The Star of India (22 page)

Lestrade looked at me, his face devoid of emotion. “Do you think Holmes is—”

“—still alive?” I finished for him. He nodded grimly.

“I hope so, Lestrade,” I said, “I hope to God he is.”

When I returned to Baker Street I looked for the two policemen Lestrade had posted to watch the building, but there was no sign of them. Mrs. Hudson had gone out, and had evidently taken Jenny with her. I trudged up the steps wearily, and then stopped when I got to the door to Holmes’ apartment. Something was wrong: the door was ajar, and Mrs. Hudson never would have left it that way. It wasn’t just that, though; something was different—a smell, a feeling, a presence that I had never felt before, and it raised the hackles on my neck. It was like a palpable darkness, a physical presence of terror. I pushed the door open slowly and entered the sitting room.

I had often heard Holmes describe Professor James Moriarty, but I had never thought that I would meet the man face-to-face. In any event, I was unprepared for the hideous grim scarecrow of a man who sat before me. He sat in front of the fire, silhouetted in the dying embers, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke, and for an instant I had an impression that I was meeting the Devil himself, surrounded by the fires of hell. Moriarty stood up, and I took an involuntary step backwards. His tall form was stooped and on his long white face was an ugly, jagged gash which, though healed, still looked raw and angry even in the dim firelight. He took a step toward me, and I could see that he walked with a pronounced limp.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” he said in a tone which was all the more sinister for its politeness.

“What are you doing here?” I said in a strained voice which was scarcely more than a whisper.

He laughed, and I will never forget that sound as long as I live. It was the most mirthless laugh I have ever heard: the expression of a deep and gnawing pain, the cry of a tormented soul writhing in eternal anguish. I was chilled to the bone and yet I stood my ground.

“What have you done with Holmes?” I said, my legs trembling under me. I regretted not having picked up my revolver after all, although I wasn’t sure what good it would have done me now. His very presence had a way of dismissing all notion of self-defense; he was mesmerizing, like a snake hypnotizing its prey. Indeed, his head actually swayed back and forth slowly as he talked, and the oscillation struck me as distinctly reptilian.

“Well, now, Doctor, I was just about to ask you if you would like to have him back.”

“Where is he? What have you done with him?” I said, taking a step into the room. Moriarty took this as a cue to sit again, which he did with a stiffness which I assumed was also a result of injuries sustained in the fall at Reichenbach. He lit a new cigarette.

“Oh, don’t worry, Doctor. He is unharmed... well, relatively unharmed, at any rate. I couldn’t quite control the vengeful urges of George Simpson. Let’s just say that Mr. Holmes is alive and likely to remain that way at least for the time being.”

I had an urge to grab him and wring the life from that hideous thin neck, but the thought of touching him produced a feeling of physical revulsion which was akin to nausea. In any event, I assumed Moriarty was armed, and even if he wasn’t, killing him at this point would solve nothing, and might even lead to Holmes’ death. Without Moriarty to give orders, I was certain that the criminals in his employment would gladly finish off Holmes. I inched toward the window, hoping
to perhaps signal somehow to the policemen who should have been standing guard outside.

“Oh, if you are looking for your inspector’s men, I can assure you they are unharmed but safely out of the way for the time being. I didn’t want any distraction to interrupt our little chat.”

“What do you want?” I said, all the fight gone out of me.

“Oh, don’t worry; it isn’t much,” he said, smiling. A smile on that face was hideous. The scar on his left cheek pulled the mouth up more on that side, so that what I saw was the lopsided grin of a demon, as devoid of humor as his hollow laughter. “Just tell me where the Star of India is,” he said in a low, raspy snarl.

“The Star of India?” I said, trying frantically to think.

Moriarty lit a cigarette.

