Music Welcome to snoozecast. The podcast is designed to help you fall asleep. Find a sense snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. episode is brought to you by an in-little problem. Tonight, we'll read the first half to the adventure of the Six Napoleon's written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as part of 1903's The Return of Sherlock Holmes. the second half will air next week. Tonight's story revolves around a series of seemingly bizarre and senseless crimes involving the destruction of plaster busts of Napoleon Bonaparte. Sherlock Holmes investigates, he uncovers a complex plot involving a stolen pearl, a vengeful Italian criminal, and a clever hiding place. Busts, especially those of famous historical figures like Napoleon in this story, were common decorative items in English Victorian and Edwardian homes. They served as a symbol of cultural awareness and intellectual interest. Even though our story is set more than a century after Napoleon died, he was still a major figure who had dominated the political landscape for a significant period of European history. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now take a few deep breaths. It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcomed to Sherlock Holmes. they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrat would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally without any active interference to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience. On this particular evening, Le Straut had spoken of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Homes looked keenly at him. Anything remarkable on hand? He asked. Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. Nothing very particular. Then tell me about it. Mr. Hunt laughed. Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours. "'Disease,' said I. "'Madness, anyhow, and a queer madness, too. You wouldn't think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a dislike of Napoleon that he would break any image of him that he could see. Holmes sank back in his chair. "'That's no business of mine,' said he. Exactly. That's what I said. But then when the man commits burglary in order to break images, which are not his own,

that brings it away from the doctor and onto the policeman. Holmes sat up again. Burglary, this is more interesting. Let me hear the details. Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from its pages. The first case reported was four days ago, said he. It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who was a place for the sale of pictures and statues in the Kennington Road? The assistant had left the front shop for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road. But although several passerby's declared that they had noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation. The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular. It occurred only last night. In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner named Dr. Barnacott, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames. His residence and principal consulting room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnacott is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hutson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor divine. One of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantle piece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnacott came down this morning, he was astonished to find that his house had been burgl'd during the night, but that nothing had been taken save the plaster heads from the hall. It had been carried out, and had been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered fragments were discovered. Holmes rubbed his hands.

This is certainly very novel," said he. I thought it would please you, but I have not got to the end yet. Dr. Barnacott was due at his surgery at 12 o'clock, and you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts. They are singular, not to say, grotesque, said Holmes. May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnacott's rooms were the exact duplicates of the ones which were destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop. They were taken from the same mold. Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many hundreds of statues of the Great Emperor must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence, as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust. Well, I thought as you do, Svetlostrad. On the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these three were the only ones which had been in a shop for years. So although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district.

Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson? There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania, I answered. There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called the E-Day Feecks, which may be trifling in character and accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury through the Great War might conceivably form such a ee de fiks and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage. "'That won't do, my dear Watson,' said Holmes, shaking his head. For no amount of ee de fiks would enable your interesting monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated. Well, how do you explain it? I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr. Barnacoat's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most cases, have had the least promising commencement. You will remember Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetti family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the Parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford therefore to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a chain of events." The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door and homes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud. Cominstantly, one thirty-one pitch-street, Kensington, Lestrade. What is it then?" I asked. I don't know, maybe anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the story of the statues. In that case, our friend, the image-breaker, has begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door. In half an hour we had reached Pitch Street, a quiet little backwater just beside one of the priscist currents of London life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat, chested respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house, lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled. By George, it's attempted crime at the least. Nothing less will hold the London message, boy. There's a deed indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this Watson? The top steps swill down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough anyhow. Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it." The official received us with a very grave face, and showed us into the sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house, Mr. Horace Harker, of the central press syndicate. "'It's the Napoleon bust business again,' said Lestrade. "'You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be glad

to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver turn." Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has occurred? The man in the dressing gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face. It's an extraordinary thing.

