His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples,
and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London.
He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret
political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now you
see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is
probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has
broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track.
Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man
himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs
the fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him,
and in the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
"Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."
"The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head.
After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most.
It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell
you that I am gathering all the threads into my hands."
"And the next stage?"
"Is a very simple one.
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