mean-you know everything?'

'Nearly everything. All that matters. In some respects I have been right in my deductions. In other ways ludicrously far from the truth. But now it is all clear. I shall send today a telegram asking two questions-but the answers to them I know already-I know here!' He tapped his forehead.

'And when you receive the answers?' I asked, curiously. He sprang to his feet.

'My friend, do you remember that Mademoiselle Nick said she wanted to stage a play at End House? Tonight, we stage such a play in End House. But it will be a play produced by Hercule Poirot. Mademoiselle Nick will have a part to play in it.' He grinned suddenly.

'You comprehend, Hastings, there will be a ghost in this play. Yes, a ghost. End House has never seen a ghost. It will have one tonight. No'-as I tried to ask a question-'I will say no more. Tonight, Hastings, we will produce our comedy-and reveal the truth. But now, there is much to do-much to do.'

He hurried from the room.

第十八章　窗上的怪脸

接下去那个白天发生的事在我的记忆当中就相当模糊了。因为不幸得很，我醒来之后便开始发烧了。自从有一次得了疟疾以后，我老是会在最不该生病的时候发高烧。于是那天发生的事对我来说就像一场荒诞不经的怪梦。波洛幽灵般地来来去去，每过一会就在我面前出现一次。

我想，他对自己的锦囊妙计大为得意，他的表演精彩无比。那种惭愧和绝望的神情装得如此逼真，足以叫一切电影明星为之绝倒。他是如何使他那个计划——就是他一清早向我透露的那个主意——付诸实施的，我不得而知，但有一点可以肯定，即他那台戏已经紧锣密鼓地开场了。

这不是件容易的事，因为这个骗局牵涉的面相当广。英国人通常不喜欢搞那些大规模的骗局，而波洛这次所设的这个圈套却必须兴师动众。

首先，他把格雷厄姆医生拉到了自己一边，然后在医生的协助下开始说服护士长和休养所里其他一些有关人员赞同并配合这个计划。真是困难重重，要不是德高望重的格雷厄姆医生助了波洛一臂之力，这出喜剧可能还未开幕就告终了。

接着还有警察局长和他那些警察。在这一方面，波洛又遇到来自官方的麻烦。费尽口舌，他终于说服韦斯顿上校勉强同意了他的办法，但上校把话说在前头，这件事他概不负责。有关这个圈套的一切可能引起的后果都要由波洛自己承担。波洛欣然同意了。只要允许他实行自己的计划，他什么都会同意的。

我几乎整天坐在一张大沙发里，腿上盖着一床毯子闭目养神。每过两三个小时，波洛就跑来告诉我他的进展。

“好点了吗？我的朋友？你病得多可怜！但这样也好，省得你演戏时露出马脚。我刚去订做了一只花圈，一只硕大无比的花圈。那上头缀满了百合花，我的朋友——数不清的象征着痛心得死去活来的百合花。挽联更是呱呱叫：

“‘芳魂长眠。赫尔克里·波洛含泪敬挽。’”

“啊，多妙的喜剧！”

说完他又匆匆离去了。

下一次他来的时候给我带来了这些话：

“我刚同赖斯太太交了一次锋。她呀，穿了一身考究的黑礼服，而她那可怜的朋友——多惨！我悲天悯人地叹息了一声。她说尼克是那么聪明活泼、生趣盎然的一个姑娘，怎能想象她已与世长辞了。我点点头说：‘以我来看，富有讽刺意义的是死神带走了她那样一个好端端的人，而把老弱病残的无用之辈留在人间。’”

“你多得意呀。”我无力地轻声说道。

“绝非如此。这是我那计策中的一部分呀。要装得像，就得投入全副身心。诉说一番心中的伤感之后，赖斯太太开始说到我关心的事情上来了。她说她整夜翻来复去睡不着，一直在想那些巧克力糖，在想这件不可能发生的事。‘太太，’我说，‘怎么是不可能的呢？你可以看化验报告。’她就用发抖的声音说：‘是可卡因，你说的？’我点点头，她说，‘啊，上帝，我弄不懂！’”

