Chapter 28  POIROT PLAYS THE SQUIRREL 

Poirot started to keep his dinner appointment with a margin of three quarters of an hour to spare. He had an object in this. The car took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at Cap Martin, where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies were dressing and Poirot was shown into a small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin came to him. 

"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she said. "Can I give her a message, or would you rather wait until she comes down?" 

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was a minute or two in replying, as though something of great weight hung upon his decision. Apparently the answer to such a simple question mattered. 

"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I should wait to see Mademoiselle Katherine. I think, perhaps, that it is better that I should not. These things are sometimes difficult." 

Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows slightly raised. 

"I have a piece of news," continued Poirot. "You will, perhaps, tell your friend. M. Kettering was arrested tonight for the murder of his wife." 

"You want me to tell Katherine that?" asked Lenox. She breathed rather hard, as though she had been running; her face, Poirot thought, looked white and strained - rather noticeably so. 

"If you please, Mademoiselle." 

"Why?" said Lenox. "Do you think Katherine will be upset? Do you think she cares?" 

"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "See, I admit it frankly. As a rule I know everything, but in this case, I - well, I do not. You, perhaps, know better than I do." 

"Yes," said Lenox, "I know - but I am not going to tell you all the same." 

She paused for a minute or two, her dark brows drawn together in a frown. 

"You believe he did it?" she said abruptly. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 

"The police say so." 

"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you? So there is something to hedge about." 

Again she was silent, frowning. Poirot said gently: 

"You have known Derek Kettering a long time, have you not?" 

"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said Lenox gruffly. 

Poirot nodded his head several times without speaking. 

With one of her brusque movements Lenox drew forward a chair and sat down on it, her elbows on the table and her face supported by her hands. Sitting thus, she looked directly across the table at Poirot. 

"What have they got to go on?" she demanded. "Motive, I suppose. Probably came into money at her death." 

"He came into two million." 

"And if she had not died he would have been ruined?" 

"Yes." 

"But there must have been more than that," persisted Lenox. "He travelled by the same train, I know, but - that would not be enough to go on by itself." 

"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it which did not belong to Mrs Kettering was found in her carriage, and he was seen by two people entering and leaving the compartment just before the train got into Lyons." 

"What two people?" 

"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them. The other was Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer." 

"And he, Derek, what has he got to say about it?" demanded Lenox sharply. 

"He denies having entered his wife's compartment at all," said Poirot. 

"Fool!" said Lenox crisply, frowning. "Just before Lyons, you say? 

Does nobody know when - when she died?" 

"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot be very definite," said Poirot, "they are inclined to think that death was unlikely to have occurred after leaving Lyons. And we know this much, that a few moments after leaving Lyons Mrs Kettering was dead." 

"How do you know that?" 

Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself. 

"Someone else went into her compartment and found her dead." 

"And they did not rouse the train?" 

"No." 

"Why was that?" 

"Doubtless they had their reasons." 

Lenox looked at him sharply. 

"Do you know the reason?" 

"I think so - yes." 

Lenox sat still turning things over in her mind. Poirot watched her in silence. At last he looked up. A soft colour had come into her cheeks and her eyes were shining. 

"You think someone on the train must have killed her, but that need not be so at all. What is to stop anyone swinging themselves on to the train when it stopped at Lyons? They could go straight to her compartment, strangle her, and take the rubies and drop off the train again without anyone being the wiser. She may have been actually killed while the train was in Lyons station. Then she would have been alive when Derek went in, and dead when the other person found her." 

Poirot leant back in his chair. He drew a deep breath. He looked across at the girl and nodded his head three times, then he heaved a sigh. 

"Mademoiselle," he said, "what you have said there is very just - very true. I was struggling in darkness, and you have shown me a light. There was a point that puzzled me and you have made it plain." 

He got up. 

"And Derek?" said Lenox. 

"Who knows?" said Poirot, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But I will tell you this, Mademoiselle. I am not satisfied; no, I, Hercule Poirot, am not yet satisfied. It may be that this very night I shall learn something more. At least, I go to try." 

