Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

Outside the old house on East Eighty-third Street, it was dark and dirty, if not shabby.The light inside the house was still dim, but it wasn't dirty, on the contrary it was clean.At nine-thirty that Tuesday night, the small foyer and dining room were filled with the smell of meat and yogurt.The scent filled the kitchen and hit Frieda Jenkins' nose.She liked the smell because she had just finished dressing and was feeling a little hungry.Generally, she would be content as long as she could get something to eat in the owner's apartment.And on Tuesdays, her Aunt Hilda made her French cheese tenderloin, so she always left her belly empty.

She put away her knives and forks, and she was in a good mood.Then a voice called her from the front. In the dining room, her Aunt Hilda had switched on the light and was squinting warily at the stranger.He stood there with a large book under his hand.His presence is comical and sinister.Hilarious in his smooth, oily hair parted down the middle; evil in his black-rimmed glasses and the jagged scar running diagonally from his right cheekbone to the edge of his mouth.He put his hat on the corner of the table. "A suspicious man." Aunt Hilda warned Frieda in a low voice. "This is the decennial census of the United States," said the man sternly, his lips distorted by scarring in an indescribably funny way.

"The census?" asked Frieda. "Has it started? The newspapers and the radio say it will start on April 2nd." "This is," the man said contemptuously, "it was explained on the radio during the preliminary investigation." "I haven't heard of it. Like this, at night?" "So," said the man, squinting at her, "if you want me to report to the district administrator..." "Now, now," said Aunt Hilda uneasily, for she was naturally timid. "Do you want us to report to you? That's good, that's good." She turned to Frieda and spoke angrily in German, and finally she told the man: "My niece speaks English better." Then Yelled and walked out.Frieda pulled out two chairs, sat on one of them, patted the apron with her hands, and said expressionlessly, "My name is Frieda Jenkins, and I'm a naturalized American citizen—"

"Wait a minute, please," the man sat down, opened a notebook, and turned it up slightly so that she wouldn't see it. "First of all, who is the head of the household?" Fifteen minutes later, Frieda spoke weakly but clearly about her family, and she answered questions about two aunts, four cousins ​​and an older brother who drove a taxi.People are basically skeptical of this so-called population survey by the police, and it is even considered a gimmick. Of course, the results of the survey are predictably unreliable.She was concerned about her two cousins ​​who belonged to a certain organization—she felt her brow wet and was too afraid to wipe it—so when the man finished surveying the rest of the family and started asking about her, She was relieved.And this kind of slack prevented her from noticing that the authorities had already developed great curiosity about her. Someone came and asked where she was working now, how long she had been there, what was her job like, and so on. How many people are in the house, whether permanent or casual, how many meals is she ordered to cook, what hours does she work and when does she leave? ...

She said she has a lot of free time, but how much depends on the situation.The investigator frowned and said dissatisfiedly that due to professional reasons, he had to learn more clearly.Specifically, what does free time depend on? "It depends on her," Frieda told him, "she doesn't eat much, and when she doesn't eat, I usually leave at seven o'clock, sometimes even earlier. But she sometimes calls me I leave at 1:00 a.m., or in the morning, and I don’t go back that day. So there’s a lot of free time.” "Does this happen often?" "Often, maybe one day a week, maybe three days a week."

"Is it a fixed day? Like Tuesday?" "Oh no, not fixed, any day." "How long has it been like this?" "It's been over a year, since I've been working there." "When was the last time?" Frieda frowned, "I'm not lying," she said dissatisfied. "Of course not. How would you? When was the last time you visited?" "It's Friday, last Friday." "Perhaps Miss Tushar let you go because she was planning to go somewhere by herself, and she was going out without you." "Possibly. She didn't say so."

"Before you left, she went out, or was she going out?" "No, neither." "Did she tell you about this beforehand? That is, before the day you were given leave." "No, it's all out of the blue. Usually shortly after Mr. Fishy's phone call." "Physy?" the man said, smiling amiably. "I hear that funny name all the time. I know a guy called Physy, kind of fat, with a double chin, though I don't think he called Miss Schar's, is that him? Slightly fat, with a double chin?" "I don't know, I've never met him. When I answered the phone, he said, you tell Miss Tuchar that Mr. Fisher wants to speak to her. I called her to answer the phone."

"After a while, she will tell you that you can take a vacation." "Yes, sir." "So funny!" Frieda nodded in agreement, and the man asked her several more questions, more like a friend than an investigating officer.Then he closed his book, got up, took his hat and went away.After he walked out, he found a telephone booth next to a restaurant on the corner of the street, dialed the number and said: "Inspector Damon? I'm Tcam Fox. I have some sad news. The foyer and elevator clerk at the Bolton Apartments kept you from a man named Physy, who may or may not have been named Physy , used to call Miss Tushar once to three times a week for as long as a year. This matter requires an investigative interview. How about rounding them up? Yes. I'll be there in half an hour .”

