VI
In the big bedroom with the heavy Elizabethan, oak furniture, Hercule Poirot sat and waited.
There was nothing to do but wait. All his arrangements were made.
It was towards early morning that the summons came.
At the sound of footsteps outside, Poirot drew back the bolt and opened the door. There were
two men in the passage outside—two
middle-aged1 men who looked older than their years. The
Admiral was stern-faced and grim, Colonel Frobisher
twitched2 and trembled.
Chandler said simply:
“Will you come with us, M. Poirot?”
There was a
huddled3 figure lying outside Diana Maberly’s bedroom door. The light fell on a
gown and
slippers8. In his right hand was a sharply curved, shining knife. Not all of it was shining
—here and there it was obscured by red
glistening9 patches.
Hercule Poirot exclaimed softly:
“Mon Dieu!”
Frobisher said sharply:
“She’s all right. He hasn’t touched her.” He raised his voice and called: “Diana! It’s us! Let
us in!”
Poirot heard the Admiral
groan10 and mutter under his breath:
“My boy. My poor boy.”
There was a sound of bolts being
drawn11. The door opened and Diana stood there. Her face
was dead white.
“What’s happened? There was someone—trying to get in—I heard them—feeling the door—
the handle—scratching on the panels—Oh! it was awful . . . like an animal. . . .”
Frobisher said sharply:
“Thank God your door was locked!”
“M. Poirot told me to lock it.”
Poirot said:
“Lift him up and bring him inside.”
The two men stooped and raised the unconscious man. Diana caught her breath with a little
“Hugh? Is it Hugh? What’s that—on his hands?”
Hugh Chandler’s hands were sticky and wet with a brownish, red stain.
Diana breathed: “Is that blood?”
Poirot looked inquiringly at the two men. The Admiral nodded. He said:
“Not human, thank God! A cat! I found it downstairs in the hall. Throat cut. Afterwards he
must have come up here—”
“Here?” Diana’s voice was low with horror. “To me?”
The man on the chair stirred—muttered. They watched him, fascinated. Hugh Chandler sat
up. He blinked.
“Hallo,” his voice was dazed—hoarse. “What’s happened? Why am I—?”
He stopped. He was staring at the knife which he held still clasped in his hand.
He said in a slow, thick voice:
“What have I done?”
His eyes went from one to the other. They rested at last on Diana shrinking back against the
wall. He said quietly:
“Did I attack Diana?”
His father shook his head. Hugh said:
“Tell me what has happened? I’ve got to know!”
They told him—told him unwillingly—haltingly. His quiet
perseverance14 drew it out of them.
Outside the window the sun was coming up. Hercule Poirot drew a curtain aside. The
radiance of the dawn came into the room.
Hugh Chandler’s face was composed, his voice was steady.
He said:
“I see.”
Then he got up. He smiled and stretched himself. His voice was quite natural as he said:
“Beautiful morning, what? Think I’ll go out in the woods and try to get a rabbit.”
He went out of the room and left them staring after him.
Then the Admiral started forward. Frobisher caught him by the arm.
“No, Charles, no. It’s the best way—for him, poor devil, if for nobody else.”
Diana had thrown herself
sobbing15 on the bed.
Admiral Chandler said, his voice coming
unevenly16:
“You’re right, George—you’re right, I know. The boy’s got
guts17. . . .”
Frobisher said, and his voice, too, was broken:
“He’s a man . . .”
There was a moment’s silence and then Chandler said:
“Damn it, where’s that cursed foreigner?”
VII
In the gun room, Hugh Chandler had lifted his gun from the rack and was in the act of loading it
when Hercule Poirot’s hand fell on his shoulder.
Hercule Poirot’s voice said one word and said it with a strange authority. He said:
“No!”
Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said in a thick, angry voice: “Take your hands off me. Don’t
interfere18. There’s going to be an accident, I tell you. It’s the only way out.”
Again Hercule Poirot repeated that one word:
“No.”
“Don’t you realize that if it hadn’t been for the accident of her door being locked, I would
have cut Diana’s throat—Diana’s!—with that knife?”
“I realize nothing of the kind. You would not have killed Miss Maberly.”
“I killed that cat, didn’t I?”
“No, you did not kill the cat. You did not kill the parrot. You did not kill the sheep.”
Hugh stared at him. He demanded:
“Are you mad, or am I?”
Hercule Poirot replied:
“Neither of us is mad.”
It was at that moment that Admiral Chandler and Colonel Frobisher came in. Behind them
came Diana.
Hugh Chandler said in a weak, dazed voice:
“This chap says I’m not mad. . . .”
Hercule Poirot said:
Hugh laughed. It was a laugh such as a lunatic might popularly be supposed to give.
“That’s damned funny! It’s sane, is it, to cut the throats of sheep and other animals? I was
sane, was I, when I killed that parrot? And the cat tonight?”
“I tell you you did not kill the sheep—or the parrot—or the cat.”
“Then who did?”
“Someone who has had at heart the sole object of proving you insane. On each occasion you
were given a heavy soporific and a blood-stained knife or razor was planted by you. It was
someone else whose
bloody21 hands were washed in your basin.”
