Revenge of Moriarty by John Gardner
On one or two occasions, Spear attempted to discover Harry Allen’s purpose within his leader’s overall plan – for the man had little to do, except be ready to talk for long periods with the Professor behind closed doors. However, when his lieutenant broached the subject, Moriarty would only smile knowingly and say that in the fullness of time all would be revealed.
It soon became plain that, among the European leaders, Grisombre, Sanzionare and Segorbe were snug in their own cities. There were reports that Sanzionare had visited Paris for a week or so during the summer and had been seen with Grisombre, but Moriarty’s grand design for a European criminal society appeared to have come to naught.
Schleifstein, the German, however, was not in his native Berlin. The lurkers eventually located him, living with a handful of dubious villains of mixed nationality, in a quiet villa in Edmonton, not far from the Angel. A watch was set on this establishment and it was soon apparent that the German was casting about for a really large and impressive crib ripe for cracking.
Moriarty was already piecing together intelligence regarding one particularly lucrative possibility in the City – a bait for the avaricious villain to swallow whole.
So the last leaves on the trees of Albert Square crinkled and fell like pieces of burned paper; the winds became bone-chilling, and the days shorter. Greatcoats and mufflers, discarded during the summer, were taken out again, and in the drab back streets frequented by the underworld’s rank and file, people appeared to be bracing themselves for the onslaught of winter.
Each day the fogs and mists crept earlier up the river to mingle with the soot and grime from factories and private chimneys, and an autumnal dampness pervaded the city. In the last week of October there were three days during which man was all but cut off from his fellows as a thick London ‘particular’ shrouded main thoroughfares, alleys and byways alike. Naphtha flares sprouted flame at corners, people carried lanterns and torches, familiar landmarks vanished in the murk only to loom up unexpectedly, like ships off course. The incidence of robberies rose, pickpockets and mug-hunters did a roaring trade, and death stalked among the sopping slums nearest to the river, where the elderly and those with chronic chest complaints went down like flies. On the fourth day a mild breeze shifted the pea-souper and the sun, weak and as though strained through a fine muslin, lit up the great metropolis once more. But those who were familiar with the city weather predicted a long and hard winter.
On the evening of Thursday, 29 October, Moriarty had a visitor. He came off the boat train at Victoria Station, a tall skeleton of a man, wrapped in a long black overcoat which had seen better days. On his head a wide-brimmed, clerical-looking hat covered an untidy clump of wispy fine grey hair, and his beard gave one the impression that it had been gnawed by rats. He carried a large portmanteau and spoke English with a rough French accent.
Coming out of the station, he took an omnibus to Notting Hill and walked the rest of the way to Albert Square. His name was Pierre Labrosse. He had travelled from Paris in answer to the Professor’s letter, and at his coming Moriarty’s revenge was afoot.
* The true name has been altered and it should not be confused with any existing Albert Square.
* A mythical peerage jocularly bestowed on persons dressed or behaving in a manner above their natural status.
* A great deal more will be heard of this lady. It is well to recall, however, that she is famous for her great brush with Sherlock Holmes as recounted by Dr Watson in A Scandal in Bohemia, to which further reference will be made. On Dr Watson’s word we have it that ‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.’
* Which newspaper this was is not recorded. It was certainly either old or slow with the gathering of news. Gladstone’s Liverpool speech – incidentally his last – took place on the 24th. During the previous month Armenian revolutionaries had attacked the Ottoman Bank in Constantinople: an action which provoked a three-day massacre.
* Those who have read the earlier chronicle will recall that Moriarty was much taken with a stage magician he saw performing at the Alhambra Theatre and it seems that from this time onwards, the Professor took a keen interest in the art of prestidigitation.
LONDON:
Thursday, 29 October – Monday, 16 November 1896
(The art of robbery)
‘Of course I am able to do it. Who else? There is nobody in the whole of Europe who could make a copy as well as I. Why would you send for me if this were not so?’
