The Return of Moriarty (37 page)

One by one the others threw in their hand with the Professor. It remained for the complicated governing details of their intercontinental organization to be thrashed out. But before the conversation could turn in that direction, Sanzionare rose to his feet.

“As the Professor's guest, I would like to pay my respects in a tangible manner,” he announced, flicking his fingers in the direction of the young man he had brought with him.

The dark young Italian was at his master's side, moving with a quick skill that Moriarty considered could, under different conditions, be deadly. A small, oblong package appeared as if from nowhere. Sanzionare took it, walked the length of the table and placed it in Moriarty's hands giving a short but reverential bow.

Moriarty unwrapped the package with care. Inside was a box, carefully tied with ribbon. The box contained a book, bound in calf and beautifully decorated with gold leaf—an Italian translation of
The Dynamics of an Asteroid
by James Moriarty. Its feel was beautiful to the hands, and to the gaze of anybody with artistic sensibility it was in itself an
objet d'art

“I had it done especially by our most skillful craftsman in Firenze,” said Sanzionare, and Moriarty wondered at that moment if the Italian's eyes were tinged with mockery. He felt a well of unexpected anger rise in him and the color flood high on his cheeks. But in a second Moriarty recovered his composure, making a short and gracious speech of thanks.

The Frenchman, Grisombre, not to be outdone, made a sign in the direction of his two slim, olive-skinned escorts, who, reacting somewhat dramatically, produced a flat square package that had been stowed under the table. This was revealed to be a book also—a slimmer volume than that offered by the Italian, but larger in size and bound in handtooled Morocco leather.

“Monsieur le Professeur,” Grisombre licked his lips. “I know that you, like myself, have an eye for the ladies. You are a connoisseur in the arts of love. The photographs in this volume are made by some of the best at my disposal.”

The album contained over two hundred photographs that would today bring a fortune from any wealthy collector of erotica. Moriarty allowed a smile to trace briefly over his lips as he let the pages waterfall quickly from his thumb, getting a small first glimpse of the exquisite ladies from Paris in various stages of undress, in poses of a most seductive nature—alone, together and with various young men of well-endowed physique.

Schleifstein was now at the Professor's elbow, an unwrapped, heavy, polished mahogany box in his big hands. He clicked his heels, after the Prussian military manner, and placed the box in front of Moriarty.

“I have a gift which I think will be of more practical value.”

The lid swung back on hinges to reveal, nestling in a dark blue bed of velvet, an unusual pistol. Moriarty had seen nothing like it betore and, in truth, it was the most interesting of the three gifts so far offered. To begin with, there was no chamber and no visible hammer.

He picked it out of the box and weighed it in his hand. It had a masculine, workmanlike, feel. He looked questioningly at the German.

“It is an automatic pistol,” said Schleifstein. “Another mark of progress, you see.” He took the weapon from Moriarty. “The cartridges fit into a magazine, which slides into the butt and the weapon automatically recocks itself when you fire. It is copied from an idea incorporated in the Maxim gun, and is the invention of a Hugo Borchardt, manufactured by Ludwig Loewe of Berlin. I have brought cartridges also, and I venture to suggest that in all the many signs of progress you have spoken about, this will also bring a drastic change to our business.”
^*

Moriarty nodded. Firearms fascinated him, and this one sent strange tingles up his arm as he held it. He looked around, catching the eye of the Spaniard, Segorbe, who held him steadily in his gaze.

“These gifts make mine look somewhat puny,” smiled Segorbe, rising and passing over a long, slim parcel.

It contained a Toledo dagger, the hilt pocked with rubies, the blade honed razor sharp.

“It has the advantage of silence when compared with the pistol,” Segorbe said smoothly.

Moriarty looked down at the collection in front of him, lips curving slightly.

“Your gifts,” he said almost in a whisper, “represent all the classic facets of the great intriguer. I now only need a vial of poison and some kind of explosive and I can be regarded”—he swept his hands across the pile of presents—“as scholar, libertine and assassin.”

There were quiet chuckles from the men around the table.

