Chapter 20 third act

Mr. Jerry Lane looked ten years older when he came out of Hatter House on that cold, rainy June afternoon than when he first entered.Had Inspector Sam been there, no doubt he would have wondered why Wren, who was clearly on the verge of solving the case, seemed more frustrated than when he was hitting a wall.This is not like him at all. The reason why he looks like he is only forty years old is because he has long known how to control his emotions, and knows how to transform his worries until he forgets his troubles.Now, however, he looked as if all the poise and confidence he had built up over a lifetime had been irrevocably shattered, climbing into the car like an old man.

"Police Headquarters," he said wearily to Dromeo, and sank down on the cushion.On the entire road leading to the gray building on Central Street, an expression of sadness and responsibility, a sorrowful expression of knowing the seriousness of the situation, never left his face. But he was still him after all, and as he climbed the stairs to Police Headquarters, the old Jerry Lane was back, cheerful, kind, calm, and in every way, quite confident and relaxed.The deputy captain on duty in the front hall recognized him and sent an officer to lead him to Inspector Sam's office. Today seemed to be a depressing day when he found the inspector, ugly as life, sullenly sitting in a swivel chair, staring blankly at a dead cigar between his fat fingers.When he saw Ren, his face seemed to light up with joy, and he grabbed Ren's hand enthusiastically.

"I'm so glad to meet you. What's the matter, Mr. Wren?" Wren shook one hand and sat down with a sigh. "Is there any news? This place is even more dead than the morgue." Ren nodded: "There is news that should be of great interest to you and Bruno." "Really!" Sam exclaimed, "It's not that you've already discovered—" He stopped and looked at Ren suspiciously, "You didn't follow up on Peary's clue, did you?" "Piri's clue?" Ren frowned, "I'm afraid I don't quite understand." "Fortunately," said the inspector, poking the extinguished cigar into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, "this time we discovered something new, you know I let Peary go yesterday. Barbara Hayter came to disrupt the situation— She's hired a barrister - after all . . . it doesn't matter anyway, because he's going to be stared at any moment."

"Why? Do you still think Edgar Peary has anything to do with these cases, Inspector?" "What do you think? What do other people think? Remember it's a hoax - Peary's real name is Kabian, he's Louisa's half-brother, and his father was Emily Hitter's first husband .well when i told all i knew about him he admitted but tight as a clam i got so much from him but i didn't give up i dug a little deeper you guessed it What do I find, Mr Wren?" "I can't figure it out at all." Ren smiled. "That Tom Carbian, Peary's father and the old witch's first husband, died of—"

He stopped suddenly, Mr. Jerry Lane's smile disappeared, and his gray-green eyes flashed. "So you know," Sam muttered. "I didn't know it through investigation, inspector, but I knew it for sure," Ryan leaned his head on the back of the chair, "I understand your point of view. Mr. Edgar Piri Kabian is a living topic, eh?" "Well, why not?" Sam said domineeringly. "That's the way it is, isn't it? Emily was responsible for Peary's father's death—indirectly, of course, and probably not intentionally. But she did Killing him, like stabbing him to death, was all nasty business, but now we have a motive, Mr Wren—that wasn't there before."

"The motive is..." "Listen, you've seen the world. A man's father died of a disease his stepmother contracted... Well, I can understand that man's going to spend the rest of his life seeking revenge on her." "It's basic psychology, inspector, and it's true that something so cruel is involved in particular." Ren mused, "I can fully understand your considerations. That person has both motive and opportunity, and also Wisdom enough to carry out a brilliant plan. But you have no proof." "That's what we're going to track down."

"At the same time," Lane remarked, "I can't imagine Edgar Peary as a man of action. It is true that he is a man of planning, but to me he seems to be a man of action." The type that easily backs down when faced with violence at the last moment." "That's too advanced for me," said the inspector mockingly. "Look, Mr. Wren, we're just a bunch of cops here, and we don't care what a man might do. We're more concerned with the fact that he's serious. What have you done." "I insist, Inspector," Lane added calmly, "that human behavior is purely an extension of its psychology. Have you found out that Mr. Edgar Peary Kabian has suicidal intentions?"

"You mean suicide? How come, no! Why would he do such a foolish thing? Of course, if we all get the loot..." Wren shook his head: "No, Inspector, if Edgar Peary kills someone, according to his personality, he will kill himself immediately. Do you remember Hamlet, a weak-willed and vacillating man, but with a high degree of courage?" Wisdom builds plans, and while violence and intrigue are in full swing around him, he is there to vacillate and torment with self-blame and self-blame. But remember this: a man who vacillates like him, when he does act , he hacked and hacked, and then killed himself immediately." Ryan smiled sadly, "I'm doing the same old thing again, but really, Inspector, look carefully at your suspect, he's like that Hamlet in Act Four. In Act Five—the plot changes, so there’s no comparison.”

