The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (81 page)

             
"Beg pardon. Mr. Holmes, but it's a young lady."

             
Holmes looked irritated.
"What's
a young lady?"

             
"The reporter, sir."

             
"A young lady?" Lestrade was clearly scandalized. "The reporter for the
Morning Chronicle?"

             
"Yes, sir. There is a gentleman with her, a sketch artist. They would like to see the, ah, room, Inspector. Where the victim is, you know. And she says that she is put to bed at three, so she would really like the information now."

             
"She is put to bed at three?" Count d'Hiver asked, looking vaguely amused. "By whom?"

             
"No, no," a musically feminine voice said from the front door, and the reporter for the
Morning Chronicle,
Miss Cecily Perrine, entered the hall. Behind her trailed a small man with a brown bowler hat, a wide walrus mustache, and a sketchpad. "It is the newspaper that is put to bed at three," Cecily Perrine explained, unfastening her wide brown sealskin cape and folding it over her arm. "Which is why I would like some details of the crime now, so that my readers will have the opportunity of learning all about it over their morning kippers."

             
"Miss Cecily Perrine, isn't it?" Sherlock Holmes said. "I thought you were a valued employee of the American News Service."

             
"Life is change, Mr. Holmes," Cecily said. "Good morning, Inspector Lestrade. I see you're wondering what I'm doing here. My editor sent a boy with a carriage around for me and my colleague here when he received word of the murder. He would not allow the late hour, nor the fog, nor the chilling weather to interfere with his reporters' getting a good story."

             
"And just how, if you don't mind my asking, did he get word of the murder?" Lestrade asked.

             
"I have no idea," Cecily Perrine said. "I imagine he has a friend at the Yard. You'll have to ask him."

             
The Count d'Hiver stepped forward and took Cecily's hand. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said, bending forward at the waist with what was almost a parody of a Continental bow. "The Count d'Hiver at your service."

             
"Charmed," she said. "Miss Cecily Perrine, crime reporter for the
Morning Chronicle.
And this is Mr. William Doyle, sketch artist for the same paper."

             
At this moment the outer door slammed, and one of Lestrade's plainclothesmen rushed into the room, past Miss Perrine and Mr. Doyle, and stopped, panting, in front of the inspector. "We've got it, sir!" he declared, brandishing a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. "And a fortunate thing it was, too, us spotting it in this fog. It was all wound up in this piece of scrap oilcloth, just like it is now, and tossed down one of these stairwells that leads to a cellar door around the side of a manor house on Pettigrew Court in the next block."

             
"Very pleasing work, Thompson," Lestrade said, taking the bundle. "Now we'll see." He turned to Holmes. "Well, Mr. Holmes, would you care to attempt a description of the contents of this oilcloth before I open it?"

             
"Certainly, Lestrade," Holmes said. "One black silk top hat; one pair of black patent-leather shoes."

             
"Is that all?"

             
"I think you'll find that one or both of the shoes have been cut or ripped apart. And you'll certainly find bloodstains on both shoes."

             
"Bloodstains!" Lestrade ripped open the bundle. "Here's the hat. The shoes—yes, they're inside." He gave the hat a cursory glance, and then put it aside and held the shoes up to the light. "Yes, they do seem to be splattered with some sort of stain. Blood! I believe it is blood. Amazing, Holmes; how ever did you deduce that? But they would seem to be whole." He held the pair of shoes out to Holmes. "No ripping or slicing appears to have been done on either shoe."

             
Holmes took the shoes and examined them, one at a time. He sniffed, he peered, he pried, he took his magnifying glass to them. "Ah!" he said. "Lestrade, look here! There was no need for the killer to destroy the shoes. The matter is self-evident!" He took the left shoe and, with Lestrade peering over his arm, and the rest of his audience gathered closely behind, sharply twisted the heel. It rotated a half turn, revealing a meticulously cut-out compartment in the leather. "This is what the killer was after," Holmes said. "The contents of this compartment. Which, I note, he now has."

             
"You expected to find that?" Lestrade asked.

             
"Something like it," Holmes said. "The killer was searching for something, as he was in each of the other murders, and somehow he discovered that it was concealed in one of the shoes. Probably the victim told him, hoping to be spared a few moments longer. This business is grotesque,"

             
"Then why did he take the top hat?" Lestrade demanded. "Was there something concealed in it also?"

             
"Yes, Inspector, there was."

             
"What?"

             
"The bloody shoes. The killer didn't want to wait in the victim's house to discover the secret of the shoes. Perhaps he heard the valet descending from upstairs. He also didn't want to be seen on the street carrying a pair of bloody shoes. So he concealed his own hat under his outer garment—probably a collapsible topper—and borrowed the victim's."

             
"Why not conceal the shoes under his own hat, or his top-coat or cloak or whatever?"

             
"All that blood, Lestrade. Remember, the blood was a lot fresher when he departed with the shoes."

