Chapter 1 – The Majestic Hotel

No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St Loo. It is well named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cornish coast is to my mind every bit as fascinating as that of the south of France.

I remarked as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. 'So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, mon ami. Your remark is not original.'

'But don't you agree?'

He was smiling to himself and did not at once answer my question. I repeated it.

'A thousand pardons, Hastings. My thoughts were wandering. Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now.'

'The south of France?'

'Yes. I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred.'

I remembered. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and the mystery-a complicated and baffling one-had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen.

'How I wish I had been with you,' I said with deep regret.

'I too,' said Poirot. 'Your experience would have been invaluable to me.'

I looked at him sideways. As a result of long habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious. And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs.

'What I particularly missed was your vivid imagination, Hastings,' he went on dreamily. 'One needs a certain amount of light relief. My valet, Georges, an admirable man with whom I sometimes permitted myself to discuss a point, has no imagination whatever.' This remark seemed to me quite irrelevant.

'Tell me, Poirot,' I said. 'Are you never tempted to renew your activities? This passive life-'

'Suits me admirably, my friend. To sit in the sun-what could be more charming? To step from your pedestal at the zenith of your fame-what could be a grander gesture? They say of me: "That is Hercule Poirot!-The great-the unique!-There was never any one like him, there never will be!" Eh bien-I am satisfied. I ask no more. I am modest.'

I should not myself have used the word modest. It seemed to me that my little friend's egotism had certainly not declined with his years. He leaned back in his chair, caressing his moustache and almost purring with self-satisfaction.

We were sitting on one of the terraces of the Majestic Hotel. It is the biggest hotel in St Loo and stands in its own grounds on a headland overlooking the sea. The gardens of the hotel lay below us freely interspersed with palm trees. The sea was of a deep and lovely blue, the sky clear and the sun shining with all the single-hearted fervour an August sun should (but in England so often does not) have. There was a vigorous humming of bees, a pleasant sound-and altogether nothing could have been more ideal.

We had only arrived last night, and this was the first morning of what we proposed should be a week's stay. If only these weather conditions continued, we should indeed have a perfect holiday.

I picked up the morning paper which had fallen from my hand and resumed my perusal of the morning's news. The political situation seemed unsatisfactory, but uninteresting, there was trouble in China, there was a long account of a rumoured City swindle, but on the whole there was no news of a very thrilling order.

'Curious thing this parrot disease,' I remarked, as I turned the sheet. 'Very curious.'

'Two more deaths at Leeds, I see.' 'Most regrettable.' I turned a page.

'Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he's gone west. Not that they've given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific islands.'

'The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not?' inquired Poirot pleasantly.

'Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it's a good thing to be an Englishman after all.'

'It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon,' said Poirot.

'I-I didn't mean,' I began.

My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.

'Me,' he announced. 'I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.'

My attention had strayed to political news.

'They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it,' I remarked with a chuckle.

'The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.'

I stared at him.

With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning's correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.

'It must have missed us yesterday,' he said.

I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.

'But, Poirot,' I cried. 'This is most flattering!'

'You think so, my friend?'

'He speaks in the warmest terms of your ability.'

'He is right,' said Poirot, modestly averting his eyes.

'He begs you to investigate this matter for him-puts it as a personal favour.'

'Quite so. It is unnecessary to repeat all this to me. You understand, my dear Hastings. I have read the letter myself.'

'It is too bad,' I cried. 'This will put an end to our holiday.' 'No, no, calmez vous -there is no question of that.' 'But the Home Secretary says the matter is urgent.'

'He may be right-or again he may not. These politicians, they are easily excited. I have seen myself, in the Chambre des Deputes in Paris-'

'Yes, yes, but Poirot, surely we ought to be making arrangements? The express to London has gone-it leaves at twelve o'clock. The next-'

'Calm yourself, Hastings, calm yourself, I pray of you! Always the excitement, the agitation. We are not going to London today nor yet tomorrow.'

'But this summons-'

'Does not concern me. I do not belong to your police force, Hastings. I am asked to undertake a case as a private investigator. I refuse.'

'You refuse?'

'Certainly. I write with perfect politeness, tender my regrets, my apologies, explain that I am completely desolated-but what will you? I have retired-I am finished.'

