My friend the murderer, and other mysteries and adventuresDoyle, Arthur Conan
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My friend the murderer, and other mysteries and adventures
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Detective and mystery stories, English
“I’d be frightened,” he said, “if any fellow but you had told me as
much. You always had a way, Hammond, of discovering mares’ nests. I
like to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you remember at
school how you swore there was a ghost in the long room, and how it
turned out to be your own reflection in the mirror? Why, man,” he
continued, “what object would any one have in destroying this ship?
We have no great political guns aboard. On the contrary, the majority
of the passengers are Americans. Besides, in this sober nineteenth
century, the most wholesale murderers stop at including themselves
among their victims. Depend upon it, you have misunderstood them, and
have mistaken a photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for
an infernal machine.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” said I, rather touchily. “You will learn to
your cost, I fear, that I have neither exaggerated nor misinterpreted a
word. As to the box, I have certainly never before seen one like it. It
contained delicate machinery; of that I am convinced, from the way in
which the men handled it and spoke of it.”
“You’d make out every packet of perishable goods to be a torpedo,” said
Dick, “if that is to be your only test.”
“The man’s name was Flannigan,” I continued.
“I don’t think that would go very far in a court of law,” said Dick;
“but come, I have finished my cigar. Suppose we go down together and
split a bottle of claret. You can point out these two Orsinis to me if
they are still in the cabin.”
“All right,” I answered; “I am determined not to lose sight of them all
day. Don’t look hard at them, though; for I don’t want them to think
that they are being watched.”
“Trust me,” said Dick; “I’ll look as unconscious and guileless as a
lamb;” and with that we passed down the companion and into the saloon.
A good many passengers were scattered about the great central table,
some wrestling with refractory carpet-bags and rug-straps, some having
their luncheon, and a few reading and otherwise amusing themselves. The
objects of our quest were not there. We passed down the room and peered
into every berth; but there was no sign of them. “Heavens!” thought I,
“perhaps at this very moment they are beneath our feet, in the hold or
engine-room, preparing their diabolical contrivance!” It was better to
know the worst than remain in such suspense.
“Steward,” said Dick, “are there any other gentlemen about?”
“There’s two in the smoking-room, sir,” answered the steward.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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