Читать книгу Этюд в багровых тонах / A Study in Scarlet - Артур Конан Дойл, Исмаил Шихлы - Страница 8

This news was unexpected. Gregson sprang out of his chair. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed.

“Stangerson too!” he muttered.

Lestrade took a chair.

“Are you sure of this?” stammered Gregson.

“I was in his room,” said Lestrade. “I was the first to discover that.”

“Please, Mr. Lestrade, let us know what you saw,” Holmes observed.

“You see,” Lestrade answered, “I thought that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. I was wrong, it’s true. Anyway, I wanted to find the Secretary. They were together at Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening. At two in the morning Drebber was found in the Brixton Road. The question is: what did Stangerson do between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what did he do afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool. I gave a description of the man, and asked them to watch upon the American boats. I then called upon all the hotels in the vicinity of Euston. You see, if Drebber and his companion become separated, Stangerson stayed somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then went to the station again next morning.”

“They agreed on some meeting-place beforehand,” remarked Holmes.

“Yes, they did. I spent the whole of yesterday, I was looking for Stangerson. No luck. This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George Street. I asked if Mr. Stangerson was living there, and they answered me ‘yes’.

‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said.

‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

‘He is upstairs in bed.’

‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.

His room was on the second floor. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which formed a little pool. The door was locked on the inside[45], but we put our shoulders to it, and entered. The window of the room was open, and beside the window lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was dead, his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the men from the hotel recognized him at once. It was the gentleman who engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What was above the murdered man?”

“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” said Holmes.

“That was it!” said Lestrade.

“A milk boy saw the murder,” continued Lestrade. “He was going to the dairy. He walked down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. And he saw a man who was descending the ladder. The boy thought it was a carpenter. The man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin. We also found marks on the sheets where he wiped his knife.”

I glanced at Holmes.

“Did you find anything in the room which gave a clue to the murderer?” he asked.

“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it was usual, as he paid. There was eighty pounds in it. So robbery is not the motives of these extraordinary crimes. There were no papers in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago: ‘J. H. is in Europe’.”

“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing of any importance. The novel, which the man read, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.”

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

“The last link!” he cried, exultantly.

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

“Now I know everything,” my companion said, confidently, “What about those pills?”

“I have them,” said Lestrade. He showed us a small white box; “I took them and the purse and the telegram.”

“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” he turned to me, “are those ordinary pills?”

They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent.

“I think that they are soluble in water,” I remarked.

“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now please go down and fetch that poor little terrier which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain[46]yesterday.”

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. It was not far from its end. I placed the terrier upon a cushion on the rug.

“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes. “One half we return into the box. The other half I will place in this glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.”

“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, “I cannot see, however, how it is connected with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”

“Patience, my friend, patience! I shall now add a little milk and give this mixture to the dog.”