Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе
Chapter VII. Poirot Pays His Debts
Poirotpolitelysetchairsforeveryone.TheScotlandYardmenwerethecynosureofalleyes.Ithinkthatforthefirsttimewerealizedthatthethingwasnotabaddream,butatangiblereality.Wehadreadofsuchthings—nowweourselveswereactorsinthedrama.To-morrowthedailypapers,alloverEngland,wouldblazonoutthenewsinstaringheadlines:
“MYSTERIOUSTRAGEDYINESSEX”
“WEALTHYLADYPOISONED”
TherewouldbepicturesofStyles,snap-shotsof“ThefamilyleavingtheInquest”—thevillagephotographerhadnotbeenidle!Allthethingsthatonehadreadahundredtimes—thingsthathappentootherpeople,nottooneself.Andnow,inthishouse,amurderhadbeencommitted.Infrontofuswere“thedetectivesinchargeofthecase.”Thewell-knownglibphraseologypassedrapidlythroughmymindintheintervalbeforePoirotopenedtheproceedings.
Ithinkeveryonewasalittlesurprisedthatitshouldbeheandnotoneoftheofficialdetectiveswhotooktheinitiative.
“Mesdamesandmessieurs,”saidPoirot,bowingasthoughhewereacelebrityabouttodeliveralecture,“Ihaveaskedyoutocomeherealltogether,foracertainobject.Thatobject,itconcernsMr.AlfredInglethorp.”
Inglethorpwassittingalittlebyhimself—Ithink,unconsciously,everyonehaddrawnhischairslightlyawayfromhim—andhegaveafaintstartasPoirotpronouncedhisname.
“Mr.Inglethorp,”saidPoirot,addressinghimdirectly,“averydarkshadowisrestingonthishouse—theshadowofmurder.”
Inglethorpshookhisheadsadly.
