Chapter 5 Chapter Five Nine is Nine, Ten is Ten, and the Big Fat Hen Cracks

On the way back from the court, Japp said cheerfully to Poirot: "It's a job well done. They're all blown away!" Poirot nodded. "You figured it out first," said Japp, "but you know, I wasn't too pleased with the body myself. You don't smash a dead man's face and head up for no reason, anyway. Things are too dirty and not enjoyable, obviously there is a reason for this. There can only be one possible reason - to mess up her identity."He added generously: "But I still didn't realize so quickly that the body was actually the other woman."

Poirot smiled slightly and said: "My friend, the features of these two women are not entirely dissimilar. Mrs. Chapman is a beautiful woman who knows how to tidy up, well-made up, and well-dressed." But Miss Sainsbury Seale is a bit sloppy and doesn't know how to use lipstick and rouge. But their essence is the same. Both are women in their early forties, both of them are of similar height and build, and both Everyone dyed their graying hair blonde." "Of course, it's clear when you put it like that. We have to confess one thing--that is, innocent Maybelle has deceived us both, greatly and thoroughly. And I swear she's a fair Where is the gentleman?"

"But, my friend, she is a fair gentleman. We know all her past history." "We didn't know that she could have been the murderer - and now it seems likely. Sylvia didn't kill Maybelle, Maybelle killed Sylvia." Hercule Poirot shook his head apprehensively.He still found it difficult to connect Maybelle Sainsbury Seale with the murder.He still hears Mr. Barnes' soft, sneering voice, "Watch out for decent-looking people—" Maybelle Sainsbury Seale was once considered a very decent man. Japp said emphatically: "I'm going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot, and that woman can't fool me."

The next day Japp called again.His voice had an odd tone.He said: "Poirot, want some news? It's over, man, it's over!" "Could you say that again? The phone was probably a little unclear. I don't quite understand—" "It's time off, buddy. It's--off--. It's time to call it a day! Sit down and count your fingers!" The bitterness in that voice could not be expressed more clearly now.Poirot was taken aback: "What do you mean by having a holiday?" "What a nuisance! The din! The public opinion! All the tricks!" "But I still don't understand."

"Okay, listen. Listen carefully, because I can't name names in detail. Do you know about our investigation? Do you know that we're searching the country for a trick fish?" "Yes, yes, perfectly clear. I understand now." "Well, it's all cancelled. Keep quiet—keep silent. Now you understand?" "Yes, yes, but why?" "Orders from the damned Foreign Office." "Isn't this a bit bizarre?" "Well, that sort of thing happens from time to time." "How could they be so restrained with Cy—with the trick fish?"

"They don't. They don't take her seriously at all. The problem is the press—if she gets caught and interrogated, it'll reveal a lot about Mrs. Archa, the dead body. That's the secret. I can only guess that the obnoxious husband—Mr. Archa—gets what I mean?" "Yes Yes." "Must be he's in serious trouble somewhere abroad and they don't want to spoil his business." "Ah!" "What did you say?" "mon ami (French: my friend), I let out an annoyed exclamation!" "Ah! Exactly. I thought you had a cold. I was right to say troubled! I could have used a stronger word. It's driving me crazy just to let that woman slip away so easily."

Poirot said softly: "She can't get away." "I tell you, our hands are bound!" "Your hands may be bound—mine are not!" "Good Poirot! So you're going to go on?" “mais oui (French: yes) – fuck till you die.” "Oh, don't let you die like this, old man! Somebody might send you a tarantula if things go on as they have begun!" Poirot put down the receiver and couldn't help thinking to himself: "How could I say such an exaggerated phrase-'dry to death'? Vraiment (French: really), this is ridiculous!" The letter came with the evening post.Typed everything except the signature:

Dear M. Poirot: I would be very grateful if you would agree to come and see me tomorrow.I have something to ask.I suggest to meet at my residence at Qian Erxi tomorrow at 12:30.If you are inconvenient, perhaps you would like to call and arrange another time with my secretary?Sorry for writing so short. faithful to your alistair brent Poirot unfolded the letter and read it again when the telephone rang. Hercule Poirot sometimes prided himself on knowing what kind of message was coming just by hearing the phone ring. This time, he immediately decided that the call was significant.It wasn't that someone had dialed the wrong number—nor was it a friend calling.

