Chapter 8 Twenty-four black thrushes

Hercule Poirot is enjoying a cozy dinner with his friend Henry Bonington at Gallant Endow on King Street in Chelsea. Mr. Bonnington likes this restaurant very much. He likes the pleasant atmosphere and the British cuisine here.British cuisine is famous for its lightness, and the dishes here can be described as authentic, not the kind of non-authentic products that taste like which country they don’t know. He likes to point out to the people who dine with him where the artist Augustus John used to sit, and show him the famous artist's signature in the customer opinion book. Mr. Bonington himself has no artistic temperament at all, but he calls himself an art lover. He often talks about the anecdotes of artists with appreciation, and makes Molly happy for it. The lovely waitress is like an old friend and Bonington Mr. said hello.She has an amazing memory and knows every customer's food preferences like the back of her hand.

"Good evening, sir." She came over after seeing the two of them seated at a table in the corner. "You're in luck today, we've just had chestnut turkey - that's your favorite, isn't it? And we've never had such good Stilton (Stilton: UK A fine white cheese with Penicillium!—Would you like the soup or the fish first?" Mr. Bonington hastily warned Poirot who was reading the menu carefully: "Don't order any of your flashy things in France, only order well-prepared British dishes." "My friend," Hercule Poirot waved his hand, "I am not picky! Everything is at your disposal."

"Oh, very good," said Mr. Bonnington, and began to order expertly. After ordering, he leaned on the back of the chair and breathed a sigh of relief, and picked up the napkin.Molly hurried away with the bill of lading. "A good woman," he admired. "She was a beauty, she was a model for an artist, and she's good at cooking... which is even more likable. Generally speaking, women don't have much interest in food wells. Many women and her admire Men don’t care what they eat when they go out to eat, they order whatever they see on the menu.” Hercule Poirot shook his head.

"this is too scary." "Thank God! Men aren't like that!" said Bonnington, triumphantly. "Not one?" Hercule Poirot blinked. "Well...maybe young people are like that," Bonington had to admit. "Men are puppets when they're young! So are young people now...have no courage...impatient. Young people say I It's useless, I..." He said seriously, "I also think they are unreasonable, maybe they are right! But listening to some young people's voices, you will think that no one has the right to live beyond the age of sixty! In this way In the future, more and more elderly people will be abandoned.”

"It is quite possible," said Poirot, "that they may be so ruthless." "I'm glad you understand, Poirot. Your detective work has eaten away your unrealistic idealism." Hercule Poirot smiled. "Besides," he went on, "it would be interesting to count the number of people who die suddenly over the age of sixty. I bet you'd be very uncomfortable." "The trouble with you is that you're looking for the criminal instead of waiting for the criminal." "I'm sorry," said Poirot. "You must be deeply touched. My friend, tell me something about you, your current life, okay?"

"It's a mess!" said Bonnington. "That's the mess in the world today. Add to that a lot of hypocrisy, and the hypocrisy hides all this shit. Like a savory sauce that hides rotten fish underneath! I I never eat fish with any sauce." Meanwhile Molly served a plate of grilled sole, which he looked at and admired. "You know what I like, boy," he said. "Thank you! You come here often, sir, don't you? I ought to know what you like." Poirot interjected: "Some people always like to eat the same dish, don't they? Why not change it?"

"Gentlemen don't like that, sir. Ladies like variations... Gentlemen always like the same dishes." "What did I tell you?" grumbled Bonnington. "Women don't care what they eat!" He looked around at the diners. "This place is interesting. See that old odd-looking guy with the beard in the corner over there? Molly will tell you he eats here every Tuesday and Thursday night, rain or shine. He It's been a habit for ten years...he's an icon here. But no one knows what he's called, where he lives, or what he does. Don't you think there's a lot of wonder in the world when you think about it?"

