THE ADVENTURE OF BEPPO VS. NAPOLEON (A FIGHT IN SIX ROUNDS)
OUR NEXT LITTLE ADVENTURE BEGAN AFTER, I SHOULD think, five nights of my magical experimentations.
Or eight. Was it eight? Those days are such a haze, I cannot recall. Though the true effects of Xantharaxes exposure had yet to trouble me, I was already feeling the early signs. Most notably, that any sleep found while wandering in the realm of mystic dreams can hardly be considered sleep at all. I stumbled into our sitting room, eyes black and bagged, moustache drooping, with only one thought on my mind.
Tea.
I needed tea.
And I needed to remember. The other problem with obtaining one’s magical education through dreaming is this: the lessons are dreams. And—like any others—they seem so vital and important while one slumbers, only to flee the instant wakeful reason begins to chase them.
My dream the night before had been utterly preposterous. I dreamed that the telegraph had been perfected and miniaturized to the point that everybody could carry one in their pocket. They had no wires and yet their transmissive powers were so vast, one could even send pictures. Can you imagine such a world? Military mishaps would be a thing of the past, each commander in constant contact with all his units. How could there be civil strife, religious discord, even crime, if all humanity could instantaneously be informed and turn the combined weight of our problem-solving capacity against them? But no… In my dream, people mostly used these miracle devices to send each other updates on what they’d eaten for breakfast.
Preposterous.
As I fumbled about making tea, I became vaguely aware that Lestrade was sitting in one of our chairs. He and Holmes were discussing something and he had—I think—made some greeting that I’d ignored. As I began to stammer one out, Lestrade noted, “Are you quite well, Dr. Watson? You look…”
“He says he has a cold,” Holmes said—which indeed had been the excuse I’d given him. “But to answer your earlier question, Lestrade, I think the strangest thing I’ve ever seen was the blind cobbler of Bangladesh. Fascinating fellow! He’d touch your forehead, you see, then have some sort of epileptic fit. When he emerged he’d run to his bench and start feverishly assembling you a new pair of shoes. Not just any shoes, mind, but the absolutely perfect pair for you. Right color. Right fit. Just perfect. And for the service provided, I found his rates to be most reasonable.”
“Ha! This is nothing!” Lestrade scoffed. “As a child, I beheld wonders stranger than this. Why, I once met a dolphin stockbroker!”
“Yes. He lived in a large glass tank. Every Tuesday, his trainer would show him the financial section of the paper, turning each page until the dolphin got excited. Finally, Chip-Chip—that was the dolphin—Chip-Chip would surge to the top of his tank and shoot just a few drops of water from his blowhole. The stock on which these drops landed would unfailingly return twenty percent within three months.”
“No!”
“Yes. Always. Twenty percent. Three months.”
“Well… that is pleasantly outré, I must admit,” Holmes conceded. “It does not have that element of the grotesque that I treasure, but… I say, Watson, how about you? What is the queerest thing you’ve ever seen?”
I let the question roll back and forth through my foggy mind as my tea stewed to a pleasing tar-like quality. Finally, I mumbled, “I once surprised a vampire and a wizard in my sitting room, discussing which was the most difficult thing to believe in: dolphins or shoe salesmen. Does that qualify?”
Lestrade gave me a sour sort of look, designed to say that he did not think it should. And even if it did, the dolphin was still better. Yet Holmes’s face lit with admiration. “I say, Watson! That is fine! I hadn’t thought of it until now but… can you imagine the chain of events that must have occurred to bring such a moment about?”
“But—” Lestrade began.
“No, no! I have decided! Watson wins,” Holmes declared, but then his face broke into a mischievous little smirk and he added, “Unless, of course, this weird little case you’re bringing us can best it. What do you say, Lestrade? Tell us of this latest problem upsetting Scotland Yard!”
“It is a matter of no importance,” said Lestrade with a shrug, “but passing strange…”
“What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”
“Very well, stop shaking me! It began three days ago at the shop of Mr. Morse Hudson in the Kennington Road.”
“Aigh!” Holmes cried. “Any relation to our Mrs. Hudson?”
“No. Hudson is a common name.”
“Oh, I know, but I still get a fright every time I hear it. So what about this Morse Hudson fellow?”
“He sells pictures and statues—fripperies for the middle class. Nothing special. Mr. Hudson’s assistant was watching the shop but had stepped into the back for a moment when he heard a loud crash. He ran into the shop and found that one of the statues had been broken—a plaster bust of Napoleon, worth eleven shillings or so.”
“That was all?” I asked.
“That was all,” said Lestrade. “There was nobody in the shop, so the assistant ran out into the street to see if he could spot the vandal, but saw no one of particular interest. The case was reported to the neighborhood constable.”
Holmes shifted in his chair, gave Lestrade an apologetic look and confided, “Well… I was hoping for better.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it got better the next night. You see, also on Kennington Road, just a few hundred yards down from Hudson’s shop, lives Dr. Barnicot. The doctor has something of a mania for Napoleon—worships the little blighter.”
“Ah! Perhaps it is he who smashed the bust,” Holmes volunteered. “Perhaps he felt such cheap replications did no great justice to his idol. His love of Napoleon makes him a possible suspect!”
“No,” said Lestrade evenly. “It makes him the second victim. You see, Dr. Barnicot had bought two copies of the same bust from Hudson’s shop, some months ago.”
“Two?”
“Yes, one for his home on Kennington Road and one for his surgery, which is in Lower Brixton. Yesterday morning, he awoke to find he’d been burgled, the thief gaining entry through the window of his upstairs study. Barnicot has a successful practice, so his home contains several items of value. Nonetheless, only one object had been taken.”
“The bust of Napoleon?” I asked. Lord knows I wanted nothing else than to get my cup of tea and retreat back to my waiting bed, but I knew Lestrade would not have brought this case to our attention if my guess had not been right. And when one thought about it, the case was already a strange one. No great harm had been done, perhaps, but the motive for such bizarre actions was mysterious and compelling.
“The bust of Napoleon,” Lestrade confirmed, with a slight smile—enough to let us know he was smiling, reserved enough to hide his maw of fangs. “It was found just six houses down, in the garden of an empty home, smashed to fragments.”
“That is strange,” said Holmes.
“Yes, Dr. Barnicot thought so, too. He was even more of that opinion when he arrived at his surgery at noon yesterday to find his second bust had received the same treatment.”
“What?” said Holmes and I together.
“Well… not stolen, per se. Smashed where it stood, on a decorative table as one enters the surgery.”
Holmes pushed back his chair and gave a low whistle. “My, my… Some sort of petty burglar who’s got a personal grudge against Napoleon?”
“It is unlikely someone would have a personal grudge against Napoleon,” I noted.
“Perhaps the man is an ex-soldier and blames Napoleon for the death of his comrades.”
“The war against Napoleon ended nearly seventy years ago, Holmes.”
“Really?” said my friend, bunching his brow. “Seems like only yesterday…”
“The Battle of Waterloo was fought in 1815. For your supposition to be correct, we’d have to be looking for a ninety-year-old cat burglar with a military background.”
“Ye gods, I hope it’s true!” said Holmes, leaping to his feet. “I hope he still wears one of those feathered shakos! Oh, what a fellow! Can you imagine him?”
“Holmes, control yourself,” Lestrade urged. “I don’t think you’ll be finding any nonagenarian house-breakers. I think it is much more likely we are dealing with a simple madman. Don’t you agree, Doctor?”
“Hmmm… I suppose we might be looking for a man who suffers from monomania—the fixation with a certain person, item or idea. It is possible the subject has some hatred for Napoleon, or that the sight of his face brings back some unhappy memory, such that he cannot stand to leave an image of him intact.”
“There you are,” said Lestrade. “Solved.”
But I shook my head. “No… You said one of the statues was upstairs. That means our man could not have seen it from the street. This fellow knows where his targets lie. There is method in this.”
“Brilliant! Wonderful!” cried Holmes. “Lestrade, we are on tenterhooks! You must keep us informed as the investigation progresses.”
“What? No, no. There will be no progress. I told you about the case because I know your taste for strange occurrences, not because Scotland Yard intends to waste its time on a case that amounts to no more than three cheap statues and one window latch. We are not investigating.”
And that is where the matter came to rest.
* * *
Until seven o’clock the next morning. Unlike the previous day, I found myself awake and alert. I had not partaken of a Xantharaxes injection the night before. Not because of any moral rectitude, of course, but simply because I’d fallen asleep before I got the chance. At least I was fresh and ready when a red-faced messenger boy charged up our stairs and delivered a telegram, which read:
NOPE. NO. I WAS WRONG. WE ARE
INVESTIGATING. 131 PITT STREET, KENSINGTON.
COME INSTANTLY. LESTRADE
Alighting from our cab an hour or so later, Holmes and I beheld that familiar gaggle of chattering constables which indicates something very serious has occurred. The first victim was apparent. Just under the streetlamp, by the railings of no. 131, lay a pile of plaster fragments that—I had to assume—had recently borne the visage of the terror of Europe. On the steps to the front door of the house lay a dead man.
Just…
Really dead.
He’d been bludgeoned about the head with such violence that the impressions of the device used to murder him were quite clear. Perfectly round indentations spotted his face and scalp—most of them deeper on one side than the other. They were too large to indicate the head of a regular hammer.
“It appears likely the victim was bludgeoned to death with a walking stick,” said Lestrade, striding up to me.
“What? No! A walking stick? Why does everyone assume…? That is not a weapon!”
“Tut, tut, Watson,” Holmes remonstrated. “It is the single most British weapon anyone can name.”
“Even if it were, the indentations it left would be more rounded—spherical. These have a flat bottom, you see? The weapon that made these was cylindrical. I think what we are looking for is some sort of wooden mallet or maul.”
“Oh…” said Holmes with visible disappointment. “That’s not very British at all.”
Even more disturbing than the victim’s cranial trauma was… well… the rest of him. His head lay on the top step, with his body sprawled down the stairs below. I saw no more of the cylindrical markings, yet his torso, arms and legs had suffered repeated blunt trauma. If it hadn’t been for the lack of shoe marks on his clothing, I’d have thought someone had been jumping up and down on him for several minutes. So many bones had been broken that the shape of the victim’s body corresponded with disgusting exactitude to the shape of the stairs. Near the victim’s outstretched right hand lay a bone-handled knife.
“Ah-ha!” Holmes cried, pointing one accusatory finger at it. “The murder weapon!”
Lestrade gave him a resentful look.
“No, Holmes,” I said. “It looks as if he was holding it.”
Holmes made a queer face. “So he was walking up to this man’s door with a knife in his hand? What do we think, some sort of pre-dawn knife salesman?”
“Well, that’s one possibility. Any idea who he was, Lestrade?”
The question was met with another of his dour little shrugs and a somewhat unhelpful, “Italian, by the look of him. See the cut of his suit? Very nice, despite the workman’s quality and the wear. And look at his hair—jet black and so slick it looks like he’s been combing it with butter. His pockets were nearly empty. He had a screwdriver, a picture, and some sort of pulpy white mess I can only assume was an apple. He had no wallet or identifying papers of any kind.”
“Because the murderer took them?” Holmes wondered.
“Possibly,” said Lestrade. “Either that or because he was up to the kind of business where he didn’t wish to be identified.”
“You say he had a picture in his pocket?” I asked. “A picture of what?”
“A fellow Italian, from the look of him,” said Lestrade, producing a bent and battered photo from his notebook and handing it to me. The subject of the photograph was male and rough-looking, with a jutting, simian mouth and lower jaw. His brow ridges were prominent, but his forehead sloped back to a shock of black hair that rather resembled a cheap wig. The front of his face was adorned with a large black moustache that had been clearly—just clearly—glued on.
“Italian?” I cried. “No, no, no! This is a chimpanzee! A shaved chimpanzee!”
“Well, you said it, not me,” Lestrade replied, raising his eyebrows in that you-know-it-and-I-know-it-but-it’susually-not-said-in-public way.
“You misunderstand me,” I said. “This is an actual ape, I am sure of it.”
“Quiet, Doctor!” Lestrade hissed. “Some of the constables have Italian ancestry—”
“That should have nothing to do with this primate!”
