Chapter 4 Chapter Four

But first an autopsy.It was at the time of the post-mortem that the first faint commotion before the storm began. It was Jimmy who first noticed the quivering in the calm water.Hopkins.He got the nickname Jammy because whenever there was a piece of good news, he would happily yell, "Jam! Jam!" And his philosophy is "everything printed on the upper cylinder is a good thing".Hopkins has an excellent nose for good stuff, which is why he stopped abruptly and stared wide-eyed when he was helping Bart to analyze those who were crowded into this small town hall in Kent in pursuit of news. .Because he saw, between the baggy beanies of the two paparazzi, a calm man's face that was more newsworthy than anything in the house.

"See what?" Bart asked. "What did I see!" said Hopkins, sliding away from the edge of the bench just as the coroner sat down to demand silence. "Save a seat for me," he whispered, before slipping out of the house.He came in again through the back door, squeezed to his destination deftly, and sat down.The man turned his head to look at the uninvited guest. "Good morning, Inspector," said Hopkins. The inspector looked at him with disgust. "I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for a meal," Hopkins said, sounding hypocritical. The coroner asked for silence again, but the Inspector's expression softened.

Shortly thereafter, taking advantage of the little commotion when Pat Carey came in to give evidence, Hopkins said, "Why bother you Scotland Yard, Inspector?" "Just watching." "I understand. It turned out that it was just a non-voting attendance at the unit. There have been few crimes recently, right?" Seeing the inspector, there was no reaction: "Oh, do a good job, inspector. What's going on? Is there any mystery about the cause of death? It's suspicious. ,Uh? If you don't want your words to be published, I'm the surest safe. ""You are the most reliable Gadfly. "

"Oh, do you know how much skin I have to pierce to get the blood?" That earned nothing but a smile. "Listen to me. Just one disclosure, Inspector. Will today's autopsy be postponed?" "I wouldn't be surprised if it did." "Thank you. That's enough," Hopkins said, half-sarcastically, half-seriously, before leaving the room again.He called down Albert, Mrs Pitts' son, who hung like a Libby in the window by the wall, and persuaded him that two shillings would be much better than a boring autopsy with only a corner of it in view, and then Send him to Leadstone with a telegram to make The Horn busy.Then go back to Bart.

"There's something wrong," he whispered to Bart's eyebrow-raising question. "Here comes Scotland Yard, that's Grant, the one behind the red cap. The inquest will be postponed today. The murderer has been found!" "Don't talk about it here!" Bart said, worried about too many people. "Yes." Jimmy agreed. "Who's that in the flannel bloomers?" "Boy friend." "I thought the boyfriend was Jay Hammer." "It was. It's new." "Love killing?" "I'm willing to take a bet with you."

"Empathy, I suppose?" "Yes. That's what they said. Seems like she played them. There's a good reason for the murder, I think." They are all the most basic evidence - the discovery and confirmation of the corpse, etc. Once the coroner gets these materials, the procedure will end immediately, and another examination will be carried out at another time. Hopkins judged that it was clear that Clay's death was no accident, and since there were no arrests at Scotland Yard at present, the young man in the flannel bloomers would undoubtedly be the source of any inquiries.His name was Tistor.Bart says that newspaper reporters all over the UK wanted to interview him yesterday ( Hopkins was returning from the poker case ) but he was surprisingly difficult.Calling reporters ghouls, vultures, rats, and other unreadable words seems to have no idea of ​​the power of the media.No one dares to be so rude to the media, otherwise they won't be able to get away with it, that's how it is.

But Hopkins has great confidence in his ability to entice the bait. "You are Tistor, right?" he asked casually, walking "just in time" beside the young man among the crowd walking towards the door. The young man's face was pulled down, immediately full of hostility. "Yes, I am." A wary voice. "It won't be old Tom. Tistor's nephew?" The hostility on his face was gone. "Yes. You know Uncle Tom?" "I don't have a deep friendship." Hopkins admitted that he didn't expect there to be a Tom.Tisprit. "You seem to know that I don't use Stanaway anymore?"

