The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  The boss caiquejee clapped his hands together. "Mujika!" he yelled, slapping his assistant on the back. He turned to Barnett with a wide, black-toothed grin. "Mujika!" he insisted, holding his fists clenched with the thumbs sticking straight up and wobbling them in front of him.

  "Bells," Sefton said. "Ship's bells. It must be the yacht."

  The caiquejeem bent to their task with renewed vigor, and soon the sharp lines of the steam-yacht Osmanieh materialized before their eyes through the fog. Two smartly uniformed seamen aboard the yacht lowered a boarding ladder as the caique pulled alongside.

  "Aha!" The boss caiquejee said, as Barnett stepped past him to grab the ladder. "Bang, bang!"

  Barnett started. "What the hell?" he said.

  "Bang, bang!" the caiquejee repeated, shooting his finger at Barnett. "Buffalo Beel. Beely de Keed. Whil'Beel Hitkook. Bang, bang!" He grinned and slapped Barnett on the back. "Cowboy!"

  "Yes, yes," Barnett said, smiling back weakly. "That's right."

  With this encouragement, the caiquejee broke into an expansive statement, accompanied with chest-thumping and a lot of wiggling of fingers.

  "Well," Lieutenant Sefton said, staring back down at them from halfway up the ladder. "I wrought better than I knew. It appears that you have a friend for life, Barnett."

  "What's he saying?" Barnett demanded.

  "He says that he has a brother in Chicago, so he knows all about cowboys. His brother writes once a month. He, himself, hopes to move to America where all men are soon rich and they wear six-shooters."

  "Well, I guess we're all brothers under the skin," Barnett said vaguely, as he climbed up the ladder.

  "Bang, bang!" the caiquejee cried. "Steekemoop!"

  -

  The officer at the head of the ladder checked their papers and passed them on to a midshipman, who took them aft to the main cabin.

  There were about twenty other guests in the cabin, mostly from the press and diplomatic corps of European countries. Red-robed servants wearing long, curved-toe slippers walked silently about, passing out cups of coffee and small breakfast cakes. Some minutes later, when the last of the invited guests found their way through the fog, the yacht got underway and the Captain Pasha came down to talk to the group. He spoke of the Osmanli naval tradition, and of Sultan Abd-ul Hamid's desire to live in peace with all his neighbors. He spoke of world trade and water routes, and of the strategic position of the Bosporus. He urged them to eat more of the little cakes, and assured them that they would be impressed with the day's display.

  "Awfully confident, don't you think?" Lieutenant Sefton murmured to Barnett. "From my past experience with submersibles, they'll be lucky to get the thing running at all on the first trial. Either it won't start, or it won't sink, or it will sink only bow-first or upside down. Balky little beasts, these things are."

  "I thought you were pro-submarine," Barnett said.

  "Pro-submarine? Is that an Americanism, or merely journalese? Yes, I am impressed by the potential of the craft. When the designers get all the mechanical problems solved and the beasts become a bit more dependable, they'll be invaluable to the navy."

  "How will they be used in warfare?" Barnett asked.

  "They will primarily be used for scouting and messenger service, as well as for guarding harbors and fleets at anchor and such duty."

  "What about attacking other ships?" Barnett asked. "I kind of picture them sneaking up on battleships and sinking them."

  Sefton shook his head. "That's a common misconception—fostered, if I may say so, by the sensational press. You must take into account the limitations inherent in the device. First of all, they can never be used in the open ocean; they are too fragile and their range is too limited. Secondly, a submersible could never go against a modern capital ship. It would have to get too close to launch its torpedo. It would be vulnerable to the ship's gun battery. One shell from even a six-inch gun would sink any submersible, whereas it would take a dozen Whitehead torpedos to do any significant damage to a ship of the line."

  "You disappoint me," Barnett said. "I thought the submersible was the weapon of the future. Now I don't know what to tell the readers of the New York World.

  "Oh, it is the weapon of the future," Sefton said. "Properly employed by an imaginative commander, submersibles would have a decisive effect on the outcome of any naval battle. They will eventually change the complexion of naval warfare."

  "What do you know of the Garrett-Harris?" Barnett asked. "Is it any good?"

  "Excellent," Lieutenant Sefton said. "There are said to be some clever innovations on the craft. If what I've heard is true, they have developed a valving mechanism that I would most especially like to get a look at."

  "I doubt if you'll get the chance," Barnett said.

  "Well, they're certainly not going to trot it out for inspection," Lieutenant Sefton agreed. "We've been invited to watch the boat perform, not to examine its innards. I fear one would have to pay for that privilege."

  The fog was clearing now, and the foreign observers were called on deck by a Turkish officer. There, a hundred yards off the port beam, rode the Garrett-Harris submersible boat. It looked like a giant steel cigar, and rode so low on the water that the deck was awash and only the small conning tower was clear of the waves. The craft rocked and rolled alarmingly with every swell that washed over it, but there was something very businesslike in the look of the riveted steel-clad deck, and an ominously efficient look to the streamlined, cigar-shaped hull.

