The Return of Moriarty Read online

  JOHN GARDNER

  Rowledge,

  Surrey

  For three long years … Watson and the world thought that Holmes also lay dead beneath the dark and swirling waters of the Reichenbach; but Holmes in 1894 was very much alive.… Why not Moriarty? … Anyone familiar with the history of evil in the world since 1894 has little difficulty in seeing that Professor James Moriarty was taking advantage of a long period of social unrest to consolidate and expand his undisputed position as the Napoleon of crime.…

  —WILLIAM S. BARING-GOULD

  THE RETURN OF MORIARTY

  LONDON: Thursday, April 5,1894

  (RETURN TO LIMEHOUSE)

  “SO THE TRUCE is to be tested at last.” The man behind the desk allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. “You’re in no doubt?” His questing eyes searched the face of the small, whippetlike figure standing before him.

  “No doubt at all, Professor. I’d know, so would Parker.”

  “It’s Parker you’ve had in Baker Street then?”

  “No other.”

  “Suitably disguised, I trust?”

  “Been his beat for the past month, acting as a lurker.”

  “Performing on his Jew’s harp, I suppose.”

  “It’s his best side.”

  “Mmmm. That and the thread.” The man behind the desk was familiar with Parker’s skill as a garroter. There had been cause to use him many times in the past.

  The room was pleasant, a high ceiling, two windows looking out onto the river, and not overcluttered with furnishings.

  The furnishings, in fact, looked relatively new, as they indeed were, the redecoration of the room having been carried out in a safe, private manner by Godfrey Giles & Company of 19 Old Cavendish Street.

  The carpet was a knotted-pile Persian; one of the famous “Sir Walter Raleigh” smoking chairs stood angled to the fireplace where, because of the unseasonal early spring chill outside, a cheerful fire crackled in the grate. Behind the smoking chair was a bookcase lined with leather-bound tomes, among the spines of which, the discerning could have observed such works as Bosanquet’s Essentials of Logic or The Morphology of Thought and Émile Faguet’s Politiques et moralistes français du XIX sîecle nestling cheek-by-jowl with Lagrange’s Analytical Mechanics, a beautiful copy of Principia Philosophiae and Moriarty’s The Dynamics of an Asteroid.

  Apart from the large desk—the central feature of the furnishings, a kidney-shaped Regency-style piece with a leather top—there were a pair of Chippendale tables in dark mahogany and two Morocco-covered easy chairs, the latest design from Hampton’s of Pall Mall. There was no bric-a-brac, no attempt to overlay the utilitarian, stern interior with fripperies. There was, however, one painting, which occupied a central place on the wall opposite the desk, so that it could be seen by the man who sat there: a haunting work showing a young woman, head on hands, peeping out of the canvas with a coy, sideways look. To the expert it was undoubtedly the work of Jean-Baptiste Greuze, that unusually successful French artist of the 1700’s, popular for his paintings of young girls like this one, and scenes depicting family virtue.

  The man behind the desk lowered his head, as though in thought, while the whippet person shuffled his feet.

  There was a third occupant in the room, sprawled in one of the easy chairs. A man in late middle age, with a high, deep-lined brow, aggressive nose and cruel blue eyes, the lids of which drooped cynically. He shifted purposefully.

  “Is he still in Baker Street?” the third man asked.

  The one who stood before the desk flicked his eyes from his interlocutor in the easy chair to the man behind the desk.

  The first speaker, seated behind the desk, slowly raised his head, the face moving from side to side in a manner reminiscent of an iguana.

  “That is for me to ask, I think, Moran.” His speech was quiet but with a great sense of authority. “You have done well in my absence, apart from one or two stupid and unnecessary bunglings, such as this foolish business of Adair, but I would be grateful if you would remember that I am now back in full command.”

  Moran grunted, his eyes narrowing.

  “Is Mr. Holmes still at the Baker Street house, Ember?” continued the Professor.

  “He has gone to Kensington, to visit his friend Watson.”

