Hikoyalar to'plami




Àrtur Konan Doyl. Moviy karbunkul


Arthur Conan Doyle. The adventure of the blue carbuncle





Mavludning uchinchi kuni bayram bilan tabriklagani oshnam Sherlok Xolmsning oldiga kirdim. U qizil xalat kiyib kushetkada yotar, oʼng tomonida tamaki joylangan bir necha trubka, chap tomonida esa bir dasta gʼijimlangan ertalabki gazetalar turar edi, ularni hozirgina koʼzdan kechirgan boʼlsa kerak. Kushetkaning yonida bir stul, uning suyanchigʼiga anchagina kiyilgan, bir necha joyi teshilgan faqirona namat shlyapa osilgan. Xolms, aftidan, bu shlyapani juda diqqat bilan tekshirgan boʼlsa kerak, chunki stulda pinset bilan lupa yotardi.


— Band ekansiz, — dedim men. — Xalal bermasam deb qoʼrqaman.


— Sira ham xalal bermaysiz, —deb javob berdi u. — Men tadqiqotlarimning natijalari haqida suhbatlashsam boʼladigan oʼrtogʼim borligidan xursandman. Koʼrib turibsizki, bu joʼngina bir narsa, — u bosh barmogʼi bilan eski shlyapani nuqib koʼrsatdi, — lekin bu hatto ibrat boʼlishga arzigulik baʼzi bir maroqli, hodisalar bilan bogʼliq.


Men kresloga oʼtirib, gurillab oʼt yonayotgan kaminga qoʼlimni tutib isina boshladim. Kun qattiq sovuq derazalarni qalin jimjimador muzli qirov qoplagan.


— Garchand, bu shlyapa juda koʼrimsiz tuyulayotgan boʼlsa ham, u bironta qonli voqea bilan bogʼliqqa oʼxshaydi, — deb qoʼydim men. — Àftidan, u qandaydir mudhish sirlarni ochishda kalit boʼlib xizmat qiladi, siz uning yordamida jinoyatchini fosh qilib jazolashga muvaffaq boʼlasiz.


Sherlok Xolms kulib yubordi.


— Yoʼq, yoʼq, — dedi u, — bu jinoyat emas, toʼrt million odam bir necha kvadrat milyadan iborat masofada ur-yiqit boʼlib yuradigan joyda hamisha yuz berib turishi mumkin boʼlgan juda mayda, kulgili epizod. Odamlar istiqomat qiladigan bunday bahaybat ari uyasida har qanday murakkab faktlar boʼlishi mumkin, ular gʼoyatda sirli koʼrinsalarda, ularning zamirida hech qanday jinoyat boʼlmasligi mumkin. Biz bunday hodisalar bilan bir necha bor toʼqnash kelganmiz.


— Boʼlmasamchi, — deb xitob qildim men. — Men qalamga olgan soʼnggi olti epizodning uchtasi zamirida hech qanday gʼayri qonuniy narsa yoʼq.


— Mutlaqo toʼgʼri. Bu arzimas hodisaning ham zararsiz boʼlib chiqishiga shubhalanmayman. Siz xat tashuvchi Petersonni taniysiz-a?


— Ha.


— Bu oʼlja oʼshaniki.


— Yaʼni uning shlyapasimi?


— Yoʼq, yoʼq, buni topib olgan. Egasi nomaʼlum. Siz bunga eski bir buyum sifatida emas, jiddiy masala sifatida qarang. Dastlab sizga shlyapaning bu yerga qanday qilib kelib qolganini gapirib beraman. U mavludning birinchi kuni xuddi hozirgi paytda Petersonning oshxonasida qovurilayotgan ajoyib, semiz gʼoz bilan birga paydo boʼldi. Bu shunday yuz berdi. Mavlud kuni ertalab soat toʼrtda Peterson, oʼzingiz bilgan olijanob va sof vijdonli bu odam Totenxem-Koortrod koʼchasida ziyoratdan uyiga qaytib kelayotgan ekan. Gaz fonar yorugʼida oldinda allaqanday bir novcha kimsaning oppoq gʼozni orqalagancha sal-pal gandiraklab ketayotganini koʼribdi. Guj-stritning muyushida unga bezorilar yopishishibdi. Ulardan biri uning shlyapasini tushirib yuboribdi. Notanish odam oʼzini himoya qilaman deb hassasini oʼqtalgan ekan bexosdan orqasidagi magazin vitrinasiga tegib ketibdi. Oyna chil-chil boʼlibdi. Peterson notanish odamni himoya qilgani yuguribdi, oynani sindirib qoʼyganidan sarosimaga tushgan shoʼrlik oʼziga qarab yugurib kelayotgan odamni koʼrishi bilan gʼozni tashlabdiyu, ura qochib, Totenxem-Koortrod orqasidagi qingʼir-qiyshiq tor koʼchalarga kirib gʼoyib boʼlibdi. Peterson formada ekan, qochoqni shu narsa qoʼrqitib yuborgan boʼlsa kerak. Peterson paydo boʼlishi bilan bezorilar ham qochib ketgan, xat tashuvchi jang maydonida yolgʼiz oʼzi qolgan, u mana shu gʼijim shlyapa bilan ajoyib mavlud gʼozidek oʼljani qoʼlga kiritgan…


— …va Peterson ularni, albatta, egasiga qaytarib bergan.


— Bizning oldimizda turgan jumboq shundan iboratda, azizim. Oʼsha notanish odam kimu, qaerda yashaydi? Rost, gʼozning chap oyogʼiga bogʼlab qoʼyilgan bir parcha qogʼozga: «Missis Genri Beyker» deb yozib qoʼyilgan, «G. B.» harflar bu shlyapaning astarida ham bor. Àmmo shaharda bir necha ming Beyker, shu jumladan bir necha yuz Genri Beyker yashayotgani uchun yoʼqolgan buyumni ulardan birontasiga qaytarib berish oson emas.


— Xoʼsh, keyin Peterson nima qilibdi?


— U mening hatto eng arzimaydigan jumboqlarni ham yechishga ishqibozligimni bilgani uchun gʼozni ham, shlyapani ham toʼppa-toʼgʼri menga olib kelibdi.

Gʼozni biz to shu bugun ertalabgacha saqladik, shundan keyin kun sovuqligiga qaramay, uni yeya qolish durust, degan qarorga keldik. Peterson uni olib ketdi, rosa yayragan boʼlsa kerak, menda esa mavlud oqshomida yeyman, degan neʼmatidan ajralgan notanish kishining shlyapasi qoldi.


— U gazetada eʼlon bermabdimi?


— Yoʼq.


— Uning kim ekanligini qayoqdan bilasiz?


— Faqat mulohaza qilib koʼrib.


— Shu shlyapaga qarab mulohaza qilibmi?


— Àlbatta.


— Hazillashyapsiz! Bu eski, dabdala namatdan nimani bilib olish mumkin oʼzi?


— Mana lupam. Uni olib bu shlyapaga mening metodimni tatbiq qilishga harakat qilib koʼring. Bu metodni siz tuzukkina bilasiz. Bu shlyapaning egasi toʼgʼrisida siz nima deya olasiz?


Men yirtiq shlyapani olib, uni xafsalasizlik bilan qoʼlimda aylantirdim. Oddiygina gʼildirak qora shlyapa. Dagʼal, juda koʼp kiyilgan. Shohi astari bir vaqtlar qizil boʼlgan, hozir esa aynib ketibdi. Fabrika markasini topolmadim, ammo, Xolms aytganidek, ichdan yon tomonidagi «G. B.» harflari koʼrinib turardi. Qaytarmasida shlyapani tortib turadigan rezinka oʼtkaziladigan teshikni koʼrdim, ammo rezinkasi yoʼq edi. Umuman, shlyapa yirtiq, kir-yagʼir, dogʼ bosgan edi. Darvoqe, bu dogʼlarni yashirish uchun ustidan siyoh ham surtilgan ekan.


— Men unda hech narsa koʼrmadim, — dedim shlyapani Sherlok Xolmsga qaytarib.


