Fantastic Metropolis

“Then you must be Mr Sherlock Holmes! Oh, my good sir, forgive me my bad manners! I am a great admirer, gentlemen. I have followed all your cases. You are, in part, the reason I took rooms near Baker Street. Unfortunately, when I called at your house yesterday, I found it occupied by contractors who could not tell me where you were. Time being short, I was forced to act on my own account. And I fear I have not been too successful? I had no idea that you were lodging in this very building!”

“Our landlady,” said Holmes dryly, “is renowned for her discretion. I doubt if her pet cat has heard our names in this house.”

The American was about thirty-five years old, his skin turned dark by the sun, with a shock of red hair, a full red moustache and a heavy jaw. If it were not for his intelligent green eyes and delicate hands, I might have mistaken him for an Irish prize fighter.

“I’m James Macklesworth, sir, of Galveston, Texas. I’m in the import/export business over there. We ship upriver all the way to Austin, our State Capital, and have a good reputation for honest trading. My grandfather fought to establish our Republic and was the first to take a steam-boat up the Colorado to trade with Port Sabatini and the river-towns.” In the manner of Americans, he offered us a resume of his background, life and times, even as we shook hands. It is a custom necessary in those wild and still largely unsettled regions of the United States.

Holmes was cordial, as if scenting a mystery to his taste, and invited the Texan to join us in an hour, when, over a whiskey and soda, we could discuss his business in comfort.

Mr Macklesworth accepted with alacrity and promised that he would bring with him the contents of his bag and a full explanation of his recent behaviour.

Before James Macklesworth arrived, I asked Holmes if he had any impression of the man.

Holmes said that he found the Texan interesting and, he believed, honest. But he could not be sure, as yet, if he were acting out of character. “For my guess is there is definitely a crime involved here, Watson, and I would guess a pretty big one. You have no doubt heard of the Fellini Perseus.”

“Who has not? It is said to be Fellini’s finest work—cast of solid silver and chased with gold. It represents Perseus with the head of Medusa, which itself is made of sapphires, emeralds, rubies and pearls. Wasn’t it stolen?”

“Your memory as always is excellent, Watson. For many years it was the prize in the collection of Sir Geoffrey Macklesworth, grandson of the famous Iron Master, once said to be the richest man in England. Sir Geoffrey, I gather, died one of the poorest. He was fond of art but did not understand money. This made him prey to many kinds of social vampires! In his younger years he was involved with the aesthetic movement, a friend of Whistler’s and Wilde’s. In fact Wilde was a good friend to him, attempting to dissuade him from some of his more spectacular excesses!”

“Macklesworth!” I exclaimed.

“Exactly, Watson.” Holmes paused to light his pipe, staring down into the street where the daily business of London continued its familiar round. “The thing was stolen about ten months ago. A daring robbery which left no clues. Inspector Lestrade believes it was spirited from the country and sold abroad. Yet I recognised it—or else a very fine copy—in that bag James Macklesworth was carrying up the stairs. He would have read of the affair, I’m sure, especially considering his name. Therefore he must have known the Fellini statue was stolen. Yet clearly he went somewhere today and returned here with it. Why? He’s no thief, Watson, I’d stake my life on it.”

“Let us hope he intends to illuminate us,” I said as a knock came at our door.

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MR James Mackelsworth was a changed man. Bathed and dressed in his own clothes, he appeared far more confident and at ease. His suit was of a kind favoured in his part of the world, with a distinctly Spanish cut to it, and he wore a flowing tie beneath the wings of a wide-collared soft shirt, a dark red waistcoat and pointed oxblood boots. He looked every inch the romantic frontiersman.

He began by apologising for his costume. He had not realised, he said, until he arrived in London yesterday, that his dress was unusual and remarkable in England. We both assured him that his sartorial appearance was in no way offensive to us. Indeed, we found it attractive.

“But it marks me pretty well for who I am, is that not so, gentlemen?”

We agreed that in Oxford Street there would not be a great many people dressed in the fashion of the prairies.

“That’s why I bought the English clothes,” he said. “I wanted to fit in and not be noticed. The top hat was too big and the morning coat was too small. The trousers were the only thing the right size. The bag was the largest of its shape I could find.”

“So, suitably attired, as you thought, you took the Metropolitan Railway this morning to–?”

“To Willesden, Mr Holmes. Good heavens! How did you know that? Have you been following me all day?”

“Certainly not, Mr Macklesworth. And in Willesden you took possession of the Fellini Perseus did you not?”