“He’s only joking!” Lestrade called to the assembled constables. “Very funny, Doctor. Now come along inside, won’t you? I think you and Warlock should meet the owner of the latest shattered bust, don’t you?”
And so we did. Just inside the door, we encountered a slim young man in his late twenties, leaning against a wall and looking positively green. When Lestrade introduced Holmes and me, our host looked shakily up, announced, “Buh—bhn. Uh… Buh…” and teetered dangerously backwards.
“This man requires medical aid!” I cried. Pausing only to fling my new patient into the nearest armchair, I dashed to a side table, seized a brandy decanter, sloshed a healthy dose into the first glass I saw, then ran back, shouting, “Here: medical aid.”
He gazed at it for a moment, took the glass in his trembling hands, and sipped.
“More,” I said.
He took a healthy gulp. Then came that medically questionable moment where we all waited to see which it would affect first—his wits or his stomach. Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Ahh… thank you.”
“Pish, tosh,” I scoffed. “What else are doctors for? Now, when you feel up to it, why don’t you tell us who you are?”
“I am Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate—a reporter, by trade. By God, to think of it… I spend my life chasing stories like this, but as soon as one happens to me, I find myself so rattled that… well… I wouldn’t be surprised if today’s evening edition finds this story in every newspaper in London except mine!”
“Oh dear,” said Holmes. “Before we go, you must tell us which paper it is, so we can all make sure not to buy it.”
Our host gave Warlock a less-than-generous look.
“What? Sounds like it will be missing the day’s best story,” Holmes said, with a defensive sniff.
“And just what is that story, Mr. Harker?” I prompted.
“I was up very late last night, working on an article. Some time after three in the morning, I heard a noise. I thought it came from within the house, so I was very alarmed. I grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace and went down to have a look.”
“Very wise,” said Holmes. “If it had been a misbehaving fire-demon, you could have poked him.”
“Holmes!”
“It’s one of the only weapons they fear, Watson.”
I rolled my eyes. “And did you find a misbehaving fire-demon, Mr. Harker?”
“No,” he said, looking somewhat mystified. “Nothing seemed to be out of place at all. But I did hear small noises coming from the hallway, so I made my way slowly towards it. I heard the gentle click of my front door closing, and then…”
He paused and his eyes went wide with fear. “Oh, and then! A terrible screech! A yell of alarm! The sounds of a fight! I can hardly describe it! Yells! Shrieks! Thumping and thumping and thumping and screaming! I was only on the other side of the door, gentlemen, but I could not open it. I was paralyzed with fear! Well, finally the noises abated and all I could hear was gentle moaning. I gathered my courage and peeped out. There I discovered… well, you saw him.”
“Moaning, you say? So he was still alive when you found him?” I asked.
“For a moment,” said Mr. Harker, nodding. “When he saw me he said, ‘What a fool I was! The knife was in my hand. The apple, in my pocket.’ Then his eyes rolled up, he coughed out a great gout of blood, and died! I ran back to my study and grabbed my police whistle—”
“Wait now,” I interjected. “You are a reporter, not a constable. Why would you have a police whistle?”
“My job takes me often to the Liverpool docks. I keep the whistle always on my person, in case someone should try to force himself upon my virtue.”
I gave him a questioning look.
“Clearly, you have never been to Liverpool,” our host blustered. “Everybody there ought to have one. Anyway, I opened the door and just blew and blew and blew the whistle until a constable came and then… I don’t know… I think I’ve just been sitting here ever since.”
“You seem quite shaken, Mr. Harker,” I said. “It is probable you will require further aid. Holmes, grab that bottle.”
“No, no!” Harker cried. “I must focus! I must gather my wits and write the story, only… by God, I’ve no idea how to start! I’ve no mastery over myself.” He stared helplessly at his own shaking hands.
“Hmm, yes, I see,” I said. “My training leads me to suspect that perhaps one more glass of medical aid and a quick nap might be required before that mastery is restored. But first, tell us about the bust. When did you discover it was missing?”
“Not until one of the constables mentioned it. There has been a spate of similar trouble, from what I gather. Honestly, I hadn’t noticed it was gone.”
Harker gulped and wiped some of the sweat from his brow. “In the corridor upstairs. Just outside the door to my study. Egad, when I think of that murderer being mere inches from where I sat working! Why, I don’t know—I don’t know—”
“Holmes, could you…?”
“Yup! Medical aid!” Warlock said, popping a full glass of brandy into Horace Harker’s grasp.
“Now, Mr. Harker,” I continued, “do you remember where you got that bust?”
“Yes. I got it at Harding Brothers—just two doors down from the High Street Station. I just needed something for the hallway, you know, and it was cheap.”
The young man was beginning to look rather green again, and his eyes rolled back and forth with nervous energy.
“Lestrade, does the official force have any further questions for this man?” I asked.
Lestrade shook his head.
“Good,” I said. “Now come on, Mr. Harker. One more glass of medical aid and then it’s off to bed with you.”
“But…”
“No, no. Doctor’s orders. Come on, Holmes, help me get him up to his room, won’t you?”
Three minutes later, Horace Harker was sprawled unconscious across his bed.
“What do you make of it?” I asked, as we descended the stairs.
“By the gods, it’s wonderful!” said Holmes.
Lestrade was less enthusiastic. “It seems to me we are looking for an Italian—probably accustomed to violence—who kills by hammering his victims, or jumping on them. Oh! I’ve just remembered! We had such a case, a few years back. A pair of brothers, as I recall. Plumbers. But most of their violent urges were directed against turtles and crabs they found in the sewers.”
“How do you intend to proceed?” I asked.
“I have sent a message to Inspector Hill. He frequently works amongst London’s Italian population, so I was hoping he could help identify the victim. I thought I might show him the photo, too, but what is the point? They look so similar, it could be any of them.”
“Any chimp, you mean?”
“Keep your voice down!”
I sighed. “Well, if you don’t feel it will be helpful to you, Lestrade, might I borrow that photograph? I may have a use for it as I track down the busts.”
“You’re going after the busts?” said Lestrade, incredulously.