"You are meeting someone?" 

"Yes." 

"Someone who knows something?" 

"Someone who might know something. In these matters one must leave no stone unturned. Au revoir, Mademoiselle." 

Lenox accompanied him to the door. 

"Have I - helped?" she asked. 

Poirot's face softened as he looked up at her standing on the doorstep above him. 

"Yes, Mademoiselle, you have helped. If things are very dark, always remember that." 

When the car had driven off he relapsed into a frowning absorption, but in his eyes was that faint green light which was always the precursor of the triumph to be. He was a few minutes late at the rendezvous, and found that M. Papopolous and his daughter had arrived before him. His apologies were abject, and he outdid himself in politeness and small attentions. The Greek was looking particularly benign and noble this evening, a sorrowful patriarch of blameless life, Zia was looking handsome and good-humoured. The dinner was a pleasant one. Poirot was his best and most sparkling self. He told anecdotes, he made jokes, he paid graceful compliments to Zia Papopolous, and he told many interesting incidents of his career. The menu was a carefully selected one, and the wine was excellent. 

At the close of dinner M. Papopolous inquired politely: "And the tip I gave you? You have had your little flutter on the horse?" 

"I am in communication with - er - my bookmaker," replied Poirot. 

The eyes of the two men met. 

"A well-known horse, eh?" 

"No," said Poirot; "it is what our friends, the English, call a dark horse." 

"Ah!" said M. Papopolous thoughtfully. 

"Now we must step across to the Casino and have our little flutter at the roulette table," cried Poirot gaily. 

At the Casino the party separated, Poirot devoting himself solely to Zia, whilst Papopolous himself drifted away. 

Poirot was not fortunate, but Zia had a run of good luck, and had soon won a few thousand francs. 

"It would be as well," she observed drily to Poirot, "if I stopped now." 

Poirot's eyes twinkled. 

"Superb!" he exclaimed. "You are the daughter of your father, Mademoiselle Zia. To know when to stop. Ah! that is the art." 

He looked round the rooms. 

"I cannot see your father anywhere about," he remarked carelessly. "I will fetch your cloak for you, Mademoiselle, and we will go out in the gardens." 

He did not, however, go straight to the cloak-room. His sharp eyes had seen but a little while before the departure of M. Papopolous. 

He was anxious to know what had become of the wily Greek. He ran him to earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall. 

He was standing by one of the pillars, talking to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was Mirelle. 

Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the room. He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking together in an animated fashion - or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good many expressive gestures. 

"I tell you I must have time," the dancer was saying, "If you give me time I will get the money." 

"To wait -" the Greek shrugged his shoulders - "it is awkward." 

"Only a very little while," pleaded the other. "Ah! but you must! A week - ten days - that is all I ask. You can be sure of your affair. The money will be forthcoming." 

Papopolous shifted a little and looked round him uneasily - to find Poirot almost at his elbow with a beaming innocent face. 

"Ah! vous voilà, M. Papopolous. I have been looking for you. It is permitted that I take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the gardens? Good evening, Mademoiselle." He bowed very low to Mirelle. "A thousand pardons that I did not see you immediately." 

The dancer accepted his greetings rather impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the interruption of her tête-а-tête. Poirot was quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already murmured: 

"Certainly - but certainly," and Poirot withdrew forthwith. He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they strolled out into the gardens. 

"This is where the suicides take place," said Zia. 

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is said. Men are foolish, are they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money - or because the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?" 

Zia laughed. 

"You should not laugh at love, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, shaking an energetic forefinger at her. "You who are young and beautiful." 

"Hardly that," said Zia, "you forget that I am thirty-three, M. Poirot. I am frank with you, because it is no good being otherwise. As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen years since you aided us in Paris that time." 

"When I look at you, it seems much less," said Poirot gallantly. 

"You were then very much as you are now, Mademoiselle, a little thinner, a little paler, a little more serious. Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension. Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not quite a woman. You were very delicious, very charming, 

Mademoiselle Zia; others thought so too, without doubt." 

"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and a little fool." 

