The Return of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

  Ember, leading twelve heavy mobsmen, had the Collins family as their first goal, and they took the crow—a boy of some twelve or thirteen years—in a rush before he could even spot them in the dark or raise the alarm.

  One of the bullies thumped the crow unconscious while another had him quickly tied with St. Mary’s knot. The dogs were another matter. Roused by the scuffling, they set up a clamor of barking, straining at their chains. But almost before the young crow was down, Ember had led the others to the door. The lock was shattered by a pistol bullet—as were the two nearest dogs—and the force was inside, rampaging through the rooms, smashing and destroying molds and presses, spilling out the molten metal and throwing the working men to the ground.

  Ember had only to make an example of three—Edward, his brother William, and Howard, a cousin—for they were the three most cunning fakers in the whole pack. The foxy little man gave the orders quickly so that there was no time for pause or sentiment because of the cries of women. Edward, William and Howard Collins were held down and had their hands and fingers well broken by the two heaviest punishers in the group.

  Ember then led his people away, pausing only to shout back at the wailing, cowering bunch, “The Professor sends his compliments and will find work for all loyal and true family men.”

  Then they were gone and the time was only half-past nine. Half an hour earlier, a gang of some fifteen ruffians, led by the burly Terremant, began their rampage through Lambeth and toward the docks where the Peg’s street women had their beats. The women they treated mildly, Terremant’s men thrashing those they caught with short leather straps; the cash carriers, both in the streets or drinking in their three usual dens in the area between Lambeth Palace and Waterloo Bridge, were given stronger terms. Two lay dead before it was over, the rest were cut about like carpetbags or at least knocked insensible. Terremant then carried the thrust onward, turning his band toward the West End fringes of Charing Cross to seek out the rips, dippers, magsmen, rampsmen and macers whom they knew to be in Green’s and Butler’s employ.

  Those they found were beaten or cut—one, a leading bully whom they suspected of being in high position with Green, was shot dead outside a public house off the Strand.

  By this time the police were out in force, put on alert by the swift and sudden acts of violence that seemed to be sweeping large areas of the city, and two of Terremant’s men were taken down by the river.

  But in the meantime Lee Chow had overseen the destruction of the two brothels in Lupus Street, and the fashionable night house in Jermyn Street.

  Lee Chow treated the whores much as Terremant’s men had dealt with the soldiers’ and sailors’ women farther east. Only here there was more scandal and many a respectable tradesman and husband, even a few men of exceptional breeding, would not go near a knocking shop for a long while to come.

  The interiors of the houses were ransacked—furniture broken, windows shattered, linen and clothing ripped to shreds. Three of the five girls who had absconded from Sal Hodges’ house were taken in Lupus Street, quickly bundled outside (one wrapped only in a sheet), forced at gunpoint into a waiting van, and driven away for Sal to deal with as she saw fit.

  The cash carriers and protectors, both in Lupus Street and Jermyn Street, were given short shrift. Within half an hour, following a running battle, two were dead, one dying, three maimed for life and the remainder seriously beaten.

  Of Lee Chow’s men, one died of a knife wound in Lupus Street, another was badly injured (at the same house), and one was taken by the police in the Haymarket.

  John Togger, the fence who lived across the river in Bermondsey, among the reeking smells of the tanners and leather workers, was going through a haul of silver plate when his door splintered. At first he thought it was the police (whom he had so successfully evaded for many years). But the four men who came at him were not coppers. They beat him, cut him, left him senseless, then, ignoring the evil odors of the area, calmly loaded all his hidden and valuable goods and cash into the van that had brought them.

  An hour later the same four men repeated the process with Israel Krebitz in Newington.

  The half-dozen doss-houses up near Liverpool Street Station were easy meat, taking only a pair of men apiece. The housekeepers offered little resistance, and the inmates were too frightened by the fists, threats and oaths of the big, iron-muscled men, to offer any convincing argument.

