Chapter 7 Chapter VII

"That's not how Christians live," muttered Mrs. Field as she placed Grant's daily bacon and eggs in front of him.Mrs. Field tried to pick out a few special treats from the daily menu, and made an exception, using pork kidneys and other delicacies snatched from Mr. Tomkins, and tried to provide a richer breakfast to cure Grant's bacon and eggs. addiction.But Grant had conquered her—as he had conquered most of the others.He still ate his bacon and eggs, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.It was eight o'clock sharp on a Saturday morning, and Mrs. Field was the first to notice the incident. "Infidel" in Mrs. Field's use of the word meant not lack of faith, but people without comfort and dignity.She was more shocked that he ate breakfast before eight o'clock on Sunday mornings than that he spent the whole day doing daily chores.She felt sorry for him.

"It seems odd to me that the king shouldn't be awarding you medals so often. How many people in London are breakfasting at this hour!" "The Inspector's landlady deserves a medal, too, in my opinion. Mrs Field, the Inspector of Scotland Yard's landlady, is OBE, 4th class." "Well, I'm honored enough without the medal," she said. "I was wondering what to say to you, but I've never had such an elegant conversation at breakfast. A lady's conversation at eight o'clock in the morning can be so humorous." "You should be surprised that I think I've accepted your title long ago. Inspector of Scotland Yard."

"is that true? " "It's true; but don't be nervous, I'll keep my mouth shut and nothing will leak out. Too many people want to know what the Inspector is thinking, who has seen the Inspector, I'm just sitting There, give them hints. You don't have to know which hints, unless you really want to." "You are very great, Mrs. Field, and for my sake, make a little name for me as a dull man." Mrs. Field blinked and opened her eyes. "It's my job to do it, even if I don't like it very much." With that, she exited the room gracefully.

After breakfast, Grant was about to leave home, and Mrs. Field checked the untouched bread distressedly, "Well, let's see if you will have a good meal at noon. Empty stomach will do you no good. "But it's no good if you're overfed and running around!" "You never have to go too fast behind a Londoner, there's always someone who's one step ahead of you." Grant couldn't help smiling as he walked down the sun-drenched road toward the bus stop—the least laborious job of a criminal investigation.So far, no one has intercepted the suspect that the police wanted to arrest.Almost half the eyes of Londoners were on him—but often from behind.Those who were called to appear for the cuts found it inconceivable that no one in the line witnessed the murder.Grant patiently read the report for a long time.On a sunny morning, he sat at his desk and dispatched the squad leaders to go out separately, just like dispatching troops on the battlefield.He skipped over regional leads, dismissing two leads as too fitting for the case—there was always some unfavorable circumstance that suggested that the people who showed up on the Strand were not Levantine.Two men were sent to investigate further - one to Cornwall, the other to Yorkshire.The phone in his hand rang endlessly all day long, and he heard bad news all day long.Several detectives sent out to search said they found nothing that looked like the suspect the police were looking for.One of the most valuable clues came from an detective who was waiting behind a lace curtain in a villa in the suburbs of Nottingham. He found a man walking past his surveillance area three houses away, and finally found his way through a long afternoon of torment. in return.The alleged aristocrat, a well-known polo player, was hurrying through the mud to his garage of three or four cars, about to drive the three or four hundred miles for his Sunday pastime, to track him down. The detective, finding himself attracted to the earl, confessed that he was on official business.

"I suppose you are following me," said the noble count. "I can't think of what you will do to me, but I have a clear conscience. Yes, I have been accused of many things in my life, but never for Murder. Good luck anyway." "Thank you, sir, and I wish you good luck. I hope that your conscience remains the same when you go back." The earl, who was involved in lawsuits faster than anyone in the whole of England, grinned an understanding smile. Grant, who had only been out of the working lights on Sunday, sat there mechanically at the strings, exhausted.Balck came into his office in the afternoon and did not make a single suggestion to move the case forward as quickly as possible.They didn't miss any leads.Clues at least help to reduce the red tape of investigation.It was preparatory work, and in Mrs. Field's eyes, it was not Christian behavior.Grant looked out the window enviously. A shimmering mist shrouded the river, and Solly in the south was illuminated by the afterglow of the setting sun.What a fine day in Hampshire today! He could see the new green of the woods in Danbury.Wait a little later, the sun will disappear completely, and the world will belong to insects.

