The Return of Moriarty (38 page)

The performance Moriarty wished his Continental visitors to attend took place at one of London's best, and most famous, music halls—the Alhambra Palace of Varieties in Leicester Square, where there was a particularly good bill playing.

Strangely Moriarty was a man who delighted in the roistering, sometimes vulgar, always colorful spectacle afforded by the music hall, and he had gone to great pains to procure the best box in the house, not only for his four principal guests, but also for the bulk of their combined retinues. As for himself, Moriarty allowed only Paget to accompany him, insisting that his lieutenant should come armed.

Paget naturally felt honored, but he could not throw off the feeling that the new Continental alliance had tipped the Professor into realms that were unbelievably dangerous. He had vaguely known that in the past Moriarty often engaged himself in commissions for other powers, calling for nefarious dealings with politicians and royalty. But for all Paget knew, the royalty was foreign and so did not count. This was different.

The final gathering of the Continental emissaries ended in Limehouse a little before five in the afternoon, and arrangements were made for everyone to meet in the plushly appointed foyer of the Alhambra, some fifteen minutes before the second evening performance.

The entertainment on that particular night was of exceptional value. As well as the two ballets (the Alhambra spared no expense to provide magnificent spectacle centered on its
premierè danseuse,
Mlle. Catherine Geltzer), the program included Mr. G. H. Chrigwin, the White-Eyed Kaffir; Miss Cissie Loftus; Mr. George Robey—still making the audience reel with his humorous song,
The Simple Pimple
; Lieutenant Frank Travis, the Society Ventriloquist; Miss Vesta Tilley; and Mr. Charles Coburn, the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

The one artist, however, whom Moriarty wished his colleagues to see, and who indeed held the Professor himself in fascinated concentration, was billed as Dr. Night, Illusionist and Prestidigitator Extraordinary.

Apart from other considerations, Moriarty could not resist the feats this kind of entertainer was able to perform; for in some ways the magician and the Professor were in the same line of business: illusions, disappearances, manipulation and the casting of spells. This very night, for instance, he was sitting in public with his four Continental henchmen, appearing in the visual shape of that Professor Moriarty who had once been feted as a new mathematical genius.

The pit orchestra produced a shimmer of strings and brass, with perhaps a shade of heavy-handedness from drums and cymbals; then the tabs rose to display the stage hung with black drapes and set about with small ornate tables and pieces of intricate and undeniably magic apparatus.

The drums rose to a crescendo, and Dr. Night appeared, a man of medium build, immaculate in full evening clothes, his hair and small beard black, and the aura surrounding him undeniably Satanic. His eyes swept the audience with a look which almost conveyed contempt.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The wizardry of the East and West,” he announced, reaching into the air and plucking forth a deep blue silken handkerchief. “One and one make two.” Another color silk came from the air into his other hand. “And three … and four.”

The hands, delicate with long fingers, reached alternately into the air until he had collected some ten or eleven multicolored pieces of silk, which he rolled together to produce a pear-shaped ball some eight or nine inches long. Then with a quick upward movement Dr. Night threw the ball into the air where it appeared to be poised for a second before expanding and opening into a huge butterfly suspended before him.

There followed an array of flamboyant mysteries that held even the noisy gallery silent and in suspense: an Egyptian sarcophagus, complete with mummy, was shown from all sides. The mummy was removed and proved to be in a fragile condition (in fact at one point the head was separated from the body). The mummy was replaced, the sarcophagus whirled round, suddenly beginning to shake violently with a knocking from within.

With a flourish Dr. Night opened the quivering sarcophagus, and, to weird Eastern music, a magnificently attired Egyptian Princess stepped from the casket to perform a sinuous dance.

Great glass bowls of water were produced from the air under a large silken square, each bowl bursting into flame seconds after the silk was removed. Then Dr. Night passed into the audience to have eight playing cards selected, and to borrow three rings from somewhat nervous ladies. The eight chosen cards appeared suddenly and in full view on the points of a large ornate silver star. The mystic doctor then took an omelette pan into which he broke eggs, added the three rings and topped it with brandy, setting the mixture alight and dowsing the flame with the lid; immediately removing it to display three snow-white doves, each with one of the borrowed rings on a ribbon around its neck.

