rr.eastofealing-第14节

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　As　the　crowd　burst　asunder　in　a　screaming　panic…torn　explosion；　a　heroic　figure　leapt　into　the　fray。　He　plunged　through　the　mass　of　fleeing　humankind　and　took　up　a　stance　between　the　atose　barman　and　the　roaring　instrument　of　doom。　The　feet　of　this　titan　were　firmly　rooted　upon　the　pavement　and　his　face　was　a　cold　mask　of　determination。　His　eyes　shone　with　a　strange　inner　light。　With　a　single　sudden　lunge　forward；　he　grasped　the　tailgate　of　the　wheel…screeching　vehicle　and　stopped　it　dead　in　its　tracks。　The　tyres　squealed　upon　the　pavement；　raising　black　clouds　of　tread。　With　superhuman　effort　Neville's　deliverer　dragged　it　up　from　the　ground。　The　engine　whined　into　overdrive　and　exhaust　smoke　enveloped　him　in　a　great　monoxide　cloud　of　death。　Struggling　beneath　the　weight　of　the　possessed　vehicle；　he　bore　it　aloft；　and　held　it　high　above　his　head。　The　truck　rocked　and　shuddered；　howling　like　a　banshee；　but　in　a　moment　he　had　done　with　it。
　Brentford's　St　George　cast　down　the　mechanical　dragon；　bursting　out　its　tyres；　scrambling　its　axles；　and　driving　its　engine　to　ruination　upon　the　cold　stones　of　the　pavement。　As　the　smoke　cleared；　small　knots　of　the　cowardly　crowd　stared　back　in　wonder。　The　hero　calmly　knotted　the　slackened　hoist　cable　about　his　hand　and　tore　it　from　its　mountings。　He　turned　slowly　towards　Neville　and；　freeing　him　from　his　hangman's　harness；　stooped　and　carefully　drew　him　up　to　pavement　level；　where　he　laid　him　gently　to　rest。
　Before　the　crowd　could　arouse　itself　from　its　slack…jawed　wonderment；　engulf　the　hero；　and　raise　him　shoulder…high；　Norman　silently　turned　away　from　the　scene　of　his　glory　and　strode　back　to　his　corner…shop。
　
　12
　The　ambulance　bells　had　long　died　away　into　memory　when　three　men　came　strolling　along　the　Baling　Road。　One　was　bowed　and　ancient；　walking　with　the　aid　of　a　slim　ebony　cane；　a　mane　of　snow…white　hair　trailing　out　behind　him。　Another　was　tall　and　gaunt　with　a　great　hawk　of　a　nose；　clad　in　an　oddly　Victorian　tweed　suit。　As　to　the　last；　he　was　Irish　and　wanted　his　thirty　quid。
　As　these　three　approached　the　Swan；　Sherlock　Holmes　suddenly　laid　a　gentle　palm　upon　the　Professor's　chest　and　said；　'Now　what　do　you　make　of　that！'
　Professor　Slobe　shook　his　old　head。　'Cellar　doors　ajar；　a　barman　somewhat　remiss　in　his　duties？'
　'Oh；　no；'　said　Holmes。　'Much　more。　And　what　here？'
　The　elder　perused　Leo's　defunct　tow…truck　parked　at　the　kerb；　its　back　axle　supported　by　two　piles　of　red　flettons。　'Unusual　bravado　upon　the　part　of　the　local　criminal　fraternity？'　he　suggested。
　'I　think　not。'　Holmes　drew　out　his　glass　and　as　Omally　watched　him；　with　one　eye　forever　straying　towards　the　saloon…bar　door；　he　dropped　to　all　fours　and　perused　the　pavement。
　'How　many　entrances　to　this　cellar？'　asked　Holmes；　looking　up。
　'Just　that；'　said　Omally。　'And　a　door　behind　the　bar。'
　'I　see。'　Holmes　examined　the　blackened　skid　marks。　'Interesting；'　said　he。
　'Riveting；'　said　John。　'Might　we　step　inside　now；　please？'
