Chapter 7 farewell to murder
I was the only one who got off the train at Farewell Village.
A man walked through the rain from the waiting shed.He was small, with a dark, flat face, and he wore a gray waterproof cap and a gray military-style coat.
He didn't look at me, just looked at the suitcase and travel bag in my hand, and walked forward quickly, taking small steps.
He didn't say a word when he took the luggage from me.I asked, "From the Kavalovs?"
With his back turned to me, he was walking toward a brown Stutz sedan with his luggage, which was parked on the gravel-paved road beside the station platform.He just nodded at Stutz twice as an answer to my question, without turning his head or stopping his bouncing, semi-hopping steps.
I followed him to the car.
After only three minutes of driving, we passed through the small village and took a road heading west into the mountains.In the rain, the road looks like the back of a seal.
The flat-faced man was in a hurry, and we hurried across the road and passed the last cottage on the side of the hill.
In a short while we left the shiny black road and turned into a gray tree-lined road leading south to the top of the hill.Every hundred feet or so we entered a tunnel formed by boughs that shaded the sky on either side.The rain hanging on the branches fell in big drops, ding ding dong dong on the roof of Stutz's car.In these tunnels, rainy afternoons have almost turned into dark nights.
The flat-faced man turned on the light and accelerated.
He sat upright behind the wheel and I sat behind him.Above the collar of his military uniform, moisture, possibly rain or sweat, condensed into tiny shiny beads on the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck.
We drove into one of the tunnels.
The flat-faced man jerked his head to the left and screamed, "Ah-ah-ah!"
The voice was long, trembling, sharp, and full of fear. I jumped up and bent forward to see what happened to him. The car swerved sharply, then darted forward, throwing me back into my seat. From the side window, I caught a glimpse of something dark lying on the road.I jerk my head to try the rear window, which isn't particularly clouded by the rain. I saw a Negro lying on his back near the curb on the left.His body arched as if his weight was on his heels and the back of his head.The hilt, no shorter than six inches, stood upright in the air over his left chest. By the time I saw this, we had already turned the corner and exited the tunnel. "Stop!" I yelled at the flat-faced man. He pretended not to hear, and Stutz drew a brown line across the road.I put a hand on his shoulder. His shoulders twisted under my hand, and he yelled "Ah-ah-ah" again, as if it was the dead black person who had grabbed him. I reached over his shoulder and turned off the engine. He let go of the steering wheel, grabbed me tightly with both hands, and made noises incoherently, but it was all words I couldn't understand. I put one hand on the steering wheel and the other forearm caught under his chin.I leaned tightly against the back of his chair, with the weight of my entire upper body on his head, pressing his head hard on the steering wheel. After such a lot of tossing, and with God's help, Stutz finally did not leave the road when he stopped. I let go of the flat-faced man's head and asked, "What the hell is going on with you?" He rolled his eyes and looked at me, trembling, without saying a word. "Turn around," I said, "let's go back." His head was shaking eagerly, as if in despair, and more noise came from his mouth.Maybe coherent words, if I can understand them. "Do you know who that is?" I asked. He shook his head. "You know!" I growled. He shook his head. At this point I've started to suspect that no matter what I say to this guy, he just shakes his head in reply. I said, "Then don't drive, I'll drive back." He opened the car door and climbed out. "Get in the car!" I called him. He stepped back, shaking his head. I cursed at him, slid behind the wheel, said, "Okay, wait for me here," and slammed the door. He backed away slowly, rolling his eyes and watching me back up and turn around in horror. I drove back farther than I thought, about a mile. I couldn't find the black man, the tunnel was empty. If I knew exactly where he lay, I might have a clue as to how he was removed.But I didn't get a good look at my surroundings just now, so now there are four or five places that look like the scene. By the light of the headlights, I found the other end of the tunnel from the left side.I found no blood, I found no footprints, I found no trace of anyone lying in the road; I found nothing. It was so dark now that it was impossible for me to search the woods. I went back to where I left the flat-faced man. he is gone. It seems that Mr. Kavaloff might have a point in feeling the need for a detective, I thought. I drove half a mile further from where the flat-faced man had left me, and parked Stutz in front of a steel lattice gate in the middle of the road.The gate was locked from the inside, and was flanked by tall hedges that spilled into the woods.Over the top of the hedge on the left loomed the upper half of a small brown-roofed house. I honked Stutz's horn. The sound of the horn led a shy boy of fifteen or sixteen to the other side of the gate.He was wearing whitewashed chinos and a disheveled striped sweater.He didn't go into the middle of the road, but just stood aside, with one arm hidden behind the hedge, as if holding something to hide from me. "Is it the Kavalovs?" I asked. "Yes, sir," he said uncomfortably. I waited for him to unlock it, but he didn't, and stood there, still looking at the car and me with that uncomfortable expression. "Please, sir, can I go in?" I said. "What do you do—who are you?" "I'm the one Kavalov sent for. Let me know if you won't let me in, so I can catch the 6:50 train back to San Francisco." Biting his lip, the boy said, "Wait, see if I can find the key." Then he disappeared behind the hedge. He disappeared for a long time, long enough to find someone to talk to. When he came back, he unlocked the front door, snapped it open and said, "That's all right, sir, they're waiting for you." As I drove through the gate, I saw lights on top of a hill a mile or so ahead on my left. "Is that the house?" I asked. "Yes, sir, they are waiting for you." Next to where the boy had been when he had spoken to me through the gate, there was a double-barreled shotgun leaning against the hedge. I thanked the boy and continued driving.The road winds from the farmland to the top of the mountain, and tall and thin trees are planted at intervals on both sides of the road. The road finally brought me to a building that, in the twilight, looked like a cross between a fortress and a factory.The building is concrete.Imagine taking a bunch of chunky cones of different sizes, rounding the apex, placing the largest one in the middle, and placing the others not exactly according to the volume, but combined with the terrain of the hill—this is Cavallo model of husband's house.The windows were steel-framed, but few, and no two, were parallel or perpendicular to each other.Some of the doors were lit with lights. The narrow front door of the house opened as I got out of the car. A small, red-faced woman in her fifties stepped out.Her faded blond hair was coiled around her head, she wore a gray wool dress with a high neck and tight sleeves, and she grinned to the ears when she smiled. "Are you sir from the city?" she asked. "Yeah, I lost your driver on the way here." "God bless you, it's all right," she said kindly. A thin man walked past her, with thin black hair plastered to his scalp, his thin cheeks full of worry.He took the luggage I took out of the car and carried it into the house. The woman stood by and waited for me to enter.She said: "I think you definitely want to wash up before eating dinner. If you move quickly, they won't mind waiting for you for a few minutes." "Okay, thanks," I said, and waited for her to lead me up a flight of stairs inside one of the cones that made up the building. She took me to a bedroom on the second floor, where the skinny man was helping me get things out of my luggage. "If you need anything, just ask Martin. Please go downstairs after packing up." She told me at the door. I agreed and she left.By the time I took off my coat, vest, false collar, and shirt, the thin man had already packed his bags.I told him I didn't need anything else.I washed my face in the bathroom next door, put on a clean shirt, collar, vest, coat, and went downstairs. The wide hallway was empty, and the sound came from an open door on the left. A snorting whimper complained: "I don't want to bear it anymore, I can't bear it, I'm not a child anymore, I can't bear it." He pronounced the t a little hard, but not so hard that it sounded like a d. The other bass was quite lively, but a little rough.He said happily: "We are obviously enduring, what's the use of you saying that you can't bear it?" The third voice is a female voice, soft, flat, and lacking in spirit.She said, "But maybe his did kill him." Humming and chirping, he said, "I don't care, I can't take it anymore." The bass voice said happily as before: "Oh, you can't take it anymore?" There was a doorknob turning further down the corridor, and I didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, so I made my way to the open door. I stood in the doorway of a low-ceilinged oval room furnished and furnished in grey, white, and silver.Two men and a woman are inside. The older man—in his fifties—stood from a dark gray chair and bowed solemnly