The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  "You have a better eye for women's clothing than most men," Paul commented.

  "My wife, God rest her soul, was a dressmaker," Davoud explained.

  "So, what happened?"

  "The young branch of a noble bush finally showed up—"

  "With the lady who smoked," Paul interrupted.

  "Well, in the end nothing," Davoud said. "The manager and the desk clerk and a couple of other hotel employees gathered in a clutch to discuss the matter in horrified tones, but I heard the name 'Princess Someone-or-Other' mentioned a couple of times, which I gathered referred to the young lady in question, and in the end it was evidently decided that royalty trumps manners, so they retreated. Eventually she put the cigarette out. Now tell me, Herr Donzhof, what can I do for you today?"

  "A cup of tea," Paul said, "a little conversation."

  "And perhaps a discreet name or two from my list of distinguished clients?"

  "If any new ones have come your way ..."

  Davoud pointed a long, arthritic finger across the tea tray at Paul. "I wonder about you," he said.

  "I thought you might," Paul said.

  "You are not what you seem."

  "You are the second person to tell me that today," Paul said. "Is my nose growing longer? Is there no hope that I'll become a real boy?"

  Davoud shrugged a tiny shrug. "I am not suggesting that you lie, that would be pointless. Of course you lie. We all lie. Complete honesty would quickly become unbearable. What you do is"—he searched for a word—"more interesting. You allow those you deal with to assume things about you—unspoken things—that they believe they have discovered on their own. But these things, I believe, are not so."

  Paul leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide. "Really?" he drawled. "What sort of things?"

  Davoud patted the air with his hand in a calming gesture. "Do not be alarmed. I have no desire to give you away. Besides, I would have no idea to whom to give you or what they would want with you. I have not discovered who you are, merely who you are not."

  "Do go on!"

  Davoud laced his hands together over his belly and rested his chin on his thumbs. "What I know about you is little," he said contemplatively. "You are a good conversationalist, highly intelligent, well-educated, gemütlich, and generally agreeable."

  "How can I deny any of it?" Paul asked, smiling.

  "You are also of the upper class, a fact which you do your best to disguise, but which comes through in your air of natural superiority and your complete ease in dealing with servants. I have noticed that only born aristocrats treat servants completely naturally; either as equals, as children, or as furniture according to their nature. The middle classes treat their servants with arrogance or suspicion." He peered at Paul, who remained silent.

  "Also your German, while excellent, is not native. There is something indefinably foreign that lingers about it. Most people would not notice, I grant you, but the accent is nonetheless there."

  "I went to school in Italy and England," Paul offered.

  "Perhaps. Now let us look at our—what shall I say?—business relationship. You approached me last May—"

  "Was it that long ago?"

  "I keep a diary. May twelfth of last year it was. You were interested in the names of my clients—"

  "The politically or socially important, I believe I said."

  "You did. And military officers of staff rank and above."

  "Indeed."

  "And you declined to tell me what you intended to do with the information, but you did assure me that my name would never be disclosed."

  "Just so."

  "I thought you were some sort of high-class criminal."

  "Is that so? You never told me."

  "It would have been impolite."

  "Ah! But what would I—if I were a crook—want with the names of people who need your services? They would obviously have little to steal, having pledged everything of value to you."

  "But if you were a clever crook, and even at the time I could see you were clever, you might wish to use some distressed member of upper-class society as entree into the houses of the rich. Once there—"

  "How clever of me," Paul commented. "But you didn't," Davoud continued. "Ah!"

  "Or then again you might offer to advance large sums of money to some of these wastrels against their future inheritance. And then, after a discreet length of time, a carefully arranged fatal accident to the relative with the money would bring a nice profit to you."

  "Why Herr Davoud, you have a criminal mind!"

  "I do, I confess it. I came up with a total of, I believe it was, twelve different schemes that you might have been engaged in. And I find that, as far as I can tell, you are pursuing none of them." Davoud wiggled an accusatory finger at Paul. "And you led me to believe, in oh-so-subtle ways, that you, also, have the mind of a criminal."

  "A criminal?"

  "I discovered that you were letting it be known among certain groups of our, ah, more adventurous citizens, that you were in actuality an agent of a British master criminal known as Professor Moriarty."

  "I never made that claim," Paul protested. "Someone—I think it was a jeweler named Berkmann—made that assumption, and I admit that I did not disabuse him of the notion."

  "A master jewel thief named Berkmann, yes. The professor Moriarty had provided him with assistance once or twice, and he is convinced that the professor has a vast criminal network throughout Europe."

  "Well I assure you that I never heard of this Professor Moriarty until Berkmann mentioned him. But then, well, if being his agent would simplify my life, then I would become his agent."

  "So again you found the truth, whatever that might be, less than useful. Is that so?"

  Paul leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. "Let us go over this in a reasonable manner," he said. "I somehow caused you to believe that I was a criminal. And now you have concluded that I'm not. And you are shocked to discover that I'm an honest man."

  "I would be at least mildly surprised to discover that anyone was a completely honest man," Davoud said. "It's merely that the manner of your dishonesty eludes me at the moment." He moved his hand in a patting motion, as though he were soothing an invisible cat. "I mean nothing disrespectful."

  "How do you know that I am not engaged in any of your imaginary nefarious schemes?" Paul asked.

  "I keep a close eye on several of my, ah, clients," Davoud said. "With one gentleman the eye is that of his valet, and one cannot get much closer than that. Had you been so engaged, I would have heard."

  "Ah!" Paul said. "Tell me, if you feared that I was some sort of master criminal, why did you supply me with the names? Surely not for the few kronen that I offered?"

  Davoud shrugged. "Frankly, I was interested to discover what you planned to do. You have so far managed to scrape an acquaintance with several of the 'names,' but with little result that I can see. You spoke to Graf von Pinow at the opera bar—"

  "A performance of Nabucco," Paul remembered. "With the libretto translated into German. Verdi's music should not be sung in German. It turns the most romantic of melodies into the barking of large dogs."

  "And Colonel Kretl, you sat across from him at baccarat—"

  "Oh, yes. At the Club Montmartre. Why the Viennese think that vice must have a French name is beyond me. German vice is perfectly acceptable. It's more orderly and well-behaved."

  "So with each of these gentlemen you have a meeting, two meetings, casual—nothing of any value discussed, I believe. And then, that's it. Nothing! So of what use to you is any of this?"

  Paul considered for a moment, and then he drank some tea and considered some more. "Is it of great interest to you," he asked Davoud, "what happens to your clients?"

  "Pah!" Davoud grimaced. "These people, these aristocrats, these men gentled by noble birth; they would just as soon walk over you as walk around you. At least the ones that I deal with are of that sort, although I am aware that there are others—yourse
lf, for example, if I am right about your upbringing. These young highly born gentlemen can hardly hide their dislike of me, even when they're trying to borrow money. They smile and nod and it's, 'Good evening, Herr Davoud, how good of you to come by.' And then I leave and it's, 'That fat old Jew will have his pound of flesh. His kind loves nothing but money!' As though it were I who was pledging ancient family heirlooms to pay gambling debts!"

  "You're not fat," Paul said.

  "Strangely enough, neither am I a Hebrew," Davoud told him. "They all assume that because I'm a moneylender, I must be Jewish."

  "And you're not?"

  "Look at me. Am I wearing a skull cap?"

  "Sometimes you wear a little knitted cap."

  "It keeps my head warm. It covers a spot where my hair, for some unaccountable reason, seems to be getting thin. But I do not wear it all the time. A Jew, I believe, must keep his head covered all the time."

  "That is so," Paul agreed.

  "Actually my family comes from eastern Persia," Davoud told Paul. "I am a Persian by heritage and a Zoroastrian by religion." He refilled Paul's tea cup and then his own. "Not that I am a particularly religious man. I do not, if it comes to that, care what they call me, but their arrogance and hypocrisy does not endear them to me."

  " 'I count religion but a childish toy,' " Paul quoted, " 'And hold there is no sin but ignorance.' "

  Davoud thought it over for a second. "Yes," he agreed. "That's very good."

  "Christopher Marlowe said it first," Paul said. "An English playwright."

  Davoud nodded. "I know of him," he said.

  "You wish to know what use I'm making of the names you pass on to me?" Paul asked. "I arrange to make the acquaintance of some of them. In return for supplying them with sums of money, I attempt to induce them to supply me with what I am most interested in—information."

  "Ah!" Davoud said. "Information. I see."

  "Do you disapprove?"

  He thought it over. "Not necessarily. How do you go about doing this? One can't just walk up to a stranger and say, 'I understand you need money. Tell me a secret.' "

  "Not quite so, ah, bold," Paul said. "I might approach my subject at the opera, or at the racetrack and talk to him briefly about this and that. And then I will get up and say, 'My patron understands that you are in need. Please don't be insulted, but he asked me to give you this.' And then I will hand him an envelope and walk away."

  "And in the envelope?"

  "A sum of money, the amount depending on who the person is and what his needs are. It is a delicate decision; too small a sum might insult the subject, too great a sum might frighten him."

  "Your patron?"

  Paul smiled. "I am too modest to take the credit for myself. Besides, having an invisible patron adds an air of mystery."

  "Aren't you afraid that your, um, subject will throw the money in your face or, perhaps, call the police?"

  "That's why I rapidly walk away. I don't want to be standing there smirking at them when they open the envelope. I don't want to have to answer any questions, and I don't want the subject to have to make an instant decision. Let him have time to think it over, to feel the weight of the money in his wallet."

