"DERLETH, August - The Adventure of the Retired Novelist (A Solar Pons story)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Derleth August)

THE ADVENTURE OF THE RETIRED NOVELIST
A Solar Pons story
By August Derleth
(From Regarding Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of Solar Pons, Copyright 1945 by August Derleth)
Version 1.0 - January 18, 2002

THOUGH SOLAR PONS does not consider it among his best adventures, the case of the late famed man of letters, Mr. Thomas Wilgreve, has always held for me a fascination of which I cannot rid myself. It was late one night in October, 1926, when Pons and I were returning from Covent Garden that Pons gripped my arm, not far from our lodgings in Praed Street, brought me to a halt, and pointed upward to our windows, bright with light. Silhouetted against one of them was the profile head of a man. Pons studied it for a moment; then he turned to me with raised eyebrows.

"Do you recognize that profile, Parker?"

"Well, it is certainly not John Barrymore's--unless he is in disguise," I answered. I shrugged and admitted that I did not recognize him, despite the feeling that there was something very familiar about the silhouette.

"In his own field he is a distinguished gentleman. That long, singularly lean face, that straight nose, those bushy eyebrows and that affected mane of hair all suggest a picture reproduced in rotogravure by the metropolitan papers at least once a month. What would you say if I were to suggest the author of Victoria?"

"Thomas Wilgreve! Of course--I knew I had seen that profile somewhere."

"It does suggest Barrymore," admitted Pons, smiling dryly.

In spite of his leonine and impressive appearance, Thomas Wilgreve was very taciturn and almost humble in bearing, as is the case with so many men of genuine stature who have little inclination to be pompous and self-important, and no stomach at all for arrogance. He apologized for taking the liberty to invade our rooms, singling out Pons by the same means used by Pons to identify him, and explained that it was very seldom that he left his home in St. John's Wood and that, once having left it, he was loath to return without accomplishing what he had set out to do. He waited while Pons and I took off our outer clothing, and then a little diffidently resumed.

"What I came to see you about was to ask whether you can investigate a small matter that seems to concern me in some inexplicable manner."

Pons hesitated, avoiding Wilgreve's inquiring eyes. "I should say it depends upon the nature of the affair."

"I've an idea that this matter will interest you, Mr. Pons," said the retired novelist. "It takes a bit to stir me, for I'm used to the most intricate subtleties and variations of writing and the imagination, and ordinary events appear to me for the most part singularly banal."

The novelist paused and took from his wallet a piece of paper. He put on his pince-nez, and read it over very carefully to himself, as if to make certain beyond question that he had got the right paper. Then he passed the paper on to Pons, who read it and handed it over to me, after which he took it back and studied it, an enigmatic smile playing over his saturnine face. The paper was a short, informal note, an invitation--

"My dear Wilgreve,

I am briefly up from the country, and have but a limited time at my disposal. Yet I do want to see you very much. I find it absolutely impossible to run out to St. John's Wood, but I hope you will not find it too much trouble to join me for dinner and perhaps the evening on Friday, the seventh. I will wait for you at Claridge's, the usual place. Lakin."

"Lakin is the Essex novelist and poet," said Pons thoughtfully. "I take it you went, he was not there, he had not been there, he was not up from the country."

"Yes, yes, exactly," said Wilgreve, smiling delightedly. "Your talents are amazing, sir--but of course, it is elementary, is it not? It would almost have to be so, would it not? Well, that is the way things turned out; I went, he was not there, he had not been there, no word had been left, I waited a reasonable time, I returned home. I made no attempt to solve the riddle; I was annoyed, I thought someone had taken the opportunity to make a joke at my expense. Yet I had to admit that it was well done; the writing was very much like Lakin's--I had never a doubt of it when I read it. It was, in short, precisely the kind of note Lakin would have written; next day I telephoned him, and discovered, as you guessed, that he had not been in London at all."

He became a little more animated, taking off his pince nez and leaning forward to tap Pons' knee. "Now then, Mr. Pons--almost two weeks later, that is, last night,--an extraordinary event took place. I had come out to the stoop for a breath of air, when I was a witness to a sudden accident--or rather what appeared to be an accident. Before I quite knew what had happened, two gentlemen came running to where I stood and insisted that I accompany them as a material witness, the child's life might be in danger, not a moment was to be lost. I did not hesitate, despite my reluctance; I stepped back into my house, turned out the light, and pausing only to take my hat, I accompanied them. I see now on mature reflection that it was a foolhardy thing to do; but in the excitement of the moment, what more natural! In any case, I was hustled into a waiting car and driven some ten blocks, where I was taken into what appeared to be a small waiting-room, where one of the gentlemen very courteously asked me to stop, an officer would be along to take my statement as soon as possible. Then, in a very agitated manner, he vanished into an inner room. I saw no one for an hour; then I got up and tried the inner door; it was locked; my knocks brought no response. I tried the outer door in some alarm, thinking that I was the victim of some scheme; but it was open, I was free to go. Naturally, I did not know what to do; I confess that I waited a while longer, and then took my departure, utterly mystified.

"When I let myself into my house, Mr. Pons, I took off my hat in the darkness and then went over to turn on the lamp. Now, sir, my reading light is a table-lamp with a green shade; it throws a strong light within the room, but seems to throw only a subdued glow to anyone outside. As I reached down for the switch, I was aware of a warm glow; I touched the bulb--it was warm--as warm as if it had just been put out. Yet I had turned it out approximately two hours before! Hurriedly I checked all the doors and windows, but nothing was amiss; all were locked save the front door through which I had come."

"Ah!" exclaimed Pons, his eyes narrowing, the smile on his lips persisting.

"I thought you would be interested, Mr. Pons. Now, then, after I had made this search, I observed that the door to the attic stood open. I live in a one-storey bungalow with an attic of good size. I do not keep much in the attic--some books, papers, magazines--the natural accumulation of anyone in my profession; and some of the old furniture that was in the house when I bought it. This furniture had been pulled around, despite some manifest effort to conceal the fact."
Pons touched his ear lobe thoughtfully. "When did you buy the house?"

"About ten and a half years ago."

"You bought it furnished, apparently. From whom?"

"From the executors of an estate.'"