20 лучших повестей на английском / 20 Best Short Novels. Коллектив авторов
companion smiled approvingly.
‘You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,’ he said. ‘There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery, it was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion. Now a real German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained his trick; and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.’
‘I shall never do that,’ I answered; ‘you have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.’
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.
‘I’ll tell you one other thing,’ he said. ‘Patent-leathers and Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible – arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside, they walked up and down the room – or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I’ve told you all I know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle’s[89] concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.’
This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand. ‘That’s Audley Court in there,’ he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. ‘You’ll find me here when you come back.’
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On inquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in his slumbers. ‘I made my report at the office,’ he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively. ‘We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips,’ he said.
‘I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,’ the constable answered, with his eyes upon the little golden disk.
‘Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.’
Rance sat down on the horse-hair sofa, and knitted his brows, as though determined not to omit anything in his narrative.
‘I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,’ he said. ‘My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the “White Hart”; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher – him who has the Holland Grove beat – and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’. Presently – maybe about two or a little after – I thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a-strollin’ down, thinkin’ between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seed too, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door—’
‘You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,’ my companion interrupted. ‘What did you do that for?’
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement upon his features.
‘Why, that’s true sir,’ he said; ‘though how you come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see when I got up to the door, it was so still and so lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worse for some one with me. I ain’t afeard of anything on this side o’ the grave; but I thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o’ turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but there wasn’t no sign of him nor of any one else.’
‘There was no one in the street?’
‘Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece – a red wax one – and by its light 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 tried the kitchen door, and then—’
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes. ‘Where was you hid to see all that?’ he cried. ‘It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you should.’
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. ‘Don’t get arresting me for the murder,’ he said. ‘I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?’
Rance resumed his seat, without, however, losing his mystified expression. ‘I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot.’
‘Was the street empty then?’
‘Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.’
‘What do you mean?’
The constable’s features broadened into a grin. ‘I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,’ he said, ‘but never any one so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leaning up ag’in the railings, and singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.’
‘What sort of a man was he?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression: ‘He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,’ he said. ‘He’d ha’ found hisself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up.’
‘His face – his dress – didn’t you notice them?’ Holmes broke in impatiently.
‘I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up – me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round—’
‘That will do,’ cried Holmes. ‘What became of him?’
‘We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,’ the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. ‘I’ll wager he found his way home all right.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘A brown overcoat.’
‘Had he a whip in his hand?’
‘A
Halle – Sir Charles Halle (1819–1895), a British pianist and conductor of German origin, the founder of the famous Halle Orchestra