“这也可能。”

“她清楚地看出了面前的深渊，她是聪明的，这我早就对你说过了。是呀，她处于危险之中并且她自己也明白这一点。”

“但我看得出你开始相信她无罪了。”

波洛皱起了眉头，不像刚才那样激动了。

“你的话说得很巧妙啊，黑斯廷斯。不错，我觉得有些事实对不起头来。这个案子作案手法最重要的特征就是周密严谨不留痕迹。但巧克力这件事却干得一点也不周密，可以说幼稚得可笑，留下瞎子也看得见的明显标记，而且这些标记像指路牌似的明确无误地指向赖斯太太。啊，不，不对头！”

他在桌子旁边坐了下来。

“这就意味着有三种可能性。还是让我们来核对一下事实吧。巧克力是赖斯太太买了来由拉扎勒斯先生送去的。在这种情形下，犯罪的不是这个便是那个，或者两个都是罪犯。那个电话便纯系捏造无疑。这是最明显的一种情况。

“第二种情形：下了毒的是另一盒巧克力——邮寄的那一盒——我们那张从一到十的人物名单上的任何一个人都能寄（你还记得那张表吗？很广的一个面）。但如果说邮寄的一盒是有毒的，电话的事就是真的了。可是罪犯为什么要打这样一个电话呢？为什么要用两盒巧克力把事情搞复杂呢？因为罪犯并不知道尼克小姐会碰巧同时收到两盒巧克力，而且同时拆掉包装纸呀。”

我无力地摇摇头，在体温高达三十九度的时候，任何复杂化的东西我都无法理解。

“第三种情形：邮寄的有毒的一盒同赖斯太太买的无毒的一盒被调换了。在这种情况下，那个电话便很巧妙，可以理解了。赖斯太太成了替罪羊，她无意间为真正的作案者火中取栗。这种情形是合乎逻辑的。但是，嗯，这第三种情形也是作案者最难办到的。他怎么能料到邮递员会同拉扎勒斯先生同时到达？而且要是服务员随手把无毒的那盒送上楼去，而不是让它在桌上搁了二十分钟，调包计划就不会成功。是啊，好像也不合情理。”

“除非作案的是拉扎勒斯。”我说。

波洛看着我。

“你在发烧，我的朋友，并且体温还在上升吧？”

我点点头。

“真怪呀，几度体温竟能激发智力！你刚才发表了一个很有意思的观点，它是如此之简单，以至于我连想都没想到。不过这就带来一个极为奇怪的问题：拉扎勒斯先生正在使尽全身解数，想把他亲爱的人儿送上断头台。这是第四种情形——无法理解的一种情形。哎，复杂呀，复杂。”

我闭上眼睛，为我的一得之见而沾沾自喜，但我不愿意去思考任何费脑筋的事儿，一心只想睡觉。

我觉得波洛——还在那里旁征博引侃侃而述，但我没法听下去了。他的声音渐渐飘忽模糊了。

再一次见到他已是傍晚时分。

“我略施小计却便宜了礼品店，”他声称道，“大家都去订花圈。克罗夫特先生，维斯先生，查林杰中校……”

最后那个名字拨动了我心中一根不安的弦。

“听我说，波洛，”我说，“你必须把真相告诉他，否则这个可怜的海员要伤心死了。”

“对于他，你真是照顾备至呀，黑斯廷斯。”

“我喜欢他，他是个好人，你应当把秘密告诉他。”

波洛摇摇头。

“不，我的朋友，我一视同仁。”

“你总不见得会怀疑他吧？”

“我对谁都不例外。”

“想象一下他会多么痛苦。”

“我情愿想象一下我给他准备了一个多么意想不到的喜悦。以为爱人死了——到头来却发现她还活着！想一想吧，古往今来，领略过这种喜悦的人并不多呀！”

“你怎么这样不近人情！他一定会保守秘密的。”

“我不大相信。”

“他是个视荣誉为生命的人，我敢打赌。”

