Chapter 8 chapter eight

Bradling Crescent is a row of three-storey red brick houses decorated with potted plants in Nottingham.The stone steps randomly painted white with various colors of clay seem to be clean, but they are unappreciative. Some blushed because they found themselves noticed, some had yellow faces to express that they did not welcome visitors, and some were in a resentful mood. His face turned pale with anger.But they all had the look of "I want you to take care of me".You'd better pull the shiny brass bells—indeed, they're polished to wink eagerly to invite you to do so—and you're stuck in the door, standing on one of the wide steps thinking about repainting the stone How much does it cost.Grant walked up to the road that Sorrell used to walk, wondering what the Levantine would think if he knew he had done the same.Mrs. Everey, a thin, short-sighted woman of about fifty, opened the door ninety-eight degrees, and Grant stepped forward to ask about Sorrell.

Mr Sorrell doesn't live here anymore, she said.He just left for America a week ago. Apparently it was a rumor. Who said he had gone to America? "Mr. Sorrell himself, of course." Yes, Sorrell may have lied to cover up his suicide. Does he live here alone? "Who are you and why do you want to know this?" she asked, and Grant, claiming to be an undercover detective, wanted to come in and talk to her for a few minutes.She seemed frightened, but coped calmly and led him to the living room on the ground floor. "This used to be Mr. Sorrell's room," she said, "and now it's occupied by a young lady teacher who wouldn't mind us using it for a while. Mr. Sorrell didn't do anything serious, did he? I don't believe him." Will do, he's a gentle young man."

Grant reassured her and asked her once more if Sorrell lived alone. no, she said.He shared the room with another gentleman, but after Mr. Sorrell decided to go to America, the other gentleman looked for other houses, because he could not afford the rent alone, and it happened that the young lady wanted to move in. .Mrs. Everey was sorry they had moved away.They are a pair of good children, and they are also close friends. "What's his friend's name?" "Giovad Ramon," she said, with whom Mr. Sorrell used to work as a bookmaker for horse racing.Oh no, they're not partners, but they're very personal.

"Where are Mr. Sorrell's other friends?" He has few friends, she said.He and Ramon were almost inseparable.After trying to recall, she remembered that one or two friends had been to Sorrell's house. She described the visits in detail, and Grant was sure that he was not from the Levantine. "Do you have any photographs of Mr. Sorrell or his friends?" She remembered where she had kept a few snapshots, and if the Inspector didn't mind waiting, she could go find them. She returned quickly with two postcard-sized photos of her life, and Grant had no time to inspect the house. "These were taken by the Thames last summer."

The two photographs were apparently taken on the same day, with the same weeping poplars by the Thames in the background.One showed Sorrell in a flannel suit, holding a pipe in one hand and leaning on someone else with the other.Another photograph, also of a man in plain flannel, was the foreigner. Grant stared at the dark face for a long time.The photo is really good, the eyes are not blurred like normal snapshots, the eyes are the eyes. Grant seemed to see again the frightened eyes that flickered on the Strand that day. Even in moments of blissful vacation by the river, those eyes looked hostile.The sharp face is not friendly at all.

"Where did Ramon go after that?" he asked logically. Mrs. Everey did not know. Grant studied her carefully.Is what she said true? His suspicion made him feel that she was playing a double reed with another person.He must live somewhere south of the Thames. He was full of doubts.Did she know more than she revealed? Who paid for Sorrell's funeral? Sorrell's friend was the same Levantine who took £223 Levantine from Sorrell People, should not pay this money.He stared at the woman's resolute face.Her handwriting may be like a man's, and handwriting experts cannot be infallible.She's the one who pays and owns a revolver.No, he corrected himself, the one who "sends" money and also owns a revolver.

Did the two of them own revolvers? he asked. No, she has never seen either of them have this thing.They are not that kind of people. Here they go again, talking endlessly about their politeness.Is it sheer favoritism, or is it a malicious attempt to bait Grant? He wanted to ask her if the Levantine was left-handed, but for some reason he held back. If she hadn't told him the truth, asking questions about Ramon would have given away all his previous investigative work.She might warn and startle the long-hidden prey they were all set to shoot. There is no need to do this just yet.The people in the picture are the ones who lived with Sorrell, the ones who fled after Stredder glanced at him, the ones who took all of Sorrell's money, and were almost certainly in the line people.Lego was good enough to identify him.The most important thing at the moment is not to let Mrs. Everett know what clues they have.

