I have watched more about this man, and I must say he may be the strangest man I have ever observed. He generally wanders around the streets of the neighborhood of Capital Hill playing a fantasy that he is on some sort of ill-defined quest that nears psychosis; he vocally declares that he abides by a strict code of chivalry, and he sees common pedestrians as allies or nemeses very quickly. Tara has become the object of his affection I imagine because in saving her she best affirmed his own fantasy. (On the other hand, Tara – if we are to be honest – is hardly the ideal damsel; she’s a struggling actress, self-absorbed and something of a harlot.) Another bizarre feature is his sheer eloquence and ability to quote classics, which implies good education – which he makes his fall to homelessness thoroughly strange.

Every attempt I have made to discover this man’s identity has been thwarted, except that I know that he once referred to himself as ‘Lance Chevalier’. This relatively mundane case of identity has now given me an obsessive giddiness I imagine is felt by a biologist or botanist who has just discovered a new species. I want to find more of who this madman is, and I have gone far in describing his features but nowhere in finding something that implies an identity. I am not solving a mystery so much as I am taking field notes; just yesterday he leaped into a shopping cart and cried out, “Onward Rothinate!” or something like that as he rode it like a child through the alley. He believes he is a knight-errant, trying to find a quest as if the world had quests popping up all over the place, yet for all his talk of ‘Faint heart never winning a fair lady!’ he seems to be a coward; I saw him screeching over a petty spider!

People have alerted me that his identity is Don Quixote, apparently a famous fictional character, and is connected to a particular twitter account. His bizarre behavior does validate the theory; it would appear that my benefactor is bringing me closer to these figures for some reason unknown to me… strangely I seem to recognize the name, if I am not mistaken, from some message of fan mail I got ages ago. 

I haven’t spoken to Tara in a while, but somebody has informed me of a sinister message which was left on her blog. Whether or not this message is related to our Don remains to be seen. I will have to ask her if something more worrisome than a senile fool is bothering her…

Sherlock Holmes

Some of you may be wondering where I have been the past couple days; well I needs inform you that yesterday I was forced into moving to another city by the command of my benefactor. He wants me to work on a case all the way over to the city Seattle (never heard of it) that seems to be an insultingly humble case of reconnaissance and observation of a man of little importance. I can only infer that this is out of punishment for disagreement with my activities the past couple of days in New York – days which he forced me to endure, mind you! I retain very little patience for him, and that which I do keep is mostly out of my necessity of him and not respect for him.

I hope there is something that I can make of this case, but I fear there is not. I will meet with the affected party shortly.

Sherlock Holmes

I am… too late. I rushed into the hotel as quickly as I could and I tried to find Sandy in her usual space, but she wasn’t there. So naturally I ran over to her best friend, Jackie, who also worked in reception. I told Jackie I had to find Sandy immediately (I messed up at first; accidentally said Cindy) and needed to know where she was. Jackie told me that last she saw her was a couple hours, when some guy came in and said he wanted to see her in private. I asked her who it was, she replied “I don’t know, just some very good looking guy, you know? Could have used a shave… and he seemed a bit full of himself but other than. She always said she was waiting for a prince…” I interrupted her and asked her where they went, she replied down near the employee stairs. Which was enough for me; I had to knew the only place in that general vicinity that they could keep private for so long was in the room amenities storage area.

But when I walked in, there was no one there; everybody had already left. Or at least, when I say everybody, I observed that only one person, a man in some leather shoes, had tracks leading in and out of the room, whereas the woman in working flats only had tracks that approached a chair, at which point by all observation she just… disappeared. All possibility that the man carried her or dragged her out was eliminated by the fact that the man never approached the chair. The only thing that I can verify further from prints is that whoever the man was must have seen something which startled him severely, and knocked him onto his behind. Beyond this I have no evidence or clue, but the irony of a single sheet of paper left behind, mockingly saying thus:

“…and they all lived happily ever after.

THE END”

I feel an utter ass; the only thing that keeps me from utter shame is the observation that Sandy – or Cinderella – appeared to act willingly and with her agency. I saw no signs of struggle, only an act of peace. But ’twas in her nature to be graceful and kind anyway. I can only hope wherever she is now she will be treated with the same kindness and grace she showed me in this world.

Holmes

Oh god! I have little time to explain, so I must do so in haste.

