Chapter 2 golden horseshoe
"I don't have any exciting business for you this time," said Vance Richmond, shaking my hand. "I want you to find me a man—a man who's not a criminal."
There was apology in his voice.The lanky, sallow-faced lawyer had previously offered me jobs that involved shootouts and other forms of violence, so I guess he thought I'd fall asleep if the work wasn't as exciting as it used to be.His idea may be right when I was in my early twenties and just joined the mainland detective agency.But fifteen years passed, and I had lost my appetite for rough stuff.
"The man I want you to have," continued the lawyer when we sat down, "is an English architect named Norman Ashcraft. He is about thirty-seven years old, five feet ten inches tall, and of a strong build. , fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes. Four years ago he was a typical decent Englishman, but maybe he has changed now - I think he has suffered a lot in the past four years.
"The story goes like this. Four years ago Mr. and Mrs. Ashcraft lived in Bristol, England. Mrs. Ashcraft seemed to be naturally jealous, and he was overly sensitive and excitable. Besides, he was only working class , while his wife had inherited a considerable fortune from her parents. Ashcraft was sensitive about having a rich wife—he went out of his way to show that he didn't spend her money, for Rich wives don't really care too much. Stupid, yes, but that's how a man of his personality poses. One night she accused him of looking at other women too much, and they got into an argument, and he I packed my luggage and left.
"Within a week she regretted it, especially when she realized that her suspicions were groundless except jealousy. So she tried to get him back, but he was gone. She chased him all the way from Bristol to New York, and In Detroit—he was drunk and rioting there and all that, so he was arrested for disorderly conduct and fined. Then he was completely lost until he popped up out of Seattle ten months later." Lawyer's translation Flipping through a pile of documents on his desk, he pulled out a memo.
"On May 23, 1923, he shot and killed a burglar in a local hotel room. The Seattle police seemed to suspect something was wrong, but found no evidence. The man he killed was indeed House robber. Then Ashcraft disappeared, and was not heard of again until a year ago. Mrs. Ashcraft had been advertised in the private columns of newspapers in every major city in the United States.
"She got a letter from him one day, very formal, from San Francisco, just asking her to stop advertising. It said that although he had stopped using Norman Ashcraft The name, but still don't expect to see it as soon as you read the paper.
"She sent him a letter to the mail pick-up window of the Seattle Post Office and put another ad telling him. He wrote back, sarcastically. She didn't hold grudges so much anymore. They wrote several more letters, and she knew that he was addicted to drugs, and his remaining self-esteem would not allow him to do that—at least he had to recover a little bit of the past before he could return to her. She Convince him to accept her money for rehab. She sends it to him every month—via the mail pickup here.
"Meanwhile she took care of the estate in England, where she had no next of kin to worry about anyway. Then she came to San Francisco to meet her husband when he was ready to come home. A year passed, and she still sent money by the month, She's still waiting for him to change his mind. He's refused to see her multiple times, and his letters are evasive, full of his pain—beating addiction one month, relapse the next.
"Of course, at this time she has already begun to suspect that he doesn't want to go back to her, that he doesn't want to quit drugs, and simply treats her like a bank. I persuaded her not to send money on a monthly basis, but she didn't listen. You know, She felt that she was to blame for her husband's fall to this point. She felt that it was her inexplicable jealousy that caused him to fall, and she was also worried that if she did something, she would hurt him further or make him hurt himself. She had already done this She is determined to do it to the end. She wants him back, wants him to return to normal; if he refuses, she is willing to support him for the rest of her life. But she wants to know what is waiting for her, and wants to end the current painful situation unknown status.
"We want you to find Ashcraft. We want to know if there is even a slight chance of him returning to normal life, or if he is beyond repair. This is your job: to find him and learn as much as possible about him. We'll use that information to decide whether to find a way to arrange a meeting between them and hope she can influence him, or not to meet at all."
"I'll try," I said. "What time of the month does Mrs. Ashcraft send him the money?"
"The first of every month."
"Today is the 28th, so I have three days to deal with the work at hand. Is there a picture of him?"
"Unfortunately, no. After they had a big fight, she was so angry that she destroyed everything that reminded her of him."
I stood up and reached for my hat.
"See you on the second," I said as I left the office.
On the afternoon of the 1st, I went to the post office to find Lusk, who was the policeman in charge of the branch office. I told Lusk, "I heard that a thief from the north wants to get a letter from this window. Can you give me a look at him?" Post office police are subject to strict rules and regulations and are not allowed to assist private investigators except in major criminal cases.But if you meet a nice policeman, you can get away with it.Make up a lie with him, and he will have an excuse if something happens.It doesn't matter if he thinks what you said is true or not. So after a while I went downstairs again, wandering around within the range where I could see windows A-D.The window clerk was also instructed to signal to me when someone was coming for Ashcraft's letter.There was no letter from him yet, and it was unlikely that Mrs. Ashcraft's letter would arrive that afternoon.But I kept walking until all the windows were closed just in case. The next morning, shortly after ten o'clock, I was on the move again.A staff member gave me the signal.A small man in a blue suit and gray bonnet came out of the window with a letter.The man was about forty years old, but looked old.His face was pale, his walk was awkward, and his clothes hadn't been washed or ironed for a long time. He walked straight up to the desk where I was rummaging through papers, and pulled a large envelope from his pocket.I glanced at it and could only see that the front of the envelope had been stamped and addressed.With the address side facing himself, he put in the letter he had just brought from the window, licking the seal backwards so that no one could see the front of the envelope.Then he carefully pressed the seal down again, and turned to the mailbox.I follow behind.At this time, apart from the tried and tested old method of wrestling, there is no other good tricks. I overtook him, clung to him, pretended to slip on the marble floor, bumped into him, and grabbed him for balance.I went awry in the middle of my stunt and actually slipped and ended up with both of them down like wrestlers. I scrambled to get up, pulled him up too, and mumbled sorry.I almost pushed him away trying to get to the face-down envelope first.When I handed him the envelope, I had to turn it over to see the address: I saw the address, but it was also a secret.The little man in blue definitely knew that I bumped into him for that address. I dusted myself off and he dropped the letter in the mailbox.He didn't look back and walked past me, but made his way to the Church Street exit.I can't let him go like this, I can't scare him away until I find Ashcraft.I had to try another trick as old as slipping and falling on the floor, so I followed the little guy. When I got close to him, he was looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. "Hi, Mickey!" I called. "How is Chicago?" "You've got the wrong person." His gray lips barely moved and didn't stop as he spoke, "I don't know anything about Chicago." His eyes were light blue, with pinprick pupils—the result of chronic heroin or morphine use. "Spare the garlic," I said, "you just got out of the car this morning." He stopped on the sidewalk and faced me. "Me? Who do you think I am?" "You're Mickey Parker. Dutch got you here." "You're sick," he said with a disdainful smile, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" It's nothing - I don't know.I put my right hand in the pocket of my long coat and raised it toward him. "Now I'll tell you." I growled. He dodges my bulging pockets. "Oh, listen, old man!" he pleaded, "you've got the wrong man—seriously, my name's not Mickey Parker, and I've been in San Francisco for a whole year." "You have to prove it to me." "Okay," he said excitedly, "come with me this way, and I'll show you. My name is Ryan, and I've always lived on the corner of Sixth Avenue." "Ryan?" I asked. "Yes—John Ryan." Now I will deduct some points from him.There are no more than three old ruffians in this country who have never used this pseudonym once. This is simply a registered trademark of ruffians! This John Ryan took me to a house on Sixth Avenue.The landlady is about fifty years old, her face looks like it was cut out by an axe, and her exposed arms are heavily haired and muscular, like a country blacksmith.She made it clear to me that her lodger had indeed been in San Francisco for several months, and that she remembered seeing him at least once a day for those two months.Even if I really suspected that this Ryan was the Mickey Parker from Chicago I made up, I wouldn't believe this woman.But just because it wasn't, I pretended to be satisfied with the answer. It looked as if everything was all right, and Mr. Ryan had been duped into believing that I had mistook him for another bastard and had no interest in Ashcraft's letter.If things are left as they are, my business should be safe—pretty safe.Some details bother me, though: the kid does drugs and gives me a fake-sounding name, so... "What do you live on?" I asked him. "I've had nothing to do for months," he says, "but I'm going to open a diner with a buddy next week." "Let's go up to your room," I suggested, "I want to talk to you." He wasn't very enthusiastic, but he took me up anyway.He has two rooms and a kitchen on the third floor, both dirty and smelly. "Where's the Ashcraft man?" I asked him, head on. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered. "You'd better think about it," I advised, "otherwise there are very good cells waiting for you in the mental hospital." "You get nothing from me." "Really? How about locking you up like a bum for a month or two?" "Bum? Fuck it!" he yelled. "I've got five hundred dollars in my pocket!" I grin at him. "Ryan, you should know that you can't get by with a little change in California. You don't have a job and you can't prove where your money came from. Vagrancy is tailor-made for people like you." I think he deals drugs.If that's the case - or any other illegal business - once caught as a bum, his identity will be exposed.He'd probably sell out Ashcraft to keep himself, especially since Ashcraft didn't do anything illegal as far as I know. "If I were you," I continued, as he stared at the floor in consideration, "I'd be a good, law-abiding guy and just do it right now. You're—" He twisted left and right in the chair, reaching behind his back with one hand. I kick him off the chair. There is a table between us, otherwise I would have reached him.The punch I hit him in the jaw landed on his chest and knocked him to the ground.The wobbly chair fell on top of him.I picked up my chair, unloaded his gun--a cheap .32 tin-plated pistol--and went back to my seat at the table. He had only a flash of fighting spirit, and then stood up crying. "I'm telling you, I don't want trouble. This Ashcraft told me he was just kidding his wife. He wants me to get him a letter every month and send it to Tijuana for ten dollars a time. I met him here, six months ago he went south to Tijuana, and he had a woman there. I promised to help him. I knew there was money involved—he said it was alimony—but I Don't know what's wrong with that." "Who is this Ashcraft? What is he up to?" "Dunno. Might be a liar—he's a good-looking guy. He's British, and mostly goes by the pseudonym Edward Boannon. He's on drugs, I don't look like him."—For he can tell ——"But you also know that in this kind of place, any kind of people can be encountered. I don't know what his plan is." That's all I know from him.He didn't know—or wouldn't—tell me where Ashcraft lived and who he hung out with when he was in San Francisco. When Ryan heard I was going to send him to jail for a bum, he started yelling. "You said that if I was recruited, you would let me go," he cried. "I didn't say that. Even if I did, the gun you showed just now canceled all our agreements. Let's go." I dare not let Ashcraft run about until I find him.If I didn't catch him, he'd be telegraphing my prey before I was three blocks away.I wonder if my prey will happily run east, south, west, or north? Grab Ryan and hold on, this is really the right move.When he was fingerprinted at the police station, I found out that his name is Fred Rooney, nicknamed "Coffee", a drug dealer and smuggler who escaped from the federal prison in Leavenworth with eight years to serve . "Could you keep him under strict watch for a few days?" I asked the warden of the municipal prison. "As long as he doesn't go out and tip off the news, my business will go a little better." "No problem," the warden promised. "The federal agents won't come to get him in two or three days. I'll keep his mouth shut until then." I left the prison and went straight to Vance Richmond's office to tell him what I had found. "Ashcraft's mail in Tijuana. He lives there under the name of Edward Boannon, and maybe a woman. I've just dropped off his friend, a fugitive who sent his letters. Into the prison." The lawyer reached for the receiver and dialed a number. "Is Mrs. Ashcraft there? . . . I'm Mr. Richmond . . . no, he hasn't been found yet, but I think we know where he is . . . er . . within fifteen minutes." He hung up the phone and stood up. "Let's go to Mrs. Ashcraft." Fifteen minutes later we got off Mr. Richmond's car on Jackson Street near the Goffs.The house is a three-storey white stone building with a well-kept lawn surrounded by iron railings in front. Mrs. Ashcraft received us in the drawing room on the second floor.She was tall, not more than thirty years old, and she was slender and graceful in a gray skirt.The best adjective for her is clear: eyes are blue, skin is rosy, and hair is light brown. Richmond introduced me to her, and I told her what I'd found--skipped the part about the woman in Tijuana, and didn't say her husband was probably a charlatan by now. "I was told that Mr. Ashcraft was in Tijuana. He left San Francisco six months ago. His letter was forwarded by a coffee shop in Tijuana and addressed to Edward Boannon. " Her eyes lit up happily, but she didn't yell.She is not that kind of person. She said to the lawyer, "Should I go and see, or you?" Richmond shook his head. "Neither. Of course you shouldn't go, and I—can't go at the moment." He turned to me. "You go. You'll handle it better than I do. You know what to do and how to do it. Ashcraft Mistress doesn't want to force him, but she doesn't want to miss an opportunity to help him either." Mrs. Ashcraft held out a slender but strong hand to me. "Do whatever feels good to you." Half of these words are doubts, and half are entrustments. "I will." I promised. I like this Mrs. Ashcraft.
