Chapter 4 blackmail

That morning, on the commuter train from Edenbridge to London, this would never have happened if Samuel Natkin hadn't dropped his spectacle case between the seat cushions.But he just dropped his glasses case, and he just put his hand in between the cushions to fumble, so something happened. He fumbled around, and his fingers not only touched the glasses case, but also touched a thin magazine, which was obviously stuffed there by the previous passenger of this seat.Thinking it was a train timetable, he pulled it out without thinking.Not that he needed a train timetable.He has been on this commuter train for twenty-five years. He takes the same train at the same time every day, from the peaceful town of Edenbridge to Charing Cross Station in London, and at the same time in the evening. A train from Cannon Street Station to Kent, he didn't need a timetable, just a momentary curiosity.

Mr. Nutkin blushed at the sight of the cover, and hastily tucked it back under the seat cushion.He looked around the compartment to see if anyone had noticed his discovery.Opposite him, two copies of the Financial Times, one of The Times and one of The Guardian were bouncing up and down to the rhythm of the trains, with property prices obscuring readers' faces.To his left, old Fogarty was engrossed in crossword puzzles; out of the car window to his right, Heather Green Station sped by.Natkin breathed a sigh of relief. The magazine is not big, but the cover is bright.The upper part bears the words "New Circle", apparently the name of the publication.At the bottom of the cover was: "Singles, Couples, Groups—A Gender-Friendly Magazine." Between the two lines, centered on the cover, was a photograph of a large woman with high breasts and a white square covering her face.The words "Advertiser H331" were written on the photo.Mr. Nutkin had never seen such a magazine before, but all the way to Charing Cross Station he kept thinking about the hints of such a thing he had found.

After arriving at the station, the doors of the trains opened all at once, and commuters flocked to the bustling platform No. 6.Natkin scrambled through his briefcase, umbrella, and bowler hat until he was finally alone in the cubicle.Gathering courage, he pulled the magazine from between the seat cushions, stuffed it into his briefcase, and joined the sea of ​​bowler hats swarming towards the ticket gates, season ticket in hand. Transfer from the train to the subway, and then get out of the Manson Building subway station, step on the steps into Trinity Lane, and then walk along Cannon Street to the insurance company building where he works as a small clerk.Along the way, he felt that something was wrong.He once heard about a man who had been hit by a car, and in the hospital, a stack of pornographic photos was found in the man's pocket.The memory haunted Samuel Natkin.Who can explain this kind of thing clearly?The shame and embarrassment was unbearable — lying on a hospital bed with one leg dangling in mid-air, my secret tastes known to everyone.He crossed the road with extreme caution that morning until he reached the insurance company's office building.

From this it may be surmised that Mr. Nutkin was not used to such things.Someone once said that people tend to imitate the nicknames they usually get: call a man "Bulky" and he will walk around with his head swaggering; Try to imitate the way you talk; "Mr. Funny" will keep telling jokes and clowning until everyone is relieved of the stress and laughing.When Samuel Natkin was ten years old, a little boy at school read a fairy tale and nicknamed him "Squirrel", and his fate was thus framed. He had been working in London since he was twenty-three.At the end of the war, he was discharged with the rank of corporal.Back then, he was lucky to find the job.Worked as a clerk in a large insurance company, with a stable job and a pension at the end.The insurance company had branches all over the world, as safe and secure as the Bank of England five hundred yards away.The job marked Natkin's entry into the city, into this mile-wide, global powerhouse of economics, commerce and finance.

In the late forties, he liked the city very much.On his lunch break, he wanders the streets, looking at old streets that date back to the Middle Ages.Back then, Bread Street, Corn Hill, and Poultry Street were indeed places where bread, corn, and poultry were sold, and the London Wall did mark the boundaries of the City of London.Inside these unassuming stone buildings, adventurous merchants received financial support to travel across the oceans to the Middle East, Africa and the Far East to open up trade, mine or treasure hunts, and then send the spoils back to the city for insurance, lending and investment.Decisions made by boards of directors and cashiers in this square mile can affect the livelihoods of millions of poor people.These things touched Samuel Natkin, but it never occurred to him that these men were also the most successful robbers in the world.Overall, Natkin is a very honest guy.

