The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  "I was unable to," Moriarty said. "You see, I have no agents in Vienna, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter. I have a few employees here in England and an artificer in Aberdeen that could be described as my 'agent' if one were to speak loosely, but that is all. It has been my experience that a man who relies on the intelligent cooperation of others in the furtherance of his goals is doomed to failure two times out of three. For that reason I have few permanent alliances, but a large number of people in various professions and walks of life with whom I share useful information. I have no 'gang.' Contrary to Mr. Holmes's opinion, 1 do not sit at the center of a vast web of informants, and control every criminal activity from here to Sebastopol."

  "But surely—your reputation—"

  "Perhaps 1 find it useful to have it believed that my resources are greater than they actually are. I admit that I do not discourage such stories, but that does not make them true."

  The duke slumped back in his chair and stared bleakly across the table. "Ah!" he said, "I was rather hoping that they were true; that you had a vast and resourceful network of associates throughout Europe, especially in Austria."

  "I never thought to hear myself apologizing for not being the Napoleon of crime," Moriarty said, "but I'm sorry I have to disappoint Your Grace."

  Albermar shook his head. "I don't know—I'm not sure what to do next," he said.

  "If your trouble, whatever it is, is situated in Austria, surely for a man of your position in the government, the Secret Service could be of some aid," Moriarty said.

  The duke smiled wryly. "Now you have reached to the heart of the problem," he said. "Except for the India Bureau, the 'Secret Service' is largely a myth today; the creation of certain sensational writers of that class of literature that I believe is known as the 'penny dreadful.' Three centuries ago, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, agents of Her Majesty's secretary of state, Sir Francis Walsingham, were able to thwart the plans of Philip of Spain and considerably weaken the force sent against England even before the Armada set sail. But that was three centuries ago. Today foreign intelligence is mostly gathered by perusing foreign newspapers. Some of our ambassadors are quite capable, but others consider it more important to dress for dinner than to understand the workings of the government to which they are accredited."

  "So?" Moriarty said.

  "So, since Her Majesty's government will not pay for the professional intelligence service it requires, it relies upon amateur help."

  Moriarty raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  "Truly," His Grace said. "Young men from some of our best families are spending their leisure time prowling about the major European forts disguised as butterfly hunters and drawing plans of their gun emplacements and such. Junior army and naval officers are using their leave time to take small sailboats into estuaries along the North Sea and note shipbuilding activities. Other young men of independent means are eschewing the London season in favor of living abroad under assumed identities and gathering information on hostile activities that might affect the British government or increase the chances of war."

  "It is astonishing the way the young will seek to amuse themselves," Moriarty commented.

  "Indeed," Albermar agreed. "They call it 'the Great Game,' this clandestine battle of wits between Britain's amateur spies and the espionage and counter-espionage services of Europe's great powers."

  Moriarty nodded thoughtfully. "It does not seem in this stolid and tranquil world we live in that the chances of a European war are very high," he said.

  Albermar stared across the table at Moriarty, but he was seeing a private vision. After a moment his eyes focused again on the man in front of him. "Oh," he said, "there will be a war. We may be able to put it off for a while, perhaps even for a decade or two; but there will be a war. Under the facade of tranquility there is a crumbling edifice. The European balance is too precarious, the rivalries are too intense, the hatreds are too strong. The French are too intransigent, the Austrian Empire is too weak, and the Kaiser is too belligerent for the status quo to last much longer. And there are forces at work that seem determined to spur all of Europe into war."

  "And the British?" Moriarty asked.

  "The British are determined to remain detached from European affairs, and so they—we—will not get involved until it's too late," Albermar said. "That's why we have no effective Secret Service; why we're unofficially sending untrained boys to do the work of skilled men."

  Moriarty took a deep breath. "What you say does not come as a complete surprise to me," he said. "But were I to concern myself with the inanities of men, I would have no time left for my serious pursuits."

  "Which are?" the duke asked.

  "If I were to say, 'the greater mysteries,' you would take me for a theologist or perhaps an occultist," Moriarty said. "But I am neither. I refer to the mysteries of science that have only begun to be answered. In some cases the questions themselves have only recently been formulated. How are we here? Why are we here? What causes the sun to burn, and why hasn't it long since gone out? How vast is the universe and how came it into being? These are just a few of the things that we do not know, I could continue indefinitely. But we are on the verge of knowledge. We now have some hints of where to look for some of the answers."

  "We differ in our perception of serious pursuits," the duke said, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a cigar. "I concern myself with the affairs of men. I believe the universe will take care of itself, as it has so far."

  "These men whom you concern yourself with are, as Darwin has shown, descended, or ascended if you prefer, from ape-like creatures that lived tens of thousands of years ago. Our closest relatives are the chimpanzees and gorillas. And the universe cares about our comings and goings as much as it does those of the monkeys that scamper about Gibraltar, no more and no less."

