chapter 12 the daughter
there was a letter sent by hand lying on the table when we got back to our rooms. poirot picked it up, slit it open with his usual neatness, and then laughed.
‘what is it you say – “talk of the devil”? see here, hastings.’
i took the note from him.
the paper was stamped 17 regent gate and was written in very upright characteristic handwriting which looked easy to read and, curiously enough, was not.
‘dear sir (it ran),
i hear you were at the house this morning with the inspector. i am sorry not to have had the opportunity of speaking to you. if convenient to yourself i should be much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes any time this afternoon.
yours truly,
geraldine marsh.’
‘curious,’ i said. ‘i wonder why she wants to see you?’
‘is it curious that she should want to see me? you are not polite, my friend.’
poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment.
‘we will go round at once, my friend,’ he said, and lovingly brushing an imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head.
jane wilkinson’s careless suggestion that geraldine might have killed her father seemed to me particularly absurd. only a particularly brainless person could have suggested it. i said as much to poirot.
‘brains. brains. what do we really mean by the term? in your idiom you would say that jane wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. that is a term of disparagement. but consider the rabbit for a moment. he exists and multiplies, does he not? that, in nature, is a sign of mental superiority. the lovely lady edgware she does not know history, or geography, nor the classics sans doute. the name of lao tse would suggest to her a prize pekingese dog, the name of molière a maison de couture. but when it comes to choosing clothes, to making rich and advantageous marriages, and to getting her own way – her success is phenomenal. the opinion of a philosopher as to who murdered lord edgware would be no good to me – the motive for murder from a philosopher’s point of view would be the greatest good of the greatest number, and as that is difficult to decide, few philosophers are murderers. but a careless opinion from lady edgware might be useful to me because her point of view would be materialistic and based on a knowledge of the worst side of human nature.’
‘perhaps there’s something in that,’ i conceded.
‘nous voici,’ said poirot. ‘i am curious to know why the young lady wishes so urgently to see me.’
‘it is a natural desire,’ i said, getting my own back. ‘you said so a quarter of an hour ago. the natural desire to see something unique at close quarters.’
‘perhaps it is you, my friend, who make an impression on her heart the other day,’ replied poirot as he rang the bell.
i recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. i could still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. that momentary glimpse had made a great impression on me.
we were shown upstairs to a big drawing-room and in a minute or two geraldine marsh came to us there.
the impression of intensity which i had noticed before was heightened on this occasion. this tall, thin, white-faced girl with her big haunting black eyes was a striking figure.
she was extremely composed – in view of her youth, remarkably so.
‘it is very good of you to come so promptly, m. poirot,’ she said. ‘i am sorry to have missed you this morning.’
‘you were lying down?’
‘yes. miss carroll – my father’s secretary, you know – insisted. she has been very kind.’
there was a queer grudging note in the girl’s voice that puzzled me.
‘in what way can i be of service to you, mademoiselle?’ asked poirot.
she hesitated a minute and then said:
‘on the day before my father was killed you came to see him?’
‘yes, mademoiselle.’
‘why? did he – send for you?’
poirot did not reply for a moment. he seemed to be deliberating. i believe, now, that it was a cleverly calculated move on his part. he wanted to goad her into further speech. she was, he realized, of the impatient type. she wanted things in a hurry.
‘was he afraid of something? tell me. tell me. i must know. who was he afraid of ? why? what did he say to you? oh! why can’t you speak?’
i had thought that that forced composure was not natural. it had soon broken down. she was leaning forward now, her hands twisting themselves nervously on her lap.
‘what passed between lord edgware and myself was in confidence,’ said poirot slowly.
his eyes never left her face.
‘then it was about – i mean, it must have been something to do with – the family. oh! you sit there and torture me. why won’t you tell me? it’s necessary for me to know. it’s necessary. i tell you.’
again, very slowly, poirot shook his head, apparently a prey to deep perplexity.
‘m. poirot.’ she drew herself up. ‘i’m his daughter. it is my right to know – what my father dreaded on the last day but one of his life. it isn’t fair to leave me in the dark. it isn’t fair to him – not to tell me.’
