V
“Have you courage, Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it.”
Diana cried sharply:
“Then it’s true. It’s true? He is mad?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I am not an alienist, Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, ‘This man is mad. This man is
She came closer to him.
“Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself
thinks he is mad—”
Poirot was watching her.
“And you, Mademoiselle?”
“I? I say he isn’t mad! That’s why—”
She stopped.
“That is why you came to me?”
“Yes. I couldn’t have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?”
“That,” said Hercule Poirot, “is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Who is Stephen Graham?”
She stared.
“Stephen Graham? Oh, he’s—he’s just someone.”
She caught him by the arm.
“What’s in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there—behind that great
moustache of yours—blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don’t tell me anything. You’re
making me afraid—horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?”
“Perhaps,” said Poirot, “because I am afraid myself.”
The deep grey eyes opened wide, stared up at him. She said in a whisper:
“What are you afraid of?”
Hercule Poirot sighed—a deep sigh. He said:
“It is much easier to catch a murderer than it is to prevent a murder.”
She cried out: “Murder? Don’t use that word.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hercule Poirot, “I do use it.”
“Mademoiselle, it is necessary that both you and I should pass the night at Lyde
Manor3. I
look to you to arrange the matter. You can do that?”
“I—yes—I suppose so. But why—?”
“Because there is no time to lose. You have told me that you have courage. Prove that
courage now. Do what I ask and make no questions about it.”
She nodded without a word and turned away.
Poirot followed her into the house after the
lapse4 of a moment or two. He heard her voice in
the library and the voices of three men. He passed up the broad staircase. There was no one on the
upper floor.
He found Hugh Chandler’s room easily enough. In the corner of the room was a fitted
washbasin with hot and cold water. Over it, on a glass shelf, were various tubes and pots and
bottles.
What he had to do did not take him long. He was downstairs again in the hall when Diana
came out of the library, looking flushed and
rebellious6.
“It’s all right,” she said.
Admiral Chandler drew Poirot into the library and closed the door. He said: “Look here, M.
Poirot. I don’t like this.”
“What don’t you like, Admiral Chandler?”
“Diana has been insisting that you and she should both spend the night here. I don’t want to
be inhospitable—”
“It is not a question of hospitality.”
“As I say, I don’t like being inhospitable—but
frankly7, I don’t like it, M. Poirot. I—I don’t
want it. And I don’t understand the reason for it. What good can it possibly do?”
“Shall we say that it is an experiment I am trying?”
“What kind of an experiment?”
“That, you will pardon me, is my business. . . .”
“Now look here, M. Poirot, I didn’t ask you to come here in the first place—”
Poirot interrupted.
“Believe me, Admiral Chandler, I quite understand and appreciate your point of view. I am
here simply and
solely8 because of the
obstinacy9 of a girl in love. You have told me certain things.
Colonel Frobisher has told me certain things. Hugh himself has told me certain things. Now—I
want to see for myself.”
“Yes, but see what? I tell you, there’s nothing to see! I lock Hugh into his room every night
and that’s that.”
“And yet—sometimes—he tells me that the door is not locked in the morning?”
“What’s that?”
“Have you not found the door unlocked yourself?”
Chandler was frowning.
“I always imagined George had unlocked—what do you mean?”
“Where do you leave the key—in the lock?”
“No, I lay it on the chest outside. I, or George, or
Withers10, the valet, take it from there in the
morning. We’ve told Withers it’s because Hugh walks in his sleep . . . I daresay he knows more—
but he’s a faithful fellow, been with me for years.”
“Is there another key?”
“Not that I know of.”
“One could have been made.”
“But who—”
“Your son thinks that he himself has one hidden somewhere, although he is
unaware11 of it in
his waking state.”
Colonel Frobisher, speaking from the far end of the room, said:
“I don’t like it, Charles . . . The girl—”
Admiral Chandler said quickly: “Just what I was thinking. The girl mustn’t come back with
you. Come back yourself, if you like.”
Poirot said: “Why don’t you want Miss Maberly here tonight?”
Frobisher said in a low voice:
“It’s too
risky12. In these cases—”
He stopped.
Poirot said: “Hugh is
devoted13 to her. . . .”
Chandler cried: “That’s just why! Damn it all, man, everything’s topsy-turvy where a
madman’s concerned. Hugh knows that himself. Diana mustn’t come here.”
“As to that,” said Poirot, “Diana must decide for herself.”
He went out of the library. Diana was waiting outside in the car. She called out, “We’ll get
what we want for the night and be back in time for dinner.”
As they drove down the long drive, Poirot repeated to her the conversation he had just held
with the Admiral and Colonel Frobisher. She laughed scornfully.
“Do they think Hugh would hurt me?”
By way of reply, Poirot asked her if she would mind stopping at the chemist’s in the village.
He had forgotten, he said, to pack a toothbrush.
The chemist’s shop was in the middle of the peaceful village street. Diana waited outside in
the car. It struck her that Hercule Poirot was a long time choosing a toothbrush. . . .
分享到: