Chapter 14 - The Mystery of the Missing Will

We went straight back to the nursing home. Nick looked rather surprised to see us.

'Yes, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, answering her look. 'I am like the Jack in the Case. I pop up again. To begin with I will tell you that I have put the order in your affairs. Everything is now neatly arranged.'

'Well, I expect it was about time,' said Nick, unable to help smiling. 'Are you very tidy, M. Poirot?'

'Ask my friend Hastings here.'

The girl turned an inquiring gaze on me.

I detailed some of Poirot's minor peculiarities-toast that had to be made from a square loaf-eggs matching in size-his objection to golf as a game 'shapeless and haphazard', whose only redeeming feature was the tee boxes! I ended by telling her the famous case which Poirot had solved by his habit of straightening ornaments on the mantelpiece.

Poirot sat by smiling.

'He makes the good tale of it, yes,' he said, when I had finished. 'But on the whole it is true. Figure to yourself, Mademoiselle, that I never cease trying to persuade Hastings to part his hair in the middle instead of on the side. See what an air, lop-sided and unsymmetrical, it gives him.'

'Then you must disapprove of me, M. Poirot,' said Nick. 'I wear a side parting. And you must approve of Freddie who parts her hair in the middle.'

'He was certainly admiring her the other evening,' I put in maliciously. 'Now I know the reason.'

'C'est assez,' said Poirot. 'I am here on serious business. Mademoiselle, this will of yours, I find it not.'

'Oh!' She wrinkled her brows. 'But does it matter so much? After all, I'm not dead. And wills aren't really important till you are dead, are they?'

'That is correct. All the same, I interest myself in this will of yours. I have various little ideas concerning it. Think Mademoiselle. Try to remember where you placed it-where you saw it last?'

'I don't suppose I put it anywhere particular,' said Nick. 'I never do put things in places. I probably shoved it into a drawer.'

'You did not put it in the secret panel by any chance?' 'The secret what?'

'Your maid, Ellen, says that there is a secret panel in the drawing-room or the library.'

'Nonsense,' said Nick. 'I've never heard of such a thing. Ellen said so?'

'Mais oui. It seems she was in service at End House as a young girl. The cook showed it to her.'

'It's the first I've ever heard of it. I suppose Grandfather must have known about it, but, if so, he didn't tell me. And I'm sure he would have told me. M. Poirot, are you sure Ellen isn't making it all up?'

'No, Mademoiselle, I am not at all sure! Il me semble that there is something-odd about this Ellen of yours.'

'Oh! I wouldn't call her odd. William's a half-wit, and the child is a nasty little brute, but Ellen's all right. The essence of respectability.'

'Did you give her leave to go out and see the fireworks last night, Mademoiselle?'

'Of course. They always do. They clear up afterwards.'

'Yet she did not go out.'

'Oh, yes, she did.'

'How do you know, Mademoiselle?'

'Well-well-I suppose I don't know. I told her to go and she thanked me-and so, of course, I assumed that she did go.'

'On the contrary-she remained in the house.'

'But-how very odd!'

'You think it odd?'

'Yes, I do. I'm sure she's never done such a thing before. Did she say why?'

'She did not tell me the real reason-of that I am sure.'

Nick looked at him questioningly.

'Is it-important?'

Poirot flung out his hands.

'That is just what I cannot say, Mademoiselle. C'est curieux. I leave it like that.'

'This panel business too,' said Nick, reflectively. 'I can't help thinking that's frightfully queer-and unconvincing. Did she show you where it was?'

'She said she couldn't remember.' 'I don't believe there is such a thing.' 'It certainly looks like it.' 'She must be going batty, poor thing.'

'She certainly recounts the histories! She said also that End House was not a good house to live in.'

Nick gave a little shiver.

'Perhaps she's right there,' she said slowly. 'Sometimes I've felt that way myself. There's a queer feeling in that house...'

Her eyes grew large and dark. They had a fated look. Poirot hastened to recall her to other topics.

