Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  " 'Course I hasn't," the Mummer interjected. "I leaves that to you, as always. It's not my place."

  " 'E's right," Twist said to Barnett. "It's my place and it's my privilege." He hobbled over to a table in one corner of the large cellar, which was filled with low wooden tables and lower wooden benches. "We'll do it by the book," he said. "And 'ere it is." He opened a large, ancient ledger and turned the pages slowly and carefully until he reached the last one with writing on it. "They are those," he said, "as think I'm the oldest thing around 'ere, but this book is far older than any living man. It's the Maund Book and all as 'ave ever been members of the London Maund, which we now call by the appellation of the Mendicants' Guild, are signed by they name, or they mark, and sealed with they thumb into this book. This book was opened in 1728, in the second year o' the reign of George the Second."

  Barnett went over and, with Twist's permission, examined the book, turning a few pages and peering at the ancient leather binding and the lists of signatures and strange hieroglyphics. He noticed a squiggle with a straight line over it and two X's at each end, and "the Connersty Barker, his mark," written after. Each signature had a strange brown blob at the end, which Barnett decided was the thumbseal Twist had mentioned. "Absolutely fascinating," Barnett said. "You have a piece of history here."

  "Ain't it the truth!" Twist said, pleased at the observation. "And they's nobody what gets to see it without I say so." He produced an inkstone and poured a few drops on it from a bottle under the table. "Gin," he explained, pulling a goose feather from a cubbyhole. With a couple of quick swipes of his pocketknife he created a passable point, which he rubbed into the gin-moistened ink. "What moniker?" he asked.

  "How's that?" Barnett said.

  "What moniker?" Twist repeated. "You can't use your own, you see."

  "Oh!" Barnett said, as the light dawned. "Moniker! Nickname!"

  "Right enough," Twist agreed.

  "I've never used one," Barnett said.

  "Why'nt you jolly him one?" the Mummer suggested.

  Twist considered. "Got it," he said. "We'll moniker 'im after 'is quod. You go in the Maund Book as 'Araby,' if that's jonnick with you."

  "Sounds fine," Barnett said, wondering what all this was leading up to.

  Twist carefully and painstakingly wrote the date at the start of the line, twisting his head around so that his left eye could watch what his right hand was doing. Then he handed the quill to Barnett. "Write your moniker or make your mark," he instructed.

  Barnett wrote "Araby" neatly after the date and then, staring at it and feeling it looked naked by itself, added "Ben" after it. "Araby Ben," he said. "How's that?"

  "Good," Twist said, taking back his quill. He took Barnett's right thumb with his left hand and, with a sudden gesture, jabbed a long brass pin into the ball of the thumb.

  "Hey!" Barnett yelped, jerking his hand back.

  "Squeezed out a couple of drops of blood," Twist said, sticking the pin back into the lining of the filthy waistcoat he was wearing. "Then press your thumb after your moniker."

  Barnett dutifully squeezed his thumb until two drops of his blood pooled on top. "You should be careful with that needle," he said. "You could give someone blood poisoning."

  "I've pledged 'alf an 'undred men with this selfsame needle," Twist said, "and ain't none of 'em dead yet, barring a couple who've swung."

  Barnett made his thumbprint in the book, and Twist closed it. "Yer a member now," he said.

  "Give him the office," the Mummer said.

  Twist struck a pose. "You see what I'm doing?" he asked Barnett.

  "No," Barnett said, seeing nothing unusual in Twist's appearance beyond what was dictated by his deformity.

  "Right enough," Twist said. "But any o' your fellow members of the guild would see right off that you was passing them the office." He held up his left hand. "Left 'and," he said, "with the thumb protruding, as it were, from between the first and second fingers. Not a natural pose, but not queer enough to be noted."

  "I see," Barnett said.

  "If you 'ave a message what you want delivered, but you're under the eye of some busy, or somefing of the kind, just give the office when you pass a street beggar. If 'e returns it, give 'em the message or drop it somewhere in 'is sight."

  "Twist here will have it within the hour," the Mummer said with as much pride as if he'd invented the system himself. "And the professor in another."

