The Empress of India

by Michael Kurland

  “I did,” Mycroft said. “No body resembling Sherlock has been brought to the dissecting mortuary of any medical school in the past week.”

  “Ah!” Moriarty said. “That’s reassuring, but it leaves the mystery intact. We can be reasonably sure that Holmes survived the temporary flooding of the tunnel, but what became of him after that we cannot tell at present. Perhaps the next few days will bring us additional information.”

  “I fear that every minute that passes makes that more unlikely,” Watson said.

  “Nonsense,” Moriarty said. “I can think of a dozen—a hundred—scenarios that would explain what has happened to Holmes. The difficulty is that we have no reason to favor one of them over another. But I have sources that, let us say, are not available to my friends from Scotland Yard. I shall set inquiries in motion immediately. I am not hopeful that they will discover anything useful, but who can tell?”

  Mycroft pushed himself to his feet. “Do you positively assert, sir, that you had nothing to do with my brother’s disappearance?”

  “I do, sir,” Moriarty said solemnly. “On my honor as an Englishman.”

  “I thought you were Irish,” Watson said.

  “My father was, Dr. Watson, but my brothers and I regard ourselves as Englishmen, having grown up in Warwickshire.”

  “Ah!” Watson said.

  “We must continue our search,” Mycroft Holmes said. “Goodbye, Professor Moriarty, we will not trouble you any further today.”

  “We’d best get back to the Yard,” Lestrade said. “Perhaps some word has come in.”

  “Very well,” Mycroft said. “We shall accompany you back to Scotland Yard, and ponder what to do from there.”

  “I wish I had some useful suggestions, gentlemen,” Moriarty said, rising to his feet, “but at the moment nothing suggests itself.”

  “Well, then—” Watson said.

  “If you think of anything, or hear anything,” Mycroft said, “a message to the Diogenes Club will reach me in short order.”

  The four visitors filed out of the room and to the front door in a calmer state of mind than they had entered. Only Gregson still glowered at Moriarty as they left, but he said nothing.

  Mr. Maws let them out, and then returned to the professor’s office. “That was very good, that was,” he said. “They came in like lions and went out like lambs. And here I thought I was going to have to assist you as you were physically assaulted. At least two of them were prepared to commence pummeling you where you stood; I recognize the signs. But your soft answers somehow turned away their wrath, as the Bible says. I don’t know how you do it, Professor. I saw it being done, but I still don’t know how you did it.”

  “I showed them the error of their ways,” Moriarty said. “I was clothed in the armor of my innocence.”

  “You mean you actually had nothing to do with Mr. Holmes’s disappearance?” Mr. Maws asked, looking surprised.

  “Mr. Maws!” Moriarty said, shaking his head sadly. “Not you, too!”

  THREE

  THE SCHEMERS

  Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.

  [He who fights with monsters must be careful not thereby to become a monster. And if you stare too long into an abyss, the abyss stares back at you.]

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  It snowed most of the day on Monday, February 17, 1890. As dusk fell over London and the midwinter shadows grew longer, the east wind picked up and what had been a light snow turned to hard-driven sleet. Ice formed in the Thames, and crusted the rigging and mooring lines of the ships in the mélange of docks along the river. The streets of the city were deserted except for the occasional hansom cab or four-wheeler, its horse and driver braced against the icy wind, looking for one last fare before retiring for the night.

  In the back room of a rags and old clothes store in Mincing Lane, within sight of the Tower of London if you stuck your head out the window and looked sharply to your left, five men gathered around a massive oak table and schemed a mighty scheme.

  First by the door was the Artful Codger, a small, wiry man, his thin, narrow face suggesting the cunning and weaselly soul of the man himself. He sat, legs crossed and tucked under him like a dervish, on a flat wooden chair with no back.

  To his left was Cooley the Pup, who had cultivated the look of an innocent fresh-faced boy of fourteen until he was thirty-five. He looked now, at forty-five, ancient and wizened and like a man whose years were filled with unimaginable sins. He had pulled a dilapidated easy chair over to the table and was now sunk into its cushions until all that could be seen of him in the dim light was the tip of his nose.

