2026.10.27

While migrating Sad Slow Song , I also brought this QQ Zone post over.

The following is the original text from 15 years ago.

Foreword

This was the first weekly journal I wrote in my first year of high school, and Paulson Wall’s first appearance. Strictly speaking, it is not a detective story, so let us call it a short mystery story. Read it as a warm-up before the detective stories that follow, and as a glimpse of their style.

I

The train carriage was unusually quiet. Only an old man sat in one of the seats. The train’s rumble was calm and steady, as if it were confiding in the peaceful night. The train was already rather old, and the lights were dim—though the conductor may simply have been trying to save money.

At the next stop, a man entered the carriage and sat opposite the old man. The old man made small talk with him. Before long, he said he was tired, lowered his head, and fell into a deep sleep.

The chance has come, the man thought.

Fortune favors the bold. Look at this old man: a Rolex watch, a gemstone ring, extravagant clothes—and what interested the man most was the old man’s briefcase. He could steal something from it with ease. He was still a novice, but he had discovered this particular talent. He quietly moved to the old man’s side and sat down, placing his own briefcase on his knees—its contents included some valuable spoils—then quickly and silently felt for an object.

A gemstone! The man looked delighted when he saw what he had taken. But as he was about to put it in his briefcase, he discovered that the gem was threaded on a cord, and that the cord was connected to a miniature bell inside the old man’s briefcase. He had no knife and did not want to make a sound. After weighing his options, he could only return the treasure to its owner and go back to his seat opposite the old man.

After enduring that unbearable stop, the man left the train clutching his briefcase. When he got home and was about to take out his spoils, he found everything inside in disarray.

He hurriedly checked whether anything was missing. “That old fox…”

The result of the inspection: nothing was gone. He checked again. Yes, nothing had been stolen.

The man puzzled over it without finding an answer. Then, all at once, he seemed to realize something and rushed straight out the door…

A Challenge to the Reader

One famous device in Ellery Queen’s works is the challenge to the reader: the clues are all in the preceding text, with nothing left out. I will try my hand at it this time.

In fact, it is difficult to sort everything out in such a short piece. Here are my questions: What exactly happened? What was the old man’s purpose? What might the young man do next? Think carefully!

II

“Hey, Paulson, don’t stop there. Tell me what this is all about!” I pressed the relaxed-looking Paulson. After recounting the events above, Paulson calmly brewed a pot of tea for himself. By the time he brought a cup over to me, I had grown impatient.

“Oh, Charlie, don’t be so hasty.” Paulson poured himself another cup. “Can’t you think it through yourself?—Well, all right…

“First, a thief failed to steal something. He is a novice, and this is his first setback. What do you think he felt at that moment? Frustration, discouragement, and so on. In other words—and pay attention here—he had lost his composure. He could think of nothing else but escaping.

“Then he escaped and returned home. He found his spoils disturbed, but nothing stolen. At that point he calmed down, and the truth slowly surfaced in his clever mind…” Paulson gave a strange smile as he said this.

Paulson paused, then continued: “How does a person tell whether something is a brand-name item? By its logo, of course! But under the cover of the dim light, the old man’s clothes and accessories could easily pass for the real thing. Logos can be stuck onto watches, shirts, and trousers. The stone in the ring may have been genuine, but clearly no one would steal the ring for it.

“Now let us return to the gemstone on the cord. Think about it carefully: who would drill two holes into a priceless gem and then attach a bell to it—especially an old bell that could not make a sound?”

I jumped to my feet. “What?! A bell that makes no sound?”

“Calm down… A miniature bell is very sensitive; the slightest movement makes it ring. Yet the man did not hear a single clear chime from beginning to end. Never mind whether the gem was priceless. The motive alone is hard to miss: the silent bell was clearly meant for the man, and so were the convincing clothes and accessories. Even the old man’s deliberate small talk may have been part of it. Put all that together with the man’s briefcase—he clutched it tightly the entire time after leaving the train, so only the old man could have disturbed its contents—and what do you think?” Paulson drew a deep breath.

“The better thief outplayed the good one?” I guessed after taking a sip of tea.

“He only wanted to teach the man a lesson? Yes, but that is only part of the answer. Nothing was stolen from the man’s briefcase. The old man could have robbed a robber, but instead he quietly messed up the briefcase… Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Exactly: a lesson.

“What lesson? There are two possibilities. One is, ‘Your skills are not good enough; train harder.’ But a clever person would think of the second: ‘Change your ways.’

“So the truth is clear. Fortunately, the man was of sound mind and quietly returned the spoils to their rightful owner. That was the end of the matter.” Paulson let out a long breath and lay back in his chair. The crackling fireplace seemed to applaud him.

“That is a good story,” I said.

“A story?” Paulson sat up again. “No, it is a true story. That man was me. And there is something even more surprising: years later, convinced that my detective skills were good enough, I decided to seek out that mentor myself. Quite a few interesting things happened along the way. In the end, he turned out to be the famous Detective Marsol Riley. He had recognized a gifted young man who had strayed onto the wrong path, disguised himself as an old man, and used a small trick to pull me out of the ‘abyss.’ I may be better than him now, but I will always be grateful.” Paulson smiled, lay back against the chair, and closed his eyes again.

After hearing this, I happened to notice a transparent box on the mantel. I walked over and saw a line written on it:

Presented by Marsol Riley to Paulson Wall

Inside the box lay a bell attached to a gemstone. In the firelight, neither of them made the slightest sound.

    — Written on 2011.9.3