The Return of Moriarty Page 21

“It may take a few hours, maybe a day.”

  “By tomorrow night?”

  “Certainly by then.”

  “I wish to know about him: record; everything—particularly why he’s been seeing Holmes.” He paused, eyes flicking up to Parker’s race as the head moved to and fro. “Is he watched?”

  “Not continually.”

  “See to it, then. I do not care for any strange jack who circles like a vulture.”

  Paget returned and Parker slipped away like the wraith he was. Moriarty looked at his watch; it was nearly midday and by now the others would be pulling in his army of mercenaries. He nodded, and together they went down into the “waiting room,” across the warehouse floor to the outer door.

  There was room outside the warehouse for a cab or carriage, even a large four-horse van, but the exit road led only down to the docks, not a convenient route for most of the departures made from the headquarters. Normal practice was for the warehouse to be approached, or quitted, on foot. One took a short walk down a narrow lane between crushed and leaning houses, emerging through an archway into the wider, if still unsalubrious, streets.

  Paget stood at the doorway and gave a long low whistle. From somewhere at the end of the lane came an answering series of short whistles—one of Parker’s lurkers indicating that all was clear.

  The two men set off across the court and into the lane. Through the archway they could see Harkness with the cab drawn up at the curb.

  They came out through the arch into the main street, and as they emerged Paget was distracted for a fleeting second by the sound of hooves. A small single-horse van was approaching from the left. As it drew in line with Moriarty’s cab sudden hell broke loose.

  There were four or five shots in all, the volley coming from the back of the van, ripping the air, crashing into the cab, splintering woodwork, slamming into the bricks around the arch like a handful of pebbles projected with great force—the noise of the explosions echoing with the whine of ricochets.

  Harkness cried out as Paget hurled himself in front of the Professor who seemed to do a half-turn, a small gasping grunt coming from him as he wheeled. There was the clatter of the horse, the fat rumble of wheels and two more shots from the back of the van—one of which whizzed, like an angry vicious insect, over Paget’s head, the other sharding a cobble some eighteen inches to the left. Then the van was gone and footsteps echoed urgently as two of the lurkers came running up.

  The Professor lay on his back, blood soaking the upper left arm of his frock coat.

  “He’s hit, my God, the guv’nor’s hit,” Harkness cried, his voice rising to a screech.

  The Professor pushed himself into a sitting position.

  “Stop whining, you nickey bastard, and help me up.”

  His face was gray, and Paget thought he could detect fear hiding in the corner of the eyes, which screwed up with pain as they got him to his feet.

  Together they helped the Professor down the alley, back into the warehouse where Fanny, Mary and Mrs. Wright alerted by the noise, fluttered around getting Moriarty to his chamber and stripping off the sleeve.

  It was only a flesh wound, but painful nevertheless. Moriarty kept up a steady flow of abuse as they cleaned and dressed it.

  “If this is the work of Butler and Green, I’ll see them with their marbles chopped.”

  “We’ll do for the bastards,” soothed Paget.

  “Do for them?” the Professor snarled. “No canting flash cove uses an iron on me. By Jesus, I’ll see them both do a leap: What do they take me for? A gulpy?”

  They brought him brandy, and the color soon returned to his face. All thoughts of going to see Abrahams that day had gone. Moriarty could think only of the night and ruination of the Peg’s organization.

  Paget was in great unease, for while all indications were that Morarty still held the whip hand, Green and Butler must have great confidence to attempt the life of the Professor so deeply within his own domain. He saw also, in Moriarty’s look, the sense of concern. It was something he had only viewed once before—when Holmes had had the Professor on the run, chasing across Europe, abandoning his plans and going into exile.

  Crow’s sergeant, a fairhaired, beefy lad of twenty-eight, was waiting for him at Horsemonger Lane with the police surgeon; Williams, the warder who had shown the girl in to see Moran; the turnkey who had found the body; the gatehouse warder; and the governor.

