Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

The date of the letter was Thursday morning. Dear Mr. Grant: Or should I call you Inspector? Yes, I see.It didn't take me long to find out what your profession is, my good Marmon is far better at scouting than your enthusiastic Scotland Yard cops.I'm not here to rate you though, as this is just a personal letter. I am writing this letter from someone extraordinary and unique, to someone else who deserves special treatment.Indeed, since you are the only Englishman whom I have any appreciation for, I am disclosing that fact to you, not to the newspaper. Of course, also because I'm sure you're interested in this matter.I have received a letter this morning from my junior, Paul Sinsherwitt, informing me of his discovery in Arabia.The letter was sent from the offices of the Morning Post at his request, with the intention of appearing in the papers the following morning.It is a kind of etiquette to respect the elders, and I am very grateful to him.

Ironically, it should be the young man Kenrick who told him about the existence of the valley.We met Kenrick many times when he was in London, and I couldn't see from him why he was so lucky. He was a very ordinary young man who had just mindlessly piloted a plane across the desert, a place that others had to pay the price and resolve to conquer. All he had in mind was that I would provide the transportation, and he would take me to his discovery.But this is really a ridiculous thing.I have been famous in the desert all my life, not by someone who was born in the back streets of Portsmouth and only knows how to read flight instruments to take me to discover it, let alone provide transportation and provide camels for the convenience of others.A young man is just a coincidence of climate and geography.To let him make the world's greatest discovery and be successful, without knowing that it's the price of someone else's life-sacrificing adventure! I don't think much of it.

As far as I can see, the young man's only virtue (why do you waste your time on such mediocrity?) is self-control.Of course, I mean talking; don't get me wrong.And from my point of view, it's very important for him to keep his mouth shut. Since he had arranged to be in Paris (poor, beautiful Paris. Overrun by these savages forever!) on March 4th to meet another of his colleagues, I had less than two weeks to plan this.In fact, I don't need two weeks at all, two days if necessary will do the trick. I once took a night train to Scotland, stayed up all night writing some letters, and got off the train at Kourou, the first stop, to post them.I looked at the platform after posting the letter and thought how easy it would be to get off the train without being noticed.The train attendant would come out to meet late passengers and then go about his business.In order to load the luggage on the far luggage cart, there will be a long waiting time, and the entire platform is empty.So, if someone wanted to travel such a distance unnoticed, he could get out of the car here, and no one would even know he was in the car.

This is the first of my two sources of inspiration. Second, I have Charles Martin's identification papers. Charles Martin is my mechanic.He was the only European I ever employed, and the only mechanic (what an apt nasty word!). I hired him on one of my least successful expeditions, a semi-mechanized one, because none of my Arabs (although they learn quickly!) were good at mechanics.Charles was a nasty fellow who had no interest in anything but machinery and often avoided camp work, so I wasn't at all sorry when he died in the desert.By then we had seen that the vehicle was more of a nuisance than a help, so we decided to throw it away, so it could be said that Martin was useless. (No, I had nothing to do with his death, it was God cleaning things up.) No one asked me for any identification from him, and we traveled all over the place, so we didn't go back to the place where I hired him. that town.Therefore his papers have been kept with me, and no one has taken any interest in them, and it has continued to return to England with me.

These documents came to mind when I wanted to silence the young man Kenrick, who couldn't be farther from Charles Martin. Kenrick intends to go back to work in the east first, and then I will join him there when I am ready, and then we will set off on an adventure together.He often came to see me in Britt Lane, discussing routes with me, gloating about his future prospects.I find it amusing to watch him sit there babbling all this crap because I already have another set of plans waiting for him. He must take the night ferry to Paris on the third.He seemed to have a particular fondness for ferries, and he would walk miles and miles just to cross streams in one of those punts, when in fact he only had to cross the bridge a few yards away to get there.

He's been on the Dover Channel ferry no less than two hundred times, I think.He told me he had booked a berth on the train ferry, and as soon as he was gone I was going to call and book a berth on the same night north to Sgon in the name of Charles Martin. When we met again, I suggested to him that since we set off on the same night, he was going to Paris and I was going north to Scotland, he should leave his luggage (he only had two suitcases) in the locker at Victoria Station, come to my house early and I dine together and drop me off at Euston. He is always happy to take any advice I give him and this time was no exception as I expected.We had dinner together, rice, schnitzel, and a dish of apricots that Marmon taught Mrs. Lucas to cook (it takes a long time to boil the apricots to taste), after which Marmon opened Drive us to Euston.When I got to Euston I asked Kenrick to get my berth ticket for me, and when he met me again, I had found my berth and was standing on the platform waiting for him.I thought to myself that if he asked me why I was traveling under the name of Charles Martin, I could tell him it was because I was so well known that it was easier to use a pseudonym, but he didn't ask.

I just thought God was on my side when I saw the sleeper yogurt that day.You don't know what kind of man Yogurt is, and in all his train service life he has never been interested in any passenger.He goes to work every time.Just couldn't wait to retire to sleep in his stinking cubicle. We had less than five minutes before the train moved.The berth door was ajar, Kenrick was facing the corridor, and we stood talking for a while. He then said he had better get out of the car quickly, or he might be driven to high ground.I pointed to the small overnight suitcase on the bed next to him and said, "If you open my suitcase, you will find something for you inside. It is a souvenir."

He bent down, eager to unlock the two locks of the trunk with childlike excitement.The location is just perfect.I pull out of my pocket a very satisfying weapon designed to sneak up on enemies. The primitive people in the desert country have neither knives nor rifles, but they use sand balls made of sand as weapons.A rag and a few handfuls of sand are enough to crack a skull like an eggshell, and cleanly, without blood and other troubles, without fuss.He groaned a little, then collapsed onto the suitcase.I closed and locked the door and checked his nose for blood, and it wasn't.Then I pulled him off and tucked him sloppily under the berth.And that was my only mistake: Half the space under the bunk was filled with immovable obstacles, but he was so thin and long that his knees stuck out and he couldn't push in.So, I took off my coat and threw it on the bunk.Let it hang down to cover his legs.I arranged the cover, first to cover his exposed legs, and to look casual; then the siren sounded.I put the outside of the ticket to Skorn, along with my sleeper ticket, on the little cabinet under the mirror so the yogurt could be seen.

Then, I walked down the aisle and into the toilet.No one is interested in anything else at the time of the farewell.I locked myself in the toilet and waited. About twenty minutes later, I heard the continuous sound of closing doors, which was the sound of yogurt checking tickets.When I heard him in the sleeper next door, I started washing my hands, very loudly.After a while, he knocked on the toilet door and asked if I was a passenger of Seven B, and I said yes.He told me he had seen my ticket and took it.I heard him go on to the next car, and the opening and closing of doors began again.I walked back to berth 7B and locked myself in.

Then I have three hours of uninterrupted time to make things more perfect. My dear Mr. Grant, if you want this undisturbed peace, buy a ticket to the north of Scotland for a sleeper and experience it for yourself.There is no place in the world where you can be alone in your berth without being disturbed when the ticket inspector finishes checking your tickets.Not even in the desert. I pulled Kenrick's body out of the bed, rubbed his head against the edge of the sink, and laid him back on the bed.I checked his clothes and found that he was dressed in a cosmopolitan way.Underwear seems to be washed in India; suits are from Hong Kong; shoes are from Karachi.The watch was one of those cheap metal things with neither engraved names nor initials.