'We have wandered from our subject, Mademoiselle. The will. The last will and testament of Magdala Buckley.'

'I put that,' said Nick, with some pride. 'I remember putting that, and I said pay all debts and testamentary expenses. I remembered that out of a book I'd read.'

'You did not use a will form, then?'

'No, there wasn't time for that. I was just going off to the nursing home, and besides Mr Croft said will forms were very dangerous. It was better to make a simple will and not try to be too legal.'

'M. Croft? He was there?'

'Yes. It was he who asked me if I'd made one. I'd never have thought of it myself. He said if you died in-in-'

'Intestate,' I said.

'Yes, that's it. He said if you died intestate, the Crown pinched a lot and that would be a pity.'

'Very helpful, the excellent M. Croft!'

'Oh, he was,' said Nick warmly. 'He got Ellen in and her husband to witness it. Oh! of course! What an idiot I've been!'

We looked at her inquiringly.

'I've been a perfect idiot. Letting you hunt round End House. Charles has got it, of course! My cousin, Charles Vyse.'

'Ah! so that is the explanation.'

'Mr Croft said a lawyer was the proper person to have charge of it.'

Tres correct, ce bon M. Croft.'

'Men are useful sometimes,' said Nick. 'A lawyer or the Bank-that's what he said. And I said Charles would be best. So we stuck it in an envelope and sent it off to him straight away.'

She lay back on her pillows with a sigh.

'I'm sorry I've been so frightfully stupid. But it is all right now. Charles has got it, and if you really want to see it, of course he'll show it to you.'

'Not without an authorization from you,' said Poirot, smiling.

'How silly.'

'No, Mademoiselle. Merely prudent.'

'Well, I think it's silly.' She took a piece of paper from a little stack that lay beside her bed. 'What shall I say? Let the dog see the rabbit?'

'Comment?'

I laughed at his startled face.

He dictated a form of words, and Nick wrote obediently.

'Thank you, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, as he took it.

'I'm sorry to have given you such a lot of trouble. But I really had forgotten. You know how one forgets things almost at once?'

'With order and method in the mind one does not forget.'

'I'll have to have a course of some kind,' said Nick. 'You're giving me quite an inferiority complex.'

'That is impossible. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.' He looked round the room. 'Your flowers are lovely.'

'Aren't they? The carnations are from Freddie and the roses from George and the lilies from Jim Lazarus. And look here-'

She pulled the wrapping from a large basket of hothouse grapes by her side. Poirot's face changed. He stepped forward sharply. 'You have not eaten any of them?' 'No. Not yet.'

'Do not do so. You must eat nothing, Mademoiselle, that comes in from outside. Nothing. You comprehend?'

'Oh!'

She stared at him, the colour ebbing slowly from her face.

'I see. You think-you think it isn't over yet. You think they're still trying?' she whispered.

He took her hand.

'Do not think of it. You are safe here. But remember-nothing that comes in from outside.'

I was conscious of that white frightened face on the pillow as we left the room. Poirot looked at his watch.

'Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.'

On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse's office after the briefest of delays. The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.

'Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?'

Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.

'I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?' 'Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?'

'In this letter,' he tapped it with his finger-nail, 'she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.'

'Yes, Monsieur.'

'But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!'

'Comment?'

'As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.'

'She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.'

The lawyer shook his head.

'In that case all I can say is that I never received it.'

'Really, M. Vyse-'

'I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.'

There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.

'In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There must be some mistake.'

'Certainly there must be some mistake.'

He rose also.

'Good day, M. Vyse.'

'Good day, M. Poirot.'

'And that is that,' I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.

'Precisement.'

'Is he lying, do you think?'

'Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.'

'Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.'

'Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voila. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.'

'Well, what do we do now?'

'Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.'

'He didn't profit by it in any way,' I said, thoughtfully.

'No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody-the man who likes to arrange his neighbour's affairs.'

Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.

We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.

He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.