“Why not? They seem to be the unexplained bond holding all three cases together. We know that Morse Hudson is not only the first victim, he is a seller of such statuary. I thought Holmes and I might go round and see where he got them. That is, if you think it’s worth our time to investigate, Warlock.”
“Are you joking?” Holmes shot back. “If I follow your reasoning correctly, Watson, it seems you are forming the opinion that someone has trained an anti-Napoleon murder-monkey! Of course we are investigating! Ye gods, I’ve lived two hundred and fifty years and there’s every possibility this may be my very best day!”
* * *
Morse Hudson was a red-faced, small-minded tradesman of the sort that forms the very backbone of English mercantilism. His opinion of who had smashed his cheap plaster bust of a dead French emperor was as strident as it was predictable.
“It was red republicans, sir, you may count upon it! Socialists! Anarchists!”
“So… let me get this straight, Mr. Hudson,” I said. “In an attempt to destroy our system of social order, ‘red republicans’ walked into your shop during business hours and destroyed just one statue?”
“But they won’t win!” he confirmed, waving a pudgy finger in my face.
“No, I don’t see how they could,” I agreed.
“A thousand tiny victories, such as these! A million slight acts of disobedience and sedition!”
“Why, soon we should have no plaster statuary of our greatest national enemies at all!”
He gave me the sort of look that gave me to understand he might be beginning to realize I was making fun of him. I changed my tactics immediately.
“Tell me, Mr. Hudson, do you make the busts yourself?”
“What? Of course not! I am a merchant, sir! I would not dirty my hands with such labors! My place in life is to buy things from one person and sell them to another. As such, I am entitled to live in a large house with plenty of servants. Everybody knows this.”
“Do you recall who did make those particular busts?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do I? No! I do! It was Gelder’s place in Church Street, Stepney. I recall I bought a batch of three from him, oh… must be a year ago, now. Sold two fairly quickly but the third stayed on the shelf.”
“Until it was destroyed by ‘red republicans’ trying to undermine our social order?”
“But they won’t win!”
“Of course not. One more thing, Mr. Hudson: do you know this… um… fellow?”
I held up the picture we’d found in the dead man’s pocket only an hour or so before. Morse Hudson squinted at it, puffed some air through his pendulous lips and opined, “I don’t know, some Italian. Oh! Wait! I do know him! That’s Beppo!”
“Beppo?” said Holmes and I together. My expression—I am sure—was one of extreme skepticism. Holmes’s was that of pure joy.
“Yes, yes! He comes around the shop sometimes and makes himself useful. Oh, we love Beppo! Such a happy, funny little fellow!”
“Little?” I said. “I don’t suppose you mean he’s short, with overly long arms?”
“Longest you’ve ever seen! And a mute, you know. Tragic. But he makes it known what he wants. Works all day on whatever we set him to and all he ever wants in exchange is a shilling or a few pieces of fruit. ‘Beppo, fetch down that reproduction Vermeer,’ we’ll say, and he hauls himself up to the highest shelf and takes it down for us. By god, he’s good at climbing! Handy with a hammer, too. Always smiling at us with those funny lips of his. Atrocious teeth, though.”
“Mr. Hudson, has it ever occurred to you that your part-time worker, Beppo, might be a chimpanzee?”
“What? No, no, no. Italian! He’s got that black moustache, doesn’t he?”
“Do you know his last name, Mr. Hudson?”
“Oh, I don’t think he has one. Italians often don’t, you know.”
“And when was the last time you saw Beppo?”
Morse Hudson pursed his lips and considered. “Just the day before the bust was smashed, I suppose. Yes he’d been in helping out for an hour or two. He seemed distracted, though. Kept leafing through our sales books in that funny little way of his. My assistant, Jacob, said he saw Beppo carrying one of the books towards the back window, but when I looked for it later, it was in its proper place.”
“I see… Well, thank you, Mr. Hudson. You have been most helpful. Good luck with the anarchists.”
“And you as well, sir! We won’t let them win!”
“No, indeed.”
“Rule Britannia!”
“As you say.”
On the way down the steps, Holmes leaned in towards me and whispered, “Really? Italians don’t have last names?”
“Oh, they emphatically do, Holmes. Great, sweeping, classically beautiful ones with lots of vowels. But do you know who doesn’t have them?”
“Battle monkeys?”
“Well, I was going to say ‘apes’ but… yes.”
* * *
Mr. Bertram Gelder of Gelder & Co., Stepney was a saggy sort of fellow. He had saggy brown hair that sagged over saggy eyes with great bags under them that sagged onto the saggy cheeks he tried to hide with a saggy moustache. As we entered his shop, he blinked at us and wondered, “I don’t suppose you’re here to buy something?”
“Er… no,” I told him.
“Thought not,” he sighed.
“We were rather hoping you might help us with a question about busts of Napoleon. You make them here, do you not?”
“Indeed.”
“Could you tell me how?”
He shrugged. “It’s fairly simple. We’ve got a copy of Devine’s Head of Napoleon, done as a mold, in two pieces. You fill both sides with plaster, then when they’re dry, you glue them together with extra plaster, sand down the seam, and you’re done.”
“Have you ever sold any to Morse Hudson?”
“Not for a year or so.”
“And Harding Brothers, of Kensington?”
“Yes, but I haven’t had any lately. I usually have the Italians whip up about a dozen a year, but it’s been some time.”
“Ah, so you work with a lot of Italians, do you?”
“If you need works of art produced quickly, they’re rather good. Oh, I mean… nothing compared to a proper British tradesman, you understand, but…” Gelder gazed at the floor a moment, trying to muster up some national pride. But no. Truth welled up in his heart and crushed whatever jingoistic sentence he was attempting to concoct. “…rather good.”
I showed him the picture we’d gotten from Lestrade and asked, “I wonder if you know this fellow.”
His response was instant. “That’s Beppo! He’s not supposed to come back here!”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Well, there was that whole mix-up with Benito Marinetti, last year. A man got stabbed! And… well, I suppose none of it was Beppo’s fault, really. But he’s always going about with Marinetti. The two were almost inseparable. They always worked together, and Beppo was fiercely protective of the old man.”