‘were you so devoted to your father, then, made-moiselle?’ asked poirot gently.
she drew back as though stung.
‘fond of him?’ she whispered. ‘fond of him. i – i –’
and suddenly her self-control snapped. peals of laughter broke from her. she lay back in her chair and laughed and laughed.
‘it’s so funny,’ she gasped. ‘it’s so funny – to be asked that.’
that hysterical laughter had not passed unheard. the door opened and miss carroll came in. she was firm and efficient.
‘now, now, geraldine, my dear, that won’t do. no, no. hush, now. i insist. no. stop it. i mean it. stop it at once.’
her determined manner had its effect. geraldine’s laughter grew fainter. she wiped her eyes and sat up.
‘i’m sorry,’ she said in a low voice. ‘i’ve never done that before.’
miss carroll was still looking at her anxiously.
‘i’m all right now, miss carroll. it was idiotic.’
she smiled suddenly. a queer bitter smile that twisted her lips. she sat up very straight in her chair and looked at no one.
‘he asked me,’ she said in a cold clear voice, ‘if i had been very fond of my father.’
miss carroll made a sort of indeterminate cluck. it denoted irresolution on her part. geraldine went on, her voice high and scornful.
‘i wonder if it is better to tell lies or the truth? the truth, i think. i wasn’t fond of my father. i hated him!’
‘geraldine dear.’
‘why pretend? you didn’t hate him because he couldn’t touch you! you were one of the few people in the world that he couldn’t get at. you saw him as the employer who paid you so much a year. his rages and his queerness didn’t interest you – you ignored them. i know what you’d say, “everyone has got to put up with something.” you were cheerful and uninterested. you’re a very strong woman. you’re not really human. but then you could have walked out of the house any minute. i couldn’t. i belonged.’
‘really, geraldine, i don’t think it’s necessary going into all this. fathers and daughters often don’t get on. but the less said in life the better, i’ve found.’
geraldine turned her back on her. she addressed herself to poirot.
‘m. poirot, i hated my father! i am glad he is dead! it means freedom for me – freedom and independence. i am not in the least anxious to find his murderer. for all we know the person who killed him may have had reasons – ample reasons – justifying that action.’
poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
‘that is a dangerous principle to adopt, mademoiselle.’
‘will hanging someone else bring father back to life?’
‘no,’ said poirot dryly. ‘but it may save other innocent people from being murdered.’
‘i don’t understand.’
‘a person who has once killed, mademoiselle, nearly always kills again – sometimes again and again.’
‘i don’t believe it. not – not a real person.’
‘you mean – not a homicidal maniac? but yes, it is true. one life is removed – perhaps after a terrific struggle with the murderer’s conscience. then – danger threatens – the second murder is morally easier. at the slightest threatening of suspicion a third follows. and little by little an artistic pride arises – it is a métier – to kill. it is done at last almost for pleasure.’
the girl had hidden her face in her hands.
‘horrible. horrible. it isn’t true.’
‘and supposing i told you that it had already hap - pened ? that already – to save himself – the murderer has killed a second time?’
‘what’s that, m. poirot?’ cried miss carroll. ‘another murder? where? who?’
poirot gently shook his head.
‘it was an illustration only. i ask pardon.’
‘oh! i see. for a moment i really thought – now, geraldine, if you’ve finished talking arrant nonsense.’
‘you are on my side, i see,’ said poirot with a little bow.
‘i don’t believe in capital punishment,’ said miss carroll briskly. ‘otherwise i am certainly on your side. society must be protected.’
geraldine got up. she smoothed back her hair.
‘i am sorry,’ she said. ‘i am afraid i have been making rather a fool of myself. you still refuse to tell me why my father called you in?’
‘called him?’ said miss carroll in lively astonishment.
‘you misunderstand, miss marsh. i have not refused to tell you.’
poirot was forced to come out into the open.
‘i was only considering how far that interview might have been said to be confidential. your father did not call me in. i sought an interview with him on behalf of a client. that client was lady edgware.’
