"What do you mean?" Barnett asked. He gestured around him. "This dank, tiny, stone cell is my situation." There was a tremor in his voice which he did his best to suppress.
"Describe for me," Moriarty said, "the events of the past two weeks as they seem to you."
"That — that—" Barnett paused, swallowed what may have been an involuntary sob, and took a deep breath. "You must excuse me," he said. "It's the damp."
-
Barnett thought back over all that had happened to him in the past few weeks. Two weeks and three days ago he had been a respected, well-paid correspondent for the New York World, and now he was reduced to the state of a wretch, chained to the wall of a cell in the great stone prison of Mustafa II.
"This all began," he said at last, "when the Garrett-Harris submersible blew up in the water. Have you heard about that?"
"Pay no mind to what I have heard, or what I may know," Moriarty said. "Tell me what happened to you. Tell it in your own way, relating what facts you think are relevant."
"But why are you concerned?" Barnett asked. "You know that I am sentenced to death?"
"We will discuss what I know and why I am here at the proper time," Moriarty said patiently. "Bear with me, please." He shifted his position on the cot, and put his hand down where he had been sitting. "The straw is damp," he said. "Intolerable!"
"I wish that were all I had to tolerate," Barnett told him. "You know they think I'm a spy? They question me hour after hour some days, and then days go by when I see no one at all."
"The fact that the Osmanli authorities believe you to be a spy is probably the only thing that is keeping you alive," Moriarty said. "The tradition here is to execute with the bowstring within three days after sentencing."
"The bowstring?" Barnett touched his hand to his throat. "I thought they cut off your head."
"Not in cases of espionage or treason. The sentence is to be garrotted by a fine bowstring. If you happened to be of royal blood, a silken bowstring is specified. You are not, I presume, of royal blood?"
Barnett jumped to his feet. "What do I care what sort of bowstring they choke me with?" he demanded angrily. "I did nothing! Nothing! Why won't anybody believe me?"
"I, for one, believe you. Tell me what happened. And please try to remain calm." He gestured toward the warder standing outside, who was becoming concerned at Barnett's activity. "He may decide that visitors overexcite you and request me to leave."
Barnett sat down. "I'm sorry," he said. "My story — let me tell you my story. I only hope to God that you can help.
"Lieutenant Sefton — the gentleman who came to your aid with me — was murdered in his room the evening after the submersible was destroyed. You've surely heard about the murder?" Moriarty opened his mouth to speak, but Barnett interrupted him, "Yes, yes; again I apologize. I shall pay no attention to what you may or may not know. I'll just tell you my story as it happened.
"Lieutenant Sefton was a British agent — a spy. He evidently had some information about the destruction of the Garrett-Harris. He asked me to aid him and I agreed. I was to meet him in his room at midnight, and we would proceed to some undisclosed destination. I had the impression that it would be wise if I came prepared for trouble, so I brought my walking stick.
"When I arrived at the door to Sefton's room, it must have been almost midnight. I heard a scuffling sound from within. The door opened when I pushed at it, and I entered. Lieutenant Sefton was lying across the bed with a great wound in his skull. The window was wide open. There was nobody else in the room — or so I thought at the time.
"I rushed to the bed to aid Lieutenant Sefton, who was still alive, but barely. Suddenly someone struck me from behind, and I fell, unconscious, to the floor."
"You saw no one?"
"I neither saw nor heard anyone. Were it not for the evidence of the bump on the back of my head, I'd have no reason to believe that there was anyone else in that room."
"And then?"
"When I came around — it couldn't have been more than a few minutes later — the room was full of men. The night manager, the floor man, and several guests were all milling about, waiting for the police to arrive. It was the night manager, as a matter of fact, who brought me around by pouring the pitcher of water from the bureau over my head.
"I immediately tried to go to Lieutenant Sefton's aid. He was so far gone now that I couldn't tell whether he was still breathing, but nothing had been done to staunch the flow of blood from his head wound." Barnett lowered his head into his palm and began sobbing softly, this one dreadful memory overcoming his already fragile composure.
