The examiner turned to the petite, slender woman sitting beside Sandarel. He didn't know much about women's apparel, but he could tell that the frock she was wearing was fashionable and expensive. The hat that was perched daintily on her head, with the net half-veil covering her eyes—his wife had admired one a lot like that in a shop window last week and it was a hundred and twenty kronen. Over a week's salary! The woman would be quite attractive, he thought, if she put on a little weight. To his eyes she looked almost emaciated and positively unhealthy. Like most Viennese, he liked his women pleasingly plump. "And you, Madame Verlaine, do you also accept gifts for your services?"
She smiled sweetly at him. "Why Herr Examiner," she said, "what would your wife think?"
The examiner stared stolidly at her, but his ears turned red. "Never mind that," he said. "You know what I mean. Do you also give readings, and do you accept gratuities in return?"
"I assist Alexandre Sandarel in his activities," Madame Verlaine explained. "And I never accept money for my services—whatever they might be."
"Ah-hem," the examiner said. He turned to Sandarel. "You know that fortune-telling is against the law here in Austria?"
Sandarel nodded. "And a good thing, too. Those people prey on the troubled and the weak-minded."
"What you do is not fortune-telling?"
"No."
Sandarel did not expand on his answer, and the examiner seemed at a loss as to what to ask next. Finally he took a book from his desk and riffled through it. "Here it is," he said. "Imperial statute three-three-seven-point-two-seven, paragraph four, 'Vagabonds on the Public Highway, Gypsies, Sneak-thieves, Fortunetellers, Astrologers, Peddlers, and Persons of Disrepute. These shall be classified as vagrants and caused to move on or be imprisoned for a term to be decided by the examining magistrate, not to exceed two years.' "
"Yes?" Sandarel said.
"A fortune-teller is defined as one who, eh, 'through the use of cards, dice, crystal balls, or other devices, or the reading of palms or the soles of feet professes to be able to foretell the course of future events."
"The soles of feet?" Madame Verlaine smiled. "How amusing."
"Do you understand what I just read to you?"
"And," Sandarel told him, leaning forward, "so much more. Your statute would protect the subjects of His Imperial Majesty from charlatans."
"Even so," the examiner agreed, smiling a tight smile.
"I am not a charlatan."
The Imperial Examiner leaned back in his chair, his hands laced together and placed on the waistcoat covering his ample stomach. "But how are we to know that?"
"A fair question." Sandarel stared across the desk at the examiner. "I will demonstrate for you the higher arts of which I speak. They enable the practitioner to access knowledge not available to those unpracticed in the mantic disciplines. But they are not magical. They can be taught to the willing disciple." Sandarel paused and gestured across the desk. "Let us consider you as a subject. We have not met before, and you will grant that you are not secretly in my employ."
"Most assuredly not!"
"And I had no way of knowing which examiner would see us."
"That is so."
Count Sandarel held his left hand to his forehead and probed the empty air before him with his right. "Your name is Alfred Vogelmass."
"Come now," Vogelmass said. "One of the clerks must have told you my name."
"Nonsense," Count Sandarel said. "It's on that brass plaque on your desk."
"Oh," Vogelmass said. "So it is."
"And you thought I'd done something remarkable. But have patience, perhaps I shall." He mad a gesture with his right hand as though he were squeezing a juicy peach. Then he flicked the imaginary juice about the room. "You've been in your job for some years—"
"That is obvious! You—"
"But you do not like your job. You have been passed over for promotion several times, unjustly, you feel—" Sandarel's hand squeezed a few more peaches "—and you are right. You took this job in the civil service originally for the security it offers and at the instigation of others—family perhaps."
Vogelmass nodded despite himself.
"But you've always thought that your true talent lies in some other field—something artistic. Music? No, I don't think so. Drawing, perhaps."
"Painting," Vogelmass said softly.
Count Sandarel went on as though he had not heard. "Had you pursued your career as an artist, you would have achieved great recognition. But even within the Imperial Service there are opportunities to which you aspire. There is another job that you feel you are suited for, and that you would like to move up to. It is more suited to your intelligence and your abilities, both of which are under-utilized in your current position. I cannot tell you whether you will get it—that would be fortune-telling—but I can say that you need more preparation, or perhaps a better way to show those in authority that you have made the preparation, in order to have a chance. And if you can do that, there is a good likelihood that you will be rewarded."
"Rewarded? But how can I—"
"That I cannot say. Something to do with befriending someone unexpected. Who that may be, I don't know." Count Sandarel sank back in his chair. "I am fatigued. Madame, would you continue?"
Madame Verlaine rose and stared unblinkingly across the desk, not at the examiner but at a point over his left shoulder. "Two children," she said. "Girls. Angela and Rosalie. Lovely young creatures. I believe you married late. Yes. Your wife's name is Marie. A beautiful woman much younger than you, but she loves you deeply. And you her. You will have another child."
