The Return of Moriarty Read online

  “Yours?” asked Sal, sitting beside the bed, her eyes twinkling and head cocked cheekily on one side. In the free and easy world of Moriarty’s family, Spear was the last person she would ever have wagered on to be caught by a pretty face.

  “It’d seem so.”

  “Indeed it would, but if you ever want to get rid of her, I’ve always got a place for a girl with spunk.”

  “I doubt there’s any chance of getting rid of her. She’s a sticker, Sal, and I could be worse off. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

  “Are you better?”

  Spear looked at his bandaged hands. “Not ready yet to use these as I’d like, but better than I was. How often do you go into your shop in Berwick Street?” The muscle on his right cheek contracted, making the uneven scar show livid against the healthy skin.

  “A couple of times a week. Why?”

  “I sent someone there last Sunday. Look, Sal, I was trying to do Pip Paget and young Fanny a favor. Fanny Jones lost her post because of a lecherous butler called Halling. I had him marked up last Sunday evening: left a message for him saying as how Fanny was at the Berwick Street place. I reckoned I’d get there before him, and I was going to put the carriers right. As it was, bloody Green and Butler nabbed me.”

  “He went there.” Sal chuckled. “I was in on Monday and young Delphine said they had done business. Apparently he was annoyed at them knowing nothing of the Jones girl, but Delphine made it up to him. Pompous bugger, it seems. Delphine said he was a puffer.”

  “If he goes back, could you get him fixed?”

  “The carriers there will need to be paid, and I don’t want no trouble on the premises.”

  “Twenty guineas?” Amidst the bruising on his face Spear’s eyebrows were raised.

  “It should be enough.”

  Spear flapped a bandaged hand toward the old chest of drawers that stood near his window.

  “In there. The top drawer. There’s a cash box.”

  Bridget returned as Sal was about to leave and the elegant, sophisticated madam could not resist a parting shot.

  “I’ll give your love to the girls then, Bert.”

  “Sod the girls.”

  “They all miss you.”

  “Just get that one thing done for me.”

  “And what might that one thing be?” asked Bridget, tapping a foot, once Sal Hodges was out of the room.

  “You’re jealous already and I haven’t even shown you how to dance the old buttock jig yet.”

  “You’ll show me soon enough, Bert Spear, and I’ll learn you as well. Just what’s that whore-mother doing for you?”

  “If you must know, she’s getting a wedding present for Pip Paget and Fanny Jones.”

  “I could have done that.”

  “You’re not allowed a step outside this building and you know it. Not yet. Anyway, it’s a special present that only Sal can arrange.”

  Bridget treated him to a sunny grin. “Something Paget can practice on?”

  “Enough of that, girl.” His tone softened. “Will you not go on reading that tale to me?”

  “I’ll give you tale.” She moved archly, thrusting forward.

  “Tale or tail? You move as though you crack nuts with yours.”

  “I shall. Your nuts, Bert Spear. I can be a rare nutcracker when I’ve the mind.”

  Moriarty used the letterhead of his former house off the Strand when writing to Dr. Night, the illusionist. The note was short, praising the performance and asking for an appointment with the doctor to discuss matters of mutual advantage. The advantage of which Moriarty wrote was undefined but concerned the payment of a large sum of money to Dr. Night in exchange for professional secrets. The Professor was obsessed with the whole idea, as though the tricks and stratagems of the illusionist would provide him with more personal power. As, indeed, he considered they could. However, he still had to proceed with the everyday workings of his business.

  While he waited for Ember to return—for it was Ember who had been entrusted with delivering the letter and bringing the illusionist’s reply—Moriarty ticked off the multitude of items he seemed to be juggling. Foremost in his mind was Paget’s imminent marriage, but that was in many ways clouded by the knowledge that they had yet to unmask the traitor in the warehouse.

  Since the moment Moriarty had concluded that there was an apostate in their midst, the watch had been kept on all four suspects. Moriarty’s not inconsiderable knowledge of human nature told him now that in all possibility the culprit would be revealed by precipitate action within a few days—maybe even before the wedding celebrations on Tuesday.

  There was the question of the robbery at Harrow, which would follow hard on the wedding. The cracksman Fisher had, that very morning, supplied the Professor with a complete list of items they hoped to bring away from the Pinner estate. These included some rare silver and gold plate: at least £20,000 of jewelry, kept in a “Country Gentleman’s Deed Safe”—by George Price Ltd of Wolverhampton—in the study on the first floor; and several valuable objets d’art, two of which were Canaletto paintings.

  Moriarty had already known about the Canalettos, and they were earmarked for special shipment back to Italy within a few hours of the robbery, their disposal having been planned in conjunction with Luigi Sanzionare.

  Overriding all these things was the Professor’s move respecting the Prince of Wales. Already copies of the court circular were on his desk. Place, time, date and method were all things that had to be clear and plotted.

  Shortly after nine Ember returned with an envelope addressed to the Professor in a florid script much occupied with whirls and fancy scrolls.

  Most honored Professor,

  You do me great service in showing interest in the noble art which I practice. I should be more than happy to meet a gentleman of your learning and position to discuss, as you write, the proposition “to our mutual advantage.” If you would do me the honor of calling on me in my dressing room at the Alhambra Theatre after the last performance on Wednesday night, that is to say at eleven o’clock, I would be most happy to see you. If this is not convenient, perhaps you could suggest another time and date with which I will endeavor to comply.

  I remain, sir,

  Your obedient servant,

  William S. Wotherspoon.

  (Dr. Night)

  Moriarty’s lips lifted in a sour smile. A magsman, he thought. William S. Wotherspoon. Dr. Night. A cheap magsman.

  What a pompous bastard he is, thought Delphine Merchant. Her client, Mr. Halling, was carefully brushing his hair, as though each thinning strand had its own particular place on the scalp. In bed he went at it with lecherous vigor, yet without the style of most men, but once out and in his trousers again, he eyed her as though he was some lord or duke. By God, she had known lords and dukes and they were better men than this skinny-ribbed beanpole—and better at flopping.

  “You can stay all night with me, you know, my duck,” she said, letting her small voice sweep up and down the scale.

  Sal Hodges had once told her that using her vocal charms in this way could well set a man on.

  Halling turned and looked at her as though she was a piece of gutter turd.

  “My child, I have to be back.” He consulted his watch, replacing it in its pocket with much exaggerated care. “It just wouldn’t do. I have a duty to the servants. Some of them are only young girls. No, I have my responsibilities. Private pleasure must never conflict with public duty.”

  Public duty my arse, thought Delphine, and servants as well. You have the look and the smell of butler written all over you, my friend, for all your coming so heavy. She pitied the young girl servants in that household. Delphine knew the hell that lecherous, demanding, double-faced butlers could create among little parlormaids. Respectability was a word that covered sins and hypocrisy like thick glue.

  It was near enough ten o’clock when Halling left Berwick Street to make his way back to the secure portals of the Brays’ m
ansion in Park Lane. He turned left, crossing into Broad Street, then down toward Brewer Street and the Quadrant. Though there was no fog, the smoke hung heavy above the houses, blowing wispy along the gullies of the narrow lanes.

  They took him from an alley off Brewer Street, two of them, big rough men who seemed to the butler to be the size of gorillas. Later the police decided that it was a simple case of robbery, but Halling, ruined for life, always wondered, for they knocked him down quickly with blows to his head; nor did he try to resist as they went for his purse and snatched the watch from its chain. It was only when he was down and the things taken from him that they cobbled him, first in the ribs and then lower, damaging him in a way that, though it still left him alive, removed what manhood he had.

  Spear’s reaction, on hearing the details, was one of outright pleasure. It was justice, as far as he was concerned: a justice made” sweeter by the fact that he did not tell either Fanny Jones or Paget. Never again would the unctuous Mr. Halling bother or blackmail helpless girls in service.

