Death by Gaslight

by Michael Kurland

  “And, just for the raw fun of it, ’cause they ain’t got nothing else to do,” Snoozer added, “the rozzers arrest everybody in sight for ‘suspicious loitering.’ Now I tell you, Professor, it’s a sad day when a chap can’t do a bit of suspicious loitering without getting thrown in quod for his troubles!”

  Moriarty leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. “An interesting scene you are painting, gentlemen,” he said. “And a sad tale it is, indeed, that this one unknown murderer is putting the entire criminal class of London out of business. What, exactly, is it that you want me to do about it? Help you compose a letter to the Times? Get the police off your collective backs? What?”

  “They’re on your back too, you know,” Percy the Painter said, and then put his hand to his mouth, as if frightened by his own audacity.

  Moriarty turned his head slightly and inspected Percy speculatively for a moment. “Pray tell me, Percy, whatever are you talking about?”

  “One of my customers, you know,” Percy said. “Collector of Georgian china. Which I can’t imagine why, for the life of me. Ugly, hideous, gross chamber pots they are, too. But he likes them. Lestrade is his name.”

  Professor Moriarty laughed. “Giles Lestrade, a collector of Georgian chamber pots! The man has untold depths.”

  “You know him then? Scotland Yard inspector. Always makes me a bit nervous when he visits the shop, if the truth be told. Well, last time he came in, about three days ago, it was, he had one of his Scotland Yard buddies with him, and they were having a conversation, which I couldn’t help overhearing, while they looked at the china.”

  “And what did they say?” Moriarty asked.

  “Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes—he’s—”

  “I know who he is,” Moriarty growled. “Go on.”

  “Well, Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes was still convinced that you, Professor Moriarty, are responsible for these murders. The chap with him—named Gregson—said it was Holmes’s idée fixe, and there wasn’t anything to be done about it. And he hoped they wouldn’t have to keep too many men away from their other duties for too long, while Holmes has them following you about. It seems that Mr. Holmes is in some position of authority over at Scotland Yard, at least insofar as this investigation is concerned.”

  Moriarty nodded, and allowed his gaze to rest briefly on each of his guests. They were silent while he prepared to speak. “You’re telling me that my interests coincide with yours on this matter,” he said. “I will not dispute that; it is partly so. But not wholly. When the murderer is finally apprehended, and the level of police activity once more falls to normal, you gentlemen are free to resume or continue your nefarious activity. But it will not free me of the attentions of the master sleuth. Sherlock Holmes will inevitably suspect me of whatever heinous crime comes to light next.”

  “He will certainly lose his official status when this case is solved,” Percy the Painter said.

  “That’s so,” Moriarty admitted. “Which will once more lower his nuisance value to a more tolerable level. Is this what you wish me to do—solve the crime? Apprehend the murderer?”

  The six of them shifted uncomfortably, all looking vaguely unhappy, except for Colonel Moran, who looked pugnacious. Barnett was briefly puzzled by this, but he suddenly realized: to these men, asking Professor Moriarty to solve a crime was like asking the Archbishop of Canterbury to commit one. It was the antithesis of the ordinary.

  “Not necessarily, Professor,” Snoozer said.

  “What we want is that you should get the rozzers off our backs,” Twist said. “Catching the gent what’s committing these outrages seems the easiest way, but if you come up with another, that’d be jonnick with us.”

  Professor Moriarty stood up and removed the pince-nez from the bridge of his nose. “It is an interesting situation, and an interesting problem,” he said, polishing the lenses with his pocket handkerchief. “If I agree, and I apprehend this killer, what would you have me do with him?”

  “Whatever you think best. If you want to turn ’im over to the rozzers, that’s jonnick,” Twist said. The others all nodded agreement, looking even more uncomfortable.

  Moriarty looked up sharply. “Even if he’s one of yours?” he asked.

  “He isn’t,” Upper McHennory said firmly.

  “But if he is?”

  “The agreement holds as stated,” Percy the Painter said. “Do whatever you want with the bloke, as long as you get the forces of law and order to direct their attentions elsewhere.”

  “I see. No complaints from you gentlemen, or your colleagues, no matter who the killer turns out to be?”

  “None!” said Colonel Moran, with unnecessary force. The others nodded.

  “And what,” Moriarty asked, “is to be my remuneration for removing this obstacle from the paths of the unrighteous?”

  “What do you want?” Upper McHennory asked.

  Moriarty thought about it for a moment. “I want from you—from the Amateur Mendicants—just what Sherlock Holmes is getting from the government.”

  “That don’t sound too unreasonable,” Twist said. “’Er majesty’s paymasters, from what I understand, is not known for their largess.”

  “How much, precisely, would it be?” Percy the Painter asked. “Just for the record, you know.”

  “I’ll have to find out what Mr. Holmes’s monetary arrangement is,” Moriarty said, “but as Twist says, it’s certainly not excessive. Be aware, however, that there’s another half to that. I want the sort of support from your people that Holmes is getting from the Yard.”

  “Support?”

  “That’s correct. You will be my eyes and ears. You will assemble information for me, interview people, follow people, lurk in doorways, pounce upon clues and bring them here for my perusal. I will tell you what I require done as the tasks come up. How you divide the labor is up to you, except that I shall expect you to be very careful to select the right men for the job.”

  “The London Maund is yours for the calling,” Twist said. “Every stook-buzzer, thin-wire, prop-nailer, thimble-screwer, sneaks-man, till-frisker, bluey-hunter, and tosher in the book.”

  “Fine,” Moriarty said. “I expected no less. What about the rest of you? And what of the various and assorted Amateur Mendicants?”

  Colonel Sebastian Moran stood up and tucked his walking stick firmly under his arm. “They’ll go along, Professor,” he said. “I shall see to that! And if you should happen to need my services, it happens that I find myself at liberty at the moment. A liberty, let me say, that will end when you apprehend this contemptible maniac and get the rozzers off our backs.”

  “Ask and you shall receive,” Moriarty said. “Such assistance as I do require will be paid for at my usual rates, so the requests should not seem too onerous. These expenses will be passed on to your membership along with my bill.”

  Percy the Painter clasped his palms together. “We shall, of course, expect you to use judicious restraint in the matter of expenses,” he said. “Some of the members will be dunned at a higher rate than the others.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Moriarty promised.

  “We thank you,” the Twopenny Yob said, rising and buttoning his Chesterfield overcoat. “On behalf of the membership, we thank you for what we are about to receive, as the bishop said to the lady of the chorus. As one of those whose livelihood is most directly affected by the overly ambitious attempts of Scotland Yard, I, personally, thank you. When will you begin?”

  “I have something on right now that will keep me fully occupied for the next few days,” Moriarty said. “But if Colonel Moran wouldn’t mind waiting in the library for, let us say, two hours, I will prepare a list of the various reports and investigations that I will require you to undertake immediately, so that the information will be awaiting me when I return.”

  “I shall run across the street to the British Museum,” Colonel Moran said. “I should have no trouble keeping myself am
used for a few hours in the Mausoleum Room.”

  “Very good,” Moriarty agreed, ringing for Mr. Maws. The six Amateur Mendicants solemnly shook hands with the professor, and then allowed themselves to be escorted from the room.

  “A fascinating gathering, Professor,” Barnett said when the room was clear. “It’s hard to believe that those people are professional criminals. They’re very well mannered and polite.”

  “You saw them on their best behavior,” Moriarty said. “A circus lion may seem quite tame as it jumps from place to place with no more than a gentle urge from the trainer. Had you met these men in their native environment, they might well have behaved more like the wild animals they are. Snoozer would have stolen your suitcase, Percy the Painter would have removed your gold cufflinks, the Twopenny Yob would have picked your pocket, and Colonel Moran would have cut your throat.”

  Barnett considered. “That may be so, Professor,” he said. “But nonetheless it was quite a meeting, and I’m glad to have sat in on it.”

