Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

It was not easy to surprise the chief of police at La Bondelet.But it worked.He stared at his companion, paused for a moment, and pointed inquiringly at the closed door of the parlour, as if gesture alone were sufficient to indicate the implausibility of the statement. "Yes," Dermot said. "That's what I mean." Mr. Glenn cleared his throat. "I think you'd like to see the room where the crime took place. Come with me and you'll see. Before you see it..." He made a gesture of silence, "Don't say a word !" Mr. Glenn strode across the hall and up the stairs.Dermot could hear him humming along.

The upstairs hall was dark until Mr. Glenn turned on the light.He pointed to the door of the study ahead.The door was high and painted white, a door that led to mystery; and it could also be a door of terror.Dermot collected himself, put his hand on the metal doorknob, and pushed the door open. A ray of morning light followed the door.A good sized rug, like the one in the study, which is rare in a French house; the rug is so thick that the bottom of the door rests on the rug and scrapes the pile of it when it is opened.Dermot remembered this as he fumbled for the light switch to the left of the door.

There are two light switches, one up and one down.When he pressed the first one, a lamp with a green glass shade on the flat desk came on.When the second switch is pressed, the chandelier in the center of the roof is covered with shiny prismatic glass, like a glass castle, and it shines brightly. The room in front of me was boxy, with glossy white paint on the wood paneling on the walls.Directly facing him were two long windows, the iron shutters of which were now closed.On the left wall is a thick white marble fireplace.The wall on the right is against the desk, and the swivel chair has been pushed a little away from the desk.The long and narrow gold-plated brocade chairs and small gold-plated round tables in the center of the room are in sharp contrast with the gray carpet.Except for one or two bookshelves in between, the walls are surrounded by antique cabinets with glass fronts, reflecting the bright light of chandeliers.At any other time, the antiques in the cabinet would have interested him.

The room was stuffy.There was a strong smell of cleaning fluid, like the smell of death itself. Dermot went to the desk.Indeed, the desk had been scoured diligently.The original blood, now brown, remained only on the blotting paper and the large post-it notes on which Sir Maurice Lawes had made notes before he was killed. There was no trace of the broken snuff bottle.A magnifying glass, a jeweler's lens, was scattered on the blotting paper, along with several pens, ink, and other desk supplies.The light from a green glass-shaded table lamp illuminates the items.Dermot glanced at the note. There was a gold pen next to it, which fell from the owner's hand.The title on the note was in large, neat cursive letters: "Snuff Bottle, Pocket Watch Style, Once Property of Napoleon I." Then, in small, neat cursive letters, continued:

"This snuff bottle was presented to Bonaparte by his father-in-law, Emperor of Austria, on the birthday of Napoleon's son, King of Rome, March 20, 1811. The pot is 2.25 inches in diameter. Gold casing; gold Ornamental watch handle; pocket watch numerals and hands made of small diamonds, plus Bonaparte crest, letter 'N' in the middle..." Two splashes of blood end the text. Dermot whistled. "This thing," said he, "must be worth a fortune!" "It's worth it?" the chief almost screamed, "Didn't I tell you?" "However, it was broken."

"As you can see, my dear doctor," Mr. Glenn pointed out, "I also said it was of a curious shape. As you have seen it described, it is shaped like a pocket watch." "What kind of pocket watch?" "Ordinary pocket watch!" Mr. Glenn took out his pocket watch and held it up. "In fact, the family told me that when Sir Morris showed them the first time, they thought it was a pocket watch. After opening it . . . just . . . Note the crack in the wood on the desk, where the murderer smashed it with madness." Dermot put down the note. The chief of police looked at him suspiciously, but he turned and stood by the stove shelf by the marble fireplace and looked around the room.Above the fireplace hangs a large bronze medallion with a profile of the Emperor Napoleon.The poker used to create crimes is no longer on the stove rack.Dermot checked the distance with his eyes.His mind was racing with half-baked ideas, at least one of which didn't agree with the clues Mr. Glenn had provided. "Tell me," he said. "Is there anyone in Rouse's family who has bad eyesight?"

