Mr. Lestrade from London’s Metropolitan Police was a frequent visitor at 221B Baker Street, the home I shared with my friend, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. Holmes always liked these visits because Lestrade would tell him all the latest news from the world of crime. In return, Holmes might give Lestrade some helpful suggestions for whatever case he was trying to solve.

On one evening in June 1900, Lestrade was embarrassed when Holmes asked him what case he was working on. “It’s so ridiculous and stupid that I’m not sure if I want to even tell you,” he said. “On the other hand, although it’s not very important, it’s also strange, and I know you are interested in strange cases. In fact, it might be of more interest to Dr. Watson than to us.”

I looked up when I heard my name. “Is it about disease, then?” I asked.

“Disease of the mind, maybe,” said Lestrade, “only a madman would hate Napoleon so much that he would want to destroy every statue of him that he can find.”

“You mean Napoleon Bonaparte, the former emperor of France?” I exclaimed.

“That’s correct,” said Lestrade. “It’s become a case for the police because this man isn’t smashing his own statues of the French emperor—he’s committing burglary to destroy those belonging to other people.”

“This does sound very interesting, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Please tell me more.”

Lestrade took out a notebook to look through the details. “The first case was reported four days ago,” he said. “It took place at Harrison’s Art and Antiques, a shop on Kennington Road in London. The assistant went into the back office for a moment when he heard a crash from the main shop. Hurrying back in, he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which had been standing on the counter, lying in fragments on the floor. He rushed into the street but saw no sign of who did it.

“The bust was very cheap, and it seemed like one of those random acts of vandalism that happen from time to time and are not worth investigating. The second case, however, was more serious and, in its way, strange. It happened only last night.”

“Just a short distance from the shop I just mentioned lives a doctor by the name of Barnicot. This man is an admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books and pictures of the French emperor. Some time ago, he purchased two plaster busts of Napoleon exactly the same from Harrison’s Art and Antiques. One of these he placed in the hall of his house, and the other in his doctor’s surgery in Lower Brixton.

“This morning, Dr. Barnicot woke up and discovered his house had been burgled in the night, but nothing had been taken except the bust of Napoleon. It had been carried out into the garden and thrown against the wall, beneath which he found its remains.”

Holmes happily rubbed his hands. “This is fascinating,” he murmured.

“You’ve not heard the end yet,” said Lestrade. “At midday, Dr. Barnicot arrived at his surgery, and you can imagine his amazement when he found the window open and broken pieces of the second Napoleon bust all over the room. In neither case could we find any clues as to the person who carried out these bizarre crimes. And those, Mr. Holmes, are the facts of the case.”

“And very strange facts they are, too,” said Holmes. “Tell me, were Dr. Barnicot’s busts exactly the same as of the one destroyed in the Harrison shop?”

“Yes. Exactly the same.”

“This suggests the criminal isn’t motivated by a general hatred of Napoleon. Think of how many statues of Napoleon there must be in London. Surely it’s too much of a coincidence that the three he happened to destroy are all identical.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lestrade. “There may be hundreds of statues of Napoleon in London, but as far as we know Harrison’s is the only shop selling them in that area of the city. Therefore, a local Napoleon-hater would begin with them. What do you think, Watson?”

“I suppose it’s possible that someone might develop an irrational hatred of a figure like Napoleon,” I answered. “He has affected so many people’s lives. It could be, for example, that an ancestor of this man was killed in the Napoleonic wars.”

Holmes was shaking his head. “I don’t think we’re dealing with someone irrational here. Our statue destroyer was highly methodical in the way he found these busts.”

“How do you explain it, then?” asked Lestrade.

“I can’t—not yet. All I can say is that there is a certain method to this man’s actions. For example, in Dr. Barnicot’s house, where a loud noise could have woken the family, he took the bust outside to break it; whereas in the surgery, where there was far less danger of being overheard, he smashed it where it stood.

“As you say, Lestrade, this case appears trivial, yet many of my greatest cases had simple beginnings, and this one feels that it is a lot deeper. Please let me know if there are any developments.”

The fresh development arrived sooner than expected. The following morning, an urgent telegram arrived. Holmes read it to me while I got dressed:

Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington. LESTRADE.

“What’s this about?” I wondered.”

