Revenge of Moriarty by John Gardner
‘And?’ Holmes snapped, irritated and anxious to hear the facts.
‘And he has been at number five since last September. Living as an American Professor. Name of Carl Nicol. A right evil crew he’s had with him.’
‘All the old faces, eh?’
‘The Chinese we have been seeking, the ferrety Ember, Spear …’
‘All his Praetorian Guard.’
‘Yes, and some women.’
‘Hum!’
‘But, this you will find interesting, they are all gone now. For the past week or so he has been there alone, but for two female servants.’
‘You saw him, Crow?’
‘It would be more exact, Holmes, to say that I saw you.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was an amazing likeness.’
‘I have never underestimated James Moriarty. Not for a moment did I think his performance would be anything but professional. You followed him?’
‘To a little villa in Maida Vale where he has the Adler woman.’
‘You saw her?’ asked Holmes with marked interest.
‘Indeed I did. Moriarty was in the house some two hours, after which they both came out and drove to The Trocadero.’
‘Ah, the good old Troc,’ mused Holmes.
Crow was happy to note that he really did seem to be his former self.
‘Where they dined, very much in full view and making a public spectacle of themselves. Hand holding and blowing kisses across the table, secret jests and loud laughter. It was embarrassing, Holmes, for if I did not know better, I would have sworn it was you.’
‘Then back to Maida Vale, I presume?’
‘Indeed yes. Moriarty did not return to Albert Square until the small hours. At around four in the morning. I fear that my Sylvia, who is mighty loving now, suspects me of some new dalliance.’
‘Tell her to cease worrying. By tomorrow it will be over. How are you with locks, Crow?’
‘In what way, Holmes?’
‘At cracking them, of course. Never mind, I have my own kit of tools here. It will present no difficulty.’
‘You mean to …?’
‘We are forced to indulge in a spot of housebreaking, Inspector. Have you any objections?’
‘Not if we can nail the Professor.’
‘Capital. Now, did you know that you were followed this morning?’
‘I thought as much.’
‘Yes, and they have a fellow watching this house. A rogue who poses as a blind beggar. Fred, I believe they call him. The men on to you are a pair called Scarecrow Sim and Ben Tuffnell. We shall have to put them off the scent tonight, but allow me to worry over that. I have some street urchins handy here who can outwit even the cleverest of the Professor’s lurkers. Just go about your business, Crow, and leave that to me. I shall want you here at nine, or before. It will be a long wait at Albert Square, but I think worth our while.’
Crow nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’
‘Good man. And, Crow, bring your revolver.’
Bridget Spear was delivered of a fine eight-pound boy at six o’clock on the evening of Friday, 14 May.* Spear, an overjoyed and proud father, broke all rules and, for the second night running, presented himself at Albert Square.
Moriarty, again at his dressing-table, greeted him with less than joyful enthusiasm.
‘I am glad to hear about Bridget,’ he said coldly. ‘However, I would be happier if you kept your distance, Spear, until this lark is done. I shall see the Adler woman this last time, tonight. After that Lee Chow has his orders. It will not be such an arduous or late night, tonight, for I shall tell her I have pressing business.’
‘You’ll know what it means to be a father yourself, soon enough.’ Spear stared sullenly at the carpet. ‘Have you had the word about Crow?’
‘A boy came in earlier. He’s been commiserating with Holmes, which makes me uneasy. But the Baker Street detective is so discredited that it’ll do no good.’
‘I trust you’re right.’
‘He’ll be out of the swim for a long time I’ll warrant, and we can get on with our business in peace. I’ll be down at the Bermondsey place to see to our capers first thing tomorrow. Now, Spear, go back to your Bridget and take her my good wishes. I’ll be godfather to the boy, never fear.’
‘There’ll be another marriage before long also. Young Allen and the Mary Ann – Polly – they can scarce be prized apart with a jemmy.’
‘I’ll bless that and play the uncle too,’ laughed the Professor.
