Revenge of Moriarty

by John Gardner

  The girl’s companion said something, leaning forward over the table, and she answered, fussing with her napkin and smiling in a set fashion, like a bad painting. Shortly afterwards they left the restaurant, but, at the door, the girl paused and threw a quick backward glance in Sanzionare’s direction.

  An hour later, Luigi Sanzionare, full of piety, entered the sumptuous Baroque church of Il Gesù – mother church of the Society of Jesus – to keep his yearly tryst with God’s pardon.

  It was cool inside, a hint of smoke from many flickering candles, grouped around nests of prickets set before statues and altars, of which there were many. Whispers, coughs, shuffles and footsteps echoed around the walls, as though intruding on the pent-up prayers of the faithful, stored in the pillars and stones for over three centuries.

  Sanzionare breathed in, the scent of lingering incense and drifting smoke pungent in his nostrils – the odour of sanctity. Crossing himself with holy water from the stoop by the door, he genuflected towards the High Altar and joined the kneeling group of penitents near the confessional box on the right hand side of the nave.

  Sanzionare was not to know that Father Marc Negratti SJ, who should have been hearing confessions from this box, and whose name was in fact displayed outside, had met with an unfortunate minor accident. His superiors did not even know of it. Nor did they know the priest who sat quietly dispensing counsel and absolution at this station.

  The priest was soft-voiced and thorough. One could not have known that he was waiting to hear one voice and one only from the penitent’s side of the fine wire grille. He listened to the repetitious lists of sins with a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth, though when any sin of great enormity came whispering into his ear, the priest’s head moved very slightly from side to side.

  On his lap, where nobody could see, the priest held a pack of playing cards. Without looking down he was silently performing a series of sleights and card changes with great expertise.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ Sanzionare pressed his lips close to the grille.

  Moriarty smiled inwardly, this was the supreme irony which he had plotted. Moriarty, the most advanced criminal mind in Europe, listening to the devout confession of Italy’s most notorious villain. More, giving him absolution and sowing the seeds of the man’s decline so that he could raise him again.

  Sanzionare had neglected God, failed to pray regularly, lost his temper, used blasphemous and obscene language, cheated, stolen, committed fornication and coveted his neighbour’s goods, not to mention his neighbour’s wife, after whom he had lusted.

  When the list was finished and the penitent had made an act of contrition and begged for forgiveness, Moriarty began to speak quietly.

  ‘You realize, my son, that your greatest sin is that of neglecting God?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘But I need to know more of your venial sins.’

  Sanzionare frowned. Jesuits sometimes probed. This was not his usual priest.

  ‘You say that you have stolen. What have you stolen?’

  ‘Other people’s possessions, Father.’

  ‘In particular?’

  ‘Money, and things.’

  ‘Yes. And fornication. How many times have you committed fornication since last Easter?’

  This was impossible. ‘I cannot say, Father.’

  ‘Two or three times? Or many times?’

  ‘Many times, Father.’

  ‘The flesh is weak then. You are not married?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘You do not indulge in unnatural practices?’

  ‘No, Father,’ almost shocked.

  ‘The fornication must stop, my son. You should be married. With the strength of the Sacrament of marriage around you, the flesh would be easier to control. Marriage is the answer. You must think seriously about this, for continued fornication will only take you into the flames of eternal damnation. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He was worried. This priest was taking him nearer to the brink. Marriage? He could never marry Adela. If he married her she would never leave him in peace. She might even intrude into business matters. Eternal damnation though, that was a price indeed.

  ‘Very well. Is there anything else you have to tell me?’

  It was not such a good confession. He had misled the priest over the question of stealing. Would that also negate the absolution? No. He had confessed. He knew what he meant and so would God and the Holy Virgin.

  ‘For your penance you will say three Paters and three Aves.’ Moriarty raised his hand in blessing. ‘Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.’ It was the ultimate blasphemy of the Professor’s career.

