The Return of Sherlock Holmes
“I give it up,” said Lestrade.
Holmes 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.”
“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to
think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red
lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to 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 Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. 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 suggest that
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 Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker. 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?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker 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 six o’clock this evening. Until then I should
like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’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 to-night,
if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then
good-bye and good luck!”
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 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 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 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 on 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 & 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.