The Return of Moriarty Read online

  They spent much of the afternoon, once she had everything firmly in her head, running through the act again and again, except for a break of half an hour when the doctor received two visitors in his dressing room.

  The two callers were, of course, Ember and Harkness, to whom the Professor was now able to impart further instructions, hear about how Spear was organizing matters in Berkshire, and the depressing news concerning the raid on the warehouse and Parker’s untimely end.

  Before they left, Moriarty reinforced his orders.

  “You must be waiting from at least ten o’clock onward,” he told Ember. “Just in case anything goes wrong. And you”—he turned to Harkness—“had better get down tonight. I want you to know those roads like the backs of your own hands, so that you could drive them fast and blindfold—as indeed you will have to do.”

  That evening Dr. Night appeared to be in exceptional form. The stage manager said later, “It could be a completely new act. He seems so fresh. Perhaps the girl’s giving him something he’s never had before.”

  “I just hope it ain’t leprosy,” rejoined the stage hand.

  During the whole week, everyone at the Alhambra had to admit that Dr. Night had never been as good, though there were those who found him much less approachable offstage: getting swellheaded, they said, what with the royal command and all.

  As for Inspector Crow, his job had rarely been so frustrating. They had gone over the few papers and scraps a dozen times, hoping some clue might be unearthed. But Moriarty’s whereabouts remained a mystery that Crow despaired of solving.

  Friday, April 27, 1894

  (THE LAST TRICK)

  AT PRECISELY THREE o’clock on the afternoon of Friday, April 27, 1894, two carriages and a van turned into Leicester Square and pulled up to one side of the Alhambra. Workmen began to bring heavy packing cases from the stage door and load them into the van. There was also a large trunk, bearing the painted legend DR NIGHT.

  An equerry and two other gentlemen left the carriages and made their way to the stage door, where the manager of the theater was waiting to introduce them to Dr. Night and his charming assistant, Miss Mary Malloney.

  At half-past three the whole party came out and boarded the carriages, which bore them away to the special train chartered to take the illusionist to Wolferton and thence by coach again to the royal house at Sandringham.

  It was half-past seven when they finally steamed into Wolferton and boarded the carriages that were to carry them on the last fifteen minutes’ journey to the Prince of Wales’ country home. The road passed between bare commons and clumps of fir trees—a wild, flat and bleak part of the world.

  On arrival Moriarty reflected that the old Queen, it was said, considered Sandringham an unlucky house, while others thought of it as the flashpoint of society. Perhaps, Moriarty thought grimly, both these things will truly be proved before the night is done.

  More workmen appeared to unload Dr. Night’s props, while the equerry ushered the doctor and his young woman through the portals, along corridors, and into the big Edis ballroom, which had been set up for the entertainment—some thirty or forty chairs arranged in neat rows facing the large bay windows on the east side, in front of which Dr. Night was to perform.

  It was an impressive room, a room in which to make a crowning appearance, thought Moriarty. It was nearly seventy feet long, thirty wide and twenty-three high, with a smooth oak parquet floor, rich alcoves, panels and, so the equerry said, one hundred and twenty-six gas jets for illumination; the whole was embellished with Indian shields, tiger skins, elephant cloths and the like.

  To one side of the eastern bay window, chairs and music stands were arranged for the orchestra, which already waited patiently for Dr. Night’s arrival, and once the trunks and cases were unloaded, the doctor handed out his orchestra parts and went into quick consultation with both the conductor and leader.

  Once the orchestra had run through the music and the conductor was certain of all the cues, Dr. Night asked the equerry if he might be left alone to unpack and prepare the act in front of the rich cream tapestry curtains that draped the large windows.

  The equerry saw to it and told the illusionist that light refreshment was prepared for him in one of the nearby rooms—he would dine later, when the performance was done. Their Royal Highnesses and their guests were at dinner now, and it was thought they would be ready for the entertainment at about ten o’clock.

