Chapter 3 third chapter

Grant stared at the ceiling of the bedroom. He was theoretically awake a few minutes ago, but the drowsiness of sleep and the uncomfortable cold of the morning made him refuse to think.Although the rational part has not yet come to his senses, he already feels more and more uncomfortable.There was something annoying waiting for him, something deeply unpleasant. The crime that slowly emerged dispelled his sluggishness, and the morning light and tree shadows gradually came into his eyes staring at the ceiling, what a depressing sense of familiarity.This morning was his third day on the case.On the day of the coroner, he had nothing to gain and no leads to follow until the coroner did it.

He recalled yesterday's situation: in the morning, the identity of the deceased was still unknown, and he gave Williams the necktie, the only newer and more personal relic of the deceased, to investigate in London.The ties, like the rest of the deceased's clothing, had been purchased from branch stores of a diversified company, and he had only the faint hope that those stores would remember the ties they sold.And even if they have an impression, no one can guarantee that those shop assistants will remember their customers. "Reliance Brothers" sold dozens of ties of the same style in London alone.Grant has encountered countless strange cases, but he often encounters an opportunity to divert you from the original direction of investigation.As soon as Williams left the office, a thought suddenly popped into Grant's mind: He thought that this man was probably the clerk in the store, so he didn't need to go to the store to buy things at all.He may be an employee of the "Brothers of Reliance". "Go and find out," he said to Williams, "if you find out which branch the dead man was employed in, or if you see or hear anything interesting—whether you think it's important or not—let me know immediately. Know."

He flipped through the morning papers alone, and the various reports related to the murder did not bother him, so he deliberately read other reports carefully.The beginning of the news was a personal column, and the content didn't mention anything. However, there was a voice desperately ringing in his head.Under his photo was written, "Inspector Grant, in charge of 'Murder Team'." Frowning, he roared, "A bunch of idiots." A missing persons list from the police station.The missing locations of the five young men were all different, and one of them was in the small town of Durhan, which is very likely to be the deceased.After a while, Grant called the Durham Police Department and learned that the missing man was a miner, or had been a miner before. The detective of the Durham Police Department believed that the guy was a gangster.Whether it is a "miner" or a "thug", it is possible to be the deceased.

The whole morning was spent on routine—conducting the interrogation and the necessary formalities.At lunchtime, Williams reported to him that the largest branch of "Reliance Brothers" was located on Riverside Avenue, and he had been busy all morning but returned in vain. Not only could no one in the store recall such a customer, no one even remembered that they ever sold that style of tie. They didn't have any of these ties in their latest shipment.In order to obtain more information about the tie, he went to the main store and asked to see their manager to explain the case to him in person.The manager suggested that the inspector give them the tie for a while, and they would send it to the Northwood factory, where there was a breakdown of all the ties on consignment for the last year.With permission, Williams handed over the tie to the manager.

Grant backed him, applauding Williams for his common sense—most cops hobble around London because they're told it's their job—and privately thought it would be a pity to check all the "Reliable Brothers" In branches in Scotland and England, the chances of finding a clue may not be one in 10,000.After Williams reported on the progress of the investigation, hope looked even more bleak.The ties are packaged in a box of six, and each tie in the box is the same color but in different shades.There will not be more than two identical ties in a box, and these ties in different shades will be sent to various branches by special personnel.So instead of asking a clerk to remember which tie a customer bought, ask them to recall which box that tie was in.Detective Grant's part listened appreciatively, while the bystander part smiled at the inspector, who spoke fluent business jargon.Within an hour and a half, the patrolman's usual candor and astonishing professionalism had the Reliance Brothers manager spouting "order," "reorder," and such esoteric jargon.Through Williams' description, the manager seemed to appear on TV.Grant expressed his appreciation to Williams, which is one of Grant's charms. When he is satisfied, he never hesitates to praise others.

In the afternoon, after giving up hope on all leads, he sent the dagger to the laboratory for analysis. "Tell me all the test results," he said.He was still waiting for the autopsy report last night before leaving.At this moment, he stretched his arms in the cold air, grabbed the receiver, pressed the number he wanted to dial, and said, "This is Inspector Grant, do you have any further news?" No, no progress.There were two people examining the body last night - people from two different departments - who didn't know each other. Yes, their names and addresses have been left on the Inspector's desk, along with reports from the laboratory.

"Excellent!" said Grant, slamming the microphone on the hook and jumping out of bed.The foreboding was driven away by the clear light of the season.He whistled in the cold shower, even while he was getting dressed, so much so that his landlady said to her husband, who was getting ready to catch the eight o'clock bus, "I'm thinking it won't be long before the horrors of anarchy The activists will be caught." "Anarchist" and "murderer" are synonyms to Mrs. Field.Grant himself made less optimistic assumptions.What he thought was that the package that had been stolen and placed on his desk was a lucky package for a little boy for him.There might be nothing important in it, but it could be a diamond.

When Mrs. Field was getting his breakfast ready, he gave her a benevolent glance and said to her childlikely, "Today is my lucky day, isn't it?" "I don't know what luck is, Mr. Grant, and I don't think I believe in fate, but I believe in God's will. I don't think God would let a young man be assassinated and not judge the criminal. God is truth , Mr. Grant." "If the clue is very weak, is it God, or Scotland Yard?" Grant twisted her words deliberately, and began to munch on bacon and eggs.She stood looking at him for a moment, shook her head forgivingly, and left while he chewed his mouthful and browsed the newspaper.

On the way to the city, he was busy thinking, and the question of the unknown identity of the man seemed to become more and more incomprehensible.That's right, every other day or two in London, some unknown people are thrown into the poor cemetery.They were either too old, too poor, or both—urban scum, friends and relatives who had deserted themselves before their deaths, and their whereabouts were known only by those who kept telling their stories.Grant deduced from past experience that no one like the deceased—one who might have had a normal circle of life—was unidentified. Even if he was an out-of-towner or foreigner--Grant didn't think so; the man looked like a proper Londoner in his attire--he should live in the City or a suburb of London.Starting from restaurants, hostels, clubs and other places, it is not difficult to know what you missed.Responses to the media's request for assistance in finding the missing persons reached the police station, and Scotland Yard brought relevant persons to the station without delay to make a statement.

Knowing that the deceased was a Londoner—Grant was so confident—why did his subordinates and immediate superiors not pursue it? Obviously, they either had reason to believe that the death was caused by bad luck, or they believed that the case would not attract the attention of the police at all. s concern.The gang? The gang that stabbed the dude? The other buddies saved the dead man's errands before he even got the victim to the line.They chose a safe route. Unless—yes, it must be a punishment or a warning.All the signs point to it—the weapons, the dead being attacked where they thought they were safest, the tyranny in broad daylight.They not only killed people, but also threatened the survivors. The more Grant thought about it, the more he felt that this was the most reasonable explanation for this unsolved case.He thought over and over about the hypothesis about the mysterious organization, but still felt wrong.If the mysterious organization wants revenge, it is impossible not to prevent the friend of the deceased from reporting the news.The man who betrayed his associates was obviously different from the rest of the organization.Logically speaking, no matter whether his friend already knew or guessed his inevitable death, he would not be so stupid as to jump into this muddy water.

Grant, returning to Scotland Yard, was re-examining the London gangs in his mind when Danny Miller, the name of the gang leader popped up. Danny had been in the business for three years, and unless he made a big mistake, he could probably stay a long time.Danny was from America, a burglar, good-sounding, methodical, typical American--British people are inherently egoistic--and the British police looked up to him with admiration.As a result, although his brothers were caught and arrested every now and then, Danny was always smooth sailing - so smooth that he didn't like Scotland Yard.Now, he deals with his opponents like an American villain.He was used to the gun, but he didn't take any longer to decide whether to stab a man than to swat a pesky fly.Grant felt he should ask Danny to come over and talk. At this time, a paper bag was placed on his desk. He unwrapped it eagerly, skimming over unimportant material—Brideton's scientific outlook leaned toward a pompous dogmatist.If you send a Persian cat for an inspection report, he will talk at length, but only tell you that the cat's fur is gray, not tawny, omitting the main points.Regarding the connection between the blade and the handle, Bridton said the blood on the blade did not match the blood of the deceased.The problem is that the part of the icon is hollow, and there is a crack on one side that Daofei originally had, and the blood stains on it are almost invisible to the naked eye.As soon as pressure is applied to the surface of the handle, the uneven cut will be slightly raised.As the killer gripped the weapon, the rip in the metal edge cut his own hand. He should be suffering from a cut somewhere on the index finger or thumb of his left hand right now. Not bad, Grant thought, but he couldn't find every lefty in London with a broken finger and bring them to justice.He called Williams. "Do you know where Danny is?" he asked. "Don't know, sir," Williams replied, "but Bob might know. He came back from Newbury's last night and should have a good idea of ​​Danny's whereabouts." "Very well, go get Danny. No, tell Bob to come see me first." Bob entered—tall, sleepy-eyed, with a puzzled smile—and repeated his question. "Danny Miller?" Bob said. "By the way, his office is on Amber Street, Pimlickr." "Oh, he's been quiet lately, hasn't he?" "That's what we think, but I think it looks like Danny did the jewel robbery over there at Goldberg." "I thought he was only interested in robbing banks." "That's true, but he has a 'Jane' now, probably in need of money." "I see. Do you know his number?" Bob knows. An hour later, Danny, who was deliberately dressed and sitting calmly in his office on Amber Street, was notified by Inspector Grant, hoping that he could come to Scotland Yard for a brief interview. Danny's face was pale, and he squinted at the plainclothes criminal police who came to deliver the message with alert eyes. "If he thinks he can put a hat on me," he said, "he won't even think about it." The plainclothes thought that the inspector had nothing important to do, but just wanted to ask him for advice. "Well, what case is the Inspector working on now?" Plainclothes didn't know, and couldn't explain much. "Okay," Danny said, "I'll be right there." A burly police officer led Danny to see Grant. The thin Danny's head jerked back from time to time, and one eyebrow raised comically. "You always call me when you're in trouble," he said. "No," said Grant, laughing, "the trouble started when you left, didn't it?" "You're smart, Inspector. I don't think you're looking for a test of brain power. You don't want me here just to get me, do you?" "Of course not. I think I've got a place for you." "You're flattering me." Miller could never have said that when he was serious. "Do you ever remember seeing such a person?" After stating the details of the deceased, Grant examined Danny with his eyes, his mind as busy as his eyes.gloves.How can he get Danny to take off his left glove without letting him realize that he is deliberately probing? . . . No, no, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but I've really never seen this man in my life." "Well, I suppose you wouldn't mind going and looking with me?" "It's all in your calculations, and I will do my best to resist your coercion." The inspector reached into his pocket and took out a handful of copper coins, as if wanting to check his purse before leaving.A sixpence coin slipped out of his fingertips, and rolled down onto the smooth floor in front of Miller. When the coin rolled to the ground on the edge of the table, Miller immediately stretched out his hand to stop it, and clumsily used the The fingers of the glove fumbled on the ground for a while before picking up the copper plate and putting it back on the table. "It's a small thing," he said in a flat but cheerful voice.But he used his usual right hand. Then they drove to the morgue, and in the car he turned to the inspector, mocking the inspector's duty in a voice as soft as a breath. "I say," he said, "if my friends see me now, they'll be running off to Southampton with no time to pack." "We'll pack it up—for later," Grant said. "You recorded all the way, didn't you? Want to make a bet, five dollars a piece, no, five pounds a piece, you haven't caught one of us in two years, right? You don't dare to bet, You're smart." As Miller confronted the victim's body, Grant's hawk-like eyes examined him.Grant noticed that Danny's poker face didn't show any hidden expressions.Danny's gray eyes showed a merciless interest in the dead man. Grant knew in his heart that Miller recognized this man, and even though he was pretending to be indifferent, his leaked expression was exactly what Grant expected. "Never," Danny declared, "I've never seen—" He broke off. There was a long pause. "Well, I said, I've seen it." He said, "Oh, my God, let me see! Where did I see him? Where? Wait, I'll remember." The palm of the glove slapped the flushed forehead.This kind of behavior? Grant thought to himself, he reacted quickly enough.But Miller didn't react inappropriately afterwards. "My God, I can't remember! I've spoken to him, but don't know his name, I must have spoken to him." Grant finally gave up—he stood in front of him and confronted him—and Miller still couldn't remember anything.Turning to Grant, he was furious, and couldn't bear it any longer. "I won't forget this man. I must know more than you policemen with big limbs." "Very good, you go back and think about it, and then give me a call." Grant