Chapter II.

Part Two

As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

“Holmes!” he cried.

“Why, Gregson!” said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. “Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you here?”

“The same reasons that bring you, I expect,” said Gregson. “How you got on to it I can't imagine.”

“Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been taking the signals.”

“Signals?”

“Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing this business.”

“Wait a bit!” cried Gregson eagerly. “I'll do you this justice, Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe.”

“Who is he?”

“Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You must give us best this time.” He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. “May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he said to the cabman. “This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency.”

“The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?” said Holmes. “Sir, I am pleased to meet you.”

The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation. “I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “If I can get Gorgiano—”

“What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?”

“Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear he wasn't one of them.”

“Mr. Holmes talks of signals,” said Gregson. “I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we don't.”

In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

“He's on to us!” he cried.

“Why do you think so?”

“Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out messages to an accomplice—there are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?”

“That we go up at once and see for ourselves.”

“But we have no warrant for his arrest.”

“He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,” said Gregson. “That is good enough for the moment. When we have him by the heels we can see if New York can't help us to keep him. I'll take the responsibility of arresting him now.”

Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly over his shoulders.

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

“By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!” cried the American detective. “Someone has got ahead of us this time.”

“Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes,” said Gregson. “Why, whatever are you doing?”

Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

“I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over and stood in deep thought while the two professionals were examining the body. “You say that three people came out form the flat while you were waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you observe them closely?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?”

“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”

“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for you.”

“Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”

“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your aid.”

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.

“You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, Dio mio, you have killed him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

“But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?”

“We are police, madam.”

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all my speed.”

“It was I who called,” said Holmes.

“You! How could you call?”

“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘Vieni’ and you would surely come.”

The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

“I do not understand how you know these things,” she said. “Giuseppe Gorgiano—how did he—” She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. “Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What woman could every be worthy of such a man?”

“Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill hooligan, “I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are; but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you at the Yard.”

“One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather fancy that this lady may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for the death of the man who lies before us? What you say may be used in evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot serve him better than by telling us the whole story.”

“Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,” said the lady. “He was a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would punish my husband for having killed him.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, “my suggestion is that we lock this door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room, and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to say to us.”

Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

“I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,” said she, “and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position—nothing but his beauty and strength and energy—so my father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.

“Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman—he saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his good-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our sky.

“One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!

“He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social questions which made up or visitor's conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than dislike. It was fear—a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night—the night that I read his terror—I put my arms round him and I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.

“He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man who had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the name of ‘Death’ in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered.

“That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he called ‘love’ within him—the love of a brute—a savage. Gennaro had not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses, and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night.

“A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved now that such an example should be made of them as would prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension.

“All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full warning of this danger, and had also left such information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future.

“The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he was ready for him when he came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you whether we have anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?”

“Well, Mr. Gregson,” said the American, looking across at the official, “I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty general vote of thanks.”

“She will have to come with me and see the chief,” Gregson answered. “If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I can't make head or tail of, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth you got yourself mixed up in the matter.”

“Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we hurry, we might be in time for the second act.”

当我们走上霍伊大街的时候，我回头看了一下我们刚离开的建筑物。在顶楼的窗口，我隐约看见有一个头影，一个女人的头影，紧张而呆木地望着外面的夜空，正在噤声屏息地等待着中断了的信号重新开始。在霍伊大街公寓的门道上，有一个围着围巾、穿着大衣的人靠在栏杆上。当门厅的灯光照在我们的脸上时，这个人吃了一惊。

“福尔摩斯！"他喊道。

“噫，葛莱森！"我的同伴说道，一面和这位苏格兰场的侦探握手。"这真是不是冤家不碰头哪。什么风把你吹到这里来啦？”

“我想，跟你一样，"葛莱森说。“我真想象不出你是怎么知道这件事的。”

“线有几根，头只一个。我在记录信号。”

“信号？”

“是啊，从那个窗口。信号发了一半停了。我们来了解是什么原因。既然是你在办案，万无一失，我看我们就用不着管下去了。”

“等等！"葛莱森热切地说道，“我要对你说句公道话，福尔摩斯先生，我办案子，只要有了你，没有一次不感觉踏实得多的。这座房子只有一个出口，所以他跑不了。”

