For the occasion Holmes had dressed himself as a tough and had groomed Mabuse in a similar manner. The doctor seemed rather to relish the role and strutted about loutishly practising threatening phrases in an execrable Cockney.
Holmes related to all present that Moriarty, on those occasions when he was seen in public, was generally accompanied by two bodyguards, and Holmes imagined that he would come no less equipped on this occasion. With Lestrade and the constables they were numerically superior, though all they hoped for was that Batersea would provoke the mastermind into an incriminating statement Lestrade could overhear, along with Holmes, Mabuse and the constables. That should provide sufficient grounds for Moriarty to be arrested and to arrange an investigation into his empire which, assisted by Batersea’s inside knowledge, should prove most revealing.
The professor, a cadaverous man with a large skull and piercing, sunken eyes, arrived promptly at the arranged time. His bodyguards were imposing-looking characters. One was the huge, turbaned Abdul, sporting a vicious scar down the left side of his face that pulled his mouth into a permanent sneer. The other was a well-built man of military bearing, named Moran. Batersea arranged the seating so that he and his confederates were between the visitors and the door.
No sooner had the Professor been seated than Batersea leapt to his feet, pulling a gun! “Alright, Moriarty,” he said. “I’m going to keep this simple. I have risked my life in your employ and helped you to attain a vast fortune. Yet you have fobbed me off with a very paltry sum!”
“What are you talking about?” Moriarty said, apparently startled. “Are you mad?”
The bodyguards reached toward their pockets. Behind the drapes, Holmes and Mabuse had their own weapons out already, anxiously monitoring the events. Holmes shook his head silently—Batersea was supposed to have been searched earlier—the constables had somehow missed the pistol!
Moriarty’s surprise had given way to his former formidable calm. “I have always dealt well with you, Batersea,” he said sternly. “What has unsettled you, out with it, now? Put down your gun and let us speak.”
“Dealt well with me?” Batersea said. He was perspiring freely and nervously licked the sweat from his top lip. “Is that what you call giving me a few lousy pounds for helping you to murder Durance for his fortune?”
“This is madness,” Moriarty cried, a hint of amusement in his tone. Holmes feared his intended victim suspected a trap, and was not about to fall for the ruse. “I am a scholar, not some brainless thug who must resort to crime to make his fortune. Are you unwell, you poor fellow? Tut, have you been over administering the laudanum?”
“Stop this charade!” Batersea screamed. “Oh, you’re good! I thought you would threaten me; remind me who I’m dealing with, but you didn’t get where you are by losing your control. You’ll keep up this performance to the end. I’ll never be free from you…unless!”
Holmes and the constables yelled and sprang from hiding, charging at the bodyguards, ready to stop the agitated actor, but too late. Batersea fired.
Moriarty was struck in the chest and screamed, his hands flying to his ribcage. Abdul and Moran were on their feet in a flash, pistols out and aiming toward their enemies, just as Holmes pulled the trigger of his own revolver.
Holmes’s weapon misfired, even as a bullet from Moran’s gun blew Batersea’s head apart. Abdul swung his weapon toward Holmes, but Mabuse threw himself upon the detective screaming, “Down!” Holmes found himself smothered beneath Mabuse’s somewhat greater bulk. Guns roared.
When the smoke cleared the detective saw that Lestrade had entered the fray. Smoke still plumed from the end of his gun. The bodyguards were both dead along with Moriarty and Batersea.
“My God,” Holmes snarled. “I knew this was a perilous undertaking, but I never imagined it ending like this. How was it that Batersea had a gun! The men whose job it was to search him—by God, they should be horse-whipped!”
“Yes,” Mabuse agreed, “this is something of a debacle, but at least it is the villains who are dead while we have all survived.”
“Yet, without Moriarty’s confession, what good is it?” Holmes demanded.
“You shan’t need one,” Mabuse said. “Lestrade?”
