Revenge of Moriarty

by John Gardner

  Harry Allen answered the tap on the door and Morningdale rose to meet his guests.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen, I had a feeling that you would not keep me loitering.’

  The door was closed behind the visitors, hands were clasped, glasses of brandy handed around, smiles everywhere. Outside in the corridor William Jacobs came out of the broom cupboard and took up his station in front of the door to Morningdale’s suite.

  ‘So you have it,’ Morningdale’s gaze seemed not to shift from the brief bag clutched tightly in the French bodyguard’s paw.

  ‘I have it,’ Grisombre made a small gesture towards the bag. ‘There is no hue and cry, it can be yours, Monsieur Morningdale, if you have the money.’

  Morningdale gave an impatient click of the tongue. ‘The money, the money, that is no problem. It is here, of course. But let me see it. Let me look at what you have brought.’

  Grisombre hesitated. ‘Monsieur, this transaction has been performed on trust, I …’

  ‘Trust backed up with five thousand pounds. You can hardly call that mere trust. The picture.’

  His snap, he knew, came perilously close to the normal voice and manner of his real self. But it passed unnoticed. After another slight hesitation, Grisombre nodded to the man with the bag which was now set down on the floor, the key produced and the painting, wrapped in velvet, drawn out. Harry Allen came forward to take the piece of wood, ready to set it on the vacant easel near his own bedroom door.

  ‘Hold.’ Morningdale stepped into the circle before the painting was even unswaddled. ‘I’ll look at the back before you set it up. I’m not an expert for nothing, Monsier Grisombre. There are certain identifying marks.’

  Grisombre’s face went dark, anger brewing like thunder on his brow. ‘You are suggesting that I would cross you?’

  ‘Shush-shush,’ Morningdale made placating motions. ‘There is no need to become waxy with me, Grisombre. A simple precaution. There are marks on the right hand side of the panel; and other things: specific cracks, certain smudges on the back of the right hand; abrasions around the mouth; marks on the index finger of the right hand, and, of course, that network of cracks across the entire picture. It sounds like a medical report, yes? There, you see, on the back of the right hand of the panel.’ The painting was now unwrapped and the marks plain to see. ‘Just place it on the easel, Harry.’

  Harry Allen took the wooden panel from the bodyguard and began to place it on the easel. As though noticing it for the first time, Grisombre gestured towards the other easel.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘A mere daub,’ Morningdale raised his eyebrows. ‘A dealer is trying to pass it off as an unknown Rembrandt. I will show you later. Ah,’ he stood back to admire the Mona Lisa now in place. ‘Is she not beautiful? The mystery. The knowing yet unknowing. The timelessness. A tangible link with true genius.’

  It was, without doubt, the copy which Labrosse had done for him, and Moriarty wondered what the Leftly reproduction was like. He hoped that it was of a similar standard. Inwardly he smiled, for whatever it was like, the Louvre would never allow it to be known that it was not the original – even if they discovered it. He went close to the painting, as though examining it in minute detail.

  ‘Who did the copy?’ he asked, almost as though he spoke to himself.

  ‘As you suggested. Reginald Leftly.’ Grisombre was at his elbow.

  ‘It is good?’

  ‘They are like peas in a pod.’

  ‘And Leftly will not carouse and spill out the truth in some garden shop or gin house?’

  ‘Mr Leftly,’ said Grisombre softly, ‘will remain silent as the grave.’

  Morningdale nodded. ‘Why should you share your commission, eh?’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘In a moment. How was the … er … the exchange effected?’

  ‘As I told you, it was easy. By some mischance there was a small accident to one of the windows. A glazier had to go and put it right – in the Salon Carré. After the museum was closed. The man worked there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Very sad, as it turned out, Monsieur Morningdale, very sad. The next day he was killed. An accident on his way to work. A runaway horse. Very sad. Now, what about the money?’

  ‘You have done an excellent job,’ Morningdale looked him straight in the eyes. This proposition had cost three lives. ‘Excellent. Yes, it is time for you to be repaid, Monsieur Grisombre. If you gentlemen will just wait for a few moments. My secretary will provide you with another glass. Sit down, my friends.’ He turned and walked slowly into his bedroom.