Time flies, twenty-five years later, the original magical feeling has faded, and he has become one of the office workers who flood into the city every day.Wearing a clerk's gray suit, umbrella, top hat and briefcase, he worked eight hours here before returning home to the suburbs. In this urban jungle, Natkin is, as he is nicknamed, a friendly and harmless creature.Years of clerical work had acclimatized him to a desk, and he was a plump, jovial man who was just turning sixty this year and always wore a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose to enable him to read and see things up close.He was mild-mannered and always courteous to his secretary.They all thought him very kind and always took good care of him.He wouldn't even read that dirty magazine, let alone carry it with him.But this morning he did.He slipped into the bathroom, plugged the latch, and read every ad in New Circle.

He felt novelty.Some of the people who advertised had photos attached, apparently mainly housewives in underwear and posing in some very amateurish poses; the rest had no photos but more explicit text.Several of the services advertised were confusing, at least to Mr. Nutkin.But mostly he gets it, and most women advertise that they want to meet generous professional men.After reading it, he stuffed the magazine into the deepest part of his briefcase and hurried back to the office.He managed to get the magazine back to his home in Edenbridge that night without being stopped and searched by police.He hid it under the rug by the fireplace, where Lettice would never find it.

Lettice was Mrs. Nutkin.She was always lying in bed, claiming to have severe arthritis and a weak heart, which Dr. Bulstrode regarded as a severe delusional disorder.She was a frail, haggard woman with a pointy nose and a whiny personality.She hadn't given Nutkin any physical pleasure in or out of bed for years.He was an honest man who would have done anything to save her heart.Fortunately, she never does housework because of her bad back, so she won't lift the rug by the fireplace. For three whole days Mr. Nutkin was preoccupied with his own thoughts, chiefly of one of the women who advertised.Judging from the profile in the advertisement, she is tall and plump.On the third day, he worked up the courage to sit down and write an answer to the ad.He wrote it on a piece of plain paper in his office, and the content was simple and to the point.He wrote: "Dear ma'am..." before explaining that he had seen her ad and wanted to meet her.

The magazine insert explains to readers how to reply to an ad: write your reply, seal it in a plain envelope, along with a stamped and addressed envelope, and write your name in pencil on the back of the envelope. The number of the advertiser who replied, put this envelope together with the agency fee in a third envelope, and send it to the magazine's office address in London.Mr. Nutkin complied, except that he addressed the envelope to himself: 27 Acacia Street, delivered by Henry Jones.That's his real address. For the next six days, every morning when the mail arrived, he would immediately go down to the hall to collect it.On the sixth day, he found the envelope with Henry Jones' name on it.He pocketed the letter and went upstairs to clear away his wife's breakfast dishes.

On the train to town that morning, he slipped into the toilet and opened the envelope with trembling fingers.Inside was his own letter, with a handwritten reply on the back that read: "Dear Henry, thank you for answering my ad. I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun together. Call me at  … . . . love you Sally." The number belonged to the Bayswater area of ​​London's West End. There is no other information on the envelope.Samuel Natkin copied the phone number on a slip of paper, stuffed it in the back pocket of his trousers, and flushed the letter and envelope down the toilet.When he returned to his seat, he felt nervous, thinking that people must be staring at him.The actual situation is that the old Fogarty on the opposite side has just filled out a fifteen-letter word.No one looked up at him.