'Half a jiffy,' he said. 'Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She'd never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee-Milly. Two friends coming up.'

Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.

'That poor dear girl,' she said. 'In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn't wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot-perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn't bear thinking about-it doesn't indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.'

'It's made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,' said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. 'I don't like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.'

'You're not going to leave me again, I can tell you,' said Mrs Croft. 'Not after dark, anyway. And I'm thinking I'd like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn't think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.'

It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr and Mrs Croft talked so much and were so anxious to know all about everything. Were the poor dead girl's relations coming down? When was the funeral? Was there to be an inquest? What did the police think? Had they any clue yet? Was it true that a man had been arrested in Plymouth?

Then, having answered all these questions, they were insistent on offering us lunch. Only Poirot's mendacious statement that we were obliged to hurry back to lunch with the Chief Constable saved us.

At last a momentary pause occurred and Poirot got in the question he had been waiting to ask.

'Why, of course,' said Mr Croft. He pulled the blind cord up and down twice, frowning at it abstractedly. 'I remember all about it. Must have been when we first came here. I remember. Appendicitis-that's what the doctor said-'

'And probably not appendicitis at all,' interrupted Mrs Croft. 'These doctors-they always like cutting you up if they can. It wasn't the kind you have to operate on anyhow. She'd had indigestion and one thing and another, and they'd X-rayed her and they said out it had better come. And there she was, poor little soul, just going off to one of those nasty Homes.'

'I just asked her,' said Mr Croft, 'if she'd made a will. More as a joke than anything else.'

'Yes?'

'And she wrote it out then and there. Talked about getting a will form at the post office-but I advised her not to. Lot of trouble they cause sometimes, so a man told me. Anyway, her cousin is a lawyer. He could draw her out a proper one afterwards if everything was all right-as, of course, I knew it would be. This was just a precautionary matter.'

'Who witnessed it?'

'Oh! Ellen, the maid, and her husband.'

'And afterwards? What was done with it?'

'Oh! we posted it to Vyse. The lawyer, you know.'

'You know that it was posted?'

'My dear M. Poirot, I posted it myself. Right in this box here by the gate.'

'So if M. Vyse says he never got it-'

Croft stared.

'Do you mean that it got lost in the post? Oh! but surely that's impossible.'

'Anyway, you are certain that you posted it.'

'Certain sure,' said Mr Croft, heartily. 'I'll take my oath on that any day.'

'Ah! well,' said Poirot. 'Fortunately it does not matter. Mademoiselle is not likely to die just yet awhile.'

'Et voila!' said Poirot, when we were out of earshot and walking down to the hotel. 'Who is lying? M. Croft? Or M. Charles Vyse? I must confess I see no reason why M. Croft should be lying. To suppress the will would be of no advantage to him-especially when he had been instrumental in getting it made. No, his statement seems clear enough and tallies exactly with what was told us by Mademoiselle Nick. But all the same-'

'Yes?'

'All the same, I am glad that M. Croft was doing the cooking when we arrived. He left an excellent impression of a greasy thumb and first finger on a corner of the newspaper that covered the kitchen table. I managed to tear it off unseen by him. We will send it to our good friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. There is just a chance that he might know something about it.'

'Yes?'

'You know, Hastings, I cannot help feeling that our genial M. Croft is a little too good to be genuine.'

'And now,' he added. 'Le dejeuner. I faint with hunger.'

