Все приключения Шерлока Холмса / All adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Артур Конан Дойл

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blue envelope in his hand.

      “You mean the retired sergeant of Marines[15],” said Sherlock Holmes.

      “Oh!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify his guess.”

      Suddenly the man saw the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps.

      “For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said. He stepped into the room and handed my friend the letter.

      Here was an opportunity to check my companion’s words.

      “May I ask you,” I said, “what your trade may be?”

      “Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly.

      “And you were?” I asked, with a malicious glance at my companion.

      “A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry[16], sir.”

      Chapter III

      The Lauriston Garden Mystery

      This was the fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased wondrously. When I looked at him he was reading the note.

      “How did you deduce that?” I asked.

      “Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

      “That he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”

      “I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely; then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?”

      “No, indeed.”

      “Even across the street I saw a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of his hand. He had a military carriage[17], and side whiskers. He was a man of self-importance and a certain air of command. You observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man – a sergeant.”

      “Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

      “That’s nothing,” said Holmes. “I said just now that there were no criminals. I am wrong-look at this!”

      He gave me the note.

      “Oh,” I cried, “this is terrible!”

      This is the letter:

      “My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

      “During the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, a policeman saw a light about two in the morning. The house was empty. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman. The gentleman was well dressed, and had cards in his pocket with the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ The policeman saw no robbery. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. How did he come into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. If you are unable to come I shall give you all the details. Please favour me with your opinion.

      Yours faithfully,

Tobias Gregson.”

      “Gregson is the smartest of the policemen of the Scotland Yard,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade are both quick and energetic, but conventional.”

      “Surely there is not a moment to lose,” I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

      “I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am incurably lazy.”

      “Isn’t this your chance?”

      “My dear friend, if I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson and Lestrade will pocket all the credit[18]. However, we may go and have a look. Why not? Come on! Get your hat,” he said.

      “You wish me to come?”

      “Yes, if you have nothing better to do.”

      A minute later we were both in a hansom. We were driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

      It was a foggy, cloudy morning. My companion was talking about fiddles. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather depressed my spirits.

      Number 3, Lauriston Gardens, was one of four houses which stood back some little way from the street. Two of them were occupied and two were empty. There was a “To Let” card near the house. A small garden separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway. It was yellowish in colour, and consisted of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the night rain.

      Sherlock Holmes lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Then he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass, and looked at the ground. Twice he stopped. He smiled, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

      At the door of the house, a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired[19] man met us. He had a notebook in his hand. He rushed forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion.

      “It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here.”

      Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.

      “With two such men as yourself and Lestrade here, I am useless,” he said.

      Gregson rubbed his hands.

      “I think,” he answered; “it’s a queer case, and I knew your taste for such things.”

      “You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

      “No, sir.”

      “Nor Lestrade?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Then let us go and look at the room.”

      And Sherlock Holmes entered the house.

      A short passage led to the kitchen and offices. I saw two doors to the left and to the right. One of these was closed. The other belonged to the dining-room, where the mysterious affair occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him.

      It was a large square room without furniture. A vulgar paper adorned the walls. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece. On one corner of this was the stump of a red wax candle. The window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain. All these details I observed afterwards.

      A single grim motionless figure lay upon the floor. It was a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a frock coat[20] and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers.

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