Chapter 2 – End House

'Poirot,' I said. 'I have been thinking.'

'An admirable exercise, my friend. Continue it.'

We were sitting facing each other at lunch at a small table in the window.

'This shot must have been fired quite close to us. And yet we did not hear it.'

'And you think that in the peaceful stillness, with the rippling waves the only sound, we should have done so?'

'Well, it's odd.'

'No, it is not odd. Some sounds-you get used to them so soon that you hardly notice they are there. All this morning, my friend, speedboats have been making trips in the bay. You complained at first-soon, you did not even notice. But, ma foi, you could fire a machine gun almost and not notice it when one of those boats is on the sea.'

'Yes, that's true.'

'Ah! voila,' murmured Poirot. 'Mademoiselle and her friends. They are to lunch here, it seems. And therefore I must return the hat. But no matter. The affair is sufficiently serious to warrant a visit all on its own.'

He leaped up nimbly from his seat, hurried across the room, and presented the hat with a bow just as Miss Buckley and her companions were seating themselves at table.

They were a party of four, Nick Buckley, Commander Challenger, another man and another girl. From where we sat we had a very imperfect view of them. From time to time the naval man's laugh boomed out. He seemed a simple, likeable soul, and I had already taken a fancy to him.

My friend was silent and distrait during our meal. He crumbled his bread, made strange little ejaculations to himself and straightened everything on the table. I tried to talk, but meeting with no encouragement soon gave up.

He continued to sit on at the table long after he had finished his cheese. As soon as the other party had left the room, however, he too rose to his feet. They were just settling themselves at a table in the lounge when Poirot marched up to them in his most military fashion, and addressed Nick directly.

'Mademoiselle, may I crave one little word with you.'

The girl frowned. I realized her feelings clearly enough. She was afraid that this queer little foreigner was going to be a nuisance. I could not but sympathize with her, knowing how it must appear in her eyes. Rather unwillingly, she moved a few steps aside.

Almost immediately I saw an expression of surprise pass over her face at the low hurried words Poirot was uttering.

In the meantime, I was feeling rather awkward and ill at ease. Challenger with ready tact came to my rescue, offering me a cigarette and making some commonplace observation. We had taken each other's measure and were inclined to be sympathetic to each other. I fancied that I was more his own kind than the man with whom he had been lunching. I now had the opportunity of observing the latter. A tall, fair, rather exquisite young man, with a rather fleshy nose and over-emphasized good looks. He had a supercilious manner and a tired drawl. There was a sleekness about him that I especially disliked.

Then I looked at the woman. She was sitting straight opposite me in a big chair and had just thrown off her hat. She was an unusual type-a weary Madonna describes it best. She had fair, almost colourless hair, parted in the middle and drawn straight down over her ears to a knot in the neck. Her face was dead white and emaciated-yet curiously attractive. Her eyes were very light grey with large pupils. She had a curious look of detachment. She was staring at me. Suddenly she spoke.

'Sit down-till your friend has finished with Nick.'

She had an affected voice, languid and artificial-yet which had a curious attraction-a kind of resonant lingering beauty. She impressed me, I think, as the most tired person I had ever met. Tired in mind, not in body, as though she had found everything in the world to be empty and valueless.

'Miss Buckley very kindly helped my friend when he twisted his ankle this morning,' I explained as I accepted her offer.

'So Nick said.' Her eyes considered me, still detachedly. 'Nothing wrong with his ankle now, is there?'

I felt myself blushing.

'Just a momentary sprain,' I explained.

'Oh! well-I'm glad to hear Nick didn't invent the whole thing. She's the most heaven-sent little liar that ever existed, you know. Amazing-it's quite a gift.'

I hardly knew what to say. My discomfiture seemed to amuse her.

'She's one of my oldest friends,' she said, 'and I always think loyalty's such a tiresome virtue, don't you? Principally practised by the Scots-like thrift and keeping the Sabbath. But Nick is a liar, isn't she, Jim? That marvellous story about the brakes of the car-and Jim says there was nothing in it at all.'

The fair man said in a soft rich voice: 'I know something about cars.'

He half turned his head. Outside amongst other cars was a long, red car. It seemed longer and redder than any car could be. It had a long gleaming bonnet of polished metal. A super car!

'Is that your car?' I asked on a sudden impulse.

He nodded.

'Yes.'

I had an insane desire to say, 'It would be!'

Poirot rejoined us at that moment. I rose, he took me by the arm, gave a quick bow to the party, and drew me rapidly away.

'It is arranged, my friend. We are to call on Mademoiselle at End House at half-past six. She will be returned from the motoring by then. Yes, yes, surely she will have returned-in safety.'

His face was anxious and his tone was worried. 'What did you say to her?'

