Chapter 5 Chapter 4 Messy Lines

Ellery walked alone on the crushed runway, holding his breath to capture all the movements in the stadium.Behind them are those silent cowboys and cowboys, surrounded by a dead man and a weeping girl, like a group of strangers in a different place.High above, on the noisy stands, people are flying wildly like crazy ants; women are screaming endlessly, and men are also roaring angrily; the chaotic footsteps continue to roar like thunder.In the distance, some slender figures in blue uniforms were added to the various exits behind the stands, and the copper buttons on the uniforms flickered under the lights.The guards outside the museum, who were dispatched urgently, were already busy maintaining order.They pushed spectators back into their seats and didn't let anyone leave the stadium.

Good idea!Ellery praised to himself: A smile appeared on his face, and he quickened his pace and walked forward. He almost trotted to stand in front of the makeshift photography platform, looking at the petite Major Kobe on the platform—he was pale and calm, and he was calmly directing his staring photographers with limp hands and feet to shoot. manage the scene. "Major!" Ellery called, trying to drown out the noise. Major Bryant glanced down the stage: "Huh? Oh—what's the matter, Mr. Quinn?" "Don't leave the platform!" The major made a smile, which was fleeting: "You don't have to worry about it. God, you can finally rest! By the way, what happened over there? Is the old cowboy bewitched?"

"The old cowboy," said Ellery darkly, "has been shot, and that's what's in him. He's been murdered, Major—through the heart." "Oh my God!" Ellery looked up sadly: "Come here, major." - The director of photography leaned over, his small black eyes blinked - "Did your camera capture the whole thing?" Sparks flashed from the little black eyes: "It's great! It's great!" His face suddenly turned red, "It's a miracle, Mr. Quinn, it's a miracle... Yes, every second of the scene It was filmed" Ellery said eagerly, "That's great, Major, that's great. That's a wonderful blessing of God for the profession of detectives. Now listen: Go ahead and shoot everything you see—I need Record every detail from now until the time I tell you to stop. Got it?"

"Oh, that's pretty clear." The major paused, then added, "But how long should I be filming..." "You're worried about the cost of the film?" Ellery smiled. "I don't think you need to worry, Major. It's a rare opportunity for your company to work for the police. Come to think of it, the film company pays for it." How extravagant it is, I don’t think this bit of film is anything, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.” The major was obviously moved, stroked his moustache and pondered for a moment, then nodded, straightened his back, turned around and went to assign tasks to his subordinates.One camera focused on the crowd at the scene of the incident; another scanned the field like a one-eyed robot looking around;The sound engineer has his hands full.

Ellery straightened his tie, flicked a bit of dust off the chest of his snowflake jacket, and strode back across the arena. Sergeant Quinn, a venerable criminal investigator, if he has any halo on his head, it is "hard work".There is only one man in New York who can be called, without malice, "The Unscrupulous Critic."It was the nature of his work to find fault with small and insignificant trifles.He was something of an expert in trifles, a eccentricity with a penchant for detail.However, he will not forget to maintain a comprehensive vision because the old and immortal nose is often too close to the ground.

...The incident before him gave him another chance to display his expertise.A murder took place in the wide open arena, under the full attention of 20,000 people.And any one of these two thousand people could be the murderer of Buck Horne!Police Officer Quinn's head with thin gray hair leaned forward slightly, fingering the old-fashioned brown snuffbox in his pocket, talking to himself endlessly; at the same time, his bright little eyes He kept observing the movements in the stadium, not allowing himself to let go of any suspicious situation: probably luck, when he was looking forward to the reinforcements sent by the headquarters—that is, the criminal investigation team under him ——When he arrived as soon as possible, he unexpectedly discovered that a large number of police officers had been deployed here to take orders.Field dispatchers, stadium officials, and police officers who were on duty at the time of the murder were also called in.All exits of the museum are strictly guarded.Orders were relayed everywhere—no one, big or small, fat or thin, or high or low, was allowed to cross the police cordon.Officer Quinn calmly made the decision: No one should be allowed to escape this huge building until a thorough investigation of the 20,000 people present at the scene has been conducted.

The criminal police from the nearby area were also dispatched to the stadium and surrounded the entire building. They were ordered to carry out this simple task, just to ensure that no one escaped.Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched around the steel fence.Men and women on horseback are separated and gathered in one corner of the field. These people have dismounted.The horses had calmed down at this moment, their hooves kicked the ground leisurely, and snorted briskly from time to time, their fur became hot and humid from the vigorous running just now, and looked radiant. The two special officials guarding the east and west gates of the arena are sticking to their posts dutifully, and they have also received manpower reinforcements from the criminal police.The entire stadium was quickly sealed off, and no one could enter or exit.

Ellery ran up and saw his father staring at a very short cowboy—a guy with cloudy eyes and short, bow-legged ones. "Grant told me that you are in charge of taking care of those horses," Officer Quinn asked bluntly again, "what's your name?" The little cowboy licked his parched lips. "Dannu—Hank Boone. I don't know anything about killing people, officer. Honestly, I—" "Are you in charge of horses?" "I am, sir, and that's right!" Officer Quinn looked him up and down: "Were you also in the cavalry behind Buck Horn just now?"

"No!" Boone exclaimed. "Where were you, then, when Buck fell?" "It's way off, behind the Simon gate," grunted Boon, "and when I saw Buck fall down, I told old Boddy--the man who kept the gate--to let me in." "Did anyone else come in with you?" "No, sir, just Boddy and me." "That's it, Boone," Sergeant Quinn said, turning to one of the constables. "Take this man over the lot and let him watch the horses. We don't want the horses kicking." Boone smiled imperceptibly, and followed the police officer towards the horses.A temporary water tank was set up on the other side of the field, and Boon immediately went to lead the horse to drink water.The male and female cowboys standing aside looked at him coldly.

Ellery stood silent.The present part of the work clearly belonged to the father. He looked around, and Kit's trouser legs were still stained with sand, and his face was as gray as the disappearing moon, staring blankly at the corpse covered by the Indian blanket. On each side of her stood an escort—poor escort, one might say, for Curley's grotesque expression was that of a suddenly deaf man standing blankly in a silent world, while his father Standing there, it was as if caught off guard by a paralyzing evil wind and frozen in a state of unspeakable misery.The father and son just stared blankly at the ground in a daze, oblivious to everything around them.

Ellery was not a hard-hearted person either. His eyes were fixed on the corpse or away, but he was afraid to look into the eyes of the heartbroken girl. Officer Quinn was soberly issuing his orders: "Hey, you!—the patrolman of this block?—take two men and collect all the guns from the group. Yes, every gun must be confiscated !Get some card tags or something and put the name of the owner of the gun. If the gun is borrowed, put the owner's name on it too. Also, don't just ask, I ask for all people on the field, male or female , all will be thoroughly searched. Those people have the habit of carrying hidden weapons on their bodies, remember this." "Yes, sir." "Also," Officer Quinn was thinking, turning his bright eyes to the three people standing in a daze next to the corpse, "you may be able to search for those three people. That old guy, that curly-haired boy... Yes, and that lady." A thought flashed through him, and Ellery turned sharply, looking for someone.The man was not among the crowd around the body.The one-armed man was amazingly skilled at horseback... His eyes finally caught the figure of the one-armed man from across the field—the guy was sitting on the ground with an indifferent expression, throwing a dagger into the air, and went up Play up and down non-stop.Looking back, Crazy Bill Grant was submissively and awkwardly raising his arms to be searched, his eyes still sad and glazed.The holster on his thick waist belt was empty, and a detective was fiddling with his gun.Curley suddenly understood, blood rushed to his cheeks, and he opened his mouth angrily.Then he shrugged and surrendered his gun resignedly.It was quickly found out that neither Grant nor his son had a second gun on them.Then it's Kit Horn's turn... Ellery blurted out, "Don't..." Officer Quinn looked at him inexplicably.Ellery quietly pointed at the girl with his fingertip and shook his head.Officer Quinn rolled his eyes, but said nothing. "Well—you, leave Miss Horne alone. We'll ask her later." The two detectives nodded and walked towards the opposite side of the venue.Kit Horne, ignorant of all this, still fixed his ghastly eyes on the blanket that covered the corpse, as if studying the zigzag pattern on it. Officer Quinn sighed and rubbed his hands together. "Grant!" he called.The old entertainer immediately turned his head, "You and your son—lead Miss Horn over there, okay? What you have to do in a while—you'd better not watch it." Grant took a long, choked breath, with red eyes, and touched Kit's elbow: "Kit," he muffled, "Kit." Startled, Kit looked up at him in surprise. "Git, let's get out of here for a while, Kit." She looked down at the blanket on the floor again. Grant gave his son a push, and Curley rubbed his eyes, looking tired.They lifted Kit from either side, almost dragging her away.Kit felt suddenly frightened and wanted to cry, but she couldn't, the extreme stimulation made her exhausted and paralyzed.Grant and his son had to carry her across the field. Sergeant Quinn hissed. "That's enough for her, isn't it? Well, Ellery, get to work. I'm going to take a close look at the body." They signaled several criminal policemen to surround them, forming a tight barrier to isolate the corpse from people's sight.Officers Ellery and Quinn remained in the circle.Officer Quinn shook his slender arms, took a deep breath of snuff, squatted on the runway, and calmly lifted the blanket. The black knight uniform that was full of air not long ago was now covered with dust and blood in a self-deprecating manner, making it a mess.That dress was once so gorgeous and romantic in black, but now, with Horn's death, it has lost its dignity, its glory is gone, and all that is left is a dead air mixed with rust.The pair of knee-high leather boots are still intact on the distorted and grotesque legs, and the embroidered lace on the waist of the boots is clearly discernible;The trousers are black corduroy, tucked into the boot; the scarf around the neck is also black, and the shirt is a dazzling white, forming a stark contrast.The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up high above the elbows, each fastened tightly with ribbons; on the wrists were a pair of delicate and stylish black leather bracers, exquisitely embroidered and embellished with some silver metal decorations.These are the typical decorations that riding cowboys are keen to pursue: a flexible and strong black belt is tied around the waist;Holsters for carrying cartridges were sewn into it; a handsome black leather holster hung on the left and right sides of the waist, but both were empty. In this way, there are many tedious details that need to be observed and recorded one by one: Quinn and his son glanced at each other, and each buried their heads to search for more meaningful details. The waistcoat that Horn wore was exaggeratedly gorgeous, but it had been trampled to pieces by the strong hoofs of the horses, and it was covered with dust.The white shirt and the skin under the clothes were lacerated and stained with blood: there was a bullet hole on the left side of the chest, the edges were neat and clear like a red mark, and the direction of the bullet hole was clearly directed at the heart: the bleeding around the gunshot wound was surprisingly small , only a little sticky coagulation stuck the clothes near the bullet hole to the skin.The haggard old face was taut by death; one side of the silver-haired skull was obviously sunken, just behind the ears, shockingly reminding them that the crazy horses once flew the iron hooves to smash the dead man's skull Kicked hard and sank in.However, although the face of the deceased was blood-stained, the facial features were not too damaged.The lying posture of the whole body was very unnatural—it is impossible for ordinary people to make that kind of awkward posture—that is to say, the strong kicking and trampling of the horses had broken his limbs in many places. Ellery paled a little, stood up, turned his head away, and lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands. "It has been thoroughly checked." Officer Quinn murmured. "I feel like it's hard to do anything more than go through a religious scene right now." "Huh? What's that called?" "Oh, never mind," Ellery said, "I can't stand bloody woods... Dad, do you believe in miracles?" "What the hell are you talking about?" said the old man.He was unbuttoning the dead man's coat and belt--the belt fit snugly around the waist, with the pin in the first buttonhole--and then he struggled to undo the heavy pistol belt. Pointing to the dead man's face, Ellery said, "First miracle: His face was uninjured despite the hooves of the horse all over his body." "so what?" "Oh, God!" grumbled Ellery. "What? Dead people know. Well, that's the point! If a phenomenon can be explained, it's not a miracle, is it?" Officer Quinn didn't bother to answer his son's apparently absurd questions. "Second miracle," Ellery said with a puff of smoke, "look at his right hand." The old man complied involuntarily, though impatiently, and looked to the right side of the dead man.The right arm seemed to have been broken