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 'idee fixe,' {1} 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 'idee 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 'idee 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
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