“谁？”

“啊，福尔摩斯先生，这一回我们可走先一步了。这一次，你可得要让我们领先了。"他用手杖在地上重重地敲了一下，随即一个车夫手拿马鞭从街那头的一辆四轮马车旁边踱了过来。"我能把你介绍给福尔摩斯先生吗？"他对车夫说道。"这位是平克顿美国侦缉处的莱弗顿先生。”

“就是长岛山洞奇案的那位英雄吗？"福尔摩斯说，“幸会，幸会，先生。”

这个美国人是个沉静、一精一明的青年，尖尖的脸，一胡一子剃得很光。他听了福尔摩斯这番赞扬，不由得满脸通红。"我是为生活奔波，福尔摩斯先生，"，他说，"如果我能抓住乔吉阿诺——”

“什么！红圈会的乔吉阿诺吗？”

“呵，他是欧洲闻名的人物，是吧？我们在美国也听到了他的事情。我们知道他是五十件谋杀案的主犯，可是我们没有法子抓住他。我从纽约跟踪着他。在伦敦的整整一个星期里我都在他附近，就等机会亲手把他抓起来。葛莱森先生和我一直追到这个大公寓，这里只有一个大门，他逃不脱了。他进去之后，有三个人从里面出来，但是我敢断定，这三个人里面没有他。”

“福尔摩斯先生谈到信号，"葛莱森说，"我想，同往常一样，他了解许多我们所不了解的事情。”

福尔摩斯把我们遇到的情况，三言两语作了简要说明。这个美国人两手一拍，感到气恼。

“那是他发现了我们啦！"他嚷道。

“你为什么这样想呢？”

“唉，情况难道不就是这样吗？他在向他的帮凶发信号——他有一伙人在伦敦。正象你说的那样，他突然告诉他们有危险，中断了信号。他在窗口不是突然发现了我们在街上，就是有点意识到险情一逼一近，如果他想躲过险情，就得立刻采取行动。除了这些，还会是什么别的意思呢？你看呢，福尔摩斯先生？”

“所以我们要立即上去，亲自去查看一下。”

“但是我们没有逮捕证。”

“他是在可疑的情况下，在无人居住的屋子里，葛莱森说，“目前，这就足够了。当我们还在盯着他的时候，我们可以看看纽约方面是否可以协助我们拘留他。而现在，我可以负责逮捕他了。”

我们的官方侦探在智力方面可能不足，但是在勇气方面决非如此。葛莱森上楼去抓那个亡命之徒了。他仍然是那样一副绝对沉着而一精一明的神情。也就是带着这种神情，他在苏格兰场的官一场上步步高升。那个平克顿来的人曾想赶在他的前面，可是葛莱森早已坚决地把他抛在后面了。伦敦的警察对伦敦的险事享有优先权。

四楼左边房间的门半开着。葛莱森把门开大。里面阒寂漆黑。我划了一根火柴，把这位侦探的手提灯点亮。就在这时，在灯光照亮以后，我们大家都吃惊地倒一抽一了一口冷气。在没有平地毯的地板上，有一条新鲜的血迹。红脚印一直通向一间内屋。内屋的门是关着的。葛莱森把门撞开，用灯高高照着前面，我们大家都从他的肩头急切地向里面张望。

这间空屋的地板正中躺着一个身材魁梧的人，他那修整得很干净的黝一黑脸膛，歪扭得奇形怪状，十分可怕；头上有一圈鲜红的血迹。一尸一体躺在一块白木板上的一个巨大的湿一淋一淋的环形物上。他的双膝弯曲，两手痛苦地摊开着。一把白一柄一的刀子从他又粗又黑的喉咙正中整个地刺进了他的身一体。这个人身材魁梧，在他遭到这致命的一击之前，他一定象一头被斧子砍倒的牛一样已经倒下了。他的右手旁边的地板上放着一把可怕的两边开刃的牛角一柄一匕首，匕首旁边是一只黑色小山羊皮手套。

“哎哟！这是黑乔吉阿诺本人！"美国侦探喊道，“这一回，有人赶在我们前头了。”

“蜡烛在窗台上，福尔摩斯先生，"葛莱森说，“唉，你在干什么？”

