Chapter 2 tourist stories
It was in the late summer of 1941 (when each other's glasses were full and Dr. Sam began to tell stories), and Annabelle and I were engaged at Easter, on December 6th.This New England summer is warm and pleasant, and the escalating war is still far away from our lives.Even by the second week of August, when Roosevelt and Churchill had met in Newfoundland, most of us thought the U.S. position was one of providing logistical support to the Allies rather than actual participation in the war.
On Friday night, after dinner at our favorite local restaurant, Marx's Steakhouse, Annabelle suggested: "We should go on vacation now, who knows next year." "You think we'll go to war?" She shrugged and said, "Nights are long and dreams come early, Sam. Have you ever paddled a canoe?" I smiled helplessly: "I have never been very involved in outdoor sports. The last time I went canoeing was when I was in college." "Then it must be very exciting this time. If we fall into the water, it will be your fault for being too homey." "I have a week's vacation, but what about your 'Ark'?" This is the name of a pet hospital run by Annabelle, which now attracts pets and owners from all over the town. "Kelly was with me while I was away. She's doing a great job now." "Okay," I agreed, somewhat reluctantly, "where shall we go canoeing?" "I'm thinking of the Connecticut River, with some nice parks along the way where we can camp and—" Before Annabelle finished speaking, Sergeant Len Si unexpectedly appeared at our table.Most of the time it would be nice to meet him, but tonight seemed a bit out of place. "I just figured you'd be here on Friday night," he said.Before I could protest, he sat down on the stool next to me.He has gained weight recently, and I found that the edge of the table was pressing against his stomach. "Will you join us for dessert?" I suggest, pretending to wish he'd leave. "Or some ice cream. Watch all the trouble." "What's the matter, Sheriff?" Annabelle asked, and I gave her a light kick on the foot under the table. "Someone came to the Bureau a few hours ago and told a story like the Arabian Nights. He said that he used to hike a route in the woods beyond Cape Sien every summer, and on his hike this year, he passed a He remembered that it used to be a vacant and abandoned old house, but now it has been taken care of like a new one, not only repainted, but also planted flowers in the yard, obviously someone lived in it. A man and a woman were busy around the house, so He decided to go over and have a chat with them. The woman was very friendly, but the man entered the house after a hasty greeting and never showed up again. Despite his beard, the man's facial features seemed familiar. This trip The latter went on walking, but turned over the matter in his mind, and when he reached North Hills, he finally decided to report it to the police, because he believed that the man in the old house was none other than Clifford Fastcox. .” I immediately remembered the name.Fascaux was a con man in Chicago who ran a Ponzi scheme on thousands of small investors, using the money he got from new investors to pay exorbitant interest to previous investors, all the while promising that he would go through the Chilean A mining company that doesn't actually exist is reaping huge profits.He filed a $1 million lawsuit against the newspaper that first tried to expose him, delaying other investigations into him by months.He was finally arrested, released on bail, and promptly disappeared with roughly five million dollars from his investors.He has not been seen for two years and is thought to have fled to another country. "Have you reported this to your superiors?" I asked. "Not yet," replied the Sheriff, clearly concerned, "this traveler's story sounds a little strange, so I want you to hear it before taking any action. Maybe he's delusional, or just Mistake." "It seems that you think I have good judgment." "I would like you to meet him, if it would be convenient, and tell me whether his story is reliable in your opinion." I looked at Annabelle and sighed, "Do you want to go together?" "No, thanks! The odd ones are yours, unless they have four legs." I paid the bill, told her to drive the car home, and promised to call her later.Then, I followed Sergeant Lens out of the restaurant and got into his passenger seat. There was a shotgun next to the seat. At first glance, I thought there was an extra gear shifter. "Looks like you're ready to go into a tiger's den, Sheriff," I joked with him. "It's no joke, doctor. Some people think the Germans might try to transport spies in subs." "It's too worrying." I said. Judging from the situation at that time, my words seem to be quite reasonable. The man waiting in the sheriff's office was tall and thin, half a head taller than me.His name was Graham Partridge, and he tapped the sheriff's desk with his slender fingers because of nervousness when he spoke.A bulging backpack lay on the floor at his feet. “As I told the sheriff, I live in Boston. Every August I hike for a week across New England, it’s like a bush walk. It’s a different route each time, but I usually go through the area. " "Are you married, Mr. Partridge?" I asked. "No, I'm single. If I had a wife, I probably wouldn't be able to do this." He smiled weirdly and hastily.I began to understand why Sergeant Lens had doubts about him. "Please tell me what happened." “I first saw the house last year when it was a dilapidated building. Two storeys, French windows in timber frames. It was definitely in need of a fix, especially the exterior painting. A garage, with a big willow tree planted in the front yard. Unexpectedly, this house looks like someone lived in it this year. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can even see a small piano.” He fiddled with his fingers as he spoke.A thought suddenly drilled into my mind. "Mr. Partridge, you play the piano, don't you?" "Well, yes, I'm with the Boston Symphony Orchestra." I smiled at him and said, "The movements of your fingers are really eye-catching." "I practice at every opportunity to keep my fingers flexible." "Please continue with your story." He described his surprise at seeing the dilapidated house whitewashed and restored.He saw a middle-aged couple washing paint brushes in the back of the house and decided to strike up a conversation. "The women are younger than the men, in their early forties, and can be described as radiant. The men are older, with graying beards and sharp eyes. I express my admiration for them saving the abandoned house. The woman is very talkative. , but the man greeted me briefly and went back into the house, as if he didn't want to be seen. I chatted with the woman for a few more minutes and continued on the road, but I'm sure I've seen the man somewhere before .As I approached North Hills, it occurred to me. Without the beard, he'd be Clifford Fastcox? The missing liar." "Are you quite sure?" "Pretty sure. I've seen pictures of him in newspapers and news reports." "But that was two years ago." Graham Partridge looked solemn, as if thinking about something: "I remember this kind of thing very clearly. I can't make a mistake." "What do you think, doctor?" asked the sheriff. "I say it doesn't count, Sheriff. But I'd suggest a little test. You must have Farscaux's warrant in your office. See if we can put out five warrants with names covered, Pat Can Mr Rich pick the right one?" "That's a good idea, doctor. I didn't think of it." The sheriff quickly found the wanted warrant.It showed a clean-shaven, middle-aged man indicted under federal law for mail fraud and illegal evasion from the press.We arranged for the test and selected a poster of a man who was about the same age as Fascaux.They were all beardless like Fascaux.We just showed him the faces of the prisoners and let him choose from