IX
Lady Hoggin said to her husband:
“Funny, this
tonic1 tastes quite different. It hasn’t got that bitter taste any more. I wonder
why?”
“Chemist. Careless fellows. Make things up differently different times.”
Lady Hoggin said doubtfully:
“I suppose that must be it.”
“Of course it is. What else could it be?”
“Has the man found out anything about Shan Tung?”
“Yes. He got me my money back all right.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say. Very close fellow, Hercule Poirot. But you needn’t worry.”
“He’s a funny little man, isn’t he?”
Sir Joseph gave a slight shiver and threw a sideways glance
upwards3 as though he felt the
invisible presence of Hercule Poirot behind his right shoulder. He had an idea that he would
always feel it there.
He said:
“He’s a damned clever little devil!”
And he thought to himself:
“Greta can go hang! I’m not going to risk my neck for any damned
platinum4 blonde!”
X
“Oh!”
Amy Carnaby gazed down incredulously at the cheque for two hundred pounds. She cried:
“Emily! Emily! Listen to this.
‘Dear Miss Carnaby,
Allow me to enclose a contribution to your very deserving Fund before it is
finally wound up.
Yours very truly,
Hercule Poirot.’ ”
“Amy,” said Emily Carnaby, “you’ve been incredibly lucky. Think where you might be
now.”
“Wormwood Scrubbs—or is it Holloway?” murmured Amy Carnaby. “But that’s all over
now—isn’t it, Augustus? No more walks to the Park with mother or mother’s friends and a little
pair of scissors.”
A far away wistfulness came into her eyes. She sighed.
“Dear Augustus! It seems a pity. He’s so clever . . . One can teach him anything. . . .”
分享到: