Conan Doyle's crimson story Arthur conan doyle study in crimson tones

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"A study in Scarlet"(eng. A Study in Scarlet) is a detective story by Arthur Conan Doyle, published in 1887. It is in this work that Sherlock Holmes first appears. The first edition of the book was illustrated by Arthur's father, Charles Doyle, and the second by George Hutchinson.

Plot

Part 1. "From the memoirs of Dr. John G. Watson, a retired military medical officer"

A corpse was found in an empty house. This man is a certain Enoch Drebber, an American. Detective-consultant Sherlock Holmes, at the request of his "fellow policemen" Lestrade and Gregson, easily establishes the cause of death of the unfortunate: it is poison. In the pockets of the dead man they find the telegram “J. X. in Europe "(at the scene of the crime, wedding ring), and a message left on the wall next to the body with blood - rache(in German "revenge").

Lestrade soon goes on the trail of the deceased's secretary, Stangerson, and pays him a visit, during which it turns out that he was killed - stabbed to death in his hotel room. Two pills are also found in the room. An experiment conducted by Holmes showed that one of the pills is harmless, and the second is poisonous, thus the killer wanted to give himself and the victim an equal chance.

Holmes advertises the missing ring in the newspaper (addressed to his companion John Watson) in the hope of finding the culprit, but the detective is cleverly deceived by the murderer's accomplice disguised as an old woman. During the surveillance, Holmes misses an accomplice. As a result, with the help of hired ragged street boys, he learns that the killer works as a cabman and, under the guise of moving out of the house, calls him to his house. With a request to help bring things, he invites the unsuspecting killer to his place, where at that moment are two of Holmes's comrades (Lestrade and Gregson), investigating this case, Dr. Watson and Holmes himself. When the cabman bends down for Holmes's suitcase, he handcuffs him and announces to those present - Lestrade, Gregson and Watson: "Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson!" The killer makes an attempt to get out through the window, but four friends twist the criminal.

Part 2. "Land of the Saints"

A group of 22 people wandered in search of a better life in the Wild West. As a result, only two remain alive - a certain John Ferrier and a little orphaned girl Lucy, whom Ferrier now considers his daughter. The Mormon train discovers Ferrier and the girl in the desert. The travelers were tired of long wanderings without food and water and were desperate to find a way out of their desperate situation. Mormons promise to take the unfortunate with them to the colony if they accept the Mormon faith. Ferrier agrees. Soon, a group of Mormons reach Utah, where they build their own city. Ferrier becomes a famous and wealthy man, one is raising an adopted daughter, remaining a bachelor, for which he often listens to reproaches from fellow countrymen-polygamists.

Once Lucy is rescued by a young man Jefferson Hope, a respectable Christian, the son of an old acquaintance Ferrier. He stays at his house. Hope is engaged in mining silver in the mountains and selling it in Salt Lake City to earn money for the development of the deposits he discovered. Soon, Hope announces to Lucy that he needs to leave for two months, but before that he invites her to marry him. The girl agrees, her father is also very happy with his daughter's decision, because he would never have dared to marry her off to a Mormon - John Ferrier considers polygamy a shameful thing. When Hope leaves, the elder of the colony, Brigham Young, visits Ferier. He obliges Ferrier to marry his daughter to either Drebber's son or Stangerson's son. After talking with his daughter, Ferrier decides to wait for Hope's return and the three of them to flee from the colony. The next day, Stangerson and Drebber's son come to Ferrier to woo. Ferrier rudely drives them out, which is considered a deadly offense by the morals of the colony. Soon, Young sends Ferrier a note:

You are given twenty-nine days to atone for your guilt, and then ...

Hope returns the day before the end of the allotted time. The fugitives manage to pass the guard, allegedly having permission from the Council of Four (Drebber, Stangerson, Campbell and Johnston). They are chased after them. On the second day, food supplies are depleted and Hope goes hunting. At night, he returns to the camp with the spoils. There is neither Ferrier nor Lucy. Hope realizes that something irreparable has happened. He finds a grave with the inscription:

Hope returns to the colony, where he learns from Mormon Cowper that Lucy was forcibly married to Drebber. Lucy dies a month after the wedding. During the funeral, a feral, tattered Hope makes his way to the coffin and removes the wedding ring from her finger. He goes to the mountains, wanders, leads a wild life. After a while, Hope returns to his previous occupations, but only in order to save up some money and take revenge on the villains who killed his bride and her father. In Nevada, he learns that the younger members of the Mormon colony, including the sons of Drebber and Stangerson, have rebelled, abandoned the Mormon faith and left. For years he wandered the cities. He knew that Drebber and Stangerson had left America and moved to Europe. They were in St. Petersburg and Copenhagen, soon the unfortunate hero finds them in London and commits his act of revenge.

Without waiting for the trial, Jefferson Hope dies of aortic aneurysm (the fact of the disease was attested by Dr. John Watson during the capture of the criminal at 221 B Baker Street).

Russian translations

The first edition of the novel in Russian appeared in 1898 in the December issue of the Svet magazine under the title Late Vengeance (Doyle's Criminal Novel); it was translated from German by Vl. Bernasconi. Since then, more than 10 translations have been made.

Notes (edit)

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MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES

In 1878, I graduated from the University of London with the title of doctor, and immediately went to Netley, where I took a special course for military surgeons. After completing my studies, I was appointed assistant surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Rifle Regiment. At that time, the regiment was stationed in India, and before I could get to it, the second war with Afghanistan broke out. Having landed in Bombay, I learned that my regiment had crossed the pass and advanced far into the depths of enemy territory. Together with other officers who had found themselves in the same situation, I set off in pursuit of my regiment; I managed to get safely to Kandahar, where I finally found him and immediately took up my new duties.

For many, this campaign has brought honors and promotions, but I got nothing but failure and misfortune. I was transferred to the Berkshire Regiment, with which I fought in the fateful battle of Maiwand. The British were defeated at the Battle of Maiwand during the Second Anglo-Afghan War (1878-1880). A rifle bullet hit me in the shoulder, shattered a bone, and struck the subclavian artery.

Most likely I would have fallen into the hands of a merciless ghazi, Gazi is a fanatic Muslim. if not for the dedication and courage of my orderly Murray, who threw me over the back of a pack horse and contrived to deliver me safely to the location of the English units.

Exhausted by the wound and weakened by prolonged hardship, I, along with many other wounded sufferers, were sent by train to the main hospital in Peshaver. There I began to gradually recover and was already so strong that I could move around the ward and even go out onto the veranda to warm myself a little in the sun, when suddenly typhoid fever, the scourge of our Indian colonies, fell on me. For several months I was considered almost hopeless, and when I finally returned to life, I could barely stay on my feet from weakness and exhaustion, and the doctors decided that I must immediately be sent to England. I sailed in the military transport "Orontes" and a month later got off to the pier in Plymouth with irreparably damaged health, but with the permission of the fatherly-caring government to restore it within nine months.

In England I had no close friends or relatives, and I was free like the wind, or rather, like a man who is supposed to live on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Under such circumstances, I naturally aspired to London, to this huge dustbin, where idlers and lazy people from all over the empire inevitably end up. In London, I lived for some time in a hotel on the Strand and eked out an uncomfortable and meaningless existence, spending my pennies much more freely than I should have. Finally, my financial situation became so threatening that I soon realized that it was necessary either to flee the capital and vegetate somewhere in the village, or to decisively change my way of life. Having chosen the latter, I first decided to leave the hotel and find myself some more unassuming and less expensive accommodation.

The day I came to this decision, someone slapped me on the shoulder in the Criterion bar. Turning around, I saw young Stamford, who had once worked for me as a paramedic in a London hospital. How nice it is for a lonely person to see a suddenly familiar face in the immense wilds of London! In the old days, Stamford and I were never particularly friendly, but now I greeted him almost with delight, and he too, apparently, was glad to see me. Out of excess, I invited him to have breakfast with me, and we immediately took a cab and drove to Holborn.

What have you done to yourself, Watson? he asked with undisguised curiosity as the cab rattled its wheels through the crowded London streets. - You dried up like a splinter and turned yellow like a lemon!

I briefly told him about my misadventures and barely had time to finish the story, as we reached the place.

Eh, poor fellow! - he sympathized, having learned about my troubles. - Well, what are you doing now?

I am looking for an apartment, - I replied. - I am trying to decide whether there are comfortable rooms in the world at a reasonable price.

That's strange, - said my companion, - you are the second person from whom I hear this phrase today.

Who is the first? I asked.

One guy who works in a chemistry lab at our hospital. This morning he lamented: he had found a very nice apartment and could not find a companion for himself, and he could not afford to pay for it entirely.

Damn it! I exclaimed. - If he really wants to share the apartment and expenses, then I'm at his service! I, too, are much more pleasant to live together than to live alone!

Young Stamford gave me a vague look over his glass of wine.

You don’t know what this Sherlock Holmes is yet, ”he said. - Perhaps you will not want to live with him in a constant neighborhood.

Why? Why is he bad?

I am not saying that he is bad. Just a little eccentric - an enthusiast in some areas of science. But actually, as far as I know, he is a decent man.

Must be looking to become a medic? I asked.

No, I don't even understand what he wants. In my opinion, he knows anatomy very well, and he is a first-class chemist, but it seems that he never studied medicine systematically. He is engaged in science in a completely haphazard and somehow strange way, but he has accumulated a mass of knowledge, seemingly unnecessary for the business, which would surprise the professors a lot.

Have you ever asked what his goal is? I asked.

No, it is not so easy to pull something out of him, although if he is carried away by something, it happens that you cannot stop him.

I’m not averse to meeting him, ”I said. - If you really have a neighbor in the apartment, then it would be better to be a quiet man and busy with his own business. I am not strong enough to endure the noise and all sorts of powerful impressions. I had so much of both in Afghanistan that I had enough for the rest of my life on earth. How can I meet your buddy?

Now he is probably sitting in the laboratory, - answered my companion. - He either does not look there for weeks, or sticks out there from morning to evening. If you want, we'll go to him after breakfast.

Of course I do, ”I said, and the conversation turned to other topics.

While we were driving from Holborn to the hospital, Stamford managed to tell me about some more features of the gentleman with whom I was going to live together.

Don't be offended at me if you don't get along with him, ”he said.

I only know him from random meetings in the laboratory. You yourself decided on this combination, so do not hold me responsible for the further.

If we do not get along, nothing will prevent us from parting, - I replied.

That for some reason you want to wash your hands. Well, this fellow has a terrible character, or what? Don't be secretive, for God's sake!

Try to explain the inexplicable, ”Stamford laughed. - For my taste. Holmes is too obsessed with science - for him this already borders on heartlessness. I can easily imagine that he will inject his friend with a small dose of some newly discovered plant alkaloid, not out of malice, of course, but simply out of curiosity, in order to have a visual idea of ​​its action. However, we must give him justice, I am sure that he will just as willingly give this injection to himself. He has a passion for accurate and reliable knowledge.

Well, that's not bad.

Yes, but even here you can go to extremes. If it comes to the fact that he pounds corpses in the anatomical with a stick, you must admit that it looks rather strange.

Is he pounding corpses?

Yes, to check if bruising may appear after death. I saw it with my own eyes.

And you're saying he's not going to become a medic?

It seems not. God alone knows why he is studying all this. But here we are, now you judge for yourself.

We turned into a narrow corner of the courtyard and through a small door entered an outbuilding adjacent to a huge hospital building. Everything was familiar here, and I didn't need to show the way as we climbed the darkish stone stairs and walked down a long corridor along endless whitewashed walls with brown doors on either side. Almost at the very end, a low, vaulted corridor stretched to the side - it led to the chemical laboratory.

In this high room countless bottles and vials glittered on the shelves and everywhere. Low, wide tables were everywhere, thickly lined with retorts, test tubes and Bunsen burners with fluttering tongues of blue flame. The laboratory was empty, and only in the far corner, bending over to the table, was some young man busy with something. Hearing our steps, he looked around and jumped up.

Found! Found! - He shouted gleefully, rushing to us with a test tube in his hands. - I finally found a reagent that is precipitated only by hemoglobin and nothing else! - If he found gold deposits, and then, probably, his face would not shine with such delight.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes - introduced us to each other Stamford.

Hello! - Holmes said affably, shaking my hand with a force that I could not possibly suspect in him. - I see you lived in Afghanistan.

How did you guess? - I was amazed.

Well, that's nothing, ”he snapped, grinning. - Hemoglobin is another matter. You, of course, understand the importance of my discovery?

As a chemical reaction, it is, of course, interesting, - I answered, - but practically ...

Lord, this is the most important discovery for forensic medicine for decades. Don't you understand that this makes it possible to accurately identify blood spots? Come on, come here! In the heat of impatience, he grabbed my sleeve and dragged me to his table. “Let's take a little fresh blood,” he said, and, pricking his finger with a long needle, pulled out a drop of blood with a pipette. - Now I will dissolve this drop in a liter of water. Look, the water seems perfectly clear. The ratio of blood to water is no more than one in a million. And yet, I can assure you that we will get a characteristic reaction. - He threw in glass jar some white crystals and dripped some colorless liquid into it. The contents of the jar instantly turned a dull purple color, and a brown sediment appeared at the bottom.

Ha, ha! He clapped his hands, beaming with joy, like a child receiving a new toy. - What do you think of it?

This, apparently, is some very strong reagent, - I remarked.

Wonderful! Wonderful! The previous method with guaiac gum is very cumbersome and unreliable, as is the examination of blood balls under a microscope - it is generally useless if the blood was spilled several hours ago. And this reagent works equally well whether the blood is fresh or not. If it had been opened earlier, then hundreds of people that are now walking around freely would have paid for their crimes long ago.

Here's how! I muttered.

Crime detection always comes up against this problem. The person begins to be suspected of murder, perhaps several months after it was committed. They revise his linen or dress, find brownish spots. Is it blood, dirt, rust, fruit juice, or something else? This is the question that has puzzled many experts, why? Because there was no reliable reagent. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes reagent, and all difficulties are over!

His eyes glittered, he put his hand to his chest and bowed as if answering the applause of an imaginary crowd.

You can be congratulated, ”I said, amazed at his enthusiasm.

A year ago in Frankfurt, von Bischoff's convoluted case was being dealt with. He, of course, would have been hanged if they had known my way then. And the case of Mason from Bradford, and the famous Muller, and Lefebvre from Montlelier, and Samson from New Orleans? I can name dozens of cases in which my reagent would play a decisive role.

You're just a walking crime chronicle, ”Stamford laughed. - You must publish a special newspaper. Call it Past Police News.

And that would be a very exciting reading, - Sherlock Holmes picked up, gluing a tiny wound on his finger with a piece of plaster. “You have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “I often fiddle with all sorts of poisonous substances. - He held out his hand, and I saw that his fingers were covered with the same pieces of plaster and stains from caustic acids.

We came on business, ”Stamford said, sitting down on a high, three-legged stool and the tip of his boot pushing another one toward me. - My friend is looking for a place to live, and since you complained that you could not find a companion, I decided that you need to be brought together.

Sherlock Holmes obviously liked the prospect of sharing an apartment with me.

You know, I looked after one apartment on Baker Street, - he said, - which will suit you and me in every way. I hope you don't mind the smell of strong tobacco?

I myself smoke "ship", - I replied.

So that's great. I usually keep chemicals at home and do experiments from time to time. Will it bother you?

Not at all.

Wait, what other flaws do I have? Yes, sometimes a melancholy comes over me, and I don't open my mouth all day. Don't think that I'm sulking at you. Just ignore me and it will soon pass. Well, what can you repent of? While we have not yet settled together, it would be good to know the worst about each other.

I was amused by this mutual interrogation.

I have a bulldog puppy, ”I said,“ and I can't stand any noise, because my nerves are upset, I can lie in bed for half a day, and I'm generally incredibly lazy. When I am healthy, I have a number of other vices, but now these are the most important ones.

Do you also consider playing the violin noise? he asked anxiously.

It depends on how you play, - I replied. - Good game- this is a gift of the gods, bad ...

Well, that's all right then, ”he laughed cheerfully. “I think it’s okay if you only like the rooms.”

When will we see them?

Come pick me up tomorrow at noon, we will drive from here together and agree on everything.

Okay, so exactly at noon, ”I said, shaking his hand.

He went back to his chemicals, and Stamford and I walked to my hotel.

By the way, ”I suddenly stopped, turning to Stamford,“ how did he manage to guess that I came from Afghanistan?

My companion smiled an enigmatic smile.

This is its main feature, - he said. - Many would give dearly to find out how he guesses everything.

So there’s some kind of mystery here? I exclaimed, rubbing my hands. - Very interesting! Thank you for introducing us. You know, "in order to know humanity, one must study a person."

So you must study Holmes, ”Stamford said, parting.

However, you will soon see that this is a tough nut to crack. I bet he will get you through faster than you will. Farewell!

Goodbye, - I answered and walked to the hotel, not a little interested in my new acquaintances.

CHAPTER II. THE ART OF DRAWING CONCLUSIONS

The next day we met at the appointed hour and went to look at the apartment on Baker Street, No. 221-b, about which Holmes had spoken the day before. The apartment had two comfortable bedrooms and a spacious, bright, comfortably furnished living room with two large windows... The rooms were to our liking, and the fee, divided for two, was so small that we immediately agreed on a lease and immediately took over the apartment. That evening I brought my belongings from the hotel, and the next morning Sherlock Holmes arrived with several boxes and travel bags. For a day or two, we fiddled with unpacking and laying out our property, trying to find the best place for each thing, and then we gradually began to settle down in our home and adapt to new conditions.

Holmes was certainly not one of those difficult to get along with. He led a calm, measured lifestyle and was usually true to his habits. He rarely went to bed after ten in the evening, and in the morning, as a rule, he had time to have breakfast and leave while I was still lying in bed. Sometimes he would sit all day in the laboratory, sometimes - in the anatomist, and sometimes he would go for a long walk, and these walks, apparently, took him to the most remote nooks of London. His energy knew no bounds when he found a working verse, but from time to time there was a reaction, and then he lay on the sofa in the living room for days on end, not uttering a word and hardly moving. These days I noticed such a dreamy, such absent expression in his eyes that I would suspect him of addiction to drugs, if the measured and chaste way of life did not refute such thoughts.

Week after week, I became more and more interested in his personality, and more and more sorted out curiosity about his goals in life. Even his appearance could strike the imagination of the most superficial observer. He was over six feet tall, but for his extraordinary thinness he seemed even taller. His gaze was sharp, piercing, except for those periods of numbness, which were mentioned above; a thin aquiline nose gave his face an expression of lively energy and determination. A square, slightly protruding chin also spoke of a decisive character. His hands were always inked and stained with various chemicals, but he had the ability to handle objects with amazing delicacy - I noticed this more than once when he fiddled with his fragile alchemical devices in my presence.

The reader, perhaps, will consider me an inveterate hunter of other people's affairs, if I confess what curiosity this man aroused in me and how often I tried to break through the wall of restraint with which he fenced off everything that concerned him personally. But before condemning, remember how pointless my life was then and how little there was around that could occupy my idle mind. My health did not allow me to go out in cloudy or cool weather, friends did not visit me, because I did not have them, and nothing brightened my monotony. Everyday life... Therefore, I even rejoiced at some of the mystery surrounding my companion, and eagerly sought to dispel it, spending a lot of time on it.

Holmes did not practice medicine. He himself once answered this question in the negative, thereby confirming Stamford's opinion. I also did not see him systematically read any scientific literature that would be useful for obtaining an academic title and would open the way for him to the world of science. However, he studied some subjects with amazing zeal, and in some rather strange areas he possessed such extensive and accurate knowledge that at times I was simply stunned. A person who reads just about anything can rarely boast of the depth of his knowledge. No one will burden their memory with small details unless there are good enough reasons for that.

Holmes's ignorance was as astounding as his knowledge. He had almost no idea about modern literature, politics and philosophy. I happened to mention the name of Thomas Carlyle, and Holmes naively asked who he was and what he was famous for. But when it turned out that he knew absolutely nothing about either the Copernican theory or the structure of the solar system, I was simply taken aback by amazement. That a civilized man living in the nineteenth century did not know that the Earth revolves around the Sun - I simply could not believe it!

You seem surprised, ”he smiled, looking at my confused face. - Thank you for enlightening me, but now I will try to forget all this as soon as possible.

Forget?!

You see, ”he said,“ it seems to me that the human brain is like a small empty attic, which you can furnish however you want. The fool will drag there any junk that comes to hand, and there will be nowhere to put useful, necessary things, or at best you will not get to the bottom of them among all this blockage. And an intelligent man carefully selects what he puts in his brain attic. He will take only the tools that he will need for work, but there will be many of them, and he will arrange everything in an exemplary order. In vain do people think that this small room has elastic walls and they can be stretched as much as they like. I assure you, the time will come when, acquiring something new, you will forget something of the old. Therefore, it is extremely important that unnecessary information does not crowd out the necessary information.

Yes, but don't know about solar system! .. - I exclaimed.

Why the hell is she to me? he interrupted impatiently. - Well, okay, let, as you say, we revolve around the sun. And if I found out that we revolve around the Moon, would it help me or my work a lot?

I was about to ask what kind of work it was, but I felt that he would be unhappy. I thought about our short conversation and tried to draw some conclusions. He does not want to clog his head with knowledge that is not needed for his purposes. Therefore, he intends to use all the accumulated knowledge in one way or another. I listed in my mind all the areas of expertise in which he showed excellent awareness. I even took a pencil and wrote it all down on paper. After rereading the list, I could not help smiling. The certificate looked like this:

SHERLOCK HOLMES - HIS POSSIBILITIES

1. Knowledge in the field of literature - none.

2. - // - // - philosophy - none.

3. - // - // - astronomy - none.

4. - // - // - politicians are weak.

5. - // - // - botany - uneven. Knows the properties of belladonna, opium and poisons in general. Has no idea about gardening.

6. - // - // - geology - practical but limited. Identifies samples of different soils at a glance. After walking, he shows me splashes of dirt on his trousers and, by their color and consistency, determines which part of London she is from.

7. - // - // - chemistry - deep.

8. - // - // - anatomy - precise, but unsystematic.

9. - // - // - criminal chronicles - huge, Knows, it seems, all the details of every crime committed in the nineteenth century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Excellent fencing with swords and espadrons, an excellent boxer.

12. Solid practical knowledge of English laws.

Having reached this point, in despair, I threw the "certificate" into the fire. “No matter how much I enumerate everything that he knows,” I said to myself, “it’s impossible to guess why he needs it and what kind of profession requires such a combination! No, it's better not to rack your brains in vain! " I have already said that Holmes played the violin beautifully. However, there was something strange here, as in all his studies. I knew that he could perform violin pieces, and quite difficult ones: more than once, at my request, he played Mendelssohn's Songs and other things I loved. But when he was alone, it was rare to hear a piece or anything like a melody at all. In the evenings, putting the violin on his knees, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and casually moved his bow over the strings. Sometimes resounding, sad chords were heard. On another occasion, sounds were heard in which one could hear frantic merriment. Obviously, they corresponded to his mood, but whether the sounds gave rise to this mood, or whether they themselves were the product of some bizarre thoughts or just a whim, I could not understand at all. And, probably, I would have rebelled against these "concerts" scratching my nerves, if after them, as if rewarding me for longsuffering, he did not play one after another several of my favorite things.

During the first week no one came to visit us, and I began to think that my companion was as lonely in this city as I was. But I soon became convinced that he had many acquaintances, and from the most diverse strata of society. Once, three or four times in one week, a puny little man with a yellowish-pale rat physiognomy and sharp black eyes appeared; he was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade. One morning an elegant young girl came and sat with Holmes for at least half an hour. On the same day, a gray-haired, shabby old man appeared, looking like a Jewish old man, it seemed to me that he was very agitated. An old woman in worn-out shoes came almost after him. Once an elderly gentleman with gray hair talked to my roommate for a long time, then a train station porter in a uniform jacket made of velvetine. Every time one of these strange visitors appeared, Sherlock Holmes asked permission to occupy the living room, and I went to my bedroom. “We have to use this room for business meetings,” he explained somehow, asking, as usual, to excuse him for the inconvenience. "These people are my clients." And again I had a reason to ask him a direct question, but again, out of delicacy, I did not want to forcefully find out other people's secrets.

It seemed to me then that he had some good reason to hide his profession, but he soon proved that I was wrong by talking about it on his own initiative.

The fourteenth of March - I remember this date well - I got up earlier than usual and found Sherlock Holmes at breakfast. Our hostess is so accustomed to the fact that I get up late that she has not yet had time to put the appliance on and make coffee for me. Taking offense at all of humanity, I called and in a rather defiant tone said that I was expecting breakfast. Grabbing a magazine from the table, I began to leaf through it to kill time, while my roommate silently chewed toasts. The title of one of the articles was underlined with a pencil, and, quite naturally, I began to skim through it with my eyes.

The title of the article was somewhat pretentious: "The Book of Life"; the author tried to prove how much a person can learn by systematically and in detail observing everything that passes before his eyes. In my opinion, it was an amazing mixture of rational and delusional thoughts. If there was some logic and even persuasiveness in the reasoning, then the conclusions seemed to me so much deliberate and, as they say, sucked out of the thumb. The author argued that by the fleeting expression on his face, by the involuntary movement of some muscle or by the look, one can guess the most intimate thoughts of the interlocutor. According to the author, it turned out that it is simply impossible to deceive a person who can observe and analyze. His conclusions will be as infallible as Euclid's theorems. And the results will be so amazing that uninitiated people will consider him almost a sorcerer, until they understand what process of reasoning preceded this.

“One drop of water,” the author wrote, “a person who knows how to think logically can draw a conclusion about the possibility of the existence of the Atlantic Ocean or Niagara Falls, even if he has not seen either one or the other and has never heard of them. Every life is a huge chain of causes and effects, and we can know its nature by one link. The art of drawing conclusions and analyzing, like all other arts, is comprehended by long and diligent work, but life is too short, and therefore no mortal can achieve complete perfection in this area. Before turning to the moral and intellectual aspects of the matter, which present the greatest difficulties, let the researcher begin by solving simpler problems. Let him, looking at the first comer, learn to immediately identify his past and his profession. It may seem childish at first, but such exercises sharpen your observation and teach you how to look and what to look at. By the nails of a person, by his sleeves, shoes and the fold of his trousers on his knees, by the bulges on the thumb and forefinger, by the expression on his face and the cuffs of his shirt - from such trifles it is easy to guess his profession. And there is no doubt that all this, taken together, will prompt a competent observer to the correct conclusions. "

What a wild crap! - I exclaimed, tossing the magazine on the table. - I've never read such nonsense in my life.