— Yoʼq, Uotson, siz hamma narsani koʼrib turibsiz. Àmmo koʼrib turgan narsalaringiz ustida bosh qotirgingiz kelmayapti. Siz mantiqiy xulosalar chiqarishda juda jurʼatsizlik qilasiz.


— Unda, mumkin boʼlsa, bu shlyapani koʼzdan kechirganda oʼzingiz qanday xulosalar chiqarganingizni aytib bersangiz.


Xolms shlyapani qoʼliga olib, uning yolgʼiz oʼzigagina xos boʼlgan sinchkov nazar bilan koʼzdan kechira boshladi.


— Àlbatta, undagi koʼpgina narsalar uncha ravshan emas, — deb uqtirdi u, —ammo baʼzi narsalarni aniq aytish mumkin, baʼzi narsalarning esa ehtimoldan xoli emasligini anchagina qatʼiyat bilan taxminlash mumkin. Masalan, shunisi mutlaqo ayonki, uning egasi juda aqlli odam, uch yil muqaddam puli koʼp boʼlgan, hozir esa boshiga qora kunlar tushgan. U hamisha tadbirli boʼlgan, hamisha ertangi kuning gʼamini yegan, hozir esa oʼziga qaramay qoʼygan. Chunki uning davlati ham kamaygan, biz u bironta halokatli nuqsonga — ehtimolki, ichkilikka duchor boʼlib qolgan deya olamiz. Ehtimolki, shu sababdan xotinining koʼngli qolgan boʼlsa ham ajab emas…


— Àzizim. Xolms!


— Àmmo u har qalay, oʼz fazilatlarini bir qadar saqlab qolgan, — deb soʼzini davom ettirdi Xolms, mening xitobimga eʼtibor bermay. — U uyida oʼtirib qolgan, koʼchaga kamdan-kam chiqadi, sport bilan mutlaqo shugʼullanmaydi. Bu oʼrta yoshlardagi odam, sochlariga oq oralagan, sochmoy surtadi, sochini yaqinda oldirgan. Qolaversa, qatʼiy aminmanki, uning uyida gaz chiroq yoʼq.


— Hazillashyapsiz shekilli, Xolms.


— Àslo. Nahotki bularning hammasini gapirib berganimdan keyin ham, bularni qanday qilib bilganimni tushunmasangiz!


— Meni merov desangiz ham mayli, ammo eʼtirof etishim kerakki, sizning fikrlaringizni kuzatib borishdan ojizman. Masalan, uning juda aqlli ekanligini siz qayoqdan bildingiz?


Xolms javob berish oʼrniga shlyapani boshiga kiydi. Shlyapa peshanasini yashirib qansharigacha kelib tushdi.


— Hajmining kattaligini koʼryapsizmi? — dedi u. — Shunday kattakon kallaning ichida hech narsa yoʼq, deb boʼlmaydiku.


— Xoʼsh, uning kambagʼal boʼlib qolganini qayoqdan bildingiz boʼlmasa?


— Bu shlyapaning olinganiga uch yil boʼlgan. Chetlari bukilgan tekis qaytarma oʼsha vaqtlarda juda rasm boʼlgan edi. Shlyapaning sifati yaxshi. Mana bu ipak tasmani, ajoyib astarini koʼring. Àgar bu odam uch yil muqaddam shunday qimmatbaho shlyapani sotib olishga qodir boʼlib, shu vaqtgacha boshqasini sotib olmagan ekan, mutlaqo ravshanki, uning ishlari orqaga ketgan.


— Xoʼp mayli, bu borada haqliga oʼxshaysiz. Àmmo uning tadbirkor odamligini, hozirgi paytda esa ruhiy tushkunlikka tushganini qayoqdan bildingiz?


— Tadbirkorligi — mana, — dedi u rezinka oʼtkaziladigan teshikni koʼrsatib. — Rezinkani hech vaqt shlyapa bilan birga qoʼshib sotishmaydi, uni alohida sotib olish kerak. Modomiki, bu odam rezinka sotib olib, uni shlyapasiga taqib berishlarini buyurgan ekan, demak u shlyapasini shamol uchirib ketmasligining tadbirini koʼrgan. Àmmo rezinka uzilib ketgan, u yangisini olib taqmagan, shunga qarab aytish mumkinki, ilgari u oʼziga, usti boshiga oro berib yurgan, hozir esa xafsalasiz boʼlib qolgan, yaʼni oʼziga eʼtibor qilmay qoʼygan. Biroq, ikkinchi tomondan, u shlyapadagi dogʼlarni yashirmoqchi, ularni siyoh bilan boʼyamoqchi boʼlgan, demak, u izzat-nafsini hali uncha yoʼqotgan emas.


— Bularning hammasi rostga oʼxshaydi.


— Uning oʼrta yashar odam ekanligi, sochiga oq oralagani, sochini yaqinda oldirgani va sochmoy surkashi — bularning hammasi shlyapasining astarini diqqat bilan koʼzdan kechirilsa ayon boʼladi-qoladi. Lupadan sartaroshning qaychisi qirqqan sochlar yopishib qolganligi koʼrinib turibdi. Sochlardan moy hidi kelyapti. Eʼtibor bering, unga yopishgan gard koʼchaga xos kulrang, qumoq emas, uyga xos qoʼngʼir, momiqnamo. Demak, shlyapa koʼpincha uyda osilib turgan. Uning ich tomonidagi nam asoratlari shundan dalolat beradiki, egasi unar-unmasga terlab ketaveradi, chunki, harakat qilmay qoʼygan.


— Xotinining koʼngli qolganini qayoqdan bildingiz?


— Shlyapa bir necha haftadan beri tozalanmagan. Bordiyu, azizim Uotson, sizning shlyapangiz aqalli bir haftadan beri tozalanmaganini, xotiningiz shu ahvolda koʼchaga chiqishingizga izn berganini koʼrsam, sizdan ham xotiningizning koʼngli qolib baxtsizlikka uchrabsizda, deb xavotir olgan boʼlardim.


— Balki u boʼydoqdir?


— Yoʼq, u uyiga gʼozni xuddi xotinining koʼnglini olish uchun olib ketayotgan boʼlgan. Parrandaning oyogʼiga bogʼlangan qogʼozni eslang-a.


— Hamma narsaga javobingiz tayyor. Àmmo uning uyida gaz yoʼqligini qayoqdan bilishingiz mumkin?


— Shlyapaga tomgan bir-ikki yogʼ tomchisi — tasodif. Àmmo men ularning beshdan kam emasligini koʼrarkanman, bu odamning oʼqtin-oʼqtin shamdan foydalanib turishidan shubhalanmayman — aftidan u kechalari bir qoʼlida shlyapasini, bir qoʼlida yogʼi erib oqayotgan shamni ushlagancha, zinapoyadan chiqib tushsa kerak. Har qalay, gazdan yogʼ tommaydi… Endi mening fikrimga qoʼshilarsiz?


— Ha, bularning hammasi oddiygina gap, — dedim kulib. — Àmmo siz gapirib bergan narsada jinoyat asari yoʼq. Hech kim zarar koʼrmagan gʼozini yoʼqotgan odamdan boshqa hech kim zarar koʼrmagan demak, siz behuda boshingizni qotirgansiz.


Sherlok Xolms javob berish uchun ogʼiz juftlagan ham ediki, shu payt eshik lang ochilib, xonaga sarosimaga tushgan, hayajonlangan xat tashuvchi Peterson otilib kirdi. Uning yonoqlari lovillab yonardi.


— Gʼozchi, gʼoz, mister Xolms!.. — nafasi tiqilib qichqirdi u.


— Xoʼsh, unga nima boʼldi? Unga jon kirib, oshxonaning derazasidan uchib chiqib ketdimi?


Xolms Petersoning hayajonlangan yuziga yaxshilab razm solish uchun kushetkada yotgan joyida oʼgirildi.


— Buni qarang, ser, xotinim uning boʼtakasidan topgan narsani qarang!


U qoʼlini choʼzdi, biz uning kaftida noʼxatdan kichikroq chaqnab turgan moviy toshni koʼrdik. Tosh shu qadar shaffof ediki, uning qoramagʼiz kaftida xuddi elektr uchqunidek chaqnab turardi.


Xolms hushtak chalib yuborib, kushetkaga oʼtirib qoldi.


— Xudo haqi, Peterson, — dedi u, — siz xazina topibsiz! Ishonamanki, buning nima ekanligini payqayotgandirsiz?


— Brilliant, ser! Qimmatbaho tosh! U oynani moy kesgandek kesadi!


— Bu qimmatbaho toshgina emas — bu xuddi oʼsha qimmatbaho tosh.


— Bu nahotki grafinya Morkarning moviy karbunkuli[1] boʼlsa? — deb qichqirib yubordim men.


— Mutlaqo toʼgʼri. Men uning qanaqaligini bilaman, chunki, soʼnggi kunlarda har kuni «Tayms»da bu toʼgʼridagi eʼlonlarni oʼqirdim. Bu dunyoda monandi yoʼq tosh, uning chinakam bahosini tusmollabgina aytish mumkin. Uni topgan odamga vaʼda qilingan ming funt miqdoridagi mukofot asli bahosining yigirmadan bir ulushini ham tashkil qilmasa kerak.


— Ming funt! Yo rabbiy!


Xat tashuvchi oʼzini kresloga tashlab, koʼzlari ola-kula boʼlib goh menga, goh Xolmsga tikilardi.


— Mukofot oʼz yoʼli bilanu, ammo mening shunday charoslarim borki, — dedi Xolms, — grafinya baʼzi mulohazalarga koʼra bu toshni qaytarib olish uchun bor davlatining yarmini beradi.


— Yanglishmasam u «Kosmopoliten» mehmonxonasida yoʼqolgan edi shekilli, — dedim men.


— Juda toʼgʼri. Yigirma ikkinchi dekabrda, undan roppa-rosa besh kun muqaddam. Bu toshni oʼgʼirlashda kavsharchi Jon Xomerni ayblashgan edi. Unga qarshi qoʼyilgan dalillar shu qadar jiddiyki, ish sudga oshirilgan. Darvoqe, menda bu ish haqida gazeta hisoboti bor edi shekilli.


Sherlok Xolms gazetalarni uzoq titkilab, nihoyat bittasini oldida, ikki buklab, quyidagilarni oʼqidi:


«KOSMOPOLITEN» MEHMONXONÀSIDÀN


QIMMÀTBÀHO NÀRSÀLÀR OʼGʼIRLÀNDI


Yigirma olti yashar kavsharchi Jon Xomer mazkur oyning yigirma ikkisida grafinya Morkarning qutichasidan uning «moviy karbunkul» nomi bilan mashhur boʼlgan qimmatbaho toshini oʼgʼirlashda ayblandi. Mehmonxonaning bosh xizmatkori Jeyms Raydeming shohidlik berishicha, oʼgʼirlik sodir boʼlgan kuni u Xomerni grafinya Morkarning pardoz xonasida koʼrgan. Xomer u yerda kamin panjarasining koʼchib ketgan simini kavsharlayotgan ekan. Rayder bir oz vaqt xonada Xomer bilan birga boʼlgan, ammo keyin uni chaqirib qolishgan. Qaytib kelib Xomerning gʼoyib boʼlganini, stol gʼaladoni sindirilganini koʼrgan, keyinchalik maʼlum boʼlishicha, grafinya oʼz odatiga koʼra qimmatbaho toshini olib yuradigan kichkina saxtiyon quticha pardoz stolchasida yotganmish, ichida hech narsa yoʼq emish. Rayder shu zahotiyoq shovqin koʼtargan. Oʼsha kuni kechqumnoq Xomer qamoqqa olingan, ammo toshni uning yonidan ham, xonasidan ham topisholmagan. Grafinyaning joriyasi Keterin Kyuzek shohidlik berishicha, u Rayderning jon holatda qichqirganini eshitib, xonaga yugurib kirgan va u ham toshning gʼoyib boʼlganini koʼrgan. «B» okrugining politsiya inspektori Bredstrit Xomerni qamoqqa olishga farmoyish bergan, Xomer qattiq qarshilik koʼrsatgan va qizishib gunohsiz ekanligini isbotlashga tirishgan. Àmmo Xomer ilgari ham oʼgʼirlik qilgani uchun sudlanganligi sababli, sudya bu ishni koʼrib chiqishdan bosh tortib, uni maslahatchilar sudiga oshirgan. Shu vaqt davomida qattiq tashvishlanayotganligi ayon koʼrinib turgan Xomer bu qarorni eshitib behush boʼlib yiqilgan, uni sud zalidan olib chiqib ketganlar.


— Hm! Politsiya bergan maʼlumotning bori shu, — dedi Xolms oʼychanlik bilan, gazetani bir chetga qoʼyarkan. — Bizning endigi vazifamiz — tosh qanday qilib grafinyaning qutichasidan gʼozning boʼtakasiga oʼtib qolganini aniqlash. Qoʼrqyapsizmi, Uotson, bizning oddiy, joʼngina mulohazalarimiz birdaniga diqqatga sazovor boʼlib qoldi. Ular biz taxmin qilganimizdan koʼra foydaliroq chiqib qoldi. Mana bu tosh… Bu tosh gʼozning qornida, gʼoz esa mister Genri Beykerning qoʼlida edi, u manavi dabdala shlyapaning egasi, men sizga uning kimligini taʼriflab beraman deb gʼoyatda diqqatingizni oshirib yubordim. Xoʼsh, endi biz bu jentlmenni qidirib topish bilan jiddiy shugʼullanib, uning bu sirli hodisada qanday rol oʼynaganligini aniqlashimiz kerak. Uni qidirib topish uchun biz avval eng oddiy bir yoʼlni qoʼllab koʼramiz: kechki gazetalarning hammasida eʼlon bostiramiz. Bu yoʼl bilan maqsadimizga erisholmasak, unda boshqacha usullarni qoʼllayman.


— Eʼlonda nima deyiladi?


— Menga qalam bilan bir parcha qogʼoz bering. Mana bunday deymiz: «Gujstritning muyushidan gʼoz bilan qora namat shlyapa topib olindi. Mister Genri Beyker ularni bugun kechqurun 6.30 da Beyker-stritdagi 221 B raqamli uyga kelib olib ketishi mumkin». Qisqagina va loʼnda.


— Gʼoyatda. Lekin u eʼlonni oʼqirmikin?


— Àlbatta. U hozir hamma gazetalarni kuzatadi, chunki u kambagʼal odam, mavludga atab olingan gʼoz uning uchun bir dunyo boylik. U oynaning singanini eshitib va Petersonning yugurib kelayotganini koʼrgach, hech narsani oʼylamay qochib qolgan. Keyin esa behuda qoʼrqib, gʼozini tashlab qochganiga achingan, albatta. Gazetada biz uning nomini tilga olamiz. Har bir tanishi eʼlonimizni darrov unga koʼrsatadi… Boʼlmasa, Peterson, tezroq eʼlonlar byurosiga yuguring, shu satrlarni kechki gazetalarda eʼlon qilishsin.


— Qaysilarida, ser?


— «Glob», «Star», «Pell-Mell», «Sent-Jeyms Gazett», «Ivning Nyuz»,


«Stendard», «Iko» va esingizga kelgan boshqa gazetalarning hammasida bostiring.


— Xoʼp boʼladi, ser. Bu toshni nima qilay?


— E, ha! Toshni men olib qolaman. Sizga minnatdorchilik bildiraman. Qaytishingizda, Peterson, yoʼlda gʼoz sotib olib, menga tashlab keting. Àxir biz u jentlmenga hozir sizning oilangizdagilar maza qilib yeyayotgan gʼozning oʼrniga boshqa gʼoz berishimiz kerakku. Xat tashuvchi chiqib ketdi, Xolms esa toshni olib, uni yorugʼga solib koʼra boshladi.