them.He picked the fourth in one go. "Yes, it's him," agreed the Sheriff, revealing the names. "What do you think, Doctor?" "have no idea." It can be seen that if he cannot personally verify the authenticity of this matter, he is unwilling to contact the higher authorities.He scratched his chin and said, "I think I can go there tomorrow morning." "I'll go with you," I suggested.I'm sure he's been waiting for that word from me since the beginning. "That's very good, doctor. We can go under the pretense of some sort of health check. We can't do anything unless we know ourselves. Are you around tomorrow, Mr. Partridge?" The thin man nodded: "I plan to find a hotel with breakfast here for the night, and continue on my way tomorrow morning. But to be honest, I'm happy to go with you." "I don't think you need to trouble yourself. For hotels, try Sleeping Hollow. Go straight down the road. Mrs. Marksville has a good reputation there. I hope you'll stay in town until noon tomorrow at least." .If you can draw us a simple map and show us how to drive to the house, the doctor and I can start tomorrow morning. If there is a problem, maybe we can talk to you when we get back." The next morning, we met in the car.Since my engagement to Annabelle, I was alone with Inspector Lens for the first time, so our conversation turned naturally to the impending wedding. "I was your best man," I reminded him, "so I want you to be the best man this time. I should have talked to you earlier, but the details of the wedding are still being planned." "That's a good thing," he said to me, "to give you a taste of the troubles of us married people." I know he's joking.Sergeant Lan Si has been married for twelve years, and her family life is almost perfect. The fly in the ointment is that she has no children. "If I can be as happy as you and Vera, I will be content." "Annabelle was a wonderful girl, doctor. I knew it when her 'Ark' opened. Who would have thought a pet hospital could be a success in North Hills? Remember Cusper in 1935 A dog farm? It lasted for less than a year." "Having said that, a kennel really isn't going to make a difference. The townspeople need a real veterinarian to care for their pets and livestock. Annabelle's work is indispensable." "Is Aibo okay? Has she returned to the clinic? I don't know if she will hear from her husband." "He wrote to her every few days, but life in the army was not easy. He sailed the open sea, but he couldn't say where. Sometimes she didn't get a letter for weeks, and then a lot of letters came. will arrive at the same time." "I saw her at church with her son and the little one had grown up." "Sam—" I said, not without pride, "she named her son after me, and he's almost five years old now." "Have you got that map, doctor? Are we turning the corner here?" The map Partridge drew was terrible.In a strip with no street signs, it's pretty much useless. "I'm not sure. Maybe turn left at the next intersection." Unexpectedly, the road gradually disappeared, and we finally stopped on a trail for the cattle to walk, without seeing any houses along the way.We return to the main road and take the next left, which is closer to Cape Sean.After driving about a half mile, we came upon a house that roughly matched Partridge's description.It appeared to have been freshly painted and a young woman was mowing the grass. "Hey, hello." Sergeant Len Si got out of the car in front of me and greeted the woman.The sun was dazzling, she raised her hand to cover her eyes, and looked towards us: "Hello." "I'm Sergeant Lens, and this is Dr. Hawthorne. We're doing a health check. Have you lived here long?" "Just moved here in April." "your name--" "Jennifer Logan." She turned around, and the sun changed its angle and shone from behind, so she put down her hand, and a cheerful face appeared in front of her eyes. This was a black-haired woman in her twenties. "Is there anyone else living with you?" "Only my companion, Jacqueline." "Is he home now?" "Yes, we are inseparable." "Can I talk to him?" She turned around and called the other person's name into the room, while a smile slowly overflowed from the corner of her mouth: "Jacqueline, can you come here?" A tall, thin woman appeared at the door: "What's the matter, dear?" "They're doing a health check." She ran down the porch steps two steps at a time and held out her hand to me: "This is Jacqueline O'Neill. Do we look healthy enough?" Sergeant Lan Si seemed confused: "As far as we know, there is a man living in the house." "It's just us women here, isn't it, dear?" "That's right," Jennifer Logan agreed. "That's a man with a beard, older than you." He showed Fascaux's photo of the suspect, but folded back the part with the name on it. "I've never seen this man before," Jacqueline said, "whether with or without a beard." "Are there any other houses around here that have just been renovated?" I asked. "We only care about our own business," Jennifer replied. "Well, thank you for your help," said the Sheriff. "Come on, Doctor." Back in the car, he asked me, "What do you think of those two?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I think they are such people. It is not the patent of wanted criminals to be happy alone." We tried two more roads, but the second had already brought us to Sith Point. "We'd better go back to North Hills and bring Partridge with us." He seemed to have made up his mind. The Boston visitor was packing at Mrs. Marksville's inn when we arrived. "Found the house?" he asked when he saw us coming. "You can't find it on your map," the sheriff told him. "You'd better come with us and show us the way." "Happy to oblige," he agreed cheerfully. We followed Partridge's map back the same way, but he quickly corrected his earlier statement. "I made a mistake and missed this path on the right," he admitted. "Didn't you say it was on the left?" I'm dizzy. "My sense of direction has always been poor, try this road." We passed one of my patients, Pete Harrison, who was putting gravel down the driveway. "How are you, Pete?" I yelled at him. "Very well. How did Dr. Hawthorne travel so far today?" "We're looking for a house, two stories, recently renovated and painted, with a big willow tree in the front yard. Do you remember?" Pete took off his hat and wiped the sweat that hung from his brow.He has never been a quick temper. "It's probably Stoff's old house you're looking for. A guy from town bought it about a year ago." "Know his name?" "A common name, I think it's Collins. A woman named Mavis lives there too, I think that's his wife. We don't see them often. Just go down this road and you'll come to of that house." This finally looked like a solid route.Before long, Partridge pointed out his hiking route.Turning another corner, we found the house he was talking about, half hidden in the shade of huge weeping willows. "This must be the place," said Sergeant Lansi. "Yes," echoed Partridge in the back seat, "I recognize it now." When we got out of the car, we walked towards the house.The door of the house was closed tightly, and it seemed that the building was empty. Sergeant Lens walked up the porch, the French doors in the living room were drawn and the curtains were drawn, so he could only peek inside through the slit. "It's a really luxurious place for Cape Sean," he commented. "Someone's thrown a lot of money into it." "See anything?" I asked. "It seems that no one—" He swallowed the second half of the sentence, "Doctor, come and see here!" It was hard to make out anything clearly through the lace curtains of the room, but I saw something vaguely human sprawled on the carpet, its head and shoulders out of sight in a corner.I immediately tried to push the doors, but they were all locked. "Let's look for an open door," I said to the sheriff. In addition to French doors, the house had a front door and a back