Professor Moriarty Omnibus

by Michael Kurland

  "Practice patience," Moriarty instructed. "It is the one virtue that will stand you in good stead in almost any circumstance. In this case, it is essential. If we burst in before the time is ready, we will most assuredly do more harm than good. God only knows what these good citizens and accomplished clubmen we are planning to visit might do in a panic."

  "I thought you were an atheist," Barnett commented.

  "I am also a pragmatist," Moriarty said. "Therefore, what we must do is insinuate ourselves amongst them, and, at the propitious moment, effect a rescue of Miss Perrine."

  "If she's there," Barnett said. He suddenly found that he was biting his lower lip, and consciously restrained himself.

  "If she is not there," said Moriarty grimly, "we shall cause one of the gentlemen who is there to desire very strongly to tell us just where she is! You have my word, Barnett, before this night is out we shall have located and repatriated your lady."

  "I pray that is so," Barnett said. "This is the fourth day she's been in their hands. It is not pleasant to contemplate what might have happened to her by now."

  Moriarty looked at him. "That is self-defeating," he said. "Whatever has happened to Miss Perrine has already happened; there is nothing you can do to change it. And whatever it is, you must not blame her or yourself for it. You must accept it and go on."

  "Are you saying one should do nothing about what is past?" Barnett asked.

  "One can learn from the past," Moriarty said. Then, after a pause, he added softly, "Vengeance, occasionally, is acceptable."

  A few minutes later the four-wheeler pulled to a stop, and the jarvey opened the tiny communicating hatch on the roof, cascading a small puddle of water onto the seat next to Barnett. "We're 'ere, Professor, just like you said," he yelled down. "Right around the corner from the 'ouse in question."

  "Very good, Dermot," the professor replied. "Are any of our people in evidence?"

  The jarvey put his ear to the small hole in order to hear the professor's question over the wind. "There's a couple of individuals what are loitering in doorways on the next block," he replied. "But as to 'oo they are, I can't rightly say from this distance, what with the inclement weather and all."

  "Well, let's go see what we can see," Moriarty said, nodding to Barnett. "Wait here, Dermot. You might as well get inside the carriage and keep warm and dry until you are needed."

  "Too late," Dermot yelled down, and he slid the hatch closed.

  Barnett followed Moriarty across the street in front of them, which he noted from the corner sign was Upper Pondbury Crescent. The street, bordered by orderly rows of well-spaced houses, set comfortably back from the pavement, went off in either direction with only the slightest hint of a curve. "What do you suppose," Barnett asked the professor, "makes this a crescent?"

  Moriarty glanced at his associate. "The vagaries of Lord Pondbury's business manager," he suggested. "A fondness for the term 'crescent' when he turned his lordship's private game preserve into sixty-five unattached town houses."

  Mummer Tolliver appeared from behind a hedge and came trotting over. "Morning, chum," he said, nodding at Barnett. "Morning, Professor. That's the house over there." He pointed across the street at a house about halfway up the block. "The one with the chest-high stone wall running along the walk to the front door."

  "Chest-high?" Barnett asked, peering through the gloom at the house Tolliver indicated.

  The Mummer glared at him. "My chest," he explained. "Your arse."

  Barnett looked down at the little man. "Don't be coarse," he said. "And what do you mean, 'morning'? It happens to be eight in the evening. Ten after, as a matter of fact."

  "I 'ere tell as 'ow it's morning somewhere," the Mummer said coldly, dropping his aitches for emphasis. "Don't you know no science whatsoever?"

  "Save your horological repartee for another time, Mummer," Moriarty said, staring suspiciously at the house across the street. "Are you certain that's the right place?"

  "That is the place, Professor, no mistake," the Mummer said.

  "Did you find a green cross?" Moriarty demanded. "That is the identification in this month's advertisement — a green cross," he explained to Barnett.

  "There's a Maltese cross done in green glass set into the front window to the right of the door," the Mummer said. "You know, like them windows in a church."

  "Stained glass?" Barnett suggested.

