Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) es un escritor inglés principalmente conocido por ser el creador del más grande de los detectives de la literatura universal, Sherlock Holmes.

Esto no es una novela en sí, sino más bien una antología. El compendio de todas las obras protagonizadas por Sherlock Holmes, también denominado el "Cánon Holmsiano" y que incluye los siguientes títulos:

- Estudio en escarlata (A Study in Scarlet, novela, 1887).
- El signo de los cuatro (The Sign of Four, novela, 1890).
- Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, conjunto de relatos, 1891–92).
- Las memorias de Sherlock Holmes (The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, conjunto de relatos, 1892–93).
- El sabueso de los Baskerville (The Hound of the Baskervilles, novela, 1901–02).
- El retorno de Sherlock Holmes (The Return of Sherlock Holmes,  conjunto de relatos, 1903–04).
- El valle del terror (The Valley of Fear, novela, 1914–15).
- El último saludo (His Last Bow, conjunto de relatos, 1908–17).
- El libro de casos de Sherlock Holmes (The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, conjunto de relatos, 1924–26).

Esta antología está formada por 4 novelas y 5 libros que son recopilaciones de los relatos aparecidos en las distintas publicaciones, unos 60 relatos en total (listado completo). Básicamente todas las novelas (y los relatos también) tienen una estructura similar, un cliente llega al despacho (a su vez laboratorio y vivienda) que Sherlock Holmes ocupa en el 221B de Baker Street en Londres y que eventualmente comparte con el Doctor Watson (un médico que hizo carrera en el ejercito y que se convierte en el compañero de piso de Holmes y en compañero inseparable en muchas de sus aventuras, se nos presenta como una especie de alterego del protagonista), en determinados momento Watson es un hombre casado y vive con su esposa en otro lugar. Como curiosidad hay que decir que si bien es cierto que existe una Baker Street y un número 221 en esa calle en Londres, nunca ha existido un 221B, una de las hipótesis es que la B haga referencia al piso de arriba de este 221, puesto que era la plata que ocupaba Sherlock Holmes. El cliente plantea su problema al detective y éste decide si se va a ocupar de él o lo va a rechazar. Si es aceptado Sherlock usará todo su poder deductivo para resolverlo en virtud de las pruebas que vaya recabando y finalmente ofrecerá la solución al cliente.

El autor nos presenta al detective como un hombre con una inteligencia fuera de lo común, es capaz de llegar a conclusiones acertadas a través de detalles que un hombre común no apreciaría, simplemente con su capacidad deductiva. A su vez también domina ciertas materias como química y geología, en ocasiones su metodología no es la mejor, pero sus conocimientos son muy elevados y siempre resulta útiles. Además es un buen boxeador y un, cuanto menos, interesante intérprete de violín, además de un excelente actor y un maestro del disfraz. En una de las novelas (Estudio en escarlata) Watson hace un listado de las habilidades que domina Sherlock y descubre su gran interés por todo aquello que le resulta práctico y su completo desinterés por aquello que considera superfluo. En una ocasión Watson le pregunta si conoce la teoria heliocéntrica y queda muy sorprendido cuando Sherlock afirma no tener ni idea, a lo que además agrega: "considero que esto no tiene más valor para mi vida cotidiana que cualquier otra curiosidad, hasta este momento nunca había oído hablar de ello y es más a partir de ahora la voy a olvidar pues no tengo interés de ocupar mi memoria con este tipo de cosas".

Los métodos de investigación son poco convencionales, prefiere no salir de su salón y confiar en su poder deductivo. Para recabar información usar una red de espionaje un tanto curiosa, los pilluelos que rondan por las calles de Londres, muchachos a los que tiene gran aprecio y que en muchas ocasiones le aportan informaciones vitales para las investigaciones. Las comunicaciones las hace usando el telegrama, impensable en estos días.

En las novelas aparecen varios personajes de manera recurrente, como por ejemplo los inspectores de Schotland Yard a los que presta colaboración, en ocasiones su hermano mayor Mycroft que trabaja para el gobierno británico en los servicios de información, pero sin duda el más destacado, aunque quizás más breve en cuanto apariciones reales (en muchos relatos es mencionado) es James Moriarty. El profesor Moriarty según el propio Holmes es la persona más dotada para el crimen que jamás haya conocido la humanidad y su gran enemigo, hasta tal punto que llega a acabar con la vida del detective, el autor decide resucitar a Sherlock Holmes debido a la gran presión popular.

A grandes rasgos los argumentos de las 4 novelas son los siguientes:

- Estudio en Escarlata: Primera novela, aunque no es la primera aventura de la que se tiene constancia, donde Holmes y Watson se encuentran, Watson hace una presentación de Holmes narrando la aventura en primera persona. El caso gira en torno a un cadaver descubierto en una casa con una extraña inscripción en la pared: "RACHE". En esta novela hay insertada una pequeña novelita del oeste que tiene lugar varios años antes y sirve como un prólogo a la aventura principal. Una de las teorías de la inserción de esta novela dentro de Estudio en escarlata apunta a que puede ser meramente para rellenar las 100 páginas mínimas que otorgaban la categoría de novela a cualquier relato.

