Chapter 13 – Letters

Having successfully got rid of Ellen, Poirot turned a somewhat thoughtful face towards me.

'I wonder now-did she hear those shots? I think she did. She heard them, she opened the kitchen door. She heard Nick rush down the stairs and out, and she herself came into the hall to find out what had happened. That is natural enough. But why did she not go out and watch the fireworks that evening? That is what I should like to know, Hastings.'

'What was your idea in asking about a secret hiding place?'

'A mere fanciful idea that, after all, we might not have disposed of J.'

'J?'

'Yes. The last person on my list. The problematical outsider. Supposing for some reason connected with Ellen, that J. had come to the house last night. He (I assume a he) conceals himself in a secret chamber in this room. A girl passes through whom he takes to be Nick. He follows her out-and shoots her. Non-c'est idiot! And anyway, we know that there is no hiding place. Ellen's decision to remain in the kitchen last night was a pure hazard. Come, let us search for the will of Mademoiselle Nick.'

There were no papers in the drawing-room. We adjourned to the library, a rather dark room looking out on the drive. Here there was a large old-fashioned walnut bureau-writing-table.

It took us some time to go through it. Everything was in complete confusion. Bills and receipts were mixed up together. Letters of invitation, letters pressing for payment of accounts, letters from friends.

'We will arrange these papers,' said Poirot, sternly, 'with order and method.'

He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly sorted, docketed and filed.

'C'est bien, ca. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.'

'No, indeed. Not that there's been much to find.' 'Except possibly this.'

He tossed across a letter. It was written in large sprawling handwriting, almost indecipherable.

'Darling,-Party was too, too marvellous. Feel rather a worm today. You were wise not to touch that stuff-don't ever start, darling. It's too damned hard to give up. I'm writing the boy friend to hurry up the supply. What Hell life is!

'Yours, 'Freddie.'

'Dated last February,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'She takes drugs, of course, I knew that as soon as I looked at her.'

'Really? I never suspected such a thing.'

'It is fairly obvious. You have only to look at her eyes. And then there are her extraordinary variations of mood. Sometimes she is all on edge, strung up-sometimes she is lifeless-inert.'

'Drug-taking affects the moral sense, does it not?'

'Inevitably. But I do not think Madame Rice is a real addict. She is at the beginning-not the end.'

'And Nick?'

'There are no signs of it. She may have attended a dope party now and then for fun, but she is no taker of drugs.'

'I'm glad of that.'

I remembered suddenly what Nick had said about Frederica: that she was not always herself. Poirot nodded and tapped the letter he held.

'This is what she was referring to, undoubtedly. Well, we have drawn the blank, as you say, here. Let us go up to Mademoiselle's room.'

There was a desk in Nick's room also, but comparatively little was kept in it. Here again, there was no sign of a will. We found the registration book of her car and a perfectly good dividend warrant of a month back. Otherwise there was nothing of importance.

Poirot sighed in an exasperated fashion.

'The young girls-they are not properly trained nowadays. The order, the method, it is left out of their bringing up. She is charming, Mademoiselle Nick, but she is a feather-head. Decidedly, she is a feather-head.'

He was now going through the contents of a chest of drawers.

'Surely, Poirot,' I said, with some embarrassment, 'those are underclothes.'

He paused in surprise.

'And why not, my friend?'

'Don't you think-I mean-we can hardly-'

He broke into a roar of laughter.

'Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The camisole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?'

'I don't see any need for what you are doing.'

'Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight-where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?'

He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.

'The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.'

Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.

'Poirot,' I cried, scandalized. 'You really can't do that. It isn't playing the game.'

'I am not playing a game, mon ami.' His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. 'I am hunting down a murderer.'

'Yes, but private letters-'

'May have nothing to tell me-on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.'

I did not like it. Still I realized that in Poirot's position he could not afford to be squeamish, and I consoled myself by the quibble that Nick's last word had been, 'Look at anything you like.'

The letters spread over several dates, beginning last winter. New Year's Day.

'Darling,-The New Year is in and I'm making good resolutions. It seems too wonderful to be true-that you should actually love me. You've made all the difference to my life. I believe we both knew-from the very first moment we met. Happy New Year, my lovely girl.

'Yours for ever, Michael.' February 8th.

'Dearest Love,-How I wish I could see you more often. This is pretty rotten, isn't it? I hate all this beastly concealment, but I explained to you how things are. I know how much you hate lies and concealment. I do too. But honestly, it might upset the whole apple cart. Uncle Matthew has got an absolute bee in his bonnet about early marriages and the way they wreck a man's career. As though you could wreck mine, you dear angel!

'Cheer up, darling. Everything will come right.

