福尔摩斯-六座拿破仑半身像 The Six Napoleons

The Six Napoleons

Arthur Conan Doyle

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 head-quarters. 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.

“Well, 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 sat up again.

“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory from its 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 had 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 passers-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 Hooliganism 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.

”The 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. Barnicot, 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. Barnicot 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, Devine. 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. Barnicot 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 its 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. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve 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. Barnicot's rooms were the exact duplicates 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 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 ‘idée fixe,’ 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 idée fixe 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 idée fixe 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. Barnicot'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 Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth 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 developments 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 Holmes 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 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.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one of 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 a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

“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, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there's Lestrade 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. Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

“It's the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, 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 a most melancholy face.

“It's an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that 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 Holmes, and if you'll only explain this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story.”

Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round 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 to-day. 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 sounds 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. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at 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 Lestrade. “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 snap-shot 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 Campden House 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 editions of the evening papers are out already with full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster? 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 travelling shrilly over the foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been 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. Holmes 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 Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “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 singular fact 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.”

Lestrade 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.

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 from 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 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 he 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 after noon, 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 have 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 to get 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 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 to 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 dare say he could tell you where he is.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I beg 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 to 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 dare say 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 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, and I hope that you'll 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 man.”

“You don't say so?”

“And found a cause for the crime.”

“Splendid!”

“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?”

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 favourite weapon.

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,” Lestrade 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 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 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 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 the table.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”

My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, 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 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?”

“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. 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 table.

“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 the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke out 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 employe, 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.”

六座拿破仑半身像

苏格兰场的雷斯垂德先生晚上到我们这儿来坐坐，已经是一习一以为常的事了。福尔摩斯欢迎他的到来，因为这能使福尔摩斯了解到警察总部在做些什么。福尔摩斯总是用心地倾听这位先生讲述办案的细节，同时他根据自己渊博的知识和丰富的经验，也不时地向对方提出一些建议和意见。

一天晚上雷斯垂德谈过天气和报纸后，便沉默不语，不停地一抽一着雪茄。福尔摩斯急切地望着他，问道：“手头有什么不寻常的案子吗？”

“啊，福尔摩斯先生，没有——没有什么很特别的事。”

“那么对我说说。”

雷斯垂德笑了。

“好吧，福尔摩斯先生，没有必要否认我心里确实有事。可是它是那样荒诞，所以我不太想麻烦你。从另一方面说来，事情虽小，但是奇怪得很。我当然知道你对于一切不寻常的事都有兴趣。不过我认为这件事和华生大夫的关系比和我们的关系更大。”

我说：“疾病？”

“起码可以说是疯病，而且是奇怪的疯病。你能想到有这样的事吗？生活在今天的人却非常仇恨拿破仑，看到他的像就要打碎。”

福尔摩斯仰身靠在椅子上。

他说：“这不是我的事。”

“是的，我已经说过这不是我们的事。但是，当这个人破门而入去打碎别人的拿破仑像的时候，那就不是要把他送到大夫那儿，而是要送到警察这儿来了。”

福尔摩斯又坐直了身一子。

“抢劫？这倒很有意思。请你讲讲详细情况。”

雷斯垂德拿出他的工作日志，打开看看，以免讲时有什么遗漏。

他说：“四天以前有人来报了第一个案子。事情发生在冒斯·贺得逊的商店，他在康宁顿街有个分店出售图片和塑像。店员刚刚离开柜台一会儿，他就听到什么东西互相撞击的声音，便立刻跑到店铺的前面，发现一座和其他艺术品一起摆在柜台上的拿破仑像已经被打得粉碎。他冲到街上，虽然有几个过路人说他们看到有一个人跑出商店，但是他没有找到这个人，而且也没认出这个流一氓。这象是件时常发生的毫无意义的流一氓行为。事情如实地报告了巡警。石膏像最多值几个先令，而全部事情又很小，不值得专门调查。

“但是，第二个案子更严重更特殊。就发生在昨天晚上。

“在康宁顿街离冒斯·贺得逊的商店二三百码远的地方，住着一位著名的巴尔尼柯大夫，泰晤士河南岸一带有很多人常去找他看病。他的住宅和主要诊疗所是在康宁顿街，但是在两英里外的下布列克斯顿街还有一个分诊所和药房。这位巴尔尼柯大夫由衷地崇拜拿破仑，他的家里满是有关这位法国皇帝的书籍、绘画以及遗物。不久以前他从贺得逊的商店买了两座拿破仑半身像的复制品，这个头像很有名，是法国著名的雕刻家笛万的作品。一座他放在康宁顿街住宅的大厅里，一座放在下布列克斯顿街诊所的壁炉架上。好，今天早晨巴尔尼柯大夫一下楼，他大吃一惊，发现夜里曾有人闯入他的住宅，不过除去大厅里的石膏头像外，并没有拿走什么别的东西。那座石膏头像被拿到外面花园的墙下，已经撞成了碎片。”