  "You've got it," the Mummer agreed. "It shows up real good when you're right in front of it, 'cause of the light behind it; but you can't hardly see it from either side 'cause the window's inset quite a bit."

  "Very good," Moriarty said. "This must, indeed, be the right place. Has there been much traffic while you've been watching?"

  "Very little in-and-out," Tolliver said. "A cluster of gents went in shortly after I set myself and the other lads up here — that would be about six o'clock. Shortly after it started raining. Six in since then, and two out. They left together in a trap. And, o'course, one strange event."

  "What's that?"

  Tolliver led Moriarty and Barnett a few houses down from where they were standing and pointed out a bicycle which had been well concealed in the shrubbery to the side of the house. "A gent came pedaling up on this contraption and discarded it here, carefully out-of-sight like. Then he went over to the house what we're watching and immediately snuck off around the corner of the house. I can't say whether he went inside or not, but he didn't use the front door. That were about ten or fifteen minutes ago."

  "Come now, that's fascinating!" Moriarty exclaimed.

  "I would have merely assumed it was a servant, perhaps being a bit secretive on account of being late for work, feeling the necessity of using the back door," the Mummer said, "were it not for the peculiar circumstance of this here bicycle."

  "That is, indeed, a peculiar circumstance," Moriarty agreed. "What do you make of it, Barnett?"

  "You've got me," Barnett said. "Someone else watching the house?"

  "Perhaps," Moriarty said. "But he must be myopic, indeed, to need to watch it from so intimate a distance. How many more of our people have we here, Mummer?"

  "Fourteen, at present," Tolliver said. "Scattered up and down the street in places of concealment."

  "Good, good," Moriarty said. "That should suffice. Now let us settle ourselves down and try to remain comparatively dry. The, ah, membership should start arriving any time now. Mummer, do you think you can insinuate yourself close enough to that door to enable you to get a good view? I want to know what the entrance procedure is."

  "One of the few advantages of being small," Tolliver said. "I can hide in half the space it would take a person of standard stature. I'll give 'er a try."

  "Good lad, Mummer," Moriarty said, patting him on the back. "Remember, discretion is the watchword. It is more important for you not to be seen than for you to see every detail."

  "Don't worry, Professor," the Mummer said cheerfully. "I may be seen, but I won't be caught. And they won't nary suspect nothing, either. Here, watch this!" Tolliver shrugged his coat off and twisted his jacket around. Then, taking the dripping-wet bowler hat off his head, he removed a cloth cap from its inner recesses. He put the cap on and pulled it tightly down around his ears. Slouching and throwing his shoulders forward, he tilted his head a bit to the side, and allowed an innocent expression to wipe the usual sly grin off his face.

  Barnett blinked. Before his eyes a miraculous transformation had taken place: the dapper little man had become a street urchin. Fifteen years had been wiped off his appearance, and no one seeing him now would believe he could possibly have anything more on his mind than retrieving a stray ball.

  The Mummer wiped his nose with his sleeve and stared up at Moriarty. "Wat'cher think, gov?" he demanded in the nasal whine of the slum child. "Do yer 'pose I'll do?"

  "Mummer, you're an artist!" Moriarty exclaimed.

  "It's nuffink, Professor," the Mummer said. "Now, if you'll 'scuse me, I'll go practice me art." And w
ith a skip and a slosh, he ran off down the street.

  -

  The man who was the wind was in the cellar of the devil's house. He had stealthily unlocked a small window over a long-disused storage bin when he had delivered the casks of wine. And now he was among the casks. He could hear footsteps, faintly, overhead, as the devil's imps arrived upstairs one by one. It was good. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. There was plenty of time. Smiling a horrible smile, he reached for the nearest cask.

  -

  The Sons of Azazel began arriving at their clubhouse shortly after Moriarty and Barnett settled down to watch. One after another, at short intervals, the clatter of horses' hooves would sound over the rain, and a carriage would pull up somewhere along that block of Upper Pondbury Crescent. Two broughams, three hansoms, a quartet of four-wheelers, and an elegant barouche with a black canvas panel covering what must have been a crest on the ebony door — all arrived within the first half hour. From each vehicle one heavily cloaked man emerged and proceeded toward the front door of the Hellfire house. When one of these gentlemen arrived close on the heels of another, he would wait on the pavement, stamping his feet impatiently, while the first was received at the door.

