rr.eastofealing-第12部分

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　Professor　Slobe　shook　his　head。　'Sadly；　no；'　said　he。
　'Then　little　has　changed。　If　anything；　these　horrors　have　been　intensified。　Details　which　I　read　here　would　never　have　been　made　public　knowledge　in　my　time。　But　if　what　I　see　is　typical；　and　such　I　have　no　reason　to　disbelieve；　then　I　am　appalled　to　find　that　with　the　resources　you　now　possess；　little　has　been　done。'
　Professor　Slobe　was　for　once　lost　for　words；　and　chewed　ruefully　upon　a　piece　of　toast。
　'And　so　I　am　prompted　to　ask；'　Holmes　continued；　'your　reason　for　stranding　me　in　this　most　dismal　age。'
　The　toast　caught　in　the　old　man's　throat　and　he　collapsed　red…faced　into　a　violent　fit　of　coughing。
　'e　now；'　said　Holmes；　patting　him　gently　upon　the　back；　'surely　you　did　not　think　to　deceive　me　with　your　display　of　apparent　surprise　at　my　arrival？　My　favourite　cigarettes　are　in　your　case　and　my　tobacco　in　the　humidor。　You　serve　me　with　a　Ninety…two　Vamberry；　by　now　surely　a　priceless　vintage。　I　could　enumerate　another　twenty…three　such　facts　regarding　the　〃singular　case　of　the　reanimated　detective〃；　but　I　do　not　believe　it　to　be　necessary。　Why　have　you　called　me　here；　Professor？'
　The　scholar　took　a　sip　of　coffee　and　dabbed　at　his　lips　with　a　napkin。　He　rose　carefully　from　his　chair　and　took　himself　over　to　the　French　windows；　where　he　stood；　his　back　to　the　detective；　staring　out　into　his　wonderful　garden。　'It　is　a　bad　business；'　he　said；　without　turning。
　'I　have　no　doubt　of　that。'
　'I　am　not　altogether　certain　at　present　as　to　what　steps　can　be　taken。　There　is　very　much　I　have　to　know。　I　cannot　face　it　alone。'
　Holmes　took　out　his　greasy；　black　clay　pipe　from　the　inner　pocket　of　his　dressing…gown　and　filled　it　from　the　Professor's　humidor。　'So；'　said　he；　'once　more　we　are　to　work　together。'
　'Let　me　show　you　something　and　then　you　can　decide。'　Professor　Slobe　lead　his　gaunt　visitor　through　the　study　door；　along　the　elegant　hall；　and　up　the　main　staircase。　Holmes　followed　the　ancient　up　several　more　flights　of　stairs；　noting　well　the　narrow　shoulders　and　fragile　hands　of　the　man。　The　Professor　had　not　aged　by　a　single　day　since　last　they　met　so　very　long　ago。
　The　two　were　now　nearly　amongst　the　gables　of　the　great　house；　and　the　final　staircase　debouched　into　an　extraordinary　room；　perfectly　round；　and　some　ten　or　twelve　feet　in　diameter。　It　was　bare　of　furniture　save　for　a　large；　circular　table　with　a　white　marble　top　which　stood　at　its　centre　and　an　assortment　of　cranks　and　pulleys　which　hung　above　it。　The　walls　were　painted　the　darkest　of　blacks　and　there　was　not　a　window　to　be　seen。　Holmes　nodded　approvingly；　and　the　Professor　said；　'Of　course；　a　camera　obscura。　This　simple　device　enables　me　to　keep　a　close　eye　upon　most　of　the　parish　without　the　trouble　of　leaving　my　house。　Would　you　be　so　kind　as　to　close　the　door？'
　Holmes　did　so；　and　the　room　plunged　into　darkness。　There　was　a　sharp　click；　followed　by　the　sound　of　moving　pulleys；　and　clattering　chains。　A　blurred　image　appeared　upon　the　table…top；　cast　down　through　the　system　of　prisms　linked　to　the　uppermost　lens　mounted　upon　the　Professor's　roof。　Slowly　the　image　was　brought　into　focus：　it　was　a　bird's…eye　view　of　the　Memorial　Library。　Before　this；　draped　across　the　bench；　lay　Jim　Pooley；　evidently　fast　asleep。　The　Professor　cranked　away　and　the　rooftop　lens　turned；　the　image　upon　the　table　swam　up　towards　the　High　Street。　It　passed　over　Norman's　corner…shop　and　the　two　observers　were　momentarily　stunned　by　the　sight　of　the　shopkeeper　alone　in　his　backyard；　apparently　breaking　up　paving…stones　with　his　bare　hands。
　'Most　probably　Dimac；'　Professor　Slobe　explained。　'It　has　e　to　be　something　of　the　vogue　in　Brentford。'
　'I　favour　Barritso；　as　you　well　know；'　said　Holmes。
　'Now；'　said　Professor　Slobe；　as　he　swung　the　lens　up　to　its　highest　mounting　and　passed　the　image　along　the　borders　of　the　Brentford　Triangle；　'what　do　you　see？'
　Holmes　cradled　his　chin　in　his　right　hand　and　watched　the　moving　picture　with　great　interest。　'Some　trick　of　the　light；　surely？'
　'But　what　do　you　see？'
　Holmes　plucked　at　a　neat　sideburn。　'I　see　a　faint　curtain　of　light　enclosing　the　parish　boundaries。'
　'And　what　do　you　take　it　to　be？'
　Holmes　shook　his　head。　'Some　natural　phenomenon　perhaps？　Something　akin　to　the　aurora　borealis？'
　'I　think　not。'　The　Professor　closed　the　rooftop　aperture　and　the　room　fell　once　more　into　darkness。　Holmes　heard　the　sound　of　a　key　turning　in　a　lock；　and　a　thin　line　of　wan　light　spread　into　the　room　from　a　previously　concealed　doorway。　'This　is　a　somewhat　private　chamber；'　the　Professor　whispered　as　he　led　the　detective　through　the　opening　and　into　a　gabled　gallery　set　in　the　very　eaves　of　the　roof。　What　light　there　was　entered　through　chinks　between　the　slates。　The　old　man　struck　flame　to　an　enamelled　oil…lamp；　and　the　golden　light　threw　a　long　and　cluttered　garret　into　perspective。　It　was　lined　on　either　side　with　tall；　dark　filing　cabinets。　Bundles　of　bound　documents；　some　evidently　of　great　age；　were　stacked　upon　and　about　these；　or　spilled　out　from　half…opened　drawers。
　'As　you　can　observe；　I　have　been　following　the　course　of　this　particular　investigation　for　a　good　many　years。'
　Holmes　ran　his　finger　lightly　over　the　waxen　paper　of　a　crumbling　document　exposing　a　seal　imprinted　with　the　date　1703。　'And　all　this　has　been　amassed　to　the　furtherance　of　one　single　goal？'
　The　Professor　nodded。　'It　is　the　product　of　many　lifetimes'　work　and　yet　now；　with　all　this　behind　me；　I　am　still　lost　for　a　solution　to　the　matter　now　closely　pressing　upon　us。'
　'But　what　is　it；　Professor？　What　have　you　found　and　what　do　you　yet　seek？　Tell　me　how　I　might　aid　you；　you　have　but　to　ask。'
　'What　I　have　here　is　evidence。　But　it　is　evidence　of　a　most　unique　nature；　for　it　is　evidence　of　a　crime　which　is　yet　to　be　mitted；　the　greatest　crime　of　them　all。　I　have　my　case　together　and　I　can　predict　fairly　accurately　as　to　what　will　occur　and　when；　but　I　have　yet　to　e　up　with　a　solution　as　to　a　way　that　I　might　prevent　it　happening。'
　'But　what　is　it？'