'You are not finished,' I exclaimed warmly. Poirot patted my knee.

'There speaks the good friend-the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function-the order, the method-it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells. In all generosity I say: let the young men have a chance. They may possibly do something creditable. I doubt it, but they may. Anyway they will do well enough for this doubtless tiresome affair of the Home Secretary's.'

'But, Poirot, the compliment!'

'Me, I am above compliments. The Home Secretary, being a man of sense, realizes that if he can only obtain my services all will be successful. What will you? He is unlucky. Hercule Poirot has solved his last case.'

I looked at him. In my heart of hearts I deplored his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already worldwide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.

Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.

'I wonder,' I said, 'that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.'

'Impossible,' he replied, 'that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.'

'Impossible, Poirot?'

'You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!'

I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot's fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.

'Yes-one is human. One is the sleeping dog-well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.'

'In fact,' I said, 'if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning-let the criminal who put it there beware!'

He nodded, but rather absently.

Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.

I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.

'A thousand pardons,' stammered Poirot. 'Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly-ouch!-my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really-the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings-you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.'

With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot on to a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.

'It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over.' He made a grimace. 'See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.'

The girl took a chair.

'It's nothing,' she said. 'But I wish you would let it be seen to.'

'Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle ! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already.'

The girl laughed.

'That's good.'

'What about a cocktail?' I suggested. 'It's just about the time.'

'Well-' She hesitated. 'Thanks very much.'

'Martini?'

'Yes, please-dry Martini.'

I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.

'Imagine, Hastings,' he said, 'that house there-the one on the point-that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.'

'Indeed?' I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. 'It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.'

'It's called End House,' said the girl. 'I love it-but it's a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.'

'You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?'

'Oh! we're nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I'm the last of the family.'

'That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?'

'Oh! I'm away a good deal and when I'm at home there's usually a cheery crowd coming and going.'

'That is so modern. Me, I was picturing you in a dark mysterious mansion, haunted by a family curse.'

'How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it's not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I've had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.'

Poirot sat up alertly.

'Escapes from death? That sounds interesting, Mademoiselle.'

'Oh! they weren't very thrilling. Just accidents you know.' She jerked her head sharply as a wasp flew past. 'Curse these wasps. There must be a nest of them round here.'

'The bees and the wasps-you do not like them, Mademoiselle? You have been stung-yes?'

'No-but I hate the way they come right past your face.' 'The bee in the bonnet,' said Poirot. 'Your English phrase.'

At that moment the cocktails arrived. We all held up our glasses and made the usual inane observations.

'I'm due in the hotel for cocktails, really,' said Miss Buckley. 'I expect they're wondering what has become of me.'

Poirot cleared his throat and set down his glass.

'Ah! for a cup of good rich chocolate,' he murmured. 'But in England they make it not. Still, in England you have some very pleasing customs. The young girls, their hats come on and off-so prettily-so easily-'

The girl stared at him.

'What do you mean? Why shouldn't they?'

'You ask that because you are young-so young, Mademoiselle. But to me the natural thing seems to have a coiffure high and rigid-so-and the hat attached with many hat pins-la-la-la-et la.'

He executed four vicious jabs in the air. 'But how frightfully uncomfortable!'

'Ah! I should think so,' said Poirot. No martyred lady could have spoken with more feeling. 'When the wind blew it was the agony-it gave you the migraine.'

Miss Buckley dragged off the simple wide-brimmed felt she was wearing and cast it down beside her.

'And now we do this,' she laughed.

'Which is sensible and charming,' said Poirot, with a little bow.

I looked at her with interest. Her dark hair was ruffled and gave her an elfin look. There was something elfin about her altogether. The small, vivid face, pansy shaped, the enormous dark-blue eyes, and something else-something haunting and arresting. Was it a hint of recklessness? There were dark shadows under the eyes.

The terrace on which we were sitting was a little-used one. The main terrace where most people sat was just round the corner at a point where the cliff shelved directly down to the sea.

From round this corner now there appeared a man, a red-faced man with a rolling carriage who carried his hands half clenched by his side. There was something breezy and carefree about him-a typical sailor.

'I can't think where the girl's got to,' he was saying in tones that easily carried to where we sat. 'Nick-Nick.'

Miss Buckley rose.