"Well. Xin said." Hopkins replied, wondering if Stanaway was a horse or what? "Where are you in high school now?" By the time they got to the door, Hopkins was well acquainted with him. "Shall I give you a ride? Have a meal?" beautiful!In less than half an hour, the headlines were done.They also said that this brat is difficult to deal with?There is no doubt about it: he, James.Brooke.Hopkins, is the most outstanding journalist. "Sorry, Mr. Hopkins," Grant's cheerful voice appeared behind him, "I hate to disappoint you, but Mr. Tistor has an appointment with me." and Hopkins would know what was going on at once, so he added, "We'd love to see him help."

"I don't understand," Tistor finally revealed.Hopkins learned that Tistor had no idea who Grant was, and hurriedly blurted out gloatingly. "This is Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard," said he, "and there is nothing in his hands that cannot be solved." "I wish my obituary could be written by you," Grant said. "I wish I had the honor," said the reporter eagerly. Then they noticed Tistor.His face was parchment, dry and old, and expressionless.He could only be judged to be alive by the violent throbbing of his temples.The reporter and the detective stood there, marveling at each other that Hopkins' announcement would have such an unexpected effect.Then they saw the young man's knees begin to go limp, and Grant hurried to his arm.

"Quick! Come and sit down. My car is here." He helped Tistor, who was apparently unconscious, through the idle, chattering crowd, and pushed him into the back seat of a black station wagon. "Theofer," he said to the driver, and got into the car and sat next to Tistor. As they headed toward the road at a snail's pace, Grant saw Hopkins standing where he was.That Jimmy.Whenever Hopkins stood still for more than three minutes, it was a sign that he was racking his brains.From now on—the Inspector sighed—the Gadfly was going to be a Hound. And now the inspector's mind can't rest.He had been informed overnight by the concerned county police chief the night before that they didn't want to make a foolish fuss, but there was a small but ill-named problem for which they could find no satisfactory explanation.Everyone in the police station has thought about the problem, from the chief to the police officer who went to the beach to investigate. Everyone attacked each other's arguments. In the end, there was only one consensus: everyone wanted to shift the responsibility to others. someone's body.Of course, it is good to continue to investigate the crime in your hand and get the credit for solving the case, but the premise is that there is really a crime.If the crime is confirmed based on the corpse alone, if it fails, it is not because they are afraid of losing face, but what they are most afraid of is the pointing and ridicule of others. This is something they don't want to get involved in their hearts.So Grant canceled his theater reservation and went south to West Overlay.He met with the local less-than-sophisticated police team, patiently listened to their opinions and the views of the forensic doctor, and when he went to bed in the early morning, he was eagerly looking forward to interviewing Robert as soon as possible.Tisprit.Tisdu is by his side now, but because he saw the people from Scotland Yard without warning, he is still so frightened that he can't speak and is in a semi-comatose state.Yes, there is indeed a crime, there is no doubt about it.The driver, Kirk, was in the car, and it wasn't time for questioning. Before they returned to Siover, Tistor should also be awake.Grant took out a small wine bottle from the storage box on the car and handed it to Tistor.