  Moran made another irritable, grunting noise from the depths of his chair.

  “Ah, the physician.” The Professor allowed himself a thin smile. “That means …”

  “It means he will begin meddling with the Adair business,” cracked Moran sharply. “Watson is already interested.”

  “So you informed me. Moran, you are a fool to have become involved with Adair. With Holmes and Watson interested we will have to take steps I could have done without at this stage. I have much to do, a great deal to organize now that I am back at the helm: the business in France, the general progress of anarchy throughout the world, not to mention the day-to-day work here. You saw how many people were waiting downstairs, all wanting to see me, all wanting favors.” He raised his right hand, flicking it toward the door in a peremptory gesture. “Leave us, Ember.”

  The whippet, Ember, nodded sharply and backed toward the door after the manner of one leaving the presence of some Eastern potentate. When the door had closed behind Ember, the man they called the Professor rose from his chair.

  “Let me deal with Holmes.” There was venom in Moran’s tone. “If I do it, he’ll be out of your way once and for all, Moriarty.”

  An unseen observer would have been surprised to hear the Professor being referred to as Moriarty. Apart from the habit of oscillating his head like a reptile, the man who stood behind the desk bore little resemblance to the only recorded description of Professor James Moriarty.*

  This man was not unusually tall, around five feet ten inches, one supposed, in his stocking feet. True, he was not of bulky build, but you would call him slim rather than thin, and his head was topped by a generous mane of well-barbered hair, graying at the temples in a distinguished fashion. His posture was upright, shoulders square and not rounded as Holmes’ description leads us to believe. As for his face, the complexion was certainly not pale; rather it was that of a man who has spent a generous amount of time in the sun, not deeply brown, but certainly tanned. He was clean-shaven and there was indeed a certain asceticism about him, but the eyes were bright, far from being sunken. In all he appeared to be a man of much younger age than that suggested by the Holmes description, which until now has been taken as historical fact.

  Moran—Colonel Sebastian Moran, Chief of Staff to Moriarty, for that is who he was—repeated, “Let me deal with Holmes.”

  “I have to think. This is not the time for any quick decisions, as you should well know. There is too much at stake in the future. If Holmes has only just returned to London and is seeing his friend Watson for the first time, twenty-four hours will make little difference. Watson has believed his friend dead for the past three years; there will be some emotional shock. Following that, they will have a great deal to talk about.”

  “I would rather complete the matter now. Today.” Moran sounded peppery.

  Moriarty looked hard at his lieutenant, the eyes, like those of a mesmerist, reaching grimly into Moran’s mind. People often noted the chilling power of Moran’s blue eyes, but they were no match for the austere and commanding stare Moriarty was able to summon.

  “I would prefer you to set certain other business in motion.” Moriarty seldom raised his voice, but the tone he could produce, and the authority with which he spoke, generated obedience from all but the most foolhardy and willful among those who followed him.

  Moran gave a grudging nod of acquiescence.

  “Good. There are matters I wish you to arrange. If I am to resume control, then it will be necessary for me to meet with all our leading captains in Europe. The meeting can be here or in Paris, I do not mind either way, but I wish a date to be set within the next ten days. Arrange the date and place. And
on your way out would you tell Ember that I am ready to see those who have come for help or favors?”

  Moran hesitated, his mouth half open as though he wished to make another appeal to the Professor, then, thinking better of it, he gave a curt movement of his head, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Professor Moriarty’s chambers, however pleasant and well appointed, were not set in the most salubrious of neighborhoods. London in the 1890’s was still a city of great contrast, the glitter of the West End having little in common with the relatively dark and dangerous East End. Moriarty lived hard down by the river, close to the docks and the Chinese quarter of Limehouse, in paradoxical luxury, above an unused warehouse, the bleak and dingy front of which could be reached only by walking through a narrow maze of alleys, courts and streets; the houses, drinking dens and grubby shops squeezed tightly in on one another, by day active and noisy with their cosmopolitan population, by night an area in which a stranger would have to be nothing short of lunatic to walk alone through the ill-lit passages.