'I knew they'd be getting in a state. Attaboy-George-here I am.'

'Freddie's frantic for a drink. Come on, girl.'

He cast a glance of frank curiosity at Poirot, who must have differed considerably from most of Nick's friends.

The girl performed a wave of introduction. 'This is Commander Challenger-er-'

But to my surprise Poirot did not supply the name for which she was waiting. Instead he rose, bowed very ceremoniously and murmured: 'Of the English Navy. I have a great regard for the English Navy.'

This type of remark is not one that an Englishman acclaims most readily. Commander Challenger flushed and Nick Buckley took command of the situation.

'Come on, George. Don't gape. Let's find Freddie and Jim.'

She smiled at Poirot.

'Thanks for the cocktail. I hope the ankle will be all right.'

With a nod to me she slipped her hand through the sailor's arm and they disappeared round the corner together.

'So that is one of Mademoiselle's friends,' murmured Poirot thoughtfully. 'One of her cheery crowd. What about him? Give me your expert judgement, Hastings. Is he what you call a good fellow-yes?'

Pausing for a moment to try and decide exactly what Poirot thought I should mean by a 'good fellow', I gave a doubtful assent.

'He seems all right-yes,' I said. 'So far as one can tell by a cursory glance.' 'I wonder,' said Poirot.

The girl had left her hat behind. Poirot stooped to pick it up and twirled it round absent-mindedly on his finger.

'Has he atendresse for her? What do you think, Hastings?'

'My dear Poirot! How can I tell? Here-give me that hat. The lady will want it. I'll take it to her.'

Poirot paid no attention to my request. He continued to revolve the hat slowly on his finger.

'Pas encore. Qa m'amuse.'

'Really, Poirot!'

'Yes, my friend, I grow old and childish, do I not?'

This was so exactly what I was feeling that I was somewhat disconcerted to have it put into words. Poirot gave a little chuckle, then leaning forward he laid a finger against the side of his nose.

'But no-I am not so completely imbecile as you think! We will return the hat-but assuredly-but later! We will return it to End House and thus we shall have the opportunity of seeing the charming Miss Nick again.'

'Poirot,' I said. 'I believe you have fallen in love.'

'She is a pretty girl-eh?'

'Well-you saw for yourself. Why ask me?'

'Because, alas! I cannot judge. To me, nowadays, anything young is beautiful. Jeunesse-jeunesse. It is the tragedy of my years. But you-I appeal to you! Your judgement is not up-to-date, naturally, having lived in the Argentine so long. You admire the figure of five years ago, but you are at any rate more modern than I am. She is pretty-yes? She has the appeal to the sexes?'

'One sex is sufficient, Poirot. The answer, I should say, is very much in the affirmative. Why are you so interested in the lady?'

'Am I interested?'

'Well-look at what you've just being saying.'

'You are under a misapprehension, mon ami. I may be interested in the lady-yes-but I am much more interested in her hat.'

I stared at him, but he appeared perfectly serious. He nodded his head at me.

'Yes, Hastings, this very hat.' He held it towards me. 'You see the reason for my interest?'

'It's a nice hat,' I said, bewildered. 'But quite an ordinary hat. Lots of girls have hats like it.'

'Not like this one.'

I looked at it more closely.

'You see, Hastings?'

'A perfectly plain fawn felt. Good style-'

'I did not ask you to describe the hat. It is plain that you do not see. Almost incredible, my poor Hastings, how you hardly ever do see! It amazes me every time anew! But regard, my dear old imbecile-it is not necessary to employ the grey cells-the eyes will do. Regard-regard-'

And then at last I saw to what he had been trying to draw my attention. The slowly turning hat was revolving on his finger, and that finger was stuck neatly through a hole in the brim of the hat. When he saw that I had realized his meaning, he drew his finger out and held the hat towards me. It was a small neat hole, quite round, and I could not imagine its purpose, if purpose it had.

'Did you observe the way Mademoiselle Nick flinched when a bee flew past? The bee in the bonnet-the hole in the hat.'

'But a bee couldn't make a hole like that.'

'Exactly, Hastings! What acumen! It could not. But a bullet could, mon cher!'

'A bullet?'

'Mai oui! A bullet like this.'

He held out his hand with a small object in the palm of it.

