Chapter 2 Chapter 2 Cliff Villa

"Poirot," I said, "I've been thinking..." "Thinking is a movement that should be advocated vigorously. Keep thinking." We sat facing each other at a small table by the window for lunch. "The shot was fired very close to us, but why didn't we hear it?" "You think that, in an environment where there seemed to be no sound but the lapping of the sea, the shot should make us both jump?" "Yeah, it's weird." "No, it's not surprising. There are some sounds you don't even notice when you're used to them. All morning the rowing boats were scuttling about in the bay below, making a lot of noise. You were so annoyed at first. It's terrible, but you get used to it quickly and ignore it. As long as one of these racing boats is in the bay, the sound of the pistol firing is not easy to be heard."

"That's true." "Ah, look," said Poirot softly, "the Mademoiselle and her friends! They seem to be coming here to lunch. I have to give her my hat back. But it's all right, I'll give it back." You can still visit her at her home." He stood up briskly, hurried across the dining room, and handed her his hat back, with a graceful bow, just as they were seated around the table. There are four of them.Nick Buckley, Lieutenant Colonel Challenger, and another man and woman.We couldn't see them very well from where we sat, but every now and then I heard the naval officer laugh out loud.He seemed to be a cheerful, jovial fellow, and I had already taken a liking to him.

My friend was absent-mindedly silent during the meal.He tore the bread into small pieces, uttered strange whispers to himself, and subconsciously put everything on the table in order.I tried to talk to him, but he didn't respond.I had to give up. After eating the cheese, he sat for a long time.But as soon as the four left the dining room, he also stood up immediately.They entered the drawing-room, and no sooner had they sat down at the table than Poirot walked across in his best military manner and said to Nick directly: "Miss, may I have a few words with you?" The girl frowned.I thought she was undoubtedly bored, afraid of being pestered by this suspicious-looking gringo.She reluctantly stepped aside.

While Poirot was talking to her, I saw a sudden look of surprise on her face.At the same time I felt uncomfortable.Fortunately, the experienced and open-minded Challenger rescued me from the embarrassing situation.He came over to buy me a cigarette and chatted a little.We looked at each other, and we were both satisfied.I felt that Challenger and the man at his table did not quite get on well together, and that I was more on good terms.Now I have an opportunity to look at the man at the table with Challenger.He was a tall, fair-skinned young man with yellow hair, a big nose, and he could be called a handsome man.He was always displaying a lazy, languid arrogance.I especially don't like the way he pretends to be dismissive of everything.

Then my eyes moved to the lady next to me.She was sitting facing me in a big chair and had just thrown off her hat.She is not our usual kind of girl.Her appearance is really needless to describe, you only need to imagine the listless statue of the Virgin Mary.A head of pale yellow hair that was parted in the middle, fell over the ears, and was casually tied in a knot at the neck.Pale and haggard cheeks coupled with a pair of light gray eyes with large pupils, they also have a kind of charm.There was an expression of despair and indifference on her face, as if ice had frozen from her eyes to her heart.

She stared at me, and suddenly said: "Sit down—sit until your friend finishes talking to Nick." Her tone was melancholy and affected, but her voice was haunting and haunting, and strangely attractive.This lady is almost the most weary person I have ever met--not physically but spiritually.She seemed to feel that everything in the world was empty, meaningless and worthless. "She was a great help when my friend sprained his foot this afternoon," I said as I sat down. "Nick told me," she said, looking at me dreamily, "that his feet are better?" I felt a little heat on my face, and explained: "It's just a bit lame."

"Oh, so Nick's telling the truth this time. You know, she's a great liar. That's odd—it's a way of entertaining friends out of nothing." I have nothing to say.She seemed to find my embarrassment amused, and continued: "Nick's an old friend of mine. I've always felt that honesty is a rare virtue. What do you think? It's not easy to live frugally and follow the rules like a Scot. But Nick can lie a lot, Jim, you say." Is that a lurid story about a car with brakes failing...Jim says there's no such thing at all." The fair-haired young man said in a soft but loud voice:

"I know the structure of cars." He turned his head away.Outside, parked among many other cars, was a long red sedan, longer than any of the others, and a distinctive red color, a croaky coupe indeed. "Is that your car?" I asked casually. He nodded: "Yes." I added sourly: "Yeah, who could own a car like that but you?" At this moment Poirot approached.As soon as I stood up, he pulled me by the arm, bowed quickly to everyone, and dragged me away. "There is an appointment, my friend. We shall call on the lady at the Cliff House at half-past six. She will be back then. Well, yes, she will be back—safe and sound." at home."