During his lunch break, he dialed the number from a public phone booth at a nearby subway station, and a woman with a husky voice answered, "Hello?" Mr. Nutkin put a fivep in the slot, cleared his throat and said, "Um... hello, is that Ms Sully?" "Yes," said the voice, "who are you?" "Oh, well, my name is Jones, Henry Jones. I got a letter from you this morning about my reply to the ad..." There was the sound of papers being flipped on the other end of the phone, and then the woman's voice cut in. "Oh yes, I remember, Henry. Well, dear, will you come and see me?" Samuel Natkin felt his tongue stiff as old leather. "Okay." His voice was hoarse. "Very well," said the woman over there approvingly, "but one thing, Henry, dear. I wish my boyfriend would bring me a little present, that is, to help me out with my rent. It's twenty pounds, but don't worry, will that do?" Natkin nodded, then said into the microphone, "Okay." "Okay," she said, "well, when are you coming?" "It's time for lunch. I'm going to work in the city and I'm going home in the evening." "Okay then. Can you do it tomorrow? Well, then at half past twelve? I'll give you the address..." He was still nervous.By the time he arrived at the door of the basement apartment off Hibernian Street in Bayswater at half past twelve the next day, the tension in his heart had turned into an agitation.He knocked on the door anxiously, and heard the sound of high heels coming from the aisle inside. There was a brief pause, someone was peeping through the peephole in the door, which could see where he was standing.Then the door opened, and a voice said, "Come in." She stood behind the door, waited for him to enter, and closed the door. "You are Henry," she said softly.He nodded. "Well, go to the living room and we can talk," she said. He followed her down the corridor and into the first room on the left, his heart beating like a drum.She was older than he'd imagined, mid-thirties, heavily made-up, and a good six inches taller than he was, but that was partly because of the high heels she was wearing.When she had led him into the corridor just now, she had been huge, judging by the width of her hips under the floor-length dressing gown.As she turned and ushered him into the living room, the front of her gown swung open to reveal a black nylon bodice with red trim.She leaves the door open. The furniture in the room was simple and there seemed to be only a few personal items.The woman gave him an encouraging smile. "Did you bring my little present, Henry?" she asked him. Samuel Nutkin nodded and handed her the twenty pound note in his trouser pocket.She took the money and stuffed it into a handbag on the dresser. "Sit down, don't be shy," she said, "there's no need to be nervous. Now, what do you want me to do?" Natkin sat on the edge of an armchair, feeling like his mouth was full of quick-drying cement. "It's hard to explain," he murmured. She laughed again. "Don't be shy. What do you want to do?" He hesitated to tell her.She showed no surprise. "It's all right," she said lightly, "a lot of guys like that kind of thing. Now, take off your coat, pants, and shoes, and come with me to the bedroom." He did as she was told, following her down the hallway and into the bedroom again.The lighting in the room was surprisingly bright.After entering the house, she closed and locked the door, put the key in the pocket of her nightgown, then took off her nightgown and hung it behind the door. Three days later, an ordinary brown paper envelope was delivered to No. 27 Acacia Street.Samuel Natkin picked it up with the rest of the mail on the doormat by the front door and carried it to the breakfast table.There were three letters: one was from Sister Lettice, the other was a bill for potted plants from the housekeeping company, and the third was a manila envelope, postmarked London, addressed to Samuel Nutt Golden.He opened it unsuspectingly, thinking it was a commercial, but it wasn't. When the six photographs fell out and lay face up on the table, he stared at them in bewilderment, stunned.When he finally