'I asked her to accord me an interview-as soon as possible. She was a little unwilling-naturally. She thinks-I can see the thoughts passing through her mind: 'Who is he-this little man? Is he the bounder, the upstart, the Moving Picture director?' If she could have refused she would-but it is difficult-asked like that on the spur of the moment it is easier to consent. She admits that she will be back by six-thirty. Qa y est!'

I remarked that that seemed to be all right then, but my remark met with little favour. Indeed Poirot was as jumpy as the proverbial cat. He walked about our sitting-room all the afternoon, murmuring to himself and ceaselessly rearranging and straightening the ornaments. When I spoke to him, he waved his hands and shook his head.

In the end we started out from the hotel at barely six o'clock.

'It seems incredible,' I remarked, as we descended the steps of the terrace. 'To attempt to shoot anyone in a hotel garden. Only a madman would do such a thing.'

'I disagree with you. Given one condition, it would be quite a reasonably safe affair. To begin with the garden is deserted. The people who come to hotels are like a flock of sheep. It is customary to sit on the terrace overlooking the bay-eh bien, so everyone sits on the terrace. Only, I who am an original, sit overlooking the garden. And even then, I saw nothing. There is plenty of cover, you observe-trees, groups of palms, flowering shrubs. Anyone could hide himself comfortably and be unobserved whilst he waited for Mademoiselle to pass this way. And she would come this way. To come round by the road from End House would be much longer. Mademoiselle Nick Buckley, she would be of those who are always late and taking the short cut!'

'All the same, the risk was enormous. He might have been seen-and you can't make shooting look like an accident.'

'Not like an accident -no.' 'What do you mean?'

'Nothing-a little idea. I may or may not be justified. Leaving it aside for a moment, there is what I mentioned just now-an essential condition.'

'Which is?'

'Surely you can tell me, Hastings.'

'I wouldn't like to deprive you of the pleasure of being clever at my expense!'

'Oh! the sarcasm! The irony! Well, what leaps to the eye is this: the motive cannot be obvious. If it were -why, then, truly the risk would indeed be too great to be taken! People would say: "I wonder if it were So-and-So. Where was So-and-So when the shot was fired?" No, the murderer-the would-be murderer, I should say-cannot be obvious. And that, Hastings is why I am afraid! Yes, at this minute I am afraid. I reassure myself. I say: "There are four of them." I say: "Nothing can happen when they are all together." I say: "It would be madness!" And all the time I am afraid. These "accidents"-I want to hear about them!'

He turned back abruptly.

'It is still early. We will go the other way by the road. The garden has nothing to tell us. Let us inspect the orthodox approach to End House.'

Our way led out of the front gate of the hotel and up a sharp hill to the right. At the top of it was a small lane with a notice on the wall: 'TO END HOUSE ONLY.'

We followed it and after a few hundred yards the lane gave an abrupt turn and ended in a pair of dilapidated entrance gates, which would have been the better for a coat of paint.

Inside the gates, to the right, was a small lodge. This lodge presented a piquant contrast to the gates and to the condition of the grass-grown drive. The small garden round it was spick and span, the window frames and sashes had been lately painted and there were clean bright curtains at the windows.

Bending over a flower-bed was a man in a faded Norfolk jacket. He straightened up as the gate creaked and turned to look at us. He was a man of about sixty, six foot at least, with a powerful frame and a weather-beaten face. His head was almost completely bald. His eyes were a vivid blue and twinkled. He seemed a genial soul.

'Good-afternoon,' he observed as we passed.

I responded in kind and as we went on up the drive I was conscious of those blue eyes raking our backs inquisitively.

'I wonder,' said Poirot, thoughtfully.

He left it at that without vouchsafing any explanation of what it was that he wondered.

The house itself was large and rather dreary looking. It was shut in by trees, the branches of which actually touched the roof. It was clearly in bad repair. Poirot swept it with an appraising glance before ringing the bell-an old-fashioned bell that needed a Herculean pull to produce any effect and which once started, echoed mournfully on and on.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman-'a decent woman in black'-so I felt she should be described. Very respectable, rather mournful, completely uninterested.

Miss Buckley, she said, had not yet returned. Poirot explained that we had an appointment. He had some little difficulty in gaining his point, she was the type that is apt to be suspicious of foreigners. Indeed I flatter myself that it was my appearance which turned the scale. We were admitted and ushered into the drawing-room to await Miss Buckley's return.

