“No, no!” cried Holmes.

“Don’t say a word to the cousin, I beg of you.”

The manager raised his eyebrows at this response, but promised he wouldn’t.

“I noticed when you were looking at your records,” said Holmes, “that you sold those casts on June 3rd last year. Could you tell me when Beppo was arrested?”

“I can work it out from the pay list,” said the manager, referring to another file. “He was last paid on May 20th, so the arrest would have been around then.”

Holmes thanked the manager and urged him once more to say nothing about our investigation. Then we headed back west.

It was midafternoon by the time we managed to grab some lunch at a cafeteria. A newspaper on one of the tables announced, “Kensington Outrage: Murder by a Madman.” The report, by Horace Harker, was a highly sensational version of the incident he had described to us.

Holmes propped it up on the salt and pepper shakers and read it while he ate. “This is very good, Watson,” he chuckled. “Listen to this ... It is satisfying to know that both Mr. Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous private detective, are of one mind as to the cause of this series of grotesque incidents: they arise, they say, from madness rather than deliberate crime.

“The newspapers, Watson, can be very helpful, if you only know how to use them. And now, if you’ve finished eating, we shall return to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say about this case.”

The owner, Mr. Gerard Harding, turned out to be a polite and helpful little man. “Yes, sir, I’ve read the newspaper report. We sold Mr. Harker the bust some months ago. We ordered three of them from Gelder & Co. They’re all sold now.”

“Who bought them?” asked Holmes.

“Let me consult my sales book. Ah, here it is. One to Mr. Harker; one to Mr. Josiah Brown of Laburnum Villa, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick; and one to Mr. Sandeford of Lower Grove Road, Reading.”

Holmes showed him the photograph, but Harding didn’t recognize the face in it.

“Do you employ any Italians here?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, we have several on our staff.”

“And would any of them have been able to take a look in that sales book?”

“I dare say it’s possible.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr Harding.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.”

Sherlock Holmes had taken notes during our interview with Mr. Harding, and I could see he was thoroughly satisfied with the progress of the investigation. He made no comment, however, except that if we didn’t hurry, we’d be late for our appointment with Lestrade.

When we reached Baker Street, the policeman was already in Holmes’s study, pacing around. “Well?” he asked. “Made any breakthroughs, Mr. Holmes?”

“We’ve had a busy day, and not a wasted one. We’ve traced the source and journey of each bust.”

“You’re still worried about the busts!” cried Lestrade. “Well, you have your methods, Mr. Holmes, and it’s not for me to criticize, but I think I’ve accomplished a great deal more than you today. I’ve identified the dead man.”

“Well done, Lestrade!”

“And found the cause of the crime.”

“That’s splendid!”

“I have an informant in London’s Italian Quarter by the name of Collini. He identified the dead man as Pietro Venucci of Naples, one of the most notorious assassins in London, with connections to the Mafia, the secret crime organization. Now you see how the whole case starts to make sense.

“The fellow in the photograph is probably Italian, too, and a member of the Mafia. I suppose he must have broken the rules and Pietro was sent to kill him. He had the photograph in his pocket so he could identify his victim. He must have ambushed the fellow as he came out of the house. In the fight that followed, the man killed Pietro. How’s that, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands. “Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I think I missed the part where you explained about the destruction of the busts.”

“The busts! Will you never stop talking about them? What does the breaking of a few plaster statues matter next to murder? It’s murder we’re investigating here and I’m steadily solving the case.”

“So, what’s the next stage?”

“It’s very simple. I shall go to the Italian Quarter with Signor Collini, find the man in the photograph, and arrest him on a charge of murder. Will you come with us?”

“I think not. I have a feeling we’ll be able to find your man by a simpler means.”

“In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, in Chiswick. If you’ll come with me to Chiswick tonight, Lestrade, I’ll happily accompany you to the Italian Quarter tomorrow.”

“Very well,” groaned Lestrade. “I suppose there’s no harm in a short delay.”

“Good. Now, I think a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I don’t propose leaving before eleven o’clock and it’s unlikely we’ll be back before morning. Watson, would you please ring for a messenger? I have an urgent letter to send.”

Holmes spent most of that evening going through his boxes of old daily newspapers, which he kept in his room. When he finally emerged, he had a triumphant look in his eye, but he said nothing to either of us about what he’d been researching.

