Читать книгу Этюд в багровых тонах / A Study in Scarlet - Артур Конан Дойл, Исмаил Шихлы - Страница 4

This was the fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased wondrously. When I looked at him he was reading the note.

“How did you deduce that?” I asked.

“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

“That he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”

“I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely; then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?”

“No, indeed.”

“Even across the street I saw a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of his hand. He had a military carriage[17], and side whiskers. He was a man of self-importance and a certain air of command. You observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man – a sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“That’s nothing,” said Holmes. “I said just now that there were no criminals. I am wrong – look at this!”

He gave me the note.

“Oh,” I cried, “this is terrible!”

This is the letter:

“My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“During the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, a policeman saw a light about two in the morning. The house was empty. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman. The gentleman was well dressed, and had cards in his pocket with the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ The policeman saw no robbery. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. How did he come into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. If you are unable to come I shall give you all the details. Please favour me with your opinion.

Yours faithfully,

Tobias Gregson.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the policemen of the Scotland Yard,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade are both quick and energetic, but conventional.”

“Surely there is not a moment to lose,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am incurably lazy.”

“Isn’t this your chance?”

“My dear friend, if I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson and Lestrade will pocket all the credit[18]. However, we may go and have a look. Why not? Come on! Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.”

A minute later we were both in a hansom. We were driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning. My companion was talking about fiddles. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather depressed my spirits.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens, was one of four houses which stood back some little way from the street. Two of them were occupied and two were empty. There was a “To Let” card near the house. A small garden separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway. It was yellowish in colour, and consisted of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the night rain.

Sherlock Holmes lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Then he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass, and looked at the ground. Twice he stopped. He smiled, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

At the door of the house, a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired[19] man met us. He had a notebook in his hand. He rushed forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion.

“It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.

“With two such men as yourself and Lestrade here, I am useless,” he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands.

“I think,” he answered; “it’s a queer case, and I knew your taste for such things.”

“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor Lestrade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go and look at the room.”

And Sherlock Holmes entered the house.

A short passage led to the kitchen and offices. I saw two doors to the left and to the right. One of these was closed. The other belonged to the dining-room, where the mysterious affair occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him.

It was a large square room without furniture. A vulgar paper adorned the walls. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece. On one corner of this was the stump of a red wax candle. The window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain. All these details I observed afterwards.

A single grim motionless figure lay upon the floor. It was a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a frock coat[20] and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers. A top hat[21] was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad[22], while his legs were interlocked[23]. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror and of hatred. This malignant and terrible contortion, the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw[24] gave the dead man an ape-like[25] appearance.

Lestrade was standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body. He knelt down and examined it intently.

“You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked. He pointed to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

“Yes!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to somebody else, maybe to the murderer, if it is a murder?”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere. They were feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said.

Four men entered the room, and they lifted and carried the stranger out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade took it.

“There was a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”

He held it upon the palm of his hand. We all gazed at it.

“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “What did you find in his pockets?”

“Here,” said Gregson. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud[26], of London. Gold chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold pin – bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes.

Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland. No purse, but seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’[27]with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf[28]. Two letters – one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand – to be left till called for[29]. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company[30], and refer to the boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man wanted to return to New York.”

“What about this man, Stangerson?”

“I sent advertisements to all the newspapers, sir,” said Gregson. “And one of my men went to the American Exchange.”

“What about Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“What were your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we were glad to receive any information which could help us.”

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself. Suddenly Lestrade reappeared.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I made a discovery of the highest importance! I carefully examined the walls. Come here. Now, stand there!”

He struck a match on his boot.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

In the corner of the room, across the wall there was in blood-red letters a single word – RACHE.

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective. “The murderer wrote it with his or her own blood. Why that corner? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was the brightest corner of the room.”

“And what does it mean?” asked Gregson.

“Mean? It means that the writer was going to write the female name Rachel. But he or she had no time to finish. You can laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best here!”

“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion. “You are certainly the best. I had no time to examine this room, but with your permission I shall do so now.”

And he whipped a tape measure[31] and a large round magnifying glass[32] from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room. Sometimes he stopped, occasionally knelt. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his magnifying glass the word upon the wall. After that he was satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

Gregson and Lestrade watched the manoeuvres of Sherlock Holmes with considerable curiosity and some contempt.

“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

“You are doing so well now,” remarked my friend. “that I can’t interfere.” There was sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you let me know how your investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I can. But I want to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?”

“John Rance,” said Lestrade. “You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

“Come along, Doctor,” said Holmes; “we shall go to him. I’ll tell you one thing which may help you in the case,” he turned to the two detectives. “It was a murder, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life[33], had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots[34] and smoked a cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore leg[35]. The murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These indications may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

“How was this man murdered?” asked they.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added: “‘Rache,’ is the German for ‘revenge;’ so don’t look for Miss Rachel.”