“No, indeed not, sir,” Lestrade concurred. “and really, if there is no proof found of his guilt, it’s simply a matter of this lunatic Batersea killing him for his own reasons, and no trail required there, either, gents.”
“Come, Holmes,” Mabuse said, noting that his companion’s face remained downcast. “You have been convinced so far that Moriarty is the world’s greatest villain. If so, he has been bested, even though it is through good luck more than good management. See what comes of a search of his residences and businesses. He will not have been able to hide all of the evidence.”
“You’re right, Mabuse,” Holmes said, with a smile. “You must forgive me for my poor humour. It is churlish of me to sulk because the plan did not go according to my expectations.”
“Well, life is somewhat less tidy than fiction,” Mabuse said, “which is why I have dedicated myself to the latter. Rest assured that I shall bring the necessary improvement into my rendition of these events.”
It was some months later that Holmes read of his latest exploits in The Strand Magazine, though the papers had been full of the sensational unveiling of the facts. Lestrade had claimed to have been working with Holmes for years to uncover Moriarty’s empire of evil, much evidence of which had been found in the ensuing weeks since the gun battle. Holmes took no exception to the inspector’s opportunism. Lestrade had risked a great deal in backing his gambit and if the fellow wished to garner more glory than was truly his due, Holmes would not begrudge him the bonus.
“What did you think of my rendition of events?” Mabuse asked, as he arrived for dinner.
“You have done an exemplary job,” Holmes replied, “and mustered your most stirring prose in the service of inflating the tale into one redolent of heroism and genius, while deftly omitting anything which might cause any embarrassment. I am afraid you have been completely dishonest, in being rather too kind to me, again.”
“How so?” Mabuse protested. “Did not events unfold exactly as I told them?”
“Now you know that isn’t true,” Holmes tutted. “It was my gun that misfired and you who leapt upon me, saving my life, not the other way around. And Moriarty did not confess nor begin the gunplay. Nor did Lestrade actually hit any of his targets, I believe, though you credit him with putting paid to a third bodyguard whose presence I do not recall.”
“Well, Lestrade hasn’t contradicted me,” Mabuse grinned. “And in any event, you know how it is with eye-witness accounts—they seldom coincide. That is why I make sure I am the chronicler. I’m keen that my version of events stands. Now, what’s this I hear about you planning retirement?”
“Ah,” said Holmes. “Things are not quite the same since Moriarty is gone. Such mundane crimes as remain barely raise my interest.”
“Well, you have earned your rest,” said Mabuse. “I wish you the very best with your retirement.”
“I’m sorry I will have no more tales for you to chronicle,” Holmes said.
“Well, it is a great principle to leave your audience wanting more,” Mabuse observed. “Perhaps there are already enough stories of Sherlock Holmes. I am thinking of attempting a historical fantasy set in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.”
“I’m sure it will be a great success,” said Holmes.
Many months later.
Sherlock Holmes was contemplating his options for the evening; cocaine or the violin? Or perhaps the cherrywood and a book? He decided upon the pipe but could not decide upon the publication and spent some moments poring over the titles in an overstuffed bookcase hoping for inspiration.
“May I suggest Dante?” a voice came from behind. “The Divine Comedy is always reveal
ing, especially the Inferno.”
Startled, Holmes spun about to find someone occupying his own chair by the fire, as if he were the room’s rightful tenant. The newcomer was dressed in a fine set of Medieval robes that yet seemed oddly familiar. They shimmered in the gaslight, throwing up odd reflective shadows upon his saturnine face. That face, with its jet black, heavy eyebrows and moustaches, seemed the very epitome of evil.
From the first moment Holmes recognised the figure as familiar, yet its presence here so defied rationality that he could not credit it. It was the living image of Dr Faustus as played by Batersea upon the stage, but it could not be, for the actor was dead!
“Who are you?” Holmes gasped.
“Who do I appear to be?”
“Batersea? You can’t be, Batersea is dead.”
“You are correct, he is. But that is not who I mean. Did you ever see Batersea looking like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who do I look like?”
