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

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target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#n_22" type="note">[22], while his legs were interlocked[23]. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror and of hatred. This malignant and terrible contortion, the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw[24] gave the dead man an ape-like[25] appearance.

      Lestrade was standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.

      Sherlock Holmes approached the body. He knelt down and examined it intently.

      “You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked. He pointed to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

      “Yes!” cried both detectives.

      “Then, of course, this blood belongs to somebody else, maybe to the murderer, if it is a murder?”

      As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere. They were feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

      “You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said.

      Four men entered the room, and they lifted and carried the stranger out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade took it.

      “There was a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”

      He held it upon the palm of his hand. We all gazed at it.

      “This complicates matters,” said Gregson.

      “You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “What did you find in his pockets?”

      “Here,” said Gregson. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud[26], of London. Gold chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold pin-bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes.

      Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland. No purse, but seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’[27]with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf[28]. Two letters-one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

      “At what address?”

      “American Exchange, Strand-to be left till called for[29]. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company[30], and refer to the boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man wanted to return to New York.”

      “What about this man, Stangerson?”

      “I sent advertisements to all the newspapers, sir,” said Gregson. “And one of my men went to the American Exchange.”

      “What about Cleveland?”

      “We telegraphed this morning.”

      “What were your inquiries?”

      “We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we were glad to receive any information which could help us.”

      Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself. Suddenly Lestrade reappeared.

      “Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I made a discovery of the highest importance! I carefully examined the walls. Come here. Now, stand there!”

      He struck a match on his boot.

      “Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

      In the corner of the room, across the wall there was in blood-red letters a single word – RACHE.

      “What do you think of that?” cried the detective. “The murderer wrote it with his or her own blood. Why that corner? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was the brightest corner of the room.”

      “And what does it mean?” asked Gregson.

      “Mean? It means that the writer was going to write the female name Rachel. But he or she had no time to finish. You can laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best here!”

      “I really beg your pardon!” said my companion. “You are certainly the best. I had no time to examine this room, but with your permission I shall do so now.”

      And he whipped a tape measure[31] and a large round magnifying glass[32] from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room. Sometimes he stopped, occasionally knelt. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his magnifying glass the word upon the wall. After that he was satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

      Gregson and Lestrade watched the manoeuvres of Sherlock Holmes with considerable curiosity and some contempt.

      “What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

      “You are doing so well now,” remarked my friend. “that I can’t interfere.” There was sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you let me know how your investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I can. But I want to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?”

      “John Rance,” said Lestrade. “You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

      “Come along, Doctor,” said Holmes; “we shall go to him. I’ll tell you one thing which may help you in the case,” he turned to the two detectives. “It was a murder, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life[33], had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots[34] and smoked a cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore leg[35]. The murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These indications may assist you.”

      Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

      “How was this man murdered?” asked they.

      “Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added: “‘Rache,’ is the German for ‘revenge;’ so don’t look for Miss Rachel.”

      Chapter IV

      What John Rance Had to Tell

      It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. He then hailed a

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