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斯泰尔斯庄园奇案 9

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I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet.

It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him.

"I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully.

"Have you?"

"Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you--from Poirot."

"Yes?"

"He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere.

"Well?"

There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say?

"This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "

"What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment.

"Don't you know?"

"Not in the least. Do you?"

I was compelled to shake my head.

"What extra coffee-cup?"

"I don't know."

"He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?"

I shook my head.

"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china--it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."

"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"

"Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's double Dutch to me."

"All right."

I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly called me back.

"I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?"

" 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' Are you sure you don't know what it means?" I asked him earnestly.

He shook his head.

"No," he said musingly, "I don't. I--I wish I did."

The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the table.

By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish.

"Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I have a little idea"--Poirot's "little ideas" were becoming a perfect byword--"and would like to ask one or two questions."

"Of me? Certainly."

"You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: the door leading into Mrs. Inglethorp's room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia, it was bolted, you say?"

"Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary Cavendish, rather surprised. "I said so at the inquest."

"Bolted?"

"Yes." She looked perplexed.

"I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was bolted, and not merely locked?"

"Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside."

"Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?"

"Oh, yes."

"You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?"

"I--I believe it was."

"But you did not see it?"

"No. I--never looked."

"But I did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice that it _was_ bolted."

"Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen.

I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" had come to naught.

After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather stiffly.

"You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walked through the park.

"Not at all," I said coldly.

"That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind."

This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that he would have observed the stiffness of my manner. Still, the fervour of his words went towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I thawed.

"I gave Lawrence your message," I said.

"And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?"

"Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant."

I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions.

Poirot switched off on another tack.

"Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?"

"She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day."

"Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?"

"I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place."

"Does she go there every day?"

"She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off."

"I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever--oh, yes, she has brains, that little one."

"Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam."

"Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?"

"Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room."

"Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?"

"No, right the other side of the room. Why?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?"

We had reached the cottage.

"No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods."

The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned.

I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off.

I yawned again.

Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!"

I woke up with a start.

At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream.

"I tell you, Mary, I won't have it."

Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:

"Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?"

"It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow."

"Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!"

"But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway."

"A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the"--she looked at him--"stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman."

Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide.

"Mary!"

"Well?" Her tone did not change.

The pleading died out of his voice.

"Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?"

"If I choose."

"You defy me?"

"No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?"

John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.

"What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice.

"You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?"

John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.

"No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary----"

For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.

"None!"

She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm.

"Mary"--his voice was very quiet now--"are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?"

She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.

She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder.

"Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone.

Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene.

"Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?"

"He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day."

"Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!"

"You find it so?" I asked.

"Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country--damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"

"Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever."

"Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again."

"No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."

"Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that."

"What?"

John lowered his voice:

"Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me--who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because--because--who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except--one of us."

Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless-----

A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints--they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.

"No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?"

"I know, but, still, who else is there?"

"Can't you guess?"

"No."

I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.

"Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered.

"Impossible!"

"Not at all."

"But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?"

"That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so."

"Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"

I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:

"He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?"

"H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky."

"Yes, but it was possible."

"And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash."

But I had remembered something else.

"You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the coco sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.

John interrupted just as I had done.

"But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?"

"Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed--that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample--except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition.

"Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco won't disguise?"

"Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists----"

"One of the world's greatest what? Say it again."

"He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well, my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms."

"H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how could he have got at the coco? That wasn't downstairs?"

"No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.

And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.

Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.

And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed?

Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?

Yes, it all fitted in.

No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understood that unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----" And in my heart I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish.

"There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice made me start guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt if what you say can be true."

"What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject of how the poison could have been introduced into the coco.

"Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at heart disease."

"Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Some one might have talked afterwards. Then the Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no one would have believed that a man of his reputation could have been deceived into calling it heart disease."

"Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'm blest if I can see what his motive could have been."

I trembled.

"Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence."

