悬崖山庄奇案18

Chapter 18 – The Face at the Window,The events of the next day are completely hazy in my memory. I was unfortunate enough to awake with fever on me. I have been liable to these bouts of fever at inconvenient times ever since I once contracted malaria.,In consequence, the events of that day take on in my memory the semblance of a nightmare-with Poirot coming and going as a kind of fantastic clown, making a periodic appearance in a circus.,He was, I fancy, enjoying himself to the the full. His poise of baffled despair was admirable. How he achieved the end he had in view and which he had disclosed to me in the early hours of the morning, I cannot say. But achieve it he did.,It cannot have been easy. The amount of deception and subterfuge involved must have been colossal. The English character is averse to lying on a wholesale scale and that, no less, was what Poirot's plan required. He had, first, to get Dr Graham converted to the scheme. With Dr Graham on his side, he had to persuade the Matron and some members of the staff of the nursing home to conform to the plan. There again, the difficulties must have been immense. It was probably Dr Graham's influence that turned the scale.,Then there was the Chief Constable and the police. Here, Poirot would be up against officialdom. Nevertheless he wrung at last an unwilling consent out of Colonel Weston. The Colonel made it clear that it was in no way his responsibility. Poirot and Poirot alone was responsible for the spreading abroad of these lying reports. Poirot agreed. He would have agreed to anything so long as he was permitted to carry out his plan.,'Comment ca va, mon ami? How I commiserate you. But it is as well, perhaps. The farce, you do not play it as well as I do. I come this moment from ordering a wreath-a wreath immense-stupendous. Lilies, my friend-large quantities of lilies. "With heartfelt regret. From Hercule Poirot." Ah! what a comedy.',He departed again.,'I come from a most poignant conversation with Madame Rice,' was his next piece of information. 'Very well dressed in black, that one. Her poor friend-what a tragedy! I groan sympathetically. Nick, she says, was so joyous, so full of life. Impossible to think of her as dead. I agree. "It is," I say, "the irony of death that it takes one like that. The old and useless are left." Oh! lala! I groan again.','How you are enjoying this,' I murmured feebly.,'Du tout. It is part of my plan, that is all. To play the comedy successfully, you must put the heart into it. Well, then, the conventional expressions of regret over, Madame comes to matters nearer home. All night she has lain awake wondering about those sweets. It is impossible-impossible. "Madame," I say, "it is not impossible. You can see the analyst's report." Then she says, and her voice is far from steady, "It was-cocaine, you say?" I assent. And she says, "Oh, my God. I don't understand."',