'A spent bullet, mon ami. It was that which hit the terrace just now when we were talking. A spent bullet!'

'You mean-'

'I mean that one inch of a difference and that hole would not be through the hat but through the head. Now do you see why I am interested, Hastings? You were right, my friend, when you told me not to use the word "impossible". Yes-one is human! Ah! but he made a grave mistake, that would-be murderer, when he shot at his victim within a dozen yards of Hercule Poirot! For him, it is indeed la mauvaise chance. But you see now why we must make our entry into End House and get into touch with Mademoiselle? Three near escapes from death in three days. That is what she said. We must act quickly, Hastings. The peril is very close at hand.'

第一章　美琪旅馆

我觉得，英国南部没有哪个滨海小镇有圣卢那么令人流连忘返，因此，人们称它为“水城皇后”真是再恰当也没有了。到了这里，游客便会自然而然地想起维埃拉。在我的印象里，康沃尔郡的海岸正像法国南方的海滨一样迷人。

我把这个想法告诉了我的朋友赫尔克里·波洛。他听了以后说：

“昨天餐车里的那份菜单上就是这么说的，我的朋友，所以这并非你的创见。”

“难道你不同意这种说法吗？”

他出神地微笑着，没有回答。我又问了一遍。

“哦，真是对不起，黑斯廷斯。我想到别处去了。我在想你刚才提起的那个遥远的地方。”

“法国南方吗？”

“是的，我在想去年冬天，去年冬天我就在那个地方，还有那个案子……”

我记起来了。去年冬天在法国南方的蓝色列车上发生了一起谋杀案。案情复杂神秘，但被波洛侦破了。他永远是那么审慎敏锐，而且老是百无一失。

“要是我当时同你在一起该有多好！”我深感惋惜。

“我也是这么想的，”波洛说，“要是你在，你的经验一定会对我大有裨益。”

我从侧面打量着他，经验告诉我他的恭维是不可信的，但这次他显得相当一本正经，不过他那一套我是心里有数的。

“尤其是你那引人入胜的想象和推测，黑斯廷斯，”他沉思着往下说，“一个人总是喜欢换换口味的。有时我也屈尊跟我那出类拔萃的男仆乔治讨论个把问题，可是他连一点想象力都没有。”

这段话简直不着边际。

“告诉我，波洛，”我说，“你难道不想再重操旧业了吗？这种无所事事的生活……”

“对我非常合适，我的朋友。躺在海滩上晒晒太阳——还有什么比这更悠闲舒适的吗？从大功告成的顶峰上急流勇退——还有什么比这更冠冕堂皇的吗？人们这样在议论我：‘看呀，那就是赫尔克里·波洛——一个伟大的、举世无双的人！前无古人，后无来者！’这样我就满足了，我不再有更多的要求了。我是谦虚知足的呀！”

我从来没有用过“谦虚”之类的字眼来描写自己。看来我这位朋友的自我吹嘘并没有因年纪的增长而有所消减。他往后一仰靠在椅背上，用各种自以为极其优美的姿势拈着唇髭，发出一种自我陶醉的“唔……唔……”的声音。

我们坐在旅馆的小阳台上。这是圣卢最大的一家旅馆，座落在海岬上，俯瞰着浩瀚无边的大海。小阳台下就是旅馆的花园，里边到处是棕榈树。大海深蓝悦目，天上万里无云。八月的太阳以它所拥有的全部热量一心一意地照耀着（这在英国实在难得）。蜜蜂发出嗡嗡声，听着使人心平气和——所有这一切都好得无以复加。

我们是昨天晚上才到这里的，打算在这儿逗留一个星期。如果这种好天气能延续下去的话，我们的这次休假便肯定完美无缺。

我拾起从手中落下的晨报细看起来。政治形势令人担忧，而且在中国又出了麻烦。有一则消息详细报道了一个传闻中的城市骗局。总之一句话，报纸上没有什么振奋人心的东西。

“有一种叫做什么‘鹦鹉病’的毛病十分奇怪。”我说着把报纸翻了过去。

“非常奇怪。”波洛这样应了一声。

“瞧，在利兹又有两个人得这种病死了。”

“遗憾之至。”