  Crow talked to them each in turn, making constant references to Lestrade’s report. Nothing new emerged except that the pompous little doctor could now say with authority that Moran had died of poisoning by Strychnos nux vomica, the poison having been inserted into both the pie and the wine delivered to the colonel.

  Neither were there any new features added to the description of the girl, which, Crow reflected sadly, only proved how unobservant the turnkeys and warders of Her Majesty’s Prisons could be. The girl was an identical copy of hundreds of others who lived in London. Again, he thought, it was a clear case for the building up of a complete crime index. Registration cards might have solved this one; as it was, they could only issue a description and hope that among the many young women who would doubtless be brought in for questioning they might find the girl who had so insidiously taken the poisoned food into the jail.

  Eventually the inspector asked to see the cell, in Men’s Block A, where Moran spent his last hours. Crow was also a great believer in a thorough examination of the scene of crime. But here there were no clues, except to previous occupants. Someone had scratched on the wall

  21,000 times have I walked round this cell in a week

  Another, his remand obviously over and sentence passed, had chipped out

  Good-bye, Lucy dear,

  I’m parted from you for seven long year

  BILL JONES

  Below, some cynic had added

  If Lucy dear is like most girls,

  She’ll give few sighs and moans,

  But soon will find among your pals

  Another William Jones

  Nothing. No scratched messages by Colonel Moran, no hints or traces. Only the stale smell of humanity thinly disguised by the pervading reek of disinfectant.

  Crow returned with his heavy batch of papers to Scotland Yard, where, more from irritation than conscientiousness, he instructed his sergeant to see if there were any old reports or documents relating to the name Druscovich. The sergeant did not return to the office until nearly four o’clock, this time not only with papers referring to Druscovich but also to several other names—notably those of Palmer and Meiklejohn.

  Crow cursed aloud and with some profanity. He had not been able to see the wood for the trees. Druscovich—he knew the name as well as his own, and it must have been a pretty dull copper who had put in his beat report without connecting the names, and an even duller sergeant. He could only presume that no senior officer had even looked at it.

  Nat Druscovich: Chief Inspector Nat Druscovich. Chief Inspector Bill Palmer, and Inspector John Meiklejohn—the three members of the detective force who were sent down in 1877. All of them had got a two-stretch for complicity in the de Goncourt scandal, which had brought shame upon the whole force.

  “Tanner,” he bellowed to his sergeant, “there has to be a comprehensive file under the name de Goncourt. I want it here within the half hour, then you’re in charge until I’ve taken it home and read it.”

  If Nat Druscovich had mentioned on his deathbed that someone called Moriarty was behind that swindle, then chances were it was true; and if that Moriarty were one and the same man as the Professor, then there could just be a small gleam among the darkness. Meiklejohn and Palmer were, presumably, still alive; and if one or both could confirm, then maybe some of the wild stories might possibly be true. Get Moriarty on an old score and who knew what walls might tumble down.

  “You’re a lying bastard!”

  The blow that accompanied the spat statement caught Spear in the mouth. He went down, feeling the blood r
unning from his lip on the scarred side.

  Butler, who had come in behind Green, reached forward and pulled Spear to his feet. Two of the other men—Bovey and Gibbs, Spear thought they were called—climbed through the trap and ranged themselves behind Michael Green.

  Green’s face was flushed with anger. He had struck with his right fist, the left crumpling a piece of paper on which there was writing.

  “Bleedin’ liar, Spear.”

  “I never claimed to be Saint Peter.”

  “Your plan—your plotting to control Moriarty’s mob: you and Paget and Ember and the Chink, Lee Chow. An actor hired to be the Professor.”

  Sarcasm etched Green’s words, like drawing a grater over nutmeg, all punctuated by short heavy blows to the side of Spear’s head.

  “Easy, Mike, we want the mandrake alive.”

  Nobody ever called Spear a mandrake. His right arm came back, but Bovey and Gibbs were on him with restraining arms that were none too considerate.