             
"That's so," Lestrade admitted.

             
"Fascinating!" Cecily Perrine said softly, making obscure scratches with her pencil in her small notebook.

             
"Indeed a remarkable bit of deduction," the Count d'Hiver agreed.

             
"Elementary," Holmes commented. "The real question is, what was the object which was once concealed in this shallow space?"

             
Lestrade took the shoe and stared into the hollow heel. "Precious gems?" he suggested.

             
"That is a possibility," Holmes said. He took out a slender ivory rule and carefully measured the cavity, making a sketch of it in his pocket notebook and jotting down the measurements.

             
"Well," the Count d'Hiver said, "this has all been very interesting. I thank you for your patience, Mr. Holmes. And you, Inspector. I will not stand in your way any longer. I only hope that the unfortunate demise of Mr., ah, Hope brings us to a solution of these damnable—excuse me, Miss Perrine—murders. I will await with interest your report on this affair." And with that, he nodded abruptly to each of them, carefully adjusted his top hat on his head, and strode through the door.

             
"Au revoir,
Count," Sherlock Holmes murmured, staring after the departing nobleman with a bemused expression on his face.

             
Once outside, the Count d'Hiver buttoned his topcoat, nodded to the two constables at the door, and hurried down the steps to the sidewalk. He stared up and down the street for his carriage. The fog had settled in, and it was hard to see more than a few feet in any direction. The brougham was not in evidence, but it could have been no more than four of five yards down the block and, still been completely invisible. He could have asked one of the constables where his driver had settled in to wait, but it seemed somehow demeaning not to know where one's own brougham had gone.

             
He headed off to the left, the direction the vehicle had been heading when they stopped. It would, he realized with a wry internal chuckle, serve him right if his driver had taken the brougham around the block and pulled up a few feet before the Hope mansion. Then the two constables would see him backtracking, the very image of a man who didn't know where his own carriage was. He could always go back into the house for a moment, as though he had forgotten something; then, perhaps, they wouldn't notice. The Count d'Hiver was a man who couldn't stand to be embarrassed, and he found the potential for embarrassment in every trivial act.

             
There was a carriage ahead. Was it his, or the young lady journalist's? A few more steps and—

             
An arm, a muscular right arm, appeared from nowhere and hooked around his throat, forcing the chin up, cutting off the windpipe, stifling any attempt to cry out, to breathe. "Greetings, gov'nor," a soft, deep, curiously familiar voice said behind his ear. "Let's go over this way, shall we?" And he was dragged, effortlessly, his heels clattering along the pavement, into a small alley beside the Hope mansion.

             
"What?—who?—why?—" He forced the words out as the pressure around his windpipe was ever so slightly relaxed.

             
"Well," the deep voice said, "quite a little journalist we're becoming, isn't it, Count? Who, what, why, when, where; all questions that will shortly cease to concern you."

             
"My wallet is in the breast pocket of my suit jacket," the Count d'Hiver gasped. "Take it. There are forty or fifty pounds in it. Only for God's sake let me breathe!"

             
"Your wallet, d'Hiver?" the voice persisted. "Now what would I want with your wallet? Fifty pounds is of no interest to me. It's you I want."

             
"Me?" The count struggled to turn around in the iron grasp, suddenly realizing the import of his attacker's use of his name. This was not a random street crime; he was not an accidental victim. "Who are you? What do you want with me? What do you think you're doing?"

             
"You may call me Richard Plantagenet," the voice said. "And I want vengeance." Somehow the mild, soft insistence of that voice was more frightening than a thousand screaming fanatics would have been.

             
"Vengeance? Vengeance upon whom?" d'Hiver rasped the question out with the little air permitted him. "And what has it to do with me? You cannot get my assistance by choking me to death!"

             
"Vengeance on you, d'Hiver," the voice said, mildly, calmly, rationally. "And you can't help. You could, however, assuage my curiosity by explaining just why you are killing these gentlemen off, before I cut your heart out."

             
"I?" The Count d'Hiver could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage as though it were trying to break through. "I have done nothing! I have killed no one! You are making a horrible mistake! Do not do this thing! Let us reason this out. Plantagenet? I know no one called Plantagenet." And yet he had a horrible feeling that, from somewhere, he knew that voice.

             
"That is so," the voice admitted, a hot, horrible breath in his ear. "You do not know me by this name. But I know you! I know you by all your various names: the Count d'Hiver; Clubmaster; Hellhound; Master Incarnate of the Ancient and Evil Order of Hellfire. I know you!"

             
D'Hiver felt a momentary shock almost greater than the physical pain. He had not expected that. He twisted his arm around and thrust his heel backward in a swift kick, making a sudden desperate attempt to break free. He felt the heel connect hard against his captor's leg. But despite his twisting and kicking, and the grunt the kick drew from Plantagenet, the arm never loosened from around his neck.

             
"You're making some sort of mistake," he insisted, giving up the struggle. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"