Chapter 5 prudent person
Timothy Hansen approached any problem in his life with deliberate deliberation.What he is proud of is that this habit of calmly analyzing and then making the best choice, and finally pursuing relentlessly, enabled him in middle age to have the wealth and status he enjoys now.
Standing on the top step of a house on Devonshire Street one crisp April morning, he considered his situation.This is the London Center for Advanced Medical Care.Behind him, the two bright black doors closed slowly one after another.
The consultant doctor was an old friend who had been his personal physician for many years.Even with strangers, the doctor always showed great concern and regret, and it was even more difficult for him to face an old friend.His expression looked more painful than that of the patient.
"Timothy, I've only been told this three times in my career," he said, his withered hands resting on folders of x-rays and medical records. "Trust me, in a medical job It was the scariest experience of my life."
Hansen signaled that he believed him completely.
"If you weren't the kind of person I know, I might have lied to you," said the doctor.
Hansen thanked him for his compliment and his forthrightness.
The consultant doctor personally sent him to the door of the consultation room. "If there's anything... I know it's a cliché... but you know what I mean... anything..."
Hansen grabbed the doctor's arm and smiled at his friend.That's enough, that's all he needs.
The receptionist in white escorted him to the door.Hansen stood there, taking a deep breath of the bitter air.The northeast wind last night cleaned up the city.He stood at the top of the steps overlooking the modest and elegant buildings in the street.Today, they are mostly financial advisors' offices, top law firms and private clinics.
On the pavement, a young woman in high heels is walking briskly towards the Marylebone shopping street.She looked beautiful and charming, her eyes sparkling and her face flushed with cold.Hansen met her gaze, and on impulse, smiled and nodded at her.She looked taken aback. They didn't know each other.She suddenly understood that this was a tease, not a greeting.She smiled back, and continued to walk forward quickly, her hips swaying more and more.The driver, Richards, pretended not to notice.In fact, he saw it all, with an air of approval.Richards was waiting in the back of the Rolls-Royce.
Hansen walked down the steps and Richards opened the car door.Hansen got in and relaxed in the warmth of the car.He took off his coat, folded it carefully and placed it on the seat next to him, and put his black top hat on top of the coat.Richards got behind the wheel.
"To the office, Mr. Hansen?" the driver asked.
"Kent," Hansen said.
The Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost heads south onto Great Portland Street towards the Thames.At this time, Richards boldly asked a question.
"Is your heart all right, sir?"
"It's all right," Hansen said, "still dancing."
There is really nothing wrong with him, as far as the heart is concerned, he is as strong as a cow.But now is neither the time nor the place to talk to the driver about the cancerous cells that are eating his bowels with fury and insatiability.Rolls-Royces drive past the statue of Cupid in Piccadilly Circus and join the flow of cars heading to Haymarket.
Hansen leaned back in his seat and looked at the interior of the car roof.Six months is a long time when you've just been sentenced or taken to the hospital with a broken leg, he thought.But if you only have six months to live, it's not that long, not at all.
The doctor said he would definitely have to be hospitalized for the last month.And, of course, when things get really bad—and they will—there are pain relievers.Those new medicines are very strong... The car turned left onto Westminster Bridge Road and then onto the bridge.Across the Thames, Hansen watched the huge cream-colored City Hall building approaching him.
He reminded himself that the new Socialist government had imposed punitively high taxes, but his fortune was still no small feat.He was a London dealer of rare and precious coins with a successful career and a reputation among his peers, and he owned the numismatic building alone, with no other partners or associates.
The Rolls-Royce drove past the traffic island in the Elephant and Castle region towards the Old Kent Road, the elegant buildings of Marylebone long gone.The car also passed the bustling Oxford Street, as well as the two power centers across Westminster Bridge-Whitehall and City Hall.From the elephant and the castle, the scene looks bleak. This is the transition zone between the city center that symbolizes wealth and power and the clean and comfortable suburbs.
Hansen is curled up in a £50,000 limousine on a road that costs a million pounds a mile.He watched the old buildings flash by, and thought happily of the Kent manor on his way.The estate is set in twenty acres of parkland surrounded by oaks, lindens and beeches.He didn't know what would happen to the manor in the future.He also has an apartment in a wealthy part of the city, and sometimes he likes to spend the night there on weekdays so that he doesn’t have to drive back to Kent; A more relaxed atmosphere is good for business.
In addition to his business and two properties, he also has a private coin collection, carefully amassed over the years.In addition, he also owns a large number of stocks and shares, not to mention his deposit accounts in various banks and the car he is now driving in.
Thinking of this, the car suddenly stopped at a pedestrian crossing in a poor area of Old Kent Road.Richards smacked disapprovingly.Hansen looked out the window. A group of children was crossing the road led by four nuns, two nuns in front and the other two in the rear.A young boy at the back of the line stopped in the middle of the zebra crossing and stared at the Rolls-Royce with interest.
The child had a pugnacious round face and an upturned nose, and a hat with the initials "St" and "B" of St. The socks had slipped to the ankles, and the elastic bands on them were undoubtedly used in more important places like the slingshot.He raised his head and saw a distinguished white-haired old man in the car looking at him through the filmed window glass, so he made a grimace without hesitation, put the thumb of his right hand on his nose, and dangled the rest of his fingers Shake it and challenge him.
Timothy Hanson remained calm, put his right thumb on the tip of his nose, and did the same to the boy.In the rearview mirror, Richards likely saw the gesture, but he just raised an eyebrow and stared through the windshield again.The boy crossing the street looked stunned.He dropped his hands, then grinned.At this time, he was pulled away from the zebra crossing by a panicked young nun.The children lined up again and headed for a gray building on the side of the road behind the railing.After the road cleared, the Rolls-Royce continued along the road to Kent.
Thirty minutes later, they had left the sprawling suburbs, and the wide M20 motorway lay ahead.Beyond the gray North Downs they entered hills and valleys like the gardens of England.Hansen thought of his wife, who had been dead for ten years.Their marriage is happy, very happy indeed, but sadly they have no children.Maybe they should adopt, a question they've thought about many times.She is an only child, and her parents have long since passed away.He has a younger sister, but he doesn't like her from the bottom of his heart, and he also resents her husband and their equally annoying son.
The motorway ends south of Maidstone and after a few more miles Richards turns off the main road near Hallettsham and turns south towards the Weald, a pristine orchard , fields, woods and hop gardens.Timothy Hanson's country house is set in this beautiful rural area.
And the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the country's financial master, must want a piece of the pie, Hansen thought, and a very big one at that.Anyway, after so many years of delay, he must now make a will.
"Mr. Pound can see you now, sir," said the secretary.
Timothy Hansen got up and walked into the office of Martin Pound, a senior partner at the law firm of Gogarty & Pound.
The lawyer stood up from behind his desk to greet him. "My dear Timothy, it is great to see you again."
Hansen, like many wealthy middle-aged men, had long established personal friendships with four of his most important advisers—lawyers, brokers, accountants, and doctors—and called each other by first names.Both sat down.
"What can I do for you?"
"For a long time, Martin, you have been urging me to make a will." Hansen said.
"Yes," replied the lawyer, "it would have been wise to plan ahead, but you haven't been taking it seriously."
Hansen took out a thick brown paper envelope from his briefcase, which was sealed with a large red wax seal.He handed the envelope to the surprised lawyer across the desk.
"Right here," he said.
Pound took the envelope, his usually smooth face was now wrinkled with doubts, "Timothy, I really hope... someone who has a lot of property like you..."
"Don't worry," Hanson said, "it was indeed prepared by a lawyer. It was duly signed and witnessed. There is no ambiguity, and there is no room for dispute."
"I see," Pound said.
"Don't take offense, old friend. I know you're wondering why you weren't asked to do the prep, but an out-of-town law firm. I have my reasons, trust me."
"Of course," Pound said hastily, "no problem. Do you want me to keep the will properly?"
"Yes. One more thing. In the will, I ask you to be the sole executor. I know you want to see the will, but I assure you that this will will not cause you trouble, whether it is In terms of professional ethics or personal conscience. Can you accept it?"
Pound weighed the heavy package in his hands.
"Okay," he said, "I promise you. Anyway, we're definitely talking about years away. You look great, and let's face it, you'll probably outlive me. What will you do then?"
Hansen took the joke just as happily.Ten minutes later he came out, onto Gray's Inn Road, into the bright sunshine of early May.
Until mid-September, Timothy Hansen was as busy as he had been in years.He made several trips to the Continent, and more often to downtown London.Few people can arrange their complicated affairs in order before they die, but Hansen strives to ensure that the funeral can be carried out exactly according to his wishes.
On September 15th he asked Richards to come and see him at his house.The driver and handyman, along with his wife, has cared for Hansen for more than a decade.He found his employer in the study.
"I have something to tell you," Hansen said, "I intend to retire at the end of the year."
Richards was taken aback, but didn't show it.He guessed there was more to come.
"I wanted to move abroad," Hansen said, "to a sunny place and spend my retirement years in a smaller house."
So it is, Richards thought.The old man told him three months in advance that it was not bad.However, judging from the situation in the labor market, he still has to look for work immediately.Not just the job, but the beautiful little house that went with it.
Hansen took a thick envelope from the mantelpiece and handed it over.Richards took it bewildered.
"I'm worried," Hansen said, "if the future owner of this manor no longer employs you and Mrs. Richards, it means you have to find another job."
"Yes, sir," said Richards.
"Of course, before I leave, I would like to provide you with the most effusive letter of recommendation," said Hansen, "but, for business reasons, before the day when it is necessary to announce I would be very grateful if you disclosed this in front of me. Also, I hope you will not start looking for a job after November 1st, I don't want the news of my imminent departure to get out now."
"Very well, sir," said Richards.He still holds the envelope.
"In that case," said Hanson, "there's only one last thing left, and that's the envelope. You and Mrs. Richards have been very good and loyal to me these past twelve years. I want you to know that, on this I appreciate it, and I always appreciate it."
"Thank you, sir."
"After I go abroad, I will be very grateful if you will be as faithful as I remember. I know that it may be difficult for you not to look for work for six weeks. Besides, I will Wanting to be of some help in your future lives. Inside this envelope is a stack of twenty-pound notes, used and untraceable, in the amount of ten thousand pounds."
Richards finally couldn't control himself.He raised his eyebrows in surprise and opened his eyes wide.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
"You're welcome," Hansen said. "I cashed the money because, like most people, I don't want to pay high taxes on my hard-earned money."
"That's right," Richards said emotionally.Through the envelope, he could feel a thick stack inside.
"When you receive this much money, you are subject to gift tax, so I recommend that you not deposit it in the bank, but keep it in a safe place. And when you spend money, don't spend too much at once. , so as not to draw attention. Hopefully this money will help a little when you two start your new lives in a few months."
"Relax, sir," said Richards, "I know. Everyone's looking at the money right now. On behalf of both of us, thank you very much."
Richards walked across the gravel yard and went on to scrub the new Rolls-Royce, feeling very good.His wages were always high, and the little house cost nothing, so he had amassed a decent sum.Now with this windfall income, maybe he doesn't have to go to that daunting labor market anymore.He also thought of the little boarding house in his hometown of Porthcawl, Wales, which he and his wife Megan had discovered this summer... On the morning of October 1st, before the sun was fully above the horizon, Timothy Hansen left the bedroom and went downstairs.It was still a good hour before Mrs. Richards came to prepare breakfast and clean up.
Last night, he was tortured for another night.The pills locked away in the bedside table are less and less helpful to the sharp pain in the lower abdomen.He looked pale, haggard, and clearly aged for his age.He understood that there was no other way, and it was time.
It took him ten minutes to write a simple note to Richards, apologizing for the white lie two weeks earlier and asking him to call Martin Pound's house immediately.He purposely placed the note on the floor by the threshold of the study, so that it stood out against the dark parquet.Then he called Richards and told the sleepy driver that he didn't need Mrs. Richards to make breakfast, but that he wanted the driver to come back to the study in thirty minutes.
After the call, he took a shotgun from a locked cabinet.He had sawn the barrel ten inches shorter for more maneuverability.He loaded the gun with two high-caliber bullets and went to the study.
Meticulous attention was paid to the last detail, too, as he covered his beloved leather armchair, which now belonged to someone else, with a thick horse blanket.He sat in a chair with a shotgun in his arms.He looked around one last time, at the rows of his favorite books, at the cabinets that had once held the rare coins he cherished.Then, he put the muzzle of the gun to his chest, felt the trigger, took a deep breath, and shot through his heart.
Mr. Martin Pound closed the door of the conference room adjacent to the office and sat at the top of the long table.To his right, near the center of the table, sat Mrs. Armitage, the sister of Mr. Hanson, his client and friend, whom he had heard of.Beside her sat her husband, both dressed in black.Across the table sat their son Tarquin, a young man in his early twenties.He looked bored and lazy, and kept picking his ridiculously large nose.Mr. Pound adjusted his spectacles and began to speak to the three persons.
"You must understand that the late Mr. Timothy Hansen asked me to be the sole executor of his will. Normally, according to our rights, as soon as the news of his death is received, I should open the will and see if there is any Important things that need to be done right away, like funeral preparations."
"Didn't you write this will?" asked old Armitage.
"No, I didn't write it." Pound replied.
"You don't know what's in it, then?" asked little Armitage.
"No, I don't know," said Pound. "In fact, the late Mr. Hanson left me a private letter on the mantelpiece in the room where he died, in case anyone should open the will. In the letter, he I have explained some things, and now I can convey the specific content to you."
"Let's look at the will," said little Armitage.
Mr. Pound gave him a cold look, but did not speak.
"Quiet, Tarquin," said Mrs. Armitage gently.
Pound went on. "First of all, Timothy Hansen did not commit suicide in a state of insanity. In fact, he was in terminal cancer, which he knew in April this year."
"Poor fellow," said old Armitage.
"Later, I showed the letter to the coroner in Kent, and his personal doctor and the autopsy department also confirmed it. In this way, the death certificate, autopsy certificate, permission for burial as soon as possible within two weeks must be obtained, etc. Second, he made it clear that the will cannot be opened and read out before all these procedures are completed. Finally, he also made it clear that the formal reading of the will cannot be done by mail, but must be read in person to his living relatives —that is, his sister, Lady Armitage, and her husband and son."
The other three in the room looked around, not in grief but in wonder.
"But it's just us here," said little Armitage.
"Indeed," Pound said.
"So we are the only beneficiaries," said Mr. Armitage.
"That's not necessarily the case," Pound said. "The notification to come here today is only based on the arrangement made in my late client's letter."
"If he's kidding us . . . " said Mrs. Armitage grimly.Her mouth curled into a thin straight line, as if she was pretending to be relaxed.
"Can we read the will now?" Pound asked.
"Okay," said little Armitage.
Martin Pound took a slender paper knife and carefully cut open one end of the large, bulging envelope in his hand.He pulled out another thick and large manila envelope and a document consisting of three sheets bound with a narrow green tape on the left margin.Pound put the large envelope aside, and unfolded the folded papers.He read it.
"This is the last will of me, Timothy John Henson..."
"We all know the trick," said old Armitage.
"Read on," said Mrs Armitage.
Pound glanced at each of them in disgust over the top of his spectacles.He continued to read: "First of all, I declare that my last will shall be interpreted in accordance with the laws of England. Second, I hereby revoke all the wills and arrangements made in the past..."
Young Armitage sighed heavily, looking impatient.
"Thirdly, I appoint a lawyer as my executor, Mr. Martin Pound of Gogarty & Pound, who will manage my estate and pay the due taxes. Fourthly, I request the executor who is now reading this letter to open the sealed envelope. He will find a sum of money in the envelope, which will be used to pay for my funeral, his business expenses, and what is required in the execution of the will. Other expenses. If there is money left in the envelope after payment of various expenses, then I authorize him to donate the balance to any charity of his choice."
Mr. Bond put down the will and picked up the paper knife again.From the unopened envelope he drew five bundles of brand-new twenty-pound notes, each bundled with a vellum note marking a stack of a thousand pounds.The room was silent.Young Armitage stopped picking his nose and stared at the pile of banknotes like a satyr watching a teenage girl.Martin Pound took up the will again.
"Fifth, I ask my sole executor, in honor of our long-standing friendship, to assume his executor duties the day after my funeral."
Mr. Pound glanced over his glasses again.
"Under normal circumstances, I would have visited Mr. Hanson's business in the city and his other known properties to confirm that these properties are in normal operation and maintenance, and that the property will not be neglected. The beneficiaries suffer financially," he said, "but since I've only just been appointed sole executor, I haven't had time to do it yet. Now it looks like I won't be able to start executing the will until after the funeral is done."
"Listen," said old Armitage, "this oversight shouldn't lower the value of the property?"
"I don't know for sure," Pound replied. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Hansen has several capable assistants in business, and he must be convinced that they can get things done."
"Can't you hurry up?" asked old Armitage.
"The day after the funeral," said Pound.
"Well, then, let's have the funeral as soon as possible," said Mrs. Armitage.
"As you wish," Pound replied, "you are his kin." He went on: "Sixth, I put..."
At this point, Martin Pound paused, blinked his eyes, and seemed unable to continue reading.He swallowed, "I give all the rest of the real estate to my dear sister, and I am convinced that she can share it with her lovely husband Norman and their excellent son Taquin. But the above sharing must follow Conditions of the seventh paragraph."
The room fell silent.Mrs. Armitage was dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief, but she was not so much wiping tears as she was trying to hide a smile on her lips.Taking the handkerchief away, she glanced at her husband and son with the smug look of an overaged hen who lifts her hips and finds a golden egg lying beneath her.The Armitages sat with their mouths open.
"How much money does he have?" asked old Armitage at last.
"I can't really tell," said Pound.
"Come on, you know for sure," said the son. "Probably always knows the numbers. You've dealt with all his business."
Pound thought of the unknown lawyer who drafted the will in his hand. "Almost everything," he said.
"Oh……?"
Pound reluctantly endured it.No matter how boring the Armitages were, they were, after all, the only beneficiaries of his late friend's will. "I think at current market prices, assuming all properties are listed for sale, it should be between £2.5 million and £3 million."
"My God," said old Armitage, his mind beginning to form a vision, "how much is the estate tax, then?"
"I am afraid it is a large sum."
"How many?"
"So much real estate, I'm afraid it's taxed at the top rate, which is seventy-five percent. Generally speaking, I think it's about sixty-five percent."
"Is there still one million left?" the son asked.
"This is just a rough estimate, you have to understand." Pound said helplessly.He recalled the image of his friend Hansen: cultured, humorous, and careful by nature.What's the matter, Timothy, for God's sake, what's the matter? "There's a seventh paragraph here," he pointed out.
"What do you say?" said Mrs. Armitage, recovering from the prospect of her sudden social popularity in the future.
Pound began to read again: "All my life, I have had a great fear that one day I will be buried in the ground and suffer from insect bites and bacteria. For this reason, I had to make a lead-lined coffin, which is now stored. Inside Bennett and Gaines Funeral Home, Ashfordshire. I want this coffin to be my final resting place. Also, I don't want me to be exhumed one day by man or machine. In view of this, I request that I was buried at sea, exactly twenty miles due south of the Devon coast, where I had served as a naval officer. Finally, my life was given to my affectionate sister and brother-in-law, whom I designated by They themselves pushed my coffin into the sea. To my executors, my instructions are that if these wishes are not fulfilled, or if my beneficiaries create any obstacle to this arrangement, then all the above will automatically lapse, All of my property was instead donated to the British government."
Martin Pound raised his eyelids.In private, he was quite surprised by his late friend's worries and thoughts, but he didn't show it.
"Now, Mrs. Armitage, I must ask you formally, do you have any objections to the seventh paragraph of your deceased brother's will?"
"Stupid," she replied, "to have a sea burial. I don't know if that's allowed yet."
"It's very rare, but it's not illegal," Pound replied. "I've only heard of one case before."
"That must be expensive," said her son, "much more than burial in the cemetery. Why not cremation?"
"The funeral expenses do not affect the inheritance of the estate," Pound said sullenly, "the funeral expenses are here." He patted the five thousand pounds next to his arm, "So, do you object?"
"I do not know about this……"
"I must point out to you that if you object, the inheritance will be void."
"What does it mean?"
"It's all owned by the state," said her husband angrily.
"Exactly," said Pound.
"No objection," said Mrs. Armitage, "but I still find it ridiculous."
"So, as the next of kin, do you authorize me to make this arrangement?" Pound asked.
Mrs. Armitage nodded abruptly.
"The sooner the better," her husband said, "then we can do the probate and inheritance."
Martin Pound stood up quickly.He has had enough.
"This is the last paragraph of the will. Each page has been signed and witnessed twice. Therefore, I think there is nothing further to discuss. I will proceed to make the necessary arrangements and inform you of the time and place of the funeral. Good-bye. "
The middle of the English Channel in mid-October is not a fun place to be, unless you're really keen on traveling there.Even before the fishing boats left the jetty of the harbour, the Armitages had made it clear that they were by no means enthusiastic tourists.
Mr. Pound sighed.He stood on the quarterdeck, unwilling to go inside to be with them.It took him a week to get things sorted and he hired a boat from the Brixham docks in Devon.This was an offshore trawler, and the three fishermen accepted this unusual sea errand after asking for a price they were satisfied with and confirming that it was not illegal.After all, they don't get much fishing in the Strait these days.
That morning, in the backyard of the funeral home in Kent, the undertakers used a pulley block to hoist the half-ton coffin onto a one-ton pick-up truck. behind.Along the way, the Armitage family complained.At Brixham, the van was parked on the jetty and the coffin was hoisted aboard by the trawler's boom.Now the coffin rests on two beams on the spacious rear deck, its waxed oak planks and polished brass fastenings gleaming against the autumn sky.
Tarquin Armitage followed in a limousine as far as Brixham, but after one glance at the sea he chose to stay in a warm guest house in town.In any case, he didn't have to attend the funeral.Pound had gone to great lengths to find a retired Royal Navy chaplain from the chaplain of the Admiralty, and he was the only one willing to accept a handsome payment to preside over the ceremony.Now, in this small cabin, sat the chaplain, who wore a great coat over his white surplice.
The captain of the trawler went down on deck to Pound.He took out a chart, and with the breeze blowing, he pointed with his index finger to the sea area twenty miles south from the starting point.He raised his eyebrows for advice, and Pound nodded.
"Deep water area." The captain said, he nodded towards the coffin, "You know him very well?"
"Pretty familiar," Pound said.
The captain grunted.He runs the trawler with his younger brother and a cousin, and like most fishermen, they are somewhat related.All three were hardy Devonshire men with tanned hands and faces, whose ancestors had fished these treacherous waters when they were still learning the difference between mainmast and mizzenmast.
"You can get there in an hour," he said, and walked away with heavy steps.
After arriving at the designated place, the captain turned the engine to neutral, turned the bow of the ship to face the waves, and stopped on the sea.His cousin brought a long plank of three boards joined together, with strips under them, fastened with bolts, and three feet wide.He put the long plank on the starboard rail, with the bare side facing up, and let the middle of the long plank rest on the ship rail, like a seesaw, with half resting on the deck and the other half stretching out to the choppy sea.The captain's brother went to man the boom, and the cousin hung the hooks to the four brass handles of the coffin.
The motor started, the wire rope of the boom was tightened, and the heavy coffin was hoisted off the deck.The hoist stopped at a height of three feet, and the cousin pulled the oak coffin over the plank, turned its head towards the sea, and nodded.The crane operator loosened the wire rope so that the coffin fell directly on the wooden board of the railing.He unscrewed the wires further, and the coffin creaked into place, half inboard, half outboard.The cousin supported the coffin, and the crane hand came down to remove the shackle, and helped to level the inner wooden plank.Now, they carry less weight in their hands because the coffin is stable and balanced.One of them turned to Pound for instructions, and Pound called the pastor and the Armitage couple from the cabin.
The six people stood there silently, the clouds were hanging low in the sky, the top of the waves surging on the side of the ship occasionally splashed some small water splashes, they tried their best to stand firm on the bumpy deck.To be fair, the priest had also kept the ceremony as short as possible, his silver hair and white surplice fluttering in the breeze.Norman Armitage, also hatless, looked terribly disappointed, and felt a chill in his bones.His late brother-in-law now lies beside him in a coffin of camphor, lead, and oak.As for this brother-in-law, what he thinks in his heart can only be guessed.As for Mrs. Armitage, there was nothing to be seen.She was wrapped in a fur coat, a fur hat, and a fur scarf, with only a protruding cold nose exposed.
Pound was gazing up at the sky as the priest prayed in a low voice.A lone seagull hovers in the wind, it is not afraid of humidity, cold, seasickness, and knows nothing about taxes, wills, and relatives. It supports itself and soars freely in the air with graceful posture.The lawyer looked back at the coffin and the sea below.That's good too, he thought, if you care about such things.Personally speaking, he himself has never cared about what will happen after death, and he didn't know that Hansen would care so much before, but if he really cared, then it's really good to rest in this place.He saw some droplets of spray on the oak lid, but he couldn't seep into it.Well, here, they'll never bother you again, old Timothy, he thought.
"...take our brother Timothy John Hanson under your everlasting shadow through Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen."
Startled, Pound realized that the prayer was over and that the priest was watching him expectantly.He nodded to the Armitages, and they each stepped up to the fisherman holding the plank and put a hand on the back of the coffin.Pound nodded to the two fishermen. They slowly raised the plank. The other end of the plank tilted towards the sea, and the coffin finally began to slide.阿米蒂奇夫妇用力一推，棺材刮擦了一下，然后快速向木板另一头滑了过去。渔船在摇晃。棺材掉了下去，砸在一个浪头边上，发出“砰”的一声，然后瞬间就不见了。庞德捕捉到上方驾驶舱里船长的目光。船长抬起一只手，指向他们刚才过来的方向，庞德又一次点头。引擎加大了马力，那块木板也被收了起来。阿米蒂奇夫妇和牧师急忙跑回舱内。风力增加了。
他们驶过防波堤返回布里克萨姆时，天快黑了，码头后面的房屋都已经开始出现灯光。牧师自己的小汽车就停在附近，他很快就走了。庞德跟船长结了账，船长很高兴，一个下午挣到的钱抵得上一周捕获马鲛鱼的收入。殡仪馆工作人员还有那位喝得醉醺醺的塔奎因·阿米蒂奇等在那辆轿车里面，庞德让他们坐汽车走，他宁愿自己一个人坐火车返回伦敦。
“你要马上计算出房地产的价值，”阿米蒂奇夫人尖声叮咛，“还有遗嘱的验证事宜。我们已经受够了这种假模假式的表演了。”
“请你放心，我不会浪费时间的，”庞德冷冷地说，“我们保持联系。”他抬了抬帽子，随后便朝火车站走去。这事情不会拖得很长，他猜测，他已经知道了汉森的房地产数量和底细。这事肯定会安排得井井有条，汉森一直是个很谨慎的人。
直到十一月中旬，庞德才觉得可以再次联系阿米蒂奇一家。虽然他只邀请了遗嘱唯一受益人阿米蒂奇夫人到他在格雷客栈街的办公室来，但她却与丈夫和儿子一起来了，一个也没落下。
“我发现事情有点难办。”他告诉她说。
"whats the matter?"
“你亡兄的房地产，阿米蒂奇夫人。让我解释一下。作为汉森先生的律师，我知道他在各处的房地产数量和地点，所以，我可以立即着手去逐一进行核查。”
“都有些什么？”她急忙问道。
庞德不想被催促或追问。“实际上，他有七处资产。合计起来后占他财产的百分之九十九。首先是在伦敦商业区领头地位的珍稀钱币业务。你们也许知道，这间公司是独资私营的，是他自己创立起来的，他是唯一的业主。这个公司办公的大楼产权也属于他，是战后不久房价很低时，他以按揭的方式买下来的。按揭款早就还清了，公司拥有该楼房的自有产权，而他拥有这家公司。”
“这些值多少钱？”老阿米蒂奇问道。
“这方面没问题，”庞德说，“算上大楼、珍稀钱币和储备品，加上大楼内其他三家公司尚未到期的房屋租金，正好是一百二十五万英镑。”
小阿米蒂奇从牙缝里吹出一声口哨，露出了微笑。
“你怎么知道得这么准确？”阿米蒂奇问道。
“因为他卖了那么多钱。”
“他什么……”
“在他去世前三个月，经过简单洽谈后，他把公司全部卖给了一个有钱的荷兰商人。那人多年来一直想买这间公司。支付的金额就是我刚才提到的那个数目。”
“但他差不多直到去世都一直在那里工作呀，”阿米蒂奇夫人表示不同的意见，“还有谁知道这事情？”
“没人知道，”庞德说，“甚至连员工都不知道。大楼易手的买卖是由一位外地律师操办的。他口风很紧，不愿透露内情。交易的剩余部分，是他与荷兰买主之间的一份私人契约。附加条件是，五名员工继续从事他们的工作；他自己作为唯一的经理留任到年底或到他亡故，不管哪种情况先行发生。当然，买主认为这仅仅是一个形式而已。”
“你见过这个人吗？”阿米蒂奇夫人问道。
“德容格先生？见过的。嗯，他是阿姆斯特丹一位享有盛名的钱币商人。我也看过文件，完美有序，绝对合法。”
“那么，他把钱弄哪里去了？”老阿米蒂奇问道。
“他把钱存到银行里去了。”
“嗯，这就没有问题了。”儿子说。
“他的另一份固定资产是他在肯特郡的庄园，很漂亮的房子，建在二十英亩的绿地上。今年六月份，他把这份房产的百分之九十五抵押了出去。在他死去的时候，只付了四分之一的分期付款。他一死，建设银行就成了主要债权人，现在已经把所有权收回去了。同样，这一切也是合法合理的。”
“这个庄园，他得了多少钱？”阿米蒂奇夫人问道。
“二十一万英镑。”庞德说。
“这个，他也存银行了吗？”
“是的。然后还有他在市内富人社区的一套公寓。在差不多同一时期，他也把这个以私人契约的形式卖掉了，是雇了另一名律师操办交易的，卖了十五万英镑。这钱也存到银行里了。”
“这是三项固定资产。还有什么？”儿子问。
“除了这三份房产，他还有一份珍贵的私人钱币收藏。这些是通过公司分散出售的，大约卖了几个月，共得款五十万英镑多一点。但发票都是分开来保管的，在他庄园的保险箱里找到了，都是合法的，而且每次销售都有详细的记录。每次出售后，他都把钱存进了银行。他的经纪人按照指示，在八月一日之前把他的股票和证券都兑现了。倒数第二项，还有他的劳斯莱斯轿车。这个，他卖了四万八千英镑，并另租了一辆汽车。租车公司已经收回了这辆车。最后，他在各家银行有许多账户。按照我能追踪得到的——而且我确信没有遗漏——他的全部资产在三百万英镑稍微出头一点。”
“你的意思是，”老阿米蒂奇说，“在死去之前，他把每一份财产全都变卖，兑成现金并存进银行，没有告诉任何人，也没有引起熟人或者员工的怀疑？”
“你说得对，我也给不出更好的解释了。”庞德承认说。
“嗯，我们不需要那么一大堆废话，”小阿米蒂奇说，“我们想把钱都取出来。看来，他最后的几个月是在为你工作呢。把总数加起来，付清债务，估算一个总数，然后钱交给我们。”
“这个，我恐怕办不到。”庞德说。
“为什么办不到？”阿米蒂奇夫人发出怒气爆发前的最后一声尖叫。
“变卖所有财产后他存进银行的钱……”
"What's the matter?"
“他取出来了。”
“他什么……？”
“他把钱存进去，然后又把钱全都取出来了。在几周时间内，从二十家银行分期分批地……反正他全都取出来了，都是现金。”
“三百万英镑的现金是取不出来的。”老阿米蒂奇难以置信地说。
“哦，可以的，确实可以，”庞德温和地说，“当然不是一次性取出来，但大银行，事先通知的话，一次可以取款五万英镑。好多买卖都需要大笔现金，赌场和彩票销售点什么的。还有几乎所有二手货市场的经销商……”
他的话被越来越响亮的嘈杂声打断了。阿米蒂奇夫人在用一只胖拳头敲桌子；她的儿子已经站起来，一根食指在指点着桌子；她丈夫则摆出一副法官的样子，在酝酿一个措辞严厉的句子。他们全都立即大喊起来。
“他不可能就这样把钱都卷走了……他肯定是把钱放在什么地方了……你最好是去找到钱……这事你们两个人是合谋的……”
最后的这句话使得马丁·庞德失去了耐心。
“安静……”他大喝一声，突然爆发的怒吼一下子让那三个人都安静了下来。庞德用一根手指头直指向小阿米蒂奇，“你，先生，必须立即收回你最后的那句话。我说得够明白了吗？”
小阿米蒂奇缩回座位里。他望向父母，他们都对他瞪起眼睛。 "I'm sorry," he said.
“嗯，”庞德继续说，“这一招以前也有人用过，通常是为了逃税。但我对蒂莫西·汉森感到惊讶，这办法很难行得通。一个人可以取出大笔现金，但怎么处置这些钱则完全是另一回事。他可能把钱存进了一家外国银行，但他知道自己快要死了，这就没有意义了。他不想让那些已经富裕的银行家更加富裕。不，他一定是把钱放在什么地方，或者是买了什么东西。这可能会花一些时间，但结果是同样的。如果钱被存起来了，那么总能找到。如果是买了什么固定财产，也是可以追踪到的。即使没有别的，还有资本利得税和房地产税，在出卖固定资产和房地产时需要缴纳。所以，税务局是会知道的。”
“那你能做什么呢？”老阿米蒂奇终于问道。
“到目前为止，我已经在他的遗嘱授权范围内，联系了英国的每一家大银行和商业银行。现在，什么都联网了，但都没发现以汉森为户头的存款。我还在全国各大报刊上发布了广告，但没有收到任何回音。我还访问了他以前的司机兼管家理查兹先生，他退休后，现在住在南威尔士，但他也提供不了帮助，他从来没有见到过大堆的钞票——相信我，那肯定是大堆的钞票。现在的问题是，你们还要我做什么呢？”
房间里安静了下来，那三个人都在思考这个问题。
私下里，马丁·庞德被他这位亡友的企图搞得很伤心。你怎么可能把这些钱搞得无踪无影呢？他追问这个亡魂。你对税务局就这么不信任吗？你要惧怕的根本不是现在这几个贪婪和浅薄的人，蒂莫西，而是那些税收人员。他们不屈不挠，不知疲倦。他们永远不会停止；他们永远不缺资金。不管这钱藏得如何隐蔽，在我们放弃了的时候，就轮到他们上场了，他们会去追寻。只要他们还没找到这钱藏在什么地方，就会一直追查，在获悉钱的下落之前，他们永远不会善罢甘休。只有在他们确信这钱已经不在英国而且超越了他们的管辖权时，他们才会放弃。
“你能再找找吗？”老阿米蒂奇问道，口气比刚才略微客气了一些。
“短时间内可以，”庞德同意说，“但我已经尽了最大的努力，我还要管理事务所里的业务，不能把所有时间都花费在这事上。”
“那你有什么建议？”阿米蒂奇问。
“税务局，”庞德和气地说，“这事情，我早晚得向他们报告，很可能得尽早。”
“你认为他们会去追查吗？”阿米蒂奇夫人急切地问道，“毕竟，在某种程度上，他们也是受益人呀。”
“他们肯定会的，”庞德说，“他们想要他们的那一份。他们手头上掌握着全国的资源。”
“他们要花多长时间？”阿米蒂奇问。
“哦，”庞德说，“那就是另一回事了。我的经验是，他们通常是不慌不忙的，如同上帝的磨坊慢慢磨，但天网恢恢、疏而不漏。”
“几个月？”小阿米蒂奇问道。
“更有可能是几年。他们永远不会中止追查，但他们并不着急。”
“我们等不了那么长时间。”阿米蒂奇夫人尖声说，她的上层社交生活腾飞的梦想似乎就要破灭了，“肯定是有捷径的。”
“那么，找一个私家侦探怎么样？”小阿米蒂奇提议说。
“你能去雇一个私家侦探吗？”阿米蒂奇夫人问道。
“我倒认为应该是私家调查员，”庞德说，“他们自己也是这么称呼的。是的，这是可能的。我以前曾经请过一位令人尊敬的调查员，去追寻失踪的受益人。现在呢，受益人是在的，而财产不见了。但是……”
“嗯，那就去联系他，”阿米蒂奇夫人厉声说，“告诉他，要他去搞清楚那死鬼把钱都放在哪里了。”
贪婪，庞德心里想。假如汉森能知道他们有多贪婪就好了。
“很好。但这里有个费用问题。我必须告诉你们，用来支付所有费用的五千英镑，已经所剩不多了。这笔额外的费用，可不是一般的开支……他的服务不便宜。但当然，他是最棒的……”
阿米蒂奇夫人望向丈夫。“诺尔曼。”
老阿米蒂奇咽了一下口水。刚才他脑海里的汽车和夏季度假计划正从指缝间溜走。He nodded. “这个，他的费用……五千英镑剩余的钱花完以后……由我来承担。”他说。
“很好，”庞德说着站了起来，“我把这事交给尤斯塔斯·米勒先生，让他独自去办理。我坚信他一定能够追查到失踪的财产，他从来没有让我失望过。”
随后他就把他们送出去了。回到办公室后，他给私家调查员尤斯塔斯·米勒先生打了电话。
四个星期过去了，米勒先生那里杳无音信，但阿米蒂奇夫妇这边倒是风雨交加。他们不停地催促马丁·庞德，要求尽快查明他们应得的失踪财产的下落。最后，米勒向马丁·庞德报告说，他的调查已经抵达了一个转折点，他认为应该来汇报他的进展情况。
这一次，庞德几乎与阿米蒂奇一家同样好奇，于是，他在自己的办公室里安排了一次会面。
如果阿米蒂奇一家期待能遇上一位像那样的人物，或者是大众心目中那种强悍的私家侦探形象，那么他们肯定会大失所望。尤斯塔斯·米勒个子矮矮的，身体滚圆，面目慈祥，几乎全秃的脑袋上只有几缕白发，戴着一副半月形的眼镜。他穿着一件朴素的西服，马甲上挂着一条金表链。现在，他那本来就不高的身子站了起来，开始汇报。
“在我开始调查时，”他边说边从半月形眼镜上方挨个扫了每人一眼，“假设三种情况。第一，已故的汉森先生在去世前的几个月内，以一个坚定的目标，有意识地做出了非同一般的安排；第二，我当时相信，现在依然相信，汉森先生的目的，是堵住他的遗产继承人和税务局在他死后接近他财富的门路……”
“这个老混蛋。”小阿米蒂奇厉声说。
“他一开始就不想把遗产留给你们，”庞德温和地插话，“说下去，米勒先生。”
“谢谢。第三，我设想汉森先生既没有把钱烧掉，也没有冒险试图把钱偷运至国外，因为他得考虑到那么多钱换成现金后的体积。简而言之，我得出的结论是，他用这钱买了什么东西。”
“黄金？钻石？”老阿米蒂奇问道。
“没有。我核查了所有这些可能性，经过深入的调查之后都排除了。然后我在想另一种商品，价格很高、但体积较小。我咨询了做贵金属生意的庄信万丰公司。于是，我找到了。”
“钱？”阿米蒂奇一家三个异口同声地问道。
“揭晓答案，”米勒慢慢地从公文包里抽出一叠纸，说道，“这是汉森先生与庄信万丰公司的交易单据。他买了两百五十锭高等级的铂，即白金，每锭五十盎司，纯度为百分之九十九点九五。”
房间里的人全都惊呆了，一片寂静。
“坦率地说，这并不是一个聪明的举措，”米勒先生略带遗憾地说，“买方也许会销毁他的全部购买记录，但卖方是不会销毁其销售记录的。喏，在这里。”
“为什么是白金呢？”庞德随口问道。
“这就很有意思了。根据目前工党政府的规定，购买和持有黄金必须要有许可证。钻石在行业内马上会被辨明身份，而且对钻石的处置，并不像人们从语焉不详的惊悚小说里读到的那么容易。白金不需要许可证，其价值与黄金相同，除了铑以外，是世界上最贵的金属之一。在他购买这种金属的时候，他付的是自由市场的价格，每盎司五百美元。”
“他花了多少钱？”阿米蒂奇夫人问道。
“接近他变卖所有财产后得到的三百万英镑，”米勒说，“是用美元交易的，这个市场通常是用美元计算的，合六百二十五万美元，总共是一万两千五百盎司。或者，如同我刚才说的，两百五十锭，每锭五十盎司。”
“他把这些白金都带到哪里去了？”老阿米蒂奇问道。
“带到他在肯特的那个庄园去了。”米勒说。他在卖关子，在从抖包袱中获得乐趣。
“可我去过那里的呀。”庞德表示了异议。
“你是用律师的眼光，我是用调查员的眼光，”米勒说，“而且我知道要寻找什么。所以，我没有从房子入手，而是从外围建筑入手的。你知道汉森先生在原先的马厩后边的谷仓里，有一个设备完善的木工车间吗？”
“当然知道，”庞德说，“那是他的业余爱好。”
“对极了，”米勒说，“我就是着重调查了那里。那地方已经被彻底清扫过，像用真空吸尘器彻底打扫过一样干净。”
“可能是理查兹打扫的，他是司机兼勤杂工。”庞德说。
“有可能，但很可能不是他。尽管打扫了，我还是在地板上看到了污渍，并进行了取样分析，是柴油。我认为，是某种机器，也许是一台发动机。发动机这个行业，圈子很小，一个星期后我就找到了答案。五月份的时候，汉森先生买了一台大功率的柴油发电机，安装在他的木工车间里。在死去前，他把它当废品处理掉了。”
“肯定是为了驱动他的一些电动工具。”庞德说。
“不，他原有的工具用电源线就足够了。他是要驱动别的什么东西，某个需要大功率的设备。又过了一个星期，我也追踪到了，是一个小型的、现代化的、高效率的熔炉，但也早已不见了。但我可以肯定，那些料勺、石棉手套和火钳等一定是扔进河底或湖底了。可是，我认为我比汉森先生考虑得更全面一点。就在地板缝里，在厚厚的锯末覆盖下，在他的操作过程中掉落下去的东西，被我发现了。”
他此时才呈上得意之作，他从文件包里取出一片白色纸巾，慢慢地展开来，从中拿起一小颗凝冻状的银色金属。这东西在灯光下熠熠闪亮，那肯定是从料勺边滴落下来后凝固了的。所有人都凝视着这个东西，米勒等了一会儿。
“当然，我对这个进行了化验分析。它是高品质的百分之九十九点九五的纯白金。”
“其余的你也追查到了吗？”阿米蒂奇夫人问道。
“还没有，夫人。但我会追查到的，别担心。你们看，汉森先生在挑选白金时犯了一个大错，有一个相当独特的特性他肯定是低估了——它的重量。现在，至少我们知道是在寻找什么。比如某种木箱，看上去并不显眼，但关键在于，它的重量差不多有半吨……”
阿米蒂奇夫人把头往后一仰，发出一声受伤野兽般的沙哑号叫。米勒吓了一跳。阿米蒂奇先生的脑袋低垂，用双手捧着。塔奎因·阿米蒂奇站了起来，他那长满粉刺的脸因为愤怒而变得通红。他尖声叫了起来：“这个该死的老混蛋。”
马丁·庞德难以置信地盯着这位惊呆了的私家调查员。“天哪，”他说，“好家伙，他是随身带着那东西走的。”
两天后，庞德先生把案子的全部事实报告了税务局。他们审查了这些事实，虽然这让他们很没面子，但还是决定不予追查。
巴尼·斯米心情舒畅、步履轻快地向银行走去，他深信可以在圣诞假期关门前赶到那里。使他开心的理由就是放在他胸前口袋里的东西：一张支票，数额相当大。几个月以来最后的几张支票，让他获得了一笔很高的收入，比他二十年来冒险经营珠宝加工业废弃贵金属的收入还要多得多。
这步棋他是走对了。他为自己庆贺，这无疑是冒了风险的，而且是高风险。现在谁都在逃避税款，这么大的一个财源，就因为那人希望用现金交易，他能去责怪谁呢？巴尼·斯米完全理解那位白头发的投资者，他自称是理查兹，并以驾驶执照作为证明。那人显然是几年前买进了五十锭的铂锭，那时候还很便宜。假如通过庄信万丰公司在公开市场上出售，那无疑会让他卖一个好价钱，但那样的话，所得税要多少呢？这个只有他心里明白，而巴尼·斯米是不会去探究的。
不管怎么说，整个行业都流行用现金做交易。那些铂锭都是真的，上面甚至还有庄信万丰的纯度印记，说明它们来自那里。只是序列号已经被熔掉了。这会使老头子损失不少钱，因为少了序列号，斯米就不会按合理的市价购入。他只能出一个废旧货的价钱或者是出厂价格，每盎司大约四百四十美元。但如果有序列号，税务局就能辨认出原主，所以，这个老头子还是很精明的。
最后，巴尼·斯米在行业内又把这五十块铂锭全都脱手了，每盎司净赚十美元。现在他口袋里的这张支票是最后一笔销售所得，是最后两锭的售价。他并不知道，在英国的其他地方，另有四个像他那样的人，整个秋天也都通过二手交易，各自出售了五十锭五十盎司的白金，而且之前都是用现金从一位白头发的卖主那里购入的。他拐出那条小街，进入旧肯特路，这时候，他与一个从出租车上下来的人撞了个满怀。二人互相道歉并互祝圣诞快乐。巴尼·斯米继续向前赶路。
另一个人是从格恩西岛过来的律师。他打量了一下他下车地方的这座房子，正了正帽子，朝入口处走去。十分钟后，他在一间密室里与略带疑云的女院长开始了谈话。
“请问院长嬷嬷，圣本尼迪克特孤儿院是不是按照慈善法案注册登记的一家慈善机构？”
“是的，”女院长说，“是这样的。”
“好，”律师说，“这样的话，就不会违法，也不用申报资本转让税了。”
“什么？”她问道。
“通俗的叫法是'赠与税'，”律师微笑着说，“我很高兴地告诉您，有一位捐赠人——当然，根据客户与律师之间业务保密规定的要求，他的名字我不能透露，他要向贵院捐赠一大笔钱。”
他等待着对方的反应，但白发苍苍的老修女只是迷茫地凝视着他。
“我的客户——他的名字您是永远不会知道的——专门指示我在圣诞前夜的今天，专程前来见您，把这个信封交给您。”
他从文件包里取出一只厚实的信封，递给院长嬷嬷。她接了过来，但没有打开。
“据我所知，这里面是一张银行支票，在格恩西岛上一家很有名望的商业银行购得，是由那家银行签发的，受益人是圣本尼迪克特孤儿院。我没有看过里面的内容，但这是我得到的指示。”
“不用缴纳赠与税？”她问道，手里拿着信封，一副不知所措的样子。慈善捐款是很少的，通常很难争取到。
“在海峡群岛，我们的财政制度与英国本土是不同的，”律师耐心地说，“我们那里没有资本转让税，我们还实行银行保密制度。在格恩西岛内或在海峡群岛内进行捐赠，是无需纳税的。如果受捐人的户籍或居住地是在英国本土，那么，他或她就要受本土税法的约束，除非已经享有豁免权，比如说，根据慈善法案的规定。好了，如果您愿意签收这封内容不明的信函的话，那么我的使命就完成了。我的佣金已经结清，我想早点回去与家人团聚。”
过了一会儿，只剩下院长嬷嬷一个人了。她慢慢地用一把开信刀裁开信封，抽出里面的东西。那是一张保付支票。看到上面的数额时，她慌乱地去摸索自己的念珠，开始快速地诵念起来。在稍微镇静一点后，她走到墙边的祷告台，跪下去祷告了半个小时。
回到书桌边时，她依然感到虚弱，她又去凝视那张数额为二百五十万英镑的支票。天底下谁会有这么多的钱呢？她努力思考该如何去花这笔巨款。一笔捐赠，她心里想，一份信托基金，为孤儿院建立一份永久性的基金足够了。实现她的终生愿望当然也足够了：把孤儿院搬出伦敦贫民区，建到空气新鲜的乡间。她可以把收容的儿童数量翻个倍。她可以……脑海里有太多的想法，有一个在努力挤到前面来。这是什么想法呢？哦，是的，是上上个星期的星期日报纸。有一条消息曾经引起过她的注意，使她产生了一种渴望的冲动。就是它，那就是他们孤儿院要去的地方。现在，她手头上有了足够的钱，可以把它买下来，并且可以为它设立一份永久性的基金。一个梦想实现了。那是房地产专栏里的一条广告：肯特郡一栋庄园出售，周边绿化面积二十英亩……
Notes: 等小说中塑造的一位硬汉私家侦探。
Notes: 等小说中塑造的一位硬汉私家侦探。