Chapter 6 – A Call Upon Mr Vyse

Poirot clung firmly to the Continental breakfast. To see me consuming eggs and bacon upset and distressed him-so he always said. Consequently he breakfasted in bed upon coffee and rolls and I was free to start the day with the traditional Englishman's breakfast of bacon and eggs and marmalade.

I looked into his room on Monday morning as I went downstairs. He was sitting up in bed arrayed in a very marvellous dressing-gown.

'Bonjour, Hastings. I was just about to ring. This note that I have written, will you be so good as to get it taken over to End House and delivered to Mademoiselle at once.'

I held out my hand for it. Poirot looked at me and sighed.

'If only-if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache-a thing of beauty such as mine.'

Repressing a shudder at the thought, I took the note firmly from Poirot's hand and left the room.

I had rejoined him in our sitting-room when word was sent up to say Miss Buckley had called. Poirot gave the order for her to be shown up.

She came in gaily enough, but I fancied that the circles under her eyes were darker than usual. In her hand she held a telegram which she handed to Poirot.

'There,' she said. 'I hope that will please you!' Poirot read it aloud. 'Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.'

'My nurse and guardian!' said Nick. 'But you're wrong, you know. Maggie's got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she's fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.'

'And the Commander Challenger?'

'Oh! George! He'd never see anything till it was under his nose. But he'd let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.'

She tossed off her hat and went on: 'I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?'

Poirot shook his head.

'No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.'

'Oh, well,' said Nick. 'It's all great fun, isn't it?' 'Is it, Mademoiselle?' asked Poirot, gently.

She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.

'No,' she said. 'It-it isn't, really. I'm afraid-I'm afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.'

'So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.'

'Yes, indeed,' I put in warmly.

'No,' said Nick, shaking her head. 'I'm not brave. It's-it's the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more's going to happen. And how it'll happen! And expecting it to happen.'

'Yes, yes-it is the strain.'

'Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn't-I simply couldn't come through the garden. It's as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It's this thing coming on top of everything else.'

'What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?' There was a momentary pause before she replied.

'I don't mean anything particular. What the newspapers call "the strain of modern life", I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes-all that sort of thing. It's just that I've got into a ridiculous-sort of-of state.'

She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.

'You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.'

'There isn't-there really isn't.'

'There is something you have not told me.'

'I've told you every single smallest thing.'

She spoke sincerely and earnestly.

'About these accidents-about the attacks upon you, yes.'

'Well-then?'

'But you have not told me everything that is in your heart-in your life...'

She said slowly: 'Can anyone do that...?'

'Ah! then,' said Poirot, with triumph. 'You admit it!'

She shook her head. He watched her keenly.

'Perhaps,' he suggested, shrewdly. 'It is not your secret?'

I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.

'Really and truly, M. Poirot, I've told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It's having no suspicions that's driving me mad! Because I'm not a fool. I can see that if those "accidents" weren't accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand-somebody who-knows me. And that's what is so awful. Because I haven't the least idea-not the very least-who that somebody might be.'

She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl's self-control had broken down.

When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.

'Do you know a queer wish I've always had? I love End House. I've always wanted to produce a play there. It's got an-an atmosphere of drama about it. I've seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it's as though a drama were being acted there. Only I'm not producing it... I'm in it! I'm right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who-dies in the first act.'

Her voice broke.

'Now, now, Mademoiselle.' Poirot's voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. 'This will not do. This is hysteria.'

She turned and looked at him sharply.

'Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?' she asked. 'She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn't always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when-when she isn't quite herself.'

There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question: 'Tell me, Mademoiselle,' he said. 'Have you ever received an offer for End House?'

'To sell it, do you mean?'

'That is what I meant.'

'No.'

'Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?'

Nick considered for a moment.

'No, I don't think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.'

'Precisement.'

'I don't want to sell it, you know, because I'm fond of it.'

'Quite so. I understand.'

Nick moved slowly towards the door.

'By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o'clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.'

'I shall be enchanted.'

'Both of you, of course,' said Nick.

'Many thanks,' I said.

'Nothing like a party for reviving the drooping spirits,' remarked Nick. And with a little laugh she went out.

'Pauvre enfant,' said Poirot.

He reached for his hat and carefully flicked an infinitesimal speck of dust from its surface.

'We are going out?' I asked.

'Mais oui, we have legal business to transact, mon ami.'

'Of course. I understand.'

'One of your brilliant mentality could not fail to do so, Hastings.'

The offices of Messrs Vyse, Trevannion & Wynnard were situated in the main street of the town. We mounted the stairs to the first floor and entered a room where three clerks were busily writing. Poirot asked to see Mr Charles Vyse.

A clerk murmured a few words down a telephone, received, apparently, an affirmative reply, and remarking that Mr Vyse would see us now, he led us across the passage, tapped on a door and stood aside for us to pass in.

From behind a large desk covered with legal papers, Mr Vyse rose up to greet us.

He was a tall young man, rather pale, with impassive features. He was going a little bald on either temple and wore glasses. His colouring was fair and indeterminate.

Poirot had come prepared for the encounter. Fortunately he had with him an agreement, as yet unsigned, and so on some technical points in connection with this, he wanted Mr Vyse's advice.

Mr Vyse, speaking carefully and correctly, was soon able to allay Poirot's alleged doubts, and to clear up some obscure points of the wording.

'I am very much obliged to you,' murmured Poirot. 'As a foreigner, you comprehend, these legal matters and phrasing are most difficult.'

It was then that Mr Vyse asked who had sent Poirot to him.

'Miss Buckley,' said Poirot, promptly. 'Your cousin, is she not? A most charming young lady. I happened to mention that I was in perplexity and she told me to come to you. I tried to see you on Saturday morning-about half-past twelve-but you were out.'

'Yes, I remember. I left early on Saturday.'

'Mademoiselle your cousin must find that large house very lonely? She lives there alone, I understand.'

'Quite so.'

'Tell me, Mr Vyse, if I may ask, is there any chance of that property being in the market?'

'Not the least, I should say.'

'You understand, I do not ask idly. I have a reason! I am in search, myself, of just such a property. The climate of St Loo enchants me. It is true that the house appears to be in bad repair, there has not been, I gather, much money to spend upon it. Under those circumstances, is it not possible that Mademoiselle would consider an offer?'

'Not the least likelihood of it.' Charles Vyse shook his head with the utmost decision. 'My cousin is absolutely devoted to the place. Nothing would induce her to sell, I know. It is, you understand, a family place.'

'I comprehend that, but-'

'It is absolutely out of the question. I know my cousin. She has a fanatical devotion to the house.'

A few minutes later we were out in the street again.

'Well, my friend,' said Poirot. 'And what impression did this M. Charles Vyse make upon you?'

I considered.

'A very negative one,' I said at last. 'He is a curiously negative person.' 'Not a strong personality, you would say?'

'No, indeed. The kind of man you would never remember on meeting him again. A mediocre person.'

'His appearance is certainly not striking. Did you notice any discrepancy in the course of our conversation with him?'

'Yes,' I said slowly, 'I did. With regard to the selling of End House.'

'Exactly. Would you have described Mademoiselle Buckley's attitude towards End House as one of "fanatical devotion"?'

'It is a very strong term.'

'Yes-and Mr Vyse is not given to using strong terms. His normal attitude-a legal attitude-is to under, rather than over, state. Yet he says that Mademoiselle has a fanatical devotion to the home of her ancestors.'

'She did not convey that impression this morning,' I said. 'She spoke about it very sensibly, I thought. She's obviously fond of the place-just as anyone in her position would be-but certainly nothing more.'

'So, in fact, one of the two is lying,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'One would not suspect Vyse of lying.'

'Clearly a great asset if one has any lying to do,' remarked Poirot. 'Yes, he has quite the air of a George Washington, that one. Did you notice another thing, Hastings?'

'What was that?'

'He was not in his office at half-past twelve on Saturday.'

第六章　访维斯先生

波洛的早点非得是法国式的不可。他总是说，看见我吃腊肉和煎得半生不熟的鸡蛋就很难受，非要把他对于早点的看法阐述再三，不管这些看法我早已熟悉得能够倒背如流。他的早点是在床上吃的——咖啡加上小圆面包。但我依然喜欢到餐厅里去吃英国式的早餐：腊肉鸡蛋和桔子酱。

星期一早上我下楼时，朝他房里看了一眼，他正坐在床上，穿着一件花里胡哨的睡衣。

“早上好，黑斯廷斯。我刚想打铃叫人请你过来。我写了个便条，你是否可以马上到悬崖山庄去一趟，把它交给小姐本人？”

我接过那张便条。波洛看着我叹了口气，说：

“如果你把头发从中间分开，而不是像现在这样从旁边分开，你的尊容肯定会生色不少。还有，如果你真的要蓄胡须的话，就得蓄一绺像我一样的髭须，要多美就有多美。”

想到我嘴唇上长出像他那样两头翘起不可一世的胡须来，我不禁哆嗦了一下，赶快收好条子离开了他的房间。

从悬崖山庄回来后，我同波洛一起坐在起居间里。这时有人来说巴克利小姐要见我们。波洛让那人带她进来。

她一脸喜色地走了进来，但我留意到她眼下的黑圈颜色更深了。她把一封电报递给波洛，说：“喏，我希望这会叫你高兴了吧。”

波洛大声念道：

“今天下午五点三十分到达。马吉。”

“我的看护和警卫要来了。”尼克说，“但你错了，波洛先生。马吉是个没有头脑的人，只配做做慈善工作，而且毫无幽默感。在发现暗藏的凶手这方面，弗雷迪比她强十倍，而吉姆·拉扎勒斯比她强二十倍。我总觉得没有谁真正了解吉姆。”

“查林杰中校呢？”

“哦，乔治！事情只要不出在眼皮子底下他就什么也看不出来。不过一旦被他看见了，对手就会吃够苦头的。像他这样的人在摊牌的时候倒还能派点用场。”

她脱下帽子继续说：

“我已经关照过了，你便条里写的那个人要是来了就让他进屋里去。这件事好像怪神秘似的。他是来安装窃听器、报警器之类东西的吗？”

波洛摇摇头。

“不，不，跟科学和仪器无关，小姐。只不过有些事情我想知道一下罢了。”

“哦，”尼克说，“趣味无穷，不是吗？”

“你说呢，小姐？”波洛文雅地反问。

她背朝我们站着，两眼看着窗外。一分钟后又转过身来，脸上那种玩世不恭的勇敢表情全没了。她像小孩一样瘪起了嘴，竭力忍住不让泪水夺眶而出。

“不，”她说，“不是件有趣的事，真的。我怕——我很害怕，简直是生活在恐怖之中。以前我总以为自己是勇敢的……”

“你是勇敢的，我的孩子，你是的。黑斯廷斯和我都赞美过你的勇气。”

“这是真的。”我连忙补充说。

“不，”尼克摇着头，“我并不勇敢，只是在等待。一直在等那个神秘的第五次暗算，并且期待着它发生。”

“是啊，是啊，这是很恐怖的。”

“昨天晚上我把床拖到房间中央，而且关上窗户锁上了门。今天我到这里来走的是大路，我没有胆量——根本没有这个胆量走花园里那条近路，我不敢了。所有的勇气一霎时全消逝了。已经发生了那么多可怕的怪事，又来了这个。”

“你指的是什么，小姐？‘又来了这个’？”

她回答之前沉默了片刻。

“我并没有具体指什么。我想，大概就是报纸上常说的那种‘现代生活的紧张感’吧。太多的鸡尾酒，太多的香烟——所有这一类东西使我落到今天这种被人当作笑柄的神经质的地步。”

她一屁股坐进一张沙发里，小手指头下意识地互相绞在一起又松开。

“你对我不够坦白，小姐。你还有些东西没告诉我。”

“不——我全说啦，真的。”

“有些东西你没告诉我。”

“哪怕是最微不足道的细节都对你讲了。”

她说得很当真。

“关于那些事故——那些袭击你的事，你确实是把知道的全说出来了。”

“那么，还有什么呢？”

“可是你没把心里的一切，生活中的一切都和盘托出。”

她迟疑地说：

“这，难道有人能办到吗？”

“啊，你瞧，”波洛胜利地说，“你承认了！”

她摇摇头，波洛满怀希望地注视着她。

“或许，”他狡猾地启示说，“这不是你自己的秘密，关系到别人……”

我似乎看到她眼皮跳了一下，但几乎是同时她蹦了起来。

“确确实实，波洛先生，我已经把有关这些蠢事的一切细节都告诉你了。如果你认为我还知道其他人的什么隐私，或者我对谁有怀疑，那你就错了。正因为没有人可以怀疑才使我神经过敏得几乎要发疯。我不是个傻瓜。如果说这些偶然事故并不是偶然事故的话，那么我完全看得出干这些事的人一定就在我身旁。至少是个认识我的人。这就是恐怖之处，因为我一点都想不出这个人可能是谁。”

她又走到窗口，站在那里朝外看。波洛打了个手势叫我别做声。我想他希望趁那位姑娘控制不住自己的时机多得到些进一步的线索。

她接着用一种梦呓般的声音说：

“你知不知道我常有一种古怪的想法？我爱悬崖山庄，总想在那里编排一出戏。那地方本身就有戏剧气氛。我心里仿佛已经看见过各种各样的戏剧在那里上演似的。而现在，悬崖山庄里真的演起戏来了，只不过不是由我导演的——我只是其中一个角色，也许，是个在第一幕里就要死去的角色。”

她哽住说不下去了。

“现在，小姐，”波洛坚定地说，“这是不会发生的。这种想法只不过是一种歇斯底里罢了。”

她转过身来，目光锐利地盯住波洛，说：

“弗雷迪告诉你说我歇斯底里吗？有时她是这么说的。但她的话你不能全信。有时候她根本不知道自己在说些什么。”

谈话中止了一会儿。然后波洛提出一个与上文毫不相关的问题：

“告诉我，小姐，有没有人想买悬崖山庄？”

“你是说，卖掉它吗？”

“是这个意思。”

“没有。”

“如果有人出了个好价钱，你会考虑卖掉它吗？”