我又翻了一页。

“关于飞行员塞顿上尉的环球飞行还是没有消息。这些家伙真勇敢。他那架叫‘信天翁号’的水陆两用飞机一定是一项伟大的发明。如果他上了西天可就太糟糕了。不过也许还有点希望，他可能降落在太平洋里一个什么海岛上了。”

“所罗门群岛上大概还有吃人的生番吧，有吗？”波洛笑嘻嘻地问。

“那飞行员一定是个好样儿的小伙子。这种壮举归根结底是为我们英国人争光的。”

“是呀，大可以安慰一下在温布尔登的失败了，”波洛说。

“我，我并不是说……”

我的朋友巧妙地岔开了我的辩解，宣称说：

“我并不是塞顿那倒霉虫的什么两用飞机，我是个世界主义者。对于英国人，如你所知，我向来佩服得五体投地。比方说吧，他们始终一丝不苟，就连看报纸也总是一字不漏，看得十分彻底。”

我继续浏览着政治新闻。

“内政部长的日子不好过呢！”我笑了起来。

波洛听了，说：

“可怜的人，他有他的难处。啊哈，不错，他还在缘木求鱼哩。”

我不解地看着他。

波洛微笑着从口袋里取出一卷用橡皮筋扎住的邮件，从中抽出一封信递给我。

“这信我本来昨天就应当收到的。”他说。

我把信看了一遍，心里不禁又愉快又激动。

“波洛，”我叫道，“这真是对你最高的赞誉了。”

“你这样想吗，我的朋友？”

“他对你的才能恭维备至。”

“他是对的。”波洛说着，谦虚地把眼光移到了别处。

“他请求你帮他解决这些难题，而且是作为私人的要求。”

“不错，但你大可不必向我复述这封信的内容。你总该知道，亲爱的黑斯廷斯，我自己看过这封信了。”

“不妙啊，”我叹道，“这就意味着我们的休假算是到此结束了。”

“不，不，你别急——完全不是那么回事。”

“但内政部长说事情已经火烧眉毛了。”

“他可能是对的，也可能不对。政治家们总是神经过敏。我在巴黎下议院亲眼看到……”

“是呀，是呀。但，波洛，我们总应当准备启程了吧？去伦敦的快车已经在十二点开走了，下一班……”

“镇静些，黑斯廷斯，镇静些，我求求你。嗨，老是那么冲动，见到风就是雨。我们今天不到伦敦去，明天也不去！”

“但部长的要求……”

“跟我毫不相干。我不属于你们的警察系统，黑斯廷斯。他要我作为一个顾问侦探参加工作，我拒绝了。”

“你拒绝了？”

“当然。我礼数周到地写了封信向他深致歉意，告诉他我已经成了一座荒凉的废墟。我退休了，告老了，完蛋了。”

“你没有完，没有！”我激动地喊了起来。

波洛拍拍我的膝盖。

“啊，我忠实的朋友，你的话当然也有道理。我大脑里那些小小的灰色细胞还照样有用，我的机敏才智也不减当年。但退休之后，我的朋友，我毕竟是个退了休的人啦。我不是那种戏演完了还赖在台上对着喝彩的观众谢幕十二次的名角儿。我以一切慷慨姿态中之最慷慨的姿态说：让年轻人有个机会来一显身手吧。虽然我怀疑他们到底有没有什么身手可显，但谁知道呢？也许他们真的会有那么两下子，至少应付一下部长的那些令人沉闷不堪的案子总还是可以的。”

“可是，波洛，部长毕竟是很恭维了你一番的。”

“我，哦——我是不吃那一套的。内政部长是个有头脑的人。他当然明白如果有我助他一臂之力，一切疑难都会迎刃而解。可惜他运气不佳，赫尔克里·波洛已经办完他一生中最后一个案子了。”

我默默地看着他，打心眼里痛惜他如此固执。侦破了部长委托给他的案子以后，他那早已蜚声全欧的声誉不是会添上一道更耀眼的光彩吗？不过，我对他的坚决态度又不能不钦佩。

突然我想起了激将法，就说：

“我想，你不会是害怕了吧？信里那一席话甚至可以打动上帝。”

“不，”他回答说，“谁都不可能动摇赫尔克里·波洛。”

“不可能吗？波洛。”

“的确，我的朋友。‘不可能’这种字眼是不应当随口乱用的。其实，我并不是说即使有一颗子弹打在我身边的墙上我都会置之不理。人总是人呀。”