  The duke smiled a tolerant smile. "I dare say," he said. He stared at his cigar for a moment and then thrust it back into this pocket. "Who is to say which of our views of the universe is correct? Perhaps they both are."

  "Yes," Moriarty acknowledged. "You could well be right. It may be a slight difference in temperament that concerns you with people and me with distant stars. Unfortunately, from my point of view, I lack the sort of private resources necessary to finance my research, and so the world of men occupies much of my time. I solve other people's problems to give me the leisure to peer into the depths of space. I have developed a kite which I can use to loft scientific instruments and keep them in place for days at a time, given a steady wind."

  "A kite?"

  "Yes. The devices are not merely children's toys. They have been used in the American Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 for intelligence gathering, by lofting them above enemy positions and taking photographs of what lies below. I have developed a new kite, based on an ancient Malay design, that can carry heavy weights to extreme heights. I wish to loft a series of them with special cameras of my design, and take pictures of what lies above. I have been using tethered balloons, but kites are cheaper and more durable."

  "Very interesting," the duke said.

  "No doubt. But I must finance my kite-flying and my other scientific interests by taking on problems of a more mundane nature. Only last month—no, excuse me, two months ago now—I cleared up a little question of inheritance for a member of the Swedish nobility, and shortly before that I was able to locate a silver mine in the American state of Colorado that had been lost for a quarter of a century, based on a crudely drawn map and the deathbed utterances of a crazed prospector. The problems were not without interest, and my fees for those undertakings will finance six months of kite flying, as well as the construction of a twenty-six-inch reflecting telescope of my own design at my private observatory on Crimpton Moor."

  Albermar took an oversized white handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to mop the back of his neck. "I'm afraid my problem is not so easily solved," he said. "I'm not sure what I expected—
hoped—you would be able to accomplish, even were you the Napoleon of crime with a vast network of your minions at your disposal."

  "What, exactly, is your problem?" Moriarty asked. "I have been of assistance to others in the past who thought their dilemmas insoluble, perhaps I can suggest something that would be of some use. Come now, clearly you have to confide in someone."

  The duke stared at the table in front of him for a minute. "One of these men who is doing the work of England in a foreign land has fallen into serious trouble," he said. "Under his assumed name of Paul Donzhof he has been arrested in Vienna and will probably—certainly—be charged with two murders and an attempted murder, along with sundry other offences. The Austrians do not as yet know who he really is. To say it would result in strained relations between our two countries if his true identity became known is an understatement. He is, undoubtedly, innocent of the charges against him, but I can't give you many of the details because, for obvious reasons, our people there can't take too great an interest in the case."

  Moriarty folded his hands over the golden owl handle of his cane and rested his chin on his hands. "Unfortunate," he said. "Yes."

  "Who is he supposed to have killed?"

  "He is accused with assassinating the duke of Mecklenburg Strelitz and seriously wounding his wife, the Princess Annamarie of Falkynburg, by firing a pistol into their carriage. After which, according to the charge, he went back to his apartment building and murdered a woman who lives in the flat below his own."

  "And you assume that, as an agent of the British government, no matter how unofficial, he is incapable of murder?"

  "Why would he assassinate the duke? He is a secret agent, a gatherer of information, not an anarchist. He may be essentially self-appointed, but he has been reliable, perceptive, and of great value to Her Majesty's government. Why would he murder some girl in his apartment building?"

  "Perhaps he had a personal grudge against the duke. Perhaps there was a personal relationship between him and the young lady."

  "He did not know the duke. As to the girl, well, I don't know what his relationship was with her, but I cannot imagine him killing her. I know the boy too well."

  "You do?"

  His Grace Peter George Albon Summerdane, the seventh duke of Albermar, took a deep breath. "Yes. Very well indeed. He is my son."

  "Ah!" Moriarty nodded.

  "My younger son. Charles Bredlon Summerdane." Moriarty examined a wall sconce thoughtfully for a minute. "I understand," he said. "An interesting dilemma."

  "You could say so," the duke agreed.

  "This has the potential for becoming a grave embarrassment to you and to Her Majesty's government should his identity become known. And it will surely become known if you attempt to aid the lad in any way."

  "A fair statement of the facts," Summerdane acknowledged. "And yet—he is my son, and I love him dearly. I must do something."

  "What?"

  Summerdane shrugged and then dropped his hands to the table. "That's the problem. Unfortunately, I have no idea."

  "So one of the three most powerful men in the British Empire—I believe that's a fair assessment—is reduced to impotence while his son is about to be put on trial for murder in a foreign land."

  Summerdane rose. "I don't know why I am burdening you with this," he said. "As it seems you cannot help me, I should probably say no more."