There was no mournful note here. The room gave on the sea and was full of sunshine. It was shabby and betrayed conflicting styles-ultra modern of a cheap variety superimposed on solid Victorian. The curtains were of faded brocade, but the covers were new and gay and the cushions were positively hectic. On the walls were hung family portraits. Some of them, I thought, looked remarkably good. There was a gramophone and there were some records lying idly about. There were a portable wireless, practically no books, and one newspaper flung open on the end of the sofa. Poirot picked it up-then laid it down with a grimace. It was the St Loo Weekly Herald and Directory. Something impelled him to pick it up a second time, and he was glancing at a column when the door opened and Nick Buckley came into the room.

'Bring the ice, Ellen,' she called over her shoulder, then addressed herself to us.

'Well, here I am-and I've shaken off the others. I'm devoured with curiosity. Am I the long-lost heroine that is badly wanted for the Talkies? You were so very solemn'-she addressed herself to Poirot-'that I feel it can't be anything else. Do make me a handsome offer.'

'Alas! Mademoiselle-' began Poirot.

'Don't say it's the opposite,' she begged him. 'Don't say you paint miniatures and want me to buy one. But no-with that moustache and staying at the Majestic, which has the nastiest food and the highest prices in England-no, it simply can't be.'

The woman who had opened the door to us came into the room with ice and a tray of bottles. Nick mixed cocktails expertly, continuing to talk. I think at last Poirot's silence (so unlike him) impressed itself upon her. She stopped in the very act of filling the glasses and said sharply: 'Well?'

'That is what I wish it to be-well, Mademoiselle.' He took the cocktail from her hand. 'To your good health, Mademoiselle-to your continued good health.'

The girl was no fool. The significance of his tone was not lost on her. 'Is-anything the matter?' 'Yes, Mademoiselle. This...'

He held out his hand to her with the bullet on the palm of it. She picked it up with a puzzled frown.

'You know what that is?'

'Yes, of course I know. It's a bullet.'

'Exactly. Mademoiselle-it was not a wasp that flew past your face this morning-it was this bullet.'

'Do you mean-was some criminal idiot shooting bullets in a hotel garden?' 'It would seem so.'

'Well, I'm damned,' said Nick frankly. 'I do seem to bear a charmed life. That's number four.'

'Yes,' said Poirot. 'That is number four. I want, Mademoiselle, to hear about the other three-accidents.'

She stared at him.

'I want to be very sure, Mademoiselle, that they were-accidents.'

'Why, of course! What else could they be?'

'Mademoiselle, prepare yourself, I beg, for a great shock. What if someone is attempting your life?'

All Nick's response to this was a burst of laughter. The idea seemed to amuse her hugely.

'What a marvellous idea! My dear man, who on earth do you think would attempt my life? I'm not the beautiful young heiress whose death releases millions. I wish somebody was trying to kill me-that would be a thrill, if you like-but I'm afraid there's not a hope!'

'Will you tell me, Mademoiselle, about those accidents?'

'Of course-but there's nothing in it. They were just stupid things. There's a heavy picture hangs over my bed. It fell in the night. Just by pure chance I had happened to hear a door banging somewhere in the house and went down to find it and shut it-and so I escaped. It would probably have bashed my head in. That's No. 1.'

Poirot did not smile.

'Continue, Mademoiselle. Let us pass to No. 2.'

'Oh, that's weaker still. There's a scrambly cliff path down to the sea. I go down that way to bathe. There's a rock you can dive off. A boulder got dislodged somehow and came roaring down just missing me. The third thing was quite different. Something went wrong with the brakes of the car-I don't know quite what-the garage man explained, but I didn't follow it. Anyway if I'd gone through the gate and down the hill, they wouldn't have held and I suppose I'd have gone slap into the Town Hall and there would have been the devil of a smash. Slight defacement of the Town Hall, complete obliteration of me. But owing to my always leaving something behind, I turned back and merely ran into the laurel hedge.'

'And you cannot tell me what the trouble was?'

'You can go and ask them at Mott's Garage. They'll know. It was something quite simple and mechanical that had been unscrewed, I think. I wondered if Ellen's boy (my stand-by who opened the door to you, has got a small boy) had tinkered with it. Boys do like messing about with cars. Of course Ellen swore he'd never been near the car. I think something must just have worked loose in spite of what Mott said.'

'Where is your garage, Mademoiselle?'

'Round the other side of the house.'

'Is it kept locked?'

Nick's eyes widened in surprise.

'Oh! no. Of course not.'

'Anyone could tamper with the car unobserved?'

'Well-yes-I suppose so. But it's so silly.'

'No, Mademoiselle. It is not silly. You do not understand. You are in danger-grave danger. I tell it to you. I! And you do not know who I am?'

'No.' said Nick, breathlessly.

'I am Hercule Poirot.'

'Oh!' said Nick, in rather a flat tone. 'Oh, yes.'

'You know my name, eh?'

'Oh, yes.'

She wriggled uncomfortably. A hunted look came into her eyes. Poirot observed her keenly.

