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 robbery. So the judge put him in jail while the Court waited for proof. When Horner heard that he was not free, he fainted.

“Hmm,” said Holmes. “So much for what the police know.” He threw the paper to one side. “Well, well, Watson! The question now is this: How did the stone get out of the box and into the bird?

“Here is the stone. The stone came from the goose. The goose came from Henry Baker. So now, we must set ourselves to find Henry Baker.

“Give me a pencil, please. And that slip of paper.” Holmes wrote this note:

Found. At the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by coming to 221B Baker Street at 6:30 this evening.

“There. That’s clear.” Holmes handed the paper to the doorman. “Here, Mr. Peterson. Please see that this note is put in all the evening papers. The Globe. The Star. The Evening News. The Echo. And any other newspapers you can think of.”

“Very well, sir,” said Peterson. “And the stone?”

“Ah, yes. I will keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson—just buy a goose on the way back. We must have another bird to take the place of the one your family is now eating.”

After Peterson left, Holmes picked up the stone. He held it against the light. “It’s a beautiful thing,” he said. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it makes crimes happen. Every good jewel does.”

“Do you think this man Horner took the stone?” I asked.

“I cannot tell,” replied Holmes.

“What about Henry Baker?” I went on.

“I think Henry Baker probably had nothing to do with it,” Holmes said. “But I shall find out for sure as soon as Henry Baker answers my advert. Until then, I can do nothing.”

“In that case,” said I, “I shall go back to work. I have sick people to visit. I’ll come back tonight, if I may. I’d like to see how this all will end.”

“I’ll be glad to see you,” said Holmes. “Stay for dinner at seven.”

It was six thirty when I walked down in Baker Street. As I got near the house, I saw a tall man waiting. The tall man and I entered together.

Holmes rose from his seat. “Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” he said. “Please take this chair by the fire. You look cold. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes, sir. It is my hat.”

“About the bird,” Holmes went on. “I’m sorry, but we had to eat it.”

“To eat it!” Mr. Baker half rose from his chair. He was very upset.

“Yes. The bird would have spoiled had we NOT eaten it. But here is another goose instead. It is about the same size as the other. Won’t it do just as well?”

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Mr. Baker.

Sherlock Holmes looked at me. I could tell Mr. Baker had passed the test. It was clear that he knew nothing about the jewel.

“There is your hat, then. And there is your bird,” said Holmes. “By the way, could you tell me where the other goose came from? I have never tasted a better goose.”

“It came from the Alpha Inn,” Baker replied. “I go there almost every night. This year the owner started a goose club. My friends and I gave a few pennies each week. Then at Christmas we each got a goose. The rest of the story you know. I thank you very much, Mr. Holmes, for all you have done.”

Mr. Baker bowed to us and went on his way. Holmes closed the door after him. “It appears that Mr. Henry Baker is not the thief. Are you hungry, Watson?”

“Not very,” I answered.

“Then let’s save dinner until later. We can follow up this clue while it is still hot.”

It was a bitter-cold night. We put on our overcoats and wrapped up our throats. Outside the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky. Our breaths looked like smoke. Our steps rang sharply on the pavement.

Fifteen minutes later we were at the Alpha Inn. Holmes asked for two glasses of beer. The owner brought them to us.

“Your beer should be wonderful if it is as good as your geese,” said Holmes to the owner.

“My geese?”

“Yes. I was talking just a while ago to Mr. Henry Baker. He was in your goose club, I think.”

“Ah, yes! I see. But you see, sir, them’s not OUR geese. I got two dozen of them from a man named Breckinridge. He sells meat over at Covent Garden.”

“I thank you,” said Holmes. “Here’s to your health, sir. Good night.”