Chapter 15 Chapter Fourteen
It's been a long time since I came to the White Heaven Building. A few years ago, it was a very good modern building. However, today, there are many grander, more modern and towering buildings around it.Stepping inside, it feels brand new, repainted in light yellow and light green all around.
I took the elevator up and rang the doorbell of No. 203. The polite and thoughtful servant George came to open the door with a welcoming smile on his face.
"Mr. Colin, long time no see."
"Yes! How are you, George."
"You are doing well, thank you for your concern."
I lowered my voice and asked, "How is he?"
George lowered his voice too, which wasn't really necessary since he'd been careful with his words from the start.
"Sometimes I see him listless."
I nodded knowingly.
"This way, sir—" He took my hat.
"Say Colin, Mr. Lamb, when you enroll."
"Yes, sir." He opened the door, and said in a solemn voice, "Mr. Colin Lamb is here to see you, my lord."
He stepped back and let me in.
My friend, Hercule Poirot, was sitting in the big square arm-chair which he used to sit before the fire.I noticed that the rectangular electric stove was burning red, and it was only the beginning of September. "The weather was still warm, but Poirot already felt the bleakness of autumn, and took precautionary measures early. On his left and right sides Books are neatly piled on the floor, and there are more books on the desk to the left. He holds a cup in his right hand, which is still steaming. I think it's herbal tea. It's his hobby, and he often encourages me to sing too. However, I didn't dare to appreciate the pungent smell, and I felt like vomiting even more when I drank it.
"Please don't get up," I said.But Poirot was already on his feet, and coming towards me with open arms.
"Oh, it's you, my friend, it's you! My young friend, Colin. And yet why do you call yourself Lamb? Let me see, there's a saying or proverb that says it's mutton, and yet it is. Then It's a metaphor for an older woman dressed like a cardamom, but it doesn't apply to you. Ah, there it is. You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, aren't you?"
"Not at all," I said, "it's just that it's not right for me to use my real name in this line of business, and maybe my father was involved. Therefore, using 'lam' is simple, easy to remember, and quite suitable—— Compliment yourself, don't take offense."
"On the last point, I am not quite sure," said Poirot. "How is your father?"
"The old man is all right," I said, "he's only busy with his hollyhocks—or are they called chrysanthemums? The four seasons are just a blink of an eye, and I don't know what season it is."
"So, is he obsessed with gardening?"
"It seems that everyone is like this all the time," I said.
"Not including me," said Hercule Poirot, "was alive and well—he's gone. If you want the best flowers, why don't you go to a florist? The good inspector, I think, is beginning to write Is it a memoir?"
"He has begun," I said, "but he finds that there are many things that must be omitted, and he comes to the conclusion that what is kept is often the most tedious and least worth writing about."
"Yes, one must make a decision. It's unfortunate," said Poirot. "Your father was a good talker, and I always admired him very much. His methods, you know, are very amusing, and he is very honest. His trap Often it is so obvious that it is easy to see that no one has ever set traps so generously that his arrests often say. 'This trap is too obvious to be true.' And they fall into Already!"
I laugh out loud. "Well," I said, "sons admire their fathers the least of these days. Most of them sit down, vent their grudges with their pens, recall all the vile deeds, and write them down with satisfaction. Personally, however, I am very Respect for my father. I wish I could be as good as him, but it doesn't mean I have to have the same career as him."
"But it's very close," said Poirot. "Of course in a way you're working behind the scenes, and he doesn't have to." He nibbled a few times. "I thought I'd like to say congratulations to you on your recent great achievement. Rakin incident, no?"
"So far so good," I said, "but of course I have more goals than that. Besides, I'm not here today to talk to you about that."
"Of course, of course." Poirot waved me to sit down, and offered me a cup of herbal tea, which I refused repeatedly.
Just then George came in just in time, and brought in the whiskey and the glass, and put them at my elbow.
"And how have you been yourself?" I asked Poirot.