‘oh! i see.’
an extraordinary expression came over the girl’s face. i thought at first it was disappointment. then i saw it was relief.
‘i have been very foolish,’ she said slowly. ‘i thought my father had perhaps thought himself menaced by some danger. it was stupid.’
‘you know, m. poirot, you gave me quite a turn just now,’ said miss carroll, ‘when you suggested that woman had done a second murder.’
poirot did not answer her. he spoke to the girl.
‘do you believe lady edgware committed the murder, mademoiselle?’
she shook her head.
‘no, i don’t. i can’t see her doing a thing like that. she’s much too – well, artificial.’
‘i don’t see who else can have done it,’ said miss carroll. ‘and i don’t think women of that kind have got any moral sense.’
‘it needn’t have been her,’ argued geraldine. ‘she may have come here and just had an interview with him and gone away, and the real murderer may have been some lunatic who got in afterwards.’
‘all murderers are mentally deficient – of that i am assured,’ said miss carroll. ‘internal gland secretion.’
at that moment the door opened and a man came in – then stopped awkwardly.
‘sorry,’ he said. ‘i didn’t know anyone was in here.’
geraldine made a mechanical introduction.
‘my cousin, lord edgware. m. poirot. it’s all right, ronald. you’re not interrupting.’
‘sure, dina? how do you do, m. poirot? are your grey cells functioning over our particular family mystery?’
i cast my mind back trying to remember. that round, pleasant, vacuous face, the eyes with slight pouches underneath them, the little moustache marooned like an island in the middle of the expanse of face.
of course! it was carlotta adams’ escort on the night of the supper party in jane wilkinson’s suite.
captain ronald marsh. now lord edgware.
第十二章 女儿