  Davoud slowly and methodically cracked the knuckles of his right hand with his left, while staring into his cup of tea. "Perhaps we should not discuss this any further," he concluded.

  "Perhaps not," Paul agreed.

  "There are some things better left unsaid."

  "That is so."

  Davoud shifted his gaze to Paul's face. "If you require any assistance in the future, you have but to ask," he said. "But try not to be too specific."

  CHAPTER TWO — DOORWAY TO DEATH

  Our revels now are ended ...

  —William Shakespeare

  A blanket of fog had settled over London on Monday the ninth of March and seemed reluctant to leave. By Wednesday morning it had spread its tendrils into every cranny of the great city. It thickened through the course of the dank, chill day until now, in early evening, objects faded into invisibility at any greater distance than an outstretched arm. Pedestrians felt their way along the streets, finding familiar fence railings and building doorways to guide them. Carriage drivers depended on their horses' senses to take them along familiar routes. And the horses, being cautious beasts, would not venture into the unfamiliar. The lamp lighters had to climb two steps up the lamp poles and peer at the lights through the faceted glass to assure themselves that the gas mantles had lit and were burning.

  A short, thin, angular man made his way slowly, cautiously, almost delicately along the east side of Russell Square. Despite the hour—it was barely 5:00 P.M.—the man wore a black tailcoat over an overly starched white shirt with a stiff collar surrounded by a black bow tie, and he clutched a top hat in his left hand as he walked. His dress suit, although not yet threadbare, showed signs of wear, and gave an impression of necessity rather than of elegance; as though the garb were a professional requisite. His appearance was not dignified enough to be a butler or a waiter, but he might perhaps have been a teacher at a boy's school where such dress was still common. Not in England, of course; there was something definitely un-English about the man. Perhaps it was the lines of uncertainty and repression that shaped his face and posture; perhaps the vaguely incorrect style of the garment: the lapels a trifle too narrow, the bow tie a trifle too wide, the hat a trifle too short and its brim a trifle too thick.

  Halfway down the street the thin man reached the front steps of 64 Russell Square and, after peering closely at the brass address plate, ascended the steps and pulled at the bell pull. After a few moments the door swung open and a tall, solid man filled the doorway. Although he was attired in the impeccable garb of the proper English butler, there was, in the bulk of the man's muscles and the twist of his nose, a suggestion that he had perhaps once had a different profession. After looking his visitor carefully up and down for a moment, he said, "Sir? Can I help you?" in a deep, rasping voice that made the words as much a challenge as a question.

  The thin man nodded and pursed his thin lips. "Good day," he said, essaying a smile; but it was a weak sort of smile, as though he were out of practice. "I believe that this would be the residence of Herr Professor James Moriarty. Am I in that assumption correct?"

  "You are," the butler agreed.

  "Good, good," the thin man said, nodding some more. "I have come a long way to speak with the Herr Professor. He is, I trust, in?" He reached into his waistcoat pocket and extended a calling card to the butler.

  "One moment, sir," the butler said, taking the card between two white-gloved fingers. "I shall enquire."

  The thin man raised an explanatory finger. "Tell the professor that it is in regard to one of his agents in Vienna. The young man is in danger. Great danger."

  "Yes, sir. One moment, sir." The butler closed the door gently but firmly in the thin man's face. It would have been more polite to invite the caller in, to have him wait in a sitting room. But there were those who might wish to see Professor Moriarty who would not be permitted past the front door without a constant escort, and others who would not, under any conditions, be permitted past the front door.

  Professor James Moriarty, Ph.D., F.R.A.S., sat at the large oak desk in his ground floor office, the two front windows closed and curtains drawn to keep out the fog. A coal fire burning in the small fireplace across the room kept away the damp and chill of the day. The professor's attention was focused on the winter issue of Die Zeitschrift für Fortgeschrittene Theoretische Astrophysik. As the clock on the wall softly chimed four times, Mr. Maws, the onetime bare-knuckle heavyweight champion of Kent now serving as the professor's butler and gatekeeper, entered and stood silently by the desk, waiting for the professor to look up. It was a few moments before Moriarty inserted a paper slip at the page and closed the journal. He removed his pince-nez glasses and turned his gaze to the bust of Galileo on the cabinet to his right. "Those German theorists," he said. "They're
infatuated with causation and yet they pay so little attention to materiality. One would think they would have some interest in what is before hounding off on a hunt for where it came from."

  "Yes, Professor," Mr. Maws responded. "Someone to see you." He held out the thin man's calling card.

  Taking the card by the edge, Moriarty replaced his pince-nez glasses and peered down at it as though it were an interesting, but as yet unclassified, insect. It read: