Chapter 4 Chapter IV Investigation
The house where the Belgians lived in the village was close to the gate of the garden.You can save a lot of time by following a narrow path across a long lawn, avoiding the winding driveway and taking a shortcut.Therefore, I go this way.When I was about to reach the concierge, the figure of a man approaching hurriedly caught my attention.It was Mr. Inglethorp.Where has he been?How was he going to explain his absence?
He eagerly came up to me.
"My God! What a treat! My poor wife! I've only just heard of it."
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Last night, Deng Bai kept me late, and we talked until one o'clock in the night. At this time, I realized that I still forgot to bring the key to the door. I didn't want to wake up my family, so Deng Bai kept me overnight."
"How did you hear the news?" I asked.
"Wilkins knocked on Dunby's door and told me. My poor Emily! She's so self-sacrificing—with such nobility. She's overworked."
A wave of disgust came right at me.What an old hypocrite!
"I have to hurry," I said, thanking him for not asking me where I was going.
A few minutes later, I was knocking on the door of the cottage.
There was no answer, and I knocked impatiently and repeatedly.A window above my head was discreetly opened, and Poirot himself put his head out and looked down.He saw me and screamed.I told him about the tragedy in a few words and hoped to get his help.
"Wait a minute, my friend, I will let you in. Tell me all about it while I dress."
After a while, he opened the door and I followed him into his room.He sat me down in a chair, and I told the whole story without concealment, down to the smallest detail.And he has been meticulously grooming himself.
I told him how I had been aroused, what Mrs. Inglethorp said on her deathbed, why her husband was absent, the quarrel of the day before, the conversation I had overheard between Mary and her mother-in-law. Snippet, before this the quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and a hint of the latter.etc.
I did not speak as clearly as I wished.Several times I said and repeated.Occasionally, I have to go back to a missing detail.Poirot smiled at me kindly.
"Have you lost your mind? Is that not the case? Take your time, my friend. You speak too hastily. You are too excited--it is not natural to get excited. A little while later, when we are calmer, we will Let's straighten out the facts, put them into categories, and put them in their proper place. Then, check them out, and weed out some. The unimportant ones, pow!"—he wrinkled his cherubic face, and blew hilariously Take a sip - "Blow 'em away!"
"That's all well and good," I objected, "but how are you going to decide what's important and what's not? I've always had trouble doing that."
Poirot shook his head vigorously.At this moment he was playing with his upturned mustache with extraordinary care.
"Not really. Come on! Facts are connected one by one - so we can go on. Does the next match this? Excellent! Good! We can go on. This next is rarely a fact - no! Hey! That's incomprehensible! There's just something missing - there's a link in this chain that's not right, and we're going to check, we're going to find out. A little incomprehensible fact, maybe a trivial detail no If it matches, then we'll put it here!" He made a presumptuous gesture. "This is worth noting! This is an abnormal situation!"
"yes--"
"Hi!" Poirot shook his index finger at me so vigorously that I was frightened in front of him. "Beware! It's dangerous for a detective to say, 'It's a small thing, it doesn't matter. That's not right, it can be ignored.'
"I know. You've been telling me that. So I know all the details of the case, whether they concern me or not."
"I'm very happy for you. You have a good memory. You've told me the whole story as it is. But from what you've told me, I have nothing to say—really, it's pathetic. But I reckon —you'll be embarrassed by it. The problem is I think you're leaving out one of the most important facts."
"What fact?" I asked.
"You did not tell me whether Mrs. Inglethorp had a good appetite last night."
I stared straight at him, thinking the war must have affected the little man's mind.He brushed and brushed his coat carefully before putting it on, as if absorbed in the task.
"I don't remember," I said. "And, I don't understand anyway—"
"You don't understand? But this is the most important thing."
"I don't know why," I said rather annoyed. "All I remember is, she didn't eat much. She was clearly upset and it affected her appetite. That was natural."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "that is quite natural."
He opened the drawer, took out a small briefcase, then turned to me and said:
"I am ready. Let us set off to the estate, and take a good look at the scene. Please, my friend, you have dressed in a hurry, and your tie is on one side. Let me Come fix it for you." With deft gestures, he re-tied my tie.
"Okay! Let's go."
We hurried to the village and turned into the gate of the manor garden.Poirot stopped for a while, gazing at the beautiful scenery of this large garden with infinite emotion, and the morning dew was still emitting brilliant pearls.
"How beautiful, how beautiful! And yet the poor family is in pain, in sorrow."
He looked at me sharply as he spoke, and I felt my face flush under his long gaze.
Was the family overwhelmed by grief?Were the anguish caused by Mrs. Inglethorp's death so intense?I felt the lack of that emotion in the air.The dead woman did not win the love of the family.Her death was shocking and unfortunate, but she will not be deeply mourned.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts.He nodded gravely.
"Yes, you're right," he said, "they don't seem to be related by blood. She was kind and generous to the Cavendishes, but she wasn't their real mother after all, and blood—you mustn't." Remember this—blood."
"Poirot," said I, "I wish you could tell me why you need to know whether Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? The question has been running through my mind, but I can't figure it out." What does that have to do with things?"
He was silent for a minute or two.We kept walking, and finally he spoke:
"I have no objection to telling you—although, you know, it is not my habit to explain things before they come to an end. The question now is that Mrs. Inglethorp may have been dropped in her coffee." Strychnine poisoned him to death."
"real?"
"Yes, when is the coffee delivered?"
"Around eight o'clock."
"So she took it between eight and eight-thirty--it mustn't be too late. Well, strychnine is a fairly fast-acting poison. Feeling, perhaps within an hour. In Mrs. Inglethorp, however, the symptoms of poisoning did not appear until five o'clock the next morning. Nine hours in all! Taking the medicines at the same time can delay the onset of toxicity, but it is unlikely to last that long. However, the possibility must be considered. However, according to you, she ate very little at dinner, and the symptoms of poisoning Didn't show up until early next morning! It's an incomprehensible situation, my friend. An autopsy might give some explanation. Bear that in your mind when the time comes."
John came out to greet us as we approached the house.His face looked tired and haggard.
"It is a very unpleasant business, M. Poirot," said he. "Hastings explained it to you? We are anxious that it should not be publicized."
"I totally understand."
"You know, so far it's just suspicion. We don't have any grounds."
"It does. It's just a precaution."
John turned to face me, and at the same time he took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette.
"Did you know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"
"Yes. I met him."
"John threw the matchstick into a nearby flower-bed, and Poirot was emotionally overwhelmed by this behaviour. So he picked it up and buried it."
"It's difficult, I don't know how to treat him."
"This difficulty will not last long," said Poirot calmly.
John, bewildered and not quite understanding Poirot's cryptic prophecy, handed me the two keys Dr. Bauerstein had given him.
"All that M. Poirot wants to see, let him see."
"The room is locked?" asked Poirot.
"Dr. Bauerstein thinks it's good."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"Then he's pretty sure. Oh, it makes things a lot easier for us."
We walked together to the room where the tragedy happened.For your convenience, I attach the following floor plan of the room and the main furnishings in the room.
Poirot locked the door inside and made a careful inspection of the room.He hops from object to object with the agility of a grasshopper.Afraid of erasing any clues, I stood motionless by the door.Poirot, however, did not seem to appreciate my restraint.
"What's the matter with you, friend?" he cried. "You're standing there like a—what's that called?—oh, yes, what a stake?"
I explained that I was afraid of erasing footprints or something.
"Footprints? You can figure it out! It's as if an army has been in this room! What other footprints can we find? Stop standing there, and come and help me search. Before I can use it, I have to put down my little briefcase."
As he said that, he put the small suitcase on the round table by the window, but he moved a little violently. As a result, because the table top was loose, one side of it tilted up, and the briefcase fell to the floor suddenly.
"Look at the table!" cried Poirot. "Why, my friend, it is possible to live alone in a large house, and it may not be comfortable."
After a lecture, he resumed his examination.
A small purple-red briefcase with a key in the lock on the desk caught his attention at that moment.He pulled the key out of the lock and handed it to me for inspection.But I don't see anything special about it.It was the key to an ordinary spring lock, with a length of twisted metal wire tied into the knob.
Then he inspected the door frame, which we had broken, and found out that the latch had indeed been destroyed.Then he went to the opposite door to Cynthia's room.As I said, this door was also bolted.However, he pulled the latch, and tried to open and close the door several times; while he tried, he was very careful not to make any noise.Suddenly, something on the latch seemed to catch his attention.He checked carefully.So, he quickly took out a pair of tweezers from his box, picked up a tiny thing, and carefully put it into a small envelope.
On the chest of drawers was a tray with a spirit lamp on it and a small saucepan on it.A small amount of blackened liquid remained in the pot.Beside it lay an empty cup and saucer.
I wondered myself how I could have been so careless to have overlooked this.Here is such a valuable clue.Poirot deftly dipped a finger into the liquid and tasted it cautiously.He put on a grimace.
"Cocoa - mixed with - I think - rum."
A small table beside the bed had been overturned, and he walked over to the pile of things that had fallen on the floor.A lamp, some books, some matches, a bunch of keys, and fragments of a broken coffee cup were strewn all over the floor.
"Oh, that is strange," said Poirot.
"I have to admit, I don't see anything particularly strange about it."
"Don't you wonder? Look at the lamp—the glass only broke in two places, and that's how it fell when it fell. But you see, the coffee cup fell to pieces."
"Yeah," I said impatiently, "I reckon someone must have stepped on it."
"Indeed," said Poirot in a strange voice. "Someone stepped on it."
He arose, and walked slowly to the mantelpiece, where he stood absently arranging and arranging the liturgical objects upon it--a habit of his mind when he was anxious.
"My friend," he said, turning to me, "someone has stepped on this glass and purposely ground it into a powder, and they've done it either because it has strychnine in it, or because—that's serious. Much more—no strychnine in the glass!"
I didn't respond, which confused me, but I knew it was too late for him to explain.After a while, he pulled himself together and continued his investigation.He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, squeezed them in his hand and turned them quickly a few times, and finally chose the shiny one.He wanted to use it to unlock the lock on the fuchsia briefcase.It fit just right, and he opened the case, but after a moment's hesitation, he closed it again, relocked it, and at the same time inserted the key into his own lock, just like the one that had been in the lock. pocket.
"I have no authority to examine these documents, but this must be done immediately!"
Then he examined the washstand drawer very carefully.As he walked across the room toward the window to the left, a round, indistinct stain on the dark coffee-colored carpet seemed to interest him in particular.He knelt down to examine it for a while—even swooped in and sniffed it.
Finally, he poured a few more drops of cocoa into the test tube, carefully sealed the top of the tube, and then took out a small notebook.
"In this room," he said, writing hastily, "we have found six notable suspects. Shall I list them? Or do you?"
"Oh, you come." I replied hastily.
"Okay then. First, a ground-up coffee mug; second, a despatch box locked and keyed; third, a spot on the floor."
"Maybe that was done some time ago," I interrupted him.
"No, because it still smells damp, and smells of coffee. Fourth, a bit of dark green fabric—just a thread or two, but recognizable."
"Ah!" I cried. "It's the thing you pick up and put in the little envelope."
"Yes, it could also turn out to be one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, which would be of no value. We'll find out. Fifth, that's it!" He said in a theatrical way. Gesture pointed to a large piece of candle oil on the floor next to the desk and said. "It must have dripped yesterday, or a good maid would have taken it off right away with blotting paper and an iron, and one of my best hats ever—but that's nothing to do with it."
"It was probably dropped last night. We were all very anxious. But Mrs. Inglethorp may have dropped it herself."
"You came into the room with only one candle?"
"Yes. Laurence Cavendish had it. He was in a state of confusion. Seemed to see something over there"—I pointed in the direction of the mantelpiece—"that frightened him. stunned."
"That's interesting," said Poirot at once, "yes, it's instructive"—his eyes swept the whole wall—"but this mass of wax is not the candle in his hand. Well, because you see, it's white, and Mr. Lawrence's, which is still on the dresser, is pink. Mrs. Inglethorp, on the other hand, has no waxing table in her room, only A desk lamp."
"Then," I asked, "what's your deduction?"
To this, my friend gave only one irritating answer. He advised me to make more use of my natural talents.
"What about point six?" I asked. "I guess it's a sample of cocoa."