“Meaning Benito Marinetti? What can you tell me about him?”
“He was a nice enough old fellow. Used to live in America. From what I hear, he’d been an organ-grinder in Philadelphia, as well as Venice.”
Holmes gave a scandalized gasp. “Organ-grinder? Is that some kind of demon?”
Gelder just gave another of his droopy little shrugs and muttered, “I always thought he made sausages. He was a good craftsman. Never drank, like some of the others. Strange, though. Whenever he met another Italian, he refused to talk to the man until he’d pulled back the other fellow’s shirt and had a look at his chest.”
“Odd choice,” I noted.
“He was in trouble with a gang of theirs, from what I gather. Call themselves the Red Circle, or the Scarlet Ring, or something like it. I think he had something they wanted. That’s what all the fuss was about. A year ago, somebody came after Marinetti, right outside my shop. Usually everyone was afraid to give him trouble, because of Beppo, but Marinetti was alone that day. There was a fight. Benito Marinetti stabbed his assailant and fled in here. Well, I refused to shelter him, of course. I called the police and turned him right over.”
“And what happened?”
“The other fellow lived, so they gave Marinetti a year in prison.”
“A year? Seems a bit light for knifing a man, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, no, no. Knifing an Italian.”
I reeled back and stammered, “Oh. I suppose, I… I just didn’t realize how deeply this prejudice runs. Is that how everybody feels about Italians?”
“Why not?” asked Holmes. “It’s the same way you feel about Canadians.”
“Well yes, but that’s because they’re Canadian.”
Mr. Gelder gave a serious shake of his head and confirmed, “Oh no. We wouldn’t hire Canadians.”
“Hmmm,” I reflected, scratching my chin. “You say Benito Marinetti got a year’s imprisonment. And you haven’t sold any busts in that time? I wonder, is there any possibility he may have been released by now?”
“I’m not sure,” said Gelder. “We could ask the boys in the back, I suppose. Come on.”
He led us into his workshop where eight or nine Italian craftsmen were doing their utmost to remind everybody just who’d started the Renaissance. The army of back-room Botticellis went to their tasks with third-rate materials—plaster instead of marble, cheap wooden frames they constructed by hand—but the art they produced ranged from the attractive to the gobsmackingly gorgeous.
“Oh!” said Holmes, gazing about at the works around him. “The colors!”
“That’s just the problem!” Gelder shouted, and suddenly all the droop had gone out of him. It was replaced by a militant and familiar British zeal. “Too many damned colors! Look at this landscape painting of Castello Estense! Garbage! A red-stone fortress, surrounded by sunny vineyards? Ha! That is not a castle, sir! Chillingham! Now there’s a proper castle! Gray and wet, like a castle ought to be! These Italians have got it all wrong. And their food! So many tomatoes! So many herbs and spices! So light and yet so zesty! Where is the decorum, I ask you? Where is the restraint? They should learn from Britain! Yet they cannot fathom the simple truth: that proper cuisine is gray and wet!”
“Even their portraiture,” Gelder continued, gesturing angrily at one of the half-finished pictures on his back wall. “Too vibrant. Too energetic. It spoils the whole thing! With good, proper British paintings there’s always something in the subjects’ eyes, you know? A certain restrained propriety that lets you know that the soul that resides within is more…”
“Gray and wet?” Holmes volunteered.
“There you go! Yes! Exactly!” Gelder bellowed, then settled into a nearby corner to cry a bit.
Three minutes of interrogation gave us to understand that the local Italian position was that Benito Marinetti had been released from prison, but had not been seen since. Additionally, anybody with information as to his whereabouts might want to come forward and say so because they knew a number of very bad men with very big wallets who would readily pay for that information.
Now, at last, I was getting somewhere. “Mr. Gelder, is there a way to tell where the last batch of Napoleon busts was sent, before Mr. Marinetti was sent to prison?”
There was. A quick check of the books indicated that—in all likelihood—six such statues had been in the process of being made on the day of Marinetti’s knife-fight. Of these, three had gone to Morse Hudson, and three to Harding Brothers.
“Now we are getting somewhere, Holmes!” I said. “Quickly, we must hasten to Kensington!”
Holmes puffed with annoyance. “But, Watson, why?”
“To track down the two final busts.”
“We’re going to go somewhere else and talk to someone else and get more information and blah, blah, blah?”
“Well… yes.”
“I don’t want to.”
I gave him a hard look. “What do you mean you don’t want to?”
“Look, I don’t know if this is the sort of thing a gentleman is supposed to say, but…” He leaned in very close to me. “I want to fight a battle monkey! I’ve never done it before!”
I stared at him.
“Please, Watson? Please? I know I’m supposed to pay attention to all this sneaking about and clue-getting, but… Gads, all I can think about is fighting that monkey! Do you suppose it will be close?”
“No! You fight demons and sorcerers! I’ve no idea how a simple chimpanzee is supposed to hold his own against—”
“He’s got a hammer, Watson. Don’t forget.”
“You’ve got a demonic soul-blade!”
“Well, I still think it will be fun. And I’m losing my patience with all this driving about London, talking and talking! When do I get to fight a monkey?”
“Oh… very well. I suppose I can solve the whole thing with a couple of telegrams. Let’s head for home.”
“Yes, excellent! I’ll have some toast and soup and rest up for my monkey-battle!”
I suppose it was no worse than any other big game hunter’s desire to bag their first rhino. Nevertheless, I stopped by the fruit stand on the way home to purchase alternatives, should they be wanted. Once at Baker Street, I began a furious campaign of telegram writing while Holmes retired to his chamber to draw pictures of fierce apes with hammers fighting big-chinned, sword-swinging gentlemen of—ahem—unknown identity.
My first telegram went to Harding Brothers. I sat in agony for almost two hours before I had the reply. Hearing that their customers’ lives might be in danger, they happily provided the names and addresses of the gentlemen who had purchased the last two busts. I sent each of the purchasers a telegram. My final missive went to Lestrade, begging him to join us at our lodgings when the sun went down. We hadn’t long to wait, for my flurry of activity had taken most of the afternoon. Barely half an hour after sunset, he knocked on our door.
