The Return of Moriarty (47 page)

“And you say it has to be approached by foot, unless one goes through the docks?”

“You can get vans up to the front if you go through the docks, yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

Paget described the route for getting through to the court in front of the warehouse with vans and carts, knowing well enough that by now there should be transport enough leaving from that very spot.

“All right,” Crow said finally. “I won't thank you now, Paget, because I'm sure we'll meet again.”

“There are men around the house, I've told you that.” Paget again eyed the clock. It had taken more than twenty minutes: seventy-odd minutes before Fanny would leave Paddington. “They'll be watching you for the next ten minutes.” He smiled wickedly. “Believe me, Inspector Crow, they'll shoot anyone who tries to leave, back or front, before that time is up.” He met Crow's level gaze and knew, deep down, that the policeman was onto his bluff. “I need time to get clear. You understand?”

“You'll be allowed to get clear.”

Sylvia Cowles still sobbed hysterically. Paget did not envy the copper stuck with this lady.

“You mind I do, then.”

Paget backed carefully to the door, and in a fast movement he stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, then running to the front entrance.

The hansom was there waiting; he ran down to it, swinging himself up and calling, softly, to the cabbie, “Take me up to the Marble Arch.” He knew he could slip quickly through the back streets from there down to Paddington.

The cab pulled away at a trot almost before he was inside. As Paget plumped into his seat a voice sounded in his ear.

“Well, Pip. I thought I'd save you for myself. Lucky my lurkers have been watching Mr. Crow.”

Parker was seated next to him, an evil smile on his face, and a revolver pointing steadily at Paget's belly.

William S. Wotherspoon—Dr. Night—had lodgings in a house near St. Martin's Lane, convenient for the Alhambra which, Moriarty presumed, made up for the expense.

The Professor had already furnished himself with the details of Dr. Night's surprisingly uncomplicated domestic arrangements, knowing that offstage, and out of the theater, he was a man who kept mainly to himself. He also knew that Wotherspoon's landlady, a Mrs. Harrington, had a small, spare attic room that was unlet.

On leaving the theater, Moriarty walked quickly around to Cranbourne Street, where Harkness was waiting with Mary and the cab. From thence they drove to the vicinity of St. Martin's Lane, where Mary and the Professor left Harkness—the Professor giving his driver quick instructions to meet him on the following afternoon. They then walked through to the house owned by Mrs. Harrington: a cheery, red-faced woman, much enamoured of the gin bottle.

The Professor had to make a guess at which key on Wotherspoon's chain belonged to the front door, an easy task, for he was experienced in the ways of locks and locksmiths. Once inside the hall, Moriarty faced the second test of his disguise.

Mrs. Harrington came out of her front parlor as the Professor closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Wotherspoon,” the landlady began gushingly, then, seeing Mary, raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you have company. You'd like tea in your room, would you?”

“If we could, Mrs. Harrington.” He lowered the pitch of his voice slightly, bringing it more in line with that of the late departed magician. “And I wondered if you could help me.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Wotherspoon.” She giggled, primping like a young girl.

“It's Rosie,” the Professor said gravely.

“What, young Rosie in your show?”

“I've had to let her go.”

“Oh. Given her the sack, have you?” Like the stage-door keeper, she did not sound surprised.

“I try to avoid that phrase, Mrs. Harrington. Not a pleasant phrase. But, yes, she's had to go. This is Miss Mary Malloney, who'll be replacing her.”

The landlady smiled, warm with spirits. “Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.”

“Pleased to meet you,” responded Mary.

“I was wondering,” Moriarty hesitated. “Miss Malloney has no lodgings nearby, and we have much work to do if she's going to be an asset to the act.”

“Yes?”

Any minute, he thought, Mrs. Harrington was going to say something about hers being a respectable house.

“I was wondering if, for a few days, Miss Malloney could have your attic room. You haven't let it, have you?”

“No,” she said uncertainly. “No, it's not let.”

“Then I'll pay you well above your normal price, as it is only for a short while and would be a great convenience to me.”

Reluctant though she might be, Mrs. Harrington was not one for turning down quick and good money.

“Then she shall have it; but for how long?”

“Only until the end of the week. You see,” Moriarty became pompous in the true Dr. Night fashion, “we have much to do before Friday when we appear before the Prince and Princess.”

Mrs. Harrington had obviously allowed that small jewel to slip from her mind, and now almost bowed in vicarious respect.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course, I was forgetting. Of course, she may have it.”

“Then I'll come down and talk terms later.”

The landlady bobbed. “I'll get your teas then. Give me just a few minutes.”

After tea Moriarty bade Mary to be silent while he sat at the table in Wotherspoon's pleasant, if cluttered, rooms. The tea things were cleared and in their place Moriarty spread out a map, armed himself with a pair of compasses, a ruler, some paper, pen and a nautical almanac—all of which were handy in the briefcase he had brought from Limehouse.

For an hour he pored over the map, noting a section of sea coast, straddled with sandbanks, spits, bars and mudflats, bearing such names as Thief Sand, Peter Black, Middle Roads, Sal's Bay, Old Boat Knock and Vinegar Middle.

After an hour of calculations Moriarty picked up his pen and began to draft a long, coded, telegraph. It would be sent, first thing in the morning, to Jean Grisombre in Paris.

The cab was rumbling away, picking up speed as the driver lashed at the horse, and though they were being bounced and bumped in the cramped interior the smile of victory did not leave Parker's lips, nor did the gun tremble in his hand.

“I think I'll have your weapon,” said the chief lurker smoothly.

“Where are we going?” Paget's voice was desperate with anguish.

“You'll see soon enough. Your weapon.”

Paget glanced out the window to see that they were turning away from the direction he had first ordered, now heading to Kensington. From thence, he supposed, they would rattle out toward Berkshire, and once there he would stand no chance. If he did not act quickly, Paget would certainly be a dead man before morning.

“I can explain.” He tried to smile. “It's not as black as it may seem, Parker.”

“You can tell that to the Professor. Or to Spear. He wants a word with you as well.”

The cab had begun to roll with an even rhythm. Paget shrugged, hoping that a nonchalant manner might put Parker off guard.

“Come on. Your weapon. Where is it, in your belt?”

So saying, he stretched out his left hand, keeping his right at his side, the revolver leveled.

Paget did not move quickly: undue haste in a captive made for quick work with the trigger. He dropped his hand to his belt, slowly reaching inside; then, as the cab rolled, Paget went with it, letting his weight fall across Parker. Slipping the gun from his belt, he cocked and fired in one motion, the muzzle jammed hard into his captor's guts.

He heard Parker's weapon fall to the floor and was conscious of wetness spreading from the man's body to his. Paget pulled away, glancing up to see if the driver was doing anything about the shot. But the man had all his time cut out controlling his horse, which was now almost at a gallop, weaving through the heavy traffic. On their right Paget saw the green of Kensington Gardens.

He moved as far away as he could from Parker's corpse, which now bumped and rolled around the interior with every sway and bounce. But they were slowing; the traffic was getting thicker all the time. Paget grasped the handle on his door, pushed open and leaned out. There was an omnibus ahead, and several cabs. Behind them a van and at least three carriages, all jamming together as they approached the High Street. But their positioning was in Paget's favor, his cab being far over to the left, quite near the pavement, dotted with folks out for their Sunday afternoon stroll, window shopping.

The driver was pulling the horse back now, slowing and glancing back into the cab. Pushing his gun back into his belt, Paget took a deep breath, threw open the cab door and leaped out, sprawling on the pavement to the accompanying cries and gasps of passersby.

He heard a loud shout from the cabbie and a yell from one of the drivers coming up behind, but he did not hesitate. Recovering as fast as possible, Paget took to his heels, handing off the few people who seemed bent on trying to stop him. He swerved, faltered, swerved again, then turned and dashed full tilt down a friendly alley.

