“Poirot said placidly, “One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this – ” he tapped his egg-shaped head – “this, that functions!”
“Maybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, M. Poirot, that there is something about the defenselessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless - so sure. So generous and so demanding.”
“Ah, but my dear sir, the why must never be obvious. That is the whole point.”
“What you do not understand is that there are things that cannot be bought.”
“But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much. There are things that are not for sale.”
“Men—’ said Miss Williams, and stopped.
As a rich property owner says ‘Bolsheviks’—as an earnest Communist says ‘Capitalists!’—as a good housewife says ‘Blackbeetles’—so did Miss Williams say ‘Men!”
“With women, love always comes first.”
“He felt a strange pang. It was, perhaps, the fault of old Mr Jonathan, speaking of Juliet... No Juliet here - unless perhaps one could imagine Juliet a survivor - living on, deprived of Romeo... Was it not an essential part of Juliet's make-up that that she should die young?”
“Rest assured," said Hercule Poirot. "I am the best!”
“Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.”
“There is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless--so sure. So generous and so demanding.”
“I should hope, Mr. Poirot, that whatever our feelings, we can keep them in decent control. And we can certainly control our actions.”
“It takes more than a printed notice to keep you from reality. . . . We've only one life to live.”
“Men have the best of this world. I hope that it will not always be so.”
“But Amyas was like all the Crales, a ruthless egoist. He loved Caroline but he never once considered her in any way. He did as he pleased.”
“What do most people mean when they say that ? So young. Something innocent, something appealing, something helpless. But youth is not that ! Youth is crude, youth is strong, youth is powerful-yes, and cruel ! And one thing more-youth is vulnerable.' Hercule Poirot”
“Ah yes, the people concerned. That is very important. You remember, perhaps, who they were?’
Depleach considered.
‘Let me see-it’s a long time ago. There were only five people who were really in it, so to speak-I’m not counting the servants-a couple of faithful old things, scared-looking creatures-they didn’t know anything about anything. No one could suspect them.’
‘There are five people, you say. Tell me about them.’
‘Well, there was Philip Blake. He was Crale’s greatest friend-had known him all his life. He was staying in the house at the time.He’s alive. I see him now and again on the links. Lives at St George’s Hill. Stockbroker. Plays the markets and gets away with it. Successful man, running to fat a bit.’
‘Yes. And who next?’
‘Then there was Blake’s elder brother. Country squire-stay at home sort of chap.’
A jingle ran through Poirot’s head. He repressed it. He mustnot always be thinking of nursery rhymes. It seemed an obsession with him lately. And yet the jingle persisted.
‘This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home…’
He murmured:
‘He stayed at home-yes?’
‘He’s the fellow I was telling you about-messed about with drugs-and herbs-bit of a chemist. His hobby. What was his name now? Literary sort of name-I’ve got it. Meredith. Meredith Blake. Don’t know whether he’s alive or not.’
‘And who next?’
‘Next? Well, there’s the cause of all the trouble. The girl in the case. Elsa Greer.’
‘This little pig ate roast beef,’ murmured Poirot.
Depleach stared at him.
‘They’ve fed her meat all right,’ he said. ‘She’s been a go-getter. She’s had three husbands since then. In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please. And every time she makes a change, it’s for the better. Lady Dittisham-that’s who she is now. Open anyTatler and you’re sure to find her.’
‘And the other two?’
‘There was the governess woman. I don’t remember her name. Nice capable woman. Thompson-Jones-something like that. And there was the child. Caroline Crale’s half-sister. She must have been about fifteen. She’s made rather a name for herself. Digs up things and goes trekking to the back of beyond. Warren-that’s her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarming young woman nowadays. I met her the other day.’
‘She is not, then, the little pig who cried Wee Wee Wee…?’
Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly. He said drily:
‘She’s had something to cry Wee-Wee about in her life! She’s disfigured, you know. Got a bad scar down one side of her face. She-Oh well, you’ll hear all about it, I dare say.’
Poirot stood up. He said:
‘I thank you. You have been very kind. If Mrs Crale didnot kill her husband-’
Depleach interrupted him:
‘But she did, old boy, she did. Take my word for it.’
Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption.
‘Then it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so.’
