The Nine Mile Walk

by Harry Kemelman (1947)

I HAD MADE an ass of myself in a speech I had given at the Good Government Association dinner, and Nicky Welt had cornered me at breakfast at the Blue Moon, where we both ate occasionally, for the pleasure of rubbing it in. I had made the mistake of departing from my prepared speech to criticize a statement my predecessor in the office of County Attorney had made to the press. I had drawn a number of inferences from his statement and had thus left myself open to a rebuttal which he had promptly made and which had the effect of making me appear intellectually dishonest. I was new to this political game, having but a few months before left the Law School faculty to become the Reform Party candidate for County Attorney. I said as much in extenuation, but Nicholas Welt, who could never drop his pedagogical manner (he was Snowdon Professor of English Language and Literature), replied in much the same tone that he would dismiss a request from a sophomore for an extension on a term paper, “That’s no excuse.”        Although he is only two or three years older than I, in his late forties, he always treats me like a schoolmaster hectoring a stupid pupil. And I, perhaps because he looks so much older with his white hair and lined, gnomelike face, suffer it.        “They were perfectly logical inferences,” I pleaded.        “My dear boy,” he purred, “although human intercourse is well-nigh impossible without inference, most inferences are usually wrong. The percentage of error is particularly high in the legal profession where the intention is not to discover what the speaker wishes to convey, but rather what he wishes to conceal.”        I picked up my check and eased out from behind the table.        “I suppose you are referring to cross-examination of witnesses in court. Well, there’s always an opposing counsel who will object if the inference is illogical.”        “Who said anything about logic?” he retorted. “An inference can be logical and still not be true.”        He followed me down the aisle to the cashier’s booth. I paid my check and waited impatiently while he searched in an old-fashioned change purse, fishing out coins one by one and placing them on the counter beside his check, only to discover that the total was insufficient. He slid them back into his purse and with a tiny sigh extracted a bill from another compartment of the purse and handed it to the cashier.        “Give me any sentence of ten or twelve words,” he said, “and I’ll build you a logical chain of inferences that you never dreamed of when you framed the sentence.”        Other customers were coming in, and since the space in front of the cashier’s booth was small, I decided to wait outside until Nicky completed his transaction with the cashier. I remember being mildly amused at the idea that he probably thought I was still at his elbow and was going right ahead with his discourse.        When he joined me on the sidewalk I said, “A nine mile walk is no joke, especially in the rain.”        “No, I shouldn’t think it would be,” he agreed absently. Then he stopped in his stride and looked at me sharply. “What the devil are you talking about?”        “It’s a sentence and it has eleven words,” I insisted. And I repeated the sentence, ticking off the words on my fingers.        “What about it?”        “You said that given a sentence of ten or twelve words—”        “Oh, yes.” He looked at me suspiciously. “Where did you get it?”        “It just popped into my head. Come on now, build your inferences.”        “You’re serious about this?” he asked, his little blue eyes glittering with amusement. “You really want me to?”        It was just like him to issue a challenge and then to appear amused when I accepted it. And it made me angry.        “Put up or shut up,” I said.        “All right,” he said mildly. “No need to be huffy. I’ll play. Hmm, let me see, how did the sentence go? ‘A nine mile walk is no joke, especially in the rain.’ Not much to go on there.”        “It’s more than ten words,” I rejoined.        “Very well.” His voice became crisp as he mentally squared off to the problem. “First inference: the speaker is aggrieved.”        “I’ll grant that,” I said, “although it hardly seems to be an inference. It’s really implicit in the statement.”        He nodded impatiently. “Next inference: the rain was unforeseen, otherwise he would have said, ‘A nine mile walk in the rain is no joke,’ instead of using the ‘especially’ phrase as an afterthought.”        “I’ll allow that,” I said, “although it’s pretty obvious.”        “First inferences should be obvious,” said Nicky tartly.        I let it go at that. He seemed to be floundering and I didn’t want to rub it in.        “Next inference: the speaker is not an athlete or an outdoors man.”        “You’ll have to explain that one,” I said.        “It’s the ‘especially’ phrase again,” he said. “The speaker does not say that a nine mile walk in the rain is no joke, but merely the walk—just the distance, mind you—is no joke. Now, nine miles is not such a terribly long distance. You walk more than half that in eighteen holes of golf—and golf is an old man’s game,” he added slyly. I play golf.        “Well, that would be all right under ordinary circumstances,” I said, “but there are other possibilities. The speaker might be a soldier in the jungle, in which case nine miles would be a pretty good hike, rain or no rain.”        “Yes,” and Nicky was sarcastic, “and the speaker might be one-legged. For that matter, the speaker might be a graduate student writing a Ph.D. thesis on humor and starting by listing all the things that are not funny. See here, I’ll have to make a couple of assumptions before I continue.”        “How do you mean?” I asked, suspiciously.        “Remember, I’m taking this sentence in vacuo, as it were. I don’t know who said it or what the occasion was. Normally a sentence belongs in the framework of a situation.”        “I see. What assumptions do you want to make?”        “For one thing, I want to assume that the intention was not frivolous, that the speaker is referring to a walk that was actually taken, and that the purpose of the walk was not to win a bet or something of that sort.”        “That seems reasonable enough,” I said.        “And I also want to assume that the locale of the walk is here.”        “You mean here in Fairfield?”        “Not necessarily. I mean in this general section of the country.”        “Fair enough.”        “Then, if you grant those assumptions, you’ll have to accept my last inference that the speaker is no athlete or outdoors man.”        “Well, all right, go on.”        “Then my next inference is that the walk was taken very late at night or very early in the morning—say, between midnight and five or six in the morning.”        “How do you figure that one?” I asked.        “Consider the distance, nine miles. We’re in a fairly well-populated section. Take any road and you’ll find a community of some sort in less than nine miles. Hadley is five miles away, Hadley Falls is seven and a half, Goreton is eleven, but East Goreton is only eight and you strike East Goreton before you come to Goreton. There is local train service along the Goreton road and bus service along the others. All the highways are pretty well traveled. Would anyone have to walk nine miles in a rain unless it were late at night when no buses or trains were running and when the few automobiles that were out would hesitate to pick up a stranger on the highway?”        “He might not have wanted to be seen,” I suggested.        