understood, the confusion immediately turned to extreme fear.These photos, both in terms of sharpness and focus, are poor, but they are enough to illustrate the point.The woman's face was clearly visible in every photograph, and his own was clearly discernible in at least two photographs.He hurriedly looked inside the envelope, wondering what else was there, but the envelope was empty.He turned all six photos over, but there was no information on the back.The information is all on the front, black and white pictures, no text. Samuel Nutkin was in a panic.He tucked the photo under the rug by the fireplace and found the magazine still there.On second thought, he took the whole thing outside, burned it behind the garage, and stomped the ashes into the wet earth with the heel of his shoe.Back at the house, he thought about calling in sick to stay home for the day, but realized that this would arouse Lettice's suspicions, since he was perfectly fine.He hurried upstairs with her letters, took down her breakfast plate, and hurried off to catch the train for London. He sat in the corner seat, staring out the window, still in a mess.He tried to make sense of his morning panic.It was only after New Cross Station that he realized what was going on. "It's my coat," he gasped. "Coat and purse." Old Fogarty, who was looking down at the seven-letter fill-in-the-blanks, shook his head. "No," he said, "too many letters." Samuel Natkin gazed mournfully out his window as the suburbs of south-east London were slowly being left behind by the train.He's not used to this kind of thing.A cold fear gripped his stomach all morning, and he couldn't concentrate on his work. At lunch, he tried to call the number Sally had given him, but it didn't work. He took a taxi to the basement apartment in Bayswater, but the door was locked and battened, and there was a "For Rent" sign on the sidewalk-level railing.Around three or four in the afternoon, Mr. Natkin realized that there was little point in going to the police.It is almost certain that the address where the magazine responded to the advertisement must be a house that has been vacated long ago, and it cannot be traced.The basement apartment in Bayswater had probably been rented on a weekly basis under a false name and had long since moved out.That phone number might have belonged to someone, but that person would say that he had been out for the last month, returned to find the door had been broken in, and since then had often received calls looking for Sally, which baffled himself.Another day and that person will disappear too. When he got home, Lettice was more whiny than ever, complaining that three phone calls, all calling him by name, interrupted her afternoon rest.This is not good. Just after eight o'clock, the fourth call came.Samuel Natkin jumped out of his chair, leaving Lettice alone to watch TV, and walked into the hall to answer the phone.He was so nervous that he let the phone ring several times before picking up the receiver.It was a man's voice, but it was indistinct, as if a handkerchief was over the microphone. "Mr. Nutkin?" "yes." "Mr. Samuel Nutkin?" "yes." "Or may I call you Henry Jones?" Samuel Natkin's stomach was churning. "Who are you?" he asked. "Names don't matter, friend. Did you see my little present in the mail this morning?" "What do you want to do?" "I'm asking you, friend. Did you get those pictures?" "received." "Looked carefully, didn't you?" Samuel Natkin swallowed with horror at the thought. "yes." "Well, you're a naughty fellow, aren't you? I should have sent the same set of photos to your company boss. Yes, I know your company, and the name of the general manager. Then, I might as well Send your wife a set, or the secretary of the tennis club. You've got quite a lot in your purse, Mr. Nutkin . . . " "Listen, please don't do that," Natkin said eagerly, but the voice cut him off. "I won't tell you more on the phone. Don't even think about going to the police, the police can't find me. So calm down, friend, you can take everything back, the negatives and all the photos. Think