  Outside, in the fresh spring sunshine, Sanzionare felt in need of a drink. No, he must take care. He must not put himself in the way of sin before making his communion in the morning. He would walk for a while. Perhaps go to the Borghese Gardens. They had looked beautiful that morning. It would be pleasant there. Benno was behind him, watching, eyes peeled.

  Then he saw her again. Just a fleeting glimpse of the lemon-coloured dress and the hat. It is like some kind of paperchase, he thought.

  Much troubled by the priest and his advice, Sanzionare walked, turning matters over in his mind. True, he supposed that it was natural for a man like himself to be married, but his appetites had always been so varied. He was as good as married anyway. Adela was always behaving like a wife. She nagged as much as a wife. The girl in the lemon dress. Now what a wife she would make. What a wife indeed. Perhaps, once Easter was over and he was on his way to some new venture in London he would be able to think properly. That was it, he needed to be away from the cloying atmosphere of Rome.

  Towards six o’clock, Sanzionare turned into the Via Veneto. A small drink before going back to the house for the evening. Just one to lay the dryness in his throat.

  She was sitting at a pavement table at one of the larger cafés, with her male companion, watching the passing parade and taking sips from a tall glass. She saw him at almost the same moment as he caught sight of her. Sanzionare beat back the instincts which flooded into his body and mind, but he could not control the urge to make some sort of advance. The café was crowded, white-aproned waiters almost running between the tables to keep pace with orders, swinging their loaded trays of coffee and drinks high above their heads, performing feats of balancing which would not have been out of place in the circus.

  On the pavement people thronged in an almost ritual walking: women, young and old, arm in arm, with each other or their husbands, couples dourly chaperoned, pilgrims from other parts of Europe and as far away as America, young boys eyeing pairs of girls: a happy, self-conscious bustle, full of chatter and colour.

  The table at which the girl sat had one spare metal chair drawn up to it, tilted forward with the back angled against the table. It was not in the best of taste, but Sanzionare was determined. He approached the table, glancing back for a second to ensure that Benno was not far away.

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ he bowed over the couple. ‘There is little room, would it be an imposition if I joined you?’

  The man looked up. ‘Not at all. We shall be leaving in a moment.’

  ‘Thank you, you are most kind,’ steady and not gushing. Then, turning to catch a passing waiter, he ordered a Vermouth Torino. ‘You will not join me?’ To the couple.

  ‘Thank you. No.’ The tall man did not smile and the girl shook her head, her eyes telling Sanzionare that she wished she could say yes.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ Sanzionare thrust forward. ‘Luigi Sanzionare, of this city.’

  ‘My name is Smythe – with a y.’ The girl’s companion spoke Italian with the slow, short-accented speech of an Englishman. ‘My daughter, Carlotta.’

  ‘You are not Italian?’ Graceful, flattering surprise.

  ‘My mother was Italian.’ The girl’s accent was pure Neapolitan. ‘But,’ she smiled
, ‘this is my first visit to her country.’

  ‘Ah. It is beautiful, no?’

  ‘Very. I would like to live here, but my father says we must return to England because of his work.’

  Sanzionare turned to Smythe. ‘Your wife is not with you in Rome?’

  ‘My wife, sir, died a year ago.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me. I could not know. Then this is a pilgrimage?’

  ‘I wished to show Carlotta her mother’s native land. We have been spending a few days in Rome before returning to London.’

  ‘To London. Ah, a fine city, I know it well,’ lied Sanzionare. ‘You are staying for Easter though?’

  ‘Just until it is over,’ Carlotta was imperceptibly moving closer to him. ‘I am most sad to be leaving.’

  ‘A pity. I would have liked to show you the great sights. Nobody can show off Rome as well as the Roman born.’

  ‘We have seen all the great sights.’ Carlotta’s father was decidedly prickly.

  Sanzionare remained unperturbed. ‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of dining with me?’

  ‘That would be …’ Carlotta began.

  ‘Out of the question,’ snapped Smythe. ‘We have much to do this evening. Kind of you to ask, but impossible.’

  ‘But surely, Father …’

  ‘Out of the question. Carlotta, we must leave. Dinner awaits at the hotel.’

