Chapter 3 – Accidents?

It was from that moment that the conversation took on a different tone. Up to now, Poirot and the girl had been at cross-purposes. They were separated by a gulf of years. His fame and reputation meant nothing to her-she was of the generation that knows only the great names of the immediate moment. She was, therefore, unimpressed by his warnings. He was to her only a rather comic elderly foreigner with an amusingly melodramatic mind.

And this attitude baffled Poirot. To begin with, his vanity suffered. It was his constant dictum that all the world knew Hercule Poirot. Here was someone who did not. Very good for him, I could not but feel-but not precisely helpful to the object in view!

With the discovery of the missing pistol, however, the affair took on a new phase. Nick ceased to treat it as a mildly amusing joke. She still treated the matter lightly, because it was her habit and her creed to treat all occurrences lightly, but there was a distinct difference in her manner.

She came back and sat down on the arm of a chair, frowning thoughtfully. 'That's odd,' she said. Poirot whirled round on me.

'You remember, Hastings, the little idea I mentioned? Well, it was correct, my little idea! Supposing Mademoiselle had been found shot lying in the hotel garden? She might not have been found for some hours-few people pass that way. And beside her hand -just fallen from it-is her own pistol. Doubtless the good Madame Ellen would identify it. There would be suggestions, no doubt, of worry or of sleeplessness-'

Nick moved uneasily.

'That's true. I have been worried to death. Everybody's been telling me I'm nervy. Yes-they'd say all that...'

'And bring in a verdict of suicide. Mademoiselle's fingerprints conveniently on the pistol and nobody else's-but yes, it would be very simple and convincing.'

'How terribly amusing!' said Nick, but not, I was glad to note, as though she were terribly amused.

Poirot accepted her words in the conventional sense in which they were uttered.

'N'est ce pas? But you understand, Mademoiselle, there must be no more of this. Four failures-yes-but the fifth time there may be a success.'

'Bring out your rubber-tyred hearses,' murmured Nick.

'But we are here, my friend and I, to obviate all that!' I felt grateful for the 'we'. Poirot has a habit of sometimes ignoring my existence.

'Yes,' I put in. 'You mustn't be alarmed, Miss Buckley. We will protect you.'

'How frightfully nice of you,' said Nick. 'I think the whole thing is perfectly marvellous. Too, too thrilling.'

She still preserved her airy detached manner, but her eyes, I thought, looked troubled.

'And the first thing to do,' said Poirot, 'is to have the consultation.' He sat down and beamed upon her in a friendly manner.

'To begin with, Mademoiselle, a conventional question-but-have you any enemies?'

Nick shook her head rather regretfully. 'I'm afraid not,' she said apologetically.

'Bon. We will dismiss that possibility then. And now we ask the question of the cinema, of the detective novel-Who profits by your death, Mademoiselle?'

'I can't imagine,' said Nick. 'That's why it all seems such nonsense. There's this beastly old barn, of course, but it's mortgaged up to the hilt, the roof leaks and there can't be a coal mine or anything exciting like that hidden in the cliff.'

'It is mortgaged-hein?'

'Yes. I had to mortgage it. You see there were two lots of death duties-quite soon after each other. First my grandfather died-just six years ago, and then my brother. That just about put the lid on the financial position.'

'And your father?'

'He was invalided home from the War, then got pneumonia and died in 1919. My mother died when I was a baby. I lived here with grandfather. He and Dad didn't get on (I don't wonder), so Dad found it convenient to park me and go roaming the world on his own account. Gerald-that was my brother-didn't get on with grandfather either. I dare say I shouldn't have got on with him if I'd been a boy. Being a girl saved me. Grandfather used to say I was a chip off the old block and had inherited his spirit.' She laughed. 'He was an awful old rip, I believe. But frightfully lucky. There was a saying round here that everything he touched turned to gold. He was a gambler, though, and gambled it away again. When he died he left hardly anything beside the house and land. I was sixteen when he died and Gerald was twenty-two. Gerald was killed in a motor accident just three years ago and the place came to me.'

'And after you, Mademoiselle? Who is your nearest relation?'

'My cousin, Charles. Charles Vyse. He's a lawyer down here. Quite good and worthy but very dull. He gives me good advice and tries to restrain my extravagant tastes.'

'He manages your affairs for you-eh?'

'Well-yes, if you like to put it that way. I haven't many affairs to manage. He arranged the mortgage for me and made me let the lodge.'

'Ah!-the lodge. I was going to ask you about that. It is let?'

'Yes-to some Australians. Croft their name is. Very hearty, you know-and all that sort of thing. Simply oppressively kind. Always bringing up sticks of celery and early peas and things like that. They're shocked at the way I let the garden go. They're rather a nuisance, really-at least he is. Too terribly friendly for words. She's a cripple, poor thing, and lies on a sofa all day. Anyway they pay the rent and that's the great thing.'

'How long have they been here?' 'Oh! about six months.'

'I see. Now, beyond this cousin of yours-on your father's side or your mother's, by the way?'

'Mother's. My mother was Amy Vyse.'

'Bien! Now, beyond this cousin, as I was saying, have you any other relatives?'

'Some very distant cousins in Yorkshire-Buckleys.'

'No one else?'

'No.'

'That is lonely.'

Nick stared at him.

'Lonely? What a funny idea. I'm not down here much, you know. I'm usually in London. Relations are too devastating as a rule. They fuss and interfere. It's much more fun to be on one's own.'

'I will not waste the sympathy. You are a modern, I see, Mademoiselle. Now-your household.'

'How grand that sounds! Ellen's the household. And her husband, who's a sort of gardener-not a very good one. I pay them frightfully little because I let them have the child here. Ellen does for me when I'm down here and if I have a party

we get in who and what we can to help. I'm giving a party on Monday. It's Regatta week, you know.'

'Monday-and today is Saturday. Yes. Yes. And now, Mademoiselle, your friends-the ones with whom you were lunching today, for instance?'

'Well, Freddie Rice-the fair girl-is practically my greatest friend. She's had a rotten life. Married to a beast-a man who drank and drugged and was altogether a queer of the worst description. She had to leave him a year or two ago. Since then she's drifted round. I wish to goodness she'd get a divorce and marry Jim Lazarus.'

'Lazarus? The art dealer in Bond Street?'

'Yes. Jim's the only son. Rolling in money, of course. Did you see that car of his? He's a Jew, of course, but a frightfully decent one. And he's devoted to Freddie. They go about everywhere together. They are staying at the Majestic over the week-end and are coming to me on Monday.'

'And Mrs Rice's husband?'

'The mess? Oh! he's dropped out of everything. Nobody knows where he is. It makes it horribly awkward for Freddie. You can't divorce a man when you don't know where he is.'

'Evidemment!'

'Poor Freddie,' said Nick, pensively. 'She's had rotten luck. The thing was all fixed once. She got hold of him and put it to him, and he said he was perfectly willing, but he simply hadn't got the cash to take a woman to a hotel. So the end of it all was she forked out-and he took it and off he went and has never been heard of from that day to this. Pretty mean, I call it.'

'Good heavens,' I exclaimed.

'My friend Hastings is shocked,' remarked Poirot. 'You must be more careful, Mademoiselle. He is out of date, you comprehend. He has just returned from

those great clear open spaces, etc., and he has yet to learn the language of nowadays.'

'Well, there's nothing to get shocked about,' said Nick, opening her eyes very wide. 'I mean, everybody knows, don't they, that there are such people. But I call it a low-down trick all the same. Poor old Freddie was so damned hard up at the time that she didn't know where to turn.'

'Yes, yes, not a very pretty affair. And your other friend, Mademoiselle. The good Commander Challenger?'

'George? I've known George all my life-well, for the last five years anyway. He's a good scout, George.'

'He wishes you to marry him-eh?'

'He does mention it now and again. In the small hours of the morning or after the second glass of port.'

'But you remain hard-hearted.'

'What would be the use of George and me marrying one another? We've neither of us got a bean. And one would get terribly bored with George. That "playing for one's side," "good old school" manner. After all, he's forty if he's a day.'

The remark made me wince slightly.

'In fact he has one foot in the grave,' said Poirot. 'Oh! do not mind me, Mademoiselle. I am a grandpapa-a nobody. And now tell me more about these accidents. The picture, for instance?'

'It's been hung up again-on a new cord. You can come and see it if you like.'

She led the way out of the room and we followed her. The picture in question was an oil painting in a heavy frame. It hung directly over the bed-head.

With a murmured, 'You permit, Mademoiselle,' Poirot removed his shoes and mounted upon the bed. He examined the picture and the cord, and gingerly tested the weight of the painting. With an elegant grimace he descended.

'To have that descend on one's head-no, it would not be pretty. The cord by which it was hung, Mademoiselle, was it, like this one, a wire cable?'

'Yes, but not so thick. I got a thicker one this time.'

'That is comprehensible. And you examined the break-the edges were frayed?'

'I think so-but I didn't notice particularly. Why should I?'

'Exactly. As you say, why should you? All the same, I should much like to look at that piece of wire. Is it about the house anywhere?'

'It was still on the picture. I expect the man who put the new wire on just threw the old one away.'

'A pity. I should like to have seen it.'

'You don't think it was just an accident after all? Surely it couldn't have been anything else.'

'It may have been an accident. It is impossible to say. But the damage to the brakes of your car-that was not an accident. And the stone that rolled down the cliff-I should like to see the spot where that accident occurred.'

Nick took us out in the garden and led us to the cliff edge. The sea glittered blue below us. A rough path led down the face of the rock. Nick described just where the accident occurred and Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he asked: 'How many ways are there into your garden, Mademoiselle?'

'There's the front way-past the lodge. And a tradesman's entrance-a door in the wall half-way up that lane. Then there's a gate just along here on the cliff edge. It leads out on to a zig zag path that leads up from that beach to the Majestic Hotel. And then, of course, you can go straight through a gap in the hedge into the Majestic garden-that's the way I went this morning. To go through the Majestic garden is a short cut to the town anyway.'

'And your gardener-where does he usually work?'

'Well, he usually potters round the kitchen garden, or else he sits in the potting-shed and pretends to be sharpening the shears.'

'Round the other side of the house, that is to say?'

'So that if anyone were to come in here and dislodge a boulder he would be very unlikely to be noticed.'

Nick gave a sudden little shiver.

'Do you-do you really think that is what happened?' she asked, 'I can't believe it somehow. It seems so perfectly futile.'

Poirot drew the bullet from his pocket again and looked at it. 'That was not futile, Mademoiselle,' he said gently. 'It must have been some madman.'

'Possibly. It is an interesting subject of after-dinner conversation-are all criminals really madmen? There may be a malformation in their little grey cells-yes, it is very likely. That, it is the affair of the doctor. For me-I have different work to perform. I have the innocent to think of, not the guilty-the victim, not the criminal. It is you I am considering now, Mademoiselle, not your unknown assailant. You are young and beautiful, and the sun shines and the world is pleasant, and there is life and love ahead of you. It is all that of which I think, Mademoiselle. Tell me, these friends of yours, Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus-they have been down here, how long?'

'Freddie came down on Wednesday to this part of the world. She stopped with some people near Tavistock for a couple of nights. She came on here yesterday. Jim has been touring round about, I believe.'

'And Commander Challenger?'

'He's at Devonport. He comes over in his car whenever he can-week-ends mostly.'

Poirot nodded. We were walking back to the house. There was a silence, and then he said suddenly: 'Have you a friend whom you can trust, Mademoiselle?'

'There's Freddie.'

'Other than Mrs Rice.'

'Well, I don't know. I suppose I have. Why?'

'Because I want you to have a friend to stay with you-immediately.'

'Oh!'

Nick seemed rather taken aback. She was silent a moment or two, thinking. Then she said doubtfully: 'There's Maggie. I could get hold of her, I expect.'

'Who is Maggie?'

'One of my Yorkshire cousins. There's a large family of them. He's a clergyman, you know. Maggie's about my age, and I usually have her to stay sometime or other in the summer. She's no fun, though-one of those painfully pure girls, with the kind of hair that has just become fashionable by accident. I was hoping to get out of having her this year.'

'Not at all. Your cousin, Mademoiselle, will do admirably. Just the type of person I had in mind.'

'All right,' said Nick, with a sigh. 'I'll wire her. I certainly don't know who else I could get hold of just now. Everyone's fixed up. But if it isn't the Choirboys' Outing or the Mothers' Beanfeast she'll come all right. Though what you expect her to do ...'

'Could you arrange for her to sleep in your room?'

'I suppose so.'

'She would not think that an odd request?'

'Oh, no, Maggie never thinks. She just does -earnestly, you know. Christian works-with faith and perseverance. All right, I'll wire her to come on Monday.'

'Why not tomorrow?'

'With Sunday trains? She'll think I'm dying if I suggest that. No, I'll say Monday. Are you going to tell her about the awful fate hanging over me?'

'Nous verrons. You still make a jest of it? You have courage, I am glad to see.' 'It makes a diversion anyway,' said Nick.

Something in her tone struck me and I glanced at her curiously. I had a feeling that there was something she had left untold. We had re-entered the drawing-room. Poirot was fingering the newspaper on the sofa.

'You read this, Mademoiselle?' he asked, suddenly.

'The St Loo Herald ? Not seriously. I opened it to see the tides. It gives them every week.'

'I see. By the way, Mademoiselle, have you ever made a will?' 'Yes, I did. About six months ago. Just before my op.' 'Qu'est ce que vous dites? Your op?'

'Operation. For appendicitis. Someone said I ought to make a will, so I did. It made me feel quite important.'

'And the terms of that will?'

'I left End House to Charles. I hadn't much else to leave, but what there was I left to Freddie. I should think probably the-what do you call them-liabilities would have exceeded the assets, really.'

Poirot nodded absently.

'I will take my leave now. Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Be careful.'

'What of?' asked Nick.

'You are intelligent. Yes, that is the weak point-in which direction are you to be careful? Who can say? But have confidence, Mademoiselle. In a few days I shall have discovered the truth.'

'Until then beware of poison, bombs, revolver shots, motor accidents and arrows dipped in the secret poison of the South American Indians,' finished Nick glibly.

'Do not mock yourself, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot gravely. He paused as he reached the door.

'By the way,' he said. 'What price did M. Lazarus offer you for the portrait of your grandfather?'

'Fifty pounds.'

'Ah!' said Poirot.

He looked earnestly back at the dark saturnine face above the mantelpiece.

'But, as I told you, I don't want to sell the old boy.'

'No,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'No, I understand.'

第三章　偶然事故

从这一瞬间起，气氛就不同了。这以前，波洛和这姑娘总谈不到一块。他们年龄相差太远，他的名气和声望对她丝毫不起作用——她这一代人只知道眼下正在当权的显赫人物。她拿他郑重其事的警告尽情取乐。对她来说，他只不过是个脑子里装满了戏剧性怪念头的滑稽的外国老头。

这使波洛十分难堪，主要是伤了他的自尊心。他一向坚信不疑地认定自己的鼎鼎大名在全世界无人不知无人不晓，但这里竟有一位女郎对之一无所闻。我私下庆幸，觉得这盆冷水泼得大快人心，不过对眼下发生的事可就谈不上有任何助益了。

手枪的失踪使整个局面立刻改观。尼克不再把这一切当成引人入胜的笑话，可她仍然不觉得手枪的失踪有什么大不了的。对什么都满不在乎正是她的性格。不过从她的举止上看得出来她毕竟有了心事。

她过来坐在一张椅子的扶手上，沉思地蹙起了眉头，说：“真是怪事。”

波洛向我转过头来。

“你可记得，黑斯廷斯，在离开旅馆时我说过我有了一个想法？现在看来我那个没有说出来的想法是正确的。我们来设想一下：小姐被打中了躺在旅馆的花园里。她在短时间内不会被发现，因为那里很冷僻。而在她手边——有一枝她自己的手枪（毫无疑问那位尊敬的埃伦太太会认出它来）。于是这件不幸的事就会被很自然地看成是由于焦虑、担忧或失眠而自杀。”

尼克不自在地动了动。

“这是真的。我烦得要命，人人都说我看起来很紧张，神经过敏。是啊——他们都这么说……”

“于是自杀了。手枪上除了小姐的指纹外没别人的指纹——是啊，一切就是那样简单明白，使人信服。”

“真好玩！”尼克说。但我很高兴地看出来，其实她并不觉得怎么好玩。

波洛没有理会她说话的口气，接着说道：

“是吗？但你总该明白，小姐，这种好玩事儿决不能再来一次了。失败了四次，可第五次却也许会成功！”

“准备好棺材吧。”尼克喃喃地说。

“不过有我们在这儿，我和我的朋友。我们有法子使你转危为安。”

我很感激他说“我们”，而不是“我”。波洛有时根本不理会我的存在。

“是的，”我说，“别害怕，巴克利小姐，我们会保护你的。”

“你们真是太关心我了，”尼克说，“不过我总觉得这一切完全不能解释。太叫人、太叫人毛骨悚然了。”

她仍然装出无所谓的样子，眼里却流露出忧虑。

“现在我们要做的第一件事，”波洛说，“是把情况了解一下。”

他坐下来，温存友好地对她笑了笑。

“首先，小姐，你可有什么仇人？”

尼克有些遗憾地摇了摇头，好像没有仇人是一件对不起波洛的事似的。

“恐怕没有。”她道歉般地说。

“好，我们可以排除这种可能性。现在，我们要问一个电影里或是侦探小说里常出现的问题：小姐，要是你死了，谁会得益？”

“我想不出，”尼克说，“正是这一点使这一切显得荒唐。当然，我还有这所令人望而却步的朽屋，可它也抵押出去了。屋顶漏水，屋基下面又没有什么矿藏。”

“它抵押出去了？怎么回事？”

“我不得不把它抵押了。你看，我们被征了两次遗产税，一次紧跟着一次。先是我祖父死了，才过了六年又轮到我哥哥。这两次遗产税几乎叫我破产。”

“你父亲呢？”

“在战争中残废之后他就退役回家了。后来患肺炎在一九一九年死了。我母亲死得更早，那里我还是个婴儿。我跟祖父一起住在这儿。祖父跟我父亲合不来，所以父亲把我安顿在这儿之后就漫游世界去了。杰拉尔德——那是我哥哥——跟祖父也合不来。我敢说如果我是个男孩子，跟祖父也一定合不来的，我还好是个女的。祖父常说他和我是一个模子里用一样的材料浇出来的，他的秉性遗传给了我。”说到这里她笑了起来。“他是个可怕的老浪子，但一生运气倒不错。这一带的人都说他会点石成金哩。他也是个赌棍，不过赌起来老输。在他死的时候，除了这所房子和这块土地之外几乎一无所有。那时我十六岁，哥哥杰拉尔德二十二岁。杰拉尔德三年前死于摩托车祸，这个产业就传到我手里了。”

“你之后呢？小姐？谁是你最近的亲戚？”

“我表哥查尔斯·维斯。他是附近的一个律师，一个高尚人士，但并不聪明，他老是给我讲许多忠告，还想出种种花招想叫我改变挥霍的脾气。”

“他替你料理事务——呃？”

“是的，如果你愿意那么说的话。我没有多少事务需要料理，他为我办理了抵押手续，还要我把那间门房小屋租了出去。”

“哦，那间门房小屋，我正要问这件事。它出租了？”

“是的，租给一家澳大利亚人，姓克罗夫特。他们精神饱满，古道热肠，还有诸如此类的许多特点。他们不失时机地表达自己对别人的关心，叫人受不了，老是把些新鲜芹菜、刚上市的豌豆等等一大堆别的东西拿来送给我。他们见我让我的花园荒芜着，就大惊小怪得不得了。他们说起客气话来想都不用想，只要一张开嘴，那些最最客气的词句就像维多利亚瀑布一样冲得你没有招架之力。至少那老头儿是这样的，真叫人心烦。他女人是个瘸子，可怜巴巴地一天到晚躺在沙发上。不管怎么说，反正他们按时付房租，而这恰恰是最重要的。”

“他们到此地多久了？”

“哦，大概有半年了。”

“好，知道了。那么，除了你那位亲戚——顺便问一下，他是你父亲方面的亲戚还是你母亲方面的？”

“母亲方面的。我母亲叫艾米·维斯。”

“那么，除了这位表哥，你还有别的亲戚没有？”

“还有一些父亲方面的远亲住在约克郡，都姓巴克利。”

“再没有了吗？”

“没有了。”

“你真孤单。”

“孤单？好奇怪的想法。我不常住在这儿，你知道。我经常住在伦敦。亲戚有什么好呢？他们太叫人受不了啦，老以为自己有资格干涉你的事儿。一个人独处那就自由多了。”

“我不多浪费我的同情了。我懂了。小姐，你是个摩登女郎。现在请谈你的家人。”

“家人？听起来多么堂皇！其实就是埃伦和她的丈夫。她丈夫是个不大高明的园丁。我付给他们很少的薪水，因为我让他们随身带着他们的孩子。当我住在这里时，埃伦就帮我照料家务。我要举行宴会的话就另外再找人来临时帮帮忙。顺便告诉你，下星期一我要请客。下个星期这里要举行赛艇会了。”

“下星期一，嗯，今天是星期六。那么，小姐，你朋友们的情况呢？比方说今天跟你一起吃午饭的那几位？”

“弗雷迪·赖斯——头发颜色很浅的那位女郎——是我最好的朋友。她过着很糟糕的生活。她嫁了一个畜牲，一个无法形容的怪物，又是酗酒又是吸毒。一两年前她不得不同他分居了。那以后她到处游荡。老天爷，我希望她能跟他离婚，然后再嫁给吉姆·拉扎勒斯。”

“拉扎勒斯？在邦德街上开艺术品商店的那个？”

“对。吉姆是独子，腰缠万贯。你看见他那辆汽车了吗？他是个犹太人，不过心肠倒不错，正迷上了弗雷迪，跟她一起到处跑。他们在美琪旅馆度周末，下星期一到这里来。”

“那么赖斯太太的丈夫呢？”

“那家伙么？嗨，他不知去向。谁也不知道他在什么地方。这使弗雷迪感到十分棘手。你总不能跟一个影子都看不见的丈夫去办离婚手续呀。”

“当然。”

“可怜的弗雷迪，”尼克郁郁不欢地说，“她走了霉运。有一次到了手的鸟儿又飞走了。那次她好容易找到了他，并把离婚的意思对他讲了。他说他完全同意，只是当时他连带一个女人去住旅馆的钱都没有，她就把钱全给他——他钱一到手就远走高飞，从此杳无音讯。我把这叫做卑鄙。”

“老天！”我叹道。

“啊哟，我的朋友黑斯廷斯受惊了，”波洛说，“你说话可得当心一点，小姐。他是一位古风淳厚的君子，刚从最高尚圣洁的仙乡净土回来，还听不惯摩登的语言呢。”

“哦，有什么可惊奇的？”尼克睁大了双眼，说，“我是说，大家都知道世界上是有那么一种人的。但我把这家伙称为下流坯。当时可怜的弗雷迪身无分文，简直走投无路。”