福尔摩斯一揉一搓一着他的手。

他说：“这确实很新奇。”

“我想这会使你感兴趣的。但是，我还没有说完。巴尔尼柯大夫十二点来到他的诊所，他一到马上发现窗户已被打开了，屋内满地是另一个拿破仑半身像的碎片，你可以想见他是多么吃惊。半身像的底座也打成细小的碎块。两处全没有任何迹象可以使我们查到制造这个恶作剧的罪犯，或者说是疯子。福尔摩斯先生，事情经过就是这样。”

福尔摩斯说：“事情是很奇怪，当然也很荒诞。请问在巴尔尼柯大夫的家里和诊所里打碎的两个半身像和在贺得逊商店打碎的那个，是不是全是同一模型的复制品？”

“全是用一个模型做的。”

“这个事实否定了这样的说法，即认为这个人打碎半身像是因为痛恨拿破仑的缘故。我们知道，整个伦敦市内有几万个这位皇帝的塑像，那些反对偶像崇拜的人，无论是谁，都不可能只从这三个复制品入手表示反对。因此这种看法是不合适的。”

雷斯垂德说：“我曾经象你这样想过。可是，冒斯·贺得逊是伦敦那一个区唯一的塑像供应者，这三座像在他的商店里放了很长时间。所以，尽避象你所说的在伦敦有几万个塑像，不过很有可能这三个是那一区仅有的。所以，这个地区的疯子就从这三个着手。华生大夫，你怎样想的呢？”

我回答：“偏执狂的表现是各种各样没有限度的。有这样的情况，也就是被当代法国心理学家们称作为'偏执的意念'的，意思是只在一件细微的事上固执，而在其他各个方面却完全清醒。一个人拿破仑的事迹读得太多了，印象太深了，或是他的家庭遗传给他当时战争所造成的某种心理缺陷，便完全可以形成一种'偏执的意念'，在这一意念的影响下，他能够因幻想而狂怒。”

福尔摩斯摇摇头说：“我亲一爱一的华生，不能这样解释。因为不管'偏执的意念'产生怎样的影响也不会使你所感兴趣的偏执狂患者去找出这些头像分布在什么地方。”

“那么，你怎样解释呢？”

“我不想解释。我只是观察到这位绅士采取这些怪癖行动时是遵循一定方法的。例如，在巴尔尼柯大夫的大厅里，一点声音可以惊醒全家，半身像是先拿到外面再打碎的，而在诊疗所，没有惊动别人的危险，半身像在原地就打碎了。这象是无关紧要的细节，但是经验告诉我不该把任何事情轻易看成是琐碎无关的。华生，你还记得阿巴涅特家的那件烦人的事情是怎样引起我注意的吗？不过是由于看出在热天放到黄油里的芹菜会沉多深罢了。雷斯垂德，所以我不能对于你的三个破碎的半身像一笑置之，要是你让我知道这一连串奇异事件的新发展，我会深深感谢你的。”

我的朋友想要了解的事情发展得比他想象得更快，更悲惨。第二天清晨我正在卧室穿衣服，刚听到敲门声，福尔摩斯便过来了，手里拿着一封电报。他大声读给我听：

"立刻到肯辛顿彼特街！”３！”号来。

雷斯垂德"

我问：“怎么一回事？”

“不知道——什么事都可能发生。不过我猜想是半身像故事的继续。要是这样的话，我们这位打塑像的朋友已经在伦敦的其它区开始活动了。桌子上有咖啡，华生，我已经叫来了一辆马车，快些！”

过了半小时我们到达彼特街，这是一条死气沉沉的小巷，位于伦敦一个最繁华地区的附近。！”３！”号是一排整齐漂亮的房屋中的一座，这些房屋也很实用。我们的马车刚到，便看见房子前的栅栏外挤满了好奇的人们。福尔摩斯口里发出嘘嘘声才穿过人群。"天啊！少说这也是谋杀。这下子伦敦的报童可要被一团一团一围住了。瞧，死者蜷缩着肩膀，伸长了脖子，不是暴力行为又是什么呢？华生，这是怎么一回事？上面的台阶冲洗过，而其它的台阶是干的？哦，脚印倒是不少！喏，雷斯垂德就在前面窗口那儿。我们马上便会知道一切。”