into two pieces, but the right hand showed a healthy bronze color without any damage.Fingers clasped tightly was the long-barreled revolver that Horne had just been brandishing on the field. "What's the matter?" "It's not just a miracle, it's a divine arrangement. He fell off his horse and was probably dead before he hit the ground, with forty-one horses trampling over him—and, God knows, he didn't let go of his gun." hand!" Officer Quinn licked his lower lip and looked at his son in confusion: "Yes, but what does this mean? Don't you think there is something..." "No, it's not," said Ellery irritably. "None of these phenomena can be man-made. It's all happening in full view; no, that's why I call it a miracle. The result is beyond the reach of man, There's something else going on. That's why it's such a pain in the ass to deal with... Oh, my God, why am I shaking. Where's his hat?" He walked through the surrounding wall of people and looked around.Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he quickly walked towards a black object on the ground about eight feet away—it was a black tall wide-brimmed hat.He picked it up with a bow and went back to his father. "It was his hat, yes," said Inspector Quinn. "It came off his head when he fell, and got kicked aside again." The two of them looked at the hat together.The noble crown-like hat has been ruined like that noble head, which has been ruthlessly destroyed.Its original color is dark, smooth and soft, with a wide brim that is slightly curved; there is a delicate black leather strip woven decorative belt where the cap tube meets the brim; there are two gilded letters inside - BH. Ellery placed the hat gently beside the dead man. Officer Quinn tirelessly looked and looked at the two leather gun belts of the deceased.Ellery looked at his father, seeming amused.The gun belt and the holster connected to it are extremely wide and bulky, especially since it has to be worn diagonally twice on the wearer's body, it is designed to be very long.It was also embellished with many shiny metal studs, echoing the other decorations on the deceased's body.The leather case holding the bullets is smooth and shiny, and there are also two silver cursive letters on the belt: BH.While this set of gun slings has been well maintained and cared for by its owner, it is clearly old and worn. "He's been using this thing for years, poor fool." Officer Quinn muttered to himself. "I suppose," Ellery sighed, "if you were a bibliophile, you'd take good care of all your books. Remember how much it took me to get my kraft bound book clean? " They went back to inspecting the belt on the waistband of the deceased.That belt is just as old, but just as well protected.Due to long-term use, the upper and lower belt holes have very deep strangle marks-there are two obvious strangle marks, the first is in the second belt hole, and the second is in the third belt hole-due to long-term use of these two holes, the leather around them has been worn very thin.The belt was so old, it looked like it had been around the waist of the Daily Express courier for many years.Like the gun belt, this belt has Horn's initials stamped in silver. "This man," murmured Ellery, handing the belt back to his father, "qualifies for the Antiquarian Society, all he needs is a pedantic beard! Look, wow, the belt You can also enter the museum!" Officer Quinn had long been used to his son's harsh jokes, and he turned his head and whispered something to a criminal policeman beside him, who immediately turned around and carried out the execution. He returned quickly and brought Grant. The latter's spirit had obviously recovered a lot, but his behavior was still very unnatural, as if he was preparing to bear a new blow. "Mr. Grant," said Constable Quin sharply, "I'm going to start my investigation in the usual way--asking for details first, and then discussing important matters. I'm afraid it will take a while." Grant said in a hoarse voice, "You are welcome." Officer Quinn nodded politely, and squatted down next to the corpse again. He cautiously used his fingers to touch the broken and filthy body of the deceased, and within three minutes, he had already taken out some small objects from the clothes on the corpse. Among them was a small wallet containing about thirty dollar bills.Officer Quinn handed it to Grant. "Is this Horne's?" Grant looked down. "Yeah, yeah. I—gosh—I gave it to him for his most—latest birthday." "Yes, yes." Officer Quinn hurriedly responded, passing the wallet through the loose fingers of the owner of the cavalry troupe.Among the other belongings was a handkerchief; a key with a small wooden plate - "Barclay's Hotel" stamped on it; a small box of brown rolling papers and a small bag of cheap tobacco; Long-handled matches; a checkbook . . . Grant looked at all the objects and nodded silently.Officer Quinn flipped through the checkbook thoughtfully: "What's the name of the New York bank he went to?" "Coast Bank, Coast National Bank. He only opened the account a week ago," murmured Grant. "How do you know?" Officer Quinn asked quickly. "When he first came to New York, he asked me to introduce him to a bank. I told him to go to the bank I went to." Officer Quinn turned over the checkbook, and sure enough, there was the bank's seal. It was very clear that it was indeed the Coastal National Bank and Credit Company.The check stub indicated that he still had more than five hundred dollars in deposit in his account. "Look carefully at what's here," Commander Quinn ordered. "Is there anything wrong, Mr. Grant?" Grant's bloodshot eyes scanned the pile of small items: "No." "Is there something missing?" "How would I know." "Well, how is his outfit? Is it all his usual clothes? Does it all look normal?" The strong man clenched his fists: "Do I have to watch him again?" He shouted in an out-of-tune voice, "Why do you torture me like this?" The man's grief seemed very real.So Officer Quinn said in a softer tone, "Calm down, man. We have to go through everything, and there are often clues on dead bodies. Don't you want to help us find your friend's murderer?" "My God, of course!" Grant stepped forward, forcing his eyes down.His eyes swept from the feet of the corpse to the hideous sunken head.He pondered for a long time without making a sound.Then, he swung his broad shoulders and said rudely: "Everything is there, there is nothing missing. This is the outfit he wore in the movie. Everyone can recognize the costume he wore in those years when he made the movie." "Excellent. Both—" "I'll put in a word," said Ellery, "Mr. Grant, I hear you say there's nothing wanting, are you?" Grant turned his head away very slowly, looking straight into Ellery's eyes, but there was a look of bewilderment in them, and—yes, a little fear—behind cloudy pupils.He said slowly, "That's what I said, Mr. Quin." "That's good." Ellery let out a long breath, and his father suddenly stared at him with vigilant eyes. "I don't think it's your fault. You are very emotional, and it is likely that your observation ability is not as sound as usual. .But here’s the thing: there’s something missing.” Grant turned back at once to look at the body again.Officer Quinn seemed a little annoyed.Grant shook his head, shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment and weariness. "Okay, okay," Police Officer Quinn asked his son anxiously, "What's so mysterious? What's missing?" Ellery said nothing, only a gleam in his eye.He squatted down beside the body again, and slowly and with great care he wrenched the dead man's right hand away from Buck Horne's revolver. It's a really nice weapon.After a long career, Officer Quinn knows all about weapons.What Ellery was scrutinizing at the moment was nothing more than a clumsy, delicate work from an old gunsmith. He could tell at a glance that it was not a modern weapon.Not only because of the slightly classical design, but also the weariness of the metal parts is enough to show the age of the gun. "Colt four-five," he muttered, "single shot. Look at that barrel!" The barrel was eight inches long, a slender steel pipe leading to death.The design and production are very detailed, and the magazine is also exquisite.Ellery weighed the gun thoughtfully: it was very heavy. Crazy Bill Grant seemed to have a hard time talking, and he licked his lips twice before he could make a sound in his throat. "Yeah, it's an ordinary gun," he murmured, "but it's a nice fellow. Old Buck ——Buck, the feel of the