Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  Once clear of the billowing steam, they paused to look around. Holmes grabbed Moriarty's arm and pointed. "Look!"

  In the clearing ahead of them the two hydrogen balloons had been winched down and had their gondolas resting on the ground. The three men from the submersible had commandeered the near balloon, and were keeping its crew away with large wicked-looking revolvers. Two of the villains had boarded the gondola, and the third was hacking it free of the heavy rope tether with an axe. Miro and his assistants were standing with their hands high over their heads, looking startled and frightened out of their wits.

  Holmes and Moriarty raced toward the clearing, but before they arrived the balloon was free. The axe man dropped his axe and clambered aboard, pulled up by the other two, as the great balloon bounded upward, lofting into an English heaven.

  "Here! Over here!" someone called as Moriarty and Holmes reached the clearing. "Quickly!" It was Barnett, who raised his head from where he had been hiding — in the gondola of the second balloon — and beckoned to them. "I've almost got it free," he called. "Come on. Climb in and we'll go after them."

  Moriarty and Holmes raced across the field to the second gondola and climbed in. Watson puffed up to them a couple of seconds later.

  "Don't get in, Doctor," Barnett said sharply. "If we're too heavy — or too light — we won't be able to match velocities with them."

  "Notify the Navy, Watson," Holmes said. "We'll be heading out to sea. Get a ship to follow us if you can."

  -

  And with that, they were free. "I'll do my best, Holmes," Watson yelled up at them as they pulled away from the field.

  "How'd you do that?" Moriarty asked Barnett. "They had to hack that other balloon loose."

  "There's a release for the tether in the bottom of the gondola," Barnett said. "In case the balloon begins to drag on something, I suppose. Nobody told Trepoff. I assume that was Trepoff?"

  "I certainly hope so," Holmes said.

  "You've done very good work," Moriarty told Barnett.

  The balloon was already more than a hundred feet above the ground and rising rapidly. Their quarry was a hundred yards ahead of them and several hundred feet higher. "They seem to be pulling away from us," Holmes noted.

  "There is a steady wind of about twenty knots at roughly the five-hundred-foot level," Barnett said. "They must be in it already. When we reach it, we'll keep up with them."

  "Keeping up isn't enough," Holmes said, fingering his revolver. "We must catch them."

  They were heading generally southwest across the bay. Below them the white sails of the regatta yachts were circling the Victoria and Albert. Ahead of them, the town of Gosport, a mile or so of land, and then the Solent and the Isle of Wight. "They'll have the steam cutters out to support us," Moriarty said. "If we can force Trepoff down in the Solent, he'll be picked up by the Navy."

  "Perhaps we can shoot him down," Holmes suggested, still clutching his silver-plated revolver.

  "Too far for pistol shooting," Moriarty said. "Besides, a pistol bullet passing through the fabric of the balloon would merely cause a minor gas leak which would have no discernible effect on the performance of the aerostat."

  "We must do something!" Holmes declared.

  They passed over Gosport and the mile-wide strip of land, steadily gaining altitude. Trepoff's balloon was now several hundred yards ahead of them and holding that distance. They were over water now, and the ships below looked like precise toys, built for some hobbyist's bathtub lake.

  A spark appeared in the gondola of the forward aerostat, which grew into a rapidly approaching arc of flame reaching out for them. It burst into a myriad of sparkling colors somewhere over their balloon. Then a second spark shot toward them, to dissolve into a cascading ribbon of red flame directly before their eyes.

  "Trepoff has found the fireworks!" Barnett cried. "They were being loaded when he and his men appeared."

  "Dear me," Holmes said. "This is liable to prove embarrassing."

  "I don't suppose we have any similar cargo?" Moriarty asked, looking around the surprisingly spacious interior of the wicker gondola.

  Barnett pointed to three wooden crates on the floor. "There," he said. "I would like to point out, however, that they are very dangerous. Miro gave me a long lecture about the folly of firing off rockets from the basket of a hydrogen balloon. He was not happy about the signal flares, and they're only half the size of these skyrockets."

  "We must be careful," Moriarty agreed. "Let us get these crates open."

  As he spoke a rocket burst over their balloon and released four brightly burning blue flares, which descended on silk parachutes, slowly passing in front of them. One of them hit the side of the balloon, sliding along the fabric for a few moments before bouncing off.

  Holmes released his breath. "I have never," he said, "felt quite so helpless. Well, Professor, Barnett — dangerous as it may be, I vote for an answering fireworks barrage from this gondola."

  They ripped the crates open. A new assault of colored balls popped toward them from the other aerostat, twisting and glowing madly, falling only a few feet short.

  The first crate contained three boxes marked "GERBES," and the illustrations on the box covers showed colored balls popping from a tube. "I think we've just seen those," Holmes said. "Next crate."

  The second crate held finned skyrockets, packed in firing tubes. "This, I think, is what we are looking for," Moriarty said. "How many are there?"

  "Fourteen," Barnett said.

