by D. R. Bensen
[Version 1.0—by MOS1]
[Version 2.0—proofread and formatted by braven]
TV Movie By Alvin Sapinsley
Adapted by D. R. Bensen
Sherlock Holmes in New York
Foreword
Those readers who have been kind enough to divert themselves with my published accounts of the work of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes will naturally be surprised—I do not flatter myself so far as to say pleased—to find yet such another narrative offered to them at so late a date; a date at which, indeed, both Holmes and myself shall long have been one with the past.
I must say that, on this point at least, such a reader’s vexation, if any, must be directed at the shade of Sherlock Holmes, not at that of his unassuming chronicler. He had, of course, in the past made many demands that the particulars of one case or another not be revealed until the passage of some years to protect the interests of those involved. Touching this adventure, he was at first adamant in insisting on an unprecedented fifty years’ delay. “It touches not the foibles of rulers and statesmen, Watson,” he observed, “but the very lifeblood of the intercourse of nations. Wars themselves do not so adversely affect world relationships as would any loss of confidence in the verities of international exchange. In fact, you had best make that seventy-five years’ time; even fifty might not suffice to render the story innocuous.” The alarming events of this year, culminating only days ago in the assassination of the American President, lend weight to the view that the peace and security of the world is to be a chancy matter in the twentieth century.
Therefore, though setting down the events which follow but a few months after their occurrence, I will be obliged to respect Holmes’ wishes so far as to make provision for my manuscript’s strait concealment until the year 1976—a date which it is indeed startling to find myself committing to paper! Mr. H. G. Wells may deal comfortably with times so far in the future in his scientific romances, but I own an uneasiness in contemplating a date three-quarters and more through this new century. And yet—and here I believe I see a motive which Holmes will not admit, even to himself—one of the principals in the drama may yet still be living at that time, though past the stage in life where what is revealed could strongly affect him for good or ill. Should that be the case, I comply gladly with Holmes’ wishes: it is not often granted to the friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes to grant him a request arising from the normal emotions of humanity rather than from his acute and unsparing intellect.
One further word on my own role as Boswell to my friend’s Johnson: I have always preferred to give a straightforward account of what I myself have seen and heard—medical men and detectives alike know the untrustworthiness of second-hand evidence!—but find that I am obliged to vary the rule in this case, in order to present certain significant events of which I became informed only much later, or, indeed, have been obliged to deduce from their effects. A certain conversation in a theatrical dressing-room, for instance, was never (and will never be, I am certain) revealed to me by Sherlock Holmes; yet it took place, and must have followed the course which will be described here. I, too, have my methods.
John H. Watson, M.D
Baker Street,
September, 1901
Chapter One
In the nearly sixty-four years of her reign, an uncounted number of places and objects of every size and kind were named for Alexandrina Victoria Wettin, Queen and Empress whose domain spanned the entire world: lakes, mountains, territories, monuments, the broad Embankment by the Thames, London’s greatest railway station, even the smartest style of open carriage. Her name had, indeed, been given to a period in history, the Victorian Age.
That age was now a part of the past, and had been for nearly two months, since the old Queen’s death toward the end of January. Emperors and kings, presidents and barbaric chieftains had flooded into London for the unprecedented pomp of the funeral, as much a celebration of the might of her Empire as a mark of respect for the woman who had ruled it. Whatever delights and wonders of the imperial capital the visitors savored, it may be safely assumed that few or none of them made their way to one of the more sinister, decayed, and dangerous locations to bear the Queen’s name: Victoria Docks.
Choking yellow fog swirled above the cobbled alleys on this March night; the stones, where visible, glistened oilily as if coated with slime rather than water. With the bustle and clangor of daytime industry absent, the blank façades of docks and warehouses presented the impression of a city built in times long past and abandoned by its makers to crumble into mud and rubble.
Picking his way with care along the slick stones, a man approached the most ruinous of the buildings facing the alley he traversed. It might have seemed as though he had lost his way thoroughly, for the fashionable evening dress, the richly lined cape that offered protection against the damp and chill, the burnished top hat, the ivory-handled cane—even the veined, bulbous nose and florid complexion which attested to a sybarite’s indulgence in the pleasures of the table—would have been far better suited to the flaring lights of the Strand or Piccadilly or to the more discreet illumination of a private restaurant or Mayfair gaming house than to the feeble glimmer of the street lamps that shone only on decay and desolation.
Yet the man seemed sure of himself and his destination. As he neared the boarded-up warehouse, he glanced upward and nodded with satisfaction upon seeing a faint streak of yellow light at a second-floor window. He consulted his massive pocket watch and nodded again.
Abandoned and derelict the warehouse certainly appeared to be from its exterior. Yet the lamp whose light had attracted the notice of the approaching man was an elegantly wrought electric model elaborately ornamented with Egyptian motifs. It lit up brightly a room furnished with richly covered overstuffed chairs and divans, colorfully figured oriental carpets, and intricately carved decorations—a room which stated plainly in every detail that it was the dwelling of a man who valued, and could afford, luxury.
