《代号星期四》15第十三章 追捕星期天（在线收听）

CHAPTER XIII. THE PURSUIT OF THE PRESIDENT

 NEXT morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover. The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn’t exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern. But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.

The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other. The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators.

Syme had to explain how they had fled with such swiftness through a civilised country. But above all these matters of detail which could be explained, rose the central mountain of the matter that they could not explain. What did it all mean? If they were all harmless officers, what was Sunday? If he had not seized the world, what on earth had he been up to? Inspector Ratcliffe was still gloomy about this.

“I can’t make head or tail of old Sunday’s little game any more than you can,” he said. “But whatever else Sunday is, he isn’t a blameless citizen. Damn it! do you remember his face?”

“I grant you,” answered Syme, “that I have never been able to forget it.”

“Well,” said the Secretary, “I suppose we can find out soon, for tomorrow we have our next general meeting. You will excuse me,” he said, with a rather ghastly smile, “for being well acquainted with my secretarial duties.”

“I suppose you are right,” said the Professor reflectively. “I suppose we might find it out from him; but I confess that I should feel a bit afraid of asking Sunday who he really is.”

“Why,” asked the Secretary, “for fear of bombs?”

“No,” said the Professor, “for fear he might tell me.”

“Let us have some drinks,” said Dr. Bull, after a silence.

Throughout their whole journey by boat and train they were highly convivial, but they instinctively kept together. Dr. Bull, who had always been the optimist of the party, endeavoured to persuade the other four that the whole company could take the same hansom cab from Victoria; but this was over-ruled, and they went in a four-wheeler, with Dr. Bull on the box, singing. They finished their journey at an hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so as to be close to the early breakfast next morning in Leicester Square. Yet even then the adventures of the day were not entirely over. Dr. Bull, discontented with the general proposal to go to bed, had strolled out of the hotel at about eleven to see and taste some of the beauties of London. Twenty minutes afterwards, however, he came back and made quite a clamour in the hall. Syme, who tried at first to soothe him, was forced at last to listen to his communication with quite new attention.

“I tell you I’ve seen him!” said Dr. Bull, with thick emphasis.

“Whom?” asked Syme quickly. “Not the President?”

“Not so bad as that,” said Dr. Bull, with unnecessary laughter, “not so bad as that. I’ve got him here.”

“Got whom here?” asked Syme impatiently.

“Hairy man,” said the other lucidly, “man that used to be hairy man—Gogol. Here he is,” and he pulled forward by a reluctant elbow the identical young man who five days before had marched out of the Council with thin red hair and a pale face, the first of all the sham anarchists who had been exposed.

“Why do you worry with me?” he cried. “You have expelled me as a spy.”

“We are all spies!” whispered Syme.

“We’re all spies!” shouted Dr. Bull. “Come and have a drink.”

Next morning the battalion of the reunited six marched stolidly towards the hotel in Leicester Square.

“This is more cheerful,” said Dr. Bull; “we are six men going to ask one man what he means.”

“I think it is a bit queerer than that,” said Syme. “I think it is six men going to ask one man what they mean.”

They turned in silence into the Square, and though the hotel was in the opposite corner, they saw at once the little balcony and a figure that looked too big for it. He was sitting alone with bent head, poring over a newspaper. But all his councillors, who had come to vote him down, crossed that Square as if they were watched out of heaven by a hundred eyes.

They had disputed much upon their policy, about whether they should leave the unmasked Gogol without and begin diplomatically, or whether they should bring him in and blow up the gunpowder at once. The influence of Syme and Bull prevailed for the latter course, though the Secretary to the last asked them why they attacked Sunday so rashly.

“My reason is quite simple,” said Syme. “I attack him rashly because I am afraid of him.”

They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad sunlight of Sunday’s smile.

“Delightful!” he said. “So pleased to see you all. What an exquisite day it is. Is the Czar dead?”

The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.

“No, sir,” he said sternly “there has been no massacre. I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.”

“Disgusting spectacles?” repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile. “You mean Dr. Bull’s spectacles?”

The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal—

“Of course, we all have our opinions and even our eyes, but really to call them disgusting before the man himself—”

Dr. Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.

“My spectacles are blackguardly,” he said, “but I’m not. Look at my face.”

“I dare say it’s the sort of face that grows on one,” said the President, “in fact, it grows on you; and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life? I dare say it will grow on me some day.”

“We have no time for tomfoolery,” said the Secretary, breaking in savagely. “We have come to know what all this means. Who are you? What are you? Why did you get us all here? Do you know who and what we are? Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool? Answer me, I tell you.”

“Candidates,” murmured Sunday, “are only required to answer eight out of the seventeen questions on the paper. As far as I can make out, you want me to tell you what I am, and what you are, and what this table is, and what this Council is, and what this world is for all I know. Well, I will go so far as to rend the veil of one mystery. If you want to know what you are, you are a set of highly well-intentioned young jackasses.”

“And you,” said Syme, leaning forward, “what are you?”

“I? What am I?” roared the President, and he rose slowly to an incredible height, like some enormous wave about to arch above them and break. “You want to know what I am, do you? Bull, you are a man of science. Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them. Syme, you are a poet. Stare at those morning clouds. But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the top-most cloud before the truth about me. You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am. Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf—kings and sages, and poets and lawgivers, all the churches, and all the philosophies. But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay. I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now.”

Before one of them could move, the monstrous man had swung himself like some huge ourang-outang over the balustrade of the balcony. Yet before he dropped he pulled himself up again as on a horizontal bar, and thrusting his great chin over the edge of the balcony, said solemnly—

“There’s one thing I’ll tell you though about who I am. I am the man in the dark room, who made you all policemen.”

With that he fell from the balcony, bouncing on the stones below like a great ball of india-rubber, and went bounding off towards the corner of the Alhambra, where he hailed a hansom-cab and sprang inside it. The six detectives had been standing thunderstruck and livid in the light of his last assertion; but when he disappeared into the cab, Syme’s practical senses returned to him, and leaping over the balcony so recklessly as almost to break his legs, he called another cab.

He and Bull sprang into the cab together, the Professor and the Inspector into another, while the Secretary and the late Gogol scrambled into a third just in time to pursue the flying Syme, who was pursuing the flying President. Sunday led them a wild chase towards the north-west, his cabman, evidently under the influence of more than common inducements, urging the horse at breakneck speed. But Syme was in no mood for delicacies, and he stood up in his own cab shouting, “Stop thief!” until crowds ran along beside his cab, and policemen began to stop and ask questions. All this had its influence upon the President’s cabman, who began to look dubious, and to slow down to a trot. He opened the trap to talk reasonably to his fare, and in so doing let the long whip droop over the front of the cab. Sunday leant forward, seized it, and jerked it violently out of the man’s hand. Then standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm. Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it. The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds. Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.

At the highest ecstacy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin. Then raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme’s face and vanished. Syme caught the thing while instinctively warding it off, and discovered that it consisted of two crumpled papers. One was addressed to himself, and the other to Dr. Bull, with a very long, and it is to be feared partly ironical, string of letters after his name. Dr. Bull’s address was, at any rate, considerably longer than his communication, for the communication consisted entirely of the words:—

“What about Martin Tupper now?”

“What does the old maniac mean?” asked Bull, staring at the words. “What does yours say, Syme?”

Syme’s message was, at any rate, longer, and ran as follows:—

“No one would regret anything in the nature of an interference by the Archdeacon more than I. I trust it will not come to that. But, for the last time, where are your goloshes? The thing is too bad, especially after what uncle said.”

The President’s cabman seemed to be regaining some control over his horse, and the pursuers gained a little as they swept round into the Edgware Road. And here there occurred what seemed to the allies a providential stoppage. Traffic of every kind was swerving to right or left or stopping, for down the long road was coming the unmistakable roar announcing the fire-engine, which in a few seconds went by like a brazen thunderbolt. But quick as it went by, Sunday had bounded out of his cab, sprung at the fire-engine, caught it, slung himself on to it, and was seen as he disappeared in the noisy distance talking to the astonished fireman with explanatory gestures.

“After him!” howled Syme. “He can’t go astray now. There’s no mistaking a fire-engine.”

The three cabmen, who had been stunned for a moment, whipped up their horses and slightly decreased the distance between themselves and their disappearing prey. The President acknowledged this proximity by coming to the back of the car, bowing repeatedly, kissing his hand, and finally flinging a neatly-folded note into the bosom of Inspector Ratcliffe. When that gentleman opened it, not without impatience, he found it contained the words:—

   “Fly at once. The truth about your trouser-stretchers is known.

   —A FRIEND.”

The fire-engine had struck still farther to the north, into a region that they did not recognise; and as it ran by a line of high railings shadowed with trees, the six friends were startled, but somewhat relieved, to see the President leap from the fire-engine, though whether through another whim or the increasing protest of his entertainers they could not see. Before the three cabs, however, could reach up to the spot, he had gone up the high railings like a huge grey cat, tossed himself over, and vanished in a darkness of leaves.

Syme with a furious gesture stopped his cab, jumped out, and sprang also to the escalade. When he had one leg over the fence and his friends were following, he turned a face on them which shone quite pale in the shadow.

“What place can this be?” he asked. “Can it be the old devil’s house? I’ve heard he has a house in North London.”