  They carried out Moriarty’s orders with a system—lacerating the bedding, taking axes to the rough tables, chairs and beds, cracking the cooking pots and dishes, and, in many cases, the doss-keepers’ heads.

  Also about nine o’clock, The Nun’s Head—together with a number of other taverns much frequented by the Green-Butler faction—suddenly appeared to acquire much new custom: aggressive men who started to brawl and argue within minutes of ordering their drinks. The arguments became more heated, and the brawls more violent; fists were thrown, then chairs and mugs, glasses and pots.

  At The Nun’s Head the most damage was done to regular customers, many of whom were known to the police. The main public rooms also sustained breakages and injuries that took a long time to repair.

  The strength of Parker’s lurkers around the house in Nelson Street was doubled during the early evening. They were all well hidden, some in disguise, all alert. At eight o’clock the first part of Moriarty’s plan for that particular target was put into action. After eight, all persons arriving or leaving the house were quietly apprehended.

  Every skill and artifice was used, so at about ten past the hour two muscular bruisers arriving at the front door found their attentions distracted by a young woman of trim and pleasant appearance. The girl seemed to materialize from the shadows before either of the callers could raise the knocker on the front door. She appeared to be distressed and in agitation regarding the whereabouts of some address in the neighborhood.

  The two men, drawn much by the woman’s pleasant demeanor, turned from the doorway and offered assistance, but as they stood in the thin, diffused light from the one bracketed streetlamp, they were taken from behind—hands clamped over their mouths, life preservers blotting consciousness. In a matter of seconds the would-be callers were dragged into the shadows and the young woman had melted away, leaving the street quiet again.

  A short time later a boy, not unlike one of the runners used by Parker, came trotting down the street, heading undeniably for Green’s door; but, as he too passed the shadows, a foot reached out and tripped him thudding into the gutter, whence he was quickly lifted bodily and carried away, a hard and calloused hand stifling any sound from his small mouth.

  Just after the half hour, a tall bulky man, dressed in a long, dark greatcoat with a tall, battered hat crammed straight upon his head, came from the house. He closed the door carefully behind him and stood for a moment looking furtively up and down the street. His red, craggy face, scarred and pitted like a battlefield, was clearly visible, and it seemed as though he were listening for any sound, watching for any untoward movement.

  After a second or two he turned and began walking steadily in the direction of the Commercial Road. He did not get there—finishing his journey, trussed like a Christmas goose, in the back of a small van, which also contained the bound and straining bodies of the two men and the boy who had recently attempted to enter the house.

  Paget and his men arrived, singly and in twos and threes, gathering in the environs of the Commercial Road a shade before nine o’clock, the omnipresent Parker creeping out of the smoky darkness to appear at Paget’s elbow.

  “They’re all still inside, but for one fellow we’ve taken,” he breathed.

  “Green and Butler as well?”

  “Been there all day. You have ’em on dripping, Pip.”

  “I’ll make the bastards drip.” Paget’s blood was up, ready for the most important fray of the night. “How many you got at the back, then?”

  “Four, but none of any weight.”

  Paget nodd
ed and issued calm instructions, sending four of his beefiest men to the rear of the house to cut off possible escapers and trap the inhabitants in a two-pronged attack.

  He already had a rough idea of the interior, Moriarty having obtained details from one of the neighboring houses that was a twin to Green’s headquarters. It was a tall, narrow building, stretching back a fair length to a small walled piece of unkempt garden. Inside the front door, a passage ran to a large room at the rear, one door to the left leading to what would normally be a front parlor. The downstairs room at the back of the house led, in turn, to a small kitchen, and the stairs in the hallway took one up to the second and third stories, which contained three rooms apiece. Above these there was an attic—visible from the street by its small dormer windows.

  When all was ready, Paget gave the long and trembling whistle, which was the signal, and the main body of his party moved at a rush toward the front door, which they smashed in with three splintering blows of a sledgehammer.

  Michael Green had undoubtedly been alerted but was not yet fully prepared. As they piled through the door, a figure flitted from the front-parlor door: a lookout who had, perhaps, dozed at his post by the window. He hurled himself toward the big rear room, from where sounds—shouts and the noise of sudden scuffling—were emanating.

  About six of Paget’s men were in the hall when the fleeing figure reached the doorway, turned, and fired five shots into the advancing huddle. He fired wildly, but with some success: Paget was unhurt, but three of his men fell, one of them never to rise again.

  Before the echo of the first shot had died, Paget had his revolver from his belt and was returning the fire. There was a crash from the rear of the house—Paget’s men at the back forcing their entry—then, like a great wave, they rushed the room at the end of the passage, a tributary of five or so men leaving the main force to pound up the stairs.

  The opposing parties met in the large rear room, Green’s men sandwiched between Paget’s two assault groups in a ferocious hand-to-hand grapple. They fought for their lives—all of them—for it was a deadly business and they did not play it by any rules of honor or chivalry or those drawn up by the Marquess of Queensberry.

  The men closed on each other, biting, punching, gouging, kicking, using the elbow and knee as well as the fist, and hitting stomachs, eyes and genitals, so that the heaving and enclosed space was filled with grunts and cries, the cracking of bone and knuckles and the raw shrieks of pain.

  Paget was aware of Michael Green somewhere near the kitchen door, but he did not glimpse Butler in the general melee. He heaved himself in the direction of Green, but was occupied immediately by a short, barrel of a man much experienced in the arts of hand-to-hand combat. He came at Paget, first with a wicked long-bladed knife, swinging low and dangerously, holding the weapon in front of him, jabbing forward.

  Paget, reacting in the only possible way—for he still had his revolver out—pulled back with his thumb on the hammer and pressed the trigger. There was a wasted fraction of a second before he realized the weapon was jammed; then at the last moment he brought the gun down hard on his assailant’s knife hand. Heavy as he was, the man sidestepped lightly so that Paget’s pistol only brushed his sleeve—Paget himself twisting to the right to avoid the vicious thrust aimed at his belly.

  The revolver was useless except as a projectile and Paget, recovering, hurled it full at his attacker’s face, but again the man ducked, head low, his body propelled fast toward Paget’s front, now offered as a large target, the knife flicking from side to side so that Paget could not tell from where the final thrust would come.

  He shot out a fist, aiming a long arm at the top of the chiv-artist’s chest, a little below the throat, and felt it connect hard. His aggressor let out a sudden gasp, the breath expelled from him like steam out of a railway engine, his face red, with a cluster of small warts around the left nostril, sweat filmed over the brow, below untidy hair, and running in thin rivulets down his cheeks.

  Paget moved, surely and with speed, while the man was still winded, before his knife arm could come up again. It took only a second to consolidate: a knee hard to the groin, and the blade of his right hand chopping, like a cleaver, across the throat.

  The barreled man gave a howl of agony as Paget’s knee squelched home, doubling and dropping the knife, the cry cut short as the hand sank into his throat, sending him gurgling backward to crash against the feet of other struggling men and lie still.

  Paget was braced forward, lunging out to grab at his revolver, which lay inactive on the floor, the air around him heavy with sweat and the scent of blood.

  As he straightened, Paget saw Green send one of the punishers spinning back into the confusion as he whirled and grabbed for the kitchen door.

  Paget went after him, shouldering the struggling, fighting pairs out of the way and fending off one attacker with his boot. But by the time he reached the door Green was away. A man’s body lay close to the wall, almost blocking the kitchen entrance so that Paget had to hoist him away with his heel, losing precious moments before he followed the Peg into the darkness beyond.

  He had lost him again, for the back door, leading from the kitchen to the walled garden, lay back on its hinges and from the outside he could hear panting and the thud of muffled footsteps.

  Paget leaned against the jamb, quickly examining his revolver, clearing the blockage before lurching toward the outer door.

  Michael Green was pulling himself up the far wall at the end of the garden, outlined for a moment against the dingy sky. Paget took careful aim and fired, but as he did so, Green launched himself down the far side of the wall.

