The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (25 page)

             
"I must see your master on a matter of the utmost importance." Moriarty said. "Show him this card."

             
The man placed the card on a tray. "Come in," he said, taking their hats and Moriarty's stick. "You may wait in there."

             
They crossed the entrance hall under the footman's watchful eye and entered a small reception room. Within a very few minutes a second, shorter but more regal-looking man—Barnett correctly surmised that this was the butler—came to fetch them. "His Grace will see you now," he said. "Please follow me."

             
Barnett followed Moriarty down the hall, staring with frank curiosity at his surroundings. This was the first time he had ever been in a duke's residence, and might well be the last, so he wanted to take it all in. The walls were rich, dark oak and hung with ancient family portraits interspersed with occasional pastoral scenes. There was a great, wide staircase that a troop of men could have marched down eight abreast. At its foot, by the intricately carved oak baluster, was a full suit of armor that looked, at least to Barnett's uneducated eye, as though it had once been worn in battle.

             
"In here, please, gentlemen," the butler said, showing them into the duke's private study. They entered, and the butler closed the doors behind them.

-

             
The duke was a man of medium height and middle age, very stocky, with muttonchop whiskers and a conservatively trimmed mustache. At the moment he was obviously in a fit of passion, which he was suppressing with difficulty and without much success. His face was beet-red, and he was striding back and forth on the edge of his rug with short, stiff-legged steps and flexing a heavy riding crop between his hands.

             
"Well," he said glaring at them, "what is it you want with me?"

             
"I am sorry to hear about Your Grace's loss," Moriarty said. "I know this must be very trying for you, so I shall be brief. To put it as simply as possible, I think I can be of assistance to you."

             
"Assistance, is it?" the Duke of Ipswich said, the short whip twisting spasmodically in his hands. "Very well, then, state your terms."

             
Moriarty looked a little surprised at this reception, but he continued. "I need some information first," he said. "1 need to know how your daughter was abducted, as exactly as possible. I would like to see the scene. I must know whether the abductors have been in touch with you as yet, and if so, what are their terms. I assume they have, since the name I wrote on my card commended it to your attention."

             
"Name?" the Duke blinked. He walked over to his desk, picked up Moriarty's card and turned it over. "Ivan Zorta? This name means nothing to me."

             
"I see," Moriarty said, looking genuinely puzzled. "Then why— perhaps Your Grace has heard of me in some other context?"

             
"Must we continue this farce?" the duke demanded. "State your terms for returning my daughter and they will be met. I know your name."

             
Moriarty was silent for a moment, while the duke went back to pacing the floor, his knuckles white around the riding crop. A small sound escaped from the duke's mouth, but whether it was a cry of rage, pain, or anguish, Barnett could not tell. Barnett was horrified at this confusion, and angry that the duke would dare think them capable of such a crime.

             
"There is a serious misunderstanding, Your Grace," Moriarty said. "I assure you—"

             
"Enough!" the duke cried. "I have heard enough, I will suffer no more of this. It is with the utmost effort of will that I resist leaping at you, sir, and striking you and your companion down. I was told that it was almost certain that you were the agent of my daughter's disappearance, that anything this dastardly and clever had your mark on it. And now—and now, here you are, sir. Where is my daughter? If you have harmed her, I assure you that there is no place on this earth where I will not hunt you down and destroy you. Mark that, sir!"

             
"You were told?" Moriarty was astonished. "Who could have told you such a thing and for what purpose?" He suddenly jabbed an accusing finger at no one in particular. "Holmes!" he cried, his voice tight with anger. "You have employed Sherlock Holmes! And he is attempting to earn his undoubtedly impressive fee by convincing you that I am involved in this repulsive crime."

             
The door behind the desk opened, and the tall, ascetic figure of Sherlock Holmes stalked in. "Good evening, Professor," he said in his expressionless, carefully modulated voice. "I had, of course, recognized your hand in this crime, but I hardly expected to see you here yourself. Setting an example for your minions, perhaps?"

             
Moriarty swung around. "This is outrageous, Holmes! Are you going to give up any semblance of deduction from now on, and merely blame me for every crime in London?"

             
"In London, Moriarty?" Holmes said. "Why so limiting? Say rather, in the world, Professor. In the world!" He carefully walked back to the door and closed it. "But only among friends, you understand, would I say such a thing. And only the best sort of crimes: the clever, evil ones that require a master brain and an utter disregard for common sensibilities or morality."

             
"You have already said too much before two witnesses," Moriarty said, "and one of them noble. I could have you for slander, Holmes."

             
The Duke of Ipswich, who had been growing increasingly agitated as he listened to this exchange, suddenly threw down the riding crop. "Confound you, you bastard!" he cried, leaping forward. "What have you done with my daughter?" And as he slammed into Moriarty, his hands reached for the professor's neck.