第十四章　遗嘱失踪之谜

我们又回到休养所。

见到我们，尼克显得相当惊讶。

“是啊，小姐，”波洛这样回答她那询问的目光，“我就像‘盒子里的杰克’又在你面前跳出来啦。首先我要告诉你，我们给你把那些文件和信都整理好了，现在每样东西都有自己的位置了。”

“是该理一理了，”尼克忍不住笑了起来，“波洛先生，你大概对什么都是一丝不苟的吧？”

“我的朋友黑斯廷斯就在这儿，你问他好了。”

姑娘向我转过脸来，我就对她讲了些波洛无伤大雅的怪癖：烤面包非得切成长方形枕头面包不可；鸡蛋如果不是一个个同样大小，他吃着就很不受用；他认定打高尔夫球只是胡闹，输赢全凭运气，要不是那些球座儿还有点特色，早就应当淘汰了。我又给她讲了一个著名的案件，那案件的破获完全归功于波洛有摆弄壁炉架上的装饰品的习惯。

波洛含笑而听。我讲完后他说：

“他像是在讲故事，不过说的倒全是真话。其实还不止这些呢，小姐。他认为我还有一种叫他头疼的爱好，却不肯告诉你。那便是我一有机会就苦口婆心地劝黑斯廷斯别梳小分头，而应当把头发从天灵盖正中分开。小姐你看，这种把头发从旁边分开的式样多不对称，简直不三不四，怪七怪八！”

“这么说来你对我也一定看不顺眼啰，波洛先生？”尼克说，“我的头发也是从旁边分开的。不过我想你对弗雷迪想必十分称道，因为她的头发是从中间分开的。”

“哦，我现在才明白，昨天晚上他对赖斯太太大献殷勤原来是这个道理！”我报复地说。

“行了行了，”波洛说，“我到这儿来是为了一件严肃的事情，小姐，你那份遗嘱我找不到。”

“哦，”她皱起眉头，“这难道很严重？我还没死，再写一个不就得了？人还活着的时候，遗嘱好像并不怎么重要。”

“说得对，不过我还是对这份遗嘱感兴趣——我有我的想法。小姐，想一想吧，设法回忆起你把它放在什么地方了。你最后一次是在哪里看见它的？”

“我好像并没有把它放在一个特别的地方，”尼克说，“我从来没有这种习惯。可能我把它塞进哪个抽屉里了。”

“你有没有把它放进壁龛里？”

“什么里？”

“壁龛。你的埃伦说不知在客厅还是书房里有一个壁龛，也就是暗橱之类的东西吧。”

“胡说，”尼克道，“我从来没有听说过有这种东西在我家里。是埃伦说的吗？”

“对。她年轻时好像曾经在这所房子里当过女仆。当时有人把这个壁龛指给她看过。”

“我倒才第一次听说。我祖父总知道这个暗橱，可他并没有对我提起过。而我相信如果真有这么个东西的话，他是会告诉我的。波洛先生，你能肯定埃伦不是在无中生有信口开河？”

“不，小姐，我肯定不了。我觉得你那位埃伦在某些方面有点古怪。”

“哦？我倒并不觉得这点。威廉是个白痴，他们的儿子阴险残忍，不过埃伦很好，是个可敬的人。”

“昨天晚上你并不反对她出去看焰火，小姐？”

“当然不反对。他们总是先出去看了焰火以后才回来收拾餐具的。”

“可是她昨晚没出去看。”

“哦，她出去的。”

“你怎么知道的，小姐？”

“啊——啊，其实我并不知道。我叫她出去看焰火，她向我道了谢，所以我想她出去了。”

“正相反，她待在屋里。”

“可是——多怪！”

“你觉得怪？”

“是的，我可以肯定她以前不是这样的。她有没有说她为什么不出去？”

“我想她并没有说出真正的原因。”

尼克疑问地看看他：“这很重要吗？”

波洛摊开双手。

“这是个我无法回答的问题，小姐。很有意思，不过暂且不去管它吧。”

“那个什么壁龛，”尼克一边说一边还在想，“真叫我纳闷——叫人无法相信。她指给你看了没有？”

“她说想不起它的位置了。”

“我决不相信有那么个东西！”

“但听她的口气，好像是有的。”

“她开始相信自己的幻觉了，可怜的人。”

“不，她讲得相当详细。她还说悬崖山庄是一幢不吉祥的房子。”

