Chapter 9 Broker train

It was the first time in years that Connelly—as a Wall Street broker—had traveled home on a non-broker train.The Brokers Train was just for people like him: the passengers were Wall Street brokers just like him.They have management ability and professionalism, are rich and intelligent, and they can be recognized as peers at a glance without introducing each other, and they can understand without saying much. Not for the Senator's dinner, Connelly muttered to himself.But the senator insisted that he attend, even if he hated it, he couldn't escape it, this disgusting Thursday dinner.Correspondingly, he had to take an earlier train home, change his clothes and tidy up to meet the boring night.Under the joint effect of overabundant food and alcohol, what awaits him will be an extremely painful tomorrow.

With desperation, Connelly lumbered off the train to the familiar platform, and then walked to his car.Since Claire preferred to drive a station wagon, Connelly drove a car to and from the station every day.When they first got married two years ago, she wanted to drive him to and from get off work every day, but for some reason, he rejected the idea.Watching the men kiss their wives good-bye at the station every morning made him sick a little.The thought of being in that situation himself made him shy for a moment.He didn't tell Claire about this, he only told her that he didn't marry her to be a housekeeper or a driver, and that she could enjoy life to the fullest without worrying too much about housework.

Fifteen minutes at the most, I can drive home through the suburbs, but today, thinking about dinner parties that are getting more and more irritating, I slow down unconsciously.Follow the highway for a mile or so and you will cross a main railroad.There were no guards or gates at the intersection, just a red light and a siren, which tinkled non-stop as Connelly drove by.He slammed on the brakes, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel boredly, and waited for the never-ending train to rumble by.Then, just as he was about to start the car again, he saw them. Claire and a man, his wife and a man in a station wagon whizzed past him, heading towards town.The man was driving, blond, strong, and proudly behind the wheel like a Viking, with one arm around Claire.Claire closed her eyes and rested her head on the man's shoulder.It was the look on her face that Connelly had dreamed about many times but never actually seen.They passed by in a flash, but that scene was imprinted in his mind like a movie scene.

It's not true, he told himself; he didn't want to believe it!But that scene was still in his mind, becoming clearer and more vivid, so terrifying that he couldn't bear to look directly at it.He put his arms around her, and she was intoxicated.That sexual intoxication. Connelly's body began to tremble uncontrollably, blood rushed to the top of his head, and he was about to turn around and follow them.However, he was immediately paralyzed. Where could they go?Going to town, no doubt, to see the man wait for the next train back to town.What did you do?To denounce them loudly in public?Make a fuss?Humiliate them in public, and humiliate yourself at the same time?

He couldn't afford anything, especially this humiliation.He had had enough when he first married Claire, and his friends laughed at him, that a man in this position married his own secretary and was only half his age!Now he knew why they were laughing at him, something he'd been ignoring before.When Claire helped him deal with affairs, the office was always filled with fresh and formal air; she sat elegantly on the seat and took notes for him solemnly; she was always decent... When he first invited her to dinner , her face flushed red, which was the innocent reaction of the little girl when she was asked out for the first time.simple!He flashed back the past in a sudden frenzy, and she must have been laughing at me, too.She, like everyone else.

Connelly drove home slowly, not caring about him.The house was empty, and he remembered that today was Thursday, and the servants rested, which was a perfect opportunity for Claire.He went straight into the study, sat at the desk, and opened the top drawer.There was his gun in the drawer, a .38 caliber short-barreled gun. He slowly picked up the gun, weighing the cold body of the gun with his hands, and carefully felt the power it brought.At this time, when he and Judge Hillik were on the broker's special train, the words the judge had said suddenly flashed through Connelly's mind. "Guns?" Hillik had said. "Knives? Blunt objects? Throw them all out the window. In my opinion, the only perfect murder weapon is a car. Why? Because a speeding car Automobiles kill everyone. As long as the driver gets out of the car with a regretful face, everyone will sympathize. As for the wretch who has become a corpse, people will blame him for running on the road at this time. As long as you Without being drunk or driving too hard, on a rampage, you can drive around this country and kill anyone you want, at the cost of temporary embarrassment and a small fine.

"Think about it, my friend," the judge continued, "to most people, the car is like God, and God wants to run you down, you can only blame your bad luck. Like me, every time I cross the road I will pray a little bit.” Connelly was impressed by Judge Hillick's sarcastic, nagging manner.Without thinking deeply, these words come to mind easily.He had what he needed, so he carefully put the gun back, closed the drawer, and locked it. While he was still sitting at his desk contemplating, Claire came back, and Connelly forced himself to greet her as usual—the woman with the angelic face who played him for a fool, stood on the porch with her eyes wide open. , carrying a shopping bag out of proportion to her figure.