to me.The man was plump, of medium height, completely bald, with very dark skin and very light eyes.He sported a waxed gray mustache and a disheveled regal beard. "Mr. Kavaloff?" I asked. "Yes, sir." He was the whining voice. I said who I was and he shook my hand and introduced me to the others. The woman is his daughter, about thirty years old.She had the same full mouth as her father, but her eyes were dark, her nose was short and straight, and her skin was almost transparent.Her face is Asian: pretty, negative, ignorant. The bass was her husband Rigo, who was six or seven years older than her, neither tall nor fat, but with a strong physique.He had a plaster cast on his left arm, and the knuckles in his right hand were bruised.His face was thin, bony, and quick-witted, with many lines around his bright dark eyes, and a mouth with a kindly line. He stretched out his bruised hand to me, shook his bandaged arm, and grinned, "Sorry you missed this, but you'll be the one to get hurt in the future." "What's going on?" I asked. Kavaloff raised a fat hand. "There is plenty of time to discuss after dinner, let's eat first." He said. We entered a small green and brown dining room where a small square table was already set.There was a tall silver candlestick and a silver basket full of orchids in the middle of the table, and I sat across from Rigo with the flowers.Mrs Riggau sat on my right, Kavaloff on my left.As Kavalov sat down, I saw the pocket on his hip bulge in the shape of an automatic pistol. Two footmen were waiting on us to eat.A large table of dishes, and all of them were well prepared and delicious.We had caviar, some kind of broth, baby sole, potato and cucumber jelly, roast lamb, corn, long beans, asparagus, duck, corn cakes, artichoke and tomato salad, and orange ice.We drank white wine, red burgundy, coffee with mint cream. Kavalov ate and drank, and we were welcome. It was Kavalov himself who first disobeyed his order not to discuss troubles until after dinner.He finished his soup, put down his spoon, and said: "I'm not a kid, I'm not going to be scared." He blinked worried pale eyes and looked at me defiantly, his lips pursed between mustache and imperial mustache. Rigo looked at him happily.Mrs. Riggal looked calm, as if she hadn't heard anything. "What's there to be afraid of?" I asked. "Nothing, nothing but a bunch of stupidity, pointless tricks and tricks," Kavaloff said. "You can say what you want," a voice murmured over my shoulder, "but I see what I see." The voice came from one of the supper servants, a sallow young man with a narrow, slack-lipped face.When he spoke, he had a repressed stubbornness, his eyes kept looking at the food that was served for me, and he didn't lift his head when he spoke. Although they all heard it, no one cared what the servant said.I turned my face again to Kavaloff, who was picking the spines off the edge of a small plaice with a fork. "What kind of tricks and tricks?" I asked. Kavalov put down his fork, rested his wrist on the edge of the table, pursed his lips, and leaned forward towards me. "Suppose," he frowned, tugging at his bald scalp, "assuming you hurt someone ten years ago," he jerked his wrist, palm up against the white tablecloth, "it's normal business That kind of hurt, you know? It's all about the money, there's no personal vendetta, you don't even know him very well. Let's say it's ten years later, and he comes to you and says, 'I'm going to see it with my own eyes. You die.'" He turned his hands, palms down, "Well, what do you think?" "I don't think I'd be in a hurry to die because of him," I answered. The eagerness on his face disappeared, leaving only a blank.He blinked at me for a moment, then started to eat the fish.After eating the last piece of small plaice, he looked up at me again.Shaking his head slowly, the corners of his mouth drooped. "That's not a good answer," he said, shrugging his shoulders and stretching out his fingers, "but you have to deal with this colonel who is playing cat and mouse with me, and that's why I paid you to come here." I nod. Rigo smiled, patted his bandaged arm lightly and said, "I hope you have better luck than me." Mrs Riggal put out a hand and touched her husband's wrist with her pointed nails. I asked Kavaloff: "How serious is this so-called 'I caused damage'?" He pursed his lips and waved his right hand. "Uh, uh, ruined him." "So we can be sure your Colonel is serious?" "My God! I don't want him to be joking with breaking my arm," said Rigo, dropping his fork. Behind me, the yellow-faced servant said to his companion: "He wants to know if we think the Colonel is serious." "I hear. He's going to be a real help," said another sullenly. Kavaloff tapped his plate with his fork and glared at the two servants. "Shut up," he said, "where's the roast?" Then he pointed the fork at Mrs. Riggal and said, "Didn't you see that she's out of wine?" He looked at the fork and complained, "Look at what they do I haven't taken care of my silver for a whole month." He held out his fork to show me. Then he put down his fork and pushed the plate away to make room to rest his arms on the table.He shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward, moaned and sighed, and stared at me beseechingly with his pale eyes. "Listen," he groaned, "am I that stupid? If I don't need a detective, I'll hire someone all the way from San Francisco? If I don't need the best detective I can find, I'll pay Your price is so high? In fact, I can find a bunch of good detectives with only half of the money I gave you! If the Colonel wasn’t so dangerous, would I hire such expensive detectives?” I didn't speak, just sat quietly with a focused expression. He continued to whine, "Look, this ain't an April Fool's joke, this Colonel really wants to kill me. He's here to kill me. He's going to kill me if nobody cares." "What has he done so far?" I asked. "That's not the point." Kavalov shook his bald head impatiently. "I'm not asking you to undo everything he's done. I'm asking you to prevent him from killing me. So far he's done What? Well, he scared my men to death and broke Dolph's arm. If you must know, that's all he's done so far." "How long has it been? How long has he been here?" I asked. "One week plus two days." "Did your driver tell you about the black people we saw on the road?" Kavaloff pouted his lips and nodded slowly. "When I looked back, he was gone," I said. He took a deep breath and exclaimed excitedly: "I don't care about black people or roads, what I care about is not being slaughtered." "Did you report it to the police?" I asked, pretending not to be provoked. "Reported, what's the use? Did he threaten me? Well, he told me that he came here to watch me die with his own eyes. From his mouth, and his tone of voice, it is a threat .But that's not a threat to the police. He scares my people. Do I have evidence? Fingerprints on the scare it brings? So the cop's conclusion is: we'll keep one eye on him, listen up, he says 'one eye'! Including servants and farmhands, I have twenty here, Forty eyes, and he can't come and go. One eye!" "And what about Rigo's arm?" I asked. Kavalov shook his head impatiently, and began to chop up his mutton hastily and quickly. "I don't blame him for this, I did it first." Rigo said, looking at the bruised joints, "I didn't expect him to be so powerful, maybe I'm old. Anyway, before he touched me, there were a dozen People saw me punch him on the jaw—in front of the post office at noon." "Who is this Colonel?" "It wasn't him, it was the nigger," said the yellow-faced servant. Rigaud said: "His name is Sherry, Hugh Sherry. When we knew him, he was a colonel in the British Quartermaster Office in Cairo. In 1917, twelve years ago, the Brigadier General—" He said Nodding to his father-in-law, "Speculating in munitions. Sherry should go to the front. He's not fit for a desk. He's too bold. Someone said that if Sherry wasn't so bold, the Commodore wouldn't be making money." That's a lot of money. Although they knew that Sheri hadn't filled his pockets, when they asked the brigadier general to leave, they still sent money to Sheri and sent him away." Kavaloff looked up from his plate and explained, "That's the way business is in wartime. If I did something that would get them to hang on to me, they wouldn't let me go." "And now, twelve years after you left him disgraced and fired from the Army," I said, "he comes here and threatens to kill you. You believe it, and start spreading panic among your people. That's it. ?" "That's not it," Kavalov groaned, "not at all. It wasn't because of me that he got kicked out of the army. I'm a businessman, and I work wherever there's money to be made. Somebody made me money, It's none of my business to annoy his own boss again? Besides, I don't believe he's really planning to kill me, I know that." "I'm just trying to sort things out," I said. "There's nothing to reason about. Someone's going to kill me, and I'll pay you to come and keep him from doing it. Isn't it that simple?" "It's that simple." I agreed, not wanting to argue with him any longer. Kavaloff and Rigaud smoked cigars, Mrs. Rigaud and I smoked over coffee with mint cream.At this moment, a red-faced blonde woman in a gray sweater walked in. She moved hurriedly, her eyes were wide open and dark. "Anthony says there's a fire in the north field," she said. Kavaloff bit off his cigar and looked at me. "How do I get there?" I asked, standing up. "I will lead the way." Rigo also stood up and said. "Dorph," protested his wife, "your arm." He smiled at her gently and said, "I won't do anything, I