- El signo de los cuatro: En esta ocasión Holmes debe investigar qué se esconde tras una herencia, un tesoro, que un padre deja a sus hijos y provoca el asesinato de uno de los hermanos. Un extraño signo es dejado en el lugar del crimen y todo apunta a un ajuste de cuentas que viene del pasado. Aquí también se dedica parte del relato a contar la historia y el origen del tesoro.

- El sabueso de los Baskerville: Aquí Sherlock deja Londres para trasladarse a una mansión en el corazón de Inglaterra donde el propietario ha sido encontrado muerto en extrañas circunstancias. Aparentemente varios miembros de la familia han sido encontrados muertos anteriormente a causa del ataque de un perro diabólico.

- El valle del terror: En esta ocasión Holmes tiene que desvelar la identidad de un asesino, cuando están cara a cara este le relata la historia que sucedió años atrás en USA. Básicamente imita la estructura de "Estudio en escarlata". En esta novela aparece el profesor Moriarty.

En resumen, esta es una de las obras de lectura obligada para todos los amantes de la novela de detectives. Sherlock Holmes es uno de los personajes más carismáticos de este género de literatura y el modelo que muchos otros han seguido.

Como curiosidades hay que destacar la importancia que ha tenido el cine dentro de la concepción del personaje. La famosa frase "elemental querido Watson" sólo fue pronunciada una vez por Holmes de esa manera, pero se ha encargado el cine de magnificarla. EL perfil clásico de que asociamos a Holmes con su pipa no es sino producto del cine también, la pipa preferida de Holmes era una enorme pipa cerámica, esta se substituyó por la que todos conocemos con afán de hacer que la cara del personaje no quedase tapada cuando fumaba.

Por eso nos ha parecido muy apropiada la idea de vincular la novela policiaca, con su vocación participativa, al hipertexto. Por este nexo indudable con la interactividad, la mayoría de las aventuras gráficas a las que nos aficionamos hace algunas décadas cumplían el esquema básico del género policiaco. Nos referimos a aventuras gráficas derivadas de las ya mencionadas producciones de Sierra como Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis producida por LucasArts en 1992, o más recientemente al magnífico videojuego Silent Hill de Sony PlayStation cuya primera entrega es del año 1999 y que mereció una secuela cinematográfica en 2006. El problema es que el programa de Flash queda de nuevo muy lejos de las expectativas, lo cual se debe sin duda a la inexistencia de un software Web suficientemente potente, antes que a la falta de diligencia de sus creadores.

También queremos destacar el interesante trabajo de investigación que debe hacer el usuario para llegar a las conclusiones. A través de la propia investigación del hipermedia, leyendo por ejemplo la novela, vamos hallando las pistas que nos dirán cómo conducirnos por el tercer nivel de la obra. Hay aquí un bonito trabajo de investigación, que se realiza simultáneamente en el plano del hipermedia y en el del juego de Flash.
Creemos que el hipertexto va a ser un entorno privilegiado para el desarrollo de la novela policiaca futura. Y en esto una vez más Golpe de Gracia acierta a anticiparse, profética, a las nuevas experiencias literarias que sin duda están por venir.

It is 1889 and Oscar Wilde finds the body of a young man with his throat cut in the room of a house in Westminster where Wilde has an appointment. Although Scotland Yard do become involved, Wilde decides to investigate on his own as the young man was known to him, and he enlists two of his friends. Which sounds much as you would expect, except his friends are Robert Sherard, writer and great-grandson of William Wordsworth, and Artur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes. The game is indeed afoot.

This is really good fun, witty and clever and gives a sense of what Wilde might have been like as a friend. His relationships with both Sherard and Conan Doyle are based on fact, and there are interesting biogrpahical notes at the end of the story for those of us who like to know a bit more of the factual background to this type of novel.

I did twig reasonably early on who might be involved in the death of Billy Wood, but not the reasons why or the detail around the murder and subsequent events. Trying to guess the culprit in a crime novel is all part of the fun as far as I am concerned and it's always enjoyable to find out just how right or wrong I am. What makes this book so satisfying is the picture it portrays of late Victorian London and the lifestyles of those with a bit of money.

This is the first in a series (I think there are three so far) and I look forward to reading the others.

 “la historia de nuestro tiempo no es la de la guerra ni la de la energía atómica, sino la del matrimonio de un gángster y una idealista, la crónica de su vida conyugal y la de los hijos que han tenido”

Norman Mailer

El pueblo, al igual que Marlowe, supone una mera abstracción; la justicia, que también parece serlo, interesó a Lope de Vega en tanto ajusticiamiento, en tanto contrajusticia. En Lope, la justicia podría asumir muchas caras, pero por sobre todo, dos: una primera acción, impartida desde el centro hacia la periferia; y una contracción, desde la periferia hacia el centro. Así es que Fuenteovejuna importa primero una insurrección y luego una contracción (Y de manera que interrompen tu justicia, señor, III).

