Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  Cecily looked at him skeptically. "I am not, I trust, expected to devote myself to such 'important' stories as the charity bazaar of the Duchess of Malfi, or the favorite dinners of Our Dear Queen. Or am I?"

  "Not at all," Barnett assured her. "Miss Burnside does those stories very well, and would feel quite put out if you were to take them over. 'From each according to her ability,' as Professor Moriarty is so fond of repeating."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Cecily asked.

  "This fellow who used to spend the better part of each day in the British Museum said it all the time," Barnett told her. "Something to do with an outrageous economic theory he was developing. Professor Moriarty had many long arguments with the man in the Reading Room before he went back to Germany or someplace."

  "And what is my ability?" Cecily asked. "What sort of events am I to cover?"

  "I have a subject in mind for you now that I believe you will find of interest," Barnett told her.

  Cecily drew her legs up under her in the chair, tucking in the folds of her skirt, and gazed intently at Barnett. Some emotion that Barnett could not fathom sparkled in her eyes. "Elucidate," she said.

  "Murder," Barnett stated, staring back into the sparkling pools of clear blue that were Cecily's eyes.

  "Fascinating," she agreed. "And whom am I to kill?"

  "You," Barnett told her, "are to report. Someone else has been doing the killing."

  Cecily turned her head to the side and gazed thoughtfully through the glass window in the office wall. "Why?" she asked. "I appreciate the compliment, of course. But I can foresee many problems arising if I attempt to report on murder stories. I'm sure you must already have realized that."

  "There will be difficulties," Barnett agreed. "Having a woman journalist following the course of a murder investigation and reporting on it will be an original idea to the authorities, and I'm sure they will react in an original manner. But I think you will do an excellent job with the story, if the gentlemen of the CID don't put too many obstructions in the way of your journalistic endeavors. I think it's worth giving it a shot, if you're willing."

  "A shot?" Cecily smiled. "One of your American expressions? How apt in this instance. I am certainly willing to 'give it a shot,' if you think any good can come of it. But tell me, why do you suppose the readers of two hundred newspapers in the United States are going to be interested in a British murder?"

  "The interest that the public — British or American — has for the sensational should not be underrated," Barnett told her. "And I, for one, am perfectly happy trying to fill that interest."

  "Very good, Mr. Barnett," Cecily said. "Repellent as the idea is to us, we shall explore the sensational and examine the outré for the sake of our readers. I shall write a series of closely reasoned articles that fascinate by the compelling logic of their conclusions and the immense understanding of human nature so displayed. And I shall sign them C. Perrine, so that none of our readers will be shocked by the knowledge that a member of the fair sex has been delving into the sordid, seamy side of life in the world's greatest metropolis."

  "I thought the idea would interest you, Miss Perrine," Barnett said. "But first, of course, we are going to have to go out into the world and catch our man."

  "And what man, may I ask, are we looking for?"

  "There have been three murders in London within the past month," Barnett told her, "that were, apparently, all done by the same man. The victims were all upper-class, and all three murders were committed in circumstances that were, if not impossible, at least highly improbable."

  Cecily Perrine nodded. "Lord Walbine," she said, "and the Honorable George Venn, and Isadore Stanhope. Very interesting cases."

  "That's them," Barnett agreed. "I've noticed that you have formed the practice of rewriting all the murder stories yourself, which is why I decided you would be interested in this assignment."

  "I consider myself a competent writer, Mr. Barnett, as you know," Cecily said. "But I would not altogether affirm my competence to interview a Scotland Yard inspector in such a manner as to command his respect, and otherwise conduct the necessary investigation. This is my only hesitation."

  "I'll assist you the first few times you conduct such interviews, until you get over your tentative feelings and the gentlemen at the CID get accustomed to your presence."

  "I would appreciate such assistance," Cecily said.

  "It will be my pleasure," Barnett told her. "I, also, am fascinated by mysterious murders."

  "A fascination that I trust the rest of your countrymen share," Cecily said. "With both of us working on it, the stories are going to have to be carried by over three-quarters of our total subscription to pay for our time."

