Chapter 16 Chapter Thirteen Circe's Husband

A long and contented grunt suddenly came from the corner of the furnace. "Aha! . . . " exclaimed Sir Henry Merrillville, gesticulating, waving his extinct pipe, "now we've got it. I've been waiting for this, Masters. Yes, I'd rather think it was him Do it. Let him in, Potter..." cried Sir Henry Merrillville, "I say, boy, you'd better go out and keep the newsmen out of the way until I go and see the waterside pavilion." "You mean, Sir Henry! . . . " said Masters, "it was the man—but who was he? . . . I remember hearing the name—killed Martha Tate, and . . . ..."

Sir Henry Merrillville snorted: "I didn't mean that at all, fool. Oh, on the contrary, I'm afraid it is. I can think of two or three people who would never kill Martha Tate, He was one of them. He gave her poisoned chocolate, yes, but not to make her eat it. He knew she never ate chocolate. You see, boy, you know how to give poisoned chocolate to a guy, don't touch it Sweet tooth, I think that's quite funny. He never wanted to kill anybody." Sir Henry Merrillville sneered, shaking his big bald head, "Only two chocolates in the box were poisoned, and none of them Lethal dose. Poor fool. Even had a good conscience, when the box was handed to him, he broke one piece. Tell others not to eat, and swallow the other piece himself. Hehe. You will soon understand , Masters . . . brought him here."

They brought Tim Emery in a few minutes later.If James Bennett had last seen him two days ago, he had looked restless and disaffected—perfectly expressed by the drawn mouth, narrow, angular face, and bloodshot eyes— —and he looks sick now, not like a physical illness caused by swallowing half a grain of strychnine.His face was so sallow that you could even see the protruding cheekbones; such a lifeless visage, with sandy hair markedly split, looked like a wig.He was wearing a camel's hair coat, which was stained with water stains from the snowmelt, and he was using his fingers to turn and shake the hat back and forth.They heard him whistling, breathing like an adenoid.

"Who... who is the scout in charge here?" he croaked like a frog. Masters rolled out a chair for him, and Sir Henry Merrillville leaned forward. "Quite simple," muttered Sir Henry Merrillville. "Why, boy, what the hell is that idea of ​​rushing in here and telling everyone about the candy box? You want to be damned thrown out." ?" "That's the only way these morons will let me in," hissed Tim Emery. "They thought I was a reporter and tried to sneak in too. Anyway, now what's the difference? Mind if I Want something to drink?" He fumbled in his inside pocket.

Sir Henry Merrillville looked at him. "You little newscaster, you always want to break out about the chocolate box. It's all rotten and sour, isn't it?" "Ah!..." Tim Emery said in surprise, his hands straightened, "I didn't say that!..." "Well, now, you'd better say it. Don't be a fool. Martha Tate has strictly forbidden you from telling the news media about her whereabouts or anecdotes about her. That's what you've been complaining about. Therefore, you think that even if you leak a little information about Martha Tate when necessary, as long as it does not endanger her life or anyone else's life, Martha Tate will have nothing to do. You plan to testify against the box of chocolates Poisoned, and, only Carl Wraig got it before you. There's going to be a big splash in the papers - 'Attempt to murder Martha Tate', good publicity, hey?  … Hand over the box to To the apothecary, found poisoned. John Bohun insisted that everyone take a piece, you are like a hero... Pooh!"

Sir Henry Merrillville looked at him sourly from behind his spectacles.He puffed his cheeks, made a noise, and turned to look at James Bennett. "You start to understand why I told you yesterday in the office that there was nothing to be afraid of, and besides, Miss Tate was in no danger, hey? She wouldn't have--if only this Emery was up to it. But the fact No, there is another person who really intends to kill her..." "Hah! . . . " Sir Henry Merivale imitated falsely, without a trace of joy, "well done. From his ingenious ideas, an industrious newspaper can only learn of doses of strychnine, Didn't get the satisfaction of churning out a story without breaking the limits. Because our wise friend, Mr. Carl Ragg, pointed out a point he had overlooked. Publicity would lead to a police investigation. Maybe they wouldn't be under contract. , to release Martha Tate in time for her return to America. Very wise friend, Reg."

