The Adventure of the Six Napoleons: Part Two

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The first incident occurred at Morse Hudson's shop in Kennington Road, where a bust was shattered by an unknown vandal. Next, two more identical busts were destroyed, both owned by Dr Barnacott, one from his home and one from his surgery, all manufactured from the same mold. While discussing these curious events with Holmes and Watson, Lestrade received an urgent summons to Pitt Street in Kennington. There, the three men discovered that another Napoleon bust had been stolen from the home of journalist Horace Harker. More disturbingly, a murdered man whose throat had been slashed was found on Harker's doorstep. The stolen bust was later discovered smashed in the garden of a nearby empty house. Holmes, intrigued by the peculiar pattern, noted that the criminals seemed to place extraordinary value on these seemingly worthless plaster casts. As the investigation began to take shape, Holmes requested Lestrade meet them at Baker Street that evening, hinting at a possible night-time expedition if his theory is proved correct. We rejoin Holmes and Watson as they pursue this bizarre trail of broken statues, hoping to discover what deadly secret lies hidden amongst the shattered plaster. Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the high street where we stopped at the shop of hiding 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' 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, some eyes endeavoured 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 Kenington 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. Barnacott his two statues, just graceful, 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 them. 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 and Company in Church Street Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade and have been this 20 years. How many had I? Three. Two and one are three. Two of Dr. Barnacott's and one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do, though. Well, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piecework 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. It'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 10 mile drive. Now, Watson let us make for Gelder and Company 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 pass 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 100,000 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 50 workers were carving or molding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear answer to all Holmes' questions. A reference to his books showed that hundreds of castes had been taken from a marble copy of Davine'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 castes. 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 moles 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, tutonic 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 knifeed 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 of you. The matter is very important, and the father I go with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you were referred in your letter to the sale of those casts, I observed that the date was June the third 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 the 20th. Thank you, said Holmes. I don't think that I need in truth upon your time and patience anymore. With the last word of caution that he should say nothing as to our researchers, 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 the highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the crew at 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 matter. Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify, especially designed to help you start, run, and grow your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand. Marketing tools that get your products out there. Integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time. From startups to scale ups, online, in person, and on the go. Shopify's made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your $1 a month trial at Shopify.com slash setup. 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 on the evening papers Mr. Horis 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 Company of Steppney. 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, two Mr. Harker you see, and one, two Mr. Josiah Brown of LeBernham Veil Chisig and one, two Mr. Sandefut of Levergrove Road Redding. No, I've never seen this face which you show me in the photograph. Well, 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 work people 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. I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your inquiries. Omes 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, Friedle Stroud. 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. Spill ended. We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Safran Hill and the Italian. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem around 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 cutthroats 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 doves the fellow, he sees him into a house, he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own death. Now 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 Larsony, six months at the most, it is the murder of the Mafia. Petty Larsony, 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 would 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 tonight, I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels. In the Italian quarter? No. I fancy Chizic, isn't a dress which is more likely to find him. If you will come with me to Chizic tonight, Lestrade, I'll promise to go to the Italian quarter with you tomorrow, 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 11 o'clock. And it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You all dine with Astralstride, 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 Chizik. 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 11, 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 Le Burnham Villa upon the gatepost of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark, safe for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle onto 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 think 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 gates swung open and a live, 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, but 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 to the stride 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 or around 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 cap 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, a stride and I had him by either wrist and the hangcows had been fussed. As we turned him over, I saw a hideous, salo 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 whole 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. 500 orders a month was manageable. 5,000 is madness. Embrace intelligent, order fulfillment with shipstation. The only platform combined in order management, where-house workflows, inventory, returns and analytics in one place. What used to take five separate tools, shipstation does in one. Got a shipstation.com and used code Start to try shipstation free for 60 days. Not a word would our captives say, but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair. And once when my hands 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 alright, said Lestrade, as we parted. He'll knows all these gentry and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my theory of the mafia will work out alright. But I'm sure I am exceedingly obliged to you Mr. Holmes for the workman like 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 is worth working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock tomorrow, I think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of the mafia. 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 these 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 near-do well among the Italian colony. He had once been a skillful 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-cuntrement. 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 and Company. To all this information, much of which we already knew, homes 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 the table. Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here? My friend bowed and smiled. A Mr. Sandafood of Reading, I suppose, said he. 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. Exactly. I have your letter here. You said I desired to possess a copy of Davine's Napoleon, and I am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which is in your possession. Is that right? Certainly. 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. Sandafood, 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. The opening is bad, 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 table. You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandafood, 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. Sandafood. Here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening. When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes' 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. Gentleman, he cried. Let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgias. The strad and eye 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' 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 Colona's bedroom at the Daker Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon, which were manufactured by Gelder and Company of Steppney. 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 and Company, 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 skillful 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 Harkers. 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 Harkers' 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 Harkers' bust was won 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 redding 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 have seen you handle a good many cases Mr. Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workman like 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 tomorrow, 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. Goodbye, 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. Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Holmes confronts a puzzling rural mystery in the adventure of the Rigate Squire. When Watson takes Holmes to Surrey to recover from exhaustion, they expect a peaceful retreat. But trouble soon catches up with the mystery-solving duo when a man is found murdered shortly after a bizarre burglary takes place. Behind the respectable façades of the county's great houses, dangerous secrets lurk. A single scrap of paper may hold the key to unraveling the truth, but can Holmes decipher its meaning before another victim is claimed. Find out next time. I'm Ian Glenn, and this is Real Vikings. A monastery on a remote Scottish island overrun with pagan warriors. The dragon-shaped prowl for longboat cutting through Canada's icy waters. A North Traitor 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.