Текст книги "The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes"

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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“On Monday, Mr Stutchbury, who is my superior, informed me that it would be necessary for someone from the London office to travel to our northern office in Manchester at the end of the week, in order to apprise the manager there of certain decisions which have recently been made. He asked me if I would like to perform this duty and, of course, I was thrilled and honoured to be entrusted with such a task, and at once agreed. It was arranged that I should leave work a little earlier today, and take the afternoon train from Euston to Manchester, where I would be met by Mr Glossop, who is the manager of our northern office. All week I have been looking forward to it. Imagine my dismay, then, when at three o’clock this afternoon a telegram was received, informing us that Mr Glossop and half his staff had gone down with measles, and that he would not, after all, be able to meet me. There was nothing for it but to cancel my journey to the north. I therefore left work at the usual time and, feeling somewhat disappointed, caught the usual train home.”

“One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Had you notified your wife that you would, after all, be returning home this evening?”

Claydon shook his head. “There did not seem much point in sending a message to say that I was coming when I should shortly be arriving home in person. I realized, of course, that my wife would be surprised to see me, but the surprise would at least, I hoped, be a pleasant one. On the train home I fell into conversation with a man called Biggins, whose acquaintance I have made over the last six weeks as he also travels between Clapham and London Bridge every day. He was telling me what had befallen a friend of his who kept pullets in his back garden, and as he had not finished the story when we alighted, he invited me to join him at the local hostelry to hear the end of his account. It is not the sort of thing I should normally have done, but I had been feeling somewhat down in the dumps since the cancellation of my trip to Manchester, and, besides, his story was an interesting one – somewhat far-fetched, but fascinating, nonetheless – so I agreed. You will see the relevance of this in a moment.

“My acquaintance took me to a public house not far from Clapham Junction. We were standing near the bar and he had just handed me a glass of beer, when a large man to the side of me had some kind of spasm and fell heavily into me. In his efforts to maintain his balance, he flung out his arm, which knocked the glass from my hand, and spilled the contents all over my clothes. Not only that, but the back of his hand struck me hard on the nose, making my eyes water, and his fingernail scratched my cheek. Still, he was in a worse state than myself, I thought, for he had fallen to the floor in a heap, so I bent down to help him to his feet. Unfortunately, as I did so he abruptly raised his arm, and his elbow caught me a very painful blow in the eye. I stepped back sharply, pressing my hand to my eye, which felt as if it had been dislodged from its socket, and my hat fell off my head. The man on the floor was still trying to rise to his feet, so I stepped back again to get out of his way, and as I did so, I trod on my hat and squashed it flat. At that moment, my nose began to bleed copiously.

“‘Oh, bad luck!’ cried Biggins in a cheery tone. ‘Don’t worry about the beer, Claydon – I’ll buy you another!’ Perhaps understandably, I had quite lost my taste for the whole enterprise, but in order not to appear rude, I acquiesced and stayed just long enough to hear the end of the story, then left the pub and set off for home. It was only a short distance to Kendal Terrace, and as I turned into the street I hoped fervently that none of my neighbours would catch sight of me, for I knew that in my dishevelled state I must present a very unattractive appearance. Fortunately, there were few people about, but I made sure that I had my latch-key ready and in my hand some time before I reached the house, for I wanted to slip in through the front door as quickly as possible. When I put the key in the lock, however, I found to my great surprise that it would not turn. I took it out and examined it, to make sure it was the correct key, then tried it again. Still it would not turn. I banged hard on the door knocker, and as I did so I glanced round. Some people on the other side of the street were staring at me and I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“The door was opened after what seemed an age by a girl I had never seen before in my life, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform. She had evidently put the chain on the door before she opened it, for it only opened a few inches. Upon her face was an odd, sullen sort of expression.

“‘What!’ I cried in surprise. ‘Who are you?’

“‘Pardon me,’ she returned in an impudent tone, ‘but who are you?’

“‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘And why is the chain on the door?’

“‘To keep out prying busybodies like you!’

“‘How dare you!’ I cried. ‘This is my house!’

“‘Oh yes?’ said she. ‘And I’m the Empress of Japan! Be off with you, and stop being a nuisance to honest folk!’

