When he had properly adjusted the mask, the man knocked a triplet on the door, and it swung open. He was surveyed and then promptly admitted to the house by a man dressed all in tight-fitting black, and wearing a similar mask. No sooner had the man disappeared inside and the door shut behind him than another man came up the path to the door, and the admittance process started anew. There must be a protocol, the watcher realized, discouraging one man from approaching the door before the man ahead was admitted.
The watcher remained crouched where he was while four more gentlemen donned masks and entered the house. It must, he decided, be the small medallion, the devil's mark, that was being displayed through the open panel. He took a leather wallet from a special pocket in his cape and carefully felt around inside one of the compartments. There it was, the gold medallion he had removed from the shoe of his last victim. He had not had occasion to dispose of it yet. Now he was glad. It would be his passport. It was now time for him to imitate the ones he had just watched, to don the devil mask and enter this hell.
The house was large and richly furnished, and had many rooms. The man who was the wind, having gained admittance, wandered from room to room, cloaked behind the ubiquitous mask. He was now as one with the servants of the devil, observing the operation of this special subdivision of hell. The men, even the servants, were all masked. The women, scantily clad hussies who wandered from room to room and made themselves available to any masked man who beckoned, were bawdyhouse women. They made the best of the hand fate had dealt them, selling the only skills they had.
He was familiar with these girls; the pattern of his life had brought him into contact with many such, and he had always been impressed by their stoic good cheer. But in this house, the gaiety seemed forced; beneath the pouting lips, deep in the flirting eyes, there lurked the shadow of fear.
The rooms were dedicated to various pleasures. In one a roulette wheel spun, surrounded by masked men and by women in dishabille; in another chemin-de-fer and vingt-et-un tables were kept busy separating masked men from their coins. All transactions were conducted in cash in this house, since credit could not easily be extended to masked men who made a point of not recognizing one another.
These childish games, where men hiding behind masks felt a special illicit thrill, were not the activities the watcher had been drawn here to see. The premise of this gentlemen's club, where the gentlemen hid behind masks and the devil peered out through the eye slits, must be that in the confines of this house, the minor vices were but a prelude to the most consummate evil.
Somewhere in this building that darker evil must exist. And he must find it. He went deeper into the building, up a flight of stairs, past several closed doors, and there he found what he had expected to find. And despite his foreknowledge, despite his own activities of the past six weeks, this once-gentle man who had become the wind was horrified.
To believe, even on the best evidence, that human beings can behave like imps from hell is an intellectual exercise; to be confronted with such behavior is a gut-wrenching truth. When the Executioner of Lille, a dedicated man, separated the head of Gilles de Rais from its slender body he was acting under orders of the court, and knew of the seigneur's crimes only secondhand. Perhaps if he had seen the twisted, tortured bodies of more than a hundred small children, victims of the mad baron, laid out before him, his hand might have trembled, the ax might have slipped, and the job would not have been so neat.
The man who had become the wind hardened his heart, and determined to keep his work professional, regardless of what he saw. He saw rooms dedicated to strange and terrible variants of the sexual appetites of man. He saw rooms equipped for bondage, and for torture. He saw instruments of pain of such delicate design and exquisite manufacture that it was clear that the artisans who made them regarded them as works of art. And he saw these rooms and these instruments in use.
A servant came down the halls, whispering, "An auction, an auction," to all whom he encountered. The man who was the wind drifted behind the others and followed them into the auction room. He had seen enough. He knew what he must do. He would pause in this room, surrounded by Those Who Must Die, long enough to see what they did here. Then he would leave and prepare. Then he would return.
The childish masks these imps of Satan hid behind to practice their perversions made it all too easy for this spy in their midst. But a spy would have to have the device — the gold medallion — to enter this house of the damned; this was their positive protection from the outside world. The medallions, in the hands of their owners, were carefully protected. The watcher smiled grimly at this thought. So was life itself carefully protected — and he took the one as easily as the other.
A short man climbed up on the low table in the center of the room, stepping up from a small stool that had been placed by one end for that purpose. He was garbed entirely in black like most of the others, and masked; but his cuffs were edged with crimson cord and his mask was crimson silk.
"Quiet!" a pudgy man standing near the watcher whispered to a companion. "It's the Master Incarnate!"
The watcher grimaced and his hands tightened involuntarily into fists. This then was the man! Here was the chief of the devilish clan. He must learn to recognize this man. Perhaps the so-called "Master" did not always wear the crimson; in pure black, surrounded by his vermin, he would be harder to single out. The watcher moved closer so that he could study the ears, and memorize the shape of the lobe. By this would he know the Devil Incarnate when next they met, no matter how he might be attired.
"Welcome," the Master Incarnate said, in a deep, commanding voice. "There are three items today." He gestured, and three servants, each a giant man, entered the room. Each of them carried a woman over his broad shoulders. The three women were bound and gagged with silken cords, and each wore a white shift and, as far as the watcher could tell, nothing else. Two of the women were passive, and the third was twisting and kicking vigorously, but completely ineffectually, in the arms of the giant who carried her.