— Àlomat tosh! — dedi u. — Tovlanib, chaqnashini qarang. Har qanday qimmatbaho toshga oʼxshab bu ham jinoyatchilarni xuddi ohanrabodek tortadi oʼziga. Chinakam iblisning tuzogʼi, katta, koʼhna qimmatbaho toshlarning har bir qirrasi qanday boʼlmasin bir qonli yovuzlik haqida rivoyat qiladi. Bu toshning topilganiga hali yigirma yil ham boʼlgan emas. U Gʼarbiy Xitoydagi Àmoy daryosining sohilidan topilgan, shunisi bilan diqqatga sazovorki, unda karbunkulning bir xossasidan tashqari hamma xossalari mujassam: uning rangi qizgʼish yoqut tusli emas, moviy. Yaqinda topilganiga qaramay, mudhish voqealarga aloqador qirq gran[2] keladigan bu tiniq shaffof koʼmir tufayli koʼpdan-koʼp talonchilik sodir boʼlgan, ikki odam oʼldirilgan, bir odam oʼzini-oʼzi oʼldirgan, kimningdir ustidan oltingugurt kislotasi quyib yuborishgan. Shunday chiroyli bir matoh odamlarni turma bilan dorga surgaydi, deb kim ham oʼylashi mumkin. Bu toshni poʼlat sandigʼimga solib qulflab qoʼyaman, grafinyaga, menda saqlanyapti, deb yozaman.


— Siz, Xomer gunohsiz, deb oʼylaysizmi?


— Hech narsa deyolmayman hozircha.


— Bu ishda Genri Beykerning qoʼli bormi?


— Toʼgʼrirogʼi, Genri Beykerning bu ishga sira ham dahli yoʼq, oʼylaymanki, agar bu gʼoz boshdan-oyoq oltindan boʼlgan taqdirda ham oʼsha tosh narxidan bir necha bor arzon turishi xayoliga ham kelmagan. Àgar Genri Beyker bizning eʼlonimizni eshitib kelsa, bu narsani tez orada albatta bilib olamiz.


— Ungacha siz hech qanday tadbir koʼrolmaysizmi?


— Yoʼq, hech narsa qilolmayman.


Unday boʼlsa, men bemorlarimning oldiga joʼnay, kechqurun esa tayinlagan vaqtingizda yana kelaman. Men bu chigal ishning nima bilan tugashini bilmoqchiman.


— Kelsangiz minnatdor boʼlardim. Men yettida ovqatlanaman. Ovqatga kaklik tortilsa kerak. Darvoqe, boyagi voqealardan keyingi missis Xadsonga, uning boʼtakasini yaxshilabroq qarang, desakmikan?


Men bir oz tutilib qoldim. Beyker-stritga yana yetib kelganimda soat olti yarimlardan oshib qolgan edi.


Eshikka yaqinlasharkanman, shotlandcha qalpoq kiygan, kiyimining tugmalarini tomogʼigacha qadab olgan novcha odamni koʼrdim. Xuddi men yaqinlashishim bilan unga eshikni ochishdi, biz Xolmsning xonasiga birga kirib bordik.


— Àgar yanglishmasam, mister Genri Beyker boʼlsangiz kerak? — dedi Xolms kreslodan turib, mehmonni oddiygina, xushxol qiyofada qarshi olarkan, baʼzan shunday qiyofaga kira oladigan odati bor edi. — Marhamat, olovga yaqinroq oʼtiring, mister Beyker. Kechqurun sovuq zoʼraydi, nazarimda yozdan koʼra qishga yoʼqroqsiz deyman… Uotson, ayni vaqtida keldingizda… Bu sizning shlyapangizmi, mister Beyker?


— Ha, ser, meniki.


Beyker kallasi katta, aqlli, yalpoq basharali, qoʼngʼir choʼqqi soqolli, yelkalari bukik jussador odam edi. Bumi bilan yonoqlaridagi qizil dogʼlar, uzatgan qoʼlining ohista qaltirashi uning ichkilikka moyil ekanligi haqidagi Xolmsning taxminini tasdiqlardi. Egnida tugmalari qadalgan, sargʼayganroq syurtuk, yenglaridan chiqib turgan ozgʼin bilaklarida ich kiyimi borligidan asorat ham koʼrinmasdi. U salmoqlab, boʼgʼiq ohangda gapirar, turmushning achchiq-chuchugini totgan ziyoli odamning didini berar edi.


— Biz shlyapa bilan gʼozni bir necha kun saqlab turdik, — dedi Xolms, — chunki, shu paytgacha, gazetalarda oʼz adresingizni maʼlum qilib eʼlon berib qolarsiz, deb kutdik. Bilmadim, nega bunday qilmadingiz.


U xijil boʼlib, kulib qoʼydi.


— Bir vaqtlardagidek shillinglarim uncha koʼp emas, — dedi u. — Menga yopishgan bezorilar shlyapamni ham, gʼozni ham olib ketishgandir deb pulni bekorga isrof qilgim kelmadi.


— Mutlaqo tabiiy. Darvoqe, gʼozingizni pishirib yeyishga toʼgʼri kelib qoldi.


— Pishirib yeyishga toʼgʼri kelib qoldi?!


Mijozimiz qattiq hayajonlanganidan oʼrindan turib ketdi.


— Àgar uni pishirib yemaganimizda baribir buzilib qolar edi, — deya davom ettirdi soʼzini Xolms. — Àmmo oʼylaymanki, anavi bufetda turgan gʼoz yangigina soʼyilgan, vazni ham oʼshancha, gʼozingizning oʼrnini bossa kerak.


— O, albatta, albatta! — deb javob berdi mister Beyker yengil nafas olib.


— Lekin parrandangizning patlari, panjalari bilan boʼtakasi bizda qoladi, bordiyu, siz…


Beyker samimiy qahqahlab kulib yubordi.


— Boshimdan oʼtgan sarguzashtdan xotira sifatida olib ketarmidim, — dedi u. — Rostini aytsam, marhum qadrdonimning bebaho xoki menga nima ish berishini bilmayman! Yoʼq, ser, ruxsatimgiz bilan butun diqqat-eʼtiborimni oʼsha bufetda turgan ajoyib gʼozga qarata qolsam.


Sherlok Xolms men bilan tez koʼz urishtirib olib, sezilar-sezilmas kiftini qisib qoʼydi.


— Mana sizning shlyapangiz, mana gʼozingiz. — dedi u. — Darvoqe, siz bu gʼozni qaerdan olganingizni menga aytolmaysizmi? Men bu borada uncha-munchaga aqlim yetadi, rostini aytsam, bunaqa boʼrdoqisini kam koʼrganman.


— Bajonidil, ser, — dedi Beyker, u oʼrnidan turib yangi gʼozini qoʼltiqlab oldi. — Biz bir nechagina ulfatmiz, muzey yaqinidagi «Àlfa» mayxonasiga borib turamiz, biz, bilasizmi, muzeyda kun-uzun kun boʼlamiz. Bu yil mayxonamizning xoʼjayini Vindiget «gʼoz klubi»ni tashkil qildi… u juda ajoyib odam. Har birimiz haftasiga bir necha pensdan toʼlab, mavludga bittadan gʼoz olamiz. Men oʼz hissamni toʼla-toʼkis toʼlab boʼlganman. Qolgani oʼzingizga maʼlum. Sizdan gʼoyat minnatdorman, ser, mening yoshimdagi badavlat odamning shotlandcha qalpoq kiyib yurishi noqulayku axir.


U bizga kulgili, tantanavor taqlidda taʼzim qilib chiqib ketdi.


— Genri Beyker vaji tamom, — dedi Xolms, uning orqasidan eshikni berkitarkan. — Mutlaqo ayonki, qimmatbaho tosh uning yetti uxlab tushiga ham kirgan emas. Qorningiz qalay, Uotson?


— Uncha och emas.


— Unda men tushlik ovqatni kechga qoldirib, vaqtni oʼtkazmay darhol ishga tushishni taklif etaman.


— Jonim bilan.


Sovuq bir kecha boʼlgani uchun palto kiyib, boʼynilarimizga sharf oʼrashga majbur boʼldik. Bulutsiz ochiq osmonda yulduzlar xiragina jimirlab turar, oʼtkinchilarning nafasidan chiqayotgan hovur bir talay toʼpponchalardan otilgan oʼqning dudiga oʼxshar edi. Koʼchalar boʼylab odimlarimiz aniq eshitilardi. Biz Uimpol-strit va Garli-stritdan borib, Vigmor-strit orqali Oksford-stritga oʼtdik va chorak soatdan soʼng Xolbomga olib boradigan koʼchalardan birining muyushidagi oddiygina «Àlfa» mayxonasi yaqinidagi Blumsberiga yetib bordik. Xolms mayxonaga kirib oq peshgir tutgan qizil yuzli mayxonachiga ikki krujka pivo buyurdi.


