"How is the Mummer?" Barnett asked, in part to find out and in part to get Moriarty off a line of self-abasement that Barnett found uncomfortable.
"Doctor Breckstone was here again this morning, before you descended," Moriarty said, with just possibly a hint of reproach in his voice. "The haematoma over the right parietal has somewhat subsided and it looks as though there is no underlying fracture. Aside from a severe headache, which Doctor Breckstone feels should subside in a day or so, and some minor abrasions, Tolliver is none the worse for his experience. You might go up and see him."
"I shall," Barnett said.
"Good. He refuses opiates for his headache, so he remains quite querulous. I don't like him snapping at the maids, and Mrs. H is far too busy. Go and let him snap at you for a while so he won't take it out on the domestic help."
"I'm glad to discover that I have some useful function in this establishment," Barnett said, smiling ruefully. "And here I was beginning to think that you had nothing for me to do."
"On the contrary, I have a great deal for you to do," Moriarty said. He gave up pacing and sat down in the large leather chair behind his desk. "I have been giving some thought to the Trepoff problem, and you figure prominently in my plans."
"Say, Professor," Barnett said, "just exactly who, or what, is this Trepoff you keep talking about?"
"Trepoff is the man who blew up our clarence cab last evening. He is the man who committed the crime you were accused and convicted of in Constantinople."
Barnett thought about this for a minute. "Trepoff is the fellow the Russians want you to catch," he said.
"That's correct."
"Who is he?"
"Nobody knows," Moriarty said. "Let me explain." And inside of ten minutes he had told Barnett all that he knew of Trepoff and the Belye Krystall, withholding nothing. It was Moriarty's usual practice to burden his associates with no more information than they needed to perform their tasks, but on the Trepoff matter, there was, so far, not sufficient information to be selective about it.
While Moriarty spoke, Barnett longed to take out his small pocket notebook and jot down the facts in his private journalistic shorthand, but he fought the impulse. In his new position he was going to have to learn to rely more on his memory and less on his pencil. "It's a fascinating problem," he said when Moriarty had finished. "I don't see how to get a handle on it: finding a man you've never seen and can't identify in the midst of the world's largest city in time to prevent him from committing an unknown atrocity."
"It is a challenge," Moriarty admitted. "Although it is only the time constraint that makes it interesting. Any population can be sifted through for one individual member, given sufficient time. I have already begun several lines of inquiry. I confess I should have done more."
"I'll say," Barnett said.
Moriarty stared steadily at Barnett. "Perhaps your keener intellect has grasped some fact that has eluded me," he said. "You have some suggestion as to what course of action I should initiate?"
"I'm sorry, Professor," Barnett said. "I didn't mean it that way. It's just that—well—clearly, something has to be done."
"Quite right," Moriarty said. "And if it were your decision, what would you do? I did not mean to sound disparaging of your intellect; it is for that and for your extensive journalistic experience that I am employing you. So, as a journalist, if you were assigned to track down Trepoff for a story, how would you go about it?"
"Don't humor me, Professor," Barnett said. "If I spoke out of turn, I'm sorry."
"No, no," Moriarty said. "I have around me entirely too many men who are afraid to speak out of turn. Conversational interplay is a great aid to focusing one's thoughts on the subject at hand. Please do not ever allow my unfortunate tendency toward the sarcastic rejoinder to deter you from questioning, suggesting, or amplifying as you see fit. And I was quite serious in my question: How would you go about locating the elusive Trepoff?"
"Well," Barnett considered. "There are areas in London where Russian émigrés are known to congregate. That's probably the place to start."
"Quite right," Moriarty said. "And that is, indeed, where I began. There are nine revolutionary clubs run by expatriate Russians in the East End, of which the Bohemian Club seems to be the most popular. The center for intrigue, however, is a smaller establishment called the Balalaika. Behind and above the public rooms at the Balalaika are a complex of private rooms, in which all manner of scheming and plotting against every government in Europe would seem to go on. The owner, a Mr. Petruchian, has agreed to aid us, and one of my agents is now stationed behind the bar."
Barnett whistled softly. "You got the owner of an anarchist bar to help you? What do you have on him?"
"Petruchian is not himself an anarchist, you understand—merely the proprietor of a club. And while he might not be averse to an occasional bombing in St. Petersburg or Vienna, he is a loyal citizen of Britain. When I explained to him—after I had established my bona fides—that an atrocity was planned against his adopted homeland, he was eager to help."
Barnett would have been fascinated to find out how Professor Moriarty had established his "bona fides," but he knew better than to inquire. Instead, he asked, "Have you found anything?"
"Precisely nothing."
"Do you know what you're looking for?"