door, both locked tightly, and all eleven windows in all were locked.We walked around the house, and Sergeant Lens decided to break down one of the French doors: "We've got to find a way in, Doctor." "Of course! He may still be alive." The sheriff struck the glass with the butt of his pistol, and the glass shattered.He reached in and flicked the latch. "This guy is heavily guarded," he remarked, "and there are spare latches on those French doors." He turned to Partridge, "You stay out there." "I bet there were latches on the other doors too." I knew then that this must be a locked room murder, which I've seen a lot. I came to this bearded man and found him dead, and it wouldn't have made any difference if we had found him five minutes earlier.His head was almost touching an upright piano and bench in an alcove.The fatal bullet had entered the right temple, leaving a clean, slightly bloody bullet hole.In his right hand he clutched a .32 miniauto. "Suicide, er, doctor?" asked the sheriff, searching the floor. Before I made a clear statement, he had already searched the kitchen, and then suddenly shouted to me: "Come on, I found another person!" This time it was a woman, sprawled on the floor.She was shot at least twice, apparently with the same weapon.Like the bearded man, she likely died instantly. "Better call Partridge here to identify the body," I suggested. The sheriff went to the door and called him in: "Are these the people you saw yesterday?" The slender man was taken aback by the sight of the two bodies: "My God, what happened?" "Looks like a man killed a woman and committed suicide. Did you see them?" "Yes." He said softly. "Are you sure?" "That's them." "You think this bearded man is Clifford Faircox?" "I'm quite sure." "Is this woman the one who spoke to you in the yard yesterday?" "Yes, that's her." Sergeant Lan Si nodded: "I understand, you stay here for a while." Partridge walked slowly up to the alcove, stared at the piano, and then slapped his fingers on the keys in a way that reminded me of the way he tapped the edge of the sheriff's desk yesterday, when he hit an out-of-key He frowned. "This is a crime scene," Lens reminded him sharply, "don't touch anything." Then he asked me, "What do you think, doctor?" "You'd better call up some of your men. I'm going to check the windows on the second floor." "You think one of them might be open?" "I'm sure they're all closed. He wants us to consider this a case of murder-suicide." "Fascox?" "Yes. Or the one who killed them." While the sheriff called the office and the state police, I walked around the second floor.The windows were locked tightly, and the door to the terrace on the second floor was locked and bolted, as on the ground floor.The double bed in the master bedroom hadn't been made.When I got back downstairs, the sheriff was on the phone with the state troopers, and Graham Partridge stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. I knelt by the french door and checked the latches, and it became apparent that if either of the double doors had both upper and lower latches secure, the entire door would be able to pop open.The top latch of the door in front of me fell out of the frame, but the bottom latch was firmly seated in the floor.I pushed the door hard, but it wouldn't budge.My next target was the chimney of the fireplace, but I immediately found that it was too narrow for even a nimble Santa to get through.I lit a match, and examined the soot-covered interior of the chimney, and I could see that nothing had passed. "Can I stay away from these bodies?" Partridge asked. "Get out," Sergeant Lansi said to him, "the state police will ask you for questioning later." On the table was a bill from the electric company, addressed to Mavis Collins, and I couldn't find the bearded man's name.In less than a quarter of an hour, the first vehicle arrived at the scene, and it was Corporal Williams of the Criminal Investigation Unit.We briefly reported the situation on the scene, and he sent someone to collect the fingerprints of the deceased. "We'll soon find out if he's Fascaux." Sheriff Lence introduces him to Partridge and explains how he recognized the dead man on a hiking trip. "I think that if Fascaux felt he was exposed, he might decide to take his wife with him - if the other person who died was his wife." Corporal Williams nodded: "Let me record a statement for that Partridge." "He's outside, that's the man by the willow tree." When there were only two of us left, I said calmly to the sheriff, "I don't think he committed suicide." "why?" "Look at his wound again. It's clean, no gunpowder burns." "Damn! I should have noticed that!" "The murderer can't be that woman. She couldn't kill the man, shoot herself twice, and then go to the kitchen to die. First: there should be blood on the ground like that; second, the first shot she shot at herself was enough It's going to die." "But you said that this place is locked from the inside, which can be described as airtight. Is this another impossible crime by Dr. Hawthorne?" "I'm afraid so, Inspector." Corporal Williams entered with Partridge. "Have you checked the garage behind the house?" he asked. "We're going," said the sheriff. I followed them toward the garage.The car had been repainted along with the house, except that it was unlocked and ajar.Inside we found a large trash can with broken glass and empty paint cans, along with a hammer and several other tools, and a new Cadillac parked next to a light buggy.The cloth roof of the carriage has been severely damaged, and the transparent glue on the side has been cut, as if it has been robbed by hooligans. Perhaps this kind of damage happened decades ago. "Times have changed," Sergeant Lan Si muttered, "This carriage must have a history longer than the house after it changed hands." I searched around for some clues that might help.I found a ladder by which I could climb to the second-floor windows, but I had checked that those windows were closed and latched from the inside. "There is no indication that the murderer has ever been here," I said confidently. "If the murderer was a blind man, he would have probably stolen the car long ago." "It's best to wait for the fingerprint verification results before drawing a conclusion," the sheriff said. In the morning, I called Aibo and told her that I would go there with Sheriff Lens. Annabelle threw me a sentence after hearing it in the kitchen: "Sam." "I know, I'm going to go canoeing next week." I said wittily. "You must keep your word." "I just wanted to see the fingerprint report from the state troopers in the first place." "Where's the Partridge who caused this trouble?" "Still at Mrs. Marksville's. Sheriff asked him to stay in town until we get the fingerprint report." "It would be great news all over the country if the dead man was Clifford Faskaux. The great liar." "Isn't this secret room murder case sensational?" She looked at me and sighed, "When will you be able to live in peace and stability?" "Perhaps I have the gift, Annabelle, and am destined to play this role." When I walked into the sheriff's office a short time later, I was taken aback to find Jacqueline O'Neill—the tall, lanky woman we had met the day before—standing in the room. "Are you Dr. Hawthorne?" she asked, as if she was about to pull out a court summons next. "yes." "Jennifer and I heard about the murder at Storff's old mansion. There shouldn't be any perverted murderers hanging around here, right?" Sergeant Lan Si said to me angrily: "Doctor, I have explained it so clearly to her. It's not even a pure murder. Maybe it's a murder that includes suicide." "That's not what I've heard," the woman told us. "We came to Cape Sean because of the high crime rate in big cities. We had a few horrible experiences in Boston, and we certainly didn't want to This kind of thing never ends.” "I assure