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The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Agatha Christie
Чтение в оригинале (Каро)Detective story
Мастер классического детектива предлагает читателям новую загадку – убийства по железнодорожному справочнику, которые берется распутывать Эркюль Пуаро.
Следить за развитием событий читателю помогут подробные комментарии и словарь, данный в конце книги.
Agatha Christie / Агата Кристи
The A B C Murders / Убийство по алфавиту. Книга для чтения на английском языке
To James Watts
One of my most sympathetic readers
The A B C Murders © 1936
Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved.
AGATHA CHRISTIE© POIROT and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.
© КАРО, 2019
Foreword by Captain Arthur Hastings, О. В. E.[1 - O.B.E. = Officer of the Order of the British Empire – офицер ордена Британской империи (рыцарский орден, созданный Георгом V в 1917 г.; самый младший в британской наградной системе)]
In this narrative of mine I have departed from my usual practice of relating only those incidents and scenes at which I myself was present[2 - I myself was present – я лично присутствовал]. Certain chapters, therefore, were written in the third person.
Wish to assure my readers that I can vouch for the occurrences related in these chapters. If I have taken a certain poetic licence in describing the thoughts and feelings of various persons, it is because I believe I have set them down with a reasonable amount of accuracy. I may add that they have been “vetted” by my friend Hercule Poirot himself.
In conclusion, I will say that if I have described at too great length some of the secondary personal relationships which arose as a consequence of this strange series of crimes, it is because the human and personal element can never be ignored. Hercule Poirot once taught me in a very dramatic manner that romance can be a by-product of crime.
As to the solving of the ABC mystery, I can only say that in my opinion Poirot showed real genius in the way he tackled a problem entirely unlike any which had previously come his way.
Chapter 1
The Letter
It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch[3 - ranch (амер.) – ранчо (скотоводческое хозяйство)] in South America for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like everyone else, we had suffered from world depression[4 - world depression = the Great Depression – Великая депрессия (мировой экономический кризис 1929–1939 гг.)]. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch.
I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot.
I found him installed in one of the newest type of service flats[5 - service flat – квартира с гостиничным обслуживанием] in London. I accused him (and he admitted the fact) of having chosen this particular building entirely on account of its strictly geometrical appearance and proportions.
‘But yes, my friend, it is of a most pleasing symmetry, do you not find it so?’
I said that I thought there could be too much squareness and, alluding to an old joke, I asked if in this super-modern hostelry they managed to induce hens to lay square eggs.
Poirot laughed heartily.
‘Ah, you remember that? Alas! no—science has not yet induced the hens to conform to modern tastes, they still lay eggs of different sizes and colours!’
I examined my old friend with an affectionate eye. He was looking wonderfully well—hardly a day older than when I had last seen him.
‘You’re looking in fine fettle[6 - You’re looking in fine fettle – Вы прекрасно выглядите], Poirot,’ I said. ‘You’ve hardly aged at all. In fact, if it were possible, I should say that you had fewer grey hairs than when I saw you last.’
Poirot beamed on me.
‘And why is that not possible? It is quite true.’
‘Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?’
‘Precisely.’
‘But surely that’s a scientific impossibility!’
‘Not at all.’
‘But that’s very extraordinary. It seems against nature.’
‘As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing so!’
I stared at him, puzzled.
Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bottle in his hand which he handed to me.
I took it, for the moment uncomprehending.
It bore the words:
Revivit.—To bring back the natural tone of the hair. Revivit is not a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, Titian, Brown, Black.
‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You have dyed your hair!’
‘Ah, the comprehension comes to you!’
‘So that’s why your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time I was back.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Dear me[7 - Dear me – Боже мой],’ I said, recovering from the shock. ‘I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?’
Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw[8 - to touch smb. on the raw – задеть за живое].
‘No, no, indeed, mon ami[9 - mon ami (фр.) – мой друг]. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache! Quelle horreur![10 - Quelle horreur! (фр.) – Какой ужас!]‘
He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character.
‘Well, they are very luxuriant still,’ I said.
‘N’est ce pas?[11 - N’est ce pas? (фр.) – Не правда ли?] Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.’