I glanced at the various books around him and said, "It looks like you're doing research?"
said Poirot with a sigh. "So to speak. Yes, perhaps in a way it is. Lately I've been longing for a question, and it doesn't matter what kind of question, like Sherlock Holmes, cream needs turnips, as long as it's a ' Questions' is fine. What I need to exercise is not muscles, but brain cells" "I understand this, the question is only whether it is suitable or not."
"As you said," he said with a sigh, "but, my dear, the question is not so easy to get. As Zeng Ru said, someone gave me a question last Tuesday. I don't know how to get rid of the orange peel of three oranges." into my umbrella stand. How did they get here? How did they get there? I don't eat oranges, and George never puts the dry peel in the umbrella stand, nor does the visitor. It's impossible to carry three slices of orange peel with you. Well, what a problem."
"Have you figured it out yet?"
"Understood," said Poirot.
There was more sorrow than pride in his voice.
"It turned out not to be very interesting. The problem was that the original cleaning woman was replaced, and the new one violated the rules and brought her children with her. Although it sounds uninteresting, it takes perseverance to uncover all kinds of lies and Cover up. It's a matter of personal satisfaction, but not a big deal."
"What a disappointment," I said.
"To sum up," Poirot said, "I'm a humble man, but to be honest, there's really no need to use a blunt knife." I shook my head solemnly.Poirot continued: "Recently I have read a lot of various unsolved mysteries in real life, and I have used my own solutions to solve these problems."
"You mean cases like the Braff case, the Bartlett case, and things like that?"
"Exactly. But in a way, it was too easy. I knew right away who murdered Charlie Braff. The real motives behind the murders may be confusing, but not to me, when I After reading these cases, I immediately had an answer in my heart. Well, these people are probably dead by now."
As always, it occurred to me in the back of my mind that humility was not Hercule Poirot's strong point.
"Do you know what I'm going to do next?" Poirot went on.
I guess very few people talk to him these days, so he's intoxicated by his own voice.
"I turn real life into fiction. You see I have all sorts of crime novels piled up on my left and right, and I do it backwards. See—" He lifted the book that had been resting on the armrest —"Here, my dear Colin, this is the Li Jianghuasi case." He handed me the book.
"This case happened a long time ago," I said. "I remember my father saying he read it when he was a boy, and I believe I read it myself. It must seem very ancient to read it now."
"It's really wonderful," said Poirot, "you can slowly taste the atmosphere of that era and enjoy its carefully woven stories. Ariel's beauty is described like a fish and a wild goose, and Mary's beauty is like the light of the moon !"
"I must read it again," I said, "I forgot the part about the pretty girls."
"The maid Hannah is lifelike and ready to emerge. As for the murderer, it is simply the best psychological study."
I knew I was going to hear him speak now.So I calmed down and listened.
"And now to the Adventures of Rubin," continued Poirot, "how charming, how unreal, and yet so alive, alive, full of life, a story that may be said to be absurd, but brilliantly brilliant." .It can be said to be a kind of humor."' He put down "The Adventures of Rubin" and picked up another book and said: "Here, this is "Secrets of the Yellow Room". This-ah, what a book A classic, admirable from beginning to end, with a nearly flawless reasoning! I remember some people criticizing this book for being biased.. Dear Colin, not at all. No, no, even if it is, it is not Ten. The difference is as thin as a hair. No, the whole book expresses the truth, but it is carefully wrapped up in crafty and beautiful words. At that moment, when you come to the intersection of three corridors, everything will Clearly."
He put the book down respectfully, and continued: "It's really a great book, I think I've almost forgotten it all." Poirot picked up the late writers more than twenty years later.
"I've also read some of Mrs. Oliver's early works," he said, "and I think she's my friend as well as yours. I'll tell you I don't think very much of her work. It's hard to describe the story." Believe me, "coincidence" is used too much. Also, she was too young at that time, and she was too stupid to assign the identity of Finn to her detectives. Apparently she has no idea about Finland or Finns, except Sibermith's works. However, she is an enterprising person, and later learned a lot of things that she didn't know before. For example, the police's investigation procedures, and the description of light weapons are more reliable than before." He put Oliver down Mrs. Works, pick up another book.