　'Armageddon。　The　apocalypse；'　said　Professor　Slobe。　'The　ing　of　the　millennium。　Did　you　think　that　I　would　have　gone　to　all　this　trouble　for　anything　less？'
　Sherlock　Holmes　shook　his　head　slowly。　'I　suppose　not；'　said　he。
　
　Norman's　automaton　had　finished　breaking　up　the　stones　and　resurfacing　the　shopkeeper's　backyard。　Now　he　smacked　the　dust　from　his　duro…flesh　palms　and　returned　to　the　kitchenette　to　brew　up　some　tea　for　his　living　double。　Norman　watched　his　approach　through　the　grimy　rear　window。　He　was　doing　very　well　now；　he　thought。　There　were　no　more　signs　of　violent　temperament　now　that　his　circuitry　had　been　appropriately　readjusted。　He　would　give　the　creation　a　couple　of　days　to　redecorate　the　premises　then；　if　all　seemed　sound；　get　him　back　on　shop　work。　Although　things　had　got　off　to　a　poor　start；　Norman　was　certain　that　the　future　looked　promising；　and　that　he　would　soon　be　able　to　dedicate　all　his　time　to　his　greatest　project　yet。
　The　scientific　shopkeeper　grinned　lopsidedly　and　struck　up　a　bit　more　whistling。　He　sought　about　on　his　shelves　for　a　chocolate　bar　which　was　still　in　date　to　munch　upon。　Through　the　open　shop…doorway　he　spied　another　whistler。　Jim　Pooley　was　striding　by　at　a　jaunty　pace　en　route　to　Bob　the　bookie。　Here　Jim　would　lay　on　one　of　the　most　extraordinary　and　ill…conceived　Super…Yankee　accumulators　ever　recorded　in　the　annals　of　bookmaking　history。
　Norman　gave　up　his　futile　search；　made　a　mental　observation　that　when　the　great　day　dawned　and　all　his　wares　were　puter…coded　he　would　have　no　need　to　bother　with　such　trifles　as　actually　ordering　new　stock；　and　repaired　to　the　kitchenette　for　a　cuppa。
　Jim　Pooley　pushed　open　Bob's　armoured…glass　door　and　entered　the　betting　shop。　As　is　well　known；　to　any　follower　of　the　sport　of　kings；　the　interior　of　such　establishments　vary　by　but　the　merest　detail；　be　they　based　upon　some　busy　thoroughfare　in　John　O'Groats　or　down　a　back　alley　in　Penge。　The　betting　shop　is　always　instantly　recognizable　to　be　the　thing　of　beauty　that　it　is：　the　grey；　fag…scarred　linoleum　floor；　and　the　ticker…tape　wele　of　slip　stubs；　the　heavily…barred　counter；　twelve…inch　black　and　white　tellies；　the　rarely…scrubbed　blackboards；　displaying　hieroglyphics　that　even　the　now　legendary　Champollion　would　find　himself　hard…pressed　to　decipher。
　Jim　squinted　through　the　blue　fog　of　Havana　cigar　smoke　towards　its　source。　Behind　the　portcullis；　pulling　upon　his　torpedo；　sat　Bob　the　bookie。
　'In　for　another　hiding？'　the　millionaire　enquired。
　Jim　smiled　and　waggled　his　betting…slip。　'Today　is　the　day；'　quoth　he。
　Bob　stifled　a　yawn　and　rubbed　a　newly…purchased　diamond　ring　upon　the　lapel　of　his　smoking…jacket。　The　Koh…i…Noor　glittered　flawlessly　in　its　setting　as　Jim　slid　his　slip　beneath　the　titanium　security　bars　of　the　counter　fortress。　Bob　held　the　crumpled　thing　at　arm's　length　and　examined　it　with　passing　interest。　'I　have　a　new　pocket　calculator；'　he　told　Pooley。
　'Personalized　for　you　by　Cartiers　of　Paris；　no　doubt；'　said　Jim。　'Wrought　in　platinum　and　fashioned　into　the　likeness　of　a　golden　calf。　Your　initials　in　jade？'
　'Something　of　the　sort。'