Pierre Labrosse had a wild macabre look about him, like a scarecrow marionette worked by an unseen drunken puppeteer. He lolled in a chair opposite Moriarty, a glass of absinth – which seemed to be his staple diet – in one hand, the other skinny arm gesticulating in a grandiose manner.
They had dined in private and now Moriarty had cause to question whether or not he had made a wise choice in sending for Labrosse. There were many other artists in Europe who could have done the copy equally as well, if not better. Reginald Leftly, constantly insolvent portrait painter and aspiring academician, to name but one within easy reach.
The Professor had chosen Labrosse only after much thought, having met him but once, during his period in the European wilderness following the Reichenbach business. On that occasion he had acknowledged the man’s instability, at the same time recognizing his great gifts. Labrosse was, in plain truth, a self-styled genius who, had he applied himself to original creation, could possibly have made a great name for himself. As it was. the only name he had made was with the Sûreté.
The letter which the Professor had written to him on returning to London had been carefully worded, giving little hint of what he required, yet containing enough to bring the painter to England. In particular there had been guarded references to the man’s great skill and reputation, and a hint of riches to be earned. Yet now that he had Labrosse safe in Albert Square, Moriarty could not help having second thoughts regarding his choice. In the time which had elapsed since their last meeting, Labrosse’s instability was even more pronounced, the delusions of grandeur even more marked, as though the poison of the absinth was daily biting more deeply into his brain.
‘You see, my friend,’ Labrosse continued, ‘my talent is unique.’
‘I would not have sent for you if that were not so,’ remarked Moriarty quietly. Lying in his teeth.
‘It is truly a gift from God.’ Labrosse fingered the flamboyant silk cravat at his throat. You did not have to be a detective to tell that the man was an artist. ‘A gift from God,’ he repeated. ‘If God had been a painter, then he would have given the world his truth through me. I would surely have been Christ the artist.’
‘I’m certain you are right.’
‘My gift is that when I copy a painting I do it with the greatest attention to detail. It is as though the original artist had painted two at the same moment. This is something I find difficult to explain, for to me it is as though I become the original artist. If I copy a Titian, then I am Titian; if I do a Vermeer, I think in Dutch. Only a few weeks ago I did a remarkable modern canvas. The Impressionist Van Gogh. My ear hurt the whole time. This power is frightening.’
‘I can see that you are in awe of yourself. Yet you are not above performing this great work for money.’
‘Man cannot live by bread alone.’
Moriarty frowned, trying hard to follow the Frenchman’s reasoning.
‘How much did you say you would pay for a copy of La Joconde?’
‘We did not speak of money, but now that you ask, I will provide you with food, a man to assist you during the work, and a final sum of five hundred pounds.’
Labrosse made a noise like a cat whose tail had been trodden upon. ‘I need no assistant. Five hundred pounds? I would not copy a Turner for five hundred pounds. We are talking of a Leonardo.’
‘You will have the assistant. He will cook for you and report to me on the progress. Five hundred pounds. And for this I demand quality. You understand that this is for an elaborate hoax. It must be c
‘My work is always convincing. If I do La Joconde, then it will be La Joconde. The experts will not be able to tell the difference.’
‘In this case, they will,’ said Moriarty firmly. There will be a hidden flaw.’
‘Never. And never for a paltry five hundred pounds.’
‘Then I must go elsewhere.’
It was doubtful whether Labrosse took heed of the icy edge which had entered into the Professor’s tone.
‘At least one thousand pounds.’
Moriarty rose and walked to the bell pull. ‘I shall ring for the maid who will bring one of my more muscular male servants. They will then eject you, bag and baggage. It is a cold night, Monsieur Labrosse.’
‘Maybe I would do it for eight hundred pounds. Maybe.’
‘Then I’ll have no more of it.’ He tugged at the bell pull.
‘You drive a hard bargain. Five hundred.’