“是呀，这不是件叫人开心的事。你的另一位朋友，那位可敬的查林杰中校呢？”

“乔治？我早先就认识他的，近五年来往更密了。他是个好人。”

“他希望你跟他结婚吗？呃？”

“他常常跟我提起这件事。”

“但你一直不动心。”

“他跟我结婚有什么用呢？我们俩的钱袋连小偷都不屑光顾，而且乔治会叫人生厌的。他一天到晚净对你说些球赛呀、学校生活呀一类的天真话儿，仿佛他不是四十岁而是十四岁似的。”

听了这种说法我掉过脸去。

“是啊，一只脚已经站在坟墓里了。”波洛说，“哦，别在意吧，小姐，我是个老爷爷，一个有等于无的龙钟老头。现在再告诉我一些关于这一连串偶然事故的情况。比方说那幅画像。”

“我重新把它挂上了。这次用了一根新绳子。要是你愿意，可以来看看。”

她领我们走出客厅，上楼进了她的卧室。那幅差点闯下大祸的画像是一幅油画，嵌在一个沉重的框子里，挂在床头正上方。

“请准许我，小姐。”波洛含糊其词地说了一声，就脱下鞋子站到床上去了。他检查了这幅画和绳子，又小心地试了试画的重量就下来了，优雅地做了个怪脸。

“这样的东西掉在头上可绝不是什么享受，小姐。以前用来挂这幅画的也是现在用的这种钢丝绳吗？”

“是的。但没有这么粗。这次我用了一根粗点的。”

“你有没有检查过那根钢丝绳的断头？是磨断的吗？”

“我想大概是。但当时我没注意。我为什么要注意这种东西呢？”

“当然要注意。我就很想看看那根绳子。它还在吗？”

“我叫那替我装新绳子的人扔了。”

“真可惜。能看一看就好了。”

“到现在你还认为这不是偶然事故？不可能是别的吗？”

“嗯，说不定。难道弄坏你汽车上的刹车也是偶然的？还有从峭壁上滚下去的石头——我想看看那个地方。”

尼克带我们穿过花园来到峭壁上。这就是悬崖。大海在我们下面闪耀着蓝色的波光。有一条陡峭的小路从这里通向下面那块可以用来跳水的礁石。尼克指出了石头滚下去的地点。波洛沉思地点点头，然后问道：

“有几条路可以走进你的花园，小姐？”

“有一条通过门房小屋的正路，在那条路一半的地方，围墙上还有个供商贩进出的边门。从这里过去，在峭壁的边上还有一扇门，那里有一条‘之’字形小道通向美琪旅馆前面的海滨，然后可以穿过一条缝隙走进旅馆的花园。这就是我今天上午走的路。走这条路穿过那个花园到镇上去是条捷径。”

“你的园丁通常在什么地方干活？”

“他一般在厨房周围磨磨洋工，要不然就在放花盆的那个棚子里装模作样地磨磨剪刀。”

“在房子的另一边？那么如果有人到这里来推那块石头，是不会有人看见的。”

尼克哆嗦了一下。

“你真的这样想吗？”她问，“但我总不能相信。因为把我弄死谁都无利可图。”

波洛从口袋里取出那颗弹头，温和地说：

“这可不是个没有用处的东西，小姐。”

“一定是疯子干的。”

“也有可能。是不是可以认为所有的罪犯都是疯子？这真是茶余饭后聊天的绝妙话题。罪犯的大脑可能有点畸形，是的，非常可能。不过这是医生们研究的课题。至于我，我有不同的工作要做。我要关怀保护的是无辜的人而不是凶手。现在我所关心的是你，小姐，而不是那个藏头躲尾的罪犯。你又年轻又美丽，生活在明媚的阳光和欢乐之中，前面有的是生命和爱情。这一切就是我所考虑的。小姐，告诉我，你的这些朋友，赖斯太太和拉扎勒斯先生在这儿有多久了？”