He stood up and took off the receiver, and said in his polite foreign accent, "Hello?" What came was a voice without any personal characteristics: "What is your number?" "Whitehall 7272." There was a moment of silence in the earphones, and after a click, a voice spoke, a woman's voice. "M. Poirot?" "yes." "Mr Hercule Poirot?" "right." "Monsieur Poirot, you have received - or will soon receive - a letter." "who are you?" "You don't need to know that." "All right, then. I got eight letters and three bills in the evening mail, ma'am."

"Then you will know which letter I am referring to. You must be wise, M. Poirot. Reject your commission." "Ma'am, that's for me to decide." The voice said coldly: "I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will not be tolerated any longer. Stay out of it." "What if I'm not going to stand by?" "Then we will take steps to make your intervention less scary." "It's intimidation, ma'am!" "We're just asking you to act sensibly, for your own good." "You are so noble!" "You can't change the course of events, whether it happens by accident or is prearranged. So stay out of your business! Got it?"

"Ah, yes, I see. But I think Molly's death has something to do with me." The woman's voice rose. "Molly's death was just a incidental incident. He interfered with our plans." "He was a man, ma'am, and he died untimely." "He's nothing." Poirot's voice became terrible, though he said very softly: "Then you are mistaken." "It's his own fault. He won't be smart." "I don't want to be smarter either." "Then you're a fool." There was the click of an earpiece being put down on the other end. Poirot called out "Hello?" and put down his own receiver too.He didn't bother to ask the switchboard to trace the other party's number.He was absolutely sure the call came from some public phone booth. What made him curious and puzzled was that he thought he had heard that voice somewhere.He racked his brains, trying to retrieve this vague memory.Could it be Miss Sainsbury Seale's voice? He remembered hearing Miss Maybelle Sainsbury Seale's high-pitched, unnatural voice, with a tendency to overemphasize words.The voice was nothing like it, but—perhaps it might have been Miss Seisbury Seale's falsetto.After all, she had been an actress for a while.Maybe she could easily change her voice.In terms of actual timbre, the voice was not dissimilar to the one he remembered. But he was not satisfied with this explanation.No, the voice reminded him of someone else.It was a voice he didn't know well - but he was still sure he'd heard it before, at least once if not twice. He wondered why anyone would bother to call and threaten him?Did they really believe that such intimidation would stop him?It looks like they think so.This kind of psychology is too pitiful! The morning papers carried startling news.The Prime Minister was shot at last night as he was leaving 10 Downing Street with a friend.The murderer, an Indian, has been arrested. After reading it, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard and was shown to Japp's office.Japp received him with much thought. "Ah, so the news brought you. Did any paper mention who the 'friend' was with the Prime Minister?" "No, who is he?" "Alistair Brent." "real?" "And," continued Japp, "we have every reason to believe that the bullet was not aimed at the Prime Minister, but at Brent. Unless the fellow's aim is worse than it is now!" "Who did it?" "A crazy Indian student. Just the usual dope. But he's on the sidelines, and it's not all his idea." Japp went on: "It's not a bad job of catching him. You know, there is always a small group of people watching the movement around No. 10. After the gunshots, a young American caught A little guy with a beard, who wouldn't let go, yelled that he'd got the murderer. Meanwhile the Indian was going to sneak away—but one of ours caught him anyway." "Who is that American?" asked Poirot curiously. "A young man named Rex. Well—" He stopped suddenly and stared at Poirot. "What's the matter?" Poirot said: "Howard Rex, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel." "Yes, who is he—oh, yes, I said how familiar the name is. He