just follow to see how the experts deal with this kind of thing." I ran upstairs to get my hat, coat, flashlight and gun. The Rigauds were waiting at the front door when I went downstairs. Rigo wore a dark raincoat buttoned tightly around his injured arm, the left sleeve dangling empty.He wrapped his right arm around his wife, and she hung her bare arms around his neck, leaning back vigorously; he pressed forward on her, their mouths glued together. I took a few steps back, and when I reappeared, I made more movement with my feet.The two of them separated at the door and stood waiting for me.Rigo was panting heavily, as if he had run a long way.He opened the door. Mrs Rigg said to me, "My husband is a fool, please don't let him be too reckless." I said no, and asked him, "Need to take a servant or farm hand?" He shook his head. "The ones that don't hide are as useless as the ones that hide," he said. "They're all terrified." He went out with me, leaving Mrs. Rigaud watching at the door.The rain had stopped by then, but the black cloud overhead foreshadowed more soon. Rigo led me around the side of the house, down a path through bushes, past a group of small houses in a shallow ravine, and then diagonally across another, even lower hill. The path was soaked with rain.At the top of the hill we turned off the trail, stepped through a wire gate, and walked across sticky, wet fields from fresh harvest.We walked very fast, the slimy mud, the sultry evening wind, and our coats made us sweat all over the road. After passing through the farmland, we saw the firelight through the trees, a flickering orange light.We climbed over a short barbed wire fence and through the woods. Something passed through the leaves above our heads, making a rattling sound, came from the left, and then hit a tree trunk directly to our right, and then fell on the soft soil under the tree with a plop. ring. Laughter came from the left, wild and creepy. Laughter can't be too far away from me, so I searched for it. The fire was too small and too far away to be of much use to me, and it was almost dark among the trees. I either tripped over a tree root or slammed into a tree trunk, and still found nothing.The flashlight would be more beneficial to the laughing person, so I just kept it in my hand and didn't turn it on. When I got tired of playing hide-and-seek with myself, I walked through the woods to the field on the other side, toward the firelight. The fire was lit on the other side of the field, nearly twelve feet from the nearest tree.It was the dry branches that hadn't been covered by the rain, and I had almost finished burning them by then. On both sides of the fire, two short branches with branches were inserted into the ground, and a section of green sapling was built on the two branches.Stretched on a sapling and hanging in the fire was a dead eighteen-inch dog, headless, tailless, legless, and split straight in front. The head, fur, feet, tail, guts, and a lot of blood of a brown shaggy puppy lay a few feet away on the ground. There were a few dry twigs by the fire, folded to a convenient length for burning.I threw the branch into the fire when Rigo came to join me from the woods.He holds a stone the size of a grapefruit in his hand. "See the face clearly?" he asked. "No, he smiled and ran away." He handed me the stone and said, "This is what hit us." Round, hollow eyes, a triangular nose, and a grinning mouth bared with teeth—a crude skull—are drawn in red on the smooth gray stone. I picked out a red eye with a finger and said, "Crayon." Rigo stared at the dead dog sizzling on the fire and the debris on the ground. "What do you think is going on here?" I asked. He swallowed and said, "Mickey is a very good puppy." "your?" He nodded. I looked around with a flashlight and found some footprints, if that counts. "Have you found anything?" Rigo asked. "Yes," I pointed to a footprint for him to see, "there are rags tied to the feet, so it's useless." We turned to the fire again. "Another show," I said. "Whoever kills and guts a puppy must be an old hand. He knows very well that he can't eat that roast. It's not hot inside. It's burnt on the outside." It's burnt. And if he puts the pole like that, if it is turned over, the dog will fall." Rigo's frown relaxed a little. "Better that way," he said. "It's cruel enough for someone to kill it, and I can't bear the thought of eating it, or intending to." "They didn't eat it," I assured him. "It was just for show. Is this what happens all the time?" "right." "What is this for?" He gloomily quotes Kavaloff: "The cat catches the mouse, Colonel." I gave him a cigarette, took one myself, and lit it with the burning stick in the fire. He looked up at the sky and said, "It's raining again, let's go home." But he was still standing by the fire, staring at the dead dog roasting.The stench of burnt flesh was strong all around us. "You haven't taken this seriously, have you?" After a while, he asked in a low voice, in a down-to-earth tone. "It's a fun design." He continued in the same small voice: "You can think of him as a madman. He is a man who cares about honor, so in Cairo, we just played him, but didn't dare to bribe him. It won't take ten years, bad Fame can knock down a man like that. He hid himself and thought about it for so long. When the blow came, he either shot himself or killed himself. At first I was like you," he kicked the fire "I don't think it makes sense. But now I can't laugh unless Miriam and the Commodore are around. When he first came, I didn't believe I couldn't handle him. I handled him well in Cairo. Later When I saw something was wrong, I lost control and ran to reason with him. Well, it didn't work out. It just didn't make sense, that's why it was so bad. In Cairo, he combed his hair before shaving, so in the mirror Saw a neat face. You know what I mean?" "I've got to talk to him first," I said. "Does he live in the village?" "He has a hut on the mountain, turn to the main road, the first building on the left." Rigo threw the cigarette into the fire, bit his lower lip and stared at me, "I don't know if you are compatible with the Colonel. With him Don't joke around, he doesn't understand, and he won't trust you because of it." "I'll be careful," I promised. "Isn't it worth giving this Sherry money?" "Bah, no use," he said softly, "he's too crazy to take money." Before going back to the house, we took down the dead dog and kicked the fire away and kicked it into the mud. The next morning, the clear sun made the countryside fresh and bright, and a warm breeze dried the soil and chased the cotton-like clouds in the sky. At ten o'clock I went to Colonel Cheri's house, and found his house without difficulty.It was a small bungalow with pink stucco walls and an earthy red roof.A gravel road leads there from the main road. In front of the whole bungalow is a tiled balcony, on which there is a table covered with a white tablecloth, and two sets of tableware are placed on it. Before I could knock, it was opened by a thin black man in a white coat.He looked more like an older boy, with thinner features than most African-Americans; he had a hooked nose, and was intelligent and lovable. "Lying on such a wet road like you, even if you don't get run over by a car, you will catch a cold." I said. He grinned all the way to his ears, showing a lot of healthy yellow teeth. "Yes, sir," he said, bowing and hissing heavily, "the colonel is waiting for your breakfast. Sit down, sir, and I'll fetch him." "No dog meat?" He grinned again and shook his head violently. "No, sir." He raised his black hand and counted. "Sherring with oranges, roast kidneys, eggs, marmalade, toast, and tea and coffee. No dog." "Okay," I said, and sat down in a wicker chair with arms on the balcony. I had time to light a cigarette before Colonel Sherry came out. He was a tall, gaunt man of forty.The sandy hair parted in the middle is docile on his small head, and his face is very tanned.His eyes were gray and the line of the lower lid was as straight as a ruler.Beneath the short-shaven, sandy mustache, his mouth was another hard, straight line.Nasolabial folds extend from his nose to the corner of his mouth like a slit, and two equally deep wrinkles extend from his cheeks to the sharp jawbone.He pulled a bright flannel-striped bathrobe over sandy pajamas. "Good morning," he said cheerfully, giving me half a salute without showing any intention of shaking hands, "don't get up, Marcus's breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. I'm a night owl and I made a very Horrible dream." He dragged his voice deliberately and lazily, "I dreamed that Theodore Kavalov's neck was cut from here to here." He gestured under his ears with his bony fingers, "It's really bloody Yes, it was horrible. He was bleeding and screaming, the pig." I grinned at him and asked, "You don't like that?" "Oh, of course it would be nice to have his neck cut, but he's bleeding and screaming, it's disgusting." He sniffed up his nose. "There's honeysuckle here?" "Smells like it. Did you mean to cut his neck when you threatened him?" He went on in a drawn-out voice: "When I threatened him, dear friend, I didn't think so. I was in Ouja, a little smelly Moroccan town near the Algerian border. One morning The orange tree started talking to me. It said, 'Go to Goodbye Village in California, USA, and watch Theodore Kavaloff die.' I think that's a great idea. I thank the voice , asked Marcus to pack up, and here he came. I told Kavaloff about it as soon as I got here. I thought he was going to die right away, so I wouldn't have