"This is Mr. Quinn. Ah, he's the Master Alibi."
"He was, if I remember correctly, a very dull writer," I said.
"Yes," said Poirot, "there are no horrifying scenes in his book, only one corpse, sometimes more than one. But the whole point is always the alibi, the train timetable, the bus route, the plan across the country." Figure. Frankly, I like the intricacies, the elaborate alibis. I like to poke at Mr. Quin's design."
"I don't think it can be successful every time." I said.
Poirot was an honest man.
"Not every time," he admitted, "yes, not every time. Of course, after a while, you'll find that each of his books is very similar. Every alibi is not exactly the same, But very similar. Dear Colin, I imagine Quinn sitting in his room, as in his photograph, smoking a pipe, surrounded by various train timetables, airline brochures, and All kinds of timetables, even schedules for regular liners. Quin has his own way." He put down Mr. Quin's book and picked up another.
"This Mr. Gary Grayson is a master of horror novels, and his output is amazing, at least sixty-four. His type is almost exactly opposite to that of Mr. Quinn. Quinn's works have a flat plot, and Gary Grayson Mori's work is full of climaxes, not only unbelievable, but also dizzying. A lot of gags, a complete slapstick. Blood - corpses a clue - exciting, piled up as high as a mountain. Amazing from beginning to end It’s a horror that doesn’t resemble reality at all. As you say, it’s like tea that doesn’t sing like tea. In fact, it’s not a cup of tea at all, but rather an American cocktail, and you don’t know what’s in it?”
Poirot paused, sighed, and resumed his speech: "Now let us talk about America." He pulled a copy from the pile in his left hand, "Aix's, her work is also methodical, spectacle Lively. Yes, everything. Colorful and lively. She has a quick mind, but like many American writers, she seems to have a penchant for what's in the glass. You know, I'm a connoisseur of wine. If a little local and A well-aged claret or burgundy is delightful, but drinking rations of rye and bourbon on every page, like the detective in American Horror Fiction, is a joy. No fun. Whether he drank a pint or half a pint, I don't think it affects the story. However, this kind of drinking motivation in American books is everywhere, and you can pick it up." "What do you think of violent people? "
Poirot waved his hand as if to repel an intruding fly or mosquito.
"Violence for violence's sake? Since when have you cared about it? I was a policeman when I was young, and my life was full of violence. Huh, you may have read a medical textbook. Anyway, on the whole, I think America's The police and gangster novels are of a very high standard, more original and imaginative than the British ones, and they are not as decorative and atmospheric as the French writers. Here, for example, Louisa, Omariel."
He divides it into a paragraph.
"Her work is really typical of a first-class scholar, and yet it's exciting and stimulating to read. Look, those brownstones in New York. But what is a brownstone—I never knew. And , those apartments where no one is allowed to enter without permission. Like a river that is not marked on the map, it dives deep into the ground and runs quietly. In fact, it is so. This Louisa O'Malley is really great, really great."
He sighed, leaned back, shook his head, and drank the rest of his herbal tea.
"And then there's the bitter taste that will never be missing."
He bent over to pick up the book again.
"Detective Sherlock Holmes," said to himself, with endless love and respect, "a generation of masters!"
"Holmes?" I asked.
"Ah, no, no, not Sherlock Holmes, I pay homage to the author, Sir Conan Doyle. In real life, the stories of Sherlock Holmes are inevitably forced, full of fallacies and artificiality. But the art of writing it-oh, it is completely A different kind of delightful writing, especially that ever-forgotten Dr. Watson, that's a real triumph."
He sighed, shook his head, Qian Nandi whispered, obviously a bunch of thoughts must be surging in his heart.
"That dear Hastings, my friend Hastings you've heard me talk about for a long time, I haven't heard from him for a long time. It's absurd to go to South America and bury yourself, where there are always revolutions and nothing stop."