gun is especially important." "Feel?" Ellery raised his eyebrows in surprise. "He likes a heavy gun that feels solid in the hand. I mean: steady." "Oh, I see, oh, this thing must weigh two pounds. My God, what a hole it can make!" He opened the magazine, which was full of bullets, and only fired one round. "Are they all empty clappers?" he asked his father. Officer Quinn took out a bullet and looked at it carefully, then poured out the rest: "Yes." Ellery carefully reloaded the bullets into the magazine and re-locked the gun. "Is this gun Horne's?" he asked Grant. "Isn't it yours? I mean, is it one of the weapons owned by the Knights?" "Buck's own," grumbled Grant, "his personal property at all. And ... a gun belt ... has been with him for over twenty years." "Yeah," Ellery replied absently.He was still preoccupied with the gun.Apparently the gun had been used so much that the corners on the bullet had been blunted.He turned his attention again to the handle of the gun—that was the strangest thing about the weapon.Both sides of the handle were inlaid with ivory plates, each engraved with a bull's head, and there was also a narrow oval with an H engraved inside.The ivory piece has turned yellow over time, and only a small area on the right side of the gun handle is lighter in color.Ellery grasped the butt of the gun with his left hand, the light-colored part of the top just between his crooked fingers and the palm of his hand.He held the gun up and looked at it for a long time, then handed it to his father. "You can put it away with other suspicious weapons, Dad," he said, "just to be on the safe side. Who knows what the ballistics guys might dig up?" Officer Quinn pondered for a moment, took the gun, looked at it silently, turned around and handed it to a police officer, and nodded to him. At this time, there was a little commotion near the east gate, and a guard who was guarding there opened the gate and let in a group of people. The first thing that emerged from the narrow aisle was a very burly guy in plain clothes, with a face that seemed to be made of cast iron, and came rumbling along the runway.This giant is Officer Willie, Officer Quinn's most capable assistant.He is reticent but resolute and calm, although his brain is a bit weak. He scanned the corpses on the ground with a professional look, then looked up at the noisy people in the surrounding stands, and stroked his unshaven chin with a little irritability. "That's a lot of fun, Sergeant!" he said in a booming bass. "Hold the exit?" "Ah, Thomas," said Constable Quinn, with a relieved smile, "look, another murder in the midst of chaos. Replace the cops at the exits with our own men. And let the Officials do what they are supposed to do." "Is no one allowed in or out?" "Until I speak. Not a living thing shall leave the scene." Sergeant Willie thundered and began deploying his men. "Higstrom! Flint! Rhett! Johnson! Pigott! Come and stand by!" The five police officers who followed Officer Willie were all on standby. Seeing the situation in front of them, their eyes were full of professional excitement. "Where's the doctor accompanying the equestrian troupe?" Officer Quinn asked briskly. The sombrely dressed old man with frank eyes came forward: "I am the doctor of the regiment," he said slowly, "my name is Hancock." "Very well! Come here, doctor." The doctor approached the body. "Now come and tell me everything you know about this matter." "Everything I know?" Dr. Hancock seemed a little defensive. "I mean, you checked him seconds after he fell, didn't you? Any conclusions?" Dr. Hancock stared at the broken body on the ground in pain: "There is not much to say. When I ran over, he was dead... dead! I also checked him today, and he is in very good condition Woolen cloth." "He died instantly?" "That's how I see it." "Dead before hitting the ground, huh?" "Why... yeah, I think so." "Then he won't feel the pain of the horse's hoof trampling over him," said Inspector Quinn, stroking his snuffbox. "That would be a relief. How many bullet wounds?" Dr. Hancock blinked: "You should know, I just took a cursory look...a gunshot wound, directly into the heart from the left side." "Hmm. Are you familiar with gunshot wounds?" "I should know a thing or