The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "Where did you obtain them?" Holmes demanded.

  "From Giles Lestrade," Moriarty said. "There's no secret about it. I am, after all, working on the case."

  "You're what?"

  "I have offered my services to Scotland Yard, and have been accepted. Without a fee, of course. I have a private client, but there is no conflict of interest since my client's only concern is to have the murderer apprehended."

  Holmes stared at Moriarty with fascination. "I don't believe it," he murmured.

  "Why not?" Moriarty asked. "I am, after all, a consultant."

  "Let us not discuss what you are, for the moment," Holmes said. "What I'm trying to figure out is what you'll be getting out of this."

  "Paid," Moriarty said. "I will be collecting a fee from my private client."

  "There is that, of course," Holmes said. "Frankly, Professor, I had just about concluded that you were not involved in the killings when I heard about the robbery. Then I was sure. Since you are so clearly involved in the robbery, you wouldn't really have had time to take part in the slaughter of the upper class."

  Moriarty tapped the pile of folders in front of him. "I've been reading these reports, Holmes," he said. "And I would like to see how your conclusions compare with mine."

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. He stared thoughtfully at Moriarty over his cupped hands for a minute. "Go ahead," he said.

  "We'll start with basics," Moriarty said. "One murderer."

  "Agreed."

  "Male."

  "Agreed."

  "Early forties."

  "Most likely."

  "Average to slightly above in height."

  "That's all in my report!" Holmes said. "All you're doing is reading my own report back to me."

  "What report?" Moriarty asked. "There is no such report in these files."

  "Ah!" Holmes said. "I gave that report directly to Lord Arundale. I suppose he never bothered returning it to the Scotland Yard files."

  "I have noticed this regrettable tendency myself," Moriarty said. "It would seem that the aristocracy has little regard for record keeping. Except tables of genealogy, of course. Tell me, what other observations about the murderer have you detailed on this absent report?"

  Barnett, watching this exchange with interest, could see how speaking civilly to Moriarty, how volunteering information to this friend and mentor that he had turned into an enemy, caused the muscles in Holmes's jaw to tighten, forming his lips into an involuntary grimace. But Holmes, with an effort of will, conquered his feelings. "I believe he is a foreigner," the detective said. "Probably Eastern European."

  "A logical interpretation," Moriarty agreed. "But if so, he almost certainly speaks English like a native."

  "I truly dislike interrupting, and I wouldn't doubt either of you for the world, but from where are you two getting these notions?" Barnett asked. "I've been following these killings, as you know, and you lost me a while back, right after you decided it was a man. For me, even that would still be conjecture."

  "Oh come now, Mr. Barnett," Holmes said, swiveling around to look at him. "These crimes all take place late at night, for one thing. A woman skulking around at such an hour would certainly be noted."

  "A woman in man's clothing?" Barnett suggested, just to keep up his side of the argument.

  "Then there is the matter of simple physical strength," Moriarty said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Each of the victims would seem to have been easily overpowered by his assailant."

  "Drugs," Barnett suggested.

  "There is no sign that any of them ate or drank anything prior to their demise," Holmes said. "With several of them, it is certain that they didn't."

  "All right," Barnett said, giving up on that point, "but what about the rest of it?"

  "We presume a single murderer because the killings are idiosyncratic, each like the others down to fine detail," Moriarty said. "More than one person would surely have more than one opinion as to how to properly knife a man, at least in some small detail. And then, you note how easily our killer assumes a cloak of invisibility? Hard as it is for one man to vanish as easily as our killer has, it is at least twice as hard for two."

  "The age is more of a probability," Holmes said. "Not an old man, because of the required physical strength in the murders and physical dexterity in the disappearances—however they are contrived. And yet not a young man because of the care taken in the crime, and the economy of savagery in what are clearly murders of passion."

  "Passion?"

  "Probably revenge," Moriarty said. "Which is why we put it to a foreigner."

  "Englishmen, I take it, are incapable of acts of revenge?" Barnett inquired.

  "Not at all," Moriarty said. "But they would usually use their fists, or some handy weapon, and do it immediately and in public. Englishmen do not believe, as do the Italians, that revenge is a dish best eaten cold."

  "And your hot-blooded Latin races would probably not commit such a surgical murder as each of these has been," Holmes said.

  "This, of course, is not conclusive, it merely indicates a direction for investigation."

  "I'm not convinced," Barnett said.

  "Luckily, that is not essential," Moriarty said.

  "What about Miss Perrine's kidnapping?" Barnett asked. "How do you fit that in?"

  Holmes pursed his lips. "That is a problem," he said. "It certainly doesn't coincide with the murderer's pattern, and yet it would be stretching the bounds of credulity to suggest that it could be unrelated." He chuckled. "Lestrade thinks it was the murderer returning to the scene of his crime. It makes one believe in competitive examinations for the rank of detective inspector."