'You are not at ease. That means, I suppose, that you have not read my books.' 'Well-no-not all of them. But I know the name, of course.'

'Mademoiselle, you are a polite little liar.' (I started, remembering the words spoken at the Majestic Hotel that day after lunch.) 'I forget-you are only a child-you would not have heard. So quickly does fame pass. My friend there-he will tell you.'

Nick looked at me. I cleared my throat, somewhat embarrassed. 'Monsieur Poirot is-er-was-a great detective,' I explained.

'Ah! my friend,' cried Poirot. 'Is that all you can find to say? Mais dis donc! Say then to Mademoiselle that I am a detective unique, unsurpassed, the greatest that ever lived!'

'That is now unnecessary,' I said coldly. 'You have told her yourself.'

'Ah, yes, but it is more agreeable to have been able to preserve the modesty. One should not sing one's own praises.'

'One should not keep a dog and have to bark oneself,' agreed Nick, with mock sympathy. 'Who is the dog, by the way? Dr Watson, I presume.'

'My name is Hastings,' I said coldly.

'Battle of-1066,' said Nick. 'Who said I wasn't educated? Well, this is all too, too marvellous! Do you think someone really wants to do away with me? It would be thrilling. But, of course, that sort of thing doesn't really happen. Only in books. I expect Monsieur Poirot is like a surgeon who's invented an operation or a doctor who's found an obscure disease and wants everyone to have it.'

'Sacre tonnerre!' thundered Poirot. 'Will you be serious? You young people of today, will nothing make you serious? It would not have been a joke, Mademoiselle, if you had been lying in the hotel garden a pretty little corpse with a nice little hole through your head instead of your hat. You would not have laughed then-eh?'

'Unearthly laughter heard at a seance,' said Nick. 'But seriously, M. Poirot-it's very kind of you and all that-but the whole thing must be an accident.'

'You are as obstinate as the devil!'

'That's where I got my name from. My grandfather was popularly supposed to have sold his soul to the devil. Everyone round here called him Old Nick. He was a wicked old man-but great fun. I adored him. I went everywhere with him and so they called us Old Nick and Young Nick. My real name is Magdala.'

'That is an uncommon name.'

'Yes, it's a kind of family one. There have been lots of Magdalas in the Buckley family. There's one up there.'

She nodded at a picture on the wall.

'Ah!' said Poirot. Then looking at a portrait hanging over the mantelpiece, he said: 'Is that your grandfather, Mademoiselle?'

'Yes, rather an arresting portrait, isn't it? Jim Lazarus offered to buy it, I wouldn't sell. I've got an affection for Old Nick.'

'Ah!' Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said very earnestly: 'Revenons a nos moutons. Listen, Mademoiselle. I implore you to be serious. You are in danger. Today, somebody shot at you with a Mauser pistol-'

'A Mauser pistol?-'

For a moment she was startled.

'Yes, why? Do you know of anyone who has a Mauser pistol?'

She smiled.

'I've got one myself.'

'You have?'

'Yes-it was Dad's. He brought it back from the War. It's been knocking round here ever since. I saw it only the other day in that drawer.'

She indicated an old-fashioned bureau. Now, as though suddenly struck by an idea, she crossed to it and pulled the drawer open. She turned rather blankly. Her voice held a new note.

'Oh!' she said. 'It's-it's gone.'

第二章　悬崖山庄

“波洛，”我说，“我一直在想……”

“想是一种应当大力提倡的运动，继续想下去吧。”

我们面对面地坐在窗口一张小桌子上吃午饭。

“这一枪是在离我们很近的地方打的，但我们怎么没听见呢？”

“你认为在除了海涛拍岸之外似乎什么声响都没有的环境里，这一枪声应当使我们俩一起跳起来？”

“是啊，很奇怪。”

“不，并不奇怪。有些声音你听惯之后根本就不会感觉到这种声音的存在。今天整个上午那些赛艇都在下面海湾里东冲西闯，闹声连天。刚开始你烦得要命，但很快就习惯了，置若罔闻。这些赛艇只要有一艘在海湾里开，开手枪的声音就不易被人察觉。”

“这倒也是。”

“啊，看，”波洛轻声说道，“小姐和她的朋友们！他们像是要到这儿来吃午饭了。这一来我不得不把帽子还给她了。不过没关系，还了帽子我依然可以到她家去看她的。”

他敏捷地站了起来，匆匆穿过餐厅，在他们刚刚围着桌子坐下的时候把帽子还给了她，还风度翩翩地鞠了一躬。

他们一共四人。尼克·巴克利、查林杰中校，还有另外一男一女。从我们坐的地方不大看得清他们，但不时听到那个海军军官放声大笑。他好像是个开朗快活的人，我对他已经有了好感。