two." The doctor accompanying the regiment said coldly, "I am also a westerner myself." "Well, what caliber did the bullet go in, doctor?" Dr. Hancock was silent for a moment.Then he looked Sergeant Quinn in the eye and said, "Look, there's something odd about this, sir. Quite odd, I'd say. I didn't look into it--I know you'd ask your coroner to do it--but I swear, judging by the size of the wound, he was hit by a .22 or .25!" "A .22..." Crazy Bill Grant called out loudly, but immediately fell silent again. Police Officer Quinn saw the old entertainer from the doctor's bright eyes: "Okay," he said doubtfully, "Is there anything unusual about this?" "Sergeant," replied Dr. Hancock, with trembling lips, "the .22 and .25 caliber guns are not used by Westerners. Surely you know that?" "Really?" Ellery interrupted unexpectedly. There was a gleam of relief in Grant's eyes. "I'm telling you!" he cried, "there's no such thing as a toy gun in my regiment, officer! And, neither boy nor girl Bring that thing." "Toy gun, huh?" Officer Quinn found it funny. "That thing is also worthy of being a——toy!" "But," said Inspector Quinn in a dry voice, "though none of your men have a two-point gun, Mr. Grant, that's just the usual thing, and you can't be sure that none of them carry that kind of gun tonight. Late things are different. Besides, you know as well as I do that there are plenty of people with . 22s." He shook his head dejectedly. .No, Mr. Grant, I'm afraid I can't get rid of your suspicions on this point. . . That's all. What else has Dr. Hancock to say?" "That's all," said the doctor quietly. "Thanks, then. My own coroner, Dr. Poddy, will be here shortly. I think we don't need to bother you anymore, Dr. Hancock. Maybe you can go over and talk to those--the... hell! Here's still Not New York? . . . stay with those cowboys." Dr. Hancock backed out with a grumble, grabbed his pouch, his eyes still frank. The corpse had quickly become frozen, and it was still parked in place, under the watchful eyes of twenty thousand pairs of dissatisfied eyes.Tony Mars stood calmly on the side, chewing the soft cigar butt, with many wet crumbs on his thin lips.At this moment, Officer Quinn questioned him. "Could we find a place to talk comfortably, Tony? I gotta ask you some questions, why should the lights be on in front of half the population of Brooklyn and Manhattan. Where's the closest nook?" "I'll take you there." Ma Si said nervously, and walked away. "Wait a minute. Thomas! Where's Thomas?" Officer Willie seemed to have the ability to appear in two places at the same time, and immediately stood in front of Officer Quinn. "Come with me, Thomas. And your guerrillas," Officer Quinn beckoned to the five officers, "you stay here. Mr. Grant, you come with us. Piggott, put the Take that curly-haired cowboy—Curley Grant, and get Miss Horn from that gang over there." Mars led the group to an exit on the south wall of the oval, and the police officer on duty opened the small door for them.They entered a large basement hall with many small rooms, and Maas led them into one of them. Everyone came in one after another.It turned out to be a small office, probably used by the watchman or timekeeper. "Shut the door, Ellery," Commander Quinn whispered, "Thomas, don't let anyone in." He saw two chairs in the room, dragged one, sat down, and took a pinch of snuff , smoothed out the creases on the neat gray trousers, then raised his hand and beckoned to Kit Horn.Kit was standing clutching the back of a chair, but she was less dizzy, and the emetic that Curley had given her had lifted her from shock.But she was too quiet, and it seemed to Ellery that she was watching on the defensive. "Sit down, sit down, Miss Horne," said Sergeant Quinn kindly, "you must be very tired."—she sat down—"Well, Mr. Grant, please come closer." directing. “这儿就我们几个人，我们都是朋友，你们大可以讲讲心里话。谁有什么想说的吗？” “没有。”格兰特冷淡地说。 “究竟是谁杀了你们的朋友，你们就一点猜测也没有？” “不。巴克——”他的声音有点发颤，“巴克是个大孩子，警官。就像你见过的，好脾气。这世上没有他的敌人，我敢发誓。认识他的人都喜欢他——爱他。” “那么伍迪呢？”吉特·霍恩用很低的嗓音说道，语气很吓人。她的目光一直盯在格兰特那张通红的脸上。 老艺人的眼神有点困惑了：“噢，伍迪，”他说道，“他嘛……” “谁是伍迪？”奎因警官问道。 “我的一个骑术高手。一直是团里的主角，直到……直到巴克加入进来，警官。” “嫉妒，嗯？”奎因警官目光闪烁地说着，瞟了一眼吉特，“肯定气得发疯，我敢打赌。说说吧，怎么回事？