The Egyptian Princess was brought on again, this time to be mesmerized by the doctor, who then caused her to levitate, floating in midair before the eyes of the assembled audience.

It was the culmination of a splendid performance, Dr. Night leaving the stage to rising applause. Moriarty sat, like a small boy, entranced, even a hint of jealousy in his mind. It was as though the spectacular Dr. Night had touched Moriarty's Achilles' heel, for most of the illusions and their performance baffled him, and he was determined to discover the secrets of these impressive arts. He did not know, however, that other fates were conspiring against him.

Earlier, as Moriarty's party gathered inside the foyer of the Alhambra, Sergeant Cuthbert Frome, an officer of Scotland Yard's Criminal Investigation Department, was taking a walk around the West End; more to familiarize himself with certain locations than anything else. Frome was twenty-eight years old, recently transferred from the city of Manchester to the metropolitan police; he was a keen man, eager to make his way and full of the enthusiasms of his age. After only six weeks at the Yard he had confidently brought himself up to date with all the wanted lists and descriptions of persons to be watched, reported on, or apprehended.

He was passing the facade of the Alhambra when his attention became drawn to a carriage discharging its occupants: a very beautiful young woman accompanied by two young men with Italianate good looks and a slightly older, more swarthy man.

Frome had seen the man's description on a circular passed around the office and his brain searched for facts. The woman and two younger men had also been mentioned. An Italian name, Santo-something? Sanzionare. He had it; but by then the party had passed on into the theater. Frome followed, pausing briefly to show his credentials to the front-of-house man.

His quarry was not in the foyer, so the sergeant went through to the long refreshment bar, which was already crowded with men and women, most of them in full evening clothes. Among these theatergoers, Frome recognized not a few ladies of the town, for this was a favorite place in which they plied their nubile wares—in spite of Mrs. Ormiston Chant's efforts to close the variety palaces because of the temptations afforded therein by the frail sisterhood.

At the far end of the bar Frome spotted Sanzionare's party with another group of men. One of this company stood out from the rest like a signal beacon, for he was tall and very thin with a great domed forehead and eyes that appeared sunken into his face and surrounded by dark circles. Frome knew this one also by his description.

The temptation was to leave and make his way with haste back to Scotland Yard, for the sergeant was well aware that many questions were at this moment being asked about the tall and gaunt man. But he held his ground, watching until the party made their way up to the circle boxes.

A few minutes later the young detective was admitted to the house manager's office, rapidly regaling the manager with a story that gave little of the truth but allowed Frome access to a spot in the circle from where he could view the box now occupied by Sanzionare and the others. From his vantage point Frome was able to make rough sketches of the men and women present—an action that turned out to be of great importance.

Nobody had, of course, informed Frome that Sanzionare's hotel was being watched and the Italian followed. But the detective detailed for this chore had simply obeyed his instructions to the letter; so while Frome was inside the Alhambra, carefully making a visual picture of each member of the suspect group, the detective charged with the surveillance of Sanzionare, sat in a nearby public house, his eye on the clock, waiting to pick up his subjects once the performance ended—an act which was to earn him a severe reprimand Monday morning after Frome's detailed report reached Inspector Angus Crow's desk.

Sunday, April 15, to Wednesday, April 18, 1894

(THE WEDDING)

F
ROME'S REPORT WAS
not seen by Angus McCready Crow until Monday morning because in spite of the building pressures of detection Crow was determined to observe Sunday as a day of rest and recreation. He also knew that he could not hold off the growing problem of his emotional involvement with Mrs. Cowles for much longer.

