The Adventures of Magical Realist Sherlock Holmes: A Scandal In Colombia
In glancing over the collected notes that chronicle our long intimacy, I find many accounts of the fantastic, but few cases in which even the most peculiar facts have not been elucidated by the remarkable methods of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Of these events, I recall none as singular as those circumstances surrounding the death of General Porfirio Nuñez, leader of the Liberal partisans of Macondo.
Passing through Baker Street one dreary September day, I chanced to call upon my friend.
“Come in, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, opening the door and pulling me into the familiar confines of the bachelor apartment we once shared. “I am glad to share the company of another military man.”
At once, I saw a swart young officer of Latin origin seated in the study.
“Allow me to introduce the Lieutenant,” said Holmes. “From the rather assertive colouration of his costume, it is trivial to deduce that he is an officer of one of the Bolivarian republics of the Americas, the three braids of his aguillette suggesting aide-de-camp to a commander of some status. The trim and decline of his moustaches allow me to exclude Venezuela, where such styles have fallen of late from political favour, and the torn seam at the back of his jacket indicates that he has seen service during a recent insurrection, most certainly the ongoing partisan belligerence in Colombia. The height and condition of his rainboots, and the manner in which he has tucked his trousers therein, suggest that he is well acquainted with precipitation. Indeed, I suspect that he hails from the peculiar village of Macondo, where it has rained for four years, eleven months and two days. From this, one further deduction is clear: the Lieutenant’s memories turn to glimmering fishes at night, and swim through the air whispering secrets to the moon. The only matter remaining is his business in Baker Street. And of course, his name…”
“Lieutenant Arcadio Buendía, Señor,” he replied, a look of astonishment glancing across his face.
“A pleasure. This is my friend and associate Dr. Watson, himself a veteran of the Afghan campaigns. What brings you to our shores from the New World, Lieutenant?”
“I serve as adjutant to General Porfirio Nuñez, who has embarked of late on a tour of the capitals of Europe. Two days ago we took residence in the Hotel Cosmopolitan. After concluding his business, the General retired to his room late last night. On returning to rouse him this morning, I could not wake him. After some travail, I sought the aid of the hotel manager and on entering, found him dead in the room. There was no sign of entry—nor even of a struggle. But the General has many enemies.”
“You suspect foul play. The room was secured?” asked Holmes.
“The window shut, the door locked, the flooring and walls sound, and the only chimney far too narrow to fit a man. In my country, leaders must be very careful men, Mr. Holmes—and I assure you, the General was most careful.”
Holmes nodded his head. “And on what floor did you take your lodgings?”
“The fifth. Out of reach from the street. We have left the room untouched, but you must understand that this is a sensitive matter, Mr. Holmes. News of the General’s death will shortly reach the evening papers, and thence the bureaus in Panama by telegraph . By to-morrow surely it will be a scandal in Macondo.”
“Then we have not a moment to lose!” cried Holmes, already making for the door.
At the Cosmopolitan, a tired cadet stood guard at the door of the General’s room, receiving the Lieutenant with a salute. Upon our entrance, Holmes began a diligent examination of the room. It was a small and gloomy suite, and the late General lay abed, still dressed in his nightclothes.
Though my own powers of observation fall far short of those of my companion, I have some sureness in the practice of medical diagnosis. Yet my own brief examination showed no contusions or wounds—merely the commonplace signs of a man in quietus.
“Curious, Holmes. As if he were untouched at all.“
"Very strange indeed,” said Holmes, rubbing a bit of dust between his fingers.
As I turned to meet my friend’s eyes, I saw a familiar look of pleased recognition upon his face. Holmes had his case.
“Lieutenant,” he said quietly, “I do not make accusations lightly, but rather logically, and there is reason to suspect a traitor in your midst. I ask you to call in your cadet—and I warn you to be prepared to restrain him.”
The cadet entered on the Lieutenant’s orders, presenting once more the queer flat-handed salute of the Colombians.
“Lieutenant,” said Holmes. “Kindly remove his cap.”
Buendía lifted the cadet’s tall and tapered shako swiftly from his head.
“El sapo de perfidia!” cried the Lieutenant.
This ejaculation had been drawn by the revelation of a hideous creature perched on the cadet’s head.
“Most curious—and most convenient” whispered Holmes, “that the deceitful among the Macondans sprout a deformed toad from their heads, destined eternally to croak their treacheries in warning.”
Later, in the comfortable quarters of Baker Street, Holmes explained to me the particulars of his reasoning.
“The Toad of Perfidy speaks for itself,” I said. “But what of the locked door and closed window?”
“An unusual, but elementary explanation, indeed. Upon our initial inspection, I came to the mistaken presumption that the General was poisoned by a Gypsy alchemist who made his entrance and escape through the window on the silent wings of a cloud chariot. A reasonable inference, perhaps. but let it be a warning against deduction from insufficient evidence. A glance at the cadet’s trousers, and I was sure. They lacked the tell-tale wear and faded color of his jacket, indicating that they were recently replaced––after our suspect’s legs stretched to the height of the tallest tree in the forest, allowing him to enter the General’s suite from the chimney-stack on the roof.”
“But the flue was too narrow, and there were no bruises about the General’s neck—no sign of injury at all!”
“Nothing but a dusting of pollen. Think deductively, my friend, and the solution presents itself: His arms turned to a trail of butterflies, which fluttered down the flue, swarmed the room and smothered the General in his sleep. How many times have I told you, Watson? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however magical, must be the truth.”
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