El signo de los cuatro

The Sign of the Four

Chapter 1
The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel- piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per- cent. solution. Would you care to try it?"

El signo de los cuatro

Capítulo I

La ciencia de la deducción

Sherlock Holmes extrajo un frasco de un anaquel y la jeringa hipodérmica de su estuche. Con sus dedos largos, blancos y nerviosos, ajustó la delicada aguja y se enrolló la manga izquierda de su camisa. Durante un momento sus ojos se apoyaron pensativamente en su brazo nervudo, lleno de manchas y con innumerables cicatrices, causadas por las frecuentes inyecciones. Finalmente se introdujo la aguja delgada, presionó el pequeño pistón, se la sacó, y se dejó caer en un sillón forrado de terciopelo, con un profundo suspiro de satisfacción.
Tres veces al día, durante muchos meses, había sido yo testigo de este espectáculo, pero, a pesar de ello, no me resignaba a seguir viéndolo. Por el contrario, día con día me sentía más irritado a su vista. El remordimiento me quitaba el sueño al pensar que me faltaba valor suficiente para protestar. Una y otra vez me había prometido abordar aquel tema escabroso, pero había algo en el aire frío y tranquilo de mi compañero, que me impedía decidirme a hacerlo. Sus facultades casi adivinatorias, su disciplina mental y sus cualidades extraordinarias, me inhibían y me hacían sentir inferior y torpe.
Sin embargo, aquella tarde, sea a causa del vino que había tomado en el almuerzo, o a la exasperación que me produjo su actitud exageradamente deliberada, sentí que no podía resistir más tiempo.
-¿Qué es ahora? -pregunté-. ¿Morfina o cocaína?
Levantó los ojos lánguidamente del viejo volumen recubierto de negro que había abierto.
-Es cocaína -me dijo-, una solución al 7 por ciento. ¿Quiere usted probarla?

El signo de los cuatro
Arthur Conan Doyle