What are you speaking about? - inquired Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, that's about this little article, - I poked a teaspoon at the magazine and began to eat my breakfast. “I see you have read it before, since it is marked with a pencil. I do not argue, it is written dashingly, but it all just makes me angry. Good for him, this bum, lounging in soft chair in the quiet of your office, compose graceful paradoxes! Squeeze him into a third-class subway car and make him guess the occupations of the passengers! I bet a thousand against one that he will not succeed!

And you will lose, ”Holmes said calmly. - And I wrote the article.

Yes. I have a tendency to observe - and to analyze. The theory that I have presented here and which seems so fantastic to you is in fact very vital, so vital that I owe it my piece of bread and butter.

But how? - burst out from me.

You see, I have a rather rare profession. Perhaps I am one of a kind. I'm a consultant sleuth, if you know what that is. There are many detectives in London, both public and private. When these fellows come to a standstill, they rush to me, and I manage to direct them on the right track. They acquaint me with all the circumstances of the case, and, knowing well the history of forensic science, I can almost always point out to them where the mistake is. All atrocities bear a great family resemblance, and if you know the details of a thousand cases like the back of your hand, it would be strange not to solve the first thousand. Lestrade is a very famous detective. But recently he was unable to understand one case of forgery and came to me.

And the others?

Most often they are sent to me by private agencies. These are all people in trouble and hungry for advice. I listen to their stories, they listen to my interpretation, and I pocket my royalties.

Do you really want to say - I could not bear it - that, without leaving the room, you can unravel the tangle over which those who know all the details better than you do in vain?

Exactly. I have a kind of intuition. True, from time to time, one comes across some more complicated matter. Well, then you have to run a little to see something with your own eyes. You see, I have special knowledge that I apply in each specific case, they make things surprisingly easier. The rules of deduction that I outlined in the article about which you spoke so contemptuously are simply invaluable for my practical work. Observation is second nature to me. You seem surprised when, at the first meeting, I said that you came from Afghanistan?

Of course, someone told you about it.

Nothing of the kind, I immediately guessed that you came from Afghanistan. Thanks to a long-standing habit, a chain of inferences arises in me so quickly that I have come to a conclusion without even noticing the intermediate premises. However, they were, these parcels. My train of thought was as follows: “This man is a doctor by type, but his bearing is military. So, a military doctor. He has just arrived from the tropics - his face is dark, but this is not the natural shade of his skin, since his wrists are much whiter. The face is emaciated - obviously, he has endured a lot and suffered an illness. He was wounded in his left arm - he holds it motionless and a little unnatural. Where, under the tropics, an English military doctor could endure hardship and get a wound? Of course, in Afghanistan. " The whole train of thought did not take a second. And so I said that you came from Afghanistan, and you were surprised.

It's very simple to listen to you, - I smiled. “You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I thought such people only existed in novels.

Sherlock Holmes got up and started lighting his pipe.

You, of course, think that comparing me to Dupin, you are complimenting me, ”he remarked. “And in my opinion, your Dupin is a very narrow-minded fellow. This technique is to knock off the thoughts of your interlocutor with some phrase "for the occasion" after fifteen minutes of silence, really, a very cheap ostentatious trick. He undoubtedly had some analytical ability, but he was by no means the phenomenon Poe apparently believed him to be.

Have you read Gaboriau? I asked. - How do you think Lecoq is a real detective?

Sherlock Holmes chuckled ironically.

Lecoq is a pathetic brat, ”he said angrily. - He only has that energy. This book just makes me sick. Just think, what a problem - to establish the identity of a criminal who has already been imprisoned! I would do it in twenty-four hours. And Lecoq has been digging for almost six months. This book can teach detectives how not to work.

He so arrogantly debunked my favorite literary characters that I started to get angry again. I went to the window and turned my back to Holmes, looking absentmindedly at the bustle of the street. “He may be smart,” I said to myself, “but, pardon me, you can't be so self-confident!”

Now there are no real crimes, no real criminals, - Holmes continued grumpily. - Even if you are seven spans in your forehead, what is the use of this in our profession? I know I could have become famous. There is not and never was a person in the world who would devote as much innate talent and hard work to solving crimes as I did. And what? There is nothing to disclose, there are no crimes, at best some crude fraud with such uncomplicated motives that even the police from Scotland Yard can see through everything.

I was positively jarred by this boastful tone. I decided to change the subject.

I wonder what he's looking out there? I asked, pointing to a stout, simply dressed man who was slowly walking along the other side of the street, peering at the house numbers. In his hand he held a large blue envelope,

Obviously it was a messenger.

Who is this retired naval sergeant? - said Sherlock Holmes.

"Puffy bouncer! - I called him to myself. "He knows you can't check him!"

I barely had time to think this, when the man we were watching saw the number on our door and hurriedly ran across the street. There was a loud knock, a thick bass droned below, then heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, - said the messenger, entering the room, and handed the letter to my friend.

Here is a perfect opportunity to knock his arrogance off him! He determined the past of the messenger at random and, of course, did not expect him to appear in our room.

Serving as a messenger, ”he said grimly. - I gave the form to mend.

Who were you before? - I continued, glancing not without malice at Holmes.

Sergeant of the Royal Marines, sir. Don't wait for an answer? Yes, sir. He clicked his heels, saluted and left.

CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY OF LORISTON-GARDENS

I must confess that I was not a little amazed at how my companion's theory proved itself in practice. My respect for his abilities increased immediately. And yet I could not shake off the suspicion that all this had been arranged in advance to overwhelm me, although why, in fact, I could not understand in any way. When I looked at him, he was holding the note he had read in his hand, and his gaze was absent-minded and dull, which testified to the intense work of thought.

How did you guess? I asked.

About what? - he answered gloomily.

That he is a retired navy sergeant?

I have no time to chat about trifles, - he snapped, but then, smiling, he hurried to add: - Sorry for the harshness. You interrupted my train of thought, but maybe it's for the best. So you have not been able to see that he is a former naval sergeant?

Of course not.

It was easier for me to understand than to explain, as I guessed. Imagine that you need to prove that two times two is four - is difficult, isn't it, although you are firmly convinced of this. Even across the street, I noticed a tattoo on his arm - a large blue anchor. There was already a smell of the sea. He has a military bearing and wears military-style tanks. Therefore, before us is the naval. He behaves with dignity, perhaps even bossy. You should have noticed how high he holds his head and how he waves his stick, and he looks like a sedate middle-aged man - that's all the signs by which I learned that he was a sergeant.

Wonders! I exclaimed.

Ah, nonsense, ”Holmes dismissed, but I saw from his face that he was pleased with my ecstatic amazement. - I just said that now there are no more criminals. I guess I was wrong. Take a look! “He handed me the note that the messenger had brought.

Listen, this is awful! - I gasped, running through her eyes.

Yes, something, apparently, not quite ordinary, - he remarked coolly. “Please read it to me aloud.

Here is the letter I read:

“Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes!

Yours, Tobias Gregson "

Gregson is the smartest detective in Scotland Yard, my friend said. “He and Lestrade stand out among other nonentities. Both are quick and energetic, although terribly banal. With each other they are at knives. They are jealous of fame like professional beauties. It will be fun if both attack the trail.

His speech murmured surprisingly slowly!

But, probably, not a second should be lost, - I was alarmed. - Go get a cab?

I'm not sure if I will go or not. I’m a lazy person, which I have not seen, that is, of course, when laziness attacks me, but in general I can be nimble.

You dreamed of such an event!

My dear, what's the point to me? Suppose I solve this case

After all, Gregson, Lestrade and company will still pocket all the glory. Such is the fate of an unofficial person.

But he asks for your help.

Yes. He knows that he is far from me, and he told me this himself, but he would rather cut off his tongue than confess to someone else. However, perhaps, let's go and see. I'll take it at my own risk. At least I will laugh at them, if there is nothing else left for me. Went!

He fussed and rushed to get his coat: a burst of energy replaced apathy.

Take your hat, ”he ordered.

Do you want me to go with you?

Yes, if you have nothing else to do.

A minute later we were both sitting in a cab that drove us towards Brixton Road.

It was an overcast, misty morning, with a brownish haze hanging over the rooftops, which seemed to reflect the dirty gray streets below. My companion was in a good mood, chatting incessantly about Cremona violins and the difference between Stradivarius and Amati violins. I kept my mouth shut; the dull weather and the sad sight ahead of us depressed me.

You don't seem to think about this matter at all, ”I finally interrupted his musical reflections.

I don't have the facts yet, ”he replied. - Making assumptions without knowing all the circumstances of the case is the biggest mistake. This can affect the further course of reasoning.

You will receive your facts soon, ”I said, pointing with my finger. “This is Brixton Road, and this, if I’m not mistaken, is the same house.

Right. Stop, coachman, stop!

We did not reach a hundred yards, but at Holmes' insistence we got out of the cab and walked up to the house.

Number 3, at the cul-de-sac called Lauriston Gardens, looked ominous, as if it harbored a threat.

It was one of four houses a little off the street; two houses were inhabited and two were empty. Number 3 looked out onto the street with three rows of dim windows; here and there on the dull dark glass, like an eyesore, stood out the inscription "For Rent." In front of each house a small front garden was laid out, separating it from the street - several trees over rare and stunted bushes; a narrow yellowish path ran along the front garden, which, judging by its appearance, was a mixture of clay and sand. It rained at night and there were puddles everywhere. A brick fence three feet high ran along the street, with a wooden trellis at the top; a stalwart constable was leaning against the fence, surrounded by a small group of onlookers who craned their necks in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of what was happening behind the fence.

I thought that Sherlock Holmes would hurry to enter the house and immediately investigate. Nothing like that. It seemed that this was not at all part of his intentions. With a carelessness that, under such circumstances, bordering on posturing, he walked up and down the sidewalk, absentmindedly looking at the sky, at the ground, at the houses opposite and at the fence. Having finished his inspection, he slowly walked along the path, or rather, on the grass, on the side of the path, and began to gaze intently at the ground. He stopped twice; once I noticed his smile on his face and heard a contented chuckle. There were many footprints on the wet clay soil, but the police had already thoroughly trampled it, and I wondered what else Holmes hoped to find there. However, I managed to convince myself of his extraordinary insight and did not doubt that he could see a lot of things that are inaccessible to me.

At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced man with flaxen hair and a notebook in his hand. He rushed to us and shook hands with my companion with feeling.

It's so good that you have come! .. - he said. - Nobody touched anything, I left everything as it was.

Besides, - said Holmes, pointing to the path. - A herd of buffaloes, and that would not have left behind such a mess! But, of course, you examined the track before you let it be trampled?

I had a lot to do in the house, ”the detective answered evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is also here. I hoped he would see to it.

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

Well, after such masters of their craft as you and Lestrade, I probably have nothing to do here, ”he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands smugly.

Yes, it seems, they did everything they could. However, this is a tricky business, and I know that you love those.

Did you come here in a cab?

No, I came on foot, sir.

And Lestrade?

Also, sir.

Well, then let's go and see the room, - Holmes concluded quite inconsistently and entered the house. Gregson, eyebrows raised in surprise, hurried after him.

A small corridor with a plank floor that had not been swept for a long time led to the kitchen and other services. There were two doors to the right and left. One of them, apparently, has not been opened for several months; the other led to the dining room, where the mysterious murder was committed. Holmes entered the dining room, I followed him with that oppressive feeling that the presence of death inspires in us.

The large square room seemed even larger because there was no furniture in it. The bright, tasteless wallpaper was stained with mildew, and in some places it had fallen behind and hung in tatters, exposing the yellow plaster. Directly opposite the door was a lurid fireplace with a shelf in white marble; a stub of a red wax candle was stuck to the edge of the shelf. In the faint, dim light that shone through the dirty glass of the single window, everything around seemed deathly gray, aided not a little by the thick layer of dust on the floor.

I noticed all these details afterwards. In the first minutes I looked only at a lonely, terrible figure, sprawled on the bare floor, at empty, blind eyes, staring at the ceiling. He was a man of forty-three or four years old, of medium height, broad-shouldered, with coarse, curly black hair and a short, sticking beard. He wore a frock coat and waistcoat made of heavy cloth, light-colored trousers and a shirt of immaculate whiteness. Nearby lay a flattened cylinder. The dead man's arms were outstretched, fingers clenched into fists, legs twisted, as if in agony. An expression of horror and, as it seemed to me, hatred was frozen on his face - such an expression I had never seen on a human face. A terrible, malicious grimace, a low forehead, a flattened nose and a protruding jaw gave the dead a resemblance to a gorilla, which was further reinforced by his unnatural inverted posture. I saw death in different forms, but never before did it seem so terrible to me as it does now, in this half-dark, gloomy room near one of the main thoroughfares of the London suburb.

A frail, ferret-like Lestrade stood at the door. He greeted Holmes and me.

This case is going to make a lot of noise, sir, ”he remarked. - I have never met such a thing, but I am an experienced person.

And there is no key to this secret, ”Gregson said.

None, ”Lestrade said.

Sherlock Holmes walked over to the corpse and, kneeling down, began to carefully examine it.

