"Hm," Moriarty said, reading Barnett's account of the interview, "it is as I assumed. Lord East does not venture into the unknown. He continues to use the same rituals to safeguard his hoard that he practiced while he was acquiring the loot in India."
"I imagine one comes to trust those techniques that have worked for one in the past," Barnett commented.
"Easily understandable and very human," Moriarty admitted. "I certainly cannot fault him for that. Furthermore, it does simplify my task."
"If you say so," Barnett said. "Although I can't see how you intend to get near the train. It's never going to stop from the time it leaves Plymouth until it reaches London, not once. And if you somehow do manage to halt it, a regiment of very large guardsmen with loaded rifles will have the train surrounded in seconds, and a troop of light horse will be leaping off of their wagons to chase anyone who appears in their way."
"The military escort will not affect my plan one way or the other," Moriarty said. "It makes no difference whether there is a company of men or a field army guarding the treasure, it shall be removed."
"Are you saying that the treasure will leave Plymouth, but it won't make it to London?" Barnett asked.
Moriarty smiled. "To paraphrase a former Lord of the Admiralty," he said, "I don't say the treasure will not arrive in London, I merely say it won't arrive in that train."
Mr. Maws opened the study door. "Beg pardon," he said. "There is a delegation to see you, Professor. Six gentlemen. They have no cards."
Moriarty looked up. "Gentlemen, you say, Mr. Maws?"
"In a manner of speaking, Professor. Gentlemen of the night, gentlemen of the mask, gentlemen of the Hidden Ways. I believe all these appellations have been applied to our guests, Professor."
Barnett smiled at the butler. "Well, Mr. Maws, you astound me," he said. "You have hidden depths."
"Yeah? 'Oo says?" Mr. Maws demanded, his face remaining expressionless.
"Do we know any of these gentlemen, Mr. Maws?" asked Professor Moriarty.
"Yes, sir," Mr. Maws replied. "There's the Snoozer, and Twist, and Upper McHennory, and the Twopenny Yob, and Colonel Moran, and Percy the Painter."
"Well, well," Professor Moriarty said, rubbing the side of his nose, "an impressive gallery of rogues. What could have brought them all together; and what on earth could have brought them here to see me?" He adjusted his pince-nez glasses. "Well, the best way to find out is to bring them in here and let them tell me. Mr. Maws, if you would."
"Would you like me to leave?" Barnett asked, as Mr. Maws silently closed the door behind him.
"Not at all," Moriarty said. "You already know one or two of these gentlemen, I believe. You would be doing me a favor if you sat quietly in the corner and, ah, observed."
"My pleasure, Professor," Barnett said, and he was speaking no less than the truth. It sounded like a fascinating meeting from any point of view. "Let's see — Twist I've met, of course; head of the Mendicants' Guild. I'm an honorary member, I believe."
"That's so," Moriarty said. "And the Snoozer's a sneak thief. Got his name from his favorite method of operating, which is to pretend to be asleep in railway terminals or hotel lobbies and then wake up and calmly walk off with a few pieces of luggage. Upper McHennory you met briefly two years ago; he gave you a couple of lessons in opening the simpler sort of tumbler locks."
Barnett nodded. "Tall, sandy-haired fellow," he said.
"Quite right," Moriarty said. "Expert at his craft. Specializes in the smaller wall safes, of the sort found in private houses or small businesses."
"And the Twopenny Yob?" Barnett asked.
" 'Yob' is reverse slang," Moriarty said. "The Twopenny Yob, now a man in his fifties, dresses and looks like the younger son of an earl. His precarious but quite remunerative occupation is crashing parties in the West End or other haunts of the rich and going through the pockets of all the coats in the cloakroom."
"You can really make a living doing that?" Barnett asked.