He looked worried and spoke in a very disturbed tone. "What did you say to her?" "I asked her to arrange a meeting, the sooner the better. Of course she wasn't keen. She must be thinking - I can see her thinking: 'Who is he? Who the hell is this guy? A portrait painter A nouveau riche? A film director?' She wanted to say no - but was too embarrassed to say it, because the sudden demand was too much for her to handle. She promised to be back at the Cliff House at six-thirty. All went well! " All that's left to do is wait.Poirot never had a moment's peace.All afternoon he paced up and down our living room, talking to himself, moving all kinds of knick-knacks around and doing new things.When I wanted to talk to him, he waved and shook his head at me.

It was finally six o'clock, and we left the hotel. "It's unbelievable," I said as we came down the hotel steps, "that an attempt should be made to shoot someone in the hotel garden! Only a madman would do such a thing." "I don't think so," said Poirot. "The garden is quite deserted, and the tourists like to sit on the terrace looking out over the bay like a flock of sheep, so it's safe to do it in the garden. Hey, it's just me." ——The unique Hercule Poirot sat on the small lonely balcony and admired the garden! Unfortunately, even so, I couldn't see the shooter. There are many things blocking my view——Tree Yeah, palms, flowering bushes, whatever. Anyone can be quite safely hidden while waiting for Miss Nick to pass by. And Miss Nick will definitely take this way, because the right way from the cottage to the hotel Much farther. This lady is one of those people who is always late and then has to cut corners."

