Chapter 5 Chapter Four: There Must Be a Corpse

I hurried over and pushed the latch of the gate open.In came Hoskins, bristling with mustaches, as if expecting to find a body on the threshold.With him came Dr. Marsden, the branch medical examiner, Cosby the fingerprint expert, Rogers the photographer, and two police officers.After reminding them of the soot stains and instructing Rogers to take pictures of the footprints, I gave some routine orders.Officer Martin stayed at the door while another officer, Collins, searched outside (probably to no avail).Rogers and Cosby immediately went to work around the body, for I could not check the victim's pockets until this routine was complete.

Hosking pulled me aside. "I've brought the old man—I mean Mr. Manlering—he's in the car outside," his voice was deep and loud, and his tone was mysterious. "Shall I tell Jason to bring him in now?" "Wait a minute. What did he say when he came to?" The inspector seemed bewildered. "He said he had a bad heart, and showed me a bottle of pills. As for my previous fright, sir, man, his demeanor has changed 180 degrees. When I told him the white beard about the guest, and what the white-bearded man did to me—" "You told him these things?"

"Of course, sir! When people ask you why you're holding him, there's nothing you can do otherwise... Well, oh, sir, does that put him at a loss? No! He laughed, and laughed. Non-stop," Hoskins frowned sullenly. "It was as if the swoon had all been forgotten. Later, when you called to report the murder and the black-bearded man, he was concerned and excited, and no more alarmed than I was. He kept meddling his own business." Tell us, in a murder involving religious assassination in Iraq or somewhere, he once assisted the police in investigating the murderer, but ah," Hoskin closed his eyes and said as if there was a secret, "I Just to tell you off, I think he's a phony liar. You see, sir, we've been able to legally arrest him with that note... Now, may I ask Jensen to bring him in?"

"Let's sort things out first. Come with me and tell me if this is the same guy who tried to strangle you outside the museum." Hoskins sprinted away.Miriam Wade was still leaning against the tapestry, and I gave her a reassuring gesture.Hoskins whistled at the sight of Miss Wade.I told him who she was, and it was clear from the expression on his face that he thought it was really bad luck.Then he stared at the corpse. "No, sir," he said loudly, after squinting, "it's not the same man." "you sure?" "Pretty sure, sir! Listen to me! This fellow has a round face and a Jewish nose. And that old man who jumped off the wall—"

"Well, are you sure he's an old man?" Hoskins puffed up his cheeks and said: "No—not sure, sir, not one hundred per cent sure, you know. I've been thinking about it a lot, and now that you've asked, but now I've figured it out. The man's Thin face like a horse, flat nose, nothing like this guy. I swear to God, they're not the same person." He was animated again. "Sir, is there any other instruction? This is not my duty time, but since I have accidentally been involved in this case." Well, the matter seems to be settled.There are two men with fake beards hanging around here.I can't tell if that conclusion is better or worse for the case; it might be worse.The grim scenario presented in the case goes like this: A group of clubbers wearing fake beards gathers late at night in an oriental museum.Could this be...

"Show me that note!" I said. Hosking took it out carefully.It was an ordinary post-it note, folded twice into a flat square, with one dirty side.I unfold the note.The font typed out by the typewriter is nothing special. The title reads "Wednesday" very casually, followed by a rather unusual text description: Dear G: There must be a corpse, a real corpse.The means of death is not important, but there must be a corpse.I'm here to try to pull off a murder, and the ivory-handled khan's shackle will come in handy, or else strangulation seems to be the better way (the following words are crossed out and covered with X's, the note's The text ends here).

Looking at the note, I tried to figure it out.Sergeant Hoskins understood me. "He's kind of flippant, isn't he, sir?" he asked. "Murder, bah! 'Meeting you at Lyons for tea'--does he think it's just a whim?" "Damn, Hoskins, there's something wrong here. It reads a little like a murderer begging for a victim. Have you ever seen something like this before?" Hoskins thought for a moment. "Well, sir, I don't dare to say how much I know about the murderer begging God for a victim. From the reading of this note, he looks like he should be a little more religious. But, I've got to Admitting that stuff reads pretty badly for me."

