Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

Even the steadfast Grant had his moments of uncertainty. "You fool!" he said in his inner voice as Squann boarded the plane to London, "give up your precious vacation to hunt will-o'-the-wisps, not even for one day." "I'm not out to hunt will-o'-the-wisps, I just want to know what happened to Bill Kenrick." "But what exactly is Bill Kenrick to you, worth giving up your own leisure time, even if it's just an hour?" "I'm interested in him! I like him, if you want to know." "You don't know anything about him, you make a god of your own imagination, and then get busy worshiping him."

"I know him well, I've heard Ted Cullen talk about him." "Oh! That's just a biased witness." "He's a good boy, that's important. Karen had a lot of friends to choose from in an institution like OCAL, but he chose Bill Kenrick." "There are a lot of good kids who choose criminals as friends." "Speaking of which, I do know some pretty good criminals!" "Really? How many? And how many vacations would you give up for a criminal?" "Not even thirty seconds. But this kid named Kenrick isn't a criminal."

"But taking someone's entire set of papers away isn't breaking the law, is it?" "I just want to find out the truth now! Now please shut up and stay away from me." "Ha! Have you been persuaded?". "Go away!" "At this age, sticking your neck out for a man you don't know." "Who sticks his neck out to meddle?" "You don't have to fly at all. You could take a train or a bus, but you didn't, and you chose to shut yourself in a box. A box from which you couldn't open the windows and doors, a box from which you couldn't escape, a tight, airtight quiet, closed..."

"Shut up! " "Ha! You're already starting to get short of breath! In another ten minutes or so, the whole thing will tear you apart. You should check your head, Grant.You really should check your head. " "One of my whole cranial outfits is working just fine!" "what is that? " "My teeth." "What are you going to bite? That won't work." "I'm going to bite the bullet!" Whether it's because he despises his inner demon, or because Bill Kenrick is at his side, Grant makes the journey peacefully.Ted Cullen sank into the seat next to him and fell asleep instantly.

Grant closed his eyes and let the pictures in his mind disintegrate, fade, and reassemble in his mind. Why was Bill Kenrick completely disguising himself? Who the hell was he trying to fool? Apparently the pilot had some sort of sixth sense for speed, distance and angles in his head, even in his unconscious state. "Okay," said Tad, "back to the bright neon lights of London and the old Seymourland Hotel." "You don't need to go back to the hotel," Grant said, "you can go and stay with me." "You're very kind, Mr. Grant. I appreciate it. But I don't want your wife, or whoever—"

"My butler." "I don't want to make your housekeeper angry." He patted his pocket and said, "I have money." "Having money after two weeks in Paris? I really congratulate you." "Well! Maybe it's because Paris isn't what it used to be, or because I just miss Bill. Anyway, I don't have to go to the trouble of making my bed, but thank you anyway. Maybe you have something to do, and you mustn't." Hope I'm in the way. But if it's about Bill, you can't get rid of me, okay? You want me to be with you, like Bill said."

"I'll do it, Ted. I'll do it! I baited you at the restaurant in Auburn and got you out of the whole white population. Of course I'm not going to throw you back." Ted smiled. "I think you know what you're talking about. When are you going to meet that man named Lloyd?" "If he's home, maybe I'll go tonight. The worst thing about those explorers is that if they're not exploring, they're lecturing. So he's probably anywhere between China and Peru right now. Something scares you Jump? " "How do you know I'm startled?"

"My dear Ted, your innocent and frank face will never be a poker face or a diplomat." "Actually, it's just the two place names you mentioned, which happen to be what Bill would choose every time. He often said: 'From China to Peru.'" "Really? He seems to have known his John was born." "Johnson?" "That's right! It's Samuel Johnson (Eighteenth-century English writer and lexicographer.——Translator's Note), that's just a quote." "Oh, oh, I see." Ted blushed a little. "If you still doubt me, Ted Cullen, you'd better come with me to Scotland Yard now and have my colleagues testify against me."

Mr. Cullen's fair skin flushed. "I'm sorry, but for a moment it sounded as if you really knew Bill. You must forgive my paranoia, Mr. Grant. I'm completely at a loss, you know. I don't know anyone else in this country, and I judge people by their appearance, so to speak.Of course, I don't doubt you, in fact, God knows how much I thank you, so that I can't find any words to express my gratitude, you must believe this. " "Of course I do! I'm just teasing you. Actually, I shouldn't be. And if you really don't doubt me at all, you're not very smart. Here's my address and phone number, I'll call you as soon as I see Lloyd."

"Don't you think I should go with you?" "Oh! No. I don't think it would be a big deal to mobilize two people on such a small occasion. What time can I call you at Seymourland tonight?" "I'll stay by the phone and wait for you to call." "You'd better find time to eat something first. I'll call you at half past eight." "Okay, it's half past eight." Grant admired the sight of London, a foggy gray tinged with scarlet.Nurses in the army used to wear gray and scarlet; London, on the other hand, had a color and authority that went well with that nun's uniform.The dignity and the benevolence beneath the cold surface, and the respectable qualities, more than make up for the lack of beautiful frills.He watched the red buses shuttle on the street, decorating the gray sky beautifully, and blessed them in his heart.It's a joy to have London's buses painted crimson, unlike Scotland's buses, which are painted blue, the saddest of all colours, a sad color so synonymous with melancholy.But the English, God forbid, have happier thoughts.

He found Mrs. Tinkle tidying up the guest room.In fact, there is no need to tidy up the guest room, but Mrs. Tinkle can get the same pleasure from finishing a symphony, winning a golf trophy, or swimming across the strait from tidying up the room.She was like many of the people Lola had so sharply portrayed: the kind of woman who washes the front door every day but only washes her hair every six weeks. She heard the sound of the key unlocking the door, walked to the door of the guest room and said, "My God! There is no food at all in the house now! Why didn't you let me know that you were coming back early?" "It's okay, Ting Ke, I don't eat now, I just come in to put my luggage. Just buy me some ready-made food tonight." Mrs. Tinkle came home every night, partly because she had to prepare dinner for her husband, and partly because Grant liked to be alone in his apartment at night.Grant never met Mr. Tinker, and Mrs. Tinker's relationship with Mr. Tinker seemed to consist of dinners and marriages.Her real life and interests are entirely at 19 Tenby Road, District 1, S.W. "Is there a phone?" Grant said, flipping through the phone book. "Miss Harold called and said, please call her to make an appointment for dinner as soon as you get back." "Oh! How's the new show going? How's the review?" "Bad!" "Is everyone commenting like that?" "That's all I see." When she was free, before marrying Mr. Tinkle, Mrs. Tinkle had been a costumer for the theater. Really, if it weren't for the dinner routine, she'd probably be dressing the actors in w1, or w·c2 every night, instead of cleaning up the guest rooms in sw1.Therefore, her interest in drama is also considered an expert. "Have you seen the play?" "I didn't. It was a play with overtones. You know, she put a china dog on the mantelpiece, but it wasn't a china dog at all, it was her ex-husband; and then her new boyfriend put the dog broke, and she went mad. It's not crazy, it's already crazy! This is the kind of drama that shows off its depth.But if you want to be made a lady, you have to act in that kind of drama.What would you like to have for dinner tonight?" "I haven't thought about it." "I can get you some nice boiled fish." "Don't eat fish, don't let me eat fish if you love me. I have had enough fish in the last month to last me a lifetime.As long as it is not fish or lamb.It doesn't matter what you eat. "Well, but it's probably too late now to go to Mr. Bridges's for anything like a waistband. However, I'll see what can be done again. How was your vacation?" "Great great vacation. " "That's good, it seems a bit fat! I'm glad to see that you have gained some weight, but not so fat that you need to pat your stomach suspiciously. It's