5 Night Trip to Chiswick

Chapter 5 Night Trip to Chiswick 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 secluded 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 fanlight 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 fear we may have a long wait," said Holmes. "Let's be thankful at least that it's not raining."

Our wait, however, did not prove lengthy. It ended abruptly and without warning as the garden gate swung open and a small, agile figure darted swiftly up the path. We watched as it dodged past the fanlight's reflection 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 fellow 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 nab him as soon as he climbs out." But before we could move, the man reemerged. In the glow of the fanlight, 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 stole across the lawn toward him. Like a tiger

ambushing its prey, 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, rotund 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 some refreshment?"

We politely declined, as Lestrade was anxious to get his captive to a secure cell. Within a few minutes, our cab had been summoned and we were on our way back to London. The prisoner refused to say a word, but simply glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair. At the police station, a search of his clothing revealed nothing, save a few shillings 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 lay our hands on 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 lay it all out for 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 for