I took out his pockets and replaced them with Charles Martin's pocket book and other things. He's alive, but he's stopped breathing, the way we feel running across a football field. From then on, I started to arrange the whole scene, as they say in the theater.I don't think I'm missing anything! Is there anything? Mr. Grant.All the details are perfect, including the broken hair on the sink, and the dust on his palm.In the little suitcase I left behind, there were a few pieces of my old clothes, worn and washed many times, the kind of clothes he would wear.And I also found a novel with a French flavor and a Bible among my own things.Of course, this suitcase also contains the most important thing: wine. Kenrick's alcohol capacity is very good.I poured him whiskey at dinner and gave him a farewell glass at the end, so much that anyone would cringe at the sight. He did have some scruples when he first saw the half-full glass of straight whiskey, but, as I mentioned, he was always eager to please me, so he drank it without protest.Though he was still sober, or appeared to be sober, his blood and stomach would be filled with whiskey when he died. His berth was soaked in whiskey after I arranged it.I did the finishing touches when the lights of the Kuru started to appear. I put the half bottle of whiskey on the floor and let it roll around on the carpet.As the train slowed, I opened the door, stepped out, closed the door behind me, and walked down the aisle to the car a few cars away from 7B; I stood there casually watching the crowds on the platform, and left The train walked to the platform with a very leisurely look, and walked forward.Since I was wearing a hat and a coat, I didn't look like a passenger who was going to get on the bus, and no one noticed me. I took the midnight train back to London and arrived in Euston at 3.30am and was so excited I walked all the way home.I seem to be walking on air. When I got home and entered my room, I slept soundly until Marmont came in at seven-thirty in the morning and called me, reminding me that I would entertain the representatives of Paris at nine-thirty. Before you came to visit me, I did not know that he had a newspaper with scribbled verses in his coat pocket.I admit that I was annoyed for a moment that I would ignore this part, but I immediately felt that it was a forgivable mistake, so I was more relieved.After all, this blunder in no way detracts from my unique accomplishment.It was also part of the scene that I let him keep that ragged dress.Even if it had Kenrick's handwriting, it would not be of interest to the authorities, who had already identified Charles Martin. The next evening, during rush hour traffic, I drove to Victoria Station to retrieve Kenrick's two suitcases from the locker.I took the suitcase home and cut out all the manufacturer's logos from the clothes; I took all identifiable items away; I packed all the clothes in large canvas bags and sent them to refugees in the Near East mechanism.If you have something to drop.My dear Mr. Grant, there is no need to destroy it, just send it to the remote islands in the South China Sea. As long as the lad Kenrick's admirable reticence is hereafter forever maintained, I can't wait to enjoy the fruits of my efforts! Indeed, I was only fully funded for my new expedition until yesterday, and I'm due to leave next week .Of course this morning's letter from Zinser Hivert changed everything completely.The results of my achievement are taken away by others, but no one can take the achievement itself away from me.Even if I don't earn my reputation as the discoverer of Waba, I'll at least go down in history with a perfect murder that hasn't been done before. I'm not content to hold a candle to Shinser Hewitt's victory, but I'm too old for more victories.But I can light a flame that will eclipse the candles on the altar of Zinser Hewitt.My funeral pyre will become a light that illuminates all of Europe; and my achievements in murder will be like a tidal wave, flushing the news of Zinser Hivert and Waba into the dustbin of the newspapers of the world. This evening I will light my own funeral pyre on the steep slopes of Europe's highest mountain.Mamun didn't know about it, he thought we were flying to Athens.But he had been by my side for so many years and he would be very unhappy without me, so I took him with him. ．Goodbye, my dear Mr. Grant.It breaks my heart to think of someone as brilliant as you having to waste it in a stupid system like Scotland Yard.You were able to discover that Charles Martin was not Charles Martin, but a man named Kenrick, which is really extraordinary, I salute you! But you are not smart enough to realize that he did not die by accident. No one is smart enough to find out that I am his murderer. Please regard this letter as a respect and farewell to you.Mrs. Lucas will post the letter on Friday morning. Heron Lloyd Grant only realized at this moment that Mrs. Tinker had brought Ted Cullen into the room, and she had obviously been in once before, but he hadn't noticed it, because the letter from Scotland Yard had also been lying there. It's on his desk. "Well?" Ted's face was still burning. "What should we do next?" Grant pushed Lloyd's letter over to him. "what is this? " "Read it!" Ted picked up the things suspiciously, looked at the signature, and then began to read the letter.Grant opened the envelope from Cartwright. When Ted read the letter, he stared at Grant in surprise.When he finally spoke, he said, "I feel so nasty!" "Yes, it is indeed a very evil thing." "Vanity." "yes." "It turns out that this is the plane crash that was in the evening paper last night, the plane that caught fire on Mont Blanc." "yes." "That's why he retreated all over!" "No." "No? He thinks perfectly, doesn't he?" "There's no way they're going to be perfect." "them? " "It's the murderer! Lloyd forgot one very obvious thing, and that's fingerprints." "You mean he didn't wear gloves when he did it? I don't believe it!" "Of course he wore gloves. There weren't any fingerprints of him in the entire train berth. The problem is that he forgot that there was something in the berth that he had touched before." "what is that? " "Charles Martin's papers, and the Bible and the French novel." Grant flicked the objects on the table with his fingertips. "It's all Lloyd's fingerprints on it, the murderer can't possibly have a perfect idea."