Tijuana is the same as it was two years ago when I was there.The six or seven hundred-foot long, dusty, dirty street was the same as ever, lined almost with bars.There are dirtier alleys, full of low-class taverns that have no place in the street. Shortly after noon, the bus pulling me from San Diego dropped me downtown.It's the beginning of the day—I mean, just two or three drunks hanging out on the street among the dogs and stray Mexicans, and the drunk crowd still running in and out of the bar. In the middle of the next block, I saw a large gilt horseshoe sign.I walked down that street and into the bar behind that sign.This is a typical local bar, the bar counter is on the left after entering, it takes up half the length of the building, and there are three or four slot machines at the other end.There was a dance floor against the right-hand wall across from the bar, and it stretched from the front wall to a stage where a grimy band was getting ready to play.Behind the orchestra was a row of low booths or booths or something, open to the stage, each containing a table and two benches. It was still early and only a few customers were present.I found a bartender watching me, a stocky, flushed Irishman with oiled auburn hair curled over his already narrow forehead. "I want to see Edward Boannon," I whispered to him. He rolled his eyes at me. "I don't know any Edward Boannon." I got out a pencil and paper, scrawled "Coffee Arrested," and pushed the paper over to him. "If someone says he is Boannon and wants the news, can you convey it?" "I think so." "Fine," I said, "I'll stay here for a while." I walked in and sat at a table in one of the booths.A tall, lanky girl with hair that's somehow turned purple sat down next to me before I could settle down. "Bring me a drink?" she asked. She made a face at me, probably to smile at me.But that face was so scary, I had to obey, lest she laugh again. "Okay." I said.The waiter was already standing behind me, and I ordered a beer for myself. The purple-haired woman next to me drank her whiskey in one gulp and was about to open her mouth to suggest another glass—whores here really don't waste any time—a voice came from behind me. "Cora, Frank is looking for you." Cora frowned, looked over my shoulder, then gave that menacing smile and said, "Okay, little angel, will you take care of my friend then?" and she left. "Little Angel" slid into the seat next to me.She was short, stocky, about eighteen—not much more than a day, and still a child.Short brown hair curled over a round, boyish face, with eyes that smiled unscrupulously. I bought her a glass of wine and ordered a beer myself. "What are you thinking?" I asked. "Stock." She grinned at me—a grin as boyish as her staring brown eyes. "Galons of liquor." "What else?" I knew there must be some purpose for changing people by my side at this moment. "I heard you were looking for a friend of mine," said the little angel. "Possibly. What kind of friends do you have?" "Well, there's this Ed Boannon. Do you know Ed?" "No, I don't know each other yet." "But you're looking for him?" "Ok." "What is it? Maybe I can pass word to him." "Don't worry about it," I said bluffing, "Your Ed is not so unapproachable. It's okay, anyway, I'm not the one who suffers. I'll buy you another drink and leave." She jumped up. "Wait, I'll see if I can find him. What's your name?" "Just Parker, or anything else." The first name Ryan and I made up earlier popped into my mind. "Wait," she cried over her shoulder as she walked toward the back door, "I think I can find him." "Me too." I agreed. Ten minutes passed and a man came up to my table from the front of the bar.He was a fair-haired Englishman in his late forties, all gentlemanly features gone.But he's not completely incorrigible.You can see the evidence of his decline clearly in the hollow blue eyes, the bags under the eyes and the blurred lines and loose lines around the mouth, and the ashen complexion.He's attractive enough—with enough remaining health to carry the show. He sat down face to face with me. "You looking for me?" "Are you Ed Boannon?" He nodded. "Coffee was grabbed a few days ago," I told him, "and probably in the prison van to the Kansas jail by now. He knows I'm here on business and wants me to tell you." He frowned and looked at the table, then looked up at me, his eyes sharp. "Did he tell you anything else?" "He didn't tell me anything. Someone sent me the word, and I didn't see him." "Will you be here for a while?" "Well, maybe two or three days," I said, "I have some urgent business to do." He smiled and held out his hand. "Thank you for letting me know, Parker," he said, "and I'll buy you a really good drink if you'll walk a few steps with me." I have no objection to this.He led me out of the golden horseshoe, turned into a small alley, and walked towards an adobe house at the intersection of the town and the desert.Into the front room, he waved me to take a seat, and then walked into another room. "What would you like to drink?" he called through the door. "Ale, gin, Scotch—" "Just the last one." I interrupted his classified ad. He brought a bottle of Black and White, a siphon, and glasses.We sit down and drink, drink for a while, talk for a while, drink for a while, talk for a while.Both of us were pretending to be drunk--though in a few moments we were dying like a pair of goats. It ended up being a pure drinking contest.He's trying to get me into a mess - so drunk that he can spit out all his secrets without a care, and that's what I'm trying to do, so it doesn't make much progress for either of them. "You... know," he said as it was getting dark, "I'm such a fucking scumbag. I had a wife—the best woman in the world—wanted me to go back to her and stuff like that. But I didn't Here, drunk and opium all the time. I would have done a great job. Build...build...architect, you know--did well. But I fell into the mud, with these people It's like we're stuck together. But I've got a plan--it's not just talking. Back to my wife, she's the best woman in the world. Quit opium and all. You see Look at me, do I look like an opium ghost? Of course I don't! I'm self-medicating, that's all. I want you to see, I'll take some opium, and I'll show you, I can take opium or not. Do... call the shots." He got up from his chair in a daze, went into the next room, and shambled back, holding a silver tray on which was an elaborate apparatus for smoking opium—all silver and ebony.He put his things down on the table and shook an opium pipe at me. "I ask you to smoke a pipe, Parker." I told him I'd better drink my scotch. "Or some cocaine," he invited. I said no to cocaine, so he just slumped comfortably on the floor by the table, rolling up a cigarette and lighting up the opium.Our fun would continue—he on his drug, I on my drink—and we would still compliment each other in order to get the other to give us a break. I was taking a long gulp of good wine when the little angel came in in the middle of the night. "Looks like you two are doing well." She laughed, leaning over to kiss the Englishman's tousled hair. She sat on the table and reached for the whiskey. "Everything is fine," I reassure her—though my articulation may not be that clear. "Short guy, you'd better be drunk all the time. You look much cuter." I don't know if I responded to that sentence or not.All I know is that I soon fell asleep next to the Englishman on the floor.