you this was not the work of a murderer," I said. "The murderer did it with deliberate planning." The sheriff interrupted: "I can also tell you, Miss O'Neill, that I have extra men patrolling your area. You and your friends are perfectly safe." "We hope so." She turned and slammed the door away, still furious.As soon as the woman left, Corporal Williams of the Federal Police entered the door. "Trouble?" he asked. Sergeant Lan Si shook his head and said, "She and her friends think we are all dry. How about the fingerprints?" "Confirmed, it's indeed Clifford Faskaux. He's a fugitive wanted by the government, so the FBI is taking the case now. They're sending two agents driving over from Boston this afternoon." I could see the Sheriff wasn't too happy about the news: "Any more good news?" "Fingerprints had been wiped off the door handles and latches." "That's not something a suicidal person would do on purpose," I pointed out. "When verifying the fingerprints, we contacted the Boston police by the way and investigated your Mr. Partridge tourist." "Oh?" "He was arrested once in 1939 when he got too drunk and crashed into a parked car. He was playing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. No one was hurt in the accident. He ended up on probation. Half a year. He claimed that he drank alcohol to soothe his worries because of the financial crisis, and vowed to quit drinking. There has been no bad record since then." Sergeant Lan Si looked at me and asked, "What do you think, Doctor?" "About Partridge? If he killed someone and then escaped out of that chamber in a clever way, why did he come to you to report Farscaux's whereabouts?" "I think so too..." "but--" "what?" "I have to think about it." "Just burn your brain cells as much as you want," Williams said. "The FBI will be here around two o'clock." They arrived on time.Special Agent Frank Densmore, with blond hair and a clean-shaven chin, was neatly dressed in a blue coat and tie.He was the one talking all the time, his Boston accent imperceptible. "Gentlemen, a fingerprint check has confirmed that the deceased is Clifford Farscaux, who has been wanted by the government for a long time on charges of fraud and mail defrauding. The woman who died is believed to be Rose Scandal, They've been living together since Fastcox escaped on bail two years ago in Chicago. If what I've heard is correct, none of their wounds have gunpowder burns, but all the doors and windows are locked and locked from inside. Plugged in." "Exactly," said the sheriff to him. "If they were killed by a third party, can you explain the method of getting out of the house? That chimney—" "We checked," I told him, "it's impossible to get out of there." "basement?" "No Exit." He sighed, "Then it might be suicide." "Traces of gunpowder," I reminded him. He frowned at me: "Hey, who are you, why are you talking here?" Sergeant Lan Si helped me out and said, "Dr. Hawthorne has always been able to provide valuable advice in these kinds of locked room cases. I don't know where I would be without him." "Well, Dr. Hawthorne, what do you think about the case?" "Not quite," I admitted honestly, "I have a question about our tourist's story." "You mean Graham Partridge?" "Yes. He lied in the original story. He said he could see a piano through those French windows, but the piano was set in a corner Impossible to see it." "Does this prove he killed those two?" the FBI man asked. "It's possible, if only we can figure out his modus operandi." "But why?" interposed the Inspector. "What could be his motive?" "I have an idea about that. You told me earlier that he was arrested for DUI in 1939, drinking because of a financial crisis. It was Farscaux's scam two years ago. When daylight begins." "Then we'll call him here again." "Hope he hasn't left town yet," I said. It turned out that Graham Partridge had left.One of the sheriff's men stopped him on the highway as he strode forward with his backpack on.An hour later, we saw him in the town detention center furious: "In Boston I am a dignified citizen. Here I am no different from an ordinary criminal!" "I told you to stay at Mrs. Marksville's hotel," Sergeant Lence reminded him. He glared at us. "But that's only when Fascax's body can be identified. I called your men this morning and he said the body has been identified. I thought I could go." "You have to stay, I said you can go." "terribly sorry." Special Agent Dens Moore and his assistant went to the crime scene, leaving the Sheriff and I alone with Partridge. "You may be a respectable and good citizen in Boston," I told him, "but you've got a DUI record here." "That time I was sentenced to probation. It was a low point in my life, but it's over." "You told the police that you were drinking because you had financial troubles. Must have been Fascaux who got you, didn't he? That's why you recognized him so quickly, even though he had grown a beard. " "I don't have to hide it. He scammed me out of my life savings. I'll recognize that face anywhere." "How did you know he was hiding here?" "I didn't know! I could swear to you! I happened to walk into the yard and he was just there staring at me. Of course my face meant nothing to him because I was just a few thousand of his victims one of them. But I recognized him right away." "So you killed him," I said, "and you probably kept that small pistol in your pack for protection on the hike. You followed him into the house—" "I've never been in that room." "You said you saw the piano. But you had to go inside to see it." "If I killed someone, why did I throw myself into the trap? Why didn't I just walk away? No one ever saw me there." It was a poignant question, and I had no answer at the time, nor could I imagine how he escaped from the house after the murder.But I caught something in his eyes, a kind of triumph perhaps, and I realized they were the eyes of a murderer. The sheriff promised me to hold Partridge overnight as a material witness. "We've got to go to the scene one more time," I told him, "and if we don't find anything this time, you'll have to let him go." "Of course! He's already threatened to sue us for illegal detention. If I don't let him go, the judge will release him tomorrow morning." "He did it!" I insisted. "It's written in his eyes." "We need evidence." "I know." We pulled over to the murder scene when I was dismayed to see that the two FBI agents were still inside.Densmore came over as soon as he saw us: "Are you back again?" "Partridge is an important witness, and I have him under arrest to-night," said the sheriff to him. "Have you found anything?" "No." From where we stand, I notice the setting sun hitting the glass of the French doors. "Sheriff, look there." "What are you looking at, doctor?" "There's something special about the sunlight reflecting off the glass at the bottom. Come on!" I ran quickly towards the glass, the others following behind me.I stretched out my fingers and slid across the glass surface. "what is that?" “不是玻璃，”我自信满满，“还记得我们在车库的垃圾桶里看到的碎玻璃吗，警长？那是这扇门上的。凶手将它打碎，这样他就可以在关门后再伸手进去拉上插销。他从车库里的那辆旧马车上割了一块透明胶皮，替换了这面玻璃。这固然经不起细查，而且为了将假玻璃同定在门框上，他还不得不在胶皮四角钉上钉子。不过因为屋内蕾丝窗帘的遮挡，他差点就蒙混过关了。” “没错，”蓝思警长赞同道，“两具尸体躺在密室里，凶器在法斯考克斯手中。要是帕特里奇想到火药灼痕的问题，那我们也许真的就将它当做是一起谋杀后自杀的案件了。” “凶手应该是临时起意，”我猜测道，“正如他所说，他偶然发现这座房子并立刻认出那个曾经欺骗了他和另外几千个倒霉蛋的男人。他们一定是带他参观了车库，然后将他请进房内，于是他看到了钢琴。他掏出放在背包里的手枪射死了他们。他记得马车上有胶质窗户，便切下大小合适的一块，装在法式门框上。之后，他锁上门窗，插好所有插销，并将手枪留在法斯考克斯手里。他小心地打破法式门底部的玻璃，收拾好碎片，然后扔到垃圾桶里。他关上法式门，通过底部的缺口将最后一个插销推进地板上的插孔里，胶质玻璃虽然不是严丝合缝但也还凑合。他从车库里找来锤子和钉子，将它固定好。” “但他为何要向我报告说看见法斯考克斯了？”警长纳闷道。 “他也许压根没想到火药灼痕的漏洞，但在他快到北山镇的时候，他想起了另一件事情。那是一个足以瞬间把他推上断头台的致命错误。他当然不敢重返虎穴去布置现场，所以他带着一个故事来找你。一开始你拒绝了他的陪同，于是他故意画了一张错误的地图给我们。他编造那个故事只为能和你一起回到这座房子，去掩盖那个致命的证据。” “你说的是什么证据？”丹斯摩尔有些不耐烦，“别跟我们卖关子了。” “还记得在警察局时他灵动的手指吗，警长？他不停用它们敲你的桌子，而我因此猜出他是个钢琴演奏家。当他来到法斯考克斯的房中并看到那架钢琴时，他便禁不住弹上几个音符。” “昨天他和我们一起时就那样做了！”蓝思警长想起来了，“我不得不警告他不要碰任何东西。” “很对！他昨天弹了几个音，这样琴键上一定留下了他的指纹。显然他第一次在那儿时忘记将那些指纹擦掉了。由于那次酒后驾驶被捕后在档案中留下了指纹记录，他知道他是无法脱身的。” “我们去找他，看他会不会坦白，医生。” “那不难，”我说道，“他不是一个冷血的罪犯。他杀掉那两个人只是因为命运的安排。” 我没有猜错。当我一提到琴键上的指纹和窗户上的透明胶皮时，格拉汉姆·帕特里奇便供认了一切。“一个小镇居然也有这么出色的侦探，”当他在证词上签字时沮丧地说道，“但我仍旧不会为这一切感到后悔，只是我会想念那些黑白键的。”
