The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes / Приключения Шерлока Холмса. Артур Конан Дойл
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I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room, and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases.”
The stout gentleman rose from his chair, and greeted me, with a quick little questioning glance from his small eyes.
Putting his fingertips together, Holmes said:
“Listen, my dear Watson. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to tell a wonderful story. Mr. Wilson, please, repeat it for our friend. As a rule, when I hear such stories, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I admit that the facts are unique.”
The client pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. I took a good look at the man. But I did not gain very much, however. Our visitor seemed to be an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray trousers, a black frockcoat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. There was nothing remarkable about the man, but he had а blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent.
Sherlock Holmes shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
“Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his eyes upon my companion.
“How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour? It’s true, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“Rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc and compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk.”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish which you have tattooed above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks. And, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I see that this is quite simple!”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. My poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Have you found the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered. “Here it is. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him, and read as follows: —
“To the Red-headed League. On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Penn., U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What does this mean?” I cried, after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair.
“A strange advertisement, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, please, tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your life. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle, of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. I used to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and he is willing to come for half wages, so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth either. It’s hard to say his age. Mr. Holmes, I know very well that he could earn twice what I am able to give him. But after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put these ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. Your assistant is as remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “The fellow adores photography. He is taking pictures all the time, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on the whole, he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does simple cooking, and keeps the place clean-that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower, and never had any children. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we pay our debts, nothing more.
“But that advertisement! Eight weeks ago Spaulding came into the office with this paper in his hand, and he said: —
“’I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’
“’Why that?’ I asks.
“’Why,’ says he, ’here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s very profitable and gives a lot of money. If my hair would only change colour!’
“’Why, what is it, then?’ I asked.
“You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a stay-at-home man. So I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad to hear some news.
“’Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked, with his eyes open.
“’Never.’
“’Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“’And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“’Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, my business has not been very good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.
“’Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“’Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ’you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you could apply for particulars. The League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to help the men whose hair is of that colour.’
“’But,’ said I, ’there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’
“’Not so many as you might think,’