  It took a few seconds over six minutes. When he returned it was as Professor James Moriarty, the one-time Mathematician, author of the Treatise on the Binomial Theorem and The Dynamics of an Asteroid. The three Frenchmen were ranged easily on the couch between the pair of easels and Harry Allen stood by Moriarty’s door. As the Professor entered, so Harry Allen’s hand came out of his jacket holding a pistol. The door to the other bedroom opened, Spear and Bertram Jacobs coming fast into the room, the barrels of their revolvers pointing steadily at the French trio, while, at the same moment, the main door opened disclosing William Jacobs similarly armed.

  Grisombre and his companions, moved slightly, their hands reaching for hidden weapons, then freezing in mid-air as the potential danger of the situation became apparent.

  ‘How nice to see you again, Jean.’ Moriarty’s voice was almost a whisper, his head performing the familiar reptilian oscillation. ‘Mr Jarvis Morningdale sends his compliments, but he is unable to help you any further.’

  Grisombre appeared to have lost his voice. The pair of bodyguards glowered, and Bert Spear stepped forward to relieve them of the weapons they carried.

  ‘I really have to congratulate you, Monsieur Grisombre,’ Moriarty spoke in his Jarvis Morningdale accent. ‘It is time for you to be repaid.’

  ‘I knew there was something. I knew that I had seen you before.’ Grisombre’s croak came from the back of his throat. ‘That first night in La Maison Vide.’

  ‘What a pity you did not identify me then, Jean. But, calm yourself, my friend. I am not a vindictive man. I know your value to my grand strategy. You remember that? Our united plan for Europe? The alliance with me at its head. No harm will come to you. I merely wished to show you who is superior.’

  Grisombre made a disgusted noise. ‘I stole La Joconde for you, did I not? Without a hint to the authorities.’

  Moriarty gave a heavy mock sigh. ‘I am afraid that is where you are wrong, my friend. It is on that point alone that I rest my case. Harry,’ his head inclined towards the bedroom door.

  Harry Allen stepped back into the bedroom, reappearing almost immediately with the bottle of turpentine, the palette-knife and rag.

  Moriarty, who had been clasping the Borchardt automatic, transferred the weapon to his waistband and took the items from Allen.

  ‘Just watch, Jean. Watch and learn.’

  He walked over to the painting which the Frenchmen had brought with them, and proceeded to saturate the cloth with turpentine. Handing the bottle back to Allen, Moriarty began to rub hard at the lower right hand corner of the Mona Lisa. One of the French bodyguards stifled a cry. Grisombre responded with a sharp oath, ‘Moriarty. The Leonardo, you’ll destroy …’ But a jab in the ribs from Spear’s revolver stopped him from going further.

  ‘You think I do not know what I am doing?’

  The Professor had taken the bottle again to add more turpentine to the cloth. The paint was starting to soften under his pressure, and now he assisted it with short hard strokes of the palette-knife. Quite quickly the dark area below the Mona Lisa’s left arm was being stripped away.

  ‘There.’

  Moriarty stood back. Beneath the paint they could all plainly see a word cut into the poplar panel. MORIARTY.

  Grisombre stared transfixed, shifting his gaze to the Professor for a second before it was drawn back to the carved name
under the great painting which he personally had arranged to be stolen from the Louvre.

  ‘It can’t …’ he began.

  Moriarty, with great showmanship, turned and pointed dramatically at the despoiled picture.

  ‘That is the painting you brought from France, Grisombre. The painting that was hanging in the Salon Carré. The one which you replaced with a copy. You see, my friend, I had already taken care of the lady, long before I commissioned you to steal her.’ Two steps and he was beside the easel covered with the black cloth. ‘You stole a worthless piece of wood and oil, Grisombre. The true Leonardo is already here.’ With a flourish, he whipped back the cloth to reveal Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece.

  Grisombre’s face was a grey mixture of wonder and fear.

  ‘I will admit that my charade has been a little dramatic,’ Moriarty chuckled. ‘But I think it well demonstrates my powers and proves my point. Surely, you will agree that it is I who should lead any alliance of our people in the continent of Europe.’