  "Not so deep as a well," Moriarty said, "or so wide as a church door, but that should suffice." Three points of red suddenly appeared in the sky above them and burst into a shower of sparks which cascaded over the balloon and fell on all sides of them. "Indeed," he added, "it had better suffice."

  He took one of the skyrocket tubes in his hand and examined it. "How ingenious," he said. "The fins are on tiny springs which push them open after they pass through the tube."

  "Perhaps," Holmes suggested, "it would be wiser to examine the contraptions later. For now let us concentrate on shooting down that balloon before its passengers succeed in doing the same for us."

  "Take your jacket off," Moriarty told Barnett. "Be prepared to extinguish fires started by flame-back from the skyrockets."

  "There's a damp horse-blanket here," Barnett said, producing it from a wicker basket built into the side of the gondola. "Miro had it soaked for the same purpose. I'll use it."

  "Excellent," Moriarty said.

  Holmes propped one of the skyrocket tubes against the side of the gondola and sighted along the top. "This should put it in the general vicinity," he said. "Here, I'll stand aside and you light the fuse." He stood to one side, holding the skyrocket tube firmly at arm's length, propped against the side of the gondola.

  Moriarty ripped a length of fuse from one of the gerbes and lit one end with a waterproof vespa, which he carefully waved out and tossed over the side. "Ready?"

  "Ready," Holmes agreed.

  Moriarty applied the burning fuse to the short fuse of the skyrocket, which sputtered and smoldered and disappeared into the tube. Eight seconds later a blast of flame came out of the rear of the tube, and the skyrocket shot out the front. It arced across the sky, over Trepoff's balloon, and released a series of colored balls before exploding in a shower of red and green sparks.

  An answering salvo from Trepoff put a rocket between the gondola and the balloon, but it passed harmlessly through the shrouds before disintegrating into a crowd of flame-snakes that spiraled to the sea below.

  Holmes corrected his aim and Moriarty touched off the next skyrocket. This one fell short and exploded in a puffball of blue light that was quickly extinguished by the sea.

  Suddenly a spark appeared in Trepoff's gondola, and a flame curved upward. And then, in a moment that etched itself in the minds of all the onlookers for miles up and down the Solent, a tracery of flame worked over the fabric of Trepoff's balloon, creating fiery designs in the roun
ded sides. Then it burned off, and for a second seemed to have gone out, when all at once the balloon erupted and a plume of flame spurted out the side and enveloped the whole craft.

  Barnett saw a white, frightened face at the side of the gondola before the craft fell from the sky, a fiery comet tail streaming out behind it.

  "Miro was right," Moriarty said calmly, as the flaming mass struck the water far below. "This is a dangerous business."

  "I only hope they find the bodies," Holmes said, "or we shall never know if that was Trepoff."

  Moriarty shook his head. "Only the future will tell us whether Trepoff was in that aerostat," he said. "Remember, we have no idea of what he looks like. Barnett, can you get us down?"

  Barnett reached up and untied a rope that valved hydrogen out of the top of the gasbag. "It will be a slow descent," he said.

  "Good," Moriarty remarked. "I have just seen a fast descent."

  By the time their aerostat reached the water, a cutter was standing by to pick them up. The lieutenant in command saluted them as they came aboard. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "I have orders to take you to the Victoria and Albert. Her Majesty would like to have you presented. At your convenience, of course."

  TWENTY-THREE — THE UNWRITTEN TALE

  On earth there is nothing great but man; In man there is nothing great but mind.

  — Sir William Hamilton

  You are going out?" Moriarty asked.

  "I am having dinner with Miss Perrine," Barnett told him.

  "Ah, of course," Moriarty said. " 'Jedem nach seinen Bedürfnissen,' as that strange little fellow at the British Museum put it.

  "This is to be a business dinner," Barnett said stiffly.

  "Could it be otherwise?" asked Moriarty blandly. "Incidentally, I meant to remark on your ept handling of the Trepoff affair in your article for the popular press."

  "Well," Barnett said, "I figured if I didn't write it, then someone else surely would. As it is, I preempted the story and selected the facts to be told."

  "Excellent," Moriarty said.

  Barnett looked pleased. "Thank you."

  "You kept my name out of it," Moriarty said. "And I thank you." He looked at the ship's chronometer above the study door. "You'd best go to dinner," he said. "Business before pleasure, after all."

  "We are meeting Mr. Bernard Shaw at Covent Garden after dinner," Barnett said. "Cecily — Miss Perrine — is trying to talk him into doing a series of articles for us."

  "Shaw," Moriarty said. "I have read some of his criticism. A great talent. Not a genius, as he thinks, but a genuine talent. A well-developed second-rate talent with a first-rate Irish ego."

  "Speaking of Irish egos—" Barnett said.

  "Go to dinner!"

  Sherlock Holmes and his Boswell, Dr. John H. Watson, were on the steps as Barnett opened the door on his way out. "Good evening," he said. "The professor is expecting you, I believe." Barnett tipped his black silk topper at them, adjusted it carefully on his head, and hurried off toward the British Museum.

