Three

It was three days later that Hercule Poirot went to the Mount of the Prophet. It was a cool,agreeable drive through the golden green fir trees, winding¹ higher and higher, far above the pettywrangling and squabbling of human beings. The car stopped at the restaurant. Poirot got out andwandered into the woods. He came out at last on a spot that seemed truly on top of the world. Farbelow, deeply and dazzlingly blue, was the sea.

Here at last he was at peace—removed from cares—above the world. Carefully placing hisfolded overcoat on a tree stump², Hercule Poirot sat down.

“Doubtless le bon Dieu knows what he does. But it is odd that he should have permittedhimself to fashion certain human beings. Eh bien, here for a while at least I am away from thesevexing problems.” Thus he mused³.

He looked up with a start. A little woman in a brown coat and skirt was hurrying towardshim. It was Marjorie Gold and this time she had abandoned all pretence⁴. Her face was wet withtears.

Poirot could not escape. She was upon him.

“M. Poirot. You’ve got to help me. I’m so miserable⁵ I don’t know what to do! Oh, what shallI do? What shall I do?”

She looked up at him with a distracted face. Her fingers fastened on his coat sleeve. Then, assomething she saw in his face alarmed her, she drew back a little.

“What—what is it?” she faltered⁶.

“You want my advice, madame? It is that you ask?”

She stammered⁷, “Yes . . . Yes. . . .”

“Eh bien—here it is.” He spoke⁸ curtly—trenchantly. “Leave this place at once—before it istoo late.”

“What?” She stared at him.

“You heard me. Leave this island.”

“Leave the island?”

She stared at him stupefied.

“That is what I say.”

“But why—why?”

“It is my advice to you—if you value your life.”

She gave a gasp⁹.

“Oh! what do you mean? You’re frightening me—you’re frightening me.”

“Yes,” said Poirot gravely, “that is my intention.”

She sank down, her face in her hands.

“But I can’t! He wouldn’t come! Douglas wouldn’t, I mean. She wouldn’t let him. She’s gothold of him—body and soul. He won’t listen to anything against her . . . He’s crazy about her . . .

He believes everything she tells him—that her husband ill-treats her—that she’s an injuredinnocent—that nobody has ever understood her . . . He doesn’t even think about me any more—Idon’t count—I’m not real to him. He wants me to give him his freedom—to divorce him. Hebelieves that she’ll divorce her husband and marry him. But I’m afraid . . . Chantry won’t give herup. He’s not that kind of man. Last night she showed Douglas bruises¹⁰ on her arm—said herhusband had done it. It made Douglas wild. He’s so chivalrous¹¹ . . . Oh! I’m afraid! What willcome of it all? Tell me what to do!”

Hercule Poirot stood looking straight across the water to the blue line of hills on the mainlandof Asia. He said:

“I have told you. Leave the island before it is too late. . . .”

She shook her head.

“I can’t—I can’t—unless Douglas . . .”

Poirot sighed.

He shrugged¹² his shoulders.

 

点击收听单词发音