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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "A Difficult Problem," Anna Katharine Green masterfully weaves a compelling narrative centered around the intricate psychology of crime and the moral dilemma faced by her characters. Set in the late 19th century, the story features a brilliant detective grappling with both personal and professional challenges as he seeks justice in the face of complex societal norms. Green'Äôs literary style, characterized by meticulous detail and sharp observations, immerses readers in the evolving landscape of detective fiction, paving the way for the genres of mystery and crime that would flourish in the years to follow. Anna Katharine Green, often heralded as the mother of mystery fiction, sought to challenge the conventions of her time through her strong, often female, protagonists and intricate plotting. Her extensive background in law and her keen interest in psychological intricacies within the human mind significantly influenced her writing, granting her stories an intellectual depth that captivated audiences. Green'Äôs innovative approaches to storytelling not only reflected the societal changes of her era but also established her as a pioneering figure in American literature. For readers who appreciate a blend of psychological depth and analytical wit, "A Difficult Problem" is an essential addition to your literary collection. Green's exploration of moral complexities in human behavior offers profound insights while simultaneously delivering an engaging narrative that stands the test of time, making it a crucial read for fans of classic detective fiction.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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A Difficult Problem
Table of Contents
I.
“A LADY to see you, sir.”
I looked up and was at once impressed by the grace and beauty of the person thus introduced to me.
“Is there anything I can do to serve you?” I asked, rising.
She cast me a child-like look full of trust and candor as she seated herself in the chair I pointed out to her.
“I believe so, I hope so,” she earnestly assured me. “I—I am in great trouble. I have just lost my husband—but it is not that. It is the slip of paper I found on my dresser, and which—which——”
She was trembling violently and her words were fast becoming incoherent. I calmed her and asked her to relate her story just as it had happened; and after a few minutes of silent struggle she succeeded in collecting herself sufficiently to respond with some degree of connection and self-possession.
“I have been married six months. My name is Lucy Holmes. For the last few weeks my husband and myself have been living in an apartment house on Fifty-ninth Street, and as we had not a care in the world, we were very happy till Mr. Holmes was called away on business to Philadelphia. This was two weeks ago. Five days later I received an affectionate letter from him, in which he promised to come back the next day; and the news so delighted me that I accepted an invitation to the theater from some intimate friends of ours. The next morning I naturally felt fatigued and rose late; but I was very cheerful, for I expected my husband at noon. And now comes the perplexing mystery. In the course of dressing myself I stepped to my bureau, and seeing a small newspaper-slip attached to the cushion by a pin, I drew it off and read it. It was a death notice, and my hair rose and my limbs failed me as I took in its fatal and incredible words.
“ ‘Died this day at the Colonnade, James Forsythe De Witt Holmes. New York papers please copy.’
“James Forsythe De Witt Holmes was my husband, and his last letter, which was at that very moment lying beside the cushion, had been dated from the Colonnade. Was I dreaming or under the spell of some frightful hallucination which led me to misread the name on the slip of paper before me? I could not determine. My head, throat and chest seemed bound about with iron, so that I could neither speak nor breathe with freedom, and, suffering thus, I stood staring at this demoniacal bit of paper which in an instant had brought the shadow of death upon my happy life. Nor was I at all relieved when a little later I flew with the notice into a neighbor’s apartment, and praying her to read it for me, found that my eyes had not deceived me and that the name was indeed my husband’s and the notice one of death.
“Not from my own mind but from hers came the first suggestion of comfort.
“ ‘It cannot be your husband who is meant,’ said she; ‘but some one of the same name. Your husband wrote to you yesterday, and this person must have been dead at least two days for the printed notice of his decease to have reached New York. Some one has remarked the striking similarity of names, and wishing to startle you, cut the slip out and pinned it on your cushion.’
“I certainly knew of no one inconsiderate enough to do this, but the explanation was so plausible, I at once embraced it and sobbed aloud in my relief. But in the midst of my rejoicing I heard the bell ring in my apartment, and running thither, encountered a telegraph boy holding in his outstretched hand the yellow envelope which so often bespeaks death or disaster. The sight took my breath away. Summoning my maid, whom I saw hastening towards me from an inner room, I begged her to open the telegram for me. Sir, I saw in her face, before she had read the first line, a confirmation of my very worst fears. My husband was——”
The young widow, choked with her emotions, paused, recovered herself for the second time, and then went on.
“I had better show you the telegram.” Taking it from her pocket-book, she held it towards me. I read it at a glance. It was short, simple and direct.
“Come at once. Your husband found dead in his room this morning. Doctors say heart disease. Please telegraph.”
“You see it says this morning,” she explained, placing her delicate finger on the word she so eagerly quoted. “That means a week ago Wednesday, the same day on which the printed slip recording his death was found on my cushion. Do you not see something very strange in this?”
I did; but, before I ventured to express myself on this subject, I desired her to tell me what she had learned in her visit to Philadelphia.
Her answer was simple and straightforward.