  Professor Moriarty watched silently as Summerdane donned his frock coat and pulled on his gloves. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he made an abrupt gesture toward the chair the duke had occupied. "Please, Your Grace, be seated," he said. "I will endeavor to solve your problem, provided we can come to an understanding of just what your problem actually is, and I am allowed a free hand. If you will supply the few things I will need it will save time, and I will leave immediately for Vienna."

  Summerdane stared down at Moriarty for a moment and then dropped back into his chair. "You speak German?" he asked.

  "I speak many languages, but I am particularly fluent in German. I was at the University of Heidelberg for four years."

  "You matriculated there?"

  "I taught mathematics there."

  The duke took a deep breath. "What will you need?" he asked. "And what are your terms?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN — INNOCENCE BY ASSOCIATION

  I know you: solitary griefs,

  Desolate passions, aching hours.

  — Lionel Pigot Johnson

  Periodically through history waves of madness sweep across what we like to refer to as the civilized world. In the year 1213, thirty thousand little children, chanting "O Lord Jesus, restore thy cross to us!" marched to death or enslavement in a juvenile crusade. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries tens of thousands of poor innocents were tortured and burned alive as witches across Europe and the Americas. In the latter half of the seventeenth century a passion for murder by slow poison spread from country to country, mostly among upper-class women, and thousands of unwanted husbands, fathers, and assorted relatives are known to have died at the hands of those they most trusted. The number of unguessed-at murders was probably many times higher. Each of these madnesses ran its course in time and disappeared as an organized activity.

  "There are many other examples," Barnett said. "There was the tulip mania in Holland, when a single tulip bulb of a particularly desirable shape or color might be sold for enough to buy a house—and quite a nice house, too."

  "Nobody was killed in that one," Cecily said.

  It was late afternoon, four days after the explosion. They sat in the smaller drawing room of the Villa Endorra, Barnett and Cecily and the Prince and Princess of Rumelia, who were leaving the next morning for more aristocratic and better-guarded accommodations on the Cote d'Azur. With a perhaps inescapable curiosity they were discussing the recently defunct bomber and his place in the epidemic of assassinations that had been plaguing Europe for the past few years.

  "You think, perhaps, that it's merely that we live in such a time of madness that Diane and I, not to speak of our more exalted relations, must go about in fear of our lives?" The prince shook his head sadly. "After a thousand years, all of Europe—poof!—decides it has enough of royalty? No, my friend. If the people do not like their rulers they rise up against them—as happened in 1789 and again in 1848—they do not skulk in doorways and stab them with ice picks, or leap out of crowds and throw infernal devices into their carriages."

  "The nihilists do," Cecily observed.

  "Ah, yes," Ariste agreed. "Those Russian emigres with their strange political beliefs. My imperial cousin Nicholas has created quite a problem for himself with his vacillating between concessions and repressions. The people are emboldened by his concessions and then maddened by his repressions." Ariste shrugged. "But for those of us west of the Carpathians, the solution assuredly lies elsewhere."

  "Those historical manias that you were speaking of, Benjamin," Diane asked, "is it that they just sprang into being from nothingness? I find that difficult to imagine."

  Barnett leaned back as comfortably as his securely bandaged left leg and torso would allow, and spent a minute in thought, trying to remember his European history. He had graduated from New York City's Columbia University with a degree in history, a fact which he had seldom admitted to his colleagues at the New York World in his days as a reporter. American newsmen prided themselves on a combination of ready wit and invincible ignorance.

  "The times were right for them, of course," Benjamin said. "Whatever that may mean. As I remember, the Children's Crusade was instigated by two phony monks who went about preaching that some verse of the New Testament or other showed that Chris-tian children would take back the holy lands from the Saracen invader."

  "Fancy that!" Princess Diane said. "Religious hysterics, no doubt?"

  "My recollection is that they planned to take the children east and sell them into slavery."

  "The witch hunts were similarly inspired by greed every bit as much as by rel
igious zeal," Prince Ariste said. "There were professional 'witch smellers' who went from town to town rooting out the supposed disciples of the Devil for a fee. They did very well at it, too. One of my ancestors had the pleasure of arresting and trying one of those rogues when he went too far. Accused the local bishop of dancing naked at a witches' Sabbath."

  "Silly man," Cecily commented. "Must have lost his head."

  "Indeed," Ariste agreed. "At the neck."

  Diane, who was perched on a light green chaise longue, pulled her knees up, smoothed her skirt, and wrapped her arms around her limbs. "Tell us about the poisoners," she asked Barnett.

  "They were encouraged by a secret clique of mysterious women who traveled about in the guise, usually, of fortune-tellers," Barnett told her. "The, ah, subjects would go to have their fortunes told and discuss their most intimate problems over cups of tea. If the problems involved a relative, particularly one whose passing would enrich the subject, a delicate and subtle solution might be offered. The poisons the women supplied became known as 'inheritance powders.' "