It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome toSherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with allthat was going on at the police headquarters. In return for thenews which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready tolisten with attention to the details of any case upon which thedetective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without anyactive interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn fromhis own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weatherand the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffingthoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Lestrade laughed.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there _is_something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, thatI hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, althoughit is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you havea taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, itcomes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”
“Disease?” said I.
“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t thinkthere was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatredof Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him thathe could see.”
Holmes sank back in his chair.
“That’s no business of mine,” said he.
“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commitsburglary in order to break images which are not his own, thatbrings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”
Holmes sat up again.
“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”
Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memoryfrom its pages.
“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was atthe shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale ofpictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant hadleft the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, andhurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood withseveral other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered intofragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although severalpassers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of theshop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means ofidentifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senselessacts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it wasreported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster castwas not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affairappeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.
“The second case, however, was more serious, and also moresingular. It occurred only last night.
“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of MorseHudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon thesouth side of the Thames. His residence and principalconsulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branchsurgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and hishouse is full of books, pictures, and relics of the FrenchEmperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson twoduplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by theFrench sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall inthe house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece ofthe surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came downthis morning he was astonished to find that his house had beenburgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken savethe plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and hadbeen dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which itssplintered fragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very novel,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the endyet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, andyou can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he foundthat the window had been opened in the night and that the brokenpieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It hadbeen smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were thereany signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal orlunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have gotthe facts.”
“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May Iask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms werethe exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in MorseHudson’s shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaksthem is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Consideringhow many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist inLondon, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that apromiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon threespecimens of the same bust.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand,this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part ofLondon, and these three were the only ones which had been in hisshop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundredsof statues in London, it is very probable that these three werethe only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic wouldbegin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” Ianswered. “There is the condition which the modern Frenchpsychologists have called the _idée fixe_, which may be triflingin character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every otherway. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who hadpossibly received some hereditary family injury through the greatwar, might conceivably form such an _idée fixe_ and under itsinfluence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”
“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,“for no amount of _idée fixe_ would enable your interestingmonomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do _you_ explain it?”
“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is acertain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. Forexample, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse thefamily, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereasin the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it wassmashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, andyet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of mymost classic cases have had the least promising commencement. Youwill remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernettyfamily was first brought to my notice by the depth which theparsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and Ishall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of anyfresh development of so singular a chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quickerand an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. Iwas still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was atap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. Heread it aloud:
“Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel ofthe story of the statues. In that case our friend theimage-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at thedoor.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet littlebackwater just beside one of the briskest currents of Londonlife. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found therailings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmeswhistled.
“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less willhold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicatedin that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’sthis, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at thefront window, and we shall soon know all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed usinto a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitatedelderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up anddown. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “Youseemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhapsyou would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken avery much graver turn.”
“What has it turned to, then?”
“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactlywhat has occurred?”
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a mostmelancholy face.
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I havebeen collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece ofnews has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that Ican’t put two words together. If I had come in here as ajournalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columnsin every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copyby telling my story over and over to a string of differentpeople, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heardyour name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain thisqueer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you thestory.”
Holmes sat down and listened.
“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which Ibought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it upcheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High StreetStation. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. Iwas sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of thehouse, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heardsome sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, aboutfive minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the mostdreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in myears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute ortwo. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I enteredthis room I found the window wide open, and I at once observedthat the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglarshould take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was onlya plaster cast and of no real value whatever.
“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that openwindow could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round andopened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over adead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and therewas the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the wholeplace swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up,and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I hadjust time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must havefainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policemanstanding over me in the hall.”
“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.
“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shallsee the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it upto now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more thanthirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be alabourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of bloodbeside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, orwhether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was noname on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple,some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here itis.”
It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. Itrepresented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thickeyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of theface, like the muzzle of a baboon.
“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a carefulstudy of this picture.
“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in thefront garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It wasbroken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will youcome?”
“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined thecarpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs orwas a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was nomean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window.Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us tosee the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at awriting-table.
“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have nodoubt that the first editions of the evening papers are outalready with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember whenthe stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist inthe stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it,for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with amurder done on my own doorstep.”
As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over thefoolscap.
The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was onlya few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested uponthis presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise suchfrantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It layscattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked upseveral of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced,from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last hewas upon a clue.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well,we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of thistrifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strangecriminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is thesingular fact that he did not break it in the house, orimmediately outside the house, if to break it was his soleobject.”
