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
to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going
on at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring,
Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon
which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active
interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge
and experience.
On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken
of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully
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,
that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial,
it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out
of the common. But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."
"Disease?" said I.
"Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You
wouldn't think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred
of Napoléon the First that he would break any image of him that he 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 commits burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that brings
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 memory from its pages. "The first case reported was four days ago," said he.
"It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures
and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for
an instant, when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of
Napoléon, which stood with several other works of art upon the counter,
lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several
passersby declared that they had noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither
see anyone nor could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to
be one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and
it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not
worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish
for any particular investigation.
"The second case, however, was more serious, and
also more singular. It occurred only last night.
"In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards
of Morse Hudson's shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr.
Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames.
His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has
a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr.
Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoléon, and his house is full
of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he
purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of
Napoléon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his
hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of the
surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down this morning he was
astonished to find that his house had been burgled during the night, but that
nothing had been taken save the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried
out and had been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
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 end yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and
you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window
had been opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were
strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither
case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic
who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts."
"They are singular, not to say grotesque," said
Holmes. "May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were
the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"
"They were taken from the same mold."
"Such a fact must tell against the theory that
the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoléon.
Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London,
it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast
should chance to begin upon three specimens 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 of London,
and these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So, although,
as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable
that these three were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic
would begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?"
"There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,"
I answered. "There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
called the `IDÉE FIXE,' which may be trifling in character, and accompanied
by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about Napoléon,
or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great war,
might conceivably form such an IDÉE FIXE and under its influence 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 interesting monomaniac
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 a certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example,
in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken
outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger
of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling,
and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic
cases have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson, how
the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by
the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very
much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular
a chain of events."
The development for which my friend had asked came
in a quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I
was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door
and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read 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 of the story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker
has begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the table,
Watson, and I have a cab at the door."
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet
little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No.
131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.
As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious
crowd.
Holmes whistled. "By George! It's attempted murder
at the least. Nothing less will hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of
violence indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's
this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough,
anyhow! Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it."
The official received us with a very grave face
and showed us into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly
man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced
to us as the owner of the house—Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
"It's the Napoléon bust business again,"
said Lestrade. "You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
turn."
"What has it turned to, then?"
"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen
exactly what has occurred?"
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with
a most melancholy face. "It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life
I have been collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news
has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two words together.
If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had
two columns in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy by
telling my story over and over to a string of different people, and I can make
no use of it myself. However, I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if
you'll only explain this queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling
you the story."
Holmes sat down and listened.
"It all seems to center round that bust of Napoléon
which I bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap
from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of
my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early morning.
So it was today. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs.
I listened, but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside.
Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the
most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as
long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the
poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar
should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only a plaster cast
and of no real value whatever.
"You can see for yourself that anyone going out
through that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride.
This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door.
Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying there.
I ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat
and the whole place 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 had just time to
blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more
until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall."
"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.
"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade.
"You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to
now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly
dressed, and yet does not appear to be a laborer. A horn-handled clasp knife was
lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed,
or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his
clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map
of London, and a photograph. Here it is."
It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small
camera. It represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows
and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle
of a baboon.
"And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after
a careful study of this picture.
"We had news of it just before you came. It has
been found in the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"
"Certainly. I must just take one look round." He
examined the carpet and the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or was
a most active man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach
that window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple.
Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?"
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself
at a writing-table. "I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I
have no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with
full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster?
Well, I was the only journalist in the 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 a murder done on my own doorstep."
As we left the room, we heard his pen traveling
shrilly over the foolscap.
The spat where the fragments of the bust had been
found was only a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon
this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and
destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered
shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully.
I was convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last
he was 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 this
trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human
life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not break
it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole
object."
"He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other
fellow. He hardly knew what he was doing."
"Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call
your attention very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden
of which the bust was destroyed."
Lestrade looked about him. "It was an empty house,
and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in the garden."
"Yes, but there is another empty house farther
up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he
not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried 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 to think of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red
lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"
"To remember it—to docket it. We may come
on something later which 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 to identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good
start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was
who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't you think
so?"
"No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which
I should approach the case."
"What would you do then?"
"Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way.
I suggest that you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards,
and each will supplement the other."
"Very good," said Lestrade.
"If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might
see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoléonic
delusions, was in his house last night. It will be useful 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 will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the
Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have
a long and rather complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if
you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock this evening.
Until then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man's pocket.
It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance upon a small
expedition which will have be undertaken tonight, if my chain of reasoning should
prove to be correct. Until then good-bye and good luck!"
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High
Street, where we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent
until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no information.
Holmes's face showed his 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 doubt surmised, endeavoring
to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not something
peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse
Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem."
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's
establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.
"Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What
we pay rates and taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break
one's goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues. Disgraceful,
sir! A Nihilist plot—that's what I make it. No one but an anarchist would
go about breaking statues. Red republicans—that's what I call 'em. Who did
I get the statues from? I don't see what that has to do with it. Well, if you
really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney.
They are a well-known house in the trade, and have been this twenty years. How
many had I? Three— two and one are three—two of Dr. Barnicot's, and
one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No,
I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piecework
man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame,
and do odd jobs. The fellow 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 had nothing against
him while he was here. He was gone two days before 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 as
a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile
drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source and origin
of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get some help down there."
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe
of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial
London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred
thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of
Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants,
we found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable
yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers
were carving or molding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly
and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference to his books showed
that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoléon,
but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had
been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different from any of
the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone should wish to
destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six
shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two
molds from each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris
were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians,
in the room we were in. When finished, 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 upon the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over
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 only
time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was
more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he
came to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was
his name— his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a man
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 is out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a
cousin 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, I beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with
it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the
sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could
you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?"