"Oh, of course--that goes without saying."

We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.

Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.

"Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he _is_ funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasn't straight."

I laughed.

"It's quite a mania with him."

"Yes, isn't it?"

We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:

"Mr. Hastings."

"Yes?"

"After tea, I want to talk to you."

Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her making her home with them--at any rate until the end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.

John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.

"Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after! They've been in every room in the house--turning things inside out, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!"

"Lot of Paul Prys," grunted Miss Howard.

Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.

Mary Cavendish said nothing.

After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off into the woods together.

"Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by the leafy screen.

With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to quivering gold.

"Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."

It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.

"Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.

"I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"

"Do?"

"Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to die--anyway, I am _not_ provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?"

"Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."

Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me."

"Hates you?" I cried, astonished.

Cynthia nodded.

"Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and _he_ can't, either."

"There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary, John is very fond of you."

"Oh, yes--_John_. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves you, isn't it?"

"But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"

Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't want me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.

I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

"Marry me, Cynthia."

Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

"Don't be silly!"

I was a little annoyed.

"I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife."

To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a "funny dear."

"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't want to!"

"Yes, I do. I've got--"

"Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to--and I don't either."

"Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don't see anything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal."

"No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."

And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.

It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

An old woman came and opened it.

"Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"

She stared at me.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"About him."

"What about him?"

"He's took."

"Took? Dead?"

"No, took by the perlice."

"By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?"

"Yes, that's it, and--"

I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.

迄今为止，我都没有机会把波洛的口信传给劳伦斯。而现在，当我仍然对我的朋友的专横怀着一肚子不满。去草坪上散步时，我看到劳伦斯在草地槌球场上，正在漫无目标地乱敲几只非常老式的槌球，用的木槌则更加老式。

我觉得，这是个传话的好机会。否则，也许波洛本人要和他谈这件事情了，可我的确没有完全推测出它的目的所在。不过我自己认为通过劳伦斯的回答，也许再加上我的一点巧妙的盘问，我是很快能理解它的意义的。因此，我就走上前去和他搭话。

“我一直在找你，”我说了假话。

“你在找？”

“是的，是真的。我给你带来个口信——是波洛的。”

“是吗？”

“他要我等到我和你单独在一起时才说，”我意味深长地压低声音说，并且目不转睛地斜眼睨看他。我相信，在所谓谓制造气氛方面，我向来是有一套的。

“噢？”

那张黝黑、忧郁的脸上的表情毫无变化。对我要说的话他有什么想法呢？

“是这么个口信，”我更加压低了声音。“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了。’”

“他这到底是什么意思？”劳伦斯十分真挚的惊讶地盯着我。

“你不懂？”

“一点不懂。你呢？”

我不得不摇摇头。

“什么特大号咖啡怀？”

“我不知道。”

“要是他要了解咖啡杯的事，他最好还是去问问多卡斯，或者别的女佣人，这是她们的职责，不是我的事。有关咖啡杯的事我什么也不知道，我们只搞到过几只永远没法用的，那可真是妙极了！是老伍斯特①。你不是个鉴赏家，是吧，哈斯丁？”

我摇摇头。

“这么说来实在太可惜了，那才叫真正是完美无缺的古老瓷器——摸它一下，或看甚至是看上一眼，也是十分愉快的。”

“喂，我告诉波洛什么？”

“告诉他，我不懂他在说什么。对我来说这是句莫明其妙的话。”

“好吧。”

当我朝房子走去时，他突然把我叫了回来。

“我说，那口信的结尾是什么？你再说一遍，行吗？”

“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了。’你真的不懂这是什么意思吗？”我认真地问他。

他摇摇头。

“不懂，”他若有所思地说，“我不懂，我——我希望我能懂。”

房子里传出当当的锣声，于是我们一起走了进去。波洛接受约翰的邀请，留下来吃中饭了，他已坐在餐桌旁。

经大家默许，一律不提及惨案的事。我们谈论战争，以及其它外界的话题。可是，在轮递过乳酪和饼干，多卡斯离开房间之后，波洛突然朝卡文迪什太太俯过身子。

“恕我想起一些不愉快的事，太太，我有个小小的想法！——波洛的“小小的想法”快要成为一个极好的绰号了。——。“想要问一、两个问题。”

“问我？当然可以。”

“你太和蔼克亲了，太太。我要问的是这个：从辛西娅小姐房间通向英格里桑太太房间的门，你说是闩着的吗？”

“确实是闩着的，”玛丽·卡文迪什回答说，她显得有点惊奇。“我在审讯时就这么说了。”

“闩着的？”

“是的，”她显得困惑不解。

“我的意思是，”波洛解释说，“你能肯定门是闩着的，不仅上了锁？”

“哦，我懂得你的意思了。不，我不知道。我说闩着，意思是说它关牢了，我没法打开它，不过我相信，所有门发现都在里面给闩上了。”

“就你所知，那门也许同样还锁得好好的吧？”

“哦，是的。”

“你自己没有碰巧注意到。大太，当你走进英格里桑太太房间时，那门是闩着的还是不闩的？”

“我——我相信它是闩着的。”

“你没看到？”

“是的。我——没看。”

“可是，我注意了，”劳伦斯突然打断了话。“我碰巧注意到，它是闩着的。”

“噢，那就解决了。”于是波洛显得垂头丧气。

我为他这一次一个“小小的想法”的落空而忍不住感到高兴。

午饭后。波洛请求我陪同回家。我勉强地答应了。

“你生气了吗？”我们走过园林时，他焦急地问道。

“根本没有。”我冷冷地回答。

“那就好。我思想上的大负担解除了。”

这不完全是我原来的目的。我本来是希望他会批评我的生硬态度的。可他还是用热情的话来平息我的怒气。我缓和下来了。

“我把你的口信带给劳伦斯了，”我说。

“他说了什么来着？他完全给懵住了吧？”

“是的，我完全相信他根本不懂你说的意思是什么。”

我原来认为波洛会因之感到失望的；可是，使我惊诧的是，他回答说，这正不出他之所料，还说，他感到非常高兴。我的自尊心不允许我再对他提出任何问题。

波洛调换了话题。

“辛西娅小姐今天吃中饭时不在吧？这是怎么啦？”

“她又去医院了。今天她继续上班了。”

“啊，她真是个勤劳的女孩子。又长得那么漂亮。她就象我在意大利看到过的那些美人画。我很想去看看她的那间药房。你认为她会让我看吗？”

“我确信她是会高兴的。那是个很有趣的小房间。”

“她每天上那儿吗？”

“她星期三都休息，星期六吃中饭就回来。那是她唯一的休假时间。”

“我会记得的。现在女人都在担当重大的工作，辛西娅小姐很聪明——啊，是的，她很有才智，这个小女孩。”

“是的，我相信她经过非常严格的考试。”

“毫无疑问，毕竟这是一项责任重大的工作。我猜想，她们那儿也有剧毒药吧？”

“是的，她曾指给我们看过，全都锁在一只小橱子里。我相信他们都必须十分小心，离开那房间时，他们总是把钥匙交出。”

“当然，它靠近窗口吗，那小橱子？”

“不，恰恰在房间的另一边。怎么啦？”

波洛耸耸自己的肩膀。

“我感到奇怪。就这么回事。你要进来吗？”

我们已经走到他的小别墅跟前了。

“不，我想我这就回去了。我打算套远路穿过林子走。”

斯泰尔斯庄园周围的林于是非常美丽的。在开阔的园囿中步行后，再缓缓地漫步在这凉爽的林间空地上，使人心旷神怡。几乎是没有一丝微风。就连鸟儿的啾啾声也是轻幽幽。我在一条小径上漫步着，最后终于在一棵高大的老山毛榉树脚一屁股坐了下来，我对人类的看法是仁慈的，也是宽厚的，我甚至原谅了波洛的荒谬的保密。实际上，我是与世无争。接着，我就打起呵欠来了。