“All the better,” said the Secretary grimly, planting a foot in a foothold, “we shall find him at home.”

“No, but it isn’t that,” said Syme, knitting his brows. “I hear the most horrible noises, like devils laughing and sneezing and blowing their devilish noses!”

“His dogs barking, of course,” said the Secretary.

“Why not say his black-beetles barking!” said Syme furiously, “snails barking! geraniums barking! Did you ever hear a dog bark like that?”

He held up his hand, and there came out of the thicket a long growling roar that seemed to get under the skin and freeze the flesh—a low thrilling roar that made a throbbing in the air all about them.

“The dogs of Sunday would be no ordinary dogs,” said Gogol, and shuddered.

Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.

“Well, listen to that,” he said, “is that a dog—anybody’s dog?”

There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.

“Well, his house ought to be hell!” said the Secretary; “and if it is hell, I’m going in!” and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.

The others followed. They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path. Nothing was in sight, but Dr. Bull suddenly struck his hands together.

“Why, you asses,” he cried, “it’s the Zoo!”

As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.

“Has it come this way?” gasped the keeper.

“Has what?” asked Syme.

“The elephant!” cried the keeper. “An elephant has gone mad and run away!”

“He has run away with an old gentleman,” said the other stranger breathlessly, “a poor old gentleman with white hair!”

“What sort of old gentleman?” asked Syme, with great curiosity.

“A very large and fat old gentleman in light grey clothes,” said the keeper eagerly.

“Well,” said Syme, “if he’s that particular kind of old gentleman, if you’re quite sure that he’s a large and fat old gentleman in grey clothes, you may take my word for it that the elephant has not run away with him. He has run away with the elephant. The elephant is not made by God that could run away with him if he did not consent to the elopement. And, by thunder, there he is!”

There was no doubt about it this time. Clean across the space of grass, about two hundred yards away, with a crowd screaming and scampering vainly at his heels, went a huge grey elephant at an awful stride, with his trunk thrown out as rigid as a ship’s bowsprit, and trumpeting like the trumpet of doom. On the back of the bellowing and plunging animal sat President Sunday with all the placidity of a sultan, but goading the animal to a furious speed with some sharp object in his hand.

“Stop him!” screamed the populace. “He’ll be out of the gate!”

“Stop a landslide!” said the keeper. “He is out of the gate!”

And even as he spoke, a final crash and roar of terror announced that the great grey elephant had broken out of the gates of the Zoological Gardens, and was careening down Albany Street like a new and swift sort of omnibus.

“Great Lord!” cried Bull, “I never knew an elephant could go so fast. Well, it must be hansom-cabs again if we are to keep him in sight.”

As they raced along to the gate out of which the elephant had vanished, Syme felt a glaring panorama of the strange animals in the cages which they passed. Afterwards he thought it queer that he should have seen them so clearly. He remembered especially seeing pelicans, with their preposterous, pendant throats. He wondered why the pelican was the symbol of charity, except it was that it wanted a good deal of charity to admire a pelican. He remembered a hornbill, which was simply a huge yellow beak with a small bird tied on behind it. The whole gave him a sensation, the vividness of which he could not explain, that Nature was always making quite mysterious jokes. Sunday had told them that they would understand him when they had understood the stars. He wondered whether even the archangels understood the hornbill.

The six unhappy detectives flung themselves into cabs and followed the elephant sharing the terror which he spread through the long stretch of the streets. This time Sunday did not turn round, but offered them the solid stretch of his unconscious back, which maddened them, if possible, more than his previous mockeries. Just before they came to Baker Street, however, he was seen to throw something far up into the air, as a boy does a ball meaning to catch it again. But at their rate of racing it fell far behind, just by the cab containing Gogol; and in faint hope of a clue or for some impulse unexplainable, he stopped his cab so as to pick it up. It was addressed to himself, and was quite a bulky parcel. On examination, however, its bulk was found to consist of thirty-three pieces of paper of no value wrapped one round the other. When the last covering was torn away it reduced itself to a small slip of paper, on which was written:—

“The word, I fancy, should be ‘pink’.”

The man once known as Gogol said nothing, but the movements of his hands and feet were like those of a man urging a horse to renewed efforts.

Through street after street, through district after district, went the prodigy of the flying elephant, calling crowds to every window, and driving the traffic left and right. And still through all this insane publicity the three cabs toiled after it, until they came to be regarded as part of a procession, and perhaps the advertisement of a circus. They went at such a rate that distances were shortened beyond belief, and Syme saw the Albert Hall in Kensington when he thought that he was still in Paddington. The animal’s pace was even more fast and free through the empty, aristocratic streets of South Kensington, and he finally headed towards that part of the sky-line where the enormous Wheel of Earl’s Court stood up in the sky. The wheel grew larger and larger, till it filled heaven like the wheel of stars.