“What news, Lestrade?” I asked, as I ushered him in.
“Some,” he mumbled. “The dead man on Horace Harker’s doorstep has been identified. His name was Pietro Venucci, a Sicilian by birth, but he had spent much time in America. He’d recently arrived in London but was well known to the Italian community here. It seems he was a knifeman for the Mafia—that’s a little gang the Italians have. Bless me, they do try, though lord knows they will never match London’s gangs for toughness, fearfulness or organization.”
“Ha! Of course not,” I agreed.
“Recently, Venucci has been affiliated with a splinter faction called the Red Ring, or something like it. They’re an extremist Italian-nationalist secret society. Well… secret, I say, but Pietro Venucci had a red circle tattooed on his chest above his heart. Apparently it is required of all full members. So they must have a new definition of ‘secret’ I was previously unaware of.”
“And yet, it corroborates the story I’ve formed to explain this bizarre rash of crimes. It explains why Benito Marinetti checked the chests of every Italian he met.”
“Benito who?”
“I think I’ve figured the whole thing out, Lestrade. Let me tell you what I know.”
Holmes tilted his head to the side and said, “Eh? That’s not like you, Watson. Usually you make us wait until the end.”
“Well this time I’m not going to. It all begins with an organ-grinder, named Benito Marinetti, who worked with a chimpanzee named Beppo.”
“An organ-grinder?” said Lestrade quizzically.
“A kind of demon,” Holmes explained.
“Really?” Lestrade wondered. “Because most of my homes are underneath slaughter-houses and I’ve always thought—after they’ve taken the muscles of the cow for meat and the skins for leather—there must be somebody whose job it is—”
I cut him off. “Organ-grinder is carnival slang; it denotes an entertainer who works with a hand-cranked calliope and a trained primate. The man plays music while the monkey dances and begs the audience for coins.”
“I have heard of such things,” Lestrade reflected. “Yet, aren’t the monkeys usually quite small?”
I had to admit that they were and that I had no idea what a full-grown chimpanzee might be doing in such a role. Holmes was wiser. “Ha!” he scoffed. “Perhaps it might be easy to deny your pocket change to the average capuchin, but what if you knew he could snatch you up and throw you over the nearest fence?”
“Good point,” I admitted. “Organ-grinding was Mr. Marinetti’s trade in Italy and America yet, upon his arrival in England, he took new work, shaved his ape, stuck a false moustache on its face and passed him off as a fellow Italian.”
“That would never work,” said Lestrade.
“You’d be surprised,” I told him. “Now, why did Marinetti need to hide? Because he was in possession of an item that was sought by this Red Circle gang, or whatever they’re called. Unless I miss my guess, the item must be fairly small—probably no bigger than a man’s fist and possibly much smaller. What do you say, Lestrade, do you know of any items stolen roughly one year ago that are connected with Italy?”
Lestrade barely had to reflect at all before leaping to his feet and crying, “The Black Pearl of the Borgias! It went missing from the prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Hotel Dacre, just over a year ago. Suspicion fell on the princess’s maid—a girl named Lucretia—but nothing was ever proved.”
“Perhaps now it may be,” I said, smirking. “You see, one year ago, Benito Marinetti found himself in possession of a small item desired by the Red Ring. He was accosted outside Gelder & Co. and badly wounded his attacker with a knife. He knew he had only a matter of minutes before he was killed or taken into custody. What should he do with his treasure? He fled into the wholesaler’s where he saw just the expedient he needed: six freshly cast busts of Napoleon, drying in the molds. He thrust his treasure—probably the Borgia pearl—into the wet plaster before the constables came for him. Can it be coincidence that—just after Marinetti’s release from prison—busts of Napoleon started getting smashed all over London? And not just any busts! Holmes and I have traced every single one to the particular batch made at Gelder & Co. on the day that Benito Marinetti was arrested.”
“Only four have been smashed!” Lestrade cried. “Quickly, we must track down the last two busts!”
“Already done,” I told him. “Both were bought and subsequently sold by Harding Brothers, near Kensington High Street Station. One went to Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick. The other to Mr. Sandeford of Lower Grove Road, Reading. I have dispatched telegrams to both men, warning them to expect attempts on their busts, urging them not to confront any intruder as he is quite dangerous, and offering to purchase the busts if they will bring them to 221B Baker Street tomorrow morning.”
“Well done!” Lestrade crowed. “Have you had any answer to your inquiries?”
Just at that moment, the bell rang.
“I was about to say ‘no’ but perhaps I’d better hold my tongue until we see who is at the door.”
Sure enough, it was a messenger boy with a telegram from Mr. Sandeford, promising to hide his bust of Napoleon that night and bring it to Baker Street the next morning.
“Well, that simplifies matters,” I said. “It leaves only one bust vulnerable this evening. Gentlemen, I suggest we hurry to Chiswick and lie in wait outside the house of Mr. Josiah Brown.”
“Yes, perhaps we shall capture this Benito Marinetti,” said Lestrade.
“No, I shouldn’t think so. Marinetti has gone into hiding. Nobody has seen him since his release. He has a well-trained confederate who has been breaking into the targeted houses and smashing the busts.”
“And who is this well-trained confederate?” Lestrade wanted to know.
I handed him back the picture we’d taken from Pietro Venucci’s pocket only that morning. “His chimpanzee, Beppo.”
“But no,” said Lestrade. “This is just some random Italian fellow.”
“He’s not!” Holmes declared, in strident tones. “He’s an anti-Napoleon battle monkey! And he’s wonderful! And I’m going to fight him! Oh, it will be a sight to see!”
Lestrade gave Holmes exactly that same disbelieving glance I’d used earlier that day. “No it won’t. You’ll kill him in an instant. He’s only an ape. Or maybe an Italian, but either way…”
“All right, but he’s got a hammer! Did Watson tell you that? He’s armed.”
“So?” said Lestrade. “Holmes, I’m not sure there’s any such thing as a god, but if there is, and if you were going to fight it, I really wouldn’t know where to place my bet.”
And then a strange light lit up in Lestrade’s eye. He did have a bit of a mania for gambling, after all, and putting this thought into words helped him realize that—at least in the case of this night’s festivities—he knew exactly where to place his bet. He turned to me and shouted, “Five pounds on Holmes!”
