Fantastic Metropolis

The glow of the lamp flame shone through the unfolded paper. I came two steps closer to study it better, so that now the flame seemed to be in the center of the circle painted on the paper, and at that moment I noticed that which Holmes wanted me to see. Brought to life by the light shining from the obverse side of the letter, a large letter ‘M’ in a rich calligraphic form appeared in the middle, but pale as a wraith, only in silhouette. When I moved a little to one side, the reflection of the flame slid towards the edge of the paper and the character disappeared.

“How…?” I asked distractedly.

“A water mark,” replied Holmes, again in a disaffected tone. Then his voice again filled with enthusiasm, and he started to explain. “The invisible trademark of unique craftsmanship. Only one man in the whole world produces such paper, my dear Watson, the maestro Umberto Murratori of Bologna. ‘Cartefficio Murratori,’ a branch of an old family of printers and publishers. The clientele for his paper is extremely select: important state offices, the Vatican, but also certain semipublic or secret societies, the Masons, for instance.”

“What is so special about it? It does not seem extraordinary, exept that it is rather stiff…”

“Appearances can be deceptive, Watson. Try burning it.”

“What?”

Since I naturally did not try to do as he proposed, he shrugged and, without hesitation, put one end of the letter to the top of the gas light. Had it been ordinary paper, it would have begun to smoke and then to burn. The corner of the paper which Holmes held in his hand only curled a little, but there was no sign of burning.

“You see, then, why Murratori’s product is in such demand. The writing on it cannot easily be destroyed. Oh, this paper can burn too of course, but for that to happen, a temperature far in excess of 4510 Fahrenheit is required. Similarly, it cannot be harmed by water—only by certain very strong acids.”

“I see,” said I, taking the letter again from Holmes. I touched the corner which had been exposed to the heat of the gas lamp, and then jerked my hand quickly away. It was very hot. “But, indubitably, it can be destroyed by mechanical means.” I added.

“Indubitably,” repeated Holmes. “But it would take a very sharp knife, almost a surgeon’s scalpel.”

For a moment I was almost tempted to put this claim to the test by trying to tear the letter in half. I refrained, however, from such an act, partly from respect for the mysterious document which was apparently so precious to Holmes, and partly because of earlier, unpleasant experiences related to my disputing some of his other apparently absurd claims.

“This upper-class clientele, then, purchases durability from Murratori,” I said. “What is written on this paper can do battle with time itself.”

“Exactly so,” replied Holmes. “Also, the price narrows the circle of possible buyers drastically. For the manufacture of a single sheet of this paper, several months of hard work are necessary. It is, in fact, a precious substance, more valuable even than gold to some people. No one except the master Murratori himself knows all the ingredients that go into this paper, and there are rumors that he obtains his raw materials from the Far East. They say that the secret of making this paper was brought to one of his ancestors by Marco Polo himself, from his first exploration of China, though I am of the opinion that this is an exaggeration.”

“If this is all true, Holmes, then something really puzzles me. Who would be so foolish as to squander such a treasure for the despatching of… er… trivial messages?”

For a moment it seemed to me that Holmes would again erupt in anger, and I was already beginning to bite my tongue because of my clumsily formulated thought, but his knitted eyebrows quickly relaxed again and on his lips flickered the usual smile of superior knowledge.

“The logic of the entire affair eludes you, Watson. It is precisely the fact that the communication which I have received is written on Murratori’s paper that eliminates any possibility of it being a foolish prank. No one, it’s true, would be prepared to squander such a precious item on mere childishness. Hence we are to take this message quite seriously. The means by which it was delivered exacts that from us.”

“But one would not expect that any important, and moreover, mysterious message should go unsigned. A gentleman should on no account allow himself to have a hand in any doings with anonymous letters, no matter how important they may seem to him.”

Holmes eyed me suspiciously. I do not know what he thought of my sudden moralizing, but, judging by the grimace which fleetingly crossed his face, the two of us hardly shared the same view of gentlemanly virtues at that moment. In any case, he found an elegant and unexpected escape from the trap which I had set for him.

“Who says the letter is unsigned?”

“What? But except for the circle, there is no other…” I exclaimed, quite at a loss.

“For Heaven’s sake, Watson, isn’t the signature staring you right in the face?” he said, feigning to be amazed, although he was, in fact, secretly jubilant over my confusion. Once more he took the letter from my hands, lifted it to the light, and tapped with the knuckle of his long, bony forefinger on the large letter ‘M’ when it became visible again.

“You are not saying,” said I, quite discomposed, “that Signore Murratori himself sent us this message?”

Now it was his turn to be surprised. “How did that thought cross your mind?”

“Well, it is his initial, is it not? ‘M’ for Murratori. The trademark, you yourself said so.”

“No, no,” replied Holmes, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “You fail to comprehend. The existence of the water mark is the trademark. The letter itself is the initial of the sender.”

“So, who then? Surely you do not mean the…?”