The Return of Moriarty (31 page)

Within half an hour he was in possession of the fact that the last report on Palmer was that he managed a public house in Horton. Crow believed in striking with a hot iron and immediately made the tedious journey—to no avail. On arrival, late in the afternoon, he discovered that Palmer had only recently given up the public house in order to emigrate to Australia and a new life. It puzzled Crow, for Palmer must by now be almost sixty years of age—an odd time of life to start growing new roots.

It was late when the inspector got back into London. He collected the day's reports—concerning the violence of Monday night—and wearily retraced his steps toward the tender charms of Mrs. Sylvia Cowles in King Street. On the following day he would start looking for Meikeljohn.

At a little before ten o'clock on Tuesday morning Moriarty called a short conference with Ember, Lee Chow, Paget and Parker. Spear had spent an uneasy night, was still in much pain, but the fever that had initially swept over him appeared to have abated.

Lee Chow was entrusted with getting the loot taken from Togger and Krebitz over to Solly Abrahams, together with a message that Moriarty himself would be seeing the old fence within twenty-four hours.

Parker, who was still making inquiries about Inspector Crow, received orders to send his men out and about to judge opinion in the underworld, to reinforce Moriarty's case, and to continue the search for Green and Butler. Ember's job lay in contacting the trio of thieves, Fisher, Clark and Gay, ordering them to the Limehouse headquarters for conference with their leader.

“I have to talk with them about the Harrow business,” the Professor said. “There's swag enough in that for all.” Then, turning to Paget, “I shall need you with me, as you have the lie of the land.”

Paget looked glum, hoping Moriarty was not going to insist on his going on the actual crack.

“No need to look so hang-dog, Pip.” The Professor rarely addressed any of the “Praetorian Guard” by their Christian names, particularly in front of the others. “You are to be married. Has Fanny set the date yet?”

Paget shook his head, flashing Moriarty what could have been interpreted as a dangerous look.

“Well, then, I'll set it for her.” Moriarty smiled. “How about a week today? We should have need for jollification by then.”

There was murmured assent and Moriarty instructed them that word should be passed.

“It will be a day of celebration. A proper hammering, Pip, that's what you'll get. A wedding fit for a king and queen.”

The big, tough Paget came near to blushing.

“We must consolidate.” The Professor switched easily to another subject, shifting his weight in the chair, and fingering the sling in which his damaged arm still rested. “I will not have any other fumbling villains trying to oust me from my rightful seat or split my family. On Friday my people arrive from Paris, Rome, Madrid and Berlin. They must see we are on top of matters here. Before then I'll need the Jacobs boys back in the Chapel. Ember”—turning sharply to the little man—“after you have relayed my message to Fisher and the others you are to get Alton at the 'Steel. I'll talk with him tonight.”

The meeting was over and Moriarty was left alone with Paget, whom he had instructed to remain behind.

“Have you had more thoughts on what we discussed last night?” asked the Professor once the others had removed themselves well out of earshot.

“It can only possibly be one of the four.” Paget's face registered extreme unease. “Yet that's almost unthinkable. We should question those that were taken outside Nelson Street last night.” He bit his lip. “Are you serious about the wedding?”

Moriarty was silent for a full minute before he nodded in acquiescence. “Deadly serious.” His good arm flapped imperiously as though signaling that part of the conversation was over. “Is Terremant still in the building?”

“Terremant and four of the others. One watching Roach and Fray.”

“Good, we shall need them.”

“The others are keeping an eye on the Nelson Street crew.”

“And the boy has been kept separate?”

“The three men are together. The boy has the secure chamber next to mine.”

“Good, then we will see the boy first.”

The architect and the builder who had made the secret conversion of the warehouse were both cunning men. Moriarty's chambers were constructed on the second story of the building, occupying the rear, and placed above the area which formed the “waiting room” and kitchen. When one walked into the main, ground-level floor of the warehouse, it appeared barren, deserted and broken down to a state of near decay. Few would have guessed that the long walls running to left and right, were false, concealing connecting passages linked with the kitchen area.