“No! I’m not taking that.”
“Five pounds on Holmes in five seconds! Monkey dead in five seconds from the first blow or the initial challenge!”
“No bet, Lestrade.”
“I’ll give you two to one!”
I gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. But I tell you this: I intend to win. I know it will disappoint Holmes terribly, but it’s the right thing to do. For Beppo’s sake, I’ll take that bet.”
We shook on it and Lestrade gave me one of his rare smiles. “Done! I suppose we’d best head for Chiswick, eh?”
“Yes!” Holmes cried. “To battle! To greatness! To Chiswick!”
* * *
If there’s one thing I regret about my career as a criminal/magical investigator, it is this: just how often I wind up standing about in the cold and dark, waiting for mischief to start. If only criminals would publish their timetables in advance, the whole job would be eminently more pleasurable.
We took up position in the front garden of a vacant house, just down the row from Mr. Josiah Brown’s front door. Though I repeatedly urged my companions to silence, a thousand primate-slaying tips and observations passed between the two of them. Though—to his credit—Lestrade insisted that if there was any question of our foe being an Italian and not a chimp, Holmes was forbidden from murdering him. In such a case the bet was off, of course. Though, if I were any kind of gentleman I must own that the mistake had been mine and pay the forfeit anyway.
Such was the stealth of our foe and such the strenuousness of my friends’ discussion that I had no warning until it was nearly too late. A sudden, joyous shriek split the night. Popping up over our garden wall, I beheld the shadowy form of Beppo jumping over Mr. Brown’s front gate. He wore blue overalls over a bright red shirt. A jaunty little red cap rested atop his (clearly simian) head and the glued-on moustache waggled back and forth as he bounded down the street towards us. No sooner had he reached the first streetlamp than he raised one of his hands up over his head.
A plaster bust of Napoleon gleamed in the gaslight.
With a second screech, our foe flung the bust down upon the pavement and jumped on it twice, with great violence. Then, he treated the unfortunate emperor to three lightning-quick blows from the wooden hammer in his other hand, then one more jump. He bent over the dusty wreckage and—with some diligence—sifted through it for some moments. At last, he gave a frustrated “ook” from which I inferred that the object of his search must not be present.
Apple, Beppo? Apple?
By this time we were all approaching him at a full run. Holmes was well in the lead, enjoying the advantages of both the longest legs and the greatest zeal. I was just behind, pointlessly urging caution. Lestrade brought up the rear, stopwatch in hand, eager to claim the spoils of his bet. As we neared Beppo, Holmes threw his left hand back and cried, “Melfrizoth!” No sooner had he spoken the name of the blade than it materialized in his hand—black and gleaming, curved like a serpent’s tooth and burning with demonic green flame. Those same otherworldly fires lit in Holmes’s eyes as his voice dropped an octave or three and he cried out, “Battle monkey: face me!”
If Beppo was slightly taken aback I think none of us could blame him. Then again, we also could not fault his courage for, after reeling back in surprise for only an instant, he raised the hammer above his head and shrieked a battle cry. He came at Holmes with that mixture of fear and ferocity that only a true savage can muster. Holmes dropped into a low crouch, sword at the ready, which allowed me to catch up and come between the two combatants. My hands feverishly searched my pockets for my alternate solution. One hand closed around it—my only chance.
Well… Beppo’s only chance.
I pulled it free from my coat pocket and shouted, “Wait, Beppo, wait! Look! Apple, Beppo? Apple?”
Beppo’s gaze swung my way, then doubtfully back to Holmes…
And then to me!
Because really, given the choice between certain death at the hands of a flaming soul-blade and a nice, fresh apple, which of us wouldn’t take the apple? He knuckle-walked cautiously over to me and held out his hand.
“Here you go, Beppo. Good job!”
He took the apple, gave it a skeptical sniff, then an exploratory bite. Finding it just what he’d hoped, he gave me his battered wooden hammer, still filthy with smashed plaster and the dried remains of Pietro Venucci’s scalp. With both hands free for his new task, Beppo began to devour the apple, turning it round in circles as he chomped, until only a core remained. This, he tossed over his shoulder into the smashed remains of the great French emperor.
“Awwwwww,” said Holmes. “Cute little fellow, isn’t he?” Then, with just a hint of guilt, added, “Ves, Melfrizoth,” and the burning blade vanished from his hand.
I turned to find Lestrade standing dead still in the middle of the street, his fang-lined maw hanging open in disappointment and disbelief.
“Dead ape within five seconds of the initial challenge, wasn’t it?” I said. “I believe that’s ten pounds you owe me.” A light tug at the hem of my coat caused me to turn back. “What’s that, Beppo? Oh, you think I’ve got more, do you? Well you just may be right. Come along, now.”
* * *
This narrative would be incomplete, I suppose, without a word as to the final fate of Beppo the chimp. Scotland Yard held him for a time on suspicion of the murder of Pietro Venucci—and not without reason. If the circumstances were not damning enough, there was the matter of the murder weapon, retrieved by Inspector Lestrade from the hand of Beppo himself (or so we told them). There was also some question as to whether he was wanted by the French authorities regarding some unpleasantness on the rue Morgue.
Then again, the British legal system had little precedent for trying apes. To our more conservative judges, such an idea was distasteful—nearly an admission that Charles Darwin had been right all along. Besides, Venucci had been a known killer and had been found in possession of Beppo’s picture, as well as a knife. Who was to say the little fellow’s actions had not been mere self-preservation? He was held in custody, in the hopes that Benito Marinetti would come out of hiding to claim him. No such luck. Mr. Marinetti was never found and I fear some evil may have come to him. Nevertheless, the Marinetti family eventually did come for their grandfather’s trusted helper, Beppo. And I was forced to make an apology. It seems that—as he was born in a circus just outside Venice—Beppo technically was an Italian.
But still…
The next morning, William Sandeford arrived on the 10:15, bearing a carpet bag containing the final bust. Holmes, Lestrade and I were all on hand to greet him. He was a red-faced, grizzle-whiskered old man who chewed his moustache with nervous apprehension as he stepped through our door.