It was late when Grant came home, but he was still lingering in the clueless streets, and he refused to leave for a long time. Dusk is slowly covered by the coming night, gradually disappearing.As Mrs. Field said, a good meal is the most desired comfort for those who return home; after dinner, Grant waited wearily by the phone in front of the fireplace.He went to bed and dreamed that Ray Macbeth called him and said, "You'll never find him, never, never." She kept repeating this sentence, ignoring his begging her to provide more clues and help, and he hoped that the girl who changed the scene would say "time is up" and let him go.But before he could breathe a sigh of relief, he went to the phone and picked up the fishing rod, using it as a whip, and drove the four-horse carriage into a high street in Nottingham.There is a swamp at the bottom of the street.The hotel maid stood in the middle of the road, in front of the swamp.The carriage sped forward, and he tried to call her, but his voice was choked in his throat and he couldn't make a sound.The waitresses grew taller and taller, blocking the entire street.The cart horses were going to rush past her, but she was getting bigger and bigger, bigger than Grant, almost over him, over the horses, over the road, over everything.At the moment of catastrophe, he could only resign himself to fate.But just when he thought that what was supposed to come was always coming, he woke up suddenly, grateful to find himself lying safely on the pillow.The rational world still goes on.

Must be those bloody soufflés, he cursed, rolling over and staring at the dark ceiling, letting his sober head spin. Why had the deceased concealed his identity? Could it have been just an accident? The tailor's name had been removed from the clothes, except for the tie, and all other trademarks had disappeared—it is certain that the man did it on purpose. Get rid of the trademarks on these clothes.If the deceased simply removed the trademark carelessly, what accounts for the things he carried with him? 'A little change, a handkerchief, a revolver.Not even a watch. All these signs indicate that he committed suicide deliberately.This guy may be broke.He hadn't thought about it that way, but it was hard to say for sure.Grant knew that many poor people pretended to look like millionaires, but some beggars had huge sums of money in their bank accounts.

Could it be that the fellow would rather kill himself than end up in the ghetto? Did he go to the theater with the few shillings he had for the murderer whose finger was cut with the ikon dagger? Well, could it have been the dagger that ended his life an hour or two before the revolver he carried? If he was really broke, why didn't he go and borrow money from a friend--the one who used bank notes? Or did he ask to borrow money, but was rejected? Was it because he was afraid of conscience? Why didn't he embezzle the unknown £25 first when he had nothing to do? When there were as few clues as a deliberate suicide, he believed that a dispute between two men had led to the murder—a dispute between two gang members.The Levantines may have had a hand in the murder of the deceased and so felt responsible for the deceased.

This explanation makes perfect sense and fits all the circumstances that have occurred.The man had an interest in horse racing—perhaps a professional bettor—and he was found with little money, not even a watch, apparently about to commit suicide. The Levantine asked the dead for something, and the Levantine ended up killing him, whether he gave it or not.The friend who refused to help him—perhaps tried to pull him out of the crowd—sent money anonymously to settle his funeral after learning of what had become of the man.Although these are speculations, they almost coincide with reality.Now there is only one dead end in this hypothesis: there are no signs that are sufficient, so why didn't anyone step forward to warn the dead?

Had the matter been purely a dispute between two people, any threatening words from both parties would have overturned the assumption that the friend was a benevolent one. It is unbelievable that no one has the slightest sense of crisis about the frightening, tense and inexplicable conversations between foreigners and the deceased when everyone is unable to move freely.It is incredible to say that in Grant's experience in handling cases, no murderer has ever been caught before the identity of the victim has been identified. The drizzle fell on the window sill like the gentle touch of fingers.The good weather is coming to an end, Grant thought.

Silent, dark, lonely.It's like the vanguard of the scouts secretly searching the place and returning to camp to report.The wind has stopped its long trance sighs for a long time.Then, a fierce gust of wind lashed the windows with a fury of rain. The wind rushes and howls behind the windows, encouraging them to bravely destroy themselves.Soon, with the accompaniment of the symphony of the wind, the raindrops began to fall from the roof in a fixed, gentle and single tone, soothing the heart like a clock ticking. Grant closed his eyes and listened, falling asleep before the noise of the wind and rain faded away. In the morning, a depressing drizzle casts a veil over the gray morning.Grant's hypothesis seemed unassailable—the missing piece was filled by his ingenuity.He was at a standstill in tracking down the friend of the deceased, and it was only after a conversation with the manager of the Westminster Bank's Adafe branch that he gave hope to an otherwise unreliable hypothesis. The manager is an old man with a calm demeanor and silver hair. He took the bank stubs in front of him with his dull-complexioned hands.Judging from his speech and demeanor, he should be more like a practicing lawyer than a financial consultant.It occurred to Grant to feel what would happen when Mr. Toussaint's withered fingertips touched his wrist.In Grant's eyes, Mr. Toussaint this morning is simply the incarnation of Mercury, the oracle, and Krishna, the master of life and death. The five bank-notes in which the Inspector was interested were part of an account of £223 10 shillings drawn up on the 2nd of the month.The money was withdrawn by a customer with a bank account.The man's name was Albert Sorrell, and he had a little horse-gambling business on Mingle Street.The total withdrawal is all deposits, and the remaining one pound may be that he still wants to keep the account he opened at the beginning. Great! Grant thought: This friend also bets on horses. What if M. Toussaint recognized Mr. Sorrell when he saw him? he asked. No, probably not, but his teller must have recognized the man the Inspector was talking about: he called the teller. "This is Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard. He wants to know what Mr. Albert Sorrell looks like. I told him you can help." Teller described it as best he could.This detailed description shattered Grant's hope that he had believed in it before. The person he was talking about was-the dead. After he finished speaking, Grant sat there thinking quickly.What does this mean? Could it be that the dead man lent money to his friend, who took all he had, and made some belated charity out of what he had taken? Has the bank note also become one of this friend's trophies? It is on the 3rd of this month.Ten days before the murder. Was it Mr. Sorrell himself who came to draw the money? he asked. No, replied the teller, it was brought by a man whom he had never seen; yes, he remembered that man.He was dark and thin, of medium build or short, with high cheekbones.It looks a bit like a foreigner. Levantine! Grant, breathless with excitement, accepted this fact with unspeakably mixed emotions--the same mood Alice must have been in when she met the Queen of Hearts.The facts of the case were clear, but it was so strange! He asked to see the check, and the check was brought. "You don't think it's a fake, do you?" He didn't see a clue from it.The numbers and signatures are Mr. Sorrell's and it is unlikely that they were forged.They found other bills issued by the deceased and spread them on the table.They rejected the notion that the checks were forged. "If it's a counterfeit," said Mr. Toussaint, "it's almost a forgery. Even if it were confirmed to be a counterfeit, I'd still find it hard to believe. I think you should accept the check as genuine." fact." After the foreigner finished withdrawing the money, he took all of Mr. Sorrell's savings, leaving only one pound in the account.Ten days later he was standing behind Sorrell.If this is really nothing, but at least it proves that there is a relationship between the two people, this evidence will be very useful when it comes