Chapter 10 Chapter Four

Colonel Race was smoking his pipe and staring thoughtfully at George Patton. He had known George Patton since he was a little boy.Patton's uncle had been the Reese family's country neighbor.The two of them were almost twenty years apart.Reese, now in his early sixties, was tall, athletic, with a soldierly build, a bronze face, iron-gray hair, and shrewd black eyes. There had never been a particularly close relationship between the two of them—but Patton reminded Rhys of "Young George"—one of those early dim memories. He was thinking now that he couldn't remember what "young George" was like.During a chance meeting in recent years, they discovered that they had very little in common.Rhys is an outgoing character, basically a kingdom builder type - he's spent most of his life overseas.George was a gentleman of the town.Their interests are very different. When they met, they could only exchange memories of the "old days" with each other, and then there was a long period of embarrassment and silence.Colonel Race is not a good talker, a "strong and silent man" that the novelists of the early generation liked to portray.

Now, in silence, he was wondering why "young George" had insisted on arranging this meeting.Also think about how subtly George has changed since they met a few years ago.George Patton had always struck him as banal—cautious, practical, unimaginative. Something is wrong with this guy, he thought, as restless as a cat.He had lit his pipe three times—and it was nothing like the old Barton. He took the pipe from his mouth. "Well, young George, what's the trouble?" "Yes, Reese, trouble. I need your advice—and help." The colonel nodded and waited. "About a year ago, you were going to dine with us in London—at the Luxembourg. Then you had to go abroad."

The Colonel nodded again. "To South Africa." "During that banquet, my wife died." Reese shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I know. I read it in the papers. I didn't mention it or greet you just now, because I didn't want to disturb your mood again. But I feel sorry, and you know that." "Oh, yes, yes. That's not the problem. My wife is presumed to have committed suicide." Reese caught the key phrase.His eyebrows are raised. "Presumption?" "Look at these." He dropped the two letters into his hands.Reese's eyebrows were still raised.

"anonymous letter?" "Yes. And I believe what they say." Reese shook his head slowly. "That's a dangerous thing. You'd be surprised how any newspaper story is followed by an endless number of nonsense whistleblower letters." "I know that. But those two letters weren't written then—they didn't appear until half a year later." Reese nodded. "That makes sense. Who do you think wrote it?" "I don't know much, I don't care. The most important thing is that I believe what is written on it is true. My wife was murdered."

Reese put down his pipe.He sat up slightly in the chair. "Why do you think that? Did you have any suspicions at the time, the police?" "When it happened, I was at a loss! Drowsy--completely out of my mind. I could only accept the confession at the inquest. My wife had the flu and was depressed. Nothing was in doubt, except Accept suicide as the cause of death. The medicine is still in her purse, you know." "What medicine?" "Potassium cyanide." "I remember. She drank it with champagne." "Yes. At the time, everything seemed clear."

"Has she ever threatened suicide?" "No, never. Rosemary," said George Patton, "loves life." Reese nodded.He saw George's wife only once.To him, she was a simple, lovely, stupid woman—but definitely not the melancholy, sentimental type. "And what about the medical evidence and so on?" "Rosemary's doctor - an old man who had been with the family since she was a little girl - went to sea. His partner, a young man, treated Rosemary when she had the flu. I remember , he said only that that type of flu can cause serious depression."

George paused, then continued. "I didn't go to Rosemary's doctor until I got the letters. I didn't mention the letters, of course - just what happened. He told me he was surprised by what happened. He Said he would never believe it. Rosemary didn't look like a suicidal person. He said that meant that no matter how well you knew a patient, he could still do something completely out of character." George paused again, then continued. "After talking to him, I realized that Rosemary's suicide was completely unbelievable to me. After all, I knew her very well. She was someone who could suddenly become very unhappy. She could Getting very excited about something, sometimes acting recklessly, but it never occurred to me that she might have the idea of ​​breaking everything."

Reese whispered a little embarrassedly: "Did she have any possible motive for the suicide other than depression? I mean, did she appear extremely unhappy about something?" "I—no, no—she might just be a little nervous." Reese, looking away from his friend, said: "Is she an emotionally dramatic person? You know, I've only seen her once. There's a type of person who - uh - might commit suicide to get out of it - usually after a fight with someone .A somewhat childish motive - 'I'm going to make him regret it forever!'" "Rosemary and I never quarreled."

"I do. And I must say that the use of potassium cyanide as a suicide tool rules it out. Anyone knows, that's not fun stuff." "That's another matter. If Rosemary had taken her own life on purpose, of course it wouldn't have been done that way. It would be too bitter—and too ugly. Sleeping pills would be more likely." "I agree with you. Is there any evidence that she purchased potassium cyanide?" "No. But she was out in the country with some friends, and they were poisoning a wasp nest one day with potassium cyanide. That's when she probably got the darn thing."

"That's right—it's not too hard to get one of those things. Most gardeners have them in stock." He paused, then said: "Let me sum it up. There isn't any evidence of suicide, but there isn't any evidence of homicide either, and if there was, the police would have it, you know, on high alert." "It seems ridiculous to think it was a homicide, I know." "But after those six months, it doesn't look ridiculous to you, does it?" "I think I must have been dissatisfied with the idea of ​​suicide. I think I must have been skeptical subconsciously, and then I accepted the idea of ​​homicide without doubt after seeing the black and white words on the white paper."

"Good." Reese nodded. "Well, then, let's treat it as a homicide. Who do you suspect of being the murderer?" George leans forward—his face contorted. "Here lies the most terrible thing. If Rosemary was murdered, it must have been done by a man at that table, one of our friends. No one else was near that table." "Where's the waiter? Who poured the wine?" "Charles, head waiter at the Luxembourg restaurant. You know Charles, don't you?" Reese nodded.Everyone knows Charles.It's hard to imagine Charles poisoning customers. "The waiter who served our table was Jessup. We've known him for years. Every time we go to that restaurant, he serves us. He's a pleasant fellow." "Then I'll be at the same table again. How many people are there?" "Mr. Stephen Farley and his wife, Mrs. Alexander Farley. My secretary, Miss Ruth Lessing. A fellow named Anthony Browne. Rosemary's sister Iris, and myself. There are seven people in total. If you go, it should be eight people. You can't go at that time, and we can't find someone to replace you temporarily." "I see. Well, Barton, who do you think will do it?" George cried out, "I don't know—I tell you I don't. If I knew—" "Okay—okay. I just thought you might have a definite suspect. Well, it shouldn't be hard to find the suspect. How did you sit—you started?" "Cinderella Farley sits on my right, of course, and next to her is Anthony Browne, then Rosemary, then Stephen Farrelly, then Iris, and then It's Ruth Lessing on my left." "I see. Did your wife drink champagne at the beginning of the evening?" "Yes. The glass was filled a few times. The thing--it happened during the sideshow. It was loud--it was a black person show, and we were all watching. Just as the lights came up, She threw herself on the table. She may have yelled - or choked up - but no one heard anything. The doctor said it must have been immediate death, thank God." "That's right. Thank God really. Well, Barton—seems pretty obvious on the surface." "what do you mean--?" "Steve Farley, of course. He sat to her right. Her champagne flute must have been near his left. As the lights dimmed and attention was drawn to the rising curtain, Putting the medicine in her glass was the easiest thing to do. I don't see anyone having a better chance than him. I know the table in the Luxembourg restaurant, it's wide-topped - I doubt anyone could lean across tabletop without being noticed, even in the dim light. The same goes for the person sitting to Rosemary's left, but he has to walk over in front of her to put anything in her glass. Of course, there is Another possibility, but let's start with the obvious. Is there any reason to compel Senator Stephen Farreday to get rid of your wife?" George said in a stiff voice: "They—they were quite close friends. If—for example, if Rosemary disappoints him, he may want revenge." "Sounds dramatic. Is that the only motive you can think of?" "Yes," said George.His face was very red.Reese glanced at him several times.Then go on to say: "Let's look at the second possibility, the suspect is one of those ladies." "Why doubt Ma'am?" "My dear George, don't you notice that in a party of seven persons--three men and four women--perhaps once or twice three couples dance, while the extra woman stands alone on the empty bench? Don't you seven Can't everyone be dancing?" "Oh, right." "Okay. Do you remember who was left alone at the table before the sideshow?" George thought for a while. " "I think—by the way, Iris was the last one left alone. Before her was Ruth." "You don't remember the last time your wife had champagne before it happened?" "I think about it, she danced with Browne. I remember she came back to the table and said she was exhausted - he was a master of the dance floor. Then she sang the champagne out of her glass. A few minutes later, the band played the waltz Dance music, she—she danced with me. She knew the waltz was the only dance I could do. Farley danced with Ruth, Madame Alexander with Browne. Iris rested alone. After that, sideshow immediately start." "Then let us consider your wife's sister. Has your wife's death done her any pecuniary good?" George began to sputter: "My Goodness—don't be so ridiculous, Iris is just a kid, a girl at school." "I know of two schoolgirls who committed murder." "But Iris never! She loves Rosemary." "Anyway, Barton, she has a chance. I wonder if there was any motive. I believe your wife is rich. To whom does she leave her money? To you?" "No, leave it to Iris—through a credit foundation." He explained, and Reese listened intently. "Pretty odd. Rich sister and poor sister. Some girls must be aggrieved by it." "I'm sure Iris will never." "Probably not—but she had a motive. Now let's start with this clue. Who else has a motive?" "No--not at all. Rosemary doesn't have any enemies. I'm sure. I've been thinking--asking myself--trying to find her possible enemies. I even bought this house near the Farretts. house, so that—” He stopped.Reese took off his pipe and began to dig into the core. "Young George, don't you think it would be better to tell me all the truth?" "What do you mean?" "You've got reservations about me—you're always going in circles. You can sit there and defend your wife's reputation—or you can try to find out if she's been murdered—it's up to you, but what if Or if it is more important to you, you have to say it exactly." There was a silence. "Okay," said George stiffly, "you win." "You have reason to believe that your wife has a lover, don't you?" "yes." "Stephen Farley?" "I don't know! I swear, I really don't! It could be him, or it could be the other guy, Brown. I can't be sure, fuck it!" "How about talking to me about this Anthony Browne? Strange, I think I've heard that name before." "I don't know anything about him. Nobody knows him. He's a funny, good-looking guy—but no one knows where he came from. He's supposed to be American, but he doesn't have an American accent." "Oh, maybe the embassy knows something about him. You don't know which of the—they're talking about it?" "Yes—yes, I don't know. I tell you, Rhys. She was writing a letter once—I—I checked the blotter afterwards. It was a love letter, yes—but There's no name on it." Reese carefully looked away. "Well, that gives us a little clue, like Mrs. Alexander, if her husband is involved with your wife, then she is. You know, she's one of those sensitive women, the quiet, deep type. This type The woman of the house can kill when necessary. We continue to study and judge. There are mysterious Browne, Farley and his wife, and young Iris Marr. Another Ruth Lessing's How about women?" "Ruth couldn't have had anything to do with it. At least, she had no motive at all." "You said, she is your secretary? What kind of girl is she?" "The cutest girl in the world," said George enthusiastically. "She's like family to me. She's my right-hand man—no one can be trusted more completely, or given a higher degree." evaluation of." "You like her," Rhys eyed him thoughtfully. "I adore her. Reese, that girl is such a nice person. I depend on her for everything. She's the most honest, lovable person in the world." Reese gave a low "hmm" and put aside the topic.He tried not to let George see from his manner that he had a big question mark in his mind for Ruth Lessing, who had a very definite motive.He could imagine that the "cutest girl in the world" might have a good reason for wanting to get rid of Mrs. Button.That might have been a profit motive—she might have secretly considered herself "Mrs. Barton second."She may be in love with her boss.Here lies the motive for Rosemary's death. He said mildly: "I think it occurred to you, George, that you had very good motives yourself." "Me?" George was dumbfounded. "Oh, you should remember Othello and Destimona." "I know what you mean. But—but Rosemary and I aren't like them. Of course, I adore her and love her, but I've always known in my heart that there was something I—I had to turn a blind eye to. ...that doesn't mean she doesn't like me--she does, she likes me and has always been close to me. But, of course, I'm a dull person, and I can't help myself, you know, I'm a bit Not romantic. Anyway, when I married her I made up my mind to put up with her romantic nature. She warned me too. Of course I was hurt when the affair happened--but if it moved her A hair that—" He paused, and then said in a different tone: "Anyway, if I did it, then why would I bother to pursue it and attract attention? I mean, after the dust settles and the suicide case is confirmed, I'm not crazy to do it." "Exactly. That's why I don't seriously suspect you, my good man. If you were the murderer, it's no wonder you burned two letters like this sooner after you got them." .. these two letters seem to me the most interesting features of the whole affair. Who wrote them?" "What?" George was startled. "I don't know a thing." "You don't seem to be interested in that, but I am. That's the first question I'll ask you. I think we can assume they weren't written by the murderer. As you say, why should he , After everyone has accepted the theory of suicide, they are still showing their fox tails? So, who wrote it? Who intends to stir up an uproar?" "Could it be a servant?" George ventured. "Possibly. If it was a servant, which servant? What did he or she know? Did Rosemary have any close maids?" George shook his head. "No. We had a cook then—Mrs. Pound—she's still around, and a few maids, who I think are gone. They didn't see us very long." "Well, George, if you want my advice (and I think you do), then I'll have to reconsider the matter very carefully. Rosemary's dead is a fact, and whatever you do, There is no way to save his life. If suicide is not a good cause of death, then 'murder' is an equally bad cause of death. To avoid argument, let's pretend that Rosemary was really murdered. Are you I really want to dig out the whole thing again, which may lead to unpleasant public exaggeration, family scandals, and your too big sex scandals become public knowledge-" George Button flinched.He said roughly: "Are you really advising me to let the murderer go unpunished? Faridy's affectation, his pompous speeches, his precious career—maybe, he's the murderer who dared to do it." "I just remind you of the consequences." "I want the truth to come out." "Very well. In that case, I should take these letters to the police. They may not have difficulty finding out who wrote them, and whether the person who wrote them knew. Just remember that once you Once you start, you can’t stop halfway.” "I'm not going to the police, that's why I'm going to see you. I'm going to lay a trap for the murderer." "What do you mean by that?" "Listen, Reese, I'm throwing a banquet at the Luxembourg Restaurant. I want you to attend. Same people, the Farrellys, Anthony Browne, Ruth, Iris, myself. I've arranged All right." "What do you want to do?" George sneered. "That's my secret. It would be spoiled if I told anyone beforehand—including you. I want you to keep your heads up and attend while—see." Reston stepped forward, his voice suddenly sharp. "I don't like the way you're doing it, George. This kind of fictional drama won't do. Go to the police—there's nothing better than that. They know how to handle it. They're professional. In a crime , Amateur acting is unwise." "That's why I asked you to participate, you're not an amateur." "Boy, just because I used to be a spy? Anyway, are you going to keep me in the dark?" "That's necessary." Reese shook his head. "Sorry, I refuse. I don't like your plan, and I won't be at your party. Give it up, George." "I'm not going to give up, I've arranged everything." "Don't be so stubborn. I know this kind of thing better than you. I don't like your idea. It won't work. It might be dangerous, don't you think?" "It's dangerous for someone." Reese sighed: "You have no idea what you're doing. Well, don't say I didn't warn you. I'm begging you one last time to give up your wild ideas." However, George Button just shook his head.