The waitress brought the turkey, he asked. "Is the old man sitting there again in old time?" "Yes sir. Tuesday and Thursday are his hours. But he came here this Monday which surprised me! I thought I got the date wrong and thought it was Tuesday! But the next night he came again —so Monday might be an exception." "Interesting deviation of habit," muttered Poirot. "I wonder why?" "Well, sir, if you let me say, I think he must have some troubles or unpleasant things." "Why do you think so? From his manner?" "No, sir . . . it's not his manner. He's always very calm. He never says a word except when he comes and goes. It's his habit to say nothing."

"His habits?" "I bet you'd laugh at me," said Molly, blushing. "But if a gentleman has been here for ten years, you'd know what he likes and what he doesn't like. He never eats suet pudding or black Sloe berries, and I never saw him drink puree...but Monday night he ordered a bowl of thick tomato soup, steak, kidney cloth and sloe berries! Didn't seem to care about those things at all !" "You know?" said Poirot, "I find it very interesting." Molly left with a satisfied look on his face. "Then, Poirot," said Henry Bonington, smiling, "let me hear your deduction of this puzzling phenomenon, and bring out your best skills."

"I want to hear from you first." "Missing me for Watson, huh? Well, I reckon the old fellow went to the hospital, and the doctor changed his diet." "Think tomato soup, steak, kidney pudding, sloe berries? I don't think any doctor would let a patient eat that." "Don't take it for granted, old man. Doctors don't think of anything." "Then there are no other hypotheses but this one?" Henry Bonington says: "Well, I think there is another possibility. Our unknown friend is in a strong emotion. He is so anxious and miserable that he doesn't pay attention to what he ordered. It tastes like chewing wax."

