Without, the entire complex of Aspen Circle was sunny and bright
save for a patch of dense fog that shrouded the house at 221-B.
Without, the entire complex of Aspen Circle was sunny and bright save for a patch of dense fog that shrouded the house at 221-B. Passers-by hurried by, each somberly affected by the wild violin strains that emerged from the swirling mist.
Within, the fire in the hearth lent a coziness to the sitting room where Donald Anderson played and I, his boon companion/chronicler James Sleznick, sat in an easy chair, enjoying his rendition of “My Dog Has Fleas.”
At length, Anderson laid the instrument aside and picked up his favorite calabash pipe. “It seems, old fellow, that I am temporarily baffled by the string of outrages that have beset our community.”
“To which outrages do you refer?” I inquired.
“Hah!” Anderson exclaimed as he withdrew the pipe from his mouth and blew a stream of bubbles across the room. “Which, indeed?”
“Yes, which?”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse? Look about you, my dear Sleznick: Rampant jaywalking, sidewalk littering, failure to come to a complete stop at stop signs. Need I go on? They are endless.”
“You’re right, of course,” I responded, “but there is little we can do to stop it – except as models for others to emulate.”
“I’ve considered that, but it seems inadequate. Surely you do not expect some potential culprit to say, ‘Look at Sleznick not littering’ or ‘Regard Anderson not jaywalking’? No, it will take more, much more, I fear, to quash it, but I am on…”
At that moment the doorbell rang. In three strides, Anderson crossed the room and flung open the door.
A middle-aged man held out a sheaf of letters. “For you, Sir,” he said. Anderson took them and said, “You are a postman, I perceive.”
“Aye, Sir, I am,” the other replied, clicked his heels and left.
“How in the world did you deduce he was a postman, Anderson?” I exclaimed.
He chuckled softly. “To the well-trained eye there are small indications that loudly declare themselves. He was a man of cheerful intelligence, evidently bent on pleasing the public; it’s all there. Other signs such as the bag of mail over his shoulder and his uniform corroborate them. But enough of that; I was about to say I am on the trail of the mischievous genius behind the outrages, the one man whose brainpower I fear more than any other.”
“Surely you cannot mean Sid Moses, the inspiration of the Roses for Moses Society?”
“No, I had considered him but his penchant for art and long naps disqualify him in that arena. I meant…”
The bell rang again, and Anderson opened the door. A figure in a white uniform with “Pizza delivery boy” written over it, wearing a matching cap and clown’s mask and bearing a pizza box stood in the doorway.
“Wait, Anderson; I want to test my deductive powers. Now then, my good man, are you a pizza delivery boy?”
“I am, Sir.”
Anderson suddenly snatched away the mask to reveal the snarling features of Mac Mota.
“Aha! This is he of whom I spoke, Sleznick. Regard the cunning eyes, the predatory mouth, the…”
“Regard this, Mr. Donald High-and-Mighty Anderson,” Mota exclaimed as he wrenched loose from Anderson’s grip and flung himself through the window with a horrible scream that shall forever echo in my worst dreams trailing after him.
Anderson and I ran to the window and leaned out. There, a full four feet below us, Mota was emerging from a mud puddle with many vile imprecations.
“It’s an instinct I’ve developed,” Anderson replied to my unspoken question. “Now then, dear chap, it’s tea time.”
He decanted two cups from the teapot, gave one to me and said, “If you open the door to the stand next to your right hand, you will find a delightful additive therein.”
Refreshments were served.