Are you sure there are no wounds on it? he asked, pointing to the spatter of blood around the body.

Undoubtedly! - both answered.

So it’s the blood of someone else — probably a murderer, if there was murder. This reminds me of the circumstances of Van Janssen's death in Utrecht in 1934. Remember this case, Gregson?

No sir.

Read it, really worth reading. Yes, nothing is new under the moon. Everything has happened before.

At this time, his sensitive fingers flew continuously over the dead body, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, and in his eyes there was the same absent expression that I had seen more than once. The inspection took place so quickly that hardly anyone realized how carefully it was done. Finally Holmes sniffed the lips of the corpse, then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

They didn't budge him? - he asked.

No, just examined.

You can send to the morgue, - said Holmes. - There is no more need for it.

Four people with stretchers stood at the ready. Gregson called them, they put the corpse on a stretcher and carried it. As he was lifted, a ring fell to the floor and rolled. Lestrade grabbed it and studied it.

There was a woman here! he exclaimed in surprise. - This is a woman's wedding ring ...

He put it in his palm and held it out to us. We surrounded Lestrade and stared at the ring. Undoubtedly, this sleek gold band once adorned a bride's finger.

Things get complicated, ”Gregson said. - And it, by God, is already puzzling.

Are you sure it doesn't make it easier? Holmes objected. - But enough to admire the ring, it will not help us. What did you find in your pockets?

Everyone is here. Gregson stepped out into the hall and pointed to a pile of objects spread out on the bottom rung of the stairs. - Baro Gold Watch, London, No. 97163. gold chain, very heavy and massive. Gold ring with Masonic emblem. The golden pin is the head of a bulldog with ruby ​​eyes. Wallet of Russian leather for business cards and cards, they are written: Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland - this corresponds to the labels on the linen - ED D. The wallet is missing, but there were seven pounds thirteen shillings in his pockets. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's Decameron with Joseph Stangerson on the flyleaf. Two letters, one addressed to EJ Drebber and the other to Joseph Stangerson.

What address?

Strand, American Exchange, on demand. Both letters are from the Guyon Steamship Company and relate to the departure of their steamers from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York.

Have you started looking for this Stangerson?

Immediately, sir. I sent out advertisements to all the newspapers, and one of my people went to the American stock exchange, but has not yet returned.

Did you ask for Cleveland?

In the morning they sent a telegram.

We simply reported what had happened and asked for information.

Did you ask for more details on anything that seemed particularly important to you?

I asked about Stangerson.

And nothing else? Do you think there are any special circumstances in Drebber's life that need to be clarified?

I asked about everything that I thought was necessary, - Gregson answered in an offended tone.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself and was about to say something, when suddenly Lestrade appeared in front of us, who remained in the room when we went into the hall. He puffed up with complacency and rubbed his hands.

Mr. Gregson, I have just made a discovery of the greatest importance! he announced. “Had I not guessed to carefully examine the walls, we would not have learned anything!

The little man's eyes were shining, he, apparently, was internally rejoicing because he beat his colleague by one point.

Come here, ”he said bustlingly, leading us back into the room, where it seemed a little brighter after the fearful occupant had been carried away. - Here, stand here!

He struck a match on the sole of his shoe and held it against the wall.

Look! he said triumphantly. I have already said that in many places the wallpaper hung in tatters.

In this corner I fell behind the wall big piece revealing a yellow square of rough plaster. It was drawn in blood:

Have you seen? Lestrade said boastfully, like a showman introducing an attraction to the public. “This is the darkest corner, and it never occurred to anyone to look here. The killer - he or she - wrote it in his own blood. Look, there is blood glass from the wall, and there is a stain on the floor. In any case, suicide is out of the question. Why did the killer choose this particular corner? I'll explain now. Do you see the stub on the fireplace? When it burned, this corner was the lightest, not the darkest.

Well, well, the inscription caught your eye, but how will you interpret it? Gregson said dismissively.

How? That's how. The killer - whether man or woman - wanted to write the woman's name "Rachel", but didn’t have time to finish, something must have got in the way. Mark my words: sooner or later it turns out that a woman named Rachel is involved. Laugh as much as you like, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are, of course, a well-read and intelligent person, but in the end the old bloodhound will give you a few points ahead!

I beg your pardon, ”said my friend, who angered the little man with his laugh. - Of course, the honor of this discovery belongs to you, and the inscription, no doubt, was made by the second participant in the night drama. I have not yet had time to inspect the room and, with your permission, I will inspect it now.

He took a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket and walked noiselessly around the room, now and then stopping or kneeling; once he even lay down on the floor. Holmes was so carried away that he seemed to have completely forgotten about our existence - and we heard now muttering, now moaning, now a slight whistle, now approving and joyful exclamations. I looked at him, and it occurred to me that he now looks like a purebred, well-trained hound, which prowls back and forth through the forest, whining with impatience until it attacks the lost trail. For about twenty minutes, if not more, he continued his search, carefully measuring the distance between some completely imperceptible footprints for me, and from time to time - just as incomprehensible to me - measured something with a tape measure on the walls. At one point, he carefully scooped up a pinch of gray dust from the floor and put it in an envelope. Finally, he began to examine the writing on the wall through a magnifying glass, carefully examining each letter. Apparently, he was satisfied with the inspection, because he hid the tape measure and magnifying glass in his pocket.

They say genius is endless endurance, ”he remarked with a smile. - Quite an unfortunate definition, but it suits the work of a detective quite well.

Gregson and Lestrade watched the maneuvers of their amateur colleague with undisguised curiosity and not without contempt. Obviously, they could not appreciate what I understood: everything that Holmes did, down to seemingly insignificant trifles, served some well-defined and practical purpose.

Well, what do you say, sir? - both asked in unison.

I don’t want to deprive you of the primacy in solving the crime, ”said my friend,“ and therefore I will not allow myself to impose advice. Both of you are doing so well that it would be a sin to interfere. There was obvious sarcasm in his voice. “If you can report the progress of the investigation,” he continued, “I'll be happy to help you if I can. Until then, I would like to speak to the constable who found the body. Please tell me his name and address.

Lestrade took out his notebook.

John Rance, ”he said. - Now he is free. Its address is 46 Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.

Holmes wrote down the address.

Come on, doctor, ”he told me. “We’ll go to him at once. And I want to tell you something, - he turned to the detectives, - maybe this will help the investigation. It is murder, of course, and the killer is a man. He is a little over six feet tall, in his prime, his feet are very small for that height, he is wearing heavy square-toed boots and smokes Trichinopolitan cigars. He and his victim came here together in a four-wheeled carriage drawn by a horse with three old and one new horseshoe on the right forefoot. In all likelihood, the killer has a red face and very long nails on right hand... These are, of course, little things, but they may be useful to you.

Lestrade and Gregson looked at each other, grinning incredulously.

If this person is killed, then how?

Poison, - Sherlock Holmes said shortly and strode to the door. “Yes, one more thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning. “Rache is German for revenge, so don't waste time looking for Miss Rachel.

Firing this Parthian arrow, he left, and both rivals looked after him, gaping mouths.

CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE TOLD

We left No. 3 in Lauriston Gardens at about one in the afternoon. Sherlock Holmes dragged me to the nearest telegraph office, from where he sent a long telegram. Then he called a cab and told the driver to go to the address Lestrade had given us.

The most valuable thing is eyewitness testimony, Holmes told me. - Frankly speaking, I have a pretty clear idea of ​​the case, but nevertheless I need to learn everything that is possible.

You know, Holmes, you just amaze me, - I said. - You very confidently described the details of the crime, but tell me, do you really have no doubt in your heart that everything was exactly like that?

It's hard to make a mistake, ”Holmes replied. - The first thing I saw when I drove up to the house, there were traces of a cab at the very side of the road. Note that it hadn't rained for a week until last night. This means that the cab, which left two deep ruts, must have passed there that night. Then I noticed the footprints of the horse's hooves, and one of the prints was clearer than the other three, which means that the horseshoe was new. The cab arrived after it started raining, and in the morning, according to Gregson, no one came - so this cab arrived at night, and, of course, he brought those two there.

All this is quite plausible, - I said, - but how did you guess the height of the killer?

It's very simple: a person's height in nine cases out of ten can be determined by the width of his stride. It’s very easy, but I don’t want to bore you with calculations. I measured the killer's steps on both the clay path and the dusty floor in the room. And then I had the opportunity to check my calculations. When a person writes on a wall, they instinctively write at their eye level. From floor to writing on the wall, six feet. In short, a puzzle for children!

How did you know his age?

Well, hardly a decrepit old man can jump four and a half feet at once. And this is just the width of the puddle on the path, which, apparently, he jumped over. Patent boots skirted her side, and square toes skipped over. Nothing mysterious, as you can see. I just apply in practice some of the rules of observation of deductive thinking, which I defended in my article ... Well, what else is not clear to you?

Nails and a Trichinopolitan cigar, I replied.

The writing on the wall was written with a forefinger dipped in blood. I saw through a magnifying glass that the killer was lightly scratching the plaster in tracing the letters, which would not have happened if the fingernail had been trimmed short. The ashes that I collected from the floor turned out to be dark and layered - such ashes remain only from Trichinopolitan cigars. After all, I specifically studied the ashes from different varieties tobacco; if you want to know, I've written a whole study about it. I can boast that at the first glance I will determine the type of cigar or tobacco for you by the ashes. By the way, knowledge of such trifles distinguishes a skilled detective from all the Gregsons and Lestrades.

Well, and what about the red face? I asked.

But this is a more daring guess, although I have no doubt that I am right here too. But don't ask about this yet.

I ran my hand over my forehead.

My head is just spinning, - I said, - the more you think about this crime, the more mysterious it becomes. How could these two - if there were two of them - get into an empty house? Where did the coachman who brought them go? How could one force the other to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the purpose of the killer if he hadn't even robbed his victim? How did the woman's ring get there? And most importantly, why the second person, before hiding, wrote german word"Rache"? I must confess that I absolutely do not understand how to link these facts together.

My companion smiled approvingly.

You have briefly and very sensibly summed up all the difficulties of this case, - he said. - Much is still unclear here, although with the help of the main facts I have already found a clue. And as for the discovery of poor Lestrade, it's just a killer's ploy to send the police on the wrong track, convincing them that socialists and some kind of secret societies are involved. This is not written by a German. He tried to print the letter "A", if you noticed, in the Gothic font, and a real German always writes in block letters in the Latin manner, so we can assert that it was not a German who wrote, but an inept and outdated imitator. Of course, this is a trick to confuse the investigation. Until I tell you more, Doctor. You know, as soon as a magician explains at least one of his tricks, the halo of his glory immediately fades in the eyes of the audience; and if I reveal to you the method of my work, you, perhaps, will come to the conviction that I am the most ordinary mediocrity!

Never! - I objected. - You have done a great job: thanks to you, solving crimes is on the verge of exact science.

My words and the serious conviction of my tone obviously gave my companion considerable pleasure - he even turned pink. I have already said that he was as sensitive to praise for his art as a girl was to praise for her beauty.

I'll tell you something else, ”he continued. - Patent boots and Square Noses arrived in the same cab and together, in a friendly way, almost arm in arm, walked along the path to the house. In the room they walked up and down, or rather Patent boots stood, and Square Noses walked. I read this from the footprints on the floor, and I also read that the man walking about the room was getting more and more excited. He said something all the time until he got himself into a rage. And then tragedy struck. Well, I told you everything I know, probably the rest is just guesses and assumptions. However, the foundation for them is solid. But let's hurry up, I still want to be in time for the concert, listen to Norman Neruda.

Our cab meanwhile made its way through endless squalid streets and gloomy alleys. Our coachman suddenly stopped in the darkest and most dismal of them.

Here's Audley Court, '' he said, pointing to a narrow gap in a series of dim brick houses... “When you return, I'll be standing here.

Audley Court was an unattractive place. A narrow passageway led us into a rectangular, flagstone-paved courtyard surrounded by filthy shacks. We pushed our way through the crowd of frozen children and, diving under the lines with faded linen, reached number 46. On the door was a small brass plaque engraved with Rance's name. We were told that the constable hadn’t gotten up yet, and were told to wait in the tiny living room.

Soon Rane himself appeared. He, apparently, was very out of sorts because we disturbed his sleep.

I already gave my testimony at the station, ”he grumbled.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and turned it thoughtfully in his fingers.

It would be much nicer for us to listen to you personally, ”he said.

Well, I'm not averse to telling everything I know, ”the constable replied, not taking his eyes off the gold mug.

Just tell us everything in order.

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa and furrowed his eyebrows in concern, as if trying to recall every little detail.

I'll start from the beginning, ”he said. - I was on duty at night, from ten to six in the morning. Around eleven in the "White Deer" there was a little fight, but actually in my area it was quiet. At one o'clock in the morning it started raining, and I met Harry Mercher, who is on duty in the Holland Grove area. We stood at the corner of Henrietta Street, chatted about this and that, and then, perhaps two hours or a little later, I decided to walk along Brixton Road to see if everything was all right. There was no mud there, and there was not a soul around, except that one or two cabs drove through. I walk to myself and think, between us saying that it would be nice to have a glass of hot gin now, when suddenly I see: a light flashed in the window of that very house. Well, I know that two houses in Lauriston Gardens are empty, and this is all because the owner does not want to clean sewer pipes although, by the way, last tenant died there of typhoid fever ... Well, as soon as I saw the light in the window, I was even taken aback and, of course, suspected that something was wrong. When I came to the door ...

