“You have our prize?” he asked, pointing at Graves.
“We’ve got him. He’s groggy now, but he’s only had a few drops of the old chlory. He’ll be right as rain shortly,” said the leader of the abductors, the one who had hit Holmes from behind.
“Was there any trouble?” asked Scoular, his face a cold mask.
“A little. Some geezer tried to interfere.”
“Yeah,” said another. “Called himself Sherlock Holmes.”
Scoular’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
“We gave him what for, and he scarpered.”
“You fools! He should have been silenced.”
“He was a very slippery customer.”
“There were three of you.”
Scoular’s observation hushed the men for a moment, and then the leader piped up again: “But we had Graves to deal with as well, and we got him for you.”
Scoular nodded, and turned to his confederates. “Maxwell, you take care of Mr Graves; and Jenson, pay our friends here and make sure they leave the premises with some speed.” He looked up at the driver of the carriage. “Take them back to the city and drop them somewhere quiet.”
The bigger of the two men took Graves’s limp body and hoisted it over his shoulder, like a roll of carpet. The abductors were paid off, and within minutes the carriage had departed, taking its three passengers with it.
Holding his lantern aloft, Scoular made his way back down towards the far end of the warehouse, accompanied by his two accomplices, one of whom bore the limp frame of Patrick Graves.
Sherlock Holmes followed them at a distance, keeping to the sides of the building and beyond the feeble rays of the lantern.
The men halted, and suddenly a bright shaft of yellow light shot up from the floor of the warehouse, sending a golden glow up into the rafters. Silently, Holmes dropped to the ground. He saw that Scoular had opened a trap-door, and it was from here that the light was emanating. Without a word, the men disappeared from sight and then with the same suddenness of its arrival, the bright beam of illumination vanished as the trap-door slammed shut. The detective was left alone in the Stygian gloom and silence. It was as though he had been witness to a strange shadow-play, and now the show was over. But the show was not over, he determined. This was merely an interval. He had come this far; it would be futile to give up now. He knew that this was the closest he’d ever been to Professor Moriarty, and he intended to get even closer. Somewhere above him a bat, disturbed by the sudden shaft of light, fluttered briefly from one rafter to another and then settled again.
After five minutes, when his eyes had fully acclimatised to the darkness, which was softened only by the moonlight that struggled through the grime on the row of windows placed up the wall near the roof, Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet. His leg still ached and he could feel the wetness of the warm blood seeping through his trouser leg, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it. There were greater concerns at issue here. Slowly he approached the trap-door, and with his heart in his mouth, he gently tugged at the rope-ring which raised it. Again, yellow light escaped into the warehouse. He saw that there was a staircase which led downwards to what appeared to be a narrow corridor. Holmes noted with surprise that this was expensively panelled and carpeted.
Like a man operating underwater, he slipped through the aperture and gently replaced the trap-door. Trap-door, he thought. How appropriate. He was now trapped within the lair of London’s greatest criminal. And he had walked into this trap himself. With a wry grin, he made his way down the staircase.
At the bottom, he listened, straining his ears for any sound. Remarkably, there was none — just a hissing silence. He moved along the corridor and soon came upon two doors: one straight ahead of him and the other to his right, which was twice the size of the first. Gingerly pulling the large door ajar, he discovered that it led to to a lift. A metal cage was in readiness to propel the occupant downwards to who knew where. Reckless as he might have been to come this far, he certainly was not going to risk taking a ride in a lift, especially in Moriarty’s domain.
He tried the other door, which led to another short passage — almost an anteroom—and a further door. As soon as he began to open this, he heard voices. He stopped and peered through the crack that he had created. He gazed down upon a magnificent high chamber, wonderfully furnished and illuminated by electricity. As far as he could determine, the door was situated on a minstrel gallery above the chamber. The gallery ran round the four walls, made up of shelves which housed a vast quantity of books. Down below, two men were in quiet conversation. Crouching low, Holmes slipped through the door and lay on the floor, edging forward enough to survey the scene below him.
From his vantage point, Holmes had an excellent view of the room and its occupants. He recognised one of the men straight away. It was Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command. Holmes observed the other man closely. He was a tall fellow, with finely chiselled, sardonic features and a hard cruel mouth and a mop of dark unruly hair. He had about him an air of power and authority. It was clear to Sherlock Holmes that this was Professor James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. He was in his presence at last. A thrill of excitement rippled through his body. Here was his dark doppelganger, a man as passionate about committing crime as Holmes was about solving it. Excitement transmuted to nervousness and uncertainty. It was as though he had only just realised the precariousness of his position. Oh, he had been clever to trace the devil to his lair, but he would have to be much cleverer to leave without being discovered. He pushed these thoughts from his mind; bridges to be crossed later. Moving even further to the edge of the gallery, he strained his ears to catch what the two men were saying.
Moriarty leaned in a nonchalant fashion on the edge of the mantelpiece while Moran paced up and down in front of him.
“I’m not at all happy about Holmes’ appearance tonight,” Moran was saying.