  By the time Paget reached the brickwork and followed the route taken by Moriarty’s usurper, the wanted bird had flown, leaving neither trace nor sound.

  Unwillingly Paget retraced his steps back to the house, where the confusion had died, for his men were by now in full control—tending their own wounded and lining up those of Green’s men who were still able to stand. The job was done but, it seemed, without having accomplished the main task of taking either Green or Butler.

  The men who had flushed out the upper stories of the house brought down only four of Green’s bullies.

  “No sign of Butler?” Paget asked several of the punishers, only to receive glum negative answers.

  He knew they had not much time, for it could not be long before the police would arrive; but as he stood between the rear downstairs room and the kitchen, he became conscious, among the panting and groans around him, of a quiet, though stubborn, sound of sobbing. He traced the noise to the back of the kitchen, where a girl huddled in the corner.

  Roughly Paget pulled her out into the light.

  “What’s this, then, Green’s whore?”

  He could hear the gruffness in his own voice and there was a picture in his mind of the circumstances reversed: Green saying something similar to Fanny Jones.

  The girl blubbered, a tired and fragile florence. Her face grimed and her brown skirt stained with grease and too much exposure to cooking; her hair was a natural light shade, but unkempt and dirty: in all a sorry sight.

  “Who are you then? Come on, girl, we haven’t time to waste.” Again rough and jabbing, the words like blows.

  “The attic …” the creature sniveled. “For God’s sake, sir, get to the attic.…”

  “Butler? Is Butler in the attic?”

  “No, sir, he went over the wall after your men broke in. He gave me this.” Paget could now see the dark swelling and broken skin on the girl’s left cheek. “The attic. A man called Bert….

  In the fury of the attack Paget had momentarily forgotten Bert Spear. He made for the stairs, motioning two of the punishers to follow, dragging the still tearful girl with him.

  Spear was alone in the attic, lying on his back, across the dirty mattress. For a minute they thought he was dead, for Green and Butler had left him in a pitiful condition, with his face battered and caked with blood, the brands
of burns on his shoulders and upper arms, and unspeakable things done to his fingernails and hands.

  Only as they lifted him did Spear regain consciousness and groan.

  “It’s all right, Bert. It’s Pip. We’ve got you now. We’re taking you back to Limehouse.”

  Weakly Spear lifted his head. “You get the bastards, Pip?”

  “Not all, but Green’s organization’s smashed for good.”

  Spear appeared to smile. “The girl … the girl, Bridget. Good girl … get her out.”

  Paget turned toward the slattern. “Is that you?”

  She nodded. “I’m Bridget. He was good to me.”

  “You’d best come with us then.”

  They carried Spear out and laid him in one of the carts waiting in the side lanes. When it rumbled away, Paget took the girl by the arm.

  “Come on then.” He smelled the reek of Green’s house still on her. “There’s a cab waiting near Aldgate. Can you walk that far?”

  She nodded. “Will he be all right?”

  Paget drew her alongside him, stepping out since he did not want any contact with the police, who were by this time in Nelson Street.

  “Who? Bert Spear?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll be there before us. They’ll look after him.”

  She tried to fall into step beside him, almost running to keep up.

  “Are you the Professor’s men?” she asked, panting with the exertion.

  “What do you know of him?”

  “I heard things. Back there. Even though they kept me in the house I still heard things.”

  “They kept you in? For what purpose?”

  “To cook for them and serve them.…” She paused. “In every way. Bastards, you should’ve got the Peg and that brute Butler.”

  “It’s what we came for. But we’ll catch them, girl. We’ll get them yet. Their structure is shattered, and they cannot hide from the Professor forever.”

  They came to the cab and Paget helped her inside. It would be interesting, he considered, to find out what manner of woman lay hidden behind the dirty and bedraggled creature whom Green and Butler had undeniably so misused. There had to be something in her, some spirit or attraction, for Spear to have shown the concern he had done from his tortured condition.