我想起了那桩罪行，而且感到它是那么虚幻，那么遥远。

我又打了个呵欠。

我心里想，也许，这种事真的从来没有发生过。当然，这全是一场恶梦。事情的真相是劳伦斯用槌球木槌杀害了阿弗雷德·英格里桑。但是，可笑的是约翰对这件事竟如此大惊小怪，他大声嚷道：“我告诉你，我不许你这样！”

我突然惊醒了。

这时，我立刻就意识到我正处于尴尬的境地。因为，在离我大约十二英尺的地方，约翰和玛丽·卡文迪什正面对面地站着，他们显然正在争吵。而且，很明显，他们没有觉察我就在近旁。因为，在我走上前去或者开口之前，约翰又重复了把我从梦中惊醒的那句话。

“我告诉你，玛丽，我不许你这样！”

传来了玛丽的声音，冷淡、清脆。

“你有什么权利来批评我的行动？”

“这会成为村子里的话柄！我母亲星期六刚刚葬掉，你这就和那家伙到处闲荡。”

“哼，”她耸耸肩，“要是你所关心的只是村子里的闲话就好了！”

“可是不仅如此，那个东游西荡的家伙的那一套，我已经领教够了。不管怎样，他是个波兰犹太人。”

“犹太血统的色调并不是坏东西。它能使那”——她朝他看着——“迟钝愚蠢的普通英国人变得灵活起来。”

她的两眼热如炭火，她的语气冷若冰霜，热血象绯红的潮水，一直涌到约翰的脸上，对此我没有感到惊讶。

“玛丽！”

“怎么啦？”她的语气没有改变。

他的声音中已经没有辩论的味道。

“我要知道，你是不是还要违背我的意愿继续丢着鲍斯坦？”

“只要我愿意。”

“你向我挑战？”

“不，但是我不承认你有权批评我的行动。你的朋友难道我都满意的吗？”

约翰后退了一步。他的脸色慢漫变淡了。

“你这算什么意思？”他反问道，语气动摇不定。

“你自己知道！”玛丽平静地回答说。“你应该知道，你有没有权来指挥我选择朋友。”

约翰恳求似地朝她瞥了一眼，在他脸上有一种惊慌的神情。

“没权？我没权，玛丽？”他颤抖着说，他伸开了两手。“玛丽——”

片刻间，我想，她犹豫了，她的脸上出现了一种较为温和的表情，接着，她突然一转身，几乎是恶狠狠地离开了。

“别这样！”

她顾自走开，约翰急忙追上前去，抓住她的手臂。

“玛丽，”——他的声音现在已非常平静——“你爱上那个鲍斯坦了吗？”

她犹豫了一下，突然间，她的脸上掠过了一种奇怪的表情，老样子，但带着某种新的从未见过的东西。大概有个埃及的狮身人面象就是这么笑着的。

她从容地从他的手臂中挣脱出来，扭过头说：

“也许是。”

说完，她就迅速地穿过小小的林间空地走了，留下约翰一人一动不动地站在那儿，仿佛已经变成了一块石头。

我有意颇为招摇地向前走去，尽量用脚劈劈啪啪地踩着地上的枯枝败叶。约翰转过身米。幸亏，他以为我刚来到这儿。

“喂，哈斯丁。你看到那小个子安全回到自己的小别墅了吗？多有趣的小个子！可是，他真的那么能干么？”

“他被认为是他那个时代的最杰出的侦探之一。”

“哦，好吧，那我想其中必有一定道理。可是，这次可不太妙啊！”