“But why?”
“In order that you should do what you were just about to do when I stopped you.”
Hugh stared. Poirot turned to Colonel Frobisher.
“Colonel Frobisher, you lived for many years in India. Did you never come across cases
where persons were
deliberately22 driven mad by the administration of drugs?”
Colonel Frobisher’s face lit up. He said:
“Never came across a case myself, but I’ve heard of them often enough. Datura poisoning. It
ends by driving a person insane.”
“Exactly. Well, the active principle of the datura is very closely
allied23 to, if it is not actually,
the alkaloid atropine—which is also obtained from belladonna or deadly nightshade. Belladonna
preparations are fairly common and atropine sulphate itself is prescribed freely for eye treatments.
By duplicating a
prescription24 and getting it made up in different places a large quantity of the
poison could be obtained without arousing suspicion. The alkaloid could be extracted from it and
then introduced into, say—a
soothing25 shaving cream.
Applied26 externally it would cause a rash,
this would soon lead to
abrasions27 in shaving and thus the drug would be continually entering the
system. It would produce certain symptoms—dryness of the mouth and throat, difficulty in
swallowing, hallucinations, double vision—all the symptoms, in fact, which Mr. Chandler has
experienced.”
He turned to the young man.
“And to remove the last doubt from my mind, I will tell you that that is not a supposition but
a fact. Your shaving cream was heavily impregnated with atropine sulphate. I took a sample and
had it tested.”
White, shaking, Hugh asked:
“Who did it? Why?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“That is what I have been studying ever since I arrived here. I have been looking for a
motive28
for murder. Diana Maberly gained financially by your death, but I did not consider her seriously
—”
Hugh Chandler flashed out:
“I should hope not!”
“I
envisaged29 another possible motive. The eternal triangle; two men and a woman. Colonel
Frobisher had been in love with your mother, Admiral Chandler married her.”
Admiral Chandler cried out:
“George? George! I won’t believe it.”
Hugh said in an incredulous voice:
“Do you mean that
hatred30 could go on—to a son?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Under certain circumstances, yes.”
Frobisher cried out:
“It’s a damned lie! Don’t believe him, Charles.”
Chandler shrank away from him. He muttered to himself:
“The datura . . . India—yes, I see . . . And we’d never suspect poison—not with madness in
the family already. . . .”
“Mais oui!” Hercule Poirot’s voice rose high and
shrill31. “Madness in the family. A madman—
bent32 on revenge—cunning—as madmen are,
concealing33 his madness for years.” He whirled round
on Frobisher. “Mon Dieu, you must have known, you must have suspected, that Hugh was your
son? Why did you never tell him so?”
“I didn’t know. I couldn’t be sure . . . You see, Caroline came to me once—she was
frightened of something—in great trouble. I don’t know, I never have known, what it was all
about. She—I—we lost our heads. Afterwards I went away at once—it was the only thing to be
done, we both knew we’d got to play the game. I—well, I wondered, but I couldn’t be sure.
Caroline never said anything that led me to think Hugh was my son. And then when this—this
streak36 of madness appeared, it settled things definitely, I thought.”
Poirot said:
“Yes, it settled things! You could not see the way the boy has of thrusting out his face and
bringing down his brows—a trick he inherited from you. But Charles Chandler saw it. Saw it
years ago—and learnt the truth from his wife. I think she was afraid of him—he’d begun to show
her the mad streak—that was what drove her into your arms—you whom she had always loved.
Charles Chandler planned his revenge. His wife died in a boating accident. He and she were out in
the boat alone and he knows how that accident came about. Then he settled down to feed his
concentrated hatred against the boy who bore his name but who was not his son. Your Indian
stories put the idea of datura poisoning into his head. Hugh should be slowly driven mad. Driven
to the stage where he would take his own life in despair. The blood
lust37 was Admiral Chandler’s,
not Hugh’s. It was Charles Chandler who was driven to cut the throats of sheep in lonely fields.
But it was Hugh who was to pay the penalty!
“Do you know when I suspected? When Admiral Chandler was so
averse38 to his son seeing a
doctor. For Hugh to object was natural enough. But the father! There might be treatment which
would save his son—there were a hundred reasons why he should seek to have a doctor’s opinion.
But no, a doctor must not be allowed to see Hugh Chandler—in case a doctor should discover that
Hugh was sane!”
Hugh said very quietly:
“Sane . . . I am sane?”
He took a step towards Diana. Frobisher said in a gruff voice:
“You’re sane enough. There’s no
taint39 in our family.”
Diana said:
“Hugh . . .”
Admiral Chandler picked up Hugh’s gun. He said:
“All a lot of nonsense! Think I’ll go and see if I can get a rabbit—”
Frobisher started forward, but the hand of Hercule Poirot restrained him. Poirot said:
“You said yourself—just now—that it was the best way. . . .”
Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.
The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the Chandlers cross the
Park and go up into the woods.
Presently, they heard a shot. . . .
分享到: