章节正文
I found a place farther up the hill, in the garden of an empty
house. From there I had a full view of the court, on which two
figures were having a game of tennis. One was the old man, whom
I had already seen; the other was a younger fellow, wearing some
club colours in the scarf round his middle. They played with tremendous
zest, like two city gents who wanted hard exercise to open
their pores. You couldn't conceive a more innocentspectacle. They
shouted and laughed and stopped for drinks, when a maid brought
out two tankards on a salver. I rubbed my eyes and asked myself if
I was not the most immortal fool on earth. Mystery and darkness
had hung about the men who hunted me over the Scotch moor in
aeroplane and motor-car, and notably about that infernal antiquarian.
It was easy enough to connect those folk with the knife
that pinned Scudder to the floor, and with fell designs on the
world's peace. But here were two guileless citizens taking their
innocuous exercise, and soon about to go indoors to a humdrum
dinner, where they would talk of market prices and the last cricket
scores and the gossip of their native Surbiton. I had been making a
net to catch vultures and falcons, and lo and behold! two plump
thrushes had blundered into it.
Presently a third figure arrived, a young man on a bicycle, with a
bag of golf-clubs slung on his back. He strolled round to the tennis
lawn and was welcomed riotously by the players. Evidently they
were chaffing him, and their chaff sounded horribly English. Then
the plump man, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief, announced
that he must have a tub. I heard his very words - 'I've got into
a proper lather,' he said. 'This will bring down my weight and
my handicap, Bob. I'll take you on tomorrow and give you a stroke a
hole.' You couldn't find anything much more English than that.
They all went into the house, and left me feeling a precious idiot.
I had been barking up the wrong tree this time. These men might
be acting; but if they were, where was their audience? They didn't
know I was sitting thirty yards off in a rhododendron. It was simply
impossible to believe that these three hearty fellows were anything
but what they seemed - three ordinary, game-playing, suburban
Englishmen, wearisome, if you like, but sordidly innocent.
And yet there were three of them; and one was old, and one was
plump, and one was lean and dark; and their house chimed in with
Scudder's notes; and half a mile off was lying a steam yacht with at
least one German officer. I thought of Karolides lying dead and all
Europe trembling on the edge of earthquake, and the men I had
left behind me in London who were waitinganxiously for the
events of the next hours. There was no doubt that hell was afoot
somewhere. The Black Stone had won, and if it survived this June
night would bank its winnings.
There seemed only one thing to do - go forward as if I had no
doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it
handsomely. Never in my life have I faced a job with greater
disinclination. I would rather in my then mind have walked into a
den of anarchists, each with his Browning handy, or faced a charging
lion with a popgun, than enter that happy home of three
cheerful Englishmen and tell them that their game was up. How
they would laugh at me!
But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard in Rhodesia
from old Peter Pienaar. I have quoted Peter already in this narrative.
He was the best scout I ever knew, and before he had turned
respectable he had been pretty often on the windy side of the law,
when he had been wanted badly by the authorities. Peter once
discussed with me the question of disguises, and he had a theory
which struck me at the time. He said, barring absolute certainties
like fingerprints, mere physical traits were very little use for
identification if the fugitive really knew his business. He laughed at
things like dyed hair and false beards and such childish follies. The
only thing that mattered was what Peter called 'atmosphere'.
If a man could get into perfectly different surroundings from
those in which he had been first observed, and - this is the important
part - really play up to these surroundings and behave as if
he had never been out of them, he would puzzle the cleverest
detectives on earth. And he used to tell a story of how he once
borrowed a black coat and went to church and shared the same
hymn-book with the man that was looking for him. If that man had
seen him in decent company before he would have recognized him;
but he had only seen him snuffing the lights in a public-house with
a revolver.
The recollection of Peter's talk gave me the first real comfort
that I had had that day. Peter had been a wise old bird, and these
fellows I was after were about the pick of the aviary. What if they
were playing Peter's game? A fool tries to look different: a clever
man looks the same and is different.
Again, there was that other maxim of Peter's which had helped
me when I had been a roadman. 'If you are playing a part, you
will never keep it up unless you convince yourself that you are
it.' That would explain the game of tennis. Those chaps didn't
need to act, they just turned a handle and passed into another
life, which came as naturally to them as the first. It sounds a
platitude, but Peter used to say that it was the big secret of all
the famous criminals.
It was now getting on for eight o'clock, and I went back and
saw Scaife to give him his instructions. I arranged with him how to
place his men, and then I went for a walk, for I didn't feel up to
any dinner. I went round the deserted golf-course, and then to a
point on the cliffs farther north beyond the line of the villas.
On the little trim newly-made roads I met people in flannels
coming back from tennis and the beach, and a coastguard from the
wireless station, and donkeys and pierrots padding homewards.
Out at sea in the blue dusk I saw lights appear on the ARIADNE and
on the destroyer away to the south, and beyond the Cock sands the
bigger lights of steamers making for the Thames. The whole scene
was so peaceful and ordinary that I got more dashed in spirits every
second. It took all my resolution to stroll towards Trafalgar Lodge
about half-past nine.
On the way I got a piece of solid comfort from the sight of a
greyhound that was swinging along at a nursemaid's heels. He
reminded me of a dog I used to have in Rhodesia, and of the time
when I took him hunting with me in the Pali hills. We were after
rhebok, the dun kind, and I recollected how we had followed one
beast, and both he and I had clean lost it. A greyhound works by
sight, and my eyes are good enough, but that buck simply leaked
out of the landscape. Afterwards I found out how it managed it.
Against the grey rock of the kopjes it showed no more than a crow
against a thundercloud. It didn't need to run away; all it had to do
was to stand still and melt into the background.
Suddenly as these memories chased across my brain I thought of
my present case and applied the moral. The Black Stone didn't need
to bolt. They were quietly absorbed into the landscape. I was on
the right track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed
never to forget it. The last word was with Peter Pienaar.
Scaife's men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a
soul. The house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to
observe. A three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road; the
windows on the ground-floor were all open, and shaded lights and
the low sound of voices revealed where the occupants were finishing
dinner. Everything was as public and above-board as a charity
bazaar. Feeling the greatest fool on earth, I opened the gate and
rang the bell.
A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in rough
places, gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call
the upper and the lower. He understands them and they understand
him. I was at home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was
sufficiently at my ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I
had met the night before. I can't explain why, but it is a fact. But
what fellows like me don't understand is the great comfortable,
satisfied middle-class world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs.
He doesn't know how they look at things, he doesn't understand
their conventions, and he is as shy of them as of a black mamba.
When a trim parlour-maid opened the door, I could hardly find my voice.
I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan had been
to walk straight into the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance
wake in the men that start of recognition which would confirm my
theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall the place mastered
me. There were the golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats
and caps, the rows of gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which
you will find in ten thousand British homes. A stack of neatly
folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an old oak chest;
there was a grandfather clock ticking; and some polished brass
warming-pans on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chiltern
winning the St Leger. The place was as orthodox as an Anglican
church. When the maid asked me for my name I gave it automatically,
and was shown into the smoking-room, on the right side
of the hall.
That room was even worse. I hadn't time to examine it, but I
could see some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece,
and I could have sworn they were English public school or college.
I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go
after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the
dining-room and given my name to her master, and I had missed the
chance of seeing how the three took it.
When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the
table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening
dress - a short coat and black tie, as was the other, whom I called
in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a
blue serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club
or school.
The old man's manner was perfect. 'Mr Hannay?' he said
hesitatingly. 'Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I'll
rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.'
Though I hadn't an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself
to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
'I think we have met before,' I said, 'and I guess you know
my business.'
The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their
faces, they played the part of mystification very well.
'Maybe, maybe,' said the old man. 'I haven't a very good memory,
but I'm afraid you must tell me your errand, Sir, for I really don't
know it.'
'Well, then,' I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be
talking pure foolishness - 'I have come to tell you that the game's
up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.'
'Arrest,' said the old man, and he looked really shocked. 'Arrest!
Good God, what for?'
'For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day
of last month.'
'I never heard the name before,' said the old man in a dazed voice.
One of the others spoke up. 'That was the Portland Place murder.
I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, Sir! Where do you
come from?'
'Scotland Yard,' I said.
After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was
staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of
innocent bewilderment.
Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man
picking his words.
'Don't get flustered, uncle,' he said. 'It is all a ridiculous mistake;
but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It
won't be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of
the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home.
You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.'
'Right, Percy! Of course that's easy enough. The 23rd! That was
the day after Agatha's wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I
came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with
Charlie Symons. Then - oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I
house. From there I had a full view of the court, on which two
figures were having a game of tennis. One was the old man, whom
I had already seen; the other was a younger fellow, wearing some
club colours in the scarf round his middle. They played with tremendous
zest, like two city gents who wanted hard exercise to open
their pores. You couldn't conceive a more innocentspectacle. They
shouted and laughed and stopped for drinks, when a maid brought
out two tankards on a salver. I rubbed my eyes and asked myself if
I was not the most immortal fool on earth. Mystery and darkness
had hung about the men who hunted me over the Scotch moor in
aeroplane and motor-car, and notably about that infernal antiquarian.
It was easy enough to connect those folk with the knife
that pinned Scudder to the floor, and with fell designs on the
world's peace. But here were two guileless citizens taking their
innocuous exercise, and soon about to go indoors to a humdrum
dinner, where they would talk of market prices and the last cricket
scores and the gossip of their native Surbiton. I had been making a
net to catch vultures and falcons, and lo and behold! two plump
thrushes had blundered into it.
Presently a third figure arrived, a young man on a bicycle, with a
bag of golf-clubs slung on his back. He strolled round to the tennis
lawn and was welcomed riotously by the players. Evidently they
were chaffing him, and their chaff sounded horribly English. Then
the plump man, mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief, announced
that he must have a tub. I heard his very words - 'I've got into
a proper lather,' he said. 'This will bring down my weight and
my handicap, Bob. I'll take you on tomorrow and give you a stroke a
hole.' You couldn't find anything much more English than that.
They all went into the house, and left me feeling a precious idiot.
I had been barking up the wrong tree this time. These men might
be acting; but if they were, where was their audience? They didn't
know I was sitting thirty yards off in a rhododendron. It was simply
impossible to believe that these three hearty fellows were anything
but what they seemed - three ordinary, game-playing, suburban
Englishmen, wearisome, if you like, but sordidly innocent.
And yet there were three of them; and one was old, and one was
plump, and one was lean and dark; and their house chimed in with
Scudder's notes; and half a mile off was lying a steam yacht with at
least one German officer. I thought of Karolides lying dead and all
Europe trembling on the edge of earthquake, and the men I had
left behind me in London who were waitinganxiously for the
events of the next hours. There was no doubt that hell was afoot
somewhere. The Black Stone had won, and if it survived this June
night would bank its winnings.
There seemed only one thing to do - go forward as if I had no
doubts, and if I was going to make a fool of myself to do it
handsomely. Never in my life have I faced a job with greater
disinclination. I would rather in my then mind have walked into a
den of anarchists, each with his Browning handy, or faced a charging
lion with a popgun, than enter that happy home of three
cheerful Englishmen and tell them that their game was up. How
they would laugh at me!
But suddenly I remembered a thing I once heard in Rhodesia
from old Peter Pienaar. I have quoted Peter already in this narrative.
He was the best scout I ever knew, and before he had turned
respectable he had been pretty often on the windy side of the law,
when he had been wanted badly by the authorities. Peter once
discussed with me the question of disguises, and he had a theory
which struck me at the time. He said, barring absolute certainties
like fingerprints, mere physical traits were very little use for
identification if the fugitive really knew his business. He laughed at
things like dyed hair and false beards and such childish follies. The
only thing that mattered was what Peter called 'atmosphere'.
If a man could get into perfectly different surroundings from
those in which he had been first observed, and - this is the important
part - really play up to these surroundings and behave as if
he had never been out of them, he would puzzle the cleverest
detectives on earth. And he used to tell a story of how he once
borrowed a black coat and went to church and shared the same
hymn-book with the man that was looking for him. If that man had
seen him in decent company before he would have recognized him;
but he had only seen him snuffing the lights in a public-house with
a revolver.
The recollection of Peter's talk gave me the first real comfort
that I had had that day. Peter had been a wise old bird, and these
fellows I was after were about the pick of the aviary. What if they
were playing Peter's game? A fool tries to look different: a clever
man looks the same and is different.
Again, there was that other maxim of Peter's which had helped
me when I had been a roadman. 'If you are playing a part, you
will never keep it up unless you convince yourself that you are
it.' That would explain the game of tennis. Those chaps didn't
need to act, they just turned a handle and passed into another
life, which came as naturally to them as the first. It sounds a
platitude, but Peter used to say that it was the big secret of all
the famous criminals.
It was now getting on for eight o'clock, and I went back and
saw Scaife to give him his instructions. I arranged with him how to
place his men, and then I went for a walk, for I didn't feel up to
any dinner. I went round the deserted golf-course, and then to a
point on the cliffs farther north beyond the line of the villas.
On the little trim newly-made roads I met people in flannels
coming back from tennis and the beach, and a coastguard from the
wireless station, and donkeys and pierrots padding homewards.
Out at sea in the blue dusk I saw lights appear on the ARIADNE and
on the destroyer away to the south, and beyond the Cock sands the
bigger lights of steamers making for the Thames. The whole scene
was so peaceful and ordinary that I got more dashed in spirits every
second. It took all my resolution to stroll towards Trafalgar Lodge
about half-past nine.
On the way I got a piece of solid comfort from the sight of a
greyhound that was swinging along at a nursemaid's heels. He
reminded me of a dog I used to have in Rhodesia, and of the time
when I took him hunting with me in the Pali hills. We were after
rhebok, the dun kind, and I recollected how we had followed one
beast, and both he and I had clean lost it. A greyhound works by
sight, and my eyes are good enough, but that buck simply leaked
out of the landscape. Afterwards I found out how it managed it.
Against the grey rock of the kopjes it showed no more than a crow
against a thundercloud. It didn't need to run away; all it had to do
was to stand still and melt into the background.
Suddenly as these memories chased across my brain I thought of
my present case and applied the moral. The Black Stone didn't need
to bolt. They were quietly absorbed into the landscape. I was on
the right track, and I jammed that down in my mind and vowed
never to forget it. The last word was with Peter Pienaar.
Scaife's men would be posted now, but there was no sign of a
soul. The house stood as open as a market-place for anybody to
observe. A three-foot railing separated it from the cliff road; the
windows on the ground-floor were all open, and shaded lights and
the low sound of voices revealed where the occupants were finishing
dinner. Everything was as public and above-board as a charity
bazaar. Feeling the greatest fool on earth, I opened the gate and
rang the bell.
A man of my sort, who has travelled about the world in rough
places, gets on perfectly well with two classes, what you may call
the upper and the lower. He understands them and they understand
him. I was at home with herds and tramps and roadmen, and I was
sufficiently at my ease with people like Sir Walter and the men I
had met the night before. I can't explain why, but it is a fact. But
what fellows like me don't understand is the great comfortable,
satisfied middle-class world, the folk that live in villas and suburbs.
He doesn't know how they look at things, he doesn't understand
their conventions, and he is as shy of them as of a black mamba.
When a trim parlour-maid opened the door, I could hardly find my voice.
I asked for Mr Appleton, and was ushered in. My plan had been
to walk straight into the dining-room, and by a sudden appearance
wake in the men that start of recognition which would confirm my
theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall the place mastered
me. There were the golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats
and caps, the rows of gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which
you will find in ten thousand British homes. A stack of neatly
folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an old oak chest;
there was a grandfather clock ticking; and some polished brass
warming-pans on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chiltern
winning the St Leger. The place was as orthodox as an Anglican
church. When the maid asked me for my name I gave it automatically,
and was shown into the smoking-room, on the right side
of the hall.
That room was even worse. I hadn't time to examine it, but I
could see some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece,
and I could have sworn they were English public school or college.
I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go
after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the
dining-room and given my name to her master, and I had missed the
chance of seeing how the three took it.
When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the
table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening
dress - a short coat and black tie, as was the other, whom I called
in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a
blue serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club
or school.
The old man's manner was perfect. 'Mr Hannay?' he said
hesitatingly. 'Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I'll
rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.'
Though I hadn't an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself
to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
'I think we have met before,' I said, 'and I guess you know
my business.'
The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their
faces, they played the part of mystification very well.
'Maybe, maybe,' said the old man. 'I haven't a very good memory,
but I'm afraid you must tell me your errand, Sir, for I really don't
know it.'
'Well, then,' I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be
talking pure foolishness - 'I have come to tell you that the game's
up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.'
'Arrest,' said the old man, and he looked really shocked. 'Arrest!
Good God, what for?'
'For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day
of last month.'
'I never heard the name before,' said the old man in a dazed voice.
One of the others spoke up. 'That was the Portland Place murder.
I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, Sir! Where do you
come from?'
'Scotland Yard,' I said.
After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was
staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of
innocent bewilderment.
Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man
picking his words.
'Don't get flustered, uncle,' he said. 'It is all a ridiculous mistake;
but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It
won't be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of
the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home.
You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.'
'Right, Percy! Of course that's easy enough. The 23rd! That was
the day after Agatha's wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I
came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with
Charlie Symons. Then - oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I
- conceive [kən´si:v]
v.设想；表达；怀孕 (初中英语单词) - innocent [´inəsənt] a.无罪的；单纯的 (初中英语单词)
- spectacle [´spektəkəl] n.展览；表演；景象 (初中英语单词)
- immortal [i´mɔ:təl] a.不死的n.不朽的人物 (初中英语单词)
- mystery [´mistəri] n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词)
- evidently [´evidəntli] ad.明显地 (初中英语单词)
- handkerchief [´hæŋkətʃif] n.手帕，手绢 (初中英语单词)
- acting [´æktiŋ] a.代理的 n.演戏 (初中英语单词)
- audience [´ɔ:diəns] n.听众；观众；接见 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- absolute [´æbsəlu:t] a.绝对的 n.绝对 (初中英语单词)
- physical [´fizikəl] a.物质的；有形的 (初中英语单词)
- childish [´tʃaildiʃ] a.孩子的；幼稚的 (初中英语单词)
- behave [bi´heiv] v.举止；表现；举止端正 (初中英语单词)
- puzzle [´pʌzl] n.迷(惑) v.(使)迷惑 (初中英语单词)
- convince [kən´vins] vt.使确信；使认识错误 (初中英语单词)
- peaceful [´pi:sfəl] a.和平的；平静的 (初中英语单词)
- resolution [,rezə´lu:ʃən] n.决心；坚决；果断 (初中英语单词)
- recognition [,rekəg´niʃən] n.认出；认识；承认 (初中英语单词)
- confirm [kən´fə:m] vt.证实；认可；加强 (初中英语单词)
- grandfather [´grænd,fɑ:ðə] n.(外)祖父；祖先 (初中英语单词)
- collar [´kɔlə] n.衣领；(狗等的)项圈 (初中英语单词)
- errand [´erənd] n.差使，使命 (初中英语单词)
- arrest [ə´rest] vt.逮捕 n.逮捕；停止 (初中英语单词)
- wedding [´wediŋ] n.婚礼，结婚 (初中英语单词)
- tennis [´tenis] n.网球(运动) (高中英语单词)
- scotch [skɔtʃ] vt.&n.刻痕(于)；划伤 (高中英语单词)
- indoors [,in´dɔ:z] ad.在屋里 (高中英语单词)
- gossip [´gɔsip] n.&vi.说闲话；聊天 (高中英语单词)
- bicycle [´baisik(ə)l] n.自行车 (高中英语单词)
- handicap [´hændikæp] n.障碍 vt.妨碍 (高中英语单词)
- hearty [´hɑ:ti] a.热忱的；强健的 (高中英语单词)
- earthquake [´ə:θkweik] n.地震；大变动 (高中英语单词)
- anxiously [´æŋkʃəsli] ad.挂念地；渴望地 (高中英语单词)
- fugitive [´fju:dʒitiv] n.逃亡者，亡命者 (高中英语单词)
- perfectly [´pə:fiktli] ad.理想地；完美地 (高中英语单词)
- decent [´di:sənt] a.体面的，正派的 (高中英语单词)
- recollection [,rekə´lekʃən] n.回忆；追想；记忆力 (高中英语单词)
- stroll [strəul] n.&v.漫步；散步；游荡 (高中英语单词)
- landscape [´lændskeip] n.风景；景色；风景画 (高中英语单词)
- seeing [si:iŋ] see的现在分词 n.视觉 (高中英语单词)
- ridiculous [ri´dikjuləs] a.荒谬的；可笑的 (高中英语单词)
- innocence [´inəsəns] n.无罪；天真 (高中英语单词)
- railing [´reiliŋ] n.栏杆 (英语四级单词)
- warrant [´wɔrənt] n.根据；委任书；权利 (英语四级单词)
- notably [´nəutəbli] ad.显著地；著名地 (英语六级单词)
- infernal [in´fə:nəl] a.地狱的，恶魔似的 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- horribly [´hɔrəbli] ad.恐怖地 (英语六级单词)
- thames [temz] n.泰晤士河 (英语六级单词)
- hunting [´hʌntiŋ] n.打猎 (英语六级单词)
- greyhound [´greihaund] n.长腿猎狗 (英语六级单词)
- applied [ə´plaid] a.实用的，应用的 (英语六级单词)
- middle-class [´midlmæn] a.中产阶级的 (英语六级单词)
- orthodox [´ɔ:θədɔks] a.正统的；正统的；习惯的 (英语六级单词)
- foolishness [´fu:liʃnis] n.愚蠢 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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