弄假成真14
时间：2025-03-03 03:30:51
（单词翻译:单击）
Fourteen
I
Inspector Bland sat in Helmmouth Police Station. Superintendent Baldwin, a large comfortable-
looking man, sat on the other side of the table. Between the two men, on the table, was a black
sodden mass. Inspector Bland poked at it with a cautious forefinger.
“That’s her hat all right,” he said. “I’m sure of it, though I don’t suppose I could swear to it. She
fancied that shape, it seems. So her maid told me. She’d got one or two of them. A pale pink and a
sort of puce colour, but yesterday she was wearing the black one. Yes, this is it. And you fished it
out of the river? That makes it look as though it’s the way we think it is.”
“No certainty yet,” said Baldwin. “After all,” he added, “anyone could throw a hat into the
river.”
“Yes,” said Bland, “they could throw it in from the boathouse, or they could throw it in off a
yacht.”
“The yacht’s sewed up, all right,” said Baldwin. “If she’s there, alive or dead, she’s still there.”
“He hasn’t been ashore today?”
“Not so far. He’s on board. He’s been sitting out in a deck chair smoking a cigar.”
Inspector Bland glanced at the clock.
“Almost time to go aboard,” he said.
“Think you’ll find her?” asked Baldwin.
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” said Bland. “I’ve got the feeling, you know, that he’s a clever devil.”
He was lost in thought for a moment, poking again at the hat. Then he said, “What about the body
—if there was a body? Any ideas about that?”
“Yes,” said Baldwin, “I talked to Otterweight this morning. Ex- coastguard man. I always
consult him in anything to do with tides and currents. About the time the lady went into the Helm,
if she did go into the Helm, the tide was just on the ebb. There is a full moon now and it would be
flowing swiftly. Reckon she’d be carried out to sea and the current would take her towards the
Cornish coast. There’s no certainty where the body would fetch up or if it would fetch up at all.
One or two drownings we’ve had here, we’ve never recovered the body. It gets broken up, too, on
the rocks. Here, by Start Point. On the other hand, it might fetch up any day.”
“If it doesn’t, it’s going to be difficult,” said Bland.
“You’re certain in your own mind that she did go into the river?”
“I don’t see what else it can be,” said Inspector Bland sombrely. “We’ve checked up, you know,
on the buses and the trains. This place is a cul-de-sac. She was wearing conspicuous clothes and
she didn’t take any others with her. So I should say she never left Nasse. Either her body’s in the
sea or else it’s hidden somewhere on the property. What I want now,” he went on heavily, “is
motive. And the body of course,” he added, as an afterthought. “Can’t get anywhere until I find the
body.”
“What about the other girl?”
“She saw it—or she saw something. We’ll get at the facts in the end, but it won’t be easy.”
Baldwin in his turn looked up at the clock.
“Time to go,” he said.
The two police officers were received on board the Espérance with all de Sousa’s charming
courtesy. He offered them drinks which they refused, and went on to express a kindly interest in
their activities.
“You are farther forward with your inquiries regarding the death of this young girl?”
“We’re progressing,” Inspector Bland told him.
The superintendent took up the running and expressed very delicately the object of their visit.
“You would like to search the Espérance?” De Sousa did not seem annoyed. Instead he seemed
rather amused. “But why? You think I conceal the murderer or do you think perhaps that I am the
murderer myself?”
“It’s necessary, Mr. de Sousa, as I’m sure you’ll understand. A search warrant….”
De Sousa raised his hands.
“But I am anxious to cooperate—eager! Let this be all among friends. You are welcome to
search where you will in my boat. Ah, perhaps you think that I have here my cousin, Lady Stubbs?
You think, perhaps, she has run away from her husband and taken shelter with me? But search,
gentlemen, by all means search.”
The search was duly undertaken. It was a thorough one. In the end, striving to conceal their
chagrin, the two police officers took leave of Mr. de Sousa.
“You have found nothing? How disappointing. But I told you that was so. You will perhaps
have some refreshment now. No?”
He accompanied them to where their boat lay alongside.
“And for myself?” he asked. “I am free to depart? You understand it becomes a little boring
here. The weather is good. I should like very much to proceed to Plymouth.”
“If you would be kind enough, sir, to remain here for the inquest—that is tomorrow—in case
the Coroner should wish to ask you anything.”
“Why, certainly. I want to do all that I can. But after that?”
“After that, sir,” said Superintendent Baldwin, his face wooden, “you are, of course, at liberty to
proceed where you will.”
The last thing they saw as the launch moved away from the yacht was de Sousa’s smiling face
looking down on them.
II
The inquest was almost painfully devoid of interest. Apart from the medical evidence and
evidence of identity, there was little to feed the curiosity of the spectators. An adjournment was
asked for and granted. The whole proceedings had been purely formal.
What followed the inquest, however, was not quite so formal. Inspector Bland spent the
afternoon taking a trip in that well-known pleasure steamer, the Devon Belle. Leaving Brixwell at
about three o’clock, it rounded the headland, proceeded around the coast, entered the mouth of the
Helm and went up the river. There were about two hundred and thirty people on board besides
Inspector Bland. He sat on the starboard side of the boat, scanning the wooded shore. They came
round a bend in the river and passed the isolated grey tiled boathouse that belonged to Hoodown
Park. Inspector Bland looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was just quarter past four. They were
coming now close beside the Nasse boathouse. It nestled remote in its trees with its little balcony
and its small quay below. There was no sign apparent that there was anyone inside the boathouse,
though as a matter of fact, to Inspector Bland’s certain knowledge, there was someone inside. P.C.