"One can," Moriarty said, "if one happens to have the appearance of an earl's son and the morals of a guttersnipe. He also makes friends with chambermaids to get into houses while the owners are away." Moriarty removed his pince-nez and thoughtfully polished the lenses. Barnett could tell that the usually unperturbable professor was as curious as he was about the purpose of the impending delegation.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Moriarty continued, "is probably the most dangerous man in London. I have used him for a couple of assignments, and he has performed well. The colonel is intelligent, diligent, and obeys orders, but he is as unstable as a bottle of nitroglycerine. Someday someone is going to jar him the wrong way, and he's going to do something unfortunate. He has the cool courage of a man who singlehandedly hunted man-eating Bengal tigers in India, but he was cashiered out of the Indian Army for an incident involving a young native girl and his very violent temper.
"Percy the Painter, now, is a meek, gentle man who runs a small, very exclusive gallery for objets d'art and antiques. He dislikes associating with riffraff, but is known to pay good prices for the odd bits of gold or lapis lazuli one may happen upon in the course of one's earnest endeavors."
"A fascinating group," Barnett commented. "It sounds as if we're going to be entertaining the cast of characters of a medieval morality play. 'Enter Malice and Cupidity; exit Avarice and Lust. Jealousy speaks to Everyman.' "
Moriarty looked as though he were about to comment on this, but Mr. Maws's triple knock on the study door interrupted him. "This way, gentlemen," the butler said, opening the door and stepping aside to allow the strange assortment of guests to file into the room.
Twist, in the lead, scurried across the carpet and hopped up into a red leather chair to one side of Moriarty's large oaken desk. "Morning, Professor," he said, his eyes shifting about the room. "Morning, there, Araby Ben. Been a while, it has."
"Araby Ben?" Moriarty asked, with an amused look at Barnett.
"My, ah, nickname in Mr. Twist's guild," Barnett said, trying not to look embarrassed.
"It's 'is moniker in the Maund Book," Twist said. "Which I signed 'im in personal-like these two years ago. 'Cause 'e took such an interest, you see. Gives 'im the right to beg on any streetcorner in London what ain't otherwise occupied."
"A singular distinction, Mr. Barnett," Moriarty said. "And one that might, in some strange circumstance, come in useful. One never knows where the vagaries of life will lead."
Twist, a misshapen little man with a patch over his right eye, grinned up at Moriarty. "There's many as do worse," he said.
Barnett examined the others as they entered, and found that he had no trouble telling them apart. Upper McHennory he remembered: a tall, serious-looking man, dressed like a superior artisan, which he was. Snoozer had the appearance of a soft-goods drummer from Manchester, who had somehow misplaced his sample bag. The Twopenny Yob, a tall, pale man with almost no chin, had a sort of insubstantial, vague, aristocratic look, as though he had wandered into the room by mistake, and was hoping his valet would appear and tell him where he was supposed to be. Colonel Moran was the image of the hale, bluff colonial officer in mufti. With his wide shoulders and solidly planted feet, he had a look of carefully controlled power. His bushy mustache could not disguise the hint of sadistic cruelty that showed in the twisted corners of his thin-lipped mouth. Percy the Painter was a small, fleshy man with altogether too many gold rings on his chubby fingers and an air of determined petulance.
The six distributed themselves about the study, each according to his preference. Barnett noted that they all kept instinctively clear of the front windows. Moriarty rose to greet them. "Good day, gentlemen," he said. "This is my colleague, Benjamin Barnett. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
"It's on the way of being a consultation, Professor," Upper McHennory said.
"We is here to ask you to help us, Professor," the Snoozer said.
"To put it concisely," said Colonel Sebastian Moran, shouldering his
malacca walking stick and giving an automatic twist to the corners of his precise mustache, "we are a delegation, sent here by our comrades-in-crime, to solicit your aid."
"You never were one to mince words, Colonel," Percy the Painter said approvingly. " 'Comrades-in-crime.' Yes; within the confines of this lovely room — I particularly admire that Berkman oil to the left of the door — I admit to the justice of that description. Lovely."
"Beg pardon," the Twopenny Yob said, "but I believe we are creating sound without facilitating the exchange of information." He turned to Moriarty. "Professor, we have come to see you on behalf of the Amateur Mendicant Society. We are a specially formed committee of that society empowered to represent the entire membership in our discussions with you."
