The afternoon of September 9 was the same as any other afternoon.No one has the slightest premonition of the misfortune that will happen that day. (Except for one person, that is Mrs. Barker, who lives at 47 Wilbraham Lane. She has a special way of premonition. Every time she feels a strange feeling in her heart, she will always explain that uneasy feeling in detail. but Mrs. Barker lives at No. 47, so far from No. 19 that she has nothing to do with what happens there, so she does not seem to need a hunch). Miss K. Martindale, president of Cavendish Secretary Typewriter.September 9th was a dreary day, as usual.The sounds of phone calls and typing were interlaced or overlapped. Today's work was flat, neither rush nor rush, and nothing particularly interesting happened.

Until 2:35, September 9 was still the same as any other day. At 2:35, Miss Martindale answered the call signal on the intercom. In the office outside, Ina Brant pushed the taffy in her mouth to the side of her cheek, and with her usual heavy breathing, Add a little nasal voice to answer: "What is it? Miss Martindale." "Oh, Ina—I told you. Don't answer the phone like this, speak clearly, breathe evenly, and keep it low." "I'm sorry, Miss Martindale." "That sounds much better, and you can do it if you try. Call Sheila Webb in, please." "She's out to lunch, Miss Martindale."

"Oh." Miss Martindale glanced at the clock on the table.At 2:36, I was six minutes late.Sheila Webb has been getting more and more lethargic. "Call her in as soon as she comes back." "Yes, Miss Martindale." Ina rolled the toffee into the center of her tongue, sucked happily, and continued typing.It was Naked Love by Mr. Amon Levine.Hard-bodied sensational stories did not interest her at all-as most of Mr. Levine's readers felt, although he wrote very hard, there is nothing in the world more dull than dull pornography, He is the best example.Although the cover is gorgeous and the title is tantalizing, the sales situation is getting worse year by year.I have been urged three times for the typing fee last time.Sheila Webb opened the door and came in, panting slightly.

"The red-haired cat is looking for you," Yi Na said. Sheila Webb grimaced. "What a stroke of luck—just pick a day when I'm late!" She smoothed her hair, picked up the pad and pencil, and gently knocked on the president's door. Miss Martindale looked up from the table.A woman in her forties can be seen at a glance as a person who emphasizes work efficiency.Light red hair, combed high in front, and. "You're late, Miss Wilbur." "I'm sorry, Miss Martindale. Because of the heavy traffic on the road." "At this time of day, the traffic is heavy, you should take care of it yourself." She looked at her legal pad. "Miss Pebmarsh called and needed a stenographer at three o'clock. She asked for you specifically. Have you ever done this for her before?"

"I can't remember, Miss Martindale, at least not lately." "The address is Wilbraham Lane." She paused questioningly for a moment, but Sheila Wilbur shook her head. "I don't remember ever being there." Miss Martindale glanced at the clock. "Three o'clock. You can take it easy. Any other appointments this afternoon?" She lowered her eyes to the appointment book at her elbow. "Professor Purdy will be at the Curlew Hotel at five o'clock. You must come back before then. If not, I will send Jenny there." She nodded slightly, and Shera exited and returned to the outside office.

"Any interesting news, Shera?" "It's not as dull and unchanged as it is these days. There's an old lady in Wilbraham Lane asking for me, and there's Professor Purdy at five o'clock--all old stuff! Wish there was something exciting sometimes." Exciting thing." The door of Miss Martindale's office opened. "Sheila, I forgot to tell you Miss Pebmarsh's message. If she hasn't come back when you get there, just go in. The door is unlatched. After you go in, wait in the room on the right side of the corridor. .Do you remember? Or do you want me to write it on a note for you?"

"I remember, Miss Martindale," Miss Martindale asked in her private office. Ina Brant changed a gaudy shoe from under a chair, the thin heel had slipped off— "Oh, how do I get home?" she said sadly. "Ah, don't make a fuss, we will help you find a way." A girl said, and continued to type her words. Ina sighed and turned to a new page: desire grabbed him tightly in the palm of her hand.His fingers frantically tore the tulle from her bosom before pushing her down on the sofa. "Damn it!" Ina said, reaching for the eraser. Sheila took her purse and went out.

Wilbraham Hutong was designed by a Victorian architect in the 1880s. It is like a fantasy on earth, curved in a half-moon shape, with two rows of garden houses, back to back.This kind of pattern is very troublesome for those who are not familiar with the geographical environment here.If you find the entire row of houses outside first, you will not be able to find where the houses with smaller numbers are, but if you crash into the houses on the inside first, you will not be able to find the houses with larger numbers.Everyone has well-designed, clean and tidy balconies, which look decent.On the face of it.They haven't been invaded by modernization yet, but once you walk into the kitchen and bathroom, you can feel the change like the wind.

There is nothing special about number nineteen.Neat curtains, polished brass doorknobs, and the usual roses on either side of the path. Sheila Webb pushed aside the lawn gate, went to the front door and rang the bell.There was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, she turned the doorknob as instructed.The door opened and she walked in.The door on the right side of the corridor was ajar, she knocked a few times, waited, and then pushed the door open.It was a rather comfortable and unremarkable living room.It's just that for modern tastes, the arrangement seems a bit cumbersome.What is more eye-catching in the room is the assortment of clocks: a grandfather clock is still ticking in the corner, a German porcelain clock is pendulum on the mantelpiece, and a silver clock for travel stands on the desk near the fireplace. There was a small gold-plated clock, and on the table by the window was a faded leather alarm clock. There was the word "" on the corner of the clock, and the gold-plated letters had peeled off.

Sheila Wilbur was startled when she saw the clock on the desk.The time on the clock was exactly one past ten past four.Her eyes fixed on the clock in the fireplace, which was the same time. " Suddenly there was a click on the top of Sheila's head, which startled her.A wooden clock hangs on the wall, and a cuckoo pokes out of a small hole, announcing loudly and decisively: BOOGOO.Boogoo, boogoo.The harsh tone seemed threatening.Then, with a snap, the cuckoo disappeared again. Sheila Wilbur forced a smile around one end of the sofa, and suddenly, her whole body froze like an electric shock.

There was a man lying on the floor, his eyes half closed, his pupils were like dead fish's pearls.On the front of his dark gray suit, there was a thick black mark.Sheila froze, bent down mechanically, and touched his cheek—cold—hand, the same... Touching the wet piece again, she drew her hand back abruptly, gasped, and opened her eyes. Gotta stare at his hands. At that moment, there was a slight sound from the outermost iron gate, she turned her head involuntarily, looked out the window, and saw a woman's figure hurried in from the path. Sheila swallowed dumbly—her throat was so dry.She stood there in a daze, dumbstruck, unable to utter a sound... just staring blankly in front of her. The door opened, and a tall, middle-aged woman walked in with a shopping bag in her hand.Her hair was gray and wavy and brushed back from her forehead, and her blue eyes were large and beautiful.His eyes were fixed behind Shera, as if he couldn't see it. Sheila let out a faint moan, indistinctly, so hoarse that she could barely hear it.Those big blue eyes turned to her.The woman asked sharply, "Who is it?" "It's—it's me—" Sheila managed to squeeze out the words as the woman whirled around behind the sofa towards her. Then, she screamed: "Ah—don't, don't...you'll step on him, he...he's dead..."

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