"When did Sorrell leave for America?" "His ship sailed on the 14th," she said, "but he left here on the 13th." "Black 13!" Grant said, trying to make the conversation between them a little less formal, a little less hostile. "I don't believe it," she said. "Every day is the same for me." Grant thought hard. The 13th was the night of the murder. "Ramon is coming with him?" he asked. Yes, they left together that morning.Mr. Ramon was moving his things into his new home, and met Mr. Sorrell by the way.Mr. Sorrell traveled to Southampton in the evening by train and ship.She originally wanted to see him off, but he insisted not to, so she didn't go.

"Why?" Grant asked. "He said it was too late and he didn't like the parting scene." "Has he any other relatives?" No, she never heard him mention anyone. What about Ramon, should he have relatives? Yes.He has parents and a younger brother, but they emigrated to New Zealand after the war and have never seen each other since. How long had the two young men lived with her? Mr. Sorrell had lived with her nearly eight years, and Mr. Ramon four years. Who had Sorrell shared a room with in the first four years before Ramon arrived? A few different people, but the one who lived the longest was her nephew who was now in Ireland.Yes, Mr. Sorrell got on very well with them.

"Is he cheerful and pleasant?" asked Grant. Not so, she said.Bright and pleasant would not be the best description of Mr. Sorrell.That sounded like Mr. Ramon.Mr. Ramon is a cheerful and pleasant man.Mr. Sorrell is reserved, but easy to get along with.He is prone to low mood occasionally, and the lively Mr. Ramon can make him happy most. Grant was thinking that it was this likable guy who killed Sorrell from behind.He wondered why events hadn't ended the other way, why hadn't Sorrell killed Ramon? Had there ever been an argument between them? No, as far as she knew, never.She answered too quickly.

