Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we 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
afternoon, 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.
Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & 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 had 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 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 & Co., of Stepney, the
source and origin of the 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 blond 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 from 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
"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 daresay he could tell you where he is."
"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin—not a word, I beg
of 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
"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 on the
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 & Co., of
Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay 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 daresay 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 you will 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
"You don't say so?"
"And found a cause for the crime."
"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 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
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,"
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
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
"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"
My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?" said
"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."
"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?"
"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
"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 held up one splinter, in which a
round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a
play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to us
like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,
and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same
singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from
popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous
wonder and praise from a friend.
"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now existing in
the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of
inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at
the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of
the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of
Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was
unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the
Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in
London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The maid's
name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this
Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been
looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see
them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented
themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have
stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's confederate, he may have
been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to
us which is the correct solution.
"The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was
on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in
which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to
conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on
him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the
passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful
workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and
with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an
admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo was
condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts
were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his
treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him
nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would
adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he
conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through
a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had
bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in
that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with
the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in finding out where the
other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's. There he was dogged
by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl,
and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed."
"If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?" I asked.
"As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from any
third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he
hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not
say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that
he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it.
Since Harker's bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I told
you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two
busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I
warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we
went down, with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for
certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the
murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a
single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be there. I
bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it lies."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there's not a man, from the
oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake
you by the hand."
"Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away, it seemed to
me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had
ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker once
more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson," said he, "and get out the
papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any
little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a
hint or two as to its solution."