Translation: Su Wenlin

Translated on August 24, 1999

Late October.

A foggy morning. Eight fifteen. Mr. Coombs woke to the soft strains of a Bach fugue coming from the clock radio on his bedside table. Out of deep and lasting admiration for the writer, he waited until the music ended before throwing off the blanket, putting on his slippers and walking into the shower room. After confirming that the tongue coating was good and the body temperature was normal, I rinsed my mouth with the mouthwash highly recommended by the pharmacist at the corner drugstore who had suffered from colon spasm for many years. He brushed his teeth thoroughly and carefully scraped away the gray stubble from his unwrinkled cheeks, his inconspicuous chin, and his narrow upper lip. He hummed along with Mozart's sonata coming from the radio in his bedroom, adjusted the nozzle, took off his pajamas, and got into the water.

All this, Mr. Coombs always thought would definitely bring him a happy day.

It was just after nine o'clock when he tidied up his bedroom and bathroom and got dressed. He carefully polished the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses, turned off the radio on the bedside, walked into the kitchen, and turned on the radio above the sink. This time it’s a ballad by Grieg. Mr. Coombs has always thought highly of Gehrig.

To guard against excess calories, Mr. Combs is used to having a cup of plum juice, a piece of bread and a cup of decaffeinated coffee for breakfast. The sound of the couple next door quarreling came through the open window.

There was a slamming of the door, and everything returned to calm. The coffee is opened. Mr. Combs took out a cup and sauce while he serenaded Schubert. He reached for the pot, and two gunshot-like sounds came from across the street, followed by a high-pitched and rich singing voice:

? Then sing children, and another one,

? Yes Don't stop, baby.

? Go on kid, sing it,

? This is what love is all about….

Mr. Coombs dropped the cup and rushed to the window, slamming the window shut, almost breaking the glass. He was shaking, breathing heavily as he endured the torment of rage. The unscrupulous monotonous and annoying singing voice has become quieter, but it is still singing:

? The rich are also shouting, the poor are also shouting,

? Everyone is shouting...

Mr. Coombs gritted his teeth and twisted the volume knob on the radio, trying to let the Schubert tunes overpower the goosebump-inducing howl. Who could be so bold as to pour such poisonous water into his ears is really unreasonable. He used the fingers of his right hand to feel the pulse on his left wrist. It was too fast.

Mr. Coombs sat down to his meal with a frown on his face.

At nine forty, the doorbell rang. A deliveryman in an unmarked jumpsuit slipped Mr. Coombs a package, pointed with a dirty finger to the line in the folder for his signature, and walked away. Mr. Coombs closed the door, hooked up the safety chain, and returned to the kitchen with the package.

This is a bag the size of a shoe box, with a yellow paper wrapper bearing the label of an exclusive southern shoe factory. The upper corner of the bag was stamped with a red "Urgent" rubber stamp.

Mr. Coombs did not open the foreskin immediately. He used his fingernails to pry open a corner of the label and gently peeled it off. A person's name and address are printed neatly on the back of the label. He remembered it carefully, grabbed a match from the drawer, lit the label, and flushed the ashes into the sewer.

Mr. Combs returned to the bedroom humming Schubert, opened the closet door, knelt on the floor, and lifted a corner of the carpet. He pried open a small section of the floor, reached underneath and pulled out an underarm holster and a .32mm short-barreled pistol.

Mr. Coombs hung up his pistol, buttoned his clothes, and looked carefully in the mirror. No matter how discerning you are, you won't be able to spot anything wrong with the way the clothes look.

Finding a good tailor is crucial to Mr. Coombs' line of work.

At 2:55 that afternoon, a very beautiful blonde woman named Myra Salvin was making lunch for her husband in the kitchen of her home.

Salvin Cottage, as Belle Salvin called the house, was located in a sparsely populated area, a block away from her neighbors.

This isolation worried him greatly because it left Myra and little Danny alone until one in the morning, five days a week. It couldn't be helped, as he usually worked the late shift from four to midnight at the News of the World.

In the twelve years since Bell first discovered that in addition to Myra’s beautiful legs and charming figure, they had an eleven-year-old son, an 1984 Grenada hardtop car, And 4 months ago, there was a real estate mortgage with an astonishingly high valuation. It seemed there was something else, at least to Myra: a new, unwrinkled ticket from three days ago for parking over the limit. This time she had to work up the courage to hand Bell the order while he drank his second cup of coffee.