“But there is no need for gifts,” he continued. “To have gathered you all here; to share experiences and thoughts; to build a structure and plan ahead is all we need. The ultimate outcome of this meeting will be reward enough for all of us.”

Paul Golden said nothing, yet took in everything.

“That automatic barking iron looks real wicked,” said Paget later. “It'll be some moment when we get to see it fired.”

He was talking to Spear, who was obviously mending, even though his face still looked bruised and battered and the dressings on his hands continued to need changing twice a day.

“What about the book the Frenchie gave him?” Spear winked broadly and Paget grinned.

“Where did you hear about that, then?”

Spear nodded in the direction of Bridget, who sat in her usual place by the bed. “She told me.” His look was of one jesting at the embarrassment of another.

Bridget blushed scarlet, biting her lip.

“She got it from her.” Spear nodded again, this time toward Fanny.

Paget looked at his betrothed, a query in his lifted eyebrows, amusement around his mouth.

“Well …” Fanny hesitated.

“And you, Fanny Jones, saying you thought it was disgusting.” Paget smiled, remembering the girl's forthright statements when he had described the photographs to her.

“Well …” said Fanny again, with no other words of explanation.

“You girls have got dirty minds.” Spear looked at the two of them, not caring about the fact that grinning was still a painful exercise.

“We're inquisitive, that's all.” Bridget still showed spirit.

“You'll know all about it when I'm back on my feet and well,” said Spear.

“Maybe—” Fanny was cool, her hands folded in her lap. “Maybe we should plan a double wedding on Tuesday.”

Both Spear and Bridget appeared to be wrapped in thought.

It was early afternoon when the news came into Scotland Yard that Sanzionare was staying at the Westminster Palace and that he had gone out with one of the young men, leaving the other in the hotel with the girl, Adela Asconta.

Though Sanzionare had nothing to do with him officially, the fact was passed on to Crow, who made a note of it, and continued to work away at the logical possibilities concerning Moriarty. In a day or so he hoped to have all the facts on the strange Professor of Mathematics, his background, resignation from the university and the move to London.

In the meantime something else had materialized. Word had come from an informant down near the docks that the man Paget, whose name had been revealed during their examination into Moran's associates, was to be married on Tuesday at St. Andrew's, Limehouse.

If Paget were an associate of Moran, Crow reasoned, and if Moran had been an associate of Moriarty, then Paget could be in some way connected with both of them. It would be interesting at least to see this person and his bride.

The thought of a bride brought Angus Crow down from his logic, to the earthiness of Mrs. Sylvia Cowles. There was no logic there, simply passion, and after a few moments with his mind drifting about the bedroom delights afforded by Mrs. Cowles, Crow was obliged to loosen his collar.

It was a waiting game, he thought: waiting for Moriarty; waiting for some further hints or clues; waiting until his own powers of deduction could be set against hard facts and proved to be either right or wrong. In some ways he was also waiting for himself, and that was the most illogical matter of all—waiting to make his mind up about Mrs. Cowles. Angus McCready Crow decided that his emotions, as far as Mrs. Cowles was concerned, were in some chaos.

On Friday evening Luigi Sanzionare returned to his hotel suite and spent the night hours with Adela Asconta; Wilhelm Schleifstein went to eat at the Café Royale, eventually going back to his hotel to a glutted sleep; Jean Grisombre and his two companions went, on Moriarty's advice, and with special facilities, to Sal Hodges' house; while Esteban Bernado Segorbe sat down in the writing room of Somerset House to pen a long letter of instructions to his chief lieutenant in Madrid: Senor Segorbe's business interests needed much of his time and attention.

In Limehouse the punishers still kept the kitchens and the womenfolk under close watch; Professor James Moriarty sent Mary McNiel to bed without him and spent the time until the small hours working on notes for the continuation of their meeting on the morrow; Spear dozed, and Bridget kept her vigil; Paget and Fanny slept entwined, though Paget dreamed vividly of prison cells and policemen in full cry after him, shrunken to the size of a rat and facing death by being squashed by a huge boot. Ember and Lee Chow were out and about, as indeed were many more of Moriarty's people, for there was a wedding party to attend on Tuesday and gifts had to be procured. No self-respecting member of the great family of villains could be expected to buy wedding gifts with money.