"I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the
manager answered. "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages, "he was
paid last on May 20th."
"Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I
need intrude upon your time and patience any more." With a last word of caution
that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward
once more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able
to snatch a hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
"Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the contents of the paper showed
that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all. Two columns were
occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. 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 of opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced
members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well known consulting
expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents,
which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate
crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts."
"The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution,
if you only know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark
back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on
the matter."
The founder of that great emporium proved to be
a brisk, crisp little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready
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
the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co.,
of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales
book we could very easily tell you. 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 the photograph. You would hardly forget it,
would you, sir, for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff?
Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might
get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason
for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's a very strange business,
and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your inquiries."
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's
evidence, and I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried, we should
be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker
Street the detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in
a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day's work had not
been in vain. "Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"
"We have had a very busy day, and not entirely
a wasted one," my friend explained. "We have seen both the retailers and also
the wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning."
"The busts" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have
your own methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against
them, but I think I have done a better day's work than you. 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 and the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem
round his neck, and that, along with his color, made me think he was from the
South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name is
Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cutthroats in London.
He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society,
enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up.
The other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has
broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph
we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong
person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him,
and in the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?"
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly. "Excellent,
Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite follow your explanation of
the destruction of the busts."
"The busts! You never can get those busts out of
your head. After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most.
It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that 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 Italian Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?"
"I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in
a simpler way. I can't say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all
depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to one—that if you will come
with us tonight I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels."
"In the Italian Quarter?"
"No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more
likely to find him. If you will come with me to Chiswick tonight, Lestrade, I'll
promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you tomorrow, and no harm will be done
by the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good, for
I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely that we shall
be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome
to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should
be glad if you would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send
and it is important that it should go at once."
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the
files of the old daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When
at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said 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 which he had traced the various windings of this complex
case, and, though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood
clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the
two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the
object of our journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire
the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper,
so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity.
I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with
me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his favorite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in
it we drove to a spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman
was directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with
pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp
we read "Laburnum Villa" upon the gatepost of one of them. The occupants had evidently
retired to rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which
shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which separated
the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and
here it was that we crouched.
"I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered.
"We may thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even venture
to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance that we get something
to pay us for our trouble."
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be
so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular
fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the
garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape,
rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the
door and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause,
during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to
our ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there was a
long silence. The fellow was making his way into the house. We saw the sudden
flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there,
for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then through another.
"Let us get to the open window. We will nab him
as he climbs out," Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move, the man had emerged again.
As he came out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something
white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the deserted
street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the
next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle.
The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as
we stole across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back,
and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs
had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing,
furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the
photograph whom we had secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was
giving his attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully
examining that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoléon,
like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar
fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no way
did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed
his examination when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of
the house, a jovial, rotund figure 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 the note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments.
Well, I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that
you will come in and have some refreshment."
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into
safe quarters, so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all
four 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 a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station
to learn that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and
a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.
"That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted.
"Hill knows all these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that
my theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am exceedingly
obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon
him. I don't quite understand it all yet."
"I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,"
said Holmes. "Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off,
and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you
will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock tomorrow, I think I shall
be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of this
business, which presents some features which make it absolutely original in the
history of crime. If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems,
Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
adventure of the Napoléonic busts."
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished
with much information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo,
second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among the Italian colony.
He had once been a skillful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had
taken to evil courses and had twice already been in jail—once for a petty
theft, and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He
could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still
unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject, but the police
had discovered that these same busts might very well have been made by his own
hands, since he was 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 so well, could clearly see that his
thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation
beneath that mask which he was wont to assume.
At last he started in his chair, and his eyes brightened.
There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs,
and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his
right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpetbag, which he placed upon the table.
"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"
My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of
Reading, I suppose?" said he.
"Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but
the trains were awkward. 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 copy of Devine's Napoléon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds
for the one which is in your possession.' Is that right?"
"Certainly."
"I was very much surprised at your letter, for
I could not imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing."
"Of course you must have been surprised, but the
explanation is very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had
sold 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 only gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know
that before I take ten pounds from you.
"I am sure the scruple does you honor, Mr. Sandeford.
But I have named that price, so I intend to stick to it."
"Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes.
I brought the bust up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his
bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
which we had already seen more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a
ten-pound note upon the table.
"You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford,
in the presence of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every
possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr.
Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening."
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes's
movements were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired
bust in the center of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck
Napoléon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into fragments,
and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud
shout of triumph he held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed
like a plum in a pudding.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to
the famous black pearl of the Borgias."
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then,
with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought
crisis of a play. A flush of color sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed
to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed
his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved
nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being
moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous
pearl now existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected
chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom
at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the
six busts of Napoléon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney.
You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the disappearance of this
valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was
myself consulted upon the case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion
fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that
she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them.
The maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this
Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up
the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the disappearance of
the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an
event which took place in the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when
these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though
you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented
themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it
from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he may have been the go-between
of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct 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 made
for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes
in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found
on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoléon were drying
in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skillful workman,
made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches
covered over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one
could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and
in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which
contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would
tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted
his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who
works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He
managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked down three
of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian employee,
he succeeded in finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was
at Harker's. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in 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 him from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the
murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his movements.
He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he hastened on before
they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even concluded for certain that it was the
pearl, but it was evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried
the bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a
lamp overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three, the chances were exactly
as I told you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained
two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I warned
the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with
the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was
the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one
event with the other. There only remained a single bust—the Reading one—and
the pearl must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and
there it lies."
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 workmanlike
one than that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down tomorrow, there's not a man, from the oldest
inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the
hand."
"Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he
turned away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical
thinker once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson," said he, "and get out
the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little
problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two
as to its solution."