You stopped, then walked back to the gate, ”my friend interrupted him. - Why did you come back?

Rance jumped up and stared at Holmes in amazement.

And that's right, sir! - he said. “Although how do you know this, God only knows! You see, when I approached the door, it was so deserted and quiet all around that I decided: I'd better take someone with me. Actually, I'm not afraid of anyone who walks the earth; here are those who lie underground, of course, another matter ... I thought: what if it was the one who died of typhoid fever, came to inspect the sewer pipes that killed him? to the gate, I thought, maybe I'll see Mercher's lantern, but only there was no one around.

And there was no one on the street?

Not a soul, sir, not even a single dog ran. Then I gathered my courage, went back and opened the door. The house was quiet, and I entered the room where the light was on. There was a candle on the fireplace, red, wax, and I saw ...

I know what you saw. You walked around the room several times, knelt beside the corpse, then went and opened the door to the kitchen, and then ...

John Rance jumped to his feet impulsively, looking at Holmes with dismay and suspicion.

Wait, where were you hiding, why did you see all this, huh? he shouted. - You know too much!

Holmes laughed and threw his card on the table in front of the constable.

Please don't arrest me on suspicion of murder, ”he said.

I am not a wolf, but one of the bloodhounds; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will confirm this. Go on, please. What happened next?

Rance sat down again, but he still looked puzzled.

I went to the gate and blew the whistle. Mercher came running, and with him two more.

And there was no one on the street?

Yes, in general, you can say no one.

How to understand this?

A smile spread across the constable's face.

You know, sir, I've seen drunk people in my life, but to get so drunk as this one - I have not yet come across such. When I went out into the street, he leaned against the fence near the gate, but he could not resist in any way, and he himself was bawling at the top of his lungs some kind of song. And his legs were spreading to the sides.

What did he look like? Sherlock Holmes asked quickly.

John Rance was visibly annoyed by this irrelevant question.

Drunk as a pig, that's what he looked like, ”he replied. - If we were not busy, of course, we would have dragged him to the station.

What is his face, clothes, did you not notice? Holmes urged impatiently.

How not to notice, because Mercher and I tried to put him on his feet, this red-faced bruiser. His chin was wrapped in a scarf all the way to his mouth.

Okay, enough! Holmes exclaimed. - Where did he go?

We had no time to bother with a drunkard, there were enough other worries, - the policeman said resentfully. - I made my way home somehow, be sure.

How was he dressed?

His coat was brown.

Didn't he hold a whip in his hand?

Whip? No.

So he left him somewhere nearby, ”my friend muttered. - Maybe you saw or heard whether the cab did not pass afterwards?

Well, here's a half-sovereign for you, ”said Holmes, getting up and taking up his hat.

I'm afraid you will never get a promotion, Rance. One must sometimes think about the head, and not wear it as an adornment. You could have earned sergeant patches last night. The man you raised to his feet holds the key to this secret, and we are looking for him. Now there is nothing to talk about it, but you can believe me that it is so. Come on, doctor!

Leaving our constable in painful bewilderment, we headed for the cab.

An unheard-of fool! Holmes grunted angrily as we drove home.

Just think: to miss such a rare luck!

I still don't understand a lot here. Indeed, the signs of this person coincide with your idea of ​​the second person involved in this mystery. But why would he have to return to the house again? Murderers don't do that.

Ring, my friend, ring - that's why he came back. If we fail to catch him otherwise, we will cast a fishing rod with a ring. I will catch him with this bait, bet two against one that I will catch. I am very grateful to you, doctor. If not for you, I probably would not have gone and missed what I would call a most interesting sketch. Indeed, why not use artist jargon? Isn't this a study to help the study of life? A study in crimson, huh? Murder with a crimson thread runs through the colorless thread of life, and it is our duty to unravel this thread, sever it and expose it inch by inch. Now let's have lunch and go listen to Norman Neruda. She has excellent bow control and her tone is surprisingly clear. What is the motive of this Chopin thing, which she plays so beautifully? Tra-la-la, lyre-la! ..

Leaning back in his seat, this amateur sleuth chanted like a lark, and I thought about how versatile the human mind is.

CHAPTER V. COME TO US BY ANNOUNCEMENT

The excitement of this morning was beyond my strength, and by the end of the day I felt completely overwhelmed. When Holmes left for the concert, I lay down on the sofa, hoping that I would be able to fall asleep for two hours. But it was not there. My brain was overexcited by today's events, the strangest images and guesses were crowded in my head. As soon as I closed my eyes, I saw in front of me the distorted, gorilla-like face of the dead man - a face that made me so terrified that I was involuntarily imbued with gratitude to the one who sent its owner to the next world. Probably not one yet human face did not reflect the most base vices as clearly as the face of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland. But justice is justice, and the viciousness of the victim cannot justify the murderer in the eyes of the law.

The more I pondered this crime, the more incredible Holmes's claim that Enoch Drebber was poisoned seemed to me. I remembered how he sniffed his lips - no doubt he found something that led him to this idea. In addition, if not poison, then what was the cause of death, since there was no wound on the corpse, no traces of suffocation? On the other hand, whose blood is the floor so thickly splattered with? There were no signs of a struggle in the room, and no weapon was found on the victim with which he could injure his opponent. And it seemed to me that until all these questions were answered, neither I nor Holmes would be able to sleep at night. My friend was calm and confident - I suppose he already had some kind of theory that explained all the facts, but which - I had no idea.

I had to wait for Holmes for a long time - so long that there was no doubt that after the concert he had other things to do. When he returned, dinner was already on the table.

It was lovely, ”he said, sitting down at the table. Remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that humanity learned to create and enjoy music much earlier than it acquired the ability to speak. Perhaps that is why we are so deeply moved by music. A vague memory of those foggy centuries, when the world experienced its early childhood, has been preserved in our souls.

A bold theory, I remarked.

All theories explaining the phenomena of nature must be as bold as nature itself, - answered Holmes. - But what is it with you? There is no face on you. You must have been deeply moved by this story on Brixton Road.

To tell you the truth, yes, ”I sighed. “Although after my Afghan ordeals, I should have become more tempered. When my comrades were chopped to pieces in Maiwanda in front of my eyes, I did not lose my composure.

Understand. There is a mystery in this crime that affects the imagination; where there is no food for the imagination, there is no fear. Have you seen the evening paper?

Not yet.

There is a fairly detailed account of this murder. True, nothing is said about the fact that when the corpse was lifted, a wedding ring fell to the floor - but so much the better for us!

Read this announcement. I sent it out to all the newspapers in the morning when we stopped by the post office.

He put a newspaper on the table in front of me; I looked at the indicated place. The first announcement under the heading “Finds” read: “Found this morning on Brixton Road, between White Deer Inn and Holland Grove gold ring... See Dr. Watson, 221-B Baker Street, eight to nine pm. "

Sorry to use your name, said Holmes. “If I had named mine, one of these idiots would have guessed what the matter was, and would have considered it my duty to intervene.

Oh, for God's sake, ”I replied. - But suddenly someone will appear; - because I have no ring.

This is it, - said Holmes, handing me a ring. - It will do quite well: it is almost the same.

And who do you think will come for him?

Well, who, of course, is a man in a brown coat, our red-faced friend with square socks. And if not himself, so his accomplice.

Isn't he afraid of risk?

Not at all. If I understood this matter correctly, and I have reason to think that it is correct, then this person will do anything to get the ring back. I think he dropped it when he bent over Drebber's corpse. And leaving the house, he missed the ring and hurried back, but the police had already appeared there by his own oversight - after all, he had forgotten to extinguish the candle. Then, to avert suspicion, he had to pretend to be drunk. Now try to take his place. On reflection, he realizes that he could have lost the ring on the street after he left the house. What will he do? Probably grabbing the evening papers in the hope of finding an announcement about the find. And suddenly - oh joy! - he sees our ad. Do you think he will suspect a trap? Never. He is sure that it would never occur to anyone that there is some connection between the found ring and the murder. And he will come. You will see him within an hour.

And what's next? I asked.

Oh, leave it to me, Do you have any weapon?

There is an old revolver and some cartridges.

Clean it and charge it. He is, of course, a desperate man, and although I catch him by surprise, it is better to be prepared for anything.

I went to my room and did everything as he said. When I returned with the revolver, the table had already been cleared, and Holmes was indulging in his favorite pastime - joking on the violin.

The plot is getting more complicated, - he said, - I have just received from America a reply to my telegram. Everything is as I thought.

What is it? I asked eagerly.

We should buy new violin strings, ”he said. - Hide the revolver in your pocket. When this type appears, talk to him as if nothing had happened. I'll take care of the rest. And do not bite into him with your eyes, or you will frighten him off.

It's already eight, ”I remarked, glancing at my watch.

Yes. He'll probably show up in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. That's enough. Insert the key from the inside ... Thank you. Yesterday I bought an amusing old book on the tray - De Jure inter Gentes, On international law (lat.). published in Latin in Liege in 1642. When this brown volume came out, Karl's head was still firmly on his shoulders.

Who is the publisher?

Some Philippe de Croix. On title page in much faded ink it says: "Ex libris Guliolmi Wnyte". From the books of William Whyte (lat.). I wonder who this William White was. Probably some meticulous seventeenth-century solicitor. He has an intricate handwriting of a crochet hook. And here, it seems, is our guest!

A sharp bell was heard. Sherlock Holmes got up and quietly moved his chair closer to the door. We heard the steps of the maid in the front hall and the clicking of the lock.

Does Dr. Watson live here? - came to us a clear, rather rough voice. We did not hear the servant's answer, but the door slammed shut and someone began to climb the stairs. The steps were shuffling and uncertain. Holmes listened and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Footsteps approached slowly down the corridor, then there was a timid knock at the door.

Come in, I said.

Instead of a rude strong man, an ancient, waddling old woman appeared in front of us! She squinted at the bright light; curtsy, she stopped at the door and, blinking her dim eyes, began nervously fumbling in her pocket with trembling fingers. I looked at Holmes - there was such a miserable expression on his face that I could hardly restrain myself from laughing.

The old hag pulled out the evening paper and pointed at it with her finger.

That's why I came, good gentlemen, ”she mumbled, squatting again. “About the gold wedding ring on Brixton Road. It’s my daughter, Sally, who dropped it, she’s only been married for a year, and her husband is a barman on the steamer, and there would be a noise if he returned, but there’s no ring! He's already a tough temper, and when he drinks - God forbid! If you want to know, she went to the circus yesterday with ...

Is that her ring? I asked.

Glory to you, Lord! - exclaimed the old woman. - How happy Sally will be! It is the same, how!

Your address, please, ”I said, taking a pencil.

Houndsditch, Duncan Street, number 13. The way to you is not a short one!

Brixton Road is not at all on the way from Houndsditch to the circus, ”Holmes said sharply.

The old woman turned and looked at him sharply with her little red eyes.

They asked where I live, she said, and Sally lives in 3 Peckham, Maysfield Place.

What's your last name?

My Sawyer, and hers - Dennis, because she married Tom Dennis - he's a neat little guy, quiet, while at sea, and the steamship company will not praise them, and he will go ashore, there is a female, and booze, and ...

Here's your ring, Mrs. Sawyer, ”I interrupted, obeying Holmes's signal. “It certainly belongs to your daughter, and I'm glad I can return it to its rightful owner.

Mumbling words of gratitude and invoking God's blessing on me, the old hag hid the ring in his pocket and hobbled down the stairs. She barely had time to walk out the door when Sherlock Holmes jumped up from his chair and rushed to his room. A few seconds later, he appeared in a coat and scarf.

I'm going after her, ”he said hastily. “She is, of course, an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Please wait for me.

When the door slammed downstairs behind our guest, Holmes was already running down the stairs. I looked out the window - the old woman was trudging along the other side of the street, and Holmes followed her, keeping a little at a distance. "Either his whole theory is worthless," I thought, "or now he will grasp the thread leading to the solution of this mystery."

The request to wait for him was completely unnecessary: ​​how could I fall asleep without knowing how his adventure ended?

He left at about nine. I, of course, had no idea when he would return, but I sat stupidly in the dining room, puffing on my pipe and flipping through the pages of "Vie de Boheme" "The Life of a Bohemia" (French). Murger. It struck ten; a maid stomped down the stairs, going to bed. It's already eleven, and again steps; I recognized the dignified step of our hostess, who was also about to go to sleep. Around twelve, the lock snapped sharply down below. As soon as Holmes entered, I immediately realized that he could not boast of his luck. His face fought with amusement and vexation, and finally, his sense of humor prevailed, and he laughed merrily.

Anything to keep my Scotland Yard friends from hearing about it! he exclaimed, throwing himself into a chair. - I mocked them so many times that they would never let me down! And I have the right to laugh at myself - I know that in the end I will take revenge!

What happened? I asked.

