Wisteria Lodge

Arthur Conan Doyle

I. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles

II. The Tiger of San Pedro

Chapter I.

The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles

I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”

“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.

He shook his head at my definition.

“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which let straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert.”

“Have you it there?” I asked.

He read the telegram aloud.

“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you?

— “Scott Eccles,

“Post Office, Charing Cross.”

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram. She would have come.”

“Will you see him?”

“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client.”

A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.

“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper—most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.” He swelled and puffed in his anger.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a soothing voice. “May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?”

“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard your name—”

“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?”

“What do you mean?”

Holmes glanced at his watch.

“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram was dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking.”

Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.

“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge.”

“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance.”

Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional appearance.

“I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.”

But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.

“We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this direction.” He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. “Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?”

“I am.”

“We have been following you about all the morning.”

“You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,” said Holmes.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross Post-Office and came on here.”

“But why do you follow me? What do you want?”

“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.”

Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour struck from his astonished face.

“Dead? Did you say he was dead?”

“Yes, sir, he is dead.”

“But how? An accident?”

“Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.”

“Good God! This is awful! You don't mean—you don't mean that I am suspected?”

“A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house.”

“So I did.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

Out came the official notebook.

“Wait a bit, Gregson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “All you desire is a plain statement, is it not?”

“And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against him.”

“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had you never been interrupted.”

Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook, he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

“I am a bachelor,” said he, “and being of a sociable turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.

“In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.

“He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.

“I drove to the place—about two miles on the south side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner was tête-à-tête, and though my host did his best to be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.

“One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door—the room was dark at the time—and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly all night.

“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.”

Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said he. “May I ask, sir, what you did then?”

“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main objet must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”

“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”

“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”

“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”

The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.

“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from the back of it.”

Holmes smiled his appreciation.

“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single pellet of paper.”

“I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”

The Londoner nodded.

“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:

“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed.

— D.

“It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you see.”

“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I must compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is of such a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”

The country detective chuckled.

“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was a little over,” he said. “I'm bound to say that I make nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it.”

Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.

“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,” said he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.”

“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”

“Robbed?”

“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”

“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hard on me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?”

“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are.”

“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.”

“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the truth.”

My friend turned to the country inspector.

“I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you, Mr. Baynes?”

“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”

“You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the man met his death?”

“He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time, and his death had certainly been before the rain.”

“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client. “His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour.”

“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said Holmes, smiling.

“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.

“On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the house?”

The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

“There were,” said he, “one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out and give me your opinion of them.”

“In am entirely at your service,” said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the bell. “You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.”

We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.

“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me, “what do you make of it?”

“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”

“But the crime?”

“Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled from justice.”

“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their mercy every other night in the week.”

“Then why did they fly?”

“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.”

“But what is our hypothesis?”

Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them.”

“But what possible connection?”

“Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particulary intelligent—not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.”

“But what was he to witness?”

“Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another way. That is how I read the matter.”

“I see, he might have proved an alibi.”

“Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of law that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an insurance against the worst.”

“Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the others?”

“I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your theories.”

“And the message?”

“How did it run? ‘Our own colours, green and white.’ Sounds like racing. ‘Green open, white shut.’ That is clearly a signal. ‘Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.’ This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said ‘Godspeed’ had it not been so. ‘D’—that should be a guide.”

“The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that ‘D’ stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.”

“Good, Watson, very good—but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this excellent inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness.”

An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with a laugh.

“We are moving in exalted circles,” said he.

The telegram was a list of names and addresses:

Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling.

“This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,” said Holmes. “No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted some similar plan.”

“I don't quite understand.”

“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one o'clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein must lie among them.”

It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.

Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.

一　约翰·斯考特·艾克尔斯先生的离奇经历

我从笔记本的记载里发现，那是一八九二年三月底之前的一个寒风凛冽的日子。我们正坐着吃午饭，福尔摩斯接到了一份电报，并随手给了回电。他一语未发，但是看来心中有事，因为他随后站在炉火前面，脸上现出沉思的神色，一抽一着烟斗，不时瞧着那份电报。突然他转过身来对着我，眼里显出诡秘的神色。

“华生，我想，我们必须把你看作是一位文学家，"他说。“怪诞这个词你怎么解释的？”

“奇怪——异常，"我回答。

他对我的定义摇了摇头。

“肯定具有更多的含义，"他说，“实质上还含有悲惨和可怕这一层意思。如果回想一下你那些长期折磨公众的文章，你就会认识到怪诞这个词的深一层的意思往往就是犯罪。想一想红发会那件事吧，开头相当怪诞，结果却是铤而走险，企图抢劫。还有，‘五个桔核的那件事，也是再怪诞不过了，结果直接引出一场命案来。所以，‘怪诞这个词总是引起我警惕。”

“电报里也有这个词吗？"我问。

他大声地读起电文来。

“适遇极难置信而怪诞之事。可否向你求教？

斯考持·艾克尔斯

查林十字街邮局”

“男的还是女的？"我问。

“当然是男的。女的是不会拍这种先付回电费的电报的。是女的，就自己来了。”

“你见他吗？”

“亲一爱一的华生，自从我们关押了卡鲁塞斯上校以来，你知道我是多么厌烦。我的脑子象一部空转的引擎那样，由于没有和它所要制造的工件连接上而散成碎片。生活平淡，报纸枯燥，大胆和一浪一漫似乎已经永远在这个犯罪的世界上绝迹了。照此看来，你可以问我是否准备研究任何新的问题，不管它到头来是多么微不足道。不过现在，要是我没有弄错的话，我们的当事人已经来了。”

楼梯上传来有节奏的脚步声。过了一会儿，一个高大结实、一胡一子花白而威严可敬的人被带进了房间。他那沉痛的面容和高傲的态度说明了他的身世。从他的鞋罩到金丝眼镜，可以看出他是个保守一党一人，教士，好公民，道道地地的正统派和守旧派。但是，某种惊人的经历打乱了他原有的镇静，这在他竖一起的头发，通红而带愠色的脸上，以及慌张而激动的神态上都留下了痕迹。他立刻开门见山地谈其他的事情。

“我遇到了一种最奇特最不愉快的事，福尔摩斯先生，"他说，"我有生以来从未有过这样的遭遇。这是最不成体统的——最无法容忍的了。我坚决要求作出些解释。"他怒气冲冲地说。

“请坐下，斯考特·艾克尔斯先生，"福尔摩斯用安慰的声调说。"首先，我是否可以问一下，你究竟为什么要来找我？”“唔，先生，在我看来，这件事和警察无关，而且，当你听完了这件事，你一定会同意，我不能扔下这件事不管。我对私人侦探这一等人丝毫不感兴趣，不过，尽避如此，久仰您的大名——”

“是这样。可是，其次，你为什么不立刻就来呢？”

“这是什么意思？”

福尔摩斯看了一下表。

“现在是两点过一刻，"他说，“你的电报是在一点钟左右发的。不过，要不是看出你是在一醒来时就遇到麻烦的话，那么，谁也不会注意你这副装扮的。”

我们的当事人理了一理没有梳过的头发，摸了一下没有刮过的下巴。

“你说得对，福尔摩斯先生。我丝毫没有想到要梳洗。离开那样一座房子我真是求之不得的。在我来此之前，我四处奔跑打听。我去找房产管理员。你知道，他们说加西亚先生的房租已经付过了，说威斯特里亚寓所一切正常。”

“喂，喂，先生，"福尔摩斯笑着说道，“你真象我的朋友华生医生，他有一个坏一习一惯，老是一开头就没有把事情讲对头。请你把你的思路整理一下，有条有理地告诉我，到底出了什么事，使你头不梳脸不刮，礼靴和背心的钮扣都没有扣好，就跑出来寻求指导和援助了。”

我们的当事人脸带愁容，低头看了一看自己岂不寻常的外表。

“我这模样一定很不象话，福尔摩斯先生。可是我不明白，我一生之中竟会遇到这样的事。让我把这件怪事的全部经过告诉你吧。你听了之后，我敢说，你就会认为我这样是情有可原了。”

但是，他的叙述刚一开始就被打断了。外面一阵喧闹，赫德森太太打开门，带进来两个健壮的、官员模样的人。其中之一就是我们熟知的苏格兰场的葛莱森警长，他一精一力充沛，仪表轩昂，在他的业务圈子里算得上是一名能将。他同福尔摩斯握了握手，随后介绍了他的同事，萨里警察厅的贝尼斯警长。

“福尔摩斯先生，我们俩一块儿跟踪，结果跟到这个方向来了。"他那双大眼睛转向我们的客人。“你是里街波汉公馆的约翰·斯考特·艾克尔斯先生吧？”

“我是。”

“我们今天跟了你一个上午啦。”

“毫无疑问，你们跟踪他是靠的电报，"福尔摩斯说。

“一点儿不错，福尔摩斯先生。我们在查林十字街邮局找到了线索，一直跟到这儿。”

“你们为什么跟踪我？你们想干什么？”

“我们想得到一份供词，斯考特·艾克尔斯先生，了解一下与厄榭附近威斯特里亚寓所的阿洛依苏斯·加西亚先生昨天死去有关的情况。”

我们的当事人警觉起来，瞪着两眼，惊慌的脸上没有一点血色。

“死啦？你是说他已经死啦？”

“是的，先生，他死啦。”

“怎么死的？出了事故了吗？”

“谋杀，如果说世界上发生过谋杀的话。”

“天哪！多么可怕！你该不是说——你该不是说我被怀疑了吧？”

“在死人的口袋里发现了你的一封信，从这封信，我们知道你曾打算昨晚在他家里过夜。”

“是这样。”

“哦，你过夜了，是吗？”

他们拿出了公事记录本。

“等一下，葛莱森，"歇洛克·福尔摩斯说道。“你们要的全部东西就是一份清楚的供词，对不对？”

“我有责任提醒斯考特·艾克尔斯先生，这份供词可以用来控告他。”

“艾克尔斯先生正准备把这件事讲给我们听，你们就进来了。华生，我想一杯苏打白兰地对他不会有什么害处吧。先生，现在这里多了两位听众，我建议你不必介意，继续讲下去，就象没有人打断过你——象刚才要做的那样。”

我们的来客把白兰地一饮而尽，脸上恢复了血色。他用疑惑的眼光看了一下警长的记录本，随即开始了他那极不平常的叙述。

“我是个单身汉，"他说，"因为喜欢社一交一，结识了许多朋友。其中有一家叫麦尔维尔的，是休业的酿酒商，住在肯辛顿的阿伯玛尔大楼。几个星期之前，我在他们家吃饭时认识了一个名叫加西亚的年轻人。我知道他是西班牙血统，同大使馆有些联系。他讲得一口地道的英语，态度讨人喜欢，是我一生中见过的最漂亮的男子。

“这个年轻小伙子和我谈得十分投机。他似乎一开始就很喜欢我。在我们见面后的两天里，他到里街来看望我。这样一次又一次，最后他邀我到他家去住几天。他的家就在厄榭和奥克斯肖特之间的威斯特里亚寓所，昨天晚上我就应约前去了。

“在我去到他家之前，他曾对我谈起过他家里的情况。同他住在一起的是一个忠实的仆人，也是西班牙人，替他照料一切。这个人会说英语，为他管家。他说，还有一个出色的厨师，是个混血儿，是他在旅途上认识的，能做一手好菜。我记得他谈论过在萨里的中心找到这么一个住处是多么奇怪。我同意他的看法，虽然事实已经证明，它比我想象的不知要奇怪多少倍。

“我驱车来到那个地方——距厄榭南面约两英里。房子相当大，背朝大路而立，屋前有一条弯弯曲曲的车道，两旁介以高高的常青灌木丛。这是一所旧宅，年久失修，显得破破烂烂。当马车来到那斑驳肮脏、久经风雨侵蚀的大门前，停在杂草丛生的道上时，我曾迟疑了一下，考虑过拜访这样一个我了解甚少的人是否明智。他亲自前来开门，极其热忱地对我表示欢迎。他把我一交一给一个神情忧郁、面孔黝一黑的男仆。仆人替一我拿着皮包，把我引到为我准备的卧室。整个屋子都使人感到郁悒。我们面对面地坐着进餐。我的主人虽然尽力殷勤款待，但是他的神情好象一直恍恍惚惚，谈话含糊凌一乱，不知所云。他不停地用手指敲打着桌子，用嘴咬噬指甲。还有其它一些动作，显出他心神不安。至于那餐饭，照料得既不周到，菜也做得不好，加上那个沉默寡言的仆人的一陰一沉神色，实在令人难堪。我敢向你保证，那天晚上，我真想找个借口回到里街来。

“有一件事，我想起来了，也许跟你们两位先生正在进行调查的问题有牵连。当时，我一点儿也没在意。快吃完晚饭的时候，仆人送来一张便条。我注意到，我的主人看过便条后，似乎显得比刚才更加心不在焉，更加古怪了。他不再装模作样地跟我一交一谈，而是坐在那里不住地一抽一烟，呆呆地沉思着。但是便条上写的什么，他没有说。好在到十一点钟左右，我就去睡觉了。过了一会儿，加西亚在门口探头看我——当时房间是黑的——问我是不是按过铃，我说没有。他表示歉意，不该这么晚来打扰我，并且说已经快到一点钟了。后来，我睡着了，一觉睡到天明。

“现在，我要讲到故事中最惊人的部分了。当我醒来，天已大亮，一看表，快到九点钟了。我曾特别关照过，叫他们在八点钟叫醒我，我奇怪他们怎么会忘了。我从一床一上跳起来，按铃叫仆人，没有人答应。我又按了几下铃，还是没有人答应。我想，肯定是铃出了一毛一病。我憋了一肚子气，一胡一乱穿上衣服，赶快下楼去叫人送热水来。我一看，楼下一个人也没有，当时的惊讶是可想而知的。我在大厅里叫喊，没有回答，又从一个房间跑到另一个房间，都空无一人。我的主人在头天晚上把他的卧室指给我看过，于是我去敲他的房门，但没有回答。我扭一动把手进了房间，里面是空的，一床一上根本就没有人睡过。他同其余的人都走了。外国客人，外国仆人，外国厨师，一一夜之间都不翼而飞啦！我到威斯特里亚寓所的这次拜访就此结束。”

歇洛克·福尔摩斯一边一搓一着双手咯咯直笑，一边把这件怪事收进他那记载奇闻轶事的手册之中。

“你的经历真是闻所未闻，"他说，“先生，我可不可以问一下，你后来又干了些什么？”

“我气极了。开头我想我成了某种荒唐的恶作剧的受害者了。我收拾好我的东西，砰地一声关上大门，提着皮包就到厄榭去了。我去找了镇上的主要地产经纪商艾伦兄弟商号，发现那个别墅是这家商号租出的。这使我猛然想到，这件事的前前后后不可能是为了把我愚弄一番，主要目的一定是为了逃租。现在正是三月末，四季结账日快到了。可是，这也说不过去。管理人对我的提醒表示感谢，不过他告诉我，租费已经预先付清。后来，我进城走访了西班牙大使馆，大使馆不知道这个人。再往后，我又去找麦尔维尔，就是在他家里，我第一次遇见加西亚的。可是，我发现他对加西亚的了解还不如我。最后，我收到你给我的回电，就来找你了。因为我听说，你是一个善于解决难题的人。不过现在，警长先生，从你进屋时说的话来看，我知道这件事还发生什么悲剧了。这可以由你接着往下说了。我可以向你保证，我说的每一个字都是真实的，而且除了我已经告诉你的以外，关于这个人的死，我是绝对地一无所知。我唯一的愿望就是尽一切可能为法律效劳。”

“这个我相信，斯考特·艾克尔斯先生——这个我相信，”葛莱森警长以友好的口气说道，“我应当说，你谈的各种情况，同我们所注意到的事实完全吻合。比如说，吃饭的时候送来一张便条。这张便条后来怎么了，你注意到没有？”

“对，我注意到了。加西亚把它一揉一成一一团一扔到火里去了。”

“对此你有什么要说吗，贝尼斯先生？”

这位乡镇侦探是一个壮实、肥胖、红皮肤的汉子。幸亏他有两只炯炯有神的眼睛才弥补了他那张大脸的不足。那双眼睛几乎隐藏在布满皱纹的面颊和额头的后面。他微微一笑，从口袋里掏出一张折叠过和变了色的纸片。

“福尔摩斯先生，炉子外面有炉栅。他把便条扔过了炉栅。这片没有烧过的纸片是我从炉子后面找到的。”

福尔摩斯微笑着表示欣赏。

“你一定是把那房子检查得十分仔细才把这么一个小小的纸一团一找到的。”

“是的，福尔摩斯先生。我的作风就是这样。我可以把它念出来吗，葛莱森先生？”

那位伦敦佬点了点头。

“便条是写在常见的米色直纹纸上，没有水印。便条用的是一页纸的四分之一，是用短刃剪刀两下剪开的。折叠三次以上，以紫色蜡封口，用某种起整的椭圆形的东西在蜡上匆匆盖压过，是写给威斯特里亚公寓的加西亚先生的。上面写着：

我们自己的颜色，绿色和白色。绿色开，白色关。主楼梯，第一过道，右边第七，绿色粗呢。祝顺利。Ｄ。

这是女人的字体，笔头尖细。可是地址却是用另外一支钢笔写的，要不然就是另外一个人写的，字体粗一大得多。你看。”

“一张非常奇怪的条子，"福尔摩斯匆匆看了一下。"我真佩服你，贝尼斯先生，佩服你检查这张便条时对于细节的注意。或许还可以补充一点细节，椭圆形的封印，无疑是一颗平面的袖扣——还有什么别的东西是这种形状的呢？剪刀是折叠式指甲刀。所剪的两刀距离虽然很短，你仍然可以清楚地看见，在两处剪开的地方同样都显得有折痕。”

这位乡镇侦探嘻嘻笑了起来。

“我还以为我已经一清二楚了哩，我现在才知道，还是漏掉了一点东西，"他说，“我应当说，我并没有很重视这个条子，我只知道他们要搞点什么名堂，而这事情照例牵涉到一个女人。”

当进行这一番谈话时，斯考特·艾克尔斯先生坐在那里心神不安。

“你找到这张便条，我很高兴，因为它确证了我所讲的事情经过，"他说，“可是，我要指出，加西亚先生出了什么事，他家里出了什么事，我还都不知道呢。”

“说到加西亚嘛，"葛莱森说，“容易回答。人们发现他死了。今天早晨在离他家大约一英里的奥克斯肖特空地上找到的。他的头被打成了肉酱，是用沙袋或者类似的东西打的，打得很重，不是打伤了，而是打开了花。那地方很平静，四分之一英里之内没有人家。显然是有人从后面把他打倒的。行凶者把他打死之后还继续打了很久。这是一次狂一暴的行凶。作案人没有留下任何足印和任何线索。”

“遭到抢劫了没有？”

“没有，没有抢劫的迹象。”

“这太悲惨了——悲惨而可怕，"斯考特·艾克尔斯先生愤愤不平地说，“不过，这对我实在是太残酷了。我的主人深夜外出，遭到如此悲惨的结局，这和我一点关系也没有，我怎么会卷进了这个案件呢？”

“很简单，先生，"贝尼斯警长回答说，“从死者口袋里发现的唯一材料就是你给他的信。信上说你将在他家过夜，而他就是在那天晚上死的。有了这封信的信封，我们才知道死者的姓名和住址。我们在今天早上九点钟以后赶到他家，你不在，别的人也不在。我一面电告葛莱森先生在伦敦找寻你，一面检查威斯特里亚寓所。后来我进了城，会合葛莱森先生一同来到这儿。”

“现在我想，"葛莱森先生说着站了起来，“最好是公事公办。斯考特·艾克尔斯先生，你跟我到局里走一趟，把你的供词写出来。”

“当然可以，我立刻就去。可是，福尔摩斯先生，我仍然聘请你代为出力，我希望你能够不惜费用，多费苦心，弄清真相。”

我的朋友转过身去看着那位乡镇侦探。

“我同你合作，我想你不会反对吧，贝尼斯先生？”

“当然不会，先生，万分荣幸。”