  By his side was Angelic Tim McAdams, a bullheaded, massive exnavvy, head of a gang of toughs known to be rentable for all occasions, with set prices for broken arms, legs, ribs, or bashed skulls; killing extra. He sat foursquare on a heavy wooden stool, his hands lying motionless and flat on the table.

  The Twopenny Yob, whose appearance and mannerisms were enough like those of the younger son of an earl to gain him unquestioned admittance to the best social gatherings, and whose habits and morals were enough like those of a guttersnipe to get him kicked off the swell mob for conduct unbecoming even a pseudo-gentleman, was taking his ease on the far corner of the table, his legs swinging back and forth like a well-clad metronome.

  The fifth man, the one who had called this meeting of equals in depravity and lawlessness, was the enigmatic Dr. Pin Dok Low. Possibly Chinese, somewhere between forty and ageless, infinitely knowledgeable in the ways of crime, he towered above the others in intellect and force of will. Now he sat in a high-backed armchair, its back to the rear of the room, smiling a slight inscrutable smile and nodding a tight nod across the table at his companions. “It is good that you have all come,” he said.

  “Coo-ee, and how could we stay away?” the Artful Codger asked, clapping his hands together twice and then running them through his hair. “A million quid, you said, this job is worth.”

  “You meant just that, I sincerely hope?” McAdams asked, leaning forward and thrusting his chin in the general direction of Pin Dok Low. “A million pounds? A real, touchable million pounds? I’d hate to be sitting here and find out you’ve been laying it on. I’d hate even worse to be where you’re sitting when it happens that I find that out, if you catch my drift.”

  Dr. Pin nodded again. “A million pounds, I said, but I confess that the figure quoted was not an exact one. I picked a number that I knew would draw you here,” he said, looking impassively at each of them in turn.

  McAdams rose and glared at Pin like a great bull preparing to do serious damage to the matador. “I don’t like being diddled,” he said flatly.

  The Artful Codger leaped to his feet. “I’ll just be going,” he said to the others. “Do with ’im”—he waved a negligent hand toward Pin—“as you like.”

  “The real figure,” Dr. Pin continued, the slight smile reappearing on his face, “might have frightened you away before I had a chance to speak with you. It is certain to be higher than a million pounds, much higher. I wouldn’t be surprised if each of us clears a million, even after splitting with our assorted, ah, henchmen.”

  The Twopenny Yob laughed. “I knew it!” he said. “A Chink with a nose for money. I always thought you’d make me rich someday, Pin, while doing a bit of good for yourself, of course.”

  McAdams sat back down. “I still don’t like being diddled,” he said. “Let’s hear it, and it better be good.”

  “In brief, gentlemen,” Pin said, “there is a shipment of bullion—several tons of pure, unalloyed gold—arriving in London soon by steamship for storage in the vaults of the Bank of England.”

  “Gold!” Cooley the Pup spit the word out inadvertently, and looked rather startled that he had said anything.

  “The Bank of England,” the Codger said, shaking his head mournfully. “C
an’t nobody break into the vaults of the Bank of England. Can’t be done, and that’s flat!” He spoke with the sad assurance of someone who had given the subject much thought in the past.

  Dr. Pin looked around, the smile on his face even broader. “Ah, yes, maybe so, maybe so, but I know when the gold is coming, and where it’s coming, and how it’s coming. And, as you will see, I have devised a workable method of relieving the authorities of this dreadful burden before the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street has a chance to put her protective arms around it.”

  “And you need all of us to be in on it?” the Codger asked.

  Dr. Pin nodded. “You and your assorted associates and assistants—you will pick the ones you need. Obtaining the gold is not enough. It must be recast—one cannot trade in gold bars with the Bank of England seal on them—and transported and sold gradually and over a wide area.”

