And Then There Was No One полностью

‘Consider, for instance, my own case,’ Holmes broodily went on, as he took down from the pipe-rack by the fireside what looked to be the oiliest and most ancient of his extensive collection of clay pipes and viciously tapped the dottle into the grate. ‘Here have I been, today, with all the leisure in the world to do with as I pleased, to commence the monograph I have been planning to write on the significance of the typewriter key in modern detection or else’ – and with his languidly tapering forefinger he indicated the instruments arrayed in front of him – ‘undertake this amiable if futile little experiment. And yet, I swear, time has hung far heavier on my hands than on those of the potboy or crossing-sweeper who, since he awoke this morning, has assuredly done nothing but curse the drudgery of his quotidian round. No, my dear Watson,’ he concluded, shaking his head, which was already enhaloed by a cloud of noisome tobacco fumes, ‘it is some holiday excursion, or at the racecourse, or at the Opera when neither Madame Tetrazzini nor the divine Melba is singing – it is there, I say, that we learn to our cost what boredom truly means!’

Long experience had taught me to recognise the symptoms. Only a few days before, Holmes had brought to a satisfying conclusion a sordid affair of blackmail involving as its innocent party one of the noblest, most exalted names in England, and he was at present feelingly aware of his idleness.

‘You have overtaxed yourself of late,’ I said. ‘Perhaps such enforced inaction is a blessing in disguise.’

‘Bah!’ he practically snarled at me. ‘If there is one thing I abominate, it is a blessing in disguise. Surely blessings of any kind are sufficiently uncommon not to have to don a mask? Besides, it is not a blessing in disguise of which I stand most in need, but a criminal in disguise. Alas! The whole city of London appears to have reverted to “the straight and narrer”, as our good Lestrade enjoys putting it. Where are they now, the Napoleons of crime? Languishing on Elba, I dare say.’

‘If they are, then it is you yourself you must blame, Holmes,’ I returned good-naturedly, ‘for you have been their Iron Duke.’ Laying down my copy of the Gazette, I rose from the settee and stepped over to the window to draw the curtains. It was an evening in early autumn, grey and overcast but not yet dark; save for an occasional scudding cloud-ball, the dimmed lustre of the heavens was even and neutral-tinted. At once attracting my eye, however, was a gentleman of somewhat cadaverous aspect who stood on the pavement opposite and who seemed quite overwhelmed by a heavy tweed overcoat which enveloped his thin frame like a bell-tent. In his left hand he held a small, unfolded piece of paper, and alternated between consulting it and peering up at the succession of house-numbers which confronted him. At last, having located the number he was searching for (as I surmised), he picked up the travelling-bag which had been sitting on the pavement beside him, crossed the street with a forthright stride and soon quit my view altogether.

‘Well, I fancy your Calvary is at an end,’ I remarked, ‘for, unless I am much mistaken, the bell will ring this very minute to announce a new client.’

Holmes growled churlishly from the depths of his armchair. ‘A client, is it? Most likely the distraught owner of a terrier gone missing from Kensington Gardens.’

‘We shall soon find out,’ I replied: ‘here he is now.’

In effect, the front doorbell had already chimed, two sets of footsteps were to be heard on the stairs, and an instant later Mrs. Hudson was ushering into our room the very gentleman I had spied in the street below.

At a first glance, the man who stood before us was somewhere in his fifties. The almost military erectness of his bearing was impaired by a slight but perceptible stoop in his shoulders. From each side of his head, which was totally bald at the middle, protruded a shapeless tuft of white, fleecy hair resembling the stuffing from a mattress. And, divested as he now was of his generously sized overcoat, he could be seen to be most amazingly lean and bony, with facial features so near-skeletal that, taken along with his keen, lively eyes and unexpectedly warm skin colouring, I thought of a death’s-head with a lighted candle posed inside it.

Since Holmes had not yet thrown off his fit of petulance, and appeared disinclined to do the honours, it was I who went forward, presented my companion and myself, and invited our visitor to take a chair.

‘My dear sirs,’ he murmured apologetically, ‘you must forgive me for intruding on your intimacy unannounced, and at this late hour, but I … I truly am at my wits’ end. If I had known where else I might turn, I assure you I would never have presumed to disturb you. Oh, but here I am so far forgetting myself that I have failed to offer you my card.’

‘And yet, even as you are, you are not entirely a stranger to us,’ said I. ‘Am I not right, Holmes?’