Nicky smiled pityingly. “You think he would be less noticeable trudging along the highway than he would be riding in a public conveyance where everyone is usually absorbed in his newspaper?”        “Well, I won’t press the point,” I said brusquely.        “Then try this one: he was walking toward a town rather than away from one.”        I nodded. “It is more likely, I suppose. If he were in a town, he could probably arrange for some sort of transportation. Is that the basis for your inference?”        “Partly that,” said Nicky, “but there is also an inference to be drawn from the distance. Remember, it’s a nine mile walk and nine is one of the exact numbers.”        “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”        That exasperated schoolteacher-look appeared on Nicky’s face again. “Suppose you say, ‘I took a ten mile walk’ or ‘a hundred mile drive’; I would assume that you actually walked anywhere from eight to a dozen miles, or that you rode between ninety and a hundred and ten miles. In other words, ten and hundred are round numbers. You might have walked exactly ten miles or just as likely you might have walked approximately ten miles. But when you speak of walking nine miles, I have a right to assume that you have named an exact figure. Now, we are far more likely to know the distance of the city from a given point than we are to know the distance of a given point from the city. That is, ask anyone in the city how far out Farmer Brown lives, and if he knows him, he will say, ‘Three or four miles.’ But ask Farmer Brown how far he lives from the city and he will tell you ‘Three and six-tenths miles—measured it on my speedometer many a time.’ ”        “It’s weak, Nicky,” I said.        “But in conjunction with your own suggestion that he could have arranged transportation if he had been in a city—”        “Yes, that would do it,” I said. “I’ll pass it. Any more?”        “I’ve just begun to hit my stride,” he boasted. “My next inference is that he was going to a definite destination and that he had to be there at a particular time. It was not a case of going off to get help because his car broke down or his wife was going to have a baby or somebody was trying to break into his house.”        “Oh, come now,” I said, “the car breaking down is really the most likely situation. He could have known the exact distance from having checked the mileage just as he was leaving the town.”        Nicky shook his head. “Rather than walk nine miles in the rain, he would have curled up on the back seat and gone to sleep, or at least stayed by his car and tried to flag another motorist. Remember, it’s nine miles. What would be the least it would take him to hike it?”        “Four hours,” I offered.        He nodded. “Certainly no less, considering the rain. We’ve agreed that it happened very late at night or very early in the morning. Suppose he had his breakdown at one o’clock in the morning. It would be five o’clock before he would arrive. That’s daybreak. You begin to see a lot of cars on the road. The buses start just a little later. In fact, the first buses hit Fairfield around five-thirty. Besides, if he were going for help, he would not have to go all the way to town—only as far as the nearest telephone. No, he had a definite appointment, and it was in a town, and it was for some time before five-thirty.”        “Then why couldn’t he have got there earlier and waited?” I asked. “He could have taken the last bus, arrived around one o’clock, and waited until his appointment. He walks nine miles in the rain instead, and you said he was no athlete.”        We had arrived at the Municipal Building where my office is. Normally, any arguments begun at the Blue Moon ended at the entrance to the Municipal Building. But I was interested in Nicky’s demonstration and I suggested that he come up for a few minutes.        When we were seated I said, “How about it, Nicky, why couldn’t he have arrived early and waited?”        “He could have,” Nicky retorted. “But since he did not, we must assume that he was either detained until after the last bus left, or that he had to wait where he was for a signal of some sort, perhaps a telephone call.”        “Then according to you, he had an appointment some time between midnight and five-thirty—”        “We can draw it much finer than that. Remember, it takes him four hours to walk the distance. The last bus stops at twelve-thirty A.M. If he doesn’t take that, but starts at the same time, he won’t arrive at his destination until four-thirty. On the other hand, if he takes the first bus in the morning, he will arrive around five-thirty. That would mean that his appointment was for some time between four-thirty and five-thirty.”        “You mean that if his appointment was earlier than four-thirty, he would have taken the last night bus, and if it was later than five-thirty, he would have taken the first morning bus?”        “Precisely. And another thing: if he was waiting for a signal or a phone call, it must have come not much later than one o’clock.”        “Yes, I see that,” I said. “If his appointment is around five o’clock and it takes him four hours to walk the distance, he’d have to start around one.”        He nodded, silent and thoughtful. For some queer reason I could not explain, I did not feel like interrupting his thoughts. On the wall was a large map of the county and I walked over to it and began to study it.        “You’re right, Nicky,” I remarked over my shoulder, “there’s no place as far as nine miles away from Fairfield that doesn’t hit another town first. Fairfield is right in the middle of a bunch of smaller towns.”        He joined me at the map. “It doesn’t have to be Fairfield, you know,” he said quietly. “It was probably one of the outlying towns he had to reach. Try Hadley.”        “Why Hadley? What would anyone want in Hadley at five o’clock in the morning?”        “The Washington Flyer stops there to take on water about that time,” he said quietly.        “That’s right, too,” I said. “I’ve heard that train many a night when I couldn’t sleep. I’d hear it pulling in and then a minute or two later I’d hear the clock on the Methodist Church banging out five.” I went back to my desk for a timetable. “The Flyer leaves Washington at twelve forty-seven A.M. and gets into Boston at eight A.M.”        Nicky was still at the map measuring distances with a pencil.        “Exactly nine miles from Hadley is the Old Sumter Inn,” he announced.        “Old Sumter Inn,” I echoed. “But that upsets the whole theory. You can arrange for transportation there as easily as you can in a town.”        He shook his head. “The cars are kept in an enclosure and you have to get an attendant to check you through the gate. The attendant would remember anyone taking out his car at a strange hour. It’s a pretty conservative place. He could have waited in his room until he got a call from Washington about someone on the Flyer—maybe the number of the car and the berth. Then he could just slip out of the hotel and walk to Hadley.”        I stared at him, hypnotized.        “It wouldn’t be difficult to slip aboard while the train was taking on water, and then if he knew the car number and the berth—”        “Nicky,” I said portentously, “as the Reform District Attorney who campaigned on an economy program, I am going to waste the taxpayers’ money and call Boston long distance. It’s ridiculous, it’s insane—but I’m going to do it!”        His little blue eyes glittered and he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.        “Go ahead,” he said hoarsely.