尼克打了一个寒噤。

“这倒可能被她说对了，”她慢吞吞地说，“有时我自己也这么想。在那幢房子里，人总有一种很不愉快的神秘感觉……”

她眼睛慢慢睁大了，黑色的瞳人里露出了呆滞的神情，仿佛认准了自己劫数已定，在劫难逃。波洛看了赶紧把话题拉了回来。

“我们离题太远了，小姐。还是谈遗嘱吧。玛格黛勒·巴克利小姐的有效遗嘱。”

“这句话我写在遗嘱里的，”尼克有点得意，“而且我说要付清我的葬礼费用和遗产转户税。这种说法是我从一本什么书里看来的。”

“你没有用正式的遗嘱纸？”

“没有。时间不够了。我当时正要离家住到休养所去准备动手术。况且克罗夫特先生说用正式的遗嘱纸写遗嘱很危险，不如写个简单的遗嘱，不那么正规却照样有效。”

“克罗夫特先生？他当时在场吗？”

“在。就是他问我有没有立过遗嘱。我自己从来没有想到过这个。他说如果我万一遇到了意外却没有……”

“没有事先立好遗嘱，”我说。

“对，那么我的一切都可能充公，这太可惜了。”

“他的提醒正是时候啊，这位不同寻常的克罗夫特先生！”

“是啊，”尼克热情地说，“等我写完，他把埃伦和她丈夫叫进来做见证人，他们虽然不知道遗嘱的内容，但在上头签了名，证明这份遗嘱是我写的。后来——啊，啊，你们看我现在多糊涂！”

我们困惑地望着她。

“我成了地道的糊涂虫，竟会叫你们到悬崖山庄去到处搜寻。遗嘱在查尔斯那里，是的，我的表哥查尔斯·维斯！”

“哦，这就对了。”

“克罗夫特先生说，律师是最理想的遗嘱保管人。”

“太对了，这位头脑健全的克罗夫特先生。”

“男人有时是挺管用的，”尼克说，“律师或者银行家。当时我觉得他说得很有道理，就把遗嘱装进信封封了起来，给查尔斯寄去了。”

她往后一仰靠在枕头上，轻轻叹了口气。

“我怎么会傻成这个样子，真是抱歉。不过总算想出来了，遗嘱的确在我表哥那里。如果你们想看，他当然会交给你们的。”

“不，除非你亲笔写张条子给他。”

“这是多此一举。”

“不，小姐，谨慎是一种美德。”

“我看不出有什么必要。”她从床头一个小书架上取了一张纸。“我该写什么呢？‘请让小狗看看肉骨头’？”

“什么？”

波洛脸上那副怪相叫我暗暗好笑。

后来波洛口授了几句话，尼克一一写在纸上。

“谢谢，小姐。”他说着从她手中取过了条子。

“无缘无故给你添了这么多麻烦可真叫我过意不去。但我真的忘了，一个人有时会在一瞬间把事情忘得干干净净。”

“不过要是你有个讲究秩序的头脑，就什么也不会忘记了。”

“我应该受这种责备，”尼克说，“是个教训。”

“很好。再见了，小姐。”他环顾了一下这个房间，“你的花儿开得很美呀。”

“是吗？康乃馨是弗雷迪送的，玫瑰花是乔治送的，百合花是吉姆·拉扎勒斯送的，再看这个——”

她把身边一个大篮子上的花纸揭开，露出一篮温室里种出来的葡萄。

波洛一见，脸色都变了。他急忙走上两步。

“你没吃过吧？”

“还没有。”

“千万别吃！你什么也不能尝，小姐。凡是外边送进来的食物，你闻都不能闻。我的意思你懂吗？”

“哦！”

她凝视着他，脸上的红晕渐渐消退了。

“我懂了。你认为，认为谋杀还没有完。你认为他们还在千方百计地干！”她细声细气地说。

波洛拿起她的手。

“别老是想这件事了。你在这里是安全的。不过记住，外面送来的东西千万不能吃！”