I was left in the fool - but it does not matter. So that's it. The old woman was walking down the street, then suddenly began to limp, and it was clear from everything that her leg ached. Finally she stopped and beckoned a passing cab. I tried to get as close as possible to hear where she was telling me to go, but I didn't have to work: she shouted to the whole street: "Duncan Street, number thirteen!" Is there really no deception here, I thought, but when she got into the cab, just in case, I latched on behind - every detective should be fluent in this art. So we drove non-stop all the way to Duncan Street. I jumped off before we got to the house and walked slowly down the sidewalk. The cab stopped. Cabman jumped down and opened the door - no one! When I approached, he peered into an empty cab in a fury, and I must say that I have never heard such selective abuse in my life! The old women are gone, and I'm afraid he will have to wait a long time for his money! We checked in at thirteen — the owner was a venerable upholsterer named Keswick, and no one had heard of the Sawyers or Dennis.

Do you really want to say, ”I was amazed,“ that this weak, lame old woman jumped out of the cab on the way, so much so that neither you nor the coachman noticed it?

What the hell is an old woman! - Sherlock Holmes exclaimed angrily. - This is you and me - old women, and we were deceived! He was, of course, a young man, very dexterous, and also an incomparable actor. His makeup was excellent. He, of course, noticed that he was being followed, and did this trick to get away. This proves that the person we are looking for is not acting alone, as I thought - he has friends who are ready to take risks for him. However, Doctor, I see you are no good at all! Go to bed, I'll tell you what!

I was really tired, and willingly followed his advice. Holmes sat down by the smoldering fireplace, and for a long time I heard the quiet, mournful sounds of his violin. I already knew what that meant - Holmes was pondering a strange secret, which he decided to unravel at all costs.

CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON PROVES WHAT HE IS CAPABLE OF

The next day, all the newspapers were full of reports of the so-called "Brixton Mystery." Each newspaper published a detailed account of the incident, and some also published articles. From them I learned something new for me. I still have a lot of newspaper clippings, and in my notebook there is an excerpt from articles about a mysterious murder. Here are the contents of several of them:

The Daily Telegraph wrote that in the history of crimes it is hardly possible to find a murder that would have been accompanied by such strange circumstances. The victim's German surname, the absence of any obvious motives and the ominous inscription on the wall all indicate that the crime was committed by political emigrants and revolutionaries. There are many socialist organizations in America; apparently, the murdered person violated some of their unwritten laws and was hunted down. Having fluently mentioned the Germanic femgericht, Femgericht is a secret court in medieval Germany, which passed its verdicts in secret night meetings. aqua tofana, Aquatofana is a poison named after the poisoner Teofania di Adamo who used it, who was executed in Palermo in 1633. Carbonarii, the Marquis de Branville, Branville, Maria Madeleine - poisoned her father and two brothers for selfish purposes. Executed in Paris in 1670. Darwin's theory, Malthus theory and murder on Ratcliff road, The Ratcliff Road murders are one of the most famous crimes in the history of English forensics. the author of the article at the end urged the government to be on the alert and demanded increased supervision of foreigners in England.

The Standard emphasized that this kind of lawlessness tends to occur under liberal governments. The reason for this is the unstable mood of the masses, which gives rise to disrespect for the law. The murdered man, an American by birth, lived in our capital for several weeks. He was staying at Madame Charpentier's boarding house on Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompanied on his travels by his personal secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. On Tuesday, the fourth of this month, both said goodbye to the hostess and drove to Euston Station for the Liverpool Express. On the platform they were seen together. After that, nothing was known about them until, according to the above report, Mr. Drebber's body was found in an empty house on Brixton Road, a few miles from the station. How he got there and how he was killed - all this is still shrouded in the darkness of the unknown. “We are delighted to hear that Mr Lestrade and Mr Gregson of Scotland Yard are investigating; it is safe to say that with the help of these famous detectives, the riddle will be clarified very soon. "

The Daily News had no doubt that this was a politically motivated murder. The despotism of the Continental governments and their hatred of liberalism have washed up many émigrés to our shores, who would have become excellent citizens of England if they had not been poisoned by the memories of what they had to endure. These people have a strict code of honor, and the slightest violation of it is punishable by death. Every effort must be made to find the secretary of the deceased, a certain Stangerson, and to find out about the peculiarities and habits of his patron. It is of the utmost importance that the address of the house where he lived has been established — this must be entirely attributed to the energy and discernment of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

We read these articles over breakfast; Sherlock Holmes made fun of them with might and main.

I told you - no matter what happens, Lestrade and Gregson will always win!

It depends on how things turn out.

What do you mean, it means absolutely nothing. If the killer is caught, it is solely due to their efforts; if he escapes, it will be despite their efforts. In a word, “I have tops, you have roots,” and they always win. Whatever they do, they always have fans. Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui I "admire. "A fool always inspires admiration for a fool" (French). N. Boileau. "Poetic Art".

God, what is it? - I exclaimed, hearing in the hallway and on the stairs the stamping of many feet and the angry exclamations of our hostess.

This is the Baker Street Criminal Police Force, ”Sherlock Holmes replied seriously.

A whole crowd of extremely dirty and tattered street boys burst into the room.

Attention! - Holmes shouted sternly, and six ragamuffins, lined up in a row, stood motionless, like small, and, I must say, rather ugly statues. - Henceforth, only Wiggins will come with the report, let the rest wait on the street. Well, Wiggins, have you found it?

Not found, sir, ”one of the boys blurted out.

I knew it. Search until you find it. Here's your pay. - Holmes gave each one a shilling. - Now march from here, and next time come with good news!

He waved his hand at them, and the boys, like a flock of rats, rushed down the stairs; a minute later their shrill voices came from the street.

These little beggars are more useful than a dozen policemen, Holmes remarked. - At the sight of a man in a uniform, people's tongues become stiff, and these tomboys will crawl everywhere and hear everything. Intelligent people, they only lack organization.

Did you hire them for the Brixton case? I asked.

Yes, I need to establish one fact. But it’s only a matter of time. Aha! We're about to hear something new about revenge killing. Gregson himself favors us, and every feature of his face exudes bliss.

The bell rang impatiently; in a few seconds the blond detective ran up the stairs, jumping over three steps at a time, and flew into our living room.

Dear colleague, congratulate me! he shouted, shaking Holmes's submissive hand with all his might. - I have solved the riddle, and now everything is clear as daylight!

It seemed to me that a shadow of concern flickered on my friend's expressive face.

Are you saying you hit the right track? - he asked.

Why is there a trace! Ha ha! The culprit is under lock and key with us!

Who is he?

Arthur Charpentier, junior lieutenant of Her Majesty's fleet! Gregson exclaimed, thrusting out his chest proudly and rubbing his plump hands.

Sherlock Holmes breathed a sigh of relief, and his slightly compressed lips opened into a smile.

Sit down and try these cigars, ”he said. “We are eager to know how you did it. Would you like whiskey and water?

I don’t mind, ”the detective replied. - The last two days have taken away so much strength from me that I just fall off my feet - not so much from physical fatigue, of course, as from mental strain. You are familiar with this, Mr. Holmes, but we work with our heads in the same way.

You flatter me, ”Holmes objected with a serious air. - So, how did you come to such brilliant results?

The detective sat down comfortably in a chair and started smoking a cigar. But suddenly he slapped himself on the thigh and burst out laughing.

No, that's what's interesting! he exclaimed. “That fool Lestrade thinks he’s smarter than everyone else, and he’s on the wrong track himself!” He's looking for Stangerson's secretary, and this Stangerson is as involved in the murder as an unborn child. And he probably already put him under lock and key!

The thought struck Gregson so amusing that he laughed to tears.

How did you get on the trail?

I'll tell you everything now. Dr. Watson, this is, of course, strictly between us. The first difficulty was how to find out about Drebber's life in America. Another would wait for someone to respond to the announcement or volunteer to give information about the killed. But Tobias Gregson works differently. Remember the top hat you found next to the corpse?

I remember, said Holmes. “It had a stamp on it — John Underwood & Sons, 129 Camberwell Road.

Gregson looked visibly gloomy.

I never thought you noticed it, ”he said. - Have you been to the store?

Ha! Gregson chuckled with relief. - In our business, not a single opportunity, even the smallest, should be missed.

For a great mind, little things do not exist, - said Holmes sententiously.

Of course, I went to Underwood and asked if he had happened to sell such and such a cylinder of such and such a size. He looked into his book and immediately found the entry. He sent the top hat to Mr. Drebber at Charpentier boarding house in Torquay Terrace. This is how I found out his address.

Cleverly, you will not say anything, - muttered Sherlock Holmes.

Then I went to Mrs. Charpentier, ”the detective continued. She was pale and obviously very upset. She had a daughter with her — an unusually pretty one, by the way; her eyes were red, and when I spoke to her, her lips trembled. I, of course, immediately sensed that the matter was unclean. Do you know this feeling of some special chill inside when you hit the right track, Mr. Holmes? I asked:

Do you know about mysterious death your former tenant, Mr. Enoch Drebber from Cleveland?

The mother nodded. She apparently did not have the strength to utter a word. The daughter suddenly burst into tears. Then it became clear to me: these women know something.

What time did Mr. Drebber leave for the station? I ask.

Mother, trying to overcome her excitement, gasped for air.

At eight, she replied. “His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said there were two trains, one at nine-fifteen, the other at eleven. He was going to go first.

Have you seen him again?

The woman's face suddenly changed dramatically. She turned white as chalk, and hoarsely, with force she said "no".

There was a silence; suddenly the daughter said in a clear, calm voice:

Lying never leads to good, Mom. Let's be honest. Yes, we saw Mr. Drebber again.

God forgive you! - shouted Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands, and fell into a chair. - You ruined your brother!

Arthur himself would tell us to tell only the truth, ”the girl said firmly.

I advise you to tell everything without concealment, - I said. - Semi-recognition is worse than denial. Besides, we already know a thing or two ourselves.

Let it be on your conscience, Alice! - exclaimed the mother and turned to me. - I'll tell you everything, sir. Do not think that I am worried because my son was involved in this gruesome murder. He's not guilty of anything. I am only afraid that in your eyes, and perhaps in the eyes of others, he will be involuntarily compromised. However, this also cannot be. The guarantee of this is his crystal honesty, his convictions, his whole life!

You'd better be honest, ”I said. “And you can believe that if your son has nothing to do with it, nothing bad will happen to him.

Alice, please leave us alone, - said the mother, and the girl left the room. - I decided to keep quiet, but since my poor daughter has started talking about it, there is nothing to do. And since I made up my mind, I will tell you everything in detail.

This is reasonable! - I agreed.

Mr. Drebber stayed with us for almost three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, traveled to Europe. Each suitcase bore a Copenhagen sticker, so they came straight from there. Stangerson

The man is calm, restrained, but his owner, unfortunately, was of a completely different kind. He had bad habits and was rather rude. When they arrived, he was very drunk on the very first evening, and to tell the truth, in the afternoon he was not sober at all. He flirted with the maids and allowed himself unacceptable liberties with them. The worst thing is that he soon behaved in the same way with my daughter Alice and more than once told her things that, fortunately, due to her innocence, she could not even understand. Once he reached the point of extreme impudence - he grabbed her and began to kiss her; even his own secretary could not bear it and reproached him for such indecent behavior.

But why did you put up with it? I asked. “You could have kicked your tenants out at any moment.

The question, as you can see, is quite natural, but Mrs. Charpentier was very confused.

God knows I would have turned them down the very next day, ”she said,“ but the temptation was too great - after all, everyone paid a pound a day, which meant fourteen pounds a week, and at this time of year it is so difficult to find tenants! I am a widow, my son serves in the navy, and it costs a lot of money. I didn’t want to lose my income, so I tolerated it as much as I could. But his last trick completely outraged me, and I immediately asked him to vacate the rooms. That's why he left.

I felt relieved when they left. My son is at home now, he is on vacation, but I was afraid to tell him - he is very hot-tempered and loves his sister dearly. When I locked the door behind them, it was like a stone fell from my soul. But, alas, not even an hour had passed when the bell rang and I was told that Mr. Drebber had returned. He behaved very casually, obviously, he had time to get drunk. He broke into the room where my daughter and I were sitting, and muttered something incomprehensible to me about the fact that he had missed the train. Then he turned to Alice and, right in front of me, invited her to leave with him. “You are already an adult,” he said, “and no one can forbid you by law. I have a lot of money. Ignore your old woman, let's go together now! You will live like a duchess! " Poor Alice was frightened and rushed away, but he grabbed her hand and dragged her to the door. I screamed, and then my son, Arthur, entered. What happened next, I don't know. I heard only evil curses and noisy fuss. I was so scared that I didn't dare open my eyes. Finally, I looked up and saw that Arthur was standing on the threshold with a stick in his hands and laughing. “I don't think our lovely tenant will show up here again,” he said. "I'll go outside and see what he's doing there." Arthur took his hat and went out. And the next morning we learned that Mr. Drebber was killed by someone unknown.

Mrs. Charpentier sighed and sobbed as she spoke. At times she didn’t even speak, but whispered so softly that I could barely make out the words. But I wrote down everything she said in shorthand so that later there would be no misunderstandings.

Very curious, ”Holmes said, yawning. - Well, what next?

Mrs. Charpentier was silent, - the detective continued, - and then I realized that everything depends on one single circumstance. I looked at her intently - I was more than once convinced of how much he affects women - and asked when her son returned home.

I don’t know, ”she replied.

Do not know?

No, he has a key, he unlocks the door himself.

But were you already asleep when he arrived?

When did you go to bed?

About eleven.

So your son was away for two hours, at least?

Maybe four or five hours?

May be.

What was he doing all this time?

I don’t know, ”she said, turning so pale that even her lips turned white.