吃饭时，我的朋友心不在焉地沉默着。他把面包撕成小块，自言自语地发出一些奇怪的轻呼声，还下意识地把桌上的每样东西摆得井井有条。我打算跟他谈话，他却没有反应。我只好作罢。

吃完了奶酪，他又坐了很久。但那四位一离开餐室，他也马上站了起来。他们走进休息室，刚在桌旁坐下，波洛就以他最出色的军人风度走过去，直截了当地对尼克说：

“小姐，我是否可以和你说几句话？”

姑娘皱起眉头。我觉得她无疑感到厌烦，怕这个形迹可疑的外国佬纠缠不休。她很不情愿地走到了一旁。

在波洛跟她说话的当儿，我见她脸上突然现出惊异的表情。同时我却浑身不自在。幸亏老练豁达的查林杰把我救出了尴尬的处境。他过来请我抽烟并闲聊了几句。我们互相看看，彼此都觉得满意。我感到查林杰和与他同桌吃饭的那个男人不大合得来，还是跟我更为融洽一些。现在我有机会来端详一下与查林杰同桌的那个男子了。他是个高个子、黄头发、大鼻子、白皮肤的青年，可以算得上是个美男子。他老是卖弄着懒散倦怠的傲慢风度。我尤其不喜欢他那种对什么都装出不屑一顾的神情。

然后我的视线又移到旁边的那位女士身上。她面对着我坐在一张大椅子里，刚刚扔下她的帽子。她不是我们常见的那种女郎。她的外貌其实不用形容，你只要想象一下圣母马利亚的无精打采的塑像就行了。一头淡得几乎发白的黄头发从中间分开，垂下来遮出两只耳朵，在颈部漫不经心地挽了个结。苍白憔悴的双颊配上一双瞳仁很大的浅灰色的眼睛，倒也自有一种妩媚。她脸上有一种万念俱灰的淡漠的神情，像是冰从眼睛一直结到了心底。

她凝视着我，突然开口了：

“坐下——坐到你的朋友跟尼克把话讲完。”

她的语气忧郁做作，但她的音调缠绵悱恻，倒是怪吸引人的。这位女士几乎可以算是我所遇见过的最委顿的人了——不是指体力而是指心灵。她好像觉得世上一切都是空虚的，既无意义，也无价值。

“今天中午，当我的朋友扭伤了脚的时候，她帮了很大的忙。”我坐下时这么说。

“尼克告诉过我，”她眼神恍惚地看着我，“他的脚好些了没有？”

我觉得脸上有些发热，解释说：“只不过蹩了一下而已。”

“哦，这样说来尼克这次说的倒是真话。你知道吗，她是个天字第一号的说谎专家。真叫人奇怪——无中生有也是招待朋友的一种办法。”

我无话可说了。她像是觉得我的窘态很好玩，就接着说：

“尼克是我的老朋友。我总感到诚实是一种难能可贵的美德。你说呢？像苏格兰人似地省吃俭用、循规蹈矩多不容易呀。可尼克多会撒谎，吉姆，你说是吗？什么关于汽车刹车失灵的耸人听闻的故事……吉姆说压根儿就没有这么回事。”

那淡黄头发的年轻人用一种温柔而响亮的声音说：

“我是懂得汽车结构的。”

他侧过头去。外面，在其它许多汽车当中停着一辆车身颀长的红色轿车，它比其它随便哪辆车身都长，颜色也红得别具一格，的确是一辆呱呱叫的小轿车。

“那是你的车吗？”我信口问道。

他点点头：“是的。”

我酸溜溜地加上一句：“是啊，像这样一辆轿车除了你还会是谁的呢？”

这时波洛走了过来。我刚站起来他就拉着我的膀子对大家很快地鞠了一躬，把我拖走了。

“约好了，我的朋友。我们将在六点半钟到悬崖山庄去拜访那位小姐。到那时她会回去的。嗯，是的，她肯定会回去的——平平安安地回到家里的。”

他神色忧虑，说话的口气也显得十分不安。

“你对她说了些什么？”

“我要求她安排一次会晤，越快越好。当然她不太乐意。她肯定在想——我看得出她在这样想：‘他是什么人？这男的到底是谁？一个肖像画家？一个暴发户？还是个电影导演？’她想要拒绝我——但又不好意思出口，因为突如其来地提出的要求叫她难以应付。她答应在六点半回到悬崖山庄去。一切顺利！”

剩下要做的只是等待。波洛真是没有片刻安宁。整个下午他自言自语地在我们的起居间里踱来踱去，周而复始地把屋里各种小摆设移来移去，弄出种种新花样。我想跟他谈话时，他就向我又是摆手又是摇头。