to wait here. But he didn't , and it was too late. I regret not asking the exact date of the sound, I don't like wasting months here." "So you're trying to find a way to speed things up?" I asked. "Please repeat." "Threats. Stone skulls, roast dogs, missing bodies," I said. "I've been in Africa for fifteen years," he said. "I'm sure of the voice of the orange tree. No one plays tricks there. You don't have to connect those things to me." "Where's Marcus?" Sherry touched his freshly shaved face and replied, "It's possible that he has an incorrigible taste for the rougher African nonsense. If you have any definite evidence that he has done anything out of the ordinary, I will Slap him." "If I catch him doing something out of the ordinary," I said, "I'll whip him myself." Cheri leaned forward and said carefully in a low voice, "Make sure you don't make him suspicious until you're sure you've got him. Those two knives are no joke." "I'll try to remember. Didn't the voice of the orange tree mention Rigo?" "No need. If there is no skin, there will be no hair." The black boy Marcus came out with food in his hands.We turn to the table and I start my second breakfast. Cheri wondered if the voice speaking to him from the orange tree had also spoken to Kavaloff.He said he asked Kavalov, but did not get a satisfactory answer.For all he knew, the voice that would announce the death of his enemy to someone, usually warned the dying man as well. "As far as I know, that's the traditional way," he said. "I have no idea," I said, "I'll try to find out for you. Maybe I should ask him what he dreamed about last night." "Did he look like he had a nightmare this morning?" "I don't know, he wasn't up when I left." Cheri's eyes turned hot gray spots. "You mean you have no idea how he was doing this morning, whether he was alive or dead, whether my dream was real or not?" he asked. "Yes indeed." The hard lines of his mouth relaxed into a slow, joyous smile. "My God, that's wonderful, I thought--looking at you just now, as if I'm sure I'm just having a really ridiculous dream that doesn't make any sense," he said. He clapped his hands loudly. Dark boy Marcus popped out of the door with a bang. "Pack up your things," Cheri ordered, "The bald head is finished, let's go." Marcus bowed, smiled and retreated into the house. "Won't you better wait and make sure?" I asked. "I'm sure," he said in a long voice, "as sure as the orange tree's voice. There's nothing to wait, I've seen him die with my own eyes." "dreaming." "Is it a dream?" he asked casually. After ten to fifteen minutes, I was gone.Marcus pings and pings around the house, sounding like he's actually packing. Cheri shook my hand and said, "It was a pleasure to have breakfast with you. I'll see you when you have a chance to work in North Africa. Say hello to Miriam and Dolph for me, I can't really say hello Condolences to them." After getting out of the bungalow, thinking they couldn't see me, I left the road and went up the side path to see if there was a higher place from which to watch Sherry's place.我找到一个小据点，是栋破破烂烂的空屋子，位于东北方向的一个小山梁上。从空屋的前廊可以看到那平房的整个前面、侧面的一部分，还有石子路的大部分，包括它跟大路连接的部分。肉眼看去是嫌远，不过有望远镜就完美了，而且前头还有茂盛的树丛当屏风。 等我回到卡瓦洛夫家时，里戈正坐在树下一张芦苇编的椅子上，那椅垫颜色真鲜亮。他手里拿着一本书。 “你觉得他怎么样？”他问，“疯了吗？” “不是很疯。他要我代问你和里戈太太好。胳膊怎么样？” “很不好，昨天晚上一定淋了很多雨，弄得我一整夜都疼得要死。” “你看到猫抓老鼠上校了？”卡瓦洛夫哼哼唧唧的声音从我身后传来，“还满意吗？” 我转过身，看到他从屋子旁边的一条小路上走过来。今天早晨他脸色发灰，不过在他的V字领上面，我看到他的脖子还没有被割开。 “我走的时候，他在收拾东西，要回非洲去。”我说。 那天是星期四，没发生别的事。 星期五一大早，我卧室的门就嘭的一声被推开了，吵醒了我。 瘦脸门房马丁冲进我房间，开始摇我的肩膀。虽然他到床边时我已经坐起身了。 因为恐惧，他的瘦脸蜡黄蜡黄的，很难看。 “出事了，噢，老天，出事了。”他断断续续地说。 "What happened?" “出事了，出事了。” 我把他推到一旁，下了床。他猛地转身，跑进我的浴室。我把脚伸进拖鞋时，听到他在吐。 卡瓦洛夫的卧室和我的卧室隔着三道门，在屋子的同一边。 尽管我一个人影也看不到，但房子里满是噪声和激动的说话声、关门开门声。 我向卡瓦洛夫的门跑去，是开着的。 卡瓦洛夫在里面，躺在一张低矮的西班牙床上，床单掀到了床尾。他仰面躺着，脖子被人割了，一道和下巴平行的弯弯的口子，离耳垂一英寸远。 血渗进蓝色枕套和床单的地方已经紫得像葡萄汁一样，又黏又稠，都结成块了。 穿着披风式浴袍的里戈走了进来。 “出事了！”我重复着门房的话，对他低吼道。 里戈呆呆地看着床，样子惨兮兮的，开始用哽咽的声音小声骂起来。 红脸金发女人——管家露拉·科利——尖叫着进来，推开我们，跑到床边，还在尖叫。她的手伸向被子时，我攥住了她的胳膊。 “任何东西都别碰。”我说。 “给他盖上点东西，给他盖上点东西，可怜哪！”她叫道。 我把她从床边拉开。现在房里已经有四五个仆人了。我把她交给其中的两个，让他们把她带出去，安慰安慰。她又哭又笑地走开了。 里戈还在瞪着床。 “里戈太太呢？” 他没听到，我轻轻拍了拍他没受伤的胳膊，重复我的问题。 “她在自己房里。她——她知道就好，还是别来看了。” “你最好还是过去照顾她吧？” 他点点头，慢慢地转身，走了出去。 门房走进来，还是一脸蜡黄。 “我要这里的每一个人，包括仆人和农场雇工，都聚到楼下前厅里。”我告诉他，“要他们马上过去，等警察来。” “是的，先生。”他说完便下楼去了，其他人全跟着。 我关上卡瓦洛夫的门，穿过房间来到他书房，打电话给郡政府的警察局。我跟一个叫希登的副警长讲了话。我把事情经过说了以后，他说警长会在半小时内到。 我回房换衣服。等我换完了，门房上来告诉我，所有人都聚在前厅了，除了里戈夫妇和里戈太太的女仆。 警长到时，我正在检查卡瓦洛夫的卧室。这位警长是个有着温和的蓝眼睛的白发老头，声音也温和，不过从白色八字胡底下传出来有点含糊。他带了三名副警长、一个医生、一个法医。 “里戈和门房知道的比我多。”我们一一握完手以后，我说，“我会尽快赶回来，这会儿我要去谢里那儿，里戈会告诉你他的角色。” 我在车库里选了辆溅满泥巴的雪佛兰，向平房开去。到了以后却发现门窗都紧闭着，敲门也没人应。 我沿着石子路走回车子，往下开到再会村，没费一点儿力气就打听到，谢里和马库斯已经在前一天下午上了两点十分到洛杉矶的火车，拎了三个行李箱和半打袋子。村里的快递员帮他们托运的。 我发了封电报到洛杉矶分社后，开始查租房给谢里的人。 他只表达了失望，因为这两个人连两个星期都没住够。房客的其他事情他一概不知。谢里已经还了钥匙，附上短短的字条说他临时有事不得不走。 我把便条装进兜里，笔迹随时都有可能用得上。然后我借了平房的钥匙，回那边查看。 除了一堆日后有可能派上用场的指纹，在那儿我没找到任何有用的线索。那房子一点儿也没透露我要的人上哪儿去了。 我回到卡瓦洛夫家。 警长已经问完了所有人的话。 “什么都没问出来。”他说，“从昨晚上床时间开始就没有人听到或者看到什么，直到今早八点门房开门叫他，看到他就那样死了。你还知道别的什么吗？” “不知道，他们跟你提到谢里了？” “噢，提了，我看他就是咱们要找的人了，嗯？” “是啊。据说他昨天下午就打好包，跟他的手下往洛杉矶去了。我们应该可以从这条线索挖出点儿什么来。医生怎么说？” “说是今天凌晨三点和四点之间，有人拿一把很沉的刀杀死了他。从左到右干净地一划，像是左撇子干的。” “也许刀口是很干净，”我同意道，“不过肯定不是挥手一划；划得比那个慢。如果随手划一条曲线，中间应该往上弯，离杀人的人远些，而两头应该往下靠近死者。现在却刚好相反。” “噢，好吧。这个谢里是左撇子吗？” “不知道。”我心里想不知道马库斯是不是，“刀找到了吗？” “影子都没有，而且我们里里外外什么也没发现。卡瓦洛夫那么害怕，按理说门窗都应该锁紧啊，可他的窗户开着，谁都可以拿把梯子爬进去，门也没锁，真奇怪。” “这有很多原因，他——” 一名副警长——一个肩膀厚实的金发男人——走到门边说：“我们找到刀了。” 警长和我跟着副警长走出房子，绕到卡瓦洛夫房间所在的那一边。在通往农场雇工住处那条小路边上的灌木丛中，一把刀的刀刃插进地下。 漆成红色的木刀把朝着屋子的方向。刀刃上有点血渍，不过已经被松软的泥土抹掉了大半。油漆刀把上没有血迹，也没有类似指纹的东西。 刀子附近松软的土上没有脚印，显然刀子是给丢进灌木丛里的。 “我看这儿就这些了，”警长说，“也看不出这里的人跟这事儿有没有关系。咱们找那个谢里上校去吧。” 我跟他一起到了村里。我们在邮局得知谢里留了个转信地址：密苏里州圣路易邮局邮件领取窗口。邮局局长说谢里待在再会村时从来没收过信。 我们到了电报室，得知谢里没发也没收过电报。我发了封电报到圣路易分社。 我们接下来在村里的查访都毫无结果，除了知道再会村大部分闲汉都看到谢里和马库斯上了两点十分往南开的火车。 我们回卡瓦洛夫家以前，收到一封从洛杉矶分社发给我的电报： 我们回到那房子时，我在走廊里碰到了里戈。我问他：“谢里是左撇子吗？” 他想了想，然后摇摇头。 “记不得了，”他说，“有可能。我问问米丽安，也许她知道，女人就记得这些事。” 再次下楼时，他对我点了点头。 “他很可能两手都用，不过左手更常用。你问这个干吗？” “医生觉得是左撇子干的。里戈太太现在怎么样？” “最严重的惊吓已经过去了，现在好些了，谢谢。” 星期六整整一天，谢里的行李放在洛杉矶车站都没人领。那天傍晚，警长向外界宣布了谢里和黑人因杀人被通缉。晚些时候，我们俩便上了南下的火车。 周日早上我们跟两个洛杉矶警察局的人把行李打开了。除了不包含任何信息的合法衣物和私人用品外，什么也没找着。 这趟差出得一无所获。 我回到旧金山，印了大量传单，四处分发。 两个星期过去了，除了一堆假警报，传单没起到任何效果。 然后斯波坎警察局在史蒂芬斯街一栋出租的房子里抓到了谢里和马库斯。 有人匿名报警说，住在那里的弗雷德·威廉斯几乎每天都有神秘的黑人来访，还说他们行动异常诡秘。斯波坎警察局有我们的传单，根本不需要看弗雷德·威廉斯的袖扣和手帕上HS的姓名缩写，就知道他是我们要的人。 经过两小时的盘问，谢里承认他了的身份，不过否认杀了卡瓦洛夫。 警长的两个手下北上，把犯人带到郡政府。 谢里刮掉了八字胡，脸上和声音里都没露出半点担心的样子。 “我知道做了那场梦以后，就没什么好等的了，”他拉着长音说，“所以我就走了。后来等我听说那梦成了真，我就知道你们这帮侦探会赶着来逮我。还真以为一个人能控制自己的梦吗？所以我，呃，就找了个地方藏起来了。” 他庄严地向警长和地方检察官重复了那个橘子树的声音的故事，报社喜欢这样的故事。但他拒绝告诉我们他的逃亡路线，也不告诉我们他这段时间做了什么。 “不，不，”他说，“抱歉，不过我不能说，说不好我以后还得这么干呢，我可不能透露我的方法。” 他不肯告诉我们命案当晚他人在哪里。但我们基本肯定，他在火车还没到洛杉矶时提前下了车，虽然火车工作人员给不出证据。 “抱歉，”他拉着长音说，“你们这帮人连我当时人在哪儿都不知道，又怎么知道我在命案现场？” 马库斯更难缠。他的标准答案是：“我不太懂英语，问上校，我不知道。” 检察官在办公室里踱了很长时间，咬着指甲气冲冲地告诉我们，要是我们无法证明谢里或者马库斯命案当时——或在那之前、之后——在卡瓦洛夫家附近的话，这案子就要败诉了。 警长是我们当中唯一确认谢里是杀人凶手的。在他心里，他已经看见谢里被绞死了。 谢里找了个律师——一个流里流气脸色发白的男人，戴着金边眼镜，薄薄的嘴唇不停地抽动。律师叫谢弗，他来来回回走着，对着他自己笑，也对着我们笑。 检察官的手指甲只剩下两个大拇指没啃过了。就在他开始啃它们时，我跟里戈借了车，开始顺着铁轨南下，想弄清楚谢里是在哪儿下的火车。当然，我们已经拍下这两个人的大头照，所以我随身带了照片。 我在再会村和洛杉矶之间的每个火车站都出示了这两个浑蛋的照片，还有铁轨两边二十里之内的每个村庄，以及大部分的零散住户，但什么结果也没有。 没有证据说谢里和马库斯不是直接到洛杉矶的。 他们的火车应该是那天晚上十点半到洛杉矶。从洛杉矶开出的火车不可能及时把他们拉回再会村杀掉卡瓦洛夫。倒是有两个可能：飞机可以从容地拉他们回去，汽车也有可能做到，虽然听起来不那么可信。 我先去查飞机，可是找不到当晚载过人的飞行员。在洛杉矶警察局以及大陆侦探社洛杉矶分社的几名侦探的帮助下，我和所有拥有飞机的人——公家的和私人的都见了面，答案都是没有。 我又查了不怎么被看好的汽车。较大的出租车公司和租车行一律说“没有”。当晚十到十二点之间有四辆私家车报警失窃。其中两辆第二天早晨在城里找到了，它们没有往返于再会村。第三辆第二天在圣地亚哥被人发现，所以这辆也不算。还有一辆没消息，是派克双门轿车，我们找了印刷工把车子的外观印成明信片。 要找到所有小型出租车和租车公司老板可是件大工程，何况还有人可能把私家车出租一个晚上，所以我们请报社帮忙打了广告。 我们没找到有关汽车的消息。这条新路线本来是想找出我们的人在命案前后几个钟头的行踪，不料竟带来了别的结果。 圣佩德罗（离洛杉矶二十五里远的海港）有个黑人在命案当天凌晨一点被捕。黑人英文很差，不过有文件证明他叫皮耶·蒂萨诺，是法国水手。他是因为醉酒闹事被捕的。 圣佩德罗警察说，我们描述的所谓的叫马库斯的人，还有他的照片，都跟醉酒水手完全吻合。 圣佩德罗警察不只说了这些。 蒂萨诺一点钟被捕。两点才过一点儿，一个自称亨利·萨莫顿的白人就来保释他。值班警察告诉萨莫顿，第二天早上才能办手续，再说想带蒂萨诺离开的话，最好还是等他酒醒了。萨莫顿马上同意了，还跟警察聊了半个多钟头，大概三点离去。第二天早晨十点他又去了，付了黑人的罚金，他们一起走了。 圣佩德罗警方说，除了没有八字胡，谢里的照片和亨利·萨莫顿一模一样。 亨利·萨莫顿两次去警察局的中间找了一间旅馆住。他留在旅馆登记簿上的签名和谢里写给平房主人那张字条的笔迹相符。 很明显，卡瓦洛夫遇害时，谢里和马库斯都在圣佩德罗，离再会村有九个小时的火车。 但一扯上命案，再明显的事都还不够明显。我把圣佩德罗的内勤警察带到北边去看那两个人。 “就是他们俩，错不了。”他说。 检察官把他剩下的拇指指甲全啃光了。 警长一脸茫然，像手里拿了气球的小孩，听到扑哧一声，却不知道气球哪儿去了。 我装出百分之百满意的样子。 “现在我们又回到原点了。”检察官不高兴地叹息着，好像这事儿除了他谁都有错，“还浪费了好几个星期。” 警长没看检察官，也没说话。 “噢，我倒不觉得，我们还是有进展的。”我说。 “什么进展？” “我们知道了谢里跟他仆人有不在场证明。” 检察官觉得我好像在耍他。我没在意他朝我做的鬼脸，问道：“你打算拿他们怎么办？” “除了放掉，还能怎么办？这个命案可是永远翻不了身了。” “要喂饱他们也花不了郡政府多少钱，”我提议道，“为什么不尽可能拖着他们呢？同时我们也好想想办法，搞不好会查出什么新情况来。而且就算没有，你们也可以随时撒手不管。你该不会以为他们是无辜的吧？” 他看了我一眼，眼神沉重酸楚，带着对一个傻子的怜悯。 “他们犯的罪足够下地狱了，可如果我没法定罪，那又有什么用？我是能关着他们，可这有什么用？他妈的，老兄你跟我一样清楚，只要他们现在要求放人，法官就不会不答应。” “是啊，”我同意道，“我跟你赌旧金山最好的一顶帽子，他们是不会要求的。” "What's the meaning?" “他们想要受审，”我说，“否则他们早在我们挖出他们的不在场证明前就走人了。我在想，他们一定也是自己送上斯波坎警察局的门的。而且我再跟你赌帽子，谢弗不会要求人身保护令。” 检察官怀疑地盯着我的眼睛。 “你是不是知道什么没说？”他质问道。 “没有，不过你会知道我这样说是对的。” 我确实是没错。谢弗继续四处走着，对他自己微笑，根本没有努力把他的客户从郡立监狱救出来的意思。 三天后有了新的发现。 一个叫阿奇巴尔德·维克斯的男人来见检察官，他在卡瓦洛夫家往南大概十里的地方有个小小的养鸡场。维克斯说他命案当天一大早在那儿看到了谢里。 维克斯当天早晨准备出发到艾奥瓦州看望他父母。他一早起来去看看是否一切正常，然后好开二十英里的车去赶早班火车。 五点半到六点之间，他到停车棚去看汽油够不够用。 有个男人跑出棚子，跳过篱笆，冲下马路。维克斯追了一小段路，可对他来说那人跑得太快了。那人衣着得当，不像流浪汉，维克斯觉得他可能是想偷车。 因为维克斯非东行不可，而他不在时，他太太就只有两个儿子陪她——一个十七岁，一个十五岁，所以他觉得最好还是别提他在棚里意外见到的男人，免得她担惊受怕。 他从艾奥瓦州回来的第二天就来了检察官办公室。他听说了卡瓦洛夫命案的细节，又在报上看到了谢里的照片，认出他就是那天早上他追的男人。 我们带他去见谢里本人。他说谢里就是那个人。谢里没说话。 由于维克斯的证据和圣佩德罗警察局的相抵触，检察官起诉了谢里。马库斯以关键证人的身份出席，不过因为他在圣佩德罗的不在场证明仍然牢不可破，所以他没有受审。 维克斯在证人席上简单地说了他的故事，然后又在交叉盘问下回答得前后矛盾，他完全崩溃了。 他回答谢弗的问题时承认，他不完全确定谢里就是他先前见过的人。当然，那人看起来是有点儿像谢里，可他当初也只是惊鸿一瞥，也许斩钉截铁说那人就是谢里是草率了些。经过再三考虑后，他确定在朦胧的晨光下没有看清楚那个人。最后，维克斯能保证的只是他看到一个长得有点像谢里的男人。 简直是个笑话。 检察官没指甲啃了，他啃起手指头来。 陪审团说：“无罪。” 谢里无罪释放，就卡瓦洛夫命案来说，他是永远清白了，不管以后还有什么新发现。 马库斯也无罪释放了。 我出发回旧金山时，检察官不肯跟我说再见。 谢里释放后四天，里戈太太走进我的办公室。 她一身黑，漂亮无知的东方面孔并不平静。 “拜托，别告诉多尔夫我来这儿了好吗？”这是她的第一句话。 “当然，如果你不让我说的话。”我答应道。 她坐下来，睁大眼睛看着我。 “他实在太轻率了。”她说。 我同情地点点头，不知道她想干什么。 “而且我还担心，”她两手绞着手套，下巴发抖，哆哆嗦嗦地补充道，“他们又回到那平房去了。” “是吗？”我坐直身子。我知道他们是谁。 “他们回来没别的理由，”她叫道，“一定是要像杀了父亲那样杀掉多尔夫。可他不听我的，他太自信了。他每次都笑我，叫我傻孩子，告诉我他可以照顾自己。可是他不能，至少在断了一只胳膊的情况下不能。他们会像杀父亲一样杀掉他的，我知道，我知道。” “谢里恨你丈夫跟恨你父亲一样吗？” “是的，是一样的。多尔夫以前帮父亲做事，不过那件——那件给谢里带来麻烦的生意，多尔夫插手的比……比父亲要多。请你……请你挡住他们不要杀多尔夫好吗？好吗？” "certainly." “而且你千万不能告诉多尔夫。”她坚持道，“要是他发现你在盯他们，也千万不能告诉他是我来找你的。他会生我的气。我说过要他找你，可他——”她停了下来，一脸尴尬，我想她丈夫大概提过卡瓦洛夫也没因为我逃过一死，“可他不同意。” “他们回来多久了？” “前天到现在。” “我明天过去。”我答应道，“我的忠告是：告诉你先生你请了我。不过你不想说的话我也不勉强。” “你不会让他伤到多尔夫吧？” 我答应尽力而为，收了她一些钱，给了她一张收据，然后鞠躬送她出去。 当晚天黑后不久，我又到了再会村。 我爬上小山经过平房时，看到房子的窗户被灯照亮了。我有股下跑车去看看的冲动，但又担心在马库斯的地盘上我没法比他棋高一着。 等我转上那条通向我第一趟到再会村时发现的空屋的土路时，我关掉跑车的灯，在头顶明晃晃的月亮照耀下上了山。 快到空屋时，我把车从小路上开下来。然后我走进摇摇晃晃的前廊，找到平房的位置，开始调整望远镜。 平房的前门打开时，我才调整好一部分，只见那里露出一小片黄光和两个人。 其中一个是女人。 门的合叶又稍微扭了一下，她的脸清楚地映入我的眼帘——里戈太太。 她竖起外套领子遮住脸，匆匆走下石子路。谢里站在阳台上目送她离去。 等上了大路，她开始往山上的家里跑。 谢里进了屋关上门。 两个半小时以后，一个男人从大路拐上石子路。他快步走向平房，迅速中带着谨慎，走路时不停地东张西望。 我想他是敲了门的。 门开时，一道黄光打在他脸上，是多尔夫·里戈的脸。他进去，门关上了。 我收好望远镜，离开前廊，出发去平房。我不确定我能再给跑车找到个好的停车位，所以我就没动它，走路过去。 我不敢冒险走石子路。 在石子路上方二十英尺处，我离开大路，在软泥、树、灌木和花丛之间行走，尽可能不弄出响声。我知道我面对的是谁，所以我手里攥着枪。 平房面对我这一侧的所有窗户都透出灯光，不过它们都关着，百叶窗也拉上了。灯光透出百叶窗，再加上月光，照得附近一片雪亮。我在山脊上眯着眼睛从望远镜偷看时，月光对我很有利，可这会儿我想凑近听个清楚就不行了。