“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. Hehardly knew what he was doing.”
“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attentionvery particularly to the position of this house, in the garden ofwhich the bust was destroyed.”
Lestrade looked about him.
“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not bedisturbed in the garden.”
“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the streetwhich he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did henot break it there, since it is evident that every yard that hecarried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”
“I give it up,” said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there.That was his reason.”
“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come tothink of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his redlamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”
“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something laterwhich will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now,Lestrade?”
“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is toidentify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.When we have found who he is and who his associates are, weshould have a good start in learning what he was doing in PittStreet last night, and who it was who met him and killed him onthe doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”
“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I shouldapproach the case.”
“What would you do then?”
“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest thatyou go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notesafterwards, and each will supplement the other.”
“Very good,” said Lestrade.
“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. HoraceHarker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, andthat it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, withNapoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will beuseful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don’t seriously believe that?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it willinterest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the CentralPress Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that wehave a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should beglad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us atBaker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I shouldlike to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. Itis possible that I may have to ask your company and assistanceupon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until thengood-bye and good luck!”
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, wherewe stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust hadbeen purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Hardingwould be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself anewcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showedhis disappointment and annoyance.
“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,”he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr.Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubtsurmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, inorder to find if there is not something peculiar which mayaccount for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. MorseHudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any lightupon the problem.”
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’sestablishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and apeppery manner.
“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay ratesand taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in andbreak one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot histwo statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I makeit. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Redrepublicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I get the statuesfrom? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if youreally want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in ChurchStreet, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, andhave been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and oneare three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broaddaylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, Idon’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind ofItalian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. Hecould carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. Thefellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I hadnothing against him while he was here. He was gone two daysbefore the bust was smashed.”
“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,”said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo asa common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that isworth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall besurprised if we don’t get some help down there.”
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionableLondon, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came toa riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenementhouses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in abroad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, wefound the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was aconsiderable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a largeroom in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. Themanager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clearanswer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showedthat hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy ofDevine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sentto Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch ofsix, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, ofKensington. There was no reason why those six should be differentfrom any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible causewhy anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at theidea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailerwould get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds fromeach side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster ofParis were joined together to make the complete bust. The workwas usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. Whenfinished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry,and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect uponthe manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knottedover his blue Teutonic eyes.
“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well.This has always been a respectable establishment, and the onlytime that we have ever had the police in it was over this veryfellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed anotherItalian in the street, and then he came to the works with thepolice on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was hisname—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging aman with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”
“What did he get?”
“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he isout now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have acousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, Ibeg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I gowith it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referredin your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that thedate was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date whenBeppo was arrested?”
“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered.“Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he waspaid last on May 20th.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude uponyour time and patience any more.” With a last word of cautionthat he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned ourfaces westward once more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch ahasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entranceannounced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and thecontents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got hisaccount into print after all. Two columns were occupied with ahighly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while heate. Once or twice he chuckled.
“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:
“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference ofopinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the mostexperienced members of the official force, and Mr. SherlockHolmes, the well-known consulting expert, have each come to theconclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which haveended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than fromdeliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can coverthe facts.
“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you onlyknow how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we willhark back to Kensington and see what the manager of HardingBrothers has to say on the matter.”
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisplittle person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and aready tongue.
“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers.Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with thebust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort fromGelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, Idaresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tellyou. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see,and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading.No, I have never seen this face which you show me in thephotograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’veseldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes,sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresaythey might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. Thereis no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well,well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will letme know if anything comes of your inquiries.”
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, andI could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn whichaffairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that,unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment withLestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detectivewas already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a feverof impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s workhad not been in vain.
“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” myfriend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also thewholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now fromthe beginning.”
“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your ownmethods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a wordagainst them, but I think I have done a better day’s work thanyou. I have identified the dead man.”
“You don’t say so?”
“And found a cause for the crime.”
“Splendid!”
“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill andthe Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblemround his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think hewas from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caughtsight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he isone of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected withthe Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affairbegins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also,and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in somefashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph wefound in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knifethe wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house,he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his owndeath-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quitefollow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”
“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. Afterall, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. Itis the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell youthat I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”
“And the next stage?”
“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the ItalianQuarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arresthim on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”
“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. Ican’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it alldepends upon a factor which is completely outside our control.But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two toone—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able tohelp you to lay him by the heels.”
“In the Italian Quarter?”