  The façade of the warehouse would never arouse suspicion, even in the most observant; it gave the impression of a place uninhabited, except perhaps by rats or vagrants seeking shelter for the night. Cracked windows and scarred brickwork bore testimony to a state of decay. Yet the warehouse was known to a horde of villains, footpads, murderers, pickpockets, forgers, scoundrels, prostitutes, garroters—male and female—thugs, burglars, tricksters and the like, as a place of importance.

  Several hundred of such people were acquainted with the method of obtaining access to the interior of the building—a series of sharp raps, in sequence, on the small door inset in the large, boarded, wooden gates, through which, at one time or another, cargoes ranging from grain to silk had been driven and stored until ship or other transport had dispatched them.

  Immediately inside the doors, the impression of a storehouse, long inactive, remained. It was only when one crossed to the far end of the grubby expanse of floor and passed through the small door, which, to even the keenest eye appeared to be rotten, insubstantial and flaking, that you entered a different world.

  On the far side of the door was a long narrow room set about with bare wooden tables and benches. To the right a fat, ruddy-complexioned man and a thin woman in her late thirties stood behind a wooden counter over which they dispensed hot tea, soup, beer, spirits and bread. At the far left a wooden stairway led to a solid doorway behind which Professor Moriarty lived in quarters that vied for comfort with some of the best bachelor chambers to be found in the more fashionable West End.

  Colonel Sebastian Moran descended the stairway with mixed feelings. Below him some twenty or so men and women were seated at the tables, eating, drinking and talking in low tones. During the three years of Moriarty’s absence, and presumed death, it had been Moran who greeted the twice-weekly deputations of people such as these. But he was now all too aware that during his interregnum the gatherings in the “waiting room,” as it was known, had not been as quiet and apprehensive as the one upon which he now looked. Moran knew why, and it irritated him. The same officers were present: Ember; the tall muscular Paget; Spear, with his broken nose and heavy features, which might have passed for good looks had it not been for the scar, which, like a lightning fork, ran down the right side of his face, narrowly missing the eye but unhappily connecting with the corner of his mouth; and Lee Chow, the agile, dangerous Chinese. Yet today there was an orderly calm, a sense of reverence almost, which had been lacking during the three years in which Moran had taken care of matters.

  The irritation was a mixture of elements; jealousy, of course, played a large role. Moran had known, during the time since Moriarty’s disappearance following the Reichenbach Falls affray, that his leader was still alive. Indeed, he had met with him on a number of occasions, in small, unsuspected villages and hamlets in different parts of Europe, in order to discuss strategy, tactics and other complex matters concerning the Professor’s interests. But as far as the general, run-of-the-mill members of Europe’s criminal element were concerned, the Professor was dead and Colonel Moran had become the man to whom they turned.

  Even though Moriarty himself had only just praised Moran’s leadership and organizational ability, the older man was all too conscious that he lacked the extraordinary powers of the Professor, who seemed to exude an authority and confidence that demanded an almost supernatural obedience. Now that Moriarty had returned, as though from the dead, Moran knew that his own power was considerably reduced. But it was not simply the fact of natural jealousy that disturbed the Colonel. With Moriarty’s return, and that of the meddling Sherlock Holmes, his own position was in jeopardy. It had been in jeopardy only recently through the folly of young Ronald Adair, but Moran had concluded that business with deadly efficiency.

  Colonel Moran was a man with a good background, a man who had every chance to make a way for himself in the world. As with so many criminals, his life had at one time been balanced on a watershed between good and evil; that he had eventually toppled toward the criminal tendencies that beset all men is established fact. Moran was born into a family of some note, his father being Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., at one time British Minister to Persia; he was educated at Eton and Oxford, served with some distinction with the Indian Army and was the author of two books, Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas and Three Months in the Jungle, but his passions were undoubtedly shooting (he was a crack shot and big-game hunter) and gambling: obsessions that inevitably led him toward the criminal life in which he finally indulged himself, working under the influence and direction of James Moriarty. It was the latter passion, gambling, that had led him into the situation in which he now, on this April evening, found himself.