Of course, after that there was nothing to talk about.

I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two policemen with me and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and told him to calmly walk with us, he insolently asked: "You probably suspect that I killed this villain Drebber?" And since there was no talk of murder yet, then all this is very suspicious.

Very much, Holmes confirmed.

He had a stick with which, according to his mother, he rushed after Drebber. A thick, heavy club, sir.

How do you think the murder happened?

That's how. He followed Drebber all the way to Brixton Road. There a fight broke out again. Charpentier struck Drebber with this stick, most likely in the stomach - and he died immediately, and no marks remained on his body. It was pouring rain, there was not a soul around, and Charpentier dragged his victim into an empty house. And the candle, the blood on the floor, the writing on the wall and the ring are just tricks to confuse the investigation.

Well done! Holmes exclaimed approvingly. “Really, Gregson, you are making great progress. You have a great future.

I am also pleased with myself, I think I did a pretty good job, - answered the detective proudly. - The young man in his testimony claims that he followed Drebber, but he soon noticed him and, calling a cab, left. Charpentier claims that, returning home, he allegedly met his comrade in the fleet, and they walked the streets for a long time. However, he could not say where this friend of his lived. It seems to me that everything here converges one to one unusually precisely. But Lestrade, Lestrade! As soon as I think that he is now prowling on the wrong trail, so laughter makes me understand! Look, here he is!

Yes, indeed, Lestrade was standing at the door - during the conversation we did not hear his steps on the stairs. But where did his self-confidence, his usual dapperness go? Confusion and anxiety were written on his face, his crumpled clothes were splattered with mud. Obviously, he came to consult with Sherlock Holmes about something, because, seeing his colleague, he was embarrassed and annoyed. He stood in the middle of the room, nervously fiddling with his hat, and did not seem to know what to do.

An absolutely unprecedented case, - he said at last, - an incomprehensibly complicated matter!

Really, Mr. Lestrade! Gregson exclaimed triumphantly. “I had no doubt that you would come to that conclusion. Did you manage to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?

Mr. Joseph Stangerson, ”Lestrade said gravely,“ was murdered at the Holliday Hotel at about six o'clock this morning.

CHAPTER VII. A SPLASH OF LIGHT

The unexpected and important news that Lestrade brought us slightly overwhelmed us all. Gregson jumped from his chair, spilling the rest of the whiskey and water on the floor. Sherlock Holmes furrowed his brows and pressed his lips together tightly as I stared at him in silence.

And Stangerson too… ”Holmes muttered. - The matter is getting complicated.

It's hard enough anyway, ”Lestrade grumbled, grabbing a chair. - But I seem to have landed on the council of war?

Do you ... do you know for sure that he was killed? Gregson stammered.

I was just in his room, ”Lestrade replied. - And the first one found his corpse.

And here we were listening to Gregson, who solved the riddle in his own way, - said Holmes. - Be so kind as to tell us what you saw and what you managed to do.

Please, ”Lestrade replied, sitting down in a chair. “Frankly, I was of the opinion that Stangerson was involved in the murder of Drebber. Today's event proved that I was wrong. Obsessed with the idea of ​​his complicity, I decided to find out where he is and what happened to him. On the evening of the third in the evening, at about half-past eight, they were seen together at Euston Station. At two o'clock in the morning, Drebber's body was found on Brixton Road. Therefore, I had to find out what Stangerson was doing between half past eight and the hour the crime was committed, and where he went after that. I sent a telegram to Liverpool, told Stangerson's omens, and asked them to follow the steamers leaving for America. Then I toured all the hotels and furnished rooms in the Euston Station area. You see, I reasoned like this: if he and Drebber parted at the station, then most likely the secretary would spend the night somewhere nearby, and in the morning he would return to the station.

They probably agreed in advance about the place of the meeting, - put in Holmes.

And so it turned out. I wasted yesterday evening looking for Stangerson, but to no avail. I started looking for him this morning early in the morning, and by eight o'clock I finally reached the Holliday Hotel on Little George Street. When asked if Mr. Stangerson lived here, I was immediately answered in the affirmative.

You are probably the gentleman he is waiting for, ”I was told.

He has been waiting for you for two days.

Where is he now? I asked.

Upstairs, he is still asleep. He asked to wake him up at nine.

I’ll wake him up myself, ”I said. I thought that my sudden arrival would take him by surprise and from surprise he might let slip about the murder.

The corridor volunteered to accompany me to his room - it was on the second floor and went out into a narrow corridor. Having shown me his door, the bellhop was going downstairs, when suddenly I saw something from which, in spite of my twenty years of experience, I almost felt sick. A thin red line of blood curled from under the door, it crossed the floor of the corridor and formed a puddle against the opposite wall. I cried out involuntarily; the bellboy returned at once. Seeing the blood, he almost slammed unconscious, The door was locked from the inside, but we dropped it with our shoulders and rushed into the room. The window was open, and next to it, on the floor, crumpled was a man in a nightgown. He was dead, and, obviously, for a long time: the corpse had time to numb. We turned him over on his back, and the bellhop confirmed that this is the same person who lived in their hotel under the name of Joseph Stangerson. Death came from a strong knife blow to the left side; the knife must have hit my heart. And then the strangest thing came to light. What do you think we saw above the corpse?

Before Holmes could answer, I felt that I was about to hear something terrible, and goose bumps began to creep down my skin.

The word "Rache" written in blood, "Holmes said.

We were silent. In the actions of the unknown killer there was some sinister methodology, and this made his crimes seem even more terrible. My nerves, which had never given up on the battlefields, now trembled.

The killer has been seen, Lestrade continued. “The boy, who was bringing the milk, walked back to the dairy through the alley where the stables went out at the back of the hotel. He noticed that the stairs, always lying on the ground, were leaning against the window of the second floor of the hotel, and the window was wide open. Moving away a little, he looked around and saw that a man was coming down the stairs. And he went down so calmly, without hiding, that the boy took him for a carpenter or joiner who worked in a hotel. The boy didn’t pay much attention to the man, although he had the thought that they usually didn’t work this early. He recalls that this man was tall, with a reddish face and a long brown coat. He must have left the room not immediately after the murder - he rinsed his hands in a basin of water and carefully wiped the knife on the sheet, which had blood stains.

I looked at Holmes - the description of the killer exactly matched his guesses. However, his face did not express either joy or satisfaction.

Did you find anything in the room that might lead you to the killer's trail? - he asked.

Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's wallet in his pocket, but this is not surprising: Stangerson always paid for it. The wallet has eighty pounds with a change, and obviously nothing was taken from there. I don't know what the motives are for these strange crimes, but not robbery. In the pockets of the murdered, no documents or notes were found, except for a telegram from Cleveland received a month ago. Its text is “J. X. in Europe ". There is no signature in the telegram.

And nothing more? Holmes asked.

Nothing significant. A novel is thrown on the bed, which Stangerson read at night instead of sleeping pills, and on the chair next to him lies the dead man's pipe. On the table is a glass of water, on the windowsill there is a pharmacy box with two pills in it.

With a joyful cry, Sherlock Holmes jumped up from his chair.

The last link! he exclaimed. - Now everything is clear!

Both detectives goggled at him.

Now in my hands all the threads of this tangled ball, - said my friend confidently. “Of course, some details are still missing, but the chain of events from the minute Drebber parted with Stangerson at the train station to the moment you found Stangerson's corpse is clear to me as if everything was happening before my very eyes. And I will prove it to you. Could you take some pills from there?

I have them, ”Lestrade said, pulling out a small white box. - I took the pills, and the wallet, and the telegram to hand over to the police station. To tell the truth, I took the pills by accident: I did not attach any importance to them.

Give it here, - said Holmes and turned to me. - Doctor, do you think these are ordinary pills?

No, the pills, of course, could not be called ordinary. Small, round, pearl gray in color, they were almost translucent when viewed under light.

Judging by their lightness and transparency, I believe they dissolve in water, ”I said.

Quite right, - answered Holmes. “Be so kind as to go downstairs and bring this unfortunate paralyzed terrier,” the hostess asked yesterday to put him to sleep so that he would no longer suffer.

I went downstairs and brought the dog. Heavy breathing and glazed eyes indicated that she did not have long to live. Judging by the whitened nose, she has almost stepped over the limit of a dog's existence. I put the terrier on the rug by the fireplace.

Now I will cut one pill in half, - said Holmes, taking out penknife... - We will put one half back - it may still be useful. I put the other in this glass and pour a teaspoon of water. See, our doctor is right - the pill dissolves quickly.

Yes, quite amusing, ”Lestrade said in an offended tone, obviously suspecting that he was being mocked,“ but I still don’t understand what this has to do with Joseph Stangerson’s death?

Patience, my friend, patience! You will soon see that the pills are most relevant to her. Now I will add some milk to make it tastier and the dog will drink everything at once.

Having poured the contents of the glass into a saucer, he placed it in front of the dog. She drank every drop. Holmes's seriousness affected us so much that we silently, as if spellbound, watched the dog, expecting something extraordinary. However, nothing happened. The terrier lay on the rug, still breathing heavily, but the pill did not make him feel better or worse.

Holmes took out his watch; a minute passed, then another, the dog was still breathing, and Sherlock Holmes sat with a deeply grieved, disappointed look. He bit his lip, then drummed his fingers on the table - in a word, he showed all the signs of keen impatience. He was so worried that I felt sincerely sorry for him, and both detectives smiled ironically, obviously glad of his failure.

Is this just a coincidence? he exclaimed at last; jumping up from his chair, he strode furiously across the room. - No, it can not be! The same pills that I assumed killed Drebber were found near the dead Stangerson. And now they don't work! What does this mean? I do not believe that my whole line of reasoning will turn out to be wrong. It's impossible! And yet the poor dog is alive ... Ah! Now I know! I know!

With this joyful cry, he grabbed the box, cut the second pill in half, dissolved it in water, topped up the milk and placed it in front of the terrier. As soon as the unfortunate dog licked this mixture with his tongue, convulsions ran through his body, he stretched out and froze, as if struck by lightning.

Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

You have to trust yourself more, ”he said. “It’s time for me to know that if a fact runs counter to a long chain of logical conclusions, then it can be interpreted differently. The box contained two pills - one containing a deadly poison, the other completely harmless. How could I not have guessed before I saw the box!

The last phrase struck me as so strange that I wondered if he was sane. However, the corpse of the dog served as proof of the correctness of his arguments. I felt that the fog in my head was gradually dissipating and I began to dimly discern the truth.

To all of you, this seems like wild game, - continued Holmes, - because at the very beginning of the investigation you did not pay attention to the only circumstance that served as the real key to the secret. I was lucky to grab hold of it, and everything that followed only confirmed my guess and, in essence, was its logical consequence. Therefore, everything that baffled you and, as it seemed to you, further confused the matter, on the contrary, explained a lot to me and only confirmed my conclusions. You can't mix the strange with the mysterious. Often the most trivial crime turns out to be the most mysterious, because it is not accompanied by any special circumstances that could serve as a basis for inferences. This murder would be infinitely more difficult to solve if the corpse was simply found on the road, without any "outre" Explicit signs (French). and sensational details that gave him the character of extraordinary. Strange details do not complicate the investigation at all, but, on the contrary, facilitate it.

Gregson, burnt with impatience during this speech, could not resist.

Look, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "he said," we readily admit that you are a smart man and have invented your own special way of working. But now we don't need to hear a lecture on theory. Now we need to catch the killer. I had my own interpretation of the case, but it seems that I was mistaken. Young Charpentier cannot be involved in the second murder. Lestrade suspected Stangerson and apparently missed too. All the time you throw in hints and pretend that you know much more than we do, but now we have the right to ask bluntly: what do you know about the crime? Can you name the killer?

I can't help but agree with Gregson, sir, ”Lestrade remarked. “We both tried to find a clue, and we were both wrong. From the minute I arrived, you have said several times that you have all the necessary evidence. I hope you won't hide them now?

We pressed Holmes so hard that he obviously hesitated. With furrowed brows and head bowed, he paced up and down the room, as he always did when he was thinking hard.

There will be no more kills, ”he said, stopping suddenly. “You don't have to worry about that. You ask if I know the name of the killer. Yes I know. But knowing the name is still too little, you have to be able to catch the criminal. I very much hope that the measures I have taken will facilitate this difficult task, but here we need to act with the greatest caution, for we will have to deal with a cunning person who is ready for anything, and besides, as I have already had the opportunity to prove, he has an accomplice , no less smart than himself. Until the killer knows that the crime has been solved, we still have the opportunity to capture him; but if even the slightest suspicion flickers in him, he will immediately change his name and be lost among the four million inhabitants of our huge city. Not wanting to offend anyone, I must nevertheless say that such criminals are beyond the reach of the detective police, which is why I did not turn to your help. If I fail, all the blame for the omission will fall on me - and I am ready to be held accountable. In the meantime, I can promise that I will tell you everything immediately, as soon as I am sure that nothing threatens my plans.

Gregson and Lestrade were clearly unhappy with this promise and an insulting allusion to the detective police. Gregson blushed to the roots of his flaxen hair, and Lestrade's beady eyes lit up with anger and curiosity. However, neither one nor the other had time to utter a word: there was a knock on the door, and a representative of street boys appeared on the threshold of his own, unpresentable person.

Sir, ”he said, putting his hand to the whirlwinds above his forehead,“ the cab is waiting outside.

