Chapter 22 Chapter 21 Diary

The melancholy mood lasted a long time--a very long time--into the middle of the night.The policeman, as a father, tried his best to persuade his sullen blood to stop trying in vain and go to bed and rest in peace.But it didn't work.Ellery, in pajamas and slippers, curled up in a leather chair in front of the faint fire in the living room, reading word for word in the leather-bound diary he had snatched from Sloane's desk; He doesn't care about coaxing and persuading her. In the end, the police officer was helpless, so he dragged his weary pace to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee—Dijuna had already fallen asleep in his bedroom—drinking coffee and eating a few meals alone. slice of toast.After Ellery studied the diary all over, he smelled the stimulation of the fragrance, so he rubbed his sleepy eyes, walked into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and the father and son drank it, still without saying a word, calmly It hurts the ears.

With a straight face, the old man patted the table: "Tell Dad. Son, what kind of ghost are you haunted by?" "Hey hey," said Ellery, "you're a good question. I've been waiting for you to ask me, as patiently as Mrs. McPace. You insisted that it was Gilbert Sloane who killed his brother." Albert Grinshaw—You base your case on obvious phenomena, and you think the case is clear. Then, I ask you: That anonymous letter informing Sloane of his connection with Brother Grimshaw, Who sent it from?" The old man was tongue-tied: "Go on," he said, "Speak out all the words in your heart. There will always be an answer to everything."

"Oh, is that so?" retorted Ellery. "That's fine—let me stretch it. Sloane wouldn't have sent that letter himself, that's obvious—couldn't he have committed a crime? To provide the police with information against oneself? Of course not. So, who wrote that letter? Remember, Sloane said that there is no one in this world except himself— —even including his own brother Greenshaw—knows that Gilbert Sloane and the murdered man are brothers. So, I ask again: Who wrote the letter? Because, the person who wrote the letter must be People in the know, yet it seems that no one will write this letter but the only one who will never write it. It doesn't make sense!"

"Well, my son, there's no question easier to answer than that," sneered the Inspector. "Of course the letter wasn't written by Sloane! But I don't care who wrote it. It doesn't matter." .Because—" He poked affectionately with his long, thin forefinger—"Because it's just Sloane's own way of saying that no one but him knows. Do you understand? Surely, if Sloane Telling the truth is a difficult question; but Sloane is a criminal himself, and everything he says is suspect. Especially if he says it—and it is—self Thought it was safe, and a lie could muddy the water and distract the police. So—it seemed probable that someone else did know that Sloane and Grimshaw were brothers. Sloan himself must have told something. Most likely it was revealed to Mrs. Sloane, though it is indeed difficult to understand why she would inform her husband—”

"That's the point," drawled Ellery, "because, in your own analysis of Sloane's crimes, you concluded that Mrs. Sloane was the one who called Sloan to blow the whistle. .This must be completely irrelevant to the person who wrote the anonymous letter out of malicious intent." "Well," intervened the inspector at once, "let's talk about it from that point of view. Does Sloane have any enemies? That's a matter of course--the present example is that one person has come to report him: that is Fr. Mrs. Leland! So maybe she was the one who wrote the letter. How she came to know about the brotherhood is, of course, a matter of guesswork, but I'll bet—"

"Then you must lose. The atmosphere in Denmark is so messed up, it's giving me a headache—a splitting headache, a splitting headache! I can't believe it..." He didn't finish; long words.He threw the match viciously into the dying stove. The beeping ringing of the phone startled the father and son. "Who else will call in the middle of the night like this?" the old man shouted, "Hi! . . . well. Good morning . Go to bed—the delicate body of a young girl is not suitable for staying up late. Haha, haha!...Excellent. Good night, good boy." He hung up the phone with a smile.Ellery looked inquiringly, "It's from Enna Rambo. She said that the handwritten name on the leftover fragment of the will has been verified. It is Khalkis's own handwriting, and there is no doubt about it." Doubtful. She also said that everything else indicated that the fragment was part of the original will."

"True." The news, for some reason, made Ellery dejected, much to the sergeant's amazement. The old man couldn't bear it anymore, and lost his temper: "God, I think you probably don't want this case to be settled!" Ellery shook his head gently: "Don't scold me, Dad. I can't wait to close the case. But it must be closed satisfactorily." "Well, I think it's quite complete. Sloane's guilt is perfectly convincing. And with Sloan's death, Grimshaw's accomplices are no longer alive, and all is well. Because, as you say, Greenshaw Shaw's associates were the only outsiders who knew of Knox's possession of a Leonardo, which has now been killed—though the sale of the painting is now known only to the police authorities. This means, "Sergeant Smacking his lips, he continued, "We can turn to Mr. James Knox's work. If that painting is really stolen from the Victoria Museum by Greenshaw, we must recover it."

"Has there been a reply to your telegram?" "Not a single word." The officer frowned. "I really don't understand why the museum won't hear back. Anyway, if the British are going to take the painting back from Knox's hands, it will cost a lot of money." It's a trick. Knox is rich and powerful, and it's not hard to clear himself up. I think I'll have to talk to Simpson about it—I don't want to piss off the rich man." "If you want to solve this matter, it will be a long time in the future. That museum may not be willing to spread the uproar, so that the outside world will say that the famous paintings that their experts have identified as Leonardo's authentic works and have been publicly exhibited as authentic works are worthless. It's a fake. I mean it's a real fake. You know, we're just relying on Knox alone."

The inspector spat into the fire thoughtfully. "It's getting more and more complicated. Don't talk about it, let's talk about the Sloane case. Thomas got it from the guest book of the Binedy Hotel. I found the list of residents for the Thursday and Friday where Greenshaw lived. It seems that none of the names on the list match or have any connection with the person concerned in this case. I think this is also conceivable. Sloan said , he thinks that the man Greenshaw met in the hotel—it must be a lie, this mysterious guest must be someone else, maybe it has nothing to do with this case, and he came after Sloane..."

The sergeant went on in a very eloquent manner, enjoying himself and enjoying himself.Ellery didn't comment on these gossips; he stretched out his ape's arm, took Sloane's diary, flipped through the pages, and read it intently. "Listen to me, Dad," he finally said without raising his eyelids, "on the surface, all the signs are indeed in place, and the key lies in the fact that Cheng Yaojin, who was killed halfway by Sloan, However, here is the disturbing thing; it's all too coincidental to be reassuring. Remember, the last time we—I—had been tricked into coming to a conclusion . . . If the ruse had not been exposed purely by accident, the conclusion had already been confirmed, announced, and forgotten. This conclusion, it seems, can be said to be irrefutable. It's..." He shook his head, "I can't find anything wrong. But I always feel that something is wrong."

"But it won't do you any good to bang your head against the stone wall, my boy." Ellery grinned slightly. "Touch it, maybe you can get some inspiration," he said, biting his lip. "Let me show you." He picked up the diary, and the police officer Wearing blanket slippers, he stood up anxiously to watch.Ellery opened the book and turned to the last entry in the book--below the printed date "Sunday, October 10," neatly and clearly written in small handwritten diary.On the top of the opposite page, "Monday, October 11th" was typefaced, and the page was blank. "Well, see," sighed Ellery, "I've been poring over this personal, and therefore interesting, diary. It's clear that Sloane hasn't written anything down this evening—according to Tonight, as you say, was the day he committed suicide. Let me begin with a general outline of the diary. Leaving aside, of course, the fact that there is not a single mention in the entire volume of Grimshaw's strangulation; and the fact that the death of Khalkis was merely brushed off as a running account; , then, he would naturally avoid leaving anything in black and white that could expose him to the law. On the other hand, some characteristics are obvious: one characteristic is that Sloane takes diary writing very seriously, and every night on time Write, and mark the time of writing below the printed date; you can see that these months it has always been about eleven o'clock in the evening. It is also a feature that this diary shows Sloane as an extreme Conceited gentleman, the man's private affairs are numerous; for example, there is a passage in which he describes his adultery with a woman at length—without tiresome detail—without mentioning her name carefully." Ellery closed the book with a snap, flung it on the table, jumped up, and paced back and forth on the hearth rug, fine wrinkles formed on his forehead.The old man stared at him unhappily. "Now, I beg you, to analyze it in the light of all the knowledge of modern psychology," cried Ellery, "for a man like him—a man who, as this diary amply shows, takes everything about himself Dramatically, the person who feels morbidly gratified through self-expression is a very typical character—such a person, at the end of his life, is willing to miss a once-in-a-lifetime, unique, and great opportunity, and instead Don't you want to give full play to such a supreme event in life?" "Perhaps it was precisely because of the thought that I was facing death that I put all my thoughts aside." The police officer expressed his opinion. "I don't think so," Ellery said angrily. "Sloane, since he got the call and knew that the police had suspected him, he knew in his heart that he could no longer get away with it, and he could do something for himself without interference." Time is running out, and under such circumstances, according to his personality, there is bound to be a strong desire to record the last bit of his heroic history in his diary... Besides, objective conditions also support my thesis, that is: The approximate time of the incident—eleven o’clock—was the time at which he was accustomed to pour out his heart in this little diary. And yet,” he cried, “he didn’t remember a word that night, and he didn’t Remember a word!" His eyes were watery like a fever, and the officer stood up, put his thin hand on Ellery's shoulder, and shook him with almost maternal tenderness: "Come on, don't get too excited. Sounds good, but doesn't prove anything, boy... go to bed." Ellery let himself be sucked into the father and son's bedroom: "Yeah," he said, "it doesn't prove anything." After half an hour in the dark, he heard his father snoring slightly, and said to himself: "But it is such a psychological sign that makes me doubt, Gilbert Sloane Is it suicide!" The bedroom was cold and dark, with no comfort, and no response could be heard.After a philosopher's self-expression, Ellery fell asleep.All night he dreamed of a living diary, straddling a grotesque coffin, brandishing a revolver, and shooting at the man in the moon—with a moon face that looked exactly like Albert Grinshaw.