The Return of Moriarty Read online

  Moriarty motioned the Wrights into chairs and began, telling them that there had been a fearful accident and that somehow the boy’s meal had become tainted with the strychnine they had used on Moran.

  “But I keep it locked, in my private cupboard.” Kate Wright was suddenly white with fear.

  “If it could have got into the boy’s food or drink, then other things might be poisoned also.” Bartholomew Wright’s voice moved, falsetto, up the scale.

  “Quite so.” The Professor leaned back. “That is why Terremant and one of the other punishers are at this moment destroying all the food in the house and emptying all the ale and wine that is not safely unopened.”

  “But—” Kate Wright began, changing her mind because of the look in the Professor’s eyes.

  “I want you, Kate, to go down with Paget here, and give him the poison. He will get rid of it. After that we are making arrangements for you to have one of the carts. Terremant and the other will go with you to buy fresh food and replenish the drink. I cannot take chances, Kate. We will have all the plates, mugs, knives and the like thoroughly washed in boiling water also. The girls can do it while you are getting the provisions. That way we’ll avoid any similar unpleasantness.”

  Paget went down with Mrs. Wright, returning with the small blue bottle marked with the distinctive skull and cross bones. When the Wrights finally left, Moriarty went again to stand by his window.

  “They will all be watched like hawks from now on. I have sent for Parker to bring in another pair of his best people. The moment he or she makes a mistake, we will know.”

  Paget was to remain greatly troubled for some days.

  In the early afternoon Moriarty went with Paget to visit Spear, who by now had been propped up and was sipping beef tea, specially brought in for him, the feeding cup held by Bridget. Now that she was rested and her hair well dried out, they saw that she was indeed a pretty girl, and although she would retain the thin, undernourished look for a while yet, a pert cheekiness could be discerned in her face and eyes; the whole was framed by a mass of golden hair which hung full-bodied to her shoulders.

  Spear smiled weakly when they inquired how he fared, saying that in a few days he would be up and about again, softly cursing his lost opportunity with the Bray’s butler, Halling, and even managing to ask after the Professor’s wound.

  “It will take time before you can use your hands again.” The Professor bent over the bed like a surgeon.

  “When I can, there’ll be many who’ll need to watch themselves.” Spear’s cut and bandaged face was a disconcerting and bizarre mask. “I pray you’ll not get Green or Butler before I can have a piece of them.”

  “You just quiet yourself,” soothed Bridget, then turning to Paget and Moriarty, “I think he should be allowed to rest again now.”

  Moriarty raised his eyebrows, the lips softening into a thin, humorless smile.

  “Miss Nightingale,” murmured Paget.

  “A spirited girl, young Bridget,” mused Moriarty once they were outside. “It is hoped that she can be trusted.”

  “I’ll see to it that she is watched.” Paget was sullen, his humor reflecting the dark thoughts he secretly nursed, for he did not know whom to trust anymore.

  A little after six, the trio of thieves, Fisher, Clark and Gay, arrived at the warehouse, and for the following two hours they discussed plans for the proposed robbery at Harrow: Paget voiced his opinions, based on the reconnaissance he had made, and the other men—all well experienced in matters of this kind—took the Professor step by step through their designs. Moriarty listened for a while before he pronounced his ultimate blessing on the scheme with, naturally, a few modifications. He also authorized the use of a two-horse van for removal of the loot, and directed Paget to travel down to Harrow on the day of the robbery.

  “Just to make sure the matter is still possible. If our fine customers have changed their plans and perhaps come home unexpectedly, it is better that we should be warned.” He caught Paget’s worried frown. “You can return long before the crib’s cracked open, Paget; I have my eye on two very likely fellows of ours to join this trio.”

  At ten o’clock a cab brought Alton, muffled against both the chill night air and the possibility of recognition. He was ushered into the Professor’s chambers where Lee Chow, Ember and Paget were also gathered. A table was set up in front of Moriarty’s desk, and upon it Alton spread out a large ground plan of Coldbath Fields Prison.

