Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  Barnett ran his gaze over the flocked red plush wallpaper; the deeply cushioned chairs and couches, done in matching fabric; the elaborate and tasteless candelabrum, decorated with flowers and cherubim and remarkably voluptuous female angels; and the equally voluptuous ladies lounging on the couches, garbed in imaginative dishabille. "Aside from these idiotic masks," Barnett whispered, "this could be any one of fifty clubs in London, all catering to the same 'sporting' population."

  "Nemo repente fuit turpissimus," Moriarty murmured. "I find Juvenal quotable at the most unusual times."

  "How's that?" Barnett asked quietly.

  Moriarty shook his head slightly in mock annoyance. "Your American schools just don't believe in a classical education," he commented. "No wonder your English prose is so flat and unmellifluous; you are all innocent of Latin."

  "Discuss my educational deficiencies some other time, Professor," Barnett requested firmly. "What did you say?"

  "Roughly, 'No one ever mastered the heights of vice at the first try.' These chaps have to start somewhere, after all."

  Suddenly a scream sounded from one of the nearby rooms — a high-pitched cry of unendurable agony. Barnett jerked his head around, seeking the source of the sound, but none of the others in the parlor reacted at all, except for a few of the women, who twitched nervously.

  Barnett clutched at Moriarty's sleeve. "What was that?" he demanded.

  "Casual, Mr. Barnett," Moriarty whispered intently. "Remain casual. This sort of thing must happen all the time. Remember the part you are playing. You are well used to such sounds. Indeed, it is why you are here."

  Barnett stiffened his back and lifted his head into a parody of nonchalance. "What is it exactly that happens all the time," he asked, "which causes girls to scream in distant rooms?"

  Moriarty leaned casually against a patch of flocked wallpaper. "You really don't want to know," he said. "Suffice it to say that other people's ideas of sexual pleasure may be far removed from your own."

  "You mean — but why would they put up with it? The women, I mean?"

  "These ladies are all imported from elsewhere for service in this house. This is a practice that is common in London houses of this sort, although these people take more advantage of it than others might. They serve for about two months, which is probably the length of time that the house stays in any one location, and then are sent back whence they came with a sum of money in hand. If necessary, as it frequently is, their, ah, wounds are first tended to in a hospital far from here, where the causes behind their injuries are overlooked by mutual agreement."

  "Horrible!" Barnett said. "Much worse than any stories I've heard about the brothels in France."

  "Your studies in depravity did not descend deep enough," Moriarty commented. "There are many similar places in Paris, as indeed in Berlin, Vienna, Prague, Warsaw, and every other European capital. With the possible exception of Rome — the Italians don't seem to be as prone to institutionalize their violence. As to what happens in such houses in the Osmanli Empire and the Arab world, they make our friends here look like dilettantes."

  Barnett looked around him. "You make this place sound like a garden party," he commented.

  "You are mistaken," Moriarty replied. "I said it was horrible, not unique. Besides, this is merely the, let us say, middle level of experience. The upper levels, for which they kidnap women off the street and throw dead bodies back onto the street, probably more nearly meet your requirements."

  Barnett clutched convulsively at Moriarty's sleeve again, and then forced himself to let go. "If you can believe it, I had forgotten for an instant," he said. "Let us go on!"

  "We must locate the door through which the initiates go to practice vices few others even know exist," Moriarty said.

  "You expect to find Cecily at this next level?" Barnett demanded. "And yet you think she is still all right?"

  "They must have cells," Moriarty said, "where women are held for, ah, future use. I expect to find the lady in one of these cells, and I expect to find the cells deep in the heart of the beast."

  "Cells?"

  "Yes. There were signs in the now-deserted houses that certain of their rooms had been used as cells."

  "Well then—" Barnett began.

  "Grab that man!" a harsh, commanding voice suddenly rang out from somewhere behind Barnett. "Don't let him escape! He is not one of us, he is a spy! Be sharp, now!"