I came unto this apartment, but I was stuck in finding that the apartment number provided did not match the rooms. I was about to give up when convenient suggestion commented that the horseman on the suit tag may have indicated a knight and hence a move in chess. They recommended that the actual apartment number should have been 1G, and I obliged.  There was trouble in that the resident was not home. Undeterred, I contrived a way to open the door and let myself in. I found to my astonishment a most bohemian array of papers and research to rival my own. One side seemed to involve a complex amalgamation of mathematical calculations and postulations, and on the other side a full wastebin of what appeared to be some sort of manuscripts and – I do not speak false – photographs and observations surrounding several figures. I am frightened to say that I recognized three of them; one of them was indeed myself! And another, with lighter paperwork, was Hercule Poirot. But it was clear that this person had put aside the research on Poirot and had neglected me in favor of one very focused and particular figure dressed in a flowing white gown. The woman, I might add, that I saw at the ball that night.

Cinderella!

It seemed whoever was the resident of this room had observed fictional characters in his vicinity, and had chosen to stake out Cinderella in a particular fashion. But the nature of this apparent stalking was not what troubled me – no! What troubled me was an item on the desk that lay a top everything: a single heeled off-white ladies pump shoe with two very particular leather straps and tiny buckles. It struck me, for I knew I had seen it before. Only I didn’t see it before; I saw what it left behind.

I saw the same exact print on the foot of the plain, undecorated, humble room attendant of the hotel. And only upon seeing did I realize who she was. Sandy is Cinderella!

HOW could I be so foolish? How could I not see it before? Was it not enough that she spoke to you of that man’s dreams and wishes? Did her glasses so blind you? What an utter boob I have proved myself to be!

I mustn’t say anymore. I fear that Sandy’s life may be in danger from the observations of those pictures on the wall. I must fly to her rescue if I can!

Holmes

I have found where he has sent me. It turns out that if I had bought two baklava it would have been 3.99 by one and the sales taxation rate of .088 (don’t forget your duty – cheeky) by two, which is 8.68; We take a cent off, we get 8.67. And then by intuition the mad avenue of New York is Madison. And then if we observe, there is a clothing store at the address of 867 Madison Avenue known as Ralph Lauren Polo where – it is clear – they sell men’s ties. I entered into the shop and found in the dressing room area a stall labelled number 4 which I entered into, and indeed good observation led me to a string attached to the last wrung of my seat. I pick it up, and I observe what is on the end. Strangely, it seemed to be a price tag, only it was covered on both sides with a piece of masking tape. On the masking tape was written:

“You have come far, and are so close; but don’t forget that more is meant than what is said on the face of it. With that said there’s someone I wish you to know of; seek him out at 25 5th Ave #201, and after meeting him your puzzle is done, and you can go home.”

Strangely direct for him so far; I am quite cautious but in faith I am too close not to go. I’ll be with you shortly.

Holmes

P.S. To see if there was a double meaning I peeled back the tape and revealed something on the inside of the tag; it was naught but the apparent logo of the Ralph Lauren brand and the clothing item and price on the other (Black Label, Fine-Check suit, $2095.00), with one exception: an ink circle drawn around the horse on the first, and around the item type on the other. Curious – another clue?

Hello Again;

I am speaking to you again from the restaurant. It seems our invitation was not to a conversation but to a hunt; for sitting in the restaurant for a good time I looked upon the coupon message again and with observation realized it was leading me to a piece of scenery. In the restaurant was a multitude of pictures about the Turkic world and culture but only one of them was a picture of horizon – specifically the horizon of Constantinople at sunset. Quick logical deduction observed that ‘find was lies just beyond the horizon’ was not said in idiom but in instruction; whoever sent this wished me to find what was just beyond the horizon – or in other words, just beyond the photograph of a Constantinople sunset. I reached up behind it and I found another clue:

“Did you enjoy your sweet? And for your good savings here’s another Turkish treat:

39.957719, 26.238588

For had you bought two of what you got for free it would have been one cent more than the address on the mad avenue you should go to next – and mind your duty! It is the place if you fancy the tie… now enter through the fourth and find the string beneath the surface.”

This one seems much harder to figure out. The coordinates do not help; they lead to some bizarre location in Turkey, so I will have to follow the rest of the riddle. I can only infer that he is speaking about the price of the baklava, which normally would have cost 3.99 on the menu. I must act quickly however, before it is too late.

Holmes

After several days of being confined to this vast concrete prison and casually and impractically investigating seeming nonsense, I was wishing desperately for some intrigue, some mystery that I could solve easily. Yet today, by an act not dissimilar from providence, my wish was granted. For delivered to me today was… a coupon. A coupon for a free baklava with the purchase of a doner kebab at a Turkic restaurant called Parsa.

But that is not all that is intriguing about this coupon; for on the back of the coupon was written in thick marker was the following message.

“I know who you are, what you do and who you work for. Remember what you told your moustached friend? What a shame you had to part so soon after, by the order of your employer. With a benefactor like this, who needs an enemy?