The beast outstripped the cabs. They lost him round several corners, and when they came to one of the gates of the Earl’s Court Exhibition they found themselves finally blocked. In front of them was an enormous crowd; in the midst of it was an enormous elephant, heaving and shuddering as such shapeless creatures do. But the President had disappeared.

“Where has he gone to?” asked Syme, slipping to the ground.

“Gentleman rushed into the Exhibition, sir!” said an official in a dazed manner. Then he added in an injured voice: “Funny gentleman, sir. Asked me to hold his horse, and gave me this.”

He held out with distaste a piece of folded paper, addressed: “To the Secretary of the Central Anarchist Council.”

The Secretary, raging, rent it open, and found written inside it:—

   “When the herring runs a mile,

    Let the Secretary smile;

    When the herring tries to fly,

    Let the Secretary die.

                    Rustic Proverb.”

“Why the eternal crikey,” began the Secretary, “did you let the man in? Do people commonly come to your Exhibition riding on mad elephants? Do—”

“Look!” shouted Syme suddenly. “Look over there!”

“Look at what?” asked the Secretary savagely.

“Look at the captive balloon!” said Syme, and pointed in a frenzy.

“Why the blazes should I look at a captive balloon?” demanded the Secretary. “What is there queer about a captive balloon?”

“Nothing,” said Syme, “except that it isn’t captive!”

They all turned their eyes to where the balloon swung and swelled above the Exhibition on a string, like a child’s balloon. A second afterwards the string came in two just under the car, and the balloon, broken loose, floated away with the freedom of a soap bubble.

“Ten thousand devils!” shrieked the Secretary. “He’s got into it!” and he shook his fists at the sky.

The balloon, borne by some chance wind, came right above them, and they could see the great white head of the President peering over the side and looking benevolently down on them.

“God bless my soul!” said the Professor with the elderly manner that he could never disconnect from his bleached beard and parchment face. “God bless my soul! I seemed to fancy that something fell on the top of my hat!”

He put up a trembling hand and took from that shelf a piece of twisted paper, which he opened absently only to find it inscribed with a true lover’s knot and, the words:—

“Your beauty has not left me indifferent.—From LITTLE SNOWDROP.”

There was a short silence, and then Syme said, biting his beard—

“I’m not beaten yet. The blasted thing must come down somewhere. Let’s follow it!”

第十三章 追捕星期天

    第二天早上，五个茫然而快乐的人乘船赶往多佛。可怜的老上校也许有理由抱怨，因为他是最先被迫为两个不存在的派别而战，还被一盏铁灯击倒。不过他是一位宽宏大量的老绅士，两派人都不是炸弹刺客，这令他非常宽慰，他也非常友好地在码头上为他们送行。

    这五个和好的侦探有许多的细节要跟彼此分享。秘书告诉赛姆，他们起初戴面罩就是为了接近他们预想的敌人。

    赛姆则向秘书解释，他们在一个文明国家何以会逃窜得如此之快。但是，在所有这些能够解释的细节产生了一系列他们无法解释的重要的问题。所有这些事情都有什么含义？如果他们都是无害的警官，那么星期天是什么人？如果他没有控制整个世界，那么他到底要干什么？

    拉特克利夫巡官仍对此闷闷不乐。“我对星期天的了解并不比你们多，”他说道，“不过，星期天无论是什么人，他总归不是一个清白的公民。妈的！你们还记得住他的脸吗？”

    “我承认，”赛姆答道，“我永远也忘不了那张脸。”

    “嗯，”秘书说道，“我想我们很快就可以查清了，因为明天我们就要开一次全体会议。请原谅，”他带着恐怖的笑容说道，“我非常熟悉我作为秘书的职责。”

    “我认为你是对的，”教授沉思着说道，“我认为我们可以从他身上查明真相。不过我承认，我有点不太敢问星期天他到底是谁。”

    “为什么，”秘书问，“你是害怕炸弹吗？”

    “不是，”教授说道，“我是害怕他告诉我。”

    “我们喝点酒吧。”布尔医生在沉默之后说道。

    在整个旅程中，他们本能地聚在一起，都非常的快乐。布尔医生一直是这群人中的乐天派，在维多利亚，他竭力劝说其他人乘坐一辆双轮马车，但被否决了，他们乘坐了一辆四轮马车，布尔医生则坐在驭者座位上唱歌。到达皮卡迪利广场的一个旅馆后，他们的旅程结束了，这个旅馆靠近他们第二天早晨要在莱瑟斯特广场举行早餐会的地方。不过直到那时，当天的冒险都尚未完全结束。布尔医生不接受那个叫大家上床睡觉的建议，于是大约十一点，他离开宾馆，去观赏伦敦的美景。二十分钟后他回到宾馆，就在大厅里喧闹起来。赛姆起初还想安抚他，最后被迫只能打起精神听他说话。

