Читать книгу Все приключения Шерлока Холмса / All adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Артур Конан Дойл, Исмаил Шихлы - Страница 5

It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to the address which Lestrade gave us.

“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “How do you know all those particulars of the case?”

“Look,” he answered. “the first thing: a cab made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we had no rain. So those wheels – which left such a deep impression – were there during the night. There were the marks of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one hoof was very clear. This was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the morning, it was there during the night, and, therefore, it brought those two men to the house.”

“But how did you know the man’s height?” said I.

“The height of a man is connected to the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation. I had this fellow’s stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Moreover: when a man writes on a wall, he usually writes about the level of his own eyes. That writing was just over six feet from the ground.”

“And his age?” I asked.

“Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the effort, he is strong enough. That was the breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he jumped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary life some deduction. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”

“The finger nails and the cigar,” I suggested.

“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in blood. The plaster was

scratched. This is impossible if the man’s nail is trimmed. I gathered up some ash from the floor.

It was dark in colour and flakey-a cigar, for sure. I made a special study of cigar ashes-in fact, I wrote a monograph upon the subject.”

“And the florid face?” I asked.

“Ah, please don’t ask about it now, though I have no doubt that I was right.”

“But, Holmes,” I remarked; “why did these two men-if there were two men-come into an empty house? How did the victim take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the murderer? What about the woman’s ring there? Why did the second man write the German word RACHE?”

My companion smiled approvingly.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, “many things are still obscure. About Lestrade’s discovery. Not a German man wrote it. The letter A, if you noticed, was printed after the German fashion[36]. But a real German invariably prints in the Latin character[37]. So we may say that a clumsy imitator wrote that. I’ll tell you more. Both men came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together. When they got inside they walked up and down the room. I could read all that in the dust. Then the tragedy occurred.”

Our cab was going through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly stopped.

“That’s Audley Court in there,” he said. “You’ll find me here when you come back.”

We came to Number 46, and saw a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. The constable appeared.

“I made my report at the office,” he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket.

“We want to hear it all from your own lips,” he said.

“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” the constable answered.

“How did it occur?”

Rance sat down on the sofa, and knitted his brows.

“I’ll tell it from the beginning,” he said. “My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher and we stood together and talked a little. After that-maybe about two or a little after-I decided to take a look round. The road was dirty and lonely. I met nobody all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. Suddenly I saw a light in the window of that house. When I came to the door…”

“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion interrupted. “Why did you do that?”

Rance stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement.

“Yes, that’s true, sir,” he said; “but how do you know it? When I got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome, that I decided to take somebody with me, maybe Murcher. And I walked back. But I saw no one.”

“There was no one in the street?”

“Not a soul, sir. Then I went back and opened the door. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was burning. There was a candle on the mantelpiece-a red wax one-and I saw…”

“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and opened the kitchen door, and then…”

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face.

“Where were you, sir, that time? You saw all that!” he cried. “It seems to me that you know too much.”

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.

“Don’t arrest me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade can say that as well. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

“I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. Murcher and two more arrived.”

“Was the street empty then?”

“Only a drunker. I saw many drunkers in my life,” he said, “but not like that one. He was at the gate when I came out, he was leaning up against the railings, and singing a song. He couldn’t stand at all.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His face-his dress-didn’t you notice them?”

“He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round[38]…”

“What became of him?” cried Holmes.

“I think he found his way home,” the policeman said.

“How was he dressed?”

“A brown overcoat.”

“Had he a whip in his hand?”

“A whip-no.”

“Did you see or hear a cab?” asked Holmes.

“No.”

“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never became a sergeant. That man is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are seeking. Come along, Doctor.”

“The fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.

“Holmes, it is true that the description of this man tallies with your idea of the second person in this mystery. But why did the criminal come back to the house again?”

“The ring, the ring. We will use that ring, Doctor, to catch him. I must thank you for this case. I was lazy enough to go, but you forced me! A study in scarlet, eh? Let’s use a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread of murder through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it.”