Harkness arrived at the appointed hour, and Spear left at the same time as Moriarty. The lamps were dowsed one by one, and, around ten o’clock, Martha and the little skivvy made their way to their beds, leaving but one oil lamp lit in the hall against their master’s return.
• • • • •
Crow’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He had presented himself at Baker Street, promptly at nine, as Holmes suggested, and made his way up to the detective’s chambers to find them empty.
He called softly for Holmes, but, receiving no reply, he settled himself by the fire, which was well made up in the hearth, and took out his old American revolver in order to make certain it was in good condition.
The rattle of a hansom, pulling up outside, drew the policeman to the window. There were few people about, though he could swear that he glimpsed shadows across the road, and the fleeting figure of a man moving between the doorways up the street.
Below, a hansom was stopped, and its fare descending onto the pavement. A tall figure, gaunt and with a stoop. Crow caught his breath as the light from the gas standard passed over the man’s face. He had seen him twice before, and knew his description as well as the back of his own hand. Below the hat there was, he could be certain, a high domed forehead. The eyes would be sunken. The man in the street below was Moriarty, the Professor – the guise in which that Napoleon of Crime often showed himself to his corrupt army.
Crow fingered his revolver, standing back from the window and watching, heart in mouth. The tall figure crossed the road, making for the doorway in which Crow had seen the lurking shadow.
The Professor paused for a few moments, as though speaking to someone in hiding, his head moving to and fro, as if in earnest conversation. Then he turned, glanced up towards Crow so that the light struck his face fully. It was certainly he, now pacing back across the road towards the door of 22 IB.
Crow heard the door slam downstairs, and footsteps coming towards Holmes’ chambers. In a flash he was before the door, revolver up and ready for the man who would enter.
The door swung open, and Moriarty walked into the room.
‘Hold, sir,’ barked Crow, ‘or I’ll have your life this time.’
‘My dear Crow, pray try to be less aggressive,’ said Sherlock Holmes from the face that undoubtedly belonged to his enemy.
It was then that Crow’s eyes appeared to be popping from his head. His jaw dropped and the revolver weighed heavy in his hand.
‘Holmes?’ he stammered.
‘In person,’ said Holmes, removing the tall hat to reveal, as Crow had suspected, the high-domed forehead.
‘But you are Moriarty to the life,’ his eyes searched the face and figure of the man who stood before him.
‘I should hope so,’ chuckled Holmes. ‘Two can play the game, Crow. If Moriarty is posing as me, then I do not see why I should not pose as him. The confrontation will be neat, don’t you think?’
‘Merciful heavens, it’s masterful, Holmes.’
‘Elementary, Crow. The simple arts of any good actor, though I must confess that I am a shade better than most of those who tread the green these days. But quick, man, to the window. I believe I’ve set the cat among the pigeons down there.’
They crossed to the casement, Crow blurting out questions which came tumbling one after the other into his head.
‘I saw you in the street. What were you up to?’
‘The lurking watchers. I had words with blind Fred who, n
It was just as he said. Three raggedy urchins had come out onto the pavement below, and were setting off in different directions, at a steady trot. As they watched, figures glided from hiding places to give chase.
‘There,’ Holmes rubbed his hands, ‘that has settled their hash for the night. We can make our way to Albert Square without fear of the Professor’s men being on our tails.’
At Holmes’ instructions, Mrs Hudson had set a selection of cold meats and some beer on a tray, and the two men ate heartily before leaving. During this cold collation, Crow continually cast glances at his companion, hardly believing that he was indeed Holmes, so convincing was the disguise.
They left a little after midnight, taking a cab to Notting Hill and going the remainder of the journey on foot, arriving at Albert Square near fifteen minutes to one.
‘The area steps, I think,’ Holmes whispered as they passed along the square, keeping close to the wall. ‘I fancy the servants will be well asleep by now, but I beg you to remain as silent as you can.’
Before the door at the bottom of the area steps, Holmes paused, producing some instrument from his pocket and, inserting it in the lock, had the hinges swinging back in a trice.