  Slowly, Grisombre rose, walking like a man recovering from a grave illness, moving first to the real Mona Lisa and then to the one he had brought from Paris. The two bodyguards remained seated, covered by the revolvers. William Jacobs had come closer also, standing next to Grisombre.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked the Frenchman.

  ‘You betrayed me, my friend. With the others, you ousted me from leadership of a society which has a potential for plunder unknown since the days of Attila the Hun. What do you think I shall do?’

  ‘I’ll not stand and let you kill me like a dog,’ shouted Grisombre, reaching up with his right hand, grasping the easel which held the fake Mona Lisa and, in one motion, whirling it round him, spinning in a full circle, scattering and skittling Moriarty’s men who were taken off-balance by the sudden move, speed and enormous force with which the Frenchman swung the wooden frame. At the full circle of his turn, Grisombre let go of the easel, shouted to his bodyguards, and lunged for the door, dragging it open as Moriarty shouted –

  ‘Grisombre, you fool, stop. I am not here to harm you. Grisombre.’

  But he was gone, running helter-skelter down the corridor.

  One of the bodyguards tried to follow, but William Jacobs, recovering quickly from the blow which had sent him to the floor, barred his way, the revolver cocked and pointed an inch from the man’s head.

  ‘Bertram. William,’ snapped the Professor. ‘Get after him. No shooting. As little violence as you need. Bring him back. If not here, then to Bermondsey.’

  He had the Borchardt out, levelling it at the pair of Frenchmen, as the Jacobs brothers, tucking their revolvers away, went tearing from the room in pursuit.

  Spear went over to the door and kicked it closed, while Harry Allen began to clean up. The cases were repacked with haste, all traces removed from the rooms, the pictures stowed away, while Moriarty returned to his Morningdale disguise.

  Within twenty minutes they had collected the luggage from the Frenchmen’s rooms, and Spear, with Harry Allen in attendance, had left the hotel with Grisombre’s bodyguards. A little later, Moriarty went down and paid all the bills. By this time Harkness had been summoned to drive the Professor away, leaving no trace except for the invisible presence of the lurkers around the hotel. They were still there when the police arrived.

  Grisombre reached the bottom of the staircase and slowed his pace to a walk: patting his hair, smoothing his clothes in order to saunter through the foyer without attracting attention. He could, perhaps, reach some kind of cover in the large railway station. Possibly hide until the next Dover train was due to leave, then board it at the last moment. In the forefront of his mind, logic told him not to trust Moriarty. If he was in the Professor’s place he would have no mercy on one who had betrayed him in an hour of need. Why should the Professor be any different?

  As he reached the hotel doors, he glanced back to see the two burly figures running down the staircase. They were not bothering with niceties, not slowing down or trying to create an impression of normality. They came across the foyer towards him like hounds bearing down on a fox.

  With panic jangling through him, Grisombre pushed through the doors and into the cool evening air outside. Uncertain, he ran across the forecourt which separated the hotel and station from Victoria Street, then, throwing all caution aside, plunged in among the traffic to reach the far pavement.

  The street was a babbling, noisy bright river of human confusion. On the pavements people moved about their business, some sauntering, enjoying the hubbub, others with set faces, moving quickly towards late appointments, dinners spoiling, assignations which would not wait and might change the course of personal histories, trains to be caught, messages to be delivered, hours to be taken up in an outward show of activity, wives watching clocks, employers to be satisfied, consciences to be appeased. There were chattering pairs, soulful strolling lovers, silent married couples, pleading beggars, rogues and cheats, drunks and temperance men, shouting newsboys and bedazzled visitors.

  In the road itself, the traffic passed slowly under the bright illumination of the gas standards: the winking lamps of the hansoms, the fully lit parade of omnibuses, each painted in its particular vivid colour – the open top decks giving passengers vantage views – moving advertisements glaring out their messages in whites and reds, green and yellows – Sanitas Disinfectant – non-poisonous and fragrant; Tomato Soup 57 Heinz varieties Baked Beans, the long modesty boards under the top guard rails pleading for you to use Okley’s Knife Polish, Fry’s Cocoa, Pears’ Soap.