  The hams and the veal, chickens, turkeys and rabbits were brought into the warehouse on Monday morning. Out of respect for her position as the bride, Fanny was excused all duties in the kitchen, her place taken by Bridget—though she was loath to leave Spear’s side, particularly on the day when he was being allowed to get up and sit in a chair in readiness for the wedding: Albert Spear was not going to be left out of the celebrations even if they had to bring him downstairs on a shutter.

  The activity in the kitchens began gently, gaining momentum through the day, until by late afternoon it reached a frenzied peak—all watched by successive teams of men whose instructions were precise and whose eyes followed every move made by those engaged in preparing the delicacies.

  At midday they began to unload the wines: crates of Vauban Frères champagne, which had been diverted from their original destinations by numerous ruses, including bribery and the more barefaced forms of violent robbery.

  The main outer floor of the warehouse was swept and cleaned by a team of Chinese whom Lee Chow had mustered for the purpose. Extra lamps were trimmed, filled, and hung in place, and long trestle tables were set to run down the length of the floor, to left and right, while others were erected in front of the entrance to the “waiting room.”

  When all this was completed, the women—wives and girls drawn from many areas of Moriarty’s organization—came in with armfuls of spring flowers and garlands, to decorate what was normally a bleak and dreary interior. It was plain to see that the Professor was determined to do it right by Paget and his betrothed.

  Yet business continued as usual. Moriarty held his daily meeting with the three remaining members of the “Praetorian Guard,” together with Parker and the Jacobs brothers, who were quickly assuming a new importance within the structure of power. He also dealt with a steady stream of callers. And Paget himself was kept busy receiving various moneys, from cash carriers, bullies and collectors who had been out as usual over the weekend, wringing Moriarty’s tribute from those who regularly paid tariff to the Professor’s coffers.

  During the midafternoon, Paget took the opportunity of catching the Professor alone.

  “I’d like to thank you for all you’re doing for Fan and myself.” There was genuine appreciation in his manner.

  Moriarty looked up, eyes dull and watchful. “It is right that I should do this for you, Paget. After all, you have been with me a long time and you are now my most trusted man. I only hope, for your sake, that the woman will not prove to be like most of them; that she will not let you down.”

  A flash of pain crossed Paget’s face, the suspicion still ever-present, a constant worry.

  “I cannot believe it is Fanny.” The words were brave enough, but doubt still lay buried behind his eyes. “As for being your most trusted man, indeed I try to be worthy of that, but I have concern over one matter, and I have to speak to you of it.”

  Moriarty’s head came up, face dark, glowering with the first hint of reaction, which would come like a storm if Paget proved to be in disagreement with any of the Professor’s well-laid projects.

  “Go on.” The voice chilling as ice in the face.

  Paget straightened, firming his resolve. It would be wrong to remain silent over this.

  “I will do—and have done—most things, Professor. You know that. Thieving, punishing, collecting, murder even. But I cannot be asked to perform the thing you have promised to the Continental gentlemen.”

  “And why not?”

  “I cannot, that’s all there is to it. I could never take violent action against the Prince of Wales.”

  “Sentiment,” spat Moriarty. “You’re like all the rest. Pilferers, thieves, murderers, yet the royal family is sacrosanct. Sentiment and superstition.” He gave a half laugh. “But you have no cause to worry, Paget, you will not be asked to assist in the demise of Bertie Wales. I shall see to that one myself and make it a personal matter. Now go and concentrate on your nuptials.”

  Inspector Angus McCready Crow did not make his engagement public knowledge at Scotland Yard when he went in to work on the Monday morning. The word would be out soon enough, for the ecstatic Mrs. Cowles was pressing for an announcement in the columns of The Times.

  All thoughts of his future matrimonial predicament went straight from his mind when he saw young Frome’s report on his desk. Under normal circumstances it would never have been passed on to Crow, but the assistant commissioner, who had viewed the document and the drawing, saw at once that if the young policeman was accurate with his pencil, one of the group could be nobody else but Professor James Moriarty.

  Crow had no doubt that it was Moriarty; the likeness was exact, just as he was described by Holmes. It concerned him deeply that here was an indication of the possible scope of Moriarty’s control. Luigi Sanzionare was certainly sitting with him in the box at the Alhambra, and the girl Adela Asconta, her head cocked to one side, the face puzzled. To his eye, Crow reasoned, most of the others present were foreigners also.

  He first referred the matter to the assistant commissioner, then, on his authority, ordered the drawing to be copied and circulated to police forces on the Continent, with a view of identifying some of the other faces present. It was shortly after this had been done that Crow interviewed the detective who had been on duty, shadowing Sanzionare. But the horse had bolted; the Italian and his party had left the Westminster Palace that morning, taking the boat train, presumably en route for Rome via Paris.

  It was disturbing to know that Moriarty was openly consorting with foreign criminals in the capital, and it did not take such an agile mind as Crow’s much time to deduce what they were about: At least it would be some very large robbery, at worst a union of the criminal elements of all Europe.

  The temptation to mount a full-scale search for Moriarty, collar him and use the old de Goncourt business as a holding charge, was great. But Crow was only too conscious that a clever legal man would break the de Goncourt charge with little trouble. The most they could accomplish that way would be a chance to talk to Moriarty for a day or so—if that. His real chance was to continue the waiting game.

  By early afternoon Tanner had returned with what intelligence he had been able to glean. It disclosed little except that Professor Moriarty had been forced to resign from the university because of a scandal concerning two of his pupils—and it was thought that he had finally left the academic cloisters in the company of his youngest brother, who appeared to have visited him at the university on a number of occasions.

  Crow also learned a little about Moriarty’s family: his upbringing in Liverpool and the two younger brothers, both named James, one of whom was an officer in the 7th Lancers. As for the youngest brother, there seemed to be no information except that he had left home to work with the Great Western Railway Company, which, strangely, could not trace an employee of that name.

  Crow wondered if it were possible. The youngest brother was not traceable. So? He came back to
his original line of reasoning. If the Professor was able to appear in two guises, one younger than the other, it might be that the Moriarty they sought was in reality the famous professor’s youngest brother. He instructed Tanner to continue the search for any further facts concerning James Moriarty minimus.

  Crow then turned his attention to the morrow and the man Paget who was to be married at eleven o’clock, by the curate of St. Andrew’s, Limehouse. He had this on the word of a sergeant in his late thirties, with much experience in the clam-closed dockland world. So Crow sent for the man.

  It was natural that Crow should be anxious about the source of the intelligence concerning Paget’s wedding, and his interview with the sergeant lasted for the better part of an hour. But like all good detectives, the sergeant was reluctant to reveal the name of his informant.

  “It’s not easy down there, sir,” he told Crow. “You can be working in the thick of villains and transgressors of the worst kind, yet not know a damned thing. You plod on and trust to luck. All I can tell you is that this Paget’s a big bloke with a lot of connections, and he’s to be hammered proper tomorrow. As for my informant, I’ve never had anything from her before, but it does seem to be a straight tip. I did get the impression she was nervous in talking to me, that she was being watched and held some kind of grudge—but that’s only intuition.”

  “Nothing wrong with intuition, Sergeant, not so long as it can be backed up with common reason and logic.”

  The sergeant laughed. “I’ve yet to associate common reason or logic with a woman.”

  Crow was immediately depressed for the thought of the imminent departure of his freedom rushed back into his mind. Weddings appeared to be the vogue, so tomorrow he would take a trip down to Limehouse and see this Paget and his bride turned off. If nothing else it should prove an interesting venture.

  That Moriarty could pull strings at all levels was a plain fact of life, so nobody questioned what methods he had used to arrange the wedding without the formality of banns. It was enough to say that the Professor decreed the marriage would take place at St. Andrew’s at eleven o’clock, and only a very limited number of people would be allowed into the ceremony. The celebrations afterward in the main floor of the warehouse would be another matter.