Chapter 22 third scene

A force was pressing against him.A person like him who is used to rigorous introspection and sharp analysis of the world around him is actually entangled by this constant cutting and chaotic emotions, and he is helpless.He could neither fully analyze it nor explain it.Reason was useless here, it was like a sack of pencils around his neck. Yet he couldn't let it go.This matter must be pursued to the bottom - only he knows how painful the result will be.So what will happen then... He was devastated, feeling his stomach convulsing with grief and fear. It was a Saturday, the sun was blazing on the river, and he got out of the Lincoln, walked across the sidewalk, and lumbered up the old stone steps of the morgue.So why come?Why didn't he admit that his nature was too delicate and sensitive to get involved in such a profession that was too immoral and unconscionable?At the height of his stage career, he faced equal parts humiliation and praise.His titles have ranged from "a world-class actor" to "an old-fashioned old man who still gnaws Shakespeare antiques in the age of new technology".He accepts all these without discrimination, ridiculing or applauding, all with dignity, after all, he is an artist who can distinguish right from wrong.His unchanging purpose, his belief that he was accomplishing a meaningful mission, would not be shaken, whatever the sinister critics of the nascent artistic standpoint might say.Why didn't he just stop there at the peak of his full career?Why do you still come to this troubled water?It's Sam and Bruno's business to hunt down villains.What is evil?In fact, no evil is pure, even the devil Satan was once an angel.There is no real evil, only the ignorant or twisted, or victims of a malevolent fate.

His thin legs involuntarily climbed up the steps of the morgue, desperately facing a new mission of pursuing and proving, and stubbornly refusing the turbulent struggle still in his mind. He went to a laboratory on the second floor, looked at the neat rows of glass and metal instruments without seeing it, read Ingels' sharp lectures expressionlessly, and watched the skillful movements of his hands. When the get out of class was over, Ingels tore off the rubber gloves and shook hands with Ryan enthusiastically: "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryan, did you find any other small problems with the olfactory evidence?"

Mr. Jerry Lane looked shyly around the empty laboratory.A world of science full of stills, electrode rigs, and glass jars full of chemicals!He is an outsider, a busybody, a bumbling guy, what is he doing here?How can he purify the whole world... He sighed and said, "Doctor, can you tell me about a poison called physostigmine?" "Physostigmine? No problem!" The toxicology expert smiled, "We are very familiar with this stuff. It is a white, odorless, poisonous biological salt—a deadly poison, a dad-level drug in the alkaloid family. Chemistry The structure is C15H21N3O2 - derived from kale croton."

"Kale Croton?" Ryan repeated dully. "The source of physostigmine. Kale croton is the seed of an African vine of the leguminous plant, which is highly poisonous," explains Dr. Ingels. "Medicineally, it is used to treat certain nervous disorders, Muscle spasticity, dementia, etc. Physostigmine is extracted from this bean, and rats, and almost all other animals, are fatal if eaten. Would you like to see a sample?" "It's not necessary, doctor," Ryan said, taking out a tightly wrapped object from his pocket, tearing off the wrapping and padding.It was a test tube with a stopper that he found in the secret hole of the chimney, with white liquid, "Is this physostigmine?"

"Well," Ingels mused, he raised the test tube to the light, "It looks very similar, wait a minute, Mr. Wren, I'll do some tests." He concentrated on his work without saying a word, and Ryan watched without interruption. "Indeed it is," said the toxicologist at last, "undoubtedly physostigmine, Mr. Wren. Very poisonous. Where did you get it?" "From Het's mansion," Ryan replied vaguely.He took out his wallet and rummaged through it until he found a folded slip of paper. "Here," he said, "is a copy of a prescription, Dr. Ingels, could you please look at it?"

The toxicology expert took the prescription: "Well... Peruvian sesame oil... I see! What do you want to know, Mr. Lane?" "Is this prescription legal?" "Oh! Of course, compound ointment, for skin diseases—" "Thank you," Ryan said wearily, and he didn't even bother to get back the prescription, "and—can you do something for me, doctor?" "Go ahead." "Send this test tube to the police headquarters in my name, and file it with other evidence in the Heite case." "no problem." "It should," Wren explained gravely, "into the official records. It is of vital importance in this case. . . Thank you for your kindness, doctor."

He shook Ingels' hand, turned to the door, and the toxicology expert sent him away slowly with surprised eyes.