"Revolutions are not unique to South America," I pointed out, "there are revolutions all over the world these days."
"It's an explosive question, and we don't talk about it," said Hercules, Poirot.
"Actually," I said, "I came today to talk to you about something quite different." "Ah! You're getting married, aren't you? I'm so happy, dear, so happy."
"How did you think of it, Poirot," I said, "it's not such a thing."
"It happens every day," said Poirot.
"Maybe," I said firmly, "but it won't be me. In fact, I'm here today to tell you that I've had a little murder."
"Really? You mean, a murder that got interesting? And you brought it to me, why?"
"This,"—I said a little awkwardly, "I—I thought you'd like it."
Poirot looked at me thoughtfully, stroked his mustache gently, and said:
"There was a man who had a dog and was always very nice to him. He went out and threw a ball to the dog, and the dog was nice to his master. The dog would kill a hare or a field mouse and put it in front of his master. Then the dog What will it do? It will wag its tail.", I couldn't help laughing and said, "Am I wagging my tail?"
"I think you are, friend. Yes, I think you are."
"Okay," I said, "and what does the master say? Does he want to see the dogs and his field mice? Does he want to know everything?"
"Of course! You think I'd be interested in the case, don't you?"
"This case doesn't make sense any way you think about it," I said.
"Impossible," said Poirot, "there is a reason for everything, without exception."
"Well, try it out and find out why. I can't help it. In fact, this case has nothing to do with me. It just happened by chance. You should pay attention, once the identity of the deceased is found out, maybe It's not that interesting."
"Your words lack method and order," said Poirot earnestly. "Now tell me the facts. You say it's a murder, don't you?"
"It's a murder, yes," I assured him. "Well, listen."
I told him everything that had happened at 19 Wilbraham Lane, in every detail.Poirot leaned back against the chair, closed his eyes, and tapped his index finger on the armrest of the chair while listening to my detailed description. When I finally finished speaking, he did not speak for a while.Then he asked, eyes still closed: "Aren't you joking?"
"Oh, absolutely not," I said.
"Amazing," said Hercule Poirot.His tongue savored these words to the fullest, and he repeated each word one by one: "Surprised-surprising-" After finishing speaking, he continued tapping his fingers on the armrest, slowly nod.
After a while, I couldn't help but said, "Why don't you talk?"
"what do you want me to say?"
"I want you to give me an answer. I understand it very well from you. Just lean back on the chair and think about it. When you get up, you will have the answer. There is no need to ask people and run around looking for clues."
"That's what I always say."
"Ah, I said you were bragging," I thought to myself, "I've given you the facts, now I want the answer."
"That's all there is to it? There's a lot more to know, my dear. We've got the first facts. Don't we?"
"I still hope you can come up with something."
"This." He pondered for a moment. "One thing is certain," he asserted, "it must be a very simple case."
"Simple?" I opened my eyes wide.
"Of course."
"Why do you say it must be simple?"
"Because it looks very complicated on the surface, and if it needs to be so complicated, it must be simple. Do you understand?"
"I don't quite understand."
"It's really interesting," Poirot mused.He added: "What you told me just now—I think—well, it seems to be familiar. Ah, where—when—I met..." He was silent for a while.
"Your memory," I said, "is still a big reservoir of crime, but you can't remember them all, can you? Can you?"
"Unfortunately not," said Poirot, "but sometimes these recollections are helpful. I remember once upon a time in Legge there was a soapmaker who poisoned his wife in order to marry a beautiful fair-haired stenographer. This time The crime set a pattern. Then. Much later, the same pattern of crime reappeared. I recognized it. This time it was a case of kidnapping a dog, but of the same pattern. I found it to be the same as the case of the soap maker Ha, hooray! They're the same. Now you're telling me this story, and I've got that déjà vu feeling."
"Clock?" I reminded him hopefully. "Fake insurance guy?"
"No, it's not." Poirot shook his head.
"Blind woman?"
"No, no, no, don't mess around."
