Chapter 18 Eighth scene

The menacing silence of the previous day at Mad Hatter's house was still there when Mr. Wren returned the next morning.The inspector was not there. According to the Abuko couple, he seemed to have never returned since he left yesterday afternoon.Yes, Miss Barbara is at home. "She wants us to bring breakfast up to her room," said Mrs. Abkel sourly. "Haven't come down yet. It's already eleven o'clock." "Please ask her if I can see her." Mrs. Abkel raised her eyebrows thoughtfully, but obediently went up the stairs, and when she came back she said, "Yes, she said, I want you to go up."

The poetess was smoking with a long jade pipe in the room where Ryan knocked on the door and no one answered the previous afternoon, sitting with her legs bent on the window sill overlooking the park: "Come in, please forgive me for being disheveled." "very beautiful." Barbara was wearing a silky Chinese gown, her long pale blonde hair draped over her shoulders: "Don't take offense to the mess in the room, Mr. Wren," she said with a smile. It’s not sorted out, maybe it’s better to come to my studio.” She led Ryan through the half-open curtain to a small side room of the bedroom.The furniture inside was as simple as a monk's room—a large flat desk, scattered bookshelves against the walls, a typewriter, and a chair.

"I've been writing all morning," she explained. "Please take that chair, Mr. Wren. I'll sit at the desk." "Thank you, very comfortable room, Miss Hatter, and very close to what I imagined." "Really?" she laughed. "A lot of people say ridiculous things about this house—and me. I've heard people say that the walls, floor, and ceiling of my bedroom are all mirrors—too much to drink, You know! Say I change lovers every week, say I'm sexless, say I drink three quarts of black coffee and a gallon of gin a day... As a matter of fact, as you can see, Mr. Wren, despite all the rumors, But in fact I am the most ordinary person, a poetess without vices."

Ren sighed: "Miss Heite, I'm here to ask you a very special question." "Really?" The cheery look disappeared. "What's the problem, Mr. Wren?" She picked up a strangely sharpened pencil and scribbled carelessly on the table. "The first time I met you, the time you had a little conversation with Inspector Sam, Inspector Bruno, and I, you mentioned an incident that seemed to keep going around in my head for no apparent reason. .I've been meaning to ask you more questions about it ever since, Miss Hatter." "Yes?" she replied in a low voice.

Ren stared eagerly into her eyes: "Has your father ever written a detective story?" She stared at him in shock, the cigarette hanging from her lips.He saw at a glance that the shock was not artificial, as if what she had expected, almost worried, was a different question altogether. "Why..." She laughed loudly, "It's amazing, Mr. Wren! You really look like that lovely old Sherlock Holmes. I used to be obsessed with his adventure stories when I was a child... Yes, my father wrote it, but how on earth did you knew?" Mr. Wren stared at her for a while before relaxing with a sigh: "So," he said slowly, "I guessed right." His eyes were full of unspeakable grief, but he quickly lowered his eyelids To cover it up, she looked at him with a restrained smile, "At that time you said that your father intended to try to write a novel. As far as my special question is concerned-some facts show that the possibility is quite high."

She stubbed out her cigarette: "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean," she said, "but I—I trust you, Mr. Wren . Me, asked if I could recommend a good publishing agent, and I gave him my recommendation. I was rather surprised—is he writing?" She paused, and Wren whispered, "Keep on, please." "My father was shy about it at first. But I kept pushing him, and finally, after I promised to keep it a secret, he admitted that he was working on a detective story." "Planning?" Ren asked anxiously. "That's what he said, as far as I remember. He outlined his ideas. He thought he'd sketched out a pretty clever plot, and he wanted to ask the publishing people to see what the chances of getting published would be if it was finished. How big is it?"

"Yes, yes, I understand, all is clear now. Did he say anything else, Miss Hatter?" "No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't—much—interested then, Mr. Wren," she murmured, "and I feel ashamed now." Fat's creative urge was quite a surprise, and needless to say, he's always been an extremely scientific person. That was the last time I heard him mention it." "Have you ever mentioned that to anyone?" She shook her head: "Until you asked just now, I completely forgot about it." "Your father likes secrets," Wren remarked. "Is it possible that he mentioned it to your mother or anyone else?"

"I'm sure he didn't, and if he had, I should have heard." She sighed. "Jiel is a pretty flippant person, I know, and if she knew, she'd make a joke of it everywhere; if Conrad knew , in front of the rest of us; and I'm pretty sure my father didn't tell my mother." "Why are you so sure?" She clenched her fists and stared at her own fists: "Because my father and mother have not communicated with each other for many years, Mr. Wren." She replied in a low tone. "So that's it, I'm sorry... have you seen the manuscript with your own eyes?"

"No, I don't think there's such a thing as a manuscript—just an outline of the central idea, as I said." "Do you have any idea where he might have kept the outline?" She shrugged helplessly: "I can't think of anywhere else except somewhere in his laboratory." "As for the idea itself—you say he's been brilliant. What was his idea, Miss Hatter?" "I can't say anything, he didn't tell me the content of the story." "And did Mr. Hatter take this detective story to your agent?" "I'm sure he didn't."

"how do you know?" "I asked my agent if my father had visited him and he said no." Mr. Jerry Lane stood up: "You were of great help, Miss Hatter, thank you."