　Holmes　rose　to　his　feet　and　patted　dust　from　his　trouser　knees。　'I　think　so；'　he　said。
　Omally　led　the　way　and　the　three　men　entered　the　bar。　Pooley；　who　with　Old　Pete's　aid　had　long　ago　finished　the　bottle　of　Neville's　reserve；　rose　unsteadily　to　greet　them。　Omally　eyed　him　with　great　suspicion。　'Have　you　seen　Soap　this　morning？'　he　asked。
　Pooley　shook　his　head。　'You've　missed　all　the　excitement。'
　'Obviously。　Whose　round　is　it？'
　'I'll　get　these；'　said　Professor　Slobe。　'Holmes？'
　'A　small　sherry；'　the　detective　replied。　'And　a　small　word　with　Mr　Pooley　here。'
　'Oh　yes？'　asked　the　half…drunken　Jim。
　'The　fellow　with　the　beard　serving　behind　the　bar　is　not；　I　believe；　the　regular　barman。'
　Pooley　squinted　disgustedly　towards　Croughton　the　pot…bellied　potman；　who　was　now　up　to　his　elbows　in　froth　behind　the　beer　engines。　'Certainly　not；'　said　he。
　'And　the　regular　barman；　a　gentleman　of　some　standing　in　this　munity；　he　is　not　one　who　would　leave　the　bar　during　a　lunchtime　session　without　a　very　good　reason？'
　'Not　Neville。'
　'So　I　would　be　right　then　in　assuming　that　the　fat　gentleman　who　was　until　recently　stuck　fast　in　the　cellar　doors　was　this　very　Neville？'
　'You　what？'　said　John　Omally。　'What　happened　here；　Jim？'
　'I'll　do　my　best　to　explain；'　said　Pooley；　tumbling　backwards　from　his　bar　stool。　'But　for　now　I　think　I　need　to　go　to　the　toilet。'
　It　was　quite　some　time　before　Pooley　re…emerged　looking　a　little　more　sober。　During　the　period　of　his　absence　Holmes　had　gleaned　all　the　necessary　information　from　other　sources；　finished　his　sherry；　and　had　taken　himself　off　to　places　elsewhere。　Jim　relocated　his　behind　upon　the　bar　stool。　Looking　up　at　the　battered　Guinness　clock　he　asked；　'Anybody　know　what　won　the　one　forty…five？'
　'Ahriman　Boy；'　said　Old　Pete。　'I　get　Free　Radio　Brentford　on　my　deaf　aid。　The　mentator　was　having　a　coronary　by　the　sound　of　it。'
　Pooley　struggled　a　moment　to　prehend　this　intelligence。　Slowly　he　withdrew　his　betting…slip　and　peered　between　his　fingers　at　his　selection。　'By　the　gods；'　said　he。　'Did　you　hear　the　SP？'
　'Sixty…six　to　one；'　Old　Pete　replied。　'A　quid　or　two　there　for　the　outside　better。'
　Pooley　spread　his　betting…slip　before　him　on　the　bar　counter；　'I　am　sixty…six　quid　in　the　black；'　said　he。
　Omally　peered　over　his　shoulder。　'Then　order　me　a　pint　of　froth　quickly　then；　Jimmy　boy；'　said　he。　'I　suppose　there　is　no　chance　that　was　your　only　bet　of　the　afternoon？'
　'Actually；　no；'　said　Jim。　'I　have　an　accumulator　here。'
　'A　four…horse　Yankee？'
　'No；　a　six…horse　Super…Yankee。'
　'I'll　get　my　own　in　then。'
　'Nobody　has　any　faith　in　me　whatever；'　Jim　told　Professor　Slobe。
　'No？'　the　old　man　shook　his　head　in　wonder。　'Then　let　me　at　least　get　you　another　drink　in。　Are　you　feeling　a　little　better　now？'
　'A　temporary　lapse；'　said　Jim。　'Your　man　from　below　puts　the　wind　up　me　more　than　a　little。'
　'The　two　o'clock's　on；'　said　Old　Pete。　'Got　one　in　here；　Jim？'
　Pooley　nodded。　'Lucifer　Lad。'
