SHERLOCK HOLMES IN NEW YORK

In the nearly sixty-four years of her reign, an uncounted number of places and objects of every size
and kind were named for Alexandrina Victoria Wettin, Queen and Empress whose domain spanned the
entire world: lakes, mountains, territories, monuments,
the broad Embankment by the Thames, London's
greatest railway station, even the smartest style of
open carriage. Her name had, indeed, been given to
a period in history, the Victorian Age.

That age was now a part of the past, and had been
for nearly two months, since the old Queen's death
toward the end of January. Emperors and kings, presidents and barbaric chieftains had flooded into London for the unprecedented pomp of the funeral, as much a
celebration of the might of her Empire as a mark of
respect for the woman who had ruled it. Whatever
delights and wonders of the imperial capital the vis
itors savored, it may be safely assumed that few or
none of them made their way to one of the more
sinister, decayed, and dangerous locations to bear the
Queen's name: Victoria Docks.

Choking yellow fog swirled above the cobbled
alleys on this March night; the stones, where visible, glistened oilily as if coated with slime rather than
water. With the bustle and clangor of daytime in
dustry absent, the blank fa
ç
ades of docks and ware
houses presented the impression of a city built in times
long past and abandoned by its makers to crumble into mud and rubble.

Picking his way with care along the slick stones, a
man approached the most ruinous of the buildings
facing the alley he traversed. It might have seemed as
though he had lost his way thoroughly, for the fashionable evening dress, the richly lined cape that offered
protection against the damp and chill, the burnished
top hat, the ivory-handled cane—even the veined,
bulbous nose and florid complexion which attested to a
sybarite's indulgence in the pleasures of the table—
would have been far better suited to the flaring lights
of the Strand or Piccadilly or to the more discreet
illumination of a private restaurant or Mayfair gaming
house than to the feeble glimmer of the street lamps
that shone only on decay and desolation.

Yet the man seemed sure of himself and his desti
nation. As he neared the boarded-up warehouse, he
glanced upward and nodded with satisfaction upon
seeing a faint streak of yellow light at a second-floor window. He consulted his massive pocket watch and nodded again.

Abandoned and derelict the warehouse certainly
appeared to be from its exterior. Yet the lamp whose
light had attracted the notice of the approaching man
was an elegantly wrought electric model elaborately
ornamented with Egyptian motifs. It lit up brightly a
room furnished with richly covered overstuffed chairs
and divans, colorfully figured oriental carpets, and
intricately carved decorations—a room which stated plainly in every detail that it was the dwelling of a man
who valued, and could afford, luxury.

The householder himself did not appear to have
extended his tastes to his own person: the brocade
dressing gown gathered about his spare, stooped form
was shabby and soiled, his seamed, vulpine face with
its sharp nose and beady eyes was unthickened by
rich food or drink, and the few wisps of pale gray hair clinging to his high-domed skull had not recently seen
the attention of a barber. In his disorder, he resembled
the popular idea of an impractical academician; and,
indeed, Professor James Moriarty had won an inter
national reputation for his contributions to mathemat
ics, notably his treatise on
The Dynamics of an
Asteroid
.

The richness of the room indicated a level of income
higher than that of any scholar, however eminent, and
the ornately framed blackboard on its wheeled stand
in the center of the room bore calculations and figures
which testified to the Professor's concerns with matters
more practical than algebraic esoterica.

There were ten entries on the board:

———«»——————«»——————«»———

1.
Quint to Cavendish Square, 8.25.

2.
Adelspate and Stryker to Eaton Place, 9.12.

3.
Moran meet Bethune, 9.46, collect Nickers in
4-wheeler, Brompton Oratory, 10.2.

4.
Ashby and Spinnerton follow LORD BRACK
ISH from Simpson's to Covent Garden, watch
box and side entrance.

5.
M., B., and N. meet A. and S., 10.36. A.
transfer to hansom at Henrietta Street.

6.
Moran in hansom, 4
th
in rank at C.G.

7.
Ashby and Spinnerton steer LORD BRACK
ISH to Moran hansom at end of opera, between
11 and 11.15.

8.
Hansom to Albert Memorial, LORD BRACK
ISH to be dispatched by Moran during trip.

9.
Quint, Adelspate, and Stryker to meet hansom
at A.M., assist M. in disposal of body.

10. Moran to Moriarty with BRACKISH cigar case
at midnight
exactly
.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

The first eight entries bore neat check-marks before
their indicating numbers.

Professor Moriarty consulted his watch, moved to
the board, and, holding the chalk stick in practiced
fingers, entered another check before the sentence that
outlined his three underlings' role as clandestine un
dertakers: it was on the time-table, and the time had
come and passed; he could therefore assume it had
been accomplished. Few of those who served Professor
Moriarty swerved from the schedule he established
even once; none did so twice.