"Anyway, it's dangerous for the murderer to do it, to be seen. And you can't always make a shooting look like an accident." "Accident? No, not like an accident, but maybe something else..." "what do you mean--" "Nothing. I have an idea, which may or may not be right, and leave it alone. I think the shooting shows that the criminal had a major advantage." "What conditions?" "Of course you're asking Law knowingly, Hastings." "I'm not going to deprive you of the opportunity to make fun of me." "Oh, you've got to be snarky! You've got to be sarcastic! But I don't mind. Look, one thing is clear: the criminal's motives must not be obvious. Otherwise it would be too risky to act rashly. People will say : 'I suspect that so-and-so did it. Where was so-and-so when the shot was fired?' It can be seen that the motive of this murderer—I should say an attempted murderer—must be hidden deeply, so it is not easy to determine Said it was impossible to suspect the murderer. And that, Hastings, is what I was worried about. Yes, I am very afraid at this moment. I comforted myself: "There are four of them, what if they are all together?" It's not going to happen.' I said, 'If it happens again, it's really only crazy.' But I'm still worried. These 'accidents' are not over yet." Suddenly he turned and said: "It's still early. Let's go the other way. We won't find anything on the path in the garden. Let's see the right way to Cliff House." We walked out of the main entrance of the hotel along the road and turned right up a steep hill.There is a small road on the top of the hill. On the rock beside the road, it is written: "This road only leads to the cliff villa." After a few hundred yards along the path, the path suddenly turned and two dilapidated and dilapidated gates appeared before us.There is a porter's hut on the right inside the gate. This hut is in sharp contrast with the two gates and the path full of weeds.The small gardens around it are well tended, lively and scented.The window frames and mullions of the cottage were freshly painted, and the windows still had clean pale curtains. A figure in a Norfolk jacket was bending over a flower bed.Hearing the creaking of the door he straightened up and looked back at us.He was a man in his late sixties, at least six feet tall, almost completely bald, but still powerfully built; with a pair of piercing sky-blue eyes in his weather-beaten face, he looked benevolent and benevolent. "Good afternoon!" he greeted as we walked past him. I answered anyway, and walked on along the path together with Poirot, but I felt that those sky-blue eyes were always looking at our backs curiously. "I was thinking," said Poirot thoughtfully.But he didn't tell me what he was thinking.That sentence started like this, even if it was finished. The cliff house before us was a large, gloomy house surrounded by thick shade.The branches almost reached the roof and were left unattended.Poirot surveyed the house from the outside, and went to ring the bell on the door.Ringing the bell is not an easy task, it takes a lot of effort.But once it is sounded by you, its bleak echo will linger in the deep house for a long time. A middle-aged woman came out to answer the door.I think she should be described like this: a dignified woman in black, respectable, but sad and lifeless. She said Miss Buckley hadn't come back yet.Poirot explained that we had an appointment with Mademoiselle.It took him a lot of time to explain this, because she was the kind of woman who was wary of all foreigners.I could indeed be proud of myself, since I was not a foreigner, and my presence had helped Poirot a great deal.We were let into the drawing-room to wait for Miss Buckley to return. There was no sense of foreboding in the drawing-room.It faces the sea and is sunny.The rooms are nondescriptly furnished, and the embarrassment of being overstretched is palpable: the latest cheap bric-a-brac is juxtaposed against quaint, clunky Victorian furniture.The gorgeous satin curtains of those days are already brittle, and although they are still graceful when they flutter in the wind, the sound they make makes people worry about their lifespan.The cushion covers on the chairs were all new and colorful, but the cushions themselves were so patchwork that no two were alike.On the walls are many portraits of family members.I think there are a few ancestors who look gentle and ancient.There was a gramophone in the room, and the records were played randomly here and there.There was also a portable radio, lying face down on the sofa, beeping inexplicably, like a whiny old man sulking all by himself.There are a lot of things in the room, but I can't find a book.A newspaper was spread out on the sofa.Poirot picked it up, frowned and dropped it again.This is the Saint-Loup Weekly.Something in the paper made him pick it up again.While he was reading the paper the door opened.Nick Buckley walks in. "Bring a cold drink, Ellen," she called back, and greeted us. "Here I am--leaving those people behind, I am very curious. Do you think I am a movie star who has nowhere to go? Don't you think so?" she said to Poirot. Some think of him as a film director. "But I think being a heroine in a movie and being a movie star is the purpose of God sending me into this world. Give me a chance to try." "Oh, madam..." Poirot was about to explain, but she interrupted him again. "Don't you want me to give you a chance?" Her voice was almost pleading. "Don't tell me you painted some baubles and asked me to buy one. But no, a man with such an imposing beard who lives in the Maggie's Hotel, the most expensive and worst food in England, would never It will be a painting." The dignified woman who opened the door for us came in with ice and some wine bottles.Nick skillfully mixed the cocktail, talking endlessly as he adjusted it.At last, when she noticed Poirot's unusual silence, she suddenly put down her cocktail and asked: "Hey, what's the matter?" "I hope you are all right, miss," he said, taking the cocktail from her hand, "for your health, miss, and for your continued health, cheers!" The girl was no fool; she recognized Poirot's overtones. "Why, what's going to happen?" "Well, miss, look—" He showed her the bullet in his palm.She picked it up, frowning. "Do you know what this is?" "Of course I know, it's a bullet." "Exactly, miss. This is one of the wasps that flew past your ear this morning." "Are you saying