His timid inquiries4 into the identity of East 18642 had begun and terminated with his labored5 perusal6 of the telephone book, a profitless task which had occupied him for the greater part of an evening.
The name, Gianapolis, did not appear at all; whereas there proved to be some two hundred and ninety Kings. But, oddly, only four of these were on the Eastern Exchange; one was a veterinary surgeon; one a boat-builder; and a third a teacher of dancing. The fourth, an engineer, seemed a “possible” to Soames, although his published number was not 18642; but a brief—a very brief—conversation, convinced the butler that this was not his man.
He had been away from the flat for over an hour, and he doubted if even the lax sense of discipline possessed7 by Mr. Leroux would enable that gentleman to overlook this irregularity. Soames had a key of the outer door, and he built his hopes upon the possibility that Leroux had not noticed his absence and would not hear his return.
He opened the door very quietly, but had scarcely set his foot in the lobby ere the dreadful, unforgettable scene met his gaze.
For more years than he could remember, he had lived in dread8 of the law; and, in Luke Soames' philosophy, the words Satan and Detective were interchangeable. Now, before his eyes, was a palpable, unmistakable police officer; and on the floor...
Just one glimpse he permitted himself—and, in a voice that seemed to reach him from a vast distance, the detective was addressing HIM!...
Slinking to his room, with his craven heart missing every fourth beat, and his mind in chaos9, Soames sank down upon the bed, locked his hands together and hugged them, convulsively, between his knees.
It was come! He had overstepped that almost invisible boundary-line which divides indiscretion from crime. He knew now that the voice within him, the voice which had warned him against Gianapolis and against becoming involved in what dimly he had perceived to be an elaborate scheme, had been, not the voice of cowardice10 (as he had supposed) but that of prudence11.
And it was too late. The dead woman, he told himself—he had been unable to see her very clearly—undoubtedly was Mrs. Leroux. What in God's name had happened! Probably her husband had killed her... which meant? It meant that proofs—PROOFS—were come into his possession; and who should be involved, entangled12 in the meshes13 of this fallen conspiracy14, but himself, Luke Soames!
As must be abundantly evident, Soames was not a criminal of the daring type; he did not believe in reaching out for anything until he was well assured that he could, if necessary, draw back his hand. This last venture, this regrettable venture—this ruinous venture—had been a mistake. He had entered into it under the glamour15 of Gianapolis' personality. Of what use, now, to him was his swelling16 bank balance?
But in justice to the mental capacity of Soames, it must be admitted that he had not entirely17 overlooked such a possibility as this; he had simply refrained, for the good of his health, from contemplating18 it.
Long before, he had observed, with interest, that, should an emergency arise (such as a fire), a means of egress19 had been placed by the kindly20 architect adjacent to his bedroom window. Thus, his departure on the night of the murder was not the fruit of a sudden scheme, but of one well matured.
Closing and locking his bedroom door, Soames threw out upon the bed the entire contents of his trunk; selected those things which he considered indispensable, and those which might constitute clues. He hastily packed his grip, and, with a last glance about the room and some seconds of breathless listening at the door, he attached to the handle a long piece of cord, which at some time had been tied about his trunk, and, gently opening the window, lowered the grip into the courtyard beneath. The light he had already extinguished, and with the conviction dwelling21 in his bosom22 that in some way he was become accessory to a murder—that he was a man shortly to be pursued by the police of the civilized23 world—he descended24 the skeleton lift-shaft, picked up his grip, and passed out under the archway into the lane at the back of Palace Mansions25 and St. Andrew's Mansions.
He did not proceed in the direction which would have brought him out into the Square, but elected to emerge through the other end. At exactly the moment that Inspector26 Dunbar rushed into his vacated room, Mr. Soames, grip in hand, was mounting to the top of a southward bound 'bus at the corner of Parliament Street!
He was conscious of a need for reflection. He longed to sit in some secluded27 spot in order to think. At present, his brain was a mere28 whirligig, and all things about him seemingly danced to the same tune29. Stationary30 objects were become unstable31 in the eyes of Soames, and the solid earth, burst free of its moorings, no longer afforded him a safe foothold. There was a humming in his ears; and a mist floated before his eyes. By the time that the motor-'bus was come to the south side of the bridge, Soames had succeeded in slowing down his mental roundabout in some degree; and now he began grasping at the flying ideas which the diminishing violence of his brain storm enabled him, vaguely32, to perceive.
The first fruits of his reflections were bitter. He viewed the events of the night in truer focus; he saw that by his flight he had sealed his fate—had voluntarily outlawed33 himself. It became frightfully evident to him that he dared not seek to draw from his bank, that he dared not touch even his modest Post Office account. With the exception of some twenty-five shillings in his pocket, he was penniless!
How could he hope to fly the country, or even to hide himself, without money?
He glanced suspiciously about the 'bus; for he perceived that an old instinct had prompted him to mount one which passed the Oval—a former point of debarkation35 when he lived in rooms near Kennington Park. Someone might recognize him!
What should he do—where should he go? It was a desperate situation.
The inspector who had cared to study that furtive36, isolated38 figure, could not have failed to mark it for that of a hunted man.
At Kennington Gate the 'bus made a halt. Soames glanced at the clock on the corner. It was close upon one A. M. Where in heaven's name should he go? What a fool he had been to come to this district where he was known!
Stay! There was one man in London, surely, who must be almost as keenly interested in the fate of Luke Soames as Luke Soames himself ... Gianapolis!
Soames sprang up and hurried off the 'bus. No public telephone box would be available at that hour, but dire1 need spurred his slow mind and also lent him assurance. He entered the office of the taxicab depot39 on the next corner, and, from the man whom he found in charge, solicited40 and obtained the favor of using the telephone. Lifting the receiver, he asked for East 18642.
The seconds that elapsed, now, were as hours of deathly suspense41 to the man at the telephone. If the number should be engaged!... If the exchange could get no reply!...
“Hullo!” said a nasal voice—“who is it?”
“It is Soames—and I want to speak to Mr. King!”
He lowered his tone as much as possible, almost whispering his own name. He knew the voice which had answered him; it was the same that he always heard when ringing up East 18642. But would Gianapolis come to the telephone? Suddenly—
“Yes, yes!”
“Where are you?”
“At Kennington.”
“Are they following you?”
“No—I don't think so, at least; what am I to do? Where am I to go?”
“Get to Globe Road—near Stratford Bridge, East, without delay. But whatever you do, see that you are not followed! Globe Road is the turning immediately beyond the Railway Station. It is not too late, perhaps, to get a 'bus or tram, for some part of the way, at any rate. But even if the last is gone, don't take a cab; walk. When you get to Globe Road, pass down on the left-hand side, and, if necessary, right to the end. Make sure you are not followed, then walk back again. You will receive a signal from an open door. Come right in. Good-by.”
Soames replaced the receiver on the hook, uttering a long-drawn sigh of relief. The arbiter44 of his fortunes had not failed him!
“Thank you very much!” he said to the man in charge of the office, who had been bending over his books and apparently45 taking not the slightest interest in the telephone conversation. Soames placed twopence, the price of the call, on the desk. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
He hastened out of the gate and across the road. An electric tramcar which would bear him as far as the Elephant-and-Castle was on the point of starting from the corner. Grip in hand, Soames boarded the car and mounted to the top deck. He was in some doubt respecting his mode of travel from the next point onward46, but the night was fine, even if he had to walk, and his reviving spirits would cheer him with visions of a golden future!
His money!—That indeed was a bitter draught47: the loss of his hardly earned savings48! But he was now established—linked by a common secret—in partnership49 with Gianapolis; he was one of that mysterious, obviously wealthy group which arranged drafts on Paris—which could afford to pay him some hundreds of pounds per annum for such a trifling50 service as juggling51 the mail!
Mr. King!—If Gianapolis were only the servant, what a magnificent man of business must be hidden beneath the cognomen52, Mr. King! And he was about to meet that lord of mystery. Fear and curiosity were oddly blended in the anticipation53.
By great good fortune, Soames arrived at the Elephant-and-Castle in time to catch an eastward54 bound motor-'bus, a 'bus which would actually carry him to the end of Globe Road. He took his seat on top, and with greater composure than he had known since his dramatic meeting with Gianapolis in Victoria Street, lighted one of Mr. Leroux's cabanas (with which he invariably kept his case filled) and settled down to think about the future.
His reflections served apparently to shorten the journey; and Soames found himself proceeding55 along Globe Road—a dark and uninviting highway—almost before he realized that London Bridge had been traversed. It was now long past one o'clock; and that part of the east-end showed dreary56 and deserted57. Public houses had long since ejected their late guests, and even those argumentative groups, which, after closing-time, linger on the pavements, within the odor Bacchanalian58, were dispersed59. The jauntiness60 was gone, now, from Soames' manner, and aware of a marked internal depression, he passed furtively along the pavement with its long shadowy reaches between the islands of light formed by the street lamps. From patch to patch he passed, and each successive lamp that looked down upon him found him more furtive, more bent61 in his carriage.
Not a shop nor a house exhibited any light. Sleeping Globe Road, East, served to extinguish the last poor spark of courage within Soames' bosom. He came to the extreme end of the road without having perceived a beckoning62 hand, without having detected a sound to reveal that his advent63 was observed. In the shadow of a wall he stopped, resting his grip upon the pavement and looking back upon his tracks.
No living thing moved from end to end of Globe Road.
Shivering slightly, Soames picked up the bag and began to walk back. Less than half-way along, an icy chill entered into his veins64, and his nerves quivered like piano wires, for a soft crying of his name came, eerie65, through the silence, and terrified the hearer.