"Poirot, you've failed me," I said. "I thought you'd give me the answer straight away."
"But, friend, what you have given me so far is only a model, and there is much more to be ascertained. Probably the identity of this man will be found out at last. The police are very good at such things. They have Criminal records, they can publish pictures of the dead, they can go through lists of missing persons, use scientific methods to examine the clothes of the dead, etc., there are a thousand other methods that can be used. There is no doubt that the identity of this person must be will be found out."
"So there's nothing to do right now. Don't you think so?"
"There will always be something to do, if there is one to be done," said Hercule Poirot earnestly.
"Like what?"
He pointed his index finger straight at me.
"Talk to the neighbors".He said.
"It's been talked about," said I. "I went with Hardcastle, and nothing they know is of any use."
"Ah, ah, that's what you think. I assure you, it can't be. You go to them and ask them, 'Did you see anything suspicious?' They say no, and you think it's That's it. But that's not what I mean when I ask you to talk to your neighbors. I say talk to them and let them talk for themselves. There are always clues to be found in their conversation. They may talk to you about their garden , or their pets, or their groomer or seamstress, or their friends, or their favorite food. Whatever it is, there will be a sentence or a word that will give away the news. You say none of those conversations What's the use, I say it's impossible. If you could repeat to me sentence by sentence what they said..."
"Ah, that's exactly what I can do," I said, "I've been a sergeant, and I've written down everything in shorthand notation, and I've had it translated and typed, and here's what I'm going to do. brought to you."
"Oh, you're a good boy. You're such a good boy! You're doing the right thing. Thank you so much."
I feel very embarrassed.
"Any other suggestions?" I asked.
"Yes, there's plenty of advice. The girl, you can go and talk to her. Go see her. You're friends already, aren't you? When she flew out of the house in terror, didn't you Did you hug her tightly?"
"You've seen too much Gary Grayson's work, and you're influenced by him, and you start messing around."
"Perhaps you are right," admitted Poirot. "It is true that a man is influenced by what he reads."
"About this girl—" I cut my mouth off.
Poirot looked at me inquiringly.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"I shouldn't—I don't want to..."
"Oh, so that's what happened. In your heart, you think she has some kind of connection with this case."
"No, I don't think so. It's definitely a coincidence that she's there."
"No, no, my dear, it wasn't pure chance. You know that in your heart. You said it yourself. Someone named her on the phone. She was named."
"But she doesn't know why?"
"You can't be sure that she doesn't know. It's very likely that she knows, but she doesn't tell it."
"I don't think so," I said stubbornly.
"Even maybe you've discovered the reason after talking to her, but she doesn't understand it herself."
"I don't see how I can—I mean—I can say I don't know her at all."
Hercule Poirot closed his eyes again.
"Opposites attract, there is nothing wrong with it, but it is often unavoidable to make people afraid to face the reality. I guess, that girl must be very charming?"
"This—yes," I said, "is very charming."
"You are going to talk to her," ordered Poirot, "because you are friends. Besides, you have to find an excuse to go to the blind woman again and talk to her. Also, if you want to pretend, just Say you have a manuscript to be typed, go to that typing agency, find a way to make friends with the ladies there, and after talking with these people, come to see me again and tell me what they said?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"No," said Poirot, "you will enjoy the work."
"You don't seem to realize that I have my own work to do."
"If you can have a little relaxing time, I believe you will do a better job." Poirot assured me.
I got up and said with a smile, "Hey, you're a doctor! Do you have any words of wisdom for me? How do you feel about this strange clock case?"
Poirot leaned back again, closed his eyes, and said a few unexpected words:
"'The time has come at last,' said the walrus, 'for so many things: about shoes—about ships—and sealing wax—kale—and kings—and why the sea boils—and whether hunting has wings or not '" He opened his eyes again and nodded.
"Understood?" he said.
"It's a passage from 'Alice in Wonderland.'"
"Yes, this is the best gift I can give you so far, my dear, think about it carefully."
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