Агата Кристи - The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке

‘I make the assumption that one—or possibly all of you— knows something that they do not know they know.

‘Sooner or later, by reason of your association with one another, something will come to light [211] to come to light – обнаружиться , will take on a significance as yet undreamed of. It is like the jig-saw puzzle—each of you may have a piece apparently without meaning, but which when reunited may show a definite portion of the picture as a whole.’

‘Words!’ said Megan Barnard.

‘Eh?’ Poirot looked at her inquiringly.

‘What you’ve been saying. It’s just words. It doesn’t mean anything.’

She spoke with that kind of desperate intensity that I had come to associate with her personality.

‘Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas.’

‘Well, I think it’s sense,’ said Mary Drower. ‘I do really, miss. It’s often when you’re talking over things that you seem to see your way clear. Your mind gets made up [212] to make up (one’s mind) – принять решение for you sometimes without your knowing how it’s happened. Talking leads to a lot of things one way and another.’

‘If “least said is soonest mended [213] least said is soonest mended – лишние разговоры только вредят делу ( букв. чем меньше сказано, тем быстрее починено) ”, it’s the converse we want here,’ said Franklin Clarke.

‘What do you say, Mr Fraser?’

‘I rather doubt the practical applicability of what you say, M. Poirot.’

‘What do you think, Thora?’ asked Clarke.

‘I think the principle of talking things over is always sound.’

‘Suppose,’ suggested Poirot, ‘that you all go over your own remembrances of the time preceding the murder. Perhaps you’ll start, Mr Clarke.’

‘Let me see, on the morning of the day Car was killed I went off sailing. Caught eight mackerel. Lovely out there on the bay. Lunch at home. Irish stew [214] Irish stew – ирландское рагу ( тушеная баранина с луком и картофелем ) , I remember. Slept in the hammock. Tea. Wrote some letters, missed the post, and drove into Paignton to post them. Then dinner and—I’m not ashamed to say it—reread a book of E. Nesbit’s [215] E. Nesbit’s – Эдит Несбит (1858–1924), английская писательница и поэтесса that I used to love as a kid. Then the telephone rang —’

‘No further. Now reflect, Mr Clarke, did you meet anyone on your way down to the sea in the morning?’

‘Lots of people.’

‘Can you remember anything about them?’

‘Not a damned thing now.’

‘Sure?’

‘Well—let’s see—I remember a remarkably fat woman—she wore a striped silk dress and I wondered why—had a couple of kids with her—two young men with a fox terrier on the beach throwing stones for it—Oh, yes, a girl with yellow hair squeaking as she bathed—funny how things come back—like a photograph developing.’

‘You are a good subject. Now later in the day—the garden—going to the post —’

‘The gardener watering… Going to the post? Nearly ran down a bicyclist—silly woman wobbling and shouting to a friend. That’s all, I’m afraid.’

Poirot turned to Thora Grey.

‘Miss Grey?’

Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice:

‘I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning—saw the housekeeper. I wrote letters and did needlework in the afternoon, I fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinary day. I went to bed early.’

Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said:

‘Miss Barnard—can you bring back your remembrances of the last time you saw your sister?’

‘It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday and Sunday. It was fine weather. We went to Hastings to the swimming pool.’

‘What did you talk about most of the time?’

‘I gave her a piece of my mind [216] to give a piece of one’s mind – высказать свое мнение; отчитать кого-либо ,’ said Megan.

‘And what else? She conversed of what?’

The girl frowned in an effort of memory.

‘She talked about being hard up [217] to be hard up – испытывать финансовые затруднения —of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she’d just bought. And a little of Don… She also said she disliked Milly Higley—that’s the girl at the café—and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café… I don’t remember anything else…’

‘She didn’t mention any man—forgive me, Mr Fraser—she might be meeting?’

‘She wouldn’t to me,’ said Megan dryly.

Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw.

‘Mr Fraser—I want you to cast your mind back [218] to cast one’s mind back – вспомнить . You went, you said, to the café on the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember anyone at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?’

‘There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can’t remember any of them.’

‘Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically—unintelligently but accurately…’

The young man repeated doggedly:

‘I don’t remember anybody.’

Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower.

‘I suppose you got letters from your aunt?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘When was the last?’

Mary thought a minute.

‘Two days before the murder, sir.’

‘What did it say?’

‘She said the old devil had been round and that she’d sent him off with a flea in the ear [219] a flea in the ear – оплеуха —excuse the expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that’s my day out, sir—and she said we’d go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir.’

Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps— suddenly brought the tears to Mary’s eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it.

‘You must forgive me, sir. I don’t want to be silly. Crying’s no good. It was just the thought of her—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir.’

‘I know just what you feel like,’ said Franklin Clarke. ‘It’s always the little things that get one—and especially anything like a treat or a present—something jolly and natural. I remember seeing a woman run over once. She’d just bought some new shoes. I saw her lying there—and the burst parcel with the ridiculous little high-heeled slippers peeping out—it gave me a turn—they looked so pathetic.’

Megan said with a sudden eager warmth:

‘That’s true—that’s awfully true. The same thing happened after Betty—died. Mum had bought some stockings for her as a present—bought them the very day it happened. Poor mum, she was all broken up. I found her crying over them. She kept saying: “I bought them for Betty—I bought them for Betty—and she never even saw them.”’

Her own voice quivered a little. She leaned forward, looking straight at Franklin Clarke. There was between them a sudden sympathy—a fraternity in trouble.

‘I know,’ he said. I know exactly. Those are just the sort of things that are hell to remember.’

Donald Fraser stirred uneasily.

Thora Grey diverted the conversation.