“Neither am I,” replied the Professor, in silky tones. “But I will take steps to prevent his further involvement in my plans. We must utilise Watson again, and if that fails. I shall simply have to rid myself of this nuisance once and for all.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to do that straight away?”
“Possibly, but my mind is filled with the Elephant’s Egg operation at present, and I’d rather not be distracted by having to devise a suitable finale for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Moran nodded. He knew better than to attempt to persuade his master otherwise.
“Everything is in place at the Indian end,” continued Moriarty, as though he were speaking his thoughts aloud. “Our man is ready to take the place of the Maharaja’s envoy on the sea voyage. It is a substitution which has been worked out with the greatest precision. Reed is overseeing this. So when the ship docks in England, not only will the envoy be a fake but the ruby also. No one will dare to examine it that closely. It would be most impolite to scrutinise such a gift. No one will realise that it is merely a very convincing piece of red glass. It will be presented to the Queen in a special ceremony at Windsor Castle, after which it will be lodged in the vaults there, with all the other trinkets she has acquired during her reign. It is unlikely that it will be seen again — or at least for some time. Meanwhile, we shall have the pleasure of profiting from this most bountiful of eggs.” Moriarty allowed himself a brief smile.
“That’s if Graves is prepared to co-operate.”
“He will, Moran, he will. We have wasted too much time on these reluctant jewellers. He’ll do as I ask... even if I have to use force.”
As though on cue, a door opened and Scoular entered, accompanied by a groggy-looking Patrick Graves. Scoular shepherded the jeweller to the sofa by the fire.
“Our man is coming round,” he declared.
Moriarty grinned. “Good. Moran, be so kind as to give our visitor a reviving brandy.”
Moran did as he was ordered. Graves took the brandy glass and greedily downed the drink in one gulp, which brought on
a coughing fit. The other three men waited patiently like statues until he had finished.
“Mr Graves,” said Moriarty, approaching the sofa, “I have something for you, an offer that can make you a substantial amount of money or one that could result in you losing at least one of your limbs.”
Graves, who was already pale, blanched at the harshness of these words.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked at length, in a halting fashion, his voice no more than a dry whisper.
“Indeed you do.”
Graves grinned slyly. “Then I’d rather take the money option.”
Moriarty chuckled in a theatrical manner while his two companions gazed on Graves with stony stares. “A man after my own heart.”
“Another brandy, perhaps?” Graves held out his glass like a beggar.
“Give our friend another snifter, Moran, and Scoular, you see he gets a good night’s rest. We can discuss details in the morning. I don’t think we have any need to worry. I’m sure Mr Graves will be as co-operative as we wish.”
“Certainly will, gentlemen,” agreed Graves, before taking another gulp of brandy from his refreshed glass.
Sherlock Holmes, positioned high above this drama, concluded that he had learned as much as he needed for the time being, and that it would be prudent to make his escape. With infinite care he retraced his steps back through the two doors and along the panelled passage and up the wooden staircase. Below the trap-door, he paused and strained his ears for any noise, any sound of movement. He could hear none. He pushed up the trap-door sufficiently for him to survey the warehouse. It appeared as empty and deserted as when he had left it. His heart pounding with pleasure, he scrambled through.
As soon as he was on his feet, he felt an arm grasp him around the neck. A gruff voice snarled in his ear, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Holmes swivelled his head to catch a glimpse of his assailant. It was the coach-driver, back from his travels. With great speed and dexterity, Holmes grabbed the man’s arms and, placing all his weight on his good leg, he heaved him over his shoulder. It was a practised Baritsu move. The man rose as though he were a rag-doll, and landed with an unhealthy thud on his back some three feet away from the detective. He gave a cry of pain, and before he was able to lift himself from the ground, Holmes straddled his body and administered a powerful right hook to his chin. The driver’s head fell backwards, his eyes tight shut and his mouth agape. Holmes could not help but smile with pleasure at his own strength and ability. He then carried out a search of the man’s clothing until he found what he was looking for: the keys to the warehouse door.
Within five minutes, Sherlock Holmes, limping badly now, was three streets away from Moriarty’s warehouse. After half an hour, he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street.
Twenty-Six
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
I listened with increasing horror to Holmes’ narrative. Iknew that he cared little for the danger in which he placed himself by continuing with his plan to outsmart Moriarty and to bring him and his organisation down, but Iwondered how much he realised that, in doing so, he was placing me and my wife in great danger also.
My fears must have been mirrored in my glum expression, for Holmes leaned over and patted me on the shoulder.
“Have no fear,” he said, with a steely glint in his eye. “Moriarty will not win; you have my word on that.”
It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it did not comfort. Iknew at first hand the power and extent of Moriarty’s vast organisation — how far his tendrils extended over this great city. There was no dark corner or crevice to which his agents did not have access. He was the puppet-master supreme; he controlled many who were at his beck and call at every hour of the day or night. Holmes had no such organisation. Essentially, he was one man—a David challenging this terrible Goliath. No matter how brilliant my friend was, the odds were heavily stacked against him.