to court. "Do you have any other checks that Mr. Sorrell cashed?" They did, and Grant took a list of the other checks.When he asked for Mr Sorrell's address they told him they didn't know his home address but he had an office at 32 Mingley Street, not far from Charing Cross Road. Grant began to digest the message he had received as he walked from the Strand to Wray Street.The Levantine got a check signed by Sorrell and went to the bank to withdraw money.In the ten days from receiving the money to being killed, Sorrell did not seem to be troubled by theft, so the possibility of the money being stolen was ruled out.The check must have been handed to the foreigner by Sorrell himself.Why doesn't he just pay the foreigner directly? Because it's just a Levantine trick with no intention of identifying himself.he "blackmailed" What about Sorrell? Or did he ask Sorrell for something and didn't get it? Hau.Lego has to describe the conversation between them on the night of the murder, and further talked about the need for money.Could it be that the Levantine was not the hapless partner in Sorrell's assassination? In any case, at least the Westminster account explained Sorrell's penniless status and his suicide attempt. Who sent the twenty-five pounds? Grant could not believe that it was from the man who had taken all of Sorrell's property, and that the man who had shot Sorrell in the back for nothing would spend it for trivial reasons.There must be a third party.This third party was well connected with the Levantine, and he took at least £25 of the Levantine income from Sorrell.In addition, the third person lived with the deceased and saw the fingerprints of the deceased on the envelope containing 25 pounds.The riveting plot and the squandering of money are like the stories women have always loved to tell.Handwriting experts are absolutely certain that the handwriting on the envelope and letterhead is the same hand.Of course, the third party also has guns like Sorrell, who is about to kill himself in the end.The case was entangled, at least this one was complicated--the related things were getting closer and closer, so that at any time Grant was able to pull the lucky thread and put everything together.He had now found out the background and habits of the deceased, and knew a Levantine. Minglei Street, go a little further in Charing Cross Road, where mystery and displeasure intertwine with a gloomy atmosphere.There is an unwelcome unease about a stranger turning a street corner, even if he does not mean to intrude on private property: he will feel like a new visitor to a small café, curious but apprehensive by the other regulars. looked hostilely. If Grant wasn't a resident of Mile Street, at least he wasn't a stranger.He was well aware that this was the same area that most people in Scotland Yard considered the area from Charing Cross to Leicester Square to be the police's sphere of influence.Despite its elegant appearance, the house seemed to say to him mysteriously, "Well, you're here again, aren't you?" The wooden door plate painted "No. 32" told him the office of Mr. Albert Sorrell. On the second floor.Racing accountant.Grant turned to the corridor and climbed the dusty stairs, and could appreciate the toil of the cleaning maid on a Monday morning.At the end of the stairs was a wide corridor, and Grant knocked lightly on the door with Sorrell's nameplate on it.As he expected, no one responded.He tried to open the door, but it was locked.When he turned to leave, there were soft footsteps in the room.Grant knocked loudly on the door again, and then stopped. He could hear the noise of busy traffic in the distance and the footsteps of pedestrians on the road below.There were no more sounds from the room.Grant crouched down to peek through the keyhole. There was no key, but his vision was limited—only the corner of the table and a coal basket.The room he saw was the one at the back of the two rooms, which was obviously Mr. Sorrell's office.Grant watched for a while without moving. There was nothing alive in the little still life at the keyhole.He got up and was about to leave, but just before he took the first step, Sesel's voice came from the room again.Grant pricked up his ears to hear better, but realized that a man's head was hanging upside down from the railing on the floor, his hair blown out by gravity in a comical and horrific way. Finding himself noticed, the head asked kindly, "Who are you looking for?" "You can see that, can't you?" said Grant slyly. "I'll ask the master of the office here." "Oh?" said the head, as if agreeing that it was a good idea.The head disappeared and reappeared in its original place after a while.A young man in a dirty paint smock came to the bottom of the stairs, smelling of turpentine, trying to straighten his smooth hair with painted fingers. "I think that person hasn't been here for a while," he said. "I live on the upper two floors—a bedroom and a studio. I always pass the office on my way down and hear him and his His... his... I don't know what you call it. You know, he's a punter." "Client?" Grant suggested. "True. I know he has occasional clients, but I daresay I haven't seen him in over two weeks." "Did he go to the racetrack?" Grant asked. "Where are you going?" the artist asked back. "I mean, does he go to the races every day?" Artists don't know. "I want to go into the office, where can I get the key?" The artist concludes that the key is in the hands of Mr. Sorrell.The house agent's office was near Bedford Square, and he could not remember the street name or house number, and he never went to him.He had lost his own room key, or he could try the lock on Sorrell's office with his key. "Then how do you get out?" Grant asked.The sudden curiosity overcame his urge to enter the door to find out. "Let's not lock it," said the happy man. "If anyone finds anything worth stealing in my room, he must be smarter than me." Suddenly, there was a sound like a gnat in the courtyard behind the locked door—something was moving. The artist's eyebrows are covered under the hair.He quickly pressed his head against the door, looking at the inspector with doubts in his eyes. Without saying a word, Grant took his arm and dragged him to the first corner of the stairs. "Listen," he says, "I'm plainclothes—you know what that means?" The naive artist hesitates to believe him, which may just be his usual line.The artist replies, "I know, you're the policeman." Grant lets him taunt. "I'm going to look into the room. Will the atrium in the back allow me to see the windows of the room?" The artist took him to the first floor, passing through the dark corridor, to the back of the house, and walking outside is the brick atrium of the country house.A low leaden-roofed outbuilding stood against the wall facing the window in Sorrell's office.The top of the window is slightly open, as if someone is inside. "Do me a favor," said Grant, trying to climb onto the outhouse roof."I should tell you, you're an accomplice to the crime. You and I are breaking into homes, and that's not lawful," he said as he pulled his feet from the aide's clasped hands. "But it was the most thrilling moment of my life," said the artist. "I've always wanted to defy the law, but never had the right opportunity. Now being an accomplice to a police officer is the greatest joy of my life." Grant did not listen to him, but kept his eyes fixed on the window.Slowly, he stopped, put his head on the edge of the window sill, and cautiously looked inside.Nothing moved in the room, but the movement behind him startled him.He turned around and found that the artist also jumped onto the roof unwilling to be lonely. "Have you got a gun?" he whispered. "Or I should get you a poker or something." Grant shook his head, flung the half-open window decisively, and stepped into the room.At this time, there was no sound except his own panting breathing. The gloomy light lay over the thin dust of the empty office.The door facing him to the front room was slightly ajar.He took three quick steps, reached the door, and pushed it open.Immediately afterwards, the big black cat in the second room jumped out with a "meow".It was wandering in the empty room, and before the inspector could figure out what it was, it slipped