Moriarty sat back down in his chair and leaned forward, peering with his intense gaze at each of his visitors. "The Amateur Mendicant Society," he said finally. "I don't believe I am acquainted with it."
"It's a brand-new organization, Professor," Upper McHennory said. "A group of us from the different corners of the snide decided we had to get together and discuss subjects of mutual benefit—"
"Such as what it is what we is going to be telling you about." Twist interrupted.
"There are things happening in London," said the Twopenny Yob, "that are against the common interests of us artisans of the underworld. So we decided to get together and discuss these things. But you can see the problems an attempt on the part of our collective brethren to assemble would cause. The authorities would not encourage such a gathering. Particularly at the present time, they would frown upon it. They would do their best to discourage it."
"The present time?" Moriarty asked.
"You bloody well said it there, Professor," Twist said. "The present times is different from other times, 'cause of some bloody bastard what is going about knocking off the toffery."
"Ah! The murders," Moriarty said.
"Indeed," the Twopenny Yob agreed. "And so we formed a club. It was Percy the Painter's notion—"
Percy shrugged modestly. "It comes of employing a competent solicitor," he said. "Expensive, but well worth it in times of need. My solicitor pointed out that gentlemen's clubs were quite legal, quite common in London, could have anyone they wished as members, and could exclude nonmembers from attendance if they wished. So we formed a club. The Amateur Mendicant Society. We rented the ground floor and vault of a furniture warehouse, and fixed it up quite nicely."
"Vault?"
"For private discussions," Snoozer explained.
"Ah!" Moriarty said. Barnett, who had come to know his moods quite well over two years, could tell that he was doing his best not to look amused. Since the average person couldn't tell when the professor was amused, his attempt at concealment worked quite well. "So now there is a club — no doubt with billiard tables and a reading room — for gentlemen purse snatchers, pickpockets, panderers—"
"Sir!" Colonel Moran said sharply, his face flushing. "We may indulge in occasional activities which are technically on the wrong side of the laws of this effete country, but we are none of us lacking in respect for the ladies. There are no panderers welcome in our group!"
"Accept my apologies, Colonel," Moriarty said. "I was carried away by the lure of alliteration. So, at any rate, you have discovered that it is possible to make a den of thieves respectable by giving it the facade of a gentlemen's club."
"Well," Upper McHennory said, smiling, "it has worked so far."
"Can we get back to the purpose of this visit?" Colonel Moran said, impatiently slapping his walking stick against the side of his shoe.
"Very well," the Twopenny Yob said. "Professor Moriarty, in the name of the collective membership of the Amateur Mendicant Society, we request your assistance. We must see to it that this vile murderer who has been haunting the West End is apprehended."
"I see," Moriarty said. "And why this interest? A sense of civic duty, perhaps?"
"Pah!" Twist exclaimed, scrunching forward in his chair. "The rozzers 'as been 'arassing us sumfing awful. Knocking my boys off the street corners, chasing blind and lame beggars up the street. I tells you, it ain't good."
"I believe you," Moriarty said. "Seeing a lame beggar outrun a bobby must stretch your customers' credulity."
"You wouldn't think it humorous," Percy the Painter commented, "if it was your men being harassed and arrested by the police anytime they enter a swank neighborhood. And keeping them out of swank neighborhoods is not sensible. Stealing from the poor goes against ancient English tradition; it's in bad taste and it's unremunerative."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "What about the great and growing body of the middle class?" he asked. "Surely you can still steal from shopkeepers, factory owners, salesmen, innkeepers, bank clerks, and assorted merchants, tradesmen, and professionals?"
"You doesn't grasp the magnanimousness of the situation," Twist said. "Strangely, when the rich are struck at, it is the middling classes what feel most threatened."
"It's the truth," the Twopenny Yob said. "Now, with this madman going around and murdering the aristocracy, you could clearly see where it would make my profession difficult. The swells are just naturally going to be more cautious as to who they let into their mansions. Even during the wildest soirees, they are not going to suffer the chance of having their throats cut merely for the privilege of having their pockets picked."
