                                      1904
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  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
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
bold 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 be, "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 thorough
fare, 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 Labumum Lodge, Labumum 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 shard 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 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 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 his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
factory in which 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."


                           -THE END-
