"Oh, he did, did he?" Barnett said slowly.
"Now, be careful!" Cecily exclaimed, as he stalked past her toward the sinister-looking man.
"Here, you!" Barnett said, a harsh note in his voice. He grabbed the man by his filthy collar and pulled him upright out of his slouching posture. "What do you mean, hanging around here? Do you want me to have the law on you?"
"I didn't mean no 'arm, Guv'nor," the man said, holding his crumpled hand up in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. "S'welp me I didn't. Lummy! What you want to go about pickin' on the likes of me for?" He cringed and contrived to hide even more of his filthy face behind a protecting arm.
"Say!" Cecily Perrine said, taking a step toward them, her face showing puzzlement. "Where are you from, fellow?"
"What's 'at, miss?"
"Where were you raised?"
"Whitechapel, miss. Off Commercial Road, you know, miss."
"No, you weren't!" she said positively. " 'Ow's 'at, miss?"
"Your accent is wrong," she said flatly. "It's close, but it's wrong."
Barnett looked from one to the other. "What's that?" he said.
"He is affecting that speech," Cecily said positively. "Doing it quite well, too. But he isn't from anywhere near Whitechapel. I'd say he was brought up in the North. Yorkshire, perhaps. He has spent some time in France, and was schooled at Cambridge."
Barnett released his hold on the man, who sank back down on the steps. "You're joking," Barnett said.
"Not at all," she assured him. "Whoever this gentleman is, he is not what he seems."
"Well?" Barnett said, glaring down at the man.
The man shook his head, a disgusted look on his face, and stood up. Without slouching over, he proved to be half a head taller than Barnett. "I should like to congratulate you, young woman," he said dryly, in quite a different accent than the one he had been assuming. "That is a remarkable talent you have."
Barnett started. "I know that voice!" he said.
"Indeed?" the man said.
"Yes. You're that detective — Sherlock Holmes."
"Indeed."
"What are you doing skulking about here, following this young lady home?"
Sherlock Holmes stretched and turned his head gingerly from side to side. "Accomplishing little beyond getting a stiff neck, it would seem," he said.
"That's not good enough, sir!" Barnett said. "Explain yourself!"
Holmes regarded Barnett steadily. "Surely it should not surprise you," he said, "that I am interested in the comings and goings of the minions of Professor James Moriarty. I must admit that I usually do not take quite so close an interest, but this American News Service has me intrigued. What nefarious function it serves in Moriarty's schemes, I confess I cannot fathom. At the moment. But, as you may discover, I am quite persistent."
"And I dislike being spied on," Barnett said. "This really must cease. And you must not annoy Miss Perrine anymore, or I'll report you to the police."
Holmes chuckled. "And you'd be well within your rights to do so," he admitted: "An interesting turnabout. But I am really quite determined to discover the function of this American News Service. At first I thought of coded messages…"
Cecily gasped. "You're the one!" she said.
Barnett turned to her. "What now?"
"The manager of the District Telegraph office spoke to me the other day — Tuesday, I believe — when I brought in the day's traffic. He wished to know whether we were having any more trouble with garbled transmissions. I asked him what he was referring to. He said that a gentleman had come in the evening before, saying that he was from our office, and requested copies of everything that had been handed in that day. He had given the excuse that an American client had complained of garbled messages, and he wanted to check whether the fault lay with the typist in our office or the telegraph. I asked him if it was Mr. Barnett, and he said no, another gentleman. I meant to tell you about it. I thought perhaps it was someone from Reuters checking up on their new competition."
Barnett turned to Holmes. He felt quite calm, but a vein in his neck was throbbing. "I believe that's illegal," he said. "For someone so keen on preventing crime, you seem to indulge in a fair amount of it yourself."
Holmes smiled. "Touché," he said. "Professor Moriarty picks his henchmen well."
"Just who is this Professor Moriarty?" Cecily demanded.
"An eminent scientist," Barnett told her, his voice hard. "A mathematician and astronomer. I am proud to have him as a friend."
"Professor James Clovis Moriarty," Holmes said, his words coming out precise and clipped, "is a scoundrel, a rogue, and a villain. He is also a genius."
