The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (46 page)

             
Our newly ennobled visitor stood and walked to the window, staring out into the dark evening drizzle. "No one has said anything directly," he said. "But I have been questioned by Scotland Yard twice, each time a bit more sharply. My fellow journalists are beginning to regard me as a potential story rather than a colleague. An inspector named Lestrade has been up to see my editor at the
Evening Standard
to ask if I've ever written anything on tropical poisons."

             
"How imaginative of him," Moriarty commented.

             
Our visitor turned sharply. "Professor Moriarty, I have been told that you can solve the unsolvable; that you can see clearly where others find only darkness. I hope this is true, for otherwise I see nothing but darkness ahead of me," he said. "I want you to find out what happened to my brother. If he was murdered, I want you to find out who did it. If he met his death by some natural means, I want you to discover the agency that brought it about. My peace of mind and my future happiness depend upon your success! You can name your fee!"

             
Moriarty rose and took Lord Tams's hand. "First let me solve your little problem," he said, "then we'll discuss the price."

             
After some further reassurances, Moriarty sent Lord Tams back out into Russell Square, assuring him that he would have some word for him soon.

             
"All right, Moriarty," I said when we were again alone. "By what feat of legerdemain did you deduce all that? Did you pick the man's pocket as he entered the room?"

             
"Deduce what?" Moriarty asked, settling back down in his chair. "Oh, you mean—"

             
"Yes, I mean," I agreed.

             
"Nothing extraordinary," Moriarty said. "That he was unmarried I deduced from the state of his clothing. No respectable woman would let her husband go out with his suit unpressed and a tear in the jacket pocket. That also told me that he does not yet employ the services of a valet. That his older brother died quite recently I deduced from his calling card. The lower line of type was of a slightly different font than the upper, also the spacing between the two lines was slightly off. The second line was added, probably by one of those small hand presses that you find around printers' offices. The missing valet and the calling card surely indicate that he became the
Earl of Whitton quite recently. And he hasn't come into the estate quite yet, or he surely would have had new cards printed, and probably bought a new suit. The hand press also pointed me in the direction of his profession. The column proof that was stuffed into his right-hand jacket pocket completed that deduction."

             
"His suit looked fine to me," I commented.

             
"Yes, it would," Moriarty said. "Anything else?"

             
"How did you know it was an older brother who died? Why not his father?"

             
"If it were his father, then he would have expected to inherit at some time, and the conflict between career and station would have been resolved long since. No, it was clearly the unexpected death of an older brother that has created this dilemma for him."

             
"And the antipathy between him and his brother?"

             
"A glance at his right sleeve showed me the pinholes where a black armband had been. The band had not been tacked on, and the pinholes had not enlarged with wear. His period of mourning for his brother was brief. Surely that suggests a certain coolness between them?"

             
"But not irreconcilable?"

             
"Certainly not. After all, he did wear the armband."

-

             
The next morning Moriarty disappeared before breakfast and returned just as I was finishing my coffee. "I have been to Scotland Yard," he said, drawing off his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. "This exercise is promising indeed. I have sent the Mummer out to procure copies of the last two months'
London Daily Gazette.
The crime news is more complete, if a bit more lurid, in the
Gazette.
Is there more coffee?"

             
"What did you learn at Scotland Yard?" I asked, pouring him a cup.

             
"The inquest has been postponed at the request of the medical office, who are still trying to determine the cause of death. The defunct earl may have suffered from apoplexy, as diagnosed by Dr. Papoli, probably on the basis of the red face, but that did not cause his death. There are indications of asphyxiation, but nothing that could have caused it, and two deep puncture marks on his neck. The two pathologists who have been consulted can agree on nothing except their disagreement with Dr. Papoli's findings."

             
I put down my coffee cup. "Puncture marks—my dear Moriarty!"

             
Moriarty sipped his coffee. "No, Barnett," he said. "They are not the marks of a vampire, and neither are they the punctures of a viper. They are too wide apart, coming low on the neck
and almost under the ear on each side of his head. There are some older puncture marks also, in odd places; on the inner thighs and under the arms. They do not seem to have contributed to his death, but what purpose they served is unknown."

             
Moriarty drank a second cup of coffee, staring at the fireplace, apparently deep in thought. Then Mummer Tolliver, Moriarty's midget-of-all-work, came in with bundles of newspapers, and Moriarty began slowly going through them. "It is as I remembered," he said finally. "Look here, Barnett: the naked body of a young man was found floating in the Thames last week, with two unexplained puncture marks."

