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Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 69 из 147She said quickly and almost fiercely:
‘Would you like thetruth? Oh, not for publication. But just for yourself-’
‘I will undertake not to publish without your consent.’
‘I’d like to write down the truth…’ She was silent a minute or two, thinking. He saw the smooth hardness of her cheeks falter and take on a younger curve, he saw life ebbing into her as the past claimed her again.
‘To go back-to write it all down…To show you what she was-’
Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.
‘She killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to live-who enjoyed living. Hate oughtn’t to be stronger than love-but her hate was. And my hate for her is-I hate her-I hate her-I hate her…’
She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:
‘You must understand-youmust -how we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. There’s something-I’ll show you.’
She whirled across the room. She was unlocking a little desk, pulling out a drawer concealed inside a pigeon hole.
Then she was back. In her hand was a creased letter, the ink faded. She thrust it on him and Poirot had a sudden poignant memory of a child he had known who had thrust on him one of her treasures-a special shell picked up on the seashore and zealously guarded. Just so had that child stood back and watched him. Proud, afraid, keenly critical of his reception of her treasure.
He unfolded the faded sheets.
Elsa-you wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet I’m afraid-I’m too old-a middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Don’t trust me, don’t believe in me-I’m no good-apart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Hell, my lovely-I’m going to have you all the same. I’d go to the devil for you and you know it. And I’ll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! I’m crazy about you-I can’t sleep-I can’t eat. Elsa-Elsa-Elsa-I’m yours for ever-yours till death. Amyas.
Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still alive-still vibrating…
He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.
But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.
It was a young girl in love.
He thought again of Juliet…
Chapter 9. This Little Pig Had None
‘May I ask why, M. Poirot?’
Hercule Poirot considered his answer to the question.
‘Would you like thetruth? Oh, not for publication. But just for yourself-’
‘I will undertake not to publish without your consent.’
‘I’d like to write down the truth…’ She was silent a minute or two, thinking. He saw the smooth hardness of her cheeks falter and take on a younger curve, he saw life ebbing into her as the past claimed her again.
‘To go back-to write it all down…To show you what she was-’
Her eyes flashed. Her breast heaved passionately.
‘She killed him. She killed Amyas. Amyas who wanted to live-who enjoyed living. Hate oughtn’t to be stronger than love-but her hate was. And my hate for her is-I hate her-I hate her-I hate her…’
She came across to him. She stooped, her hand clutched at his sleeve. She said urgently:
‘You must understand-youmust -how we felt about each other. Amyas and I, I mean. There’s something-I’ll show you.’
She whirled across the room. She was unlocking a little desk, pulling out a drawer concealed inside a pigeon hole.
Then she was back. In her hand was a creased letter, the ink faded. She thrust it on him and Poirot had a sudden poignant memory of a child he had known who had thrust on him one of her treasures-a special shell picked up on the seashore and zealously guarded. Just so had that child stood back and watched him. Proud, afraid, keenly critical of his reception of her treasure.
He unfolded the faded sheets.
Elsa-you wonderful child! There never was anything as beautiful. And yet I’m afraid-I’m too old-a middle-aged, ugly tempered devil with no stability in me. Don’t trust me, don’t believe in me-I’m no good-apart from my work. The best of me is in that. There, don’t say you haven’t been warned.
Hell, my lovely-I’m going to have you all the same. I’d go to the devil for you and you know it. And I’ll paint a picture of you that will make the fat-headed world hold its sides and gasp! I’m crazy about you-I can’t sleep-I can’t eat. Elsa-Elsa-Elsa-I’m yours for ever-yours till death. Amyas.
Sixteen years ago. Faded ink, crumbling paper. But the words still alive-still vibrating…
He looked across at the woman to whom they had been written.
But it was no longer a woman at whom he looked.
It was a young girl in love.
He thought again of Juliet…
Chapter 9. This Little Pig Had None
‘May I ask why, M. Poirot?’
Hercule Poirot considered his answer to the question.