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   ,  ,     ,         .          !     :   ,  ,       .            B2      .      ,         .





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ISBN978-5-0068-9037-4

     Ridero




 


ToSherlock Holmes she was always the woman.

        .



Inhis cool, precise mind he rarely allowed emotion tocloud his judgment, yet when he spoke ofIrene Adler it was with acertain warmth, almost reverence.

  ,      ,     -  ,  .



He called her the woman, and under that simple title she held aplace no queen or criminal could rival.

    ,       ,      .



It began on astormy March evening in1888.

     1888.



The wind howled down Baker Street like aliving thing, rattling the windows of221B.

  -,   ,    221.



Asudden ring at the bell announced avisitor who could only be royal, for even through the thick oak door one sensed power and urgency.

   ,      :        .



The man who swept inwore adark mask across his face, but his height, his bearing, and the faint scent ofBohemian cigars betrayed him at once.

     , ,        .



When he threw off the disguise, there stood the hereditary King ofBohemia himself, tall, broad-shouldered, with the restless eyes ofaman hunted byhis own past.

 ,     蠖 , ,   ,    .



He came, he said, tobeg Sherlock Holmes tosave him from ruin.

 ,  ,      .



Five years earlier, inWarsaw, he had allowed himself agrand, reckless passion with the celebrated adventuress and opera singer Irene Adler.

       ,        .



She was, even then, the most exquisite creature he had ever seen: dark, graceful, with aface that launched athousand foolish dreams.

      ,   : , , ,     .



Their affair had burned bright and brief.

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Now he was engaged toayoung Scandinavian princess ofstrict Lutheran upbringing, and Irene Adler, still inpossession ofcertain letters and, worse, aphotograph showing them together inintimate happiness, threatened tosend it tothe princesss family on the very morning the engagement was tobe announced.

         ,  ,    -  ,  , ,      ,         .



Holmes listened without expression, his long nervous fingers drumming softly on the arm ofhis chair.

    ,       .



The King offered ten thousand pounds, akingdoms ransom, if only the photograph could be recovered.

    ⠖   ,   .



Holmes merely asked for details: where she lived, her habits, her friends.

  :   ,  ,  .



The King spoke ofher house inBriony Lodge, St Johns Wood, aquiet villa set back from the road; ofher daily ride inthe park; ofher friendship with acertain English lawyer named Godfrey Norton; and, above all, ofher proud, fearless spirit that would never yield tothreats.

   堖 - --,    ;    ;      ; 堖  ,  ,    .



The next morning found Holmes and myself inthe most extraordinary disguises.

       .



I, asimple loafer inan old tweed suit; Holmes, an unshaven groom with atouch ofdrink inhis eye and ared scarf knotted loosely at his throat.

ߠ     ;        ,   .



We lounged across the road from Briony Lodge, watching the comings and goings ofaquiet suburban street.

      -,     .



Suddenly acab dashed up, and out sprang Godfrey Norton, wild-eyed and urgent.

  ,      ,  .



He rushed into the house, emerged minutes later with Irene on his arm, and they drove away at breakneck speed toward St Monicas Church inthe Edgware Road.

  ,    ,    ,        -.



Holmess eyes glittered.

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Quick, Watson, the game is afoot!

, ,  !



We followed inanother cab, arriving just intime tosee the couple enter the church.

        ,  ,    .



Amoment later the verger, bribed with half asovereign, was delighted tofind two respectable witnesses for ahurried wedding.

 堖  ,  ,        .



Within twenty minutes Irene Adler had become Irene Norton, and the newly married pair drove away laughing together like children.

       ,  , ,  .



Holmes seemed strangely downcast as we walked back toward Baker Street.

   -   .



He had expected adangerous adventuress, not awoman inlove.

   ,  .



Yet the photograph remained inher keeping, and the danger tothe King was unchanged.

   ,    .



That evening Holmes returned toBriony Lodge inyet another disguise: akindly, simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman, black coat and wide-brimmed hat, his face pale with apparent illness.

     -  : ,       , ,   .



Iwaited inthe shadows with adozen rough fellows from the nearby stables, paid toplay their part inalittle drama.

       ,     .



At the stroke ofseven the door ofBriony Lodge opened and Holmes appeared on the step, limping as though hurt.

   - ,   , ,  .



Acry went up from the loafers: Shame! Shame!

 : ! !



Someone shouted that the poor clergyman had been attacked.

- ,    .



Inthe confusion Ihurled asmoke rocket through the window and raised the alarm: Fire!

       : !



Instantly the quiet street became chaos.

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Windows flew up, servants rushed out, and inthe centre ofthe crowd stood Irene Norton herself, pale but composed.

 ,   ,       , .



Holmes, still incharacter, staggered forward as though seeking help.

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For one brief moment her eyes met his, and something (amusement, recognition, triumph) flashed across her beautiful face.

     ,     -  ,  ,  .



Then she was gone, back into the house, and Holmes knew, with the cold certainty ofgenius, exactly where she would run toprotect her most precious possession.

   ,      ,       .



We forced our way inside with the pretended firemen.

     .



Inthe drawing-room, behind asliding panel above the bell-rope, lay asmall recess.

         .



Holmess fingers flew toit, but the hiding-place was empty save for asingle photograph (not ofthe King and Irene together, but ofIrene alone, inevening dress, radiant and serene).

   ,   ,    蠖  ,  ,  ,  .



On the back, inher own handwriting, were the words: ToSherlock Holmes, Esq. From Irene Adler.

    :  , .  .



The King arrived the next morning, trembling with hope.

  ,  .



Holmes opened the recess and handed him the photograph ofIrene alone.

       .



The King stared, bewildered. What does this mean?

   .   ?



It means, Your Majesty, said Holmes coolly, that the lady has outwitted us all.

 ,  ,   ,     .



She has left England forever, taking the dangerous photograph withher.

   ,    .



Last night, disguised as ayoung man (you may have noticed aslim youth inadark ulster leaving the house), she bade me good-night inthe street.

 ,   (, ,      ,  ),       .



She knew me from the first, saw through every disguise, and chose toleave you this gentle reminder that she is free, and that her heart now belongs toher husband.

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You are safe.

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The King tried topress money upon Holmes, jewels, anything.

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Holmes asked only for the photograph ofIrene Adler that now lay upon the table.

     ,  .



The King departed, half-relieved, half-ashamed.

 렖  ,  .



When we were alone, Holmes stood for along time gazing at the portrait.

 ,   ,  .



She is indeed the woman, he said softly. Ihave been beaten, Watson, beaten byawomans wit, and Iam not ashamed toadmit it. She is, ofall women, the woman.

    ,   .  , ,   ,    .   ࠖ .



And so the great Bohemian scandal ended, not with violence or disgrace, but with aquiet smile and aphotograph that Sherlock Holmes kept ever after inalocked drawer, next tohis pipe and his violin, the one trophy ofthe only case inwhich the hunter became the hunted, and the victor walked away laughing.




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