Very nicely put, Barnett thought, and made a note to use it in a future article.
"But the odd thing about it," the Yob continued, "is the reaction of your bourgeois shopkeeper. He feels personally threatened, and writes letters to the Times about it. The public uproar causes the police to cancel all leaves and bring in auxiliary men, and get a visible patrol on every street. Calms down the masses, don't y'see."
"And, just for the raw fun of it, " 'cause they ain't got nothing else to do," Snoozer added, "the rozzers arrest everybody in sight for 'suspicious loitering.' Now I tell you, Professor, it's a sad day when a chap can't do a bit of suspicious loitering without getting thrown in quod for his troubles!"
Moriarty leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. "An interesting scene you are painting, gentlemen," he said. "And a sad tale it is, indeed, that this one unknown murderer is putting the entire criminal class of London out of business. What, exactly, is it that you want me to do about it? Help you compose a letter to the Times? Get the police off your collective backs? What?"
"They're on your back too, you know," Percy the Painter said, and then put his hand to his mouth, as if frightened by his own audacity.
Moriarty turned his head slightly and inspected Percy speculatively for a moment. "Pray tell me, Percy, whatever are you talking about?"
"One of my customers, you know," Percy said. "Collector of Georgian china. Which I can't imagine why, for the life of me. Ugly, hideous, gross chamber pots they are, too. But he likes them. Lestrade is his name."
Professor Moriarty laughed. "Giles Lestrade, a collector of Georgian chamber pots! The man has untold depths."
"You know him then? Scotland Yard inspector. Always makes me a bit nervous when he visits the shop, if the truth be told. Well, last time he came in, about three days ago, it was, he had one of his Scotland Yard buddies with him, and they were having a conversation, which I couldn't help overhearing, while they looked at the china."
"And what did they say?" Moriarty asked.
"Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes — he's—"
"I know who he is," Moriarty growled. "Go on."
"Well, Inspector Lestrade said that Sherlock Holmes was still convinced that you, Professor Moriarty, are responsible for these murders. The chap with him — named Gregson — said it was Holmes's idee fixe, and there wasn't anything to be done about it. And he hoped they wouldn't have to keep too many men away from their other duties for too long, while Holmes has them following you about. It seems that Mr. Holmes is in some position of authority over at Scotland Yard, at least insofar as this i
nvestigation is concerned."
Moriarty nodded, and allowed his gaze to rest briefly on each of his guests. They were silent while he prepared to speak. "You're telling me that my interests coincide with yours on this matter," he said. "I will not dispute that; it is partly so. But not wholly. When the murderer is finally apprehended, and the level of police activity once more falls to normal, you gentlemen are free to resume or continue your nefarious activity. But it will not free me of the attentions of the master sleuth. Sherlock Holmes will inevitably suspect me of whatever heinous crime comes to light next."
"He will certainly lose his official status when this case is solved," Percy the Painter said.
"That's so," Moriarty admitted. "Which will once more lower his nuisance value to a more tolerable level. Is this what you wish me to do — solve the crime? Apprehend the murderer?"
The six of them shifted uncomfortably, all looking vaguely unhappy, except for Colonel Moran, who looked pugnacious. Barnett was briefly puzzled by this, but he suddenly realized: to these men, asking Professor Moriarty to solve a crime was like asking the Archbishop of Canterbury to commit one. It was the antithesis of the ordinary.
"Not necessarily, Professor," Snoozer said.
"What we want is that you should get the rozzers off our backs," Twist said. "Catching the gent what's committing these outrages seems the easiest way, but if you come up with another, that'd be jonnick with us."
Professor Moriarty stood up and removed the pince-nez from the bridge of his nose. "It is an interesting situation, and an interesting problem," he said, polishing the lenses with his pocket handkerchief. "If I agree, and I apprehend this killer, what would you have me do with him?"
"Whatever you think best. If you want to turn 'im over to the rozzers, that's jonnick," Twist said. The others all nodded agreement, looking even more uncomfortable.
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