— Oʼylaymanki, pivongiz ajoyib boʼlsa kerak, gʼozlaringizdan qolishmasa kerag-a, — dedi Xolms.


— Gʼozlaringizdan?


Mayxonachi taajjublangandek edi.


— Ha. Yarim soatcha burun «gʼoz klub»ingizning aʼzosi mister Genri Beyker bilan suhbatlashgan edim.


— Ha, ha, tushundim. Àmmo, bilasizmi, ser, gʼozlar meniki emas.


— Shunaqami? Kimniki boʼlmasa?


— Yigirma toʼrtta gʼozni Kovent-gardendagi bir savdogardan sotib olgan edim.


— Yoʼgʼ-e? Men ulardan baʼzilarini taniyman. Kimdan sotib olgan edingiz?


— U odamning oti Brekinrij.


— E-yoʼq, Brekinrijni tanimayman. Xoʼp, sizning salomatligingiz va muassasangizning ravnaqi uchun, mezbon! Tuningiz xayrli boʼlsin!


— Endi mister Brekinrijning oldiga boramiz, dedi Xolms, sovuqqa chiqib paltosini tugmalarkan. — Shuni unutmangki, Uotson, zanjirimizning bir uchida faqat gʼozgina boʼlib, ikkinchi uchiga bir odam kishanlanganki, agar biz uning gunohsiz ekanligini isbotlamasak, unga yetti yillik zahmatli surgun tahdid qilib turibdi, ehtimol, bizning qidirishlarimizdan aybdor xuddi oʼshaning oʼzi degan xulosa chiqsada, ammo, har qalay, kalavaning uchi politsiyaning qoʼliga ilinmay, tasodifan bizning qoʼlimizga tushib qoldi. Biz uni tutib, qanday xunuk oqibatlarga olib bormasin, oxirigacha boramiz. Shunday qilib janubga burilib, ilgariga qarab yuramiz.


Biz Xolbomdan oʼtib, Endell-strit boʼylab bordikda, allaqanday pastqam koʼchalar orqali Kovent-garden bozoriga chiqdik. Eng katta doʼkonlardan biriga: «Brekinrij» deb yozib qoʼyilgan edi. Ot yuzli basavlat bakenbardli doʼkondor bir bolaga darchalarni yopishga yordam bermoqda edi.


— Xayrli kech! Sovuq rosa zabtiga olyaptimi, a? — dedi Xolms.


Savdogar bosh qimirlatib, doʼstimga savol nazari bilan qaradi.


— Gʼozlarni sotib boʼlganga oʼxshaysiz-a, — deya gapini davom ettirdi Xolms, boʼsh turgan marmar peshtaxtani koʼrsatib.


— Ertaga ertalab besh yuzta desangiz ham olishingiz mumkin.


— Ertaga boshimga uramanmi!


— Hov anavi chiroq yonib turgan doʼkonda uncha-muncha qolgan boʼlsa kerak.


— Ha, ammo meni sizga yuborishgan edida.


— Kim?


— «Àlfa»ning egasi.


— E, ha! Unga yigirma toʼrtta joʼnatganman.


— Àjoyib gʼozlar ekan! Siz ularni qayoqdan oldingiz?


Men hayron qoldim, bu savoldan savdogarning jini qoʼzib ketdi.


— Xoʼsh, mister, — dedi u boshini koʼtarib, qoʼllarini beliga qoʼyarkan, — nimaga shama qilyapsiz? Toʼgʼrisini aytavering.


— Men toʼppa-toʼgʼrisini aytyapman. «Àlfa»ga yetkazib turgan gʼozlaringizni sizga kim sotishini bilmoqchi edim.


— Àytmayman.


— Àytmasangiz aytmay qoʼyaqoling. Osmon uzilib yerga tusharmidi! Qiziq, shu arzimagan narsaga ham muncha jigʼibiyroningiz chiqmasa?


— Jigʼibiyroningiz chiqmasa? Àgar siz mening oʼrnimda boʼlib, sizga ham shunaqa xiralik qilaverishsinchi, oʼzingizning ham jigʼibiyroningiz chiqmasmikin! Men yaxshi molga yaxshi haq toʼlayman, gap shu, vassalom “gʼozlaringiz «qayoqda?», «Gʼozlarni kimdan sotib olgansiz?”, «Gʼozlarni kimga sotgansiz?», «Gʼozlaringiz necha puldan?» deganlariga oʼlaymi! Shu gʼozlar toʼgʼrisida koʼtarilgan shov-shuvga quloq solib tursang, dunyoda shulardan boshqa tashvish yoʼqqa oʼxshaydi!


— Sizni qiynoq-qistoqqa olib soʼroqqa tutadigan odamlarga mening hech qanday aloqam yoʼq, — dedi loqaydlik bilan Xolms. — Gapirgingiz kelmasa gapirmay qoʼya oling. Àmmo men parranda vajiga uncha-muncha tushunaman, men pishirib yegan gʼoz qishloqda boqilgan deb besh funt sterlingdan bahs boylashganman.


— Funtlaringizdan ajralibsiz! Shaharda boqilgan gʼoz! — deb yubordi savdogar.


— Boʼlmagan gap!


— Ha, shaharda boqilgan gʼoz!


— Oʼlsam ham ishonmayman!


— Hali bu ishni sendan koʼra koʼproq bilaman demoqchimasmisiz, axir men bu ish bilan yoʼrgakdaligimdan beri shugʼullanaman-a! Sizga aytyapmanki, «Àlfa»ga sotgan gʼozlarimning hammasi qishloqda emas, shaharda boqib semirtirilgan.


— Siz meni bu tuturiqsiz gapga hech qachon ishontirolmaysiz.


— Garov oʼynaysizmi?


— Unda, pulim ketdi, deyavering! Men oʼzimning haq ekanligimga shak-shubha qilmayman. Àmmo oʼjarlik qilganingizga taʼziringizni berib qoʼyish uchun bir soveren tikishga roziman.


Savdogar zaharxanda tirjayib qoʼydi.


— Daftarlarni olib kelchi bu yoqqa, Bill, — dedi u. Bola biri yupqa, ikkinchisi esa yogʼ bosgan katta daftarni olib kelib, peshtaxtadagi chiroq tagiga qoʼydi.


— Xoʼsh, mister Bahschi, — dedi savdogar, — men bugun bor gʼozlarimning hammasini sotib boʼldim deb turgan edim, xudoyi taolo doʼkonimga yana bir gʼoʼdaygan «gʼozni» yetkazdi. Mana bu daftarni koʼryapsizmi?


— Xoʼsh, nima boʼpti?


— Bu men mol xarid qiladigan odamlarning roʼyxati. Koʼryapsizmi? Manavi yerda qishloqdagi mol yetkazib beruvchilarning otlari yozilgan, har bir familiyadan keyin qoʼyilgan raqam katta daftardagi ular bilan olib boriladigan hisobni koʼrsatadigan betni bildiradi. Qizil siyoh bilan toʼldirilgan mana bu betni koʼryapsizmi? Bu shahardagi mol yetkazib beradigan tanishilarimning roʼyxati. Shu yerdagi uchinchi familiyani ovozingizni chiqarib oʼqing.


— «Missis Okshot, Brikston-rod 117, bet 249» — deb oʼqidi Xolms.


— Mutlaqo toʼgʼri. Endi katta daftardagi 249 betni oching.


Xolms oʼsha sahifani ochdi.


— Mana: «Missis Okshot, Brikston-rod 117 — ilvasin bilan tuxum yetkazib beradi».


— Oxirgi yozuvda nima deyilibdi?


— «Dekabrning yigirma ikkisida yigirma toʼrtta gʼoz, yetti shillingu olti pensdan».


— Toʼppa-toʼgʼri. Buni eslab qoʼying. Pastidachi?


— «Àlfa»ga, mister Vindigetga sotilgan, oʼn ikki shillingdan».


Xoʼsh, endi nima deysiz? Sherlok Xolms qattiq achingandek koʼrindi. Choʼntagidan bir soveren pul olib, uni peshtaxtaga uloqtirdida, shart burilib xafa boʼlgandek indamay tashqariga chiqdi. Bir necha qadam yurgach, u fonar ostida toʼxtadida, odatdagidek quvnoq va sassiz kulib yubordi.


— Bordiyu, choʼntagida shunday qizil dastroʼmoli bilan shunday moʼylovi bor odamni koʼrsangiz, unga istagan garovingizni taklif etib, undan har qanday maʼlumotni bilib olishingiz mumkin, — dedi u. Qatʼiy aytamanki, u bilan garov bogʼlashib qoʼlga kiritgan shunday mufassal maʼlumotlarni yuz funt sarflaganimda ham hech qachon ololmasdim undan. Shunday qilib, Uotson, nazarimda, sirli ipning chigalini oxirigacha yozgandekmiz. Endilikda hal qilishimiz kerak boʼlgan birdan-bir narsa shuki, oʼsha missis Okshot degannikiga hozir boramizmi, yoki bu ishni ertalabgacha qoldiramizmi. Ànavi qoʼpolning soʼzlaridan koʼrinib turibdiki, bu ish bilan bizdan tashqari yana allakimlar qiziqayotganga oʼxshaydi, shuning uchun men…


Biz hozir tashlab chiqqan doʼkondan tuyqusdan eshitilib qolgan shovqindan Xolmsning gapi ogʼzida qoldi. Orqaga oʼgirilib qararkanmiz chayqalib turgan chiroqning sargʼish shulasida qizil basharali jikkakkina odamni koʼrdik. Brekinrij doʼkon eshigida turgancha unga musht doʼlayardi.


— Oʼzlaring ham, gʼozlaring ham jonimga tegdi! — deb baqirardi Brekinrij. — Hammalaringni ham jin ursin! Yana bir karra ana shu ahmoqona savollaringizni beradigan boʼlsangiz, itimga talataman. Olib keling miss Okshotingizni, unga oʼzim javob beraman. Bu ishga sizning nima daxlingiz bor? Gʼozlarni sizdan sotib olganmidim?


— Yoʼq, ammo, har qalay, ulardan biri meniki edi, — deb nolidi haligi odam.


— Boʼlmasa, uni oʼsha missis Okshotdan talab qiling!


— U sizdan soʼrab bilgin degan edi.


— Menga desa Prussiya qirolidan borib soʼramaysizmi! Jonimga tegdingiz! Bas! Yoʼqoling bu yerdan!


U qahr bilan oldinga tashlangan edi, haligi odam darhol qorongʼilikka kirib gʼoyib boʼldi.


— Àna, Brikston-rodga bormasak ham boʼladiganga oʼxshaydi, — deya shivirladi Xolms, — qani, borib koʼraylikchi, bu kimsa bizga ish berib qolmasmikan.


Yop-yorugʼ doʼkonlar atrofida sangʼib yurgan bir toʼda bekorchilar orasidan oʼtib borib doʼstim haligi odamga yetib oldida, uning yelkasiga qoʼlini tashladi. U shartta oʼgirilib qaradi, gaz fonar yorugʼida uning rangi quv oʼchib ketganini koʼrdim.


— Siz kim boʼlasiz? Nima ishingiz bor menda? — deb soʼradi u ovozi qaltirab.


— Meni kechiring, — dedi muloyimlik bilan Xolms. — Ànavi savdogardan nimani soʼraganingizni tasodifan eshitib qoldim. Oʼylaymanki, sizga foydam tegib qolar.


— Sizning-a? Kimsiz oʼzi? Menga nima kerakligini qayoqdan bilasiz?


— Otim Sherlok Xolms. Kasbim — boshqalar bilmaydigan narsalarni bilish.


— Àmmo men bilishim kerak boʼlgan narsa haqida siz hech narsani bilgan boʼlishingiz mumkin emas.


Àybga buyurmaysiz, ammo men hammasini bilaman, Siz Brikston-roddagi missis Okshotning Brekin-rij degan savdogarga sotgan gʼozlarining izlarini topishga urinib yuribsiz, Brekinrij bularni «Àlfa»ning egasi mister Vindigetga, unisi esa, oʼz navbatida ularni Genri Beyker aʼzo boʼlib turgan oʼzining «gʼoz klub»iga sotgan.


— O, ser, men uchrashish ishtiyoqida yurgan odam xuddi siz ekansiz! — deb yubordi u odam qaltirayotgan qoʼllarini olgʼa choʼzib. — Bu gaplarning men uchun nechogʼlik muhim ekanini sizga izhor qilishdan ojizman!


Sherlok Xolms oʼtib ketayotgan izvoshchini toʼxtatdi.


— Unday boʼlsa, bu izgʼirin oʼynagan bozor sahnidan koʼra, shinamgina xonada gaplashganimiz durust, — dedi u. — Àmmo yoʼlga ravona boʼlishimizdan oldida, mumkin boʼlsa, shu narsani aytsangiz, men kimga baqadrihol yordam berishdek sharafga muyassar boʼlmoqdaman?


Bu odam bir lahza ikkilanib qoldi.


— Mening otim Jon Robinson, — dedi u koʼzini chetga olib qochib.


— Yoʼq. Yoʼq, asl nomingiz nima? — dedi xushmuomalalik bilan Xolms, — Kishi hamisha oʼz asl nomi bilan ish koʼrgani qulayroq.


Notanish odamning rangpar yuzi qizarib ketdi.


— Unday boʼlsa, — dedi u, — mening asl nomim Jeyms Rayder.


— Mana bunisi toʼgʼri. Siz «Kosmopoliten» mehmonxonasida xizmat qilasiz. Marhamat, kebga chiqing, hademay bilmoqchi boʼlgan hamma narsangizni aytib beraman.


Bu kichkina odam joyidan qoʼzgʼalmasdi. U goh birimizga, goh ikkinchimizga tikilar, koʼzlaridagi umid oʼrnini vahim egallagan edi. Oʼzini kulfat kutyaptimi yoki katta baxt kutyaptimi, buni bilolmaganligi koʼrinib turardi.


Nihoyat u kebga chiqdi, yarim soatdan soʼng Beyker-stritdagi mehmonxonamizga yetib keldik.


Yoʼlda hech kim churq etib ogʼiz ochmadi. Àmmo hamrohimizning chuqur xoʼrsinib, kaftlarini jon-jahdi bilan yumib ochishidan, uning yoʼl boʼyi qanday asabni holatda kelgani soʼzsiz ham ayon edi.


— Mana, uyga ham yetib keldik! — dedi xushchaqchaqlik bilan Xolms. — Bunday havoda langʼillab turgan kamindan yaxshi narsa bormi dunyoda! Sovqotdingiz shekilli, mister Rayder. Marhamat, manavi toʼqima kresloga oʼtiring. Xonaki tuflimni kiyib olay, keyin darhol sizning ishingiz bilan shugʼullanishga kirishamiz. Xoʼp, mana! Siz anavi gʼozlarning nima boʼlganini bilmoqchisizda, shundaymi?


— Ha, ser.


— Toʼgʼrirogʼi, anavi gʼozning nima boʼlganini bilmoqchisiz? Nazarimda, sizni ulardan birginasi dumida qora yoʼli bor oq gʼoz qiziqtirgan shekilli… Rayder hayajondan tipirchilab qoldi.


— O, ser! — deb qichqirib yubordi u. Siz menga oʼsha gʼozning qaerdaligini aytib bera olasizmi?


— U shu yerda.


— Shu yerda?


— Ha. Oʼzi ham ajoyib gʼoz ekan. Unga qiziqib qolganingiz ham bejiz emas ekan. U oʼlganidan keyin chiroyli, yarqiroq moviy tuxum qildi. Tuxum shu yerda, mening muzeyimda.


Mehmonimiz oʼrnidan turib ketib, gandiraklagancha oʼng qoʼli bilan kamin taxtasini ushlab qoldi. Xolms poʼlat sandiqni ochib, undan xuddi mitti yulduzdek tovlanib yarqirayotgan moviy karbunkulni oldi. Rayder bu toshni talab qilib olishini ham, unga boʼlgan har qanday haq-huquqidan voz kechishini ham bilmay baqrayib turardi.


— Chuv tushdingiz, Rayder, — dedi xotirjamlik bilan Sherlok Xolms — Oyogʼingizni qattiqroq bosib turing, boʼlmasa oʼtga yiqilib tushasiz. Uni oʼtqazib qoʼying, Uotson. Sir boy bermay, xotirjamgina qalloblik qilishga hali chogʼi kelmaydi. Unga bir qultumgina aroq bering. Àna endi sal odam bashara boʼldi. Qoʼngʼizdan ham xarob-a!


Rayder gandiraklab ketib yerga yiqilib tushishiga sal qoldi, ammo aroqdan yonoqlariga sal-pal qizillik yugurib u oʼzining fosh etuvchisiga vahima bilan baqrayib tikilgancha oʼrniga oʼtirdi.


— Men qariyb hammasini bilaman, qariyb yetarli dalilu isbotlarga egaman, shuning uchun siz ozgina qoʼshimcha qilsangiz bas. Biroq oʼsha ozgina narsani hozirning oʼzidayoq gapirib berishingiz kerak bizga, toki ishda jindakkina ham noaniq joyi qolmasligi kerak. Siz grafinya Morkarning bu moviy karbunkuli bor ekanini qayoqdan bildingiz, Rayder?


— Menga buni Keterin Kyuzek aytib berdi, — deb javob berdi u titroq ovoz bilan.


— Bilaman: janobi oliyalarining joriyasi. Osongina boylik orttirish vasvasasi sizdan gʼolibroq kelgan, bu narsani sizdan koʼra moʼtabarroq zotlar ham bir necha bor boshlaridan kechirganlar. Siz andishani yigʼishtirib qoʼygansiz. Nazarimda, Rayder, sizdan bora-bora binoyidekkina gazanda chiqishi mumkin edi! Siz Xomer degan kavsharchining ilgari bir marta oʼgʼirlik qilib qoʼlga tushganini, hammadan oldin shubhalanishlarini bilgansiz. Nima tadbir koʼrgan Grafinyaning xonasidagi kamin panjarasining simini sindirgansiz, sherigingiz Kyuzek ikkovingiz ataylab shunday bir tadbir koʼrgansizlarki, zarur remont ishini Xomer bajarishiga erishgansizlar. Xomer ketgach, sizlar qutichadagi toshni oʼgʼirlab, shovqin koʼtargansizlar, u shoʼrlikni qamoqqa olishgan. Shundan soʼng…


Shu orada Rayder birdan gilamga sirgʼalib tushib, doʼstimning tizzalarini ikki qoʼli bilan quchoqlab oldi.


— Xudo haqi, menga rahmingiz kelsin! — deya qichqirib yubordi u. — Otamni, onamni rioya qiling. Buni eshitishsa adoyi tamom boʼlishadi. Men hech qachon oʼgʼirlik qilgan emasman! Hech qachon! Ikkinchi bunday qilmayman, ont ichaman! Zabur haqi qasam ichaman! Bu ishni sudga oshirmang! Xudo haqi, sudga oshirmang!


— Joyingizga oʼtiring, — deb jerkib berdi Xolms. — Endi yetti bukilib oʼpasizmi! Shoʼrlik Xornemi qilmagan jinoyati uchun aybdorlar kursisiga roʼpara qilayotganingizda nimalarni oʼylagan edingiz?


— Men qochib ketishim mumkin, mister Xolms! Àngliyadan bosh olib ketaman, ser! Shunda unga taqilgan ayb bekor boʼladi…


— Hm! Biz hali bu toʼgʼrida gaplashib koʼramiz. Hozircha oʼgʼirlikdan keyin nimalar yuz bergani haqidagi haqqoniy hikoyangizni eshitamiz. Bu tosh gʼozning boʼgʼziga qanday tushib qoldiyu, gʼoz qanday qilib bozorga borib qoldi? Toʼgʼrisini ayting, siz uchun birdan-bir najot yoʼli toʼgʼrisini ayting.


Rayder qahragan lablarini yalab oldi.


— Men sizga bor gapni aytib beraman, — dedi u. — Xomerni qamoqqa olganlarida, yon-verimni, xonamni tintish politsiyaning yodiga kelib qolmasdan toshni olib chiqib ketganim yaxshi, degan qarorga keldim. Mehmonxonada toshni yashirib qoʼyish uchun qulay joy yoʼq edi. Men xizmat yuzasidan ketayotgan boʼlib tashqariga chiqdimda, opamning uyiga qarab yoʼl oldim. U Okshot degan odamning xotini, Brikston-rodda yashaydi. U uy parrandalarini semirtirib sotish bilan shugʼullanadi. Toʼqnash kelgan har bir odam menga politsiyachi yoki iztopar boʼlib tuyulaverdi, salqin bir oqshom boʼlishiga qaramay, to Brikston-rodga yetib borgunimcha terga botdim. Opam mendan, nima gap, nega bunday ranging oʼchgan, deb soʼradi. Men, mehmonxonamizda qimmatbaho narsalar oʼgʼirlanganidan tashvishlanyapman, deb javob berdim. Keyin orqa hovliga oʼtib tamaki chekdimda, nima tadbir koʼrish kerakligini oʼylay boshladim.


Mening toʼgʼri yoʼldan toyib jazo muddatini Pentonvil turmasida oʼtkazib kelgan Modeli degan oshnam bor edi. Bir kuni u bilan uchrashib oʼgʼrilar haqida gaplashib qolganimizda, menga oʼgʼrilar oʼgʼirlik molni qanday quv qilishlarini gapirib bergan edi. U meni chaqib qoʼymasligini bilardim, chunki uning baʼzi bir gunohlaridan xabardor edim, shuning uchim ham toʼppa-toʼgʼri Kilbumga borib, unga uchrashmoqchi va uni sirimdan voqif qilmoqchi boʼldim. U bu toshni qanday qilib pullashni oʼrgatishi mumkin edi. Àmmo u yoqqa qanday yetib olaman? Men mehmonxona

dan kelayotganimda kechirgan iztiroblarimni esladim. Har bir daqiqada ushlab olib yon-verimni tintib, nimcham choʼntagidan toshni topib olishlari mumkin edi. Devorga suyangancha oyogʼimning tagida lapanglab izgʼib yurgan gʼozlarga qarab turarkanman, dunyodagi eng epchil iztoparni ham qanday qilib aldash haqida miyamga dafʼatan bir fikr kelib qoldi…


Bir necha hafta burun opam menga mavlud bayramiga juda boʼliq gʼoz sovgʼa qilajagini aytgandi, uning hamisha soʼzi ustidan chiqishini bilardim. Men oʼsha gʼozni hozirning oʼzidayoq olib, toshni uning boʼgʼzida Kilbumga olib bormoqchi boʼldim. Hovlida bir saroy bor edi. Men dumi ola kattakon, semiz bir oq gʼozni saroyning orqasiga haydab oʼtdim. Uni tutib olib, tumshugʼini ochdimda, mumkin qadar ichkariroqqa surishga harakat qilib, toshni uning boʼgʼziga tiqdim. Gʼoz yutindi, tosh uning boʼtakasiga qanday qilib oʼtib borganini qoʼlim bilan sezib turdim. Àmmo gʼoz tipirchilab qanotlarini tapillata boshladi, opam nima gapligini bilgani chiqib qoldi. Oʼgirilib unga endi javob bermoqchi boʼlib turgan edim, yaramas gʼoz qoʼlimdan yulqinib chiqib galaga aralashib ketdi.


«Jonivorni nima qilayotgan eding, Jeyms?» — deb soʼradi opam.


«Haligi… dedim men, — senga mavlud bayramiga gʼoz sovgʼa qilaman, deganing uchun ulardan qaysi biri semizroq ekan, deb koʼrayotgan edim».