The next two days were basically the same as the first day.Ashcraft and I were together twenty-four hours a day, and the girl was usually there.We either drank or fell asleep from drinking too much.We spent most of those three days in the adobe house or the Golden Horseshoe, but we still found time to visit most of the bars in town.Some of the things going on around me have only a vague idea - but I think I know at least a little about everything. Outwardly, Ashcraft and I pretended to be demented like thieves, but no matter how drunk we were, we were not slackened in our suspicion of each other--and we were drunk enough.He smoked his opium pipe regularly, and I don't think the girl smoked, but she drank a lot of hard liquor. After three days of this kind, I sobered up and hitchhiked back to San Francisco, making a list of what I knew and guessed about Norman Ashcraft—aka Edward Boannon— . The list roughly looks like this: 1. Even if he doesn't know, at least he suspects that I went south to see him because of his wife.His demeanor was too easygoing, and his hospitality too relentless, for there to be no doubt about it. Two, he has clearly decided to go back to his wife - but it is not certain whether he will act on it. Three, his drug addiction is not hopeless. 4. He might cheer up under the influence of his wife, but it's hard to say: Although he hasn't sunk to the bottom physically, he has already tasted the downfall and seems to enjoy it quite a bit. 5. The little angel is crazy about him, but he just likes her, not to the point of heart-to-heart. I got a good night's sleep on the train from Los Angeles to San Francisco, so that when I got off at the station at Townson Street and Third Avenue, my head and stomach were mostly back to normal, and my nerves were not too much trouble.I ate more breakfast than I had eaten in the past three days, and headed for Vance Richmond's office. "Mr. Richmond is in Eureka," his stenographer told me. "Can I give him a call?" She agreed and hit too. I told the lawyer what I knew and what I guessed, but didn't mention any names. "I see," he said. "You go to his wife's first, and tell her I'll write to her tonight. I'll be back in town probably the day after tomorrow, and I don't think it's too late for us to act then." I caught a streetcar, changed at Van Ness Avenue, and walked over to Mrs. Ashcraft's.No one answered the bell.I clicked a few more times before I noticed two morning papers on the porch.I looked at the dates - one was from this morning and one was from the previous morning. An old man in faded overalls was watering the lawn next door. "Has the people who live here gone out?" I asked. "I don't think so. The back door is open. I saw it this morning." He stopped and scratched his chin. "But it might have gone out," he said slowly. I don't remember ever seeing them." I left the front steps and walked around to the back of the house, climbed over the low fence at the back and up the back steps.The kitchen door was open about a foot wide, and there was no one in there, except for the sound of running water. I knocked heavily on the door, but no one answered.I pushed the door open and walked in.The sound of water coming from the sink, I looked in. One of the faucets was running, and under the thin stream of water lay a carving knife with a sharp blade nearly a foot long.The knife was clean, but the inside of the ceramic sink—where the scattered water splashed—was covered with reddish-brown spots.I picked it with my fingernail—it was dried blood. I don't see anything amiss in the kitchen other than the sink.I opened the pantry and it looked like nothing was going on in there.On the opposite side of the room there is another door leading to the front room.I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.The light in the kitchen is too weak to reach there.Fumbling in the twilight for a light switch I knew, I stepped on something limp. I took a step back, took a match from my pocket, and lit one.Ahead of me there was a man with his head and shoulders sprawled on the floor and his ass and legs a few flights down the stairs—the Filipino boy in his underwear. He was dead; one eye had been gouged out, and a gash had been cut on the neck just below the chin.I can see the murder even with my eyes closed.On the top of the stairs, the murderer's left hand reached for the Filipino maid's face, his thumbnail dug into his eyes, pushed the brown face back, squeezed his brown neck, moved towards the blade, and slashed hard, pushing him hard Down the stairs. My second match hit the switch.I turned on the light, buttoned my coat and walked up the stairs.Dried blood was everywhere, and the wallpaper on the second floor was stained with blood.I found another switch on the landing and pressed it. I walked into the corridor and looked at the two rooms with my head. There seemed to be nothing unusual inside.Then I turned a corner - jerked away, almost stepping on a woman lying there. She was lying face down on the floor, her legs curled up and her hands curled up over her stomach; she was wearing a dressing gown, her hair hanging down her back in a braid. I reached out and touched the back of her neck with my fingers, it was as cold as a stone. I knelt down to look at her face - I didn't want to turn her over - it was the maid who opened the door for Richmond and me four days ago. I got up and looked around again.The maid's head almost touched a closed door.I walked around her and pushed the door open.One bedroom, not owned by the servants, was sumptuously furnished in cream and gray, with French engravings on the walls.The room was in order except for the beds.The bedspread, quilt, and sheet were crumpled and piled high in the middle of the bunk—a very large pile. I bent down and started pulling on the coverlet.The blood-stained sheet slid open and I lifted the quilt all over. Mrs. Ashcraft died there. Her body was curled up into a small ball, her head was drooping, and the wound on her neck was deep to the bone.There were four deep scratches on her face, running from her temples to her chin.One sleeve of the blue silk pajamas had been ripped off, and the mattress and pajama pants were soaked in blood—there was too much on her body for the blood to dry. I put the blanket over her, sideways around the body in the hallway, and down the front stairs, turning on more lights and looking for the phone.I found one near the foot of the stairs and called first the police and then Vance Richmond's office. "Send word to Mr. Richmond that Mrs. Ashcraft has been killed," I told his stenographer. "I'm at her house and he can reach me at this number." Then I walked out the front door, sat on the top step, smoked, and waited for the police to come. I feel terrible.I've seen many dead people in my life, sometimes far more than three, but this one had a big impact on me.After those three days of debauchery, my nerves are weak now. I hadn't finished my first cigarette when the police car came round the corner.The occupants got out of the car, and homicide detective Olga was the first to walk up the steps. "Hey," he greeted me, "what did you catch this time?" "I found three bodies, and I didn't look for more," I said as I led him in. "Maybe a real detective like you can find more." "You've done well, boy," he said. My dizzy feeling passed and I started to feel anxious to get to work. I took Olga to see the Filipino boy first, then the two women.We found no more bodies.For the next few hours, we—Olga, his eight men, and me—were busy with specific tasks.The house needs to be searched from the roof to the cellar, all the neighbors have to be questioned, and the employment agency that introduced the servant has to be audited one by one; the relatives and friends of the Filipino boy and the maid have to be found and questioned; the newsboy, the postman, the deliveryman in the grocery store , Laundry workers also have to find, interrogate, and investigate one by one. After the piles of reports came in, Olga and I sneaked into the study and locked the door. "It was the night before, wasn't it? Wednesday night?" Olga murmured as we sat comfortably in the leather chairs and lit our cigarettes. I nod.The coroner's report, the two papers on the porch, and the fact that neighbors, the grocer, and the butcher haven't seen them since Wednesday, Wednesday night—or early Thursday morning ——It should be the time when the crime happened. “依我看，凶手把后门撬开，”奥嘉一边在烟雾缭绕中瞪着天花板一边说，“到厨房拿了菜刀上楼。他可能直接去了阿什克拉夫特太太房里，也可能没有，总之没多久他就去了那里。阿什克拉夫特太太破了的袖子和脸上的伤说明她挣扎过。菲佣跟女仆听到吵闹声——也许是尖叫声——就跑到她房间去看出了什么事。很可能女仆到的时候凶手正好出来，就这么杀死了她。我猜菲佣看到他以后转身就跑，但凶手在后楼梯口追上了他，把他也干掉了。然后凶手下楼到厨房洗了手，扔了刀，走人。” “听起来很有道理，”我附和道，“不过你没说凶手是谁，也没说他杀人的原因。” “别催我，”他小声说，“我会说到那儿的。看来只有三种可能：凶手要么是杀人狂，要么是入室抢劫犯，因为被发现了所以发疯；要么就是哪个人因为什么事想干掉阿什克拉夫特太太，因为被两个仆人发现，就杀他们灭口。我个人觉得凶手的目标是阿什克拉夫特太太。” “不错。”我喝了声彩，“现在请你听着：阿什克拉夫特太太有个先生在蒂华纳，是个不算太严重的瘾君子，跟一帮痞子鬼混。她想说服他回到她身边。他在那儿有个女人——年轻、为他疯狂，不怎么会掩饰自己，是一个挺强悍的小女人。他打算丢下那女的回家。” “然后呢？”奥嘉轻声说。 “不过，”我继续说，“前天晚上我跟他还有那女孩都在蒂华纳——正是谋杀发生的时候。” "and then?" 敲门声打断了我们的谈话。是个警员，来告诉我有电话找我。我下到一楼，万斯·里奇蒙的声音从电话里传来。 “怎么回事？亨利小姐转了你的话，可她没告诉我细节。” 我把事情全告诉了他。 “我今晚就回去。”我讲完后他说，“你放手去做，不用有什么顾忌。” “好，”我答道，“你回来时我可能已经出城了，可以通过侦探社联系我。我会发电报让阿什克拉夫特北上——以你的名义。” 里奇蒙挂了电话之后，我又打给市立监狱，问监狱长约翰·瑞恩——也就是弗雷德·鲁尼，也就是“咖啡”——是否还在那里。 “不在，联邦探员昨天早上把他带去莱文沃思了。” 我又上楼到书房，匆匆告诉奥嘉：“我要搭晚上的火车南下。这案子是蒂华纳人干的，我可以赌上自己的脑袋。我要发电报叫阿什克拉夫特北上，把他从那个墨西哥城支开一两天。如果他上这儿来，你就盯着他。我会告诉你他的长相，你可以到万斯·里奇蒙的办公室接他。” 所剩不多的半小时里，我拟了三封电报发出去。第一封是给阿什克拉夫特的。 另外两封是用密码写的，一封发给大陆侦探社堪萨斯分社，要他们派名探员到莱文沃思审问“咖啡”；另一封是要洛杉矶分社隔天派人到圣地亚哥跟我见面。 然后我就冲回我的房间，收拾了一袋子干净衣服，又在回圣地亚哥的火车上睡了一天。 第二天下午，我在圣地亚哥下了火车。当地人潮汹涌，热闹非凡——那天是新赛季的第一个星期六，很多人从边境过来看赛马。还有洛杉矶来的电影摄制组、帝国山谷的农民、太平洋舰队的水手、赌徒、游客、小偷，以及全国各地的普通人。我吃了午餐，在一家旅馆登记住宿，把袋子搁在那儿，然后就到美国格兰旅馆去接我发电报找来的洛杉矶探员。 我在大厅看到了他——一个满脸雀斑的小伙子，二十二岁左右，明亮的灰眼睛正忙着看手里的赛程表，有根手指头上缠着透明胶。我从他身边走过，在雪茄摊前买包烟，扯平我帽子上假想的凹痕，然后出门来到街上。透明胶手指和帽子戏法是我们的暗号。有人在内战前就发明了这些把戏，不过现在仍然行得通，所以它们虽然年代久远，还没有遭到淘汰。 我信步走上第四大街，离开百老汇——圣地亚哥的中轴路。那名探员赶上了我。他叫戈尔曼，我把计划跟他讲了。 “你这就南下到蒂华纳，混进金色马蹄铁。