山核桃大街谋杀案（6）
时间：2025-03-03 03:09:06
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Five
There was no doubt that Poirot’s statement was unexpected. It caused not a ripple of protest or
comment, but a sudden and uncomfortable silence.
Under cover of that momentary paralysis, Poirot was taken by Mrs. Hubbard up to her own
sitting room, with only a quick polite “Good night to you all,” to herald his departure.
Mrs. Hubbard switched on the light, closed the door, and begged M. Poirot to take the armchair
by the fireplace. Her nice good-humoured face was puckered with doubt and anxiety. She offered
her guest a cigarette, but Poirot refused politely, explaining that he preferred his own. He offered
her one, but she refused, saying in an abstracted tone: “I don’t smoke, M. Poirot.”
Then, as she sat down opposite him, she said, after a momentary hesitation:
“I dare say you’re right, M. Poirot. Perhaps we should get the police in on this—especially after
this malicious ink business. But I rather wish you hadn’t said so—right out like that.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes and watched the smoke ascend. “You think
I should have dissembled?”
“Well, I suppose it’s nice to be fair and above board about things—but it seems to me it might
have been better to keep quiet, and just ask an officer to come round and explain things privately
to him. What I mean is, whoever’s been doing these stupid things—well, that person’s warned
now.”
“Perhaps, yes.”
“I should say quite certainly,” said Mrs. Hubbard, rather sharply. “No perhaps about it! Even if
he’s one of the servants or a student who wasn’t here this evening, the word will get around. It
always does.”
“So true. It always does.”
“And there’s Mrs. Nicoletis, too. I really don’t know what attitude she’ll take up. One never
does know with her.”
“It will be interesting to find out.”
“Naturally we can’t call in the police unless she agrees—oh, who’s that now?”
There had been a sharp authoritative tap on the door. It was repeated and almost before Mrs.
Hubbard had called an irritable “Come in,” the door opened and Colin McNabb, his pipe clenched
firmly between his teeth and a scowl on his face, entered the room.
Removing the pipe, and closing the door behind him, he said:
“You’ll excuse me, but I was anxious to just have a word with M. Poirot here.”
“With me?” Poirot turned his head in innocent surprise.
“Ay, with you.” Colin spoke grimly.
He drew up a rather uncomfortable chair and sat squarely on it facing Hercule Poirot.
“You’ve given us an amusing talk tonight,” he said indulgently. “And I’ll not deny that you’re a
man who’s had a varied and lengthy experience, but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, your
methods and your ideas are both equally antiquated.”
“Really, Colin,” said Mrs. Hubbard, colouring. “You’re extremely rude.”
“I’m not meaning to give offence, but I’ve got to make things clear. Crime and Punishment, M.
Poirot—that’s as far as your horizon stretches.”
“They seem to me a natural sequence,” said Poirot.
“You take the narrow view of the Law—and what’s more, of the Law at its most old-fashioned.
Nowadays, even the Law has to keep itself cognisant of the newest and most up-to-date theories of
what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, M. Poirot.”
“But there,” cried Poirot, “to speak in your new-fashioned phrase, I could not agree with you
more!”
“Then you’ve got to consider the cause of what has been happening in this house—you’ve got
to find out why these things have been done.”
“But I am still agreeing with you—yes, that is most important.”
“Because there always is a reason, and it may be, to the person concerned, a very good reason.”
At this point Mrs. Hubbard, unable to contain herself, interjected sharply, “Rubbish.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Colin, turning slightly towards her. “You’ve got to take into
account the psychological background.”
“Psychological balderdash,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I’ve no patience with all that sort of talk!”
“That’s because you know precisely nothing about it,” said Colin, in a gravely rebuking fashion.
He returned his gaze to Poirot.
“I’m interested in these subjects. I am at present taking a post-graduate course in psychiatry and
psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding cases and what I’m pointing out to
you, M. Poirot, is that you can’t just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin, or wilful
disregard of the laws of the land. You’ve got to have an understanding of the root of the trouble if
you’re ever to effect a cure of the young delinquent. These ideas were not known or thought of in
your day and I’ve no doubt you find them hard to accept—”
“Stealing’s stealing,” put in Mrs. Hubbard stubbornly.
Colin frowned impatiently.
Poirot said meekly:
“My ideas are doubtless old-fashioned, but I am perfectly prepared to listen to you, Mr.
McNabb.”
Colin looked agreeably surprised.
“That’s very fairly said, M. Poirot. Now I’ll try to make this matter clear to you, using very
simple terms.”
“Thank you,” said Poirot meekly.
“For convenience’s sake, I’ll start with the pair of shoes you brought with you tonight and
returned to Sally Finch. If you remember, one shoe was stolen. Only one.”
“I remember being struck by the fact,” said Poirot.
Colin McNabb leaned forward; his dour but handsome features were lit up by eagerness.
“Ah, but you didn’t see the significance of it. It’s one of the prettiest and most satisfying
examples anyone could wish to come across. We have here, very definitely, a Cinderella complex.
You are maybe acquainted with the Cinderella fairy story.”
“Of French origin—mais oui.”
“Cinderella, the unpaid drudge, sits by the fire; her sisters, dressed in their finery, go to the
Prince’s ball. A Fairy Godmother sends Cinderella too, to that ball. At the stroke of midnight, her
finery turns back to rags—she escapes hurriedly, leaving behind her one slipper. So here we have
a mind that compares itself to Cinderella (unconsciously, of course). Here we have frustration,
envy, the sense of inferiority. The girl steals a slipper. Why?”
“A girl?”
“But naturally, a girl. That,” said Colin reprovingly, “should be clear to the meanest
intelligence.”
“Really, Colin!” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“Pray continue,” said Poirot courteously.
“Probably she herself does not know why she does it—but the inner wish is clear. She wants to
be the Princess, to be identified by the Prince and claimed by him. Another significant fact, the
slipper is stolen from an attractive girl who is going to a ball.”
Colin’s pipe had long since gone out. He waved it now with mounting enthusiasm.
“And now we’ll take a few of the other happenings. A magpie acquiring of pretty things—all
things associated with attractive femininity. A powder compact, lipsticks, earrings, a bracelet, a
ring—there is a two-fold significance here. The girl wants to be noticed. She wants, even, to be
punished—as is frequently the case with very young juvenile delinquents. These things are none
of them what you could call ordinary criminal thefts. It is not the value of these things that is
wanted. In just such a way do well-to-do women go into department stores and steal things they
could perfectly well afford to pay for.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Hubbard belligerently. “Some people are just plain dishonest, that’s all
there is to it.”
“Yet a diamond ring of some value was amongst the things stolen,” said Poirot, ignoring Mrs.
Hubbard’s interpolation.
“That was returned.”
“And surely, Mr. McNabb, you would not say that a stethoscope is a feminine pretty pretty?”
“That had a deeper significance. Women who feel they are deficient in feminine attraction can
find sublimation in the pursuit of a career.”
“And the cookery book?”
“A symbol of home life, husband and family.”
“And boracic powder?”
Colin said irritably:
“My dear M. Poirot. Nobody would steal boracic powder! Why should they?”
“This is what I have asked myself. I must admit, M. McNabb, that you seem to have an answer
for everything. Explain to me, then, the significance of the disappearance of an old pair of flannel
trousers—your flannel trousers, I understand.”
For the first time Colin appeared ill at ease. He blushed and cleared his throat.
“I could explain that—but it would be somewhat involved, and perhaps—er well, rather
embarrassing.”
“Ah, you spare my blushes.”
Suddenly Poirot leaned forward and tapped the young man on the knee.
“And the ink that is spilt over another student’s papers, the silk scarf that is cut and slashed. Do
these things cause you no disquietude?”
The complacence and superiority of Colin’s manner underwent a sudden and not unlikeable
change.
“They do,” he said. “Believe me, they do. It’s serious. She ought to have treatment—at once.
But medical treatment, that’s the point. It’s not a case for the police. She’s all tied up in knots. If I.
. . .”
Poirot interrupted him.
“You know then who she is?”
“Well, I have a very strong suspicion.”
Poirot murmured with the air of one who is recapitulating:
“A girl who is not outstandingly successful with the other sex. A shy girl. An affectionate girl.
A girl whose brain is inclined to be slow in its reactions. A girl who feels frustrated and lonely. A
girl. . . .”
There was a tap on the door. Poirot broke off. The tap was repeated.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
The door opened and Celia Austin came in.
“Ah,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “Exactly. Miss Celia Austin.”
Celia looked at Colin with agonised eyes.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said breathlessly. “I came—I came. . . .”
She took a deep breath and rushed to Mrs. Hubbard.
“Please, please don’t send for the police. It’s me. I’ve been taking those things. I don’t know
why. I can’t imagine. I didn’t want to. It just—it just came over me.” She whirled round on Colin.
“So now you know what I’m like . . . and I suppose you’ll never speak to me again. I know I’m
awful. . . .”
“Och! not a bit of it,” said Colin. His rich voice was warm and friendly. “You’re just a bit
mixed up, that’s all. It’s just a kind of illness you’ve had, from not looking at things clearly. If
you’ll trust me, Celia, I’ll soon be able to put you right.”
“Oh Colin—really?”
Celia looked at him with unconcealed adoration.
“I’ve been so dreadfully worried.”
He took her hand in a slightly avuncular manner.
“Well, there’s no need to worry any more.” Rising to his feet he drew Celia’s hand through his
arm and looked sternly at Mrs. Hubbard.
“I hope now,” he said, “that there’ll be no more foolish talk of calling in the police. Nothing’s
been stolen of any real worth, and what has been taken Celia will return.”
“I can’t return the bracelet and the powder compact,” said Celia anxiously. “I pushed them
down a gutter. But I’ll buy new ones.”
“And the stethoscope?” said Poirot. “Where did you put that?”
Celia flushed.
“I never took any stethoscope. What should I want with a silly old stethoscope?” Her flush
deepened. “And it wasn’t me who spilt ink all over Elizabeth’s papers. I’d never do a—malicious
thing like that.”
“Yet you cut and slashed Miss Hobhouse’s scarf, mademoiselle.”
Celia looked uncomfortable. She said rather uncertainly:
“That was different. I mean—Valerie didn’t mind.”
“And the rucksack?”
“Oh, I didn’t cut that up. That was just temper.”
Poirot took out the list he had copied from Mrs. Hubbard’s little book.
“Tell me,” he said, “and this time it must be the truth. What are you or are you not responsible
for of these happenings?”
Celia glanced down the list and her answer came at once.
“I don’t know anything about the rucksack, or the electric lightbulbs, or boracic or bath salts,
and the ring was just a mistake. When I realised it was valuable I returned it.”
“I see.”
“Because really I didn’t mean to be dishonest. It was only—”
“Only what?”
A faintly wary look came into Celia’s eyes.
“I don’t know—really I don’t. I’m all mixed up.”
Colin cut in in a peremptory manner.
“I’ll be thankful if you’ll not catechise her. I can promise you that there will be no recurrence of
this business. From now on I’ll definitely make myself responsible for her.”
“Oh, Colin, you are good to me.”
“I’d like you to tell me a great deal about yourself, Celia. Your early home life, for instance.
Did your father and mother get on well together?”
“Oh no, it was awful—at home—”
“Precisely. And—”
Mrs. Hubbard cut in. She spoke with the voice of authority.
“That will do now, both of you. I’m glad, Celia, that you’ve come and owned up. You’ve
caused a great deal of worry and anxiety, though, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. But
I’ll say this. I accept your word that you didn’t spill ink deliberately on Elizabeth’s notes. I don’t
believe you’d do a thing like that. Now take yourself off, you and Colin. I’ve had enough of you
both for this evening.”
As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Hubbard drew a deep breath.
“Well,” she said. “What do you think of that?”
There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot’s eye. He said:
“I think—that we have assisted at a love scene—modern style.”
Mrs. Hubbard made an ejaculation of disapproval.
“Autres temps, autres mæurs,” murmured Poirot. “In my young days the young men lent the
girls books on theosophy or discussed Maeterlinck’s ‘Bluebird.’ All was sentiment and high
ideals. Nowadays it is the maladjusted lives and the complexes which bring a boy and girl
together.”
“All such nonsense,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
Poirot dissented.
“No, it is not all nonsense. The underlying principles are sound enough—but when one is an
earnest young researcher like Colin one sees nothing but complexes and the victim’s unhappy
home life.”
“Celia’s father died when she was four years old,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “And she’s had a very
agreeable childhood with a nice but stupid mother.”
“Ah, but she is wise enough not to say so to the young McNabb! She will say what he wants to
hear. She is very much in love.”
“Do you believe all this hooey, M. Poirot?”
“I do not believe that Celia had a Cinderella complex or that she stole things without knowing
what she was doing. I think she took the risk of stealing unimportant trifles with the object of
attracting the attention of the earnest Colin McNabb—in which object she has been successful.
Had she remained a pretty, shy, ordinary girl he might never have looked at her. In my opinion,”
said Poirot, “a girl is entitled to attempt desperate measures to get her man.”
