III
It has been said, with or without
justification1 for the statement, that everyone has an aunt in
Torquay.
It has also been said that everyone has at least a second cousin in Mertonshire. Mertonshire is
a reasonable distance from London, it has hunting, shooting and fishing, it has several very
picturesque2 but slightly self-conscious villages, it has a good system of railways and a new arterial
road facilitates motoring to and from the
metropolis3. Servants object to it less than they do to
other, more rural, portions of the British
Isles4. As a result, it is practically impossible to live in
Mertonshire unless you have an income that runs into four figures, and what with income tax and
one thing and another, five figures is better.
Hercule Poirot, being a foreigner, had no second cousins in the country, but he had acquired
by now a large circle of friends and he had no difficulty in getting himself invited for a visit in that
part of the world. He had, moreover, selected as hostess a dear lady whose chief delight was
exercising her tongue on the subject of her neighbours—the only drawback being that Poirot had
to submit to hearing a great deal about people in whom he had no interest whatever, before
coming to the subject of the people he was interested in.
“The Grants? Oh yes, there are four of them. Four girls. I don’t wonder the poor General
can’t control them. What can a man do with four girls?” Lady Carmichael’s hands flew up
eloquently5. Poirot said: “What indeed?” and the lady continued:
“Used to be a great disciplinarian in his
regiment6, so he told me. But those girls defeat him.
Not like when I was young. Old Colonel Sandys was such a
martinet7, I remember, that his poor
daughters—”
(Long excursion into the trials of the Sandys girls and other friends of Lady Carmichael’s
youth.)
“Mind you,” said Lady Carmichael,
reverting8 to her first theme. “I don’t say there’s anything
really wrong about those girls. Just high spirits—and getting in with an
undesirable9 set. It’s not
what it used to be down here. The oddest people come here. There’s no what you might call
‘county’ left. It’s all money, money, money nowadays. And you do hear the oddest stories! Who
did you say? Anthony Hawker? Oh yes, I know him. What I call a very unpleasant young man.
parties—and rather
peculiar12 parties, too, if one is to believe all one is told—not that I ever do,
because I do think people are so ill-natured. They always believe the worst. You know, it’s
become quite a fashion to say a person drinks or takes drugs. Somebody said to me the other day
that young girls were natural
inebriates13, and I really don’t think that was a nice thing to say at all.
And if anyone’s at all peculiar or vague in their manner, everyone says ‘drugs’ and that’s unfair,
too. They say it about Mrs. Larkin and though I don’t care for the woman, I do really think it’s
nothing more than absentmindedness. She’s a great friend of your Anthony Hawker, and that’s
why, if you ask me, she’s so down on the Grant girls—says they’re man-eaters! I dare say they do
run after men a bit, but why not? It’s natural, after all. And they’re good-looking pieces, every one
of them.”
Poirot interjected a question.
“Mrs. Larkin? My dear man, it’s no good asking me who she is? Who’s anybody nowadays?
They say she rides well and she’s obviously well off. Husband was something in the city. He’s
dead, not divorced. She’s not been here very long, came here just after the Grants did. I’ve always
thought she—”
Old Lady Carmichael stopped. Her mouth opened, her eyes
bulged14. Leaning forward she
struck Poirot a sharp blow across the
knuckles15 with a paper cutter she was holding. Disregarding
his
wince16 of pain she exclaimed excitedly:
“Why of course! So that’s why you’re down here! You nasty, deceitful creature, I insist on
your telling me all about it.”
“But what is it I am to tell you all about?”
Lady Carmichael aimed another playful blow which Poirot avoided
deftly17.
“Don’t be an
oyster18, Hercule Poirot! I can see your moustaches quivering. Of course, it’s
crime brings you down here—and you’re just pumping me shamelessly! Now let me see, can it be
murder? Who’s died lately? Only old Louisa Gilmore and she was eighty-five and had dropsy too.
Can’t be her. Poor Leo Staverton broke his neck in the hunting field and he’s all done up in plaster
—that can’t be it. Perhaps it isn’t murder. What a pity! I can’t remember any special jewel
robberies lately . . . Perhaps it’s just a criminal you’re tracking down . . . Is it Beryl Larkin? Did
she poison her husband? Perhaps it’s
remorse19 that makes her so vague.”
“Madame, Madame,” cried Hercule Poirot. “You go too fast.”
“Nonsense. You’re up to something, Hercule Poirot.”
“Are you acquainted with the classics, Madame?”
“What have the classics got to do with it?”
Hercules was the taming of the wild horses of Diomedes.”
“Don’t tell me you came down here to train horses—at your age—and always wearing
patent-leather shoes! You don’t look to me as though you’d ever been on a horse in your life!”
“The horses, Madame, are
symbolic23. They were the wild horses who ate human flesh.”
“How very unpleasant of them. I always do think these ancient Greeks and Romans are very
unpleasant. I can’t think why clergymen are so fond of quoting from the classics—for one thing
one never understands what they mean and it always seems to me that the whole subject matter of
the classics is very unsuitable for clergymen. So much incest, and all those statues with nothing on
—not that I mind that myself but you know what clergymen are—quite upset if girls come to
church with no stockings on—let me see, where was I?”
“I am not quite sure.”
“I suppose, you
wretch24, you just won’t tell me if Mrs. Larkin murdered her husband? Or
perhaps Anthony Hawker is the Brighton trunk murderer?”
She looked at him hopefully, but Hercule Poirot’s face remained impassive.
“It might be forgery,” speculated Lady Carmichael. “I did see Mrs. Larkin in the bank the
other morning and she’d just cashed a fifty pound cheque to self—it seemed to me at the time a lot
of money to want in cash. Oh no, that’s the wrong way round—if she was a
forger25 she would be
paying it in, wouldn’t she? Hercule Poirot, if you sit there looking like an
owl26 and saying nothing,
I shall throw something at you.”