  "Have you any information that is not on these reports, Holmes?" Moriarty asked.

  "On the killings or the disappearance?"

  "Either," Moriarty said. "We are interested in both."

  "Only the possibly relevant fact that, for the past few days, someone has had me followed about by a gang of street ruffians. However, I strongly suspect that the someone is you."

  Moriarty nodded. "I admit it," he said.

  "An unpardonable liberty," Holmes stated.

  Moriarty chuckled. "Not at all," he replied. "Indeed, it is strange to hear you say that, considering that you have a substantial portion of the plainclothes police force following me about on every occasion when they are not otherwise occupied. Turnabout, Holmes."

  Holmes smiled grimly. "Revenge, Professor?"

  "On the contrary, Holmes. It occurred to me that whoever removed Miss Perrine from the public eye might not be satisfied with this one triumph, but might go after bigger game. If so, I wanted to have my agents at hand when he did. Unfortunately, the idea seems not to have occurred to him. I take it no murderous attacks have been made on your person in the past few days that I do not know of?"

  "You think someone might be after me?" Holmes asked, clearly astounded at the notion.

  "I think it possible," Moriarty said. "I don't think it probable, but I decided it would be worthwhile to keep an eye on you."

  "Well!" Holmes said. "You suspect that Miss Perrine might have been kidnapped because of something she knew? But she knew nothing that wasn't published the next day in ten morning newspapers."

  "Perhaps the kidnapper was not aware of that," Moriarty said. "Or perhaps she discovered something of which we are unaware."

  "Really, Moriarty," Holmes said. "I profess, I dislike this role reversal, whatever your excuse. Let us keep things in their proper perspective: you are the criminal and I am the detective."

  "One of the first things you must realize about categories, Holmes," Moriarty said, lecturing the detective in the dry, didactic tone he was so fond of, "is that they are not immutable."

  "Come now, Professor," Holmes said. "As a scientist, you surely cannot maintain that the truth is not a fixed quantity."

  "No, sir, but I can and do maintain that our perception of the truth is ever changing
. What was regarded as 'truth' in science but a generation ago is laughable now. And human affairs, Mr. Holmes, change even more rapidly. Also human beings are far more complex than you give them credit for. It is not enough to read the calluses on a man's fingers and know that he is a cork-cutter. To understand him, you must also be able to read his soul: to know his fears, his needs, his ambitions, his desires, and his secret shames."

  "All of which you, undoubtedly, perceive at an instant, eh, Professor?" Holmes said smugly.

  "I do not claim to be a detective, Holmes. The hearts of stars are, to me, far more transparent than the hearts of men."

  "Are you going to persist in having me followed?" Holmes demanded.

  "Not if it bothers you," Moriarty said. "I wouldn't dream of it. Are you going to persist in having me followed, Holmes?"

  "Of course," Holmes said. He stood up. "If you can name this mad killer, or locate Miss Perrine, I shall be the first to applaud. But I still intend to establish your complicity in the treasure-train robbery."

  "You'll understand if I don't wish you luck," Moriarty said dryly.

  "Is there any other action which you have taken in regard to these killings that you have failed to mention?" Holmes asked.

  "One obvious measure," Moriarty said, "in an effort to precipitate some sort of reaction." He handed a folded copy of the Morning Telegraph to Holmes. "I placed a small boxed advertisement in several dailies. Here is its first appearance."

  Barnett stood up and read over Holmes's shoulder.

  LOST—several small medallions. Identical designs.

  Apply 64 Russell Square. REWARD.

  "Interesting idea," Holmes said. "If it is, indeed, a medallion that the murderer has been taking from his victims."

  "That's the most likely word to describe whatever the objects are," Moriarty said.

  "You don't think the killer is going to answer your advertisement?" Barnett asked. "I mean, he's going to a lot of trouble to collect these things, whatever they are. He's not likely to band them over to you."

  "That's so," Moriarty agreed. "But strange things happen in this world, especially if one encourages them. He may have an avaricious landlady who wonders why he is collecting so many identical artifacts. Or he may just leave them somewhere after using them for whatever he does use them for. Or a sneak thief may by some great chance filch them from his bureau drawer, where he has them secreted. One can never tell, can one, Holmes?"

  Holmes put down the newspaper. "I must go," he said. He reached out for the small bronze statuette of Uma that stood on a corner of Moriarty's desk. "I shall borrow this for a while if you don't mind, Professor."

  "You'll what?" Moriarty demanded, leaping to his feet. "Now look here, Holmes—"

  "I hold in my hand," Holmes said, raising the object to eye level, "a small bronze statuette inlaid with precious and semiprecious stones, obviously of Indian origin. It was not here the last time I visited. Indeed, I can safely say that it was nowhere in the house. And now, shortly after a vast Indian treasure has been stolen, I find it here on your desk. Surely, knowing of my suspicions, you want me to take this statuette away with me and compare it against all the items on Lord East's list, don't you, Professor? You want to show me up, prove that my suspicions were for naught, have the last laugh—don't you, Professor James Moriarty?"