好容易捱到六点，我们便离开了旅馆。

“简直不可思议，”当我们走下旅馆的台阶时我这么说，“竟企图在旅馆的花园里开枪杀人！只有疯子才会干出这种事来。”

“我倒颇不以为然，”波洛说，“这个花园相当荒芜，游客们又全都像一群羊似的喜欢坐在大阳台上眺望海湾，因此在花园里干这种勾当很安全。嘿，只有我——与众不同的赫尔克里·波洛却坐在冷僻的小阳台上欣赏花园！遗憾的是即便如此我还是没能看见开枪的人。有许多东西挡住了我的视线——树呀、棕榈呀、开满了花的灌木呀什么的。随便什么人在等待小姐经过的时候都可以十分安全地隐藏起来。而且尼克小姐一定会走这条路的，因为从山庄到旅馆的正路要远得多。这位小姐是这样一种人，她老是姗姗来迟，然后不得不抄近路。”

“反正不管怎么说，这么干对于凶手来说是很危险的，可能被人看见。况且你总不见得有办法使枪杀看起来像一次偶然事故。”

“偶然事故？不，不像偶然事故，但可能会像别的……”

“你的意思是——”

“没什么。我有个想法，但也可能不对，且不去说它。我认为，这次枪杀说明那个罪犯具有一个主要的有利条件。”

“什么条件？”

“你自然是明知故问罗，黑斯廷斯。”

“我是不会使你丧失拿我取乐的机会的。”

“啊，你话里带刺好了！你挖苦我好了！不过我不介意。瞧，有一点是很清楚的：罪犯的动机一定不明显。否则这样莽撞行事就未免太冒险了。人们会说：‘我怀疑是某某人干的。开枪时某某人在什么地方？’由此可见，这个凶手——我应当说是未遂凶手——的动机一定隐藏得很深，因此不容易或者说不可能怀疑到凶手身上。而这，黑斯廷斯，就是我所担心的。是啊，此时此刻我就十分提心吊胆。我安慰自己说：‘他们有四个人，他们都在一起时什么事也不会发生的。’我说，‘要是还会出事，就真的只能是疯子干的了。’但我还是放心不下。这些‘偶然事故’还没完呢。”

突然他转过身来说：

“还早呢，我们走另外那条路吧。在花园里的小路上我们不会再发现什么的。让我们看一看到悬崖山庄去的正路吧。”

我们沿大路走出旅馆正门，向右转上了一座陡峭小山丘。小山顶上有条小路，路旁的山石上写道：“此路仅通悬崖山庄。”

沿这条小路走了几百码以后，小路突然一弯，眼前就出现了两扇久经失修、破败不堪的大门。门内右边有一所门房小屋，这所小屋同那两扇大门以及荒草满径的小道形成鲜明的对比。它周围的小花园是得到精心照料的，生气勃勃，洋溢着香味。小屋的窗框和窗棂都是新近油漆的，窗上还挂着清洁的浅色窗帘。

花床上有一个身穿诺福克上衣的人正弯腰干活。听见大门的吱嘎声他直起身来回头看看我们。这是个年近花甲的人，至少有六英尺高，他几乎完全秃了顶，但还魁梧有力；饱经风霜的脸上有一双炯炯有神的天蓝色眼睛，看上去忠厚慈祥。

“下午好！”当我们从他身旁走过时他这样招呼道。

我照样回答了一声，同波洛一起沿着小径继续往前走，可是却感觉那双天蓝色的眼睛一直在好奇地打量着我们的背影。

“我在想。”波洛心事重重地说。可是他没告诉我他在想什么。那句话就这么开了个头，就算是说完了。

我们面前的这所悬崖山庄是一所又大又阴沉的房子，被浓密的树荫包围着。那些树枝几乎伸进屋顶也没人管。波洛把房子从外面打量了一番，就去拉门上的拉铃。要把铃拉响可不是件轻而易举的事，得花上九牛二虎之力才行。但一旦被你拉响了，它那凄凉的回声便在深宅里徘徊徜徉，经久不息。

出来开门的是个中年妇人。我想应当这样来描写她：一位浑身缁衣的端庄妇人，令人尊敬，但却又哀愁满面，毫无生趣。

她说巴克利小姐还没回来。波洛解释说我们跟小姐是有约在先的。为了说明这件事他很费了一番口舌，因为她是那种对一切外国人深具戒心的女人。我确实满可以得意一下，因为我不是外国人，而我的在场帮了波洛不少忙。我们被让进客厅，坐等巴克利小姐归来。

这间客厅里倒没有那种凄凉味儿。它面向大海，阳光充足。房间布置得不伦不类，捉襟见肘的窘态一目了然：最时新的廉价小玩意儿与维多利亚时代古色古香的笨重家具相映成趣。当年华美的缎子窗帘已经发脆，在风里飘动起来虽然依旧仪态万方，但发出的声音却叫人听了不由得要为它们的寿命担些心事。椅子上的坐垫套全是新做的，色彩绚丽夺目，可是坐垫本身却七拼八凑，没有两只是一样的。墙上挂着许多幅家庭成员的肖像画。我觉得有几位祖宗看上去温文尔雅、大有古风。房间里有台留声机，唱片东一张西一张随意乱放。还有一台手提收音机脸朝下躺在沙发上，里头还叽哩咕噜地发出些莫名其妙的声音，像个爱发牢骚的老头独自在生闷气。房间里东西不少，就是找不到一本书。一张报纸摊开在沙发上。波洛把它捡了起来，皱皱眉头又扔下了。这是《圣卢周报》。报上有什么东西使得他又把它重新捡起来。正当他看报的时候门开了。尼克·巴克利走了进来。

“拿冷饮来，埃伦。”她回头喊了一声，然后跟我们打了招呼。

“我来了——甩开了那几位，我好奇心很重。你说，我会不会是个人家踏破铁鞋无觅处的电影明星？你不以为然吗？”她对波洛说，真的把他当成了电影导演。“但我觉得当个电影里的女主角，做了电影明星，才是老天爷把我派到这个世界上来的目的。你给我一个机会试试吧。”

“哎呀，小姐……”波洛刚要开始解释，又被她打断了。

“可别是你倒想叫我给你一个机会吧？”她的声音近于恳求了。“别对我说你画了些小玩意儿要我买一幅。不过不会的，一个长着如此威严的胡须，住在全英国价钱最贵而饭菜最劣的美琪旅馆的人，决不会是个画画的。”

那位给我们开门的仪态端庄的妇人，拿着冰和一些酒瓶进来了。尼克熟练地调起了鸡尾酒，边调边絮絮不休。最后大约她察觉到波洛不寻常的沉默，就突然放下鸡尾酒问道：

“喂，怎么啦？”

“我但愿你平安无事，小姐，”他从她手中接过鸡尾酒，“为了你的健康，小姐，为了你还继续健康下去，干杯！”

那姑娘并非傻瓜，她听出了波洛的弦外之音。

“怎么，会出什么事吗？”

“嗯，小姐，你看——”

他把那颗子弹放在掌心里给她看。她蹙起眉头把它拿了起来。

“你知道这是什么吗？”

“当然知道，这是子弹。”

“一点不错，小姐。这就是今天上午从你耳边飞过的黄蜂之一。”

“你是不是说，今天有个白痴在旅馆的花园里向我开枪？”

“好像是这么回事。”

“那么，我可以起誓。”尼克肯定地说，“我的确生活在神灵的庇佑之下。这是第四次了。”

“是的。”波洛说，“这是第四次。小姐，我想请你谈谈另外三次的情形，可以吗？”

她怔怔地看着波洛。

“小姐，我要弄明白它们究竟是不是偶然事故。”

“当然是的啰。不然，是什么呢？”

“小姐，你得有所提防，我恳求你。你要遭大难了。有人想暗算你呢。”

听了这话尼克乐得大笑了一阵。她像是觉得这个说法十分有趣。

“多新鲜的想法！我亲爱的先生，竟会有什么人来暗算我？我又不是百万富翁的继承人。我倒希望真的会有人在想方设法谋害我，那才够味儿呢。但我怕没这个福气。”

“小姐，请你告诉我那些事故好吗？”

“当然可以，但没有什么说头，都是些无聊的事。我床头上挂着一幅很笨重的带框架的图画，它在夜里突然掉了下来。要不是我刚巧下楼去关一扇被风吹得乒乓作响的门，这下子准会砸得我脑浆迸裂。这是第一次。”

波洛脸上一丝笑意都没有。

“说下去，小姐。第二次呢？”

“哦，第二次更不值一提。那边有一堵峭壁，峭壁上有条极陡的小路通到下面的大海。我沿那条小路下去，到海里去游泳。海边有一块礁石可以用来跳水。我刚下到海边，峭壁顶上一块大石头忽然松动了，直滚下来，差点打中我。

“第三次就不同了。我汽车的刹车出了毛病——我不清楚是什么毛病——修车工人告诉过我，但我不懂。反正如果我把汽车开出大门，驶下那座小山，由于没有刹车，汽车就会失去控制，一直撞到山下的镇议会大厅上去，连车带人撞得粉碎。议会大厅的外墙会撞得不成样子，我呢，自然也就一命呜呼了。幸好我出门时老是把东西忘在家里。在我还没开到小山顶上就掉转头开回来取东西，结果仅仅冲进了那些月桂篱笆。”