福尔摩斯已经走过去点上了蜡烛，并且在窗前晃动着。然后他向黑暗中探望着，吹灭蜡烛，把它扔在地板上。

“我确实觉得这样做会有帮助的，"他说。他走过来，站在那里沉思。这时两位专职人员正在检查一尸一体。"你说，当你们在楼下等候的时候，有三个人从房子里出去，"他最后说道，

“你看清楚了没有？”

“看清楚了。”

“其中有没有一个三十来岁的青年，黑一胡一子，皮肤很黑，中等身材？”

“有。他是最后一个走过我身边的。”

“我想，他就是你要找的人。我可以对你讲出他的样子来，我们还有他的一个很清晰的脚印。这对你应当是足够的了。”

“不很够，福尔摩斯先生，伦敦有几百万人呐。”

“也许不很够。因此，我想最好还是叫这位太太来帮助你们。”

听见这句话，我们都转过身去。只见门道上站着一个很美丽的高个子女人——布卢姆斯伯利的神秘房客。她慢慢走上前来，脸色苍白，神情非常忧郁，直瞪着两眼，惊恐的目光注视着地上的那个黑色躯体。

“你们把他杀死啦！"她喃喃地说，“啊，我的上帝，你们把他杀死啦！"接着，我听见她突然深深地倒吸了一口气，跳了起来，发出欢乐的叫一声。她在房间里转着圈跳舞，拍着手，黑眼睛里显露出又惊又喜的神色，嘴里涌一出了成百句优美的意大利语的感叹词句。这样一个女人见到这样一番情景之后竟然如此欢欣若狂，这是何等可怕而令人惊奇啊。她突然停下来，用一种询问的眼光看着我们。

“而你们！你们是警察吧？你们杀死了奎赛佩·乔吉阿诺，对吗？”

“我们是警察，夫人。”

她向房间里四周的暗处扫了一眼。

“那么，根纳罗呢？"她问道。"他是我的丈夫。根纳罗·卢卡。我是伊米丽亚·卢卡。我们两个都是从纽约来的。根纳罗在哪儿？刚才是他在这个窗口叫我来的，我赶快跑来了。”

“叫你来的是我，"福尔摩斯说。

“你！你怎么可能？”

“你的密码并不难懂，夫人。欢迎你的光临。我知道，我只要闪出Ｖｉｅｎｉ的信号，你就一定会来的。"’①

①意大利语“来吧"。——译者注

这位美貌的意大利女人惶恐地看着我的同伴。

“我不明白，你怎么知道这些的，"她说，“奎赛佩·乔吉阿诺——他是怎么——"她停顿了一下，然后脸上突然露出骄傲和喜悦的神色。"我现在明白了！我的根纳罗呀！我的了不起的、漂亮的根纳罗，是他保护我没有受到伤害，是他。他用他强有力的手杀死了这个魔鬼！啊，根纳罗，你真好！有哪一个女人能配得上这样的男子。”

“唔，卢卡太太，"深感没趣的葛莱森说着，一只手拉住这位女士的衣袖，毫无感情，就好象她是诺丁希尔的女流一氓似的，“你是谁，你是干什么的，我都不很清楚；不过根据你说的，情况已经很清楚了，我们要你到厅里去一趟。”

“等一等，葛莱森，"福尔摩斯说，“我倒觉得，这位女士可能正象我们急于了解情况一样地急于要把情况告诉我们。夫人，你知道，躺在我们面前的这个人是你丈夫杀死的，为了这个，你丈夫会被逮捕审判的呀！你说的情况可以作证词。但是，如果你认为他作出此事不是出于犯法的动机，是出于他想要查明情况的动机，那么，你帮他的最好的办法就是把全部经过告诉我们。”

“既然乔吉阿诺死了，我们就不怕什么了，"这位女士说，

“他是个妖魔鬼怪。世界上没有哪个法官会为我丈夫杀死了这样一个人而惩办我丈夫的。”

“既然是这样，"福尔摩斯说道，“我建议把房门锁起来，让这一切都照原样摆着。我们和这位女士一起到她的房间去。等我们听完了她要对我们说的一切之后，再作打算。”