Cecily Perrine crossed her arms and her right foot tapped impatiently on the step. "He must be quite a man indeed," she said, "if he causes you to dress like a tramp and follow innocent working girls all over London."
"I take my hat off to you, young lady," Holmes said, doffing the filthy cap he was wearing. "And I give you my word never to cause you the slightest annoyance again. If you don't mind my asking, how did you catch me up on my dialect? What did I do wrong?"
"You did nothing wrong," she said. "It was quite good. But you see, my father is Professor Henry Perrine, the world-famous phoneticist, the developer of the Perrine Simplified Phonetical Alphabet. He began to teach it to me when I was three. When I was seven I started going around to different neighborhoods and copying down what people said. Father used me in his lectures to prove the accuracy of his system. By the time I was ten I could tell to within two blocks where anyone in London grew up."
"What a useful skill!" Holmes cried. "Would it take me long to learn?"
"It takes no more than a week or two to master the Perrine Alphabet," Cecily said. "After that, it is but a matter of practice. Your ear quickly becomes aware of the different dialectal sounds after you have been taught the technique of how to transcribe them."
"Come, I must have it," Holmes said. "Does your father give lessons?"
"Why not ask him yourself," Cecily asked, "the next time you follow me home?"
Holmes laughed. "I shall go over there right now," he said. "Although I suppose I'd better make myself presentable first."
"My father won't notice the way you're dressed," Cecily told him. "With Father, speech is all. If a talking gorilla came to see him he would know within a block where the gorilla was from, and never notice that it was a gorilla."
"Thank you, Miss Perrine," Holmes said. "Nonetheless, I shall change before intruding myself upon your father. And you may rest assured that I shall not bother you again. However, I do ask you to reassess your relationship with Professor Moriarty. If you — or you, Mister Barnett — ever require my aid, you will find me at 221-B Baker Street. Good afternoon." And, with a slight bow, he pulled his cap back over his head and sauntered off down the street.
Cecily watched Holmes until he rounded the corner, and then turned to Barnett. "Who is this Professor Moriarty?" she asked him again. "Is he really a scoundrel and a rogue and all that?"
"Professor Moriarty saved my life once," Barnett told her. "And, even aside from that, I have more respect for him than for any man I have ever met. I think that Sherlock Holmes, for some reason, has what the French call an idee fixe on the subject of Professor Moriarty."
"Then he is not a villain?"
Barnett shrugged. "Who," he asked, "can look into the heart of any man?"
SIXTEEN — WORD FROM THE TSAR
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
— William Johnson Cory
Professor Moriarty, wrapped in a blue silk dressing gown with a large red-embroidered dragon of menacing aspect curled over its right shoulder, was stretched out on his bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. The bed curtains were tied off, and the bed was surrounded by chairs and footstools piled high with books. That part of the bed not occupied by Moriarty himself was equally laden.
With an air of annoyance, the professor looked
up from the book he was reading as Barnett knocked, then walked in. "Well?" he snapped.
"I've brought today's reports from the agency," Barnett said. "Anything of interest?"
"I don't think so."
"Leave them on the table."
"Okay," Barnett said, laying the two sheets of paper on the table by the window. Then he turned to Moriarty and seemed to hesitate, as though not sure what to say.
"Anything else?" Moriarty demanded.
"No."
"Then why are you standing there? Either say something or get out."
"Is there anything the matter, Professor?" Barnett asked. "Is there any way I can help?"
"You? I wouldn't think so." Moriarty gestured to the pile of books surrounding him. "I have here the assembled knowledge of the Western world, and a bit of the Eastern, and I have found no help. It constantly amazes me how many idiots write books."
"You've been up here for a week," Barnett said. "True. I've been reading. Can you suggest anything more useful for me to do?"
"What about Trepoff?" Barnett asked.
"What about him? It's his move, and I can do nothing until he makes it. Now leave me alone, and don't come back until you have something of interest to tell me."
"All right," Barnett said, shrugging. "Although it still seems to me—"
"Go!" Moriarty shouted. And Barnett left the room. Mrs. H was standing in the corridor by the staircase. "Well?" she asked.
Barnett shook his head. "I can't get him to do anything."
"Stubborn man," Mrs. H said. "Every few months he does this." She seemed to take it as a personal affront. "One time he stayed in that bedroom for upward of six weeks, and me running back and forth from the British Museum with armloads of books for him."
"What sort of books, Mrs. H?" Barnett asked.
She started downstairs and Barnett followed. "No particular sort," she said. "One day from the King's Library, one day from the Grenville Library. He has a special arrangement with the curator to get the books out. But he had to promise to stop writing in the margins."
"In the margins?"
"That's what. When he became particularly annoyed by some comment in some book, he'd scribble a reply in the margin. The curator made him promise to stop if he was to continue getting books. Now he writes the comments on scraps of foolscap, which he inserts at the page. Doctor Wycliffe, the curator, merely removes the foolscap scraps before returning the books to the shelves."
"A strange system," Barnett commented.
"It keeps them both happy," Mrs. H said. "Doctor Wycliffe is keeping a file of the professor's annotations. He says he's going to publish them someday, anonymously, as The Ravings of a Rational Mind. The professor was quite amused."
They entered the kitchen together, and Barnett perched on one of the little wooden stools that surrounded the heavy cutting table. "I can't figure Professor Moriarty out," he said. "He is undoubtedly the strangest human I have ever run across."
"Here now," Mrs. H said, her voice rising in sudden anger, "what do you mean by that?"
"Don't take me wrong, Mrs. H," Barnett said. "I don't mean that there's anything wrong with him. I mean, well, he's probably the smartest man I've ever known—"
"Or ever like to," Mrs. H interposed.
"There's no doubt about that," Barnett agreed. "But there are so many sides to him, if you see what I mean, that it's hard to really understand what sort of a person he is."
"He's a fine man," Mrs. H stated positively.
"Yes, of course he is. But what I mean is there are so many aspects to Professor Moriarty's character, he appears in so many guises to so many people, that it's hard to know which is the real Professor Moriarty. And then he's usually so active that two men and a small boy couldn't keep up with him, but now he withdraws to his bedroom and stays there for days at a time."
"He'll come out when there's a reason."
"And then there's Sherlock Holmes," Barnett said. "I've checked on him, and he's highly regarded. And he seems to think that the professor is the greatest villain unhanged. While all those who work for Professor Moriarty would willingly and gladly cut off their right arms if he asked it of them. How can you reconcile that?"
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. H paused and sniffed. "Mr. Holmes is an ungrateful young man. He was looking for a saint and he discovered that the professor was only a human being. He never has been able to forgive him that."
"They knew each other?"
"Oh, yes. Years ago."
"What happened?"
Mrs. H sniffed again. "Tea's ready," she said.
Barnett made a few more attempts to draw her out, but Mrs. H had evidently decided that she had said quite enough, and she refused to be drawn. He had to settle for tea and scones.
-
It was after dark when a carriage pulled up to the door of 64 Russell Square and a tall man swathed in a light opera cape descended and rang the front door bell.
Mr. Maws answered the door promptly. "Yes?" he said, surveying the gentleman expressionlessly.
"I would speak with the Professor Moriarty."
"Who should I say is calling?"
"I am Count Boris Gobolski, accredited representative of His Imperial Majesty Alexander the Third, Tsar of all the Russias, to the court of St. James."
Mr. Maws nodded almost imperceptibly. "Have you an appointment?" he asked.
"Your master will wish to see me," Count Boris Gobolski said. "Immediately. It is of utmost importance."
"Come in," Mr. Maws said. "Please wait in the front room. I will inform the professor that you are here."
Mr. Maws climbed the stairs and announced Gobolski's presence to Moriarty, who petulantly slammed closed the book he was reading. "Probably wants a report," he said. "There was nothing in our agreement about reports. Tell him…" He sat up. "No, I had better go myself. I will give the gentleman to understand that there is nothing to be gained by incessantly pestering me."
"He has never been here before, sir," Mr. Maws felt obliged to state.
"That's no reason for him to start now," Moriarty said. "This must be nipped in the bud. I cannot work without a free hand."
"Yes, sir," Mr. Maws said. "Shall I tell the gentleman that you will be down directly?"
"Yes, tell him that," Moriarty said, pulling on his shoes. "I suppose I'd better dress first. It wouldn't do to greet an ambassador in a dressing-gown."
"Shall I lay out your clothes?"
"No, never mind that," Moriarty said. "That's not a butler's job, I keep telling you."
"The professor does not have a personal valet," Mr. Maws observed.
"When I made you my butler, Mr. Maws," Moriarty said, casting aside his dressing gown and selecting a shirt from his wardrobe, "I little dreamed that you'd take the title so seriously."
"I know, sir," Mr. Maws said. "I believe it appeals to some sense of order in my soul. I really enjoy the position, you understand, sir."
"It has become self-evident," Moriarty said. "Now go and knock up Barnett on your way downstairs. Tell him to join us in the study as soon as he's presentable."
"Very good, sir."
Moriarty was dressed in ten minutes, and found Barnett waiting for him on the landing. "Good to see you up," Barnett said cheerfully.
"Bah!" Moriarty replied. He wiped his pince-nez and placed it over his nose, eyeing Barnett critically through the lenses. "Our relationship," he said, "is somehow not what I expected." Then he trotted down the stairs ahead of Barnett.
Mr. Maws was in the front hall, keeping a suspicious eye on the door to the front room. "Show Count Gobolski into the study," Moriarty directed him. "Have you lit the lamps?"
"I didn't want to leave the hall, Professor," Mr. Maws said.
"Of course," Moriarty said. Taking a box of waterproof vespas from his pocket, he entered his study and performed the service himself, lighting the overhead gas pendant and the ornate brass gas lamp on his desk.
Count Gobolski entered the room, his
opera cape still wrapped around him. "Professor James Moriarty?" he asked.
Moriarty stood behind his desk. "Count Boris Gobolski?"
Gobolski nodded nervously, and his gaze shifted to Barnett, who was standing by the small worktable across the room. "Who is he?" he demanded.
"My assistant," Moriarty said. "Benjamin Barnett."
"My pleasure, Count," Barnett said, bowing slightly and smiling.
"I do not like this," Gobolski said. His English was precise and perfect, and only a slight liquidity in the consonants marked him as a foreigner.
"Pray be seated, Your Excellency," Moriarty said, indicating the leather chair by his desk. "I would prefer Mr. Barnett to remain, but if you wish him to leave…"
"No, no," Gobolski said, waving his arm vaguely at Barnett and dropping into the indicated chair. "I did not mean—" He paused and looked around the room. "I believe I was followed," he said. "Coming here, I mean."
"Ah!" Moriarty said. He reached behind him and gave a slight tug on the bellpull. "And what leads you to suspect that?"
"One develops a feel for such things," Gobolski said.
Mr. Maws opened the door and stepped inside.
"Would you like a libation, Your Excellency?" Moriarty asked. "A brandy, perhaps? I have a fine Napoleon I can offer you. Mr. Maws, see to it, will you? And send Tolliver out the back way to see if anyone is taking an interest in this house."
Mr. Maws nodded and left, silently closing the door behind him.
"And now, Count Gobolski," Moriarty said, "what brings you calling at this late hour? And whom do you suspect of taking an interest in your affairs?"
"I am a diplomat," Gobolski said, "not a conspirator. But for a Russian today, that means little difference. One has to learn to live with being followed, threatened, terrorized. One lives in the shadow of assassination." He smoothed his mustache down with a nervous gesture. "I for one, have never become used to it. Did you know," he asked, leaning forward, "that there is a police guard in front of my house twenty-four hours of the day?"
"It must be wearing," Moriarty said.
"Nine of the members of my staff are nothing more or less than bodyguards," Gobolski said.
Mr. Maws returned with the brandy glasses on a tray and distributed them, putting the tray with the bottle on a corner of the desk. Gobolski sniffed his drink suspiciously for a second and then drained the glass. "Excellent," he said. Mr. Maws refilled the glass.
Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 15