  Barnett started at the words, twisting around, and expecting to feel a heavy hand on his shoulders. To his amazement and relief, the short, imperious man who had barked out the commands was not pointing his accusing finger at Barnett, but at a slender man who had been quietly sitting by the piano.

  "Here, now," the accused said, rising to his feet. "What's the meaning of this? Who are you, sir, and what do you mean by such an accusation?" He seemed amused, rather than alarmed. "Is this your idea of fun, little man?"

  Several men who were dressed as servitors of the club appeared from different doorways, as though they had been awaiting the command, and moved closer to surround the tall, slender man.

  "I am the Master Incarnate," the little man announced. "And you are a spy!"

  "Whatever makes you think that?" the slender man asked, ignoring the surrounding servitors with a splendid nonchalance. "Are you absolutely sure you're right? Remember, Master, unveiling a member would be a very bad precedent to set, especially for you. Are you sure you wish to risk it, in front of all these fellow members?" With a wave of his hand, the slender man indicated the cluster of masked men, who had all stopped whatever they were doing and turned to watch the scene.

  "I am sure," the Master Incarnate barked. "Especially as I can name you where you stand, and then prove it by unmasking you… Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" He reached for the mask and yanked it off, exposing the sharp features of the consulting detective.

  "I must hand it to you, Count," Holmes said, edging toward the wall. "You have cleverly revealed my identity. But, after all, are you quite certain that I'm not a member?" He took a firm grasp on his stick and flicked it in the general direction of one of the servitors, who was approaching him from behind. The man jumped back with alacrity.

  "Thought you could fool us this afternoon," the Master Incarnate said, grimacing his satisfaction, "grubbing about in the cellar."

  "The cellar?" Holmes repeated, sounding surprised. "Whatever are you talking about, Count d'Hiver?"

  The count ignored Holmes's use of his name. "I heard about it as soon as I returned this afternoon," he said, "and watched through a concealed peephole to see who would attempt to gain entrance this evening that shouldn't. And it was you, Mr. Holmes — it was you. I had a feeling during the course of this investigation that you were going to prove too clever for us."

  "I suppose there would be no point in advising you that this house is surrounded?" Holmes inquired, backing the rest of the way to the nearest wall. The way to the entrance door was now blocked by two brutish-looking servitors of the house.

  "There would be no point at all," the Master Incarnate declared savagely. "It isn't, and it wouldn't change things for you if it were. Take him!"

  Five of the burly servitors leaped for Holmes, who lifted his walking stick and whirled it about him, fairly making it sing as he beat them off. In an instant two of them were down, and the remaining three were circling respectfully out of range of the lean detective and his three feet of ash.

  Barnett gathered himself to rush to Holmes's aid, but he felt Moriarty's restraining hand on his shoulder. "To the other door!" Moriarty whispered urgently. "That door over there. I shall bring Holmes. Prepare to open it for us as we arrive, and close it firmly and promptly once we are through. Go now!"

  Barnett sidled over to the door Moriarty had indicated and put his hand on the knob. Assuring himself that it opened easily, he nodded his readiness to the professor.

  With a broad gesture, Professor Moriarty whipped his mask off and blew two sharp blasts on a police whistle. Everyon
e in the room froze in position for a second, forming a bizarre tableau that would remain forever etched on Barnett's memory.

  "Over here, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty called. "I must ask the rest of you to remain where you are. You are all under arrest! Constables, take charge of these men!"

  Without waiting to find out where these constables were, or where they might have come from, the masked Hellfires in the room made a dash, as one, for the far door. Count d'Hiver screamed at them to stop, yelling that Moriarty was a fraud, that it wasn't so; but they did not pause to listen. In a few seconds there was a plug of human bodies squeezing ever harder into the entrance door. Two men had already lost their footing, and were down under the pack, with little hope of getting up. As Barnett watched, another man was lifted bodily from the doorway by several others and hurried over many heads to the ground at the rear.