半个钟头之后，我们四个人已在卢卡太太那间小小的起居室里坐下来，听她讲述那些奇怪的凶险事件。事件的结尾，我们碰巧已经目睹了。她的英语说得很快而流利，但不很正规。为清楚起见，我只好作些语法修改。

“我出生在那不勒斯附近的坡西利坡，"她说，“我是首席法官奥古斯托·巴雷里的女儿。我父亲曾经在当地做过议员。根纳罗在我父亲手下做事。我一爱一上了他。别的女人也一定会一爱一他的。他没有钱也没有地位——他什么也没有，只有美貌、力量和活力——所以我父亲不准我们结婚。我们一起跑了，在巴里结了婚。变卖了首饰，用这笔钱我们到了美国。这是四年前的事。从那以后，我们一直住在纽约。

“开头，我们运气很好。根纳罗帮助了一位意大利先生——他在一个叫鲍厄里的地方把这位先生从几个暴徒中救了出来，这样就一交一了一个有势力的朋友。这位先生叫梯托·卡斯塔洛蒂。他是卡斯塔洛蒂－赞姆巴大公司的主要合办人。这家公司是纽约的主要水果进口商。赞姆巴先生有病，我们新结识的朋友卡斯塔洛蒂掌管公司的大权。公司雇用了三百多名职工。他在公司里给我丈夫找了个工作，而且叫他主管一个门市部，在各方面对我丈夫都很好。卡斯塔洛蒂先生是个单身汉，我相信，他觉得根纳罗好象是他的儿子，我和我丈夫敬一爱一他，好象把他看作我们的父亲。我们在布鲁克林买了一幢小房子，我们的整个前途看来都有了保障。这时候，忽然出现了乌云，很快就布满了我们的天空。

“有一天晚上，根纳罗下班回来，带来一个同乡，叫乔吉阿诺，也是从坡西利坡来的。这个人身材高大，你们可以验证，因为一尸一体你们已经见到了。他不但块头大，一切都怪，叫人害怕。他的声音在我们的小房屋里象打雷。谈话的时候，屋里没有足够的地方可以让他挥动巨大的手臂。他的思想、情绪都是强烈而奇怪的，他说起话来很有劲，简直就是在吼叫，别人只能坐着乖乖地听他滔一滔一不一绝地说。他的眼睛一看着你，你就得听他摆一布。他是个可怕的怪人。感谢上帝，他已经死啦！

“他一次又一次到我家来。可是我知道，根纳罗见到他并不比我见到他更高兴些。我那可怜的丈夫坐着，脸色发白，没一精一打采地听我们客人的谈话。他谈的都是对政治和社会问题所发表的无休无止的一胡一言乱语。根纳罗一言不发，我哩，我是了解他的。我从他脸上看得出某一种我以前不曾见过的表情。起初，我以为是讨厌。后来，我慢慢明白了，不仅仅是讨厌，是惧怕——一种深沉的、隐蔽的、畏缩的惧怕。那天晚上——就是我看出他恐惧的那个晚上——我抱着他，以他对我的一爱一恳求他告诉我，以他什么事都不瞒着我的感情恳求他告诉我，为什么这个大个子竟能把他弄得这样霉头霉脑的。

“他告诉了我。我一听，我的心冷得象冰一样。我可怜的根纳罗呀，在那狂乱的日子里，整个世界都跟他过不去，不公平的生活一逼一得他几乎发疯。就在那些日子里，他加入了那不勒斯的一个一团一体，叫红圈会，和老烧炭一党一是一个组织。这个组织的誓约和秘密真是可怕，一旦加入进去就休想出来。我们逃到美国的时候，根纳罗以为他已经跟它永远一刀两断了。一天晚上，他在街上碰见一个人。这个人就是在那不勒斯介绍他加入那个一团一体的大块头乔吉阿诺。在意大利南部，人们都叫他作死亡，因为他是杀人不眨眼的刽子手！他到纽约是为躲避意大利的警察。他在新定居的地方建立了这个恐怖组织的分支机构。根纳罗把这一切都告诉了我，并且把他那天收到的一张通知给我看。通知顶头上画了一个红圈。通知告诉他要在某一天集会，他必须应命到会。

“真是糟透了。但更糟的还在后面哩。我曾经注意了一些时候，乔吉阿诺常在晚上到我们家来，来了老跟我说话。尽避他是对我丈夫说话，他的两只野兽般可怕的眼睛却老是盯着我。有一个晚上，他泄露了秘密。我对他的所谓的一爱一情——畜生和野人的一爱一情——恍然大悟。他来的时候，根纳罗还没有回家。他一逼一进屋来，用他粗一大的手抓住我，搂进他那象熊似的怀里，劈头盖脸地吻我，并且恳求我跟他走。我正在挣扎喊叫，根纳罗进来了，向他冲去。他打昏了根纳罗，逃出屋去，从此就再没有到我们家来。就是那个晚上，我们成了冤家对头。

“几天以后开了会。根纳罗开完会回来后，看他的脸色，我就知道发生了什么可怕的事情了。它比我们所能想象的更糟。红圈会的资金是靠讹诈有钱的意大利人筹集的，如果他们不出钱，就以暴力威胁。看样子，已经找到我们的亲密朋友和恩人卡斯塔洛蒂的头上了。他拒不屈服于威胁，并且把信一交一给了警察。红圈会决定要拿他做个榜样，以防止其他受害者反抗。会上决定，用炸药把他和他的房子一起炸掉。谁去干，一抽一签。当根纳罗把手伸进袋子去摸签的时候，他看见我们的仇敌那张残酷的脸对他一奸一笑。没有疑问，事先已经作好了某种安排，因为签上的那个致命的红色圆圈，就是杀人的命令，签落到了他的手里。他要么去杀死自己最好的朋友，要么让他和我遭到他的同伙的报复。凡是他们所害怕的人，他们所恨的人，他们都要惩罚，不但伤害这些人本身，而且还要伤害这些人所一爱一的人。这是他们的恶魔般的规定的一部分。这种恐怖压在了我可怜的根纳罗的头上，一逼一得他忧虑不安，几乎都快发疯了。

“我们整夜坐在一起，互相挽着胳膊，共同防备着我们面临的苦难。动手的时间定在第二天晚上。正午前后，我丈夫和我上路来伦敦了，可是没来得及告诉我们的恩人说他有危险；也没来得及把这一情况报告警察，以保护他未来的生命安全。

“先生们，其余的，你们自己都知道了。我们知道，我们的敌人象影子般跟踪着我们。乔吉阿诺的报复自有他私下的原因，可是不管怎么说，我们知道他是个多么残酷、狡猾、顽固的家伙。意大利和美国到处都在谈论他那可怕的势力。如果说他的势力在什么时候得到了证实的话，那就是现在。我亲一爱一的丈夫利用我们出发以来少有的几天好天气替一我找了一个安身之处。在这种方式下，可使我不致遇到任何危险。至于他自己，也想摆脱他们，以便同美国和意大利的警方人员取得联系。我自己也不知道他住在哪里，怎样生活。我全靠从一份报纸的寻人广告栏中得到消息。有一次我朝窗外张望，看见有两个意大利人在监视这个房子。我知道，乔吉阿诺终于找到我们的下落了。最后，根纳罗通过报纸告诉我，会从某一窗口向我发出信号。可是信号出现时，只是警告，没有别的，突然又中断了。现在我明白了，他知道乔吉阿诺盯住他了。感谢上帝！当这个家伙来的时候，他已有准备。先生们，现在我想请问你们，从法律观点看，我们有没有什么要害怕的，世界上有没有哪个法官会因为根纳罗所做的事情而对他定罪？”

“呃，葛莱森先生，"那位美国人说，同时扫了警官一眼，“我不知道你们英国的看法如何，不过我想，在纽约，这位太太的丈夫将会博得普遍的感激。”

“她得跟我去见局长，"葛莱森回答说，“如果她说的事情属实，我不认为她或是她的丈夫有什么可害怕的。但是，我摸不着头脑的是，福尔摩斯先生，你怎么竟然也搅到这件案子里了。”

“教育，葛莱森，教育，还想在这所老大学里学点知识。好啦，华生，你又多收集到一份悲惨而离奇的材料啦。对啦，还不到八点钟，考汶花园今晚在上演瓦格纳的歌剧呢！要是我们马上走，还能赶得上第二幕。”