“For a moment then, as I stood there, my mind seemed to reel in complete confusion, and I could not form a single logical thought, far less utter any aloud. So great was the shock of seeing this perfect stranger in my house that I was utterly dumbstruck. One can respond, adequately or otherwise, to all sorts of strange and surprising situations in which one occasionally finds oneself, but this was literally beyond the bounds of comprehension.

“The silence was broken by a second voice, from within the house.

“‘What is it? What is going on there?’ asked a woman’s voice, which sounded older and more cultured than the maid’s.

“‘There’s a dirty-looking rascal at the door, madam,’ replied the girl. ‘He’s trying to force his way into the house.’

“In a moment a second face had appeared above that of the maid, in the narrow gap between the door and the frame. She was a strong-featured woman, about five and thirty years of age. Although she was as much a stranger to me as the maid, there was something vaguely familiar about her appearance, and I wondered if I had seen her about somewhere.

“‘Well?’ demanded she. ‘What is it you want?’

“‘Want?’ I repeated. ‘I want to come in. This is my house, and I insist on knowing what you are doing in it!’

“‘Don’t be absurd!’ she returned sharply. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! If you don’t stop pestering us this minute, I shall call the police! Yes,’ she continued, looking past me and across the road, ‘there’s a policeman now. Constable!’ she called.

“I turned to see a large, formidable figure crossing the road towards us. He came up very close behind me, looming over me as it were, and addressed the woman.

“‘Yes, madam?’ said he. ‘What appears to be the trouble?’

“‘This man is making a nuisance of himself,’ said she. ‘He has tried to force his way into the house, he has frightened my maid, and he will not leave us alone!’

“‘Here, you!’ said the policeman to me. ‘You scoundrel! What’s your game?’

“Before I could reply, the woman spoke again. ‘He’s been drinking,’ said she. ‘He reeks of alcohol. And he appears to have been in a fight.’

“This is where my mishap in the public house played so unfortunate a part in the matter. Had my appearance been as normal, I might have had a slim chance of persuading the policeman to listen to my side of the matter. But my appearance told against me.

“‘Yes, madam,’ returned he, in answer to the woman’s observations. ‘I had noted the gentleman’s appearance. You, sir,’ he continued, addressing me, ‘are you not ashamed of yourself, getting into such a state?’

“‘I am not in a state,’ I retorted with some warmth, but the policeman did not seem to hear.

“‘I can assure you, sir, that had you been a common ruffian I should have run you in as soon as look at you. It is evident, however, from your dress’ – here he looked me up and down appraisingly – ‘that you were once a gentleman. But look at you now! Your hat is ruined, your shirt and waistcoat are stained with beer, your suit is sodden and crumpled. Just think what your poor mother would say if she could see you now!’

“‘My mother?’ I cried in surprise. ‘What the deuce has my mother got to do with it?’

“The policeman held up his hand and frowned, as if admonishing me for speaking so sharply. ‘A word of advice, sir: never turn your back on your mother. If you do, you will be turning your back on the truest friend you ever had and will regret it to your dying day.’

“‘I am not turning my back on my mother,’ I cried in exasperation. ‘But my mother is irrelevant to the situation. In any case, I am a married man!’

“‘Very well, then, sir, consider the feelings of your poor dear wife, waiting at home alone while you stagger about the streets in this intoxicated fashion. Take my advice, sir, go home now, sleep it off, and vow that tomorrow you will make a fresh start!’

“‘I am trying to go home!’ I protested. ‘This is my home!’

“‘What nonsense!’ cried the woman. ‘Why, I have never seen this man before in my life!’

“The policeman nodded. ‘And you, sir?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘Have you ever seen this lady before?’

“‘No, I certainly have not,’ I replied vehemently.

“‘Well, then? Don’t you think you ought to run along and stop making a nuisance of yourself?’

“I hesitated. So monstrously unfair did all this seem that I was quite at a loss for words. Then my eye lit on the sign beside the door. It is a small oblong piece of wood, bearing the name ‘Worthing Villa’. I made it myself and put it up just three weeks ago, after I had read an article in a magazine that described how to inscribe lettering on wood with a red-hot poker. My wife and I wished to commemorate the very happy holiday we spent last summer in Worthing.