  ‘I am sorry. My manners are lacking,’ oozed Sanzionare, rising. ‘I did not mean to intrude.’

  Smythe was paying the bill, examining the ticket as though the waiter was out to defraud him.

  ‘I hope that we may meet again, Signorina,’ Sanzionare bowed over Carlotta’s hand.

  ‘I would like that very much.’ Her eyes were almost pleading, as though she was in great need of help. Fantastic thoughts formed pictures in Sanzionare’s head. A lady in distress. He saw himself as a knight of old, riding to the rescue. ‘Very much,’ Carlotta repeated. ‘But I feel it is not likely.’

  Smythe bowed stiffly, took his daughter’s arm, and they were gone, swallowed by the stream of strollers.

  Sanzionare fleetingly caught sight of one of his best pickpockets, weaving through the crowd, making for Smythe. He looked around for Benno, signalling frantically until the man closed with him. He gave quick instructions for Benno to head off the pickpocket.

  ‘He is not to touch that Englishman. I will have his hands crushed if he does.’

  Benno nodded and was away into the drifting crowd.

  It was one of those strange meetings in life, Sanzionare reflected. A moment which, if the circumstances had been different, might have blossomed into a new way of living, a way with some certainty of eternal salvation. It was obviously not to be, so he would go on ruling the underworld of this part of Italy, presumably with Adela as his consort. Maybe, while he was in London he might see the beautiful Carlotta again? No, this period of separation from Adela and Rome would be best used making up his mind about his future state. If need be, he might even marry his mistress. A passionate affair with a woman like Carlotta – for it would be most passionate – might be the end of him, at least it would be overtaxing.

  On Easter Sunday morning he attended Mass early and then went to the High Mass at St Peter’s, mingling with the crowds outside to receive the Papal Blessing before returning to Ostia and the tearful Adela, now greatly emotional over his impending journey.

  Moriarty, divested of his disguise as the Englishman, Smythe, sat at the writing desk in his room at the Albergo Grande Palace, composing a letter. Carlotta, who was bored and had come in from her own adjoining room, lounged on the bed, sucking fat red grapes.

  Signorina, Moriarty wrote in a hand well disguised from his own, I must warn you that your protector, Luigi Sanzionare, has departed today by train for Paris in company with a much younger woman than yourself. She is Miss Carlotta Smythe, half English and half Neapolitan. I fear they may be planning to marry secretly in London which is their final destination. I am a well-wisher.

  Smiling to himself, the Professor read through the note twice before folding it and sealing it within an envelope. He then addressed the epistle to Signorina Adela Asconta at Sanzionare’s house at Ostia. He would hand it to the porter tomorrow before taking the train to Paris. With luck it would prove to be a mild bombshell to the Asconta female – a propellant, even.

  He rose and walked to the mirror set above the heavy chest of drawers which stood between the two shaded windows, looking at his face from numerous angles. In the past year or so he had been so many different people with different mannerisms, speech, language and age. Madis; Meunier; the American Professor, Carl Nicol, of Five Albert Square; the photographer, Moberly; the stout American, Morningdale; the Jesuit priest, and the widower, Smythe. Each part fitted like a glove, but there would be one more left to play once they returned to London. The role of a lifetime. He shrugged with a kind of mock modesty. For a little longer he would be Smythe.

  ‘Do I get to keep the rubies?’ asked Carlotta from the bed.

  Moriarty crossed to her, gazing at the girl with that strange mesmeristic look he so often affected.

  ‘No, my darling daughter. Not that one anyway. Perhaps I will find some other trinket for you.’

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ she snuggled her head into the pillow and giggled. ‘Are we to be about incest again, Papa?’

  Holmes had been as good as his word. Dr Moore Agar, of Harley Street, gave Crow a thorough examination and pronounced that he should take at least a month’s leave of absence – preferably at a watering place. He could do some light duties but would not recommend full-time work with the Force. He would write to the Commissioner that very night explaining the situation, saying that when Crow was ready to return, he could guarantee him one hundred per cent fit and completely his old self.

  Crow mentally girded himself for the fray with Sylvia.

  ‘Do you provide the toasted snow for her?’ Holmes had asked him. ‘Or do you remain master in your own home?’

  The way was quite clear, his mind steadfast, for had not his pride taken a severe tumble over the machinating Harriet? He had yet to get over the fact that not only had he harboured one of Moriarty’s people in his house, but also been driven half out of his wits by her. That alone would not be easy to forgive. The leave of absence would provide two opportunities: to set his house in order, and make another determined effort, with the assistance of Sherlock Holmes, to take Moriarty by the coat and bring him to justice.

  Sylvia was bemoaning the scarcity of good servants when Crow got back to King Street.

  ‘I have interviewed a dozen today alone,’ she said petulantly from her seat near the fire. ‘It is impossible. There are two that might be of use. I do not know.’

  ‘Then I do,’ said Crow firmly planting his back to the fireplace.

  ‘Angus, would you move from there, you will keep the warmth from me,’ barked Sylvia.

  ‘I will not move, from here or anywhere else, and if we are to talk of warmth being kept from people, then consider, madam, what warmth you have kept from me.’

  ‘Angus.’

  ‘Yes, Sylvia. We were perfectly happy when I was here as your lodger, and you cooked, cleaned and were warm as toast to me. Now that we’re wed, its been all razzle-dazzle, ragsauce, airs and graces, by your leave, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and three bags full of it, ma’am. I for one am tired of this way.’

  Sylvia Crow opened her mouth in protest.

  ‘Be silent, wife,’ Crow bawled like some drill sergeant.

  ‘I will not be spoken to like this in my house,’ Sylvia flounced.

  ‘In our house, Mrs Crow. Our house. For what is yours is mine, and what is mine is yours. Moreover, I am master now. Why, Sylvia, it has so got me down that this very afternoon I have been to a physician in Harley Street.’

  ‘Harley Street?’ The wind dropping from her sails.

  ‘Aye, ma’am, Harley Street. He tells me that I must rest a while and that if you go on
denying me the pleasures of a decent and ordered household, then you may well be the death of me.’

  ‘But I have given you a decent household, Angus,’ concern in her voice now.

  ‘You have given me airs and graces. Servants who burn the meat and water the cabbage. You have given me headaches, and dinner parties, and behaviour like some Grand Duchess. I’ll have no more of it, Sylvia. No more. I’m away to me bed now, and would like one of your tasty meals on a tray. Served by yourself. After which you can come up and serve me as a wife should.’

  So saying, Angus Crow, not knowing if he was the victor or no, stumped out of the parlour and up the stairs to the bedroom, leaving a red-faced, fish-mouthed Sylvia staring blankly at the closed door.

  Sanzionare had a first-class sleeping compartment on the Rome—Paris Express. Benno was in the next coach, and, as the engine picked up speed past the outer suburbs of the city, the Italian gang-lord relaxed. He would doze a little before luncheon in the well-appointed restaurant car. Perhaps he would take a few more glasses of wine than usual, for the afternoon could be spent in sleep. Then, as was the custom, he would dress for dinner. Perhaps there would be some lonely woman on board. He might as well use what time he had away from Adela to good advantage.

  He went to the restaurant car at noon to find a pleasant, and not altogether subdued, atmosphere. The waiters were smart, the food exceptional. The first part of the journey would go well.

  He had, of course, no way of knowing that, in the carriage next to his, there were two sleeping compartments reserved in the names of Joshua and Carlotta Smythe.

  This pair had boarded the train early in Rome and, since departure, had not set even a nose outside Joshua Smythe’s compartment. Nor did they intend so to do until the evening, for Moriarty maintained that the most forceful impact could be accomplished if they made a spectacular appearance at dinner. It was then that Carlotta could best show off the Scobie Inheritance and – if Moriarty was any judge of human nature – Luigi Sanzionare would be drawn deeper into the web that was prepared for him.