Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "Bah!" Holmes said finally, casting the map aside. "This is useless."

  Inspector Lestrade stirred himself and eyed Holmes. "Useless?" he asked. "I could have told you that before you opened the map. What do we need a map for? We know where we're going."

  "As you say," Holmes said. "But you have your ways and I have mine. I would give five pounds right now for a large-scale ordnance map of the area."

  Lestrade viewed Holmes tolerantly. "Professor Moriarty's holdings are at Crimpton-on-the-Moor," he explained patiently, as one would to a bright eight-year-old. "For which we detrain at Mossback Station. The only possible confusion is with Grimpon, a hamlet on the other side of the moor, which one gets access to through Coryton Station. The house is called Sigerson Manor locally, apparently after the family which build the house and occupied it for some two hundred years. The last Sigerson passed on some fifteen years ago, and the property stood deserted until Professor Moriarty took it over."

  He smiled a smile of quiet satisfaction, and added, "We research these things at the Yard."

  "I know all that," Holmes said.

  "You know?" Lestrade leaned forward and tapped Holmes on the knee. "Your obsession with Professor Moriarty is quite impressive," he said. "You must spend all your spare time and money following him around. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I only hope you're right this time. You have made us look foolish before, acting on your accusations."

  "I have known of Sigerson Manor all my life," Holmes told Lestrade. "The Sigersons were distant relations of mine. I knew of Moriarty's purchase of the property when it happened five years ago. And as for what you call my 'obsession' with Moriarty" — he paused to blow out the lantern—"the fact that that man is not breaking stone at Dartmoor right now instead of living in luxury in a town-house in Russell Square and a country estate at Crimpton-on-the-Moor is testimony to his genius, not his honesty. Moriarty is everything foul, Lestrade; inside that vulturelike head is the mind of a fiend incarnate. And I am his nemesis."

  "That's all very well, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said. "But you can't prove a word of it. We found someone murdered in an empty house, and you muttered, 'Moriarty!' But it wasn't. A girl was kidnapped, and you would have had us clap the professor in irons. But it was some Russian did it, not the professor at all. Now, the professor may be everything you say he is and more, but I, for one, am getting extremely tired of apologizing to him. If you can't get him convicted of a crime, Mr. Holmes, if you can't even get him held on suspicion, then don't it make good sense to just leave him be?"

  Holmes folded up the map and moved over to the window seat, where he stared out at the bleak Devonshire countryside. "I cannot," he said. "As I am his nemesis, so he is my passion, the focus of my energies. Without Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes is merely a detective." He raised his right hand and balled it into a fist. "But mark this: without Sherlock Holmes to dog his steps, to intercept his secret communications, to apprehend his henchmen, to deduce his intentions and thus to foil his plans, Professor James Moriarty would by now control the largest criminal empire the world has ever seen. He would make the infamous Jonathan Wild look like a bumbling amateur!"

  "So you say, Mr. Holmes. So you have been saying for the past seven years. And yet the fact is that if you were to say the same aloud in any public place, Professor Moriarty would have an action of slander against you. And if your friend Dr. Watson were to write one word defamatory of Professor Moriarty in any of the accounts of your cases that he has been writing for the magazines, he could be held for libel."

  "No fear of that, Lestrade," Holmes said. "I have requested the good doctor not to so much as mention Moriarty in any of his little cautionary tales during my lifetime, unless it is to record his immediate sojourn, at her majesty's pleasure, in some penal institution."

  "Well, let us hope that this is the time," Lestrade said. "When you were acting on your own, so to speak, as an unofficial detective, running about dogging the professor's footprints was your affair. But now you are acting with official sanction, and that brings Scotland Yard into it. The Home Secretary is not going to be pleased if a distinguished scientist brings an action against the Yard for false arrest or harassment."

  "It was the Home Secretary who brought me into the case," Holmes reminded Lestrade. "He cannot hold the Yard culpable for my actions."

  "Home Secretaries have very selective memories," Lestrade said. "If you succeed in apprehending the killer, he will be very pleased with himself for having appointed you. And the press and the House will hear, in detail, how clever he was. If you fail, he will certainly vocally reprimand the commissioners for their laxness in this important matter."