about it. What time do you go to work tomorrow morning?" "Twenty past eight." "I'll call you tomorrow morning at eight o'clock to wish you good night." The phone hung up with a click, and Mr. Natkin heard only a beeping dial tone. He was very restless that night, which can be described as "scary".After Lettice went to bed, he checked the contents of the purse one by one under the pretext of adding fuel to the fireplace.Train season tickets, checkbook, tennis club membership card, two letters addressed to him, two photographs of him and Lettice, driver's license, insurance company social club membership card, all enough to identify him and where he works . The street lights of Acacia Street came in through the curtains, and in the semi-darkness, he looked at the unhappy face of Lettice on the opposite bed—she always insisted on sleeping in separate beds—and imagined in his mind that When he was at work, she opened the manila envelope addressed to her from the second post.He tried to imagine Mr. Benson, head of the company, receiving the same set of photographs, or a special meeting of the tennis club organizing committee to circulate the photographs and "re-examine" Samuel Nutkin's membership.He can't imagine.But one thing's pretty sure, poor Lettice couldn't bear the blow... she certainly couldn't.Things like this must be stopped. He told himself again and again that he was not used to this kind of thing, and he didn't fall asleep until dawn. At eight o'clock sharp, the call came.Samuel Natkin was waiting in the hall, dressed as usual in a steel gray suit, white collared shirt, bowler hat, umbrella and briefcase, ready to leave for the station on time. "You've thought about it, haven't you?" the voice asked. "Yes." Samuel Natkin's voice trembled. "Want to get those negatives back?" "yes." "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to pay for it, my friend. Just to cover our costs, and maybe to teach you a little lesson." Mr. Nutkin swallowed. "I'm not rich," he pleaded, "how much do you want?" "A thousand pounds." The man on the other end of the phone answered without hesitation. Mr. Nutkin panicked. "But I can't afford a thousand pounds," he argued. "Then you've got to get your money together," the man said contemptuously on the phone. "You can take out a loan, mortgage your house or your car or something. But you've got to get it, and fast. Get it tonight." .I'll call you again at eight o'clock tonight." The man hung up again, and only the ringing of the dial tone remained in Samuel Natkin's ear.He went upstairs, kissed Lettice on the cheek, and left for work.But he missed the 8.31 train to Charing Cross that day.He went to the park and sat alone on a bench.A gentleman in a suit and top hat is supposed to go to work in downtown London, but he is sitting strangely alone among the trees and flowers.He figured he'd have to think about it, and sitting next to old Fogarty who was always doing endless crossword puzzles, he couldn't sit still and think. He thought he could borrow a thousand pounds if he tried, but that would arouse the suspicion of the bank clerk.If he asks for old used notes, the bank manager will be shocked.He could say he was going to pay his gambling debts, but no one would believe him, they knew he didn't gamble.He didn't drink too much, except for an occasional glass of wine, and he didn't smoke, except for a cigar at Christmas.They would think he had a woman, he guessed, and then he dropped the idea, knowing he wouldn't have a lover.what to do?what to do?He asked himself over and over again, his mind was in turmoil. He can go to the police.The police are sure to be able to track down those people, even with false names and rented houses.But then there would be a trial, and he would have to testify.They would refer to the blackmailed by a nickname, he had read about it in the papers, but people in the circle usually knew who it was.One cannot go to court again and again without being noticed, and it cannot be concealed from a man who has lived a routine life for thirty-five years. At nine-thirty, he left