through the open window.The artist let out a cry of pain, followed by a ping-pong crash.Grant strolled to the window and heard the moans of the dying from the bottom of the courtyard.He quickly slid to the edge of the outer room, and was surprised to see his accomplice sitting on the dirty bricks, holding his painfully painful head and smiling wryly as his body convulsed with pain.After being relieved, Grant returned to the room and briefly looked through the drawers of Mr. Sorrell's desk.The drawers turned out to be empty—this had obviously been cleaned out in a planned and careful way.The front room, like the back room, is an office, not a living room.There must be somewhere else for Sorrell. Grant closed the window, slid down the lead roof, and jumped into the atrium. The artist is still wailing, but has been rubbing his eyes for a while. "Did you fall?" Grant asked. "Only the ribs—" said Stroway Pete. "The intercostal muscles were so compressed that they nearly snapped." He stared at his feet. "Well, these twenty minutes are a waste of your time," Grant said, "but I was worthwhile." He followed the limping artist through the dark corridor again. "I don't think at all that it's a waste of time to get this experience." Stowy Pete said: "I was very impressed by your visit. I never paint on Monday mornings. No reason, Monday mornings on the calendar should be burned out with prussic acid. You made me feel that this week It made sense in the morning, and we did something amazing! Another day, if you are not so busy fighting crime, you can take a break from work, come here, and I will paint a portrait for you. Your head Nice shape." A thought flashed through Grant's mind, "Can you draw a picture of Sorrell from your memory?" Stowe Pete thought for a moment. "I think it should be fine," he said. "Come up with me." He led Grant into a room called a studio full of canvases, paintings, sundries and various tools.As if the tide had ebbed from the flood, the dust spread in the house in a strange pattern. Some things thrown around seem to hide some kind of freehand brushwork.The artist produced a bottle of Indian ink, and then a fine brush.He passed the pen half a dozen strokes across the margins of a roll of paper, thought, then tore the paper from the scroll and handed it to Grant. "The painting is not very similar, but the effect is definitely good." Grant was taken aback by looking at the painting.The ink on the paper is not yet dry, but the artist has captured the dead man as he was alive.In the portrait, the features of the deceased are exaggerated, and they are actually more like characters in a caricature, but the effect of the portrait is unmatched by any other photo.The artist even captures Sorrell's underappreciated eyes.Grant thanked the artist heartily and gave him a business card. "If you need me in anything, come to me." After he finished speaking, he turned and left, ignoring Stowe Pete who was stunned after receiving the business card. Near Cambridge Circus is the gorgeous office of Lawrence Murray - "Lucky Bet, Always Follow Lauren" - the largest horse racing brokerage in the City of London. As Grant passed along the other side of the street, he saw Lawrence arriving in a car and going into his office.He had known Murray for a long time, so he decided to cross the street and follow him into the splendid office headquarters.After he announced his name, he was led into a spacious room decorated with dazzling luster paneling, copper panels, and glass. The desk was full of telephones leading to the study of important people, and the wall was hung with portraits of famous stallions. . "It's a pleasure to meet you," Mr. Murray greeted him cheerfully. "Is it business? I hope the Lady Luck won't be 'Caffigard.' But apparently half the population of England today bets 'Caffigard.'" have to'." Inspector Grant didn't want to lose all his money, although Caffeigold seemed to have a good chance of winning. "I don't think you're here to tell me you've got a bunch of money ready and you've decided to give it a go?" The inspector smiled.Of course not: he wanted to know if Murray knew someone named Albert Sorrell. "Never heard of it," said Murray. "Who is he?" A horse broker, Grant reasoned. "Which racecourse?" Grant didn't know.He has an office in Minglei Street. "He's probably a bookie," said Murray. "I'll tell you what it is. If I were you, I'd be in the woods today, and you'll see all the bookmakers exchanging information there. That way you don't have to go around in circles." Grant thought for a while, this is indeed the fastest and most trouble-free way.In addition, there is another benefit. He will know who Sorrell has been dealing with in his career, and from it he can find out the address he has been unsuccessfully checking. "I'll tell you what it is," Murray repeated his catchphrase, "I'll go with you, you've missed the last train. Take my car. I have a racehorse there, but I Always too lazy to see it alone. I've promised the trainer he'd do it, but the guy was nothing but a wild horse this morning. Have you had lunch yet?" Grant has not. Grant used his telephone to call Scotland Yard while Murray was away to see what was in the lunch basket. An hour later Grant had lunch in the country; , smelled clean, fresh, and thriving, and the drizzle wiped away the sticky ugliness of the whole city. There was a gap in the gray and damp clouds, revealing the clear blue sky. They arrived at the horse-tuning field (the saddle dressing place before the horse race.--Translator's Note), the eclipsed pond in the stone garden is smiling blankly at the hazy sunshine. The first horse race is ten minutes away It was about to start, and Grant watched for a while, not interested. He suppressed his impatience and accompanied Murray to stand outside the white railing of the parade area. The horses participating in the first race were all quietly circled in the circle at this moment, allowing the onlookers to appreciate Their graceful posture and solid stature—Grant knew nothing about horse appreciation—so his eyes kept searching for the group of people who seemed to be talking about business. There was a Morren history who called himself "The Stone" Tan, who looks like he owns the world. Grant is wondering what kind of trick he's using to sneak around the racecourse and try to trick him, and he shouldn't have anything to do with the big party that made everyone go crazy in March. Probably Somebody he's been driving around is interested in the race. Fonda Morden, who just returned from her third honeymoon, shows her logo on the outside of her coat, trying to show that it's the most attractive of the racetracks. Up-and-coming thing. No matter where you stand, you can see that Fonda Morden coat.The Count of Polo, who had been suspected of being a Levantine, was also there.The others, regardless of whether they were high or not, were swept by Grant's eyes one by one, and a small metal plate was pinned on them. At the end of the first race, a whirlwind of luck surrounds the horse racing brokers. Putting his schadenfreude aside, Grant decided to get to work.He urgently launched an investigation until the bell rang and the arena was packed with enthusiastic crowds preparing to watch the second race, and he did not return to the racetrack.No one had ever heard of Sorrell, who returned sullenly to Murray before the start of the fourth hurdle race -- and Murray's horse was about to enter. When Grant stood side by side with Murray in the center of the inspection area, Murray looked very proud. While praising his horse, he told Grant about Sorrell in a serious manner.Grant was overwhelmed with admiration, and Murray's ability to use half of his ear to inquire about news is by no means in vain.All his previous thoughts were overwhelmed.Why didn't any of the bookmakers know Sorrell? The jockeys started to come in, and the crowd around the rails dwindled as people moved to better views.The young lads tucked their eager heads into their collars, lest the noise around them during the races would interfere with their performance. "Here comes Lassay," Murray said, as a jockey approached them across the lawn with the lightness of a civet cat. "Do you know him?" "I don't know," Grant said. "He is a good player