“Come, come,” Epp said. “Surely someone must have seen something. This could be important. Ipso facto.”
“He spent his time in the boys’ locker room, but he didn’t show much interest in the lads,” said Natyana. “I asked about him after … after.” She sighed and shook her head from side to side as though trying to clear troublesome images from her brain. “Was it our fault—what happened? Could we have known?”
“There have been organizations like this in London since the seventeenth century,” Moriarty told her. “Perhaps before, but I have found no earlier records. Some pretty unwholesome things have happened in them over the years. But the wanton and pointless murder of a young boy and the dissection of his still-warm body…”
Natyana made a soft screeching sound and brought both hands, balled into fists, to her mouth. Her eyes seemed to grow larger, wider, and more distressed.
“I apologize, madam,” Moriarty said. “That was unnecessary and thoughtless of me.”
“If you’d seen it—” she began.
“Ah, well,” he said, “distressing as it would have been, I wish I had. It might have given me some useful insights. I must deal in facts, not surmises, if I am to sort this out. But I’m sorry that you had to witness such a sight.”
Natyana closed her eyes and put her balled fists in front of them. “I thought I had seen horror,” she said. “In Constantinople, in Cairo—but like this? No—never like this.”
Washburn got up and moved over next to Natyana, taking her hand. “Is there anything else?” he asked them.
“One thing,” Moriarty said. “Was anyone close enough to overhear anything either of the men might have said?”
“I’ve asked that,” said Natyana. “The domino mask said nothing the whole time he was here. A few murmured comments to his, ah, friend, perhaps, but nothing to anyone else. The giggling man—the murderer—said a few words to the girl in the cloakroom on his way out.”
“The girl in the cloakroom?”
“Yes. She told me so, but I did not think it important. They were the sort of words one says to a cloakroom girl—devoid of content.”
“Perhaps so,” Moriarty said, “but I would like to know what was said.”
“I don’t know what he said, word for word.” Natyana stood. “The girl’s name is Wendy. I will go fetch her.”
“We are wasting our time,” Epp muttered as Natyana left the room. “For the love of—what possible use could it be to know what the man said to this girl?”
“Acta non verba, eh, Epp?” Moriarty said. “Well, who knows. Perhaps he told her his name and address.”
“Bah!” said Epp.
Wendy was a petite blonde with delicate hands and what the French would call a pert face. Unlike on the evening when she worked the cloakroom, she was clothed in a pink wraparound cotton peignoir with a fluffy collar. “You wanted to see me, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed, young lady,” said Moriarty. “Wendy, is it? Thank you for coming.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that. “I didn’t know as I had a choice,” she said.
“Well, thank you anyway.” Moriarty smiled his most disarming smile, which under other circumstances had caused strong men to suddenly realize that they had urgent business elsewhere. At this moment it was devoid of menace, and Wendy smiled back, shyly and tentatively, as though she were afraid his smile might be withdrawn without notice.
“The man who caused all the trouble a few days ago,” Moriarty said. “You remember him?”
This time her eyes did widen, and her lips quivered. “Oh, sir,” she said. “He went right by me, he did. And I smiled at him and bobbed as I gived him his cloak and hat, and he gived me a shilling, he did. His eyes all bright and his mouth all giggly. How was I to know?”
“Now, Wendy, don’t blubber!” Natyana said sharply.
“That’s all right,” Moriarty said soothingly. “How were you to know? Let’s not think about that part of it for now. Let’s think about the man and his friend. Can you describe them—the giggly man and his friend?”
“The chubby one had this long mustache with the ends like twisted into points, but that’s all I could see.”
“And the other?” asked Moriarty. “Can you describe him?”
“The elegant-looking gent—I should think so. Besides, I’ve got his picture, don’t I?”
Epp sat up with a sudden jerk. “Here now, what’s that?” he demanded. “His picture?”
“What do you mean?” Washburn asked, almost leaping to his feet. He leaned forward over the table. “How did you get his picture? What are you talking about?”