For my own part, I had carefully followed the steps of this complex case, but couldn’t yet see where it was heading. What I did understand was that Holmes expected the criminal to target the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was in Chiswick. No doubt, the plan was to catch him in the act. I wasn’t surprised when he suggested I take my gun with me.

I had to admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted that story in the newspaper so the culprit would feel he could continue with his operations with no threat from the police.

A four-wheel carriage arrived at our door at eleven, and we drove to the south side of Hammersmith Bridge, where Holmes asked the driver to wait. A short walk brought us to a quiet road of large, detached houses.

One of these was Laburnum Villa. Its occupants must have gone to bed because all the windows were dark, save for the light over the hall door, which threw a yellow semicircle onto the garden path.

A wooden fence separated the property from the road. It threw a deep shadow on its inner side, where we crouched. “I think we may have a long wait,” said Holmes. “Let’s be thankful at least that it’s not raining.”

Our wait, however, was not too long. It ended abruptly and without warning as the garden gate swung open and a small, fast figure ran swiftly up the path. We watched as it dodged reflection of the light and disappeared into the black shadow of the house.

There followed a long pause, during which we held our breath. Then a gentle creaking came to our ears, the sound of a window being opened.

The noise ceased and there was silence. The man must have made it inside the house.

Through the blind of another window, we glimpsed the flash of a lantern.

“Let’s get over there,” whispered Lestrade. “We’ll catch him as soon as he climbs out.”

But before we could move, the man re-emerged. In the glow of the light, we saw he had something under his arm. He glanced around, seemingly reassured by the silence, then turned his back on us and laid down the object. The next moment, we heard a sharp tap, followed by a clatter.

The man was so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t hear our footsteps as we crept across the lawn toward him. Like a tiger, Holmes leapt on the man’s back. Lestrade and I seized his wrists and the handcuffs were fastened. Turning him over, we saw the furious features of the man in the photograph.

Yet Holmes wasn’t paying attention to our prisoner—he was squatting on the path, carefully examining the remains of the object the man had stolen from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, identical to the other ones and also broken into fragments.

Carefully, Holmes held up each shard to the light, but they looked no different to any other shattered plaster.

Just then, the front door opened and the owner of the house, a smiling, fat figure, stepped out.

“Mr. Josiah Brown, I presume,” said Holmes.

“Indeed, and you, I take it, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I received your note by express messenger and locked every door as you advised. I’m glad to see you’ve got the rascal. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?”

We politely declined, as Lestrade was anxious to get his captive to a police cell. Within a few minutes, our cab had been called and we were on our way back to London. The prisoner refused to say a word, but simply glared at us. At the police station, a search of his clothing revealed nothing, except for some money and a long, sheathed knife with blood on its handle.

“My informant knows all these fellows,” said Lestrade. “We’ll soon put a name to him. You’ll find my Mafia theory will turn out to be right in the end. All the same, I’m obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for helping us catch him tonight. I confess I don’t understand it all yet.”

“There are one or two loose ends that we’ll need to tie up before the case is solved,” said Holmes. “If you would come once more to my rooms at six o’clock tomorrow, I shall explain it all to you. You’ll see that this case includes some features that make it quite unique in the history of crime. Watson, if you ever decide to write up any more of my adventures, this one might make a really good story for your collection.”

When we met again the following evening, Lestrade arrived with some new information concerning our prisoner—new to him, anyway. The man’s name, it turned out, was Beppo, second name unknown.

A notorious scoundrel within London’s Italian community, Beppo had once been a skilful sculptor, but he had fallen into a life of crime and had been in jail twice, once for theft and once, as we’d already heard, for stabbing a fellow Italian.

As to why he was destroying busts of Napoleon, he refused to say. However, the police discovered that the busts might well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in this kind of work during his time at Gelder & Co.

Holmes listened politely to all of this, but I could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I sensed a mixture of uneasiness and anticipation beneath his calm exterior.

A moment later, we heard footsteps on the stairs and an elderly, red-faced man came in. He had an old bag with him, which he placed on the table.

“Is there a Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” the man asked.

My friend bowed and smiled. “You are Mr. Sandford of Reading, I suppose?”

“That’s me. I’m sorry I’m a little late, but there was a delay on the train to Paddington. You wrote to me about a bust I own?”

“I did.”

“You offered me ten pounds for it. Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“I must say, I was very surprised by your letter, sir, as I could not imagine how you knew I had such a bust.”

“The explanation is simple. Mr. Harding of Harding Brothers told me he sold you their last copy and he gave me your address.”