'Yours,

'Michael.'

March 2nd.

'I oughtn't to write to you two days running, I know. But I must. When I was up yesterday I thought of you. I flew over Scarborough. Blessed, blessed, blessed Scarborough-the most wonderful place in the world. Darling, you don't know how I love you!

'Yours, 'Michael.' April 18th.

'Dearest,-The whole thing is fixed up. Definitely. If I pull this off (and I shall pull it off) I shall be able to take a firm line with Uncle Matthew-and if he doesn't like it-well, what do I care? It's adorable of you to be so interested in my long technical descriptions of the Albatross. How I long to take you up in her. Some day! Don't, for goodness' sake, worry about me. The thing isn't half so risky as it sounds. I simply couldn't get killed now that I know you care for me. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. Trust your Michael.'

April 20th.

'You Angel,-Every word you say is true and I shall treasure that letter always. I'm not half good enough for you. You are so different from everybody else. I adore you.

'Your

'Michael.'

The last was undated.

'Dearest,-Well-I'm off tomorrow. Feeling tremendously keen and excited and absolutely certain of success. The old Albatrossis all tuned up. She won't let me down.

'Cheer up, sweetheart, and don't worry. There's a risk, of course, but all life's a risk really. By the way, somebody said I ought to make a will (tactful fellow-but he meant well), so I have-on a half sheet of notepaper-and sent it to old Whitfield. I'd no time to go round there. Somebody once told me that a man made a will of three words, "All to Mother", and it was legal all right. My will was rather like that-I remembered your name was really Magdala, which was clever of me! A couple of the fellows witnessed it.'

'Don't take all this solemn talk about wills to heart, will you? (I didn't mean that pun. An accident.) I shall be as right as rain. I'll send you telegrams from India and Australia and so on. And keep up heart. It's going to be all right. See?'

'Good night and God bless you,

'Michael.'

Poirot folded the letters together again.

'You see, Hastings? I had to read them-to make sure. It is as I told you.'

'Surely you could have found out some other way?'

'No, mon cher, that is just what I could not do. It had to be this way. We have now some very valuable evidence.'

'In what way?'

'We now know that the fact of Michael's having made a will in favour of Mademoiselle Nick is actually recorded in writing. Anyone who had read those letters would know the fact. And with letters carelessly hidden like that, anyone could read them.'

'Ellen?'

'Ellen, almost certainly, I should say. We will try a little experiment on her before passing out.'

'There is no sign of the will.'

'No, that is curious. But in all probability it is thrown on top of a bookcase, or inside a china jar. We must try to awaken Mademoiselle's memory on that point. At any rate, there is nothing more to be found here.'

Ellen was dusting the hall as we descended.

Poirot wished her good morning very pleasantly as we passed. He turned back from the front door to say: 'You knew, I suppose, that Miss Buckley was engaged to the airman, Michael Seton?'

She stared.

'What? The one there's all the fuss in the papers about?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I never. To think of that. Engaged to Miss Nick.'

'Complete and absolute surprise registered very convincingly,' I remarked, as we got outside.

'Yes. It really seemed genuine.'

'Perhaps it was,' I suggested.

'And that packet of letters reclining for months under the lingerie ? No, mon ami.'

'All very well,' I thought to myself. 'But we are not all Hercule Poirots. We do not all go nosing into what does not concern us.'

But I said nothing.

'This Ellen-she is an enigma,' said Poirot. 'I do not like it. There is something here that I do not understand.'

第十三章　信

成功地打发走埃伦之后，波洛若有所思地向我转过脸来。

“我在想，她听到枪声没有呢？我觉得她是听到的。她听到了枪声就打开了厨房门，她听见尼克从楼上下来走出户外，然后她自己也跑到堂前来看看发生了什么事，这是很自然的。但昨晚她为什么不出去看焰火呢？这是我很想知道的，黑斯廷斯。”

“你干吗要问她关于什么暗室的事？”

“这只是异想天开罢了。不过，我们并没有解决那第十个的问题呀。”

“第十个？”

“就是我那张人物表里的最后一个，那个很成问题的陌生人。假设那人跟埃伦有关系，而且昨晚到这儿来了。他（我且把他算作是个男的吧）藏身于这房间的一个暗室里，一个姑娘从他附近走过时，他错当她是尼克，就跟着她出去并向她开了枪。不——不会的。因为我们现在知道这儿无处可以藏身，埃伦昨晚留在厨房里也只是偶然罢了。来，我们去找尼克的遗嘱吧。”

