Chapter 7 Chapter Six

I went home triumphantly.My plan went far better than I had hoped.Lord Nasby was indeed a genial man.Now I just need to start performing well, as he said.Once inside and locking the door of my room, I took out the note and studied it intently.This is the clue to the whole secret. First, what do those numbers represent?There are five numbers in total, with a comma after the first two numbers. "Seventeen-one hundred and twenty-two," I murmured. It doesn't mean anything. Then I add them up.This is often done in fiction, and to unexpected theories. "1 plus 7 makes 8, plus 1 makes 9, plus 2 makes 11, plus 2 makes 13."

13!Decide the number of fate!Is this a warning to me not to get involved in this matter?Very likely.Anyway, this doesn't seem to serve any purpose other than to be a warning.I don't believe that any conspirators would represent Thirteen in this way in real life.If he meant thirteen, he would have written thirteen--13. in 1 and 2 There is a gap in between.From this I subtracted twenty-two from one hundred and seventy-one, and the result was one hundred and fifty-nine.I was doing the math once and it came out one hundred and forty-nine.These arithmetic exercises are really well done, but they seem to have no effect on the solution of the secret.I put arithmetic aside, not thinking about the results of multiplication or division.I started studying literature.

"Fort Gilmore", the meaning is obvious; it is a place name.Perhaps the birthplace of an aristocratic lineage, (missing descendant? claimant to title?) or a picturesque ruin? (buried treasure) By the way, on the whole, I think it is about buried treasure.Numbers are always associated with treasure.Take one step to the right, seventeen steps to the left, dig down one foot deep, then descend twenty-two steps, it seems so.I can think about it later, the most important thing is to rush to Fort Jill Morden as soon as possible. I slipped out of the room and brought back a pile of reference books, indexes of people, dictionaries of gazetteers, family histories of Scotland and the British Isles, and so on.

Time passed minute by minute.I studied and searched intently, but I felt more and more bored, and finally I closed the last book with force.It doesn't look like there is such a place as Jill Mortenburg. This was really beyond my expectation, as if someone had taken an army by surprise.There must be such a place.There's no reason anyone would invent such a name and put it on a note!It's ridiculous! Another thought popped into my mind.Perhaps it was a suburban, battlemented abomination whose proprietor had given it a grand name.However, if this is the case, it will be particularly difficult to find.I sat on my knees in frustration (as I always did when I was doing anything really important), wondering how I was going to solve this puzzle.

Is there another clue to follow?After trying to think back, I jumped up happily.Of course there is!I must go to the scene where the woman died.That's what private investigators do!No matter how long it is after the fact, they always find some clues that the police overlooked.It was obvious that my next step was to go to Marlowe. However, how would I get into that house?I rejected some risky actions, and chose the most simple and direct way.That house has always been for rent - assuming it still is.I'm going to pretend I'm a renter. I also decided to criticize the local real estate agents for having too few houses, so as not to arouse the suspicion of Marlowe's real estate agent.

However, I overlooked possible difficulties.A staff member with a pleasant attitude showed me about half a dozen special housing materials, and I tried my best to reject them one by one.In the end, I was almost in vain. "You really don't have any other houses?" I looked disappointed and looked into the staff's eyes. "By the river, with gardens and log cabins," I added, summing up all the main features of "The Mill" that I had learned from the papers. "Yes, of course there is, there is Sir Eustace Peterler's house," said the clerk doubtfully. "The mill, you know."

"It won't—it won't be—" I stammered. (Really, stuttering has become my forte.) "That's the house where the murder happened. Maybe you don't like—" "Oh, I don't think I should be taboo," I said with a teasing expression.I feel my sincerity has been established. "Perhaps I can get it cheaper—in that case." Nice move, I thought. "Yes, it is possible. To tell you the truth, the house is not easy to sell now-you know, the servants are not easy to hire. If you look at it and like it, then I will make you an offer. May I issue a house certificate to you?"

"Okay thank you." Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the hut at The Mill.After knocking on the door, a tall middle-aged woman opened the door and rushed out. "No one can go into that house, do you hear? You journalists make me sick. Sir Eustace ordered—" "I know this house is for rent," I said coldly, taking out the certificate. "Of course, if it's rented out—" "Oh, I'm sorry, miss, please forgive my faux pas. I've been troubled by those paper people, and haven't had a moment's peace. No, the house hasn't been rented—not likely at the moment."

"Is there a problem with the drainage?" I asked softly, puzzled. "Oh, no, miss, the drainage is all right! But you must have heard that a foreign lady died here?" "I did read about it in the papers," I said indifferently. My indifference aroused the curiosity of this kind woman.If I showed no interest at all, she might shut herself up like an oyster.I didn't, and she was clearly hooked. "I reckon you've seen it, miss! It's in all the papers. The Daily Gazette is still on the hunt for the man. The way they're doing it, it looks like our cops are shit. Well, I hope they catch the man." As for him--although he's a good-looking young man. He has a soldier's air--oh, yes, I dare say he must have been wounded in the war, and sometimes they all look a little queer after the war, I So is my sister's son. Maybe she used him for bad things—they're bad people, the foreigners. She's a good-looking woman, though. Stand where you're standing now."

"Is she black or blond?" I ventured. "You can't tell from the newspaper pictures." "Black-haired, very pale--unnaturally white, I think--her lips are red with cruel taste. I don't like to see her--sometimes a little powder, and that's another time thing." We talk like old friends.I pose another question: "Did he seem nervous or disturbed?" "Not at all. She was smiling all by herself, like she was happy about something. That's why I was caught the next afternoon when those people came out and yelled at the police about a murder. I was terrified. I shall never forget that scene. As for going into the house after dark, I dare not die. I would not have stayed if Sir Eustace Peterler had not knelt down and begged me. In this cabin."

"Sir Eustace Peterler was at Cannay then, I suppose?" "Yes, miss. When he heard the news, he hurried back to England. It would be an exaggeration to say that he begged me on his knees. Mr. Pagett, his secretary, paid us double to stay. As my Mr. John That being said, a penny is a penny now." I wholeheartedly agree with John. "That young man," said Mrs. James, returning abruptly to the earlier subject, "he looked restless, and his eyes, those bright eyes, I noticed especially, had a twinkle in them, which I suppose was excited. .But I didn't expect anything to be wrong. I didn't even expect him to come back and look weird." "How long was he in that house?" "Oh, soon, about five minutes or so." "How tall do you think he is? About six feet?" "I think so." "You said he was clean-shaven?" "Yes, miss—not a single hair." "Is his chin shiny?" I suddenly asked urgently. Mrs. James stared at me in awe. "Well, since you mentioned it, yes, miss. How do you know?" "It's hard to say, but murderers usually have shiny chins." I explained casually. Mrs. James accepted this statement with complete confidence. "Really, miss, I've never heard of it." "I guess you didn't notice what his head looked like?" "It's just normal, miss. I'll help you get the keys, okay?" I got the key and walked towards the "mill".At this point, I feel like my reorganization of the whole affair is complete.I already knew that the difference between the man Mrs. James described and the underground station I had seen was not fundamentally different.Coats, beards, gold-rimmed glasses. The "Doctor" looked middle-aged, but I remember him as a young man when he bent over the body.The quick movements show his youthful joints. The accidental victim (the "Moth Pill Man," as I called him myself) and the foreign woman, Ms. Castina (whatever her real name was), arranged to meet at the mill.I'm now connecting the pieces together.They were either afraid of being watched, or they chose a clever way to meet for some reason. Both of them got the certificate of the same house.Thus their meeting there would appear to be a mere coincidence. I believe that the "Fangmowan man" suddenly saw the "doctor", and their encounter at the station was completely unexpected to him, which caused him to panic, which is another matter.What happened next?The "doctor" took off his disguise and followed the woman to Marlowe.But it's likely that his make-up was removed in such a haste that the magic potion still stuck to his chin.That's why I asked Mrs. James that question. While thinking about this, I have come to the ancient low door of the "mill".I unlocked it and walked in.The living room was low and dark, with a musty and abandoned smell.I couldn't help shivering.When the woman "smiling to herself" entered the house a few days ago, had she felt any ominous foreboding?I wondered if her smile disappeared instantly from her lips, and an inexplicable fear surrounded her atrium?Or was she still smiling upstairs, unaware of the doom that was about to swallow her?My heart beats a little faster.Is the house really deserted?Is doom also awaiting me?For the first time, I began to understand the meaning of the word "ambience" that is used so much.There was an atmosphere in this room, an atmosphere of cruelty, danger, sin.