Certain aspects of the case will never see print, at least not during the lifetimes of any of those involved; and I certainly cannot write it up in one of my articles for the American press, without revealing what must not be revealed. But the facts should not be lost, so I will at least set them down here, and if this notebook remains locked in the bottom drawer of my desk at my office at the American News Service until after my death, so be it. At least the future will learn what must be concealed from the present.
My name is Benjamin Barnett, and I am an expatriate New Yorker, working here in London as the director and owner of the American News Service; a company that sends news and feature stories from Britain and the continent to newspapers all around the United States over the Atlantic cable. Four years ago I was rescued from an unfortunate circumstance—and being held prisoner in a Turkish fortress is as unfortunate a circumstance as I can imagine that does not involve immediate great pain or disfigurement—by Professor James Moriarty. I was employed by him for two years after that, and found him to be one of the most intelligent, perceptive, capable; in short one of the wisest men I have ever known. Most of those who have had dealings with the professor would, I am sure, agree, with the notable exception of a certain consulting detective, who places Moriarty at the center of every nefarious plot hatched by anyone, anywhere, during this past quarter-century. I have no idea why he persists in this invidious belief. I have seen that the professor sometimes skirts the law to achieve his own ends, but I can also witness that Professor Moriarty has a higher moral standard than many of those who enforce it.
But I digress. It was last Tuesday evening, four days ago, that saw the start of the events I relate. We had just finished dinner and I was still sitting at the dining table, drinking my coffee and reading a back issue of The Strand Magazine. Moriarty was staring moodily out the window, his long, aristocratic fingers twitching with boredom. He was waiting, at the time, for a new spectrograph of his own design to be completed so that he could continue his researches into the spectral lines of one of the nearer stars. When he is not engaged in his scientific endeavors, Moriarty likes to solve problems of a more earthly nature, but at the moment there was no such exercise to engage his intellect; and to Professor Moriarty intellect was all.
I finished the article I was reading, closed the magazine, and shook my head in annoyance.
"You're right," Moriarty said without turning from the window. "It is shameful the way the Austrian medical establishment treated Dr. Semmelweis. Pass me a cigar, would you, old chap?"
"Not merely the Austrians," I said, putting the magazine down and reaching for the humidor on the mantel. "The whole medical world. But really, Moriarty, this is too much. Two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake as a sorcerer."
Moriarty leaned over and took a cigar from the humidor as I held it toward him. "After all the time we have been in association," he said, "surely you can follow my methods by now."
"It is one thing to watch from the audience as De Kolta vanishes a girl on stage," I told him, "quite another to know how the trick is done."
Moriarty smiled and rolled the cigar between his palms. "My 'tricks' are in one way quite like those of a stage conjurer," he said. "Once you know how they're done, they don't seem quite so miraculous." He paused to clip and pierce the ends of the cigar with his silver cigar cutter. Then he lit a taper from the gas mantle on the wall, and puffed the cigar to life. "But think back. This particular miracle should succumb even to your analysis."
I rose and went over to the sideboard to pour myself another cup of coffee. The serving girl had yet to clear away the dinner dishes, and I absently banged the coffee spoon against a wine glass that had recently held its share of a fine '63 Chateau de Braquenne Bordeaux. Some months ago Moriarty had cleared up a particularly delicate problem for Hamish Plummet, partner in Plummet & Rose, Wines and Spirits, Piccadilly. Plummet presented the professor with a case of that rare vintage as a token of his appreciation, and tonight Moriarty had uncorked a bottle and pronounced it excellent. I was pleased to agree.
"You read the article," I suggested.
"Bravo, Barnett," Moriarty said. "A capital start."
"And you saw me reading it. But wait—you were across the room, looking out the window."
"True," Moriarty acknowledged. "I saw you reflected in the window glass."
"Ah!" I said. "But how did you know which article—even if you saw me reading—"
"I did not merely see, I observed. You stared down at your free hand, turning it over and examining it in a contemplative manner."
"Did I?"
"You were reflecting on Semmelweis's campaign to get his fellow physicians to wash their hands before treating patients. You were no doubt thinking of how many poor women had died in childbirth because the doctors scorned him and refused to take his advice."
"That's so, I remember," I told him.
"Thus I knew, by observation, which article you were reading. And then you put down the magazine and shook your head, clearly revealing your sequence of thought, and I said what I said." Moriarty returned his gaze to the window and puffed silently on his cigar.
A few moments later Mr. Maws, Moriarty's butler, knocked at the door and entered, and the serving girl scurried in past him and started clearing the table. "There's a milord come to see you, Professor," he said. "I put him in the front room. Here's his lordship's card." Mr. Maws handed Moriarty the rectangular pasteboard.
Moriarty centered his cigar carefully on the lip of an oversized ashtray and looked at the card, and then looked again. He ran his fingers over the surface, and then reached for a glass of water on the table, using it as a magnifying glass to carefully study the printing on the card. "Fascinating," he said. "What does the milord look like?"
"Young," Mr. Maws pronounced. "His attire is a bit on the messy side."
"Ah!" Moriarty said. "Well, I'll see him in my office. Give us a few seconds to get settled, and then bring him along."
"Very good, Professor," Mr. Maws said, and he bowed slightly and backed out of the room.
"The nobility has a sobering effect on Mr. Maws," Moriarty commented, as we crossed the hall to the office.
"Who is it, Professor?" I asked. "A client?"
Moriarty passed me the card. "Certainly he desires to become one," he said. "Else why would he come calling at this time of night?"
I examined the card to see what had fascinated Moriarty. Printed on the face was: Lord Everett Tarns, and underneath that: Earl of Whitton. There was nothing else. "Then you don't know who he is?"
"No." Moriarty went to the bookshelf by his desk and reached for the copy of Burke's Peerage, then took his hand away. "And we don't have time to look him up, either, if those are his footsteps I hear."
I sat down on a chair by the window and awaited events.
A few seconds later a harried-looking man of thirty-five or so in a rumpled dark suit burst through the door and stared at both our faces before deciding which of us he had come to see. "Professor Moriarty," he said, addressing my companion, who had lowered himself into the massive leather chair behind his desk, "I am in the deepest trouble. You must help me!"
"Of course, your lordship. Sit down, compose yourself, and tell me your problem. I think you will find this chair by the desk comfortable."
His lordship dropped into the chair and looked from one to the other of us, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
"This is Mr. Barnett, my confidant," Moriarty told the distraught lord. "Anything you choose to tell me will be safe with him."
"Yes, of course," Lord Tams said. "It's not that. Only—I'm not sure how to begin."
"Let me see if I can help," Moriarty said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his tented hands. His hawklike eyes looked Lord Tams over closely for a few seconds. "You are unmarried. Your older brother died unexpectedly quite recently, leaving you heir to the title and, presumably, estates of the Earldom of Whitton. Your new obliga
tions make it necessary for you to give up your chosen profession of journalism, a result that is not altogether pleasing to you. You and your brother were not on the best of terms, although nothing irreconcilable had passed between you."
His lordship's hands dropped to his side and he stared at Moriarty. The professor has that effect on some people.
Moriarty sat up. "There are some other indications that are suggestive but not certain," he said. "As to the specific problem that brought you here, I'm afraid you'll have to tell me what it is."
"Who has spoken to you about me?" Lord Tams demanded.
"No one, your lordship, I assure you," Moriarty said. "You carry the indications about for the trained eye to read."
"Really?" Lord Tams rested one hand firmly on the edge of the desk and pointed an accusing finger at Moriarty with the other. "The death of my brother? The fact that I am unmarried—and a journalist? Come now, sir!"
Moriarty leaned forward, his eyes bright. "It is, after all, my profession, my lord," he said. "My ability to see what others cannot is, presumably, what brought you to me. Now, what is your problem?"
Lord Tams took a deep breath, or perhaps it was a sigh. "Your surmises are correct, Professor Moriarty," he said. "I am unmarried. My profession, if such I may call it, has been writing freelance articles on economic subjects for various London newspapers and magazines. When an editor wants a piece on free trade, or Serbian war reparations, he calls on me. I have recently—very recently—come into the title, inheriting it from my elder brother Vincent, who died suddenly. It is his death that has brought me here to seek your assistance."
I leaned forward in my chair. The thrill of being in at the beginning of one of Moriarty's little exercises does not diminish with time. "Your brother was murdered?" I asked.
"My brother's death was, and is, completely unexplainable, Mr. Barnett," Lord Tams replied.
Moriarty clapped his hands together. "Really?" he said. "Come, this is quite—interesting. Tell me everything you know of the affair."
"The circumstances are simple. Vincent had gone to one of his clubs—the Paradol in Montague Street—to stay for a few days. On the morning of the third day a waiter went in to bring Vincent his breakfast, which he had ordered the night before, and found my brother dead in his bed. He was lying on his back, his face and chest unnaturally red, his hands were raised as if to ward off some unseen threat, and a look of terror was fixed on his face. The club doctor, a Dr. Papoli, examined him and said it was apoplexy; but, as the doctor is from somewhere in the Balkans, and lacks a British medical degree, nobody seemed to take him too seriously. The police doctor strongly disagreed, although he could not come up with an alternate diagnosis."
"This was at the Paradol, you say? Did your brother commonly frequent the Paradol Club?"
"He has been a member for years," his lordship said, "going perhaps six or seven times a year. But for the past three months he had been going twice a month, and staying for two or three days each time."