  Tolliver dashed back across the street as the latest hansom was disappearing around the corner. "I got a fix on 'er now, Professor," he said. "They goes up to the door and gives a pull on the bellpull. Then this little hole what is beside the door — over on the left — is opened from the inside. The gent what's outside sticks something in the hole for the gent what's inside to take a dekky at. I couldn't get a good look at the item, but I think it's one of them medals like you got. Then the gent what's inside hands the gent what's outside a mask, which he promptly sticks over his face. Then the door finally opens, and the gent what's outside goes inside. You got me, Professor?"

  "I got you, Mummer." Moriarty turned to Barnett. "That explains one thing," he said. "I have been wondering why there have been no masks found in conjunction with any of the bodies, since they maintain the habit of going masked. A nice little solution to the problem. It means, also, that we won't have any trouble in entering the house."

  "How are we going to do this, Professor?" Barnett asked. "I'm ready for whatever has to be done."

  "It looks as though you and I will be the only ones entering directly," Moriarty said. "We each have a medallion, and we are, each, disguised as a gentleman. That should be enough to get us inside."

  "Okay," Barnett said, raising the collar on his coat and adjusting his hat. "Let's go!"

  "One at a time, remember," Moriarty cautioned him. "I shall go first, and await you in the inner corridor. If, for some reason, that should prove too conspicuous, I shall be in the first accessible room. Try not to speak."

  "Excuse me, Professor, before you go," Tolliver said, "but when will you want me and the other lads to join in the festivities?"

  "Keep close watch outside," Moriarty told him. "Here, take this; it's a police whistle. If I need you, I will signal by throwing something through one of the front windows. Then you blow the whistle to assemble our men and head right in through the front door. Otherwise, just be prepared to give support if we have to exit quickly."

  "Right enough, Professor," Tolliver said. "I'll pass the word along to the lads to keep out of sight, but be ready to act if they hears the whistle."

  "Who are these 'lads'?" Barnett asked.

  "Colonel Moran," Tolliver told him, "and some of his pals from the Amateur Mendicant Society. The colonel 'as a look on him like he wants to hit something: and I'm sure squatting under a porch in the rain ain't doing his disposition no good, neither."

  "Tell him how things stand," Moriarty said. "Tell him the answer to his problem is inside, and I shall bring it out. I'm depending on you, Mummer. Come along, Barnett, be right behind me now."

  Barnett stood on the pavement in front of the house, fingering the small medallion and watching as Moriarty was admitted through the front door. Then it was his turn. His heart pounding loudly, he advanced to the door and pulled the wooden bell knob.

  -

  His preparations were just about complete now. One final check— couldn't have anything going wrong — and he would find his way upstairs and join the festivities. Festivities? He smiled. Eat, drink, and be merry, he thought, for it is almost tomorrow.

  -

  Moriarty waited for Barnett in a small room to the left of the entranceway, just out of earshot of the greeter at the door. Barnett looked around. "How prosaic," he whispered to the professor. "A cloakroom."

  "The prosaic is ever intermingled with the bizarre and the frightful," Moriarty commented. "The Executioner of Nuremberg wears a dress suit and white gloves, and uses a double-bladed ax. The Mongol hordes invented the game of polo, but they used a human head in place of a ball. The castle of Vlad the Impaler was noted for its fine view of the Carpathian Mountains. I'll wager this place also has a washroom, and quite probably a kitchen."

  Barnett shook his head slightly. "Has anything ever surprised you, Professor?" he asked.

  "Everything constantly surprises me," Moriarty replied. "I think this is the direction we want to go."

  They went down the hallway, peering into each room as they passed it. Barnett tried to look nonchalant under his mask, but he kept having the feeling that every pair of eyes that turned his way would immediately see right through his disguise, and that any second one of the well-dressed masked men strutting about the hall was going to point a dramatic finger in the direction of his nose and exclaim, "That man in the wrinkled suit is obviously not one of us! Apprehend him!"