  Barnett nodded. Although he couldn't imagine what possible use such an elaborate signaling and message-carrying system could be to Moriarty, he was impressed. "You certainly have evolved an efficient system," he said.

  " 'Course it is," the Mummer said. "E-bloody-ficient."

  "Don't forget your moniker, now," Twist said. "That's the name I knows you as. Good meeting you, Araby Ben. Good luck to you."

  -

  The tour of London continued. Mummer Tolliver introduced Barnett to a motley assortment of characters that would have kept the feature editor of the New York World ecstatic for a year if Barnett had sent him character sketches.

  "MacReady's the name," announced the red-faced man in the shop in Belgravia. "Eddie MacReady at your service, whatever that service may be. Service for two or service for two hundred, it's all the same to me." The sign over his door said: "Edward MacReady— Superior Catering Service," and below it in smaller print was the legend: "Fine meals for fine people; catered, served, cleared by liveried waiters. 2 to 200 on a day's notice."

  "Any friend of the professor's is a friend of mine," Eddie declared, pumping Barnett's hand. "And some strange friends he's got, too. But I'm no one to talk; not after what he did for me. He set me up in this business, I don't mind telling you. He had faith in me when nobody else did."

  Here MacReady paused for Barnett's response. "He's a remarkable man," Barnett said, feeling on safe ground with that statement.

  "That he is," MacReady agreed solemnly.

  " 'Course he is," Mummer Tolliver said, looking around pugnaciously for someone to disagree. "Who says he ain't?"

  And they moved on to Old Brompton Road, where Barnett was introduced to Isaac Benlevi, artificer and toolmaker. The old gentleman in a floor-length leather apron was just putting the finishing touches on an escapement mechanism designed for the equatorial mounting of Moriarty's telescope, a twelve-inch reflector housed at his private observatory on Crimpton Moor.

  Barnett examined the beautifully tooled device with pleasure; he had always had a fondness for machines and contrivances. But the Mummer waved it off with disgust. "Haven't you got nothing what could interest a chap in my line, Mr. Benlevi?" he asked with a broad wink "You've always got such loverly toys, ain't you got nothing today?"

  "Ah, Mr. Tolliver, my little friend," Benlevi said, patting him on the shoulder. "The problems of your trade have always intrigued me. I am constantly thinking of simple contrivances to make your life easier. As a matter of fact, there is something I'd like you to look at. It isn't perfect yet. I'd like your opinion. It's in the back, I'll bring it out."

  "What trade is that?" Barnett asked the Mummer, as Benlevi disappeared into the back room.

  The Mummer brushed the dust off his yellow spats and flicked a piece of lint from his fawn-colored suit. "Not ashamed to say it," he told Barnett, "though there's some as would beat around the bush. I was in the swell. Out of it now, course. Still keep my hand in, though, and I won't say that I don't."

  "A swell?" Barnett asked.

  "In the swell," the Mummer said. "I was a sneak thief with the swell mob, blokes what dressed and acted like swells so's we could mingle amongst them at the race-course and the opera and suchlike places."

  "You gave it up when you went to work for the professor, did you?"

  "Let us say I became a specialist," the Mummer said. "Now, Mr. Benlevi, what have you got to show?"

  "Here's my latest toy for your trade, Mummer," Isaac Benlevi said, holding up a shiny black leather Gladstone bag. "Take a look."

&n
bsp; The Mummer took the bag and examined it from every angle. "It's a Gladstone, right enough. From the outside anyway."

  "Open it," Benlevi said. "Go on!"

  The Mummer pushed the catch and the bag popped open. It was divided into two sections and lined with thick black velveteen. The Mummer peered inside and then poked his hand in and felt around. "Empty," he said. "What's the wheeze?"

  "A very old wheeze, indeed, Mummer," Benlevi said. "All done up in new cloth. Watch!" He rummaged the shelf behind him for a minute and finally produced a small precision chronometer and put it on the counter. Then he snapped the Gladstone bag closed and set it down over the chronometer. When he lifted the bag again, the instrument was gone. "Neat and clean and all in a flash," he said.

