Chapter 2 Chapter 2 The Dictator of Parsonville

The Morning Herald devoted two pages to Donald Wilson and his death, showing a quick, witty face, curly hair, smiling, parted jaw, and a striped tie. His death was very simple.At ten forty the night before, he had been shot four times in the abdomen, chest, and back, and was dead at that time.The shooting occurred in the 1100 block of Hulkan Avenue.Residents nearby heard the gunshots and came to see the dead man lying on the sidewalk.A man and a woman are bent over him.But because it was too dark at night, nobody could see anything clearly.When other people rushed to the scene, the two people had disappeared, and no one could see who they were or where they had gone.

Of the six bullets fired at Wilson from .32 caliber pistols, two of them penetrated the front wall of a house and missed.From the two bullets, the police knew that the shooting came from a narrow alley across the street. That's all they know. The Morning Herald ran an editorial outlining the deceased's brief career as an urban reformer, stating that they believed Donald was killed by someone unwilling to cleanse the city, and that the chief of police should be on the hunt as soon as possible. Killers and convicting them is the best way to show that he has no accomplices.The tone of the entire report was blunt and acrimonious.

After the second cup of coffee and I finished the newspaper, I hopped in a small car and got off at Laura Street and walked towards the dead man's house. About half a block away, something changed my mind and my destination. A slightly smaller young man in various shades of brown crossed the street ahead of me.The profile of his dark and handsome face is that of Max Taylor, also known as Vespa.I made it to the corner of Monton Road just in time to see his hind legs in brown trousers disappear through the door of dead Donald Wilson. I went back to Broadway, saw a grocery store with a pay phone, found the phone number of Elihu Wilson's house in the phone book, dialed the number, and said to a person who claimed to be his secretary, I was called Invited by Donald, just coming from San Francisco, I know some of the circumstances of his death and wanted to meet his father.

I stressed the point again and again, and finally got an invitation to visit there. The secretary—a lean man in his forties, with a sharp eye and a soft voice—takes me to the bedroom where the Parsonville dictator is lying in bed. Let's take a look at this dictator: a small, round head with close-cropped white hair, and a pair of tiny ears that sit flat on the sides to enhance the spherical effect of the head.The nose is also small, connecting with the protruding forehead to form a convex surface of a ball, only the flat mouth and chin have the feeling of cutting off a piece of the spherical surface.The stubby neck sunk deep into the shoulders of the big white pajamas, the shoulders were broad and strong.One arm was exposed from the quilt, it was a short, strong arm with a thick palm attached.The small eyes are round and blue, as if covered with a layer of mist, as if they were still on undeveloped film, only showing from under the thick gray eyebrows when they shouted at the servants or wanted to grab something.Unless you have enough self-confidence, it is absolutely impossible to get a dime out of this kind of person's pocket.

He turned his round head two inches to the side, beckoned me to sit on the chair by the bed, and, likewise, chased his secretary out of the room, asking me, "Know something about my son?" He spoke harshly. , When you speak, you use your chest too much and your mouth too little, so you can't hear clearly. "I'm a detective in the San Francisco branch of the Continental Detective Agency," I told him. "We got a letter and a check from your son the other day asking us to send someone to help him, and I'm the one." Man. He called me to his house last night. I went and he didn't show up. I knew he had been killed when I got downtown."

Elihu Wilson stared at me suspiciously and asked, "What else?" "While I was waiting for him, your daughter-in-law got a call and went out. When she came back, she had something on her shoe that looked like blood. She told me that her husband would not be coming home. Your son was in She was killed at 10:40, she went out at 10:20, and returned at 11:05." As soon as the old man heard this, he immediately sat up straight and called young Mrs. Wilson a beast. After a lot of scolding, he was still angry and shouted to me: "Is she in prison now?" I said probably not.