"It would be enough to discover someone who is whispering of plots against some target here in Britain. Trepoff is probably recruiting his men from among the ranks of the genuine anarchists, but if so, he is being too subtle for me."
"Well, he certainly knows where you are," Barnett said.
"A fact that I have been hoping to put to good use," Moriarty said. "I have managed to trace three of the men who attempted to kill me, including last night's jehu. But they've all been hirelings, who know nothing of their employer." He slapped his hand down on the desk vehemently. "It is time to go on the offensive," he said, "before the man manages to kill one of us by sheer luck."
"You said you have something for me to do," Barnett said. "What is it? I confess I can't think of anything helpful."
"Ah, yes," Moriarty said. He leaned forward across the desk. "I want you to go to Fleet Street," he said, "and reacquaint yourself with your profession. I want you to become familiar with all the important dailies. Get to know the journalists who work for them."
"Sounds easy enough," Barnett said, "except for one thing— what do I tell them I'm doing there, and who do I say I am?"
"Your name is Benjamin Barnett," Moriarty said, "and you are going to open a news bureau. An American news bureau, I rather think. Rent an office in the area and hire a competent secretary; you'll need one for my plan in any case. Put a sign on the door. Something on the order of: 'Barnett's Anglo-American Telegraphic News Service.' I leave the exact wording to you."
"What happens when some random Turkish newsman or government official happens on the name 'Benjamin Barnett'?" Barnett asked.
"Ah, yes," Moriarty said. "That's the other thing I wished to see you about. I have good news for you: you are dead."
"What?"
"As far as the Ottoman government is concerned, you are dead. Shot while trying to escape, or something very like that. So the Gurra-Pasha reported to the Sultan, and so it shall be."
"Why would he do that?" Barnett asked.
"Better not look a gift Pasha in the mouth," Moriarty said. "I would assume he was trying to cover up the escape to protect his reputation. He waited a couple of weeks to make sure you were really gone and then officially notified Abd-ul Hamid Khan the Second, Sultan of Sultans, King of Kings, Shadow of God upon Earth, that you were killed while escaping. Thus he managed to please himself, Abd-ul Hamid, and you all at once, and hurt nobody. Would that all human intercourse were that simple."
Barnett nodded. "Such a short life," he said, "but lived to the full. I shall have to get the copy of the New York World that has my obituary and see what they have to say about me."
"A unique opportunity," Moriarty agree
d. "I trust you will not be disappointed."
"At any rate that is certainly good news—and I wonder how many people would say that after being informed of their own deaths."
"Anyone of whom the report was in error, I fancy, would at least be amused. For the others I will not venture to speak."
"There's no chance that someone seeing my name or encountering me will report it to the Ottoman government?"
"There's every chance it will be reported. And no chance the report will be anything but studiously ignored. Would you like to be the one who informs the King of Kings that you had made a slight mistake in regard to the death of a prisoner?"
"I see what you mean," Barnett said. "Now, back to Fleet Street. I am to open a news service. What sort of news?"
"Anything out of the ordinary," Moriarty said. "I feel sure that there are many stories that come into a newspaper every day that are not used because they prove to be insufficiently interesting or questionably factual."
"That's so," Barnett said. "I'd say less than half of the stories that come over a city desk ever see print."
"And one class of these unused stories would be the unique event that looks as though it would be newsworthy if more information could be developed, but that additional information never comes to light—is that so?"
"Right," Barnett agreed. "That happens all the time. Someone comes up with one fascinating fact that looks as though there is a great story behind it, and you investigate it and get nowhere. And you never know for sure if there was anything there or not. And, of course, you can't use the story because you have insufficient information."
"These are the stories," Moriarty said, "in which I wish you to be most interested. This is where the spoor of Trepoff is to be found. You must look for the merest hints and traces, for this man will most assuredly cover his tracks with the cunning of a jungle beast."
"But what am I to look for?" Barnett asked. "How can I tell when one of these stories relates to Trepoff?"
"You must first eliminate those incidents which cursory investigation will show do not relate to Trepoff or the Belye Krystall. What is left you will write up and put into a notebook. I shall periodically go through the notebook and tell you which items warrant further consideration. Investigate bizarre crimes, seemingly senseless cruelties, and insane acts; look for the unique masquerading as the commonplace."
Barnett shook his head. "I'm sorry if I appear dense, Professor, but I'm still not clear on what sort of thing it would be most profitable to look at. Perhaps if you could give me some example ..."
Moriarty stared at his laced fingers and thought for a moment. "Rather than an example," he said, "let me give you an analogy. Trepoff is like a general in some field army preparing for a battle. He will have his scouts out surveying the land; he will have training exercises for his troops; he will be preparing his logistics and supply; his spies will be probing for the enemy's weak points; his armorer may be preparing and testing weapons; and so on. I'm sure you can extend the analogy yourself well into the ridiculous. And each of these activities will leave a trace for the observer who knows what he is looking for—and looking at.