Hoskins, in accordance with orders, was on duty there.
Not far from the boathouse steps was a small launch. In the launch were a man and girl in
holiday kit. They were indulging in what seemed like some rather rough horseplay. The girl was
screaming, the man was playfully pretending he was going to duck her overboard. At that same
moment a stentorian voice spoke through a megaphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” it boomed, “you are now approaching the famous village of Gitcham
where we shall remain for three-quarters of an hour and where you can have a crab or lobster tea,
as well as Devonshire cream. On your right are the grounds of Nasse House. You will pass the
house itself in two or three minutes, it is just visible through the trees. Originally the home of Sir
Gervase Folliat, a contemporary of Sir Francis Drake who sailed with him in his voyage to the
new world, it is now the property of Sir George Stubbs. On your left is the famous Gooseacre
Rock. There, ladies and gentlemen, it was the habit to deposit scolding wives at low tide and leave
them there until the water came up to their necks.”
Everybody on the Devon Belle stared with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock. Jokes
were made and there were many shrill giggles and guffaws.
While this was happening, the holidaymaker in the boat, with a final scuffle, did push his lady
friend overboard. Leaning over, he held her in the water, laughing and saying, “No, I don’t pull
you out till you’ve promised to behave.”
Nobody, however, observed this with the exception of Inspector Bland. They had all been
listening to the megaphone, staring for the first sight of Nasse House through the trees, and gazing
with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock.
The holidaymaker released the girl, she sank under water and a few moments later appeared on
the other side of the boat. She swam to it and got in, heaving herself over the side with practised
skill. Policewoman Alice Jones was an accomplished swimmer.
Inspector Bland came ashore at Gitcham with the other two hundred and thirty passengers and
consumed a lobster tea with Devonshire cream and scones. He said to himself as he did so, “So it
could be done, and no one would notice!”
III
While Inspector Bland was doing his experiment on the Helm, Hercule Poirot was experimenting
with a tent on the lawn at Nasse House. It was, in actual fact, the same tent where Madame
Zuleika had told her fortunes. When the rest of the marquees and stands had been dismantled
Poirot had asked for this to remain behind.
He went into it now, closed the flaps and went to the back of it. Deftly he unlaced the flaps
there, slipped out, relaced them, and plunged into the hedge of rhododendron that immediately
backed the tent. Slipping between a couple of bushes, he soon reached a small rustic arbour. It was
a kind of summerhouse with a closed door. Poirot opened the door and went inside.
It was very dim inside because very little light came in through the rhododendrons which had
grown up round it since it had been first placed there many years ago. There was a box there with
croquet balls in it, and some old rusted hoops. There were one or two broken hockey sticks, a good
many earwigs and spiders, and a round irregular mark on the dust on the floor. At this Poirot
looked for some time. He knelt down, and taking a little yard measure from his pocket, he
measured its dimensions carefully. Then he nodded his head in a satisfied fashion.
He slipped out quietly, shutting the door behind him. Then he pursued an oblique course
through the rhododendron bushes. He worked his way up the hill in this way and came out a short
time after on the path which led to the Folly and down from there to the boathouse.
He did not visit the Folly this time, but went straight down the zigzagging way until he reached
the boathouse. He had the key with him and he opened the door and went in.
Except for the removal of the body, and of the tea tray with its glass and plate, it was just as he
remembered it. The police had noted and photographed all that it contained. He went over now to
the table where the pile of comics lay. He turned them over and his expression was not unlike
Inspector Bland’s had been as he noted the words Marlene had doodled down there before she
died. “Jackie Blake goes with Susan Brown.” “Peter pinches girls at the pictures.” “Georgie Porgie
kisses hikers in the wood.” “Biddy Fox likes boys.” “Albert goes with Doreen.”
He found the remarks pathetic in their young crudity. He remembered Marlene’s plain, rather
spotty face. He suspected that boys had not pinched Marlene at the pictures. Frustrated, Marlene
had got a vicarious thrill by her spying and peering at her young contemporaries. She had spied on
people, she had snooped, and she had seen things. Things that she was not meant to have seen—
things, usually, of small importance, but on one occasion perhaps something of more importance?
Something of whose importance she herself had had no idea.
It was all conjecture, and Poirot shook his head doubtfully. He replaced the pile of comics
neatly on the table, his passion for tidiness always in the ascendent. As he did so, he was suddenly
assailed with the feeling of something missing. Something…What was it? Something that ought to
have been there…Something…He shook his head as the elusive impression faded.
He went slowly out of the boathouse, unhappy and displeased with himself. He, Hercule Poirot,
had been summoned to prevent a murder—and he had not prevented it. It had happened. What was
even more humiliating was that he had no real ideas, even now, as to what had actually happened.
It was ignominious. And tomorrow he must return to London defeated. His ego was seriously
deflated—even his moustaches drooped.
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