"Well," said Grant at last, "I suppose you wouldn't mind lending me these pictures for a day or two?" "You promise to return them to me without any damage?" she said. "It's the only picture I have and I really like those two young men." Grant assured, carefully inserting the photograph into his notebook, praying that it bore identifiable fingerprints. "You promise they'll be fine?" she asked again before he left, "They've never had any trouble in their entire life." "If that's the case, they're going to be fine," Grant said. As he hurried back to Scotland Yard, awaiting the results of the fingerprints on the photograph, he listened to Williams report on his day of no success in the City of London bookies.Not long after, those photos returned to his hands, and he hurried to Laurent with them.It was very late, and there were not many people in the restaurant.A waiter blankly cleaned up the bread crumbs on the table, and the air was still filled with the smell of delicious silvery white fish soup and tobacco and alcohol.The listless waiter was holding a basket with only crumbs that had just been withdrawn, and when he bent over to be happy that he had nothing to ask for, the head waiter brought in an uninvited guest who came after everyone else had finished eating, which made him The good mood can't help but fall to the bottom. When he recognized that the visitor was Grant, he immediately cleaned up his appearance and changed his attitude, with a look of enthusiasm that "it is a great honor to serve famous people". It's Marceau's distinguished guest." Grant wanted Marceau, but heard that he had hurried back to France that morning.His father had passed away, and he was the only son in the family, so it was conceivable that he would inherit a successful business and a large vineyard.Grant was not particularly disappointed by not being able to see Marceau again. Marceau's defiant attitude often made Grant afraid to learn.He ordered a set meal and asked if Hau Lego could come over for a talk if he was around.A few minutes later, Hau's slender figure in white linen trousers and cap appeared from the screen behind the door, and followed a waiter obediently to Grant's table.He looked like a shy kid trying to claim a prize he knew he had. "Good night, Lego," said Grant kindly, "you have done me a great favor. Now, I want you to look at these and see if you recognize them." He put the twelve photographs on the table Spread it out in a fan shape, let Hau take a closer look.The gap was long enough to give Grant time to imagine that the boy would finally admit that he was just bragging when he said he had seen the man.Hau, however, responded to him without hesitation. "This," he said, pointing at Sorrell's picture with his long thin index finger, "is the person next to me in the line. And that—" he moved his index finger down to Ramon's picture, " The one who came to talk to him." "You swear?" Grant asked. Hau knew that Grant just wanted him to prove what he said was true. "Yes, of course," he said, "I would swear." That's what Grant wanted. "Thank you, Hau," he said gratefully. "When you are the foreman, I will come and bring most of the nobles and celebrities in England to join us." Hau smiled at him unceremoniously, "Then let's forget it," he said, "They have made too many movies, and now you can see them casually—" He tried to find the right word, "You know Is that—" he said, asking suddenly, and he made a somber grimace so unexpected that Grant nearly spit the duck and peas out of his mouth. "I think the first thing I'm going to do," he said, "when I actually post—" He points to a business, "I'm going to buy a hotel." Grant smiled slightly as he watched the graceful figure return to the spoon and silverware pile of rags.Typical French, smart enough, business minded, with a sense of humor and quick wit.But Grant could not help feeling a little sad at the thought that all his advantages would be ruined by a slightly weak physique and good looks.I hope that his humor can still be preserved in his animal fat cell tissue.By the time Grant returned to Scotland Yard, he had a search warrant in hand authorizing the arrest of the murderer of Albert Sorrell outside the Wuffington Theater on the night of March 13, Joward Ramon. The woman in Bradling Crescent held the same position for a long time as she closed the door behind the Inspector.Her eyes were fixed on the brown pattern of the parlor carpet, and she stuck out her tongue to lick her thin lips. She didn't show any anxiety, she concentrated all her energy on thinking, and her brain was moving rapidly like an electric pendulum. For about two minutes, she stood there motionless, like a piece of furniture, a quiet alarm clock.Finally she turned and walked back into the living room, slumping down on the cushions crushed by the inspector's weight.She made herself sit carefully on the hard chair by instinct—it seemed that it was the most sloppy thing in life right now.She took a white doily from a sideboard drawer and began to prepare dinner, moving deliberately back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, carefully arranging the knives and forks in parallel, as she always did.Before she was ready, the key "clicked" and the door lock opened, and a 28-year-old woman in hazel walked through the door.Her taupe coat, deer-brown scarf, and somewhat fashionable green-brown hat informed her profession.She took off her rubber boots in the hallway and went into the living room, laughing socially about the rainy day outside. Mrs. Everey responded and said, "I've prepared some cold food for you for dinner. If you don't mind, I want to go out. I'm in a hurry to meet a friend. I hope you don't mind it." The woman said to She assured her it was no big deal, and Mrs. Everey returned gratefully to the kitchen.She took the roast beef from the tray, sliced ​​it thinly for sandwiches, wrapped it in white paper and placed it in a bread basket, with fried sausages, diamonds and a bag of chocolate candies.She added some wood to the fire, filled a pot of water, put the pot on the hearth, and when she came back it was boiling, and hurried upstairs.She went back to her room and changed into the clothes she was going out, carefully tucking the stubborn strands of hair under the hat.She took the key from one drawer, then opened another drawer, counted the wad of banknotes she had drawn out, stuffed them into her purse, opened a notepad on the pile of canvas and silk and wrote a note, sending the letter Put the signature in an envelope and hide it in the coat pocket.She went downstairs again, pulled out her gloves, grabbed the small basket on the kitchen table, went out the back door, and locked the door.She walked down the street without looking left or right, with her back straight, her chin up, and she walked resolutely, as if proclaiming to