He paused and said: "You'll tell me you know what was going on in his head. You might say he was determined to kill." After speaking, he couldn't help laughing at his own humor. Poirot said nothing. You could tell he was anxious.He said he had a vague sense that something was going to happen. His friend immediately retorted that the idea was absurd. About three weeks later, Poirot saw Bonington again—this time in a crowded subway car. They saw each other, nodded to each other, each grabbed the armrest and swayed with the car.When the train arrived at Piccadilly Circus station, a large number of passengers poured out of the carriage.The two found a seat at the front of the car—it was not next to the door, there were no passengers coming in and out, and it was very quiet. "It's much more comfortable now," said Mr. Bonington with relief. "A bunch of selfish people! You won't listen to them when you tell them to move in!" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "What can you do?" he said. "Life changes too much." "It's like that, coming and going." Bonington said in a slightly sad tone, "I think of... something, do you remember the old guy we talked about at the Gallant Stewart restaurant? I shouldn't think so, but he's probably gone to Elysium. He hasn't been there in a week. Molly seems upset." Hercule Poirot sat up abruptly, his green eyes twinkling. "Really?" He asked quickly, "Really?" Bonnington said: "You remember when I said he might have gone to the doctor to adjust his diet? Diet adjustments are total bullshit - although I shouldn't think so, it is possible that he consulted the doctor with some health problems, and the doctor's answers made him Extremely shocked. This may be the reason for his unconscious fuss. It is very likely that he was too stimulated and left this world early. Doctors should really be cautious about talking to elderly patients." "They usually are," said Poirot. "Here I am," said Mr. Bonnington. "Good-bye. We don't know anything about that fellow, not even his name, but we keep talking about him. The world is full of wonders and interesting things." He got out of the car in a hurry. Poirot sat there frowning, not seeming to think it was very funny. When he returned home, he immediately ordered his faithful servant George to find out a document. Poirot looked up a list of deaths recorded in the district. Poirot's finger stopped next to a name. "Henry Gascoyne, sixty-four. I'll start with that man." Later that day Poirot sat in the clinic of Dr. MacAndrew in King Street.McAndrew was a Scotsman, tall, red-haired, and looked learned. "Gascoigne?" he asked. "Yeah, that's right. This weird old bird, lives alone in that old abandoned house that's about to be knocked down for modern flats. I didn't show him. I have been sick, but I have seen him and know some of his situation. At that time, the milkman thought it was very strange, and the milk bottles outside the door were piled up into a hill, so he told the neighbor. The neighbor immediately reported to the police. The police broke into the door and found out. He's dead, fell down the stairs. He's wearing a worn dressing gown with a worn belt that probably tripped him up." "I see," said Poirot. "It's very simple—accidental death." "yes." "Does he have any relatives?" "Have a nephew. Used to come once a month. His name is Lorimer, George Lorimer, a doctor, wishing at Wimbledon" "Is he very sad about his uncle's death?" "Not so much. I mean he loves the old man, but he doesn't know him very well." "How long was Mr. Gascoigne dead when you saw him?" "Ah," said Dr. McAndrew, "the autopsy showed that the time of death was between forty-eight and seventy-two hours. The body was found on the morning of the sixth. The time of death was earlier than that. In the pocket of his dressing-gown There was a letter...written on the 3rd...from Wimbledon that afternoon...probably delivered around 9.20pm. That means the time of death was 9.20pm on the 3rd This is consistent with the degree of digestion of food in his stomach. He ate a meal two hours before death. I examined the body on the morning of the sixth, and it turned out that the time of death was sixty hours before—about three Ten o'clock in the evening." "Flawless. Tell me when was the last time anyone saw him?" "He was seen in King Street around seven that night. On the third, on Thursday, he ate at Gallant Endow's at seven-thirty. It seemed he ate there every Thursday. He was seen as Poor artist." "He has no other relations but a nephew?" "The whole story sounded very strange. He had a twin brother who didn't see each other very much. Then I heard that his brother married a rich woman and gave up art. . No contact. But strangely, the date of their death is the same. His brother also died on the third day. I knew something similar before...died in different places on the same day! Maybe it's just a coincidence... ...but such coincidences are far too many." "His brother's wife is still alive?" "No, she died a few years ago." "Where does Anthony Gascoigne live?" , 'He has a cottage on Kingston Hill.From