"Honey," she said, thinking of lighter words, "send me a check when you get to work. I should go myself, but the money at home is so low that it's almost zero."< /p>

Bell only needed a glance. "Fifteen dollars! Oh my God, Myra!"

"That's not so bad," Myra said innocently. "If I hadn't stepped on the brakes, the people in that blue car would have - at least smashed the fender."

"Who is in what blue car?"

< p> "The car parked in front of me. In a panic - I mean the man. He rushed out from the house next to our apartment near the market and got into the blue car. I was pulling out. His car came directly towards me. If I hadn't braked -" "Really? If you parked in the parking lot instead of on the road. , there won't be any tickets, you won't be next to a blue car somewhere, and there won't be anyone-" Myra parked the car at the bus stop when Bell My anger is still a bit lingering. "Fifteen bucks," he growled. "This money can buy me a new fishing pole, so-"

She kissed him affectionately. "I didn't drive you out of the car. The bus is coming."

She watched the bus drive away and quickly drove back to the cabin.

The school bus won't arrive for another 20 minutes; there's still enough time for Danny to grab a cup of coffee and eat half a bagel before returning.

Things are not that simple. She had just poured a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Another annoying thing; a salesman who goes around.

This visitor is a neatly dressed, average-sized middle-aged man, slightly overweight. He had an inconspicuous chin and a narrow upper lip, and looked polite. He is not really an eye-catching person, but his silent majesty is obvious.

He politely took off his dark gray hat and bent slightly. "Is that Mrs. Myra Salvin?"

Myra nodded and smiled reluctantly. She couldn't remember anyone bowing to her before. Never.

"My name is Haydan," the man said, "and I'm from the City Council."

He didn't look malicious at all, Myra thought; but who could tell? . "Can I see some papers, Mr. Haydan? If you don't mind."

Mr. Haydan was not annoyed at all. "You are right to do this, Mrs. Salvin." He took out his wallet, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her with some exaggeration.

Myra took a look, and it was printed exactly as he said. "I think it is my husband you want to see. He is -" Mr. Haydan smiled and shook his head, and she did not continue. "I'm just here to check, Mrs. Salvin. There's no need to disturb him. I have a few building code issues to check. Of course, this should have been done a long time ago, but the City Council is notoriously inefficient."

Before Myra could figure out how he was going to check, the man had passed her and walked into the short hallway leading to the living room. She closed the door and followed.

He looked around the room. "The furniture is really nice. You have a great eye for color combinations, Mrs. Salvin."

Myra blushed at the compliment. This time she led the way to the restaurant and inner hall.

He didn't look like someone who broke into a house privately. She judged that he was a visitor at home.

In the kitchen, Mr. Haydan said: "I see you only have two doors: a front door and a side door. I personally like these modern designs; but the back corridor always looks like a storage room Feel.

"His voice was reserved and enthusiastic. Myra almost said that you and your wife must come to play again! He only looked in the bedroom, then glanced at the open door of the bathroom, and then walked back to the living room. "Thank you, Mrs. Salvin. " He said politely, putting his hand into the left lapel of his coat.

His hand paused there for a moment, and then he pulled it out again. He said briskly: "Someone is calling the door, Mrs. Salvin. . "

Myra looked at him blankly. "Are you sure? I didn't hear—"

The doorbell rang.

"I'm sorry," Myra said, walking toward the hall. This strange little man, she thought. He So polite, shouldn't he..., forget it, leave him alone.

But she immediately forgot about Mr. Haydan, because she saw Miss Anderson, the school nurse, standing at the door. , leading Danny in his hand.

Myra hurriedly walked towards Danny. "What happened, Danny?" You——"

Miss Anderson said: "Don't worry, Mrs. Salvin. She gently pushed Myra aside and led the child into the hall. "Danny's okay." He was a little listless in class, and it turned out that he had a fever; he might have a cold. It wasn't serious at all, but I thought it would be best to send him home instead of waiting to take him to the school bus, which, you know, was pretty windy. "

Myra turned around. "Come in, Miss Anderson. I'm going to call Dr. Evans. "

The nurse shook her head and smiled affirmatively. "It's not necessary, really. Just let him lie down in bed; if the fever is still there tomorrow morning, you can call the doctor. "

"Are you sure? ”

“Of course. A kid of Danny's age would bounce back in a blink of an eye. "

They smiled at each other, and Miss Anderson left. Myra hurriedly got the child who was struggling to go upstairs, gave him a hot bath, and settled him in On the bed. It wasn't until she was cleaning the bathroom that she suddenly remembered what the council man would think of her.