"Where did you find it?" "When I lifted Mr. Mannlerin's arms and shook him up and down in an attempt to wake him, the note fell out of his coat pocket. I haven't mentioned it to him yet; I think it's up to you." It's up to you. But what is a Khan's shackle with an ivory handle?" "There must be a corpse, a real corpse." No matter how you look at it, this passage is really bad enough.Hoskins and I, following behind, walked to the row of glass-topped containers in the center of the hall, looking for which display case the dagger belonged to.The answer is easy to reveal.It was the third display case from the front. It was labeled "Modern Persia," and it was dark blue velvet with a hollow, about 10 feet long, in the shape of a curved dagger.The display cases were closed, and there was no sign of a hinge; I wondered -- I often wondered when I was in a museum -- how were the glass cases to be opened?I put on my gloves and looked carefully.On one side of the wooden frame, there was a tiny lock with no key in it.Apparently this side can be opened entirely like a door, only now it's locked.So we can assume that the person who took the dagger is the one who has the key; in this way, the Wade family or their partners are immediately associated. "There must be a corpse, a real corpse." So the murder was only a small part of this grotesque plan?

Of course, according to this indication, the person who is most likely to take the dagger is Old Poon.But there will be some controversy here.I don't believe--I wouldn't believe it even if I had been on the jury--that Poon would have known anything about the murder. "We gotta get to work," I said to Hoskins. "You pester your curator friend Poon, who's in the curator's office at the moment. Take him somewhere else—I need that office to question other witnesses—and cross-examine him today. anything that happened late. Ask him about the dagger, when he learned it was missing, and everything else. Did you see that crate over there? Find out what Poon was doing around it tonight Dancing in circles and what he meant by 'Harun Rashid's wife'."

Who Harun Rasheed was, and what his wife had to do with it, Hoskins had no reason to want to know at all.At this time, I vaguely thought that this Harun was probably the Muslim king of Baghdad in the 8th century, and also a well-known character in "The Arabian Nights", who liked to pretend to be a patrol for adventure.Someone once told me that "Harun Rashid" translates to "Orthodox" - which sounds like a bit of a disappointment.You might guess he had a wife; at least, that's an obvious hint.Manlering once mentioned that the museum had found something, so there was a secret event party, and that they planned to go to the grave.Could it be that Jeffrey Wade (who Poon describes as "digging for two years in the palace of the Moslem king") found, or thought he found, the coffin of Harun Rashid's wife?But Poon gleefully declared that there was nothing in the cargo box.But, try to imagine again, how the size of the corpse with the cookbook in its hand and the fake beard on its face is compared with that of the box!