Masters picked up the notebook and nodded grimly. "There's still room," said Sir Henry Merrillville, "for the police to investigate. We don't like the kind of news reports here. After all, giving someone something poisonous is an attempted murder. I dare say you know that." point, Mr. Emery?" Tim Emery's bloodshot eyes showed confusion.He made a vague movement, as if brushing away an annoying fly. "Yeah, but... oh my God!..." he said excitedly, "it's a good story. It... anyway, what difference does that make? Now there's something else, I say there's something else !..."

"You know? . . . " asked Sir Henry Merrillville casually. "That kid Carl Ragg called me, he's drunk. Can I—see her?" As Tim Emery spoke, his body trembled uncontrollably, and his empty eyes slowly moved to Sir Henry Merrivier. "He got very drunk and said she had an accident in a water pavilion, but, I don't know what he was talking about, only a marble jewel box was mentioned. That... the poor fool was crying - Carl Wraig. I don't know what it is, but if we can take her across the sea, we can give her the best jewel box in London. He said they were going to arrest Mr. Bohun and hang him here, would they?  … Really Exaggeration."

His words rattled against each other, but the sound itself had no power.Tim Emery ran his fingers up and down the arm of his chair.Some thoughts are tormenting him, and just like when his mind is entangled every day, he has to put them into words, otherwise it will be difficult to calm down. "Now. I'm ready to make a full confession, and you'll find out sooner or later. If Bohun kills Masha Tate, as Carl Wraig said, it will be my fault. Because I told Carnifest... …” Tim Emery paused and explained, “Yesterday afternoon, I sneaked out of the hospital and told him. Carl only found out about it two days ago, and he said it was the best way to stop the show. Well, I mean, he found out that Carneyfest was their angel, so..." He gestured excitedly.

"Relax, boy. Have your drink! . . . " Sir Henry Merrillville waved his hands drowsily. "And then, let's sort out the clues. What did you tell Carneyfest?" "I said she was married." Masters interjected emphatically: "In fairness, I have to warn you, Mr. Emery, that you have to be careful what you say. By your own volition, you have admitted that you are responsible for a criminal indictment." Responsibility, a willful and malicious attempted murder..." "What, murder her? . . . " exclaimed Tim Emery, jumping up from his chair, "God, I never hurt her! . . . A bunch of thoughts, but why keep blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, she's my wife."