The householder himself did not appear to have extended his tastes to his own person: the brocade dressing gown gathered about his spare, stooped form was shabby and soiled, his seamed, vulpine face with its sharp nose and beady eyes was unthickened by rich food or drink, and the few wisps of pale gray hair clinging to his high-domed skull had not recently seen the attention of a barber. In his disorder, he resembled the popular idea of an impractical academician; and, indeed, Professor James Moriarty had won an international reputation for his contributions to mathematics, notably his treatise on The Dynamics of an Asteroid.
The richness of the room indicated a level of income higher than that of any scholar, however eminent, and the ornately framed blackboard on its wheeled stand in the center of the room bore calculations and figures which testified to the Professor’s concerns with matters more practical than algebraic esoterica.
There were ten entries on the board:
———«»——————«»——————«»———
1. Quint to Cavendish Square, 8.25.
2. Adelspate and Stryker to Eaton Place, 9.12.
3. Moran meet Bethune, 9.46, collect Nickers in 4-wheeler, Brompton Oratory, 10.2.
4. Ashby and Spinnerton follow LORD BRACKISH from Simpson’s to Covent Garden, watch box and side entrance.
5. M., B., and N. meet A. and S., 10.36. A. transfer to hansom at Henrietta Street.
6. Moran in hansom, 4th in rank at C.G.
7. Ashby and Spinnerton steer LORD BRACKISH to Moran hansom at end of opera, between 11 and 11.15.
8. Hansom to Albert Memorial, LORD BRACKISH to be dispatched by Moran during trip.
9. Quint, Adelspate, and Stryker to meet hansom at A.M., assist M. in disposal of body.
10. Moran to Moriarty with BRACKISH cigar case at midnight exactly.
———«»——————«»——————«»———
The first eight entries bore neat check-marks before their indicating numbers.
Professor Moriarty consulted his watch, moved to the board, and, holding the chalk stick in practiced fingers, entered another check before the sentence that outlined his three underlings’ role as clandestine undertakers: it was on the time-table, and the time had come and passed; he could therefore assume it had been accomplished. Few of those who served Professor Moriarty swerved from the schedule he established even once; none did so twice.
The Professor returned to his high-backed swivel chair behind the massive mahogany desk, picked up a balloon glass with an inch of brandy in it, swirled the amber-colored liquid, and savored the released aroma. This was the most enjoyable moment of all, to inhale the scent of anticipated triumph as he was now inhaling the fumes of the brandy. When the thing was done, it was well enough; but the last moments before consummation, knowing that the last perfecting touch was on the very point of falling into place—that was truly delicious!
As the hands of the tall clock in the corner joined in a single upward-pointing line and its machinery gave a soft whir and then began to chime, he rose, went to the door, and began to unfasten the bolts and locks that secured it. With the visitor he was expecting, there was no need to wait for a knock: when the time came, he would be there.
He flung the door open and, as he had known he would, saw a familiar, stocky figure before him, tall hat cocked at an arrogant angle, red-lined cape gathered about him, a glint of lamplight reflecting from the monocle screwed into the left eye.
“Colonel Moran! You are punctuality itself,” Moriarty said, his words underlaid by the continuing strokes of the clock.
The man stepped inside the room and brushed one hand along the luxuriant gray moustache, waxed to spikes at the ends in the fashion favored by the late Queen’s grandson, the Kaiser.
“Everything has proceeded according to schedule?” The Professor’s tone was not really questioning.
The man reached into an inner pocket of his tailcoat and drew out a cloisonné-work cigar case.
In a rasping voice that carried a history of orders bawled out in drill or battle and of hard-drinking nights in regimental messes, he said cocking an eye at the blackboard, “‘Number ten. Moran to Moriarty with Brackish cigar case at midnight exactly.’”
He tapped a fingernail on the enameled surface of the case.
The Professor gave a shrill, gobbling laugh, loped to the blackboard, and, with a force that crumbled a fragment from the end of the chalk, struck a broad line through the last sentence written there.
“Perfect!”
“With one exception, that is.”
The voice that spoke was lower, firmer, and more even than the grating tone Moriarty had just heard; he whirled to face his visitor.
Colonel Sebastian Moran’s distinctive nose now rested on the desk, like a misshapen, gigantic strawberry. As Moriarty watched, his eyebrows and moustache were detached, small, shaping pads of gutta-percha were removed from the cheeks, and the glittering monocle fell to dangle on the end of its cord.
The changeling stretched and allowed himself to assume his full height; from it, he looked down with sardonic amusement at the Professor, whose face was now distorted by rage and apprehension.
“A trifling exception, perhaps,” he said gently. “I simply don’t happen to be Colonel Moran.”
The man stroked his hawk-like nose, removing a last trace of putty from it.
Moriarty’s voice was hoarse and shaking. “Sherlock Holmes!”
The tall man looked at him almost benignly. “At your service, Professor. I should be vexed that you did not recognize me, although it has been ten years since we met at the Reichenbach Falls. Your features, I assure you, have been graven on the tablets of my mind ever since, though I thought you dead in that plunge over the cliff. Well, well, I dare say that may be remedied in due course, with a shorter drop at the end of the hangman’s rope!”