这里面肯定有事，否则霍恩小姐不会说那种话。” “伍迪，”埃勒里沉思着说，“是那个不知怎么只剩了一条胳膊的人吗？” “是呀，”格兰特说，“怎么啦？” “没怎么，”埃勒里默默地说，“我只是好奇而已。” “算了，这里面没什么新鲜事儿，”格兰特厌倦地说，“就像你们说的，伍迪是可能心里窝火，警官，也许他跟巴克之间有点别扭……伍迪只有一条胳膊，所以把它看得比什么都重。凭着它，他照样能骑善射，所以他很为自己骄傲。巴克来了之后……我告诉伍迪这一切都是暂时的，巴克只是参与一下演出。是啊，也许他以为巴克抢了他的位置，奎因警官，但是，我发誓，他绝不会蠢到干出杀人的事情来。” “现在还不能确定。其他人还有什么话说？你——小伙子柯利。” 柯利垂头丧气地说：“警官，上帝知道，我也想帮你，但愿我们办得到。但是这太——可恶，这简直不是人干的！我们中间没有任何人会……” “希望如此，孩子。”奎因警官用沮丧而略带有安慰的语气说，“你呢，霍恩小姐？” “除了伍迪，”她生硬地回答，“我不知道还有什么人会盼着巴克死掉。” “这么说对伍迪可太不利了，吉特。”老格兰特皱着眉说。 “谁是凶手就对谁不利，比尔。”吉特的语气有点像在辩论。众人默不作声地看着她，而她的两眼盯着地板。一阵令人难耐的沉寂。 “这样吧，”奎因警官清了清喉咙说，“格兰特先生，你能不能跟我们说说巴克·霍恩究竟是怎么到你的团里来的，我们刚才似乎提到了这一点。他到马戏团来干什么？” “到马戏团来干什么？”格兰特反问了一句，“我——噢。巴克离开公众视线已经九年多了。大约是三年前吧，又接了个片约，重新回去拍片子，但没有成功。巴克被搞得很沮丧，躲回他在怀俄明的牧场去了。” “很沮丧？” 格兰特把指关节攘得嚼啪作响：“我跟你说吧，他的心都碎啦！他就那么忍了好几年。可他是个硬汉子，不愿意叫人看见他一副落魄相。接着，有声电影火起来了，他又恢复了一点信心。有一次我路过，顺便到他那牧场去看他，他跟我说，他还像从前一样棒——想东山再起，重返影坛。我想劝他罢休，可他说：'比尔，在这儿我早晚得疯掉。太寂寞了，吉特又总在好莱坞忙……'所以，我就说：'好吧，巴克。我来想个办法，尽我所能帮你一把。'所以我就帮了——倒帮着把他杀掉啦。”格兰特痛心疾首地说。 “那么在这个体育场搞绝技表演，是为了捧他的？” “我总得做点什么吧。” “你的意思是，没有多大希望？” 格兰特的拳头又噼啪作响了：“一开始，我觉着他受不了那种紧张的演出，可是就在上星期——我也不知道是怎么回事，他的大名给曝了光，报刊上都登出来了——说什么'影坛老祖回来啦'之类的……” “请你停一下，”埃勒里说，“我先插一句，这个活动是不是列在霍恩重返影坛的步骤之中呢？有没有跟制片人实质性的接触？” “你是说一切都是在糊弄他？”格兰特咕哝着说，“其实——没有什么制片人——他们巴不得躲他远一点儿呢。可是——你看，我已经应承了要帮他。于是就想干脆成立个自己的公司……” “就你自己？”奎因警官严肃地问。 托尼·马斯平静地插嘴了：“我也在考虑这事儿。还有亨特——朱利安·亨特。” “哦！”奎因警官说，“亨特，夜总会的那个鸟人——我们今晚遇见过的盖依女士的丈夫。噢，噢。”奎因警官的小眼睛里闪烁着冷峻的光芒，“那么现在有谁能告诉我，这一切到底是怎么回事？霍恩最要好的朋友，还有你——托尼，还有亨特，怎么都想到出钱给霍恩搭架子了——可他自己的女儿却一分钱也没投入？” 格兰特用力咽了口唾沫，面色如土，老纹纵横。柯利不耐烦地换了个姿势，让自己呆得舒服一些。吉特笔直地坐着——很长的时间里一直这样坐着，两眼泪水盈盈——不是出于软弱，而是由于纯粹的愤怒和懊恼。 “比尔·格兰特，”她吸泣着说道，“你怎么能站在这儿说什么没有制片人？怎么回事，你亲自告诉过我……” 奎因父子默不作声。富有经验的奎因警官有意听任他们把这出意外的小闹剧演下去，而他则瞪着贼亮的小眼睛从旁观察。 格兰特喃喃道：“吉特，我真的很难过。可那不是我的错，是巴克本人叫我那么说的。他不想让你把钱拿出来冒险，蒙你说有了制片人你就不会再坚持朝里面放钱了。他想做成纯粹的经济合作，只有他一个人去担风险。他说，假如他不能让那些铁算盘的生意人在他的复出上投资，那他就自己卷铺盖滚蛋。” “你该都说出来，爸，”柯利突然说，“连巴克都不知道，你自己所有的钱都放在里头啦！” “听啊，听啊，”奎因警官低声说，“一个司空见惯的童话故事，啊！每分钟都有更多的头绪，越来越乱了，这叫什么？” 格兰特狠狠地瞪了儿子一眼：“你，柯利，把你的破嘴闭上，叫你说你再说！” 柯利的脸刷地红了，嘟囔着说：“好吧，爸。” 格兰特挥了一下他那只粗大的手：“他既然说出来了，那好吧，巴克的确不知道我做了投资。他不会接受的。只是叫我做他的经纪人。我们甚至还签了合同。所以我才只好去走钢丝——把马斯他们弄进来一块儿干。我多了个心眼儿，告诉马斯说是我在独挑整个生意。反正，从一开始我就狠了心要这么干的。” “你认为，霍恩会怀疑你的真正动机吗？” 格兰特沉吟着说：“这很难说。他一向为人精明，不好糊弄。最近两天，他的确有点古怪。也许听到了什么风声。他这一辈子都不和别人沾边儿——就是说，从不接受恩惠，尤其是从朋友们那里。” 吉特突然站了起来，走到格兰特身旁。两人互相看着，吉特简短地说了声：“我真是对不起你，比尔。”说完又走回了自己的座位。一时间众人无语。 “所有这一切说明，”埃勒里在寂静中愉快地说，“谋杀是治疗语言沟通渠道消化不良症的有效药物。霍恩小姐，关于你养父的亡故，谁是最有必要通知的人呢？” 她低声说：“没有人。” 埃勒里迅速环视一周，眼睛盯在格兰特身上。但格兰特只是沉重地点了点头。 “你是说除了你本人，他没有任何家人了？” “没有一个活着的亲人了，奎因先生。” 埃勒里皱起了眉头：“唉，也许你并不了解，霍恩小姐。可是，格兰特先生，你一定清楚，对吗？” “当然啦。除了吉特，巴克在这世上再没有亲人。他六岁就成了孤儿——由叔父抚养，他叔父的牧场就在怀俄明州我父亲的牧场旁边，我父亲跟他共用一片草场放牧。”格兰特苦涩地说，“我——我真想不到老巴克的死会让我这么伤感。可那时……他的叔父又死了，那一辈人都死光了。巴克成了霍恩家最后的一个——西北地区一个最古老家庭的惟一后代。” 听着这段陈述，埃勒里·奎因先生的表情在简陋的灯光下不时变化着，就像一只变色龙不断变换着颜色。他弄不清为什么格兰特先生的谈话如此扰动了他的心，但是他的确很烦乱。尽管稍过片刻他强自镇定，把一脸的亢奋神情统统赶走。奎因警官有些不解地朝他脸上望了望。老人一直保持着清醒和镇静，暗自思索是什么因素让儿子的头脑如此躁乱，假如真的有了什么，那就有的瞧了。但是埃勒里耸了耸肩，嘴角只露出一丝窃笑而已。 “格兰特先生，霍恩做这次要命的表演之前，你宣布有多少人跟着他跑马？” “四十个。这我很清楚，因为是我付给他们酬金。” 听到这里，奎因警官的眼睛眯了起来：“那会儿，当你在场上宣布四十这个数的时候，你说的是大概的人数吗？” 格兰特的脸又红又紫：“什么大概人数？怎么啦？我说了：四十，那就是四十个人——不会是四十一或三十九个，更不可能是一百六十个！” 奎因父子相互对了一个眼神。接着，老人家皱着眉头说：“你——呃——你不会数错了数儿吧，会吗，儿子？” “我上学的时候数学可是最出色的，”埃勒里说，“而且我想，点数四十个人应该不至于考倒我的计数能力。再说，站在那边的人绝对不会搞错，我想，至少神志是清楚的，否则不会那样讲话。好啦，我一向认为自己是有理性的动物……或许我们可以做个小小的测试来证实一下。” 他朝门口踱过去。 “你上哪儿去？”奎因警官严肃地问，众人齐刷刷地盯着他。 “像所有殉道者那样，到竞技场上去。” “见鬼，你到底要干什么？” “数一数还剩多少大活人。” 一行人从进入地下室的通道原路返回，穿过水泥墙上的那个小门，重新出现在万人瞩目的场地上。现在，观众的喧哗已经明显带有疲倦的味道了。警员们还在到处呵斥吼叫。牛仔姑娘小伙子们围坐在场地的一角，或气鼓唠叨，或不以为然，神形各异。 “那么现在，”埃勒里对跟着他走到牛仔群旁边的一行人说，“你自己数一数他们的人数吧，格兰特先生。也许是我发神经了。” 格兰特有点气不顺，但目光还是朝他的牛仔们扫了过去，然后走入他们中间大声点数着人头儿。大多数人都垂着脑袋席地而坐，头上扣着宽大的牛仔帽。格兰特就像走在一片蘑菇地里。 很快他走了回来，脸上大惊失色，巴克惨遭不幸那一瞬间强烈的震撼和痛苦似乎又重新袭击了他。宽大结实的下领抖个不停，以致牙齿都无法咬到一起。 “如果不像奎因先生说的那样——是四十一个，我他妈都不是人！”他朝奎因警官吼道。 “你把那个难看的小矮子算在里边了吗，那个布恩？”奎因警官接着问道。 “丹努？没有。他不跟他们上场。不算丹努也有四十一个人。” 这时，牛仔们纷纷扬起了褐色的脸膛，诧异地望着格兰特。他下意识地回手就去胯边抽枪，没想到碰着的是一只空枪套，这才想起来枪已经给收走了。他懊丧地垂下手臂，紧皱着眉头。接着他吼道：“你们这些又脏又臭的家伙！还有丫头片子！都给我站起来，让我好好看看你们那副蠢相！” 好一阵寂静的僵持。埃勒里略带嬉笑的脸也严肃起来。那位怀俄明州有名的疯狂比尔·格兰特与他麾下的队伍之间似乎有了一种一触即发的冲突迹象：一个粗壮的牛仔——朔帝·邓斯，性情随和的好好先生——拖着缓慢的步子走上前来、突然大吼道：“你敢再把那话重说一次么，格兰特先生？我想我刚才没听清楚。”他两手摸起了铜锤似的拳头。 格兰特直视他的双眼，“朔帝，你给我闭嘴听着！还有你们其他人——都站起来！你们中间多了一个人，不找出那个见鬼的凶手，我跟你们没完！” 众人愕然失语，再没有喊喳声、很快所有人都站了起来，不论男女，相互间诧异地打量着。格兰特走到他们中间，嘴里念叨着各个名字：“豪沃斯、哈利维尔、琼斯、兰姆赛、米勒、布鲁奇、安妮、斯特里克、曼多扎……啊！” 稠密的人群中，他终于挨个查到了最后，站下来喘息未定，他突然朝一个也穿着牛仔装的男人的肩膀伸出了大手。 他转身走出来，手上抓着那个小个子男人，就像拎着只小牲口。被抓的人面色苍白，神情疲倦，清瘦的五官挂着青不青紫不紫的阴影，一看就像个放荡无度的家伙——根本不是餐风宿露、健壮豪放的荒原人模样。此时让人抓在手里，他无奈地蜷缩着，但是那双机警的小眼睛却流露着轻蔑的神情。 疯狂比尔粗鲁地一把将他扔到奎因警官面前的地面上，然后叉开两腿站在他面前，吐了口唾沫，像个大灰熊似的沉闷地哼吟着。 “这儿有个家伙！”他终于吼出了整齐话，“警官，根本不是我团里的人！”