  Outside a breeze was stiffening up the Wash, bringing with it the rain that had threatened all day. A few miles off, in a tavern at Wolferton, Harkness drank a glass of brandy, often taking out his watch to count off the slow-passing hours.

  Back in London it had been an irritating, frustrating day for Angus Crow. He had looked through the papers and charred remains from the warehouse yet again, and he found himself strangely returning, for the umpteenth time, to one fragment: a piece of paper, scorched, burned off at an angle, and brown with heat, upon which a few words could be made out:

  If

  e in

  after

  , that

  be most

  onvenient,

  time and date

  mply.

  ant,

  spoon.

  Night)

  There was something there which Inspector Angus McCready Crow found disturbing. He could not put his finger on it, but the thought had nagged since he first saw the fragment. Night was right, no matter if it was spelled with a capital letter: all the logic in the world would not change that. The business became so downright irritating that by late afternoon Crow had reached the end of his tether. He should not, he thought, be cooped up here in an office, trying to use his own particular methods of logical deduction. He should be out and about, searching, raking over the middens and cesspits of the criminal world, hauling in every petty villain and sneak thief, every dipper and macer on the streets—beating information out of them if necessary.

  He was tired. Maybe tomorrow he would go out with his men, make a few surprise raids, drag in known villains, and go through them like an overdose of the Duncan & Flockhart’s Cascara Capsules Sylvia kept in her medicine chest. But today he would let it rest.

  He left Scotland Yard at ten minutes to five and took a hansom back to King Street, surprising Sylvia Cowles, who was in the sitting room, in an absolute uproar, with writing materials, envelopes, scissors, and what seemed to be a huge pile of The Times.

  “You’ve caught me properly on the hop, my darling,” Mrs. Cowles said brightly. “I have been writing letters, and clipping out copies of our engagement announcement to send to a few friends and relatives.”

  “We could start a shop with all this,” Crow said cheerfully, picking a hacked sheet of the newspaper from his favorite chair. His eye ran across the page still held in his hand. Then suddenly there it was, staring him in the face under the Court Circular:

  …. There will be a dinner party on Friday, 27th, when the entertainment will be provided by the celebrated illusionist, Dr. Night.

  The charred fragment? Night? Dr. Night? Crow scanned the whole paragraph in the Court Circular again. Sandringham? The Prince of Wales? Could it possibly be? No, he thought, too much of a long shot. But then again, what if it was? He would never forgive himself. Dr. Night and the Prince and Princess of Wales?

  Crow leaped to his feet.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I have to rush. Don’t know when I’ll be back, but don’t worry. I think I know where Moriarty’s been hiding himself.”

  In the hansom on the way back to Scotland Yard Crow reasoned things out. He could not make an official issue of this, for the red tape would strangle matters; everybody would be havering, not knowing whether they should do this or that or the other thing. He would have to bank his whole career on it. If he were wrong, it could be that he would cause great displeasure with Albert Edward, Prince of Wales. It would be the end of him. But then if he were right …

  Tanner was still in the office. />
  “Get your things together, sarn’t, we’re going for a wee train ride.”

  The sergeant tried to ask questions, but Crow was having none of it. All he required was the time of the next train to Wolferton, or if necessary, King’s Lynn. There was one, he discovered, at ten minutes past six, and if they hurried, they might just make it. Crow hastily scrawled out a telegraph message for the constabulary at Lynn and instructed a constable to get it off posthaste. He next unlocked his desk drawer, in which he kept a service revolver and fifty rounds of ammunition, stowed the weapon in the pocket of his Inverness, which he wore because the weather looked threatening, and made for the street with Tanner close at his heels. With any luck they would be in King’s Lynn at half-past nine, Wolferton by quarter to ten, and, if the constabulary at Lynn did as they were told, they could be galloping up through the Sandringham estate by just after ten.

  Crow wondered what time their Royal Highnesses dined, and what time they gave their guests the special entertainment.

  Harness left the tavern soon after half-past nine. Five minutes later he was in the driving seat and had his horse trotting up the bleak road, made even more wild now by the rain which was becoming heavier, and seemed to have set in for the night.

  Dr. Night and his assistant set up the many tables and pieces of apparatus. They then went to the rooms provided for changing into their dress for the performance. Moriarty took his briefcase with him.

  Mary McNiel put on the special Egyptian princess costume, which was cleverly made so that it could be disguised and worn under the golden fringed outfit she wore for the first part of the act.

  Moriarty arrayed himself in the full evening dress required, neatly brushing the coat and making sure his disguise was in perfect condition. He then opened the briefcase and drew out the Borchardt automatic pistol, cocked it, set the safety catch, and placed it in one of the many easily accessible pockets of the magician’s dress coat. When all was done, he left the room, called for Mary, and together they were taken for some light refreshment. Their Royal Highnesses and their guests, the equerry told them, were just finishing dinner. The ladies had withdrawn, and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had indicated that the gentlemen would not linger long over their port.

  It was almost quarter to ten.

  At the lodge the gates were open, but the porter came out and stopped Harkness just the same, inquiring his business. Harkness said what he had been told—that he was one of Dr. Night’s people, carrying some important items for the performance. The porter thought nothing of it and Harkness drove quietly through the parkland, for the rumble of wheels and noise of his horse’s hooves were now well drowned by the rain. The driver turned up his coat collar, finally bringing the cab to a halt in the shelter of a wall by the east window of the ballroom.

  It was nearly ten o’clock.

  The train was late. A good half hour late, for it was ten o’clock by the time they pulled into King’s Lynn. Tanner looked and felt decidedly nervous, not having great faith in Inspector Crow’s logical deductive theory. He felt, as he told his superior, that the name Dr. Night, scrawled on one scrap of burned paper found in the warehouse, did not constitute any real evidence. Not enough anyway to warrant their plunging in on the Prince of Wales’ dinner party.

  Crow became decidedly dour and sharp as the journey got later. At King’s Lynn a somewhat abrupt-mannered inspector came aboard the train to talk with Crow. He had done as Scotland Yard had requested, said the inspector. The carriage and van load of constables were already waiting at Wolferton, though for the life of him, he did not see what all the fuss was about.

  “Just trust me, Inspector,” said Crow, somewhat mysteriously.

  He was damned if more cold water was going to be poured on his theory by the new arrival.

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” he added, looking at his sergeant. “That also applies to you.”

  It was twenty minutes past ten before the Prince and Princess entered the ballroom with their guests. Moriarty watched the arrival with some pleasure. The portly little Prince was beaming, at his most charming. Princess Alexandra looked as lovely as ever, though she limped badly from her rheumatism, a sad legacy of the cold and damp that silted in around Sandringham from the North Sea and the Wash. The young Duke and Duchess of York were also present, living as they did in York House in the grounds of the estate. And there were many other faces Moriarty recognized—the ladies elegant and dripping with rich jewels, which made the Professor’s mouth water.

  At last they were all settled and the master of ceremonies announced, “Your Royal Highnesses, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. For your delectation, the great illusionist—Dr. Night.”

  At a signal the orchestra began Dr. Night’s music. Moriarty’s hand stole into the secret pocket, his fingers touching the butt of the Borchardt. He then withdrew the hand, straightened his shoulders and made an impressive entrance to regal applause.

  The time was a quarter to eleven, and Crow’s train was at a halt, held up by a signal some ten minutes from Wolferton station.

  Dr. Night had never before performed like this. The act as presented at Sandringham included a number of small items—most suitable for the relative intimacy of the audience—not usually in his stage show. And by the time the Egyptian sarcophagus illusion had been performed and Mary, enchanting in her costume, completed her sinuous dance (which she did with much more style than Rosie), the audience was gasping with pleasure. Moriarty felt extreme elation. To perform like this was as enjoyable as any sensation he had yet experienced and he determined to savor it to the very end.

  Dr. Night proceeded with the borrowing of the rings, even taking a signet ring proffered by the Prince himself, and mixing the magic omelette.

  The time was ten minutes past eleven.

  At a quarter-past eleven Crow’s train drew into Wolferton station. It had hardly reached a halt before the detective was out and running, with his sergeant and the inspector from Lynn, toward the barrier and the waiting transport. He stopped for only a brief word with the drivers and constables before climbing into the coach and yelling to the driver, telling him, above the now steady hiss of rain, to “go like thunder.”

  The cavalcade set off at a dangerous gallop.

  It was plain to see that the Prince and Princess, let alone their guests, were enjoying the performance enormously: Princess Alexandra had squealed with delight over the doves, and the Prince guffawed when the selected playing cards magically appeared on the points of the silver star. But now Dr. Night was reaching his apogee—the great feat of levitation.

  With care he mesmerized his assistant into a trance; the music shivered softly as she was placed upon the couch, and, with deep concentration, the doctor made his mystic passes. Slowly she began to float into the air.

  The police cavalcade was just turning into the main gateway, and Crow, already with one hand on the carriage door, curled his fingers around the butt of his revolver.

  With snorting horses, pawing hooves, and much clatter, the carriage and van came to a halt. Crow leaped down with Tanner behind him. The constables tumbled from the van, a pair of them peeling off to go with Crow, the remainder running in an attempt to seal off all possible exits.

  As the floating figure of Mary McNiel descended to the couch, so Crow hammered on the front door.

  Moriarty, as Dr. Night, bowed to the enthusiastic applause that burst from the private audience. Amid the clapping he could hear the Prince of Wales cheering, “Bravo! Bravo!”

  He made one deep bow, a sweeping act of obeisance, his eyes lifting toward the bearded and smiling Prince, and his right hand moving back to grasp the Borchardt, thumb pushing the catch off safety. Then, as he straightened, Moriarty drew out the weapon.

  As the Professor’s hand moved up, finger tightening on the trigger, there was a loud babble of voices from outside. For a second, Moriarty hesitated. Then the doors burst open.

  The Prince turned, half coming to his fe
et, a confused grumble of words rolling across the audience. Moriarty brought his hand fully up, squinting aim down the barrel, but his eyes were drawn to the doorway where several dripping-wet men were pushing their way past three flunkeys. The leading man, tall, in a soaking Inverness, shouted, “Stop. Stop or I fire.”

  Moriarty paused, then, in expected retaliation, moved the pistol a few inches to the left of his aim, and squeezed the trigger.

  Crow heard the wood and plaster splatter to his left as the bullet whined into the wall. He took quick aim and loosed off a shot with his service revolver; the bullet smashed through the windows behind the dark and bearded figure standing amid the magical apparatus.

  There was screaming now, and Moriarty knew there was but one course to take. If he stayed, death was inevitable. To run was more prudent. Another bullet, closer this time, fragmenting the silver star used for the card trick. Somebody shouted, “Down. Get down.” Then another voice again commanded, “Stop.”

  The Professor waited for no more. One bound and he was behind the east bay-window drapes, and with a leap, turning in the air, went crashing backward through the glass.

  Crow was dashing pell-mell down the ballroom, pistol up and his wet boots slipping on the polished parquet. He stopped short for another shot at the fleeting figure, but the revolver bucked in his hand a second after the crunch and tinkle of glass signaled that Moriarty was through the window.

  The Professor rolled as he hit the ground, feeling the shuddering jar, and then the enveloping dampness. He scrabbled to his feet, the sound of shouts and screams still coming from behind him, and the piercing shriek of a police whistle cleaving the darkness.

  It took him only a second to get his bearings and run toward where he knew Harkness was waiting with the cab. He rounded the building, and heard the snort of the horse; then, out of the blackness, came a uniformed policeman. Automatically Moriarty brought his gun hand up and fired, smiling into the rain as he heard the gasp and saw the figure disappear, to go rolling onto the wet ground.