“You must have a little patience,” said Hercule Poirot.
IV
Ashley
Lodge27, the residence of General Grant, was not a large house. It was
situated28 on the side of
a hill, had good stables, and a straggling, rather neglected garden.
Inside, it was what a house agent would have described as “fully furnished.” Cross-legged
space. Processional elephants
garnished33 the mantelpieces and more tortured brasswork
adorned34 the
walls.
In the midst of this Anglo-Indian home from home, General Grant was ensconced in a large,
shabby armchair with his leg, swathed in bandages,
reposing35 on another chair.
“Gout,” he explained. “Ever had the gout, Mr.—er—Poirot? Makes a feller damned bad
tempered! All my father’s fault. Drank port all his life—so did my grandfather. It’s played the
deuce with me. Have a drink? Ring that bell, will you, for that feller of
mine?”
A turbaned servant appeared. General Grant addressed him as Abdul and ordered him to
bring the whisky and
soda36. When it came he poured out such a generous portion that Poirot was
moved to protest.
“Can’t join you, I’m afraid, Mr. Poirot.” The General eyed the tantalus sadly. “My doctor
wallah says it’s poison to me to touch the stuff. Don’t suppose he knows for a minute. Ignorant
chaps doctors. Spoilsports. Enjoy knocking a man off his food and drink and putting him on some
pap like steamed fish. Steamed fish—pah!”
In his indignation the General incautiously moved his bad foot and uttered a
yelp37 of agony at
the twinge that ensued.
He apologized for his language.
“Like a bear with a sore head, that’s what I am. My girls give me a wide
berth38 when I’ve got
an attack of gout. Don’t know that I blame them. You’ve met one of ’em, I hear.”
“I have had that pleasure, yes. You have several daughters, have you not?”
“Four,” said the General gloomily. “Not a boy amongst ’em. Four blinking girls. Bit of a
thought, these days.”
“They are all four very charming, I hear?”
“Not too bad—not too bad. Mind you, I never know what they’re up to. You can’t control
girls nowadays. Lax times—too much laxity everywhere. What can a man do? Can’t lock ’em up,
can I?”
“They are popular in the neighbourhood, I gather.”
“Some of the old cats don’t like ’em,” said General Grant. “A good deal of mutton dressed as
lamb round here. A man’s got to be careful. One of these blue-eyed widows nearly caught me—
used to come round here purring like a kitten. ‘Poor General Grant—you must have had such an
interesting life.’ ” The General
winked39 and placed one finger against his nose. “A little bit too
obvious, Mr. Poirot. Oh well, take it all round, I suppose it’s not a bad part of the world. A bit go
ahead and noisy for my taste. I liked the country when it was the country—not all this motoring
and jazz and that blasted, eternal radio. I won’t have one here and the girls know it. A man’s got a
right to a little peace in his own home.”
Gently Poirot led the conversation round to Anthony Hawker.
“Hawker? Hawker? Don’t know him. Yes, I do, though. Nasty looking fellow with his eyes
too close together. Never trust a man who can’t look you in the face.”
“He is a friend, is he not, of your daughter Sheila’s?”
“Sheila? Wasn’t aware of it. Girls never tell me anything.” The bushy
eyebrows40 came down
over the nose—the piercing, blue eyes looked out of the red face straight into Hercule Poirot’s.
“Look here, Mr. Poirot, what’s all this about? Mind telling me what you’ve come to see me
about?”
Poirot said slowly:
“That would be difficult—perhaps I hardly know myself. I would say only this: your daughter
Sheila—perhaps all your daughters—have made some undesirable friends.”
“Got into a bad set, have they? I was a bit afraid of that. One hears a word dropped here and
there.” He looked pathetically at Poirot. “But what am I to do, Mr. Poirot? What am I to do?”
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
General Grant went on:
“What’s wrong with the bunch they’re running with?”
Poirot replied by another question.
“Have you noticed, General Grant, that any of your daughters have been
moody41, excited,
then depressed—nervy—uncertain in their tempers?”
“Damme, sir, you’re talking like a patent medicine. No, I haven’t noticed anything of the
kind.”
“That is fortunate,” said Poirot gravely.
“What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir?”
“Drugs!”
“WHAT!”
The word came in a roar.
Poirot said:
“An attempt is being made to induce your daughter Sheila to become a drug
addict42. The
cocaine43 habit is very quickly formed. A week or two will suffice. Once the habit is formed, an
addict will pay anything, do anything, to get a further supply of the drug. You can realize what a
rich haul the person who
peddles44 that drug can make.”
He listened in silence to the spluttering, wrathful
blasphemies45 that poured from the old man’s
lips. Then, as the fires died down, with a final choice description of exactly what he, the General,
would do to the blinkety blinkety son of a blank when he got hold of him, Hercule Poirot said:
“We have first, as your so admirable Mrs. Beeton says, to catch the hare. Once we have
caught our drug pedlar, I will turn him over to you with the greatest pleasure, General.”
He got up, tripped over a heavily carved, small table,
regained46 his balance with a clutch at the
General, murmured:
“A thousand pardons, and may I beg of you, General—you understand, beg of you—to say
nothing whatever about all this to your daughters.”
“What? I’ll have the truth out of them, that’s what I’ll have!”
“That is exactly what you will not have. All you will get is a lie.”
“But damme, sir—”
“I assure you, General Grant, you must hold your tongue. That is vital—you understand?
Vital!”
“Oh well, have it your own way,”
growled47 the old soldier.
He was mastered but not convinced.
Hercule Poirot picked his way carefully through the Benares brass and went out.
分享到: