山核桃大街谋杀案（9）

时间：2025-03-03 03:09:10

（单词翻译:单击）

Chapter Eight
Though personally deprecating le five o’clock as inhibiting the proper appreciation of the supreme
meal of the day, dinner, Poirot was now getting quite accustomed to serving it.
The resourceful George had on this occasion produced large cups, a pot of really strong Indian
tea and, in addition to the hot and buttery square crumpets, bread and jam and a large square of
rich plum cake.
All this for the delectation of Inspector Sharpe, who was leaning back contentedly sipping his
third cup of tea.
“You don’t mind my coming along like this, M. Poirot? I’ve got an hour to spare until the time
when the students will be getting back. I shall want to question them all—and, frankly, it’s not a
business I’m looking forward to. You met some of them the other night and I wondered if you
could give me any useful dope—on the foreigners, anyway.”
“You think I am a good judge of foreigners? But mon cher, there were no Belgians amongst
them.”
“No Belg—oh, I see what you mean! You mean that as you’re a Belgian, all the other
nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me. But that’s not quite true, is it? I mean you
probably know more about the Continental types than I do—though not the Indians and the West
Africans and that lot.”
“Your best assistance will probably be from Mrs. Hubbard. She has been there for some months
in intimate association with these young people and she is quite a good judge of human nature.”
“Yes, thoroughly competent woman. I’m relying on her. I shall have to see the proprietress of
the place, too. She wasn’t there this morning. Owns several of these places, I understand, as well
as some of the student clubs. Doesn’t seem to be much liked.”
Poirot said nothing for a moment or two, then he asked:
“You have been to St. Catherine’s?”
“Yes. The chief pharmacist was most helpful. He was much shocked and distressed by the
news.”
“What did he say of the girl?”
“She’d worked there for just over a year and was well liked. He described her as rather slow,
but very conscientious.” He paused and then added, “The morphia came from there all right.”
“It did? That is interesting—and rather puzzling.”
“It was morphine tartrate. Kept in the poison cupboard in the Dispensary. Upper shelf—
amongst drugs that were not often used. The hypodermic tablets, of course, are what are in general
use, and it appears that morphine hydrochloride is more often used than the tartrate. There seems
to be a kind of fashion in drugs like everything else. Doctors seem to follow one another in
prescribing like a lot of sheep. He didn’t say that. It was my own thought. There are some drugs in
the upper shelf of that cupboard that were once popular, but haven’t been prescribed for years.”
“So the absence of one small dusty phial would not immediately be noticed?”
“That’s right. Stocktaking is only done at regular intervals. Nobody remembers any prescription
with morphine tartrate in it for a long time. The absence of the bottle wouldn’t be noticed until it
was wanted—or until they went over stock. The three dispensers all had keys of the poison
cupboard and the dangerous drug cupboard. The cupboards are opened as needed, and as on a
busy day (which is practically every day) someone is going to the cupboard every few minutes, the
cupboard is unlocked and remains unlocked till the end of work.”
“Who has access to it, other than Celia herself?”
“The two other women dispensers, but they have no connection of any kind with Hickory Road.
One has been there for four years, the other only came a few weeks ago, was formerly at a hospital
in Devon. Good record. Then there are the three senior pharmacists who have all been at St.
Catherine’s for years. Those are the people who have what you might call rightful and normal
access to the cupboard. Then there’s an old woman who scrubs the floors. She’s there between
nine and ten in the morning and she could have grabbed a bottle out of the cupboard if the girls
were busy at the outpatients’ hatches, or attending to the ward baskets, but she’s been working for
the hospital for years and it seems very unlikely. The lab attendant comes through with stock
bottles and he, too, could help himself to a bottle if he watched his opportunity—but none of these
suggestions seem at all probable.”
“What outsiders come into the Dispensary?”
“Quite a lot, one way or another. They’d pass through the Dispensary to go to the chief
pharmacist’s office for instance—or travellers from the big wholesale drug houses would go
though it to the manufacturing departments. Then, of course, friends come in occasionally to see
one of the dispensers—not a usual thing, but it happens.”
“That is better. Who came in recently to see Celia Austin?”
Sharpe consulted his notebook.
“A girl called Patricia Lane came in on Tuesday of last week. She wanted Celia to come to meet
her at the pictures after the Dispensary closed.”
“Patricia Lane,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“She was only there about five minutes and she did not go near the poison cupboard but
remained near the outpatients’ windows talking to Celia and another girl. They also remember a
coloured girl coming—about two weeks ago—a very superior girl, they said. She was interested in
the work and asked questions about it and made notes. Spoke perfect English.”
“That would be Elizabeth Johnston. She was interested, was she?”
“It was a Welfare Clinic afternoon. She was interested in the organisation of such things and
also in what was prescribed for such ailments as infant diarrhoea and skin infections.”
Poirot nodded.
“Anyone else?”
“Not that can be remembered.”
“Do doctors come to the Dispensary?”
Sharpe grinned.
“All the time. Officially and unofficially. Sometimes to ask about a particular formula, or to see
what is kept in stock.”
“To see what is kept in stock?”
“Yes, I thought of that. Sometimes they ask advice—about a substitute for some preparation
that seems to irritate a patient’s skin or interfere with digestion unduly. Sometimes a physician just
strolls in for a chat—slack moment. A good many of the young chaps come in for Vegenin or
aspirin when they’ve got a hangover—and occasionally, I’d say, for a flirtatious word or two with
one of the girls if the opportunity arises. Human nature is always human nature. You see how it is.
Pretty hopeless.”
Poirot said, “And if I recollect rightly, one or more of the students at Hickory Road is attached
to St. Catherine’s—a big, red-haired boy—Bates—Bateman—”
“Leonard Bateson. That’s right. And Colin McNabb is doing a postgraduate course there. Then
there’s a girl, Jean Tomlinson, who works in the physiotherapy department.”
“And all of these have probably been quite often in the Dispensary?”
“Yes, and what’s more, nobody remembers when because they’re used to seeing them and
know them by sight. Jean Tomlinson was by way of being a friend of the senior dispenser—”
“It is not easy,” said Poirot.
“I’ll say it’s not! You see, anyone who was on the staff could take a look in the poison
cupboard, and say, ‘Why on earth do you have so much Liquor Arsenicalis?’ or something like
that. ‘Didn’t know anybody used it nowadays.’ And nobody would think twice about it or
remember it.”
Sharpe paused and then said:
“What we are postulating is that someone gave Celia Austin morphia and afterwards put the
morphia bottle and the torn-out fragment of letter in her room to make it look like suicide. But
why, M. Poirot, why?”
Poirot shook his head. Sharpe went on:
“You hinted this morning that someone might have suggested the kleptomania idea to Celia
Austin.”
Poirot moved uneasily.
“That was only a vague idea of mine. It was just that it seemed doubtful if she would have had
the wits to think of it herself.”
“Then who?”
“As far as I know, only three of the students would have been capable of thinking out such an
idea. Leonard Bateson would have had the requisite knowledge. He is aware of Colin’s enthusiasm
for ‘maladjusted personalities.’ He might have suggested something of the kind to Celia more or
less as a joke and coached her in her part. But I cannot really see him conniving at such a thing for
month after month—unless, that is, he had an ulterior motive, or is a very different person from
what he appears to be. (That is always a thing one must take into account.) Nigel Chapman has a
mischievous and slightly malicious turn of mind. He’d think it good fun, and I should imagine
would have no scruples whatever. He is a kind of grown up ‘enfant terrible.’ The third person I
have in mind is a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse. She has brains, is modern in outlook
and education, and has probably read enough psychology to judge Colin’s probable reaction. If
she were fond of Celia, she might think it legitimate fun to make a fool of Colin.”
“Leonard Bateson, Nigel Chapman, Valerie Hobhouse,” said Sharpe, writing down the names.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll remember when I’m questioning them. What about the Indians? One of
them is a medical student.”
“His mind is entirely occupied with politics and persecution mania,” said Poirot. “I don’t think
he would be interested enough to suggest kleptomania to Celia Austin and I don’t think she would
have accepted such advice from him.”
“And that’s all the help you can give me, M. Poirot?” said Sharpe, rising to his feet and
buttoning away his notebook.
“I fear so. But I consider myself personally interested—that is if you do not object, my friend?”
“Not in the least. Why should I?”
“In my own amateurish way I shall do what I can. For me, there is, I think, only one line of
action.”
“And that is?”
Poirot sighed.
“Conversation, my friend. Conversation and again conversation! All the murderers I have ever
come across enjoyed talking. In my opinion the strong silent man seldom commits a crime—and if
he does it is simple, violent, and perfectly obvious. But our clever subtle murderer—he is so
pleased with himself that sooner or later he says something unfortunate and trips himself up. Talk
to these people, mon cher, do not confine yourself to simple interrogation. Encourage their views,
demand their help, inquire about their hunches—but, bon dieu! I do not need to teach you your
business. I remember your abilities well enough.”
Sharpe smiled gently.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ve always found—well—amiability—a great help.”
The two men smiled at each other in mutual accord. Sharpe rose to depart.
“I suppose every single one of them is a possible murderer,” he said slowly.
“I should think so,” said Poirot nonchalantly. “Leonard Bateson, for instance, has a temper. He
could lose control. Valerie Hobhouse has brains and could plan cleverly. Nigel Chapman is the
childish type that lacks proportion. There is a French girl there who might kill if enough money
were involved. Patricia Lane is a maternal type and maternal types are always ruthless. The
American girl, Sally Finch, is cheerful and gay, but she could play an assumed part better than
most. Jean Tomlinson is very full of sweetness and righteousness but we have all known killers
who attended Sunday school with sincere devotion. The West Indian girl Elizabeth Johnston has
probably the best brains of anyone in the hostel. She has subordinated her emotional life to her
brain—that is dangerous. There is a charming young African who might have motives for killing
about which we could never guess. We have Colin McNabb, the psychologist. How many
psychologists does one know to whom it might be said Physician, heal thyself?”
“For heaven’s sake, Poirot. You are making my head spin! Is nobody incapable of murder?”
“I have often wondered,” said Hercule Poirot.

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