Death by Gaslight

by Michael Kurland

  “Justice, Holmes? Were there any justice, you would be forced by the state, whose rules you admire so greatly, to spend your time in some profession more fitting to your talents, such as giving diverting lectures in music halls, and identifying the occupations of ten random ticket holders. Instead you spend your days following me about and annoying me at every opportunity.”

  “Your butler said you expected me,” Holmes said.

  “And so I did,” Moriarty replied.

  “Why? I had no appointment with you.”

  “There was a major crime yesterday, was there not?” Moriarty inquired. “An ‘impossible’ crime, one of the newspapers called it. Surely it was not a wide leap of logic to assume that you would be called in. And even more surely, you would immediately scurry around to see me. Hoping, no doubt, to find a great pile of stolen artifacts on the rug.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed complacently. “Almost startled not to. You don’t object, I suppose, if I look under the rug?”

  Moriarty sighed. “Understand, Holmes, that I am somewhat honored that you suspect me of committing every crime in London that you can’t solve. However, it does get to be wearing after a time.”

  “Not the crimes I can’t solve, Professor,” Holmes said, smiling tightly. “In several instances I have solved them to my satisfaction, I have just been unable to provide enough proof to bring the case before a jury. That is where you have shown yourself so infernally clever, my dear Professor Moriarty. I know you for the rogue you are, but I can’t prove it. However, you and I know that I shall not stop trying; and one of these times, I shall succeed. And then you will exchange your black sack coat for prison gray. But enough of this cheery conversation; I wish to speak to you of trains and treasures.”

  “Curiously enough, Holmes, I also wish to speak to you, although on another subject. Shall we discuss the fate of the Lord East Collection first, and then get on to more consequential matters?”

  There was a knock at the door. “That would be Mr. Barnett,” Moriarty said. “I have asked him to sit in our little tête-à-tête, if you don’t mind?” Then, without waiting for Holmes’s response, he called for Barnett to come in.

  “Good morning, Professor,” Barnett said, coming through the door with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked rested. “Good morning, Mr. Holmes.” He sat down on the leather couch and sipped his coffee.

  “It has all the markings of a Moriarty crime,” Holmes said, ignoring Barnett. “I can sense your hand in this undertaking just as an art connoisseur can recognize a work of Goya or of Vernet, whether or not the canvas is signed. And then when I learned that you were actually present at the loading of the goods wagons, how could I doubt further? Moriarty was present; a fortune was stolen: Quid hoc sibi vult?”

  “I was there,” Moriarty said. “I make no apologies for my presence. It was mere vulgar curiosity. And as a matter of fact, it was not gratified. We did not get to see the treasure, as I’m sure you know.”

  “That’s true,” Barnett commented. “I mentioned it at the time. Loudly. How were we to know it was even in those boxes? Why wouldn’t Lord East open them? What was he hiding? It is my duty as a journalist to ask these questions.”

  Holmes turned and favored Barnett with a scowl, then he returned his gaze to Moriarty. “I have indications of the method already,” he said. “I believe the floor of the goods wagon has been tampered with. I have discovered that the train stopped twice on the way to London—both times briefly, both times accidentally. It is, perhaps, a flaw in my nature that I distrust such accidents.”

  “So?” Moriarty demanded. “Would you like to drag me off to prison now, or wait until you get some sort of proof that I was actually involved?”

  “Don’t ask me what I’d like to do, Professor,” Holmes said, his long fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair. “You know very well what I’d like to do.”

  “Pshaw!” Moriarty said. “Let us turn from the fanciful to the pertinent, Mr. Holmes.” He reached down and, opening the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a thick handful of file folders. “I would like to discuss with you the seven murders which have taken place since the twenty-second of February.”

  Holmes stood up and pointed at the folders. “Those,” he said, with a slight quaver in his voice, “are the official files!”

  “Not quite,” Moriarty said. “They are merely accurate transcripts of the official files. Certified duplicates of all the material contained in the files.”

  “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 hand 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 bee
n 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.”