那儿有个胖嘟嘟的小女生在卖酒——矮矮的，棕色鬈发，棕色眼睛，圆脸，嘴很大很红，肩膀很宽。你一定认得出，是个大概十八岁的漂亮妞儿，外号小天使。她就是你的目标，但不要靠近她，不要引她上钩。你比我先去一个小时，然后我会自己过去跟她谈。我要知道等我走开以后她会做什么，还有她这几天的行踪。你要联系我可以到这里——”我给了他我旅馆的名字和房号，“每天晚上我都在。不要到别处去找我。” 我们分头行动。我向广场走去，在长凳上坐了一个钟头，然后又走到转角，在去往蒂华纳的车上抢到一个位子。 三人座的车挤了五个人。车子在一条满是灰尘的路上走了十五六英里后，在边境的移民局重重地停下，我在赛马场入口下了车。马群已经跑了一阵了，不过旋转门还在不停地往里面大量放人。我从门口转过身来，向停在蒙地卡罗——当地最大的木质结构的赌场——前面的一排小公共汽车走去，上了其中的一辆，一路坐到“老城”。 “老城”好像被遗弃了，几乎所有人都跑去看赛马了。我走进金色马蹄铁时，戈尔曼的雀斑脸出现在一杯龙舌兰上方。我希望他体质很好，如果他打算靠着蒸馏过的仙人掌汁办案的话，他可得有个好体质。 金色马蹄铁里的人给我的欢迎不亚于游子返乡，就连那个卷发贴在头上的酒保也朝我咧嘴笑了。 “小天使呢？”我问。 “帮爱德华看着你嫂子？”一个大块头的瑞典女孩向我抛了个媚眼，“我看看能不能帮你找到她。” 就在这时，小天使从后门进来，整个人趴到我身上，搂着我，用她的脸蹭我的脸，天知道还有什么。“又来喝酒了？” “不是，”我说，领着她向后面的雅座走去，“这回有正事儿。爱德华呢？” “去北边了。他老婆死了，他收尸去了。” “你很难过？” “你说呢？老爹现在有糖了。” 我从眼角看着她——这一瞥可谓意味深长。 “你以为爱德华会把钱带回来给你？” 她凌厉地看了我一眼。 “你什么意思？”她质问道。 我意味深长地笑了笑。 “有两种可能，”我预测道，“爱德华会把你甩了——他原来就有这个意思；要不他就得使尽招数别让自己给吊——” “你这该死的骗子！” 她右肩撞上我的左肩，左手飞快地伸到短裙下。我推开她的肩膀，猛地扭开她的身体。她左手从腿部拔出来的刀深深地扎在桌面下方。刀刃厚实，掷出去时可以很好地保持平衡。 她往后踢，一只尖尖的细鞋跟戳进我的脚踝。我左胳膊绕着她后背，就在她从桌底抽出刀子时，把她的胳膊扭到了背后。 “这他妈的是怎么回事？” I look up. 桌子对面有一个男人站在那儿怒气冲冲地看着我——两腿分开，双拳撑在臀部。他个子很高，瘦骨嶙峋，肩膀宽大，一条又长又细的黄脖子撑着一个小小的圆脑袋；在被打歪的小鼻子上面，两只眼睛像黑鞋扣一样挨得很近。 “你从哪儿学的这一招？”这个可爱的人对我喊道。 他太强悍了，一点儿讲理的可能也没有。 “如果你是服务生，”我告诉他，“给我拿瓶啤酒，给这孩子拿点儿别的。如果你不是服务生——滚。” “我会给你拿——” 女孩从我手里挣开，打断了他的话。 “我要烈酒。”她尖声说。 他吼了一声，来来回回地看我们俩，又龇了一次他肮脏的牙齿之后，走开了。 “你这位朋友是谁？” “你最好别管。”她提出忠告，没回答我的问题。然后她便把刀塞回她裙底原本藏刀的地方，转过身面对我。“你说爱德惹了麻烦是怎么回事？” “你看到报纸上命案的消息了？” "Ok." “那你就不用问了，”我说，“爱德唯一的出路就是把罪名栽给你，不过我怀疑他是否办得到。如果办不到的话，他就死定了。” “你疯了！”她叫道，“你还没醉到不记得命案发生时我们俩都跟你在这儿吧？” “我还没疯到把那个当成证据。”我纠正她，“不过我是疯到想要把凶手拎回旧金山。” 她对着我笑，我也笑了，站起来。 “我们还会再见面的。”我一边说，一边向门口踱去。 我回到圣地亚哥，发了电报到洛杉矶，要求再派一名探员。接着我吃了点儿东西，整晚都在旅馆房间里等戈尔曼。 他到的时候已经很晚了，闻起来好像从圣地亚哥到圣路易再回来，一路上都在喝龙舌兰。不过他的脑子还算清醒。 “看来你需要花天酒地一下。”他咧嘴笑道。 “少啰唆，”我命令道，“你的工作就是盯梢，没别的。你发现什么了？” “你走了以后，女孩跟那个大个子把脑袋凑到一块儿。他们好像生气了——至少可以说挺激动的。大个子溜了出去，所以我就扔下女孩一路跟在他后头。他来到城里，发了封电报。我近不了身，所以看不清是发给谁的。然后他又回酒吧了。” “大个子是谁？” “从我听来的看，他可不是善茬，外号叫'鹅脖子'，名片上的名字是弗林。他是酒吧的保镖兼打杂。” 看来这位鹅脖子先生是金色马蹄铁的清道夫。可为什么我纵酒的那三天都没见过他的人影？我总不至于醉到连他那么丑的人都记不住，而阿什克拉夫特太太和她的下人就是那三天里头的某一天给干掉的。 “我发电报到你们分社又要了个人，”我告诉戈尔曼，“他会跟你联系的。把女孩交给他，你就专盯鹅脖子。我想他身上有三条人命案，所以你要谨慎行事。” “遵命，老大。”他回去睡觉了。 第二天下午我在赛马场看比赛，等着天黑。 最后一场赛马结束后，我在日落客栈吃了点东西，然后晃荡到大赌场去——在同一栋建筑的另一头。起码有一千多各色人等在那儿挤来挤去，捧着赌马剩下或赢来的钱，争着要玩扑克、梭哈、掷骰子、幸运轮、俄罗斯轮盘赌，还有二十一点。这些玩意儿我都没碰，我的游戏时间已经过了。我在人群中四处走动，找我需要的人。 我看到了第一个——一个晒得很黑的男人，虽然穿着他最好的行头，但明显是个庄稼汉。他朝门口挤去，脸上带着那种特殊的空洞表情，一看就知道是比赛还没完就输光了。这种懊恼的神情与其说是因为输掉的钱，不如说是因为必须走人。 我挡在庄稼汉和门之间。 “都输光了？”他挤过来时，我很同情地问。 他害羞地点了点头。 “你想不想在几分钟内赚五块钱？”我利诱道。 他表示有兴趣，但想知道是什么工作。 “我要你跟我到老城去找个男人，看到他你就拿到钱了，没有其他条件。” 这话没能让他完全满意，不过五块钱毕竟是五块钱，而且如果看到事情不对，他完全可以随时开溜，于是他决定试一试。 我让庄稼汉在一扇门边等我，又去找下一个——一个小个子胖男人，圆圆的眼睛挺乐观，嘴巴看得出意志不坚定。他愿意按照我提供的简单又容易的办法去赚五块钱。我找的下一个人太胆小了，不敢冒险。我又找了个菲律宾人——一身棕色西装耀眼夺目；还有个很壮实的希腊小伙子——不是服务生就是理发师。 四个人足够了，我对我的四人团非常满意。就我要的效果而言，他们看来不算太聪明，可也不像混混骗子之流的。我把他们让到小公共汽车上，领着他们去老城。 “事情是这样的，”到了以后我教导他们说，“我要去转角的金色马蹄铁咖啡店。给我两三分钟，你们再进去叫酒喝。”我给了庄稼汉五元钱纸钞，“这钱你们拿去买酒，不算在工资里头。那里面有个宽肩膀大个子男人，脖子又长又黄，脸又丑又小，你们一定认得出。我要你们把他看清楚，但不能让他发现。等确定了你们到哪儿都认得出他以后，跟我点个头，然后回这儿拿钱。点头的时候要小心，我可不希望那儿有谁发现你们认得我。” 这话听起来很奇怪，不过既然我答应给每人五块钱，而赌场那边的赌局还在进行，五块钱是有可能带来一连串好运的，所以——后面的事你们也知道了。他们问了问题，我拒绝回答，不过他们决定照办。 我进门的时候，鹅脖子在吧台后面帮酒保的忙。他们需要帮手，酒吧里挤满了人。 人群里我找不到戈尔曼的雀斑脸，不过我看到了胡博苍白瘦削的面孔——他是洛杉矶分社的另一名探员，收到我的第二封电报后被派来的。小天使在酒吧另一头陪一个小个子男人喝酒，此人温驯的脸上露出的表情，就像是模范丈夫决定放肆一下时挂上的“他妈的，大爷豁出去了”。她朝我点点头，不过没离开她的顾客。 鹅脖子朝我蹙起眉，把我点的那瓶啤酒递给我。不一会儿，我雇的四个人都进来了，他们的演技实在了不起。 他们先是在乌烟瘴气中往外看，一张张脸看过去，一对上别人眼睛就马上调开视线。如此这般一会儿之后，其中一个——那个菲律宾男孩——看到了我说的那个男人站在吧台后面。他发现了宝藏，兴奋得跳了一尺高，然后一瞧鹅脖子正瞪着他，马上转过身哆嗦起来。其他三个人这会儿也瞥见鹅脖子了，全都斜着眼瞧他，偷偷摸摸的样子和一群假人一样扎眼。鹅脖子对他们怒目而视。 菲律宾人转身看我，利落地低下头往街上冲去。剩下的三个把酒灌进喉咙，寻找着我的眼神。我这会儿正在看吧台后墙上挂的高高的牌子： 我想算出这两行字里能找出多少谎言，可是才数出四个；肯定不止四个。我的一个同伙——那个希腊人——此时用汽油引擎爆火般的噪声清起嗓子来。鹅脖子挤出吧台，手里拎了个开桶器，脸都紫了。 我看着我的帮手们。如果一个一个地来的话，他们点头的样子肯定不会那么恐怖，但他们担心我又望向别处，所以一定要抓住机会汇报。三个脑袋一起点头——在二十英尺内没有一个人能错过这一信号，也没有一个人错过——他们还小跑着溜出大门，因为害怕长脖子男人手中的开桶器。 我干了那杯啤酒，若无其事地走出酒吧绕过转角，他们全聚在我要他们等的地方。 “我们会认得出他！我们会认得出他！”他们一起说。 “很好，”我夸他们说，“做得好，我看你们都是天生的侦探。工资拿去。我要是你们，经过这件事，恐怕我会避开那个地方。虽然你们掩饰得很漂亮——非常体面得当——他还是有可能起疑心。没必要冒这个险。” 他们抢过工钱，还没等我的话说完就跑光了。 第二天凌晨快到两点时，胡博走进了我在圣地亚哥旅馆的房间。 “你一出门鹅脖子就溜了，戈尔曼在盯他。”他说，“之后那女孩跑到镇边的一栋土坯房去了，我离开的时候她还没走。那地方挺黑的。” 戈尔曼没现身。 旅馆小弟早上十点把我吵醒了，他拿了一份电报，来自： 这是好消息。长脖子男人中了我的圈套，把我找来的四名受挫的赌徒当成四名证人了，以为他们点头是在指认他呢。动手杀人的是鹅脖子，而鹅脖子正在逃命。 小弟又拿了另一封电报过来时，我已经脱了睡衣裤，正伸手要拿我的西装。这封是奥嘉通过侦探社发的： 我打电话叫胡博起床。 “去蒂华纳，”我告诉他，“盯住昨晚那女孩去的那幢房子，除非你在金色马蹄铁撞上她。待在那儿，等着她出现。一直跟踪她，直到她和一个高个子的金发英国人碰面，然后改盯英国人。这人不到四十，高高的，金发碧眼。别跟丢了——他可是这场热闹的主角。我也会过去。要是英国人和我在一起时那女孩走掉了，就盯她的梢，要不就还是跟定那个男的。” 我穿好衣服，胡乱吃些早点，然后搭辆马车到了墨西哥城。驾车的男孩速度不慢，不过当我们在棕榈城附近看到一辆茶色单排座敞篷车从身边驶过时，简直觉得相比之下我们就是站着没动。开敞篷车的是阿什克拉夫特。 我再次看到敞篷车时，它停在那栋土坯房前，里头没有人。前面再过一个街口，装醉的胡博正在跟两个穿了墨西哥军装的印第安人讲话。 我敲敲土坯房的门。 小天使的声音：“哪位？” “是我——帕克，刚刚听说爱德回来了。” “噢！”她叫了一声，停顿了一下，“进来吧。” I opened the door and went in.英国人侧坐在椅子上，右胳膊肘架在桌上，右手插在外套口袋里——如果里面有枪的话，瞄准的就是我了。 “哈啰，”他说，“听说你一直在打听我的事。” “随你怎么说吧。”我把椅子推到他前面几英尺远，坐下来，“不过咱们也不用装傻了。你找鹅脖子解决你老婆，你好接收她的财产。你犯的错就是选了鹅脖子那样的孬种动手——这孬种疯狂杀人，然后又吓破了胆。就因为有三四个人指认他，他就跑了！还只跑到墨西卡利！可真会挑地方！我看他真是吓糊涂了，以为坐了五六个钟头的车子翻过山，就到了世界尽头呢！” 我继续说下去。 “你不是孬种，爱德华，我也不是。我想铐了你北上，不过我也不急。要是我今天带不走你，我愿意等到明天。反正我会看着你死，除非有人先我一步——不过我不会伤心的。我背心口袋里有一把枪，你可以让小天使把它抽出来，那咱们就可以按着我想的来谈判了。” 他缓缓地点了点头，眼睛一直看着我。女孩绕到我背后，一只手探过我肩膀，伸进背心里，我的老黑枪就这么离了身。她走开前还用刀尖在我脖子后面顶了一下——温柔的提醒。 她把我的枪递给英国人，他左手把枪放进口袋，我接着说：“好，我的提议是这样的：你和小天使跟我搭车过边境——这样我们就不用操心什么引渡文件了——然后我把你们送进牢里。咱们可以在法庭上继续斗争。我不是完全确定我可以把命案算到你们俩任何一个的头上。要是我搞砸了，你们就恢复了自由；要是我中奖了——如我所愿——你们就理所当然地上绞刑架。 “逃亡有什么好处？下半辈子都用来躲警察？到头来还不是束手就擒——或者在逃命时就给宰了？你们也许可以逃过一死，但你太太留下的钱怎么办？你搞这把戏为的就是钱——你叫人杀你老婆就是为了这笔钱。接受审判，你还有机会得手；跑掉的话——你就得跟它说再见了。” 我这会儿的把戏是要说服爱德华跟他女友逃命。如果把他们丢进大牢，我是有可能定其中一个的罪，不过机会不大。那要看以后事情的发展，要看我能否证明命案当晚鹅脖子人在旧金山。但我想他肯定准备好了一箩筐的相反的证据。在阿什克拉夫特太太的住处，我们没找到凶手的任何指纹。就算我真能说服陪审团鹅脖子当时在旧金山，我还得证明凶手确实是他才行。那之后这工作最难的地方还在等着我——证明鹅脖子是为这两个中的一个杀人，而不是为他自己。 我现在的算盘就是要这一对儿拍屁股走人。他们上哪儿或者干什么我都不在乎，只要他们走人就行。我会在混乱中靠着运气和我的脑袋从中得利——我还想搅和搅和。 英国人在努力思考着。我知道我说的话让他担心了——主要是因为我提到了鹅脖子弗林。然后他咯咯笑了起来。 “你真好心，老好人，”他说，“不过你——” 我不知道他想讲什么——到底我是赢还是输。 前门被撞开了，鹅脖子弗林走进了房间。 他的衣服满是灰尘，都变成白色的了。他的脸往前伸着，直到那又黄又长的脖子伸到了极限，鞋扣一样的眼睛定在我身上。他两手一翻——那就是你能看到的全部，简单地两手一翻——然后手上就各握了一把很重的左轮手枪。 “把你的爪子搁在桌上，爱德！”他吼道。 爱德华的枪——如果他口袋里是那玩意儿的话——给一侧桌角挡住了，没法向门边的男人开枪。他从口袋里抽出手，空空的，然后两手掌心朝下放在桌面上。 “站着别动！”鹅脖子朝女孩嚷道。 鹅脖子朝我怒目而视了将近一分钟。他再开口时，是在跟爱德和小天使讲话。 “看来你们发电报要我回来就是为了这个，啊？陷阱！我替你们背黑锅，当替死鬼！我要说个清楚再离开这儿，就是把他妈的整个墨西哥佬军团都杀光了，我也不在乎。我是杀了你老婆——还有她的帮佣，就为一千块钱杀了他们——” 女孩朝他走了一步，扯着嗓子喊：“你他妈的闭嘴！” “你才给我闭嘴呢！”鹅脖子吼道，他的大拇指按在瞄准她的那把手枪的保险上，“现在是我在说话！我杀她是为了——” 小天使弯下腰，左手伸到衬裙里，手抬起来——空的。鹅脖子开枪的光照亮了一把飞着的钢刀。 那个女孩转身想穿过房间，一颗颗穿过她胸膛的子弹又把她推了回来。她后背撞上墙，向前栽倒在地板上。 鹅脖子停止了射击，想说话。女孩那把刀的棕色刀柄插在他黄色的脖子上，他没办法透过刀刃发声。他扔掉一支枪，想攥住那凸出的刀柄，手往上抬到半路就垂了下来。他缓缓下滑——膝盖着地——手和膝盖一起着地——往一边滚去，然后躺在那里不动了。 我起身跳向英国人，谁知道鹅脖子的左轮手枪掉到了我脚底下，我滑了一下侧着摔倒了。我的手掠过英国人的外套，不过让他挣开了，还掏出两把枪来。 他的眼睛又冷又硬，嘴巴紧闭着，几乎连条缝都看不到。当我在摔倒的地方一动不动地躺着时，他慢慢地倒退着穿过房间。他一句话也没说，在门口犹疑了一下。接下来门猛地开了又关上，他走了。 我捡起那把让我滑倒的枪，蹿到鹅脖子身边，从他僵死的手里拔出另一把，然后飞身上街。茶色敞篷车屁股冒烟地冲进沙漠。离我三十英尺远的地方停了辆满是灰尘的黑色旅行车，应该是鹅脖子从墨西卡利开回来的车。 我蹿过去，飞身上车，打着火，冲着前面的灰云开去。 我发现我屁股底下这辆车虽然外表破旧，但引擎性能相当好——好到我知道它是闯边境的专用车。我一路小心地开着，没有乱使劲。在大半个小时里，前头的灰云始终跟我保持一定距离，然后我发现自己开始占上风。 地面很颠簸，我们原本开过的路都逐渐消失了。我稍稍加大马力——不过换来的代价是巨大的噪声。 我躲过了一块有可能把我拍成肉酱的巨石——只有毫发之差——然后抬头向前看。茶色敞篷车不再扬沙了，它停下了。 敞篷车里没人，我继续往前开。 在敞篷车后面，一把手枪对着我开火，连开了三次。要把我放倒也真需要很好的枪法才行。我在车座上颠上颠下，好像一个
On the afternoon of the 1st, I went to the post office to find Lusk, who was the policeman in charge of the branch office. I told Lusk, "I heard that a thief from the north wants to get a letter from this window. Can you give me a look at him?" Post office police are subject to strict rules and regulations and are not allowed to assist private investigators except in major criminal cases.But if you meet a nice policeman, you can get away with it.Make up a lie with him, and he will have an excuse if something happens.It doesn't matter if he thinks what you said is true or not. So after a while I went downstairs again, wandering around within the range where I could see windows A-D.The window clerk was also instructed to signal to me when someone was coming for Ashcraft's letter.There was no letter from him yet, and it was unlikely that Mrs. Ashcraft's letter would arrive that afternoon.But I kept walking until all the windows were closed just in case. The next morning, shortly after ten o'clock, I was on the move again.A staff member gave me the signal.A small man in a blue suit and gray bonnet came out of the window with a letter.The man was about forty years old, but looked old.His face was pale, his walk was awkward, and his clothes hadn't been washed or ironed for a long time. He walked straight up to the desk where I was rummaging through papers, and pulled a large envelope from his pocket.I glanced at it and could only see that the front of the envelope had been stamped and addressed.With the address side facing himself, he put in the letter he had just brought from the window, licking the seal backwards so that no one could see the front of the envelope.Then he carefully pressed the seal down again, and turned to the mailbox.I follow behind.At this time, apart from the tried and tested old method of wrestling, there is no other good tricks. I overtook him, clung to him, pretended to slip on the marble