“弗雷迪是星期三来的。她同一些朋友在塔维斯托克附近逗留了两夜，昨天到美琪旅馆的。吉姆一直在到处旅行，我相信。”

“查林杰中校呢？”

“他在德文波特，只要一有空就开车到这里来——通常在周末。”

波洛点点头。我们漫步向屋子走去。沉默了一会以后他突然说：

“你有完全可以信赖的朋友吗，小姐？”

“弗雷迪。”

“除了她呢？”

“那就不知道了。我想总还有的。为什么呢？”

“因为我要你有个可靠的朋友同你住在一起——而且马上！”

“啊——”

尼克显得很意外。她一声不吭地思索着，后来犹豫地说：

“还有马吉。我想我能够把她找来的。”

“马吉是谁？”

“是我在约克郡的远房堂姐妹之一。她们是一个大家庭，家长是个牧师。马吉跟我年纪相仿。有时我在夏天请她来住上几天。她是个相当乏味的人，纯洁透顶。由于头发的梳法刚巧碰上是时髦的款式才显得不那么土气。今年我本想不请她来了。”

“不，小姐，好极了！你的堂姐正是我希望能找来陪伴你的人。”

“好吧，”尼克叹息了一声，“我会打电报叫她来的，我确实想不起还能找到别的什么人。大家全为各自的事忙得团团转。只要那边不举行什么唱诗班、远足或是妈妈们的宴会，她肯定会来。可是你想要她来做啥？”

“你能不能请她跟你睡在一个卧室里？”

“我想可以。”

“她不会觉得这个要求很古怪吗？”

“哦，不会的。马吉从来不想，她只是做——认真地做，你知道，虔诚而坚定地埋着头做那些教会工作。好吧，我打电报去叫她星期一来。”

“为什么不请她明天就来呢？”

“坐星期天的火车？接到这样的电报她会以为我快咽气了呢。不，星期一吧。你打不打算告诉她，说灾难之神在我头上盘旋？”

“还在开玩笑？我很高兴看见你这么勇敢。”

“反正换换口味吧。”尼克说。

她的声音里有种说不出的东西引起我的注意，我好奇地看着她，总感到她并没有把一切都对我们和盘托出。我们又走进了客厅。波洛翻动着沙发上的那张报纸。

“你看这个吗，小姐？”他忽然问。

“《圣卢周报》？随便翻翻罢了。看看潮讯。每星期的潮汐情况那上头都有预报。”

“是这样的。顺便打听一下，小姐，你可曾立过遗嘱？”

“立过的。大约半年前，就在我要挨刀子的时候。”

“什么？挨刀子？”

“动手术，切除盲肠。有人说我应该立个遗嘱，所以我就立了个遗嘱。这使我感觉到我还是个重要人物哩。”

“遗嘱里说什么？”

“我把悬崖山庄留给查尔斯，另外可留的——你们大概称之为‘动产’——不多了，我全留给了弗雷迪。我想我留下的债务比财产还多，真的。”

波洛不置可否地点了点头。

“我要告辞了，再见，小姐。自己当心些吧。”

“当心什么？”

“你很聪明，但别让聪明毁了你。你问在哪些方面当心？谁说得准呢？不过首先你要有信心，小姐。几天之后我就会使这一切真相大白的。”

“在那以前，我要谨防毒药、炸弹、冷枪、车祸，外加南美洲印第安人的毒箭。对不对？”尼克信口说了一大串。

“别拿性命开玩笑，小姐。”波洛严肃地说。

他走到门口又回过头去说：

“再问一句，拉扎勒斯先生肯出多少钱买你祖父的画像？”

“五十镑。”

“啊，”波洛说，回过头去仔细看了看壁炉架上那幅画像里阴沉沉的脸。

“但是我已经告诉过你，我不肯把那老浪子卖给别人。”

“不错，”波洛思索着说，“不错，我能理解的。”