The voice was long, trembling, sharp, and full of fear. I jumped up and bent forward to see what happened to him. The car swerved sharply, then darted forward, throwing me back into my seat. From the side window, I caught a glimpse of something dark lying on the road.I jerk my head to try the rear window, which isn't particularly clouded by the rain. I saw a Negro lying on his back near the curb on the left.His body arched as if his weight was on his heels and the back of his head.The hilt, no shorter than six inches, stood upright in the air over his left chest. By the time I saw this, we had already turned the corner and exited the tunnel. "Stop!" I yelled at the flat-faced man. He pretended not to hear, and Stutz drew a brown line across the road.I put a hand on his shoulder. His shoulders twisted under my hand, and he yelled "Ah-ah-ah" again, as if it was the dead black person who had grabbed him. I reached over his shoulder and turned off the engine. He let go of the steering wheel, grabbed me tightly with both hands, and made noises incoherently, but it was all words I couldn't understand. I put one hand on the steering wheel and the other forearm caught under his chin.I leaned tightly against the back of his chair, with the weight of my entire upper body on his head, pressing his head hard on the steering wheel. After such a lot of tossing, and with God's help, Stutz finally did not leave the road when he stopped. I let go of the flat-faced man's head and asked, "What the hell is going on with you?" He rolled his eyes and looked at me, trembling, without saying a word. "Turn around," I said, "let's go back." His head was shaking eagerly, as if in despair, and more noise came from his mouth.Maybe coherent words, if I can understand them. "Do you know who that is?" I asked. He shook his head. "You know!" I growled. He shook his head. At this point I've started to suspect that no matter what I say to this guy, he just shakes his head in reply. I said, "Then don't drive, I'll drive back." He opened the car door and climbed out. "Get in the car!" I called him. He stepped back, shaking his head. I cursed at him, slid behind the wheel, said, "Okay, wait for me here," and slammed the door. He backed away slowly, rolling his eyes and watching me back up and turn around in horror. I drove back farther than I thought, about a mile. I couldn't find the black man, the tunnel was empty. If I knew exactly where he lay, I might have a clue as to how he was removed.But I didn't get a good look at my surroundings just now, so now there are four or five places that look like the scene. By the light of the headlights, I found the other end of the tunnel from the left side.I found no blood, I found no footprints, I found no trace of anyone lying in the road; I found nothing. It was so dark now that it was impossible for me to search the woods. I went back to where I left the flat-faced man. he is gone. It seems that Mr. Kavaloff might have a point in feeling the need for a detective, I thought. I drove half a mile further from where the flat-faced man had left me, and parked Stutz in front of a steel lattice gate in the middle of the road.The gate was locked from the inside, and was flanked by tall hedges that spilled into the woods.Over the top of the hedge on the left loomed the upper half of a small brown-roofed house. I honked Stutz's horn. The sound of the horn led a shy boy of fifteen or sixteen to the other side of the gate.He was wearing whitewashed chinos and a disheveled striped sweater.He didn't go into the middle of the road, but just stood aside, with one arm hidden behind the hedge, as if holding something to hide from me. "Is it the Kavalovs?" I asked. "Yes, sir," he said uncomfortably. I waited for him to unlock it, but he didn't, and stood there, still looking at the car and me with that uncomfortable expression. "Please, sir, can I go in?" I said. "What do you do—who are you?" "I'm the one Kavalov sent for. Let me know if you won't let me in, so I can catch the 6:50 train back to San Francisco." Biting his lip, the boy said, "Wait, see if I can find the key." Then he disappeared behind the hedge. He disappeared for a long time, long enough to find someone to talk to. When he came back, he unlocked the front door, snapped it open and said, "That's all right, sir, they're waiting for you." As I drove through the gate, I saw lights on top of a hill a mile or so ahead on my left. "Is that the house?" I asked. "Yes, sir, they are waiting for you." Next to where the boy had been when he had spoken to me through the gate, there was a double-barreled shotgun leaning against the hedge. I thanked the boy and continued driving.The road winds from the farmland to the top of the mountain, and tall and thin trees are planted at intervals on both sides of the road. The road finally brought me to a building that, in the twilight, looked like a cross between a fortress and a factory.The building is concrete.Imagine taking a bunch of chunky cones of different sizes, rounding the apex, placing the largest one in the middle, and placing the others not exactly according to the volume, but combined with the terrain of the hill—this is Cavallo model of husband's house.The windows were steel-framed, but few, and no two, were parallel or perpendicular to each other.Some of the doors were lit with lights. The narrow front door of the house opened as I got out of the car. A small, red-faced woman in her fifties stepped out.Her faded blond hair was coiled around her head, she wore a gray wool dress with a high neck and tight sleeves, and she grinned to the ears when she smiled. "Are you sir from the city?" she asked. "Yeah, I lost your driver on the way here." "God bless you, it's all right," she said kindly. A thin man walked past her, with thin black hair plastered to his scalp, his thin cheeks full of worry.He took the luggage I took out of the car and carried it into the house. The woman stood by and waited for me to enter.She said: "I think you definitely want to wash up before eating dinner. If you move quickly, they won't mind waiting for you for a few minutes." "Okay, thanks," I said, and waited for her to lead me up a flight of stairs inside one of the cones that made up the building. She took me to a bedroom on the second floor, where the skinny man was helping me get things out of my luggage. "If you need anything, just ask Martin. Please go downstairs after packing up." She told me at the door. I agreed and she left.By the time I took off my coat, vest, false collar, and shirt, the thin man had already packed his bags.I told him I didn't need anything else.I washed my face in the bathroom next door, put on a clean shirt, collar, vest, coat, and went downstairs. The wide hallway was empty, and the sound came from an open door on the left. A snorting whimper complained: "I don't want to bear it anymore, I can't bear it, I'm not a child anymore, I can't bear it." He pronounced the t a little hard, but not so hard that it sounded like a d. The other bass was quite lively, but a little rough.He said happily: "We are obviously enduring, what's the use of you saying that you can't bear it?" The third voice is a female voice, soft, flat, and lacking in spirit.She said, "But maybe his did kill him." Humming and chirping, he said, "I don't care, I can't take it anymore." The bass voice said happily as before: "Oh, you can't take it anymore?" There was a doorknob turning further down the corridor, and I didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, so I made my way to the open door. I stood in the doorway of a low-ceilinged oval room furnished and furnished in grey, white, and silver.Two men and a woman are inside. The older man—in his fifties—stood from a dark gray chair and bowed solemnly to me.The man was plump, of medium height, completely bald, with very dark skin and very light eyes.He sported a waxed gray mustache and a disheveled regal beard. "Mr. Kavaloff?" I asked. "Yes, sir." He was the whining voice. I said who I was and he shook my hand and introduced me to the others. The woman is his daughter, about thirty years old.She had the same full mouth as her father, but her eyes were dark, her nose was short and straight, and her skin was almost transparent.Her face is Asian: pretty, negative, ignorant. The bass was her husband Rigo, who was six or seven years older than her, neither tall nor fat, but with a strong physique.He had a plaster cast on his left arm, and the knuckles in his right hand were bruised.His face was thin, bony, and quick-witted, with many lines around his bright dark eyes, and a mouth with a kindly line. He stretched out his bruised hand to me, shook his bandaged