The surroundings suddenly fell silent, and someone whistled softly.Tim Emery looked around the crowd slowly, with a look of cynical despair on his face. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking, I don't deserve to be invited to such a nice house with my monkey face. Well! . . . Now let me tell you a little bit about it, I put Martha Tate Made into a star." He said slowly, with a strong sense of triumph in his voice, "Ask anyone who brought her to where she is today, ask them, and see what they will answer. I made her rise when she was unknown." Tim Emery announced excitedly, "There are indeed a lot of good directors who can lead good actors, but if you think this will be done, then You're a pig. That's no way to make a star, you need a monkey face to do that. "I did whatever she wished, I always did. She made a condition that no one would know she was married so it wouldn't affect her career. Well, I guess she was right. Let everyone know, Doesn't it pay off that she sticks with me, eh?" Tim Emery sighed and shook his head, "I can do—now you're going to think I'm the worst idiot in the world, of course I can't stop it, you'll know anyway, but that's the way I think - all I can do is create a wife I can talk about and use instead of Martha in my conversations Tate, that's a comfort. I call her Margaret, because I've always liked that name..." The hoarse voice faded away, and the final confession brought with it an uncomfortable shame that seemed to outweigh everything else.Tim Emery looked around defiantly.With his hand in his breast pocket, he took out a large, flat silver wine bottle, first pretending to hand it to everyone, then he lifted the bottle and poured it into his mouth.After taking a sip, he let out a long breath and trembled all over his body. "Oh, what's the matter?" Tim Emory sat back in his chair, suddenly annoyed. "You mean..." Masters said suspiciously, "You actually allowed... come in right away!..." "A new type of marriage. Ah, I'm beginning to understand," said Sir Henry Merrillville sarcastically.He blinked lazily, letting his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose; despite the cynical weariness of his mouth, he sat motionless like a giant Buddha. Long, he's probably going to have a stroke, and he's starting to doubt you. I know it's not easy to go on, but if you're willing to go on..." Sir Henry Merrillville slapped Tim Emery A gesture, "Well, I'm too experienced in this crazy world to be overly surprised by whatever I hear. If I call her a vampire, you'll still hit me in the eye, won't you?" "I just care about one thing," Masters said, "whatever I think about it, I have only one job: to find out who killed Martha Tate. So, I'm going to ask Ask Mr. Tim Emery, as her husband, if you know, Miss Tate and Mr. John Bohun..." Sir Henry Merrivell's grunt drowned out Masters' voice: "You know what he's going to say, boy. You've got too much brains to answer without asking. Pretend a shovel isn't a shovel, Then it's the equivalent of being invisible, which always makes everyone feel better. How's that?" "Oh, shut up, will you?..." Tim Emery said, eyes still closed, his body trembling, "Yes, I know. Are you satisfied?... I knew it from the beginning, because she Tell me." "I see!..." growled Masters, "and you don't...?" "If that makes her happier," said Tim Emery dully, "I don't care. Now, for sweet Judas' sake, can you leave me alone?" His voice rose . Sir Henry Merrillville fixed his eyes on him, and raised his hand sharply to silence Masters.He seemed to know that Tim Emery would act on his own... "I want her to go on," added Tim Emery abruptly, "and be big. Big, that's what I mean. To tell you the truth, I don't give a damn if she goes back to America or plays here; No matter what she does, I will support it. It is hard to imagine that she will die, there is nothing to say..." He sighed and stomped his feet angrily, "There is only one thing that hurts like poison and makes me want to leave this country I never realized that people would look at me that way when I told that old Carneyfest guy I married her and he looked at me like I was a parasite Yeah. Bastard, what's wrong with me?...Listen, I'll tell you what I did." A look of eagerness returned to his face, "I rented the best Rolls-Royce in London, equipped with a car that can be opened into a bed. in a car with a seat in the car, going to take her back to London. Listen, I'm bringing it here now, with a special driver in black. We're going to fill the car with flowers and she'll be back in a funeral procession. London, that would be the biggest event in the history of this country..." It sounds like Tim Emery is definitely serious.He wants to use his own way to offer the final tribute. "Well, there are some formalities to go through first," said Sir Henry Merrillville, rising slowly and panting. "Sergeant Masters and I are going to the Waterside to investigate. If you like , we can go together later. You said that you told Carneyfest all these things yesterday afternoon, was it your own idea?" "Yes, partly yes..." Tim Emery nodded, and he hesitated as soon as the words came out, "No... wait a minute, yes, I think so. I don't remember. It started in Director Carl Wraig was talking to me. Before Carl came here, he visited me in the hospital." Emery tried to clear his mind and had to turn to the bottle again. "He said, that has to be done. He said he was going to come here, and flattered Bohun's brother, and promised all sorts of crazy rules, in order to get into the house. God, what fun! . . . And he wanted to give old Maurice Bohun a year Fifty thousand pounds, hire him as a technical consultant..." "Aha. Serious advice, isn't it?" "Don't be a fool!..." Sir Henry Merivale raised his voice intentionally or unintentionally, and Tim Emory unconsciously