‘Five hundred and the few little extras. Including the scratching of a word on the wood – I have a piece of old poplar which I have acquired for the purpose. One word will be scratched before you begin, in the right hand bottom corner.’
‘Only one thing I will not agree. I must be alone. No assistant.’
‘No assistant, no money. No commission.’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘It will take a long time. To produce the exact cracks there has to be much baking during the painting.’
‘It will take no more than six weeks.’
This time Labrosse caught the menace, even through the mist of his delusions. Polly Pearson was at the door and Moriarty ordered her to send up William Jacobs and then seek out Harry Allen and have him come to the drawing-room. Polly, already filling out with the food and regular, though hard, hours of work, blushed crimson at Allen’s name.
Jacobs took Labrosse off to his guest room, with firm instructions to see that the artist did not wander or walk in his sleep. Presently, Harry Allen came to the drawing-room and there behind a locked door, the Professor gave him instructions regarding his forthcoming sojourn with the French artist in Paris.
‘When it is all done, Professor, will there be other work for me?’ asked the former schoolteacher as he took his leave.
‘If the job is done well, then you will be regarded as one of the household, one of the family. Bert Spear always has work for likely lads such as you.’
Ten minutes later, Moriarty went downstairs to the study and took the piece of aged poplar from a locked drawer in his desk, turning it over in his hands and smiling. Within a few weeks this simple piece of wood was to be transformed into the ageless and priceless Mona Lisa. The bait would then be prepared for the Frenchman, Grisombre. In the meantime, Spear and Ember were about the business which would trip the arrogant Wilhelm Schleifstein.
Spear was with Ember and two of Terremant’s men in the City. They crouched, in silence, in a darkened ground-floor room looking out onto the junction of roads which made up Cornhill and Bishopsgate Street, their attention focused upon the corner building, a jeweller’s establishment, which appeared to be in darkness except for two tiny slits of light at eye level in the window facing Cornhill, and one similar slit in the Bishopsgate window.
‘Here he comes again,’ whispered Ember. ‘Up Bishopsgate.’
‘A good timekeeper,’ smiled Spear in the darkness. ‘Regular as a Swiss horizontal. He never alters it?’
‘No. Every fifteen minutes. I’ve had it watched over three weeks,’ Ember hissed. ‘His sergeant joins him at ten, then again at one. Sometimes at five in the morning as well, though not always. Falls in step with him and walks the beat in the same way.’
They fell silent as the uniformed policeman clumped steadily towards the junction from Bishopsgate, pausing to try the handles on each door, like a drill sergeant going through some parade ground review, his bullseye lantern throwing out a dull glow from where it was clipped on his belt.
He arrived at the corner, paused and peered through the slit in the window on the Bishopsgate side, tested the door in the shuttering and paced around the corner into Cornhill where he began to go through the same procedure. There was a rattle and sound of hooves from the direction of Leadenhall Street and a lone hansom came clattering past, heading towards Cheapside.
The policeman hardly paused, squinting in through both slits on the Cornhill side, trying the other door-handle and then continuing on his way, his footsteps echoing in the empty street, dying off until silence again fell over the area.
‘I’ll go over and have a peep,’ said Spear, more confident; louder now the uniformed figure had gone.
The room from which they had been watching smelled musty as though inhabited by rats, and the bare floorboards creaked as Spear stepped towards the door, avoiding the workmen’s rubble which littered the place. It had in fact become vacant only a month before, the lease snapped up quickly by Moriarty under an assumed name. Like the shop across the street, it too had been a jeweller’s – as were many of the premises along Cornhill – and it was now undergoing ‘Complete Refurbishing’, as witnessed by the board fastened to the outer door.