  "We'll have over ninety percent," Barnett assured her. "This story has the one element that a purely American murder can never have: nobility. Two out of three of the victims were possessed of noble blood. You'll have to remember to play that up."

  "Yes, indeed," Cecily agreed sweetly. "I shall research the lineage of Mr. Stanhope, the deceased barrister. Perhaps somewhere this side of the Domesday Book we can find the taint of noble blood running, in ever so diluted quantities, through his veins also."

  "Not a bad idea," Barnett told her enthusiastically. "Put someone on that."

  "Dear me," Cecily said. "I thought I was being humorous."

  "Americans take British nobility very seriously," Barnett told her, "being deprived, as they are, of one of their own."

  "It is of their own doing," Cecily said. "Had they remained loyal British subjects a hundred years ago, they could have their own nobility living among them now, and be as lucky as the Irish in that regard."

  Their conversation was interrupted by a small person in a loudly checked suit with a spotless gray bowler tucked firmly under his left arm, who trotted between the desks in the outer office and rapped importantly on the inner office door.

  Barnett pulled the door open. "Well," he exclaimed, "if it isn't the Mummer!"

  " 'Course it is," the little man replied. "Who says it ain't?"

  "Mummer" Tolliver was a fellow resident of 64 Russell Square, occupying a low-ceilinged room under the eaves and serving the professor as a general factotum and midget-of-all-work.

  "Hello, Mummer," Cecily said. "My, you're looking natty today."

  "Afternoon, Miss Perrine," the Mummer said, holding his bowler stiffly in front of his chest and giving his head two precise nods in her direction. "You're a rare vision of dainty loveliness yourself, Miss Perrine. S'welp me if you ain't!"

  "Why, thank you, Mummer," Cecily said.

  "I have a communication for Mr. Barnett from the professor," Mummer said. " into his hand,' the professor told me."

  "Why, then, here is my hand," Barnett said, extending his hand.

  Tolliver examined the appendage carefully. "Seems to be," he admitted, pulling a buff envelope from a hidden recess between two buttons of his checked jacket and passing it over to Barnett. "There. Now my duty is discharged, and I must be trotting along. Afternoon, Miss Perrine. Afternoon, all." Adjusting his bowler carefully on his slicked-down black hair, he did a neat shuffle-off to the front door and exited.

  "What a charming little man," Cecily said.

  "He is that," Barnett agreed, as the world's shortest confidence man and pickpocket disappeared around the door.

  Barnett slit open the envelope and removed the sheet of foolscap within. Railways, the note said in Moriarty's precise hand, with particular emphasis on the London and South-Western. M.

  "A task for us," Barnett said, slipping the note into his pocket. "Assign someone to research the London and South-Western Railway line. Bill it to the special account."

  "What sort of research?" Cecily asked, looking curiously at him.

  Barnett shrugged. "General," he said. "Whatever they're up to these days. I don't know. Tell them it's for a comparison of British and American railroads."

  "Fine," Cecily said. "What is it for?"
<
br />   "I don't know," Barnett said. "The ways of Professor Moriarty are mysterious. As you know, he is a consultant. Perhaps he has a commission from the railway, or perhaps from a rival railway. He is very close-mouthed."

  "Hummm," Cecily said.

  "Well," said Barnett, "let us go along to Scotland Yard and see whom we can speak to about these murders."

  FIVE — SCOTLAND YARD

  Mere theory is not encouraged at the Yard.

  — Arthur H. Beavan

  The hansom cab passed under the arch and rattled along the ancient, well-worn paving stones of Scotland Yard. Swerving to miss a flock of off-duty constables heading across the road for a "quick 'un" at the Clarence before they went home for the night, it pulled to a stop in front of the dirty yellow brick building that housed the Metropolitan Police office.

  "Here we are," Barnett said, helping Cecily Perrine down from the cab and tossing a coin up to the cabby. "The Criminal Investigation Department is in the building to the left here."

  The constable guarding the narrow entrance to the CID nodded at Barnett's question. "That would be Inspector Lestrade." He checked a little pegboard on the wall by his side. "As it happens, the inspector is in at the moment. Room 109. You must wait here until I can get a uniformed officer to escort you upstairs."

  "Why, Constable!" Cecily smiled sweetly. "We do not look dangerous, do we?"

  " 'Taint me, miss," the constable said. "It's the regulations. Ever since that bombing in the Yard three years ago by them anarchists, when all them policemen and civilians were blown about, with three of them dying, some constable stands here day and night, in this unheated doorway, and sees that all visitors are properly escorted upstairs. Them as are in authority were supposed to put a booth here for the constable's use, but it's been three years now and they ain't done it. Now as there's talk of a new building, I suppose they won't ever."

  "I thought the bombing was outside," Barnett said.

  "Yes, sir," the constable agreed. "Around to the right, there. By the public house. You can still see the damage to the bricks."

  "But there's no constable on duty over there," Cecily said. "No, miss."

  "Then somebody could still chuck a dynamite bomb right where the last one was."

  "Yes, miss."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, miss. Ah, here is someone now. Constable Hawkins, will you please escort these two people up to Room 109. Inspector Lestrade."

  Room 109 was small, with one tiny soot-covered window, extremely cluttered, and, when they entered, apparently devoid of human life. Constable Hawkins, a small, taciturn man whose uniform looked as though it had been constructed for someone squatter and considerably more massive, obviously felt that he should not leave them alone in the room. So he stood fidgeting silently and uncomfortably, resisting all attempts to be drawn into conversation and turning very red in the face when Cecily spoke to him.

  It was about ten minutes before Inspector Lestrade returned to the room, scurrying along the corridor with a sheaf of documents in a leather folder under his arm. "Ha! I know you," he said to Barnett, shaking his hand firmly. "Barnett's your name."

  "You have a good memory, Inspector," Barnett said. "It's been almost two years since we met in that house on Little George Street."

  "A den of anarchists it was, too," Lestrade said. "You gentlemen were lucky to get out of there alive." He looked around, rather puzzled. "There was someone here when I left."

  "No one here when we arrived, Inspector," Constable Hawkins assured Lestrade, standing at full brace like a little figure from a box of tin soldiers.

  "Thank you, Hawkins," Lestrade said. "You can go." He turned back to Barnett. "And who is your charming companion?"

  "Miss Cecily Perrine, may I present Detective Inspector Giles Lestrade of the CID. Inspector Lestrade, Miss Perrine is a valued associate of mine at the American News Service."

  "A pleasure, Miss Perrine," Lestrade said, looking for all the world, as Cecily said later, like an eager bear as he took her hand and pressed it politely. "A sincere pleasure, I assure you."

  "Charmed, Inspector," Cecily said. "Are all Scotland Yard inspectors so gallant?"

  "You catch more flies with honey, miss," Lestrade said. "It always pays to be polite, and it costs you nothing. Or so I tell my men."

  "And here I thought it was me," Cecily said, pouting, "and I find, instead, that it's regulation."

  "Well, um, miss," Lestrade said, caught in the realization that his tact was not up to his manners, "I can assure you that in your case it is a pleasure to follow the regulations."

  "Neat recovery, Inspector," Barnett said, smiling.

  "Um," Lestrade said. "And what can I do for you? No problems, I hope?"

  "Nothing for the police, Inspector," Barnett said. "No, we've come here on business, but it's our business rather than yours."

  "Ah! And how is that?"

  "We are planning an article, or a series of articles, on the murders you've been having here in London," Cecily said.

  "Now that covers a lot of territory, miss," Lestrade said. "There've been a great many murders here in London during the twenty-six years I've been on the force."

  "We had the recent ones in mind," Barnett said. "Lord Walbine—"

  "Him!" Lestrade said. "Come, sit down. Just push the papers off that chair, Mr. Barnett. I'll have someone come along and file them. Should have done it weeks ago. The department is nothing but a maze of paperwork. It's a wonder that any of us ever get any work done, what with all the papers we have to fill out every time we take a step."