But Mr. Haydan was not in the living room, and Myra frowned. Walked through all the rooms. No result. It seemed that Mr. Haidan left without saying goodbye.

She looked out of the street window with regret. As usual, there was no one on the street. It was like an endless grassland. Obviously Mr. Haydan didn't want to disturb her anymore, so he went out through the side door and drove away.

Myra returned to the kitchen, turned on the fire and reheated the coffee, and read the morning paper while drinking, when the doorbell rang again. The caller this time was a tall man over forty with broad shoulders, wearing a rumpled blue serge suit.

"I am Lieutenant Greer, madam. Of the police station. ’ He showed his open wallet, a picture of something shiny and a dull face. ‘Are you Mrs. Myra Salvin? "

Myra looked at him suspiciously. "I can't believe it. "

The lieutenant raised his thick eyebrows. "Why, madam? "

"Send a policeman here just to collect fifteen dollars. It had only been three days since I got that parking ticket. Lieutenant Greer gave her a wry smile. "That's not the reason why I'm here." At least not directly. He looked over her shoulder, "Can I go in?"

Lieutenant Greer sat down in a chair in the living room, declined the coffee, and explained a series of reasons that brought him here. A notorious gangster, he said, three days He was killed in the apartment next to the Union Supermarket.

"We learned that the killer drove away in a blue car," the lieutenant continued. "No one admitted to paying attention to the man. , which brings us to a dead end. Until this morning, the Traffic Division sent a record of your parking penalty. The officer writing the ticket remembered that there was a blue car parked in front of your car. He unclenched his hands and looked at her hopefully. "We think you may have seen the person driving the car." "

Myra leaned forward, her eyes shining with excitement. "Of course I saw it. He drove off in such a hurry that he nearly ripped off my fender. "

The lieutenant showed an ominous expression of satisfaction. "Then we have some clues. What does he look like? "

Myra wrinkled her forehead. "He, he looks a bit... big. His face is a little... ugly. Still angry, you know? He was wearing a hat and a dark coat….

Her voice trailed off. Greer gasped, hiding his disappointment. "Can you identify the suspect from the photo?" That’s it: a photo. "

"I think so," Myra replied immediately.

"Very good. "The lieutenant picked up his hat. "I hope you can come with me to the bureau and look at those photos. I'm sure I can screen out a few in advance, so it won't take up too much of your time. "

Myra shook her head apologetically. "I can't, Lieutenant. Not now. My child is still sick upstairs and my husband hasn't gotten off work yet. How about tomorrow morning? I'll drive there. ”

After a little discussion, Lieutenant Greer decided to meet her at the district police station the next morning, said goodbye to her, and drove onto the deserted street.

This is Four twenty-five. At four forty, a gray car parked on the side of the road not far from Salvin's house, on the other side of the road.

Myra Schaal. Wen first discovered the small gray car just after five o'clock. She was organizing the dresser drawers in the large bedroom and accidentally saw the car in the darkening sky outside the window.

She thought absentmindedly, why was the car parked there? Maybe it was a salesman doing something after work.

But twenty minutes later, when When she noticed that the car was still parked there, she felt a sense of alarm. Suddenly, what Lieutenant Greer had said about the killer in the blue car suddenly came back to her mind - and she was no longer a little alarmed.

She hid behind the curtains of her bedroom and stared outside carefully, trying to see if anyone was sitting in the car. However, at half past five in late October, dusk had fallen on the street and she could not see clearly inside the car.

Until then, she remembered Bell's telescope hanging in the kitchen.

She took off the telescope with shaking hands and knelt by the open window. Adjust the focus of the telescope to the front seat of the small gray car.

Someone is sitting in the car. The angle from above makes it difficult for her to see the person's face. On the upper body, only the thighs and his hands could be seen. It was a small thing, she couldn't tell.

It seemed to be the right one. After her silent prayer, a streetlight turned on almost directly above the thing. Under the yellow light, the enlarged target appeared clearly in front of Myra's narrowed eyes.

A gun.

The telescope fell to the ground from Myra's trembling fingers. A wave of weakness passed through her body, and she couldn't stand up for a long time. She stood up tremblingly, ran out of the bedroom, and went downstairs.

She only felt that the phone receiver in her hand was like the last leaf of a boat that saved a drowning man, and a trembling finger reached into it. She dialed the number in the finger hole and put the receiver to her ear with one hand.

There was no echo, and there was no slight click when it was connected. It was simply silence, as if it was slowly coming to her and sweeping her over. All over. She slapped the receiver frantically. "Quick!" "A voice shouted loudly in her heart. She slowly looked along the phone line to the wall. A hoarse sob surged into her throat; the receiver in her hand fell to the ground.

Telephone The thread was torn off the wall.

Bell Salvin picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup of coffee, took off his green eye mask, stood up and stretched his legs. The clock on the wall pointed to four. Fifty o'clock. Why don't you call Myra and tell her he's really not mad about the parking fine, asshole, he's been fined a few times and he just didn't let Myra know. . Not because she sat there crying, but because a person should understand this kind of thing.

After dialing ten or eight times, he put down the receiver. It was strange; she should be at home. . She should have called him first if she wanted to go out. Or she would have taken Danny to McDonald's for a hamburger... No; she would have let him know even if she went there. He dialed again, but no one answered. He frowned and pressed the phone holder, then dialed the phone number.

Myra huddled on the floor by the window downstairs. She looked at the corner of the lowered curtain. The great panic that drove her to the phone had disappeared, and she was exhausted. "You are already trapped," she cried inwardly; Nothing could be done.

"

She closed her eyes and trembled, digging her fingers into the carpet. She saw the murderer's face; for this she must die. She understood now that Mr. Haydan had put his hand into his clothes. He was there to get the gun. Of course he heard Miss Anderson and Danny coming up to the doorstep first. He was a killer, a hired killer, a clever tiger who hid in the dark. When the door was opened, he slipped away through the side door. No one saw him come, and no one saw him leave.

Now, he is sitting there again. Both doors were visible, and as soon as the last ray of light faded, he would break in and do what he was hired to do.

Myra suddenly stood up. He opened the door and ran! He screamed and ran away from where he was guarding. If he really fired, it would be difficult for him to hit a moving target in such dim light. It's worth trying. It's better than cowering like a desperate child...

Oh my God - and Danny! Her knees suddenly became weak, and she leaned against the wall shivering. A strange force in her mind made her forget about Danny, and she only thought about her own danger. She quickly considered whether she could get him up quickly. Put on your clothes and run away with him. But thinking that Danny will be a sure target for the killer on the street...

Why not just leave Danny in the room upstairs? Like? Since he has never seen a murderer with his own eyes; he is a ruthless and measured executioner who only kills people who are paid to kill him.

A crazy feeling of gratitude for the man outside. Her extremely painful heart turned into a distorted prism; in the mirror, he became a good person, a kind person, a person who would never hurt a child inhumanely...

She stood up, as if a sudden idea lifted her spirits. She rushed to the desk in the living room and found a thin plastic knife for opening envelopes in a drawer. She sat down at the foot of the wall where the telephone junction box was installed. Her fingers steadily removed the screws on both sides and opened the black metal cover. Then, her emotions suddenly fell into the abyss again, and she looked in despair. He looked at the messy wires and fiddled with the broken and forked threads, becoming more and more confused about the number.

"He knows you can't fix it!" her heart cried. "He never fails."

She covered her face with her hands. "He's going to force you into this," she thought. There was nothing she could do, she was completely lost, she knew no one could save her, the door and the lock were blocked. She couldn't stop him from rushing in.

She thought of Danny again. At least he could be spared. She ran upstairs and saw him leaning on the pillow and reading a book lazily. Put on a smile. “Honey, are you feeling better? "

Danny looked at her and could see that he was making a little calculation in his mind. "Can I stay at home tomorrow? ”

“Of course. Tomorrow is Saturday. "

His expression changed. "I'm not sick, Mom. It's just that old lady Anderson said I was sick. "

"But you have to stay in bed. This is very important. Do you understand, Danny? No matter what happens, you must stay in bed! "She bit her lip, fearing that she would be too serious and arouse his curiosity. He could..." Can I listen to the radio? "

"Wait a moment, dear. "She bent down to kiss him, being careful not to caress him too much. She stood up, looked down at her son for a long time, turned around and trudged downstairs.