what Dr. Lorimer told me, I thought he must be living alone. " Poirot nodded thoughtfully. The Scot looked at him sharply. "What are you thinking, Monsieur Poirot?" he asked bluntly, "I answered all your questions . " Poirot thought for a while and said: "You said that this was an accidental death that couldn't be simpler, and my inference is also very simple-death caused by external force." Dr. McAndrew was taken aback. "Murder, in other words! Do you have any proof?" "No," said Poirot, "it's just a guess." "I think there must be a reason for it..." The doctor thought about it. Poirot was silent.McAndrew said: "If you suspect that his nephew was responsible, then I tell you bluntly, you are wrong. The results of the investigation prove that Lorimer was at Wimbledon between eight-thirty and ten o'clock that night." Poirot muttered: "Assuming this is confirmed, the police would be cautious." asked the doctor. "Perhaps you have some evidence against him?" "I didn't know there was such a man until you mentioned him." "Then you suspect someone else?" "No, no, absolutely not. This is a case about a person's eating habits. Eating habits are very important to a person, and the dead Mr. Gascoigne got a deviation from it one day. It's a big deal, you Get it." "I do not quite understand." Hercule Poirot muttered: "The suspect is too much sauce on the rotten fish." "Oh my God!" Poirot smiled. "Are you going to lock me up in my room like a madman, Mr. Doctor? But I'm not out of my mind, I'm just a man who likes to follow the rules, keep everything in order, and get agitated if the routine is disturbed. Please forgive me for causing you so much trouble." He stood up, and the doctor followed him. "You know," said McAndrew, "I don't see a clue about Henry Gascoigne's death, to be honest. I think he rolled down the stairs by himself, and you said someone pushed him down the stairs." Go, it's ridiculous." Poirot sighed. "Yes," he said, "looks like a professional, and does a pretty good job!" "You still think..." The thin man spread his hands out. "I'm a stubborn man. . . the slightest doubt will be brought to light. . . without any proof! By the way, are Henry Gascoigne's teeth false?" "No, it isn't. He has very good teeth, which is unusual for a man of his age." "His teeth are well protected... as white as jade?" "Yes. I took a special look at his teeth. People get yellow with age, but his teeth were in good shape." "No change of color?" "No. I don't think he's the smoker you're talking about." "That's not exactly what I meant...just a whim...maybe it won't work out! Goodbye, Dr. McAndrew, and thank you for your help!" He shook the doctor's hand and left. "Now," he said, "start with a whim." At Galante Endover he sat down again at the same table as he had dined with Bonnington the previous time.The waitress wasn't Molly, she told him Molly was on vacation. It was only seven o'clock, and there were not many guests, so Poirot chatted with the girl about old Mr. Gascoigne. "Yes," she said, "he's been coming here regularly for years. But none of us know what his name is. We didn't know he was dead until we read the newspaper because there was a picture of him in it.' Look at that ,’ I said to Molly at the time, ‘Isn’t this our old man’s old time?’ That’s what we used to call him.” "He dined here the night he died, didn't he?" "Yes, three days, Thursday. He's always here every Thursday. He's here on Tuesday and Thursday—as accurate as clock." "I suppose you don't remember what he ate?" "Let me think. Curry broth, yes, steak pudding or pork? No, pudding, sloe berry, apple pie, cheese. Think of how he fell down the stairs when he came home that night, how Horrible! It is said that it was the worn sash of his dressing gown. Of course, his clothes are always so bad—worn, sloppy, but he feels important himself! Oh, we have all kinds of customers here. " she left. Poirot ate the fillet.There was a faint green light in the eyes. "It's strange," he said to himself, "how a very intelligent person can overlook such a detail. Bonnington must be interested." But time did not allow him to sit down with Bonnington and talk. He had no trouble finding the local coroner after some information from an honest resident. "The late Gascoigne was a queer man," he thought, "a lonely old fellow. Does his solitude arouse people's interest?" He looked at his visitor strangely as he spoke. Hercule Poirot said carefully: "Sir, everything connected with this will be very useful to the investigation." "Okay, what help do you need?" "Thank you! I believe that among the files to be destroyed by your county court, or confiscated ... I don't know how appropriate, there is a letter recovered from the pocket of Henry Gascoigne's dressing gown , is there such a thing?" "yes." "A letter from his nephew, Dr. George Lorimer?" "Exactly. This letter proves the exact time of death." "A technical test was also done?" "no doubt." "Is that letter still there?" Hercule Poirot waited nervously for an answer. He let out a long sigh of relief when he heard that the letter was still awaiting further