Mrs. Cowles had been sweet, loving, tender and understanding; yet of late her passions appeared to become more demanding and the whispered endearments that took place on their regular coming together were sprinkled with hints and importunings which meant but one thing. Though she did not come right out with it, Mrs. Sylvia Cowles was suggesting to Crow that she either had to lose a lodger or gain a husband. Crow, the onetime confirmed bachelor, was as reluctant to move out of the comfortable diggings as he was to take unto himself a wife who might well come between him and his dedicated task—bringing villains to justice and justice to villains.

Yet Crow was a prudent man, well aware that any further prevarication on his part might lead to unpleasantness. However, though much of his reasoning told him he should be out and about—searching for the truth concerning the power wielded by the shadowy conundrum, Moriarty—the question of Sylvia Cowles could not be shelved forever.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Crow suggested to his landlady that they spend a quiet day together. They ate luncheon at 63 King Street and then went for a stroll, taking a cab as far as Marble Arch, before walking gently in the now warm spring sunshine across Hyde Park to the banks of the Serpentine.

It was late afternoon when they returned to King Street, and Crow, having talked about everything imaginable—except for that which was most on his mind—swallowed all pride, doubts, and a few of his fears.

“Sylvia,” he started gruffly, “there is something I have to ask you.” It sounded like words from a cheap romance. “Tell me, have you been happy since I came to lodge here?”

“Angus, you know I have been happy, but you must also know that, like other people, I have a conscience.” She smiled sweetly.

“That is what I wish to talk to you about. This happiness, my dear, cannot last if we go on as we have been doing.”

There was a long pause as Sylvia Cowles looked hard at him, her eyes narrowing a little.

“Yes?” she said coldly, as though expecting the worst.

“What I am trying to ask, my dear …”
Oh God,
he thought,
is it me saying this
? “What I am trying … Sylvia, would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

There. It was out. And at the back of his mind Crow wondered if he would ever be able to take back the words.

“Angus.” Mrs. Cowles' eyes seemed to brim with tears. “Angus, my dear. As they say in romantic novels, I thought you'd never ask. Of course I will marry you, nothing is nearer to my heart's wish.”

She then descended on the detective, showing him exactly how near to her heart's wish it truly was.

Later Inspector Angus McCready Crow began to think perhaps it was for the best that his bachelor days should be considered over at last.

Sal Hodges came down to the warehouse late on the Sunday afternoon and spent an hour, taking sherry and talking business with Moriarty. She then went to see Spear.

“Bridget,” Spear said softly once the introductions were over, “will you be a pet and leave me alone with Sal. I have things to discuss with her.”

“And you can't say them in front of me?” Bridget colored.

“No. No, I can't. There are some things that are private, from times before you, Bridget.”

“I'll go,” she spat, “but don't forget that I'm no lady's maid like Fanny. I've scavenged, clawed, stolen and fought with the best of them. I'm a family girl, and when my heart's set on something, I'd like as not kill for it.” She left with a flounce, face scarlet with suppressed anger.

“Yours?” asked Sal, sitting beside the bed, her eyes twinkling and head cocked cheekily on one side. In the free and easy world of Moriarty's family, Spear was the last person she would ever have wagered on to be caught by a pretty face.

“It'd seem so.”

“Indeed it would, but if you ever want to get rid of her, I've always got a place for a girl with spunk.”

“I doubt there's any chance of getting rid of her. She's a sticker, Sal, and I could be worse off. But that's not what I want to talk about.”

“Are you better?”

Spear looked at his bandaged hands. “Not ready yet to use these as I'd like, but better than I was. How often do you go into your shop in Berwick Street?” The muscle on his right cheek contracted, making the uneven scar show livid against the healthy skin.

“A couple of times a week. Why?”

“I sent someone there last Sunday. Look, Sal, I was trying to do Pip Paget and young Fanny a favor. Fanny Jones lost her post because of a lecherous butler called Halling. I had him marked up last Sunday evening: left a message for him saying as how Fanny was at the Berwick Street place. I reckoned I'd get there before him, and I was going to put the carriers right. As it was, bloody Green and Butler nabbed me.”