“You look like Batersea dressed as Dr Faustus.”
“Are you sure?” The figure laughed. “What could you really detect from your seat in the theatre? How can you be sure it was Batersea you saw on the stage? That it wasn’t me? All you can be sure of is it looked like me. But it could have been anyone with a talent for disguise. Like Moriarty.”
“He’s dead, too!” Holmes snapped.
“Yes, I must thank you for that,” the figure smiled.
“Why? What is it to you?” Holmes demanded.
“Moriarty was a criminal genius,” the intruder nodded, “almost everything you considered him to be. Yet he was not, in fact, particularly evil; no, he was actually an entrepreneur. Many of his victims were themselves exploiters of the poor, the working class, and Moriarty liberated monies they had little legal and no moral right to. So, a merchant, really, and as far as evil goes, an amateur.
“I have my own empire, you see. To villainy, true moral turpitude, true commitment to the perverse, I am what the British are to ‘legitimate government’. There are few corners of the earth where my secret empire has not held sway. Moriarty was one of my few remaining rivals, it must be said. He brought order, and reward for effort, he was a clever, organised man. But thanks to you he is now dead and his empire has been added to mine. I can now ensure it runs properly.”
“And you are saying I aided you? Ridiculous. Who are you and what do you want?” Holmes demanded. Thought his voice was resolute, there was, perhaps, a hint of fear in his eyes.
“I am Doctor Faustus. And I am immortal.” Suddenly the interloper did not seem triumphant or to relish his words.
“And this is a burden to you?” Holmes observed.
“Time does hang heavily on my hands and I would gladly die,” the stranger said, “if I only dared. Yet, I know I am destined for Hell.”
“You fear a mythical doom,” Holmes said, a hint of mockery in his voice.
“You would like to think so,” the stranger said, “yet having met the Devil I can assure you that Hell is very much a reality.”
“You have met the Devil?” Holmes attempted a laugh. “You are a madman. Oh, this is too much,” Holmes gasped. “This is simply too much.”
“And yet, here I sit before you. Muss ich Deutsch sprechen, um Ihnen die Wahrheit zu verdeutlichen?”
Holmes scoffed at the intruder’s perfect German.
“Ou français? Dans l’éternité, il y a beaucoup d’opportunités d’apprendre une multitude de langues…”
“Enough!” Holmes snapped. “No matter how many languages you have mastered, it is no proof of your silly claims.”
The strange figure nodded. “Yes, you are right. But that is not why I came here tonight. No, I am here to thank you and reward you with the truth.”
“If you wished to express gratitude you might have done it by sparing me this nonsense,” Holmes said.
“You are not curious?”
“As many parts curious as perturbed,” Holmes almost sighed. “But yes, damn you, I must hear your tale, however disconcerting it might prove to be.”
“Very well,” Faustus said. “You want to know, regardless of the consequences. No one understands that better than me. Did I not sell my soul for knowledge? So this is my story. Not as Marlowe told it or Goethe, though there is much verity in both accounts. The main difference is that I was not dragged to Hell at the end, as the Elizabethan play portrays it.”
“How so?” Holmes prompted.
“Satan’s pleasure is in evil, it is that simple. What God hates brings him joy. I convinced him that I would be his agent on earth so long as I live; I outlined a plan to him that would make me the greatest villain of all time. And Lucifer knew I spoke true. If Jesus had been the avatar of God on earth, then I would be Satan’s. And I have succeeded in as much as I promised and more.
“Yet, I was warned that the only way to avoid Hell was to be cursed to live forever. I readily agreed, not seeing that eternal existence could grow wearisome. Yet Satan knew. As much as he favoured me and as much as I did his work on earth, it is not in his nature to be grateful and show mercy.
“So one must find some way to relieve the tedium of endless years of existence.”
Faustus fell silent and smiled at Holmes with a look of utter cruelty.
“So why do you come to me with this tale?” the detective said at last.