尼克考虑了一会儿之后说：

“不，我想我不会卖的。除非他出的价钱真的很高。”

“不错。”

“我不愿意卖，因为我喜欢它。”

“不错，我能理解。”

尼克慢慢向门口走去。

“还有件事。今天晚上放焰火，你来不来？八点钟吃晚饭。焰火九点半开始。你们可以从峭壁上看得很清楚。”

“我很有兴趣。”

“当然，是请你们两位都来。”尼克说。

“非常感谢。”我说。

“只有宴会才能使我的精神振作起来。”说完之后尼克笑着出去了。

“可怜的孩子。”波洛说。

他伸手拿起他的帽子，小心翼翼地掸掉落在帽子上的一点灰尘。

“我们出去吗？”我问。

“是呀，我们有些法律方面的问题需要去请教一下，我的朋友。”

“当然，我明白了。”

“一个像你这样绝顶聪明的人是不会不明白的，黑斯廷斯。”

维斯、特里范尼恩和威纳德律师事务所在镇里的主要街道上。我们走进二楼的一个房间里，有三个职员正忙着写东西。波洛要求会见查尔斯·维斯先生。

一个职员拿起电话说了几句，看样子得到了肯定的答复，就放下听筒对我们说维斯先生现在可以接待我们。他带我们穿过走廊，在一扇门上轻轻敲了敲，就闪到一旁让我们进去。

维斯先生从一张堆满文件的大写字台后面站起来迎接我们。

他是个冷静的、脸色苍白的高个子年轻人，戴着眼镜，额角微秃，有一种叫人莫测高深的神情。

波洛对这次会见早有准备。他取出一份没签过字的合同，提出几个技术性的问题向维斯先生请教。

维斯先生的答复措辞谨慎准确，很快就减轻了波洛的怀疑。他还为波洛澄清了一些词义含糊不清的地方。

“你真帮了我一个大忙，”波洛呐呐地说，“你总知道，对一个外国人来说，这些法律文件的格式及其措辞是永远搞不清楚的。”

维斯问起是谁介绍波洛到他这里来的。

“巴克利小姐，”波洛马上说，“你的表妹，对吗？一位娇媚无比的女郎。我无意间跟她提起我的为难，她就让我来找你了。我星期六中午来看过你——大约十二点半，但你出去了。”

“是的，我记得的。星期六那天我很早就离开办公室了。”

“我想，你表妹一个人住那么大一幢老房子，一定怪寂寞的吧？”

“是的。”

“恕我冒昧，维斯先生，请你告诉我那处产业有没有出卖的可能？”

“一点都没有，我可以说。”

“你知道，我并不是随便问问的，我有我的理由。我正在到处寻找的就是这样一处产业。圣卢的气候对我十分适宜。那所房子看上去多年失修是真的，我猜在这方面没花过多少钱。在这种情况下，难道小姐不会考虑卖掉它？”

“根本不会，”查尔斯·维斯极其坚决地摇摇头说，“我表妹爱那所房子就跟着了魔似的。任何东西都无法引诱她卖掉那处产业。那是个祖居，你知道。”

“这个我知道，不过——”

“这很难办到。我了解我表妹。她对那所房子有一种盲目的崇拜和依恋。”

几分钟后我们走在街上了。

“我的朋友，”波洛说，“这位查尔斯·维斯先生给你的印象如何？”

我想了想说：

“是个持否定态度的人，很奇怪地老是唱反调。”

“你大概还会说他的个性不很强吧？”

“正是。他这样的人你以后再遇到的时候便会记不起在哪里见过面——一个最普通的人。”

“他的外表确实很难给人留下点什么印象。在他的谈话里你可注意到有什么与事实不符的地方没有？”

“有的，”我边想边说，“我注意到他关于出卖悬崖山庄一事的说法。”

“对极了！你会不会把巴克利小姐对悬崖山庄的爱说成是‘着了魔似的’？”

“这种说法太夸张了。”

“是的。应当注意到这么一个事实，即，维斯先生作为一个有经验的律师，是不会有说话夸张的习惯的。他正常的对事物的说法应当是大事化小而不是推波助澜。可是他却夸大其辞地说小姐对祖居爱得像着了魔！”

“她今天早晨说的话没有给我这样的印象。”我说，“她讲得合情合理。显然，她只不过是喜欢那个地方而已——就如同任何人处在她的地位上对那房子会产生的感情程度一样——仅此而已。”

“所以，两个人当中必有一个说了假话。”波洛得出这个结论。

“人们是不会把维斯当成说谎的人的。”

“很显然，一个人要说谎，总有一定的理由。”波洛说，“是的，他颇有乔治·华盛顿之风。黑斯廷斯，你另外还留心到什么没有？”

“什么呀？”

“星期六十二点半他不在他的办公室里！”