When I suggested this new possibility to Hoskins, he stared at the huge cargo box and said in a low voice: "Sir, do you mean," he asked, "there's a mummy in there? Is it something that crawls out and walks around in movies?" I pointed out that the Moslem kings were Moslems, and that they were buried in coffins like everyone else, which seemed to reassure Hoskin.His eyes on the mummies were very suspicious; influenced by the howling wind in the movie, his wild imagination imagined them as lifeless, but still refused to lie down properly. "Since it's not a mummy," said Hoskins, "what do you want me to do, sir? Dig up the contents? Is that what you mean?" "Yes, if Poon's okay. There's an ax in the curator's office. If you don't get any words out of Poon, just split the case open, but be careful. What we need now, A man who knows the place like the back of his hand." "Well, sir, even if old Mr. Wade is not here, someone will take over from him. Don't you need to call that person?" That man was Ronald Holmes.However, instead of calling him over, I had a better idea.According to Miriam Wade, Ronald Holmes was throwing a party at that time, and most of the people related to the museum were there.He lived on Palmer Street, less than a five-minute walk from here.I only need to spend 10 minutes and rush over before the news reaches them, maybe the matter will be cleared up. "You're in charge here," I said to Hoskins. "I shouldn't be there for long, and I'll bring Holmes here. Fortunately, there is enough space here. If other witnesses are found, they can be placed in different compartments. In the meantime, bring the girl to the To the curator's office, under Martin's watch. Don't let her talk to anyone, and don't let Mannin make contact with her, even if he's in a rage. And—" "Where is that lady?" Hoskins asked abruptly. We both turned around hastily.The Persian tapestry on the wall was empty; I suddenly had the feeling that a running tire had lost control.It was impossible for her to run to the front door, because Constable Martin was standing guard in front of the bronze door.I rushed across the hall to the curator's room.The door was closed, but I could faintly hear muffled voices inside.Are you talking to Poon?I couldn't hear anything through the iron gate, but just above my head—that is, above the iron gate—there was a vent, and beyond the vent was the elevator in the wall. I stretched out my hand and pushed it, and the door swung open, and immediately I heard several clear words. Once again, the whole thing seems weird and unreasonable.Miriam Wade sat behind a mahogany desk, hunched over the phone.I heard her say: "Whitehall, 0066. I'm looking for Harriet Colton." But she covered the microphone with a handkerchief—apparently to conceal her own voice, because it was different from her usual tone. By comparison, her voice now sounded like a trembling deep contralto.At that time, she looked at me, hung up the receiver abruptly, and then stood up with a displeased face. "You!" she cried, out of breath. .You—damn—damn—sneaky meddling in other people's business!sneaking! " "All right, all right!" I said.When I meet this kind of wayward guy, I can't help but say "Okay, okay", and this wayward woman now looks like authoritarian and arrogant, but the words that come out of her mouth destroy this impression. "You're on the phone. Why don't you keep talking?" "none of your business." "In this situation, I must ask, who are you calling?" "You heard that, didn't you? I called Harriet, my best friend. She came home with me on the boat. She—" "Really? Do you usually cover your voice when you call your best friend? Listen, Miss Wade, this is not the time for jokes." I thought she was going to pick up the bronze ashtray and throw it at my head.As a result, she restrained her impulse, pressed her hands on her plump breasts, and then deliberately stated in a cold and contemptuous tone what actions I could take. "Whitehall, 0066," I said. "Whose phone number? I can look it up from the switchboard, you know that." "That's the phone number for Ronald Holmes' apartment. You don't believe me, do you?" (I pick up the phone book) "You won't. But I didn't lie to you." Her eyes become hazy. "Are you obliged to leave me here? Do you think I'll be comfortable in the same room with the—things out there, and the rest? Can't you just let me go? Or let me make another phone call? Can I contact my brother?" "Where is your brother now?" "At Ronald Holmes' apartment." Since she wanted to contact her brother, why didn't she call him just now, instead of calling Harriet Colton?The question was so obvious I didn't even have to ask her.She was telling the truth about the number, though: Ronald Holmes, Prince Regent Lane, Palmer Street, listed in the phone book as Whitehall, 0066.Putting down the phone book, I realized for the first time that Poon was not in the room; but her attitude, which had expected my thoughts, was calm and harsh and arrogant. "He's in the bathroom," explained Miss Wade. "Tell him to come in there when I dial. Come on, old pustule! You can come out now." Sullen and embarrassed, Poon opened the door and walked out slowly as if no one else was there.Judging from the way he looked at her, his attitude towards the woman was almost admirable; he seemed to be looking for something to talk to with someone nearby.I waved to Hoskins and Constable Martin at the door. "You take over, Martin, stay here and watch Miss Wade until I get back. The phone is out of order, understand?" The girl sat down sullenly in a red leather chair.I then said to her, "If you don't mind, please relax here for a few minutes. I'll get in touch with your brother and we'll bring him over and we can sort things out. I'll be right back .” I left the office just in time to hear her utter obscenities that would have made my live-in uncle and aunt lash out.When I got near the traveling carriage in the middle of the hall, I stopped.Rogers had finished photographing the body, but Cosby