was the patient who ran away when Molly committed suicide that morning." He paused, then said slowly: "It's strange—that old errand is everywhere. You still insist on your opinion, don't you, Poirot?" Hercule Poirot said solemnly: "Yes, I still stand by my point of view." In Gothic House, a tall, frail young secretary received Poirot with practiced social etiquette. He politely apologized. "I feel really sorry for you, M. Poirot—so did Mr. Brent. He was called to Downing Street. This is the aftermath of that—er—incident yesterday. I give it to you. The residence called, but unfortunately you have already come out." The young man went on quickly: "Mr. Blunt has entrusted me to ask you if it is possible to spend the weekend at his cottage in Kent this week. It is the Chateau, you know. He will, if possible, tomorrow evening Take a car and ask you to go with me." Poirot hesitated for a moment. The young man persuaded: "Mr. Blunt really wants to see you very much." Hercule Poirot lowered his head a little. He said, "Thank you. I accept." "Ah, that would be wonderful. Mr. Brent would be delighted. If he calls you at a quarter to six, do you think--oh, good afternoon, Lady Olivia..." Jeanne Olivia's mother was walking in.She was beautifully dressed, her hair fashionably styled, and a millinery hat slanted over her head covered one eyebrow. "Oh! Mr. Selby, did Mr. Brent instruct you what to do with those chairs in the garden? I was going to tell him last night, because I knew we were going away this weekend, and..." Lady Olivia noticed Poirot and stopped talking. "Do you know Lady Olivia, M. Poirot?" "I have already had the honor of meeting Madame." Poirot bowed deeply. Mrs. Olivia agreed blankly: "Oh? Hello. Mr. Selby, of course, I know that Alistair is very busy. And it is impossible for him to value such trivial housework..." "No problem, Mrs. Olivia," said the capable Mr. Selby. "He told me about it, and I've called Mr. Devon." "That's all right, I'm so relieved now. Now, Mr. Selby, please tell me—" Mrs. Olivia continued to babble.She was, thought Poirot, like a clucking hen, a big fat hen!Mrs. Olivia solemnly puffed her chest out and walked towards the door, talking non-stop. "—can you be sure that this weekend it's just us—" Mr. Selby cleared his throat. "Er—M. Poirot is going to the country for the weekend, too." Lady Olivia stopped.She turned and stared at Poirot with visible disgust. "Is that true?" "Mr. Blunt was very kind enough to invite me," said Poirot. "Ah, I don't know--well, is there something wrong with Alistair. I beg your pardon, M. Poirot, but Brent specifically told me he needed a quiet, family weekend!" "Mr Blunt is very much looking forward to Mr Poirot's arrival," said Selby firmly. "Oh, did he? He never told me that." The door opened and Jenny stood there.She said impatiently: "Mom, aren't you coming? Our lunch is set at 1:15!" "I'll come, Jenny. Take it easy." "Oh, come on, for God's sake—Hello, M. Poirot." She was suddenly silent—her temper froze, and her eyes became wary. Mrs. Olivia said coldly: "Mr. Poirot is coming to the Summer Village for the weekend." "Yeah, I got it." Janet Olivia stepped back to let her mother walk by.She was about to follow out when she turned around again. "Monsieur Poirot!" Her voice was urgent. Poirot came across the room to her. She lowered her voice and said, "Are you going to Love Xiazhuang? Why?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders and said: "This is the kindness of your uncle." Jenny said: "But it's impossible for him to know—impossible to know—when did he invite you? Well, there's no need—" "Jenny!" Her mother was calling her from the hall. Jenny said in a low, eager voice, "Get out of it, please don't come." She walked out.Poirot heard voices of disputation, heard Lady Olivia's loud, complaining cluck: "I really can't stand your rudeness any longer, and I'm going to do something to keep you from bothering—" At this moment the secretary said: "Then one o'clock before six o'clock tomorrow, M. Poirot?" Poirot nodded mechanically in agreement.He stood there dumbly like a man who had seen a ghost.Only it was not his eyes but his