Barnett's journalist's ear perked up. "Exile?" he repeated.
Prince Tseng nodded sadly. "My step-cousin-in-law, the Empress Dowager Tz'u-hsi, who rules China through her adopted son, the Emperor Kuang-hsü, has no use for Western ways. She chooses to believe that if you ignore the barbarians at the gates and insult their envoys, they will go quietly away. I advised her otherwise and she did not wish to listen. Soon she no longer wanted to see me or tolerate my presence. I was allowed to request the privilege of residing elsewhere."
"And so the Empress Dowager has lost a valuable advisor," Moriarty said. "And I have gained a trusted friend."
"Say," Barnett said, "if you don't mind my asking, what is all this?" He swept his hand around to indicate all the diverse activities that filled the room.
"This is my factory," Professor Moriarty said. "On the floor below, Prince Tseng manufactures antiques, while up here I create dreams."
"Two conundrums," Barnett said.
"Not at all, not at all," Prince Tseng said. "Here, look!" He went to a ring set into the floor and pulled it up, opening a three-foot-square trapdoor which led down to the floor below. Squatting by the opening, he gestured down. "There you see my workshop. There are my skilled artisans engaged in re-creating the T'ang, the Sung, the Yuan, and the Ming dynasties through representations of their art. Very precise representations."
Barnett gingerly approached the square hole in the floor. Directly below, a row of young women with kerchiefs tied around their heads sat before a long table. Each of them was painting patterns on a piece of unfired pottery with a fine Chinese brush.
"There is a great demand for the antiquities of my country, Mr. Barnett," Prince Tseng said. "It is a vogue — a fad. Unfortunately, very few of these objects have left my country. But the demand must be filled, must it not?" He dropped the trapdoor back into place and stood up.
"That's very interesting," Barnett said, for want of anything better to say. He was in the curious position of not knowing what reaction to have. Here was a prince of the royal family of China — if he was to be believed — presently in exile for unpopular political opinions, who supported himself by manufacturing fake Chinese antiques.
"Not all that interesting, Mr. Barnett," Prince Tseng said. "It's very mundane, really. It's what I must do to finance my work."
"You mean all this?" Barnett asked, gesturing around the room.
"No, sir. My work takes place in my homeland."
"All this," Professor Moriarty interrupted, "is mine. My responsibility entirely. Prince Tseng is good enough to aid me with the calculations and with his scientific insight, but the project is mine."
Barnett looked around the room again. The workers seemed to have tacitly agreed that it was time to quit for the day; they had gathered at a row of wooden lockers and were exchanging their smocks and slippers for street clothes. "I hope this doesn't appear a naive question," Barnett said, "but just what is going on in here?"
"You see before you," Moriarty said, indicating the neat mounds of white silk with a wave of his hand, "the beginnings of what is to become the world's first aerostat observatory."
"Aerostat—"
"An aerostat is a balloon that is filled with some gaseous substance which makes it lighter than air," Prince Tseng said.
"Yes," Barnett said. "Of course. My Uncle Ben was a balloonist in McClellan's army during the Rebellion. After the war he used to give exhibition balloon rides at county fairs. I helped him for a summer, and he taught me a bit about ballooning. It's the juxtaposition of the two words that puzzled me. Does an aerostat observatory observe aerostats or observe from an aerostat?"
"Ah!" Moriarty said. "Our journalistic friend possesses both a practical knowledge of ballooning and a rudimentary sense of humor. A valuable assistant, indeed. I don't trust a man without a sense of humor. For your enlightenment, Barnett" — Moriarty swiveled one of the large, wheeled chalkboards around, revealing a drawing pinned to the reverse side—"this is what the apparatus will look like. It is designed to rise up into the comparatively tranquil air that prevails four or five miles above the earth. It will carry an astronomical telescope of special design and a crew of five: two to work the aerostat and three to perform the experiments and observations."