离开这个房间时我回头看了一眼，尼克无力地倚在枕头上，脸色又苍白又不安。

波洛看看表。

“啊，我们的时间刚刚好，还来得及在查尔斯·维斯离开办公室去吃午饭之前见到他。”

一到维斯的律师事务所，我们马上就被让进维斯的办公室。

这位年轻的律师站起来迎接我们，依旧像平时一样不动声色。

“早上好，波洛先生，我能为你效劳吗？”

波洛没说废话，直截了当地拿出了尼克写的纸条。他接过去看了一遍，然后抬起眼睛，用一种莫测高深的眼光望着我们。

“对不起，我真的不明白……”

“巴克利小姐写得太潦草吗？”

“在这封信里，”他用指甲弹着那张纸，“她要我把去年二月份她立的遗嘱——这份遗嘱保存在我这里——交给你。”

“不错，先生。”

“但是我亲爱的先生，并没有什么遗嘱交给我保存过！”

“怎么——”

“就我所知我的表妹没有立过遗嘱，我也根本没有替她起草过一份遗嘱！”

“她的遗嘱是她亲笔写的，写在一张笔记簿的纸头上，并且把它寄给你了。”

律师摇摇头。

“那么我所能奉告的就是我从来没有收到过这么一份遗嘱。”

“真的，维斯先生？”

“没有收到过，波洛先生。”

冷场了一分钟，然后波洛站了起来。

“那么，没有什么可说的了，维斯先生，一定出了岔子。”

“肯定的。”说着他也站了起来。

“再见，维斯先生。”

“再见，波洛先生。”

重新走到街上之后，我对波洛说：

“是这样！”

“正是。”

“他在撒谎吗——你想？”

“很难说。他有一张看不透的脸，那位维斯先生，而且还有一颗摸不透的心。有一件事可以肯定，即他是不会改口的。他根本没有收到过那份遗嘱——这就是他的立足点。”

“尼克寄出一份遗嘱总应当有一张收据吧？”

“那孩子才不会想到这种事哩。她把它寄出之后就立刻忘得一干二净了。就是这样。况且那天她要去割盲肠，哪里还有什么心思！”

“我们怎么办？”

“去看克罗夫特先生。让我们看看他能提供些什么情况，因为他在这件事情里是有份的。”

“不管从哪方面讲，他都无法从这件事情当中得到好处的。”我思索着说。

“对。确实看不出他有什么利可图。他仅仅是个喜欢无事空忙的人，专门喜欢去管左邻右舍的闲事。”

我觉得，克罗夫特正是这么一个人。正是这种无所不知无所不在的热心人，在我们这个早已是非无穷的世界里孜孜不倦地引起麻烦挑起事端。

来到他家时，我们看见他正卷起了袖子在享受烹调之乐。小屋里香气四溢，动人食欲。克罗夫特先生一见我们跨进门来就乐不可支地迎上前来跟我们握手，置油锅于火上而不顾。

“到楼上去吧，”他说，“谈起破案的事妈妈可感兴趣哩，如果我们在这里谈她会不乐意的，咕咿——米利，两位朋友上来啦！”

克罗夫特太太以一个残废者所能有的热情欢迎了我们。她急于了解一些有关尼克的消息。比起她丈夫来，我觉得我更喜欢她。

“可怜的好姑娘，”她说，“她还住在休养所里？她的乐天精神崩溃了，这一点不奇怪。那件血案实在太恐怖了，波洛先生，实在恐怖之极。一个这样纯洁的姑娘被打死了，简直无法相信，真的。世界上居然会有这样无法无天的事情发生在这样安全的地方——就在这古老国家的中心！夜里我失眠了，害怕得怎么也睡不着。”

“这个惨剧使得我神经过敏起来。我不敢出去，害怕把你一个人留在这儿，我的老太太。”她丈夫穿上外衣加入了谈话，“一想起昨天晚上把你一个人留在家里我就心跳得慌。”