"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I could count that as point six, but I don't. No, point six is something I need to keep secret for now."
He took a quick look around the room. "There's nothing to do here, I suppose"—he looked long and earnestly at the ashes of the hearth—"unless this fire is still red—and it's out. But it may happen—it's still red— Let's take a look!"
He scraped the ground, and deftly began to scrape the ashes from the furnace into its fence, and he did it very carefully.Suddenly, he called out softly.
"Tweezers, Hastings!"
I hastened to hand him the tweezers, and he deftly picked up a small piece of paper that hadn't burnt out.
"Look, my friend," he said aloud. "What do you think this is?"
I examined the scrap of paper carefully.Here's an exact replica:
(Translation: all and)
This stumps me.It is very thick, not like the usual letterhead at all.Suddenly, I had an idea.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is the fragment of the will!"
"Not bad."
I looked sharply at him.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected that."
I handed him the paper back and watched him put it away in the briefcase.He was very careful and organized like a treasure, and my mind was in chaos.What is this will dispute?Who burned it down?Is it the one who dropped the candle oil on the ground?Obviously yes.But how did this person get in?All the doors are bolted from the inside.
"Come, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we must go. I have a few questions to ask the parlor-maid. Her name is Dorcas, isn't she?"
We went into Alfred Inglethorp's room.After some delay here, Poirot made a brief but rather thorough search of it.We went out by this door, and locked it and Mrs. Inglethorp's door as before.
Poirot had expressed his wish to see the downstairs boudoir, so I took him there, and then I went to Dorcas.
But when I returned with Dorcas, the boudoir was empty.
"Poirot!" I cried, "where are you?"
"Here I am, my friend."
He had stepped outside the French windows, and was standing there, facing the various shapes of flower beds, evidently lost in admiration.
"Brilliant!" he murmured. "Splendid! How well-proportioned! Look at the crescent; and those lozenges--so graceful and delicate, it's a pleasure to look at. The plants are well spaced, too. It's a recent plant, isn't it early?" "
"Yes, I believe it was yesterday afternoon. But come in—Dorcas is here."
"Okay, okay! Just let me feast my eyes for a while."
"Okay, but this is more important."
"How do you know these beautiful begonias aren't equally important?"
I shrugged.If he decided to adopt such an attitude, there was really nothing to argue with him.
"You disagree? But there are such things. Well, let us go in and meet brave Dorcas."
Dorcas stood in the boudoir, her hands folded over her stomach, her gray hair billowing high under her white hat.She is the true type and personification of a faithful old-fashioned maid.
She harbored a wholehearted misgiving toward Poirot, but he quickly broke through her defenses.He offered a chair forward.
"Please sit down, miss."
"Thank you, sir."
"You've been with your mistress for years, haven't you?"
"Ten years, sir."
"It's been a long time, and very dedicated. You're very fond of her, aren't you?"
"She's been a very good hostess to me, sir."
"Then you will have no objection to answering a few questions. I have Mr. Cavendish's full permission to ask you these questions."
"Oh, of course, sir."
"Then I'm going to start asking about yesterday afternoon. Did your mistress quarrel?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know if I should—" Dorcas stammered.
Poirot watched her keenly.
"My dear Dorcas, I need to know every detail of that quarrel as well as I can. You must not think that you are giving away the secret of your mistress. Your mistress died unexplained, so we must find out That's the truth—if we're going to avenge her. There's no way out of the dead, but if it was an atrocity, we'll bring the murderer to justice."
"I hope so," said Dorcas indignantly, "then I won't name names, well, none of us can bear such a man in this house. Since he came in , life will be difficult."
Poirot waited for her to calm down, then asked again in his methodical tone:
"Well, how was that fight? What was the first thing you heard?"
"Oh, sir, I happened to be walking down the aisle yesterday, outside—"
"When was that?"
