Holmes sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at Moriarty with a curious expression on his face. "Then they have the girl," he said. "Tell me what you know about them."
"Still the girl?" Moriarty said. "Then you weren't following me?"
Holmes took a cigarette case from his coat and removed one. He started to return the case to his pocket, then paused and offered it to Moriarty. "Try one," he said. "They're made for me by Drucquer's."
Moriarty took a cigarette and returned the case to Holmes, who shoved it back into his pocket. Barnett noted the gesture and saw that, for these two men, there was no one else in the room at this moment.
Holmes struck a wax vespa and lit the two cigarettes, and the two men stared silently at each other as smoke gradually filled the room. "The Duke of Ipswich received a note," Holmes said.
Moriarty lifted an eyebrow. "Finally," he said.
"I was prepared," Holmes said. "The note was delivered in an ingenious manner, but I managed to follow the deliverer, and a chain of other underlings, until I was led to this house. The trail seemed to end here. I was sure that the answer lay here. That either the girl was here, or I could round up enough of the gang here to break its back and ascertain her whereabouts."
"It's a good thing they got away, then," Moriarty said. "Had you captured those who were here, without the girl, she would surely have been killed."
Holmes nodded. "But you see," he said, "I thought it was you. And you are a fairly reasonable man. Whatever else you are."
"What did the note say?" Moriarty asked. "They didn't want money."
"This is to go no farther than this room," Holmes said. "I pledge myself and my associates," Moriarty answered.
Holmes looked at Lestrade. "What, me?" the little detective said. He took his bowler off. "My solemn word," he said.
"It is common knowledge in certain circles," Holmes said in a low, clear voice, "that the Duke of Ipswich is to become foreign minister when Lord Haider resigns, probably in a few weeks. The note informed the Duke that if he wished to see his daughter alive again, he was to perform certain actions in regard to a certain foreign power."
"He could refuse the appointment," Moriarty said. "And assure the death of his daughter."
"Of course," Moriarty said. "And, of course, the duke as a loyal British citizen has no intention of following these instructions, even if it means the death of his daughter."
Holmes nodded. "I must find the girl before he takes office," he said. "The first note, on the night she was taken, warned against publicity. The duke has complied with that. And now this."
"What is he going to do," Moriarty asked, "if you don't find his daughter?"
"He is going to accept the portfolio," Holmes said, "and perform his job. On the day that he learns for certain that his daughter is dead, he is going to put a bullet through his brain."
Moriarty nodded. "That clever bastard," he said.
"What?"
"I assure you I'm not referring to the duke," Moriarty said. "Unfortunately I can't give you too much information. Nothing, I'm afraid, that would be of immediate assistance to you. However, I can tell you this: the abductors of Lady Catherine have no intention of returning her alive. She may already be dead, but probably not. They knew the duke would not obey instructions. Indeed, they are counting on it." He stood up. "And I'll tell you something else; one of the benefits they looked for in this abduction, and the reason they waited until now to send these further instructions, was to set you against me. It kept you from looking for them, you see."
Holmes thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. "Who are they?" he asked. "Surely you can tell me something about them. You can't have been here by accident. And the nation involved — we have both been there recently."
"I can tell you nothing more at this time," Moriarty said. "It is not my personal secret, you see. In any event, I know nothing that would be of material benefit to you in your search beyond what you already know or can surmise. But I can tell you this, Holmes; in this matter our interests run together. If I discover anything of value to you, I shall convey it to you immediately. At any rate, come around to Russell Square in a day or two."
"I'll do that," Holmes said.
"Wear one of your less elementary disguises," Moriarty suggested, "for both our sakes."
EIGHTEEN — THE HAT TRICK
You shall seek all day ere you find them, and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.
— Shakespeare
Moriarty spent most of Monday dissecting the cap they had picked up in the Lambeth house and subjecting the pieces to a variety of microscopic, physical, and chemical tests. By the time he went up to dress for dinner, he had filled several notebook pages with the results.
