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It was the second morning after Christmas. I visited my friend Sherlock Holmes to give him my good wishes for the holiday season.
I found the great detective lying on the sofa. He was smoking his favorite pipe. Next to the sofa stood a chair. On the chair’s back, there was a black hat. The hat was dirty and torn.
A magnifying glass lay on the seat of the chair. Holmes had been looking at the hat.
“You know Peterson, the doorman?” asked Holmes.
“Yes,” said I.
“He found this hat. He brought it here this morning—along with a good, fat goose. Right now the goose is cooking over Peterson’s fire.”
I looked rather confused and Holmes continued to explain.
“It is a strange story. It was four o’clock on Christmas morning. Peterson was walking home late. He had been at a little party. Peterson could see a man walking ahead of him. He was a tall man carrying a white goose over his shoulder.
“The tall man got to the corner of Goodge Street. Just then a gang of hooligans came into the street. One of the young men knocked off the tall man’s hat. The tall man tried to fight back with his stick. Instead, he broke the window behind him.
“Peterson rushed up to help the tall stranger. But at the sound of the breaking glass, the man dropped the goose and ran. He must have been afraid that Peterson was a policeman who would arrest him for breaking the glass. The gang ran away too. So Peterson was left with the goose—and this hat.”
“Which, surely, he gave back to the owner?” asked I.
“My dear fellow. There lies the problem. True, we know the NAME of the owner. See? Here’s a small card that was tied to the left leg of the goose. The card says, ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker.’ Then, here are the letters ‘H. B.’ inside the hat. So we’re pretty sure the tall man was Henry Baker. But there are thousands of people named Baker in London. And HUNDREDS of them must be named Henry.
“Well, Peterson brought the hat to me. He kept the goose as long as he could. But today it had to be cooked or it would spoil. So Peterson took the goose home. He left the hat for me.”
At that moment the door flew open. Peterson, the doorman, rushed into the room. His face was red.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“What about it?” asked Holmes.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found inside!” He held out his hand. There lay a shining blue stone. It was no bigger than a bean in size. But it was so pure and bright that it twinkled like a star.
Sherlock Holmes sat up. “My goodness, Peterson!” said he. “This is a treasure indeed. I suppose you know what you have there?”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s Blue Carbuncle!” I broke in.
“Indeed,” Holmes replied. “I ought to know this stone’s size and shape. Haven’t I been reading about it in The Times every single day? The countess says she will give whoever finds it a thousand pounds.”
“That’s right,” said Holmes. “It was on December twenty-second—just five days ago. The police have arrested a plumber named John Horner. I have the story here, I think.”
He found the page he was looking for. He read the news story out loud.
JEWEL ROBBERY AT HOTEL COSMOPOLITAN
John Horner, a plumber, was arrested today. The police say he stole a jewel from the jewel case of the Countess of Morcar. The jewel is known as the Blue Carbuncle.
Horner was arrested because of a story told by James Ryder. Ryder works for the hotel. Ryder said that he took Horner to the Countess of Morcar’s room to fix a pipe. That was on the very day of the robbery.
Ryder stayed in the room for a while. But he was called away. Horner was left in the room alone.
When Ryder got back, Horner was nowhere around. But the dresser had been forced open. A jewel box was lying on the dressing table. The box was empty.
The police say that Horner put up a fight when he was arrested. “I didn’t do it!” Horner had cried. But Horner had once served time for
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