I REPLACED THE telephone in its cradle.        “Nicky,” I said, “this is probably the most remarkable coincidence in the history of criminal investigation: a man was found murdered in his berth on last night’s twelve-forty-seven from Washington! He’d been dead about three hours, which would make it exactly right for Hadley.”        “I thought it was something like that,” said Nicky. “But you’re wrong about its being a coincidence. It can’t be. Where did you get that sentence?”        “It was just a sentence. It simply popped into my head.”        “It couldn’t have! It’s not the sort of sentence that pops into one’s head. If you had taught composition as long as I have, you’d know that when you ask someone for a sentence of ten words or so, you get an ordinary statement such as ‘I like milk’—with the other words made up by a modifying clause like, ‘because it is good for my health.’ The sentence you offered related to a particular situation.”        “But I tell you I talked to no one this morning. And I was alone with you at the Blue Moon.”        “You weren’t with me all the time I paid my check,” he said sharply. “Did you meet anyone while you were waiting on the sidewalk for me to come out of the Blue Moon?”        I shook my head. “I was outside for less than a minute before you joined me. You see, a couple of men came in while you were digging out your change and one of them bumped me, so I thought I’d wait—”        “Did you ever see them before?”        “Who?”        “The two men who came in,” he said, the note of exasperation creeping into his voice again.        “Why, no—they weren’t anyone I knew.”        “Were they talking?”        “I guess so. Yes, they were. Quite absorbed in their conversation, as a matter of fact—otherwise, they would have noticed me and I would not have been bumped.”        “Not many strangers come into the Blue Moon,” he remarked.        “Do you think it was they?” I asked eagerly. “I think I’d know them again if I saw them.”        Nicky’s eyes narrowed. “It’s possible. There had to be two—one to trail the victim in Washington and ascertain his berth number, the other to wait here and do the job. The Washington man would be likely to come down here afterwards. If there was theft as well as murder, it would be to divide the spoils. If it was just murder, he would probably have to come down to pay off his confederate.”        I reached for the telephone.        “We’ve been gone less than half an hour,” Nicky went on. “They were just coming in and service is slow at the Blue Moon. The one who walked all the way to Hadley must certainly be hungry and the other probably drove all night from Washington.”        “Call me immediately if you make an arrest,” I said into the phone and hung up.        Neither of us spoke a word while we waited. We paced the floor, avoiding each other almost as though we had done something we were ashamed of.        The telephone rang at last. I picked it up and listened. Then I said, “O.K.” and turned to Nicky.        “One of them tried to escape through the kitchen but Winn had someone stationed at the back and they got him.”        “That would seem to prove it,” said Nicky with a frosty little smile.        I nodded agreement.        He glanced at his watch. “Gracious,” he exclaimed, “I wanted to make an early start on my work this morning, and here I’ve already wasted all this time talking with you.”        I let him get to the door. “Oh, Nicky,” I called, “what was it you set out to prove?”        “That a chain of inferences could be logical and still not be true,” he said.        “Oh.”        “What are you laughing at?” he asked snappishly. And then he laughed too.

参考译文：

在善政协会的晚宴上，我把自己的演讲搞砸了。第二天，在我们常去的那家蓝月吃早餐时，尼基·威尔特又提起这事取笑我，这让我很难堪。我错在演讲脱稿，即兴发挥，批评了前任地方检查官发布给新闻媒体的一项声明。我基于他的声明做了一些推理，结果把自己暴露在他暴风骤雨般的反驳之下，搞得我像是个故意找茬挑刺的。在这种政治游戏上，我是个新手，成为改革党地区检察官候选人的几个月前我还在法律学校。我这么说着，想给自己找个台阶下，但是尼基威尔特从不放下他的教师架子（他是斯诺登的英语语言及文学教授），用他拒绝大二学生请求期末报告延期的口气说道：“那不是借口。”

虽然他四十好几，只比我年长两三岁，但是他对我的态度就像老师教训笨蛋小学生一样。不过看在他一头白发、满脸皱纹像个白胡子小矮人，比实际年龄显得老很多的份上，我忍。

“那都是些很合逻辑的推理，”我为自己辩解。

“我亲爱的孩子，”他咕哝着，“虽然人类的交流几乎离不开推理，但大部分推理都是错的，法律领域错的概率更高，因为他们想的不是发掘说话者想表达的东西，而是他们想隐瞒的。”

我拿起账单，从桌子后面挪出来。

“你是想说法庭上证人的交叉质询吗？可是如果推理不合逻辑，对方律师总会提出抗议的。“

“谁说是逻辑问题了，”他反驳道。“推理符合了逻辑也不见得就是真相。”

他跟着我来到收银台。我付完自己的账，不耐烦地等他。他摸索着一个老式钱包，掏出一枚枚硬币排在柜台上，结果发现不够。于是又轻叹一声把硬币收回去，从夹层取出一张钞票递给收银员。