Barnett came in late for dinner, which, by household custom, did not wait for him. Mrs. H set the table, served, and cleared at specified unvarying times. If one didn't make those times, then one didn't eat dinner. Of course, one could always go into the kitchen and have Mrs. Randall fix one a plate and eat it at the kitchen table. But as Mrs. H would say, that wouldn't be dinner, now would it?
Barnett plowed right into his meal, ignoring the soup and slighting the fish to get directly to the roast while it was still on the table. When he had enough on his plate to keep him alive until breakfast, he paused to be sociable. "Evening, all," he said.
Professor Moriarty was glaring at him. "I fail to see the purpose of dressing for dinner," he said coldly, "if one proceeds to behave like an aborigine at the table."
Barnett put his fork down. "Right, Boss," he said. "I'll just wear my breech-clout and feathers next time."
"And don't call me 'Boss,' " Moriarty said. "It is a particularly abominable Americanism."
"Well!" Barnett said. He looked at Tolliver, who was carefully ignoring the whole exchange, and then back at the professor. "I believe I missed something here."
"Eat your dinner," Moriarty said.
"You've been working on that hat all day, right? You didn't get anything from it, right?"
Moriarty sighed. "I shall have to control my petulance," he said. "Not that I mind being disagreeable, but I do object to being obvious. We'll talk about it after dinner."
They had coffee in the professor's study after dinner, and Moriarty produced the hat. "I know a fair amount about it now," he said. "It is made of Egyptian long-fiber cotton, dyed with a vegetable dye not used in this country. It is of fairly recent manufacture, say within the past six months. Its owner is a healthy young man, under thirty-five, with a full head of dark-brown hair. In all probability he is of Eastern European stock, and under five foot six. He is interested in horse racing, or associates with people who are. He is a very neat, clean man. I think that is the best I can do for the time being."
Barnett stared unbelievingly at the Professor. "You got all that by staring at the hat under a microscope?" he asked. "Are you having me on?"
"Not at all," Moriarty said. "I assure you it is all either truth or reasonable assumption. But you see, Barnett, the problem is that it doesn't get us anywhere. I have pulled a collection of interesting but irrelevant facts out of this piece of headgear. I have spent a day at it, and furthered us not one bit."
"Yes, but—" Barnett said. "The things you have pulled out of that hat are still more than I thought could be in it. How do you know what he looks like?"
"He? You mean the owner of the cap? I don't really know what he looks like, just hair color and a reasonable guess as to some other facts."
"Hair color I can understand," Barnett said. "You found one of his hairs in the hat."
"Several."
"What about the other stuff; age, height, Eastern European, even horse racing. Don't tell me there was a horse hair in the lining."
Moriarty smiled. "No," he said, "in the brim. Used for stiffening. "
"Then how?"
"As to the age and general good health, that was marked by the condition of the hair — the human hair — I found i
n the cap. The length of the hairs — none longer than three inches — suggests a man.
The hairs' diameter also affirms that they came from an adult male. The hairs were healthy, as a microscopic examination of the roots confirmed. This suggests that the owner of the cap also was healthy. The relative youth of the wearer I deduce from the lack of gray hairs among the thirty-six samples I found."
"European stock?" Barnett said. "Horse racing?"
Professor Moriarty tossed the cap on the table with a slight spin. "Notice the shape it takes," he said. "That is because it has been blocked by the addition of a folded-up newspaper around the inner liner to make it fit more comfortably. After repeated wearing it has taken up the shape of the wearer's head. Which, you will notice, is long and comparatively slender. The man possesses a typically Slavic skull, from which I deduce that he is probably Eastern European. Professor Alphonse Bertillon, the noted developer of the Bertillon Anthropometric System, would disagree. He marks the long, narrow head as the trait of the congenital criminal. But then, Professor Bertillon is French.