ears that gave him this shock. The two words that floated in from the open vestibule were almost identical to those he had heard on the phone last night.He understood why the voice on the phone was so familiar. When he stepped out into the sunlight, he shook his head blankly. Is it Mrs. Olivia? But it's impossible!The person speaking on the phone is definitely not Mrs. Olivia! That stupid, ignorant dame—that selfish, short-sighted, greedy, self-absorbed woman?What did he call her in his heart just now? "The big fat hen? C'est ridicule (French: It's ridiculous)!" said Hercule Poirot. He decided that his ears must have deceived him.but-- The Rolls limousine picked up Poirot just before six o'clock. Alistair Brent and his secretary were the only people in the car.It appears that Lady Olivia and Jenny have gone ahead in another vehicle. The car drove very smoothly.Brent doesn't talk much, mainly talking about his garden and a recent garden exhibition. Poirot congratulates him on his narrow escape, which Brent demurs.He said, "Oh, that! Don't think that guy was just trying to hit me. Anyway, the poor wretch hasn't learned how to aim at all! Just another half-mad student. They don't really do any harm." , nothing more than getting emotional and dreaming that the assassination of the prime minister can change the course of history. It's sad, really." "There have been attempts of this kind to kill you before, have they not?" "Sounds like an exaggerated farce," Brent said, his eyes a little bright. "Someone sent me a bomb in the mail the other day, and it didn't work very well. You know, these guys just want to To take on the task of running the world—if they can't even plant a bomb that works, what are they going to do?" He shook his head. "It's always the kind of thing--the long-haired, befuddled idealists--they don't have an iota of practical knowledge in their heads. I'm not a bright guy--never have--but I can read and write, Can do arithmetic. Do you understand what I mean by that?" "I think so, but please explain to me in more depth." "Well, if I read something written in English, I can understand what it means - and I don't mean esoteric data, formulas, or philosophical discourses - but plain, organized English - most Humans can't! If I want to write something, I can write down what I want to say - and I find that many people can't do that either! And as I said, I can do simple Arithmetic. If Jones has eight bananas, and Brown takes ten from him, and asks Jones how many more? That's the kind of question some people like to pretend has easy answers. They won't admit that, first of all, Brown doesn't It might be possible to do it - and secondly, the number of bananas in the answer can't be a positive number!" "They prefer a juggling answer?" "Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I always stick to plain common sense. In the end, you know, nobody can go against it." He added with a slightly self-deprecating smile: "I shouldn't keep my word. It's a bad habit. And, when I leave London, I wish to put business matters behind me. Poirot Sir, I am looking forward to hearing your adventures. You know, I have read many thrillers and detective stories. Do you think they are true?" For the rest of the journey, the conversation revolved around the spectacular cases that Poirot had handled.Brent's interest in detail is that of a schoolboy. This pleasant atmosphere lasted until they arrived at Aishazhuang, only to be cooled by the cold displeasure radiating from behind Mrs. Olivia's plump breasts.She snubbed Poirot as best she could, talking only to her master and Mr. Selby. Mr. Selby showed Poirot to his room. The house was lovely, not large, and furnished in the same quiet and comfortable style that Poirot had noticed in London.Everything is expensive and simple.It is only the fluency that creates this apparent simplicity that reveals the great wealth these things represent.The hospitality of the guests was admirable—the meals were genuinely English, not Continental—and the wine at dinner stirred an irrepressible sense of gratitude in Poirot's heart.They drank a delicious consommé, grilled sole, lamb loin