When I called on my friend Sherlock Holmes after Christmas to wish him happy holidays, he was lounging on his sofa in a purple bathrobe. On his right were a pipe rack and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently just read. On his left, hanging on a wooden chair, was a very seedy, disreputable-looking felt hat that was worn and cracked in several places. Holmes was holding a magnifying glass and medical forceps. He pinched the hat with the forceps and lifted it to examine it under the lens.
"You're busy," I said. "I'm interrupting you."
"Not at all," Holmes said. "I'm glad you're here. The matter at hand is trivial but still interesting."
I sat in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire. Frosty conditions had set in, and the windows were thick with ice crystals.
"I suppose," I said, "that as ordinary as that hat looks, there's some deadly story to it, or it's the clue to some mystery or crime."
"No, no. No crime," Holmes said. "Only one of those whimsical little incidents that happen when you have four million human beings jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Here in London anything's possible. Many problems can be peculiar, however, without being criminal, as we've seen before."
"That's true," I agreed. "Half of your last six cases involved no crime."
"Precisely," said Holmes. "And I think this small matter should fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the security guard?"
"Yes."
"This evidence belongs to him."
"It's his hat?" I said.
"No. No, he found it. Its owner is unknown. But don't see it as a battered hat; see it as an intellectual problem. First how did it get here? It arrived on Christmas morning, along with a fat goose, which is probably roasting in Peterson's oven right now. Peterson, who we know is a very honest fellow, shared what he knows about the situation with me."
I nodded.
"At about four o'clock in the morning, Peterson was walking home from work, still in his uniform, down Tottenham Court Road. By the light of a street lamp, he saw a tall man ahead, walking with a slight stagger and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As Peterson watched, a gang of young men stopped this stranger and an argument broke out. One of them knocked the man's hat off."
"Anyone hurt?" I asked.
Holmes shook his head. "The man raised his walking stick to defend himself. However, he accidentally smashed the shop window behind him as he swung the stick. Peterson rushed to help, but the man, shocked at having broken the window and seeing someone in uniform running toward him, dropped his goose. He ran off and vanished in the maze of small streets. The gang also fled when they saw Peterson, and he was left with this battered hat and a delicious Christmas goose."
"Peterson surely returned the items," I said.
"My dear fellow, that's the problem. 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed on a small card tied to the bird's left leg, and the initials 'H.B.' are visible on the lining of the hat. But as there are hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it's not easy to restore lost property to any of them."
"What did Peterson do?" I said.
"He brought me the hat and goose, knowing that even the smallest problems interest me. Not long after, Peterson and I agreed that the bird might spoil and should be eaten immediately. So he carried it off, while I kept the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."
"How are you ever going to find out who owns the hat?" I asked.
"We have everything we need right here," Holmes said.
"From this old hat?" I said.
"Precisely."
"You're joking." I laughed.
"Here's my magnifying glass. You know my methods. What can you tell me about the man who wore this hat?"
I turned the tattered hat over gingerly. It was an ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and well worn. The red silk lining was very discolored. There was no brand name, but as Holmes said, the initials "H.B." were scrawled on one side. The outer part of the hat was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there appeared to be some attempt to hide the discolored patches by smearing them with ink.
"I see nothing," I said, handing it back to my friend.
"On the contrary, Watson, you see everything. You fail, however, to think logically about what you see."
"Then tell me what you infer from this hat."
He picked it up, gazed at it, and promptly became lost in thought—one of Holmes' peculiar habits.
"It could suggest more," he said finally, "but a few conclusions are certain, and a few others are at least probable. It's obvious the man is highly intellectual and was financially well-off at least three years ago, but he has fallen upon hard times. He probably drinks. That may account for the obvious fact that his wife no longer loves him."
"My dear Holmes!"
"He still has some self-respect though," he continued, ignoring me. "He's middle-aged and has gray hair. Oh, his hair was cut in the last few days, and he uses hair cream. Also I doubt his house is lit by gas."
"You're certainly joking, Holmes."
"Not at all. Surely you can see how I got these results."
"No doubt I am very stupid, but I don't. Why do you think this man is intellectual?"
Holmes put the hat on. It fell down over his forehead and settled on the bridge of his nose.
"Size," he said. "A man with so large a brain must have something in it."
"And the decline of his fortunes?"
"This style of hat, with its slightly curled-up brim, first appeared in shops three years ago. This hat is of the very best quality. See the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining? This man bought this expensive hat three years ago but no hat since. He's gone down in the world."
"Well, that's clear enough," I said. "What about his self-respect?"
Sherlock Holmes laughed. "He tried to conceal some of the stains on the felt with ink. That's a sign he hasn't entirely lost his sense of pride."
"That's plausible, I suppose."
"His age and hair cream can be determined by close examination of the lower lining. The magnifying glass shows a large number of gray hair ends, clean cut by a barber's scissors. They appear sticky. Now sniff."
I bent over the hat and inhaled. "Lime."
"A popular ingredient in hair cream," said Holmes, nodding. "Now inspect the dust. It's not a grainy, gray street dust. It's fluffy brown: house dust. The hat is hung indoors most of the time."
"But his wife—you said she's stopped loving him."
"This hat hasn't been brushed clean for weeks. When I see you with a week's worth of dust on your hat, my dear Watson, I shall fear you've lost your wife's affection. No wife would allow her husband to go out like that."
"He might be a bachelor," I said.
"No, the goose was for his wife. Remember the card on the bird's leg?"
"You have an answer for everything. How do you know his house is not lit by gas?"
"One candle-grease stain, or even two, might be accidental. I see more than five. He comes in frequent contact with burning candles—walks upstairs at night probably, his hat in one hand, a dripping candle in the other. Anyway, he never got these stains from a gas jet. Satisfied?"
"Very clever," I said, laughing. "But since no crime was committed and no harm done except for the loss of a goose, all this seems to be a waste of energy."
As Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth to reply, his door flew open. Peterson rushed in, his cheeks bright red.
"The goose, Mr. Holmes!"