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 'idee fixe,' {1} 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 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 foolscap.
The spot 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 ho
use, 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 from 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 to 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 he 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 after noon, 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.