After an "examination" of the women that was as degrading as it was offensive, the auction began. There was an atmosphere of obscene gaiety in the room as the bidding on each of the handsome, terrified women in bondage progressed. The bidding remained spirited in this carnival of depravity, and the offers quickly ran up into hundreds of pounds for each of the women. The dearest was the spirited one, who kept up the fight, even while wrapped in the massive arms of the impassive servant. Bidding for her closed out at six hundred and twenty-five pounds. And so, the watcher thought, my Annie must have been sold to one of these swine, in a room very much like this one. And then he decided not to think about that anymore.
The three winners of this unholy auction did not carry a large enough purse with them to redeem their prizes. The understanding was that they were to return the next evening with the required cash. In order to identify the right masked gentleman, and ensure that he got the girl he had bought, each of them ripped a pound note in half and gave one half to the Master Incarnate to match up the next evening.
"Tomorrow," the Master Incarnate said, indicating the three terrified women with a wave of his hands.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, the watcher thought.
"Tomorrow you three fortunate men will claim your rewards!" The Master Incarnate clapped his hands, and the three trophies were carried off. "Tomorrow evening," he said. "You have much to look forward to."
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death, the watcher said to himself as he took his leave. He had a day now to think, and to plan. Dusty death.
TWENTY-FIVE — AGONY
How then was the Devil dressed?
O, he was in his Sunday's best;
His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.
— Robert Southey
Sherlock Holmes was not grateful. He awoke from his encounter with the poultry cart with a severe hea
dache, a bruised hip and left leg, and a foul temper.
"How do you feel?" asked the portly man who was bending over him as he opened his eyes.
Holmes took a minute to focus on the man's face. "Rotten," he said. "Who the devil are you?"
"I am Dr. Breckstone," the man told him, enunciating carefully. "Professor Moriarty sent for me. You've been in a most serious accident. Do you remember anything about what happened?"
Holmes looked blurrily about, gathering his thoughts and his energy. Then he focused back on Breckstone. "Thank you, Doctor, for whatever you've done for me. I do remember what happened. I am fine now. I must be on my way."
"My dear man!" Dr. Breckstone said. "You must remain where you are for some hours at least. I'm not altogether sure yet that you've escaped serious internal injuries. And the head, my good man, is not the preferential site for internal injuries! You're lucky to be alive, and no more gravely injured than you appear to be. But I must really insist that you remain lying down here for a few more hours at least. Perhaps overnight."
"Nonsense," said Holmes, sitting up and swinging his spindly legs over the side of the bed. "Where are my clothes? And, incidentally, who undressed me?"
"I wouldn't know," the doctor said. "But your clothes are there, on that chair. Now at least sit still for a minute and let me take a look at you." He peered into Holmes's right eye, and then the left. "Look to each side," he said. "Very good. Pupils seem normal. Coordination is fine. Tell me, do you know where you are?"
"My dear doctor," Holmes said, pushing himself to his feet, "I am not suffering from mental confusion, or aphasia, or amnesia, or anything else save a severe headache and a powerful need to be on my way." He weaved back and forth, and almost fell forward, but was saved by Dr. Breckstone, who grabbed his arm and helped him sit back down on the bed. "Well, perhaps I am a bit wobbly," Holmes admitted. "But I'll be fine in a few minutes. Again, I thank you very much for your efforts. You may send me a bill, of course."
"There'll be no bill. Professor Moriarty is taking care of that," Breckstone said. "If you are determined to leave, then please dress yourself and walk about the house for fifteen or twenty minutes before you go. That will give a subdural hematoma, or whatever else may be lurking inside your skull, a chance to make itself known while I'm still here to do something about it."
Holmes rubbed his head above the left ear. "As you say, Doctor," he agreed grudgingly. "I need some time to think in any case. I'll find a room in which to pace back and forth for the next twenty minutes and smoke a pipeful of shag. I always do my best thinking when I'm pacing back and forth."
"I shall go tell Professor Moriarty that you're conscious," Breckstone said. "If you feel the slightest touch of vertigo or nausea, let me know immediately."
Half an hour later Holmes appeared in the doorway to Moriarty's study. "I apologize for any inconvenience, Professor," he said. "And I thank you for providing medical attention."
"Someone tried to kill you, Holmes," Moriarty said, peering down from the high shelf where he was sorting through a collection of large astronomical atlases. He selected one and climbed down from the stepladder with it under his arm.
"I am aware of that," Holmes said. "I must confess, Professor, that for a moment I was surprised to wake up in this house."
Moriarty regarded Holmes thoughtfully as he went over to his desk and set down the massive atlas. "Surprised that I took you in, or surprised that I allowed you to wake up?" He smiled. "A bit of both, I expect."
Holmes glared at him and walked stiffly over to the desk. "I am surprised that you didn't take the opportunity to dispose of this statuette," he said. "And now I'm afraid that both I and it must be on our way." He snatched the bronze statuette from the corner of the desk and stalked from the room.