floor, bumped into him, and grabbed him for balance.I went awry in the middle of my stunt and actually slipped and ended up with both of them down like wrestlers. I scrambled to get up, pulled him up too, and mumbled sorry.I almost pushed him away trying to get to the face-down envelope first.When I handed him the envelope, I had to turn it over to see the address: I saw the address, but it was also a secret.The little man in blue definitely knew that I bumped into him for that address. I dusted myself off and he dropped the letter in the mailbox.He didn't look back and walked past me, but made his way to the Church Street exit.I can't let him go like this, I can't scare him away until I find Ashcraft.I had to try another trick as old as slipping and falling on the floor, so I followed the little guy. When I got close to him, he was looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. "Hi, Mickey!" I called. "How is Chicago?" "You've got the wrong person." His gray lips barely moved and didn't stop as he spoke, "I don't know anything about Chicago." His eyes were light blue, with pinprick pupils—the result of chronic heroin or morphine use. "Spare the garlic," I said, "you just got out of the car this morning." He stopped on the sidewalk and faced me. "Me? Who do you think I am?" "You're Mickey Parker. Dutch got you here." "You're sick," he said with a disdainful smile, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" It's nothing - I don't know.I put my right hand in the pocket of my long coat and raised it toward him. "Now I'll tell you." I growled. He dodges my bulging pockets. "Oh, listen, old man!" he pleaded, "you've got the wrong man—seriously, my name's not Mickey Parker, and I've been in San Francisco for a whole year." "You have to prove it to me." "Okay," he said excitedly, "come with me this way, and I'll show you. My name is Ryan, and I've always lived on the corner of Sixth Avenue." "Ryan?" I asked. "Yes—John Ryan." Now I will deduct some points from him.There are no more than three old ruffians in this country who have never used this pseudonym once. This is simply a registered trademark of ruffians! This John Ryan took me to a house on Sixth Avenue.The landlady is about fifty years old, her face looks like it was cut out by an axe, and her exposed arms are heavily haired and muscular, like a country blacksmith.She made it clear to me that her lodger had indeed been in San Francisco for several months, and that she remembered seeing him at least once a day for those two months.Even if I really suspected that this Ryan was the Mickey Parker from Chicago I made up, I wouldn't believe this woman.But just because it wasn't, I pretended to be satisfied with the answer. It looked as if everything was all right, and Mr. Ryan had been duped into believing that I had mistook him for another bastard and had no interest in Ashcraft's letter.If things are left as they are, my business should be safe—pretty safe.Some details bother me, though: the kid does drugs and gives me a fake-sounding name, so... "What do you live on?" I asked him. "I've had nothing to do for months," he says, "but I'm going to open a diner with a buddy next week." "Let's go up to your room," I suggested, "I want to talk to you." He wasn't very enthusiastic, but he took me up anyway.He has two rooms and a kitchen on the third floor, both dirty and smelly. "Where's the Ashcraft man?" I asked him, head on. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered. "You'd better think about it," I advised, "otherwise there are very good cells waiting for you in the mental hospital." "You get nothing from me." "Really? How about locking you up like a bum for a month or two?" "Bum? Fuck it!" he yelled. "I've got five hundred dollars in my pocket!" I grin at him. "Ryan, you should know that you can't get by with a little change in California. You don't have a job and you can't prove where your money came from. Vagrancy is tailor-made for people like you." I think he deals drugs.If that's the case - or any other illegal business - once caught as a bum, his identity will be exposed.He'd probably sell out Ashcraft to keep himself, especially since Ashcraft didn't do anything illegal as far as I know. "If I were you," I continued, as he stared at the floor in consideration, "I'd be a good, law-abiding guy and just do it right now. You're—" He twisted left and right in the chair, reaching behind his back with one hand. I kick him off the chair. There is a table between us, otherwise I would have reached him.The punch I hit him in the jaw landed on his chest and knocked him to the ground.The wobbly chair fell on top of him.I picked up my chair, unloaded his gun--a cheap .32 tin-plated pistol--and went back to my seat at the table. He had only a flash of fighting spirit, and then stood up crying. "I'm telling you, I don't want trouble. This Ashcraft told me he was just kidding his wife. He wants me to get him a letter every month and send it to Tijuana for ten dollars a time. I met him here, six months ago he went south to Tijuana, and he had a woman there. I promised to help him. I knew there was money involved—he said it was alimony—but I Don't know what's wrong with that." "Who is this Ashcraft? What is he up to?" "Dunno. Might be a liar—he's a good-looking guy. He's British, and mostly goes by the pseudonym Edward Boannon. He's on drugs, I don't look like him."—For he can tell ——"But you also know that in this kind of place, any kind of people can be encountered. I don't know what his plan is." That's all I know from him.He didn't know—or wouldn't—tell me where Ashcraft lived and who he hung out with when he was in San Francisco. When Ryan heard I was going to send him to jail for a bum, he started yelling. "You said that if I was recruited, you would let me go," he cried. "I didn't say that. Even if I did, the gun you showed just now canceled all our agreements. Let's go." I dare not let Ashcraft run about until I find him.If I didn't catch him, he'd be telegraphing my prey before I was three blocks away.I wonder if my prey will happily run east, south, west, or north? Grab Ryan and hold on, this is really the right move.When he was fingerprinted at the police station, I found out that his name is Fred Rooney, nicknamed "Coffee", a drug dealer and smuggler who escaped from the federal prison in Leavenworth with eight years to serve . "Could you keep him under strict watch for a few days?" I asked the warden of the municipal prison. "As long as he doesn't go out and tip off the news, my business will go a little better." "No problem," the warden promised. "The federal agents won't come to get him in two or three days. I'll keep his mouth shut until then." I left the prison and went straight to Vance Richmond's office to tell him what I had found. "Ashcraft's mail in Tijuana. He lives there under the name of Edward Boannon, and maybe a woman. I've just dropped off his friend, a fugitive who sent his letters. Into the prison." The lawyer reached for the receiver and dialed a number. "Is Mrs. Ashcraft there? . . . I'm Mr. Richmond . . . no, he hasn't been found yet, but I think we know where he is . . . er . . within fifteen minutes." He hung up the phone and stood up. "Let's go to Mrs. Ashcraft." Fifteen minutes later we got off Mr. Richmond's car on Jackson Street near the Goffs.The house is a three-storey white stone building with a well-kept lawn surrounded by iron railings in front. Mrs. Ashcraft received us in the drawing room on the second floor.She was tall, not more than thirty years old, and she was slender and graceful in a gray skirt.The best adjective for her is clear: eyes are blue, skin is rosy, and hair is light brown. Richmond introduced me to her, and I told her what I'd found--skipped the part about the woman in Tijuana, and didn't say her husband was probably a charlatan by now. "I was told that Mr. Ashcraft was in Tijuana. He left San Francisco six months ago. His letter was forwarded by a coffee shop in Tijuana and addressed to Edward Boannon. " Her eyes lit up happily, but she didn't yell.She is not that kind of person. She said to the lawyer, "Should I go and see, or you?" Richmond shook his head. "Neither. Of course you shouldn't go, and I—can't go at the moment." He turned to me. "You go. You'll handle it better than I do. You know what to do and how to do it. Ashcraft Mistress doesn't want to force him, but she doesn't want to miss an opportunity to help him either." Mrs. Ashcraft held out a slender but strong hand to me. "Do whatever feels good to you." Half of these words are doubts, and half are entrustments. "I will." I promised. I like this Mrs. Ashcraft.