He was very annoyed by this, cursed a lot of ugly words, and finally said: "What are you waiting for?" He was too old and sick to bear the blow.I smiled and said, "Wait for the evidence." "Evidence? What more evidence do you need? You've—" "Don't be stupid," I interrupted his roar, "why did she kill him?" "Because she's a French slut! Because she—"—the secretary's frightened face appeared by the door—"should be opened!" the old fellow yelled, turning that way.The face disappeared. "Is she jealous?" I asked as he gasped. "I might understand if you didn't yell. You're so fierce that I'm of no use to you."

He puts his fist on the bulge of the quilt on his thigh and moves his square jaw toward me. "I'm old and sick, but I want to kick your ass," he said savagely. I didn't care and said it again: "Is she jealous?" "Yes," he said, not shouting this time, "she's a spoiled, spoiled woman. Suspicious, greedy, miserly, shameless, fraudulent, selfish, terrible, very bad!" "Has she any reason to be jealous?" "I wish there was," he said bitterly. "I hate how faithful my son would be to her. But it might be. He would."

"But you don't know that she had any reason to kill your son?" "Don't know the reason?" He roared again, "Didn't you hear it just now?" "Listen, that doesn't explain anything, that's just childish." The old man lifted the quilt from his lap and started to get out of bed.Then he thought about it and gave up, raising his flushed face and roaring, "Stanley!" The door opened and the secretary crept in. "Get the bastard out!" his master ordered, shaking his fist at me. The secretary turned to me.I shook my head and suggested to him, "It's better to find another helper."

The secretary frowned.We were about the same age, he was lanky, about a head taller than me, but fifty pounds lighter, and some of my hundred and ninety pounds was fat, but not all of course.The secretary stood uneasily, smiled apologetically, and walked away. "I also want to say," I said to the old man, "that I wanted to speak to your daughter-in-law this morning, but I saw Max Taylor come into the house, so I postponed my visit." Elihu Wilson put the quilt back on his legs carefully, leaned his head on the pillow, squinted his eyes and stared at the ceiling and said, "Well, from this point of view, that's it."