  “It was you who didn’t believe the Professor was alive.”

  Spear’s mouth was swelling fast making it difficult to speak with conviction.

  “Well, I think he’s dead now.” Green’s mile was tightlipped, thin and greasy as workhouse soup. “You saw him go down, Bovey?”

  The man on Spear’s right arm nodded with the whole of his body, making Spear wonder if he was, perhaps, a little uncertain.

  “Like I said, Peg. We gave him six with the irons. I hit him at least twice, and he went down like a piece of dead meat. Paget as well, I think.”

  “I wouldn’t be as sure about Paget,” chimed Gibbs.

  Spear could smell the powder on them, the gloom rising in his guts and head.

  “They went after your actor.” Green held a fist under Spear’s nose. “Well, they got him with barkers in Limehouse. Only when they came back, they said he was the spitting image of the Professor—and they’re men as have seen Moriarty in both his guises. That worried me, but now I’ve had a letter delivered—one I’ve been waiting for. It’s from someone that’s seen him and been close to him. So tell me, brother Spear, when did Professor Moriarty rise from the dead? And what was the game? The one that’s blown him says there’s trouble.”

  Spear spat the blood from his mouth.

  “If you’ve killed him, you shoful-shit, you’d better look about you, because the demons of hell will be at your windows.”

  “I’ll give him the demons of hell.” Butler came forward, his pasty face close to Spear. “Get him in a chair and I’ll tune him. He’ll sing like a bagpipes before I’ve done.”

  They pulled Spear backward, dragging his heels across the boards. He tried to struggle, but there was no escape. They held him down and passed ropes about his body. Butler had his coat off and was rolling back his sleeves.

  “Right, Mr. Spear. What were you up to? What the plot? What the progress?” Butler turned to Bovey. “Go down and get Bridget to heat some water—boiling water. But don’t tell her what it’s for—you know women when they’ve had their fur tickled. And bring the pincers.”

  Spear, confused as he was, held fast to the fact that even with the Professor gone, Paget and the rest would still carry out the plan to blot Green and Butler from London.

  * The interview between Moriarty and Holmes is well documented by Dr. Watson in The Final Problem. And from the events so far related, a new perspective is now added to Moriarty’s speech to Holmes, in which he says: “You crossed my path on the fourth of January. On the twenty-third you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; by the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position by your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one.”

  * Watson ably recounts in The Final Problem how Holmes, outthinking the Professor, left the train at Canterbury, watched Moriarty’s “special” steam past, and then made a cross-country journey to Newhaven, from thence to Dieppe and onward, bypassing Paris, where Moriarty doubtless lost at least two days.

  Monday, April 9, 1894, 9:00 P.M. onward

  (THE NIGHT OF THE PUNISHERS)

  MORIARTY’S ARM WAS in a sling. Apart from that his appearance and demeanor had not altered. They had all been gathered together since late afternoon, bullies and hard men alike, generating almost a holiday atmosphere, for they were to be about the work which they enjoyed most.

  They were fed in shifts, with Mrs. Wright, Fanny, and Mary McNiel bringing out batches of hot pies, baked potatoes and jugs of ale into the “waiting room.” There was a lot of rough laughter and coarse humor:

  “What’s for dinner then?”

  “There’s four turds for dinner.”

  “Aye, stir turd, hold turd, treat turd and must turd.”

  Then, under Paget’s supervision, they got down to the serious work of arming up. Revolvers and somewhat ancient pistols were taken from the cache in the store next to Paget’s chamber. Knives, life preservers and holy-water sprinklers—the short bludgeon laced with sharp nails—razors and brass dusters.

  Only when all was ready did Moriarty begin to divide the men into squads, each with a leader—a process that caused the rank and file to spill out of the “waiting room” and into the warehouse itself.

  The Professor, standing on a box, then addressed the evillooking army.