“I had your telegram,” he cried, despite the fact we were four feet from him, “and I don’t know why any man’s so keen to steal a thing like this! Nor do I know why it’s worth ten pound to you! But I don’t care! Ten pound is ten pound and that’s the heart of the matter!”
I don’t think Mr. Sandeford was deaf, but it seems as if he assumed the three of us were. The sheer volume with which he conducted business had us wincing.
“Now I don’t know where the church stands on the matter, so I tell you straight,” he continued, “this Napoleon’s not worth ten pound! I put it to you gentlemen: is it a sin to take ten pound for a statue that’s not worth ten shilling? I don’t want it weighing on my soul!”
“No, no, Mr. Sandeford,” I protested, “we think the price is fair. We do not want just any bust of Napoleon; we want this one. We are happy to compensate you for your good fortune to have acquired it in the first place and for your good stewardship while it was in your care. I am sure the church would have no objection.”
“Well… as long as you’re sure it’s no foul deed…”
“Not at all, Mr. Sandeford.”
“All right, then!”
“Excellent! I have a contract drawn up right here, if you would be so kind as to—”
As I spoke, Mr. Sandeford reached inside his bag, withdrew the bust and put it on our table. And my words… they just… stopped.
Holmes recoiled from the thing, his face a mask of amazement. Even Lestrade stared distrustfully at the statue.
On the one hand, there was nothing wrong with it. It was only a cheap plaster-of-Paris bust of Napoleon. And yet… I had never before stood in the presence of such an aura of command. Honestly, I think the three of us were waiting for orders. The little emperor’s stern countenance stared up at us, as if demanding our obedience. And I’m sure we would have given it. If he’d ordered us to charge Wellington’s batteries at Waterloo, we’d have done it. If he’d ordered us to turn and kill each other, we’d have done that, too. Perhaps Holmes could have withstood the influence, but Lestrade and I were mastered the second we looked at it.
Holmes gave a low whistle. “This is… not as we expected.”
“No,” I agreed.
Slowly Holmes’s hand moved to the contract of sale I had drawn up. As I considered it likely the bust contained an item of extreme value—albeit an illegally obtained one Mr. Sandeford had no right to keep—I had been careful to phrase it in such a way that the seller released all interest in the bust and its contents.
“I think I’ll just be making a few changes to this contract, Mr. Sandeford,” Holmes said. “For safety’s sake. Firstly, you shall not be selling this to Watson, but to me. Second, I will not give you ten pounds in notes, as in essence, a promissory note is nothing more than a stranger’s promise to deliver value if ever you should present him this note. No. In matters of magi—er… in matters such as these, ownership is too important. I must pay you in metal. I trust ten guineas is acceptable?”
“Well, certainly!”
“Very good, Mr. Sandeford.” Holmes leaned in to make the necessary changes to the contract. As he did, he sighed, “And yet… here where it asks you to sign your name… I don’t suppose you know your true name, do you?”
“What do you mean? Of course I do!”
“No, no. Not the name you gave us. Nor the name your mother gave you. It would be only a few syllables long, but would proclaim everything you are and everything you have done to any who heard it. Well… any who know of such things.”
“What are you talking about? Secret names?”
“We all have one, Mr. Sandeford.”
“Well, what’s yours then?”
Holmes straightened up. “My name,” he said, in even, factual tones, “is Warlock Holmes. And if I am one of only a handful of beings in this world who goes about using its true name to conduct its daily business, it is only because I know I have naught to fear.” But his eyes drifted from Mr. Sandeford to the bust, and he added, “Generally. In any case, Mr. Sandeford, I’m afraid a standard signature simply will not do. I need a mark that represents the very essence of you. Earwax, I think. Yes, just dip your finger in your ear and leave a little dollop on this line, here. That should suffice.”
“Are you mad?” our guest demanded.
“Many say so,” replied Holmes, with a sigh. “Look, I know it’s an unusual request. Perhaps if I were to change this figure here to fifteen guineas…?”
William Sandeford stuck his little finger in his ear so fast I feared he might puncture his brain. As soon as he’d made his disgusting yellow smear on the line indicated, Holmes gave a great sigh of relief, wrote his name on the line below, said, “Excuse me for a moment,” and went to his room. He returned with a handful of gleaming coins.
“It’s practically a fortune!” Sandeford declared, looking down at his newfound wealth.
We bid him adieu, then stood around the statue, staring. Two of us dumbstruck. One curious.
“What was your plan now, Watson?” Holmes asked.
“Well, I was going to smash the thing open. But that was before. Now that I see it, perhaps… um… perhaps another plan is warranted.”
“Perhaps not,” said Holmes. “I find you usually know best.”
He went to the fireplace, swept up our poker, and with a single blow he smote Napoleon’s head in twain. Plaster dust filled the air. I nearly cried out in dismay, but then a kind of invisible veil fell away from my wits and I found I had no desire to continue. There, amongst the white shards, a small black item caught my eye. Gathering my self-mastery, I strode forward and picked it up, declaring, “Gentlemen, behold: the Black Pearl of the B—”
But it wasn’t.
In fact, besides color, the item in my hand had nothing in common with the item I’d expected. In my hand lay a tiny bundle of black iron sticks, bound together with wires of the same material. I blinked at it. There was no question it was the source of the power we’d felt earlier.
“Watson!” Holmes cried. “Put that down! Do not do anything else. Especially, do not say anything else. Remember: that belongs to me.”
Slowly, I dropped the object on the table. It fell with a dead, metallic clunk. As I drew back, I dazedly reflected, “I know this thing… Holmes, you used to draw it, remember? You drew it all up your arm once.”
“I did,” he confirmed, lifting up the tiny totem. “And now here it is in my possession… in my home…”
As he walked into his bedroom, I heard him add, “Damn it all.” He closed the door behind him without a word of explanation.
A month before, I would have been furious. But that day, I could only smile. Go on, Holmes, keep your secrets. I don’t need to beg knowledge from you anymore. I have my own methods now. How I looked forward to that evening’s dream. How I craved the next revelation.
Or maybe I just wanted that needle in my arm.