客厅里什么文件也没有。我们推门走进书房，这是一间光线黯淡的房间，窗子对着花园里的汽车路，这个房间有一张式样古老的胡桃木写字台。

找遗嘱可真费时间。一切东西都杂乱无章：帐单和收据都混在一起；请帖、催款通知书和朋友的信件都不分彼此，亲密无间。

“我们来整理一下吧，”波洛毫不犹豫地说，“让它们各就各位。”

他马上动手，半小时后他很满意地坐直了身子。每样东西都被分了类，叠整齐了，并用文件夹夹好了。

“这就好啦，这么干至少有一个好处，每样东西都被仔细看过了，没有遗漏。”

“这是真的。但也没发现什么呀。”

“可能除了这个！”

他扔给我一封信，这封信里的字写得又大又潦草，几乎不可辨认。

我的宝贝：

那个晚会真是太美妙了。我今天懒得像条虫一样。你没去碰那玩意儿是明智的，以后也永远别起这个头，宝贝儿。要想戒掉它是极难的；我又要写信给那个男朋友去催我的命根子了。真是地狱里的生活啊！

你的弗雷迪

“是去年二月份写的，”波洛思索着，“很明显，她在吸毒，我一看见她就知道这一点了。”

“真的吗？我从来没想到会是这样。”

“这是显而易见的，只要看她的眼睛好了；还有她那变化多端的古怪的情绪，有时神经过敏，紧张得很；有时生气全无，迟钝之极。”

“吸毒会影响一个人的道德，是不是？”

“这是不可避免的。但我认为赖斯太太还未吸毒入瘾，她刚开始，陷得不深。”

“尼克呢？”

“她没有这种行为。她有时会参加一个这一类的晚会，但只是为了寻寻开心而已，她不是个吸毒者。”

“我很高兴。”

我突然记起尼克曾说过弗雷德里卡有时会控制不住自己，波洛点点头，用那封信敲着桌子，说：

“她所指的无疑就是这件事了。现在，正如你所说的，在这儿我们已经看不出更多的东西了，我们到楼上尼克的卧室里去吧。”

尼克的卧室里也有一张书桌，但里边空荡荡的，找不到遗嘱。我们找到她的汽车执照，还有一张尚未过期的上个月的红利股息券，另外就没有什么要紧的东西了。

波洛生气地叹息道：

“这些年轻小姐现在根本得不到应有的训练，在条理性方面简直毫无教养，也根本不懂得办事的方法。这位尼克小姐，她是有魅力的，但她的头脑里只有些棉花、稻草！她是只绣花枕头！”

这时，他开始倒腾起衣橱的抽屉了。

“波洛，可以肯定，”我不以为然地说，“这里面只是些内衣。”

他惊讶地停了下来，“那又怎样呢？”

“难道你不认为——我是说——我们不应当——”

他突然放声大笑起来。

“哦，黑斯廷斯，你是维多利亚时代的老古董。如果尼克在这里的话，她也会这样对你说的，极有可能她会说你的思想老得就像那只布满裂痕的洗脸缸！现在这个时代里，无论是大家闺秀还是小家碧玉，都不会为她们的内衣被人家看见而把精心保养的脸蛋涨成猪肝的颜色。那些胸衣、衬裤之类早已不是什么秘密了。在海滩上，每天你都能在你周围数英尺之内发现一大堆这一类的东西，那又怎么了呢？”

“我看不出你有什么必要去翻她的衣橱。”

“听我说，我的朋友。很清楚，她不会把她的珍宝锁起来——那位尼克小姐。如果她想藏起什么，她会藏到什么地方去呢？在那些袜子和裙子下面。啊哈！我们找到了什么？”

他举起一袋用红丝绳扎住的信。

“如果我没弄错的话，这是迈克尔·塞顿先生令人销魂的情书了！”

他若无其事地解开了绳子，开始把那些信一一展开。

“波洛，”我义愤填膺地叫了起来，“你真的不能那么做！这可不是闹着玩的。”

“我并不是在闹着玩，我的朋友，”他的声音突然变得粗暴严厉，“我在破案。”

“是的，但这些私信……”

“这些信可能不会提供什么。但反过来，它们也可能会提供一些线索的！我必须利用一切机会，我的朋友。来，你来跟我一起看吧。两双眼睛总比一双强些，你就这样开脱自己好了：认定那位忠实可靠的埃伦，对于这些信早已熟悉得可以倒背如流。”

我还是不明白，虽然我觉得处在波洛的地位上这样做是言之成理的，而且我还拿尼克的话来安慰自己，她说过：“你们想看什么就看什么吧。”

这些信相隔时间很长，第一封信是去年冬天写的。

亲爱的：

新年来到了，我在盘算着今年要做的事。一想起你真的爱我，我就沉浸在无限的柔情和幸福之中。你使我的生活完全改变了，这一点，我们相遇之时起就已心照不宣了。祝你新年快乐，我迷人的姑娘。