    “我告诉你我看见他了！”布尔医生声音沙哑地说。

    “你看见谁了？”赛姆马上问。“不是星期天吧？”

    “不是那么糟，”布尔医生说完，笑了起来。“不是那么糟。可我竟然在这里碰到了他。”

    “在这里碰到了谁？”赛姆不耐烦地问。

    “多毛的人，”对方清晰地说道，“那个曾经多毛的人——果戈理。他就在这里。”然后他拉着不情愿的果戈理的手肘，来到赛姆面前。这个年轻人还和五天前一模一样，当时长着稀疏的红头发和苍白脸庞的他被迫离开了会场，他是第一个暴露的假冒无政府主义者。

    “你们为什么还担心我？”他叫道，“你们已经把我当作间谍驱逐了。”

    “我们都是间谍！”赛姆低声道。

    “我们都是间谍！”布尔医生大声叫道，“过来喝一杯吧。”

    第二天早上，重逢的六个人一起向莱瑟斯特广场上的那家饭店大步走去。

    “这越发令人愉快，”布尔医生说道，“我们六个人去问一个人的意图。”

    “我的认为更奇怪，”赛姆道，“我认为，这是六个人去问一个人，他们对他的含义。”

    他们一言不发地走进广场，尽管饭店是在对面的街角，但他们都看见了那个小小的阳台和一个过于庞大的人。他正一个人坐着，低着头看报纸。但是所有来罢免他的理事会成员走过广场时，他们就像被来自天堂的一百只眼睛监视着。

    在此之前，他们曾反复争论过策略，要么撇下暴露的果戈理，其余的人圆滑地进行开场白；要么他们带上果戈理参加会议，一开场就让星期天吃一惊。赛姆和布尔关于采取后一种方案的意见占了上风，但秘书直到最后还在问他们，为什么要那么轻率地抨击星期天。

    “我的理由很简单，”赛姆说，“我轻率地抨击他是因为我怕他。”

    他们沉默地跟着赛姆走上阴暗的楼梯，然后在明亮的晨光中，同时给星期天灿烂的笑容。

    “真令人愉快！”星期天说，“很高兴看到你们全在。这是多么美好的一天。沙皇死了吗？”

    秘书碰巧站在最前面，他打起精神进行体面的发言。

    “不，先生，”他坚定地说道，“没有发生屠杀。我给你带来的消息是没有发生这种可憎的场面。”

    “可憎的场面？”星期天笑着重复道，脸上带着询问的神色。“你是说布尔医生的眼镜<span class="" data-note="眼镜：原文为spectacles，既有眼镜的意思，又有前面秘书所说的场面的意思。”

    秘书一下子哽住了，星期天以悦耳的嗓音继续说道：“当然，我们都有我们的观点，甚至我们的眼睛，但要是在他本人面前称它们为可憎的——”

    布尔医生扯下了他的眼镜，并在桌上砸碎了。

    “我的眼镜很粗俗，”他说道，“但我本人不是。看看我的脸吧。”

    “我敢说，这是应该长在一个人身上的有模有样的一张脸，”星期天说，“可实际上，它却长在你身上。我怎么能和长在生命之树上的野果子争吵呢？我敢说有朝一日它会长在我身上。”

    “我们没时间瞎闹了，”秘书野蛮地插嘴道，“我们来这儿是要知道这一切的含义。你是谁？你是干什么的？你先前为什么把我们弄到这里来？你知道我们是谁，是干什么的吗？你是一个扮演密谋者的傻瓜，还是一个扮演傻瓜的聪明人？我叫你回答我。”

    “候选人，”星期天低声道，“只需要回答纸上十七个问题中的八个。据我所知，你们想让我告诉你们，我是干什么的，你们是干什么的，这张桌子存在的意义，这个理事会存在的意义，以及这个世界存在的意义。好吧，我就来扯掉这个难解之谜的面纱。如果你们想知道你们是干什么的，你们就是一群充满善意的年轻笨蛋。”

    “那么你，”赛姆说道，俯过身去，“你是干什么的？”

    “我？我是干什么的？”星期天吼道，他慢慢地站起身子，是一个难以置信的高度，他就像巨浪，就要将他们淹没。“你们想要知道我是干什么的，对吗？布尔，你是一个科学家，挖掘那些树的根找出关于它们的真相。赛姆，你是一个诗人，看看那些早晨的云朵。我要告诉你们，你们必须先找出那最后一棵树和最高的云朵的真相，才能了解我的真相。你们会了解大海，但我仍会是一个谜。你们会了解星星，但不会了解我。世界伊始，所有的人像追捕豺狼一样追捕我——国王和圣贤，诗人和立法者，所有的教会，以及所有的哲学。但我至今从未被捕，我一旦走投无路，天空就会坠落。我已经让他们进行了一次次实实在在的奔波，现在你们再来追吧。”

    在他们几个人行动之前，这个巨人已经像一只大猩猩跃过阳台上的栏杆。就在他落地之前，他又像在单杠上一样把自己拉了上来，并把他巨大的下巴搭在阳台边上，严肃地说道——

    “我可以告诉你们，我是谁。我就是待在黑屋里让你们都变成警察的那个人。”

    说完，他跳了下去，像一个巨大的印度皮球在下面的石子上跳着脚，然后跳跃着冲向爱尔汗布拉宫旁边的街角，在那里他上了一辆双轮马车。对他最后的发言，这六个侦探目瞪口呆、脸色发青。但当他钻进马车时，赛姆的现实感又恢复了，他不顾一切地跳下阳台，差点摔断了腿，他也叫了一辆马车。

    赛姆和布尔跳进同一辆马车，教授和那位巡官上了另一辆，而秘书和先前假扮果戈理的那个人及时地爬进了第三辆车，跟上飞驰中的赛姆，而赛姆正追逐着飞驰中的星期天。星期天朝西北方狂奔，他的马车夫显然是受到了他超常的利诱，拼尽全力赶着马飞速前进。可赛姆没有心情故作优雅，他站在车厢里大喊，“抓小偷！”人群都向他的马车跑过来，警察也纷纷停在路旁询问。所有这些都影响了星期天的车夫，他开始显得犹豫不决，马车的速度开始变慢。他一边打开隔窗和他的乘客对话，一边把长长的鞭子垂挂在马车的前端。突然，星期天向前倾过身，从车夫手里扯出鞭子，然后站在马车的前端挥舞着鞭子打着马，并大声吼叫着，他们就这样如暴风雨般在街道上穿行。这辆马车驶过一个又一个街道，跑过一个又一个广场，乘客在策马飞奔，而车夫不顾一切地制止他。其余三辆马车跟在后面（如果对马车可以这么说的话），就像气喘吁吁的猎犬。商店和街道就像嗖嗖作响的箭一闪而过。

    极快的速度令星期天心花怒放，他在挡泥板上转过身，把巨大的露齿而笑的脑袋伸出马车外，他的白发在风中呼啸着，他就像一个巨大的顽童朝他的追捕者做了一个可怕的鬼脸。然后，他迅速抬起右手，把一个纸团朝赛姆扔去，就消失了。赛姆本能地躲了一下，但把纸团抓住了，他发现是两张皱巴巴的纸。其中一张是写给他的，另一张给布尔医生，在布尔医生的名字后面是非常长的一串字母，这恐怕多少有些讽刺意味。不管怎样，布尔医生的地址要比他收到的信长得多，因为他的信单单就是这一句话——

    “马丁·塔普现在怎么样了？”

    “这个老疯子是什么意思？”布尔盯着这个句子问道，“你的信上说些什么，赛姆？”

    赛姆的信更长，它是这样的——

    “没有人比我更懊悔副主教煞有介事的干涉。我相信它将来不会那样。但是，最终，你的高筒胶套鞋在哪里？这事太糟了，尤其是在叔叔发话之后。”

    在他们统统冲进爱奇怀尔路时，星期天的车夫似乎重新获得了一点对马的控制权，而那些追捕者也有点赶上了。但这里，那些同盟者的马车却停了下来。各种各样的车流或向右转，或向左转，或者停滞了，因为在长路那端，开过来的无疑是一辆轰鸣的消防车，几秒钟之内它如震耳的霹雳般一闪而过。就在它迅速开过时，星期天跃出他的马车，跑向消防车，并紧紧地抓住车把，把自己甩了上去，然后大家看见他在越行越远的喧嚣处打着解释的手势和惊讶的消防队员说着话，接着就消失了。

    “追上他！”赛姆怒吼道，“现在他跑不掉了。我们不会认错消防车的。”

    那三个曾目瞪口呆的马车夫赶着马，又略微缩短了他们和他们即将消失的猎物的距离。星期天走到车厢的后面，面对着逐渐拉近距离的马车反复地鞠躬，又亲吻自己的手，最后把一张折得整整齐齐的便条扔进了拉特克利夫巡官的怀里。他不耐烦地打开它，发现里面是这样的文字——

    “马上逃跑。关于你的裤子拉直器的真相被人知道了。

    “——一个朋友。”

    消防车向北驶去，进入了一个他们不认识的区域。当它从一排高高的围栏旁驶过时，这六个朋友都惊呆了，但多少有些宽慰，因为他们看见星期天从消防车上跳了下来，尽管他们不知道这是星期天一时的怪念头使然，还是因为车上消防队员的高声抗议。然而，在这三辆马车赶到之前，星期天早已像一只巨大的灰猫爬上了高高的围栏，翻身跳了进去，然后消失在黑暗的树丛里。

    赛姆做了个愤怒的手势，让马车停下，跳了出去，然后也准备翻过围栏。当他一条腿跨在围栏上时，他的朋友们跟了上来，他朝他们转过身，脸在树荫下闪着白光。

    “这会是什么地方？”赛姆问道，“这是老魔鬼的家吗？我听说他在伦敦北部有房子。”

    “如果这样就更好了，”秘书严肃地说道，脚踩围栏边，“我们就可以在家里找到他。”

    “不，不是这样，”赛姆说着，蹙起了眉头。“我听见了最恐怖的声音，就像魔鬼们在狂打喷嚏，并擤他们邪恶的鼻子！”

    “这肯定是他的狗在叫。”秘书说。

    “为什么不说是他的东方蟑螂在叫！”赛姆愤怒道，“蜗牛们在叫！天竺葵在叫！你曾听到过那样的狗叫声吗？”

    赛姆举起一只手时，灌木丛里传来了一声长长的号叫，令人战栗，而且似乎也使人的血肉凝固了——一声低沉的令人毛骨悚然的号叫使他们周围的空气也震动了。

    “星期天的狗不会是普通的狗。”果戈理颤抖着说道。

    赛姆跳到了围栏的另一边，不过他仍然在焦急地听着。“嗨，听这个，”他说，“这是普通的狗叫吗？”

    他们的耳边突然响起了一声嘶哑的尖叫，仿佛有什么东西在刺痛中抗议和喧哗。然后，远方像回声一样传来了悠长的大象的吼声。

    “嗨，他的家就像地狱！”秘书说道，“如果真的是，我就进去瞧瞧！”说完，他一跃跳过了高高的围栏。

    其他人也跟着进去了。他们穿过了浓密的树林和灌木丛，来到了一条空旷的小路上，他们没有看到什么活物。布尔医生突然拍了一下手。

    “嗨，你们这些笨蛋，”他叫道，“这里是动物园！”

    正当他们狂乱地四处张望，搜寻他们疯狂的猎物的踪迹时，一个穿制服的管理员和一个穿便服的男子沿着小路跑了过来。

    “它有没有跑到这里来？”管理员上气不接下气地问。

    “什么？”赛姆问道。

    “大象！”管理员叫道。“一头大象发了疯似的跑了！”

    “他和一个老先生一起跑了，”另一个陌生人也喘着粗气说，“一个长着白头发的可怜的老先生！”

    “怎样的一个老先生？”赛姆非常好奇地问道。

    “一个穿着淡灰色衣服的又大又胖的老先生。”管理员急切地说道。

    “好，”赛姆道，“如果他就是那个老先生，如果你确定他就是一个穿着灰色衣服的又大又胖的老先生，你就相信我的话，不是大象和他一起跑了。而是他带着大象跑了。老天作证，如果他不同意跑，大象是不会和他一起逃走的。而且，千真万确，他就在那儿！”

    这次真的不容怀疑。在草地的那一边，大约两百码远的地方，一头巨大的灰色大象迈着可怕的大步，一群人徒劳地尖叫，蹦蹦跳跳地跟在它旁边，大象的象牙伸展着如船首的斜桅杆般僵硬，如吹响了死亡的号角般号叫。就在这头急奔的畜生的背上坐着星期天，他像苏丹一样沉着，但他手里拿着锋利的东西正在驱策它狂奔。

    “阻止他！”群众叫道，“他就要跑出大门了！”

    “阻止一次山崩！”管理员叫道，“他已经跑出大门了！”

    话音刚落，最后一次的碰撞和恐怖的号叫宣示了这头灰色的大象已经冲出了动物园的大门，就跟一辆快速的新型巴士一样摇晃着冲下了阿尔巴尼街。

    “天哪！”布尔叫道，“我从没想到一头大象能跑那么快。嗨，如果我们要跟上他，就必须再乘坐双轮马车了。”