said, "Also, I have a kind request...do you mind taking off your gloves?" Danny's eyes flickered suddenly. "What's wrong?" he said. "You should have no reason to refuse to do it, should you?" "Then how do I know?" Danny snorted. "Use your head," said Grant kindly. "Two minutes ago you said you wanted a bet. Come on, you take off your gloves, and I'll tell you whether you win or lose." "What if I lose?" "I can't guarantee it." Grant smiled, and his sharp eyes went straight into Danny's eyes. Danny raised his eyebrows and returned to his usual indifference.He pulled up the glove of his right hand and held out his hand. Grant noticed if there was any difference.His left hand slipped out of the glove and fell flat.Then he stuck his right hand into his coat pocket. The left hand displayed in front of Grant's eyes was clean and unscarred. "You win, Miller," Grant said. "You're innocent." Miller had a small bulge on his right hand, which he put back in his coat pocket. Before they were to part, Grant said, "It was just a trick on your whim, wasn't it?" Miller said yes. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not going to waste my brain power trying to get you down." After Grant finished his lunch, he resumed his work of interrogation. The jury, who suppressed their nausea and went to see the corpse, thought that they had been involved in the mysterious incident, and everyone looked smug.They have already made a decision, so there is no need to care about the right or wrong of this whole case. They resigned themselves to hearing only the interesting things that eyewitnesses had to say about the famous murder. Grant looked on, thanking God he didn't need to rely on the ingenuity of these men, either in his case or in his life.So he ignored them and allowed himself to watch the various comedies performed by the witnesses.Oddly enough, he got to know these people better by comparing their comedic presentation of brutal truths, who ridiculously formalized real situations.A security guard on duty at Wuffington, fresh from a shaved face, looks radiant, his wet forehead glistening. His rigorous report is very admirable.James Locklear, the experienced head of the family, hated the sudden interrogation, resisted these trivial matters with disgust, but as a citizen, he had to do his duty.He would be a useful ally in court, a trait Grant was well aware of, but he wasn't much help in this case.Waiting in line bored him, he said, and the light in the distance was just enough for him to read, until the door swung open and the intensity of the light made it impossible for him to do anything but stand there. His wife, the weeping lady whom the Inspector had seen last time in the bedroom, was still clutching her handkerchief. Expecting encouragement or reassurance after each question, she received a longer interrogation than the others because she was the only one standing directly behind the dead man. "Have we come to inquire, ma'am," said the coroner, "that you, having stood nearest to the dead man for nearly two hours, have no memory of this man or his companions?" "I wasn't in line behind him all the time! As I said, I didn't notice him until he fell at my feet." "Who is ahead of you most of the time?" "I don't remember. It was a boy—a young man." "Where did that young man go after that?" "I have no idea." "Did you see him leave the team?" "did not see." "Can you describe what he looks like?" "Yes. Dark complexion, looks like a foreigner." "Alone?" "I don't know. Probably not, he was talking to someone." "How do you not know what happened three nights ago?" Fainted with horror, she said, "Because," she added, her spine stiffened at the coroner's sudden and malicious taunt. "When we were in line, no one paid attention to the people next to us. My husband and I were mostly reading." Then she started crying hysterically again. A fat lady in smooth silk satin, just recovering from fright and sadness.She recalled that the horror at the time of the incident was more than that she volunteered to tell her own story.With her full face and brown buttonholes, she was proud of her role in the case.She wasn't disappointed until the coroner thanked her and ignored her mid-sentence. A mild-mannered little man, with the seriousness of a policeman, who evidently believed the coroner to be a man of mediocrity, patiently answered the officer's questions. He said: "Yes, I noticed that the line was two-by-two." The jury couldn't help sniggering, and the gentle and small man looked a little sad. He and the other three witnesses in the team either had no memory of the dead, or didn't notice the people who left the team at all. None of their meager information helps. The pompous theater porter helped a little by telling the coroner that he had seen the dead man before - several times.He was a regular at Wuffington, but he knew nothing about the man.He was always in a suit, and no, said the porter, he didn't remember having company, though he was sure the man had never come alone before. Grant was dismayed by the atmosphere during the interrogation. A man no one knew was stabbed by a man no one saw.This is so bizarre.There were no clues other than, from the dagger, that the murderer's forefinger or thumb had been injured.As for the victim, we can only wait for the staff of Reliance Brothers to find out who sold the light red tie with the same color and pattern.As a group of ignorant people make a decision about the murder, Grant's mind is haunted by the young foreign man Mrs. Lockley mentioned, and he gets up to make a phone call.Could her impression have been groundless—her associations with the dagger coincided with his assumptions about the Mediterranean people? The young foreign man Mrs. Locklear spoke of was no longer present when the murder was revealed. .The only person who disappeared from the line must have been the murderer of the victim. In any case, if there was any new news, he would find out at Scotland Yard, and if not, he decided to treat himself to a cup of tea.He needs it.Slowly sipping tea helps to think, there is no Balker's disturbing report, and there is no chief inspector's immediate boss.There were a few special ideas that kept him in suspense, and Grant was about to discover something. He sipped his tea lightly and read his familiar verses and articles one by one in a flat tone, slowly giving birth to his stunning masterpiece.The reports he has written have reached an astonishing level and will make him famous as one of the giants of modern literature.