Tijuana is the same as it was two years ago when I was there.The six or seven hundred-foot long, dusty, dirty street was the same as ever, lined almost with bars.There are dirtier alleys, full of low-class taverns that have no place in the street. Shortly after noon, the bus pulling me from San Diego dropped me downtown.It's the beginning of the day—I mean, just two or three drunks hanging out on the street among the dogs and stray Mexicans, and the drunk crowd still running in and out of the bar. In the middle of the next block, I saw a large gilt horseshoe sign.I walked down that street and into the bar behind that sign.This is a typical local bar, the bar counter is on the left after entering, it takes up half the length of the building, and there are three or four slot machines at the other end.There was a dance floor against the right-hand wall across from the bar, and it stretched from the front wall to a stage where a grimy band was getting ready to play.Behind the orchestra was a row of low booths or booths or something, open to the stage, each containing a table and two benches. It was still early and only a few customers were present.I found a bartender watching me, a stocky, flushed Irishman with oiled auburn hair curled over his already narrow forehead. "I want to see Edward Boannon," I whispered to him. He rolled his eyes at me. "I don't know any Edward Boannon." I got out a pencil and paper, scrawled "Coffee Arrested," and pushed the paper over to him. "If someone says he is Boannon and wants the news, can you convey it?" "I think so." "Fine," I said, "I'll stay here for a while." I walked in and sat at a table in one of the booths.A tall, lanky girl with hair that's somehow turned purple sat down next to me before I could settle down. "Bring me a drink?" she asked. She made a face at me, probably to smile at me.But that face was so scary, I had to obey, lest she laugh again. "Okay." I said.The waiter was already standing behind me, and I ordered a beer for myself. The purple-haired woman next to me drank her whiskey in one gulp and was about to open her mouth to suggest another glass—whores here really don't waste any time—a voice came from behind me. "Cora, Frank is looking for you." Cora frowned, looked over my shoulder, then gave that menacing smile and said, "Okay, little angel, will you take care of my friend then?" and she left. "Little Angel" slid into the seat next to me.She was short, stocky, about eighteen—not much more than a day, and still a child.Short brown hair curled over a round, boyish face, with eyes that smiled unscrupulously. I bought her a glass of wine and ordered a beer myself. "What are you thinking?" I asked. "Stock." She grinned at me—a grin as boyish as her staring brown eyes. "Galons of liquor." "What else?" I knew there must be some purpose for changing people by my side at this moment. "I heard you were looking for a friend of mine," said the little angel. "Possibly. What kind of friends do you have?" "Well, there's this Ed Boannon. Do you know Ed?" "No, I don't know each other yet." "But you're looking for him?" "Ok." "What is it? Maybe I can pass word to him." "Don't worry about it," I said bluffing, "Your Ed is not so unapproachable. It's okay, anyway, I'm not the one who suffers. I'll buy you another drink and leave." She jumped up. "Wait, I'll see if I can find him. What's your name?" "Just Parker, or anything else." The first name Ryan and I made up earlier popped into my mind. "Wait," she cried over her shoulder as she walked toward the back door, "I think I can find him." "Me too." I agreed. Ten minutes passed and a man came up to my table from the front of the bar.He was a fair-haired Englishman in his late forties, all gentlemanly features gone.But he's not completely incorrigible.You can see the evidence of his decline clearly in the hollow blue eyes, the bags under the eyes and the blurred lines and loose lines around the mouth, and the ashen complexion.He's attractive enough—with enough remaining health to carry the show. He sat down face to face with me. "You looking for me?" "Are you Ed Boannon?" He nodded. "Coffee was grabbed a few days ago," I told him, "and probably in the prison van to the Kansas jail by now. He knows I'm here on business and wants me to tell you." He frowned and looked at the table, then looked up at me, his eyes sharp. "Did he tell you anything else?" "He didn't tell me anything. Someone sent me the word, and I didn't see him." "Will you be here for a while?" "Well, maybe two or three days," I said, "I have some urgent business to do." He smiled and held out his hand. "Thank you for letting me know, Parker," he said, "and I'll buy you a really good drink if you'll walk a few steps with me." I have no objection to this.He led me out of the golden horseshoe, turned into a small alley, and walked towards an adobe house at the intersection of the town and the desert.Into the front room, he waved me to take a seat, and then walked into another room. "What would you like to drink?" he called through the door. "Ale, gin, Scotch—" "Just the last one." I interrupted his classified ad. He brought a bottle of Black and White, a siphon, and glasses.We sit down and drink, drink for a while, talk for a while, drink for a while, talk for a while.Both of us were pretending to be drunk--though in a few moments we were dying like a pair of goats. It ended up being a pure drinking contest.He's trying to get me into a mess - so drunk that he can spit out all his secrets without a care, and that's what I'm trying to do, so it doesn't make much progress for either of them. "You... know," he said as it was getting dark, "I'm such a fucking scumbag. I had a wife—the best woman in the world—wanted me to go back to her and stuff like that. But I didn't Here, drunk and opium all the time. I would have done a great job. Build...build...architect, you know--did well. But I fell into the mud, with these people It's like we're stuck together. But I've got a plan--it's not just talking. Back to my wife, she's the best woman in the world. Quit opium and all. You see Look at me, do I look like an opium ghost? Of course I don't! I'm self-medicating, that's all. I want you to see, I'll take some opium, and I'll show you, I can take opium or not. Do... call the shots." He got up from his chair in a daze, went into the next room, and shambled back, holding a silver tray on which was an elaborate apparatus for smoking opium—all silver and ebony.He put his things down on the table and shook an opium pipe at me. "I ask you to smoke a pipe, Parker." I told him I'd better drink my scotch. "Or some cocaine," he invited. I said no to cocaine, so he just slumped comfortably on the floor by the table, rolling up a cigarette and lighting up the opium.Our fun would continue—he on his drug, I on my drink—and we would still compliment each other in order to get the other to give us a break. I was taking a long gulp of good wine when the little angel came in in the middle of the night. "Looks like you two are doing well." She laughed, leaning over to kiss the Englishman's tousled hair. She sat on the table and reached for the whiskey. "Everything is fine," I reassure her—though my articulation may not be that clear. "Short guy, you'd better be drunk all the time. You look much cuter." I don't know if I responded to that sentence or not.All I know is that I soon fell asleep next to the Englishman on the floor.