“Come, Holmes,” Faustus replied. “Use your much vaunted powers of rationality and deduction. Tell me yourself.”
Holmes’s blood froze. These last words were spoken in the unmistakable voice of his companion of two decades, Doctor Hieronymus Mabuse.
“You are a genius of mimicry, but you cannot be Mabuse.”
“Can I not?” Faustus grinned. He removed the moustaches and the cotton appliances that changed the shape of his eyes and nose. The face now laid bare was that which Holmes knew so well.
“Mabuse, why do you torment me like this? Why have you carried out this ugly pantomime?”
“I am not Mabuse,” Faustus said evenly. “There never was a Mabuse, but the man you knew as him was always I, Johann Faustus.”
“Rot!” Holmes roared, “What is the matter with you, man?”
“I told you, Holmes, I was bored. And you were an irresistible target. You reminded me so much of my youthful self when first we met. You were so full of arrogance, more interested in knowledge than anything else. More a calculating machine than a man. I had come to England to consolidate my empire here, intrigued by the idea of a joust with Moriarty, who was beginning to build his business. And it struck me, why not situate myself in the best possible position to learn about the Professor by becoming the confidante of his natural enemy; the Captain of the other side, if you like.”
Holmes snatched up a pistol from the mantelpiece and aimed it at his tormentor.
“This is nonsense, Mabuse. I know we have had our tensions over the years but I never knew how much you hated me. Why do you antagonise me so with this fool game; do you hope to drive me mad? Is it intended to avenge some imagined slight? Did you take exception to the way I badgered you over your gambling and your vices?”
“My vices, yes! Dr Hieronymus Mabuse, the soak; Doctor Mabuse, the gambler, as long as I was guilty of that much you were convinced of your superiority over me.”
Faustus rose now, and faced Holmes, who felt an eerie, unsettling feeling of unreality take hold of him, as if he had been transported into a performance of Faust, and yet the play was more real than what he had hitherto taken to be reality.
“All the world is a stage, eh?” said Faustus.
Holmes was startled by this apparent act of mind reading. Yet rallying what remained of his resolve he snarled at his former friend. “This is a stupid prank, Mabuse, vulgar and vile. Leave here and never cross my path again.”
Faustus s
mirked. “You accuse me of having a low sense of humour? Well, yours is absurd, unless you really think that a pistol would give me pause. And if it could harm me, would you murder me for my prank? How would you explain that to Lestrade?
“But even if you did wish to slay me, I am who and what I say I am and no one can dispatch me but my Master, cursed with immortality as I am. I will leave here unmolested. But what will you do, now that you know the truth? For Doctor Mabuse will disappear. Will you write it down? Will you seek to set the record straight and reveal yourself to be a fool and the dupe of your chronicler? Will you tell how you only bested your greatest foe because I engineered it for my own purposes? No, no, I have a more attractive option: forget it all and bask in your undeserved glory for the years left to you.”
Holmes’s face twisted in rage, and his hand shook. Yet, before a shot could be fired, the gun was wrenched from his grip by invisible hands and returned to the shelf!
“Thank you, Azazel,” Faustus said.
Holmes looked at the pistol on the shelf. “It’s not possible,” he gasped, falling into a chair afraid he might collapse. He looked at Faustus in despair. “How did you do this to me, Mabuse? Hypnosis?”
“What? Still searching for the rational explanation?” Faustus laughed. “Surely we have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. Yes, of course, hypnosis it is the speciality of your old friend Dr Mabuse. Or am I Moriarty?”
Holmes looked at the fiend who had contaminated his life’s work, his greatest achievement. He needed to calm himself, to think. He gripped his head, eyes closed, while he sought inside for answers. When he opened them but a moment later the intruder was gone. A shock ran through him, and for a time, the length of which he could not judge, it seemed he went into a sort of fugue. Yet, when his consciousness returned, he felt oddly calm, if somewhat grim.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Page 31