Spear paused in the empty street, ears pricked to catch the slightest sound. It was strange, he thought crossing the road, how this could be such a busy and crowded place during the day, yet so deserted at night. Few shopkeepers lived on their premises, preferring to reside in cosy terraced houses an hour or so away by train or omnibus. Mr Freeland, whose name appeared, coupled to that of his son, in white square lettering above the windows in both Cornhill and Bishopsgate, had what they called a bijou residence in St John’s Wood. Spear smiled to himself. These people never seemed to learn. One robbery would make them all wary for a while. They would have new locks fitted, perhaps even employ special nightwatchmen. But in a year or two the fear would pass and they would return to their old ways. The safe-makers even designed new safes, but the old ones were still used all over the City.
Spear reached the Cornhill front of John Freeland & Son. No sound, not a soul in sight, the road sparkling in the lamplight as though dusted with frost. The whole angled frontage of the shop was encased in iron shutters, blanketing the windows, apart from the slits which were cut some five and a half feet from the pavement: nine inches long and two inches deep. Spear pressed his eyes to the first slit. Inside, the shop was bright with light, for the gas mantles were lit and turned up full: the counter and the empty glass display cases in the outer shop all clearly visible. The real object of these peep holes, however, was not this first room where customers daily purchased rings and watches, necklaces and brooches, or ordered stones to be set in baubles of intricate design, but the rear shop in which the real craftsmanship was carried out.
A wall separated the two rooms, access between them being maintained through a wide arch, and the squint holes being particularly designed so that a watcher could see directly through this opening, and so clearly view the one object of importance – a large iron safe, painted white, standing in the middle of the second shop floor.
Spear moved to his right and peered through the second slit. Again the main view was of the white safe, this time from a slightly different angle, but clear as day. Still with ears cocked for the first sound of the beatman’s boots on the pavement, Spear rounded the corner and squinted again. The viewing slit in Bishopsgate gave yet another picture of the safe, this time ingeniously assisted by a mirror set cunningly at an angle. He nodded to himself and began to retrace his way towards the empty shop across the road. If Ember’s intelligence was correct, then he would not mind being on this screwing himself, for there would be a king’s ransom of booty in it.
‘You are sure about the way in from the rear?’ he asked Ember, back in the empty shop again.
‘Certain sure. The only ones they bother about are the doors through the iron shutters; and the three locks on the safe. Why should they?’ Ember gave his thin ratty grin. ‘They reckon you couldn’t do much even if you did get in, what with the blue boy pacing
‘And the dates are true?’
‘True as you’ll ever get. He’s here …’
The beat policeman was once more pounding his sedate way up Bishopsgate.
There was a lot of whispering on the attic landing at the Albert Square house that night for Polly was canoodling with Harry Allen in the small hours.
When she finally crept back to the bed she shared with her sister, her eyes were damp and she sniffed so much that it woke Martha.
‘Poll, you shouldn’t, you’ll get us both in trouble with Mrs Spear if you’re caught. And Harry will be in the Professor’s bad books. Just when we’ve got a good place.’
‘You need not worry,’ Polly sniffed loudly. ‘There’ll be no trouble for a long time. Harry’s been sent away.’
‘What? Got the boot?’
‘No. Oh, Martha, I shall miss him so. He’s off to France with that strange gentleman that came tonight.’
‘What, old skin and bones? What larks, off to France.’
‘For weeks. Not be back before Christmas he says.’
‘Well, good riddance, I say,’ snapped Martha who was sincerely concerned for her sister. ‘That Harry’s a bad influence on you, my girl. Any more of it and he’d be getting you in trouble. Then where would we be.’
‘Harry’s not like that …’
‘Show me a man what isn’t.’
‘He says that he’ll bring me fine things back from Paris.’
‘You’re getting ideas beyond your station, Poll. Don’t you forget that we was cold, in rags and grubbing for food a few weeks ago. Getting this place was a miracle and I’m not having the likes of Harry Allen spoil it for us.’
‘He’s a gentleman …’
‘A good for nothing I would say.’
Polly lapsed into her tears. ‘Well, you’ll be rid of him tomorrow,’ a great bawl of frustration, ‘and you don’t care what happens to me.’