  Cecily perched daintily on the edge of the old wooden chair that Lestrade thrust toward her. Barnett dropped into an ancient chair with a bentwood back, after taking Lestrade's advice and pushing the papers onto the floor. The chair creaked alarmingly, but it held.

  "Now then," Lestrade said. "What do you want to know about Lord Walbine's murder? It is a puzzler, that I'll admit."

  "And George Venn," Cecily said, "and Isadore Stanhope, the barrister."

  "Well now," Lestrade said, "interestingly enough we think we have just solved the Venn and Stanhope murders."

  "Is that right?" Barnett asked.

  "It is," Lestrade said, looking exceedingly smug. "And, as it happens, arrests are expected momentarily in those cases."

  "Congratulations are in order then, are they, Inspector?" Barnett asked. "You have solved a difficult case and brought a dangerous killer to justice. Who was the killer, then, and what was his motive?"

  "Well," Lestrade said, glancing at the door, "this is confidential for the moment. The orders have gone out to arrest the culprits, but until I am sure they have been apprehended I would not want the news to appear in the press."

  "You have our word, Inspector," Barnett said.

  "Did you say culprits?" Cecily asked. "There was more than one person involved in the murders?"

  "That there was," Lestrade agreed. "Each of the two murdered gentlemen was done in by his own butler!"

  "The butler did it?" Barnett asked.

  "Incredible, isn't it? But there's no telling to what lengths greed or fear will drive some people."

  "What was their motive?" Cecily asked. "It was greed, wasn't it? They were each systematically stealing from their respective employer, and were about to be caught red-handed."

  "Well, miss, we haven't found any indication—"

  "Fear, then! They were both members of a secret society of anarchists, and their evil captain had ordered them to kill their masters under pain of some horrible mutilation or death."

  "We have given that theory some thought, miss," Lestrade said seriously.

  "You have?" Barnett sounded surprised.

  "Yes, sir. You see, there was a mysterious bit of newspaper in Lord Walbine's waistcoat pocket when he was killed."

  "How fascinating!" Barnett said. "Was it a clipping from a London paper?"

  "It was, we believe, from the Morning Chronicle classified section. What
they call the agony column. But it wasn't exactly a clipping — more of a ripping," Lestrade said.

  "What did it say?" Cecily asked.

  "It was ripped from the middle of the classified pages. One column wide by about half an inch high. On one side it said, 'Thank you St. Simon for remembering the knights.' On the other side it said, 'Fourteen point four by six point thirteen: three-four-seven.' Written out, you know; not just the numbers."

  "Two separate advertisements?"

  "That is right, miss. One on each side of the paper, as you might expect. As far as we know, unconnected. Which one had relevance to poor Lord Walbine, I have no idea. But you must admit they are both odd. Put one in mind of some sort of secret society."

  "How does this affect the two butlers?" Cecily asked.

  "Well, you see, miss, they are both members of the same club."

  "Club?" Barnett asked. "I didn't know there were clubs for butlers."

  "There is a club for butlers and valets," Lestrade told him. "It is known as the Gentlemen's Gentlemen, and it is located off Oxford Street in Soho. Margery, who was the butler to the deceased Honorable George Venn, and Lizzard, who was the personal valet to the late Mr. Stanhope, are both members of the said Gentlemen's Gentlemen in good standing."

  "Come now, Inspector," Barnett said, "you can't seriously believe that these two men murdered their employers simply because they are members of the same club?"

  "That was merely the starting point for what I would like to refer to as a fine example of the value of good methodical police work. With that fact to work on, my men went out and knocked on doors and asked questions. No fancy staring at footsteps under a microscope or examining the dirt under the victim's fingernails or any of that nonsense. Very quickly we discovered that Margery spends his afternoons off at the racetrack, and that Lizzard has a lady friend in Wembley."

  "Surely even valets are allowed to have lady friends," Cecily said. "I would have thought that having a lady friend was one of the indelible rights of man."