             
"In his neck?" I asked.

             
"In his upper arms. And here—three weeks previously the body of a girl, clad only in her shift, was discovered in a field in Lower Norwood. She had what the
Gazette
describes as strange bruises on her legs."

             
"Is that significant?" I asked.

             
"Scotland Yard doesn't think so," Moriarty said. After a moment's reflection he put down the paper and jumped to his feet. "Come, Barnett!" he cried.

             
"Where?" I asked, struggling into my jacket.

             
"Since we cannot get satisfactory answers as to the manner of Lord Vincent Tams's death, we must inquire into the manner of his life. We are going to Abelard Court."

             
"I thought the Paradol Club was in Montague Street."

             
"It is," Moriarty said, clapping his hat on his head and taking up his stick. "But we go to Abelard Court. Come along!"

             
We waved down a passing hansom cab, Moriarty shouted an address to the driver, and we were off. "I must tell you, Barnett," Moriarty said, turning to face me in the cab. "We are going to visit a lady who is a good friend and is very important to me. Society would forbid us calling her a 'lady,' but society is a fool."

             
"Important to you how?" I asked.

             
Moriarty stared at me for a moment. "We have shared events in our lives that have drawn us very close," he said. "I trust her as fully as I trust myself."

             
The address the hansom cab let us off in front of was a paradigm of middle-class virtue, as was the lady's maid who answered the door, though her costume was a bit too French for the more conservative household.

             
"Is Mrs. Atterleigh at home?" Moriarty asked. "Would you tell her that Professor Moriarty and a friend are calling?"

             
The maid curtseyed and showed us to a drawing room that was decorated in pink and light blue, and filled with delicate, finely detailed furniture that bespoke femininity. Any male would feel rough and clumsy and out of place in this room.

             
After a brief wait, Mrs. Atterleigh entered the drawing room. One of those ageless mortals who, in form and gesture, encompass the mystery that is woman, she might have been nineteen, or forty, I cannot say. And no man would care. Her long brown hair framed a perfect oval face and intelligent brown eyes. She wore a red silk house dress that I cannot describe, not being adept at such things, but I could not but note that it showed more of her than I had ever seen of a woman to whom I was not married. I did not find it offensive.

             
"Professor!" she said, holding out her arms.

             
Moriarty stepped forward. "Beatrice!"

             
She kissed him firmly on the cheek and released him. "It has been too long," she said.

             
"I have a favor to ask," Moriarty said.

             
"I, who owe you everything, can refuse you nothing," she replied.

             
Moriarty turned. "This is my friend and colleague, Mr. Barnett," he said.

             
Beatrice took my hand and firmly shook it. "Any friend of Professor Moriarty has a call on my affections," she said. "And a man whom Professor Moriarty calls 'colleague' must be worthy indeed."

             
"Ahem," I said.

             
She released my hand and turned to again clasp both of Moriarty's hands in hers. "Professor Moriarty rescued me from a man who, under the guise of benevolence, was the incarnation of evil."

             
I resisted the impulse to pull out my notebook then and there. "Who?" I asked.

             
"The monster who was my husband, Mr. Gerald Atterleigh," she replied.

             
"Moriarty, you never—" I began.

             
"It was before you joined my organization," Moriarty said. "And I didn't discuss it later because there were aspects of the events that are better forgotten."

             
"Thanks to Professor Moriarty, Gerald Atterleigh will no longer threaten anyone on this earth," Mrs. Atterleigh said. "And I pity the denizens of Hell that must deal with him."

             
Moriarty let go of Mrs. Atterleigh's hands, looking self-conscious for the first time since I had known him. "It was an interesting problem," he said.

             
Mrs. Atterleigh went to the sideboard and took a decanter from the tantalus. "It is not too early, I think, for a glass of port," she said, looking questioningly at us.

             
"Thank you, but we cannot stay," Moriarty said.

             
"A small glass," she said, pouring the umber liquid into three small stemmed glasses and handing us each one.

             
Moriarty took a sip, and then another, and then stared down at his glass. "My God!" he said. "This is the aught-nine Languert D'or! I didn't know there was any of this left in the world."

             
"I have a new gentleman friend," she said. "His cellars, I believe, are unrivaled. Now, what can I do for you, my dear professor?"

             
"Vincent Tams, the newly defunct Earl of Whitton," Moriarty said. "Do you know of him?"

             
"He died at the Paradol Club last month," Mrs. Atterleigh said. "I believe he was alone in bed at the time, which was unlike him."