这位警官神色庄严地迎接了我们，并带我们走进一间起居室。只见一位衣着邋遢的长者，身穿法兰绒晨衣，正在颤巍巍地来回踱步。雷斯垂德给我们介绍说，他就是这座房子的主人，中央报刊辛迪加的贺拉斯·哈克先生。

雷斯垂德说：“又是拿破仑半身像的事。福尔摩斯先生，昨天晚上你好象对它很感兴趣，所以我想你来这儿会高兴的。现在事情发展得严重多了。”

“到什么程度呢？”

“谋杀。哈克先生，请你把发生的事准确地告诉这二位先生。”

哈克先生说：“这件事很不寻常。我的一生全是在收集别人的新闻，而现在却在我的身上发生一件真正的新闻，于是我糊涂了，心情不安，一个字都写不出来了。如果我是以记者身份来到这里的话，那么我就得自己会见自己，还要在晚报上写出两栏报道。事实上，由于工作的关系，我也确实对许多不同的人都做过重要的报道，可是今天我自己实在无能为力了。歇洛克·福尔摩斯先生，我听到过你的名字，要是你能解释这件怪事，我讲给你听就不是徒劳了。”

福尔摩斯坐下来静静地听着。

“事情的起因，好象是为了那座拿破仑半身像。那是我四个月以前从高地街驿站旁边的第二家商店，也就是哈定兄弟商店买来的，价钱很便宜，买来后就一直把它放在这间屋子里。我一般是在夜里写稿常常要写到清晨，今天也是这样。大约三点左右我正在楼上我的书房里，忽然听到楼下传来什么声音。我就注意地听着，可是，声音又没有了。于是我想声音一定是从外面传来的。然后，又过了五分钟，突然传来一声非常凄惨的吼叫，福尔摩斯先生，声音可怕极了，只要我活着，它就会永远萦绕在我耳边。我当时吓呆了，直愣愣地坐了一两分钟，后来就拿普通条走下楼去。我走进这间屋子，一眼就看到窗户大开着，壁炉架上的半身像不见了。我真弄不懂强盗为什么要拿这样的东西，不过是个石膏塑像罢了，并不值多少钱。

“您一定看到了，不管是谁，从这扇开着的窗户那里迈一大步，便可以跨到门前的台阶上。这个强盗显然是这样做的，所以我就打开门，摸黑走出去，不料差一点被一个死人绊倒，一尸一体就横在那儿。我赶忙回来拿灯，这才看到那个可怜的人躺在地上，脖子上有个大洞，周围是一大滩血。他脸朝天躺着，膝盖弯曲，嘴大张着，样子实在吓人。呵，我一定还会梦见他的。后来，我赶忙吹了一下警哨，接着就什么都不知道了。我想我一定是晕倒了，等我醒过来的时候，已经是在大厅里，这位警察站在我身边看着我。”

福尔摩斯问，"被害者是谁呢？”

雷斯垂德说：“没有什么东西可以表明他的身分。你要看一尸一体可以到殡仪馆去，可是直到目前我们没有从一尸一体上查出任何线索。他身高体壮，脸色晒得发黑，年龄超不过三十岁，穿得很不象样子，不过又不象是工人。有一把牛角一柄一的折刀扔在他身旁的一滩血里。我不知道这把刀究竟是杀人犯的凶器，还是死者的遗物。死者的衣服上没有名字，他的口袋里只有一个苹果，一根绳子，一张值一先令的伦敦地图，还有一张照片。这是照片。”

照片显然是用小照相机快速拍摄的。照片上的人神情机智，眉一毛一很浓，口鼻都很凸出，而且凸出得很特别，象是狒狒的面孔。

福尔摩斯仔细地看过照片以后问：“那座半身像怎么样了？”

“就在你来之前我们得到一个消息。塑像在堪姆顿街一所空房子的花园里找到了，已经被打得粉碎。我要去看看，你去吗？”

“是的，我要去看一下。"福尔摩斯检查了地毯和窗户，他说：“这个人不是腿很长，便是动作很灵活。窗下地势很低，跳上窗台并且开开窗户要很灵巧才行。可是跳出去是相当容易的。哈克先生，您要不要和我们一同去看那半身像的残迹呢？”

