Fantastic Metropolis

“What do you think of this, Watson?”

Holmes was extending to me an open envelope. It departed from the standards of the Royal Post Office: elongated, blueish, it had a rectangular, and not triangular flap on the reverse side. There was no stamp nor any trace of a postmark. On the front were superscribed Holmes’s name and address, in neat, gently slanting handwriting with something of a tendency to ornamentation. The sender had made no effort to leave any trace of his own identity.

Not wishing to disappoint my friend, who in circumstances like this always goodheartedly expects that I will be nearly, if not quite as astute as he is, I brought the envelope up to my nose. Doing just this, how many times had he gleaned precious information. I was aware of a slight, bitter smell, but could not place it, though for some reason I thought of the shock to which the sense of smell is exposed upon entering a shop selling Indian spices.

Holmes looked unblinkingly at me, with that penetrating stare of his which filled even the most confident criminals with unease and caused the ladies to squirm uncomfortably, but he remained silent, though I noticed a slight curling of the fine lines at the corners of his mouth which I knew indicated a barely controlled impatience.

“How did this arrive?” I asked him, taking the letter out of the envelope. It was of the same blueish tint, on stiff paper, folded in three. I did not unfold it at once.

“Somebody pushed it under the front door. Between 16.00 hours, when I returned from my walk, and 18.15 hours, when Mrs. Simpson went off to do the evening shopping. She did not bring it to me immediately, but only after she had returned and served my meal. She said she thought it could not be of great consequence, since it had been delivered in this manner; in truth, it was too much of an effort for her to climb the stairs to the drawing room for a second time, though she would never admit it. I also tend to breathe a little harder after those nineteen steps, especially when I take them at a run, while she is sixty-seven and arthritic, but that is unimportant. Come, open the letter.”

He was right about the staircase. I could still feel my heart beating faster from the climb, as well as from my brisk walk from home. It seemed that I was not in the prime of youth either, but the communication from Holmes had been categorical: ‘Come at once! Very urgent!’ Hurrying here, even running part of the way, I thought of a multitude of troubles which might have befallen him. Thank God, all it was was an unusual letter. I was very careful not to say this aloud, though; it obviously had special importance for Holmes. Why else would he have called me with such urgency?

When I unfolded the stiff paper, a surprise awaited me: only a large circle was drawn on it. Nothing else was there—no text, no signature, initials, or, indeed, any sign at all. My first thought on seeing the accuracy of the circle was that it must have been made by a pair of compasses, but when I looked more closely at the place where the center should have been, I could not see the little hole which would inevitably have been made by the sharp point. Evidently, the drawing had been made with the assistance of some round object, probably some kitchen vessel; a largish cup, perhaps, or a saucer.

“A circle,” said I rather feebly, nothing more intelligent crossing my mind.

“Excellent, my dear Watson! A circle!” replied Holmes. His voice bore no hint of ridicule, though my perspicacity had warranted it. He spoke the words as if I really had reached some brilliant conclusion.

“Someone has decided to play a prank on us, no doubt,” I continued. “However, even from a prankster one would have expected something cleverer than an ordinary circle…”

Holmes’s reaction was so strong and violent that I almost flinched back.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Balderdash! A circle is anything but ordinary! The only perfect… complete… like… like…”

Holmes was not rarely given to rages like this; but I do not remember when I last saw him speechless. What looked to me like someone’s stupid joke, to him seemed, for some reason, altogether more serious. From experience I knew that at such times he should not be contradicted. That way he would sooner regain his composure, and, indeed, when he spoke again his voice was perfectly calm, with the usual ironic undertone which constantly made his companion reexamine the reasonableness of what was being said.

“All right, let’s leave the circle aside for the time being,” said he. “We will return to it later. Observe the letter carefully and tell me what else you see on it.”

I brought the letter and the envelope closer to my eyes and looked attentively. After a few long moments of examination, I humbly admitted:

“I fail to notice anything further… The format is unusual, though. I have never seen anything like it, but from that I can deduce nothing.”

“Indeed,” replied Holmes. “Unusual it is, at least here in England. On the continent you will come across it more often. What does the paper tell you?”

I felt it again, more carefully. Now I gained the impression that it possessed, apart from stiffness, the quality of antiquity, a patina. For a moment it seemed to me that something very old, a parchment perhaps, was between my fingers, though my eyes were telling me that it was a newly made sheet of paper.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “It gives the impression of being somehow… foreign. Most probably it also originates from the Continent.”

“Italy,” responded Holmes succinctly, as if uttering the most banal of statements. He gave me no oportunity to ask him whence he obtained that knowledge, nor was any needed, as the look of puzzlement was quite clear on my face. He approached me, wordlessly took the letter from my hand and raised it to the lamp which hung above a carved wood chest-of-drawers in the corner. “Look carefully,” he said briefly.