Sam shifted uneasily from side to side. "Well, well, let it be. The point is—what do you think of the whole thing?" "I think," Wren laughed suddenly, "you're playing tricks, Inspector. How did you dig up Peary's theory again? I thought you'd put it behind you and pursue another." An inspiration has gone, and you are still careful not to let me know what it is." Sam looked sheepish. "Pretend I didn't say anything about inspiration. I did do some research, but nothing came of it." He retorted smartly, "You haven't answered my question yet, Ray. Mister En."

This time it was Ren's turn to retreat, and a melancholy passed over his face again, his smile almost disappeared: "To be honest... I don't know what to think, inspector." "You mean you're helpless?" "I mean, this is not the time for drastic action." "Oh...uh, we have great confidence in you, Mr. Wren. Going to see the Longstreet case really proves that you have the ability to solve the case." The inspector scratched his chin, "You can say that," he was a little embarrassed Say, "Bruno and we're depending on you."

Ren jumped up from his chair and started pacing back and forth: "Please, don't, don't rely on me." His anxiety was so obvious that the inspector was dumbfounded, "Just pretend that I didn't get involved in this case at all, and do your best. Inspector, construct your own theory, please..." Sam's face darkened: "If you think so, why bother..." "Yesterday - that inspiration of yours - had no luck, eh?" Sam's suspicious look did not disappear: "Tracked it up and went to see Miriam." "Ah!" Ren immediately responded, "That's good, good, then he will tell you..." "It's all I know from you already," Sam replied, somewhat awkwardly, "that vanilla thing that York Hatter wiped his arm, so you went to see the doctor too, huh?" "Uh—yes, yes, of course." Ren suddenly sat down on a chair and covered his eyes with his hands. Sam stared at him for a long time, puzzled and annoyed.Then he shrugged: "Okay," he said barely amiably, "you said you had news for Bruno and me, what news?" Ren raised his head: "I want to give you a very important piece of news, inspector, I must first get a promise - you can't ask me where I got this news." "Well, what is it?" Sam growled. "Here," he said, with the utmost care, as if every word had been chosen carefully, "before York Head disappeared, he was planning the plot of a novel." "A novel?" Sam stared blankly. "What's that?" "But it's not just a novel, Inspector," Wren said, almost in a whisper. "It's a story he looks forward to writing and publishing one day. A detective story." For a moment, Sam sat staring at Rain hypnotically, the cigar dangling from his lower lip, the veins in his right temple twitching like something alive, and then he shot out like a slingshot. The chair bounced up and yelled, "A detective story!" The cigar dropped, "Tsk tsk, that's news!" "Yes," Ren said with a heavy heart, "an outline of a murder and detective story... There is one more thing I should tell you." Sam was barely listening, trying to concentrate now, turning his blank eyes on Rain. "That is……" "Ha!" Sam shook his head as if he had known him before, and became shrewd and focused again, "What?" "The settings and characters in York Head's novels are real." "Really?" murmured the inspector. "How do you say that?" "York Head draws directly from his own family." As if receiving an electric shock, the inspector's large skeleton convulsed: "No," he said hoarsely, "No, it's impossible, it's too much... Absolutely—" "Yes, Inspector!" Ryan said wearily, "are you interested? You should be interested. It's amazing that a man made up a story of poisoning and murder, and then things started to happen in his own home." When it happened...those events really coincided with every step of the purely fictional plot in the novel." Sam took a breath, his chest heaving. "You're going to tell me," he said in a deep bass, "everything that happened at Het House—the two plots to poison Louisa, The murder of Mrs. Hatter, the fire, and the explosion—all pre-written on white paper, woven out of Hatter's head, intended to be a story? Damn, unbelievable! Never heard of such a thing!" "Not only that..." Ren sighed, "Anyway, that's it, Inspector, the outline and gist of the message I sent ends here." He stood up, clutching his cane tightly as if he was dying With a look of helplessness in his eyes, Sam paced back and forth like a wild animal, shaking his head and tail, muttering to himself, his mind buzzing, guessing, giving up, and deciding... Ryan came to the door and stopped. Even the original youthful demeanor was gone from his manner. He faltered, and his back-so tall and strong-had become rickety. The inspector suddenly stopped: "Wait a minute! You can't tell me to ask questions. Well, if you have something to hide, there must be a good reason, and I won't ask. But tell me this, in every detective story There is always a criminal, who is the criminal in York Height - in the story - if his characters are all from his own family? Surely, whoever the criminal is in the story, is not the same as the actual criminal —Because it's too dangerous, how?" Wren held his hand on the door, thinking silently: "Yes," he finally replied in a lifeless voice, "of course you have the right to know the answer... In the story of York Height's murder, York Height The criminal is—York Hatter."