Sherlock Holmes Complete Works 1

Chapter 60 Adventure History 19
"Oh, don't hit me, Mr. Holmes, I know he's all right. We have a very close feeling, and I should feel it if any misfortune happens to him. On the day we parted, in the bedroom he held his hand. It was cut, but I knew in the restaurant that something must have happened to him, you think, I am so sensitive to such trivial things, if he died, how could I not feel it?"

"I know that a woman's feelings may be more valuable than an analytical reasoner's assertion. In this letter you have different evidence to support your view. But if your husband is alive, you can also write, Then why didn't he come home?"

"I don't know why."

"Did he say anything when he left on Monday?"

"No."

"Did you startle when you saw him in Swan Gate Lane?"

"Yes."

"Is the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps he saw you?"

"Yes."

"I heard that he only uttered an indistinct cry."

"Yes."

"Do you think it's a cry for help?"

"Yes, he waved his hands."

"It could have been a cry of surprise. Surprise at seeing you might have made him raise his hands, wouldn't it?"

"It's also possible."

"Do you think he was dragged back by force?"

"Very suddenly, suddenly disappeared."

"Perhaps he jumped back by himself. Did you see anyone else in the room?"

"No. But that vicious man admitted that he had been there, as well as that Indian lady."

"Exactly. Do you see that your husband is still in his usual clothes?"

"Yes, but without the collar and tie. I can see clearly."

"Has he ever told you about Swan Gate Lane before?"

"there has never been."

"Has he ever shown signs of opium use?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. These are the points I wish to get clear on. We will have supper, Watson, and go to bed early. We shall have plenty of work to-morrow, I suppose."

I was already exhausted, so I crawled into bed early, but Sherlock Holmes was still summarizing and thinking.After a while, he knew that he was going to sit like this and stay up all night.He rummaged around the room, gathering the pillows on the bed and the cushions from the sofa and armchair, which he made into a sofa.He sat on it, and put an ounce of tobacco and a box of matches before him.He was sitting there with an old pipe in his mouth, staring at the ceiling in a daze, I gradually fell asleep, and he just sat like this.Finally, it was daylight, and I opened my eyes. He was still smoking his pipe, and the room smelled of smoke.He had sucked up all the tobacco heaps he had seen the night before.

"Are you awake, Watson?" he asked.

"woke up."

"Come out for a drive in the morning?"

"very good."

"Quickly, put on your clothes. No one is up yet. I know where the stable boy is sleeping. We'll get the carriage out soon." People are different.

I looked at my watch while I was getting dressed, it was only 25:[-].I had just dressed when Holmes returned, saying that the stableman was getting ready for the coach.

"I want to test my theory, Watson, and I think you are standing before one of the stupidest fools in all of Europe! I deserve to be kicked out of here into Charing Cross! But I think I have found it now." Here is the key to the case."

"Where is it?" I asked with a smile.

"In the bathroom," he continued seeing my suspicions, "I'm not kidding, I've just been there and I've put that thing in the soft bag. Come on, don't know if the key will open it Lock."

We walked softly down the stairs and out of the room.There was a harnessed carriage parked by the roadside.The stable boy was waiting for us by the horse's head.As soon as we jumped into the carriage, the carriage galloped down the road.

"The case is very curious," said Holmes, giving the horse a whip. "I say I am stupid, but it is better late than never."

We drive through the Surrey area when the earliest risers in town are up.The carriage passed Waterloo Bridge, passed Wellington Street, turned right, and came to Booth Street.Most of the police officers knew Holmes, and the two guards saluted him.One led the horse and the other took us in.

"Who is on duty today?"

"Officer Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, hello, Officer Bradstreet," at this moment, a police officer came from the passage, "Brazedstreet, can I have a private chat with you?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, come to my room."

His room resembled an office, with a telephone on the wall and a large thick classified register on the table, at which he sat down.

"What do you want me to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm here for Hugh Boone, the beggar, who is charged with the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair from Lee."

"Yes, he is brought here for trial."

"I know. Where is the other?"

"In a cell."

"Is he honest?"

"Very honest, but this man is too dirty."

"Is it particularly dirty?"

"Yes. We managed to get him to wash his hands. His face is as black as a tinkerer. Well, when his case is over, he must be given a bath according to the prison regulations. I think you will definitely see him when you see him." Agree with my suggestion."

"I want to meet him."

"Meet him? It's easy. Come with me. Put your bag here first."

"No, I'll take it anyway."

"Follow me, please." He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, and led us into a corridor flanked by cells.

"The third door on the right is his cell," he said, glancing in.

"He's asleep. You can see him very clearly."

From the grille, the two of us looked in, and the prisoner was facing us, sleeping soundly. He was of medium build, and the shirt he was wearing was protruding from the crack of his tattered jacket.He was indeed similar to what the patrolman said, dirty to a certain extent.No amount of dirt on his face could hide his hideous ugliness: there was a wide old scar from the corner of the eye to the chin, and one side of the upper lip was lifted up after shrinking; three teeth were exposed, which seemed to be howling all the time.

"How pretty, isn't it?" asked the inspector.

"It is true that he needs a bath," said Holmes. "I have contrived a way for him to be bathed, and have brought some fellows myself." As he spoke, he opened the soft bag and produced a bath-sponge. I was taken aback.

"Ha! Ha! You are so funny!" said the inspector, laughing.

"Here, if you will do a very good deed, and open the cell door secretly, he will have a more respectable appearance in a moment."

"No problem," said the inspector. "He's not doing us a favor in the jail, is he?" He opened the cell door and we all slipped into the cell.The guy turned over and still didn't wake up.Holmes dipped the sponge in the water from the pitcher, and rubbed it vigorously on the prisoner's face several times.