 

*
  The text of Moriarty's speech is taken directly from the journals, the indications being that the Professor set down what he said from memory within twenty-four hours of its delivery.

*
  The Borchardt automatic was, in fact, the precursor of the Luger. Hugo Borchardt had successfully invented the design as early as 1890 while living in America, but no manufacturer in the United States showed any interest. Finally Borchardt took the design to Germany, where Loewe put it into production in 1893. It was one of the first automatic pistols to be sold commercially in any large numbers.

Saturday, April 14, 1894

(AN ASSASSINATION IS ARRANGED)

T
HE STRUCTURE OF
the organization had been thrashed out during the period that followed the luncheon party on the previous day. The more serious problem of implementing the plans for chaos throughout Europe was left until Saturday afternoon when each of the protagonists put forward their own possible actions.

All were agreed in a campaign aimed at the disruption of peace, harmony and the serene way of life in the major cities across the Continent—actions that would undoubtedly be attributed to the extreme political factions that already bedeviled Europe. But it was Grisombre who made the first concrete suggestion of political assassination.

“There is nothing that will bring alarm more speedily,” said the Frenchman. “And I intend that in my area there will be a quick outrage, which should spark immediate turmoil. Within the next few weeks I shall see to it that the President of France is murdered.”

Grisombre, as we now know, was as good as his word. The meeting, headed by Moriarty, was undoubtedly the signal which heralded a sudden upsurge of anarchist activities throughout the Continent. In June the French President, Sadi Carnot, was assassinated in Lyons. It is interesting to note that the assassin was an Italian, so the possibility remains that the Continental branches of Moriarty's empire were, even then, working in harmony.

Neither can we now doubt that other events in the history of the late nineties and early 1900's are directly attributable to the London meeting of April, 1894. There appears to be evidence that even the death of President McKinley of the United States in 1901 was part of the later plan. Certainly the tragic event of the death of Archduke Franz Ferdinand at Sarajevo—which culminated in the First World War—was a direct result of Moriarty's actions. The immediate effects in England itself—which we can now examine—have long been a closely guarded secret.

The resolve apparent in Grisombre's promise startled Moriarty. It was as though the Frenchman were attempting to outbid him in some deadly game, and the Professor felt the eyes of his colleagues looking at him for a lead.

He remained silent for a full minute, then his head nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Good,” he said. “Good. This is the kind of foresight we require.”

Moriarty looked in turn at each of his allies. “I too have plans,” he said quietly. “In this country there is little point in killing off a Prime Minister nor yet any parliamentarian. Also our Queen—our figurehead—is an old lady who will soon die anyway.”

He paused for effect. “My plans concern the next in line: the one who will reign once Queen Victoria has, as Shakespeare put it, shuffled off this mortal coil. The Prince of Wales, the illustrious if somewhat debauched Albert Edward, will be my personal victim. And to that end, gentlemen, I would like you to be my guests at a rather special performance tonight. You may rest assured that in a matter of weeks the Prince will be a dead man.”

The brooding silence which fell upon those gathered about the table spoke eloquently of the respect that was generated.

It was Paul Golden who finally broke the silence.

“Professor. Gentlemen.” His mouth was set, without the hint of a smile. “I have found all this both instructive and interesting. I am afraid that I will not be able to join you in whatever else the Professor has arranged tonight for it is time for me to begin my somewhat arduous journey back to New York. I will, however, take with me a glowing report to my colleagues. Providing your plans go smoothly, I see no reason why we in the New World cannot at some future date do business with your organization here in Europe. You may certainly call upon us at any time for help or advice. I look forward to developing a beneficial relationship.”

Paget, sturdy by the door, did not really understand what it was that now disturbed him. He had spent much of his life in squalor, clawing his way from the gutter. Since Moriarty had become his father in crime, life had fallen into a pattern and he was certainly not averse to performing most of the acts deemed unlawful by society. But like many of his persuasion, Paget held the royal family in awe and reverence. Now, in a few words, his leader had embarked them on a journey which to him appeared one of abject futility, waste and folly.