The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "Which is?"

  Moriarty picked up the Morning Herald and tossed it to Barnett. "Examine page one," he said.

  "I thought you never read the newspapers," Barnett said.

  "Only in the way of business," Moriarty told him. "Never for pleasure."

  Barnett unfolded the Herald and looked over the stories on the front page. " 'Police Baffled at Latest Slasher Outrage,' " he read. "No doubt," Moriarty commented.

  Barnett looked at him, and then back at the paper. "That's not it, then." He studied the headlines. " 'French Official Detained by Germans in Alsace—Boulanger Protests.' "

  Moriarty strapped the portfolio closed without looking up.

  " 'Home Rule Bill Will Face Parliament Again.' "

  Moriarty chuckled.

  " 'Lord East Arrives on Drakonia.' "

  "Ah!" Moriarty said. "You might further peruse that article. It has certain points of interest."

  Barnett read: " 'Lord East, Viceroy of India until relieved February last by Sir Harry Wittington, arrived in Liverpool yesterday afternoon aboard the Anglo-Indian Line steam packet Drakonia. His lordship will proceed directly to London to make arrangements for the reception and transportation of the justly famous Lord East collection of Indian artifacts.

  " 'The collection, a vast assemblage of archaeological material, artwork, and precious metals and gems from all over the Indian subcontinent, has been placed by Lord East on indefinite loan to the Crown for display at selected locations throughout London on the occasion of her majesty's impending Golden Jubilee.

  " 'The Lord East Collection is due to arrive at Plymouth aboard Her Majesty's Battleship Hornblower for transport by rail to the five museums in London which have been designated custodians for the duration of the Golden Jubilee, after which a permanent exhibition site will be picked and proper housing for the collection constructed.

  " 'The special train which is planned for carrying Lord East's priceless treasure is to consist of twenty cars—ten goods wagons for the collection, and ten special troop cars for the military escort. Unusual precautions are being taken to safeguard the treasure, which our correspondent is given to believe has been threatened by an Indian secret society dedicated to the overthrow of the British raj.

  " 'Lord East has held the title of Viceroy for the past six years, and is generally considered to have been most effective in spreading British rule throughout the subcontinent and bringing the civilizing influence of British law and custom to every corner of this vast land.' "

  "He has also," Moriarty said, interrupting Barnett's reading, "succeeded in looting a five-thousand-year-old civilization of such items as were gaudy or valuable enough to catch his fancy, and in the process has damaged, defaced, or utterly destroyed everything he touched that he didn't covet or understand. The man is a vandal."

  Barnett put the paper aside. "I have an intimation of what the problem is that you have been pondering for the past few days," he said. "Considering this article, paired with the fact that a gentleman of Indian background has been visiting you of late."

  "Ah, Barnett, there is something of the investigator in you after all. Which is to the good, as that is what I've been principally employing you for during these past two years." Moriarty left the room and preceded Barnett down to his study. "I assume you wish to speak to me," he said, settling into the leather chair behind his massive desk.

  "A few words, Professor," Barnett said. "I have to leave the house shortly, but I thought I'd better apprise you of a decision I've made."

  Moriarty silently studied Barnett for a few seconds. "You have my approval and my blessings, for what they're worth," he said. "The state of matrimony is not for me. By its nature it cannot be an equal relationship, and I would take neither part of an unequal relationship. But I think you, if I may use a metaphor, are the sort of ship that needs a rudder."

  Barnett's face turned bright pink. "Come now, Professor," he said, staring down at Moriarty, "how can you possibly know what I intend to ask you before I have done so?"

  "An elementary problem, my dear Barnett. Our agreement terminates in a little over a month, I believe?"

  "That is so."

  "Yes. And it has been preying on your mind. You have made several oblique references to the fact over the past weeks. Usually during dinner. So, after two years of harmonious association, you wish to go your own way."

  "How do you know I don't wish to extend the contract for another year or two?" Barnett asked.

  "It seems clear that in that case it wouldn't occupy your thoughts. You know that I find our association satisfactory, so you can't be concerned as to whether I am preparing to throw you out. It must be that you are preparing to sever the connection. But by the same token, if you had already definitely decided to leave, you would certainly have informed me shortly after making the decision. You would, as you might say, get it off your chest."

  "Probably," Barnett admitted.

  "So, when my observations and deductions had taken me that far, I was faced with the following question: here is my trusted as-sociate planning to leave my service. But his plans aren't definite, or he would certainly have informed me. Therefore, his leavetaking is predicated upon some future event that might not happen as anticipated. At first, I will admit, I contemplated the possibility that you had received an offer from some other organization; something perhaps entirely inside the law, something offering more remuneration or more interesting and varied assignments."

  "Professor—"

  Moriarty held up his hand. "But upon reflection," he said, "I realized that that could not be. You are not unhappy here. You are one of those who finds a necessary vitality in the practice of our endeavors. Quick thinking, fast response, the ever-present scent of danger; these things serve as anodyne and stimulant to you."