Said he, that all my life I have been collecting other people's news. And now that a real piece of news has come my own way, I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is, I'm giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain this queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you this story. Holmes sat down and listened. all seems to center round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night and I often write until the early morning. So it was today. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o'clock. When I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs, I listened, but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a yell. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen for a minute or two, then I seized the

poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing, passes my understanding? For it was only a plaster cast, and no real value, whatever. You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done. So I went round and opened the door, stepping out into the dark. I nearly fell over the unconscious man who was lying there. I ran back for a light, and there was the poor fellow, knocked out cold. He lay on his back and his mouth open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on my police whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policemen standing over me in the hall. Well, who had done this to the man? Asked Holmes. strawd replied. You shall see his body at least, at the infirmary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He's a tall man, sunburned, very powerful. Not more than thirty. He is poorly dressed. And yet does not appear to be a laborer. There was no name on his clothing. Nothing in his pockets. Save an apple. Some string. A shilling map of London. And a photograph. Here it is. It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented an alert, sharp-featured, semi-an-man, with thick eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face. And what became of the bust? Asked Holmes after a careful study of this picture. And we had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front garden of an empty house in Campton House Road. It was broken into fragments. I'm going round now to see it. Will you come? Certainly, I must take one look around. He examined the carpet and the window. The fellow had either very long legs, or was a most active man, said he. With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker? The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing table. "'I must try and make something of it,' said he. Though I have no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full details, it's like my luck. You remember when the stand fell at Don Caster?

Well, and I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal, the only one that had no account of it, or I was too shaken to write it. And now it'll be too late, and now it'll be too late with an unconscious man on my own doorstep. As we left the room we heard his pen traveling shrilly over the fool's cab. The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered shards upon the grass, Holmes picked up several of them, and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and his purposeful manner that at least he was upon a clue.

Well, asked Lestrod, home shrugged his shoulders. We have a long way to go yet," said he, and yet, and yet.

Well, we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal than a human life. That is one point. there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the house or immediately outside the house if to break it was his soul object. He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew what he was doing. Well, that's likely enough, but I wish to call your attention very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of which the bust was destroyed. The straw looked about him. It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in the garden.

Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there? Since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased the risk of seeing someone. My give it up, Suplastrod.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads. He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was his reason. By Joe, if that's true, said the detectives. Now that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnacott's bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact? "'To remember it, to dock it it. We may come on something later which will bear it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrod? The most practical way of getting at it, and my opinion, is to identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have found out who he is, and who his associates are, we should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pit Street last night, and who it was who met him. Don't you think so? No doubt, and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach the case. What would you do then? Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you go on your line and eye on mine. We can compare notes afterwards and each will supplement the other." "'Very good,' said Lestrade. "'If you are going back to Pitch Street, you might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is certain that a dangerous man with Napoleonic delusions was in his house last night. It will be useful for his article. Lestrod stared. You don't seriously believe that. Holmes smiled. Don't I? Hmm. Well, perhaps I don't, but I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, we will find that we have a long and rather complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at 6 o'clock this evening. Until then, I should like to keep this photograph found in the man's pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition, which will have been undertaken tonight, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then, goodbye and good luck. like homes and I walked together to the high street, where we stopped at the shop of hearting-brothers, once the bust had been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could give us no information. Holmes' face showed his disappointment and annoyance. Well, well. We can't expect to have it all her own way. Watson, he said at last. We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubts or mausred, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source in order to find if there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem. A drive of an hour brought us to the picture dealer's establishment. He was a small stout man, with a red face, and a peppery manor. Yes, sir, on my very counter, sir, said he, what do we pay rates in taxes for? I don't know. When any ruffian can come in and break one's goods. Yes, sir. It was I, who sold Dr. Barnacott his two statues, disgraceful, sir. Nileist plot. That's what I make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red Republicans. That's what I call them. Who did I get the statue from? I don't see what that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder and Company in Church Street, Stephanie. They're a well-known house in the trade and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three. Two and one are three. Two of Dr. Broncos and one smashed and broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No. I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piecework man who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit and gild and frame and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from. Nor where he went to. I had nothing against him while he was there. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.

Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson.

Said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop.

We have this beppo as a common factor.

Both in Kennington and in Kennington, so that is worth a 10-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Yelder and Company of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts.

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