  The Mummer grabbed the bag out of his hand and opened it. He looked inside, then he stuck in his hand and repeated his earlier motions, prodding the sides, top, and bottom of the velveteen lining. Then he turned the Gladstone bag upside down and shook it. "Mr. Benlevi, you're a bloody genius, that's what you are," he declared solemnly, putting the bag down. "I have witnessed a miracle."

  "A miracle of craftsmanship," Benlevi agreed. He lifted the bag and touched a concealed spring in the handle. Immediately the bottom flopped open and the chronometer dropped to the counter. "It must be reset for each grab," he said. "It will take anything up to six inches square and two or three inches high. Perfect for jewelry trays. A clockwork mechanism grabs the item and holds it securely in a hidden chamber beneath the cloth."

  "What's your price?" the Mummer asked.

  Benlevi shook his head. "It is not yet perfected," he said. "When I can swear to its proper operation, I'll sell it — but not before. I'll let you know."

  -

  The Mummer shook his head sadly as they left Benlevi's shop. "I hunger sometimes for the old days, Mr. Barnett," he said. "Humorous times we had in the old days."

  "Stealing wallets?"

  "Right enough. And skins and dummies and sneezers and props—"

  "Sneezers? Props?"

  "Sorry," the Mummer said. "Sneezers is snuffboxes — some very rare snuffboxes the gentry walk around with. And props is what's pinned or fastened to the outer garment, such as pins and brooches and suchlike. Skins and dummies is handbags and pocketbooks."

  "I see," Barnett said.

  They walked to the corner, where the Mummer hailed a passing hansom cab. "One last stop, Guv," he said, giving the cabby an address in the East End.

  "I may be mistaken, since I'm not too familiar with London,"

  Barnett said as the hansom moved out to enter the stream of traffic, "but we seem to have gone back and forth across London today in a great zigzag. Aren't we going back now in the direction we came from only a couple of hours ago?"

  "Traveling roundabout London is the best way to get to know the city," the Mummer told him.

  So Barnett leaned back in the cab and watched as the streets of London passed under the two wheels of the hansom and district gave way to district with the bewildering changes of character that were commonplace in this amalgam of towns which had grown into the world's greatest city. Up they went past Victoria Station, sooty monument to the queen who had lent her name to the age. Then around Westminster Abbey and toward Trafalgar Square, passing the prime minister's residence, the Admiralty, and the spot where Charles I was beheaded. All the while, Mummer Tolliver kept up a running commentary on the history of the buildings and monuments they passed which was so rich and so personal that Barnett had a sudden image of Tolliver, with spade in hand and that irrepressible cockney grin lighting his face, busily laying the cornerstone of every public building in London since the eleventh century.

  In less than half an hour, their hansom pulled into Upper Swan-dam Lane, which despite its name was not much more than an alley sitting behind the wharves lining the north side of the Thames to the east of London Bridge. "See that slop shop, cabby?" the Mummer called to the driver perched over their heads. "Right to the other side of that, if you please."

  The cabby pulled past "Abner's Nautical Outfitters, Uniforms for all Principal Lines" and stopped before the unmarked door on the far side. The Mummer tossed him a shilling and hopped down. "Here we are," he told Barnett. "Come along."

  Barnett climbed out of the cab and stepped gingerly through the muddy street to the sidewalk. In the late afternoon light the building he faced seemed to have a strange and exotic character. Three stories high, it was constructed from ruddy bricks that might have seen service in some ancient Celtic fortress and then lain buried for two thousand years before being resurrected for their present use in this Upper Swandam Lane facade. There were no windows on the ground floor, and those on the second and third were fitted with great iron shutters, crusted with layers of maroon paint. The front door, large enough to pass a four-wheeled carriage when opened, was similarly of iron, and featureless except for six iron bands bolted to it in a crisscross pattern and a small window at eye level, not more than four inches square.

  "What is this place?" Barnett asked.

  "What would you say it was?" the Mummer responded.

  "The treasure house of some Indian maharaja," Barnett said, staring up at the building, "who's in London buying modern plumbing supplies for his palace."

  The Mummer cocked his head to one side and stared up at Barnett's face, as though half afraid he might have said something funny. And then, reassured, he went and stood in front of the great iron door.

  Inside of half a minute the peephole in the door opened and someone within examined them carefully. That's peculiar, Barnett mused. How did he know we were out here?

  A small door, which had been artfully concealed by the pattern of iron bands in the large door, sprang inward, and a Chinese boy in his mid-teens, wearing a frock coat and a bowler hat, nodded and smiled at them from inside. "Mr. Mummer," he said, "and, as I trust, Mr. Barnett. Please enter."

  The Mummer nodded Barnett through the door and then stepped in after him. "Afternoon, Low," he said. "Where's your dad?"

  The youth had closed the small door and slid two heavy bolts silently into place. "Come," he said. They were in a large room filled with orderly rows of packing cases stacked one atop the other. Two gas mantles affixed to stone pillars near the door were lit, but out of their circle of harsh light the area quickly receded into gloom and then into utter black. It was impossible to judge the size of the room, but Barnett instinctively felt that it was immense.

  The Chinese youth picked up a lantern and led them down the aisle to an iron staircase and then preceded them up to the next floor.

  At the top of the stairs they passed through an anteroom into a medium-sized room that was fitted out like an antique store or a curio shop. The iron shutters were thrown back on the two windows and the late afternoon sun shone directly in, illuminating some of the finest Oriental furniture and pottery that Barnett had ever seen. A teak cabinet and several brass-fitted teak traveling chests were along the wall. In the middle of the room a large walnut table inlaid with ivory dragons at the four corners attracted Barnett's attention. He had a slight knowledge of Chinese furniture, which was in vogue in Paris at the moment, and he had never seen anything so fine. And the dragons were representations of the Imperial dragon — forbidden to anyone not of Manchu blood.

  "I never thought I'd say this about a piece of furniture," Barnett said, "but this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

  The boy nodded and smiled. "My father's," he said. "Come." He led the way past rows of delicate vases with the traditional patterns of long-defunct dynasties to another staircase, and they followed him up to the third floor. (Second floor, Barnett reminded himself. Here it's ground floor, first floor, second floor. When in London…")

  This floor was again one long room, but a row of windows and a mosaic of skylights in the ceiling flooded it with what was left of the daylight. The room was divided into sections: one held several large tables and drafting boards; another had a small furnace or fo
rge resting on a stone slab; across the room was a complex of interconnected chemical apparatus on a scale several times larger than that in Professor Moriarty's basement laboratory. The whole center area had been cleared out and the floorboards scrubbed clean, and long bolts of white silk were laid out on it in a complex pattern that meant nothing to Barnett. Several men in white smocks and felt slippers were crouched on different parts of the pattern industriously sewing one section of white silk to another section of white silk. It looked to Barnett like makework in a madhouse.

  It was then that Barnett noticed the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of Professor Moriarty hovering about one of the drawing boards. He held a pencil in one hand and a large gutta percha eraser in the other, and he alternately attacked a paper pinned to the board with one and then the other. Standing at his right shoulder, peering intently at the drawing growing under Moriarty's hand, was a tall, thin, elderly Chinese in a sea-green silk robe. Every time Moriarty drew in a line or wrote down a figure, the Chinese gentleman ran the fingers of his left hand along a small ivory abacus he held in his right and then murmured a few words into Moriarty's left ear.

  With the Mummer tagging close behind him, Barnett strode across the room to join Moriarty.

  "Ah, Barnett," Moriarty said, glancing up from his work, "Tolliver. Just on time, I see."

  " 'Course," the Mummer said.

  "Mr. Benjamin Barnett," Moriarty said, "allow me to introduce Prince Tseng Li-chang, a former minister from the court of the son of Heaven to various Western nations, and quite possibly the finest mathematical mind of the nineteenth century. Mr. Barnett, as I mentioned, is a journalist."

  Prince Tseng bowed. "Professor Moriarty has told me something of your travail, Mr. Barnett," he said in a deep, precise voice. "I trust you shall find your period of association with Professor Moriarty to be a stimulating and rewarding experience. He has an incisive mind, quick as a crossbow dart; it is only his occasional companionship that makes my years of exile tolerable."