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Arthur Conan Doyle
The Red-headed League
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Z przygód Sherlocka Holmesa
Liga czerwonowłosych
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Ilustracja na okładce: Sidney Paget
ISBN 978-83-952777-4-0
Wydawnictwo Wymownia
Polska wersja językowa w tłumaczeniu anonimowym
Angielska wersja językowa zgodna z wydaniem z roku 1891
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The Red-headed League
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year, and
found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman, with fiery
red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me
abruptly into the room, and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most
successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair, and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little
questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair, and putting his fingertips together,
as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of every-day life. You
have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if
you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple
problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall
keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and
acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most
unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been
committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an
instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I
have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening
part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the
course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which
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occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best
of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride, and pulled a
dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the paper flattened out upon his
knee, I took a good look at the man, and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to
read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an
average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy
gray shepherd's check trousers, a not overclean black frockcoat, unbuttoned in the front, and a
drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling
down as an ornament. A frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet
collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable
about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent
upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he
noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done
manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that
he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon
my companion.
“How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did
you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's
carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have
worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the
strict rules of your order, you use an arc and compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one
with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk.”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish which you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been
done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the
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