    当他们跑向大门时，经过的那些笼子里的奇怪的动物的景象使赛姆眩晕。他觉得很奇怪，他本应该把它们看得清清楚楚的。他特别记得鹈鹕，它们有着可笑的下垂的脖子。他纳闷为什么鹈鹕是仁慈的象征，他只知道需要极度的仁慈才能欣赏一只鹈鹕。他记住了一只犀鸟，这简直就是一只小鸟附着在一只巨大的黄色鸟喙后面。所有这些使他莫名而清晰地觉得，大自然总是会开一些神秘的玩笑。星期天告诉过他们，只有当他们看懂了星星，他们才能看懂他。而赛姆想知道，天使是否看得懂犀鸟。

    这六个闷闷不乐的侦探跳进马车跟踪大象，同时也承受着它在长街上散布的恐怖。这次星期天没有转过身，而是把他没有知觉的厚实脊背对着他们，这也许比他先前的嘲弄更令他们发狂。然而，就在他们进入贝克街之前，他们看到他把一样东西远远地抛向天空，却无意再把它接住。但是他们跑得飞快，而它远远地掉在了后面，恰巧落在果戈理坐的马车旁边。也许是出于获得线索的微弱期望，也许是出于某种莫名的冲动，他停下马车把它拾了起来。这是赠与他本人的一个相当大的包裹。他检查之后发现，包裹里包含着三十三张一层包一层的毫无价值的纸。最后一层纸被撕开后，露出了里面的一张小纸条，上面写着——

    “我想，这个词应该是‘粉红’。”

    这个昔日被称作果戈理的人一言未发，但他手脚的动作就像在策马重新飞奔。

    穿过一条又一条街道，冲过一个又一个区，飞奔的大象成了移动的奇观，使得所有人们都在张望，使得车流左转又右转。而在所有这些疯狂的大肆张扬后面，还有那三辆马车辛苦地跟着，直到他们被认为是队伍的一部分，或者可能是马戏团的广告。他们速度如此之快，以至于距离在不可思议地缩短。当赛姆以为他仍在帕丁顿时，他已经看见了肯辛顿的阿尔伯特大厅。在南肯辛顿的空旷而充满贵族气息的街道上，大象的脚步变得更快且自如了，而它最终奔向的是那段地平线上耸立着的巨大的伯爵宫摩天轮。摩天轮越来越大，直到它就像星星之轮充满天空。

    这头野兽比马车跑得更快。转过几个街角之后，他们看不到它了，当他们来到伯爵宫展览厅的其中一个大门时，发现被堵住了。他们前面是人群，人群中央是一头正扬着鼻子颤抖着的大象。但是星期天不见了。

    “他去哪了？”赛姆走下马车问道。

    “一位绅士冲进了展览厅，先生！”一个茫然不解的官员说道。然后，他用委屈的嗓音补充道：“一位可笑的绅士，先生。他让我牵住他的马，然后给了我这个。”

    他厌烦地拿出一张折叠好的纸，上面写着：“致无政府主义中央理事会的秘书。”

    怒气冲冲的秘书扯开纸，发现里面写着——

    “当鲱鱼游了一英里，

    “让秘书微笑；

    “当鲱鱼试图飞翔，

    “让秘书死亡。

    “（农村谚语。）”

    “哎呀，”秘书说道，“你放这个男子进来了吗？人们通常都是骑着疯狂的大象来看你们的展览吗？另外——”

    “看！”赛姆突然喊道，“看那里！”

    “看什么？”秘书蛮横地问道。

    “看那只系在地面上的气球！”赛姆边说，边激动地指点着。

    “为什么他妈的我应该看一只系在地面上的气球？”秘书问道，“这只系在地面上的气球有什么可奇怪的？”

    “没什么可奇怪的，”赛姆说道，“但是它就要离开地面了！”

    他们齐刷刷地转过头，只见系在细绳上的那只气球在展览厅上方摇晃膨胀。一秒钟之后，细绳在气球吊舱下分成了两段，气球挣断了绳子，像肥皂泡一样自由地飘走了。

    “一万个魔鬼！”秘书尖叫道，“他上去了！”然后，他朝天空挥舞着拳头。

    气球突然被一股风托起，飞到了他们的正上方，他们可以看见主席长着白发的大脑袋伸出吊舱外慈祥地俯视着他们。

    “上帝保佑我的灵魂！”教授老气横秋地说道，他已经无法使他的白胡子和羊皮纸似的面孔摆脱这种老迈的样子。“上帝保佑我的灵魂！我似乎想起有东西落在我的帽子顶上！”

    他举起一只颤抖的手，从帽子顶上拿到了一张折起来的纸。他心不在焉地打开，发现上面画着一只同心结，上面写着——

    “你的美丽并没有使我无动于衷。——来自小雪莲。”

    短暂的沉默，之后赛姆就咬着胡子开了口——

    “我没有被打败。这该死的东西一定会在某个地方降落。让我们追上它！”