that an idiot shot me in the hotel garden today?" "It seems to be the case." "Well, I swear it," Nick said firmly. "I do live under the protection of the gods. This is the fourth time." "Yes," said Poirot. "This is the fourth time. May I ask you to tell me about the other three times, madam?" She stared blankly at Poirot. "Miss, I want to find out whether they were accidents or not." "Of course it is. Otherwise, what is it?" "Miss, you must be on your guard, I beseech you. You are in trouble. Someone is plotting against you." Nick laughed out loud at this.She seemed to find this statement very interesting. "What a new idea! My dear sir, someone is going to plot against me? I'm not the heir to a millionaire. I hope someone is trying to kill me, that would be interesting. But I'm afraid Not so lucky." "Miss, would you please tell me about those accidents?" "Certainly, but there's nothing to talk about, it's all nonsense. I had a heavy framed picture hanging over my bed, and it fell out of nowhere in the night. If I hadn't happened to go downstairs to close a A door slammed by the wind that would blow my brains out. This is the first time." There was no smile on Poirot's face. "Go on, miss. What about the second time?" "Oh, the second time is even less worth mentioning. There is a cliff over there, and there is a very steep path leading to the sea below the cliff. I will go down the path and go swimming in the sea. Come to dive. I just went down to the beach when a big rock on the top of the cliff suddenly loosened and rolled straight down, almost hitting me. "The third time it was different. There was something wrong with my car's brakes—I don't know what—the mechanic told me, but I didn't understand. Anyway, if I drive the car out the gate, under the seat Hill, because there is no brake, the car will lose control and hit the town council hall at the bottom of the hill, smashing the car and people. The outer wall of the council hall will be hit badly, and I, of course, will die. Luckily I keep leaving stuff at home when I go out. I turn back to get my stuff before I get to the top of the hill, only to run into those laurel hedges." "You can't tell what part failed?" "You can ask the people at Mr. Mott's garage, they know. Probably some screw came loose. I don't know Ellen's boy (Ellen is the woman who opened the door for you, she is mine Did the maid) touch my car, because boys like to play with cars. Of course, Ellen swears that he never went near the car. I think it must be because the car has been used for a long time and it has not been maintained properly." "Where's your garage, miss?" "Just on the other side of this house." "Is it locked?" There was a look of surprise in Nick's eyes. "Locked? Why lock it?" "Anyone can go and play with your car without being noticed?" "Yes, I suppose so. But who would do such a foolish thing?" "No, miss, it's not stupid. You don't understand, you're in danger—great danger, I tell you. Me! Do you know who I am?" "I don't know," Nick said breathlessly. "I am Hercule Poirot!" "Oh," said Nick nonchalantly, "oh yes." "Have you heard my name? Eh?" "Ah... I heard about it." She squirmed uncomfortably, a look of uneasiness in her eyes.Poirot could see all this clearly. "You're uncomfortable. That means, I guess, you haven't read my book yet." "Well, yeah, haven't seen them all, but of course I know the name." "Miss, you're a polite little liar (I was taken aback, remembering a conversation with her friend at the hotel). I forgot, you're only a kid—you haven't heard My name. Fame doesn't travel so fast! My friends will tell you who I am." Nick looked at me.I coughed, feeling weird. "M. Poirot is—well—a great detective," I explained. "Hey, my friend," cried Poirot, "have you only so few words to say? Go on, and you must say to Mademoiselle that I am the greatest, the only one, the one who knows everything like a god." Detective!" "I don't need to tell it now," I said coldly, "you told it all yourself." "Oh, of course, one's better off being humble. Psalms are interesting when they're sung by other people." "A man who owns a dog should let the dog bark instead of bark all the time," agreed Nick sarcastically. "And who is the dog? Probably?" "My name is Hastings," I said gravely. "That battle in 1066 was called the Battle of Hastings," said Nick. "Who says I've never learned anything? But today's so puzzling. You think somebody's going to kill me." Is it? It's unbelievable, but it doesn't really happen, that's only in fiction books. I think Mr. Poirot lives like a surgeon who has invented a new operation and is eager to try it, or like a A physician who discovered an unprecedented disease and wished everyone a quick cure." "It's outrageous," cried Poirot. "Would you be more serious? You young people take everything for a joke these days, but this is not the time, Mademoiselle. If you had a neat little hole in your head , you won't be able to laugh when you turn into a beautiful and lovely corpse lying in the hotel garden. Eh?" Nick said: "But really, M. Poirot, you've been very kind to me, but these things can only be accidents." "You're as stubborn as the devil!" "That's where my name comes from. My grandfather always said he sold his soul to the devil, and people called him Old Nick. He was a bad old man, but funny. I adored him and followed him around, so they Call him Old Nick and call me Little Nick. My real name is Magdalene." "It's a rare name." "Yes. But we Buckleys have several named Magdalene. Here, there's one." She nodded to one of the many portraits on the wall. "Oh," asked Poirot, glancing at the portraits and then at the one above the mantelpiece, "is that your grandfather, miss?" "Yes. It's a striking painting, isn't it? Jim Lazarus wants it, but I'm not selling it. I love old Nick." Poirot said seriously after a moment's silence: "Let's get down to business. Listen, miss. I beg you to be serious. You're in danger. Someone shot you with a Mauser today—" "Mauser?" She was taken aback. "Yes. What? Do you know anyone who has a Mauser?" she laughed. "I have one myself." "You have?" "Yes. It belonged to my father. He threw it around when he brought it back from the war. I saw it in that drawer the other day." She pointed to an old-fashioned writing desk, then walked over and opened the drawer as if remembering something.She looked lost and confused, and even her voice changed: "Eh, it's—it's gone."