with young garden peas, strawberries, and ice-cream. Poirot was so engrossed in the enjoyment of good food that he hardly noticed Lady Olivia's still indifferent behavior and her daughter's abruptness and brusqueness.Jenny had a distinct animosity towards him.Until the end of dinner, Poirot was still slightly drunk, still puzzled over what it was all about! Brent stared down at the table, and asked in surprise, "Will Helen not join us for dinner tonight?" Julia Olivia's lips were drawn into a tight line.She said: "I thought dear Helen was too tired in the garden. I told her it would be better to go to bed and rest than to go to the trouble of dressing again to come here. She thought I was quite right." "Oh, I see." Brent said blankly, a little puzzled. "I thought she would change her habits at the weekend." "Helen has always been strict in her work. She likes to go to bed early." Mrs. Olivia said firmly. While Poirot entered the drawing room to join the two ladies, Brent stayed behind and talked to his secretary for a few minutes.Poirot heard Jeanne Olivia say to her mother: "Mother, Uncle Alistair doesn't like it very much when you leave Helen Monteresor aside." "Nonsense," Mrs. Olivia said rudely, "Alistair is too kind by nature. The poor relatives are well taken care of - he is very kind enough to let her live without paying for the house, but he wants to It's too much to think he has to have her over for dinner at the cottage every weekend! She's just a first-rate character of his mother's cousin's daughter. I don't think Alistair should be forced into that burden!" "I think she's very self-respecting," said Jenny, "and she does a lot in the garden." "That's what it means to repay kindness for kindness," Mrs. Olivia said with deep satisfaction. "The Scots are self-reliant, and people respect them because of that." She sat comfortably on the sofa, still without looking at Poirot. "Get me the Insider Review, dear. It's about Van Skeller and her Moroccan guide." Alistair Brent appeared at the door and said: "Mr. Poirot, please come to my room at this moment." Alistair Brent's own room was at the back of the house, a low space, long and deep.Looking down from the window is the garden.The room was comfortable, furnished with a few low armchairs and a small sofa, with a pleasant clutter which gave it a habitable appearance. Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a little more symmetry! Handing the guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, Alistair Blunt got straight to the point. He said: "There are a lot of things that dissatisfy me. I mean the Sainsbury Seale woman. For reasons of their own - justifiable reasons of course - the authorities called off the search. I'm not very sure Know who Albert Chapman is and what he does—but it must be the kind of life-and-death thing he's doing anyway, the kind of business that might land him in an embarrassing situation. I don't understand that The details in it, but the PM did say they couldn't afford to make the case public and the sooner it fades from public memory the better." "That's perfectly correct. It's the official view, they know what's necessary, and it's tied the hands of the police." He leaned forward in the chair. "But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot. And you are the right man to find it out for me. Nothing in office will stop you." "What do you want me to do, Mr. Brent?" "I want you to find this woman - Sainsbury Seale." "Will you live or die?" Alistair Brent raised his eyebrows. "Do you think she might be dead?" Hercule Poirot was silent for a moment, then said slowly and heavily: "If you want to ask my opinion—remember, it's only an opinion, then, yes, I think she's dead—" "Why do you think so?" Hercule Poirot smiled. "If I say it's because of a pair of unworn stockings in the drawer, you won't understand," he said. Alistair Brent stared at him incomprehensibly. "You are a queer man, M. Poirot." "I'm very eccentric. That is, I'm methodical, methodical, logical—I don't distort facts in favor of a hypothesis—and that, I think—is really extraordinary." Alistair Brent said: "I've been turning this over and