okay to be a little fat.It's not good if you are as thin as a bamboo pole, your body has no reserves. "While Grant was changing into his best going-out suit, Mrs. Tinkle was hanging around yelling at him about what happened to her. He sent Mrs. Tinkle back to tidy the room while he dealt with it himself. Some trifles piled up and out into the calm early April nights. He turned to the garage and answered people who asked him about fishing; listen to the three fish he'd heard a month before when he set out for the Highlands story, and retrieved from the garage his small two-seater, which he used to transport his private affairs. It takes some work to find 5 Britt Lane.There are various adjustments and changes in a bunch of old houses.The stables became bungalows, the kitchen wing became houses, and the building was divided into rental rooms.5 Britt Lane has become as if it were just a number on a door.The gate is sandwiched between the brick walls, and the iron-inlaid oak material looks pretentious in this large area of ​​unpretentious brick houses.Yet it's solid and unremarkable in its own right, and it's easy to open.What used to be behind this door was the kitchen courtyard, when number 5 was just the back wing of a house on another street.Now the courtyard has been transformed into a well-paved small square with a fountain in the middle.The original rear wing is now a small stucco three-story building, painted creamy white on the outside, with green window frames.Grant walked across the small square to the door and noticed that the tiles laid on the floor were old but beautiful, and the fountain was also beautiful.He applauded Heron Lloyd inwardly for not substituting something fancier for the commonplace London bell; The same goes for the interior of the house, with its Arabian emptiness, but nothing that makes you feel from the East.He saw the clean walls and complicated carpet behind the male servant who came to open the door, which was an improved style rather than a transplanted decoration.His respect for Herron Lloyd was heightened by it. The manservant who answered the door was an Arab, an urban Arab, slightly plump, with quick eyes and polite manners. After hearing Grant's intentions, he asked him in very elegant, too standard English if he had made an appointment with Mr. Lloyd in advance.Grant said no, but he wouldn't waste Mr. Lloyd's time.Mr. Lloyd may be able to give him some Arabic information. "Okay, please come in and wait for a while, I will ask Mr. Lloyd." He led Grant into a small room behind the front door. From the limited space in the room and the sparse furnishings, Grant judged that this room was used for guests to wait.He imagined that a man like Heron Lloyd must have strangers asking to see him all the time, whether to interest him or ask for help, maybe even just to ask for an autograph.This thought made his intrusive visit seem less obtrusive. Lloyd didn't seem to give much thought to the welcome of his visit, for the valet returned shortly after. "Come in, Mr. Lloyd would be very pleased to see you." Very formulaic, but full of comfort.As he followed the man up the narrow stairs and into the great room that took up almost the entire second floor, he thought how much decorum softened the shocks of life. "Mr. Grant, Nadji, a Muslim who has made a pilgrimage to Mecca. )!" The man finished his announcement, and stood aside to let him in. What an unconventional masterpiece, thought Grant, when he heard the word, that the English don't make the pilgrimage to Mecca at all. Heron Lloyd came to greet him, looking at his host, wondering if he wanted to go to the Arabian desert because he looked like an Arab in the desert, or if he had been in the desert for many years and became like the desert The Arab? Lloyd is the Arab of the desert idealized to the extreme.Grant thought with great amusement that Mr. Lloyd was a living library of Arabia.The black eyes, the lean brown face, the white teeth, the whip-rope body, the delicate hands, the graceful movement, it's all there, as if straight out of Miss Tilly Tully's latest novel (254,000 words, Coming out next week) p. 17.Grant had to work really hard to remind himself that he shouldn't judge a book by its cover. For some of the journeys that this man has made have earned him a place in the records of expeditions all over the world, and he has written the whole thing in English.Although the text is a bit too colorful, it is still a literary work (Grant just bought his latest book at Skorn yesterday afternoon).Herron.Lloyd was not the handsome guy in the drawing room. Lloyd wore an orthodox London dress, with British manners. Even if someone did not know his name, he would think that he belonged to that kind of wealthy class of Londoners.A pompous class, perhaps, such as an actor, a Harley Street consultant, or a social photographer, but on the whole a legitimate professional. "Mr. Grant," he shook his hand, "Marmon said I might be able to help you." His voice startled Grant.Because there seems to be no substance, and the slightly critical tone has nothing to do with his words or emotions.He took a pack of cigarettes from under the coffee table and handed it to Grant.He said that he did not smoke because he had followed Islamic customs after a long stay in the East.However, if Grant wants to try a special flavor, he recommends this smoke. Grant picked up the cigarette with interest, always willing to try any new experience, any new feeling.He apologized for his sudden visit, and wondered if a young man named Charles Martin had come to him in the past year asking for information about Arabia. "Charles Martin? No, I don't think so. Of course, I've had a lot of people come to see me and ask about things, and I can't remember their names afterwards, but I don't think I'll forget a name as simple as that. You like this kind of cigarette? I know a small place where this kind of tobacco is grown.It was a beautiful place, unchanged since Alexander the Great of Macedon passed through it. ’ He smiled, then added: ‘Of course, the only thing that has changed is that they have learned to grow this type of tobacco.I know this smoke goes really well with a sweet sherry, but that's another indulgence I want to avoid.But I should be able to drink some fruit wine with you. " Grant thought that bringing this desert tradition of hospitality to strangers in London would come at a price, especially if you were a celebrity with frequent visits.He noticed the label on the bottle Lloyd was holding.It appears that Lloyd is neither poor nor stingy. "Charles Martin was also called Bill Kenrick," he said. Lloyd lowered his glass to pour, and said, "Kenrick! He was here the other day. When I say a few days ago, I mean a week or two ago. It's almost time. Just why he Want to use a pseudonym?" "I don't know either. I'm asking about him on behalf of his friends. Because he was supposed to meet his friends in Paris at the beginning of March, March 4th to be exact, but he didn't show up." Lloyd slowly put the glass on the table. "So that's why he didn't come back!" he said in a slightly critical but unintentional tone. "Poor boy, poor boy." "You guys made an appointment to meet again?" "Yes. I think he's charming and intelligent, and he's obsessed with deserts—but maybe you already know that. He wanted to go on an adventure, and now some young people still want to go on an adventure.Even in this world of alienation and pretense, there are some explorers.We should feel relieved.What happened to Kenrick? A car accident?" "Oh! No. He fell on the train and broke his skull." "Oh! poor man, poor man, what a pity! I could have offered the jealous gods more expendables to take his place. Cruel word: expendable. Years ago Expressing ideas that nobody even thought about, and now we've progressed to the ultimate savagery. Why do you want to know if Kenrick ever came to see me?" "We wanted to find out where he was. He died under the alias Charles Martin and had the full Charles Martin papers with him. We wanted to know when he started becoming Charles Martin. We almost What is certain is that, since he was fascinated by the desert, he would come to London to seek out an authority on the field. And sir you are the supreme authority so we start with you. " "I see. Well, it must be Kenrick, Bill Kenrick. He's a dark-haired young man, very attractive and tough, but not rude. I mean, Has a good attitude towards the unknown. I find him delightful." "Did he tell you of any firm plans? I mean, did he make any particular proposals?" Lloyd smiled and said: "He brought the most common proposal that I often come across, which is an expedition to the ruins of Huaba. Do you know Huaba? It is a fabled city in Arabia, the Arab A 'plain city'. A recurring pattern in the saga. People feel happy and perpetually guilty. Even when we mention our good health, we have to touch wood, cross our fingers, or otherwise. , to evade the wrath of the gods against earthly happiness. So Arabia had their own Wabah: a city that was burned because of excess wealth and sin." "Does Kenrick think he found the place?" "He's sure. Poor boy, I hope I wasn't impatient with him." "So you think he's wrong?" "Mr. Grant, the legend of Waba is claimed for almost every mile in the whole region from the Red Sea across Arabia to the Persian Gulf." "So you don't believe that someone might have found that place by accident?" "Accident? " "Kenrick is a pilot, so maybe he found that place when he was blown off course by a storm, didn't he?" "He mentioned it to his friends?" "No. As far as I know he didn't tell anyone, but that's just my own inference. Is there any reason that would prevent a discovery in this way?" "Of course not, if there is such a place. I mean, it's a fable that's spread almost all over the world. It's just that whenever people trace the source of the ruin story, they always find that the so-called 'ruin' is actually something else .Natural rock formations, or maybe even just a mirage. I think poor Kenrick saw nothing more than a crater. I've seen that kind of place myself; . That kind of place is incredible, as if it was artificially built.The raised ground looks like pinnacles and ruined plateaus; I seem to have a picture here, you might want to see it: it's something special. He pushed back a board on the simple painted wooden wall behind, revealing the entire floor-to-ceiling wall of books. "It's not every day that meteorites, large and small, fall to the earth, and that's probably a good thing." " He took the photo album from one of the lower shelves and walked back to look for the photo in the photo album.Grant suddenly felt familiar, as if he had seen Lloyd before. He looked at the photograph Lloyd had placed in front of him, which was clearly something very peculiar, a parody that bordered on mocking human achievement.But at the moment his mind was busy recognizing that strange feeling of déjà vu. Was it just because he had seen pictures of Herron Lloyd somewhere? Even so, he had seen pictures next to reports about Lloyd's accomplishments, so the feeling of déjà vu should have started the moment he walked into this room. It rises when it sees Lloyd.This feeling of familiarity is not really where he has been seen before. "You know what?" Lloyd said, "Even on the ground, you have to be very close to know it's not a tribe. If you look at it from the air, of course there are more gaps." "Yes." Grant replied, but didn't believe it.For from the sky the hole was quite clear and purely what it was: a round hollow surrounded by a ring of raised earth.But he didn't want to talk to Lloyd.He lets Lloyd talk.He grew very interested in Lloyd. "According to kenrick's own description, the location of the place is very close to his route across the desert, so I think this is what he saw!" "Can he pinpoint this place?" "I don't know, I didn't ask him. But I think so. I think he's a very capable and intelligent young man." "You didn't ask him for details?" Mr. Grant, would you be interested if someone told you that he found a holly tree directly opposite the exit from Piccadilly? Or would you have the patience to listen? The same is true of Piccadilly. "Yeah, of course.So it wasn't you who saw him off at the station that day?" "Mr Grant, I've never sent anyone off. It's a combination of masochism and sadism that I've always found disgusting. By the way, where are you sending him?" "Go to Sgon!" "To the Highlands? I know he's always wanted to have some fun, but why the Highlands?" "We don't know either, that's the one thing we want to know more than anything. He didn't mention any possible leads to you?" "No, but he did mention looking for a sponsor. I mean, because he thinks I'm hopeless here. Maybe he's already got a sponsor, or he wants one who lives there. I'm Can't think of any specific person right off the bat. Of course Hinser Hewitt is one. He has Scottish relatives, but I think he's in Arabia by now." At least Lloyd had provided the first plausible explanation for why he was hurrying north with his overnight suitcase to meet someone