“I shouldn’t have thought she had the brains to think it up,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
Poirot did not reply. He frowned. Mrs. Hubbard went on:
“So the whole thing’s been a mare’s nest! I really do apologise, M. Poirot, for taking up your
time over such a trivial business. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”
“No, no.” Poirot shook his head. “I do not think we are at the end yet. We have cleared out of
the way something rather trivial that was at the front of the picture. But there are things still that
are not explained; and me, I have the impression that we have here something serious—really
serious.”
“Oh, M. Poirot, do you really think so?”
“It is my impression . . . I wonder, madame, if I could speak to Miss Patricia Lane. I would like
to examine the ring that was stolen.”
“Why, of course, M. Poirot. I’ll go down and send her up to you. I want to speak to Len Bateson
about something.”
Patricia Lane came in shortly afterwards with an inquiring look on her face.
“I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Lane.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I wasn’t busy. Mrs. Hubbard said you wanted to see my ring.”
She slipped it off her finger and held it out to him.
“It’s quite a large diamond really, but of course it’s an old-fashioned setting. It was my mother’s
engagement ring.”
Poirot, who was examining the ring, nodded his head.
“She is alive still, your mother?”
“No. Both my parents are dead.”
“That is sad.”
“Yes. They were both very nice people but somehow I was never quite so close to them as I
ought to have been. One regrets that afterwards. My mother wanted a frivolous pretty daughter, a
daughter who was fond of clothes and social things. She was very disappointed when I took up
archaeology.”
“You have always been of a serious turn of mind?”
“I think so, really. One feels life is so short one ought really to be doing something worthwhile.”
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
Patricia Lane was, he guessed, in her early thirties. Apart from a smear of lipstick, carelessly
applied, she wore no makeup. Her mouse-coloured hair was combed back from her face and
arranged without artifice. Her quite pleasant blue eyes looked at you seriously through glasses.
“No allure, bon Dieu,” said Poirot to himself with feeling. “And her clothes! What is it they
say? Dragged through a hedge backwards? Ma foi, that expresses it exactly!”
He was disapproving. He found Patricia’s well-bred unaccented tones wearisome to the ear.
“She is intelligent and cultured, this girl,” he said to himself, “and, alas, every year she will grow
more boring! In old age—” His mind darted for a fleeting moment to the memory of Countess
Vera Rossakoff. What exotic splendour there, even in decay! These girls of nowadays—
“But that is because I grow old,” said Poirot to himself. “Even this excellent girl may appear a
veritable Venus to some man.” But he doubted that.
Patricia was saying:
“I’m really very shocked about what happened to Bess—to Miss Johnston. Using that green ink
seems to me to be a deliberate attempt to make it look as though it was Nigel’s doing. But I do
assure you, M. Poirot, Nigel would never do a thing like that.”
“Ah.” Poirot looked at her with more interest. She had become flushed and quite eager.
“Nigel’s not easy to understand,” she said earnestly. “You see, he had a very difficult home life
as a child.”
“Mon Dieu, another of them!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. You were saying—”
“About Nigel. His being difficult. He’s always had the tendency to go against authority of any
kind. He’s very clever—brilliant really, but I must admit that he sometimes has a very unfortunate
manner. Sneering—you know. And he’s much too scornful ever to explain or defend himself.
Even if everybody in this place thinks he did that trick with the ink, he won’t go out of his way to
say he didn’t. He’ll just say, ‘Let them think it if they want to.’ And that attitude is really so utterly
foolish.”
“It can be misunderstood, certainly.”
“It’s a kind of pride, I think. Because he’s been so much misunderstood always.”
“You have known him for many years?”
“No, only for about a year. We met on a tour of the Châteaux of the Loire. He went down with
flu which turned to pneumonia and I nursed him through it. He’s very delicate and he takes
absolutely no care of his own health. In some ways, in spite of his being so independent, he needs
looking after like a child. He really needs someone to look after him.”
Poirot sighed. He felt, suddenly, very tired of love . . . First there had been Celia, with the
adoring eyes of a spaniel. And now here was Patricia looking like an earnest Madonna.
Admittedly there must be love, young people must meet and pair off, but he, Poirot, was
mercifully past all that. He rose to his feet.
“Will you permit me, mademoiselle, to retain your ring? It shall be returned to you tomorrow
without fail.”
“Certainly, if you like,” said Patricia, rather surprised.
“You are very kind. And please, mademoiselle, be careful.”
“Careful? Careful of what?”
“I wish I knew,” said Hercule Poirot.
He was still worried.
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