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.Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can imaginehis amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had beenopened in the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust werestrewn 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 tothe criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, youhave got the facts."
"They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes. "May I askwhether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exactduplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"
"They were taken from the same mould."
"Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks themis influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how manyhundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it istoo much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclastshould chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust."
"Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, thisMorse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and thesethree 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, itis 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 havecalled the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in character, andaccompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had readdeeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditaryfamily injury through the great war, might conceivably form suchan 'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of any fantasticoutrage."
"That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head; "for noamount of 'idee fixe' would enable your interesting monomaniac to findout 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 certainmethod in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr.Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust wastaken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where therewas less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affairseems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when Ireflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promisingcommencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business ofthe Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth whichthe 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 shallbe very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any freshdevelopments of so singular a chain of events."
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and aninfinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was stilldressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the door andHolmes 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--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of thestory of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, hasbegun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on thetable, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwaterjust beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was oneof a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings.As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house lined by acurious crowd. Holmes whistled.
"By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will holdthe London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in thatfellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this, Watson? Thetop steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow!Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front
window, and we shall soon knowall about it."
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into asitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderlyman, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He wasintroduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of theCentral Press Syndicate.
"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemedinterested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would beglad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graverturn."
"What has it turned to, then?"
"To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what hasoccurred?"
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have beencollecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news hascome my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put twowords together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should haveinterviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it isI am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to astring of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explainthis queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you thestory."
Holmes sat down and listened.
"It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought forthis very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from HardingBrothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of myjournalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the earlymorning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the backof the top of the house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced thatI heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated,and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about fiveminutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the most dreadful sound,Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as Ilive. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized thepoker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the windowwide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from themantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes myunderstanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real valuewhatever.
"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open windowcould reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearlywhat the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Steppingout into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who was lying there. Iran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in histhroat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, hisknees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in mydreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I musthave fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policemanstanding over me in the hall."
"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.
"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall see thebody at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is atall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorlydressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled claspknife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weaponwhich did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do notknow. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets savean apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Hereit is."
It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. Itrepresented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows, anda very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the muzzleof a baboon.