  The Twopenny Yob lowered himself into a chair and flicked a spot of dust off his collar. “It sounds as if you might have something worth saying, old man,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll listen attentively, both ears and all that, but you’re going to have your work cut out to convince me that it’s a doable proposition. And if I don’t think it’s doable, then I’m not in.”

  “My dear young man,” Dr. Pin said, “if I did not myself think it was, as you say, doable, then I myself would not be in. The wise man does not flee from shadows.”

  McAdams crossed his arms at shoulder height, his elbows jutting forward like ram’s horns, and glared at Pin. “Let’s hear it, then,” he said.

  Pin Dok Low talked slowly and continuously for the next half hour, and his companions listened, and their interest did not wane. When he finished there was much shuffling of feet and rapping of knuckles on the table as they considered what he had told them.

  “So the swag’s to be divvied up even?” Cooley the Pup demanded.

  “As I said,” Dr. Pin told him. “After we’ve disposed of the gold itself, which will take several months at least, the profits will be divided up five ways, one part to each of us. You, in turn, are responsible for all expenses, including paying your own men.”

  “There’s the flaw,” the Artful Codger observed. “With this kind of money, someone’s going to start buying up the entire East End, and the busies are going to catch wise. And if they get one of us, the others’ll soon tumble into the net. A million pounds don’t do you no good in Dartmoor.”

  “That is a problem,” Pin admitted. “One possible solution would be to withhold the profits for an extended length of time after the robbery. But which of us is prepared to do without, knowing that a vast sum of money awaits him? And which of us will the others trust to hold the loot?”

  “I’ll take care of my own share, thank you very much,” McAdams growled.

  “There, you see? No, each of you will receive your share as soon as it is available, as soon as the gold is turned into coin of the realm or something else immediately negotiable. After that you are each responsible for seeing that you keep away from the long arm of the authorities. And, if you are wise, you will insulate yourself from the failure of others.”

  “I notice you have not given us the date the bloody boat’s coming in, or the location of the wharf at which the thing’s tying up,” the Twopenny Yob commented.

  “Nor even the name of the craft,” the Artful Codger added.

  “Of course not,” Dr. Pin said. “Not until I know you’re all in. Even then, not until the last minute. The best way to assure that we trust each other is to give as few opportunities as possible for deceit.”

  “Yeah, there’s something to that,” Cooley the Pup agreed, looking around at his companions. “There’s something to that. There’s a couple of gents in this ’ere very room that I wouldn’t trust with the time o’ day. Mentioning no names, o’ course. And I ain’t looking at anyone in particular.”

  “When you get home, look in the mirror,” the Artful Codger suggested, “if it’s clean enough to make out your own face.”

  “None of that, now,” McAdams barked. “We’re all friends and companions in here, and we’re going to stay that way if I have to break a few bones to see to it.”

  “No fisticuffs, please,” the Twopenny Yob said, drawing the sleeves of his immaculately tailored jacket down over his shirt cuffs just the right amount. “It’s rude!”

  The Codger looked at him and snorted. “So you say,” he said. “But that sword cane you’re carrying makes a pretty rude slice in a fellow. And that palm pistol you’re wearing under your left arm makes a pretty rude hole.”

  “Indeed,” the Twopenny Yob agreed, unabashed. “I don’t believe in fighting, you see. I believe in winning, and as quickly as possible.”

  McAdams looked over at Pin Dok Low. “You want me to take that stuff away from him? I can do it easy, with nobody getting hurt except maybe his tender feelings.”

  “If the gentleman feels safer with his impedimenta,” Pin said, “let him keep them. I assure you he will not use them in this room.”

  The Twopenny Yob looked around nervously at the implied threat, examining the walls for what, or who, might be hidden behind them watching his every move. “I have no animosity toward anyone here,” he said. “The weapons are for self-defense only. And as we’re all friends here—”

  “Just so,” Dr. Pin agreed.

  “There’s going to be an awful shake-out among the criminal classes if this ’ere scheme of yours comes off,” the Artful Codger commented. “The rozzers will be laying their heavy hands on everyone what ever copped a apple from a pushcart, or mistook someone else’s house for his own, and that’s the truth!”