“你不会再离开我一个人出去了吧？”他太太说，“至少天黑之后。我希望离开这个地方，越快越好。我再也不会对这块土地感到亲切了。我想，可怜的尼克·巴克利再也不敢睡到她那幢古老的房子里去了。”

我们插不进一个字，怎样才能把谈话引导到我们感兴趣的话题上去呢？克罗夫特夫妇谈锋极健，他们纺织的谈话之网滴水不漏。这两位什么都想打听：死者的家属来了没有？葬礼几时举行？是否还要验尸？警方有何高见？他们可有线索？传闻在普利茅斯有人被捕，此话有无根据？等等，等等。

一一回答了这些问题之后，他们便一定要留我们吃午饭，波洛虚晃一枪，说是今天中午我们有约在先，得回去同警察局长共进午餐，这才使他们退却了。

这时谈话十分侥幸地出现一个短暂的停顿。波洛捷足先登，终于提出了他的问题。

“哦，这件事，”克罗夫特先生拉拉百叶窗的绳子，心不在焉地对它皱起了眉头。“我当然记得的。那大概是我们刚到此地不久的事。盲肠炎——当时医生对尼克小姐说……”

“可能根本不是什么盲肠炎，”克罗夫特太太决不放过一个说话的机会，“这些医生，只要他们办得到，就总想给你来上一刀，而且这一刀总是切在根本没有毛病的地方。她大概只不过有点消化不良什么的，他们就煞有介事地给她大照一通X光，说是应当去开刀。她呀，那个可怜的丫头同意了，当时正要住到一家休养所去。”

“我只是随便问了她一声，”克罗夫特先生说，“问她有没有立过遗嘱。当时我不过是想说个笑话而已。”

“后来呢？”

“她马上就动笔写了。曾经说过要到邮局去买一张遗嘱纸，但我劝她不必那么小题大作。有人告诉我，立一份正式的遗嘱是十分费事的。反正她表哥是个律师，如果一切顺利的话，事后他可以替她起草一份正式的。当然我知道不会出什么事的，立个简单的遗嘱仅仅是预防万一罢了。”

“谁做见证人？”

“哦，埃伦，那个女佣人，还有她丈夫。”

“后来呢？你们把这份遗嘱怎么处理呢？”

“我们把它寄给了维斯，就是那个律师，你知道。”

“确实寄出去了吗？”

“我亲爱的波洛先生，是我亲自去寄的呀！我把它投进了花园大门旁的信箱里了。”

“因此，如果维斯先生声称他未曾收到过这份遗嘱……”

克罗夫特呆住了。

“你是说邮局把它弄丢了？哦，这是完全不可能的啊！”

“总之，你确信你把它寄出了？”

“太确信了，”克罗夫特先生认真地说，“可以起誓的。”

“好吧，”波洛说，“其实关系也不大，尼克小姐还健在呢。”

在我们告辞之后向旅馆走去时，波洛说：

“好啊，谁在撒谎？克罗夫特先生还是查尔斯·维斯先生呢？我得承认，我看不出克罗夫特先生有什么理由要撒谎。把遗嘱藏起来对他能有什么好处呢？况且立遗嘱还是由于他的建议。不，他没有嫌疑，而且他所说的同尼克讲的话对得起头来。但是——”

“但是什么？”

“但是我很高兴当我们去的时候他正在烧菜。他在覆盖着厨房桌子的那张报纸的一个角落上留下了拇指和食指的相当清晰的指纹。我趁他不留意的时候把它撕了下来。我要把这些指纹送到我们的好朋友——苏格兰场的贾普警督那儿请他查一查。真是个好机会啊，他可能会告诉我们一些情况的。”

“什么情况？”

“你知道吗，黑斯廷斯，我总感觉到这位和蔼可亲的克罗夫特先生天真得有点儿过分。”然后他改变了话题，“不过现在去吃中饭吧，我空空的肚子里好像有一种十分可疑的声音哩。”