最后的致意

內(nèi)容概要

His Last Bow，中文譯名為《最后的致意》，這是一部充滿傳奇、冒險與智慧的偵探故事，它由英國著名偵探小說家、“英國偵探小說之父”阿瑟·柯南·道爾編著。在充滿霧氣的倫敦貝克街上，住著一位富有正義感的偵探福爾摩斯。他和他忠實的醫(yī)生朋友華生一起經(jīng)歷了無數(shù)千奇百怪的案子，制造了許多經(jīng)典的偵探故事?！蹲詈蟮闹乱狻繁闶瞧渲械囊徊俊Ｔ摃还J(rèn)為世界偵探小說的經(jīng)典之作，至今已被譯成世界上多種文字，并曾經(jīng)多次被改編成電影。書中所展現(xiàn)主人公福爾摩斯的傳奇故事伴隨了一代又一代人的美麗童年、少年直至成年。    無論作為語言學(xué)習(xí)的課本，還是作為通俗的文學(xué)讀本，本書對當(dāng)代中國讀者，特別是青少年讀者都將產(chǎn)生積極的影響。為了使讀者能夠了解英文故事概況，進(jìn)而提高閱讀速度和閱讀水平，在每章的開始部分增加了中文導(dǎo)讀。

書籍目錄

威斯特里亞寓所/The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge	1紙板盒/The Adventure of the Cardboard Box	37紅圈會/The Adventure of the Red Circle	62布魯斯-帕廷頓計劃The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans	85臨終的偵察/The Adventure of the Dying Detective	118失蹤的弗朗西絲·卡法克斯女士The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax	137魔鬼的腳印/The Adventure of the Devil's Foot	161福爾摩斯謝幕/His Last Bow，An Epilogue of Sherlock Homes	190

章節(jié)摘錄

　　威斯特里亞寓所　　The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge　　第一章 約翰先生的獨(dú)特經(jīng)歷　　Chapter 1 The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles　　一八九二年末的一個午餐時間，福爾摩斯收到一位名叫約翰·史考特·艾克立斯的電報，說自己有一次奇怪的經(jīng)歷，要來請教。于是他草草地回了電報。一會兒，一個身材高大、長著灰胡子的人走進(jìn)來，談起了自己遇到的很奇特的事。　　福爾摩斯請史考特·艾克立斯先生坐下，問他發(fā)生了什么事。福爾摩斯從他的打扮中看出他一早就碰到了不愉快的事，便問他為什么現(xiàn)在才來？　　他理了理頭發(fā)說自己一早去了房地產(chǎn)公司，加西亞的房租已繳，威斯特里亞寓所一切正常。福爾摩斯讓他從頭講起。這時，葛里格森探長來到，向福爾摩斯介紹了舍瑞郡的貝恩斯警探。探長說他們正在追蹤疑犯，說著眼睛落在了艾克立斯身上，又說是為威斯特里亞寓所的艾洛埃雪斯·加西亞昨晚死亡一案而來。探長說死者的口袋有史考特·艾克立斯的一封信，知道他昨晚在那里過夜。　　福爾摩斯告訴探長，艾克立斯剛才正準(zhǔn)備敘述經(jīng)過，現(xiàn)在應(yīng)讓他說完。于是史考特·艾克立斯接著說自己是單身漢，一天，在退休的釀酒商麥爾菲家的飯桌上認(rèn)識了西班牙人加西亞。兩人很投緣，兩天后加西亞去找他玩，后來又邀請他去威斯特里亞寓所住幾天，昨晚他便去了?！　∈房继亍ぐ肆⑺归_車去了那里，加西亞熱情地接他進(jìn)去，一個兇悍　　1. THE SINGULAR EXPERIENCE OF MR.　　JOHN SCOTT ECCLES　　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 led 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 replypaid telegram. She would have come."　　"Will you see him?"　　"My dear Watson， you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Car-ruthers. 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 specta-cles 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 in-stantly 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.　　"Im 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 I 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 led 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 dont mean—you dont mean that I am suspected?"　　"A letter of yours was found in the dead mans 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 inspectors 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 Albemarle 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 fairsized one， standing back from the road， with a curving drive which was banked with high ever-green shrubs. It was an old， tumble-down 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-a-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 foot-man， the foreign cook， all had vanished in the night！ That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.

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