The drawing, a carefully lined rendering, showed a cluster of balloon gasbags surrounding a central core that must have been the telescope. An elongated, closed gondola was suspended below, and various pieces of equipment, the purpose of which Barnett could not even guess at, were shown affixed to the sides of the gondola.
"Trapped as we are beneath a vast ocean of air that randomly refracts, reflects, and otherwise distorts the rays of light which pass through it," Moriarty said, "we cannot hope to observe properly, much less understand, the universe which we are immersed in and are a part of. And until we manage to understand properly at least the elemental laws by which the universe is run, we cannot hope to begin to understand ourselves: our design, our function, and our purpose, if any."
"Surely," Barnett said, "you can't hope to loft a telescope of any appreciable size with a bunch of balloons."
"True," Moriarty said, returning the chalk board to its original position, "but my calculations indicate that once above nine-tenths of the Earth's atmosphere, a five-inch refractor should achieve a clarity of vision that not even a twenty-inch one achieves on the ground. The twenty-inch has more gathering power, it is true, but in many cases that merely serves to make the blur brighter. Every astronomer has had the experience of having his field of vision become crystal-clear for just one instant, so the nebulosity he is staring at is as sharp as if etched on glass. But before he can put pencil to paper, the atmosphere has again transformed the image to a wavering, flickering blur too indistinct to understand correctly."
"What do you hope to accomplish with your aerostat telescope?" Barnett asked.
Moriarty shook his head. "I may discover the innermost secrets of the universe," he said. "Or then again, I may discover that through some hidden flaw I failed to anticipate, I get no usable information at all from the apparatus. As a very old friend of mine once told me, 'There is no shame in playing the cards that have been dealt to you as long as you play them to the best of your ability.' It was, of course, in another context." Moriarty looked around him. "Well, we seem to have done everything we can for today, gentlemen," he said. "Let us return to Russell Square and see what Mrs. Randall has prepared for us in the way of a supper. I think I could fancy a bit of mutton tonight, and I seem to remember Mrs. H saying something about mutton before I left the house. May I invite you to dine with us this evening, Prince Tseng?"
Tseng Li-chang bowed. "I think not, Professor," he said. "Many thanks for inviting me, but I think my son and I had best stay in this evening and partake of our own poor repast. He has lessons to do, and I could profitably use the time."
"Just as you say," Moriarty said. "I shall see you, then, within the week. Tolliver — go over to the cabstand on Commercial Road and see if you can pick us up a growler. We'll be downstairs."
"Have it here in half a minute, Professor," the Mummer said, and the little man darted back down the stairs, his jacket flapping.
TEN — THE FOUR-WHEELER
A man must make his opportunity, as oft as find it.
— Francis Bacon
As the four-wheeler headed placidly toward Russell Square, Moriarty crossed his arms, lowered his chin onto his clavicle, and sank into a deep reverie. His eyes were open, but it was clear that his thoughts were elsewhere. Mummer Tolliver settled in one corner of the gently swaying growler and whistled to himself with a peculiar tuneless syncopation while rolling a half-crown back and forth along the backs of his fingers. He obviously was prepared to continue this occupation indefinitely.
Barnett stared out the window at the passing London scene. He had several disquieting notions to consider.
"You're right," Moriarty said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. "I am a criminal. Does this dis
tress you?"
"I'm not sure," Barnett said. "I haven't really…" He looked up in astonishment. "How the devil did you know what I was thinking."
Moriarty chuckled dryly. "My attention returned from the abstruse world of mathematics to the interior of this growler," he said, "to find you staring out the window. Then you glanced surreptitiously at Tolliver several times and back out the window. As we were passing Newgate Prison at the time, it was not hard to surmise your thoughts — at least in their general outline. The process of association is almost unavoidable, I have found. Tolliver has recently told you of his criminal background, and the sight of Newgate reminded you of this."
"I recall something like that going through my head," Barnett admitted.