  But the other masked men in the halls and rooms of this hellish club saw no difference between Moriarty, or Barnett, and themselves. And, Barnett was surprised to note, without seeing their faces he could detect no difference between them and other men. He wasn't sure what sort of difference he expected to see, but once he got used to seeing a mask instead of a face, these Hellfire men bore no stigmata visible to Barnett. In their dress and bearing they would not have looked out of place strutting down the halls of the Bagatelle, the Carlton, or the Diogenes. Perhaps on other evenings they did just that.

  The rooms off the short entrance hall were dedicated to games of chance. There were three small rooms, fitted out for baccarat, whist, and vingt-et-un; and a large room with two roulette wheels and a piquet table. The action was spirited at these tables, and the stakes were high. The games were supervised by a pair of stewards in severe black garments, wearing identical papier-mâché masks modeled to look like smiling faces, painted porcelain white, with black eyebrows and a pencil-thin black mustache. The dealers and croupiers were all attractive women in their twenties; their colorful dress and easy manner placed them as belonging to that segment of society which the French called the demimonde, the English having no polite term for it.

  It was a bizarre scene that Barnett found himself wandering through; masked men and scarlet women playing at card games with a savage intensity under the actinic glare of the multiple gas fixtures that were scattered about the walls like perverted gargoyles. There was another game going on too, a subtler game played with nudges and winks and nods and indirect conversation, and blushes and giggles from the demimondaines. This was also being played with a fierce intensity, although Barnett could not, from what he overheard, clearly discern the rules, rewards, or penalties. The game, superficially sexual in content, had the flavor of evil and decay. Barnett noted a cynical hardness around the eyes of the women, and he thought he detected in some of their eyes the glitter of fear.

  "What do you think?" he whispered to Moriarty, as the two of them stood in an isolated corner of the large room near the piquet table.

  Moriarty looked at him for a long moment, as though debating which of the many ways to answer that question he would choose. "I think we are on the periphery of evil," he said. "We must proceed inward, toward the center. Prepare yourself for scenes that will not please you, and try not to give yo
urself away by reacting prematurely to whatever you see. Blend in with your surroundings, as distasteful as that may be."

  Barnett looked around. "If I have to play, I'll play," he said. "I have had practice. Which way, do you suppose, is the center?"

  "I have been watching," Moriarty said, "and as far as I can determine, the door in the opposite corner of this room would seem to be the portal to the netherworld of infinite and infernal delights. It leads to a corridor, and the corridor leads to — what, I wonder? I have seen several of the masked gentlemen go through it, but none of the, ah, ladies. Are you ready?"

  "I hope so," Barnett whispered.

  "Stiff upper lip!" Moriarty said. "Or, at least, act as though your upper lip is as stiff as an Englishman is supposed to keep his upper lip. You are going now into the sanctum sanctorum of this blessed club, the delights of which are the reason you pay the Master Incarnate his twenty guineas a month."

  "I suspect I shall get more than my money's worth," Barnett murmured. "Lead on, Professor."

  -

  He was among them now. They smiled and laughed and played at their devilish games; and he smiled and laughed under his mask, and played well his own game. He took out his watch, a gift from the Burgermeister of Fürth after a successful escape from the ancient dungeons beneath the Rathaus: it was now quarter past ten. In one hundred and five minutes all games would cease. Midnight, the witching hour. He laughed again, aloud, but nobody noticed.

  -

  The house was divided into four sections, which like the levels of heil in Dante's Inferno, were separated according to the sins favored by the inhabitants. Each level of greater sin was accessible at only one place, through the level of lesser sin. Moriarty and Barnett progressed from Level One, Gambling and Lechery; then to Level Two, Various Exotic Perversions with Willing — or Persuadable — Women. The room they entered, large, effusively ornate, and yet subtly tawdry, resembled nothing so much as the parlor in an expensive brothel. Which was certainly deliberate, and was in no way inaccurate.