  "I admit to feeling more alert, even more vital, when I'm risking my life and liberty in your employ," Barnett said. "But I am not altogether sure that it is the most sensible way to achieve that result."

  "So far my logic took me," Moriarty said. "Some further reflection made it evident that you were preparing to propose marriage to Miss Cecily Perrine. If she accepts, you will wish to leave my employ, it being unchivalrous to ask her to wed someone who might conceivably be convicted of a felony."

  "That is so," Barnett said.

  "Therefore I offered you my approval and blessings."

  "It is pointless to try to keep a secret from you, Professor," Barnett said. "I am meeting Miss Perrine for luncheon, and I expect to broach the subject to her at that time."

  "I doubt whether you will surprise the young lady, either," Moriarty commented. "In my experience, although the man does the proposing, he is often the last to know."

  "I'm afraid that I shall have to give up my services to you, except for those which come through the American News Service," Barnett said. "This Indian venture will probably be the last effort in which I am directly involved."

  "Are you sure you desire to take part in this one?" Moriarty asked. "After all, with only a month left, and a marriage impending—"

  "The lady hasn't accepted me yet," Barnett said. "I certainly hope she will, but if not I will surely need something to keep my mind off her refusal. And if she does accept, well, I'm sure the marriage will be several months off. And, after reading the newspaper description—" He paused. "Well, let me put it this way. If you are planning to remove a treasure shipment from either the Hornblower or a troop train, that's something I wouldn't miss for the world!"

  FOURTEEN — THE ART OF DETECTION

  And lo, between the sundown and the sun,

  His day's work and his night's work are undone;

  And lo, between the nightfall and the light,

  He is not, and none knoweth of such an one.

  — Algernon Charles Swinburne

  If you are not satisfied with my reports, or with the progress I've made in the investigation," Sherlock Holmes said, rising from his caneback chair and fixing his sh
arp, piercing gaze on the man across the desk, "then by all means get another investigator. I shall consider myself off the case from this moment, and I shall submit no bill. Please call your clerk and ask him to retrieve my overcoat."

  "No, no, Mr. Holmes, you misunderstand," the Earl of Arundale said, leaping to his feet and placing a placating hand on Holmes's arm. "We are all distressed that this murderer has not been apprehended, but I am satisfied that no man could have done more than you in the attempt. Your reports are, indeed, full of detail that was overlooked or unseen by the regular police."

  Holmes dropped back onto the brocade-covered seat of his chair and stared glumly across the desk. "I apologize for taking offense so easily, my lord," he said. "But this is a vexatious problem with which you have presented me. With each subsequent murder our killer manages to make himself more obscure. This is contrary to my experience. There is something—some essential fact—which connects these killings, which I am failing to grasp. I'm certain that it is there, in those documents, staring me in the face. I have gone over them for countless hours, both the police reports and my own notes. I sense that the answer is there, sometimes I feel that I almost have it, and yet it eludes me."

  "You have given us a description of the murderer," Lord Arundale pointed out. "Something that the regular police have been unable to do. And that without anyone's having seen the man."

  "Bah! A description that would fit thousands of men walking about London at this moment." Holmes hit his fist against the side of the desk. "I tell you, my lord, it is maddening!"

  Lord Arundale's butler, an ancient retainer in red velvet knee breeches and a swallowtail jacket, knocked on the study door and pulled it open. "The Count d'Hiver has arrived, my lord," he announced, pronouncing the name "Deever."

  "Show him in, Threshampton," Lord Arundale said. He turned to Holmes. "The name is pronounced 'd'Hiver,' he explained, giving it the full value of its French ancestry. "The count is interested in this affair. He has what we would call in legal terms a 'watching brief from the Lord Privy Seal. Her majesty herself is quite concerned. She does not, for obvious reasons, wish this concern to become known. D'Hiver regularly travels abroad for the Home Office, I am given to understand, on assignments of a confidential nature. He is considered quite perceptive and quite able. Some people find him rather abrasive—I give you warning."

  "I understand, my lord," Holmes said, sounding thoughtful, "but surely—"

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing—nothing important. But tell me—the Count d'Hiver? Certainly that is not a British title, neither in style nor name."

  "The title is French," Lord Arundale said, "but the d'Hivers are English for the last hundred years. The present count's great-grandfather, or some such, came over one jump ahead of Robespierre. Got out of revolutionary France by a neck, if you see what I mean."

  The count was a slight, delicate-looking man with a precisely trimmed beard that made his face look angular. His family's hundred years in England did not show in his taste in clothing; his double-breasted blue foulard suit jacket covered a white flowered waistcoat with just a touch of lace along the collar. The effect was so un-British, so Parisian, as to skirt the bounds of taste for a proper London gentleman. But Count d'Hiver bore it well. His every move reflected an air of panache and a manner of self-assurance that made it clear that he valued no man's opinion save his own. He strode into the room and stopped in the middle of the carpet, his gaze darting about like that of a predatory animal in search of its lunch.