  “So,” Moriarty said, turning his gaze toward the corner where Barnett was just rising from his chair. “And what was your impression of the event?”

  “Well, Professor,” Barnett said, “I think they have you suckered in right good, as we’d say at home. Scotland Yard’s been after this bird for a month, and they haven’t come anywhere near him. He doesn’t seem to leave any clues behind—just corpses. Even Sherlock Holmes has gotten nowhere with his investigation. And you’re coming to a very cold trail, which has already been stomped over by every detective, amateur sleuth, and journalist in London. I don’t see how you’re going to get a handle on it. Tell me, Professor, are you really going to try solving this thing, or did you just agree to look at it to keep your friends happy?”

  “I doubt whether these people would stay happy if I failed to get results,” Moriarty said. “But it is not quite as hopeless as your analysis would indicate.”

  “You mean you have some clue as to who the murderer is?” Barnett asked.

  “Not at all,” Moriarty said. “But I discern seven separate and distinct approaches to the problem. However, that must all be put aside for now. We have an appointment with a baggage car.”

  EIGHTEEN

  RICHARD PLANTAGENET

  Don Desperado

  Walked on the Prado,

  And there he met his enemy.

  CHARLES KINGSLEY

  Quincy Hope was dead. His body, throat gashed open from ear to ear, lay supine on the floor in his consultation room, arms stretched out cruciform, feet, curiously, raised neatly up onto the seat of the leather couch. He was still in his evening dress, just as he had been when he arrived home a half hour before he was found, missing only his hat and shoes.

  “I haven’t touched a thing, sir, I assure you. Not a thing. I couldn’t,” Gammidge, the valet, told Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A tall, skinny, stoop-shouldered man whose garb appeared too large for his frame, Gammidge stood right inside the room, hovering by the door, and seemed on the verge of tears. “Everything was exactly like this when I found the master, and no one has entered the room since that moment. I only left long enough to go outside and whistle for a policeman. What a dreadful thing, sir.”

  “You did right, Gammidge,” Holmes said soothingly. “What sort of room is this?” It was a long, rectangular room on the ground floor, to the right of the main entrance of Quincy Hope’s large, luxurious house. Across from its paneled door was the comfortable leather couch upon which rested the legs of the corpse, from the black-trousered knees to the black silk-stockinged toes. To the left, a low table and some chairs were by the front windows; to the right, a massive flat desk and chair, flanked by a tall glass-front cabinet and a wooden examination table.

  “It’s Hope’s consultation room, Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Lestrade said. “Mr. Hope would appear to have been some sort of medical man.”

  “What sort?” Holmes inquired.

  “Why, he was—I don’t really know,” Lestrade said. “Gammidge?”

  “I couldn’t say, gentlemen,” Gammidge told them. “I served only as Mr. Hope’s valet. There were several persons who came in during the daytime and aided the master with his medical practice. I really know nothing about it.”

  “What about the other servants?” Lestrade asked.

  “Well, sir, Frazier, the butler, may know more about the master’s affairs.”

  “Right enough. Bring him down here, then. Tell him Scotland Yard wants to talk to him.”

  Gammidge shrank back slightly. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, with the air of one who knows that whatever happens, it’s all his fault, “but Frazier isn’t here this evening. He and the other servants have the night off. They have all, I believe, gone home to various relatives.”

  “All gone, eh?” Lestrade asked, sticking his head forward pugnaciously.

  “I believe so, sir,” Gammidge said, twisting his hands together nervously as he talked. His eyes darted about the room like a caged bird who thinks that an invisible carnivore has somehow entered his cage. “I’ll go and check, if you like.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Gammidge?” Lestrade asked suspiciously. “Something on your mind?”

  “No, sir; only…”

  “Yes, yes; only what, Gammidge?”

  “Only, Inspector, I’d like to leave this room, if I may. It’s making me quite faint, really it is; being in here with the master’s body and all. It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to, you see, and I’ve always had a weak constitution.”