over in my head - it always takes me a while to figure things out. And this whole thing is just so surreal! I mean - —that dentist shot himself, and then this Mrs. Chapman was disfigured and put in her own fur trunk, it was so disgustingly done, so disgusting! I couldn't help feeling that there must be There is a hall of fame." Poirot nodded. Brent said: "You know - I've thought it over and over again - I'm convinced that woman never knew my wife. That was just an excuse to try to talk to me. But why? What good would it do her? I mean —except for a small donation—but even that was for the group and not for her personally. I do feel—this—it was planned—to run into Me. This is too much of a coincidence. The timing is questionable! But why? That's the question I keep asking myself—why?" "That's kind of the point—why? I'm asking myself—but I don't know—no, I don't either." "You don't really have any opinion on that?" Poirot shook a hand angrily. "I'm still very immature. I told myself it might be a ruse to point you out to someone—to get him to know you. But again it's absurd—you're such a famous The character — whatever it is, it’s much easier to just say, ‘Look, there’s him — the guy at the door going in’.” "Besides," Brent said, "why would anyone want to know me?" "Mr. Brent, please think back to your situation on the operating chair that day. Is there anything in what Mr. Morley said that alarmed you? Do you remember anything that can be used as a clue?" Alistair Brent frowned trying to remember, and then he said, "I'm sorry, I can't remember anything." "Are you quite sure he didn't mention this woman—this Miss Sainsbury Seale?" "yes." "Or what about the other woman—Mrs. Chapman?" "No—no—he never talked about people at all. We talked about roses, and rainless gardens, and vacations—and nothing else." "Did no one come in while you were there?" "Let me see - no, I don't think so. The other times I think there was a young girl there - a blonde. But not that day. Oh, yes, I remember another dentist coming in —he spoke with an Irish accent." "Did he say or do anything?" "Just asked Molly a few questions and left. I think Molly was very brief with him. He was only there for a minute or two." "You can't remember anything else? Nothing at all?" "No more. He's perfectly fine." Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: "I think he's perfectly normal, too." There was a long silence.Poirot continued: "Monsieur, do you remember that a young man was with you in the waiting room downstairs?" Alistair Brent frowned. "Let me see--yes, there was a young man--he was just restless. But I don't remember him particularly. What?" "Will you recognize him when you see him again?" Brent shook his head. "I barely looked him in the eye." "Did he not try to talk to you at all?" "No." Brent looked at the other party in great surprise, "What do you mean? Who is this young man?" "His name is Howard Rex." Poirot expected a reaction, but he saw nothing. "Do I need to know his name? Or have I seen him somewhere else?" "I don't think you've seen him. He's a friend of your grandniece Olivia." "Oh, Jenny's friend." "I think her mother disapproves of this friendship." Alistair Brent said nonchalantly: "I don't think it's going to do anything for Jenny." "Her mother took that friendship very seriously and I think she brought her daughter from America just to get her out of this young man." "Oh!" Brent's face showed a look of sudden realization. "That's the guy, isn't it?" "Aha, you're interested now." "I believe this young man is a nuisance in every way. He has been involved in many subversive activities." "I learned from Miss Olivia that he made an appointment at Queen Charlotte Street that day solely to see you." "Trying to convince me to agree with him?" "Er—no—as far as I know the intention was to induce him to agree with you." Alistair Brent said angrily: "Oh, these bloody shameless!" Poirot smiled: "It seems that you are all that he is most dissatisfied with." "He's the kind of young man I'm most dissatisfied with! Spending all his time in loud speeches and bombast, instead of doing proper work!" Poirot was silent for a