"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is one not? One believes what one is told." 

If he saw the quick sideways glance that the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true inwardness of it." 

"No?" 

"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 

'Without scandal, I have got back for you that which was lost. You must ask no questions.' Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I said these things?" 

"I have no idea," said the girl coldly. 

"It was because I had a soft spot in my heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so thin, so serious." 

"I don't understand what you are talking about," cried Zia angrily. 

"Do you not, Mademoiselle? Have you forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?" 

He heard the quick intake of her breath - almost a gasp. 

"He came to work as an assistant in the shop, but not thus could he have got hold of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his eyes to his master's daughter, can he not? If he is young and handsome with a glib tongue. And since they cannot make love all the time, they must occasionally talk of things that interest them both - such as that very interesting thing which was temporarily in M. Papopolous' possession. And since, as you say, Mademoiselle, the young are foolish and credulous, it was easy to believe him and to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards when it is gone - when the unbelievable catastrophe has happened. Alas! the poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position she is in. She is frightened, the poor little one. To speak or not to speak? And then there comes along that excellent fellow, Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must have been, the way things arranged themselves. The priceless 

heirlooms are restored and there are no awkward questions." 

Zia turned on him fiercely. 

"You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it - was it Antonio?" 

Poirot shook his head. 

"No one told me," he said quietly. "I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective." 

The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she said in a hard voice: 

"Well, what are you going to do about it, are you going to tell my father?" 

"No," said Poirot sharply. "Certainly not." 

She looked at him curiously. 

"You want something from me?" 

"I want your help, Mademoiselle." 

"What makes you think that I can help you?" 

"I do not think so. I only hope so." 

"And if I do not help you, then - you will tell my father?" 

"But no, but no! Disembarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it." 

"If I refuse to help you -" began the girl slowly. 

"Then you refuse, and that is that." 

"Then why -" she stopped. 

"Listen, and I will tell you why. Women, Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render a service to one who has rendered a service to them, they will do it. I was generous once to you, Mademoiselle. When I might have spoken, I held my tongue." 

There was another silence; then the girl said, "My father gave you a hint the other day." 

"It was very kind of him." 

"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that there is anything that I can add to that." 

If Poirot was disappointed he did not show it. Not a muscle of his face changed. 

"Eh bien!" he said cheerfully, "then we must talk of other things." 

And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl was distrait, however, and her answers were mechanical and not always to the point. It was when they were approaching the Casino once more that she seemed to come to a decision. 

"M. Poirot?" 

"Yes, Mademoiselle?" 

"I - I should like to help you if I could." 

"You are very amiable, Mademoiselle - very amiable." 

Again there was a pause. Poirot did not press her. He was quite content to wait and let her take her own time. 

"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should I not tell you? My father is cautious - very cautious in everything he says. But I know that with you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was." 

"The Marquis?" murmured Poirot softly. 

"Yes, the Marquis." 

"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?" 

"Once," said the girl. "But not very well," she added. "It was through a keyhole." 

"That always presents difficulties," said Poirot sympathetically, 

"but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?" 

Zia shook her head. 

"He wore a mask," she explained. 

"Young or old?" 

"He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his voice." 

"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully. "Ah, his voice! Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?" 

"I might," said the girl. 

"You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole." 

Zia nodded. 

"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much - he is not the ordinary thief - he is more like a figure of history or romance." 

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes; perhaps so." 

"But it is not this that I meant to tell you," said Zia. "It was just one other little fact that I thought might be - well - useful to you." 

"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly. 

"The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but -" 

"Yes?" 

"I know one thing. It was a woman." 

