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 note-book 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 'id閑 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
id閑 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 id閑 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 developments 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 snap-shot 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