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mr. Glenn, throwing up his hands. "The Rolls! It's always the Rolls! Listen," he lowered his voice. "It's just the two of us now. Nobody heard us. Can you tell me why you're so sure that one of them must have killed the old man?" "I'll ask my question again. Is there anyone in this family with poor eyesight?" "Well, my dear doctor, I cannot say for sure." "But it shouldn't be hard to find out, right?" "Without a doubt!" Mr. Glenn hesitated.He narrowed his eyes. "You think," he said, and made a gesture of striking with the poker, "that some of the blows missed such a target as the head when the murderer had poor eyesight?"

"Maybe so." Dermot walked slowly around the room, peering carefully into the glass case.Some of the exhibits were set aside for self-admiration, but others were neatly labeled, still in small, legible letters.Although he knows nothing about collecting except a little about gemstones, anyone can see that in this hodgepodge, among the large number of useless things collected purely for hobbies, there are mixed Part of a real boutique. The collection consisted of china, fans, reliquaries, an unusual clock or two, a rack of rapiers, and a chest (grassy and dingy among such delicate trinkets) which appeared to be Souvenirs from the ruins of the former Newgate Gaol.Dermot noticed that the bookcase had a large section dedicated to jewelry appraisal. "What else?" asked Mr. Glenn.

"You also mentioned a clue," Dermot said. "You said that although nothing was stolen, a necklace with diamonds and turquoise was taken from the cabinet. You were on the floor under the cabinet. It was found on the bed, with a little blood on it." Mr. Glenn nodded, and immediately tapped the door to the left of the spherical glass case.Like the other glass cabinets, this one was unlocked.At the touch of Mr. Glenn's finger, the door swung open delicately.The shelves in the cabinet are also made of glass.The necklace occupies a noble position in the center of the cabinet. For eye-catching, against the oblique dark blue velvet, it flashes and shines with the refraction of the prismatic glass on the chandelier. "It has been replaced and wiped clean," said Mr. Glenn. "It is said that Madame Lamballe was wearing this necklace when she was beheaded by the mob outside La Force Prison. She was a favorite. Man. Sir Maurice Lawes has a curious taste for the creepy stuff, doesn't he?"

"Some people have a queer liking for creepy things." Mr. Glenn smiled slightly. "Did you notice what's next to the necklace?" "It looks," said Dermot, glancing to the left of the necklace, "like a music box with little wheels." "It was a music box with little wheels. God, what a bad decision to put a music box like that on a glass shelf. I remember that we were inspecting the room the day after the incident, and the deceased was still sitting On the chair, the policeman opened the cabinet. His hand slammed the music box. The music box fell to the floor..."