the park bench and went to a telephone booth.He called his office and told his department head that he was unwell but would be at work in the afternoon.Then he walked towards the bank.On the way, he racked his brains for a solution, recalling all the cases of blackmail he had read in the papers.What is it called legally?Extortion to extort money, that's what it means.A beautiful legal phrase, he thought bitterly, but not much use to a victim. If he had been a bachelor, he thought, younger, he would have told them the truth.But he's too old to switch jobs anymore.Besides, there was Lettice, poor and fragile Lettice, she couldn't bear the blow, he had no doubt about it.No matter what, he had to protect Letis, and he was determined on this point. When he reached the door of the bank, he lost his courage.He could not face such a strange and unclear request from the bank manager.That's like saying, "I've been ripped off and I'm going to take out a thousand pounds." And, after giving the first thousand pounds, won't they come back for more?Squeeze him dry and send back the pictures?It's very possible.But anyway, he can't get a loan from a bank near his home.He had to go back to London first. He reluctantly made this decision, after all, he was still an honest gentleman.So he took the ten-thirty-one train. He came to London, but it was too early for the office, so to pass the time he decided to go shopping.Being cautious by nature, it was not natural for him to carry a thousand pounds in his pocket unprotected.So he went to the office supply counter of a mall and bought a small tin coin box with a lock.In other stores, he bought a pound of powdered sugar (for his wife's birthday cake, he explained), a jar of fertilizer for the roses, rat traps for catching mice in the kitchen, and for the electrical box under the stairs. A few fuses, two batteries for a flashlight, a soldering iron for repairing a kettle, and a few other innocuous items that an average law-abiding household would need. At two o'clock in the afternoon, he arrived at the office, reported to the department head that he felt better now, and then buried himself in the company's accounting work.Fortunately it never occurred to Mr. Samuel Natkin to illegally divert money from the company's books. At eight o'clock in the evening, he was sitting in front of the TV with Lettice again, when the phone rang in the hall.When he went to answer, the vague voice sounded in his ear again. "Have you got the money, Mr. Natkin?" the man asked straight to the point. "Here . There was silence on the phone, as if the person on the other end of the line froze. "Are you crazy?" the muffled voice finally spoke. "No," said Natkin earnestly, "I'm not crazy, I just want you to understand that if you go on like this, someone will suffer." "Listen to me, you madman," said the voice angrily, "you have to follow the damn instructions, or I'll send the picture to your wife and boss, and tell you to go to hell." Mr. Nutkin sighed deeply. "That's what worries me," he said. "Go ahead." "Tomorrow at lunch time, take a taxi to Albert Bridge Street. Turn into Battersea Park, follow the west lane and walk back to the river, halfway turn left into the center lane, and go straight ahead. Halfway through, you will See there are two benches there, there will be no one there this season. Wrap the package in brown paper, put it under the first bench, and go on, out of the park on the other side. Got it?" "Understood," said Mr. Nutkin. "Okay," said the voice, "last point, you'll be watched as soon as you enter the park, and you'll be watched when you leave your packages. Don't think the police can help you, we know what you look like, but you don't Me. If there's a hint of trouble, or a police watch, we'll run away. You know what's going to happen, don't you, Nutkin?" "Yes," said Mr. Nutkin weakly. "Okay, um, then you just do what you're told and don't make mistakes." Then the man hung up the phone. A few minutes later, Samuel Natkin told his wife to go to the garage on the side of the house.He wanted to be alone for a