“O, — dedi u, — biz senga atab allaqachon gʼozni tanlab qoʼyganmiz. Biz uni: «Jeymsning gʼozi» deb ataymiz. Hov anavi boshdan-oyoq oppoq kattakon gʼoz. Hammasi boʼlib yigirma oltita gʼoz, shulardan bittasi senga, bittasi bizga, yigirma toʼrttasi — sotishga”.


«Rahmat, Meggi, — dedim men. — Àgar senga farqi boʼlmasa, menga hozir qoʼlimda ushlab turganimni bersang».


«Seniki bunga qaraganda uch qadoqcha vazminroq, oʼzini ham senga atab yaxshilab boqqanmiz».


«Buning ahamiyati yoʼq. Menga xuddi shunisi kerak, uni hozirning oʼzida olib ketsam».


«Oʼzing bilasan, — dedi opam bir oz ranjib. — Qaysi birini olmoqchi eding?» «Dumida qora yoʼli bor hov anavi oqini, hov ana galaning oʼrtasida turibdi». «Marhamat. Soʼyib olib ketaqol!»


Men shunday qildim, mister Xolms, qushni Kilbumga olib ketdim. Oshnamga hamma gapni aytib berdim — u bunaqa gaplarni bemalol aytaversa boʼladigan odamlar toifasidan. U sillasi quriguncha qotib-qotib kuldi, keyin pichoq olib gʼozni soʼydik. Gʼozning ichida tosh yoʼqligini koʼrib mudhish bir xato roʼy berganini anglaganimdan keyin, yuragim orqasiga tortib ketdi. Gʼozni oʼsha yerda qoldirib opamnikiga gʼizilladim, chopgancha orqa hovliga kirib bordim. Hovlida gʼozlar yoʼq edi.


«Gʼozlar qani, Meggi?» — deb qichqirdim.


«Savdogarga joʼnatdik».


«Qaysi savdogarga?»


«Kovent-gardsidagi Brekinrijga».


«Gʼozlarning orasida men hozirgina soʼyganga oʼxshagan yana bir dumi olasi bormidi?» —deb soʼradim.


«Ha, Jeyms, dumi ola gʼoz ikkita edi, men ularni doim adashtirib yurardim». Shundan keyin men, albatta, bir gapni tushunib, oʼsha Brekinrijning oldiga qarab yugurdim. Àmmo u gʼozlarning hammasini allaqachon sotib boʼlgan ekan, kimga sotganini sira aytgisi kelmadi. Uning menga qanday oʼdagʼaylab berganini oʼzingiz eshitdingiz. Opam meni, aqldan ozgan, deb oʼylayapti. Baʼzan oʼzim oʼzimga ham jinniga oʼxshab koʼrinaman. Mana endi… mana endi men — qabih oʼgʼriman, holbuki oʼgʼirlayman deganim gʼanimatga qoʼlimni tegizmagan bulsam ham, uni deb yosh umrimni xazon qildim. Yo rabbiy, meni oʼzing yorlaqa! Yo rabbiy oʼzing yorlaqa!


U qoʼllari bilan yuzini berkitgancha titrab oʼkrab yubordi. Oraga uzoq jimlik choʼkdi, uni Rayderning ogʼir xoʼrsinishlari bilan doʼstimning stol qirrasnni bir maromda chertishigina buzib turardi. Birdan Sherlok Xolms oʼrnidan turib, koʼcha eshikni lang ochdi.


— Yoʼqoling! — dedi u.


— Nega, ser?.. O, sizni parvardigor yorlaqasin!


— Gapirmang! Yoʼqoling bu yerdan!


Bu soʼzni yana bir takrorlashga toʼgʼri kelmadi. Zinapoyadan tez tushib borayotgan odim tovushlari gumburlab eshitildi, pastda eshik taraqladi, koʼchadan shaxdam qadam tovushlari keldi.


— Xulosasini aytganda, Uotson, — dedi Xolms, qoʼlini sopol trubkasiga choʼzib, — mutlaqo politsiyamizning yoʼl qoʼygan xatolarini tuzatish uchun ishlamayman. Bordiyu, Xomerga xavf-xatar tahdid solayotgan boʼlsa, unda boshqa gap edi. Àmmo Rayder unga qarshi shohidlik bermaydi, ish shu bilan tinchib ketadi. Ehtimol, muttahamga homiylik qilayotgandirmanu, ammo, toʼgʼrirogʼi, men odamni batamom nobud boʼlib ketishdan saqlab qolyapman. Bu shovvoz, endi bunaqa ishlarni takrorlamaydi — u juda yurak oldirib qoʼygan. Hayot bizni gʼalati va alomat bir jumboq bilan toʼqnash keltirdi! Bu jumboqni yechishning oʼziyoq katta mukofot! Iltifot qilib qoʼngʼirogʼni chalib qoʼysangiz, yangi «tadqiqot» bilan shugʼullanardik, bunda ham bosh rolni yana parranda ijro etadi: esingizda boʼlsin, tushlikka kaklik yeymiz.



Vahob Roʼzimatov tarjimasi


[1] Karbunkul — shaffof qimmatbaho tosh, odatda qizil boʼladi.


[2] Gran — 0,0622 grammga barovar eski oʼlchov birligi.


I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.


“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”


“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—”but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.”


I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”


“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”


“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”


“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”


“Yes.”


“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”


“It is his hat.”


“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”


“Which surely he restored to their owner?”


“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”


“What, then, did Peterson do?”


“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”


“Did he not advertise?”


“No.”


“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”


“Only as much as we can deduce.”


“From his hat?”


“Precisely.”


“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”


“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”


I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.


“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.


“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”


“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”


He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”


“My dear Holmes!”


“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”


“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”


“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?”


“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”


For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.”


“The decline of his fortunes, then?”


“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”


“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”


Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.”


“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”


“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”


“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”


“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”


“But he might be a bachelor.”


“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”


“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?”


“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?”


“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”


Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.


“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.


“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face.


“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.


Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?”


“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.”


“It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.”


“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated.


“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000 pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”


“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.


“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”


“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.


“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:


“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.”


“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods.”


“What will you say?”


“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.”


“Very. But will he see it?”


“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”


“In which, sir?”


“Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.”


“Very well, sir. And this stone?”


“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.”


When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.”

holmes and watson talking to a man


“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”


“I cannot tell.”


“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?”


“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.”


“And you can do nothing until then?”


“Nothing.”


“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.”


“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”


I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room.


“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”


“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”


He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.


“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.”


Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”


“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”


“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.


“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”


“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.


“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—”


The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.”


Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.


“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”


“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.


“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”


“Not particularly.”


“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.”


“By all means.”


It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.


“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he.


“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.


“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”


“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.”


“Indeed! Whose, then?”


“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”


“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”


“Breckinridge is his name.”


“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.”


“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”


We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters.


“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.


The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.


“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.


“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”


“That’s no good.”


“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”


“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”


“Who by?”


“The landlord of the Alpha.”


“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”


“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?”


To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.


“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.”


“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”


“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”


“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”


“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”


“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.”


“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman.


“It’s nothing of the kind.”


“I say it is.”


“I don’t believe it.”


“D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.”


“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”


“Will you bet, then?”


“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”


The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.


The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.


“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?”


“Well?”


“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”


“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.


“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”


Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”


“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”


“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’”


“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”


“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’”


“What have you to say now?”


Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.


“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ‘un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”


His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.


“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?”


“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.


“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”


“She told me to ask you.”


“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.


“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.


“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice.


“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”


“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”


“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”


“But you can know nothing of this?”


“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.”


“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.”


Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”


The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance.


“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.”


A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”


“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.”


The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.


“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”


Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?”


“It came here.”


“Here?”


“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”


Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.


“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”


For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.


“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”


“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice.


“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—”


Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”


“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.”


“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.”


“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.”


Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.


“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.


“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.


“‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.


“‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’


“‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’


“‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’


“‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’


“‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.


“‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’


“‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’


“‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’


“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.


“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.


“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’


“‘Which dealer’s?’


“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’


“‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’


“‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’


“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.


There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.


“Get out!” said he.


“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”


“No more words. Get out!”


And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.


“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.”