the world that she was a good citizen.She was waiting for the bus at the bus stop on Fu Han Road, showing the appearance of a sensible and reserved woman, turning a blind eye to other waiting passengers.As usual, when she got into the car, only the extraordinarily observant driver recognized that she had given him a lift.When the bus took her to Blessington, she was completely unmoved: her fellow passengers thought she was either a sparrow or a lamppost.Before reaching Blessington, she disembarked at Stretham Hill and disappeared into the night fog. No one remembered which direction she was going, and no one was disturbed by the nervous panic she concealed. . The street lamps hung like hazy moonlight, and she walked up a long way, then down to another exactly the same road—a straight, flat, foggy street lamp, deserted road.One after another.Halfway down the last street she turned abruptly and returned to the nearest street light.A girl hurriedly passed her, late for an appointment; a boy clasped his hands and shook his twopence jingle.There is no one else.She pretended to take advantage of the light to look at her watch, and walked in the original direction again.To her left was a towering and magnificent colonnaded building, bearing the arrogance and indifference of Blessington's upper class, with snowflakes of plaster on the walls, and bright curtains beckoning the vulgar taste of its occupants.There was nothing worth looking at at the moment, except for a gleam of light from the gap in the fan-shaped window inside the door, which showed that the house was inhabited.She concealed herself in one of the doors, closing the heavy door softly.Climb two flights of old, dimly lit stairs to the third floor, which has no lights.She looked up the dark upstairs and listened, but all the house could hear was the creaking of old wood.She groped her way up slowly step by step, being careful not to trip at the turns, and finally reached the top of the stairs where there was no light at all, and stopped to catch her breath.Thinking that someone should know that it was her who was visiting, she groped for the invisible door with her hands, and when she found it, she knocked lightly on the door, but there was no response from inside, and there was no light under the door that showed someone inside.But she knocked on the door again, and whispered with her lips against the gap between the door and the door frame, "Jovad, it's me!" Almost at the same time, something inside the door was kicked open, and she Looking through the open door into the lighted room, the silhouette of the man looks like a backlit crucifix. "Come in," the man said, dragging her into the room and closing and locking the door.She put her basket behind the curtains and turned to face the man coming from the door. "You shouldn't be here!" he said. "What are you doing here?" "It was too late to write to tell you, so I came and I had to see you. They already know who he is. The police from Scotland Yard came this evening and wanted to know about the two of you. I will tell you what I know." told him everything he wanted to know except where you were. I even gave him your pictures too. He knows you are in London and you can no longer stay here.You should go now. " "Why did you give him the picture?" "When I pretended to look for those pictures, I knew I couldn't come back empty-handed and say I didn't find it, I had to make him trust me first. I mean, I was afraid I'd screw it up. So I thought, let him first Take those pictures away—he'll have to ask you both from the beginning—a picture won't tell anything." "Wouldn't it?" said the man, "tomorrow all the London police will know what I look like. That's one thing - God knows, it's just as bad as hell - just a bad picture can kill me .should tear it up!" "Yes, it will be bad if you stay in London. You stay in London and you'll be caught in no time. The most important thing now is that you leave London as soon as possible this evening. " "I'm sick of it all," he said through gritted teeth, "but now, where am I going? I've only got to leave this house and within fifty paces I'll run into a policeman. How easy it is to convince them I'm not the wanted man. It's been a hell of a week like ten thousand years. Gosh, I'm so stupid! - to put a noose on for such a trivial reason on his own neck!" "Anyway, it happened," she said dryly. "It's irreparable. You might as well think about how to get out now. As soon as possible." "Yes, you just said that - but now, where to go?" "Eat something first, and I'll tell you my plan. Have you eaten today?" "Well, I had something for breakfast," he said, but he didn't look hungry at all.He stared at the calm woman on the opposite side with angry and furious eyes. "You should," she said, "get out of this area where everyone is talking about it, and go where people haven't heard about it." "If you mean fleeing abroad, that's not a good idea. I tried to get on a boat four days ago and they asked me if I was from a union and where I was from, and they didn't want to answer me at all. If you are If I were to take a boat across the sea, I'd rather surrender myself." "I'm not telling you to run away overseas, you're not that famous. I mean the Scottish Highlands. Do you think people back home on the West Coast have ever heard of you or what happened on Tuesday night? Take my word for it, they'll listen Have not heard. They read nothing but the local tabloids, which only reported the main points of London.My hometown is thirty-six miles from the railway station.There was a policeman in another village four miles away who had never had a crime worse than poaching salmon.There you go, I have already written a letter saying that you are going to convalesce due to ill health.Your name is George Lahr, and you're a journalist. There is a train from King's Cross to Edinburgh at 10:15, and you will take that train tonight.There's not much time left, be quick. "Then the police would block me at the platform ticket gate. " "There are no ticket gates at King's Cross, and I've been up and down from Scotland so many times in thirty years that I know that. The platforms in Scotland are open to anyone who wants to go in. Even if the police are there, the train is half a mile long, you know But take the risk to escape. You can’t stay here and wait for them to catch you! I’ve already thought about it, so far, this is the only way you can go.” "Did you expect that I was afraid?" said he, "Yes, I was. Scared to death.Going to the streets tonight will be like walking in the middle of a battle between two armies with a machine gun. "" Either you bite the bullet and walk out, or you turn yourself in.You just can't just sit around and wait for them to come and arrest you anyway. " "Albert was right, he called you Lady Macbeth behind his back," he said. "Stop talking," she