Chapter 72 frank

One morning after Mrs. Barley was buried, Barry sat alone in the living room, looking displeased at the oil painting hanging opposite, which was a portrait of his wife. In the painting, his wife is very beautiful, this is not the artist's embellishment, Helen is indeed a very beautiful woman. Barry resisted the urge to finish his coffee and put the cup on the table.Just then, the phone rang. It was Officer Miller on the phone. "No, sir, nothing new," Officer Miller told Barry. "We're at a loss. Frankly, I don't think we can solve your wife's case—unless the murderer turns himself in."

Barry pursed his thin lips, and said, "I'm busy, Sergeant, and I'm leaving the house today, temporarily moving to a club in town to wish—" "Yes, sir. I'm calling, Because I want to know if you have read your letter." Barry blinked and glanced back at the pile of letters and postcards on the table by the door. Since Helen's death last week, he had gone through the pile of letters twice to see if any important business letters had been overlooked; the rest he didn't bother to open.He knew they were mostly comforting letters. He said, "Does it matter?"

"The killer may also send a condolence card or letter," the officer explained. "Because the murderer was almost certainly - well - a friend of yours, because he would be suspicious if he didn't send a condolence card, and I'm sure he understood that." "I don't think he's going to send me a letter of repentance at all." "Certainly not, sir. But he may be showing some misgivings—unconsciously, of course. This kind of thing has happened before.Anyway, I hope you'll check the mail this morning, and I'll come back and check it myself. "

"Okay." Barry said listlessly, "But, I still don't believe that the friends who attended the banquet would kill Helen. I have known them for many years, and they are all business friends." After a pause, the police officer said cautiously : "The problem is, everyone at the party admitted that there was too much alcohol, and you said so yourself." Barry grinned.In fact, last Saturday's cocktail party got completely out of hand. Had it not been held on the waterfront, neighbors would have protested. The officer continued: "The previous guest left your brightly lit backyard; found your wife alone in a clearing in the woods some distance from your home. Perhaps he followed her there. Anyway, the guest borrowed You pretended to be crazy and wanted to tease her. Your wife fought hard, but the man grabbed a stone and hit her too hard, killing her by mistake. That's it."

Barry didn't want to recall what happened that night, but he said, "Are you sure it wasn't done by a passer-by?" "Oh, don't think so, Mr. Barry. You have a fence around your house, and there are patrol cars on the road around your house..." The officer paused, and added, "I know you don't want to admit that the murderer is one of yours." friends, but I fear that is the case." "I see. Very well, Inspector. I'll do as you please with regard to the letter." Barry put down the phone.After a while, he went to a bar in the corner of the room, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and raised his glass to the portrait of Helen.The portrait smiles stiffly.

When they found Helen's body the night of the party, she didn't smile.She lay in the moonlight in the woods behind her house, her clothes torn and her head in a pool of blood. Like when Barry left after he hit her in the head... Now, he shook his head resolutely, trying to shake the memory away: so far, he hadn't been involved.He hoped so.As a successful sales director, he has long learned that the secret of sales is first of all to believe in oneself.In this case, it meant convincing himself that he had nothing to do with his wife's death. Fortunately, no one suspects him now.However, he always had some regrets in private. He originally wanted to blame Carmon, but this failed.

Who would have expected that before the guests went to the forest to look for Helen, Carmon would regain consciousness and run away! The doorbell rang and Barry jumped up in fright.The doorbell sounded strange and distant. Then he understood that it was not the front door bell, but that someone was ringing the back door past the kitchen. Cursing under his breath, he crossed the house and pushed open the back door. He was taken aback. Carmon stood there, his fat face was bloodless and covered in sweat, as if he was about to cry at any moment.He asked hoarsely, "Did you see it?"

"Look—what? What did you do, Carmon? Why the back door?" Camon seemed to relax a little.Ignoring Barry's protests, he walked straight through the kitchen into the living room and sat down in an armchair. Barry followed behind him, staring down at him: "Carmon, tell me, what's going on?" Carmon wiped his face with his hands and said, "I killed Helen." "you?" "I sent you a letter last night to tell you. I know, I know, it's unbelievable. I can't explain how this happened. Barry, I was drunk, but that's no excuse. I Seeing Helen alone in the woods, she's so beautiful—" Carmon covered his face with his hands.

Barry didn't speak.He hadn't expected that Carmon himself would believe that he had killed Helen.But why not? He passed out, drunk, and when he woke up, he found that he was holding a blood-stained stone in his hand, and beside him was the dead Helen. Barry almost laughed.He did a better job than expected. "I don't remember," sobbed Carmon, "I talked to Helen—she answered—I walked up to her. Then there was nothing. I woke up, I don't know how long. But, I—I Know that I killed him." "What's the matter with the letter?" Barry asked unhappily.

"Last night, I couldn't stand it any longer. After the funeral, I wrote a letter and rushed it off while I still had the courage. You know, I tried to kill myself. But, but, I couldn't Come on, Barry, I just can't do it." Camon produced a pistol from the pocket of his duffel coat and looked at it suspiciously. Barry swallowed. "Carmon, I haven't read your letter. I haven't read this morning's letter at all. It's on the table behind you." "I didn't want to kill her, God knows, I didn't want to kill her," Carmon lamented. "I've been suffering since it happened. But this morning, I realized that I have a wife, I have a family, I Think about them. So, I'm here to get that letter back, Barry—" Barry didn't care that Camon had a gun in his hand, he didn't look like someone who could use one.

"Take the letter," Barry said, "take the letter and destroy it right away. I'll never give it back to you—" "Don't be silly," said Carmon, standing up. "Of course you will. Barry, I'm sorry, but I have to kill you." Barry said, part cry and part moan, "You can't! Carmon, listen to me. You didn't kill Helen! I'm sure you didn't." Carmon asked hesitantly, "What?" "I killed her! I saw you both—" "You're talking nonsense," Carmon said. "I tried—to take advantage. Helen refused, and then I—" "But she didn't," Barry screamed, recalling the anger combined with the present fear to make him tell the truth. "You two embraced on the grass, and then you fell down and passed out. When I hit her, Helen was kneeling and looking down at you. Later, I rearranged the situation." Carmon frowned. "I wish so much that I could believe your words, but, I don't. The stone is there, in my hand." "I tell you--" "No, Barry, I know what you want to do, and I don't blame you. But, I've gotten to this point, and I have no choice." Carmon raised his pistol and took aim. "I wish there was another way." In the last few seconds of Barry's life, he too wished there were other ways.