我笑了。他说话时一颗小石子刚刚打在我们脚下的台阶上。他那迅捷的联想叫我觉得有趣。他弯腰拾起那玩意儿，继续说道：

“是呀，人总是人。虽然有时就像一条睡得又香又甜的狗，却还是一叫就醒的。你们有句格言就是这么说的。”

“不错，”我说，“要是有人在你眼皮底下作案，尽管你已经退休了，那家伙还是要倒霉的。”

他点点头，可是心不在焉。

突然间不知为什么他站了起来，迈下台阶走进了花园。这时一位姑娘正在花园里向我们这边匆匆走来。这是个非常娇媚的姑娘，当她走到波洛身边时，波洛不知在看什么地方，结果一不小心在树根上绊了一下，重重地摔倒在地。我连忙跑过去同那姑娘一起把他搀了起来。我虽然全部心思都在我那朋友身上，却也感觉到——不是吗？人们有时不用眼睛只凭感觉也能看得一样清楚——那姑娘有深棕色的头发和深蓝色的大眼睛，满脸顽皮的神情。

“太对不起了，”波洛结结巴巴地说，“小姐，你太好了，我非常抱歉——哎哟，我的脚疼得厉害。哦，不，不，没什么，只不过脚脖子扭了一下而已，过几分钟就会好的。不过要是你们能扶我一下，黑斯廷斯，还有这位好心肠的小姐……嗯，求这位小姐来扶我可真是怪害臊的。”

我们一边一个扶着这位唠叨不已的老头子走到台阶上，让他坐在一张椅子里。我建议马上找个医生，可他坚决反对。

“没事儿，我告诉你。只不过是脚脖子扭了一下。疼上一阵子便会万事大吉的。”他龇牙咧嘴地皱起眉头，“瞧吧，一会儿我就会把这件倒霉事忘得一干二净。小姐，我对你千恩万谢啦。请坐一会儿，求求你。”

姑娘坐了下来。

“有什么可谢的！”她说，“不过我总觉得应当请个医生看看。”

“小姐，我向你保证用不着麻烦医生。你在这儿比医生还强呢。”

姑娘笑了起来，说：

“这倒很有趣。”

“来点鸡尾酒怎样？”我提议，“现在正是喝点鸡尾酒的时候。”

“那么——”她含糊地说，“我就沾光了。”

“马丁尼酒好吗？”

“好的，要那种不带甜味的。”

等我去叫了酒回来，发现波洛和那姑娘已经谈得十分投机了。

“你想到没有，黑斯廷斯，”他说，“岬尖上那所房子，就是我们刚才赞美不已的那所，就属于这位小姐。”

“真的？”我说。我根本想不起什么时候赞美过那所房子，事实上我几乎压根儿没注意到那里有一所房子。“它看起来怪阴森森孤零零的。”

“它叫作‘悬崖山庄’，”这姑娘说，“我很喜欢它。但它是一所古老破旧的房子，而且一天比一天凋敝了。”

“你是一个古老世家的惟一后裔吧，小姐？”

“哦，算不上什么世家。但我们姓巴克利的住在这儿已有两三百年了。我哥哥三年前去世后，我就成了巴克利这一家族的惟一继承人了。”

“多凄凉！你一个人住在那所房子里？”

“啊，我常出门。不过我不出门的时候家里总是宾朋满座的。”

“这倒相当时髦，不知怎么回事，我脑子里总有这么个画面：你在那所房子里，身边围绕着徘徊不去的阴魂，坐在神秘的古屋深处。”

“真怪，你怎么会想出这样一幅图画？不，没有什么阴魂。就算有，也一定是些善良的幽灵。我三天里三次幸免于惨遭横死，所以我觉得一定有一种冥冥中的神力在庇佑着我。”

波洛在椅子上挺起了身子。

“幸免于死？那倒是挺有意思的，小姐。”

“哦，倒也不是什么惊人的事儿，只是些意外事故，你知道。”她掉开头避开了一只飞过的黄蜂，“这些该死的黄蜂！这附近肯定有它们的巢。”

“啊，这些蜜蜂黄蜂什么的——你不喜欢它们吗，小姐？你大概被它们螫过了吧？”