"Then you looked from Tolliver to me, glanced back out the window, stared at your feet, and shuddered slightly. You were considering the possibility of your new association putting you back behind stone walls. I confess that for a second I thought it might be merely a memory of Stamboul, but the shudder was too prolonged for that — so you were clearly viewing a return to the life of a felon. Therefore, you are afraid that your new employment might meet with disfavor in the eyes of the authorities. You have decided, or perhaps deduced, that I am engaged in illegal activities — that I am a criminal."
Barnett leaned back in the leather seat and stared at Moriarty. "What a weak chain of inference!" he said.
"It's hard, almost impossible, properly to verbalize the complicated and complex chain of interrelated data that allows a genius to arrive at the correct inductive answer," Moriarty said. "Especially in human relationships. The tilt of a head, the twist of a knee, the inclination of the elbows, and a thousand other factors are analyzed by the unconscious brain without ever coming fully to conscious attention. The attempt to describe it is doomed to suffer from excessive simplification and generalization. The test, therefore, is in the accuracy of the observation. Did I pass that test?"
Barnett nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "I will admit it; that is what I was thinking. Although you will excuse me if I continue to consider it as mostly a lucky guess."
Moriarty smiled. "In science," he said, "the test of validity is reproduceability. Keep that in mind, Barnett, as we march into the future together."
-
The occupants of the four-wheeler remained silent for several minutes. Then Moriarty said, "Now about my, ah, criminal activities. Do you regret accepting employment with a criminal?"
"I don't know, Professor. There are crimes, and then there are crimes."
"A brilliant observation," Moriarty commented. "Am I to understand by this that there are some crimes you would condone and others you would find opprobrious?"
"I think that's true of everyone," Barnett said.
"Not so!" Moriarty said. "Most individuals in our enlightened society would neither commit nor condone any crime. They would cheerfully allow a child of twelve to starve to death working twelve hours a day over a shuttle-loom for a shilling a week; but then that is not a crime." He raised his hand. "But just let — Wait a second! What's that?"
"What?" Barnett asked, peering around.
"Do you hear that?"
"I hear nothing wrong," Barnett said, listening intently. "As a matter of fact, I can't hear anything over the horse's hooves."
"Indeed!" Moriarty said. "And the horse has just gone over wooden planking, such as is installed in the street to cover a temporary excavation for sewer lines and the like." He tried the door handle. "And, as there is no such excavation on the direct route to Russell Square, I deduce we have taken the wrong turning. We are now on Grey's Inn Road, I believe."
"Perhaps the jarvey knows a shortcut," the Mummer suggested, from his corner of the four-wheeler.
"And perhaps he's fixed the door handles so we won't fall out and hurt ourselves," Moriarty said.
"How's that?" the Mummer said. He tried the handle on his side and found it immoveable. "Why, that bloody barsted," he said, his voice raised in indignation. "What's the name of 'is game anyway?"
"Now, now, Mummer," Moriarty said, "don't lose your aitches; it's taken you long enough to acquire them."
"What's happening?" Barnett asked. "Won't the doors open?"
"They won't. And what's happening is that we're being abducted," Moriarty said, "like in one of the popular novels. Although I don't believe your virtue is in any danger." He wiggled a finger at Tolliver. "I thought I warned you about taking the first cab in the rank."
"Wasn't any rank," the Mummer said. "The growler was proceeding down the bloody street and I hailed him."
"Indeed," Moriarty said. "How convenient." He rapped on the roof of the four-wheeler with his stick. "Cabby!" he called. There was no response. Barnett wondered whether he had expected one.
Moriarty leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hands, which were laced over the ivory handle of his stick. "This seems inane," he said. "They surely can't expect us to just sit here until the carriage arrives at some secret destination. My first inclination is to do just that, to learn who we are dealing with. But our mysterious adversaries will surely try to do away with us, growler and all, at the first opportunity. I'd suggest we exit from this clarence cab lockbox as expeditiously as possible. Mummer, remove that window and try the outside knob."
"It don't roll down, Professor," the Mummer said.
"I didn't suppose it would," the professor said. "Break the glass!"
The Mummer took a cosh from his belt and broke the glass out of the window on his side of the four-wheeler, while Moriarty used his stick to do the same on the other side.
"It don't open from the outside neither," the Mummer called.
"Remove the rest of the glass," Moriarty said, "and get out the window. Fast!"
There were a couple of thumping noises from overhead, and Barnett saw the cabby swing off his seat and drop to the street, where he fell, quickly regained his feet, and disappeared from view as the four-wheeler continued to move on at an accelerated pace.
"Whatever's going to happen is going to happen now," Barnett cried. "The jarvey's just left us."
The cab jounced and clattered down the street, lurching madly from side to side as the tempo of the horse's gait changed from a placid trot to a frenetic gallop.
"I rather think the jarvey did something to annoy our steed as a parting gesture," Moriarty said, knocking the remaining shards of glass out of the window on his side. "Thus enhancing an already interesting experience. Mr. Barnett, if you would make your way to the street through this window…"
Barnett looked out at the pavement, which was passing under the wheels of the cab at a dizzying speed. Then he glanced across the cab at Tolliver, who was already most of the way out of the window on his side. He shrugged. "This will ruin my suit," he said. Grabbing the leather strap above the door, he swung his legs out the window, twisted through, and dropped.
The cab swerved just as he let go, and he fell heavily on his side and slid across the cobblestones. A second later, Moriarty followed him out the window, hitting the ground feet-first, and then rolling forward in the baritsu manner to absorb the impact before coming neatly to his feet again.
The cab, now bouncing and clattering wildly behind an increasingly frenzied horse, barely missed a carter's wagon to its left and then careened into a lamppost on the right. Bouncing off the lamppost, it twisted over until it was riding on just two wheels. The traces gave way under the twisting force, and the horse, suddenly freed, raced off down the street. The four-wheeler righted itself again, now heading directly toward a bank on the corner. As it reached the curb, it exploded in a cloud of black smoke, sending wood and iron fragments hurtling through the air to clatter against the walls and breaking windows up and down the block. Barnett instinctively covered his face with his arms, but miraculously none of the fragments touched him.
When most of the debris had come to rest, Barnett got up and dusted himself off. His leg burned where he had scraped it, and his good French f
rock coat and trousers were now suitable only for the dustbin, but there seemed to be no other damage done. He looked around and saw Moriarty crossing the road to where Mummer Tolliver was lying. The Mummer's tiny body, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, lay quite still. Somehow, despite the explosion debris and dust all around him, Tolliver's checkered suit and yellow spats were still neat and spotlessly clean, but his face was covered with blood.
Moriarty knelt by the Mummer and cleaned his face off with his pocket handkerchief. Cautiously he straightened the twisted leg and then undid the Mummer's tight high collar and loosened his cravat. "He's breathing," he told Barnett. "Let us get him home."
"Shouldn't we take him to the nearest hospital?" Barnett asked.
"St. Bartholomew's is probably the closest hospital," Moriarty said. "And my house is quite a bit closer, a good bit cleaner, and has most of the facilities." Lifting Tolliver as gently as he would a small child, Moriarty rose. "Flag down that cab," he directed Barnett. "We'll stop at the house first, and then you go on to Cavendish Square and bring back a physician named Breckstone. He's the only man in London I'd trust to treat anything more complicated than a head cold."
Barnett hailed the growler, which was busy trying to turn around and avoid the blocked far end of the street. A uniformed policeman came around the corner at a dead run as they boarded the cab. "Here, here," he yelled, continuing past them toward the wreckage. "What's all this?"
ELEVEN — THE SCENT
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"I have been remiss," Moriarty said. "I have allowed my own interests, my own desires, to distract me from an assignment which I accepted in all good faith, just because there is no one here to prod me into activity. While I have been concerning myself with anomalies in the orbit of an asteroid, Trepoff has been planting his infernal devices about me with the assiduity of a British gardener setting roses."
Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 10