Mr. Haidan was already there. She was waiting in the living room. From the first time she saw the gun, throughout this period of time-losing terror, she had been thinking about what the killer would do at the last moment. Would he have twisted his narrow upper lip in disdain? Or would he have simply raised his gun at her and pulled the trigger? No rape had occurred. There he faced her, his expression serious, his hand hanging by his leg, holding the pistol.

"I saw him," she said dully, the words coming out without even thinking. "I wish I hadn't seen him, but he turned around, you know. ”

A hint of heartbeat crossed the gray face.

"Who did you see, Mrs. Salvin?"

"No need to ask, that person. The person who drove the blue car, the person who killed someone. Isn't that why you..." "

The man who called himself Haydan, Coombs, or a dozen other names looked at her and said nothing.

"You shouldn't kill, kill me," Myra whispered. Her fingers dug into her palms.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Salvin. I wish I didn't have to kill you."

"Then just go away," she whispered. "Leave now. Tell the man I won't report it to the police."

"I'm afraid I don't know how to tell him," he said apologetically. "I never knew the name of my... man who hired me. There was no need to know, honestly."

He slowly raised the gun. "Why didn't I scream?" Myra thought drowsily. "Why don't I turn around and run away? Why don't I kneel down and beg for mercy?"

She squeezed out the last whisper, a sad prayer. "You won't hurt my son - the one upstairs?"

The gun, now leveled, was pointed at her heart. The gun seemed to expand and grow in his hand, "Of course not, Mrs. Salvin."

"Thank you, oh, thank you...,"

There were two very loud gunshots, but the gunshots came from upstairs, not from the muzzle of the gray-faced man. A gruff voice sang; it was Danny who turned on the radio.

? Keep singing, child, one more;

? By the way, child, don’t stop….

Both Mr. Haydan and Myra were startled. The man suddenly became nervous, trembled conspicuously, and turned his body towards the stairs. Myra caught the nervous glance and knew Danny was in danger. She lunged at the man, instinctively, with a ferocity that came from nowhere; she bumped her shoulder into him about the size of his belt buckle. As Mr. Haydan was not a very strong man, it was not surprising that he fell backwards.

His head snapped back on the slender neck, and his body seemed to shrink suddenly, and finally collapsed completely.

Myra crawled along the carpet on all fours, eyes fixed on the gun. The loud music upstairs suddenly stopped, the volume was turned down. Myra's hand came close to the cold weapon, and her body almost completely lost its function. She sat there with one leg stretched out, staring at the glowing blue metal….

The bell rang. It's the doorbell. She was wondering who might be coming, as if she were an outsider. She was still thinking, not moving, not shouting. In the blink of an eye, a reserved face appeared on the other side of the living room foyer. A young face with a mess of hair. His startled eyes took in the scene. He looked at Myra. Myra looked at him.

"I'm from the phone company, ma'am. We got an emergency call at your number."

"It's the phone line," Myra said. "Someone pulled it out."

"I can fix it right away, ma'am."

"Thank you."

Totally crazy . The way they talked, the polite nonsense they said. Just like two friends who were walking outside and saw something shady, they covered up their embarrassment with words or no words.

That’s ridiculous.

Myra fainted suddenly, and the person from the phone company helped her.

Author's resume

Howward Browne

Howard Browne was born in Omaha in 1908. He worked as a credit manager for a Chicago department store for several years and later entered the newspaper world. He began as a short story writer and later became an editor at Gifford-David. His first detective story, "Bloody Halo" (1946), was written under the pseudonym John Evans and was about private detective Paul Pine. He remained in the book world for half a century after writing the excellent hard-boiled detective story, Pine's novel A Smell of Ashes (1957), under his real name. He turned his writing skills to film scripts (including "Portrait of a Gangster" and "Valentine's Day Massacre") and TV scripts (***127 episodes, including the series "Cheyana", "77 Sunset Color Bars", "Theatre" 90", "Unhuman Mission" and "Columbus").

He currently lives in Carlsbad. After 1973, he also taught writing courses at the University of California, San Diego.

Now that he had mostly left screenwriting behind, he had returned to writing detective novels, the first of which was Paper Guns (1985), a new Paul Pine novel under contract for limited publication. "A Visitor at Home" was first published in Tramp.

Translated by Su Wenlin from: Howard Browne: "House Call",

Walter J. Black, Inc, 1986.

Roslyn, New York, U. S. A.

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