  Sebastian Moran in many senses lived for gambling, because, apart from the monies paid to him and gained from his association with James Moriarty, his present income was supplemented to a very high degree by the large sums of cash that came his way across the card tables in London’s gaming clubs. Moran was a skilled gambler who only rarely lost, a fact that to any knowledgeable student of human nature and the ways of the world means one thing only—that Moran was a cheat.

  Indeed, Moran was a professional cheat, a sharper of more than ordinary dimensions—a macer, in criminal parlance. He had made card sharping a life’s work—second only to shooting—and knew such men as Kepplinger, the San Francisco sharp; Ah Sin, the so-called Heathen Chinee; Lambri Pasha; and the Spaniard, Bianco.

  Yet Moran could outwit all the great names, being an expert in every department of his trade, from the more automatic devices like card marking,* reflectors † and holdouts, as well as the more sophisticated methods of manipulating cards while a game was in progress. He was exceptionally skilled in bottom dealing, crimping, bridging, false shuffling and knocking.

  It is a matter of record that early in the year Moran had been a constant whist partner of the Honorable Ronald Adair, the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, Governor of one of the Australian colonies. Young Adair had returned to London with his mother and sister, Hilda, and was living with them at 427 Park Lane, the mother having come to England for an eye operation.

  On the evening of March 30 Ronald Adair was found shot—his head horribly mutilated by an expanded revolver bullet—in his locked room at 427 Park Lane. The murder had caused widespread shock and concern, there being no evidence of any weapon inside the room and no signs of any killer having climbed the twenty feet to Adair’s window, or indeed of having made an escape from thence.

  The true and hidden facts tumbled through Colonel Moran’s mind as he made his way through the dingy thoroughfares to pick up a hansom and return to his rooms in Conduit Street. At the moment only two people in London knew of the truth surrounding Adair’s inexplicable murder: Sebastian Moran, who had perpetrated the crime, and Professor James Moriarty, in whom Moran had been forced to confide. As he sat back in the hansom, Moran was well aware that if someone did not act quickly, it would only be a matter of tim
e before others would know the facts. Watson was already interested in the case, though that worried him as little as the knowledge that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was investigating Adair’s murder. Neither Watson nor Lestrade, thought Moran, would ever hit on the truth, but Holmes’ return to London put an entirely new complexion on the matter. The anxiety of these facts, combined with the gall of jealousy and the necessity of carrying out Moriarty’s instructions, made Moran more peppery and edgy than usual.

  He stopped the hansom in the Strand in order to send four telegraphs: one to Moriarty’s man in Paris, another to Rome, a third to Berlin and a fourth to Madrid. The messages were in simple prearranged code. Each telegraph read:

  IMPORTANT THAT BUSINESS IS CONCLUDED IN

  LONDON BY THE TWELTH INSTANT. SEBMORE.

  Moran then returned to Conduit Street, exchanging a few words with an elderly road sweeper near his house. He then prepared to bathe and dress for dinner. Outside, the chill day was overtaken by a night which became bleak and blustery.

  Inside the “waiting room” at the rear of the warehouse, Ember, Paget, Spear and Lee Chow watched Moran’s departure in silence. A stillness had fallen over those who waited, ate and drank at the long bare tables. An expectancy was in the air from the knowledge that the Professor was now alone in his chambers up the stairs. Eyes were turned toward Ember, Paget, Spear and Lee Chow, for these four were in some ways an elite, having occupied positions of close proximity to the Professor from a time dating back before his supposed death at the Reichenbach Falls.*

  There was a slight hesitation before Paget, the tallest and most muscular of the men, moved with extraordinary grace and silence, bounding up the stairs and softly knocking at the door.