“Oh, come now, don’t play coy with me, Dr. Watson. It’s been a good game, but it’s winding down and my patience isn’t endless. I know that Holmes knows where it is, and that he told you. I could of course try to wring it out of him, but he is not a man who is persuadable through the use of physical pain.” Moriarty shook his head, blowing smoke out of his thin, curved nostrils. “Of course, my boys would have liked to force it out of him, but they are inclined to be a little... rough, shall we say, and I intend to keep Mr. Holmes alive—for the present, at any rate.”

At that moment I would have gladly given the Crown jewels themselves in exchange for Holmes’ life. I decided to try a bluff.

“All right,” I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “I may know where the Star is, but how do I know you’ll release Holmes if I tell you?”

Moriarty looked at me through a haze of smoke. “You don’t,” he said. “You will just have to trust me.”

“All right,” I said, “I will tell you where the Star is, but if you don’t release Holmes I swear I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth—”

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed his horrible empty laugh. “Oh, very good, Doctor! Spoken like a true hero of a melodrama. I can assure you this is no play, however,” he said, his voice hard, “and that if you lie to me you shall regret it.”

“All right,” I said, trying to think fast. It was no use, though; anything I told him would be a lie. I sat staring at him, unable to move or speak, my mind sinking into misery as I thought of Holmes and what Moriarty would do to him.

“Never mind,” Moriarty snarled impatiently, and moving to the window, he signaled to someone outside. Moments later Freddie Stockton appeared at the door to our sitting room. His white-blond hair glimmered in the firelight, and his little eyes were narrowed cruelly.

“Dr. Watson will be accompanying us upon our return, Freddie,” Moriarty said with a languid wave of his hand. “See that you make him comfortable, will you?”

Stockton grinned and advanced toward me. I turned to face him. He made a feint to his left—and too late I saw the bludgeon in his raised right hand. I tried to recover in time to fend off the blow, but I was caught off balance. I felt a crushing blow to the back of my neck, and then everything went black.

I
awoke in another kind of blackness, this one relieved only by the faint glow of a solitary streetlamp shining through a single window. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I saw that I was not alone. Across the narrow basement room a figure lay upon a mattress on the floor. I tried to move and found that I was tied to the bed I was lying upon, my hands and feet bound securely by rope. The figure across the room lay perfectly still, and I wondered if he were alive or dead. A horrible realization suddenly came over me, and I whispered into the darkness.

“Holmes,” I said softly. The figure did not stir. “Holmes!” I said louder. “Holmes, it’s Watson.” There was a pause during which the pounding in my head drowned out all other sounds, and then the figure moved and groaned. “Holmes!” I said. “Wake up, Holmes!”

It was Holmes all right, and I thanked God he was alive, but I shall never erase from my mind the sight of him on that night. He rolled over so that the light from the window caught his face, and I gasped when I saw it. He was so badly cut and bruised that he was at first almost
unrecognizable. It was evident that he had been brutally beaten and was in dire need of medical care.

“Holmes!” I said. “What did they do to you?”

“They—tried to use persuasion on me,” he said, and his words were slurred. I wondered if he had been drugged. I struggled to free myself of the bonds which held me, but to no avail; I was bound very securely to the bedpost.

“Holmes!” I whispered into the darkness. “What are they going to do with us?”

“I don’t know, Watson,” he said weakly. “I confess I’m trying not to think about it.”

We were both silent for a while, and I could hear the sound of seagulls outside our window. I also thought I heard the sound of lapping water, and the air smelled of salt and dead fish. The moan of a foghorn cut through the quiet air, and then I was certain: We were being held in a building situated somewhere on the banks of the Thames. Light from the single streetlamp shone in faintly through the window, and I began to make out the outline of our room. It was a narrow basement chamber with walls of exposed brick; the single window was set just above ground level. I craned my neck around so that I could see the landscape outside: It was a bleak view of a deserted dock, with wooden piers jutting out into the water. A solitary seagull sat atop one of the crumbling posts, his head tucked underneath his wing.