“What do you intend to do now?” I asked.
“There’s a fellow at the Yard with whom I’ve been working on the Moriarty case — Inspector Patterson. He’s the only one I can trust, and even then I have kept certain details from him. However, I shall inform him of Moriarty’s scheme to switch both the Maharaja’s envoy and the stone itself. The envoy is due here at the end of next week. He must be protected. With the co-operation of the Indian police, it should be easy to pick up your louche friend Reed, now that we know of his intentions. Moriarty’s scheme will be scuppered before the boat docks in England. If it is not too late, I will suggest that the stone be transported secretly to this country by another route, to ensure its safety. It is more than likely that the Professor has contingency plans up his sleeve. We cannot be too careful.”
“And then what?”
“I shall disappear. Baker Street is too hot for me now. I’ll not disclose my whereabouts to anyone, including your good self, and so you can say with all honesty that you don’t know where I am. And I suggest that you arrange for your wife to take a trip out of town for a few weeks. Is there some relative or friend who lives in the country?”
“I suppose so...” I hated the idea of sending Mary away, but I knew it was for the best.
“Good. Things will be a little tricky for the next week or so, but after that London will be a healthier and safer place to live in.”
“And what do you want me to do in the mean time?”
“Nothing. Nothing yet. Nothing until I contact you — which I will, in due course. For now, we need to add some touches to give authenticity to the story of my disappearance.”
Some five minutes later, I stood on the threshold of my old room, ready to leave. Sherlock Holmes and I shook hands.
“Do take care, old friend,” he said.
“I fear less for my safety than your own.”
He grinned and closed the door.
I decided to walk back to Paddington. It was a bright spring day and I felt in need of fresh air. I wanted to sort things out in my mind, to try and gain a clearer perspective on matters. As I was passing the gates by Hyde Park Corner, lost in thought, I suddenly became aware that a tall figure had fallen into step with me and was walking by my side. It was Scoular.
“How are you, Doctor? Well, I trust,” he said. The words were pleasant enough, but they were delivered without warmth or friendliness.
“I am well,” I responded in kind.
“And Mr Sherlock Holmes, is he well? How is his leg? You visited him this morning.”
I nodded. “I went to Baker Street to see him. He wasn’t there.” Scoular’s eyes narrowed as he repeated my words. “He wasn’t there?”
“He’s gone away.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. There was this note waiting for me.” I handed him an envelope that Holmes had given me.
Scoular took it roughly and extracted a note, which he read out loud: Watson: matters are too hot for me in London at present, so I’ve decided to move away for an indefinite period. You shall not see me for some time. Regards to Mrs Watson. I remain yours, Sherlock Holmes.
Scoular emitted a cry of disgust and almost screwed the note up. “This is some kind of trick,” he said.
I shook my head in ignorance. “Ever since my marriage, Holmes has confided in me less and less. I can only take this message at face value. I have no idea where he is or what his plans are.”
“Very well. I will keep this note. The Professor will no doubt find the contents most interesting. Remember, Watson, where your allegiance lies and on whom your life depends. If Sherlock Holmes gets in touch with you for any reason, you must contact us immediately. Is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” he said softly, and then stepped back, merging with the crowd of pedestrians on the pavement. Within seconds, he was lost from sight.
I removed my hat and with my handkerchief mopped my brow. Moriarty was clever enough to know that the note was a blind. He knew that Holme
s would not desert the city at this crucial time. The Professor would set his hounds on my friend. Never had Sherlock Holmes been more vulnerable.
“You’ll take tea with me, Mr Scoular, won’t you?” Mrs Hudson placed the kettle on the gas ring in readiness, but her visitor shook his head.
“On some other occasion, maybe,” he said politely, but without warmth. “I just need to know — the Professor needs to know where Sherlock Holmes is.”
Mrs Hudson, wiping her hands on her apron, sat down in her favourite chair by the hearth and smiled. “I don’t know. As you know, he rarely confided in me in the old days, but just recently I reckon he could give a clam a few lessons or two.” She chuckled at her own conceit, but Scoular’s disapproving glance cut her merriment short.
“When did you last see him?”
“I can’t be sure, and that’s the truth. He’s taken to wearing an assortment of wigs, false noses and all kinds of costumes, so I’m never sure whether it’s him in disguise or one of his visitors. I haven’t served him any meals now for over a week.”
Scoular gave a sigh of impatience.
“Doctor Watson came round this morning,” she continued, “so I assumed he was home then, but Watson popped in to see me on his way out and said that he’d waited for his friend in vain. There was a note saying he’d gone away for a few weeks — but it didn’t say where to.”
“I’ve seen the note,” said Scoular. “Rather too convenient to be real, and most probably a dupe to make us think he has run away.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head. She didn’t know what Scoular meant. “You’re welcome to go up and look in his rooms, if you want.”
“I know that,” he rasped with impatience. “And I shall do so presently. In the mean time, if you see any trace of Holmes or anyone who might be Holmes, you must inform the Professor immediately. Immediately, is that clear?”
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