"Doyle, Arthur Conan - His Last Bow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doyle Arthur Conan)

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 object
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 has 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.