But as I know you are man who does not conclude before he has the evidence, I have just what you need for your methods… that is, if you are willing to use them. This is my special offer; accept it and find what lies just beyond the horizon.”

Fascinating! I will take up his special offer with haste! If I can I will speak with you again from this very restaurant, and I will tell you who, or what, I find!

Holmes

Hello, followers -

I have been passing my time confined to New York exploring a couple of cases with varying degrees of casualness. Most pressingly, by your recommendation to try and come upon this Cinderella of which spoke. I tried multiple methods of tracking with the devotion of a bloodhound, but it was as if the moment I left my hotel the trail ran cold.

But on the trail which wasn’t I came upon something else; strange reports of a woman (entirely different in nature and temperament) making a mockery of herself in Times Square. Intrigued I went there to see what I could find and discovered in one of the local rubbish bins a whole green folder just thrown away. Contained in it was a collection of legal forms for finance regulations that were of a completely inconsequential nature, but there was one item which was intriguing; it appears to be some kind of incomplete professional letter.

I decided I would post it online, and for this I would like to thank the help of a room servicier and attendant of the hotel, whose name I have learned is Sandy. My ability to take a photograph of the document was hindered, and she allowed me to scan it on the hotel’s personal machine. You may see it below.

There is much that I find interesting about it; it seems the man in question is applying for some kind of job, although his eagerness to do so bewilders me; it is clear that he has no qualifications to speak of. In his defense, I had a good argument about it with the attendant Sandy who disagreed; she was rather charmed by his apparent desperation and believed having the dream and wishing for it so sincerely ought to be qualification enough.

His lack of any qualification and unwillingness to discuss prior history made me consider that it may be useful for your purposes. I hope you can find something in it.

Holmes

The next morning, I arrived early and sat collecting my thoughts about the extraordinary amount of work I have done in but a week it seemed*. Poirot came on time by the second, and I was impressed how well kept he managed to keep himself despite the fact that I could deduce he had a very long and perhaps tempestuous night at the Plaza party. I thanked him for his punctuality and we began to have our first real conversation assuming each others as equals – in trade, if nothing else. He talked about his own past – that is, his fictional past – and I was thoroughly impressed by some of his amazing exploits around the world, including a particularly fascinating case where he uncovered a plot on a train. I offered to discuss my own history to him, but he said it was not necessary, for even in his fictional world I was myself still regarded as a fictional character, and he had read my many stories – or those stories which I presumed to be Watson’s accounts for the magazine. I admitted I found this to be rather confusing and slightly disconcerting, but I accepted it nonetheless.

Beyond fuller introduction, however, he discussed his own mysteriously arrival into our present day and I noted that his was very similar to mine, so indeed we likely had the same fate. He talked about his humble days in hiding under the rroof of rich widow named Madam Widdecombe, and I discussed my own sponsorship of the lad James Raikes (he incidentally had a brief encounter with the chap himself, as apparently Widdecombe is related to James. How strange!). As we provided our honest testimonies our observance of each other revealed that the incidents that led to our mutual encounter appeared more than inconvenient but in fact contrived, ominous and even malicious. It was clear that somebody who most likely cared not for our wellbeing wished for us to be fearful, distrusting and in retreat. I said since it was clear whoever did this act was not our friend, and that his intention was to keep us apart and working against each other, that the most sensible thing for us to do at the moment was to join forces and work together for our mutual safety. Luckily Poirot said that he had a case in Boston that he wished to research; a man who confessed to being a serial killer in a drunken mania but without proof to any crime committed in the area. Gladly I agreed to go with him and I told him I would meet him at the New York Grand Central Train Station.

I go back to my hotel, I pack my bags and I prepare to check out. All that I need to do is to indicate to my benefactor with a call that this is what I wished to do, and he surely he would agree. After all, why shouldn’t he?

Or so I thought.

Upon hearing my request he coldly impassionately forbade me to go to Boston and research this case with Poirot. I was in an utter outrage. I asked him why, wished him to provide his reasons after my thorough cooperation with him; he said only that as long as I wished to work with him and for him, he needn’t provide his reasons but his orders only. He only replied that I should enjoy my stay in New York, and with that he hung up. I scarce to believe I was ever treated so insubordinately in my life.

To make matters worse, I tried to rebook my hotel room, only to discover that the room where I was staying was already booked, along with every hotel room in the area, which meant that I had to move to a new hotel! And I had to go through the process of moving all baggage into a new hotel with vacancy and unpack, and in such a rage that I neglected the time. Upon seeing the time was close to five I rushed down to the station, hoping he was patient enough to tolerate lateness on my part, but as fast as I tried to get there it was for naught; it was too late. Poirot left without me, and without my explanation why. I fear he may think my gesture rude, and in truth I do not blame him.