  "A policeman's lot," Holmes quoted, "is not an 'appy one."

  "That is so, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade agreed. "And it ain't the felons which make it so, but the sanctimonious bloody politicians."

  "Very insightful, Inspector," Holmes said.

  "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade replied. "You learn a few things in twelve years on the force."

  The sun was still above the horizon when the special pulled into Mossback Station. The local constable, who had been alerted by telegraph, had managed to assemble three open wagons to transport Holmes, Lestrade, and the fifteen plainclothes constables from the Yard. The wagons, ancient vehicles that had certainly conformed to some standard pattern of design at one time, had, over decades of hard use and random repair, taken on unique characters. They sat on the road outside the station like a trio of rustic old drunks, clearly willing to do whatever was required of them, but doubtful as to whether they could negotiate the first bump under any sort of load.

  The three horses were obviously great-grandmothers, and any member of the R.S.P.C.A. who had happened by and seen them hitched up to wagons would certainly have called the nearest policeman.

  The nearest policeman, a thickset village constable named Wiggs, stood proudly next to the drooping head of the forward horse. " 'Taint often we gets a call to cooperate with Scotland Yard out here," he told Lestrade, "but we're right pleased to do our bit."

  "What is this?" Holmes asked, encompassing horses and wagons with a wave of his hand.

  "Wot does yer mean, sir?" Wiggs asked, pulling his shoulders back and glaring at Holmes. "Transportation fer fifteen ter twenty officers, that's wot we was asked ter pervide, and that's wot we has pervided. 'Taint easy roundin' up transportation fer twenty officers at a moment's notice, like that."

  "That's all right," Lestrade said. "You have done very well. I'm sure Mr. Holmes meant no offense."

  "Mr. Holmes?" Wiggs asked. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

  Holmes acknowledged the fact.

  "Well, I am truly proud ter make yer acquaintance, Mr. Holmes. I have read yer monograph on identifying cigarette ash."

  For the first time in Lestrade's memory, Holmes looked astonished. "You have?"

  Constable Wiggs nodded. " 'Twas in the circulatin' library of the Southern Counties Constabulary. Not many people smoke cigars er cigarettes out here; mostly they smoke a pipe er chew. But if a criminous offense is ever committed hereabouts by a geezer wot is puffin' on a Trichinopoly cigar, why, I'll have him cold."

  Holmes glared suspiciously at Wiggs, but the constable did not seem to notice. He shifted his glare to Lestrade for a moment, and then turned back to Wiggs. "I am sure you will, Constable," he said. "We had best mount these, ah, wagons, and proceed. The sun is about to dip behind the western hills."

  "How far to Sigerson Manor?" Lestrade asked Wiggs.

  "No more 'n three miles," Wiggs told him. "Off that way. Is that where yer headed?"

  "That's right," Lestrade replied. "Anything of interest happening out there to your knowledge?"

  "Aye. Strange and wonderful things indeed. They is constructin' an aerostat, the professor and them people wot lives out there with him."

  "A what?"

  "An aerostat. Like a balloon. These modrun times wot we live in are truly times of progress and invention. They been fillin' it with hydro
gen all day wot they makes themselves."

  "A balloon!" Holmes exclaimed. "Come, Lestrade, load your men aboard these wagons. We must get out there quickly."

  "Very well, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said. He turned and, with a crisp series of commands, divided his men among the three wagons.

  Holmes clambered up into the forward wagon next to Constable Wiggs, who gathered the reins and prodded the ancient mare into motion. "Where is this aerostat?" Holmes asked. "In the lower field, I suppose. Or the east lawn, past the formal part, where it slopes away to the drive in front of the house? I understand that Moriarty has built an observatory. Where is that? I would have placed it on the old stone foundation for the granary."

  "Yer must be right familiar with ther property, Mr. Holmes," Wiggs said. "Have yer been out this way before?"

  "Not for many years," Holmes said.