"I can't tell the exact time, sir, but it was far from tea-time. It might have been four o'clock—or a little later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to pass by and heard the room There was a loud, angry noise in the room. I really didn't mean to eavesdrop, but—well, that's how I stopped. The door was closed, but the mistress' voice was high-pitched and clear, so she I heard it very well. 'You lied to me and lied to me,' she said, but couldn't catch Mr. Inglethorp's reply. His voice was much softer than hers--then she replied : "I fed you, fed you, clothed you, how dare you do this! You have to thank me for everything! You have to repay me well! It's embarrassing for us!" What he said I didn't hear clearly , but she continued: "It's useless for you to say that. I am very clear about my obligations. I have made up my mind. Don't think that I am afraid of going out in public, or that the rivalry between husband and wife can scare me." ’ At this point, I thought I heard them coming out, so I hurried away.”
"Are you sure you heard Mr. Inglethorp's voice?"
"Oh, sure, sir. Could it be someone else's voice?"
"Well, what happened next?"
"Afterwards I went back into the passage again; but by this time all had subsided. At five o'clock Mrs. Inglethorp rang for her white tea—she had nothing to eat—to the boudoir. .She looked frightening—pale and distracted.'Dorcas,' she said, 'I've had a terrible blow.' "I'm sorry for it, ma'am," said I, " You'll be better off with freshly brewed tea, ma'am." She was holding something in her hand. I couldn't tell if it was a letter or just a piece of paper, but it said the words, she kept staring at it, as if she couldn't believe what was written on it. She seemed to forget that I was there, and she muttered to herself: 'With these few words—all It all changed." Then she said to me again: 'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they are not to be trusted!' I hastened away. Then bringing her a cup of freshly brewed strong tea, she said to me Thank you. She told me, after tea, that she felt better. 'I don't know what to do,' said she. 'A feud is a terrible thing, Dorcas. If it were possible, I'll keep it under wraps.' Just then Mrs. Cavendish came in, and she said no more."
"Did she keep that letter, or something else, in her hand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Later, what might she have done with that thing?"
"Oh, then I don't know, sir. She locked it in her fuchsia trunk, I suppose."
"Is that the box she usually keeps important papers in?"
"Yes, sir. She brings it down with her every morning, and up every evening."
"When did she lose the key to that box?"
"She found it missing at lunch yesterday, and she told me to look for it. She's very upset about it."
"Has she got another key?"
"Oh yes, sir."
Dorcas looked at Poirot with great curiosity, and, to tell the truth, so did I.What does a lost key mean?Poirot laughed.
"Nothing, Dorcas, it's my duty to make things clear. Is this the lost key?" He drew from his pocket the key which had been removed from the lock of the attache-case upstairs.
Dorcas looked on in amazement, his eyes seemed to pop out.
"That's it, sir. It's all right. But where did you find it? I've looked everywhere."
"Hey, look, that place wasn't there yesterday, but it's here today. Well, let's talk about something else, did you have a dark green one in your mistress's dress?"
Dorcas was a little taken aback by the unexpected question.
"No, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"Is anyone else in this house wearing green?"
Dorcas thought for a moment.
"Miss Cynthia has a green evening gown."
"Light green or dark green?"
"Light green, sir; a kind of chiffon, they call it that."
"Well, that's not what I was asking. Does anyone else have any green clothes?"
"Not anymore, sir—I know not."
There was not the slightest sign of disappointment or anything on Poirot's face.He just said:
"Well, let's leave that aside and talk about something else. Do you have any reason to believe that it is possible that your mistress took sleeping pills last night?"
"Not last night, sir. I know she didn't."
"Why do you know so well?"
"Because the pill box is empty. Two days ago, she took the last pack. She hasn't been dispensed since then."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Absolutely not wrong."
"That will make things clear. By the way, didn't your mistress ask you to sign some paper yesterday?"
"Signing a piece of paper? No, sir,"
"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in last evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I think you can tell me who these letters are addressed to?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you, sir. I went out in the evening. Maybe Anne can tell you, though she's a careless girl. I didn't even take away the coffee cups last night. I wasn't here to take care of it."
Poirot held up a hand.
"Since they're there, Dorcas, please leave them a little longer. I want to check."
"Okay, sir."
"When did you go out yesterday evening?"
"Around six o'clock, sir."
"Thank you, Dorcas, that's all I want to ask you." He got up, and strolled to the window. "I've been admiring these flower beds, and by the way, how many gardeners are employed here?"