“这就使他更难保密了。保守秘密是一种艺术，要能不动声色地说一大套假话，还得有演戏的爱好和天才。他办得到吗——那位查林杰中校？如果他是你刚才说的那种人，他就肯定办不到。”

“那么你不肯告诉他了？”

“我不能让我的计策冒风险，这个计策关系重大，我亲爱的。不管怎么说吧，痛苦是磨炼意志的。你那许多有名的牧师包括红衣大主教本人都是这么说的。”

我看得出他已经拿定了主意，只好作罢。

“我要穿得随随便便地去吃晚饭，”波洛说，“我扮演的是个自尊心受到了重伤的老头儿，你懂吗？我的自信心完全崩溃了——我整个儿地输光了。我什么都吃不下，晚饭在盘子上动都不动，我还得在恰当的时候叹一口长气，然后自言自语地说几句我自己也听不懂的话。这就是我的模样，我想。不过等我回到自己房间里来，我就要津津有味地大嚼一顿奶油蛋糕和巧克力蛋卷。敝人极有先见之明，早已备下精美食品，先生您瞧？”

“我却只要再来几粒奎宁丸。”我黯然地说。

“哎，我可怜的黑斯廷斯。拿出勇气，明天一定万事如意。”

“可能的。疟疾的发作通常不超过二十四小时。”

我没有听见他再回到房间来，想必我已经睡着了。

这一觉睡得比较好，醒来时看见波洛坐在桌子旁埋头疾书。他面前平摊着一张揉皱的纸，我认出就是那张写着从一到十那些姓名的人物名单。这张名单他曾经扔掉过。

他对我点点头。好像看出我在想什么。

“是的，我的朋友，我又把它拣起来了。我现在从一个不同的角度来研究它。我重新编了一张表，上面罗列着与每个人有关的问题。这些问题可能与犯罪无关，只是些我还不明白的东西，一些还未得到解释的东西。现在我要用我的脑子寻求解答。”

“写到哪儿了？”

“写完了。想听听吗？你可有这个精神？”

“我现在觉得好多了。”

“真走运！很好，我来读给你听。其中有些问题你一定会觉得提得很无聊。”

他清了清嗓子。

“一、埃伦——她为什么待在屋里没有出去看焰火（尼克小姐的证词以及小姐对此表现出来的意外都说明这是反常的）？她猜想会发生什么事？她有没有让什么人（比方说，第十位——那个未知的人）走进那幢房子？关于那个壁龛她说的是实话吗？如果真有那么个东西，她为什么记不起它的位置（小姐好像明确表示没有这种壁龛，她当然知道有还是没有）？如果她是捏造出来的，那又为了什么？她有没有看过迈克尔·塞顿的那些情书？她对尼克小姐的订婚是否真的感到意外？

“二、她丈夫——他真的像他的外表所显示的那么蠢吗？埃伦知道的事他是否也知道？他在某些方面会不会有精神病？

“三、她儿子——在他这样的年龄和个性发展水平上，喜欢看屠杀是寻常的天性吗？抑或是一种病态的，受之于父亲或母亲的遗传性畸形心理？他曾经用玩具手枪射击过没有？

“四、克罗夫特先生何许人也——他到底是从什么地方来的？他真的如他所发誓说的那样把遗嘱投邮了吗？要是未投，动机何在？

“五、克罗夫特太太何许人也——这对夫妇是什么人？他们是不是为了某种理由而躲藏在这里？如果是的话，是为了什么理由？他们与巴克利家族可有亲戚关系？

“六、赖斯太太——她究竟知不知道迈克尔·塞顿和尼克的订婚？仅仅是猜到的，还是偷看过他们之间的通信（这样，她便会知道尼克是塞顿的继承人）？她是否知道自己是尼克小姐的动产继承人（我想她很可能知道，尼克小姐会告诉她并补上一句说那是微不足道的）？查林杰中校暗示说拉扎勒斯被尼克小姐迷住了是真的吗（这能解释赖斯太太和尼克小姐这两个好朋友近几个月来感情疏远的原因）？在她关于吸毒的那封信里提及的那个‘男朋友’是谁呢？会是那‘第十个’吗？她那天为什么在这个房间里举止反常好像要昏过去？是听到了什么还是看到了什么？关于叫她买巧克力的电话是事实呢还是个精心编造的谎言？她说，‘上一次那件事倒还可以理解，但这一回我一点都不懂了’是什么意思？如果她不是罪犯，那么她究竟知道些什么而又不肯讲？”