             
Moriarty went down before the surprise blow, and the duke was on top of him, his hands around Moriarty's neck and his face apoplectic.

             
Moriarty took the nobleman's wrists and, with surprising ease, pulled them apart. Then, before either Barnett or Holmes could reach them, he had rolled over and come to his knees. His hands still held the duke's wrists in an iron grip. "I will release you, Your Grace, when you have calmed down," he said, his voice even.

             
The duke took several deep breaths, and then went limp. "I can't fight you," he said. "You have my daughter."

             
Moriarty released the duke and stood up, dusting himself off. He reached a hand out for the duke, who ignored it and pushed himself to his feet. "Your rug is really quite dusty," Moriarty said, slapping at his trousers. "You should speak to your staff."

             
The duke stood where he had risen, speechless and trembling. Holmes went over and helped him to a chair. "You have the upper hand this time, Moriarty," he said. "Make your demands."

             
Moriarty shook his head sadly. "For the last time," he said. "I know nothing of this crime aside from the bare fact that it occurred. The gentleman with me is Benjamin Barnett, an American journalist, and it is he who informed me that Lady Catherine was missing. I am possessed of some facts—unrelated to the event—that enabled me to develop a theory of the crime. I came here for the sole purpose of ascertaining whether that theory could be correct. If
so, I am prepared to share these facts with you and aid you to the best of my ability in apprehending the criminal."

             
"Purely for the most altruistic motives, eh, Professor?" Holmes demanded with a sneer.

             
"Not at all," Moriarty said. "It would further my interests."

             
"I have no doubt of that," Holmes said. He turned to the duke. "It may interest Your Grace to know that the professor's friend here, Benjamin Barnett, is an escaped criminal, convicted of murder by a Constantinople court. There is, unfortunately, nothing the British authorities can do to send him back."

             
The duke held his hands out. "Just tell me how she is," he implored, his face now ashen and his eyes staring. "For mercy's sake! Tell me how she is."

             
"Your Grace," Moriarty said, "I give you my word of honor
that I know neither how your daughter is nor where she is. I had nothing to do with her abduction. Nothing. However, I can see that in the present state of affairs I can be of no help to you and you of none to me. If I hear of anything, I shall notify you. Please do not assault my messenger. In the meantime, put your trust in Sherlock Holmes; you cannot do any better. He is, under normal circumstances, an excellent consulting detective. However, in this case, he will not accomplish anything until he rids himself of this ridiculous fixation that I am at the root of every crime that is not immediately transparent to his gaze."

             
Moriarty walked to the door and opened it. "Mr. Barnett," he said. "I think we can find our own way out." Then he turned back to the duke, who was looking at him with a puzzled expression on his face. "My advice is not to call in Scotland Yard," he said. "This case is beyond them, and they will only bungle it. I hope your daughter is returned to you safely. Good night, Your Grace. Good night, Mr. Holmes."

             
He closed the door gently behind him, and he and Barnett walked silently down the long hall. The footman was waiting at the front door for them, with stick and hats.

As someday it may happen that a victim must be found, I've got a little list—I've got a little list.

-W.
S.
Gilbert

             
For the next few weeks, having no instructions to the contrary, Barnett busied himself with the affairs of the American News Service, which steadily expanded. On Wednesday, June 25th, he promoted Miss Perrine—they agreed upon the title of "Cable Editor" as being the most appropriate—and instructed her to hire an assistant and a messenger boy. Then he purchased two more desks and yet another typewriter. "If this keeps up," he told Miss Perrine, as they received confirmation of their forty-third American newspaper account, the
San Francisco Call,
"we're going to have to search for larger quarters before the end of the month."

             
"The offices next door are vacant," Miss Perrine told him, "and the rental agent confirms that we can have them as of the first of July." She put her wide, red-trimmed hat on and adjusted it very carefully to the proper rakish angle before pinning it in place. She seemed unaware of Barnett's admiring gaze. "And, by the way," she said, "you are taking me to lunch."

             
"You've arranged for the offices?" Barnett asked.

             
She nodded.

             
"Without consulting me?
"

             
"
Yes."

             
Barnett shook his head. "And quite right, too," he said. "Where am I taking you?"

             
"Sweetings', I think," she said.

             
And so he did. And after the waiter had taken their order and gone away, he leaned forward across the table and regarded her
steadily through unblinking eyes until she shifted her head nervously and looked away. "You're staring at me," she said.

             
"I am," he admitted. "But then, you're well worth staring at."

             
"Please!"

             
"And I was beginning to think you were quite without shame," he said. Seeing her shocked expression, he laughed. "You must admit that you've gained tremendously in self-assurance in the past—what is it?—three weeks."