Extrait
Chapter I - An Inspector Calls
It has often been said - indeed, I have been one of those who have said it - that Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, was the champion of law and order of his age. However, on reflection, I can state that this is only partly true. Crime did indeed fascinate Holmes, but when it came to the solving of it, he was very selective. I have been present when he has rejected numerous pleas and entreaties to tackle a particular mystery solely on the basis that it was simply not interesting enough. The misdemeanours that intrigued my capricious friend had to bear the hallmark of the recherché before he would contemplate involving himself in providing a solution. He loved detective work for its own sake, but the detective work had to pose an unusual conundrum or it presented no challenge.
So it was in the spring of 1896 when, after a very fallow period, he devoured news of criminal activity reported in the daily press in the hope of spotting some intriguing puzzle to satisfy his needs. I would aid him every morning in this pursuit by pointing out what I regarded to be crimes of intellectual interest.
“What you may consider stimulating to the deductive brain, Watson, falls far short of my ideal,” he would comment disparagingly. “Music hall artiste strangled in dressing room poses no cerebral challenge whatsoever. A case of jealousy and intoxication. No doubt even the Scotland Yarders could cope with that one in a day!”
“Have you seen the report in the Chronicle of the murder of Sir George Faversham, the noted archaeologist?”
Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and paused. “Items stolen from the family home?”
“Nothing of real value taken.”
“Ah,” he scoffed. “Common burglary with homicidal consequences.”
I threw down the paper. “I give up,” I cried. “There is obviously nothing that will satisfy you.”
Holmes gave me a weak grin. “Well, at least we are agreed on that point.” His eyes wandered to the drawer in his bureau where I knew he still kept the neat Morocco case containing the hypodermic syringe.
“And that is not the answer either,” I snapped.
For a moment Holmes looked surprised, and then a dreamy smile touched his countenance. He realised that I was playing him at his own game by reading his thoughts. The idea amused him so much that he burst out with a roar of laughter. His hilarity was so contagious that soon I was laughing along with him. So enwrapped were we in our own amusement that we failed to take notice of the insistent knock at our sitting room door. Moments later, it opened hesitantly and Inspector Hardcastle of the Yard stood on our threshold. Holmes had worked with Hardcastle on a couple of investigations in the past, notably the disappearing Chinese laundry affair. He was a dour Yorkshireman who was methodical and thorough, rather than inspired, in his police work. He appeared most discomfited by our abandoned behaviour.
“If I have called at an inconvenient moment, gentlemen…” he said, bristling somewhat, unsure whether he was the cause of our amusement.
“Not at all, Hardcastle,” cried my friend, still chortling. “It is always a pleasure to receive a visit from one of my friends in the official force.” He waved the Scotland Yarder to a chair. “Sit down, my dear fellow, and don't look so disheartened. Weeks of inactivity have lightened my brain. You are indeed a sight for sore eyes, especially if you have a case for us.”
The inspector, uncertainly still clouding his features, did as he was bidden. He was a tall, beefy man whose great oval face was beset with large, grey, mournful eyes and a broken nose. His black hair, plastered with cream, looked as though it had just dropped on his head. Clutching his bowler tightly in his large hands, he sat awkwardly in the chair opposite us.
“You do have a case for us?” enquired Holmes languidly, his mood changing rapidly.
“Something I though might interest you,” said Hardcastle, his equilibrium still not restored.