“‘I can prove to you that this is my house,’ said I to the policeman. ‘You see that sign?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ he replied cautiously.

“‘I made it.’

“The policeman turned his gaze from the sign to me, and I could see at once, from the expression on his face, that I had made a mistake. For although my statement was perfectly true, it must have seemed just the sort of stupid and unbelievable thing that a real liar would have said. So far from establishing the truth of my story, therefore, it merely served to confirm my mendacity in the policeman’s eyes.

“‘I shall give you one last chance,’ said he. ‘If you clear off in the next ten seconds, I shall let you go. If you are still here in ten seconds’ time, I shall march you straight round to Brixton Police Station, where you will be charged with causing a breach of the peace, and will spend the night in the cells.’

“I could see that he was in earnest. This left me little choice. I hesitated but two seconds of the allotted ten, then turned, ran off down the road, and did not stop running until I had put some distance between me and Kendal Terrace. I felt in a state of complete despair. What had happened to the world? Where was my wife? Where were my own servants?

“I stopped, in a daze, by some shops and looked about me. I was hot and my head was beginning to ache, so I loosened my collar and tie. As I did so, I saw that the nearby butcher’s shop, George Lubbock and Son, was still open, although most of the other shops were now closed. This was undoubtedly the shop from which my wife purchased our meat. Perhaps if I explained the situation to the butcher, he could vouch for me and help me to prove that it was not me but the woman in the house that was lying. I put my head in at the shop doorway. There was a man there, scrubbing the chopping block. I coughed to attract his attention and he looked round.

“‘I’m closing up,’ said he, ‘so you’ll have to be quick! What do you want?’

“‘Are you Mr Lubbock?’ I asked.

“‘Yes, I’m Lubbock. Why do you want to know?’

“‘You don’t know me,’ I began.

“‘That’s true,’ replied he in a curt fashion, and returned to his scrubbing.

“‘No, I mean, we haven’t been introduced, but I believe you know my wife. She trades here.’

“The butcher paused in his scrubbing and eyed me curiously. ‘Oh?’ said he after a moment. ‘Where does she live?’

“‘Kendal Terrace.’

“‘A tall woman, with spectacles?’

“‘No.’

“‘Well, then, a small woman, with ginger hair?’

“‘No, medium-sized, with medium-brown hair.’

“Again the butcher looked at me for a moment.

“‘I know your game,’ said he at last. ‘If you think you’re going to walk out of here with a pair of lamb chops unpaid for on the strength of your supposed connection with a woman I’ve never seen, then you’ve got another think coming!’

“‘No, no,’ I said quickly, seeing the way his mind was working. ‘I don’t want to buy anything.’

“‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said he. ‘You’re one of those types that always wants something for nothing.’

“‘No, you misunderstand me,’ I persisted. ‘I don’t require meat at all.’

“‘Oh, don’t you? Well, you can clear off, then! Or perhaps you didn’t notice that this is a butcher’s shop.’

“‘If you will just allow me to explain myself,’ said I, raising my voice in desperation. ‘I would like you to help me establish my identity.’

“‘I’ll help you establish a thick ear!’ returned he in a menacing tone, making his way round the counter, his large scrubbing brush in his hand. I waited no longer to discover what his intentions might be, but admitted defeat, turned and ran once more. No one, it seemed, had any interest in my sad plight.

“Thus I found myself wandering the streets alone, friendless and unrecognized, in what had, but a few hours previously, been my home. Slowly, I made my way back to the centre of town, unable to think what I could do in these changed circumstances. I called in at the offices of the Commercial Fire and Accident, on the off-chance that there might be someone there that knew me, but, as I had expected, the building was all closed up for the night and everyone had gone home. Onward then I wandered, aimless and hopeless, until, as I passed along the Strand, I saw a group of cabbies standing in conversation by a water-trough. On a sudden whim I stopped and asked them if they knew of any private detective who might be able to help an innocent man cast down by mysterious circumstances. After a brief consultation, their collective opinion was that you, Mr Holmes, were the man I should seek out.”

“I am glad they reached that conclusion,” responded Holmes after a moment. “Your story interests me greatly, Mr Claydon.”

“You do believe, then, that what I have told you is true?” asked Claydon in an imploring tone.

“I do not doubt it for an instant.”

“Thank the Lord for that! What has happened to me is so strange and terrible that I had begun to doubt that I could ever persuade anyone to believe it! The circumstances must surely be unique!”

Holmes shook his head. “There you are mistaken,” said he. “There was an almost identical case reported from Brussels only last year, and something very similar in Copenhagen the year before that.”

“Oh?” said Claydon in surprise. “What was the outcome in those cases?”

“As to the Copenhagen case, I am not certain,” returned Holmes, “but I believe the house burned down.”

“Good Lord!”

“In the Brussels case, however, the rightful occupant of the house, having been denied access at the front door, succeeded in forcing his way into the house through a rear window.”

“Good for him!”

“Yes, he displayed a certain enterprise. Unfortunately, having succeeded in entering the house, he was then set upon by the villains within and badly beaten.”

“Lord preserve us!”

“Sometimes, as it is said, discretion is indeed the better part of valour. You have taken the wisest course, Mr Claydon, in seeking me out. I, in turn, shall waste no time in enlisting the help of the official force.”

“What! The police? Judging by the specimen I encountered, they will not be very interested.”

Holmes shook his head. “All the cards were against you earlier,” said he, ticking the points off on his fingers. “In the first place, the woman was in possession of the house while you were out on the street. In the second, she was no doubt neatly attired while you were in a state of unaccustomed disarray. And in the third, she spoke with a firmness and authority which you, shocked as you were by these unprecedented events, could not match.”

“I’ll say,” agreed Claydon ruefully.

“I am known to some of the senior men at Brixton Police Station,” continued Holmes, “and I am confident they will listen to what I have to say. If we run down there now and give them a sober account of what has happened, I have no doubt that someone will accompany us to Kendal Terrace and help to see that justice is done. Our most immediate need, you see, is not for analytical subtlety, but simply to gain entry to your house, and in such circumstances the presence of a couple of burly policemen must add immeasurably to our side of the argument.”

“I understand, sir, and I must say you fill me with hope!” cried Claydon, his eyes shining. “Words cannot express the relief I feel at having unburdened myself of the matter to you. Are you confident of getting to the bottom of it?”

“We shall do our best,” replied Holmes with a friendly smile. “Now, if you would care to wash the blood and grime from your face, and to neaten yourself up a little before we set off, Dr Watson would, I am sure, be delighted to show you where you could do it!”

When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was still seated where I had left him, staring moodily into the hearth.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I am concerned about Claydon’s wife,” replied my friend.

“You think she may be in danger?”

“That is certainly a possibility, but it is not my chief concern. More likely, I fear, is that she is implicated in the matter in some way. If so, Claydon’s day of unpleasant surprises may not yet have run its course.”

“Do the other cases you mentioned suggest as much?”

“The testimony of the other cases is inconclusive on the point. In one, the wife did indeed turn out to have been behind the whole business. In the other, she was perfectly innocent of any involvement, but the outcome was still not entirely satisfactory.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wife was murdered.”

“Good God!”

“You will appreciate why I did not wish to expound on those cases in the presence of my client. However, to return to the present business: the crucial point, it seems to me, is that Mr Claydon was not expected to return home this evening. According to his own testimony, today was to have been the first time in six weeks that he would be absent from the house. It is also the day when strangers appear to have taken over the house. If these two events were purely coincidental the odds against their joint occurrence would be fairly long. It therefore seems likely that they are not simply coincidental, but are linked in some way.”

“That is surely almost certain,” I agreed.

“And the link between the two events seems most likely to be the wife. She believes that her husband will not be returning for another twenty-four hours, she is in complete control of the house in his absence: surely it must be she who has arranged for these strangers and their servants to be there.”

“Perhaps so; but for what purpose? It seems such a very strange and inexplicable thing to have happened that I am not really surprised that Mr Claydon felt he was going mad. What can any of those involved hope to achieve?”

Holmes shook his head. “We are certainly in the dark at present,” said he, “and there is little point in speculating. However, I am hopeful that we shall understand the matter a little better before the evening is done. In the meantime we must endeavour to keep my client’s spirits buoyed up. I am concerned that his grip on his mental faculties may still be but fragile, and that further shocks may loosen it again. But here is Mr Claydon now, as neat as a new pin, and with an appearance of resolve upon his features that suggests he is ready to step once more into the fray! Your hat, Watson! We leave at once!”