The Professor returned to his high-backed swivel
chair behind the massive mahogany desk, picked up a
balloon glass with an inch of brandy in it, swirled the
amber-colored liquid, and savored the released
aroma. This was the most enjoyable moment of all, to
inhale the scent of anticipated triumph as he was
now inhaling the fumes of the brandy. When the thing
was done, it was well enough; but the last moments
before consummation, knowing that the last perfect
ing touch was on the very point of falling into place—
that
was truly delicious!

As the hands of the tall clock in the corner joined in a single upward-pointing line and its machinery gave a soft whir and then began to chime, he rose,
went to the door, and began to unfasten the bolts and
locks that secured it. With the visitor he was ex
pecting, there was no need to wait for a knock: when
the time came, he would be there.

He flung the door open and, as he had known he
would, saw a familiar, stocky figure before him, tall
hat cocked at an arrogant angle, red-lined cape gath
ered about him, a glint of lamplight reflecting from
the monocle screwed into the left eye.

"Colonel Moran! You are punctuality itself," Moriarty said, his words underlaid by the continuing strokes
of the clock.

The man stepped inside the room and brushed one
hand along the luxuriant gray moustache, waxed to
spikes at the ends in the fashion favored by the late
Queen's grandson, the Kaiser.

"Everything has proceeded according to schedule?" The Professor's tone was not really questioning.

The man reached into an inner pocket of his tail
coat and drew out a cloisonné-work cigar case.

In a rasping voice that carried a history of orders bawled out in drill or battle and of hard-drinking
nights in regimental messes, he said cocking an eye
at the blackboard, "'Number ten. Moran to Moriarty
with Brackish cigar case at midnight
exactly
.'"

He tapped a fingernail on the enameled surface of
the case.

The Professor gave a shrill, gobbling laugh, loped to
the blackboard, and, with a force that crumbled a
fragment from the end of the chalk, struck a broad
line through the last sentence written there.

"Perfect!"

"With one exception, that is."

The voice that spoke was lower, firmer, and more
even than the grating tone Moriarty had just heard;
he whirled to face his visitor.

Colonel Sebastian Moran's distinctive nose now
rested on the desk, like a misshapen, gigantic
strawberry. As Moriarty watched, his eyebrows and
moustache were detached, small, shaping pads of
gutta-percha were removed from the cheeks, and the
glittering monocle fell to dangle on the end of its cord.

The changeling stretched and allowed himself to
assume his full height; from it, he looked down with sardonic amusement at the Professor, whose face was
now distorted by rage and apprehension.

"A trifling exception, perhaps," he said gently. "I simply don't happen to be Colonel Moran."

The man stroked his hawk-like nose, removing a
last trace of putty from it.

Moriarty's voice was hoarse and shaking. "Sherlock
Holmes!"

The tall man looked at him almost benignly.
"At your service, Professor. I should be vexed that
you did not recognize me, although it has been ten
years since we met at the Reichenbach Falls.
Your
features, I assure you, have been graven on the tablets of my mind ever since, though I thought you dead in
that plunge over the cliff. Well, well, I dare say that
may be remedied in due course, with a shorter drop at the end of the hangman's rope!"

Holmes, now completely divested of his disguise,
continued, "I can imagine the profundity of your dis
appointment. You cannot possibly fail to realize that
there can be only one explanation for my having
successfully penetrated the most carefully concealed
lodgings in the whole of London." He looked around
the elaborately furnished room with an expression of
distaste. "I observe that your choice of decoration is
fully as disagreeable as your choice of profession."

Professor Moriarty was past taking exception to criticism of his taste by a man who adorned his own
walls with designs in bullet-pocks and kept his tobacco
in an old Persian slipper. He was nearly hissing with
rage as he moved closer to Holmes.

"
Where is Colonel Moran!
"

"He is in custody." Holmes strode to the blackboard,
and, with a mocking imitation of a pedagogue cor
recting a pupil's botched work, slashed heavy lines
through each chalked item thereon. "As are Quint, Adelspate, Nickers, and Stryker!" He turned to Mori
arty. "In short, your entire organization here in Lon
don is now occupying cells at the Bow Street Police
Station—
and
the assassination of Lord Brackish has
failed!"

He whirled to face the blackboard once more,
snatched up the erasing cloth that lay on the stand,
and swept it across the chalked surface twice diago
nally, leaving an X slashed through the Professor's
meticulous time-table.

"Damn and blast you for the meddler you are, sir!"
Moriarty sawed the air impotently with white-
knuckled fists, and his voice, rising to a near scream,
drew unconsciously on the mode of speech of a long-
forgotten past. "With your West End ways, talkin'
down your upper-class nose, and only happy when
you're dressin' up as someone else—as though life
was some schoolboy lark! Blast you, Holmes! Blast
you!"