arm, and grinned, "Sorry you missed this, but you'll be the one to get hurt in the future." "What's going on?" I asked. Kavaloff raised a fat hand. "There is plenty of time to discuss after dinner, let's eat first." He said. We entered a small green and brown dining room where a small square table was already set.There was a tall silver candlestick and a silver basket full of orchids in the middle of the table, and I sat across from Rigo with the flowers.Mrs Riggau sat on my right, Kavaloff on my left.As Kavalov sat down, I saw the pocket on his hip bulge in the shape of an automatic pistol. Two footmen were waiting on us to eat.A large table of dishes, and all of them were well prepared and delicious.We had caviar, some kind of broth, baby sole, potato and cucumber jelly, roast lamb, corn, long beans, asparagus, duck, corn cakes, artichoke and tomato salad, and orange ice.We drank white wine, red burgundy, coffee with mint cream. Kavalov ate and drank, and we were welcome. It was Kavalov himself who first disobeyed his order not to discuss troubles until after dinner.He finished his soup, put down his spoon, and said: "I'm not a kid, I'm not going to be scared." He blinked worried pale eyes and looked at me defiantly, his lips pursed between mustache and imperial mustache. Rigo looked at him happily.Mrs. Riggal looked calm, as if she hadn't heard anything. "What's there to be afraid of?" I asked. "Nothing, nothing but a bunch of stupidity, pointless tricks and tricks," Kavaloff said. "You can say what you want," a voice murmured over my shoulder, "but I see what I see." The voice came from one of the supper servants, a sallow young man with a narrow, slack-lipped face.When he spoke, he had a repressed stubbornness, his eyes kept looking at the food that was served for me, and he didn't lift his head when he spoke. Although they all heard it, no one cared what the servant said.I turned my face again to Kavaloff, who was picking the spines off the edge of a small plaice with a fork. "What kind of tricks and tricks?" I asked. Kavalov put down his fork, rested his wrist on the edge of the table, pursed his lips, and leaned forward towards me. "Suppose," he frowned, tugging at his bald scalp, "assuming you hurt someone ten years ago," he jerked his wrist, palm up against the white tablecloth, "it's normal business That kind of hurt, you know? It's all about the money, there's no personal vendetta, you don't even know him very well. Let's say it's ten years later, and he comes to you and says, 'I'm going to see it with my own eyes. You die.'" He turned his hands, palms down, "Well, what do you think?" "I don't think I'd be in a hurry to die because of him," I answered. The eagerness on his face disappeared, leaving only a blank.He blinked at me for a moment, then started to eat the fish.After eating the last piece of small plaice, he looked up at me again.Shaking his head slowly, the corners of his mouth drooped. "That's not a good answer," he said, shrugging his shoulders and stretching out his fingers, "but you have to deal with this colonel who is playing cat and mouse with me, and that's why I paid you to come here." I nod. Rigo smiled, patted his bandaged arm lightly and said, "I hope you have better luck than me." Mrs Riggal put out a hand and touched her husband's wrist with her pointed nails. I asked Kavaloff: "How serious is this so-called 'I caused damage'?" He pursed his lips and waved his right hand. "Uh, uh, ruined him." "So we can be sure your Colonel is serious?" "My God! I don't want him to be joking with breaking my arm," said Rigo, dropping his fork. Behind me, the yellow-faced servant said to his companion: "He wants to know if we think the Colonel is serious." "I hear. He's going to be a real help," said another sullenly. Kavaloff tapped his plate with his fork and glared at the two servants. "Shut up," he said, "where's the roast?" Then he pointed the fork at Mrs. Riggal and said, "Didn't you see that she's out of wine?" He looked at the fork and complained, "Look at what they do I haven't taken care of my silver for a whole month." He held out his fork to show me. Then he put down his fork and pushed the plate away to make room to rest his arms on the table.He shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward, moaned and sighed, and stared at me beseechingly with his pale eyes. "Listen," he groaned, "am I that stupid? If I don't need a detective, I'll hire someone all the way from San Francisco? If I don't need the best detective I can find, I'll pay Your price is so high? In fact, I can find a bunch of good detectives with only half of the money I gave you! If the Colonel wasn’t so dangerous, would I hire such expensive detectives?” I didn't speak, just sat quietly with a focused expression. He continued to whine, "Look, this ain't an April Fool's joke, this Colonel really wants to kill me. He's here to kill me. He's going to kill me if nobody cares." "What has he done so far?" I asked. "That's not the point." Kavalov shook his bald head impatiently. "I'm not asking you to undo everything he's done. I'm asking you to prevent him from killing me. So far he's done What? Well, he scared my men to death and broke Dolph's arm. If you must know, that's all he's done so far." "How long has it been? How long has he been here?" I asked. "One week plus two days." "Did your driver tell you about the black people we saw on the road?" Kavaloff pouted his lips and nodded slowly. "When I looked back, he was gone," I said. He took a deep breath and exclaimed excitedly: "I don't care about black people or roads, what I care about is not being slaughtered." "Did you report it to the police?" I asked, pretending not to be provoked. "Reported, what's the use? Did he threaten me? Well, he told me that he came here to watch me die with his own eyes. From his mouth, and his tone of voice, it is a threat .But that's not a threat to the police. He scares my people. Do I have evidence? Fingerprints on the scare it brings? So the cop's conclusion is: we'll keep one eye on him, listen up, he says 'one eye'! Including servants and farmhands, I have twenty here, Forty eyes, and he can't come and go. One eye!" "And what about Rigo's arm?" I asked. Kavalov shook his head impatiently, and began to chop up his mutton hastily and quickly. "I don't blame him for this, I did it first." Rigo said, looking at the bruised joints, "I didn't expect him to be so powerful, maybe I'm old. Anyway, before he touched me, there were a dozen People saw me punch him on the jaw—in front of the post office at noon." "Who is this Colonel?" "It wasn't him, it was the nigger," said the yellow-faced servant. Rigaud said: "His name is Sherry, Hugh Sherry. When we knew him, he was a colonel in the British Quartermaster Office in Cairo. In 1917, twelve years ago, the Brigadier General—" He said Nodding to his father-in-law, "Speculating in munitions. Sherry should go to the front. He's not fit for a desk. He's too bold. Someone said that if Sherry wasn't so bold, the Commodore wouldn't be making money." That's a lot of money. Although they knew that Sheri hadn't filled his pockets, when they asked the brigadier general to leave, they still sent money to Sheri and sent him away." Kavaloff looked up from his plate and explained, "That's the way business is in wartime. If I did something that would get them to hang on to me, they wouldn't let me go." "And now, twelve years after you left him disgraced and fired from the Army," I said, "he comes here and threatens to kill you. You believe it, and start spreading panic among your people. That's it. ?" "That's not it," Kavalov groaned, "not at all. It wasn't because of me that he got kicked out of the army. I'm a businessman, and I work wherever there's money to be made. Somebody made me money, It's none of my business to annoy his own boss again? Besides, I don't believe he's really planning to kill me, I know that." "I'm just trying to sort things out," I said. "There's nothing to reason about. Someone's going to kill me, and I'll pay you to come and keep him from doing it. Isn't it that simple?" "It's that simple." I agreed, not wanting to argue with him any longer. Kavaloff and Rigaud smoked cigars, Mrs. Rigaud and I smoked over coffee with mint cream.At this moment, a red-faced blonde woman in a gray sweater walked in. She moved hurriedly, her eyes were wide open and dark. "Anthony says there's a fire in the north field," she said. Kavaloff bit off his cigar and looked at me. "How do I get there?" I asked, standing up. "I will lead the way." Rigo also stood up and said. "Dorph," protested his wife, "your arm." He smiled at her gently and said, "I won't do anything, I just follow to see how the experts deal with this kind of thing." I ran upstairs to get my hat, coat, flashlight and gun. The Rigauds were waiting at the front door when I went downstairs. Rigo wore a dark raincoat buttoned tightly around his injured arm, the left sleeve dangling empty.He wrapped his right arm around his wife, and she hung her bare arms around his neck, leaning back vigorously; he pressed forward on her, their mouths glued together. I took a few steps back, and when I reappeared, I made more movement with my feet.The two of them separated at the door and stood waiting for me.Rigo was panting heavily, as if he had run a long way.He opened the door. Mrs Rigg said to me, "My husband is a fool, please don't let him be too reckless." I said no, and asked him, "Need to take a servant or farm hand?" He shook his head. "The ones that don't hide are as useless as the ones that hide," he said. "They're