From these passages, spiral iron staircases ran up to the remainder of the second floor, the whole being a hive of living and sleeping rooms, storerooms and small, bare brick cells perfect for housing weapons, loot or, at times like this, prisoners.

Paget's room was large, with windows, reminiscent of those one saw in artists' studios, angled toward the dirty sky yet providing good light. It contained the cozy necessities of life—a bed, writing table, another table, from which he and Fanny took their meals, stand chairs, armchairs, and in one corner a wardrobe of modern design, which was complemented at the other side of the room by a matching chest of drawers.

Several pictures decorated the walls, mostly cheap prints, the remnants of small robberies or petty filchings, and on the chest of drawers a pair of silver-backed brushes lay neatly next to a lady's silver hand mirror.

The room was flanked by two of the many brick cells: one used as a storeroom for weapons, the other at present occupied by the boy whom Parker's men had waylaid outside Green's house in Nelson Street. It was to this cell that Paget and Moriarty made their way—Paget having collected the key from the kitchen where Bartholomew Wright had charge of the locks and their attendant pieces of machinery.

The boy was lying on the floor, his knees pulled up to his stomach, the small undernourished face thrown back and contorted with pain. He was very still, and Paget's first thought was that this must have been how Moran looked when they found him in Horsemonger Lane Jail. There was a little vomit and the remains of a meal—some bacon, sausages and a mug of beer—scattered across the table. The memory Paget always retained thereafter was, oddly, the child's hair, matted, curly, stiff and springy with grime.

Moriarty cursed softly and Paget's heart dropped, as though to his bowels.

“Poison.” Moriarty spoke in a whisper. “Poison, the same as the colonel.”

Paget's face was set like a granite figure on some churchyard memorial.

“His breakfast.” The voice was dead as the lad on the floor. “Fanny fetched him his breakfast this morning. I heard it while I was in the kitchens. She took breakfast to Roach and Fray first, then the other three, and the boy last.”

Moriarty's tone was bitter cold. “I am on the brink of controling the crime of Europe, yet I cannot wholly control my own people here in the Great Smoke.” He took a long, tremulous breath, and Paget could feel the fury building, so tangibly that he might almost have touched it. “Say nothing yet. See if Parker is still in the house. If so, bring him here. Did Fanny take the breakfasts on her own?”

Paget shook his head slowly. “She had one of Terremant's lads with her, I think.”

“I'll have him up also. Leave him at the end of the passage until we're ready for him.”

Paget set off quickly in search of the chief lurker and the punisher who had been Fanny's escort, his mind confused and grim, for he did not doubt the boy's death was the work of whoever had infiltrated Moriarty's domain.

Parker had not yet left, and within minutes Paget returned to the cell with him, leaving the punisher, as instructed, at the end of the passage.

Parker frowned as he entered the cell, bending quickly over the young corpse. He straightened and stepped back with a long whistle of surprise.

“I did not see him in the light last night.” He looked up at the Professor. “This is young Slimper's brother. I was about to start using him—been pestering me for some weeks.”

“Then get young Slimper to me,” snapped the Professor. “Call Terremant's man.”

The burly punisher came up at Paget's shout.

“You went with Fanny Jones this morning when she took breakfast to the prisoners?” Moriarty asked.

“I did, sir.”

They kept the man a little to one side of the door so that he could not see into the room.

“Tell me the order of things.”

“We went first to Roach and Fray. Then back to the kitchen for the food for the other three—we had to make two journeys, young Fanny made a joke, saying it was worse than being in service again.”

“Did she now?” Moriarty showed no humor.

“Then we went back down again and she got the lad's breakfast. I was going to come up with her, but she said there was no need seeing how he was only a lad.”

“And who was preparing the food?”

“Mrs. Wright, sir, as always. I think Mary McNiel was helping this morning.”

