Артур Конан Дойл / Arthur Conan Doyle Приключения Шерлока Холмса: Человек с рассеченной губой / The Man with the Twisted Lip
© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2015
I
One night my door bell rang, about the hour when a man yawns and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down and made a disappointed face.
A patient! said she. Youll have to go out.
I sighed, because Ive just come back from a hard day.
We heard the front door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door opened, and a lady, dressed in dark-coloured clothes, with a black veil, entered the room.
Excuse me for coming so late, she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward to my wife and sobbed upon her shoulder. Oh, Im in such trouble! she cried; I need help so much!
it is Kate Whitney, said my wife, pulling up her veil. How you frightened me, Kate! I had no idea who you were when you came in.
I didnt know what to do, so l came straight to you. It was always like that. People who were in trouble came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or would you like me to send James off to bed?
Oh, no, no! I want the doctors advice and help, too. Its about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husbands trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old school friend. We tried to find the words to comfort her. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that lately he had used an opium den in the east of the City. So far his absence had always been limited with one day, and he had come back, twitching and exhausted, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he could be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and modest woman, come to such a place and pluck her husband out from among the dregs who surrounded him?
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a disgusting street hiding behind the high docks which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, there were steep steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave. There I found the den I was looking for. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, with a hollow in the centre, made by thousands of drunken feet. By the light of an oil-lamp I found the door and entered a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and full of wooden beds, that reminded me of an emigrant ship.
Through the dark one could notice bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there an eye turned upon the newcomer. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their speech
began and then suddenly stopped, each mumbled out his own thoughts and paid no attention to the words of his neighbor. At the end was a small brazier, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his face resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a Malay servant had hurried up with a pipe for me, showing me the way to an empty place.
Thank you. I have not come to stay, said I. There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.
Somebody moved and exclaimed on my right, and looking through the dark I saw Whitney, pale, exhausted, and unkempt, staring out at me.
My God! Its Watson, said he. He was in a terrible state and seemed very nervous. I say, Watson, what time is it?
Nearly eleven.
Of what day?
Of Friday, June 19th.
Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What do you want to frighten me for? He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob.
I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!
So I am. But you must be wrong, Watson, because I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes I forget how many. But Ill go home with you. I wouldnt frighten Kate poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Do you have a cab?
Yes, I have one waiting.
Then I should go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, trying not to breath in the disgusting, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck, and a low voice said, Walk past me, and then look back at me. I heard the words quite distinctly. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, crooked, an opium pipe between his knees. It seemed that he had dropped it in absolute tiredness from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control not to cry with astonishment. He had turned his back so that nobody could see him but me. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the fire had lit up in his dull eyes, and there, sitting by the fire and smiling at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He gave me a sign to approach him, and immediately, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, changed back into a weak old man.