"The size of the man I deduce from the size of the head. I could be quite wrong, of course, that there is an average about these things. The famous bell-shaped distribution curve shows up quite often in human affairs."
"That leaves horse racing," Barnett said.
"The paper folded up inside the crown," Moriarty told him dryly, "is the turf odds page of the Sporting Times."
"Ah," Barnett said. "Quite so," Moriarty agreed.
"Is there nothing further?" Barnett asked. Impressive as the professor's deductive display had been, he was right in saying that it didn't take them anywhere.
"One thing only," Moriarty said. "And it's more in your line than mine." He took a piece of pasteboard from his desk and flipped it over to Barnett. "This was stuck in the hatband."
Barnett examined the fragment carefully. It was roughly square, about two inches on a side, and appeared to have been torn along one edge. There was a slight reddish tinge to it, but whether it was the natural color or the result of having been kept in a hatband, Barnett couldn't tell. One side was blank, and on the other two numbers and an unintelligible word were scrawled. The numbers were printed in the European fashion; in the upper left-hand corner was "1143" and toward the bottom was "2/5/0." The word, which was between the numbers, was completely unreadable to Barnett and could have been English, French, Russian, or Arabic as far as he could tell. He was fairly sure it wasn't Chinese, but that was about the only possibility he could eliminate. The tear, with the billet held so that the numbers were readable, was along the right-hand side.
"This may be in my line," Barnett said, turning it over and over, "but I haven't the slightest idea what it is."
"There are several possibilities," Moriarty said, "but the most probable is that it is a pawn ticket."
"I see," Barnett said. "I appreciate your compliment as to my experience in this area. However, I would appreciate any facts with which you can supply me."
"The top number," Moriarty said, "would correspond to the number of the item pawned in the pawnbroker's ledger. The bottom number is the amount loaned. The scrawl in the middle is certainly a description of the item, for those who can read it. I, unfortunately, am not among that favored few."
"What pawnshop is it from?" Barnett asked.
"That is the problem," Moriarty said. "Most licensed pawnbrokers have their name and location printed or stamped on their tickets. But there must be thousands of unlicensed brokers in the city — small tradesmen who take a few items in pledge just as a sideline and don't want to pay the yearly licensing fee. The lack of a name on the ticket would indicate a more informal shop, but the high ledger number argues otherwise. The owner would appear to be from the continent, but that is small help."
"It might be a clerk's handwriting," Barnett suggested.
"Ah! You followed that," Moriarty said. "Good, good. No, it is probably the owner, judging by the size of the pledge. Anything over ten shillings is usually only given at the owner's discretion, although there's no hard and fast rule."
"You want me to find the shop?" Barnett asked.
"Yes," Moriarty said. "See what you can discover of the pledger; he may be an acquaintance of the owner, or they may have taken down his name and address — although that's doubtful. Find out what the pledged item is. That may be especially helpful."
"Okay," Barnett said, putting the ticket carefully in his wallet. "I'll start tomorrow morning."
-
And so he did. For the next week, Barnett wandered the streets of London, from Chelsea to Greenwich, from Finsbury to Lambeth, seeking out pawnbrokers and moneylenders. He had always thought pawnbrokers to be a secretive lot, but they became quite loquacious, he found, when you talked to them about something other than borrowing money. Unfortunately, none of them could identify the ticket or suggest whence it came. They did verify that the billet was, indeed, a pawn ticket, and an old man in Chelsea even translated the unreadable script. "It's what we calls back-writing," he said. "Don't know why we do it. It's dying out now, but it used to be the custom in this here profession."
"What does it say?" Barnett asked.
"Musical box, it says," the old man told him. "Must be something extraordinary in the way of musical boxes to pull two-pounds-five as a pledge."
Barnett reported the translation to Moriarty that evening, received a grunt in reply, and continued the search the next morning. It was two days later, on Pigott Street in Limehouse, that Barnett succeeded in tracing the ticket to its originator.
Starkey & Sons, Money Lent on Pledge, looked like a small shop from the narrow storefront. But inside it went back for quite a long way. And there were two staircases, one leading upstairs and another down. The establishment was crowded with the most fanciful collection of items Barnett had ever seen. "These are all pledges?" he asked, fingering a stuffed boar's head.
"Not at all, sir," the aged proprietor said. "The goods taken in pledge are all downstairs. We can't sell them in the shop, you see, even after the year-and-a-week. They have to be offered at auction. It's the law. These are all items we've picked up over the years at auctions, or the like, ourselves. My old father sir, bless his heart, had a sense of whimsy." He pointed to a glass-fronted oak case along the wall. "That contraption of leather tubing in the corner is called a serpent, sir. It is a musical instrument used at one time in military bands and the like. It fell out of favor during the reign of George the Fourth, I believe. Next to it is a stuffed and shellacked sand shark. On the shelf below is a collection of crocheted butterflies."
"I take it your father was the original Starkey," Barnett said, "and you are the son?"
"My father," the old man told him, "was the original son. I am merely the original grandson. Feel free to look around, sir. Fascinating incunabula — and a dried lizardskin collection — upstairs. If you see anything you like…"
"Actually," Barnett said, "as fascinating as I find this store, I came in to see whether you could identify this pledge." He handed the old man the ticket.
The old man looked up at Barnett suspiciously. "Of course I can identify it," he said. "It's mine, ain't it?"
"I didn't know," Barnett said, cautiously suppressing his feeling of elation. "Are you sure it's yours?"
"I should know my own ticket, I suppose," the old man said, adding hostility to suspicion. "You have something to say about it?"
"Why isn't your name on it?" Barnett asked. "I should think that an old, established firm like yours would have printed tickets."
"My old father on his deathbed made me swear. 'Don't print the tickets,' he said. 'Dreadful waste of money,' he said. So what could I do? Anyway, we ain't had any complaints yet — present company excepted."
"Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Starkey," Barnett said. "I'm not complaining. I'm delighted to find you. Could you tell me something about the pledge — a musical box, I believe — and the man that pledged it?"
"You're no
t claiming it yourself, then?"
"What, the musical box? No."
"Ah!" the old man said, losing his suspicious expression. "For a minute there I thought it was the old higgledy-piggledy. More than one man thinks that pawnshops are fair game for all sorts of diversion. But they don't get away with it in here, I can tell you."
"I'm glad to hear that, Mr., ah, Starkey," Barnett said. "Tell me, might I take a look at the musical box?"
"The box has been claimed," Starkey said. "Taken away."
"Oh," Barnett said unhappily.
"And as the gent didn't have the ticket, I thought that you — as you do have the ticket — were going to try to claim the item. It's an old game, but it's no less than twice a year that some clever gents will rediscover it."
"You mean you thought I was in collusion with the man who reclaimed the musical box?"
"It was not beyond the bounds of possibility," the old man affirmed, striking a large wooden match and applying the lighted tip to the bowl of his ornately carved briar.
"It's nothing like that, I assure you," Barnett told him. "I am merely trying to find out who the man is so that I can return some property to him. There was no identification with the property, save this unlabeled ticket."
The old man stared at Barnett silently for a minute. "It must have taken you some time to locate this shop," he said, speculatively.
"Days," Barnett agreed.
"It must be impressive property for you to go to all this trouble to return it, and you must be an exceptionally honest man."
"Well…" Barnett said.
"Never mind," the old man said. "None of my business. Come to think of it, that was certainly an unusual musical box."
"Really?" Barnett said.
"A square box, about eight inches on a side and two high, made of some hard, light wood. Put together with tiny ornamental brass screws and bands. On top of the box was a miniature grand piano some five or six inches wide with a small doll in a full dress-suit sitting before it, turned away from the keys. Exquisite work."
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