"Yes," Moriarty prompted. "And?"
"And they wouldn't let me!" Barnett said without looking up. "Those moronic — those incredible idiots wouldn't let me touch him. They thought that I'd struck him, you see. So they held me back when I attempted to go to him, and by the time a doctor arrived, he had bled to death!"
"How do you know Lieutenant Sefton was a spy?" Moriarty asked.
Barnett looked up. "What?"
"Lieutenant Sefton," Moriarty said. "You stated he was a spy. How do you know?"
"He told me so."
"Ah. Continue."
"When the police arrived they searched me. They found my walking stick on the floor, with blood on the ferrule, and they found several papers in my jacket pocket that appeared to be sections of the plans for the valving mechanism of the Garrett-Harris submersible."
"You, of course, have no idea how they got there."
"They weren't there when I left my room," Barnett insisted. "Whoever struck me on the head must have shoved the papers into my pocket; although why anyone would want to do such a thing is beyond me."
"The motives of men," Moriarty said, "are often quite beyond rational explanation. Although, in this case, the reason seems quite clear."
"Clear to you, maybe," Barnett said. "I've been beating my brains trying to figure it out for these past weeks."
" 'Beating your brains,' although a fascinating idiom, hardly seems a way to induce profitable ratiocination," Moriarty commented. "However, continue. You were accused of this crime?"
"This crime?" Barnett laughed hoarsely. "What you mean, Professor, is those crimes! I was accused of the crime of murdering Lieutenant Sefton and of the crime of being a spy. For good measure, what they'd also like to believe is that I blew up their precious submersible. That's what they've been trying to get me to admit when they question me, hour after hour, until I think I'm going mad."
"There you are," Moriarty said, shaking his head. "If you are not beating your own brain, you are having someone else do it for you."
"Look—" Barnett said.
"Now, now," Moriarty said, putting his hand on Barnett's shoulder. "I assure you I do take this seriously — very seriously, indeed. I am willing to help you — if you believe and understand that no one else can."
"What do you mean?" Barnett asked, staring at the professor.
"There was a trial?" Moriarty asked.
"You could call it that," Barnett said. "I wanted to wait until I could get legal help, but they weren't buying that. Three days after the murder I stood before a magistrate. I asked for the American minister to aid in my defense. An American counsel came as a spectator; the minister was otherwise engaged. I asked the World—my paper — to get me a lawyer. He hasn't shown up yet. Meanwhile, I was tried and convicted in something like three hours, and I've been here ever since."
"The trouble is, you see, that they also believe you to be guilty."
"You mean the American minister and my paper? How can they?"
"Why not? You were found alone in the room with Sefton. There were signs of a struggle. Obviously you fought over the plans, you struck him with your stick, and then he knocked you unconscious before falling back in a swoon on the bed. After all, the plans were in your pocket."
"But the open window?"
"It was inspected by the police. Nobody leaped to the ground— or at least,
there were no marks."
"But what would I want with the plans?"
Moriarty shrugged. "What do spies ever want with the plans, or the papers, or the treaties, or whatever they steal? In any case, that's of no concern to the police."
"So you think my people are not going to help me?" Barnett asked.
"Your people are going to forget about you as rapidly as is decently possible."
"But you believe me innocent?" Barnett asked. "And you are willing to help me?" He shook his head and stared at the wall. "How can you help me? How can anyone help me?"
"I know you to be innocent, as it happens," Moriarty said. "And I can help you."
"How?" Barnett asked.
"First you must realize that I am your last hope," Moriarty said. "And then you must agree to my terms."
"Terms?"
"Correct."
"What is it that you want? No — first tell me how you know me to be innocent."
"As you may remember, when you saw me last I told you I was going to Odessa."
"Yes."