第二十八章 波洛如松鼠

    波洛提前三刻钟离开了旅馆去赴宴。汽车没有直奔蒙特卡洛，而是开到了坦普林女士的别墅。雷诺斯在客厅里欢迎了他。

    “卡泰丽娜正在换衣服。”她说道。“是不是让我去通报一下？还是您在这里等她下楼来？”

    “不，”波洛考虑了好一阵子说道，“还是不等为好。我有一个消息要告诉她，可惜不是好消息。”

    雷诺斯毕恭毕敬地等着他说下去。

    “凯特林先生将在今晚被捕，罪名是他暗杀了自己的妻子。”

    “我要把这件事告诉卡泰丽娜吗？”雷诺斯问道。她喘吁起来，出气有点急促。

    “请您转告她。”

    “您不认为，这个消息会挫伤卡泰丽娜的情绪吗？她已经垂青于凯特林先生，您不是这样认为吗？”

    “我不知道。一般地说，我什么都知道，但是任何一条规矩都会有例外。您可能会更好地加以判断。”

    “是的，”雷诺斯说，“我知道，但我不告诉您。”

    她沉默起来，两道黑眉毛皱在一起。

    突然她又问道：“您相信，这是他干的？”

    波洛耸了一下肩。“警察方面相信是他犯罪。那些先生们可能在他身上找到犯罪的动机。他妻子的死亡的确使他得到了很大一笔钱。”

    “他继承了二百万镑。”

    “可是，要是凯特林夫人还活着，他就会完全破产。”

    “完全正确。”

    “可是，就凭这一点可构不起诉的条件。当然，他又乘了同一列车。但这又能说明什么呢？”

    “有一个带Ｋ字母的烟盒，它不是凯特林女士的，但又是在她的包厢里拾到的。除此之外，还有两个证人，在火车快到里昂时，看到他走进了夫人的包厢。”

    “这两个证人是谁？”

    “您的女友格蕾小姐和舞女米蕾。”

    “就在火车快到里昂时？可是，谁也不知道，她到底是什么时候死的。”

    “医生当然不能断定准确的时间。”波洛说道。“他们的意见是：死亡不是在火车停在里昂的时候发生的。我们也认为，凯特林夫人是在火车刚离开巴黎的里昂站不久就死了。”

    “您是怎么知道的？”

    波洛自恃地一笑。“有人进了她的包厢，看到她已经死去了。”

    “可是为什么不拉遇难信号阀？”

    “没有拉。”

    “为什么不拉？”

    “当然有他的理由。”

    雷诺斯死死地盯着他。“您知道这些理由吗？”

    “我相信我知道。”

    雷诺斯企图把刚才听到的一切理出个头绪来。波洛沉默不语地看着她。最后她抬起头来，双颊通红，两眼炯炯发光。

    “您总是想，凶手是列车上的一位乘客。可是，谁也证明不了这一点。您怎么知道，火车停在里昂的时候不会有人偷扒上车，直奔她的车厢，把她勒死，拿走了宝石，然后又神不知鬼不觉地跳下了车厢，把她勒死，拿走了宝石，然后又神不知鬼不觉地跳下了车？火车停在里昂的时候她可能已经被杀了。如果不是这样，德里克走进她的包厢时，她还活着；而有人发现她的时候，她已经死了。”

    波洛把身子仰在靠背椅上。他深深化地吸了一口气，看着女疯子，连连点了三次头，叹了一口气。

    “小姐，”他说道，“您的话有许多可取之处。我在黑暗中摸索道路；而您给我一线光明。其中有一点我还不太清楚，可是现在已经豁然开朗了。”他站起来。

    “德里克怎样？”雷诺斯问道。

    “谁知道？有一点我想说，我不满意。我，赫库勒·波洛，并不满意啊！”

    他起身要走。雷诺斯把他送到了门口。

    “我要是多少帮了您一点忙，我将很高兴。”年轻的姑娘说道。

    “您已经帮了我的忙。当一切都模糊不清的时候，您却没有忘记某些要素。”

    他准时到达了吃晚饭的地点。帕波波鲁斯和他的女儿已经到了。这个希腊人今天看来特别庄重而尊严。比父系社会的长老还要庄严。齐娅那种深沉的美今天显得尤为适度。

晚宴极为活跃。波洛特别活泼，不时地打趣，眉开眼笑。他讲着自己经历过的一些故事和趣事，有时还多情地看着齐娅。菜是名贵的，酒都是上等的。

    当晚饭快要结束的时候，帕波波鲁斯彬彬有礼的询问道：

    “我上次给您的那个暗示怎么样？您已经骑上那匹马了吗？”