After midnight, in the No. 9 basement of the police command post, the air was filled with the smell of smoke, and a dozen people of different ages, appearances, and emotions were sitting on a row of wooden chairs at one end of the big house.Four or five plainclothes policemen, some sitting, some standing.Inspector Damon leaned against the edge of the table to support his weight.Tecum Fox's hair is no longer as sleek as it used to be, and the scars and glasses on his face are gone.He is drinking a cold drink in front of the cooler. The investigative visit just now, although it did not use force, was still very tough on many issues, but it was completely ineffective.The apartment manager, deputy manager, doorman, hall attendant, elevator man, etc., all insisted that they had never seen or heard of a single Mr. Fisher, Miss Tushar's frequent visitor, whatever Whether it is a man or a woman, neither wants to hide any evidence from the police, saying that they are going home and so on.The investigation continued for more than two hours.

Dimon walked to that corner of Fox. "We'd better let 'em go," he muttered. "They're all lying. Either the maid made up a Mr. Fishy, ​​or Miss Tushar waited until the maid left to go out." .what do you think." Fox shook his head and said, "You missed a question. Since they're all here, we'd better give it a try. In a sense, maybe they're all telling the truth, including the maid. Wouldn't it be Sometimes he's Fici and sometimes he's not Fici?" Damon muttered, "You mean he's pretending to be another visitor, don't you? But we've already—"

"No, who can enter this building at any time, and walk up the elevator, without saying his name at all?" "I'm not—oh," Dimon said thoughtfully, "I see, if he's calling from the apartment, it's just an internal line—" "I'm not sure about that. He could have done otherwise. He could have called from somewhere else. If you think it's worth the effort, we'll just have to go down from the top floor." "It's not a lot of effort," Damon sneered, and he walked to the table and sat down, staring at a tired, well-dressed man with premature baldness and saying: "Mr. Volney, I don't think we're done talking. I'd like to ask some questions about your tenants. How many tenants do you have?" "Ninety-three," the manager replied without hesitation. "How many people are there on the twelfth floor? Is that the top floor?" "Yes, eight of them." "What's their name? What do they do?" "Well, counting from the south, there's the Raymond Burrisses, and Raymond has a real estate office . . . " A plainclothes policeman sat across the table with a notebook, and in a little over an hour he jotted down thick material about the tenants who lived five floors above the Bolton apartment.But it didn't look like the person they were looking for was among them, although three or four people had been identified as subjects for further investigation.This job is like looking for a needle in a haystack, and it is also very boring to do.Most of the people present were bored with work, and some were half asleep.Suddenly Tcam Fox yelled "Ha!" "What?" Damon asked impatiently. "That name, Mrs. Piscas." "What's the matter?" "Piscas means fish (fish) in Latin." "Damn! That's true." Dimon turned to the manager and asked, "How is she?" Mr. Volney gave a detailed account of the fact that Mrs. Harriet Piscas had rented apartment 7D, which was two rooms with a bathroom.She lived somewhere outside the city, and the manager didn't know exactly where.She only uses the apartment when she travels to New York.She shows up twice a week on average, and no one on staff knows her family background.She never brings guests to her place, and she never makes phone calls.She paid her rent generously, in cash, with tips.She has almost no correspondence.She's a bit big-boned, shy, and wears old-fashioned clothes.But it's hard to say, because she always wears a thick veil, like Dai Xiao.There is such a legend among the staff that every time the tenant of 7D comes here, he brings sorrow alone. When was the last time she came? After discussing for a while, the last gatekeeper and the elevator driver agreed that it was last Friday.Fox whispered something to Dimon, and when he responded, he turned to his manager and said: "We're going up to take a look at Suite 7D." "now go?" "Now!" Volney was told that the search warrant would not be available until tomorrow morning, and that there was no delay.His protest was invalid, so he reluctantly agreed.They left Room 9, filled with the smell of tobacco and stale air, and plunged into the night into three police cars.The apartment staff were called downstairs to wait, and only the manager accompanied the inspector general, Fox, and the two detectives to 7D. They're out there.Because the apartment is rented out with furniture.There was furniture, of course, but nothing else.Wardrobe and cupboards were empty.Not even a toothbrush in the washroom.After a hasty but thorough search, the manager said that every item in the place belonged to his boss, and nothing belonged to the tenant. Dimon frowned at one of the detectives and said, "You go downstairs now. Fox and I are going down and asking some ridiculous questions." In the manager's office at the back of the foyer, the staff was assembled and the investigation was repeated.But still no new information about Mrs. Harriet Piscas.None of them had seen her without the veil.Nobody ever doubted that she was a man, although now they admit it's quite possible - she walks like a man, has big feet, and she always comes here in a taxi... She doesn't call from her apartment Called, and no one called her room.No mail, no packages... After a while, when the crowd had been dismissed, the detectives came downstairs to report that they found nothing suspicious. Fox muttered, "We've got to be patient." "And now," Damon said bitterly, "the police are going to investigate. We have to find the taxi driver who picked her up in front of the public library. Well done, after a long night, I Learned something that I didn't know before? It's just that 'piscas' means fish (fish)." "Oh, I've learned more than that," Fox argued, "much more, for example, that this fish (Phici) has gills, as Tedri Keel said, and Dolph or Doyle Fay is a pet name for someone named Adolf, and Dolphin (meaning dolphin) is a fish—” "Nonsense!" Damon said, stomping out.