Tisdu took it tremblingly, and honestly took a big gulp.It wasn't long before he started apologizing for his weakness. "I don't know how it happened. The whole thing was a terrible shock to me. I didn't sleep and a whole bunch of things kept going through my head. Or should I say, things kept going through my head and I couldn't stop it. And then, at the autopsy, it was like—I'm like, is there something wrong? I mean, isn't it just a drowning incident? Why is the autopsy delayed at the end?" "There were one or two things that bothered the police a little bit." "What, say?" "I think we'll wait until Siover to discuss everything." "Will everything I say be evidence against myself?" He smiled strangely, but without malice. "You said what I said." The inspector said flatly, and the two fell into silence. By the time they arrived at the county police chief's office, Tistor, though tired, looked normal. In fact, he was so normal that when Grant introduced, "This is Mr. Tistor", the amiable director almost shook hands with him, but he quickly stopped his hand in time and looked serious. "Hello. Uh, cough!" He cleared his throat to get himself back to normal.Can't do that, I know. God, absolutely not.This is a murder suspect.It doesn't look like it, not at all.But it's hard to say anything these days.The most fascinating ones were—something that he hadn't known until recently had actually existed.It is a pity.But of course no handshake.Absolutely not. "Hmm! What a lovely day! Not for the races, of course. It'd be a tiring run. But good for a holiday. Can't be too selfish for your own taste. Do you like races? Going to Goodwin's? Oh, oh, maybe —No, I think you and our friend—" For some reason, he just didn't want to use Grant's title of Inspector.One handsome man.Upbringing, and all that—"Would like to have a quiet chat. I'm going to lunch. At the Sailboat." That last line is convenient for Grant in case he needs to find him. "It's not that the food over there is particularly good, but that the place has a style. It's not like 'Ocean'. You don't have to go through the open-air lounge to get steak and potatoes." After finishing speaking, the chief went out. "What a character of Freddie Roy." Tistor said. Grant, who was pulling out a chair, looked up at him appreciatively. "You're a theater buff." "I used to be obsessed with almost everything." Grant noticed the peculiar word he used. "Why 'Original'?" he asked. "Because I'm broke. You have to be rich to be addicted." "I don't need to remind you of that 'everything you say will...', do I?" "No, thanks. It doesn't matter anyway, I can only tell you the truth. If you want to infer in the wrong direction, it's your fault, and you can't blame me." "So now it's me on trial. Great point, I appreciate it. You can try it. I wonder, how can you live under the same roof as a woman who doesn't know her name? You have no complaints with the County Police That's what it says, isn't it?" "Yes. I know it sounds weird. And absurd. But it's simple. You know, I was standing on the sidewalk across from the Diner Bar late one night, not knowing what to do. I had fivepence , extra fivepence , so to speak , because i expected to be penniless To cheat and act as if these ghost pennies don't exist. So—" "Excuse me. Please explain to a fool why fivepence is so important." "Those are the end of a fortune, you understand. Thirty thousand pounds. My uncle bequeathed me. My mother's brother. My name is Stanaway, but Uncle Tom says if I want to inherit his money, I must inherit it." his last name. I do not mind.The Tistors were better than the Stanaways anyway.On energy, on stability, everything.If I'd been like a Tistor, I wouldn't be broke now, but I'm almost a Stanaway. I'm a complete fool, the worst role model.When I inherited the money, I was working in an architect firm, living in an apartment and earning my living like a normal person;I quit my job and went everywhere I wanted to go but never expected to be.New York, Hollywood, Budapest, Rome, Capri, and who knows what else.When I got back to London I had two thousand pounds left on me, which I was going to put in the bank and get a job.It would have been easier to do that two years ago - I'm talking about putting money in the bank. Because no one will help spend the money.But in those two years I made a bunch of friends all over the world, and there were always a dozen of them in London at any given time.So I woke up one morning to find I had only my last hundred pounds left. I was taken aback, like being splashed with a bucket of cold water.For the first time in two years I sat down and started thinking.I have two options: live under the fence—you can live a very good life for half a year in any capital city in the world, as long as you know how to eat: I know this very well, I have raised a dozen such people— Another option is to run away. It's even easier to run away.I could easily disappear without a trace.Everyone will ask: "Why haven't I seen Tistor these days?" They will think that I am in a corner of the world where people like them go, and they don't know when they will run into me again. People think I'm supposed to be fucking rich, you know, and it's easier to get out and make them miss me than to stay and laugh at me when they find out the truth.I