  Holmes broke free and leaped across to where Moriarty stood, imposingly, belligerently firm, next to a couch. "This way," Moriarty said, and the two of them stalked across the room to the door Barnett was guarding for them. In a second they were through it, and Moriarty threw the two heavy bolts on the far side.

  "This should hold them for a few minutes," the professor said. "Time enough for us to do what we have to, if we get to it."

  "Glad to see you, Moriarty," Holmes gasped, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. "Never thought I'd hear myself saying that. You do show up in the oddest places, though."

  "I didn't expect to find you here, either, Holmes," Moriarty commented. "And what on earth have you been doing in the cellar?"

  "But I wasn't in the cellar, old man," Holmes replied. "I have no idea what that was about."

  "Curious," the professor said, "very curious. But come now, there's work to be done. We can compare notes some other time."

  "You realize there's almost certainly no way out of this unusual establishment from this side of this door?" Holmes asked. "We have managed to place ourselves one step deeper into the web. As soon as Count d'Hiver and his cohorts are over their momentary confusion, admirably contrived though it was, they will surely assault this door with a convincing show of strength."

  "True," Moriarty admitted. "But what we have come here for is certainly up these stairs. I would not leave before accomplishing my goal, and I'm quite sure that Mr. Barnett would not allow it were I to attempt to do so."

  Holmes glanced at the still-masked Barnett. "So that's who you are," he said. "Should have known. Glad you're here. And now, just what is it that we are after? Ah! Of course! Miss Perrine; I should have guessed."

  They made their way cautiously up the narrow staircase, Moriarty in the lead, and found themselves about a third of the way along a hallway that ran down the middle of the upper floor. There were rooms off each side, and each of the rooms had been fitted with a heavy, solid door, with a strong bolt affixed to the outside.

  Moriarty threw open the door to the nearest room, and found it empty; but there were a pair of posts fastened to the floor in the center of the room, with leather thongs running through eyebolts in the posts. Barnett did not like to contemplate what such an apparatus might be used for.

  In the next room they tried there was a girl, clad only in a white shift, who shrank away from them in horror as they opened the door. The shift was in tatters, and they could see the strips across her back and thighs where she had been beaten. It was not Cecily Perrine.

  "It's all right, miss," Sherlock Holmes said, advancing into the room. "We've come to get you out of here. It's all right, really it is. We won't hurt you." He continued talking to the girl and walking slowly toward her, as she, eyes wide, speechless with fear, retreated into the farthest corner of the room.

  "See here, Holmes, there's no time for this," Moriarty said. He turned to the girl. "Any minute now there's going to be an awful row. Those people who have done this to you are going to try to stop us from freeing you and the others. You'd best come with us now, and help with the other girls as we release them. We'll see if we can find a room where you can bolt the door from the inside. When it's all over, I shall see that you and any other ladies up here are removed from this place and taken care of. Properly. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir," the girl said, but her voice was heavy with doubt and fear.

  Moriarty reached around inside his jacket, behind his back, and, after fumbling for a second, pulled out a long, flat leather truncheon. "Come here, girl," he said. "Take this. If anyone approaches you while we are otherwise occupied, hit them in the face with it. Aim for the nose. That will discourage them."

  The girl came forward hesitantly and took the proffered instrument. "I shall," she said, slapping it tentatively against the palm of her hand. She winced, finding the device surprisingly painful. "I shall," she repeated, staring directly into Moriarty's eyes. Her voice gained strength. "I shall! Oh, indeed, I shall."

  "Very good," Moriarty said. "Now, stay close behind us."

  They returned to the hallway. "I doubt if we have much time," Moriarty said. "Each of you take a room. Dispose of any resident masked men in it as you see fit — as rapidly as you can. I suggest we open all these doors immediately, and release any more captive young ladies."

  "I — think — so," Holmes said, staring back at the strange, dreadful equipment in the room they had just left. "How horrible. It is difficult to believe that these men are Englishmen."