 Lo que llamamos género policial ocupó de estas dos nociones, la segunda. Si bien no podemos hablar de una reivindicación de valores, sí de una contra justicia, justicia subsidiaria o paralela. Tanto Auguste Dupin como Sherlock Holmes revelaban la vergüenza de un status quo incapaz de resolver crímenes. Conan Doyle, acaso el cultor más excelente del género, creaba un hombre extraordinario capaz de llenar las funciones de todo un cuerpo de policía, una suerte de oráculo que se bastaba de su ingenio y de su buen tino para resolver problemas mucho antes que la misma ley y que no perdía la oportunidad de hacérselo evidente. El gran adversario de Sherlock, en consecuencia, no habría de ser el mítico profesor Moriarty de El Problema Final, sino la Scotland Yard. De este enfrentamiento surge el género policial y así también su héroe, el detective.

Caso complejo es el de un héroe que, a partir de Raymond Chandler, puede ser cualquiera (Chandler, The Academy, septiembre de 1911,  322).

 Phillip Marlowe (quien alguna vez fuera Raymond Chandler) estaba muy lejos de valores reivindicables más urgentes que los que podía reformularse a cada paso: si bien buscaba el centro del problema y se posicionaba como el hombre más apto para resolverlo, no constituía esa función oracular que hacía a los detectives de literatura que lo precedieron, sino que más bien encarnaba un híbrido de gángster y desfacedor de entuertos.  

Marlowe no impartía una justicia paralela ni mucho menos una que le fuese venturosa, sino que se codeaba con el status quo en tanto le fuese conveniente y se imbuía más que en un enigma, en un conflicto; Marlowe era por sobre todo, un ser ambivalente, de fuertes sentimientos encontrados y de muy pocas certezas.

A menudo me he preguntado a qué responde la iniciativa del detective negro. Intuyo que Marlowe o Chandler refutarían: no hay tal cosa, no hay iniciativa.

Quizás quien más cerca estuvo de totalizar lo esencial del detective negro haya sido Paul Auster: en las páginas iniciales de su Trilogía de New York, un desconocido llama a un hombre tomándolo por un detective; éste dubita unos segundos y luego asiente, dice ser el hombre que el otro buscaba; e inmediatamente deviene detective. En consecuencia, no es extraño que Chandler, en la creación de su personaje, haya apuntado en dirección absolutamente contraria a la de sus predecesores: Chandler no hace de un hombre extraordinario, un sagaz detective, sino más bien, de un improbable detective, un hombre extraordinario.

The detective in this kind of story must be such a man (Chandler, 1950)

Marlowe, bajo la mirada de Chandler, es el héroe, lo es todo; imprecisos y vanos, creo, son los intentos de endilgarle a ese todo la suma de unas cuantas virtudes fácilmente numerables, sumirlo en una clasificación que lo justifique dentro del género policial: del género, lo que Chandler rescata con más virulencia no es más que una actitud cuyo sostén es un lenguaje. (Chandler, 1950) Si Marlowe es o cree ser detective no es algo que nos interese demasiado. En todo caso  sí que haya devenido símbolo de uno.

 Un problemática parecida es aquella que supo suscitar Cervantes.  Muy pocos han sido los que abrazaron la idea de que el Quijote constituye más que una parodia del género de caballería, una manera de que éste sobreviviese. Cervantes no estaría sino asumiendo la recreación de una épica que veía extinguirse y mucho más que una épica, una actitud que simbolizara esa épica. Papini se atrevió a postular que Don Quijote no estaba loco, sino que fingía su locura.  La manera más segura de falsear el Quijote, apunta Papini,  es suponer que hay en él una filosofía (…) En este caso, es el libro el que presta sus nombres al fantaseador especulativo y no éste quien sirve al libro, iluminándolo (Papini, 1916) Creo que dada la naturaleza de la obra nos es posible dudar de cualquier supuesto en torno al Quijote, pero no de que ha superado ampliamente esa manipulación de la generalidad que llamamos género.

 Don Quijote, quien deviniera símbolo unívoco del caballero andante sin jamás haber sido caballero andante, ni librado un solo combate real, ni aún resuelto un solo entuerto, es nuestra imagen viva de la caballería; y así igualmente Marlowe, héroe y hombre, símbolo del detective, sin jamás haber sido uno en realidad.

M. A

La primera es la génesis del género policíaco, donde se investiga unos crímenes horribles perpetrados por... bueno para saberlo tienes que abrir el libro. El detective Auguste Dupin, que por otro lado servirá de inspiración a Conan Doyle para crear a Sherlock Holmes, desentrañará una trama muy rebuscada y a la vez perfecta. Te atrapará en seguida.

Por otro lado, Antígona es una obra de teatro trágica y genial donde se confrontan dos principios éticos: el deber de guardar la ley y el deber a la familia, éste último representado por Antígona. Ésta, hija de Edipo, desobedece la ley al enterrar el cadáver de su hermano traidor a la patria. Creonte, rey de Tebas, impondrá un severo castigo a la que a su vez es la prometida de su propio hijo, mientras deja de nuevo el cadáver del traidor al abrigo de las aves y los perros. Pero todo da un giro de ciento ochenta grados que tendréis que descubrir.