  “They’ll call in Sherlock Holmes,” Cooley the Pup agreed mournfully. “They’re bound to. A job this big. The Old Lady ’erself will put him on the case. And he can see things what others can’t.”

  Dr. Pin looked from one to the other of his colleagues, and the smile on his face grew larger and more inscrutable. “Of one thing I can assure you,” he told them, “Mr. Holmes won’t be bothering us.”

  “ ’Ow can you be so sure of that?” Cooley asked.

  “Mr. Holmes has disappeared,” Pin explained. “And he isn’t going to reappear anytime soon.”

  “And just how do you know that?” McAdams growled. “Did you disappear him yourself, by any chance?”

  “Not I,” Pin said. “Indeed, I cannot say just how I know that Mr. Holmes will remain, ah, unavailable. But I feel sure that this is so. Besides, even were he to reappear, his attention and the attention of Scotland Yard will be drawn in an altogether different direction.”

  “How’s that?” the Artful Codger asked.

  “A small but necessary part of my modest contribution to this endeavor,” Dr. Pin told them. “In addition to obtaining the necessary information, devising the plan, and picking each of you as my, shall we say, staff—”

  “Shall we say get on with it?” the Artful Codger snapped. “We all know how clever you are, don’t put your arm out of joint patting yourself on the back.”

  Pin Dok Low glared at the Codger for a second before closing his eyes and doing a baritsu exercise which tensed and relaxed the muscles from his toes up through his body to his eyebrows, and removed all stress, making him once more at one with the universe. “The true master would not allow himself to get annoyed at such trivialities,” he said, sighing softly and opening his eyes. “However, there is no true master within three thousand miles of this place.”

  “Well, as you’re the one we’re speaking to, master or no master, just what sort of plan do you have for taking the heat off us and getting the busies from Scotland Yard to, as you say, look in another direction?” the Codger demanded.

  “I’m going to, as you might say, Codger, throw in a ringer. I’m going to give the police someone else to suspect, along with adequate signs that he is, indeed, the guilty party.”

  “And just why might they think that this gent done the deed instead of looking our way?” McAdams asked.<
br />
  “Because they are already primed to believe the worst of this gentleman.”

  “The worst?”

  “Yes. Sherlock Holmes has been blaming him for every major crime that happens anywhere in London—in all of Europe, for that matter—for the past decade. The police will naturally think of him. I will merely reinforce that thought.”

  “Professor Moriarty!” Cooley the Pup gasped.

  “Just so. Professor James Moriarty. The perfect scapegoat.”

  “I don’t know, Pin,” the Twopenny Yob said, shaking his head. “It ain’t smart to get on the wrong side of the professor.”

  Pin leaned back in his chair. “That is why I dislike revealing my plans in advance,” he said. “Someone such as yourself always responds to the outline before hearing the details. I have thought this out carefully, and we have nothing to fear from Professor Moriarty.”

  “And just why is that?” McAdams asked.

  “Because he won’t know he’s being attacked. He’ll believe that it’s merely another case of the police hounding off in the wrong direction because they see evil in everything he does, even if they’ve never been able to prove it.”

  “The way I hear it,” the Codger said, “it’s Holmes that sees the professor behind every bush, and he’s never been able to convince the police.”

  “Yes, but now Holmes has disappeared. They’re sure to suspect Moriarty of that. And when a major robbery happens shortly after . . .”

  “You have a point,” the Codger conceded.

  “Of course. By the time the professor figures out that he’s being set up, he’ll be in it too deep to get out. And he won’t know from what direction the frame is coming.”

  “I don’t know,” Cooley the Pup said. “The professor’s been a big help to a lot of us over the years.”

  “A million pounds each,” Pin Dok Low reminded them.

  “I’m in,” Angelic Tim McAdams declared.

  “I suppose the professor can take care of himself,” the Artful Codger decided.