“Oh, and did he tell you what I paid for it?”

“He did not.”

“I see. Well, as I am an honest man, I should inform you that I only paid fifteen shillings for the bust. I think you ought to know that before I take ten pounds from you.”

“Your honesty is admirable, Mr. Sandford, but I named the price and I intend to stick to it.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust with me, as you asked.” He opened his bag, and for the first time we were presented with an intact version of the bust.

After our visitor left with his money, Holmes took a clean white cloth from a drawer and laid it over the table. He placed the newly acquired bust in the middle of the cloth, then picked up a stick and struck Napoleon a sharp blow to the top of his head. The bust broke into fragments, and Holmes looked through the shattered remains.

A moment later, with a triumphant shout, he held up one of the shards, in which there was a round, dark object.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “may I introduce you to the black pearl of the Borgias.”

Lestrade and I sat in silence for a moment, then we both started to clap our hands, like an audience after the climax of a drama. Holmes gave a little bow.

“That’s the Borgia pearl?” cried Lestrade. “The one that’s been missing for more than a year?”

“The very one,” said Holmes. “As you know, it’s the most famous pearl in the world, owned by the Prince of Colonna. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by its disappearance from the prince’s bedroom, and the failure of the police to recover it. At the time, we suspected the princess’s maid. She had a brother in London, but we failed to find any evidence connecting either of them to the crime.

“The maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and I have no doubt that this Pietro, who was murdered two nights ago, was her brother. I looked up the dates in my archive of old newspapers and it turns out the pearl disappeared two days before the arrest of Beppo at the workshop of Gelder & Co., an event that took place at the very moment when these busts were being made.

“Now do you see how it all connects? Beppo was probably Pietro’s accomplice in the theft of the pearl, and then he stole it from him. So Beppo had the pearl, but at the same time he was being chased by the police for another crime. He made for the factory where he worked, knowing he only had a few minutes to hide this valuable jewel before they arrested him.

“Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. Beppo, a talented workman, quickly made an opening in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches, closed up the hole. It was an excellent hiding place—no one could possibly find it.

“But Beppo was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment, and during that time the six Napoleons were sold to customers across London. The busts were identical, and he had no way of telling which one contained his treasure except by smashing them open. Even shaking them would tell him nothing, because the plaster was wet when he dropped in the pearl and so the pearl probably got stuck to it—which is, in fact, what happened.

“Beppo didn’t give up. With the help of a cousin who works at Gelder & Co., he found out the names of the shops that had bought the busts—Harrison’s Art and Antiques and Harding Brothers. He managed to get a job at Harrison’s, and that way tracked down three of the Napoleons. The pearl wasn’t in any of them.

“Then he turned his attention to Harding Brothers. Through one of their Italian employees, he was able to discover where the other three busts had gone. First on his list was Mr. Horace Harker. He was followed there by Pietro Venucci, his former accomplice. They fought and Beppo killed him.”

“If Pietro knew Beppo, why carry his photograph?” I asked.

“As a way of tracing him. He could show people the photograph of Beppo and ask if they had seen him. After the murder, I calculated that Beppo would probably want to speed up his operations, fearing that the police would try harder to find him. I knew by this time he was looking for something inside the busts, since he carried it to a garden overlooked by a streetlamp, but I wasn’t yet certain it was the pearl.

“Of course, he may have found what he was looking for in Harker’s bust. He had a one-in-three chance of striking lucky, which meant there was still a reasonable possibility that he hadn’t.

“If the Harker bust proved empty, he was bound to target the Chiswick one next, as it was closer to London. I warned the occupants of the house to expect him, and then along we went, with very happy results. By this time, I knew he was seeking the Borgia pearl—the name of the murdered man linked one event to the other. There remained just one more bust—the Reading one—and I knew the pearl had to be in there. I bought it from the owner, and here it lies.”

“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you solve many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t remember a more brilliant demonstration of your powers of deduction than this. We’re not jealous of you at the Metropolitan Police. No, sir, we’re proud of you, and if you were to come down to our headquarters tomorrow, I guarantee there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be proud to shake your hand.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” He quickly looked away, but not before I saw a flush rising in his pale cheeks, and I knew he had been moved by Lestrade’s words.

But when he turned to us again, he showed the familiar face of the cool, practical detective. “Put the pearl in the safe for now, Watson,” he said. “Goodbye, Lestrade. And if any little problem comes your way, you know I’m always happy to offer you whatever help I can.”