We arrived at a large house in Chiswick, and Holmes directed our cab to wait around the corner. The family must have gone to bed because the house was dark except for a light in the front hall, which shone a small circle of light on the doorstep. Holmes, Lestrade, and I crouched in the shadow of the fence that separated the grounds from the street.
"We may be here for a while," whispered Holmes.
But soon the garden gate swung open, and a dark figure rushed up the path. We heard him open a window and watched his progress through the house as he uncovered his lantern in each room.
"Let's nab him as he climbs out the window," said Lestrade.
Before we could move, the man came down the path, carrying something white under his arm. Turning his back to us, he laid the object on the doorstep and gave it a sharp tap. The man was so intent on his task that he never heard us sneaking up behind him.
In an instant we had him in handcuffs.
"It's the man in the photograph!" I said to Holmes. But he was squatting on the doorstep, examining what remained of the fifth bust of Napoleon.
At this point the door opened, and the house's owner emerged.
"Mr. Brown?" said Holmes.
"Yes," said the man, "and you must be Sherlock Holmes. I got your letter and did exactly as you said. We locked all the bedroom doors and pretended we were asleep. Now won't you come in for some refreshment?"
"No, I'm afraid it's late. We must escort this prisoner to the police station," said Holmes.
I summoned the cab and the four of us climbed in. The prisoner said nothing during the entire ride.
As we left Lestrade and his prisoner at Scotland Yard, Holmes said, "Come to Baker Street around six o'clock tomorrow, Lestrade, and I'll show you what a truly unusual crime this is."
The three of us met again the next evening. Lestrade had not been able to get any information from the prisoner, but Inspector Hill, the expert on the Italian Quarter, had identified him as Beppo, last name unknown.
Although Holmes did not say anything, he seemed to be excited about something. A moment later the doorbell rang and an elderly man appeared at our door.
"Mr. Sandeford of Reading?" said Holmes.
The man nodded and removed a bust of Napoleon from the shoulder bag he was carrying. "You wrote that you wanted to buy this for ten pounds," he said to Holmes. "I think you should know that my wife paid less than a pound for it."
"That doesn't bother me; I am so eager to have this particular bust." Holmes handed Mr. Sandeford a piece of paper. "Please sign this. It simply says that you transfer every possible right you had in the bust to me. Now here is your money and I wish you good evening."
When our visitor had departed, Holmes took a white cloth and laid it on the table. Then he placed the bust in the center of the cloth and struck it with his riding crop. The bust shattered and Holmes bent eagerly over the fragments. With a shout of triumph, he held up a fragment that contained a round, dark object.
"Gentlemen!" he cried. "Let me introduce you to the black pearl of Italy—the most famous pearl in the world."
Lestrade and I were silent for a moment and then we burst into applause. A flush of color sprang to Holmes' pale cheeks, and he bowed to us.
"I have traced the pearl," said Holmes, "from the princess of Colonna's bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it disappeared, to this bust manufactured by Gelder and Company. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation when the pearl vanished and the vain efforts of the London police to recover it. The police consulted me about the case, but I was unable to solve it."
"Wasn't the princess' maid a suspect?" asked Lestrade.
"Yes," said Holmes. "She was an Italian woman with a brother in London, but we failed to find anything suspicious about their activities."
Holmes explained that the maid's name was Lucretia Venucci. When Holmes heard that the man killed on the journalist's doorstep was Pietro Venucci, he suspected that Pietro was the maid's brother. Looking through his old newspapers, Holmes was able to determine that the pearl was stolen two days before Beppo was arrested at Gelder and Company.
"At the very time these busts were being made!" Holmes said triumphantly.
"But how does Beppo tie into the theft of the pearl?" I asked.
"Beppo may have stolen the pearl from Pietro Venucci," said Holmes. "Or he may have been working with Pietro, or he may have been the go-between for Pietro and his sister, Lucretia. It doesn't matter. What's important is that Beppo had the pearl when the police were pursuing him and he knew he had to hide it."
Beppo had run into the sculpture factory where he worked. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo made a small hole in the wet plaster, inserted the pearl, and covered the hole.
"But Beppo went to prison for a year," I said. "How did he find the six busts when he was released?"
Holmes explained that Beppo used a cousin employed at Gelder to learn which shops had bought the busts. Then Beppo managed to find employment with Morse Hudson and was able to track down three of the busts.
When Beppo failed to find the pearl in any of the Morse Hudson busts, he investigated those sold by Harding Brothers. With the help of an Italian employee, he learned where those three busts had gone. He was followed to the journalist's house by Venucci, who blamed him for the loss of the pearl. In their ensuing scuffle, Beppo killed Venucci on the doorstep.
"If the culprits knew each other," said Lestrade, "why was Venucci carrying Beppo's photograph?"
"In case Venucci needed to ask anyone, 'Have you seen this man?'" said Holmes.
After the journalist's bust was destroyed, there were only two left. Holmes decided that Beppo would try the one in Chiswick first because it was closer than Reading.
"Last night I sent a letter by express messenger to warn Mr. Brown in Chiswick," said Holmes.
"When we failed to find the pearl there, I knew it must be in the last bust, and here it is."
"Well, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we're very proud of you, and if you come down tomorrow there's not a man who wouldn't be glad to shake your hand."
"Thank you!" said Holmes, turning away from Lestrade.
At Lestrade's words, the great detective seemed more affected by emotion than I'd ever seen him.
But a moment later, he was the cold, practical thinker once again.
"Good-bye, Lestrade," he said. "When any little problem comes your way, I'll be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two about its solution."