Nada más. Un fin de semana perfecto.

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you."

"What is it, then — a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."

"lt is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and gray, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature gray, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all- comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to — none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money — not less than 1000 pounds a year — and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died — she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has."

"Your sister is dead, then?"

"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but wlthin a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion."

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened hls lids now and glanced across at his visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

"Perfectly so."

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

" 'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?'

" 'Never,' said I.

" 'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?'

" 'Certainly not. But why?'

" 'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.'

" 'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gypsies in the plantation.'

" 'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.'

" 'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

" 'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?"

"Always."

"And why?"

"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognized me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived."

"Was your sister dressed?"

"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?"

"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her."

"How about poison?"

"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

"Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time?"

"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band — a speckled band?"

"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used."

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your narrative."

"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage — Percy Armitage — the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

"Yes, all."

"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

"Why, what do you mean?"

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way."

"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

"By no means."

"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming."

"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?"

"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

"Dark enough and sinister enough."

"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

"I cannot think."

"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gypsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."

"But what, then, did the gypsies do?"

"I cannot imagine."

"I see many objections to any such theory."

"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught."

"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter."

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think all that we need."

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows

"Look there!" said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the gray gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

"Stoke Moran?" said he.

"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the driver.

"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where we are going."

"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.

"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening."

"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

"So it appears."

"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?"

"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him tonight. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room."

"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?" "Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?"

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter."

A small slde door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow whitecounterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to a thick belt-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow.

"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

"It looks newer than the other things?"

"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

"Won't it ring?"

"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is."

"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

"Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting character — dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his stepdaughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wail, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest.

"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it.

"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. "Hello! Here is something interesting!"

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.

"What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

"I shall most certainly do so."

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance."

"I assure you that I am in your hands."

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room."

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?"

"Yes, that is the Crown."

"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

"Certainly."

"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night."

"Oh, yes, easily."

"The rest you will leave in our hands."

"But what will you do?"

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind," said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

"Perhaps I have."

"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's death."

"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright."

"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me."

"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"

"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope — or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful."

* * *

About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.

"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes from the middle window."

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.

"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes's example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words:

"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

I nodded to show that I had heard.

"We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

I nodded again.

"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair."

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible — a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing.-

He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room."

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened." As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gypsies, and the use of the word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.

"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience."

Recentemente, infatti, egli provò tramite ardite formulazioni matematiche la NON impossibilità per un uomo di contare, nel corso della sua vita, dal numero intero 1 al numero intero 1.000.000.000 (o anche al contrario); vale la pena  riportare qui l' argomentazione saliente della sua teoria:

"considerando che un uomo non puo’ contare per 24 (ventiquattro) ore al giorno, ma per 8 (otto) ore al giorno si’, e quindi, considerando che un uomo riesce in media a dire 2 numeri ogni secondo (media calcolata ad occhio, potrebbero esserci errori) per 8 (2^3) ore, per 365 giorni (un anno), per 50 anni (mezzo secolo, altresi’ detti 10 lustri), uguale a 1,3 miliardi circa!"

(cit. quattro post qui sotto)

Esatto, è teoricamente possibile per un essere umano contare fino alla cifra di un miliardo. Quando Ragnarok formulò (e richiese fondi per la sperimentazione del)la propria geniale intuizione (dodici giorni fa), chi, chi di voi soloni accademici comprese la portata storica dei suoi studi e non lo derise?

Buffone, perdigiorno, diceste voi! Pazzo fissato per inutili ghiribizzi,  svenevoli vezzi, dissero altri! Oppure ci fu chi, stoltamente, tentò di entrare nel merito delle complesse formulazioni matematiche  ed organizzative per smentirle. Si confutò la possibilità che alcun uomo giammai potesse dedicare sì gran parte della propria vita, seppur lautamente ricompensato, a tentar di superare la barriera della conta fino alla simbolicamente immensa cifra di UN MILIARDO, niuna volta, a memoria storica, raggiunta dalla continuativa ripetizione di numeri interi in sequenza da parte di una voce umana.

Confesso che anco io, lo scrivente, nonostante un iniziale e stordito moto di felicità alla notizia che si potesse teoricamente contare fino ad un miliardo, ebbi a notare delle impossibilità pratiche nella realizzazzione dell' idea che, seppur formulata con glaciale e cristallina perfezione sulla carta dei vostri monitor retroilluminati, non è impresa per far la quale Messer Iddio saggissimo concepì l' Uomo.  Mi era sovvenuta infatti la triste realtà: la laringe umana non puote impiegar il medesimo tempo nel pronunciare sia la parola 1 (uno) che la parola 999.999.999 (novecentonovantanovemilioninovecentonovantanovemilaenovecentonovantanove). La realizzabilità pratica del progetto quindi, il cui cuore  era la possibilità di pronunziare due parole al secondo, andava a farsi fottere nella conta a partire all' incirca dal 667 (seicentosessantasette), numero il quale, a mio avviso, è  di difficile pronunziazione anche avendo tanto tempo a disposizione.