  Sultan Abd-ul Hamid came onto the flying bridge of the Osmanieh, causing an instant swell of whispering and murmuring among his foreign guests. It had not been known that he would be present, and the diplomats aboard were trying to decide what his presence signified, so that they could send portentous reports to their governments.

  The sultan waved his hand at the two men perched on the wet deck of the submersible, and they popped open a hatch and scrambled below.

  "The test commences," announced the Turkish officer.

  A spray of foam churned up from the rear of the Garrett-Harris as the four-bladed screw turned over, and the ship moved forward cleanly through the sea.

  Barnett took out his notebook and a pencil and stared pensively at the retreating craft. The ironclad cigar cut through the water with nary a ripple on either side to mark her passage, he wrote. Slowly she sank beneath the waves until but one slim tube connected her with the surface, and then that, too, disappeared. Now only the slight phosphorescence of her wake marked her passage beneath the surface of the Bosporus.

  "You will excuse me," Lieutenant Sefton murmured in Barnett's ear. "I have some business to transact."

  "Of course," Barnett said, hardly noticing as Sefton moved away. His attention was held by the spectacle before him. There, a couple of hundred yards away, a sloop sailing confidently up the deep channel was being stalked by a craft riding under the calm surface of the Bosporus.

  The Turkish officer rang a small bell to get their attention, "You are about to witness a major happening in naval warfare," he announced solemnly. "When, during the American Civil War, the Confederate States' submersible Hunley sank the Union Housatonic it used a torpedo affixed to a long lance. But the Garrett-Harris boat has solved the problem of launching mobile projectiles from under the water. It is equipped with a device to enable it to fire one of the new design sixteen-inch Whitehead torpedoes without coming to the surface. The torpedo will then unfailingly propel itself to the target. Please observe!"

  Barnett took up his pencil: Now the slim vision tube returns to the surface, almost invisible in the slight swell. The Garrett-Harris moves into position to line up on its unsuspecting target. There is a pause while the target sloop sails into the perfect spot for the launching of the Whitehead torpedo, which carries a dummy warhead but in wartime would be filled with eighty pounds of high explosive. Now, with the sloop perfectly lined up—with twenty-five members of the international press and diplomatic corps watching from along
the rail of the royal yacht Osmanieh, and Abd-ul Hamid II, Sultan of the Osmanli Empire, himself watching from the bridge—

  A giant plume of water shot up from the hidden submersible. As the sound of a tremendous explosion reached the yacht, the little undersea boat threw itself out of the water bow first and then fell back, breaking in half as it hit. For a second the two halves floated separately, and Barnett thought he saw someone inside the forward half scrambling to get out; then a wave closed over the halves and they disappeared from view.

  The underwater shockwave hit the yacht, which bobbed and tossed violently for a few seconds, knocking several people down. Water from the explosion plume fell back, soaking those on deck and adding to the general confusion. Barnett saw some activity at the rear of the yacht, where sailors were trying to heave a line to someone who had been washed overboard by the wave. Finally the man grabbed it, and they hauled him back up.

  Nothing was to be seen of the Garrett-Harris submersible or its two operators.

  -

  A motor launch took the assembled foreigners back to the quay on the Stamboul side of the Golden Horn. They were assured by an expressionless captain of marine that a statement would be issued later by the proper authority.

  Barnett and Lieutenant Sefton walked back to their hotel. "What do you suppose happened?" Barnett asked.

  "It blew up," Sefton said.

  "That much is clear," Barnett agreed, trying not to look annoyed, "but how?"

  "It could be faulty venting of the gasses from the electrical accumulators," Sefton said, "but personally I doubt it."

  "What, then?"

  "A deliberate act of subversion by foreign agents."

  Barnett took out his notebook. "I was hoping you'd say that. Pray, continue."

  "I'm sorry, but I can't possibly be quoted on this," Lieutenant Sefton said. "You'll have to get some Turkish authority to say it. But that shouldn't be too difficult." Sefton seemed nervous and distracted. "Excuse me, old chap," he said as they reached the Hotel Ibrahim. "I must dash off now. See you at dinner, what?"

  "Very good," said Barnett, himself a little distracted by the need for sending an immediate cable to the World outlining what had happened. He settled himself at one of the small desks in the writing room to compose a message. The idea was to be as brief as possible. A long cablegram would follow, night rate, detailing the story, but this would serve to put the editors on guard for it and give them time to decide how much space it deserved. They could get the engraver working on the illustration. Perhaps they could even get a two-line "newsbreak" squib on the front page of an earlier edition. Barnett poised his pencil over the paper.