It was ten minutes' hard running before Paget knew he was away for sure and able to slow down, gulp at the air and mop his face with his handkerchief. He could not tell where he was, but some five minutes later he hailed a passing cab, offering the driver double fare if he got him to Paddington station before four o'clock.

They were too late. Crow waited for only five minutes, paying scant attention to Sylvia's pleadings to do as Paget had ordered. He wanted to get the commissioner and assistant commissioner as quickly as possible. Time was not to be wasted now, for he had a duty to mount the largest police raid ever undertaken in the history of the force.

There were no mobsmen waiting with guns as he finally ran from King Street, nor was there any sign of Paget, and it was not until the following day, when the report of Parker's death in the hansom came in from T Division that Crow was able to put two and two together.

By five o'clock the commissioner had given his blessing and men from both the Metropolitan and City forces were assembling at their stations.

The raid took place at a little after twenty-five past six. Seven police vans galloped through the docks to pull up, with snorting, rearing, horses, in the open space before the warehouse. At the same time more police poured into the Limehouse area, trotting down through the archway, running in file the length of the alley to join with those who had come in by van.

They smashed the wicket and charged into the big, open, ground floor. From there detachments swarmed through to the “waiting room” and kitchens, along the passages, up the spiral stairs to the chambers and secure rooms, and speedily ascended the short flight of wooden stairs to Moriarty's private quarters.

But the warehouse was empty. Food was still in the kitchens and store rooms; numerous private possessions were left scattered about—rings, pictures, clothes and the like—but nothing of any real value.

In Moriarty's chambers, the books had been removed from the shelves, and all that remained were a few papers and a pile of ashes. Crow sifted through the burned cinders, retrieving the odd scrap of charred paper on which writing was still legible, and during the next few days every item left by the former occupants was neatly labeled and examined. Yet there were no hard clues, no hints of where either the Professor or his gang had gone. It was as though they had vanished in a puff of smoke.

It was almost ten past four when the hansom got Paget to the station. He pushed money into the cabbie's hand and ran toward the refreshment rooms. But there was no sign of Fanny. In a panic he ran again out onto the main hallway of the station, his eyes turning this way and that, wild, like the eyes of a madman in his frantic search. But still no sign, until at last he caught a startled porter by the waistcoat, demanding if there was an engine to Leamington.

“Over there. Just going …” The porter raised a trembling hand toward the platform.

Paget ran once more, the money in his hand. The ticket collector at the gate tried to stop him but he pushed money at the man, shouting he would pay at the other end if necessary. The ticket collector—a portly officious menial—even attempted to halt him by stretching out an arm, but Paget merely pushed him to one side as though he were a flimsy bush.

The guard had already blown his whistle and the flag was up, but Paget could see Fanny now, leaning from a window halfway down the train, shouting to him. He called, all right and he was coming, then forced the last ounces of speed from his leaden legs as the train began to move.

Fanny had the door of her compartment open, assisted by a young man with spectacles, who looked like some clerk but entered into the spirit of the adventure suddenly thrust upon him.

As the engine screeched its departing whistle and let out a huge whoof of white smoke, so Paget's foot hit the carriage floor and he was hoisted up and into Fanny's arms—embracing her as though there would never be another day for either of them.

There were those among the stage staff at the Alhambra Palace of Varieties who said they had never seen Dr. Night work in such a concentrated manner as he did on the Monday when taking his new assistant through the act. Most of them, naturally, put it down to the forthcoming engagement at Sandringham. But, whatever the reason, the magical doctor put the young woman through the hoop well and proper.

During the morning he led her, gently at first, through the routine of his act: where she had to stand, when she was required to hand things to him or show them to the audience. Then after a break for lunch Dr. Night had the stage cleared, the safety curtain lowered, and ordered everyone out of the wings while he rehearsed the attractive Miss Malloney through her paces in the big illusions: how to position herself to make the secret entrance to the Egyptian sarcophagus; how to buckle on the special harness and metal rods hidden under her costume for the levitation, and then exactly how to use them in order to give the impression that she was floating in midair.