“你看，”波洛突然停下来说，“差不多所有的要紧问题都与赖斯太太有关。她从头到尾都是个谜。这就迫使我得出这样一个结论：或者她就是罪犯，或者她知道谁是罪犯，但这是否正确呢？她确实知道，还是仅仅疑心？有什么法子能叫她开口？”

他叹了口气。

“好吧，我再往下读。

“七、拉扎勒斯——奇怪得很，关于他，我们几乎提不出什么问题。只有那个老问题：有没有调换巧克力？除此之外，仅有一个似乎全不相干的问题，我也把它写上了：‘为什么对一幅只值二十镑的图画肯出五十镑的价钱？’”

“他想讨好尼克。”我提出了我的看法。

“讨好也不会用这种方法。他是买卖人，不会做蚀本生意的。如果他想为尼克做点好事，他会私下里借钱给她。”

“反正这事跟本案无关。”

“是呀，这是对的——但我什么都想知道。我是研究心理学的。你懂吗？我们再来看看第八位。

“八、查林杰中校——为什么尼克要告诉他说她同别人订了婚？是否有什么必要？因为她没有告诉过别人。他向她求过婚吗？他跟他舅舅有什么关系？”

“他舅舅，波洛？”

“就是那个医生，很成问题的一个角色。关于迈克尔·塞顿之死，在公布于众之前有没有什么消息私下里先传到海军部？”

“我不明白你在想些什么，波洛。即使查林杰中校事先得悉塞顿的死讯又怎样？这并不产生一个去杀死他心爱姑娘的动机呀。”

“同意之至。你讲得很有道理，但这些却是我想了解的。我是一只到处嗅寻臭味的狗。”

“九、维斯先生——为什么他要告诉我们说他表妹对悬崖山庄有盲目的眷恋和崇拜？这样做动机何在？他到底收到那份遗嘱没有？他是个诚实的人，还是个伪君子？”

“最后是十——啊哈，这是我上回写下的一个未曾露面的人，一个巨大的问号。到底有没有‘第十位’这么个人呢？”

“天哪，我的朋友！你怎么啦？”

我大叫一声从沙发上跳了起来，用颤抖的手指着窗子：

“脸，波洛！”我喊道，“贴在玻璃上的吓人的脸！现在没了，但我看见的！”

波洛冲过去推开窗子，探出身去张望了一回。

“外面什么也没有，”他思索着说，“你肯定不是幻觉吗，黑斯廷斯？”

“不是！不是幻觉！我看见一张像死人一样的脸。”

“外面是阳台，要跑到这个阳台上来偷听我们的谈话是任何人都能办到的事。你为什么说那是一张吓人的脸呢？”

“那张脸死白死白的，不是活人的面孔。”

“我的朋友，这是体温在作怪吧？一张脸，是对的。一张难看的脸，也有可能。但不是活人的面孔——这就荒谬绝伦了。你所看见的是一张紧紧贴在玻璃上的脸，这就使得它看上去吓人了。”

“是吓人嘛！”我固执地说。

“不是熟人的面孔吗？”

“不，决不是熟人，真的。”

“哦，不是熟人？我怀疑在这种情形之下你能不能认出一张熟悉的面孔来。我怀疑，是的，我很怀疑……”

他沉思着把面前那些纸头收拾起来。

“至少有一件事值得庆幸。如果有人在偷听，我们幸好没提到尼克小姐的真实情况。不管被他听去多少，这一点总算没有泄露。”

“不过说来遗憾，”我说，“你那独具匠心的锦囊妙计看来有点不合时宜，到现在还没有任何收获。尼克死了，但又怎样呢？我早就拭目以待了，但到现在……”