Wendy put her hands in front of her face. “I didn’t mean nothing, I didn’t. It ain’t my fault.” She broke into earnest tears.
Epp stood up and pointed an accusing finger at her. “You have his picture? And you said nothing? Stop that blubbering, girl, and explain yourself!”
Which caused her to sob even louder until, in a few seconds, she was gasping for breath.
“Now, Wendy,” Natyana said soothingly, going over and putting her arms around the girl. “Nobody’s blaming you. We just need to know what happened.”
“Close your eyes and take a deep breath,” Moriarty suggested, “and then another. That’s a good girl. And now one more. Don’t try to talk for a moment. Just breathe in and out … in and out. All right. Now another deep breath—like that. Better now?”
She opened her eyes and thought it over for a second and then nodded.
“Good. Now tell us about it. Just what did the elegant-looking gent do?”
“He left it—his picture—behind, tucked inside this little silver case thing what he left on the counter. He did. I tried calling to him to give it back, but he just about ran out so’s I couldn’t nohow.”
“Ah!” said Moriarty. “I should have thought of that, of course.”
“Should you?” Epp asked, sounding aggrieved as he sat back down. “Of what, may I ask?”
“That he would leave something behind to establish his, ah, alternate persona.” Moriarty turned to the girl. “Can you show us what he left?”
“It’s in me cubbyhole,” Wendy said, standing up. “I’ll go fetch it if you please.”
“We do,” Moriarty told her.
Nobody spoke while the girl was gone, and when she returned, standing in the doorway with a flat silver object in her hand, there was a collective releasing of breath.
Epp reached over and took the object from the girl’s hand. “Decus et tutamen,” he said, turning it over and over, “if it ain’t a cigar case.”
Moriarty put his pince-nez in his vest pocket and retrieved his magnifying monocle. “May I?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Magno cum gaudio, Professor,” Epp said, making a minor ceremony of handing him the case.
“Certainly,” Moriarty agreed, taking the object and peering at it through his glass.
“What have you got there?” asked Washburn.
“It is, indeed, a silver cigar case,” Moriarty said, displaying it, “with a coat of arms embossed on the lid, and inside”—he opened it—“a photograph of the, ah, gent in question stuck under the lid, and, um, two cigars.” He took one out and rolled it in his hand. “Cuban. El rey del mundo, I believe. Very fitting.” He replaced the cigar and closed the case, leaving the photograph inside.
“It is … him—for certain?” asked Epp.
“No question,” Moriarty affirmed, “and the coat of arms adds verisimilitude.”
“A coat of arms?” Epp asked suspiciously. “It’s not, by any chance…”
“Small and tasteful,” Moriarty said, examining the lid. “A white shield with a simple red cross in the center, surrounded by a blue belt. Done in cloisonné, I believe, with the motto of the order on the belt in gold.”
“Order? What order?” Epp demanded.
“It’s the crest of the Most Noble Order of the Garter,” Moriarty explained. “The motto is Honi soit qui mal y
pense. ‘Evil to him who thinks evil’ is the usual translation.”
“The Garter, eh?” Washburn mused. “So he really was a toff.”
“Indeed,” Moriarty agreed. “The owner of that case certainly was a toff.”
[CHAPTER FIFTEEN]
THE WHICHNESS OF WHAT
Hearest thou the festival din
Of Death and Destruction and Sin …
—PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
“I CANNOT YET TELL YOU WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN, although I am making some progress in that regard,” Moriarty said. “I can, however, describe for you in some detail what has already happened.”
The four others in the small room shifted in their chairs. “What sort of progress?” asked Lord Montgrief.
“I can tell you that the killer is not a lone madman, and that the people behind him are well organized, well financed, and in some fashion highly motivated. There’s nothing random or haphazard about what they’re doing. They are operating from a detailed plan. Also I would say there is one guiding hand behind the whole escapade, perhaps one of those fabled ‘master criminals’ that I personally am so loath to believe in. And that whatever is planned as the culmination of this scheme is going to happen soon.”
