The Return of Sherlock Holmes

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