Holmes, now completely divested of his disguise, continued, “I can imagine the profundity of your disappointment. You cannot possibly fail to realize that there can be only one explanation for my having successfully penetrated the most carefully concealed lodgings in the whole of London.” He looked around the elaborately furnished room with an expression of distaste. “I observe that your choice of decoration is fully as disagreeable as your choice of profession.”
Professor Moriarty was past taking exception to criticism of his taste by a man who adorned his own walls with designs in bullet-pocks and kept his tobacco in an old Persian slipper. He was nearly hissing with rage as he moved closer to Holmes.
“Where is Colonel Moran!”
“He is in custody.” Holmes strode to the blackboard, and, with a mocking imitation of a pedagogue correcting a pupil’s botched work, slashed heavy lines through each chalked item thereon. “As are Quint, Adelspate, Nickers, and Stryker!” He turned to Moriarty. “In short, your entire organization here in London is now occupying cells at the Bow Street Police Station—and the assassination of Lord Brackish has failed!”
He whirled to face the blackboard once more, snatched up the erasing cloth that lay on the stand, and swept it across the chalked surface twice diagonally, leaving an X slashed through the Professor’s meticulous time-table.
“Damn and blast you for the meddler you are, sir!” Moriarty sawed the air impotently with white-knuckled fists, and his voice, rising to a near scream, drew unconsciously on the mode of speech of a long-forgotten past. “With your West End ways, talkin’ down your upper-class nose, and only happy when you’re dressin’ up as someone else—as though life was some schoolboy lark! Blast you, Holmes! Blast you!”
“I suggest you make an effort to take hold of yourself,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Your rage is beginning to affect your speech.”
Moriarty drew a deep breath and, with a visible effort, stilled the trembling that agitated his form. His eyes narrowed, and stayed fixed on Holmes as he himself moved sideways, in gait unpleasantly resembling a crab, to the chair behind his desk. Picking up a needle-sharp brass letter-opener, he toyed with it. When he spoke, his voice was once more controlled, even, and cultured.
“Did you come alone tonight?”
“Since you ask, yes.”
“I thought as much. I know your methods by now. Your inability to resist the tour de force, the coup de grâce, the necessity of nourishing your egotism unassisted.”
Holmes, seemingly indifferent to this diagnosis of his character, had picked up from the mantel a vase decorated in the Chinese manner, with acid-green and ox-blood dominating the color scheme.
“Atrocious,” he murmured, inspecting it closely. He looked from it to its owner, and added, “As is your French. I fancy the term you were reaching for is coup de main. What I truly regret is that I must also leave alone. Your cohorts refuse to implicate you, and Moran, indeed, fears for his life—justly so, I imagine—should he do so. And, troublesome though it is, I thank God that British justice requires the strongest evidence to bring to book even such scoundrels as yourself.”
His face stern, he pointed the vase toward Moriarty as though it were a cannon. “But be warned, Professor! Your people have been captured, and you are alone! Alone and helpless, and I will have you yet!”
Holmes emphatically set the vase down on a table; it shattered into a pile of gaudy shards. He looked at it as though feeling its present state was better than its last.
Moriarty’s hooded eyes glared at him with unwinking malice.
“Mr. Holmes, your interference in my affairs has gradually grown from mild annoyance to insufferable impertinence. And tonight’s actions have finally rendered you intolerable to me!”
“Really?” Holmes’ voice was a calculated drawl of languid surprise. “Only tonight? You, sir, have been int
olerable to me for much longer than that.”
Moriarty’s hand shifted in a sudden tugging motion behind the desk. “Mr. Holmes, if you’ll be good enough to observe—this!”
A square section of flooring next to the wall, four feet on each side, dropped away. From below, a swirl of water around decaying pilings could be heard, and a gust of the dank odor of the Thames entered the room. Sherlock Holmes looked at the open trap door with polite interest.
“And this!”
Professor Moriarty stabbed at a push-button on the desk. There came a whir and a thock! A heavy dart with half its four-inch point buried in the wall by the force of its flight quivered less than an inch from Holmes’ head. He inspected it with raised eyebrows.
“This!”
The Professor pulled a lever set into the side of the desk, and the crystal-festooned chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling crashed to the floor, scattering glittering shrapnel across the room. Holmes leaned down and flicked a splinter of glass from his trousers.
“Not to mention—this!”
Moriarty’s hand darted into a desk drawer with the speed of a striking snake, and emerged holding a revolver, which he leveled at the detective.
“There are more than a dozen ways to kill a man in this room,” he went on, “and the trapdoor into the Thames will remove all traces of the man’s ever having been here. Have you wondered why I have not employed any of these methods on you?”
“Well, it’s not for want of trying,” observed Sherlock Holmes, surveying the opening in the floor, the heavy dart embedded in the wall, the ruin of glass and wiring on the floor, and the pistol in the Professor’s hand.
“No, Mr. Holmes—it’s because it doesn’t suit my book. I shall destroy you, but in my fashion!”
“Will you, indeed?” said Holmes, much as a man might express interest in a neighbor’s plans to cultivate a prize-winning vegetable marrow.