“你觉得如此？””我问道。

“老天爷，说真的！首先是这件倒霉事。伦敦警察厅的那些人从屋子里进进出出，就象是只玩偶匣②，始终不知道下次他们会从那儿跳上来。国内的每份报纸上都是惊人的大标题——哼，那些该死的记者！你知道，今天早上有一大群人挤在庄园的大门口，朝里盯着看。有几分象塔梭滋夫人名人蜡象陈列馆了。可以免费参观。太过分了，不是吗？”

“别灰心丧气，约翰！”我安慰说。“不会老是这么下去的。”

“什么不会？它会拖得我们永远再抬不起头来。”

“不，不，是你在这个问题上精神有点病态了。”

“是会把一个人给搞病的，成天受那班卑鄙下流的新闻记者的潜步追踪，还要受那伙目瞪口呆的圆脸傻瓜的惊讶凝视，你叫他往哪儿走呀！可是情况还有比这更坏的哩。”

“什么？”

约翰压低了声音。

“你想过没有，哈斯丁——这对我来说真是一场恶梦——这是谁干的？有时我禁不住会认为这一定是个偶然事件。因为——因为谁会干这种事呢？现在，英格里桑已排除在外，不会有另外的人了；不会有了，我的意思是，除他之外，我们当中没有一个人会干这种事的。”

是的，确实如此，这事对任何人来说都是一场恶梦！我们当中的一个？是的，事情谅必确实如此，除非——

一个新的想法浮现在我的脑际，迅速地考虑了一下。心里亮堂了。波洛的不可思议的举动，他的暗示——一所有这一切都和我的想法符合。真是傻瓜。以前我竟没有想到这种可能性。这对我们大家来说都是一个多大的宽慰。

“不，约翰，”我说道，“这不是我们当中的一个。这怎么会呢？”

“我知道，但另外还有谁呢？”

“你猜得到吗？”

“猜不到。”

我谨慎地朝四周打量了一下，然后压低了声音。

“鲍斯坦医生！”我低声说。

“不可能！”

“毫无问题。”

“可是他和我母亲的死究竟会有什么利害关系呢？”

“这我还弄不清，”我承认，“不过我得告诉你：波洛是这么想的。”

“波洛？他这么想？你怎么知道？”

我告诉他，波洛听到说那个不幸的晚上鲍斯坦医生在斯泰尔斯时，非常激动，我还进而说：

“他说了两次：‘这改变了一切’。我一直都在想。你知道的，英格里桑不是说把咖啡放在过道里的吗？咳，恰恰就在那时，鲍斯坦到了。是不是有这种可能，当英格里桑带他经过过道时，他把什么东西放进了咖啡？”

“哼，”约翰说。“那可太冒险了。”

“是的，但这是有可能的。”

“可是，当时他怎么会知道这是她的咖啡呢？不，老朋友，我认为这是站不住脚的。”

但是我想起了另一件事。

“你说得很对。问题不在于这是怎么做的。你听我说，”接着，我告诉了他波洛拿可可试样去做分析的事。

当我还在说时，约翰就打断了我的话。

“但是，请注意，鲍斯坦已经拿它去作过分析了。”

“是的，是的，这是要害。迄今为止，我们根本没有看到过那试样。你还不理解吗？鲍斯但拿它去做分析——正是这一点！如果鲍斯坦就是凶手，没有什么比他用某种普通的可可来取代他的试样送去化验更为简便的了。当然，他们也就发现不了士的宁！可是除了波洛，任何人做梦也不会去怀疑鲍斯坦，或者想到再取一次试样，”我带着迟晚了的认识进一步说。

“是的，可是那可可掩盖不了苦味怎么办呢？”

“咳，这我们只是听了他说的。还有另一种可能呀。他是公认的世界上最著名的毒物学家之一——”

“世界上最著名的什么之一？再说一遍。”

“他懂得的有关毒药的知识，几乎比任何人都要多，”我解释说。“嗯，我的想法是，可能他已经找到某种方法使士的宁无味。或者是也许那根本就不是士的宁，而是某种从来没人听到过的不知名的毒药，它会产生许多相同的症状。”

“哼，是呀，也许是这样，”约翰说。“可是注意，他怎么够得着那可可呢？它不在楼下呀！”

“是的，它是不在楼下，”我勉强承认说。

于是，突然，一种可怕的可能性在我的脑际一闪。我暗自希望并祈祷，但愿约翰不要也产生这种想法。我朝他瞟了一眼。他正迷惑不解地皱着眉头，于是我宽慰地深深戏了一口气。因为我脑际掠过的可怕念头是：鲍斯坦医生可能有一个同谋。

然而这还不能肯定！的确，没有一个象玛丽·卡文迪什这样漂亮的女人，会是个持刀杀人的凶手。但是漂亮的女人下毒。过去是时有所闻的。

于是，我突然想起，我刚到那天喝茶时的第一次谈话。当她说到毒药是女人的武器时，她的两眼在闪闪发光。在那个不幸的星期二的傍晚，她是多么焦虑不安！是不是英格里桑太太发现了她和鲍斯坦之间的什么，而且威胁说要告诉她的丈夫？这次犯罪就是为了要阻止那种告发？

后来，我又想起了波洛和伊夫琳·霍华德之间的那次莫明奇妙的谈话，他们的意思是不是就是这个？这是不是就是伊夫琳所竭力不予相信的可怕的可能性？

对了，这全部符合。

霍华德小姐提出“这事可以不作声张，”也就不奇怪了。现在，我已经懂得她那句没有说完的话：“埃米莉本人——”我内心也完全同意她的看法。英格里桑太大一定宁愿不要报仇，而决不愿这种极其丢脸的事落到卡文迪什这个姓氏上的。

“另外还有一件事，”约翰突然说，他那出乎意外的说话声使我内疚地吃了一惊。“这使我怀疑你说的是否符合事实。”

“是什么事？”我问道，感谢他已抛开毒药如何能放进可可这个话题。

“嗨，事实上是鲍斯坦要求验尸的。他本来不需要这样做嘛。那位小个子威尔金斯是很愿意让它作为心脏病死的。”

“是的，”我含糊地说。“但是我们不知道。可能，他认为从长远来着，这样做比较安全。以后也许会有人说闲话。到那时，说不定内务部还会下令挖尸检验。整个事情就会暴露，那样他就会处于尴尬的境地，因为没有一个人会相信，象他这样一个有声望的人会把这错着成心脏病。”

“是。那是可能的。”约翰承认。不过，”他又补充说，“我可不想知道他的动机可能是什么。”

我哆嗦了一下。

“喂，注意，”我说，“我可能完全错了，还有，请记住，这都是秘密。”

“噢，当然——不要说出去。”

我们边谈边走，现在，我们已穿过一个小门，走进庄园。近傍响起了说话声。那棵大枫树下，已经摆好了茶点，就是我刚来那天摆过的地方，

辛西娅从医院回来了，于是我把自己的椅子放到她的旁边，同时告诉她，波洛希望去参观她们的药房。

“当然可以！我欢迎他去看看。他最好哪天上那儿喝茶去。我一定为他准备好。他是位多亲切的小个子！可是他这人真有趣。那天，他要我从领结上取下饰针，再别回去，因为他说它没有别直。”

我笑了起来。

“这完全是他的一种癖好。”

“啊，是么？”

我们沉默了一两分钟，接着，辛西娅朝玛丽·卡文迪什的方向瞥了一眼，压低声音说：

“哈斯丁先生。”

“什么事？”

“喝完茶，我想和你谈谈。”

她朝玛丽那一瞥引起了我的联想。心想，这两人之间很少有共同之处。我第一次对这姑娘的前途感到纳闷。英格里桑太太没有为她作出任何安徘，不过我料想约翰和玛丽多半是一定要她和他们住在一起的——至少得到战争结束。我知道，约翰很喜欢她，他是舍不得让她走的。