while. The next day, Samuel Natkin followed instructions exactly.He was walking along the west lane on the west side of the park, and when he was about to turn into the central lane, he heard someone calling him.The man was a few steps away, on a motorcycle, looking at a map, wearing a helmet, goggles, and a scarf over his face.He called through the scarf, "Hey, friend, can I do you a favor?" Mr. Nutkin stopped in his tracks.He was a polite man, and he walked over to the motorcycle on the curb two yards away and bent over his map.A voice hissed in his ear: "I'm going to take that package, Nutkin." He felt the package being taken from his hands, heard the roar of the engine, and saw the package being thrown into the basket in front of the handlebars of the motorcycle.In the blink of an eye, the motorcycle drove away and merged into the traffic flow on Albert Bridge Street at noon.The affair was over in seconds.The man was agile and fled so quickly that even with the police watching, it was unlikely that he would be caught.Natkin shook his head sadly and walked back to his office downtown. That theory about nicknames and names didn't hold up in the slightest for Detective Sergeant Smiley of the CID.When he came to see Mr. Nutkin a week later, he looked sullen with his long horse face and brooding brown eyes.On dark winter nights he stood at the door in a long black coat like a mourner. "Mr. Nutkin?" "yes." "Mr. Samuel Nutkin?" "Yes... er, yes, it's me." "I'm Sergeant Smiley, sir. Can I speak to you?" He produced his police ID.Natkin nodded in approval and said, "Come in." Inspector Smiley was a little uncomfortable. "The... thing I'm going to discuss, Mr. Natkin, is of a somewhat private and perhaps embarrassing nature," he said. "Jesus," said Nutkin, "no need to be embarrassed, Sheriff." Smiley stared at him. "There's no need to...?" "Oh, it's not necessary. It must be some tickets for the police ball, which our tennis club always distributes. As this year's secretary, I want to..." Smiley swallowed heavily. "I'm afraid it's not about the police ball, sir. I've come to conduct an investigation." "Well, there's no need for embarrassment," said Mr. Nutkin. The muscles in Smiley's jaw twitched a few times. "I was thinking of embarrassing you, sir, not me," he said patiently. "Is your wife home, sir?" "Oh, at home, but she's in bed. She always goes to bed early, she's not well..." Just at this moment, a grumpy voice floated into the hall from upstairs. "Who is it, Samuel?" "A gentleman from the police, my dear." "police?" "Don't worry, dear," Samuel Natkin called back, "er...just about the recent tennis tournament with the Police Athletic Club." Inspector Smiley nodded in agreement with his excuse, and followed Nutkin into the drawing room. "Now, you can tell me what's going on, and why is it embarrassing me?" Natkin closed the door. "A few days ago," began Inspector Smiley, "our colleagues from the Metropolitan Police Service went to a flat in the West End. While carrying out a search, they happened to find a series of envelopes in a locked drawer. " Samuel stared at him with interest. "There were about thirty envelopes in all, each containing a postcard with a man's name - all different people - and home and, in some cases, work addresses. Inside the envelopes were ten more Several photographic negatives of men, usually older men, messing around with a woman." Samuel Natkin turned pale and licked his lips nervously.Inspector Smiley looked disgusted. "In each case," he went on, "the woman in the photograph was the same, a convicted prostitute known to the police. I am afraid I must tell you, sir, that there is an envelope with your name and address, and six negatives showing that you were hanging out with the woman. We've established that the woman, and a man with her, were the occupants of the apartment that was searched. You get what I mean ?" Samuel Natkin held his head in his hands in shame and stared at the carpet with haggard eyes.Finally, he sighed deeply. "Oh, my God," he said, "pictures. Someone must have taken them secretly. Oh, it would be a disgrace if this got out. I swear to you, Sheriff, I had no idea it was illegal. " Smiley blinked quickly a few times, "Mr. Natkin, let me be clear. What you did was not illegal. To the police, your private life is your business, as long as it doesn't break the law." .It's not illegal to have a prostitute." "But I don't understand," Natkin's voice trembled, "you said you came to investigate..." "But I'm not here to investigate your private life, Mr. Nutkin," said Inspector Smiley firmly. "May I go on? Thank you. Scotland Yard believes that, through personal contact or advertising, the men Lured into this woman's apartment, then photographed secretly and then extorted." Samuel Natkin stared up at the Sheriff, his eyes wide open.He is really not used to this kind of thing. "Blackmail," he murmured, "oh, my God, that would be worse." "Indeed, Mr. Nutkin, and now..." The detective drew a photograph from his coat pocket. "Do you recognize this woman?" Natkin stared at a photograph that bore a striking resemblance to the woman named Sally.He nodded silently. "I see," said the Sheriff, putting the picture away. "So, sir, can you describe in your own words how you met this woman? At this stage, I don't need to do anything. For the record, your words are confidential unless proven to be relevant to the case now or later." After a pause, with shame and embarrassment, Samuel Natkin began to tell the story from the beginning: the magazine he found under what circumstances, the reading in the company bathroom, the three-year plan to write a reply letter. I struggled with my thoughts all day long, and I couldn't resist the temptation to write a letter in the name of Henry Jones.He narrated the letter he received after that, and the process of writing down the phone number and then destroying the letter. He also talked about the phone call he made at lunch that day and set a date at 12:30 noon the next day. a meeting.He recounted meeting the woman in the basement apartment, how she told him to leave his coat in the living room and took him into the bedroom, saying it was the first time in his life that he had done that, that day When he got home that night, he set the magazine on fire and vowed never to do anything like that again. “嗯，先生，”在他说完后，斯迈利警长说，“有一点很重要。那天下午以后，你是否接到过电话，或听说过有打给你的电话，以便利用这些拍摄的照片向你敲诈钱财？” 塞缪尔·纳特金摇摇头。“没有，”他说，“没有那样的事情。看来，他们还没来找我。” 斯迈利警长最后微笑了，笑得很严肃，“他们还没来找你，先生，他们不会来了。毕竟，警方已经缴获了这些照片。” 塞缪尔·纳特金抬起头来，眼睛里含着希望。“当然，”他说，“因为你们的调查。他们还没来得及找到我，就被你们发现了。告诉我，警长，那么这些可怕的照片会……如何处理呢？” “在我向苏格兰场说明你的那些照片与我们的调查无关后，他们会把照片烧掉。” “哦，我很高兴，也可以放心了。但请告诉我，那两个男女掌握了可以对许多男士进行敲诈的把柄，那么他们肯定已经对某个人实施敲诈了吧？” “那是毫无疑问的，”警长说，他起身准备离去，“而且毫无疑问，警官们根据苏格兰场的指令，正在走访照片里出现的几十名男子。在展开调查询问工作的时候，我们无疑能查出那些已被敲诈了钱财的人。” “但你怎么知道谁被敲诈了、谁没被敲诈呢？”纳特金先生问道，“毕竟，一个人可能被敲诈后交了钱，但害怕了，不敢道出真相，即使对警察也不敢。” 斯迈利警长朝这位保险公司职员点点头。“银行账单，先生。大多数平头百姓只有一两个银行账户，要筹集大笔钱款，他就得去银行提取，或者变卖什么值钱的东西。这总会留下一些痕迹。” 现在他们已经走到门口。 “嗯，我想说，”纳特金先生说，“我真佩服那个向警方揭露恶棍的人。我只是希望，如果有一天他们对我敲竹杠，我也有勇气这样告发。顺便说一下，我不用作证了，是吧？我知道这应该是保密的，但你知道，最终人们还是会发现。” “你不用作证了，纳特金先生。” “我同情揭露坏蛋的那个可怜人，但总得有人去揭露。”塞缪尔·纳特金说。 “名单上所有参与这种事情的人都不用作证了，先生。” “这我就不明白了，你们已经揭露了那两个人，证据确凿。你们肯定是要去逮捕他们。那你们的调查……” “纳特金先生，”斯迈利警长倚在门框上，“我们并不是在调查敲诈。我们是在调查谋杀。” 塞缪尔·纳特金惊呆了。“谋杀？”他发出了尖叫声，“你的意思是说，他们还杀了人？” “谁杀了人？” “那两个敲诈者？” “不，先生，他们没杀人，某个顽皮的人把他们杀了。问题是，谁干的？但这也是敲诈者会遇到的麻烦。到现在，他们也许已经敲诈了一百多人，但最后其中一位受害人追踪到了他们的隐藏处。他们之间的联络很可能都是通过公用电话亭，除了针对现在这些受害人的刑事证据外，没有其他记录。问题是：该从哪里着手？” “是呀，哪里呢？”塞缪尔·纳特金喃喃地说道，“他们是……被枪杀的？” “不，先生。干这事的人，只是把一个包裹送到了他们的门口。所以，那人一定知道他们的地址。包裹里有一个钱箱，盖子上显然用胶带粘着一把钥匙。在用钥匙去开锁时，盖子在一只捕鼠夹弹簧的压力作用下弹开来，一个精巧制作的反拆卸装置触发了炸弹，把他们二人炸得粉身碎骨。” 纳特金盯着他，似乎心中的一块大石头落了地。“真想不到，”他喘着气说，“但一个老老实实的公民上哪里去搞到一颗炸弹呢？” 斯迈利警长摇了摇头。 “这年头，先生，这样的事情太多了，爱尔兰人，阿拉伯人，许多外国人，还有制作炸弹的书。与我们那个时代不同，现在，只要有一些合适的材料，几乎每个学过化学的中学六年级学生都能制作炸弹。嗯，晚安，纳特金先生。我不会再来打搅你了。” 第二天，纳特金来到市区的古塞特镜框商店，取回两周前存放在那里的照片。他曾经嘱咐店里为他保管好，换上一个新镜框，到时候他自己会来取。那天晚上，这张照片又被骄傲地摆放在了壁炉旁边的桌子上。 这是一张旧照片，上面有两个年轻人，穿着皇家陆军工程兵拆弹部队的制服。他们骑坐在一颗德国制造的“德国大兵”五吨重磅炸弹的壳体上。在他们面前的一块毯子上，摆放着几十个原来设在炸弹里组成六个单独反拆卸装置的零件；背景是一座村庄的教堂。其中一个年轻人有一张瘦瘦长长的脸，佩有少校的肩章；另一个圆圆胖胖的，鼻子上架着一副眼镜。照片下面有一行字：“炸弹专家麦克·哈洛伦少校和塞缪尔·纳特金下士惠存，斯蒂普诺顿村全体村民衷心感谢你们，一九四三年七月。” 纳特金先生自豪地看着照片。然后他轻蔑地哼了一声：“中学六年级学生，没错。”

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