Етюд у багряних тонах
Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Youseemtobeawalkingcalendarofcrime,”saidStamfordwithalaugh. “Youmightstartapaperonthoselines. Callitthe‘PoliceNewsofthePast.’”
“Veryinterestingreadingitmightbemade,too,”remarkedSherlockHolmes,stickingasmallpieceofplasterovertheprickonhisfinger. “Ihavetobecareful,”hecontinued,turningtomewithasmile,“forIdabblewithpoisonsagooddeal.” Heheldouthishandashespoke,andInoticedthatitwasallmottledoverwithsimilarpiecesofplaster,anddiscolouredwithstrongacids.
“Wecamehereonbusiness,”saidStamford,sittingdownonahighthree-leggedstool,andpushinganotheroneinmydirectionwithhisfoot. “Myfriendherewantstotakediggings,andasyouwerecomplainingthatyoucouldgetnoonetogohalveswithyou,IthoughtthatIhadbetterbringyoutogether.”
SherlockHolmesseemeddelightedattheideaofsharinghisroomswithme. “IhavemyeyeonasuiteinBakerStreet,”hesaid,“whichwouldsuitusdowntotheground. Youdon’tmindthesmellofstrongtobacco,Ihope?”
“Ialwayssmoke‘ship’s’myself,”Ianswered.
“That’sgoodenough.Igenerallyhavechemicalsabout,andoccasionallydoexperiments.Wouldthatannoyyou?”
“Bynomeans.”
“Letmesee—whataremyothershortcomings. Igetinthedumpsattimes,anddon’topenmymouthfordaysonend. YoumustnotthinkIamsulkywhenIdothat. Justletmealone,andI’llsoonberight.