永远是你的迈克尔　　写于元旦

最亲爱的人儿：

我多希望能更经常地见到你呀，像现在这样真叫人难受。我不喜欢这样东躲西藏的，但我向你解释过我们的情形。我也知道你多么痛恨谎言和隐瞒，我也如此。但是小不忍则乱大谋，马修叔叔一想起早婚就怒火中烧，说这会毁灭男子的事业，好像你会使我的事业完蛋似的，我的天使呀！

高兴些吧，亲爱的，一切都会好的。

你的迈克尔　　于二月八日

我知道不该每两天给你写一封信，但我怎么办得到呢！昨天我起飞的时候又想起了你。我飞越了斯卡伯勒，欢乐和幸福的众神保佑的斯卡伯勒——世界上最叫人迷恋的地方。亲爱的，你不知道我爱你爱得心碎。

你的迈克尔　　三月二日

最亲爱的：

一切都准备好了。如果我能完成这次飞行（我一定能），我在马修叔叔面前就在说话的份儿了——如果他不愿意——又有什么关系呢？你对我写的那篇描述‘信天翁’号的冗长的技术文章如此感兴趣，可真叫我感激。我多想带你一起坐这架飞机飞行啊！但看在老天爷的分上，别为我担忧。这次飞行听起来很危险，实际上却没有什么。我不会死的，因为我知道你爱着我，一切都会好的，我的爱人。

你最忠实的迈克尔　　于四月八日

小天使：

你所说的每个字都是对的，我将永远珍藏这封信。我觉得我实在配不上你，你跟我所遇见过的每个人都不同，我崇拜你。

你的迈克尔　　　于四月二十日

最后一封信没有日期。

最亲爱的：

我明天启程了。我感到极度的振奋、激动，怀着必胜的信心，“信天翁”号的每个零件都调校过了，它不会辜负我的。开朗起来，爱人，别为我担忧，虽然冒险，但每个人在生活中都时常要冒险的。顺便告诉你一下，有人说我应当立个遗嘱（老练的人——出于一片好意），所以我就立了——立在半张笔记本的纸头上，寄给了惠特菲尔德老头；我没空在这上头动脑筋。有个人曾经告诉我，某人立的遗嘱只有四个字：“全给母亲。”这样的遗嘱在法律上也一样生效。我的遗嘱跟那份很像，我记得你的名字叫玛格黛勒——瞧我多聪明。那份遗嘱还有两个见证人。

别把这些关于遗嘱的一本正经的话放在心上（我也只是偶然提一下），我不会出事的。我将从印度和澳大利亚这些地方给你发电报。要有信心，一切都会顺利进行的，明白吗？

晚安，上帝保佑你！

迈克尔

波洛把信重新折好。

“瞧，黑斯廷斯，我得看这些信——证实一下，这我告诉过你的。”

“但你也可以通过其它途径来证实呀。”

“不，我的朋友，无法办到。只有采用现在这种方法。你瞧，我们有了很宝贵的证据了。”

“哪方面的？”

“我们现在知道了这么一个事实，即迈克尔书面立下了对尼克小姐很有利的遗嘱。随便什么人只要看了这些信，便都可以了解这一点。而这样不当心保存的信是谁都能看到的。”

“埃伦？”

“埃伦当然看过，我可以这样断言。我们出去的时候，不妨做个小实验来证实这一点。”

“遗嘱找不到。”

“唔，这很怪。但它也可能被扔到书架顶上或者塞进一个瓷花瓶里去了。我们必须想办法叫小姐回忆起来，不过无论如何，这儿再找不出什么了。”

我们下楼时，埃伦正在掸灰尘，我们从她身边经过时，波洛愉快地向她道了早安，他走到前门时，又回过头来说：

“我想你可能知道巴克利小姐同那个飞行员迈克尔·塞顿订了婚吧？”

她睁大了眼睛。

“什么？就是报上天天出现的那个飞行员吗？”

“是的。”

“啊，我没听说过，会有这样的事！跟尼克小姐订婚！”

当我们走出房子时，我对波洛说：

“她这可是真正地觉得十分意外，不像是装出来的呀。”

“是的，是像真的。”

“可能就是真的嘛。”我提出我的观点。

“那些信就真的一直放了好几个月没有动过？不，我的朋友。”

“很好，”我暗自思忖，“不过我不是赫尔克里·波洛，我也并不去干涉与已无关的事。”

但我什么也没说出口。

“这个埃伦——她是个谜，”波洛说，“我不喜欢这个谜！这儿有些东西我还弄不懂。”