弄假成真20

时间：2025-03-03 03:34:50

（单词翻译:单击）

Twenty
Hercule Poirot paused a moment at the big wrought iron gates. He looked ahead of him along the
curving drive. The last of the golden-brown leaves fluttered down from the trees. The cyclamen
were over.
Poirot sighed. He turned aside and rapped gently on the door of the little white pilastered lodge.
After a few moments’ delay he heard footsteps inside, those slow hesitant footsteps. The door
was opened by Mrs. Folliat. He was not startled this time to see how old and frail she looked.
She said, “M. Poirot? You again?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He followed her in.
She offered him tea which he refused. Then she asked in a quiet voice:
“Why have you come?”
“I think you can guess, Madame.”
Her answer was oblique.
“I am very tired,” she said.
“I know.” He went on, “There have now been three deaths, Hattie Stubbs, Marlene Tucker, old
Merdell.”
She said sharply:
“Merdell? That was an accident. He fell from the quay. He was very old, half-blind, and he’d
been drinking in the pub.”
“It was not an accident. Merdell knew too much.”
“What did he know?”
“He recognized a face, or a way of walking, or a voice—something like that. I talked to him the
day I first came down here. He told me then all about the Folliat family—about your father-in-law
and your husband, and your sons who were killed in the war. Only—they were not both killed,
were they? Your son Henry went down with his ship, but your second son, James, was not killed.
He deserted. He was reported at first, perhaps, Missing believed killed, and later you told everyone
that he was killed. It was nobody’s business to disbelieve that statement. Why should they?”
Poirot paused and then went on:
“Do not imagine I have no sympathy for you, Madame. Life has been hard for you, I know. You
can have had no real illusions about your younger son, but he was your son, and you loved him.
You did all you could to give him a new life. You had the charge of a young girl, a subnormal but
very rich girl. Oh yes, she was rich. You gave out that her parents had lost all their money, that she
was poor, and that you had advised her to marry a rich man many years older than herself. Why
should anybody disbelieve your story? Again, it was nobody’s business. Her parents and near
relatives had been killed. A firm of French lawyers in Paris acted as instructed by lawyers in San
Miguel. On her marriage, she assumed control of her own fortune. She was, as you have told me,
docile, affectionate, suggestible. Everything her husband asked her to sign, she signed. Securities
were probably changed and re-sold many times, but in the end the desired financial result was
reached. Sir George Stubbs, the new personality assumed by your son, became a rich man and his
wife became a pauper. It is no legal offence to call yourself ‘sir’ unless it is done to obtain money
under false pretences. A title creates confidence—it suggests, if not birth, then certainly riches. So
the rich Sir George Stubbs, older and changed in appearance and having grown a beard, bought
Nasse House and came to live where he belonged, though he had not been there since he was a
boy. There was nobody left after the devastation of war who was likely to have recognized him.
But old Merdell did. He kept the knowledge to himself, but when he said to me slyly that there
would always be Folliats at Nasse House, that was his own private joke.
“So all had turned out well, or so you thought. Your plan, I fully believe, stopped there. Your
son had wealth, his ancestral home, and though his wife was subnormal she was a beautiful and
docile girl, and you hoped he would be kind to her and that she would be happy.”
Mrs. Folliat said in a low voice:
“That’s how I thought it would be—I would look after Hattie and care for her. I never dreamed
—”
“You never dreamed—and your son carefully did not tell you, that at the time of the marriage
he was already married. Oh, yes—we have searched the records for what we knew must exist.
Your son had married a girl in Trieste, a girl of the underground criminal world with whom he
concealed himself after his desertion. She had no mind to be parted from him, nor for that matter
had he any intention of being parted from her. He accepted the marriage with Hattie as a means to
wealth, but in his own mind he knew from the beginning what he intended to do.”
“No, no, I do not believe that! I cannot believe it…It was that woman—that wicked creature.”
Poirot went on inexorably:
“He meant murder. Hattie had no relations, few friends. Immediately on their return to England,
he brought her here. The servants hardly saw her that first evening, and the woman they saw the
next morning was not Hattie, but his Italian wife made up as Hattie and behaving roughly much as
Hattie behaved. And there again it might have ended. The false Hattie would have lived out her
life as the real Hattie though doubtless her mental powers would have unexpectedly improved
owing to what would vaguely be called ‘new treatment.’ The secretary, Miss Brewis, already
realized that there was very little wrong with Lady Stubbs’ mental processes.
“But then a totally unforeseen thing happened. A cousin of Hattie’s wrote that he was coming to
England on a yachting trip, and although that cousin had not seen her for many years, he would
not be likely to be deceived by an impostor.
“It is odd,” said Poirot, breaking off his narrative, “that though the thought did cross my mind
that de Sousa might not be de Sousa, it never occurred to me that the truth lay the other way round
—that is to say, that Hattie was not Hattie.”
He went on:
“There might have been several different ways of meeting that situation. Lady Stubbs could
have avoided a meeting with a plea of illness, but if de Sousa remained long in England she could
hardly have continued to avoid meeting him. And there was already another complication. Old
Merdell, garrulous in his old age, used to chatter to his granddaughter. She was probably the only
person who bothered to listen to him, and even she dismissed most of what he said because she
thought him ‘batty.’ Nevertheless, some of the things he said about having seen ‘a woman’s body
in the woods,’ and ‘Sir George Stubbs being really Mr. James’ made sufficient impression on her