"While there I had access to some secret files of the Russian government — never mind how. What I read in the files, combined with some knowledge of my own, led me to the conclusion that you were not guilty of the murder of Lieutenant Sefton, the theft of the plans, or the destruction of the Garrett-Harris submersible."
"But then — you heard of all this in Odessa?"
"No, I heard of it quite by accident when I arrived back in Constantinople. But the chain was immediately clear to me."
"I see," Barnett said. "Well, then, couldn't you take this information to the proper authorities and convince them of my innocence? Or is that what you are proposing 'terms' for? You want to extract some promise from me in return for getting me released from this foul prison? Of course I'll agree to anything — but what assurance have you that I will fulfill the terms of our bargain once I get out? A promise issued under these conditions is not considered binding in any court of law west of the Suez."
"You misunderstand," Moriarty said. "I cannot get your conviction overturned by appealing to any authority. My conclusion is based on an assortment of random facts, connected only by my inference. No authority, east or west of Suez, is going to release a convicted felon because of a chain of inference concocted by a defrocked professor of mathematics. Besides, you must understand that the Osmanli authorities have a strong vested interest in seeing that you remain guilty of these crimes: they have already so informed Sultan Abd-ul Hamid, and one does not easily confess an error to the Shah of Shahs."
"Well then," Barnett said, "for my own piece of mind, tell me: What is your evidence?"
Moriarty took a large handkerchief from an inner pocket and fastidiously wiped his hands. "Before I left London," he said, "someone tried to kill me. Then again, when I arrived here in Constantinople, as you know, an attempt was made."
Barnett nodded. "I thought you didn't know why you were attacked," he said.
"I did not at the time," Moriarty said. "But when I arrived in Odessa I discovered that the Russian principal I had come to see wished to hire me to apprehend a dangerous man who is fanatically devoted to the Russian cause."
"The Russians want to hire you to catch someone devoted to their own cause?" Barnett asked.
"I will explain at some future time — if ever," Moriarty said. "For the moment, accept the fact."
"Go on," Barnett said.
"The Russian agent was aware that an attempt had been made to solicit my aid before I left London," Moriarty said. "It clearly was he who tried to kill me, both in London and here."
"Okay," Barnett said.
"Therefore, he followed me here. He did not follow me to Odessa, since I was taken aboard an Imperial steam-frigate for the trip there and back. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when the submersible exploded. Therefore, he was in Constantinople when Lieutenant Sefton was murdered and you were blamed.
"You have seen him?" Barnett asked.
"I have no idea who he is or what he looks like. It may not have been the subject himself, but one of his henchmen. I am assured that he has henchmen."
"But why would this mysterious man have done this thing to me?" Barnett demanded.
"Ah, but you see, he did not do this to you," Moriarty said. "He did this to the Ottoman Empire, the traditional enemy of Russia for these past hundred years. You merely happened along at the opportune moment."
"To be charged with murder."
"Yes."
"You mean that, with no preparation, on the spur of the mo-ment, he was able to arrange for the destruction of the Garrett-Harris submersible and the theft of the plans?"
"Why not? I could have done the same." Moriarty refolded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. "I must assume that Lieutenant Sefton somehow became aware of this agent's activities, and that is why Sefton was killed. I assure you that the casual murder of one man means no more to our Russian friend than the swatting of a fly.
"The sections of the plans were thrust into your pocket to give the authorities a convenient scapegoat, so they would look no further for the culprit. And this was successful. I imagine he took those plans he thought would be useful and left you only with those he didn't need." Moriarty smacked his hands together. "All this executed, as you say, on the spur of the moment. The man is capable, courageous, and cunning. Truly a fit antagonist."
"I'm convinced," Barnett said. "So how do you plan to get me out of here, and what do you want from me in return?"
"I plan to arrange for your escape," Moriarty said, "and quickly, before the authorities tire of attempting to obtain from you information which you do not possess. For on that day you will die."
Barnett shuddered. "Cheerful," he said.