moment, then said again: "Would you allow me to ask you an impolite question that is purely private to you?" "Go ahead." "If you die, how will the funeral be arranged in the will?" Brent's eyes widened, and he asked sensitively, "Why do you want to know this?" "Because—just the possibility," he shrugged—"that might have something to do with the case." "absurd!" "Maybe, but maybe not." Alistair Blunt said grimly: "I think you are exaggerating, M. Poirot. Nobody wants to murder me—or anything like that!" "The bomb on your breakfast table - the shooting in the street -" "Ah, these! Whoever runs a great deal of the world's financial affairs is liable to the attention of mad zealots!" "Perhaps this case was committed by someone who is neither fanatical nor crazy." Brent stared at him. "What the hell do you mean?" "Simply put, I want to know who would benefit from your death." Brent grinned. "Mainly St. Edward's Hospital, Cancer Hospital and the Royal Institute for the Blind." "what!" "Also, I left a sum to my niece by marriage, Mrs. Julia Olivia, and to her daughter an equal amount but in trusteeship, and stipulated that a substantial sum should be left to my last remaining My distant cousin, Helen Monteresor, was tragically abandoned and now lives in a small cottage on the plantation here." He paused and said again: "Mr. Poirot, I said this in complete confidence in you." "Naturally, sir, naturally." Alistair Brent added sarcastically: "Mr. Poirot, I don't think you are implying that Julia or Jeanne Olivia or my cousin Helen Monteresor are going to come for my money. kill me?" "I'm not suggesting anything — nothing." Brent's slight irritation subsided.He said: "So are you ready to accept my commission?" "Looking for Miss Sainsbury Seale? Yes, I accept." Alistair Brent raved heartily: "You're such a nice guy." Coming out of the room, Poirot almost bumped into a tall figure outside the door. He said, "I'm sorry, miss." Jenny Olivia stepped aside. She said: "Do you know what I think of you, M. Poirot?" "Eh bien (French: oh) - miss -" She didn't let him finish at all.That question was really only rhetorical, and all it meant was to show that Jane Olivia was going to answer it herself. "You're a spy, that's who you are! A mean, mean, nosy spy, sniffing around and making trouble!" "I assure you, miss..." "I knew what you were looking for! Now I know what lies you've been telling! Why don't you just admit it straight up? Well, I'll tell you—you won't find anything—anything No! There's nothing to look for at all! Nobody's going to touch my precious great uncle. He's safe enough. He always will be. Safe, decent, rich -- and full of platitudes! He’s just a John Bull in a rut, that’s who he is—no creativity or imagination.” She paused; then, lowering her slightly husky sweet voice, said viciously: "I hate to see you—you bloody bourgeois detective!" He walked around in a dignified manner. Hercule Poirot stood where he was, his eyes wide open, his eyebrows raised, a hand stroking his moustache thoughtfully. He admits that the characteristic adjective "bourgeois" works well for him.His outlook on life is inherently capitalist, and always has been.But to be given him a scornful title by the flamboyant Jeanne Olivia was, by his own account, very emotional. He was still thinking, but he had already entered the living room. Lady Olivia played cards by herself. She looked up when Poirot came in, looked at him with her indifferent eyes as if for a cockroach, and muttered coldly: "The Jack of Hearts is on top of the Queen of Spades." With a chill in his heart, Poirot withdrew.他悲哀地想，天啊，看来谁都不爱我！ 他走出落地长窗，朝花园里漫步进去。这是一个醉人的夜晚，空中弥漫着夜来香的气息。波洛满心舒畅地吸嗅着，沿着两旁花坛里种植着许多年生草本植物的小径信步走去。 他拐了个弯，两个模糊的人影一下子分开了。 看来他打扰了一对恋人。 波洛赶紧转身，顺原路返回。 看起来，就是在这儿，他的出现，仍然是de trop（法语：不受欢迎）的。 他经过阿里斯泰尔布伦特的窗前，阿里斯泰尔布伦特正在给塞尔比先生口授着什么。 赫克尔波洛能去的似乎就只有一个地方了。 他上楼到了卧室。 好一阵子他都在反复思考着面临的千奇百怪的各种因素。 他认为电话里的声音是奥莉维亚夫人，这是否犯了个错误呢？显然这想法是荒谬的！ 他又想起了安静的小个子巴恩斯那充满刺激的启示。他在推测着QX912先生，也就是阿尔伯特查普曼神秘的下落。一阵烦恼袭来，他记起了那女仆，阿格妮丝眼里忧虑的神情。 总是这样的——人们总是喜欢隐瞒事实！通常只是一些很不起眼的事情，但不解决它们，就不可能走上坦途的。 而目前，路正曲折。 要走上清晰的思考和顺利的行动之路，最难解决的障碍就是他称之为矛盾的、不可能的塞恩斯伯里西尔小姐的问题。因为，如果赫克尔波洛观察到的事实真是事实的话——那就什么事情也讲不通了！ 赫克尔波洛被一种想法震惊了，他对自己说：“难道是我开始变老了吗？”