‘One of themcould have done it, I suppose,’ said Depleach, doubtfully. ‘But I don’t see why any of themshould. No reason at all! In fact, I’m quite sure none of themdid do it. Do get this bee out of your bonnet, old boy!’
But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.”
“إنّ الأحلام لا تلبث أن تتلاشى إذا صدمتك حقائق الحياة”
“It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth.”
“A lot of additional pain and grief is caused by honesty,” remarked Hercule Poirot.”
“Miss Williams said: “I see now why you said that it might be better if she had never known. All the same, I”
“I admired Elsa Greer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors and never quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.”
“You’re suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?’
Poirot said:
‘Obviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, whocould have been concerned?’
‘Five? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobby-but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Don’t see him as X. There was the girl-she might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was the stockbroker-Crale’s best friend. That’s popular in detective stories, but I don’t believe in it in real life. There’s no one else-oh yes, the kid sister, but one doesn’t seriously consider her. That’s four.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You forget the governess.’
‘Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had a guilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! It’s no good-I just don’t believe it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasn’t the neurotic type.’
‘It is a long time ago.’
‘Fifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You can’t expect my memories of the case to be very acute.”
“Poirot asked:
‘Whatdo you see so plainly? The witnesses? The counsel? The judge? The accused standing in the dock?’
Fogg said quietly:
‘That’s the reason, of course! You’ve put your finger on it. I shall always seeher…Funny thing, romance. She had the quality of it. I don’t know if she was really beautiful…She wasn’t very young-tired looking-circles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interest-the drama. And yet, half the time,she wasn’t there. She’d gone away somewhere, quite far away-just left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all half tones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the other-that girl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength. I admired Elsa Greer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors and never quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.’
He paused:
‘I’m only sure of one thing. She loved the man she killed. Loved him so much that half of her died with him…’
Mr Fogg, K.C., paused and polished his glasses.
‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘I seem to be saying some very strange things! I was quite a young man at the time, you know. Just an ambitious youngster. These things make an impression. But all the same I’m sure that Caroline Crale was a very remarkable woman. I shall never forget her. No-I shall never forget her…”
“So to you Elsa Greer spoke in the words of Juliet?’
‘Yes. She was a spoiled child of fortune-young, lovely, rich. She found her mate and claimed him-no young Romeo, a married, middle-aged painter. Elsa Greer had no code to restrain her, she had the code of modernity. “Take what you want-we shall only live once!’
He sighed, leaned back, and again tapped gently on the arm of his chair.
‘A predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the one audacious throw. And seemingly she won…and then-at the last moment-death steps in-and the living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman, hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.’
His voice changed:
‘Dear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young woman-with a crude outlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character.Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Take that away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.’
Poirot said:
‘If Amyas Crale had not been a famous painter-’
Mr Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:
‘Quite-quite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are hero-worshippers. A man must havedone something, must be somebody…Caroline Crale, now, could have recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale the man, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crude-Elsa Greer was.”
“Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.
To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.
To old Mr Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.
And Caroline Crale?
Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatist-a quitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a ‘lady’. Mr Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.
How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?
On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.
So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, Caroline Crale was also a murderess.”
“Maybe it is because I am an old man, but I find, Mr. Poirot, that there is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless—so sure. So generous and so demanding.”
“innocence is ignorance; ignorance is illusion; and Commencement, while it certainly is a metaphor, is no illusion. Commencement's for the disillusioned, not for the innocent.”
“What was the future? The future was a solid wall, not promising, not threatening - all bunk. No guarantees of anything, not even the guarantee that life isn't one big joke.”
“I'm breathing . . . Are you breathing too? . . . It's nice, isn't it? It isn't difficult to keep alive, friends just don't -make trouble-or if you must make trouble, make the sort of trouble that's expected. Well, I don't need to tell you that. Good night. If we should bump into one another, recognize me”
“Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch.”
“I love you.’ For a start, we’d better put these words on a high shelf; in a square box behind glass which we have to break with our elbow; in the bank. We shouldn’t leave them lying around the house like a tube of vitamin C. If the words come too easily to hand, we’ll use them without thought; we won’t be able to resist. Oh, we say we won’t, but we will. We’ll get drunk, or lonely, or – likeliest of all – plain damn hopeful, and there are the words gone, used up, grubbied”
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