The Adventure of the Six Napoleons: Part One

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When Inspector Lestrade brings news of a vandal destroying plaster busts of Napoleon Bonaparte across London, Holmes initially dismisses the case as me a mischief. But when the strange obsession turns deadly and a man is found murdered, the detective's interest is thoroughly peaked. What could possibly connect these shattered images of the French Emperor? Why would someone risk everything to destroy seemingly worthless cluster casts? As Holmes and Watson track the path of broken Napoleon's through London's streets they uncover a criminal plot of international proportions and a treasure hidden in plain sight. From the Noiser podcast network this is the adventure of the six Napoleon's. Part one. It was no very unusual thing for Mr Lestrade of Scotland Yard to look in upon us of an evening and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged and was able occasionally without any active interference to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience. On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the newspapers then he had fallen silent puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him. Anything remarkable on hand he asked. Oh no Mr Holmes nothing very particular. Then tell me about it. Lestrade laughed. Mr Holmes there is no use denying that there is something on my mind and yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand although it is trivial it is undoubtedly queer and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr Watson's line than ours. Disease said I. Madness anyhow and a queer madness too. You wouldn't think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the first that he would break any image of him that he could see. Holmes sank back in his chair. That's no business of mine said he. Exactly that's what I said. But then when the man commits burglary in order to break images which are not his own that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman. Holmes set up again. Burglary this is more interesting. Let me hear the details. The Strad took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from his 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 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 passes 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 hologonism 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. 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. Barnicott 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. Barnicott 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 De Vien. 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. Barnicott 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 it 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. Barnicott was due at his surgery at 12 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. Barnicott's rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in more sudson shop. They were taken from the same mold. 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 E-Day Fiques 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 E-Day Fiques 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 E-Day Fiques 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. Barnicott'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 Abonetti family was first brought to my notice by the death 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 development 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 homes 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, maybe 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. Indeed presents. Hires you can't afford to get wrong like warehouse operations manager. Where are the fort-lifts? I sold them. They were too expensive. I got a great deal on these scooters You expect us to move a two-term pallet on a scooter. It'll be fun. Just think of the core strength you'll build. This is a job for sponsored jobs. This is what happens when you don't sponsor your job on Indeed. So the next time you need someone to get the job done right, get matched with quality candidates with an Indeed sponsored job. Visit Indeed.com slash next hire and sponsor your job today. In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street. A quiet little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. Number one three one was one of a row all flat-chested, respectable and most unremantic dwellings. As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Homes whistle. 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? What's the top steps swirled down and the other ones dry? Footsteps enough anyhow. Well there's a stride 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. Horris Harker of the Central Press Syndicate. It's the Napoleon bust business again said Lestrade. You seemed interested last night Mr. Homes 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 the most melancholy face. It's an extraordinary thing said he. But 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 Homes and if you'll only explain this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story. Homes sat down and listened. It all seems to center around 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 today. 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 sound 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 Homes that ever I heard it will bring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two and then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open and I had 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 the stride. 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 snapshot 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 Camdenhouse 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 addition to the evening papers are out already with full details. It's like my luck. You remember when the stand fell at Donkester? 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 traveling shrilly over the full scrap. I'm Ian Glenn and this is Real Vikings. A monastery on a remote Scottish island overrun with pagan warriors. The dragon shaped prowl of a longboat cutting through Canada's icy waters. A North Strader in North Africa, exchanging furs for silver under a desert sun. The Vikings terrified the medieval world, yet they beguilers today. Who were they really? Real Vikings, from the Noiser Podcast Network. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. The Spots Were the Fragments of the Bus To Be Found The Spots Were the fragments of the bus to be 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. Homes 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 the Strad, Homes shrugged his shoulders. We have a long way to go yet, city 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 single effect 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. The Strad looked about him. It was an empty house 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. Homes 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. But, Jov, that's true, said the detective. Now that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnicott's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Homes, what do we 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 Pidstreet last night and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horis Harca. 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 suggested 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 Pidstreet, you might see Mr. Horis Harca. Tell him for 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? Hones smiled. Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horis Harca 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 6 o'clock this evening. Until then, I should like to keep this photograph found in the Deadman'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 tonight, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then, goodbye and good luck. Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, the mystery of the Six Napoleon's deepens as Holmes follows the trail of the broken busts across London. A suspect with a violent past is uncovered and Holmes discovers a precious treasure hidden in plain sight. That's next time. 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