paid all the bills and left fifty-seven pounds.I figured I'd just gamble once and see if I could win enough money to start something new.I took out thirty pounds--fifteen pounds each time, this is Tistor's prudence in me--and bet the red sorbet on the eclipse.It only ran fifth.The remaining twenty or so pounds can't do anything except sell in the street.It seems I have no choice but to wander around.I don't think the idea of ​​wandering is so bad--it's a shift--but you can't bank twenty-seven pounds by going tramping, so I decided to spend it all at once the night before.I was determined to spend until I had nothing left in my pocket.Then I'd pawn off my tux and put on something suitable and hit the road.It hadn't occurred to me at the time that there were no pawnshops to be found at midnight on weekends in West Overlook.But hitting the road in evening gown is sure to turn heads.So I just stood there, as I said, pissed off at fivepence, not knowing what to do with the suit, and not even getting a place to sleep.I was standing next to the traffic light in Ardwych, just before the turn onto Lancaster Avenue, when a car pulled over when the light came on red. Chris is in the car, and she's driving alone—""Chris? " "I didn't know her name then. She looked at me for a while. It was very quiet on the street, just the two of us. We were so close, so everything seemed natural, and she smiled and said to me, 'Where are you going?Sir, I will send you off. ’ I said, “Okay. To the end of the day.” She said, “It’s a bit off the beaten track.Chatsham, Pfeiffersham, Canterbury, or the East Coast, would it? 'Well, that's a way too.I couldn't stand there any longer, and I couldn't make up any airtight story about borrowing a bed from a friend's house.What's more, that group of people felt far away from me, so I got into the car without thinking too much.I find her charming.I didn't tell her all that I just said, but she soon understood that I was broke.I tried to explain, but she said, "It doesn't matter, I don't want to know. Let's just accept each other as we are. Your name is Robin, I'm Chrissy." I just told her my name is Robert. Stanaway, somehow , she just called me by my nickname at home. The group used to call me Bobby. It was comforting to hear someone call me Robin again." "Why did you tell her your name was Stanaway?" "I don't know, maybe I want to escape from the identity related to wealth. I didn't do the name any favors anyway, and I always thought my name was Stanaway anyway. "Okay, go ahead. " "That's pretty much all that needs to be said. She invited me to live. Tell me she's alone, but—well, but I can only be a guest. Isn't it a bit preposterous when I say she's like that. She said:" Yes , but I've been trying my luck all my life, and so far it's been pretty good. ' Sounded like a bad arrangement, but it turned out to be the exact opposite. She's right, if two people simply accept each other, everything will be easy.There was a feeling (weird, but true) as if we had known each other for years.If we start with nothing, it will take weeks to get to the same point.We all like each other.It's not sentimental, although she's really pretty; I mean, she's great.The next morning I had no clothes to wear, so I spent the day in a bathrobe and pajamas that someone had left behind.Mrs. Pitts came into my room on Monday and said: 'Here's your trunk, sir.' and put on the floor a suitcase I'd never seen before. Inside was a whole new suit of traveling clothes— Tweed jacket, flannels, socks, shirts, everything, all from Canterbury. The suitcase is old, but it has my name on it. She even has my name on it. Remember. I can't describe to you how I feel about these things. You know what, the first time in years that I've been given something. Used to be with that group, they just take what they want. 'Bobby pays',' Bobby's car'. They never thought of me. I bet they never took a good look at who I was. Anyway, these clothes made me cry. I would go through fire and water for her. She saw me wearing I smiled when I got the clothes on—of course it wasn’t custom-made, but it fit me very well—then said: “It’s not from Famous Street, but it still looks passable.Don't say I don't understand men's measurements. ’ So we just let it go and had a good time, just hanging out, reading, talking, swimming, cooking when Mrs. Pitts wasn’t around.I don't think about the future for a while.She said that in ten days or so she must leave the farm.After staying for a day, I once politely offered to leave, but she refused.I won't mention it after that.That's how I got to live there, and why I don't know her name. "He sat down, gasped, and sighed sharply." Now I know how psychiatrists make their money.It's been a long time since I've felt so comfortable after confessing to you. "Grant smiled unconsciously. There was something touchingly childish about the young man. Then he shook his head violently in his heart, like a dog just crawling out of the water. Charm, that is man's most insidious weapon.Someone is using this weapon right now, right in front of him.He looked at this kind and vulnerable face calmly.There was a murderer just like him: blue-eyed, good-natured, innocent; but that man cut up his fiancée and buried her in the tomb.Tistor's eyes showed a particularly warm