"Derleth, August - Solar Pons - The Adventure of the Black Narcissus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Derleth August)
A Solar Pons story
By August Derleth
(From Regarding Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of Solar Pons, Copyright 1945 by August Derleth)
Version 1.0 - January 17, 2002
IT HAS OFTEN been said that truth is stranger than fiction, and I know of no better evidence in support of that statement than the facts attending the adventure of the Black Narcissus, as the crime is listed in my notes. There was little real deduction in Solar Pons' typical vein connected with the case; that is to say, the discovery of the murderer was in itself a comparatively simple problem, but the clue that presented itself was so curiously different that Pons was struck by it at once.
At five-thirty o'clock on a rainy May evening, Mr. Jackson Deming, a stock broker, was found slain in his offices in Paternoster Row. Pons and I had been comparatively inactive that day; we read and wrote; I had little business, for my practice had not at that time taken on much significance. Initial knowledge of the affair reached us at seven o'clock, through the medium of the News of the World, which carried two small photographs, one showing the scene of the murder, the other the victim, taken from life. Between the two pictures, in rather well inked print, was a Wanted:
Wanted for Murder!
A young man of medium height (five feet, seven inches), black hair, dark eyes (supposed brown), full black moustache on upper lip, thin firm lips, long arms; when last seen dressed in grey waterproof and number seven shoes.
It was superscribed Police Order, and signed Seymour R. Jamison, the Scotland Yard Inspector in charge of the case, and one of Pons' most critical admirers, who very often brought his problems and difficulties to Pons' attention.
Pons, I remember, made some commonplace remark about the matter, and put the paper aside. Rain fell outside, and the twilight was still with that hush which falls along Praed Street just before darkness, so that the distant rumble of the Underground at Paddington made a muted hum in the room.
It could not have been half an hour later when there came a sudden ring at the bell and, before either of us could move to answer it, there followed a wild clatter on the stairs. Pons, who was standing near the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out. A cab stood below in the driving rain. A moment later the door flew open, and a wild-eyed young man, with a cap pulled low over his forehead, burst into the room.
"Which of you is Solar Pons?" he demanded, looking anxiously from one to the other of us.
Pons stepped away from the window, manifestly identifying himself.
"I am James T. Rudderford," said our visitor, flowing his words together in an agony of haste and obvious fright.
The young man pulled his cap from his head and stood staring at Pons with a mixture of fear and perplexity in his eyes, as if he did not know whether he had better turn in flight now or carry on. He did not move to take the chair Pons indicated.
Pons, however, was reassuringly casual. "But for the moustache that you shaved off somewhat awkwardly not long ago--cutting yourself in three places, incidentally--you might fit Jamison's Wanted description as well as any of a thousand or more other young men now in London."
Our visitor collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands. "Mr. Pons, I didn't do it."
"I should not have thought you came here to confess," said Pons quietly.
Rudderford raised his head and stared at Pons. "You believe me!" he cried in wide-eyed astonishment. "You don't know then. Every bit of evidence is against me, Mr. Pons---every bit!"
"Suppose you tell us just what happened," suggested Pons.
"Mr. Pons, I am a ruined man. Until yesterday I was moderately wealthy. Today I haven't a halfpenny. I have lost everything through speculation. I do not usually speculate, sir, but I took Deming's word. I had known him for some time, and I had no reason to believe that he was not honest." He shook his head, and his not unhandsome features clouded with sudden anger. "I confess I went up to his office this afternoon to kill him. I'd have done it, too--but someone had got there before me."
"Ah!" exclaimed Pons, his interest manifestly quickening. "Let us start from the beginning, Mr. Rudderford."
"It wasn't until four o'clock that I discovered Claybar Mine had gone under. At first, I couldn't believe it; Deming had assured me that it was a dead certainty to go up. When I saw I was done for, I just simply lost my head. I know I took my revolver, put on my waterproof, and ran out of the house without my hat. I believe I ran all the way to Deming's office. There was no one on the main floor in the halls, and the elevator was not running; so I had to go up the stairs. On the first flight I met an old charwoman descending. There was no one else.
"I got to the fourth story and opened Deming's door slowly, just in case someone were in the outer office. But no one was. I crossed to the inner office, which stood open. I got half way across that room when I moved into line with the desk in the inner office, and the first thing I saw was Deming's head on its side on the desk, mouth and eyes wide open. For a moment I didn't know what to think; I hesitated; then I went boldly on. I was so angry that it didn't seem to matter what he was doing, and I think I had the idea he was having me a little by some kind of act. But at the threshold I saw what I hadn't been able to see before. Deming was dead. He had been stabbed in the back. Well, sir, when I saw that, I saw it was only by a miracle I had been saved from doing that very thing, and I turned and went back the way I had come.
"When I got down to the main floor, there was a newsboy in the hall--took refuge from the rain, I think. He stepped in front of me and flourished a paper. I brushed him aside and ran out into the street. At seven o'clock I saw the News of the World, with my description. I saw then what a net I was in, shaved my moustache, and came directly here."
"Obviously the newsboy described you to Jamison--an observant lad. And your footprints were taken on the stairs. Those are the circumstances of the evidence Jamison has to offer. You have a strong motive, you acted on impulse, you had the intention of committing the crime--yes, you have put yourself into a difficult position. But not a hopeless one."
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