“哈，你病到现在睡到现在，只有打哈欠的时候才揉揉眼睛，还说一直在拭目以待呢？没那么快，我说过要二十四小时才会有反应，我的朋友。如果我没有搞错的话，明天一定会有惊人的发现，否则，否则我便从头到尾错了个干干净净！最后一班邮件来了，你看。我的希望寄托在明天的邮件上。”

早上醒来我软绵绵地没有力气，不过烧已经退了，我也感到想吃点什么，就和波洛一起在我们的起居间里吃早饭。

“怎么样？”他在整理信件时，我不怀好意地问，“希望来了吗——惊天动地的新发现？”

波洛刚刚拆开了两个很明显是装着帐单的信封，没有回答。我觉得他现在看起来十分沮丧，一点也没有他通常那种自命不凡的公鸡气概了。

我拆开我自己的信，第一只信封里装着招魂术讨论会的简报。

“要是这次也失败了，”我说，“我们只好去求教一位招魂大法师了。如果被害者的灵魂会回来对我们说出凶手的姓名，并且法律也承认这种证词，该有多便当。”

“可是却帮不了我们一点忙，”波洛心不在焉地答道，“如果尼克被人打死了，我想她的灵魂对于是谁打死她的这一点也跟我们一样莫名其妙。所以就算她死后还能说话，也提供不出什么有价值的线索来。咦，真是奇事。”

“什么？”

“你在大谈死人说话的时候，我拆开了这么一封信，”说着他把信扔了过来。信是巴克利太太寄来的。

亲爱的波洛先生：

回到家里发现一封我可怜的孩子在到达圣卢之后写给我们的信。里边恐怕没有什么能够引起你的兴趣的东西，但我想也许你愿意看一看。

谢谢你的关怀。

你恭顺的琼·巴克利

附在里面的那封信是那么平凡，一点都看不出大祸将临的征兆，看着真叫人难过。

亲爱的母亲：

我平安地到达了圣卢。旅途上相当舒适。直到埃克塞特，车厢里除了我之外一直就只有两个乘客。

这里天气好极了。尼克又健康又快活——大概休息少了些，但我看不出她有什么必要十万火急地打电报把我叫来。星期二来其实也未尝不可。

另外没有什么可写了。我们要去同一些邻居吃茶点，他们是些澳大利亚人，租下了门房小屋。尼克说他们热情得叫人吃不消。赖斯太太和拉扎勒斯先生也要来住一阵子，他是个艺术品商人。我将把这封信投进大门旁边那个信箱里，这样正好能赶上下一班邮车。明天再谈。

热爱你的女儿马吉

又及：尼克说她打电报叫我是有她的道理的，吃过茶点之后就会告诉我。她神情古怪而且好像有些神经过敏。

“死人的声音，”波洛平静地说，“但什么也没告诉我们。”

“大门旁的信箱，”我信口说，“就是克罗夫特说他寄遗嘱的地方。”

“这么说——是的。但那遗嘱的下落太神秘了。”

“你那些信里头还有什么有意思的东西吗？”

“没有了，黑斯廷斯。我很失望，还是在一片漆黑之中，什么也不明白。”

这时电话铃响了，波洛走过去拿起了听筒。

我见他脸色豁然开朗起来。尽管他竭力装得若无其事，我还是发觉了他的兴奋和激动。

这时他说了声“很好，谢谢你。”就挂断了电话，回到我身旁来，眼睛里闪耀着愉快的光彩。

“我的朋友，”他说，“我是怎么对你说的？瞧，反应开始出现啦！”

“出现了什么反应？”

“电话是查尔斯·维斯打来的。他通知我，说今天早上他从邮局收到了由她表妹巴克利小姐在去年2月25日签署的一份遗嘱。”

“什么？遗嘱？”

“正是。”

“遗嘱出现了？”

“不迟不早，正是时候。”

“你认为他说的是真话吗？”

“还是我认为那份遗嘱一直就在他手中——你是不是想这么说？啊，全都有点儿怪，不过至少有一点是肯定的，那就是如果外间认为尼克小姐死了，我们就会有所发现的——现在来了。”