Mr. Glenn pointed to the music box again.It was a heavy wooden box with faded drawings on the darkened tin sides that Dermot recognized as scenes from the American Civil War. "The music box fell on one side. It started playing. Have you ever heard that tune?" The chief of police whistled a few bars. "I tell you, the effect this produced was extraordinary. Mr. Horativo Lawes came out in a rage and told us not to touch his father's collection. Mr. Benjamin Phillips said someone must have played this recently. the music box; for, he's a genius mechanic, he fixed it and wound it up a few days ago, and now it stops after playing a bar or two. You can imagine getting so mad at such a little thing. Big temper?" "Yes, I can imagine. As I told you earlier today, this is an extraordinary crime." "Ah!" this at once caught Mr. Glenn's attention. "You did. I'd be very interested to hear why you think so." "Because," replied Dermot, "it is a crime committed by a member of the family. This kind of murder is common in the family, where it is unhurried, well-prepared, and impossible to prevent." Mr. Glenn wiped his forehead uncertainly.He looked around, as if looking for reasons to back up the claim. "Doctor," he said, "do you really mean that?" Dermot sat on the edge of the small round table in the center of the study, running his fingers through his thick black hair that was parted in threes and sevens.He looked like he wanted to soften his eyes, but his dark eyes were aggressive with the intensity of emotion. "Here's a guy who's been hit nine times with a poker when one would have been fatal. You look at the situation. You say, 'This is brutal; it's insane; it's like a madman did it.' And that's it, You exclude the members of this peaceful family because you think no one in the family would have committed such a barbaric act. But this is not recorded in the history of crime. Of course the criminal history of Anglo-Sarkosen, I say this because they are British. Ordinary murderers, with cold and definite motives, seldom act with such brutality. Why? The reason is obvious, his job is to kill as cleanly as possible . "Usually at home, because everyone has to be together, emotionally repressed, when the family situation becomes more and more unbearable, you will see the climax, the kind of violence that we ordinary people cannot believe. Explosion. You are affected by family emotions and develop a motive that can be unleashed in surprising ways. "Have you ever heard, for example, that a well-bred woman in the most pious family used a hatchet to kill first her stepmother, then her natural father, repeatedly until they both died, except that it was not violently For no apparent reason other than family conflict? A middle-aged insurance agent who never said a single word of anger to his wife and would strike her in the skull with a poker? A quiet sixteen-year-old Little girl slit the throat of her baby brother just because she hated the existence of her stepmother? Don’t you believe it? Not enough motivation? But these things happen.” "To the devil, maybe," said Mr. Glenn. "For ordinary people like you and me, impossible. As for Ms. Nell..." "Ah! What are we talking about?" "Ms. Neil," replied Dermot, keeping her eyes on his companion, "see something. Don't ask me what it is! She knows it's a member of the family." "Then why didn't she speak out?" "She probably didn't know who it was." Mr. Glenn shook his head sarcastically: "Doctor, I don't think this is convincing. I don't think your psychological analysis makes much sense either." Dermot pulled out a pack of yellow Maryland cigarettes.Lighted a cigarette with a pocket lighter, quickly switched off the lighter, and stared at Mr. Glenn again with a look that disturbed the Chief Constable.Dermot was smiling, not with joy, but with the joy of a confirmation of speculation.He inhales the smoke and exhales it in a bright light. "According to the clues you yourself told me," he said in that calm, almost hypnotic voice, "a member of the Routh family has deliberately told a lie that is not clever and easy to expose." paused. "If I told you this lie, would you reconsider?" For some reason, those last words triggered ominous memories. "What's the matter?" Dermot said. "That's what got me thinking. Do you remember, we talked a lot about the afternoon Dad was killed the night he seemed to be behaving strangely? How he came back from his walk and wouldn't go to the theater looking pale like a ghost , Are your hands trembling? When you were talking with your mother, I remembered that I have only seen him like this once before. " "yes?" "About eight years ago," said Janice, "there was a slick, flattering fellow named Finistere who convincing papa to take an interest in a business and scamming him. I don't know the details; When I was a kid, I wasn't much interested in business. As far as business is concerned, I still am. I do remember the terrible commotion it caused." Mr. Glenn, cupping one ear with his hands in the shape of a teacup, listened all the time, confused. "It might be interesting," said the Constable, "but, to be honest, I don't see it..." "Wait!" said Janice to Dermot. "Papa has a bad memory for faces. But he sometimes remembers if it's the last face he wants to see." 'Finister' Talking to him—you know, there wasn't any legal compensation for fraud at the time—he suddenly remembered who this guy was. 'Finister' was a prisoner named McConklin who was released on parole and later violated The parole oath, gone. Although McConklin had never met Dad, Dad had always been interested in the case: at least, knew who he was. So, McConklin showed up and couldn't hide anymore. "McConklin, or Finistere, found himself recognized, weeping and begging and pleading, he didn't want to be sent to the police again. He offered to pay back the money. He mentioned his wife and children He'd do what he wanted if Dad didn't send him back to jail. Mom said Dad paled like a ghost and got up and threw up in the bathroom because he wouldn't, really didn't want to, put a convict Locked up. But that’s not to say he wouldn’t do it. I feel like if he thinks a member of his family has actually done something inexcusable, he’ll jail him too.” Janice stopped. She kept talking so fast and monotonously that her lips were dry.She kept looking around the room and seemed to see her father standing among the antique cabinets again. "So he said to Finistere: 'I give you twenty-four hours to escape. After twenty-four hours, whether you have escaped or not, a full description of your new identity will be sent to Scotland Yard, including yours. A place to live with a new identity, your new name, everything about you.' He did. Finister died in prison. After that, Mom said, Dad couldn't eat for days. You see, he likes this man." Janice said these last words with great solemnity. "I don't want you to think I'm a kitten. I'm not, I'm not! That's it: I don't want to be a kitty, whatever happens to look like I am. But it's not nice to say I didn't think of it." She Look into Dermot's eyes again. "Do you think Eva Nair ever went to jail?"

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