Molecular Structure of Crime-1

Night by the river

… Maybe he knew the man in the black redcoat from somewhere. He searched his tired memory once more. Why not, “yes yes, that was it,” he said excitedly. While he was thinking this, the rain had started and it was almost to the river’s edge. There was no one around, the weather was getting colder.

As always, he wanted to reach the outer right watch pocket of his vest with his right hand and look at his watch, but this time he chose his left hand… It was past midnight. He wiped the glass with the thumb of his left hand, and put it in his pocket and the chain-link watch with one end attached to the button of his left nipple inner vest. The wind and rain seemed to keep his mind awake as he heard a horse-drawn carriage coming from afar.

He could hear the carriage now, down to the sound of the coachman’s whipping at the horses, it was close. He lifted his hat and wiped his glasses with his fingers. Yes, it was a prison car carrying prisoners. He rushed past her and walked away. Meanwhile, he suddenly thought of sitting on the benches by the river, but the benches were wet. He didn’t mind and sat down. He began to listen to the sound of rain. He caught sight of the other side’s pier, it was silent. Everywhere is quiet. He sat in the middle of the rain, crossing his arms tightly, starting to feel cold. “No, no, it can’t be,” he said. Besides, he was talking about going on a business visit to Warsaw six days ago. He thought he wouldn’t be able to return in such a short time. “Six,” he said, puzzled, then to himself, slightly centering his eyebrows, “but I haven’t counted yet,” he said. “That’s right, it’s Saturday,” he said. It’s as if he’d just met her… “Or didn’t he go on a trip?” Consciousness sometimes puts people in such strange feelings. It’s like being able to see colors and hear sounds, not words while reading something. Maybe it’s like the awareness of our mental competencies that human beings still can’t solve, as it emerges at inopportune times.

Then he slipped his right hand into the outer pocket of his jacket. He had a piece of paper that he took out and wanted to read it while getting wet on the bench under the electric lamp. “Hmm,” he said. He remembered that Miss Nedrochenco had given him this note two days ago. He wondered why he always wrote in green ink and italics. Also, some letters were written backwards. He wanted to read all that was written, but he just skimmed it again and put it back in his pocket.

At this moment, a light caught his eyes caused him to lift his head. Opposite him was a patrolman in a loose black raincoat and a flashlight. This man, his bloodshot eyes, his eyebrows scowled as if they were out of place, maybe it was the rain, he thought. His nose was straight but curved to the side. He was probably someone who never wore glasses and didn’t like to read very much. Her ears were large for her head structure and adhered to her skin, she had dark but reddish cheeks, her chin structure gave the impression of hanging down to her thyroid and was round. Although there were whites on his temples, he should not have hair under his hat. He was perhaps fifty or fifty-five years old, although not as big as a horse’s rump, he was about a kilo, and his height was half a cubit. The button of his jacket between the top of his navel and the white-roof had not yet come off, His white-collared shirt must not have been washed for a long time, as it was obvious from the grayed trousers that the tailor Krilov had a shop in the bazaar across from the central police station, but from the pots that looked like a trust and had the ruble written on their legs. I don’t know, it was Krilov’s signature or habit. His boots were an old but painted patrol. It was only natural that she hadn’t noticed him in this rain, otherwise it was impossible not to hear the noise of his boots on the paving stones. I think the reader will question my presentation of an ordinary patrol so highly. I’ll explain why later in the story though. But for now, I would like to take a brief look at the conversation between them. but it was evident from the pots that looked like a trust and resembled rubles on their trousers. I don’t know, it was Krilov’s signature or habit. His boots were an old but painted patrol. It was only natural that she hadn’t noticed him in this rain, otherwise it was impossible not to hear the noise of his boots on the paving stones. I think the reader will question my presentation of an ordinary patrol so highly. I’ll explain why later in the story, though. But for now, I would like to take a brief look at the conversation between them. but it was evident from the pots that looked like a trust and resembled rubles on their trousers. I don’t know, it was Krilov’s signature or habit. His boots were an old but painted patrol. It was only natural that she hadn’t noticed him in this rain, otherwise it was impossible not to hear the noise of his boots on the paving stones. I think the reader will question my presentation of an ordinary patrol so highly. I’ll explain why later in the story though. But for now, I would like to take a brief look at the conversation between them. I’ll explain why later in the story though. But for now, I would like to take a brief look at the conversation between them. I’ll explain why later in the story though. But for now, I would like to take a brief look at the conversation between them.

KARAYILDIRIM Atıf

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