A nighttime bus slowly stopped in front of a Jewish neighborhood in Gorky, with only a few or two passengers on board. Pen ~ fun ~ Pavilion www.biquge.info a frustrated elderly man, this man named Semyon Sharapov, he is also a Jew, dejectedly stepped out of the car. Less than a month ago, Sharapov was Nikolai Popov's personal butler for one of the famous gang leaders in the city of Gorky. Under Mr. Popov's care, Sharapov's life was not bad. But since Mr. Popov was killed, Sharapov has completely lost his source of livelihood, and Sharapov is used to spending a lot of money and has no savings. So now I can only make a living by taking care of patients in the hospital every day to earn a small amount of money.

Sharapov walked down the dimly lit stairwell with heavy steps carrying his tote bag, the food in which he had dinner today, and his only meal of the day. Sharapov is not yet used to this change from worry-free food and clothing to unsustainable meals, but people always have to survive, whether it is a happy life or a painful life, God will not pay attention to you until the end of life.

People always have all kinds of problems when they get old, and Sharapov's decades of housekeeping career left him with severe lumbar muscle strain and varicose veins in his legs, and now he is starting to feel uncomfortable climbing stairs in his legs. Sharapov pulled the keys out of his pocket, his hands shaking involuntarily, the discomfort caused by overexertion. After closing the door, Sharapov poured himself a glass of warm water with his last strength, and then he sat down on the couch, drinking warm water while eating the dry, hard Leba in his handbag. Sharapov was never married or had children, and as he grew older, his relatives and friends passed away one after another, and the older he gets, the more lonely he becomes.

Just as Sharapov was eating the unpalatable leba and feeling sad about his confused life, a short but powerful knock on the door interrupted Sharapov's thoughts, and just as Sharapov wondered if he had heard it wrong, the knock rang again. Sharapov propped up his tired body from the sofa with both hands, staggered to the door, and asked in a hoarse voice: "Who?" He opened the door of his home.

A strange man of about 40 years old stood by the door, this man had brown hair, a pale face, and the most interesting thing was the pair of eyes as sharp as an eagle, although his figure and appearance were not eye-catching, but the sharp eyes seemed to point directly to people's hearts. Sharapov looked at him for a long time, and he was not sure whether he knew this man or not, so he asked, "Sir, who are you looking for?" ”

"Mr. Sharapov, don't you know me, my uncle is Nikolai Popov, I used to live with him for a while, and you took care of me." The man said kindly.

"Yes, I remember, you are the young master who moved from Harbin, far away in China, to join Mr. Popov. Second...! Sharapov couldn't remember it, he felt like the name was on his lips, but he couldn't pronounce it.

"Alexander! Alexander Popov "The middle-aged man blew himself up at home.

"Yes, it's Master Alexander Popov, I didn't expect to see you again. I remember that you later emigrated to Israel. I didn't expect you to be so old, and you were a young man at that time. Sharapov sighed.

"Yes, then I set up a jibzzi in Haifa with some Jewish immigrants of Russian origin (a communist-tingred collective farm brought by some Israeli immigrants from the Soviet Union) and I live there." The man replied.

Sharapov let Alexander Popov into his home, although he had been tired all day, but the joy of seeing the old people seemed to bring Sharapov endless energy, and he diligently boiled water and tea for Alexander Popov.

Alexander Popov was also very happy, he looked at Sharapov's home, it was a small apartment, the area was small, the furniture was very old, and it could be seen that Sharapov's life was not very good.

Sharapov worked hard for a while to prepare a cup of tea for Alexander Popov, and the two sat down at the shabby dining table and were silent for a moment. Alexander Popov was the first to break the silence and asked: "Mr. Sharapov, I have come to ask about my uncle Nikolai on this visit. ”

Sharapov was silent for a moment, sorted out his thoughts, and said: "Although I don't know who the murderer is, I'm sure that this matter has something to do with Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky of the Gorky Automobile Plant. ”

"Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky? What kind of character is he? Alexander Popov continued to ask.

"It's nothing remarkable, just a little person who doesn't deserve to mention." Sharapov said disdainfully.

"I don't understand, what the hell is going on?" Alexander Popov was completely confused, how could a little man who was not worth mentioning take out his own powerful uncle.

"At first, some of his men reported to Mr. Popov that a few thugs were secretly reselling supplies on the black market without Mr. Popov's permission, and Mr. Popov asked a few of his men to teach them a lesson, and they actually beat the people sent by Mr. Popov. Then he hid. That's how it started from the beginning," Sharapov said, taking a sip of tea.

"And then? What happened? Alexander Popov asked anxiously.

Later, Mr. Popov found some gamblers and coaxed Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky out and gave him a knife, but he did not kill him. Mr. Popov probably still wanted to teach him a lesson, and had no intention of killing him. Sharapov said to Alexander Popov.

"So, it wasn't Boris Ilyich Pogolovsky who did it?" Alexander Popov asked.

"Of course not, that guy has been lying in the hospital, and it certainly won't be him who killed Mr. Popov." Sharapov replied in the affirmative.

"Who could that be? Is it a ghost? Alexander Popov asked.

"Probably a ghost, a fierce ghost, who sent the fingers of the two bad gamblers who helped Mr. Popov. There was also a threatening letter. And then killed Mr. Popov in that brutal way. Alas~~! Sharapov let out a long sigh and said regretfully.