“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to findhim. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, andno harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a fewhours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leavebefore eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be backbefore morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you arewelcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In themeantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for anexpress messenger, for I have a letter to send and it isimportant that it should go at once.”
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the olddaily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. Whenat last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but hesaid nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by whichhe had traced the various windings of this complex case, and,though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, Iunderstood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminalto make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, Iremembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journeywas to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire thecunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in theevening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he couldcontinue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised whenHolmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He hadhimself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was hisfavourite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to aspot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman wasdirected to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded roadfringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds.In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon thegate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired torest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. Thewooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw adense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that wecrouched.
“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We maythank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can evenventure to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to onechance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long asHolmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden andsingular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warnus of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, darkfigure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door anddisappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a longpause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentlecreaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. Thenoise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow wasmaking his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a darklantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,for again we saw the flash through another blind, and thenthrough another.
“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbsout,” Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he cameout into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carriedsomething white under his arm. He looked stealthily all roundhim. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turninghis back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instantthere was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter andrattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that henever heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With thebound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant laterLestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs hadbeen fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallowface, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and Iknew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we hadsecured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving hisattention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in mostcarefully examining that which the man had brought from thehouse. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seenthat morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments.Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in noway did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. Hehad just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up,the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotundfigure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had thenote which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactlywhat you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaiteddevelopments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got therascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have somerefreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were allfour upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say,but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like ahungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learnthat a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a fewshillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which borecopious traces of recent blood.
“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows allthese gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that mytheory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I amexceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike wayin which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it allyet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” saidHolmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are notfinished off, and it is one of those cases which are worthworking out to the very end. If you will come round once more tomy rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able toshow you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning ofthis business, which presents some features which make itabsolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit youto chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foreseethat you will enliven your pages by an account of the singularadventure of the Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with muchinformation concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, wasBeppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-wellamong the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor andhad earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses andhad twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once,as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. Hecould talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying thebusts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questionsupon the subject, but the police had discovered that these samebusts might very well have been made by his own hands, since hewas engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder& Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew,Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him sowell, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and Idetected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneaththat mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in hischair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at thebell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and anelderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, whichhe placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, Isuppose?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains wereawkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copyof Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds forthe one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could notimagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation isvery simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they hadsold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I onlygave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought toknow that before I take ten pounds from you.
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I havenamed that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bustup with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened hisbag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimenof that bust which we had already seen more than once infragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound noteupon the table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presenceof these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer everypossible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am amethodical man, you see, and you never know what turn eventsmight take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is yourmoney, and I wish you a very good evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movementswere such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a cleanwhite cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then heplaced his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon asharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke intofragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains.Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up onesplinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum ina pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous blackpearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with aspontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at thewell-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang toHolmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the masterdramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at suchmoments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The samesingularly proud and reserved nature which turned away withdisdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to itsdepths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl nowexisting in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by aconnected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from thePrince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it waslost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts ofNapoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. Youwill remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by thedisappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of theLondon police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon thecase, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fellupon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it wasproved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to traceany connection between them. The maid’s name was LucretiaVenucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro whowas murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been lookingup the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that thedisappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrestof Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place inthe factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these bustswere being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the wayin which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl inhis possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may havebeen Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between ofPietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is thecorrect solution.
“The main fact is that he _had_ the pearl, and at that moment,when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He madefor the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had onlya few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Sixplaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of themwas still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made asmall hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with afew touches covered over the aperture once more. It was anadmirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppowas condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile hissix busts were scattered over London. He could not tell whichcontained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Evenshaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it wasprobable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it hasdone. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search withconsiderable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin whoworks with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had boughtthe busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, andin that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded infinding out where the other three busts had gone. The first wasat Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who heldBeppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed himin the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?”I asked.
“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about himfrom any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, afterthe murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry ratherthan delay his movements. He would fear that the police wouldread his secret, and so he hastened on before they should getahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not foundthe pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certainthat it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he waslooking for something, since he carried the bust past the otherhouses in order to break it in the garden which had a lampoverlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chanceswere exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl beinginside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that hewould go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of thehouse, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, withthe happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certainthat it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of themurdered man linked the one event with the other. There onlyremained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must bethere. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there itlies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlikeone than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngestconstable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, itseemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer humanemotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the coldand practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe,Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singletonforgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comesyour way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or twoas to its solution.”