Notes:
On Friday night, after dinner at our favorite local restaurant, Marx's Steakhouse, Annabelle suggested: "We should go on vacation now, who knows next year." "You think we'll go to war?" She shrugged and said, "Nights are long and dreams come early, Sam. Have you ever paddled a canoe?" I smiled helplessly: "I have never been very involved in outdoor sports. The last time I went canoeing was when I was in college." "Then it must be very exciting this time. If we fall into the water, it will be your fault for being too homey." "I have a week's vacation, but what about your 'Ark'?" This is the name of a pet hospital run by Annabelle, which now attracts pets and owners from all over the town. "Kelly was with me while I was away. She's doing a great job now." "Okay," I agreed, somewhat reluctantly, "where shall we go canoeing?" "I'm thinking of the Connecticut River, with some nice parks along the way where we can camp and—" Before Annabelle finished speaking, Sergeant Len Si unexpectedly appeared at our table.Most of the time it would be nice to meet him, but tonight seemed a bit out of place. "I just figured you'd be here on Friday night," he said.Before I could protest, he sat down on the stool next to me.He has gained weight recently, and I found that the edge of the table was pressing against his stomach. "Will you join us for dessert?" I suggest, pretending to wish he'd leave. "Or some ice cream. Watch all the trouble." "What's the matter, Sheriff?" Annabelle asked, and I gave her a light kick on the foot under the table. "Someone came to the Bureau a few hours ago and told a story like the Arabian Nights. He said that he used to hike a route in the woods beyond Cape Sien every summer, and on his hike this year, he passed a He remembered that it used to be a vacant and abandoned old house, but now it has been taken care of like a new one, not only repainted, but also planted flowers in the yard, obviously someone lived in it. A man and a woman were busy around the house, so He decided to go over and have a chat with them. The woman was very friendly, but the man entered the house after a hasty greeting and never showed up again. Despite his beard, the man's facial features seemed familiar. This trip The latter went on walking, but turned over the matter in his mind, and when he reached North Hills, he finally decided to report it to the police, because he believed that the man in the old house was none other than Clifford Fastcox. .” I immediately remembered the name.Fascaux was a con man in Chicago who ran a Ponzi scheme on thousands of small investors, using the money he got from new investors to pay exorbitant interest to previous investors, all the while promising that he would go through the Chilean A mining company that doesn't actually exist is reaping huge profits.He filed a $1 million lawsuit against the newspaper that first tried to expose him, delaying other investigations into him by months.He was finally arrested, released on bail, and promptly disappeared with roughly five million dollars from his investors.He has not been seen for two years and is thought to have fled to another country. "Have you reported this to your superiors?" I asked. "Not yet," replied the Sheriff, clearly concerned, "this traveler's story sounds a little strange, so I want you to hear it before taking any action. Maybe he's delusional, or just Mistake." "It seems that you think I have good judgment." "I would like you to meet him, if it would be convenient, and tell me whether his story is reliable in your opinion." I looked at Annabelle and sighed, "Do you want to go together?" "No, thanks! The odd ones are yours, unless they have four legs." I paid the bill, told her to drive the car home, and promised to call her later.Then, I followed Sergeant Lens out of the restaurant and got into his passenger seat. There was a shotgun next to the seat. At first glance, I thought there was an extra gear shifter. "Looks like you're ready to go into a tiger's den, Sheriff," I joked with him. "It's no joke, doctor. Some people think the Germans might try to transport spies in subs." "It's too worrying." I said. Judging from the situation at that time, my words seem to be quite reasonable. The man waiting in the sheriff's office was tall and thin, half a head taller than me.His name was Graham Partridge, and he tapped the sheriff's desk with his slender fingers because of nervousness when he spoke.A bulging backpack lay on the floor at his feet. “As I told the sheriff, I live in Boston. Every August I hike for a week across New England, it’s like a bush walk. It’s a different route each time, but I usually go through the area. " "Are you married, Mr. Partridge?" I asked. "No, I'm single. If I had a wife, I probably wouldn't be able to do this." He smiled weirdly and hastily.I began to understand why Sergeant Lens had doubts about him. "Please tell me what happened." “I first saw the house last year when it was a dilapidated building. Two storeys, French windows in timber frames. It was definitely in need of a fix, especially the exterior painting. A garage, with a big willow tree planted in the front yard. Unexpectedly, this house looks like someone lived in it this year. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can even see a small piano.” He fiddled with his fingers as he spoke.A thought suddenly drilled into my mind. "Mr. Partridge, you play the piano, don't you?" "Well, yes, I'm with the Boston Symphony Orchestra." I smiled at him and said, "The movements of your fingers are really eye-catching." "I practice at every opportunity to keep my fingers flexible." "Please continue with your story." He described his surprise at seeing the dilapidated house whitewashed and restored.He saw a middle-aged couple washing paint brushes in the back of the house and decided to strike up a conversation. "The women are younger than the men, in their early forties, and can be described as radiant. The men are older, with graying beards and sharp eyes. I express my admiration for them saving the abandoned house. The woman is very talkative. , but the man greeted me briefly and went back into the house, as if he didn't want to be seen. I chatted with the woman for a few more minutes and continued on the road, but I'm sure I've seen the man somewhere before .As I approached North Hills, it occurred to me. Without the beard, he'd be Clifford Fastcox? The missing liar." "Are you quite sure?" "Pretty sure. I've seen pictures of him in newspapers and news reports." "But that was two years ago." Graham Partridge looked solemn, as if thinking about something: "I remember this kind of thing very clearly. I can't make a mistake." "What do you think, doctor?" asked the sheriff. "I say it doesn't count, Sheriff. But I'd suggest a little test. You must have Farscaux's warrant in your office. See if we can put out five warrants with names covered, Pat Can Mr Rich pick the right one?" "That's a good idea, doctor. I didn't think of it." The sheriff quickly found the wanted warrant.It showed a clean-shaven, middle-aged man indicted under federal law for mail fraud and illegal evasion from the press.We arranged for the test and selected a poster of a man who was about the same age as Fascaux.They were all beardless like Fascaux.We just showed him the faces of the prisoners and let him choose from them.He picked the fourth in one go. "Yes, it's him," agreed the Sheriff, revealing the names. "What do you think, Doctor?" "have no idea." It can be seen that if he cannot personally verify the authenticity of this matter, he is unwilling to contact the higher authorities.He scratched