"Let me introduce you," he cried. "This is Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, Kent."

I've never seen anything like this in my life.The prisoner's face was peeled off by the sponge.Rough brown is gone!Gone was the dreadful scar and the hideous crooked lip.Suddenly, a pale, sad, delicate-looking man with smooth skin sat up from the bed.He rubbed his eyes and looked around carefully, looking very confused.Suddenly he realized that the matter had been exposed, and he couldn't help but yelled and threw himself on the bed, burying his face.

"My God! This is the missing guy. I've seen it in pictures." The inspector exclaimed in surprise.

The prisoner turned around with a fearless look, "Even so, what crime can you convict me of?"

"Of course you're charged with murdering Neville St. . .”

"You have made a great mistake, without committing a crime," said Holmes. "You might have been better off if you had believed your wife."

"It's nothing about the wife, it's my children!" the prisoner moaned. "For God's sake, I don't want my children to be ashamed of what their father has done. My God! It's so obvious that it got out, what should I do!"

Holmes came up to him and patted him on the shoulder.

"A forensic investigation would of course have to be publicized. But as long as you can convince the police that the matter is not grounds for prosecuting you, there is no reason why the details should be published in the newspapers. I trust Inspector Bradstreet." These records will definitely be handed over to the relevant parties, then the case will not have to be brought to court."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner joyfully, "I would rather go to prison than leave my secret as a blot on my family to my children.

"You are the only ones who have heard my story. My father was the principal of a primary school in Chesterfield, and I have always had a good education. When I was young, I was fond of traveling and acting, and later I became a Londoner. A reporter for an evening newspaper. One day, the editor-in-chief needed a group of reports reflecting the life of beggars in the city. I volunteered to pretend to be a beggar to collect some basic materials needed for writing articles. Providing manuscripts in this regard became the starting point of my life’s adventure. The beginning. I have been an actor, and I know some tricks of makeup, and I am very good at makeup in the backstage of the theater. I use this skill, first oil my face, and make up the most pitiful look. I use a A small strip of flesh-colored adhesive plaster, made a fake scar, twisted up one side of the lip, put on red hair, matched it with appropriate clothes, and found a place in the downtown area of ​​the city called Match Vendor Shishi A beggar. When I came home after seven hours' work I was astonished to find twenty-six shillings and fourpence.

"When the report was finished, the matter was forgotten. Another time, I had endorsed a bill for a friend, and later received a summons for £25. I didn't have that much money, so I was in a hurry. I had nowhere to go. Suddenly I had an idea. I asked my creditors to give me half a month to raise money, and I asked my employer for leave. I dressed up again and went to the city to beg. After ten days, I had enough money to pay off the debt.

"Now you see. I know: I'm getting two pounds a day for putting some oil paint on my face, sitting on the floor, and putting a battered hat on. Work. I have been fighting ideologically: whether to want face or money, and finally money defeated face. I am no longer a reporter, sitting on the corner of the street I chose for the first time every day, relying on my The pity aroused by this hideous countenance quickly made a lot of money. Only the owner of the smokehouse where I boarded in Swan Gate Lane knew my secret, and he charged me a high rent to keep it secret for me. Every morning I He was a beggar, and turned back into a well-dressed son at night.

"Soon, I found that there was a lot of money. Not any beggar on the streets of London can get seven hundred pounds a year (which is not enough for my average income). I can make a lot of money every day. If I'm unlucky, I can make two pounds a day.

"The more money I got, the more ambitious I became. Soon I bought a house in the suburbs, got married, and started a family. No one doubted my career. My wife only knew that I was doing business in the city, but I What she was doing, she didn't know.

"Last Monday, I had just finished a day of begging. When I was changing in the room above the smoke house, I happened to look out the window and saw my wife standing in the middle of the street, looking at me. I was afraid Terrified, I screamed, covered my face with my hands, and hurriedly left to find the Indian lady, and begged him not to let anyone come upstairs to find me. I have heard her voice, but it is estimated that she will not be able to come up for the time being. I quickly Take off my clothes, put on a beggar's outfit, paint it, and put on a wig. It's hard for even my wife to see through me. But then I thought, if the house is searched, those clothes may give away my secrets , I opened the window, and because of too much force, I broke the wound I cut in the bedroom early in the morning. The money I begged was all in a leather bag, I took out the copper coins and stuffed them in my pocket, grabbed the clothes and threw them away. Out of the window, it fell into the Thames and disappeared. I was about to throw the rest of the clothes down, but then some police officers were rushing upstairs. I admit, they didn't even recognize me as Neville St. Clair, that comforted me, and they arrested me for the murder of Neville St. Clair.

"I don't know what else I need to explain. At that time I decided to keep it like this for a long time, so I would rather have a dirty face. I knew my wife must be very anxious, so I took off the ring and handed it to the police when they were not looking. Ah San from India even wrote a few lines to advise her not to worry about me."

"Your wife received that letter yesterday," said Holmes.

"Oh my God, she's had enough for a week!"

"The police have that guy in sight," said Inspector Bradstreet. "I know he finds it difficult to post the letter without detection, and presumably he entrusts the letter to some seaman's client." , and that person forgot for a few days.”

"That's it," said Holmes, nodding. "I think that's it, but have you never been charged with begging?"

"Many times, but what is a small fine?"

"Let's call it a day," Bradstreet said. "If there's a policeman to keep quiet, Hugh? Boone's gone."

"I swore it."

"We will not pursue this time. But next time, I will show no mercy. Mr. Holmes, I am very grateful for your help in clarifying this case. I really want to know how you know the truth?"

Holmes said: "I got it by sitting on five pillows and smoking an ounce of tobacco. I think, Watson, go to Baker Street now, and I can still catch my breakfast. Let's go at once."

(End of this chapter)