"There are only three now. We used to have five before the war, and it was sorted out like a prince's mansion. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. The scenery is very beautiful. But, Now there's only an old Manning, and a young William, and a new-fashioned gardener in trousers and stuff. Oh, what a dreadful time it is!"
"There will be a good year, Dorcas, as we hope anyway. Well, will you send Anne to come to me?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How do you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping pills?" I asked curiously, after Dorcas had left the room. "And the lost key and the spare key?"
"Things have to be done in order. As for sleeping pills, that's what I know." He suddenly produced a cardboard box like the ones pharmacists use for powdered medicines.
"Where did you find this thing?"
"In the drawer of the washstand in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It's number six from my catalogue."
"But I thought, since the last remaining powder was swallowed two days ago. Doesn't it matter?"
"Maybe it's not important, but have you noticed that there is something special about this box in your opinion?"
I checked it carefully.
"No, I can't say anything."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: "'Take a packet at bedtime, if necessary. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I can't say anything special about it."
"Isn't it true that there is no pharmacist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. “Exactly, this is a special place!”
"When have you ever seen a pharmacist like this, without printing a name, and just send out a box of powder?"
"No, I haven't seen it."
I seemed very excited, but I was discouraged by Poirot's words:
"This explanation is still very superficial. Don't laugh at yourself, my friend."
The distinct rattling of footsteps indicated Annie's imminent appearance, so that I had no time to reply.
Anne was a tall, well-proportioned, pretty girl who was clearly suffering from nervous tension, mixed with a certain amusing sense of horror at the tragedy that had taken place.
Poirot immediately cut to the chase with a businesslike ease.
"I came to you, Anne, because I thought you could tell me something about Mr. Inglethorp's letter last night. How many letters were there? Could you give me the names and addresses of some of the recipients?"
Annie thought about it.
"There were four letters, sir. One to Miss Howard, one to Mr. Wells, the solicitor, and two others, I don't think I remember, sir—oh yes, one to Tower Munster's entertainment planner, Rose and the others. I can't remember who else."
"Think again," said Poirot encouragingly.
Anne racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I've completely forgotten. It didn't occur to me that I should pay attention to it."
"That's all right," said Poirot, without showing any sign of disappointment. "And now I want to ask you something else. There's a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with a bit of cocoa left in it. Does she eat that every night?"
"Yes, sir. It's brought to her room every evening, and she eats it hot in the evening—she always likes that."
"What's that? Pure cocoa?"
"Yes, sir, with milk, and a teaspoon of sugar, and two teaspoons of rum."
"Who sent it to her room?"
"I sent it, sir."
"It's always been you?"
"Yes, sir."
"When will it be delivered?"
"Usually when I'm pulling the curtains."
"Then you took it directly from the kitchen?"
"No, sir, you know there's not much free time on the gas stove, so the chef usually cooks it well before the vegetables for dinner, so I usually take it and put it in the oven next to the revolving door." on that table, and send it to her room later."
"Is the turnstile on the left?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the table, whether it's on this side of the door or that--by the servants."
"Over here, sir."
"When did you get it last night?"
"A quarter past seven, I think, sir."
"When did you send it to Mrs. Inglethorp's room?"
"It was about eight o'clock when I went to draw the curtains. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I drew them all."
"So, between a quarter past seven and eight o'clock, Coco was on the table on the left?"
"Yes, sir." Anne blushed more and more, and now she blurted out suddenly:
"If there's salt in it, sir, it's not me. I never put salt beside it."
"What makes you think it has salt in it?" asked Poirot.
"I've seen salt in trays, sir."
"You see some salt in the tray?"
"Yes. It looks like coarse salt. I didn't notice it when I picked up the tray, but I saw it right away when I was going to take it to the hostess' room. I thought I should have taken it back and asked the cook Did it again, but I was in a hurry and Dorcas was out again, and I thought maybe there was nothing wrong with it, the salt just fell in the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron and carried it into the house go inside."