  "I occasionally find it difficult to believe that our Parliamentary representatives are Englishmen," Moriarty remarked dryly. "Let us proceed; I think I hear pounding from below. If either of you happen to notice a window facing the front of the house — which would be that side, there — kindly heave some article of furniture through it."

  Holmes looked speculatively at Moriarty. "Some of your minions downstairs?" he asked. "Well, I shall be glad to see them. I fancy all the windows are boarded up; there seems to be a false wall across that side of all the rooms."

  In the third room that Barnett entered he found himself staring at a scene that he would never forget. The floor was bare and covered with sawdust, and at its center was a six-foot oaken X which dominated the room. Cecily Perrine, clad only in a long white shift, had just been unchained from an eyelet bolted to the wall and, her hands bound with thick cord, was being dragged across the floor by a short, thickset, hooded man.

  The man giggled inanely as he pulled Cecily toward the oaken torture device. He brandished a short, many-stranded whip which he flicked occasionally into the empty air as though to get in practice for the delights that would follow.

  "My God!" Barnett screamed.

  Cecily turned and stared impassively at this second hooded man who now stood in the doorway.

  The man with the whip pushed Cecily aside and whirled around. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded petulantly. "Get out! Get out! This is my room. Mine! She is mine! Get out! You know better than this!" He bounced up and down with excitement and anger, and waved his whip at Barnett. "Leave!"

  Barnett snatched at the whip, pulling it out of the man's grasp. "You bastard!" he yelled, scarcely aware of what he was saying. "You slime! What are you doing with this woman?"

  "She's mine," the thickset man insisted in a shrill voice. "I paid for her, didn't I? Now you just get out of here, or I'll report you to the Master Incarnate. Get your own female!"

  Barnett could feel the blood rising to his face, and the mantle of reason lifted itself from the primitive emotions beneath. Like a distant observer, cool and detached, he watched himself lift the short whip and bring its weighted handle down again and again on the head of the thickset man. The man fell to the floor, and Barnett stopped — not through compassion, but because the target of his rage was now out of reach.

  Slowly the haze cleared from before his eyes and he looked at Cecily. Then he quickly looked away. He did not want to see her like this, he did not want ever to think of her like this, bound and helpless, and subject to the whims of evil men.

  He crossed to where she lay and
quickly, tenderly, untied her hands. "Cecily," he said, "what have they done to you?" To his surprise, he found that he was crying.

  "Benjamin?" she whispered. "Is it you?"

  He took his mask off — he had forgotten it was still on — and held her to him for a long moment. There was a robe in the corner which he used to cover her. "Can you walk?" he asked. "We must hurry."

  "Yes," she said. "Get me away from here."

  There were a total of seven women in the various rooms of this upper floor, and, at that moment, five men. Moriarty immobilized the men by tying their thumbs together behind their backs with short pieces of wire, which he produced from one of his innumerable pockets. By this time they could hear a steady pounding noise coming up from the door below.

  "There is no other way out," Holmes said. "I have tried all the doors. Presumably we could find our way to the roof, but what then? It's a long way to the ground."

  "I suggest we remove the false wall from one of the rooms facing the front of the house," Moriarty said. "If I can get to a window, I can get assistance."

  "What good could your men do us now?" Holmes demanded. "They're down there and we're up here."

  "A group of determined men assaulting the front door." Moriarty pointed out, "would at least provide a much-needed diversion. It would most probably complete the job of panicking the rank and file."

  "Perhaps I can be of some assistance," a deep, well-modulated voice said from behind them.

  They all turned. A tall man in elegant evening dress bowed to them politely before removing the mask that covered his face. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said, with just the slightest hint of a Middle European accent coloring his flawless English. "My name is Adolphus Chardino."

  "Ah!" Moriarty said.

  "Who are you?" Holmes demanded, shielding the seven young ladies behind him.

  "That is of no moment at the present," Chardino said.

  What is meaningful is that I can assist you in your efforts to leave." He removed a large pocket watch from his vest and glanced at it. "And I would earnestly suggest that you hurry; it would be wise to be gone within the next fourteen minutes."