Between the Thames and the Tiber

soon abate, and we will again go about our business without frozen fingers and toes. The city appears to be iced over, like some strange glacier. We are not missing anything by staying inside.”

I was about to agree, when there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for one of us to open, in strode our strange and wondrous landlady, attired in a way most odd even for her, and seemingly impervious to the cold. Her hair was covered in a thick white towel and her face glistened with some brownish oil. The rest of her was covered in a heavy green robe from which large puddles of water dripped onto the floor around her feet.

“Mi dispiace, signori,” she said sternly, “but I need the bucket for my bath, to heat the water.”

“Purtroppo,” said I, “we need it as well. And may I point out to La Signora that the bucket has not been used in months,” I replied brusquely.

I could see that my words angered her, but she did not press us further. She walked away, her robe still dripping, and entered her quarters.

“We have won a small battle, old fellow,” said Holmes, “but not the war.” He looked at his watch and said, “Dear Watson, in light of our difficulties and the approaching evening, I propose that I pay a visit to the local grog shop to buy some wine and brandy—and some cheese and bread. The salumeria on Via Spontini may still be open. If all goes well, we should be pleasantly comatose in a few minutes and asleep when the hour strikes eight. Che pensi?”

“Good idea, old fellow, and buy enough for friend Gabriel and company. It will be Christmas in just a week and I invited them over for a drink this evening.” Holmes left, and I fell almost immediately into a doze. Through it, however, I heard our doorbell ring several times. I got up and, throwing the dusty blankets onto the floor, I opened our door to find Gabriel and friends standing there. We greeted each other warmly, and they rushed in and put their bundles down on the table. They were frozen over with snow and ice but recovered a bit in front of our fire. Holmes returned shortly after their arrival. Among his purchases was a hot soup that we consumed in great gulps. We had now enough wine and food for a sumptuous evening, and the mood changed markedly.

These three young friends had come into our lives in Rome because Holmes had wisely decided that he would need a number of allies comparable to the Baker Street Irregulars in London. Instead of the awkward word irregolari, he dubbed them I Soliti Ignoti, “the usual suspects,” and so far they had been of the greatest help to him in his investigations. The three of them were in their early twenties and had lived most of their lives in the streets with only intermittent contact with their families. Curiously enough, each bore the name of an archangel: Gabriel, Michael, and Raffael.

It was just about half past ten that evening when our companions invited us to continue our merry-making at the Cafe Momus, a popular establishment near Piazza Cavour. Holmes agreed to go and said that he would follow in a few minutes. I declined, however, having decided to retire. True to his word, Holmes left after about a quarter of an hour.

Alone, but now warm, I decided to read for a while. I was therefore surprised when I heard the doorbell ring again. By now, it was close to midnight. “Chi e la?” I asked. It was a woman’s voice that I heard.

“Please, vi prego, an old man has fallen in the snow and I cannot carry him alone. He is very ill. I need your help. I am your neighbor.”

I opened at once. A young woman, no more than twenty, stood there soaked with rain and snow. I recognized her as the young woman Lucia, who sold paper flowers on the corner of Via Palestrina. I stopped only to put on my shoes and my overcoat and to collect a few blankets.

“Where is he?”

“Follow me,” she said, “I am afraid that he will be trampled by a buggy passing in the night.”

We fairly flew down the stairs, and once on the street I saw a diminutive figure sitting in the snow, motionless. I put my arms around him and dragged him into our courtyard, out of the icy winds. He was alive but barely. I removed his coat and wrapped him in one of the dry blankets.

“We shall need help in carrying him up the stairs.”

I tried once more to get him to stand, but to no avail. I suddenly saw Holmes’s most welcome figure emerge from out of the blizzard.

“Hallo, Watson, I’m afraid that I find the Cafe Momus a bore. And what are you up to?” said the familiar voice.

“Holmes! Thank God you’re here. The poor devil is at death’s door. No time to waste. Let’s carry him up the stairs, if we can. He can barely walk, and his toes may be frost-bitten.”

“We can, Watson. Never say die. Come on, old fellow, help me scoop him up. And walk close by in case I lose my balance. Ah, he’s heavier than I thought.” Holmes handed over a newly acquired bottle of brandy to the flower girl to hold. In no time at all he had the old man up the stairs and seated on our couch. He was a short man, but stout, heavier than one would have anticipated, and more torso than legs.

Holmes and I removed his wet clothing and again threw blankets around him. A few drops of brandy to his lips and he began to revive. I called for the young woman to heat the soup that was left for her father, when I noticed that without a word she was gone, the bottle of brandy placed on the floor near the door.

“She left as we put down our charge on the couch, Watson. Perhaps she will return. Well, we have enough to feed the old man, if he survives his ordeal.”

“How odd, Holmes. She has disappered and left him to us, complete strangers.”

“I am from Paris,” said our frozen guest in a weak voice. “She saw me slip on the ice and tried to help me up, I was too heavy. I shall always be grateful to her and to you gentlemen.”

“Do not concern yourself, Mr.—”

“Murger, Henri Murger of Paris. I am here to meet with Mr. Sherlock Homes who, if I am not mistaken, may live in this very building.”

“He does indeed live here,” said Holmes. “I know him well and will take you to him. But first, a short sleep for all of us. It is very late and we would all benefit by some rest. Monsieur Murger, please make yourself comfortable on the couch and we will see you in the morning,” said Holmes.

We left our guest in our sitting room, and I soon heard his rhythmic breathing through the partially open door. I wondered what had befallen the flower girl. It was she with whom our Gabriel had become enamoured. She, however, while she claimed to love him as well, was often seen with other, richer men. Gabriel was deeply concerned because she was ill with pneumonia but still tried to sell her flowers even in the snow.

Holmes was the first up in the morning, and I heard him as he made our tea and breakfast. Murger was sound asleep still at eight.

“Watson,” said he as he handed me a cup of tea, “I was unable to tell you last night that I am expecting two clients in just a few moments. The rain and snow have stopped and so I assume that they will not be detained. To talk with them in Murger’s presence, for reasons that I shall make clearer later, would be most awkward. And so I will use the kitchen. Our landlady is already gone for the day and will not return until late. We must be grateful for small things. Ah, there is the bell. Watson, please direct them to the kitchen where I shall hear their difficulties to them and feed them un po’ di mascarpone e una tazza di caffe.”

Holmes had told me nothing of Murger or of his two clients. I was in the dark but did as he asked. Two elegant Italian gentlemen were already at our door.

“Prego, Dottore, noi cerchiamo Sherlock Holmes. Are you by any chance the famous Dr. Watson?”

“I am. And who shall I say is here?”

“Messrs. Puccini and Leoncavallo.”

I did not recognize their names, but led them to the kitchen where Holmes was sitting, reading the local newspaper. Holmes rose as they introduced themselves.

“Mr. Holmes,” said the taller of the two men, “sono Puccini Giacomo e vi presento Leoncavallo Ruggiero.”

“Molto lieto. Vi prego, please have some cheese and coffee. It is all that I have to offer you.”

The two men sat down at the old green table. I moved my chair closer so that I could hear what transpired. Puccini spoke first. He was a somewhat stout man, tall, impeccably tailored, his face carrying what appeared to be a permanent look of disdain that made him somewhat unpleasant to look at.