    “我正在同我那赛马场上的主人取得联系。”波洛回答说。两人的目光相遇在一起。

    “是匹有名的马吧？”

    “不是，”波洛说，“用赛马界的行话说，那是一匹‘昏马’。”

    “噢，噢，”帕波波鲁斯思忖地答应着。

    “现在我们再到赌盘上碰碰运气，先生和小姐，你们觉得怎样？”波洛建议道。

    在赌盘前他们分开坐着。波洛只顾看齐娅，帕波波鲁斯只顾抖他的腿。

    波洛很不走运。齐娅正相反，不声不响地已经把几张一千法郎的钞票弄到了自己的面前。

    “我不想再玩下去了。”她无精打采地说道。

    波洛的小眼睛眨巴了两下。

    “妙极了！”他叫道。“您真不愧是帕波波鲁斯的女儿，齐娅小姐。能够适时地停止玩牌是一门最高的生活艺术。”

    他环顾了一下四周。

    “您父亲不知道到哪儿去了。”他无所谓地说道。“如果您方便，我去取您的大衣，咱们一起到花园里散散步。”

    但是他没有直接去更衣室。。老奸巨滑的希腊人到底在搞什么名堂？他对此很感兴趣。他穿过大厅，在前厅门外的棕榈树叶下，他看到帕波波鲁斯正同一个刚来的女客人谈得火热。这个女士就是米蕾。波洛的好奇心得到了满足。他同来的时候一样，不声不响地又回到了大厅，把大衣披在齐娅的肩膀上。然后，两个人漫步在夜晚的花园里。

    “就是在这个地方，经常有人被弄死。”齐娅说道。

    波洛耸一下肩。“人本身还不是偶尔制造出来的？这不是很好嘛？吃点、喝点、呼吸点新鲜空气。把生活中这些美好的东西都抛弃那是傻瓜。可能是因为没有钱，也可能是因为失恋。爱情所要求作出的代价，同金钱所要求的一样大。”

    齐娅大笑起来。

    “您不要嘲笑爱情，”波洛用举起的食指点着说，“您，年轻又漂亮……”

    “您可要知道，我今年三十三岁了，波洛先生，正象你同爸爸讲得那样，整整十七年了，那时您在巴黎帮助爸爸解脱困境。”

    “若是让我来看您，简直看不出您有那么大年龄。”波洛温情地说道。“您现在的外貌同当年一样。只是有点瘦弱，有点苍白，有点严肃。您那时才十六岁，刚读完中学。

不完全象是个少女，也不完全是个青年女子。您当时就很迷人、很甜，齐娅小姐。”

    “那时才十六岁。”齐娅说道，“象个傻鹅。”

    “这可能。”波洛说道，“不管怎么说，人在十六岁的时候容易轻信。不管谁说点什么，都相信，是吗？”

    他可能已经发觉这位古玩商的女儿斜瞅过来的敏锐的目光，但他却仍然没看她一眼。

他象说梦话似地继续讲述着。“当时，那是一段非常有趣的故事。您父亲一直到今天也不知道这件事的来龙去脉。”

    “他不知道？”

    “当他向我询问此事细节的时候，我回答他说：我会把您丢的东西平平安安地给您送回。请不要问得太多！您知道吗？为什么我要对他这样说？”

    “我不知道。”齐娅冷冰冰地回答道。

    “那么我就告诉您。因为那个苍白的、瘦弱的和严肃的少女占去了我的心。”

    “我真不懂您在说些什么？”齐娅有点烦恼了。

    “真的不懂？难道您忘记了安东尼奥·皮勒齐奥？”