"What can it explain?" "She killed him," he said firmly, "that's what it means." There were chaotic footsteps in the hall, much heavier than the secretary's, and when they reached the door of the room, I said: "You are using your son—" "Go away!" the old man yelled at the people by the door, "close the door tightly." He glared at me and said forcefully, "What am I using my son for?" "Turn it on Tyler, Yad, and the Finn." "you are lying." "I didn't make it up, the whole city said so." "That's a lie. I let him run the newspaper and he can do what he likes." "You should make it clear to your colleagues, they will believe you." "They believe in ass, and that's what I'm going to tell you." "So what? Your son won't come back to life because he was killed by mistake—assuming he was killed by mistake." "The woman killed him." "possible." "Maybe shit, she did it!" "Possibly. On the other hand—political purposes are investigated too. Can you tell me—" "I can tell you that it was the French slut who killed him. I can tell you that any other stupid ideas of yours are futile." "But that has to be investigated," I insisted. "You know more about Parsonville's politics than anyone else I could find. He's your son. You can at least—" "The least I can do," he snarled, "is tell you and your stinky ideas to go back to San Francisco." I stood up and said angrily, "I'm at the Hotel Daxi. Unless you want to change and say something meaningful, then don't bother me." I walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs, where the secretary paced restlessly up and down, smiling apologetically. I yelled, "What a rough old man!" "A man of great importance!" he whispered. In the offices of the Herald I found the secretary of the deceased.She was a young girl of twenty, with almond eyes, light brown hair, and a fair, pretty face.Her name is Luis. She said she knew nothing about the boss calling me to Parsonville. "At that time," she explained, "Mr. Wilson didn't like to be known, which is to say, I don't think he trusted anyone here at all." "including you?" She blushed and said, "Yes, but after all, he has only been here for such a short time, so he doesn't know us very well." "There must be other reasons." "..." She bit her lip and stamped a row of fingerprints with her forefinger on the edge of the deceased's shiny table, "His father does not agree with what he is doing. Because his father is the real owner of the newspaper, I think Mr. Donald thinks It is only natural that some employees would be more loyal to Mr. Elihu than to him." "The old man doesn't support the reform movement? If the newspaper is his, why can he tolerate it?" She looked down at her fingerprints carefully, and said softly, "It's not easy to understand, unless you know Mr. Donald—the last time Mr. Elihu fell ill, he called Mr. Donald back. You Knowing that Mr. Donald spent most of his life in Europe. Dr. Pride told Elihu that he had to give up the management of various affairs and recover from his illness, so he sent a telegram to ask his son to come back. But when Mr. Donald returned, Mr. Elihu couldn't make up his mind to let it go completely. But in order to keep his son, he asked his son to run a newspaper, that is, let him become a publisher. Mr. Donald liked newspapers. He liked journalism when he was in Paris. When he Finding out how bad things are here--everything in the city and all, he started a reform movement. He didn't know--he left here when he was a child--he didn't know--" "He doesn't know that his father is as deep in it as everyone else." I helped her carry on. She looked at the fingerprints with some unease, did not contradict me, and continued: "Mr. Elihu had a fight with him. Mr. Elihu told him not to cause trouble, but he didn't listen. If he knew all the facts, maybe He'll listen, but I guess he doesn't realize his dad is really into it. His dad doesn't tell him. I think it's really hard for a dad to say that to his son, and he threatens Donald Sir said he was going to withdraw the paper. I don't know if he really intended to do that, but he fell ill and then everything went on as it was." "Mr. Donald doesn't trust you?" I asked. "Yes."—literally a whisper. "So, where do you know so much?" "I just—just want to help you catch the murderer," she said anxiously, "You have no right to—" "You would do me a great favor if you told me where I got this information," I insisted. She stared at the table, bit her lip, and I waited, and a moment later she said, "My father is Mr. Elihu's secretary." "thanks." "But you can't think we—" "That's none of my business," I assured her. "What was Mr. Wilson doing in Hulrican Street last night when he asked me to meet at his house?" She said she didn't know.I asked her if she had heard him tell me on the phone to be at his house at ten o'clock, and she said she had. "Then. What did he do? I hope you can recall every detail you can. What did he say and do before you left?" She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and frowning. "About two o'clock, you called—if that was you, and Mr. Donald asked you to come to his house. He then dictated to me some letters, one to the paper mill and one to Senator Keefer concerning the Some changes in Post Office regulations, and—oh yes! He was out for about twenty minutes toward three o'clock, and he wrote a check before that." "Who is it for?" "I don't know, but I saw he wrote it." "Where's his checkbook? Does he have it with him?" "Here." She jumped up and walked to Donald's desk, trying to open the top drawer. "It's locked." Together she and I turned the lock with the pliers and my blade, and finally it opened. The girl pulled out a thin First National Bank checkbook with five thousand dollars on the last page of the stub and nothing else, no name, no note. "Did he go out with this check for twenty minutes?" I said. "Is that enough time to get to the bank and back?" "That won't take five minutes." "Did nothing else happen before the check was written? Come to think of it? A message, a letter, a phone call?" "Let me see," she closed her large eyes again, "and he dictated some letters, and then—oh, what a fool I was! He did make a phone call, and he said, 'Yes, ten o'clock I can get there, but I have to get out of there quickly.’ And then he said, ‘Fine, ten o’clock.’ Except for a couple of ‘Yeah, right’ and that’s all he said.” "Was it a man or a woman who spoke to him?" "I have no idea." "Think about it, his voice will be different." She thought for a while and said, "It should be a woman." "Last night—you or him—who left first?" "It's me, he—I said my father was Mr. Elihu's secretary—had an appointment with my father in the evening about the newspaper's finances. My father came in a little after five, and I thought they were going to dinner." That was all Louis knew, and she said she had no idea why Mr Donald was in the 1100 block of Hulican Street, and she admitted she knew nothing about Mrs Wilson. We searched the dead man's table, but found nothing of value. I went over to the lady at the switchboard, but I couldn't find anything. I spent a whole hour asking the postmen, editors, etc., but in vain.The devil, as his secretary said, was a good keeper of secrets.