Half an hour later, we reached Pitt Street. As we reached number 131, we found a curious crowd gathered by its front steps.

“By George!” said Holmes. “Only a murder would draw a crowd like this. Look, Watson, the top step has been mopped down while the rest are dry. What does that tell us? Let’s see what Lestrade has to say.”

The policeman greeted us and showed us into a sitting room where an anxious middle-aged man in a dressing gown was pacing up and down. Lestrade introduced him as Mr. Horace Harker, a newspaper journalist and the owner of the house.

“It’s the Napoleon bust case again,” said Lestrade, “and it has taken a much darker turn.”

“What has happened?”

“Murder, Mr. Holmes.” He turned to Harker. “Perhaps you could tell these gentlemen exactly what happened, sir.”

The man in the dressing gown stopped pacing and gazed at us with a sad expression. “It’s quite extraordinary,” he said. “I’ve spent my entire life writing about other people’s news, and now that the news has happened to me, I’m too confused and upset to write a word.

“Instead, I’m giving away my story for free to every reporter who happens by. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes, and if you’d only explain this strange case, that would more than compensate me for telling you the story.”

We sat down and listened.

“As a journalist I do a lot of my work at night, writing until the early hours. At about three o’clock, I was in my study upstairs when I heard some sounds coming from down here. I sat listening for a while longer, but they weren’t repeated and I figured they’d come from outside. Then, about five minutes later, I heard a horrible scream—the most dreadful sound I ever heard, Mr. Holmes. I sat frozen with horror for a moment, then seized my stick and went downstairs. On entering this room, I found the window wide open and I immediately noticed my bust of Napoleon was missing. Why any burglar would take such a thing I’ve no idea, for it was only a plaster cast and of no great value.”

“Where did you buy the bust?” asked Holmes.

“I bought it at Harding Brothers in Kensington High Street about four months ago.”

Holmes nodded. “Please go on with your story.”

“I went into the hall and opened the door to see if I could see the burglar.”

“However, as I stepped out into the dark, I nearly fell over the body of a dead man lying there on the front step. The poor fellow had been stabbed. I was in a terrible panic—but somehow, I managed to call for a policeman. Then I must have fainted, for the next thing I knew a policeman was standing over me in the hall.”

“Who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“We found nothing to identify him,” said Lestrade. “You’ll see him at the mortuary. He’s tall, sunburned, very powerful but poorly dressed, and not more than thirty. A knife was lying beside him when he was found. Whether or not it was the murder weapon, we don’t know. It could have belonged to the victim himself. All we found in his pockets was an apple, some string, a pocket map of London, and a photograph. Here it is.”

The photograph showed an alert, sharp-featured man with thick eyebrows and a stern expression.

What happened to the bust?” asked Holmes after studying the picture.

“It was found just before you arrived in the front garden of a nearby empty house. It was shattered like the other ones. I was about to go and see it. Will you join me?”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, “after I take a quick look around here.” He examined the carpet and the window. “The fellow must have been very agile. It is not easy to reach that window and open the window. Getting out again would have been a lot simpler. Are you coming to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”

The troubled journalist had seated himself at a writing table. “No thank you. I must try and write about what happened, though I’ve no doubt the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full details.”

“Ah, but your story will be the one that sells!” predicted Holmes. “Imagine how readers will thrill to a first-hand account of your involvement in this case.”

We left the room as Harker started to write his article.

The front garden where the smashed bust had been found was just a short walk away. The fragments of a head lay scattered on the grass. Holmes picked up several of the shards and examined them carefully. From the look in his eye, I sensed he had found a clue.

“Any ideas?” asked Lestrade.

“We still need to investigate,” said Holmes, “yet there are one or two clues to be gathered here. We know that this cheap plaster bust is worth more, in the eyes of this criminal, than a human life. Then there’s the fact that he didn’t break it in the house or immediately outside it.”

“He was anxious after meeting the other man. He probably didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Well, that’s possible. But I ask you, why did he choose the front garden of this house to destroy the bust?”

Lestrade looked about him. “The house is empty, so he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“True, but we passed another empty house on our way here. Why didn’t he break it there?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I give up.”

Holmes pointed to the streetlamp above our heads. “He could see what he was doing here, and he couldn’t there. That was his reason.”

