Three

POIROT REFUSES A CASE

M. Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car on the following day. He had risenearly, breakfasted almost alone, and had spent the morning going over the notes of the case thatwas recalling him to London. He had seen little of his travelling companion.

M. Bouc, who was already seated, gesticulated a greeting and summoned his friend to the emptyplace opposite him. Poirot sat down and soon found himself in the favoured position of the tablewhich was served first and with the choicest morsels¹. The food, too, was unusually good.

It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc allowed his attention towander to matters other than nourishment². He was at the stage of a meal when one becomesphilosophic.

“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had but the pen of a Balzac! I would depict³ this scene.”

He waved his hand.

“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.

“Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet—it lends itself to romance, my friend.

All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people,these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, theycannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways,never, perhaps, to see each other again.”

“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident—”

“Ah no, my friend—”

“From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for onemoment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together—by death.”

“Some more wine,” said M. Bouc, hastily pouring it out. “You are morbid⁴, mon cher. It is,perhaps, the digestion⁵.”

“It is true,” agreed Poirot, “that the food in Syria was not, perhaps, quite suited to my stomach.”

He sipped⁶ his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining car. Therewere thirteen people seated there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. Hebegan to study them.

At the table opposite them were three men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded andplaced there by the unerring judgment⁷ of the restaurant attendants. A big, swarthy Italian waspicking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him a spare, neat Englishman had the expressionlessdisapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in aloud suit—possibly a commercial traveller.

“You’ve got to put it over big,” he was saying in a loud nasal voice.

The Italian removed his toothpick to gesticulate with it freely.

“Sure,” he said. “That whatta I say alla de time.”

The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed.

Poirot’s eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It wasan ugliness of distinction—it fascinated rather than repelled⁸. She sat very upright. Round her neckwas a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands werecovered with rings. Her sable⁹ coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small expensiveblack toque was hideously¹⁰ unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.

She was speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a clear, courteous¹¹ but completely autocratictone.

“You will be sufficiently¹² amiable¹³ to place in my compartment¹⁴ a bottle of mineral water and alarge glass of orange juice. You will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces fordinner this evening—also some boiled fish.”

The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done.

She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot’s and swept overhim with the nonchalance¹⁶ of the uninterested aristocrat¹⁷.

“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husbandrealized all this money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. Acosmopolitan.”

Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.

“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin, but she makes herself felt. You agree?”

Poirot agreed.

At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of themwas a tall middle-aged¹⁸ woman in a plaid blouse and tweed skirt. She had a mass of faded yellowhair unbecomingly arranged in a large bun, wore glasses, and had a long, mild, amiable face ratherlike a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout¹⁹, pleasant-faced, elderly woman whowas talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to astop.

“…And so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said ‘you just can’t apply Amurrican methods in thiscountry. It’s just natural to the folks here to be indolent,’ she said. ‘They just haven’t got anyhustle in them.’ But all the same you’d be surprised to know what our college there is doing.

They’ve gotten a fine staff of teachers. I guess there’s nothing like education. We’ve got to applyour Western ideals and teach the East to recognize them. My daughter says—”

The train plunged²⁰ into a tunnel. The calm monotonous²¹ voice was drowned.

At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed²² upon the backof Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed.

Why?

Perhaps, Poirot thought, Mary Debenham had demurred²³. A governess learns to be careful.

Appearances are important. A girl with her living to get has to be discreet²⁴.

His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was amiddle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad expressionless face. German or Scandinavian,he thought. Probably a German lady’s maid.

After her came a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly²⁵ together. The man woreEnglish clothes of loose tweed—but he was not English. Though only the back of his head wasvisible to Poirot, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well made.

He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of thirty odd with abig fair moustache.

The woman opposite him was a mere²⁶ girl—twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat andskirt, white satin blouse, small chic¹⁵ black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous²⁷ angle. Shehad a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large brown eyes, jet-black hair. She wassmoking a cigarette in a long holder²⁸. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She wore one largeemerald set in platinum²⁹. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.

“Elle est jolie—et chic,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife—eh?”

M. Bouc nodded.

“Hungarian Embassy, I believe,” he said. “A handsome couple.”

There were only two more lunchers—Poirot’s fellow traveller MacQueen and his employer Mr.

Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and for the second time Poirot studied that unprepossessingface, noting the false benevolence³⁰ of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.

Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend’s expression.

“It is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.

Poirot nodded.

As his coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot, he hadfinished some time ago.

“I return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along presently and converse³¹ with me.”

“With pleasure.”

Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant was passing from table to tablewith his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady’s voice rose shrilland plaintive³².

“My daughter said, ‘Take a book of food tickets and you’ll have no trouble—no trouble at all.’

Now, that isn’t so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle ofmineral water—and a queer sort of water too. They hadn’t got any Evian or Vichy, which seemsqueer to me.”

“It is—they must—how you say—serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-facedlady.

“Well, it seems queer to me.” She looked distastefully at the heap of small change on the tablein front of her. “Look at all this peculiar³³ stuff he’s given me. Dinars or something. Just a lot ofrubbish, it looks. My daughter said—”

Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. ColonelArbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering³⁴ up her despised money, the American lady followedsuit, followed by the lady like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant carwas empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.

Ratchett spoke³⁵ to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but insteadof following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.

“Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft—faintly nasal. “My name isRatchett.”

Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which hehanded to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.

“I think,” he went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to M. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”

Poirot bowed again.

“You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”

The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the otherspoke again.

“In my country,” he said, “we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a jobfor me.”

Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows³⁶ went up a trifle.

“My clientèle, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases.”

“Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.” He repeated againin his soft, persuasive³⁷ voice, “Big money.”

Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said:

“What is it you wish me to do for you, M.—er—Ratchett?”

“Mr. Poirot, I am a rich man—a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have anenemy.”

“Only one enemy?”

“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.

“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then itdoes not usually resolve itself into one enemy only.”

Ratchett seemed relieved by Poirot’s answer. He said quickly:

“Why, yes, I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies—it doesn’t matter. What does matter ismy safety.”

“Safety?”

“My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now, I’m a man who can take pretty good care ofhimself.” From the pocket of his coat his hand brought a small automatic into sight for a moment.

He continued grimly. “I don’t think I’m the kind of man to be caught napping. But as I look at it Imight as well make assurance doubly sure. I fancy you’re the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. Andremember—big money.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. His face was completely expressionless.

The other could have had no clue as to what thoughts were passing in that mind.

“I regret, Monsieur,” he said at length. “I cannot oblige you.”

The other looked at him shrewdly.

“Name your figure, then,” he said.

Poirot shook his head.

“You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have madeenough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as—interestme.”

“You’ve got a pretty good nerve,” said Ratchett. “Will twenty thousand dollars tempt³⁸ you?”

“It will not.”

“If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it. I know what a thing’s worth to me.”

“I also—M. Ratchett.”

“What’s wrong with my proposition?”

Poirot rose.

“If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said.

And with that he left the restaurant car.

 

点击收听单词发音