‘Just stand still a moment,’ he whispered once they were inside. ‘Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.’
The kitchen in which they stood, smelled of crisp pastry and the scent of roast meat.
‘The Professor does himself well,’ muttered Holmes. ‘That’s best beef or I’m a Dutchman.’
Slowly, Crow began to distinguish the shapes of objects around him.
‘The stairs are over there,’ Holmes pointed a long finger. ‘You noticed the lamp outside. It burns in the hall. We have enough time to examine the contents of Moriarty’s study, I think – though I doubt we’ll find anything worth while. I’ve examined his papers before now, some years ago.’
They made their way up the stairs and into the main body of the house, their progress made easier by the lamp placed on a table near the entrance lobby.
It was after one now. ‘Two or three hours, I think,’ Holmes grunted. ‘That should give us time enough. The wait should not be tedious.’
As he spoke they heard a hansom come into the square and pull up before the house. Voices from outside – at least one unmistakable in its timbre.
‘He’s grown tired of playing my role with the woman,’ whispered Holmes. ‘Only just in time it seems. Quick, up the stairs, we’ll beard him on the first landing as he comes up.’
Crow felt as though he had two left feet, Holmes was so nimble and quiet, moving up the broad staircase like a cat, and they had only just reached the landing when the front door opened below them, and Moriarty’s footsteps were plain in the hall.
Crow hardly dared breathe as they hugged the wall on the darkened landing, watching the stairs and listening to the sounds coming from below.
Moriarty was humming to himself, some catchy tune which all the errand boys were whistling, Girlie Girlie, or some such rubbish. They could hear his coat go down on the hall stand, and saw with their own eyes the change in the light as he picked up the lamp and began making his way, heavy footed, up the stairs.
Crow tensed, his hand curling around the revolver butt, drawing it out slowly. Holmes laid a finger to his lips.
Moriarty was passing the turn in the stairs now, the lamp held high and the light falling on his face: the face of Sherlock Holmes.
As his feet reached the landing, Holmes took a pace forward.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,’ he said, in a voice as soft and menacing as Crow had ever heard.
Moriarty almost lost his balance and fell backwards, grabbing at the bannister rail to steady himself, raising the lamp even higher. Crow came forward, revolver levelled. Never had he seen such a bizarre sight: Holmes and Moriarty facing one another on this landing, each in the guise of the other.
‘Rot you, Holmes,’ snarled the Professor. ‘I should have taken care of you at Reichenbach instead of playing games.’
‘I dare say,’ Holmes countered politely. ‘You know my friend here, Mr Crow? He almost had you at Sandringham, I believe. Well, Moriarty, this is certainly the end. We’ll have you on Jack Ketch’s gibbet within a month or so. Now kindly move into your drawing-room so that the Inspector here can cuff you – after we have rubbed all that paint and putty from your face. I must compliment you on that. A good likeness.’
Moriarty had no option but to pass before the two men, at pistol point, into the spacious drawing-room. They followed, and Holmes crossed to the fireplace which still contained the ashes and embers of its daily blaze.
Moriarty stood in the centre of the room, his lips moving with obscene and despicable oaths.
‘Cuff up the blackguard, then, Crow,’ Holmes said brightly. ‘Then we can be on our way.’
The policeman moved forward, his hand going to his back pocket to grasp the handcuffs which he had in readiness.
‘If you would hold the revolver, Holmes, and you, sir,’ to Moriarty, ‘place down that lamp on the piano there.’
He turned slightly to hand the pistol to Holmes, and in that one second off guard all was lost.
‘I’ll place the lamp for you,’ screamed Moriarty, and suiting action to the word, hurled the brass-embossed burner with full force against the wall, only a foot from Holmes’ head.
‘Shoot, man, shoot,’ yelled Holmes, diving forward as the burner crashed, spilling oil and flame over the carpet.
Crow’s hand came up and his revolver jerked, the shot passing only an inch or so wide of Moriarty who was at the door.