“给我一个10到12个字组成的句子，”他说，“然后我可以建一条你造句时完全没想到的推理逻辑链。”

其他顾客进来了，柜台这边空间太小，我打算在外面等他结完帐。我一想到他可能误以为我还在他旁边和他一起讨论，就觉得有点好笑。

当他在人行道跟上我的时候，我说，“走九里路不是玩笑，还下雨。”

“是的，我也觉得不是玩笑，”他心不在焉地附和。紧接着他停下脚步，盯着我看。“你在说什么鬼？”

“这是一个句子，刚好11个字，”我强调着，然后重念了一遍句子，掰手指数字数。

“那又怎么样？”

“你说的给个10到12个字的句子——”

“唔，是的。”他狐疑地望着我。“你从哪儿听到的？”

“就这么想到了呗。好了，构建你的推理吧。”

“你认真的？”他问道，那双蓝色小眼睛闪着顽皮的光芒。“你真的要我推理？”

搞得好像提出挑战的是他，准备看我怎么接一样。我有点不爽。

“爱推推，不推闭嘴。”我说。

“好的，”他温和地说。“没必要生气，我玩就是。唔，让我想想，这句话怎么说的？‘走九里路不是玩笑，还下雨’。能展开的不多。”

“这都超过十个字了。”我插嘴道。

“很好。”他的声音变得果决起来，要动真格了。“第一条推理：说话者愤愤不平。”

“这个我同意，”我说，“虽然这看起来根本不算推理。句子本身就隐含这点。”

他不耐烦地点头。“下一个推理：这场雨他没料到，不然他会直接说‘在雨里走九里路不是开玩笑的’，而不会在后面附加‘还’这段来补充想法。”

“我也同意，”我说，“尽管这也无比明显。”

“第一个推理就该明显点，”尼基针锋相对。

我不和他纠缠，他像是在冥思苦想，我不想打断他。

“下一条推理：说这句话的人不是运动员也不是户外派。”

“这你得解释一下，”我说。

“还是‘还’后面这段话的问题，”他说。“说话者不是说雨中的九里路不开玩笑，而只是说路程——只是距离，请注意——不是易事。实际上九英里并不是什么长得要命的距离。18洞的高尔夫球场走一趟就已经过半了，而高尔夫是属于老年人的运动，”他狡黠的补充道。我玩高尔夫。

“在一般情况下没错，”我说，“但是还有其他可能性。例如说话者可能是丛林游击兵，那样的话，九英里就是一场艰难的徒步了，无论下不下雨。”

“是的，”尼基讽刺道，“说话者说不定只有一条腿呢！要那样想的话，说话者也可能是个正在写主题是幽默的博士论文的研究生，先在开头罗列所有无趣的事情。说到这个，在继续推理下去之前，我得做几点假设。”

“什么意思？”我怀疑地问。

“你想想看，我是在凭空讨论这句话。我不知道是谁说的，也不知道背景。通常一句话总有具体情境的。”

“懂了。你想做些什么假设？”

“首先，我要假设说话者的意图并非调侃，他所提到的步行是真实发生过的，而且步行的目的并不是跟人打赌或类似的东西。”

“这似乎很合理。”我说。

“我还要假设步行发生地点就在这儿。”

“你是说在这里，费尔菲尔德？”

“不是非要在这里，我是说在这片区域。”

“很公平。”

“那么，如果你认可以上假设，就将不得不接受我刚才那个推理：说话者不是运动员或者户外派。”

“好的，继续。”

“我的下一条推理是步行发生在深夜或者清晨——或者说介于午夜12点与早晨5、6点之间。”

“这你怎么得出来的？”我问。

“考虑下这段距离——九英里。我们身处人口稠密区，随便选一条路，在九英里以内一定会有社区。哈德雷在五英里之外，戈尔顿十一英里，东戈尔顿只有八英里，实际上在到达戈尔顿之前就先到东戈尔顿了。戈尔顿沿路有当地的火车，其他地区有公交，所有高速公路畅通无阻。什么情况下一个人会在雨中步行九英里？只能是深夜公交、火车停运，私家车也不会在高速公路上随便搭载陌生人的时候。”

“他也许不想被看见？”我提议。

尼基同情地笑了，“你觉得在高速公路上长途跋涉，比坐在所有人都埋头看报纸的公共交通工具里更不引人注目？”