all terrified." He went out with me, leaving Mrs. Rigaud watching at the door.The rain had stopped by then, but the black cloud overhead foreshadowed more soon. Rigo led me around the side of the house, down a path through bushes, past a group of small houses in a shallow ravine, and then diagonally across another, even lower hill. The path was soaked with rain.At the top of the hill we turned off the trail, stepped through a wire gate, and walked across sticky, wet fields from fresh harvest.We walked very fast, the slimy mud, the sultry evening wind, and our coats made us sweat all over the road. After passing through the farmland, we saw the firelight through the trees, a flickering orange light.We climbed over a short barbed wire fence and through the woods. Something passed through the leaves above our heads, making a rattling sound, came from the left, and then hit a tree trunk directly to our right, and then fell on the soft soil under the tree with a plop. ring. Laughter came from the left, wild and creepy. Laughter can't be too far away from me, so I searched for it. The fire was too small and too far away to be of much use to me, and it was almost dark among the trees. I either tripped over a tree root or slammed into a tree trunk, and still found nothing.The flashlight would be more beneficial to the laughing person, so I just kept it in my hand and didn't turn it on. When I got tired of playing hide-and-seek with myself, I walked through the woods to the field on the other side, toward the firelight. The fire was lit on the other side of the field, nearly twelve feet from the nearest tree.It was the dry branches that hadn't been covered by the rain, and I had almost finished burning them by then. On both sides of the fire, two short branches with branches were inserted into the ground, and a section of green sapling was built on the two branches.Stretched on a sapling and hanging in the fire was a dead eighteen-inch dog, headless, tailless, legless, and split straight in front. The head, fur, feet, tail, guts, and a lot of blood of a brown shaggy puppy lay a few feet away on the ground. There were a few dry twigs by the fire, folded to a convenient length for burning.I threw the branch into the fire when Rigo came to join me from the woods.He holds a stone the size of a grapefruit in his hand. "See the face clearly?" he asked. "No, he smiled and ran away." He handed me the stone and said, "This is what hit us." Round, hollow eyes, a triangular nose, and a grinning mouth bared with teeth—a crude skull—are drawn in red on the smooth gray stone. I picked out a red eye with a finger and said, "Crayon." Rigo stared at the dead dog sizzling on the fire and the debris on the ground. "What do you think is going on here?" I asked. He swallowed and said, "Mickey is a very good puppy." "your?" He nodded. I looked around with a flashlight and found some footprints, if that counts. "Have you found anything?" Rigo asked. "Yes," I pointed to a footprint for him to see, "there are rags tied to the feet, so it's useless." We turned to the fire again. "Another show," I said. "Whoever kills and guts a puppy must be an old hand. He knows very well that he can't eat that roast. It's not hot inside. It's burnt on the outside." It's burnt. And if he puts the pole like that, if it is turned over, the dog will fall." Rigo's frown relaxed a little. "Better that way," he said. "It's cruel enough for someone to kill it, and I can't bear the thought of eating it, or intending to." "They didn't eat it," I assured him. "It was just for show. Is this what happens all the time?" "right." "What is this for?" He gloomily quotes Kavaloff: "The cat catches the mouse, Colonel." I gave him a cigarette, took one myself, and lit it with the burning stick in the fire. He looked up at the sky and said, "It's raining again, let's go home." But he was still standing by the fire, staring at the dead dog roasting.The stench of burnt flesh was strong all around us. "You haven't taken this seriously, have you?" After a while, he asked in a low voice, in a down-to-earth tone. "It's a fun design." He continued in the same small voice: "You can think of him as a madman. He is a man who cares about honor, so in Cairo, we just played him, but didn't dare to bribe him. It won't take ten years, bad Fame can knock down a man like that. He hid himself and thought about it for so long. When the blow came, he either shot himself or killed himself. At first I was like you," he kicked the fire "I don't think it makes sense. But now I can't laugh unless Miriam and the Commodore are around. When he first came, I didn't believe I couldn't handle him. I handled him well in Cairo. Later When I saw something was wrong, I lost control and ran to reason with him. Well, it didn't work out. It just didn't make sense, that's why it was so bad. In Cairo, he combed his hair before shaving, so in the mirror Saw a neat face. You know what I mean?" "I've got to talk to him first," I said. "Does he live in the village?" "He has a hut on the mountain, turn to the main road, the first building on the left." Rigo threw the cigarette into the fire, bit his lower lip and stared at me, "I don't know if you are compatible with the Colonel. With him Don't joke around, he doesn't understand, and he won't trust you because of it." "I'll be careful," I promised. "Isn't it worth giving this Sherry money?" "Bah, no use," he said softly, "he's too crazy to take money." Before going back to the house, we took down the dead dog and kicked the fire away and kicked it into the mud. The next morning, the clear sun made the countryside fresh and bright, and a warm breeze dried the soil and chased the cotton-like clouds in the sky. At ten o'clock I went to Colonel Cheri's house, and found his house without difficulty.It was a small bungalow with pink stucco walls and an earthy red roof.A gravel road leads there from the main road. In front of the whole bungalow is a tiled balcony, on which there is a table covered with a white tablecloth, and two sets of tableware are placed on it. Before I could knock, it was opened by a thin black man in a white coat.He looked more like an older boy, with thinner features than most African-Americans; he had a hooked nose, and was intelligent and lovable. "Lying on such a wet road like you, even if you don't get run over by a car, you will catch a cold." I said. He grinned all the way to his ears, showing a lot of healthy yellow teeth. "Yes, sir," he said, bowing and hissing heavily, "the colonel is waiting for your breakfast. Sit down, sir, and I'll fetch him." "No dog meat?" He grinned again and shook his head violently. "No, sir." He raised his black hand and counted. "Sherring with oranges, roast kidneys, eggs, marmalade, toast, and tea and coffee. No dog." "Okay," I said, and sat down in a wicker chair with arms on the balcony. I had time to light a cigarette before Colonel Sherry came out. He was a tall, gaunt man of forty.The sandy hair parted in the middle is docile on his small head, and his face is very tanned.His eyes were gray and the line of the lower lid was as straight as a ruler.Beneath the short-shaven, sandy mustache, his mouth was another hard, straight line.Nasolabial folds extend from his nose to the corner of his mouth like a slit, and two equally deep wrinkles extend from his cheeks to the sharp jawbone.He pulled a bright flannel-striped bathrobe over sandy pajamas. "Good morning," he said cheerfully, giving me half a salute without showing any intention of shaking hands, "don't get up, Marcus's breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. I'm a night owl and I made a very Horrible dream." He dragged his voice deliberately and lazily, "I dreamed that Theodore Kavalov's neck was cut from here to here." He gestured under his ears with his bony fingers, "It's really bloody Yes, it was horrible. He was bleeding and screaming, the pig." I grinned at him and asked, "You don't like that?" "Oh, of course it would be nice to have his neck cut, but he's bleeding and screaming, it's disgusting." He sniffed up his nose. "There's honeysuckle here?" "Smells like it. Did you mean to cut his neck when you threatened him?" He went on in a drawn-out voice: "When I threatened him, dear friend, I didn't think so. I was in Ouja, a little smelly Moroccan town near the Algerian border. One morning The orange tree started talking to me. It said, 'Go to Goodbye Village in California, USA, and watch Theodore Kavaloff die.' I think that's a great idea. I thank the voice , asked Marcus to pack up, and here he came. I told Kavaloff about it as soon as I got here. I thought he was going to die right away, so I wouldn't have to wait here. But he didn't , and it was too late. I regret not asking the exact date of the sound, I don't like wasting months here." "So you're trying to find a way to speed things up?" I asked. "Please repeat." "Threats. Stone skulls, roast dogs, missing bodies," I said. "I've been in Africa for fifteen years," he said. "I'm sure of the voice of the orange tree. No one plays tricks there. You don't have to connect those things to me." "Where's Marcus?" Sherry touched his freshly shaved face and replied, "It's possible that he has an incorrigible taste for the rougher African nonsense. If you have any definite evidence that he has done anything out of the ordinary, I will Slap him." "If I catch him doing something out of the ordinary," I said, "I'll whip him myself." Cheri leaned forward and said carefully in a low voice, "Make sure you don't make him suspicious until you're sure you've got him. Those two