responded with the same tone. "So Carl Wraig already knows you're married to Tate, hey?" "He guessed. Anyway, when he said we had to work harder, I admitted it." "Does Mr. John Bohun know?" asked Sir Henry Merivale gravely. "No...he doesn't know!" Tim Emory shook his head in denial. "Be careful now, boy, of course you can keep yourself in check? Take it easy. Doesn't John Bohun know?" Sir Henry Merrivier continued. "Tate told me he didn't know! She swore to me she never told him." Sir Henry Merivale straightened up suddenly. "Okay!..." He said in a boring tone, "You can go to your friend, Mr. Carl Wraig, and see if you can calm him down. Let's go to the Waterside..." He looked around, with the corners of his mouth curled , "Where's my nephew, hey? . . . Where's that James B. Bennett kid? . . . " he called out, "Ah! . How did she get on the floor? Something else. Come here." James Bennett looked down at Catherine Bohun. She hadn't spoken since Tim Emory arrived, and she didn't even make a sound when she motioned for him to go with her... Sir Henry Merrillville lumbered ahead, and Sergeant Masters, jotting down something quickly in his notebook, followed them through the corridor to the side door, where Sergeant Porter was arguing with the news media.James Bennett hastily picked up a coat that was not his, and followed quickly. "Stand back! . . . " growled Sir Henry Merrillville at Masters, "make a statement to them, and come over. Say nothing! Say nothing! . . . Damn!  … ’ He opened the door. ‘Go in, boys, and talk to the sheriff.’ Sir Henry Merrillville squeezed into the crowd, jealously guarding an ancient rust-coloured top hat, still murmuring. Then, the door slammed shut with a bang... They stood there for a moment on the side porch, breathing the bleak air.To their left, the gravel expressway wound sloping down through tangles of oak branches, facing the road two hundred yards away.To their right, the lawn sloped down again, and a cloud of snow was moving in the sky.The continuous snowflakes seem to have the effect of restoration, and can bury all the traces of the world. It was a sign, a symptom, like a car in the fast lane.Even though the expressway was packed with cars, the tall Rolls-Royce could still be seen, its blinds down, standing black in the thickening snow, like death waiting to take Martha Tate.Its appearance is rather absurd, but it is not absurd in itself. On Tim Emory's gaudy yellow car, "Singhaz Studios" was written in all capital letters, and a tiny bronze stork perched above the smoking water tank.Next to the black car, it looks like a dwarf, standing side by side like life and death waiting; against it, the former looks more gloomy. James Bennett found himself thinking of the signs, as clumsily as life, a bronze stork or a dim awning, plus the black car on this mysterious road, completely overpowering the yellow one.And the most special thing is that the image of Martha Tate emerged in my mind. He tried to get rid of the thought as he set foot on the lawn, following Sir Henry Merrillville.Looking at his watch, he realized that it was almost half past one in the morning.At this time last night, when it was also snowing heavily... "Yes, good." He heard Sir Henry Merrillville's voice.Glancing around, he saw those strange little eyes staring at him.In the mist of rolling snowflakes, those eyes were black, and against the odd top hat and moth-eaten fur collar, they looked only like a parody of an old actor. "This is last night, when it happened-I heard about you and this girl, what's going on?" "I just met her this morning." "Aha. She looks a lot like Martha Tate. That's why?" "No." James Bennett immediately shook his head in denial. "Well, that's not a denial. There's only one thing that needs to be confirmed, she's either not the murderer," Sir Henry Merrillville wiped his jaw, "or has something to do with it. The first case is disturbing, the second The situation is a bit embarrassing again. Can you see things from that angle?... No, I guess you can't. If you could, it would be worthy of your ingenuity. Anyway, you can put your resting brain power on At one point, she didn't come down to see Tate last night..." muttered Sir Henry Merrillville, "no, no, boy. She was too worried to prove that Carneyfest's daughter didn't do it Come on, she thought Carney Fest's daughter did it." "You think so too?" asked James Bennett in amazement. "Are you only thinking of women?" asked Sir Henry Merivale. "Mrs. Thompson didn't swear that she saw women. No, no, she won't, you widen your horizons a little. Think it's not..." Sir Henry Merrival examined carefully as he walked, "Besides, there are indeed other reasons for this old man to insist: it was this Louise Carraway who came down and beat Martha Tate Regardless of how this girl flew over a hundred feet of snow with extraordinary intelligence, I just ask you, what took her so long?" "What does that mean?" James Bennet looked at Sir Henry Merivale in wonder. "She came down at one-thirty. According to Masters, Martha Tate was killed after three. 