his chin and said, "I think I can go there tomorrow morning." "I'll go with you," I suggested.I'm sure he's been waiting for that word from me since the beginning. "That's very good, doctor. We can go under the pretense of some sort of health check. We can't do anything unless we know ourselves. Are you around tomorrow, Mr. Partridge?" The thin man nodded: "I plan to find a hotel with breakfast here for the night, and continue on my way tomorrow morning. But to be honest, I'm happy to go with you." "I don't think you need to trouble yourself. For hotels, try Sleeping Hollow. Go straight down the road. Mrs. Marksville has a good reputation there. I hope you'll stay in town until noon tomorrow at least." .If you can draw us a simple map and show us how to drive to the house, the doctor and I can start tomorrow morning. If there is a problem, maybe we can talk to you when we get back." The next morning, we met in the car.Since my engagement to Annabelle, I was alone with Inspector Lens for the first time, so our conversation turned naturally to the impending wedding. "I was your best man," I reminded him, "so I want you to be the best man this time. I should have talked to you earlier, but the details of the wedding are still being planned." "That's a good thing," he said to me, "to give you a taste of the troubles of us married people." I know he's joking.Sergeant Lan Si has been married for twelve years, and her family life is almost perfect. The fly in the ointment is that she has no children. "If I can be as happy as you and Vera, I will be content." "Annabelle was a wonderful girl, doctor. I knew it when her 'Ark' opened. Who would have thought a pet hospital could be a success in North Hills? Remember Cusper in 1935 A dog farm? It lasted for less than a year." "Having said that, a kennel really isn't going to make a difference. The townspeople need a real veterinarian to care for their pets and livestock. Annabelle's work is indispensable." "Is Aibo okay? Has she returned to the clinic? I don't know if she will hear from her husband." "He wrote to her every few days, but life in the army was not easy. He sailed the open sea, but he couldn't say where. Sometimes she didn't get a letter for weeks, and then a lot of letters came. will arrive at the same time." "I saw her at church with her son and the little one had grown up." "Sam—" I said, not without pride, "she named her son after me, and he's almost five years old now." "Have you got that map, doctor? Are we turning the corner here?" The map Partridge drew was terrible.In a strip with no street signs, it's pretty much useless. "I'm not sure. Maybe turn left at the next intersection." Unexpectedly, the road gradually disappeared, and we finally stopped on a trail for the cattle to walk, without seeing any houses along the way.We return to the main road and take the next left, which is closer to Cape Sean.After driving about a half mile, we came upon a house that roughly matched Partridge's description.It appeared to have been freshly painted and a young woman was mowing the grass. "Hey, hello." Sergeant Len Si got out of the car in front of me and greeted the woman.The sun was dazzling, she raised her hand to cover her eyes, and looked towards us: "Hello." "I'm Sergeant Lens, and this is Dr. Hawthorne. We're doing a health check. Have you lived here long?" "Just moved here in April." "your name--" "Jennifer Logan." She turned around, and the sun changed its angle and shone from behind, so she put down her hand, and a cheerful face appeared in front of her eyes. This was a black-haired woman in her twenties. "Is there anyone else living with you?" "Only my companion, Jacqueline." "Is he home now?" "Yes, we are inseparable." "Can I talk to him?" She turned around and called the other person's name into the room, while a smile slowly overflowed from the corner of her mouth: "Jacqueline, can you come here?" A tall, thin woman appeared at the door: "What's the matter, dear?" "They're doing a health check." She ran down the porch steps two steps at a time and held out her hand to me: "This is Jacqueline O'Neill. Do we look healthy enough?" Sergeant Lan Si seemed confused: "As far as we know, there is a man living in the house." "It's just us women here, isn't it, dear?" "That's right," Jennifer Logan agreed. "That's a man with a beard, older than you." He showed Fascaux's photo of the suspect, but folded back the part with the name on it. "I've never seen this man before," Jacqueline said, "whether with or without a beard." "Are there any other houses around here that have just been renovated?" I asked. "We only care about our own business," Jennifer replied. "Well, thank you for your help," said the Sheriff. "Come on, Doctor." Back in the car, he asked me, "What do you think of those two?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I think they are such people. It is not the patent of wanted criminals to be happy alone." We tried two more roads, but the second had already brought us to Sith Point. "We'd better go back to North Hills and bring Partridge with us." He seemed to have made up his mind. The Boston visitor was packing at Mrs. Marksville's inn when we arrived. "Found the house?" he asked when he saw us coming. "You can't find it on your map," the sheriff told him. "You'd better come with us and show us the way." "Happy to oblige," he agreed cheerfully. We followed Partridge's map back the same way, but he quickly corrected his earlier statement. "I made a mistake and missed this path on the right," he admitted. "Didn't you say it was on the left?" I'm dizzy. "My sense of direction has always been poor, try this road." We passed one of my patients, Pete Harrison, who was putting gravel down the driveway. "How are you, Pete?" I yelled at him. "Very well. How did Dr. Hawthorne travel so far today?" "We're looking for a house, two stories, recently renovated and painted, with a big willow tree in the front yard. Do you remember?" Pete took off his hat and wiped the sweat that hung from his brow.He has never been a quick temper. "It's probably Stoff's old house you're looking for. A guy from town bought it about a year ago." "Know his name?" "A common name, I think it's Collins. A woman named Mavis lives there too, I think that's his wife. We don't see them often. Just go down this road and you'll come to of that house." This finally looked like a solid route.Before long, Partridge pointed out his hiking route.Turning another corner, we found the house he was talking about, half hidden in the shade of huge weeping willows. "This must be the place," said Sergeant Lansi. "Yes," echoed Partridge in the back seat, "I recognize it now." When we got out of the car, we walked towards the house.The door of the house was closed tightly, and it seemed that the building was empty. Sergeant Lens walked up the porch, the French doors in the living room were drawn and the curtains were drawn, so he could only peek inside through the slit. "It's a really luxurious place for Cape Sean," he commented. "Someone's thrown a lot of money into it." "See anything?" I asked. "It seems that no one—" He swallowed the second half of the sentence, "Doctor, come and see here!" It was hard to make out anything clearly through the lace curtains of the room, but I saw something vaguely human sprawled on the carpet, its head and shoulders out of sight in a corner.I immediately tried to push the doors, but they were all locked. "Let's look for an open door," I said to the sheriff. In addition to French doors, the house had a front door and a back door, both locked tightly, and all eleven windows in all were locked.We walked around the house, and Sergeant Lens decided to break down one of the French doors: "We've got to find a way in, Doctor." "Of course! He may still be alive." The sheriff struck the glass with the butt of his