“是的，”我说，“你是对的。刚才出现的那份遗嘱，我想就是指定弗雷德里卡·赖斯为动产继承人的那份吧？”

“关于遗嘱的内容维斯先生什么也没说。他做得对。没有什么理由可以怀疑这不是原来那份遗嘱。他告诉我，遗嘱由埃伦·威尔逊和她丈夫签字做见证。”

“于是我们又遇到了弗雷德里卡·赖斯。”我说。

“这个谜一样的人。”

“弗雷德里卡·赖斯，”我前言不对后语地说，“这名字倒相当漂亮。”

“比她那些朋友叫她的‘弗雷迪’要漂亮些，”他做了个怪相，“对一个年轻女郎来说，‘弗雷迪’这个名字的确不太动听。”

“弗雷德里卡这个名字的爱称恐怕只有‘弗雷迪’这一个，”我说，“不像玛格丽特这种名字，你可以找到半打的爱称。马吉、马戈特、马奇、佩吉等等。”

“不错，那么，黑斯廷斯，现在你可觉得高兴些了？我们所等待的反应已经开始啦。”

“当然高兴啰。告诉我，你是不是期待着这件事发生？”

“不，不完全是。我并不确切知道我在期待什么。我只知道这样做一定会有一些结果的，但导致产生这些结果的原因还得我们去查清。”

“对。”我恭敬地说。

“刚才电话铃响的时候我好像正要说什么，”波洛思索着说，“啊，对对，那封马吉小姐的信。我还要再看看，我隐隐觉得信里有某种东西使我汗毛直竖，很奇怪呀！”

我把信从桌上拿起来扔给了他。

他默默地从头到尾细看了一遍。我在房间里踱来踱去，透过窗子观看海湾里的游艇比赛。

突然一声惊呼吓了我一跳，我转过身去，看见波洛双手捧住了头前摇后晃，看上去苦恼万分。

“哦，”他呻吟道，“天哪！我是个瞎子——瞎子！”

“怎么啦？”

“复杂——我是不是这么说过——复杂极了？不，根本不！这个奇案极其简单——极其！我怎么没有想到这点呢？我怎么什么也没看出来呢？啊，我这可悲的糟老头子！”

“发发慈悲吧，波洛。你发现了什么？一道什么光明照到了你心里啦？”

“等一下——等一下，别做声。我得赶快抓住这道照亮了一切的灵感之光，好好整理一下我的思路。”

他抓起那张嫌疑人物表从头到尾默读一遍。口中念念有词。有一两次他重重地点了点头。

然后他把这些纸头放回桌上，往后一仰靠在椅子背上，闭上了双眼。见他一动不动，我还当他兴奋得精疲力竭而睡着了。

忽然间他叹了一口气又张开了眼睛。

“是啊，”他说，“都对上号了，所有那些叫我伤透了脑筋的事全都各就各位啦。”

“你是说，一切你都明白了？”

“差不多了。有些地方我是对的，至于其它那一切包括基本的观点在内，我是从一开始就大错而特错了。现在总算全弄清楚了。今天我要发两个电报去问几个问题，虽然答案已经全在这里头了！”他敲敲前额说。

“收到回电之后呢？”我好奇地问。

他倏地站了起来。

“我的朋友，你记不记得尼克小姐说过她要在悬崖山庄演一出戏？今天晚上我们就在悬崖山庄演上一场，不过要由赫尔克里·波洛导演。尼克小姐也将扮演其中一个角色。”他突然咧嘴一笑，“你知道，黑斯廷斯，我们的戏里将出现一个幽魂，是的，一个鬼！悬崖山庄从来没见识过鬼，今天晚上可要用它那股子阴气为鬼开门了！不，别问了，”当我想问他几句话时，他匆匆说道，“我不再多说什么了。今天晚上，黑斯廷斯，我们将上演我们的喜剧，并使这悬崖山庄的奇案真相大白。但现在还有许多事要做，许多许多。”

他从房间里跑出去了。