  "Well," Wiggs told him, "ther observatory is where ther ruined granary was, like yer said. And ther aerostat is bein' filled on ther lawn in front of ther manor house. A great many of ther young people from ther area have gone over ter watch ther event."

  "Do you hear that, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded, bending over to speak to the inspector, who was sitting in the wagon with his back to the driver's seat. "What nerve, what consummate nerve that man has."

  "I fear that I don't follow that," Lestrade said.

  "Why, man, he's making his getaway!"

  "By balloon? I can't see it, Mr. Holmes. Where would he go?"

  "France. He must know we have men on the lookout for him at the channel ports, so the clever devil is going to float right over their heads! Once he reaches Dieppe, the whole of the Continent is open to him."

  "I still don't see it, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said. "The French coast must be five hundred miles from here."

  "What is that to someone being wafted along by the currents of the upper atmosphere?" Holmes asked. "I tell you, Lestrade, Moriarty is escaping us!"

  "But why?" Lestrade persisted. "We have nothing against him."

  "Ah, but he doesn't know that," Holmes said. "The guilty flee when no man pursueth.' "

  "That'd be ther wicked," Constable Wiggs said over his shoulder. "Ther wicked flee when no man pursueth: but ther righteous are bold as a lion.' Proverbs."

  Holmes turned to glare at the imperturbable Wiggs. "Thank you, Constable," he said.

  The upper tip of the sun disappeared behind a low-lying hill to the southwest. "It will be pitch-dark in twenty minutes," Lestrade said. "How is this balloon going to navigate in the dark?"

  "It will be in the hands of the man who penned The Dynamics of an Asteroid. Do you really think that determining in which direction the French coast lies will be too much for him?"

  "I suppose not," Lestrade said.

  "Can't we go any faster?" Holmes demanded. "It will be dark before we get there!"

  "Yer said transportation fer fifteen," Constable Wiggs said. "Yer didn't say nothin' about racin'."

  "Confound it, man, I could run faster than this," Holmes said.

  "That yer could," Wiggs agreed.

  "Then I shall!" Holmes cried, and he leaped off the side of the wagon and rapidly disappeared down the road ahead.

  Over the next twenty minutes the last of the daylight gradually dimmed and vanished. The horses, undeterred by the dark, continued stoically plodding along down the center of the dirt road.

  About ten minutes after the last of the twilight had disappeared they came upon Holmes standing in the middle of the road waiting for them. "Thank God you're in time," he said. "Moriarty and his men are right over that hill. The whole lawn is lit up bright as midday with electrical lighting. There is a great black balloon tied down in the center of the lawn, and Professor Moriarty is just about ready to ascend, as far as I can tell. A crowd of locals with picnic baskets have gathered at the far end of the lawn, where the road curves about, and they are sitting there, gnawing on chicken bones and watching the spectacle. I tell you, Lestrade, that man has more gall than the Prince of Wales, assembling a crowd to watch his getaway. We must hurry!"

  Lestrade climbed down from the wagon and gathered his men about him. "We are at your orders, Mr. Holmes," he said.

  "There is no time for finesse," Holmes said. "We will go straight over the hill and apprehend Moriarty and all of his henchmen. He must not get away in that balloon. And unless I miss my guess, the evidence of his crimes will be in the balloon with him. Are you armed?"

  "As you instructed," Lestrade said, "we checked out five handguns before we left. I have given them to the five men who can account themselves best with them."

  "That should be sufficient," Holmes said. "I expect that we have a large enough force so that there will be little resistance. Come now, we must arrive before the balloon goes up."

  Lestrade and his men struggled up the hill in an irregular line behind Holmes. As they worked their way up they could see the glow of yellowish light that spilled over from the far side. At the top of the hill, beside an irregular jumble of massive stones that were the remains of some Neolithic temple, Holmes gathered his troop. A few hundred yards ahead of them, down a shallow, brush-covered slope, lay the wide expanse of flat, well-rolled land that was the east lawn. Beyond that, almost invisible past the illuminating circle of electrical lights, sat the massive east wing of the manor house. Built over two hundred years before of large blocks of the native stone, this was the original house, which had been added to over the centuries by generations of Sigersons until it represented less than a third of the present structure.

