One

THE LETTER

It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch¹ in South America for a stay of about sixmonths. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like everyone else, we had suffered fromworld depression. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if apersonal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch.

I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend,Hercule Poirot.

I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats in London. I accused him (and headmitted the fact) of having chosen this particular building entirely² on account of its strictlygeometrical appearance and proportions.

“But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not find it so?”

I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding³ to an old joke, I asked ifin this super-modern hostelry they managed to induce hens to lay square eggs.

Poirot laughed heartily⁵.

“Ah, you remember that? Alas⁶! no—science has not yet induced the hens to conform to moderntastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes and colours!”

I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well—hardly aday older than when I had last seen him.

“You’re looking in fine fettle, Poirot,” I said. “You’ve hardly aged⁴ at all. In fact, if it werepossible, I should say that you had fewer grey hairs than when I saw you last.”

Poirot beamed on me.

“And why is that not possible? It is quite true.”

“Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?”

“Precisely.”

“But surely that’s a scientific impossibility!”

“Not at all.”

“But that’s very extraordinary. It seems against nature.”

“As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that inyou! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing thatyou are doing so!”

I stared at him, puzzled.

Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bottle in his hand which hehanded to me.

I took it, for the moment uncomprehending.

It bore the words:

Revivit.—To bring back the natural tone of the hair. Revivit is not a dye. In fiveshades, Ash, Chestnut⁷, Titian, Brown, Black.

“Poirot,” I cried. “You have dyed your hair!”

“Ah, the comprehension comes to you!”

“So that’s why your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time I was back.”

“Exactly.”

“Dear me,” I said, recovering from the shock. “I suppose next time I come home I shall find youwearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?”

Poirot winced⁸. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately⁹ proudof them. My words touched him on the raw.

“No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache!

Quel horreur!”

He tugged¹⁰ at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character.

“Well, they are very luxuriant still,” I said.

“N’est ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.”

A good job too, I thought privately¹¹. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot’s feelings bysaying so.

Instead I asked if he still practised his profession on occasion.

“I know,” I said, “that you actually retired¹² years ago—”

“C’est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows¹³! And immediately a murder occurs—and I send thevegetable marrows to promenade¹⁴ themselves to the devil. And since then—I know very well whatyou will say—I am like the prima donna who makes positively¹⁵ the farewell performance! Thatfarewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite number of times!”

I laughed.

“In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: this is the end. But no, something elsearises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement¹⁶ I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells arenot exercised, they grow the rust¹⁷.”

“I see,” I said. “You exercise them in moderation.”

“Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the cream of crime.”

“Has there been much cream about?”

“Pas mal. Not long ago I had a narrow escape.”

“Of failure?”

“No, no.” Poirot looked shocked. “But I—I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly exterminated¹⁸.”

I whistled.

“An enterprising murderer!”

“Not so much enterprising as careless,” said Poirot. “Precisely that—careless. But let us not talkof it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I regard you as my mascot¹⁹.”

“Indeed?” I said. “In what ways?”

Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on:

“As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: something will arise. As in formerdays we will hunt together, we two. But if so it must be no common affair. It must besomething”—he waved his hands excitedly—“something recherche”—delicate—fine…” He gavethe last untranslatable word its full flavour.

“Upon my word, Poirot,” I said. “Anyone would think you were ordering a dinner at the Ritz.”

“Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true.” He sighed. “But I believe in luck—in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing theunforgivable error.”

“What do you call the unforgivable error?”

“Overlooking the obvious.”

I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point.

“Well,” I said presently, smiling, “has this super crime turned up yet?”

“Pas encore. At least—that is—”

He paused. A frown of perplexity creased²⁰ his forehead. His hands automatically straightened anobject or two that I had inadvertently pushed awry²¹.

“I am not sure,” he said slowly.

There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him in surprise.

The frown still lingered.

Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room to a desk near the window.

Its contents, I need hardly say, were all neatly²² docketed and pigeonholed²³ so that he was able atonce to lay his hand upon the paper he wanted.

He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read it through himself, then passedit to me.

“Tell me, mon ami,” he said. “What do you make of this?”

I took it from him with some interest.

It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters:

Mr. Hercule Poirot,—You fancy yourself, don’t you, at solving mysteries thatare too difficult for our poor thick-headed British police? Let us see, Mr. CleverPoirot, just how clever you can be. Perhaps you’ll find this nut too hard to crack.

Look out for Andover, on the 21st of the month.

Yours, etc.,

A B C.

I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed.

“Postmarked WC1,” said Poirot as I turned my attention to the postmark. “Well, what is youropinion?”

I shrugged²⁴ my shoulders as I handed it back to him.

“Some madman or other, I suppose.”

“That is all you have to say?”

“Well—doesn’t it sound like a madman to you?”

“Yes, my friend, it does.”

His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously²⁵.

“You take this very seriously, Poirot.”

“A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a very dangerous thing.”

“Yes, of course, that is true…I hadn’t considered that point…But what I meant was, it soundsmore like a rather idiotic²⁶ kind of hoax²⁷. Perhaps some convivial²⁸ idiot who had had one over theeight.”

“Comment? Nine? Nine what?”

“Nothing—just an expression. I meant a fellow who was tight. No, damn it, a fellow who hadhad a spot too much to drink.”

“Merci, Hastings—the expression ‘tight’ I am acquainted with it. As you say, there may benothing more to it than that….”

“But you think there is?” I asked, struck by the dissatisfaction of his tone.

Poirot shook his head doubtfully, but he did not speak.

“What have you done about it?” I inquired.

“What can one do? I showed it to Japp. He was of the same opinion as you—a stupid hoax—that was the expression he used. They get these things every day at Scotland Yard. I, too, have hadmy share….”

“But you take this one seriously?”

Poirot replied slowly.

“There is something about that letter, Hastings, that I do not like….”

In spite of myself, his tone impressed me.

“You think—what?”

He shook his head, and picking up the letter, put it away again in the desk.

“If you really take it seriously, can’t you do something?” I asked.

“As always, the man of action! But what is there to do? The county police have seen the letterbut they, too, do not take it seriously. There are no fingerprints²⁹ on it. There are no local clues as tothe possible writer.”

“In fact there is only your own instinct?”

“Not instinct, Hastings. Instinct is a bad word. It is my knowledge—my experience—that tellsme that something about that letter is wrong—”

He gesticulated as words failed him, then shook his head again.

“I may be making the mountain out of the anthill. In any case there is nothing to be done butwait.”

“Well, the 21st is Friday. If a whacking³⁰ great robbery takes place near Andover then—”

“Ah, what a comfort that would be—!”

“A comfort?” I stared. The word seemed to be a very extraordinary one to use.

“A robbery may be a thrill but it can hardly be a comfort!” I protested.

Poirot shook his head energetically.

“You are in error, my friend. You do not understand my meaning. A robbery would be a reliefsince it would dispossess my mind of the fear of something else.”

“Of what?”

“Murder,” said Hercule Poirot.

 

点击收听单词发音