who might support him.Just before leaving to join Ted Cullen in Paris, he found a patron and was eager to head north to see him.This makes sense, but why use the name Charles Martin? As if his inner thoughts had penetrated to Lloyd, Lloyd said: "By the way, if Kenrick used Charles Martin How would anyone know that the dead man was Kenrick if he went north as Ting?" "I also took the same train to Sgun. I saw his dead body, and I was interested in the verses he scribbled on paper." "Graffiti? Where did he write it?" "Written in the margin of an evening paper," said Grant, wondering what it mattered where Kenrick wrote it? "Oh!" "I was on vacation and since I had nothing else to do, I started entertaining myself with cues." "So you play the role of detective." "yes." "What is your occupation, Mr. Grant?" "I am a public servant." "Ha! I was about to guess you might be in the military." He smiled a little, then brought Grant's glass over and poured. "Of course it belongs to a higher class." "General staff?" "No, I think an embassy attache, or an intelligence officer." "I did do some intelligence work while I was in the military." "So that's where you develop detective skills! Or a sharp eye." "thanks." "Or is it easier to identify the deceased because he has Kenrick's belongings?" "No, he was buried in the name of Charles Martin." Lloyd put down his full glass, then paused to say: "That's the typical carelessness of Police Scotland in this type of fall-death case - poor interrogation and self-righteousness. I personally think that if you're going to kill and don't Scotland would be the perfect place to escape the law. So if I were to plan a murder, I would first lure that person across the border in England." "But there was an inquest. The accident happened shortly after the train left Euston." Lloyd thought for a moment, then said, "Don't you think this should be reported to the police? I mean, they buried the man under the wrong name." Grant was going to say, "The only way we can prove that the dead man was Kenrick, and not Charles Martin, is from my identification of a photo that wasn't very good." But something stopped him."We wanted to know why he had Charles Martin's papers in the first place," he said. "Oh, I see. That's very doubtful indeed. Because it's impossible to get other people's papers without a little—premeditation. Has anyone identified Charles Martin?" "Yes. The police are quite satisfied with that. There is nothing suspicious about it." "The only question is why kenrick has his papers with him. I understand why you don't want to go straight to the police. The man who took him to the train in Euston? Could it be Charles Martin?" "I think it's possible." "Maybe the papers were just lent to him by Charles Martin, because Kenrick doesn't look like a—how to say, malevolent person to me." "Yeah, from the evidence I've seen, he's not that kind of person." "The whole thing is really queer. You say his accident, I think it's definitely an accident, isn't it? No sign of a quarrel?" "No. It's a very common thing, a fall that can happen to anyone." "It's so sad! As I said, there are so few courageous and intelligent young people nowadays. Many people come to me, and they come to see me from a long way..." He went on, and Grant sat watching and listening to him. Were there really that many people coming up to him? Lloyd seemed happy to sit down and talk to a stranger, and there was no indication that he had an appointment tonight, or that anyone was coming to dinner.The host did not have any gaps in the conversation for the guest to ask to leave.Lloyd sat, continuing to talk in a thin, self-satisfied voice, admiring his hands on his lap.He kept changing the position of his hands, not to emphasize what he was saying, but like rearranging ornaments.Grant finds this narcissistic focus amusing.He listened to the stillness of the small house, away from the traffic and the city outside. The Who's Who biography doesn't mention his wife or children, and a family would be happy to bring a fortune, so apparently the only members of the family were Lloyd and his servant.Did he have enough interests to make up for the lack of company? Aaron Grant himself lacked the warmth of family company, but because his life was full of people, returning to his empty quarters was a luxury. A kind of spiritual pleasure.But is Heron