  At the back of the lawn, toward the house, two low sheds had been erected. One housed the electrical generating plant, to judge by the cluster of wires coming out of the top and leading to the array of electrical lights strung on the surrounding trees and poles. The other held some sort of machinery. A pair of long hoses emanating from the second shed curled across the lawn to the center, where, held to the earth by several thick cables, floated the giant aerostat. The device consisted of three great gas bags separated by a large metal ring, in which was suspended a fabric-covered gondola. The whole was painted black, and it rose perhaps ten stories in the air. The top disappeared into the dark sky above the electrical lights, and was visible only as an inky presence, blotting out the stars.

  Even as they watched, the hoses from the shed were being disconnected from the couplings to the gas bags. Suddenly two flares, like great skyrockets, shot up into the night, leaving a stream of white light behind them as they climbed.

  "Look at that!" Lestrade exclaimed. "It must be some sort of signal."

  "Quickly!" Holmes cried. "There's no time to lose!" Leaping up, he led his little force scurrying and sliding down the hill to the lawn below. As they reached the edge of the lawn two of the tethering cables fell away and the balloon flew skyward, trailing a third cable below it like an umbilical cord.

  "There he goes!" Holmes yelled, running forward like a demented man to reach the gondola before it was too high. "We must stop him!" He leaped for the bottom of the gondola and managed to grab it with his fingers, but there was nothing to cling to and he fell away.

  "Stop! Stop!" the constabulary yelled, racing across the lawn. One of them drew his pistol and fired at the ascending balloon.

  "Come back down here!" another one yelled, stopping to take aim at the rapidly rising gondola, "Come back in the name of the law!"

  Once the shooting had started it was contagious, and within seconds a fusillade of small-arms fire was directed at the great black object, which was rapidly disappearing into the great star-filled bowl of the night sky. Two of the policemen reached the one cable which, rising from layers of coils on the ground, was still attached to the ascending gondola. One of them leaped for it and was fifteen feet in the air before, realizing the folly of what he was doing, he let go and fell to the ground.

  Moriarty's men dived for cover under whatever was available as this strange armed band appeared in their midst and began shooting at their precious aeros
tat. The locals, who were mostly sitting together on the side of the lawn nearest the road, began shrieking and howling. Most of them ran off into the night, but a few sat stolidly watching, perhaps suspecting that this was all part of the entertainment.

  Gradually the shooting and yelling died away, until, within two minutes, the small group of Scotland Yard men were clustered silently in the middle of the lawn together, staring at the sky.

  -

  "What is the meaning of all this?" a firm, didactic voice suddenly asked from close behind them. "Inspector Lestrade, have you taken leave of your senses?"

  Lestrade jerked around like a man on a string and gaped at the tall, dark-clad figure. "Professor Moriarty!" he gasped.

  "I refuse to believe that you didn't expect to find me here," Moriarty said. "Now, what exactly is the meaning of this charade?"

  "I — we — thought you were in that balloon."

  "I see," Moriarty said. "Anytime you see an aerostat ascending into the sky, you naturally assume that I am aboard. And this, of course, explains why you were shooting at it."

  "Ah, well, not precisely—"

  Sherlock Holmes came striding toward them across the lawn. "Moriarty!" he yelled.

  "Holmes!" Moriarty said, turning and shaking his fist at him. "Now I understand. This moronic escapade was your doing."

  "I have a warrant, Moriarty," Holmes shouted, brandishing the document over his head, "to search this property, house and grounds."

  "And fire upon any aerostat that you happen to find ascending when you arrive?" Moriarty demanded. "Really, Holmes—"

  "There was a murder in London last night." Holmes said, "and I have reason to believe that you were involved."

  "There are about three murders in London every week, if the statistical abstracts are to be believed," Moriarty said. "And you believe that I am involved in each and every one of them. Is that any reason to go about shooting revolvers at perfectly innocent teen-age boys?"

  "What boys?"

  "There are two teen-age boys in the aerostat to work the equipment," Moriarty told him. "And if either of them is hurt, you will answer for it!"