said sternly. "Okay," he murmured, "I'm crazy." There was a moment of silence, "Okay, let's give it a go." "Time is running out," she reminded him. "Pack something in your luggage—take a suitcase you can lift—so you don't have to find someone to carry it." He followed her instructions to the bedroom next to the living room, and stuffed the clothes into the suitcase indiscriminately, while she stuffed some food into the coat pocket he hung behind the door. "What good does it do me?" he said suddenly. "It's no use. How do you think I can get out of London by train without being stopped or questioned?" "If you're alone, you can't," she said; "but with me it's different. Look at me, do I look like the kind of guy who helped you escape?" The man stood in the corridor and stared at her for a long time. After he heard her series of reasonable statements, a helpless smile emerged from the corner of his mouth. "I believe you are right." After finishing speaking, he smiled wryly, and proceeded with her plan without hesitation.In less than ten minutes, they were ready to leave. "Do you have any money with you?" she asked. "Yes," he said, "a lot." She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to ask some more questions. "No, it's not that. It's my own money," he said. She brought an extra blanket and coat. "You can't act like you're in a hurry. You look like you're going on a long vacation and don't care if anyone knows where you are." So he packed a suitcase and golf bag.Traveling is not a secret.All he had to do was disguise, and even better than disguise, with these things he could hide. As they walked out onto the fog-shrouded street, she said: "We'll catch a bus or a taxi on Blessington Street." Before they reached the main street, they happened to meet a taxi emerging from the darkness.As the driver picked up their carry-on luggage, the woman told him their destination. "That's going to cost a lot of money, ma'am," said the driver. "It's okay," she said, "my son doesn't often come back from vacation." The driver muttered in a good-tempered manner, "This is what it should be! Sometimes you are generous and sometimes you tighten your belt. This is not always the case in life." She got into the car, and the taxi stopped shaking and slid forward slowly. After a moment of silence, the man said, "If I really did it, you've done enough for me." "I'm glad you didn't do it!" she said.There was another long silence. "What's your name?" she asked suddenly. After a moment's thought, "George Rall," he replied. "That's right," she said, "don't think about it next time you answer. There's a train up north for Inverness leaving Waverley at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. You'll stop in Inverness tomorrow. I've already The itinerary is written on paper and tells you what to do next." "You seem pretty sure I'll be all right in King's Cross." "No, I'm not sure," she said. "Those cops aren't idiots—the people at Scotland Yard don't believe a word I say—but they're just ordinary people, just like everyone else. On the train I won't hand you the note before leaving the station." "I wish I had a revolver in my hand now," he said. "I wish you hadn't. You've made yourself a big fool." "I won't use it, I just want to use it for self-defense." "Fuck you, use your brains, Joe! Don't do any more stupid things." There was silence again between the two.The woman sat alertly erect, the man huddled in a corner, barely visible.They walked towards the West End, across the dark square at the northern end of Oxford Street to Urston Road, and finally to King's Cross. "You pay for the taxi, and I'll buy the ticket," she said. Ramon covered his face with the shadow of his hat as he paid, so that the driver didn't even bother to look at him when he got out.The porter stepped forward to take the luggage from him, but he insisted that he could handle it.Seeing that the time was coming, he became nervous.Regardless of whether he can survive this juncture or not, he is determined to play his role well.The woman came to meet him from the ticket office, her expression of indifference clearly saw through his psychological changes.Together they stepped onto the platform, followed by a porter who was helping them find a corner seat.The warm and touching scene began to be staged-a man with a thick blanket, golf bag, and scarf, and a woman holding the man's coat to see him off. The porter hurried to the aisle and said, "Sir, I found you a corner seat. There is no one around you on the way. It will be very quiet tonight." Ramon tipped him and got in the car to check his seat.Passengers occupying seats on the other side were somewhat dissatisfied, but did not show it.He and the woman walked to the train door to talk, and heard footsteps coming from the corridor behind them.He said to her, "Do you think they have any fishing grounds?" "There can only be sea fishing near the lagoon," she continued the topic, waiting for the footsteps to go away, and they didn't stop until the sound disappeared.Ramon cast a feigned absent-minded glance down the aisle and saw the footsteps stop by the open door of his box, checking the suitcases on the luggage rack.When he remembered it was too late, the porter was staring at the luggage he had left outside. G. L.This abbreviation is very common.He watched the man hurrying to run back. "Keep talking!" he said hastily to the woman. "There's a creek down there," she said, "where you can catch what they call a pike, one about three inches long." "Great, I'll send you one then," he said, and the woman applauded his fake smile as the man stood right behind him. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. Rahimer?" "Sorry, no." Ramon said, turning around to face the man. "My name is Lal." "Oh, sorry!" the man said. "Excuse me, has your luggage been put in the box?" "yes." "Thank you. I'm looking for a man named Rahimo. Hope it's his. It's such a cold night to run around with someone's luggage who isn't here, really." "It's hard for you," the woman replied. "My son has been complaining about tonight's trip for an indefinitely long time. Before he arrives in Edinburgh, he must have something to say." The man smiles, "I haven't traveled overnight yet," he says, "sorry to bother you," and leaves. "George, let me carry the blanket for you first," she said before the porter was gone. "Well, the blanket has been warmed," he said, as if it were real, "and in an hour it might be like an oven." A long and piercing whistle sounded, and the car door slammed shut. "Here are flowers for you on the way," she said, slipping a paper bag into his hand, "remember what I told you earlier, someone will be waiting for you on the platform. Good luck!" "Forgot one thing," he said, took off his hat, and bent over to kiss her goodbye. The long train started slowly into the darkness.