knives are no joke." "I'll try to remember. Didn't the voice of the orange tree mention Rigo?" "No need. If there is no skin, there will be no hair." The black boy Marcus came out with food in his hands.We turn to the table and I start my second breakfast. Cheri wondered if the voice speaking to him from the orange tree had also spoken to Kavaloff.He said he asked Kavalov, but did not get a satisfactory answer.For all he knew, the voice that would announce the death of his enemy to someone, usually warned the dying man as well. "As far as I know, that's the traditional way," he said. "I have no idea," I said, "I'll try to find out for you. Maybe I should ask him what he dreamed about last night." "Did he look like he had a nightmare this morning?" "I don't know, he wasn't up when I left." Cheri's eyes turned hot gray spots. "You mean you have no idea how he was doing this morning, whether he was alive or dead, whether my dream was real or not?" he asked. "Yes indeed." The hard lines of his mouth relaxed into a slow, joyous smile. "My God, that's wonderful, I thought--looking at you just now, as if I'm sure I'm just having a really ridiculous dream that doesn't make any sense," he said. He clapped his hands loudly. Dark boy Marcus popped out of the door with a bang. "Pack up your things," Cheri ordered, "The bald head is finished, let's go." Marcus bowed, smiled and retreated into the house. "Won't you better wait and make sure?" I asked. "I'm sure," he said in a long voice, "as sure as the orange tree's voice. There's nothing to wait, I've seen him die with my own eyes." "dreaming." "Is it a dream?" he asked casually. After ten to fifteen minutes, I was gone.Marcus pings and pings around the house, sounding like he's actually packing. Cheri shook my hand and said, "It was a pleasure to have breakfast with you. I'll see you when you have a chance to work in North Africa. Say hello to Miriam and Dolph for me, I can't really say hello Condolences to them." After getting out of the bungalow, thinking they couldn't see me, I left the road and went up the side path to see if there was a higher place from which to watch Sherry's place.我找到一个小据点，是栋破破烂烂的空屋子，位于东北方向的一个小山梁上。从空屋的前廊可以看到那平房的整个前面、侧面的一部分，还有石子路的大部分，包括它跟大路连接的部分。肉眼看去是嫌远，不过有望远镜就完美了，而且前头还有茂盛的树丛当屏风。 等我回到卡瓦洛夫家时，里戈正坐在树下一张芦苇编的椅子上，那椅垫颜色真鲜亮。他手里拿着一本书。 “你觉得他怎么样？”他问，“疯了吗？” “不是很疯。他要我代问你和里戈太太好。胳膊怎么样？” “很不好，昨天晚上一定淋了很多雨，弄得我一整夜都疼得要死。” “你看到猫抓老鼠上校了？”卡瓦洛夫哼哼唧唧的声音从我身后传来，“还满意吗？” 我转过身，看到他从屋子旁边的一条小路上走过来。今天早晨他脸色发灰，不过在他的V字领上面，我看到他的脖子还没有被割开。 “我走的时候，他在收拾东西，要回非洲去。”我说。 那天是星期四，没发生别的事。 星期五一大早，我卧室的门就嘭的一声被推开了，吵醒了我。 瘦脸门房马丁冲进我房间，开始摇我的肩膀。虽然他到床边时我已经坐起身了。 因为恐惧，他的瘦脸蜡黄蜡黄的，很难看。 “出事了，噢，老天，出事了。”他断断续续地说。 "What happened?" “出事了，出事了。” 我把他推到一旁，下了床。他猛地转身，跑进我的浴室。我把脚伸进拖鞋时，听到他在吐。 卡瓦洛夫的卧室和我的卧室隔着三道门，在屋子的同一边。 尽管我一个人影也看不到，但房子里满是噪声和激动的说话声、关门开门声。 我向卡瓦洛夫的门跑去，是开着的。 卡瓦洛夫在里面，躺在一张低矮的西班牙床上，床单掀到了床尾。他仰面躺着，脖子被人割了，一道和下巴平行的弯弯的口子，离耳垂一英寸远。 血渗进蓝色枕套和床单的地方已经紫得像葡萄汁一样，又黏又稠，都结成块了。 穿着披风式浴袍的里戈走了进来。 “出事了！”我重复着门房的话，对他低吼道。 里戈呆呆地看着床，样子惨兮兮的，开始用哽咽的声音小声骂起来。 红脸金发女人——管家露拉·科利——尖叫着进来，推开我们，跑到床边，还在尖叫。她的手伸向被子时，我攥住了她的胳膊。 “任何东西都别碰。”我说。 “给他盖上点东西，给他盖上点东西，可怜哪！”她叫道。 我把她从床边拉开。现在房里已经有四五个仆人了。我把她交给其中的两个，让他们把她带出去，安慰安慰。她又哭又笑地走开了。 里戈还在瞪着床。 “里戈太太呢？” 他没听到，我轻轻拍了拍他没受伤的胳膊，重复我的问题。 “她在自己房里。她——她知道就好，还是别来看了。” “你最好还是过去照顾她吧？” 他点点头，慢慢地转身，走了出去。 门房走进来，还是一脸蜡黄。 “我要这里的每一个人，包括仆人和农场雇工，都聚到楼下前厅里。”我告诉他，“要他们马上过去，等警察来。” “是的，先生。”他说完便下楼去了，其他人全跟着。 我关上卡瓦洛夫的门，穿过房间来到他书房，打电话给郡政府的警察局。我跟一个叫希登的副警长讲了话。我把事情经过说了以后，他说警长会在半小时内到。 我回房换衣服。等我换完了，门房上来告诉我，所有人都聚在前厅了，除了里戈夫妇和里戈太太的女仆。 警长到时，我正在检查卡瓦洛夫的卧室。这位警长是个有着温和的蓝眼睛的白发老头，声音也温和，不过从白色八字胡底下传出来有点含糊。他带了三名副警长、一个医生、一个法医。 “里戈和门房知道的比我多。”我们一一握完手以后，我说，“我会尽快赶回来，这会儿我要去谢里那儿，里戈会告诉你他的角色。” 我在车库里选了辆溅满泥巴的雪佛兰，向平房开去。到了以后却发现门窗都紧闭着，敲门也没人应。 我沿着石子路走回车子，往下开到再会村，没费一点儿力气就打听到，谢里和马库斯已经在前一天下午上了两点十分到洛杉矶的火车，拎了三个行李箱和半打袋子。村里的快递员帮他们托运的。 我发了封电报到洛杉矶分社后，开始查租房给谢里的人。 他只表达了失望，因为这两个人连两个星期都没住够。房客的其他事情他一概不知。谢里已经还了钥匙，附上短短的字条说他临时有事不得不走。 我把便条装进兜里，笔迹随时都有可能用得上。然后我借了平房的钥匙，回那边查看。 除了一堆日后有可能派上用场的指纹，在那儿我没找到任何有用的线索。那房子一点儿也没透露我要的人上哪儿去了。 我回到卡瓦洛夫家。 警长已经问完了所有人的话。 “什么都没问出来。”他说，“从昨晚上床时间开始就没有人听到或者看到什么，直到今早八点门房开门叫他，看到他就那样死了。你还知道别的什么吗？” “不知道，他们跟你提到谢里了？” “噢，提了，我看他就是咱们要找的人了，嗯？” “是啊。据说他昨天下午就打好包，跟他的手下往洛杉矶去了。我们应该可以从这条线索挖出点儿什么来。医生怎么说？” “说是今天凌晨三点和四点之间，有人拿一把很沉的刀杀死了他。从左到右干净地一划，像是左撇子干的。” “也许刀口是很干净，”我同意道，“不过肯定不是挥手一划；划得比那个慢。如果随手划一条曲线，中间应该往上弯，离杀人的人远些，而两头应该往下靠近死者。现在却刚好相反。” “噢，好吧。这个谢里是左撇子吗？” “不知道。”我心里想不知道马库斯是不是，“刀找到了吗？” “影子都没有，而且我们里里外外什么也没发现。卡瓦洛夫那么害怕，按理说门窗都应该锁紧啊，可他的窗户开着，谁都可以拿把梯子爬进去，门也没锁，真奇怪。” “这有很多原因，他——” 一名副警长——一个肩膀厚实的金发男人——走到门边说：“我们找到刀了。” 警长和我跟着副警长走出房子，绕到卡瓦洛夫房间所在的那一边。在通往农场雇工住处那条小路边上的灌木丛中，一把刀的刀刃插进地下。 漆成红色的木刀把朝着屋子的方向。刀刃上有点血渍，不过已经被松软的泥土抹掉了大半。油漆刀把上没有血迹，也没有类似指纹的东西。 刀子附近松软的土上没有脚印，显然刀子是给丢进灌木丛里的。 “我看这儿就这些了，”警长说，“也看不出这里的人跟这事儿有没有关系。咱们找那个谢里上校去吧。” 我跟他一起到了村里。我们在邮局得知谢里留了个转信地址：密苏里州圣路易邮局邮件领取窗口。邮局局长说谢里待在再会村时从来没收过信。 我们到了电报室，得知谢里没发也没收过电报。我发了封电报到圣路易分社。 我们接下来在村里的查访都毫无结果，除了知道再会村大部分闲汉都看到谢里和马库斯上了两点十分往南开的火车。 我们回卡瓦洛夫家以前，收到一封从洛杉矶分社发给我的电报： 我们回到那房子时，我在走廊里碰到了里戈。我问他：“谢里是左撇子吗？” 他想了想，然后摇摇头。 “记不得了，”他说，“有可能。我问问米丽安，也许她知道，女人就记得这些事。” 再次下楼时，他对我点了点头。 “他很可能两手都用，不过左手更常用。你问这个干吗？” “医生觉得是左撇子干的。里戈太太现在怎么样？” “最严重的惊吓已经过去了，现在好些了，谢谢。” 星期六整整一天，谢里的行李放在洛杉矶车站都没人领。那天傍晚，警长向外界宣布了谢里和黑人因杀人被通缉。晚些时候，我们俩便上了南下的火车。 周日早上我们跟两个洛杉矶警察局的人把行李打开了。除了不包含任何信息的合法衣物和私人用品外，什么也没找着。 这趟差出得一无所获。 我回到旧金山，印了大量传单，四处分发。 两个星期过去了，除了一堆假警报，传单没起到任何效果。 然后斯波坎警察局在史蒂芬斯街一栋出租的房子里抓到了谢里和马库斯。 有人匿名报警说，住在那里的弗雷德·威廉斯几乎每天都有神秘的黑人来访，还说他们行动异常诡秘。斯波坎警察局有我们的传单，根本不需要看弗雷德·威廉斯的袖扣和手帕上HS的姓名缩写，就知道他是我们要的人。 经过两小时的盘问，谢里承认他了的身份，不过否认杀了卡瓦洛夫。 警长的两个手下北上，把犯人带到郡政府。 谢里刮掉了八字胡，脸上和声音里都没露出半点担心的样子。 “我知道做了那场梦以后，就没什么好等的了，”他拉着长音说，“所以我就走了。后来等我听说那梦成了真，我就知道你们这帮侦探会赶着来逮我。还真以为一个人能控制自己的梦吗？所以我，呃，就找了个地方藏起来了。” 他庄严地向警长和地方检察官重复了那个橘子树的声音的故事，报社喜欢这样的故事。但他拒绝告诉我们他的逃亡路线，也不告诉我们他这段时间做了什么。 “不，不，”他说，“抱歉，不过我不能说，说不好我以后还得这么干呢，我可不能透露我的方法。” 他不肯告诉我们命案当晚他人在哪里。但我们基本肯定，他在火车还没到洛杉矶时提前下了车，虽然火车工作人员给不出证据。 “抱歉，”他拉着长音说，“你们这帮人连我当时人在哪儿都不知道，又怎么知道我在命案现场？” 马库斯更难缠。他的标准答案是：“我不太懂英语，问上校，我不知道。” 检察官在办公室里踱了很长时间，咬着指甲气冲冲地告诉我们，要是我们无法证明谢里或者马库斯命案当时——或在那之前、之后——在卡瓦洛夫家附近的话，这案子就要败诉了。 警长是我们当中唯一确认谢里是杀人凶手的。在他心里，他已经看见谢里被绞死了。 谢里找了个律师——一个流里流气脸色发白的男人，戴着金边眼镜，薄薄的嘴唇不停地抽动。律师叫谢弗，他来来回回走着，对着他自己笑，也对着我们笑。 检察官的手指甲只剩下两个大拇指没啃过了。就在他开始啃它们时，我跟里戈借了车，开始顺着铁轨南下，想弄清楚谢里是在哪儿下的火车。当然，我们已经拍下这两个人的大头照，所以我随身带了照片。 我在再会村和洛杉矶之间的每个火车站都出示了这两个浑蛋的照片，还有铁轨两边二十里之内的每个村庄，以及大部分的零散住户，但什么结果也没有。 没有证据说谢里和马库斯不是直接到洛杉矶的。 他们的火车应该是那天晚上十点半到洛杉矶。从洛杉矶开出的火车不可能及时把他们拉回再会村杀掉卡瓦洛夫。倒是有两个可能：飞机可以从容地拉他们回去，汽车也有可能做到，虽然听起来不那么可信。 我先去查飞机，可是找不到当晚载过人的飞行员。在洛杉矶警察局以及大陆侦探社洛杉矶分社的几名侦探的帮助下，我和所有拥有飞机的人——公家的和私人的都见了面，答案都是没有。 我又查了不怎么被看好的汽车。较大的出租车公司和租车行一律说“没有”。当晚十到十二点之间有四辆私家车报警失窃。其中两辆第二天早晨在城里找到了，它们没有往返于再会村。第三辆第二天在圣地亚哥被人发现，所以这辆也不算。还有一辆没消息，是派克双门轿车，我们找了印刷工把车子的外观印成明信片。 要找到所有小型出租车和租车公司老板可是件大工程，何况还有人可能把私家车出租一个晚上，所以我们请报社帮忙打了广告。 我们没找到有关汽车的消息。这条新路线本来是想找出我们的人在命案前后几个钟头的行踪，不料竟带来了别的结果。 圣佩德罗（离洛杉矶二十五里远的海港）有个黑人在命案当天凌晨一点被捕。黑人英文很差，不过有文件证明他叫皮耶·蒂萨诺，是法国水手。他是因为醉酒闹事被捕的。 圣佩德罗警察说，我们描述的所谓的叫马库斯的人，还有他的照片，都跟醉酒水手完全吻合。 圣佩德罗警察不只说了这些。 蒂萨诺一点钟被捕。两点才过一点儿，一个自称亨利·萨莫顿的白人就来保释他。值班警察告诉萨莫顿，第二天早上才能办手续，再说想带蒂萨诺离开的话，最好还是等他酒醒了。萨莫顿马上同意了，还跟警察聊了半个多钟头，大概三点离去。第二天早晨十点他又去了，付了黑人的罚金，他们一起走了。 圣佩德罗警方说，除了没有八字胡，谢里的照片和亨利·萨莫顿一模一样。 亨利·萨莫顿两次去警察局的中间找了一间旅馆住。他留在旅馆登记簿上的签名和谢里写给平房主人那张字条的笔迹相符。 很明显，卡瓦洛夫遇害时，谢里和马库斯都在圣佩德罗，离再会村有九个小时的火车。 但一扯上命案，再明显的事都还不够明显。我把圣佩德罗的内勤警察带到北边去看那两个人。 “就是他们俩，错不了。”他说。 检察官把他剩下的拇指指甲全啃光了。 警长一脸茫然，像手里拿了气球的小孩，听到扑哧一声，却不知道气球哪儿去了。 我装出百分之百满意的样子。 “现在我们又回到原点了。”检察官不高兴地叹息着，好像这事儿除了他谁都有错，“还浪费了好几个星期。” 警长没看检察官，也没说话。 “噢，我倒不觉得，我们还是有进展的。”我说。 “什么进展？” “我们知道了谢里跟他仆人有不在场证明。” 检察官觉得我好像在耍他。我没在意他朝我做的鬼脸，问道：“你打算拿他们怎么办？” “除了放掉，还能怎么办？这个命案可是永远翻不了身了。” “要喂饱他们也花不了郡政府多少钱，”我提议道，“为什么不尽可能拖着他们呢？同时我们也好想想办法，搞不好会查出什么新情况来。而且就算没有，你们也可以随时撒手不管。你该不会以为他们是无辜的吧？” 他看了我一眼，眼神沉重酸楚，带着对一个傻子的怜悯。 “他们犯的罪足够下地狱了，可如果我没法定罪，那又有什么用？我是能关着他们，可这有什么用？他妈的，老兄你跟我一样清楚，只要他们现在要求放人，法官就不会不答应。” “是啊，”我同意道，“我跟你赌旧金山最好的一顶帽子，他们是不会要求的。” "What's the meaning?" “他们想要受审，”我说，“否则他们早在我们挖出他们的不在场证明前就走人了。我在想，他们一定也是自己送上斯波坎警察局的门的。而且我再跟你赌帽子，谢弗不会要求人身保护令。” 检察官怀疑地盯着我的眼睛。 “你是不是知道什么没说？”他质问道。 “没有，不过你会知道我这样说是对的。” 我确实是没错。谢弗继续四处走着，对他自己微笑，根本没有努力把他的客户从郡立监狱救出来的意思。 三天后有了新的发现。 一个叫阿奇巴尔德·维克斯的男人来见检察官，他在卡瓦洛夫家往南大概十里的地方有个小小的养鸡场。维克斯说他命案当天一大早在那儿看到了谢里。 维克斯当天早晨准备出发到艾奥瓦州看望他父母。他一早起来去看看是否一切正常，然后好开二十英里的车去赶早班火车。 五点半到六点之间，他到停车棚去看汽油够不够用。 有个男人跑出棚子，跳过篱笆，冲下马路。维克斯追了一小段路，可对他来说那人跑得太快了。那人衣着得当，不像流浪汉，维克斯觉得他可能是想偷车。 因为维克斯非东行不可，而他不在时，他太太就只有两个儿子陪她——一个十七岁，一个十五岁，所以他觉得最好还是别提他在棚里意外见到的男人，免得她担惊受怕。 他从艾奥瓦州回来的第二天就来了检察官办公室。他听说了卡瓦洛夫命案的细节，又在报上看到了谢里的照片，认出他就是那天早上他追的男人。 我们带他去见谢里本人。他说谢里就是那个人。谢里没说话。 由于维克斯的证据和圣佩德罗警察局的相抵触，检察官起诉了谢里。马库斯以关键证人的身份出席，不过因为他在圣佩德罗的不在场证明仍然牢不可破，所以他没有受审。 维克斯在证人席上简单地说了他的故事，然后又在交叉盘问下回答得前后矛盾，他完全崩溃了。 他回答谢弗的问题时承认，他不完全确定谢里就是他先前见过的人。当然，那人看起来是有点儿像谢里，可他当初也只是惊鸿一瞥，也许斩钉截铁说那人就是谢里是草率了些。经过再三考虑后，他确定在朦胧的晨光下没有看清楚那个人。最后，维克斯能保证的只是他看到一个长得有点像谢里的男人。 简直是个笑话。 检察官没指甲啃了，他啃起手指头来。 陪审团说：“无罪。” 谢里无罪释放，就卡瓦洛夫命案来说，他是永远清白了，不管以后还有什么新发现。 马库斯也无罪释放了。 我出发回旧金山时，检察官不肯跟我说再见。 谢里释放后四天，里戈太太走进我的办公室。 她一身黑，漂亮无知的东方面孔并不平静。 “拜托，别告诉多尔夫我来这儿了好吗？”这是她的第一句话。 “当然，如果你不让我说的话。”我答应道。 她坐下来，睁大眼睛看着我。 “他实在太轻率了。”她说。 我同情地点点头，不知道她想干什么。 “而且我还担心，”她两手绞着手套，下巴发抖，哆哆嗦嗦地补充道，“他们又回到那平房去了。” “是吗？”我坐直身子。我知道他们是谁。 “他们回来没别的理由，”她叫道，“一定是要像杀了父亲那样杀掉多尔夫。可他不听我的，他太自信了。他每次都笑我，叫我傻孩子，告诉我他可以照顾自己。可是他不能，至少在断了一只胳膊的情况下不能。他们会像杀父亲一样杀掉他的，我知道，我知道。” “谢里恨你丈夫跟恨你父亲一样吗？” “是的，是一样的。多尔夫以前帮父亲做事，不过那件——那件给谢里带来麻烦的生意，多尔夫插手的比……比父亲要多。请你……请你挡住他们不要杀多尔夫好吗？好吗？” "certainly." “而且你千万不能告诉多尔夫。”她坚持道，“要是他发现你在盯他们，也千万不能告诉他是我来找你的。他会生我的气。我说过要他找你，可他——”她停了下来，一脸尴尬，我想她丈夫大概提过卡瓦洛夫也没因为我逃过一死，“可他不同意。” “他们回来多久了？” “前天到现在。” “我明天过去。”我答应道，“我的忠告是：告诉你先生你请了我。不过你不想说的话我也不勉强。” “你不会让他伤到多尔夫吧？” 我答应尽力而为，收了她一些钱，给了她一张收据，然后鞠躬送她出去。 当晚天黑后不久，我又到了再会村。 我爬上小山经过平房时，看到房子的窗户被灯照亮了。我有股下跑车去看看的冲动，但又担心在马库斯的地盘上我没法比他棋高一着。 等我转上那条通向我第一趟到再会村时发现的空屋的土路时，我关掉跑车的灯，在头顶明晃晃的月亮照耀下上了山。 快到空屋时，我把车从小路上开下来。然后我走进摇摇晃晃的前廊，找到平房的位置，开始调整望远镜。 平房的前门打开时，我才调整好一部分，只见那里露出一小片黄光和两个人。 其中一个是女人。 门的合叶又稍微扭了一下，她的脸清楚地映入我的眼帘——里戈太太。 她竖起外套领子遮住脸，匆匆走下石子路。谢里站在阳台上目送她离去。 等上了大路，她开始往山上的家里跑。 谢里进了屋关上门。 两个半小时以后，一个男人从大路拐上石子路。他快步走向平房，迅速中带着谨慎，走路时不停地东张西望。 我想他是敲了门的。 门开时，一道黄光打在他脸上，是多尔夫·里戈的脸。他进去，门关上了。 我收好望远镜，离开前廊，出发去平房。我不确定我能再给跑车找到个好的停车位，所以我就没动它，走路过去。 我不敢冒险走石子路。 在石子路上方二十英尺处，我离开大路，在软泥、树、灌木和花丛之间行走，尽可能不弄出响声。我知道我面对的是谁，所以我手里攥着枪。 平房面对我这一侧的所有窗户都透出灯光，不过它们都关着，百叶窗也拉上了。灯光透出百叶窗，再加上月光，照得附近一片雪亮。我在山脊上眯着眼睛从望远镜偷看时，月光对我很有利，可这会儿我想凑近听个清楚就不行了。