examination. After he got the letter, he read it carefully.The letter was written with a pen, and the handwriting was very scribbled. The content is like this: Uncle Henry: I'm sorry I didn't get it right with Uncle Anthony.He shows no interest in your desire to visit him, and lets go of what you say about the past.He has become ill and his mind is confused.I think the day when he leaves us is not far away.He doesn't seem to remember who you are. I'm sorry I didn't help you much, but I promise I did my best. love your nephew george lorimer It was signed on November 3rd, and Poirot glanced at the postmark - November 3rd at four-thirty in the afternoon. He muttered: "Everything fits so perfectly, doesn't it?" Kingston Hill is his next target.After a little trouble, he was granted with touching persistence the opportunity to meet Amelia Hill, cook and maid of the late Anthony Gascoigne. Mrs. Hill was cold and not very cooperative at first.But this strange-looking foreigner with a convincing and pleasant attitude is eloquent. He has the ability to speak even a stone.Amelia began to relax. It seemed that she was dealing with many women like herself, pouring out her bitterness to a loyal audience who she thought felt the same. She had been Mr. Gascoigne's household for fourteen years--not an easy job!No, it is indeed not easy!If it were someone else, I would have flinched from the pressure that needs to be endured!The poor gentleman is eccentric, and it is well known that there is nothing to hide!He is a man of wealth—his fortune is unknown!But Mrs. Hill served him faithfully and tolerated his eccentric habits. She thought logically that she would leave something for her as a souvenir no matter what, but there was nothing!By old will he bequeathed all his property to his wife, and if she died before him, to his brother Henry.The old will from several years ago. This seems so unfair to her! Poirot gradually diverted the conversation away from her greedy indignation.This is actually unintentional injustice!It is reasonable for Hill to feel greatly sad and angry.Mr. Gascoigne's penchant for money was a well-known secret.It is said that he refused the help of his only brother.Mrs. Hill probably knew all about the matter. "Are you asking about the time Dr. Lorimer came to see him?" asked Hill greatly. "I know about his brother. I think his brother wants to make up. They haven't seen each other since they had a big fight a few years ago." "I know," said Poirot. "Has Mr. Gascoigne refused?" "That's what it is," said Mrs. Hill, nodding. "'Henry?' he muttered. 'What Henry? Haven't seen him in years. Don't want to. Henry, a quarrelsome fellow.' That's all." She then spoke of her own grievances and the cold treatment of her by the late Gascoigne's lawyer. Poirot managed to find a way, interrupted her unobtrusively, and left. After dinner he went again to the house of Dr George Lorimer in Dorset Street, Wimbledon. The doctor is at home.Hercule Poirot was ushered into the surgery.He was greeted at once by Dr. George Lorimer, who was evidently at supper. "Doctor, I'm not a patient." Poirot explained. "It may be inappropriate for me to come here... I'm old and like to go straight. I don't like the roundabout way of lawyers." This opening remark really aroused Lorimer's interest.The doctor was of medium height, clean-shaven, with brown hair and eyelashes that were almost white, so that his eyes looked bright and bright.He behaved with dignity and grace. "Lawyers?" He raised his eyebrows and said, "It's very annoying! Your words have aroused my curiosity, my dear sir. Please sit down." Poirot sat down, took out his work card and handed it to the doctor. . George Lorimer's white eyelashes moved. Poirot leaned forward and said mysteriously: "Many of my clients are women." "No wonder," said Dr. George Lorimer, with a wink. "It's not surprising, as you say." Poirot nodded. "Women don't trust the police, they trust private detectives more. They don't want their affairs to be published. A few days ago an elderly woman went to I consulted there. She was very sorry for the sudden death of the husband with whom she had quarreled many years ago. Her husband was your uncle—the dead Mr. Gascoigne." George Lorimer flushed. "My uncle? Nonsense! His wife died many years ago." "Not your uncle, Mr. Anthony Gascoyne, but your uncle Henry Gascoyne." "Uncle Henry? But he never married!" "Oh, no, he was married." Hercule Poirot lied calmly. "There is no doubt about it. The lady has also brought her marriage certificate with your uncle." "Lies!" cried George Lorimer hysterically.His face was as red as a plum fruit. "I don't believe it. You have the audacity to talk nonsense." "It's too bad, isn't it?" said Poirot. "You kill people and get nothing." "Kill?" Lorimer asked tremblingly, his pale eyes were full of fear. "By the way," said Poirot, "I see you eating blackthorn berries again. What a stupid habit. They are said to be rich in vitamins, but sometimes they can be fatal. I think this thing will The hangman—that's you, Doctor Lorimer." "My friend, do you know that your