这位新闻界人士情绪低沉地坐到写字台旁。

他说：“虽然我相信今天的第一批晚报已经发行了，上面会有这事的详情，但是我还是要尽力把这件事写一下。我的命运就是这样！你还记得顿卡斯特的看台坍倒的事吗？我是①那个看台上唯一的记者，我的报纸也是没有登载此事的唯一一家报纸，因为我受的震动太大，不能写了。现在动笔写发生在我家门前的这件凶杀案是晚了一些。”——

①英国约克郡的一个小城市。——译者注

我们离开这间屋子的时候，听到他的笔在稿纸上刷刷地写着。

打碎半身像的地方离这所房子仅仅二三百码远。半身像已经被打得粉碎，细小的碎片散落在草地上。可想而知砸像人心中的仇恨是多么强烈和难以控制。我们还是第一次看到这位伟大皇帝落到这种地步。福尔摩斯捡起几块碎片仔细检查。从他专心致志的面容和自信的神态来看，我确信他找到了线索。

雷斯垂德问：“怎么样？”

福尔摩斯耸了耸肩。

他说：“我们要做的事虽然还很多，不过我们已经掌握了一些事实，可以做为行动的依据。对于这个犯人说来，半身像比人的生命值钱得多。这是一点。还有，要是说此人弄到半身像只是为了打碎，而他又不在屋内或是屋子附近打碎，这也是一件奇怪的事。”

“也许当时他遇到这个人便慌乱起来。他简直不知道该怎样对付，便拿出了刀子。”

“很可能是这样的。不过我要请你特别注意这栋房子的位置，塑像是在这栋房子的花园里被打碎的。”

雷斯垂德向四周看了看。

“这是一座空房子，所以他知道在花园里没有人打搅他。”

“可是在这条街入口不远的地方还有一栋空房子，他必定先路过那一栋才能到这一栋。既然他拿着半身像走路，每多走一码，被人碰上的危险也就愈大些，为什么他不在那一栋空房子那儿打碎呢？”

雷斯垂德说：“我答不出来。”

福尔摩斯指着我们头上的路灯。

“在这儿他能看得见，在那儿却不能，就是这个理由。”

这位侦探说：“哎呀，确实是这样。我想起来了，巴尔尼柯大夫买的半身像是在离灯光不远的地方打碎的。福尔摩斯先生，对这种情况你怎样办呢？”

“记住它，把它写在备案录里。以后我们也许会碰上与此事有关的情况。雷斯垂德，你考虑下一步怎样做呢？”

“依我看来，弄清内幕的最好办法是查明这个死人的身分。这是不难的。这样，我们便会有个很好的开端，从而可以进一步弄清昨天晚上死者在彼特街做什么，以及谁在哈克先生门前的台阶上遇见他并且杀了他。你看是这样吗？”

“不错，是这样；不过这和我处理这个案件的方法并不完全一样。”

“那么，你要怎样做呢？”

“噢，你一点也不要受我的影响。我建议你做你的，我做我的。以后我们可以一交一换意见，这样将会互相取长补短。”

雷斯垂德说：“好吧。”

“要是你回彼特街，见到哈克先生，请替一我告诉他，我认为可以肯定，昨晚来他家的是一个有杀人狂的人，而且有仇视拿破仑的疯病。这对于他的报道是有用的。”

雷斯垂德凝视着他。

“这并不是你的真实意见吧？”

福尔摩斯笑了。

“不是吗？也许我不这样看。但是，我敢说这会使哈克先生以及中央报刊辛迪加的订户们感兴趣。华生，我们今天还有很多、很复杂的工作要做。雷斯垂德，我希望你能在今晚六点钟到贝克街来和我们见面。我想先用一下这张死人口袋里的照片，到晚上再给你。要是我的判断没有错误的话，或许要请你在半夜出去一趟协助我们。晚上见，祝你顺利！”

歇洛克·福尔摩斯和我一起步行到高地街，走进卖半身像的哈定兄弟商店。一个年轻的店员告诉我们哈定先生下午才来，他自己是个新手，不了解情况。福尔摩斯流露出失望和烦恼的表情。

他说：“好吧，既然如此，我们只好改变计划了。看来哈定先生上午不会来了，我们只好下午再来找他。华生，你一定已经猜到，我为什么要追究这些半身像的来源，