Once upon a time, the English writer Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of the image of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, an educational doctor, came to Paris. At the station, a taxi driver approached him with a decisive view, silently took his suitcase, pushed him into the trunk and, only when he got behind the wheel, he learned:
- So where shall I take you, Mister Conan Doyle?
- How, do you know me? - the writer was pleasantly surprised.
- It's the first time I see it," the driver admitted.
- How did they find out who I am then?
- Yes, using the deductive method you described, - said the taxi driver proudly. - First of all, I read in the newspapers that Arthur Conan Doyle is on vacation with us for two weeks in the French Riviera. Secondly, I noted to myself that the train from which you got off was Marseille. Then I realized that you have a tan that you can only buy after spending at least ten days on the Mediterranean coast. From the fact that you have an unwashable ink stain on the middle finger of your right hand, I concluded that you are a writer. In the manner of behavior you are a doctor, and the dress cover is London. Thus, putting all observations together, I said to myself: here he is, Conan Doyle, the glorified creator of the great detective Sherlock Holmes! After hearing the taxi driver's explanations, the writer was shocked.
- You are almost Sherlock Holmes yourself! - exclaimed enthusiastically, - when they managed to draw such a conclusion on such insignificant details!
"That's how it is," suddenly the driver switched. - But I noticed one more small detail.
- Which one is this?!
- A label sticked to your suitcase. Your name and surname was printed on it!