Sir Anthony Darryl leaned forward. “On what basis can you say that, and when you say ‘soon,’ how soon?”
“Probably not today or tomorrow, but some day in the immediate future,” Moriarty responded. “My guess is they plan one or two more ‘incidents’ with hints reaching the public ear, passed on artfully to the press by their agents, and then one final happening of some kind, which will result in the prince being captured in flagellum delicto, as Chief Inspector Epp would say.”
His Grace the Duke of Shorham slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the teacups. “This is damnable,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Damnable!”
They were meeting in a small private dining room in the third floor rear of the Diogenes Club. Moriarty sat on one side of an oblong dining table of some rich dark wood and considerable age, and ranged around him the Duke of Shorham, the Earl of Scully, and Sir Anthony Darryl. In an overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, his hands folded across his ample belly, a look of detachment on his face as though he were here for some other event entirely and just happened to be overhearing these proceedings, sat Mycroft Holmes.
“There is one thing,” Sir Anthony said. “Epp says that it is definitely established—beyond any shadow of a doubt—that His Highness is not in any way involved in these, ah, events.” He pushed his tortoise-shell glasses farther forward on his nose and peered over them at Moriarty.
“Not that we believed for a moment that he was—that he could be,” added the duke.
“Is that so, Professor?” Sir Anthony asked. “Do we know for certain that His Highness is not guilty of these crimes?”
Moriarty nodded his head slowly. “Yes,” he said. “At least, certain enough to satisfy us, although whether it would satisfy the general public is doubtful. A young lady who fortuitously witnessed the first murder, or at least the first we know about, from a concealed position says that the prince was knocked unconscious before the killing and removed from the room afterward by being lowered out the window. And that two men—one greatly resembling the prince—were involved.”
“Well!” The Earl of Scully pushed his chair back and looked around him. “We heard about that. Epp grudgingly admitted that you have added to our knowledge of the events. I can tell you that he was pretty surprised that you discovered anything. Also mesmerizing that girl. Who would have thought that sort of thing actually worked.” He gave Moriarty a hard, straight look. “It does actually work, doesn’t it?”
“The accepted term in the scientific literature today,” Mycroft’s gruff voice pronounced from the corner, “is ‘hypnotism.’ ‘Mesmerism’ refers to a form of charlatanism involving magnets and auras and suchlike nonsense. Hypnotism itself is not highly regarded, but there is some evidence that it works when employed by a trained practitioner for uses where it is suitable.”
“Makes one cluck like a chicken, is what I’ve heard,” volunteered Sir Anthony.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “The method can be used to suppress pain, to induce sleep, to recall or suppress memories, or to encourage one to cluck like a chicken, if that is the desired result. Which of these ensues depends on the inclination of the practitioner and the circumstances of the hypnotic induction.”
“It worked with this girl, eh?” the duke said. “Brought out her memory of this horrid event, eh? Fortuitous that you know how to do it, eh? That you thought of using it.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Moriarty said.
“Indeed—indeed. So, frankly, I don’t see what the problem is. That’s certain enough then, isn’t it? I mean, whatever happens, whatever these people do, we can merely produce the young lady and she can, er, explain what happened. That it wasn’t His Highness. Yes?”
“No!” came a rumbling voice from the corner chair. Without looking up, Mycroft Holmes continued, “It won’t do, unfortunately. Explain it to them, Professor.”
Moriarty looked at Mycroft and then turned his gaze back to the illustrious men gathered before him. “The girl wouldn’t be believed,” he said. “Her age, her background, her profession; all would militate against her and any story she might tell.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said the earl. “I understand that she is one of the employees of the establishment. That would certainly put her veracity at risk.”
“Although why a harlot’s word should be more suspect than that of a duchess—pardon me, Your Grace—I’m not sure I understand,” said Sir Anthony.
“I find that ladies of the demimonde,” said the duke expansively, “are quite accomplished at telling you what they think you want to hear.” He considered for a moment and then added, “But then, so are duchesses.”
“Then there’s the fact that she was hypnotized,” Moriarty added. “I was using it to recall memory, but it could be said by those who would want to say such things that I was instead creating memory.”