Come ricorderete, Ragnarok, avvilito dalla scarsa e villana accoglienza del mirabile parto della di lui fronte, morì povero, solo, abbandonato e cirrotico dentro un bidone dei rifiuti lungo la pubblica via, luogo nel quale ancor oggi riposano le sue putrescibili membra. Non sarà quindi possibile tributargli il giustissimo trionfo, nè potrà ei mai veder il benefico frutto che l' Umana Stirpe coglierà dal fecondo pistillo il qual lui  generò con la sua propria testa.

Perché io, qui ed oggi, ho il piacere di annunziarvi che in loco segreto è iniziata la sperimentazione di un progetto dalla amplissima portata, delle cui benefiche  ricadute la Razza Umana non tarderà a godere: grazie alle idee di Ragnarok, al deciso sostegno economico da parte dello Stato, e ad un mio modestissimo contributo, è infatti già in atto la prima fase della SOLUZIONE FINALE.

Del problema delle FATE.

Questi ripugnanti esserini magici, retaggio di un'epoca non scientifica e non Cristiana, oscide tentatrici  delle menti dei nostri fanciulli, lascivi spiritelli di libidinosa foggia femminina che posseggono il disgustoso potere di rendersi invisibili ed intangibili un millisecondo prima che un essere umano le scorga. Forti di questa abilità esse possono violare la Privacy e la proprietà privata di chicchessia. La stucchevole magia delle Fate poi attira i fanciulli fuori dal letto, trasferendo a questi l' esecrabile dono del volo verso luoghi lontani dove eterna fanciullezza attende,  dai quali non faranno mai ritorno. E che dire delle giovani bambine e ragazze che spesso vengono irrimediabilmente lese ed instupidite da film, pupazzi e tatuaggi sulla spalla rappresentanti le Fate, proprio nel momento di massima fertilità e salute, nel quale sarebbe dover loro figliar gli uomini che domani costituiranno la società produttiva?

Ed invece le perniciose Fate ritardano tutto questo, impediscono alle giovani generazioni di entrare il prima possibile nel mondo degli adulti, scevro di fanciulleschi caroselli nei boschi ( appannaggio solo degli invertiti). Da sempre i Governi dei Paesi Civili tentano di porre un freno alla piaga intangibile ed invisibile delle Fate. Che fare con queste eteree meretrici? Schedare le loro impronte non sembra sufficiente. E' pur vero che l'aumento della popolazione umana negli ultimi secoli ha fatto sì che l' habitat delle Fate si restringesse, anche grazie ai satelliti ed alle telecamere che monitorano costantemente porzioni del Pianeta per fare in modo che in quei luoghi esse non possano più vivere. Eppure l' aumento demografico ha forse maggiormente aggravato il problema annoso delle Fate.  Come sappiamo infatti questi esseri abominevoli, nonostante abbiano tra loro una vita sessuale presumibilmente promiscua, sono tutti di sesso femminile, e fortunatamente non possono concepire e sgravare di propria sponte.

Il vero problema è costituito dai fanciulli ( e soprattutto dalle fanciulle) della nostra specie: è infatti arcinoto che ogni qualvolta un bambino affermi di credere nelle Fate, uno di questi abomini viene alla luce.

Sebbene sia empiricamente impossibile censire la quantità di Fate presenti nel Mondo, visto che quando lo scienziato o l' uomo comune tentano di osservarne una (in laboratorio o nell' ambiente naturale, è identico) l'infingarda si rende invisibile ed intangibile, è però possibile fare un calcolo approssimativo e statistico sul numero di Fate esistenti sul nostro Pianeta. Dalla nascita della Specie Umana, circa centocinquantamila anni fa, sono esistiti sulla faccia della Terra circa 90 miliardi di esseri umani, compresi quelli viventi in questo momento. Le stime rilevate a campione su bambini di tutto il Mondo rivelano che almeno un essere umano su quindici, nel corso della propria infanzia, abbia detto con convinzione la sciagurata frase : "Io credo nelle Fate" almeno una volta ( è da notare come questa percentuale sia notevolmente maggiore nel campione femminile rispetto a quello maschile). Facendo quindi una rapida proporzione, si ha un totale di sei miliardi di Fate mai esistite su questo pianeta.  Visto che le Fate non invecchiano, e ci sono pochissimi metodi per ucciderle,  tenendo conto della perdita di Habitat (a causa dell' aumento di popolazione, satelliti e webcam piazzati nei posti più impensabili che impediscono alle Fate di tornare visibili per giocare con i bambini), dell' inquinamento e del riscaldamento globale, si crede che al Mondo ormai non esistano più di 2 miliardi e cento milioni  di  Fate perniciose. Ancora troppe.