to make her hint about them tentatively to Sir George. In doing so, of course, she signed her own
death warrant. Sir George and his wife could take no chances of stories like that getting around. I
imagine that he handed her out small sums of hush money, and proceeded to make his plans.
“They worked out their scheme very carefully. They already knew the date when de Sousa was
due at Helmmouth. It coincided with the date fixed for the fête. They arranged their plan so that
Marlene should be killed and Lady Stubbs ‘disappear’ in conditions which should throw vague
suspicion on de Sousa. Hence the reference to his being a ‘wicked man’ and the accusation: ‘he
kills people.’ Lady Stubbs was to disappear permanently (possibly a conveniently unrecognizable
body might be identified at some time by Sir George), and a new personality was to take her place.
Actually, ‘Hattie’ would merely resume her own Italian personality. All that was needed was for
her to double the parts over a period of a little more than twenty-four hours. With the connivance
of Sir George, this was easy. On the day I arrived, ‘Lady Stubbs’ was supposed to have remained
in her room until just before teatime. Nobody saw her there except Sir George. Actually, she
slipped out, took a bus or a train to Exeter, and travelled from Exeter in the company of another
girl student (several travel every day this time of year) to whom she confided her story of the
friend who had eaten bad veal and ham pie. She arrives at the hostel, books her cubicle, and goes
out to ‘explore.’ By teatime, Lady Stubbs is in the drawing room. After dinner, Lady Stubbs goes
early to bed—but Miss Brewis caught a glimpse of her slipping out of the house a short while
afterwards. She spends the night in the hostel, but is out early, and is back at Nasse as Lady Stubbs
for breakfast. Again she spends a morning in her room with a ‘headache,’ and this time manages
to stage an appearance as a ‘trespasser’ rebuffed by Sir George from the window of his wife’s
room where he pretends to turn and speak to his wife inside that room. The changes of costume
were not difficult—shorts and an open shirt under one of the elaborate dresses that Lady Stubbs
was fond of wearing. Heavy white makeup for Lady Stubbs with a big coolie hat to shade her face;
a gay peasant scarf, sunburned complexion, and bronze-red curls for the Italian girl. No one would
have dreamed that those two were the same woman.
“And so the final drama was staged. Just before four o’clock Lady Stubbs told Miss Brewis to
take a tea tray down to Marlene. That was because she was afraid such an idea might occur to
Miss Brewis independently, and it would be fatal if Miss Brewis should inconveniently appear at
the wrong moment. Perhaps, too, she had a malicious pleasure in arranging for Miss Brewis to be
at the scene of the crime at approximately the time it was committed. Then, choosing her moment,
she slipped into the empty fortune-telling tent, out through the back and into the summerhouse in
the shrubbery where she kept her hiker’s rucksack with its change of costume. She slipped through
the woods, called to Marlene to let her in, and strangled the unsuspecting girl then and there. The
big coolie hat she threw into the river, then she changed into her hiker dress and makeup,
packaged up her cyclamen georgette dress and high-heeled shoes in the rucksack—and presently
an Italian student from the youth hostel joined her Dutch acquaintance at the shows on the lawn,
and left with her by the local bus as planned. Where she is now I do not know. I suspect in Soho
where she doubtless has underworld affiliations of her own nationality who can provide her with
the necessary papers. In any case, it is not for an Italian girl that the police are looking, it is for
Hattie Stubbs, simple, subnormal, exotic.
“But poor Hattie Stubbs is dead, as you yourself, Madame, know only too well. You revealed
that knowledge when I spoke to you in the drawing room on the day of the fête. The death of
Marlene had been a bad shock to you—you had not had the least idea of what was planned; but
you revealed very clearly, though I was dense enough not to see it at the time, that when you
talked of ‘Hattie,’ you were talking of two different people—one a woman you disliked who
would be ‘better dead,’ and against whom you warned me ‘not to believe a word she said’—the
other a girl of whom you spoke in the past tense, and whom you defended with a warm affection. I
think, Madame, that you were very fond of poor Hattie Stubbs….”
There was a long pause.
Mrs. Folliat sat quite still in her chair. At last she roused herself and spoke. Her voice had the
coldness of ice.
“Your whole story is quite fantastic, M. Poirot. I really think you must be mad…All this is
entirely in your head, you have no evidence whatsoever.”
Poirot went across to one of the windows and opened it.
“Listen, Madame. What do you hear?”
“I am a little deaf…What should I hear?”
“The blows of a pick axe…They are breaking up the concrete foundation of the Folly…What a
good place to bury a body—where a tree has been uprooted and the earth is already disturbed. A
little later, to make all safe, concrete over the ground where the body lies, and, on the concrete,
erect a Folly…” He added gently: “Sir George’s Folly…The Folly of the owner of Nasse House.”
A long shuddering sigh escaped Mrs. Folliat.
“Such a beautiful place,” said Poirot. “Only one thing evil…The man who owns it….”
“I know.” Her words came hoarsely. “I have always known…Even as a child he frightened
me…Ruthless…Without pity…And without conscience…But he was my son and I loved him…I
should have spoken out after Hattie’s death…But he was my son. How could I be the one to give
him up? And so, because of my silence—that poor silly child was killed…And after her, dear old
Merdell…Where would it have ended?”
“With a murderer it does not end,” said Poirot.
She bowed her head. For a moment or two she stayed so, her hands covering her eyes.
Then Mrs. Folliat of Nasse House, daughter of a long line of brave men, drew herself erect. She
looked straight at Poirot and her voice was formal and remote.
“Thank you, M. Poirot,” she said, “for coming to tell me yourself of this. Will you leave me
now? There are some things that one has to face quite alone….”

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