"What I want from you," Moriarty told him, "is two years of your life. I would like to employ you. I shall endeavor to remove you from this place, and in return you will work for me for two years."
"Why?"
"You are good at your profession, and I have use for you."
"And after the two years?"
"After that, your destiny is once again your own."
"I accept!"
"Good!" Moriarty stood up and looked around the cell. "Bear up and be patient! You shall not be here much longer." He shook hands with Barnett and then strode out of the cell.
The stocky warder slammed the door behind him, and Barnett heard the heavy bolt sliding into place.
SIX — NARY A MONK
Gawd knows, an' 'E won't split on a pal.
— Kipling
It was scant minutes after dawn, and the sun was still pushing its way up out of the Black Sea as the Mu'adhdhin was preparing to call the faithful to Friday morning prayer. Five brown-clad monks came down the Street of Venyami the Good and presented themselves at the East Gate of the ancient Prison of Mustafa II. "We have come to shrive such of the prisoners as are of the Christian faith," the spokesman for the monks told the gate guard in heavily Greek-accented Turkish. "It is Shrove Friday."
The guard smiled, a wide smile that showed both his teeth. "I would be glad to be of assistance," he said, giving a palms-up shrug, "but I have not the authority."
One of the monks produced a thick parchment, folded and creased many times, and handed it to the spokesman, who passed it through the bars to the guard. "Within here is the authority," he said.
The guard unfolded the parchment, holding it open with both hands, and examined the cursive writing within, first with one eye and then with the other. "I'll have to show this to the Captain of the Guard," he decided finally. "I cannot make heads nor tails from it."
"But certainly," the talkative monk agreed. The guard thrust the parchment out through the bars. "Come back at eight," he said. "The captain makes his rounds at eight."
"Too bad," the monk said, shaking his head slowly. "Too bad?"
"We cannot wait. Tradition demands that we begin now, so we shall have to go to another prison."
"Too bad,
indeed," the guard agreed, smiling his tooth-exhibiting smile.
"We shall have to pay to someone else the traditional gatekeeper's fee." The monk took a small ornate purse from his robes and shook it so the coins within jingled.
"The gatekeeper's fee?"
"The traditional gatekeeper's fee," the monk agreed. "Legend has it that Simon, our patron saint, knocked three times and was not admitted, and then he paid the gatekeeper and he was admitted. This was the gatekeeper's fee."
"How much is this fee — this traditional gatekeeper's fee?"
"Two gold medjidié."
"Two?"
"That is so."
"Gold medjidié?"
"Yes."
"Hold on! Wait right here. Perhaps I can… The captain might be… You just wait right here. I won't be long. Don't go away." The guard closed the wooden door behind the ancient iron bars and disappeared within.
The talkative monk turned to his four silent, brown-cowled friends. "Ah," he said, "the power of the almighty medjidié." Three of them nodded under their deep cowls, the fourth remained still and silent.
It was no more than a minute before the guard returned, bringing with him a short, surly man with a wide, bristling mustache who was busily buttoning the last few buttons on his gold-striped dark blue trousers. "Now, now," the short man said, adjusting his wide gold sash, "who are you people? What's the story I hear? Where is this document? Where are these supposed gold medjidié? You're not trying to bribe an officer in the performance of his duty, now, are you?"
"You are the Official of the prison?" the monk asked, respectfully.
"I am the Captain of the Guard," the captain said.
"We are monks of the Simonite order," the monk told him. "We celebrate a sixteen-hundred-year-old ceremony: the Shriving of the Prisoners. Every year on Shrove Friday we go to a different prison and shrive those prisoners who are Christian, or those of other faiths who wish to be shriven. We ask three times to be admitted, and then pay the traditional gatekeeper's fee. We enter and shrive the pris-oners. Then we pay the Official of the Prison one of the gold medjidié for each prisoner we have shriven. Please, who is the Official of the Prison?"
Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 6