pistol, and the glass shattered.He reached in and flicked the latch. "This guy is heavily guarded," he remarked, "and there are spare latches on those French doors." He turned to Partridge, "You stay out there." "I bet there were latches on the other doors too." I knew then that this must be a locked room murder, which I've seen a lot. I came to this bearded man and found him dead, and it wouldn't have made any difference if we had found him five minutes earlier.His head was almost touching an upright piano and bench in an alcove.The fatal bullet had entered the right temple, leaving a clean, slightly bloody bullet hole.In his right hand he clutched a .32 miniauto. "Suicide, er, doctor?" asked the sheriff, searching the floor. Before I made a clear statement, he had already searched the kitchen, and then suddenly shouted to me: "Come on, I found another person!" This time it was a woman, sprawled on the floor.She was shot at least twice, apparently with the same weapon.Like the bearded man, she likely died instantly. "Better call Partridge here to identify the body," I suggested. The sheriff went to the door and called him in: "Are these the people you saw yesterday?" The slender man was taken aback by the sight of the two bodies: "My God, what happened?" "Looks like a man killed a woman and committed suicide. Did you see them?" "Yes." He said softly. "Are you sure?" "That's them." "You think this bearded man is Clifford Faircox?" "I'm quite sure." "Is this woman the one who spoke to you in the yard yesterday?" "Yes, that's her." Sergeant Lan Si nodded: "I understand, you stay here for a while." Partridge walked slowly up to the alcove, stared at the piano, and then slapped his fingers on the keys in a way that reminded me of the way he tapped the edge of the sheriff's desk yesterday, when he hit an out-of-key He frowned. "This is a crime scene," Lens reminded him sharply, "don't touch anything." Then he asked me, "What do you think, doctor?" "You'd better call up some of your men. I'm going to check the windows on the second floor." "You think one of them might be open?" "I'm sure they're all closed. He wants us to consider this a case of murder-suicide." "Fascox?" "Yes. Or the one who killed them." While the sheriff called the office and the state police, I walked around the second floor.The windows were locked tightly, and the door to the terrace on the second floor was locked and bolted, as on the ground floor.The double bed in the master bedroom hadn't been made.When I got back downstairs, the sheriff was on the phone with the state troopers, and Graham Partridge stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. I knelt by the french door and checked the latches, and it became apparent that if either of the double doors had both upper and lower latches secure, the entire door would be able to pop open.The top latch of the door in front of me fell out of the frame, but the bottom latch was firmly seated in the floor.I pushed the door hard, but it wouldn't budge.My next target was the chimney of the fireplace, but I immediately found that it was too narrow for even a nimble Santa to get through.I lit a match, and examined the soot-covered interior of the chimney, and I could see that nothing had passed. "Can I stay away from these bodies?" Partridge asked. "Get out," Sergeant Lansi said to him, "the state police will ask you for questioning later." On the table was a bill from the electric company, addressed to Mavis Collins, and I couldn't find the bearded man's name.In less than a quarter of an hour, the first vehicle arrived at the scene, and it was Corporal Williams of the Criminal Investigation Unit.We briefly reported the situation on the scene, and he sent someone to collect the fingerprints of the deceased. "We'll soon find out if he's Fascaux." Sheriff Lence introduces him to Partridge and explains how he recognized the dead man on a hiking trip. "I think that if Fascaux felt he was exposed, he might decide to take his wife with him - if the other person who died was his wife." Corporal Williams nodded: "Let me record a statement for that Partridge." "He's outside, that's the man by the willow tree." When there were only two of us left, I said calmly to the sheriff, "I don't think he committed suicide." "why?" "Look at his wound again. It's clean, no gunpowder burns." "Damn! I should have noticed that!" "The murderer can't be that woman. She couldn't kill the man, shoot herself twice, and then go to the kitchen to die. First: there should be blood on the ground like that; second, the first shot she shot at herself was enough It's going to die." "But you said that this place is locked from the inside, which can be described as airtight. Is this another impossible crime by Dr. Hawthorne?" "I'm afraid so, Inspector." Corporal Williams entered with Partridge. "Have you checked the garage behind the house?" he asked. "We're going," said the sheriff. I followed them toward the garage.The car had been repainted along with the house, except that it was unlocked and ajar.Inside we found a large trash can with broken glass and empty paint cans, along with a hammer and several other tools, and a new Cadillac parked next to a light buggy.The cloth roof of the carriage has been severely damaged, and the transparent glue on the side has been cut, as if it has been robbed by hooligans. Perhaps this kind of damage happened decades ago. "Times have changed," Sergeant Lan Si muttered, "This carriage must have a history longer than the house after it changed hands." I searched around for some clues that might help.I found a ladder by which I could climb to the second-floor windows, but I had checked that those windows were closed and latched from the inside. "There is no indication that the murderer has ever been here," I said confidently. "If the murderer was a blind man, he would have probably stolen the car long ago." "It's best to wait for the fingerprint verification results before drawing a conclusion," the sheriff said. In the morning, I called Aibo and told her that I would go there with Sheriff Lens. Annabelle threw me a sentence after hearing it in the kitchen: "Sam." "I know, I'm going to go canoeing next week." I said wittily. "You must keep your word." "I just wanted to see the fingerprint report from the state troopers in the first place." "Where's the Partridge who caused this trouble?" "Still at Mrs. Marksville's. Sheriff asked him to stay in town until we get the fingerprint report." "It would be great news all over the country if the dead man was Clifford Faskaux. The great liar." "Isn't this secret room murder case sensational?" She looked at me and sighed, "When will you be able to live in peace and stability?" "Perhaps I have the gift, Annabelle, and am destined to play this role." When I walked into the sheriff's office a short time later, I was taken aback to find Jacqueline O'Neill—the tall, lanky woman we had met the day before—standing in the room. "Are you Dr. Hawthorne?" she asked, as if she was about to pull out a court summons next. "yes." "Jennifer and I heard about the murder at Storff's old mansion. There shouldn't be any perverted murderers hanging around here, right?" Sergeant Lan Si said to me angrily: "Doctor, I have explained it so clearly to her. It's not even a pure murder. Maybe it's a murder that includes suicide." "That's not what I've heard," the woman told us. "We came to Cape Sean because of the high crime rate in big cities. We had a few horrible experiences in Boston, and we certainly didn't want to This kind of thing never ends.” "I assure you this was not the work of a murderer," I said. "The murderer did it with deliberate planning." The sheriff interrupted: "I can also tell you, Miss O'Neill, that I have extra men patrolling your area. You and your friends are perfectly safe." "We hope so." She turned and slammed