The Return of Moriarty Page 19

  “We’re going for them this night?”

  “Tomorrow, but the plans have to be laid now and, once done, I’ll want nobody off these premises until we strike. My ‘Guard’ I’ll trust, and the punishers downstairs, but we need others and I’ll take no risks with them once we have it arranged.”

  He pushed the chair back and rose, moving to the fireplace, looking for all the world like some country squire or city gentleman, comfortable in his own home. As one giving an order to a servant, Moriarty said, “Get Parker then. And send Spear up the moment he returns.”

  If not entirely content, Moriarty was a shade more at ease. From the many people who had come to ask favors and pay their respects he knew he still had a bold following; yet the intelligence regarding the extent of Green’s and Butler’s advances had come as a shock. It was pleasant to know from Lee Chow, Paget and Ember, that his tentacles continued to hold and reach far in spite of the fool Moran’s imprudent husbandry.

  So Moriarty waited, the clock ticking off some forty minutes before there was word of Spear.

  It was Paget who came with the news, knocking hard at the chamber door and disturbing the Professor, who was sitting down to lamb chops with Mary McNiel.

  “There’s a boy, the boy Slimper, downstairs. He’s come from Parker’s men.”

  The Professor’s head turned slowly to and fro, a dark glittering light, reflected from the gas brackets, sharp and deep in his eyes, the face alert and dangerous.

  “Trouble?” he asked softly.

  Paget glanced toward the McNiel girl.

  “You may speak in front of her.” Moriarty did not raise his voice.

  “You’d best see the boy, he’ll not speak to anyone else. Parker has him trained well and there seems to be urgency.”

  The head turned twice more, then paused, eyes resting upon Mary McNiel.

  “Go down to Mrs. Wright and wait.”

  Mary McNiel knew better than to pout or wheedle as she might have done with some of the marks in Sal Hodges’ house. She rose obediently and left without a murmur.

  “Get the brat up here,” spat Moriarty.

  Young Slimper was breathless, both with the running and the mission, yet he gave his message lucidly, wasting no words. Parker had set him as runner for the three lurkers watching Green’s flash-drum in Nelson Street. During the late afternoon they had seen both the Peg and the Butler arrive together with half a dozen mobsmen and bullies. Then, less than thirty minutes before, a “growler,” driven hard, had arrived at the door and three men lifted from it another man who appeared to be stunned. By chance more than their management one of the lurkers had glimpsed the unconscious man’s face as the yellow light from a nearby lamp fell on it. The man was Spear, and young Slimper had been unleashed like a hound to carry the news.

  “The lurkers are still in Nelson Street?” Moriarty asked sharply, knowing the answer before the boy gave it, for none of Parker’s men would leave such a situation. “And the back is watched as well as the front?”

  “Yes, sir.” Slimper had control of his breath now. “There’s Patch at the back, and Toph with Blind Sam at the front. It was Blind Sam as saw Mr. Spear’s face.”

  “You hungry, boy?” A note of unaccustomed concern from Moriarty.

  “A little, sir. More cold than hungry.”

  Moriarty nodded to Paget. “Take him down to Kate Wright. Let her get some fodder into him, and a hot glass of something.” He turned back to the lad. “Mr. Paget’ll take care of you, and Mr. Parker will be here soon; he’ll have messages for you to run.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The boy beamed with pride, for this was only the second time in his life that he had seen the Professor, and the first he had ever spoken with him.

  “Mark me, lad. You are a good boy and there’ll be an extra sovereign in this for you. Never forget that I look after all my people, and if they work well for me they are cared for and rewarded.”

  Moriarty had all the tricks needed to inspire loyalty, and with those few simple words, together with what appeared to be an act of kindness, he knew that he had purchased another soul.

  Some fifteen minutes later Parker arrived at the warehouse. Moriarty was short with words and explicit with orders. The three lurkers at the drum in Nelson Street were to stay on watch. They would be joined by another three. Slimper was to be sent back, together with another boy. If Green or Butler, or both, left Nelson Street, they were to be followed. Should Spear be removed, he would be followed.