The next two days were basically the same as the first day.Ashcraft and I were together twenty-four hours a day, and the girl was usually there.We either drank or fell asleep from drinking too much.We spent most of those three days in the adobe house or the Golden Horseshoe, but we still found time to visit most of the bars in town.Some of the things going on around me have only a vague idea - but I think I know at least a little about everything. Outwardly, Ashcraft and I pretended to be demented like thieves, but no matter how drunk we were, we were not slackened in our suspicion of each other--and we were drunk enough.He smoked his opium pipe regularly, and I don't think the girl smoked, but she drank a lot of hard liquor. After three days of this kind, I sobered up and hitchhiked back to San Francisco, making a list of what I knew and guessed about Norman Ashcraft—aka Edward Boannon— . The list roughly looks like this: 1. Even if he doesn't know, at least he suspects that I went south to see him because of his wife.His demeanor was too easygoing, and his hospitality too relentless, for there to be no doubt about it. Two, he has clearly decided to go back to his wife - but it is not certain whether he will act on it. Three, his drug addiction is not hopeless. 4. He might cheer up under the influence of his wife, but it's hard to say: Although he hasn't sunk to the bottom physically, he has already tasted the downfall and seems to enjoy it quite a bit. 5. The little angel is crazy about him, but he just likes her, not to the point of heart-to-heart. I got a good night's sleep on the train from Los Angeles to San Francisco, so that when I got off at the station at Townson Street and Third Avenue, my head and stomach were mostly back to normal, and my nerves were not too much trouble.I ate more breakfast than I had eaten in the past three days, and headed for Vance Richmond's office. "Mr. Richmond is in Eureka," his stenographer told me. "Can I give him a call?" She agreed and hit too. I told the lawyer what I knew and what I guessed, but didn't mention any names. "I see," he said. "You go to his wife's first, and tell her I'll write to her tonight. I'll be back in town probably the day after tomorrow, and I don't think it's too late for us to act then." I caught a streetcar, changed at Van Ness Avenue, and walked over to Mrs. Ashcraft's.No one answered the bell.I clicked a few more times before I noticed two morning papers on the porch.I looked at the dates - one was from this morning and one was from the previous morning. An old man in faded overalls was watering the lawn next door. "Has the people who live here gone out?" I asked. "I don't think so. The back door is open. I saw it this morning." He stopped and scratched his chin. "But it might have gone out," he said slowly. I don't remember ever seeing them." I left the front steps and walked around to the back of the house, climbed over the low fence at the back and up the back steps.The kitchen door was open about a foot wide, and there was no one in there, except for the sound of running water. I knocked heavily on the door, but no one answered.I pushed the door open and walked in.The sound of water coming from the sink, I looked in. One of the faucets was running, and under the thin stream of water lay a carving knife with a sharp blade nearly a foot long.The knife was clean, but the inside of the ceramic sink—where the scattered water splashed—was covered with reddish-brown spots.I picked it with my fingernail—it was dried blood. I don't see anything amiss in the kitchen other than the sink.I opened the pantry and it looked like nothing was going on in there.On the opposite side of the room there is another door leading to the front room.I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.The light in the kitchen is too weak to reach there.Fumbling in the twilight for a light switch I knew, I stepped on something limp. I took a step back, took a match from my pocket, and lit one.Ahead of me there was a man with his head and shoulders sprawled on the floor and his ass and legs a few flights down the stairs—the Filipino boy in his underwear. He was dead; one eye had been gouged out, and a gash had been cut on the neck just below the chin.I can see the murder even with my eyes closed.On the top of the stairs, the murderer's left hand reached for the Filipino maid's face, his thumbnail dug into his eyes, pushed the brown face back, squeezed his brown neck, moved towards the blade, and slashed hard, pushing him hard Down the stairs. My second match hit the switch.I turned on the light, buttoned my coat and walked up the stairs.Dried blood was everywhere, and the wallpaper on the second floor was stained with blood.I found another switch on the landing and pressed it. I walked into the corridor and looked at the two rooms with my head. There seemed to be nothing unusual inside.Then I turned a corner - jerked away, almost stepping on a woman lying there. She was lying face down on the floor, her legs curled up and her hands curled up over her stomach; she was wearing a dressing gown, her hair hanging down her back in a braid. I reached out and touched the back of her neck with my fingers, it was as cold as a stone. I knelt down to look at her face - I didn't want to turn her over - it was the maid who opened the door for Richmond and me four days ago. I got up and looked around again.The maid's head almost touched a closed door.I walked around her and pushed the door open.One bedroom, not owned by the servants, was sumptuously furnished in cream and gray, with French engravings on the walls.The room was in order except for the beds.The bedspread, quilt, and sheet were crumpled and piled high in the middle of the bunk—a very large pile. I bent down and started pulling on the coverlet.The blood-stained sheet slid open and I lifted the quilt all over. Mrs. Ashcraft died there. Her body was curled up into a small ball, her head was drooping, and the wound on her neck was deep to the bone.There were four deep scratches on her face, running from her temples to her chin.One sleeve of the blue silk pajamas had been ripped off, and the mattress and pajama pants were soaked in blood—there was too much on her body for the blood to dry. I put the blanket over her, sideways around the body in the hallway, and down the front stairs, turning on more lights and looking for the phone.I found one near the foot of the stairs and called first the police and then Vance Richmond's office. "Send word to Mr. Richmond that Mrs. Ashcraft has been killed," I told his stenographer. "I'm at her house and he can reach me at this number." Then I walked out the front door, sat on the top step, smoked, and waited for the police to come. I feel terrible.I've seen many dead people in my life, sometimes far more than three, but this one had a big impact on me.After those three days of debauchery, my nerves are weak now. I hadn't finished my first cigarette when the police car came round the corner.The occupants got out of the car, and homicide detective Olga was the first to walk up the steps. "Hey," he greeted me, "what did you catch this time?" "I found three bodies, and I didn't look for more," I said as I led him in. "Maybe a real detective like you can find more." "You've done well, boy," he said. My dizzy feeling passed and I started to feel anxious to get to work. I took Olga to see the Filipino boy first, then the two women.We found no more bodies.For the next few hours, we—Olga, his eight men, and me—were busy with specific tasks.The house needs to be searched from the roof to the cellar, all the neighbors have to be questioned, and the employment agency that introduced the servant has to be audited one by one; the relatives and friends of the Filipino boy and the maid have to be found and questioned; the newsboy, the postman, the deliveryman in the grocery store , Laundry workers also have to find, interrogate, and investigate one by one. After the piles of reports came in, Olga and I sneaked into the study and locked the door. "It was the night before, wasn't it? Wednesday night?" Olga murmured as we sat comfortably in the leather chairs and lit our cigarettes. I nod.The coroner's report, the two papers on the porch, and the fact that neighbors, the grocer, and the butcher haven't seen them since Wednesday, Wednesday night—or early Thursday morning ——It should be the time when the crime happened. “依我看，凶手把后门撬开，”奥嘉一边在烟雾缭绕中瞪着天花板一边说，“到厨房拿了菜刀上楼。他可能直接去了阿什克拉夫特太太房里，也可能没有，总之没多久他就去了那里。阿什克拉夫特太太破了的袖子和脸上的伤说明她挣扎过。菲佣跟女仆听到吵闹声——也许是尖叫声——就跑到她房间去看出了什么事。很可能女仆到的时候凶手正好出来，就这么杀死了她。我猜菲佣看到他以后转身就跑，但凶手在后楼梯口追上了他，把他也干掉了。然后凶手下楼到厨房洗了手，扔了刀，走人。” “听起来很有道理，”我附和道，“不过你没说凶手是谁，也没说他杀人的原因。” “别催我，”他小声说，“我会说到那儿的。看来只有三种可能：凶手要么是杀人狂，要么是入室抢劫犯，因为被发现了所以发疯；要么就是哪个人因为什么事想干掉阿什克拉夫特太太，因为被两个仆人发现，就杀他们灭口。我个人觉得凶手的目标是阿什克拉夫特太太。” “不错。”我喝了声彩，“现在请你听着：阿什克拉夫特太太有个先生在蒂华纳，是个不算太严重的瘾君子，跟一帮痞子鬼混。她想说服他回到她身边。他在那儿有个女人——年轻、为他疯狂，不怎么会掩饰自己，是一个挺强悍的小女人。他打算丢下那女的回家。” “然后呢？”奥嘉轻声说。 “不过，”我继续说，“前天晚上我跟他还有那女孩都在蒂华纳——正是谋杀发生的时候。” "and then?" 敲门声打断了我们的谈话。是个警员，来告诉我有电话找我。我下到一楼，万斯·里奇蒙的声音从电话里传来。 “怎么回事？亨利小姐转了你的话，可她没告诉我细节。” 我把事情全告诉了他。 “我今晚就回去。”我讲完后他说，“你放手去做，不用有什么顾忌。” “好，”我答道，“你回来时我可能已经出城了，可以通过侦探社联系我。我会发电报让阿什克拉夫特北上——以你的名义。” 里奇蒙挂了电话之后，我又打给市立监狱，问监狱长约翰·瑞恩——也就是弗雷德·鲁尼，也就是“咖啡”——是否还在那里。 “不在，联邦探员昨天早上把他带去莱文沃思了。” 我又上楼到书房，匆匆告诉奥嘉：“我要搭晚上的火车南下。这案子是蒂华纳人干的，我可以赌上自己的脑袋。我要发电报叫阿什克拉夫特北上，把他从那个墨西哥城支开一两天。如果他上这儿来，你就盯着他。我会告诉你他的长相，你可以到万斯·里奇蒙的办公室接他。” 所剩不多的半小时里，我拟了三封电报发出去。第一封是给阿什克拉夫特的。 另外两封是用密码写的，一封发给大陆侦探社堪萨斯分社，要他们派名探员到莱文沃思审问“咖啡”；另一封是要洛杉矶分社隔天派人到圣地亚哥跟我见面。 然后我就冲回我的房间，收拾了一袋子干净衣服，又在回圣地亚哥的火车上睡了一天。 第二天下午，我在圣地亚哥下了火车。当地人潮汹涌，热闹非凡——那天是新赛季的第一个星期六，很多人从边境过来看赛马。还有洛杉矶来的电影摄制组、帝国山谷的农民、太平洋舰队的水手、赌徒、游客、小偷，以及全国各地的普通人。我吃了午餐，在一家旅馆登记住宿，把袋子搁在那儿，然后就到美国格兰旅馆去接我发电报找来的洛杉矶探员。 我在大厅看到了他——一个满脸雀斑的小伙子，二十二岁左右，明亮的灰眼睛正忙着看手里的赛程表，有根手指头上缠着透明胶。我从他身边走过，在雪茄摊前买包烟，扯平我帽子上假想的凹痕，然后出门来到街上。透明胶手指和帽子戏法是我们的暗号。有人在内战前就发明了这些把戏，不过现在仍然行得通，所以它们虽然年代久远，还没有遭到淘汰。 我信步走上第四大街，离开百老汇——圣地亚哥的中轴路。那名探员赶上了我。他叫戈尔曼，我把计划跟他讲了。 “你这就南下到蒂华纳，混进金色马蹄铁。那儿有个胖嘟嘟的小女生在卖酒——矮矮的，棕色鬈发，棕色眼睛，圆脸，嘴很大很红，肩膀很宽。你一定认得出，是个大概十八岁的漂亮妞儿，外号小天使。她就是你的目标，但不要靠近她，不要引她上钩。你比我先去一个小时，然后我会自己过去跟她谈。我要知道等我走开以后她会做什么，还有她这几天的行踪。你要联系我可以到这里——”我给了他我旅馆的名字和房号，“每天晚上我都在。不要到别处去找我。” 我们分头行动。我向广场走去，在长凳上坐了一个钟头，然后又走到转角，在去往蒂华纳的车上抢到一个位子。 三人座的车挤了五个人。车子在一条满是灰尘的路上走了十五六英里后，在边境的移民局重重地停下，我在赛马场入口下了车。马群已经跑了一阵了，不过旋转门还在不停地往里面大量放人。我从门口转过身来，向停在蒙地卡罗——当地最大的木质结构的赌场——前面的一排小公共汽车走去，上了其中的一辆，一路坐到“老城”。 “老城”好像被遗弃了，几乎所有人都跑去看赛马了。我走进金色马蹄铁时，戈尔曼的雀斑脸出现在一杯龙舌兰上方。我希望他体质很好，如果他打算靠着蒸馏过的仙人掌汁办案的话，他可得有个好体质。 金色马蹄铁里的人给我的欢迎不亚于游子返乡，就连那个卷发贴在头上的酒保也朝我咧嘴笑了。 “小天使呢？”我问。 “帮爱德华看着你嫂子？”一个大块头的瑞典女孩向我抛了个媚眼，“我看看能不能帮你找到她。” 就在这时，小天使从后门进来，整个人趴到我身上，搂着我，用她的脸蹭我的脸，天知道还有什么。“又来喝酒了？” “不是，”我说，领着她向后面的雅座走去，“这回有正事儿。爱德华呢？” “去北边了。他老婆死了，他收尸去了。” “你很难过？” “你说呢？老爹现在有糖了。” 我从眼角看着她——这一瞥可谓意味深长。 “你以为爱德华会把钱带回来给你？” 她凌厉地看了我一眼。 “你什么意思？”她质问道。 我意味深长地笑了笑。 “有两种可能，”我预测道，“爱德华会把你甩了——他原来就有这个意思；要不他就得使尽招数别让自己给吊——” “你这该死的骗子！” 她右肩撞上我的左肩，左手飞快地伸到短裙下。我推开她的肩膀，猛地扭开她的身体。她左手从腿部拔出来的刀深深地扎在桌面下方。刀刃厚实，掷出去时可以很好地保持平衡。 她往后踢，一只尖尖的细鞋跟戳进我的脚踝。我左胳膊绕着她后背，就在她从桌底抽出刀子时，把她的胳膊扭到了背后。 “这他妈的是怎么回事？” I look up. 桌子对面有一个男人站在那儿怒气冲冲地看着我——两腿分开，双拳撑在臀部。他个子很高，瘦骨嶙峋，肩膀宽大，一条又长又细的黄脖子撑着一个小小的圆脑袋；在被打歪的小鼻子上面，两只眼睛像黑鞋扣一样挨得很近。 “你从哪儿学的这一招？”这个可爱的人对我喊道。 他太强悍了，一点儿讲理的可能也没有。 “如果你是服务生，”我告诉他，“给我拿瓶啤酒，给这孩子拿点儿别的。如果你不是服务生——滚。” “我会给你拿——” 女孩从我手里挣开，打断了他的话。 “我要烈酒。”她尖声说。 他吼了一声，来来回回地看我们俩，又龇了一次他肮脏的牙齿之后，走开了。 “你这位朋友是谁？” “你最好别管。”她提出忠告，没回答我的问题。然后她便把刀塞回她裙底原本藏刀的地方，转过身面对我。“你说爱德惹了麻烦是怎么回事？” “你看到报纸上命案的消息了？” "Ok." “那你就不用问了，”我说，“爱德唯一的出路就是把罪名栽给你，不过我怀疑他是否办得到。如果办不到的话，他就死定了。” “你疯了！”她叫道，“你还没醉到不记得命案发生时我们俩都跟你在这儿吧？” “我还没疯到把那个当成证据。”我纠正她，“不过我是疯到想要把凶手拎回旧金山。” 她对着我笑，我也笑了，站起来。 “我们还会再见面的。”我一边说，一边向门口踱去。 我回到圣地亚哥，发了电报到洛杉矶，要求再派一名探员。接着我吃了点儿东西，整晚都在旅馆房间里等戈尔曼。 他到的时候已经很晚了，闻起来好像从圣地亚哥到圣路易再回来，一路上都在喝龙舌兰。不过他的脑子还算清醒。 “看来你需要花天酒地一下。”他咧嘴笑道。 “少啰唆，”我命令道，“你的工作就是盯梢，没别的。你发现什么了？” “你走了以后，女孩跟那个大个子把脑袋凑到一块儿。他们好像生气了——至少可以说挺激动的。大个子溜了出去，所以我就扔下女孩一路跟在他后头。他来到城里，发了封电报。我近不了身，所以看不清是发给谁的。然后他又回酒吧了。” “大个子是谁？” “从我听来的看，他可不是善茬，外号叫'鹅脖子'，名片上的名字是弗林。他是酒吧的保镖兼打杂。” 看来这位鹅脖子先生是金色马蹄铁的清道夫。可为什么我纵酒的那三天都没见过他的人影？我总不至于醉到连他那么丑的人都记不住，而阿什克拉夫特太太和她的下人就是那三天里头的某一天给干掉的。 “我发电报到你们分社又要了个人，”我告诉戈尔曼，“他会跟你联系的。把女孩交给他，你就专盯鹅脖子。我想他身上有三条人命案，所以你要谨慎行事。” “遵命，老大。”他回去睡觉了。 第二天下午我在赛马场看比赛，等着天黑。 最后一场赛马结束后，我在日落客栈吃了点东西，然后晃荡到大赌场去——在同一栋建筑的另一头。起码有一千多各色人等在那儿挤来挤去，捧着赌马剩下或赢来的钱，争着要玩扑克、梭哈、掷骰子、幸运轮、俄罗斯轮盘赌，还有二十一点。这些玩意儿我都没碰，我的游戏时间已经过了。我在人群中四处走动，找我需要的人。 我看到了第一个——一个晒得很黑的男人，虽然穿着他最好的行头，但明显是个庄稼汉。他朝门口挤去，脸上带着那种特殊的空洞表情，一看就知道是比赛还没完就输光了。这种懊恼的神情与其说是因为输掉的钱，不如说是因为必须走人。 我挡在庄稼汉和门之间。 “都输光了？”他挤过来时，我很同情地问。 他害羞地点了点头。 “你想不想在几分钟内赚五块钱？”我利诱道。 他表示有兴趣，但想知道是什么工作。 “我要你跟我到老城去找个男人，看到他你就拿到钱了，没有其他条件。” 这话没能让他完全满意，不过五块钱毕竟是五块钱，而且如果看到事情不对，他完全可以随时开溜，于是他决定试一试。 我让庄稼汉在一扇门边等我，又去找下一个——一个小个子胖男人，圆圆的眼睛挺乐观，嘴巴看得出意志不坚定。他愿意按照我提供的简单又容易的办法去赚五块钱。我找的下一个人太胆小了，不敢冒险。我又找了个菲律宾人——一身棕色西装耀眼夺目；还有个很壮实的希腊小伙子——不是服务生就是理发师。 四个人足够了，我对我的四人团非常满意。就我要的效果而言，他们看来不算太聪明，可也不像混混骗子之流的。我把他们让到小公共汽车上，领着他们去老城。 “事情是这样的，”到了以后我教导他们说，“我要去转角的金色马蹄铁咖啡店。给我两三分钟，你们再进去叫酒喝。”我给了庄稼汉五元钱纸钞，“这钱你们拿去买酒，不算在工资里头。那里面有个宽肩膀大个子男人，脖子又长又黄，脸又丑又小，你们一定认得出。我要你们把他看清楚，但不能让他发现。等确定了你们到哪儿都认得出他以后，跟我点个头，然后回这儿拿钱。点头的时候要小心，我可不希望那儿有谁发现你们认得我。” 这话听起来很奇怪，不过既然我答应给每人五块钱，而赌场那边的赌局还在进行，五块钱是有可能带来一连串好运的，所以——后面的事你们也知道了。他们问了问题，我拒绝回答，不过他们决定照办。 我进门的时候，鹅脖子在吧台后面帮酒保的忙。他们需要帮手，酒吧里挤满了人。 人群里我找不到戈尔曼的雀斑脸，不过我看到了胡博苍白瘦削的面孔——他是洛杉矶分社的另一名探员，收到我的第二封电报后被派来的。小天使在酒吧另一头陪一个小个子男人喝酒，此人温驯的脸上露出的表情，就像是模范丈夫决定放肆一下时挂上的“他妈的，大爷豁出去了”。她朝我点点头，不过没离开她的顾客。 鹅脖子朝我蹙起眉，把我点的那瓶啤酒递给我。不一会儿，我雇的四个人都进来了，他们的演技实在了不起。 他们先是在乌烟瘴气中往外看，一张张脸看过去，一对上别人眼睛就马上调开视线。如此这般一会儿之后，其中一个——那个菲律宾男孩——看到了我说的那个男人站在吧台后面。他发现了宝藏，兴奋得跳了一尺高，然后一瞧鹅脖子正瞪着他，马上转过身哆嗦起来。其他三个人这会儿也瞥见鹅脖子了，全都斜着眼瞧他，偷偷摸摸的样子和一群假人一样扎眼。鹅脖子对他们怒目而视。 菲律宾人转身看我，利落地低下头往街上冲去。剩下的三个把酒灌进喉咙，寻找着我的眼神。我这会儿正在看吧台后墙上挂的高高的牌子： 我想算出这两行字里能找出多少谎言，可是才数出四个；肯定不止四个。我的一个同伙——那个希腊人——此时用汽油引擎爆火般的噪声清起嗓子来。鹅脖子挤出吧台，手里拎了个开桶器，脸都紫了。 我看着我的帮手们。如果一个一个地来的话，他们点头的样子肯定不会那么恐怖，但他们担心我又望向别处，所以一定要抓住机会汇报。三个脑袋一起点头——在二十英尺内没有一个人能错过这一信号，也没有一个人错过——他们还小跑着溜出大门，因为害怕长脖子男人手中的开桶器。 我干了那杯啤酒，若无其事地走出酒吧绕过转角，他们全聚在我要他们等的地方。 “我们会认得出他！我们会认得出他！”他们一起说。 “很好，”我夸他们说，“做得好，我看你们都是天生的侦探。工资拿去。我要是你们，经过这件事，恐怕我会避开那个地方。虽然你们掩饰得很漂亮——非常体面得当——他还是有可能起疑心。没必要冒这个险。” 他们抢过工钱，还没等我的话说完就跑光了。 第二天凌晨快到两点时，胡博走进了我在圣地亚哥旅馆的房间。 “你一出门鹅脖子就溜了，戈尔曼在盯他。”他说，“之后那女孩跑到镇边的一栋土坯房去了，我离开的时候她还没走。那地方挺黑的。” 戈尔曼没现身。 旅馆小弟早上十点把我吵醒了，他拿了一份电报，来自： 这是好消息。长脖子男人中了我的圈套，把我找来的四名受挫的赌徒当成四名证人了，以为他们点头是在指认他呢。动手杀人的是鹅脖子，而鹅脖子正在逃命。 小弟又拿了另一封电报过来时，我已经脱了睡衣裤，正伸手要拿我的西装。这封是奥嘉通过侦探社发的： 我打电话叫胡博起床。 “去蒂华纳，”我告诉他，“盯住昨晚那女孩去的那幢房子，除非你在金色马蹄铁撞上她。待在那儿，等着她出现。一直跟踪她，直到她和一个高个子的金发英国人碰面，然后改盯英国人。这人不到四十，高高的，金发碧眼。别跟丢了——他可是这场热闹的主角。我也会过去。要是英国人和我在一起时那女孩走掉了，就盯她的梢，要不就还是跟定那个男的。” 我穿好衣服，胡乱吃些早点，然后搭辆马车到了墨西哥城。驾车的男孩速度不慢，不过当我们在棕榈城附近看到一辆茶色单排座敞篷车从身边驶过时，简直觉得相比之下我们就是站着没动。开敞篷车的是阿什克拉夫特。 我再次看到敞篷车时，它停在那栋土坯房前，里头没有人。前面再过一个街口，装醉的胡博正在跟两个穿了墨西哥军装的印第安人讲话。 我敲敲土坯房的门。 小天使的声音：“哪位？” “是我——帕克，刚刚听说爱德回来了。” “噢！”她叫了一声，停顿了一下，“进来吧。” I opened the door and went in.英国人侧坐在椅子上，右胳膊肘架在桌上，右手插在外套口袋里——如果里面有枪的话，瞄准的就是我了。 “哈啰，”他说，“听说你一直在打听我的事。” “随你怎么说吧。”我把椅子推到他前面几英尺远，坐下来，“不过咱们也不用装傻了。你找鹅脖子解决你老婆，你好接收她的财产。你犯的错就是选了鹅脖子那样的孬种动手——这孬种疯狂杀人，然后又吓破了胆。就因为有三四个人指认他，他就跑了！还只跑到墨西卡利！可真会挑地方！我看他真是吓糊涂了，以为坐了五六个钟头的车子翻过山，就到了世界尽头呢！” 我继续说下去。 “你不是孬种，爱德华，我也不是。我想铐了你北上，不过我也不急。要是我今天带不走你，我愿意等到明天。反正我会看着你死，除非有人先我一步——不过我不会伤心的。我背心口袋里有一把枪，你可以让小天使把它抽出来，那咱们就可以按着我想的来谈判了。” 他缓缓地点了点头，眼睛一直看着我。女孩绕到我背后，一只手探过我肩膀，伸进背心里，我的老黑枪就这么离了身。她走开前还用刀尖在我脖子后面顶了一下——温柔的提醒。 她把我的枪递给英国人，他左手把枪放进口袋，我接着说：“好，我的提议是这样的：你和小天使跟我搭车过边境——这样我们就不用操心什么引渡文件了——然后我把你们送进牢里。咱们可以在法庭上继续斗争。我不是完全确定我可以把命案算到你们俩任何一个的头上。要是我搞砸了，你们就恢复了自由；要是我中奖了——如我所愿——你们就理所当然地上绞刑架。 “逃亡有什么好处？下半辈子都用来躲警察？到头来还不是束手就擒——或者在逃命时就给宰了？你们也许可以逃过一死，但你太太留下的钱怎么办？你搞这把戏为的就是钱——你叫人杀你老婆就是为了这笔钱。接受审判，你还有机会得手；跑掉的话——你就得跟它说再见了。” 我这会儿的把戏是要说服爱德华跟他女友逃命。如果把他们丢进大牢，我是有可能定其中一个的罪，不过机会不大。那要看以后事情的发展，要看我能否证明命案当晚鹅脖子人在旧金山。但我想他肯定准备好了一箩筐的相反的证据。在阿什克拉夫特太太的住处，我们没找到凶手的任何指纹。就算我真能说服陪审团鹅脖子当时在旧金山，我还得证明凶手确实是他才行。那之后这工作最难的地方还在等着我——证明鹅脖子是为这两个中的一个杀人，而不是为他自己。 我现在的算盘就是要这一对儿拍屁股走人。他们上哪儿或者干什么我都不在乎，只要他们走人就行。我会在混乱中靠着运气和我的脑袋从中得利——我还想搅和搅和。 英国人在努力思考着。我知道我说的话让他担心了——主要是因为我提到了鹅脖子弗林。然后他咯咯笑了起来。 “你真好心，老好人，”他说，“不过你——” 我不知道他想讲什么——到底我是赢还是输。 前门被撞开了，鹅脖子弗林走进了房间。 他的衣服满是灰尘，都变成白色的了。他的脸往前伸着，直到那又黄又长的脖子伸到了极限，鞋扣一样的眼睛定在我身上。他两手一翻——那就是你能看到的全部，简单地两手一翻——然后手上就各握了一把很重的左轮手枪。 “把你的爪子搁在桌上，爱德！”他吼道。 爱德华的枪——如果他口袋里是那玩意儿的话——给一侧桌角挡住了，没法向门边的男人开枪。他从口袋里抽出手，空空的，然后两手掌心朝下放在桌面上。 “站着别动！”鹅脖子朝女孩嚷道。 鹅脖子朝我怒目而视了将近一分钟。他再开口时，是在跟爱德和小天使讲话。 “看来你们发电报要我回来就是为了这个，啊？陷阱！我替你们背黑锅，当替死鬼！我要说个清楚再离开这儿，就是把他妈的整个墨西哥佬军团都杀光了，我也不在乎。我是杀了你老婆——还有她的帮佣，就为一千块钱杀了他们——” 女孩朝他走了一步，扯着嗓子喊：“你他妈的闭嘴！” “你才给我闭嘴呢！”鹅脖子吼道，他的大拇指按在瞄准她的那把手枪的保险上，“现在是我在说话！我杀她是为了——” 小天使弯下腰，左手伸到衬裙里，手抬起来——空的。鹅脖子开枪的光照亮了一把飞着的钢刀。 那个女孩转身想穿过房间，一颗颗穿过她胸膛的子弹又把她推了回来。她后背撞上墙，向前栽倒在地板上。 鹅脖子停止了射击，想说话。女孩那把刀的棕色刀柄插在他黄色的脖子上，他没办法透过刀刃发声。他扔掉一支枪，想攥住那凸出的刀柄，手往上抬到半路就垂了下来。他缓缓下滑——膝盖着地——手和膝盖一起着地——往一边滚去，然后躺在那里不动了。 我起身跳向英国人，谁知道鹅脖子的左轮手枪掉到了我脚底下，我滑了一下侧着摔倒了。我的手掠过英国人的外套，不过让他挣开了，还掏出两把枪来。 他的眼睛又冷又硬，嘴巴紧闭着，几乎连条缝都看不到。当我在摔倒的地方一动不动地躺着时，他慢慢地倒退着穿过房间。他一句话也没说，在门口犹疑了一下。接下来门猛地开了又关上，他走了。 我捡起那把让我滑倒的枪，蹿到鹅脖子身边，从他僵死的手里拔出另一把，然后飞身上街。茶色敞篷车屁股冒烟地冲进沙漠。离我三十英尺远的地方停了辆满是灰尘的黑色旅行车，应该是鹅脖子从墨西卡利开回来的车。 我蹿过去，飞身上车，打着火，冲着前面的灰云开去。 我发现我屁股底下这辆车虽然外表破旧，但引擎性能相当好——好到我知道它是闯边境的专用车。我一路小心地开着，没有乱使劲。在大半个小时里，前头的灰云始终跟我保持一定距离，然后我发现自己开始占上风。 地面很颠簸，我们原本开过的路都逐渐消失了。我稍稍加大马力——不过换来的代价是巨大的噪声。 我躲过了一块有可能把我拍成肉酱的巨石——只有毫发之差——然后抬头向前看。茶色敞篷车不再扬沙了，它停下了。 敞篷车里没人，我继续往前开。 在敞篷车后面，一把手枪对着我开火，连开了三次。要把我放倒也真需要很好的枪法才行。我在车座上颠上颠下，好像一个