  “It’s bloody work I’m after tonight, lads,” he began. “And why not? The bastards have tried to blood me today. Michael the Peg and Peter the Butler are the first men in this city to have opened me, and if you want the likes of them as your dons, then you know what to do.” There was a murmur of protest, and cries of “No!” and “You’re our man, Professor.”

  Moriarty smiled with his whole face. “Well, if I’m your man, you’re my men.”

  A ragged cheering, at which the Professor put up a quieting hand.

  “Never underestimate your enemy though, boys. Three years ago I would not have given you a brace of new-minted farthings for Michael Green and Peter Butler, even with their ways and ambitions. But make no doubt of it, they have gained much ground and they obviously think they’re a match for us. They ring our manors and yesterday they took Spear. Today they tried for me. So now, from all hell, I want them smashed come Lombard Street to a China orange, or I’ll wear the devil’s claws myself.”

  This time the cheering was unanimous.

  Moriarty then began the careful work of apportioning the night’s business. It took more than an hour, because there was some argument about the quickest way to descend on certain of the houses and taverns and a little bickering regarding who would use the vans and wagons that had been provided by Parker.

  From six o’clock onward there had been a steady stream of lads, Parker’s runners, bringing in the latest intelligence on the movements of Green’s and Butler’s people. The two leaders of the rival gang were still at the flash-house in Nelson Street, which was Paget’s target. And, as he loaded his old five-shot revolver, the Professor’s most trusted man thought briefly of Spear, wondering what they would find when they burst into the Peg’s hideout.

  They were due to leave, by groups, starting from half-past seven, and before he went, Paget sought out Fanny for a short and snatched moment.

  She looked concerned, having covered it all night by hard work, assisting with the cooking and feeding. Now the lines of anxiety rode in a small spray of barbs between her fine eyebrows.

  “There’s going to be blood let tonight, Pip, isn’t there? A lot of blood.”

  “Some.” He nodded, sounding as diffident as he could.

  “Oh, Pip, take care, my love.” Her hands pressed hard around his arms.

  Paget drew back, opening his coat to show her the butt of his revolver.

  “Anyone getting in my way, I’ll see his innards first.”

  Fanny’s frown increased. “Watch for yourself.”

  “Shall you be
all right, Fan?”

  She inclined her head.

  “You’ve kept busy enough today, girl, what with all the kitchen bustle.”

  “It was pleasant.”

  “You get on with the Professor’s pusher?”

  “Mary?”

  “Mary McNiel, who’s giving her Mary Jane to the Professor.”

  Fanny Jones gave a little giggle. “She’s all right, a bit of a know life. But that isn’t surprising, the questions she asks.”

  “A listener?”

  “Doesn’t miss much.”

  Paget thought for a second or two. “Watch yourself, Fan. We’ve got Moriarty’s protection, but Sal Hodges’ girls know more tricks than you’ve ever thought about. Don’t tell her much.”

  She reached up and kissed him, softly, on both sides of the mouth, her arms about his neck as though to hold him close, and away from what was to come. Paget looked at her, thinking he had the finest bargain a family man could ever want. Then he kissed her full on the mouth, held her tight for a moment, and was gone.

  The Collins family was large: father, mother, one grandfather, two grandmothers, six children—ranging from eighteen to eleven—eight uncles, nine aunts, three of whom were true blood relatives, and some twelve cousins.

  They lived in a sprawling old house that had once been part of the great St. Giles rookery, which was still in the process of being dismantled. The Collins’ house was far from unique, but it remained a warren of its own; passages, stairs and room upon room interconnected with cupboards and traps—like some burrowed lair.

  This leaning and crumbling complexity was ideal for the den in which Edward Collins—the family head, a scrawny, thin scarecrow—mustered his relatives in the forger’s arts. There was space, both for living and working, and, essential for safety, the place could only be approached from one direction—along an alley leading off Devonshire Street. In the alley, day and night, one of the Collins lads or a trustworthy hireling lurked as a crow to warn off strangers. Edward Collins also kept four dogs—big brutes, kept low on food—chained near the door.