  Holmes and Watson entered the house and were ushered into the study by Mr. Maws. "I've come to thank you for your assistance, Professor," Holmes said, dropping into the leatherback chair in front of the desk. "I owe you that."

  "We work well together, Holmes," Moriarty said, adjusting his pince-nez glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I suspected we would."

  "It's quits between us now," Holmes said. "You knew that, also."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that," Moriarty said.

  "I have been engaged to investigate the robbery of the London and Midlands Bank which occurred some six weeks ago," Holmes said.

  "Ah," Moriarty said.

  "There are certain signs," Holmes said, "which point in a certain direction…"

  "Oh," Moriarty said.

  "Of course, even if I apprehend the actual thieves," Holmes said, "the mastermind behind the plan will somehow manage to remain free."

  "Of course," Moriarty agreed.

  "I don't think that is right," Holmes said.

  "You wouldn't," Moriarty said.

  "I am going to do my best to see that he, also, is awarded penal servitude."

  "You would." Moriarty stood up. "This conversation is beginning to take on an awful familiarity. Would you like a drink?"

  "No, thank you," said Holmes.

  "I think not," said Doctor Watson, looking slightly offended.

  "Is there any word from St. Petersburg?" Holmes asked.

  "They believe," Moriarty said, "that Trepoff is no more. At least, they have no sign that he is still alive. We may have, as they say, done him in."

  "Good," Holmes said. "Then our relationship is officially over as of now."

  "Back to the old games, eh, Holmes?"

  Sherlock Holmes turned to Dr. Watson. "This man," he said, hooking his thumb toward Professor Moriarty, "is the Napoleon of crime. Two weeks ago he saved the life of his sovereign. A month before that he robbed, or caused to be robbed, the London and Midlands Bank of some two millions in bullion."

  "They exaggerate," Moriarty said. "These banks always exaggerate. It's for the insurance. Think about that, Holmes."

  "Deucedly inconsistent," Watson said.

  "When you write up my little cases," Holmes told Watson, "I want you to avoid all mention of the infamous Professor here. Someday either I shall eliminate him, or he will eliminate me. Until that time, do not speak of him or write of him."

  "Of course, Holmes," Watson said. "Whatever you say."

  "Dear me," Moriarty said, "such a pity. And I do so love publicity."

  Holmes rose from his chair. "Come, Watson," he said. "There are a few little matters which engage our attention now. Good evening, Professor."

  "As always," Moriarty said, "it has been my pleasure. Do come back soon and we can continue our little talk."

  "We can find our own way out," Holmes said. "Good evening!" And, followed by Watson, he stalked out the front door.

  Mrs. H came downstairs from the landing, where she had been listening to this final exchange. She sniffed. "An unforgiving lad," she said.

  Moriarty shook his head sadly. "Perhaps some day…" he said. "But probably not. Have Mrs. Randall fix me a bite to eat, will you, Mrs. H? I shall be downstairs in the laboratory."

  The Paradol Paradox

  It is a damp, chilly Saturday, the sixteenth of April, 1887, as I sit before the small coal fire in the front room of Professor James Moriarty's Russell Square home making these notes; setting down while they are still fresh in my memory the queer and astounding events surrounding the problem with which Professor Moriarty and I found ourselves involved over the past few days. The case itself, a matter of some delicacy involving some of the highest-born and most important personages in the realm, had, as Moriarty put it, "a few points that were not entirely devoid of interest to the higher faculties." Moriarty's ability to shed light on what the rest of us find dark and mysterious will come as no surprise to anyone who has had any dealings with the professor. But what will keep the events of these past days unique in my mind forever is the glimpse I was afforded into the private life of my friend and mentor, Professor James Moriarty.

  Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.

  My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued from an unfortunate cir
cumstance — and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement — by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.

  But I digress. It was last Tuesday evening, four days ago, that saw the start of the events I relate. We had just finished dinner and I was still sitting at the dining table, drinking my coffee and reading a back issue of The Strand Magazine. Moriarty was staring moodily out the window, his long, aristocratic fingers twitching with boredom. He was waiting, at the time, for a new spectrograph of his own design to be completed so that he could continue his researches into the spectral lines of one of the nearer stars. When he is not engaged in his scientific endeavors, Moriarty likes to solve problems of a more earthly nature, but at the moment there was no such exercise to engage his intellect; and to Professor Moriarty intellect was all.

  I finished the article I was reading, closed the magazine, and shook my head in annoyance.

  "You're right," Moriarty said without turning from the window. "It is shameful the way the Austrian medical establishment treated Dr. Semmelweis. Pass me a cigar, would you, old chap?"

  "Not merely the Austrians," I said, putting the magazine down and reaching for the humidor on the mantel. "The whole medical world. But really, Moriarty, this is too much. Two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake as a sorcerer."