"Take care, Holmes!" Moriarty called to the detective's retreating back. "There seems to be something about you that brings out murderous impulses in total strangers; so you can imagine how your friends feel." He chuckled at the sound of the front door slamming, and then went into the hall to make sure that Holmes had really left. Returning to his desk, Moriarty immersed himself in the dusty pleasures of the well-worn astronomical atlas, determined to get a few hours' research done before Barnett or one of Colonel Moran's minions returned with a report that would bring him back to this world.
While studying the columns of figures that interested him in the astronomical atlas, Moriarty was suddenly put in mind of another set of figures, and he pulled the Scotland Yard file from his desk and searched through it intently for the copy of the newspaper fragment that had been found on Lord Walbine's person when he was killed. Then he went over to a locked cabinet and removed a variety of maps, charts, and atlases of the London area and spread them open on his desk.
After performing cabalistic rituals over each of the maps with a ruler and a piece of string, Moriarty rang for Mr. Maws and had him go to the basement and retrieve the stack of daily papers for the last three months. Then he closed the door to the study and left word that he didn't want to be disturbed for anything but the most urgent news.
It was Barnett who disturbed him. At two o'clock in the morning Barnett burst through the front door, slammed into the study, and almost did a jig to Moriarty's desk. "I have your killer!" he announced, grinning broadly and waving an olive-colored envelope in front of him.
Moriarty looked up from the vast mound of books, charts, note pads, newspapers, and assorted drawing and measuring materials that now covered his desk top. "Where?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know where he is, yet, Professor; but I know who he is. And I have a pretty good idea of why he's doing it." The elated expression suddenly left Barnett's face, and he wearily shook his head. "Which is wonderful, I suppose, after all this time — a hell of a scoop, and all that. The only thing is, Cecily is still missing, and I don't see how this gets me any closer to finding her."
"I believe they are related problems," Moriarty said. He tapped the pile of charts and newspapers with a pencil. "And I believe I can find the young lady."
"You're jesting!" Barnett exclaimed.
"I assure you, I would never jest about a thing like that," Moriarty said. "I am quite serious. But first tell me about the murderer."
"He'll keep," Barnett said. "I mean — I'm sorry, Professor, but if you know where Cecily is—"
Moriarty laced his hands together and leaned back in his chair. "It is only a supposition at the moment," he said. "It remains to be confirmed."
"Well, if you think you know even where Cecily might be, if there's a one-in-ten chance, or a one-in-a-hundred chance, give me the address," Barnett said, leaning over the desk and speaking with an unaccustomed intensity. "I'll confirm it in very short order, believe me!"
Moriarty shook his head. "I'm sorry, Barnett. I didn't mean to raise your expectations to quite the fever pitch. It will take a bit more research and investigation before we can establish the present whereabouts of the young lady; and that depends upon my being right about who has taken her and where. But the logic is consistent, and I'm confident that we will find her, and before this newborn day is out. I have the key, but I'm not yet sure that I have the right lock."
Barnett sat back down in the chair facing the desk. "I don't follow that," he said.
"I shall explain," Moriarty assured him. "But first, tell me what you have found out about the murderer. Who is he, and why is he doing this? I assume by your attitude that you are fairly sure of your facts."
"I would say so," Barnett agreed. "You were right, Professor, which I'm sure doesn't surprise you. The man is a professional magician — an escape artist. Calls himself Professor Chardino — the Invisible Man."
"Very apt, considering what we know of his abilities," Moriarty commented. "What makes you pick out this one magician from the scores of performers that must be active on the stage today?"
Barnett tossed the olive envelope he was holding onto the large chart of greater London covering one side of Moriarty's
desk. "I won't bother telling you what attracted me to him in the first place," he said. "Let me just put it that his name quickly led to all the rest. And when I looked for confirmation, all the pieces fell into place as if they were waiting for me to stumble across them. First of all, he has disappeared from view, moved from his usual theatrical rooming house, and refused any offers of work for the past four months, even though he is in great demand. His daughter—"
"Ah!" Moriarty interrupted. "That's interesting. He has a daughter!"
"He had a daughter. Annie. About eighteen years old. She died on the seventh of January in mysterious circumstances."
"Fascinating!" Moriarty said. "Go on — in what way were these circumstances mysterious?"
"The death is officially listed as the result of 'injuries received in a street accident.' Supposedly, she was thrown from a carriage. But from the description of the attending physician, whom I happened to find on duty in the emergency room of St. Luke's, it appears the girl was probably tortured. And over a period of several days. The physician didn't want to come right out and say it, since he had no way to prove it, and he could get into considerable trouble if he was wrong. But that's clearly what he meant."
"You have indeed been busy, Barnett," Moriarty said. "Anything else?"
"On some obscure impulse, I went to the graveyard where the daughter is buried. I think the idea at the back of my mind was to see if I could get an address for the professor from the sexton — that's what the fellow who keeps the graves is called, isn't it?"
"Usually," Moriarty agreed. "It's also the name of a beetle of the genus Necrophorus. Go on."
"Yes, well, I was assuming that Professor Chardino might visit his daughter's grave occasionally."
"And leave his card?"
Barnett shrugged. "He might leave something. Perhaps flowers, which could then be traced back to the florist by someone with the deductive genius of a Professor James Moriarty."
Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 52