进屋去的约翰现在又出现了。他那张温厚的脸上，一反常态地气得皱起了眉头。

“那些侦探莫讨厌！我真闹不清他们在找些什么！屋子的每个房间都去了——翻箱倒柜的搞得乱七八槽。真是太讨厌了！他们是利用我们都不在的时候搞的。下次见到那个贾普，我要找他了！”

“一帮打破砂锅问到底的家伙，”霍华德小姐咕哝着说。

劳伦斯则认为，这是他们不得不表示一下他们是在干事。

玛丽·卡文迪什什么也没有说。

喝完茶，我邀辛西娅去散步，我们一块儿漫步进树林。

“怎么样？”一当窗帘般的树叶把盯着我们的目光挡住后，我就问道。

辛西娅叹了一口气，猛地坐了下来，一下子脱丢帽子。透过枝叶的阳光，把她栗色的头发照成了闪闪发光的金黄。

“哈斯丁先生——你总是那么和蔼，而且你懂得这么多。”

这时，我感到辛西娅确实是一个非常迷人的姑娘！比从来不说这类话的玛丽要妩媚得多。

“怎么样？”当她犹豫不决时，我温和地问道。

“我想征求你的意见。我该怎么办？”

“怎么办？”

“是呀。你知道，埃米莉阿姨总是对我说，我会得到抚养。我想她准是忘了，或者没有想到她会去世——不管怎么样，我现在没人赡养了！我不知道怎么办。你认为我应当马上离开这儿吗？”

“天啊，不！我相信，他们是不想和你分手的。”

“辛西娅犹豫了一下，用她那双小手拔着小草。后来，她说了：“卡文迪什太太是想我走的。她不喜欢我。”

“不喜欢你？”我惊讶地大声说道。

辛西娅点点头。

“是的。我不知道为什么，可是她看不惯我；他也是这样。”

“这我知道是你错了，”我热诚地说。“恰恰相反，约翰是很喜欢你的。”

“是的，约翰是这样。我指的是劳伦斯。当然，当没有一个人爱你时，这是相当可怕的。不是吗？”

“可是他们是爱你的，亲爱的辛西娅，”我诚挚地说，“我相信，是你错了。瞧，有约翰——还有霍华德小姐——”

辛西娅颇为忧伤地点点头。“是的，我想约翰是喜欢我的，还有伊维，当然，尽管她的脾气不好，可她是一点都不会伤害人的。可是劳伦斯从来没有对我说过这方面他是否能有所帮助，而玛丽简直不能使自己变得对我客气一点。她要伊维继续留下来，在求她，可是她不要我，所以——所以——我不知道该怎么办。”突然，这可怜的女孩子哭了起来。

我不知道是什么迷住了我。也许是她的美丽，她坐在那儿，阳光在她的头上闪烁；也许是在遇到一个与这悲剧如此明显地截然无关的人时的宽慰心情；也许是真诚地怜悯她的青春和孤寂。总之，我向前屈下了身子，拿起她的一只小手，笨拙地说：

“嫁给我吧，辛西娅。”

我竟然无意地找到了治疗她的眼泪的特效药。她立即坐直身于，缩回自己的手，带点严厉地说：

“别傻！”

我有点生气了。

“我不是傻。我是在要求你给我赏光做我的妻子。”

使我极为惊讶的是，辛西娅突然大笑起来，而且还把我叫做“好笑的亲爱的人”。

“你这完全是在逗乐，”她说，“可是你知道你是不要的！”

“不。我要的。我有——”

“你有什么都没矢系。你不会真正要——而我也是如此。”

“好吧，当然，那就这样算了，”我生硬地说。“不过，我没有看到有什么可嘲笑的东西。求婚没什么可笑的。”

“确实没有，”辛西娅说。“下一次有人也许会接受你的求婚的。再见，你已经使我感到十分高兴。”