    他感到齐娅刹时间屏住了呼吸。

    “他当时是您父亲的助手。一个助手不能把眼睛总盯着师傅的女儿，对吗？特别是这个助手既年轻又漂亮，那就更不能这样。因为人们总是无休止地谈论爱情，所以我们也该谈谈别的什么，比如说谈谈您父亲当时负责保管的那件吸引人的首饰。正象您自己十分恰当地评价的那样，由于一个年轻的女郎的愚蠢和轻信，所以在向她的长辈显示这件无价之宝的下落的时候，她也就不会产生什么其它的想法。而后，这件宝贝突然失踪了，那真是祸从天降！可怜的小姑娘！她骇怕了，十分骇怕！说还是不说呢？这时来了一个小伙子，来了一个名叫赫库勒·波洛的人。就象变魔术一样，又回来了，可是接着却向那位少女提出了一连串的棘手问题。”

    “您都知道了？是谁告诉您的？是不是安东尼奥？”

    波洛摇摇头。

    “谁也没有告诉我，”他心平气和地说道。“是我猜着的！我猜得很准吧？是吗？假如一个侦探没有猜谜的本领，那么这个侦探就不会有大作为。”

    齐娅沉默不语地在他的身旁漫步。然后傲慢地问道：

    “您是不是对我有什么要求？”

    “我希望得到您的帮助。”

    “您怎么知道我会帮您的忙？”

    “我不知道，这只是我的希望。”

    “可是，如果我无能为力呢？您会在我父亲面前揭发我吗？”

    “毫无此意。我可不是个勒索者。”

    “但是，如果我拒绝帮您的忙……”齐娅拉长了腔调说道。

    “那么您尽管拒绝好了。事情就这样吧。”

    “为什么您要我……”她没有继续说下去。

    “我将向您说明。女人都是宽宏大量的。如果有人为她们做了点什么事，假如能够报答的话，她们就尽量去报答。”

    又是一阵沉默。之后，齐娅说道：“我父亲已经给您提示过了。我不相信我还能对此作什么补充。”

    波洛虽然感到失望，但却没有表露出来。

    “那么好吧。”他爽快地说道。“让我们谈点别的事吧。”

    他又继续谈起来了，唠唠叨叨，没完没了。齐娅却相反，心情很沉闷，只是机械地答应两句。当他们又走近赌场的时候，看得出她已经做出了什么决定。

    “波洛先生。”

    “齐娅小姐？”

    “我想帮助您。”

    “您真是太好了！”

    又是一阵沉默。波洛并不急于催促她。他耐心地等待着。

    “唉，真是，”齐娅说道，“为什么我不能对您说呢？我父亲是很小心的，过于小心了。可是您对我说过，您是在寻找凶手，而不是在寻找首饰。我相信您。您完全猜对了，我们正是为了宝石才到尼扎来的。有人同我父亲约妥了，要在这里交货。宝石就在那个人的手里。另外，我还可以向您暗示，是谁同我父亲作交易的。”

    “是侯爵？”波洛低声问道。

    “是的，是侯爵。”

    “您见过这位侯爵吗，小姐？”

    “就见过一次，但很不清楚。是从钥匙缝里看的。”

    “用这样方式看，是不大容易。”波洛同情地说道。“不过您总算见过他了。如果您再见到他，能认出他来吗？”

    齐娅摇摇头。

    “他戴着假面具。”

    “年轻的，还是老头？”

    “他有一头白发。可能是假发，也可能不是。我不相信他很老。他走路的姿态显得很年轻，声音也是一样。”

    “他的声音？”波洛若有所思地问道。“嗯，他的声音。您能听得出他的说话声音吗，齐娅小姐？”

    “我相信，我能听得出来。”

    “您对他很感兴趣，是吗？因此您才从钥匙孔里去看他。”

    齐娅点点头。

    “是的，我当时很好奇。我听到过好多有关他的事。他可不是一般的小偷。他可以称得上是一部冒险小说的主人公。”

    “可以称得上。”波洛思忖着答道。

    “但是，我要对您讲的还不仅仅是这些，还有一个事实，它可能对您更为有用。”

    “那是什么呢？”波洛催促地问道。

    “正象我对您说过的那样，宝石在尼扎已交到了我父亲的手中。交货人我没有见过，但是……”

    “什么？”

    “有一点我是知道的，交货人是个女的！”