“Helping her? How, with the frying?”

“No, with the dishing out. She dished out the lad's sausage and bacon, I know that because Mrs. Wright poured the beer for him.”

Moriarty frowned. “And the new girl, Bridget?”

Paget answered for him. “They've let her sleep late today.”

The Professor made a grunting noise, gruff from the back of his throat.

“Tell nobody we've talked to you.” He looked hard into the punisher's eyes, dismissing him with a curt nod.

Together, Paget and Moriarty carefully locked the cell door, Moriarty returning to his chambers while Paget, under orders to retain the cell key, went to fetch the first of the other prisoners.

Ten minutes later the man whom they had grabbed coming from Nelson Street stood between two of the punishers, in front of Moriarty's desk. Paget sat to one side, conscious that he was now wholly working as the Professor's chief of staff.

The prisoner's name was unromantic enough, Zebedee Smith, a man of around forty years of age, big though flabby from drunkenness and fleshly lusts. Paget knew him both by sight and reputation. Some ten years previously he had been in clover, a leading man in the Swell Mob, an expert pickpocket, caught only once, for stealing a gold watch near St. Paul's—for which act he had served two years in the 'Steel. It said much for the harshness of that prison that Smith had been a lost cause once released, reduced within a few months to working the kinchen-lay. But old lags die hard, and from stealing from children he gravitated to running a small school of young lads who did the thieving for him.

It was only now that Paget remembered the couple of whispers that had come to him in the past year about Smith: that he was becoming a man of resources once more, being expert with lads, who appeared to like him and were prepared to work long hours on his behalf.

Moriarty's voice cut like a butcher's blade when he spoke to the prisoner, his eyes small and gleaming, the head performing its iguanalike oscillation.

“We know about you,” he began. “So there's no need to lie or pull the faker with me, Smith. If my lads had their way, you would have been meat last night, but I'm a just man.”

If there was fear in Smith he did not show it as he stood silent and stock still.

“You are good with the kinchen. You worked for Green, so bear with me, Zebedee Smith. Green is smashed, so it follows that you are smashed also. But there is a chance that you may work again if you answer honestly and can be proved, in time, to be loyal.”

“You shouldn't trust one like that, Professor.” Paget, acting the part, spat, turning his head away. “That one holds a candle to the devil.”

“I know my business, Paget. There's work in this horse yet.” He turned back to Smith. “You know a boy called Slimper?”

“I know a lot of boys.”

“He's on the dodge. Do a ripper on him and let's have it finished.” Paget feigning disgust at the seeming kindness of his leader.

“A boy named Slimper, Zebedee?”

Moriarty took no notice of the inherent violence in Paget's tones, it was a piece of dialogue well rehearsed.

Slowly, “I know a Slimper, yes.”

Moriarty nodded to Paget, who went to the door, returning with young Slimper who worked for Parker.

“Is this the lad?”

Smith shook his head. “Like him, but this one is bigger built.”

“You know this gentleman, Slimper?” Kindness oozing from Moriarty to the frightened boy.

“No, sir. I never seen 'im before.”

Moriarty dismissed the boy.

“The other Slimper, now. He worked for you, yes?”

Silence for a brief second before Smith answered. “Yes, I had a Slimper working.”

“What kind of work?”

“Dipping and the like.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not for me.”

“Then for Green. Did he do anything for Green? Remember that Green is a dead man and cannot help you now.”

“All right. Yes, he did running errands for Green.”

“What errands?”

“I don't know. Messages and the like.”

“And he ran messages for Green yesterday.”

“Aye.”

“Between Green and whom?”

“I don't know, I swear I don't know.”

“But he brought a message to Nelson Street yesterday morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you were expecting him again last night?”

“The Peg was expecting him.”

“With a message?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not turn up?”

Smith was on edge now with all the fast questions. Paget tipped him further.

“Have done, Professor. He'll not help you. I'll slit him myself.”