The story is told of the time Sir Arthur Conan Doyle left a railway station in Paris and hailed a taxi. When a taxi pulled up, he got in and was about to tell the taxi driver where he wanted to go, when the driver asked, “Where can I take you, Mr. Doyle?”
Doyle was surprised that the taxi driver recognized him, and asked whether he knew him by sight.
“No sir, I’ve never seen you before.”
Doyle was puzzled and asked what made him think he was Conan Doyle.
“This morning’s paper,” he said, “had a story about you being on vacation in Marseilles. This is the taxi stand where people who return from Marseilles always come to. Your skin color tells me you’ve been on vacation. The ink spot on your right index finger suggests to me that you’re a writer. Your clothing is very English, and not French. Adding up all those pieces of information, I deduced that you are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“This is truly amazing,” Doyle replied. “You are a real life counterpart to my fictional creation, Sherlock Holmes.”
“There is one other thing,” the driver said. “What’s that?”
“Your name is on the front of your suitcase.”