was still searching for fingerprints and Dr. Marsden was examining it thoroughly.The dagger has been drawn from the wound.Cosby held it in his handkerchief.It was a sinister scimitar, ten inches long, with a sharp edge on both sides and a pointed tip.They have cleaned the dagger. "Sir, there's a lot of fingerprints on this," Cosby reported, pointing to the ivory handle. "But it's all fuzzy and overlapping, as if several people have touched it. I'll zoom in on it to see if I can find a clear pattern. There are some clear fingerprints inside the carriage... Also, this person's name Appears to be called 'Raymond Pandreau'. He has two business cards in his vest pocket and the same name on the inside of his hat." He took out two blood-stained cards with "Raymond Pendlow" printed on them, in the kind of embossing that corner card shops make you wait for.I looked at Dr. Marsden. Usually he was taciturn, but now he was grunting. "Not much to tell you," Marsden said. "That knife was the cause of death. It directly stabbed the heart and died on the spot." He stood up stiffly. "Time of death—when did you find him? 12:25. Oh, it's not even 12:45. There's a little margin for error, but I think he died between 10:30 and 11:30 between." He hesitated. "Hey, Carruther, I'll give you a hint, although it's really not my specialty. See the shape of that knife? Few people without medical knowledge can accurately insert a knife into the heart. Like that The stabbing wounds were either accidentally hit on the right side, or the murderer knew where to stab in." I got down on my knees and fumbled in the dead man's pockets, which contained only sevenpence coins, a pack of ten cigarettes, and frayed newspaper clippings.The content of the newspaper clipping is some kind of gossip column, and the space occupied is the upper edge of the page. The date of the newspaper can still be seen as "May 11", which is about a month ago.It says: Miss Miriam Wade, young, beautiful and unconstrained by tradition, has left the horrific sweltering climate of Iraq to return to her mansion in England today. When she set off 18 months ago, she was rumored to be engaged to Lord Albersley's son "Sam" Beckett, who was once a erotic painter (see this column from 9 May 1931), but is now a A rising star at the British Legation in Cairo.Miss Wade's father, Jeffrey Wade, a scholar-collector with a long mustache who often speaks out at academic conferences, will be the center of attention next week.It is believed that the exploration program of the palace of the Muslim king in Baghdad will be able to-- I folded the newspaper clippings and put them in my notebook, along with the evil note I found on Manlering.It is not clear from the clipping whether the alleged eroticist was Lord Albersley or his son; but we believe it was the latter.This is another part of the problem.As for this Raymond Pendro, who is he and where does he live, no clues can be found from his clothes.His suit smelled of mothballs, as if it had been kept with moth-proof pills for a long time, and the inside pocket was embroidered with the label "Guardian, English clothing store, 27 avenue Mercherby, Paris".Other than that, there are no other clues. I directed Rogers and Cosby to check the messy elevator in the director's office, and then went out to find Ronald Holmes.Outside the museum, Gregory Mannhlerning and Jensen were arguing violently in a police car parked on the side of the road; I didn't want to be in the muddy water, so I hurried away and headed east on Palmer Street Walk.At this moment, the whole city is like a deserted city, the sidewalks glow hollowly, and the sound of car horns in the distance seems to be close to the ear.Palmer Street was a short, narrow alley, leading to the main street at one end with an archway like a deep tunnel.I walked up to the archway and saw a group of dark buildings in the distance, including a tall, narrow apartment building with the neon lights of "Prince Regent's Lane" and a long narrow corridor ending in an automatic elevator. seat compartment.Looking around, I couldn't see the porter in the corridor, only a sleepy young waiter yawning into the phone, ready to get off work.It seems that there is no need to reveal my identity. "Is the party going on at Mr. Holmes' house?" I said. "Yes, sir," said the languid waiter, trying to appear military-looking with alacrity.He reached for the wire to plug it into the switchboard. "Your name?" I said a false name to deceive the past. "Wait! Don't say my name. I'm going to bang on the door and claim I'm a cop. I'm going upstairs. It's D, isn't it?" He grinned submissively, answered that I was number E, and said I'd know which room it was when I heard the sound.So I stepped into the elevator and stopped in my tracks with a "by the way" attitude. "How long have they been up there?" "All night," the waiter replied. "Begins about nine o'clock. Keep an eye on the pedals, sir." The elevator creaked and swayed upwards, and finally stopped, when I heard the sound.I was in a dark, narrow corridor with green-painted walls and just enough room for me to step in.In the dim light with religious implications, a faint but sincere harmonica melody came from the door at the far end, and the deep singing echoed with slow and pious enthusiasm.The vague harmonies sing solemnly: We are a chaotic bunch, From the bushes came the melody of the heavy beat, We can't fight, we can't march, What is my natural talent for? when we-- I knocked loudly on the door with the knocker; it was so loud that those inside evidently thought there was a protest at the noise, for the singing stopped as if abruptly interrupted.Then there was the rustling of doors and footsteps.Then a thin man with a glass in his hand opened the door. "I'm looking for Mr. Ronald Holmes..." I began. "I am," he said. "What's the matter?" He stood aside, allowing room light to spill into the corridor.I saw him wearing big frame glasses.

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