Can You Speak Over the Telephone. Как вести беседу по телефону - страница 36

Mrs Oliver: Monsieur Poirot?

Mr Poirot: C’est moi[147].

Mrs Oliver: Well, what are you doing? What have you done?

Mr Poirot: I am sitting in this chair. Thinking.

Mrs Oliver: Is that all?

Mr Poirot: It is the important thing. Whether I shall have success in it or not I do not know.

Mrs Oliver: But you must find that girl. She’s probably been kidnapped.

Mr Poirot: It would certainly seem so. And I have a letter here which came by the midday post from her father, urging me to come and see him and tell him what progress I have made.

Mrs Oliver: Well, what progress have you made?

Mr Poirot: At the moment none.

Mrs Oliver: Really, Monsieur Poirot, you really must take a grip on yourself[148].

Mr Poirot: You, too!

Mrs Oliver: What do you mean, me, too?

Mr Poirot: Urging me on.

Mrs Oliver: Why don’t you go down to that place in Chelsea where I was hit on the head?

Mr Poirot: And get myself hit on the head also?

Mrs Oliver: I simply don’t understand you. I gave you a clue by finding the girl in the cafe. You said so.

Mr Poirot: I know, I know.

Mrs Oliver: And then you go and lose her!

Mr Poirot: I know, I know.

Mrs Oliver: What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven’t you got anything out of that?

Mr Poirot: I have made inquiries, yes.

Mrs Oliver: Well?

Mr Poirot: Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young, they have affairs, they are passionate, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink too much, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and loneliness they throw themselves out of a window!

Mrs Oliver: You said her death was important — that it meant something.

Mr Poirot: It ought to have done.

Mrs Oliver: Really! (At a loss for further comment, Mrs Oliver rang off.)

Mr Clark: Mrs Henderson?

Mrs Henderson: Yes.

Mr Clark: Ma’am, my name is Ray Clark. I’m a friend of Mutt’s and Jiggs Casey’s. Jiggs gave me your phone number and told me to call when I got to town. I just missed Mutt in Washington.

Mrs Henderson: Oh, that’s too bad. Mutt got in late Monday, but he had to go right out to the base. I’m afraid he’ll be there through the weekend, too.

Mr Clark: Any way I can reach him?

Mrs Henderson (laughing): If you find out, please tell me. I don’t even know where it is.

Mr Clark: You mean you’ve never seen it?

Mrs Henderson: Well, he did show me the general direction once when we were driving over to White Sands, so at least I know my husband’s not in Alaska.

Mr Clark: Service wives have it rough[149].

Mrs Henderson: You’re not in the service? (Mrs Henderson’s voice became guarded.)

Mr Clark: Oh, sure. (Clark lied.) That’s how I know how it is. Or, rather, my wife does. They keep me travelling all the time.

Mrs Henderson: Oh. (She sounded relieved.) Well, tell me where you are stopping, and if he does get home, I’ll have him call you.

Mr Clark: Sorry. (He lied again.) I’ve got to fly to L. A. this afternoon. Just tell him Ray called. And thanks anyway, Mrs Henderson.

Gretchen[150]: Rudy?

Rudolph: Yes.

Gretchen: I called Jean at your house and she told me where you are. I hope I’m not disturbing you.

Rudolph: No, no. I’m just dawdling idly[151] in that well-known holiday spot, Dallas les Bains. Where are you anyway?

Gretchen: Los Angeles. I wouldn’t have called you, but I’m out of my mind.

Rudolph: What is it?

Gretchen: It’s Billy. Did you know he dropped out of school a month ago?

Rudolph: No. He hardly ever whispered his secrets to me, you know.

Gretchen: He’s being drafted, now that he’s not a student any more.

Rudolph: Well, it might do him some good. A couple of years in the Army might make a man of him.

Gretchen: You have a baby daughter. You can talk like that. I have one son, I don’t think a bullet through his head is going to make a man of my son.

Rudolph: Now, Gretchen, don’t make it so automatic. Induct[152] the boy and two months later send the corpse home to mother. There are an awful lot of boys who serve their time and come home without a scratch.