"Are you also a member?"
"I am a permanent guest of my brother's," his lordship said. "I occasionally use the reading room, but as for the club's other—functions—I found that they were not to my taste."
"I don't believe I know the club," I said to Moriarty.
"It is for, ah, specialized interests," Moriarty told me. "It is where rich men go to meet with complaisant women. It is an upper-class rendezvous for what the French call le demimonde. The French seem to have a word for everything, have you noticed?"
"It is so," Lord Tams agreed. "The Paradol Club exists for those gentlemen who enjoy the company of women of, let us say, loose morals but impeccable manners. It is not the only establishment of its type in London, but it is one of the most exclusive, expensive, and discreet."
"Did your brother express his taste for these sorts of amusements in any other way?" Moriarty asked.
"His whole life revolved around the pleasures of the senses. It's funny, really; Mama was always pleased that Vincent didn't go in for blood sports. She never guessed the sort of sport in which he did indulge."
Moriarty leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Lord Tams. "When was the last time you saw your brother?" he asked. "The evening before he died."
"Ah! Under what circumstances?"
"I went to see him at the club to ask a favor of him. I am—I was—getting married. I wanted to advance some money from my allowance."
"Allowance?" Moriarty asked. "Then you had nothing on your own?"
"Upon our father's death the entire estate went to Vincent. The house and lands were, of course, entailed, but Vincent also inherited everything else. It was inadvertent. Vincent was fourteen years older than I, and the will was drawn two years before I was born. My parents did not expect another child, and no provision was made in the will for the unexpected. My father died suddenly shortly before my second birthday, and had not gotten around to revising the will."
"I see," Moriarty said.
"My brother has actually been quite generous," Lord Tams said. "The income of a freelance journalist is precarious at best. Vincent gave me an allowance and added a few odd bob here and there when needed."
"How did you feel about his—indulgences?"
"It was not my place to approve or disapprove. Vincent's penchants were his own business. His habits, as he kept reminding me, hurt no one. His view was that his companions were all willing, and profited from the relationship. I remonstrated with him, pointing out that the path of vice spirals ever downward, and that the further along it one travels, the harder it is to get off."
"He didn't listen?"
"He was amused."
"Yes. And you went to see him because you're getting married?"
"I have been engaged to Miss Margot Whitsome, the poetess, for the past two years. We were to have been married next week."
"Were to have been? Then the ceremony has been called off?"
"Delayed, rather."
"By the poetess?"
"By me. How can I allow any lady of breeding to marry me with this hanging over my head?"
"Ah!" Moriarty said. "You are suspected of murdering your brother?"
Our newly ennobled visitor stood and walked to the window, staring out into the dark evening drizzle. "No one has said anything directly," he said. "But I have been questioned by Scotland Yard twice, each time a bit more sharply. My fellow journalists are beginning to regard me as a potential story rather than a colleague. An inspector named Lestrade has been up to see my editor at the Evening Standard to ask if I've ever written anything on tropical poisons."
"How imaginative of him," Moriarty commented.
Our visitor turned sharply. "Professor Moriarty, I have been told that you can solve the unsolvable; that you can see clearly where others find only darkness. I hope this is true, for otherwise I see nothing but darkness ahead of me," he said. "I want you to find out what happened to my brother. If he was murdered, I want you to find out who did it. If he met his death by some natural means, I want you to discover the agency that brought it about. My peace of mind and my future happiness depend upon your success! You can name your fee!"
Moriarty rose and took Lord Tams's hand. "First let me solve your little problem," he said, "then we'll discuss the price."
After some further reassurances, Moriarty sent Lord Tams back out into Russell Square, assuring him that he would have some word for him soon.
"All right, Moriarty," I said when we were again alone. "By what feat of legerdemain did you deduce all that? Did you pick the man's pocket as he entered the room?"
"Deduce what?" Moriarty asked, settling back down in his chair. "Oh, you mean—"
"Yes, I mean," I agreed.
"Nothing extraordinary," Moriarty said. "That he was unmarried I deduced from the state of his clothing. No respectable woman would let her husband go out with his suit unpressed and a tear in the jacket pocket. That also told me that he does not yet employ the services of a valet. That
his older brother died quite recently I deduced from his calling card. The lower line of type was of a slightly different font than the upper, also the spacing between the two lines was slightly off. The second line was added, probably by one of those small hand presses that you find around printers' offices. The missing valet and the calling card surely indicate that he became the Earl of Whitton quite recently. And he hasn't come into the estate quite yet, or he surely would have had new cards printed, and probably bought a new suit. The hand press also pointed me in the direction of his profession. The column proof that was stuffed into his right-hand jacket pocket completed that deduction."
The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 27
