Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder
and 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 have 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 to get 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 and Co., of Stepney,
the source and origin of 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 blonde 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 to
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 dare say he could tell
you where he is."
"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin -- not a
word, I beg 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 to 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 and Co., of Stepney.
They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say 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 dare say 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
y
ou'll 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," Le
strade 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 gaol -- 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