“那倒没有。可是讨厌它们紧挨着你的脸大模大样飞过去的那股邪恶劲儿。”

“帽子里有一只蜜蜂，”波洛说，“这是你们英国人的说法。”

这时鸡尾酒送来了。我们举起酒杯，照例互相说些无聊的祝酒词，干了杯。

“我该到旅馆里去了，真的，”巴克利小姐说，“我猜他们一定在找我了。”

波洛清了清嗓子放下酒杯。

“嗨，如果有一杯美味的巧克力该多好！”他喃喃地说，“但是在英国，人们是做不出这种饮料的。不过英国人有些习惯倒也叫人看着觉得赏心悦目。比方说，女孩子们帽子的戴法怪有模有样的，而且这种戴法多么方便……”

姑娘看着他，说：

“我简直不懂你在说些什么，难道这样戴帽子不好吗？”

“你问这话是因为你很年轻，太年轻了，小姐。但我见得比较多的倒是那种老式的戴法：头发梳得又高又结实，帽子扣在上面，用一大堆别针从四面八方把它紧紧地别在头发上。”

他用手在头上比划着怎样用那些别针狠狠地把帽子和头发夹在一起。

“那多不舒服呀！”

“我倒不这么想，”波洛说。可是他说出来的话却说明他对那种发式的帽子的弊端了解得十分透彻，“不过一旦起了风可就遭罪了。要飞走的帽子靠了那些别针死死抓住你的头发，叫你像得了偏头痛似的。”

巴克利小姐取下她的宽边呢帽放在一旁，说：

“现在取下帽子才不费事哩。”

“所以我才深有感触，说话既简便又优雅。”波洛说着微微弯了弯腰。

我很有兴致地打量着她。她那乱蓬蓬的深棕色的头发使她看上去很淘气。其实她整个人都是一身调皮相。小小的脸蛋，丰富的表情，活像一朵猫脸花。那双深蓝色的大眼睛，还有其它一些只可意会不可言传的韵味，都具有勾魂摄魄的魅力。但当我看见她眼圈发黑，就暗自思忖，这会不会是轻浮的标志。

我们坐的地方是比较冷僻的。一般人都坐在正面大阳台上。那个大阳台就在海边峭壁上。现在那里出现了一个红脸汉子，他走起路来左摇右摆，两手半握着拳，满面春风，无忧无虑，一望而知是个吃航海饭的。

“我真想不出她跑到哪儿去了，”他说起话来声如洪钟，连我们都听到了，“尼克！尼克！”

巴克利小姐站了起来。

“我知道他们等急了。好小子——乔治！我在这儿呢！”

“弗雷迪想喝酒都快想疯了。来吧，姑娘！”

他边说边好奇地瞟了波洛一眼，大概觉得波洛一点都不像尼克的其他朋友，跟这么个老头有什么话可谈这么久的。

姑娘把手一伸，介绍说：

“这位是查林杰中校——呃——”

那姑娘在等波洛作自我介绍，但出我意料之外，波洛没有说出自己的姓名。他站起来客气地鞠了一躬，呐呐地说：

“英国海军里的！我对英国海军素来敬仰备至。”

在人家请他介绍自己的时候却说出这些不伦不类的话来，真是唐突无礼。查林杰中校的脸更红了。尼克·巴克利马上扭转了僵局，说：

“来吧，乔治，别那么怪模怪样的。我们找弗雷迪和吉姆去吧。”

她对波洛笑道：

“谢谢你的鸡尾酒。但愿你的脚脖子快快痊愈。”

她对我点头一笑，挽着海员的胳膊走了。

“他是小姐的一个朋友，”波洛若有所思地说，“是她那些欢天喜地的伙伴中的一个。他是怎样的人呢？请你用专家的眼光判断一下，黑斯廷斯。他是不是人们可以称之为‘好人’的那种人？”

我迟疑了片刻，想弄清楚波洛所说的“好人”究竟是指哪一类人。后来我犹豫不决地同意了。

“他看起来好像并不坏，”我说，“一眼之下我也看不出什么名堂来。”

“不一定吧？”波洛说着弯下腰去把姑娘忘在这儿的那顶帽子拿了起来，心不在焉地用手指顶着它旋转。

“他对她很有意思吧？你是怎么想的，黑斯廷斯？”