  The Earl of Arundale rose and performed the necessary introductions. "Mr. Holmes was just about to discuss with me some of the conclusions he has reached," he said.

  "I have read your reports," d'Hiver said, looking down his aquiline nose at Holmes, "and those of the police. The police are bunglers. You show a little imagination, Mr. Holmes. But still, we don't seem to be any closer to apprehending our killer."

  "That is, unfortunately, the truth," Holmes admitted. "There has been very little to work on so far. The first four killings took place before I was called in. Thus I was unable to examine the scenes of the crimes until well after the most suggestive evidence had been handled and tramped over by a dozen other people. Three of the murder rooms had been cleaned before I got to see them. Nonetheless several facts of interest have been uncovered. I have initiated several lines of inquiry, but so far they have all proved fruitless."

  "In your last report there is a description of the man you claim is the killer," d'Hiver said. "How much of it is guesswork?"

  "I never guess," Holmes said. "And if I were prone to guesswork, I certainly wouldn't do it in my reports. What I have given you is my considered opinion, based upon investigation and deduction. It may prove to be wrong in one or two particulars, but on the whole it is accurate."

  Count d'Hiver perched himself on one of the caneback chairs, his body rigidly erect and tilted slightly forward, his hands crossed over the massive gold knob on his ebony cane. "Accurate it may be," he snapped, "useful it is not! Your description is as vague as the fortune-teller's fabled 'tall, dark man.' "

  "Sketchy, perhaps, Count d'Hiver," Holmes said, "but hardly vague. The man is between five feet ten and six feet tall, weighs about twelve stone, is neither adolescent nor aged—I estimate his age at forty to forty-five, but there I could be off. He has light-brown hair of medium length, dresses like a gentleman, is not obviously disfigured, and is probably Eastern European. If so, he speaks English fluently."

  "Really?" D'Hiver said, his voice showing aristocratic doubt. "And this description of a man who has not been seen is pieced together from your examination of rooms where the experts of Scotland Yard can find no clues. Tell me, is there anything else that has eluded the professionals?"

  "A few items," Holmes said, apparently oblivious to d'Hiver's sarcastic tone. "The man is in good physical condition, athletic and robust. He picks his victims carefully, not at random. All of the murdered men have—for the killer—something in common."

  D'Hiver leaned forward in his chair, his eyes like dark gimlets peering at Holmes. "And that is?"

  Holmes shook his head. "That I cannot tell you. That is the point which has succeeded in eluding me."

  "Then this is not the work of a lunatic?" Lord Arundale asked.

  "On the contrary, my lord," Holmes said. "This is clearly the work of a lunatic. But the killings are not random. This lunatic has a pattern, a goal, a fixed purpose. And he knows something that we do not."

  "What do you mean?" Lord Arundale asked.

  "Look at it this way, my lord. Let us say that the killer hates the color red, and is killing everyone he sees dressed in red. Well then, the pattern should be obvious, but we don't see it. We are colorblind. We cannot solve this hypothetical case until someone who is not colorblind happens to mention that all of the victims have been clad in red."

  "You believe these victims are tied together in some fashion?" Count d'Hiver asked.

  "Yes, I would say so. Something definite and precise, beyond the obvious similarities of sex and class."

  "Why? What evidence have you of this?"

  "Evidence? I have nothing so strong as to be called 'evidence.' I have, rather, hints, suggestions; nothing better. However, I also have my knowledge and experience, and upon that I base my conclusion."

  "You have found nothing that would support my fears of a foreign connection?" Lord Arundale asked.

  "None," Holmes said. "It was in following that possibility that I got led astray some days ago and ended up at the country estate of my old friend Professor James Moriarty."

  "I read of that," Lord Arundale said. "The police report of the raid did not go into much detail. I had the feeling much was left out."

  "It doesn't matter, my lord. It was a mistake. Sometimes specialized knowledge can lead one astray. The knowledge that there is one great villain yet unhanged can temporarily blind one to the fact that other villainy can coexist. I am not yet totally convinced that Moriarty is
not involved, but I must admit that the preponderance of evidences would so indicate."

  "These 'hints' of a common tie between the victims." Count d'Hiver said. "Upon what sort of facts, of clues, are they based?"

  Holmes turned to face the count. "I would rather wait until I have had a chance to assemble a few more facts," he said. "I dislike presenting my conclusions piecemeal in this fashion. I agreed to keep you informed as to my progress only because of the unusual circumstances, and because her majesty is interested. This is not my usual way of proceeding, and I don't like it."

  "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Count d'Hiver said, "we don't have time for you to assemble. There are decisions that must be made now, and to make them intelligently we must have all the available information. I'm sure you understand." He smiled. His teeth were even and white, and gave the impression of being sharp.