Chapter 25 Chapter Twenty-Four

Narrative by Colin Lamb After Sheila was gone, I crossed the street back to the Carrandon Hotel, packed my bag and handed it to the bellboy.This kind of hotel is especially concerned about whether you check out before noon. Then I set off.My route passed the police station, and I hesitated for a moment before entering.I told them I was looking for Hardcastle.he is.I saw him frowning, looking down at a letter in his hand. "I'm leaving again tonight, Dick," I said, "back to London." He looked up at me, thoughtful. "How about I give you a piece of advice?"

"No." I replied immediately. He ignored it.This is the case when one wants to give advice to others. "You should go away - far away - if you know what's best for you." "No one can judge for another what is best for him." "I suspect." "I'm going to tell you, Dick. I'm going to resign when I'm given this assignment. At least—I think so." "why?" "I feel like an old-fashioned Victorian priest. I'm too suspicious." "You're too impatient." I don't quite understand what he meant by that statement.I asked him why he looked so troubled.

"You read it." He handed the letter to me. Dear Sir: I just remembered one thing.You asked me if my husband had any special marks, and I said no.I was wrong.In fact, he has a scar behind his left ear.It seems that a dog we raised jumped at him before. He was scratched by a razor and had a few stitches. Because the wound was not too big, he forgot about it later. Song Song Kian Melina Riva "Her handwriting is pretty," I said, "though I don't like purple ink. Did the deceased have any scars?" "He has a scar, right where she said it was." "Didn't she see it when she recognized the corpse?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Covered to the ears. Have to push the ears forward to see." "That's all right. That's a nice reinforcing piece of evidence. What's the matter with you?" Hardcastle mournfully said that the case was very wicked!He asked me to see my French or Belgian friend in London. "Perhaps. Why?" "I mentioned him to the chief, and the chief said he remembered this man—the murder of the lady guide. If he would come, I would welcome him very cordially." "I'm afraid not," I said. "This man doesn't move lightly."

It was twelve-fifteen when I rang the bell at 62 Wilbraham Lane.Mrs Ramsey came to answer the door.She barely looked up at me. "What is it?" she said. "Can I talk to you? I was here about ten days ago. You probably forgot." Only then did she lift her eyelids to take a closer look at me.His eyebrows frowned slightly. "Are you—are you the one who came with the Inspector?" "Yes, Mrs Ramsey. May I come in?" "If you want to come in, come in, you are the police." She led the way into the living room and sat down facing me abruptly.Her voice used to be a bit bitter, but today she looks listless that I didn't notice before.

I said, "It seems to be very quiet today... Has your child gone back to school?" "Yeah, it's all different," she went on. "I guess you're asking about the latest murder? That girl was killed in a phone booth." "No, no. I don't really work for the police." She looked a little taken aback. "I thought you were Sergeant Lamb, didn't you?" "My name is Lamb, yes, but I work in another department." Mrs Ramsey's look of weariness was gone.She looked straight at me. "Well," she said, "what's the matter, then?"

"Is your husband still abroad?" "yes." "He's been away a long time, hasn't he, Mrs Ramsey? And far away?" "What do you know?" "Well, has he gone behind the Iron Curtain?" Not bad" "Did you know before he went? " "Vaguely know." She paused and said, "You want me to meet him there." "Has he thought about this for a long time?" "I think so. Only recently told me." "You don't agree with him?" "I used to agree, but you have to understand that it's been... you've checked pretty thoroughly, haven't you?"

"You may be able to give us some information, which will be of great help to us," I said. She shook her head. "No, I can't. I'm not saying I don't want to, you know, he never told me anything. I don't want to know. I'm tired of all this! When Michael told me he was leaving this country, went to Moscow, and never came back. So I had to decide what I wanted." "So you decide that you don't quite agree with your husband's attempt?" "No, I hate to say that! My opinion is entirely personal. I believe things have to do with women in the end, unless I'm a total fanatic. And women may be like that, but I'm not. I always Just a moderate left wing."

"Is your husband involved in the Lai Jin case?" "I don't know. I think maybe. He never mentioned it to me." She suddenly looked at me with vigor. "We'd better make things clear, Mr. Lamb, or Mr. Wolf in sheep's clothing, whoever you are, I love my husband dearly. Maybe I should go to Moscow with him, whether I agree with him or not. Politics. He wants me to take the baby with me, I don't want it! It's as simple as that, so I stay with the baby. I don't know if I will see Michael in the future. He has to choose his own way of life , and I have to choose my own. But one thing will be for sure. After he talked to me about it. I decided to let the children grow up in their country. They are British. I hope they Be an ordinary English kid."

"I understand." "That's what I think," said Mrs Ramsey, rising. Her attitude was suddenly much firmer. "That must have been a tough decision," I said softly. "I feel sorry for you." "Me too." Maybe the real sympathy in my voice reached her, and she smiled faintly. "Maybe you're really... I guess you're in this business of getting under the skin of people and knowing what they're feeling and thinking. It was a real shock to me luckily I've gotten through the worst... Now we have to plan, what to do, where to stay here or move somewhere else. He's going to have to find a job. I used to work as a secretary and maybe I'll take a class and brush up on shorthand and typing .”

"Well, don't work at the Cavendish," I said. "Why" "The girls who work there seem to be having bad luck." "If you think I know about that, you're wrong. I don't." I wish her luck in the post.So I left without gaining anything, in fact, I didn't plan to do so.Yet the loose teeny has to tie it in a knot. Walking out of the iron gate, I almost ran into Mrs. Mark Norton, who was carrying a shopping dress and her gait was insufficient. "Let me do it." I said and took it.At first she tried to snatch it back, but then she tilted her head forward and gave me a sneaky look before letting go. "You're the young man at the police station," she said. "I didn't recognize you at first." I came to her door with a shopping bag, and she was teetering beside me.The bag was unexpectedly heavy and I had no idea what was inside.How many pounds of potatoes? "Don't ring the bell," she said, "the gate is unlocked." The doors of the houses in Wilbraham Lane seem to be unlocked. "How's it going?" she asked, chatting with me. "He seems to have had a lot of marriages while he was alive." I don't know who she's talking about. "Who?—I'm away for a while," I explained. "Oh, I see. Following someone. I mean Mrs. Riva. I've heard the inquest. An ordinary looking woman. I must say she didn't seem very upset about her husband's death." "She hasn't seen him in fifteen years," I explained. "Cogs and I have been married for twenty years," she said with a sigh. "It's been a long time. He doesn't teach anymore now. He gardens. . . . It's hard to bear yourself, you know." At that moment Mr. Mark Norton, spade in hand, turned from the corner of the room. "Oh honey, you're back. Come on, I'll get the—" "It's in the kitchen." Mrs. Mark Norton turned suddenly—and nudged me. "Just some corn flakes, eggs, and a watermelon," she told her husband, laughing. I put the bag on the kitchen table.Jingle. What cornflakes!The instinct of a spy overwhelmed me.Under a piece of tape are three bottles of whiskey. I understood why Mrs. Mark Norton was so chatty at times and wobbly at other times.Maybe that's why Mark Norton resigned from lectures. For the neighbors, it was still early morning.As I was walking down Wilbraham towards Albany Road, I met Mr. Bland.Mr. Bland seemed in good spirits.He recognized me immediately. . "Hello? How is the investigation of the case? The identity of the deceased has been identified. It seems that he treated his wife very badly during his lifetime. Oh, sorry, you are not from the local area, are you?" I avoided the front by saying I was from London. "So Scotland Yard is also interested?" "Hmm—" I replied noncommittally. "I understand that you can't be humane to outsiders. However, you did not participate in the interrogation meeting." I said I went abroad. "I knew it, ha, 'boy, I knew it!" He winked at me. "Have you been to the Barrie Fun Zone?" I wink at him too. "I hope I've been. No, it's only been a day's journey." He elbowed me under the side. (Like Mrs. Mark Norton!) "I didn't take my wife. Going out with a blonde pairing is exciting." "Going abroad on business?" I said.We both laughed out loud. He walked towards 61 and I continued towards Albany Road. I'm not happy with myself.As Poirot said, the neighbors should know more.How strange that no one had ever seen anything!Maybe Hardcastle wasn't asking the right question.But can I ask better?As I turned onto Albany Road, I mentally framed some questions, something like this: Mr. Curry (Casterton) drugged - when? Ditto was killed - where? Mr. Curry (Casterton) moved to No. 19—how? Someone must have seen something! —Who saw it? Ditto - see what? I turn left again.Now I am walking in Wilbraham Lane, as it was on September 9th.Shall I call on Miss Pebmarsh?Ring the doorbell and say—well, what should I say? Visiting Miss Waterhouse?But what can I say to her? Perhaps, Mrs Helm?For her, it doesn't matter what to say, she is not listening at all, but she speaks casually, irrelevant, but maybe she can get something. As I walked, I paid attention to the number as before.When Mr. Curry came here before his death, did he look for the house number in the same way until he found the one they wanted to visit? Wilbraham Alley has never felt more important.I found myself wanting to say, almost in a Victorian tone, "Oh, if only the stones could talk!" It was a favorite phrase back then, and it doesn't seem to be the case today.But stone does not open its mouth, neither does brick and mortar.Wilbraham Lane was as silent as ever.Old, remote, shabby, silent, as if disapproving of me, a wanderer, who didn't even know what to buy. There was hardly anyone on the street, one or two children passed me on bicycles, and two women with shopping bags.I know why, because it's already, or approaching, the time that British tradition sanctifies: lunch.In one or two houses, looking through the drawn windows, some people could be seen sitting around the table, but even that was extremely rare.Most people at home, following the custom of the sixties, eat in "modern" kitchens. What a good time to murder, I thought to myself.Did the murderer think the same way?Is this also part of the murderer's plan?Finally, I came to number nineteen. Like an idiot, I stand and stare.At this moment, there is no one in sight. "I don't see half of the neighbors." I said sadly. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.I'm wrong.There is a "neighbor" here, but this neighbor can't speak.I'm leaning against the doorpost number twenty, and the big orange cat I've seen before is sitting on the doorpost.I bent down to talk to it, and I moved its paws first. "It's a pity cats can't talk." The orange cat opened its mouth and meowed rhythmically. "I know," I said, "I know you're talking just like me. You just don't talk like I do. Were you sitting here that day? Did you see anyone coming in or coming out of that house? You know What happened? Be good." The cat didn't seem to appreciate my words.It twisted its body and wagged its tail. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," I said. It turned its head and gave me a cold look.Then he began to lick and wash himself diligently. What a neighbor, I feel sad from the bottom of my heart!Undoubtedly, Wilbraham Lane has no so-called "neighbors".What I want--what Hardcastle needs--is pleasant chatter, meddling, and the prying eyes of old crones who are forever wishing to look out of windows and into the "privacy" of people.The problem is that these days, this kind of old man is gradually withering.They are all now gathered in comfortable old people's homes, or crowded in hospitals, occupying the beds needed by the really acutely ill.It was a serious setback for the criminal investigation. I looked across the street.Why is there no shadow of half of the neighbors?Why is there a row of neat bungalows there, but it is a huge building.Indifferent blocks of cement?A densely populated hive is full of worker bees who go out early and return late. After returning, they rush to clean up and go out for a date.Compared with the inhumanity of the steel and concrete building, I began to feel an affinity for Wilbraham's faded Victorian elegance. My eyes suddenly felt a flash of light in the center of the building.I felt strange and looked up.Ah, here we go again.A window was open, and someone was looking out, holding something to obscure their face a little.Bright asked again.I dug my hands into my pockets.I always carry a lot of things in my pockets, things that might be useful.Their usefulness is sometimes surprising.A bit of duct tape, a few inconspicuous tools that can open various door locks, a small pot of powder with irrelevant labels, and a blowpipe to blow it on.There are also one or two neatly designed little machinery that ordinary people will not recognize.In addition, I have a telescope for bird watching. Although the magnification is not very high, it is useful enough. I took it out and raised my eyes. is a child.I could see her long braids falling to her shoulders.She has an opera telescope and is watching me intently, for April has nothing else to see.Just then, however, another distraction appeared in Wilbraham Lane. An old driver drove a classic Rolls-Royce over. He looked dignified, but he seemed to dislike life very much. He drove in front of me with a serious face.I found the little boy chasing him.I stood there, thinking. I have always believed that as long as you are willing to wait, there will always be good luck knocking on the door.Sometimes it is uncalculated, unforeseen, but it comes.Will this be my luck?I looked up at the huge block again, paying careful attention to the position of the window and carefully counting its levels.third floor.Then I walked down the street to the entrance of the building.The building is surrounded by a private driveway with well-planned flower beds on the grassy area beside the driveway. Usually most of the time, I must think that there is a concierge, but during the "inviolable" time between one and two o'clock, there is no one in the entrance hall.There was only one bell, which had a sticker saying "Please Call Porter," but I didn't touch it.I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. From the outside, getting to the room seemed extremely simple, but inside it was dizzying.Fortunately, I have already rehearsed and calculated many times in my heart, and I am very sure that I have found the right door.The number on the door, unbiased, is Qiqi. "Ah," I thought to myself, "seven is a lucky number, here it is." I answered the doorbell, stepped back and waited.

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