  For the better part of an hour he talked quietly and with great concentration, interrupted only occasionally by remarks from Moriarty and small queries from the three members of the “Praetorian Guard.”

  By the time he left the warehouse Alton was satisfied: half his fee jingled in his pocket. The remainder would be his late on Thursday evening when William and Bertram Jacobs became free men.

  Moriarty dismissed his three lieutenants after a brief word to Paget regarding the watch being kept on the women and the kitchens, also on the work for the morrow. He needed to talk with their first prisoners—Roach and Fray—and make the journey, at last, to Abrahams to arrange details of fencing the loot from the Harrow affair.

  But the day was not yet concluded for the Professor. Mary McNiel hovered at the foot of the stairs leading to his chambers, wishing to get to bed and knowing that when she did there would be no sleep for a while, Moriarty’s carnal appetites being what they were. Indeed, he had told her earlier, “Tonight, Mary, you can prepare for a long ride to Mount Pleasant and Shooter’s Hill.”

  Before bed, though, Parker was waiting to see the Professor.

  “I have talked to our man at Scotland Yard,” said the chief lurker once he was settled in the armchair in front of Moriarty’s desk. “This Crow is a hard man, one who as often as not walks alone, and there is little to make us doubt that it is yourself he seeks. There are certain files and papers that have been made available to him, and his staff have been asking questions.”

  “And not getting answers, I trust.”

  “I think not, but he is a worthy opponent.”

  Parker went on to outline Crow’s career, his theories regarding the work of police detection, which made him, to some extent, an unpopular figure at the Yard.

  The lurker continued giving many small details of Crow’s life, including a description of his rooms in King Street and the association with Mrs. Sylvia Cowles.

  “She might be the fulcrum of his downfall, then,” mused the Professor.

  Parker grunted. “Do not take him too much for granted. He is an avid reader and his shelves contain some strange selections for a man in his profession.”

  “Such as?”

  Parker pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. He knew Moriarty’s theories well, for the Professor always held to the maxim, “Acquaint yourself with your man’s bookshelves and you will know him.” The list was a detail of every book in Crow’s rooms.

  There were the usual titles of literary merit, though one or two showed a certain paradoxical romanticism in the detective. Among the more specialized volumes, he expected to see such things as Havelock Ellis’ The Criminal; Guyot’s La Police; a translation of Purkinje’s 1823 lecture on fingerprint impressions; Bertillon’s Signaletic Instructions, Including the Theory and Practice of Anthropomeric Identification, and a number of specialized journals, including a copy of the Revue politique et littéraire for April 28, 1883.

  What he did not expect to find were such items as John Locke’s Essays Concerning Human Understanding, the works of Aristotle, and Bacon’s The Advancement of Learning.

  Moriarty pondered. This man Crow might well prove to be of similar mettle to Holmes. A trial of strength with Crow would mean a testing of the deductive method of logic, combined with scientific skills not yet fully practiced in England.

  “Has he been around and about, or does he just sit and brood?” the Professor asked.

  “He has been out today. To Horton.”

  Almost indiscernibly Moriarty
’s face twitched. He was too tired to think the business out fully tonight; also he had need of the charms and seductive thighs of Mary McNiel—even though she was suspected of treachery. He would sleep on thoughts of Crow, and tomorrow look at the tactics and strategy that would best be employed to meet this new adversary.

  It was some time before Angus McCready Crow slipped into the sweet arms of Morpheus. He was first embraced by the sweet arms and honeyed fingers of the eager and voluptuous Mrs. Sylvia Cowles, under whose ministrations his fatigue soon departed to be replaced by that virility which is the motive force of all mankind.

  Mrs. Cowles was asleep first, leaving Angus Crow to bask in the gentle glow and aftermath of their congress. His thoughts slowly began to revolve around Moriarty, who was stealthily becoming his unseen, unmet and unknown adversary. All the tiny pieces of intelligence, gleaned from the files, started to take on a new shape and significance. Holmes’ own obsession with the man as leader of organized crime, the oblique references to him as a sinister mastermind appeared, in the dark watches of the night, to assume greater proportions and a new three-dimensional quality.

  He slept fitfully through the night, waking fully at around seven in the morning, urged into complete consciousness by the ever-ready Mrs. Cowles whispering,

  “Angus, my love. Again, Angus dearest, oh, please, again.”

  With a responding grunt the craggy Scot plowed another long sweating-sweet furrow, much to their mutual satisfaction, but with the result that on this morning of Wednesday, April 11, the inspector was a good fifteen minutes late in getting to his office.

  It was not until after ten o’clock that Crow’s sergeant, Tanner, winkled out the whereabouts of former Inspector John Meiklejohn. By that time Crow had taken more than a cursory look at the interrogation reports that had followed Monday’s black night of violence. Moriarty’s name appeared more than once, as did the names of Michael Green and Peter Butler. As was suspected, another pattern was emerging, that of two rival criminal factions clashing over disputed territory and powers. Though there was little concrete evidence, Crow knew that if Green or Butler could be found—and the Yard knew that pair well enough—the chances were that they might eventually lead to the dark and brooding specter of Professor James Moriarty.

  By half-past ten Crow and Tanner were both seated in the back of a fast-horsed cab, starting the journey to meet the erstwhile Inspector Meiklejohn in the City Road.

  Moriarty and Paget were up and out by eleven, riding over to see Solly Abrahams. It was a bright morning but Paget found his master far removed, uncommunicative, deep in thought. The Professor had wrapped himself in numerous matters, in particular the address he would give to the emissaries from the European capitals—a speech of some import, for on the results of Friday’s meeting rested the whole future of Moriarty’s dream to be overlord of the criminal denizens of the Continent.

  Beneath these thoughts lay the obscure fears, those weird fantasies of mind, which came, Moriarty knew well enough, from the still-present threat of Green and Butler and the undeniable fact that there was a chosen agent of death well entrenched within the Limehouse lair.

  Crow was also hiding away in Moriarty’s secret consciousness—a figure of law and justice who appeared to be girding his loins for an assault against all the Professor stood for and had worked for.

  The business with old Abrahams did not take more than an hour and a couple of glasses of port wine. (The Jew kept a fine cellar, and it was rumored that he had once personally employed a team of cracksmen whose sole duty was to rape the cellars of the nobility.) The Harrow matter settled, they drove back to Limehouse and Moriarty instructed Paget to present himself at his chambers after they had eaten. This afternoon he would talk with Roach and Fray to inform them of their choice for the future—death or life with a term of very legal imprisonment.

  There was another matter that had been troubling Moriarty, and at last his mind was rightly made up. Before his food was served by Mrs. Wright—now accompanied by an omnipresent punisher—he sent for Lee Chow and gave him quick and ruthless orders.

  “The man, Zebedee Smith,” he said with no trace of emotion.

  “You wishee I…?”

  “Yes. We have no further use for him; he has lived out his purpose. He also knows too much. Tonight, Lee Chow, see that his throat is slit and the body well stowed.”

  The Chinese bowed a solemn bob and retreated, smiling. This was no time for any sentiment, and probably the other two taken entering Nelson Street would go the same way on the morrow.

  John Meiklejohn was now a man in his middle sixties, but of necessity he still worked for his living. His office was small and furnished in a simple manner, being on the second floor of a building near to where the City Road joined with Old Street. A brass plate on the door signified that this was the office of JOHN MEIKLEJOHN. DETECTIVE & LEGAL INVESTIGATOR.

  Crow tapped on the door and pushed it open. Old Meiklejohn sat behind a large desk strewn with papers. In the corner, near the one grimy window, a young man sat laboriously writing in a large ledger.

  Crow introduced himself and watched the smile of welcome fade from Meiklejohn’s tired and lined face.

  “Is this a business matter or something personal?” the private detective asked, worry plain in his rheumy eyes.

  “It is somewhat of a personal business, I’m afraid.” Crow’s rich burr had a kindly touch to it.

  “Ah, personal. Some trouble you wish me to settle for you, perhaps?”

  “No.” Crow was firm. “Some past trouble of your own, which you can perhaps help us with.”

  Old Meiklejohn nodded sadly and called to his young assistant.

  “Bernard, the gentlemen have a little private business with me. I’d be grateful if you would step out for a few minutes.” He gave a short and not unpleasant laugh. “You can go across the road and ogle that young woman in the draper’s, eh?”

  When the lithe and blushing Bernard had departed, Meiklejohn waved his visitors into chairs.

  “I suppose it’s something from the de Goncourt affair. It usually is.”

  “Usually?” Crow on the alert. “What do you mean, man, usually? You have many inquiries about that? I thought it was well forgotten by most people.”

  “Oh, I suppose I exaggerate, but once in a while someone recalls it, usually when there’s a similar swindle. It is then that I get a visit. Another lot of magsmen on the con?”

  Crow smiled gently. “Mr. Meiklejohn, I have no wish to remind you of the past. It is dead and well buried as far as I am concerned. You were a fool, but like the other two, you paid your debt.” He glanced around the bare office. “And go on paying, too, I imagine.”

  Meiklejohn sighed. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed; good times and bad. There is quite a call for private investigation, you know, though I should have taken myself off to America, I hear that is where there are real pickings. A countryman of yours has done well with his agency there.”

  “Aye, Allan Pinkerton.”

  “Yes, that’s where I should have gone. A fool should not stay near the spot where he has befouled himself.”

  Crow gave a long, sage nod. “I suppose you’re right, but you can leave it too long, you know. Had you heard that Palmer’s gone to Australia?”

  “No.” It was almost a shocked sound. “No, has he really, now. Well, he’s left it late, and poor old Nat gone also—a different kind of emigration.”

  “It was concerning Nat Druscovich that we called.”

  Meiklejohn gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t say that after all this time you’ve found he left a will and two thousand pound to me. That would be irony indeed.”

  “He died a broken man; but you know that. There is something, though, that we did not know until recently. Or I should say that it was known but nobody heeded it. You can be of great help.”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course.”

  “Then you’ll add another name to those of Jonge, Kurr and Mu
rray.”

  Meiklejohn looked startled, puzzled and a shade gray.

  “Another name? You have all the names. Everyone was caught.”

  “Walters was not caught.”

  “Well, he skipped it, didn’t he? America, they said.”

  “They said the same about Murray, but he turned up.”

  “Well, I don’t know what happened to Walters.”

  Crow took a deep breath. “What about Moriarty?”

  Meiklejohn blanched. “Who?” he asked, a tremble in his voice, eyes darting about the room as though looking for a way of escape.

  “Moriarty?” said Crow pushing.

  Meiklejohn shook his head. “I never heard that name. Not in connection with the turf racket, anyway.”

  “About any other rackets?”

  “Well …” He was hesitant. “Well, one does hear the odd whisper from time to time. In this business you can’t—”

  “Moriarty was behind the swindle in which you were involved, man. We know it and so do you. All we need is a sworn statement.” His Scottish burr was more marked.

  “You’d never get him, Inspector. Nobody’ll ever get Moriarty and you know that.”

  “I don’t know it, and I want your statement saying that he was heavily involved with Kurr and Jonge. The truth.”

  The minutes ticked by, Meiklejohn shaking his head again.

  “Who says he was involved anyhow?”

  “Nat Druscovich for one.”

  “I don’t believe that. If Nat had talked, you’d have been racing about like whippets.”

  “On his deathbed. He said it all right, but it got overlooked.”

  “You’ve a signed statement?”

  “We’ve got enough.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Enough to collar you and make life unpleasant, and it could be very unpleasant for a man of your age. Good God, man, you must know that.”

  Once more a protracted silence. Then—

  “If I do some chanting, what then?”

  “We’ll leave you alone, Mr. Meiklejohn.”