A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot’s feelings by saying so.
Instead I asked if he still practised his profession on occasion.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘that you actually retired years ago—’
‘C’est vrai.[12 - C’est vrai. (фр.) – Это правда.] To grow the vegetable marrows[13 - vegetable marrow – кабачок; тыква]! And immediately a murder occurs—and I send the vegetable marrows to promenade themselves to the devil. And since then—I know very well what you will say—I am like the prima donna who makes positively the farewell performance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite number of times!’
I laughed.
‘In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: this is the end. But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘You exercise them in moderation.’ ‘Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the cream of crime.’
‘Has there been much cream about?’
‘Pas mal[14 - Pas mal (фр.) – Порядочно]. Not long ago I had a narrow escape[15 - to have a narrow escape – чудом избежать чего-то].’
‘Of failure?’
‘No, no.’ Poirot looked shocked. ‘But I—I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly exterminated.’
I whistled.
‘An enterprising murderer!’
‘Not so much enterprising as careless,’ said Poirot. ‘Precisely that—careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I regard you as my mascot.’
‘Indeed?’ I said. ‘In what ways?’
Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on:
‘As soon as I heard you were coming over I said to myself: something will arise. As in former days we will hunt together, we two. But if so it must be no common affair. It must be something’—he waved his hands excitedly—‘something recherché—delicate—fine…’ He gave the last untranslatable word its full flavour.
‘Upon my word[16 - Upon my word – Честное слово], Poirot,’ I said. ‘Anyone would think you were ordering a dinner at the Ritz[17 - the Ritz – пятизвездочный отель в Лондоне].’
‘Whereas one cannot command a crime to order? Very true.’ He sighed. ‘But I believe in luck—in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable error.’
What do you call the unforgivable error?’
‘Overlooking the obvious.’
I turned this over in my mind without quite seeing the point.
‘Well,’ I said presently, smiling, ‘has this super crime turned up yet?’
‘Pas encore[18 - Pas encore (фр.) – Еще нет]. At least—that is —’
He paused. A frown of perplexity creased his forehead. His hands automatically straightened an object or two that I had inadvertently pushed awry[19 - I had inadvertently pushed awry – я ненароком задел].
‘I am not sure,’ he said slowly.
There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him in surprise.
The frown still lingered.
Suddenly with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room to a desk near the window. Its contents, I need hardly say, were all neatly docketed and pigeon-holed[20 - docketed and pigeon-holed – промаркировано и разложено по ящикам] so that he was able at once to lay his hand upon the paper he wanted.
He came slowly across to me, an open letter in his hand. He read it through himself, then passed it to me.
‘Tell me, mon ami,’ he said. What do you make of this?’
I took it from him with some interest.
It was written on thickish white notepaper in printed characters:
Mr Hercule Poirot,—You fancy yourself, don’t you, at solving mysteries that are too difficult for our poor thickheaded British police? Let us see, Mr Clever Poirot, just how clever you can be. Perhaps you’ll find this nut too hard to crack. Look out for Andover[21 - Andover – город в Юго-Восточной Англии, графство Гэмпшир], on the 21st of the month.
Yours, etc.,
A B С.
I glanced at the envelope. That also was printed.
‘Postmarked WC1[22 - WC1 = Western Central – почтовый индекс центрального района Лондона],’ said Poirot as I turned my attention to the postmark. ‘Well, what is your opinion?’
I shrugged my shoulders as I handed it back to him.
‘Some madman or other, I suppose.’
‘That is all you have to say?’
‘Well—doesn’t it sound like a madman to you?’
‘Yes, my friend, it does.’
His tone was grave. I looked at him curiously.
‘You take this very seriously, Poirot.’
‘A madman, mon ami, is to be taken seriously. A madman is a very dangerous thing.’
‘Yes, of course, that is true… I hadn’t considered that point… But what I meant was, it sounds more like a rather idiotic kind of hoax. Perhaps some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight[23 - some convivial idiot who had had one over the eight – какой-нибудь идиот навеселе хватил лишнего].’
‘Comment? Nine? Nine what?’