I just couldn't contain my excitement.Unbeknownst to Anne herself, she has given us an important proof.假如她知道了，她所说的“粗盐”，就是众所周知的剧毒毒药士的宁，她会吓得怎样的目瞪口呆啊！我对波洛的镇静自若感到吃惊。他的自制能力实在惊人。我期待着问下一个重要的问题，可是它使我十分失望。
“你走进英格里桑太大的房间时，通向辛西娅小姐房间的门是闩着的吗？”
“哦！是的，先生；那门一直都是闩着的，它从来没有开过。”
“通向英格里桑先生房间的那扇呢？你注意没有，它是不是也闩着的？”
安妮显得犹豫不决。
“我说不准，先生，门是关的，可我说不上它是闩着的还是没有闩。”
“你最后离开房间时，英格里桑太太就在你后面闩上房门了么？”
“不，先生，当时没有闩，不过我想她后来是闩上的。晚上她通常都闩门的。就是通过道的那个门。”
“昨天你收拾房间时，有没有发现地板上有蜡烛油？”
“蜡烛油？哦，没有，先生。英格里桑太太没有蜡烛，她只有一盏台灯。”
“那未，要是地板上有一大片蜡烛油的话，你认为你是一定能看见的啦？””
“是的，先生，而且我一定会用熨斗和一张吸油纸把它去掉的。”
接着，波洛又重复了他曾问过多卡斯的问题。
“你的女主人有没有一件绿色的衣服？”
"No, sir."
“无论是斗篷，披肩，还有那——你管它叫什么来着？——那运动服，也没有吗？”
“也没有绿的，先生。”
“这屋子里别的人呢？”
安妮考虑了一下。
“也没有，先生。”
“这点你有把握吗？”
“完全有把握。”
“好！我想要了解的就是这些了。多谢你啦！”
安妮神经质地咯咯傻笑着，吱吱嘎嘎地走出了房间。我的硬抑制着的激动突然爆发了。
“波浴，”我喊道。“我祝贺你！这是个重大的发现。”
“什么重大的发现？”
“嗨，放了毒的是那可可，不是咖啡呀，这不是一清二楚了么！因为可可是在半夜里喝的，当然也就一直到凌晨才生效了啊。”
“这么说来，你认为这可可——请你好好注意听着，达斯丁，这可可——里面有士的宁吗？”
“当然！那托盘里的盐，还会是别的吗？”
“有可能真的是盐，”波洛平静地回答说。
我耸了耸肩膀。要是他打算这样来看问题的话，那还有什么好争论的。我的脑子里不是第一次掠过这种想法：可怜的老波洛到底年岁越来越大了。我私下想，幸亏他这人的脑子接受能力比较强。
波洛用他那冷静地闪烁着的眼睛朝我审视着。
“你对我不满意了吧，朋友？”
“亲爱的波洛，”我冷冷地说，“我不会来指挥你的。你有权坚持你自己的看法，正如我有权坚持我自己的看法*一样。”
“一个绝妙的观点，”波洛轻快地站起身来，说道。“现在，这间房里的事我已经办完了。顺便问一问，角落里那张小一点的写字台是谁的？”
“英格里桑先生的。”
“嗨！”他试着想打开。“锁的。不过，也许英格里桑太太那串钥匙里有一只能把它打开。”他用一只手熟练地转动着那串钥匙，试了几只，最后，终于满意地突然喊了起来。“行啦！这不是开这桌子的钥匙，不过在必要时，它能打开它。”他把折叠桌面滑向后面，朝那些摆得很整齐的归了档的文件迅速地看了一眼。令我惊诧的是，他并没有去检查那些文件，在他把写字台重新锁上时，他只是称许地说道：“显然，这位英格里桑先生是个井井有条的人！”
一个“井井有条的人”，在波洛的评价中，这是他能给予一个人的最高的赞扬了。
当我的朋友支离破碎地东一句西一句聊着的时候，我觉得他本来不是这样一个人。
“他的写字台里没有邮票，可是那儿也许有呢。呃，我的朋友？那儿也许有呢？是呀，”——他的两眼朝房间各处打量着——“这间闺房没有告诉我们更多的情况。它给的东西不多。只这么一点。”
说着他从目已的口袋里掏出一只弄皱了的信封，把它扔给了我。这是一件相当奇怪的证据。一只普通的，看上去很脏的旧信封，上面潦草地写着几个字，显然是随便涂的。下面就是它的复制品：
Notes:
Notes: