Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

I took a taxi from Morton Street to Donna's place on East Seventeenth Street, and now I took another taxi to King's building on Thirty-seventh Street.When I paid the driver, I remembered that I hadn't gone to the bank yet.Tomorrow is Saturday, so I'll have to keep Chance's money in my hands all weekend.Unless one of the robbers is a star of fortune. I slipped five dollars into the concierge to get the key to Gold's apartment, lightened my burden a little, and made up a lie that I was the tenant's agent.For the five yuan, he couldn't wait to believe me. I walked up the elevator, unlocked the door and entered the room.

The police have already searched here.I don't know what they were looking for or what they found.The files Durkin showed me didn't contain much of value, but no one would have written down every detail they noticed.I don't know what the police found at the crime scene, and it's hard to tell if they stole something.Some cops loot the dead, and there is nothing wrong with doing so, nor are they necessarily dishonest in other respects. The police have seen so much death and horror that they often need to dehumanize the dead in order to continue to face it in the future. I still remember the first time I carried a dead body out of my hotel room.The man vomited blood and died, and was not found until many days after his death.It took a lot of hard work for me and a senior patrolman to stuff the body into the body bag.On the way down, my partner let the body bag bump every step of the way down.Even if he carried a bag of potatoes, he would not be so careless.

I still remember the faces of the other lodgers watching us, and how my partner searched for the belongings of the dead.He took what little cash the man had, counted it carefully, and shared it with me.I don't want to take it. "Put it in your pocket," he told me, "do you think it's going anywhere else? Somebody has to get it. Or it goes to the state. What's the state of New York going to do with forty-four dollars? Put it in the bag, and then buy a bar of soap to wash off the smell of corpses on your hands." I put the money in my pocket.Later, I became the one who carried the corpse down the stairs and hit the stairs, and I was the one who counted the money and distributed it.Feng Shui turns.I was thinking that one day, that person in the body bag will be me.

I was there for an hour.I searched drawers and wardrobes, not sure what I was looking for, and found nothing.If only she'd had a little black book full of phone numbers - rumor has it that call girls make money - someone would have found it long before I did.I don't think she really has such a notebook.Elaine had one, but both Fran and Donna said they didn't have one. I didn't find any drugs or drug paraphernalia, but that doesn't prove anything.Since the police will search the money of the dead, it is naturally possible to take drugs for themselves.Or Chance took all the contraband from the house.He said he came to the apartment once after she died.

I noticed, though, that he didn't take the African mask.They glared at me from the walls, doing their part to guard the apartment no matter which hard-charging young hooker Chance brought to replace Kim.Hopper's poster still hangs above the stereo.Is it also staying for the next tenant?There are traces of her all over here. I can still smell her when I rummage through her dresser drawers and clothes in her closet.Her bed was not made.I lifted the mattress and looked underneath.No doubt this has been done before me.I found nothing, so I put down the mattress, and her pungent scent rose from the crumpled sheets and filled my nostrils.

In the living room, I opened a closet and found her fur coats, coats and jackets, and a whole shelf of wine and bottles.A 200ml bottle of "Wild Turkey" bourbon caught my eye.I swear I've tasted that strong bourbon taste, the sensation of swallowing it in my throat, the heat flowing to my stomach, the warmth to the toes and fingertips. I close the cupboard door, cross the room, and sit on the couch.I hadn't meant to drink, hadn't thought about it for hours, and the sight of spirits was pure accident. I go back to the bedroom.There was a jewelry box on her dresser, and I opened it to examine it.There were many earrings, two necklaces, a string of what looked like fake pearls, and some bracelets, one of which was very charming, made of ivory with what seemed to be a gold trim.Also included is a tacky class memorial ring from LaFarrett High School in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.The ring is gold, with 14K engraved on the inside, and it must be worth a little money if you weigh it.Who will take these things?

There is some cash in her purse in the Galaxy Hotel. According to the records, it is about 400 yuan and some small change. This money may be transferred to her parents in Wisconsin.But would they fly all the way to claim her coats and sweaters?Would they want her fur coat, high school ring, and ivory anklet? I stayed a while longer, took some notes, refrained from opening the drawing-room door, and left. I took the elevator down to the lobby, waved to the concierge, and nodded to the tenant who had just entered.It was an old woman leading a small shaggy dog ​​on a leash trimmed with rhinestones.The puppy barked at me, and I realized that Jin's little black cat was missing.I saw no sign of it, nor did I see its filth tray in the bathroom.Someone took it away.

I hailed a taxi on the corner of the street, and when I paid in front of the hotel, I found the gold key mixed with the change in my pocket.I forgot to return the key to the porter and he didn't think to ask for it. I have a message.Joe Durkin called and left the police number.I called and the other party said he was out but would come back.I leave my name and phone number. I went upstairs to my room, out of breath and exhausted.I lay down, but I couldn't rest, I couldn't control the running thoughts in my head.I went downstairs to get a cheese sandwich, french fries and coffee.After two cups of coffee, I pull out a Donna Campion poem from my pocket.Something in the poem seemed to call to me, but I couldn't figure out what.I read it again.I don't understand the meaning of this poem.Literally, it should have a certain meaning.But I always feel that there is something in the poem winking at me, trying to get my attention, but I am too weak to understand.

I walked to St. Paul's Church.The speaker is telling a horror story with detached ease.Both his parents died of alcoholism, his father had acute pancreatitis, and his mother committed suicide while drunk.Two brothers and a sister also died of illness one after another.Another brother is still being treated at the state hospital for cerebral edema. “A few months into my sobriety,” he said, “after hearing that alcohol was killing brain cells, I started worrying that I might have a serious brain injury, so I went to my counselor and told him my concerns. ‘Uh,’ he Say, 'Maybe you have a brain injury, that's possible. But let me ask you first, can you remember where the meeting was held? Can you find it without any trouble?' 'Yes,' I told him, 'these I can do it all'. 'That's fine,' he said, 'you've got all the brain cells you need right now.'"

I leave during the break. There was another message from Deggin at the front desk of the hotel.I called right away, but he wasn't there again.I leave my name, phone number, and go upstairs.I took out Donna's poems again when the phone rang.It's Durkin. He said, "Hi, Matthew. I just wanted to say, I hope you didn't make a bad impression on you last night." "what do you mean?" "Well, in general," he said, "I get stressed out once in a while, you know what I mean? I need to blow off steam, get drunk, talk shit. I don't do that often, but I do it once in a while."

"Of course." - Stick School · E Book Group - "Most of the time I love my job, but sometimes it's too stressful and some things you don't want to see, so every now and then I have to get all this shit out of me. Hopefully I didn't lose my temper last night before we broke up." I assured him he had done nothing wrong.I was wondering how much he remembered from last night.He's drunk enough to lose his memory, but not everyone does.Maybe he's just a little fuzzy, not sure how I feel about his episodes.I remembered what Billy's landlady had said to him. "Never mind," I said, "bishops make mistakes like that too." "Hey, I gotta remember that. Bishops make mistakes like that. Maybe they did." "Maybe." "How is your investigation going? Do you have any clues?" "It's still hard to say." "I see what you mean. If there's anything I can do to help—" "Actually, there are." "Oh?" "I went to the Galaxy Hotel," I said, "and spoke to an assistant manager who showed me Mr. Jones' registration card." "The famous Mr. Jones." "There is no signature on it. The name is in print." "I guess so." "I asked him if he could show me the cards from the past few months and see if there was a signature also in print and compare it with Jones' handwriting. He said he had no right to decide." "You should give him some money." "I tried. He didn't understand me at all. But you can get him to produce a signature card. He won't help me because I don't have official authorization, but if the police come forward, he will certainly do it." He paused for a moment, then asked me if the clue really made sense. "Probably," I said. "You think the murderer has stayed at that hotel before? Registered under a different name?" "possible." "But not his real name, otherwise he'd have signed it in handwriting, no need for that gimmick. So where do we end up, assuming we're lucky enough to have a card and we find it again, then All we got was another alias this son of a bitch used, and then we'd have no idea who he was, no progress." "If you really want to help, there is one more thing you can do." "What's up?" "Have the other hotels in that area check their registration records for, uh, six months or a year." "Looking for what? Printed registration? Come on, Matthew, do you know how much manpower it takes?" "Not the printed registry. Ask them to look up a tenant named Jones. I'm talking about places like the Galaxy Hotel, expensive modern hotels. Most of them should be like the Galaxy Hotel, with lodging on computers. Five or In ten minutes they can pull up Jones' registration records, but they have to have someone with a badge on them to do it." "and then?" "You can find those registration cards, find Mr. Jones who starts with a C or CO, and then you can compare his printed signature to see if you can find him. If you can find any clues, then look at the See where it can lead you. I don't need to teach you what to do after you have a clue." He fell silent again. "Don't know," he said afterwards, "sounds like a long shot." "maybe." "Frankly, it's a waste of time." "Won't waste too much time. Not so hopeless. Joe, if you didn't close the case in your mind first, you'd do it." "I have no idea." "Of course you do. You think it was paid to kill, or a madman did it. If it was paid to kill, you don't want to deal with it. If it was done by a madman, you want to wait for him to commit another crime." "I won't be so shameless." "You were so outrageous last night." "Last night was last night, for God's sake. I've explained what happened last night." "It's not a murder," I said, "or a madman just happened to kill her." "You sound pretty sure." "Pretty sure." "why?" "A hired killer wouldn't be that crazy. How did he kill her? Sixty times with the machete?" "Sixty-six times, I think." "That's sixty-six times." "Not necessarily a machete, though. Something like a machete." "He stripped her naked and hacked her to death. He got blood all over the walls, so much so that they had to repaint them. When did you ever hear of a hitman like that?" "Who knows what kind of beast that pimp hired? Maybe he told the guy to make the scene like that, be tough, and make an example. Who knows what he's up to?" "And then he hired me to investigate." "I admit it sounds a little queer, Matthew. But—" "It can't be done by a lunatic. It's done by a normal person after going crazy. It's definitely not a psychotic episode." "how do you know?" "He was too careful. Printed his signature when he checked in and took away the dirty towel. The guy deliberately didn't leave any real evidence." "I thought he wrapped the machete in that towel." "Why would he do that? After washing the machete, he just puts it in the original box. Besides, if he does wrap it in a towel, he can use a clean towel. He doesn't have to put the used towel Take them with you, unless you don't want someone to find them. There will be a lot of things left on the towels - a hair, a blood stain - and he knows that he may be listed as a suspect because he knows that something will bring him and Kim Get in touch." "We don't know for sure if the towels are actually dirty, Matthew. We don't know if he took a bath." "He chopped her to pieces and sprayed blood all over the wall. Do you think he would leave without taking a bath?" "I guess not." "Would you take home a wet towel as a souvenir? He has a reason." "Okay." He was silent for a moment. "Psycho may not want to leave evidence. You mean he knew her and had a reason to kill her. You can't be sure about that." "Why did he send her to the hotel?" "Because he's waiting there. Him and his machete." "Why didn't he go to her place on Thirty-seventh Street with his machete?" "Not going to her house?" "Yeah. I talk to prostitutes all day long. They don't like to be called out because it takes time. They don't have to, but they usually invite the other person to their place and tell him how comfortable it is. King might have brought it up too, but he wouldn't." "Well, he has already paid the rent, so he can't let the money go to waste." "Why didn't he go to her in the first place?" He pondered for a moment. "She has a porter," he said, "and maybe he doesn't want to pass that porter." “He was going through the hotel lobby instead, signing the registration card, talking to the front desk clerk. He didn’t want to go past the concierge, probably because the concierge had seen him before. Otherwise the concierge would be a much lesser risk than the entire hotel.” "Not necessarily, Matthew." "I can't help but think that. Someone does these incomprehensible things, unless he knows the girl and wants her dead for a personal reason. He can lose control of his emotions. People in their right mind usually don't take Kill with a machete. But he's not a lunatic who picks a random woman to kill." "Then what do you think? Boyfriend did it?" "almost." "She broke up with the pimp, told her boyfriend she was free and he panicked?" "That's right, I'm thinking in this direction." "And go crazy with a machete? Does that match the guy you describe who would rather stay with his wife?" "have no idea." "Are you sure she has a boyfriend?" "Not sure." I admit. "Those registration cards, Charles O. Jones, and his aliases--if there are any. You really think they'll make the case go?" "They're clues." "You didn't answer my question." "Then I'll just say 'no.' I don't think they will necessarily move the case forward." "But you still think it's worth a try?" "I wanted to check the cards myself at the Galaxy Hotel," I reminded him, "on my own time, but the assistant manager wouldn't let me." "I guess we should check those cards." "Thanks, Joe." "I think we could do that other survey, too. All the first-class commercial hotels in that area, look at their Jones registration cards from the past six months. That's what you want?" "Yes." - Stick School · E Book Group - "The autopsy showed that she had semen in her throat and esophagus. Did you notice that?" "Saw it in the file last night." "He gave her oral sex, then he chopped her up with a Boy Scout machete. And you think her boyfriend did it." "The semen may have been left by a previous client. She is a whore and has no shortage of clients." "Probably," he said, "you know, they can classify semen now. It's not like fingerprints, it's more like blood type, which is important circumstantial evidence. But you're right, the way she lives, even if Semen doesn't match a guy and doesn't exonerate him." "And even if it did, it wouldn't prove he was guilty." "True, but it'll give that guy a fucking headache. Wish she'd scratched him and left some flakes of his skin between her fingers. That would definitely help." "It's impossible to have everything go your way." "Of course. If she gave him oral sex, she'd have a hair or two between her teeth. The problem is she's too ladylike." "That's right, that's the problem." "And my problem is, I'm starting to believe that this case is real and that the killer is far away. I have a table of bastard cases that I don't have time for, and now you're holding me back with this case." "Think about it, if this case is solved, how proud you will be." "All the credit goes to me, huh?" "Anyway, it has to belong to someone." I have three more call girls to contact, Sunny, Ruby and Mary Lou.Keep their phone numbers in the notebook.But I've had enough talking to whores for the day.I called Chance's liaison office and left a message for him to call back.It's a Friday night, maybe he's at Madison Square Garden watching two kids spar, or does he only go when Kid Bascom is on? I pulled out Donna Campion's poems.In my mind, all the colors in the poem are covered with blood, bright arterial blood faded from scarlet to dark brown.I reminded myself that Kim was alive when Donna wrote the poem.Then why do I feel a little ominous between the lines?Does she know something?Or am I being too sensitive? She leaves out Kim's blond hair, unless it's using the sun as a metaphor.I saw golden braids coiled around her head, reminiscent of Jane Keane's Medusa.Without thinking too much, I picked up the receiver and made a call.It's been a long time since I dialed this number, but my memory conjures her number like a magician conjures cards. The bell rang four times.Just as I was about to hang up, I heard her low, wheezing voice. I said, "Jane, this is Matthew Scudder." "Matthew! I was thinking of you less than an hour ago. Wait a minute, I just walked in the door, I took off my coat first... There you go. How are you? Glad you called." "I'm doing fine. How about you?" "Oh, it's business as usual. Every day counts." That's the mantra of us sober people. "Are you still going to the party?" "Well—actually, I just got back from the party. How are you?" "not bad." "OK." What day is it, Friday?Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. "I haven't had a drink in three days," I said. "Matthew, that's great." What's so great about it? "Probably." I said. "Have you been at the party?" "Yeah, but I'm afraid I'm not ready for all the parties." We chatted for a while.She said maybe one day we will meet at the venue.I admit it's possible.She has been abstaining from alcohol for nearly six months and has also introduced several experiences.I said when it must be interesting to hear her story. She said, "You want to hear? God, you're in my story." She was about to start sculpting again.After quitting drinking, she put everything on hold because she couldn't get the clay into shape accurately.But she's trying now, trying to make it proportionate.Quit drinking first, and slowly restore the rest of your life.how am iUh, I said, I have a case to investigate for an acquaintance.I didn't go into details, and she didn't press.The pace of the conversation slowed down, and there were occasional pauses, so I said, "I just wanted to call and say hello." "Glad you called, Matthew." "Maybe someday we will meet unexpectedly." "hope so." I hung up and thought of drinking and talking in her Lisburnard Street attic, the warmth of the alcohol working its magic in my veins.What a sweet night.You'll hear people say at parties, "The worst day sober is better than the best day drunk." Then everyone nods like plastic dogs dangling from the dashboard of a car.I thought about the night I spent with Jane, and looked around my little hut, trying to figure out how this night was better than that one.I look at my watch.The liquor store is closed, but the bar will remain open for several hours. I stay where I am. Outside, a patrol car whizzes by with its siren blaring.The sound faded away, and the minutes passed, when the phone rang. It's Chance. "You've been working," he said approvingly. "I've had reports. Are the girls still cooperating?" "They're fine." "Do you have any eyebrows?" "It's hard to tell. A little information here, a little situation there, no idea how to piece it all together. What did you take from Kim's apartment?" "Just some money. Why do you ask?" "How much?" "Two hundred dollars. She put the cash in the top drawer of the dresser, it's no secret, that's where she put it. I looked around to see if she had private money, but I couldn't find it. You didn't find the passbook, the safe key?" "No." "What about the money? Of course, if you find it, you can keep it. I'm just asking." "No money. That's all you took?" "There's also a photo of her and me taken by a nightclub photographer. No reason to leave that with the police. Why ask?" "Just wondering. Did you go to her place before the police found you?" "They didn't look for me. I went there voluntarily. That's right, I went there first, and it was one step ahead of them. Otherwise, the two hundred yuan would be gone." Maybe, maybe not. I said, "You took the cat?" "Cat?" "She has a little black cat." "By the way, she had a cat. No, I didn't take the cat. If I thought of it, I'd leave some food for it. Why, it's gone?" I said yes, and the kitten's litter tray was gone, too.I asked him if the kitten was there when he went to the apartment and he didn't know.He didn't notice the cat and didn't look for it. "You know, I'm quick, and I'm out five minutes after I go in. Even if a kitten rubs against my foot, I don't pay attention. What's the matter? It couldn't be the cat that killed her." "No." - Stick School · E Book Group - "You don't think she took the cat to the hotel?" "Why did she do that?" "Dude, I don't know. I don't know why I'm talking about that cat." "Someone must have taken it. After she died, someone other than you must have gone to the flat and taken the cat away." "Are you sure the kitten isn't there today? Animals get scared and hide when strangers approach." "The kitten is really not here." "Probably escaped when the police came. The door was open and the cat ran out. Goodbye, kitten." "Never heard of a cat walking with its own litter tray." "Maybe a neighbor got it. Heard it meow and didn't want it to starve." "A neighbor with a key?" "Some people exchange keys with neighbors to avoid being locked out. Or the neighbors get the keys from the porter." "Probably so." "Definitely is." "Tomorrow I'll go ask her neighbors." He whistled softly: "You will track it down to the end, won't you? For such a small thing as a kitten, you will bite on it like a dog bites on a bone." "That's how a case should be done. Goyakod." "What did you say?" "Goyakod," I said, and explained to him, "means: Get Off You LAss and Knock On Doos." "Oh, I like it. Say it again." I said it again. "'Put your ass up and knock on the door.' I like it."