Lloyd's life fulfilling and satisfying? Or is he, a true narcissist, in need of other company than just his own shadow? He wonders how old the man really is.Of course, he must be older than he looks, because he is the number one in the field of Arabian exploration.Fifty-five, or older, maybe closer to sixty.The date of birth is not mentioned in the biography, but it may have been close to sixty.In other words, even if he is still in good health, the time left for him to endure hardships is numbered.How would he spend his later years admiring his hands? "The only true democracy in the world today," Lloyd said, "is being destroyed by what we call civilization." Grant felt a sense of familiarity again. Had he seen Lloyd before? Or had Lloyd reminded him of someone? If so, who would it be? Anyway, now is the time for him to say goodbye. "Did Kenrick tell you where he lives in London?" he said, starting to say goodbye. "No. We didn't exactly set a date to meet again, you know. I asked him to come back and see me before he left London, but he didn't come. I thought he was upset at my—how, lack of sympathy. , or even angry." "Yeah, that should be a blow to him. Well, I've taken up a lot of your time, and I really appreciate your understanding." "I'm glad to be able to help you, but I'm afraid I can't be of much help. If there's anything else I can do on this matter, please feel free to come to me." "One more thing, but I'm too embarrassed to ask for your kindness. Especially since it has nothing to do with the matter." "What's up? " "Can I borrow that photo of yours?" "photo? " "Yeah, the one with the crater. I noticed that photo was stuffed in your photo album, not posted; if you could lend it to me, I'd like to show it to friends in Kenrick. I promise I will Take it back and give it back, and totally—" "Of course you can take it, and you don't need to return it. I took that photo myself, so I can add it to it at any time." He took the picture out of the album and gave it to Grant, then accompanied Grant downstairs and sent him out.Grant praised his little atrium, the two chatted about it for a while, and then he politely waited for Grant to go out and close the door behind him. Grant opened the evening paper on the car seat and carefully clipped the photo into it.Then drive in the direction of Scotland Yard. Seeing the terrible building looming in the twilight, he thought that this old place was just as it always was.He felt the same way when he got to the fingerprint department.Cartwright extinguished his cigarette on the tea-cushion of a half-cup of cold tea, admiring his latest work: a complete set of left-hand prints. "That's great!" he said.As Grant's figure passed him, he looked up and said, "That's enough for Pink Mason to hang." "Mason didn't wear gloves?" "Ha! Of course he could stock up on a bunch of gloves. But smart little Mason just can't believe the cops think it's not a suicide. He must think gloves are for some kind of third-rate thief or something, not for such a resourceful man." people. have you been away for a while?" "Yes, I'm going fishing in the Highlands. If you're not too busy, can you do me a little extra?" "Now? " "Oh! No, tomorrow too." Cartwright looked at his watch and said, "I'm going to meet my wife at the theater later, and we're going to see a new Marta Harold play, but I don't have anything to do until then. So if you want, I'll Can be done now. Is this job difficult?" "It's very simple, here it is. There is a beautiful thumbprint in the lower right corner of this photo, and there should be a whole set of fingerprints behind it. I want you to check the file to see if there is any problem." "Okay. Are you going to wait here?" "I'm going to the library, I'll be back later." He went to the library to take down the "Who's Who" and found Xin Sewirt.The introductory paragraphs are nothing compared to the half-column Heron Lloyd.他看起来比劳埃德年轻很多，已婚，有两个小孩，登记的是伦敦的地址。而劳埃德所提到的“苏格兰的亲戚”，似乎是指他是某个辛瑟希维特家族的小儿子，在苏格兰的怀福有住处。 既然这样子，他总是有可能现在或最近在苏格兰。格兰特走到公共电话，打去伦敦的住址。有一个女人接了电话，声音很愉悦的样子，她说她的丈夫不在家。对，他最近不会回来，他在阿拉伯。他从去年十一月就在阿拉伯了，最快也要到五月才会回来。格兰特谢谢她，然后挂了电话。所以比尔·肯瑞克去找的人并不是辛瑟希维特。明天他必须一个一个地去拜访在伦敦的阿拉伯权威，问他们同样的问题。 他在咖啡馆和一些偶遇的朋友喝咖啡，然后回去找喀特莱特。 “弄好了吗? 还是我回来得太早? ” “我不仅取好了指纹，而且也帮你比对过了。他没有问题。” “我想也是，我本来就不认为他会和任何案件有什么关联，我只是先确认一下。 不过还是谢谢你。我把指纹带走。听说哈洛德的新剧评价不高哦! ” “是吗? 我从来不看那些剧评! 贝里尔也是。她就是喜欢玛塔·哈洛德，我也是。她有一双修长的美腿。晚安。” “晚安，再次谢谢你。”