  Grisombre tried to hail a passing hansom, but the driver shouted back – ‘Goin’ for me supper, guv’nor’ – so he turned, intending to weave back through the crowded pavements and, perhaps, retreat up some side street. He glimpsed the station and hotel, now far away across the road, and knew that Moriarty’s men were somewhere amidst the traffic between.

  He was about to move when one of the green Favourite omnibuses slowed, its horses coming dangerously near to the curb. The curving open steps up to the top deck seemed to issue an invitation as bold as its modesty board advertisement for Ogden’s ‘Guinea Gold’ Cigarettes. As he leaped up onto the step, the conductor shouted, ‘Where to, mate?’ and Grisombre could only stammer, ‘Wherever you’re going.’

  ‘All the way, mate? Right you are. Hornsey Rise, a tanner.’

  Grisombre had no real idea of English money, and little enough of it in his pocket, so he pressed a florin into the man’s hand, grabbing some change and his ticket as he pulled himself up the stairs, hardly heeding the conductor’s, ‘Watch your step. Hold tight.’

  On the open top deck the bus appeared to be swaying, and he was forced to clutch at the backs of the seats as he made his way up the narrow aisle, towards the front where a double, on the right, was empty. As he made the short, and seemingly precarious, journey, he could hear a commotion below him, on the platform: the sound of one particular voice drifting up. Moriarty’s men were undoubtedly on the vehicle.

  They would wait below. That was all they had to do: stand on the platform with the conductor, or take seats inside. Eventually Grisombre had to come down, and when he did, they would be there to greet him.

  The omnibus was moving a little faster now, the driver edging his horses out into the main stream of traffic so that they were almost brushing wheels with the hansoms, carts, drays and buses moving in the opposite direction, back towards the station. Two buses passed, not more than a couple of feet from him, the drivers, below, shouting greetings or jeers to one another.

  Grisombre looked forward. Coming towards them was another bus, a yellow Camden with the top deck half full, the occupants muffled and buttoned against the chill of the night air, chatting and pointing, laughing, one couple oblivious to everything except each other.

  The buses were drawing almost level now. He could not hesitate for long. The seats at the rear were empty, and as they came abreast, Grisombre stood up, grasped the guard rail and vaul
ted full over the foot or so between the vehicles, landing half across the Camden’s top rail, his feet on one of the seats, conscious of a shriek from a woman passenger near him, and a growl of protest from her companion.

  Sliding into the seat, he glanced back. One of his pursuers had seen him and was leaping from the Favourite’s platform, running hard, dodging and ducking through the jumble of traffic towards the bus upon which he had landed.

  ‘Come on then, I’ll have none of them larks on my bus.’ The conductor was poking his head up from the stairs, only a few feet away. ‘Orf, my lad, you should know better at your age. You’ll do yourself a mischief. We had a lad last week nearly killed himself playing this hare and hounds lark. It’s getting a craze. Come on orf before I call a copper.’

  Moriarty’s man was behind the conductor, on the stairs, saying something to him. The conductor registered surprise, then deference, and began to move down so that the big fellow could come up the steps.

  Grisombre looked around wildly. Another green – the Haverstock-Hill – omnibus was almost alongside, the top deck empty, but the gap between the buses wide, almost three feet.

  The man on the stairs was coming up. Grisombre turned towards the gap separating the two buses moving in opposite directions. He could see the other’s modesty board commending the efficacy of Grape Nuts. He grabbed the guard rail, placing one foot on it to give himself the necessary spring, and launched himself in the direction of the other bus.

  He knew it was no good as he jumped, for the two buses seemed to separate, swinging away from each other as he leaped, grabbing forward with clawing hands.

  His fingers clutched momentarily at the rail of the Haverstock-Hill, then slipped. He scrabbled at the advertisement – the N of Nuts against his nose and eyes for a fraction before he fell between the shafts of a hansom driving up between the buses. There were shouts, a clatter, other noises. Then darkness.

  Crow got back to King Street a shade before eleven o’clock to find Sylvia, her face set in a hard line not unlike the visages of the gargoyles they had noted on the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, during their honeymoon.