light blue color. Grant had seen a lot of this kind of men, and for them, women were a necessary existence.Mother's good babies have those eyes; so sometimes feminine men have them too. Anyway, soon he will know whether what Tisi Duo said is true.As for now—"You want me to believe that during the four days you've been together, you haven't suspected Miss Clay's identity at all?" He waited until Tistor would not notice before asking this crucial question. "I had my doubts about her being an actress. Partly because of things she said, but mostly because of the drama and film magazines that were all over her house. I asked her once, and she said: 'No name, no baggage.'"That's a good adage, Robin.do not forget. ... "I see. Did Miss Clay send you a coat among the outings?" "No. There is a raincoat. I have the overcoat myself." "Do you wear your coat over your evening dress?" "Yes. It was drizzling when we went out to dinner—I mean me and the gang." "Is that coat still there?" "No. It was stolen in the car when we went to Dimjo the other day." His eyes became wary. "Why do you ask? What does this have to do with that coat?" "Dark or light?" "Of course it's dark. Dark gray or something. What's the matter?" "Did you report it lost?" "No, we don't want to draw attention to ourselves. It's nothing to do with—" "Just tell me what happened on Thursday morning, will you?" The innocence of the face opposite him was fading away inch by inch, and wariness and hostility were again shrouded. "I know you didn't go swimming with Miss Cray. right? ""right.But she was almost out when I woke up—" "Since you are asleep, how do you know when she will go out?" "Because it was only six o'clock in the morning, she couldn't have walked very long. And Mrs. Pitts said afterwards that I followed her." "I see. Also, the hour and a half from when you got up to when Miss Cray's body was found - roughly, you walked to the canyon, stole the car, and drove to Canterbury, regretting what you did , came back, and found Miss Clay drowned. Is that all you did?" "Yes, that's all I think." "If you are so grateful to Miss Clay, this behavior is quite abnormal." "Abnormal isn't enough to describe. I can't believe I did that at all." "Are you pretty sure you didn't go into the water that morning?" "Of course I'm sure. Why?" "When was the last time you swam? I mean before Thursday morning?" "Wednesday noon." "And your bathing suit is still wet by Thursday morning." "How do you know? Yes, yes. It's not sea water, though. I spread it out on the roof out the window, and when I was getting dressed Thursday morning, I noticed the birds in the trees—there was an apple tree hanging over a gable F—pooped on that bathing suit. So I washed it with fresh shower water." "But, obviously, you didn't hang it out again?" "After something like that happened last time? No, I hung it on the towel rack. Spare me, Inspector, and tell me what the hell this has to do with Chrissy's death? Don't you see there's no reason Is the questioning torture? I'm at the limit of what I can bear. This morning these questions were the last straw. Everyone's talking about how she was found. Everyone's talking about 'that body', in It's always been Chrissy in my mind. And now I have these strange doubts. Even if there is something unclear about her drowning, how could it have anything to do with my coat?" "Because we found this thing in her hair." Grant opened a cardboard box on the table and took out the usual black button on men's coats.It was ripped straight from where it should have been, with the broken thread still retaining a messy "neck".On this neck, near the button, was a thin strand of blond hair. Tisdu stood up, put his hands on the edge of the table, and stared at the thing. "You think someone drowned her? I mean—something like that. But definitely not me.Buttons like that are everywhere.Why do you think it's mine? ""I don't think anything, Monsieur Tistor.I'm just ruling out all possibilities.All I want to do is find out if any of your personal clothing has buttons like this on it.You say you had one, but it was stolen. " Tistor stared at the inspector, his mouth opened and closed, unable to speak. After a sloppy knock on the door, the door floated open, and there stood a short and thin sixteen-year-old girl outside the door, wearing a sloppy tweed suit, with black hair without a hat and very messy. "Oh, sorry," she said, "I thought my dad was here. Sorry." Tisdu fell to the floor with a "bang". Grant was sitting across from the big desk, and immediately jumped up, but this thin girl, who didn't see her in a hurry or panic, came one step ahead of Grant. "My God!" she said, lifting the prone body under her shoulders with her hands and turning it over. Grant fetched a cushion from the armchair. "I wouldn't do that," she said, "keep your head back unless you've had a stroke. But he seems too young for a stroke, doesn't he?" She began to loosen Tistor's collar, tie and front, with a professional and detached technique like a chef cutting off excess dough from the side of a round cake.Grant noticed many small scars and scratches, old and new, on her tanned wrists, showing through the too-short sleeves. "I think you'll find brandy in the cupboard. Papa can't drink, but he can't help it." Grant had gone to