"I suggest you make an effort to take hold of yourself," said Sherlock Holmes. "Your rage is beginning
to affect your speech."

Moriarty drew a deep breath and, with a visible ef
fort, stilled the trembling that agitated his form. His
eyes narrowed, and stayed fixed on Holmes as he him
self moved sideways, in gait unpleasantly resembling
a crab, to the chair behind his desk. Picking up a
needle-sharp brass letter-opener, he toyed with it.
When he spoke, his voice was once more controlled,
even, and cultured.

"Did you come alone tonight?"

"Since you ask, yes."

"I thought as much. I know your methods by now.
Your inability to resist the
tour de force
, the
coup de gr
â
ce
, the necessity of nourishing your egotism
unassisted."

Holmes, seemingly indifferent to this diagnosis of his
character, had picked up from the mantel a vase decorated in the Chinese manner, with acid-green and ox-
blood dominating the color scheme.

"Atrocious," he murmured, inspecting it closely. He
looked from it to its owner, and added, "As is your
French. I fancy the term you were reaching for is
coup
de main
. What I truly regret is that I must also
leave
alone. Your cohorts refuse to implicate you, and
Moran, indeed, fears for his life—justly so, I imagine
—should he do so. And, troublesome though it is, I
thank God that British justice requires the strongest
evidence to bring to book even such scoundrels as
yourself."

His face stern, he pointed the vase toward Moriarty
as though it were a cannon.
"But be warned, Professor! Your people have been
captured, and you are alone! Alone and helpless,
and I will have you yet!"

Holmes emphatically set the vase down on a table;
it shattered into a pile of gaudy shards. He looked at
it as though feeling its present state was better than its
last.

Moriarty's hooded eyes glared at him with unwink
ing malice.

"Mr. Holmes, your interference in my affairs has
gradually grown from mild annoyance to insufferable
impertinence. And tonight's actions have finally ren
dered you intolerable to me!"

"Really?" Holmes' voice was a calculated drawl of languid surprise. "Only tonight? You, sir, have been
intolerable to me for
much
longer than that."

Moriarty's hand shifted in a sudden tugging motion
behind the desk. "Mr. Holmes, if you'll be good enough to observe
—this!"

A square section of flooring next to the wall, four
feet on each side, dropped away. From below, a swirl
of water around decaying pilings could be heard, and
a gust of the dank odor of the Thames entered the
room. Sherlock Holmes looked at the open trap door
with polite interest.

"And this!"

Professor Moriarty stabbed at a push-button on the
desk. There came a whir and a
thock!
A heavy dart
with half its four-inch point buried in the wall by
the force of its flight quivered less than an inch from
Holmes' head. He inspected it with raised eyebrows.

"This!"

The Professor pulled a lever set into the side of
the desk, and the crystal-festooned chandelier that
hung from the center of the ceiling crashed to the floor, scattering glittering shrapnel across the room. Holmes leaned down and flicked a splinter of glass from his
trousers.

"Not to mention—this!"

Moriarty's hand darted into a desk drawer with
the speed of a striking snake, and emerged holding a revolver, which he leveled at the detective.

"There are more than a dozen ways to kill a man in
this room," he went on, "and the trapdoor into the
Thames will remove all traces of the man's ever hav
ing been here. Have you wondered why I have not
employed any of these methods on you?"

"Well, it's not for want of trying," observed Sher
lock Holmes, surveying the opening in the floor, the
heavy dart embedded in the wall, the ruin of glass
and wiring on the floor, and the pistol in the Professor's hand.

"No, Mr. Holmes—it's because it doesn't suit my
book. I
shall
destroy you, but in
my
fashion!"

"Will you, indeed?" said Holmes, much as a man
might express interest in a neighbor's plans to cultivate
a prize-winning vegetable marrow.

"Yes! I am going to crush you in such a way that
your humiliation and downfall will be witnessed by
the entire world!"

"How fascinating! And just how do you propose
to do that?"

"The crime of the century—the past century, this
one, and all centuries yet to come!—is now in prepara
tion. It will go forward as planned, despite the tem
porary setback your interference tonight has caused me. It will go forward, it will take place, and, Mr.
Holmes . . .
it will take place before your very eyes!
And you will be powerless to prevent it!"

He sat back in his chair, gesturing with the revolver
as though driving home a salient point of mathemat
ics in the classroom.

"The world will gape at its very immensity! And
when the world discovers that it has occurred within
arm's length of the incomparable Sherlock Holmes,
the world will
sneer
, the world will ridicule—and the
world will hound you into oblivion!
That
is why I
have not used any of the means at my disposal here in this room.
I have other plans for you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes!
"