“好吧，我不纠缠这一点了，”我粗暴地说。

“那再试试这条：他要往镇上走而不是离开镇子。”

我点头，“我猜这个更有可能。如果他在镇上，很可能安排好了某种交通工具。这是你的推理依据吗？”

“一部分是，”他说，“但在距离上还有一层推理。想想看，这是九英里路，九是个准确的数字。”

“我不是很懂。”

典型的教师式愠怒再次涌上尼基的脸，“假如你说，‘我走路走了十英里或者开车开了一百英里’，我会想你实际上走了8至12英里，开了90至110英里。换句话说，10和100都是约数，当然也许你真的刚好走了10英里。但如果你说你走了九英里，我有理由认为你的确刚好走了这个数。而知道城外某个地点到城内的距离，比城内到城外那个点的距离会更容易。比如，随便问本市的某个人，布朗农夫住的郊外农庄离市区有多远，如果他认识布朗，他可能会说，‘三四英里吧。’但你要是问布朗农夫自己，他住的地方距市中心多远，那他会告诉你‘3.6英里——里程表上算过好多次了。’”

“这依据太弱了，尼基，”我抱怨道，“但考虑到你前面的推理，既假设这人是从城里出发，那么他多半会弄个交通工具——。”

 “那还说得过去。”我说，“过，还有吗？”

“好戏才刚开始，”他得意地说，“我的下一条推理是，他将前往确定的地点并且必须在特定时间抵达。不过不是因为车子半途熄火、老婆临产或者有人私闯民宅这些突发状况。”

“噢，得了吧，”我说，“‘车子熄火’是最可能的，而且这样就能很自然地通过察看车的里程数得知确切的距离。”

尼基摇着头说，“与其在雨中步行九英里，他还不如缩在汽车后座睡上一觉呢，或者至少呆在自己的车边上等别的车路过。想想看，这可是九英里，徒步得花多少时间！”

“四小时吧，”我估了个数。

他点点头，“不止，想想看是雨天。我们已经得出步行的时间是在深夜或凌晨。假设他在凌晨一点抛锚，他到达目的地时至少五点了——天都要亮了。路上的过往车辆开始逐渐增多，稍晚一些公交车也会出现。实际上首班巴士五点半左右就到费尔菲尔德了。再说了，就算他需要寻求帮助，也不用走完全部路程——完全可以就近找个电话亭。因此他一定是此前就有明确的约定，地点约在城内，并且时间在五点半之前。”

“那他为什么不能早到然后在那里等呢，”我问道。“他可以坐末班巴士一点左右到那里，然后等着。可事实却是他在雨中走了九英里，而你又说他并非运动员。”

不知不觉我们到了市政厅，我的办公室所在地。基本上每一次始于蓝月的讨论都会在此结束，但这次我对尼基的推理产生了兴趣，于是提议上楼再聊几分钟。

坐下来之后我说：“按照你的假设，为什么那人不能提前到达约定地点，然后原地等待呢？”

“他是可以这么做，”尼基反驳。“但既然他没有这么做，我们就得假设他要么是被某事给耽搁，没赶上末班巴士。要么就是在等什么东西，比如一通电话。”

“你的意思是他在午夜至凌晨五点半之间有个约会？”

“还可以更精确一点。记住，走完这段路要花至少四小时。末班巴士零点三十发车，如果他没赶上这趟车，就说明他不可能在四点半之前抵达目的地。反过来，假设他乘坐早上的首班巴士，那五点半左右就能抵达。即是说他的约定时间介乎四点半到五点半之间。”

“你的意思是如果约定时间早于四点半，他将乘坐末班巴士，而如果晚于五点半，他将乘坐首班巴士？”

“非常正确。还有一点：如果他是在等信号或者电话，那它一定不会晚于一点太多。”

“对，我懂了，”我说。“假设约会定在五点，而步行要花四小时左右，那么他必须一点左右出发。”

尼基再次点了点头，随后陷入沉思。不知怎么，我不想打断他的思考。墙上有一张城市地图，我走过去研究起来。

“你是对的，尼基，”我回头说，“费尔菲尔德方圆九英里以内不可能没有市镇。费尔菲尔德就处于一堆城镇的中央。”

