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