“Not very well understood yet, hypnotism,” said Mycroft. “Even by those who practice it.”
“So what are we going to do?” asked the earl.
“There are certain signs to look for here in London,” Moriarty told them. “I think it’s a reasonable assumption that the final show, whatever it turns out to be, is going to take place here. I’m going to put eyes and ears in the most likely places.”
“Many eyes and ears?” asked Sir Anthony. “Would you like some help in that regard?”
“I think I can arrange for a few dozen, er, agents to cover the ground,” Moriarty told him. “Although we can use a select few more since there are some places into which mine do not have easy access.”
“I thought you told me that you had no ‘gang,’” the Earl of Scully complained. “You were very firm about that.”
“I assure you that I command no followers,” said Moriarty. “However, there are those who do, and the assurance that it’s in a good cause—along with just a bit of gold—may influence them to aid us.”
“Just who would these ‘helpers’ be?” asked the duke.
“A chap named Twist, who’s the head of the Mendicants Guild, for one,” Moriarty told him. “He has his, if I may use the word, ‘agents’ all over London.”
“Really, now?” the Earl of Scully interrupted. “It never occurred to me that the beggars might have a guild.”
“Ancient and honorable, or so their charter says,” Moriarty told him. “Dates back, I believe, to the mid-seventeenth century. The membership varies in size according to the social conditions in the country.”
“Fascinating!’ said the earl. “Who would have guessed? A guild. Beggars. Sort of reminds one of The Beggar’s Opera, what?”
“What will they be looking for?” asked the duke.
Mycroft Holmes stirred in his chair. “Any unusual activity,” he gro
wled. “Hummm,” he said. “Anything French,” he added.
They turned to look at him. “French?” demanded the duke.
Mycroft waggled a finger at Moriarty. “Tell them, “he said.
Moriarty looked at him. “Your regard for my omniscience is refreshing,” he said.
“You and my brother are well matched,” said Mycroft.
“Yes … well…” Moriarty turned to the others. “Do you recall what the man who accompanied the murderer said as they absconded with the prince?”
“Something about shoes, wasn’t it?” asked the Earl of Scully.
“‘Feet, feet,’” Sir Anthony recalled. “Something of the sort.”
“That’s what the girl heard,” Moriarty said, “but it seems probable that what he was actually saying was vite, vite. He was telling the other man to hurry. Vite, vite—quickly, quickly. In French.”
“French,” said the duke. “I should have guessed. French.”
Mycroft Holmes leaned forward and tossed something on the table. “After speaking with Professor Moriarty yesterday,” he said, “I sent a cable to the prefect of police in Paris. Here is a copy of that cable and of the response, which arrived shortly before this meeting.”
The two papers were pinned together. The first one read:
ARE ANY CONVICTED KILLERS OF MULTIPLE VICTIMS INCARCERATED ON FRENCH SOIL IN PAST FIVE YEARS NOW MISSING ARE ANY STILL AT LARGE MYCROFT FO
The second, on a Post Office Telegram form, read:
WE HAVE NON SUCH AWARENESS OF PERSONS ALIVE OF TODAY LECLERK PREFECT
“So to their knowledge they have no madmen running around killing people in France at the moment,” Sir Anthony said after reading the two cables.
“It doesn’t mean there wasn’t one,” Mycroft said.
“Just so,” said Moriarty. “I believe it might be of some use to send a trusted agent to Paris.”
“Why?” asked the earl. “There may be some French, ah, people involved, but they would seem to be over here, n’est-ce pas?”
“So it would seem,” Moriarty admitted, “but a babe does not spring from his mother’s womb fully clothed and, in this case, with a knife in his hand. There must have been a maturation period. Or, to look at it from another angle, if one is looking for a killer—that is, if one needs to obtain a murderer for some reason—one looks among those who have already killed. It is possible to create a murderer, given sufficient time and a truly evil turn of mind, but it is more efficient to find one ready-made, as it were.”
Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) Page 15