  “You’ll make fast, Parker. Tighten the net. I’m to be informed of any movements, whatever the hour. You understand?”

  Parker understood and hurried off to do the Professor’s bidding before returning, as instructed, for the council of war, which was to be held that night.

  Inspector Crow woke once in the night and in the warm, soft arms of Mrs. Cowles, smiled, burying his naked body close to her flesh.

  But the smile on his face quickly disappeared, his eyes snapping open and mind alert. Around his brain the name Druscovich wove strange and uncertain patterns, and it was not until the small hours that he fell into sleep again, still puzzled by the significance of the name and its link with Moriarty.

  Before waking he dreamed that he was in a large courtroom. There were three prisoners in the dock and the judge was passing sentence upon them. Yet, as the prisoners were ordered to be taken down, they turned, clapping their hands on the shoulders of the police guard, so that it was a trio of police officers who were led away by the prisoners.

  On rising in the morning, Angus Crow had no memory of the dream, though it came back to him during the day.

  * Anthropometry. First introduced in France by M. Bertillon in 1883, this method of classification and identification was based on those dimensions of the human body that do not alter between adolescence and extreme old age: head length and breadth, middle finger length, foot length, etc. These were further expanded into subdivisions, such as measurement of the ear, and Bertillon’s famous portrait parlé. To this system he later added dactyloscopy.

  † Dactyloscopy. Identification by fingerprints: first used in very early times by the Chinese; developed in Europe by Purkinje of Breslau University, but not adopted in England until the first decade of the twentieth century at the instigation of Sir Edward Henry.

  Monday, April 9, 1894, 1:00 A.M. to 9:00 P.M.

  (THE ENEMY AND THE TRUTH CONCERNING MORIARTY AT THE REICHENBACH FALLS)

  THE COUNCIL OF war took place in the Professor’s chambers, beginning a little before one in the morning. Those present, besides Moriarty, were Paget, Lee Chow, Ember, Parker and Terremant, the big punisher.

  Kate Wright set two large pitchers of mulled claret by the fireplace, and there were several dishes of small, savory cakes, which she had baked for the purpose.

  Moriarty and Paget both lit cigars, and the Professor spoke for some minutes on Spear’s plight and the necessity for both speed and secrecy in all their actions from now until the strike, which would take place at nine that night.

  Because there were so many areas that needed to be hit hard and simultaneously, they would need more punishers, so the three remaining members of the “Praetorian Guard,” together with Terremant’s men, would be out at noon collecting every bully they knew was loyal to Moriarty, bringing them in by pairs or threes, surreptitiously, until a large force was assembled. It was not until then that they would be allocated to lieutenants—members of the “Guard” and the main body of punishers, who were already at the warehouse.

  “When we have them assembled,” Moriarty told them, “you are to see nobody leaves here. I cannot chance one of them sneaking word to Green and Butler.”

  He went on to order Parker to have lurkers watching the warehouse as well as those places the punishment squads would visit.

  It was an hour before the Professor finished talking and giving instructions. After that they spoke at some length regarding weapons and transportation. All had questions, an
d the discussion went on until the early hours, until their plans for the morrow were fully prepared.

  As he was leaving, Moriarty plucked Parker by the sleeve and asked if Sherlock Holmes’ chambers in Baker Street were still being watched.

  “I have men there night and day: two lads for runners also.”

  Parker was less evil-smelling today, dressed as he was in the garb of a well-to-do visitor from the country—this being his favorite disguise when he wished to pass easily and with speed between his lurkers distributed over a wide area.

  “And what do they report?”

  “Holmes appears to be keeping to himself. They’ve had but one visitor: another esclop.” He pronounced the back slang in fashion, as slop.

  “Lestrade?”

  “No, but from the same cesspool. His name is Crow.”

  “A good name for a jack.” Moriarty smiled at his own joke, crows being lookouts in the flash parlance.

  “You know him?”

  “No,” Moriarty said wearily, “but doubtless I will. Did he stay long?”

  Parker told him a little over an hour, which seemed to satisfy the Professor.

  “I do not expect to have further trouble with Holmes,” he said. “But it is as well to be alert.”

  As we have already noted, Crow’s hour, spent with Holmes at the Baker Street chambers on the previous afternoon, had been frustrating in the extreme.

  The great detective had received Crow cordially enough, though with a certain amount of reserve, even diffidence.

  After introductions had been effected and Crow was seated opposite Holmes across the fireplace, the inspector set about maneuvering the conversation into the area he had already mentally prepared. He first acquainted Holmes with the news that he had taken over the Moran case from Lestrade.

  “Then presumably you will have been provided with Lestrade’s notes,” Holmes said, somewhat stiffly.

  “Indeed I have, Mr. Holmes, but I thought it advisable to go over certain facts with you.”

  “Admirable.” Holmes nodded. “It is just as I would do it, though I doubt if I can help you more than Lestrade.”

  “Could you tell me why, in your opinion, Moran wished you dead?”

  Sherlock Holmes remained silent for a few seconds, his whole attention concentrated on filling his pipe.

  Crow suspected that he was playing for time and became slightly unnerved by this device. Too quickly he pushed ahead, taking his questioning into a further realm. “It is true, is it not, that Moran was considered to be chief of staff to Moriarty?”

  Holmes raised his eyes for a brief second, fixing Crow with a suspicious gaze, then looked away again. “I have never doubted that Moran was Moriarty’s chosen and closest lieutenant,” he said, cupping his left hand around the bowl of his pipe and reaching forward with his right to kindle a spill.

  “Then perhaps that is the sole reason for Moran wishing you dead.”

  “Perhaps, Inspector Crow. You have a logical mind, but maybe it is too easily sidetracked.”

  “There are reports that Moriarty is alive and here in London at this moment.” Crow let this piece of intelligence lie flat between them—a bald statement.

  “Moriarty is—nay, was—my old enemy. I know nothing of his being in London now. As far as I am concerned, Inspector Crow, my feud with Professor Moriarty ended a long time ago at the Reichenbach Falls. There is no more for anyone else’s ears.”

  “Colonel Moran was close to the Professor. He tries to assassinate you. Now he is dead himself—poisoned in a prison cell. Do you draw any conclusions from that, sir?”

  “The only conclusion is that Sebastian Moran, upon hearing that I had returned to London, knew full well that it was only a matter of time before I tracked him down as young Adair’s murderer. I believe he wished to obviate that possibility. I was certainly a great threat to his life and liberty.”

  “And who, Mr. Holmes, would wish Moran dead?”

  Holmes had lit his pipe and now drew on it contentedly. “If, as I have already said, Moran was Moriarty’s plenipotentiary, then I should imagine he had enemies enough—many within the walls of all the prisons in London. In my varied studies I have discovered that criminals make enemies more easily than most men; and, by the very nature of their way of life, those enemies are more potentially dangerous than in other callings.”

  At this point Holmes appeared to be caught up in this particular train of thought and continued at some length to propound his theories on the social habits of individuals within the criminal community.

  Crow was, not unnaturally, fascinated, and by the time Holmes reached the end of this lengthy digression, the true area into which the inspector wished to research had been successfully bypassed.

  In vain he attempted to bring their conversation back to Moriarty; Moran’s link with the Professor; and the connection both of these men had with Holmes.

  It was a fruitless task. Holmes, it appeared, was stubbornly disinclined to speak of Moriarty and, for that matter, Moran’s demise. It was also apparent that he was too skilled in the art of debate to be trapped or tricked into any new statement.

  So it was that Angus McCready Crow departed from Baker Street with the distinct feeling that there was much that would forever lie buried in the recesses of Holmes’ complex mind.

  Fanny Jones was asleep when Paget got to his chamber but she stirred and was quickly awake, even though he moved with all his accustomed stealth.

  “It’s late, Pip. What’s going on?”

  She could not fail to glimpse the serious expression on her lover’s face.

  “Nothing that won’t keep, sweetheart.”

  But she was fully awake, propping herself on one arm.

  “There was talk in the kitchen,” she said. “I didn’t hear it all but something’s wrong with Bert Spear, isn’t it?”

  Paget sighed, sitting on the bed and removing his trousers.

  “Yes, there’s trouble. Since the Professor went away, a pair of right mobsmen have been poaching on our preserves. We’re out to get them tomorrow, but it seems that they’ve got hold of Bert Spear.”

  Lines of worry creased Fanny’s brow.

  “Will they hurt him, Pip? They won’t do for him, will they?”

  Paget paused. It was a dangerous game in which they were involved, Fanny had no illusions about that, so there was no point in trying to pacify her with lies.

  “There’s a chance he’ll be hurt, Fan. But then there’s a chance any of us will be hurt. We’d all be scratching if it wasn’t for the Professor, and I for one would rather survive well, with money in my pocket, than risk life out there alone where the pickings are good one day and poor the next.”

  “I hope I shall get used to it, Pip. It frightens me—all the secret things.”

  “What else is there?” Paget slid into bed beside her, warmed by her body.

  “Out of London there’s other things—like in the country.” She slid her arms around the big man’s neck, thrusting herself toward him.

  Tired as he was, Paget felt his body respond. He kissed her gently and felt her reply to his kisses until the matter became one of urgency.

  When it was over and they lay cradled together in an afterglow reminiscent of a pleasant, cloudless, summer day, Paget recalled the feelings he had experienced in Harrow: the thoughts of a new life with Fanny Jones, an existence far removed from the constant pressure and unease. He wondered if he could ever settle for that.

  Moriarty prepared for bed but could not sleep. There were too many matters roaming his brain: thoughts of the morrow, plans which had to be settled before the arrival of his people from the Continent, for the Continental alliance was, perhaps, in the long term the most important thing of all. Yet his mind unwillingly returned to the last few words he had spoken with Parker. When he thought of them, they led back to Sherlock Holmes and this inevitably caused him to retrace his footsteps in time—regressing through the years into the early months of 1891.

/>   By that year Moriarty knew without doubt that there was one man in Europe who could match him, and who might even bring about his downfall. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. So, he was at pains to avoid Mr. Holmes, keeping only a wary eye on him.

  The concluding months of 1890 had been most successful for the Professor; all his ventures had gone smoothly—robberies, assassinations contracted by governments or individuals, frauds and forgeries, not to mention the regular spoils from the daily rackets of the great European capitals. But in the August of that year he had undertaken, on behalf of a foreign power, to discredit the royal family—not a new assignment for a man like Moriarty, for had he not been the prime mover, the éminence grise, behind the tragic love story that had ended with the suicide of Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria at Mayerling? There was also much that he knew concerning the homosexual brothel in Cleveland Street off the Tottenham Court Road, which had brought such scandal to Lord Arthur Somerset, then Superintendent of the Prince of Wales’ stables.

  It had been a relatively simple matter to set in motion the events that almost brought disgrace upon the Prince of Wales at Tranby Croft, culminating in the incidents of the nights of September 8, 9, and 10, 1890, and the legal scandal in the following year.

  There is no doubt that Moriarty, with his contacts and superb sense of intrigue and cunning, was able to manipulate people far removed from his personal sphere. He was a past master in this kind of human chess game, knowing exactly how to maneuver the various players in his game until they reached a point at which they could be safely left alone for the follies of human nature to do their worst.

  It was during the preliminary moves in the sequence of events concerning Tranby Croft that the Professor realized it would be possible to pull off the coup of the century by stealing the crown jewels. In January of 1891 he made two visits to Rome, there concluding a deal which assured him of a safe and most lucrative market with an eccentric Italian millionaire. He then set about making the plans for the proposed robbery.