"Manly Wade Wellman - Sherlock Holmes's War of the Worlds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wellman Manly Wade)

threatening suicide in despair, yet there is no evidence that the threat was carried out."
Watson bit into a buttered crumpet. "Maupassant died a hopeless madman. I've read that Horla story
you mention. It struck me as complete proof that he was losing his mind as he wrote it."
"No, Watson, it is too well organized for that. Even if we choose to read the story as fiction, as a
highly imaginative tale, I must argue that only a clear, sane mind could have conceived it so artistically,
written it so vividly. Here, let me read you an entry in this diary, under date of August 17тАФthe year
1886, I deduce. Forgive my offhand, amateurish translation."
His eyes on the page, he read aloud:
"No moon. The stars in the depths of the dark heavens darted their rays. Who inhabits those worlds?
What forms, what living creatures, what animals, what beings are out there? Those who think in those
distant worlds, what do they know more than we? What can they do more than we? What do they see
that we do not understand? Will one of them, some day or other, traverse space, will it not appear on
our earth to sub-jugate it, as the Norsemen crossed the seas to enslave feebler peoples?" Holmes looked
up from the book. "Confess, Watson, is that not a fairly sane and rational proposition?"
"If it is fiction, I consider it high-flown, fanciful writing," said Watson stubbornly. "I remember,
inci-dentally, that the diarist burns his house at the end of the account. Wasn't Maupassant's house
burned?"
"It was burned, as a matter of fact, but Maupassant never admitted to setting the fire, unless in this
ac-count," said Holmes. "If he is confessing that act, we may take the whole as offered for fact."
"Suppose it is factual and sane," said Watson. "If beings such as the Horla did actually exist, do you
think that you could be subjugated by one of them, like Maupassant or his fictional diarist?"
"Perhaps not," said Holmes. "A man of sufficient intellect and will might resist such subjugation, or find
a way of defeating it."
Holmes marked his place with a pipe cleaner and set the book aside. Returning to the microscope, he
resumed his examination of the slide.
"It is glue, Watson," he cried triumphantly. "Un-questionably it is glue. Have a look at these scattered
objects in the field."
Watson came to adjust the eyepiece and gaze through it while Holmes explained about the cap picked
up beside the dead policeman and pointed out visible factors of the brown blobs. "The accused man
denies that the cap is his," he said. "But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually uses glue."
The question resolved, he poured another cup of coffee and turned the conversation to horse racing.
Watson, a devotee of the turf, was able to inform him of the racing stables at Shoscombe Old Place and
of the Shoscombe kennels where prize spaniels were bred. In the midst of their talk, Billy knocked to
announce John Mason, a tall, clean-shaven man of intensely worried manner. He pleaded that Holmes
come and discover, if possible, the reason for mysterious hap-penings at Shoscombe Old Place and in
particular the enigma of the strange behavior of Sir Robert Norberton, the proprietor. Holmes agreed to
take the case and found Watson eager to accompany him. Before noon they boarded a train for
Shoscombe, carrying fishing tackle to simulate carefree anglers on holiday.
A day and a half sufficed to expose a melancholy story, involving the death of Sir Robert's sister and
his effort to conceal the corpse. The big, blustering sports-man made trembling explanations and pleaded
for sympathy. Coldly, Holmes said that he must inform police authorities, but that he would recommend
compassion. Watson took pleasure in the assurance that Sir Robert's splendid colt, Shoscombe Prince,
would run in the Derby on May 21, and as he and Holmes journeyed back to London he vowed he
would be present at the race to venture a considerable sum on Shoscombe Prince to win.
That night, as Holmes sat alone in his quarters, Martha came in.
"You are alone, dear?" she whispered.
"Watson is visiting his old friend Stamford."
She sat down opposite him. Her rosy face looked earnest.
"My dear, I know that something is weighing on your spirit. Is it some case you are investigating?"
"A most unusual case, Martha. How well you diag-nose my behavior."