the door away, still furious.As soon as the woman left, Corporal Williams of the Federal Police entered the door. "Trouble?" he asked. Sergeant Lan Si shook his head and said, "She and her friends think we are all dry. How about the fingerprints?" "Confirmed, it's indeed Clifford Faskaux. He's a fugitive wanted by the government, so the FBI is taking the case now. They're sending two agents driving over from Boston this afternoon." I could see the Sheriff wasn't too happy about the news: "Any more good news?" "Fingerprints had been wiped off the door handles and latches." "That's not something a suicidal person would do on purpose," I pointed out. "When verifying the fingerprints, we contacted the Boston police by the way and investigated your Mr. Partridge tourist." "Oh?" "He was arrested once in 1939 when he got too drunk and crashed into a parked car. He was playing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. No one was hurt in the accident. He ended up on probation. Half a year. He claimed that he drank alcohol to soothe his worries because of the financial crisis, and vowed to quit drinking. There has been no bad record since then." Sergeant Lan Si looked at me and asked, "What do you think, Doctor?" "About Partridge? If he killed someone and then escaped out of that chamber in a clever way, why did he come to you to report Farscaux's whereabouts?" "I think so too..." "but--" "what?" "I have to think about it." "Just burn your brain cells as much as you want," Williams said. "The FBI will be here around two o'clock." They arrived on time.Special Agent Frank Densmore, with blond hair and a clean-shaven chin, was neatly dressed in a blue coat and tie.He was the one talking all the time, his Boston accent imperceptible. "Gentlemen, a fingerprint check has confirmed that the deceased is Clifford Farscaux, who has been wanted by the government for a long time on charges of fraud and mail defrauding. The woman who died is believed to be Rose Scandal, They've been living together since Fastcox escaped on bail two years ago in Chicago. If what I've heard is correct, none of their wounds have gunpowder burns, but all the doors and windows are locked and locked from inside. Plugged in." "Exactly," said the sheriff to him. "If they were killed by a third party, can you explain the method of getting out of the house? That chimney—" "We checked," I told him, "it's impossible to get out of there." "basement?" "No Exit." He sighed, "Then it might be suicide." "Traces of gunpowder," I reminded him. He frowned at me: "Hey, who are you, why are you talking here?" Sergeant Lan Si helped me out and said, "Dr. Hawthorne has always been able to provide valuable advice in these kinds of locked room cases. I don't know where I would be without him." "Well, Dr. Hawthorne, what do you think about the case?" "Not quite," I admitted honestly, "I have a question about our tourist's story." "You mean Graham Partridge?" "Yes. He lied in the original story. He said he could see a piano through those French windows, but the piano was set in a corner Impossible to see it." "Does this prove he killed those two?" the FBI man asked. "It's possible, if only we can figure out his modus operandi." "But why?" interposed the Inspector. "What could be his motive?" "I have an idea about that. You told me earlier that he was arrested for DUI in 1939, drinking because of a financial crisis. It was Farscaux's scam two years ago. When daylight begins." "Then we'll call him here again." "Hope he hasn't left town yet," I said. It turned out that Graham Partridge had left.One of the sheriff's men stopped him on the highway as he strode forward with his backpack on.An hour later, we saw him in the town detention center furious: "In Boston I am a dignified citizen. Here I am no different from an ordinary criminal!" "I told you to stay at Mrs. Marksville's hotel," Sergeant Lence reminded him. He glared at us. "But that's only when Fascax's body can be identified. I called your men this morning and he said the body has been identified. I thought I could go." "You have to stay, I said you can go." "terribly sorry." Special Agent Dens Moore and his assistant went to the crime scene, leaving the Sheriff and I alone with Partridge. "You may be a respectable and good citizen in Boston," I told him, "but you've got a DUI record here." "That time I was sentenced to probation. It was a low point in my life, but it's over." "You told the police that you were drinking because you had financial troubles. Must have been Fascaux who got you, didn't he? That's why you recognized him so quickly, even though he had grown a beard. " "I don't have to hide it. He scammed me out of my life savings. I'll recognize that face anywhere." "How did you know he was hiding here?" "I didn't know! I could swear to you! I happened to walk into the yard and he was just there staring at me. Of course my face meant nothing to him because I was just a few thousand of his victims one of them. But I recognized him right away." "So you killed him," I said, "and you probably kept that small pistol in your pack for protection on the hike. You followed him into the house—" "I've never been in that room." "You said you saw the piano. But you had to go inside to see it." "If I killed someone, why did I throw myself into the trap? Why didn't I just walk away? No one ever saw me there." It was a poignant question, and I had no answer at the time, nor could I imagine how he escaped from the house after the murder.But I caught something in his eyes, a kind of triumph perhaps, and I realized they were the eyes of a murderer. The sheriff promised me to hold Partridge overnight as a material witness. "We've got to go to the scene one more time," I told him, "and if we don't find anything this time, you'll have to let him go." "Of course! He's already threatened to sue us for illegal detention. If I don't let him go, the judge will release him tomorrow morning." "He did it!" I insisted. "It's written in his eyes." "We need evidence." "I know." We pulled over to the murder scene when I was dismayed to see that the two FBI agents were still inside.Densmore came over as soon as he saw us: "Are you back again?" "Partridge is an important witness, and I have him under arrest to-night," said the sheriff to him. "Have you found anything?" "No." From where we stand, I notice the setting sun hitting the glass of the French doors. "Sheriff, look there." "What are you looking at, doctor?" "There's something special about the sunlight reflecting off the glass at the bottom. Come on!" I ran quickly towards the glass, the others following behind me.I stretched out my fingers and slid across the glass surface. "what is that?" “不是玻璃，”我自信满满，“还记得我们在车库的垃圾桶里看到的碎玻璃吗，警长？那是这扇门上的。凶手将它打碎，这样他就可以在关门后再伸手进去拉上插销。他从车库里的那辆旧马车上割了一块透明胶皮，替换了这面玻璃。这固然经不起细查，而且为了将假玻璃同定在门框上，他还不得不在胶皮四角钉上钉子。不过因为屋内蕾丝窗帘的遮挡，他差点就蒙混过关了。” “没错，”蓝思警长赞同道，“两具尸体躺在密室里，凶器在法斯考克斯手中。要是帕特里奇想到火药灼痕的问题，那我们也许真的就将它当做是一起谋杀后自杀的案件了。” “凶手应该是临时起意，”我猜测道，“正如他所说，他偶然发现这座房子并立刻认出那个曾经欺骗了他和另外几千个倒霉蛋的男人。他们一定是带他参观了车库，然后将他请进房内，于是他看到了钢琴。他掏出放在背包里的手枪射死了他们。他记得马车上有胶质窗户，便切下大小合适的一块，装在法式门框上。之后，他锁上门窗，插好所有插销，并将手枪留在法斯考克斯手里。他小心地打破法式门底部的玻璃，收拾好碎片，然后扔到垃圾桶里。他关上法式门，通过底部的缺口将最后一个插销推进地板上的插孔里，胶质玻璃虽然不是严丝合缝但也还凑合。他从车库里找来锤子和钉子，将它固定好。” “但他为何要向我报告说看见法斯考克斯了？”警长纳闷道。 “他也许压根没想到火药灼痕的漏洞，但在他快到北山镇的时候，他想起了另一件事情。那是一个足以瞬间把他推上断头台的致命错误。他当然不敢重返虎穴去布置现场，所以他带着一个故事来找你。一开始你拒绝了他的陪同，于是他故意画了一张错误的地图给我们。他编造那个故事只为能和你一起回到这座房子，去掩盖那个致命的证据。” “你说的是什么证据？”丹斯摩尔有些不耐烦，“别跟我们卖关子了。” “还记得在警察局时他灵动的手指吗，警长？他不停用它们敲你的桌子，而我因此猜出他是个钢琴演奏家。当他来到法斯考克斯的房中并看到那架钢琴时，他便禁不住弹上几个音符。” “昨天他和我们一起时就那样做了！”蓝思警长想起来了，“我不得不警告他不要碰任何东西。” “很对！他昨天弹了几个音，这样琴键上一定留下了他的指纹。显然他第一次在那儿时忘记将那些指纹擦掉了。由于那次酒后驾驶被捕后在档案中留下了指纹记录，他知道他是无法脱身的。” “我们去找他，看他会不会坦白，医生。” “那不难，”我说道，“他不是一个冷血的罪犯。他杀掉那两个人只是因为命运的安排。” 我没有猜错。当我一提到琴键上的指纹和窗户上的透明胶皮时，格拉汉姆·帕特里奇便供认了一切。“一个小镇居然也有这么出色的侦探，”当他在证词上签字时沮丧地说道，“但我仍旧不会为这一切感到后悔，只是我会想念那些黑白键的。”
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