  Lestrade stuck his nose square in front of the poor valet’s face, making him inadvertently leap backward. “Are you sure that’s all, Gammidge? Are you sure you don’t know something more about this? You’d better speak up now, you know; it will save you a lot of trouble later.”

  Gammidge turned white. “I don’t feel so good,” he said, and fainted dead away on the floor.

  “Very clever, Lestrade,” Holmes said sharply. “You’ve managed to render unconscious the only man who was here while the crime was committed; the only one who might be able to tell us anything of what happened here.”

  “So you say, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, looking down unsympathetically at Gammidge, who lay crumpled on the rug. “I say he’s faking; and I say he could probably tell us a good deal of what happened here; and I say it’s a most peculiar circumstance that the rest of the servants have the night off, but this here one remains.”

  “Let us be honest, Lestrade,” Holmes said. “You like finding the servants guilty of crimes because you still suffer from an inborn reverence for the upper classes. Every time you hear someone speaking who clips his vowels, you instinctively want to tug your forelock. If the criminal classes would take elocution lessons, Scotland Yard’s arrest rate would be cut in half.”

  “Now, Mr. Holmes, that isn’t hardly fair,” Lestrade protested, following after the consulting detective as he dropped to his hands and knees and began examining the floor in the murder room with his magnifying lens. “We usually end up arresting the lower orders because most crime comes from the lower orders. Which only makes sense, after all. No call for a duke with an income of a hundred thousand clear every year to cosh someone for his wallet.”

  “I’ll grant you that, Lestrade, but murder knows no social boundaries. Would you turn up those gas mantles on the wall? I need more light.”

  “Um,” Lestrade said, doing as he was bidden. “I don’t know what you expect to find, crawling about on the rug.”

  “Truthfully, Lestrade, I don’t know what I expect to find, either. That’s why I look.”

  The valet sat up, looked around for a second, a puzzled expression on his face, and then pushed himself to his feet. “Is there anything further I can do for you gentlemen?” he asked weakly, holding onto the doorframe for support.

  Lestrade turned around and advanced on the valet, raising a hectoring finger.

  “Why, yes, Gammidge,” Sherlock Holmes said, looking up from the rug and cutti
ng Lestrade off as he was about to speak, “I’d appreciate it if you would go up to your master’s bedroom and have a look about. See if anything has been disturbed, and especially see if anything seems to be missing.”

  “Very good, sir,” Gammidge said, and he fled up the stairs.

  “Bah!” Lestrade said. “You expect something to be missing? What?”

  “I expect nothing,” Holmes said. “But I would like to know.”

  “But Holmes, how do you expect to learn anything from what isn’t here?”

  “What is here,” Holmes said, carefully extracting a bit of brown matter from the green rug and inserting it into a small envelope, “is suggestive, but what isn’t here is even more suggestive, and I expect, with any luck, to learn a great deal from it.”

  “What isn’t here?” Lestrade looked around, baffled. “What on earth are you talking about, Holmes? What isn’t here?”

  “The victim’s shoes, Lestrade. They are missing. Along with his top hat. I have great hopes for the victim’s shoes, although, frankly, I don’t expect as much from the hat.”

  “You think the missing shoes are important?”

  “Very!”

  Lestrade shrugged. “If you say so, Mr. Holmes. But we’ll probably find them under the couch, or in the bedroom.”

  “I’ve looked under the couch, Lestrade. And he never got up to the bedroom.”

  “Then why send that valet up there?”

  “The murderer may have got to the bedroom.”

  “Oh.” Lestrade thought that over. “Nonsense!” he said. “Missing shoes. Missing hat. I’d say that all that shows is that he had a new pair of shoes. The murderer probably took them for himself.”

  “Could be, Lestrade,” Holmes said. “That’s good thinking. Only…”

  “Only what, Holmes?” Lestrade asked, looking pleased at the compliment. “Just you ask me. I’ll be glad to give you the benefit of my years of professional experience. What’s troubling you about this case?”

  “Only, Lestrade, if he took Hope’s shoes, then what did he do with his own?”