mistake lies in your assumptions?" Ercree Poirot waved his hands like an orator, looking directly at the man across the table. "A man in great sorrow does not try something he has not done, he follows the habits of his life mechanically. A man in great sorrow goes out to dinner in his pajamas...but the pajamas should be his own , not someone else's, and a guy who doesn't like thick soups and sloe berries on a tarpaulin ordered them all one night. You'd say it was because he was in a dazed, absent-minded way. But I'm going to say this People only order food mechanically according to their past habits. "Well, do you have any other explanations? I can't think of any other explanations that are more adequate. I was anxious! The whole thing just didn't feel right, out of the ordinary! I like to be organized, and everything fits Regularity. Gascoigne's dinner order makes me fidget. "Then I heard that this man broke his Tuesday-Thursday habit for the first time in years for some reason, and was never seen again. I don't like the disappearance explanation. A strange thought crossed my mind—if I'm not mistaken. The man must be dead. I made an investigation to confirm his death. He died cleanly dressed, in other words too much sauce on rotten fish! "On the third day, someone saw him on King Street at seven o'clock. He ate at a restaurant at seven thirty and died two hours later. There was no suspicion of homicide. The food test in his stomach also proved the time of death, and that A perfect letter, a lot of sauce! Makes it impossible to see the fish! "Dear nephew who wrote this letter, dear nephew has solid alibi. Simple death - a fall from a staircase to his death. Simple accident or easy murder? One would be sure No doubt he said the former. "Dear nephew is the only surviving relative, dear nephew will inherit . . . but is there anything to inherit? Uncle is notoriously poor. "But my uncle had a brother, and this brother married a rich woman. He lived in a splendid mansion in Kingston Hill. So it seemed that his rich wife would leave him all of her when she died. Look at this interesting chain—the rich wife leaves money to Anthony, who leaves money to Henry, who finally gives George—a reasonable and perfect chain.” "Theoretically there's nothing wrong with it," Bonnington said. "But what work did you do?" "Once you know...you'll get there. Henry died two hours after eating, that's the problem. But suppose the meal wasn't dinner but lunch, put yourself in George's shoes, George needs money... Urgently needed. Anthony Gascoigne is dying, but his death will do no good to George, his property will be left to Henry, and Henry Gascoigne will live for an unknown number of years, so Henry must die too... the sooner the better ...but must die after Antony.At the same time George must have an alibi.Henry's habit of going to a restaurant twice a week inspired George, who was wary, to try it out first.He showed up at the restaurant on Monday, disguised as his uncle, and he was satisfied that everyone there took him for his uncle.Then he waited for Uncle Anthony to die.As soon as the time came, he wrote a letter to his uncle on the afternoon of November 2nd, and the payment date was three days.That afternoon he went downtown to visit his uncle and carried out his plan.With a sharp push, Uncle Henry tumbled down the stairs, then rummaged through the room for the letter he had written and stuffed it into the pocket of his uncle's dressing gown.At seven-thirty he showed up at the Gallant Endow, bearded and bushy-browed, so that one would think that Mr. Henry Gascoyne was alive at seven-thirty.Then he magically changed his clothes in the bathroom and drove frantically back to Wimbledon for an evening of bridge—a brilliant alibi. " Mr. Bonnington looked at him. "But how to interpret the postmark on the envelope?" "Oh, it's very simple. The postmark is blurred. Why? Someone used lamp smoke to change November 2nd to November 3rd. Unless you look for it, you won't find it. There are black thrushes at the end." "Black thrush?" "Twenty-four black thrushes in the pie, officially blackthorn berries! Do you understand? George isn't a good actor after all. You remember that guy who played Othello all black?" George, too, looked like his uncle, walked like his uncle, talked like his uncle, and had his uncle's beard and eyebrows, but he forgot to eat like his uncle too. He ordered his favorite dishes according to his own eating habits, and the sloe berries stained his teeth... But the teeth of the corpse did not have a trace of sloe berry blacking, and there were no sloe berries in the autopsy What if. I asked today and George is stupid with a beard and all the make-up that day. Oh, if you look carefully you will find a lot of clues, evidence. I visited George and he messed up, that's enough. He was still eating sloe berries, a gluttonous fellow, with a great sense of food. If I'm right, a glutton would have put him on the gallows." A waitress brought out two sloeberry and apple pies. "Take it away!" said Bonington. "One cannot be too serious. A small sago pudding."