Well done! - said Holmes approvingly. Why isn't Scotland Yard using this new model? he continued, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of steel handcuffs. - See how beautifully the spring works - they snap instantly.

We'll get by with the old model, ”Lestrade replied.“ We'd have someone to wear.

Great, great! - Holmes smiled. “Let the cabman take my things downstairs for now. Call him, Wiggins.

I was surprised: Holmes, apparently, was about to leave, but he did not say a word to me! There was a small suitcase in the room; Holmes pulled it to the middle and, kneeling down, began fiddling with the straps.

Help me tighten this belt, ”he said to the cabman who had entered, without turning his head.

Cabman stepped forward with a defiant disdain and held out his hands to the belt. There was a sharp click, a metallic clink, and Sherlock Holmes quickly got to his feet. His eyes glittered.

Gentlemen, ”he exclaimed,“ let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson!

Everything happened in an instant, I did not even have time to figure out what was the matter. But this moment forever engraved in my memory - Holmes's triumphant smile and his ringing voice and the wild, amazed expression on the cabman's face at the sight of the shiny handcuffs, as if by magic bound his hands. For a second or two, we stood numb, like stone idols. Suddenly the prisoner with a furious roar escaped from Holmes' hands and rushed to the window. He knocked out the frame and glass, but did not have time to jump out: Gregson, Lestrade and Holmes pounced on him like bloodhounds and dragged him away from the window. A fierce battle began. The enraged criminal possessed remarkable strength: no matter how we tried to lean on him, he kept throwing us in different directions. Such supernatural power can be found only in a person who is beating in an epileptic seizure. Shards of glass cut across his face and arms, but despite losing blood, he fought back with unabated fury. And only when Lestrade contrived to slip his hand under his scarf, grabbed him by the throat and almost strangled him, did he realize that it was useless to fight; yet we didn’t feel safe until we tied his legs. Finally, barely catching our breath, we got up from the floor.

There's a cab below, ”Sherlock Holmes said. “We'll use it to deliver it to Scotland Yard. Well, gentlemen, - he smiled pleasantly, - our little secret no longer exists. Please, ask any questions and do not be afraid that I will refuse to answer.

Arthur Conan Doyle

A study in Scarlet

Memoirs of Dr. John G. Watson, Retired Military Medical Officer

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In 1878, I graduated from the University of London with the title of doctor, and immediately went to Netley, where I took a special course for military surgeons. After completing my studies, I was appointed assistant surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Rifle Regiment. At that time, the regiment was stationed in India, and before I could get to it, the second war with Afghanistan broke out. Having landed in Bombay, I learned that my regiment had crossed the pass and advanced far into the depths of enemy territory. Together with other officers who had found themselves in the same situation, I set off in pursuit of my regiment; I managed to get safely to Kandahar, where I finally found him and immediately took up my new duties.

For many, this campaign has brought honors and promotions, but I got nothing but failure and misfortune. I was transferred to the Berkshire Regiment, with which I fought in the fateful battle of Maiwand. A rifle bullet hit me in the shoulder, shattered a bone, and struck the subclavian artery. Most likely, I would have fallen into the hands of the merciless gazi, if not for the loyalty and courage of my orderly Murray, who threw me over the back of a pack horse and contrived to deliver me safely to the location of the British units.

Exhausted by the wound and weakened by prolonged hardship, I, along with many other wounded sufferers, were sent by train to the main hospital in Peshaver. There I began to gradually recover and was already so strong that I could move around the ward and even go out onto the veranda to warm myself a little in the sun, when suddenly typhoid fever, the scourge of our Indian colonies, fell on me. For several months I was considered almost hopeless, and when I finally returned to life, I could barely stay on my feet from weakness and exhaustion, and the doctors decided that I must immediately be sent to England. I sailed in the military transport "Orontes" and a month later got off to the pier in Plymouth with irreparably damaged health, but with the permission of the fatherly-caring government to restore it within nine months.

In England I had no close friends or relatives, and I was free like the wind, or rather, like a man who is supposed to live on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Under such circumstances, I naturally aspired to London, to this huge dustbin, where idlers and lazy people from all over the empire inevitably end up. In London, I lived for some time in a hotel on the Strand and eked out an uncomfortable and meaningless existence, spending my pennies much more freely than I should have. Finally, my financial situation became so threatening that I soon realized that it was necessary either to flee the capital and vegetate somewhere in the village, or to decisively change my way of life. Having chosen the latter, I first decided to leave the hotel and find myself some more unassuming and less expensive accommodation.

The day I came to this decision, someone slapped me on the shoulder in the Criterion bar. Turning around, I saw young Stamford, who had once worked for me as a paramedic in a London hospital. How nice it is for a lonely person to see a suddenly familiar face in the immense wilds of London! In the old days, Stamford and I were never particularly friendly, but now I greeted him almost with delight, and he too, apparently, was glad to see me. Out of excess, I invited him to have breakfast with me, and we immediately took a cab and drove to Holborn.

What have you done to yourself, Watson? he asked with undisguised curiosity as the cab rattled its wheels through the crowded London streets. - You dried up like a splinter and turned yellow like a lemon!

I briefly told him about my misadventures and barely had time to finish the story, as we reached the place.

Eh, poor fellow! - he sympathized, having learned about my troubles.

Well, what are you doing now?

I am looking for an apartment, - I replied. - I am trying to decide whether there are comfortable rooms in the world at a reasonable price.

That's strange, - said my companion, - you are the second person from whom I hear this phrase today.

Who is the first? I asked.

One guy who works in a chemistry lab at our hospital. This morning he lamented: he had found a very nice apartment and could not find a companion for himself, and he could not afford to pay for it entirely.

Damn it! I exclaimed. - If he really wants to share the apartment and expenses, then I'm at his service! I, too, are much more pleasant to live together than to live alone!

Young Stamford gave me a vague look over his glass of wine.

You don’t know what this Sherlock Holmes is yet, ”he said. - Perhaps you will not want to live with him in a constant neighborhood.

Why? Why is he bad?

I am not saying that he is bad. Just a little eccentric - an enthusiast in some areas of science. But actually, as far as I know, he is a decent man.

Must be looking to become a medic? I asked.

No, I don't even understand what he wants. In my opinion, he knows anatomy very well, and he is a first-class chemist, but it seems that he never studied medicine systematically. He is engaged in science in a completely haphazard and somehow strange way, but he has accumulated a mass of knowledge, seemingly unnecessary for the business, which would surprise the professors a lot.

Have you ever asked what his goal is? I asked.

No, it is not so easy to pull something out of him, although if he is carried away by something, it happens that you cannot stop him.

I’m not averse to meeting him, ”I said. - If you really have a neighbor in the apartment, then it would be better to be a quiet man and busy with his own business. I am not strong enough to endure the noise and all sorts of powerful impressions. I had so much of both in Afghanistan that I had enough for the rest of my life on earth. How can I meet your buddy?

Now he is probably sitting in the laboratory, - answered my companion. - He either does not look there for weeks, or sticks out there from morning to evening. If you want, we'll go to him after breakfast.

Of course I do, ”I said, and the conversation turned to other topics.

While we were driving from Holborn to the hospital, Stamford managed to tell me about some more peculiarities of the gentleman with whom I was going to live together.

Don't be offended at me if you don't get along with him, ”he said. “I only know him from random meetings in the laboratory. You yourself decided on this combination, so do not hold me responsible for the further.

If we do not get along, nothing will prevent us from parting, - I replied. “But it seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking straight at my companion, “that for some reason you want to wash your hands. Well, this fellow has a terrible character, or what? Don't be secretive, for God's sake!

Try to explain the inexplicable, ”Stamford laughed. - For my taste. Holmes is too obsessed with science - for him this already borders on heartlessness. I can easily imagine that he will inject his friend with a small dose of some newly discovered plant alkaloid, not out of malice, of course, but simply out of curiosity, in order to have a visual idea of ​​its action. However, we must give him justice, I am sure that he will just as willingly give this injection to himself. He has a passion for accurate and reliable knowledge.

Well, that's not bad.

Yes, but even here you can go to extremes. If it comes to the fact that he pounds corpses in the anatomical with a stick, you must admit that it looks rather strange.

Is he pounding corpses?

Yes, to check if bruising may appear after death. I saw it with my own eyes.

And you're saying he's not going to become a medic?

It seems not. God alone knows why he is studying all this. But here we are, now you judge for yourself.

We turned into a narrow corner of the courtyard and through a small door entered an outbuilding adjacent to a huge hospital building. Everything was familiar here, and I didn't need to show the way as we climbed the darkish stone stairs and walked down a long corridor along endless whitewashed walls with brown doors on either side. Almost at the very end, a low, vaulted corridor stretched to the side - it led to the chemical laboratory.

In this high room countless bottles and vials glittered on the shelves and everywhere. Low, wide tables were everywhere, thickly lined with retorts, test tubes and Bunsen burners with fluttering tongues of blue flame. The laboratory was empty, and only in the far corner, bending over to the table, was some young man busy with something. Hearing our steps, he looked around and jumped up.

First meeting of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes at the house on Baker Street. The doctor moved into the second room and their first joint investigation, which the Scotland Yard police could not unravel.

Dr. Watson is a military officer who retired for health reasons after serving in Afghanistan. As a doctor, he continued this activity. But already combining with the practice of investigating interesting cases.

Sherlock Holmes is a man who developed a deductive method by which crimes that seem hopeless at first glance are investigated, and a way of distinguishing different spots.

One morning at breakfast, Dr. Watson had doubts about getting results with such methods. Holmes decided to show that this is not useless, but on the contrary, will lead to an incredible result. A police officer from Scotland Yard comes to Sherlock Holmes for help in the investigation, and they all went to the crime scene together. Right there, on the basis of the evidence, Holmes concluded that the culprit was a man, tall, with long nails, short legs. Cigarettes, boots, and a red face become distinctive features... It is thanks to them that the killer of two people from the old story is found.

And the killer was prompted to take such a desperate step by the long history of an orphan girl named Lucy, whom Jefferson Hope fell in love with. True, she was forcibly married off by Stengerson and Drebber. The girl could not bear this shame and after a while she died. And Hope, in the name of love and memory, decided to take revenge on her offenders, even after many years.

This book teaches you not to jump to conclusions without knowing all the information and details in its entirety. Indeed, as a result of false prejudices, oneself and other participants in this investigation can get confused and make even more mistakes.

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Memoirs of Dr. John G. Watson, Retired Military Medical Officer

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In 1878, I graduated from the University of London with the title of doctor, and immediately went to Netley, where I took a special course for military surgeons. After completing my studies, I was appointed assistant surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Rifle Regiment. At that time, the regiment was stationed in India, and before I could get to it, the second war with Afghanistan broke out. Having landed in Bombay, I learned that my regiment had crossed the pass and advanced far into the depths of enemy territory. Together with other officers who had found themselves in the same situation, I set off in pursuit of my regiment; I managed to get safely to Kandahar, where I finally found him and immediately took up my new duties.

For many, this campaign has brought honors and promotions, but I got nothing but failure and misfortune. I was transferred to the Berkshire Regiment, with which I fought in the fateful battle of Maiwand. A rifle bullet hit me in the shoulder, shattered a bone, and struck the subclavian artery. Most likely, I would have fallen into the hands of the merciless gazi, if not for the loyalty and courage of my orderly Murray, who threw me over the back of a pack horse and contrived to deliver me safely to the location of the British units.

Exhausted by the wound and weakened by prolonged hardship, I, along with many other wounded sufferers, were sent by train to the main hospital in Peshaver. There I began to gradually recover and was already so strong that I could move around the ward and even go out onto the veranda to warm myself a little in the sun, when suddenly typhoid fever, the scourge of our Indian colonies, fell on me. For several months I was considered almost hopeless, and when I finally returned to life, I could barely stay on my feet from weakness and exhaustion, and the doctors decided that I must immediately be sent to England. I sailed in the military transport "Orontes" and a month later got off to the pier in Plymouth with irreparably damaged health, but with the permission of the fatherly-caring government to restore it within nine months.

In England I had no close friends or relatives, and I was free like the wind, or rather, like a man who is supposed to live on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Under such circumstances, I naturally aspired to London, to this huge dustbin, where idlers and lazy people from all over the empire inevitably end up. In London, I lived for some time in a hotel on the Strand and eked out an uncomfortable and meaningless existence, spending my pennies much more freely than I should have. Finally, my financial situation became so threatening that I soon realized that it was necessary either to flee the capital and vegetate somewhere in the village, or to decisively change my way of life. Having chosen the latter, I first decided to leave the hotel and find myself some more unassuming and less expensive accommodation.

The day I came to this decision, someone slapped me on the shoulder in the Criterion bar. Turning around, I saw young Stamford, who had once worked for me as a paramedic in a London hospital. How nice it is for a lonely person to see a suddenly familiar face in the immense wilds of London! In the old days, Stamford and I were never particularly friendly, but now I greeted him almost with delight, and he too, apparently, was glad to see me. Out of excess, I invited him to have breakfast with me, and we immediately took a cab and drove to Holborn.

What have you done to yourself, Watson? he asked with undisguised curiosity as the cab rattled its wheels through the crowded London streets. - You dried up like a splinter and turned yellow like a lemon!

I briefly told him about my misadventures and barely had time to finish the story, as we reached the place.