‘After him.’
The door slammed, and they heard the blood-chilling click of the key turning in the lock. Behind them, the room was already filling with flame as the spilled oil caught.
‘The door, Crow. Break the door.’
From outside came the mocking, haunting laugh and the sound of Moriarty’s feet on the stairs.
‘For heaven’s sake, the door, man,’ cried Holmes, ‘or we’ll be roasted alive.’
Crow, cursing himself for a fool, put his shoulder hard to the door, feeling the bruising pain as it connected. The wood did not even budge, the solid oak and strong lock not giving an inch to Crow’s weight.
Moriarty leaned against the landing wall, breathing heavily, the laughter dying on his lips and the sound of the fire growing louder each moment.
He tore at his face, pulling off pieces of putty and hair to rid himself of his enemy’s visage. The putty on Holmes’ physiognomy would be bubbling soon enough. He gulped at the air, thick with smoke dribbling out from under the door.
The shock was still in his head and stomach – the fright of seeing his other self on the landing, framed in the dim light. He had thought, for a second, that it was his brother’s spectre come to haunt him at last.
The thumping on the door was becoming more intense. Rats, he thought, caught fast in the devouring flames. He turned for the stairs, and then remembered Martha. Did a servant girl matter? There was another noise now, from far away the shout of ‘Fire! Fire!’ If they were saved, Martha knew something of Bermondsey, and could lead the jacks to him.
The Professor turned and leaped for the upward stair, running three steps at a time to the topmost landing and the attics.
There was no ceremony in his dragging the two girls from their beds, shouting loud for them not to be concerned as to their appearance, but to grab at their robes and follow him to safety. Stunned with sleep and fright, Martha, and the child skivvy, blundered down following him. As they reached the bottom landing they could hear the flames’ roar and the crash of glass from the drawing-room.
In the hall they heard the babble from the street, and the sound of horses’ hooves, the rattle of wheels and the clang of the bell: the brigade was arriving to deal with the inferno which must now be raging above them.
Moriarty wrenched open the front door and hurried into the street, the two girls at his heels. People were clustered around the steps, two policemen pushing back the small knot of men and women. Doors had been flung open, and the other occupants of Albert Square, in motley disarray, stood at their doors, or in the street, as the two fire engines pulled up, horses snorting and helmeted men leaping for the pumps.
There was a small cheer as the Professor came down, shepherding the servants: cries of, ‘He’s saved them.’ ‘Well done, sir,’ and offers of blankets and shelter.
But Moriarty would have none of it. He shook comforting hands from his shoulders, dragged arms from around Martha and the child, replacing them with his own hands as he hurried them from the vicinity of the house.
As they reached the centre of the square he heard someone shouting, ‘Jump into this tarpaulin and you’ll be all right.’ He did not look back.
The heat in the room was becoming unbearable, the smoke already starting to clog at their lungs. Still neither Crow nor Holmes could make any impact on the door.
‘It’s no good, Crow,’ shouted Holmes. ‘Stand back. Your pistol.’ He had retrieved the revolver from where it had fallen in the middle of the room, aiming it straight at the lock.
Crow waited for the explosion, but it did not come.
‘The hammer,’ Holmes yelled. ‘The hammer is jammed. The window, it’s our only chance, man.’
Crow turned, searching for the right implement, then, picking up the piano stool, he hurled it with all possible force at the window nearest the piano. It crashed through, taking glass and part of the frame with it.
Holmes was by the open casement in a moment, one of the fire irons in his hand, smashing remaining glass and debris from the surround.
Below, they could hear the surge of the crowd and the sound of the engines reaching the square. Crow moved to his side, feeling the flames charring at the back of his coat, singeing the short hair on his neck. Glancing at Holmes, he saw that the detective had ripped off the bald pate Moriarty wig and clawed the make-up from his face. Below there was a drop of some twenty feet into the milling throng, through which the brasshelmeted firemen were running the hoses and manning the pumps.