“SOAMES!... SOAMES!”...
Soames stopped dead, breathing very rapidly, and looking about him right and left. He could hear the muted pulse of sleeping London. Then, in the dark doorway66 of the house before which he stood, he perceived, dimly, a motionless figure. His first sensation was not of relief, but of fear. The figure raised a beckoning hand. Soames, conscious that his course was set and that he must navigate67 it accordingly, opened the iron gate, passed up the path and entered the house to which he thus had been summoned....
He found himself surrounded by absolute darkness, and the door was closed behind him.
“Straight ahead, Soames!” said the familiar voice of Gianapolis out of the darkness.
Soames, with a gasp68 of relief, staggered on. A hand rested upon his shoulder, and he was guided into a room on the right of the passage. Then an electric lamp was lighted, and he found himself confronting the Greek.
But Gianapolis was no longer radiant; all the innate69 evil of the man shone out through the smirking70 mask.
“Sit down, Soames!” he directed.
Soames, placing his bag upon the floor, seated himself in a cane71 armchair. The room was cheaply furnished as an office, with a roll-top desk, a revolving72 chair, and a filing cabinet. On a side-table stood a typewriter, and about the room were several other chairs, whilst the floor was covered with cheap linoleum73. Gianapolis sat in the revolving chair, staring at the lowered blinds of the window, and brushing up the points of his black mustache.
With a fine white silk handkerchief Soames gently wiped the perspiration74 from his forehead and from the lining75 of his hat-band. Gianapolis began abruptly:—
“There has been an—accident” (he continued to brush his mustache, with increasing rapidity). “Tell me all that took place after you left the Post Office.”
Soames nervously76 related his painful experiences of the evening, whilst Gianapolis drilled his mustache to a satanic angle. The story being concluded:
“What you are to do,” replied Gianapolis, “will be arranged, my dear Soames, by—Mr. King. Where you are to go, is a problem shortly settled: you are to go nowhere; you are to stay here.”...
“Here!”
“Not exactly here—this is merely the office; but at our establishment proper in Limehouse.”...
“Limehouse!”
“Certainly. Although you seem to be unaware79 of the fact, Soames, there are some charming resorts in Limehouse; and your duties, for the present, will confine you to one of them.”
“But—but,” hesitated Soames, “the police”...
“Unless my information is at fault,” said Gianapolis, “the police have no greater chance of paying us a visit, now, than they had formerly80.”...
“But Mrs. Leroux”...
“Mrs. Leroux!”
“She—she”...
“What about Mrs. Leroux?”
“Isn't she dead?”
“Dead! Mrs. Leroux! You are laboring82 under a strange delusion83, Soames. The lady whom you saw was not Mrs. Leroux.”
Soames' brain began to fail him again.
“Then who,” he began....
“That doesn't concern you in the least, Soames. But what does concern you is this: your connection, and my connection, with the matter cannot possibly be established by the police. The incident is regrettable, but the emergency was dealt with—in time. It represents a serious deficit84, unfortunately, and your own usefulness, for the moment, becomes nil34; but we shall have to look after you, I suppose, and hope for better things in the future.”
He took up the telephone.
“East 39951,” he said, whilst Soames listened, attentively85. Then:—
“Is that Kan-Suh Concessions86?” he asked. “Yes—good! Tell Said to bring the car past the end of the road at a quarter-to-two. That's all.”
He hung up the receiver.
“Now, my dear Soames,” he said, with a faint return to his old manner, “you are about to enter upon new duties. I will make your position clear to you. Whilst you do your work, and keep yourself to yourself, you are in no danger; but one indiscretion—just one—apart from what it may mean for others, will mean, for YOU, immediate43 arrest as accessory to a murder!”
“You can rely upon me, Mr. Gianapolis,” he protested, “to do absolutely what you wish—absolutely. I am a ruined man, and I know it—I know it. My only hope is that you will give me a chance.”...
“You shall have every chance, Soames,” replied Gianapolis—“every chance.”
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收听单词发音
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1
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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3
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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4
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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7
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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9
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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12
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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14
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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15
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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16
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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17
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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19
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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23
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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24
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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25
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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26
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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27
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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28
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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29
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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30
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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32
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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33
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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34
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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debarkation
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| n.下车，下船，登陆 | |
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36
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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39
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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40
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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41
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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42
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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47
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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48
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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49
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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50
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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51
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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52
cognomen
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| n.姓；绰号 | |
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53
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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54
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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55
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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56
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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57
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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58
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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59
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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60
jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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63
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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64
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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65
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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66
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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67
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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68
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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69
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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70
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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71
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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72
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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73
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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74
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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75
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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76
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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77
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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78
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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79
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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80
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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81
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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82
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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83
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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84
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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85
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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86
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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87
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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