on flat ground. He was also first-class in obstacle course in the past." Grant knew—there was only a slight difference between a Scotland Yard chief inspector and Almighty God—but he had never actually met the famous Lassay.The jockey greeted Murray with a shy smile, and Murray briefly introduced the Inspector to him, but said nothing more.Lasay shivered slightly in the clammy air. "I'm glad there's no fence," he said, with false earnestness. "I really hate myself for falling into the water today." "It'll be better in the house with a fire," said Murray. "Have you ever been to Switzerland?" Grant asked suddenly. He remembered that the flat race in Switzerland was the most yearning place for jockeys in winter. "Switzerland!" Lasay repeated in his listless Irish accent. "Never, I was having measles. Measles—believe it or not! For nine days, I couldn't eat anything but milk, and I had to stay in bed for a whole month." His otherwise graceful, statuesque face twisted. Twist out a crooked ugly expression. "And milk makes you fat," said Maury, laughing. "Speaking of fat, I wonder if you know a man named Sorrell?" The jockey's bright eyes stared at Grant like two pools of cold springs, and then he turned to Murray.The whip, which had been swinging between his first fingers, also slowly stopped. "I know Sorrell," he said after some thought, "but he's not fat. Isn't Charlie Badley's clerk called Sorrell?" And Murray had no impression of Charlie Badley's clerk. "Can you recognize him from this sketch?" asked the Inspector, taking from his pocketbook the Impressionist portrait of Stowe Peet. Lasay stared at the painting, admiring it. "It's really well drawn! That's right, this is old Badley's clerk, and you can't go wrong." "Where can I find Badley?" Grant asked. "Well, that stumps me," said Russey, with a faint smile on his lips. "You have to know that Badley died two years ago." "Really? You haven't seen Sorrell since?" "No, I don't know anything about his whereabouts. Probably some office paperwork somewhere." The bay red horse on the track was pulled in front of them.Russey took off his coat and rubber shoes and placed them carefully on the edge of the turf.He went to the saddle to adjust the leather, and said to Murray, "Alvinson isn't here today," Alvinson was Murray's horse trainer. "He promised to give me a face-to-face instruction." "The so-called face-to-face timing is all the same old thing," Murray said, "that's what you like about him, the winning trick." "Excellent," Russey told the truth, walking to the gate.Beautiful images of man and horse are just what this dead culture has to offer. 格兰特随着莫瑞走到调马场时，莫瑞说，“开心点，格兰特。就算巴德立已经死了，我还知道一个认得他的人。在比赛结束后，我尽快让你和他谈谈。”如此一来，格兰特才能真正放心享受观赏马赛的乐趣：看着一涌而出的缤纷色彩反衬着跑道后灰扑扑的树丛，人群中蛰伏着诡异的寂静——那种寂静静到他以为自己正独自站在落着雨的树丛、林木阴郁的乡村或濡湿的草坪间；看着跑道上一场漫长的争夺直到比赛终了，莫瑞的枣红马赢得第二。当莫瑞再次上前探视他的马并向拉赛道贺后，他带着格兰特到赌马人聚集的地方，向他介绍一位老先生，那人满面红光，活像是圣诞卡片上驾着邮车穿过雪地的圣诞老人。 “塔可，”他说，“你认得巴德立先生，知道他的书记员现在在做什么吗? ” “索瑞尔? ”圣诞老人说，“他现在自己开业，在名雷街有间办公室。” “他人现在在场子里吗? ” “不，我想没有。他只待在办公室里。我上次碰到他的时候，似乎干得不错呢。” “上次是什么时候的事? ” “嗯，好久以前了。” “你知道他家的住址吗? ”格兰特问。 “不知道。谁要找他? 索瑞尔，他是个好孩子。” 最后那句不相干的话意味着他起了疑j 心，格兰特赶紧向他保证找索瑞尔绝对没有不良意图。塔可把大拇指跟食指塞进嘴里。朝跑场边缘栏杆的方向吹出一道尖声哨音。 在一群原先十分专注而后转头的脸孔中，他看到了那个他要找的人。“乔伊，” 他扯着大嗓门喊，“可以让我跟吉米聊一下吗? ”乔伊转告他的书记员，被差遣的人四下搜寻—会儿，很快，吉米就出现了——一个干净清纯的年轻人，穿着一身品位独特的亚麻制行头。 “你过去跟亚伯特·索瑞尔很熟，对吧? ”塔可问。 “是的，不过我好几年没在赛马场上看到他了。” “你知道他住在哪儿吗? ” “嗯，我晓得他住在布莱德林新月区的富汉路，我跟他去过一次。记不得门牌号码了，只记得他的女房东叫做伊芙雷太太。他住在那里很久了。亚伯特是个孤儿。” 格兰特大致描述了一下黎凡特人的样貌，问他索瑞尔有没有和哪个这样的人走得很近。 没有，吉米没见过他有这样的同伴，不过，他声明，他有好长一段时间没在赛马场上见到索瑞尔了。在开启自己事业的同时，他和过去的旧识都疏离了。他偶尔会为了自己的兴趣看看赛马——也许是想趁机获得一点情报。 通过吉米，格兰特认识了另两个认识索瑞尔的人，然而却没有一个人对索瑞尔的同伴有所耳闻。全是自扫门前雪的家伙。这些赛马赌注经纪人，用一种很暖昧的好奇打量着格兰特，次场下注开始登记时就无视于他的存在了。 格兰特向莫瑞宣告他到此为止，障碍赛结束后一直兴高采烈的莫瑞此刻也决定回伦敦。在车子缓缓前行之际，格兰特转过头，友善地对这个提供他许多讯息的跑马场投以祝福的一瞥。令人愉快的地方，哪天等到脑中的公事不再烦扰他时，他要再回到这里度过一个下午。 回伦敦的半途上，莫瑞热切地谈论一些自己感兴趣的事：赛马赌注经纪人和他们团结的精神。“他们像苏格兰高地那些宗族一样，”他说，“彼此间争吵竞争，但若有外人加入这场争夺之战，便立刻团结起来抵御外敌。”他还谈到马和马的小毛病；驯马师和他们的道德操守；拉赛跟他的机灵。然后他说，“队伍命案的侦查进行得如何? ” 很有进展，格兰特说。如果接下来的事情和现在一样顺利，他们在这一两天之内可以逮到凶嫌。 莫瑞沉默半晌，“我猜，你是不想让索瑞尔卷进这档子事，对吧? ”他含蓄地问。 莫瑞一向行事正派。格兰特坦白相告：“索瑞尔就是死在队伍里的那个人。” “我的老天! ”莫瑞说，他沉默了一会儿去接受这个噩耗。“我很难过，”他终于开口，“我不认得这个小伙子，但似乎每个人都很喜欢他。” 格兰特也这么认为。亚伯特·索瑞尔，似乎从来就不是个混混。格兰特又一次期待自己会再遇到黎凡特人。