“你说不出是什么零件出了故障？”

“你可以去问莫特先生车行里的人，他们知道。大概是个什么螺丝松了吧。我不知道埃伦的男孩子（埃伦就是给你们开门的那位妇人，她是我的佣人）是否动过我的车，因为男孩子是顶喜欢摆弄汽车的。当然，埃伦赌咒发誓地说他没走近过汽车。我想一定是车子用久了没有好好维修之故。”

“你的车库在哪儿，小姐？”

“就在这所房子的另一边。”

“上锁吗？”

尼克眼里露出惊奇的神色。

“上锁？干吗要上锁呀？”

“随便什么人都可以去摆弄你的车而不会被发现？”

“是吧，我想是这样的。不过谁会去做这种蠢事？”

“不，小姐，不是蠢事。你不明白，你正处在危险之中——极大的危险，我告诉你。我！你可知道我是谁？”

“不知道，”尼克屏住了气说。

“我是赫尔克里·波洛！”

“哦，”尼克无动于衷，“哦，是的。”

“你听说过我的名字吗？呃？”

“啊……听说过。”

她不自在地扭动了一下，眼里流露出不安的神色。这一切波洛看得清清楚楚。

“你不自在了。这就是说，我猜，你还没看过我的书。”

“嗯，是的，没有全部看过，但我当然知道这个名字。”

“小姐，你是个有礼貌的小骗人精（我听后吃了一惊，记起了在旅馆里同她朋友的谈话）。我忘了，你还只是个孩子——你还没有听到过我的名字。名气哪会传得那么快！我的朋友会告诉你我是谁的。”

尼克看着我。我咳嗽了一声，觉得怪别扭的。

“波洛先生是——嗯——是一位大侦探家。”我解释说。

“嗨，我的朋友，”波洛叫道，“难道你只有这么几个字好说吗？讲下去呀，你应当对小姐说，我是空前绝后的、绝无仅有的、料事如神的最伟大的侦探家！”

“现在不用我来讲了，”我冷冷地说，“你自己全说了出来。”

“哦，当然，一个人总还是谦虚点好。赞歌应当让别人来唱才有意思。”

“一个人养了条狗就应当让狗去叫而不要自己叫个不停。”尼克讥讽地表示同意，“那么谁是狗的角色呢？大概是华生医生吧？”

“我的名字叫黑斯廷斯。”我板着脸说。

“一○六六年那次战役就叫黑斯廷斯之战，”尼克说，“谁说我不学无术？不过今天的事儿太叫人费解了。你认为真的有人要杀我吗？这倒叫人不可思议，不过这种事不会真的发生，那只有小说书里才有。我觉得波洛先生活像一个发明了一种新手术的外科医生，急于一试，或者像个发现了一种前所未有的疾病而希望大家一患为快的内科大夫。”

“简直不像话，”波洛大声说，“你严肃些好不好？现时你们这些年轻人把什么都当成儿戏，但现在不是开玩笑的时候，小姐。如果你头上被精巧地凿了个小洞，变成一具美丽可爱的尸体躺在旅馆花园里的话，你可就笑不起来了。呃？”

尼克说：“但说真的，波洛先生，你对我真好，不过这些事情都只能是些偶然发生的意外事故。”

“你像魔鬼一样顽固不化！”

“这正是我名字的来由。我祖父老是说他把灵魂卖给了魔鬼，人们都叫他老尼克。他是个糟老头子，但很滑稽。我崇拜他，跟着他到处跑，因此他们叫他老尼克，叫我小尼克。我的真名是玛格黛勒。”

“这是个少见的名字。”

“是的。但我们姓巴克利的有好几个人叫玛格黛勒。喏，那里就有一个。”她朝墙上许多画像中的一幅点了点头。

“哦，”波洛对那些画像瞟了一眼，又看着壁炉架上方的一幅问道：“那是不是你祖父，小姐？”

“是的。这幅画很引人注目，对吧？吉姆·拉扎勒斯要买它，可我不卖。我很爱老尼克。”

波洛沉默了片刻之后很认真地说：

“言归正传。听着，小姐。我求你严肃些。你正处于危险之中。今天有人用毛瑟手枪向你射击——”

“毛瑟手枪？”她吃了一惊。

“是的。怎么？你知道什么人有毛瑟手枪吗？”

她笑了。

“我自己就有一枝。”

“你有？”

“是的。是我爸爸的。他把它从战场上带回来以后随处乱扔。前几天我看见它在那只抽屉里。”

她指了指一张老式写字台，接着好像想起什么似的走过去拉开抽屉。她显得迷茫困惑，连声音也变了：

“咦，它——不见了。”