No One Knows Ke Xue Better Than Me

Conan is waiting to return to Baker Street, and naturally he will not stay here:

"No, let's go back sooner."

If he asked a few more questions, he might be able to inquire about Count Moriarty.

With Conan's knowledge of Sherlock Holmes' novels, hearing this name will make you think the murder is tricky.

Unfortunately, no if.

The head maid did not force them and sent them to the door.

A group of six people boarded the carriage and quickly drove away from the mansion.

Watching the other party go away, the head maid sighed and ordered:

"It's getting late, let's all go back to sleep."

The maids responded, went back to the bedroom, and locked the door.

They covered their chests, stared at the bright moonlight outside the window, and couldn't sleep all night.

Everything was as expected by the Count.

In this world, there really is a way to kill someone without taking responsibility.

……

"Tweet Books Today": "So, Be the God of Creation from Today"

Chapter 324 Silent Dance

Alan Cosmins took out the key and tiptoed open the door.

His movements were light and slow, reluctant to let the neighbors hear any abnormal noises.

The room is not big, and the barber shop is less than [-] square meters.

But in the East End of London, where the bottom poor people gather, it is already very good.

Allen closed the door and lowered his footsteps back to the bedroom.

He came to the wardrobe, squatted sideways, and removed the tool box first.

Then a wooden partition was lifted to reveal the bottom iron tab.

After slowing down and pulling away, you can glimpse a slender and narrow secret passage.

The air inside is not very circulated, and there is a faint smell of disinfectant.

Alan took off his grey cloak and hung it on the hanger.

Then he put the blood-stained sharp knife and the wrapped newspaper on the table at will.

"laugh."

He struck the match and lit the kerosene lamp in the corner.

The dim light illuminated the small secret room.

On the cabinet in the southeast corner, there is a statue of Jehovah.

Shadowy light shines on the milky white cross.

As a Jew, it was Allen's belief.

But now, not anymore.

If prayer worked, if God worked, he wouldn't be in so many bad things.

At least the situation is much better than it is now.

On the wall in the southwest corner hangs a frontal portrait of a woman.

About thirty or forty years old, it still retains its charm.

The eyebrows are both charming and kind, wearing a light tulle, there is an indescribable sense of taboo.

Allen stared at the portrait carefully, his face flushed morbidly.

"Ah... Mom..."

After two or three minutes, he quickly put on his pants.

Only in sage time can Alan relax his entire body and mind.

After changing his clothes, he left the secret room and returned to the bedroom.

Close the entrance, cover it with a wooden splint, and press a toolbox.

The movements are skilled and sophisticated, as natural as folding a quilt.

Alan closed the wardrobe door and walked from the bedroom to the living room.

A wide chair and one-way mirror are placed on both sides, and it is a barber shop open to the public during the day.

Business is not very good, barely making ends meet.

The residents here are very poor, and they have to keep their hair for more than half a year before cutting it once.

Allen came to him and raised his hand to touch himself in the mirror.

Mediocre appearance, neither handsome nor ugly.

The hair is split and the skin is dry and dark.

This is different from the self who was once pampered.

The Allen family was formerly noble and well educated.

When he was eleven or twelve years old, his father was killed by robbers during a commodity escort.

His mother took him across the ocean and came to London to seek survival.

With the small amount of money at home, I took stock of the house I live in today.

For some reason, Jews are not welcome anywhere.

Anti-Semitism is running high in London and across the UK.

Allen usually tries to hide his identity so as not to let outsiders see the clues.

After experiencing all kinds of events, he hated the blood in his body from the bottom of his heart.

In my second year living in East London, my savings ran out.

This makes the families who are not rich, even worse.

The competition among the people at the bottom is very fierce.

For hard work like washing clothes for aristocratic families, there are usually thirty or forty people vying for a position.

Ellen's mother couldn't take it, and was forced to make a living.

In the end, like other women who have no way out, they can only exchange their bodies for meager rations.

In that unbearable childhood memory, he saw his mother bring home a strange man several times.

The bedroom door was closed every time, and Allen was kept out.

He regrets, he hates.

It's useless to hate yourself, hate your shameless mother, and hate this malicious world.

Alan went home five days ago.

When returning to the Whitechapel area, I met a middle-aged woman named Lily for the fifth time.

She said that as long as three loaves of bread, you can experience a wonderful night.

Lily is in her 40s and is seriously out of shape.

The powder on the face is very thick, and there are wrinkles that cannot be concealed by the years.

All this is so familiar.

Ellen remembered her late mother and did not decline the invitation.

Coax her into the alley and disembowel.

The kind of carefree violent catharsis is fascinating.

He felt that he was using a cold weapon to redeem those lingering lives.

Once Pandora's Box is opened, it can no longer be contained.

Within a few days, Allen killed another middle-aged female worker.

He also wrote a letter and mailed it to the London Police Department to admit the guilt and use the pseudonym Jack the Ripper.

"Crash."

Allen turned on the faucet, and the cold water slapped his face indiscriminately.

He washed off the make-up before going out, completely like a different person.

As for those white powders, running down the sewers, it is no longer evidence.

A faint moonlight poured in from the small window frame on the door.

It was a little gloomy and terrifying when it shone on half of Ellen's face.

He stared at himself in the mirror, grinned to the widest corner of his mouth, and suddenly smiled.

The neighbors are still sleeping, this is a silent smile.

Laughing and laughing, he began to dance silently again.

There are no rules, no rules.

It's like a swan dance, and it's like playing Tai Chi.

Relax all over, arms swinging freely.

God, if you are truly all-knowing and all-powerful, why don't you come and punish me?

You don't want to, or can't you?