  Moriarty glared at his thin, intense antagonist. "I am tempted to say no," he said. "The impulse to annoy you as strongly as you annoy me is almost irresistible. You know you have no right to remove that bronze without my permission unless you get a warrant, showing probable cause. Which would be stretching the truth, something you would not consider in other circumstances. I am strongly tempted to make you step outside and whistle up a policeman, and force the poor fellow to scurry off in search of some complaint magistrate who is unaware of your vendetta against me and might possibly issue such a warrant. But then I'd have to put up with your sitting here glaring at me for half the day, clutching the bronze to your breast, wondering whether the warrant had been issued or not.

  "And so I won't. I haven't the time for such fancies. Take the thing, Holmes. Give me a receipt for it. And when you're forced to return it, I shall frame the receipt and hang it next to the ten-thousand-pound Vernet you object to so much."

  Holmes brought out his small notebook and scribbled a receipt on a page, which he ripped out and handed to Moriarty. "I shall be back within two days, Professor," he said. "Either to return the bronze, or to take you away. Which do you suppose it will be?"

  "I expect an apology," Moriarty told Holmes, "when you return the bronze."

  "I expect a confession," Holmes replied, "when I take you to prison. Do you suppose either of us will be satisfied with what we actually get? But enough! Much as I am enjoying our little chat, I really must be off."

  "If you must—" Moriarty said.

  Holmes turned to Barnett. "Dealing with Professor Moriarty creates in me an attitude that is destructive of my manners and my sentiments," he said. "I want you to know that I am aware of your attachment to Miss Perrine, and I fully sympathize with the sense of loss that you must be feeling now."

  Barnett nodded his thanks. "It is more a sense of futility," he replied. "There is little I can do that is useful. I can keep busy, which keeps my mind off the problem but brings me no closer to finding Miss Perrine."

  "I and my temporary associates of Scotland Yard are doing everything we can to locate and rescue the girl. I pray we will be successful," Holmes nodded to Moriarty. "Don't bother showing me out."

  With a final glance around the room, Holmes stepped purposefully to the front door and threw it open. "Au revoir, Professor," he called, striding through the door and slamming it behind him.

  "A unique man," Barnett commented.

  "True," Moriarty agreed. "For which I am profoundly grateful. More than one Sherlock Holmes on this planet at the same time is an idea that I do not wish to contemplate."

  "Tell me, Professor," Barnett said, "is that statuette from the robbery?"

  "Yes," Moriarty said.

  "Can Holmes prove it?" asked Barnett.

  "That remains to be seen," Moriarty replied.

  A loud clattering sound came from the street outside the house, followed almost immediately by a great crash. Moriarty and Barnett jumped to their feet. Before the sound of the crash had died away, the voices of several people yelling and the shrill sound of a woman screaming joined the cacophony.

  Barnett rushed to the front door and ran outside, with Moriarty right behind him. There on the pavement in front of the house a large poultry cart had overturned; its wheels were still spinning in the air. The horse had apparently broken free, and was racing off in a maddened frenzy down the road. Right behind it raced a small covered chaise, its driver whipping its horse to even greater effort.

  " 'Megawd!" an elderly woman screamed, pulling her shawl about her as bystanders started to gather around the scene. "I ain't never seen nothing like it. " 'E done it on purpose, 'e did. Rode right up on the pavement, right at the poor man. 'E never 'ad a chance! It were murder!"

  "Calm down, woman!" Moriarty ordered. "Who murdered whom?"

  "The Johnny what were atop of the cart," the old lady sobbed. "The Johnny what leaped into that other gig and ran off after 'e'd started the cart toward the pavement. 'E deliberately aimed the cart right for that poor gentleman there!" She pointed. On the ground, almost buried under crates of terrified geese, lay the unconscious body of Sherlock Holmes.

  TWENTY-THREE — THE POSSIBLE

  Truth, like a torch, the more it's shook it shines.

  — Sir William Hamilton

  With the assistance of the curator of the Egyptian Collection of the British Museum and a retired sergeant of marines, both of whom were passing at the moment of the accident, Moriarty and Barnett carried Sherlock Holmes up to the front bedroom and placed him gently on the bed. Holmes's face was bloody, but his breathing was regular and even. Moriarty checked his pulse and pul
led an eyelid back to examine the eye.

  "How is he?" Barnett asked.

  "Alive," Moriarty replied. "Unconscious—perhaps suffering from concussion. No broken bones that I can tell. My expertise in medical matters goes no further." He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed tentatively at Holmes's bloody face. "Thank you gentlemen for your assistance," he said to the sergeant and the curator. "You'd best leave your names, as the police may wish to question you about the incident."

  The two men both protested that they had not actually observed what happened, but allowed Barnett to write down their names before bustling off downstairs.