In a minute the three of us were in a growler, and making our way across the centre of town in the evening sunshine.

“Pray, tell me something of your family,” said Holmes to his client as we rattled along. “Do they all still reside in Northampton?”

“Yes. My mother and father still live in the house in which I grew up. I have one brother, who is a commercial traveller in the shoe trade. He and his wife live just five minutes’ walk from my parents’ house, near where I lived when I was first married.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Two years this month.”

“And your wife, I believe you said, is also from Northampton?”

Claydon nodded. “It is there that we were married.”

“Had you known her for very long before your marriage?”

“Several years.”

“You will be familiar, then, with her family?”

“Indeed I am. I know them almost as well as I know my own family. Her father has a position of some importance with one of the shoe manufacturers in the town. She also has a brother and sister. The sister, Joan, is several years younger, and is away at boarding school. The brother, Leonard, is just a couple of years younger than Lucy. Eighteen months ago he took himself off to America, rather against his parents’ wishes, I might say. We did not hear anything from him for a long time after that and feared that he had come to grief, but he appears to be established now, for the last we heard of him, he was living in New York, and studying law.”

“I see,” said Holmes, nodding his head. “I think that that gives us a clear enough picture of your immediate relations. Your domestic staff, now: what servants do you keep at Kendal Terrace?”

“Just two. We have an excellent cook, Rosemary Quinn, who also acts as housekeeper and helps my wife with sundry matters. She is very experienced and a particularly good pastry cook. Our only other servant is a young girl, Susan Townley. She is a local girl – her parents live at Battersea – and it is her first position. Susan is in many ways the opposite of Rosemary: she is very inexperienced and sometimes seems to know nothing about anything, but she is a sweet-natured girl and very willing to learn, so we are quite satisfied with her.”

We had crossed Westminster Bridge while they had been speaking and passed down the Kennington Road towards Brixton. The traffic in the streets had thinned a little as we left the centre of town behind, but the fine weather seemed to have encouraged half of London to leave their houses and take the air, for the pavements were crowded with all manner of folk, strolling along arm in arm in the evening sunshine, or standing in small groups at street corners, gossiping. There was evidently some sporting event taking place at the Oval, for a sizeable crowd was milling about there, spilling from the pavements onto the road. Past this crowd we rattled, and on down the Brixton Road, and I found myself thinking how incongruous it was that on this beautiful evening, we should be journeying to investigate such a strange and mysterious business.

We soon reached Brixton Police Station, where Claydon and I remained in the cab while Holmes went inside. In less than five minutes he was back out again, accompanied by a large, broad-chested man in a braided uniform.

“This is Inspector Spencer, Mr Claydon,” said Holmes. “He and two of his men will follow us in their own vehicle. I have given him an outline of the matter, and am confident that with his help it will soon be resolved.”

As he spoke, a police van drawn by two black horses emerged with a clatter from a yard to the side of the police station.

“Right-ho, Mr Holmes,” said the inspector. “Lead on and we shall follow!”

When we turned into Kendal Terrace a few minutes later, the evening sun was slanting into the street from the far end, casting a golden glow upon the houses. There was no one about save a small group of men at the corner, standing in idle conversation. They glanced at us with little curiosity as we passed, but looked round with somewhat keener interest at the police van that followed us into the street.

Kendal Terrace consisted of two identical rows of flat-fronted, pleasantly proportioned houses, which faced each other across the dusty street. We pulled up before a house about halfway along on the right-hand side. A short flight of steps led up to the front door, and affixed to the wall immediately to the right of the door was the small wooden sign that identified it as Worthing Villa. Claydon waited until our party was assembled on the pavement, then led the way up the steps. Having reached the front door, however, he seemed hesitant of proceeding.

“Try your key in the lock,” prompted Holmes in an encouraging tone.

“It did not work last time,” returned Claydon dubiously, fishing the key from his pocket, and slipping it into the lock. Next moment, however, the key had turned and the door had opened without difficulty. With an expression of surprise upon his face, Claydon led the way into the hall. “Everything appears in order,” said he, looking about him. For a moment, he stood at the foot of the stairs and called, “Hello!” very loudly, but no answer came and the house had that air of complete silence, which unoccupied buildings always possess.

“I am a busy man,” declared Inspector Spencer in a loud voice, standing in the hall and peering up the stairs. “I must say I have never known you to waste police time before, Mr Holmes, but it is clear that nothing is amiss here. Perhaps your client has been suffering from a mental delusion of some kind.”

“One moment, Spencer,” returned Holmes. “Let us take a quick look about, before we reach any conclusions!” He pushed open a door on the right of the hall and we entered a neat and pleasant sitting room. Through the window, which overlooked the street outside, I could see that the crowd of loafers had followed us along the street and were now standing outside the window, staring in at us. I glanced about. The room was well furnished, with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs. Against the wall opposite the window was a piano, on the top of which was a photograph of a child in a silver frame. On a small table beside one of the chairs a tray had been set with tea things. There was a teapot on the tray and two cups, which were both half full of tea. Beside the tray on the table was a large glass vase containing some pink flowers. In the alcove to the right of the fireplace was a highly polished tallboy, and in the alcove on the left was a bureau, above which, on a shelf, was a pretty little brass clock. There was another, larger clock made of some dark wood on the mantelpiece. Beside this clock were numerous small ornaments, and above it, on the chimney breast, hung a large framed print of a church.

My survey of the room was interrupted by a sharp cry from beside me.

“That picture!” cried Claydon, pointing at the picture of the church above the mantelpiece. “What is it doing there?”

“Is it not usually there?” asked Holmes, looking up from something he was examining closely on the floor.

Claydon shook his head. “It is not usually anywhere,” he returned with emphasis. “I have never seen it before in my life!”

Holmes stood up, lifted the picture carefully from the wall and turned it over. On the back was a small label on which was printed “St Paul’s”.

“It doesn’t look much like St Paul’s to me,” remarked Inspector Spencer with a snort.

“I think we may take it that it is a different St Paul’s from the one you are familiar with, Spencer,” said Holmes. “Do you recognize the church, Mr Claydon?”

“No. I have never seen it before,” returned the other. “And who on earth is this?” he cried, picking up the framed photograph of a child from the top of the piano.

“It is not anyone you know?” queried Holmes.

“Certainly not.”

“It could not perhaps be an old photograph of someone you know only as an adult – your wife, for instance?”

“No. This child looks quite different from anyone I have ever seen.” He held the photograph out for us to see. In it, a little girl, perhaps six or seven years of age, was standing against a painted backdrop of trees, holding a doll. Between the photograph and the frame was a cream-coloured mount, and across the bottom of this, in pencil, had been inscribed “Victoria, O Victoria”.

“How very curious,” remarked Holmes, but he was interrupted by another sharp cry from Claydon.

“My flowers!” cried he all at once, picking up the glass vase from the table. “Someone has removed all the roses and left only the other flowers!”

“Perhaps they were past their best and were thrown out,” suggested Inspector Spencer without much interest.

“No, no!” insisted Claydon. “I bought them only yesterday, at a stall near London Bridge station, on my way home from work. They were very fresh and bright. Someone has taken them!”

“Why should anyone take a bunch of flowers?” asked the policeman.

“Let us look in the other rooms before we begin to formulate any theories,” said Holmes, leading the way back into the hall. To the left of the sitting-room door was another, similar door, which Claydon informed us was that of the dining room. He pushed this door open, but stopped abruptly in the doorway with a strangled cry.

“What is it?” asked Holmes, and on receiving no reply, squeezed past the young man into the room. “Here’s something more serious for you to consider, Inspector,” said he as we followed him in.

In the centre of the floor, to the side of the dining table, a man in a dark suit lay on his back on the carpet. His arms were folded across his breast, and upon them lay a bunch of red roses.

“Stand back, everyone,” cried the policeman. “It’s clear there’s been some mischief here.”

“I am a doctor,” I said. “May I examine him?”

“Why certainly,” returned Spencer. “I was not aware we had a medical man with us.”

I crouched down and examined the still figure for any sign of life, but there was none.

“He has been dead a little while,” I said, as I concluded my examination, “perhaps for two or three hours, but not longer than four or five, I should say.”