“我亲爱的波洛！我怎么知道呢？来，把这顶帽子给我，让我去还给她。”

波洛没理我，继续慢慢地在指头上旋转那顶帽子，说道：

“他对她也许还没有什么意思，不过我倒要把这顶帽子留着玩玩。”

“真的吗，波洛？”

“是的，我的朋友。我老糊涂了，是吗？”

我觉得正是如此，只不过难于出口罢了。波洛嘻嘻一笑，用一个指头搔着鼻梁，凑过身来说：

“但是不对，我还不至于像你所想象的那么神志不清。我们要把这顶帽子还给她的，不过不是现在，还得过一会儿。我们要把它带到‘悬崖山庄’去。这样我们就有个借口可以再看看那位迷人的尼克小姐了。”

“波洛，”我说，“我觉得你堕入情网了。”

“她美得很，呃？”

“你自己看得见，何必问我？”

“因为我说不准。对我来说，现在凡是年轻的都是美的。啊，青春哪，青春……但你觉得怎样？其实你对于美的鉴赏力也不见得高明。你在阿根廷住得太久了。你欣赏的是五年前那一套，不过虽然过时也还是比我强，她很漂亮，是不是？男人和女人都会被她迷住的。”

“有个人就已被她迷得神魂颠倒的啦！波洛。”我说，“我这句话是一点儿也不会错的。你为什么对这个女子这么感兴趣？”

“我感兴趣了？”

“嘿，回味一下你自己刚才说的那些话吧。”

“你误会了，我的朋友。我对那位女郎可能是感兴趣，是的，但我对她的帽子更觉得兴味无穷。”

我困惑地看着他，但他显然不是在开玩笑。他对我点点头，把帽子向我递过来说：

“是呀，黑斯廷斯，就是这顶异乎寻常的帽子。你看得出我感兴趣的原因吗？”

“一顶挺好的帽子，”我说，“一顶普普通通的帽子。许多姑娘都戴这种帽子。”

“但不像这一顶！”

我更仔细地打量了这顶帽子。

“看出点什么了吗，黑斯廷斯？”

“……淡黄色的女帽，式样美观……”

“我不要你形容它。你还没看出来？简直叫人不能相信，我可怜的黑斯廷斯，你这双眼睛大概从来就没有派过用场，真叫我诧异。可是你注意看呀，我亲爱的老傻瓜，这并不需要动脑筋，用眼睛就行了。仔细看看——看呀——”

后来我总算看到了他要我看的东西。那顶帽子在他一个手指上慢慢地打转，而那个手指头插在帽子边沿上的一个小洞眼里。看到这个洞眼后，我明白了他的意思。他从洞里抽出手指，把帽子递给我。那是个小小的边缘整齐的圆洞，可我想不出这个小洞洞有什么含意——如果它真的有什么含意的话。

“尼克小姐讨厌黄蜂，哈哈，‘蜂逐花钿入云鬓’。真奇怪呀，黄蜂钻进了美人儿那芬芳的头发，在帽子上就留下了一个洞。”

“黄蜂是钻不出这样一个洞的。”

“啊，对极了，黑斯廷斯！我早就说过你是聪明绝顶的！蜂儿自然钻不出这样一个洞，但子弹却有这个本事，我的伙计。”

“子弹？”

“一点不错，像这样的一颗子弹。”

他伸出手来，掌心里有一样小东西。

“这是一颗打过的弹头，我的朋友。就是它，而不是小石子，当我们刚才在闲谈时打在阳台上的。一颗子弹！”

“你的意思是……”

“我的意思是只差一英寸，这个被子弹击穿的洞就不在帽子上而在她的脑袋上了。现在懂了吧，黑斯廷斯，我为什么这么感兴趣？我的朋友，你对我说不应当使用‘不可能’这个字眼，你说对了。是呀，人总是人。但那开枪的人犯了一个重大的错误：他居然胆敢在距离赫尔克里·波洛不到十二码的地方开枪杀人！对他来说，这是大失策！现在你总该明白我们为什么要到‘悬崖山庄’去看那位小姐了吧？三天里三次险些丧命，这是她自己说的。我们必须赶快行动，黑斯廷斯，危险已经迫在眉睫了！”