Vogelmass twisted around to look at the wall behind him to see what Madame Verlaine was looking at. There was nothing but green wall where her gaze was fixed.
"There is a great service you can do the emperor," Madame Verlaine continued. "What it is I cannot see, but it will be made clear to you."
"The emperor!" Vogelmass instinctively reached up to take his hat off. But then realizing he wasn't wearing a hat, he merely patted his head.
Madame Verlaine sat down. "Your aura is light blue," she told Vogelmass. "The pains you are suffering will soon go away."
Imperial Inspector Vogelmass was speechless. When one is told that one's abilities are undervalued, that one could have achieved great things as an artist, that one's young wife is deeply in love with one—a question that had been troubling him—and that one will soon have an opportunity to do a great service for the emperor; one would be ungrateful not to accept these assertions for the powerful insights that they so obviously were.
And so Count Sandarel and Madame Verlaine left the offices of the Ministry of the Interior with their passes stamped for an indefinite stay, subject to renewal in six months. As they boarded a passing fiacre for the trip back to their hotel Count Sandarel leaned toward Madame Verlaine and murmured in her ear, "A balloon?"
"And why not a balloon?" she murmured back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN — SLIGHT OF MIND
The superior man is distressed by the limitation of his ability; he is not distressed by the fact that men do not recognize the ability he has.
—Confucius
Count Sandarel paced the floor of Madame Verlaine's bedroom, his hands behind his back. "You feel confident?" he asked.
"Reasonably," Madame Verlaine told him, looking up from her dressing table. "I work at it whenever I have the chance, to build up my speed."
"Good. We'll work at it together when we have private moments," Sandarel told her. "If we need to use it, we won't have time to prepare."
"I know." She turned to look at him. "Try me."
"All right. I'm going out into the audience. You're blindfolded. Close your eyes."
Madame Verlaine closed her eyes. "I am ready to receive your thoughts," she said.
"Everyone please refrain from talking or making any unnecessary noise," Sandarel said. Although he kept his voice soft, it now had the strong timbre of someone addressing a large audi
ence. "You, sir, you have something for me?"
"A pocket watch," Madame Verlaine said softly.
"May I look at it?"
"A silver pocket watch."
"May I hold it, please?"
"A gold pocket watch with an inscription."
"Something more, sir?"
"Initials."
"Very interesting, very attractive, splendid."
"L—C—M."
"Madame Verlaine, what am I holding?"
She pressed her hand to her forehead dramatically, and spoke with a deep intensity. "Please hold it still. I see something round, but not too large. Something with great meaning to the owner. I sense wheels and gears. It is a watch—a pocket watch. The case is gold."
"Is that all?"
"No, I sense that there are some initials engraved on the case. First an L, and then an M. No, wait—something separates them— a C! The initials are L—C—M."
"Is that right sir?"
Madame Verlaine opened her eyes. "It damn well better be!"
Sandarel's valet knocked and entered the room, handing Sandarel a calling card. "I have put him in the sitting room, sir," he said. A gentleman."
"Thank you, Brom." Sandarel read the card and looked up at Madame Verlaine. "Peter Chennery?"
She shrugged.
"He's from the British embassy. I'll go see what he wants."
"I'll follow in a minute," she told him.
Sandarel opened the sitting room door and nodded to the sandy-haired young man in striped pants and morning coat within. The gentleman rose and bowed slightly, his mild blue eyes examining the man before him with some interest. "Prof—ah—Count Sandarel?"
"You may speak freely here," Sandarel said in English. "All the servants in the suite are my people."
"Ah, yes," the man replied. "You are actually Professor James Moriarty?" 1 am.
"I am Peter Chennery, first secretary to the ambassador of the British embassy here in Vienna."
"So I see by your card."
"Yes, well. Er. We've been instructed by Whitehall—by the minister himself actually—rather unusual instructions, I must say— to give you any aid you require. And the memorandum stressed 'any aid,' apparently no matter how unusual or, ah—"
Moriarty smiled slightly. "Illegal?" he suggested.
"Well it didn't exactly say that, not in so many words, but the suggestion was there," Chennery affirmed. "We were also warned not to give away your nom emprunté, or perhaps nom de guerre would be a better term, all things considered. The ambassador and I are frightfully curious as to what's going on, but the memorandum said we were not to ask." Chennery paused and looked expectant, and then continued, "So I guess I won't ask. Lord Sandown—he's the ambassador, don't you know, sent me along to see if there's anything we can do for you now."
"Yes," Moriarty said, "I believe there is. May I offer you some tea or coffee?"
"Thank you. Coffee, I think."
Moriarty rang for the maid. "Coffee and some of those small cakes, I think, Eleanor. And ask Madame Verlaine to join us." He turned to Chennery. "First, and most important, how many people know of the communication in question?"