他走过来和我一起研究地图。“不一定非得是费尔菲尔德，”他平静地说，“你知道，也有可能是任何一个他要去的偏远小镇，说不定是哈德雷。”

“为什么是哈德雷？为什么会有人想要早上五点到哈德雷？”

“华盛顿飞行者号列车会在那个时候停靠加水，”他平静地说。

“也对，”我说。“许多个失眠的夜晚，我都能听见那辆火车的声音。我听见它进站的声音，一两分钟后，教堂的钟就敲了五下。”

我回到书桌前翻看列车时刻表。“飞行者号晚上十二点四十七分离开华盛顿，早上八点抵达波士顿。”

尼基仍然在研究地图，他用一支铅笔比划着上面的距离。“哈德雷到老萨姆特旅馆刚好是九英里，”他说。

“老萨姆特旅馆，”我说。“但这就推翻了你的整个理论。在那里和在城里一样可以弄到交通工具。”

他摇头道：“车都停在围墙里，你还得找个服务员带你进门。服务员对在那个点取车的客人想必会印象深刻，哈德雷的百姓可相当保守。他说不定是在酒店房间里等电话，等一个从华盛顿打来的，关于飞行者号上某乘客信息的电话——或许是车厢和卧铺号之类的信息，接着他很可能溜出旅馆，步行前往哈德雷。”

我盯着他，有些恍惚。

“趁火车加水时溜上车并非难事，如果他又知道车厢和卧铺号……”

“尼基，”我怀着某种不详的预感说道，“作为制定经济纲要的改革派检察官，我准备浪费纳税人的钱给波士顿打长途电话。这很荒唐，这很疯狂——但我就是要这么干！”

他的蓝色小眼睛闪闪发光，一边用舌尖湿润着嘴唇，“干吧，”一边哑着嗓子说。

我将电话放回原处。“尼基，”我说，“这可能是刑侦历史上最瞩目的巧合：有个男人在卧铺上被杀了，就是昨晚零点四十七分来自华盛顿的火车！他死了大约三小时，那时列车正好在哈德雷。”

“我想差不多就是这么回事，”尼基说。“但你说这是个巧合就不对了，不存在巧合。我再问你，这个句子是打哪来的？”

“就是个句子啊，突然浮现在我脑海的。”

“不可能！这不是随随便便能浮现在脑海里的句子。如果你像我一样教了这么久的作文，当人被要求说一句大约十个字的话时，一般会说‘我喜欢喝牛奶’这种话——可能再加些修饰‘那对我身体有好处’之类的。你给的这个句子绝对是特殊情况。”

“可是今天早上我没有和任何人说过话。在蓝月也一直跟你在一块儿，”

“我结帐的时候你不在我身旁，”他犀利地说。“你在路边等我的时候没有遇见任何人么？”

我摇头。“你出来之前我在外面就待了不到一分钟。只有两个男人在你找零钱的时候走进饭店，其中一个撞到我了，就在我想我不如在外面等——”

“你见过他们吗？”

“谁？”

“就是那两个进来的男人，”他再次语带恼怒。

“没有，为什么？我以前根本没见过那两个人。”

“他们在聊天吗？”

“我想是的。对，他们在聊天，而且很投入。不然他们就会注意到我，我也不会被撞。”

“没多少陌生人会去蓝月，”他说。

“你认为凶手就是他们？”我急切地问。“我想我再见到他们肯定能认出来。”

尼基眯起眼睛。“可能吧。至少有两个人——一个人在华盛顿跟踪车上的被害者，记下他的卧铺号码，另一个守在那，准备动手。然后从华盛顿来的那人很可能就在这下了火车。如果是图财害命，那他们到这里或许是为了讨论分赃事宜。如果只是谋杀，那他很可能就是在这付凶手报酬。”

我伸手去拿电话。

“我们离开还不到半小时，”尼基继续道。“他们两个才进店不久，那的服务又很慢，一路走到哈德雷的人肯定饥肠辘辘，而另一个从华盛顿来的家伙则坐了一夜火车。”

“逮到罪犯的话就立刻给我打电话，”说完我挂上电话。

等待的过程中我们一言未发。我们在房内来回踱步上，不敢正视对方，仿佛是做了什么见不得人的事情一样。终于，电话响起。我拿起听筒凝神聆听，然后说，“好的，”接着转身对尼基说：“其中一个试图从厨房逃跑，不过韦恩派人守在在屋后逮住了他。”