fetch the brandy and came back, and saw her slapping Tistor's unconscious face lightly but steadily. "You seem to be good at this sort of thing," said Grant. "Oh, I lead Girl Scouts at school." Her voice was clear and friendly. "A very—very ridiculous organization. But it can make a change in a static life. The point is here, it will not remain the same." "Did you learn this in the Girl Scouts?" he asked, nodding in approval of her work. "Oh no. They only know how to burn paper and smell salts and all that. I learned it in Bravo Pete's dressing room." "where? " "You know. The middleweight guy. I used to have a lot of confidence in him, but I think he's been slowing down lately. Don't you think? At least, I hope it's the speed. He's slowly starting to wake up. ’ The last sentence was of Tistor. "Now you can give him brandy." As Grant fed him brandy, she said, "Did you torture him or something? Are you a policeman?" "My dear little lady—I don't know your name yet?" "Erica. I'm Erica. Burgoyne." "My dear Miss Burgoyne, as the daughter of the Chief Constable, you should know that the only people who are tortured in England are the police." "So why did he pass out? Is he guilty?" "I don't know." Grant blurted out. "I don't think so," she looked at Tistor, who was spitting now. "He doesn't look like someone who would commit a felony." It was said with the same seriousness and detachment as everything she had just done. "Don't let appearance cloud your judgment, Miss Burgoyne." "I haven't. It's not like you said. Anyway, he's not my type. But as long as you know enough, it's reasonable to judge by appearance. Even if you squint, you won't buy a A limp chestnut, would you?" This, Grant thought, was the most incredible conversation. By this time she was on her feet, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her battered jacket, and making two balls out of it.The cuffs of the tweed jacket she was wearing were frayed and covered with threads left by thorns.The skirt was too short, and a stocking twisted and curled up on her leg.Only her shoes—as scarred as her hands, but thick and fitting and of high quality—said the fact that she was by no means an orphan from a nursery. Grant's eyes returned to her face.That was no ordinary little girl's face.There is a kind of calm determination on the sallow triangular face, which is not something that any nursery can train. "Here!" she said cheerfully, while Grant was helping Tisprit to his feet and helping him into a chair. "You're all right. Have some more of my dad's brandy. It's better than letting it run into my dad's veins. I gotta go.where is my daddy, do you know ' she asked Grant. "He went to the 'Sailboat' for lunch." "Thank you." She turned to Tisdu who was still in a daze and said, "Your shirt collar is too tight." When Grant went to help her open the door, she asked, "You haven't told me your name yet?" "Qalante. At your command." He said and bowed slightly to her. "I don't need anything right now, but maybe in the future." She looked him over.Grant was amazed to find himself fervently wishing not to be classified as a "soft chestnut" by her. "You're more my type. I like wider cheekbones. Good-bye, Mr. Grant." "Who is that?" Tisdu asked, with a tone of awakening from a dream. "Chief Burgoyne's daughter." "She was right about my shirt." "Is it one of those dresses she gave you?" "Yes. Am I under arrest?" "Oh, no. Nothing like that." "Prison would be a good idea, too." "Oh? How to say?" "At least I can settle down for now. I left the farm this morning and I have nowhere to go now." "You mean you'd seriously consider going vagabond." "Just find the right clothes to wear." "I'd rather you stay where you can be found if the case demands it." "I understand. But how?" "What about your old architect's firm? Why don't you get a job?" "I'm definitely not going to work in any firm anymore. Just not doing architecture. They put me in there because I can draw." "If I heard you right, are you planning to be a useless person and stop earning food for the rest of your life?" "Ah! That's such a bad word. No, of course not. I'm looking for a job. Just what can I do? ""After two years in high society, you should learn something.At least you can drive. " There was a tentative knock on the door, and then the captain poked his head in. "I'm very sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but I need to find something in the Director's file. It's urgent." Asking permission, he walked in. "The seaside is lively this season, sir," he said, flipping through the files. "Definitely from Continental. The chef at 'Ocean' - that restaurant is just out of town, so that's our case - the chef stabbed a waiter like he had dandruff. I mean, the waiter Dandruff. The cook is being sent to jail, the waiter is being taken to the hospital. Looks like a lung injury. Thank you, sir. Sorry to bother you." Grant looked at Tistor, who was wearing his tie sadly and dazedly.Tisdu noticed his eyes and was clearly confused for a moment, then he understood and opened his mouth automatically. "I said, Captain, do you know if they have someone to fill that waiter's vacancy?" "Not yet. Mr. Toselli--he's the manager--is struggling with that." "Are you done?" he asked Grant. "That's all for today," Grant said. "Good luck."