So for now I am staying in New York. To make the best of the situation, I have decided to commit my energy to trying to deduce the reason for my being here, but it is a poor substitute; I know not where to start, nor what to look for. Unable to move and with nothing to do in New York, it might as well be a veritable concrete prison – my Scotland Yard.

I can only wish Poirot the best of luck in his case in Boston.

Poirot

*By a strange coincidence, I happened to catch a glimpse of that same lady who was attempting to enter into the ball the night before. She was wearing the same large flowing dress but it was well dirtied and she herself seemed to be in a great daze. She seemed to be eating some pastry and a coffee, looking into to the window of a jewelry establishment longingly.

I must confess that over the past several days I have been ill-inclined to update my blog; fortunately I have come upon much free time.

I begin where I left off; upon arriving at the Plaza, I realized that I was going to have difficulty finding my way inside as the security was very tight. Luckily patience brought the opportunity when a young lady adorned in a flowing gown made a great commotion over not being let into the ball. She distracted the guards as I made my opportunity to grab a mask sneak into the ball undetected beneath her cries that she ‘deserved to go to the ball’. Though I am not an aesthete first I will confess she was thoroughly dressed for the occasion.

Given my status as a non-invitee, I decided it inopportune to attract suspicion even in the case of investigation, so I had to spend much of my time trying to blend in with the party goers. I confess I found this rather difficult, as the vast majority of the guests seemed to be… well, I might say as the young man Paul who approached me back in London. To make matters more difficult, I found that a large number of the guests were dressed as women – and quite convincingly, I might add – but my process of deduction quickly revealed them to be men in disguise! It was as if I had to face every inversion of our Victorian politeness. Nevertheless against my better inclinations I discoursed with them to keep my cover. (As a side note, I found myself simultaneously flattered and uneasy by their many complimentary remarks about me and particularly my height. I of course accepted them, but I fear to believe they were actually interested in me in such a way!)

Yet not long after entering I saw a familiar face – though the expression doesn’t fit, for his face was obscured – but I saw him. A short fat man with a waddling gait and but the slightest hint of a limp from an old wound, and the moment I saw him despite my inability to see his face I knew exactly who he was.

Poirot!

At this felt quite an inexplicable rush of anger, irrational enough in its scope that I profess some shame. But it seemed that I was being played with! This man scorned me in Paris, followed me to New York and who decided instead of facing me personal tried to lure me in with a riddle! I tore off my mask and walked over so his face could be revealed to me. It took… a couple tries but eventually he was revealed; the man was indeed Hercule Poirot. I expressed my anger at him, and though he took it calmly at first he soured and became angry at me for being distrustful, arrogant, selfish, etc. In fact, had it not been for a most diffusing statement by a young gentleman dressed as lady, for us two to ‘Get a room and make out already’ (I do not understand what exactly he was saying) our confrontation may have occurred all night.

So indeed, we moved our conversation to a more private area in a storage closet which Poirot knew the way to, and calmly but still assertively I expressed my dissatisfaction with Poirot’s erratic behavior, and while he still seemed quite perturbed he admitted his wrongdoing in the past to trust me, explained that at the time he was rather confused and did not know who he truly was inside. Fortunately he had an epiphany and knew once and for all that I was who I said I was and that he was too, and upon finding himself he had reconcile himself with me. Hence he apologized to me directly and asked for my understanding. Charmed, I forgave him, and apologized myself for my confessedly distrustful and arrogant behavior in the past.

Sadly this productive conversation was interrupted by the entrance of two more young men, who saw fit to barge in on our conversation. One of them, a scraggy blonde, swooned with sentiment and said “How sweet the two of you are.” And the other, a dark mediterranean with a palpable Iberian accent, commented “I like your taste Monsieur Poirot!” We immediately were taken aback. Poirot knew these men and tried to diffuse the situation by introducing us – Daniel Hendrickson, I recall, and Esteban Morena – and then indicated that he and I were friends. He looked me to confirm that we were indeed friends and I, knowing that he wished to know I was no longer his enemy, obliged. Sadly, the young men Daniel and Esteban seemed to be taking our comments as irony, as the coyly waltzed away. I told Poirot that I was finding the circumstance to be must unproductive, and he agreed. He suggested that we could meet at a cafe instead and chat in good faith, and I agreed. I suggested a typical unassuming Starbucks nearby Madison Square Park – incidentally near where I happened to live – and he agreed. We shook on the deal, and thanked each other for our cooperation in duress.

That is enough for a first post; I will provide a second soon.

Holmes