The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons

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

occa ionally, 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 Napoleon 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 Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art

upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the

road, but, although several passers-by 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 Napoleon, 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 Napoleon 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 mould."



"Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them

is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. 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 'IDEE FIXE,' which may be trifling in character, and

accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read

deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary

family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE

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 IDEE 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 Napoleon 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 centre round that bust of Napoleon 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 to-day. 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 labourer. 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 travelling 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 Napoleonic 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

to-night, 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,

endeavouring 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 piece-work 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 moulding.

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

Napoleon, 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 moulds 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 colour, 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

cut-throats 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 to-night 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 to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise to go

to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, 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 favourite 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 gate-post 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

Napoleon, 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 to-morrow, 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

Napoleonic 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 skilful 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 carpet-bag, 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 Napoleon, 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 honour, 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 centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop

and struck Napoleon 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 colour 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 Napoleon 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 Napoleon were drying

in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a

skilful 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 to-morrow, 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."