我们回到自己的住所后，现桌上有一封信。波洛拿起信来，例整齐地将信剪开，后晗哈大笑起来。
“你猜是什么——说曹操曹操就到了。黑斯廷斯，看这个。”
我从他手中接过信笺。
信上印着“摄政门l7号”的字样。信上的字体直直的，看似很容易读下来，而实际并不好读。
信文如下。
尊敬的先生：
我听说您今早与警督来舍下。很遗憾，我没有机会与您谈话。加果您方便的话，请在今天下午任何时候光临寒含，不胜感激。
杰拉尔丁。马什敬上
“奇怪了。”我说道，“我不知道她为什么要见你。”
“你觉得她要见我就很奇怪吗？你可不够礼貌啊，我的朋友。”
波洛总是专找不是时候的时候开玩笑。
“我们马上就去，我的朋友。”他说着，小心翼翼地用手拂去帽上根本不存在的灰尘，然后将帽子戴在头上。
简曾漫不经心地说杰拉尔丁也许会杀害她的父亲，我觉得这一想法很荒谬。只有特别没头脑的人才会这么说。我对波洛说出自己的想法。
“头脑。头脑。我们又该怎样理解这个词呢？用你的话说，简也许是兔子脑袋，这是一种轻视的含义。但想想兔子这种动物。它不断生殖、繁衍，不是吗？这在自然界是一种精神优越的标志。可爱的埃奇韦尔夫人并不懂历史、地理或是任何古典作晶。说老子，她可能会以为是一只获奖的小狮子狗。说莫里哀，她会以为是女士服装店。但说起挑选衣服，嫁大款，发大财，自行其事——她的成功是显然的。若是我从一个哲学家的角度，推断杀人凶手，那将是无益的。因为从哲人的角度，杀人动机是为了大多数人的利益。但这也是很难断定的，因为皙人去当杀人凶手的还真不多。埃奇韦尔夫人无意说出的想法也许对我们有用，因为她的出发点是物质的，根据对人类最丑恶一面的认识而产生的。”
“也许其中确实有道理。”我也承认道。
“这正是我们需要的，”波洛说道，“现在我很想知道，为什么这位小姐急于想见我？”
“这是一个很自然的愿望。”我也找到了自己的根据，说道，“你刚才还说过，想在近处看特别的东西是很自然的愿望。”
“我的朋友，大概是你那天给她留下了很深的印象吧。”波洛说着，按响了门铃。
我想起了那一天她站在房门口那一副受惊的面孔，我还仍然记得那苍白的面孔上一双炯炯有神的黑眼睛。那瞬间的一瞥给我留下很深的印象。
我们被让进褛上一间大客厅，过了不久，杰拉尔丁。马什来了。
我上次见到的那种紧张的神情似乎更加重了。这个修长、面色苍白的女子，加之那双大大的令人难忘的黑眼睛，很引人注目。
“波洛先生，您能马上就来真是太好了。”她说道，“很抱歉。今天早晨我未能见您。”
“您正在休息吗？”
“是的。卡罗尔小姐——我父亲的秘书，您认识的——坚持让我休息。她对我非常好。”
那女孩说话时带有一种奇怪的勉强的味道，令我觉得迷惑不解。
“小姐，我可以在哪些方面为您效劳呢？”
她犹豫了一下，接着说
“先父被杀之前，您曾见过他？”
“是的，小姐。”
“为什么呢？是他——叫您来的？”
波洛没有立刻回答。他好像在考虑什么。我相倍那是他聪明的算计。他是想让她接着说。他意识到，她属于急性子。她想立即知道自己想知道的东西。
“他是害怕什么吗？告诉我。告诉我。我一定要知道。他怕谁？为什么？他对您说了些什么？唉！您为什么不说话呢？”
我早就觉得她那种强作镇定的态度不自然了，很快就崩溃了。她身子向前弯着，双手在膝前不停地扭动。
波洛慢吞吞地说：“我和埃奇韦尔男爵之间的事是秘密的。”
他的眼睛一直盯着她的脸。
“那么，必定是关于——我是说，一定是关于——我们家庭的问题了。喋！您坐在那儿折磨着我。您为什么不告诉我呢？我有必要知道的。有必要的，这点您清楚。”
波洛再一次慢慢地摇摇头，显得为难和困惑。
“波洛先生，”她突然振作起来，“我是他的女儿。我有权利知道——我父亲死的前一天究竟在怕什么？让我蒙在鼓里是不公平的。不告诉我——对他也不公平。”
“那么，您很爱您的父亲了，小姐？”波洛温和地间道。
她像被刺了一洋往后一缩。
“很爱他？”她小声地重复着，“深爱着他。我——我——”
突然她的自制力崩溃了，哈哈大笑起来。她仰到椅子上笑个不停。
“真是好笑，”她喘着气说，“这真是好笑，竟有人问我这个。”
她那种歇斯底里的笑声并非无人听见。门开了，卡罗尔小姐走了进来。她的样子很坚定、干练。
“好了，好了，杰拉尔丁。亲爱的，那样是不合适的。别，别，嘘，我一定不能让你这样了。别，别笑了。我是说真格的，立刻停止再笑。”