　'Want　to　listen？'　Old　Pete　took　out　his　deaf　aid　and　turned　up　the　volume。　The　Mickey　Mouse　voice　of　the　mentator　tinkled　out　the　race　as　three　men；　at　least；　knotted　their　fists　and　offered　up　with　small　sounds　of　encouragement　for　the　game　outsider。　Lucifer　Lad　romped　home　at　sixty…six　to　one。
　'My　brain's　gone；'　said　Pooley。　'Can　anybody　work　it　out？'
　'You　don't　want　to　think　about　it；　Jim；'　said　the　Professor。　'Let　us　just　say　that　it　is　a　goodly　sum。'
　'How　goodly；　tell　me。'
　'Four　thousand；　three　hundred　and　fifty…six　pounds。'
　They　brought　Jim　round　with　the　contents　of　the　soda　siphon。
　'Jim；'　said　John；　drawing　him　up　by　the　lapels；　'now　wake　up。　What　kind　of　deal　have　you　done　with　Bob？'
　'The　six…horse　special　as　ever；'　mumbled　Pooley。　'Six　winners　or　nothing。'
　'You　buffoon。'　Omally　threw　up　his　hands；　'If　you'd　had　another　winner　you'd　get　a　percentage　even　with　a　couple　more　seconds　or　thirds。　You'd　be　a　thousand　pounds　in　profit　now。　There　is　no　such　thing　as　a　six…horse　Super…Yankee；　such　things　are　myths。　An　ITV…seven　there　is；　that　bookies　laugh　at　as　they　fly　off　to　their　holidays　in　the　Seychelles。　Give　me　that　slip。'　Pooley　pushed　it　across　the　counter。　'Anybody　got　a　paper？'　Pooley　brought　his　out。　'Did　you　pay　the　tax？'　Pooley　nodded。　'You　bloody　buffoon。'
　'Tell　me　again　how　rich　I　am；'　said　Jim。　'Just　so　I　can　hear　it。'　Omally　dollied　it　out　on　his　fingers。　By　the　time　he　had　finished　Old　Pete　said；　'The　two…fifteen's　on。'
　Bob　the　Bookie　was　enjoying　a　most　unpleasant　lunch　at　The　Bonny　Pit　Lad　in　Chiswick。　The　tenant　of　this　dire　establishment；　who；　as　the　result　of　some　major　brainstorm；　had　convinced　himself　that　'Mining　Pubs'　were　going　to　be　the　next　big　thing；　had　borrowed　a　considerable　sum　from　Bob　to　transform　the　place　from　a　late　Victorian　money…spinner　to　a　coalface　catastrophe。　The　pit…props　and　stuffed　ponies；　the　stark　wooden　benches　and　coal…dust　floor　had　proved　strangely　uninviting　to　the　Chiswick　drinking　fraternity。　Even　in　those　winter　months；　when　lit　by　the　cosy　glow　of　Davy　Lamps；　there　was　at　least　a　good　fire　burning　in　the　hearth。
　Bob　the　bookie　had；　of　course；　extended　the　tenant's　credit　to　the　point　that　he　now　owned　the　controlling　interest　in　the　place。　The　plans　for　the　luxury　steak…house　it　was　shortly　to　bee　were　already　drawn　up　and　in　his　safe。　As　he　sat　alone　in　the　deserted　bar　devouring　his　'snap'；　Bob　pondered　upon　what　far…flung　tropical　beach　he　might　park　his　million…dollar　bum　at　the　weekend。
　Antoine　the　Chauffeur　entered　the　bar　in　a　flash　of　white　livery；　bearing　upon　a　silver　platter　the　puter　print…out　of　the　latest　racing　update　just　received　through　the　Lateinos　and　Romiith　in…car　teleprinter。　The　telexed　message　that　Jim　Pooley；　through　merit　of　his　win　in　the　two…fifteen　was　now　two　hundred　and　eighty…four　thousand；　one　hundred　and　ninety…six　pounds　up　put　the　definite　kibosh　on　the　apple　crumble　end　of　Bob's　Cornish　pasty。
　'You　bloody　buffoon；'　went　John　Omally。　'You'd　be　rich；　you　bloody　big　buffoon。'
　'It　hasn't　changed　me；'　said　Jim。　'I'm　still　your　friend。　Lend　me　a　pound　and　I'll　get　them　in。'
　'Are　we　all　aboard　for　the　two…thirty？'　asked　Old　Pete。　'What　is　your　selection；　Jim？'