“看来，你干事敏捷，有条有理。我想问一下，死者遇害的确切时间是什么时候，这有线索没有？”

“一点钟以后他一直在那里。当时下着雨。他肯定是在下雨之前死的。”

“可是，这根本不可能，贝尼斯先生，"我们的当事人叫了起来。"他的声音我不会听错。我敢起誓，就在那个时间，他正在我卧室里对我说话。”

“奇怪，但并非不可能，"福尔摩斯微笑着说道。

“你有了线索啦？"葛莱森问道。

“从表面上看，案情并不十分复杂，尽避它带有某些新奇有趣的特点。在我斗胆发表最后定见之前，我还必须进一步了解一些情况。哦，对了，贝尼斯先生，你在检查房子的时候，除了这张便条之外，还发现了别的奇怪的东西没有？”

这位侦探以奇特的神情看着我的朋友。

“有，"他说，“还有一两样非常奇怪的东西。等我在警察局办完了事，也许你会愿意对这些东西发表高见的。”

“听任吩咐，"福尔摩斯说着按了一下铃。“赫德森太太，送这几位先生出去，麻烦你把这封电报一交一给听差发出去。叫他先付五先令的回电费。”

来客们离去之后，我们在寂静中坐了一会儿。福尔摩斯拚命一抽一着烟，那双锐利的眼睛上面双眉紧锁，他的头伸向前方，表现出他特有的那种专心致志的神情。

“唔，华生，"他突然转身问我，“你有什么看法？”

“我对斯考特·艾克尔斯先生的故弄玄虚还摸不着头脑。”

“那么，罪行呢？”

“喔，从那个人的同伴都无影无踪这一点来看，应当说，他们在某一方面是合伙谋杀，然后逃之夭夭。”

“这个观点当然是可能的。不过，从表面上看，你得承认，他的两个仆人合伙谋害他，而且是在他有客人的那个晚上袭击他，这很奇怪。那一个星期，除了当天以外，其余几天，他都是独自一人，他们满可以要把他怎么样就把他怎么样。”

“他们为什么逃走呢？”

“是啊。他们为什么逃走呢？这里面大有文章。另一个重要情况就是我们的当事人斯考特·艾克尔斯的那一段离奇经历。现在，亲一爱一的华生，要对这两种情况作出解释，岂非超出了人的智力限度？如果能作出一种解释，也能说明那张措辞古怪的神秘便条，那么，姑且把这种解释作为一种暂时的假设也是有价值的。如果我们了解到的新情况完全与这场一陰一谋符合，那么我们的假设就可以逐渐成为答案了。”

“可是我们的假设是什么呢？”

福尔摩斯仰身靠在椅背上，眼睛半睁半闭。

“你必须承认，亲一爱一的华生，恶作剧的想法是不可能的。正如结局所示，里面的事情严重。把斯考特·艾克尔斯哄骗到威斯特里亚寓所去和这件事有些联系。”

“可能是什么联系呢？”

“让我们一环扣一环地来研究一下。从表面上看，这个年轻的西班牙人和斯考特·艾克尔斯之间突如其来的奇怪友谊是有些蹊跷的。加快友谊步伐的是那个西班牙人。就在他第一次认识艾克尔斯的当天，他就赶到伦敦的另一头去拜访艾克尔斯，而且同他保持密切往来，最后把他请到厄榭去。那么，他要艾克尔斯干什么呢？艾克尔斯又能提供什么呢？我看不出这个人有什么魅力。他并不特别聪明——不可能同一个机智的拉丁族人品味相投。那么，加西亚为什么在他认识的人当中偏偏选中了他，是什么特别适合他的需要呢？他有什么突出的气质吗？我说他有。他正是一个传统的体面英国人，正是一个能给另外一个英国人留下深刻印象的人证。你已经亲眼看到，两位警长都不曾想到对他的供词提出疑问，尽避他的供述是极不平常的。”

“可是，要他见证什么呢？”

“事情既然已成这样，他见证不了什么了，不过，如果是另外一种情况，他就可以见证一切。这就是我对这件事的看法。”

“我明白了，这样他就可以作不在现场的证明了。”