'She came to persuade and exhort Martha,' and you would say, 'That didn't work, so she did it. ’ It actually took almost two hours. I can’t imagine that anyone could argue with Martha Tate for two hours and not get kicked out.” Sir Henry Merrillville shook his head as he spoke, his face growing serious. "Never mind that, though, and focus on the point. Tate is waiting for a visitor—John Bohun. If you have any doubts about that, uproot them from your mind and throw them out. Important news for Sturt." Sir Henry Merrillville nodded, "well, can you imagine a scene like this: Martha Tate's close lover came late at night, and she kept guests there, especially when The guest or the daughter of her promising marriage partner?... She got rid of Jarvis Wella quickly, but we suppose she allowed Miss Carraway to stay there for two hours, which she had been looking forward to, Mr Maurice Bohun will be here any minute. Two hours is a damn long time, boy." "But listen, sir! . . . Carl Wraig said: Bohun might come here sometime in the evening, have you reverted to the idea? Because we know John won't be back until three o'clock... ..." Sir Henry Merivale stopped suddenly.They followed two rows of vanishing footsteps to the entrance of the evergreen avenue. H.M. Yu looked around and pushed his hat forward.He looked back at the main house, up the slope, several hundred yards away.His eyes seemed to measure distance. "At this time, I won't say anything, boy, but Carl Wraig's idea of ​​forging footprints is more stupid than you think." Sir Henry Merivale shook his head lightly, and said with a sneer, "John Bohun came here at the time he said, didn't falsify, and before he came there were no footprints on the ground at all... No, no. Some behavior of the guy bothers me, but that doesn't count. Let me It was his behavior in London that bothered him furiously: he attacked Carneyfest and thought he had killed him..." James Bennett then remembered that, in the anguish and horror of the development of the case, he had almost forgotten the matter.He asked what happened, and what Carneyfest had said to Masters on the phone.Sir Henry Merrillville scowled hard as he appeared to be surveying the end of the evergreen avenue. "I don't know, boy, unless Masters tells me. It seems that Masters tried to imitate Morris's voice and said, 'Hey, what's up?...' And then, Carneyfest said something like 'I was going to tell you, Bohun, that I would like to take my daughter home at once, but I hope I don't have to explain why'. Something like that. Said Masters, sounding weak and disturbed; and Said: 'What's the matter? Because John punched you in the jaw and thought you had a heart attack and fell down dead?' Naturally he came to himself at once, recognized that it was not Maurice's voice, and began to babble: 'Bastard, who are you, who are you?...' Then Masters told him, that he was a cop, and that if Carneyfest didn't want to get involved in something evil, he'd better come here and give us some Help. He's exaggerating a lot, I get it, that Carneyfest's daughter was charged with murder, etc. All Masters knew was John Bohun, who followed the old fellow home last night, through the side door or Go in somewhere, try to revisit 'some business matter', two or three sentences don't fit, he makes John lose his temper. Naturally, Carneyfest is unlikely, and likes to say more on the subject." Sir Henry Merrillville sighed and spoke slowly as he walked. "Masters said: 'Heart attack or not, you have to come here.' Then hung up the phone, put Carney Fest on the other side, let him digest; if you don't cooperate with the police aboveboard, What a dire effect it will have on his reputation." "That seems straightforward enough..." James Bennett sighed and nodded. Sir Henry Merrivell grunted: "Is that so? . . . Then, let's go to the Waterside first." As Sir Henry Merrillville staggered on, he kept slapping the trees with his gloved hands irritably. "Look, didn't they say leave the body here and take Bohun to the hospital in the body wagon? Well, yes, that's what I was hoping for. Have you got a handkerchief?  … On my glasses It's covered in snow. What are you worrying about?" "But, damn it, sir, if there are no footprints anyway, and here's another woman murdered! . . . " "Oh, that? . . . you're just like Masters. It's interesting, but it's the easiest part. Mind you, I'm not saying I know how the trick works, I haven't seen the waterside yet. But I have A strong presentiment, oh, a very strong presentiment. If I find what I expect..." "You will know the identity of the murderer?" "No! . . . " said Sir Henry Merivale, "damn it, that's all. I can only tell you now that there are two or three people who are not murderers, and that's not according to common sense. According to common sense, As long as you understand the trick of creating illusions and deceiving people, this kind of trick will make the murderer appear." He muttered impatiently, "A special crime requires a series of special circumstances. When you know what they are Sometimes, those circumstances amount to narrowing the field and putting the executioner's hat on a person's head. Well, that's the exception. Even if I'm right, I can't get any closer to the truth because..." "Because?..." James Bennett's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked at Sir Henry Merrivier curiously. There were now many rows of footprints in the wide, shadowy clearing before they came to the frozen lake.There are no lights in the water pavilion, and it looks even darker against the ghostly white snow.This oppressive world is so still that they hear only the rustling of snowflakes and the soft sound of falling on evergreen branches. "When I laughed at Masters," said Sir Henry Merrillville, "I felt so graceful and incontrovertible. I asked if it was not by accident that the murderer walked from the scene of the crime without leaving a single footprint. ?… And then I laughed like an idiot. But that's it, boy, that's the whole conundrum, and that's what actually happened." James Bennett looked around.At dawn, when he first arrived at the clearing, he had a strange feeling; now he began to experience it again: being locked up in a dark place that does not exist in modern times, where Martha Tate Died amidst the finery of the Stuart period, as dead as those wax figures of ladies bound with ribbons.They were all painted and curled, and smiled at the feathered fans that lay on the Happy Sovereign's card table... He looked up sharply.Lights shot out from the water pavilion.

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