75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

‘What’s all the row?’ asked Saunders, as he lounged forward with his hands in his pockets. The luck had been with him all the evening. He was completely satisfied, both with himself and with Captain Lockwood’s taste in wines. ‘What’s the matter? You look to me to be in an absolute blue funk.’

‘That old devil of an uncle of mine,’ began Eustace – ‘oh, I can’t explain it all. It’s his hand that’s been playing old Harry all the evening. But I’ve got it cornered behind these books. You’ve got to help me catch it.’

‘What’s up with you, Eustace? What’s the game?’

‘It’s no game, you silly idiot! If you don’t believe me take out one of those books and put your hand in and feel.’

‘All right,’ said Saunders; ‘but wait till I’ve rolled up my sleeve. The accumulated dust of centuries, eh?’ He took off his coat, knelt down, and thrust his arm along the shelf.

‘There’s something there right enough,’ he said. ‘It’s got a funny stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Ah, no, you don’t!’ He pulled his hand out in a flash. ‘Shove in a book quickly. Now it can’t get out.’

‘What was it?’ asked Eustace.

‘It was something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I felt what seemed like a thumb and forefinger. Give me some brandy.’

‘How are we to get it out of there?’

‘What about a landing net?’

‘No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you, Saunders, it can cover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how we can manage it. The two books at the end of the shelf are big ones that go right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I’ll take out one at a time, and you slide the rest along until we have it squashed between the end two.’

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one, as they took out the books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There was something in it that was certainly very much alive. Once they caught sight of fingers pressing outward for a way of escape. At last they had it pressed between the two big books.

‘There’s muscle there, if there isn’t flesh and blood,’ said Saunders, as he held them together. ‘It seems to be a hand right enough, too. I suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I’ve read about such cases before.’

‘Infectious fiddlesticks!’ said Eustace, his face white with anger; ‘bring the thing downstairs. We’ll get it back into the box.’ It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last. ‘Drive in the screws,’ said Eustace, ‘we won’t run any risks. Put the box in this old desk of mine. There’s nothing in it that I want. Here’s the key. Thank goodness, there’s nothing wrong with the lock.’

‘Quite a lively evening,’ said Saunders. ‘Now let’s hear more about your uncle.’

They sat up together until early morning. Saunders had no desire for sleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget: to conceal from himself a fear that he had never felt before – the fear of walking alone down the long corridor to his bedroom.

III

‘Whatever it was,’ said Eustace to Saunders on the following morning, ‘I propose that we drop the subject. There’s nothing to keep us here for the next ten days. We’ll motor up to the Lakes and get some climbing.’

‘And see nobody all day, and sit bored to death with each other every night. Not for me thanks. Why not run up to town? Run’s the exact word in this case, isn’t it? We’re both in such a blessed funk. Pull yourself together Eustace, and let’s have another look at the hand.’

‘As you like,’ said Eustace; ‘there’s the key.’ They went into the library and opened the desk. The box was as they had left it on the previous night.

‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Eustace.

‘I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However, since you seem to funk it, allow me. There doesn’t seem to be the likelihood of any rumpus this morning, at all events.’ He opened the lid and picked out the hand.

‘Cold?’ asked Eustace.

‘Tepid. A bit below blood-heat by the feel. Soft and supple too. If it’s the embalming, it’s a sort of embalming I’ve never seen before. Is it your uncle’s hand?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s his all right,’ said Eustace. ‘I should know those long thin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box, Saunders. Never mind about the screws. I’ll lock the desk, so that there’ll be no chance of its getting out. We’ll compromise by motoring up to town for a week. If we get off soon after lunch we ought to be at Grantham [275] or Stamford [276] by night.’

‘Right,’ said Saunders; ‘and to-morrow – Oh, well, by to-morrow we shall have forgotten all about this beastly thing.’

If when the morrow came they had not forgotten, it was certainly true that at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vivid ghost story at the little supper Eustace gave on Hallow E’en.

‘You don’t want us to believe that it’s true, Mr. Borlsover? How perfectly awful!’

‘I’ll take my oath on it, and so would Saunders here; wouldn’t you, old chap?’

‘Any number of oaths,’ said Saunders. ‘It was a long thin hand, you know, and it gripped me just like that.’