E' qui che entra in gioco il sottovalutato teorema di Ragnarok: con alla base le sue raffinate formulazioni matematiche, e grazie ai soldi dello Stato ed ai finanziamenti della Comunità Europea, abbiamo potuto affittare un anonimo capannone nella periferia della città di Zigong, nella provincia del Sichuan, nella Repubblica Popolare Cinese. Abbiamo selezionato un gruppo di trenta operai di età inferiore ai 10 anni ( volgarmente detti bambini cinesi),per fare un turno di lavoro di sei ore, due volte al giorno, per un totale di dodici ore al giorno. Il compito di questi addetti è uno solo: uccidere le Fate. Con l' unico sistema conosciuto efficace per farlo, ovvero pronunciare con convinzione la frase: "Io non credo nelle Fate".

Il processo è già iniziato da otto giorni: ogni bambino dice la frase una volta al secondo, per sessanta secondi al minuto, sessanta minuti all' ora,  dodici ore al giorno. Ogni nostro operaio uccide con calcolata efficienza quarantatremiladuecento (43200) fate al giorno. E trenta operai  un milioneduecentonovantaseimila (1.296.000) fate al giorno. In otto giorni il nostro staff ha quindi eliminato diecimilionitrecentosessantottomila (10.368.000) fate. Un grande successo! Utilizzando i modelli matematici di Ragnarok abbiamo calcolato che ci serviranno  milleseicentotrentotto giorni, quattordici ore e una manciata di minuti per spazzare via le Fate nate sul Pianeta fino ad oggi, più un altro paio di giorni per sistemare quelle che saranno nate nel frattempo.  Grazie a noi, Il 23 dicembre 2012 più o meno alle quindici (ora di Londra) sul nostro Pianeta non esisterà più nessuna Fata, e l' Uomo  sarà  l' unico vero Signore e Padrone dell' Universo.

[Nota legale- la documentazione sulle Fate e sui loro metodi di generazione ed abbattimento mi è stata fornita dalla mia ragazza, la quale però tiene a dissociarsi da tutto quanto da me appena scritto, tentando di giustificarsi, soprattutto con le sue sorelline piccole, sottolineando che non immaginava l' uso che ne avrei fatto]

Hefty? Dudes, please. CPL library fines for anything other than DVDs and museum passports are - hang on, this is going to shock you - ten cents a day. Yep, one measly dime. Even if you forget to renew for an entire week, that's still barely the price of a Hershey bar. Me, I consider library fines a donation to the library (and a wake-up call to start marking my day planner with the next batch's due dates). They let me take books home and don't charge me for them! I think I can give them a few dimes.

Meanwhile, Alison Bechdel's lament for the lack of time in which to perform fun reading really spoke to me. Yes, I was the geeky kid reading at a fifth-grade level in kindergarten; yes, my dad had to persuade me to stop rereading old favorites. (One of the ways he did this was to hand me a copy of the Complete Sherlock Holmes and say, 'read this.' Which I did - all 4 novels and 56 stories. Good thing Dad liked Conan Doyle himself, because I spent the next five years dragging him to local Sherlockian meetings.)

I do still read for fun - but I personally find a book list helpful. It keeps me from forgetting books I want to read but can't because a) I am overloaded with reading material at the moment or b) the library doesn't have them yet (see 'books for free' supra) or c) it only exists in the Library of Congress so I have to wait until my next trip to Washington DC. (Which is next month. Yes, I will be spending plenty of time in the Thomas Jefferson Building.)

And, finally, your lost e-mails go into black holes. Now you know.

Open a terminal and:

[sourcecode lang="ruby"]
wget http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext95/study10.txt

irb

book=IO.read("study10.txt")

i = book=~/Watson/
=> 15078
book[i-50..i+10]
=> "m.\r\n\r\n\"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?\"\r\n"

i = book=~/\sWatson\s/
=> 15078
book[i-50..i+10]
=> "click\r\nof the latch as she opened it.\r\n\r\n\"Does Dr. Watson liv"

i = book=~/(\w*) Street/
=> Baker
book[i-50..i+10]
=> "his\r\nrooms with me.  \"I have my eye on a suite in Baker Stree"

a=[]
book.each{|line| a<

Copa do Mundo

Aniversário do Lego

Criação do Laser

Dia de São Valentin

A Terra é azul (Yuri Gagarin)

Aniversário do Astro Boy

Cem anos da imigração japonesa

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

My suggestion is "A Scandal in Bohemia", which illustrates perfectly how a detective's story can be exciting and amazing without any violence.

Why "A Scandal in Bohemia"?

"A Scandal in Bohemia"was the first of Arthur Conan Doyle's 56 Sherlock Holmes short stories to be published in The Strand Magazine and the first Sherlock Holmes story illustrated by Sidney Paget. This short story cycle  was preceded by two of novels— A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of the Four —. Conan Doyle wrote four novels in total and several cycles of short stories.

The great detective has been accused of being misogynistic. In this story we can observe Holmes's admiration by intelligent women. Conan Doyle shows his  character defeated by a woman's wit, but he wasn't in love, of course!

Here it is the beginning of the story: 

Irene Norton born Adler by Allen St. John

"To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory"

The Plot

Holmes is visited by a masked gentleman introducing himself as Count Von Kramm, an agent for a wealthy client, but Holmes quickly deduces that he is in fact Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, the hereditary King of Bohemia. The King admits this, tearing off his mask. (Actually, the Habsburg Emperors were also Kings of Bohemia and there was no separate dynasty; Doyle chose to place an imaginary king at an existing country, rather than create a whole imaginary country).

Holmes, Watson and the king of Bohemia.

The King is engaged to Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, a young Scandinavian princess, but the King thinks she would have a very low opinion of him if any evidence of his former liaison with an opera singer named Irene Adler, originally from New Jersey, were ever revealed to them. Unfortunately, that is what the lady herself is threatening to do, apparently not, though, for monetary gain, for the King's agents have already tried to buy the evidence. They have also broken into Miss Adler's house to find it. The evidence of King's affair is a photograph described to Holmes as a "cabinet", and therefore too bulky for a lady to carry upon her person, showing both the King, then the Crown Prince, and Irene Adler. The King wants Holmes to recover the photograph for him. He gives Holmes £1,000 to cover any expenses. Holmes asks Dr. Watson to join him at 221B Baker Street at 3 o'clock the following afternoon. And .....

You can find the complete story if you click http://en.wikisource.org and  write " A Scandal in Bohemia".

Features

* Intuitive navigation.
* Searchable and interlinked.
* Open the book you want to read with one click.
* Make bookmarks, notes, highlights.
* Text annotation and mark-up.
* Access the e-Book anytime, anywhere.
* Automatic synchronization between the handheld and the desktop PC. You could read half of the book on the handheld, then finish reading on the desktop. Annotations and drawings are also synchronized.

More e-Books from MobileReference - Best Books. Best Price. Best Search and Navigation (TM)

All fiction books are only $0.99. All collections are only $5.99.

Search for any title, enter MobileReference and keyword; for example: MobileReference Shakespeare
To view all books, click on the MobileReference link next to a book title

Literary Classics: Over 4,000 complete works by Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Conan Doyle, Jules Verne, Dostoevsky, Alexandre Dumas, and other authors

Religion: The Illustrated King James Bible, American Standard Bible, World English Bible (Modern Translation), Mormon Church's Sacred Texts

Travel Guides, Maps, and Phrasebooks: FREE 25 Language Phrasebook, New York, Paris, London, Rome, Venice, Florence, Prague, Bangkok, Greece, Portugal, Israel - Travel Guides for all major cities and national parks

Medicine: Human Anatomy and Physiology, Pharmacology, Medical Abbreviations and Terminology, Human Nervous System, Biochemistry, Organic Chemistry - Quick-Study Guides for most medical/nursing school classes

Science: FREE Periodic Table of Elements, FREE Weight and Measures, Physics Formulas and Tables, Math Formulas and Tables, Statistics - Quick-Study Guides for every College class

Humanities: English Grammar and Punctuation, Rhetoric and Composition, Philosophy, Psychology, Greek and Roman Mythology

History: Art History, American Presidents, European History, U.S. History, American Cinema, 100 Most Influential People

Health: FREE Hangover Remedy, Acupressure Guide, First Aid Guide, Diabetes Care, Asthma Care

Reference: Encyclopedia-the World's Biggest English Encyclopedia. 1.5 Million Articles; CIA World Factbook-detailed info and maps for over 270 countries

Self-Improvement: Art of Love, Cookbook, Cocktails and Drinking Games, Feng Shui, Astrology, Chess Guide

Order The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne from Amazon for $0.99

Don't have Amazon Kindle? You can always purchase it from here
Or if you prefer to read the Print editions instead, you can get it from here

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Conan Doyle

Estoy arrellanado en el sillón junto a la chimenea en que crepita el fuego. Tengo la copa de coñac en la mano derecha. Con la mano izquierda, caída descuidadamente, acaricio la cabeza de mi perro... hasta que descubro que no tengo perro.

]]> http://brucers.wordpress.com/?p=243 Sun, 01 Jun 2008 14:10:09 +0000 BRUCE http://brucers.wordpress.com/?p=243

Tras unas jornadas hundidos en el fango de la mediocridad y la indiferencia, los míticos Istanbul Brucers resurgen de sus cenizas y empiezan la lucha por la reconquista de la Turkish Premier. Los siderúrgicos Ankara Steelers de Javi Pascual, hasta ahora los grandes (y únicos) favoritos para alzarse con la corona turca, han visto como en las últimas horas se multiplicaban los rivales en la cada vez más poderosa liga turca. Basketball Challenge e Istanbul Brucers intentarán arrebatarle el liderato con la ayuda de un invitado inesperado: los Ankara Fire Thunders, conjunto liderado por Bishop, ex-manager de Cannakale Elda (Iberic Division) y que ejercerá de juez en la segunda parte de la liga.

Los Brucers, incapaces por ahora de reforzar el equipo con un center consistente que ayude a Conan Doyle, han optado por el "Plan B". La tríada Moggi-Giraudo-Bettega renace en Turquía a las órdenes de Bruce. Si no puedes con tu enemigo, cómpralo... La guerra ha comenzado...

Más alla de la importancia deportiva que tiene estos fichajes, los Brucers inician una nueva era en la cual el aspecto económico cobra mayor importancia. Si conocida por todos es la tacañeria de Bruce a la hora de pagar a sus jugadores (que cobran poco, tarde y mal), la nueva estrategia para aumentar los ingresos es la de abrir nuevos mercados. Bruce, tras un curso de 15 días sobre marketing y RRPP celebrado en Can Bridge (afamado salón de juego de azar ubicado en LLeida), llegó a la conclusión de que en el panorama deportivo actual es más importante la imagen que lo resultados. Inspirado en dos grandes clubs del balonpié mundial, Real Madrid y Barcelona, adquirió a 2 jugadores con tanto valor deportivo como mediático. Para aumentar la buena imagen y las relaciones institucionales, Bruce ficho a Stergakos como el Barcelona fichó a Zambrotta, lateral diestro italiano especializado en crear amistades allá donde va (el último ejemplo es el inglés Paul Scholes). Stergakos, que la pasada temporada repartió felicidad a sus adversarios en forma de 6,7 balones perdidos por partido, hará en los Brucers el papel del italiano en el Barcelona, con lo que Bruce espera que la imagen de los Brucers como club solidario se extienda allende los mares.   

El caso del fichaje de Apis Vente es más complejo. Considerado por Bruce como el Beckham de los Istanbul Brucers, llega al equipo más como experimento sociológico que como jugador en si. Nacido como Ramón Vente, el jugador ha sido obligado por contrato a cambiarse el nombre por el de una conocida marca de patés de foie gras, lo que supondría una considerable inyección económica para las arcas de los Brucers en caso de obtener buenos resultados deportivos. Si el negocio es rentable Bruce no descarta emplear este método en otros jugadores, por lo que no sería de extrañar ver corretear por la cancha del Bowen Memorial a Atún Calvo Doyle, Pancho García-Baquero o SexShops Asociados Cullo.

Andaba yo por la vida animado por mi vuelta al ruedo cyberdunkero. Volver a mover los hilos de mi equipo, retomar viejas conversaciones por el messenger, delirar por este blog sin miedo a las consecuencias (internamiento psiquiatrico)... Cuando al tercer día de mi cyber-resurrección me encuentro con el surrealista partido de hoy: ganamos, cierto, pero con la colaboración de ex-jugadores como Stergakos y Ventosa, con Pancho, Lockard y Doyle jugando ¡más de 50 minutos! o con las tácticas (no solo en el partido, sino en la cuenta) trastocadas como si un hacker hubiese decidido ejercer de bombero torero y meterse a organizar a los Brucers. En fin... Que el primer impulso no ha sido desaparecer de nuevo pero se le aproximaba. Sin embargo, tras 10 minutos de serena reflexión (lo que he tardado en bajar a comprar tabaco, vamos) he decidido adoptar una nueva manera de ver el tema: ¡Huyamos alocadamente de la realidad! ¡Veamos la vida color de rosa! ¡Olvidémonos de bugs y pseudo-fantasmas! ¡Imaginemos que lo que nos dicta cyberdunk es el mundo real!. Y siguiendo este nuevo estilo, ahí va el resumen del Istanbul Independentzia - Istanbul Brucers:

Istanbul Independentzia 63 - Istanbul Brucers 197

Tras dos meses alejado del banquillo de los Istanbul Brucers, Bruce volvió a dirigir al equipo en partido oficial. La euforia tanto de los jugadores como de los aficionados, contrastó con la seriedad con la que el técnico se tomó el envite, manifestando en las horas previas al match que "este es uno de los partidos más importantes de nuestras vidas" y que "si ganamos, la final de Moscú estará más cerca". Evidentemente, parece que el bueno de Bruce no ha cambiado y sigue sin enterarse de nada. Por lo menos parece feliz...

Respecto a lo acontecido en la cancha, Pancho García consiguió un nuevo MVP gracias a sus 60 puntos, bien secundado por Lockard (55 puntos y 18 rebotes) y el duo Valls-Mcue, que se combinaron para conseguir  92 puntos y 16 rebotes entre ambos. Pese a que los Brucers siguen sin alcanzar el mismo nivel como equipo de la pasada temporada, las individualidades han definido hoy y el resultado se puede considerar como satisfactorio. Tras unos primeros 15 segundo igualados, Istanbul Independentzia se vino abajo físicamente, hecho que aprovecharon los Brucers para poner tierra de por medio y alcanzar una ventaja que a la postre resultaría definitiva. Con el resultado ya visiblemente abultado, Nikos Stergakos y Raúl Ventosa, que se encontraban en las gradas del Bowen Memorial, se enfundaron la camiseta de los Brucers y tuvieron la oportunidad de disfrutar otra vez del placer que supone jugar para los más grandes.