“That’s true!” said the detective. “Now that I think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken near his lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what can we do?”

“Remember it. We may discover something later that will make sense of it. What steps do you plan to take now, Lestrade?”

“We’re going to try and identify the dead man. That might help us figure out what he was doing in Pitt Street last night and maybe who killed him. Don’t you think so?”

“Quite possibly, although it’s not how I would do it.”

“Oh. What would you do then?”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to do your job, Lestrade. I suggest you follow your plan and I’ll follow mine and we can compare notes afterwards. By the way, if you’re going back to Pitt Street, would you mind passing a message on to Mr. Horace Harker? Tell him I’ve made up my mind that a dangerous, homicidal maniac with a hatred of Napoleon was in his house last night. This may be useful for his article.”

I stared at him. “You don’t seriously believe that?”

Holmes smiled. “Don’t I? Well, maybe I don’t. But I’m sure it will interest Mr. Harker and his readers. Now, Watson, we must go, as we have a long and complex day’s work ahead of us. Lestrade, I’d like, if I may, to keep this photograph.” He took out the snapshot found in the dead man’s pocket.

“Of course.”

“Excellent. I’d be obliged if you could meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then, goodbye and good luck.”

Sherlock Holmes and I walked over to Harding Brothers on Kensington High Street, the shop where Harker had bought his bust. The young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding wouldn’t be back until the afternoon, and she herself had only just started and knew nothing about the bust.

Holmes tried to show that he wasn’t disappointed. “Well, we can’t win every time, Watson. We shall return this afternoon. I am, as you’ve no doubt guessed, trying to trace these busts back to their source, to see if there’s something peculiar, they have in common that may explain what has been happening.”

An hour’s drive took us to Harrison’s Art and Antiques on Kennington Road. The owner, Mr. Mort Harrison, was a small, fat man with a red face. He was still angry about the vandalism that had taken place in his shop.

“It was on this counter, sir,” he said. “It’s shocking how someone could just come in off the street and do that.”

“Did Dr. Barnicot buy his two statues from you?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get the statues from?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything, but they came from Gelder & Co., on Church Street, Stepney. I ordered three in total—the two I sold to Dr. Barnicot and the one smashed on my counter.”

When Holmes showed him the photo found in the dead man’s pocket, Harrison recognized him immediately.

“That’s Beppo! He helped out in my shop for a while. He left me last week, two days before the bust was smashed. I don’t know where he came from or where he went, but he gave me no trouble.”

“There were some useful pieces of information there,” said Holmes as we emerged from Harrison’s. “We now know that Beppo was in both Kennington and Kensington, making him a common factor in these crimes. Let’s head for Gelder & Co., the makers of the busts, and see what they can tell us.”

It took us another hour to reach the riverside district of Stepney in London’s East End, where the houses were crowded with poor immigrant families from Europe. Gelder & Co. was a sculpture workshop on the main thoroughfare. Its yard was filled with large statues and tombstones. Inside its large workshop, some fifty workers busily carved and shaped stone.

The manager, a big, blond German man, invited us into his office. He told us they had made hundreds of casts of Napoleon, copied from an original famous marble bust.

The three bought by Mort Harrison were half of a batch of six. The other three had gone to Harding Brothers of Kensington. He could think of no reason why those six should be different from all the other casts, nor why anyone should wish to destroy them. In fact, he laughed at the idea.

He explained that the plaster cast was made by joining together two halves of Napoleon’s face, formed from the original bust. This was usually carried out by Italian workers. When finished, the casts were placed on a table in the passage to dry before being stored in the warehouse. That was all he could tell us.

The manager was calm and polite, but his manner changed abruptly when Holmes showed him the photograph. His cheeks reddened and his blue eyes flashed with anger.

“That rascal!” he cried. “Yes, I know him. The only time we’ve ever had the police in here was because of him. It was more than a year ago now. He stabbed another Italian man in the street, then came in here with the police chasing him, and here they arrested him. Beppo was his name. I wish I’d never hired him, although he was a talented worker—one of the best.”

“Did he go to prison?”

The manager nodded. “I’ve no doubt he’s out by now, though he hasn’t dared show his face around here. His cousin is one of our workers. He could probably tell you where he is.”

“No, no!” cried Holmes.