她那坚定的态度果然有效。杰拉尔丁的笑声小多了。她揩了揩眼睛。坐了起来。
“对不起，”她低低的声音说，“我以前从未这样过。”
卡罗尔小姐仍然焦虑地望着她。
“我现在好了，卡罗尔小姐。这真是傻透了。”
她的嘴角带着一种奇怪的苦笑，直直地坐在椅子上，谁也不看。
“他问我，”她冷冷地、用清晰的语调说道。“我是不是爱我的父亲。”
“我不知道是该撒谎，还是该说实话。我想该说实话。我不爱我的父亲。我恨他！”
“亲爱的杰拉尔丁。”
“为什么要装呢？你不恨他，因为他不惹你！你是世上少数的那几个他不惹的人。你只把他当作雇主来看，他和你的关系只是一年付你一些钱而已。无论他怎样发脾气，怎么古怪。你都可以不感兴趣——因为你不注意这些。我知道你怎么说。‘每个人都该容忍些事情。’你是乐观但无动于衷的，你是一个很坚强的女人。其实你有些不通人情。而且你可以随时离开这个地方。我却不能，我属于这个家。”
“真的，杰拉尔丁。我认为没有必要提这些。父女往往很难相处。不过我发现生活中说得越少越好。”
，拉尔丁背过身来，理她，波洛说。
“波洛先生，恨我的父亲，在他死了，才高兴呢！我可以自由了——自由、独立。我们都知道那个杀死他的人必定有充分的理由——充分的理由——证明那事做得对。”
波洛若有所思地望着她。
“小姐，要采用那种原则是很危险的。”
“绞死一个人就能让我父亲起死回生吗？”
“不能，”波洛淡淡地说，“但是可以免除其他无辜的人被害死。”
“我不明白。”
“小姐，一个人杀过人，就会再杀人——有时——杀再杀。”
“我不相信。不会的——一个真正的人不会这样的。”
“您是说——不是一个杀人狂吗？但是，会的。事实上是真的。现在巳杀了一个人——干那事前他也许会经过激烈的思想斗争。但是——危险存在着——再杀个人也许容易多了。杀第三个人，可能只是稍微对危险有些疑心。于是逐渐地，杀人成了一种能带来艺术自豪感的东西——一种，专门技能。最后杀人几乎成了乐事。”
女孩用两手掩住面孔。
“可怕。可怕。这不会是真的。”
“如果我告诉您这种事又发生了呢？已经——为了保存自我——那个杀人犯又一次杀人了。”
“什么？波洛先生？”卡罗尔喊道，“又杀人了？在哪儿？是谁？”
波洛温和地摇了摇头。
“这只是举例而已。请原谅。”
“噢！我明白了。刚才我还以为真是呢——现在，杰拉尔丁，你那套无聊的话说完了吧？”
“我可以看出，您是站在我这一边的。”波洛说着，向她鞠了一个躬。
“我不主张死刑。”卡罗尔小姐轻快地说，“要不然的话，我一定站在您这一边。社会得有人保护啊。”
杰拉尔丁站了起来，用手理了理头发。
“对不起，”她说，“我想刚才的样子很傻。您还不想告诉我。为什么我父亲叫您来的？”
“叫他？”卡罗尔小姐根惊讶地说。
“您误会了，马什小姐。我不是不肯告诉您。”
波洛不得不打开天窗说亮话了。
“我只是在想，那次谈话本来是秘密的。您父亲并没叫我来。我是代表一个人来找他会面的。那位当事人就是埃奇韦尔夫人。”
“噢！我明白了。”
那女孩脸上露出一种特殊的神情。起初我以为那是失望，而后发现那是一种宽慰的表情。
“我真是很傻。”她慢慢地说。“我以为父亲大概顶感到自己有危险。我真傻。”
“波洛先生，要知道您刚才真吓了我一跳，”卡罗尔小姐说，“当您说到那女人又杀了一个人。”
波洛没理她，对女孩说；
“小姐，您认为埃奇韦尔夫人会杀人吗？”
她摇摇头。
“不。我认为不会。我不明白她为何要那样做。她很——晤，太虚张声势了。”
“我看不出还有谁会这么干，”卡罗尔小姐说，“我认为她那种女人毫无道德感。”
“不一定是她，”杰拉尔丁争辩道，“她也许只是来这见了他就走了，真正的凶手是过后进来的精神病人。”
“所有的杀人犯都是神经不健全的人——对于这一点我是绝对相信的。”卡罗尔小姐说，“是内分泌作用。”
这时门开了，走进来一个人，很窘地站在那儿。
“对不起，”他说道，“我不知道这儿有人。”
杰拉尔丁机械地给我们互相介绍。
“这是我堂兄，埃奇韦尔男爵。这是波洛先生。好了，罗纳德，你并没有妨碍我们。”
“真的吗？戴娜？您好，波洛先生。您是不是在为我们这个特殊的家庭秘密动脑筋呢？”
我竭力回忆往事。那张愉快而空虚的圆面孔，眼睛下面轻微的水泡，还有那一小撮胡子像汪洋大海中的一个孤岛。
不错！正是那天晚上与筒。威尔金森在套房用晚餐的人。
罗纳德。马什上尉。现在是埃奇韦尔男爵。