“Holmes!” I said. There was a pause, and then he answered.

“Yes, Watson?”

“What are we going to do? We must get out of here!”

“I’m afraid I’m too weak to free myself,” he said, his voice faint. “Besides, the window is bolted from the outside.”

“We could break the glass.”

“We could, but I’m afraid the noise would draw attention to us... what day is it?”

“Monday, All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Damn! Is Prince Rabarrath—”

“Yes, he’s come to London. Mycroft told me that there’s to be a ceremony tonight at the Tower of London to welcome him.”

Holmes groaned. “We must not let that ceremony take place, Watson.”

I didn’t see that we were in any position to prevent it, but I said nothing. Holmes must have lost consciousness again, because he lay without speaking for some time. I could hear his labored breathing as I lay there inhaling the damp, musty scent of mildew. Outside I could hear the lapping of the water against the pilings. I heard footsteps, then the door to the room opened and a tall, spare figure stood silhouetted in the door. With the light from the hallway behind him, you could not see his face, but it was unmistakably the gaunt, stooped form of Professor Moriarty. He advanced into the room, and the blood froze in my veins as he bent over Holmes.

“How are we feeling, eh, Holmes?” he said, and his voice was chilling. Soft, sibilant, and smooth, it was like the hissing of a snake. Holmes stirred and moaned. Moriarty bent lower over him, so that their faces were almost touching, and I was reminded of a vampire leaning over his victim. I had the impression that Moriarty would suck Holmes’ very life away if I did not stop him.

I was about to say something when I heard another set of footsteps in the hall, and this time the figure which appeared in the doorway was thick, with massive shoulders and a bullet-shaped head.

“Do you have another job for me, Professor?” he said, and I recognized the growling snarl of George Simpson.

Moriarty straightened up and turned to him. “I may, I may, but first
I think you had better wake up our friend here. I have a proposition for him.”

“With pleasure,” said Simpson, lumbering over to where Holmes lay. I saw his hand raised and heard the sound of fist hitting flesh, and Holmes cried out. I struggled to free myself—I would have killed Simpson then and there if I could have.

“Steady on, you idiot,” said Moriarty. “He’s no use to us dead, you know.”

Simpson grunted and shook Holmes roughly.

“That’s enough!” said Moriarty. “I’ll take it from here.”

Simpson muttered something unintelligible and left the room. Moriarty seated himself stiffly on the floor next to Holmes.

“Holmes,” he said, “I have a proposition for you.”

“What... is... it?” Holmes said, his voice feeble.

“You tell me where the Star of India is hidden, and I won’t kill Dr. Watson here.”

There was a silence, and then Holmes spoke. “You... you... can’t get away with this, Moriarty.”

“Oh, but I can. I shall be safely in India before anyone knows what has happened. This is a very remote area, you know, and no one will hear his screams. Oh, did I mention that I will have him killed very slowly, right before your eyes? Simpson is rather a specialist in such matters, you see, and it would be a pity to waste his talents.”

Holmes moved and groaned.

Moriarty leaned over him and whispered softly. “Does it hurt much?”

“Not as much as the pain which is with you all the time, Moriarty,” Holmes replied in a weak voice.

Moriarty stood up abruptly. “You’re raving,” he said scornfully.

“I know, Moriarty... I know all about it... you can’t make it go away. Killing us won’t alleviate your pain, you know. It’s not that easy—”

Moriarty snorted. “Poor Holmes; your mind has been affected. And I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”

Just then Freddie Stockton appeared at the door.

“Yes?” Moriarty hissed. “What is it?”

“You’re n-n-needed, sir,” Stockton stuttered.

Moriarty took a few steps toward the door, and then he turned around. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you exactly ten minutes to think about it, to make your last farewells with the good doctor here, if that’s what you should decide. What a touching scene that will be,” he continued, moving toward the door. “I shall return in exactly ten minutes,” he said, and then he was gone, closing the door behind him.