"Just myself and the ambassador. Oh, and the code clerk, of course."
"Very good." Moriarty nodded approvingly. "Most people would have forgotten the code clerk." He raised a finger. "The first thing I require of you is, no one else is to know of this. If anything I ask of you requires assistance from any other person, they are not to know the true reason for the request."
Chennery nodded. "Our people are trained to do their jobs without asking questions," he said. "Although usually we know why."
"You will eventually," Moriarty assured him. "If this comes off as it should, you will be informed. If it doesn't come off, well, all of Europe will know about it, and you and your ambassador will be very glad that you are not directly involved."
"A question, if you don't mind," Chennery said. "Is there not a real Count Sandarel?"
Moriarty nodded. "There is. I have appropriated his identity as being more useful for the present purpose than my own."
There was a light rap at the door, and Madame Verlaine came in. Moriarty introduced her to Chennery and she smiled and crossed the room, extending her hand.
The first secretary gazed at her face perhaps a bit longer than was polite, then took her hand and kissed it, lingering over the kiss a shade longer than absolutely necessary, and then bowed. "A real pleasure, Madame," he said.
"Ah yes, the hand-kiss," she said. "I've heard how ubiquitous it is here in Vienna."
"More than merely a custom," Chennery told her, "it is an art. It conveys subtleties of meaning that are not available in polite conversation."
"I'll keep that in mind," Madame Verlaine assured him.
With an effort, Chennery turned his attention back to Moriarty. "And where is the real Count Sandarel?"
"In South America, I understand."
"He won't come back at an—ah—embarrassing moment?"
"He had the lack of foresight to predict the death of the current president of Peru. He is being held by the Peruvian authorities while they ascertain that he is not involved with any group planning to make that event come about."
"He always had a tendency to be a bit brash," Madame Verlaine commented. "Sometimes it furthers one's career; sometimes it gets one thrown in prison for a year or two."
"And you can do these, ah, fantastic things that are claimed of Alexandre Sandarel?" Chennery asked Moriarty. "Reading minds, predicting events, and the like?"
Moriarty smiled slightly. "I taught him," he said. "He was a not-very-successful stage magician working under the name of the Great Goldstone when he came to me for advice on another matter. In the process of solving that, I also suggested this new career and taught him some techniques he could use. The methods of stage magicians have always intrigued me as being useful in controlling people's behavior in specific ways."
"You mean like Mesmerism and hypnotism? I always thought they were bunk."
"They aren't pure bunkum, although some of their practitioners are masters of bunkum, but that's not what I'm referring to. I had in mind methods using visual misdirection, misleading statements, and deliberate misperceptions."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
Moriarty thought for a second and said, "I'll give you a brief and unimpressive demonstration." He took a silver coin from his pocket. "Now I'm going to place this in one hand," he said, "and leave the other empty." He turned away from Chennery for a second and then turned back with both hands made into fists and held in front of him. "Now, whichever hand you pick," he said, "I will have the coin. Remember—you may select freely either hand, and yet I will still have the coin."
"I'm to pick one hand?" Chennery asked.
"That's the idea," Moriarty said, patiently holding his fists in front of him.
"All right." He stared at the two fists. "I'll take this—no this one!" He pointed to Moriarty's right hand. "You're sure?"
"I suppose I am."
"No supposing allowed," Moriarty said, raising his right hand slightly. "This is the hand you have freely selected?" Chennery nodded. "Yes, it is."
"And yet you could have chosen the other hand. This hand"— he opened the chosen right hand—"contains nothing. As I told you," Moriarty opened his left hand, "I still have the coin."
Chennery considered for a moment. "I see," he said finally. "But, after all, it was a fifty-fifty proposition."
"Yes," Moriarty admitted. "But I had to win, whichever hand you chose."
"Oh," Chennery said. "Some sort of slight-of-hand, was it?"
"Not at all, I merely took advantage of the fact that, although I presume you listened closely to what I said, you didn't know in advance what represented 'winning' this particular game."
"What do you mean?"
"What I told you was that, whichever hand you chose, I would have the coin. It sounds positive, but actually it's a rather ambiguous
statement. Had you picked my left hand, the one actually containing the coin, I might have said, 'See how my magical abilities forced you to pick the hand which had the coin,' and you would have thought that was the way the trick was supposed to go."
"Oh," Chennery said, but he didn't look convinced.
"A wonder explained is a wonder no more," Moriarty said. "Back to the matter at hand. Madame Verlaine is my associate, and any instructions from her are to be treated as though they came directly from me. That's one of the reasons I wanted you to meet her. If any other messages arrive purporting to come from me or Madame Verlaine, you are to ignore them unless the messenger recites the phrase—well now," he turned to Madame Verlaine, "what phrase should we use as our password?"
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