“一点儿不错，亲一爱一的华生，他可能是要人证明他当时不在现场。为了展开讨论，我们不妨设想威斯特里亚寓所的那一家人是在共同策划某种一陰一谋。不管其企图如何，我们可以假设他们是想在一点钟以前出走。他们在时钟上面耍了花招。很可能是这样：他们让艾克尔斯去睡觉的时间比艾克尔斯认为的时间要早些。不管怎么说，可能是，当加西亚走去告诉艾克尔斯是一点钟的时候，实际上还没有过十二点钟。如果加西亚能够在提到的时间内干完想干的事情并回到自己房里，那么，他显然对任何控告都能作出强有力的答辩。我们这位无可指责的英国人则可以在任何法庭上宣誓说被告一直是在屋里。这是对付最糟情况的一张保票。”

“对，对，我懂了。不过，另外几个人不见了，又怎么解释呢？”

“我还没有掌握全部事实，不过我不认为有任何不可克服的困难。然而，就凭面前这些材料来争论，那是错误的。你自己已经不知不觉地在摆一弄材料，自圆其说了。”

“那封信呢？”

“信上是怎么写的？‘我们自己的颜色，绿色和白色。听起来很象赛一马的事。‘绿色开，白色关。这显然是信号。‘主楼梯，第一过道，右边第七，绿色粗呢。这是约定地点。我们说不定会在这件事的末尾碰上一个吃醋的丈夫哩。很清楚，这显然是一次危险的探索，不然，她就不会说祝顺利了。Ｄ——这应当是入门指南。”

“那个人是西班牙人。我推测Ｄ代表多洛蕾一丝，这在西班牙是个很普通的女人的名字。”

“好，华生，很好——可是极难成立。西班牙人同西班牙人写信，会用西班牙文。写这封信的人肯定是英国人。好吧，我们只有耐心以待，等那位了不起的警长回到我们这里来再说。不过，我们可得感谢我们的好运气，是它使我们在这几个钟头里得以摆脱这种难以忍受的闲散和无聊。”

在我们的萨里警官返回之前，福尔摩斯已经接到回电。福尔摩斯看了回电，正要把它放进笔记本，他瞥见了我满带着期望的脸。他笑着将回电扔过来给我。

“我们是在贵族圈子中打转呢，"他说。

电报上开列了一些人名和住址：

哈林比爵士，住丁榜尔；乔治·弗利奥特爵士，住奥

克斯肖特塔楼；治安官海尼斯·海尼斯先生，住帕地普雷

斯；杰姆斯·巴克·威廉斯先生，住埃顿赫尔；亨德森先

生，住海伊加布尔；约舒亚·斯通牧师，住内特瓦尔斯林。

“这种做法显然是要限制我们的行动范围，"福尔摩斯说。“毫无疑问，头脑清楚的贝尼斯已经采用了某种类似的计划。”

“我不太明白。”

“哦，我亲一爱一的伙伴，我们已经提出了结论，加西亚吃饭时收到的是一封约会或幽会的信。现在，如果这种明确的解释是对的，为了应约，这个人就得爬上那个主楼梯，到走道上去寻找第七个房门。清楚得很，房子一定很大。同样可以肯定的是，这所房子离奥克斯肖特不会超过一两英里，因为加西亚是向那个方向走的。而且，按照我对这些情况的解释来看，加亚西原想及时地赶在一点钟以前回到威斯特里亚寓所，以说明他并不在现场。由于奥克斯肖特附近的大房子为数有限，我采取了明显的办法，打电报给斯考特·艾克尔斯提到过的几个经理人。他们的姓名都在这封回电里。我们这堆乱麻的另一头肯定就在他们当中。”

当我们在贝尼斯警长的陪同下来到厄榭美丽的萨里村以前，已经快六点钟了。

福尔摩斯和我在布尔吃了一些晚点，并且找到了舒适的住处。最后，我们在这位侦探的陪同下前去访问威斯特里亚寓所。那是一个又冷又黑的三月之夜，寒风细雨迎面扑来，当我们在这片荒凉的空地上穿行而过，并将走向那个悲剧的地点时，这情景真是一种十分适合的陪衬。