  Garrettharris Submersible destroyed by explosion during Trial Espionage suspected more follows

  BARNETT

  That was too long. He tried again:

  Submersible spy exploded testing more

  BARNETT

  There. That was the sort of economy of expression—and of the paper's money—of which the World cable editor approved. It was even briefer than he could do with the Royce Telegraphers' Code. He got a cable blank from the front desk and wrote it up, then called for a page boy to deliver it to the cable office. Then he wandered into the hotel bar to have a small glass of sherry before dinner. He would work on the story after dinner, probably long into the night, and get it into the cable office before the rate change at eight the next morning.

  -

  Lieutenant Sefton returned in time to join Barnett for dinner, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Barnett was getting to know him well enough to read his expression now, and he thought that Sefton looked both worried and pleased—as a reporter would when he has an exclusive on a big story and is waiting for it to come off.

  "Do you want to tell me about it?" Barnett asked finally, over the pudding.

  "About what?"

  Barnett described his interpretation of the lieutenant's expression to him. Sefton thought it over. Then he said, "Yes, I think I do want to tell you about it. I wish to enlist your aid."

  Barnett pulled in his chair and looked expectant.

  "Can you be discreet?" Sefton asked.

  "Half a newsman's job is not telling what he knows," Barnett said. "Otherwise his news sources will dry up."

  "Will you swear to keep this a secret until I tell you otherwise and only reveal as much as I say you can?"

  Barnett thought it over. "Unless I get it from another source," he said.

  "Fair enough," Sefton agreed. With an elaborately casual gesture, he glanced around the room. Then he leaned back on his elbows and stared intently at Barnett. He smiled. It was the first time Barnett had ever seen him smile. "I am a spy," he said.

  Barnett was conscious that Sefton was watching his reaction, so he did his best not to react. "How interesting," he said. "Why are you telling me?"

  "As I said, to enlist your aid."

  "I thought you people never asked outsiders to assist."

  "There are no hard and fast rules. Perhaps some day there may be a rulebook for espionage, but not yet. I worship at the altar of expediency, and right now I desperately need your help. So I ask."

  "I don't know the litany," Barnett said.

  "What? Oh, I see. Unfortunate image, that."

  "You didn't have anything to do with the submersible blowing up this afternoon?"

  "No. On my honor. I would have done my best to prevent it, had I known. The Turks are our allies for the moment. We don't do things like that for practice, you know."

  "What sort of help do you need—and why should you ask me?"

  "A man is to deliver some information to me later tonight. I do not altogether trust him. I would like you along to, as you might say, watch my back. As to why I asked you—well, we're in the same sort of business, really. We collect information. You merely disseminate it more broadly than I do. And, in this case, there should be a good story in it for you."

  "One I can use?"

  "Oh, yes. But I shall ask you to suppress some small points, such as my involvement."

  "You fascinate me," Barnett said. "I assume it involves the Garrett-Harris."

  "Correct."

  "Excuse me for harping on this, but why can't you get help from one of your own people?"

  "There is no one else within a thousand miles."

  "Your embassy?"

  "They know nothing of this. They would disapprove. The Foreign Office, under Mr. Gladstone, does not approve of gentlemen reading other people's mail."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "The Naval Intelligence Service."

  "Sounds impressive."

  "It's quite small and understaffed."

  "Nobody," Barnett said, "has ever accused me of being a gentleman. I'm your man."

  "Good." Sefton nodded his satisfaction. "I must go now. There is some other business I have to transact this evening. Can you meet me in my room at twelve o'clock?"

  "Midnight it is," Barnett said cheerfully.

  He spent the three hours until midnight writing the first draft of his story. There was no point in doing the rewrite until after the midnight meeting—when he might have a new end to the story.

  -

  It was five minutes to twelve by Barnett's pocket Ingersol when he closed his writing portfolio. He splashed some water on his face, put a fresh collar on, and slipped into his jacket. After a moment's consideration he picked up his stick and tucked it under his arm. It had no blade concealed in the shaft, but it was stout ash and would serve to turn a knife.

  He walked down the hall to Lieutenant Sefton's room and tapped softly on the door. There was a brief scuffling sound from inside the room, and then silence. Barnett tapped again. The door swung open at his touch this time. The room was dark except for a reading lamp by the bed. In the yellow glow of the lamp Barnett saw Lieutenant Sefton lying supine across the coverlet. His head was off the side of the bed and blood from an open wound at the temple was spurting onto the polished wood floor.

 
; For a moment Barnett was frozen with shock as the scene registered on his brain. Then the meaning of the still-flowing blood came through: Sefton must still be alive! Barnett pushed the door open wide and looked around. The window in the far wall was open and the blinds were swinging gently back and forth. The assailant must have made good his escape by this path, and it must have been within the past minutes, perhaps even as Barnett knocked. But it was more important now to save Sefton's life than to pursue his assailant.

  Barnett rushed over to the bed and pulled Lieutenant Sefton's head gently back onto the sheet. He ripped off one of the pillowcases to make a bandage.

  There was a faint scraping noise behind him. He turned ...