"Our problem is that we don't know precisely what we are looking for, so we shall have to examine a mass of inconsequentia to establish the relevance of what we are looking at. Can you follow this rather stretched-out line of metaphor?"
"I think so," Barnett said. "I hope so." He stood up. "I'll get to it."
"Good!" Moriarty said. "Other members of my organization will be out searching for data, each in his own specialized way, but I am very hopeful of the journalistic approach." He looked up at Barnett through narrowed eyelids. "Be careful!" he said. "Remember that in this game murder is an acceptable move."
"I'll keep it in mind," Barnett said.
TWELVE — TREPOFF
There are a thousand doors to let out life.
—Philip Massinger
In another quarter of London, in a small interior room lit only by a single candle, a man sat behind a screen. In front of the screen three men stood silently at attention.
"You are agreed?" the man behind the screen asked in a harsh whisper, beginning the litany.
"We are agreed," the three replied.
"You know there is no turning back?"
"There is no turning back," they repeated.
"You are completely dedicated to our sacred cause?"
"With our hands," they replied in unison, "with our heads, and with our hearts!"
"So do you each, separately, swear?"
"I do," each of the three answered, separately.
"On your life?"
"On my life."
"And on the lives of your parents and those you hold most dear?"
And then the three swore this solemn oath, although they did it perhaps a bit more slowly.
"Good," the man behind the screen said. "You are now members of the organization which has no name so that it cannot be betrayed. You will know only each other. You will make no attempt to find out my identity or the identity of anyone else who may communicate with you on behalf of the organization which has no name. You will obey orders willingly and without hesitation, no matter what the order might be. You will do this so that your children will be free.
"The penalty for disobeying orders is death. "The penalty for betrayal is death. "The penalty for failure is death. "Are there any questions?"
The three shuffled nervously and looked at each other. "These orders," one of them finally asked; "how may we know that they come from you?"
"You are Gregory?" the man behind the screen asked.
Gregory nodded, then, realizing that the man behind the screen couldn't see him, said, "Yes."
"Good. You will be the leader of this cell. You will be taught a simple cipher and a series of code words. Orders will then be given to you to be passed on to the others."
Gregory nodded again. "That is good," he said.
"Go now," the man behind the screen said.
The three left, and the man behind the screen went to a small concealed panel in the wall and opened it and stared pensively through. When he had satisfied himself that the three had indeed left the building, and not merely the room, he closed the panel and used the candle to light the two gas fixtures on the wall. A few seconds later another man—tall, thin, ascetic-looking, dressed like a clergyman—entered the room through the door behind the screen. "Well?" he said.
"We'll see."
"They'll do," the tall man said.
"Anyone will do! Men are just tools. Handled properly, they will do the job you put them to; handled wrong, they will botch it."
"For some jobs," the tall man murmured, "you need the right tools."
The other considered this. "True," he said. "I mustn't commit the error of believing that all my—tools—are interchangeable. There is one job that has eluded success several times now."
"Moriarty."
"Yes. The professor of mathematics. Hirelings have not proved capable of handling him. I have avoided using our own people for fear that if they fail, they would lead him inevitably back here. We must assume that he is as cunning as we have been told, although I have seen no remarkable signs of it. He seems to escape our—arrangements—mostly by blind luck."
"Perhaps he is prescient," the tall man suggested. "Like that gentleman at the Music Hall who reads minds."
"I thought he was for a moment," the other said, "when I found that he had followed me to Constantinople. But it was pure chance. Pure chance."
The tall man sat down at a table by the far wall. "I have had a reply from St. Petersburg," he said.
"Ah, yes," the other said. He lit a small cigar and then blew out the candle. "And it said what?"
"The skilled men you require have been located. Transportation is being arranged."
"Excellent!"
"They do not speak English."
"No matter. It would be best if they did not speak at all, but that is too much to be
hoped. How long?"
"Before they arrive, you mean? I don't know. It didn't say. Soon enough, I imagine."
"It cannot be soon enough. Training should have begun already. We cannot leave anything to chance. My plans are complete, and we commence the operation at once."
"What of Moriarty?"
"He is one of the only two men in London—in England—that could stand in our way. The police—bah! They are ill-trained incompetents. The infamous British Secret Service is otherwise occupied at present. But Professor James Moriarty, whom our brothers have seen fit to employ against us, and that notorious busybody, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are very real threats. At the least they threaten to expose us, and discovery is tantamount to failure."
The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 12