"I saw your car parked in the garage," she said out of breath, "and I was worried if something happened to you, if you weren't feeling well..." "I'm very good." "But you came back so early, never so early." "I used to always try to avoid Thursday dinners." "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "the dinner party! I've forgotten all about it. I've been so busy all day..." "Really?" he said, "What's going on?" "Oh, everyone is away today, and I have to take care of the house by myself. I found that many things in the storage room were used up, so I hurried to the town to do some shopping." She pointed to the bulging paper bag in her hand with her chin. , "I'll help you prepare the bath water right away, and after I put these things away, I will prepare the things you need for the dinner party."

Watching Claire walk away, Connelly couldn't help admiring her.If it were any other woman, she might make up a story about going to visit a friend on the spot, and it would reveal her truth at some point, and she wouldn't think of bringing a useless paper bag just to find an excuse to go to town.But Claire will do it, her IQ and beauty are equally astonishing. She really was radiant as hell.Even though his male friends always laughed at him behind his back, family gatherings were not all eager to hang around her.Whenever they walked into a room full of strangers, Connelly could feel the longing eyes of the men, following her all the way.No, it wasn't her who had the accident, she couldn't do anything.The one who should be destroyed is that man, just like seeing a mob break into his own territory, any bloody person will rush out like crazy with an ax in hand.Of course Claire will also be injured, but this is to teach her some lessons, and let her see the tragedy that happened to that man, so that the lessons can achieve better results.

Connelly soon discovered that the plan was much more than just running over the man as he crossed the street. It was a big project.There are many details, and there are countless details to consider in every step before and after the incident. In order to achieve perfection, every piece of the puzzle needs to be put in the right place. In this regard, Connelly reflected gratefully, that the judge's sarcasm had been far more useful than he had expected.A murder done in a car is the perfect murder, because, if you pay attention to all the details, murder is no longer murder!The dead are just the victims, the killer is on top of everyone else, and the whole thing will end in a very different way than a murder case.After all, who cares if one more person dies at the wheel every year out of 30,000?He is just a statistic, one in 30,000.At most, everyone discussed a few words, and then shrugged helplessly.

With the exception of Claire, of course.Coincidences are everywhere, but no matter how coincidental, it will never happen that the husband just hits and kills his wife's lover.And that's the best part of the plan.Claire knows the inside story, but can't say anything, because whatever she says will expose her infidelity.For the rest of her life, she would spend every day in trembling, knowing that her infidelity had been discovered, a revenge was completed, and the next one would be herself. Although the possibility is very small, what if she chooses to tell everything without hesitating to expose herself?At this point, Connelly immediately found a suitable piece of the jigsaw puzzle to make sure that even then the whole thing would still be treated as an accident.If he had never suspected his wife's infidelity, and had never met the man, the incident would have been treated as an accident by the police.Of course no murder charges would be brought against him. After sorting out his thoughts, he began to execute the plan patiently and attentively.At first, he wanted to ask professional detectives to provide him with the necessary information, which would be faster and more efficient, but he gave up the idea after careful consideration.After the fact, a clever detective will connect the two events in no time.An honest person might report to the police; a less honest person might try to blackmail.Clearly, one of these risks has to be faced in seeking help from outsiders.But there can be no risk in this matter, not the slightest. So Connelly spent weeks gathering information, and, he reminded himself, if Claire and the man changed their schedule, he would have to waste even longer.The men came only on Thursdays, and then, before the town car arrived at the station, Claire would drive the station wagon onto a mostly deserted sidewalk a block from the town square.The young couple would kiss passionately in the car, and Connelly would shake with anger every time. As soon as the man got out of the car, Claire quickly started the car and left, while the man walked lightly towards the city square.Clearly, walking between parked cars and across town squares, the man is completely lost in his own world, paying little attention to the traffic until he enters the station.When he witnessed the performance for the third time, Connelly could already accurately predict where the man would take every step. Coincidentally, during this period Claire once said that he was going to go shopping in the city, and Connelly also took advantage of this opportunity.He stood in the corner of the waiting room at the terminal station and watched the train she was taking come in, followed her to the street at a safe distance, then called a taxi and followed her to a dilapidated apartment building— — where the man lives.The man was sitting on the dirty front stairs, apparently waiting for her.Connelly noticed sourly that the two walked into the apartment building arm in arm, like a student couple.Then came the long wait, which lasted almost the entire afternoon; finally Connelly gave up before Claire came down. What he saw that day made him furious, and he wished that the planned scene would be staged on the road in the city the next day.But Connelly dismissed the idea immediately.Doing so would mean driving into town, something he had never done before, a dangerous aberration.In addition, the tabloids in the city are not like the staid local newspapers. They always take a critical attitude towards traffic accidents. They not only publish a piece of news, but also publish photos of the victims and the perpetrators.He didn't want this to happen.This is a personal matter.Completely private. The town square is certainly the only ideal place to address this matter.The more Connelly reflected on the whole plan, the more proudly he found it flawless. Can't think of where I could go wrong.Even if, by some twist of fate, his car only ran over the man, not killed him, his victim would be in the same position as Claire: unable to speak unless he made his scandal public.Even if he didn't even touch the man, he wouldn't be charged with attempted murder because he didn't have a gun or knife in his hands; Careless pedestrians". However, he didn't want a "narrow escape" and for that reason he decided to park further from the station than usual.He calculated that, with this distance, he could drive diagonally across the town square and hit the man just as he emerged from the parked cars.In that case, just explain that you didn't notice it.Legally speaking, a pedestrian who suddenly steps out of traffic is more brutal than the driver who hits him. Connelly not only made sure the distance between the car and the station entrance was just right, but also, like other drivers, reversed the car so that the front wheels were facing the town square, so that he could quickly rev up and go full speed.Not only that, but he could see the man approaching at a glance. The day before the final move, Connelly waited until the car was empty on the way home before pulling over to a deserted stretch of road and letting the motor idle.He surveyed carefully, found a street tree thirty yards away—about the same distance across the town square, he reckoned—and started the car, driving past the tree at full speed, with a sudden acceleration that made the big machine roar.As soon as he passed the tree, he straightened up, slammed on the brakes hard, the steering wheel pressed against his chest, and the car wobbled and stopped with a strange noise. That's it.This is what he wants... The next day, he left the office exactly as scheduled.When the secretary helped him put on his coat, he turned his face and made a pained expression as planned. "A little uncomfortable," he said. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Miss Venant." Faced with such situations, as he knew, good secretaries were trained to frown worriedly and say, "You're just working too hard, Mr. Bollinger." He waved abruptly. "Go home early and rest for a while, and everything will be cured." He patted the pocket of his coat. "My medicine, Miss Venant, is in the top drawer." It's just an envelope containing a few aspirin, but it can leave an impression on people, and physical discomfort can also be considered as one of the reasons for the tragedy. He was already familiar with the morning train; he had taken it several times in the past few weeks, but always with his face hidden behind a newspaper.But today is different.When the conductor came to check the monthly pass, Connelly slumped on the seat, looking very painful. "The conductor," he asked, "can I have some water?" The conductor took one look at him, walked away hurriedly, and handed him a glass of water when he came back.Slowly and carefully, Connelly took an aspirin from the envelope and swallowed it with water. "Is there anything else you need," said the conductor, "tell me." "No," Connelly replied, "no, I'll just have a drink of water." After arriving at the station, the train attendant enthusiastically came over to help him get off the train, and said casually, "You don't take this train often, do you?" Connelly was overjoyed and said, "No, this is the second time I take this train. I usually take the broker's special train." "Oh." The conductor looked him up and down, grinned, and said, "You are indeed a good-looking talent. I hope our service will satisfy you as well as the broker's special train." Connelly sat down on the bench in this small station, leaned back on the chair, and looked at the clock inside the ticket window.Once or twice he saw the conductor glance at him worriedly, and that didn't matter, what mattered was the growing tension.The tension made his stomach convulse, and his heart beat so violently that it seemed to jump out of his chest.He sat for ten minutes, these feelings getting stronger with each passing minute.Before the minute hand of the clock reached the little black dot, he tried to adjust his mind so that he could get up in time and rush to the car. When the moment came, he stood up, surprised at how much effort it took to get up.Then, he walked slowly outside the station.The conductor's eyes followed him until he walked out of the station to the car.He climbed into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and started the engine.The slight roar of the motor under the seat injected him with new strength. He sat firmly and mobilized all his strength, staring at the city square not far away. The man appeared, watching him striding towards this side, Connelly suddenly had a strange feeling, as if the blond man was just a puppet, drawn by an invisible thread, to the fateful end.As he approached, Connelly could clearly see a bright smile on his face, and a young, energetic voice humming a song—excitedly.The sight dispelled all his feeble imaginations, propelling the car roaring into frantic reality. Even after rehearsing it countless times in his mind, Connelly was startled by how quickly it all happened.The man got out of the car in disbelief, and Connelly honked the horn—this was an impromptu idea, which was useless to warn people coming, but it could further ensure the success of the plan.The man's face turned around with the sound of the horn, his face was full of horror, and his hands were suddenly raised as if to block the rushing thing.The impact drowned out the screams, which were far worse than Connelly had imagined, and then only the screech of brakes could be heard. The town square had been empty before the incident; now, with crowds coming in from all directions, Connelly had to push his way through the crowd to see the body. "Better not to look," someone warned.But he went to see it anyway, the horrible twisted sight, legs crossed in an unnatural position, face pale as dirt.His body swayed, and several hands stretched out to support him, but at this time he was not paralyzed by fright, but because his whole body was hit by a violent and dizzying sense of success, and the surrounding voices further escalated this a sense of success. "He walked straight out without looking." "I heard the horn from a block away." "Probably drunk. You could tell by the way he stood there..." There is still an uncertain danger waiting to be ruled out.He had to be careful and continue to follow the plan step by step to be safe and sound.As he sat in his car, being questioned officially by a policeman whose tone of sympathy grew louder, he knew he was doing well. No danger, as long as he wants, he can go home anytime.Allegation, of course, this kind of thing is inevitable, but depending on the situation... Yes, they will be happy to help him make a call to Mrs. Bollinger.They could also take him home, but if he insisted on calling his wife... The commotion wasted enough time for Claire to go home, and he sat in the car during the fifteen minutes he had waited for her arrival, enduring the almost morbidly curious and sympathetic looks from the crowd outside the window.As the business vehicle gradually approached, a passage magically flashed out of the crowd, and when Claire walked to him, the passage disappeared miraculously. She was a beautiful woman even in a panic, Connelly thought.Moreover, he had to admit that she was very good at playing the role of a good wife and knew how to show her care and love for her husband, even if it was fake.But maybe she's doing so well because she doesn't know the truth yet, and it's time to tell her. She helped him get into the business car first, and then sat in the driver's seat by herself. Connelly stretched out a hand and hugged her tightly, and through the open window, he asked with obvious anxiety: "Oh, By the way, officer, do you know the identity of that man? Is there anything on him that can identify him?" The officer nodded. "Young man from the city," he said. "So we'll have to go to the city to make sure. Named Lundgren, Robert Lundgren, if that's the real name on the card." He felt her gasp, not through his ears, but through his arms, and at the same time, his body trembled uncontrollably.Her face became as pale as the man lying outside. "Okay, Claire," Connelly said softly, "let's go home." Without hesitation for a second, she started the car and drove on the way out of town.His face was expressionless and his eyes were looking straight ahead.As the car hit the freeway, he wanted to thank God aloud.At this time, she finally opened her mouth calmly, her tone revealing the surprise in her heart. "You know, you know everything, so you killed him." "Yes," Connelly said, "I know." "You are really crazy." She still had no expression on her face, her eyes were staring straight ahead, "Only a lunatic would kill someone." Her calm, didactic tone fueled his anger more than words. "That is the judgment of justice," he said through gritted teeth, "and it has come upon him." She remained unmoved. "You do not understand." "Don't understand what?" She turned to him, and he saw tears in her eyes. "I knew him before I knew you, long before I went to work at your place. We were inseparable, it was a match made in heaven, and it would be strange not to be together." She paused for less than a second, "But things just don't work." So smooth. I can't stand him being ambitious and making no money. I was born poor and didn't want to marry a poor man and die poor...so I married you. I tried to be a good wife— —You will never know how hard I work!—But this is not what you want. You just want a vase, not a wife. Let you show it in front of people, accept the envy of others, and other things you want It’s the same as having something to envy.” "Stop talking silly." He said rudely, "Watch the road, you're going to turn around here!" "Listen!" she said, "I'm about to tell you everything, and at the same time I want a divorce. I don't want a penny, money, things, nothing—I just want to divorce and marry him to make up for what we have wasted. time! That's what I just told him today, if you'll ask me—tell me—" She would forget all this, even though the truth was worse than he imagined.As the old saying goes, all things pass.There was nothing in her marriage in exchange for now; once she understood that, they could start over.He could think of using a car as a murder weapon really cleverly, and it was done so well.The perfect weapon, the judge had said, but he certainly didn't expect it to be this perfect. The sound of warning bells on the railroad gates brought Connelly back from fantasy to reality—and he realized with horror that the car was still moving at high speed.The sound of the train whistle overwhelmed all the movement around him, and he looked up in shock, just in time to see the tin car whistling with white gas, which was the broker's special train. "Be careful!" he shouted, "My God, what are you doing!" At the last second of consciousness, he saw her step on the gas pedal hard.He understood everything.